"You're telling me you've already done it?" Starsky took a left on Burwell and eased into traffic.

Hutch checked the rear view mirror. "That's what I said. I did it last week."

Starsky thought about the last five days. They'd spent most of Monday and Tuesday downtown, running a tricky interrogation and working the subsequent paperwork on a stinky fink named Smithy.

Wednesday, he and Hutch had finished their shift and then went to the laundromat.

It couldn't have been Thursday; they'd gone bowling that night and taken Starsky's car.

Friday, they'd hung out at Hutch's place. Starsky had ducked out for thirty minutes to pick up beer and Chinese, and later they'd watched "Bonanza" while cleaning their guns.

When would Hutch have had the chance?

Starsky glanced at him. "Last week, huh? As in during the week?"

"That's what I said." Hutch didn't look over.

"And that doesn't include the weekend?"

"Starsky..."

The mic crackled, and Hutch picked it up.

It was Dispatch with a message to get a hold of Jackson Junior, Walter's boy.

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

Hutch returned Jackson's call at the pay phone a few blocks from Tico Taco. Starsky stayed in the car and thought of Venus flytraps and ant farms. While they'd been fine gifts, Starsky wanted to shake his partner up a bit this year. And what better way to do it than to give Hutch something he'd actually like? This was why there was a Westbend 6060 Yogurt Maker sitting in his bedroom closet. Starsky grinned as he tapped the steering wheel; Hutch would never know what hit him.

Hutch hung up the phone in the booth. He had to do it twice to get it to stay on the hook. Then Hutch wrenched open the accordion door, scowling as it caught his pant leg.

"Did Jackson say what he wanted?" Starsky asked when his partner finally got into the car.

"Just that he needed to talk to us."

"It didn't seem like anything was up last time we saw him," Starsky said, thinking of the three-man game of basketball they'd played with Jackson a couple of weeks ago. It had been followed by another one of Mrs. Jackson's fine suppers.

Hutch glanced over. "Maybe nothing's bothering him now?"

"Right. Like a sixteen-year old boy has nothing better to do than have a little chat in the middle of the day with us. Which brings up another thing: how come the kid's not in school?"

"Christmas vacation is why, dope. Hence all the plastic snowflakes up in stores and stupid commercials on TV. Hence your pestering me about your present."

"I can see you're enjoying the Christmas season in your usual fashion."

Hutch picked up the mic with one hand and gave Starsky the finger with the other. Then he called Dispatch to say that they were headed out on a Code 7.

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

Jackson had asked to meet them at Burwell Park, an open space about ten blocks from his house. The place was devoid of children, probably due to the fact there was no sand in the sandbox and the sum total of play equipment was a tire swing missing the tire. Jackson was sitting on the lone bench, dribbling a basketball between his knees.

Starsky sat down on one side of him, Hutch on the other.

"Makes me feel a little bit like one of your punks, you know, surrounding me like this," Jackson said, stopping the ball by putting his foot on it.

"You know that we're more like a couple of concerned uncles," Hutch said, staring straight ahead. "What's going on?"

Jackson picked at something on his jeans and looked like he wanted to get up and walk away.

"Are you in trouble, Jackson?" Starsky said, feeling his stomach clench a little at the possible answers. Jackson Senior was eight months dead, and the hole his murder left was still deep. Keeping an eye on his friend's son was the least he could do.

"It's not me. It's a friend." Perhaps seeing the look on Hutch's face, Jackson added, "I swear. An actual friend, not a fake friend who's really me. Honest."

"Tell us about your friend," Starsky said thinking about how so many things, none of them good, started like this.

"Her name's Rhonda Grady." Jackson pulled out a wallet-size photo that looked like it had been taken for school. "This was last year, before her ma died."

Starsky looked at the photo. Rhonda's skin was smooth and the color of coffee. She had her hair pulled back in a neat do and smiled for the camera. He handed the picture over to his partner.

"Her mom was killed in a car smash-up just after my dad was shot," Jackson said. "It made Rhonda and me want to stick together, just as friends, you know, hanging out, doing schoolwork and stuff. But then Rhonda starts getting all secretive, disappears for days, won't meet my eye, and has clothes she can't afford. First I think maybe she's stealing them. But I wonder if there's more than that as Rhonda's twitchy, different, losin' weight."

Starsky thought shoplifting was quite possibly the least of her problems. He glanced over and saw Hutch catch his eye and knew his partner was thinking the same thing.

"How about her father? Her teacher?" Hutch asked. "Do they suspect that something's up?"

"Her teacher's not a bad lady, but she's got forty-five kids to keep track of, and she don't know me from Adam. For all Mrs. Fletcher knows, I could be making it up. And Rhonda's, well, she's not trouble. If anything, during the last few months, she's gotten quieter, nothin' her teacher's gonna notice, not with the shi... the stuff going down at school."

Starsky knew all about that scene. That "stuff" was what, at fifteen years old, ultimately got him sent away to Bay City.

Hutch asked, "Her father, what about him? What's he got to say?"

Jackson shrugged. "He's useless."

"Is he trouble?"

"No, not like the trouble you mean. He's just..." Jackson shrugged. "He's just gone. I think when Rhonda's mama died, he pretty much wanted to die, too."

Starsky caught Hutch's quick gaze.

"Listen. I'm thinking this is all a bad idea." Jackson started to stand up. Starsky put his arm over his shoulder and eased him back down.

Jackson looked down at the basketball at his feet. "Please don't bring in the authorities. You'll only make things worse."

"Jackson," Starsky reminded him. "We are the authorities."

"But you're not the regular kind. You guys can keep it cool."

Hutch nodded slowly and said, "We can start by nosing around a bit, maybe follow her."

"That's just it," Jackson said, his voice breaking a bit. "You can't follow her. Rhonda has disappeared. That's why I called you."

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

Starsky yanked the door to the phone booth open and dialed Diana Perkowitz's number.

"Don't tell me you have another Christmas emergency," she said. "Don't you think us social workers deserve a day off once in a while?"

"No rest for the weary, Perkowitz, you know that."

She sighed. "Isn't that the truth?"

"What would you do if someone said they hadn't see a fifteen-year old girl for a week and a half?"

"Have her parents or teacher called it in?" Starsky could hear the sound of Perkowitz pushing her chair back, the clip of her shoes on the linoleum floor, and then the sound of a file drawer being opened. "What's her name?"

