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

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Chapter 8

Just like on a real movie set, lunch was provided for the actors and crew. A long table was set up and there were ham, tuna, or egg salad sandwiches to choose from, as well as several different kinds of cold deli salads, pickles and cheeses.

Starsky sat near the back wall with his paper plate, far enough out of the way that he could talk to Hutch without being overheard.

In any case, anyone who saw them whispering together would assume they were getting all romantic with each other. Which under different circumstances might bother Starsky a bit, but definitely not here.

“You know what gets to me the most, Hutch?” Starsky stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth and chewed it ferociously. “It’s how damned un-erotic this job is. It’s putting me right off sex.”

Hutch looked over to where the Director was in his chair, reshooting a girl-on-girl scene. “He takes his job pretty seriously.”

Starsky agreed. The one thing he’d discovered over the course of the last few hours was that the Director was obsessive about getting everything just right. Not that he was mean or unreasonable. The girls all seemed very fond of him, which Starsky supposed he could understand. After all, he paid them well and fed them lunch, and gave them a fair bit of latitude when it came to what they would or wouldn’t do for the camera. And he paid them extra cash, on the spot, for stuff like anal sex.

However... “That’s not what I’m talking about. The girls don’t seem to mind what they’re doing, but it feels like, I dunno. Like they’d be just as happy, or happier, playing Parcheesi.” Starsky chewed dispiritedly on a carrot stick. “Except who gets paid a hundred dollars a day to play Parcheesi?”

“It’s a job, Starsk,” said Hutch. “If you spent every day working in a chocolate factory, after awhile I imagine you wouldn’t think chocolate tasted all that great.”

“It just seems a shame to do that to something like sex,” said Starsky. He put his plate on the floor and folded his arms over his knees. “And making these movies - it’s really hard work for those girls! You know, at least a hooker only has one client at a time, and no one expects her to have sex for eight hours straight.”

The Director had stopped the cameras again and was instructing the girls to arrange themselves in a different position on the temple steps. They were both red-faced and sweaty, looking completely exhausted. The fluff girl ran up and squirted their pubic hair with the squirt bottle, to make them look more aroused, and then they were at it again. It was about as sexy as a gynecological exam.

“Anna, from Costumes, is getting paid in blow,” said Hutch, casually.

“What?”

Hutch nodded. “While you were playing Fuck the Barbarian, I was getting the lowdown from the crew. About a third of them are paid in blow. It’s their choice. They can use it themselves, resell it, or both.”

“Where the hell is he getting--,” started Starsky.

He was interrupted by a shout from the Director. “I need Barbarian number six! Where is he?”

“Here!” Starsky bounced up, knocking his paper plate onto the floor.

Hutch reached over and patted Starsky’s leg. “I’ll keep asking questions. We’ll talk later.”

Crogar, AKA Barbarian number six, had evidently come upon the Amazons making love to each other. He seized one, tied her up, tossed her over his shoulder and ran off into the hills with her. The hills being a pile of rocks and sand twelve feet to the right of the temple.

The Director kept up a running monologue throughout the scene, alternately instructing and chastising.

“Okay, you’ve got the girl over your lap and you’re hitting her with the flat – the flat! – of your sword. Careful with the edge. It’s dull, but you could still do some damage and we want a chastened Amazon, not Amazon julienne. And you, Lois, wake up! I don’t care how comfortable you think his lap is...”

Starsky leaned over and looked at the girl sprawled across his knees, her ankles and wrists tied. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

She yawned expansively. “Oh, sure.” Lifting her head, eyelids at half-mast, Lois explained, “I just need a pick-me-up, you know?”

“Coffee, you get coffee and that’s it,” bellowed the Director. “Jesus jumpin’ Christ. We could all get busted just for making this film. If they find you using drugs on the set, we’re all looking at jail time!”

Starsky blinked. So a bunch of the crew were getting paid in blow, but they weren’t allowed to use it on the set.

A tendril of marijuana smoke wafted Starsky’s way and he glanced over to see a cameraman pinch off a joint and tuck it into his pocket. Obviously the crew didn’t take the Director seriously. Maybe he wasn’t so scary, as long as you weren’t trying to steal money from him.

“Pay attention everyone, we’re already behind schedule—.” The Director stopped as a girl ran up to his chair. She bent down and whispered in his ear.

“What? Here? He’s supposed to be in London!”

Starsky realized that several people had entered the warehouse during the filming. In the middle of the group was a short, red-headed man who appeared to be in charge. He was smirking.

Leaving three of his men by the door, he strolled across to the Director. Starsky watched, concerned. The red-head didn’t look particularly threatening, but the two thugs in dark shades and suits that he had flanking him looked like real bruisers.

He’s supposed to be in London! That was what the Director had said. So, was this the mysterious Brit Huggy had mentioned?

The Director stood, looking flustered. “Trevor! It’s great to see you.”

“We need to talk, Teddy.” Trevor ignored the Director’s outstretched hand. His bodyguards scanned the crowd with cold eyes.

Yep, thought Starsky. He sure sounds British.

“Of course. My office is this way.”

