Apologies in advance if there's a delay in posting, but I'm off to London to see a certain guy in a certain pantomime...not that I'm excited or anything

Chapter 11

The next day, Prudholm made his quiet way back to the crypt. He'd stayed with Starsky/Gary all night and when the bound man had started to come around from the second hit of heroin, he'd once again slammed another shot into his veins before Starsky had known what was happening or had time to protest.

But now as he started to come down again, and his limbs started to jerk against his bonds and he moaned low in his throat, George knew he needed more stuff. He'd used up the initial supply that Mickey had brought for him and now he was ready to meet the little snitch again. He'd been back to his home and had slit the seam of his mattress and pulled out the money he'd saved from the legitimate sale of his Mom's home and the not so legitimate dealings he'd had over the years with Bay City's lower life forms. Counting it, he had just shy of $80,000 stuffed in an old sock. How much would that buy? He had no idea, but he knew pretty soon he'd have to find more.

Mickey wound his way though the headstones, getting used now to meeting Prudholm in the creepy place in either the dead of night, or the very early morning. He saw the older man standing to one side of the crypt entrance and wondered idly how the curly haired cop was faring inside. Although he'd had a long association with Starsky it had never been an easy relationship and while the brunet occasionally gave him money for drink, or his next fix, Mickey didn't like the way the cop did his business. Although not particularly wanting to hurt Starsky, he had no real reason to rescue him either. And if Prudholm was going to give him the amount of money he said he would, then there'd be enough for Mickey to "divert" some finances his way and still give Crazy George enough to keep Starsky happy, or at least out of the way.

He sidled up to Prudholm.' Ya got the doh?'

George nodded and handed him the sock stuffed with bills. 'How much can ya get with that?' he asked.

Mickey pursed his lips. One thing he did like about dealing with Prudholm was that, while George was clearly dangerous enough to hurt when necessary, he had no idea of the finer points of the drug business. $80,000 would probably buy 25 hits of top quality Mexican Brown, the best heroin money could buy. But George didn't now that. To Prudholm all that mattered was what ended up in the veins of his "son". He licked his lips in anticipation.

'Should get enough for 10 or 12 hits' he said casually, his voice sounded amazingly level, even for him.

'That's not enough. He'll need more'.

'Well I told ya what to do. Ya have to get the rest from Hutchinson'.

'Hutchinson?' For a moment Prudholm looked blank. 'Oh, Hutchinson. Yeah. Right. I can do that. But Gary needs the next shots. When can ya get back?'

Mickey smiled winningly. 'I'll be back in around five hours, ok?'

'Uh huh. But no longer. He's hurtin' Prudholm said carefully.

Mickey grinned. He knew George had give Starsky four shots so far. 'I bet he is' he said, knowing that by now the cop would be pretty well hooked on the drug, his system taking away any free will he had in the decision as to whether to take more or not. If he even had had that choice to begin with. He set off back up the hill and away to connect with his pushers. The guy he was using was pretty well stocked at the moment and Mickey knew he'd be able to replenish his own supplies at the same time.

Prudholm went back inside the crypt and looked down at the bed. During the night Starsky had been quiet, away in his own euphoric world of crimson dreams and strawberry sensations. Now however, he was coming down again. It had been six hours since his last shot and his muscles were beginning to cramp. The pains weren't helped by the fact that he was still bound to the bed and he couldn't flex his arms or legs to relieve them. He groaned, his eyes now pinpoint bright in the dim light.

Prudholm sat down on the edge of the mattress and smoothed his hand over Starsky's brow.

'How're ya doin' Gary?'

The brunet's eyes flew open and he jumped at the sound of the older man's voice. He knew his body was slowly becoming reliant on the drug and he rebelled against it, but at the same time, he despised himself because he craved the next rush. Anything to take his mind away from his hellish confinement.

'F fine…..t'riffic' he stammered through gritted teeth. Prudholm took a grey, dirty cloth and wiped the fine sheen of sweat away from Starsky's forehead.

'Ssh…..don't worry. I'll get ya some more soon son. It won't hurt so much then'.

'D don't gimme any m more. H hurts too m much'.

'But the medicine'll take the hurt away' George persisted.

'F fuckin' moron. The drugs m makin' me hurt. N not Gary. I'm not your f fuckin' son' the hurting cop ground out, his jaw muscles working to keep himself from crying out at the pains in his limbs.

Prudholm stared at the younger man, as if trying to decide just who it was laying there on the bed in front of him. Starsky could see the eyes flickering as Prudholm's mind worked the scenario, and a small amount of hope found it's way into his drug befuddled mind. But then Prudholm's hand came up again and his fingers carded through the matted sweat damp curls. He looked at the last of the heroin filling the syringe and back at Starsky's hungry eyes. Four shots in less than 36 hours. No-one could take that amount without feeling the dependency.

'I can see you're hurting son. Here, let me help' Prudholm muttered as he plunged the needle into another vein on Starsky's arm. This time, the brunet didn't struggle so much, but he felt sickened at himself as he welcomed the total rush of the drug and embraced the feeling of warmth and wellbeing.

oOo

Hutch pushed open the curtains of Starsky's bedroom and grimaced at the bright sunlight as it hit him in the face. He'd finally taken notice of his Captain's orders the previous night and had gone back to get some rest. He could go for so long without sleep, but sooner or later his body craved rest and Hutch knew his own body well enough to feel when the time had come for his muscles to slow and his cognitive abilities to diminish. When that time came he was of no further use to his partner and he'd gone to bed to rest.

