Free Lance

by Pepper Ckua

Pepper_Ckua@yahoo.com

Barry Steinberg’s moment of death is one without fanfare. It is also one without

observation.

Barry makes his usual rounds, knocking on the back doors of bars, offering to sweep out a few bathrooms for a Washington or two. Business is slim, netting him three bucks tonight.

Barry never gets the chance to spend this cash. Intending to just rest for a while, he eases his body down near the back stoop of the White House Bar. It is there, alone, that Barry dies in his sleep, years of malnutrition and exposure bringing him to one last peace.

The hand that shakes his shoulder a few hours after his passing is a steady one.

That single contact is enough for this moment of surety; Barry Steinberg has passed on to a far kinder world than the one he has just left.

That same steady hand reaches into a small, cloth bag.

What it takes out is the first tool of consecration.

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“It’s about time, Hug.” Hutch jerks his head to towards the kitchen. “I thought Starsky was going to start eating the napkins,”

“Hey, I can’t help it if we missed lunch.” Starsky scowls. “Add that to what you’re callin’ dinner at 11:30 at night, and I think I got an excuse to be pretty damn hungry.”

“A tisket, a tasket, don’t blow a gasket, here’s your burger basket,” Huggy grumbles, thumping two red plastic containers down on their table. “Don’t even think of asking me for anything else. Seeing how my bathroom buddy hasn’t shown, it looks like I’ll be cleaning my own johns tonight,” Huggy adds over his shoulder as he walks away. “That and a broken dishwasher and I’m about to spit nails.”

“And here I was thinking there wasn’t anyone that had had a worse day than we had,” Hutch observes, watching Huggy head to the kitchen.

“You don’t think nearly gettin’ a two-by-four across the back of the head, losin’ the advantage with the Peterson writ or having that two-bit snitch Tricky barf all over your shirt is worse than having to clean some bar bathrooms?” Starsky asks.

“It’s all relative, Starsk.”

“Yeah, relative is right. And it’s gonna be Peterson’s relatives who’ll make it pretty damn difficult to find him after he’s had a twenty-four hour lead on us,” Starsky snorts. ”That joker must have twenty willing sisters and sweet-faced aunties that’ll hide him, a regular underground railroad.”

Starsky is right; it has been a really shitty day. Hutch’s head aches as he thinks of all the legwork they are going to have to do, all because of a mix-up in street addresses.

“Maybe so,” he says. “But I guarantee there’s somebody out there who’s had it worse today than Huggy has.”

Starsky looks skeptical. “Even one worse than ours?”

“Hard to imagine, I know, but there must be someone. I’d hate to think we’re the pinnacle of anything.” Hutch puts a napkin over his half-eaten burger. The memory of Tricky’s intestinal insult is suddenly a little too fresh in his mind.

Starsky drags Hutch’s basket to his side of the table. “Really,” he says.

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One of those somebodies is being loaded into the back of a county corner’s hearse just as Starsky is taking the last bite of Hutch’s pickle at The Pits.

The cops behind the White House Bar classify Barry Steinberg’s death as a natural one. While the bar’s back alley isn’t considered a crime scene, it doesn’t stop the uniformed officers from taking proper, tidy notes.

Officers Cho and Hansen log Barry’s belongings -- two plastic bags of dirty clothes, a paperback book, half a loaf of bread and a folded photograph showing what looks to be a family of five sitting on the beach. They note the dead man has three dollars clutched in his hand.

Their report also mentions the remains of a drawing on the pavement, a sketch close to Barry’s body. The picture portrayed two men, one wearing a robe and standing next to a donkey and one man who is lying naked on the ground.

Officer Cho thinks about asking the lab boys to take a Polaroid of the drawing. The angry owner of the bar is bitching about lost business and unwanted attention. By the time Cho gets the man off his back, it is too late; the activity of getting Barry’s body bagged and loaded into the hearse has left only a blur of color on the pavement.

Looking down at the powdery remains of the drawing, Officer Cho thinks of Barry’s body. He thinks of it hunched under the single light over the bar’s back door.

He thinks that if Barry was two hundred years old, the age he certainly appeared to be, perhaps the residual dust from the sketch was not unlike the dry blood in the dead man’s veins.

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“You two, my office.” Dobey’s barked order postpones Hutch’s plans to run down to Records to pull some files.

“What do you think we’re in trouble for this time?” Starsky asks, slapping Hutch’s butt with a copy of the Daily Dispatch as they head through the door.

Hutch can only imagine.

“Gentlemen, have a seat.” Dobey peers at several files, reading glasses perched on his nose.

“Say, Cap, those specs new?” Starsky asks.

Dobey ignores him and passes over a stack of reports.

“These are the files on the deaths of three homeless people in our city over the last few weeks. There’s nothing suspicious about them. They’re all death by exposure or illness or the like.”

“So why are you handing them over to us, Cap?” Hutch asks, taking the files from Dobey.

“Because they’ve got something to do with Starsky’s plans tonight.”

“My plans?” Starsky sounds dismayed. “But I was gonna wash my car tonight.”

“Too bad.” Dobey gestures towards Starsky’s Dispatch. “You’ve read the paper yet today? If you have, you’ll know the press is having a field day with the police’s apparent inability to make any sort of a dent in the problem of the homeless in this city.”

“Last I heard, it wasn’t a crime to not have a place to live, Cap,” Hutch says dryly.

“You’re right. But the heat we’re getting is about the department not doing a better job of keeping the streets clear of panhandling and the other actions that make citizens uncomfortable.”

“You mean, people rudely dying in unsightly piles right out in the open?” Hutch tosses the files back onto Dobey’s desk.

“Can it, Hutchinson. You don’t think I know how this is playing out? You don’t think I know our street problem is far more complicated than what the Dispatch is accusing?” Dobey pulls a brochure out of the stack of papers on his desk. He hands it to Starsky.

