A World Full of Jokers

Verlaine

“Hey, what’s going on in here now? And where’s my partner?” Starsky demanded.

“This is a fund-raising evening, hosted by the Friends of the Bay City Museum.” The guard gave him a fake apologetic look as he took in Starsky’s battered sneakers and clinging jeans. “I’m sorry, sir, but there is a dress code for the evening.”

“I’m not a guest, I’m a cop, remember? You’re the one that made the call.”

“There must be a mistake, officer,” the guard said stiffly. “Nobody reported anything to me, and I didn’t make any calls.”

Starsky blinked. The feeling of unreality and danger that had swamped him in the basement returned with a rush. “Sure you did,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “You were talkin’ to me and my partner fifteen minutes ago. Said there was an alarm signal, and your partner disappeared when he went down to check it out.”

“I’m sorry, officer, but that’s definitely wrong. I’ve never seen you before in my life. And I’m the only person on desk duty here tonight.”

With a half-laugh, Starsky looked around the entrance hall. “Okay, you got me. Good joke. I don’t know how this all got set up so fast, but it’s a joke, right?” He looked around, searching for the members of the squad who had to be hiding and snickering behind the folding screens and display cases. “Whose bright idea was it? Babcock? Estevez?”

The guard didn’t seem inclined to play along. “There’s no joke, sir.” Starsky had a feeling his sudden demotion to civilian again was a sign of trouble. “Nobody called the police, and there’s been no trouble here this evening. I think you better move along quietly before you disturb the guests. The mayor’s here, you know, and Senator Lowell, and other very important people. This isn’t the place for whatever kind of problem you’ve got.” He gripped Starsky’s arm, urging him firmly toward the exit.

For an instant, rage gripped Starsky so strongly he could scarcely breathe. He fought the temptation to pull out his gun and show this little twerp what a problem really was. Using all his will power, he brought himself under control. He knew himself well enough to understand that a large part of the rage was covering fear, and he also knew he couldn’t let himself give in to it. Whatever was going on was starting to feel like major trouble for his missing partner. Hutch needed him free and thinking straight. He couldn’t afford to lash out and start a confrontation that might get him tangled up with suits whose only concern was keeping everything calm and quiet for the big shots.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he pulled his badge from inside his jacket. “Now. Pay attention. This is a badge. I am a cop. There was a call about trouble here and my partner and I responded. Now you wanna cooperate a little here, or do I put the cuffs on you in front of all these important people?”

The sight of the badge brought the guard to a standstill. He squinted at it for a moment and then dropped his hand. “Look, uh, Sergeant, could we maybe do this someplace besides the front door? There’s some really important people here tonight . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, you already told me that.”

“ . . . and they won’t like having their fancy shindig disturbed. There’s a lot of money on the line tonight for the museum, and if things get uncomfortable for anybody, we’ll both lose our jobs.” The guard’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper, and he was once more trying, though more subtly this time, to urge Starsky out of the main lobby area.

Starsky dug in his heels.

“Think real hard now,” he said sweetly. “You still say you didn’t call us?”

“No!” The young man nearly shouted and then glanced around, eyes wide. “For the last time, I did not call the police,” he hissed. “And if anybody else did, they didn’t tell me, and they didn’t report any trouble to me. Now would you please get out of here before my boss sees you?”

“And you haven’t seen my partner? Tall blond guy with a mustache, wearing a green and white jacket?” Starsky said as evenly as possible.

“If you have a partner, I haven’t seen him,” the guard said desperately. “I’m telling you, nothing’s happened here all night!”

He’s tellin’ the truth.

The realization hit Starsky so hard that he felt a moment of vertigo. Over the years, his natural instinct for seeing the truth had been sharpened by experience with questioning with frauds and phonies of every description. And he was seeing truth now. In the face of everything he knew had happened to him in the past hour, Starsky could tell that as far as the guard was concerned, every word he said was true.

What in God’s name is going on?

Panic wasn’t far off, but he forced it back with sheer willpower.

Hutch needs help. Gotta hold it together.

Starsky focused firmly on the image of his partner tucked away in some quiet corner of his heart. The calm center of a world all too often torn apart by violence and brutality, the unwavering support in times of danger and pain, the source of strength for body and soul through every trial. Hutch needed help. Starsky had to keep his act together enough to make sure there would be help. That’s all there was to it.

“Look, Detective, please, can’t you just go?” The guard was once more tugging on Starsky’s sleeve, and the whine in his voice was more pronounced. “Check in with your people again? Maybe—”

“All right, all right, I’m leaving!” With a snarled curse, Starsky turned and shouldered his way through the crush to the front door, this time collecting truly annoyed looks and too angry to care. The only thing that kept him moving forward was the growing feeling of danger, telling him he had to get to the Torino to call this in and get help looking for Hutch.

Pushing roughly through the door, he was halfway across the top of the stairs when he was halted by another shock. The storm that had been battering the city had cleared completely, leaving not a cloud in the night sky. Even stranger, there was no sign of its passing. All around, streetlights and windows glowed, the pavement was dry, and there was no trace of storm debris littering the gutters. There was no mud on any of the swanky cars pulling up at the curb, and well-dressed people piled out and strolled up the stairs, laughing and chattering, without either raincoats or umbrellas.

As he looked down to the street, a dark late-model Cadillac drew up below him, and a uniformed police officer got out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear door. At the sight of the man stepping from the car, Starsky felt his heart nearly slam to a stop.

Hutch.

Hutch—in an expensive suit that fit him better than anything Starsky had ever seen him wear and a pair of shoes that probably cost more than the two of them together took home in a month, with his hair cut in the latest conservative style and a flash of gold watch on his wrist. For a moment Starsky was sure he was having hallucinations. That simply could not be Hutch down there, looking so much like the old pictures of his father during his days as a CEO.

