Wish You Were Here

By Pepper Ckua

Pepper_Ckua@yahoo.com

“Here, I’ll line them up, you write them down, and then we’ll memorize ‘em.”

Starsky took sixteen postcards out of a manila envelope. He laid them out on the table.

Starsky, Hutch and their contact in Narco, a detective by the name of Tolson, had taken over an empty office by the elevator. One corner of the office was filled with banker’s boxes, the guts of their operation. Three chairs and a file cabinet on wheels surrounded the table.

Tolson had borrowed a rolling blackboard from Missing Persons. Its surface was covered with various lists and, in one corner, the remnants of a hard-fought game of Hangman. The clue had been Secretariat.

“Put the teacup kitten picture first.” Starsky shuffled the cards and placed the card in the upper left-hand part of the table.

“Where’d you get all these cards, pal?”

“Some I’ve had a while, like this one. “ He pointed to the Statue of Liberty. “I was gonna to send that to you when I was out visiting Ma, but forgot.”

“A few of these I picked up at that flea market by the docks. Like this one from Colorado.” Starsky put down a card with squirrels driving a car. Its caption read, “We get a little squirrelly at this altitude.”

Hutch snorted. “Oh, brother.”

“Speaking of brothers, Nicky sent me the one of a jackalope. In fact, he sent me a whole little box of them. Must have fallen off the back of some truck.”

“And Terry brought me that one.” Starsky pointed to a card with two giant ears of corn in a field. Both cobs had sunglasses on. “The kitten card was hers too.”

Hutch arranged the cards on the table. It looked like a sixteen-car train, with a kitschy kitten as the engineer and the Statue of Liberty as the caboose.

Starsky found some paper and was preparing to write down the sequence.

“Use a small piece of paper, Starsk. If we have to tear it up into little pieces and eat it afterwards, I’d prefer to not to make it a whole meal.”

“Ha, ha,” Starsky snorted. “At least you’d appreciate the fiber of that meal.”

When Starsky was done writing, Hutch picked up the cards and handed them to his partner.

“Tolson need to know this part?”

“Don’t see why. I mean, he’s not going to be the one getting them. You are, Hutch.”

“Fine. So the plan is: no words on the back, you deliver, one way or another, one card a day, in this order to me? No exceptions.” Hutch put the list in his pocket. “This will be our only sign things are going all right. That’s the only way I’ll go for this, buddy. You know that.”

Starsky grinned. “I know. Don’t worry. This’ll work.”

“It has to. One deviation and I’m pulling the plug. Lexas, the Commissioner, the pressure the precinct and Dobey are feeling to bring this down, all be damned. I’m serious, dead serious. No fooling around.”

Starsky nodded.

“I wish there was another way to do it.”

“Hutch, you know Lexas is as paranoid as they come. He gets one sniff of me meetin’ you in person, of us being seen in the same vicinity, and we might as well can the whole thing.” Starsky smiled. “It’ll be all right. I’ll figure out some convoluted way to get these to you, in order. It probably won’t be me personally, but I gotta lot of ways to make it work. Count on it.”

Hutch glanced at the completed Hangman game on the blackboard. To keep from losing, Starsky kept adding little body parts to his dangling figure, two ears and an extra long nose. Hutch had put a stop to the little man getting a dick.

”You can’t add that. Just because he’s a stick figure, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have clothes on.” Hutch had rolled his eyes. “Leave it off, pal. I mean, that’s really desperate.”

In the end, Starsky’s figure had gone down.

“Just what the hell kind of clue was Secretariat, Hutch? I mean, pick some animal regular people know, like Thumper or Lassie.”

“Next time I’m choosing Scooby Doo for you. A word with all those vowels? A mutt that eats too much? It’s a winning combination.”

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“I don’t have to be a mind reader to know something’s buggin’ you.” Starsky kicked the door to the refrigerator shut. He had a beer in one hand, a turkey sandwich in the other and a half bag of chips tucked under his arm.

