discoveredinalj | I Can Still Dance with a Drink in My Hand, Part 1/3

Hi, everyone! My answer to this month's challenge is a crossover. It starts in Starsky and Hutch land but not to fear, Bodie and Doyle get equal time in the spotlight. It’s also a gen story – sort of. There’s no slash, but there is a lot of sex, which I can’t really call het, because it’s largely out of our main characters’ control. If that makes no sense, don’t worry. Just trust me. It’ll be a fun ride (for the readers, anyway).

I Can Still Dance with a Drink in My Hand

Chapter 1

Bay City

“Wow.”

Starsky stepped back and looked up, ignoring the flash of the police photographer’s camera.

“Oh, wow.”

The shark was hanging by its tail at the end of the pier, stark white on black, outlined against the night by the floodlights. From this angle Starsky could see clearly that its belly had been slit open, the contents spilling out onto the weathered planks. A bloodless arm hung out of the stomach, the skin pitted and peeling. It looked like something out of a horror film. A particularly cheap horror film, whose prop people had used old cheese as material for the fake dead bodies.

A young man in shorts and sandals was babbling to a uniformed officer, “...I told Ricky that sharks will eat all kinds of things, and then I cut it open ‘cause I figured, you know, we might get a buoy or a surfboard or something, and that... that... thing came out. I didn’t touch it. I called you guys right off. And...”

“Ah, Starsky and Hutchinson.”

Starsky turned as a gray haired man walked up and stopped to stand beside him, looking at the shark.

“Andy,” said Hutch. “I’m surprised to see you out from behind your microscope.”

Andy’s shoulders had the stoop of a man who’d spent his life at a forensic table, probing into the secrets of the dead. He pushed his glasses up his nose, smiling. “It’s not every day we find a body in a shark.”

Starsky looked back at the six foot great white. “Yeah. I mean, wow.” It was all he could say. He’d done a u-turn the moment he heard the call on the radio, and had peeled rubber all the way here. It was Jaws. Big as life and twice as real.

“We’re not really just sight-seeing,” said Hutch.

“Yes we are,” said Starsky. He didn’t see any reason to deny it. There were dozens of people milling around, far more than necessary for a single dead body. Lab people, print people, photo people. Trucks and antennas everywhere and a news chopper circling overhead. Reporters’ cameras had already started flashing from the barricades. This was going to be front page news by morning.

“We were in the area,” said Hutch.

“Only two jurisdictions away.” Starsky ignored the dirty look Hutch gave him.

Andy smiled tolerantly. “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

A miasma of rotten fish and death hung heavily in the air. The night was warm and there was no wind to disperse the stench. Starsky covered his nose with his jacket as he approached the shark. The forensics guys were all wearing surgical masks and Starsky eyed them enviously.

Andy, on the other hand, appeared unperturbed by either the sight or the smell. He crouched down next to a pile of offal which had spilled out of the belly of the shark onto the deck. A small white tag marked it as evidence item number six, photographed and ready for bagging.

Andy pulled his pen light from his breast pocket and flicked it on. He used it to indicate an object in the pile. “Look at this.”

Still holding his jacket over his nose, Starsky dropped to his heels and squinted, trying to see clearly. “What is that?” It looked yellow, curved...

Hutch leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees. “Bone?” He sounded as if he was trying to hold his breath.

“Very good! It’s part of a skull,” said Andy, clearly pleased. “Remarkably intact. But what interests me more is this bit here.”

The pen light moved a few inches to the side. Starsky swallowed, fighting down nausea as it illuminated gobbets of white fat and strings of red flesh. It stopped on a precise black circle in the yellow bone.

“That is almost certainly a bullet hole,” said Andy.

Hutch straightened and clapped his hand over his mouth, pinching his nose closed. “The victim was shot in the head?” His voice was muffled.

“Shot in the head, dumped in the ocean,” said Andy. “Sounds like a homicide case to me. And isn’t that your department?”

Starsky stood up, and glanced at Hutch. “Murder, huh?” He shouldn’t feel triumphant about this. He really shouldn’t. Murders were tragedies, always. But the fact remained...

“There’s no way they can call this one a traffic accident,” said Hutch.

Great minds think alike, thought Starsky.

*****

London

“I admit he doesn’t look like much, but Duncan’s a crack shot.” Bodie maintained a blank façade, hiding his amusement. He’d told Doyle to dress down and look hungry, but he hadn’t expected his partner to take him quite so literally.

Trevor regarded ‘Ray Duncan’ doubtfully, his sharp gaze tracking from Doyle’s grubby trainers to his equally worn jumper, both of which looked as if they’d been rescued from a charity’s reject bin. “You say you’ve worked with him before?”

“Amsterdam. Just ask Greene.” It was another tangled thread in a complicated back story, a web of lies with each part leading back to a single source. Months in the set up, almost three weeks into the execution, and ultimately it came down to simple faith that none of the villains would be clever enough to see the complete pattern.

Doyle was doing his part well. He was slouched against the wall of the entrance hallway, arms crossed, looking utterly disinterested in the proceedings. Hungry, sure, but also too much the hard man to reveal any desperation. And dangerous. Exactly the sort of bloke Trevor ought to want on his private security team.

Trevor, in contrast, was stout and sandy-haired, wearing an expensive linen jacket and a cravat that made him look like a git.

“Very well.” Trevor waved a lazy hand at Bodie. “Put him through his paces, Bentley.”

“Eh?” Bodie blinked.

“Let’s see what he’s got.” Trevor’s smile had teeth. “You can take him, can’t you?”

From the first day they’d met, Bodie had never had any doubt he could take Doyle in a real fight. Sure Doyle had handed his arse to him once or twice during training, but that was because he’d been following CI5 rules. Play nice. No permanent injury.

Doyle met his gaze, and Bodie read the clear challenge in his eyes. This was for real. No slapping the floor to indicate surrender. No one around to break things up.

Bodie glanced quickly around at his surroundings. Would have to watch out for that table. It looked old, and the vase on it looked even older. The mirror might be a problem, too. The carved banister... not too bad. Sturdy enough to take a hit, if they ended up at the end of the hall.

He removed his suit jacket. Wouldn’t want to split it up the back. It was double breasted, and silver, and he’d rather like to keep it once the job was done.

Rolling his sleeves up, Bodie moved a few steps to the side. Doyle circled in the opposite direction, inching fractionally closer. Bodie watched for an opening, knowing beyond any doubt that Doyle was doing the same.

There it was. Doyle had dropped his left hand, fractionally. Bodie moved in fast, relying on his greater reach and weight. Doyle ducked, and Bodie’s fist grazed the side of his face.