Trevor and the Director disappeared into the office, leaving the two goons to flank the door on either side.

Starsky quickly untied Lois. He patted her flank. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

“Oh, sure,” she said, yawning. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Starsky met Hutch over by the back wall. “We’ve got to get an ear in on that meeting,” he whispered.

“Way ahead of you, buddy,” said Hutch, calmly. “Why don’t you distract the muscle, and I’ll see if I can slip out. There’s a window in the back alley that looks right into the office.”

Starsky grinned, feeling ridiculously proud of his partner. “You did some scouting.”

“The Director’s compulsive about keeping records. I was thinking of taking a look at them after everyone left--.” Hutch cut himself off. “Never mind. Get over there and...” He paused and looked at Starsky. “Seduce them with your hot bod.”

Starsky was suddenly very aware that he was wearing nothing but a skimpy scrap of leather. And also that the erection he’d tried so hard to achieve and maintain now seemed to have become permanent.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re mean.”

Hutch grinned widely.

As Starsky turned to go, he felt a stinging slap on his right butt cheek. “Hey!” He whipped back around to confront Hutch.

Hutch held up both hands, chuckling. “I’m in character!”

Starsky grabbed Hutch’s collar. “Okay, buddy, listen to this. I may be selling my body, but I am more than just a sexy piece of meat. This relationship is going to be built on mutual respect and consideration. Got it?”

“Was that in character?” asked Hutch, after a moment’s silence.

“Nope.”

***

Doyle leaned against the flimsy wall, trying to hear the argument raging inside the office. From what he could make out, Trevor was yelling at the director of the... film, if you could call it such a thing. Looked more like an orgy, with a few cameras tossed in for good measure.

At any rate, Teddy had been running things locally in a manner for which he didn’t have authority. He’d been making decisions that had more to do with the money management side of things, instead of just sticking to making his films.

And then there were the records.

“You’ve got books?”

That last was clear enough. Trevor sounded appalled. There was an indistinct protest from Teddy.

“Give me that!” demanded Trevor. A brief pause, then, “Names, dates, amounts, good God, man!”

After that his voice dropped again and Doyle had to strain to hear anything. He caught something about a shark again, but it was still impossible to put it into context.

“See that?” said Bodie, jabbing him in the ribs.

Doyle blinked. “What?” He’d been so focused on trying to hear the argument in the office that he hadn’t seen much of anything in front of him.

“The clown in the leather nappy, back there with his friend.”

Doyle looked in the direction Bodie was indicating. The two men appeared to be involved in an intense discussion. “You think they’re planning something?”

Bodie tapped the side of his nose, wisely. “I don’t think, my son, I know!”

Doyle sniggered. “You don’t think.”

“Berk,” said Bodie, without heat. “Look, here comes Leather Lad. Ten to one he tries to distract us while his mate slips out the back.”

“Uh, hi!” Leather Lad strolled up and smiled brightly.

Doyle looked past him. Just as predicted, the blond was ducking out the back door while his friend stood there and tried to chat them up. Doyle exchanged a glance with Bodie who nodded in acknowledgement and took off in quick pursuit.

“Hey, wait!” Leather Lad turned to follow.

Doyle reached out and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him back around.

“Hold on,” demanded Doyle, drawing his pistol. “Who are you?”

Leather Lad crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Dave.”

“And where’s your friend gone?”

“For a leak,” said Dave, biting off each word. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m feeling a sudden urge to do the same.”

Doyle leaned back against the wall, comfortably, his weapon still trained on Dave. “No, I think we’ll wait right here.” He found himself rather liking the tough little sod. It took real nerve to stand as good as naked in front of an armed man.

Dave sighed expansively and settled back on his heels, his hands folded neatly in front. His stance was civilian, but Doyle had spent enough time in Bodie’s company to recognize the attitude of someone on parade rest.

“Military, were you?” asked Doyle.

Dave shrugged. “I thought you Brits didn’t carry guns.”

“A gross exaggeration.” Doyle was almost certain he saw Dave’s ears twitch as the argument in the office briefly increased in volume, but the man’s expression remained impassive.

The door in the back banged open, and Bodie shoved an irritated looking blond man through it. Grabbing the back of the man’s neck, Bodie sat him firmly down in a folding chair before striding back across the room to Doyle.

Doyle holstered his weapon. “Well?”

Bodie held up a sadly battered joint. “Caught him smoking up in the alley. Or so he claims.”

If Doyle hadn’t been looking directly at Dave, he would have missed the brief flash of triumph that crossed his face. In the space of a blink there was nothing to see but innocence.

“We’re not allowed to use drugs on the set,” explained Dave, helpfully.

“Right,” said Doyle. “Get out of here.”

He watched Dave trot back to his friend, who was being consoled by a gaggle of pretty, and mostly naked, girls.

“The blond’s calling himself Ken,” said Bodie. “Argumentative bastard.”

“They’re all right,” said Doyle, still watching Dave speculatively.

Bodie made a rude noise, and leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Didn’t know you went for that type.”

“We are that type,” said Doyle. He didn’t know who Dave and Ken were working for, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t Teddy, any more than he and Bodie were working for Trevor. They had an agenda of their own.

