VERSION: 0.4, 23rd of January 2010
A compilation of all stories submitted to the Secret Santa 2009 on the Yahoo discussion list, Loveofmeandthee, and published at:
www.eacalendula.net/secretsanta2009/.
Author names may be found at the website after they are revealed. This book will be updated accordingly. One story will not be added until the beginning of February - please check the website for updates.
Full of anticipation, Starsky drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He couldn't wait until Hutch saw the object of Starsky's desire. Hutch deserved some good news, after the exhausting week they'd had dealing with the reporter Christine D. Phelps. With her annoying questions, she had gotten on their nerves. All because the first newspaper article she'd written about them hadn't been complimentary to the Bay City police department.
Just when Starsky was beginning to see how juvenile he and Hutch had acted, competing for her attentions, they'd finally located Rizzo, the man they'd been hunting for. After being cornered on the roof of a building, the desperate man had grabbed Christine and started firing at Starsky and Hutch.
Terrified, Christine had lost it, shouting hysterically, "Shoot him!"
Despondent over his sister's death, Rizzo had broken down, sobbing. Starsky's gentle words coaxing him to surrender had helped prove to Christine that their job as cops wasn't just about shooting first and asking questions later. To make up for her previously uncomplimentary newspaper articles, Christine had written a glowing piece, describing them as Bay City Heroes.
Starsky glanced at his partner. Hutch was sitting slumped and silent on his seat, looking out the window.
"Hey, what're you worrying about?" Starsky asked, and grinned mischievously. "You're jealous, because Christine liked me best. I saw it in her eyes that she had a crush on me."
"You wish!" Hutch snorted, looking a bit more awake.
Whistling, Starsky turned the car around the next corner into a side street. Soon Hutch would be surprised, that's for sure.
"Here we are." Starsky stopped the car and got out, hurrying to the passenger's side to open the door for Hutch. Proudly, he said, "That is our house!" and pointed across the street.
As if he couldn't believe his eyes, Hutch slowly made it half out of the car, staring at the structure.
"That's quite a surprise, huh? Whoo-ee!" Starsky beamed at Hutch, waiting for an adequate reaction.
Hutch had an unreadable expression on his face. "Let me get something straight here," he said.
"Yeah?" Starsky answered, trying to ignore the annoyance in Hutch's voice.
"You took our money?" Hutch's smile had something lurking.
"Uh-huh." Starsky said, not aware of having done anything wrong.
"And you put a deposit on this," Hutch stated, still smiling just a little bit.
"We really got a deal." Starsky rubbed his hands in anticipation.
"I thought you said it was a fixer-upper." Hutch leaned against the car, one arm braced casually on the car roof.
"It is." Starsky looked at the house, suddenly very aware of the peeling paint and missing steps.
"The only way you'll fix that up is to tear it down." As if to show how serious he was, Hutch turned around to get back into the car.
"Oh, now, come on." Starsky grabbed Hutch's arm with both hands and held him back. "Don't be so negative. Come on now." He made a wide gesture, indicating the whole house. "Take a look. It's got potential..."
"Where?" Hutch sounded really agitated.
Starsky leaned into his partner and said with firm conviction, "Well, use your imagination. A coat of paint, a few shrubs..." He started to cross the street, dragging Hutch with him towards the house.
Stepping on the board placed over the missing stairs, Hutch lost his balance when the board snapped in half. Helplessly, Starsky watched his partner going down.
"Needs a new set of steps," Starsky placated, trying to make up to Hutch. He stepped into the hole to help Hutch up.
"I don't believe it. I don't believe it." Hutch scrambled up from the dusty ground and glared at Starsky, clutching both sides of the broken board.
Looking around, Hutch stepped up onto the porch. "You know you might as well have bought a camper," he said, leaning against the railing. The rotted wood gave way, and with a surprised yelp, Hutch fell a second time, crashing hard onto the floor.
Starsky cringed, seeing his buddy lying there. "Ah well, it's nothing a little nail wouldn't fix..." he said lamely.
"Or a back brace!" Hutch hissed.
Searching for words to convince his partner that it wasn't as bad as it looked, Starsky sighed.
Hutch braced himself on one elbow, his eyes dark with anger. "Starsk, so help me, if I get up off this floor..." He tried to get up.
"Wait, wait a second." Starsky raised his arm, surrendering. "Wait, wait, wait a second. Now. Look..." He felt trapped, still standing in the broken boards.
Hutch groaned, getting up. He stood at full height in front of Starsky and grabbed one side of the broken board to toss it away.
"Tell you what, I'll throw in a lawn!" Starsky put in a last ditch effort.
"I tell you what," Hutch's tone left no doubt that he was serious. "You drive me home, and that's it. Never dare show me such a crap again!" He pointed his index finger at the house.
Starsky looked up. The house had once seemed so promising. Hutch was right: It was in a bad condition, it needed a lot of work to make it presentable.
Starsky took a deep breath. "I know what you mean, buddy. But you must admit, Mr. Green gave us a special price. He's a kind old man, just too old to take care of his house."
"Yeah, it looks as if it will fall apart any moment!" Hutch grumbled, checking the loose window frames.
"That's because Mr Green has been living with his daughter for at least a year. He didn't want to let go of his house, but his daughter convinced him to sell it." Seeing his partner walk carefully along the porch, Starsky felt a bit more at ease. Maybe it wasn't a lost cause after all.
"Hutch? Let's go inside and have a peek." Starsky fumbled for the house key in his jeans pocket. "What I've seen in the pictures Mr Green showed me, it doesn't look too bad. Mr Green told me there's even a little shed in the back garden that can be used as a greenhouse."
Starsky was glad to see a hint of a smile on Hutch's face. He stepped up the porch and took Hutch's arm. "You didn't hurt your back, did you?" he asked, looking at the broken railing.
"I'm okay. So what about this house? Open up, master of all unmarketable buildings in Bay City."
The banter was back, Starsky noticed it with relief. With some effort, he was able to unlock the rusty door.
"Huh, what a distinguished place!" Hutch joked, following Starsky into the dark house. "Was that a cobweb flying against my face?" Hutch pretended to brush something off his face.
"No way you can scare me today." Starsky wasn't going to be fooled by such an obvious trick. He stepped into the living room, which was still furnished. There was a wide couch, upholstered in what looked like brocade. The two little windows in the south wall didn't let a lot of light in because they were boarded up.
"Look, the curtains are moving... Is somebody at home? Maybe this place is haunted by a ghost? " Hutch shouted.
Starsky felt Hutch looking at him, and laughed out loud. "Forget it. All the windows are closed. It smells like..." Starsky sniffled.
"As if somebody has smoked in here recently," Hutch stated, looking over the left side of the room. "Ow, damn, what's this? A trap!" Hutch held his leg, moaning.
"What's up?" Concerned, Starsky rushed over to his friend. "I can't see anything..."
"Me, neither." Triumphantly, Hutch laughed at Starsky.
"You're mean!" Starsky said, pissed off at his friend. What a jerk, making fun of him by scaring the shit out of him.
Hutch said seriously, "I tell you, this house has everything but value. It smells, it's dark and I'm really happy that I can't see the furniture properly. Full of woodworms, I'm sure."
"Wait until you see the other rooms." Starsky opened the door to another room. "Hey, what did I tell you?! It's bright in here. A nice big room, I could put my shelves here, and over there is enough space..."
Suddenly, he heard a yelp from the living room. Starsky stood rooted to the spot, his heart pounding from a surge of adrenaline. Hutch was playing more tricks! Well, Starsky wouldn't be fooled again. He shrugged and ignored Hutch's swearing.
There was a huge picture window in the back wall with a nice view to the back garden. Cold air hit his face, and he realized that the window wasn't closed.
"Hey Hutch, one window is open. Speaking of the ghosts flying in and out..." Starsky chuckled. "Hutch? Come here!"
He heard a moan coming from the living room, and the hiss of someone speaking too softly for Starsky to hear. In a few strides, he was at the door.
Something hard pressed against his temple, and an unfamiliar voice said, "Too bad, you've discovered our little hiding place. Sam, what're we going to do with these dudes?"
"No names, you idiot!" snarled another man from the corner, and Starsky heard Hutch moan again.
Starsky's heartbeat quickened. Now he could make out Hutch lying on the floor. His legs were caught in a hole in the wooden floor. Next to him stood a tall skinny man holding a weapon pointed at Hutch. Presumably, that was Sam.
"I found these guys sneaking from the kitchen," Hutch said, his voice tight with pain. "That one tripped me and I fell."
"Be quiet!" the tall skinny man snarled.
"Guys, what's your problem?" Starsky asked in a casual tone, trying to win time.
"Maybe we should get our stuff and leave," the man beside Starsky said.
"Shut up!" Sam hissed. He yanked Hutch's head back. "Get out of the damned hole. We need to get our stuff."
"My foot is caught on something, there are a bunch of thick bundles piled under the floorboards." Hutch jerked away from the man's grasp.
"Leave him alone!" Starsky shouted, wishing he could overpower the men somehow. He sensed that the man by his side was getting nervous, and fumbling with his weapon. Starsky risked a glance to one side and saw that his captor held a nightstick. At least he had no gun, but nonetheless, it was a hairy situation.
"You want these bundles? Then help get my leg free," Hutch challenged. He was leaning back against a chest of drawers, but his leg was covered in broken pieces of wood floor, trapped in the hole. "From the way you two are acting, somehow, I think this isn't on the up and up."
"Yeah, let's get the fuck out of here, big brother!" The goon who was guarding Starsky went over to his partner, leaving Starsky behind.
"What is it you two want?" Starsky asked, moving very slowly nearer to his partner. Sunlight leaked around the boards nailed over the windows so he could see clearly enough to make out Sam and his brother, and recognize them the next time he saw them. But what the hell had they hidden in the floor? Drugs maybe?
"Carl, you dumbass! Stay where you are. We have to get that dude out of the hole!" Sam snarled.
Starsky took a deep breath. They weren't the brightest guys, maybe there was a chance to get out of this in one piece. "I can help you," Starsky said, stepping forward, only to face the muzzle of Sam's gun.
"No wrong moves, or you're dead," Sam said. He turned to Hutch. "Get out of there!" He pushed his weapon roughly against Hutch's shoulder. "Get up! Do what I told you!" Sam shouted, his face flushed.
"I can't. My ankle's probably broken and caught on some pipe or a beam." Hutch looked up searching Starsky's eyes as if hoping that he had a plan.
"You'll need me to get him out of there," Starsky said dryly.
Sam looked at his brother who stood fumbling nervously with his nightstick.
"You try do first!" Sam motioned to Carl to drop his stick and move over to Hutch. "Now, get him out of it!"
Carl pulled at Hutch's arms ineffectively.
Hutch managed to move back a foot or so, but he cried out in pain. "Easy!"
Seeing his partner suffering, Starsky stepped forward. "Don't you get it? You need one more man to pull my friend out." Sam only nodded, pointing his gun at the men with an impatient gesture.
"You grab his legs, but be careful," Starsky told Carl. When the man bent down, Starsky could see his face clearly. He was still young, with an almost childlike expression, maybe he was developmentally delayed. Sam must be his older brother, and the leader in their team.
"This way?" Carl asked, reaching down to grasp Hutch's thighs.
"Yeah, you're doing great," Hutch encouraged, wiggling around to free himself. "Starsk, I think my ankle broke when I fell through the floor."
"Nobody said you were allowed to talk," Sam interrupted, waving his gun dangerously at Starsky and Hutch.
"I'm afraid, Sam," Carl whined. "Let's get out of here!" Nervously, he clutched Hutch's leg.
"Bring him up and over," Starsky coached, holding onto Hutch's shoulder. Together, they were able to pull Hutch out.
His forehead beaded with sweat, Hutch lay flat on the floor, breathing in short gasps. "That was a bitch."
"How are you?" Concerned, Starsky, probed his partner's injured leg. The ankle was already swollen and red and Hutch's pants were ripped and dirty. Possibly a bad sprain or maybe even broken. He needed to get to the ER.
"Thanks. Everything's okay." Hutch grimaced, shifting to get more comfortable, moving his leg out of Starsky's reach.
"Little brother, I saw a rope somewhere in the garden. Go get it, quick!" Sam ordered, and Carl hurried outside.
Sam struck a match and lit a cigarette. In the brief flare of light, Starsky pondered making a break for it but he didn't want to leave Hutch alone with the idiot brothers. They weren't very intelligent bad guys, but they had weapons and he and Hutch had locked their guns in the glove compartment of the car.
In the dim light coming around the boarded windows, Starsky could see Sam's face. He looked familiar.
Hutch tensed. "I think I've seen them — security footage from a bank, maybe?" he whispered.
"Damn." Starsky recalled the Chesterfield bank robbery a month ago. Two brothers. He and Hutch had assisted Robbery and gone to the crime scene because a teller had died.
Starsky didn't dare say anything more, Sam still had his gun directed at him and Hutch. Obviously, Sam and his brother had hidden something in the house and couldn't leave until Hutch was out of the hole. Starsky looked down into the opening but couldn't make out if there was anything valuable in the space.
"You mean this rope?" Carl entered the house with a thick bundle in his hands.
"Now tie them up, you know how to do it!" Sam said impatiently.
His hands trembling, Carl untangled the rope and started winding it around Starsky and Hutch while Sam held his gun, ready to shoot
"Bullshit! Not this way!" Sam snarled, pointing to Hutch. "Turn around and sit up." He waved his gun in Starsky's direction. "You, sit back to back with him."
Starsky was about to scramble into the specified position when Carl lost his nerve. "I wanna get out of here! Let's grab the stuff and run, Sam!"
He looped the rope around the detectives, with Hutch leaning against Starsky's chest. He pulled the rope extra tight and tied it with a large knot. Then he bent over the hole in the floor, his arms and head almost disappearing into the crawlspace underneath.
"Don't forget a single bill, ya hear me?" Sam sounded nervous. His gun swung loosely from his fingers as if he'd forgotten about it.
Starsky squeezed Hutch's side, hoping Hutch could come up with an idea to overpower the goons, but Hutch shook his head. There was no chance that they would be able to get free, not in the condition Hutch was in.
Carl climbed out of the opening, his hands filled with cash.
"Gimme those. There must be more!" Sam grabbed the greenbacks and stashed them in the pockets of his coat. Carl pulled so much money out of the hole in the floor, that he had problems holding onto it all.
"That's it!" Carl said, scrambling off the floor. Some bills still lay on the floor, but the two men didn't seem to care. Sam turned to the door, dragging his brother with him.
"I should have shot 'em," were the last words Starsky and Hutch heard. Sam slammed the front door shut.
Starsky shuddered. "Speaking of bad dreams — I hope this was one, and I'm waking up in my bed, and nothing has happened."
"Sorry to disappoint you: I feel like shit, my leg is hurting, I gotta take a leak, and I feel a major headache coming up," Hutch said, wiggling his arms.
"Ow, don't move. The rope is cutting in my back." Starsky winced. "Carl did a good job tying us together. Wonder where he learned that? We're bonded forever," Starsky said half-joking, although he didn't feel good at all. They had to get free of the rope.
"Starsk?" Hutch turned his head, resting it in the crook of Starsky's neck.
"What is it? Any idea how to get out of here?" Starsky smiled against Hutch's cheek, savoring the familiar contact.
"You remember the pocket knife I confiscated from the guy at the liquor store last night? If we're lucky, it's still in my jeans pocket." Hutch tried to shift to one side so that Starsky could reach his pockets but the rope was so tight that it was impossible.
"No chance. Let me try it." Starsky was able to wiggle around until his hands were pressed against Hutch's side.
"Whatever you wish," Hutch answered, no longer moving.
Starsky worked his hands down Hutch's body, the rope cutting in his flesh. It hurt, and Starsky couldn't hide a groan.
"How can I help?" Hutch started to wiggle one way and then the other. Starsky joined in because he had to and they quickly found a rhythm to loosen the rope.
Finally, Starsky managed to squeeze his hand into Hutch's pocket and located the small pocket knife. He pulled it out carefully.
"That's it." Hutch inhaled deeply and relaxed against Starsky's chest.
"Yeah, we're almost done," Starsky said confidentially. He was covered in sweat when he got the knife in the right position to cut the rope. Grasping the small knife handle, Starsky sawed carefully through the thick strands of the rope. Feeling it begin to fray, he cut more confidently and was overjoyed when he felt the loops drop away.
"We're free," shouted Starsky, untangling the two of them from the rope.
"Can't tell you how much I like that," Hutch said, rubbing his stiff hands.
There was a cracking noise outside, and both men caught their breath, listening. Sam and Carl were talking furtively, and there was a loud whoosh.
"They're gone," Starsky stated, relaxing. "You think we can identify them by checking the mug books?"
"Sam — his last name is on the tip of my tongue," Hutch said pensively. He held out one hand and Starsky supported him, pulling him up. "That bank robbery, I'm sure of it."
"Arghh, that hurts," Hutch cried out, unable to stand.
"You think your ankle is broken?" Starsky asked, concerned. He crouched next to Hutch, running his hand along Hutch's right leg.
"Leave it alone! I need to get my leg examined. Damn!" Hutch said desperately.
Starsky knew how he felt. They had been to the hospital too often. Starsky got up to check the front door. He couldn't open the door, it was blocked from the outside. He pressed his ear to the door and heard a car drive away. Possibly Carl and Sam.
"We can get out the back window then. Didn't you say it was open?" Hutch leaned against the wall, checking on his leg.
"You're right, there's no other way out." Starsky bent down to help Hutch up, when the blond frowned.
"Do you smell something, too?" Hutch asked, sniffing.
"Yeah, somebody must have smoked in here recently," Starsky said patiently, "we talked about that."
"No! It's smoke, and the wall behind me is much too warm!" Hutch said frantically. "They're burning the house!"
"Can't be..." Starsky said but he knew Hutch was right. Through the barricaded windows, he sensed the heat of a fire.
"C'mon!" Starsky grabbed Hutch under the arms, not caring if he hurt his partner. The only thing that mattered was fleeing the fire. The back bedroom window had been open, he had to help Hutch to get outside.
He dragged Hutch to the bedroom — and stood frozen. The back of the house was already on fire. Flames were licking the window frame. There was no way out.
"Back to the living room!" Starsky shouted, putting his arm around Hutch's waist to support the hurt ankle.
"I can walk alone," Hutch hissed out, hobbling away from the intense heat.
Starsky coughed into his fist. The smoke was getting thicker. He used his t-shirt to cover his mouth. Looking briefly at Hutch behind him Starsky saw that Hutch had put his arm over his mouth and nodded to Starsky to move on.
Back in the living room, Starsky crouched on the floor. They had to get out immediately. The front door wasn't an option. What about the hole Hutch had fallen through earlier? They had to try it. Starsky bent over the hole in the floor. The air, coming from the opening, was cooler.
"Hutch? C'mon, let's try to get out from here." Starsky said,
"Sure. Piece of cake." Hutch coughed, and his breathing sounded labored. He crouched next to Starsky, a grimace of pain on his face.
Starsky's eyes stung and his chest hurt. For a moment, he was afraid they wouldn't make it.
Starsky took Hutch's face in his hands. "Before it's too late — I must tell you, I love you, more than I ever thought." Starsky leaned forward and kissed Hutch on the mouth. He didn't care about Hutch's reaction. He had said and done what his heart told him to do, now he wanted action, a way to get out of this mess.
It was harder to breathe, and the crackling sound of the flames was getting louder.
"You follow me down in this opening. Holler if the pain is bad. Got it?"
Hutch stared at him with bleary eyes, saying nothing. Starsky waited patiently. As if having a delayed reaction, Hutch almost smiled. "Got it all."
Starsky slid into the opening. He couldn't stand in the space under the floor, but there was enough room to move.
"You coming?" he called for Hutch, and finally the blond moved and slid carefully into the hole.
Starsky crouched forward, along a dark path under the floor of the house. The air wasn't quite so smoky in the crawl space. Starsky could hear the crackling fire above them and he hoped that there would be a way out of the house. Hutch's harsh breathing was a wonderful sound for Starsky; he knew Hutch was still following him, despite his injured leg.
"You're still with me?" Starsky wheezed.
Hutch grunted, "Yeah."
"Love you," Starsky thought, filled with fondness for his brave partner. They were crawling on the dirty cement foundation and he could see a light up ahead. Starsky felt his heart beating fast. Looking ahead he saw a faint light. Was that the safe exit?
Starsky felt like crying with relief when they crawled out through the ventilation opening. Hutch lay flat on the ground to catch his breath.
Starsky looked around. They were right beside the house. Flames were leaping up off the roof, and Starsky had no doubt that the house was lost.
"We have to get away from the house and call the fire department from my car," Starsky wheezed, wiping his sweaty forehead.
"Buy me a new leg first," Hutch said, standing on wobbly legs. Supported by Starsky, they made it to the Torino to call for help.
****
"To summarize: we're still alive, Sam and Carl Splatter are on the run with little chance of getting away... and I'm beat!" Starsky took a long gulp from his beer. Then he eyed Hutch's foot encased in plaster which was elevated on the couch in Starsky's apartment.
"How are you feeling?"
"Could be better." Hutch looked longingly at Starsky's beer, twisting his own bottle of root beer without enthusiasm.
"You aren't allowed to drink beer, think of the pain meds you got for your broken ankle and bruised leg," Starsky said. ignoring Hutch's plea for a beer. "I remember that bank robbery on Chesterfield Avenue. I'm almost sure, Sam and Carl Splatter were involved in the assault." Starsky frowned.
"Wasn't it when a clerk died, he had a heart attack because of the assault," Hutch said, snatching the beer bottle out of Starsky's hand.
"Hey, what..?" Suddenly, Starsky smiled. "Okay, take a sip, but that's it." He got serious again. "Now that they have a better description, the Splatter brothers will also be charged with attempted murder and arson." He got up to walk over to the TV.
"You bet!" Hutch said, taking a longer sip from the beer.
"I read about a cartoon marathon on TV tonight," Starsky said, holding up the TV guide.
Hutch yawned. "I don't know if I'm up for that, buddy. I'll probably be asleep in five minutes. Do you mind driving me home?" He put his leg down on the floor.
"Yes, I do mind. Please stay," Starsky said. "After this day, it's no good for either of us to be alone. We've lost our new home, we almost lost our lives — the only thing I want is normalcy." Starsky turned the TV on, every limb protesting the movement. "I feel like a hundred years old," he admitted.
"You're telling me," Hutch snorted, leaning deeper into the cushions.
Starsky made a beeline into the kitchen, coming back with some crackers and two more beers. He slumped onto the couch sighing deeply. "Hutch, would you ever have expected that we'd be in a house and almost die in a fire?" Starsky shook his head in disbelief, opening the two bottles.
"Here you are." Starsky handed one bottle over to Hutch. "But don't blame me if there are side effects due to the medication."
"How could I? Besides, I haven't taken a painkiller since I got back from the hospital." Hutch looked at his watch. "That was one hour ago, about 9 pm. Don't worry." They clinked bottles and drank in silence.
On the TV, the next film started. "If that's a cartoon, I'm the president of the United States," Hutch joked.
"Oops, it's Carrie. Have you seen it?" Starsky asked, contrite. That wasn't what he wanted to watch at all.
"Yeah, and watching it once was enough," Hutch stated, taking a handful of crackers.
"If you aren't in the mood, I understand," Starsky said, "although, I normally have a soft spot for those kinds of movies, that scare the shit out of someone."
"I've had enough of 'scaring the shit out of me' today, but if you want, let's watch Carrie. I hope you won't end on my lap, needing some comfort," Hutch said.
"Promise," Starsky said with his mouth full. During the film, he snuggled up to Hutch, who was already asleep.
The next movie was Psycho. Starsky vaguely remembered that the famous Hitchcock film was about an old house. What a coincidence, he thought, shuddering. He inched even closer to Hutch. The shower scene made him almost freak out, but Hutch's snoring calmed him down. Everything was going to be all right.
It was late night when Starsky decided to get the dirt off his body.
He stripped and went in the shower stall, looking forward to a hot shower. He was about to turn on the faucet when he saw something moving behind him. He turned around, but there wasn't anything there. He grabbed the soap, and there it was again: A huge shadow outside the shower curtain, moving nearer, ballooning out of proportion. Starsky shivered. It was only his imagination, and he had to face facts. He was overly imaginative after those kinds of movies — and after the bad experience in the old house.
He turned on the faucet. Cold water came out, then it became hotter. With an appreciative sigh, Starsky closed his eyes and let the warm water pour over him. Relaxing under the hot spray was the best. Needing the shampoo, he looked for the bottle — and started to scream: There was blood everywhere: on his body, in the shower stall, on the tiles...
"Help!" Tearing the curtain apart, he rushed out of the stall, almost sliding on the wet, red tiles.
Hutch was limping over to the couch, and Starsky ran to him. "Hutch! There's blood all over the bathroom! I must be bleeding!" Starsk choked on his own words. "And there was a huge shadow, I'm sure he had a knife in his hand. My God, Hutch!"
He clung to Hutch, not letting go, trembling with the terrible knowledge that he was going to die.
"What d'you mean?" Strong arms enfolded him, and Starsky absorbed the familiar presence of his partner. His heartbeat slowed down and he realized that there had not been a huge shadow, it must have been Hutch.
Hutch held him close, swaying lightly because he was off balance with the cast on his foot.
"The water was bloody red, and I was sure there was a murderer's shadow," Starsky repeated, drawing back to look at Hutch.
"I know. When I went into the bathroom to get some water and Tylenol, I noticed the red water." Hutch smiled at the corners of his mouth.
"What an idiot I am! Of course, yesterday the city said there would be some work on the water pipes, that explains the rusty water." Starsky released Hutch, only then realizing that he was naked.
"Wait a sec!" Starsky turned around to run into the bedroom, but Hutch held him back, eyeing him from head to toe.
"Why the hurry?" Hutch said, his eyes sparkling.
Irritated by Hutch's look, and suddenly light-headed, Starsky croaked, "Be right back." He went to the bedroom to get dressed. Having changed into sweat shorts, he slumped down on his bed, feeling dog-tired. They should call it a night. He'd offer Hutch the bed, his friend needed the space for his broken ankle.
"Hutch?" Starsky trudged into the living room. The TV was blaring about the latest healthy cereal on the market, and Hutch lay back against the cushions, obviously asleep. Starsky went to him, bending down. "Buddy? You need to wake up, it's time to tuck you in." He couldn't resist gently stroking Hutch's cheek.
"Huh?" Hutch opened his eyes and looked at Starsky.
"Let's go to bed." Starsky said, taking Hutch's hand to pull him up. Instead, Hutch drew Starsky next to him on the couch, shifting to get more comfortable.
"Starsk, I just dreamed about being kissed..." Hutch said in a soft voice, staring at the ceiling.
Starsky knew what this was all about. "It's Christine, huh? Yeah, she's someone special — at least after she wrote her final article. You wanna date her?" Starsky suppressed the feeling of jealousy and disappointment. After all, he only wished the best for his partner. He leaned back against the cushions, feeling Hutch's body close to him.
Hutch raised his hand to tilt Starsky's head toward him. "Christine made up for that first nasty piece and she is a quite attractive lady, but she's not who I'm talking about." Hutch looked serious, the crease between his eyes prominent. "I dreamed about you kissing me and telling me you loved me."
Starsky stared at Hutch. He had a snarky remark on his lips, as usual, when they were bantering. This time though, Starsky knew he had to be honest. He cleared his throat. "When the house caught fire, I needed to tell you how I feel before it was too late. "Starsky averted his eyes, feeling awkward all of a sudden. He shifted to put more distance between him and Hutch.
"Well, I have to tell you something," Hutch said, sitting up to make some more space. He looked down, and Starsky had a foreboding that Hutch might be put off by Starsky's kiss and his words of love.
"I know what you're thinking," Starsky started. "You're pissed off by what I did. Sorry, I shouldn't have..." He felt on edge, all tiredness gone.
"Yeah, I'm pissed off! That you never showed me what a good kisser you were before." Hutch looked at him, his eyes sparkling again.
"You mean...?" Starsky wasn't sure if he had heard right. Did Hutch really like the kiss? Had he realized how much Starsky loved him? Nervously, Starsky grabbed for the beer bottle, but it was empty.
"I mean," Hutch started, handing Starsky his half-filled bottle. "I love you, too, dummy, and in case you haven't noticed," Hutch edged closer, "I wouldn't object another kiss."
"To celebrate our survival?" Starsky felt like flying. In one smooth move, he put his arms around Hutch to pull him close. He kissed Hutch's full lips again. They tasted of beer and crackers — and was there still a hint of smoke? Starsky smiled softly against Hutch's mouth. "Hm, you taste smoky ..."
Hutch only grunted, responding to the kiss. Starsky's senses were on fire. He felt Hutch's lips on his, the warmth of his partner's body invading his system. He knew he was safe in Hutch's arms. He closed his eyes, savoring the unique sensation.
"I could get used to it," Hutch mumbled, inviting Starsky's tongue with open lips. Starsky forgot everything around him. He met Hutch's tongue, and there was such a sweetness and tenderness between them that Starsky moaned softly. Hutch's arms encircled his waist, pulling him even closer.
Tracing his lips across Hutch's cheek and neck, Starsky stopped at an earlobe, whispering, "I should be grateful for the old house burning down..."
"I don't understand." Hutch looked at Starsky, his cheeks flushed and his hair disheveled.
"I would have never dared to confess how much I love you," Starsky said plainly, brushing a few blond strands off Hutch's forehead, and touching heads with Hutch again.
"When did that start?" Hutch turned, his blond long hair tickling Starsky.
Sneezing, Starsky pulled back slightly, rubbing his nose. "When it started? Dunno. I only know that when I faced death in the burning house, I had to show and tell you how much I love you."
"Can you tell me again, without a deadly situation around us?" Hutch asked, laying his hand on Starsky's thigh. The warmth sent a jolt through Starsky's body right into his groin. Starsky hadn't expected such a reaction and squirmed on the couch.
"Nothing to worry about," Hutch smiled, his hand moving up higher on Starsky's thigh. "By the way, I'm tired, what about you?" He sat straighter and reached out to pull Starsky up.
"No way, you are the one hurting here," Starsky said quickly. "I'll help you up and give you my bed so you can stretch out your leg properly."
"There's one condition though..." Hutch said, panting slightly.
"What is it?" Starsky said, concerned. He held onto Hutch, noticing the unbalanced sway.
"I don't want to be alone there. You keep me company?" Hutch's eyes sparkled like a million stars.
"How could I deny you anything?" Starsky said, his heartbeat accelerating.
***
After a detour to the bathroom, Hutch joined Starsky in the bedroom. Starsky had pulled back the covers, and the dimmed light of the bedside lamp gave the room a cosy atmosphere.
"Get in, you big lug," Starsky said casually, but he couldn't hide the feeling of awkwardness. More than once they had shared a bed together, but it had been under different conditions. They had been partners, closer than brothers. Today, in the burning house, Starsky had confessed that he loved his partner much more than mere buddies did. Starsky still felt his lips burning with fire when Hutch had kissed him back. He wasn't sure how to react, now that they were about to crawl into bed together.
"Arghh, my leg is killing me." Hutch sat on the edge of the bed, struggling to get rid of his dirty and torn jeans.
"Let me help you." In an instant, Starsky was by his side. "You're badly bruised, aren't you?"
"Yeah, there must have been nails at the opening, and when I fell through, I got all scraped up." Hutch tentatively pushed his jeans down over his hips.
"Lay back and let me do the work," Starsky proposed. When Hutch hesitated, Starsky added, "Trust me. You'll feel more comfortable."
"Who do we trust?" Hutch said with a soft smile, lying on his back.
"You got it!" Starsky said, starting to undress his partner. Hutch's jeans were split up to the knee to accommodate the cast. Carefully, Starsky pulled the material off.
"Ouch, that looks really bad," Starsky noticed, seeing the bruises along Hutch's thigh. "You want me to put on some ointment? We have that stuff in the cabinet, remember?" Starsky realized that he had spoken as if his home was Hutch's as well. But it was true. They lived in each other's pockets.
"I'm fine now." Hutch leaned back against the headrest, reaching out for Starsky. "It's been a long day, and I could use some rest." With the lamplight highlighting his fair skin and blond hair, Hutch drew Starsky close.
His earlier awkwardness forgotten, Starsky melted against his love. Everything was so familiar about Hutch: The steady heartbeat Starsky could sense under the cotton of Hutch's shirt, the scent of his partner, reminding him of the burning house they had escaped from.
"Hutch? We were lucky not to get really severe smoke inhalation. I was really scared when the smoke was so thick and we both started to cough..."
"Yeah, it could have easily been the end of the two of us," Hutch said, sniffling all of a sudden. "I smell smoke..."
"It's you," Starsky chuckled, ruffling Hutch's hair. "But I love you anyway."
"Speaking of love." Hutch turned toward Starsky, looking at him intensely.
Starsky felt a shiver go through his body. Hutch's eyes were full of love — and desire? Starsky faced Hutch. Forgetting his sore limbs, Starsky gazed at the long-legged blond in all his gorgeousness. Was it the fine blond hair, now so long that it reached the collar? Or was it Hutch's smile, so tender and encouraging?
There was an unreadable expression on Hutch's face. Starsky decided to do what he was good at: taking action. He unbuttoned Hutch's shirt to reveal a smooth chest.
What's that?" Starsky frowned. Hutch's ribcage was bruised, too.
"Nothing serious, really, according to the doctor in the ER. No broken ribs." Hutch tensed when Starsky put his hand on the darker spots. "Sam tried to get me out and ended up hitting me with his gun." Hutch made a face and shrugged.
Starsky trailed his fingers lightly over the bruises, feeling the gentle movement of Hutch's ribcage as he breathed.
"Are you okay?" Hutch ran his hand across Starsky's chest. Starsky gasped, the soft touch making his nipples harden.
"I'm good," Starsky croaked. He needed a distraction and leaned over to kiss a swollen bruise over Hutch's left ribs. Hutch moaned, and Starsky wasn't sure if it was out of pleasure or of pain. Then he felt Hutch's hands in his hair and Starsky knew he hadn't done anything wrong.
Encouraged, he went further down, leaving light kisses on stomach and navel. This was so Hutch, his scent, his warm skin. Starsky looked up to see those light blue eyes watching him.
"Come here," Hutch whispered, pointing to his side. Starsky sprawled next to Hutch, his hand staying on Hutch's lean hip. "You're incredible, full of surprises..." Hutch drove his hand through Starsky's dark curls.
"Speaking of love, I thought, a little practice wouldn't be so bad," Starsky said, feeling the silky material of Hutch's boxers under his hand. Slowly, he moved his hand up and down, exploring the skin and hipbone.
"Don't!" Hutch yelped, almost giggling, and Starsky knew he had found a ticklish spot.
"What about here?" Starsky ran his hand along Hutch's upper thigh, carefully avoiding the bruises.
"Don't!" Hutch said again, but he closed his eyes, and Starsky felt a light tremble go through Hutch's body. Obviously, it was one of Hutch's erotic spots. Starsky chuckled, content.
Exploring higher with his hand, Starsky got courageous. Gently, he touched Hutch's boxers and cupped the half-erect cock.
Hutch jerked. "Starsk, no..." Eyes wide open, Hutch stared at Starsky with astonishment.
"Why not?" Starsky spread his legs. "I'm all yours, too." Surprised, he looked down and realized that his dick stood at attention, tenting his sweatpants. "Look, what you're doing to me. Even after the terrible events today, I'm crazy for you."
"You're telling me!" Almost roughly, Hutch pulled Starsky's T-shirt over his head. He covered Starsky's chest with one large hand, teasing a nipple with thumb and forefinger. Moving down to slip his hand in the waistband of Starsky's sweatpants, Hutch grinned like a boy at Christmas.
Starsky couldn't believe what was happening. His partner was touching him in a sensual way, and he was carried away, totally aroused. When had Hutch become an object of desire to him? Feeling Hutch's hand on his skin made him hot and needy for more. This couldn't be right.
"Hutch, wait," Starsky said lamely, his hard nipples throbbed and tingled.
"Why?" Hutch closed his hand over Starsky's cock, giving it a firm squeeze.
The sensation was too much for Starsky to bear. Spontaneously, Starsky yanked Hutch's boxers down. He almost gasped at the sight of Hutch's gorgeous cock. He realized how deep his love for Hutch was. He loved him to bits.
He grabbed Hutch and fondled the swollen flesh. Mesmerized by his and Hutch's arousal, Starsky worked his hand up and down Hutch's shaft, moving further to caress the balls, nestled in fine coarse hair.
"You're beautiful," Starsky croaked. Aroused by Hutch's soft moans, Starsky intensified his strokes. Simultaneously, Hutch teased Starsky's cock, tantalizing the sensitive flesh. Their movements were in sync, and Starsky soon felt Hutch's balls tighten.
"Starsk," Hutch hissed in Starsky's shoulder, leaving a love bite.
"Hey, you're rough," Starsky managed to say, then another strong stroke from Hutch's talented hand drove him to completion. The familiar tingling set in, and with an audible "Now!" Starsky climaxed.
Claiming Hutch's mouth with a deep kiss, Starsky squeezed Hutch's cock tightly. Hutch came, moaning unintelligible words into Starsky's mouth.
Catching his breath, still overwhelmed by the strong climax he just had, Starsky relaxed against Hutch. Starsky savored the new connection they had just discovered and placed his hand on Hutch's sweaty chest to feel his lover's accelerated heartbeat. Luxuriating in the sensation, Starsky came down to earth when he felt the sticky mess cool down on his stomach. He grabbed for the Kleenex on the nightstand when Hutch pushed his hand aside.
"I'll do it." Tenderly, Hutch cleaned Starsky up and then allowed Starsky to do the same for him.
Exhausted and sated, they lay side by side. Starsky switched off the lamp while Hutch pulled the covers over them.
"Tell me this is a dream," Hutch said, facing Starsky.
"Want me to pinch you to convince you otherwise?" Starsky proposed, rubbing his cheek against Hutch's arm.
"I'm bruised enough, thanks." Hutch shook his head, adjusting his legs under the covers to get more comfortable.
"What a day!" Starsky sighed. "What happened in the old house seems so long ago, it could have happened years ago."
"Yeah, it was a scary experience. I'm glad we made it out of the mess." Hutch yawned, putting his arm around Starsky's shoulders.
"That's what counts — me and thee." Starsky laid his arm on Hutch's chest and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he popped them open and braced himself on one elbow.
"Hutch?"
"Yeah?" Hutch asked sleepily.
"What if they find out that we are...?"
"I don't give a shit." Hutch drew Starsky into his arms.
Starsky relaxed against his lover. With Hutch by his side, there was nothing to worry about. Everything was going to be all right.
The end
Go to index
"Hi ya Blintz. Ready for lunch? I'm famished," Starsky announced.
A little too cheerfully, Hutch noticed.
Hutch knew that his partner had his final conference with the review board scheduled earlier that morning. Hutch hadn't wanted to add to the pressure by focusing too much on the board's decision. So, over the past few days, they had done everything — in bed and out — to take Starsky's mind off of the possible outcomes.
That suited Hutch just fine, because he, himself, didn't know what he wanted the police review board's decision to be. He knew that Starsky had only ever wanted to be a cop, so he told himself that he wanted the board to clear his partner for full duty, and they could hit the streets together just like they used to.
But, in his heart of hearts, he wasn't sure he wanted that. Wasn't sure at all.
"What else is new? But, as it happens, I'm a little hungry myself," he said, anxious to hear Starsky's accounting of the morning's events over their meal.
"Well, if you'd eat more than that nasty sea kelp and decimated liver stuff in the mornings, maybe you'd have a little more staying power."
"Don't seem to remember you're having any complaints about my staying power last night," Hutch softly whispered, but the blush in his cheeks revealed that he was the one who was feeling a bit embarrassed.
"Don't try to taunt me Hutchinson, you know you can't win," Starsky said, as he grabbed his partner by the arm and steered him toward the doors of the squad room.
As they were leaving Parker Center, they ran into Jake Redel and his partner, Samson.
"Hey Jake, Sammy," Starsky called out. Again, Hutch detected a note of false cheer in his voice.
"Starsky! Good to see you, man. Hey, look Sammy, it's Starsky. You remember Starsky, don'tcha?" With that, Jake released the large Labrador-Shepherd mixed breed from his leash and Samson surged forward.
While Starsky bathed in the adoration of the one half of Metro's premier K-9 team, Hutch grinned at Jake. "So, Jake, I hear you guys just finished training some new recruits," Hutch said. "That brings the K-9 unit up to six teams now, right?"
"Yeah. They all seem like a good bunch. The guys and the animals," Redel said. He continued with some pride in his voice. "Didja hear that Sammy took down one of the pushers in that narco bust last week? Man, you shouldda seen 'em. Guy tried to pull a knife on me and Samson went at him and had him pinned and crying for his mama in seconds."
Jake gave Samson's collar a gentle tug because, by this time, Starsky was in danger of being licked-to-death by the beast he had, moments before, been discussing.
"Heart of a lion, this one," Jake said giving Sam a scritch behind the ears, "Best partner a guy could have."
"Almost," corrected Hutch, as he reached out to scratch Starsky's head, mimicking Jake's actions.
Starsky leaned into his hand before good-naturedly shaking it off. Pretending to bite Hutch, he gave a little growl.
"Uh-oh. Feeding time. You know how ornery they can get if you withhold food, right Jake?"
"We were just headed to grab some lunch at The Pits. Wanna come?" Starsky offered.
"Thanks guys, but Sam and me gotta check in. We're supposed to helping find the perp in that string of purse snatchings that you've been doing the research on. Next time, though.," Jake promised. "Great to see you, Starsky. Hope we get a chance to work together, again, soon." With a click of his tongue and a quick jerk of his head, Jake had Samson at his side and they disappeared through the doors of Parker Center.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Man, am I glad I'm able to eat real food again. That had to be one of the hardest parts of my recovery," Starsky said after finishing most of his burger and fries. Giving a contented sigh, he pushed away from the table. "If I ever see another dish of jello it will be too soon. I guess that's one good thing to come out of all this, you learn to appreciate the good things you got," he said, as he gave a meaningful glance toward his partner.
Hutch had finished his salad and leaned in to listen to his best friend. Reminding himself that the important thing to remember was to support Starsky. In spite of any reservations he might personally be harboring about Starsky's return to the force.
"So, how did it go this morning with the review board?" Hutch asked, bracing himself for a response.
"Hutch, you know that I loved bein' a cop. But more than that, I loved bein' your partner..."
"Wait a minute. Loved? As in the past-tense? They didn't clear you for full duty?"
While part of Hutch was relieved, a bigger part of him was outraged on behalf of his partner. How could they not see how much he had to offer? And after all he went through during his recovery and rehabilitation. All with the goal of being reinstated.
"You gotta understand something, Hutch. This is mostly my decision," Starsky said with some resignation.
"Whaddaya mean, your decision?" Hutch was incredulous.
"I mean, they pretty much said it was up to me... and I been thinkin' about it for a while now. The fact is, while I've come back a long way since the shooting, I'm not the man I was. That's the truth." To his credit, Starsky did not avoid looking directly at his partner as he continued. "My lung capacity will never be the same, hell even my shooting skills have been affected." He shook his head. "I couldn't do the job, on the streets, day-in and day-out like I used to. Bottom line is: I couldn't back you up like you deserve. I need you to be safe, Hutch." Starsky covered Hutch's hand with his own and waited.
"Okay," Hutch acquiesced.
"Okay? Just like that?" Starsky gave a little snort. "Hunh. Thought you might have some more questions. But I like it when you're agreeable," he said with a wink, as he squeezed his partners hand. "And, even though you didn't ask, I'll tell ya; the department offered me pretty fair disability pension, so I'm taking that. I think we'll be okay money-wise..."
"I'm not worried about the money, Starsk. I just want to make sure this is what you want."
"That's my Blintz. Told ya I've been thinkin' about it for a while. You had to know that. And don't think I didn't appreciate how you didn't try to influence my decision," Starsky said affectionately.
"Well, I just wanted you to have what you wanted... I've always wanted that for you," Hutch said sincerely.
"I know it'll be hard for you to break in a new partner. To be honest, it'll be hard for me to think of anybody else having your back, but..."
"Nobody else is gonna have my back, Starsk," Hutch interrupted
"Waddaya mean? You need a partner Blondie. Nobody gets to go solo. Even if you are the Super-cop who brought down James Gunther," Starsky said with undisguised pride.
"I mean, I don't think I wanna do this anymore. I know the timing probably sucks. With all the other changes happening in our lives..."
"Don't wanna do 'what' anymore, Hutch? This?" Starsky asked as he gestured back and forth between the two of them with his index finger. And for the first time, since their conversation began, he looked shaken.
"Oh no, Babe. That's not what I meant at all," Hutch assured him as he moved his chair closer. He seized Starsky's hand in the air and brought it to his lips, giving it a reverent kiss. Holding onto it, possessively, he crooned. "Me and Thee, Starsk. Forever. I thought we had decided that, already."
His features relaxing, Starsky appeared relieved. "Then what don't you wanna do?"
"Be a cop," Hutch stated simply.
"How can you say that? You love bein' a cop, Hutch," Starsky said decidedly.
"Correction. I loved being a cop. Past-tense." Hutch clarified. "Mostly because I loved having you as a partner. But, I hate to break it to ya, even 'Super-cop' is starting to slow down a little." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Hell, I was already beginning to burn out last year. And don't tell me you didn't notice." Hutch silenced Starsky's attempted response with a shake of his head. "My heart isn't in it the way it used to be. I don't have that edge that I think I need to be the best, on the streets, anymore. Might be time to let some new blood take the reins."
Hutch paused and took a healthy sip from his lukewarm Coke.
"So. There you have it," he said, wadding up his napkin and tossing it on the table. "My big confession. You wanna know the worst part?" Hutch asked. He continued without giving his partner a chance voice an opinion, "The worst part, is that part of me was hoping the board wouldn't clear you. Some friend I am, right? Figured I could use that as an excuse to quit the force in support of you or something," Hutch admitted, very disappointed in himself.
"Awww, Hutch. Nobody can hurt you the way you can. You're as much entitled to your feelings as I am," Starsky said, with a turn of phrase that got Hutch's attention.
"Wow. Those sessions with the department shrink have really paid off for you," he said laughing, feeling as though an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
A companionable silence fell between them, then. Everything was going be okay. They knew that, now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On their way back to the Station to attack the next round of paperwork, Starsky and Hutch found themselves caught in an unexpected traffic snarl.
"Wanna radio into the dispatch, tell 'em why we're running late, and maybe alert them to whatever this hold-up is about?" Starsky suggested.
"That's probably a good idea," Hutch replied. "This is Zebra Three — Detective Hutchinson — to dispatch, coming off Code Seven. We're stuck in traffic here over on Ocean and..." was all Hutch got out before Millie's voice interrupted him.
"Zebra Three. We have an officer involved shooting in your area. Ocean Avenue and Vine Street, asking for additional assistance."
Starsky gave Hutch an affirmative nod, in answer to his unspoken question, and Hutch placed the Mars light on the roof of the Torino. There would never be a question when it came to helping a fellow officer in need.
"Zebra Three. We are responding," Hutch relayed back to dispatch.
Starsky hit the accelerator pedal and, within a few minutes, they arrived at the scene. Black and whites had the cross streets of Ocean and Vine blocked off and yellow caution tape ringed the area. Starsky and Hutch made their way to the officer in charge.
"What's happening, Foster? Dispatch said there was an officer involved shooting," Hutch said.
"Hutchinson, Starsky," Foster replied grimly. "It's not good. We have one man down. Took him to Memorial but they think he's gonna make it." He gestured to where uniformed officers were questioning some locals. "They were responding to a call of some punk who stole a lady's purse. Had him cornered in an alley, when the guy pulled out a piece. Witnesses said there was no warning, the hype just shot him." Foster shook his head. "His partner managed to get a piece of the perp but was wounded in the altercation..."
"So, the suspect is out there, but wounded," said Hutch. "Did you get a description from his partner — and how is he — is he conscious?"
"He's being attended to now... but you won't be able to get much of a description from him," Foster lamented.
"Too traumatized over what happened to his partner?" Hutch asked, remembering being in that same position a year ago.
"Well, yeah, probably. Redel is the only partner he's ever had. Been together since he joined the force..."
Satrsky interjected, "Jake Redel? Oh my god. We just talked to him this morning."
Starsky and Hutch instinctively moved closer together, seeking mutual comfort in their nearness.
Sergeant Foster handed them a torn piece of cloth. Plaid flannel. "We got this from Samson," he explained. "Seems to have torn it off — along with a chunk of the perp's arm — before the punk escaped. Damn mutt managed to get shot himself, but the vet says it doesn't look life-threatening."
"Heart of a lion," Starsky repeated Redel's earlier praise of his K-9 partner.
"Thanks, Sergeant," Hutch said examining the cloth. "We've been looking at the data from these purse snatching incidents over the past couple weeks. There doesn't seem to be any pattern, other than they're getting more frequent, probably in accordance to the guy's growing addiction. They appear random and show no signs of organized thought..."
"All of which means, we're lookin' for a junkie who'll be lookin' for his next fix," Starsky summarized.
"Yeah. And worse. An injured junkie," Hutch said. "If we think he was outta control before, just imagine how his instincts have gotten screwed up now."
"Free clinic?" Starsky suggested.
"Probably a good place to start." Hutch started walking back to the Torino with a determined expression. "He might go there to seek treatment for his wound, and maybe if they had a methadone program or something. But first, we gotta' get you back to the station. I'm not putting you at risk when..."
"Listen, Blintz," Starsky interrupted. "Told ya before, I wouldn't consider doin' this long-term, 'cause I just don't got it in me. But I can go with you now." He dug the car keys from his from pocket. "I'm rested and strong as I'll ever be. I would tell you if I didn't think I could back you up. Let's hit this guy's trail before it goes cold. Okay?"
