Disclaimer:
This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made from it. No infringement on anyone’s copyright(s) is
intended.
© 7/2001
Once every month or so, every police officer in
the Metro Division -- and throughout the city -- was expected to go to the
firing range and practice. Most officers rarely, if ever, drew their weapons on
duty, and their skills would suffer if they didn't practice. None of them wanted
to discover his skills were sub-par in a situation where they had to draw their weapon. So most went
to the practice range uncomplainingly.
Starsky was one of those. In fact, he even
enjoyed it. His strict schedule of an afternoon's practice twice every month
was the reason he was one of the best marksmen at Metro. Hutch sometimes
complained a bit about the twice a month routine, because it was twice as much
as was required, but he had to admit he never worried whether his partner would
hit his target.
Today Starsky was in especially fine form. He'd
emptied his gun several times, making a tight pattern of holes in his target,
and pushed it steadily farther and farther away, testing himself.
Hutch had grown tired of shooting at a paper
target and had joined Starsky in his cubicle to watch him practice. He never
ceased to be amazed at how well Starsky could shoot.
"Good thing you became a cop," he
commented when Starsky stopped to reload.
"Why?" Starsky asked, cocking an
eyebrow at him suspiciously.
"Because you'd have made a hell of a scary
crook," Hutch said with a grin.
"Ha, ha," Starsky said. "Whatsa
matter? You get bored?"
"Yeah."
"One more clip and we'll call it a
day," Starsky said. "Okay?"
"Sure."
Starsky put in a fresh clip, sighted, and emptied
the gun in one quick burst. He pulled the lever to bring the paper target back
and Hutch was astonished -- again -- by the tight pattern of bullet holes in
it. He whistled.
"Damn. I'm glad you're on my side."
Starsky grinned, one of his ear-to-ear Starsky
specials. "A guy's gotta be good at something."
"Come on, moron," Hutch said, slinging
an arm over his partner's shoulders. "I'll buy you a taco."
"Wow," Starsky said. "A whole
taco? Just for me?"
"Just for you," Hutch said, giving him
a playful shove ahead of him.
They had a stakeout planned for that evening
which was liable to go all night, watching a
drug house for a murder suspect. They bought a whole sack of tacos and
filled a small cooler with sodas to take with them. But just as they were
getting back into the car to head for the stakeout, the radio beeped.
"Zebra Three, stand by for a patch through
from Captain Dobey."
"This is Zebra Three," Hutch said.
"That you, Hutch? I wanted to catch you
before you headed out. I need you and Starsky to come into the office in the
morning."
Starsky groaned, and Hutch rolled his eyes
before answering, "Captain, you know we'll be up all night."
"Not to work, Hutchinson," Dobey
growled. "Just come in to meet with somebody before you go home. Is that
too much to ask?"
"No, sir," Hutch answered with a sigh.
"Who is it?"
"Steve Hanson," Dobey said. "He's
got a proposition for you."
"What is it?" Starsky hissed.
"Does he want us to be in another movie?"
Hutch gave a shrug. "What's he want,
Captain?"
"I don't know," Dobey said. "But
he promised it was for a good cause."
Hutch exchanged a glance with Starsky.
"Okay, we'll be there. What time?"
"Eight."
"Okay." Hutch hung up the mike.
"Wonder what he wants?"
It was a long, boring stakeout and their suspect
never showed up. Starsky and Hutch spent most of the time wondering what Steve
Hanson wanted, but neither of them could guess.
They were a little early, but Hanson was already
there. He greeted them with a smile and a firm handshake for both of them.
"I never forgot what you boys did for me a
couple years ago," he began after they sat down. "I can't repay you
and I don't have any business asking another favor but, well, here I am."
"What is it, Mr. Hanson?" Hutch asked.
"Steve," Hanson corrected with a
smile. "Well, boys, it's like this. I've been doing a Wild West show for
the last several months, a Buffalo Bill kind of thing."
Starsky lit right up. "I used to love those
when I was a kid. I didn't know anyone was still doing them."
Hanson chuckled. "Nobody was," he
said. "But me and some other guys decided to try a revival of the thing
and see if anybody was still interested. And they are, believe it or not. It's
been going really well."
"So what do you need from us?" Starsky
asked.
"We've been approached by St. Jude to do a
benefit for them," Hanson said. "I couldn't say no, but we were
supposed to be taking a couple of months off so two of my sharpshooters could
appear in a movie. They're committed to do the film and I can't find anybody else
to fill their roles for the benefit. So," he gave a shrug and a grin,
"I thought maybe you two'd do it. It's pretty easy. Just a 'Gunfight at
the OK Corral' spoof, nothing to it."
Both detectives looked inquiringly at their
captain.
"It's fine with me," he answered the
look. "I'll check with the chief, but stuff like this is great for public
relations. I'm sure he'll give the okay."
