The Price
This story was published years ago in fanzine, but I retained the rights.
"Streets of San Francisco" was my passion for many years - I adore the characters and wish they were mine. Unfortunately, they are not.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did dreaming it up.
"OK, let's check out this…Clarence Buford, and then we'll call it a night." Detective Lieutenant Mike Stone pocketed his notebook and glasses, smoothing the greying hair above his right ear back into place.
"Sounds good to me." Steve Keller agreed, then cut a sly glance across the front seat of the tan LTD. "Got a hot date tonight, hunh?"
"Just keep your eyes on the road, Inspector." The older man pointed through the windshield to emphasize his point, but there was amusement in his voice.
"Who is it? Irene?" Steve grinned wickedly.
"'Who is it? Irene?'" Mike mimicked, rolling his eyes. "Who else would it be?"
"Ah-hah - you do have a date!"
"I never said I didn't," Mike pointed out, voice rising in pitch. He was in a playful mood, though trying hard not to show it. It had been a long, tedious day of frustrating dead ends, and both men were ready for a little diversion.
Steve chuckled. He enjoyed turning the tables on his partner - for years he'd had to suffer through Mike's cross-examinations of his love life. Now that the lieutenant was seriously involved, it gave him enormous pleasure to be the one dishing out the 'hard time' instead of receiving it.
"Where are you taking her?"
Mike threw visual daggers. "Will you leave it alone."
"Aw, come on - how many times did I have to sit through your games of twenty questions?"
Mike stared through the windshield and said nothing.
"Am I right?"
There was very audible sigh. "Top of the Mark."
"Oh ho, fancy! Tell me," he sneaked a peak at his reluctant partner, "you two thinking of tying the knot again?"
Mike turned an annoyed glare in Steve's direction. "If we were, you'd be the last to know."
"I was the last to know the first time. Why should the next time be any different?" Steve shot back, feigning injured pride.
"Look, let's just get this over with, then you can drop me off and go do whatever it is you want to do tonight."
Steve looked over, trying to suppress his laughter. The lieutenant was staring out the side window but obviously grinning.
Unwilling to relinquish the upper hand, Steve ventured, "If you want, I could pick you up at Irene's tomorrow morning…"
Mike's head snapped around, eyes wide and threatening. "Look..!" he roared, but stopped when he saw his partner engulfed in silent laughter. He started to chuckle, shaking his head, then reached out to playfully swat the back of the younger man's head.
"Just paying you back." Steve chided, "for all those inquisitions you've put me through for six years."
They shared the laugh, then fell into a comfortable silence.
The sedan turned a corner and slowed. Still smiling, Steve leaned over the steering wheel, staring up at the houses they were passing. "What number was that again?"
"Four twenty-seven. Should be a block or two up on your side."
"Yeah. You know, one night we should, you know, double date."
"Uh-hunh," Mike agreed with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "I don't think Irene and I frequent the same places you do."
"Oh, I see. You think you've cornered the class on this team, hunh? Well, let me tell you -"
"Attention all units - vicinity Howard and Fourth."
Banter forgotten, the detectives turned their undivided attention to the broadcast, Steve's eyes on the road, Mike's on the radio itself.
"Two-eleven in progress - one-one-four-nine Howard. Repeat - all units - two-eleven in progress - one-one-four-nine Howard, cross street Fourth. See the man. Units respond."
Steve had already stepped on the gas, visualizing the quickest route to Howard and Fourth. Mike snagged the microphone.
"Inspectors Eight-One - will respond to that two-eleven - one-one-four-nine Howard."
Steve snapped on the siren as Mike retrieved the flashing red light from under the seat and slapped it on the roof. Traffic was light, and seconds later the unmarked sedan turned onto Howard. Mike had the door open and was almost our before the car had slid to a squealing stop before a run-down corner deli.
A balding, florid-faced, middle-aged man, a once-white apron barely concealing an ample paunch, hustled toward them. Mike crossed to him, eyes quickly taking in the area and situation. "Did you call the police, Mr….?"
"Brockton, Al Brockton. Yeah, yeah, it was me."
"OK, what happened?" Mike's darting eyes settled on the obviously upset man as Steve joined them on the sidewalk.
The explanation came fast and furious. "Two kids, couldn'ta been no more than thirteen, fourteen at the most. They come in and tell me to empty the register. I told 'em to get lost, so one of 'em pulls a gun and fires a shot into the wall behind me." He paused for breath, and for the benefit of the crowd that had suddenly materialized with the arrival of the police car.
"And?" Steve prompted impatiently.
"I give 'em the money - you think I'm nuts? I'm no hero."
"Good, good," Mike said quickly. "The two kids - what did they look like?"
"Never seen 'em before. The one with the gun - he was short, skinny, about five-one or two, curly dark hair. The other kid was a little taller, blond. They were wearing blue jeans and t-shirts. That's all I can tell you."
"Which way did they go?"
"On foot, that way and around the corner," Brockton said, thumbing over his shoulder.
The familiar wail of a black-and-white grew louder.
Steve turned to his partner. "You want to …?"