Then Bodie was dodging Doyle’s jab, with no time to react as Doyle hooked a foot behind his knee. Bodie stumbled and twisted, pulling Doyle off balance. They hit the ground together, each trying to seize the upper hand. Bodie got Doyle into an arm lock, but Doyle managed to slip free, and then Bodie found himself dangerously close to being trapped in a leg hold.

They separated, panting. Bodie could hear Trevor applauding, and there were other voices as well. Spectators had gathered on the stairs. Someone was making bets. ‘Bentley’ versus ‘Duncan’ with distressingly high odds against Bentley.

Beating Doyle wasn’t turning out to be as easy Bodie had expected. His style in this fight was nasty and ruthless. Not at all what Bodie had learned to expect from the ex-copper.

Bodie wiped the blood away from his lower lip and moved in again, matching Doyle’s grin with one of his own. He feinted with a jab to the face and then hopped back quickly as Doyle retaliated with a side kick at the Bodie family jewels. Bodie felt the edge of Doyle’s trainer scrape his leg. Close.

“Naughty,” said Bodie, and ducked under Doyle’s next swing. Enough with the fancy footwork. He closed in and started slugging, his head down. He was watching Doyle’s feet now, less concerned with the incidental damage he was taking to his ribs. He’d seen an opening, and if he could just hold on long enough...

There! Doyle was trying another snap kick. Bodie took the blow on the front of his thigh and grabbed Doyle’s leg. Planting his left foot against the wall, Bodie launched himself forward. Doyle landed hard on his back, yelping as his knee hit his nose.

Bodie had no time to relish his momentary advantage. Doyle planted his trainers directly below Bodie’s ribs and kicked, hard. Bodie was airborne before he knew it, propelled over Doyle’s head. He tucked his head into his chest and pulled his elbows in close, just as his shoulders slammed into something hard and full of edges.

Something that broke beneath him, with a sound like glass.

Or pottery.

“Enough!” bellowed Trevor.

Bodie rolled smoothly onto his feet, more than willing to keep fighting. Doyle faced him, his hand pressed over his mouth and nose. Blood was running down the front of his shirt, but his eyes were creased with amusement.

“Hey!” That protest came from the stairs, and Bodie turned to find every member of Trevor’s household staring at himself and Doyle. There, watching avidly from the steps and hanging over the railing on the upper level, were all of Trevor’s thugs, his girls, and his various lackeys and hangers-on.

“They’ve not finished the fight!” said the girl with the platinum bob. The blood lust in her expression contrasted disturbingly with the baby doll nightie she wore, and the tiny dog she clutched in her arms.

There was a rumble of agreement from the others.

“I’m not having them tear up my house!” Trevor stepped forward and glared them all into silence. Then he gave them a conciliatory nod. “However, you’re right. This has been undeniably entertaining.” He rubbed his hands together, smiling. “I’m sure we can arrange a better venue for the contest, and perhaps then some of you would like to try your hand with the champion.”

That sparked more commentary, anticipatory this time, and the spectators began to disperse.

Behind Trevor’s back, Bodie retrieved his jacket and handed Doyle his handkerchief. Doyle pressed it to his nose, rolling his eyes in silent disgust. Bodie grimaced in agreement. He wouldn’t mind a rematch, but he wanted it on his own terms. Not as a novel amusement for Trevor and his friends, with the two of them just another pair of fighting gamecocks. Then Trevor turned around again and he quickly blanked his expression.

“He’s good,” said Trevor. “I’ll give him the same I’m giving you.”

“For what?” asked Doyle, his voice slightly nasal.

Trevor frowned. “What?”

“Well, what do we do, exactly?” Looking perfectly guileless, Doyle turned to Bodie. “You said private security.”

“You do as you’re told,” said Trevor. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a well-stuffed money clip. Peeling off several bills, he handed them to Bodie. “Get him a suit.”

“Yes, sir.” Bodie bit his tongue, struggling to suppress a grin at Doyle’s offended expression. “Can’t have him running around all covered in blood, can we?”

“You’re not exactly Gentleman’s Quarterly yourself,” snapped Doyle, as Bodie hustled him out the door.

Bodie brushed at the spot of blood that marred the front of his shiny silver suit. “Ah, but this fabric’s been treated with some space age compound. Wrinkle resistant. Practically waterproof. Blood wipes right off. Next best thing to shark skin.”

“Good God. I don’t want to know what laboratory they cooked that material up in.”

Doyle climbed in on the passenger side of the car and immediately checked under the dashboard. Satisfied, he ran his fingers under the edge of the seat, bending over his knees to peer down into the wheel well. When he straightened, his nose had started to bleed again and there were tears in his eyes. Pressing Bodie’s handkerchief to his face, he reached over and switched on the radio.

“Alride, mate. ‘Ow did you do id?”

Bodie reached over and pulled Doyle’s hand down, frowning at his nose. “How did I do what?” He took Doyle’s face in his hands and used his thumbs to check the state of his cheekbones.

Doyle shook him off impatiently. “Nothing’s broken,” he said. “How did you dispose of my predecessor?”

“Oh, him.” Bodie chuckled. “That wasn’t any of my doing.” He grabbed for Doyle’s face again. “Now hold still, I just want to make sure.” Bodie’s lower lip was throbbing, and his ribs felt as if someone had been playing a drum solo on them – which wasn’t far from the truth. He could only imagine the kind of pain Doyle must be in.

Doyle’s right cheek felt a little odd, but that was probably because of that old break...

“Let go!” Doyle struck the centre of Bodie’s chest with the heel of his palm, hard.

Bodie’s shoulders hit the side window. “Ow!” He rubbed his sternum, and gave Doyle a hurt look. “I only wanted to make sure I hadn’t injured you.”

Doyle snorted. “Oh, dry up. You said it wasn’t any of your doing?”

“Well, not entirely.” Bodie started the car. Elvis was playing on the radio, singing about rocking the jailhouse. “He disappeared the other day. Gone for hours. Trevor was going spare and everyone was running around looking for him. And then we all hear this little scream from the basement. One of the maids found him in a closet with a base pipe, getting high. Someone might have suggested she look there.”

“So you didn’t hand him the stuff and force him to smoke it, then.”

“Of course not! What do you take me for?” Bodie glanced over at Doyle and grinned. “That was only my back up plan.”

Doyle’s laugh was good to hear.

Something occurred to Bodie, as he turned onto the main road. “Listen, Trevor’s not done checking you out. He’s going to offer you one of his girls tonight. You’d better take him up on his generosity.”

Doyle looked at him curiously. “Or?”

“Or he’ll offer you a boy. And if you refuse again, he’ll decide you’re a cop and dump your body in the Thames.”