Starsky and Hutch looked at each other and
without a word passing between them, looked back at Hanson.
"We'd love to," Starsky said, speaking
for them both.
Hanson beamed. "That's great, boys. I
really appreciate it. It's only one show, on a Saturday night. Two weeks from
now. Okay?"
Starsky nodded eagerly.
"Do we wing it or are you going to rehearse
us?" Hutch asked.
Hanson chuckled. "I'll rehearse you. Got
some time today?"
"We haven't been to bed yet," Starsky
said. "Up all night at a stake-out. How's this afternoon?"
"Fine. Meet me at the county fairgrounds at
four. We're renting the arena."
They arrived in the middle of someone else's
rehearsal, a teen-age girl doing an Annie Oakley kind of act. They hung back in
the doorway watching her. Dressed in old-fashioned cowgirl style, the girl was
running her horse around barrels, over jumps, and doing trick riding all the
while. She flipped herself off the saddle, lightly touched the ground, swung
back up and repeated it on the other side, did a handstand on the saddle, stood
in the saddle and rode with her hands straight up in the air, and finished by
stopping the horse so suddenly it reared.
Starsky and Hutch both broke into spontaneous
applause. Starsky also whistled, until Hutch elbowed him, hard.
The girl dismounted and grinned at them, patting
her horse. She led the horse, a palomino, over to them. "You guys must be
the cops Steve told us about."
"We are," Hutch said. "You're
really good."
"Thanks," she said. "It's
Sunshine as much as me, though," she added, patting the horse's nose.
Sunshine nuzzled her hair and made a whuffling sound. "She knows when to
turn and how to pace herself so I can do that stuff without killin' us
both."
Starsky was not at all sure he liked horses, so
he hung back, but Hutch put out an inquiring hand to stroke the velvet nose,
and Sunshine allowed it. "She's beautiful," he said.
"Say thank you," the girl told the
horse, and Sunshine bowed. Hutch was so startled he took an involuntary step
back, and Starsky burst into laughter.
Hutch flushed. "I don't see you making
friends with her, either," he said, annoyed.
"Shake hands with the nice policeman,"
the girl said to the horse with a wicked grin. Sunshine solemnly raised her
right front hoof and offered it to Starsky. This time Hutch was the one who
laughed, but Starsky gave his partner a dirty look and gingerly took the offered
hoof.
"She's pretty smart," he said to the
girl. "How'd she know to give her paw to me instead o' Blondie,
here?"
"Hoof, Starsk, not paw," Hutch said.
"Whatever," Starsky said. "How'd
she know?"
"Ah, ah," the girl said, giggling.
"That'd be telling. I'm Angie, by the way. Steve'll be here in a minute.
You guys are gonna fill in for Dan and Tigger?"
"I guess so," Starsky said. "What
do we have to do?"
"Dan does a shootout kind of thing with
Steve," Angie said. "You know, a staged gunfight with blanks, saying
stuff like, 'This town ain't big enough fer the both of us!' Lots of silly
stunts, shooting under their knees and twirling their guns. Tigger does a
sharpshooter thing with real bullets. He shoots bottles off the tops of barrels
and plugs a nickel and busts balloons and stuff like that. Some of it's
staged," she added when Starsky and Hutch exchanged a worried glance.
"The nickel's already plugged. It's a sleight of hand thing. But some of
it's real, too. Tigger can shoot the wings off a bumblebee, Steve says."
"You better take Tigger's job," Hutch
said to Starsky.
"I ain't THAT good," Starsky answered.
"Don't worry," Angie said.
"Steve'll fix it. It's all Hollywood stuff, anyway. We can fake things
when we have to."
"You weren't fakin'," Starsky said.
She gave a shrug and blushed slightly. "No,
but it's really not as hard as it looks. And I've been riding since I was
three."
"Hey, boys!" Hanson came in through
the far door at the other end of the arena and waved to them. When he reached
them, he shook their hands and beamed at both of them. "Good to see you. I
really do appreciate you helping us out like this." He put an arm around
Angie's shoulders. "I see you've met our star."
Angie's blush deepened.
"We got to see part of her act, too,"
Hutch said. "You want us to compete with that?"
Hanson chuckled. "Why not? I have to."
To Angie, he said, "Would you show these boys the dressing rooms and their
gear?"
"Sure." Angie looped Sunshine's reins
up over the saddle horn and beckoned to Starsky and Hutch. "This way,
guys." She took off at a brisk walk, with the horse following her like a
huge golden dog. Starsky and Hutch brought up the rear, with grins at each
other over the horse's behavior.
Angie led them to the door Hanson had come
through and pushed it open. "Dan and Tigger's dressing rooms have their
names on the doors," she said to them. "You don't have to worry about
the costumes today, but be sure to pick up their six-shooters and the blanks
that are with them. I'll get one of the roustabouts to help me set up Tigger's
stuff."