“You asked about your plans tonight, Detective. Well, here they are. There’s a fairly new homeless shelter in town, as I’m sure you’ve heard. It’s called the Samaritan House. They’re having some gala benefit tonight to mark their first year anniversary.”

“Yeah, so?” Starsky takes the pile of papers without looking at them.

“So, there’s going to be a lot of important people there tonight, some of Bay City’s biggest benefactors. The Commissioner and Chief Ryan will be in attendance as well. It has been requested, as a show of support and cooperation, that several uniforms and at least one detective be present.”

“So who’s the lucky detective, Cap?” Starsky looks puzzled. “Surely it can’t be us, at least on this short notice.”

“It certainly can be you, Sergeant. Detective Wilcox was lined up to go, but his wife is having emergency surgery.” Dobey gestures towards the papers in Starsky’s hands. “There’s everything you need to get clearance at the door. So brush off your suit, Cinderfella, you’re going to the ball tonight.”

“Me, why me?” Starsky complains. “And for that matter, why just me? Why doesn’t Hutch have to go too?”

Hutch feels irritable; an unexpected envelope that arrived in the mail has seen to that. He is saved from making a rude remark by Dobey’s answer.

“Starsky, let’s just say I found out who was responsible for that little prank last week, the one that replaced the caffeinated coffee with decaf right before the Commissioner’s monthly all-staff meeting,” Dobey snaps. “More than half the force falling asleep during the Commissioner’s mission statement presentation made the whole lot of us look like a bunch of kindergartners needing naptime.”

“C’mon, Cap. That presentation was boring enough in its own right,” Hutch points out. “I don’t think caffeine could have saved it.” Hutch thinks the Commissioner’s canned speech about Eskimos having forty words for snow was pretty stupid, especially as an analogy for the amount of cocaine that was coming in by way of Jersey City. The wrap-up illustration on the flip chart, the graphic that compared the department with a team of sled dogs made it especially hard to keep a straight face.

“Maybe not,” Dobey grumps. “But I do know tampering with the coffee didn’t help. So dust off your glass slippers, Starsky, and get out of here.”

Starsky corners Hutch in the squad room. “Don’t make me go to this alone, buddy. Please? You know how uncomfortable these high-class things make me.”

“Are you asking me for a date, Starsk?” Hutch raises his eyebrows.

“Naw, not a date, just come along with me.”

“I’ve got stuff to do tonight.”

“What? Ya gotta wash your hair or something?”

Hutch is envisioning an evening of heavy thinking and a long, hot shower. While the first part of those plans were already giving him a headache, it would certainly be a better evening than traipsing around some refined reception in a suit. “Why don’t you take Cathy or Rhonda or someone?”

“They’re too much work. They’ll expect flowers and shit.” Starsky’s voice rises. “Please? I’ll pay off this month’s bar tab.”

Hutch thinks the bar tab thing sounds pretty good, but decides to sweeten the pot. “This month’s and last month’s tab. I’m sick of the dirty looks Huggy’s been giving us. Lately, it makes me worry he’s spitting more than just nails when he brings our food over.”

“Two months?” Starsky hesitates. “Man, that’s gonna set me back about eighty bucks.”

“Take it or leave it, pal.” Hutch pretends to search his in-box for something.

“Fine. I’ll take it. The added bonus is I won’t have to worry about my date groping me over by the cocktail weenies.”

“You should be so lucky.”

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Starsky takes the stairs up to Hutch’s apartment two at a time. He gives the door a light tap with his knuckles and lets himself in.

Hutch is on the phone. He is running his fingers through his hair, and Starsky can tell by the curve of his shoulders that his partner is tense.

“Yes, I know it’s a lot of money. I’m well aware of that fact. I just wasn’t expecting… Can you hold on a minute?” he says into the receiver. He gives Starsky a pained look “Say, buddy, I’ll meet you down in the car in a few minutes, okay?”

“It’s okay, I can wait. No problem.”

Hutch puts his hand over the receiver. “No, really, I mean it… Starsk, I’ll meet you downstairs. I have to take care of something here.” Hutch’s voice sounds pinched

“Sure. Okay.” Starsky goes out to the landing, pulling the door shut behind him. He can hear Hutch return to the phone conversation. “Listen, this has put me in a difficult position. I’m going to need to… ” Starsky knows he shouldn’t be listening. It is only when Hutch’s voice fades, as he most likely stretches the cord to the kitchen, that Starsky makes his way to the car.

Hutch comes down about ten minutes later and slides onto the passenger seat.

“Everything okay?” Starsky asks.

“Sorry about that. Thanks for waiting.”

“Hutch, is there anything… ?”

“Starsk, when are you going to retire that brown corduroy jacket?” Hutch interrupts. “Hasn’t it seen enough action?”

“I keep waitin’ for the elbows to go on it. These patches seem to have some sort of lifetime warranty thing going on,” Starsky answers, knowing full well that his question had been diverted. “Besides, I happen to like this jacket; the two of us have been through a lot together.”

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Starsky straightens his tie. “I know this shindig’s fancy, but check out Chief Ryan’s three-piece, striped number. And what’s with all his twitching? He looks like Raymond Burr forced to do a dance number.”

Hutch has to agree about the suit and thinks Ryan’s twitching is due to tension. Standing that close to the Commissioner would do that to even the most assured of men.

Starsky deftly lifts a drink off of the tray of a passing waitress. Taking one sip, he grimaces. “This is some of that non-alcoholic shit. Now why would someone waste perfectly good water on that?”

“Because too many have our homeless are also battling chemical addictions.” Both men turn to see a well-coifed, blond woman behind them. She is dressed in a white, lightweight wool dress, and looks to be about forty. “We thought serving alcohol at Samaritan House’s event would be sending a mixed message.”

She extends her hand to Hutch. “You must be the detective liaison for tonight. The Commissioner said you would be in attendance. Let me introduce myself. I am Gloria Wolfe. My husband Gerald and I are Samaritan House’s main benefactors.”