"Rhonda Grady," Starsky said. "And the person who says he hasn't see her is a friend from school."

"A friend, like another kid?"

"Just look up her name would you? Rhonda Louise Grady."

It took Perkowitz a few minutes. "Nothing on the name, nothing on the family. What else do you have?"

"Just a photo and the worries of a kid she hangs around with."

"Listen, school's been out for a week so that's not going to be a big help. And there's no evidence of foul play. That, and a fifteen-year old girl... well, she's not twelve years old, she's not nine years old."

"Meaning?"

"Listen, Dave. I gotta be honest with you. Without her father filing a report, you just have a classmate who's worried. Even if it had merit, it's a case that that would be on the bottom of a stack of reports."

"So, what you're saying is that the only people pursuing this are going to be me and Hutch?"

"That's about it, Dave."

When he got back into the car, Hutch asked, "Well?"

"We're on our own with this one, at least for now." Starsky knew it was the "now" part that made Hutch's face get dark. "Now" meant until something worse turned up. They'd seen it far too many times in the past.

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

They found Huggy at the corner of 5th and Western. He was wearing a splendid patchwork leather jacket and holding a large, stuffed fish under one arm.

Starsky pulled the car over to the curb, and he and Hutch got out.

"What's with the wildlife, Hug?" Starsky asked.

"Got it from a guy who's behind on his bar tab." Huggy stopped walking. He didn't look surprised to see them.

"That actually happens, people really get behind on their bar tabs?" Hutch asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Sure does," Huggy snapped. "And not just to guys who think I'm not paying attention."

"Gotta say, Huggy, aside from the fact it's mounted on a piece of wood, that fish is looking a little too long-in-tooth to end up in even your deep-fat fryer," Starsky said. "What are you gonna do with it?"

"I'm doin' a little redecorating. I'm going perk up the place with a bit of a hunting lodge theme."

"Hunting lodge," Hutch laughed. "In the middle of Bay City?"

Huggy scowled. "And what's wrong with that? Brothers in the city just might deserve a bit of rustic charm."

Starsky looked up the stuffed trout. The size of a small dog, it stared back at him glassily, its mouth hanging open as if it wanted to say something.

"I think it's nice, Hug," Starsky lied.

"You're just sayin' that because you want something."

"That, too. You know anything about a guy named Jim Grady?"

"I've got the time if you've got the dime." Huggy looked away.

"Hutch, pay the man," Starsky gave his partner's arm a shove.

Hutch scowled. "You pay the man."

"Last month's bar tab is yours. I had October."

Pulling his wallet out, Hutch handed Huggy two twenties. "That ought to cover it."

Huggy tightened his lips. "Barely."

"Jim Grady," Starsky reminded him. "What do you know about him?"

Huggy said, "Only that he lost his wife in a car accident about six months ago."

"Is Grady a good guy?"

"He's not a bad guy, if that's what you're asking."

"Sounds like a you're hedging a bit, Hug."

"Hey, I don't have everyone in this town on my radar. I know Grady drives a hack for Diamond Cab, hangs out at the Town Talk, and as far as I know, keeps his nose clean. That, and he is in danger of being fired as he's been slacking off on the job."

"Sounds like a pretty good radar to me, Hug," Hutch said.

"Yeah, makes me wonder what you hear about us," Starsky said, giving the stuffed fish one more look.

"Trust me, guys, you don't want to know," Huggy replied, turning away.

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

There was an empty Diamond Cab sitting outside of the Town Talk. Hutch peered in the front window as they passed it. He shook his head. "The man's not making any money this way. He's even got his radio off the hook."

"Let's hope that's the least his sins," Starsky replied. He held the door to the bar open and ushered his partner into a place that could have been any one of a hundred bars in Bay City. In the course of their work, Starsky thought they'd probably been in nearly all of them. It wasn't a tour of duty he relished.

"We're looking for Jim Grady," Hutch said to the barkeeper behind the counter. The man answered by tilting his head toward the back of the joint.

Grady was sitting at the stool on the far end of the scuffed, wooden bar. From the number of cigarette butts in the ashtray in front of him, it looked as if he'd been there all afternoon.

Starsky sat down on the seat next to him, and Hutch took the stool on the other side.

The bartender approached and gave them a sharp look. "Get you gentlemen anything?"

"Nothing for us. We're just here to talk to Jim," Starsky said, shaking his head.

The bartender put a couple of dirty glasses in the bar sink and said over his shoulder, "Maybe you can convince Jim to go home and take care of his little girl. Or maybe actually drive that cab. He spends more time in here than he does anywhere else."

Grady shrugged and took a long draw off his Marlboro. "Rhonda. She's a good girl, my Rhonda. Just like her mom, she sure is her mother's child." Grady's hands shook.

Starsky gave his partner a slight tilt of his head suggesting Hutch take the lead.

"Your daughter is why we're here," Hutch said.

"You're not from the school are you?" Grady blew out smoke and put his cigarette down on the foil ashtray.

"No," Starsky said. "We're here because a friend of hers is worried about her."

"Rhonda's a good girl," Grady repeated dully. "Just like her mom."

"When's the last time you saw your daughter, sir?" Starsky asked. He felt like shaking the man.

"Maybe a week ago. No. Maybe it was Tuesday. I don't know. Sometimes she takes off. You know how kids are. She's probably staying with friends."

"You aren't worried?" Hutch asked, his voice tight.

Grady didn't answer.

"Sir," Starsky said. "You aren't worried?"

"I don't blame her. Rhonda is probably just trying to be some place where there's some happiness."

Starsky looked up at the mirror at the back of the bar and saw the bartender glance over and roll his eyes.

"I'm sorry about your wife, Mr. Grady," Starsky said.

The man put his face in his hands and began to weep.

"I don't even think Jim Grady knows what day of the week it is," Starsky said as they got back into the car.

"No kidding." Hutch wrote the time down in their book. "The guy's a mess."

"You think he's got anything to do with Rhonda's absence?"

"Not directly. I think he's so messed up with grief, he hardly knows she's gone. He's so depressed an automatic door at the grocery store wouldn't open for him. All indications point to the guy barely getting through to the end of the day, not someone who's knows what end is up."

"Really."

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

Starsky used the pay phone by the library to call Jackson. "Is your grandma there?"

