CHAPTER 14b
Starsky launched himself, grappling the woman in a full body tackle and throwing her down to the ground as bullets shattered the glass of the Parrot's big front window.
"GET DOWN GET DOWN GET DOWN!" Starsky shouted to everyone around them. He climbed over Kelly, shielding her small frame with his bigger body. The automatic chattered, bullets tearing into the bar, flying wildly over them. Glass fell all around them, on them, in his hair. He kept their heads low and pressed them into the unyielding sidewalk. Why couldn't he have a goddamned gun?
Beneath him, Callahan clutched his leather jacket, her body shaking. Yeah, I'm scared, too, sweetheart!
The crowd flattened like a trained squadron, and screams tore through the bystanders. How many had been hit? He had no idea. Had Barbara caught a bullet? C.D.? Emil or Huggy? He didn't know. Right now, all he was aware of was himself and the woman he was trying to save.
Tires screamed and he glanced up to see a trail of smoking rubber as the sedan sped away, careening around the corner. Huggy was instantly by his side, and a second later, Hutch emerged from the bar, baseball bat in hand, expression frantic. People were crying, shouting, wailing in pain.
Starsky got up and grabbed Huggy, shoving him at the dazed, terrified Callahan. "Get her inside! She's the target. HUTCH!"
His partner found him on instinct and dashed over, as they all helped Callahan to her feet.
"They missed. They're gonna come around again," Starsky yelled and Hutch nodded.
Hutch turned back to Emil. "Keep everyone down! They're coming back. Stay down! Stay down!"
People shrieked in panic and some fled across the street through the chaotic flood of traffic.
Barbara was clambering to her feet, clutching at her cameraman. "Did you get hit? Are you okay?"
The man was dazed, and there was blood on his arm. "Nicked me," he said, gasping. "I'm okay. But I got the footage."
"You're a genius!" Barbara said, looking worriedly at his arm.
"That's evidence!" Starsky said, pointing at the camera.
They just about had Kelly to the bullet-riddled doors of the bar, when Hutch yelled, "Here they come! EVERYONE DOWN! GET DOWN!"
Starsky spotted the sedan as it turned the corner onto the main avenue and started rolling toward them. It was moving faster now. He gave Huggy and Callahan a final shove inside the bar. A dozen drag queens who'd been standing in the doorway, camping for the camera, surrounded them and pulled them inside to safety then slammed the heavy door shut.
He turned to Hutch. "Hey, I'm the baseball player here. Gimme that."
Hutch watched the circling sedan as he tossed the baseball bat to his partner. Starsky caught it cleanly, and exchanged a meaningful glance with his partner. They nodded resolutely, and without another word, split up, Starsky going left, Hutch going right. They moved low in opposite directions along the line of parked cars, using them for cover. Starsky ran hunched over, cradling the bat as he got closer to the sedan. Hutch moved farther away from it, then waited until it drew close.
The sedan slowed, no doubt looking for its intended victim. Panic erupted among the people lying on the ground, and more of them bolted, wanting to escape the anticipated hail of bullets.
As the sedan cruised parallel to the bar's doors, Hutch jumped out between two parked cars and appeared directly in front of it. Standing up and waving his arms at the occupants, he was a shocking apparition in white. "HEY! ASSHOLES!" he shouted brazenly. "LOOKING FOR ME?"
That was Starsky's cue. He bolted from his hiding place beside a parked car and came up behind the sedan. As the automatic weapon emerged from the window and aimed for Hutch, he brought the baseball bat down onto the muzzle with all his might. The gun went off as Hutch dodged out of the way, and the bullets slammed harmlessly into the street. The butt of the weapon jerked upwards, striking the shooter in the chin, dazing him. Starsky tried to grab the weapon, but the driver accelerated with a screech of tires and he couldn't hold it.
The sedan lurched forward, but now the heavy traffic worked against it. At the sound of gunfire, drivers had reacted without thinking and there were tangles of cars all over the main drag. Hutch took off down the sidewalk, going after the sedan on foot. Starsky ran into the street, nearly getting clipped by a car trying to escape the scene. Darting around it, he ran straight up the center line as cars zigged around him as they tried to avoid colliding with the accelerating sedan. He saw Hutch struggling to catch up to the car as the crowded thoroughfare slowed its escape route. The thought of them losing the car in traffic enraged Starsky and his anger gave him a surge of power as he raced down the middle of the street, dodging vehicles and fleeing pedestrians.
At the next heavy intersection traffic had come to an involuntary halt, and the sedan, trapped, slowed. Starsky saw the weapon emerging from the car again, as if the killers could shoot the cars around them dead and enable their escape.