“I’m Detective Hutchinson.” Hutch catches the faint scent Charlie, the same perfume Abby wears. Hutch gestures towards Starsky. “In fact, as a show of support, the department decided to double our detectives here tonight.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wolfe.” Starsky extends his hand. “I’m Detective Starsky.”

Before Gloria has chance to shake it, she exclaims, “Oh excuse me, gentlemen. I see the mayor has arrived.”

Starsky and Hutch are left standing alone.

“You know what I don’t get, Hutch?”

“Hmmm?”

“Why all these important, well-dressed, rich people come to stuff like this, eat fancy snacks and hobnob.” Starsky grabs a canapé off a passing tray. “Don’t you think things are a little screwed up? I mean, all Gloria Wolfe would have to do is sell just two or three of those fancy rings she’s wearing. The money she would get for them would get about ten people off the street.” Starsky takes another swallow from his glass and frowns. “I mean, the little orchestra they’ve got, the expensive food, this whole high-class hoedown has got to have cost a bundle. Wouldn’t that money be better spent, say on sleeping bags, sack lunches or at the soup kitchen?”

“That’s the way of the world, Starsky. The reality is, for something like this, you got to spend money to get money.” Hutch gestures towards several well-dressed people standing near the door. “If I’m not mistaken, those are some of Bay City’s richest, and the Wolfes are hoping, some of their project’s benefactors.”

“I still don’t get it. Why all this pussyfooting around? If rich folks think they should support a place like Samaritan House, why not just send the money over directly? Why do they need a party to do it?”

“See and be seen, buddy,” Hutch sighs. “It’s the way the whole thing operates. Nothing is ever that simple. Which is why I… ”

“Jeeze, here comes Chief Ryan!” Starsky fiddles with his tie. “Just what we need. The man still hasn’t forgiven us for bustin’ in and searching his office.”

“Starsk, can you blame the guy?”

Starsky gives Hutch a crabby look.

“Detectives,” Chief Ryan’s expression is one of disapproval. “I wasn’t sure if it was you. Your casual attire and the length of your hair made me wonder if you were two homeless guests, a couple of the Wolfe’s projects. Either that, or a couple of criminals off the street that I was going to have to roust.”

Hutch changes his mind. He decides they could blame the guy.

“No Chief, we just wanted to cultivate a look of sticking with the men. You know, being approachable cops,” Hutch says smoothly.

“Yup, it’s all part of our intricate plan,” adds Starsky.

“Plan indeed, more like insubordination,” Chief Ryan comments tersely. “Do me a favor boys, the Commissioner is going to need a handshake from the Ninth Precinct. Please let it be from Detective Hutchinson. At least, he has the ability to look the part when he needs to, as well as not wearing a ridiculous tie.”

Chief Ryan walks away without another word.

“Boy, he and Mike Ferguson would have made quite a pair, eh?” Starsky laughs. “Do you think they ever worked together?”

Hutch leans in to look at Starsky’s tie. “Starsky, just what are those tiny pink things?” Starsky slaps his hand away and turns.

“I’ve got a mind to mingle, buddy.” Starsky winks and heads out the double doors to the outdoor pool. Hutch sees a bevy of ladies there which explains Starsky’s sudden interest in socializing. Hutch thinks he must be getting old. He decides, rather than follow Starsky, now would be a good time to go and shake the Commissioner’s hand. Might as well get it over with; completing their mission of public relations would allow them to leave the party sooner rather than later. An early bedtime was sounding better and better.

Spotting the Commissioner by the fireplace, Hutch dodges several trays of hors d'oeuvres and makes his way across the room.

The large man turns around and checks his watch. Hutch gives him a moment and makes his introductions.

The Commissioner’s handshake is a brutal, alpha male thing. It makes Hutch think of sled dogs. “So you’re one of Dobey’s men. Please don’t tell me you’re one of the idiots who stayed awake during last month’s staff meeting.”

Hutch doesn’t know how to respond to the Commissioner’s question. He is spared a probable wrong answer by the approach of a three men, one of whom is Chief Ryan.

“Commissioner? Hutchinson? I’d like to introduce you to Gerald Wolfe, Samaritan House’s benefactor.”

“Glad to meet you, Officer.” Gerald Wolfe shakes Hutch’s hand in a bone-crushing grip. “We depend on folks like you, officers in the trenches, to make our mission here at Samaritan House a successful one.” His voice reminds Hutch of a politician. “Officer Hutchings, I’d like you to meet my right hand man, Peter Roswell. Peter here is our general go-between. He’s the man who makes it all happen here at Samaritan House.”

Hutch shakes Roswell’s hand and gives him what he hopes is a pleasant smile. He thinks Roswell looks a little bit like Mr. Peanut, lacking only a top hat.

“I… ” Hutch starts.

“Would you excuse us, Officer? I see Gerald’s lovely wife may be preparing to say a few words. Gerald, after you?”

“Of course,” Hutch answers, dipping his head. He is relieved to avoid any further small talk.

“Officer Hutchinson?” He feels a touch on his upper arm. It is one of the waiters. “Sir, your captain called. I have a message for you. He wants you and your partner to check in with Northern Three about a situation.”

It seems to be Hutch’s lucky night. While he has seen more of Captain Ryan than he would have liked to, his contact with the Commissioner and the Samaritan House bigwigs was cut blissfully short. And now he is going to be saved from what would most likely be an excruciatingly heart-felt speech by the lovely Mrs. Wolfe.

He makes his way to the back yard where he sees his partner giving a poolside lovely a very small amount of personal space. He taps Starsky on the shoulder.

“Not now, Hutch. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Hey, buddy, we got a call,” Hutch says. “Sorry, miss, but Officer Friday here needs to get out and make the streets of Bay City safe for one and all.”