"Okay, Partner," Hutch agreed as he clasped Starsky's shoulder. "Let's get him before he hurts anybody else."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Starsky cut the siren and Hutch ditched the Mars light as they neared the free clinic on Valley Boulevard. Keeping a careful lookout on the surrounding streets, both hoped they'd spot something suspicious. Hutch noticed that Starsky unconsciously gripped the piece of cloth the Sergeant had given them.
Why flannel? Hutch wondered. It had been unseasonably warm — even for summer — for the past few weeks, with highs in the nineties, and even he had eschewed his turtlenecks and favorite flannels in favor of cooler cotton T-shirts and woven shirts. Who wore flannel in this weather?
Junkies. Especially those going through withdrawal. Their internal body temperature would be all messed up due to the chemical substances they used. Plus junkies frequently used the long sleeves to hide the track marks.
Starsky parked the Torino a couple blocks to the east of Valley Boulevard. Hutch exited the vehicle and waited on the sidewalk for Starsky to join him before walking toward the clinic. As they passed an alley on the next block Hutch heard a faint sound. A rustling coming from behind the dumpsters. A moan of discomfort. After exchanging silent nods, the detectives stealthily approached the source of the noise.
With his gun drawn, Hutch kept pace with Starsky, not wanting to let him out of his sight. He stole a surreptitious look at the form huddled against the alley wall. There, facing away from the street, sat a young man in obvious pain. Moaning, rocking and hugging himself tightly.
The man was wearing a flannel shirt with a large tear in the arm and favoring an injury to that arm, which was bleeding profusely. He was in no shape to put up a fight, but Starsky kept his gun trained on him, as his partner holstered his magnum and broke cover to approach the suspect.
"Hey," Hutch spoke in a gentle tone, trying not to alarm the man. "You look like you could use some help, why don't you come with me and we can get that arm looked at."
Protesting through his chattering teeth, the man said, "No, no, no... can't man. I'm in big trouble. Think I killed a cop... It all happened so fast... this huge demon came at me and I think I blacked out..."
Hutch noticed the gun laying slightly behind the suspect and managed to kick it away without spooking the guy.
"Hey. It's okay. That cop isn't dead," Hutch said soothingly. "They think he's gonna make it. We need to get you some help."
Starsky came around the dumpster to help secure the suspect by clicking the handcuffs around his wrists while Hutch took care not to further aggravate the man's injured arm as he helped him to his feet.
Starsky called for back-up, requesting the suspect be taken, first, to an emergency room and then to a facility for psychiatric observation.
After seeing him loaded into an ambulance, the two men turned to each other, in silent agreement. This seemed to be an appropriate culmination to their career as Bay City's finest detectives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"... And it is with great pride that, as the Mayor of Bay City, I present these commendations for your service and for being injured in the line of duty. Officer Jake Redel..." Mayor Stevenson proclaimed as he presented the award.
Jake accepted the plaque with a proud smile and shook the mayor's hand.
"And Samson." Stevenson added.
At the sound of his name, Samson looked to Jake who nodded toward the mayor. Samson lifted his paw to shake.
There were cheers from all who had gathered, including Starsky and Hutch who attended the ceremony to honor their friends.
It had been several weeks since the day Jake and Samson had been shot by that junkie. Jake's knife wound had healed completely, and Samson also seemed to be recovering well, though there was still a visible patch of short fur on his hind leg where the Veterinarian had shaved him.
Things had changed for Starsky and Hutch during those weeks as well. After following up on the trial of that last case of the purse snatcher, Starsky and Hutch had resigned from the BCPD.
They entertained a few ideas of what to do with their lives, but were taking their time. Hutch, especially, didn't want to rush into anything. Though lately, he had been seriously considering the idea of starting a private detective agency with his partner.
*************************
"It's a great idea, Hutch. We'll still be able to help people and make a difference. And I know how much you like to solve puzzles. Just think, you'll be able to use that big beautiful brain of yours that way you were meant to," Starsky enthused, as they lay in bed on that morning of the scheduled awards ceremony.
"You know, it makes me so hot when you start complimenting my brain-power," Hutch said as turned within the circle of his partner's arms. "Next thing you know, you'll start singing the praises of my cooking prowess."
"Well, you know what they say; the way to a man's heart..." Starsky left the sentence unfinished as he went in for a kiss.
"Don't I know it," Hutch sighed when their lips parted. "C'mon. We're both sticky. We have just enough time for a shower if we want to make Jake's commendation ceremony."
"And Sammy. He's gettin' an award too. Don't forget."
"Right. That's why we have both the bottle of champagne and the Milk Bones for the celebration," Hutch confirmed as they headed to get showered and dressed.
*****************************
"Congratulations guys. Looking good Jake. Have you been cleared for duty yet?" Starsky asked, as he and Hutch approached Redel when the crowd thinned.
"Just this week," Jake said, but he didn't sound as excited as Hutch thought he would. Jake was still fairly young and Hutch couldn't see him getting burned out this soon.
"What's wrong Jake? Thought you'd be chomping at the bit to get back out there," Hutch said.
"It's Sammy," He said, looking mournfully at his canine companion.
"I thought the vet said he was okay. We checked. And he looks good.. .except for that limp," Starsky said. He crouched down to give Samson a firm scritching around the neck and ears, and produced a Milk Bone treat, from his jacket, which Samson accepted with enthusiasm.
"That's just it. The limp. It's not gonna get any better. The vet says he's not in pain, and healthy otherwise, but the bullet shattered a good portion on his hind leg bone..." Jake hesitated. "Damn... there's no easy way to say this. He can't be a Police dog anymore. He doesn't pass their standards." He absently stroked the dog's furry ears and Samson woofed with pleasure. "And I get it, I really do. They need to have the fittest dogs out there with all they're expected to do. But I just feel..."
"Well... Hey! That's okay. He's earned his retirement. Haven't you Sammy?" Starsky said, now hugging Sam along with the scratching, resulting in a vigorously wagging tail. "Jake's just gonna have to wait on you from now on. That doesn't sound so bad." Samson licked Starsky, as if in agreement.
Now, Jake really looked forlorn.
"What is it Jake?" Hutch asked, concerned for this man he'd watched develop into a promising young Police Officer.
"If I want to keep my position as head of the K-9 unit, I'll need to be assigned a new partner," he choked. "A new dog. And when you train a new canine, it's best if you do it solo. No other dogs. It can interfere with the bonding process, as well as affect their ability to learn..."
"So what happens to Sammy?" Starsky asked, sounding concerned.
"We look for somebody to take him in. I'll hate letting him go," Jake said honestly. "It's hard to imagine someone who would take him that's gonna measure up to my standards."
"How about an old ex-cop?" Starsky suggested.
"That'd be great. I'm not sure how to begin searching..."
Hutch knew what his partner was thinking, and decided to add his support.
"How about two ex-cops? Though I'm not sure I'd agree with the 'old' part," he amended.
The look he got from Starsky warmed his soul. Truthfully, Hutch knew Starsky had a soft spot for dogs, and had considered getting one for them. And this situation seemed to make more sense than trying to train a puppy.
"You mean it? You two? That'd be great!" Jake brightened, and clapped Hutch on the arm. "Sammy knows you guys and I know he'd feel comfortable with you. I'd feel a lot less like I was abandoning him if I knew... I mean — if you're sure."
Knowing that Jake was fighting conflicting emotions, Hutch leaned down to pet Samson in order to give the man a moment to collect his thoughts. He was, no doubt, feeling relief along with guilt and some worry.
"Sure, we're sure. He'll be great company now that we've got some extra time on our hands," Starsky assured him.
Looking back and forth between the detectives and Jake, Samson continued happily wagging his tail, as though he knew he was the subject of conversation. He then proceeded to roll on his back and expose his stomach.
"Yeah, and maybe he'll be able to keep this guy out of trouble," Hutch added as he reached across to accommodate Samson's desire for a belly rub. "You think you can manage that, Sam?"
Both men now crouched down, scratching and petting the dog, and their eyes met.
"Thanks," Starsky mouthed silently.
Hutch just gave a little nod. He had a good feeling about this decision.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Over the next months, Starsky and Hutch settled into their new lives comfortably. The detective agency turned out to be a nice fit for them and they were grateful to find how well the fairly consistent working hours meshed with their home life.
Both men did what they could to ensure that Sam lived a fulfilling existence.
Hutch enjoyed having Sam for company on his morning jogs. He didn't tell Starsky, but he even talked to Samson sometimes when he felt melancholy and thought it beat the hell out of going to a shrink. He wasn't sure dogs could really understand humans. But, sometimes, he thought Samson seemed possess real empathy. Of course, intellectually, Hutch would dismiss those thoughts almost as quickly as they came.
Starsky loved to throw a Frisbee and have Samson catch it in mid-air. Always praising him and telling him he was the smartest and best dog in the world. For his part, Starsky never doubted that Samson knew exactly what he was saying or how he felt about things.
Together, the partners showered Samson with affection and treated him with respect and love.
Sometimes... too much.
"Starsky... What did we say about Samson sleeping on our bed?" Hutch asked one morning, having awoken to an armful of a hairy beast instead of his partner.
"Okay. I know that's one o'them rhetorical questions," Starsky sat up higher on the pillows, bare-chested. "'Cause we both know he's usually supposed to sleep in his dog bed..."
"Usually? I didn't realize there were stipulations. Care to enlighten me?" Not really angry, Hutch just liked to yank his partner's chain.
"Well this is what you might call a 'special circumstance'," Starsky explained, as though giving court testimony. "Did you hear that thunder last night? Nah, didn't think so. Just 'cause you can sleep through the storm of the century, doesn't mean we all can."
"Hey, I wake up for important stuff," Hutch countered.
"Yes," Starsky nudged Sam out of the way and kissed Hutch on the nose. "You do. And I'm more grateful than you know about that." Starsky waggled his eyebrows suggestively at his partner.
"Not in front of the dog, Gordo." But Hutch couldn't stifle his own grin.
Starsky sighed. "Anyway. It turns out Sam don't like thunder too much. I talked to Jake about it once; he said it's a new behavior since the shooting. I'm thinkin' it might be kinda like a dog-version of stress; kinda like what war vets get." Samson looked intently at Starsky as he spoke.
Hutch completely softened then, nuzzling the dog who snuffled a little into his hand. Starsky was trying to understand the dog-psyche and, in typical Starsky fashion, had been reading as many books and articles as he could find on the subject. Hutch had to love that about him.
"Okay. I can see where the shooting could be the source of some painful memories," Hutch allowed. "If dogs even have memories..." he added, quickly trying to correct himself, but it was too late. Starsky had him.
"You big softie. Knew you'd see it our way..."
"Well, I'm not sure I like the idea of you two conspiring against me here." Hutch held up his hands in defeat. "But I guess it's okay to allow him on our bed during thunderstorms," Hutch said in a put-upon tone that he knew Starsky didn't buy for a minute. "But, the storms over now so..."
"Yep, you're right, Blintz. C'mon Sammy. Time to get down."
Samson didn't need to be told twice. After jumping down, he paused just long enough for the partners to give him some pats then trotted off to his own bed in the other room.
"Wow. Look at all this room we have now," Hutch said in feigned wonder. "What do you suppose we should do with it?"
Starsky pounced and showed him, exactly, what they could do with the extra room. Twice.
Go to index
It had been a long day at the precinct. The squad room was almost deserted but for two figures hunched over their respective desks, surrounded by stacks of paper and manila folders.
Hutch rubbed the bridge of his nose, hoping the pain he felt wouldn't flare into a full-blown migraine. After being chewed out by Dobey about their usual backlog on their reports, he and Starsky had spent the whole day catching up on their paperwork. Checking and rechecking facts and names had been more tiring than running up and down any street, trying to catch a fleeing crook.
He took another sip from his mug and shuddered at the taste of the cold and bitter liquid that wasn't worth to be called coffee anymore. He put the cup down with a disgusted grunt and signed yet another report, throwing it on top of the pile of finished items. He dropped his pen, closed his eyes and started massaging his temples with both hands, letting a small moan slip out. Feeling Starsky's gaze on him, he opened his eyes and looked at the opposite side of the desk.
"What?" he sighed.
"Headache coming on?" Starsky asked in a sympathetic tone that soothed a little of Hutch's frustration.
"Yeah. I'm getting tired of this. We've been here for..." Hutch reached over the desk and snatched Starsky's arm in order to look at his partner's watch. "Oh, my." His face fell. "That long, huh?" He looked at Starsky's stack of finished reports. "How far along are you?"
"Almost finished, thank God." Starsky pulled back his arm and straightened in his chair, stretching like a cat. Hutch perked up in his chair to watch the show with a grin, after wincing at the tiny pops in his back as he straightened. Only Starsky could perfect the simple act of stretching into an art form, especially when he knew that his partner, his lover, was watching.
Starsky stretched his arms over his head, arching his back, the way he did when Hutch was... doing things to him. Like taking Starsky's cock into his mouth, teasing, licking and sucking him into a mind-blowing orgasm. Hutch's cock twitched at the memory of the previous night, conjuring the image of a naked and writhing Starsky lying in his brass bed and Hutch driving him wild with his mouth and tongue, the taste of the bottle of red wine they had shared for dinner mingling with Starsky's unique flavor. The only things that were missing in this current scenario, apart from the fact that Starsky wasn't naked, were the sounds of pleasure that Starsky usually made — groans and whimpers that set off Hutch's own excitement and arousal way off the meter.
Starsky finished stretching and plopped his feet on the ground, grinning lecherously at him, and Hutch caught himself staring open-mouthed, which brought him down to planet earth in an instant. They were still at the precinct for heaven's sake. But his cock wasn't convinced so easily to come down with him, having risen to the occasion with definite interest. "Down boy", he muttered, catching Starsky's attempt to cover an evil snicker with a cough and a hand quickly clamped over his mouth.
Hutch looked around, making sure they were alone in the squad room. Then he leaned forward and motioned Starsky to do the same. "You bastard," he growled, trying to adjust himself in his suddenly very tight pants under the desk. "I'll get you for this."
"Oh? Where and when?" Starsky purred, still grinning.
Hutch lowered his voice even more. "Starsky, stop it!"
"Stop what?"
"You know damn well what!"
"I ain't doing nothin', Hutch." He nodded in the general direction of Hutch's crotch. "Got a problem down there, blondie? Need some help with that?"
Hutch wanted to wipe that grin off his partner's face — with a long and sensual kiss. He shook his finger. "Starsky, so help me God, I..."
"STARSKY! HUTCHINSON!"
Both men jumped sharply when the door to Dobey's office flew open, followed by the familiar bark of their boss.
"What are you doing here? Are you still working on those reports?"
Starsky found his voice first, although, Hutch thought, his voice sounded a notch higher than usual. "Yes, Cap'n. Almost finished," Starsky answered.
Hutch tried to calm his hammering heart with a few slow breaths.
"About another hour of work and we're done," he said, immensely proud of how normal his voice sounded.
Dobey nodded, obviously placated by his men's efforts. "All right. If you're not done by then, get the hell out of here. You know, it would be a lot easier if you'd write your reports on the same day they happened and not let them pile up to the ceiling." He mumbled something else but it was cut off when Dobey shut the door behind him.
Starsky let out a long breath.
"Shit. I didn't know he was still here," he said.
"Maybe you didn't notice because you had other things on your mind, buddy," Hutch said in a slightly sarcastic tone. He tried to concentrate on the report in front of him again, squirming in his chair. Unfortunately, the interruption hadn't done anything about his... condition. He looked around and when no one was watching but his impish partner, he readjusted his straining member in his pants and tried to shift into a comfortable position. Silence fell over the squad room again as they both returned to their work.
After a while, he felt as if he were being watched again.
Hutch threw down his pencil. "Starsky. What?"
"Are you mad at me, Hutch?"
"Why would I be mad?" Hutch asked, incredulous, but then lowered his voice. "I just wish you'd stop teasing me like that because one of these days we're gonna get caught."
"I can't help it Hutch. I've been horny all day." He almost sounded apologetic. Almost. Starsky's eyes raking over him belied the apologetic tone. Hutch felt himself blush.
"Starsky!" Hutch hissed and stared back at his partner, exasperated. He finally stood up and walked out of the room, ignoring Starsky's question about where he was going.
When he reached the restroom, he splashed some cold water on his face and dried it with a paper towel. His features stared back at him from the mirror. Well, Starsky wasn't the only one who had been horny all day. But he would be damned if he couldn't control his urges, unlike a pimply, hormone-ridden teenager. Control, Hutchinson, control.
He went over to one of the urinals, pulling his zipper down carefully. He almost jumped out of his skin when he felt familiar hands grabbing his ass possessively, followed by arms wrapped around him and an insistent hardness pressed into the place where only seconds before hands had been roaming.
"Starsky, not here! What's the matter with you?" He tried to sound indignant but couldn't help reacting to the intimate touch. He turned around and his lips were instantly claimed, knocking the breath out of him. A hungry tongue demanded entrance and Hutch moaned and allowed it.
He felt himself dragged towards a cubicle. As Hutch tried to resist, breaking the kiss, they heard voices outside the door.
"Shitshitshit...." Starsky pulled Hutch into the cubicle and shut the door. He climbed on the toilet seat, motioning to Hutch to sit down in front of him. Hutch sat down and prayed the seat would hold both of their weight.
The door opened and two male voices were arguing about some case.
"I'm telling you, she was hiding those drugs in her bra! And the poor little rookie got the beating of his life with that huge handbag of hers when he tried to frisk her." The voice was choking with laughter.
"What? That O'Reilly dude? And you let him do it? Barry, Barry, I'm disappointed in you. You, the old macho!"
"Are you nuts? She had hair on her teeth. And I told ya, that handbag was huge. And heavy. I could swear she had bricks in it." More chuckling.
They heard zippers being pulled down. The telltale sound of urine hitting porcelain.
"So what happened?"
"Had to take that poor kid to the emergency room afterwards. Bleeding all over the squad car. Ten stitches on that pretty head of his."
"Serves him right for groping hookers."
"And now the department is after my ass because he said I made him do it. Can you believe this?"
"Well, maybe you should have stopped him, bozo!"
"Nah. Kid needs to learn the ropes by himself. I can't babysit him all the time, you know?"
The sound of zippers being pulled up and a few seconds later the door opening and closing again. The restroom fell silent again.
"I think it's safe now," Starsky breathed into Hutch's ear.
Hutch turned, grabbed the collar of Starsky's shirt and attacked his partner's mouth with an angry kiss that was almost brutal. Then as quickly as he launched, he released Starsky, who licked at his probably bruised lips.
"Home. Now." Hutch growled.
"But the reports..." Hutch silenced him with another crushing kiss.
"We're going home. Screw the reports." His cock ached in his pants and he meant what he said. He didn't care about the damn reports anymore. He just cared about how fast he could drag his naughty partner into his brass bed and fuck him into the mattress.
This time it was Starsky who pulled them together for a more tender kiss. "I'll get our stuff."
*****************
They reached Venice Place in record time, breaking several speed limits and probably a dozen other traffic rules on the way. When the Torino was brought to a halt with screeching tyres, Hutch had to stop himself from ravishing his partner right there and then in the car. From the looks of it, Starsky didn't fare any better and they both forced themselves to get out of the car. Hutch bolted up the stairs, with Starsky right on his tail. When they reached the door, Hutch felt himself groped by greedy hands wherever they could reach. He fumbled for the keys and, after what seemed endless minutes, managed to open the apartment door.
They rushed inside, Hutch slamming the door shut with his buttocks when he was roughly shoved against it. Bodies merged with need and passion. Starsky trailed wet kisses along Hutch's neck and Hutch moaned in delight. "Starsk... keep that up and... damn!" The complaint ended in a whimper as his earlobe was sucked into a hot mouth. More kisses, followed by a wet tongue leaving a trail of saliva and sending goose bumps over his skin. "Starsky... I really don't want to come in my jeans," Hutch panted. "Especially since..."
Starsky chuckled evilly and reached for Hutch's enormous bulge. "Especially since you didn't bother to wear any briefs today?" He squeezed the big erection in an almost painful way, making Hutch groan some more. "Don't think I haven't noticed, you big blond bastard!" Starsky growled and then slowly, oh so slowly squatted down with a feral look on his features that nearly sent Hutch over the edge, opening the zipper and carefully freeing Hutch's cock from its confinement.
"You don't wanna come in your pants? How about... right here?" And Starsky swallowed Hutch's cock with a sucking sound. Hutch threw back his head and moaned. "Oh God, Starsk..."
Then the phone rang.
Shocked out of his sexual bliss by this most unwelcome shrilling sound, Hutch couldn't stop himself from jerking his body. The result was painful. He had shoved his cock deeper into Starsky's mouth and felt Starsky's teeth scraping roughly over his sensitive skin.
"OW, Jesus fucking Christ!" He jerked back, sending Starsky off balance to land unceremoniously on his butt. Starsky looked horrified.
"God, I'm sorry Hutch!"
Hutch hastily tucked his offended cock back into his pants but left the zipper down and dove towards the phone. Trying to get his breathing under control, he picked up the receiver.
"Y'ello?"
A familiar, even less welcome female voice on the other end."Hi, Hutch!"
Groaning, Hutch covered his eyes in frustration. "Fifi. What the hell do you want at this hour?" he snapped at her.
She seemed hurt. "But I just wanted to tell you that I watered your plants and picked up your laundry from the dry cleaner, like you wanted. You want me to come over?"
"NO!" he squeaked, horrified at the mere thought. Once again he made an effort to control his voice. "Fifi, not now. It's a little... inconvenient at the moment."
"You sound a little breathless, did I interrupt your shower or something? Are you naked? I don't mind that!"
Hutch nearly dropped the receiver.
"FIFI!"
"All right, all right, none of my business. Well, I guess I'll bring you the laundry tomorrow then."
"Yes, Fifi. Preferably when I'm not home. Thank you." He hung up and threw his arms up in exasperation. "I don't believe this!"
"Your secret admirer?" Starsky chuckled. He had joined his partner at the phone and embraced him from behind. His tone turned serious and kissed Hutch's neck.
"'M sorry, Hutch. That must have hurt!"
"A little," Hutch admitted. He turned around. "Kiss it better?"
Starsky didn't need another invitation and covered Hutch's mouth with his own, exploring and tasting with an eagerness that sent Hutch's heart leaping in joy and arousal. When Starsky ended the kiss, he purred, "now, where were we?"
"I dunno... you were about to suck me off, I think," Hutch replied huskily, still a little breathless from the passionate kiss.
"Oh, right... lemme see..." Once again, Hutch's pants were parted and he felt Starsky's hot breath on his forgiving cock. The crown was licked and he could feel cool air on his damp, heated skin. "Yeah, like that..."
The insolent phone chose this precise moment to ring — again. Hutch whirled around, feeling his erection wilting once more. He snatched the receiver off the hook.
"Listen, Fifi, if you DARE to bother me again... oh." Hutch's eyes widened in shock as he recognized his captain's voice. Starsky looked up questioningly, apparently not missing the blush spreading over Hutch's face.
"Oh, ah... yes, Cap'n." That and Hutch's embarrassed expression seemed to send Starsky rolling on the floor with a fit of laughter.
"We were almost finished, but you see, I had to go home. Nasty headache."
Starsky mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "Not today, daahlin', I've got a headache," theatrically holding his head in a very campy way that he only could have picked up during one of Sugar's infamous numbers. Hutch kicked at him.
"What? Oh, no. It's nothing, Cap. I'll take a few aspirin and will be as good as new. Sure, Starsky drove me home. And yes, I'm going to see a doctor about these recurring headaches. Thanks, Cap. See you tomorrow. Bye." He hung up and glared at Starsky.
"Starsky, so help me God, if you don't stop laughing..."
"You should have seen your face, cowboy!" Starsky giggled.
Hutch's indignation melted as quickly as it came. He started to laugh himself and opened his arms. "Come here, you big oaf!"
Starsky complied and got up. "Now what?"
Hutch cupped Starsky's chin and gave him a tender kiss.
"I want you to finish what you started. But first... since we can't seem to be getting it on without constantly being interrupted, I might as well use this break and hop into the shower." As horny as he was, the ruse about the headache had only been half a lie. He craved the feeling of hot water soothing his aching neck and back. Preferably with Starsky. Who had obviously read his dirty mind.
"Mind if I join you?" Starsky breathed.
"I was about to ask if you wanted to rub my back... and maybe something else," Hutch murmured. They kissed again.
They both started to undress each other, slowly, appreciatively.
"And you're sure Fifi won't inconveniently decide to bring your laundry over after all?" Starsky asked while pushing down Hutch's jeans half way and then resting his hands on Hutch's ass for a moment.
Hutch moaned, delighted about the promising touch and what was about to happen in the shower. "I asked the landlord to install a new deadbolt yesterday, and I haven't made her a copy of the key yet."
"Perfect!" Starsky slapped Hutch's ass and finished stripping him before getting out of his own pants, shoes and socks and sending them flying in different directions. They merged for another kiss, Starsky slowly dragging Hutch towards the bathroom.
"Wait, lemme get some towels." Hutch mumbled under the onslaught of kisses his partner bestowed upon him. He kissed Starsky's nose and fetched two towels from his bedroom, since there weren't any fresh ones left in the bathroom.
Kissing along the way, they had almost made it when there was a knock on the door. The two men leapt apart, and Hutch's heart thudded from excitement and the shock of another interruption. Hutch tossed a towel towards Starsky and hastily slung the other one around his hips. He took a deep breath, motioning to his partner, who was still fumbling with his towel, to disappear out of sight.
Hutch opened the door. A young cop in uniform was standing there, wearing an awkward expression. Hutch anger turned into concern. It was Danny Jordan, an officer working on the night shift in their precinct.
"Danny? What are you doing here? Did anything happen?"
Danny noticed Hutch trying to hold his towel into place and turned red.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Hutch, but there was a complaint by one of your neighbours."
Remembering all his sins at once, especially the raunchier ones, Hutch paled. Had anyone seen them kissing and groping each other on the stairs? Had they been too loud? He gulped.
"A complaint? About what?" he tried to ask as innocently as possible.
"It's your car. Someone called the fire department, because there was a huge oil stain under it. Something must have broken - they had to call the towing service. Didn't you miss your car when you came home tonight?"
"Uh... actually, no. I didn't." Hutch tried not to stumble over his words. "I... uh... Starsky drove me home and it was dark and..." Then the words of the young cop registered. "They did what?"
"I'm sorry." He gave Hutch a piece of paper with the official complaint.
Hutch took the paper in his hands and stared at it unbelievingly.
"Well, I guess that's all. You know the drill. Gotta go!" The young cop turned and went down the stairs. Then Hutch remembered something and took two steps out of the door. "Danny, wait, where did they take my car?"
"Oh, yeah, right." The young cop reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a business card. "Here you go. Again, I'm sorry, but I had to..."
Hutch nodded distractedly. "Yeah yeah, I know. You have to follow procedure." Hutch sighed. "I can handle it from here, Danny. Thanks."
"Right. See ya, Hutch!" Hutch watched as Danny went down the rest of the stairs and left.
Hutch kept staring at the complaint and shook his head. As soon as the building's front door closed, Starsky joined him on the landing.
"What the hell was THAT all about?" Starsky asked indignantly, stepping out of the apartment and standing beside Hutch.
"Can you believe this? They towed my fucking car!" And then Hutch belatedly noticed Starsky standing next to him. Alarmed, he looked back at the door. "Starsky, look out! Don't let the..."
With a disturbing "click" the door closed. Both men stared at the wooden barrier that had just locked them out of the apartment.
Starsky found his voice first.
"Tell me you still got that key on the lintel."
Hutch didn't answer and continued to stare at the door.
"Hutch?"
Hutch gulped. "It was you who constantly nagged me how stupid it is to leave the key on the lintel, hotshot."
Starsky's voice level reached a disturbingly high note. "Hutch, you NEVER listen to me. You're telling me that for once you did what I said and now we are standing here, locked out of your damned apartment with nothing but towels to cover our precious parts?"
"Do you know anyone who installs a deadbolt for safety reasons and still leaves the key under the doormat?" Hutch hissed.
Starsky flailed his arms and immediately lowered them again just to catch the towel in time before it could fall down. "I don't fucking believe this! What are we going to do now?"
"Well it's not that we can call our fellow cop Danny back or any other boy in blue to help us. Imagine their faces when they find us like this."
"Oh Christ..." Starsky looked around frantically.
"If you think about breaking in, forget it. For one, that bolt isn't going to yield, that's why I spent so much money. And my landlord isn't going to be happy with me if you destroy the door."
"Well, Einstein, if you got a better idea, I'm all ears!" Starsky threw him a wilting look.
Hutch tried to think. "Drainpipes!" he said.
"What?" Starsky almost yelled.
"Shhhh! There is a whole room full of customers in that restaurant down there, remember?" Hutch hissed.
Starsky swallowed hard and paled. "Thanks for reminding me."
"It's the only way. The fire escape is on the front of the building. The drainpipes are on the back. No one will see us. Thank God I left the bathroom window open. One of us has to climb up the drainpipes." Hutch sounded way more matter-of-factly than he felt.
Starsky didn't sound convinced at all.
"What do you mean, one of us? Why are you looking at me? You're the one who always tells me he spent his youth climbing trees!"
Hutch blushed and awkwardly plucked at his towel. "My towel is smaller. Besides, your towel is less likely to slip from your ass!"
"Is that your not-so-subtle way of telling me that I've got a fat ass?" Starsky harrumphed.
"Starsky, get serious!"
"I am DEAD serious!" They stared at each other.
Finally, Hutch threw up his arms. "Okay, okay, I'll do it." He started down the stairs, followed by Starsky, who grabbed his arm and held him back.
"I'll do it." Starsky had this stubborn expression that could drive Hutch up the wall.
"How about we're both climbing up?"
"And both fall to our deaths? No, thank you."
"How heroic of you."
"Fuck you!"
"Not now, maybe later."
"Hutch."
"What?"
"Sometimes I could deck you, you know that?"
Hutch gave in. "All right. Fine. You climb up. But I'm still coming with you."
Starsky rolled his eyes. "No point in both of us sneaking around outside half naked."
"No discussion. Let's go." He grabbed Starsky's arm and they went down the stairs, keeping a light step, hoping that they wouldn't run into one of the restaurant guests. They were in luck. They got out the back door of the building without being seen. At least so they hoped.
When they were standing next to the drainpipe, Starsky looked up and blanched.
Hutch threw up his arms in exasperation. "Okay, that's it. I'm doing it."
"Oh no, you don't!" Starsky sounded determined.
"Starsky, there is no time for debates; I'm starting to freeze my balls off."
Starsky had the impertinence to grin. "Well, we don't want that, do we?" he chuckled and turned serious again. "Okay. All for one and one for all?"
"I don't think this is the right time for movie quotes, buddy."
"Ha ha. I meant, let's do it together!" Starsky looked positively scared, but Hutch knew that once he had made up his mind, his partner wouldn't cop-out.
"Okay, d'Artagnan, but I'll lead the way." Hutch began to climb up. Starsky followed.
The drainpipe started to complain loudly, not exactly having been designed to hold the weight of two grown men.
"You sure this thing is gonna hold us both?" Starsky asked feebly.
Hutch snorted. "I'm reasonably sure."
"Reasonably... OW!"
Hutch looked down. "What happened?"
"I squished my... oh never mind!" Starsky whimpered.
"Sissy!" Hutch hissed.
"Well, I'm starting to wonder what you'll call me when the plumbing isn't working anymore!"came the indignant reply from below him.
The drainpipe groaned again dangerously. "Oh, Christ, this is no use. Starsky, get down again."
"Terrific."
Hutch looked down and when he saw that Starsky had reached safe ground, he started to climb down himself. Despite his cautiousness he realized almost too late that his towel got caught somewhere. Alarmed by a ripping sound, he froze.
He looked down very slowly, afraid to move too much. "Starsky."
"What?"
"I- I think I'm stuck."
Starsky sounded alarmed. "What do you mean, stuck?"
Hutch tried not to raise his voice. "It means my towel is stuck and I can't climb up or down without mooning the whole damn city."
Starsky buried both his hands in his curls, pulling with exasperation. "What are we going to do now? I gotta get help."
"You can't!"
"Why not?"
"You don't live here, remember? What kind of impression would that make?"
"Oh." Starsky's face fell. "So, any other suggestions, hotshot?"
Hutch tried to pry the towel loose. With a sickening sound, it ripped apart and fell. A flabbergasted Starsky caught it. For a moment there was complete silence. Then Starsky obviously couldn't help himself. He broke out in hysterical laughter.
Hutch knew he must have turned a bright red. "I'm coming down."
"You... better... be... quick." Starsky could hardly breathe between his laughing fits.
After what seemed like an eternity, Hutch had reached safe ground again and it was all he could do not to give Starsky a thump over his curly head. When Starsky seemed to have his control back, Hutch snatched his partner's towel away and it was his turn to be stark naked.
"Hey! What are you doing?" Starsky cried indignantly.
"I am going for help. But I can't waltz into the restaurant in the nude, can I?"
"The restaurant? But..."
"Yes, the restaurant. Or do you have any other bright ideas?" Hutch had enough. And he did freeze his balls off.
"But what about me?" Starsky squeaked.
"Wait here. Hide. Whatever. I'll try not to be too long." He slung Starsky's even smaller towel around his hips, looked around and grabbed the lids of two garbage cans. "Here you go!"
Starsky furiously snatched them. "I'll get you for that, Hutchinson."
************
After entering an almost full restaurant with nothing but a towel around his hips, head held low, turning several shades of red and earning many admiring catcalls from the female customers, Hutch managed to get to Helene's phone and call Huggy. Their highly amused friend promised to hurry over with the "emergency kit" Hutch wasn't really supposed to know about — and a couple of blankets. Together they picked up a freezing Starsky who had been outside for more than half an hour and succeeded sneaking inside the building without attracting any more attention. Huggy once again saved the day (or rather night) by promptly managing to pick the lock and open the door. Starsky insisted that Hutch should get his money back, since the seller had assured him that the lock was "safe from every burglar from Bay City to New York City". Hutch shoved his curly-headed partner inside the apartment as a reply and thanked their friend for helping them out of a fix once more.
"Thanks, Huggy, we owe you!"
"And don't you forget it, my blond brother! Although... the sight of Starsky traipsing around with nothing but two trash can lids hiding his lower parts was worth the trip over."
"I heard that!" came the indignant call from inside the apartment.
Hutch rolled his eyes and patted Huggy on the back. "See ya soon, Hug." Huggy waved and was on his way back to The Pits.
Hutch went inside and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against the door, closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath of relief. The touch of a cold hand jerked his attention back and he jumped.
Starsky pulled his hand back. "Sorry. I guess we really need that shower now, huh?"
"Yes, indeed. But you wait till it's your turn, buddy!" Hutch stormed past Starsky to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
************
Hutch felt better after a long, relaxing and warm shower and his anger had faded away with the last suds of soap floating down the drain. True, it was Starsky who started this whole naughty game today, and Starsky who had let the door close behind him and locked them out, and Starsky who had laughed at him several times today. Then again, he had been enjoying the "game" up to the point when they became constantly interrupted, hadn't he? Starsky had no way of knowing that he didn't keep his key outside anymore, and hell... now even he could see the funny side of all this, now that he was safely back in the privacy of his apartment. He snatched up one of the used towels, sniffed it and decided it would do. He carefully dried himself off and left the bathroom. He found Starsky on the couch, dressed and nursing a cup of hot tea, watching the wall with a thousand-yard-stare. If Hutch had any irritation left in him, it melted away at the sight of his miserable partner. He sat down next to Starsky. "Hey."
"Hey," came the soft reply.
"I left you some hot water."
"That's very generous of you, blondie.... Hey!"
Hutch snatched the cup out of Starsky's hands and put it down on the coffee table. He wasn't in the mood for further discussions, or grumpiness, or misery. All he wanted to do is snuggle up in bed with Starsky and maybe even finish what they had started earlier on.
"Listen, I've had a crappy day. I don't want to spend the rest of it with us being mad at each other." He grabbed Starsky's hands and pulled him into an embrace. He could feel that Starsky was still clammy under the layer of clothes he had donned again. "Go, get your shower. I'll wait for you in the bed!" Hutch purred as he felt the embrace was returned.
"You're not mad at me anymore?" came the muffled question.
"I'll be mad if we don't get to finish what we've started earlier — before this whole mess!"
Starsky squirmed out of the embrace. "Don't tell me you're still horny after all this?"
Hutch noticed the amused tone and shook his head. "No, but I trust in your unique abilities to get Mr. Hutchinson junior interested again!" He leaned forward to steal a kiss, but Starsky chuckled.
"I wouldn't call him junior, he might be offended!" He placed a wet kiss on Hutch's lips and went to the bathroom, shedding clothes on the way. "I'll be back in no time, blintz!"
"Hey, haven't you forgotten something?"
"What?"
Hutch just grinned. But not for long, because a few seconds later he had to duck the rest of the dirty towels that had been in the bathroom.
FIN
Go to index
"Dammit!" Ken Hutchinson swore as he tossed another file in the Inbox. "Dobey did this on purpose!!"
The more he thought about it the angrier he became. Realistically he knew he had no one to blame but himself.
Early on their relationship, Hutch had seen the many sides of Starsky's personality. The easy-going almost child-like innocence or the patience of a Saint, to the hard-nosed Detective whom people feared. The most endearing one to Hutch was Starsky's devotion and loyalty. If Starsky made a friend it was for life; the same with enemies. Their partnership became legendary. 'Give it to Starsky and Hutchinson. If anyone can solve it, they can' they often heard. Both admitted it was flattering.
These praises came with a price — there were too many close calls.
Doing one of the most recent, they had set down and talked — really talked — about their personal lives. They discovered they were opposites but they complimented each other. Hutch had revealed why he never went to Minnesota to visit family. He was not welcome. Starsky had never asked why but the question in those dark eyes was there.
Hutch told him that his father had wanted him to be a lawyer. Hutch was gung-ho at first. He could follow in his father's footsteps, make a difference, dispense justice. Those ideals had ended when the elder Hutchinson was suspected of acquitting murderer of a young cousin. The suspect was the child's father.
It was at that moment, at the age of 13, he made the decision to be a cop.
The straw that broke the camel's back, as it were, was the now late Vanessa Hutchinson. Most of the family had approved of her. She was beautiful, sophisticated, intelligent, wealthy, and spoiled. To add insult to injury the match had been arranged. Neither was given a choice. This had delighted Vanessa — a gold digger at heart — and infuriated Hutch. A somewhat romantic at heart, he would have preferred to woo.
Instead, they ended up attending every high society party. Holidays were spent with family only — the only exception was Christmas. That was spent in the best hotel with a shopping spree at Macy's and New Year's in Time Square.
Later, he got tired of the 'sameness' with Vanessa, and divorced her.
The family never forgave him.
Now that he had the dearest person in his life — David Michael Starsky: partner, friend and now lover — where was he? Stuck in Los Angeles — alone. Starsky was in New York, with family, celebrating the 90th birthday of an Aunt born on Christmas Day.
"Thank goodness I can multi-task!", he muttered as he tossed another file into the INBOX. "I miss you, babe", he whispered to the empty chair across from him.
The phone rang, startling him out of his revelry. He glared at the instrument. Probably some irate shopper, he grumbled to himself. He snatched up the receiver and stabbed a clear button. "Metro police. Detective Hutchinson speaking."
"Hi, babe", replied the beloved voice.
"Hi!", Hutch whispered. The sound of his lover's voice had the most soothing — and erotic — affect on him. "How are you doing?"
"All warm and toasty listening to your voice."
"Starsk! We're on an open line!", Hutch whispered, scandalized.
Starsky chuckled. "Hope. Called in our special code with Dobey's permission."
Hutch was amazed. How did Starsky manager these things??
"Cap knows, Hutch", Starsky replied, ever in tune with this man who was dearer than life to him.
Hutch nodded. "Never could put anything over on him."
"Yeah." A pause. "Hutch?"
The change in Starsky's tone of voice caused Hutch concern. "Yeah, babe. Anything wrong?"
"No. It's just that you're about to receive an Express Mail packet."
"Taking lessons from Collandra?"
"Naw. Simple Hutch 101."
As if on cue a young man entered the squad room. "Detective Hutchinson?", he inquired.
Hutch raised him hand. "I'm Hutch... uh... Hutchinson", he confirmed.
The young man held out the envelope. "Sign here, please."
Hutch obeyed, removed Express Mail's receipt, and handed it to the carrier. "Thanks", he said as an afterthought.
The carrier smiled. "Merry Christmas, sir", he replied, and left.
Hutch picked up receiver. "I got it."
"Good. Open it."
Hutch did so and gasped at the contents. "It's a plane ticket!"
"Brilliant deduction, Hutch!"
"From L.A. to New York", Hutch continued as if Starsky hadn't spoken.
"You've got 2 hours to get to the airport, Hutchinson!", Dobey yelled from his office.
"Cap, you were in on this!?"
"Yep. We had to keep you here until the ticket arrived. Now that it's here, why you are?"
"Right, Cap", he addressed Dobey. "I'll see you at ten your time", he said to Starsky.
"I'm looking forward to it, babe. Love ya!"
"I love you, too. 'Bye."
"Bye."
The line was disconnected. Hutch grabbed his coat and keys. "Merry Christmas, Cap. Your presents are in the usual place."
"Same to you, Hutchinson. Yours are with Starsky. I don't want to see either of you until January 5th."
Silence. Dobey looked out of his office, chuckled to himself and went to replace the receiver.
THE MERRY HO-HO END
Go to index
Jet lag's a bitch, and Hutch is prone to it. In the past when it got its claws into him, he always wanted to climb into bed and revel in several unbroken hours of unconsciousness before facing the world again. This time he can't even feel it. He flew in from Duluth not thirty minutes ago, and it's late, but he's wide awake, every nerve ending humming. He feels like humming, come to think of it, or hell, singing. He's with Starsky, and Starsky's alive and Starsky hasn't taken his eyes off him once since they got to the restaurant. Hutch has barely touched his drink, but he's higher than a kite.
They don't talk much. They don't need to. They talked on the phone every day of the two weeks Hutch was gone, and Starsky knows all about Hutch's sister's car accident, the emergency surgery, the days she spent unconscious in the ICU. He knows about Hutch's frantic brother-in-law, and the strained politeness that hung between Hutch and his parents even in time of crisis, and the awkward hugs they shared when Debbie was pronounced out of danger. He knows Hutch has dreams about hospital waiting rooms, ICU's, heart monitors, and that Starsky's voice across the miles helped keep them away.
Hutch picks at his appetizer and looks at Starsky. He wants to go home with him. It doesn't matter which home, Starsky's or his, and it doesn't even matter — much — what they'll do when they get there. He'd actually be satisfied watching TV, exchanging gentle kisses, letting Starsky fall asleep on his shoulder. They did that every night for a week after Starsky was released, still weak, from the hospital and before Hutch got the phone call about Debbie. It's a holding pattern he's comfortable with, an island of calm between the tumultuous past and the unknowable future.
But he knows that's not what's going to happen, and on some buried level, it scares him. But here, now, with Starsky gazing at him in the lamplight and Starsky's sneakered feet touching his under the table, he can't make himself feel anything but soaring anticipation.
Starsky says, "Hutch, I gotta have you."
Hutch feels his heart skip at the words. It doesn't surprise him that Starsky knows what he's thinking, only that he's saying it out loud, in public. There's a couple in the booth next to theirs, eating silently. The woman sitting inches behind Starsky gave them a long look when they sat down. Hutch wonders if she's listening now.
"Starsk..." He clears his throat and glances cautiously around.
"What? You want me to keep quiet about it?" Starsky's voice is a smoky whisper. "I can't do that anymore."
Hutch looks at him, at his eyes, so dark in the low light, at the coins gleaming dully beneath the hollow of his throat. He can almost see the pulse beating there, can almost feel it against his lips.
"I don't know if you're ready," he says. "What if—"
Starsky's hand closes, hard, on his wrist. "I'm ready. I'm so ready I'm going crazy. I need you so bad." His thumb strokes gentle circles over Hutch's pulse point.
"Starsk," Hutch begins again, and stops helplessly. He knows he should argue, but.... I need you so bad. The words swell joyously in his brain, crowding out his protests.
"Babe, I gotta get my hands on you. I can't keep going like this, it's like starving. All I can think about is your mouth and your ass and the way you used to—"
"Jesus, Starsky." Hutch squeezes his eyes shut, but the pictures won't go away. They're painted, lewd and beautiful, on the inside of his eyelids.
"Let's get outta here, huh? I need to be where I can touch you, where we can...." Starsky trails off. "Please, Hutch."
"God," Hutch whispers. "Okay. I'll— I'll pay. Go get in the car—" But Starsky's already sliding out of the booth, almost stumbling as he rises.
Hutch swallows and rubs a hand over his face quickly. He grabs his jacket, leaves a tip, and pays without remembering any of it.
When he emerges from the restaurant he takes several calming breaths of the cool night air before heading for the Torino. He can see it, gleaming under a street light, Starsky's silhouette behind the wheel. His head's tilted back against the headrest. As Hutch watches, he swallows, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
Throat, Hutch thinks dizzily. Warm, wet, pulling at me. Jesus, it's been so long.
As he approaches the car, Starsky's eyes turn toward him. He opens the door, slides in, and Starsky says softly, "You know how you look in the light? Like a fuckin' angel, babe." He raises a hand to Hutch's face. "God," he whispers, "I wanna come all over you."
Hutch closes his eyes. "Starsk, drive."
"Didja hear me?" Starsky traces Hutch's lips with a finger. "I think I could do it, too. I been saving it up so long, I think I could drown you in it."
"Let's go," Hutch whispers. He can't even think anymore, can't even remember his reservations. "Let's go home."
*****
Duluth, Minnesota
One week earlier
He hadn't seen his parents in almost seven years. The last time he'd been with Vanessa, and they'd fought all the way to Duluth and back, though they managed to put up a front of togetherness at the Thanksgiving table. Hutch's parents had loved Vanessa. Why not? She was beautiful, intelligent, classy. She was proof that their son's wavering sexuality had settled on the right side at last. She made them temporarily proud of him, and he remembered how pathetically grateful he'd been to her for that.
But by the next Thanksgiving, he was a bachelor again.
He settled back with his coffee into the uncomfortable molded plastic chair in the corridor outside the ICU. The nearest coffee machine was two floors down, and by now he could have made his way to it blindfolded. It wasn't good coffee, but like nearly every cop he'd ever known, he was addicted to the caffeine jolt. Quality was almost beside the point.
His mother emerged from Debbie's room and sat down beside him, sighing a little. He tried to smile at her, but she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the window across from them, beyond which her daughter lay, white and silent, bandaged and intubated and still.
Hutch couldn't look through that window anymore. He couldn't watch Debbie's face anymore and ache to see her eyelids flutter. It was getting to the point where he was having trouble telling nightmares from reality. It was beginning to feel as if life outside hospitals was a mere illusion, as if he'd been sprung from prison, allowed a sweet few days of dreamlike freedom, and then thrust back again into captivity, a hated world of surgical masks and cold white corridors and still figures who wouldn't move no matter how much you begged them to, no matter how much you needed them to. He could feel the dread building up in him, creeping through every part of him, treading pathways worn smooth during the time he'd spent staring at Starsky's motionless face.
The thought of Starsky started an almost unbearable itching in his mind. He needed to call him. Hell, he needed to see him, hold him, listen to his heartbeat. Thank God for the telephone. He'd talked to Starsky every night since he left Bay City, closing his eyes and soaking up his partner's voice, reveling in every inflection, every breath, every muffled laugh. He'd called him the first night, terror-stricken after a dream, and last night he'd stroked himself to climax while Starsky whispered to him. He needed Starsky now, so badly he hurt. He needed to be home.
"Every time, I think she's going to open her eyes." Lillian's voice was so soft Hutch had to lean close to make out the words. "Every time I touch her, I think she's going to wake up and ask me what time it is."
"She will," he said, knowing it for the empty promise it was. How many miracles were there in life, anyway? Maybe Starsky's had exhausted the supply.
His mother said nothing, so Hutch added, "Starsky did."
Even as the words left his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. Lillian looked blankly at him, and he realized that such a comparison was unfathomable to her. Debbie was her daughter. Starsky was her son's co-worker, his friend, someone she had never met and was aware of only vaguely. That Starsky's life was more important to her son than his own was something she had no inkling of. How could she? Hutch had learned long ago that the secrets of his heart were not to be shared with his parents.
After a few moments' silence he asked, "Where's Harry?" His brother-in-law had been a near constant presence at Debbie's bedside since the accident.
Lillian sighed. "Your father took him home. He's going to be in intensive care himself if he doesn't get some rest, and the children need him. They don't understand any of this, they're always asking for her, crying for her...."
Hutch didn't have to ask why she and his father didn't go home, too. It was the same reason he'd barely closed his eyes while Starsky hovered between life and death in the days after the shooting. Debbie was that precious to them. Well, children were supposed to be that precious to their parents. He was an exception.
"If only she'd wake up," his mother whispered. "If she'd just wake up."
Hutch downed the last swallow of his coffee and stood. He hesitated a moment before touching her shoulder gently. "I'll be back," he said, but she didn't react, either to the words or the touch. She didn't take her eyes off the window.
He crumpled the paper cup in his hand and headed to the pay phone to call Starsky.
*****
They go to Starsky's place because it's nearer. It's what they used to think about — whose place was nearer, where they'd spend the night, whether each of them had enough clothes at the other's apartment — and Hutch is tired of it. It doesn't make sense anymore. The only thing that makes sense now is for them to consolidate, start from scratch, get a place together with a greenhouse for him and a darkroom for Starsky and a bedroom they can lock themselves into for days at a time. He smiles at the thought, smiles into the night air whipping through the Torino's window, listens to the low throb of the engine, feels Starsky's hand warm on his knee.