Finally he managed to catch his breath and got his legs to move. He stumbled down the steps toward his partner, calling his name.

“Hutch!” He gasped out as he finally stopped in front of the other man. “What the fuck is goin’ on here?”

Hutch turned to look at him, and the expression of disgust and annoyance crossing his face was like a punch in the solar plexus. “Oh, for God’s sake. You’ve got some nerve. What are you doing here?”

“Wha—what? What’m I doin’ here? What’re you doing . . . dressed up like somebody outta GQ . . . where’d you get that suit anyway . . . and how’d you get your hair cut so fast . . .”

Starsky knew he was babbling, but the sight of Hutch up close unnerved him even more than seeing him step out of the car so unexpectedly. His partner looked cold. The normally warm blue eyes were chips of topaz, his face harshly set, and under his mustache—his neatly trimmed mustache, Starsky noted with a feeling of unreality—his lips compressed into a grimace of distaste. Hutch had never looked at him like that, not when he was puking drunk, not even when he had pulled some really dumb practical joke with Hutch as the hapless victim.

“Hutch?” His voice trailed off miserably.

“You’ve run through just about all the excuses you’ve got, Starsky.” Hutch’s voice was flat and deadly. “It’s bad enough you’re a useless fuck-up on work time. If you’re stupid enough to cause a scene at a public function then you’ve given me all I need to finally have your badge pulled.”

“My badge? Hutch! What’re you, crazy?” Starsky reached to touch the other man’s arm and watched in horrified shock as Hutch stepped back out of reach, the grimace of distaste growing almost to a snarl.

“Dobey! Get this drunk piece of shit out of here!” Hutch said sharply, and then turned back to the car, shutting Starsky out as completely as if he no longer existed.

As Starsky was about to take a step forward, find something to say that would end this nightmare, a hard hand caught his arm and a familiar voice behind him said, “You heard the man. Let’s go.”

He tried to shrug the hold off, still struggling to move, and the hand tightened brutally on the pressure point at his elbow, yanking him around so hard he nearly fell.

“Christ, Starsky,” Dobey said, “don’t you get tired of finding ways to get in trouble?”

Starsky could hear himself breathing in rapid shallow gasps, unable to get any air into his straining lungs. The man holding him was Dobey, without a doubt—thinner by around fifty pounds, and dressed in a patrolman’s uniform—but nevertheless unmistakably Harold Dobey, looking just as furious as his captain ever did when faced with a wayward Starsky. Too stunned to resist, Starsky let himself be muscled away from the staircase and off to the corner of the building, Dobey keeping himself between Starsky and the last stragglers still making their way into the museum. Starsky threw one desperate glance over his shoulder, to see Hutch—God, that can’t be Hutch!—shoot his cuffs, straighten his tie, and assist a slim brunette out of the car with a gallant little half bow.

Before Starsky could recognize her, Dobey grabbed the front of his jacket and slammed him sharply against the wall. “Looks like IA finally owns your ass, boy. The lieutenant’s just been waiting for you to fuck up again and you’re right on schedule.” Starsky didn’t respond. “Starsky! Just what are you stoned on this time?” Dobey’s voice was harsh, without a trace of the concern Starsky was used to hearing even the angriest of the captain’s tirades.

“I dunno.” Starsky’s voice sounded unnaturally calm to his own ears. “What was that stuff Alice drank before she fell into the rabbit hole?”

Dobey shook his head. “You could have been a good cop once. What a damn waste of a badge.”

“Tell me something,” Starsky said in that same eerily calm voice. “What’s the date?”

Dobey’s expression twisted from anger to something close to contemptuous pity. “Thursday, September 16, 1982. You need to know the time, too? Maybe your address?”

If anything had been able to penetrate Starsky’s horrified daze, the disgust in Dobey’s voice would have shamed him. As it was, he could barely assimilate it.

“And Hutch . . . ”

“Lieutenant Hutchinson!” Dobey barked. “And the lieutenant will be wanting to see you tomorrow morning in his office—clean and sober for a change.” The older man gave a cruel little smile. “Do us all a favor, Starsky. Don’t show up.” With one final shove, he ground Starsky back against the wall, and then let go, ostentatiously wiping his hands on his pants as he turned away.

For a minute Starsky simply leaned against the wall, too numb to move. He was dimly aware that his arm was throbbing where Dobey—Dobey! What the hell?—had squeezed it. His shoulders ached from being slammed against the wall, but his physical discomfort seemed far away.

It’s the right date. It looks like Hutch. It looks like Dobey. But—

His mind began to skitter like an animal caught in a trap. The panic he’d held under control since the moment Hutch hadn’t answered his call built inside him, growing into something with the potential to rip his mind loose and leave him adrift in this nightmare with no way out. With a snarl, he grabbed his elbow exactly where Dobey had and ground his thumb into the bruise forming there until the bolt of pain made his eyes water. Brutal but effective, the physical shock cleared his head enough to tamp down the fear and allow him to think.

They’re all fakes. It’s the only answer. This whole thing’s some kind of a setup, like Terry Nash. But there’s so goddamn many of them! Gotta get away from here. Gotta get help so I can find Hutch. Gotta find somebody that’s not in on it.

He straightened his jacket, wincing at the pull through his back. Whoever this fake Dobey guy is, he’s one strong sonofabitch. With a quick glance to make sure no one was paying attention, Starsky stepped around the corner of the building onto the side street where the Torino was parked.

And stopped dead.

Faintly, over the white noise in his ears, he heard a high whimpering sound. The still-functioning part of his brain told him he was the one making it. His knees weakened and he slid down the wall of the museum to end up half-kneeling on the sidewalk, shaking his head in disbelief.

The Torino was gone.