Summary: Picking up right after the events in Hopscotch, Starsky and Hutch decide to quit the force. They start a private investigation business, which is taking its time getting off the ground. They accept a missing person case from a rodeo cowboy who is more than anxious they find his friend.

Story Notes: This is the third novel in the CopKiller Trilogy. The prequel to this story is Hopscotch. The first novel in the series is CopKiller.

Special thanks to M H E Priest for help in uploading this story to the archive.

Categories: Gen

Genre: Action/Adventure, Art, E-Book, Series, Zinefic

Warnings: Author Chooses Not to Use Archive Warnings

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Intro

Archivist's Note from Hopscotch's First Archive Posting in 1995: Teri White was one of the first of S&H's fandom's classic zine writers to give us permission to post all her fanfiction to the Archive. Her only caveat was that we include the art as well. With permission of those artists, we've done that. We never anticipated that it would take so much time to bring Teri's stories to the Net, but finally, her work will be seen by fans of Starsky & Hutch all over the world.

It is with great respect and appreciation that we present the zine, My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys. This is the third in a series of three novels -- Copkiller, Hopscotch, and My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys -- that share the same "universe."

Classic Starsky & Hutch zine fiction starts on paper, has to be scanned or typed, proof-read and corrected, turned into html, proof-read again, then set up on the Archive. Thanks go to SHaron for scanning and proofing this zine, and to Myha for not eating the entire last page of the zine when it was accidentally left within range of her inquisitive teeth.

I especially want to thank Ruth Kurz for granting us approval to post her art. And of course, many thanks to Teri for graciously allowing us to bring her work to a whole new audience.

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MY HEROES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN COWBOYS

A Starsky and Hutch Novel

by

TERI WHITE

Cover and Interior Art by Ruth Kurz

Published in 1980 by Teri White.

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______This one is for Hutch

I keep picturing all these little kids in this big field of rye.... If they're running and they don't look where they're going, I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. J.D. SALINGER

With thanks to:

William Blinn Joe Narr Paul Michael Glaser David Soul

And gratitude for special inspiration to: C.E.

Song Credits

Cowboys and Clowns--S. Garrett My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys--Vaughn Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys--Bruce Too Old To Play Cowboy--Morrison I've Done Enough Dyin' Today--Gatlin Andy's Song--Andy Jones (A.K.A. Ruth Kurz)

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______MY HEROES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN COWBOYS

by

TERI WHITE

PROLOGUE

It was a long way down the mountain into the city.

They made most of the journey in silence. Conversation, by unstated mutual agreement, waited until they were sitting in the White Castle, two cheeseburgers, a Coke, and a glass of milk on the counter in front of them. Starsky sprinkled salt on his french fries, then added a dollop of catsup. "I don't think we should go back to the department," he said finally.

Hutch took a swig of milk and wiped at his upper lip with the back of one hand. "You really don't?"

Starsky, his mouth full, shook his head.

"Okay," Hutch said.

A look of surprise flickered through the amethystine eyes as Starsky swallowed. "That's it? Just 'okay'?"

Hutch picked up his cheeseburger and studied it ruefully for a moment. "You were expecting an argument?" he asked before giving in to the inevitable and taking a bite.

Starsky shrugged.

"Or maybe you wanted an argument. Maybe what you really want is for me to talk you out of quitting. Is this the point where I'm supposed to get all gung-ho, remind you of the nobility of it all, and lead you by the hand back to the promised land of the Los Angeles Police Department?"

They were both quiet for a moment, more involved with the food than their future, although Starsky's brow was wrinkled thoughtfully as he ate. At last, he took a gulp of Coke. "No," he said. "I don't think that's what I want. I really think we ought to bug out while we still can. While we both still can. Together."

"Okay," Hutch said again. He took one of Starsky's fries and tried to shake off some of the catsup. "It's not exactly a new idea, you know. I wanted to quit after Lionel was killed. Maybe I got tired of it all a long time before that, even."

"Why didn't you quit a long time ago then?"

Hutch glanced at him. "Don't know. Guess maybe I was just waiting for you to get tired, too." "Well, I'm tired." Starsky took another huge bite of the cheeseburger. "I'm tired," he repeated through the mouthful. "It just ain't noble anymore."

"I guess that makes it unanimous." Hutch shook his head. "Kind of anti-climactic."

"Not with a bang, but with a whimper," Starsky said somewhat unexpectedly.

The blond's expression was glum. "There'll be a bang, all right," he said. "When we tell Dobey."

"You think so?" Starsky pushed the last fry around the edge of the plate to sop up the remaining catsup.

"Don't you?"

"Huh-uh. I think he already knows."

Hutch thought about that as he finished the milk. "Maybe so," he agreed.

"It's okay, then? That we don't go back?"

"Suits me."

Starsky relaxed a little. "Dinner's on me," he said magnanimously, reaching for the check.

The street outside the hamburger joint was crowded with people -- tourists, hookers, creeps, all the regulars beginning to gather for the usual evening festivities of night-time in Hollywood. A street musician entertained by playing several of his own esoteric compositions on a battered harmonica.

Starsky paused long enough to buy an Orange Julius. "Dessert," he explained.

Hutch shook his head. "So," he said as they moved on, sidestepping a couple in the advanced stages of some complicated courtship rite in the middle of the sidewalk. "If we're not gonna be cops anymore, what'll we do? Head for the unemployment office again?"

"Nope." Starsky slurped more of the thick orange mess through the straw, looking back over his shoulder. "They're not gonna do that there, are they?" he asked, his eyes still on the couple.

"Why? You want to bust 'em?"

"No. Thought I'd watch."

"Your latent voyeurism is showing, buddy."

Starsky scowled at him. "Did you snitch my Improve Your Vocabulary in Sixty Days book?" "No. Picked those up in Ann Landers. Back to my question, Starsk If we're not going back on the force, what'll we do?"

"A good question. I guess making porn flicks is still out, huh?"

"I guess."

They grinned at one another.

Starsky crumpled the paper cup and dropped it into a litter basket. "Okay," he said briskly. "Time for a little serious consideration of our future." He glanced quickly at Hutch, then away. "I say future, not futures, 'cause I figure we should stick together."

"Sure," Hutch said. "I figure that same thing. Why mess with success?" He nodded hello to a hooker who looked vaguely familiar. "The first order of business is to move out of that place on the hill."

Starsky looked disappointed. "Really? I like it there."

"Well, so do I," Hutch agreed, "but there are two very good reasons why we can't stay there."

"What are they?" Starsky was engaged in a solitary game of kick-the-can as they walked.

"One, it's too expensive. Our money isn't going to last forever."

"That's valid. What's the second reason?"

"Two is the fact that -- much as I love you, Starsk -- I'm not really ready for us to set up permanent housekeeping together."

"Also valid," Starsky said. "And you'll be glad to know that my feelings aren't too hurt."

"Good. So tomorrow we each start looking for less palatial quarters. The next question is, how do we intend to support our various vices? Like eating."

Starsky gave the can a final kick and it angled off the curb, landing in the gutter. "I've got that all figured out," he said smugly.

Hutch looked at him. "You have?"

"Sure. I've just been waiting for you to ask "

"So now I'm asking. What's your idea?"

There was a dramatic pause. "We're going to become private detectives." Starsky's tone might have been suitable for announcing that the Messiah had arrived at last. Hutch let a few moments pass. They both watched as a very pretty, very young girl in hot pants and a tight sweater got into a car driven by a middle-aged man. The blue-eyed ex-cop sighed, before returning his attention to his partner. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"Sure. Why not?" They turned a corner and started climbing. "I could probably give you a lot of reasons why it's a good idea -- a great idea, in fact -- but it all comes down to one thing, really."

"Which is what? Besides the fact that you've always had this compulsion to be Sam Spade?"

"What the hell else are we qualified for?"

Hutch couldn't argue with that logic. That was the problem with so many of Starsky's wild ideas; they sometimes made a crazy kind of logical sense. "I guess we wouldn't have any trouble getting a license," he said finally.

"No problem at all." Starsky still sounded smug. "I already checked it out." They were away from the paved sidewalk now, following a rough path that wound its way among the trees. Starsky moved a short distance ahead, giving his partner a few moments to mull over the suggestion. New ideas had to sort of grow on Hutch. Grabbing a low-hanging branch, Starsky chinned himself twice, then dangled there a moment. "Besides," he said in a loud voice. "I think it would be fun."

"Fun?" The good old-fashioned work ethic flared up momentarily in Hutch.

"Sure." As the taller man reached him, Starsky dropped lightly to the ground again. "Like being cops used to be fun."

Hutch thought about that. "Yeah, it used to be fun, didn't it? I wonder when it all turned so damned... rotten."

Starsky shrugged. "I don't think it got any rottener, Hutch. I think maybe we just got smarter."

"Yeah, maybe."

"But this would be better than being cops. We can pick and choose our cases. No more garbage from the department to put up with. Just you and me." He grinned. "And all those beautiful clients knocking at the door."

Hutch snorted. "You've been reading too many paperbacks."

Starsky stopped walking and looked at him. "Don't you like the idea?"

After another moment, a slow smile crept over Hutch's face. "Damn, Starsk, I love it. I really do. Have fun, make money, and meet broads all at the same time. Sounds great."

"Almost as good as making dirty movies, huh?" "Better. We don't have to invest in any black argyles."

"Okay, it's settled then." He bounced up and down on his toes. "Race you home?"

"You've got to be kidding," Hutch said, already moving.

"No fair!" Starsky shouted after him. "You didn't wait for on your mark, get set, go! Hutch!"

Hutch laughed aloud, a clear ringing sound that echoed down the hill, and kept running.

**

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Everybody loves cowboy and clowns.... Garrett

Cowboys are special, with their own brand of mis'ry, from being alone too long.... Just old worn out saddles And old worn out mem'ries But no one and no place to stay.... Vaughn

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.... Bruce

***************************************************************

I

The man was waiting in the hallway.

Hutch climbed the third and final flight of steps that led to the office and paused to catch his breath, at the same time searching in his pockets for the key. He glanced up and saw the figure in the shadows of the ill-lit corridor. "Hi," he said. "You waiting for me?"

It wasn't a common occurrence to have a client waiting first thing in the morning; in fact, it had never happened before, but there was always a possibility. At any rate, since the only other office on the floor belonged to Madame Olga, the gypsy fortuneteller, he stood at least a fifty percent chance of being right. Unless, of course, the guy was a mugger.

The man studied him a moment before answering. "Yeah, reckon I am," he said finally. "If you're part of Confidential Investigations, Unlimited."

"I am," Hutch replied, unlocking the door. "I'm half of it, in fact."

They both walked into the tiny office, and he hit the light switch. The one bulb that wasn't burned out flickered on. "Ken Hutchinson."

"My name is Tyler Monroe. Hal Dobey sent me over."

Hutch sat in the chair behind the desk and gestured Monroe into another, casually studying him as he moved to sit. Well-worn Levis, a blue-and-white plaid shirt that had seen enough washings to be a little threadbare, and in sharp contrast, a pair of elaborately decorated boots. He held a battered black Stetson in one hand. Monroe was taller than Hutch by at least two inches, lean, tanned. Not, Hutch decided, one of the drugstore cowboys that seemed to be cluttering Los Angeles of late. Tyler Monroe looked like the genuine article. Hell, he thought glumly, the way my powers of observation have been working lately, the guy probably sells pots and pans door-to-door.

The lanky frame arranged itself somewhat gingerly in the shaky wooden chair. "I know I don't have an appointment," he apologized, "but Hal said it would be okay to just come on over."

"You know Cap'n Dobey?"

"He and I was in the Marines together. Long time ago. Haven't seen him since. Until this morning. I had heard that he was a cop here." For such a big man, his voice was surprisingly soft.

It wasn't the first time their former boss had sent them a prospective client, and his referrals had brought in a few dollars. Every little bit helped. "What's the problem?" Hutch asked briskly.

Monroe didn't answer immediately. Instead, his green eyes surveyed the office slowly. Admittedly, it wasn't a very impressive sight, but as Starsky liked to maintain, the low over-head made their prices a bargain. Hutch was of the opinion that even had they been able to afford more plush quarters elsewhere, Starsky would still have wanted this place. Something to do with image.

The headquarters of Confidential Investigations, Unlimited were certainly sleazy enough to satisfy the most dedicated devotee of private eye lore. The furniture looked just like the Salvation Army stock it was; the walls desperately needed a new coat of paint, the last having been applied sometime during the first half of the century; and the single window over-looking Vermont Avenue was so dirt-laden as to be almost opaque.

Monroe studied it all for a moment, then lowered his eyes to look silently at his own long- fingered hands. "He said you and your partner were real good cops. Used to be his best men."

"Well," Hutch said. He picked up Starsky's copy of THE WAY SOME PEOPLE DIE from the desk and turned it over absently in his hands. "My partner's in San Diego on a case right now." That sounded good, better than telling the whole truth, which was that Starsky was trying to collect an over-due debt owed their client, a used car dealer in Topanga. Jobs like that weren't exactly the stuff legends were made of, but they paid the rent. Sometimes.

Monroe lifted one hand and ran it through his chestnut hair. The gesture seemed somehow out of place; he didn't look like the kind of man to get easily rattled. But then, visiting a private detective did that to a lot of people, and Hutch was getting used to it. One thing he'd learned during the past year was that you didn't rush the client.

"I went to the police first," Monroe said finally. "But Hal told me they were so busy and..." He paused, then raised his head. "I need you to look for somebody. You do that kind of work, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah," Hutch said. Runaway kids. Flaked-out wives. Errant husbands. "We do a lot of that kind of work." As much as they did of any other, which was to say, not enough. A little of the tension seemed to ease from Monroe's craggy face. "Good." He shrugged. "Hal explained to me that the first priority or whatever of the police has to be for kids and like that."

"That's the way it is," Hutch agreed. "So who's the missing person?"

"Andy Jones."

"Relative?" Hutch jotted the name down.

Monroe shook his head. "A friend of mine. We're both with the rodeo out in Newcombe right now."

Hutch vaguely remembered seeing the brightly colored posters around the city. He nodded, then stood. "Hot in here. You want a beer?"

"Thanks, wouldn't mind one."

Hoping the drink would help relax the other man a little, Hutch pushed aside the curtain that separated Starsky's living quarters from the rest of the office proper. The small refrigerator held half a pizza and a six-pack. He took two beers from the pack and returned to the desk, handing one to Monroe.

Monroe turned the cold can in his hands. "Andy disappeared two days ago."

Hutch pulled the tab on his beer. "When you say he 'disappeared' just what does that mean?"

Monroe drank absently. "He went out and he didn't come back." The words were flat and emotionless.

Hutch nodded again. That was something else he'd learned in the last months; it was good to keep nodding so that the client knew you were really listening. "Why don't we start at the beginning?" he suggested, pulling the notepad closer. "What's his full name, his age, all that?"

"Andrew Jones. He's thirty. Five eleven, hundred and sixty or so." Monroe fumbled in his pocket for a moment. "I have a picture. Hal said you'd want to see it." A worn leather wallet flopped open on the desktop.

Hutch picked it up for a closer look. The picture wasn't very good. It was a grainy black-and- white photo of a smiling young man with dark blond hair, but there was something anonymous about the image, almost as if it were one of those pictures that came free when you bought a new wallet.

Monroe frowned. "I know it isn't very good. There's a better one back at the motel." At Hutch's glance, he added, "Most of the folks from the rodeo are staying at the Traveller's Inn in Newcombe." Hutch made another note. "Okay. You say he went out. Where was he going?"

There was a pause. "I don't know."

Hutch sighed. The damned cowboy wasn't much of a talker; some clients came in and spilled their guts at the first sign of a little interest. A lot of them really didn't even need a detective at all, but only someone to listen to their troubles. Not Gary Cooper here, though. "Could you just tell me exactly what happened, Monroe?" he urged gently.

Monroe leaned back, stretching his long legs across the office. "We had dinner Tuesday night in a place called the Last Round-up. Most of the rodeo regulars were there." His voice was low and as he spoke he kept his eyes on the complimentary calendar from the Wise Insurance Agency. "After dinner, Andy and I went into the backroom to shoot some pool. About ten, he said he had an appointment."

"With who?"

Monroe shrugged. "He didn't say; I didn't ask. We just finished the game and he left." There was a pause. "I should've asked, I guess, but..."

"But?"

"I didn't. Sometimes I ask too damn many questions, you know?"

Hutch didn't know, but he didn't say so. "Nothing else?"

"No." Monroe looked at him and there was a strangely childlike confusion in the jade gaze. "I haven't seen him since." The slender fingers gripped the beer can tightly, crushing the sides together. "Nobody has. He's just... gone. Disappeared, like I said." He drained the last of the beer and threw the can into the wastebasket. "Will you find him?"

Hutch doodled on the notepad for a moment, reading what he'd written there. Instinct, nurtured by his years as a cop, was telling him not to take this case. Friend of Dobey's or not, and the fact that they needed money aside, he should just tell Tyler Monroe that they couldn't handle this. There was bound to be something here that he wouldn't like. Some cases looked bad from the beginning, and this was one of them. He couldn't have explained that to anyone else, but he could feel it deep in his gut.

He put the pencil down. "Jones disappear like this a lot?" he asked.

"No."

"Maybe he's just off on a bender, you know, taking in the city. It happens."

Monroe shook his head. "You sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure." He met Hutch's gaze, looking very sure. "I've known Andy for fifteen years. He's never done this before."

"Always a first time." Hutch knew damned well that he was grasping at straws, but he really wanted it to be that simple. He wanted Andy Jones from the rodeo to be off drunk someplace, maybe holed up in a cheap hotel with a Hollywood hooker. The answer to a cowboy's dream.

Monroe shook his head again, sharply. "No, Andy is...." Two calloused hands picked up the Stetson from the desk and turned it over idly. "Andy's a quiet kid, you know? Shy, I guess you'd say."

"Uh-huh." With every word Monroe uttered, Hutch became more convinced that something was very wrong here. Something that he didn't want to get involved in. The routine jobs they'd handled so far in this business were usually boring, and he sometimes bitched about it to Starsky, who approached every case -- even the ones like the used car dealer in Topanga -- with the unbridled enthusiasm of Sam Spade going after the Maltese Falcon or whatever. But although he complained, Hutch was also a little relieved at the humdrum simplicity of their cases. People, for the most part, had petty little problems that could be either solved or not solved with a minimum of effort. Either way, the fee was collected. It was a fairly safe niche he'd carved out for himself, and he didn't want to let anything in that might screw things up.

He sighed. "You don't have any idea at all where he might have been going?"

Monroe retrieved his wallet before answering. He looked at the picture for a moment, then snapped the billfold closed and shoved it away. "Nope. I just figured it was business."

"Rodeo business?"

"No, I handle all that. Andy's been talking to some people about making a record. I figured maybe the appointment was with them."

"A record?"

"Yeah." For the first time since they'd started talking, Monroe smiled. The leathery skin creased, sending lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. "He wants to be a country-western singer. Plays the guitar real good, and even writes his own songs."

"No kidding?" Hutch said politely.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the smile was gone. "Will you find him?"

Hutch really wanted to say no. The bad vibes were still pounding in his head. There was something in Tyler Monroe's hopeful eyes that made him nervous. Maybe it was just that there was so much hope, more like a desperate need. "Our rate is $150 a day, plus expenses." There was always a chance that the cost would discourage the cowboy.

But he only shrugged. "That doesn't matter. I have money. Just find him." He cleared his throat. "Please."

"We'll try," Hutch said with a sigh.

"Hal said you were real good at your job."

Hutch didn't know how to reply to that, so he kept quiet, studying Monroe again. The man looked like he hadn't slept in a while, and he wasn't as young as the first impression had led Hutch to believe. Probably forty-five or so; if he and Dobey had been in the Marines together, he realized, that would be about right. "I can't force anyone to come back against their will, you know."

"It isn't that way," Monroe said firmly.

"Okay," Hutch snapped, wanting to jolt him a little. "How do you think it is?"

The big man was quiet for a long moment. "Well," he said finally, "I figure maybe he had an accident or something, and he's in a hospital. Maybe he got hit on the head and can't remember who he is."

"Amnesia?"

"Right." Whether Monroe really believed that, or whether he only wanted to, Hutch didn't know. "That's maybe what happened, don't you think?"

"Maybe," Hutch said, not believing it for a moment. Still... things like that did happen. People disappeared and then they came back okay. Like what happened to Starsky last year. Shit, being kidnapped off to hell and back was about as unlikely as this theory about sudden forgetfulness. "Okay," he said. "We'll see what we can do. I have a couple of other things to clear up this afternoon, then I'll come out to Newcombe. Can I reach you at the motel later?"

"Yeah. The rodeo don't start until tomorrow."

"What's your event?" Hutch asked.

"Saddle bronc rider." The man pulled his long body out of the chair, looking tired. "Been doing it for twenty-five years."

"Jones do that, too?"

Monroe shook his head. "Andy's a clown. And he rides pick-up on my event." He walked to the door. "I'll see you later then?" "Sure." Hutch flashed his most encouraging smile. "Tonight. And don't worry," he added. "Most people turn up sooner or later."

"I reckon you know your business." He opened the door, then stopped again "Oh -- one thing about Andy maybe you better know."

"Yeah?" Hutch said, not really wanting to hear anything else that would make him like this case even less than he already did. "What?"

"He has a stutter."

"Stutter?"

"Yeah. It's pretty bad, especially if he's feeling nervous or something, you know?"

Hutch frowned. "Thought you said he wants to be a singer."

"He does." Monroe shrugged. "Don't happen when he sings. Just when he's talking."

"Okay." Hutch made a note of it, more for the client's sake than his own.

The door closed carefully behind Monroe.

Hutch listened to the sharp click of boots against the wooden stairs, until the sound became an echo, then faded away. When the office was quiet again, he reached for the phone and dialed San Diego.

**

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II

Dobey was in the middle of something, and he didn't have time for Hutch. "I don't have time for this today," he growled.

Hutch lounged against the chair. "In that case, I'll make it fast," he said easily. "What can you tell me about Tyler Monroe?"

The captain glanced up. "So he came to see you?"

"Yeah. He was waiting on the doorstep this morning. Starsky would have been delighted."

"You take the case?"

Hutch shrugged.

Dobey picked up another file and began to read it.

"Monroe?" Hutch said softly.

"I knew him years ago, in the Marines," Dobey said, still reading. "He was a nice kid. I was a nice kid. We got drunk together a couple of times. I guess we sort of became friends because we both felt out of place. I was a nigger and he was a hick. He used to wear an old Stetson and I used to read Dick Tracy. He grew up to be a cowboy, and I grew up to be a cop. A busy cop," he emphasized.

"Uh-huh." Hutch was quiet for a moment.

"Where's your partner?"

"San Diego. Coming back today. What do you think about Andy Jones?"

"I don't know Andy Jones," Dobey replied reasonably. "But I hope you find him."

"Yeah. So do I." Hutch stood, walked to the door, stopped. He frowned. "Jones is a rodeo clown, who has a bad stutter, and wants to be another Willie Nelson."

"Mel Tillis," Dobey corrected.

"What?"

"He stutters, too. Not when he sings, though. Strange."

"That's what Tyler said about Andy. A bad stutter when he talks, but he sings okay."

Dobey closed the file and shoved it aside. "Well, if Tillis made it, maybe he will, too." "Maybe." He put a hand on the knob, then took it off again. "No John Does in the morgue the last couple of days? Thirty, five-eleven, one-sixty or so?"

Dobey looked at him sharply. "No, I checked that, of course."

Hutch nodded.

Dobey was still looking at him. "Any reason for you to think there might be a John Doe like that on ice?"

"No reason at all," Hutch said. "Just trying to touch all the bases before I go to Newcombe."

"What's Starsky going to do?"

"Sit tight for a little while anyway." Hutch rubbed the back of his neck. "Too early for any kind of a battle plan yet. I'm still stumbling in the dark. No matter what Tyler thinks, the guy just might be off on a spree someplace. Hell, maybe he'll turn up today." He smiled faintly. "Thanks for the help."

"Just do the job." Dobey picked up a pen and scribbled his name on something. "Monroe's a nice guy."

"Yeah, seems to be." Hutch opened the door. "Well," he said with seeming irrelevance, "Starsky came back, right?"

"What?" Dobey asked, closing the file.

"When everybody thought he was dead." Hutch shrugged and left.

It took him nearly ten minutes to sweet-talk Minnie into running Monroe and Jones through the computer. Would have taken Starsk about thirty seconds, he thought sourly. He drank a cup of coffee, which hadn't improved at all since his days on the force, and waited impatiently for the policewoman to return.

The information she brought back wasn't really worth waiting for. With the exception of a DWI conviction on Monroe, way back in 1963, both came up clean. Model citizens, apparently. Except that one of them was suddenly missing. Model citizens shouldn't disappear; it upset the natural order of things.

He stopped at a health food joint and had a banana yoghurt milkshake for lunch, then went by his place and tossed some things into a duffel bag before driving back to the office. The Torino was in its usual spot in front; he parked Belle right behind it.

Old man Weiss, who operated the used bookstore on the ground floor and owned the whole damned building, trapped him in the hall, talking a blue streak. Hutch tried to edge away. "I don't understand," he said. "It's the other guy who understands Yiddish, not me. I can't understand what the hell you're saying." The man kept talking, poking an insistent finger at Hutch to emphasize his words. "I'm an Episcopalian," Hutch said, making a desperate dash for the stairs and escaping.

He knew damned well what the old guy was yammering about, of course. The rent was a week late again. He only wished he could figure out why the hell the old man persisted in talking Yiddish to him.

His partner was in the hallway, rubbing a wadded handkerchief over the crooked gold lettering that emblazoned the door. CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS, UNLIMITED. D. STARSKY - K. HUTCHINSON. The paint job had been done with more enthusiasm than skill by a female acquaintance of the airline stewardess persuasion. Occasionally, when he had nothing more pressing to think about, he still wondered what Starsky had said, done, or promised in order to get himself top billing.

Hutch leaned against the wall to watch the polishing job. "You got my message, I guess," he said.

"Uh-huh," Starsky muttered, carefully buffing the D in his name. "You know what we need?"

"What?"

"A girl friday."

Hutch blinked twice. "A what?"

"You know. A girl to answer the phone and greet the clients and answer the mail."

"Right, Starsk."

Starsky glanced at him, frowning. "Don't you like the idea?"

"I love it. There's only one problem."

"What?"

"We don't even make enough for you and me to survive on. How the heck are we supposed to pay someone else? Unless you could find a chick willing to take it out in trade." He didn't add that knowing Starsky, such an idea wasn't totally unbelievable.

"Well, I didn't mean right now," his partner said, giving a final swipe at the glass and then opening the door. "I just meant it was an idea we might want to keep in mind. For when things get off the ground a little."

They went in. "My partner, the eternal optimist," Hutch said. "Sure, why not? Doesn't take anymore effort than being a pessimist." He sat down, propping his feet on a corner of the desk. "You have to expect a few rough days, Hutch. Things'll pick up. Like this new case. Sounds big. What's it all about?"