Bodie lifted an eyebrow, and then smirked. “No, we are infinitely more handsome, suave, and deadly.”

Doyle chuckled.

Chapter 9

As soon as Starsky arrived, he began trying to get rid of the girls. Hutch helped by claiming that only Starsky could heal the trauma he’d experienced, after having been manhandled by that awful thug. The girls left giggling.

“There goes my reputation,” said Hutch, regretfully. “You know, I’ve had more women offer me the sexual experience of my life today... If this goes on much longer, I might have to explore my straight side.”

Hutch had found his workday very educational. He had no idea there were so many women who considered ‘I’m gay’ a personal challenge. Beautiful women. Beautiful naked women, in every shade of the rainbow from chocolate skinned brunettes to translucently fair blondes.

“But you’re madly in love with me, remember?” Starsky sat down on the floor and hooked his arm over Hutch’s leg. “That was a smart move.”

“I thought I might need an excuse for being out back.” Hutch tugged at the curls under his hand, grinning. From the corner of his eye he could see that the Director was back, standing over by the cameras, still trying to placate an irate Trevor.

Trevor’s two thugs were right there as well, flanking their boss. Hutch rubbed the back of his neck. The asshole bodyguard had not been gentle with him.

Starsky propped his chin on Hutch’s knee and looked up. “Where did you get the joint from?”

“Bummed it off Albert, there.” Hutch nodded at a camera man a few yards away. “He even gave me another, since that guy took mine away.”

Noticing Hutch looking his way, Albert smiled sweetly and waved.

Starsky harrumphed. “I think he likes you, Hutch. You’d better not be thinking of cheating on me.”

Hutch smacked the side of Starsky’s head. Then he leaned down and said into Starsky’s ear, “We’re going to have to watch ourselves. You saw for yourself that Trevor’s heavies are packing heat and that goon who grabbed me is more than just muscle. He’s had training.”

In fact, the way he’d been thrown up against the wall with his wrist between his shoulder blades, Hutch was willing to bet it was some kind of military or police-type training. An untrained person might try that move, but if they’d put the same amount of force into it without a corresponding amount of control, Hutch would have found himself with a dislocated shoulder. As it was – Hutch rotated his shoulder experimentally – he wasn’t even sore.

The goon in question was expressionlessly scanning the crowd with his partner, apparently ignoring the conversation between Trevor and the Director. The other three men were leaning against the door, smoking and leering at the actresses. They looked more like the run-of-the-mill muscle Hutch would have expected a man like Trevor to hire.

“Oh, you sweet talkin’ devil, you,” said Starsky. He reached up and grabbed Hutch’s head, pulling his ear down within whispering range. “Yeah, and they’re no dummies. The other one pegged me as ex-army.”

The Director’s voice interrupted them. “If you two lovebirds are quite done, we’ve got a movie to make! Chop, chop!”

Hutch started to straighten up, only to feel Starsky’s arm tighten around his neck. Before he could react, Starsky firmly kissed his nose.

“No more flirting with the cameramen,” said Starsky as he released him. “You belong to me, and don’t forget it.”

Hutch was still trying to catch his breath when a pretty brunette leaned over his shoulder and said, “Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl yet?” One full breast, the nipple pink and pert, brushed against his cheek.

It occurred to Hutch that he might have to kill his partner.

***

Doyle had decided Teddy was a compulsive idiot, keeping detailed paper records on all his illegal dealings.

On the other hand, if he and Bodie could get their hands on some of those records they might be able to put an end to this ridiculous tour. What he’d seen of Bay City was interesting – very colourful in a pastel, drug-delirium kind of way – but Doyle wanted to get his feet back on the comfortingly sensible shores of England.

“What happened to her ropes?” demanded Teddy. “The Amazon is supposed to be bound in this scene!”

Dave, appearing nonchalant about the erection tenting his leather nappy, trotted over to where a girl lay curled up against a plaster boulder. She was fast asleep, snoring lightly.

“Hey, wake up,” said Dave, patting her cheek.

Doyle heard an impatient snort behind him, and Trevor stepped forward into the lights.

“Hey,” Teddy started to protest.

Trevor made a slicing gesture with his hand, and Teddy immediately fell silent. It was obvious who had the power.

Doyle exchanged a glance with Bodie as Trevor headed for the girl, who was now rubbing her eyes and smiling sleepily.

Bodie nodded.

Trouble.

Together, they moved up on either side of Dave, and snagged him by the elbows, pulling him back.

He looked at them, confusion and alarm on his face.

“If you know what’s good for you, keep your mouth shut,” said Bodie, quietly.

There was a grim expression in Bodie’s eyes, which Doyle suspected was echoed in his own. He patted Dave’s cheek. “We like you.”

“We’d like to see you live,” said Bodie, grinning humourlessly. He leaned in close to Dave’s ear and whispered, “Copper.”

Dave went rigid, his eyes wide.