"No. She's at choir practice."

"Any word from Rhonda?"

"No. I've been asking around, and no one's seen her."

"Has she mentioned any new names, people she's met recently?"

Jackson didn't answer right away. Then he said, "Nikki and Sasha. She mentioned those names once. Said Nikki thought the way she did her hair was cute. Just girl talk, I figured, only I don't know anyone named that."

Starsky filed the names away.

"My grandma wants me to invite you and Hutch over for Christmas dinner," Jackson added. "Only if you come, you gotta promise to not say anything about Rhonda in front of her. I don't want her to think I'm friends with someone who ran away."

"Jackson, your grandma understands more than you think."

"I doubt it. She's old. And she worries too much.

Starsky thought that losing her daughter-in-law and son in the space of two years, and now being responsible for a teenage boy, gave Eugenia Walters quite a bit to worry out. It was something Starsky thought he'd bring up with Jackson Junior another time.

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

Hutch looked up from the magazine he was reading when Starsky got back into the car. "Do you think Jackson's overreacting? Worried about nothing?" he asked.

Starsky remembered how he felt after losing his dad. Things were adrift and seemed like they had no center. "No," he said. "If anything, I think he's on target. Grief tends to makes one not see things further out. Being worried about Rhonda goes against that instinct."

"But even Perkowitz can't work with a gut feeling."

"This isn't her gut. It's Jackson's. And now it's ours. He asked us to find her, and Jackson doesn't beg a favor often." Starsky thought of Jackson Senior and felt a sharp pang of grief. "Besides, we owe it to him and to his dad."

"We'd better get hopping then, before Dobey moves us on to something official." Hutch tossed the magazine into the back seat. "What did the kid say?"

"What?"

"On the phone. What did Jackson tell you?"

"Only that he hasn't heard anything from Rhonda, and that she'd mentioned two names: Nikki and Sasha. Also, we're invited to dinner on Christmas."

"That last part sounds good, anyway. Nothing beats that woman's cooking."

"Are you going to give me my present then?" Starsky teased.

"You're impossible, you know," Hutch laughed.

"I know." He handed Hutch a dime. "Call Sweet Alice."

Hutch gave it back to him and looked away. "You call her. I'm in the doghouse with that lady right now."

Starsky sighed. He wasn't about to go down that alley.

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

It took ten rings for Sweet Alice to pick up, and when she learned it was Starsky, her voice became uncharacteristically sharp.

"I'm in the middle of something here."

"We need some info," Starsky repeated.

"Meaning you and Hutch," Sweet Alice said.

"Alice, it's about a girl."

"Of course it is. It's always about a girl," Alice said tightly. "Make it snappy. I'm a loose woman on a tight schedule, something to which your partner certainly can attest."

Starsky glanced back out at the Torino. Hutch's face was in profile, and he appeared tense.

Turning back around, Starsky continued, "We're looking for a girl named Rhonda Grady. She just turned fifteen and..."

"You know, I don't associate with the people that use underage girls."

"Of course you don't," Starsky assured Sweet Alice, thinking that in her business, she certainly did, if only by default. "We just wanted to know..."

"Nikki. If you want information, see Nikki at the Washington Arms. And she'd better not know I sent you there." Alice slammed down the phone.

"That's one angry chick, Hutch," Starsky said as he slid back into the car. "What did you do this time?"

Hutch's lips were tight. "I don't want to talk about it."

Fine, thought Starsky, because he really didn't want to either. "Nikki. Alice mentioned a Nikki. That's one of the names Jackson said Rhonda knew."

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

There wasn't much light in the foyer due to the broken bulb overhead.

Starsky pulled out a book of matches and lit one. He held the flame up to the mailboxes and moved it down the row. It took three tries, each match burning close enough to his fingers to make him shake and drop it.

Hutch said, "Looks like it's apartment 34. Nicole Fulton."

Starsky smelled a hint of smoke and looked down. A little fire had started in the pile of grocery circulars and yellowed phone books.

"Way to go," Hutch said, stamping at the smoking remains. "Burn the place down."

Starsky gave him a dirty look and followed his partner up the stairs.

Starsky was frankly always surprised when people answered the door in places like the Washington Arms. But Nikki did.

She wore a halter-top and light green shorts, and her pale, pink limbs immediately struck him as totally out of place in the dark interior, like a chorus girl who had wandered into a funeral parlor. Starsky could hear Fleetwood Mac coming from inside the apartment and smelled the sweet odor of pot.

Nikki looked disappointed. "Oh. You're not John," she said. Starsky put his foot in the door to keep their visit from being cut too short.

"No, not John. Or Tom, or Dick, or Harry," Hutch said. "We're looking for a girl named Rhonda Grady."

"What makes you think I know who the hell that is?" Nikki glanced toward the left.

"A little bird says you might," Starsky said.

"A little bird, huh? I'll bet." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one up. Starsky noticed her fingers trembled slightly as she used the lighter and took the first drag of smoke into her lungs.

"We've been led to believe that Rhonda may be in the same business as yourself."

"I'm an aerobics instructor," said Nikki, coughing.

"Perhaps Rhonda is in one of your classes?" Starsky flashed the young girl's photo.

"Nope. Don't know her," Nikki said a little too fast, looking left again.

"You've got company? Anyone we want to meet?" Starsky asked, inching forward.

"Nobody's in here with me," Nikki said. "I'm alone."

"Listen," Hutch said, his voice smooth and low, "I'd hate to have to find a reason to search this place. Or, worse, to sit outside this apartment and watch who goes in and out, wouldn't you, Starsk?" He kept his eyes on Nikki.

"I'd hate that, too, buddy, especially seeing how it's three days before Christmas. I've got things to do."

"Yeah," Hutch said, his voice innocent. "Like what?"

"Aside from wrapping your Christmas present, pal? Like following aerobics instructors all over town and determining just how much physical fitness they get done on a nightly basis."

"Fuck you," Nikki said.

"That appears to be your job rather than ours," Starsky said.

Nikki scowled and jerked her head to the left again and tapped her ear just as Starsky heard someone cough in the next apartment. The thin walls had to be hell on the neighbors, especially if one had to listen to certain business transactions.

It was when Nikki pantomimed writing on her hand that Starsky finally understood.