Not this time, buddy, Starsky thought. His speed never faltered as his legs devoured the distance to the vehicle. He'd lost sight of Hutch and prayed he was nearby as he caught up to the car, jumped onto the back of the trunk, then the roof. He slammed the bat down against the half-opened passenger window, throwing all his weight into it. The window shattered and the bat connected hard with the face of the shooter.
Then Hutch was there, grabbing the weapon, controlling its aim, yanking it out of the hands of the wounded shooter.
Without hesitation, Starsky spun around, and smashed the bat into the driver's side window, trying to stop the driver before he pull forward as cars frantically cleared out of their way. The driver ducked and escaped the bat's blow. Then Starsky slammed the wooden weapon against the windshield again and again, until it was a maze of cracks impossible to see through. Let's hear it for safety glass, he thought.
The sound of distant police sirens cut through the air as Hutch successfully wrested the weapon away from the shooter, yanked open the car door, and pulled the dazed man out onto the street. He was bleeding from the mouth and nose, but still struggling to get free. Hutch slammed him against the sedan, making it rock, then shoved the guy onto the ground, where Starsky lost sight of him.
Starsky jumped down to the ground on the driver's side as a small handgun emerged from the driver's window. The muzzle was aimed his way, and discharged as he flattened himself against the sedan's side. The bullet missed him, but blew out the tire of a nearby car. Its driver skidded away from the scene on the rim. The baseball bat whistled before it connected with the driver's wrist. The man screamed as the bat crunched on bone, and screamed again when Starsky tore the gun out of his hand, and pulled him from the car by the broken wrist.
The sirens grew louder. As Starsky subdued his prisoner, he heard pounding feet, as if a well-shod herd were about to run them down. He looked up to see half the patrons of the Green Parrot--drag queens, conservative gays, leathermen, and punks--bearing down on the scene. He suddenly feared the riot he hadn't considered possible before.
"Hutch?" he called, unable to see his partner around the car.
"I'm okay," Hutch answered. "My man's down."
"Mine, too," Starsky said. "But we've got company, partner."
The approaching sirens couldn't cut through the angry voices as the enraged mob approached.
"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!" Hutch shouted, as he stood up beside the sedan. He'd hauled his prisoner to his feet, and shoved him, face first, against the car, holding him there.
The crowd slowed, but Starsky could see how angry they were.
"Go on back to the bar!" Hutch ordered. "We've got this under control."
"The hell we will!" one of the more flamboyantly dressed queens answered. "They think they can shoot us down in the streets? They think we won't fight back because we're queers? We're gonna tear these bastards apart." The crowd shouted in agreement.
Starsky's prisoner suddenly grunted, and Starsky realized it was in fear. The man cringed against him, as though trying to hide.
"No, you're not!" Hutch shouted back. "We're going to handle this right. By the law! Go back to the bar!"
The crowd wavered and Starsky had the sudden, sickening realization that they were on the razor's edge of losing total control of this situation. As his prisoner struggled to escape his grasp, he tried deflecting everyone's attention.
"Hey!" he called out from his side of the car. "We gotta secure these guys. Anyone got any handcuffs?"
There was a sudden murmur in the mob, then a dozen leathermen stepped forward, holding out an assortment of cuffs, like a bizarre metal bouquet. The nearest ones were from the three guys who'd jumped Hutch just the night before. Starsky caught Hutch's eye, and they both almost smiled at the bizarre situation. Gratefully, they accepted two pairs of cuffs and secured the shooters to the framework of the car.
It was while Starsky was tightening the cuffs on his prisoner and wondering how to calm the crowd's anger that the first cop car arrived. It was an unmarked vehicle with a Mars light on top. Starsky looked up in dismay as Russo and Wilson emerged. He'd totally forgotten about them hovering around the bar, hoping to get something on him and Hutch. Russo's expression was positively gleeful.
"HANDS ON THE CAR!" Russo shouted, gun drawn.
It took Starsky a second to realize the big cop was shouting at him. He glanced at Wilson, who also had his gun drawn and was moving around to Hutch's side of the car. Wilson looked unhappy, but he was letting his partner run the scene. Tomas was last out of the car and hung back as if unsure what to do.
"YOU HEARD ME, BOY!" Russo bellowed at Starsky as he moved closer, gun unwavering. "HANDS ON THE CAR! LEGS SPREAD! ASSUME THE POSITION!"
"What the hell are you talkin' about, man?" Starsky asked him, brazenly facing down the gun. "These are the perps, you jackass. Me an' Hutch did everything but tie a bow on 'em for you."