Hutch went and took two more beers from the six-pack, tossing one to Starsky. He shrugged and sat down on the desk. "Not so big, I guess. A missing person. The client's an old friend of Dobey's."

"Yeah? Great." Starsky drank beer, listening as Hutch told him about Tyler Monroe's visit. By the time he was finished, Starsky was frowning. "Okay, blondie," he said. "What's bugging you about it?"

Hutch shrugged. "Feels bad, is all."

Starsky seemed to mull that over for a moment; they had long ago learned to respect one another's gut feelings. "You think maybe Monroe's not on the up and up?"

"No, not that. He's okay."

Starsky tapped the beer can thoughtfully. Hutch always had the impression at times like this that he was asking himself just what one of his paperback heroes would do in the same circumstances. "Well," he said finally, "we can only look for the guy, right? Do our best. We usually find 'em. Maybe we'll get lucky again."

"Maybe." Hutch drained the beer. "I better get out to Newcombe. Never saw a real rodeo before."

"Old farm boy like you?"

He shrugged.

Starsky swung his feet to the floor. "See if you can find out who Jones was talking to about making a record. Get me a name I can follow up on."

"Will do."

"Meanwhile," Starsky said with a grimace, "I better go out to Topanga and deliver Friendly Fred's money."

They went down the steps together, walking quietly in order to avoid alerting the landlord again. Starsky paused on the sidewalk. "You heeled?" he asked casually.

Hutch patted his jacket.

"Take care. Don't let a horse step on you." He grinned. "I'm more worried about what I might step in than what might step on me."

Starsky returned the smile, gave his partner a parting shot on the arm, and headed toward the Torino.

Hutch pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on as he slid behind the wheel.

**

______

III

Newcombe was one of the many little towns that ring Los Angeles. Unfortunately for the fiscal health of the small community, no one had seen fit to locate a giant amusement park within its environs; nor had a major (or minor) movie company chosen it as the site for a studio. Newcombe, in fact, remained almost anachronistically rural within the mostly urban county.

It took Hutch almost two hours to get from the office to downtown Newcombe. The first thing he did upon arriving was to find a motel that was cheap enough so he could skim a little off the top of his expense account. It wasn't exactly honest, maybe, but he figured that if he was willing to put up with third-rate accommodations, the least the client could do was pay for a second-rate place. The business world had lots of little twists and turns like that, he'd discovered.

After he was all checked in and had unpacked the duffel, he sat down on the unpromisingly lumpy bed to make a phone call.

Monroe must have been sitting on top of the damned thing, because he answered almost before the first ring ended. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Monroe? Ken Hutchinson."

"Oh. Hi." It didn't take many brains to figure out why he sounded disappointed; Hutch's wasn't the voice he wanted to hear. "Call me Tyler, huh?"

"Okay. Did you talk to the Newcombe cops, Tyler?"

"Yeah, sure. That first night, when Andy didn't come back I waited 'til three o'clock and then I went down to the station." He was quiet for a time. "Said they was used to cowboys getting drunk and taking off. Happens every rodeo, they said."

"Does it?"

"Yeah, I guess," he admitted; then his voice hardened. "But not to Andy. He don't do things like this."

Hutch pulled at the sparse threads on the old chenille bedspread. "They checked the local hospital?"

"Yeah."

"And the morgue?"

There was another long silence on the other end. "Yes." It was said very softly. "They checked the morgue." He took a deep breath. "There was a body there, and they made me go look at it. Wasn't Andy." "Okay. Look, I need to talk to you some more, and maybe to some of the other people who know Andy. When would be my best chance?"

Tyler was a moment answering. "Most everybody will be having dinner pretty soon over at the Last Round-Up. After that, there's the draw for tomorrow's events."

Hutch had managed to pull enough threads out of the bedspread to make a small hole, so he quit. "Why don't I meet you there in about thirty minutes?"

Tyler agreed, and after getting directions, Hutch hung up. He stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

It was clear that to the town of Newcombe the annual rodeo was a big deal. The entire city was festooned with signs and flags in honor of the big event, and many of the residents seemed to have outfitted themselves appropriately. Unless, Hutch thought, they always dressed that way out here.

He had no trouble locating the Last Round-Up and managed to find a small parking space amongst the pick-up trucks and vans that jammed the lot. Inside, the large room was crowded elbow-to-elbow with cowboys and an almost equal number of females. Willie Nelson and Ray Price reverberated from a jukebox singing something about faded love.

Hutch, glad he'd donned blue jeans for the occasion, worked his way through the mob until he saw Tyler Monroe sitting at a corner table with two other men, and a young woman clad in cut- offs and a T-shirt with the words NEWCOMBE RODEO, 1980 emblazoned across the front. The front wasn't bad, Hutch noted.

Tyler gestured him into a chair. "Just on my way to the bar for another beer, Ken," he said. "Can I get you one?"

He nodded.

Tyler unwound his lanky frame from the chair and walked away.

As he sat, Hutch looked around the table at his companions. The girl smiled; the two cowboys didn't. "Hi," he said pleasantly.

"Hi," she replied.

"I guess you folks all must know Andy Jones?" Folks? Jesus, I just got here and already I'm starting to talk like them.

They nodded.

"Any idea where he might be?" They shook their heads. The girl went so far as to shrug. "Kinda funny," she said.

Hutch tried to encourage her with a smile. "What's that?"

"Him just up and taking off like that."

"You know him pretty good?" he asked.

"Everybody knows Andy. I mean, we all sort of know each other."

Hutch looked up and saw Tyler coming back, balancing a foamy mug in each hand. "You like him?"

"Sure, I guess. Why not? He's a nice enough guy."

Tyler sat down, pushing one of the mugs toward Hutch. The conversation, such as it had been, stopped altogether. Everybody drank beer and listened to a song about eating crackers in bed. When that ended, Hutch leaned across the table. "How did Andy leave here?"

Tyler's eyes focused slowly, as if he'd been somewhere else. "What? Oh, in his car."

Hutch pulled out his notebook, flipping it past a shopping list and several pages dealing with how one suburban housewife spent her afternoons while her husband labored in a Santa Monica bank, until he reached a blank sheet. "Yeah?"

"A '68 VW. Red. Wyoming plates, RE 4536."

He wrote all that down neatly. "You have any idea about how much money he might have had on him?"

Tyler sipped beer carefully. "Thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents."

The exactness of the figure surprised Hutch a little, but he let it pass for the moment. "Credit cards?"

"Nope. Don't believe in 'em, neither one of us."

The two cowboys finished their beers and left without a word. The girl in the T-shirt stayed, leaning both elbows on the table, listening.

"What was he wearing?" Hutch asked.

"Jeans. A yellow shirt, I think." He closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, his yellow shirt. There's blue flowers on the back. Boots, of course. Black ones, with white stitching. His hat." Hutch was still writing. "Any distinguishing marks? Like a scar or something?"

Tyler set the mug down on the table, frowned, scooted it half an inch, and let it stay. "He had his appendix out five years ago; there's a small scar. That's all." The jade eyes darkened. "Oh, and he has a birthmark on his back, just below the left shoulder."

The girl was tapping out a tune on the table, singing along softly with the jukebox.

Hutch glanced at her, then looked back at Tyler. "Was he wearing any jewelry? Like a watch? A ring? Anything?"

"A watch, yeah. But it's real cheap. Nobody would want to steal it. It was just from a drugstore, you know? And it was old, like five or six years. Not worth stealing. Not worth... hurting anybody over. And neither is thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents. Is it?"

Hutch didn't bother to tell him that he'd known murder to be committed over as little as seven cents. Once, even, over two returnable soda pop bottles. A human life was the cheapest damned thing in the world.

"You know what I read in the Enquirer last week?" the girl said. "This gang mugged some guy and stabbed him so they could take his boots."

Hutch tossed her a dirty look, but she was caught up in the song again. He saw the slender fingers clench around the handle of the mug. "Anything besides the watch, Tyler?" he asked gently.

Tyler nodded. "A Marine Corps ring."

Hutch glanced up, a little surprised. "Andy was in the Marines, too?"

"No."

He didn't say any more and Hutch let that go, too. "Okay," he said, closing the notebook. "How about some food?"

He and Tyler ordered hamburgers; apparently the girl, whose name was finally revealed as Rosie, wasn't eating. Once the waitress had departed with the order, Tyler excused himself and headed for the can.

Rosie took a drink of Hutch's beer. "You wanna dance?"

That was the best invitation he'd had all week, so he nodded and led the way to a postage stamp- sized dance floor. The music was slow and sad. "You really a private eye?" she asked, as they moved in a slow, tight circle. "Like on TV?"

"Something like that." "Tyler paying you a lot of money to look for Andy?"

"He's paying me. Not a lot." They narrowly avoided colliding with another couple. "You said Andy's a nice guy?"

"Uh-huh. Real sweet. Not like what you might figure, if you know what I mean."

Hutch pulled back a little so that he could look down into her face. "What do you mean?"

She looked embarrassed. "Well, you know. You hear stuff about some kinds of people, but he's just sweet." The music picked up a little. "I don't think he'd ever run off like this. Especially not now."

"What's so special about now?"

"Didn't Tyler tell you about the ranch?"

Hutch glanced toward the table, where his client sat over another beer, seemingly oblivious to the other people in the room. "Tyler doesn't seem to say much of anything, unless I pry it out of him."

She laughed softly. "That's the way it is with cowboys. They don't believe in wasting too many words. Tyler's even worse than most. He talks mostly just to Andy. Of course, he's about the only one who talks to Andy very much."

"Why?"

"Not that we don't like him," she said quickly. "He's one of us, for sure, and like I said, a real sweet guy. It's just that Andy has this stutter, you know, and it makes people nervous trying to talk to him for very long. 'Cepting Tyler, of course. Reckon he's used to it by now."

Hutch looked down at her again. "Or maybe he just cares enough to make the effort."

She nodded. "I guess so, yeah." Her face brightened. "Like with this boy I used to date. He had this habit of cracking his knuckles. Used to drive everybody else crazy, but I never even noticed it, not for months and months. Then one day, I noticed. I think that was when we broke up."

The waitress was delivering their order, so Hutch was spared the necessity of responding to that tale. Rosie bid him a cheery farewell and joined a group at another table. Hutch returned to his chair across from Tyler, who was holding a hamburger, but not eating. Hutch took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. "Andy have any enemies?" he asked suddenly.

Tyler looked startled. "What? Enemies? No, of course not. Why should he?"

Hutch shrugged. "Why should anybody? But people do." "No. He doesn't have any enemies. Everybody likes him."

It was a good hamburger and Hutch ate in silence for a moment. "Rosie said people sometimes have a hard time talking to him because of the stutter."

Tyler made no response to that beyond a shrug.

They finished the rest of the meal in silence, and by the time they were done, the place was beginning to empty out rapidly. "Almost time for the drawing," Tyler said.

Hutch looked at him blankly.

"To see who gets what animal tomorrow night," he explained, gulping down the last of his beer.

Hutch tossed a couple of bills down onto the table. "You planning on riding tomorrow?"

"Sure." Tyler started for the door, then stopped. "Need the money," he said. The Stetson moved around in his fingers restlessly. "Usually Andy rides pick-up for me, though. It's gonna seem kinda strange without him being there. You get used to people, ya know?" He went out before Hutch could answer.

The lottery was held across the street from the Last Round-Up, on a wooden stage built especially for the purpose. It was the first official happening of the rodeo and the town played it up big. The high school band performed, and Miss Rodeo 1980 was duly crowned. At last, the names of the cowboys went into one hat and the names of the horses into another. Miss Rodeo, dressed in a sequined Western outfit, did the honors, a beaming smile fixed to her face throughout.

Hutch stood on the fringe of the crowd, watching. After a number of other selections had been made, Tyler's name was announced. He drew a horse called Jason's Fury.

He shrugged and walked over to Hutch. "Been waiting all season to get that nag," he said, not sounding like he cared a damned bit.

Hutch only nodded.

"You need to ask me any more questions, Ken?" Tyler's voice was raspy with weariness.

"Just one for now, buddy. Who was Andy talking to about making a record?"

Tyler thought for a moment, looking off into the night. "Brustein," he said finally. "Guy's name is Al Brustein. Says Andy has a lot of talent."

Hutch began walking toward his car, and Tyler trailed along. "How'd Andy meet this Brustein?" Tyler took out a cigarette and lit it as he walked. "Andy was singing for Talent Night in the Round-Up. He does that lots of places. Even won top money sometimes. Anyway, the guy heard him and came up after to introduce himself."

Hutch got into Belle and closed the door firmly. "All right, man, that's it for now. I'll see you tomorrow sometime."

Tyler nodded.

Hutch started the car and pulling away, leaving him standing in the parking lot of the Last Round-Up Bar and Grill.

**

______

IV

It was nearly three A.M. when the phone rang.

Hutch, who had finally managed to fall asleep despite the comings and goings of his fellow motel guests, none of whom seemed to stay longer than an hour, rolled over and swung an arm into the darkness. "'Lo?"

"Ken?"

"Yeah? Who's this?"

"It's me. Tyler."

"Oh, yeah." Hutch shook his head, trying to wake up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I mean, everything is okay. Everything is great. You can stop looking for Andy." Tyler sounded a little drunk.

"What? You mean he came back?" So much for my gut feelings, Hutch thought.

"Yeah. Well, no, not exactly, but...."

Hutch sat up, reaching for the lamp and then blinking against the sudden flood of brightness. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I got a message from him."

"A message." Hutch bit his lower lip for a moment. "What kind of a message, Tyler?"

The man took a couple of deep breaths, obviously trying to control the building excitement in his voice. "This guy just called. Andy asked him to. He said Andy was in some kind of trouble, but that it was all gonna work out. I'm supposed to pick him up in an hour."

Hutch didn't like this; he didn't like it more than he hadn't liked anything in a very long time. "Where are you supposed to meet him?" he asked.

"There's an abandoned gas station a few miles west of town."

"I'm going with you," Hutch said flatly.

"Hey, thanks, but no. The guy said Andy wants me to come alone." Tyler's voice sobered a little. "I think the poor kid is really scared about something."

Hutch pulled a hand through his tangled hair, trying to think how best to say what had to be said. "Tyler," he began quietly, "I think I better come." "But Andy wants -- "

"What if the message isn't from Andy?" The words, clipped and hard, seemed to lie between them, even over the phone.

"But..." The protest died and Tyler was quiet. "All right," he said finally.

There was something in his voice that made Hutch ache to offer a word of hope, just an anchor that the man could hold on to. He sounded like he was drowning from the weight of his pain; it was a feeling that Hutch knew too well. "If it turns out to be like the guy said, Tyler, I can at least meet Andy. Maybe I can even help him with his trouble, whatever it is. "

"Sure, Ken." All the earlier ebullience was gone from his voice and now he only sounded tired again. ''I'll pick you up in a few minutes."

"'Kay." Hutch hung up, then immediately lifted the receiver again, and dialed Los Angeles

Starsky sounded like a man more than half-asleep. "Hunh?"

"Starsk? It's me."

"Whassa matter?"

"You awake enough to listen?"

Starsky cleared his throat loudly. "Yeah, buddy. What's up?"

"Our client just got a message that was supposed to come from Jones."

"Uh-huh. You sound like a non-believer."

"Yeah, you could say that." Hutch began pulling his clothes on as he talked. "I just don't have a lot of faith in meets that are supposed to come down at abandoned gas stations at four in the morning."

"You cynic." Starsky took a noisy drink of something. "I guess you're probably going with him?"

"Yeah. He was against it, but I convinced him."

"Terrific. You and your silver tongue."

Hutch snorted. He slipped his shoes on. "I think you better get out here. First thing in the morning."

"No problem. I've already got some feelers out on the Brustein character you told me about before." "That was fast."

"Yeah, well, Huggy's got his ear to the very pulse of the music world. I'm quoting him."

"Okay." He shoved the shirttail in and zipped his fly. "Look, don't come in here as yourself."

"I need a cover?"

"Yeah. For a little while anyway. I've got nothing so far, but everybody knows I'm snooping around looking for Andy, so nothing's gonna drop in my lap. When I'm not around, they might open up a little. We don't know each other, okay?"

"Who the hell are you anyway?"

Hutch grinned. "That's the idea." He was trying to hold the receiver and slip into his shoulder holster at the same time. "I gotta go."

"Yeah, okay." He paused. "Hey."

"What?"

"Be careful what you step in, partner," Starsky said briskly.

Hutch understood the concern behind the almost light-hearted words. "Sure. Always. See you."

Starsky sighed. "Yeah, see you."

Hutch finished quickly and was waiting in front of the motel when a battered green van with Wyoming plates pulled to a stop. Tyler leaned over to unlock the passenger door. "You sure that you oughta be coming along?" he asked as Hutch climbed in.

"Yes," Hutch replied, settling himself not on the seat, but on the floor behind Tyler, out of sight. "Whatever's coming down, I need to be there." The other man still looked doubtful. "Look, Tyler, maybe I'm wrong about this and the message really was from Andy. I hope so."

The van pulled out onto the highway. "It must be from Andy," he said stubbornly. "Why would somebody say that if it wasn't?"

Hutch settled back against a saddle. "Tell me about Andy," he said suddenly, expecting Tyler to reply with "What about him?" or something equally uninformative.

But the big man surprised him. He leaned over the wheel, tensely watching the empty road. "I can tell you how we come to be together, if that's what you want," he said softly.

"Tell me." "The rodeo was in Carson City. This was in 1965." He shook his head. "Seems like a long time ago, don't it?"

Hutch tried to remember 1965. "A long time," he agreed.

"There was this kid that kept hanging around. Scrawny little blond. Kept trying to talk to all the rodeo people, but he had such a hard time with the words that... well, most folks wouldn't waste too much time on him."

"But you did?"

"Hell, he was a nice kid. Fifteen, he was then." Tyler pulled to a stop at a railroad crossing, then moved on again. "He stuck close to me the last couple days of the show, toting me coffee, whatever, you know? Then, on the last night before we left Carson City, he just upped and disappeared. I sort of missed him. Anyway, when everything was done for the night, I went back to my pick-up, and damned if he wasn't sitting there waiting for me." He shook his head, smiling a little. "I was so glad to see him." He frowned. "He was running away from the folks that raised him, back in Baker. They weren't his real parents; he never knew his own ma or pa."

"You helped him run away?"

Tyler glanced back again. "When he first told me what he was doing, I said that he shouldn't. Know what? He just turned around and pulled up his shirt. His back was all tore up, like he'd been horsewhipped. Must've hurt like hell. That was how those people treated him." There was an under-current of cold anger in the quiet words. "I cleaned him up and tried to make him feel better. Just made me sick to think about the kid running around all that time, so friendly and smiling, and all the while he was hurting."

"Life is rough for kids sometimes."

"Yeah. You know, I always figured that's why he has so much trouble talking, 'Cause of the mean way they treated him."

"Probably," Hutch said, thinking back over the many cases of child abuse he'd encountered during his years on the force. "So after you treated his wounds, you decided to let him stay?"

"Well, sure. I had to, didn't I? What was I supposed to do? Send him back to those people? Or turn him over to the cops? Hell, he needed somebody to look out for him." He paused "And I guess maybe I needed somebody, too. I was always sort of a loner, you know? Even though I was fifteen years older, Andy and I hit it off real good." He was quiet again, seemingly lost in thought -- or memories. "I put him to work right away. We used to do the team-roping event. Then he sort of took to clowning, and he's real good at it." There was pride in his voice. "Plus, like I said, he does pick-up on the bronc riding." Tyler turned off the main highway and headed down a dirt road. "We set to saving our money, so we could buy us a ranch. Just got it. Well, a start, anyway. Eight hundred acres in Wyoming." "Congratulations."

"Yeah, we've worked real hard." The van jerked to a stop. Tyler took out a cigarette and lit it. "The guy said to wait here." He coughed. "Damn cigarettes. Andy don't smoke. He's been trying to get me to quit."

Hutch shifted slightly, pulling the Magnum from its holster. "Did you recognize the voice on the phone at all, Tyler?"

''No."

There didn't seem to be much more to say right then, so they sat in silence as Tyler finished the first cigarette and promptly lit another. "Hell," he mumbled, "I been smoking since I was eleven. Can't quit now." Suddenly, he stiffened. "Somebody's coming," he said in a low voice. "Around the right side of the building."

"Does it look like Andy?"

"Too dark for me to tell. Maybe. Please, let it be," he added softly as he opened the van door and stepped out. "Andy? That you, kid?"

It was then that Hutch heard the faint, too-familiar sound of a gun being awkwardly cocked, readied. "Tyler!" he yelled, lurching forward between the seats to grab the lanky man and pull him down. At that same moment, the windshield of the van shattered beneath the impact of the shotgun blast.

Hutch raised his gun and fired blindly into the night, giving cover until Tyler had scrambled to safety next to him. "Stay here," he ordered hoarsely.

He opened the rear door just enough so that he could slip out. It was quiet now, the figure in the shadows seeming to have melted away. Hutch made his way slowly all around the empty building, hearing in the distance the sound of a car engine start, die, start again, then vanish. All he found was a single expended shell, which he picked up carefully with his handkerchief and tucked into his jacket pocket.

Swinging the rear door open, he turned on the over-head light. "You okay?"

Tyler sat very still, staring at Hutch. "Why is this happening?" His voice was soft and bewildered. "Why is somebody doing this to us? We're nobodies, Andy and me." He shook his head. "I don't understand."

Hutch crawled in and sat beside him, beginning to reload the Magnum. "You okay?" he asked again, and after a moment, Tyler nodded. "Is there something you haven't told me? I can't operate without all the facts, man. You must have some idea of what's going on, and why." "I don't. I swear to god, Ken, I don't." Tyler pounded his fist against the saddle. "Why? I'm nothing but a second-rate cowboy. I've never once won top money, not in twenty-five years. All I want to do is go to Wyoming with Andy and raise cattle." He shuddered a little, like a man with a sudden chill. "I'm forty-five years old, Ken, and I don't know why everything is starting to fall apart."

Hutch put his gun away. "Take it easy, Tyler," he said. "We'll find out what's going on."

Two tanned, calloused hands rubbed the saddle absently, almost tenderly. "Where's Andy?"

"I don't know yet. I'm trying to find him."

After a minute, Tyler crawled forward and began to pick up the pieces of glass that covered the seats. "I reckon you figured out that Andy and me are more than just friends," he said in a low voice, not looking at Hutch.

Hutch was helping him to clear away the glass. "That's your business, Tyler, not mine. Unless it has some bearing on the case."

"It couldn't. Could it?"

"I don't see how."

Tyler pulled an empty paper bag from under the seat and shoved glass into it. "I just wanted you to know," he said. "And something else...."

"What?"

Tyler looked up then, meeting Hutch's gaze evenly. "I never touched him that way when he was a kid."

"I believe that, Tyler."

The bag of glass was dropped outside, and they climbed into the seats. Tyler put both hands on the wheel. "I never would have touched him at all, but he... he wanted it. He came to me one night just after he turned twenty... ten years ago... and...." He shook his head. "He was so scared. Scared of asking me to love him."

Hutch was staring out into the darkness as he listened, knowing that Tyler was not really talking to him at all, but to the night itself, trying in some hopeless way to fight off the demons that suddenly seemed to be attacking his life.

"Hell," the cowboy said gratingly, "I'd have given him the moon if he'da asked for it." His fingers moved convulsively around the steering wheel.

"Let's go, Tyler," Hutch said wearily. "No sense hanging around here." Tyler started the van. "I guess some folks think what Andy and I do is wrong." He glanced sidewise at Hutch.

Hutch sighed, rubbing at the dirty window with the back of one hand. "I was a cop for a long time," he said finally, "and I saw a lot of what people do to one another. Most of it isn't very pretty. If once in a while two people can manage to love each other in the middle of the whole screwed up mess, I can't see a damned thing wrong with it."

"Andy and me belonged together, that's all. We belong together," he amended quickly. "We were friends first and we still are."

Neither man spoke during the rest of the ride back to Hutch's motel. The van pulled to a stop in front of the door to his room. "You be careful," he said, getting out.

Tyler shrugged.

Hutch slammed the door closed, the sound echoing in the early morning quiet.

"Ken?"

"Yeah?"

"You think Andy is okay?"

Hutch didn't want to answer that.

Apparently Tyler decided that he didn't really want to have the question answered either. "What I mean is," he said quickly, "do you think whoever's got him is treating him all right?" His hand worked the gears again. "I promised him, you know, back when he was fifteen, that nobody would ever hurt him that way again. I hope nobody is."

The battered van pulled away with a roar.

Hutch stood there a moment, watching as the van disappeared, then he turned sharply and went into the room. The goddamned power of the human animal for self-delusion, he thought as he pulled off his clothes angrily. It was a huge joke; except that it wasn't funny at all. Poor Tyler Monroe, worrying that somebody might be horsewhipping Andy Jones again, like they had once beaten a scared kid. Hutch knew deep in his gut that Jones was beyond being hurt anymore, at least in this life. But Tyler wouldn't face that. Couldn't face it.

He climbed into bed. Cut the shit, Hutchinson, he told himself. You've pulled that same dumb routine in your life. He could remember spending night after night locked in that jail cell, waiting for Starsky to come back from wherever he was, and make everything all right again. He'd made up stories, too, not so very different from the lies Tyler was telling himself now. Amnesia. Kidnapping. Any kind of shit that would get him through the night. And it happened, dammit. Starsky came back.

Hutch closed his eyes and buried his head in the pillow. He wondered how Tyler Monroe would get through the rest of this night. And all the nights to come.

**

______

V

It was sunny and warm the next morning. There was a large and noisy group gathered around the pool at the Traveler's Inn. The rodeo opened that night, but apparently everyone involved was taking it easy until then. A portable eight-track blasted the sound of Don Williams across the water.

Tyler Monroe wasn't part of the crowd at the pool. Hutch skirted the group quickly, looking without much interest at a big-mouthed man with a movie camera slung over one shoulder. The blond went directly to the second floor and knocked at the door of room 216. As he waited for a response, Hutch leaned over the railing, watching the scene below. The bush-league Fellini was busily directing two girls, both clad in wet teeshirts promoting the rodeo.

After several moments, the door swung open. Monroe, wearing the same battered Levis and a wrinkled green T-shirt, stood there, a beer in his hand. From the bleary way his eyes focused on Hutch, it wasn't the first beer he'd had since their early morning meeting.

Well, Hutch thought, that's one way to make it through the night. A can of beer was better than no company at all. Monroe stepped aside so that Hutch could come in, then closed the door firmly again, shutting out the light and noise.

"Morning," Hutch said.

Tyler nodded.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine, Ken." He sat down.

Hutch tried to see the room in the gloomy half-light. Typical motel stuff, for the most part. Two double beds, one neatly made up, the other a jumbled mess of blankets and sheets. A dresser heavily littered with empty beer cans and flattened cigarette packs. A couple of well-used suitcases were in one corner of the room. He walked over to the dresser and picked up the gold- framed photo sitting there. This was a better picture of Andy Jones. Clad in cut-offs, shirtless and barefooted, he sat perched on the front of a shiny red Volkswagen. He was grinning at the camera. Hutch looked at the face in the photo for a long time, thinking for some reason of Huckleberry Finn. "Nice picture," he said.