"Listen, Ken," he turned towards Hutch. "This lady doesn't know anything. We're wasting our time here."

Hutch gave him a quick glance, and Starsky knew he'd follow his lead. "Guess not, David. We'll have to move on to riper sources."

"See that you do," Nikki said, shutting the door. A few moments later, a small piece of paper appeared under the door. Starsky glanced up and down the hall, then reached down and picked it up.

"C'mon, let's blow this lost cause," he said loudly, just as the door to the next apartment opened. A large man in a baseball cap stared out at them, his posture aggressive and his face unreadable.

Starsky looked down at the note when they got to the stairs. "555-1891. Paddy Johnson. Feel free to kick the shit out of him. Just don't let him know I sent you."

"Pretty stifling to have to live next door to your pimp," Hutch noted.

"No kidding," Starsky said. "And this is the Bay City telegraph at work; you get a name with the stipulation you don't say where it came from. Pretty trusting for a bunch of hookers and low-lifes."

Hutch scowled as they stepped outside into the bright afternoon light. "Sweet Alice included?"

"Well, you know what they say, 'a snitch, in time, usually lies'."

"I think..." Hutch's reply was cut short by the sight of a kid with three of Hutch's hubcaps under his arm. The boy was clearing the corner at a good run.

Starsky gave it only a fraction of a second's thought and decided there was no way he was going to chase after the kid. A grown man pursuing a nine-year old boy on a public sidewalk never looked good. Hutch apparently agreed, as all he did was pull out his sunglasses and put them on.

"You were missing one anyway," Starsky pointed out. "You know, that kid is stealing hubcaps and who knows what else now, but in a few years, he'll be demanding better protection from the police." Looking up and down the street, he noted the rusted bicycle chained to a bus stop sign and the amount of trash lining the buildings' foundations. "Then again, maybe not."

Hutch just shook his head. "Those hubcaps didn't match each other anyway."

"Maybe that's what I'll get you for Christmas? New hubcaps."

"Sounds like one of the crazy things you'd buy me." Taking his keys out of his pocket, Hutch said, "I thought you said you already did your shopping."

"I did. And I have," Starsky said, thinking of the yogurt maker. "Maybe we made our purchases at the same place?"

"No chance of that, buddy," Hutch replied.

Well. That was at least a clue, Starsky thought. Whatever Hutch had gotten for him didn't come from Sears.

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

Paddy Johnson was taking a piss in the alley behind the Foxx Bar.

From behind, he looked like a toothpick with large, brown hairball perched on top. Paddy zipped himself up and unsteadily turned around. He put his hands in the air and whined, "If you're here about the loan, guys, tell Fraz I'll get it to him next week. I promise."

Starsky filed that name away. "We're not here about money, Paddy," he said, leaning up against the chain link fence. "We here about a girl named Rhonda Grady." He showed the man her photo.

"I don't know anything about her," Paddy swayed and barely gave the picture a glance. He twisted his sparse beard with two fingers in a way that made Starsky feel like slapping his hand down.

"Paddy, we're more interested in the truth, not the crap you're dishing out," Hutch said.

"Hey, honesty is a great policy. But so is insurance," Paddy said, stumbling as he stepped slightly to the left. The smell of alcohol on his breath and on his clothes was overpowering. "The trick is to not use either unless you really have to."

"Meaning?" Hutch said, raising his eyebrows.

"Meaning I don't know nothing."

"That's not what we heard from a little bird who said she'd like us to beat the shit out of you. In fact, those were her exact words," Starsky said, moving a little closer despite the odor.

Paddy's eyes widened. "That bitch!" He took a swing at them, one that Starsky easily blocked. As he let the man go, Paddy took another clumsy jab at his partner. Hutch stepped aside, and the man's fist got stuck in a loose part of the chain link fence behind them.

"Looks like we have a choice here, Hutch," Starsky said.

"Yeah. And they'd be?"

"We can leave Paddy here and let Fraz come sort it all out, or we can pull him in for attempted assault."

Paddy's eyes widened. "No Fraz. Bring me to jail if you gotta. But not him. Please. He's bad news."

Starsky shrugged. "I guess we could bring this dope in, Hutch. But he's gotta promise one thing."

"Yeah?" Hutch asked. "And what's that?"

"The loser better not throw up in the car."

Paddy swayed and slurred, "I won't. I promise. Just no Fraz."

The man kept his promise, dozing all the way downtown. While Hutch hauled him to Processing, Starsky went up to Records and Information and got what he could on the man Paddy had named.

"Leonard Frazetti. Age forty-two, new in town by way of Cleveland, just took over Paradise Books," Starsky told his partner as he met Hutch in the stairwell. "He's probably going to be someone we need to keep an eye on, anyway."

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

Starsky pulled up in front of Venice Place, turned off the engine, and sat listening to it tink as it cooled. "The drunk tank's a good place to hold Paddy. The twenty-four hours they'll keep him will give us a chance to check out some other leads without us worrying about what that dope's rustling up."

"Yeah. The slammer's Paddy's future, just not right now."

"Prison." Starsky shook his head. "They go in petty villains and come out master criminals."

"It's called rehabilitation, Starsk. Besides, this is a good plan. Indications point to Paddy knowing something about Rhonda. And as soon as he's out of the tank, we'll tail him."

"And Sweet Alice, too. You know she was holding out on us," Starsky said, staring straight ahead.

"Alice is always holding out on us, it's part of how she stays alive. It's no different than Huggy," Hutch said, sounding resigned. He took their book down from the visor. "As for our past sources, Rolly's out of the picture seeing how he's working on a nice career in smashing big rocks into smaller rocks and making license plates. How about Mickey?"

Starsky thought of the weasel he'd run out of town after Hutch's ordeal with Forest. "Mickey's not a possibility, not in this city. But I gotta say, Hutch, aside from Paddy, we've gotten no real leads on Rhonda so far. All we've done is stir up a lot of nests. There are hundreds of girls in this town, and we're trying to locate one."

"You want to be the one to tell Jackson that? That we gave up?"

"Hutch, it's like the little bird of optimism landed on your shoulder."

"Maybe it has."

"Hmmm." Starsky started to put his hand up to Hutch's forehead.

Hutch slapped it down. "What are you doing?"

"Just checking for a fever. It's three days before Christmas, and you're entirely too cheerful."