At the door Starsky fumbles the key, drops it, and growls, "Shit." Hutch forces himself not to help while Starsky lowers himself with careful, precise movements and gropes on the deck. Hutch's eyes rest on Starsky's head, on the curls stirred by the breeze. He thinks about burying his fingers in them, feeling them against his cheek, under his lips, between his thighs.
Then they're stepping inside, and Starsky's locking and chaining the door behind them, and they're kissing, hard and deep and wet, and Hutch is kneading Starsky's ass through his jeans, and Starsky makes a sound in his throat like a drowning man pulled suddenly to the surface, tasting air so sweet it brings tears.
"Babe," Starsky whispers as their lips part, "babe..." and then he takes Hutch's mouth again, and Hutch feels his throat tighten until he can hardly breathe. His mind spins uselessly, brimming with the things he can't say without falling apart.
"Hey," he murmurs, when Starsky's lips finally retreat, and "Hey" again when Starsky presses his forehead to Hutch's and breathes harshly against his face. "It's okay. Calm down, it's okay." He feels raw, stripped of all defenses, empty of everything but love so fierce it aches. That makes him uneasy. He can't be weak here, even if it feels like every touch of Starsky's hands, of Starsky's mouth, could reduce him to rubble, could go through him like a blade through water. He has to be whatever Starsky needs. He's not the one with the scars.
Starsky turns his head slowly back and forth, his brow not leaving Hutch's. "It's just— I can't believe we're gonna do this again." He laughs, a small, breathless sound. "It's like when you're a kid and you can't wait for Christmas or your birthday, and it gets closer and closer, and it seems like it'll never get there, and then...."
Hutch takes Starsky's face in his hands and runs his thumbs over the cheekbones. "And then it does," he says softly, and he lays a kiss between Starsky's eyes.
"Yeah," Starsky whispers. He returns Hutch's gesture, his fingers finding the trace of late-night stubble. "And you can't believe it's finally here. You can't believe it's real."
Hutch closes his eyes and pulls Starsky closer, burying his face in Starsky's neck, burrowing into its warmth, his mind adding silently, You can't believe he's alive. You can't believe he still wants you.
*****
Six weeks earlier
He drew back slowly from Starsky's mouth, returning, dazed, from the familiar sweetness to harsh fluorescent light, antiseptic smell, the muted chattering of "The Price Is Right" from the TV high on the wall. The contrast was so jarring he blinked stupidly, disoriented.
"I mean it," Starsky said. He was able to stand now for short periods, and his hands, if not the rest of him, were strong. They held Hutch's head, the fingers petting the hair at his temples. His eyes were clearer than Hutch had seen them since the shooting, the narcotic haze receding before a tide of intensity. "I know what I'm saying, I ain't fogged over." His voice softened. "I mean it, Hutch. I never meant anything so much in my life."
"Starsk—"
"It won't be like it was before, babe, I promise." He grinned. "Well, some of it will be. The good stuff. But the bad stuff — we won't let that happen again. We're older and wiser now. And I've seen life from the other side." He waggled his eyebrows and made spooky "Twilight Zone" noises.
Hutch stared at him, not daring to believe it was happening, what he'd needed, what he'd dreamed about, what he'd ached for like a man who'd lost a limb. What he'd cursed himself a thousand times for throwing away. Starsky was telling him he could have it all back. He hadn't even gotten over the miracle that Starsky was still breathing, and now— Hutch couldn't take it in, couldn't make himself accept it.
"I know," Starsky whispered, and the humor was gone from his voice. "Aw babe, I know. But we'll make it work, you and me." He smiled, almost shyly. "Just you and me, remember? We'll figure it out. It's gonna be so good, you'll see." He slid both arms around Hutch's waist, and Hutch felt him sway a little. He's tired, Hutch thought numbly. Five minutes out of bed, and he's tired.
Behind him, Bob Barker invited a squealing woman to spin the big wheel. From the corridor outside came the squeak of more wheels, a nurse approaching with a cart full of medications. In a moment, she'd be in the room. In a moment, just a moment, he'd have to let Starsky go.
"Hutch, say you want it, please—"
"Yes," Hutch choked out, forcing the word past the knot in his throat. "Yes, yes, I want it. I want you."
*****
In the bedroom, he takes Starsky's shirt off. Since the shooting he hadn't helped his partner undress; he knew Starsky would have resented it, would have taken offense at the implication that he needed help with anything less arduous than mountain climbing, so Hutch had clenched his fists and kept his hands to himself. But now it's not help, it's lovemaking. He pulls the shirt gently from Starsky's jeans and undoes the buttons, and then spreads it wide and looks. He hears Starsky's breath catch a little; feels him tense, just slightly.
He's seen it before, of course, the battlefield that was Starsky's abdomen. He's surprised only by the improvement. In the two weeks since he last saw them, the scars have begun to fade. Barely, but it's noticeable. The hair is creeping back slowly, coming cautiously out of hiding, peeking out from between the glaring white ridges where the scalpels entered, where the surgeons reached in to remove the bullets that were ending Starsky's life. Hutch touches the hair, rubs it between his fingers, closes his eyes and remembers the way it felt against his nipples.
He looks up and finds Starsky watching him, the faintest apprehension in his expression.
He bends down and kisses the largest scar, the ugliest. He lays a line of kisses over it, from one end to the other and back again. Above, he hears Starsky let out a long breath, feels his partner's fingers bury themselves in his hair.
When Hutch raises his head, Starsky's looking at him through slitted eyes. "That felt good," he whispers. "Hutch..."
Hutch traces another scar with a finger. "They're sensitive," he says. It's not a question; he knows it from past experience.
"Yeah. Sometimes they sting a lot, or they just ache." Starsky grunts. "Ugly as hell, too."
"No," Hutch says, seriously. "Beautiful." Without them, you'd be.... He can't even finish the thought.
He expects a light response, an Oh, please or You got terrible taste, Blintz, but Starsky doesn't even smile. His eyes look into Hutch's and shine.
Hutch kisses his mouth, and while he's doing it, Starsky's hands come up between them and fumble impatiently with his shirt buttons. He moves back an inch and lets Starsky remove the shirt, and he pushes Starsky's own shirt off his shoulders, and they stand chest to chest, skin to skin, arms encircling each other, hands stroking backs, fingers tracing spines, and Hutch touches the other scars there — the neat, round, entry scars — and the breath catches in his lungs. He can feel them, as sharply as if the flesh were his own — the bullets slamming into Starsky's back, the impact sending him spinning to the pavement, the scant second of tearing agony before the plunge into unconsciousness. It's so vivid he gasps, pulling away from Starsky, tilting his head back and closing his eyes and drawing in a deep chestful of air.
"Hey." Starsky reaches up, frames Hutch's face with his hands, turns it toward him. "It's all right. Look at me, babe. It's all right, I'm here. You with me?"
Hutch can't get the words out. He nods, his eyes locked onto Starsky's, and covers his partner's hands with his own, twining their fingers together, letting Starsky's warmth seep in. Starsky's alive.
"Don't check out on me like that," Starsky says softly. "It scares me."
"Starsk," Hutch whispers, "I don't know if I— if I can—"
Starsky smiles. "Sure you can," he says. "We ain't even started yet." He palms Hutch's crotch, gently strokes the lax genitals beneath the trousers. "I'll help ya."
Hutch closes his eyes at the touch. I'm afraid I'll hurt you. I can't hurt you.
"You can't hurt me," Starsky says, and Hutch's eyes snap open. "Hutch, you can't ever hurt me as much as not having you hurts me. That's like— like a bleeding wound. I'm not goin' through that again. I'm not doing without you again. I wouldn't care if you beat me black and blue, I wouldn't care if you knocked me cold" — his voice rises, fighting the horrified protest on Hutch's lips—" nothing is as bad as being without you." He stops, his breathing harsh. Hutch stares at him.
"And you won't hurt me anyway." Starsky's tone lightens abruptly. "You don't know what they've been doing to me down at that physical therapy place. Remember that therapist I told you about, that Hilda?"
Hutch feels a welcome smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Heavyweight Hilda, the Lesbian Lioness?"
"Hey, I didn't make up that name; she calls herself that. Hutch, she bends me in ways the human body was never meant to bend. She ties me up like a pretzel. She abuses me with a rolling pin. Yesterday I had to beg and plead to keep her from sitting on my chest. I'm tellin' you, it's unconstitutional, torture like that."
Hutch is laughing now, the tightness in his chest dissolving.
"But it makes me strong. If I can take her, babe, I can take you. I ain't in love with her." Starsky smiles and touches Hutch's face. "She's not the other half of my soul."
Hutch swallows. He wishes Starsky wouldn't say things like that. Crazy things, terrifying things, things that should have a warning label attached. Caution: May reduce a grown man to jelly. The last thing he wants right now is to start crying.
*****
Eighteen months earlier
"You don't believe it, do you? You don't fuckin' believe I'm in love with you!"
"How can I? How many nights have we spent together in the past month? Or the past six months? You're with women all the time, girls you pick up at discos, in bars, in fucking whorehouses for all I know—"
"While you're home alone cryin' your eyes out, huh? We both know you get laid any time you want it, partner, with any chick you so much as smile at! And you want me to give it up?"
"Yes, dammit, I want you to give it up!" He knew it was ridiculous, hypocritical, selfish. He didn't care. The pulse thundered so loudly in his ears he couldn't hear anything else, not Starsky's disbelieving snort, not the voice of caution in his own head.
"Hypocrite. You're a hypocritical son of a bitch, Hutch. And you got an awful short memory. When did we ever say we were gonna be exclusive, huh? When did we say that?"
"We didn't say that." He'd just wanted it, that's all.
"You've thrown 'em in my face, Hutch! How do you think I felt, walkin' into that hotel room and seeing your clothes and Anna What's-Her-Name's all tangled up together? How do you think I felt watchin' you walk out of that bar with that crazy nurse of yours?"
"How the hell do you think I felt watching you fall in love?" Hutch snapped. "And knowing it might happen again with the next girl you slept with, or the next, or the next?"
A muscle twitched in Starsky's cheek. "I love you. I can't believe I have to tell you that."
"I know you love me. That's not the point. We've always loved each other. That's not the same as— as—"
He saw exasperation in Starsky's eyes. "Whaddaya want me to do? How do you want me to prove it? Jesus, Hutch, it never used to be like this. We used to...." He trailed off, and when he spoke again his voice was softer, and the pain was heavy in it. "We never used to care about the women. We knew it didn't matter, we knew we always had each other no matter what. That was— that was like the sun, you know? And everything else was just the planets goin' around it. Goin' around but not touching it." He broke off and shrugged awkwardly. "Oh hell, you know what I mean."
"Yeah," Hutch said softly. "I know what you mean."
Starsky's voice rose again, high, almost panicky. "So what the hell happened to it, huh? What happened?"
"I don't know!" He felt just as desperate, just as helpless. He loved Starsky. He was tired of pretending anything was more important to him than that. But he couldn't do anything about it. Starsky was right, the women didn't matter. They were only important as a shield, a cover. He didn't like that, but it was a fact. Until a Rosey came along, or a Terry, or a Gillian. That was when things got shaky.
"I just— I just want it be us, Starsk. Just us, me and thee, remember? I don't care about anything else, just you and me."
"It can't be like that, babe." Starsky took a step toward him and touched his hair, fluffing it gently and smoothing it down. "You know it can't. We can't live alone in the world. We can't pretend nobody cares what we do. I ain't letting you go out on the streets not knowin' if you're gonna have backup when you need it, not knowing if some asshole's gonna blow a hole in you because he don't like who you're sleepin' with. And you feel the same way about me."
"Yes." He closed his eyes, steeling himself. "But Starsk, I can't keep doing this, either. I can't stand having you but not having you. If that's all it can be, I don't want it anymore."
He couldn't believe how calmly he'd said it. As if he wasn't volunteering for torture.
Starsky said nothing for so long Hutch eventually had to look at him. His face was white, strained. Hutch saw him swallow.
"You want out?" he asked.
He could say anything now, Hutch thought. That he didn't mean it, that he was just upset, that he couldn't live without what they had, that he needed time to think....
But he didn't say any of that. He said, "Yes."
*****
They leave the lights off. Not because of Starsky's scars, though Hutch knows he's self-conscious about them, but because it's the only way Hutch can handle it, the only way he can stand the intensity. He feels as if his skin's been electrified, as if all his nerves are lying exposed on the surface, quivering, resonating like guitar strings beneath Starsky's fingers. Every touch evokes an agony of sensation, an ecstasy of feeling so keen he's honestly afraid he can't bear it. He lies on the bed, naked in the arms of his beautiful lover, and contemplates blacking out from an overload of emotion.
Yet even after all the fooling around, all the kissing and touching and Starsky's mouth on his body and Starsky's dirty, dirty whispers in his ear — he still can't get it up.
And he's so happy he barely notices.
"Hutch," Starsky says softly. "Look at me."
As if he could do anything else. As if he could see anything but Starsky, Starsky everywhere, Starsky filling up the room, Starsky filling up the world. The bedroom may be dark, but Hutch can see everything he needs to see.
"You gotta relax, babe. You gotta meet me halfway." He runs gentle hands over Hutch's flanks. "You gotta loosen up and quit worrying about it."
"I'm not worried about it," Hutch says, and it's true. Starsky's alive, and Starsky loves him. What the hell is a hard-on compared to that?
He glances down. Starsky — scarred, damaged, weakened Starsky, survivor of cardiac arrest and double pneumonia; Starsky, who died — is doing just fine. His cock juts up, hard, insistent, pushing arrogantly against Hutch's belly. Looking at it, Hutch feels a rush of tenderness. He closes his hand around it and strokes it gently, glorying in its warhead heat, the surge of life through its veins. He'd like to swallow it up, lock it inside him, set a guard on it. Own it.
"Quit," Starsky says in a faint voice, even as he thrusts slowly, rhythmically, into Hutch's fist. "Quit, or I'll come."
Hutch loosens his grip. "How long since you've taken anything?"
Starsky opens glazed eyes and blinks. "What? Oh. Coupla hours ago, I guess. Right before I left to pick you up."
"Tylenol?"
"Yeah. You think I could do this zonked on morphine?"
Hutch smiles at him. "I'm sober as a judge, and I still can't do it."
Starsky takes Hutch's cock in his hands, fondling the soft flesh, slipping down to cradle the loose, heavy balls. "You can do it. You're just scared. You think you're gonna hurt me—"
"No," Hutch whispers, "it's not that." It is and it isn't. He's terrified of hurting Starsky, but more than that, he's just paralyzed by the unreality of it all. He still can't believe he's not about to wake up alone. The one left behind.
He strokes Starsky's chest, runs his hands over Starsky's shoulders. "Buddy, I don't care, it doesn't matter. I just— it feels so good, touching you. Your hands on me...." He stops, takes a breath, tries to force the quaver from his voice, the prickle from his eyes, the incoherence from his words. "It doesn't matter, just fuck me. Fuck me."
He hears his partner's indrawn breath, feels the eager leap of Starsky's cock between their bodies, and smiles. "Yeah, you want to." He plants a soft kiss on Starsky's lips. "Come on, baby."
"Hutch..." Starsky murmurs, and then he seizes Hutch's head and plunders his mouth, his lips so hard, so hungry, and Hutch buries his fingers in Starsky's hair and holds on.
"Want you so much," Starsky breathes as their lips part. "God, you don't know how much." He paints Hutch's face with frantic kisses. "You'll see, babe, I'll make it so good for ya, you'll get so fuckin' hard, won't take any time at all.... "
Hutch's hands slip down to Starsky's ass, his tongue to the warm skin at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and Starsky groans. "Let go, buddy, I gotta get the lube." He turns in Hutch's arms, reaches toward the nightstand, and gasps, his fingers falling short of their destination, his face twisted in a mask of pain.
Hutch's heart lurches with shock. "Starsk?" He reaches for him frantically, his hand closing on his partner's shoulder. "Starsky, are you—"
"I'm okay," Starsky whispers. In the dimness, Hutch can just see his eyes blinking rapidly, as though trying to push the pain away. "Just— stretched too far."
Hutch lets his own eyes slip shut in relief, and guilt. He squeezes Starsky's shoulder with fingers that feel suddenly clammy. "Babe—"
"No!" Starsky turns awkwardly to face him, his careful movements in odd contrast to his sharp words. "We're not gonna stop! I told ya, I'm okay! I can do it!" His voice breaks suddenly. "Hutch, please, I need you—"
"All right, all right." Hutch speaks in a soothing murmur, but he's badly shaken. He'd suspected Starsky was lying to him, or at least exaggerating the extent of his recovery, but he'd allowed himself to go along with it, shoving aside his own misgivings in his greed to have his lover back. And now Starsky's paying for it.
"All right, but Starsk, you've got to be reasonable. You're not a hundred percent—"
"I can do it!"
"Okay, but let's just tone it down a little, huh?" He strokes Starsky's chest, then lets his fingers slide down to gather in the diminished erection. It swells again in his hand. "Just relax, lie back and I'll suck you."
"No," Starsky says, almost pleadingly. "Hutch, I wanna fuck you. I wanna be—" he hesitates, as though searching for words "—I wanna be strong again. I don't give a damn if it hurts. I just wanna be strong again."
Hutch starts to speak, and stops, stymied. How can he possibly say no to that?
Starsky reaches out and strokes his face. "I want it to be like it was."
Defeated, Hutch turns his head slowly and kisses Starsky's palm. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay."
*****
Three years earlier
He collapsed, gasping, into his pillow, barely managing to turn his head in time to avoid landing squarely on his nose. Above him Starsky shouted, a sharp bark of triumph, and followed him down, and they lay sprawled ungracefully across Hutch's bed, which was, he realized dimly, a wreck. Sheets tangled, twisted, torn loose from the mattress, pillows scattered in all directions. Sweat-splashed, semen-spattered, Vaseline-smeared. Beautiful. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, or as deeply as possible under Starsky's boneless, panting weight. Light on his feet though he was, Starsky was heavy. And hot. Hutch imagined himself buried under that weight, immersed in that heat, suffocating joyously, covered, surrounded, enclosed, by Starsky. He smiled and burrowed his face into the pillow.
"Babe?" Starsky whispered, and Hutch felt fingers gently brushing the hair back from his ear. "That was good, huh? You liked it?"
Hutch couldn't summon the strength to make the obvious reply — "No, all that begging and pleading and yelling and screaming and coming like a fucking fire hose, that was all in your imagination, Starsk" — so he just said "Mmmm" and nodded, his cheek brushing the pillow.
He felt Starsky's lips curve into a smile against his shoulder. "Mmmm, huh?" he said, and then he was raising himself and before Hutch could protest, he pulled up and out. They gasped, in unison, and Starsky rolled onto his back. Hutch opened his eyes and looked at him. The mustache was wildly crooked, and one end of it was hanging loose. Hutch grinned, because he couldn't help it, and reached to straighten the thing.
"This looks absolutely ridiculous," he said, as his fingers smoothed the limp fur over Starsky's upper lip.
"Hey, I was just tryin' it on to see how it was gonna look when we go under at the dance studio, and first thing I knew, that McCabe guy was gettin' all worked up."
"You're the one who danced us into the bedroom."
"You're the one who tried to chew the hair off my face. How was I supposed to know you had a lech for gorgeous South American tango teachers?"
"Gigolos."
"Teachers."
Hutch yawned and lifted Starsky's arm, sliding under it to rest his head on his partner's shoulder. "I just taught you, partner."
"Yeah, and I learned something. I learned you got the sweetest ass west of the Mississippi, cowboy. How come we never did that before?"
Hutch laughed. He didn't know why the hell they hadn't done it before. Maybe he'd been afraid he'd never, never want to stop if they did. "What, you didn't like all those blowjobs and handjobs?"
"Yeah, but.... " Starsky paused, and when he spoke again, the bantering note was gone from his voice. "It was so good, Hutch, bein' in you like that. It was like— like coming home, or something." A faint, embarrassed flush crept into his cheeks. "I mean, it's always good between us, but this was just...."
He faltered to a stop, and Hutch whispered, "Yeah. I know." He smiled as Starsky let out a grateful breath, relieved of the need to explain himself.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No," Hutch said, before adding recklessly, "Try harder next time."
Starsky's eyes widened, and then gleamed. "Okay. And maybe the time after that, I can get some of what you had. That mmmm thing."
"Oh, yeah?" Hutch smiled, though privately he'd have been delighted to bottom for the rest of his life. He was selfish that way.
"Yeah. You sounded awful happy when you said that. It really feels like that, huh?"
"It does for me."
"Like mmmm?"
"Mmmmmm." Hutch drew the single syllable out into a long, deeply satisfied growl.
"Man, I gotta get me some of that." Starsky glanced down and gathered Hutch's tired, spent cock into his hand. "If I can stand it. Buddy, you got enough here to put a four-lane highway through me."
Hutch gave him a wicked grin. "Everything's bigger in Texas," he said.
*****
Starsky rubs against him, gentle, shallow, his cock just riding the slippery crack of Hutch's ass, and Hutch can feel the strain in him, the tremor in the arms that brace him on either side, the harsh, uneven breathing, and he knows it's not just passion. He squeezes his eyes shut, bites his tongue, clamps down on his better judgment, but just as he can't stand it anymore, Starsky abruptly rolls off him. Hutch raises his head from his arms and looks, and there's pain in Starsky's narrowed eyes, in the lines around the corners of his mouth. But before he can touch him, before he can offer comfort, Starsky turns toward him.
"Get on your side, babe," he says, his voice strained but determined. "I can't hold myself up, but—"
"Starsk," Hutch whispers, "for God's sake, we don't have to do this, we can wait—"
"I can't wait. I don't wanna wait. It's just— my chest hurts a little, but I can do it, I know I can. We'll just go easy, okay?"
Hutch wonders with dread what "a little" means, but he says nothing. He rolls silently onto his right side and sighs as he feels Starsky's warmth settle along his back. The anxiety he feels for his partner begins dissolving with shameful haste, replaced by the sweet anticipation that coils in his stomach and snakes up his spine. He moves his left leg a bit, bending at the knee and lifting, and Starsky slides closer, pulls him in with one arm around his waist, and plants his mouth next to Hutch's ear.
"I love you like this," he says softly. "Don't worry, I'm okay."
Hutch nods, hoping it's the truth.
"Pull yourself open for me," Starsky whispers.
Hutch shudders as the words tickle his ear. He reaches back with one hand and separates his cheeks, pulling the left one aside, giving Starsky room. Something about the baldness of the act, the wantonness of it, excites him, always has, and he knows that's why Starsky wants him to do it. He feels the blood rise in his face.
Behind him, Starsky sucks in a breath. "Babe, that's so sweet, that's so hot. You need me in there, don't ya?"
"Yes," Hutch chokes out.
Starsky kisses the back of his neck. "You missed it, didn't ya? Missed havin' my cock up your ass?" His voice is dark now, husky.
Hutch moans and presses back against him. His own damn cock is still barely awake, still perversely refusing to get with the program, but he wasn't lying when he told Starsky it didn't matter. He loves being fucked, craves it with an intensity that used to embarrass him. It doesn't anymore. He no longer tries to analyze it. It's what he needs and, thank God, it's what Starsky wants to give him.
"God, baby," Starsky whispers, as Hutch pushes beseechingly against his groin. "Okay, okay. Hang on."
Hutch feels the hands holding him shift, feels a hard pressure at his anus, and then freezes, gasping, as Starsky's cockhead breaches him. For a moment, he can't breathe. His nails scrabble for purchase on the mattress, but he relaxes faster than he'd expected. He groans with delight as it happens, as he loosens, as Starsky sinks deep, that long, smooth glide he remembers, until he feels the tickling brush of pubic hair against his ass. It's so right, so perfect; the size, the strength, the heat of Starsky's cock. It's what he was made for. Crazy as that sounds, he believes it utterly. He hears himself whispering, "I love you, God I love you," and Starsky murmurs something in reply, soft, breathless words Hutch can't make out, but he doesn't have to. He knows.
Starsky's breath is coming so hard it's frightening, or would be, if Hutch could think clearly enough to register it. He can't, because Starsky's fucking him again, at long, long last Starsky's fucking him again, and there's nothing else in the world but that. He shoves backward, hungry for more, and Starsky gasps "Fuck," and then it's a two-man show, Hutch meeting every pained thrust with a mirrored one of his own, every action with an equal and opposite reaction, and then Starsky nudges his prostate once, and, encouraged by Hutch's shout of pleasure, again and again, and Hutch's cock finally, finally jerks to life because now it's real, now he's home. This is Starsky and this is him and this is them, the only thing in his whole fucking life that matters, and everything narrows down to just that, just Starsky's cock and Starsky's fist milking him, and Starsky's painful, ecstatic grunts in his ear. He comes fast, moaning, thrashing, bathing himself and Starsky's hand and the sheets with semen, his head thrown back against Starsky's shoulder, shuddering as Starsky's shaking hand strips the last drops from him.
He lies gasping, eyes closed in sated bliss, but Starsky's still laboring away behind him, his groans so raw that even through Hutch's dreamy haze, they hurt his ears. Deliberately, he clenches down, forcing himself backward, hard, against Starsky. Come on, babe, finish, please finish.... And to his vast relief, he feels Starsky's body stiffen abruptly, hears the familiar yelp, sharp-edged this time with pain, and with a final gasp of Hutch's name, Starsky goes limp.
For a moment, they don't move. Hutch feels Starsky's harsh panting against the back of his neck. There's an almost sobbing quality to it.
"Starsk?" he whispers. He twists awkwardly, and gasps a little as Starsky's cock slips from him. He rolls over hurriedly and touches Starsky's face. "Are you—"
Starsky opens his eyes and smiles a weak smile. "M' okay." His voice is a rough, raspy mumble, but his eyes are soft. "Told ya, didn't I? Went off like a rocket, didn't ya?" He laughs, then cuts himself off with a groan, his face contorting.
"Jesus," Hutch breathes. "Lay there, don't move, I'll be right back." He rises, a little stiffly, and heads for the bathroom, where he collects Starsky's pain medication, a glass of water, and a towel.
Starsky's lying on his back when Hutch returns, staring at the ceiling and breathing with obvious caution. Hutch turns on the light and sits down beside him, and even that motion is enough to make Starsky wince, which makes Hutch wince in turn.
"Take this," he says, his voice brusque. He pushes the morphine tablets at Starsky. "Take it!"
But the stern-voiced order isn't necessary. Starsky accepts the pills and the water meekly and downs them without hesitation, which sends another shiver of unease through Hutch's heart. Even on his first day out of the hospital, Starsky had taken the powerful drug only grudgingly.
While Starsky lies still, Hutch silently swipes the towel over them both, makes a token attempt to straighten the twisted sheets, and takes the empty water glass back to the bathroom. When he emerges, Starsky turns his head toward him and holds out both arms.
Hutch hesitates, torn between anger at himself, fear for Starsky, and a desire to lie in his partner's embrace for the rest of his life. Weakness wins out, and he climbs into bed, pulling Starsky gingerly against him. He feels Starsky sigh, and that tiny sensation, Starsky's uneven breath tickling his shoulder, sends sudden tears to his eyes. He blinks hastily, and swallows.
"We shouldn't have done this," he whispers, stroking Starsky's hair.
"Why?" Starsky murmurs, his voice muffled by Hutch's skin. "Didn't you like it?"
"Stop it," Hutch says, as he hears another painful laugh building in Starsky's chest. "Babe, don't, you'll hurt yourself."
"Then I'll hurt myself." Starsky raises his head and gives Hutch a defiant look. "I ain't gonna stop laughing, and I ain't gonna stop makin' love to my baby. Not ever again."
Hutch touches Starsky's lips, running a gentle finger over their curves until Starsky opens his mouth and wraps his tongue around it.
"Gonna be tough when we go back to work," Hutch says after a moment.
Starsky shrugs a little. "So it'll be tough. We talked about that. We're too smart to make the same mistakes twice, remember? And the alternative— I'm not interested in the alternative."
Hutch smiles. "The alternative to going back to work, or the alternative to us?"
Starsky looks sharply at him. "Either. We're gonna go back to work, and we're gonna be together, and we're not gonna pretend we're not. And anybody who don't like it can take a nine millimeter automatic right up their ass."
Hutch laughs.
"And besides, you're a fuckin' hero, Hutch. Nobody's gonna say a word to you. You could sleep with sheep if you wanna."
"I don't wanna."
"Of course you don't wanna, you got me. And you know the department's gonna have to start hiring gays any time now. Councilman Whitelaw's not gonna shut up till they do, and the mayor's on his side, and—" He winces as a jaw-cracking yawn interrupts him. "God, I'm sleepy."
"Go to sleep. I'm here."
"And the backup thing..." Starsky trails off. "Hutch—"
"Starsk," Hutch says softly, "don't. People have always talked about us. People assumed we were in each other's pants years before we ever thought about it." He smiles. "Well, before you thought about it, anyway. And that was way before Whitelaw was elected and way before anyone took gay rights seriously. If they didn't leave our asses uncovered then, why should they start now?" And if they do, he adds silently, if I ever have the slightest suspicion that somebody's not backing you up, the world won't be a big enough place for them to hide in.
"If they do," Starsky says, "I'll cut their fucking heart out." He yawns again.
Hutch nods. "And on that cheerful note, let's get some sleep, okay?"
He turns away to snap the bedside lamp off, and when he turns back, Starsky's looking at him with dark, serious eyes.
"Hutch," he says, "I mean that."
Hutch leans over and kisses him.
"I know you do," he whispers. "I know, babe."
*****
Duluth, Minnesota
Fall 1967
Their parents wanted no part of it, so Debbie helped him load up the car. She was a budding concert pianist with a bright future ahead of her if she didn't throw it away to get married or something, and he worried about her spraining a finger dragging heavy junk around, but she just smiled and ruffled his hair and said, "My big brother, world champion worrywart." So together they hauled suitcases out of the house and wrestled boxes full of albums and books into the trunk, and placed the tiny portable TV and the big, awkward guitar case and the Carleton College pennant on the back seat. It was a tight fit for a '61 Comet, even though he really wasn't taking much with him. Just the things he couldn't imagine leaving.
"Well," Debbie said, brushing her hands together as the last box was stowed away, "I guess that's it." She lowered the trunk lid with a gentle thunk.
"Yeah," he said, "thanks," and cleared his throat. He sure as hell hadn't cried in front of his parents, but he was almost certain he wouldn't be able to get away from his sister without it. To distract himself he glanced away, across the wide lawn to the line of nearly naked maples across the road. A faint honking tickled his ears and he looked up at the bleak sky over the trees and saw a flock of geese in perfect V formation, pointing south, so high he could barely make them out.
"Everyone's leaving," he said, as he and Debbie watched the birds out of sight. "It's that time of year." He managed a smile as he met her eyes, and sang under his breath, "All the leaves are brown/And the sky is gray..."
Debbie smiled back. "You'd be safe and warm/If you were in L.A..." Her lower lip trembled dangerously.
"Perfect," he said. "I should've written that song myself."
She whispered, "Kenny," and then she was in his arms, hugging him so tightly it actually hurt, hiding her face against his chest and shaking. He tried to say "Hey, don't cry," but only got as far as the "Hey" before his throat closed up. He returned her embrace, stroking her back through her bulky jacket and staring despairingly over her head as his vision blurred.
After a long moment she sniffed, hard, and pulled back from him, releasing him to scrub violently at her eyes. "Okay," she said, "that's the last time, I promise. No more goddamn crying."
"Watch your language," he teased, before wiping at his own cheeks.
"That's not fair," she said. "There won't be anyone out there to make you watch yours."
"No one to watch over me," he said. "No one to care if I disgrace the family. No one to give a damn what I do with my life." He sighed theatrically. "Sounds beautiful, doesn't it? Wanna come along?"
She rolled her eyes. "I have to stay here and play 'Chopsticks.' Don't you wish you were me?"
"You love playing 'Chopsticks.'"
"Oh, yes. And I love having stuffy old farts in tuxes and evening gowns tell me how divinely I render Tchaikovsky. Just think, I'll be sitting in some dark concert hall, stuck behind some enormous Steinway, while you're running down the beach, sand squishing between your toes, searching for that perfect wave—"
He cut her off with a raised finger. "I'm not going to take up surfing. That's a promise."
"Why not?" She cocked her head innocently. "That's where all the cute guys are."
That knocked the breath out of him for a moment. He felt a tide of red creeping up his neck to bloom triumphantly on his face.
She laughed and touched his hot cheek. "That reminds me, did you pack plenty of sunscreen?"
He knocked her hand aside playfully. "Have some respect for your elders."
"I have respect for some of my elders, but I think this particular elder is a little nuts. Everybody else runs away to California to bum around, lie in the sun, cast off all responsibilities. You're running away to California to become a policeman. Don't you think that's just a smidge peculiar, big brother?"
He spread his hands with a grin. "I gotta be me, baby."
"I hope you mean that." Her voice was suddenly soft, and he blinked at her, startled by the change of tone. "Don't give in, Kenny. Don't change. Don't let anyone tell you who to love."
She hugged him again and he held her tight, squeezing his eyes shut guiltily. He'd already made up his mind. "Cute guys" or not, he was done with it. It had brought him nothing but trouble already, and whatever police department he eventually joined, it was unlikely to be staffed with social radicals. That was okay. He'd manage. He liked girls well enough.
He let Debbie go, quickly, before anyone could start crying again.
"I'm leaving," he said, with false heartiness, and opened the driver's side door. "I can't stand around here all day listening to you sniffle."
He slid behind the wheel, and Debbie made a face at him. "Go on, then. Go to L.A. See if I care."
He smiled and started the engine.
"Ken," she said, "I'll visit you. Don't feel that you have to come home and be with Mom and Dad. I'll come out there."
"Any time," he said softly. "Any time, kid."
He squeezed her hand once, hard, and then she was backing away and he was rolling the window up and easing down the long driveway, the gravel crunching beneath his tires. He looked in the mirror once, just before he pulled out into the road. She was a small, faceless figure with a waving arm.
He drove steadily through town and out into open country on the highway heading west. So far, he knew every mile of it. He'd been that way countless times, on scouting trips and fishing trips and even drag racing in high school. He'd parked once, down that narrow side road, with a girl. He was surprised at how little he felt now that he was leaving it. He didn't feel sad, or angry. He didn't feel apprehensive about the future, even though he'd never been to the West Coast in his life. It somehow didn't feel like leaving home.
It felt more like going there.
Go to index
When the judge rapped his gavel on the desk, and called out, "Court is adjourned," Starsky groaned with relief, pulling off his black knit tie. He hated these depositions with a passion usually associated with such things as root canals and pulling traffic duty. He'd been in the stuffy courtroom for hours. Finally, freedom!
Following Hutch out the front doors of the Los Angeles county courthouse, Starsky paused on the top of the stairs, arching his back in a spine-cracking stretch to get out all the kinks from sitting for so long.
"You didn't have to stay all day," Hutch said with a smile, watching Starsky massage his neck. "Since you were done by ten-thirty this morning."
"Hey, I wanted to support my buddy." Starsky threw his arm around Hutch's shoulders. "That attorney was a schmuck, grillin' you all afternoon about the dumbest little details." He pulled the bag of M&M's he'd gotten from the vending machine out of his pocket and offered a handful to Hutch.
Hutch took three greens and a tan.
"You must be in the mood, tiger." Starsky winked at him, eating a couple oranges and a green one. "Wanna go eat M&M's in bed? I can get us some more greens."
"Starsky, that's a myth." Hutch shot him a look of amused distain. "There's no reason that the green dye is any more of an aphrodisiac than the tan dye is, or the..."
"Orange, yellow, tan, brown and green," Starsky said, eating one of each as he named the colors. "Remember when you could get red ones? I liked the red ones!"
"Starsky, they all taste the sa..." Hutch stumbled on the bottom step to the sidewalk.
The cement shuddered. That was the only word Starsky could think to describe the sensation. A sudden vibration as if a massive truck had driven by, enough to shift a whole concrete staircase, and then terra firma reestablished itself.
"Earthquake," Starsky said, his heart going double time. Earthquakes in the southland were not a weekly occurrence but they were never unexpected, either. Just another bonus of living in California. All around him, pedestrians on the sidewalk and in front of the courthouse had stopped to take a breath, commenting on the capricious nature of the earth.
"Must have been a three point six or so," Hutch said, his voice retaining a hint of nerves. "Not enough to cause any damage, unless I miss my guess."
"One of your strengths, Hutch. You're a human seismo- whatchamacallit." Starsky reached the Torino parked by the curb and unlocked the door.
"Seismograph, dummy," Hutch said affectionately, giving his arm a squeeze. "Any M&M's left?"
"I dropped the last two when the quake hit," Starsky said, showing an empty hand. "You know, if we're goin' to Huggy's holiday shindig tonight, I need to get some cash."
"Wait a minute." Hutch dug into his jacket pocket and produced his wallet. "I've got..." He smiled ruefully. "Two bucks."
"Not enough to entertain me in the mode to which I've gotten accustomed," Starsky snarked. He pointed down a block. "There's a bank. I'll go over there and withdraw a couple twenties. Then we can party tonight, 'cause court is out until after Christmas and we don't have to work until Boxing Day."
"You must have watched too many versions of Christmas Carol." Hutch shut the car door. "Nobody in California calls December 26th that."
"I do." Starsky shrugged, crossing the street. "So, you think ol' Hopkins will get you back on the stand in January and keep trying to trip you up on your statement? I wish t'hell that I'd been the one to plug that whippo instead of you."
"Thanks, buddy, but you weren't exactly rowing with both oars in the water after he cold-cocked you," Hutch said, walking close enough to lightly bump Starsky's hip every other step or so.
"I guess, but it sucks that you're getting reamed by a two-bit shyster who's got delusions of grandeur." Starsky admired the Christmas decorations on almost every building. Wreathes, little illuminated trees and cut-outs of Santa Claus. He loved Christmas time — it was like one big party every day. Which was why being locked up in a damned courtroom for the day, with the prospect of more to come in January of 1979, was such a dismal fate. He'd much rather be out cruising the streets, running down suspects and jawing with snitches. His kind of life. "You still want to go to Maria Ramos' house tomorrow evening to celebrate with Kiko and Molly?"
"What do you think?" Hutch held open the heavy metal and glass door of the bank for Starsky. "Then you and I can spend Christmas morning in bed, opening gifts and..."
"Yeah," Starsky chuckled, already aroused at the picture Hutch had planted in his head. The two of them nude, the covers thrown back, some holiday music on the radio, and a couple of ribbons to tie around various portions of their anatomy for the other to 'unwrap'.
"Hey, wow!" Starsky gazed around the elegant bank lobby with appreciation. The place had been decorated sumptuously with a ten-foot tree decked out in huge gold coins and jeweled dollar signs. In addition, there was a small historical exhibition along one wall. A bright banner above a display of photos and memorabilia proclaimed "Our Bank One Hundred Years Ago!"
"I'd like to look at that. Apparently this bank has been in this exact spot for almost that long," Hutch said, migrating over to the display.
"Me, too. Give me a minute to cash this check and get some bucks, and I'll join you," Starsky called out, but Hutch was already reading the text under one of the pictures.
His transaction was quickly concluded and with fifty dollars in his pocket, Starsky wandered over to where Hutch was standing. The first picture in the exhibit was of an earlier version of the Gold Country bank: a three story brick building on an old fashioned street, complete with a horse drawn buggy out front, circa 1876. The building they were currently standing in, with its Corinthian columns and marble floors, was built in 1905, reflecting the prosperous pre-war era. There was a cluster of photos of past bank managers and wealthy investors, as well as yellowed newspaper articles chronicling the local history.
History buff Starsky could have spent an hour perusing the fascinating glimpse into the past. He was just trying to read the small print from an article describing a bank robbery in December of 1878 when Hutch poked him in the side.
"Starsk!"
Torn from the particularly vivid description of a woman who claimed to have been looking out her window on a "cold, clear night with no moon" in time to see the band of outlaws running from the bank, Starsky was annoyed at Hutch's interruption. "Hutch! This was really interesting. The robbers cracked the safe combination and got away with twenty thousand dollars," Starsky protested, pointing to the clipping. "That musta been nearly a million in our dollars."
"Look at this picture and tell me what you see?" Hutch said in a peculiar voice, indicating a fairly blurry photograph dated December 1878, of the interior of the bank. A woman wearing a poke bonnet was walking through the lobby, and behind the teller cage, an out-of-focus man with blond hair was assisting a man with dark curly hair. The customer was in profile, and oddly, dressed almost identically to what Starsky was wearing, a corduroy jacket with patches on the sleeves and dark slacks.
"Nice picture. Guess it was difficult to get the focus right because the cameras took so long in those days," Starsky commented. "People had to stand for about five minutes..."
"Starsky!" Hutch stabbed his finger within a millimeter of touching the glass covering the old print, sounding spooked. "He looks just like you, right down to the mole on your cheek and the clothes!"
"Lots of people in those days wore jackets kinda like this one," Starsky scoffed, looking more closely at the picture. The 19th century man did resemble him — slightly — but because of the blurriness, it was hard to say for sure. "Hutch, that guy looks about as much like me as the teller looks like you!" Starsky squinted. The teller, with his longish blond hair and angular nose actually bore an almost eerie resemblance to Hutch. "Maybe he's one of your long lost relatives?"
"And he's one of yours?" Hutch had regained his composure. "That's improbable, to say the least. My relatives were all still in Sweden and Germany in 1878."
"You sure?" Starsky considered the notion that some early Hutchinson had met some early Starsky. That might have been possible — if improbable — in old world Europe, but not in Los Angeles, of all places. He shook his head at the fanciful idea that their ancestors might have met, like the old stories of star-crossed lovers destined to come together throughout the centuries.
He moved on to the next series of pictures, all much more traditional of nineteenth century portraiture. A prosperous looking man with a barrel chest and his wife posed stiffly in their best attire. The legend underneath named him Mortimer Lassiter, an early bank president who resigned after a scandal.
"I'm sure, because my grandfather was the first to leave Sweden. My mother even told me that she's sending a box of old photos for a Christmas present." Hutch nodded with a frown, but Starsky got the impression that he wasn't completely sure of anything. Who knew what their great-great-great-whatevers had done since there was so little documentation in those days.
The text under the next photograph caught Starsky's attention, partially because he'd never gone back to finish reading the article about the bank robbery. The men suspected of pulling off the heist were Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry, two very successful thieves who had been in the area at the time, although nothing was ever proven. Police at the time suspected that there had been an inside man, since there was no sign of forced entry and the safe was opened without explosives. Hannibal Heyes was particularly well-known for cracking safes by listening to the tumblers in the combination lock.
Starsky scanned the print, wondering why the names Heyes and Curry sounded so familiar. Three people posed for the photographer. A beautiful young woman in a unadorned dress and beribboned hat stood between two seated men. Hannibal Heyes wore a suit and a bowler hat. He was a slender, good-looking guy with dark sideburns, his right hand clutching his jacket in a vaguely Napoleonic style. Jed 'Kid' Curry sat back a little with a vaguely satisfied look on his baby-face. Curly hair peeked out from under his bowler, and the woman — identified as Clementine Hale — had her hand on his right shoulder. Starsky wondered if that was some kind of old-fashioned code meaning they were married.
"You ever heard of these two?" he asked, directing Hutch at the picture in question. "It's like I got their names on the tip of my tongue."
Hutch bent down to get a better look. "Weren't they in that special we watched on outlaws of the old west?" He pronounced the latter with radio announcer dramatic intonation. "Curry was a quick draw or something. Rode with a gang that had a similar name to the one Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid joined."
"Hole in the Wall gang?" Starsky went around Hutch, letting his hand 'accidentally' brush the back of his partner's cords, to check the robbery article again.
His foot went wide, and at first, Starsky thought he had just slipped on the shiny marble floor. Looking up, he saw a woman grab the bank counter for support and watched in amazement as the ten-foot Christmas tree swayed like a sapling in a non-existent wind. The metal ornaments clanged together nosily.
"Earthquake!" a teller squeaked in fear, ducking below her desk. Several bank patrons followed her example, although hardier locals stood stoically, waiting out the earth's fury.
This quake was longer, with a distinct jolt and a long shaking accompanied by a low, almost sub-auditory rumble.
Starsky would have gone to his knees if Hutch hadn't grabbed his arm, hauling him upright and pulling Starsky against his chest.
"Man," Starsky breathed out, feeling the rapid-fire beat of Hutch's heart all down his right arm. "That was more than a three point two, I'll bet you anything."
"Not taking that bet," Hutch said, inhaling quick. "C'mon, let's get out of here. There's probably a lot of traffic on the Friday evening before Christmas."
"Sounds good to me." Starsky glanced back at the history exhibit. There'd always be time another day to read all the other articles. He blinked and found himself looking at the blurry image of the bank interior from 1878. He hadn't previously noticed that the teller had his hand cupped over the customer's — as if they were friends.
Most of the other bank customers had the same idea to leave. For a few minutes, there was a nervous log-jam at the ornate glass and metal door of the bank, and Starsky felt like one of passengers fleeing the Titanic. Outside on the street, there was no destruction, no loss of life — this was just another minor earthquake. Sometimes they came in clusters like that.
As the crowd of people dispersed to their cars or bus stops, Starsky heard several mention the notion that multiple quakes lessened the possibility of a really severe one in the future.
"You think it's true that little tremors help relieve the pressure on the San Andreas Fault?" Starsky fished out his keys and unlocked the Torino doors to let Hutch in.
"It's one theory." Hutch lowered the visor against the late afternoon setting sun. "Another is that all the small shifts add up until the faults are very misaligned."
"Aw, don't tell me that!" Starsky groaned, squinting. The pink and purplish clouds stacked over the Pacific Ocean were beautiful, but made it difficult to drive. He kept getting sudden bright flashes of light — the last rays reflected in car windows, and mirrors, and people turning on their high beams once the sun disappeared. "I wonder if there's a book on those outlaws. Remember in that TV show? Heyes and Curry were slicker at robbing banks than just about anyone else at the time. That Hannibal Heyes could manipulate the tumblers on a safe by just touch and feel..."
"Starsk." Hutch chuckled. "You, an officer of the law, are impressed by a bank robber?"
"Well." Starsky thought about his answer briefly. "It's not that I'm impressed... 'cause, if he'd be around now, and robbed the Gold Country Bank, I'd hunt him down like any other criminal." Starsky swung the steering wheel in a lazy arc to turn into Hutch's neighborhood. "But you gotta admire somebody who's really good at what he does."
"Heyes certainly made a name for himself," Hutch agreed, unbuckling his seatbelt when Starsky pulled into a parking space directly in front of Venice Place. "And I think he got amnesty, didn't he?"
"That's right." Starsky grinned, seeing his happiness reflected in Hutch's face. Not that Hutch really cared all that much about two outlaws from one hundred years ago. More that Hutch enjoyed being with him as much as he enjoyed being with Hutch. "See, not such a bad guy after all."
"Let's wrap the gifts for Molly and Pete before we go out," Hutch said. "If you end up with a hangover tomorrow morning, you'll be in no shape to use a pair of scissors on wrapping paper."
"If I get a hangover?" Starsky snorted, suddenly very much in the holiday mood. The spirit would flow freely at Huggy's, if past years were any indication, and there would be music, great food and dancing. Starsky planned to pull a pretty girl out onto the dance floor, since Hutch preferred to do all their slow dancing in bed. "You planning to abstain tonight?"
"Not if I can help it!" Hutch laughed, leaning against wall of the building to wait for him.
Starsky started to get out of the car and then snapped his fingers. "Hey, I can't forget to call Mrs. Walters before we go to Huggy's." Now a man on a mission, Starsky climbed out and swung the door closed, ready to march right on into Hutch's apartment and dial his old friend's number. "This is gonna be a hard Christmas for her and Junior, I mean Jackson, and I want to..."
The ground vibrated violently as if a giant hand shook the landscape like dice and then tossed Bay City out, hoping for snake eyes. Starsky scrambled for balance and slipped, grabbing for the edge of the car. He saw Hutch clutching the front doorknob and closed his eyes, fighting nausea, the roaring boom of the earthquake louder than a low flying jet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The plaintive howl of a coyote. The scritch of dry grass under his cheek
Consciousness came back in dribs and drabs. It was very quiet, almost peaceful and Starsky was content to drift slowly in the stream from oblivion to alertness.
Where was Hutch? He pondered the question, but really, it was a minor distraction. Hutch must have gone for help, that was it. He was always doing stuff like that. The quake probably caused massive damage across the region.
The main thing that worried Starsky was the temperature. Why the hell did it feel like it had dropped about ten degrees from a moment earlier? The ground was very cold where he lay. It also felt grittier, like dirt, instead of hard concrete, the way Ocean Avenue should be, and there was something prickly poking him in the side.
Disoriented and aching, Starsky groaned with his eyes closed, trying to make some sense of his surroundings. He must have fallen during the quake and hit his head — so much for going to Huggy's party. All he wanted to do was get into the house, down a couple of aspirin, and sleep for about a hundred years.
He just couldn't quite motivate himself to get up. The sound of horses' hooves pounding on the packed ground revived him. He struggled to open his eyes, the strong odor of sweaty animal filling his nostrils.
"What'd ya think he's doin' here so far out from town?" A twangy accent from one of southern states like Alabama or Arkansas. "Kinda cold to be sleeping on the ground without a bedroll or nothing, in December!"
"Kyle, I don't think he's asleep, he's probably hurt," another man said patiently, although Starsky could hear a vein of exasperation in his tone. A horse nickered and jangled his bridle, snorting in the cold air.
Starsky pushed against the ground, and managed to rise up on his forearms. In the deepening twilight, he saw a blurry forest of horses' legs, restless hooves flashing sharp metal shoes, and scuttled back to avoid being stepped on by one thousand pounds of animal. Where had they come from?
Someone swung down from the saddle, but Starsky still wasn't focusing well.
"Hey, mister, you need some help?" This was a third voice, not as deep as the second, and far closer to the ground than the others. Must be the guy who dismounted.