But he couldn't leave the brunet out of his thoughts and, as in previous times when they'd been separated, he'd found his feet taking him to his partner's apartment rather than his own. Somehow it made him feel connected to Starsky to be in the same room the brunet slept in and he'd gotten into the bed and immediately smelled Starsky's masculine scent on the sheets and pillow. It was an unmistakable mixture of pine scented shampoo and sandalwood soap, along with the faintest hint of Pierre Cardin aftershave. Hutch breathed it in, thinking that if anyone saw him, they'd think he was one of the dorkiest, soapiest guys on the face of the earth. But with that fragrance in his head, he managed to slip into a restful and deep sleep where even dreams were banished.

Now, with the morning, he felt rested and ready to continue the search for Starsky.

Hutch ducked into the shower and emerged refreshed and recharged five minutes later. Without much hope, he padded to the brunet's fridge and opened the door, looking for something vaguely edible for breakfast. Not really wanting a beer, a four day old cold pizza or some of the brunet's home made chilli, he resorted to a glass of water before dressing, drying his hair and setting out once more into the city.

This morning's target was to be 5th Avenue. The man had been a reliable source of information in the past, and as much as he could, Hutch quite liked the tall laconic man. And he hoped he may have some information Hutch might be able to use to trace Prudholm or Starsky. He got into his Mustang and switched on the engine. With the top down, the morning air felt cool and crisp on his newly washed and still damp scalp and it served to waken the blond up even further. He set off for the city centre, aiming for the seedier area down by the docks, where 5th Avenue usually hung out.

As he drove, Hutch's eyes were constantly scanning the sidewalks left and right as he watched out for anyone else who may have something he could use to trace Starsky.

He'd only gone a few blocks further than the Metro when he caught sight of a small, narrow set of shoulders ducking down one of the side streets. Hutch pulled over to the side of the road and watched Mickey look both ways before going into the back door of one of the less salubrious bars. The blond bided his time. Although he hadn't banked on squeezing the little snitch for information right now, this was as good a time as any. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the wheel of the car, knowing that if he went into the bar after Mickey now, he'd queer the little man's pitch and scare the weasel in the process. No, best to wait and corner him outside and on his own.

He pulled the car into the alleyway and effectively blocked off the entrance as he waited. Whatever Mickey was doing, it was taking time and Hutch had almost given up hope, thinking that Mickey must have used the front door to leave when suddenly the door into the alleyway opened, and the small figure emerged.

Hutch pushed the gas pedal and moved the car slowly forward, tailing the snitch. Mickey had walked a few paces before he realised he was being followed and he looked swiftly over his shoulder. Hutch caught the look of fear in the beady bright eyes and gunned the engine, closing the distance between them until Mickey realised there was nowhere for him to run.

Hutch stopped the car and got out as Mickey pushed his back against the wall, his eyes never leaving the flaxen haired cop.

'Mickey' Hutch greeted

'Hey, Hutch…erm….what brings you to this part of town? Mickey asked cautiously.

Hutch watched the little man carefully. His years on the force had attuned him to body language, especially the body language associated with nerves or those who were anxious. And now he observed those tell tale signs in Mickey. The sheen of sweat on the little man's upper lip; the way his eyes glided away from Hutch's never meeting the cop's gaze once; the hitch in his breath; the way his voice had taken on a higher timbre. Mickey was anxious about something. Way more anxious than if he'd just met Hutch out on a morning's work.

'I was hoping you might be able to help me Mickey' Hutch volunteered.

The little man seemed to shrink against the wall. 'Well you know me Hutch. Always ready to help, ya know' he held tightly to the package under his arm covered by his coat. His arm almost trembling with the pressure he exerted on it, hiding it from Hutch's sight.

'Yeah right. For the right price huh?' the blond smiled.

'Oh now, Hutch, ya now I don't mean to……a man's gotta make a livin'.

'Uh huh. My partner's missing. Have ya heard anything about it?'

Mickey's eyes slid sideways again. 'Yeah….Huggy Bear mentioned. Erm….anythin' I can do, you know that'.

'Well. Have you heard anything? Where he might be? Anyone asking about a cop maybe? Or maybe someone asking about George Prudholm?' Hutch pressed.

'No…no nuthin Hutch…..but if I do….I'

Hutch reached into his back pocket and took out his money. He peeled of $20 bill and waved it under Mickey's nose'

'Ya hear anything, I want to be the first to know. Got that?'

Mickey's face showed confusion. 'You don't need to do that Hutch. You know me. I like Starsky. I don't need that' but his eyes never left the money wafting in front of his face.

'I know that Mickey. Call it an incentive' He pushed the bill into Mickey's ready hand. 'Remember, I want to be the first to know'.

The little snitch nodded enthusiastically. 'Sure thing Hutch. You'll be the first. I hope you find him. And I hope he's ok'.

Hutch watched him dart away, trying to get over the feeling that he hadn't got all he needed from the small man, but knowing he couldn't push any harder for the minute. But there might come a time…. He got back into his car and set off again to look for 5th Avenue.