Tyler nodded and drank more beer.

"I need to take it with me."

"Will I get it back?"

"Sure. I'll take good care of it." Tyler nodded again.

Hutch put the picture carefully between the pages of his notebook. Then he leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms. "Tyler, do you understand what last night means?"

The big man turned the beer can around in his fingers several times before answering. "I guess so," he said finally. "It means that Andy being missing ain't just... something that happened "

"Right. It wasn't, in other words, an act of random violence." Damn. He hated it when he still talked like a cop; sometimes he thought it was deliberate, an attempt to keep himself separate from other people and other people's problems. "What I mean, Tyler, is that nobody just mugged Andy or anything, and left him lying in an alley."

One leathery cheek twitched, but Tyler kept quiet.

"Whoever did this was after Andy, just like they were after you last night."

Tyler got up from the chair suddenly and began to walk aimlessly around the room. "You don't mean...." He stopped, cleared his throat and tried again. "You don't mean they blasted him with a shotgun. That ain't what you're saying, is it, Ken?"

Hutch shrugged. "I'm saying that I don't know, Tyler."

Tyler stared at him for a moment, then turned and strode into the bathroom, slamming the door. Hutch sighed and went over to the window. He opened the curtain a little, letting a shaft of sunlight into the gloom. Someone down by the pool shrieked, and there was scattered laughter and applause.

He turned around when Tyler came out, watching as he took another beer from a brown paper bag. "Did you have breakfast?"

"Not hungry."

"You still planning on riding tonight?"

"Yes," Tyler said with sudden savageness. "I told you that we need the money. We have to buy stock for our ranch."

"Then you better stop drinking and have some breakfast." Hutch walked to the phone and dialed room service. He ordered a pot of coffee and some eggs.

Tyler watched sullenly. "You charge extra for playing nursemaid?" he muttered.

"Nope," Hutch replied, sitting on the unrumpled bed. "You should be out looking for Andy. That's what I'm paying you for, not to hang around here babysitting me."

"Don't tell me how to do my job, Tyler."

They were quiet, listening to the sounds from the pool. Tyler lifted the beer can as if he were going to take another drink; then, instead, he threw it into the wastebasket. Hutch figured that was a step in the right direction. "Okay, buddy," he said quietly. "Can we talk?"

Tyler nodded.

"You said before that Andy didn't -- " The green eyes flashed, and Hutch corrected himself quickly. "Andy doesn't have any enemies. Now, man, he's been around the rodeo for fifteen years. You can't tell me he never had a problem with anybody. Not even a saint gets along with the whole world."

It was a moment before Tyler spoke. "Ben Crane and Andy have had some problems."

"Crane?"

"He's one of the other bronc riders."

Hutch jotted the name down. "What's the trouble between them?"

Tyler leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. "Ben thought Andy was a little slow on his pick-up a couple weeks ago in Denver."

"Was he?"

"No." The word was sharp. "Andy does his job."

There was a knock at the door, and Hutch got up to let room service in. They didn't talk again until the girl was gone, and Tyler was eating. "He and Crane fight, did they?"

"Yeah. They were both a little drunk. Didn't mean anything. Crane's been on Andy's back for a long time."

"Why?"

Tyler dumped catsup on his eggs. "Guess Crane just doesn't like him." There was a pause. "He called Andy a queer," Tyler said finally, softly. "Nobody ever did that before." The gaunt face hardened. "If I'da been there...."

"What?"

"Never mind." Hutch looked at him, frowning a little. "Crane here at the motel?"

"Nope. He has a van, parked out at the fairgrounds."

"Okay. Anybody else?"

Tyler shook his head. "I told you that Andy gets along with people. He's a nice kid."

Hutch nodded. "Can I look through Andy's things?"

"Go 'head. Ain't much to see." Tyler gestured with the fork. "First and second drawers are his."

Hutch stood in front of the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. He'd always hated this part of the job, whether as a cop or now. There was something almost indecent about pawing through another person's belongings, pawing through the pieces of someone else's life.

Tyler had been right; there wasn't much to see. Hutch sighed and pushed around the contents of the drawer. Teeshirts, socks, a couple of belts. Some much-laundered handkerchiefs.

"We don't have a whole lot," Tyler said. "Never needed much."

Hutch didn't answer as he closed the top drawer and opened the next one. It was much the same. Some sweatshirts. A string tie with a gold and silver clasp in the shape of a horse. Underneath it all, he found a battered cigar box. He pulled it out. "What's in here?"

"Don't know exactly. Andy just keeps things in there. He's had that box kicking around for years."

Hutch went back to the bed and opened the box, dumping the contents onto the bedspread. The first thing he picked up was a copy of a birth certificate. One Andrew (No Middle Name) Jones had been born on July 16, 1950, in Los Angeles, California. His mother was listed as Margaret Jones. Father unknown.

Tyler was drinking coffee, watching him with shadowed green eyes.

"You said that Andy didn't know anything about his parents?"

"Right. Oh, he found out his mother's name when he sent off for his birth certificate years ago. The folks that raised him said he was born in L.A." He poured more coffee.

Hutch put down the birth certificate and picked up an old black-and-white photograph. Tyler Monroe, looking younger and a little self-conscious, was watching the camera. Next to him stood a skinny blond teenager. The boy wasn't looking at the camera; he was staring up at Tyler, the expression on his face something between awe and love. Hutch set the picture aside. The next item was a high school diploma from some correspondence school in Utah. Tyler got to his feet and walked over to take the cheaply embossed document. "I made sure he finished high school," he said. "Did real good, too. Even got some A's. I figured it was important for him to have the damned diploma, just in case he ever wanted to be anything besides a dumb cowboy." He dropped the paper.

There was a Hallmark card, kept carefully in its envelope, exhorting the recipient to get well soon, and signed in a sprawling scrawl. Love, Ty, it said.

"From when he had his appendix out," Tyler explained, although Hutch hadn't asked. "Don't know why he still has the damn thing."

There was a red-white-and-blue campaign flyer, plugging the virtues of one Richard Kingman, a candidate for Congress in the upcoming election. "Andy into politics?"

"No." Tyler looked at the flyer and shrugged.

There wasn't much else to see. A matchbook from someplace called the Spruce Goose in Santa Monica. Tyler said he had never heard of the place. A letter from the Bureau of Records in Los Angeles, stating that there was no death certificate on file for a Margaret Jones during the years designated. Hutch looked up from the letter. "Andy's interested in finding out about his parents, I guess?"

Tyler shook his head. "Not anymore. He gave up on that a long time ago."

"Did he?" Hutch pointed at the date on the letter; it was three months earlier.

Tyler looked at it silently; then he picked up the small picture from the bed and walked back to the chair. He stared at the picture for a long time before speaking. "I thought he gave up on it," he said, sounding puzzled. "We talked about it, you know? Almost ten years ago. I told him it was stupid to keep looking for people who didn't care nothing for him anyway, or they never would have got rid of him. He didn't need them." The tone was defensive.

"Maybe Andy thought he did."

"No," Tyler said stubbornly. "We don't need anybody else. We're a real family, him and me." He looked at the picture again. "I wouldn't ever run out on him like his own folks did, and I wouldn't ever treat him mean like the McCanns."

Hutch gave up the argument with a shrug. He put everything but the picture back into the box, closed it, and stood. "All right, Tyler. I'm going to take off for a while. You be careful today, huh? Stay close to the room."

"No place to go," he said. "Until tonight."

"I'll be back before then." Tyler watched him walk to the door. "Ken?"

"Yeah?"

"What's gonna happen?"

Hutch opened the door. "I'm going to find out what happened to Andy," he said. Tyler looked at him a moment longer, then nodded. Hutch left the room and went back out into the bright sunshine.

** VI

Hutch was sitting in the Denny's across from the motel, toying with a cup of coffee, when the obnoxious movie maker came in and sat down on the stool next to him. "You have any film in that thing?" he asked sourly, not looking at the newcomer.

Starsky shrugged. "Nobody noticed." He ordered a chocolate milkshake. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that van with the shattered windshield that's parked over by the motel, would you?"

"That's an example of what happens when you go to four A.M. meets with mysterious phone callers."

The dark blue gaze flickered over him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. And so's our client." Hutch waited as the girl behind the counter set down Starsky's shake, then poured him more coffee. "Speaking of whom, keep an eye on him today, will you? Whoever it was last night might try again."

"Okay." Starsky slurped up some milkshake. "You have any kind of a handle on this yet?"

Hutch sighed. "Wish to hell I did. Andy Jones doesn't seem like the kind of a guy to get himself murdered, but...."

"But you think he did?"

"Hell, Starsk, I don't know." He felt mad and confused at the same time. He gulped the rest of the coffee. "I better get out of here."

"Where you off to?"

"Local cop shop, for a start. Then over to see a guy named Crane who had a fight with our boy Andy not long ago. From there -- I don't know. I'll be in touch." He tossed some coins down onto the counter.

Starsky pulled the milkshake toward his mouth again. "We have to stop meeting like this, partner. I'm beginning to feel like a ship that keeps passing in the night."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed ruefully. He started to go, then paused. "Starsk?"

"Hmm?"

"Keep an eye on Tyler, huh?"

"I already said I would, man." Starsky's face was curious. "Okay," Hutch still didn't leave. "I like the guy, you know, and he's in trouble."

Starsky nodded.

Hutch smiled his thanks and walked out of the restaurant.

~~~

The desk sergeant at the Newcombe Police Department wasn't exactly bowled over by Hutch's private investigator's license. He studied the paper carefully, then handed it back. "So?" he said. "What's the problem?"

"I'd like to see Detective Pevner." That was the name Tyler had given him, the man he'd spoken to that first night.

"He's busy."

"It won't take long." He was much too used to the petty bureaucracy that permeated all police departments to let it upset him. He smiled.

The sergeant frowned, but picked up the desk phone. "Got a private snoop out here," he said, not bothering to disguise the scorn in his voice. "Wants to see you." He listened, then hung up. "Through there. Second door on the left."

"Thanks," Hutch said politely. The overweight cop ignored him.

Pevner was sitting behind a desk that was empty except for one thin case folder. A busy man, perhaps, but still neat. He closed the file and studied Hutch through horn-rimmed glasses. "Yes?"

"My name is Hutchinson. I'm working for a man named Tyler Monroe, trying to find a friend of his. Andrew Jones."

Pevner nodded. "The cowboy."

"Right."

Pevner pushed the glasses back up on his nose. "You're not from Newcombe, are you, Hutchinson?"

"L.A."

"Yeah. Well, look, I told Monroe when he was in that we'd keep an eye out for Jones, but I also said that the man is an adult. He can come and go as he pleases."

"The man is missing." "Cowboys get drunk and take off all the time."

"Not Andy Jones."

Pevner was quiet for a moment. "Well, Hutchinson, maybe not, but we just don't have the manpower to spend time looking for a cowboy with itchy feet."

"I'm not asking you to. That's why I'm here. I've got lots of time and nothing to do except look for Jones." Hutch settled back in the chair. "I only wanted to ask if you'd co-operate with me, let me in on whatever you might have."

"I don't have anything." Pevner opened a drawer and after a moment, took out a paper. "This is the report Monroe filed."

"I have all that." Hutch paused, watching as the cop took off his glasses and began to clean them with a tissue. "Somebody tried to blow Tyler Monroe away last night."

Pevner looked mildly surprised. He carefully finished polishing the left lens before replacing the glasses and looking at Hutch again. "You don't say?"

Hutch told him briefly about the phone call and the shotgun blast, finishing by taking the expended shell from his pocket and setting it carefully on the desk. Pevner listened to it all without comment, then unwrapped the shell to look at it. "I suppose you want us to waste time trying to lift some prints off of this."

Hutch shrugged. "Humor me. It's all I have."

The cop studied the missing person's report again. He sighed. "I'll circulate a description of Jones and the car at all roll calls."

"Thanks."

"You will report any further incidents like what happened last night? We frown on that kind of thing out here."

Hutch stood. "We frown on it in L.A., too," he said.

They parted with mutual understanding, if not as best buddies, and Hutch left the Newcombe Police Department.

~~~

Starsky sat by the pool, still fiddling with the camera, although everyone seemed to have melted away, probably to get ready for the rodeo. Whatever the hell one did to get ready for that, he thought with a certain amount of foreboding. He kept one eye on room 216, so he saw when the door opened, and a tall slender man stepped out on the balcony. Monroe peered over the railing and apparently decided that one stranger with a movie camera presented no immediate threat. He came down the steps and sat in a chair on the other side of the pool. He lit a cigarette, staring into the water.

Starsky sat still for a few moments, then stood, shouldering the camera, and walked over. "Hi, there," he said.

Monroe glanced at him. "Howdy," he said softly.

That seemed to be as much as the man was going to say, so Starsky began messing with the camera again, pretending not to know that Tyler was watching him.

"How much one of those things run anyway?"

Starsky looked up. "The camera? Oh, about five hundred dollars for this kind."

______

"That much, huh?" He smoked in silence for a moment. "I looked at some a couple years ago. Thought maybe I could use it around the rodeo, you know? Movies of the whole thing."

"That'd be nice," Starsky agreed.

"Yeah. Never did it, though."

"Too bad. Still not too late."

Monroe's gaze shifted from the rippling water to Starsky, then back again. "I hope not," he said so softly that Starsky could hardly hear him.

"You been with the rodeo a long time?"

"Twenty-five years."

"That's a while," Starsky said.

"Yeah, long enough." Monroe took a long drink of beer. "This is my last year on the circuit. I'm retiring."

Starsky quit pretending to work with the camera. "Guess you've earned it, after twenty-five years."

"Gonna take up ranching out in Wyoming. We have a spread, small, but good land for cattle." He sighed.

Starsky tossed a lens cap back and forth between his hands.

"Hey," Monroe said suddenly, "you been around the town a little the last day or so?"

"A little," Starsky said cautiously. "Why?"

Monroe pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to a small and fuzzy black-and-white photo. "Maybe you saw this guy? He's about five eleven. Has this stutter when he talks, and -- "

Starsky handed the wallet back. "I haven't seen Andy," he said quietly.

Monroe's look at him was sharp. "How'd you know his name?"

"I'm Dave Starsky."

"Ken's partner?"

He nodded. "I wasn't trying to trick you or anything, Tyler. Hutch just wanted me to come in with a cover, so I could move around and maybe hear things more easily." Tyler nodded. "I guess that makes sense. Ken seems to know what he's doing. You find out anything?"

Starsky sighed. "Not much. I just don't think anybody knows anything. I tossed his name out a few times. Everybody seems to like him."

"Yeah."

He went back to tossing the lens cover from hand to hand as they sat in silence, watching the water.

Tyler stood finally. "I'm tired," he said. "Going upstairs."

"You go on. I'll be here."

"Ken put you to watching me?"

Starsky smiled. "Just in case."

Monroe nodded and walked out to the steps, where he paused. "Mighta been best," he said in a low voice, "if that guy last night had been a better shot."

Starsky looked at him quickly. "Don't be thinking like that," he said. "Don't give up. Not on Hutch and me. Not on yourself. Not on Andy."

"You think he's coming back?"

They stared at one another for a moment. "I don't know," Starsky said honestly. "But I don't think you should give up."

Tyler rubbed a hand across the wrought iron railing. "I don't want to," he said. "But it's hard. You know, Dave, my old man put a gun to his head and blew his brains out. Now, he had a lot of bad breaks in his life, you know? But I never understood how he could do what he did. How could life be so bad that he just wanted to finish it?" His palm slapped against the railing. "But I guess he just finally decided that the whole damned fight wasn't worth the effort." Tyler looked up, squinting into the sun. "I understand the old man now," he said. He was gone up the stairs and into his room before Starsky could reply.