Russo grabbed him roughly by his jacket collar, slammed him belly first against the car, kicked his feet apart and dug the gun into his ribs. "I SAID ASSUME THE POSITION, FAGGOT! YOU CAN FIGURE OUT WHICH ONE! DO IT NOW!"
Starsky looked over the roof of the car, and saw Hutch already braced against the roof as Wilson patted him down. Hutch stared at him, red-faced with anger, but mouthed at him, "Don't resist!"
Starsky started trembling with rage as Russo pawed him roughly, shoving him against the car, touching his body as if he were a common criminal.
"You're busted, boy," Russo said to him cheerfully. "I'll see the two of you in the tank tonight and off the force permanently in the morning. I'll see if I can get you accommodations in the same cell so at least you won't be lonely, cocksucker." Russo clamped a cuff on Starsky's left wrist as he threatened him. He was paying no attention to the real criminals--and no attention at all to the mob.
"Russo," Starsky spat back defiantly, "you are just too stupid to live."
Russo shoved the gun muzzle hard into Starsky's ribs in payment, making him wince.
"WHO THE HELL YOU CALLIN' A FAGGOT, PIG?" The voice belonged to Roland, the big bear who'd gone after Hutch last night. He was still sporting a black eye and a swollen nose and lip from their fight, but he was clearly ready for another round. "You'd better let those guys go, if you know what's good for you!" He and his buddies advanced threateningly on Russo and Wilson, and the rest of the mob was ready to follow.
For a minute, Russo looked stunned, and Starsky realized he was operating under the same prejudices Starsky himself had earlier this evening. He could almost read the confusion in the big man's small mind. Gays can't possibly be any kind of real threat, can they?
"Don't do it! Don't!" Hutch implored the mob. "Go back to the bar. We can handle this. It'll be okay!"
Will it? Starsky thought doubtfully, as Russo grabbed his other wrist and jerked his arm around to cuff it too tightly. Starsky would've happily killed the bastard if he could get loose.
"They're not takin' you in," Roland told Hutch. His fists were clenched in anger, and all the gays behind him started shouting at the cops to release Starsky and Hutch.
"Go back to the bar!" Hutch implored them. "Please! We don't want anyone else to get hurt."
The bikers looked at Hutch and hesitated. Clearly, they respected his authority, but just as clearly, they were ready to tackle Russo and Wilson.
More sirens blared onto the scene as several black-and-whites and a few more unmarked cars converged on the street. To complicate matters, the TV crew caught up with them and were filming like crazy. C.D. and her photographer, looking a little ragged around the edges, were working together to get the best coverage of the scene. Barbara was snapping orders to her crew, and even the wounded cameraman was getting good tape.
Starsky turned as a new voice was heard over the racket of the mob and the sirens.
"Russo, are you outta your fuckin' mind!" A slender figure dodged nimbly around the melee of cars. It was Linda Baylor, Starsky suddenly realized, and she was pissed. He was startled to realize she was partnered with an old partner of his -- Joan Meredith. Meredith glanced over at him sympathetically, nodded, then went around the car to argue with Wilson. Starsky couldn't hear them.
"Get those goddamn cuffs offa that cop, you stupid bastard!" Linda demanded. Starsky wasn't so sure her mode of debate wasn't going to get him in more trouble.
Russo leaned over her threateningly, his huge bulk an intimidating presence against her small form. "Don't think that I'd hesitate a single minute to kick your narrow ass, Baylor, just 'cause you're a bitch. Now, you and your girlfriend can get the hell out of here. Wilson and I are handling this."
Linda was clearly not the least bit impressed. She got right up in his face. "You threatening me, Russo? Go on, take your best shot. Then I'll get to take mine. You uncuff that cop! Any jerk, that is any other jerk except you, can see they apprehended the shooters on this scene." She nodded toward the approaching cameramen. "This is gonna make you look real good on the eleven o'clock news!"
A number of uniforms were now milling around, looking nervously at the huge mob of furious gays. Starsky saw Ray Higgins moving toward them.
"She's right, Detective," Higgins said to Russo. "The telephone reports were pretty clear. Two shooters in a black sedan, with Starsky & Hutchinson taking off on foot in pursuit to apprehend." He glanced at them. "They were identified by name by everyone who called in. There's no reason to assume anything else but that they collared these men. If you're taking them in, you've got to charge them with something and you don't have anything."
The mob started shouting at the cops to free Starsky and Hutch. The mood was turning ugly. But Russo was in his own world, Starsky knew. His need to disgrace them overrode any rational arguments anyone else might have.