Doyle had to suppress a grin. It wasn’t at all nice of Bodie to terrorize Dave, but it certainly was an effective way to keep him quiet. And from Dave’s reaction, maybe he actually was an undercover cop. Doyle had been thinking more along the lines of private investigator, judging Dave and his partner too clean cut to be working for Teddy’s competition. But Bodie’s instincts were usually good, however unlikely it seemed that any department would put its officers undercover in a dirty film.

More proof that Bay City was a bizarre town.

Regardless, all they had to do was keep Dave and his partner from causing any trouble, and then tonight they could wrap this whole operation up neatly, and most importantly – quietly.

Trevor dropped to one knee beside the girl and lifted her chin in his hand. “Are you tired, love?”

She nodded, blinking.

“Would you like this to be over, so you can go home?” Trevor’s voice was like honey, syrupy sweet and gliding over the threat beneath his words.

“Sure...” she said, tentatively.

“Right, then!” Trevor rocked back on his heels. “Get on your hands and knees.”

“Okay,” said the girl. The room was silent as she complied.

Doyle relaxed fractionally. He’d been concerned for a moment at the idea of anything being ‘over’, but evidently Trevor only meant to shag the girl. Which was something she shouldn’t object to very much, considering she was being paid to do the same with the other fellows.

Then Trevor undid his zip and reached for one of the pots of Vaseline. Doyle grimaced. He’d evidently done a decent job of blocking the memory of the flight from his mind, because he’d forgotten just how repulsive a creature Trevor was, with his paunch spilling over his groin, and the sparse, sandy hair curling underneath. Doyle glanced away, hoping the nasty little toad wouldn’t take too long.

If he and Bodie could get away from the hotel tonight, they might be able to return and break into Teddy’s office without anyone noticing. If the evidence was strong enough, they could arrest Trevor – Doyle paused for a moment to appreciate the warm feeling that idea gave him – and forcibly extradite his fat little arse back to England, where he could face trial.

And if he resisted...

Doyle was distracted from his pleasant thoughts by a shriek from the girl.

“No wait! I don’t do anal!”

Trevor’s fingers were digging into her hips, and he was thrusting brutally at her arse, even as she clawed the ground, trying to crawl away. The girl began to cry. “You’re hurting me!”

Doyle was unprepared for the solid blow that landed in his gut. He doubled over with a pained grunt, feeling Dave twist free of his grasp.

Bodie cursed. “Bastard bit me!”

Through watering eyes, Doyle saw Dave grab the back of Trevor’s shirt and haul him off the girl, throwing him to the ground. He heard shouts and pounding feet and knew Karl, Josef and Bobby were about to join the fray. Any moment now, there would be gunfire.

Dave had Trevor by the collar and was hauling him up off the ground, his fist cocked.

Daft sod’s going to get himself killed, thought Doyle. Ignoring the protest from his bruised gut, he launched himself at Dave, tackling him.

They hit the ground together, on the other side of Trevor. Doyle rolled Dave onto his stomach and yanked his arm up behind his back. Dave yelped, and bucked beneath him, his toes scraping the sandy floor. Doyle secured his grip. Short of voluntarily dislocating his shoulder there was nothing Dave could do.

Glancing up, Doyle spotted Dave’s partner immediately. He was at the front edge of the crowd, watching the situation tensely. To Doyle’s immense relief, he didn’t look like he was about to do anything rash. Copper, or private dick, there was too much at stake to risk over one bloke who thinks he’s a hero.

Looking to the left, Doyle saw that Karl, Josef and Bobby all had their weapons drawn and were pointing them at Dave. And, incidentally, at himself.

Doyle was sure none of those three – certainly not Karl or Josef – would lose any sleep if he ‘accidentally’ took a bullet or two while they were protecting Trevor from the porn star.

But where was Bodie? To Doyle’s surprise, he discovered that his partner had taken charge of the girl, finding a robe from somewhere and wrapping it carefully around her shoulders. He was talking to her quietly, all the while watching the situation with much the same intensity as Dave’s partner.

There’s something of the hero in Bodie, too, thought Doyle, bemused. Even if he’s too professional to risk throwing away the entire case over one girl.

Trevor stood, brushed the sand off his knees and straightened his collar. He didn’t do up his trousers, but instead stood over Doyle and Dave, looking down at the two of them. “Fancy yourself a real hero, eh?”

Doyle tightened his hold, feeling Dave’s muscles bunch beneath him. One slip, and he’d explode, and get himself shot down in an instant. And they’d never be so lucky as to have a stray bullet catch Trevor as well.

Trevor strolled around them, casually. Doyle tried to ignore the erect organ bobbing at his eye level. For God’s sake, he thought, irritably. Put that thing away.

Then Trevor stopped between Dave’s ankles and said, “Take her place, then. Though I expect it won’t be your first time, more’s the pity.”

Alarmed, Doyle glanced over his shoulder. What the hell?

Movement behind Trevor caught Doyle’s eye. He saw Karl’s mouth fall open in surprise as an arm suddenly snaked around his neck, and his Glock was smoothly grabbed out of his hand.

“Freeze! BCPD!” Dave’s partner pointed the Glock at Doyle, as Karl struggled, clawing at the arm around his neck, his eyes bulging. “You’re all under arrest!”