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“So why’ve we been called to this scene?” Starsky asks Officer Hansen who is signing off on the medical examiner’s forms. “It sounds like a typical street fight, nothing suspicious. Two guys have fight over a bucket of chicken. Both lose. Aside from the possibility of them going after each other with sporks, what’s the hitch?”

“Sir, I don’t think they were sporks, just regular knives,” the uniformed cop replies earnestly. “As to why you’re here, you’ll have to ask my partner. Cho’s the one with the hunch. He called Dobey, who I guess called you.” He points to a cop squatting in the alley, shining a flashlight over the ground next to the dumpster.

“Officer, what do you have?” Hutch asks Cho.

“Nothing maybe, just something that I noticed.” The policeman stands up. “Just a hunch.”

“Officer Cho, I’m a great believer in hunches. Spill it.”

“Well, Detective. Two days ago, I was at the scene where a man’s body was discovered. He was the bum found behind the White House Bar, a guy by the name of Barry Steinberg.” Hutch nods. He remembered. That was one of the names on the reports Dobey handed them that morning.

“But there wasn’t anything suspicious about that man’s death. He died from what appeared to be natural causes.” Starsky says as he comes up behind them. “What does it have to do with these two guys claimin’ ownership of what looks like a salute to the twenty-one piece special?”

“It’s this, Detectives.” Cho points his flashlight beam down on the ground. Its cone of light illuminates what looked like a painting done in chalk.

Hutch calls to the medical examiner. “Doc, can you bring one of those lights over here?”

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“So, what we have here is two death scenes, both accompanied by a chalk drawing. While we don’t have a photograph of the first one, Officer Cho confirms both were identical.” Dobey passes several Polaroids over to Starsky. “Any ideas?”

“I dunno. I mean it’s a picture of two guys and a donkey. One man is naked and on the ground. The other guy is givin’ the naked guy a drink. They don’t look like people from around here, more like something out of a history book or something.” Starsky passes the photos over to Hutch. “Giving a guy a drink? Steinberg may have died of thirst, I guess. He was apparently pretty bad off. But not the chicken guys; they both died of stab wounds, inflicted upon other. Of course, we won’t know for sure until the autopsy report comes out, but the medical examiner seemed pretty sure.”

Hutch studies the photo a moment and says, “I think it’s a rendition of the parable ‘The Good Samaritan,’ the story from the Bible.”

“How do you know?”

“I paid attention in Sunday school.” Hutch gives his partner a smile. Starsky looks skeptical. “Starsk, you would have, too, if your teacher smelled like White Shoulders and looked like Doris Day.”

“No chance of Sunday school for me, pal.” Starsky grins.

“Quit the clowning,” Dobey snorts. “So, assuming the three dead men didn’t draw the pictures themselves, and the deaths themselves are pretty cut and dried, then we must have some kook who comes by later and subjects us to an art lesson.”

“The question is why?” Starsky takes the photos back from Hutch.

Hutch looks thoughtful. “Maybe the drawings are some sort of social commentary?”

“Maybe,” Dobey tells them in dismissal. “But I need you to keep your ears and eyes open.”

“Don’t we always, Cap?”

Walking back into the squad room, Starsky gives a little in-place dance and boxes at his partner’s upper arm. “Hey, Hutch? You wanna grab some grub, play a few games at the Pits tonight? Fifteen bucks says I can take you in less than two rounds.”

“Can’t tonight, pal. I’ve got some stuff I have to do,” Hutch replies.

“C’mon. You afraid I’ll whale the tar out of you?” Starsky teases. “Been losin’ your touch with the pool cue?”

“I said, I can’t tonight,” Hutch’s voice is hesitant.

“What’s the deal, buddy? That’s the third time you’ve said no to going out this week. Something wrong? Ya not feelin’ good?”

“I feel fine.” Hutch doesn’t meet Starsky’s eyes. “I just have some stuff I have to take care of.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Hutch’s curt one word answer ends this conversation

Starsky spends the evening alone with a can of Chun King Chow Mien. He likes the way the crunchy noodles are in their own separate can on top. It makes him think of Seven-Up candy bars, and marvels how one candy bar can have seven flavors in their own little compartments. Now, that was something else, the guy who thought that thing up. The ability to keep things apart in one package like that? Genius.

He thinks of calling Hutch. He knows his partner’s mood has been touchy these last few days. Starsky can’t think of anything about their cases that stand out as particularly bothersome. The Peterson fiasco is frustrating, but nothing they haven’t seen before. The domestic last week was ugly, but now in the hands of someone else.

Starsky knows one thing that makes Hutch grumpy is when the job bleeds over into personal life, messing up his action in the chick department but Starsky can’t think of any women in Hutch’s life right now. Maybe that is the problem? No ladies?

Starsky turns on the television and falls asleep on the couch while watching “Baretta.” Starsky’s last thought that night is why in the hell a cop who’s never home would have a cockatoo.

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Sometimes the smell of chalk makes him sick. Sometimes it makes him sing. A hundred years ago, it made him feel really, really cold, like he would never be warm again.

When he listens to the sounds of the city, he hears it in the key of C sharp minor and it reminds him of Mahler’s Symphony Number Five. And that makes him want to cry.

When he sees the two men on the overpass, he thinks of Icarus, of flying and of being way too close.

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Known for his inability to stay out of the drunk tank for more than six weeks at a time as well as his predilection for Beefaroni, Teddy “Phi Ed” Kreddit, gains some small publicity of a different sort.

He is the one hundred and thirty-eight pound pile of blood, bones and rags that falls off from the 110 overpass onto West Adams, just missing a passing car.

The death of Teddy Kreddit would have been chalked up to an unfortunate accident, one fueled by alcohol and disorientation, if it weren’t for something found on the pavement on the bridge where Teddy had made his final fall.

Starsky and Hutch receive a call from Northern Two during their drive-through of sector three. Officer Cho and his partner have gotten a tip from a snitch and think the Zebra Unit may be interested.