He and Hutch exchanged another worried glance. Wilson still hadn't cuffed Hutch, but he knew better than to try to argue with Russo when he got like this. Starsky couldn't see any way out of this and wondered how many people would get hurt during the ensuing riot.
There was a flurry of activity in the crowd and several figures suddenly emerged.
"Everyone just cool it!" demanded a commanding voice.
It was Sugar, completely decked out in costume for the ten o'clock show which had been so rudely disrupted. She was sequined, begowned, and bewigged within an inch of her life, without a hair out of place. She was an aristocratic, outraged Bette Davis, and the mob parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses.
"Now quiet down!" she ordered. Amazingly, everyone did just that. Sugar turned around, and held out her hand. Huggy appeared, took it, and came forward. He had his arm around someone, and Starsky realized it was Callahan limping up to Sugar's side.
Callahan looked like she'd been through a typhoon as she stood next to the perfectly made-up Sugar. Her hair was a wreck, her suit dirty and disheveled, she'd lost the heel to one of her shoes, and her face was smudged. Starsky could see she was shaking.
Sugar and Huggy stood on either side of her, and helped her over to where Starsky and Hutch were being held. In spite of her rattled condition, Callahan shoved a loose tendril of hair out of her face, drew herself up to her full height, and faced Russo squarely. Starsky could hear the quaver in her voice, but he didn't think anyone else would. Every camera was trained on them.
"Detective," she said calmly, "you'd better have a damned good reason for restraining my clients, or this is just going to be another charge in the civil rights action we have pending against this city."
"I don't have to tell you nothin'," Russo growled, leaning forward.
Callahan was so shaken she flinched slightly, but didn't budge, didn't drop her gaze. "Oh, yes you do. You have to explain to me, to the media, and to every citizen who just witnessed this assassination attempt," she gestured at the angry crowd of gays, "why you are arresting the targeted victims of the attack before you would arrest the actual people who committed the crime. My clients courageously pursued, apprehended, and then placed these dangerous men under citizen's arrest at the risk of their own lives, and everyone here saw it. Including this television crew and myself. What are the charges, Detective?"
"We can discuss this down at the station," Russo insisted.
Yeah, Starsky thought, and if Hutch and me acquire some brand new bruises on the way there, well, that had to have happened during the original altercation, right?
Russo tried to shove Starsky forward by the cuffs. He planted himself and refused to budge.
Callahan, with Sugar and Huggy's support, moved directly in front of them. "What are the charges?" she demanded.
"Yeah," Linda Baylor chimed in. "I'd like to know that, too."
"Tell us all," Roland bellowed, and the crowd up took the chant.
Wilson called over to his partner, "Russo! Give it up. We've made a mistake. It happens. The confusion of the scene. Let it go."
Russo glared at the older detective and there was a tense moment but finally Russo had to concede defeat. Furious, he unfastened Starsky's cuffs. "Yeah. Okay. You're right, Wilson. It's a mistake. It happens." He turned to Baylor. "Why don't you handle the rest of it?" Without another word, he walked away. Wilson followed him, and they climbed back into their car.
Tomas lingered another moment, and Starsky realized he was trying to make eye contact with Trixie, to make sure she was okay. Starsky spotted her near the back of the crowd waving a scarf, and Tomas must've seen it, too, because his face relaxed as he got into the back seat and shut the door. Russo drove away.
The tension at the scene noticeably relaxed as they left. The crowd burst into applause. Roland raised his fist to Hutch in salute and Hutch nodded, and smiled back.
As the police moved forward to take control of the shooters, Hutch spoke to the crowd. "Come on, now, let's all go back to the Parrot. Let the police do their job. If you witnessed the action, we'll need your statements, okay?"
Starsky saw a number of uniformed cops moving through the crowd, collecting information. Traffic would be snarled here for hours, the congestion eventually branching out to the rest of the city. There'd be a lot of coverage. Well, at least he didn't have to worry about what they'd look like in it. They always looked good when they were in action. He glanced at Barbara and she gave him a thumbs-up and a grin. It would make her look good, too, to be on the scene for something like this.
Huggy and Sugar were still standing close to Callahan whose freckles stood out starkly against her pale face. He moved over to her, and gave her a smile. "Hey, there. You look like you could use a drink, lady."
She smiled gamely back at him and then her legs gave out. Sugar and Huggy had to catch her before she fell.
"Hey, none of that now!" Huggy said worriedly.
"She's looking a little shocky to me," Sugar said.
Anxiously, Starsky took hold of her hands, which were clammy.