"Maybe that's your present? How about coming up? I'll make grilled cheese."

Starsky thought that sounded perfect. Plus, it would give him a chance to search for his gift. Surely, Hutch had it hidden in the apartment somewhere.

He spent the time Hutch was in the shower looking in all the usual hiding places.

When his partner, a towel around his waist, came out of the bathroom amidst a cloud of steam, Starsky was just getting up off the floor in front of the couch. He put the broom away he'd been using to swipe under the furniture.

Walking into the bedroom, Hutch said over his shoulder, "You're such a dummy."

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Mind if I grab a shower, too?"

"Go ahead, but you gotta know my razor's dull."

Ten minutes later, Starsky stepped out of the bathroom and saw Hutch working at trying to open the kitchen window. It had been painted shut long before his partner had moved in.

"Any reason you're all of a sudden into home repairs at this time of the night?" Starsky asked, striding over to the stove. He used a spatula to turn over the two cheese sandwiches in the pan just as they started to smoke.

Hutch just laughed. "Just you wait, grasshopper," he said, shoving a screwdriver along the frame's edge. Starsky reached over and hit the frame just as Hutch yanked on the handle. The window flew open with a screech.

"There's nothing like a little Bay City fresh air," Starsky laughed as Hutch ended up propping the window open with a box of Wheaties.

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

On the way over to Hutch's place the next morning, Starsky stopped at the Coffee Cup Bakery and bought some reinforcements. He put the bag on passenger seat.

"Huggy called me last night," Hutch said as he got in the car and nearly sat on breakfast. He moved the bag on the dash. "Apparently, Paddy really has got it out for Frazetti in a big way."

"So? Paddy is just small potatoes and from what we know of Frazetti, he's pretty powerful. How's Paddy gonna put a dent in him? And why?"

Hutch shrugged. "Hug says Frazetti had someone break Paddy's mom's arm as encouragement to pay back a six-hundred dollar loan. Apparently, Paddy found about it when he was booked in yesterday and called her."

"A broken arm is pretty shitty encouragement," Starsky said, grimacing.

"No kidding. It puts Leonard Frazetti at the top of our dance card today."

Starsky pulled the paper sack off the dash. "I bought donuts. Wanna share?"

"Don't mind if I do," Hutch said, pulling out a cruller. "Which reminds me. I need to make a stop at Vons at some point. I've got to get a quart of vegetable oil."

"Oil? What for?" Starsky said, pulling out the other pastry.

"It's part of your present, dummy."

Starsky thought of what oil could be used for: lubrication, shine, and practical jokes. All three of those things made him nervous. Maybe Hutch had finally had it with all the silly presents he'd gotten over the years and had finally gone over the edge?

Starsky glanced at his partner as Hutch pulled the small notebook out of his shirt pocket. "Frazetti lives at 356 East Burwell. That's our next stop."

"Your wish is my command, blondie," Starsky said, popping the last of his breakfast into his mouth as he eased the car into traffic.

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

Burwell was a street of large, stucco one-story homes, most in good repair. Frazetti's place was set back from the street a bit. The blinds were drawn and two new phone books sat on the front steps.

The yard had a number of garden ornaments. A rabbit, an owl and deer accompanied a concrete heron. The bird was poised on one leg in the middle of the grass as if it were waiting for a concrete pond to appear. There were a handful of empty terracotta pots along the foundation.

"I like this sort of garden. No plants," Starsky said whispered.

Hutch gave him a dirty look.

Starsky glanced up the street, then down, noting the complete lack of traffic.

Hutch did the same and said, "I smell smoke, don't you?"

"Not yet." Starsky handed him a book of matches and a piece of paper he'd dug out of his back pocket. "Fire is a public danger, one we have to immediately act on."

Hutch lit the paper on fire and shoved it under the door. He gave an exaggerated sniff. "We'd better investigate," he said as he tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. "Is it just me, or are crooks getting stupider?"

Starsky checked his gun and gave his partner a nod. Then they both eased their way in.

Frazetti's apartment was a shrine to gaudy taste and materialistic whims. The living room was stocked full of goodies showing the muddy underside of the American dream. It was all there, the big TV in a fake wood console, the home gym paraphernalia scattered across the purple shag carpeting, and the white conversation pit hunched by the far wall. Empty pizza boxes littered the coffee table. The whole place smelled of stale air and marijuana. The only sound in the house came from some early morning television show, turned down low.

Starsky took all this in from the vantage of the semi-crouch he'd dropped into after making his entrance. Hutch was a few feet away, training his gun on the room. Hutch caught Starsky's eye, and they both moved toward what appeared to be a bedroom. Motioning Starsky still, Hutch pushed the door open.

Starsky walked up to the edge of the bed as Hutch flicked the light switch, flooding the room with a sudden brightness. He felt Hutch move in behind him.

After a second or so, the lump on bed moved and a voice muttered, "What the hell?" Frazetti, still not entirely awake, blinked up at Starsky.

The bedclothes next to him shifted as well. Then the covers moved down, revealing a very young, very naked, blonde girl. She stared at Starsky with round, startled eyes.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Frazetti demanded, sounding indignant.

Starsky forced a smile. "We're just here to clean out the trash."

Frazetti made a move for the bedside table but stopped when Hutch held up the man's gun.

"I think I'll hold onto this for a bit," Hutch said, tucking it into the back of his belt.

The girl whined. "Are you the Vice Squad or something?" Her pasty skin, lank hair and unfocused eyes made Starsky grab her arm. He examined the inside of her elbow. It was mottled with a collection of angry-looking, purplish-red needle marks.

"Has he paid you yet?" Starsky asked her, releasing her.

The girl shook her head.

Hutch looked at Frazetti. "Where's your wallet?"

Frazetti stared at Hutch. Starsky suspected something in his partner's eyes made the man decide not to argue.

"Dresser drawer," Frazetti mumbled.

Starsky looked at the girl again. "Take what he owes you. And give yourself a nice tip."

The girl swiftly obeyed. Pulling on the tiny, multi-colored dress that had been lying over a chair, she went to the dresser and helped herself to a wad of bills.

She asked Starsky, "Are you going to kill him?"

Starsky smiled without humor. "No, I just want to talk with him. He's married to my sister, and I hate it when he cheats on her. Don't slam the door on your way out." He waggled his fingers.