"Shit," Starsky said to the emptiness.

~~~

Hutch was beginning to get a complex. Everybody in the world was too busy to talk to him. Crane, a stocky, greying man was working on some ropes outside his trailer, and he didn't have time to talk to any jerky snooper. Hutch leaned against Belle. "We can talk while you work," he said pleasantly. "Understand you had a fight with Andy Jones not long ago."

Crane snorted. "Maybe where you come from they call that a fight."

"I guess you know he's missing."

"I heard." Crane tested a knot. "Tough."

"My client thought that maybe you could shed some light on the subject."

"Your client?" He picked up another rope. "That's gotta be Tyler, right?"

Hutch didn't answer.

Crane nodded. "Gotta be. Nobody else gives a damn about J-J-Jones."

This guy would never win a popularity contest, Hutch decided. "Look," he said coldly, "a man is missing. I'm trying to find him. You had a fight with him before he got missing. I might add that the cops are getting interested."

Crane straightened. "All right, pal, listen. Tyler Monroe is okay. He and I have known each other for a long time, since we both was kids back in Oklahoma. I always liked him. Jones is another story. Maybe I don't like him. Is that some kind of goddamned crime? Maybe I think he messed up a good man's life. Far as I know, the chicken shit Supreme Court ain't ruled that I can't think what I want. I think Jones is a jerk. He makes me nervous."

"Because of the stutter?"

"Yeah. And other things."

"Uh-huh." Hutch pushed himself away from the car. "You don't know anything about where Andy Jones might be?"

"Nope."

"Would you tell me if you did?"

Crane looked at him, then back at the knot he was working on. "Sure. Why the hell not?"

Hutch figured that maybe he was telling the truth. As he had said, why the hell not? Some people just looked like they weren't on the up and up. Shifty eyes. Didn't mean a damned thing. "Okay," he said. "Thanks for your co-operation."

Crane grunted a reply. Hutch opened the car door.

"Hey!" Crane said.

"What?"

He gave the rope a tug. "Might be the best thing that could happen to Tyler, you know."

"What's that?"

"Jones being gone. Wherever he is. Tyler used to be a good man."

Hutch got into the car. "Doesn't bother you that he's hurting?"

"He'll get over it."

Hutch started the car and left the fairgrounds, trying to bring some order to the chaos that cluttered his mind. It was disconcerting when he had a lot of facts that didn't add up to one thing. Andy Jones walks out of the Last Round-Up and disappears. He's a quiet, shy young man who stutters and who wants to find his parents. He has a red VW, also missing, and a middle-aged lover, not missing. A lover, though, who was hurting. Hutch wondered if Jones had a guitar. Wasn't that de rigueur for a cowboy singer? He didn't remember seeing one in the motel room.

The day was moving by too quickly. He drove back to his motel, and drank a Coke from the machine in the hallway as he placed a call to L.A.

Huggy, not surprisingly, was in a hurry.

"She'll wait," Hutch said. "You check out that name Starsk gave you?"

"Has the ebony Ellery Queen ever let you down, good buddy?" There was a pause as Huggy apparently searched for something. "Mr. Albert Brustein, impresario second-class of the music world."

"Second-class? What's that mean?"

"He handles mostly people who ain't arrived yet and who probably never will. Not because they don't have the talent, you understand, but just because most people don't make it."

"Brustein's on the up and up, though?"

"Well... for the most part."

Hutch waited.

"There have been a few rumors to the effect that he deals less-than-honestly with some people." Hutch finished the Coke and threw the can across the room, almost getting it into the wastebasket. "Such as, Hug?"

"Some songwriter sued him a couple years ago, saying Brustein stole some of his golden lyrics, had another guy record 'em, and neglected to pay for the privilege."

"What happened in the case?"

"It was thrown out for lack of evidence. My source was kinda fuzzy about what happened, but word has it that the star witness took a powder."

That was fairly interesting. Hutch dragged the phone with him as he went to the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans to wear to the rodeo. "Where's this guy operate? You get an address?"

"Yeah. On Hill Street." Again Huggy searched and then read an address and phone number aloud.

"Okay. Thanks, Hug, I appreciate this."

"I prefer an appreciation that I can fold up and put into my pocket."

"Sure, man, you're on my expense account."

Huggy, still in a hurry, bid him a fast good-bye, and hung up.

Hutch finished dressing, picked up the empty Coke can and deposited it neatly in the wastebasket, and left the room.

**

______

VII

It was obvious that the yearly rodeo was the big event in Newcombe. Everyone from the mayor to the barflies attended, most of them decked out in attire that seemed capable of scaring the horses. The streets of the town were jammed with traffic, and country music blared from loudspeakers attached to the front of city hall.

Hutch rode over in the van with Tyler, while Starsky, deciding to cling a little longer to the so-far useless cover, followed in the Torino. Tyler still wore the same blue jeans, but he'd added a long- sleeved shirt, green with pearl buttons and yellow embroidery. He'd attached short spurs to his boots, and wore, as always, the battered Stetson.

Hutch rested back against the passenger seat as the van edged slowly through the traffic. "I don't know that much about what you do," he said.

"I ride horses," Tyler answered.

Hutch smiled faintly. "There must be more to it than that."

"Nope." Tyler glanced at him. "Oh, they've got all sort of rules, you know, saying what you can and can't do. Like you have to spur the horse on the first jump out of the chute, and you can't change hands on the reins. Other stuff. But I just ride the horses, that's all. Try to stay on the full eight seconds." He shrugged.

"You said before that Andy rides pick-up on your event. What's that?"

"You have to get out of the bronc's way fast, once you're off. A guy can get bad hurt, if the horse kicks. The pick-up man makes sure we get clear." Tyler made a sharp right hand turn into the parking lot of the Newcombe fairgrounds. "Andy's real good at that. He likes being a clown better, but...." He paused, parking the van and switching off the engine, then looked at Hutch. "He started riding pick-up because he didn't want to trust anybody else to get me out fast enough." He smiled, the expression making him look suddenly younger.

Hutch nodded. "Andy sounds like a good friend," he said.

"He is." The smile faded, the eyes clouded over, and Tyler was forty-five again, and tired. He leaned against the steering wheel. "I'm scared, Ken," he whispered. "I never in my life said that to anybody before. But I'm so damned scared."

Hutch just sat there, knowing that nothing he could say right now would help. He knew the words that one was expected to say at times like this; the same things people had told him last year. But the phrases hadn't comforted him then and they wouldn't comfort Tyler now.

After a moment, Tyler took a deep breath and straightened, watching in the rear view mirror as the Torino parked just behind them. "This Dave Starsky," he said, "he a good man?" "Yes," Hutch said firmly, then added, "Starsk rides pick-up for me."

Tyler nodded, his face showing that he understood.

They climbed out of the van and walked with the crowd toward the grandstand, leaving Starsky to haul along the camera. The idiot, Hutch thought. Why the hell didn't he just come in as a writer? Then he could've used a paper and pencil, instead of lugging that thing around.

They parted at the entrance. Tyler headed toward the holding area as Hutch bought a ticket and looked for a seat. He watched the crowd until he saw Starsky come in and take a seat on the other side of the arena.

The omnipresent music blared over a scratchy loudspeaker, conflicting with the cries of peanut hawkers and other peddlers wandering through the crowd. Hutch waved one kid aside and bought a bag of peanuts. He started to shell and eat them, just as Rosie, the girl from the Last Round-Up appeared next to him. "Hi, there," she said.

"Hi." He scooted over a little on the bleacher and she sat down.

"You're still looking for Andy, huh?" she asked, taking a peanut.

"I'm still looking."

Her face grew solemn. "That's too bad. Tyler must be pretty upset."

Hutch only nodded.

The mournful sound of Marty Robbins and "El Paso" was replaced by the hyper beat of a Sousa march as the rodeo began with the traditional (according to the program) Grand Entrance. Many of the contestants rode into the arena, accompanied by a dozen cowgirls on horseback, each carrying an American flag. Tyler wasn't among the participants. Hutch glanced toward the holding area and saw the lanky man perched on top of the rail fence.

The crowd stood for the National Anthem and then the rodeo could officially begin. Hutch watched the calf-roping, barrel racing, and bare-back bronc riding with only mild interest. He looked over toward Tyler again when the clowns came on, but Monroe had disappeared.

Two men in costume were involved in a noisy skit with a smoke-belching old car. Hutch leaned closer to Rosie. "That's what Andy does, is it?"

She nodded. "Yeah. He's pretty funny. Of course, the most important job the clowns have is during the bull riding." Hutch looked at her blankly. "They have to run around and distract the bull, so the rider can get away."

"That sounds dangerous." "Can be. Andy don't seem to mind, though."

The first event after the intermission was the saddle bronc riding.

Tyler was the fourth up to ride. When the announcer said his name, Hutch straightened. A huge black horse came out of the chute, bucking and twisting. Tyler held on for what seemed like a very long time to Hutch, then landed on the ground. He got to one knee quickly, then scrambled away behind the pick-up man.

Rosie shook her head. "That's too bad."

Hutch looked at her. "He stayed on for eight seconds, didn't he? I heard the buzzer."

"Yeah, but his spurs weren't up high enough when he came out of the chute. They have to be above the break of the horse's shoulders. He got a goose egg. That disqualifies him, at least for this go-around."

Hutch swore under his breath, then stood. "See you, Rosie."

"Hope so," she replied with a grin.

Hutch made his way out of the crowded bleachers and walked around behind the pens until he found Tyler leaning against the fence. The big man's shoulders were slumped, and the Stetson lay on the ground beside him. Hutch hesitated, then joined him at the fence. "Tough break," he said after a moment.

Tyler raised his head. "I'm too goddamned old for this," he said. The front of his clothes were dirty and he began to slap at the grime with one calloused hand. "Should'a quit years ago. I was gonna, ya'know?"

"Were you?" Hutch picked up the hat and began to rub at the dirt.

"Broke my arm back in 1975. Got thrown and landed wrong. I thought about quitting then. Hell, I was forty. Old enough."

"But you didn't quit," Hutch said, handing him the Stetson.

Tyler looked at it. "No, I didn't." He grinned suddenly and Hutch could see what the man must have looked like when he was happy. "Andy talked me out of it. Damned kid could make me feel about twenty." The grin was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, replaced by bitter lines of worry and fear. "He can make me feel that way. He can." He shoved the hat on with a vicious gesture. "Go find him, Ken. Just go find him. Please."

The cowboy walked away, and Hutch let him go. He caught the special shuttle bus the Chamber of Commerce was running between the fairgrounds and downtown, then walked over to where his car was parked He took time only to stop by the motel and leave a message for Starsky about where he was going, then got back into Belle for the trip to Los Angeles.

**

______

VIII

Starsky heard the shrill ringing of the phone, but he hoped that maybe if he kept his eyes closed and ignored it, the sound would stop. It didn't. He grabbed for it blindly. "Yeah?"

"Who's this?"

"Dave Starsky. Who's this?" He loved guessing games on the phone in the middle of the night. Next, the voice would be asking if he had Prince Albert in the can or something equally bright.

"Where's Ken?"

He recognized the voice then. "Hutch went to L.A., Tyler."

"Damn. You sleeping?"

The words were slurred and Starsky realized that the other man was drunk. "What the hell should I be doing in the middle of the night?"

"Thought maybe you'd be out looking for Andy. That's what I'm paying you for, not to sleep."

"Sure, Tyler. Look, I'll see you in the morning, okay? Why don't you call it a night, too? You sound like a little sleep would do you some good."

"Maybe...." There was a pause, and Starsky started to hang up. "Dave!" There was an edge of something like panic in Tyler's voice.

Starsky sighed. "What, buddy?"

"What's Ken doing in L.A.?"

"Looking for Andy, of course, just like you want. He went to talk to Brustein."

"Oh." Tyler apparently dropped the phone, and Starsky waited until he picked it up again. "I think you should talk to Ben Crane. He had a fight with Andy."

"Hutch already talked to him."

"Yeah, but... but I think he knows something."

Starsky reached for the can of warm, flat Dr. Pepper sitting on the night table, and took a long drink. "Why?"

"'Cause tonight at the rodeo he came over and cussed at me for sending Ken around to talk to him. Why would he do that, if he wasn't trying to hide something?" "That doesn't mean much. Maybe he just doesn't like detectives. Or maybe it was Hutch he didn't like."

"I think he knows something," Tyler insisted with the single-minded determination of inebriation. "I want you to go see him."

"Sure, okay, in the morning. We'll talk about it later, okay?" Christ. Clients.

"Well," Tyler said, "if you won't go, I will. I'll go talk to the son of a bitch myself."

"No, wait a minute. Where are you now, Tyler?" Starsky said quickly.

"Phone booth. But I'm gonna go find out what he's hiding. Gonna find out... where Andy is...."

Starsky sat up straight in the bed. "Hey, don't do that -- " But it was too late; he was talking to a dial tone. He slammed the phone down. "Dammit." This was just what they needed, a drunken client beating up on people. "Terrific."

He dressed with haste, managing to dredge up from his sleepy mind the fact that Ben Crane had a trailer out at the fairgrounds. At least, he thought that's what Hutch had told him. In just two minutes, he was headed out the door.

The fairgrounds, that had been so filled with noise and people just a few hours earlier, were now mostly dark and deserted. A few lights were still on in the barn area, but there didn't seem to be anyone around. Starsky drove in a side entrance, looking for the van, but not seeing it. With luck, he'd managed to beat Tyler, and would be waiting for him.

Crane's trailer was set off by itself in a sparse clump of trees. Starsky parked nearby and got out. There was a pale light on inside the trailer and he could hear the low rumble of a TV or radio. He took up a position a few feet away, wondering if Tyler would even show up. Maybe he'd passed out in the phone booth.

Nothing happened. Several minutes passed before Starsky noticed something that made him frown. The door to the trailer wasn't closed all the way; a thin shaft of light pierced through. Starsky walked closer. "Crane?" he said softly. "You in there?"

The low mechanical voice droned on, but there was no reply.

With one hand, Starsky gave the door a gentle push. It swung open easily. Crane was there. Tyler wasn't. But he or someone else had been. Unless Ben Crane had decided to kill himself by cutting his own throat. The body, clad only in a pair of purple and white satin shorts, was spread- eagled across the bed. There was a lot of blood.

Starsky stepped back out of the trailer, pulling the door closed carefully. "Terrific," he muttered again. He walked back to his car and sat there for a moment. Just my luck, he thought bitterly. Hutch leaves town and bodies start collecting. And where the hell was their frigging client? Slow-talking, good-old-boy Tyler Monroe.

Starsky drove out of the fairgrounds, not quite sure where he was going. He saw some lights ahead and pulled into the parking lot of the Beer Barrel Inn. There weren't many cars at that hour, but one of the vehicles was a green van with a shattered windshield. Starsky parked next to it.

Tyler was sitting in the rear booth, an almost empty bottle of whiskey and a full glass on the table in front of him. Starsky dropped down across from him and waited to be noticed. Tyler finally looked up, blinked twice and nodded in recognition.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Starsky muttered through clenched teeth.

Tyler picked up the glass and took a drink before answering. "I'm getting drunk," he said in a reasonable voice.

"That's great." After a moment, Starsky decided that maybe a little booze wasn't such a bad idea; there had been a lot of blood back in the trailer, and the raw stink of death. He picked up the bottle and took a gulp. "He's dead." The words were quiet, and Tyler didn't react. Starsky set the bottle back down with a crash. "Did you hear me, Tyler? I said, he's dead."

Tyler stared at him. "Dead? Who? Not Andy?" The last words were a strangled whisper.

Starsky wanted another drink, but he didn't take one, figuring that somebody here needed to have a clear head and it better be the one who was going to be talking to the cops real soon. "No, not Andy. Ben Crane. You told me that you were going to see him, and now he's dead. Murdered."

"Ohmygod." Tyler struggled visibly and managed to bring some sense of understanding to his eyes. "Jesus, I've known him... years and years. What happened? I mean... how?"

"Somebody cut his throat. Was it you?"

"Me?" Tyler seemed to think that Starsky was joking for a minute, then he sighed and shook his head. "No. Of course not. Why the hell should I kill Crane?"

"You thought he knew something about Andy."

Tyler considered that for a moment, then leaned forward a little. "Figuring that he did know something," he said softly, "cutting the bastard's throat don't seem like a very smart way of finding out what it might be."

Maybe the man wasn't as drunk as he seemed. "That's true," Starsky said. "But people don't always think straight. You did make threats."

"Right." Tyler lifted the glass again. "Right, Dave, I made threats. I'm a big talker, don't you know? I've been talking great plans for a lot of years. A ranch, a place we could really be proud of, Andy and me. I used to talk about being all-around cowboy. Talk -- " His voice began to rise. " -- talk, talk. That's all I do." He smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. "My threats meant as much as all the other bullshit I've been talking for years and years. I made the threats, and then I came back in here and kept drinking." He shook his head. "I couldn't kill anybody."

"All right."

"You believe me?"

"Uh-huh."

"Thanks."

Starsky shrugged. "Whoever did the job had to get pretty bloody. You're clean."

Tyler made a sound that was almost a laugh. "Hell," he said. "I thought it was my sterling character that had you convinced."

Starsky changed his mind about the whiskey and took another gulp. "You're a funny cowboy, Tyler."

"Yeah? Am I?"

"It wasn't all bullshit, you know."

The green eyes looked at him with mild curiosity.

"Hutch told me you got the ranch."

"Yeah, we did."

"That's something."

"Yeah. Something." They were both quiet for a moment. Someone had dropped a coin into the jukebox.

You're a little too old to play cowboy, It's high time that you made a change, So kick off your boots and bed down your horse, 'Cause there ain't no home on the range.

Tyler sighed. "What happens now?" he asked finally.

"Two things. First of all, you get your ass back to the motel. Stay there."

"And you?" "I call the cops and report the body."

Tyler frowned. "Why Crane?"

Starsky got to his feet, feeling tired. "Why the shotgun blast at you? Why Andy?"

Tyler shook his head. "None of it makes any sense."

"Everything makes sense once you figure it out," Starsky replied, guiding him toward the door. "Unless you get it all figured out, and it still doesn't make any sense."

"Then what happens?"

"Then I remember something that my grandmother used to say. 'Life is full of mishegoss."'

Tyler stopped and looked at him. "What?"

"Means life is crazy, Tyler." He waited until Tyler was in the van and had the key in the ignition. "Can you drive, man?" he asked suddenly. "How drunk are you?"

Tyler sighed. "Not nearly as drunk as I'd like to be." He started the engine with a roar. "Don't worry, Dave. You know us cowboys."

"Well, just be careful. Stay in the room until you hear from me."

"When will Ken be back?"

"I don't know. Why? Don't you like the service you're getting from me?"

Tyler shrugged. "It's not that."

Starsky waited, but no further explanation seemed forthcoming, so he stepped back and watched as the van pulled out onto the highway. Tyler drove slowly, carefully, toward town. From a phone booth in the parking lot, Starsky called the police.

He drove back to the fairgrounds and was sitting on the steps of the trailer when the first squad car arrived, siren wailing and roof light flashing. A very young cop jumped out, a gun in his hand. "All right now," he said loudly, "you stand up real slow."

Starsky stood. Real slow.

The officer came over and pushed at the trailer door with one hand. "Jesus," he breathed. He seemed, at last, to remember the manual. "Turn around and put your hands against the trailer," he ordered crisply. Starsky had had enough experience with eager young cops not to debate the issue. My god, he thought, I was once an eager young cop. It was a startling thought. He spread his arms and legs and stood patiently. A second car arrived. "Hello," another voice said.

"Hi," Starsky replied, figuring he might as well get points for politeness.

"Found this guy sitting here, sir," Eager Beaver said.

"I'm the one who called it in," Starsky explained.

"Just a good citizen, eh?"

"When it doesn't cramp my style," Starsky said, sounding a little testy; his arms were beginning to ache.

"I see. Anybody know who the stiff is?"

The cops were silent. Starsky sighed. "His name is Ben Crane. He was with the rodeo. Sir?"

"Pevner is my name. Do either of you men happen to know who our good citizen is?"

"We were just about to frisk him when you got here, sir."

"Uh-huh. Well, go ahead, Nolan."

Nolan went ahead, grinning like a Cheshire cat when he came up with the gun. "Look at this," he crowed.

Eager Beaver looked. Pevner looked. Starsky didn't bother looking, because it was no surprise to him that he'd had a gun under his arm. "I have a license for that," he said. "And if you'll notice, the guy was not shot."

"Well," Pevner said mildly, "I generally like to let the coroner make that kind of judgment."

Nolan pulled out Starsky's wallet and flipped it open. He smirked. "Some kind of private investigator. From L.A."

"Really? We seem to be getting a lot of those lately. Had one in my office recently."

"That was probably my partner. Hutchinson."

"And you are?"

"Starsky. Dave." Pevner took the wallet and glanced at the ID, then handed it back to Nolan. "Give Mr. Starsky his wallet. You can lower your arms and turn around."

Starsky did, shaking his arms a little to get the circulation going again. He and Pevner looked at one another. Starsky flashed his most charming smile.

Pevner seemed spectacularly uncharmed. "Just how did you happen to discover the deceased?"

"Came by hoping to talk to him."

The scene around the trailer was beginning to get crowded, as lab crews and others showed up. Pevner gestured and Starsky followed him. They both got into the official black sedan, Pevner in front, leaning around to look at Starsky in the back seat. "Kinda late for a talk, isn't it?" he asked.

"It is for him, I guess," Starsky replied.

Pevner smiled the tight, humorless smile that seemed to come so easily to homicide cops. "Funny," he said. "Late for him. I'll have to remember that."

Starsky sighed. "Look," he said, "I have a client -- "

"Tyler Monroe."

"Since you already know that, I won't deny it. Anyway, Monroe is beginning to get a little uptight about Jones being gone."

Pevner was examining a hangnail. "You know he and Jones are hopping into the sack, don't you?"

Starsky realized immediately that he should have known; he also felt sure that Hutch knew, although he hadn't said anything about it. The knowledge bemused him for a moment. Monroe hadn't seemed like the type. Whatever the hell the "type" was. Starsky wasn't sure anymore. "We don't inquire into the sex lives of our clients," he said mildly.

"No reason why you should," Pevner agreed.

"Tyler called me earlier and suggested that I might want to talk to Crane about Andy. I wanted to wait until morning, but he insisted the sooner the better." Starsky shrugged. "He's the client."

"Right. So you came over to talk, found Crane dead, and called us right away."

Starsky wanted to be very careful what he said here, so he wouldn't trip himself -- or Monroe -- up. "Almost right away," he hedged.

Pevner just looked at him. "Well, I had to find a phone," he explained. "And, to be honest, I needed a drink. That's a pretty grisly sight."

"Sure is." Pevner picked up a clipboard and thumbed through the papers there. "Although I would have thought that a man who spent as much time with the Los Angeles Police Department would be used to seeing things like that."

So Pevner had checked them out after Hutch's visit. Starsky kept his gaze direct. "Do we ever really get used to it?"

Pevner conceded the point with a shrug.

"I went into the Beer Barrel Inn across the highway there and had a drink. Then I called you."

"I see." Pevner was staring out at the lab guys. "And where is your uptight client right now?"

"In his motel room," Starsky said flatly.

"You seem very sure of that."

"I am."

The police radio crackled. Starsky thought that maybe the sound should have been a little nostalgic, should have stirred up some old memories. It didn't. The dispassionate voice only made him feel tired. Reality kept intruding on his life. Real life had nothing to do with hanging around motels looking for cheating husbands. Or with collecting money for Friendly Fred. This was reality. Crane's slit throat. Tyler's hurting eyes. Starsky wished that he could just close the book on this case and move on to something else. Something that wasn't so damned screwed up and sad. Maybe helping some beautiful damsel-in-distress. Unfortunately, damsels seemed in mighty short supply these days. Instead, they had cowboys and surly homicide dicks.

"Look," he said at last, "Tyler Monroe is a victim here, too."

Pevner made no reply to that. The inside of the car was quiet for several moments. Finally the cop sighed. "All right," he said heavily. "You can go." His sharp gaze focused on Starsky's face "I assume you'll be around town?"

"We haven't found Andy Jones yet. We'll be around."

Pevner nodded, and Starsky slid out of the car, walking quickly back to the Torino before he could change his mind. As he started the engine, the meat wagon arrived to take away what was left of Ben Crane.

It was very quiet at the Traveler's Inn. An empty beer can floated across the pool, solemnly observed by a wide-awake tabby. The cat gazed up at Starsky, then nonchalantly walked away. Nobody else seemed to notice his arrival. He walked directly to Tyler's room and knocked. "Come in," the soft voice said.

The room was dark. Starsky switched on the small bedside lamp, then dropped into a chair. "The cops will be talking to you," he said without preliminaries. "Tell them you called me and asked me to go talk to Crane. Don't volunteer anything else. If they ask you specifically about being in the Beer Barrel, you tell the truth. Understand?"

"Yes, I understand." He held the plastic bathroom glass in one hand; lifting it slowly, he took a gulp of the amber liquid.

"Why don't you knock off the booze?" Starsky suggested sharply. "I can tell you from experience that it won't help."

"I can't seem to get drunk," Tyler said, more to himself than Starsky. "I keep drinking, but I can't get drunk enough to make a difference."

Starsky got up and walked around the room for a moment. "You and Jones have a fight, maybe?" he asked suddenly.

Tyler sipped the whiskey, a strange almost-smile playing around his lips. "Is that what you think?"

"I'm only asking."

"Ken didn't ask me that."

Starsky felt tired; he stretched, massaging the back of his neck. "Well, I'm asking."

Tyler hunched forward a little. "Let me guess. You figured out that Andy and me are more than just friends."

"Pevner told me. He figured it out. Or someone told him."

The cowboy shrugged. "Whatever. Anyway, now you've decided that we must've had a fight and he left. Maybe he even took a shot at me the other night."

"Lovers fight," Starsky said. "They run away. They even kill each other sometimes."

Tyler turned the plastic cup in his hands. His eyes closed as he leaned back in the chair. "I'm tired," he said. "I don't want to talk about this anymore tonight."

"All right," Starsky said as he headed for the door. "Remember what I said about the cops."

"I'll remember." Starsky lingered. "I'm not asking these questions because I give a damn about your private life," he said. "I'm just trying to do my job."

"I know, Dave."

He couldn't think of anything else to say; so he left. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he crossed the patio and headed toward the parking lot. The cat was nowhere to be seen.

**

______

XIX

Hutch spent the night at the office. He tossed and turned, managing to get only about two hours sleep before the phone woke him. God bless Alexander Graham Bell, he thought, pushing aside the curtain and dropping into a chair before reaching to answer the shrill ringing. "Confidential Investigations, Unlimited," he mumbled.

"Ben Crane is dead."

Hutch fumbled, almost dropping the receiver, then recovered. "Shit," he said.

"Right. Somebody cut his throat."

"Well, it wasn't me," Hutch said, wondering a little at his partner's tone.

"At least you weren't sitting on top of the body when the cops showed up."

"You were?"

"I was, yeah."

Hutch scratched at his unshaven face. "How come?"

"Because our client was making noises about going over and forcing a little information out of the guy."

"Shit," he said again.

There was a moment of silence. "Hey," Starsky said.

"What?"

"You didn't tell me about Monroe and Jones."

Hutch tore off the past two days on the desk calendar. "Didn't I?"

"I woulda remembered something like that."

"Does it matter?" When Starsky didn't answer, Hutch sighed. "Look, Starsk, it was sort of a confidence, I thought."

"Yeah?" Then Starsky sighed, too. "Okay. Not much of a secret now. Pevner knows."

"So will everybody, I guess, before this is over. Damn."

"Will it matter?" Hutch knew what Starsky meant. "No," he said. "I don't think it will matter at all to Tyler. Won't make a damned bit of difference." He stood. "I better get on this Brustein character. You stick close to Tyler."

"Sure."

"And you -- "

"Yeah?"

Hutch shrugged. "Watch what you step in."

Starsky grunted a reply and hung up.

Hutch shaved quickly as he gulped down a cup of instant coffee. He appropriated a shirt from Starsky's closet. It fit perfectly and a closer examination showed why; it was his shirt.

Madame Olga was in the hall when he left the office, and she greeted him with a rather dismal smile. He paused. "What's the matter?"

She shrugged. "I don't know." Several bracelets jangled as she unlocked her door. "I just feel like the atmosphere is filled with bad vibes today."

"Watch it, Olga. You don't want to start taking yourself too seriously."

She stepped into her office. "My horoscope this morning told me to heed my intuitions."

"Better do it then," he said, starting down the steps. Hell, he thought, I should have done the same. Should've chased Tyler Monroe out of the office. Told him we didn't do missing person jobs. Told him anything.

"Hutch?" Olga was leaning over the balcony.

He looked up. "What?"

"Don't take yourself too seriously either."

"Right," he said.

Rush hour was over, so it didn't take him long to reach the Hill Street address Huggy had supplied. The building reminded him a little of the one where their office was located. It was an old, brick-fronted place, tenanted with cheap dentists, a "dating service," and Al Brustein's Musical Agency on the fourth floor. At least, this building had an elevator that worked.

The receptionist finished powdering her nose before deigning to notice him standing in front of the desk. "Yes, sir?" she said cheerfully. "I'd like to see Mr. Brustein, please."

"And what is your name?" She spoke with the plastic good cheer of a TV weather-girl.

"Hutchinson."

She took note of that fact without noticeable excitement. "You don't have an appointment?"

"No, but it's very important."

"May I ask what this is in reference to?"

Her smiling face was beginning to irritate him. "It's confidential." He leaned across the desk a little. "But important." He grinned.

She patted her hennaed hair. "Well, Mr. Brustein never sees anyone without an appointment." He opened his mouth to object, but she kept talking. "But I'll see if he might not make an exception, since it's important."

"Gee, I'd appreciate it," Hutch replied, wondering why the detectives in Starsky's books always seemed to encounter receptionists who were both lush and lusting, while he seemed to get stuck with rejects from the Dating Game.

He sat down on the cerise leatherette couch and picked up a copy of BILLBOARD, as she vanished through a door. He had time to read all about the latest albums of people he'd never heard of, wondering as he read whether life was starting to pass him by. Maybe he was starting to sink into the doldrums of middle age. He mulled over the implications of that thought until the receptionist appeared.

"Good news," she beamed. "Mr. Brustein can squeeze you in between appointments."

She looked so pleased with herself for having accomplished this remarkable feat that Hutch gave her hand a pat. "Thanks, honey," he said. Hell, she couldn't help it if she didn't live up to his fantasies. Probably she was wishing he were a little more like Jim Rockford.

Al Brustein was a tall, skinny redhead, arrayed in designer denims. Several rings adorned his fingers and a large gold astrological sign hung around his neck. He was a Cancer. After a moment, he looked up from VARIETY. "Hutchinson? We met in Nashville last year, right?"

Hutch sat down without being invited to do so. "Wrong. We've never met."

Brustein folded the paper. "Okay." His eyes were cunning, belying the casual pose. "What's up?"

"I'm here about a singer named Andy Jones?"

"Jones?" He creased the newspaper more firmly. "You heard him a few nights ago in Newcombe."

"Sure, I remember. At the Last Round-Up." He flashed a row of even white caps. "I make it a practice to visit the small clubs around the area. Sometimes you can uncover real talent there."

"Like Andy Jones?"

"Maybe. The guy has potential. He came in and cut a demo tape for us. Haven't been able to get back to him on it yet. What seems to be the problem?"

"Jones has turned up missing."

Brustein blinked, but kept smiling. "Missing?"

"Yes." Hutch took out his notebook and flipped it open. People seemed to take more seriously what they were saying if it was being written down. "You didn't happen to have an appointment with him Tuesday night?"

"An appointment? Tuesday?" The fingers toyed with a pearl-handled letter opener. "No, not that I remember. Was I supposed to?"

"Someone did. He went out and didn't come back."

"That's too bad."

"You sound all broken-up."

Brustein shrugged. "Hell, man, I hardly know him."

Hutch doodled for a moment. "You were going to make him a star, right?"

"We talked a few deals. I didn't make any promises. Jones was eager, but they always are. Hungry, you know what I mean? Of course, with his problem...."

"The stutter?"

"Yeah. I don't think he put two sentences together right. But he can sing. And his songs were good. Had a kind of country-boy charm, you know? That sells big these days."

Hutch nodded. "You haven't heard from him in the past few days?"

"Not since he made the tape."

Hutch thumbed through a few pages of the notebook, as Brustein sat watching him. "Not the first time a client of yours has disappeared, is it?" he asked finally. Brustein flushed. "That's old news, Hutchinson."