Hutch was sitting at the table. His disassembled Magnum was lying on the flannel cloth in front of him. He was running the bore brush through the barrel.

“Take that food somewhere else, pal.” Hutch didn’t even look up.

“How’d you know I got food, Hutch?”

“Because you never go to my refrigerator without returning with edibles. Seriously, don’t come over here with that stuff.”

“Wasn’t intendin’ to.” Starsky got comfortable on the couch. Hutch heard the sound of the bottle opener and then the crinkle of the chip bag.

“So what’s buggin ya, Hutch?”

“You mean, besides you going under tomorrow with no back-up, to try to worm your way into Lexas’ already wormy apple? You mean, because I’m worried your cover has got some holes in it? You mean, because I think your cover name is silly? You mean…”

“Okay, okay I got it. But it’s not like we’ve never done stuff like this before.”

“Not like this we haven’t. Not this long. And not solo. And not without there being a double-check on that snitch the Feds sent our way.”

“It’s not solo, Hutch. I know you’ll be watchin’ my back.”

“Glad you feel so confidant, Starsk.” Hutch poured a dab of solvent on the brass brush and cleaned the back of the cylinder opening. “But I’m worried.”

There was silence as Hutch finished with the wads and reassembled his piece.

“You really think that Fed snitch isn’t on the up-and-up?”

“Seeing how no snitch is on the up-and-up, I’d say yes. I mean, only do we not have a track record with Squeaky, I think those Federal Agents are just a little to fast on the draw.”

“Yeah. You’re right,” Starsky sighed. “Say, Hutch. Fifi didn’t say anything about your fridge’s temperature gauge bein’ on the blink, did she?”

“No, why?”

“Cause this sandwich is really, really cold. The lettuce is frozen. And this beer is slushy.”

“Well, getting the fridge fixed will give me something to do while you’re gone.”

“You mean you’re not gonna spend all your time protecting my beautiful bod?”

“You know I will, buddy.” Hutch finished rubbing the Magnum with gun oil. He looked up the barrel and then at his partner. “You know I will.”

Starsky simply gave him a nod.

Hutch started to fold up his flannel. “Let’s go one more time with the postcard order.”

Starsky gave him another nod and began. “Kitten-teacup, meatball, cow…”

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Sunday, Hutch came out of the gym from his round with the speed bag and found the first postcard under the wiper of his car.

It was the card with a kitten.

It was Starsky’s first day in the cold.

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Hutch received the second card on Monday.

The postcard was the correct one in order, portraying Starsky’s favorite Italian restaurant, Vecchio Fumoso. It had a giant meatball on the roof. The caption on the front read, ““Mamma mia, that's-a spicy meatball-a!"

Hutch had gotten the postcard by way of his lunch. It had been shoved underneath his sandwich in the Baby Bear Basket he picked up from Spanky’s. He could only imagine how Starsky managed to have it delivered like in his lunch. Sure, Spanky’s ran a lunch special on Monday’s, but was Hutch really that predictable?

Jeeze, he hoped not.

“Thank God, though,” thought Hutch. “Thank God, he’s all right.”

He spent the rest of the day the in the office near the elevator. He and Detective Tolson worked on shoring up a case against Lexas.

Hutch moved on lining up possibles and running the paperwork through R & I.

Tolson worked with cross-referencing old freight bills and their contents to a series of supposed bribes run through Customs.

At the end of the shift, and over deli, Hutch, Tolson and Dobey had their daily debriefing.

They talked of the roadblock Vice was throwing their way.

They discussed putting a twenty-four hour tail on Dickie “Your Maine Man” Bangor, the snitch down by the docks.

Dobey asked about the postcards.

“What postcards?” asked Tolson.

“I’m on it, Cap. The second one arrived today.” Hutch waved his assurance with one hand. He didn’t look up from his file.

“I don’t have to remind you that I am feeling the heat from Upstairs. This had better pan out.” Dobey growled dyspeptically. “I’ve already lost two good men. Fisher and Rainey probably felt as confident as you two do, and look what happened to them.”