‘Be yourself’ had been Cowley’s advice to Bodie when he’d taken the position as Trevor’s personal bodyguard. And it had been all too easy to find his place, sliding back into the habits and attitudes of his mercenary days. Doyle, on the other hand, had been a cop. He’d been in the Drugs Squad, so technically he had more undercover experience than Bodie, but fitting in still wouldn’t be as easy for him as ‘be yourself’.

“Christ,” said Doyle.

“No fear,” said Bodie, trying to reassure. “They’re all nice girls.” Mostly. Jane had this thing for whips, that perhaps wasn’t technically ‘nice’, but...

“Of course they are,” said Doyle, giving him a wry look. “I saw that this evening. Lovely girls, with a taste for blood.”

Chapter 2

There was a time when Huggy had wanted Starsky and Hutch to come into his bar by the back alley entrance, during off hours so no one would see him talking to the cops. For years they blithely ignored his attempts to set limits, showed up whenever it suited them, and asked questions right out in the open.

Then Huggy’s bar had burned down. It took Huggy the better part of a year to scrape together enough to open the Pits, and by that time he’d decided that having a visible police presence in his establishment might be better protection than paying off the local gangs. More reliable protection, in any case.

Huggy was going legit, and he made sure everyone knew. No more girls turning tricks in the rooms above his bar. No more after hours entertainment. No more ‘favors’ for old friends.

Interestingly, however, information continued to come his way without any abatement in either quantity or quality. Street people are terrible gossips, worse than a bunch of old ladies on bridge night, and a bartender hears everything. Even a straight bartender with known connections to the cops.

Hutch leaned over the bar, his expression expectant. “So what have we got?”

Huggy shook his head, and stacked the glass he’d just finished drying with the others. No point in encouraging them. “You’ve got a forty-two dollar bar tab, dating back almost two months."

Starsky thumped down on the bar stool next to Hutch. “C’mon, Huggy! You know what we want.”

“I know what I want. And I should point out that forty-two is only his part of the tab.” Huggy nodded at Hutch. “Yours,” meaning Starsky, “is sixty.”

“What? No way!”

“I said you were drinking too much,” said Hutch, smugly. “But do you listen? No...”

“I’ve already got a Jewish mother. I don’t need another,” said Starsky, as he extracted his wallet from his back pocket. He began peeling money out. Two twenties were followed by three tens, three fives, and six ones. He then turned his wallet upside down and shook it. A quarter, a dime, and seven pennies clattered down onto the surface of the bar. “Will this do?”

“Hey, thanks,” said Hutch.

“I’m not covering your tab, dummy. I’m paying off mine and I’m compensating Huggy for his time and effort on our behalf.” Starsky smiled ingratiatingly at Huggy.

Huggy trapped a penny that was trying to make a rolling break for the edge of the bar. “I hate to disappoint my Caucasian brothers, but it’s just lot of chatter, nothing solid.”

“Well, give us the un-solid stuff,” said Starsky.

“Sure,” said Hutch. “Insubstantial is still better than non-existent.”

“There’s talk about a new player in town – or more precisely, out of town. A cat with a lot of flash.”

Now they were both leaning on his bar, eyes bright, looking like a scruffy pair of orphaned baby birds. Insatiable.

“Who?”

“The chicks are hot for his British accent, and the limos and coke don’t hurt none, either,” said Huggy. “Now, I’m not saying there’s a connection, but you know that new theatre down on the strip?”

Starsky smirked. “Yeah, blue movies.”

“I heard they’re showing Fuck Rogers of the 69th Century,” said Hutch.

“You heard.” Starsky made a disgusted sound. “I happen to know you took what’s her name to see it last Wednesday. And you didn’t invite me!”

Huggy shook his head, again. These two were in a class of their own.

“I was hoping she’d find it inspirational,” said Hutch, offended. “And anyway, your mind’s already in the gutter.”

“Did she?” Starsky looked interested.

Huggy cleared his throat. Standing at his bar listening while Starsky and Hutch bragged on their sexual exploits wasn’t high on his list of things to do on an afternoon. “I presume while you, sir...” Huggy made sure he had Hutch’s attention. “While you were taking in the show, you noticed the gentleman standing by the door with his clicker, counting every John and Jane who walks in?”

Hutch nodded. “I remember him.”

“That gentleman is in the employ of a certain other gentleman, popularly known as The Director, who controls the distribution of the movie you saw. After the feature ends, the checker calculates a percentage of the profit, goes to the owner of the theatre, and says, ‘Give me five thousand’.”

“Or what?”

“Or else.” Huggy shrugged. “The theatre owner pays.”

Starsky looked puzzled. “Where does the money go? To the Director? And how does the British guy come into this?”

“What do they pay you for?” Huggy opened his till and put Starsky’s money away. “You’re the cops. You figure it out.” He pulled out his notebook and scratched out Starsky’s tab.

Huggy wasn’t looking at Starsky and Hutch, but he could feel them staring at him expectantly. Absolutely insatiable. Against his better judgment, Huggy said, “I’ll tell you this. Some of the money goes missing. And some of the people who make that money go missing become shark bait. Or they turn up in hospital, claiming they fell down the three steps outside the theater, and somehow broke seventeen different bones. Or just they’re plain gone, like Jamie T. Or... they find themselves thrown in front of cars, like Al Greene.”

Any of which could happen to him, if the Director ever decided he didn’t like a certain Huggy Bear Brown talking to the cops.

“The California Highway Patrol said the Greene death was a traffic accident,” said Hutch.

Huggy gave him the look that statement deserved.

“Right,” said Starsky. “Well, thanks Hug.”

“Yeah, you have fun unweaving this tangled web. I have an establishment to run.” And a liquor license to renew, thought Huggy as he spotted the notice tucked under his cash. Starsky’s payment would just about cover the bribe.

***

“When I was a kid, I looked up to that man,” muttered Doyle under his breath. They’d just finished a circuit of the grounds and were now stationed in the hall. Most of the party guests had arrived, and were now scattered around the grounds and throughout the house. The air was heavy with the scent of marijuana, and the floor vibrated with the bass beat of Trevor’s new stereo system.

Bodie leaned close to his ear. “Which one? The retired footballer, or the elderly rocker?”

“He’s not that old, you know!”

“Wine, women and song. Ages you fast,” said Bodie wisely. “Look at Elvis. He can hardly drag himself up on stage these days.”

“Wine, women and song? More like sex, drugs and rock and roll.” Doyle prodded his nose gingerly. It was less sore today, but dark purple bruises had blossomed under both eyes, necessitating the use of sunglasses, even at night.