"I'm okay," she said, her voice a tremor of its normal self. "I'm okay, really."
"Yeah, sure you are," Starsky said.
"There's paramedics and ambulances back at the bar," Sugar said. "Let's get her back there. Let them check her over."
"I'm okay," she insisted as her eyes started to roll up. She sagged against Huggy.
Enough, Starsky thought, and scooped her up in his arms.
Hutch appeared beside him. He looked anxious, and placed a hand against Callahan's forehead. "She didn't get shot, did she? She's cold."
"No," Starsky assured him, "I think she's coming down from the rush of adrenaline. I'll take her to the paramedics. You okay?"
"Yeah," Hutch assured him, giving his arm a squeeze. "I'll handle everything here. You take care of her."
Starsky nodded. It was just another crime scene, him and Hutch working together to get it done right. He had to remind himself he still didn't have his badge.
"I can walk," Kelly insisted, looking embarrassed in his arms.
"You just lay there and swoon like a lady," Sugar insisted, patting her hand. "Who knows, Kelly Rose? You might get to liking it."
Callahan smiled weakly as they approached the chaotic rescue scene in front of the bar.
"Why don't I get you a drink?" Huggy offered as they drew closer.
She shook her head. "No. I don't drink."
"Get it anyway," Starsky insisted. Huggy nodded. They both recognized that she wasn't in any condition to make decisions for herself.
"Trust me, honey," Sugar chimed in, "everyone needs a good stiff one once in awhile. Even you."
Starsky shot her a look, and then realized she hadn't intended the double entendre.
Sugar had the grace to look embarrassed as Callahan mustered the strength to chuckle.
"Who said that?" Sugar said in dismay. "And I wasn't even doing Mae! Well, it's still good advice."
"I'll remember that," Kelly murmured, but she couldn't look at Starsky when she said it.
"What's this?" a paramedic asked as Starsky set his burden down on the bumper of his wagon. "She get hit?"
Starsky shook his head. "She nearly fainted. She's been bounced around. Might've hit her head. She's a little shocky, I think," Starsky said.
The paramedic nodded, then leaned down and spoke to Callahan directly as he shined a light in her eyes. Huggy appeared with a brandy, but she waved it away until the paramedic nodded. She took a sip then made a face and handed it back to Huggy again.
Starsky looked around the scene. There were at least six people on the ground being treated for either gunshot wounds or injuries caused by flying glass. It was a miracle he and Callahan had escaped unscathed, or that more weren't hurt.
At the outskirts of the makeshift triage site, he spotted a number of paramedics working hard over a tiny figure. He couldn't see the person, but then one of the medics moved, and he saw a flash of arm, and a familiar tattoo. Then he recognized the small crowd of frightened-looking people standing nearby.
He was moving toward them before he was really willing to accept it. He slipped in among the medics working on the injured woman. Picking up her right hand, he found it cold, limp. His throat tightened as he stared at the multiple gunshot wounds stitched across her chest.
"Spike?" he murmured around the lump in his throat. He squeezed her hand, willing a response. "Spike? Come on, girl! Hang in there. You can do it!" He looked up into the face of the nearest paramedic, his eyes asking the only important question.
The man looked back at him morosely and shook his head.
Starsky couldn't believe it, couldn't accept it. He glanced at Spike's friends, saw them holding onto Denise who was weeping inconsolably as her lover's life slipped away. He looked back down at the girl just as he felt her squeeze his hand back weakly. She opened her eyes, gazed up at him and gave a thin smile. "Dave...?" She looked so tiny, so frail, all the power of her personality leached away by small pieces of indiscriminate lead.
"Don't talk!" he said. "Save your strength. You're gonna be okay, you hear me? You gotta believe that, Spike! Who's gonna explain all those gay jokes to me if you don't? And when you're all better, you gotta take the Torino out and let her rip. Don't you wanna do that?" He felt like he was babbling, begging her to live.
"The Torino?" she whispered. "You'd let me?"
"I promise," he swore, gripping her hand too tight.
"Can Denise come?"
"Everyone," he said. "We'll take everyone for a ride. You can drive her all day. Spike? Spike?"
She was still smiling, still staring at him, but he realized she wasn't seeing anything anymore as her hand relaxed completely. As if Denise could sense the passing of her lover's essence, she started to wail, and her friends enfolded her, bracing her with their bodies against the loneliness of her grief.
This is a prayer for the souls of the departed
Those who've gone and left their babies brokenhearted
Young lives over before they got started
This is a prayer for the souls of the departed
Souls of the Departed -- Bruce
Springsteen