After parking the Torino in the Pearson’s Plumbing parking lot, Starsky and Hutch make their way across the bridge to Teddy’s launching pad. Three people are already there, standing and looking down at the tarmac. Two of these people are Officer Cho and his partner, Hansen.

“What ya got, boys?” Starsky asks. He has to raise his voice in order to be heard over the roar of traffic below.

“Robbie here says this drawing appeared last night,” Cho answers, jerking his head towards a man and a bike laden with bags of empty bottles. “He gave us a call. We thought we’d come down and take a look. Couldn’t hurt, you guys being on the same shift we are today.”

Hutch looks down at the picture on the ground. It is big, about two feet by two feet and covers the walkway’s width. One set of bicycle tracks goes through it, close to the donkey and in fact, just missing the asses’ ass.

Hutch takes Cho aside and gives him ten bucks. “Give it to your angel. Tell Robbie we appreciate his help. Between you and me, this picture may not mean anything, but it doesn’t hurt to keep the lines of communication open.” Cho nods and proceeds to ease Robbie and his bike back from the drawing.

“I asked Officer Hansen to call in for a police photographer,” Starsky says as he studies the sketch. He looks at it from one direction, waits for a break in the traffic and walks around to look at from the other side. “It’s the same thing as the one behind the White House Bar, ‘The Good Silmarillion’,” Starsky observes.

“That’s Samaritan, Starsk, not Silmarillion.”

“Well, the title’s not the only thing that’s different, Hutch. Look there.” Starsky points to the object in the clothed man’s hand. Instead of offering water to the naked person on the ground, the man was clearly holding a knife to his throat, carving a necklace of red.

“It seems this Good Samaritan is more like a Mediocre, perhaps an Up-to-No Good Samaritan,” Starsky notes.

“Looks like it.” Hutch squats. “But why draw it here? And what’s with the variation?”

“Beats me. We both read the medical examiner’s report on those two guys in the knife fight, as well as Barry Steinberg’s. The M.E. didn’t raise any red flags on the cause of those deaths. And Phi Ed’s death seemed to be along the same lines; soused-up homeless guy leans a little too far over the edge and takes a swan dive.”

“Yet, here is a third picture, this one different from the other two.”

Hutch stands and looks out over the underpass. A passing semi behind them blows his hair forward. He has to put a hand out to steady himself against the railing.

Starsky puts his hand on his partner’s arm. “Careful, buddy.”

“You know, he probably didn’t have time to think of a thing,” Hutch muses, looking down at the speeding traffic below. “He only had about half a second before hitting the ground. He probably felt like he was flying.”

Starsky squares his jaw and takes a deep breath. “Really.”

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“You gonna eat that?” Starsky points to the croissant on Hutch’s plate.

“No.”

Starsky snags the pastry, along with the two cookies on Hutch’s plate. “What do you take them for if you aren’t gonna eat them?”

“I didn’t take them. Donna keeps putting them on my plate. I think she thinks I’m too skinny. She calls me Officer Jack Spratt.”

Starsky looks up at the cafeteria line. The line server, Donna, gives him a little wink. He gives her a big smile and a little wave. “I think Donna’s right. It’s gonna take a pretty big man to keep up to her.”

“Either that, or she’s after your body, Romeo. Maybe she knows you’re the one that ultimately eats what she foists onto me?”

Starsky looks alarmed and quickly puts the sweets down. “You think?”

“There’s a good possibility, pal.” Hutch busies himself, gathering up his plate and tray. “Watch out, here comes Dobey. And he looks like he’s loaded for bear.”

“It beats being loaded for beer. I can’t afford to lose any more money to him if he’s gonna horn in our pool game tonight.”

“What pool game tonight?”

“The one you’re probably going to bail on again, like you have for the last few.

Hutch doesn’t have an answer for that.

“Starsky, Hutchinson!” Dobey bellows, reaching their table

“Yeah, Cap.”

“You seem to have a good rapport with the homeless community, more so than some of my other men,” Dobey says.

Starsky shrugs. “It helps not to automatically assume they’re all criminals.”

“Don’t be a smart alec.” Dobey gives him a look. “Listen, I just got word from two of Bay City’s hoi polloi, Gerald and Gloria Wolfe. They’re in the process of getting some major Federal government grants for their shelter. They’re asking for our help in steering the folks our officers have contact with towards their institution. Something about percentages, bottom lines, government stuff. They need to show they are making a difference.”

“We can do that.” Starsky gestures towards the croissant and cookies on Hutch’s plate. “Cap? Help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Hutch watches Donna give Dobey a speculative eye. He asks his partner as they leave the cafeteria, “You got any worries about possibly deflecting the lovely Donna’s attentions over to our boss?”

“Naw, Edith can take down anyone, male or female, in two out of three falls. I know I wouldn’t tangle with her.”

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A run-in with Chief Ryan that afternoon makes Starsky wish he and Hutch could have Edith Dobey for back-up; not only could she have taken Ryan down, but she would’ve gotten away with it.

Ryan, cross and clutching several manila folders, corners them in the lobby, near the elevator.

“What’s going on with you two clowns? Not only do I have the head of one of our biggest philanthropic organizations on my tail, but some cub reporter in the Dispatch has picked up on some goofy human interest element at the scene of the latest homeless deaths, something about chalk drawings.” Ryan looks like a teakettle ready to blow its top. “I thought you two were supposed to be helping, not speculating on someone’s attempt at art history. Do you know how much money, as well as goodwill, Samaritan House brings to Bay City? Are you aware they are up for a very large federal grant, a grant which you two idiots seem to have dismissed entirely?”

“Now, wait a minute, Chief. First of all, neither one of us talked to the press!” Starsky’s voice is sharp. “Second of all, our job as cops is to withhold the law. So until we get information that an actual law is broken, our hands are tied.”