"Guess I hit my head," Starsky mumbled, turning slowly to see his rescuer without jarring his already sizable headache. A young man was crouched next to him, close enough that Starsky could see his smooth cheeks in the darkness. A cowboy hat hid most of the rest of his face. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Starsky couldn't place him.
"Ah think he's off his noggin," Kyle announced, chewing furiously on a mouthful of something. "Addled."
Bending his neck back to peer up at the man still sitting on a horse, Starsky felt a wash of acid rush up his throat and barely managed to avoid vomiting on his young rescuer's scuffed leather boots. Heaving, Starsky stayed hunched over until the sick feeling had passed.
"Heyes?" The young cowboy simply said the single name, but there was an entire question there, a wordless discussion between he and his friend.
The man with a black cowboy hat sighed.
Starsky wiped his mouth and sat down on the cold ground, watching them communicate exactly the way he and Hutch did. As if by mind power alone. And he'd caught the name. Heyes.
Hannibal Heyes? If so, the young cowboy was Kid Curry.
How was that even remotely possible? Starsky felt like he was awake and solid; he even surreptitiously pinched his own arm just to be sure. It hurt. This sure didn't seem like a concussion hallucination, certainly nothing like anything he'd ever had before.
But it wasn't possible.
"Be the Christian thing to do, Heyes." Kid Curry — if, in fact, is who he was — said softly. He stood up, his thick leather jacket lined with sheepskin gaping open in the front.
Starsky saw a heavy leather holster tied around his thigh, and a low slung belt bristling with bullets, exactly what he would have imagined a gunslinger to wear. Somehow, that made it feel all the more real, because the photograph of Curry and Heyes he'd seen at the bank had been different.
"What if he ain't Christian?" Kyle asked into the dark evening.
Both Heyes and Curry ignored the southerner. Heyes shoved his black hat further back, although it was too dark to make out his features. "Not exactly an opportune time, Kid," he said, without reproach. In fact, he sounded resigned, as if he'd already accepted the fact that this stranger would be coming along with them.
"What are you doing way out here, all alone?" Curry asked, holding out a hand to help Starsky up. "Waylaid by highwaymen?"
"More like an earthquake," Starsky muttered, breathing slow to get his headache under control.
"There was a rumbling just before we found you lying there." Curry nodded. "Felt like some miner threw a couple of sticks of dynamite down a shaft."
Good to know that some things were the same here as in his time. Starsky took a deep slow breath. His belly had settled and his headache had downgraded to a persistent throb, annoying but easily ignored. "Listen, I don't want to... just point me in the direction of Bay City, and I can walk."
Kyle brayed like a donkey, holding his belly. "Bay City? You got a long walk 'head of you without no horse, mister." He waved a gloved hand in a westerly direction. "'Bout ten miles from here, as the crow flies. Longer for a man who has to traverse these durned hills and canyons."
"Kyle's right," Heyes said, as if this were a very rare occasion. "You'd best stay the night with us, mister...?"
Curry regarded him steadily, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against Heyes' horse, his right shoulder brushing Heyes' left leg. Once again, Starsky noticed how familiar the two of them were with each other. Just like he and Hutch were.
"David Starsky," Starsky reached up to shake the famous outlaw's hand. Although, was he currently famous? What year was it? Starsky wasn't about to go asking stupid questions like date and time. They'd peg him for a crazy person immediately.
"Jedediah Curry, and that's my partner, Hannibal Heyes." Kid shook his hand with detached friendliness. "Where'd you come from?"
"Bay City." Starsky went with the truth since apparently there was a Bay City, just much, much smaller than the one he'd left in 1978. "Came out here..." He was fairly certain he was approximately midway between Hutch's house on Ocean and his on Ridgeway. The curve of the hills and black hulk of the mountains to the east were exactly what he saw many nights when he was driving home after a swing shift. "To look for a home... land to buy."
"Sure is purty country," Kyle agreed. "But hell of a long way to get back to town. We only done it cause we..."
"Kyle." Kid stepped on the end of his sentence.
"What's your business? You with the law?" Heyes asked bluntly.
"Why do you ask?" Starsky responded. They still weren't being hostile, just careful. Was there some kind of danger up in these hills? Or were they involved in something they shouldn't be? Like robbing the Gold Country bank?
"'Cause it's right strange t'find a fellow dressed in his town clothes up in the hills with no horse..." Kyle began.
"And not wearing a gun," Curry added. For a man who had the smooth cheeks of a teenaged boy, he could project a surprisingly menacing aura.
"I..." Again, the truth seemed easiest, with a minor codicil. "I'm out of my element here. I work with the police in another city..." he glanced down the dark hill. In the far distance, there was a faint glow of light, way down in the valley that he knew to be the Los Angeles basin. No fluorescent lights, no neon. The mild brightness he could just barely make out was candlelight or possibly gaslight, assuming they had that in the wild, wild west.
"Far, far from here, but I'm not involved in any current investigations." He rubbed his forehead. "I'm kind of on a leave, you might say." Starsky very much hoped there was some way back to Bay City, 1978, or he was completely screwed. "I must have hit my head earlier, and lost my... ride."
"Horse shied from the quake?" Curry asked. Again, he didn't threaten in any way, but the earlier kindness was muted. It was obvious he was weighing Starsky's merits.
"A red horse," Starsky said, warming to his subject. He knew very little about horses, but remembered that certain types of horses could be described as red. "With a white stripe. Lots of horse power..." He almost said under the hood. "I haven't a clue where she is now."
"Chestnut with a blaze," Heyes translated into cowpoke lingo. "Haven't seen the animal. But the Kid here is determined to be neighborly toward you, so unless you've got a better option, we'd be obliged if you would come along to our place and have a bite, rest up until morning."
"You want to sit my horse?" Curry offered. "I'll ride behind Heyes."
Starsky was having a difficult time reading the young gunslinger. Maybe it would be easier when he could see the man's face clearly, but Curry seemed both friendly and guarded at the same time.
Could Starsky have arrived right before or just after the robbery? Was that why they were so far from town?
While climbing awkwardly up onto the surprisingly patient horse, Starsky tried to review everything he could remember about the outlaws from the TV special. Naturally, nothing specific came to mind. Hutch was always much better at recalling details from past — or would that be future — crimes. Something about Wyoming niggled at the back of his brain but he couldn't say why. When Starsky was seated in the saddle, Curry grabbed the reins, leading the horse behind the one he shared with Heyes.
It was eerie riding through the dark hills, and Starsky had to keep alert to stay in the saddle, even if he wasn't actually 'driving'. He ducked to avoid the branch of a live oak tree, looking up at the incredible sky. He'd never seen so many stars in all his life. Even the time he and Hutch had gone to Yosemite, the sky hadn't looked so amazingly black and studded with stars. A narrow sliver of a moon rode very low against the inky jut of hills to the west. By tomorrow, Christmas Eve, there would be no visible moon at all. A perfect night to rob a bank.
Starsky inhaled sharply, watching the two horses up ahead. Curry had one arm around Heyes' waist, speaking softly. Kyle rode point, slouched lazily on his mount.
The horses' bridles jingled, but there were other night sounds that Starsky had never expected to hear. The sigh of wings as an owl hooted somewhere in a tree above them, and the lowing of cows in a small, sheltered canyon to the right. He had a fairly decent internal compass, and knew the area pretty well despite the lack of street signs. His future house would be to the far left, along the little ridge. They had ridden about a mile and a half, up and over one hill, threading through a gap in the rolling landscape to a small homestead. There was a rough hewn house built of logs and what must be a barn behind sheltered by a thick cluster of trees on the windward side.
Starsky shivered. It wasn't his imagination, the temperature was lower here that it had been when he 'left' Hutch by the Torino. His corduroy jacket wasn't adequate protection at all. So some things were the same; like the earthquake and that it was presumably December. And some things were different; the weather. There was frost in the air. Starsky's horse snorted, its breath coming out in a plume of white.
Curry swung off Heyes' horse and looped the reins of Starsky's around a post in front of the little house. "We're staying here until it's warmer up north," he said as Heyes dismounted. "Not much, but it was standing empty, and we had the need."
"Squatters?" Starsky climbed out of the saddle, his thighs aching. Hell, what would it feel like to be on a horse all day long?
"Never heard it called that before," Heyes said, regarding him curiously. He stripped off a pair of leather riding gloves and tucked them in the pocket of his thick corduroy jacket.
Now that Heyes was standing on the ground, Starsky noticed that he and the outlaw were of a height, although Heyes was fine-boned and slender.
"Folks come out west thinking they'll make it rich panning for gold, and they go bust," Heyes continued. "They go running back east with their tails between their legs, leaving the houses behind." He patted the black he'd been riding on the nose. "Kyle, can you bed all the horses?"
"Sure thang, Heyes," Kyle said cheerfully, spitting a wad of tobacco out one side of his mouth.
"You hungry?" Kid Curry asked, leading the way into the cabin. "Heyes shot some venison last week, been bragging about his shooting abilities since."
"I never claimed to best you with a revolver," Heyes said, twin dimples bracketing his teasing grin. "But I have considerable prowess with a Winchester."
"So you keep saying, over and over again." Kid rolled his eyes. In the spill of light from the open door, he looked even younger than Starsky had expected, barely out of his teens. With his dark blond hair and blue eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to the actor Paul Newman.
Starsky closed his eyes, his head throbbing again — there was too much to take in.
He wanted to believe that he was dreaming except everything felt so damned real. The cold that nipped at his bare skin, the wonderful scent of cooked venison, the rush of warm air when he followed Heyes in the door; too many vivid sensations for this to be a dream.
"Mmm." Kid sniffed appreciatively. "Smells like dinner is cooking. Kennet must have made it back before we did."
Another member of the gang? Starsky took a big whiff, his belly rumbling with hunger pangs. The last thing he'd eaten were the M&M's with Hutch, and that seemed a lifetime ago.
"Heyes!" a deep, heart-stoppingly familiar voice called from the fireplace. "You were correct, the bank president is keeping the mon..."
"Kennet," Heyes said abruptly, dropping his saddle bags on the floor with a deliberate thud. Curry stepped nimbly around them and went over to a cast iron pot hanging on a hook on the hearth, giving Kennet a welcoming slap on the arm.
Hutch? Starsky froze in place, staring at the man standing next to the Kid.
"We have company." Heyes waved a hand at Starsky.
"Ursäkta!" His face flushing, either from the fire or the unexpected guest, a man with Hutch's features and pale blond hair dropped the ladle on Kid's boot. "Oh-oh, I am so clumsy!"
"Least you cooked," Kid said mildly, picking up the spoon with a smirk. He scooped out a ladle full of stew and poured it into a small metal bowl. "Heyes'd like to let me starve to death riding up from Los Angeles."
"You've got a hollow leg," Heyes took off his hat and jacket, hanging them both on a hook.
"Smells terrific!" Starsky came up close to the fire, grateful for the heat, trying not to stare at Kennet. He could be Hutch's brother. There were minor differences; Kennet had a small scar on his chin, and he wasn't quite as tall as Hutch. In fact, wearing cowboy boots, he wasn't quite as tall as Starsky. Used to looking slightly up at his partner, it was disconcerting to look him straight in the eye.
"I've never had venison." He stuck out his hand at the disconcerted blond. "David Starsky."
"Kennet Hutchinson," he replied, still blushing, wiping his hands on a piece of flour sack before grasping Starsky's hand. Staring at Starsky for a moment, he made a small sound in the back of his throat as if he wanted to say something else. "Happy to meet you."
Starsky picked up on the Swedish accent now. What the hell was going on here? The article he'd never gotten to finish had mentioned Heyes, Curry and a gang. Did that mean that Hutch's doppelganger was a bank robber?
"Kid, leave some for the rest of us." Heyes dipped a finger into Curry's bowl, licking stew off with mischievous glee.
"Get your own!" Kid laughed, throwing a leg over a wooden bench next to a split log table. He shoveled the stew into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in a month of Sundays.
Feeling like a fish out of water, Starsky sat down next to Curry, needing a few minutes to assimilate. The pounding in his head was causing some vertigo, as if he was tipping off the edge of the world.
He looked around carefully. Next to the modern, well-appointed cabins he had stayed in with Hutch, this place wasn't a full step up from camping in the wilderness. The cabin was square with rough plank floors. The walls were not properly chinked, letting wind in through the gaps in the logs, and the windows were covered with some kind of thick, oiled paper that flapped incessantly. The only actual furniture was the table and two benches. There were no beds, no chairs, and now that Starsky thought about it, the toilet was most probably an outhouse past the barn. Quite a chilly walk just to take a leak. He shivered again, tucking his cold hands up into the long sleeves of his jacket. He was warm because he was facing the wide hearth, however, he could feel the sharp bite of the cold air coming through the chinks in the wall at his back.
"Heyes?" Hutchinson asked softly, going back to his stew pot. "Is he...?"
Starsky caught an undercurrent of tension. Something made the guy nervous, and it wasn't simply that there was a stranger in the house.
"We'll talk later," Heyes answered, taking bowls from a shelf above a box full of dried goods. The old time version of the kitchen cabinet. "We found Starsky on the trail about two miles from here. He must have fallen off his horse."
"You are lucky, then." Kennet served the stew into bowls. "Not many folk in this..." He frowned, handing out the portions and muttering in Swedish under his breath. "Sometimes I forget my English."
"Canyons around these parts can be treacherous," Kid said, glancing at Heyes who just smiled benignly. "Homesteaders are few and far between, and there's not much farming in these hills."
"This is beef country," Heyes explained. "More cows than people."
"You might have spent the night alone, on the ground," Kennet said finally, smiling when Starky scraped the bottom of his bowl. "You like the stew?"
"Best stuff I've had in years." Starsky licked his spoon and wished for more. However, there wasn't much left in the pot, and Kyle hadn't eaten yet. They weren't exactly rolling in money. Maybe that was the reason for the upcoming heist?
"Thank you for the hospitality. In the morning, could I borrow a horse? I could pay..." he trailed off, very aware of the wallet in his corduroy jacket pocket. Full of cash. Twentieth century money, which would be about as good as Monopoly dollars in this time period.
With a suddenly racing heart, he glanced down at his wrist. Luckily, his jacket sleeves were long enough to cover the very un-1870's wristwatch on his left arm. Dropping his hands into his lap, under the edge of the table, he slipped off the watch and tucked it into his pocket with the wallet.
"That's not necessary." Kennet shook his head, the resemblance to Hutch all the more uncanny when he smiled. "I will have to work in the morning, at the bank. I can take you into Los Angeles."
"He needs to get to Bay City," Heyes mentioned.
"You work at a bank?" Starsky asked, even more pieces to the puzzle falling into place. Kennet must be the inside man, which is why Heyes and his crew had gotten into the bank so easily. The big question was, why had Starsky dropped into their lives, forearmed with the knowledge that they were about to rob a bank? To stop them? If so, wouldn't that change history?
"It's a good job. I am lucky to have it." Kennet ducked his head, the smile gone. He looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I came to California to find some... thing, but what I... sought was already dead, so I must work."
"Work makes you an honest man," Kid said, stacking the empty bowls on one end of the table. "That's the important thing, Kennet."
Kennet stared into the fire for a moment, flames reflected in his eyes and pinking up his cheeks, which had gone too pale. He shook himself as if tucking something heartbreakingly sad and difficult to bear back into the depths of his heart.
"What brought the four of you together?" Starsky looked around the table. Heyes had produced a bottle of rot-gut and a deck of cards. He passed the whiskey to Kid, who took a swig and passed it on to Kennet just as Kyle breezed in, letting in a blast of cold air. "You all work at the bank?"
"In a manner of speaking." Heyes dimpled, shuffling the cards with limber fingers. "The Kid and I needed a place to stay, and mutual friends introduced us to Kennet who was in similar straits. This cabin was abandoned. It was fate, you might say. "
"Ödet," Kennet said in Swedish, as if talking to himself. "Kismet."
"Horses all fed and watered," Kyle announced as he clattered through the door, stomping his feet. "Anythang left in the pot f'me?'
"Of course, min vän, my friend." Kennet got up to give Kyle his place. "In Swedish, we would call this köttgryta." He ladled out a portion of stew.
"Don't care whatcha call it," Kyle said, digging into a bowlful. "It's fine eating."
"There any coffee?" Kid asked, pushing the whiskey toward Starsky.
Starsky took a swig and sputtered, coughing. White hot fire blazed down his throat; pure moonshine, stronger than the stuff he'd gotten sick on two months before. Another couple of swallows and he'd be plastered, which wouldn't be a good idea under the present circumstances.
"I can make some." Kennet opened a bag full of coffee beans, pouring some into a small grinder.
"Mr. Starsky," Heyes said formally, with a twinkle in his eye. "Do you play poker?"
"Heyes!" Kyle complained. "Ain't none of us got a plugged nickel between us until..."
"Play for matches, then," Kid cut in smoothly. "Lots of those around this place!"
Heyes laughed, a warm indulgent laugh, his dark eyes lingering on his partner for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Again, Starsky thought of Hutch, and missed him like crazy, despite the fact that there was a man with his face standing not five feet away. Kennet wasn't Hutch, no matter how much he looked like him.
"I'll sit out." Kennet held up his hands. "I will clean up. I have no head for cards."
"You're an intelligent man, as well as honest," Curry said, picking up the cards Heyes had dealt to the three men sitting at the table. "I don't know why, after all these years, I still play poker with Heyes at all."
"He good?" Starsky asked, glancing at his cards. A jack of spades, two and three of clubs, ace of hearts and the ten of diamonds. All very unremarkable. Poker was not his game, but he knew better than to bet much on these cards.
"He good?" Kyle drawled, looking over his hand with a grunt of displeasure. No poker face at all. "Heyes knows a deck backwards, forwards 'n sideways."
"Maybe I should be sitting this out, too," Starsky mused. He was surprised that he felt at ease with these men. He was out of his time, and had no idea how to get back.... Panic began to rise in his guts, and it was impossible to hear over the rushing blood in his ears.
"David?" Heyes asked, and by the look on his face, not for the first time. "Where'd you go?"
"My head." Starsky pressed on his forehead with a wince that wasn't entirely faked. He felt lousy, and was glad these men were genuinely kind. "Sorry, what?"
"Five match sticks from every player for the pot." Heyes indicated the small pile of matches in front of Starsky.
Spooked that he hadn't even noticed the Kid handing out the 'loot', Starsky shoved five matchsticks into the middle of the table. He had to stay more alert. Who knew when he would discover some way to get out of here. What would H.G. Wells or Jules Verne do at a time like this? Too bad he didn't have a way to build a time machine out of spare parts.
"One card." Kid discarded one and Heyes dealt him another.
"Two." Starsky shrugged, getting rid of the clubs.
"Since you're a newcomer," Heyes said, passing him two more cards. "I'll tell you an old saying my grandpa Curry used to say..."
"Never draw to an inside straight," Kid finished in unison with him, both of them laughing.
"Curry?" Starsky asked, trying to deflect his amazement at the two new cards. The king of clubs and the queen of hearts. He had a royal flush! So much for Heyes' advice. "Any relation to you, Jed?"
"Close ties in our families," Heyes said, gazing straight at Starsky as if he knew exactly what Starsky held and was mightily amused at the exception to his rule. "My mother's kin to Kid's Grandpa, second cousins, more or less."
"I'm plum out, nary a good'un in my hand," Kyle said mournfully, taking a long drink from the whiskey bottle. He laid out a two of spades, a three of hearts, the ten of diamonds and a six of clubs.
"I'm in four." Kid tossed in four matchsticks and tapped his card fan closed, placing it face down. He struck one of his matches against the table and lit a cigar he'd taken from his vest pocket. The stink of cheap tobacco proved it was no fine Cuban hand-rolled smoke.
Heyes glanced at Curry, one eyebrow slightly elevated. He matched Kid's bet and raised him one, all without a single 'tell' to reveal what he held in his hand. "Think you got something, Kid?"
"Might be, Heyes," Kid gave him a 'cat who swallowed a canary' smile, smug and full of promise.
Intrigued by their obvious joy of one another, Starsky almost forgot to bet himself. "Uh- sorry," he stammered when Heyes and Curry remembered there was another player in the game and turned toward him. "Six matches."
"Aha." Heyes laughed with delight, plucking the cigar out of Curry's fingers to take a puff. "Another country heard from. This is getting interesting, and on the first round." He blew a lazy smoke ring in the air. "Kid?"
"Hmm." Kid fanned out his cards again, squinting at them. The light from a single lantern hung on the rafter above the table cast an uneven light, throwing shadowing in all directions. "What're we up to? Six?"
"Six it is!" Kyle crowed.
Kennet stopped sweeping the hearth, and leaned against his broom, watching the game from over Kyle's shoulder.
Starsky glanced up, his heart accelerating. Why was he so excited to win a stupid little card game played for matches? He liked these guys, and wanted them to like him. Kennet was staring at him with slight frown, the furrow between his brows so like Hutch's that Starsky started to say something.
"I'll..." Curry paused as if considering betting an entire fortune instead of sulfur tipped sticks. "Double." He pushed in twelve matches.
"Thirteen," Heyes said, the dimples in his cheek deep grooves as he upped the ante.
Starsky glanced at the other two. Kid had the cigar again and was sitting back, drawing in a long, slow mouthful of smoke. He looked unworried. Heyes had the peaceful, content air of a man having a damned fine time. Both had to be bluffing. Neither of them could have a hand anywhere near as good as Starsky's unless there was a possibility of a royal flush in one suit or a straight, high flush, including face cards. Those might beat his five marvelous cards, but he doubted it.
Quickly counting the matches he had on the table, Starsky pushed them all in. "Twenty six," he said breathlessly. Maybe he should have been playing poker with Hutch all along; this was much easier than Monopoly.
"I fold." Kid laughed, putting his cards face up. A pair of sevens, a pair of eights and an odd ace of diamonds.
"David?" Heyes mused. "I believe that you like what you have in your hand, since you bet the whole thing. He gazed at Starsky for a long moment. "Call?"
"Royal flush," Starsky showed his winning hand.
"Very nicely played!" Heyes' dark eyes lit up. "Wasn't my night, I guess." He turned up a hand almost as good as Starsky's; a straight flush, the five, six, seven, eight and nine of spades. "High cards win, and you get the pot."
"Least I'll be able to build a fire if I get stranded outside again!" Starsky scooped all the matches into a pile in front of him with a lighter heart. He wasn't going to dwell on the 'what-ifs' right now. There was no point.
The game started over again with good-natured arguing about poker rules and the ownership of matches. Starsky could tell that Heyes was one hell of a poker player. He had an innate sense of which cards were already in play and which were still in the deck. What a quick mind the man had; in the twentieth century, he could have been a wiz on Wall Street.
In the midst of a game where Heyes was winning easily, Kennet placed the coffee pot on the table and poured thick, richly scented brew into old canning jars.
Starsky's eyes were burning from the smoke in the room. Between the fireplace and the vile-smelling cigar Curry and Heyes were sharing, the air quality was worse than Bay City during a summer smog alert. He coughed against his fist and turned his cards down to reach for his coffee cup.
The surface of the coffee was rolling like the Pacific during a heavy storm.
"Damn," Starsky said as the bench he and Curry were sitting on shook violently, sliding sideways toward the closest wall. When the ground lurched, the wooden floor buckled, riding the vibrations like a surfboard on the waves. A thrill ran down Starsky's spine. If one earthquake had propelled him back in time, maybe another would reverse the process?
"Earthquake!" Kyle shouted, diving under the table, which only got him kicked by the other men's feet.
"Gud i himlen!" Kennet went pale, holding onto the table with both hands.
Sure that the rickety house was going to be reduced to a pile of rubble, Starsky sat out the quake, waiting to wake up in his own era. Would he ever see Hutch again?
He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the jolt that would send him hurtling through time and heard the coffee pot crash onto the floor just as the earth went still.
"I hate those damn things," Heyes growled, collecting the scattered cards with a visibly shaking hand. "Everyone all right?"
"That was stronger than the earlier one," Kid said, snuffing out his cigar against the table top. There were matches strewn everywhere; a crazy game of pick-up sticks. "Kyle, you can come out from under there now." He nudged the other man with a boot tip.
Kyle chuckled self-consciously, standing up. "Ah thank Ah'll go bed out with the horses. They're sensitive bein's, they's probably shook up worse than us."
"With four horses, half the time it's warmer out there." Curry grinned, youthful resilience overcoming the fear. "G'night, Kyle."
"See y'all in the morning," Kyle called out.
"Sleep well, min vän." Kennet waved, bending to pick up the coffee pot.
"Kid, you about ready to turn in?" Heyes asked, inclining his head at the ladder to the loft. He threw a friendly arm over the gunslinger's shoulders.
Curry nodded, rubbing one eye the way small children did, with his whole fist. Starsky again wondered how old he was and what had caused two personable young men like Curry and Heyes to become thieves.
"David, there's a bedroll in the corner over there. If you sleep near the fire, you'll be warm enough. Kennet has the only mattress." Heyes pointed to a patched, lumpy thickness folded against the far wall that Starsky hadn't even noticed previously. It looked far too small to fit Kennet, and as uncomfortable as sleeping on a pile of sticks.
"Thanks." Starsky watched the two outlaws climb wearily up the stairs. The earthquake had doused the camaraderie of the evening, and brought back his own concerns.
What the hell was he going to do?
"They sleep..." Kennet shrugged, glancing up at the ceiling, or the floor of the loft. "To keep their body warmth. I enjoy being near the fire, myself."
Listening to Heyes and the Kid getting ready for bed above them, Starsky was fairly certain that they slept together for more than just conserving body warmth. He could almost swear he heard the touch of lips and a soft sound of love as they nestled down into blankets. All he could think of was sliding between the sheets of his own bed with Hutch and seeing dark curls next to shining blond in the overhead mirror.
Feeling incredibly lonely, Starsky watched Kennet bank the fire, trying to blot out comparisons between him and Hutch. Except every time the firelight reflected in Kennet's blond hair, Starsky was overcome with a sadness that he couldn't control. It wasn't as if his Hutch was dead, he hadn't even been born yet!
After braving the cold to empty his bladder, Starsky hunkered down in the thin blankets that smelled strongly of horse — and were scratchy, to boot. He was beginning to be downright scared. Why hadn't the second quake taken him back to 1978 Bay City? There was no logic here. In Star Trek, when one event caused a rift in time and space, then a second one resolved the situation.
He wanted to fall asleep, wanted to be transported to his own time in his dreams, but he was beginning to suspect that would not happen. Maybe, like Dorothy, he had to find a pair of red glittery dancing shoes and click his heels together? It was worth a try.
At the very least, the idea made him smile.
It was probably lucky for the sake of his old west disguise that he'd worn a plaid shirt, corduroy jacket and dark slacks with Fry boots to court. Dressed like this, he looked far less out of place than he would have in threadbare jeans, a t-shirt, windbreaker and Adidas sneakers.
He had to think up a plan. Turning his back to the fire also kept Kennet out of his line of sight. The Swedish man had plumped up his mattress, sending clouds of straw dust into the already smoky air and settled in with a sigh, covered with a patchwork quilt. His nearness didn't exactly make Starsky uncomfortable, but thoughts of Hutch kept flooding his brain, canceling out any useful plans on how to get home. What was Hutch doing? Did he realize Starsky was not there — or like in so many time travel movies, did the old E equals MC squared enter into the equation somehow? Were the time streams diverging? Or maybe 1978 and 1878 were in some weird alignment because of an elliptical star in the Milky Way? Was there some kind of wrinkle in time between the years? Should he be looking out for Charles Wallace, Meg and Calvin O'Keefe to help him get back?
None of that was helping whatsoever.
Rubbing his nose to prevent sneezing and waking Kennet up, Starsky reviewed what he already knew. According to the article in the Los Angeles Guardian for December, 1878, the Gold Country bank was robbed by a small gang of thieves. They'd either picked a lock or had a key, since the doors were not busted down. The bank manager had opened the safe on December 26th to find it nearly empty. The sole witness, a woman who had looked out her window to see the gang fleeing, had described it as a "cold, clear night with no moon."
That would definitely be the next night. Starsky sneaked a look at the lighted dial of his Yamamoto watch under cover of the horse blanket. It was just midnight, December 23 sliding into Christmas eve. What time was it when he'd fallen through time? Just about twilight, so about four thirty or closer to five o'clock. Funny, he hadn't even paid attention then.
The text under the photograph of Heyes, Kid and the beautiful Clementine had said that Heyes was suspected of the robbery but that was never proved because he was never caught or charged with the crime. The sole fact that the safe had been cracked without damaging the surface had pointed to the slick outlaw, but there had been no way to prove the allegation. Starsky could only assume that Heyes and Curry, and probably Kyle whateverhisnamewas either were not yet as famous as they would be or this was before they joined the gang in Wyoming. He still hadn't remembered the name of that gang which was not exactly pertinent information, in his present predicament. He really needed to know why he was here and how he was going to go back home.
Starsky dreamed of Hutch wearing cowboy garb and riding a piebald horse with a limp, galloping across an endless plain. Some how, he never got any nearer to Starsky, who was waiting at the Bay City train station without a ticket.
From out of nowhere, a shot rang out.
Awakening instantly, Starsky bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribcage. There was no one in the cabin, but he was certain that he'd seen — no, heard — a shot just before being ripped out of his dream. He'd seen Hutch fall...
Another gunshot blasted just outside. Starsky scrambled to his feet, running out the back door, automatically reaching for the holster that should have been under his right arm. He skidded to a stop, the thoughts no gun, it was a court day, where's Hutch? and wrong century jamming up his brain, and took in the sight of Heyes and Hutchinson watching Curry practice shooting in the barnyard. There were five bottles lined up on the corral fence. Two of them were broken.
Kid Curry flipped his pistol in a road agent spin, dropping it into the holster tied to his right thigh. Seconds later, faster than Starsky had ever seen anyone draw, the revolver was back in his hand and he'd pulled the trigger without appearing to aim at his targets. The bullet hit true, smashing the third bottle to smithereens.
"It's pulling to the left," Kid said with a grimace, examining his pistol. The sun was low in the eastern sky: Curry's shadow arched and danced when he rotated the bullet cylinder with his thumb, then cocked the trigger and squinted at the barrel.
Leaning against the fence barely a foot from the shooting range, Heyes just grinned indulgently and sipped his coffee. Wearing a Henley shirt with the suspenders hanging down over the tops of his thighs, Heyes looked completely unconcerned that one wrong bullet would kill him instantly. He must have total faith in Curry's aim.
"That was incredible shooting," Starsky said, stunned. He'd read that historians considered Curry to be the best fast draw in the old west, but that in no way conveyed the man's talent or the precision of his marksmanship. In the twentieth century, he could have been a gold medal winning Olympic athlete. He had an uncanny, almost unnerving ability with a revolver.
His face reddened from the chilly wind, Hutchinson glanced over at Heyes. Starsky got the feeling that he'd barged in on something the two were discussing. The bank robbery, perhaps? Since he'd arrived the night before, Hutchinson had looked uncomfortable, almost guilty. Was his part in the upcoming theft weighing on his conscience? If he really was a distant relation of Starsky's Hutch, Starsky really didn't want the man involved in an illegal act.
Lifting his coffee to his lips, Heyes glanced coolly at Hutchinson and gave a single nod.
Blowing out a white puff of air, Hutchinson shivered, rubbing his arms. Of the three early risers, he was the only one who had shaved and was dressed in something different than he'd worn the night before, a brown suit. "I should get the horses saddled. David, I must be at the bank in two hours. We will leave soon." Kennet jerked his head at the cabin. "I let you sleep in. There is coffee made."
"Thanks, I guess I needed the sleep." Pretending he wasn't speculating on what Heyes and Hutchinson were involved in, Starsky rubbed his head. He wanted a few more minutes to admire Curry's prowess with a revolver.
The sweet-faced outlaw was unshaven but even that didn't make him look any older. He reholstered his gun and stood relaxed with his arms at his side, facing the fence. In a blur of motion, he drew and fired, the fourth bottle meeting the same fate as the other three.
"How's your head?" Heyes asked, as if his ears weren't ringing from the close proximity of his partner's targets.
"Much better, thanks." Starsky shivered. Judging from the sun, which was barely up above the tree line, it couldn't be more than an hour past sunrise. "And thank you for the hospitality to a stranger."
Heyes dimpled, raising his cup in a toast just as Curry killed the last bottle.
"No more shooting this morning, Kid, we've got more pressing needs," Heyes said.
"I'm out of targets anyway." Kid shrugged. "Unless...?"
"I only have one complete deck left, no thanks to you." Heyes poked his friend in the ribs and passed him the coffee for a sip.
Kid and Heyes looked at each other, Kid obviously begging for a little latitude and Heyes giving in, all in under a second.
"Can you give me any tips? My aim is all right but I can't draw half as fast," Starsky said, getting used to their non-vocal communication. This must be what others felt like when he and Hutch did the same thing.
"Wait one minute." Kid winked saucily at Starsky and ran into the house, coming out with a handful of playing cards.
"Those had better be from the old deck," Heyes warned.
Curry flipped one over for Heyes to inspect. Heyes checked out both sides, grinned and tucked the king of spades into a split in the wooden fence. Kid stuffed the rest of the cards into his jeans pocket, spilling a few onto the hard-packed earth. To be helpful, Starsky scooped up what he could and tucked them into his own pocket.
Kyle came out of the barn wearing a heavy red and black plaid horse blanket jacket leading a saddled horse. "Kennet says this one's fer you," he said to Starsky. "Ah always like watching the Kid shoot." He spit tobacco juice on the ground and stroked the horse's nose to keep him calm. "He's never missed yet."
Starsky scoffed silently. Even the Kid couldn't possibly hit such a tiny bull's eye with a 19th century gun that had no scope or special targeting device.
Taking two steps further back than where he'd been standing to shoot at the bottles, Curry exhaled, drew and fired, all so quickly that Starsky didn't see the separate movements. One moment the Kid's hand was empty, the next he was holding the pistol and the card had a perfect hole right in the center of the spade.
"No wonder..." Starsky blurted out before he could stop himself.
"Show off," Heyes said blandly, going into the barn. "David, Kennet'll be leaving shortly. Best get some coffee and a biscuit before you ride out," he said over his shoulder.
Spinning his gun backwards over his hand, Curry made the pistol perform like a trained dog. He flipped it barrel up, twisted his wrist and suddenly, the Colt slipped into his holster, smooth as silk. There was no conceit, but from the self-satisfied smile on his face, it was clear that shooting and handling a gun were simply what he called fun.
Starsky whistled through his teeth. "You have a real talent."
Curry shrugged, holding the back door open for him. "Thanks. We all got something we can do best. Ain't what my mama wanted me to do, but I wasn't any kind of farmer."
"Where are you from?" Starsky asked, glad to be inside the house again. It was colder outside than he'd expected, and the coffee that Curry poured into two cups smelled terrific.
"Me and Heyes grew up in Kansas." Kid sat on a chair, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back until the chair was tipped precariously against the table. Starsky had sat that way in the BC metro detective squadroom many times. "Left when Quantrill's raiders came through and killed our folks." He related the facts as if they had very little effect on him, but there was a rough sentiment in his voice. He drank some coffee and attacked a cold biscuit with hunger. "Been doing one thing or th'other ever since. Wyoming's more or less home, but it's unlivable in the dead of winter."
So the gang was already in Wyoming, unless Starsky was misconstruing everything.
"Are you three spending Christmas up here in the cabin?" Starsky asked. He started to mention the lack of tree, ornaments or gaily wrapped gifts and then caught himself. Sure, people in his time period liked to believe that the Victorian era had the corner on Christmas merriment, but that didn't take into account the poverty, cold or difficulty in getting anywhere in a short time. Maybe Heyes, Curry and Hutchinson simply didn't have the means to spend money on extras when they were living so frugally.
"No, me and Heyes have a friend up in San Francisco," Kid said, eyeing Starsky warily. "Hutchinson had some family in these parts, but there's been some troubles, and he's on his lonesome now." He let the chair come forward with a thud. "What about you? You show up here, not dressed for winter. No money, no weapon..." Kid took out a roll of gun cleaning tools and placed them on the table. He drew his pistol, slow and unthreatening, but still, it was a revolver in the hands of a very good shot.
Counting mentally, Starsky realized that Curry had taken six practice shots without reloading. Whew. There were no bullets in his gun.
He took a beat to remember the story he'd told them the night before. "I was in the market to buy land and my horse shied during the earthquake. Nothing all that remarkable..." He kept his hands away from his body, trying to look as innocent as possible. It was a good thing none of them had ever searched him because they would have found his gold detective's badge and 20th century currency.
"So where were you planning to be this morning, after your tour of the countryside? Got family in Los Angeles?" Curry flicked open the bullet cylinder and blew gently to remove any excess gunpowder.
Starsky picked up a biscuit, surprised at how uncomfortable he was with the outlaw he'd originally considered so friendly. Curry was deceptively easy-going, but there was a deep current of suspicion underneath. It had to stem from whatever the four outlaws were planning.
"Seems to me that you're more'n naturally curious about the four of us, without telling much at all about yourself," the Kid said, poking the brush down the barrel of his gun. "Oh, I forgot, you wanted to go to Bay City, which ain't much more than a dock with a couple of seaman's shacks around it." Kid flicked a glance at Starsky over the top of his gun. "No place for a gent with a nice suit like yours."
"I'm not hiding anything, Kid." Starsky shrugged. "Are you?"
Curry had a damned good poker face, so it was only because Starsky was watching for a reaction that he saw one. The Kid's eyes slid left for one second, then he focused on the gun, ramming in the brush more forcefully than necessary.
Starsky wanted to ask why they were robbing a bank on Christmas eve, but he didn't risk doing so. Curry was already suspicious, and the last thing Starsky wanted to do was change history forever by inadvertently altering the course of future events. Even his own presence here affected what would happen. Starsky could only imagine what meddling more could do. He'd probably arrive back in Bay City, 1978 to find that Hitler had won the war and now John F. Kennedy was fighting a rebellious battle against evil like Luke Skywalker squaring off against Darth Vader.
The tension ratcheted up in the small cabin and Starsky was aware of the mingled scents: unwashed body, gun oil, coffee and wood smoke. He took a slow, calming breath, watching Curry work.
The Kid smiled suddenly, a sunny thing that turned up his blue eyes and made him look about eighteen. "Sorry, David, I've been a mite skittish of late. Feeling protective of me and mine."
"I..." Starsky started but Kennet stuck his head in the door.
"David, we must be on our way. The bank will only be open for a few hours today, but my boss is a stubborn and..."
"Dangerous man," Heyes added obliquely, brushing past him to get another cup of coffee. "Kid, you been entertaining our guest?"
Curry glanced at him with an enigmatic expression that gave away nothing, loading bullets into the chamber.
"Thank you again for letting me sleep by the fire, and feeding me." Starsky shook Heyes' hand. "Really nice of you."
"Only doing what it says in the good book." Heyes smiled, leaning against the mantle over the fireplace. "Matthew 25, verse 40."
Starsky didn't know the Bible well enough to recall specific verses, particularly since he'd never read the New Testament. He flashed on a memory of Hutch hunched over in a chair, swigging beer and reading the Bible because there was nothing else to do in the guarded hotel.
"Ah, yes." Kennet nodded with such sadness that Starsky wanted to pull him into a bear hug the way he would have done with Hutch. "Jesus said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.""
"Kennet's father was a man of the cloth," Heyes said by way of an explanation. Something like anger flitted across his face only to replaced with a kind of fierce determination. "You take care riding down the hillside, it can be treacherous for a man not used to sitting a horse."
"Am I taking one of your rides? How can I return the horse?" Starsky asked. He liked these men, but really wanted to get back to his own time and never come back to this one again.
"Me and Heyes don't mind riding double." Kid kept right on oiling his Colt .45. "We're used to it. You just leave the horse at the livery near the bank, and we'll be by to pick him up by nightfall."
Following Kennet outside, Starsky mounted the patient chestnut he'd ridden in on, Curry's horse. The air was warming enough that he no longer felt chilled to the bone. The sky was a china blue, the color of Hutch's — and Kennet's — eyes, and Starsky still couldn't help comparing them. If this was Hutch's great-great-whatever, how did he get back to Sweden to father Hutch's father's father? Holding tight to the horse's reins, his feet jammed into the stirrups, Starsky felt sturdy enough to be able to talk and ride at the same time.
"Kennet? Heyes said your father was a..." Starsky searched for the correct term. He'd always been confused with the varieties of ordained Christians. Priest, preacher, reverend, pastor, vicar — the list was endless. Taking a stab in the dark, he guessed, "Minister? Was that in Sweden?"
"Yes." Kennet jerked his mount's reins, keeping the black horse on the trail and away from an inviting clump of fresh green grass. "He was a very pious man," he trailed off as if trying to translate what he was saying from Swedish into English. After a false start in his own language, he said, "Reverend Hutchinson was full of virtues, with none to bestow upon his son."
"Hard on you, huh?" Starsky clucked the horse he'd decided to call Patience up closer to Kennet's mount.
"He wanted me to be just like him." Kennet shrugged. "But I was not." He rode quietly for a long while, his sleek horse picking up speed as they trotted across a wide expanse of grassland before slowing to go up the steep incline of a hill.
At the top, Kennet reined in and sat in the saddle, gazing down at the view. When Starsky drew abreast of him, he understood why. Rows of rolling hills crowned with the familiar dark green of live oak trees rippled down into the valley and then right out toward the coast. Starsky gaped. There were no concrete highways, no office buildings competing for space, no billboards, airplanes or smog. Just an unspoiled bowl of land, beginning to fill up with the hustle and bustle of a western town turning into a big city. In the far distance, further than Starsky had ever been able to see in his own time, the Pacific ocean was an infinite swath of gray blue, stretching to the horizon. He could just discern a cloud of white sails and the tangle of masts of ships docked in the harbor to the south of Los Angeles. That little port must be his future home.
"You are from Bay City?" Kennet asked, pointing out the tiny seaside hamlet.
"I've lived there a while," Starsky said vaguely, still taking in the remarkable sight. Bay City was so small! He was surprised how different the whole area looked with so little 'civilization'. The hills were covered with winter green grass, but there were no palm trees, and far fewer eucalyptus than he was used to. Hutch had once told him that most palm trees and all eucalyptus were not actually native to California.
Nature lover Hutch should be the one to see this. Starsky tried to drink in enough to describe it to him when they were back together. Because, no matter what, they would be back together.
"Kennet..."
"David..."
They both spoke at exactly the same moment and Starsky laughed. "Jinx."
Kennet frowned, the furrow between his brows exactly like Hutch's. "I'm sorry, I don't know that word?"
"You say it when two people said the same thing, at the same time," Starsky explained, shifting on the big broad leather saddle. He'd never find riding enjoyable or comfortable. "Even though we said different names, we said them at the same... Nevermind, what were you about to say?"
"No, no," Kennet colored and ducked his head. "You must go first."
"Okay." Starsky decided to throw caution to the wind and chance mucking up history. He really didn't believe that the actions of one guy at the wrong time and place could really affect the outcome of World War Two, anyway. Heck, that war was still over sixty years in the future. "I get the feeling that you, Heyes and the Kid are involved in something that just doesn't sit well with you."
Kennet gasped, going from bright pink to a ghastly pale so quickly that Starsky was afraid he was going to faint and fall out of the saddle.
"Kennet?" Starsky swung down from Patience, grabbing the black's reins from Hutchinson's lax hands.
"H-how did you know?"
"Just chalk it up to intuition and some inside information," Starsky said grimly. "What's going on?"
"I know that Heyes, Curry or Kyle did not speak to you about this." Kennet worried his bottom lip with his top teeth, one hand sliding under his wool-lined jacket to rub his chest. "So, perhaps... Mr. Lassiter?"
The name rang a bell, but Starsky couldn't place it. "Kennet, believe me, you wouldn't believe me if I told ya." Starsky patted his thigh. "Did Heyes and Curry talk you into something illegal?"
"No, no." Kennet sighed in distress and dismounted. "Actually, I asked them. This is so..." He grimaced, searching for a word, and cursed softly in his native tongue. "Complicated. I came to California one year ago, with dreams of finding gold, just like every other sucker." He gestured out into the valley at the sprawl of frontier Los Angeles. "Mr. Barnum says there is a sucker born every minute. I thought my sister Emma was one of those lucky ones — born in the moments in between." He began walking down the slope, leading his horse.
Starsky followed, fascinated with the tale. "You sister arrived here first?"
"Emma married a man in Malmö, where I am from, and he planned to set up a bank here in the west coast, where there was so much promise of a wonderful new life." Kennet spoke wistfully, the sadness that always seemed a part of him almost overwhelming. "Her husband came here before her to set up the bank and build them a home. Our family- my grandfather comes from a long line of bankers..."
"But your father was a minister and didn't approve." Starsky kicked at a clod of earth that the black horse had loosened.
"Exactly." Kennet smiled a little, as if watching his family's history unfurl in front of him. "Nor my grandfather of his son, so Farfar—" He gave a short laugh. "Farfar is what you call—"
"Grandfather."
"Farfar was so proud of Emma and her husband Sven. They were carrying our bank to the United States, to America." He shook his head bitterly. "We were so sure there were streets lined in gold in the west."
"I've heard that one before," Starsky agreed.
"No one knows what happened. Emma was with child soon after her husband left and had to wait until the child was born." He smiled again, this time more happily. "My nephew, also named Kennet, for me. She sailed to America without her son, and I was to bring the boy— last year—" He choked, and gulped, obviously close to tears.
"Emma and her husband died?" Starsky asked softly after a long time. He really needed to hear the end of the story, although they were nearing Los Angeles. Here and there were small farmhouses and fenced in pastures with herds of cows. He had a feeling that Kennet was his link to Hutch — and his own time.
"We only heard from Emma twice. Once when she arrived in New York, the next when she arrived in Los Angeles a month later." Kennet leaned his forehead against his horse's neck, whispering softly in Swedish. Starsky wondered if he was praying.
Kennet mounted. "She wrote to say that Sven had encountered many difficulties in starting up the bank, although we had heard from him that he had procured a building and met with some other Swedish immigrants who were..." He gestured helplessly.
"Backing him? Supplying local money and clients?" Starsky suggested, climbing back on Patience.
"Exactly. Then nothing — from Emma or Sven." He kneed his horse over to one side of the rutted road to let a wagon rattle by. It was the first sign of traffic Starsky had seen. "I was very concerned, but we set out for America. The boy— little Kenny, he did not suffer the voyage well."
"Sea sick?"
"More something in his chest. He coughed and coughed until many of the other passengers complained." Kennet's mount kept plodding along, but Kennet rode with his head bowed and one broad hand covering his face. "We were in sight of New York harbor when Kenny died."
"Damn," Starsky whispered.
"I telegraphed Emma and Sven when we disembarked, but got no reply," he continued, voice choked with tears. "My journey took a long time across the continent. Weeks. By the time I arrived in Los Angeles, my sister and her husband were dead, too."
More wagons and horsemen had joined them on the road now that they were on the outskirts of the biggest city in California. A stagecoach, exactly like one in a Wells Fargo Bank ad, jangled past them, the team of horses snorting and stomping in the cool air. Just behind that was a dray wagon, as if a Budweiser commercial had come to life, huge hoofed Clydesdales pulling the enormous wagon with placid strength.
"What did you do?" Starsky asked when Kennet wiped his eyes with his shirt cuff.
"I spoke to as many Swedes as I could — all said the same thing. They were happy to have a bank from the old country, but Mr. Lassiter and owners of the Gold Country Bank resented the competition and blockaded Sven." He frowned, biting on his bottom lip again. "They put up many obstacles, preventing Bank of Malmö from ever opening its door. The building Sven bought burned down, suspiciously — there were many fees to rebuild — most illegal, until Sven had nothing left of the $20,000 he had started with."
"And your sister?" Starsky felt anger brewing in his belly for the underhanded practices of the GC Bank, the very same one he kept his money in. And the name Lassiter finally fell into place. He could picture the man: stout and pompous, wearing a black suit with a gold chain stretched across his corpulent belly. He and his wife had been the portrait right next to Heyes and the Kid in the bank's historical display.
"I believe they died together, both contracted a fever and had no money to pay a healer — nothing left, no food, no home..." Kennet hitched an unsteady breath and squared his shoulders, anger flashing across his handsome features. "I had to— you know? Avenge my sister and her husband. I would work in the Gold Country bank. It is my trade."
"So you got a job with the competition to weed out the unscrupulous practices going on under the table?" Starsky laughed at the surprising deviousness of the plan. Just as he'd figured, Kennet was the inside man.
"I think I understand." Kennet shot him a look that Hutch often gave Starsky, which said 'somehow you hit it on the nose, but you're weird, you know that?' He clucked his tongue at the black. "Exactly. I learned that Mr. Lassiter is an evil man who destroys all that he opposes."
"Don't get mad, get even."
Kennet startled, gripping his reins tightly when the black sensed his surprise. His cheeks flushed even redder than they were from the cold air. "That is what Heyes said."
Astonishing to think that he and Heyes had much at all in common. "It's a well known saying." Starsky shifted in the saddle.
"You are very easy to talk to." Kennet frowned. "And you comprehend my skäl..." He faltered, groping for a word. "Reasons."
"Motivation," Starsky said simply. The need to defend family was strong. His own father's murder had affected his actions all of his life. Yes, he knew. "You had to right a wrong. But how did you hook up with Heyes and Curry?"
"Mutual friends." Kennet lead the horses onto the first real street with houses and small shops on both sides. The street was unpaved, with deep puddles of rank, sticky mud. They had reached Los Angeles.
"I knew from the first what they could accomplish..." He glanced warily at Starsky. "You know, don't you? I don't know how — this inside information, but you know that they will rob the bank." He dropped his voice until the latter came out in a whisper.
"Yeah, I figured that out," Starsky agreed, steering Patience around a pile of manure. The old west stank. There was no other word for it. These weren't the sanitary, flat dirt streets of a John Wayne movie. "Heyes can fiddle a safe combination."