There was a silence. Tolson gathered up his files and left the room. Dobey did the same.

Hutch had the visual of Fisher and Rainey after six days in the bay, their soft parts gone. At least the soft parts below the neck; their heads had been missing.

Hutch felt like throwing up his Baby Bear Basket.

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The third postcard came by way of Huggy. It was the card with a cartoon cow and the phrase, “You’re udderly fantastic!”

Huggy laughed as he handed it to Hutch, “And ain’t you just!”

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The homeless guy that slept in the vacant lot next to the police garage handed the fourth postcard to Hutch.

The man wanted another twenty for his services. Hutch was happy to pay it.

That card showed a photo of Skylab.

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The fifth postcard was a vintage one of Carmen Miranda. It was delivered to the squad room along with a fruit basket.

Hutch picked up the card, rubbed his face and gave a sigh of relief.

Babcock hummed a few bars to “Bananas is My Business.”

Dobey absconded with the accompanying pineapple.

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Hutch taped all five cards to the back of the door of the temporary office.

He often felt himself staring at the vacant spots on the door, the space where he would tape the next arrivals. It helped calm him as he worked.

Hutch spent long hours at Metro, going over old records and mug books. It was tedious, but necessary work. He knew the information Starsky was getting was going to need the paper backup as well as all the little scut work Hutch and Tolson were doing, the shit they all disliked.

“Come to think of it,” thought Hutch. “I don’t really know Tolson. Maybe he loves this sort of stuff?”

To keep his mind off of all the unknowns, Hutch kept a picture in his head. It was of a scowling Lexas dragging a tin cup over the bars in the pokey.

He liked that visual a lot better than the one of a nonchalant Lexas dragging a beer glass over the bar at Pokey’s Place, the place Tolson said Lexas had last met with Harley, the Fed snitch.

The third picture in his head, the best one of all, was of Starsky at the Pits, he and Hutch toasting the end of a successful takedown.

But those pictures weren’t quite enough to do much for the stress Hutch felt. He spent most of the daylight hours worrying about his partner

His nighttime hours were difficult as well. Hutch kept waking, staring at the clock and wishing it were morning, two weeks from now.

They’d both been under before. They both knew the drill. And Starsky was one fine detective.

But so much of it depended on pure luck.

While the postcards were telling him Starsky was okay, Hutch also knew how quickly it all could change.

Hutch was, of course, right on the money.

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Lexas’ new mechanic had dark, curly hair, a hard face and a steady gaze. His name was Albie Applebaum. He hailed out of Boston and came with good recommendations.

Listening to the mechanic recount some of his earlier work, Lexas felt confident the shipment of China White was going to be in good hands.

Lexas liked the look of Applebaum’s hands. Hands were one thing Lexas always looked at when summing his people up. Eyes as a window to the soul? Hell, as far as he could figure, most people lacked any soul at all.

“But hands,” thought Lexas, “now that’s the real clue.”

Lexas felt you could tell a lot about a person by their hands. Were they too soft? Touched with ink when the person could hardly put two words together on paper? Was there the tell-tale yellow stain from a tobacco smoker? Was the pinky fingernail too long? Were the nails bitten? Was there a pale shadow on the fourth finger of the left hand, a mark that didn’t make sense with the rest of the story?

And most importantly, did those hands shake?

Applebaum’s hands, Lexas noted, were as steady as a rock.

“You’re going to be an asset to this operation, Applebaum. I can tell.”

Lexas continued, “While the shipment isn’t due for a while, there’s plenty to do in preparation. One is to make sure we keep the coppers, both local and federal, off our asses. We can’t afford a single sniff at our butts.”

Applebaum simply nodded and looked him straight in the eye.

After their meeting, Lexas set his new man up in the back office, telling him to work with Chaz, Mac and Juke to get the lay of the land.

Lexas watched Applebaum through the crack in the door.

Albie Applebaum, he noticed, got right down to work.