"It might get to be current news real soon."

"Just who are you, anyway? Not a cop, or you'da been flashing your badge around before this."

"I'm an investigator hired to find Jones."

Brustein sneered. "A fucking rent-a-snoop." His slender body gave an impatient shake. "Get the hell outta here, man. I'm busy."

Hutch looked at him mildly, then stood. "We'll probably talk again, Brustein."

"I've got nothing to say."

The receptionist was still smiling as Hutch stalked out. He nodded, but didn't stop until he was back in the car. Settling back in the seat, he waited.

It was only about fifteen minutes later that he saw Brustein come out of the building and get into a flashy yellow MG. Hutch started Belle and followed the other car, keeping a respectable distance between the two vehicles, and thinking once again that he really had to get a different car for work. Something dark-colored and unobtrusive; it was a thought that occurred to him every time he was tailing someone.

The yellow car led him to North Hollywood and a country-western bar called The Palomino. Although it was only a little after eleven, the parking lot already held a number of cars. Hutch gave Brustein time to get inside before he followed.

The bar was larger than he'd expected, plastered with banners, and filled with the noise of a band playing for the early lunchtime crowd. Hutch hovered by the entrance, watching Brustein, who was sitting at a corner table with another man. Their conversation was animated, as if they were arguing about something. The stranger reached into his jacket pocket finally and pulled out a small package, which he handed to Brustein The redhead looked at it with what might have been distaste, then slipped it into his own pocket.

Hutch waited a few more moments, but Brustein was apparently staying for lunch. The blond wasn't hungry, and anyway, he had another stop to make, so he decided to abandon Brustein for a while.

The Kingman-for-Congress Headquarters were located in a downtown storefront, which was festooned with red, white, and blue bunting and large pictures of Richard Kingman. The candidate managed to smile and look concerned at the same time.

The girl sitting at the front desk was an advertisement for the blessings of a California youth. Her hair was sun-burnished, her tan perfect, and her teeth bespoke the wonders of modern American orthodontia. "Hi," she said. "Can I help you?" He pulled out his identification. "I'd like to speak to someone in charge."

Her eyes studied the license, then she frowned a little. "Well," she said hesitantly, "I guess you should see Mr. Kingman."

"The candidate himself?"

She smiled again, obviously amused by his ignorant presumption. "Oh, no, of course not. I meant Paul Kingman, his brother. He's the campaign manager."

Hutch took the chair she waved him toward and waited. Again.

Nearly thirty minutes passed. He spent the time watching the American political process in action. A bank of phones manned (peopled?) by a group of mostly young, mostly middle-class Kingman-enthusiasts was kept busy, as the volunteers worked their way through the voter registration list. The speech they gave was always the same, and after a few minutes, Hutch could have delivered the same spiel himself.

There were several copies of a small blue book that floated up and down the length of the phone bank, and Hutch decided that within the pages of the volume were the opinions of Richard Kingman on any number of subjects. The young people were adept at thumbing through the book and coming up with the right answer.

Abortion?

Well, Mr. Kingman thinks

Taxes?

Mr. Kingman thinks

Welfare? Capital punishment? The Russians? Spaying stray dogs?

Mr. Kingman thinks

Hutch was beginning to feel a little inadequate. It had been a long time since he'd given much thought to any of those important questions. Most of his time seemed to be spent considering much less significant issues. Like would he be able to pay the rent this month? Or could he really afford to buy a new shirt?

Or where the hell was Andy Jones?

They didn't quite have him convinced to vote for this savior of Western civilization when the girl reappeared and waved him toward the hallway. "Mr. Kingman will see you now. Right through that door." He went through the door. Paul Kingman's office was piled with boxes of campaign literature. Several phones sat on the desk, and the walls were covered with maps of the district.

Kingman himself looked harried. He was about Hutch's age, thin, with a shock of untidy light brown hair and busy eyes. He was on the phone when Hutch came in and he waved a silent greeting, pointing toward the coffee pot. Hutch shook his head and sat down in a metal folding chair.

"Well, look," Kingman was saying, "we've had these plans set for a long time. The Kingman bar- b-que is an annual event, election year or not. All we want is some decent coverage. Richard will deliver a speech, and -- " He listened impatiently as his free hand twisted and untwisted in the phone cord. "Yeah, yeah, okay, Max. Do what you can, willya?" He hung up. "Idiot." He smiled at Hutch. "What's up?"

"My name is Ken Hutchinson." He pulled out the ID once more and the busy eyes glanced at it. "I'm trying to locate a man named Andy Jones."

"Jones?" Kingman seemed to suffer from a case of nervous hands. He shifted items on the desk pointlessly. "Andy Jones? Am I supposed to know him?"

"I don't know. Maybe. He had one of your campaign flyers among his possessions."

Kingman grinned. "Hell, man, so do half the people in the city."

"But he had his tucked away very carefully with some other important papers. I figure that meant it had some significance for him."

"Perhaps, but I still don't see what this has to do with us."

Hutch took out the picture of Andy. "Maybe if you see him."

Kingman took the picture and stared at it thoughtfully. "Hell, Hutchinson, I still can't place him. A very ordinary face. Maybe he's one of our volunteers; I don't know all of them." He handed the photo back. "Sorry."

Hutch put the snapshot away and stood. "Okay. Thanks for your time."

"No problem. Hope you find him, whoever he is."

Hutch smiled. "Oh, I will."

Kingman smoothed his hair. One of the phones rang, and he reached for it, waving a fast good- bye.

Hutch stopped by the front desk again. "Excuse me," he said to the girl, who was in the process of stapling together yet another volume of the collected wisdom of Richard Kingman. She looked up. "Yes?"

He took out the picture and held it toward her. "You ever see this guy in here? Maybe he's one of the volunteers?"

Her glossed mouth pursed thoughtfully. "Gee, I don't know. I see so many people." Then she brightened. "Hey, you know, I do remember him."

"Yes? When was he in?"

"Well, he wasn't, not exactly."

Hutch just looked at her.

"A few days ago, don't remember exactly when, I was on my way to lunch, and I saw him standing on the sidewalk out front. He asked me if any of the Kingmans were here. Nobody was, though."

"Did he say anything else?"

She shook her head. "I remember him especially because of the way he talked. With a terrible stutter." Her face grew serious. "They can cure that, you know. My brother's been going to a speech therapist for a couple of years and he's much better."

Hutch nodded. "Was that the only time you've seen him?"

"Yes."

He thanked her and walked out, noticing that Paul Kingman was standing in the doorway of his office, watching, still smoothing his already smooth hair.

It was a short walk over to the library. Hutch spent a couple of hours there, reading up on the Kingman family. None of what he read had anything to do with Andy Jones.

He finally went back to the office to think a little, and to see if there were any messages from Starsky.

**

______

X

The cops had already been and gone by the time Starsky arrived at the Traveler's Inn that morning. Tyler didn't have much to say about their visit -- or about anything else, for that matter. He sat hunched over a cup of black coffee, looking red-eyed and tired.

Starsky sat across from him, toying with a guitar pick he'd found on the rug. "We're taking a little drive today," he said finally.

Tyler looked up, but still didn't speak.

"We're going out to Baker. That's where Andy grew up, right?"

"Yeah." Tyler frowned. "Why are we going there? Andy hates that place."

"Well, we want to find out if the people that raised him, the uh -- "

"McCanns."

"Right. We want to find out if they're still around. Maybe Andy got in touch with them."

"He wouldn't do that."

Starsky dropped the pick and stood. "I'm going out there. If you don't want to come, fine."

Tyler gulped the rest of the coffee. "I might as well." He picked up the tiny piece of plastic that Starsky had dropped and put it carefully into his pocket, then followed him out to the Torino.

They rode for a long time in a silence that was broken only by the low murmur of the radio. Starsky spoke finally. "What do you know about these people?"

Tyler came slowly back from whatever lonely place he'd been lost in, and shifted in the seat a little to look at Starsky. "The McCanns? I just know it was a terrible place for the kid. Andy never really knew how he came to be living there with them. They weren't any kin. The old man used to whip his ass whenever he stepped out of line, and even when he didn't, just in case, I guess. The old lady wasn't so much mean, as just useless." He had the guitar pick in his calloused fingers, turning it over thoughtfully. "I can't understand somebody doing a little boy that way, can you?"

"It happens," Starsky said, remembering too many cases of child abuse he'd seen as a cop.

"People like that are crazy," Tyler muttered.

"Probably. So Andy ran away?" "Yep. When he was fifteen. Just lit out one night when the old man was drunk. He kept running until he hit Carson City. That's where the rodeo was."

"And you."

"And me. Hell, I didn't know what to do. A kid like that had no business being on his own, but I sure as hell couldn't send him back."

"So you kept him with you."

"Yeah."

Starsky maneuvered around a slow-moving eighteen-wheeler. "At least you didn't beat him."

Tyler frowned. "I never once hit him." He stared out the window for several minutes before speaking again. "I guess you figure it was wrong, me taking him to bed. Well, it didn't happen that way. He took me. And he was a full-grown man when it happened."

"I don't care about that, Tyler. It's not part of the case."

"That's what Ken said, too."

"Well, it's the truth."

He was quiet again, watching the barren landscape. "I wonder," he said softly. "I wonder if maybe you all just don't want to talk about it because it makes you feel sort of uncomfortable." His hand opened and closed on the guitar pick. "Folks are like that. Either they laugh, or they just try to pretend like it ain't there. You wouldn't laugh, Dave, but I think you might want it not to be. Or, at least, for you not to know about it."

Starsky didn't say anything.

Tyler looked at him. "I ain't ashamed of loving Andy like I do."

"Good."

"You ever love anybody, Dave? I mean with all your heart and soul and body?"

"Yes," he said, thinking of Terri. "But she died."

Tyler sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

The lanky cowboy cleared his throat. "How'd you keep going on without her?" "I don't know," Starsky replied honestly. "I just did."

They didn't talk anymore. Once they reached Baker, they stopped at a service station for gas and to use the telephone directory, which supplied them with an address.

It was hot in Baker, nearly a hundred degrees. By the time they reached the tiny unpainted house on the edge of town, both men were drenched in sweat. They sat in the car, staring at the falling- down hovel, the front yard of which was littered with hulks of old cars and rusty appliances. "Jesus," Tyler said softly. "This is where he lived?"

"Maybe it wasn't so bad fifteen years ago."

But the air of ruin that clung to the place seemed at least a century old. Tyler shook his head slowly. "The first night he was with me," he said, "we stopped at some motel the other side of Carson City. It was a dump and I told Andy I was sorry it wasn't a better place. He just laughed and said it looked like a palace to him. Now I know why."

They finally got out of the car and made their way across the yard.

She was sitting on the porch, an old lady in a flowered dress, and despite the terrible heat, a knit shawl draped around her shoulders. The rocking chair moved slowly. "Who's there?" she asked in a reedy little voice, her head cocked to one side, the colorless eyes staring blindly into the distance.

"Excuse me," Starsky said loudly. "We're looking for Mrs. McCann."

"You found her."

A middle-aged Mexican woman appeared in the open door and stared through the screen at them.

"My name is Starsky, and this is Mr. Monroe."

"What you be selling? We ain't buying, no matter what it is, but we'll gladly take a free sample, if you be giving." She made a cackling sound, apparently intended to be a laugh, and the woman in the doorway smiled.

Starsky wiped at the sweat pouring down his face. "No, ma'am, we're not selling anything. Just wanted to ask you some questions."

"Questions? You got some questions for me?" She cackled again. "See, Maria, ain't it like I always said? Live long enough and everybody begins to think you must be wise. Now they be coming seeking the fruits of my wisdom."

"We wanted to ask you about Andy Jones."

"Who? Andrew, you say?" "Yes. Do you remember him?"

She snorted. "You take me for a dummy or something, Mr. Starsky? How could I fergit a boy I brung up like my own? Although he run off a long time ago, with never a word of good-bye. And took my egg money when he left." She shook her head. "Butter wouldn't melt in that boy's mouth, but damned if he didn't run off with my egg money. Twelve dollars I had, and he took every cent."

"You haven't heard from Andy lately, have you, Mrs. McCann?"

"Heard from him? I should say not. You know Andrew?"

"Yes, ma'am, and we're trying very hard to find him."

"You are, huh?" She was quiet for a moment, rocking back and forth slowly. The woman inside watched. "Mr. McCann and I, rest his soul, only had one baby of our own. Our boy Joe," she murmured. "The Lord never blessed us with any more. So when we got Andrew, it seemed like a wonderful thing. We was real happy to have him. Another baby for us and a brother for Joey. We all took to Andrew."

Tyler had been silent, but now he stepped forward. "How come you treated him so bad?" he asked sharply. "Beating him like you done."

"He was a stubborn child. My late husband never had much patience. Used to rub against him, like salt on a wound, the way Andrew wouldn't talk right. No matter how he tried to make him talk right, Andrew just wouldn't do it. Mr. McCann always thought the boy was spiting him."

"Andy can't help his stutter," Tyler said.

Starsky figured that the two of them could argue that point for a long time, but he didn't feel like listening to it. He took Tyler by one arm and pulled him back a few steps. "Mrs. McCann," he said then, "how did Andy come to live with you? Was he family?"

"No, I should say not." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Near as I can recall, there's never been no thieves in our family."

Starsky sensed Tyler stirring behind him, so he spoke quickly.

"Why was Andy living here?"

She sighed, picking at the threads of the shawl with claw-like fingers. "You try a body's memory, you know? I'm eighty years old. Something that happened so many years ago is kinda vague."

He crouched down next to the rocking chair. "I know it's hard," he said softly. "But we'd sure appreciate any help that you could give us. It's very important that we find Andy." She was quiet a moment longer. The woman behind the screen still stood there silently. "It was a rainy night," the old woman said finally. "In the year 1950, I believe. The fall. Mr. McCann, bless his soul, and I had been listening to the radio before going to bed. Don't recollect right off what we was listening to."

"That's all right. Go on."

"There came a knock at the door. 'Who could be calling so late?' I asked my husband. He went to answer it and there stood a man, holding a wee baby in his arms. The baby was all wrapped up in a blanket."

"Did you know the man?"

"No, sir, I did not. But Mr. McCann did."

"Did you hear his name?"

"Nope He just says, 'Jimmy' -- that was Mr. McCann's given name -- 'Jimmy, I want you to take this child. Keep him here with you, take care of him, and I'll pay you for his upkeep."' The old lady tapped the porch with her foot. "Now that seemed a little peculiar to me, don't you know? So I asked him who the baby was, and why he wanted us to keep it. All he told us was that the baby's name was Andrew Jones and that its mother was dead. That was all we had to know, he said. And he promised to send one hundred dollars a month. Times was hard and I reckon Mr. McCann thought we could use the money. So he agreed and the man handed the baby to me." A smile hovered on her wrinkled face. "I pulled back the blanket to see him. A cute little mite, he was."

"Didn't the man say anything else?"

"Nope."

"Can you remember what he looked like?"

"Oh, he was quality, you could tell that right off. About forty, I reckon, dressed in a fine style. He was driving a big black car, like the president has."

"Did he send the money?"

"Every month, just like he promised. A one-hundred dollar bill in an envelope."

"When did the money stop coming?"

The smile broadened. "Never done. Still comes. I told Mr McCann, rest his soul, after Andrew run off like he done, that maybe the money would stop coming. He wasn't worried about it, though. Money buys silence, he said." "One more question. Where does the money come from? Is there a postmark?"

Mrs McCann didn't answer.

"Los Angeles," the woman beyond the door said.

"Starsky glanced at her. "Thank you."

Her face was hard. "We need that money. You ain't gonna make it stop coming, are you?"

He didn't know how to answer that, so he only stood. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. McCann. We appreciate it."

The old lady cackled again, without apparent reason. "Hey, you," she said as they started away.

"What?" Starsky replied.

"If you find that boy Andrew, you make him give back my egg money, will you? Twelve dollars he took from me. You tell that thief Andrew that I want my money back. Tell him."

Starsky heard Tyler mutter something under his breath. The big man yanked the wallet from his pocket, and took out some bills. He tossed them into the woman's lap. "There's your damned money," he said tightly. "Andy's no thief, and don't you be telling people he is." Tyler spun around and stalked toward the car, Starsky following.

They were quiet as they returned to the highway, leaving Baker and the dismal past behind. Tyler smoked two cigarettes before he broke the silence. "How'd she die, the girl you loved?" he asked very softly.

Starsky bent over the wheel. "Someone shot her," he said shortly.

"What'd you do?"

"I cried a lot. I sort of gave up for awhile."

"But you went on."

"Yeah." He remembered the terrible days after Terri's death. "Hutch helped a lot. Just having someone there who cared, you know?" He glanced sidewise, realizing as he spoke that Tyler Monroe probably didn't have anybody. Nobody besides Andy Jones.

"It isn't fair," Tyler said, looking out the window.

"I know," Starsky said. "It stinks."

"You believe in praying, Dave?" "Sometimes."

"I've been praying."

"Maybe it'll help, man."

Tyler shrugged. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

Starsky waited a moment, then reached to turn the radio back on.

**

______

XI

He was still in the office when Starsky called to report on the trip to Baker. Hutch listened, his feet propped on the desk, as he chewed glumly on a rapidly cooling Big Mac. When he didn't say anything in response to the tale, Starsky asked, "What're you thinking about, partner?"

"Judge Crater," Hutch replied, then took a swig of buttermilk.

"Huh?"

"They never found him, either."

Starsky was quiet for a moment. "You don't want me to comment on that right now, do you?"

"Tyler is there, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How's he doing?" Hutch gave up on the hamburger, shoving the messy remains into the bag.

"So-so."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Instead of answering, Starsky mumbled something that Hutch couldn't hear, then apparently handed the phone to Tyler. "Ken?"

"Yeah, Tyler?"

"You find anything yet?"

"I'm working on it, buddy. These things take time. You okay?"

"No."

Damn the man's frigging honesty, Hutch thought wearily. Couldn't he lie? Was it against the damned cowboy code to give the socially acceptable answer? Hutch crushed the buttermilk carton.

"Sometimes it isn't easy, Tyler," he said. He waited a moment, but there was no response. "Couple questions I wanted to ask."

"Okay."

"You know anything about a demo tape Andy made for Brustein?" "Sure, he told me all about it. Brustein had him sing a couple of his songs. Said it might help him get an audition, or whatever the hell it is. Andy was real excited about the tape."

"Okay. Where's his guitar?"

"His guitar?" Tyler paused. "He had it with him when he... that night. In the car."

Hutch picked up a pencil and pulled the memo pad closer. "Describe it."

"It's a Gibson. Expensive. White, with his initials in black. Got it for him when he turned eighteen."

"Okay," Hutch said again.

There was another pause. "Ken?"

"What?"

Tyler coughed. "Guess it's just dumb to keep hoping." It wasn't quite a question.

Hutch snapped the pencil in two. "No, dammit. Don't give up."

"All right, I won't." He sounded relieved.

Hutch's stomach lurched. Who the hell was he to keep the poor son of a bitch hoping? Wouldn't that just make it worse later? "Put Starsk back on, willya, Tyler?"

"Okay. 'Bye."

"Good-bye." Hutch stared at the wall, whistling to himself.

"Yeah, Hutch?"

"I'm going to get on Brustein's case a little." He rubbed his temple. "There's just so many pieces and none of them seem to fit together in any logical way."

"You're looking for logic, buddy?"

"Guess I should know better by this time. How much longer is the rodeo going to be around?"

"Until tomorrow. Except for Tyler, of course."

"Of course. Well, why don't you give those people one more try. I don't think any of them knows a damned thing, but...."

"But it beats sitting on my ass." "Right. I'll be in touch."

"Sure thing."

They hung up simultaneously. Hutch regarded the debris from his meal with distaste, then swept it all into the wastebasket and reached for the phone again.

"Dobey," a brisk voice said.

"Hi, Cap'n."

"Hutch? How's it going?"

He sighed. "Not so good. We're still looking for Monroe's buddy."

"Yes? That's too bad. We've got somebody killing winos again. Three so far. I don't have much time."

"I need a fast favor."

"What?"

"I want something put on the hot list." Dobey agreed and Hutch described the guitar. "Appreciate it," he said.

"Sure, sure. Tell Monroe I'm sorry, willya?"

They bid one another a fast good-bye and Hutch left the office.

He sat parked outside Brustein's office for a long time before he saw the slender redhead come out and get into the yellow car again. It was starting to get dark, but the tiny car was easy to follow.

Their destination this time was a place called the Corral. Hutch parked and waited until Brustein was inside before following. The room was wall-to-wall people, and everybody seemed to be wearing blue jeans and Stetsons. Hutch would have been very surprised, though, if there were a single real cowboy in the crowd. There was a small stage at one end of the bar and a young man with a guitar stood there, singing. No one seemed to be paying him very much attention, but they all applauded enthusiastically when he finished the song, and that seemed to encourage him, so he began another.

Hutch's gaze swept the crowd until he saw Brustein sitting alone at a corner table. He walked over and sat down across from him. "Howdy," he said cheerfully.

Brustein's eyes flashed, but he kept his voice cool. "What the hell do you want?" "To talk."

"We already did that. I've got nothing else to say."

"Where's Andy's demo tape?"

The pale fingers tightened around the beer mug. "None of your business."

"Andy Jones is my business." Hutch leaned back in the chair, waving off the waitress. "It just bothers me that your clients keep disappearing."

Brustein's face was mottled with red. "Look, you two-bit snoop, I've got connections in this town."

Hutch raised his brows. "Yeah? Big time stuff, huh?"

"Big enough. So unless you want to find yourself swimming in spaghetti sauce, I suggest you get away from me and stay away."

A sneer crossed Hutch's lips. "You want me to believe that the family is going to waste time on a cheap hustler like you?"

"Try me," Brustein said tightly.

Slowly Hutch got to his feet and looked down at the other man. "I just might do that," he said mildly. "Sometime when I'm not quite so busy. But for right now, I just want Andy's demo tape."

"Go fish for it." Brustein shook his head. "You're a fool. Who's paying you, anyway? That big dumb cowboy Jones hangs around with?"

"My client is confidential."

"Well, that demo tape is between Jones and me; if he's taken a powder, that's tough. He signed a release, giving me all rights to the tape and the songs."

"Did he know what he was signing?"

"Ask him," Brustein said coldly. "I don't know anything about what happened to him. Can't you understand that?"

"Oh, I understand it. I just don't believe it."

"Who gives a fuck what you believe? Get the hell out of my life."

"I'm going," Hutch said. "But not too far. Count on that." He started away, then turned back toward the table. "Why did Ben Crane get his throat cut?" Brustein's Adam's apple throbbed. "I don't know." A moment later, his lips thinned. "I never heard of anybody named Crane," he said.

Hutch just looked at him for another moment, then turned and walked out of the Corral.

He didn't use his VISA card much anymore, but it served quite well to get him into Brustein's office. There was something soul-satisfying about not having to worry about search warrants and things like that anymore. Of course, he might end up getting busted for breaking and entering, but that, he figured, was the risk of the game.

It didn't take long to find what he was looking for. The one-page contract was in the top drawer of Brustein's desk. The paper was filled with the usual jargon, but Hutch managed to figure out that while signing what appeared to be a simple paragraph accepting Brustein as his legal agent, Jones had also given away the rights to the songs on the demo tape.

Hutch sighed as he studied the scrawled signature at the bottom of the page. Andrew Jones. Dumb cowboy.

He looked a little for the tape, but didn't find it. Didn't matter much. Neither did the contract, for that matter, but he took it anyway. Brustein knew more than he was saying and maybe if Hutch had the contract in his hand, it might provide a little leverage.

He left the office, pulling the door closed carefully. It was as he was turning toward the stairs that the blow came. Something very hard crashed into the back of his head, and he fell forward, falling into a deep black hole. He didn't even know when he hit the floor.

**

______

XII

Starsky had decided to make one more visit to the Last Round-Up, hoping that another chance to talk to some of the rodeo people might uncover something helpful. Tyler went along. The big man was silent now, almost sullen, seeming to be on the edge of something that Starsky didn't even want to try anticipating.

The crowd in the bar was subdued. One man they had known was missing and another had been violently murdered. Little wonder that the gathering sometimes seemed more like a wake than anything else. Tyler slouched behind a pitcher of beer, surveying the scene with shadowed green eyes.

Starsky wandered around the room, eavesdropping, but not hearing anything very interesting. He spotted a young blonde woman standing at the bar and took a moment to appreciate the lavender satin shirt and tight blue jeans she was wearing. He walked over and ordered a beer, smiling at her. "Hi."

She returned the smile. "Hi. You're the detective, aren't you?"

"Right. Dave Starsky. I didn't know that my reputation had preceded me."

"This is a small community."

"Newcombe?"

"The rodeo."

He nodded agreement. "I guess you must know Andy Jones then, Miss -- ?"

"Maggie. Sure, I've known him for years. I'm what's called a rodeo brat. My dad used to ride; now he does the commentary. Andy and I sort of grew up together after he joined us."

Starsky sipped the beer. "You must know him pretty good."

She shook her head. "No, not really. He's a very quiet guy. Shy. I don't think anybody knows him really. Except Tyler, of course." She smiled again, crinkling her cheerful brown eyes. "I think it's nice, the way they've been together all this time."

The bar's owner was on stage introducing the evening's entertainment. Starsky listened for a moment, then returned his attention to the woman. "You seem to have a nice, liberal attitude. Does everybody feel that way?"

"Huh-uh. They've had some hassles, but I guess that's to be expected."

"Did it ever upset Andy?" Starsky raised his voice a little so he could be heard over the singer. "Not that I could see. He's a happy kind of guy, you know? Always smiling." Her eyes shifted a little, and Starsky followed the gaze. They both looked at Tyler, well into his second pitcher of beer. "Poor Tyler," Maggie said softly. "This must be tearing him up. Andy's his whole life."

Starsky just nodded, not knowing what sort of response he should make. "Did Andy ever say anything to you about finding out who his parents were?"

She thought for a moment, then brightened. "You know, he did once. It was me, actually, who brought the subject up. I just asked him one day if he was curious about it. He said yeah, sort of. Then he got kind of worried looking and told me not to tell Ty."

Starsky found that strange. "Did he say why it was supposed to be a deep, dark secret?"

"No. But I got the impression that he was afraid of hurting Tyler's feelings. You know, like maybe just having Tyler wasn't enough, or that Tyler had let him down, and Andy doesn't feel that way at all."

"How does he feel?"

Maggie swallowed some beer before answering. "Like Tyler Monroe is god or something," she said flatly. Then she shrugged. "Guess maybe I'd feel the same way, if I was Andy." Her expression turned a little sheepish. "In fact, I used to have a terrific crush on Tyler myself, years ago. Just about the time Andy showed up. I mean, he was so good-looking. Still is," she added.

Starsky ordered them each another beer. "So they've got this big thing between them. But I learned a long time ago that nobody's perfect. Did either one of them ever stray?"

"Lord, no. They live in their own little universe." Again she looked across at Tyler. "I tried to talk to him yesterday, just to tell him how sorry I am. He looked at me for the longest time, like he was trying to figure out who the hell I was. Then he just walked away. I'm worried about him."

Starsky reached for a peanut. "He'll be okay. He seems like a strong guy."

"I guess." Maggie didn't sound so sure.

"Well," Starsky said reluctantly, "I better get back to work."

"If you decide to settle down again later, I'll be here," Maggie said.

He considered that, then grinned and picked up his beer, before walking away. His first stop was by Tyler. "Better ease up on the beer a little," he advised. "You look like you might slide under the table any minute."

Two vague jade eyes struggled to focus on him. "I was jus' thinking," Tyler mumbled. "I was jus' thinking that maybe if I sit here and watch tha' door long enough, Andy might come in, ya know? I mean, he walked out tha' door and he... disappeared. So maybe if I watch, he might come back."

"Okay, Tyler," Starsky said helplessly. "You sit here and watch the door. I'll be back."

Tyler grunted and poured himself another mug of beer, his eyes already on the doorway again. Starsky sighed and began his restless wandering through the crowd again. He learned zip. Everybody liked Tyler; most everybody liked Andy, Nobody had any idea where Jones might be, but they all hoped he'd turn up.

Probably, Starsky thought gloomily, somebody was still waiting for Judge Crater to come back, too.

**

______

______

XIII

Linoleum had a very distinctive odor. Hutch had never really known that before, but lying there so long, with his face pressed to the floor, he had a lot of time to think about the subject of linoleum. It sure as hell beat trying to move. Maybe, he mused, I won't ever move again. People would adjust, sooner or later, to having me in the hallway. They could just step around me. Or over. Or even on me; I don't care much.

But finally he decided that life as a doormat wasn't really what he wanted. It didn't seem a whole lot better than life as a private eye, so he might as well stick with what he already had. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling for a while, until it stopped spinning. I'm fine, he thought, but the room is in pretty bad shape. The joke fell flat.

This was obviously a job that would have to be accomplished in easy stages. Sitting up was the first step. On the third try, he made it. Not bad, Ken, he congratulated himself. The guys in the paperbacks always made it sound so easy, but maybe they had harder heads than he did.

He made it to his knees, and then all the way to his feet only a few minutes later. At this rate, he thought, I should be able to make it home by a week from Wednesday, at the latest. That wasn't such a bad idea, in fact. Maybe by then Starsky would have solved this whole case, and he wouldn't have to worry about it any more.

As he made his way, one step at a time toward the elevator, Hutch took a moment to wonder who had conked him. And why. He checked his pocket, but the contract was still there. It was not, however, as it had been. Someone had printed in block letters across the back of the page, FORGET THIS CASE OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.

"Shit," Hutch said aloud.

The sound of his own voice caused a stabbing pain in the back of his head. He stopped, leaning against the wall next to the elevator. This was the place for the chapter to end, he reasoned. And when the next chapter opened, the hero would be at home in bed.

He waited hopefully, but the only thing that happened was the noisy arrival of the elevator. He stepped in. Making a mental note to burn every goddamned one of Starsky's books, he pushed the button for the first floor.

Showing what he felt was remarkable restraint, he merely crumpled the parking ticket he found on Belle, instead of chasing after the damned traffic cop and shoving the paper up his ass.

He wondered if the ticket was the "consequences" mentioned in the note. Probably not. Whatever the dire reality turned out to be, he hoped it wasn't noisy. The sound of the car door slamming nearly finished him. It was a long drive home and a long journey up another elevator shaft to his third floor apartment, but at last he was able to lower his body onto the bed. He sighed. It felt so good, he sighed again. Then he reached for the phone.

It rang several times before Starsky answered, and when he did, his voice sounded a little strange. "You okay?" Hutch asked.

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine. Why not?"

"Sorry to wake you."

"That's okay. I wasn't really asleep anyway. What's up?"

Hutch was probing carefully at the lump on the back of his skull. "Somebody must be getting itchy. I just got hit on the head outside Brustein's office."

"You okay?" Now Starsky's voice was worried.

"Yeah. Except that I've got Excedrin headache number eight."

"Well, nobody ever said it was going to be easy," Starsky said.

They were both quiet for a moment. "I hate this case," Hutch said suddenly.

"Hey, partner, don't get discouraged. We've cracked tougher nuts than this."

Hutch wondered who he was quoting. He swallowed two more aspirin, washing them down with a gulp of water. "I'm not sure I want to crack it," he muttered.

"That's what we're getting paid for. Monroe deserves to know the truth."

"What's so goddamned wonderful about knowing the truth? Sometimes all it does it screw up your hopes."

Starsky took a deep breath, the sound coming clearly over the phone. "Hutch, go to bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better."

"Yeah, sure. 'Night."

"Good night, buddy."

Hutch hung up and leaned back against the headboard, sipping some more of the water, and frowning.