“And, not only is our job to uphold the laws as they are written by the court, our job is certainly not to prance and preen so that the Wolfes can pull in yet another federal grant.” Hutch’s says icily. Starsky almost turns to look at his partner. Something about the way he sounded makes Starsky wonder if there’s something more than Hutch’s usual prickliness.

“Let me repeat, a bunch of street people dying, nature taking its course, is one thing, but I will not have the reputation, nor the coffers, of this city take a backseat to someone’s idea of speculative hogwash. What I want is for you morons to get the hell out of this lobby and get some real police work done for a change.” The ding of the elevator makes Ryan turn his back on them. “Think you can manage that?”

As Ryan disappears into the elevator, Starsky hears a whoosh of breath escape his partner. He looks around and sees that their public thrashing has attracted quite an audience.

“Move along, folks, there’s nothing to see here.” Hutch waves his hand. Turning to talk to Starsky, he asks in a low voice, “So who contacted the press?”

“Probably Robbie, the snitch with the bike. If it meant another twenty in his pocket, can you blame him?” Starsky shrugs. “But listen, is that all you’re going to say? Chief Ryan nearly rips us a new one and that’s all you want to know? ‘Who called the Dispatch?’”

“Well, it’s either that or punch a wall.”

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Delores Blanquet is found burnt to death near beneath an underpass. Starsky and Hutch, hearing the call over Dispatch, make it to the scene just as the hearse pulls away. The lab boys are packing up.

“What’cha got, Doc?” Starsky scrunches his nose. The odor of wood smoke and of burnt flesh makes him wish he hadn’t insisted on consuming an entire Papa Bear Burger Basket for lunch. That meal, the excessive heat of the day and the smell is doing nasty things to his stomach.

“She’s been dead probably two, three days, though it’s hard to tell with the extent of those burns.” The medical examiner shakes his head. “It’s pretty ugly. What she was doing starting a barrel fire in this heat is a mystery. And with gasoline, for God’s sake. It was a death sentence the minute she struck the match. Still, if the tox screen comes back clean, and if there are no witnesses, it will most likely be ruled an accident.”

He motions towards a woman sitting on a pallet pile, a little ways uphill from the road below. “Her name’s Maria Cordova. She appears to be a friend and may have some more information.”

Starsky motions towards the sitting woman. “You want to talk to her while I look around?” Hutch nods and heads over to Maria Cordova.

Starsky pokes around the area by the bridge pilings. While there is evidence of other past inhabitants, it appears as though Delores is its only current resident. Her meager belongings subsist of a sleeping bag and a bag of clothes. He can hear Hutch questioning the dead woman’s friend.

“Delores, she good lady. She done work hard at Western Hotel. She was a maid there.” Maria shakes her head. “No right she get fired. No right at all.”

“What was she fired for?”

“She clean rooms, but boss say she too dirty. So Delores use shower in room before she cleaned it. So she get fired.”

Starsky can see Hutch close his eyes and shake his head. It makes him wish he could put his hand on his partner’s arm, right then. But instead he works his way up a little further along the bridge abutment.

“Delores, she go to shelter, does some cleaning there. But now this.”

Their voices fade out as Starsky makes the rounds to a small, protected area under the bridge. He avoids the area where yellow, plastic tape, indicating where Delores’ body was found. Instead he concentrates on looking up. Walking a few feet to the left, he looks up again, this time from a different angle.

It doesn’t take long to find what he thought he might see.

“Hey, Hutch!” His partner finishes up with Maria Cordova, gives her a small pat on the shoulder and heads over to where Starsky is standing. He turns to see what Starsky is staring at.

It is another chalk drawing, about two by three feet, and one that can be seen from where they are standing.

“So, what do you think, Hutch?” Starsky is puzzled. “It looks really familiar.”

The sketch is a sumptuous one, quite different from the browns and beiges of the previous three. Done in dark blues, yellows and blacks, the majority of the drawing depicts a strange nighttime sky, one with planets of burning gold. The entire sky swirls with energy. A small building, almost like an afterthought, is in the background.

“I know what that is, Starsk. It’s a rendition of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” Hutch moves closer, and Starsky follows him.

“Is there any connection between the Good Samaritan and Starry Night?”

“Not that I know of, at least historically or artistically.” Hutch rubs his eyes and takes took another look. “I think I see something here though. If I remember correctly, the buildings in Van Gogh’s original painting were of the asylum in Saint-Remy. This is where it differs from this one here. The building is different. It looks completely modern, certainly not the style of the rest of the painting.”

“Well, aren’t you a smarty-pants.” Starsky is impressed. “You know what that building looks like, Hutch?”

“Hmmm?”

“It looks like the Samaritan House. See those bright red double doors? I recognize them from the brochure.” Starsky remembers thinking the color reminded him of blood.

“So it is. The question is why is this thing on the bridge?” Hutch rubs his face. The heat of the day has made him flushed.

“Maybe the artist is suggesting Delores would have been helped by staying there and not sleeping underneath this stinkin’ bridge.” Starsky looks around, feeling angry. “I mean, I can’t think of a worse place to live. The heat, the smell, this whole place makes my stomach feel like it’s gonna take a trip somewhere, a trip without the rest of me.”

“Before they leave, we need to get a crime lab person down here to take a photo of this thing.” Hutch sounds really tired. “Officer Cho isn’t the only one with a hunch. Five deaths and four drawings perhaps is more than what Chief Ryan would call so coldly, ‘nature taking its course.’”

Starsky looks around for Maria Cordova. She is gone.

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Starsky finally thinks he has Hutch’s problem figured out. When Hutch admits to failing to pick his car up at Merle’s, it hits Starsky like a ton of bricks.

It surprises him that he hadn’t seen the clues sooner.

Hutch turning down pool games?

Hutch saying no to going out for dinner?

Hutch’s tense phone call when Starsky was told to go wait in the car, the call that mentioned money?

Hutch’s insistence that Starsky pay for two month’s bar tabs?

Hutch’s stalling in picking up his car after getting the battery replaced?