He was all business, a real class act.

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Hutch and Lexas both received a postcard on the same day.

The card that came for Hutch was the sixth card in Starsky’s stack. It portrayed the Golden Gate Bridge. It was the right card, in the right order.

Starsky had it sent it over by way of a special delivery of bee pollen from New Moon Natural Foods.

It was, however, the last postcard Starsky personally sent.

Lexas‘ card had Uncle Sam on the front.

Lexas’ card arrived only a few hours after his meet with Applebaum.

Lexas’ card was anonymous and postmarked two days before.

It had three words on the back. They were “APPLEBAUM’S A COP.”

The hands that wrote those three words had been shaking.

Lexas would have been interested in this fact.

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The seventh postcard made its appearance on Hutch’s front door. Hutch thought this was too damn close to home.

This card was the one with a sunny tropical beach and the slogan, “Wish you were here” across the front.

“No kidding,” Hutch thought to himself.

The postcard was the right one and sent in the right order.

It was also the first one not sent by Starsky, though Hutch had no way of knowing this fact.

He had no way of knowing Starsky’s cover had been blown the day before.

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Lexas called Starsky back into his office later on the afternoon of their big meet.

Starsky figured he was going to be given his next directions.

Starsky noticed two things off the bat.

The first was that Juke, Mac and Chaz were in the room with him.

The second thing Starsky noticed was that Lexas didn’t ask him to sit down.

“So, what’s the plan?” Starsky asked. “You gonna put me to work already?”

“Oh I’m gonna put you to work all right. In fact, I’m going to let you in on the plan right now.” Lexas stood up and walked around the desk to stand in front of Starsky.

Starsky sensed the three men behind him move in close as well.

“Here’s the deal, Applebaum. Or should I say Officer Applebaum?”

Starsky felt the alarm move through his body. He hoped he kept his face blank.

Lexas, his voice cold, said, ”Yeah, your cover was blown. I must be getting sloppy in my old age.”

Starsky didn’t say anything.

Lexas lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Starsky’s face “You want to know something, Officer? Something really scary?”

Starsky wasn’t sure that he did, but didn’t say so.

“I’m going to tell you straight off what you came here to get, Officer. And get this: you’re gonna get the truth, the real deal, so pay attention.” Lexas took another pull on his Marlborough.

“I’ve got about twelve thousand kees of China White arriving on Saturday the twenty-fourth. The Lido Paleek is a freighter hailing out of Bangkok and papered through France. It arrives at Berth 65. The time is will be around 3:00 pm. Seven men will guard the shipment. They will be armed with automatic weapons. The password is ‘Mr. Ed.’”

Starsky knew being told this detailed information was a bad sign, not unlike the methodical preparation for a murder, one which included rolls of duct tape, plastic sheeting, a rope and shovel being laid out on the ground in front of him.

“Yes, you should be very worried you’re being told this information,” Lexas continued. “That’s because you’re not going to be able to have a chance to use it. And it’s not because we’re gonna kill you.”

Starsky felt the adrenaline slip through his brain, the flashes lighting up areas on his cranium.

He felt the energy, movement and, in fact, the very odor of the three men behind him.

“While taking you out is extremely appealing, I can’t go with something as obvious or as easy a bullet to the brain.” Lexas reached up and put his finger on Starsky’s forehead.

Starsky jerked his head back and hit Lexas’ arm.

The men behind Starsky moved forward.

One of them grabbed his arms.

Quick as a snake, Lexas backhanded Starsky’s face, hard.

Starsky felt a crack in his neck. He saw bright flashes of light in front of his eyes.

“As I said, killing you is too risky.” Lexas calmly took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and dabbed at the blood droplets that had sprayed on his sleeve.

“I burn you now and the streets will be crawling with cops. So tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna keep you under wraps.”

Starsky felt his left eye start to swell up. He thought that maybe one of his teeth had been loosened.

“Under wraps?” His whole mouth hurt. “Sounds nice. Downright comfortable.”