~~~ Starsky replaced the receiver and rolled over. Maggie was watching him. "Something wrong?"

"No My partner got a crack across the skull, but he's okay."

She frowned. "Your work is really dangerous, isn't it?"

He shrugged. "Nothing we can't handle." He caressed her face absently, his mind still on Hutch. "It's just that Hutch gets so hung up on other people's problems. That can mess up your mind."

"He cares, is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah. Hell, I care, too, but he goes overboard. I learned a long time ago to keep all this stuff in perspective." He sighed, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp once again. "People have to live with their own troubles," he said into the darkness. "My partner forgets that sometimes. He's like one of those weirdoes that starts bleeding on their palms every Good Friday." He was quiet for a long time.

"Dave?"

Starsky pulled his attention back to the motel room and the woman. "Sorry," he apologized. "I was thinking about something else."

"The case?"

"I guess."

"It's too bad about Andy."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It's too bad."

She moved closer and Starsky stopped thinking.

~~~

Hutch wondered, as he grabbed for the phone, why the damned thing kept ringing in the middle of the night lately. "'Lo?"

"Ken?"

He stretched until his toes touched the rail at the foot of the bed. "Yeah, Tyler?"

"Sorry to call so late."

"That's okay." At least his head wasn't pounding quite so much.

"I'm sorta drunk." Hutch reached for the glass of water and took a drink. "That's not too smart, is it, man?"

"Guess not."

There was a pause. "Did you want something special, Tyler?" Hutch asked finally.

"I don't know. I forget."

"Go to sleep. Maybe tomorrow will be better."

"You mean maybe he'll come back?"

"I don't know what I mean, Tyler. Just go to sleep."

"Okay."

"Hey," Hutch said quickly.

"Yeah, Ken?"

Hutch scowled into the darkness. "Hell, man, I don't know what to tell you. Just... hang in there, okay?"

"Sure. Of course."

There was something familiar about the dull tone of Tyler's voice, and Hutch thought about it for a moment. Then it came to him. The voice might have been his own a year ago, as he sat in prison, thinking that Starsky was dead. There was no hope in the voice. No anything.

"Ken?"

"What?"

"I remember why I called. Somebody followed me tonight when I was walking back to the motel."

"Yeah? Did you get a look at the guy?"

"Too dark. Too drunk."

"Did Starsky see him?" The water tasted flat and warm, but Hutch took another sip.

"Dave, uh, Dave wasn't there. He had something else to do. I told him he didn't need to baby-sit me."

"What else did he have to do?" "Left with Maggie. Nice girl." Tyler's voice changed a little. "Hell, just 'cause I gotta sleep alone don't mean everybody should." He seemed to catch his breath. "I'm so goddamned lonely."

Hutch was tired; he needed sleep, and he needed desperately to end this conversation "Go to sleep, Ty. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Sure. Tomorrow." Tyler hung up.

Hutch held onto the phone a moment longer, listening to the dial tone, then crashed it down.

**

______

XIV

"Got something for you, Hutch." Dobey sounded brisk.

Hutch gulped the last of his coffee and shifted the phone to his other ear. The lump on his head had subsided and the pain was no more than the usual dull throb he was beginning to get used to. It was a headache he'd had since this case began. "What's that, Cap'n?" he said.

"The car."

"Andy's?"

"Red VW, Wyoming plates, RE 4536."

"That's it. Where'd the damn thing turn up?"

"Over by MacArthur Park." Dobey paused, then read an address. "Should have been spotted before this."

"Anything to it? Like a clue, maybe?"

"Nothing that I heard. No body in the trunk or anything dramatic like that, at least. But it's still there; I told Auto not to tow it until you had a chance to get over there and take a look."

"Thanks, I appreciate that."

"Keep me informed, will you?"

"Uh-huh," Hutch said, already hanging up.

He dressed quickly, deciding not to call Newcombe until he'd seen the car and maybe had something more substantial to report. Not that this could lead to any good news, of course.

He managed to catch the tail end of rush hour, so it took him several minutes longer than it should have to reach the park. A single zone car stood by, manned by two young patrolmen, neither of whom Hutch recognized. That was happening a lot lately. They all seemed young and none of them knew him. Legends don't last long anymore, he thought. Supercop one minute and... and a private snoop with a permanent headache the next.

The cops had apparently been told to expect him, because they only glanced at his ID before waving him toward the car.

Or what was left of it.

The street vultures had been to work and there wasn't much to see of the car that Andy Jones was beaming over in the photograph. All four tires were gone; only a gaping hole was left to show where the radio and tape deck had been; the battery was missing. Apparently just for kicks, the seats had been slashed.

Hutch crawled around inside the car for a few minutes, coming up with nothing more interesting than a well-used roach. He put the butt into his pocket and pushed himself out of the car. "Thanks," he said to the cops. "You can have it towed now."

Back in his own car, he sat thoughtfully for a few minutes, staring at the ravaged vehicle. If there was any assumption to be drawn from this, it was that whatever had happened to Andy Jones had happened not in Newcombe, but right here in Los Angeles. It did not, therefore, seem to make much sense to continue to divide their forces. Especially now that the rodeo was moving on.

Finally, he started Belle and drove a couple blocks to a coffee shop. There was a phone just inside the door. He got some change from the cashier and made his call. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything," he said dourly.

"Nope," Starsky replied cheerfully. "Just on my way out the door."

"Well, pack up and come back to town. Bring Tyler. I think Newcombe is a dead end." He refrained from saying that the whole damned case was nothing but a great big dead end. But he thought it. "They found Andy's car here. Stripped, of course. No sign of him. Brustein is here, and so is Kingman."

"Kingman?"

"Yeah. I don't like that guy."

"You haven't liked anybody in politics since Bobby Kennedy."

"Yeah, I know. Anyway, I think the answer is here, not Newcombe."

"Sounds good to me."

"Unless you have some unfinished business there, of course?" Hutch added.

Sarcasm was lost on Starsky, whose good mood was undiminished. "Not a thing," he said. "See you later."

Hutch hung up and went to sit at the counter. He intended to order a cup of coffee, but when the waitress came over, he asked for a hot fudge sundae instead. Starsky would never know.

~~~

Tyler flatly refused to leave the van in Newcombe, even temporarily.

"We need it for the ranch," he said. "I can't afford to have it ripped off." Starsky didn't want to argue the matter -- and what the hell difference did it make anyway? -- so they drove back to the city separately. Once there, Tyler pulled over to the curb and waited until Starsky got out of the Torino and walked back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Tyler said. "Before we go to your office, I want to go see the car."

"Why?"

"Because."

Starsky didn't think it was a very good idea. "It won't help," he said. "Hutch said it was stripped."

"I want to see the car."

"Oh, hell," Starsky muttered. "All right. Follow me."

Kruger, on duty at the police lot, knew Starsky and waved them inside. They walked through the rows of cars until they reached the shell of the VW.

The tall man walked in a slow circle around the car, his craggy face unreadable. "They don't leave a man nothing, do they?" he said softly, and Starsky knew somehow that he wasn't talking about the punks who had destroyed the car, but the mysterious "they" who controlled things, who sent down the fates that afflicted ordinary mortals. "This is gonna break his heart," Tyler said. "He loves this car."

"It can be fixed," Starsky said.

Tyler just looked at him. A moment later, he rubbed one hand across the dusty hood of the car, then turned and stalked away. Starsky followed, giving a quick nod of thanks to Kruger.

They stopped by the curb. "Maybe Hutch has something by now," Starsky said.

Tyler lit a cigarette. "Okay."

"See you at the office." Starsky sat in the Torino until Tyler climbed into the van and started the engine.

There was a lot of traffic and he lost sight of the van before they reached the office, but he didn't worry about it. Tyler knew where the office was.

Once there, Starsky stood on the sidewalk for almost fifteen minutes, but there was no sign of the green van. He swore to himself and started up the stairs.

Madame Olga was just leaving her office. "Hi, there, Dave," she said. Today she wore beads and feathers. He sometimes wondered if she even realized that the sixties were over. A bright red plastic peace sign decorated the front of her shirt. "Hi, sweetheart," he said, unlocking the door. "How's the tealeaf business?"

"So-so. You want to know what the future holds in store for you?"

"Not unless it's fame, fortune, and a beautiful gypsy lady." He opened the door.

"Could be." Olga started down the stairs. "Not a good day for Geminis," she tossed back.

"If I meet any, I'll tell 'em." Starsky closed the door. Hutch had left a note propped on the desk, bearing the exciting news that he'd gone for something to eat. Starsky glanced at his watch, wondering where the hell Tyler had gotten to.

There was a lone beer left in the refrigerator and Starsky drank it as he paced the office. It was another ten minutes before the door opened. He turned with relief, then frowned when he saw his partner. "Oh, it's you."

"Who were you expecting, Humphrey Bogart, maybe?"

"I was expecting it to be Monroe."

Now Hutch frowned, too. "I thought Tyler was with you."

"He was. We went by the police lot to see the car, then he was supposed to follow me over here. Hasn't showed up yet."

Hutch sat down at the desk. "Bad policy to lose the client, Starsky."

"He knows the way."

"You should've stuck with him."

"He was following me, Hutch."

Hutch picked up his note and crumpled it. "Did he tell you about the guy that tailed him back to the motel last night?"

"No. He doesn't tell me much of anything."

"It was when you were off investigating or whatever you were doing with somebody called Maggie."

Starsky finished the beer and began crushing the can. "Helluva detective, aren't you?"

Hutch tore the date off the desk calendar. "Next time, why don't you just ask yourself what Lew Archer would do in that situation. Would he stick with the case or fool around?" He threw the crushed can away. "Get off my case, Hutch, all right? I figured he could walk two blocks to the motel okay. He said he could."

"You also figured he could get here okay, didn't you?"

Starsky didn't answer. They sat in silence for nearly five minutes, before Hutch sighed. "Sorry."

Starsky shrugged. "You're right, of course."

"Hell, I'm just uptight, but that's no reason for taking it out on you." He picked up a pen and began to doodle on the memo pad. "He probably just saw a bar and stopped for a couple."

"Yeah," Starsky said hopefully. "I think seeing that damned car kinda blew his mind. He drinks like a fish, if case you hadn't noticed."

"I noticed." After another moment, Hutch pulled the phone closer. "No sense just sitting here." He searched in his notebook until he found the number he needed. "I think it might be time to take a closer look at the esteemed Mr. Kingman."

Starsky scratched the side of his nose thoughtfully. "I don't see how there could be any kind of connection between that bunch of bigshots and a dirt-poor cowboy like Jones."

"Well, neither do I, right off. But stranger things have happened."

Starsky acknowledged the truth of that with a shrug and watched as Hutch dialed.

"Why don't you listen?" Hutch suggested as he listened to the ring on the other end.

Starsky got up and went to the extension next to his bed. It took a few minutes and some fast- talking, but Hutch managed finally to get through to Paul Kingman. It took a few more moments for him to refresh Kingman's memory about their earlier conversation.

Kingman sounded exasperated. "I thought I explained to you before, Hutchinson, that I don't know this Jones person."

"Perhaps someone in your family does," Hutch said smoothly. Only Starsky heard the undercurrent of cold anger in his voice. "Your brother, possibly. Or your father."

"No, I'm sure not," Kingman replied with matching smoothness.

"A man's life is at stake here."

"I can appreciate that. But what you don't seem to understand is that we're in the middle of a tough election race here and --

"Screw your election." Starsky glanced at his usually cool partner, a little surprised.

Hutch opened a desk drawer, aimlessly shuffled through the contents, then slammed it closed again. "I need to talk to you, Kingman." There was no politeness left in his tone. "I'll be over in a little while."

"Today?" Kingman's voice squeaked a little. "But we're having a fundraiser. A bar-b-que."

"Good. I love bar-b-ques." Hutch hung up before there could be any further objection.

Starsky replaced the extension more slowly and walked back to perch on a corner of the desk. "It might not be smart to start tangling with somebody like Kingman," he said almost absently.

"When was the last time anybody accused me -- or you, for that matter -- of being smart?" Hutch replied. He stood. "What'd you have in mind to do this afternoon?"

"I could go with you," Starsky suggested. "Or I could go try to track down our frigging client."

"Good idea; why don't you do that?" Hutch was too tired to be really sarcastic. "The thing about the Kingmans is that they're rich," he said.

Starsky glanced at him quizzically.

Hutch sighed, running a hand over his face "The old lady talked about a big black car, didn't she?"

"But that was thirty years ago," Starsky objected.

"The Kingmans have had their money for a long time." He unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk and took out his holster again. "Oh, shit, Starsk, I know I'm just grasping at straws. But straws are all we have here."

"I know. And you don't like Paul Kingman."

"Not much." Hutch began to strap his gun into place. "I had an uncle once," he said aimlessly. "He sold pots and pans door-to-door."

"Yeah? Thought all your relatives were bigshots."

"Except Uncle Lou. Stainless steel cookware was his thing."

Starsky waited patiently by the door.

"He never got rich, you understand. Used to get bit by dogs all the time. In the winter he got frostbite, and in the summer he baked." "Uh-huh?"

"But Uncle Lou was a happy man, Starsk. He used to whistle every morning on his way to work." Hutch was finally ready to go. He slammed the door closed as they walked into the hallway. "I don't whistle much on this job."

Starsky frowned. "This is a good job, Hutch. We're doing what we do best."

Hutch didn't answer.

"And we help people."

"Like we're helping Tyler Monroe, you mean?" Hutch muttered as they clumped down the stairs.

"This is just one case, buddy. And yes, dammit, we are helping him. He needs to know what happened to Jones, doesn't he? If we can tell him that, it'll be important. Won't it?"

"I don't know."

They reached the sidewalk. "You don't have to know," Starsky said. "I know."

Hutch reached for his car keys. "Well, as long as one of us is happy."

"You're not unhappy. You just have the wrong attitude."

"I'll work on it."

"Yeah, you better."

They looked into one another's eyes for a long moment, then Hutch smiled faintly. "Go find Tyler," he said.

"Okay. You go shake up the bigshots."

"I'll try."

They parted company, heading for their respective cars.

**

XV

The Kingmans lived the way Hutch had thought no one -- except maybe the Arabs -- could afford to anymore. Apparently great-grandfather's railroad money was still doing good things for the family. The rolling green acres around the house looked more like the lawn of a plush country club -- or a cemetery -- than a place anybody called home.

A uniformed security man was on duty at the front gate. He eyed Hutch's identification suspiciously, then made a call to the house. Despite the reluctance to talk that Kingman had displayed over the phone, he must have granted permission for Hutch's entrance, because the guard waved him on through.

It took a couple more minutes to get within walking distance of the house. The long curved drive was lined on both sides by cars. Hutch managed to squeeze in between an endless black Caddy and a sleek Silver Ghost. He gave Belle a reassuring pat before leaving her in the intimidating company.

He sort of wished somebody was around to give him a pat. But he straightened his shoulders and tugged at his shirt, pretending that he was ten years old again, facing the formidable Miss Therringbold of the Duluth Academy of Social Dancing. Playing games, he thought wryly. Hell, I'm as bad as Starsk with his Sam Spade impression.

A black maid opened the door before the ringing chimes of the bell had faded away. She eyed him with something less than complete delight. "Yes, sir?"

"Paul Kingman is expecting me. Hutchinson is my name."

She nodded, even less pleased, and ushered him through a long hallway. "Everyone is out here," she said, sliding open a glass door.

He stepped out onto the patio, realizing at once why the woman had seemed put off by his appearance. The vast green expanse was cluttered with people, and every man there wore a white dinner jacket. The women all looked like what they had on their backs cost more than everything Hutch owned in the world. "Last bar-b-que I was at," he muttered, "we sat on the sand and ate ribs with our fingers."

The woman gave a soft laugh. "Well, I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for anybody to offer you a rib here," she murmured.

Hutch glanced at her, but she only nodded and glided regally away. He tucked his shirt a little more snugly into the waistband of his jeans and smoothed his hair.

"Hutchinson."

Turning quickly, he saw Paul Kingman approach, a glass of champagne in one hand. "Hello," Hutch said. "Nice place you have here." Paul ignored that. "I really don't know what you're doing here. I've already made it quite clear that I don't know this Jones person and -- "

Hutch took a step toward him. "The guy has a name," he said tightly. "It's Andy. And I don't mean to be blunt, you creep, but I think you're lying through your goddamned capped teeth."

Paul backed off a little, his eyes flashing sudden fear. Almost out of nowhere a man in a brown uniform appeared. "Is there some kind of trouble, Mr. Kingman?" he asked.

Hutch answered before Paul could. "No trouble," he said calmly. "I just have a few questions for Mr. Kingman. We're going to talk, right, Paul?"

Paul swallowed. "It's okay, Jack." The guard still looked doubtful, but he walked away.

"Talk," Hutch said. "And tell me something I can believe."

The other man took a deep breath, bit his lower lip, then shrugged. "All right," he said wearily. "I spoke to Jones. Once. I don't know where he is."

"Good," Hutch said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Paul glanced around nervously. "Look, we can't talk here. Go inside, the first door on the left. That's the library. I'll join you there in a minute."

Hutch gave him a long, appraising look, then nodded and went inside. The maid passed him in the hall, carrying a tray of drinks. He lifted a glass of champagne, saluted her with it, and went on.

The library wasn't empty. An old man sat there in a wheel chair, his attention on a book in his gnarled hands. He looked up as Hutch came in. "Excuse me, sir, but Paul told me to wait in here."

"Of course. I don't mind the company."

The deep voice was familiar, and Hutch realized that this was the senior Kingman, former senator, once a candidate for the White House, a man felled by a stroke when he was still one of the most influential politicians in the country. Now he just looked like any other sick old man. "My name is Ken Hutchinson. I'm a private detective."

Kingman gave a sound that might have been a chuckle. "What's Paul been up to?"

Hutch smiled a little. "Nothing, that I know of. There are just some questions I want to ask him about a case I'm on."

"It must be interesting work." He tapped the paperback in his lap. "If the books are to be believed." Hutch shrugged. "It can be interesting. Sometimes it can be... disturbing."

"I imagine so. What's this case -- if it violates no confidence for you to tell me."

"I'm looking for someone."

"Ahh, a missing person. A favorite ploy of the mystery writers. A lovely young girl?"

"No. A young man named Andy Jones."

The book slipped to the floor, but Kingman didn't seem to notice. He lifted one trembling hand and swiped at his snowy hair.

Hutch bent to retrieve the paperback and set it on the table. "Sir? You okay?"

"Yes... I apologize. My old hands sometimes fail me."

"Father?" Paul's voice came from the doorway. "I didn't know you were in here. Dammit, Hutchinson, you have no business harassing my father. He doesn't know anything about the damned case."

"I wasn't harassing him."

"If you'll excuse me," Kingman said. "I feel rather weary." He pushed a button and the wheel chair rolled silently out of the room.

Paul closed the door. "He's a sick old man. I won't have him bothered by your bullying."

Hutch sipped champagne. "Is that what I've been doing? Bullying you?"

"You've been trying."

Hutch shrugged and set the empty glass aside. "I just asked a few simple questions." His voice took on an edge. "And you lied to me."

Paul walked to a bar in one corner and made himself a drink; he didn't offer one to Hutch. "Jones accosted me outside campaign headquarters a few days ago," he said after taking a sip.

"What did he want?"

Paul hesitated, then sighed. "If you must know, it was a rather crude attempt at blackmail."

"Blackmail?"

"Yes. Such things are a fact of life for people like us, Hutchinson. I'm not unused to dealing with thugs like Jones. Obviously I was successful in this case; he didn't try again." "Blackmail," Hutch murmured again.

"You are familiar with the word?"

"Oh, yes." He smiled. "I just find it incongruous to use the term in relation to Andy Jones."

"Why?"

The smile was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. Hutch spoke coldly. "Andy Jones is not a blackmailer."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

"Well, I'm sorry to have shattered your illusions, but he did try."

"I assume you would prefer not to reveal exactly what he was trying to blackmail you about?"

Paul nodded. "Your assumption is correct."

"There's nothing more you can tell me?"

"No. Oh, except that I advised Jones that it might be wise for him to move on. Perhaps he took my words to heart and simply left town."

"Perhaps," Hutch said. He crossed the room and opened the door. "Good-bye."

Paul nodded sharply.

Hutch walked slowly down the hall, scuffing his feet through the thick carpet. His head was pounding.

"Mr. Hutchinson." The urgent whisper came from behind a half-closed door.

Hutch walked closer and the door opened all the way. Old man Kingman sat there. "Yes, sir?" Hutch stepped into the room.

"This case of yours. The missing person."

"Andy Jones?"

"Yes. Andy Jones. Why are you looking for him here?"

Hutch shrugged. "The name Kingman popped up during my investigation. We detectives follow what we get." Two trembling hands played across the afghan-covered lap. "This young man -- is he a person of some significance?"

Hutch stared hard at the old man, then shook his head. "No. Andy is a nobody. A rodeo clown, that's all."

The body seemed to relax a little. "Then why are you looking for him?"

"Because we have a client who wants him found."

"Why?"

"Why?" Hutch looked around the room, the walls of which were covered with framed photographs. Most of the pictures were of Kingman and easily recognizable others. A president. A king. Several Latin dictators. He sighed. "Our client loves him."

"Love?" The word seemed to hover on the dry lips.

"Yes. It's as simple as that. Nothing nearly as important as the world-shaking things that you and your family are involved with."

"I see." Kingman was quiet for a long moment, picking at the colorful threads of the blanket. "Sometimes, Mr. Hutchinson, choices have to be made. Priorities have to be weighed. The selfish interests of the individuals have to be balanced against the greater good of society. I once had a choice like that to make."

"And what did you choose, sir?"

Kingman lifted a hand a few inches from his lap. "Ahh... well, it was a long time ago. It's of no consequence now."

"What does matter now?"

"My son Richard's career. He can do great things for this country. Do you understand that?"

"I'm not involved in politics."

"You should be."

Hutch shrugged. "I have no time. Right now I only have time to look for Andy Jones."

"Who is your client? Someone important?"

Hutch wondered if the old man ranked every person in the world on a scale of social significance. He shook his head. "No. My client is a nobody, like Jones. Just another cowboy. Like I said, it's not very important. Two people love each other, and one is missing, and the other one is hurting."

"I see."

"Do you?" Hutch said more bitterly than he had intended.

The lined face seemed almost to smile. "I know something of love."

Hutch had no answer for that. He shrugged again. "I better go."

"You'll remember what I said?"

The blond was puzzled. "Just what exactly were you saying, sir?"

A raspy sigh. "That sometimes the individual must suffer for the good of the masses."

"What does that have to do with Andy Jones?"

But the old man seemed to have fallen asleep. After another moment, Hutch quietly left the room, closing the door as he went.

~~~

It was the fifth bar he'd been into, and they were all beginning to look and sound alike. He only went into the ones that looked vaguely country/western in mood, not quite able to picture Tyler Monroe choosing to hang out in the Pink Pussycat or the places with flashing lights and punk rock.

The fifth bar was the Bunkhouse and it looked just like all the others, except that there was a familiar figure sitting in one of the booths. Starsky walked back and dropped into the booth, staring at Tyler across a row of empty glasses. "Hutch is worried about you," he said flatly.

Tyler blinked twice and looked at him. "Ken is? Why?"

"I don't know why. He's just like that. Stray dogs. Lost kids. Drunken cowboys. He's got this soft spot in his heart. Or his head."

''Nice guy."

"Yeah, that's what they say."

Someone punched up a song on the jukebox.

...and how will we live now, you tell me, with parts of our hearts torn away...? Tyler sighed. "I've been here a long time, huh?"

"Yeah. A long time. I told you before that this won't help."

...Just existing makes dying look easy, but maybe tomorrow, I've done enough dying today...

Tyler nodded. "I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to make trouble."

Starsky realized that the man was drunker than he'd seen him before. "Come on, Tyler," he said. "Let's get out of here."

...Perhaps I'll learn sleeping all over, And just maybe without dreaming this time...

"I got nowhere to go." The words were soft, slurred.

Starsky was rearranging the empty glasses. "We'll go to the office for now. You can sleep it off there."

"You think maybe I can sleep now?"

"Sure. Booze'll do that, at least."

Tyler reached across the table and touched Starsky's wrist lightly. "No dreams? Promise me?"

"I hope not, man. Come on."

They started a slow journey toward the door. "I used to drink a lot, you know," Tyler commented.

"Did you?"

"Oh, sure. But I gave it up."

Starsky kept him from walking into the wall, steering him out the door instead. "I'm glad about that," he said.

"Yeah. Hadda set a good example, see? You see what I mean?"

"I see." Starsky checked the van to be sure that it was locked, then steered the taller man toward the Torino. "We'll get the van later," he said as Tyler started to object.

"'kay. All Andy's stuff in there, ya know? Saddle and all." "It'll be okay."

Tyler sank into the seat with a sigh. "Don't have to set no good example now." He closed his eyes.

Starsky got behind the wheel and started the car.

"You don't like me much, do you, Dave?" Tyler said suddenly, his eyes still closed.

"Never gave it much thought," Starsky said easily, pulling the car into the flow of traffic.

"Maybe if you could just understand how I'm feeling."

"I know. I understand, Tyler, really."

Tyler didn't say anything else during the ride, or as Starsky guided him up the stairs to the office. Hutch wasn't there. Starsky pushed Tyler into the back room. "Get in bed," he ordered.

The big man sat down and pulled off his boots. "Andy ain't coming back, is he?" The words were soft.

Starsky shrugged. "I don't know."

"I know. Guess I always knew. It's been like... like an empty space right here in my chest, ever since that first night. I figure he died that night and my soul knew it."

Starsky didn't like talking about souls. Or broken hearts. He took the boots from the other man's hands, then eased him back onto the bed. "Go to sleep," he said gently, as if he were speaking to an unhappy child. "It doesn't do any good to talk like that."

Tyler's eyes closed again. "Andy's a good boy," he said.

Starsky didn't answer. He walked back into the office and sat behind the desk. He spent some time idly twisting and untwisting several paperclips.

When the phone rang, he jumped for it, although Tyler was out cold. "Yeah?" he said softly.

"Starsky? Dobey."

"Oh, hiya, Cap'n," he said, relaxing back in the chair. "What's up?"

"I don't know how you two rate getting private service from the police department, but this seems to be your lucky day."

"Wha'cha got?" "The guitar. It turned up in a pawnshop down on Alverado Street. Our boys found it during a routine visit."

"Terrific."

"It's still there, waiting for you to pick it up."

"Appreciate this, Cap'n."

Dobey mumbled something and hung up.

Starsky scribbled a note for Hutch, then left the office quietly.

**

______

XVI

Hutch read the note quickly, then crumpled it and dropped it back onto the desk. After a quick glance at Tyler, he started a pot of coffee. He figured that Monroe would need it when he woke; also, Hutch wanted to wash away the bitter taste left in his mouth from his visit to Kingman.

In a few minutes, Tyler stirred, mumbling, then woke. He sat up, taking a moment to absorb his surroundings. "Ken," he said thickly.

"Hi." Hutch poured two cups of coffee and handed one to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I've been hung-over before." He sipped the steamy black liquid carefully.

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't take off like that again," Hutch said. "If I'm wondering where the hell you are, I can't do my job."

"I'm sorry." Tyler rubbed his bleary eyes with the heel of one hand. "It was just... I seen the car and something just kind of snapped. It won't happen no more."

"Good. Paul Kingman told me that Andy was trying to blackmail him," Hutch said suddenly.

The green eyes flashed fire. "That's a goddamned lie. Andy wouldn't do anything like that."

"That's what I told Kingman, but he stuck to his story."

Slender fingers twisted around the cup. "Let me go talk to him. I'll get the truth."

"You'd probably just get shot or thrown into jail. They have a private army around the place."

"What's he trying to hide?"

Hutch shrugged. "Don't know, buddy. Something." He took a gulp of coffee. "'Course it might not have a damned thing to do with Andy. Could be just political jitters."

"But why would he lie about Andy trying to blackmail him?"

Hutch just shook his head.

Tyler set his cup on the floor and reached for his boots. "Andy and me never had anything to do with people like that. Why are they a part of this?"

"You keep asking me questions I can't answer. When I know anything, I'll tell you, okay?"

Tyler nodded. The door opened and Hutch glanced over as Starsky came in. He had a white guitar in his hands. He stood there a moment, frowning, waiting for Tyler to look up and see him. The cowboy was busy pulling on his boots.

Starsky walked into the back finally. "Here," he said, holding out the instrument. "They found Andy's guitar."

Tyler jerked his head up quickly. He stared at Starsky, then took the guitar from him.

His calloused hands strummed the strings softly, tunelessly, for several moments. Hutch realized that the man was crying. Silent tears rolled down his craggy cheeks and dropped onto the guitar. Hutch glanced at Starsky, who shrugged helplessly. "We'll be back in a few minutes, Ty," Hutch said softly.

______

If Tyler heard him, he gave no sign. Hutch turned and left the office, Starsky following. "I want a drink," Hutch said when they had reached the hallway.

They didn't talk again until they were sitting over a couple of beers in the bar across the street. "I seem to be spending an awful lot of time in bars lately," Starsky said glumly. "Hope my liver survives."

Hutch sighed. "Dammit," he said.

Starsky reached for a stale pretzel and ate it slowly. "Every story can't have a happy ending," he said.

"Why not?" Hutch replied, a kind of quiet savagery in his voice. He wrote a four-letter word in the wet splotch on the table. "I wish we didn't have this case. I knew it would be bad from the beginning."

"But you took it."

"Yes, dammit, I took it."

"Why, if it bothered you? Other than the obvious. The money."

"I don't think that had much to do with it." Hutch watched his partner eat another pretzel. "Oh, hell, I took it because I figured maybe we could do something. Maybe the goddamned Hardy Boys would swing into action again and wrap it all up. Happily. Fade-out at the end of the story. It used to be that way, didn't it?"

"Nice to remember it like that. But I don't think it ever was. Oh, sure, there were some happy endings, but that didn't help what it was doing to us." Starsky stared into his beer thoughtfully for a moment. "Every case wore us down, Hutch. What's the word? Erosion. We may have come up laughing lots of times, but we were eroding, too."

Hutch grimaced. "Beer doesn't improve your philosophy, Starsk."

"I'm right, though."

"Oh, yeah, babe, you're right." Hutch frowned as Starsky fumbled through his pockets and came up with a pack of cigarettes. "Thought you quit that shit."

"I did. Haven't had one all week. Even though Tyler smokes like a fiend."

"Why now, then?"

Starsky shook a cigarette from the pack, stared at it for a moment, then lit it. "Just seems like the thing to do," he mumbled through a haze of smoke. He coughed once. "Tyler's hurting now, Hutch, but he'll be okay." "You keep saying that."

Starsky only looked at him.

"The disapproval is written all over your face," Hutch said.

He frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Hutch sighed. "His relationship with Andy. Thought maybe you'd gotten over some of those hang-ups after John Blaine."

"I don't have any hang-ups," Starsky said, sounding defensive. "Maybe I just have a hard time understanding it."

"What's to understand? They love each other." Hutch drank thoughtfully. "Tyler's all alone now. Like I was last year."

"That's different." Starsky snapped a pretzel in two.

"Why? Because you and I don't sleep together?"

"You make it sound like that doesn't matter."

"Does it?" Hutch smiled a little. "We love each other, right?"

Starsky was staring at the table. "Yeah, sure, but it's not the same."

"Of course it's not exactly the same, partner. But maybe the difference isn't as vast as you'd like to think." Hutch was quiet for a moment, running his index finger up and down the side of the beer glass. "When two people are so close... I mean, can you honestly say that in all these years it's never once crossed your mind?"

"What?"

"Getting it on."

Starsky only shrugged, still not looking up.

"I've thought about it."

Now Starsky glanced at him. "Yeah?"

"Sure." Hutch finished the beer. "That's one of the benefits of a college education, Starsk. You read all the books and you learn all the theories. Gives you lots to think about."

"Like jumping into bed with me?" Starsky spoke lightly, but his eyes were solemn. "Like all kinds of things. You don't have to worry, though, Starsk. I haven't spent days and days sitting around lusting after you. Didn't I already say you're a rotten kisser?" He waited for Starsky to laugh a little. "Whenever I thought about it, though, you know what I decided?"

"What?"

"There was an episode of Mary Tyler Moore once, where Mary and Mr. Grant went on a date. But it didn't work out. They really cared about each other, but romantically and sexually, it just made them laugh. They kissed and started giggling." He smiled. "I always sort of figured it would be that way with us. If that makes any sense."

After a moment, Starsky grinned. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

"But what I want to say is, just because you and I don't go to bed, that doesn't make us any better than other people. Any better than Tyler and Andy." He paused, then added, "Hell, maybe they just have the courage of their convictions."

"What's that mean?"

Hutch pulled his wallet out and looked for a single. "Nothing, I guess. Sex and love and shit are too complicated to be figured out over a couple of beers in Lola's." He tossed the bill down. "But no matter how it is with us, Starsk, it's different for Ty. Andy is -- was -- everything to him. Best friend and lover. And probably child as well. Andy was it all. And now he's gone."

"That's really kinda scary," Starsky said. "Being alone... well, it's no fun."

"Right And I don't know how to make it any easier. What the hell can I tell him? That there's still hope? Shit, he's no dummy. That he can survive this and make a new life for himself? The man is forty-five years old. Andy was the only person he ever loved. Where does he go now? He's got nothing left except a damned white guitar and eight hundred acres in frigging Wyoming." Hutch hit the table with his hand. "It's just so unfair."

They sat there a little while longer, until Hutch finally sighed. "Better get back, I guess. Look, I'll take him over to my place tonight. I don't want him wandering around."

Starsky nodded and paid the tab as Hutch started toward the door.