Kennet gave a stiff nod, threading the horses through more of the busy city. Starsky wanted to look everywhere at once, and dreaded losing Hutchinson in the fray so he nudged his mount to stay right on the black's tail. The muddy streets had given way to cobblestone paved thoroughfares and buildings made of brick or stone, some three stories high. Starsky spotted the usual old west style saloons and whorehouses, but was impressed to see fancy restaurants, elegant homes and fine emporiums, too.
"Heyes and Curry are very good men, but with some bad..." Kennet said, sounding half desperate and half afraid. "Please, turn onto that side street up ahead." His jaw was tight and all his movements jerky as if he couldn't quite coordinate his emotions and riding a horse at the same time. "That is where the livery is." He looked ahead, keeping an eye out on the thick congestion of horses, wagons, pedestrians and dogs that filled the road.
Starsky wrestled with his conscience. Hutchinson's situation was horrible. Starsky was a cop, he should stop Hutchinson and the gang, but he wasn't going to. Because the gears were already in motion and he didn't think he had the power, or the right, to change what had already happened, judging from the article he'd read in 1978. And the son of a bitch Lassiter had it coming to him.
They turned onto the quieter lane that led to the stables. "Will you — stop us?" Kennet asked.
"Do you want to go through with this?"
"I am — so worried." Kennet threw his leg over the black and slid to the ground. "Every moment I reconsider. I cannot sleep. I cannot... I dream of being in prison and then I dream of Emma dying in the cold, hungry." He held up his hands desperately. "I have to do this. For... ära — honor."
"What're you going to do with the money?" Starsky said, dismounting with a wince. He was never, ever getting on a horse ever again. His thighs and butt hurt like hell.
"Repay my grandfather. I will send the money to Sweden," Kennet said soberly, leaning against his black horse again. "After that, I do not know. Of course, I cannot work for Gold Country Bank. Heyes and Curry are headed north to San Francisco. I suppose I will follow. I am an outlaw now."
Starsky felt something twist inside him, his heart speeding up. He had this illogical fear that if Kennet didn't reconnect with his family, then Kenneth Hutchinson, son of Edward James Hutchinson, would never be born on August 28th, 1945. His Hutch. The Hutch he wanted to see more than anything on this earth. "Why don't you go back to Sweden?"
"My father..." Kennet began, but the naked yearning was there. He wanted to return. "He will find me a failure."
"And your grandfather?" Starsky ran a hand down Patience's withers, feeling the warm, breathing strength of her. This was no dream, this was no fantasy. He was one hundred years from his own world, and it still freaked him out.
"He is a forgiving man." Kennet swallowed, fear and anger warring on his face. "You will not stop us?"
"No." Starsky dredged up a smile. "It's not my place."
"Thank you," Kennet said with relief. He bowed his head, the blue eyes so like Hutch's, haunted with the past. "My part is small — and nearly over with. I told Heyes where the money is kept, and I will let them in. Heyes should only take what was Sven's, twenty thousand dollars, and a small fee for his expenses. But I feel a criminal."
"You're also a proud man." Starsky pressed his fingers into Hutchinson's arm, afraid to say too much and reveal how he knew the future, and yet afraid to part with this man without leaving some kind of impression. "This isn't the end of the road for you, I just can't tell you how I know. Lassiter was the criminal, you're just correcting an injustice the only way you can, with a little help from friends."
"I must tell you something." Kennet glanced at the livery. A heavy set black man in a derby hat was chatting with another customer mounted on a large gray mare, and it would be their turn next. "You will find me completely mad."
"We're all mad," Starsky misquoted the Cheshire Cat. "Or we wouldn't be here."
"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland!" Kennet said with surprise. "I have read that book." He searched Starsky's face with a quizzical expression. "Perhaps you might understand after all."
"We read the same books and know some of the same people," Starsky quipped.
"When I first saw you..."
"Hutchinson!" the livery owner bellowed. "You comin' in?"
"In one moment, Dobey." Kennet waved his hand. "You, David..." He shook his head, reaching up to touch Starsky's scruffy cheek. "Resemble someone I used to know."
Shock and something indefinable tingled in Starsky's chest.
"My grandfather had a great and good friend, from Poland, and his name was Starsky, like yours."
A boulder lodged in Starsky's chest, almost stopping his breathing.
"They were friends until Starsky was shot." Kennet gazed at Starsky in wonder. "Men in Malmö did not approve of my grandfather, a good Lutheran, befriending a Jew, and they shot Starsky in the chest."
"My God," Starsky whispered, unable to process anything past the fact that Hutchinsons and Starskys had known each other for generations.
"My grandfather grieves to this day. I will never see him again." He lifted his chin, pride and sorrow mingled in the strong lines of his face. "But were I to be with him once more, if there is nothing else I could give back to him, it will be that I have met a very good man who could be Uncle Starsky's young twin." Lingering just one moment longer, he dropped his hand to his side, a kind of peace in his eyes. "You have eased my mind more than you will ever know," Kennet said before trudging down the lane to the livery.
Starsky couldn't speak. It was all too much. He wasn't just evoking the Cheshire cat, he had tumbled into Wonderland mixed with Oz. Almost-Hutch chatted briefly with almost-Captain Harold Dobey in the guise of a livery owner, and then walked back onto the main street. Starsky recognized the large brick building in the middle of the block as the original Gold Country Bank, circa 1878. Kennet swung open the front door bedecked with a green wreath and disappeared inside.
Starsky stood rooted to the spot, still holding onto Patience's reins. What was he supposed to do now? Feeling hysterical, he clicked the heels of his Fry boots together and chanted, "There's no place like home, there's no place like home." But that did nothing except make Patience whinny.
"Hey, you! You just gonna stand there?" Dobey called out.
"Yes, Cap'n," Starsky started, but when he looked closely, he realized that Dobey wasn't his Captain. There was a superficial similarity to the two men, but the livery stable owner was not Harold's identical twin. There was a certain quirky satisfaction in that; this was not mirror-Bay City, like that weird episode of Star Trek where Spock was evil. Yet, at the same time, without Hutchinson, or Heyes, Kid and Kyle, Starsky was incredibly lonely. Was he stuck here forever? How in the hell was he getting back? Because, in every movie he'd ever seen, once the hero set things straight, or realized an important truth, then sproing, he was back at home with loved ones.
Walking the horse over to the livery, Starsky felt miserable. His head was hurting again and he was already hungry. Half a cup of coffee and a small biscuit hadn't held him for long.
"You lost, mister?" Dobey growled, chomping on a foul smelling cigar. He shoveled horse droppings from the stable floor into a big pile. Flies buzzed busily over the load of fresh manure that steamed faintly in the cold air.
"Just out of my usual routine," Starsky sighed. "Hutchinson's friend, Jed Curry will be along to get this horse later this afternoon."
"Yeah, I know them." Dobey puffed smoke and Patience sneezed. The livery owner towed the horse into the barn, unsaddling her and wiping her down with maximum efficiency.
Not knowing what else to do, Starsky wandered out onto Main Street. Fourth Street was to his left, Third Street to his right. He knew exactly where he was — if this was his time. In 1978, the courthouse where he'd given the deposition and listened to Hutch testify would be just about where he was standing now, in the lane leading to Dobey's Livery.
Main Street, 1878, was a busy place. Women in long skirts with fat bustles on the back and tiny little hats bristling with lace, feathers and enormous bows hurried along the street to finish their Christmas shopping. Men in fancy suits complete with vests and wearing hats on their heads went about their business with determined intent. Starsky had nowhere to go and nothing to do. If he was stuck here for the rest of his life, either he'd need to get a job, or join Heyes' gang.
That was not going to happen.
How could he get a job? He had no papers, no ID.
It struck him that men in this era could easily reinvent themselves, as Kennet was trying to do, because it was difficult, if not impossible to trace credit history or employment records. All Starsky had to do was march into the saloon two doors down, tell them he'd worked as a bartender before, and if they needed one, he'd be in like Flynn. There was no reason to mention that he'd been a bartender for all of a couple of weeks before he was fired, and that his cab driving skills were far superior — there were no cars to drive here.
Maybe the local constabulary would need a cop with futuristic ideas?
Starsky decided he needed to make a decisive move. At least, find a way to earn some cash. He took a step off the sidewalk and saw something glinting faintly in a puddle.
A dime! At least he thought it was. Fishing it out of the water, he examined the coin. There was a seated lady holding a crest and a small flag, and on the other side, the words one dime surrounded by olive branches.
He grinned. Surely the saloon would have food? Or at least a beer so he could think without his belly rumbling constantly.
Clasping his salvation, he pushed through the batwing doors and into the saloon. Déjà vu hit hard, making him dizzy. The place was so similar to the set of the Steve Hanson movie that he'd worked on that he had to stand just inside the door to acclimate. None of the patrons took the least interest in him, hunched over their whiskeys and beers as if they'd been dying of thirst in the desert until just that moment.
A bar stretched the length of the far wall. There was a painting of a partially nude Rubenesque woman eating grapes above the shelves of alcohol, with a drawing of an old fashioned Santa Claus tacked to the edge of the gilt frame for holiday decoration. An open door led to a small kitchen at one end of the bar. Six or eight tables were scattered around the narrow room, with a piano shoved into a far corner. Sawdust littered the floor, but the interior still reeked of stale booze, urine and cigar smoke.
Blinking in the dim light, Starsky approached the bar. The tall, slender black bartender looked awfully familiar.
"What'll it be, pilgrim?" the man asked, a wry smile playing on his thin face.
Starsky didn't blurt out "Huggy!" because it wasn't his old friend. His ears were too big, the gold tooth that glinted when he smiled was different, as was the missing left arm. It was quite possibly one of Huggy's many, many relatives, already in the bar business in the 19th century.
"What can I get for a dime?" he asked, with that weird sense of being with his old pal and yet not, at the same time.
"We gots a breakfast special goin' on t'day," the bartender announced cheerfully pointing to a misspelled menu scrawled on a small slate propped against a bottle of rotgut.
Ten cents bought a full meal; eggs, ham and grits with gravy — spelled gravee. Starsky wasn't too crazy about grits, but he was hungry enough not to care. And just grateful that he could pay for the meal.
"The special," Starsky ordered, plunking down his money.
"Comes with a beer, free a'charge." The bartender drew him a draught pint, straight from a barrel. Starsky could smell the hops and barley from where he was sitting. "Name's Lefty Brown, cause I only got the right one left." He laughed at his own joke, shoving the brimming glass across the bar. "You new around these parts?"
Starsky nodded, taking a long swallow of beer. Used to Coors and Bud, he was surprised at the strong, bitter flavor. "It's a long story, but I need to get back home a-s-a-p."
"Asap? Sounds like some new fangled invention," Lefty puzzled. Dropping Starsky's money into the till, he shouted into the kitchen for a special.
"As soon as possible," Starsky translated. "Name's David. How'd you lose your arm?"
"War between the states," he drawled. "But I made it through 'live, thank the Lord, which is more than some soldiers did."
Taking another drink, Starsky did a fast mental history lesson. The Civil War was fought from 1861-1865, and had ended thirteen years before — slightly longer ago than the Viet Nam conflict in his own era.
Lefty responded to a whistle from the back and ducked into the kitchen to get a plate heaping with eggs, ham and grits, the gravy nearly obscuring the food underneath. He smiled, making a show of smelling the food. "Fast Eddie lives up to his name. He's th'fastest cook we ever had."
Digging in, Starsky didn't even take time to savor the food. He shoveled it in, famished. About half way through, he was feeling much better after a large burp.
"Belchin' always does a man good." Lefty nodded, sliding two shots of rye down the bar to a couple of nattily dressed gents.
Starsky dropped his fork into the remaining grits. "Is that the bank president?" he asked, recognizing the man with a pair of enormous mutton chop whiskers.
"Mister Mortimer Lassiter." Lefty nodded. "That's him." He rubbed down the bar with a filthy rag. For a long moment, he didn't say anything, but looked steadily at Starsky as if weighing his merit. Apparently, he saw something in Starsky's face that convinced him to speak freely. "I shouldn't talk ill of a customer," he said in a low voice meant only for Starsky's ears. "But that man's a cruel, hard-hearted bastard."
Lassiter and his friend had moved to a table in the far corner of the room, next to the piano, for a private meeting. A group of poker players glanced their way and sneered openly, going back to their cards with soft curses and rude gestures.
"Don't I know it," Starsky said, watching a slight older man dressed like a cowboy and another man in 'town clothes' finish their breakfasts fast and then leave when Lassiter chose the table next to them. "He screwed a friend of mine good. Embezzled all his money."
"Seems to be the same chorus 'mongst lots of folk," Lefty agreed, propping his stump on the bar. "Gold Country was started a couple years ago by some right-minded men, but since Lassiter got t'be president of the bank, nobody's made a profit but him."
"He stole investments?"
Tugging on his earlobe, Lefty glanced at the banker's table and hunched his shoulder as if drawing a quiet curtain around the two of them. "I ain't got no proof, or nothing, but suddenly the owner of this here fine drinkin' establishment lost his savings and owes more'n he used to on the building."
"Did you know a Sven..." Starsky swallowed the last of his beer. He'd never heard Sven's last name, which certainly wasn't Hutchinson unless there was a lot of inter-family marriage in Sweden, which he doubted.
"Sven Ulvaeus," Lefty said without hesitation, a bitter anger twisting his mobile mouth. "Many of us tried to help, but Lassiter went after him with some kind of vengeance. Sven and Emma were salt of the earth. Dogs are treated better than they were."
"Then you know his brother-in-law, too?" Starsky asked, almost certain he knew the answer already. Like Huggy Bear in his time, Lefty seemed to have his one hand on the pulse of the neighborhood. The question was, did he know about Kennet's plans with Heyes and Curry?
"Kennet? 'Course I do." Lefty waved at two newcomers, a young cowboy and a girl with a shawl wrapped tightly around her. She wasn't wearing a coat and looked cold. "Come on in, my friends. Fast Eddie's already got the eggs on the griddle for you."
"Lefty," the young man said with regret. "I only got enough for coffee."
The girl, probably his wife, nodded, her face pinched and thin. "We just came in out of the cold for a spell."
With a whole meal only ten cents, what did just coffee cost? Thinking about what Hutch would have done, Starsky started to reach into his pocket to give them a dollar or two before remembering that the fifty bucks he was carrying was one hundred years out of date. Closing his fingers around some rectangle objects inside his pocket, Starsky pulled one out, scattering his matchstick winnings onto the bar.
"Coffee's already made, Tobias, and..." Lefty paused when Fast Eddie gave a whistle from the back. "So's your eggs. Be a shame to let 'em go to waste."
"Thank you!" Tobias said gratefully, pulling the chair out for the girl while Lefty went to get the food.
Starsky stared at the card in his palm. The king of hearts. It was one of the cards he'd picked up before Curry shot a perfect hole through the ace of spades. The king was in profile, with a regal crown on his flowing blond locks, and his nose was exactly like Hutch's. Starsky felt his heart skip a beat. He had to find Hutch — he had to find a way back.
Business in the saloon was picking up and Lefty was suddenly busy dispensing drinks and picking up dirty dishware. Lassiter and his associate got up to leave, lifting their noses as they passed the hungry young couple eating their eggs. At the table near the bar, a man in a black suit with a string tie and a red-headed lad gathered up their equipment, calling out thanks to Lefty.
"Come back again, Atticus!" Lefty yelled out just as Fast Eddie whistled from the kitchen.
Lost in thought, Starsky didn't pay much attention until the red-head stumbled with his unwieldy bundle and nearly dropped the entire contraption on Starsky's feet.
"Criminy!" he exclaimed, his cheeks blushing almost as bright at his hair. "Sorry, mister, this bundle of sticks is always giving me fits."
"S'all right," Starsky assured, stooping to help him pick it up.
His bundle of sticks proved to be the tripod for an old fashioned camera. The man in the string tie chuckled, placing the large box of the camera on the table carefully. "Seth, you're going to have to learn to haul this stuff around before you can be a photographer. Why, Mr. Matthew Brady used to take his equipment onto the battle fields of the war between the states without losing a lens, tripod or a glass plate."
"Sorry, Atticus." Seth sighed, collecting the various parts of the apparatus to stuff back into a voluminous carpetbag. "I'm all fumble fingers this morning."
"Are you taking some photographs around here?" Starsky asked, fascinated by the mountain of equipment needed to produce just one picture. He'd never appreciated his small, portable Leica with its close-up lens and light meter half enough.
"Yes, Mr. Lassiter has had such a momentous year since becoming bank president that he wants to commemorate the occasion with a photograph," Atticus said with a smile. "My name is Atticus Rathborn." He grasped Starsky's hand, shaking it firmly.
"David Starsky."
"I am trying to emulate Mr. Brady in producing more..." Atticus waved both arms expansively as if trying to grasp all that he wanted to say. "Dramatic, yet intimate, real life photographs. The newer plates are amazing."
"I've seen Matthew Brady's stuff — the pictures of the battlefield, even the guns in the trenches," Starsky said honestly, recalling an exhibition at the Bay City Art Museum. "Really impressive."
"Aren't they?" Atticus said enthusiastically. "No more portraits. I feel that I will be chronicling the life of Los Angeles, possibly to preserve some part of our history for the next generation. The interior of the bank will be the first in my new series."
Starsky gulped air, his heart palpitating so irregularly that he wondered if he was having a heart attack. The sounds of the saloon faded away, replaced with a sudden certainty. This was it! The picture of the Gold County lobby! He and Hutch had seen it together, had commented on how the men in the photograph looked like them. Now he realized, as bizarre as it seemed, that really was David Starsky talking to one of Hutch's great-great grand relatives. This was how he would get back to his Hutch. He had to be in that photograph.
"Sir, are you all right?" Seth patted Starsky's arm, bringing back the clink of glassware and babble of voices from the bar. "Are you afflicted with the grippe? Or some sort of difficulty of the spleen?"
Pressing his hand hard against his chest, Starsky shook his head. "Just overcome with..." He looked up at their concerned faces and realized that he was sprawled in a chair, with no recollection of sitting down.
Even Lefty was there, holding out a cup of coffee.
"Thanks, Lefty." Starsky took the cup, drinking quickly to collect himself. He wanted to go home. These were all great people, just not his own. He needed Hutch. "Can I watch you work?" He asked Atticus and Seth, setting down the drained cup with a surprisingly steady hand. "I'm really interested in photography."
"Of course, of course!" Atticus said, grinning with excitement. "I thank you for your bracing morning repast, Lefty! Next, we should photograph your most excellent tavern."
"Drop in the Bucket ain't mine," Lefty said. "But some day, I aim to open my own es-ta-blishment." He hooked his only thumb through the right suspender, puffing out his skinny chest. "Ain't too many former slaves got their own saloons, which is why I plan on calling my place The Pits, 'cause that's where I rised up out of."
"Lefty, I know you will," Starsky said, clapping him on the back. "The Brown family's got a future in selling booze. You might try buying a place in Bay City. That's an up and coming town."
"I concur!" Atticus had managed to collect all the bits and pieces for his camera. "Onward, Seth. We have work to do."
Starsky followed the photographers across the street, dodging a huge dray pulled by six straining horses and loaded with stone. There were new buildings going up in every empty lot — most of them made of stone. Los Angeles was expanding, bursting at the seams to become the largest city on the west coast.
Walking into the lobby of the Gold Country Bank was like stepping into the photograph. Starsky felt a chill run down his spine, and he gave himself a little shake. He was going home.
He glanced around to get his bearing, and more importantly, find Kennet. If he remembered correctly, there should be two, or possibly three, teller cages and Kennet would be in the last one. Yep, just past a huge redwood decorated with strings of popcorn, beautiful blown glass ornaments and unlit candles was the teller's area. There were three teller stations, but only two were open. Kennet was helping an older man make a transaction, nodding his head at whatever the man said.
"Mr. Rathborn! Mr. Douglas!" Mortimer Lassiter stood near a door in the rear of the bank. Seeing the photographers, he came hurried over, all hearty greeting and pompous bonhomie.
Lassiter set Starsky's teeth on edge, and it was all he could do not to shove the asshole over a convenient desk and cuff him. But this was not his fight. It was Kennet's turn to expose the shyster and get a little of his own back — with Heyes and Curry's help. Starsky grinned, satisfied that Lassiter only had a couple of more days as bank president before his downfall. He almost wished that he could be around to see the fireworks, but he wanted to see Hutch even more.
"Where do you want us to set up, Mr. Lassiter?" Atticus asked, putting the camera box on the polished floor. Seth had already unfolded the tripod and was assembling the chemicals needed for the flash. "A view of the magnificent Christmas tree? Or the workings of the bank?" Atticus held out a hand toward the teller cages.
"As much of the bank as can be seen." Lassiter smiled, all teeth. He patted his rounded belly covered in plum brocade and fingered the gold watch chain in his pocket. "I would oversee your creativity, but I must make more money." He winked slyly, with a self-satisfied smirk. "We've a large sum in the safe today, the proceeds of several lucrative foreclosures in the immediate area. Soon you will see many more large buildings going up, all financed by myself and the bank."
"Impressive," Atticus said politely, with a perfect poker face. Whatever he thought of Lassiter's grandiose schemes, he wasn't giving anything away. "I'll get to my work, then? A photograph to hang in the main hall, to prove what a prosperous institution this is." He gave a polite bow, already concentrating on what Seth was doing. "Dear boy, position the camera toward the western wall, so that the light coming through the windows will be behind us."
"Can I lend a hand?" Starsky asked, eager to get this going. Several customers had come and gone since they arrived, but he hadn't seen the woman in the long skirt and poke bonnet yet. He had time to go over to Kennet and convince him to go back to Sweden, to marry, to father a son who would someday father Hutch's dad.
"Steady the tripod while I screw the camera onto the base," Seth suggested. "It's heavy, and just one wrong move could prove disastrous."
"You have a flair for the dramatic, Seth Douglas," Atticus laughed. "Although, it's true, that contraption is as ornery as sin to focus once the lenses are out of alignment." He stood regarding the room with an artist's eye. "Yes, the photograph will show the bank employees, going about their jobs. A sort of visual diary."
"Should I include the Christmas tree?" Seth asked, draping the camera with a black cloth to protect the sensitive photographic plate from light.
"No." Atticus ducked under the cloth to peer through the lens. His voice was muffled as he continued speaking. "The tree will give the picture a holiday spirit. I shall preserve the honest endeavors of a day's work reflected in the tellers and their customers."
"Want me to go up to one of the tellers, like I was making a deposit?" Starsky glanced across the room, meeting Kennet's startled eyes. The blond man mouthed something, but Starsky was too far away to read his lips.
"Certainly!" Atticus agreed, reemerging from his photography 'cave'. "That will lend verisimilitude to the image."
"We're ready, Atticus!" Seth announced, putting the last of the flash powder into the container.
A woman walked past Starsky, her long moss-green velvet skirt brushing against his leg. Because she was living color, in a jacket that matched her skirt and wide brimmed hat trimmed with green velvet ribbon, he didn't recognize her at first. But when she took her place in the queue to wait for a teller, he knew the curve of her poke bonnet and the sweep of the bustle on her skirt. He had only a few moments to get into position! If she went to the second station, presided over by a balding fellow in a stiff white collar, then Starsky could get Kennet's station.
"I'll go to the teller on the end," Starsky said over his shoulder, moving quickly before another customer took his place in line.
"Stand there with him," Atticus directed, stooping under the black drape again. "For at least three to five minutes. That should be sufficient."
His heart pounding, Starsky waited for Kennet to finish counting out a clutch of money to a short, portly gentleman in a beaver stovepipe hat worthy of Abe Lincoln himself. For a moment, Starsky thought there was another earthquake. His hands were shaking and his head swimming, but it was just nerves.
He found himself whispering, "There's no one like Hutch, there's no one like Hutch..." and clicked his heels together, just in case. The woman in the poke bonnet walked up to the second window at exactly the same moment that the short man in the tall hat ended his transaction with Kennet.
"Thank you for your patronage!" Kennet called out, but he was looking straight at Starsky. "David!"
"Kennet—"
"Jinx," Kennet laughed. "You see, I have learned a new American word."
"And I really do need to talk first," Starsky said, glancing back at the camera crew. "I don't have much time, so hear me out."
"If you don't have any money, pretend to write out a chit." Kennet pushed a piece of paper to him.
"You must to go back to Sweden after tonight." Starsky pulled out the wallet that held his badge. Under his detective ID, he kept a snapshot of him and Hutch standing on top of the Torino. He slid the photo out, laying it on the counter. "I know this sounds crazy, but I'm from the future — one hundred years in the future."
"David!" Kennet gasped, but there was no disbelief in his expression, only wonder.
"That is your—" Starsky poked a finger at Hutch in the picture. "Descendant. My best friend, my partner... And if you don't do what you have to do with Heyes and the Kid, and then go back to Sweden to see your grandfather, get married and have a family of your own, then I don't think my friend will be born. And I won't have a life worth livin'."
"Min vän, my friend," Kennet said softly, staring at the photograph in awe. "He is... but how can this be? The grandson of my son?" He nodded, tears glinting in his blue eyes. "As you are the twin of my Uncle Starsky, he is my doppelganger." He smiled, so like Hutch. "If you are crazy, then so am I. I believe you, David."
Starsky felt a strange tremor under his feet, although no one else seemed to notice. Then, too many things happened at once for him to catalogue in order.
The woman in green velvet calmly turned away from the teller window.
There was a brilliant, white hot flash from the camera.
Kennet placed his hand on Starsky's. Each incidence occurred at once, and yet all separately, distinct points in time like drops of amber strung on a thread.
Vibrations jittered up Starsky's legs until he shook all over, light and darkness shattering inside his skull.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Damn!"
Hutch's voice.
And the ground wasn't just vibrating, it was undulating continuously, as if the blacktop had turned to wiggly Jell-o.
Hutch tightened his grip on Starsky, and for a moment, Starsky didn't respond, except to give thanks. Because even without looking, he knew this was Hutch. Knew deep inside himself, recognized his partner with every fiber of his being.
"This is the worst one yet," Hutch said, but Starsky could tell that he was talking to himself. "Probably over a six..."
"H'tch!" Starsky slurred. "What...?" The earth gave one last sharp jerk before quieting. Starsky realized he was half in Hutch's lap, held close to his partner's chest.
"Starsk!" Hutch practically yelled in his ear. "Where have you been?"
"You have no idea..." Starsky muttered, opening his eyes slowly. He was definitely on Ocean Avenue. He could see the dark bulk of the Torino parked at the curb, but the whole block was completely dark. The earthquake must have taken out the power. Up in the sky, stars that were usually hidden by smog and light pollution shone brilliantly.
It looked almost exactly like the sky did one hundred years ago.
"Are you all right?" Hutch gently got him sitting upright. They were side by side in the doorway of Venice Place, sheltered by the sturdy door frame.
Starsky groaned, wishing he could shove the pain in his head out one of his ears because it felt too wide and too big to be completely encompassed by his skull.
"Starsk?" Hutch asked again, his face pinched with worry. "You must have hit your head during the aftershock a few minutes ago. One of the waiters from Helene's—" He pointed to the milling crowd on the sidewalk to their right. All the diners, wait staff and cooks had evacuated the building, and were holding lit candles. The flames wavered, illuminating the nervous faces. Loud chatter in both French and English just exacerbated Starsky's headache. "Helped me get you out of the street," Hutch continued.
"And then there was another 'quake?" Starsky asked, feeling hazy. Had he really traveled back in time? Or was it just a dream, like Dorothy at the end of the Wizard of Oz? She'd met people who resembled her friends, too, but... He'd been so sure that Kennet, Heyes and Curry, not to mention Kyle, Dobey and Lefty were real, not figments of his imagination.
How could he discover the truth?
"Yeah. You were unconscious, which means you have a concussion," Hutch said, smoothing his palm along Starsky's brow. "I need to get you to a hospital."
Even the delicate caress was too much. "Hutch, don't!" Starsky pushed his hand away. "A couple aspirin, I'll be fine." Grabbing onto the doorknob, he hauled himself to his feet. For a moment, the world grayed out, and Starsky's stomach tried to make a desperate escape up his throat. He leaned against the door, barely aware of Hutch keeping him upright.
"A couple of aspirin could cause you to bleed in your brain," Hutch murmured against his temple, and amazingly, that didn't hurt like hell.
"Gonna push me up the stairs, or do I have to walk the whole way on my own?" Starsky groused. "The hospital will to be overflowing with people freaked out, or really hurt."
"Stubborn idiot, You don't think a concussion counts as really hurt?" Hutch shook his head with a weary half-smile. The other half of him regarded Starsky with consternation. "Get on up there. Don't come complaining to me if your brain leaks out."
"You got a flashlight?" Starsky pushed open the front door but the stairwell was pitch black. "You're such a klutz, you'll fall over your big feet in the dark."
"I'm a klutz? Who fell down and broke his crown?" Hutch took his hand away from Starsky's spine. "You okay standing there?"
"Not going anyway, pop." Starsky breathed in slow. Losing Hutch's support didn't make him fall, but he definitely felt unsteady. "There's a flashlight in the—"
"Starsk, I ride in this car three days out of five and I check the glove compartment every time." Hutch swung open the Torino door, talking the entire time. "You think I don't know where the damn flashlight is?"
All that chatter was probably just a reaction to the quake and finding Starsky unconscious. Whatever it was, it made Starsky ache with love for the big lug.
The arc from the powerful flashlight lit up the night. Several of Helene's patrons exclaimed in surprise, shielding their eyes. Starsky had to squint when Hutch shone the light up the stairs to light his ascent.
"Be careful," Hutch said unnecessarily.
Starsky tackled the first two steps. Walking with a gargantuan headache was harder than he'd expected. "You want to hold my hand, Mr. Policeman?"
"Yes," Hutch said softly from behind him, pushing gently on the curve of Starsky's butt to propel him upwards. "Always."
"H-hutch..." Hell, he was emotional all of a sudden. Starsky swallowed the swell of tears in the back of his throat and reached above Hutch's door for the key.
"A little to the left," Hutch said, his voice unusually husky.
Starsky managed to get the door unlocked even though his fingers didn't seem to want bend and turn properly. He was really glad that the darkness hid his clumsiness or he'd never live it down.
"Sit," Hutch ordered. He placed the bright flashlight on the coffee table, pointed at the ceiling so that it provided a goodly amount of light. "Where'd I leave those matches?"
"Wait a minute." His heart racing with hope, Starsky sat down and reached into his pocket. "I got some."
It was true!
He had proof; physical, real proof that he'd played cards with Heyes, Kid and Kyle. He traced the pasteboard edge of the king of diamonds before pulling out a handful of matches. Blinking away tears, Starsky struck the match on the edge of the coffee table and lit one of the thick decorative candles there. The matches wouldn't convince Hutch, but Starsky knew. If he could somehow get something like fingerprints off the card and matches, it would prove that he had gone one hundred years back in time. But that didn't matter, in the long run, because he knew, and he believed. That was enough.
"Where'd you get those?" Hutch picked several out of Starsky's palm and set about lighting every single candle in the room. Very quickly the place was better lit than the cabin had been with two old dirty lanterns and a fireplace.
"My head hurts," Starsky said, which wasn't a lie, just a feint. Should he tell Hutch and risk being teased for the rest of his life? Or worse, risk Hutch thinking that he'd permanently damaged his brain in some vital way?
"Let me take a look at your eyes." Hutch perched in front of Starsky, gazing at him. "No blown pupils, no blood."
"And I'm oriented times three," Starsky added, using the medical jargon he'd heard often enough in the ER when being checked out for a concussion. "I know the president, my name and where we are."
"So?" Hutch waggled his fingers in the 'give me' gesture.
"President—" Starsky was tempted to give him the name of the president from 1878, but hell if he could remember with his head pounding so badly. He'd have to look it up. "Jimmy Carter. My name is David Michael Starsky, and yours is Kenneth Rupert Hutchinson." He earned the dreaded Hutchinson finger for that, although Hutch's concern had softened into an indulgence. "And we're in your crappy apartment."
"My apartment is not..." Hutch shook the finger before grabbing a coverlet. "Lie down and rest. I'll check for gas leaks and see if the phone works. Who knows how long the power will be out. This quake could have brought down a freeway..."
"Like in '71," Starsky said sleepily, to prove that his brain worked just fine.
"Or done structural damage," Hutch added, clanging things in the kitchen.
"Hutch?" Starsky called out. "Do you know who the president was in 1878?"
"Rutherford B. Hayes," Hutch answered promptly, although he sounded far away. He was probably in the greenhouse. "Had to memorize them all in high school. Comes right after Ulysses S. Grant and before James Garfield."
"Smart-ass," Starsky muttered, and then he was asleep.
This time, he knew he was dreaming, because he was simply an observer, as if watching the entire thing on a huge, color TV. The sky was crammed with stars, tiny pinpoints of light, but there was no moon, and the streets of nineteenth century Los Angeles, so busy and frenetic during the day, were quiet and still. The Gold Country Bank stood like a sentinel in the middle of the block. A horse nickered softly, jingling its bridle but the animal was hidden in the shadows, along with two others. Heyes, Kid and Kyle crouched low a few feet behind the bank, waiting until the back door opened just a crack.
Kennet let them in, holding a storm lantern with the wick shielded to block most of the light. Heyes' teeth showed when he grinned at the Kid. There was excitement in the air, but neither lingered very long. Kyle stayed with the horses while Heyes and Kid hurried into the bank. Although Heyes didn't seem to know the combination to Lassiter's safe in advance, he put his ear to the front and carefully manipulated the tumblers to puzzle out the correct sequence of numbers. He bit his lower lip once, frowning just a little, and Kennet froze, looking incredibly guilty. Curry patted his arm, as if imbuing him with a little more patience, leaning back against Lassiter's desk. They didn't have to wait much longer; Heyes drew the safe open, revealing a cache of stacked money.
He didn't remove all of it, just the twenty thousand that had been stolen from the Hutchinsons, plus the extra that Kennet had promised Heyes for traveling expenses. Before closing the heavy metal reinforced door, Heyes selected one more thing. He stood and pressed a gold coin into Kennet's hand, saying something Starsky couldn't hear. There were tears in Kennet's blue eyes and he nodded sincerely, thanking them.
Kid caught Heyes in a bear hug, whispering in his ear.
"Starsk?" Hutch gently kissed his partner's forehead.
"Huh?" Starsky swam out of the dream, wanting to know more. Had Heyes and Curry gone to San Francisco? What had Kennet decided? Or was this really all some complicated fantasy brought on because he'd hit his head during an earthquake?
"You know the drill," Hutch said patiently. "Name..."
"Rank and serial number," Starsky finished. "Sergeant Starsky, David M., number RA 664..." He stopped before Hutch could launch into a frantic examination of his pupils, reflexes and memory all while calling emergency services at the same time. "Got you!"
"You're despicable," Hutch smacked him on the upper arm.
"Ow!" Starsky complained far more than was necessary and sat up slowly. "I'm Starsky, you're Hutch, I drive a terrific candy apple red Torino, you drive a piece of junk, the vice president is Mondale, and I'm hungry."
"Now I know you're feeling better. How's your head?" Hutch leaned down to brush his lips softly across Starsky's.
Relishing the caress, Starsky considered the pain level. He didn't feel all that bad. There was a KISS concert playing at airplane engine decibel in his head, but it didn't make him want to shove spikes into his brain, like earlier. "I'll live."
"You and the rest of the Los Angeles basin." Hutch got up, still eyeing him critically. The candle flames caught the brightness of Hutch's blond hair, making it gleam. "I got a lot done while you slept. Talked to Dobey on the police band — remarkably few injuries, no major building collapsed and so far, there are no reports of vandalism or looting. I told him about your head. He said stay put."
"Must be the Christmas miracle earthquake." Starsky put his feet on the coffee table, careful not to knock over the candles and saw a pile of mail with a large package sitting on top. "What's all this?"
"Felt my way down the stairs in the dark to my mailbox and there was one of those 'we left a package while you were away" notes from the letter carrier. Helene was keeping the parcel for me." Hutch headed into the kitchen. "Tylenol and some stew?"
"You got any of those cookies Minnie made the other day?" Starsky asked, picking up some of the Christmas cards scattered on the coffee table. However, the mid-sized box kept distracting him. He wasn't about to dive into Hutch's private package, but he really wanted to.
"Eat something healthy before the cookies." Hutch came back with a tray full of temptations. Starsky couldn't resist the Tylenol and took two right away with a large glass of water.
"Did you get a present from a secret admirer?" Starsky asked, poking at the box with his toe. "Doesn't look like a tree planted in your honor."
"You ever going to let me live that one down?" Hutch sat down, doling out a bowls filled with thick stew. He placed a few cookies for each of them on a napkin. He bit one, and Starsky was amused to see that the cookie was studded with M&M's. Greens.
"I love my tree. I look at it every time I go to the park." Starsky took a spoonful of chicken and vegetables. "Hey, this is great, but you didn't make it."
"Helene sent it up. She had to close up and had a lot left over. Coq au vin."
"So you're eating cookies first?" Starsky tasted more of Helene's specialty, grinning when Hutch abruptly put down his second cookie for a bowlful of coq au vin.
There was a short silence punctuated by the clink of spoons on bowls as they both ate. Starsky contemplated a cookie, but his stomach still felt wavery. He'd wait until the painkiller really went to work on his head.
Hutch pulled a handful of old photographs out of the box, displacing some Styrofoam packing peanuts. "My mother has been going through some of the Hutchinson memorabilia lately." He handed over a photo of a youthful Edward James Hutchinson, in a formal WWII era Air Force uniform, standing proudly next to the breathtakingly young Louise Mathiasson in a forties-style wedding dress. "My parents," Hutch said unnecessarily.
"I knew you looked just like your dad." Starsky stared at the picture, seeing not only Hutch in Edward's face, but also Kennet. "You got any older ones? Your grandfather?" He had to remind himself to breathe. This was all too perfect. Even if he never told Hutch what he knew, what he had seen; he already had proof linking the three of them together. He'd been with Kennet in the Gold Country Bank, one hundred years ago, and seen the picture with Hutch a century later. What he really wanted was evidence of Kennet's return to Sweden to continue the Hutchinson legacy.
"Apparently Mother is on a genealogy kick. Since I am the last remaining Hutchinson, now that my father has died, she's sending it all to me." Hutch glanced through a few more pictures, all blond, beautiful people. The style of clothing and manner of photography got progressively more old-fashioned. "Makes me feel part of a line." He touched the image of a man leaning against a Packard auto.
"I can really see how you came to be," Starsky said, picking up more pictures, his headache forgotten. There was Lt. Edward Hutchinson beside his bomber in the Pacific theatre of WWII. Another showed Kenneth Edward Hutchinson, Hutch's grandfather, dressed in the stiff styles of the early 1900s. A delicate beauty with blonde frothy curls was standing beside him. "What was your grandmother's name?"
"Anna." Hutch grinned. "She made the best Christmas cookies. She was originally German, but moved to Denmark and then Sweden as a girl."
"Minnie's cookies ain't bad," Starsky said, tasting one with lots of orange and yellow M&M's.
"Just two more pictures," Hutch said, placing them on the couch. "And something in a little velvet bag."
"Hey!" Starsky stared at the last of the photographs, and choked on his mouthful. Coughing, he tried to breathe through the cookie crumbs lodged in his throat and just choked more. Hutch pounded him on the back but that only made the headache blossom as if he'd never taken Tylenol. It took several minutes and a glass of water before he could inhale without coughing.
"What the hell?" Hutch asked, hovering.
"M&M down the wrong way." Starsky waved him away irritably, trying to think past the drum solo pounding on his temples. "I'm okay!"
"Eat slower."
"What's in the bag?" Starsky asked to distract his partner while he looked at the photo that had started it all. He held it as close to the candle flame as possible so that he could make out all the detail.
The Hutchinson men all looked quite similar, but he knew the man in the sepia-toned print. Knew the determined brow and the small scar on his chin. Kennet Hutchinson sat bolt upright, holding a baby on his lap. A woman, wearing a long dark dress, her blonde hair done up in an elaborate hairdo decorated with a jeweled clip, stood behind him, her hand on the shoulder of a small blonde girl in high-topped shoes. "Uh—" He couldn't admit that he already knew the man's name. "Who is this?"
"Mother wrote the names on the back," Hutch said absently, untying the strings that held the velvet bag closed.
Kennet and Suzanne was written in Louise's flowery script. Underneath, it said Kenneth Edward, born 1890, Analiese, born 1888. Starsky flipped the picture over, just absorbing everything. He had crossed time to connect with two different generations of the same family. Had maybe even convinced Kennet of the right path, to go join his grandfather in the banking business and start a new dynasty.
His heart overflowing with love, Starsky leaned into Hutch, feeling Hutch's arm slip around his shoulders.
"For some reason..." Hutch trailed off, clutching something in his hand. "I'm really profoundly touched by all of this. More than I expected to be."
"You know what I like about all of this? You." Starsky turned his head just enough to kiss Hutch and be able to reach what Hutch held in his hand. The kiss kept them occupied a good little while, but eventually, Starsky rested his head on Hutch's shoulder. "Show me."
"A twenty dollar gold piece," Hutch whispered. "Circa..."
"1878," Starsky said, tracing Lady Liberty's gold diadem on the coin. A long time ago, Kennet Hutchinson had probably done the same thing. "Must be worth a mint."
"Wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel if I didn't have you," Hutch vowed, placing the coin in Starsky's palm
"I think I'll stick around for another hundred years," Starsky promised, closing his fingers around the coin. "Until you're 148."
FIN
Go to index
December 31
* * * * *
1950
9 p.m.
"Child, did I not say for you to stay in bed?"
The blond head disappeared back around the corner. Ella sighed.
"Kenny, come here. It's all right." The boy shyly came over. Ella crushed out her cigarette and patted the sofa beside her. "You want to listen to the radio for a while with me?" He nodded against her side. She settled back, put her feet up on the ottoman, and flipped a corner of the afghan over his lanky frame. He whispered something. "What's that, dear?"
He looked up and said, "I wish my parents were home."
"I know, sweetie. They're out having a good time, though. Remember how pretty Mama looked when they left?"
That was the wrong thing to say, because his pretty blue eyes filled with tears. "Now, you are too big a boy to be crying like a baby after just two hours. You can be good and stay out here for a while, or you can go back to your room like a little kid."
To her surprise, he stood up from the couch right away, tangling a little in the blanket, and left the living room without another word. Ella shrugged and turned the radio up a little.
* * * * *
1955
9:30 p.m.
Resolutions
Finish 6th grade with an A in math
Read one non-assigned book a week
Let Kathy pick dessert sometimes even when it's my turn
Improve mile time to under 7 min.
Write letters to Aunt Letty and Uncle John
* * * * *
1959
9:45 p.m.
Dear Mom, Dad, and Kathy,
I'm starting to feel better. I didn't cough hardly at all today, and I went to the nurse again and she said I should start running again or maybe swimming if I'm careful. I still wish I could have gone to Hawaii with you, but I guess I wouldn't have been much fun on a trip. Maybe we can go again next year or something.
It turned out that one of my friends stayed here over break too. And a couple of other guys from the younger grades. They're mostly OK, and we've been studying together and stuff. Prof. Smith is having us over to his house for a little New Year's party tonight, but I don't know if we're supposed to stay past midnight or come back here or what. Guess I'll find out.
I hope you are having fun. Kathy, do they really wear grass skirts there, and are you going to come back with one? Remember we had a bet! Don't forget to bring me some seashells.
Happy New Year, everybody.
Love,
Kenneth
* * * * *
1960
10 p.m.
"Jack?" Hutch set his satchel down and folded his jacket over the back of his desk chair. He was late getting back from work, but he'd hoped Jack would wait for him.
A note on the back of some old typing paper lay on Hutch's desk.
Stop studying and get your ass over here. The party's at 115 Bayshore, Kerri's place.
—J
Hutch looked out the window, but the old Chevy that Jack owned was gone. So how was Hutch supposed to get to the party? Anybody who might drive him was probably already there. He sighed. Jack was every bit the careless, thoughtless blond trust fund kid — he was your best friend while you had his attention, but he wasn't so good with the details.
Maybe somebody at the party was still sober and wouldn't mind picking him up. Hutch resignedly picked up the phone.
* * * * *
1963
10:40 p.m.
"So the premise of this guy's thought is, is... Oh, shit, I don't even know any more." Alan dissolved into giggles and fell backwards. He shot one hand up like a drowning man keeping a treasure above the waves, and two people reached to take the pipe and lighter from him.
Ken sat curled in a bean bag chair in a quiet corner, entertained but feeling distant. Lianne twisted around to look at him; she smiled when she caught his eye. She scooted back, leaving the circle and allowing the girls on either side of her to close the gap. Joining Ken on the pillows, she poked playfully at his bare feet.
"Having fun, Kenneth?"
He didn't answer right away, instead reaching to tuck a stray tendril of her dark hair back behind her ear. His thumb brushed lightly against the bruise on her cheekbone, fading but still visible.
She frowned and pulled away from his touch, shaking her head to bring her hair back down.
"Don't," she said quietly.
"Okay. Okay." He curled his hand under her forearm, stroking his fingers along the soft skin inside her elbow over and over. "I just hate knowing what he—"
"I said don't." She looked away. Ken followed her gaze across the room to where Alan was now reading someone's palm. Lianne sighed. "Play something for me?"
He knew how it would go. He would get one evening of her time, maybe a night in her bed, and then Alan would reclaim her and she'd go willingly. He was a fool to play this. But if he was gentle — if he could show her it didn't have to be like that, that a lover could be faithful and respectful.... Maybe she would change her mind and stay with him this time.
Ken tore his gaze away from her face and reached for his guitar.
* * * * *
1968
10:42 p.m.
How the hell did he end up at this kind of party? Users and phonies, new money and cheap tricks. Ken set his untouched drink on the tray of a passing waiter and turned to make his way back across the living room. Halfway to the front door, Bernie caught sight of him and grabbed his arm.
"Hey, hey, Kenny, there you are. What, don't you have a drink? Here, let me get you something." Ken tried to demur, but Bernie blustered on. "This is that beautiful young lady I wanted you to meet. She's an actress. Vanessa, this is Kenneth Hutchinson."
She gave him a cool but very pretty smile. "Charmed."
* * * * *
1970
10:50 p.m.
Hutch smirked at Van's sharp look and raised a glass at her from across the room. She narrowed her eyes and turned away, picking up the conversation with a laugh. Barely a break in the rhythm. She leaned toward the taller of the men she was with, tapping his lapel as she made a point. The lady was good at what she did, that's for certain. Hutch closed his eyes for a moment and pinched at the bridge of his nose.
"Hey."
Hutch opened his eyes and smiled. "Dave, hi. Haven't seen you in a while."
"I'm out there busting heads and making a name for myself. Where've you been keeping yourself?"
Hutch shrugged. "I've got a beat over on the west side. Van — my wife — is at me to go to law school. I've convinced her police commissioner is just as prestigious and can't be done without putting in my time on the street." He blinked, surprised at himself. They had hardly seen each other since graduation, but he'd just told Starsky half his life story ... and Starsky was looking at him like he knew the other half. Hutch cleared his throat and looked around the room, his gaze settling on Vanessa for a minute.
Starsky glanced at her too, and nodded. "How about a beer out on the deck? Catch up with each other."
"That sounds good."
* * * * *
1972
11:10 p.m.
"So, you think that's it? It's decided?"
"Yes." Hutch drained his drink and poured another, though Starsky was looking at him questioningly. He shrugged. "You saw how it was. We were never really on the same page about things."
"There was no partnership."
"Right."
Starsky put a hand on Hutch's arm. "I'm sorry."
They sat together quietly.
* * * * *
1974
11:18 p.m.
"Fucking hell!" Hutch slammed out of the interrogation room, shaking his arm hard. He almost walked into Starsky, who was bringing their coffee.
"What happened?"
"The little punk bit me, is what happened!"
"What? You're kidding!" Starsky hastily set the cups down and grabbed Hutch's hand, holding him carefully but firmly. Hutch looked too, flexing his hand. The heel of his hand showed two neat semicircles of toothmarks, but the skin wasn't broken. Starsky traced just outside the marks with a gentle finger. "Ah, you're all right."
"Course I'm all right."
"You should carry mace. Like a mailman." Starsky smiled, but Hutch was in no mood to be mollified.
"I should have him up on assault charges is what I should do."
"It's more paperwork."
"He's my collar. What do you care?" Starsky had taken the afternoon off for a dentist appointment, so Hutch had been alone when he picked up this Levine — but not his accomplice — for armed robbery. Hutch sighed. "You go ahead, Starsk. I'll be done here in a couple of hours. You'll be at Huggy's?"
"Come on, what kind of a partner would I be to leave you alone on New Year's Eve?"
Hutch hesitated and then checked Starsky's watch. "You'll miss the ball drop."
"That's all right. Come on. Let's give him one more chance to give us a name and then we'll take him to holding and do the report tomorrow. We'll be out of here by twelve-thirty."
Hutch gave in. "Yeah, all right. I'll be Bad Cop. Let's do it."
* * * * *
1975
11:45 p.m.
Starsky jogged up to the kitchen counter, grabbing Hutch by the shoulders, tickling him around the waist, then was by his side banging a fast drumbeat on the counter. "Come on, come on, come on, no hiding in the kitchen! Let Fifi do that."
"Will you watch it? You almost made me slice open my hand here." But he smiled, catching some of Starsky's energy.
Starsky grabbed three lemons from the pile and tried unsuccessfully to juggle them. Hutch turned back to the pitcher of punch he was making. He set the pitcher and several glasses on a bamboo tray, which he handed to Starsky. "Here. Make yourself useful."
Starsky grinned and took the tray, but the left side wobbled in his grip, and punch sloshed out. Hutch hastily took it and set it down on the kitchen table.
"Jesus, Starsk, I'm sorry." He held Starsky's left arm and patted tentatively at the fringes of the bandage, soft under Starsky's layers of shirts. "You all right, babe? Do you need the sling?"