"Thanks," Starsky said.
Angie gave him a mock salute and strolled away,
with Sunshine still following her.
By the time they came back, Angie and a young
man of around 20 were setting up the shooting gallery for Tigger's act. One of
the displays looked like a huge dartboard.
"What's that for?" Starsky asked the
young man.
"Angie stands here," the kid said,
demonstrating, "and we stick a bunch of balloons all around her, and
Tigger shoots 'em."
Starsky went several shades paler. "You're
kidding."
"Nope," the kid said cheerfully.
"You oughta hear the crowd gasping and fainting."
"It ain't the crowd I'm worried
about," Starsky said. "What if I miss?"
"Aw, you won't miss," the kid said.
"And if ya did it wouldn't matter. You'll be usin' blanks for that
part." He pulled Starsky around behind the contraption and pointed out the
miniature openings in the back, so small they didn't show unless one knew where
to look. "I stand back here and poke 'em with pins to make 'em pop. The
crowd don't know that, of course. They can't see back here."
Starsky let out the breath he hadn't even
realized he was holding, and the kid laughed out loud.
Meanwhile, Hanson was walking Hutch through
their act. "You'll be the good guy hero," Hanson said. "You come
riding in on Angie's horse -- you do know how to ride, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Good. Wouldn't matter, though. That horse
can almost talk. Anyway, you come riding in, waving and smiling and so forth,
and do a turn around the arena. We'll introduce you as Cowboy Ken and the crowd
won't know what your act's going to be. You pull one of your six-guns and shoot
a round or two into the air, Lone Ranger style, and Sunny'll rear. Just hang on
with your knees and don't fall off over her butt."
Hutch laughed. "I'll try not to."
"Then I come out, dressed in black, Mr. Bad
Guy, and call you out. We don't have an actual script, we just wing it, but
I'll say something like," he put on a classic Hollywood Western bad guy
accent, "'You done put me in that jail o' yers, Marshal, and I come back
to git my revenge,' and you holler something appropriate at me -- anything but
'herecomesmccoynow,'" he added, laughing.
Hutch flushed to his hairline at the memory of
that botched scene in Hanson's movie, but he laughed good-naturedly. "Yes,
sir. I promise."
Hanson grinned. "Then you clamber down off
the horse and give her a little whack on the flank -- she knows what to do, you
don't have to do much more than give her a little pat because that's her cue to
trot back to Angie, waiting over there," he gestured. "And you assume
the position." He demonstrated the cowboy shoot-out pose of feet apart,
hands over holsters. Hutch nodded. "Then we start doing silly stuff like
turning our backs and shooting over our shoulders and shooting between our
legs, and under one knee and so forth, until the crowd's laughing. Wait until
they laugh."
Hutch nodded again.
"When they're laughing good, I'll holler
something else, like 'Yer marshalin' days're done, Cowboy Ken!' and shoot right
at you. Blanks."
"I certainly hope so," Hutch said.
"Then you aim both your six-guns at me and
let go a couple of rounds and I'll fall down and pretend to be dead. You do a
Rocky thing," Hanson raised his six-guns over his head and strutted for an
imaginary crowd. "Whistle -- can you whistle?"
"Not very well," Hutch said.
"I'll get somebody to do it for you,"
Hanson said. "Put your fingers up to your mouth and pretend to whistle,
then. Sunny'll come trotting back, you climb on and do a victory lap and ride
back out. A couple of rodeo clowns will come out with big brooms and dustpans
and pretend to sweep me up like trash and then carry me out. That's all there
is to it. You got all that?"
"Sure," Hutch said. "Sounds
fun."
Hanson gave a grin and a shrug. "It's hokey
as hell, but people seem to like it. Ready for a run-through?"
"Yeah."
When Sunshine reared, Hutch almost lost his
seat, but somehow the horse sensed it and dropped back down in time to keep him
from falling. Angie, standing nearby, gave him a couple of pointers on how to
hang on, and when he tried it again, he didn't have any more trouble. He and
Hanson ran through their act three or four times, and Hanson pronounced him
ready.
Starsky had watched all this, amused, and after
Hutch took his victory lap and rode out, he applauded. Hutch made a face at
him. "Let's see how you do, hotshot," Hutch said tartly.
"Hell, my job's easy," Starsky said.
"As long as you don't forget which gun has
blanks and which one has real bullets," Angie pointed out. "Please
don't forget that."
"Don't worry, sweetheart," Starsky
said. "I don't wanna shoot ya anymore than you want me to. I'll put the
real bullets on this side," he patted the left holster, "and the fake
ones over here," he patted the right holster.