“Oh, it’s gonna be real nice all right,” replied Lexas. The other men in the room snickered.

“Shut the hell up!” Lexas exploded. “This isn’t a joke!”

His voice returned to its quiet, conversational tone. His next words were directed at Starsky. “Now, I know you didn’t come in here without an insurance policy, cop. What are you doing to keep your fellow employees at bay?”

“I’m solo on this one,” Starsky lied. “Been cut loose.”

“Don’t think so. In fact, the little bird that allowed me to get two steps ahead of you also allowed me to get the name of your compatriot.”

“Which reminds me,” Lexas grumbled. “We need to have a brief moment of silence for that little bird: Dickie ‘Your Maine Man’ Bangor.’ May he rest in peace.”

There was another snicker behind Starsky.

“I said shut the fuck up, Juke!“ Lexas growled. “Good snitches are hard to come by. Bangor may have had little to live for after his final squeal, but I hated having to take him out. Even making it look like a suicide did nothing for my conscience.”

“So,” Lexas took off his hat and intoned, “Gentlemen, may he rest in peace.”

Chaz filled this moment of silence with thinking about how the hell he ever ended up in this stinking situation. He thought he should have stayed in law school. The work would have been similar and there was less chance of him getting slugged in the face.

Mac filled his moment with worries about his increasingly inability to juggle the ladies in his life. He also thought he needed to remember to refill his heart medication prescription.

Juke thought about the vague overture Vincent Roper, his boss’s main competitor, passed on to him the week before. It was an offer that had to do with helping destabilize Lexas’ empire. Roper had sent it to him on a postcard that showed a picture of the Trojan Horse.

Juke also had a moment of fear over the state of Bangor’s body. Lexas’ directions to make the snitch die by carbon monoxide poisoning didn’t include it was supposed to be a suicide. Juke thought the bullet he put in Bangor’s gut, the one meant to make him hold the fuck still, might throw off the whole suicide thing.

Lexas, despite his spoken deferment to the dead snitch, wasn’t giving Bangor his moment of respect. Instead, Lexas was thinking about his massive mistake with the undercover cop, the pig standing in front of him. He wondered if it spoke to his own need for a long vacation. Naples was sounding better and better.

Starsky filled his moment with thoughts of how to extract himself from a case gone south, so south he needed a parka.

In the end, Dickie Bangor’s official moment of silence had nothing at all to do with Dickie Bangor.

“Amen.” Lexas put his hat back on. “If nothing else, boys, live and learn.”

Juke, Mac and Chaz looked up.

Starsky, who had never looked down, looked Lexas straight in the face.

“See cop, I figured you weren’t gonna fold easily.” Lexas handed Starsky two photos of Hutch. “That’s why I’ve had these taken.”

One photo was of his partner walking out of Metro with Detective Tolson. It looked like they were headed for Tolson’s car, a ‘74 Duster.

The other one showed Hutch reading a newspaper outside the Chubby Chicken. The newspaper appeared to be the current day’s headline.

Starsky saw the crease between Hutch’s eyes and could tell Hutch was worried.

“You wonder why I had these taken? Bet you do.” Luther watched Starsky’s face. “But guess what? You’re wrong. I’m not really too interested in snuffing your partner. All I want is for you to tell me what you are doing to keep cops from moving in on us right now.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, then I would have to blow your pretty partner away and cut my losses.” Lexas inspected his fingernails.” I’d chalk it up to the cost of doing business.”

“But if you just keep doing what you’ve been doing to keep your co-worker from calling in the cavalry, he won’t get hurt.” Lexus looked at Starsky’s hands. He still couldn’t see them shake, not one bit. “In fact, Officer, it could be a come-out-even/come-out-even situation. It’s that simple.”

Simple or not, he had Mac deliver a few blows to Starsky’s body as exclamation points.

As he lay on the floor of Lexas’ office, trying to not to throw up, Starsky had one brief thought of mixing the cards up as a call for help.