"No, no, I'm done with that thing. I'm all right." Starsky's smile held only a hint of pain, but Hutch's hands remembered being covered in his blood. He pushed at Starsky gently, ghosting his hands over the exit wound, then holding his shoulder with a light touch. Starsky put his right hand over Hutch's own. His fingers were warm and dry, and his eyes were understanding.
"Come on, Hutch. I'm ready for a party. How about you?"
"Right there with you."
* * * * *
1977
11:48
Hutch shivered. Southern California, but the wind off the beach was still chilly. Starsky was a warm presence at his side. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
"Got any resolutions?"
Hutch glanced over. "Not really. Do you?"
"I was thinking, 'Don't get shot, and don't let Hutch get shot.' Thought that might be a good one."
"I'll drink to that."
They passed the bottle of wine back and forth. Hutch sat down and patted the ground next to him. Starsky joined him, sitting close. Hutch fought the impulse to put his arm around Starsky's shoulders.
"It's that—" Hutch started, and then broke off, gathering his thoughts. He felt Starsky's head move against his shoulder as he looked up. He leaned back some, bracing his arms behind him and letting Starsky fall comfortably almost against his chest. He spoke into the cloud of soft hair.
"Resolutions are like wishes, ever notice? And there's really...." He hesitated, stumbling over the words a little. "Really not much I wish for." Starsky's head moved slightly, but he couldn't tell what that meant.
* * * * *
1978
10 ... 9 ... 8 ...
The crowd at The Pits was happy and buoyant. Huggy had hired a disc jockey, and people were talking and laughing, more like at a good private party than a public bar. Everyone's eyes were now on the black-and-white TV behind the bar, where Times Square was counting down along with Dick Clark and the lighted ball was slowly dropping home. Huggy spun by with a dark-haired beauty on his arm, shouting something to them about having someone to kiss at midnight. Hutch felt suddenly distant, the bright scene frozen in front of him. Starsky was caught mid-turn, one side of his mouth drawn up in a teasing grin.
Someone to kiss, at midnight.
The moment passed, and Starsky's chuckle was aimed at a girl on the other side of Hutch. Hutch turned with a gallant bow to Linda, Huggy's new bartender, and she laughed and accepted his hand. But Starsky's eyes met his at the last minute, and Hutch could almost feel his strong grip in place of Linda's slim, cool fingers in his hand.
* * * * *
1979
... 4 ... 3 ...
They had sparkling grape juice, not champagne. Starsky still needed pain medication too often to be able to drink much.
They were like two old married folks, they'd joked earlier, sitting home watching television instead of out partying with a couple of honeys or a crowd of friends. But it was home, Hutch thought. Starsky's rehab had somehow turned into a shared apartment and a largely shared life.
Together they murmured the countdown, glasses poised and ready for the toast.
* * * * *
1980
midnight
There was a noise in the hallway, and Hutch pulled back, startled. Starsky's eyes blinked open. They were very, very blue, and vulnerable. Hutch had to kiss him again, very fast, no matter the risk. Starsky's face relaxed into a smile, with a look behind it that Hutch had seen before but never identified.
"Just have to check the door, babe," Hutch explained. He flipped the lock, and they were alone in the spare room.
"I hope nobody needs their coats right now," Starsky said from right behind him. Hutch turned to find Starsky in his space, crowding him back up against the door.
"I think they'll just have to live without them," Hutch said, smiling. "We've got business in here."
"Too long delayed," Starsky agreed.
They kissed until the third time somebody rattled the doorknob, and then they went home together. Dawn found them still kissing, making up for lost time.
* * * * *
1985
January 1
10 a.m.
Starsky shook out the newspaper and folded it back. "Hey, here's one I haven't heard before: 'Whatever you're doing on New Year's Day is an omen for the coming year.'"
Hutch chewed his toast thoughtfully and took another sip of coffee. "What if you're working? Or sick? That's a stupid superstition."
Starsky looked at him over the edge of the paper. "Are you kidding? You always got to find the worst in a situation?"
"I'm just saying, I would hate to be laid up all year because it was true on a single day."
Starsky shrugged. "Then those are the years it doesn't work. Rationality is the law of the land and superstition holds no sway."
"'Holds no sway'? Starsky, I'm going to take away your library card."
"And on other years," Starsky said, putting down the paper and advancing on Hutch, "you make love all day and set a precedent." He straddled Hutch's lap and took his coffee cup away. Hutch let his hands curl up Starsky's back, stroking up and down as Starsky's fingers pushed through his hair, tilting his head up for a deep kiss.
"Well, by all means," Hutch said when they broke off. "If that's what tradition says—"
"It does." Starsky started to stand, but Hutch pulled him back for one more kiss first.
"And if it would set your mind at ease—"
"It would," Starsky said from the hallway.
"Let's establish that precedent."
* * * * *
The End
Go to index
"You're telling me you've already done it?" Starsky took a left on Burwell and eased into traffic.
Hutch checked the rear view mirror. "That's what I said. I did it last week."
Starsky thought about the last five days. They'd spent most of Monday and Tuesday downtown, running a tricky interrogation and working the subsequent paperwork on a stinky fink named Smithy.
Wednesday, he and Hutch had finished their shift and then went to the laundromat.
It couldn't have been Thursday; they'd gone bowling that night and taken Starsky's car.
Friday, they'd hung out at Hutch's place. Starsky had ducked out for thirty minutes to pick up beer and Chinese, and later they'd watched "Bonanza" while cleaning their guns.
When would Hutch have had the chance?
Starsky glanced at him. "Last week, huh? As in during the week?"
"That's what I said." Hutch didn't look over.
"And that doesn't include the weekend?"
"Starsky..."
The mic crackled, and Hutch picked it up.
It was Dispatch with a message to get a hold of Jackson Junior, Walter's boy.
***************
Hutch returned Jackson's call at the pay phone a few blocks from Tico Taco. Starsky stayed in the car and thought of Venus flytraps and ant farms. While they'd been fine gifts, Starsky wanted to shake his partner up a bit this year. And what better way to do it than to give Hutch something he'd actually like? This was why there was a Westbend 6060 Yogurt Maker sitting in his bedroom closet. Starsky grinned as he tapped the steering wheel; Hutch would never know what hit him.
Hutch hung up the phone in the booth. He had to do it twice to get it to stay on the hook. Then Hutch wrenched open the accordion door, scowling as it caught his pant leg.
"Did Jackson say what he wanted?" Starsky asked when his partner finally got into the car.
"Just that he needed to talk to us."
"It didn't seem like anything was up last time we saw him," Starsky said, thinking of the three-man game of basketball they'd played with Jackson a couple of weeks ago. It had been followed by another one of Mrs. Jackson's fine suppers.
Hutch glanced over. "Maybe nothing's bothering him now?"
"Right. Like a sixteen-year old boy has nothing better to do than have a little chat in the middle of the day with us. Which brings up another thing: how come the kid's not in school?"
"Christmas vacation is why, dope. Hence all the plastic snowflakes up in stores and stupid commercials on TV. Hence your pestering me about your present."
"I can see you're enjoying the Christmas season in your usual fashion."
Hutch picked up the mic with one hand and gave Starsky the finger with the other. Then he called Dispatch to say that they were headed out on a Code 7.
***************
Jackson had asked to meet them at Burwell Park, an open space about ten blocks from his house. The place was devoid of children, probably due to the fact there was no sand in the sandbox and the sum total of play equipment was a tire swing missing the tire. Jackson was sitting on the lone bench, dribbling a basketball between his knees.
Starsky sat down on one side of him, Hutch on the other.
"Makes me feel a little bit like one of your punks, you know, surrounding me like this," Jackson said, stopping the ball by putting his foot on it.
"You know that we're more like a couple of concerned uncles," Hutch said, staring straight ahead. "What's going on?"
Jackson picked at something on his jeans and looked like he wanted to get up and walk away.
"Are you in trouble, Jackson?" Starsky said, feeling his stomach clench a little at the possible answers. Jackson Senior was eight months dead, and the hole his murder left was still deep. Keeping an eye on his friend's son was the least he could do.
"It's not me. It's a friend." Perhaps seeing the look on Hutch's face, Jackson added, "I swear. An actual friend, not a fake friend who's really me. Honest."
"Tell us about your friend," Starsky said thinking about how so many things, none of them good, started like this.
"Her name's Rhonda Grady." Jackson pulled out a wallet-size photo that looked like it had been taken for school. "This was last year, before her ma died."
Starsky looked at the photo. Rhonda's skin was smooth and the color of coffee. She had her hair pulled back in a neat do and smiled for the camera. He handed the picture over to his partner.
"Her mom was killed in a car smash-up just after my dad was shot," Jackson said. "It made Rhonda and me want to stick together, just as friends, you know, hanging out, doing schoolwork and stuff. But then Rhonda starts getting all secretive, disappears for days, won't meet my eye, and has clothes she can't afford. First I think maybe she's stealing them. But I wonder if there's more than that as Rhonda's twitchy, different, losin' weight."
Starsky thought shoplifting was quite possibly the least of her problems. He glanced over and saw Hutch catch his eye and knew his partner was thinking the same thing.
"How about her father? Her teacher?" Hutch asked. "Do they suspect that something's up?"
"Her teacher's not a bad lady, but she's got forty-five kids to keep track of, and she don't know me from Adam. For all Mrs. Fletcher knows, I could be making it up. And Rhonda's, well, she's not trouble. If anything, during the last few months, she's gotten quieter, nothin' her teacher's gonna notice, not with the shi... the stuff going down at school."
Starsky knew all about that scene. That "stuff" was what, at fifteen years old, ultimately got him sent away to Bay City.
Hutch asked, "Her father, what about him? What's he got to say?"
Jackson shrugged. "He's useless."
"Is he trouble?"
"No, not like the trouble you mean. He's just..." Jackson shrugged. "He's just gone. I think when Rhonda's mama died, he pretty much wanted to die, too."
Starsky caught Hutch's quick gaze.
"Listen. I'm thinking this is all a bad idea." Jackson started to stand up. Starsky put his arm over his shoulder and eased him back down.
Jackson looked down at the basketball at his feet. "Please don't bring in the authorities. You'll only make things worse."
"Jackson," Starsky reminded him. "We are the authorities."
"But you're not the regular kind. You guys can keep it cool."
Hutch nodded slowly and said, "We can start by nosing around a bit, maybe follow her."
"That's just it," Jackson said, his voice breaking a bit. "You can't follow her. Rhonda has disappeared. That's why I called you."
***************
Starsky yanked the door to the phone booth open and dialed Diana Perkowitz's number.
"Don't tell me you have another Christmas emergency," she said. "Don't you think us social workers deserve a day off once in a while?"
"No rest for the weary, Perkowitz, you know that."
She sighed. "Isn't that the truth?"
"What would you do if someone said they hadn't see a fifteen-year old girl for a week and a half?"
"Have her parents or teacher called it in?" Starsky could hear the sound of Perkowitz pushing her chair back, the clip of her shoes on the linoleum floor, and then the sound of a file drawer being opened. "What's her name?"
"Rhonda Grady," Starsky said. "And the person who says he hasn't see her is a friend from school."
"A friend, like another kid?"
"Just look up her name would you? Rhonda Louise Grady."
It took Perkowitz a few minutes. "Nothing on the name, nothing on the family. What else do you have?"
"Just a photo and the worries of a kid she hangs around with."
"Listen, school's been out for a week so that's not going to be a big help. And there's no evidence of foul play. That, and a fifteen-year old girl... well, she's not twelve years old, she's not nine years old."
"Meaning?"
"Listen, Dave. I gotta be honest with you. Without her father filing a report, you just have a classmate who's worried. Even if it had merit, it's a case that that would be on the bottom of a stack of reports."
"So, what you're saying is that the only people pursuing this are going to be me and Hutch?"
"That's about it, Dave."
When he got back into the car, Hutch asked, "Well?"
"We're on our own with this one, at least for now." Starsky knew it was the "now" part that made Hutch's face get dark. "Now" meant until something worse turned up. They'd seen it far too many times in the past.
***************
They found Huggy at the corner of 5th and Western. He was wearing a splendid patchwork leather jacket and holding a large, stuffed fish under one arm.
Starsky pulled the car over to the curb, and he and Hutch got out.
"What's with the wildlife, Hug?" Starsky asked.
"Got it from a guy who's behind on his bar tab." Huggy stopped walking. He didn't look surprised to see them.
"That actually happens, people really get behind on their bar tabs?" Hutch asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Sure does," Huggy snapped. "And not just to guys who think I'm not paying attention."
"Gotta say, Huggy, aside from the fact it's mounted on a piece of wood, that fish is looking a little too long-in-tooth to end up in even your deep-fat fryer," Starsky said. "What are you gonna do with it?"
"I'm doin' a little redecorating. I'm going perk up the place with a bit of a hunting lodge theme."
"Hunting lodge," Hutch laughed. "In the middle of Bay City?"
Huggy scowled. "And what's wrong with that? Brothers in the city just might deserve a bit of rustic charm."
Starsky looked up the stuffed trout. The size of a small dog, it stared back at him glassily, its mouth hanging open as if it wanted to say something.
"I think it's nice, Hug," Starsky lied.
"You're just sayin' that because you want something."
"That, too. You know anything about a guy named Jim Grady?"
"I've got the time if you've got the dime." Huggy looked away.
"Hutch, pay the man," Starsky gave his partner's arm a shove.
Hutch scowled. "You pay the man."
"Last month's bar tab is yours. I had October."
Pulling his wallet out, Hutch handed Huggy two twenties. "That ought to cover it."
Huggy tightened his lips. "Barely."
"Jim Grady," Starsky reminded him. "What do you know about him?"
Huggy said, "Only that he lost his wife in a car accident about six months ago."
"Is Grady a good guy?"
"He's not a bad guy, if that's what you're asking."
"Sounds like a you're hedging a bit, Hug."
"Hey, I don't have everyone in this town on my radar. I know Grady drives a hack for Diamond Cab, hangs out at the Town Talk, and as far as I know, keeps his nose clean. That, and he is in danger of being fired as he's been slacking off on the job."
"Sounds like a pretty good radar to me, Hug," Hutch said.
"Yeah, makes me wonder what you hear about us," Starsky said, giving the stuffed fish one more look.
"Trust me, guys, you don't want to know," Huggy replied, turning away.
***************
There was an empty Diamond Cab sitting outside of the Town Talk. Hutch peered in the front window as they passed it. He shook his head. "The man's not making any money this way. He's even got his radio off the hook."
"Let's hope that's the least his sins," Starsky replied. He held the door to the bar open and ushered his partner into a place that could have been any one of a hundred bars in Bay City. In the course of their work, Starsky thought they'd probably been in nearly all of them. It wasn't a tour of duty he relished.
"We're looking for Jim Grady," Hutch said to the barkeeper behind the counter. The man answered by tilting his head toward the back of the joint.
Grady was sitting at the stool on the far end of the scuffed, wooden bar. From the number of cigarette butts in the ashtray in front of him, it looked as if he'd been there all afternoon.
Starsky sat down on the seat next to him, and Hutch took the stool on the other side.
The bartender approached and gave them a sharp look. "Get you gentlemen anything?"
"Nothing for us. We're just here to talk to Jim," Starsky said, shaking his head.
The bartender put a couple of dirty glasses in the bar sink and said over his shoulder, "Maybe you can convince Jim to go home and take care of his little girl. Or maybe actually drive that cab. He spends more time in here than he does anywhere else."
Grady shrugged and took a long draw off his Marlboro. "Rhonda. She's a good girl, my Rhonda. Just like her mom, she sure is her mother's child." Grady's hands shook.
Starsky gave his partner a slight tilt of his head suggesting Hutch take the lead.
"Your daughter is why we're here," Hutch said.
"You're not from the school are you?" Grady blew out smoke and put his cigarette down on the foil ashtray.
"No," Starsky said. "We're here because a friend of hers is worried about her."
"Rhonda's a good girl," Grady repeated dully. "Just like her mom."
"When's the last time you saw your daughter, sir?" Starsky asked. He felt like shaking the man.
"Maybe a week ago. No. Maybe it was Tuesday. I don't know. Sometimes she takes off. You know how kids are. She's probably staying with friends."
"You aren't worried?" Hutch asked, his voice tight.
Grady didn't answer.
"Sir," Starsky said. "You aren't worried?"
"I don't blame her. Rhonda is probably just trying to be some place where there's some happiness."
Starsky looked up at the mirror at the back of the bar and saw the bartender glance over and roll his eyes.
"I'm sorry about your wife, Mr. Grady," Starsky said.
The man put his face in his hands and began to weep.
"I don't even think Jim Grady knows what day of the week it is," Starsky said as they got back into the car.
"No kidding." Hutch wrote the time down in their book. "The guy's a mess."
"You think he's got anything to do with Rhonda's absence?"
"Not directly. I think he's so messed up with grief, he hardly knows she's gone. He's so depressed an automatic door at the grocery store wouldn't open for him. All indications point to the guy barely getting through to the end of the day, not someone who's knows what end is up."
"Really."
***************
Starsky used the pay phone by the library to call Jackson. "Is your grandma there?"
"No. She's at choir practice."
"Any word from Rhonda?"
"No. I've been asking around, and no one's seen her."
"Has she mentioned any new names, people she's met recently?"
Jackson didn't answer right away. Then he said, "Nikki and Sasha. She mentioned those names once. Said Nikki thought the way she did her hair was cute. Just girl talk, I figured, only I don't know anyone named that."
Starsky filed the names away.
"My grandma wants me to invite you and Hutch over for Christmas dinner," Jackson added. "Only if you come, you gotta promise to not say anything about Rhonda in front of her. I don't want her to think I'm friends with someone who ran away."
"Jackson, your grandma understands more than you think."
"I doubt it. She's old. And she worries too much.
Starsky thought that losing her daughter-in-law and son in the space of two years, and now being responsible for a teenage boy, gave Eugenia Walters quite a bit to worry out. It was something Starsky thought he'd bring up with Jackson Junior another time.
***************
Hutch looked up from the magazine he was reading when Starsky got back into the car. "Do you think Jackson's overreacting? Worried about nothing?" he asked.
Starsky remembered how he felt after losing his dad. Things were adrift and seemed like they had no center. "No," he said. "If anything, I think he's on target. Grief tends to makes one not see things further out. Being worried about Rhonda goes against that instinct."
"But even Perkowitz can't work with a gut feeling."
"This isn't her gut. It's Jackson's. And now it's ours. He asked us to find her, and Jackson doesn't beg a favor often." Starsky thought of Jackson Senior and felt a sharp pang of grief. "Besides, we owe it to him and to his dad."
"We'd better get hopping then, before Dobey moves us on to something official." Hutch tossed the magazine into the back seat. "What did the kid say?"
"What?"
"On the phone. What did Jackson tell you?"
"Only that he hasn't heard anything from Rhonda, and that she'd mentioned two names: Nikki and Sasha. Also, we're invited to dinner on Christmas."
"That last part sounds good, anyway. Nothing beats that woman's cooking."
"Are you going to give me my present then?" Starsky teased.
"You're impossible, you know," Hutch laughed.
"I know." He handed Hutch a dime. "Call Sweet Alice."
Hutch gave it back to him and looked away. "You call her. I'm in the doghouse with that lady right now."
Starsky sighed. He wasn't about to go down that alley.
***************
It took ten rings for Sweet Alice to pick up, and when she learned it was Starsky, her voice became uncharacteristically sharp.
"I'm in the middle of something here."
"We need some info," Starsky repeated.
"Meaning you and Hutch," Sweet Alice said.
"Alice, it's about a girl."
"Of course it is. It's always about a girl," Alice said tightly. "Make it snappy. I'm a loose woman on a tight schedule, something to which your partner certainly can attest."
Starsky glanced back out at the Torino. Hutch's face was in profile, and he appeared tense.
Turning back around, Starsky continued, "We're looking for a girl named Rhonda Grady. She just turned fifteen and..."
"You know, I don't associate with the people that use underage girls."
"Of course you don't," Starsky assured Sweet Alice, thinking that in her business, she certainly did, if only by default. "We just wanted to know..."
"Nikki. If you want information, see Nikki at the Washington Arms. And she'd better not know I sent you there." Alice slammed down the phone.
"That's one angry chick, Hutch," Starsky said as he slid back into the car. "What did you do this time?"
Hutch's lips were tight. "I don't want to talk about it."
Fine, thought Starsky, because he really didn't want to either. "Nikki. Alice mentioned a Nikki. That's one of the names Jackson said Rhonda knew."
***************
There wasn't much light in the foyer due to the broken bulb overhead.
Starsky pulled out a book of matches and lit one. He held the flame up to the mailboxes and moved it down the row. It took three tries, each match burning close enough to his fingers to make him shake and drop it.
Hutch said, "Looks like it's apartment 34. Nicole Fulton."
Starsky smelled a hint of smoke and looked down. A little fire had started in the pile of grocery circulars and yellowed phone books.
"Way to go," Hutch said, stamping at the smoking remains. "Burn the place down."
Starsky gave him a dirty look and followed his partner up the stairs.
Starsky was frankly always surprised when people answered the door in places like the Washington Arms. But Nikki did.
She wore a halter-top and light green shorts, and her pale, pink limbs immediately struck him as totally out of place in the dark interior, like a chorus girl who had wandered into a funeral parlor. Starsky could hear Fleetwood Mac coming from inside the apartment and smelled the sweet odor of pot.
Nikki looked disappointed. "Oh. You're not John," she said. Starsky put his foot in the door to keep their visit from being cut too short.
"No, not John. Or Tom, or Dick, or Harry," Hutch said. "We're looking for a girl named Rhonda Grady."
"What makes you think I know who the hell that is?" Nikki glanced toward the left.
"A little bird says you might," Starsky said.
"A little bird, huh? I'll bet." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one up. Starsky noticed her fingers trembled slightly as she used the lighter and took the first drag of smoke into her lungs.
"We've been led to believe that Rhonda may be in the same business as yourself."
"I'm an aerobics instructor," said Nikki, coughing.
"Perhaps Rhonda is in one of your classes?" Starsky flashed the young girl's photo.
"Nope. Don't know her," Nikki said a little too fast, looking left again.
"You've got company? Anyone we want to meet?" Starsky asked, inching forward.
"Nobody's in here with me," Nikki said. "I'm alone."
"Listen," Hutch said, his voice smooth and low, "I'd hate to have to find a reason to search this place. Or, worse, to sit outside this apartment and watch who goes in and out, wouldn't you, Starsk?" He kept his eyes on Nikki.
"I'd hate that, too, buddy, especially seeing how it's three days before Christmas. I've got things to do."
"Yeah," Hutch said, his voice innocent. "Like what?"
"Aside from wrapping your Christmas present, pal? Like following aerobics instructors all over town and determining just how much physical fitness they get done on a nightly basis."
"Fuck you," Nikki said.
"That appears to be your job rather than ours," Starsky said.
Nikki scowled and jerked her head to the left again and tapped her ear just as Starsky heard someone cough in the next apartment. The thin walls had to be hell on the neighbors, especially if one had to listen to certain business transactions.
It was when Nikki pantomimed writing on her hand that Starsky finally understood.
"Listen, Ken," he turned towards Hutch. "This lady doesn't know anything. We're wasting our time here."
Hutch gave him a quick glance, and Starsky knew he'd follow his lead. "Guess not, David. We'll have to move on to riper sources."
"See that you do," Nikki said, shutting the door. A few moments later, a small piece of paper appeared under the door. Starsky glanced up and down the hall, then reached down and picked it up.
"C'mon, let's blow this lost cause," he said loudly, just as the door to the next apartment opened. A large man in a baseball cap stared out at them, his posture aggressive and his face unreadable.
Starsky looked down at the note when they got to the stairs. "555-1891. Paddy Johnson. Feel free to kick the shit out of him. Just don't let him know I sent you."
"Pretty stifling to have to live next door to your pimp," Hutch noted.
"No kidding," Starsky said. "And this is the Bay City telegraph at work; you get a name with the stipulation you don't say where it came from. Pretty trusting for a bunch of hookers and low-lifes."
Hutch scowled as they stepped outside into the bright afternoon light. "Sweet Alice included?"
"Well, you know what they say, 'a snitch, in time, usually lies'."
"I think..." Hutch's reply was cut short by the sight of a kid with three of Hutch's hubcaps under his arm. The boy was clearing the corner at a good run.
Starsky gave it only a fraction of a second's thought and decided there was no way he was going to chase after the kid. A grown man pursuing a nine-year old boy on a public sidewalk never looked good. Hutch apparently agreed, as all he did was pull out his sunglasses and put them on.
"You were missing one anyway," Starsky pointed out. "You know, that kid is stealing hubcaps and who knows what else now, but in a few years, he'll be demanding better protection from the police." Looking up and down the street, he noted the rusted bicycle chained to a bus stop sign and the amount of trash lining the buildings' foundations. "Then again, maybe not."
Hutch just shook his head. "Those hubcaps didn't match each other anyway."
"Maybe that's what I'll get you for Christmas? New hubcaps."
"Sounds like one of the crazy things you'd buy me." Taking his keys out of his pocket, Hutch said, "I thought you said you already did your shopping."
"I did. And I have," Starsky said, thinking of the yogurt maker. "Maybe we made our purchases at the same place?"
"No chance of that, buddy," Hutch replied.
Well. That was at least a clue, Starsky thought. Whatever Hutch had gotten for him didn't come from Sears.
***************
Paddy Johnson was taking a piss in the alley behind the Foxx Bar.
From behind, he looked like a toothpick with large, brown hairball perched on top. Paddy zipped himself up and unsteadily turned around. He put his hands in the air and whined, "If you're here about the loan, guys, tell Fraz I'll get it to him next week. I promise."
Starsky filed that name away. "We're not here about money, Paddy," he said, leaning up against the chain link fence. "We here about a girl named Rhonda Grady." He showed the man her photo.
"I don't know anything about her," Paddy swayed and barely gave the picture a glance. He twisted his sparse beard with two fingers in a way that made Starsky feel like slapping his hand down.
"Paddy, we're more interested in the truth, not the crap you're dishing out," Hutch said.
"Hey, honesty is a great policy. But so is insurance," Paddy said, stumbling as he stepped slightly to the left. The smell of alcohol on his breath and on his clothes was overpowering. "The trick is to not use either unless you really have to."
"Meaning?" Hutch said, raising his eyebrows.
"Meaning I don't know nothing."
"That's not what we heard from a little bird who said she'd like us to beat the shit out of you. In fact, those were her exact words," Starsky said, moving a little closer despite the odor.
Paddy's eyes widened. "That bitch!" He took a swing at them, one that Starsky easily blocked. As he let the man go, Paddy took another clumsy jab at his partner. Hutch stepped aside, and the man's fist got stuck in a loose part of the chain link fence behind them.
"Looks like we have a choice here, Hutch," Starsky said.
"Yeah. And they'd be?"
"We can leave Paddy here and let Fraz come sort it all out, or we can pull him in for attempted assault."
Paddy's eyes widened. "No Fraz. Bring me to jail if you gotta. But not him. Please. He's bad news."
Starsky shrugged. "I guess we could bring this dope in, Hutch. But he's gotta promise one thing."
"Yeah?" Hutch asked. "And what's that?"
"The loser better not throw up in the car."
Paddy swayed and slurred, "I won't. I promise. Just no Fraz."
The man kept his promise, dozing all the way downtown. While Hutch hauled him to Processing, Starsky went up to Records and Information and got what he could on the man Paddy had named.
"Leonard Frazetti. Age forty-two, new in town by way of Cleveland, just took over Paradise Books," Starsky told his partner as he met Hutch in the stairwell. "He's probably going to be someone we need to keep an eye on, anyway."
***************
Starsky pulled up in front of Venice Place, turned off the engine, and sat listening to it tink as it cooled. "The drunk tank's a good place to hold Paddy. The twenty-four hours they'll keep him will give us a chance to check out some other leads without us worrying about what that dope's rustling up."
"Yeah. The slammer's Paddy's future, just not right now."
"Prison." Starsky shook his head. "They go in petty villains and come out master criminals."
"It's called rehabilitation, Starsk. Besides, this is a good plan. Indications point to Paddy knowing something about Rhonda. And as soon as he's out of the tank, we'll tail him."
"And Sweet Alice, too. You know she was holding out on us," Starsky said, staring straight ahead.
"Alice is always holding out on us, it's part of how she stays alive. It's no different than Huggy," Hutch said, sounding resigned. He took their book down from the visor. "As for our past sources, Rolly's out of the picture seeing how he's working on a nice career in smashing big rocks into smaller rocks and making license plates. How about Mickey?"
Starsky thought of the weasel he'd run out of town after Hutch's ordeal with Forest. "Mickey's not a possibility, not in this city. But I gotta say, Hutch, aside from Paddy, we've gotten no real leads on Rhonda so far. All we've done is stir up a lot of nests. There are hundreds of girls in this town, and we're trying to locate one."
"You want to be the one to tell Jackson that? That we gave up?"
"Hutch, it's like the little bird of optimism landed on your shoulder."
"Maybe it has."
"Hmmm." Starsky started to put his hand up to Hutch's forehead.
Hutch slapped it down. "What are you doing?"
"Just checking for a fever. It's three days before Christmas, and you're entirely too cheerful."
"Maybe that's your present? How about coming up? I'll make grilled cheese."
Starsky thought that sounded perfect. Plus, it would give him a chance to search for his gift. Surely, Hutch had it hidden in the apartment somewhere.
He spent the time Hutch was in the shower looking in all the usual hiding places.
When his partner, a towel around his waist, came out of the bathroom amidst a cloud of steam, Starsky was just getting up off the floor in front of the couch. He put the broom away he'd been using to swipe under the furniture.
Walking into the bedroom, Hutch said over his shoulder, "You're such a dummy."
"Can't blame a guy for trying. Mind if I grab a shower, too?"
"Go ahead, but you gotta know my razor's dull."
Ten minutes later, Starsky stepped out of the bathroom and saw Hutch working at trying to open the kitchen window. It had been painted shut long before his partner had moved in.
"Any reason you're all of a sudden into home repairs at this time of the night?" Starsky asked, striding over to the stove. He used a spatula to turn over the two cheese sandwiches in the pan just as they started to smoke.
Hutch just laughed. "Just you wait, grasshopper," he said, shoving a screwdriver along the frame's edge. Starsky reached over and hit the frame just as Hutch yanked on the handle. The window flew open with a screech.
"There's nothing like a little Bay City fresh air," Starsky laughed as Hutch ended up propping the window open with a box of Wheaties.
***************
On the way over to Hutch's place the next morning, Starsky stopped at the Coffee Cup Bakery and bought some reinforcements. He put the bag on passenger seat.
"Huggy called me last night," Hutch said as he got in the car and nearly sat on breakfast. He moved the bag on the dash. "Apparently, Paddy really has got it out for Frazetti in a big way."
"So? Paddy is just small potatoes and from what we know of Frazetti, he's pretty powerful. How's Paddy gonna put a dent in him? And why?"
Hutch shrugged. "Hug says Frazetti had someone break Paddy's mom's arm as encouragement to pay back a six-hundred dollar loan. Apparently, Paddy found about it when he was booked in yesterday and called her."
"A broken arm is pretty shitty encouragement," Starsky said, grimacing.
"No kidding. It puts Leonard Frazetti at the top of our dance card today."
Starsky pulled the paper sack off the dash. "I bought donuts. Wanna share?"
"Don't mind if I do," Hutch said, pulling out a cruller. "Which reminds me. I need to make a stop at Vons at some point. I've got to get a quart of vegetable oil."
"Oil? What for?" Starsky said, pulling out the other pastry.
"It's part of your present, dummy."
Starsky thought of what oil could be used for: lubrication, shine, and practical jokes. All three of those things made him nervous. Maybe Hutch had finally had it with all the silly presents he'd gotten over the years and had finally gone over the edge?
Starsky glanced at his partner as Hutch pulled the small notebook out of his shirt pocket. "Frazetti lives at 356 East Burwell. That's our next stop."
"Your wish is my command, blondie," Starsky said, popping the last of his breakfast into his mouth as he eased the car into traffic.
***************
Burwell was a street of large, stucco one-story homes, most in good repair. Frazetti's place was set back from the street a bit. The blinds were drawn and two new phone books sat on the front steps.
The yard had a number of garden ornaments. A rabbit, an owl and deer accompanied a concrete heron. The bird was poised on one leg in the middle of the grass as if it were waiting for a concrete pond to appear. There were a handful of empty terracotta pots along the foundation.
"I like this sort of garden. No plants," Starsky said whispered.
Hutch gave him a dirty look.
Starsky glanced up the street, then down, noting the complete lack of traffic.
Hutch did the same and said, "I smell smoke, don't you?"
"Not yet." Starsky handed him a book of matches and a piece of paper he'd dug out of his back pocket. "Fire is a public danger, one we have to immediately act on."
Hutch lit the paper on fire and shoved it under the door. He gave an exaggerated sniff. "We'd better investigate," he said as he tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. "Is it just me, or are crooks getting stupider?"
Starsky checked his gun and gave his partner a nod. Then they both eased their way in.
Frazetti's apartment was a shrine to gaudy taste and materialistic whims. The living room was stocked full of goodies showing the muddy underside of the American dream. It was all there, the big TV in a fake wood console, the home gym paraphernalia scattered across the purple shag carpeting, and the white conversation pit hunched by the far wall. Empty pizza boxes littered the coffee table. The whole place smelled of stale air and marijuana. The only sound in the house came from some early morning television show, turned down low.
Starsky took all this in from the vantage of the semi-crouch he'd dropped into after making his entrance. Hutch was a few feet away, training his gun on the room. Hutch caught Starsky's eye, and they both moved toward what appeared to be a bedroom. Motioning Starsky still, Hutch pushed the door open.
Starsky walked up to the edge of the bed as Hutch flicked the light switch, flooding the room with a sudden brightness. He felt Hutch move in behind him.
After a second or so, the lump on bed moved and a voice muttered, "What the hell?" Frazetti, still not entirely awake, blinked up at Starsky.
The bedclothes next to him shifted as well. Then the covers moved down, revealing a very young, very naked, blonde girl. She stared at Starsky with round, startled eyes.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Frazetti demanded, sounding indignant.
Starsky forced a smile. "We're just here to clean out the trash."
Frazetti made a move for the bedside table but stopped when Hutch held up the man's gun.
"I think I'll hold onto this for a bit," Hutch said, tucking it into the back of his belt.
The girl whined. "Are you the Vice Squad or something?" Her pasty skin, lank hair and unfocused eyes made Starsky grab her arm. He examined the inside of her elbow. It was mottled with a collection of angry-looking, purplish-red needle marks.
"Has he paid you yet?" Starsky asked her, releasing her.
The girl shook her head.
Hutch looked at Frazetti. "Where's your wallet?"
Frazetti stared at Hutch. Starsky suspected something in his partner's eyes made the man decide not to argue.
"Dresser drawer," Frazetti mumbled.
Starsky looked at the girl again. "Take what he owes you. And give yourself a nice tip."
The girl swiftly obeyed. Pulling on the tiny, multi-colored dress that had been lying over a chair, she went to the dresser and helped herself to a wad of bills.
She asked Starsky, "Are you going to kill him?"
Starsky smiled without humor. "No, I just want to talk with him. He's married to my sister, and I hate it when he cheats on her. Don't slam the door on your way out." He waggled his fingers.
Frazetti opened his mouth as if to say something but seemed to change his mind. The girl tucked the bills into her macramé purse and was out of the room in seconds. Hutch stepped back a few feet, gun trained on Frazetti, and watched her departure. "She went out the back door," Hutch said. "All clear."
"We're here about a girl named Rhonda Grady," Starsky said as Hutch moved back into position.
"If that's your sister's name, then you clearly have me mixed up with some other brother-in-law of yours."
"Rhonda Grady is fifteen-year old black girl, about five foot five, a hundred twenty pounds, and has a mole above her left eyebrow."
"Too fat," Frazetti muttered.
"What?" Hutch asked, moving closer to the bed.
Frazetti growled, "I said too... she's not old enough. I don't run young stuff."
"That's not what we've been told."
Frazetti pulled the bed covers up as Hutch got within inches of his face. Starsky knew what his partner was thinking; the idea of Frazetti messing with a fifteen-year old girl made them both want to pull the man's arms out their sockets and drive them into the ground like tent stakes.
"What you've been told is wrong, man," Frazetti growled. "Now get the hell out of my house!"
Starsky picked up the man's pants from the floor and started going through the pockets while Hutch kept his gun on the man.
"Hey!" Frazetti started to scramble off the bed. His pale, naked body made Starsky think of newborn rat. "You can't do that!"
"What?" Starsky said, holding up a heroin kit and a little bag of white powder. "Can't find illegal drugs in your possession?"
Hutch read him his rights, and Starsky had the pleasure of cuffing the man. They even gave Frazetti the opportunity to put on a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt before hauling him out to the car.
***************
Frazetti's current place of discomfort was Interview Room Number Nine. The venue had a buzzing fluorescent light, faulty air conditioning, and a chair that had an inch taken off the front two legs. Hutch had engineered that chair himself, knowing it kept anyone sitting on it off-kilter. Frazetti was demonstrating this very fact by constantly pushing himself back in his seat.
While it didn't happen often enough, some interrogations were actually fairly easy. Those were like picking a piece of ripe fruit and dropping it into a basket. The crooks simply gave it up before a cop even had a chance to sit down.
Starsky had a feeling Frazetti wasn't one of them. He'd had his round with the man and gotten nowhere; Frazetti hadn't said a word.
Now, standing with Dobey on the other side of the glass, Starsky watched his partner in action.
"It may be that all you can keep him on is that two-bit drug charge," Dobey said, staring straight ahead.
"Two-bit?" Starsky moved a little closer to the window. "Frazetti had four decks of heroin and two eight balls of cocaine in his possession."
"You know what I'm talking about. This guy's new in town. Pulling him in like this can work both ways. It can serve as a warning, a sign of muscle, or it can backfire on you."
"I know that, Cap'n. Let's hope it's the former," Starsky said, watching his partner.
Hutch got right into Frazetti's face. "I'm going to say it one more time. I heard you like to sleep with little girls. Maybe this was what went down in Cleveland, but here in Bay City we take a pretty dim view of that shit."
Frazetti noisily cleared his throat. He pursed his thick lips and spat onto the floor.
Hutch said, "Do that again and lose all future possibility of speech."
That bit of spit was the last thing that came out of Frazetti's mouth before he asked for a lawyer. As Hutch left the room, Frazetti looked straight at the one-way glass and grinned. "Just thought I'd give you guys a run for your money, see what the cops in this city had to say," he laughed. It sounded like someone shoveling loose gravel. Then he lobbed a wad of spittle on the glass just as Hutch came into the viewing room.
"He's a real sweetheart," Dobey growled. "Get downstairs, and start the paperwork on this guy."
"You still think we're on the right path?" Starsky asked, as they headed back to their desks.
"Only time will tell," Hutch replied.
They were finishing up their reports when Officer Rogers called from Lock-Up.
"Just to let you know, Detective Starsky, that two of your birds are ready to fly. The guy you pulled in yesterday, Paddy Johnson, has been sprung. That, and Leonard Frazetti is ready to walk, too."
Starsky slammed the phone down. "Can you believe that? Frazetti's loose. We're not even done with the paperwork, and his lawyer's have gotten that piece of shit out. Paddy's out, too."
Hutch shook his head as he pulled the paper off the typewriter roller.
"I gotta say, if it's not genocide or cannibalism these days, bail's a snap," Starsky muttered.
"It's not the end of the world," Hutch said. "We've stirred the pot a bit, poked at Paddy, rattled Frazetti's cage. I'm betting all we have to do is follow Paddy around a bit, and we'll make some progress."
"Aren't you the optimistic one, blondie."
"We both know that if you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail. And according to Huggy, Paddy is looking for something to pound. Let's make that work for us."
***************
They followed Paddy all over town while he visited a fruit stand, purchased a newspaper, and bought gas for his car.
When Paddy pulled up in front of Frazetti's place, they knew they'd struck gold.
"Looks like he's waiting for someone," Starsky said as they watched from a half a block away.
"Either that or he's trying to talk himself into something. We might have a long wait." Hutch settled back against the seat.
"I think I know what my gift is," Starsky said.
Hutch looked surprised. "You do?"
"See, I know how we operate: I suggest going to a bar, and you're supposed to say, 'How about a salad bar?' And my line is, 'You've got to be kidding?'."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"You're supposed to complain about what I have in my fridge, telling me I've got leftovers so old they have their own culture, right down to a written language and a frightening desire for community theater."
"Starsky." Hutch shook his head.
"I'm just pointing our that's how we work. I say, 'How about a seven-course meal?' and you tell me I'm probably thinking of a burger and a six-pack."
"Food, Starsky, you're always thinking about food, I swear, just look at the last three things you brought up. They're all references to food."
"You think I got a one-track mind?"
"What you have is an eight-track mind. One half is concentrated on eating and the other half with sex."
"That's not true," Starsky said, wondering if Hutch was right. "I think about a lot of other stuff. How's this for a change of subject? Aren't you even curious about what I got you for Christmas?"
"I figure you sprung for something along the lines of the Magic Eight Ball you got me four years ago. Or the Chia Pet you picked up at Woolworth's."
"Those were fabulous gifts, Hutch. They beat the fifteen chickens you bought in my name for a village in Guatemala."
"That was a good gift, Starsk. We eat a lot of scrambled eggs. Why not make a meaningful gesture for..."
Starsky cut him off. "Did your mom make a big Christmas turkey? A ham?"
"Are we back to food again?"
"I'm just making small talk, Hutch. I'm curious what you ate on Christmas Day."
"We never had a turkey. Or ham. Or duck. Or goose."
"Don't tell me you sat down to a big bowl of beans and tofu on Christmas."
Hutch laughed. "Not too far from it. My folks had this idea that the only meat we'd eat was what they could hunt, a crazy idea as my dad was a lousy shot. We were pretty much vegetarians until my mom hit a deer with her car just south of Duluth. The state patrol helped her get it in the trunk and told her she was lucky to be alive."
"You're joking."
"I wouldn't joke about something like that."
Starsky narrowed his eyes. "The day I figure you out, Hutch, is the day I see a shrink and get myself a check-up from the neck up."
"Wouldn't be a bad idea anyway, buddy."
They sat in the late afternoon light for a while, and then Starsky said, "My ma was a terrible cook, but she excelled at a couple of things."
"More food talk?" Hutch said, raising his eyebrows.
"Isn't it funny, Hutch, how the smell, the taste, the preparation of food makes you think of other things? For instance, Jackson and I used to pass a lot of time in the army talking about his ma's cooking. Ham this, ham that, he was all about ham." Starsky thought of the time after they'd gotten out of the service, of the hours he and Jackson would sit at the Walters' kitchen table, playing cards and eating little ham sandwiches on biscuits smeared with mustard. Starsky would talk about becoming a cop, and Jackson, smitten with a girl named Evie, made plans marry her. Jackson Junior was born a little over a year later.
"It's peanut brittle for me," Hutch said, keeping his eyes on the Frazetti house. "My grandma made it for us once a year. My parents hated returning to the little town they'd been raised in, and the ten-hour drive was hell. When we'd visit her for Thanksgiving, I'd have to listen to my mom and dad bicker all the way there, and then argue all the way back. Me and my sister would sit in the backseat, and we'd eat my grandmother's peanut brittle out of a wax paper-lined coffee can. Today, even the smell of that candy brings me right back to looking out the window at long stretches of dark countryside and wishing my parents could just be happier."
"Peanut brittle, huh? I never knew that about you."
"I guess I'm just full of surprises."
Starsky asked, "If you're thinking of getting me an air hockey table, then I gotta tell you there's no way it'll fit in my apartment."
"I'm not getting you an air hockey table."
"If you..."
Hutch put his hand on the dash. "Paddy is going in."
Sure enough, the man looked up the street, then down before he pushed the front door to Frazetti's place open.
"Doesn't that man ever lock his..." Starsky's comment was cut off by the sound of a gunshot.
***************
This time they simply kicked the door open.
Frazetti was lying on the living room floor and appeared to be very, very dead.
He wasn't alone. Paddy was standing over the body, waving a gun like a crazy man.
"I didn't kill him!" he screamed. "I didn't do it! It was a girl. Not me!"
Starsky watched his partner adopt the non-threatening stance they referred to as the "Father O'Brien." Hutch stood with his palms open and facing upward, his left foot slightly forward and his body half-turned. He knew Hutch did this automatically, just as he knew his partner could draw his gun in an instant if need be.
"If you didn't kill him, then you're not in trouble," Starsky lied, keeping his own gun trained on the man.
Paddy, trembling, dropped the gun. Hutch had him very professionally pinned on the shag carpet in seconds.
Starsky went over to the dead man on the floor. The hole in Frazetti's head pretty much made his next move unnecessary, but as per regulations, Starsky crouched down and put fingers at the man's neck.
"You feel anything?" Hutch asked, pulling the handcuffed Paddy to a stand.
"Not only do I not feel a pulse," Starsky replied. "But I also don't feel a speck of sympathy for this sack of shit. Seems Frazetti won't even be useful in helping us find Rhonda."
Paddy looked up. His eyes were red with tears.
"Rhonda. Rhonda," Paddy said. "That's the girl that killed him."
"You'd better not be lying to us, scum."
"No lies. Not this time. She was here. Frazetti was gonna fuck her, and she was screaming, screaming for her mother. I think she got his gun. That's who went out the back door."
Hutch shoved him up against the wall. "You're just telling us this now?"
"I think I know where she went," Paddy wailed. "She took his car keys. She's probably headed for the garage."
***************
"I got a bad feeling about this," Starsky whispered as they moved into the back yard.
"Me, too." Hutch made another weapon check. Starsky did the same, pulling his clip out and ramming it back home.
The garage door was up, and inside was a dark-green sedan. Both men trained their guns on the car and slowly moved up. On the front seat was a heap of what looked like dirty laundry. The pile was Rhonda Grady.
"Rhonda..." Hutch started to say.
"I think I killed him," she said, her speech slurred. "I'd never held a gun before. I took his after he'd... he's a terrible man."
Starsky nodded. "Rhonda, where is the gun now?"
"I have it here." And she sat up slowly. The gun was in her hand, and she looked at it with puzzlement.
"Would you put the gun down, Rhonda?" Starsky gently asked.
"Rhonda's the girl I used to be before things went bad. That animal called me Princess, Angel, Baby. They're all names my mom and dad used to... I hate those names now." She started to turn the gun toward her face.
Looking back, Starsky would be unable to remember the exact sequence of events. There was the sound of the backfire of a car outside on the street, the shout Hutch made when Rhonda's gun went off twice, and then her scream as Starsky tackled her, knocking the girl against the passenger window.
Starsky made quick work of handcuffing Rhonda and moving to his partner. Hutch was slumped up against the garage wall.
One shot had grazed his upper right arm; the other had skimmed along the top of his hand.
"That girl's got terrible aim," Hutch said, looking dazed.
"Thank goodness for that. You're gonna be all right," Starsky said, pulling the handkerchief out of his partner's pocket and tying it around the wound on Hutch's arm. "You're gonna be all right."
"I know," Hutch said, and closed his eyes. "Rhonda?"
"No bullets in her, but aside from that, I don't know." He glanced over and saw her shoulders shake from the sobs that wracked her thin body.
Starsky, seeing the amount of blood on his partner's arm, tightened the tourniquet.
Hutch grimaced.
"Is the pain bad?" Starsky asked.
"Of course it is, dummy," Hutch said tightly.
For some reason, that made Starsky feel less afraid.
***************
Starsky took care of business with child protection services against the blue and red flashing lights of ambulances, the crime lab wagon, and four squad cars.
Then he turned his attention back to his partner being tended in the ambulance. The medic looked up as Starsky climbed in the back.
"Just in time, Detective. We're just about to transport," the man said, checking the temporary dressing on Hutch's first wound.
"How's he doing?" Starsky asked, looking down at his partner.
"He's going to be fine, though he probably doesn't feel like it at the moment," the medic said as the ambulance pulled away from the curb.
Hutch groaned, and Starsky put his hand on Hutch's chest.
"Hey, blondie, what's the idea of ditching me?" Starsky teased. "You know we always go to the hospital together. It's like a tradition."
Hutch looked up. His face was pinched with pain.
"And it's your hand again, too, blondie. You have the worst luck with those paws of yours. It's sort of like how the Kennedys ought to stay out of airplanes."
"Starsky," Hutch whispered.
"What?" Starsky said, putting his ear close to Hutch's mouth.
"Shut up."
***************
Mrs. Jackson came by the day after Hutch's surgery. She brought flowers. And Jackson Junior.
Starsky took the bouquet from her and put them on the window ledge.
Jackson went over and stood by Hutch's bed.
Hutch was asleep, his face unlined and smooth. "He's on the good stuff, Jackson. Off in la-la land," Starsky said, giving the glass IV bottle a quick tap.
Jackson nodded but didn't look up.
Mrs. Jackson met Starsky's eyes. "Sammie gave me the details. She said Hutch's going to be okay."
"It's one of the perks of having an intern living in your house. You can get the information from a reliable source." Starsky smiled. "And the lovely Dr. Mason is correct. It's a pretty straightforward injury. One was just a crease, and the other one, while more complicated, is going to heal up fine, too. Hutch is going to be at the mercy of a physical therapist for a while, but then he can go back to work, bowling and playing his guitar."
Mrs. Jackson said, "I want to thank you for helping my boy. While the grandma in me wishes he'd have asked me first, I'm glad Jackson took the action he did and called you. Every child out there needs to have people to look out for her, for him. I'm glad Rhonda had Jackson. And that Jackson had you. His father would have been proud. It takes a good man to ask for help."
Jackson shuffled his feet and turned to look out the window.
His grandma looked at her grandson's back for a moment and then returned Starsky's gaze. He mouthed, "It's okay," to her.
"About Rhonda Grady? What's going to happen to her?" Mrs. Jackson asked.
"I'm not going to whitewash it; she's in some trouble. But Miss Perkowitz is going to keep Rhonda's case on the forefront."