Hanson, standing on a box where the announcer's
podium would be, cued Starsky by his announcements: "Sharpshooter Dave's
prowess will amaze you with his accuracy on the bottles..." and so forth.
The targets were set against the wall, with
stacks of straw and burlap behind them to catch the bullets in case he missed.
But he didn't miss, not even once. Even Hutch was startled by his deadly
accuracy.
"Damn, partner," Hutch said. Starsky
just grinned.
When it came to the part of the show where he
shot at the balloons surrounding Angie, he carefully put the gun back in his
left holster and drew the one from the right.
"During the actual show," Hanson told
him, "we'll have one of the rodeo clowns bring you two fresh guns, both
loaded with blanks, when you get to this part."
"Good," Starsky said.
"You're so good with that, I wouldn't worry
too much even if you did have real bullets," Angie said, taking up her
position on the dartboard.
"I would," Starsky said. "Any
particular pattern I should shoot?" he asked Hanson.
"No, it doesn't matter. Mitch'll just pop
balloons at random and the crowd won't be able to tell where you're
aiming," Hanson answered.
Starsky took up his position about 50 feet away
from the dartboard and called to Angie, "You ready, sweetheart?"
"Yeah," she called back.
Starsky popped the cylinder open to double-check
that the bullets were really blanks before taking up a spread-legged stance,
sighting down the barrel, and squeezing off a shot. Mitch popped a balloon, and
Angie cringed away as though a bullet had whizzed by her. Starsky stopped and
opened the cylinder again.
"They're blanks," Hanson assured him
with a chuckle. "It's just that Mitch and Angie are good at what they
do."
Starsky grinned ruefully.
He ran through his act two more times before
Hanson was satisfied.
"Okay, boys, I think we're all ready. We'll
have a dress rehearsal the night before the show and I'll introduce you to
everyone else then." Hanson clapped a hand on both their shoulders.
"I can't thank you enough for this."
"We're glad to do it, Steve," Hutch
said. "See you then."
The days leading up to the dress rehearsal were
uneventful for the two detectives. The slow pace allowed Starsky even more time
to practice at the firing range. Although he knew he could hit those bottles in
the show, he was not leaving anything to chance. Steve had loaned him the guns
he would be using so he could practice. Before long, he believed he was as
accurate with the old-fashioned weapons as he was with his automatic. He and
Hutch both practiced their quick draw and while Hutch was fast, Starsky was
amazing.
On the way to the dress rehearsal, Hutch told
him, "You would have made a hell of a gunslinger, Gordo."
"Thanks, Blondie!" Starsky said.
"The boots woulda killed me though. Man, those cowboys liked their shoes
pointy!"
Hutch laughed. "You probably would have
found a way to make them more comfortable."
"If your feet aren't happy, nothing is
happy. My Aunt Rosie taught me that."
"Thanks for the tip. Rosie is a wise
woman."
"She can't make decent chicken soup, but
she knows about shoes."
At the dress rehearsal, all of the cast and
crewmembers were in place for a complete run through of the show for the
following night. The costumes were pure Hollywood confection. Hutch's was all
white, with lots of fringe, conches and silver buttons. His six guns were shiny
chrome with pearl handles. He even wore white boots. Starsky laughed at him and
said, "You look like the Good Humor man from 1880!"
"More like the Rhinestone Cowboy. Very
funny, Sharpshooter Dave." Hutch felt silly dressed in the all white
outfit. "Guess if it's good enough for Dan, I can handle it."
Starsky looked more like a traditional cowboy.
He was dressed in black pants with a tan shirt and tan suede vest. His six
shooters were hung in black leather holsters, sans spangles. "This is all
right," he proclaimed. He had to promise Steve he would change out of his
blue sneakers in favor of black boots for the real show.
Steve's rig was perfect for his character --
called "Black Bart" -- in the show. He was dressed in black from his
boots to his hat. Even his guns were all black. Everyone was introduced to the
cops and they seemed friendly and helpful. One of the roustabouts tried to teach
Starsky how to do a few rope tricks while they were waiting. Starsky was
coordinated and he picked it up quickly.
Angie and Sunshine did their part. Then Starsky
amazed the entire group with his sharp shooting. Everyone said they hoped he'd
come back and have a competition with Tigger at a later date. Starsky was glad
he'd practiced so much. While everyone was watching Starsky, one man in
particular had his eye on the dark-haired cop.
Lee Garland was not surprised he hadn't been
recognized by either one of the detectives. They had busted him in a high
school drug-pushing raid on their first undercover assignment. Lee was arrested
with a kid named Gary Prudholm who had died in a knife fight in the county
jail. That was ten years and twenty-five pounds in the past. Lee had gone bald
in that time and grown a mustache. He looked nothing like his younger self.