~~~

It was the soft music that woke Hutch. He listened for a few moments, then slid out of bed. Pulling on his robe, he walked into the tiny living room. The room was dark, except for the silvery moonlight that poured in through the window. Tyler Monroe sat on the couch, lightly strumming the guitar.

Hutch sat down in the chair, watching him. "Didn't know you played, too," he said finally. The strong fingers still moved gently over the chords. Tyler shrugged. "Picked up a little, watching Andy all the time." He looked at Hutch. "Sorry to wake you."

"That's okay. Couldn't really sleep anyway."

"You, too, huh?"

"Right." They were quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft notes of the song melting into the night. "Think back a little," Hutch said in a low voice. "Oh, maybe a couple of months. Did Andy seem upset about anything? Scared, maybe?"

Tyler, still bent over the guitar, shook his head. "If Andy was scared of something, he'd tell me."

Hutch sighed. "Think, Ty. You answer me too fast sometimes, because you think you know Andy so well. But try to get below the surface."

The music stopped suddenly, in a discordant crash. "I don't know what you mean."

"He never told you that he was interested in finding out about his parents. Maybe -- there were other things he didn't tell you, too."

Tyler leaned back against the couch, holding the guitar tightly. "I've been thinking about that. I know why he didn't tell me."

Hutch got up and went to the kitchen. He got two beers and tossed one to Tyler. "Why?"

"'Cause he thought it might hurt me." Tyler spoke slowly, carefully. "I didn't ever want other people getting in and messing things up. I'm selfish. I just wanted it to be Andy and me." His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "I was scared of losing him." Then he raised his head. "We were enough."

Hutch nodded. "I think that's right. He didn't tell you because he loved you."

Tyler lowered the beer, one hand still caressing the guitar. His eyes were sharp suddenly. "About six weeks ago, we were in Frisco. One night the kid came back to the motel looking kind of spooked. I asked him about it." There was a pause. Tyler seemed to have forgotten what he was saying; his face was relaxed, almost dreamy.

Hutch hated to interrupt the memory, but he spoke anyway. "What'd he say, Tyler?"

"Huh?" Tyler blinked. "Oh. He was in a bar and he saw somebody that looked like Joe McCann. Son of the folks that raised him."

"Why should that scare him?"

"Joe was always a mean son of a bitch. He used to beat up on Andy. And worse." Hutch looked at him, but Tyler didn't seem inclined to say any more on that subject. "Did Andy say any more about seeing him after that night?"

"No. It just spooked him a little, but I..." A faint redness touched the leathery cheeks. "I got his mind off it. He didn't see him after that."

"Or at least, he didn't mention it." Hutch frowned. "I wish you'da mentioned this before, Ty. It might be connected with Andy's disappearance."

"I forgot." A look of pain crossed the green eyes. "You think we might've found him, if I'da remembered?"

"I don't know." Hutch shrugged. "Probably not, Ty, don't worry about it."

The doorbell rang. They exchanged a look, then Hutch went to the door and opened it slowly. Brustein stood in the hallway, looking pale and nervous. "Hutchinson, I need to talk to you," he said.

Hutch stepped aside and the man scurried in. Tyler watched with eyes that were suddenly cold. Brustein sat down without being invited. "We have to talk. I want out of this whole thing." He glanced at Hutch, surprise and indignation mingling on his face. "Somebody tried to kill me a little while ago. This whole thing is getting out of hand."

Hutch sat down next to Tyler, not liking the tightly wrapped look of the lanky body. He looked like a man wanting, needing, to explode. More trouble they didn't need. "What whole thing? What the hell are you talking about?"

Brustein took a deep breath. "Okay, look. I'm gonna level with you. You just have to believe that I never thought anybody would get hurt. You have to believe that." He yanked out a cigarette and lit it. "The deal with Jones. It was a set-up."

"What's that mean?" Tyler asked softly.

Brustein looked at him, seeming to realize for the first time who he was. "A buddy of mine paid me a grand to go hear the kid sing and then sign him up."

Hutch glanced at Tyler, who was listening intently. "So you never really intended to do anything for Jones?"

"Hell, I don't know. He has some talent. Not great stuff, but then most of those that make it big aren't great either. Frankly, though, I don't think he had the other thing, the personality. Charisma. Whatever you call it."

Hutch could feel the man next to him shift a little, but Tyler kept quiet. "Who was this 'buddy' of yours?" Brustein inhaled deeply and breathed a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling before answering. "Joe McCann."

"Him," Tyler whispered.

"Him," Hutch repeated. "He must have seen Andy in Frisco that night. Just what was the deal, Brustein?"

"Just what I said. I hear him sing, sign him up, string him along for a while. Joe said he was onto some really big money with this deal. But it all began to stink. First Crane gets iced, then you come around asking questions."

"What was Crane's role in this?"

Brustein was beginning to relax a little. "He was a friend of Joe's, too. Sort of. I think they met in San Francisco. Frankly, I think Joe was using him to get the dope on Jones. But then, after Jones, uh, went missing, Crane got a little nervous."

"So Joe got rid of him."

Brustein shrugged.

Tyler set the guitar aside carefully, then leaned forward a little, his gaze boring into Brustein. "Why are you people doing this to Andy and me? We never hurt you."

"I'm not doing anything to you. All I did was listen to the kid sing and get him to sign on the dotted line. He wanted that, man, he was hungry."

"Where's Andy?"

"I don't know." Brustein looked at Hutch again. "Swear to god, man, I wasn't lying about that. I don't know where he is. I just did my part. Christ, when Crane bought it, I got scared. Then, tonight, somebody took a shot at me. Nearly blew my fucking head off. I just want out." He fumbled in his pocket. "Here's the damned tape." He tossed it onto the rug, and Tyler grabbed for it, clutching the small cassette tightly. "I'm clearing out of town for a while. I just wanted to tell you this, so you wouldn't be looking for me."

"Smart thinking. Except that the police will probably want to talk to you sooner or later."

Brustein wet his lips nervously. "I'll worry about that when it happens. Now I'm going." He started for the door.

"The name Kingman mean anything to you?" Hutch asked suddenly.

"No. Isn't he running for office?" He opened the door. "So we're clear with each other, right, Hutchinson?" "For the moment." The man left, and Hutch turned to look at Tyler. "This damned case," he said almost to himself. "It just keeps getting more fucked up every day."

It was several moments before Tyler spoke. His fingers were gently rubbing against the cassette. "The kid really wanted to be a singer, you know? He thought that this was his big break, that he was on his way. Wanted to sing at the Grand Old Oprey. With me there in the front row, listening." His voice was empty of emotion now, like an echo, as if he'd had as much pain as he could bear and would allow himself to feel no more. "They keep smashing the dreams, don't they, Ken? They don't even let a man have a few dreams."

"God, I'm tired," Hutch said, rubbing the back of his neck. After a moment, he stood and went to the cupboard where his one and only bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch was stashed. He took the bottle and some glasses back to the living room, hoping that a couple of drinks would put Tyler to sleep and out of his misery, at least for the rest of the night. Put both of them out of misery, Hutch amended.

Not talking, they each had a double, then another. Hutch could feel himself getting light-headed, but rational thought still seemed a little too close to the surface, so he poured a third round. "I know what it feels like to be scared, Ty," he said suddenly.

Tyler sipped Scotch, keeping it in his mouth for a moment, then swallowing. "I don't like it much, being scared. I never really was before."

"Not even riding those horses?"

"Oh, hell, that's just a job. Never got scared over that." He plucked at a guitar string idly. "There was only once... when Andy got sick with his appendix. That was scary, because he was hurting so damned much, and I didn't know what was wrong. We were on the road, between Dallas and Oklahoma City."

Always Andy. Hutch sighed. "There was a joint in the VW," he said. "Was Andy into grass?"

"Nope. He doesn't even smoke normal cigarettes. He's a good boy. Never gave me a bit of trouble. Guess most kids get a little wild sometimes, but not Andy."

Hutch was having a hard time getting a handle on Tyler. One minute he sounded like a bereaved lover and the next, an indulgent parent. Probably the truth of his relationship with Andy lay somewhere in the middle. How did this simple, down-to-earth man handle the complexities of such a relationship?

Hutch smiled a little. To Tyler, it wasn't complicated at all. He just loved Andy. If the kid needed a father, fine. If he wanted a lover, that was okay, too. Simple.

"It's like a stomach ache," Tyler said obscurely. Hutch blinked at him. God, I'm drunk, he thought. But if I know I'm loaded, how loaded can I be? "What?"

"The missing him. It hurts right here." Tyler pressed a hand to his gut.

"I know." Hutch pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to the window. A zone car crawled by in the street below. "I hurt like that last year, when I thought Starsky was dead." He could remember the nights in the prison cell, the endless nights spent curled on the cot, clutching at his gut, wishing the pain would stop and knowing that it wouldn't. Was that how Tyler felt now? "I know how it hurts."

"But Dave wasn't dead."

"No."

"See?"

Hutch wondered what he was supposed to see. That sometimes the story had a happy ending?

Tyler gulped his drink. "I'd take better care of him, you know. If he came back. I'd be real careful, so nothing else would happen to him."

Hutch leaned toward the window, pressing his forehead against the glass. He could feel tears building and he blinked rapidly to keep them from spilling out. Who were the tears for? Tyler? Andy? Or himself? He didn't even know. "Ahh, hell, Ty, you did okay taking care of him. You did fine."

"But I'd do better. I'd try..." Tyler's voice dwindled off.

"We always want to try harder, Ty." Hutch straightened and drained his glass before walking back to the chair. "I think we're drunk," he mumbled.

"Yep." Tyler filled both glasses again.

Hutch swirled the golden liquid, splashing a little onto the front of his robe. "I should've been a cowboy," he said, rubbing at the spill.

"Why?"

"It's a nice life. Nicer than what I do."

Tyler snorted. "Hell, boy, all we do is grub in the dirt and mud."

"Yeah?" Hutch laughed softly. "That's what we do, too. Grub in the dirt and mud."

Tyler looked a little bewildered. "Huh?" "Starsk and me. We spend our time in the filth, too, buddy."

"I reckon so."

Hutch sighed. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cowboy. Home on the range. Wide open spaces. All that shit. My favorite was Lash LaRue. He came to town once and I went to see him. All dressed in black, with that whip. I thought it would be nice to be a hero, like Lash LaRue." He took a quick drink. "'Course I don't know what old Doc McPherson would say about me wanting to dress up in black and carry a whip." He laughed again.

''What?"

"Never mind. Inside joke. Anyway, I'd probably be a whole lot happier as a cowboy." He frowned. "'Cept I don't know how Starsk would look on a horse."

Now Tyler laughed. "I think he likes that fancy car of his better."

"Yeah, I think you're right."

They smiled at one another and drank again. Hutch knew that his thought processes were getting fuzzy; he tried to recite the alphabet and made it all the way to U before losing the thread of his concentration. Back in college, any evening where he didn't crap out before M was considered a bust.

He could hear the faraway sound of music and pulled his mind back to the room. Tyler was holding the guitar again. "Play a song," Hutch suggested.

Tyler shrugged. "Don't really know any. Just bits and pieces of what Andy knows."

Bits and pieces. That, Hutch decided, just about summed up Tyler's life. All bits and pieces of Andy. "Play a bit, then. Or a piece." He almost giggled, without knowing why.

After a moment, Tyler began to play again, humming along at first, then beginning to sing in a low voice. "I grew up a-dreaming of being a cowboy and loving the cowboy ways...." He was watching his fingers as they moved carefully across the strings. "...I learned all the rules of a modern day drifter, don'tcha hold onto nothing too long... my heroes have always been cowboys and they still are it seems... sadly in search of and one step in back of themselves and their slow- moving dreams." He stopped suddenly. "Andy does that real good."

"Sounded fine the way you did it."

"Hell, I'm no singer." He set the guitar aside carefully. "I'm not much of anything."

"That's not true," Hutch said, rousing himself to a certain sharpness. "Andy loved you. That's something." Tyler shrugged.

Hutch felt a little irritated with the man. Snap out of it, he wanted to say. You're not the only person to lose somebody. I lost Gillian. Starsk lost Terri. We almost lost each other.

Almost.

Six letters that made all the difference in the world. The difference between life and just living.

"Ken?"

"Hmm?"

"What if it never stops hurting?"

Hutch grimaced. "Now that's pretty deep," he said. "There's a lot of 'what if' questions. Starsk knows a lot of them." Starsky. Always Starsky. Bits and pieces. A goddamned mosaic, all made up of Starsky and me. "I think everything stops hurting sooner or later," he lied. "I mean, it has to, doesn't it? Or else...." He broke off, not wanting to complete the thought. He picked up the bottle and tipped it upside-down, frowning. "S'empty, buddy. All gone."

Tyler nodded. "Yeah, it's all gone."

He figured that Tyler wasn't talking about the booze. "Better go to bed, man. But first, let's have a nightcap." By concentrating very hard, he managed to make it to the refrigerator, extract two beers, and get back to the couch. "A nightcap."

Tyler took one can from him. "You're a good guy, Ken."

"Hell." Hutch drank the beer glumly for a few minutes. When it was gone, he sighed and tried to get up so he could go to bed. His body wouldn't co-operate. "Hell," he said again. "Guess I better rest here a minute."

Tyler grunted a reply. Two beer cans hit the floor and Hutch began to drift away. But he heard another sound then that pulled him back. Don't, he wanted to say, don't cry, please. I can't help you. I can't do a goddamned thing. "Ahh, man," he said. He managed to lift one arm and drape it across Tyler's shoulders.

The lanky body shuddered as Tyler took a deep breath. "Sorry," he said. Then his voice grew firm. "I ain't gonna cry anymore. No matter what."

Pulling the other man back, Hutch rested against the couch, staring at the ceiling. He felt empty, helpless, drunk. But not drunk enough. Never drunk enough. The weight of Tyler's head pressed against his arm. "It's okay," he said wearily. "I've cried. Everybody cries. I don't know what else you can do when you're hurting." If Tyler replied to that, Hutch never heard the response. He passed out. XII

Starsky knocked, waited, then knocked again. When there was still no answer, he pulled out his key and opened the door. "Jeez," he said to himself. "This place smells like a brewery." He pocketed the key, staring, bemused, at the two figures sprawled together on the couch. "Terrific. Not bad enough to have a lush for a client. Now I've got a drunken partner, too." He crouched beside Hutch, poking him lightly. "Hey, buddy. Wake up."

Hutch stirred and after a long time one blue eye cracked open, peering at Starsky. Recognition slowly dawned. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He swallowed, grimacing, and Starsky could imagine what the inside of his mouth must taste like. "Hi," the blond managed to say at last.

"Hi, yourself."

"We... uh... got sort of loaded."

"I noticed." Starsky glanced at Tyler, who was resting against Hutch. "You know, somebody could get a pretty funny idea about what the two of you were doing last night," he said.

Hutch seemed to consider that for a moment. He tried to sit up, but the weight of the other man's body against him defeated his feeble effort. "What idea did you get?" he asked.

Starsky snorted. "Hell, I know exactly what happened. You two idiots drank and mourned the night away."

Hutch nodded glumly, reacting to the obvious pain the movement caused. "Yeah, that's about it. Trying to chase the ghosts."

"His or yours?"

"Both, I guess." Hutch closed his eyes briefly, then looked at Starsky again. "His grief and my guilt, if you want to know."

"Ahh, the famous Hutchinson guilt. Thought you turned that in with the badge, partner."

"I wish." Hutch grimaced again. "Get him offa me, will you, please?"

Standing, Starsky carefully eased Tyler away, resting his inert form against the couch. Tyler stirred, but didn't open his eyes. "S'okay, boy," he mumbled. "S'okay." Then he sighed and relaxed again.

With an assist from his partner, Hutch managed to stand and get himself headed in the direction of the bathroom. Starsky waited until he heard the shower running, then he took some orange juice from the refrigerator and carried it to the living room. Flopping into the chair, he drank straight from the bottle, staring morosely at Tyler. Leave Hutch alone, he wanted to say. Don't lay all your grief at his feet and expect him to handle it. Hutch can't do it. He'll break. He'll break, dammit, and then it'll all fall apart again, and I don't know what the hell I could do to fix it this time.

But Tyler was asleep, and Starsky knew that he wouldn't have been able to say those things to him anyway. It wasn't the cowboy's fault. It wasn't anybody's fault, not even Hutch's. It was just his partner's way, to care so much.

Starsky sighed. He took another gulp of the juice, watching Tyler sleep, and listening to the sound of the shower coming from the other room.

~~~

Joe McCann's yellow sheet ran four pages, just for the local stuff. They told Minnie to let them know what else might turn up from the state or the feds, and then they went to give Dobey a fast report on their progress. Such as it was.

The plump black man swiveled in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. "Too many pieces. How do they all fit together?"

"Tell us and then we'll all know," Starsky said, the words muffled around a Snickers bar from the candy machine.

"Well, you two better watch your step around Kingman. P.I. licenses can be lifted, you know."

Hutch shrugged. "Kingman doesn't scare me." He was sipping a cup of black coffee.

"I didn't say get scared; I just said be careful."

Starsky was perched precariously on the arm of Hutch's chair. "You know us, Cap'n. We're always careful."

Dobey grimaced. "Where's Monroe?"

"Dropped him by his van a little while ago. He wants to find a motel room. He doesn't intend to budge until this is resolved. One way or another." He crumpled the candy wrapper and tossed it into Dobey's ashtray.

"Don't you already know how it's going to come down?"

Hutch was absently tapping out a tune on his thigh. "Yeah. I've known since day one. So has Ty, really. But we've both been playing make-believe."

Starsky pushed himself to his feet. "Thank god there's one realist in this partnership."

"Oh, yeah," Hutch snorted. "David Michael Starsky, the world's greatest cynic." They started for the door. Dobey leaned forward to pull a file closer. "Tell him I said hello."

"Yeah." Hutch stopped. He finished the coffee and stared glumly at the brown scum in the bottom of the cup. "It's just so damned sad, Cap'n, you know?"

"It always is, Hutch."

"I know. I know."

Starsky gave his arm a squeeze. "Come on, partner. The sooner we can wrap it all up, the better it'll be."

"For who?"

"Tyler. You. Maybe even Andy."

Hutch crushed the paper cup and followed Starsky out.

Joe McCann was the strongest lead they had at that point, so it was Joe McCann they hunted. It felt good to be back on the street as a team again Most of the work they handled for Confidential Investigations was one-man stuff. This was almost like the old days. Chasing down the snitches, rattling a few cages. It felt good.

The name Joe McCann drew responses in several places. He was, as per his rap sheet, primarily a small-time hustler. A sometimes fence. Been known to run an occasional scam. Numbers. Nothing bigtime. Until now. Lately, he'd been talking money, a lot of money, although no one they talked to had any idea what the deal was. Only that it was big.

By lunchtime, they had worked their way to the Pits, and since Hutch had decided to survive the hang-over, they parked in the alley and strolled in. Huggy was his usual frantic midday whirl, but he managed to find them a table -- albeit behind the kitchen door -- and even drew a couple of beers himself. "Got a message for you," he said, pulling a paper from the pocket of his lime green jumpsuit. "And while we're on the subject, if I'm going to be acting as your personal answering service, I expect a raise in my retainer."

They ignored his complaint. Starsky was watching the new waitress, and Hutch was gazing balefully at the beer.

"A guy named Monroe called and said to tell you that he's presently ensconced at the Lowell Motel, room 214. He will await your arrival or other communication."

Hutch finally took a sip of the beer. "Is that what Tyler said?" he asked skeptically.

"That was the essence of his message." Hutch nodded and stuck the paper into his pocket. Huggy dashed off. They waited, not talking, until he returned, bearing a special for Starsky and a tuna and bean sprout sandwich for Hutch. Ignoring Starsky's disgusted expression, Hutch took a big bite and chewed. He ate about half the sandwich before speaking. "What can you tell us about a creep named Joe McCann? "

Huggy thought. "He's a creep."

Starsky glanced up, surprise in his eyes. "You know him?"

"Not personally. Never had the pleasure. But a friend of mine has a grandmother who bought a roof from McCann. The old lady paid him three thousand dollars to paste black paper on top of her house."

"Sounds like a real sweetheart," Starsky muttered.

Hutch finished his sandwich. "Any idea where we might find him?"

"Nope. Let me give it some thought." He left hurriedly, as a new swarm of customers entered.

"He must be getting rich," Hutch said. "We should've gone into the greasy spoon business, Starsk." He reached into his pocket and took out the slip of paper Huggy had given him. "I better call him," he said.

"Anybody ever tell you that you'd make a great mother hen?" Starsky asked, smiling a little.

"Yeah, I've heard that. At least, they said I was a real mother. Is that close?"

"Close enough, I guess."

Hutch paused. "I just like the guy, that's all."

"I know. It was only a joke, buddy."

Hutch nodded and headed for the phone. Tyler answered on the second ring. The TV set was blaring in the background. "Get all settled in, Ty?"

"Yeah, Ken, sure."

"Just thought you'd like to know that we're closing in on McCann, and once we get him, I think this whole thing will fall into place."

"Good." Tyler's voice still had that empty sound.

Hutch could see Huggy heading back toward their table. "Gotta go, buddy. I'll be in touch."

"Yeah." Hutch frowned, but didn't take the time to say any more to Tyler. "Got something for us, Hug?" he asked, when they both reached the table.

"It occurs to me that the creep in question has been known to spend time in the company of a lady of the evening named LaBelle."

Starsky and Hutch exchanged blank looks. "We don't know the lady," Starsky said.

"She is a friend of your friend, Sweet Alice."

They thanked him profusely, told him to put the lunch on their tab, and escaped before he turned nasty.

Sweet Alice was easy to find and they didn't even have to dislodge a customer. Apparently taking the day off, she was sunbathing by the pool, her attention centered on a paperback book entitled PASSION'S SWEET FLAME. She smiled up at them. "Darling Hutch, how're you doing?"

"Okay, babe, you?"

"I'm just fine. Haven't seen you two boys in a long time."

"We've been busy."

She stretched lazily. Her face was beginning, slowly but surely, to show the signs of ageing and the life she led. Her spirit, however, seemed as bright as ever. "You boys look like you're in need of some information."

Hutch pulled a chair closer and sat down. Starsky was studying the cover of Alice's paperback. "You know a girl named LaBelle?" Hutch asked.

"I surely do. She and I are real close. Hope she's not in any trouble?"

"Not as far as we know. We're really interested in her boyfriend, Joe McCann."

"Oh. Well, I never met him, but LaBelle is living over at the Garvey House."

Hutch leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Starsky reluctantly handed back the book and they left.

No one answered their knocking at LaBelle's door, so they adjourned to the car for a little reconsideration. It was decided that one of them should sit on the place until either LaBelle or McCann himself showed up. Starsky volunteered, mostly, Hutch suspected, because he figured it beat going back to keep Tyler company. Whatever.

Hutch walked three blocks and then caught a bus home, where he picked up his car. After making a quick stop at the office to check the mail and write a couple of checks for bills that were past due even more than usual, he drove over to the Lowell.

Tyler was sitting on the bed, his attention centered on a game of solitaire, He didn't ask any questions about the investigation. In fact, he didn't say anything beyond monosyllabic answers to Hutch's remarks.

Hutch paced the room restlessly, feeling the walls beginning to close in on him. He picked up the Gideon Bible from the dresser and thumbed through it for a moment, then slammed it shut again. "What are you going to do, Tyler?" he asked suddenly.

Tyler looked up from the game. "Don't worry about me so much, Ken," he said mildly. "Dave said you're like that. You'll end up in an early grave, fretting so much over other people's troubles."

"Yeah, probably. But that doesn't answer my question."

Tyler gathered the cards and shuffled them. "I don't have any answer for you, Ken. I ain't given it any thought."

"Okay."

Tyler seemed to sense his dissatisfaction with that answer. "I just figure that it doesn't make much sense to start thinking about the future until... well, until I know."

Hutch nodded. "Yeah, okay."

"I mean, until I know for sure." The cards suddenly spilled from his hands. "There's still a chance. Isn't there, Ken?"

He sighed. "Yeah, Tyler. There's always a chance."

The cowboy began to pick up the cards slowly, his head ducked. Hutch started looking through the yellow pages, hoping to find a place that would deliver some food. He didn't want to leave the room in case Starsky called.