The effect on the crowd was instantaneous. Men and women both began to scream. There was an immediate crush at the warehouse doors, as people scrambled for the exits, climbing over each other in their panic to get out.

Trevor spun, drawing his own weapon and firing without hesitation. The bullet slammed into Karl’s chest. His eyes opened wide in shocked surprise, and then he was down, taking the cop to the floor with him.

Trevor bolted for the other end of the warehouse, in the wake of the fleeing crowd, his gun in one hand, doing up his trousers with the other.

Doyle released Dave, who promptly rolled and bounced up swinging. Doyle ducked around him and charged after Trevor, only to feel a hand snag his collar, and yank him back.

He did not have time for this shit.

Doyle turned quickly, using his momentum to land a sidekick in Dave’s stomach. Dave was utterly open, undefended, and the blow landed with satisfying effectiveness. He folded with a grunt, both arms wrapped around his midsection.

Satisfied that Dave was down, Doyle resumed his chase, only to find that Trevor had vanished. “Damn it!” He skidded to a stop, then changed direction and ran for the office instead. Much as he’d love to put a bullet in Trevor himself, it was the evidence that mattered most. Trevor was just a small part of a much larger organization.

He smelled the petrol before he was halfway across the warehouse.

He heard Trevor’s voice through the open door of the office when he was just a few yards away.

“Idiot!” snapped Trevor. “If the cops get their hands on these records!”

“There’s only one cop...” That was Teddy’s voice.

Doyle reached the door just in time to see Trevor shove Teddy back against filing cabinet and pull his gun. “Enough! It’s over!”

The weapon barked. A small black hole appeared directly between Teddy’s eyes, a fraction of a second before the back of his head disintegrated into fragments of blood and bone.

“Stop,” snapped Doyle, stepping into the office, his gun covering Trevor. “Drop your weapon.”

The fumes hit him like a kick in the sinuses. Teddy’s office had been soaked in petrol. Doyle’s foot hit a red plastic can lying on its side by the door, still draining onto the floor.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Trevor threw his gun down and held his hands away from his body. “And just what are you supposed to be? Another bloody copper?”

“Worse. CI5!” Doyle stepped forward and grabbed Trevor, shoving him face down on the desk. He glanced around, looking for something with which he could secure the man.

Trevor snorted, unimpressed. “A little outside your authority, aren’t you?”

Doyle saw Trevor’s eyes move fractionally, tracking past his shoulder. Doyle reacted instantly, only to feel himself skid on the soaked floor. Off balance, he was struggling to bring his weapon around when he felt liquid hit his face.

There was a single frozen instant in which Doyle saw Bobby clearly, another red petrol can in his hands and a grin on his face. Then the moment shattered, and the world dissolved into blinding red pain.

Christ, my eyes!

Doyle staggered, hardly aware of his gun being pulled from his grip. He hit the ground on his knees, tears pouring down his face. Gasping, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Distantly, through the pain, he could hear Trevor say smugly, “Thank you, Bobby.”

“Go ahead and light that fire, sir,” said Bobby.

Doyle struggled to find his bearings in the agony that gripped him. Stupid, he raged silently. Letting him walk right up behind you, like a rank amateur... He forced his eyes open, only to find the world a blur. He blinked through his tears, trying to resolve the wavering images.

“I’ve always wanted to burn money,” said Trevor.

A flare of yellow light caught Doyle’s attention, the blurry figure resolving into Trevor. He was holding something, watching it burn. Then he dropped it. Fire flared up instantly, forcing Trevor to jump back.

Doyle flinched, feeling the heat sear his face even as the pain flared brighter, blinding him again.

“Well done,” said Bobby. Doyle heard the crack of a pistol and he ducked reflexively, expecting to feel the impact of the bullet.

Instead, someone else grunted with shock and pain. Doyle lifted his head and through watering eyes he saw Trevor stumble and fall.

Almost instantly the stench of burning meat filled the room, and Trevor began to scream.

Doyle gagged, trying to scramble backward. “Bloody hell!”

“My assignment,” said Bobby, “was to discover if Trevor had become a liability to the organization. I determined he had, and I executed the contract.” His voice had changed from the amiably slow drawl Doyle had known earlier, to something much sharper and more precise.

“You’re a fucking assassin!” Doyle found the door frame and grabbed it, pulling himself to his feet. His eyes were streaming, and he turning, trying to fix Bobby’s location in the confusion of heat and pain.

“And you’re CI5.”

Doyle felt something collide with the back of his head, igniting a white-hot explosion behind his eyes. His knees buckled. The last thing he heard, as the world faded to black, was, “But I liked you anyway.”

Chapter 10

Starsky had seen Hutch go down, but in all the confusion he hadn’t seen him get up again. “Hutch!” His elbow pressed tight against his battered midsection, Starsky spun on his heel, searching the remnants of the fleeing crowd. Several of the camera stands had been knocked down and live wires snaked across the ground, sparking. He could smell smoke.

A hand landed hard in the center of his back, shoving him forward.

“Move!”