Five years hard time could also do that to a man. Starsky and Hutchinson had
changed too, but not as much as Lee. He hated the two men for what he thought they
did to him. Even though the time he did
was for a subsequent crime, he still blamed the Metro detectives for his first
arrest. He was only seventeen years old
when they busted him. Now, an angry twenty-seven year old sat plotting his
revenge.
Hutch and Steve ran through their skit.
Everything was perfect. Hutch was getting used to Sunshine and his movements
with the horse were graceful. Starsky marveled at his best friend. The man
could be equal parts athlete and klutz at times. Sitting on that horse with the
reins in one of his big hands, Hutch looked completely natural and relaxed.
Starsky made himself a promise to get Hutch to go riding. He could get used to
the big beasts if it made Hutch happy.
Hutch's practice with the quick draw paid off
and he convincingly beat Steve. They hammed it up and he "killed" the
bad guy. One of the roustabouts whistled for Hutch right on cue and Sunshine
came trotting over to him. He hopped on and rode her around the arena, bowing
to the clapping crew and waving his hat. The clowns carted off Black Bart as
planned.
By the time the lights were being turned off in
the arena, Lee Garland had his plan. The only thing he needed to do to make it
work was to figure out how to keep Steve Hanson from performing the following
night.
When the detectives arrived an hour before the
show the next evening, a frantic teenager greeted them.
"Slow down, Angie. What happened?"
Hutch asked, putting one hand on each of Angie's shoulders.
"I don't know what we're gonna do! The
show's a sellout and Steve can't go on!"
"Wait a minute, sweetheart, why not?"
Starsky asked. "Is he okay?"
Just then, Steve walked up behind them and Hutch
saw that he had his arm in a sling. "What happened?" he asked the
actor.
"It was the damnedest thing. I was climbing
up on my horse to practice the ride in sequence and he bucked. I fell right off
onto my kiester and dislocated my arm. I can't do the shootout with you,
Hutch."
A few of the crewmembers had gathered around,
including Lee Garland who had placed a burr under the horse's saddle to ensure
that Steve would take a tumble. "Hey," Garland said, "I have an
idea. Why not use Sharpshooter Dave here? If we rearrange the sequence so he
does his act first, he could change into the Black Bart costume while Angie's
in the arena."
Steve smiled and nodded. "Great idea. How
'bout it?"
Starsky smirked. "Me and Blondie here in a
quick draw?"
Hutch poked him in the ribs. "Just be sure
you let the good guy win."
"Yeah, okay. I can do that. I saw you two
do the act enough times, I think."
"That's great! Thanks, boys," Steve
said appreciatively.
Steve did manage to ride into the arena with
everyone else. He was also able to emcee the show. As anticipated, the
appreciative crowd was awed by Starsky's sharp shooting. They loved it when he
plugged the nickel. Mitch and Angie were right, the crowd enjoyed the balloon
sequence and no one knew Mitch was behind the board with his pin.
After he took his bows, Starsky rushed back to
the dressing room to change into the shirt, vest, and hat that would turn him
into Black Bart. He came out in time to see Hutch adjusting the strap on one of
his holsters before climbing onto Sunshine for their act. Lee Garland was
giving him last minute instructions.
"Be sure and use the left gun for the first
shot and the funny ones. That way you know you have enough blanks for the final
showdown."
The detectives had reworked the sequence a bit.
They wanted to have the final shots fired in a quick draw. Hutch nodded his
understanding.
Walking up to him, Starsky asked, "Do I
look like a Jewish Jesse James?"
Hutch looked up and said with a snort,
"Nah, you look terrific. Put that tough cop look on your face. You know,
the one you use when you're doing bad cop."
Starsky pretended he was interrogating a murder
suspect and changed his facial expression and body language. "This one,
punk?" he asked.
"That's it! I'll just look like my usual
charming self, of course." With that remark, Hutch swung up into the
saddle. "Break a leg, partner," he said as he rode out on his cue.
The crowd applauded wildly for Cowboy Ken. He
trotted around the arena and fired one shot into the air with the gun from his
left holster. Starsky watched the fluid motion as the horse reared and Hutch
didn't even break a sweat. While he was turning the horse around, Starsky
strode out into the arena, adding a little "gunslinger" to his usual
swagger.
"Marshal Ken!" he shouted. Hutch spun
the horse around to face him. "You done throwed me in yer jail and I come
fer my revenge!" Starsky continued.
"You'll never win, Black Bart. You and your
evil kind always lose out to good." Hutch jumped down off the horse and
slapped her flank just like he had rehearsed. Sunshine trotted out of the way.
Starsky continued, "You'd better hope yer
faster'n me, Marshal. If'n you ain't, I'm gonna plug you fulla holes."
The two friends squared off in the middle of the
arena. Each one taking cowboy style strides toward the other. Since Starsky
wasn't riding, he had put on a pair of spurs and the audience could hear them
clearly with every step, "clink, clink, clink."