They’re all clues which point to money problems. Starsky doesn’t know why Hutch might be running short in the finance department; he can’t think of any big expenses lately. And although Starsky feels hurt that Hutch thinks he has to conceal his cash flow problem, he figures it is some Hutchinson pride thing.

Starsky decides he will just have to be on the lookout for any way he can help, without letting on that he knows.

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What turns Chief Ryan into a frothing bat out of hell is the four by six foot piece of art which appears on the sidewalk in front of Metro. It makes its debut the morning after his public dressing down of Starsky and Hutch in the lobby.

This one is a lush rendition of what appears to be Bay City depicted as the Garden of Eden. Rich and dense, the artwork portrayed is an extravagant landscape filled with fruit trees, some public buses, a waterfall, Bay City’s Convention Center, plump and romping wildlife, one serpent twisted around a tree trunk and two naked men.

“I knew Chief Ryan had chubby cheeks, but I guess I didn’t realize they’d be so hairless and pink,” Starsky observes as he watches the police photographer snap evidence photos.

“You aren’t kidding,” notes Hutch, tilting his head to the side. “And while I knew the Commissioner was a big man, I guess I never imagined he was that large. Now I know why every picture I see of the Commissioner’s wife shows her with such big smile on her face.”

Starsky has to agree.

Chief Ryan is keeping observers back, bullhorn in one hand. He is standing in front of a street cleaner, hastily called from the city garage. Hutch knows just as soon as the display is properly documented, Ryan will direct a large stream of water to the mural in front of them.

Hutch is correct. As soon as the last flash of the police photographer’s camera goes off, Ryan gives the word. The entire drawing is obliterated within seconds.

It isn’t soon enough to keep Stu Bassett, Dispatch photographer, from getting what he needs for the front page of the evening edition.

That night, only a couple of strategically placed black bars keep the Dispatch even remotely family-friendly.

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“Say, Hutch. I’m buyin’ lunch today, so you’d better start thinking of where we’re gonna make a stop,” Starsky announces, his hands tight on the Torino’s steering wheel. “And no turnin’ me down again. You do it a third time, and I’m gonna think you don’t want me for a friend anymore.”

“I don’t know why you keep insisting on picking up the bill lately. It makes me wonder what you’re up to, pal,” Hutch says, looking out of the window. “It makes me wonder if it has anything to do with Merle telling me, when I went to pick up my car, that there was no charge. He said something about using my car as a worse-case scenario to some apprentice he’s training.”

That’s when Hutch turns to stare at his partner. Starsky can feel eyes on him, even without taking his own eyes off the road.

“While that sounds fishy, don’t look at me, pal. I got better things to do than to keep your dump of a car runnin’ any longer than it needs to.”

There is a long silence.

Pulling up in front of Samaritan House is what saves Starsky from more interrogation.

“Remind me again of why we are here, Hutch,” Starsky asks, turning in the seat. “I mean, sure, we’ve got three instances of that good Samaritan drawing, but they’re long shots to be tied to this place. I can think of two Bay City churches, that Christian bookstore over on Walsh and a handful of other Samaritan references in this fine city of ours, but we’re not checking them out. If it weren’t for that ‘Starry Night’ variation, I’d say we were barkin’ up an empty tree.”

“True. But think of it this way,” Hutch points out. “We can kill a couple of birds with our stone toss here; not only can we check out the latest five deaths and possible connections but we can show our presence at the shelter, making a public relations moment.“

“All those deaths, may I remind you, are officially natural causes, or in any case, not homicides.”

“Don’t you feel any sort of a hunch with this, Starsk? Even without the ‘Starry Night’ strangeness? That Garden of Eden rendition?”

The only hunch Starsky is feeling lately is the one that telling him Hutch is having financial difficulties. Starsky wonders if he can pull off having Hutch win some fake grocery store contest, one that will get some provisions into his kitchen. He wonders if he can ask someone in Mimeo to help him whip up an official looking document, one he can tuck in an envelope with a couple of twenties. Hutch would never know it was him and that he didn’t win some sweepstake from Vons.

“Starsky, you even hearing me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“I just think it’s a good idea for us to visit Samaritan House. Even if there aren’t any connections with the five dead people and the shelter, the Wolfes will probably appreciate us taking an interest in their project.”

“I agree.” Starsky shrugs.

“So then, are you coming or not?”

“Promise we stop at Weenie Wonderland for lunch afterwards?” Starsky says, getting out of the car.

Hutch promises.

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Samaritan House is getting ready to serve the noon meal. There is a small crowd of people outside. It is mostly men, but some women and children, too. The ground is littered with cigarette butts and more than a few bicycles are leaned up against the trees in the small courtyard. Shopping carts abound and Hutch sees a red Radio Flyer wagon with some children’s toys and blankets. Someone has a transistor radio and is listening to a Padres game.

Starsky and Hutch go in through the front door. They show the woman at the front desk their badges.

“Who ya looking for?” she barely looks at them as she checks off names and counts the people coming in the door. Her voice is the rasp of a heavy smoker.

“Peter Roswell, one of the Wolfes, someone who give us some information.”

“Gerald Wolfe is never around unless a big wig visits. Peter Roswell’s at some meeting downtown. Gloria Wolfe was here to do her weekly sermonette, but you just missed her.”

“Any chance you can talk to us?”

“If you wait until I check the lunch crowd in, perhaps.”

“How long?”

“Give me about ten minutes.”

It gives Starsky and Hutch some time to walk through the dining room. The long tables are nearly full. Hot dogs, baked beans and canned peaches are the day’s offering. Hutch recognizes a couple of their regular snitches. Both pretend not to recognize him, and he does the same. He also recognizes one of the night janitors who cleans the bathrooms at Metro. She is eating with two small children. Her face turns red when she sees him. Hutch turns his head away.