He knew one card out of order would cause his partner to move in. Hutch would be on Lexas like hippies on free food.

But Starsky figured adhering to the postcard system would allow him to buy some time, time he could use to get himself out of this pickle.

There was no need to call Hutch in yet, no need to blow the case and endanger his partner.

Starsky handed over the postcards. He explained Hutch was supposed to get one everyday and in the order the stack was in.

Lexas nodded and took them.

Starsky figured he had a bit of time to work up a plan.

He didn’t count on Lexas’ backup plan.

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Lexas ordered Juke and Mac to take Starsky over to the room above Tito’s Beer Hall.

“Just listening to my nephews’ wretched band downstairs may be enough to make him cry like a baby. I know it does me.”

Juke took special pleasure in yanking on the cop’s hair as they stuffed him into the trunk.

Meanwhile, Lexas handed the stack of postcards to Chaz.

“I’m putting you in charge of these. You heard the man’s directions.”

“And here’s another thing.” He reached into his desk drawer and handed Mac a little box. “Take this kit and a half-load. There’s enough decks there to keep him lit up like Las Vegas.”

“We may get more information out of him later. It’s one reason I want you to juice him up.” Lexas explained more for himself than for Chaz. “The added bonus is that an addicted cop’s testimony in court will be worthless. They won’t dare call him to the stand.”

Lexas watch Chaz leave and thought, “That cop’s going find out this drug makes him feel he has no problems at all, when he in reality, really has one very, very large one.”

He picked up the phone, asked to be connected to a long-distance operator and proceeded to put a long-distance call through to Naples.

As he waited for his boss to answer, Lexas reflected, “Nobody messes with Lexas.”

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Three hours later, Starsky found himself tied up in a room over Tito’s Beer Hall.

He hadn’t seen anyone since Lexas’ goons had secured him and left.

Starsky used this time to calculate his escape route. Starsky knew how many days he had before the drug delivery. He had to get away by then. He figured after that after his ship came in, as it were, he was useless in terms of leverage.

Hearing the footsteps coming up the stairs made his heart race. He knew every bit of contact with people here was going provide one more bit of information he could use to get the hell away.

He also knew this same human contact could also bring mean certain unpleasantries. His aching belly was attest to that last fact.

The door opened and his three former co-workers came in. Starsky didn’t like the look of it.

One man was all that would be needed to bring him water, food or to just be a guard.

Three men meant pain.

“Lexas sent us up with instructions to get some names and other information about your beef with us,” Chaz said.

“You’ll have to tell Lexas some bad news then. You’ll get nothin’ out of me.”

“Lexas told us you’d probably say that at first and that we shouldn’t fret.”

Mac looked at the speaker, his eyes wide. “Fret? Chaz, you’ve been reading the boss’s Word-a–Day calendar.”

Juke spoke up. “Hate to break up your continuing education here, boys, but we’ve got a job to do.”

Starsky was hoping the job didn’t require more multiple blows to his body.

It didn’t.

It required only blow. And it came in the form of a needle.

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Starsky had seen heroin users in various states of addiction.

He’d been present when a snitch or hooker shot up and seen the effects of the initial rush.

He’d seen the inevitable high.

He had seen the nod and then the fall.

Hutch’s forced addiction two years before had given him a front-row seat to withdrawal, an experience he’d never forget.

But he’d never been present at anyone’s very first injection of heroin. And even if he had, he certainly would’ve never expected it to be his own.

Starsky closed his eyes to the sight the tie-off on his arm and to the image of the needle entering his vein. He didn’t want that visual to make a nest in his head.

Within seconds, he felt the rush.

He felt liquid fire move through his body.

He experienced what felt like a heightened sexual orgasm, a great relief of tension of in his abdomen. His arms and legs felt too heavy to lift.

If Starsky could have rolled his arm and looked at his watch, he would have known the rush lasted less than a few minutes.

Then Starsky slipped into his high.

The chemical bathed his brain and hit his bloodstream almost at the same time.