Frazetti opened his mouth as if to say something but seemed to change his mind. The girl tucked the bills into her macramé purse and was out of the room in seconds. Hutch stepped back a few feet, gun trained on Frazetti, and watched her departure. "She went out the back door," Hutch said. "All clear."

"We're here about a girl named Rhonda Grady," Starsky said as Hutch moved back into position.

"If that's your sister's name, then you clearly have me mixed up with some other brother-in-law of yours."

"Rhonda Grady is fifteen-year old black girl, about five foot five, a hundred twenty pounds, and has a mole above her left eyebrow."

"Too fat," Frazetti muttered.

"What?" Hutch asked, moving closer to the bed.

Frazetti growled, "I said too... she's not old enough. I don't run young stuff."

"That's not what we've been told."

Frazetti pulled the bed covers up as Hutch got within inches of his face. Starsky knew what his partner was thinking; the idea of Frazetti messing with a fifteen-year old girl made them both want to pull the man's arms out their sockets and drive them into the ground like tent stakes.

"What you've been told is wrong, man," Frazetti growled. "Now get the hell out of my house!"

Starsky picked up the man's pants from the floor and started going through the pockets while Hutch kept his gun on the man.

"Hey!" Frazetti started to scramble off the bed. His pale, naked body made Starsky think of newborn rat. "You can't do that!"

"What?" Starsky said, holding up a heroin kit and a little bag of white powder. "Can't find illegal drugs in your possession?"

Hutch read him his rights, and Starsky had the pleasure of cuffing the man. They even gave Frazetti the opportunity to put on a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt before hauling him out to the car.

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

Frazetti's current place of discomfort was Interview Room Number Nine. The venue had a buzzing fluorescent light, faulty air conditioning, and a chair that had an inch taken off the front two legs. Hutch had engineered that chair himself, knowing it kept anyone sitting on it off-kilter. Frazetti was demonstrating this very fact by constantly pushing himself back in his seat.

While it didn't happen often enough, some interrogations were actually fairly easy. Those were like picking a piece of ripe fruit and dropping it into a basket. The crooks simply gave it up before a cop even had a chance to sit down.

Starsky had a feeling Frazetti wasn't one of them. He'd had his round with the man and gotten nowhere; Frazetti hadn't said a word.

Now, standing with Dobey on the other side of the glass, Starsky watched his partner in action.

"It may be that all you can keep him on is that two-bit drug charge," Dobey said, staring straight ahead.

"Two-bit?" Starsky moved a little closer to the window. "Frazetti had four decks of heroin and two eight balls of cocaine in his possession."

"You know what I'm talking about. This guy's new in town. Pulling him in like this can work both ways. It can serve as a warning, a sign of muscle, or it can backfire on you."

"I know that, Cap'n. Let's hope it's the former," Starsky said, watching his partner.

Hutch got right into Frazetti's face. "I'm going to say it one more time. I heard you like to sleep with little girls. Maybe this was what went down in Cleveland, but here in Bay City we take a pretty dim view of that shit."

Frazetti noisily cleared his throat. He pursed his thick lips and spat onto the floor.

Hutch said, "Do that again and lose all future possibility of speech."

That bit of spit was the last thing that came out of Frazetti's mouth before he asked for a lawyer. As Hutch left the room, Frazetti looked straight at the one-way glass and grinned. "Just thought I'd give you guys a run for your money, see what the cops in this city had to say," he laughed. It sounded like someone shoveling loose gravel. Then he lobbed a wad of spittle on the glass just as Hutch came into the viewing room.

"He's a real sweetheart," Dobey growled. "Get downstairs, and start the paperwork on this guy."

"You still think we're on the right path?" Starsky asked, as they headed back to their desks.

"Only time will tell," Hutch replied.

They were finishing up their reports when Officer Rogers called from Lock-Up.

"Just to let you know, Detective Starsky, that two of your birds are ready to fly. The guy you pulled in yesterday, Paddy Johnson, has been sprung. That, and Leonard Frazetti is ready to walk, too."

Starsky slammed the phone down. "Can you believe that? Frazetti's loose. We're not even done with the paperwork, and his lawyer's have gotten that piece of shit out. Paddy's out, too."

Hutch shook his head as he pulled the paper off the typewriter roller.

"I gotta say, if it's not genocide or cannibalism these days, bail's a snap," Starsky muttered.

"It's not the end of the world," Hutch said. "We've stirred the pot a bit, poked at Paddy, rattled Frazetti's cage. I'm betting all we have to do is follow Paddy around a bit, and we'll make some progress."

"Aren't you the optimistic one, blondie."

"We both know that if you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail. And according to Huggy, Paddy is looking for something to pound. Let's make that work for us."

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

They followed Paddy all over town while he visited a fruit stand, purchased a newspaper, and bought gas for his car.

When Paddy pulled up in front of Frazetti's place, they knew they'd struck gold.

"Looks like he's waiting for someone," Starsky said as they watched from a half a block away.

"Either that or he's trying to talk himself into something. We might have a long wait." Hutch settled back against the seat.

"I think I know what my gift is," Starsky said.

Hutch looked surprised. "You do?"

"See, I know how we operate: I suggest going to a bar, and you're supposed to say, 'How about a salad bar?' And my line is, 'You've got to be kidding?'."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You're supposed to complain about what I have in my fridge, telling me I've got leftovers so old they have their own culture, right down to a written language and a frightening desire for community theater."

"Starsky." Hutch shook his head.

"I'm just pointing our that's how we work. I say, 'How about a seven-course meal?' and you tell me I'm probably thinking of a burger and a six-pack."

"Food, Starsky, you're always thinking about food, I swear, just look at the last three things you brought up. They're all references to food."

"You think I got a one-track mind?"

"What you have is an eight-track mind. One half is concentrated on eating and the other half with sex."

"That's not true," Starsky said, wondering if Hutch was right. "I think about a lot of other stuff. How's this for a change of subject? Aren't you even curious about what I got you for Christmas?"

"I figure you sprung for something along the lines of the Magic Eight Ball you got me four years ago. Or the Chia Pet you picked up at Woolworth's."

"Those were fabulous gifts, Hutch. They beat the fifteen chickens you bought in my name for a village in Guatemala."

"That was a good gift, Starsk. We eat a lot of scrambled eggs. Why not make a meaningful gesture for..."