Bodie, to Doyle’s immense disgust, looked as immaculate as ever. Lounging casually by the door, he’d been getting admiring looks from many of the women, and several of the men.

Sod this, thought Doyle. He loosened his tie and opened his collar. If he couldn’t look good, then at least he ought to be able to breathe.

“Come on,” said Bodie, abruptly. “Let’s mingle. See if we can hear anything interesting.”

Doyle grimaced. “Besides, ‘baby, blow me’ and ‘where’s the coke’?”

Bodie shot him a quick grin, and a moment later he was gone, sliding easily into the crowd. Doyle grumbled to himself about pretentious bastards with delusions of class, and then decided to get himself a drink from the bar.

It was past midnight before he saw Bodie again. Doyle was in the garden, rousing revellers from the bushes and chivvying them back to the house. He’d just paused in the shadow of a tall yew hedge, when he felt the press of cold metal at the nape of his neck.

Doyle froze, and then heard a familiar chuckle.

“Bo-,” Doyle caught himself just in time. “Bentley, you bastard!”

Bodie flipped the gun and slid it back into his holster. “Sloppy. Very sloppy. Duncan.”

“One of these days I’ll end up shooting you,” retorted Doyle. “And they’ll give me a medal.”

There were times, like these, when Doyle looked at Bodie and wondered if he could trust him. It was a dangerous thought. You had to trust your partner, or you might end up dead. But when Cowley had prepped them for this operation, he’d told Bodie to ‘be himself’.

How much difference was there between Bodie and the other hard men Trevor hired? If he was given the right motivation, could he put a bullet in Doyle’s head? He had been a mercenary once. Every time Doyle asked him why he was in CI5, Bodie’s answer was different, and never reassuring. He was in it for the money, he said. For the fast cars. For a chance to try the latest, best weaponry.

“I don’t know what the old man’s waiting for,” said Bodie. “We’ve got more than enough to put Trevor away for life.”

It was the unguarded vehemence in Bodie’s voice that set Doyle back on his heels, interrupting his uneasy thoughts. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“Nah, it’s all been in the reports. It’s just...” Bodie turned away, his hands in his pockets. “Never mind. If we don’t get back they’ll think we were out here snogging.”

Doyle had to run a few steps to catch up. He grabbed Bodie’s arm and yanked him around. “Oh, no you don’t! Cough!”

There was a moment’s silence, and then they heard laughing voices coming up the path. Something shifted minutely in Bodie’s stance. “While you were out here avoiding society,” he said, loudly enough for the others to hear, “Trevor arranged some... fascinating entertainment for the rest of us.”

“Do tell,” said Doyle. He didn’t have to fake his interest.

“You know Jane, the one with the whip fetish? Well, Trevor had her give a demonstration. Had a little blonde bird strung upside down, while Jane flogged the living daylights out of her.” Bodie’s voice was bland, expressionless.

A man and a woman rounded the corner of the path and Doyle stepped forward to block their way. “I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to go back to the house. Trevor’s orders.”

The man had seemed prepared to argue, but the moment Doyle invoked Trevor’s name his entire attitude changed. He took his date by the arm and hurried her back toward the house.

“Is she alive?” asked Doyle, quietly. A murder would put the entire investigation in a completely different light.

“Oh, quite. I have it on good authority that she even got off on it.”

“Really.”

“Bruised but not bloodied. Jane knows how not to turn a sub into steak tartar.”

Doyle thought about what Bodie had said earlier. “You know, I’d like some answers, as well.”

“Ours is to question why,” suggested Bodie. He poked Doyle in the ribs. “Live long and never die?”

Doyle just shook his head. As mottos went that one was almost the philosophical antithesis of everything CI5 stood for. An agent’s life was signed over to Cowley to use in the service of England, however he saw best. Anything they needed to know they were told. If they weren’t told, it was because they didn’t need to know.

Never mind questioning why Bodie did the job, there were days when even Doyle wondered how exactly he’d wound up in CI5. And the answers he gave himself, preserving law and order and a chance to make a difference, were no more satisfactory than Bodie’s fast cars and guns.

Inside the house they found the party beginning to wind down, drugs and alcohol taking their toll on the revellers.

A large black man was hunched over a naked blonde girl lying sprawled across a couch. He appeared to be rubbing something onto her back, buttocks and thighs. On closer examination, Doyle saw the way it gleamed in the light from the lamps and realized it was oil, and that it was being smoothed over raised red welts. Doyle knew then that this had to be the bird Bodie had mentioned, the one who had been whipped.

At least, he thought, someone’s looking after her.

Bodie intercepted an exhausted looking girl carrying a tray. As he relieved her of the remaining sandwich triangles he asked, “Where’s Trevor?”

“I think he’s in his office.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Bodie around a full mouth. He offered one of his sandwiches to Doyle, who shook his head.

The girl gave them a wan smile. “There’s more in the kitchen, if you want.”

Bodie’s grin widened. “I’ll take you up on that later, love.”

They found Trevor in the downstairs office, shouting into his phone. “What do you mean, we may have a problem? I’m paying you to ensure that we don’t have problems! Shark? A bloody shark?” He glanced up as Bodie and Doyle stopped at the entrance to the room. “Here, one moment.”

Trevor pulled the phone away from his ear. “Close that door, would you? I need privacy.”

Doyle nodded and reached for the door knob. As he was closing the door, he heard, “You’re supposed to clear all such actions with me first!”

He exchanged a glance with Bodie and they silently found posts at either side of the entrance to the office. If anyone came looking for Trevor, they’d turn them away. But more importantly, even through the closed door they could still make out a few shouted words.

It wasn’t much. Bodie said later that he’d thought he heard the word ‘shark’ a few more times. And something about a bay.

Doyle, for his part, had new information to consider about his partner. Bodie had sounded coldly callous in his description of the girl’s flogging, but he had brought it up in the context of Trevor’s arrest being overdue. Which could only mean that he was genuinely outraged by what had happened.

Not so much the heartless mercenary, after all.

Chapter 3

Today it was Starsky’s turn to play devil’s advocate.

He watched Hutch drum his fingers on the desk as he read. After a few minutes, Hutch was hitting the desktop so hard Starsky could feel the vibration all the way over on his side. There had to be somewhere an unwritten rule which said that only one half of the partnership could freak out at a time. The other half had to be correspondingly calm and rational. It was some kind of cosmic see-saw.

Starsky cleared his throat.

Hutch kept reading, oblivious to everything except what was in the folder in front of him.

“Hey!” said Starsky. “You should buy me a candy bar.”