With a knowing glance, the partners dove in
opposite directions, firing at each other in ways guaranteed to make the crowd
laugh. When Hutch had counted down his shots and was ready to switch to the gun
from the right holster, Starsky shouted, "Enough funny stuff, Marshal. Git
up and fight like a man. Yer marshalin' days is done!"
They stood again, taking up the cowboy stance.
Hutch's fingers twitched beside his holster. Suddenly, they both drew their
guns and fired, the sound reverberating around the arena. Hutch watched in
fascination as Starsky's gun dropped from his hand and he fell over into the
dirt. He didn't even put a hand up to catch himself. Hutch couldn't help
thinking that had to hurt.
While the crowd cheered and applauded, Hutch
raised his shiny gun barrel in front of his lips, blew the smoke away, twirled
the six-shooter around his finger a few times and smoothly set it back into its
holster. The audience went wild. He was just hoping he wouldn't drop it.
Hutch and the offside crewmember faked his
whistle. He raised his hands Rocky style and jumped up and down a few times
while Sunshine trotted to him. Looking back over his shoulder at Starsky a few
times, the crease between his eyes deepened. Starsky was supposed to be playing
dead, but something didn't feel right to Hutch. Ignoring that feeling, he swung
into his saddle and started his victory lap. When he turned back to face
Starsky, he saw the clowns heading out from the side. Then, he saw something
worse.
Underneath Starsky, the ground was starting to
show a spreading dark wetness. The color drained from Hutch's face as his mind
raced. Jumping down from the horse, he ran to his fallen partner saying,
"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
Some of the crowd had seen it also. They were
starting to climb to their feet and a woman close to where Starsky was lying
screamed as Hutch reached him.
"Starsky!" he exclaimed as he knelt in
the blood-dampened dirt and gently turned him onto his back.
The clowns were beside him and one of them
screamed for an ambulance.
Hutch's hands were shaking as he pushed the vest
back and ripped open the black shirt to reveal a heavily bleeding chest wound.
"Oh, God!" Hutch said. He pulled off his white bandana and pressed it
against the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His ears were ringing and
visions of Starsky lying on the ground next to the Torino after Gunther's hit
man shot him floated into his brain.
Oblivious to all other sounds around him, Hutch
concentrated on Starsky.
"Hey, buddy, open your eyes for me, will
ya?" he said. The bandana was soaked through, but someone had produced
some clean cloth for Hutch to use instead. One of the clowns applied pressure
while Hutch took Starsky's hand in one of his and patted his cheek with the
other one. "Please, Gordo. Please don't die!" He raised Starsky's
head and shoulders and laid them in his lap to help his labored breathing. The
motion promoted a response from the stricken man and his eyes fluttered open
for a few moments.
"Hu-sh?" he mumbled. Hutch's blood
turned to ice water when he saw a little blood slip out of the corner of
Starsky's mouth.
"Shhhh, I'm here. I'm right here,"
Hutch said. He looked into eyes that weren't really focusing on him.
Starsky blinked, trying to clear his vision so
he could see Hutch better. He raised his other hand and touched Hutch on the
face. "I'm okay," he said. Then he added, "Hurts. Hold my
hand?"
Hutch turned even whiter. He was holding Starsky's
hand and he gave it a squeeze. "I'm holding it, buddy. Can't you feel
that?" He was starting to shake and a tear had escaped from his eye and
rolled down his cheek.
Starsky looked up at him, brushing at the tear
and said, "Don't cry, 'm not scared." Then his eyes rolled up and he
went completely limp in Hutch's arms, his hand dropping.
"Noooooo!" Hutch yelled at him,
letting go of his lifeless hand to feel desperately for a pulse. "Where's
that ambulance!" The pulse was still there, but it was weak. Hutch
couldn't hear the siren screaming into the fairgrounds. Some of the cowboys had
opened the back for them and soon they were driving the ambulance right over to
the grisly scene.
Steve rushed to meet them. "They were
supposed to all be blanks!" he shouted, pointing at the group surrounding
the dying detective. "Please, God, help him!"
They pushed their way through the crowd. The
cowboy in white was covered in blood from the man on the ground. He was
pleading with him and rocking him on his lap. "Please hang in there,
buddy. Don't leave me. Oh, God, please!"
The paramedics looked at Starsky and immediately
took him from his partner. They strapped him onto the stretcher and hustled him
into the ambulance almost before anyone knew what had happened, knowing they
had better treat him in transport or they were going to lose him. Hutch ran
after them, but he was pushed back when he tried to climb into the ambulance.
"No! Your friend is in serious trouble. We're headed for Memorial,"
the paramedic shouted at him.