Starsky heard a gunshot, followed by the too-familiar scream and whine of a ricochet. He ducked and rolled, coming back up onto his feet just in time to see the goon who had accused him of being a cop turn toward him, weapon raised.

There was no time to react. All Starsky knew was the utter certainty that he was looking his own death in the eye. Then a bullet seared past his ear, and behind him he heard a man yell.

Starsky didn’t waste any time trying to figure out how the goon had missed at almost point blank range. The important thing was that he’d taken down one of his own, instead. Starsky grabbed the stricken thug’s weapon before he dove for the dubious cover of the plaster boulders.

The sand skinned his knees, and he banged his elbow. His stomach and ribs were aching. He felt ridiculously exposed, and he was absolutely certain that this was not the way he wanted to die. There was no dignity, dying in a leather loincloth. He didn’t even have shoes, and wasn’t every cowboy supposed to die with his boots on?

Starsky braced his arms on top of the boulder. “Hold it!”

The big, scary goon was still standing in the same spot as before, but now he looked righteously indignant. “I’m on your side!”

His buddy was gurgling out his last breaths, a spreading pool of dark blood soaking the sand beneath him.

Starsky looked from one to the other dubiously.

“Look, if I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it by now,” said the goon, impatiently. “I saved your bloody life!” He appeared utterly undisturbed by the dying man’s agony.

Starsky might have waffled indefinitely, trying to decide who the good guys really were. But a shout from the far end of the warehouse solved his dilemma very neatly for him.

“Fire!”

“Hutch?” yelled Starsky, relieved beyond words to hear his partner’s voice. Then the sense of what Hutch was hollering sank in and he realized that he could smell a good deal more than just electrical smoke.

Noxious black clouds were billowing out of the Director’s office, and the stench of gasoline hung heavy in the air.

“Bugger!” exclaimed the goon. “They’re burning the evidence!” He vaulted a toppled camera stand and bolted for the office.

“Hey, wait!” As Starsky stood he stepped on something sharp. He hopped several steps, trying to keep up, and then had to stop long enough to pull a sliver of glass from his foot.

The cast and crew were nearly all gone, except for one large black man darting out the side entrance. The air was turning blue with smoke, and Starsky could feel his lungs beginning to burn as he ran.

He found Hutch just outside of the burning office, kneeling next to the other bodyguard. He had the top off one of the spray bottles and was pouring water into the man’s eyes.

The goon had got there ahead of Starsky. He crouched and grabbed his stricken friend’s arm. “Are you okay?”

The guard was coughing and wheezing, his hair wet and blood soaking into his collar from a head wound, but his response was crystal clear. “The papers!”

“Right!” He shoved his weapon into the guard’s hand. “Hold this.”

To Starsky’s horror, the goon turned without hesitation and ran straight into the burning office. He slid over the top of the desk in a shower of sparks. Grabbing a drawer, he swung it over his head and threw it through the window on the opposite wall. There was a sound of shattering glass, and then the flames roared higher, gorging themselves on the influx of fresh air from the other side.

Starsky staggered back, feeling the heat like a punch in the face. The man in the office vanished from view almost instantly, engulfed in a cloud of smoke.

***

“Bodie, you bloody moron!”

Doyle was as close to frantic as he’d ever been in his life, but he didn’t panic. There’d be time to fall apart later, when he was pulling three bodies out of the ashes, instead of two.

The fire was too intense to get through on this side, but there was a window on the opposite wall. He’d seen the alley as they drove up, which meant the shortest way around would be through the door and to the left.

To his relief, Doyle found that he didn’t need to see perfectly to know where he was going. As he ran, he shrugged out of his jacket. A fire extinguisher would be invaluable, but there was no time to search for one. And his jacket could be used to smother a fire, even if the object on fire was a human body.

Doyle skidded around the corner of the building and into the alley. He was just in time to see Bodie dive out of the window, his jacket over his head and a trail of smoke following him.

Bodie somersaulted, hitting the ground first with his shoulders and then slamming into the wall opposite. He lay frighteningly still, sprawled limply.

Doyle dropped his jacket and grabbed Bodie’s shoulder, turning him over onto his back. He pressed his ear to Bodie’s chest, listening for any indication he was breathing. His hand was already on Bodie’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Then Doyle felt him shudder, once. A moment later, Bodie began to cough. It was a deep, racking convulsion, and it was about the sweetest sound Doyle thought he’d ever heard.

His hand on Bodie’s back, Doyle looked around at the loose papers, notebooks and binders littering the alley. Some were charred and others were smoking, but many more were perfectly intact.

Bodie coughed again, and this time he gagged wetly, and began to kick the ground, trying to turn himself over. Doyle rolled him onto his side, just as Bodie vomited soot-black chunks onto cement – and onto some of the evidence, as well.

“Sorry, mate,” said Bodie, miserably. But he was breathing easier now. He was black with soot, and the bit of skin Doyle could see beneath the dirt was bone-white.

Doyle grabbed him before he could land on his face in that mess, and propped him up against the wall. “I hope you didn’t breathe in too much of that smoke. You’ll be seeing pink elephants.”

The sound Bodie made was suspiciously close to a giggle.