“I’ve got the coroner’s report on that traffic accident.” Hutch picked up the folder, sheets stapled to the inside, and waved it at Starsky. “Check this out, ‘Victim was missing shoes. These items were not located at the scene. California Highway Patrol states that the victim was knocked out of his shoes. CHP will not be pressing charges against the driver of that vehicle.’”

Starsky squinted and tried to focus on the flapping pages. “Someone at the scene could have stolen his shoes. It happened downtown.” He was using his reasonable voice. The one he reserved for lunatics and overwrought partners.

Hutch slapped the report down on his desk. “With dozens of people standing around, none of whom actually saw Al Greene run out in front of the car?”

“They were all looking the other way?” It was either that or transitory mass blindness, a common affliction amongst the residents of downtown Bay City.

“Al was working as a checker at the Kittykat Theatre,” said Hutch.

Starsky thought ‘where you went and saw Fuck Rogers and didn’t take me’ but he didn’t say anything out loud. They’d been over that argument before.

“They had him replaced the day before he died,” continued Hutch. “Then a week later, that guy disappears. James Turner. And what about April Showers?”

Starsky dug back into his memory. “April Showers, formerly known as Katie Buchowsky. Pretty little kid from Kansas. She died of a drug overdose, in the back alley of the Inferno Club.”

“Yeah, with the belt wrapped around her left arm. How’d she manage that, when she was left-handed?”

“We’ve been over this before,” said Starsky. “You and I, and most everyone else in this town, we all know April Showers was murdered. And so was Al Greene. And for all we know, James Turner, too. Unless he got smart and went back to whatever Podunk town he came from. But we can’t prove it. We don’t even have a place to start.”

“They all worked in the porn industry, that’s something.”

“It’s paper thin, Hutch.” Starsky caught himself beginning to drum his own fingers on the edge of his desk. Hutch’s righteous anxiety was contagious. “You need to buy me a candy bar.”

“I need to buy you a candy bar?” said Hutch, disbelievingly.

“Yeah, because I gave Huggy all my money.” Starsky paused and thoughtfully considered the condition of his cupboards. “I’m also going to be eating dinner at your place tonight. And tomorrow night. Good thing it’s only another week to payday.”

“As I recall, you refused to put any of that money towards paying off my tab. Which you helped me rack up in the first place.”

Starsky gave Hutch his best wide-eyed innocent look. “But we have to pay our snitch! What if he stopped talking to us?”

The phone on Hutch’s desk rang. “You know you look bug-eyed when you do that,” said Hutch, as he picked up the receiver.

“Hey!”

Hutch smiled and held up a hand. Then he pointed at the receiver and silently mouthed, I’m on the phone.

Starsky used an even simpler hand signal to let him know exactly what he thought.

Hutch ignored him. “Thanks, Andy, I really appreciate this.” He hung up the phone and stood, reaching for his jacket. “We’ve got something, after all. Turns out Shark Bait is our missing checker. James Turner, AKA Jamie T.”

***

“Bentley! Duncan!”

Bodie groaned and tried to pull his blanket over his head. The other half of his bed was empty, which meant that the girl must have slipped out at some point while he was asleep. One cracked eye revealed that it was still dark, and from the sound of Trevor careening down the halls, he hadn’t been to bed at all. Fucking cokehead insomniac.

Even bodyguards need to sleep some time, thought Bodie grumpily. The shift schedule existed for a reason. He should know. He’d drawn it up himself.

“I’ll get him up for you,” said a voice outside his door. Doyle. Sounding entirely too chipper for the hour.

Bodie was trying to decide if he’d ignore Doyle when he knocked, when his door was flung open, bright light stabbed his eyes, and the suit jacket he’d left over the back of a chair hit him in the face. “Berk!” He threw the jacket on the floor and sat up, glaring.

“No,” said Doyle cheerily. “The berk is the guy caught sleeping on the job. Didn’t you hear everyone running around? We could have had a massacre while you were having your lie in.”

“What’s the excitement?” Since clearly Doyle wouldn’t be looking quite so composed if they’d actually had a massacre.

“Trevor wants everyone packed before dawn. He’s going to America.”

“Eh?”

“He’s flying to Bay City, California. This morning. As early as possible, in his private jet. Which is apparently almost, but not quite, as large as Elvis’s private jet.”

“Damn!” Bodie began throwing on his clothes as fast as he could, hopping across the room with one leg in his trousers.

Doyle propped his hands on his hips and watched him. “Something I’ve always wanted to know...”

“Yes, I’m a heavy sleeper. Yes, I was exactly the same in the jungle. No, it never interfered with my survival.” It had actually saved his life once when he’d slept through most of a real massacre, and had consequently been able to slip away behind the government troops overrunning the camp. Though he’d rather have his fingernails removed one by one than share that story with Doyle. “Now, be useful. Grab my bag and throw everything from that top drawer inside.”

Doyle didn’t move. “Who makes the call?”

Bodie stopped, his shirt half buttoned. “I thought you’d...”

“I’ve managed to get halfway through dialling three times since Trevor got us all up. He’s been-”

A bellow from the hall interrupted him. “Duncan!”

Doyle winced.

“Right,” said Bodie. “Keep him distracted. Tell him I’m still packing. I’ll use the phone in the hall.” That one was almost certainly bugged, but Bodie was confident he could work around that small problem.

Doyle nodded and reached for the door knob. Bodie caught his arm. “Wait. You know what I have to do.”

“I’ll cover you as long as I can,” said Doyle. And then he was gone.

Bodie threw a few shirts into his bag and zipped it up. Then he eased his door open and looked cautiously up and down the corridor. There was a girl hurrying in the opposite direction, but no one else of consequence. He was able to slip downstairs unseen.

Making the phone call was a bit trickier. Bobby, another of Trevor’s security men, stopped to see who he was calling. His suspicious glare faded when Bodie winked and whispered, “My girlfriend.”

Bobby grinned, slapped him on the back, and continued on his way. Bodie was relieved. Bobby, besides being big and black, was easily as broad as he was tall, and had no discernable neck. There was no way Bodie could have taken him out without alerting the whole house.

There was no guard at the gate when Bodie drove off Trevor’s estate. Trevor’s security had been little better than a joke before he’d hired Bodie and nothing had been done to improve it since. Bodie, in fact, had been actively looking for ways to undermine security. It was one of these endeavours which had led to Doyle’s hiring.

Bodie was hoping that he would be able to leave and return undetected. It was a slim hope, but he drew consolation from the knowledge that if his own part in the operation went tits up tonight, at least Doyle would still be inside. Assuming his cover wasn’t too poisoned by his association with Bodie.

But Doyle was good at thinking on his feet. Ex-copper or not, he was the best CI5 had to offer. Bodie had never had any occasion to regret his decision to ask Cowley to partner him with Doyle.