"He's my partner. We're cops!" Hutch
shouted back, "I'm riding with you."
"No, you're not. Don't get in the way or
your friend's gonna die. Have someone drive you." The man jumped into the
back of the van and pulled the doors shut. Before Hutch could voice any other
protest, the ambulance was churning up dirt to rush out of the arena.
Steve took Hutch by the shoulder with his good
arm and turned him around to face him, "Come on, we'll drive you."
Hutch said, "I killed him, Steve." His
voice was icy and almost calm.
"He's not dead, Hutch! He'll make it, now
come on with me."
Steve and Charlie, one of the roustabouts, tried
to guide Hutch toward the exit. The crowd was being escorted out of the
building, but Hutch didn't notice. Suddenly, as they passed the large area of
wet, blood-tainted dirt, Hutch stopped, dropped to his knees, and was violently
ill.
The two men helped the shaken blond to unsteady
feet and successfully got him out of the building and into the back seat of a
car. Angie had stabled Sunshine and was running toward them. Steve called to
her, "Angie! Call Captain Dobey at Metro right away. Let him know what
happened."
She nodded and ran back for a phone as Steve's
white Mercedes peeled out of the parking lot.
Charlie sat in the back with Hutch, trying to
help him get out of some of his gear. When he tried to take the six guns from
him, Hutch stopped him. "No. They're evidence." His hand pushed
Charlie's away.
"Evidence?" Steve said, a catch in his
throat.
"If I've killed him, they might press
charges." Hutch's expression was flat, his words without emotion.
"Against you?" Steve said.
Charlie chimed in with, "No way, man. This
ain't your fault."
Hutch shook his head and started to put his hand
up to pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He stopped his hand in its
motion, staring with wide eyes at the blood on it.
"Oh, my God. W-What if he dies, Steve?
Starsky's my partner! He's my best friend. I-I...."
Steve was stopped at a traffic signal. He spun
around to look at Hutch's stricken expression. "Look, we don't know how
this is gonna turn out, Hutch. He needs you to be strong for him. Keep your
chin up."
The blond man in the back seat just stared at
him blankly. When they arrived at the hospital, Charlie and Steve had to help
Hutch out of the car and into the waiting area. The receptionist looked up at
the blood stained apparition of Dudley Do-Right as he was steered into a chair.
"He all right?" she asked Steve.
"No, but he's not bleeding. You have his
partner here, just brought in, David Starsky."
She looked at the paperwork in front of her and
then asked him to wait a moment while she put her head into the treatment area
to see what was happening. She came back and nodded at him. "GSW, sorry,
gunshot wound to the chest? He's in Trauma One. I don't know anything else
yet."
"Officer Hutchinson over there is his
partner. Keep us posted, huh?"
"Sure, mister. Hey, you look
familiar...."
Steve just smiled and started to walk away from
her. The young woman was probably only in her early twenties. "Wait!
Steve..." she snapped her fingers a few times and said, "Hanson.
Steve Hanson. Wow!"
He smiled at her. "Yes, ma'am. I'm
him."
"I can't wait to tell my mom. Oh, sorry to
meet you this way, though." She blushed.
"I know. I'll be over there with my
friend." He walked over and joined Hutch, just as Captain Dobey barreled
into the Emergency Room. He made it to the waiting men in seconds. He was
surprised to see Hutch sitting there, knowing his partner was shot. Usually,
Hutch would be fighting the staff to let him into the treatment area.
"A young girl called and said Starsky was
shot. What the hell happened?" he asked breathlessly.
Hutch looked up at him, his eyes full of pain.
"I think I k-killed him, Cap."
Dobey was stunned. "You what? How?"
Hutch unbuckled his holsters and silently handed
them over to Dobey. The captain was worried about his detective. Hutch looked
terrible, and his all white costume had too much of Starsky's blood on it.
Steve said, "Real bullets, Captain
Dobey."
"How the hell...." Dobey started.
"We don't know yet," Charlie said.
Dobey motioned Steve away from Hutch. "How
bad is it?"
Steve shook his head. "Bad. I've never seen
anything like that."
"On the way here, I called for a team to go
over to the arena for physical evidence and to interview the crew."
Steve nodded his understanding.
Hutch was shaking his head and mumbling, "I
should have checked them. Oh, God, why didn't I check them?"
A doctor was walking out toward them. They were
the only people in the waiting area. He stepped up and introduced himself.
"I'm Doctor Moore. You gentlemen here for David Starsky?"
Hutch stood on shaky legs and said, "How is
he?" He didn't like the grim look on the doctor's face.
"Not good, I'm afraid. He's lost a lot of
blood and he coded once before we sent him up to surgery. I'm sorry, but it
doesn't look very good."
What little color had been in Hutch's face
drained away and Dobey pushed him back down into a chair. He dropped his head
into his hands and started to shake again. "No," was all he would
say.