Starsky cut him off. "Did your mom make a big Christmas turkey? A ham?"

"Are we back to food again?"

"I'm just making small talk, Hutch. I'm curious what you ate on Christmas Day."

"We never had a turkey. Or ham. Or duck. Or goose."

"Don't tell me you sat down to a big bowl of beans and tofu on Christmas."

Hutch laughed. "Not too far from it. My folks had this idea that the only meat we'd eat was what they could hunt, a crazy idea as my dad was a lousy shot. We were pretty much vegetarians until my mom hit a deer with her car just south of Duluth. The state patrol helped her get it in the trunk and told her she was lucky to be alive."

"You're joking."

"I wouldn't joke about something like that."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "The day I figure you out, Hutch, is the day I see a shrink and get myself a check-up from the neck up."

"Wouldn't be a bad idea anyway, buddy."

They sat in the late afternoon light for a while, and then Starsky said, "My ma was a terrible cook, but she excelled at a couple of things."

"More food talk?" Hutch said, raising his eyebrows.

"Isn't it funny, Hutch, how the smell, the taste, the preparation of food makes you think of other things? For instance, Jackson and I used to pass a lot of time in the army talking about his ma's cooking. Ham this, ham that, he was all about ham." Starsky thought of the time after they'd gotten out of the service, of the hours he and Jackson would sit at the Walters' kitchen table, playing cards and eating little ham sandwiches on biscuits smeared with mustard. Starsky would talk about becoming a cop, and Jackson, smitten with a girl named Evie, made plans marry her. Jackson Junior was born a little over a year later.

"It's peanut brittle for me," Hutch said, keeping his eyes on the Frazetti house. "My grandma made it for us once a year. My parents hated returning to the little town they'd been raised in, and the ten-hour drive was hell. When we'd visit her for Thanksgiving, I'd have to listen to my mom and dad bicker all the way there, and then argue all the way back. Me and my sister would sit in the backseat, and we'd eat my grandmother's peanut brittle out of a wax paper-lined coffee can. Today, even the smell of that candy brings me right back to looking out the window at long stretches of dark countryside and wishing my parents could just be happier."

"Peanut brittle, huh? I never knew that about you."

"I guess I'm just full of surprises."

Starsky asked, "If you're thinking of getting me an air hockey table, then I gotta tell you there's no way it'll fit in my apartment."

"I'm not getting you an air hockey table."

"If you..."

Hutch put his hand on the dash. "Paddy is going in."

Sure enough, the man looked up the street, then down before he pushed the front door to Frazetti's place open.

"Doesn't that man ever lock his..." Starsky's comment was cut off by the sound of a gunshot.

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

This time they simply kicked the door open.

Frazetti was lying on the living room floor and appeared to be very, very dead.

He wasn't alone. Paddy was standing over the body, waving a gun like a crazy man.

"I didn't kill him!" he screamed. "I didn't do it! It was a girl. Not me!"

Starsky watched his partner adopt the non-threatening stance they referred to as the "Father O'Brien." Hutch stood with his palms open and facing upward, his left foot slightly forward and his body half-turned. He knew Hutch did this automatically, just as he knew his partner could draw his gun in an instant if need be.

"If you didn't kill him, then you're not in trouble," Starsky lied, keeping his own gun trained on the man.

Paddy, trembling, dropped the gun. Hutch had him very professionally pinned on the shag carpet in seconds.

Starsky went over to the dead man on the floor. The hole in Frazetti's head pretty much made his next move unnecessary, but as per regulations, Starsky crouched down and put fingers at the man's neck.

"You feel anything?" Hutch asked, pulling the handcuffed Paddy to a stand.

"Not only do I not feel a pulse," Starsky replied. "But I also don't feel a speck of sympathy for this sack of shit. Seems Frazetti won't even be useful in helping us find Rhonda."

Paddy looked up. His eyes were red with tears.

"Rhonda. Rhonda," Paddy said. "That's the girl that killed him."

"You'd better not be lying to us, scum."

"No lies. Not this time. She was here. Frazetti was gonna fuck her, and she was screaming, screaming for her mother. I think she got his gun. That's who went out the back door."

Hutch shoved him up against the wall. "You're just telling us this now?"

"I think I know where she went," Paddy wailed. "She took his car keys. She's probably headed for the garage."

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

"I got a bad feeling about this," Starsky whispered as they moved into the back yard.

"Me, too." Hutch made another weapon check. Starsky did the same, pulling his clip out and ramming it back home.

The garage door was up, and inside was a dark-green sedan. Both men trained their guns on the car and slowly moved up. On the front seat was a heap of what looked like dirty laundry. The pile was Rhonda Grady.

"Rhonda..." Hutch started to say.

"I think I killed him," she said, her speech slurred. "I'd never held a gun before. I took his after he'd... he's a terrible man."

Starsky nodded. "Rhonda, where is the gun now?"

"I have it here." And she sat up slowly. The gun was in her hand, and she looked at it with puzzlement.

"Would you put the gun down, Rhonda?" Starsky gently asked.

"Rhonda's the girl I used to be before things went bad. That animal called me Princess, Angel, Baby. They're all names my mom and dad used to... I hate those names now." She started to turn the gun toward her face.

Looking back, Starsky would be unable to remember the exact sequence of events. There was the sound of the backfire of a car outside on the street, the shout Hutch made when Rhonda's gun went off twice, and then her scream as Starsky tackled her, knocking the girl against the passenger window.

Starsky made quick work of handcuffing Rhonda and moving to his partner. Hutch was slumped up against the garage wall.

One shot had grazed his upper right arm; the other had skimmed along the top of his hand.

"That girl's got terrible aim," Hutch said, looking dazed.

"Thank goodness for that. You're gonna be all right," Starsky said, pulling the handkerchief out of his partner's pocket and tying it around the wound on Hutch's arm. "You're gonna be all right."

"I know," Hutch said, and closed his eyes. "Rhonda?"

"No bullets in her, but aside from that, I don't know." He glanced over and saw her shoulders shake from the sobs that wracked her thin body.

Starsky, seeing the amount of blood on his partner's arm, tightened the tourniquet.

Hutch grimaced.

"Is the pain bad?" Starsky asked.

"Of course it is, dummy," Hutch said tightly.

For some reason, that made Starsky feel less afraid.