Jackson spoke without turning around. "Are they gonna take her away from her pop?"
"Rhonda's in a lot of trouble, but it wasn't so much to do with her father," Starsky said, wishing he had a better answer.
"Maybe they should. He's a crummy dad to have lost her like that."
"Jackson!" his grandma said sharply.
"Yeah, he's been a crummy dad," Starsky said. "But I think that he's a father who is rather adrift himself. Losing someone you care about does that to people, and sometimes they don't handle it well. Jim Grady loved his wife so much..."
"He loved his wife so much that he let his daughter disappear," Jackson muttered.
Starsky tried to explain. "He didn't know how to help when part of his world fell away. With grief, people think, and say, and act in ways that sometimes swallows them up. I think Jim Grady just needs some help. I think Rhonda will say the same thing."
"You've talked to her?" Jackson turned around.
"No. Not yet. She's not ready to speak to anyone. But when she is, I'll bet she'll want to talk to you."
"Maybe," Jackson Junior said. "And maybe not."
Mrs. Jackson moved to the bed and put her hand on Hutch's forehead. He sighed a little but didn't open his eyes. "You're both good men, and I'm proud to know you." Then she gave Starsky's arm a squeeze. "I'll be in the hall, David. I think Jackson should remain here a moment."
Jackson stayed.
"This is not your fault," Starsky said.
"If it weren't, you wouldn't need to tell me that."
"Jackson. Listen, I..."
"No. You listen. Hutch wouldn't have gotten shot if I hadn't picked up the stupid phone and called you two."
"You were being a good friend. And we were doing our job. It's hard to see how either of those things is a bad thing, much less your fault."
"Still..."
"Jackson, I've had my fair share of times when I blamed myself for stuff. Sometimes they were things about a friend or something in my job. But I've also learned that everyone's doing their best with what they have. Just like you did when you called us about Rhonda."
Jackson finally looked up. "Hutch shouldn't have gotten hurt."
"No. He shouldn't have. And Rhonda shouldn't have gotten hurt. And her mom shouldn't have gotten killed. And your dad should still be alive. So should mine." Starsky said. "But the important thing is that Rhonda's going to get some help."
"Yeah," Jackson breathed.
Starsky put his hand on his shoulder. "Your grandma's right. You're turning into a right good man."
***************
"So much for the present I was going to give you, Starsk," Hutch said, his voice hoarse.
"That's the least of our worries, buddy."
"No. Really. I know how much it means to you, the whole Christmas thing."
Starsky straightened the blanket. "It's soapy, but what I want is right here: you safe and sound."
"But I do have something..." Hutch's voice slurred a bit, telling Starsky the meds the nurse had brought in a few minutes ago were doing their thing.
"You can give it to me when you get home, blondie. And I'll give you yours then, too. That's just a couple of days," Starsky said.
"I may be getting out of here then, but it's going to be a lot longer than that before I can give it to you. The docs... they're saying it'll be at least a good six, maybe eight weeks before my hand is back to rights."
"Then you'll just tell me where it is, and I'll do the heavy lifting."
"It's not a thing, it's something I was going to do." Hutch sounded like he was about ready to drift off completely. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, Starsky thought he was out.
Hutch mumbled, "Starsk, I was going..."
"What were you going to do, buddy?"
"I called your mom last Friday when you left... when you went out for beer. Right after you called her."
"Yeah?" Starsky had to lean in close to hear him.
"I was going to cook you latkes, like she used to make," Hutch slurred. "I even got a jar of applesauce, and then I unstuck that window in the kitchen so it would open. Your mom said latkes make the house all smoky..." And with that, Hutch was asleep.
"They do, Hutch," Starsky said softly. "I remember." He sat in the darkened room and thought about what a lucky man he really was.
The end.
Go to index
First in 'Four Christmas: A Lifetime' Series
1979
Hutch looked out of the plane's window and tried to put his thoughts in order. He had to, if he wanted to have his answer for Starsky on his return. That meant less than two hours left for contemplation.
Not that those three days in San Francisco had given him anything that resembled an answer, but this could easily be the most important decision of his life. Rather not just a possibility, it was unquestionably the most essential decision of his life.
He shouldn't be so surprised by the bomb that Starsky had dropped at his feet four days ago; it wasn't like it was the first time that their relationship had taken that kind of turn.
They had confessed to each other, in a drunken night at the academy that they had both played on the other side of the fence before — him with Jack and Starsky in Vietnam. So it came quite naturally, after his divorce and once they became partners on the force, to find comfort in each other's arms after the worst crises.
In the beginning it was just that, comfort and adrenaline and the need to bank the violence that still shimmered inside them. But everything changed after Forest.
Maybe it was the loving way Starsky had held him in his arms as he trembled and shuddered, having seizure after seizure. It was Starsky that wiped his sweat and held his head as he puked again and again.
He had never felt that protected; not even his mother had ever held him that way. Starsky was home. He had tried to tell himself that the extent of his emotions wasn't genuine, that it was just a byproduct of his predicament.
No such luck. Bellamy's poison had shown those ideas as the nonsense that they were. His heart had decided to take a stand, but it seemed pointless. Starsky was mostly straight; and even if he wasn't, that kind of relationship on more permanent basis could have easily cost them their jobs.
And Starsky's career was his whole world. Add in his desire for children, plus his need to be the toughest cop in their beat, and you had the perfect recipe for disaster.
Subsequently, he held his counsel and a few months later met Gillian. He loved that woman; almost as much as he loved Starsky. And if she had lived he would have married her, and would have been happy with her, and maybe they could have had children together. Then his feelings for Starsky would have stayed firmly where they should.
In all that despair, Starsky was there. He not only had taken him on his dates with his flavor of the month, but he had spent more nights in Hutch's bed than in her's.
Their nights had taken a sweet flavor; so much that that he had started thinking that maybe he should take a chance and confess. However, the point became moot when Starsky met Terry.
For all her sugary sweetness, Terry was shrewd. She had him figured out within five minutes and used it to twist the knife so sweetly when she was calling Starsky her best friend.
In spite of that, he liked her. Starsky needed that kind of strength at his side and her sweetness was calming him. What did it matter that she was petty? She was good for Starsky and he had accepted her with all his heart.
But she died, too. Starsky had cried hysterically in his arms and her parting shot was a magnificent one. Starsky was really touched and that alone was reason to mourn her.
But they were back on track after a while. Hutch thought it was over and done with, but then came Rosie Malone. He didn't believe for a second that Starsky really had a chance with her, but he hated the misery that she caused his partner. However Starsky had loved her.
And truth be told, if the choice was Starsky in pain and his, or Starsky with someone else, there was really no choice at all. He would rather dance at Starsky's wedding, and love it, than cause him even one second of pain.
He pushed aside his need, his want for partner, and managed it pretty well until he was struck down with the plague. Starsky had said things in that hospital, and after, that had made him open up and truly hope that there was a future for them out there.
Yet, as he had started to stand on his own feet again, Starsky was out for the next conquest.
That had made him so angry that he had started a chain of idiotic actions, creating a chasm between them; a rift the extent of which he had not comprehended until he was forced to hear Starsky refer to Meredith as his partner.
The words had hurt far more than his injury; it was the first time that his place at Starsky's side was threatened. Unfortunately, he reacted the same way he always did and simply retreated.
He got so numb emotionally that when Lionel ended up dead he was ready to give up everything so he wouldn't start feeling again.
And Starsky stood by him, ready to leave their careers behind and start anew. And as they got themselves tangled in Alison's problems, everything seemed to get right on itself. They were still friends; they were still partners, and so what if they were not lovers? Nothing was perfect.
That resolve was severely tested when they were partnered with Kira. At first glance she was a very gracious, beautiful lady; a competent cop that seemed to melt under his partner's insistent flirting. And Starsky even proclaimed that he loved her.
Love! What was there to love about her? She was a decent enough cop, but Hutch could see nothing significant beyond that.
But Starsky could have seen something in Kira that he had missed. Once again he was ready to resolve himself to stepping aside gracefully. Instead, the story ended differently.
Starsky had come to him later that night, after the blow-out at Kira's. He expected accusations, insults, or even blows. But Starsky did none of those and by the end of the night not only was the friendship repaired, but they were lovers once again.
They only had a week of happiness together before Gunther's hit had almost shattered them. He was still wakening up at nights shaken to his core, but Starsky had made it.
As soon as Starsky had first woken from his coma, Hutch was ecstatic. He undertook all the preparations for Starsky's recovery, even moving his partner into his apartment for the duration. A pleasant and necessary task, as his landlord was selling the house.
And any doubts Hutch might have had, wondering about whether Starsky would once again push him aside for other romantic pursuits, were quickly dismissed. Right before Hutch was due to fly out for a meeting on Gunther's pretrial, Starsky admitted that his almost dying had opened his eyes. He loved Hutch and wanted to spend the rest of his life by his side.
And then Starsky was kissing the breath out of his body. For a second it was perfect; everything that he dreamed. But then it was too much, too good to be true. And then Hutch bolted, out of the door and on a plane to San Francisco as a means of escape.
He had spent his days away concentrating in the hearing, but the thought of Starsky's revelation kept creeping in. Even if his panicked doubts were true, that didn't invalidate Starsky's admittance. Hutch had to collect his thoughts and figure out what to do before he returned to Bay City. Unfortunately, that time was running out.
In the end if Starsky wanted the company of a lady from time to time, he could live with that or if worst came and some day he found the special lady he wanted to have children with, he would withdraw. Their friendship could survive. And it was worth it, even in those terms, he had accepted less.
+++++++++++
Starsky was waiting for him when he landed; and if he had any doubt about his feelings, the agonizing expression on Starsky's face put that worry at ease.
He wanted to tell him that everything would be alright, that he loved him more than his own soul, that he wasn't going to leave him again, but the words were inadequate. Instead, he opened his arms and held Starsky with all that he was worth.
Hutch felt Starsky melting in his arms and his body softened in return. He had no idea that he held such weariness in his body, nor that he could experience such relief, but suddenly it was like his body had lost a serious burden.
Unexpectedly, he felt protected, warm and loved, as he never had in his life. Everything that this man had given him before was now engulfing his whole being. Hutch felt his own love for Starsky overflow. He was home; he was finally home.
"I missed you, Starsk", Hutch breathed.
"I ain't going anywhere."
And Hutch knew, for the first time maybe, that it was always going to be true.
Back in the car, Starsky asked, "Are you done running, Blondie?"
"No more running," Hutch promised.
"Good." Starsky smiled. "I was starting to worry with the way that you left."
"I'm not leaving. Not willingly."
Starsky pulled over abruptly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means I'm in this thing as long as you are, Starsk."
"Which means forever. What part of 'us alone' don't you understand? It's only been three days, so how the hell did you forget?"
"You might change your mind," Hutch admitted.
Suddenly, Starsky grabbed Hutch across the seat by his jacket, bringing their faces closer. "Listen to me, Blondie, and listen good. There's no need in me that you can't cover. Got it?"
"You're giving up your dreams for this," Hutch whispered.
"My dreams?! My dreams are with you!" Suddenly, Starsky face fell. "Unless it's you who wants out. You're turned off by the scars, aren't you?"
Now he was pissed. "Where the hell did you get that from? I don't give a shit about the scars."
"You could have fooled me!"
"What are you talking about Starsky?"
"All this backing off, backing away. What's with that?"
Hutch didn't dare meet his partner's eyes. "I thought it was safer."
"Idiot!"
"Well, look at my track record, would you?!"
"Hutch, do I look like that friggin' bitch, Vanessa?"
"No," Hutch admitted.
"Good, you had me wondering. Do you still trust me?"
"Always Starsk"
"Then trust me. I've never been happier than after I moved with you. The only thing that might ever equal that is if we got back on the streets."
"Right," Hutch said, harshly. "And right after that they boot us out again when they find out what we've been up to."
"I walked away with you once; I'd choose you again." Starsky freely admitted.
His mouth was hanging open and Starsky closed it so tenderly that he flushed to the top of his ears.
"As long as we're together, that's the only thing that matters. Working the streets here or robbing banks in Bolivia, makes no difference to me."
There must been something different in his eyes because before he knew it Starsky's lips were on his. It was countless moments before he pulled back.
"If I had lost you, instead of Terry, I wouldn't have been alive today." He paused, looking into Hutch's eyes and smiling. "Besides, I have a plan!"
Instantly, Hutch was suspicious. "What kind of plan?"
"You'll see," Starsky teased.
"Starsk..."
"Okay, okay," he relented. "I talked to Helene yesterday. Officially, on January 15th, I'm moving into the next apartment. Well, on paper anyway."
"And unofficially?" Hutch pushed.
"Oh, I think you know where I'll be," Starsky laughed.
Yes, yes he did.
Go to index
David Starsky put the last tiny bit of plastic in place and sighed as he looked at his latest completed masterpiece. An eighteenth century schooner complete with miniature rigging stood on the hobby table in the beech house he shared with his partner Ken Hutchinson. For a moment he felt a strong urge to fling the ship against the wall but he resisted, lately he seemed to spend his time resisting urges. He stood up and his healing body protested at the sudden movement. It was ten days to Christmas but he lacked his usual joy at the season. It was nearly eight months since he had been gunned down in the police garage and he was still adjusting to the huge changes that event had brought to his life. In a month's time he was going to face the review board to see if he still had a job with the Bay City Police Force but that wasn't the reason for his lack of enthusiasm.
He knew he should feel lucky; lucky to be alive, lucky to be loved and love in return, lucky to be surrounded by friends who cared but he didn't feel lucky, he felt lost, adrift in a life that had been built for him by others. His body was healing but emotionally he was confused. His eight weeks in the hospital were a haze of pain medication and visitors but he could remember clearly the night when Hutch had climbed into bed beside him and after the sprinklers had gone off and Huggy and Dobey had slunk out of the room he remembered feeling safe for the first time since the shooting. Physically he had paid a price for that drunken celebratory meal and had come down with yet another chest infection. Hutch was racked with guilt but even through the oxygen cannula in his nose and the iv tube dripping antibiotics into his right arm Starsky had beamed at his partner and pulled Hutch close enough to whisper "I love you" Hutch had turned pink and brushed his lips over Starsky's forehead.
Every once of energy Starsky could muster he had spent in getting better so that he could leave the hospital and be with Hutch and while Starsky was busy healing, Hutch, Huggy and Dobey had been busy arranging a new life for him when he would be released from the hospital. The cops in Parker Center arranged a gala dinner to raise funds for Starsky's rehabilitation so that by the time he was released Hutch had taken him to a house on the beech that was all on one level and had a Jacuzzi that stood on the back terrace that looked over the ocean and even boasted a small gym. The rent on the property had been paid for in advance for a year by the proceeds of the gala. That was the first surprise but they just kept on coming, Hutch had moved in with him to his new house and somehow managed to look after him while putting together an air tight case against James Gunter. Hutch had made sure Starsky never missed a physiotherapy session by arranging a series of drivers including Edith Dobey, Huggy, and most of their friends and colleagues and when Starsky was given the go ahead to drive he had another surprise, the Torino had been restored to pristine condition by Merle but it was too heavy a vehicle for Starsky to manage to drive so Hutch 'borrowed' it and a VW bug turned up at the beech house. It was painted 'Candy Apple Red' and had a wide white stripe which ran over the hood and up and over the roof. Starsky had laughed so hard when he saw it that it had taken him five minutes to get his breath back but it was a dream to drive and he had grown to love it as it had given him back some measure of freedom.
So according to Hutch's timescale everything was going great so why wasn't Starsky happy? He and Hutch had grown so close in the last months. His recovery was slow and painstaking and some days had been particularly difficult but every night since they had moved in to the beech house hutch had held him. Somehow the tall blond man had found a way to hold Starsky without hurting his aching, healing body. Sometimes Hutch had simply held him, sometimes he had brushed his long elegant fingers over his skin, other times he had placed gentle butterfly kisses against his hair, cheek or neck but always his Hutch was there for him, Starsky had come to think of him as his 'gentle wall' his own oxymoron; always so strong but always so gentle. Maybe that was were some of the problem lay, since Starsky had stopped most of the medication his libido had returned and Hutch had given him very gentle blow jobs and had even let Starsky return the favour but that was as far as the blond would go. Starsky wanted more, he wanted to feel Hutch inside him and he wanted to enter his partner and really make him his lover but they had always had an equal relationship and although Starsky knew that Hutch would allow him to go the 'whole way' Starsky wouldn't do it because he knew Hutch wasn't ready to try that with Starsky on the receiving end. Starsky was frustrated and although he loved their slow easy love making he also craved unbridled hot sex and Hutch was just too afraid of Starsky's vulnerability to allow his passions run wild.
Starsky sighed as he heard the door bell; Hutch had done it again; arranged for someone to call over so that Starsky would have company. Starsky moved to the front door and opened it to find Huggy standing there. In a changing world Huggy was as solid and dependable as a grandfather clock. "How ya' doing, my man?" Huggy asked as he followed Starsky into the house.
"Okay, Hug, Hutch asked you to call, huh?"
Huggy laughed as he put a brown paper sack down on a counter in the kitchen." What can I say the man loves you and he worries about you."
"I know, Hug, thanks." Starsky sat on a stool and winced slightly.
"You okay, do you need a pill or something?" Huggy asked as he continued to unload food from the sack.
"No, I'm good, I just sat too long finishing a model."
Huggy stopped unpacking and took a long look at his friend. "It seems to me you must have just about had enough of model making."
Starsky smiled, "Yep, I was going to throw this one against the wall but I don't think I have the energy to clean it up."
The Bear looked very serious. "Go ahead, I'll clean up the mess."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Man, you are vegetating and the only reason that Hutch can't see it is he's too scared of losing you." Huggy pulled a manila folder from the sack and tossed it down in front of Starsky. "Have I introduced you to Olivia?" He asked a clearly puzzled Starsky.
Starsky reached for the folder but didn't open it. "No, I don't think so, why?"
"She and I are casual daters but I like her, the girl is real smart and she's working in a bar up on Fairfax so that she can put herself through school, she's big into psychology." Huggy hesitated but seeing Starsky's look of interest he continued.
"She has a younger sister Anna-Lee, the kid was seventeen when she disappeared the same time you had your run in with Gunter. They're a good family, Starsky, they moved to Bay City two years ago after Theo, Olivia's pop, lost his job in a small town near San Francisco, he works mending fenders in a shop not too far from Merle's and her Mom works as a cleaner in The Angel of Mercy Hospital. There's just Olivia and Anna-Lee and though they don't have a college fund Anna-Lee was due to graduate high school and hoped to go to Community College and study journalism." Huggy stopped talking and looked at Starsky who still hadn't said a word. Huggy cleared his throat. "You're one of the best detectives I have ever seen and I want you to do me a favour and have a look at Anna-Lee's file. She's missing nearly eight months and I don't think her Momma is going to make it through Christmas without some kind of closure. I know the streets and I know what I'm asking but Starsky they have to know what happened, even if you find a body it's better than not knowing, you dig?"
Starsky picked up the file and opened it. Huggy produced two plates and put two open tuna sandwiches on them. He poured two chocolate milkshakes into glasses and sat down opposite Starsky who was still reading the contents of the file.
After ten minutes Huggy had finished his sandwich and was making serious inroads into his shake but Starsky hadn't touched his food. Starsky laid the file aside but kept the 6x4 photograph of Anna-Lee in his hands. The girl was a pretty black teenager with long curly hair and mischievous eyes. Starsky had read the report, which had obviously been complied by the missing teenager's family and consisted of the names of the investigating detectives and a list of her friends but it was when he read the date of her disappearance that Starsky felt a sick sensation in his stomach. Anna-Lee had disappeared on the same date that Starsky had been gunned down. So while Hutch had been watching the love of his life die only to be revived Anna-Lee's family had been calling the police and making statements but unlike Hutch they had not received a happy ending. Starsky put the photo down on the counter.
"Why, Huggy?"
Huggy's eyes burned into Starsky. " Like I said, Starsky Anna-Lee's Momma needs closure and you need to do something productive before the big blond kills you with kindness and your love affair is over before it gets off the ground."
Starsky laughed and put his face in his hands, pushing his fingers through his curly hair. "Jesus! Are we that transparent?"
Huggy stood up and took his glass and plate to the sink and turned back to face Starsky. "If you're asking' then I'm tellin'. Hutch can't believe what he's got and he's so afraid that he might lose you that unless he backs up a little bit he might just do that and you, Starsky, unless I'm reading this way wrong, are just a little fed up with all this adoration and so little action."
Starsky laughed and shook his head. "How do you do that, Hug?"
"Remember I'm the 'Great Hugarino' or maybe I just spend way too much time watching two white dudes waste too much time. Will you do it, Starsky?"
"I'll do it, Huggy but I'm not promising anything you and I both know what happens to most runaways."
"Eat your lunch or we'll both have to answer to Hutch."
"I'll call the detectives who handled the case and make an appointment to meet them and I'll see if I can get my hands on the police file." Starsky bit into his sandwich.
Huggy stood up. "Thanks Starsky, I've got to go. By the way how do you want to handle Hutch?"
"Leave Hutch to me, and Huggy I thought we were being discreet."
"Discreet? You mean because this place has two bedrooms you think you were going to fool me?" Huggy snorted.
Hutch pulled the Torino into the drive and parked it beside the red bug. Somehow driving Starsky's car seemed to make him feel closer to his partner. He closed the driver's door and inhaled the tangy salt stirred breeze that came up from the ocean. Hutch loved the house and he knew he would be sad when the lease was up but he pushed that thought away and let himself into the house. The aroma of roasting beef assailed him at once and he smiled. He entered the kitchen to find Starsky closing the oven door. "Hey, you're actually on time, dinner will be ready in ten minutes." Starsky said as he turned around to face Hutch. Hutch wrapped his arms around Starsky and kissed him on the lips. Starsky pushed his tongue into Hutch's mouth and felt a surge of excitement as Hutch's tongue fought back against his own but quicker than he would have liked he found himself being pushed away gently. "So what did you do today?" Hutch asked in a way that made Starsky think he was the most important person in the world.
Starsky stepped back. "The usual, saved the world from a giant meteorite, cooked my lover dinner and completed another model ship."
"Smart ass! What model did you finish?" Hutch asked with such interest that Starsky found himself feeling guilty at his own boredom with model making. Hutch wandered into the living room and picked up the ship from the table. "This is really good, Starsk." He said holding the ship up close to study it in detail.
"Yep, if I fail the review board I can always make model ships I hear that's what all the reject cops do." Starsky said with more venom than he intended.
Hutch put the ship down and went to Starsky. He tilted his chin up and looked into his eyes. "David Starsky you will pass the review and if you don't then we'll do something together, I don't ever want us to be apart, I love you." Hutch kissed his nose and Starsky pushed him away roughly. "Jesus Christ, Hutch, I'm not a fucking teddy bear."
Hutch sounded consolatory as he said "What do you want Starsk?"
"I want you, Hutch up against the wall, hard and fast with my dick so far up you that I can feel your tonsils."
Hutch reached out but Starsky moved further away. "Okay, you can have me any way you want, you know that but I think we should take it to the bedroom."
Starsky shouted "You just don't get it do you? I can't take possession of you because I know you won't take me and this has to be an equal relationship or it will destroy us both."
Hutch was calm when he answered. "I'm not ready for that yet, I've told you there's no rush. I love you Starsky and I know you love me so I don't need you to prove anything to me, if you want to possess my body that's fine because you already own my body and soul but I just cant' do that to you yet, I'm sorry. I won't hurt you and I don't think you're physically ready yet."
Starsky left the room pushing past Hutch as he did so. He returned to the kitchen and served up a very good roast with all the trimmings. Hutch made small talk over the table about the Gunter Industries investigation which, he was leading and how it seemed that Gunter had tentacles into so many areas of corruption. Starsky remained in a taciturn mood. After dinner Hutch removed the dishes and cleaned up while Starsky went to the living room and pretended to be interested in some nature programme on tv. Hutch joined him on the couch and Starsky rested against Hutch's shoulder. They spent the next hour watching the natural life cycle of the endangered two toed sloth which, judging by its mating habits Starsky secretly believed to deserve to be endangered. At some point Starsky fell asleep and woke as the last credits were rolling to find Hutch drawing gentle circles on his chest. Starsky leaned up and kissed Hutch on the lips. "Sorry." He murmured and Hutch pulled him closer and whispered "We have all the time in the world."
Starsky returned from brushing his teeth to find Hutch already settled in their ridiculously over sized bed. Starsky slid in under the sheet and blankets and snuggled up close against his lover. Starsky was wearing pyjama bottoms and an old navy tee shirt while Hutch just had on a pair of white cotton boxer shorts. Starsky was tired but he reached his hand into Hutch's shorts and was disappointed to find Hutch's cock was flaccid. Starsky sometimes became aroused by just looking at Hutch and he suspected that his scars acted as a turn off for his lover maybe reminding the blond man of how he had nearly lost Starsky and for that reason Starsky usually wore a tee shirt to bed using the pretext of feeling the cold. Hutch mumbled into Starsky's hair "That's nice, Starsk, real nice." And Hutch's cock began to harden as Starsky's skilled fingers used just the right amount of pressure to please him, Hutch pushed his hand inside Starsky's pjs and smiled when he realized his lover was already hardening. Hutch had the hands of a musician and he played Starsky's cock as if it were the most excusive instrument in the world. Way too soon Starsky felt his balls tightening and knew he was going to come, he had really wanted to go down on Hutch tonight and show him how much he loved him but sometimes when Hutch stroked him he found himself coming as fast as a teenager. Moments after his release he felt Hutch's cum against his hands and then Hutch used some tissues to clean them both up before Starsky fell asleep.
Starsky woke with a start as the memory of Anna-Lee's picture came into his mind. The first glimmer of daylight was making its way into the room through the slats in blinds on the windows. Starsky eased himself out of Hutch's arms and padded out of the room. He felt the cold tiles under his feet as he entered the kitchen and after putting on the percolator he went back into the living room and retrieved his Mexican woollen cardigan from a chair and pulled it on. Since the shooting he always seemed to feel cold unless the temperatures were really high. After the coffee was ready he poured himself a cup and sat on a stool at the counter reading the file again. It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes before Hutch entered the kitchen and coming up behind him kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his hair. "'Morning Starsk, you're up early is everything okay?" Hutch asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
"Yeah, everything's fine."
"Do you want to go shopping for a Christmas tree on Saturday?" Hutch asked as Starsky put down the file.
"I don't know, do you want to bother with one this year?" Starsky answered with his own question.
Hutch moved towards him and felt his forehead. "What are you doing?" Starsky asked in an exasperated tone.
"Well I thought you must be running a fever if you're not interested in buying a tree a week before Christmas. Where's your Christmas spirit?"
"It just seems like a lot of trouble."
"I'll put it up and decorate it, Starsk you just pick it out." Hutch was staring at him intently.
Starsky stood up taking the file with him. "Let's talk about it on Saturday."
"What's in the file?" Hutch asked him.
"Just something Huggy asked me to have a look at." Starsky cleared his throat. "It seems a sister of a friend of his went missing a few months ago and I thought I'd have a word with the detectives handling the case in case there was any news to give her parents."
Starsky saw the mix of emotions in Hutch's eyes, worry, fear, panic and love all seem to slide through those blue eyes before Hutch said "Do you want me to give the detectives a call from work?"
"No, thanks Hutch I'd like to handle this one my self." Starsky fled to the bathroom before Hutch could reply taking the file with him and leaving it on the top of the closed commode when he showered.
Hutch was just finished scrambling eggs when Starsky arrived back in the kitchen. Hutch set two plates down and poured some orange juice for Starsky. "So when did Huggy ask you to do this?" Hutch asked
"Yesterday when he called over and to be honest I'm glad of the opportunity to feel a little useful."
Hutch was obviously uncomfortable. "Starsk, you won't take too much on will you?"
"Hutch, I'm fine, I am just going to talk to the detectives who handled the case, now please don't make a song and dance over this."
"Okay, but could I see the file?"
"I'll show it to you tonight, now get going or you'll be late and I have a physio appointment to get to." Starsky smiled.
Starsky hissed as he sat in to the bug. His physio session had been tough but in a good way and he was feeling a little stiff after it. He put the keys in the ignition but didn't turn it on; the physiotherapist's office was only about ten minutes away from the precinct that had handled Anna-Lee's case. Starsky closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. It was tempting to just drive home and maybe sit in the Jacuzzi for a while but the picture of the pretty teenager haunted him. He sat up, turned the ignition and drove off.
The Eight precinct was busy and it took Starsky a few minutes to get the attention of the uniformed officer behind the desk. The man was in his fifties and looked pretty washed out. Starsky asked to speak to either Detective Jim Simon or his partner Detective Gerry Rubenfeld. The officer said Jim Simon was on vacation and he'd see if Rubenfeld was available and asked who was looking for him. The moment Starsky gave his name while producing his badge the older cop's demeanour changed completely. He threw open the door into his office and stuck out his hand saying "You're Dave Starsky? It's a privilege to meet you, we were all delighted to see your partner bring in that bastard Gunter. How are you doing?"
Starsky felt embarrassed as other cops turned to look at him. "I'm fine thanks."
"I'm Mike Kirby by the way, come on and I'll show you where Rubenfeld works."
Starsky followed Kirby to a detectives' room very like the one in Parker Center and was introduced to a man dressed in a crumpled grey suit, he was in his late forties with grey hair but alert brown eyes. After the introductions Rubenfeld waved him to a chair. "What can I do for you Detective Starsky?" He asked.
"Call me Dave, I'm still on leave so this is completely unofficial but it's about a girl who went missing eight months ago." Starsky began and produced the photo Huggy had given him. Rubenfeld interrupted as soon as he saw the picture.
"I'm Gerry." The older man looked at Starsky and then continued on. "I remember the case, Anna-Lee Tobin, she was 17. Came from a nice family and disappeared the day you were shot."
Starsky felt uneasy and Rubenfeld obviously sensed this. "Look Dave it was a shock to hear of one of our own getting gunned down in a station car park so we were all a bit on edge then Jim, my partner and I get a call about a missing girl. We did what we could but there was nothing to go on. We talked to her family, her friends and her school teachers but all we got was that she was a good kid who missed her friends from her old town but no leads as to where she went. I'll get the file for you and make a Xerox of everything in it." Rubenfeld stood up. "Do you want a coffee while you wait?"
"No, thanks Gerry and I appreciate this." Starsky sat feeling at home in the familiar air of a squad room but also feeling slightly uneasy.
Rubenfeld returned ten minutes later with a complete copy of Anna-Lee's file. Starsky felt he should offer some kind of explanation. "Look Gerry, I'm just looking into this for a friend of the family and to be honest I'm going a bit stir crazy at home so I don't want to step on your toes or anything."
Rubenfeld smiled. "Dave, I'm a competent cop and Jim and I tried our best but you know the situation, a teen age girl leaving home, well it's not unusual to be unsuccessful in tracing her. I hope you find something we overlooked because I like happy endings as good as the next guy. Here's my home number and if you want anything just give me a call."
Starsky took the file. "Thanks Gerry, I appreciate it and I'm sure you guys didn't overlook anything." Gerry shook his hand and Starsky turned towards the door and as he did so the six or seven detectives who were working at their desks stood up and began clapping. Starsky froze but then realized they were clapping for him. He muttered 'Thank you' and strode quickly out of the room.
Starsky drove to the pits and after ordering French fries and a soda began reading the file in a booth. Huggy served him his food and slid in opposite him. "Are you sure you don't want a burger with that, Starsky?"
"No, thank Hug, I'm not doing enough these days to work up an appetite."
Huggy left the booth and didn't return until Starsky sat the file down on the brightly patterned table cloth.
"Can I meet Anna-Lee's parents, Huggy?"
"Sure let me make a call."
Ten minutes later Starsky found himself in Huggy's old Cadillac being driven by the Bear to the Tobin's home.
Anna and Mike Tobin reminded Starsky of some of his own relatives, hard working, God fearing folk who opened their hearts to him about their missing daughter. Mike was tall and thin and his hair was streaked with silver while Anna was tiny, barely five feet tall and so frail looking that Starsky wondered how she was able to work such a physical job as cleaning entailed. Anna made coffee and spoke with love about her daughters. Starsky told them he could make them no promises but he would try to find out what he could. Anna took his hands in her own when he stood up to leave. "Dave, the members of my church prayed for Anna-Lee and we prayed for the policeman who had been shot that same day that she went missing, Huggy says that was you and the Lord saved you so I know he has sent you to us and I know you will find out what happened to our baby."
Starsky didn't know what to say. "Thank you Anna, I'll do my best."
The Torino was parked outside when Starsky pulled in to the drive. For a moment he was tempted to leave the Xeroxed file on the front seat so that he wouldn't have to talk about it to Hutch but with a sigh he picked it up.
Hutch was in the kitchen hanging up the phone when Starsky entered. "Hey, you're late are you okay?" Hutch asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine; I just had a few things to take care of."
"Don't tell me you've started your Christmas shopping, I thought I would take next Monday off work and we could go to a mall together." Hutch smiled.
"Who are you and where's my real partner, the one who hates Christmas?" Starsky deadpanned.
"For your information smartass I am a convert to Christmas, as far as I am concerned we have something really special to celebrate this year and I mean for us to do it in style."
"What are we celebrating?"
"Well for one thing you're on the mend and for another we're together, really together and that's worth celebrating don't you think?" Hutch had walked up to Starsky as he was speaking and was now nuzzling at his neck.
"Mmm, you're very good at that, Hutchinson has anyone ever told you that?" Starsky said as he tilted his head back to give better access to his partner's talented tongue.
Hutch stopped nuzzling. "Actually several women have mentioned it but funnily enough you're the only man who has brought it up."
"I'd better be the only man who brings it up, you big lug." Starsky laughed
Hutch laughed and pulled away. "You have a mind like a sewer but very talented hands so I will forgive you. " Hutch walked to the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of wine. "How did the session go today, are you sore?"
"It was good but I wouldn't say no a turn in the Jacuzzi."
"Well I've ordered pizza and if you slip in to the Jacuzzi I'll call you when the pizza arrives." Hutch handed Starsky a glass of wine.
"I've a better idea why don't you join me there and we'll eat later." Starsky jiggled his eyebrows.
Hutch ignored the invitation. "By the way did you talk to those detectives about Huggy's missing girl?"
Starsky was on his way to the bedroom and called back over his shoulder. "Yeah one of them was on holiday but the other guy was helpful."
Starsky felt himself slipping into sleep as the warm jets of water eased the aches in his muscles. Hi eyes closed when he felt Hutch's hand on his damp shoulder. "Come on sleeping beauty, pizza's here."
Starsky opened his eyes and for a brief moment he was tempted to pull his fully clothed partner in to the tub but Hutch must have sensed his intentions because he threw Starsky a towel and left before the dark haired man stood up.
They shared pizza and a glass of wine in the living room. Starsky nibbled at a slice but wasn't feeling very hungry. If Hutch noticed he chose not to comment on his partner's lack of apatite. Hutch finished a third slice of pizza and addressed his partner. "So what's going on with this missing friend of Huggy's"?
Starsky sighed, he was tired and he sure as hell wasn't in humor to get into a long discussion with Hutch. "Look Huggy is seeing some girl and eight months ago" Starsky cleared his throat before he continued on "At the time of the shooting actually, her younger sister Anna-Lee who was seventeen went missing and Huggy just thought as I have a little time on my hands I might look into it and see if the detectives handling the case missed anything."
Hutch had swallowed hard when Starsky mentioned the shooting but he struggled to remain calm. "So did they miss anything?"
"No, I don't think so, in fact the one I spoke to, Gerry Rubenfeld was a really nice guy and copied all the reports about the case for me."
"So that's it then, you'll let it drop and tell Huggy there's nothing new?"
"Well I met the girl's folks today and they're really nice people so I think I'll have a word with a few of Anna-Lee's friends and just get a kind of feel for it, it can't do any harm." Starsky drank back the last of his wine.
"Can I see the file, Starsk?"
Starsky stood up and retrieved the file from the table beside the bed where he'd left it when he came home."
Hutch took it and read it while Starsky found a book which Huggy had given him a few days before. After a few minutes Hutch put the folder down. "Well it's a sad case but I don't think the detectives were sloppy or anything."
"No, I have to agree with you but I just want to nose around a bit before I give up on it."
"Babe, you'll take it easy won't you? I know you've come a long way but I don't want you wearing yourself out over this. Maybe I could take a few days off after Christmas and help you out with it?"
"Hutch I'm not running a marathon I'm looking into the disappearance of a teenage girl, cut me some slack, okay?" Starsky saw the hurt in Hutch's eyes. "I love you, Hutch but I'm not one of your damsels in distress, I'm a street cop." Starsky stood up. He didn't want to fight with Hutch. "I'm going to bed, I'm tired, good night." He left the room.
Hutch came into the bedroom twenty minutes later, Starsky was sitting up reading. "What are you reading?" Hutch asked him.
"It's something Huggy gave me last week, 'Celtic Customs and Folklore'"
"Where did he get that? "Hutch asked.
"I don't know but it's quite interesting, remind me to tell you about some of the customs sometime." Starsky stifled a yawn.
Hutch slid in beside him and enclosed Starsky in his arms somehow moulding his long lithe body to fit the contours of his lover's form. Starsky felt Hutch's lips press into his hair and heard him whisper "Good night Babe."
Hutch had already left for work when Starsky woke the next morning. He fixed himself a pot of coffee and reread the copied file. He took the file with him and headed out to the address of Anna-Lee's best friend, Sally Blair.
Starsky found the house about four blocks away from the Tobin place. The door was answered by a smartly dressed black woman in her early forties and when Starsky produced his id and asked for Sally she told him she was Sally's mother and that the girl was studying at a local beauty college and would be home in about half an hour. She asked him what he wanted to see her daughter about and when he told her it was in connection with Anna-Lee's disappearance she invited to come in and wait but he declined and returned to the car. He drove to a convenience store about a block away and bought a soda then he drove back towards the Blair home and parked a few yards down from it. Forty minutes later a tall, plump black girl with short spiky hair walked past his car and entered the gate. Starsky got out of the car and approached her. He produced his id and she agreed to talk to him but said she would prefer to talk away from her house. He pointed to the car and she beamed at him when she saw the Volkswagen saying she loved the 'Love Bug' and it looked just like it.
Sally sat in to the car and ran her hand over the dashboard. "This is so neat. Someday I'm going to own a car just like this."
"Well I'm sure if you graduate beauty school you'll get a good job and be able to afford one." Starsky felt like slapping his hand over his mouth, he hadn't meant to sound so 'middle-aged'.
Sally gave him a wary look but then smiled at him. "Could we go for a ride in it, please Detective Starsky?"
"It's Starsky but you can call me Dave." He was just about to refuse the ride when something made him reconsider. "Okay, you tell your Mom you're going to be with me and then we'll see what this baby can do."
Sally was out of the car before he had finished speaking she almost ran to her house and was back in a few moments. Starsky started the engine and they took off. Starsky eased the small car though the neighbourhood and out on to the freeway and though the bug wasn't the Torino still she was easy to drive and for the first time in quite a while Starsky realized he was having fun, just flooring the car and feeling the engine respond to his handling. After thirty minutes he pulled into a roadside diner and invited Sally to join him for a burger.
The restaurant was a mixture of red plastic seats and chipped wooden tables but Sally seemed pleased by it. She ordered a cheeseburger with fries and a large soda while all Starsky could manage was a coffee. Starsky waited until the food arrived before he broke into Sally's stream of compliments about the car and her anecdotes about her life.
"Sally, I know you helped the other detectives all you could but I was wondering if you would tell me about Anna- Lee?"
Sally paused from taking a sip of her soda. "Dave, Anna-Lee was sweet and I miss her but I don't know what I can tell you. I know she missed her old school and it took her a while to settle here but she was kind and smart and funny; she was good at mimicking people but she wasn't unkind about it. She liked to study things and people too, you know sometimes we'd be hanging out at the mall or someplace and she'd jut kind of tune out and when I'd ask her about it she'd point to someone I wouldn't have even noticed, like maybe an old lady or a kid and she'd tell you a story about them that she would have made up." Sally stopped speaking.
"Did you tell the other detectives that, Sally?"
"No, they were old and I thought they wouldn't understand but you're different, Dave and I think you understand." Sally looked at Starsky from under her bangs.
"Well schweetheart I'm older than I look." Starsky said in his Bogart voice.
"Oh Dave, who is that you're trying to impersonate?" Sally giggled.
"So do you want desert because I think I could go for a fudge brownie myself?"
Starsky didn't press for more details and was happy to answer the girl's questions about police work. He waited until two fudge brownies were delivered to the table before he once again probed for information on the missing girl.
"Sally, sometimes people know stuff or see things and they don't think they're important enough to mention to the police but it's from stuff like that that we get our clues. It's nearly Christmas and I'd like to give Anna-Lee's parents the gift of knowing what happened to her but I can't do it without your help. You're a real smart girl and I'm hoping that there's something you forgot or didn't think was important enough to tell the other cops that you will tell me." Starsky looked hard at Sally.
She put down her fork. "I really tried to remember everything but I was upset and I kept thinking that they'd find poor Anna-Lee dead or something but as the time went on and they didn't find her I tried to remember as much as I could about her because I wanted to make sure that I wouldn't forget her." Sally looked down at her plate. "I know it probably sounds silly but I was afraid that because she had disappeared that she'd be forgotten and I didn't want that to happen so I began to write down the things we had done together or the places we had went and then I put all the notes away but I noticed one thing when I read through them that I had forgotten to tell the police." Sally stopped and looked at Starsky.
"It's all right Sally I think that was a beautiful thing to do, I have a really good friend and some day I should do something like that too."
"Well Anna-Lee liked to imagine people's life stories, like I told you but there was one guy she mentioned a few times and she seemed to spend time on his story because she enlarged it and it grew longer. He was a driver on the bus we usually took on Friday evenings to our disco class."
"What did she say about him Sally?"
"She said he had sad eyes and she made up some story about him having lost his wife in a fire and how he kept hoping he'd find love again while he drove his bus but he never did, but the funny thing is I missed a few classes because I had some studying to catch up with but when I went with her on the bus the next time I asked her about him and she said she had got it wrong and it wasn't his wife he had lost. I asked her how she knew but she just laughed and said it was only a story and then she didn't talk about him again and it was a few weeks later that she disappeared."
"Sally did this driver ever talk to you or Anna-Lee?"
"No he never even smiled but he had weird eyes and I thought he was kind of scary but I couldn't put my finger on it but Anna-Lee seemed fascinated by him."
"Can you describe him?"
"Sure his name was Al, Alf or - no it was Al Rice, that was it he had a name tag and the first time Anna-Lee noticed it she joked to me about how he must get teased about being 'all right'. He was old, I mean he looked as least as old as my dad, and his hair was cut real short and was very grey. I couldn't see why she was fascinated by him but that was just Anna-Lee. She said if she wanted to be a journalist then she'd have to get used to looking at all kinds of people and seeing what their stories were."
Starsky stood up, "Sally you've been a big help. Thank you."
Starsky paid the check and they walked to the Bug. Starsky opened the passenger door and Sally blushed as she slid in to the seat. Starsky drove back on to the highway. "Sally, was Al black? And what number bus did he drive?"
"Yeah he was black and he drove the 527. I stopped going to the disco classes after Anna - Lee disappeared so I haven't seen him lately." Sally sighed. "Dave, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure." Starsky answered distractedly.
"Are you married?"
Starsky smiled over at the girl. "No, Sally I'm not but I am with someone I love very much and I guess I'd like to be married to them."
"So why aren't you?"
"Well, it's kind of complicated." He laughed as the image of Hutch in a veil came into his mind.
Starsky dropped Sally off outside her house and waited until she opened the front door before he drove off. He wanted to head to the bus company and talk to this Al Rice as he had a feeling burning in his gut and it wasn't caused by the fudge brownie he'd eaten. He looked at his watch and realized he was running very late.
Hutch had the TV on and tuned to some quiz programme but the sound was turned down and he wasn't watching the screen when Starsky arrived home. Hutch was on his feet as soon as Starsky stepped into the living room. "Starsk, are you okay, I called Huggy but he hadn't seen you?" Hutch was watching his lover as if he was cataloguing him in his mind.
"I'm fine; Hutch just got delayed a little and didn't notice the time." Starsky walked over to Hutch and kissed him on the lips. Hutch pushed his tongue into Starsky's yielding mouth and brought his hand up to hold Starsky's head in place. Starsky felt his tiredness drop away as the kiss deepened and he pushed his fingers between the buttons of Hutch's shirt revelling in the smooth skin he felt there. Starsky pushed his fingers lower opening the button on the waistband of Hutch's pants and easing the zip down over the hardened flesh he knew lay beneath it. Hutch moaned as Starsky's fingers curved around his shaft and then he felt Starsky's lips against his neck nipping and kissing all down his throat. Starsky somehow managed to push Hutch backwards until he felt the edge of the couch against the back of his knees; Starsky pushed him down gently and knelt before him. Hutch reached for his lover but had to settle for pushing his fingers through curls as Starsky's mouth sucked him in and soon Hutch was only aware of the sensation of his engorged flesh finding a warm, wet haven in his lover's mouth. Hutch tried to warn Starsky that he was about to come but he was incoherent and thrust gratefully against the back of Starsky's throat, somehow Starsky managed to swallow the warm, salty liquid as Hutch rode an orgasmic high. Hutch fell back against the cushions and Starsky eased his lover's over sensitive penis out of his mouth and waited a few moments before he tucked it back into cotton briefs. Hutch became aware of Starsky zipping up his pants. "That was fantastic, but what about you?" Hutch asked as he stroked Starsky's hair.
"I must come home late more often if I get a reaction like that and as for me well I'm going to have to slide my zipper down pretty carefully or I could be in trouble."
Hutch laughed and pulled Starsky up off the floor, "Come here and let me take care of that little problem."
"Little isn't the word I'd use but be my guest." Starsky replied as he lay on the couch with his feet on Hutch's lap. Hutch pushed Starsky's legs open and pulled him towards his body so that he could get access to Starsky's crotch. Hutch leaned over Starsky and ignoring his jeans began opening the buttons on his dark blue cotton shirt. Starsky reached out a hand to stop the action but Hutch pushed it away. "You are beautiful, Babe, let me kiss you." Starsky pulled away. "Hutch, my scars are ugly." Hutch opened the last button and pulled Starsky's shirt open, he raised his head and looked at Starsky. "You just don't realize how beautiful you are, I love the fuzz on your chest and I love each and every scar because they mean you won, babe, you fought to stay with me and they're the badges that prove it." Hutch buried his head in Starsky's re growing chest hair and began kissing the raised scars he found there, licking gently against the puckered skin and then he eased Starsky's jeans open and suddenly he engulfed Starsky's rock hard penis in his mouth and Starsky felt every molecule of his being explode as he came in his lover's mouth.
Later they lay entwined on the couch, sated and happy. Hutch broke the silence "What time do you want to go tree hunting at?"
"What? Oh the Christmas tree, do you think you could pick one up? I want to check out something I found out today about Anna - Lee."
Hutch sat up a bit straighter. "Starsky, the case is eight months old don't you think any lead is going to pretty cold by now?"
"No, Hutch I think I may be on to something, I have a feeling you know."
"Okay we'll check it out together."
"No, I want to do this myself, please Hutch, it means a lot to me." Starsky looked at him with such intensity that Hutch knew he was lost.
"All right, I'll pick up a tree but be careful, Starsk. How about filling me in on this new lead of yours?"
"I will, I promise but tonight I want to sleep."
"Not here you don't, come on lover bed awaits." Hutch stood up and pulled Starsky up from the couch.
Hutch pulled the Torino in to a parking space on a vacant lot about twenty minutes away from the house, a large number of Christmas trees stood and lay against every conceivable surface that was now home to a tree seller. The lot was packed with families and young couples all trying to find the 'perfect' tree. For a moment Hutch felt irradiation rise in his mind, this was Starsky's thing not his so what was he doing here? A picture of Starsky's cornflower eyes filled his mind and he smiled, yes, Ken Hutchinson had it bad. He waded in amongst the kids and the lovers and began searching for the tree, which would make his lover happy.
Across town Starsky's thoughts were not on Hutch but on the closed office door of the 'Bay City Bus Company'. Starsky saw several men in navy uniforms smoking cigarettes outside a small building to his left so he made his way towards them. "Hi I am looking for one of your drivers will there be anyone in the office later?" He asked the assembled men.
A man in his early twenties stubbed out his cigarette on the ground and answered "The office is closed at weekends, you won't catch anyone there until Monday at nine."
"Thanks." Starsky hesitated but for a moment but made up his mind and drew his id out of his jacket pocket. "Perhaps one of you guys might be able to help, I'm looking for a driver of the number 527, his name is Al Rice."
The men shook their heads, the same man who had answered Starsky looked around and called out to a heavily tanned man in his fifties who was just approaching the group. "Jake, do you know a driver by the name of Al Rice?"
"Who wants to know?" The man asked suspiciously.
Starsky showed him his id. "I just want a word with him; he's not in trouble or anything." He smiled trying to reassure the man.
The man glanced at the id "He works evenings mostly and very rarely weekends, a quiet guy keeps to himself. That's all I know about him."
"Thanks, you don't happen to know where he lives do you?"
"No, sorry." The man walked away and Starsky knew he would get no further information. He drove out of the yard and stopped at a small diner just a couple of hundred yards up the street where he figured most of the bus staff must frequent but he had no luck there as none of the staff knew the man by name.
Starsky started the bug and headed home. He had no police radio in the car so he knew his next step of requesting information on Al Rice would have to wait until he got home and could call Parker Center.
Hutch picked a tree, which he felt was Christmas card perfect and paid an extra ten dollars to have it delivered to their home, assuring the salesman that it could be left near the front door if they weren't there and then he made his way to a small jewellery shop a few blocks away. Half and hour later he emerged from the shop slipping a small wrapped box into his jacket pocket and looking very pleased with himself. He did some grocery shopping and headed home.