"I called for his medical records. His
scars...some of the staff explained about his previous injury."
Dobey said, "Is that making things
worse?"
"I'm not sure it will be a factor. That was
a while ago and he looks to have recovered. As I said, he's up in surgery.
Thank God it was only a single bullet this time. We'll know more in a few
hours."
Moore turned and walked back through the double
doors, leaving the shocked men in his wake. They all turned and looked at
Hutch, none of them knowing what to do for him. Dobey whispered to Steve,
"Stay with him. I have to make some calls."
Dobey went to the pay phone to call Edith and
Huggy. When he spoke with Huggy, he asked him to come to Memorial immediately.
If Starsky died at Hutch's hand, he knew what it would do to the blond.
"We can't leave Hutch alone for a minute, understand?"
"I hear ya, Captain. I'm there." Huggy
hung up and headed for the hospital.
Dobey returned to find little had changed. Hutch
still sat on the same chair, upright now, with a look of shock on his face that
frightened his captain. It was almost as if he'd checked out -- except for the
haunting anguish in his eyes. When Dobey sat down next to him, Hutch turned his
head and looked at him with such pleading in his eyes that Dobey felt his own
eyes burn in sympathy.
"Can I ask a favor?" Hutch said
hoarsely.
"What is it, son?" Dobey asked, very
gently.
"If I promise not to run, will you let me
stay here for now? At least until we know how he is?"
"Run? What are you talking about?"
Instead of answering, Hutch reached into the hip
pocket of his costume and withdrew a flat leather wallet. He held it out.
"From the charges," he said, voice shaking. "I won't run,
Captain. I promise you."
"What charges?" Dobey recognized the
leather wallet. It was Hutch's badge. And he damned sure wasn't going to take
it.
"A--assault with a -- a deadly
weapon," Hutch said, his voice shaking so badly now he could barely get
the words out, and he stammered as he always did when he was particularly
upset. "For -- shooting..." He couldn't finish.
"No, Hutch!" Dobey laid a hand on his
shoulder. "There aren't going to be any charges. Have you lost your
mind?"
"You have to arrest me," Hutch said.
"For what? It was an accident! They were
supposed to be blanks!" Steve said. He was almost as pale as Hutch was.
"It's not like you did it on purpose."
"Doesn't matter," Hutch said, suddenly
intense. "You think I'd've done that on purpose? I'd cut off my own arm
first!"
"Hutch, son, take it easy," Dobey
said. When Starsky was like this, he shouted. With Hutch, he was afraid to. And
something occurred to him. "Wait a minute. They were supposed to be
blanks. How come they weren't?" He directed this question to Steve.
Steve shook his head. "I don't know. The
only real bullets in the place are for Tigger's gun, the one Starsky was using.
All the others are loaded with blanks. We're very careful about that. We keep
the guns and the bullets in separate cabinets to make sure we don't make a
mistake. How could real bullets have gotten into Hutch's gun? I watched Starsky
lay his gun with real bullets down and pick up the one with blanks in it when
he came backstage to change. He opened the gun and checked to make sure it had
blanks."
"But I didn't," Hutch said bleakly.
"I didn't check. My God, why didn't I check?"
Dobey suddenly gripped Hutch's shoulder hard.
"Who loaded your gun?"
Hutch shook his head and now Dobey saw tears
standing in his eyes. "I don't -- I don't know."
"Mitch or Lee," Steve said. "They
handle the props. But they both know the difference between blanks and bullets.
Like I said, we keep them in separate cabinets."
"Do you trust them?" Dobey asked.
Steve nodded. "I've known Mitch since he was
a kid. His dad was a prop man on several of my pictures."
"And Lee?"
"Lee was a rodeo cowboy on the
Oklahoma-Texas circuit before he moved out here," Steve said. "Why
would he do something like that? Why would anybody?"
"Is Wally still in prison?" Dobey
asked.
Steve nodded. "I just talked to his sister
a few weeks ago."
"It sounds to me as if someone wanted to
kill you," Dobey said. "You were supposed to be playing Starsky's
role." His eyes narrowed. "Why weren't you?"
"His horse threw him," Charlie put in.
"He wrenched his shoulder and that's his shootin' arm."
"Wait a minute," Steve said.
"That horse has never done that before. He's as gentle as a lamb,
normally."
"There was a burr under his saddle,"
Charlie said. "After he threw ya, I unsaddled him because I figured you
wouldn't be ridin' him tonight. Big ole cocklebur under the blanket. No wonder
he bucked. Musta hurt like hell."
Steve and Dobey both stared at him. Hutch was
too miserable.
"How did a cocklebur get under the saddle
blanket?" Steve demanded. "There isn't any brush within miles of that
arena, and I bought that blanket myself only last week."