Which was another thing he’d never tell Doyle. Because regulations stated that no agent could have any say in their teaming. It was all supposed to be decided on the basis of psychological compatibility and complementary skills.

“We’re the best,” Bodie had told Cowley. “If I’m not number one in a class, then it’s because he’s grabbed the top spot. No one else even comes close. What other reason do you need to put us together?”

“You’re very different,” Cowley had said.

“Complementary,” was Bodie’s response. “Like you said.”

For all Bodie knew, Cowley had been planning to partner him with Doyle all along. But he wasn’t prepared to take the chance. He’d seen how well Doyle worked with Jax. And there were others he himself could have been successfully teamed with, too. Doyle didn’t seem to care, one way or another. Bodie, on the other hand, knew exactly which partner he wanted.

And still wanted. He’d missed working with Doyle these past few weeks.

Bodie stopped his car in the shadow of the flyover. He could hear the sound of traffic overhead, and crickets in the weeds around him. He used the time he spent waiting profitably, searching the car one more time for bugs. It wasn’t so much that he expected Trevor to have had his car bugged, but that he couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t. These days Trevor swung unpredictably between mania and paranoia.

Bodie had finished his search and had just begun a second round, when another car, a nondescript saloon, pulled up beside him, gravel crunching under its tyres.

Cowley leaned out the window. “Well?”

“Trevor’s having business difficulties.”

“We already know that,” said Cowley, his tone warning Bodie not to waste his time. This particular meeting was only to be arranged in circumstances of extreme urgency.

“Yeah, except this branch of the business is in Bay City, California. And Trevor’s going to be flying there today to oversee things in person.”

“So... Bay City,” said Cowley, thoughtfully.

Bodie shifted uneasily in his seat. “Sir, Doyle and I... we were thinking that now might be a good time to stage that raid. Before Trevor leaves the country. He’s got a suitcase of drugs he takes with him everywhere. It’s divided up like those pill counters you get for the days of the week, except this is for a whole month. And it’s everything you can imagine. Uppers, downers—.”

“I’m sure it’s very impressive and more than enough to put Alan Trevor away,” interrupted Cowley. “But he’s just one man. Think of this network as if it were a Hydra. If we chop off the head, two more will have taken his place before evening. We’ve got to cut off all the heads at once. Cripple the beast.”

“But we’ve given you names!”

“Of social acquaintances. Hangers on. Lackeys and addicts. Nothing we can directly link to the importation of drugs into this country.”

“Yes, sir.” Bodie wondered if the investigation as a whole had been a failure, or just his part in it.

“You and Doyle, you’ve managed to get close to him.”

“He doesn’t let us listen in on his business, if that’s what you mean. And he sweeps for bugs every day.” An agent had infiltrated a year earlier, and had attempted to plant bugs of his own. His body had never been found.

“Don’t try to tell an old fox his business, Bodie.” Cowley frowned forbiddingly. “Trevor’s paranoid. He won’t travel without his bodyguards. Go with him tomorrow. Take note of everyone he talks to, especially anyone in customs. Keep your ears open and your head down. You won’t have any authority while you’re overseas. If you end up in jail...”

Bodie waited a moment, but Cowley didn’t finish his statement. “Is this an official assignment, sir? Or are we on our own time?”

Cowley started his car. “Good luck.”

Chapter 4

Hutch smiled affectionately. Starsky was so excited it was coming out in his driving. The Torino was practically skipping down the street.

“Man, Andy’s good.” Starsky bounded through the intersection just ahead of a tractor trailer, ignoring shouts from the driver. “I didn’t think anyone could get an ID off of that corpse. Much less all that detail on how he was tortured.”

Hutch lost his smile. He could have gone to his eternal rest without knowing that the deceased had his fingernails ‘forcibly extracted prior to death’. He glanced at the scrap of notepaper he held, and then double checked it against the street numbers.

“That’s our building right there,” said Hutch. “Former residence of one James Turner.”

“Jamie T. The other missing checker. Now found, in the belly of a shark.” Starsky bounced the wheel of the Torino off the curb as he pulled in.

Hutch sometimes wondered how much of Starsky’s salary every month went into repairing his rims. For such a terrific driver, Starsky really wasn’t any good at parking.

Jamie T’s last address turned out to be a depressingly grubby apartment building. Red brick, broken windows on the first floor, and a front door blocked by a wrought iron gate, hanging half off its hinges. It creaked mournfully as Hutch pushed it open. “Let’s see if anyone’s home before we go looking for the super.”

“I don’t think places like these have supers,” said Starsky, wrinkling his nose as he stepped into the dark interior.

The third floor hallway smelled of mildew, vomit and urine. The few lights which hadn’t yet burned out glowed dimly behind yellowed glass fixtures, and the peeling carpets were dark green. Hutch could only hope that had been their original color.

“Here’s number thirty-three,” said Starsky. He banged on the door with the side of his fist.

There was no response. Starsky glanced at Hutch, and then banged again. He cocked his head, and a moment later Hutch heard the footsteps as well. He moved back a step, reaching for his badge.

The door opened. Hutch froze, his hand in his pocket. He saw Starsky’s jaw drop.

The girl smiling at them was very pretty, very wet, and entirely naked.

“Oh, hi!” she said, cheerfully. “You caught me in the shower. C’mon in. Sit down. I’ll only be a minute.”

Hutch rubbed his hand over his face, and took a deep breath. It was no illusion. When he looked again, there she was, her fine white ass trotting unconcernedly into the back of the apartment, bare feet leaving wet prints on the floor.

He grabbed Starsky’s arm and shook him. “You heard the lady. Come in. Sit down.”

Starsky walked into the apartment like a man in a daze. He sat on the edge of a flower-print sectional sofa, and blinked blankly at the wall for a moment. Then he turned to Hutch and said, “High?”

Hutch tried to recollect what he’d seen beyond a pair of perfectly formed breasts, pert pink nipples, and indisputable evidence that the girl was a natural blonde. “As a kite. If her pupils were any smaller, they’d be in another dimension.” He felt a stab of disappointment. In the real world girls didn’t just answer their doors naked for the pleasure of any lucky fellow who might decide to knock. “But I didn’t see any tracks. So unless she’s shooting up between her toes, it’s not heroin.”

“Probably coke,” said Starsky, glumly. “Or speedballs. She’s too lively to for it to be dope.”

Hutch looked around the apartment. It was a single room, with the only amenity being the bathroom. “There’s the hotplate, there’s the mattress, and there’s the window to jump out of.”

Starsky stood up and walked over to the window. He pulled the curtain aside. “Except it faces onto a brick wall.”