"Yeah, they couldn't've gotten far on foot yet." He turned back to the grocer. "Mr. Brockton, I want you to stay here. When the other units arrive, tell them what you told us, and tell them where we went."
"Sure, sure."
The detectives headed down the street at a slow trot in the direction indicated. That section of San Francisco consisted mostly of old abandoned warehouses and vacant lots, bordering on one of the poorer sections of town. Though it was undoubtedly a long shot, the possibility that the kids were still in the area was real enough, and the two officers were compelled to check it out.
They flanked the open doorway of the first warehouse they came to, sidling up quietly. Steve had his .38 already in hand; Mike slipped his own from the holster on his right hip seconds before stepping inside.
Just across the threshold they paused. Hearing nothing, satisfied it was safe to continue, Mike gestured for Steve to take the second floor. The younger man nodded, but as he moved away felt a restraining hand on his arm.
Mike met the questioning look evenly. "Be careful."
Steve smiled briefly and nodded again. "You too." He felt Mike's eyes on his back as he climbed the stairs.
Balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, Steve moved swiftly and quietly from room to room. Most were empty, dark and musty, save for scattered, torn newspapers, a few discarded mattresses, and the occasional rat; the rest contained large wooden crates, also empty. It took little time to cover the floor and, going from vacant room to vacant room, he began to relax. With each passing minute, the likelihood of the kids being in the area grew more and more remote.
He returned noiselessly to the first floor and moved to the rear exit. Pausing first to listen, he was just about to step out when the faint but distinct sound of footfalls caught his attention. He paused, pressing back against the wall, straining to pinpoint the location and direction of the sounds. They grew louder, drawing nearer, but they were not the steps of someone in a hurry. Instead, as they came closer, he recognized the sound of running shoes on grass, moving at a steady, easy pace.
He waited in the shadows, gun ready, as the owner of the sneakers stepped into his field of vision and continued on. He caught a glimpse of blond hair and denim and, after a split second of indecision, stepped through the doorway, dropping naturally into the shooting stance. "Police - freeze!" he barked, and was obliquely gratified to see the command instantly obeyed. "Turn around slowly."
The blond youth held his stiff pose for a long moment. Then carefully, almost confidently, he turned, an innocent, open vulnerability on his handsome face. He shrugged questioningly, right hand extended palm up.
"Hey," he said quietly, with an unsure but engaging smile, "what's going on, man?"
Struck by the youthful good looks, the innocent, confused air, Steve hesitated. Sighting down the barrel of his Police Special, aimed with deadly accuracy at the center of the young man's chest, he felt once more the wave of uncertainty he'd been experiencing with growing frequency.
Was this one of the young thieves he'd been chasing? Surely they'd have left the area by now? Didn't the grocer say the dark-haired kid had the gun? These questions and others raced through Steve Keller's mind at once, leaving his dazed and briefly disarmed.
Taken aback, dangerously transfixed, he began to lower the .38.
"Steve, look out! He's got a gun!"
Even as the familiar voice penetrated his concentration, he saw it. The left hand, held down and close to the leg, came up in a blur. The innocent look hardened as the barrel of the .45 levelled off and the trigger squeezed.
Simultaneously, realizing his tragic mistake, Steve brought the .38 back up with equal speed, its own roar echoing that of the .45. As he felt and heard the deadly slug sail harmlessly past, he watched his own bullet catch the boy in the stomach and drive him back several feet to land, spread-eagled, in the soft grass. Blood quickly coloured the white t-shirt.
Trembling, in stunned disbelief, Steve lowered the .38 once more. "I didn't think he had a gun," he said quietly seconds later, turned to look for his partner, and froze.
All sound and movement had ceased. He was aware of nothing but his own ragged breath and pounding heart. As the ground spun sickeningly beneath his feet, he took three unsteady steps then dropped slowly to his knees, the gun slipping unnoticed from numbed fingers. He shook his head slowly from side to side.
"No…no…no…no…"
Before him was sprawled a black topcoat-clad body facedown in the dirt, head turned away. The left arm was double underneath, the right outflung - an unfired .38 in the unmoving hand. A grey fedora lay brim-up on the grass a few feet away.
Choking down bile that burned his throat, Stephen Keller laid a shaking, reluctant hand on his partner's back, terrified to confirm what he already knew. As tears blurred his vision, he gently rolled the unresisting body over and into his arms. The unsupported head lolled back.
Blue eyes, already beginning to glaze, stared vacantly skyward. Just above the V of the sweater vest, beneath the striped tie now askew, a deep red spot stained the front of the pale yellow shirt. Detective Lieutenant Michael Stone was dead.
"No!"
Eyes snapped open on a room lit only by muted streetlamp spill. Shallow, ragged breaths racked his sweat-soaked frame; his heart pounded thunderously in his ears. He slipped trembling hands from a knot of twisted bedclothes, rubbed the moisture from his face, then ran them slowly through his hair.
Green eyes, adjusting slowly to the dark, travelled the walls and ceiling, seeking comfort in their stable familiarity. He swung unsteady legs to the floor and crossed to the window and the bright, calming lights of the Bay beyond. The cold night air against the wet shirt made him shiver, but helped restore some sense to a shattered reality.