Starsky felt warm, drowsy and cozy like he had been wrapped in the most pleasing, warm and comfortable blanket in the world. He felt a profound sense of satisfaction. All his needs were fulfilled.

He required nothing else, nothing else except the next injection.

That came five hours later.

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Chaz delivered Starsky’s next postcard. It was a promotional card for a local real estate company.

“Location, location, location!” it said and showed a swanky house in the Bel Plaine area.

Like the first card Chaz delivered, it went onto Hutch’s front door.

Hutch saw it as he went to pick up his newspaper and turned to go back inside his apartment. It gave him a start.

Not because it wasn’t the right card. It was.

Chaz had, in fact, followed all the rules in delivering the cards. It was the right card, in the right order, at the right time and to the right person.

But it was the first time two cards had been delivered to the same place.

A small point to be sure, but Chaz would have appreciated this fine bit of legalism.

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Starsky lived for the moment when the door opened, when it was time for his next hit.

The heroin was all he cared about.

He had lost all track of time. He didn’t know if he had been in the room for years or days. He didn’t care.

At first, it took two or three men to hold him for the injections. Then it became a job one man could easily do.

Chaz, Mac and Juke kept their prisoner on a constant high, one that was never five or six hours from the next installment.

The first few times, he struggled against the ropes that held him. He battled against his captors as they grabbed his arms. He felt numerous blows to his face and body.

But it wasn’t long before there were no more struggles. Starsky held out his arm and begged.

If Starsky had been more coherent, he would have even offered to assist with the kit, offered to pull the tie, offered to do anything for more liquid fire in his veins.

He wanted the rush. He wanted the buzz that inflamed his brain. He craved the nod, the thing that would give him the sleep of angels.

Every time Chaz or Mac pushed down the plunger, Starsky could feel his whole body swimming in it.

Juke brought relief, but also pain.

Juke, when he came alone, did things to him that made Starsky want to cry.

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After a while, the heroin rush didn’t feel as good.

It didn’t get Starsky even close to nirvana, his paradise.

In fact, the heroin was starting to hurt.

The high he got would be just under the wire.

It made him itch in places he couldn’t reach, like underneath his gut, near his brain stem and just behind his heart.

It made him feel like he would twang if bumped, like he was one-quarter turn from a broken string.

When it was his shift, Juke would whisper in his ear, “We’ll make you a cotton shooter yet, big fella.”

His arm would be yanked and roped, the fit flicked and the needle slid home.

Then wad would be shot, and Starsky would be shot as well.

The heroin high wasn’t actual physical sex, but the many shared boundaries made Starsky, in his haze, feel he was constantly half a second from an orgasm, never getting the release.

He only wished he could say the same for Juke.

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Starsky felt himself drifting.

He thought about the afternoons, and sometimes the evenings, when he and his little brother would hang out at the school playground.

Both boys were afraid to go home. They knew their mother was probably crying in her room.

Crying in the kitchen.

Sobbing in the bathroom.

Weeping in her car, an attempt to drive for groceries aborted.

Six months after the death of their dad, it seemed that crying was all she did. Starsky missed his papa too, but put his sadness far away. The only thing he had space for was anger, anger at his mother, anger at his dead father, but most of all, anger at himself.

Starsky knew he should be doing something to keep his mother from her misery, but he didn’t know what that something could be.

“No, everything’s fine,” he’d tell his teacher. “Yes, I’m getting’ enough to eat. No, I didn’t realize I’ve worn the same clothes to school for two weeks. Yes, I’ll tell my mother I need a haircut. Yes, my mother is doing well. No, you don’t need to call her. She’s probably out doing the shopping or with some friends anyway. Yes, Mrs. Pratt, I’ll tell her you asked.”

In retaliation, he and Nicky started to spend more and more time on the street, messing around and screwing up.

Starsky remembered one day when both he and Nicky had been on the swing set.

They were pumping their legs, harder and faster, making the arc of the swing bigger and more powerful. Starsky felt like he was flying. He loved the little point at the moment the a