“My partner’s gone to call for an ambulance, and a meat wagon.” The blond policeman was standing in the entrance to the alley, his gun drawn. “Who the hell are you?”

“We’re civil servants,” said Doyle, wearily. Now that the immediate danger was past, he was beginning to feel the effect of the blow he’d taken to the back of his head.

“Watch where you point that thing,” said Bodie, hoarsely. “Wouldn’t want it to go off accidentally.” He coughed a few more times, and then bent forward to grab a piece of paper before it could blow away. He held it up, between two fingers. “Do you think Cowley will find this useful?”

Doyle couldn’t make much sense of any of it. Between his still watering eyes and his headache, the numbers on the paper were sliding around alarmingly. “Oh, very good.”

“You’re not cops,” said Ken.

“And you’re not... whatever the hell you were pretending to be,” said Doyle. Nodding very carefully at Dave, who had just appeared behind his partner, he added, “And he’s definitely not a porn star.” He was pleased when his head didn’t actually fall off.

“Hey,” said Dave. “The ambulance is on the way. They’ll give your pal some oxygen, and put a few stitches in your head.” He turned to Ken and said urgently, “Give me your shirt.”

“What? Why?”

“Just give it to me!”

“No! I’m in the middle of an interrogation here.”

“They don’t look like imminent flight risks, so put your gun away and take your shirt off.” When his partner didn’t comply immediately, Dave propped his hands on his hips and said, “Either you take it off, and give it to me, or I’m going to take it off you. You know perfectly well we’ve got half the squad on their way here, every last one of them hoping to see naked chicks. And what they’re gonna get instead is naked me.”

Ken smiled broadly. “Yeah, I know.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Doyle could hear sirens in the distance, rapidly growing louder.

“What will you give me for my shirt?”

“Give you!” yelped Dave. “Unless you’ve forgotten, you owe me!”

Doyle was interested to note that all the while Ken was arguing with Dave, he never actually stopped covering them with the gun. Nor did Dave ever take his eyes off the two of them. They sounded like incompetent buffoons, but they were acting like reasonably competent policemen.

Bodie was still sorting through papers, all the while wheezing noisily, snuffling and periodically wiping his eyes with his forearm. He appeared to be having some difficulty with his hands, and Doyle wondered if he’d managed to burn them.

“I paid Huggy for that information,” protested Dave.

“But you didn’t pay my bar tab, which means I can’t drink at the Pits until next payday. Which means, if we go out tonight, you’re going to have to cover my drinks.”

“I don’t have any money!”

“But you do have a clean tab.”

“Fine! Bastard. Your drinks tonight are on my tab. Now gimme your shirt. I’m not facing those jerks without my dignity.”

“I thought it was your clothes you were missing,” said Ken as he pushed the gun into his waistband and began removing his shirt.

Doyle listened with open fascination. He and Bodie had been called a double act, but these two sounded like an old married couple. He wondered how many years they’d been partnered.

As Dave tied his partner’s shirt around his waist, he said, “I think we should introduce ourselves properly. I’m Starsky, and this goofball here is Hutch. We’re detectives with the Bay City Police Department.”

“Doyle and Bodie,” said Doyle. “Our outfit is CI5.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” said Hutch. “Is it British? What are you doing here?”

“Observing,” said Doyle, wryly.

“Oh, and didn’t we do a good job,” said Bodie, happily, if hoarsely. He produced a spiral notebook, only slightly charred in one corner.

Doyle opened it and squinted at the columns. With effort, names and dates began to form out of the confusion on the page. Shipment details. Contacts. British ports. “Cowley will want to give us nice fat bonuses for this.”

“Never happen,” said Bodie. “But we might get a ‘well done, lads!’”

Epilogue

Starsky rocked back on his heels as he watched the plane taxi down the runway. “You know, Hutch, I don’t think I liked those guys.”

Hutch propped his hip on the railing in front of the large viewing window. “I think we barely registered on their radar.”

Starsky frowned. He hadn’t been able to forget that Bodie and Doyle would have stood by while that girl had been raped, just so they could maintain their covers. When he’d tried to ask Bodie about it the man had given him an unreadable look and said the girl might have taken it as a hint that she ought to find herself a safer line of work.

“They were cold, Hutch. Really cold. Still, I guess all’s well that ends well.”

Bodie and Doyle had been in some trouble at first, as it turned out they’d entered the country without legal passports or official authorization. But Dobey and Agent Kelly were happy with how everything had turned out.

Mr. Cowley had dressed Bodie and Doyle down over the phone, which he’d had put on speaker so he could deal with both of them at once. He said their job had been to observe, not spread death and destruction across the Atlantic.

Agent Kelly cleared his throat at that, and said, “It was irregular, certainly, but the Agency would like you to know that we appreciated having your men’s help in this case, Mr. Cowley.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Cowley. There was a pause. Finally he said, “Bodie, Doyle, in light of the evidence you have managed to turn up... You’ve done an adequate job, lads.”

Bodie had beamed, and even Doyle had looked pleased.