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

Starsky took care of business with child protection services against the blue and red flashing lights of ambulances, the crime lab wagon, and four squad cars.

Then he turned his attention back to his partner being tended in the ambulance. The medic looked up as Starsky climbed in the back.

"Just in time, Detective. We're just about to transport," the man said, checking the temporary dressing on Hutch's first wound.

"How's he doing?" Starsky asked, looking down at his partner.

"He's going to be fine, though he probably doesn't feel like it at the moment," the medic said as the ambulance pulled away from the curb.

Hutch groaned, and Starsky put his hand on Hutch's chest.

"Hey, blondie, what's the idea of ditching me?" Starsky teased. "You know we always go to the hospital together. It's like a tradition."

Hutch looked up. His face was pinched with pain.

"And it's your hand again, too, blondie. You have the worst luck with those paws of yours. It's sort of like how the Kennedys ought to stay out of airplanes."

"Starsky," Hutch whispered.

"What?" Starsky said, putting his ear close to Hutch's mouth.

"Shut up."

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

Mrs. Jackson came by the day after Hutch's surgery. She brought flowers. And Jackson Junior.

Starsky took the bouquet from her and put them on the window ledge.

Jackson went over and stood by Hutch's bed.

Hutch was asleep, his face unlined and smooth. "He's on the good stuff, Jackson. Off in la-la land," Starsky said, giving the glass IV bottle a quick tap.

Jackson nodded but didn't look up.

Mrs. Jackson met Starsky's eyes. "Sammie gave me the details. She said Hutch's going to be okay."

"It's one of the perks of having an intern living in your house. You can get the information from a reliable source." Starsky smiled. "And the lovely Dr. Mason is correct. It's a pretty straightforward injury. One was just a crease, and the other one, while more complicated, is going to heal up fine, too. Hutch is going to be at the mercy of a physical therapist for a while, but then he can go back to work, bowling and playing his guitar."

Mrs. Jackson said, "I want to thank you for helping my boy. While the grandma in me wishes he'd have asked me first, I'm glad Jackson took the action he did and called you. Every child out there needs to have people to look out for her, for him. I'm glad Rhonda had Jackson. And that Jackson had you. His father would have been proud. It takes a good man to ask for help."

Jackson shuffled his feet and turned to look out the window.

His grandma looked at her grandson's back for a moment and then returned Starsky's gaze. He mouthed, "It's okay," to her.

"About Rhonda Grady? What's going to happen to her?" Mrs. Jackson asked.

"I'm not going to whitewash it; she's in some trouble. But Miss Perkowitz is going to keep Rhonda's case on the forefront."

Jackson spoke without turning around. "Are they gonna take her away from her pop?"

"Rhonda's in a lot of trouble, but it wasn't so much to do with her father," Starsky said, wishing he had a better answer.

"Maybe they should. He's a crummy dad to have lost her like that."

"Jackson!" his grandma said sharply.

"Yeah, he's been a crummy dad," Starsky said. "But I think that he's a father who is rather adrift himself. Losing someone you care about does that to people, and sometimes they don't handle it well. Jim Grady loved his wife so much..."

"He loved his wife so much that he let his daughter disappear," Jackson muttered.

Starsky tried to explain. "He didn't know how to help when part of his world fell away. With grief, people think, and say, and act in ways that sometimes swallows them up. I think Jim Grady just needs some help. I think Rhonda will say the same thing."

"You've talked to her?" Jackson turned around.

"No. Not yet. She's not ready to speak to anyone. But when she is, I'll bet she'll want to talk to you."

"Maybe," Jackson Junior said. "And maybe not."

Mrs. Jackson moved to the bed and put her hand on Hutch's forehead. He sighed a little but didn't open his eyes. "You're both good men, and I'm proud to know you." Then she gave Starsky's arm a squeeze. "I'll be in the hall, David. I think Jackson should remain here a moment."

Jackson stayed.

"This is not your fault," Starsky said.

"If it weren't, you wouldn't need to tell me that."

"Jackson. Listen, I..."

"No. You listen. Hutch wouldn't have gotten shot if I hadn't picked up the stupid phone and called you two."

"You were being a good friend. And we were doing our job. It's hard to see how either of those things is a bad thing, much less your fault."

"Still..."

"Jackson, I've had my fair share of times when I blamed myself for stuff. Sometimes they were things about a friend or something in my job. But I've also learned that everyone's doing their best with what they have. Just like you did when you called us about Rhonda."

Jackson finally looked up. "Hutch shouldn't have gotten hurt."

"No. He shouldn't have. And Rhonda shouldn't have gotten hurt. And her mom shouldn't have gotten killed. And your dad should still be alive. So should mine." Starsky said. "But the important thing is that Rhonda's going to get some help."

"Yeah," Jackson breathed.

Starsky put his hand on his shoulder. "Your grandma's right. You're turning into a right good man."

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

"So much for the present I was going to give you, Starsk," Hutch said, his voice hoarse.

"That's the least of our worries, buddy."

"No. Really. I know how much it means to you, the whole Christmas thing."

Starsky straightened the blanket. "It's soapy, but what I want is right here: you safe and sound."

"But I do have something..." Hutch's voice slurred a bit, telling Starsky the meds the nurse had brought in a few minutes ago were doing their thing.

"You can give it to me when you get home, blondie. And I'll give you yours then, too. That's just a couple of days," Starsky said.

"I may be getting out of here then, but it's going to be a lot longer than that before I can give it to you. The docs... they're saying it'll be at least a good six, maybe eight weeks before my hand is back to rights."

"Then you'll just tell me where it is, and I'll do the heavy lifting."

"It's not a thing, it's something I was going to do." Hutch sounded like he was about ready to drift off completely. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, Starsky thought he was out.

Hutch mumbled, "Starsk, I was going..."

"What were you going to do, buddy?"

"I called your mom last Friday when you left... when you went out for beer. Right after you called her."

"Yeah?" Starsky had to lean in close to hear him.

"I was going to cook you latkes, like she used to make," Hutch slurred. "I even got a jar of applesauce, and then I unstuck that window in the kitchen so it would open. Your mom said latkes make the house all smoky..." And with that, Hutch was asleep.

"They do, Hutch," Starsky said softly. "I remember." He sat in the darkened room and thought about what a lucky man he really was.

The end.