The woman at the front desk motions for them to come outside. She sits down on one of the benches in the front. She pulls out a cigarette and a Bic lighter. Starsky takes the lighter from her and flicks it, holding the flame to her cigarette. She takes a few puffs and takes the Bic back.

“Name’s Wilma. I do the meal checkin. I won’t snitch for you, but might be able to answer some questions.” She gives Starsky a little smile. “It’s not often such a cute guy lights my fire, if you know what I mean.”

Hutch sees his partner work his boyish charms and lets him commandeer the conversation.

“We’re tryin’ to see if there is any connection among some folks that have been found dead.”

“What’re the cops so interested in anyone that hangs around here, unless it is because you think one of us homeless bums is a killer.” Wilma’s face gets hard. “That it?”

“No, we’re just lookin’ into whether Teddy Kreddit, Delores Blanquet and Barry Steinberg knew each other or frequented Samaritan House.”

“Phi Ed and Delores hung around here. Don’t know the Barry guy. You could check Cabrini Place or the Salvation Army. And as for knowing each other? We all know each other. And at the same time, we’re all complete strangers. Ya don’t wanna get too close.” Wilma finishes her cigarette and lights another one off the end of it.

“Your bosses okay?”

“Like I said, I never see Mr. Wolfe.” Wilma shrugs. “Mr. Roswell’s okay, he’s around a lot, but I ‘spose he’s gotta be bein’ the accountant and general manager and all.”

“How about Mrs. Wolfe?”

“Now there’s a piece of work. She likes to stop in to bring fresh flowers for the tables. Toys for the kids, though she always forgets the batteries.” Wilma laughs. “Last week, she came with a whole crate of something she called calamari. Gave it to the kitchen. Don’t know if it was leftover from a party or if she thought we could use some cultivatin’, but there you have it.”

Hutch raises his eyebrows. “Calamari?”

“What’s that, Hutch?”

“Squid.”

“No kiddin’?” Starsky looks horrified. “And people ate it?”

“Some did, some didn’t. You sure won’t catch me putting something in my mouth that looks like rubber bands.”

Wilma leans over a little and says, “Here’s three things you should know about Gloria Wolfe. One, her sermonettes stink. They are full of the power of positive thinking, smiles and rainbows. Second, her little tutorial on napkin folding was a crock; there’s no way those things looked like swans. And third, I think she’s got a thing for Roswell. Don’t quote me on it, but I know that shit when I see it.” Gloria bends in half with a coughing fit, smoke comes out of her nose. “Jesus, just call me a dragon.”

Starsky smiles. “You’re a dragon.”

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The stop at Weenie Wonderland proves to be an unmitigated success. Now Starsky has the chorus to “The Surry with the Fringe on Top,” bouncing about in his head.

Sitting in the car, Hutch consumes his California Special Number Two with obvious pleasure.

“Don’t know why anyone would eat a hot dog with alfalfa sprouts and avocado, but you seem to doing a fine job of it,” Starsky observes.

“Beats your choice of sustenance, a hot dog with Cheez Whiz and dill pickles,” Hutch says “I don’t know how you’re going to keep that down.”

“I’m a man of amazing talents, Hutch.”

“Another amazing thing is that this place was not charging for the lunches of anyone who knew both the words and the tune to a song from ‘Oklahoma’,” Hutch sounds impressed. “Guess I should’ve known you would.”

“You bet I know both. I wouldn’t lie to anyone about a thing like that,” laughs Starsky. “I’m just glad you were able to sing along with me, even if it was just a few lines.”

They ate in silence for a while. The heat of the day made Starsky’s head buzz. It was either that, or the combination of processed cheese spray on processed meat, vinegar and Broadway show tunes twanging his brain.

“Say, Starsk, what did you think of Samaritan House?”

“I think if seems like an okay place. I wouldn’t want to sit through Gloria Wolfe’s overwrought speeches to in order to eat. Talk about no such thing as a free lunch.”

Hutch gestures towards the remains of their hotdog meal. “Aside from ours today?”

Starsky tilts his head in agreement.

“And if Dragon Wilma is right,” Hutch continues, “Gloria has the hots for the Roswell.”

“Ya think?”

“Yeah, I think. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has strayed from their marriage vows.”

“You’d think the rich would, I dunno, be classier about it or something.” Starsky crumples up his paper sack.

“Why should the rich be any different from anyone else, buddy?”

“Just seems like they would be.” Starsky starts the Torino’s engine. “Not like I’m basin’ it on personal experience or anything. The only rich person I personally know is Huggy after he wins a few too many games of pool.”

Hutch appears to take a sudden interest in gathering up their lunch trash.

“Hutch, I’ve got the Peterson deposition to finish up, plus the Casey hearing this afternoon. Do you want me to drop you at Metro before I head out?”

“That sounds fine. I need to bug out around 3:00.”

“What for?”

“Something personal, no big deal.”

“Hutch. What?”

Hutch doesn’t respond.

“It can’t be a haircut, it’s so short right now, I swear you are tryin’ to impress Chief Ryan.”

“No chance of that.”

“You got some doctor appointment? Something wrong?”

“It’s nothing, Starsk, not a big deal.”

“Is there something you’re not tellin’ me, Hutch?” Starsky pulls the Torino up to his usual lucky parking place in front of Metro. “You in trouble of any sort?”

Hutch’s face shuts down. He grabs the remains of their lunch and his light jacket. “It’s a bitch, having to wear long sleeves when it’s about ninety-five degrees out. Remind me to start looking for another job.”

For a moment, Starsky isn’t sure if his partner is joking or not.

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“Hey, Hutch!” Starsky says as he bounds up the stairs to Venice Place. He figures he’d better give Hutch some warning, in case his partner is counting spare change on his table or washing his clothes in the sink in an effort to save money at the Fluff ‘N Dry.

Not hearing an answer, he raps Hutch’s front door and lets himself in. “Hey, pal, I come bearing beer.”

He finds Hutch in the greenhouse, standing in the dark.

&n