They turned as they heard the water stop running. The bathroom door opened.

“Hi! I’m Lois Lane.” The girl was now wearing a bathrobe, though it was barely long enough to cover her rear and falling open in the front. She crossed the room and went straight to the fridge humming in the corner. Bending over to inspect the interior, she gave them both a second look at her well formed ass. “Can I get you two anything? We’ve got...” She paused. “Beer. And a tomato. But only one. Tomato, I mean. We’ve got lots of beer.”

“Uh,” said Starsky. He’d lost whatever composure he’d gained while she was in the shower, and was now staring at her with his mouth hanging open again.

Hutch managed, “James Turner.”

“James? Oh... Jamie!” Lois’ expression turned regretful. “You’re a couple of Phil’s guys aren’t you?” She found a bottle opener and used it to pop the top on her beer. “Look, I’m really sorry the Director’s giving you a hard time, but Jamie skipped town! I don’t know where he is, or what he did with the money from the peep shows. The Director’s just going to have to find himself another actor.” She took a long drink from her bottle. “Are you sure you guys don’t want a beer?”

“Another actor?” asked Starsky, vaguely.

“Well, gee!” said Lois, indignantly. “It’s not like there’s anything special about Jamie. He ain’t twelve inches long or nothing. I’m sure once the Director finds another guy who can get it up in front of a camera, he’ll ease off your boss, right? I mean, honestly, talent can’t be in short supply. Gosh, I’d bet either of you two could give a girl a good time.”

“What?” Hutch wasn’t following any of this.

“Well sure!” Lois wandered over and kissed Starsky affectionately on the cheek.

He stepped back too quickly and almost tripped.

Lois giggled. “You’re cute enough. You two could do a double act. Now, listen. I’ve got a show at the Aphrodite in half an hour and I have to get dressed. I wish I could be more help, but trust me, Jamie’s gone. It’s the price of doing business, you know? But if you want me to put a good word in for you with the Director, let me know. Maybe I can get you Jamie’s job. The acting, I mean. Not checking.”

She propped her hands on her hips and cocked her head, looking them over with her lower lip caught between small, even white teeth.

“Hey, that’s a pretty good idea!” she said, finally. “Look, I’m on regularly at the Aphrodite, five nights a week, when I’m not doing movies. Lois Lane. Look me up, and I’ll get you an audition. But, for now, bye-bye!”

Before Hutch knew quite how it had happened, he found Starsky and himself standing in the hall.

Starsky stared blankly at the closed door. “Do we look like leg breakers?”

“I’m sure I don’t,” said Hutch. “She must have been talking about you.” He gave Starsky a shove toward the exit.

In the car, Starsky sat with the keys in his hand, looking thoughtfully into space. “The Director...”

“Huggy mentioned him,” said Hutch. “He’s the one making money off of pornos in our town.”

“And Jamie was the kind of guy who can get it up in front of a camera,” said Starsky. “But he wasn’t ten inches.”

“I, uh, think she said twelve inches.”

“Huh?”

“Jamie wasn’t twelve inches,” explained Hutch. “For all we know, he could have been ten inches.”

“You want I should drive us down to the coroner’s? I’m sure Andy has a ruler we could borrow.” Starsky started the car, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“No, that’s quite alright,” said Hutch, primly. “I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“Oh, I don’t mind in the slightest.” But Starsky’s tone was insincere and he had already turned in the other direction, back toward the precinct.

Hutch laughed. “Why don’t we review what we’ve got? Lois said that Jamie took off with the money from the peep shows.”

“Yeah, peep shows.” Starsky stopped at a light and gave Hutch a quick grin. “You know, put a quarter in the slot, get to see about two minutes of a twenty minute show. It costs about two-fifty to see the whole movie... What? I had to try it once!”

Hutch was outraged. “You told me you wanted those quarters for candy bars!”

“I said once!” Starsky pulled through the light and stopped at the side of the road. “Hey, Hutch...?” he asked, tentatively.

“What!” Hutch was still upset at the idea that Starsky had been scamming quarters off of him to go and stare at naked chicks. At least, he thought that was what was upsetting him. Maybe it was the fact that he’d never thought to check out a peep show for himself. How had he managed to overlook something like that?

“Well...,” said Starsky, slowly. “If I put a quarter into a peep show, most of my quarter ends up going to whoever’s funding the production and distribution of that stuff. In this case, that mean the Director and whoever’s backing him. Maybe that mysterious British guy Huggy mentioned.”

Hutch nodded, his curiosity overtaking his irritation.

Starsky looked troubled. “And when you took your girl to see Fuck Rogers, that money also went to those guys. Right?”

“I expect.”

“Well... how much of our money do you suppose has gone into the pockets of the guys that killed Jamie T, and Al Greene, and April Showers?”

Hutch had no answer for him.

***

Delay tactics were never in order. Trevor had known something was up the moment Bobby had reported to him that “Bentley” had made a call and then left the house. They’d immediately taken Doyle’s gun. Trevor had then ordered Bodie followed, but evidently there was some confusion as to who was supposed to carry his orders out, and by the time they’d organized themselves Bodie had vanished.

Doyle stuck to the script. He told them he didn’t know why Bodie had left, or where he had gone, and he said he didn’t care. Repeat ad infinitum, ad nauseam. He looked at the heavies holding guns on him, calculated his odds, and wondered if he’d survive a raid. He was braced for the choppers and the sirens, any minute now, because obviously if Trevor was leaving the country they’d have to move in on him sooner rather than later.

He was not expecting the sound of a single car pulling up to the door. Even less was he expecting the sight of Bodie ambling innocently in the front entrance, seemingly astonished to be greeted with a gun in his face.

“Where have you been?” demanded Trevor, as he reached into the front of Bodie’s jacket and took his pistol.

Bodie was pinned between two of Trevor’s larger thugs. Doyle remembered having been introduced to them as Karl and Josef. Bobby was behind Doyle with another gun, which made entirely too many armed men versus himself and Bodie. He wondered what had happened to the raid. Evidently Cowley had a different plan in mind.

“Saw my bird,” said Bodie.

Trevor turned to Bobby. “Dial the last number he called from here, and put it on speaker.”

Bobby walked over to the phone, and dialled with one thick brown finger.

They all heard the sleepily irritated female voice crackle over the speaker. “Yes? Hello? Will, you bastard! I told you it’s over!”

Bobby disconnected the line.

“Your bird?” asked Trevor.

“She was,” said Bodie, and he looked so tragic Doyle immediately began to worry he’d crack up laughing and ruin everything. “I told her I wouldn’t be seeing her for a little while. I really thought she’d wait.”