Calmer, a little steadier, he made his way to the kitchen and filled the percolator. No longer sleep-slowed, he continued to move with a deliberateness that forced all other thoughts from his mind. Peaceful sleep would come no more this night; the longer he could keep his mind in 'neutral', the better.
Returning to the bedroom, he snapped on the lamp and retrieved a long white envelope tossed casually on the nightstand. And for the fortieth time he reread the letter that he'd already, unintentionally, memorized.
"Dear Inspector Keller,
Once again, the University of California at Berkeley, Criminology Department, wishes to extend to you the offer of a position on our faculty.
I fully realize that our previous proposals have been congenially refused. However, I believe this time we have been able to substantially 'sweeten the pot', so to speak.
I have been authorized to offer you an associate professorship…"
Letter in hand, he re-entered the kitchen, poured a steaming mug of coffee and brought it into the living room. It was a ritual he'd been performing with increasing frequency; it was a decision he'd been avoiding with equal regularity.
It had begun months ago, but pinning it down to a specific date or incident was impossible. Always reluctant to use his gun, recently he had begun to notice a new caution creep into his thoughts. At first he had chalked it up to professional circumspection, the natural evolution of his judgemental instincts. Now he just didn't know.
He thought back to the dinner table conversation he had shared with the young assistant inspector, Dan Robbins, a few hours earlier. It was the first time he had put into words what he had been mulling over for weeks,
'Sometime I'm tempted to hesitate, when I see somebody…innocent looking.'
It was a frightening admission for a cop to make; in hindsight, maybe he had said too much. But hearing it aloud, not exactly sure what he was going to say until the words left his mouth, had helped to clarify how he felt, even if it did not provide the answer he needed.
Up to now he thought he had it all under control. But it was becoming worse, and lately he found himself less and less confident in his ability to function as a police officer. And as his hesitation grew, so did his fear - not only for himself, but for those whose lives he held in his hands … for one life in particular.
Then things began to escalate: the kid he'd been forced to shoot, the publicity-shrouded Tannenger investigation and trial, the offer from Berkeley - events tumbled over each other. He need to get away, needed time to think, but those luxuries were not within his grasp at the moment.
And then the nightmares had begun. At first he was able to dismiss them with the morning light. But as they persisted, their frightening spectres began to slip into his conscious thought, not so easily ignored - and the premonition of their tragic conclusion was becoming all too real. He desperately needed someone to talk to - but the one person he most wanted to confide in, he didn't dare; not out of fear, but out of love.
The basis for any successful partnership lay in the ability for complete and absolute trust and confidence; a knowledge of one another so thorough and deep that both think and act almost as one. In the years they had been together, Mike Stone and Steve Keller had achieved that and much more.
But now, for reasons he could not altogether understand, Steve found himself unwittingly jeopardizing their unique relationship and a nagging, paralyzing fear was growing deep inside. His own life, though precious, was, in the final analysis, expendable; to be responsible for his partner's death, in whatever minor or diminished capacity, was the ultimate tragedy from which he knew he would never recover.
So what was he to do? Did he really want to be a teacher? Did he really want to turn in his badge and walk away from the closest friend he was ever likely to have?
He was only sure of one thing - the love he felt for the man who, six years before, had taken on little more than a boy and helped to mold a man. They had shared so much and grown so much, separately and together, and opened each other's hearts and minds to new perspectives and new horizons. They had faced joy and tragedy, both personal and professional, and come to know that, no matter what, they could turn to one another for honesty, understanding and unquestioning support.
He smiled as he thought of the man who had come to mean so much to him. Never had he felt so loved, even within his own family; whatever he did, however he felt, Mike was always there, ready to advise, support or merely listen.
Now, at 32 years of age, Steve Keller was coming to grips with the toughest decision of his life - a decision that was his alone.
He could put it off no longer. It was getting more and more difficult to evade Mike's questions; it was getting more and more difficult to look into those familiar blue eyes and lie.
And so he sat, by himself in the dark, a lonely, troubled young man. It all played over and over in his mind, and the hours passed unnoticed. He was only mildly surprised to see the first faint rays of the sun colouring the horizon.
Setting down the cup of cold coffee, he slowly and carefully folded the letter and placed it in the envelope. There was a heaviness in the pit of his stomach, and he felt an overwhelming need to cry. The decision he had just reached would lose him the companionship of the best friend he ever had. But it was the only decision he could make. In his heart he knew he was doing the right thing for them both, and only he would ever know the price he had to pay.
He made a mental note to remind himself to phone Enrico's for a reservation. He would take Mike out to dinner tonight, after the Tannenger trial had adjourned for the day. And then, face to face, he would tell his friend and partner he had decided to become a teacher. Mike would be hurt and confused, and maybe a little angry, but he would accept it eventually, as he accepted most things. And he would want to know why.
But Steve would never, could never, tell him. How to you explain to someone that you love them so much you had to leave them? As far as Mike was concerned and would have to accept, the deal from Berkeley had been too good to pass up.
He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Mike would be picking him up in an hour. He looked around the apartment, and realized that the next time he returned there, the decision he had just made would have changed two lives forever.
Thus began their final day together.