~~~

It was a long night. Stakeouts never seemed to get any easier, no matter how many he sat through. He listened to an all-night radio talk show, the topic of which was My Fantasy. He also smoked a lot of cigarettes and did a little fantasizing himself. The images he conjured up were an interesting combination of PASSION'S SWEET FLAME and Huggy's new waitress. It passed the time. He also dashed out to a corner store at one point for a box of doughnuts and a bottle of milk.

Finally, long after the sun was up, a man parked in front of the garden-type building. Starsky watched as he crossed the patio and let himself into LaBelle's apartment. While he was inside, Starsky checked the license number with the one they had for McCann. It was the same.

McCann was only in the apartment for a few minutes. He came out carrying a small duffel, which he tossed into the back seat of his car, and then he drove off quickly.

Starsky followed.

They headed out of town, toward the mountains. When, an hour or so later, the car in front stopped for gas, Starsky pulled into a station across the street. While both cars were being filled, he went into the phone booth and dialed the office. Hutch answered. "Hi. It's me."

"What's up?"

"I'm on McCann's tail. We're heading into the frigging mountains. Somewhere toward Big Bear, as near as I can figure it now."

"Big Bear?" Hutch seemed to be thinking quickly; Starsky could almost hear his brain clicking over the phone wire. "I read that the Kingman family has a cabin up there."

"Coincidence?"

"Yeah, sure, and horses fly, too."

Starsky was watching McCann. "What now?"

"Stick with him. Be careful. I'm going to lower the boom on the Kingmans."

"Okay."

"Be careful."

"Yes, mother. Gotta run." He hung up and ran back to the car, shoving a bill at the pump operator, and pulling out in pursuit again.

They drove through Big Bear City without even pausing. McCann finally pulled off the main road. Starsky was keeping way back, but the other man didn't seem at all worried about a tail.

Just when Starsky was about to conclude that he was destined to spend the rest of his life driving through the damned mountains, McCann turned into a private drive and parked. Starsky went past the drive before stopping, then walked back. He made his way toward the cabin. Cabin it might have been called, but the redwood and glass structure was anything but primitive. A large stone patio extended along one side and Starsky headed toward it.

He reached a point from which he could see without being seen and stopped. Paul Kingman, looking like his newspaper pictures was there and a moment later, McCann appeared. Starsky was too far away to hear what the two men were saying, but it seemed obvious that they were fighting over something.

Starsky watched curiously. McCann turned to fix himself a drink from the rolling cart that was serving as a bar. He lifted the lid of the ice bucket. Kingman took a gun from his pocket and shot him in the back. McCann fell with a crash of bottles and glasses.

The sudden violence stunned Starsky. He leaned back on his heels to consider the matter. Kingman was either the coolest customer he'd ever seen, or he wasn't cooking on all four burners.

The slight rustling of leaves behind him caught his attention. As he turned, half-expecting to see a bear preparing to pounce, something hard caught him just behind his right ear and everything went black.

~~~

The guard at the front gate didn't want to let them in, but when Hutch told him to pass along the message that Richard could either talk to them or to the police, they were waved through. The same black maid ushered them into the library.

The old man sat there, waiting. "My son is dressing for his press conference," he said. "He will join us shortly." The still-shrewd eyes raked over Tyler. "This is your client?"

"Yes, sir."

Tyler pulled off his Stetson and stood quietly, almost casually. Hutch, however, could see the darkness in his eyes, and again he worried about what might be happening beneath the surface.

Kingman sighed. "Apparently you chose to disregard my words of the other day."

"About the greater good of the masses? Yes, Senator. Frankly, I think that's a crock. I'm not concerned with saving western civilization, or with the future of this great nation, or with making sure your son gets to the White House. I only care about one thing right now and that's finding Andy Jones."

"Jones, again."

"Jones still," Hutch said flatly.

Kingman nodded. "Excuse me, sir," Tyler said softly. "Do you know where Andy is?"

"I do not."

Richard Kingman stepped into the room, knotting his tie, looking harried, but efficient. "What's this all about anyway, Hutchinson?"

Hutch leaned against the desk, studying the man carefully. "How much do you want to win this election?" he asked finally.

"Very much, of course."

"Enough to lie? Enough, maybe, to kill?"

A look of disbelief flickered across the campaign-poster face. "Of course not."

Hutch, for some reason he couldn't explain, thought it was the truth. His gaze went back to the old man. "What were you doing in 1950, sir?"

Kingman nodded again, as if he'd been expecting the question. There was a tone of resignation in his voice. "I was running for the Senate of the United States."

Hutch could sense Tyler watching him, watching the whole scene, trying to understand what was happening. "Did you know a girl named Maggie Jones?"

Tyler stiffened, but Kingman only shrugged. "You seem to have all the answers." As they watched, the old face changed, becoming softer, looking somehow younger. "Maggie was so beautiful. Young, sweet, the light of my life. A trite phrase, that, but true. She did light up my life in a way I had never thought could happen. Can you understand that?"

The question was directed at Hutch, but it was Tyler who answered. "Yes, sir," he said very softly. "I can understand."

Richard moved closer. "Dad, what's going on? Maybe you shouldn't say anymore until I call the lawyer."

But Kingman shook his head. "No truth can stay hidden forever."

Hutch spoke again. "Everything was fine until Maggie got pregnant, right? And had her baby right in the middle of your campaign?"

"Times were so different then. The voters never would have understood. Maybe even today they wouldn't. I loved her, but I had to give her up for the good of the country."

"You are Andy Jones' father, right?" Hutch pressed. "I am."

Richard made a choking noise and turned away to pour a drink.

Tyler was very still.

Hutch ran a hand through his hair. "What happened to Maggie?"

"She died." Kingman seemed, for a moment, to want to stop there, but then he took a trembling breath. "She came to the house one night, bringing the child with her. Luckily, everyone else was asleep. We spoke in this very room. She... she was a frightened, desperate young girl, unable to understand that forces larger than either of us were in control of the situation. Her fear drove her to make threats. Finally, she simply put the child down and turned to leave. I only wanted to stop her. I grabbed her arm and she tried to pull away." He paused again, but no one else spoke. "As she fell, her head struck against the stone fireplace there. Didn't really seem a hard enough blow to do any harm, but she was dead. She was dead."

Hutch thought that probably he should feel some pity for the old man, but his eyes were on Tyler, and all the sympathy he had went out to the cowboy. "And there you were," he said. "With the dead body of your mistress and your illegitimate child in the library. Just before the election."

"Yes. An unhappy situation. But Maggie was dead, after all. I had to consider the priorities."

Now Tyler moved. It wasn't an act of violence, however, but one of helplessness, hopelessness. "There was the baby," he said, stepping closer to Kingman. "The poor little baby. Didn't you think about Andy at all?"

"Of course, but... there was so much to be done. I carried the body to my car. I wrapped the child in its blanket again and we left the house. Maggie is buried somewhere on the desert. I took the child to the McCanns."

"Nobody saw all this?" Hutch said after a moment. At the same time, he rested a hand on Tyler's arm, feeling him tremble. He squeezed the arm reassuringly.

"No one saw." Then Kingman straightened a little. "Except... but he was only a baby, too. Five years old. And, besides, he was asleep."

"Who?"

"Paul. I found him sleeping behind my desk. It was a habit of his, to sneak in and hide as I worked. But he was too young to understand. And he was asleep."

Richard was leaning against the bar, working on another drink. "Paul," he murmured.

Hutch looked at him. "Would Paul kill to win this election?" Richard was a long time answering. "Paul has had... problems," he finally said carefully. "There have been doctors. We've kept it from my father, but I never really thought..." He set the glass down with a crash. "Yes," he said hollowly. "I think Paul could kill. God help him. God help us all."

Hutch let out his breath in a long sigh. "I think Andy came to Paul to find out about his past. Paul must've seen him as a threat to your campaign."

The old man seemed to shrivel. "One son killing another. The mark of Cain."

"Where is Paul now?"

"He was worn out from the campaign. I sent him out of the city for a couple of days."

Hutch felt an itch begin at the back of his neck. "To Big Bear?"

"Yes."

"Where, exactly, is your place?"

"What are you going to do?"

Hutch's voice was tight. "My partner was on his way up there. Your brother is a killer. I don't want to give him another chance."

Richard grabbed a piece of paper from the desk and began to make a quick sketch. The old man looked at Tyler again. "You love Andy?"

"Yes. Since he was fifteen."

"What kind of a boy is he?"

"Andy is fine. A good boy." Tyler followed Hutch to the door, then paused. "Andy is the light of my life," he added quietly.

"Call the state police," Hutch ordered over a shoulder, hoping they'd do it. He ran for the car, followed by Tyler.

~~~

The pain began in his spine and moved up into his skull. He kept his eyes closed for a little while, just to be sure that he wouldn't keel over when he opened them. He needn't have worried. The ropes that were holding him to the chair kept him quite efficiently upright. Paul Kingman sat across the room from him, and a sullen-looking man in a brown uniform hovered nearby. "You people just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" he asked, when he saw Starsky looking at him. "You just had to keep coming around, making trouble."

Starsky managed to nod toward McCann's body, which was visible through the sliding glass door. "Like him? Was he making trouble?"

Paul snorted. "Him? He was a coward. Like his friend Crane. Besides, McCann was trying to play both ends against the middle. Pretending he was going to help me get rid of Jones, when really he was the one behind it all."

"So now he's out of the way."

"Yeah." Paul laughed softly. "Yeah, he sure is."

"People who get in your way don't live long, do they?"

"I guess not."

"What about me? Why am I still here?"

"Because I need to know what you know. And who else you might have told."

"So you'll know who to kill next?"

"Right."

"Very smart."

Paul seemed pleased. "Yes. No one ever gives me credit for having any brains, not even Rich or my father. They'll apologize when they find out how I saved the election for them."

"By killing Andy Jones."

"Jones," Paul said with a sneer. Then he turned. "Jack, maybe you better go out and get rid of McCann. Take him out someplace and dig a deep hole."

The man nodded and left. They watched him drag the body away. "People know I'm here," Starsky said after a moment.

"Yeah? Who?"

"My partner. And probably the police, by this time."

"You're bluffing." "Am I?"

Paul didn't answer. He got up and walked out of the room. Starsky could hear ice cubes being dropped into a glass. He tested the ropes around his wrists desperately, but they didn't budge. He tried scooting the chair, without really knowing what good that would do, but the grating noise brought Paul back immediately, a glass of what looked like Coke in his hand. "Settle down," he said mildly.

That sounded like pretty good advice for the moment, and Starsky decided to follow it. Now was the time to see if all his lessons to Hutch on how to be a paperback hero had paid off. He sighed and waited to be rescued.

~~~

They didn't talk much during the fast drive to Big Bear. Hutch was grimly attentive to the road, and Tyler sat huddled against the door, his face unreadable. "Guess he's really dead," he said at last.

Hutch didn't look at him. "I'm afraid so, Ty," he said. "I'm sorry."

"So am I. I really hoped... I wanted him to be okay."

"I did, too." Hutch reached over and touched Tyler's shoulder lightly, hoping the gesture would comfort where words could not.

The endless journey ended at last and Hutch parked at the foot of the drive. "Wonder where the hell the state guys are," he muttered as they got out and started toward the cabin, keeping to the cover of the trees.

They heard the sound of someone digging before they spotted the uniformed man. McCann's body lay in a heap nearby and it was obvious why the hole was being dug. A look of pain flickered across Tyler's face and Hutch understood why. Was this the fate that had befallen Andy? A shallow ditch in the wilderness? Again, Hutch touched the other man's shoulder lightly.

After motioning Tyler to remain where he was, Hutch pulled his Magnum from its holster and crept forward. He waited until the man was bending to drag the body toward the makeshift grave, then he moved. A single blow across the skull dispatched the guard, who sprawled forward onto McCann's body.

Hutch crept back to where Tyler was waiting. "Come on," he whispered, leading the way toward the house. As he moved, he tried to keep his own fear submerged. The bodies were beginning to pile up with wearisome regularity, and he had a cold knot in his stomach. How did he know that the next body wouldn't be Starsky's?

"Dave can handle himself," Tyler said from behind him. "I expect he's all right." Hutch glanced back, letting Tyler know that he appreciated the remark.

They reached the house and worked their way around until they were on the patio. Hutch crept forward until he could see into the room. The sliding glass door was open a little, so they could hear what was being said.

Starsky was tied to a chair, facing Paul, who held a glass in one hand, and a gun in the other. Paul was talking. " -- people don't understand, you see. Rich will do a lot of good in Washington. He'll help everybody."

"Except the ones you've killed."

Paul shrugged it off. "They don't matter. Why do you keep talking about them?"

Starsky's eyes flickered toward the patio and Hutch realized he knew they were there. "But they do matter, Paul. McCann was a creep, and maybe Crane wasn't much better, but they deserved a hearing, at least. But Andy Jones... Andy Jones deserved a lot better. He never did anything to you at all."

Paul jumped up. "Be quiet, dammit. I don't want to talk about this. Where's Jack, anyway? He should've been back by now." He moved over to the front door and opened it. "Jack?" he yelled, keeping the gun leveled at Starsky.

Hutch pushed aside the sliding door quickly and stepped into the room, the Magnum covering Paul. "Jack won't be coming," he said quietly.

Paul barely glanced at him. "Get out of here, or Starsky's a dead man."

Hutch didn't waver. "If he is, so are you," he replied, hoping his voice didn't reveal how dry his mouth felt.

Paul was very still. "This used to be called a Mexican standoff."

"Right." Hutch could sense Tyler behind him, moving away carefully, around the corner. "It's all over, Paul. Face it."

Paul shook his head. "No, no, it's not. I've done what I had to do. It was all for my brother. My father will be proud of me now. We're going to put Rich in the White House."

"On a campaign platform built of bodies?"

"Those people would have stopped us. The country needs Rich, but if the press had gotten hold of the story, we would have been crucified for a stupid mistake my father made years ago."

"Andy Jones wouldn't have hurt you. He only wanted to find out who he was." Paul snorted. "Yes, so he said. You don't think I believed that, do you? Get serious. McCann told me that Andy was going to blackmail us. Jones wanted money, just like everyone else."

Starsky shook his head. "That's not true, Paul. Andy had a life of his own. He was happy. All he wanted was to know the truth about his past."

"Oh, sure. That's what he said. That's what he tried to say, at least. Hell, the dummy couldn't even talk. P-p-please, n-n-never mind. F-f-forget I c-c-came... p-p-please, don't k-k-kill m-m- me." Paul gestured with his free hand. "He begged me not to kill him, but I could see right through his act. The idiot. The bastard idiot."

No one saw Tyler move, but they heard the low groan that came just before he leaped through the half-open front door and collided with Paul. They both fell to the floor, sending Paul's gun skidding across the room. Hutch jumped for it. By the time he turned around again, Tyler had both hands around Paul's neck, beating his head against the wooden floor. "You killed him," Tyler said over and over in a voice that was surprisingly soft. "You killed Andy."

Hutch tried to pull him away, but Tyler's grip on Paul was tight. "Ty," he said urgently, "Ty, don't. He's not worth it. Is this what Andy would want?"

Tyler stopped, staring at Hutch. "He killed Andy," the man whispered one more time.

"I know. I know."

After another moment, Tyler rolled away. Paul didn't move, but Hutch grabbed a length of rope from the floor and tied his hands anyway. The wailing of sirens could be heard coming up the mountain. "Better late than never," he muttered, going to untie Starsky. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. You pull off a pretty good rescue."

"I try." He turned back to Tyler. "Hey? You okay?"

Tyler nodded. He looked at Paul for a long moment, then raised his bewildered gaze to Hutch. "I still don't understand, Ken. I still don't understand why Andy had to die."

Hutch rested a hand on Tyler's shoulder.

Starsky was rubbing his wrists to get the circulation going again.

"It doesn't make any sense, Tyler," he said. "Remember? We have it all figured out and it still doesn't make any sense. Mishegoss."

"The world is full of craziness," Tyler said, looking at him.

"Right. Rotten, goddamned craziness. And sometimes it swallows up the good." "Like Andy."

"Yeah, like Andy."

The room was suddenly filled with men in uniforms, all talking in loud voices. Hutch felt very tired, so he let Starsky deal with trying to straighten it all out. He and Tyler stepped onto the patio. Tyler lit a cigarette, staring out over the trees. "What happens now?" he asked.

Hutch shrugged "They'll look for the body," he said. "The press will have a field day. Paul will probably end up in a padded cell someplace."

Tyler nodded.

They didn't talk anymore.

**

______

XVIII

Starsky pulled into the Lowell Motel parking lot and turned off the engine. "Why don't you go on," he said. "I'll wait here."

"Why?"

He sighed. "Tyler feels more comfortable with you."

Hutch shrugged "All right. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

"Take your time."

He climbed to the second floor and knocked at the door of Tyler's room. He could hear music through the closed door.

You are my star in the darkness of night, My campfire at the end of the trail. You are the beacon that pilots my flight, Only with you can I sail.

"Yeah?" Tyler's voice came above the sound of the guitar.

"It's me," Hutch said.

"Come on in."

He stepped inside, closing the door again. A small tape recorder was set on the bed. Tyler raised a hand for quiet.

We've traveled together a long dusty road, Remembering dreams as we roam, Of green valleyed ranches, where clear water flowed. I'm ready now; come, take me home.

Tyler punched off the machine and looked up at Hutch.

"That was Andy?"

"Yep."

"He was good."

"Yeah, I think he could've made it."

Hutch nodded. "Probably." "He wrote that song." Tyler rubbed his hand across the bedspread. "It was a surprise for my birthday last year."

______

Hutch sat down in a chair by the bed. "Ty," he said.

"Wait," Monroe said quickly. "Don't you want to hear the rest of the song?"

Hutch stared into the emerald eyes that were knowing and scared. "Sure," he said.

Tyler turned the machine back on.

You are my harbor, my port in the storm, Protection from all of my fears. In the coldness of winter, you keep me warm. No wonder I've loved you for years.

Hutch got up quietly and went into the bathroom for the two glasses there. He pulled the paper off and then took the bottle of whiskey from the top of the dresser.

We've traveled together a long, dusty road, Remembering dreams as we roam, Of green valleyed ranches, where clear water flowed. I'm ready now; come, take me home.

Hutch poured whiskey into the glasses, then handed one to Tyler.

Take me home to our valley in your loving arms. I'm ready now; come, take me home.

The music died.

Hutch sat down again, as Tyler turned the tape recorder off. They lifted the glasses in a silent toast. "They found him, Ty." Hutch said quietly, after each had sipped his drink.

"Yeah, I figured." Tyler turned the glass around in his fingers. "There's no chance it isn't... I mean...."

Hutch shook his head. "It's Andy. I was there." Tyler didn't say anything, and Hutch took another sip. "If it helps any," he said softly, "he must have died instantly. The coroner said he didn't suffer."

"Thanks. It helps."

Hutch reached into his pocket and pulled out a Marine Corps ring.

"Here..."

Tyler held the ring for a moment, then slipped it onto his finger. He looked at it for a long time, before pushing himself up from the bed. "I've got your check here."

"What?"

"Your check. Hundred and fifty a day, plus expenses." He took the check from a drawer and held it out. "I sorta guessed on the expenses. If it's not enough..."

Hutch took the check, barely glancing at it. "It's fine, Ty," he said hoarsely.

Tyler sat down again. "I appreciate all you've done, you and Dave both."

"Hell, we didn't do anything."

"You found Andy, like I hired you to."

"Yeah, sure," Hutch said bitterly. "We found him." He put the check into his pocket. "I'm really sorry about the way it turned out, Ty."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for."

They were quiet for a moment. "What are you going to do now?" Hutch asked.

The other man shrugged. "Don't know. Probably stay on the circuit awhile yet. After I take him home."

"To the ranch?"

"Yeah. That's the only home we have."

"You won't stay there?"

Tyler finished the drink in a gulp. "Don't know if I can quite yet. That place was supposed to be for both of us. Gonna be pretty lonely..."

Hutch frowned. "Think about it, huh? That circuit is rough."

"I know. And I'm too damned old." He tried a grin. "Hell, maybe I'll get lucky and break my damned fool neck one day real soon."

"You don't mean that."

Tyler fumbled for his cigarettes and lit one. "If I could just understand what happened, you know? Why it happened. And not just because of that mish-e-goss, like Dave said." Hutch smiled a little at the butchered pronunciation. Then he shrugged. "Paul Kingman is insane. McCann was greedy. Together they managed to do a lot of damage."

"How come he got Andy signed up with that Brustein?"

"The best guess is to make sure he'd stay around town long enough so Kingman would feel the pressure." Hutch swallowed the rest of his drink. "Probably there was a little spite thrown in, too. Just for old time's sake. McCann didn't really think Andy would get killed. Probably figured to enjoy humiliating him with the worthless song deal. But mostly, it was just greed. He had Kingman convinced that Andy was going to blackmail the family, so Paul was paying him to handle it."

"Poor Andy."

"Poor everybody, Ty." Hutch pushed himself out of the chair. "I better go. Starsky's waiting."

"Sure, you're busy." Tyler got up from the bed and held out his hand. "You take it easy, Ken, hear?"

"I will. Let me know how things go, will you, Ty?" Hutch said, taking the hand.

"Sure," he said again.

After a moment, Tyler released the grip he had on Hutch's hand, and Hutch walked out, closing the door quietly. He stood there a moment, hearing the music begin again.

Take me home to our valley in your loving arms. I'm ready now; come, take me home.

Hutch went down the steps and across the parking lot to the car.

Starsky turned the key. "Everything okay?"

"Oh, sure," Hutch said bitterly. "Everything is just fine." He held out the check. "Here."

Starsky took it and looked at the amount. "Maybe the old man will stop bitching about the rent."

Hutch slumped in the seat. "Don't you think it stinks?"

"What's that, partner?" He handed the check back.

"This whole thing."

"Sure it stinks." Starsky stopped at a light. "Hutch, I feel bad, too."

"I know." Hutch banged his fist against the dash. "I hate the fact that he gave us that money." "We earned it, Hutch. It's our job."

"He paid us a thousand dollars to destroy his life."

The car behind them honked, and Starsky pulled into the flow of traffic again. "We didn't destroy his life, Hutch. Kingman did." Starsky glanced at him. "You want to know what we really did?"

"What?"

"We made it possible for him to start putting his life back together again. He needed to know about Jones, so he could go on living. Now he can. That makes sense, doesn't it?"

Hutch was quiet for a while.

"I'm hungry," Starsky said suddenly. "Think I'll stop at Taco Town." The Torino made a sudden right hand turn into the parking lot of a garish pink and orange stucco building. "You want something?"

"Like ptomaine, maybe?" Hutch muttered.

Starsky patted his arm, grinning. "I'll get something special, buddy. Trust me."

"Hah."

Starsky just grinned again and got out of the car. Hutch watched the blue-jeaned figure cross the parking lot and disappear inside. It didn't pay to contemplate what dreadful concoction he might return with, so Hutch slid out of the car as well, and took a seat at one of the outdoor tables.

He closed his eyes. Probably Starsky had a point. Tyler couldn't have gone on not knowing. They couldn't kill the messenger for delivering the message, could they? He took out the check again, studying the neat script "You may be right, buddy," he said aloud. "But it's still a rotten way to make a living. I wonder if Lew Archer ever feels like just chucking the whole damned thing?"

He sighed, watching as Starsky emerged, balancing several ominous-looking cartons. There was a packet of hot sauce jammed between his teeth. He reached the table and dumped the bundles. Hutch reached over and pried the sauce packet from his mouth. "Is any of this stuff edible?" Hutch asked unenthusiastically.-

______

"Sure, it'll be great." Starsky sat down and started opening the food. "You feeling better now?" He wasn't looking at Hutch.

"Sure, Starsk," he replied. "I'm fine."

Two pairs of blue eyes met across the food. Starsky smiled at him. Hutch returned the smile, then shoved the check into his pocket once more, as Starsky dug joyfully into the meal.

Fine. Sure, buddy, I'm fine. You're fine. Tyler Monroe is fine. The whole goddamned world's in great shape. There are no problems that can't be drowned in Dr. Pepper and tacos.

Hutch sighed deeply and took the foil-wrapped burrito that Starsky was shoving at him "Thanks," he said.

***********

Everybody loves cowboys and clowns, You're everybody's hero for just a little while. But when the good-byes are said, And the spotlight goes dead, There's no one left who cares to hang around To love the cowboys and the clowns.

END