Trevor turned away with a half-laugh, tossing Bodie’s pistol into the air and catching it by the barrel. Before Doyle had time to react, Trevor backhanded Bodie across his face with the gun, knocking him to his knees.

Doyle lunged forward, only to be stopped by a thick brown arm across his throat. His shout of outrage became a throttled gasp.

Bobby leaned close to his ear. “If you care for your mate, don’t say a word.” His voice was a harsh whisper.

Doyle, struggling to draw in air and seeing grey static move in from the periphery of his vision, nodded frantically.

Bobby’s arm dropped down to his chest, and his hand patted Doyle’s shoulder. Doyle considered feeding him his fingers, and then quickly discarded the idea. Bobby could be right. If Trevor only wanted to make an example of Bodie, then interfering could potentially lead to both their deaths.

Bodie was on his knees on the tiled floor of the hallway, both hands covering his face. Blood dripped between his fingers, bright red against the stone tiles.

Trevor stepped forward and grabbed Bodie’s hair, pulling his head back. “You’re going to have a pair of shiners to match your mate. But I think a hard man like you needs a stronger lesson.”

Bodie glared sullenly at him. “I only wanted to see my girl.” He spat blood onto the floor by Trevor’s shoes, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I wasn’t gone more than twenty minutes...”

Trevor straightened. “Jane, my love.”

Bodie’s head snapped up, alarm written clearly in his expression.

Doyle felt Bobby’s hand tighten across his chest. “Don’t move,” the deep voice whispered in his ear. “They’ll hurt him worse if you interfere.”

Bodie bolted to his feet, trying to escape, but Karl and Josef had their arms locked through his. They slammed him up against the wall and held him there, next to the sixteenth century painting of a woman taking her bath, attended by maids.

Irrelevantly, Doyle wondered why he had noticed that last detail. This was not the time to suddenly discover that some of his art education had stuck after all.

Jane stepped forward. She was a small brown-haired woman, ordinary enough in appearance, dressed conservatively in a turtleneck, her jeans tucked into high leather boots. With her whip tucked under her arm, she almost looked like a posh young lady, ready to spend the day riding.

Her head canted to one side, and her hands on her hips, she examined Bodie. “Lose the shirt,” she said.

Karl and Josef each grabbed one half of Bodie’s shirt and gave it a practiced yank, shredding it right up the middle and pulling it off over his head. This was clearly not the first time they’d done this. If anything, they looked bored.

Jane’s whip was short and made of braided black leather. She dragged the tip lightly down Bodie’s spine. Bodie remained silent, his face hidden from view, but Doyle saw the broad muscles of his shoulders tighten.

“How permanent a lesson do you want?” asked Jane.

“Not permanent at all. A gentle lesson this time, my love,” said Trevor, smiling. “He’ll need to be able to work today.”

“But it’s such a beautiful back,” said Jane. “Like an unmarked canvas.” Her whip traced a sinuous line down to Bodie’s belt. Then, without warning, her wrist snapped and the leather cracked, biting into his back. The welt appeared instantly, red against white, and Bodie gasped, audibly.

“It’s the anticipation,” she explained, as the whip trailed gently across his shoulders, lightly touching the skin of Bodie’s neck.

The whip cracked again, another welt appearing beside the first, perfectly parallel.

This time when the whip lightly stroked Bodie’s back, Doyle saw him shudder convulsively.

Crack. A third stripe. And a fourth. Bodie was silent when she hit him, but when she traced the rising welts with the tip of her whip, Doyle heard him groan.

“Pain is easy to take,” she said. “Anticipation is hard.”

Doyle realized that he was shaking his head in silent denial of what he was seeing. He forced himself to stop. Tearing his eyes away from Bodie, he looked at Trevor instead.

He wished he hadn’t. Trevor’s lips were parted and he was breathing heavily as he watched Jane ply her trade. Doyle tasted bile. As soon as this was over, he was going to get Bodie away. To hell with Cowley, and his plans. Bodie had been right. They’d collected more than enough evidence to put Trevor away. There was no reason…

Crack. And again. And one more time after that. Nine red stripes across Bodie’s back, from his shoulders down to his hips and Trevor’s arousal was blatantly visible, straining at the fabric of his trousers.

Jane stepped back and looked at Trevor. “I have to change direction now. It’ll look very pretty, but wherever the lines cross he’s going to bleed.”

“That’s enough then,” said Trevor. He clapped his hands. “All right, everyone, show’s over! I want you all ready to leave in an hour.”

Wrapping his arm around Jane’s waist, Trevor turned away, clearly no longer interested in Bodie. “Now, as for you my love, I can think of several other things you can do for me in the meantime...”

Karl and Josef released Bodie, letting him drop heavily to his knees.

“Tough,” commented Karl, casually.

“Not bad,” agreed Josef. “The last one pissed himself.”

Bobby silently handed Doyle his weapon back, and left.

Bodie had one hand covering his face, while the other was braced against the wall. He was blindly trying to push himself to his feet. Doyle caught his elbow and immediately had to block a blow as Bodie reacted defensively.

“It’s me, mate! You’re a bloody mess...”

Bodie blinked at him and then his bruised, blood-smeared face stretched into a parody of a smile. “Not so bloody as all that…”

“Here,” said Doyle, struggling to contain his outrage. “Let’s get you out of here.” And then I can work out how I’m going to kill Trevor, he thought.

Bodie stiffened. “Not going anywhere, unless you mean upstairs.”

“For God’s sake!”

“Still got a job to do, remember?” Bodie’s expression was granite. His jaw clenched, and though Doyle heard a sharp intake of air as he climbed to his feet, he made no other sound.

Heavy footsteps alerted Doyle to the approach of another person. He looked over and scowled at Bobby. “Bugger off.”

Bodie snarled in agreement.

Bobby’s broad forehead creased with distress. “I just wanted to give you this.” He shoved a half-empty tube of ointment at Doyle. “Take it. It’s good.”

“Daft sod,” said Doyle as he watched Bobby leave.

“I can’t decide...” Bodie used one hand to steady himself against the wall. “...if he’s thick as a brick, or a fucking genius.” He waited a moment and then pushed himself off, walking stiffly toward the end of the hall.

Doyle wondered what Bodie meant, since all he’d seen of Bobby would have led him to conclude the man was a moron. He decided it wasn’t important, and moved forward to help Bodie with the stairs.

“Great timing, mate,” he commented, as lightly as he could.

“I ran into Father, you know.” Bodie’s knuckles were turning white on the railing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he said have a nice flight.”

So that’s Cowley’s plan, thought Doyle, dismayed. “Christ.”

Continued...