And Starsky had decided he’d never understand the British. Because if that was the praise they’d been hoping for... It must be that whole stiff upper lip thing. Starsky was grateful Dobey wasn’t cut of the same cloth.

The plane was gone now, swallowed in the clouds. Starsky grinned, feeling his spirits lift. The job was done, and done well. “And the best part is, the Director never finished his film!” He bounced slightly as he began walking toward the escalator.

“That’s true...”

“What?” Starsky looked at Hutch quizzically.

“You know a certain amount of the film had to go into evidence.”

“Sure, but nothing with me in it, right?”

Hutch grimaced.

“Right?” asked Starsky, anxiously.

“Let’s just say you might want to skip this year’s Precinct Christmas Party.”

***

Bodie watched the stewardess push her cart down the centre of the aisle. “I’m hungry,” he said, pathetically. Both his hands were bandaged, though otherwise he’d come out reasonably unscathed. A doctor had commented admiringly on the health of his lungs, and his overall constitution.

Doyle looked away from the window, where he had been watching clouds. “So buy yourself something.” He was not inclined to feel any pity for Bodie. He’d had to have about two inches square shaved off the back of his head so they could put stitches in. His hair was going to be months growing back in and he was not happy about it.

“With what?”

“With the money Trevor gave you. That hundred dollar bill! I know you never got a chance to spend it.” Doyle couldn’t believe Bodie would try such a transparent ploy.

“Oh,” said Bodie. He pulled a magazine out of the pouch in front of him. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“What did you do with it?” demanded Doyle.

Bodie opened the magazine, effectively disappearing from view. “Gave it to a bird.”

“What? What bird?”

“The dozy one. Slipped it in the pocket of her robe.”

“You...” Doyle started to laugh. Finally, conclusive proof that he’d misjudged Bodie badly. There was nothing at all callous or untrustworthy about his partner. “You’re marshmallow under that hard exterior!”

Bodie ignored him.

Doyle’s glee abated as a new thought occurred to him. “You know, she’ll likely just drink it away.” Or snort it up her nose, or shoot it up her arm.

“Yeah well...” Bodie shrugged without looking up from his magazine. “She can still dance with a drink in her hand.”

It took Doyle a moment to place the lyric and match it to the singer. “Damn. Here we are, leaving America. And I never got to meet Elvis.”

“And you never will,” said Bodie.

“Eh?”

“He died two days ago.”

“You’re joking!”

“No, look.” Bodie held up the magazine. The cover was bordered in black, and there was a picture of Elvis with the dates of his birth and death on the front. “The King is dead.”

“This is one bloody great cosmic joke, isn’t it?”

“Here, you read it.” Bodie passed the magazine over, and stood up. “I’m going to go chat up that stewardess. Maybe she’ll decide to feed me.”

***

A week later, Starsky was still trying hard to look on the bright side of things. “Well, at least the film wasn’t ever distributed. It’s safe in the evidence locker. And the other guys will understand. They’ll stop teasing me, eventually. A cop’s gotta do what a cop’s gotta do, right?”

Hutch nodded encouragingly. “Right!” He climbed out of the car and waited for Starsky to join him.

The missing reel should have turned up by now. But since it hadn’t, Hutch was fairly confident that it was gone for good. Starsky would never need to know.

It hadn’t really been his fault. He’d only taken the film out in order to find the perfect segment to show at the Christmas party. And then, of course, he’d had to run it by a couple of the precinct’s female officers, in order to ensure that he’d picked just the right one.

And anyway, it was high time he got his own back, after having been forced to listen to multiple renditions of himself doing his “oh, baby” routine in the blackmail case. Hutch was looking forward to having Starsky be the holiday entertainment for a change. Turnabout was fair play.

They were a few steps from the entrance to the Pits when a jeep filled with young men slowed down. “Hey, Cro-gar! Whooo!” The driver hit the gas and they sped off, howling with laughter.

Starsky spun around to stare after them. “What did they say?”

“Uh... crowbar,” said Hutch, crossing his fingers behind his back. “Must be some kind of new college slang.”

“Hutch,” said Starsky. “The film just went into Evidence, right?”

Hutch picked up his pace, pretending not to hear.

“It didn’t go anywhere else, did it?”

Maybe Huggy would protect him.

“Hutch?”

Because Huggy wouldn’t want blood spilled in his bar, surely.

“Hey!”

~end~

Title: I Can Still Dance with a Drink in My Hand
Author: Rebelcat
Slash or Gen: See above. Gen, if you must choose one.
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Sure!
Disclaimer: They ain’t mine! Not even the shark.
Notes: Big ol’ virtual hugs to Izzie and Elizabeth Helena, both of whom put immense amounts of work into this story and made it possible for me to post it in time for this month’s challenge. Thanks guys!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

callistosh65.livejournal.com

Excellent! Such an exciting paced finalé to the whole thing. And that climactic first meeting between the two pairs? Was just hugging myself with glee! How perfect was it that we got it though Bodie's eyes and the following observation to Doyle:
“The clown in the leather nappy, back there with his friend.”
Just brilliant, Rebel. All of it. I am a very, very happy camper now, thank you so much.

From:

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

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