Hutch spotted the tree lying against the wall beside the front door. It looked even taller now that it was away from the other trees and for a moment he felt silly but he thought of the pleasure it would give Starsky and found himself smiling. Starsky's car wasn't there so he was still out. Hutch unloaded the car and put the groceries away then he hid the small box in the trunk of the Torino and set about moving the large tree into the house.
Hutch flicked the switch and stood back to gaze at the twinkling lights on the six foot tree, it was perfect. He had spent all afternoon decorating it and he felt a strange warmth creep through his body at the thought of Starsky's delight when he saw it. He was slightly disappointed that his partner hadn't been there to share the experience but he knew Starsky was still not feeling one hundred percent and that he tired easily so maybe this had been for the best.
Starsky pulled into the driveway but didn't immediately get out of the car. He was tired, the last few days had left him feeling drained and although he tried not to think about it he couldn't help but worry about his being able to cope with the physicality of being a street cop. He needed to talk to his partner about it but knew it would be better to leave it until after the holidays. He closed his eyes and awoke with a start when his head fell forward. He hustled out of the car and entered the house.
Hutch was sitting in the living room with only the twinkling tree lights illuminating the room. For a moment Starsky caught his breath, his Hutch was beautiful, truly beautifully. Tears came to his eyes, he knew he loved Hutch but he didn't think he knew the words to express to his lover how much.
Hutch stood up and looked at Starsky, the dark haired man didn't say anything, in fact he barely gave the tree a passing glance, he was staring at Hutch and it made him uncomfortable. "You don't like it?" He asked in a small voice.
"It's beautiful, Babe but it's you that takes my breath away. You did this for me because you love me but I love you enough not to need anything like this if it makes you uncomfortable. You're my world, Hutch."
"Ah Babe." Hutch was at his side in a moment and took Starsky in his arms.
Starsky lay beside Hutch hearing him breathe deeply and felt a huge twinge of guilt. He had forgotten to call Parker Center for the information on Al Rice. How the hell could he have forgotten something so important? He was angry at himself for failing Anna-Lee's folks. He looked at the luminous clock on the table beside the bed, it was 12.45 am. He slipped from the bed and padded into the kitchen, he dialled a familiar number and was put through to records, he couldn't believe his luck when Minnie answered the call. She was amazed to hear from him 'in the middle 'of the night as she put it. She took down the name but told Starsky that he was out of luck as this weekend a new super computer was being installed, which would speed up retrieving personal details like Drivers Licences etc but unfortunately it meant that it was very unlikely that she would be able to get information on Al Rice until late tomorrow or even Monday morning but she promised to contact him as soon as she had any information. Starsky gave her the details he knew about Al Rice so that Minnie could narrow the search. Starsky rang off and slid in beside Hutch.
Starsky and Hutch spent Sunday doing chores, writing their gift lists and even writing a few Christmas cards. Hutch told Starsky that he had to go in for a few hours on Monday morning but that he would be home by twelve and then they could go shopping together. Starsky retrieved his gun from the locked drawer in the desk they kept in the spare bedroom and began cleaning it. Hutch didn't comment on the action but he asked Starsky to tell him all about the clue he had found in Anna-Lee's disappearance. Starsky told him about Al Rice and Hutch volunteered to go with him to see this man whom Starsky had such a strong feeling about but Starsky, while not dismissing Hutch's offer didn't commit to anything either and for a moment Hutch felt strangely wounded but didn't say anything.
Monday morning found both men up early and after a quick kiss and an even quicker breakfast of cereal and coffee Hutch left, promising to be home by twelve. Starsky showered and slipping the Beretta into the pocket of his navy windbreaker snagged his car keys and was just about to leave when the phone rang. It was Anna; a friend of Minnie's who worked in records. She gave Starsky an address for the only Albert Rice, who fitted the approximate birth date and race that Starsky had supplied.
Starsky drove across town to the address he had been given. He found a row of neat but run down four story buildings and pressed the bell for the second floor apartment. The name beside the bell was 'Shaman'. A moment later a male voice came over the intercom. Starsky asked for 'Al Rice' and was told he hadn't lived there for about eighteen months. The new tenant didn't have a forwarding address but suggested that Starsky talk to Doris Zekel who lied on the first floor and had been a resident for years. Starsky pressed her bell and an old lady with tanned rubbery skin and impossibly bright yellow hair opened her door. She examined his id and then invited him in.
Starsky followed Doris Zekel into an apartment crammed with gaudy mementoes of her long life. She insisted Starsky take a seat on her flower patterned sofa and wouldn't answer any of his questions until she had made a pot of strong black coffee, which she placed on a table in front of the sofa, next came two rose patterned cups and saucers and a plate of home baked chocolate chip cookies. She poured the coffee and handed the dainty cup to Starsky saying "A man like you takes his coffee black and without sugar, am I right Detective?"
Starsky smiled and nodded his agreement suppressing his desire for at least three spoons of sugar. He tried one of the cookies and was delighted to find they were delicious. She beamed at him when he mentioned how good they were.
"Now officer Starsky, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Ma'am" Starsky felt as if he was five years old again and answering questions from his grandmother.
"Well you haven't lived in Bay City all your life that's for sure, my Rose, she's my only child moved to New York ten years ago and I know your accent, I visit her pretty regularly but not in winter, never in winter, it's too cold, am I right?"
"Yes, Ma'am?" Starsky didn't know to what he was agreeing, whether he had a New York accent or whether it was too cold there in winter. He tried to steer her back to her missing neighbour.
"Mrs Zekel."
"Call me Doris and you are?" She beamed at him showing her too white dentures slipping in her mouth.
Starsky tried again. "Dave, I'm Dave, it's about your neighbour Al Rice."
"Oh, Al was a nice man, quiet kept himself to himself but losing his daughter like that sort of changed him, well I guess it would."
"Losing his daughter, Doris?" Starsky probed again.
"You don't know, David, well let me tell you, have another cookie. Al moved here about ten years ago with his daughter Amy, she was a precious little thing, all wide eyes and curls she must have been seven then. Well I used to sit for her sometimes and it seems Al's wife just took off and left him and the little girl a few months before he moved here. Well the man was heartbroken but he pulled himself together and he raised Amy very well. He was very religious, all fire and brimstone and." Doris bent in over the coffee table in a conspiratorial stance before she carried on "he was very strict, I often thought a little too strict. He worked driving a truck for a meat company, anyway, Amy started hanging around with a bad crowd and she got pregnant. Al was furious, I tried to talk to him but he threw her out. I offered to let her stay with me for a while, hoping he would calm down but she told me she was going to live with her boyfriend." Doris took a sip from her dainty cup. Gauging Starsky's reaction to what she was telling him. He rewarded her with a beaming smile and she continued on "Unfortunately Amy's boyfriend was a member of a gang and he was involved with drugs and what not and a few months after Al threw her out Amy overdosed on something and was found dead. Al was insane with grief, I really thought he'd kill her boyfriend but he didn't get the chance the very day of Amy's funeral he was killed in some kind of drive by shooting by another gang. Al changed; he was always quiet but now he was totally remote, he stopped acknowledging neighbours and then he changed jobs, started driving a bus. About eighteen months ago he called in and said he was moving. It was strange, I asked him where he was going but he didn't tell me, he just said it had taken him a while but he had found the perfect place and then he said if he had found it before Amy had got pregnant then everything would have been different and how it was going to be different now. I have no idea what he meant but he must have borrowed a truck from somebody because the very next day he packed up and left. I haven't seen him since."
Starsky stood up. "Thanks Doris, you've been very helpful."
"You've been very patient, listening to an old woman rabbit on."
"No I mean it Doris, you've told me a lot of things I didn't know. " Starsky smiled at her.
"David, with that smile and those eyes you must be a real heartbreaker, I hope you find a good woman, that's what every man needs."
"I've found someone, thanks again Doris."
Starsky sat into the bug and automatically reached for a mic that wasn't there. He looked at his watch it was 11.15 he'd be late for Hutch but he just had to find an address for Al Rice. He started the engine and drove back to the Bus Company.
The large middle aged lady in The Bay City Bus Company proved to be very helpful once she had seen Starsky's id. She supplied him with Al Rice's address and informed him that Al wasn't due in on Mondays. Starsky drove out of the yard and headed for the address. For the first time since beginning this investigation he missed his partner's presence. The feeling in his gut that he, Hutch and many other good cops relied on when it came to catching the bad guys, was getting stronger by the minute. He spotted a call box and pulled over, rooting in his jeans pocket he found a dime and called Parker Center only to be told that Hutch had already left for the day. Starsky knew Hutch wouldn't have reached the house yet and they hadn't bothered setting up the answering machine since they had moved. He redialled Parker Center and cajoled Mildred, the dispatcher on duty to try and raise Hutch for him and give him Al Rice's address and ask his partner to meet him there.
Starsky drove the rest of the way feeling relieved but apprehensive. Starsky pulled in in front of 2112 Rosedale Place. The house was old and the paint was crumbling on the front door and the window frames but in that respect it looked like most of the other houses on the street. They were solid brick two story houses over basements. It was a neighbourhood that had seen better days and would, at some stage in the future be bought up knocked down and rebuilt. Starsky moved the bug down the street a few yards and positioned the rear view mirror so that he could see the entrance. After a few minutes he decided a direct approach might be the best. For a brief moment he considered waiting for Hutch to arrive but he dismissed the idea as being over cautious, he would make the first contact and see how Al Rice reacted to a few questions. Hopefully by the time Hutch arrived he would have something to tell him and maybe his gut feeling would turn out to be wrong. He reached into his jacket pocket and slipped the gun into the waistband of his jeans at his back then he slid out of the car.
Walking up the driveway Starsky had to suppress an urge to run back to the bug and wait for his partner. He scolded himself mentally and moved forward. The house had a vacant air about it but there were curtains on the windows and as Starsky waited on the doorstep having rang the bell he couldn't help but feel he was being watched. After a few minutes Starsky rang the bell again and this time he heard a noise from behind the closed door. A black man in his late forties with short grey haired opened the door and peered out. Starsky pushed his id towards the man saying. "Are you Al Rice?" Not giving the man time to answer he carried on. "I am Detective Starsky and I am investigating the disappearance of Anna-Lee Tobin."
The man's eyes bored into Starsky. "What's that got to do with me? I don't know nothing about a young girl disappearing." Al went to push the door closed.
Starsky pushed his foot into the doorway.
"I didn't say she was a young girl, Al, so why don't you let me come inside and we can talk about it?"
"You cops weren't any help when my Amy got into trouble, I have noting to say to you."
"Maybe we should talk about it down at the station? You can tell me all about Amy."
"Are you deaf, or just stupid? I have nothing to say to you." Al was angry now, it showed in his face.
Starsky readied himself to push the door but Al did something the detective wasn't expecting he pulled the door open wide and this caused Starsky to lose his footing and fall almost into the older man. Al was ready for that and hit Starsky hard in the face, splitting his lip with the punch. Whether Al was fitter than he looked or whether he had the strength of madness in his actions Starsky wasn't able to guess but suddenly Al grabbed him by the front of his windbreaker and dragged him into the hallway, kicking the door closed behind him. Starsky tried to bring his hands up to break the hold but before he could complete the action Al pulled him up and tossed him against the wall, Starsky was lucky that Al's aim was off and instead of hitting the wall his head hit hard against the wooden door leading into the kitchen. Starsky was stunned but he scrambled for his gun and pulled it from the waistband of his jeans, taking off the safety and cocking it in one fluid movement. He pointed it at the older man as he advanced towards him. "Stop or I'll fire." He shouted out. Al stopped his words spat out "You bastard, you're going to take her away from me and I won't lose her again. It took me a long time to find her and nobody's going to take her away. She's all I've got." The anger died and the man began to sob uncontrollably. Starsky stood up unsteadily but kept the gun pointing at Rice. "Okay, Al, it's going to be okay, why don't you tell me about Anna-Lee?" Starsky felt dizzy and knew he needed to gain control of the situation quickly but he also needed to find out about the missing girl.
Rice looked at him but Starsky knew the man wasn't really seeing him. "She used to be Anna-Lee but she's Amy now, she's a good girl, she's never going to leave me and I won't let you take her."
"Anna-Lee's parents want to take her home so why don't you tell me where she is, Al?"
"All right." It was said so quietly that Starsky almost missed it. His head was beginning to ache and his whole body hurt.
Al turned his back on Starsky and looking back at him said "Come on, I'll take you to her." The older man walked towards a door cut into the opposite wall, he opened it and flicked on a light switch just inside the doorway. A long flight of stairs led down into the cellar. Starsky pointed the gun at Al. "Okay, Al, just tell me where your phone is and I'll call and have some officers come and get her, now step away from the door." For a brief moment Starsky's vision turned grey and he shook his head hoping to clear it. Pain shot through the back of his head and suddenly Al was on him.
The older man made a lunge for Starsky's gun; they wrestled and Starsky tightened his finger on the trigger and felt the retort of the weapon as it discharged.
Hutch heard the familiar sound of the Beretta as he ran up the drive way. He pulled his Magnum and throwing caution and training to the wind rushed into the house. Starsky was lying on the floor with blood coming from his mouth. Hutch ran to his partner and fell to his knees beside him.
"I'm all right, Hutch, I'm all right." Starsky pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall. "Check on Rice, will ya?" He asked as Hutch stared at him. Hutch snapped back into cop mode and looked to where Starsky was pointing.
Al Rice was lying at the foot of the staircase not moving. Hutch approached the prone man cautiously and felt for carotid pulse, he was alive. Hutch eased the man over on to his side and discovered that Starsky's bullet had gone right through Rice's left shoulder. Hutch brought Rice's hands behind his back and handcuffed him. Rice's eyes opened but he didn't say anything. Hutch went back to his partner. "I'm going to call this in, don't move 'till I get back."
"The girl's in the cellar, Hutch, we have to get her." Starsky said smiling at his partner. Starsky didn't want his partner to know but he was finding it hard to stay conscious. Hutch pointed his index finger. "You stay right there until I get back."
Starsky lost track of time until Hutch returned to his side. He felt Hutch's big hands take the Beretta from his clenched fingers and then Hutch pulled his head towards his chest and his fingers began probing Starsky's head. Starsky wanted to ease into the embrace but he knew he had to do something first. "I'm all right, Hutch but we need to find Anna-Lee, please."
"You are not all right, you have a goose egg on the back of your head and your lip is split open but if you promise not to move until the paramedics get here then I'll check the cellar."
"Okay."
Hutch took off his tan leather jacket and put it around Starsky's shoulders and he kissed him gently on the forehead. It wasn't until Starsky felt the leather that he realized he had been shivering. He inhaled the leather and Hutch's scent and the pain in his head seemed to ease a little.
Hutch went down the cellar stairs and opened a heavy steel door at the end of them with the large key that was in the lock. He entered a brightly light room and in one corner of it on a bed with a pink quilt sat a young black woman. She wore jeans, a pink jumper and a manacle on her left ankle which was attached to a long metal chain. She burst out crying when she saw Hutch. He approached her cautiously and said. "It's okay Anna-Lee, I'm Hutch and I'm a police officer, my partner came to bring you home."
Hutch had a terrible feeling of déjà vu as he sat in the waiting room of the same hospital Starsky had been admitted to after the shooting eight months ago. Hutch didn't recognize the young doctor on duty in the E.R. but he was relieved when Doctor Jed Hastings appeared, he was one of the doctors who had worked on Starsky's case. Doctor Hastings shook Hutch's hand. "What's Dave got himself into now?"
"He found a girl who's been missing for eight months, in fact her abductor is being treated here as well."
"Come on and I'll have a look at David." Hutch followed the doctor through to a curtained cubicle where he found his very pale faced partner.
After a detailed examination Doctor Hastings told the detectives that he was keeping Starsky in for a day or two and starting him on an iv. Starsky made a protest but the older Doctor was a match for him and reminded him that after sustaining the injuries he had a eight months ago he was not going to take any chances with his healing body now and anyway he needed to be checked every few hours to ensure he wasn't bleeding into his brain. Starsky accepted the inevitable with reasonable grace and Hutch realized that his lover must be feeling pretty shaky to do so. A few minutes later Hutch heard Captain Dobey's dulcet tones and the man himself appeared in the cubicle. He took a look at Starsky, who by this time was resting back against some white pillows and Hutch was holding an ice pack wrapped in a soft cloth against his swollen mouth. "What in God's name have you got yourself into this time, Starsky?" Dobey bellowed and Hutch put his fingers against his own lips requesting that the large man lower his voice. Starsky managed to crack open his eyes but the adrenaline which had kept him going until after the girl was found had now seeped from his body and he was just too tired to make the effort to stay awake. He knew Hutch would explain everything to Dobey.
An hour later Hutch helped his partner into a pale blue hospital gown and sat beside his bed as a nurse he recognized made sure his iv was working. She suggested that maybe Hutch should go on home as Starsky would be fine but he shook his head. A couple of hours later after yet another check by a nurse to see if Starsky was coherent the dark haired man reached for Hutch's hand and said "Babe, go on home and get some sleep, I'm fine and I'll sleep better if I know you're comfortable."
Hutch hesitated for a moment but reluctantly agreed. He kissed Starsky lightly on the forehead and headed home.
The next morning Hutch headed back to the hospital and helped Starsky through the ordeal of giving his statement to two detectives from Internal Affairs. After they left Doctor Hastings reappeared and after making a brief examination of his patient and reading his chart declared that he was keeping David in for another night. Starsky lay back against the pillows too worn out to object and Hutch followed the doctor from the room to reassure himself that his partner really was all right. Doctor Hastings told him that he was just erring on the side of caution where David was concerned and that all the man really needed was rest and he told Hutch he could take his partner home tomorrow.
Dobey appeared and told them that Al Rice was recovering and was in a stable condition in a psych ward but that it was unclear at this point if he would be deemed fit to stand trial for abducting Anna-Lee Tobin. The girl herself was being released from hospital to her family this afternoon, she had given police a pretty clear statement of her captivity and all though she had suffered a terrible ordeal Rice had not physically or sexually abused her but rather treated her like a young child as if trying to reinvent her as his dead daughter. She would receive counselling but hopefully would make a full recovery in time. Dobey asked the partners if they would like to come to Christmas dinner with Edith and the children but Starsky shook his head and thanked his boss for the offer. Hutch stepped in and said he and Starsky intended to have a quiet dinner together and they would call to the Dobey's over the course of the next few days.
Dobey hadn't left long when Starsky fell asleep and Hutch sat by his bed watching over him. Huggy knocked lightly on the door and popped his head in. He walked over to Hutch "Okay, go on hit me and get it over with, I deserve it." He jutted his lean chin out.
Hutch smiled, "I should hit you for getting him mixed up in this but trouble always finds him so I guess it's not entirely your fault."
"Good I was hoping you'd see it my way." He looked at Starsky, wincing slightly at the site of his mouth. "I have some people who want to see him; they will only stay a minute." He added when he saw the doubtful look that crossed over Hutch's face. Without waiting for an answer Huggy opened the door and a tall man and tiny women entered the room shyly. Starsky opened his eyes and his face lit up when he saw the couple. The woman reached out and took his hand. "Dave, you brought my Anna-Lee home, I knew the Lord sent you to us for a reason." She took in his swollen lips and his pallor and she began to cry. "I'm sorry you had to suffer after what you must have been through and we don't know how to thank you but Mike, Olivia and I want you to know you will be in our prayers and our hearts for ever. We weren't going to celebrate Christmas this year but after we leave here we're stopping to pick up the biggest tree we can fit in our house our girl is home and now we have something to celebrate thanks to you." She took Starsky's hand to her lips and kissed it. Her husband hovered uncomfortably at the foot of the bed. "I'm not much good with words but thank you." He was crying as he spoke and Hutch realized that Starsky was on the verge of tears too. He stood up trying to ease the tension in the room. "I'm, Hutch, Ken Hutchinson, Dave's partner." He didn't get to say anything else before Anna threw her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly. "Thank you so much and look after Dave. Come on Mike." She said as she pushed her husband out of the room. Huggy left too.
Starsky sighed. "Come on get it over with Hutch."
"What can I say? Seeing you lying in that hallway with blood on your lips I thought I'd lost you but you can't change who you are and I fell in love with you because of who you are so I'll just have to learn to live with it."
"No, you don't have to live with it, in the New Year let's talk about what we're going to do. I love you too much to keep putting you through stuff like this."
Starsky came home the next day Hutch hovered for a while but eventually left for work with the promise that he wouldn't be away long. Starsky called Huggy and asked him to pick up something he had ordered for Hutch. Huggy did so and later in the day a uniformed officer dropped the Bug back to the house on Dobey's instructions.
On Christmas Eve the partners dropped in on the Dobeys and left presents under their tree while taking gifts and promising they wouldn't open them until the next day. Starsky called his Mom in New York but didn't mention anything about the abduction he had solved. He and Hutch had invited Jocelyn Starsky to come for Christmas but were secretly pleased when she had declined deciding to spend the holidays with her newly widowed sister in up state New York. Jocelyn had spent two weeks in Bay City while Starsky had been in hospital after the shooting and while she was a pleasant woman both men had found her draining. Hutch called his parents and his Mom insisted on speaking to Starsky and getting a promise from him to visit when he was feeling better. "Duty all ended." Hutch said wearily as he replaced the phone. He snuggled in beside Starsky on the couch and they sipped chilled wine and ate popcorn as they settled down to watch 'Miracle on 34th Street."
Starsky fell asleep before the end and Hutch spent the next hour just watching his lover. Finally Starsky stirred and opened his eyes. "What time is it?" He asked sleepily. Hutch looked at Starsky's watch. "It's 12.45."
"Hey, it's Christmas." Starsky said and sat upright. "Come on, Hutch I want to give you my present."
"Okay, Starsk, but after we exchange gifts we are going to bed."
Starsky walked over to the tree and rooted around the gifts lying around its base. He produced a small packet and went back to the couch. Hutch stood up and grabbed his car keys. "Where are you going?" Starsky asked.
"To get your presents, Mushbrain, I hid them in the Torino." Hutch laughed.
Hutch returned a few minutes later with a large gaily wrapped present and a small box. He handed the large one to Starsky. Starsky tore the wrapping off and pulled a dark brown fur lined leather flying jacket from the paper. "It's beautiful, Hutch." Starsky stood up and pulled on the jacket. For a moment Hutch's breath caught in his chest. He stood up and handed the small box to Starsky.
"Hey, I only got you one. " Starsky said as he took the small box and he handed Hutch one of similar size. He took Hutch's hand. "Before you open it I want to ask you something."
"Anything, Babe." Hutch whispered.
"You know that book I have been reading, the one about Celtic customs." Starsky hesitated almost shyly. "Well one of the things I read about stuck in my mind, it seems a lot of guys didn't make formal marriage proposals instead they asked their lover, ah hell! Do you want to be buried with my people?"
"What? " Hutch asked in confusion.
"That was the way they proposed, think about it Hutch, they were offering permanence and a sense of belonging and I know we can't do it legally but I want to know if you'll 'marry' me in the sense that matters, not some legal thing that don't mean anything but something that means everything to me." Starsky looked lost.
Hutch felt his heart melt. "Yes, David Starsky I'll marry you and I'll be buried with your people." Hutch pulled him into his arms.
"You can open your present then." Starsky pulled away and Hutch open the small box carefully, inside was a simple gold ring. Hutch took the band from the box. "Open yours" he said huskily.
Starsky tore the paper off and opened the box to find a shiny platinum ring inside. "We both want the same thing." He whispered. He went to take Hutch in his arms but the blond man slipped to the tree and brought back another small gift. "Here" he said as he thrust the parcel at Starsky. Starsky looked puzzled but pulled the wrapping paper away to reveal a tube of KY cream. Starsky laughed "You romantic, you bought me lube."
"I bought us 'lube', I'll take possession of you any time you want Babe. You were right; I need to get over trying to protect you."
"I love you Hutch and I'll take you up on your offer soon but right now I'm ready for some tender loving and some sleep."
"Come on partner." Hutch took Starsky's hand and led him to their bedroom.
Go to index
Just past lunchtime, and the squadroom was very nearly empty. Not that that was necessarily unusual, especially with Dobey's rotten mood chasing every Tom, Dick and Willful out to far safer environs — like Hype Alley or Porno Row.
The partners, the only brave souls left, were at their desks, finishing the last of their reports in preparation for a long-awaited five day vacation which they planned to spend doing nothing more strenuous than hefting a few dozen beers in between bouts of messing the sheets and maybe catching a creature feature or two during recovery periods — popcorn optional. Clothing, too, for that matter.
A grumbling from behind the closed office door presaged what they knew to be a bellow of eardrum shattering proportions, and both men winced a split second before their the sound of their names rattled every bit of glass in the room. Smithy, the elderly janitor, did an abrupt about-face and he and his push broom disappeared from the bullpen at roughly the speed of light.
Exchanging significant glances, the two remaining victims pushed back from their desks and rose as one to beard the lion in his den.
"Chicken," Hutch muttered at Starsky's grand gesture of bowing him in.
"I'll say some really nice words at your funeral," Starsky murmured back before pasting a patently false smile on his face. "You called, Cap?"
"Where are your reports?!" demanded Dobey from beyond a stack of paper that resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa after a 2.1 on the Richter Scale.
"Uh," Starsky said, "I'll just go and get—"
"Halt!"
Both men froze like kids playing a game of Red Light-Green Light as they watched their Captain's large bulk slowly rise from behind his teetering stack of files and other sundry objects. It was an impressive sight, rather like a whale breaching or King Kong lumbering suddenly into view. If King Kong — or the whale — had been wearing a suit that looked as if it had been sewn together from the remains of a couch slipcover owned by someone's Eastern European grandmother.
"Sit!"
Muscles reversed and two asses hit the chairs, hard, the spines attached to them ramrod straight and wary as hell.
"Captain?" Hutch hazarded. His summer tan was suddenly looking a bit ragged around the edges. This wasn't shaping up to be just another Dobey rant. Indeed, the atmosphere in the small office resembled one that occurred just before a bad storm — ozone-thick and tasting faintly of burning electrical cords.
"Do you two know what these are?" Dobey demanded, gesturing toward the towering mess on his desk.
"Looks like reports, Cap." Starsky felt like he'd been transported back to Kindergarten during show-and-tell.
"Damn right, they're reports! Half-assed reports! Each one representing a half-assed case that isn't even half-assed closed!"
"But Cap, we—"
"Did I ask for your opinion, Hutchinson?"
"Well, sir, you—"
"Shut it!"
Starsky and Hutch eyed one another with concern. Starsky leaned forward slightly. "Um, Cap'n... are you...."
"I said 'shut it'!" A large finger flicked out and moved from one frozen man to the other. "The Chief took a bite out of my hide this morning about all these open cases and I'm taking two bites out of yours! You see how it works now?"
Never known for a lack of courage, Hutch cleared his throat and said, "Captain, Starsky and I have finished up all of our reports. We've pulled seven doubles in a row, closed nineteen cases on our own, and worked swing shift for the last three weeks just to get everything squared away before we leave. You signed off on our vacation yourself. Sir."
The glare Dobey gave them could have blistered paint. "I don't care how many doubles you've pulled, how many cases you've closed, or how many days off you think you've got coming! You two jokers are still public servants and I'm John Q. Public! If I tell you that you're not going to leave this office until this mess on my desk is cleaned down to the bare wood, you'd better damn well believe it! Now grab these files and get to work or the next day off either one of you turkeys will see will be at your retirement party!"
"Yes, sir!" Hutch replied crisply, springing to his feet and dragging Starsky up with him. Grabbing a stack of files, he shoved them into his partner's hands and pushed him out the door as fast as his body could move.
The rifle-crack of the door slamming behind them actually caused several of the room's phones to jangle in startlement. Both men slumped back against the wall looking like they'd just fought the Battle of the Bulge single-handed.
With spoons.
"Where in the hell is everybody anyway?" Starsky asked, staring around the empty room. "These ain't even our cases. Why are we stuck with all the shit work?"
"Because everybody got here on time, saw which way the wind was blowing, and split. Told you we didn't have time enough for extracurricular activities this morning," Hutch replied, pushing off the wall and heading for the desk.
"As I recall," Starsky countered, "your exact words were 'Oh god, Starsk, if you stop now, I'll kill you!'"
"Gimme those," Hutch growled, flushing bright red from his collar to his hairline as he grabbed several file folders from his partner's hands. "Jackass."
"Pinned your ears back, did he, boys?" Minnie asked sweetly as she entered the squadroom, depositing reams of green-bar paper on their desks along with a fudge brownie for Starsky and an apple for Hutch.
"Bless you, Minnie," Hutch breathed fervently, polishing the fruit on the front of his shirt before biting into it, the juice running down his chin sparking in Starsky a fervent desire to lick it off. Slowly.
"Who in the hell pissed in his Cap'n Crunch this morning?" he asked instead, unwrapping the brownie and devouring it in two huge bites while silently telling Davey Jr. to behave.
"I saw him in the cafeteria an hour ago glaring holes through the grapefruit selection and scaring the poor lunch-lady half to death. Looks like it's diet time in the Dobey household again."
"Oh, no," they said in unison.
"Oh yes."
"I think we're going to have to cancel Edith's subscription to Body Beautiful," Hutch muttered.
"Maybe you could talk to her, huh, Min?" Starsky asked, trying out his most charming grin on her. The effect was rather ruined by the chocolate staining his teeth.
"Sorry, sweetheart," she replied, smacking him lightly on the arm before ruffling his curls. "You're on your own with this one. My vacation's still on for next week, and I intend to keep it that way." Smirking at them, she waggled her fingers, and exited, trailing laughter and flowery perfume in her wake.
"Terrific," Starsky grumbled, slumping down into his chair. "So much for our five whole days of doin' nothin'."
"Not necessarily. Far as I know, nobody was working on anything heavy this week. If we can get these things knocked off quickly, we might be able to salvage at least some time away from this tomb."
"Yeah, enough time for half a quickie in the shower before we get pulled in for crossing-guard duty for a bunch of ants on their way to a picnic," Starsky groused, flipping open the first file and giving himself a nice paper cut in the process. "Just terrific. What are the chances of this all bein' nothin' but a bad dream?"
"About the same as the chances of us having a vacation before we're senile if we don't get these cases done. C'mon, partner, the sooner we start, the sooner we're finished."
"Anyone ever tell you you're the most annoying man on the planet?"
Hutch grinned. "You just keep telling yourself that, buddy."
********
Several hours later, they had easily closed all but perhaps a dozen cases without ever leaving their desks. Taking a short break, Hutch contented himself with watching his partner mutter his way through a folder he'd been fighting with for the past fifteen minutes. Though thoroughly discontented, Starsky looked, to Hutch's eyes, adorably rumpled. His curls were a riotous tangle from a left hand dragged too frequently through them. His shirt ,unbuttoned halfway to his navel, displayed just the right amount of furry, muscled chest to keep Hutch on a slow, steady simmer that was infinitely more interesting than the cases they were given to work.
"What're you grinnin' at?" Starsky grumbled without bothering to look up from the crumpled sheets of loose papers scattered across his desk.
"Just enjoying the view."
"Yeah, well enjoy it over by the coffeemaker and get me a refill, will ya?" He held out his empty mug in Hutch's general direction, still engrossed in the files.
"Anything else, Master?" Hutch asked, handing his partner a fresh mug of the swill that passed for coffee.
"Plumbers."
Hutch glanced around the still-empty squadroom before looking back at his partner. "Excuse me?"
"Plumbers. It makes sense, if you think about it."
"Plumbers.... Are we talking about the case, here?" Hutch asked, just to be sure. Trying to match wavelengths with his partner was sometimes akin to trying to shoot a set of rapids on a raft made of jello.
Dark blue eyes speared him over the top of the folder. "No, the fourth floor men's room after Dobey's done using it. Of course the case, dummy. Keep up with the program, Hutch."
"It might help if I knew what case you were talking about, partner. I left my Vulcan mind reading skills in my other jacket."
Sighing, Starsky set the folder down, flipped it around and shoved it across the desk.
Matching his partner's aggrieved sigh, Hutch flipped through the messy notes, trying to figure out what anything had to do with plumbing. The case consisted of a series of jewelry heists done over a span of six months from a series of reputable jewelers in several different areas of the city, including three that were out of their jurisdiction altogether. Simmons and Babcock had worked most of the heists, tying eight of them together through a series of identical fingerprints which, unfortunately, found no match in any of the print logs to which they had access.
Since both Simmons and Babcock had been loaned out to Narco for the past seven weeks, the case had been left to languish as part of Dobey's dreaded 'half-assed open cases' file.
"Ok," Hutch said finally, "I've got the basics, but you've totally lost me on the plumbing angle."
Starsky rolled his eyes. "Not plumbing. Plumbers."
"Ohhh. Well, since you put it that way, it all falls together perfectly!" Hutch's sarcasm was thick enough to frost a cake.
"Gimme that." Grabbing the file back, Starsky rearranged the messy notes into chronological order. "Look. All the places that were hit had plumbing problems right before the heist. Look... here at Griffen's... a plugged up toilet flooded the back office three days before the burglary. Rosenfeld's... a busted pipe in the apartment over the store leaked into the showroom five nights before. Kim-Song's Laundry... don't think that one needs explaining. Ya see what I'm gettin' at?"
Hutch shrugged. "Sure. But it could all be coincidental, too."
Starsky shot him a look.
"Starsk, how many times in the past year has your place been flooded? I was reading an article in the paper that said that Bay City has the oldest sewer network in the country. It's a plumber's paradise. They're making money hand over fist! Why would they need to be robbing jewelry stores? "
"Let the DA figure out the motive, Hutch. All we gotta do is catch the perps."
"And how do you suggest we go about doing that, Einstein? There's got to be a thousand plumbing outfits in our little corner of the Heaven alone!"
Starsky grinned at him. "How about payin' a little visit to the man who has to bribe his own cousin — the plumber with a c-note, a bottle of Wild Turkey, and a gas mask just to get him to go anywhere near his john on a Saturday night?"
"The Pits it is," Hutch answered, returning the grin as he stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
*******
"Well, I've gotta hand it to you, partner," Hutch said several hours later as they put paid to the jewelry heists case. "That plumber angle was right on the money."
"Was there ever any doubt?" Starsky smirked, buffing his nails on his shirt before pulling the last page of the report out of the typewriter, stuffing it into the folder, and slapping it closed. "Just goes to prove what I've been saying all along, pal. I'm the brains and the brawn of this partnership."
"Keep a leash on that ego, buddy. We've still got a stack of these things to get through."
"We'll roll through the rest of 'em easy," Starsky replied. "I got a feelin'."
"Sit on it awhile. It'll go away."
Starsky gave him the eye. "That's not what you said last night, lover-boy."
"Starsky," Hutch hissed, his eyes automatically darting around the squadroom.
"Only us and the cockroaches here, blondie, and they ain't talking." Chuckling, Starsky pointed to the stack of folders. "Crack open the next one and let's see what we got."
It took all of fifteen seconds for Hutch to scan the brief notes in the next folder before he sat back with a loud groan.
"What?" Starsky asked, taking a sip of rotgut coffee before handing the mug over to Hutch.
"Well, partner..." Hutch trailed off mysteriously, taking a long sip from the mug.
"What?" His interest sparked, Starsky leaned forward.
"It's like this..." He hiked an eyebrow.
"Yeah? What? Tell me!"
"Well..."
"Oh, for the luvva god, Hutch, spill it already, will ya?"
Smirking, Hutch affected the gravitas of a primetime anchor on the eleven o'clock news: "There is a crime wave sweeping its putrescent broom through our city these days; a crime wave so hideous, so terrifying and so dangerous that all but the most stout hearted turn away in horror at its very mention. Yes, fair citizens of Bay City, I am speaking about the sudden, horrific appearance of an organized ring of...office supply thieves."
Starsky's face went slack. "You're shittin' me."
"I shit you not." He swung the folder around and pushed it across the desk. "Read it and weep, buddy."
"I think I'm gonna heave," Starsky replied with disgust, pushing the folder back unread.
"After what you had for lunch, I wouldn't be a bit surprised."
"Keep it up, Blintz, and the only things you'll be talkin' to on our vacation are your plants. If we ever get a vacation," he muttered, giving the door behind him a black glare.
Hutch held up a hand. "Say no more." Finishing off their shared coffee in one large gulp, he set the empty mug down and said, "So, how do you want to handle this scintillating case, Mr. Brains and Brawn?"
"By giving it back to the two idiots who couldn't solve it in the first place?"
"Chicken or fish?"
"What?"
"Chicken or fish? I've got to know so I can tell Huggy what to order for our retirement party." Yanking Starsky's wrist into view, he gazed down at the expensive watch. "Which should be taking place at around this time tomorrow."
Starsky sagged, deflated. "Shit."
"Couldn't have said it better myself." Hutch brightened. "Hey! I've still got those white coveralls from our janitor stint stuffed in my locker. Remember? From when we were... ah... cleaning the Chief's office?"
"I remember," Starsky groaned, remembering even better how much his feet hurt after two weeks straight of crossing guard duty — assigned by the Chief — in front of Our Lady of the Perpetual Sorrows. His feet... and another part of his anatomy. He shifted in his seat, remembering the bruises. "Man those nuns had busy fingers."
Hutch's grin was all sunshine and innocence. "It's your fault for having such a tempting target there, buddy." Of course, he would die by slow torture rather than reveal it to Starsky, but he was damn proud of himself for the distinction of having a lover whose prime real estate was so fine, it could even tempt a nun.
Not having access his friend's innermost thoughts, Starsky simply glared at him and muttered, sotto voce, several words which would have gotten that same piece of prime real estate blistered by a ruler had any of them been uttered in front of said nuns.
"So." Hutch tore himself away from that image with difficulty, suddenly tighter in his pants, and cleared his throat. "How about if we empty a few trashcans, dust a few desks, and hang around to see who's got an unnatural fondness for hole punches and pencil sharpeners?"
"Possible," Starsky agreed. "As long as you leave that damned transistor in your locker."
"I already told you, Starsk, janitors always listen to their radios!"
"For ballgames, dummy, not Beethoven."
"You play the part your way," Hutch replied, lifting his nose in mock superiority, "and I'll play it mine." Then he grinned. "And if you wear that hot little 'do rag you wore last time to cover your curls, I'll play any part you're up for tonight."
Starsky gave him a glance so hot, Hutch swore if he took his shirt off, he'd see scorch marks. "I think you know exactly what part I'll be up for tonight, Blondie."
Hutch could do nothing but make sure his jacket was covering the sudden tent-pole in his jeans as they strolled down to the locker room to change.
*******
Four hours later they were back in the squadroom. Hutch typed out the last of the report as Starsky sat with his feet up on the desk, staring at the message spindle in his hands like it was a new life-form.
"Would you put that down?!"
"Didja ever think maybe we're in the wrong line of work?" Starsky asked, still fiddling with the spindle.
"Frequently," Hutch replied, pulling out the finished report and stuffing it into its requisite folder. "But before you have our new lives as white-collar criminals all laid out for us, buddy, remember that not only are we currently police officers, we're also in a police office."
"Knowin' how much these things go for on the black market — never mind that there actually is a black market for staplers an' typewriter ribbons — you can't tell me Bigelow ain't takin' home a few desk lamps and transistorized power pack radios every now and then. You've seen the car he drives. Benz's don't come cheap."
"They do when your father owns the dealership."
Starsky's eyebrows disappeared into his curls. "Bigelow's father owns a Mercedes Benz dealership? How'd you know that?"
Hutch rolled his eyes. "Starsky, you watch more late-night television than anyone on this planet except expectant fathers and new mothers. Don't tell me you've missed," in an instant, his persona changed completely from street cop to sleazy used-car dealer, "'Come on down to Bigelow's Benz's and I'll sell you a BIG car at A LOW price! New Benz's! Old Benz's! Black! White! Yellow! Green! We've got the best Benz's you've ever seen! We've got a lot that's hot so give it a shot and don't be lazy cause we're going CRAZY!!!'"
Now Starsky was staring at his partner as if he was the new life-form "You're weird, ya know that?"
Smirking, Hutch flipped the folder into the 'solved cases' pile, stood, scooped up his jacket and pulled out the 'do rag Starsky had worn earlier that evening. "I prefer the term 'kinky.'" he purred, swinging the still knotted bandana around on one finger.
"Ohhhh, mama."
*******
The next morning, with both men in exceptionally good moods — though Hutch had the feeling he'd be sitting funny for the entire day — they snuck into the squadroom after having been assured that Dobey was assaulting another grapefruit in the cafeteria.
Unfortunately, it only took two seconds after entering the room for them to learn that cop-snitches were a good deal less reliable than your regular street-type variety. Which didn't really bode well for the citizens of Bay City when it came right down to where the cheese binds.
"Starsky! Hutchinson!!" Dobey stormed out of his office like a ship under full sail, his dark face nearly as red as the eye-popping tie he was wearing tightly knotted about his large neck. "With me, you two! We've got a situation!"
Having no other choice than to be sucked into their Captain's orbit, the two followed, slump-shouldered and plodding, hands stuffed deeply in their pockets.
"Mind lettin' us in on the particulars of this 'situation', Cap'n?" Starsky asked finally as they headed for the back stairwell.
"Someone sabotaged half the squad cars in the back lot last night, that's what the problem is!" Dobey bellowed, his words ringing off the walls of the stairwell with enough force to cause both men to wince. "The whole garage is swimming in motor oil!"
Both men slipped on their sunglasses just as Dobey ploughed through the rear exit, nearly taking out a patrolman unfortunate enough to be trying to enter at the same time the Captain was exiting. Hutch helped the poor man up as Starsky handed him his cap.
"Sorry about that," Hutch apologized for his superior before grabbing Starsky's arm and breaking into a run before Dobey noticed they were lagging behind.
Smithy, the same janitor who, the day before, had push-broomed himself out of the squadroom as Dobey had entered, was outside, high-pressure hose in hand, soaking the blacktop in long, sweeping strokes as he pushed the oil toward the edges of the large lot. He was so intent on his work that when Dobey barked out his name, the Captain wound up soaked from the knees down.
Quick as lightning, Hutch hustled Smithy out of blasting range while Starsky deliberately placed himself in the line of fire instead, bracing instinctively for the explosion about to take place. He was reminded of two images simultaneously: Mount Vesuvius and the Hindenburg. Right now his captain looked like the latter and appeared to be ready to share the fate of both. He wondered if he, himself, would rather be burned to ash, or entombed in it.
An altogether too morbid thought for that time in the morning. Especially after the night he'd just had.
"Captain!" he barked, his voice echoing throughout the lot and causing most of the milling officers to snap to attention in a way that even Dobey's impending explosion hadn't. Looking around, he took a careful step closer, well aware that Hutch was watching him like a hawk. "Cap'n," he said again, his voice and manner much softened but just as intense. "Go down to the locker room and get some dry pants, okay? Me and Hutch'll handle this. We got it covered. Go on. Please."
After a long, tense moment, Dobey finally nodded, turned, and walked away. The resultant release of tension in the remaining officers was palpable, and, after giving Smithy a reassuring pat on the arm, Hutch walked back over to his partner. "Good job, Starsk."
Starsky nodded once, exhaling an almost shaky sigh. "I think somebody's gotta talk to Edith. This is goin' way beyond eatin' grapefruit every day and gettin' chewed out by the Chief."
"Yeah," Hutch agreed, giving Starsky's belly a quick rub. "Let's do what we can out here first, then we'll figure out what to do about him."
"Yeah. Okay."
Smoothly taking charge, Hutch walked over to one of the disabled black-and-whites; the one with a pair of legs sticking out from beneath it. "Roger... what's the verdict?"
The mechanic rolled out from beneath the chassis and grabbed a soiled rag from his coverall pocket, wiping his blackened hands. "This is the last of 'em, Hutch. Looks like more of a prank than anything. Someone came along sometime last night, I'm guessing, and pulled all the oil plugs."
Hutch blinked, surprised at the diagnosis. "Well, I guess that's better than sugar in the gas tank." He held out a hand and helped the mechanic to his feet, wiping the resultant grime on his cords and leaving a black smudge behind. "So, you just... what, then?" This was more Starsky's area than his, but his partner needed a few minutes to collect himself after talking their Captain down from the metaphoric ledge. Despite being, outwardly, the more volatile of the two, Starsky showed surprising abilities in being able to talk the most deranged or desperate person into standing down.
"Plug em up and pour some more oil in." Roger grinned. "Whoever the culprit is, he did me a favor, even if he didn't know it. Most of these babies were due for an oil change anyway. Now I can do 'em all at once instead of waitin' for them to come outta service, one at a time."
"Any ideas on who might have done this?"
The mechanic shrugged. "If I was to guess, I'd say you wanna be lookin' for a couple'a kids, maybe teenagers. Anybody who really wanted to do damage could have done it a lot easier, and a lot more permanently. Maybe a gang initiation or something?"
Hutch nodded slowly, his mind grabbing the idea and running with it. Feeling his partner's sudden presence at his shoulder, Hutch turned. "Hey, Starsk, you remember those two kids who tried to swipe the tires from the Tomato? During the Haymes case?"
"Somebody tried to swipe the tires off the Torino?" Roger asked, eyes wide in absolutely stunned amazement. "Are they still alive?" The mechanic's tone told them both that he was being perfectly serious.
"We let them off with a warning," Hutch replied, chuckling. "Besides, it was his own fault."
"Hey!"
Hutch went on, completely unrepentant. "He left his keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked."
If Roger's jaw hadn't been so firmly attached to the rest of his face, it would have gone clattering to the ground. "You left the—"
"I think I hear the Cap'n callin' us, partner," Starsky said, grabbing an arm and yanking Hutch nearly off his feet. "Be seein' ya, Rog."
"—keys in the Torino?" Roger couldn't have sounded more amazed had he learned that the Pope had just had Elvis' love-child.
Hutch couldn't help but laugh at that and his partner's muttered threats as he allowed himself to be led along like a dog on a leash. Teasing Starsk about his beloved parade float was fun; doing it with backup would have him grinning for the rest of the day.
Starsky released him when they entered the building, searing him with a look before removing his shades and sticking them in his jacket pocket. "So, what now? Case or Cap'n?"
*******
As it turned out, the answer was both, though neither had known it at the time. From Huggy, they'd learned the names of the two young would-be tire thieves and, after some judicious questioning, came up with home addresses and the name of the kids' school. They were there to meet the boys as the recess bell rang.
The kids were a good deal less sarcastic this time around, especially under the white-spotlight intensity of Starsky's urgent questioning. Hutch believed them immediately when they claimed innocence, and this belief allowed them to open up on some gossip they'd heard about a gang of older boys at John F Kennedy High.
Coincidentally, or perhaps not so, that High School also happened to be the temporary educational home of one Cal Dobey. With enough information from the two younger boys not to have to compromise Cal, they ferreted out what was needed to drag half a dozen sullen young men out of their classes and, with an assist from a hastily called paddy-wagon, down to the station.
Parents were summarily contacted and, after that, confessions poured out like water. Or perhaps it was because at each of the interrogations, Dobey stood like a silent, glowering Rottweiler in one corner of the room, the threat inherent in his glare more than enough to convince the vandals that the known hard place of their parents' discipline would be much preferred to the unknown rock that the Captain was poised to crush them against.
When Cal's name came up during the third questioning session, Starsky feared for a long moment that he was going to have to toss his body yet again over a live grenade but the Captain, surprisingly, remained motionless and, outwardly at least, calm.
As it turned out, the vandalism had been a very specific message to one Cal Dobey, who was being pressured to join the gang of local toughs but was refusing at every turn. It came out later that Dobey had known about the gang, and though he hadn't known the extent of the pressure his son was receiving to join, he had grown increasingly suspicious of his son's sudden evasiveness when questioned about it. Indeed, Cal had even defended some of the young men as personal friends, which, of course, made Dobey even more suspicious and went a good way toward explaining the Captain's increasingly bad moods of late. The partners were reminded, sadly, of their good friend Jackson and the similar problems he'd had with his own son before his death. Junior was doing much better, however, and they knew Jackson would have been very proud of the young man he'd raised.
It turned out that the leader of the gang, an eighteen year-old who looked twenty-five and was still a freshman, decided to vandalize the squad cars in Dobey's precinct because he thought it would implicate Cal. His lumbering mind somehow believed that this would finally pull the young man into his flock of black sheep, especially if he could offer the son protection from the father's wrath.
How he planned on doing that was anybody's guess.
But Cal was both well-liked and well-respected by his peers, and the rest of the youths quickly disabused everyone of the notion that he was in any way involved.
After the last of the interviews was over, Dobey allowed that, aside from the leader, the rest of the young men weren't bad, per se, just confused, and after a tour of the basement lock-up to try and shake some sense into the boys, he let them leave with their parents, assuring them that no charges would be pressed as long as the young men got out of the gang and concentrated on their education.
Promises to do so in hand, Dobey personally put the cuffs on the gang leader and led him down to processing while Starsky and Hutch headed back upstairs to complete yet another in a seemingly unending series of reports.
******
"My fingers are sore."
"Why?" Hutch asked from around the pen clamped between his teeth. "I'm the one doing all the typing here."
"Sympathy pains?" Starsky asked, grinning.
Hutch rolled his eyes. "Bozo." Slipping the completed report into its folder, he put it on the 'finished' pile and looked over at his partner expectantly. "What now?"
"What time is it?"
Heaving a martyred sigh, Hutch reached across the desk, grabbed Starsky's left wrist and turned the watch so he could see it. "Going on six. We could call it a twelve hour day, or we could stay a few more hours and get time-and-a-half for pulling yet another double."
"Won't need to go robbing banks in Bolivia at this rate," Starsky grumbled. "Too bad we don't have any time to spend all this money we're rakin' in."
"Hopefully we'll get that time after we finish up the rest of these cases. Captain still here?"
"Nope. Went home an hour ago to have a heart to heart with Cal."
"Good," Hutch nodded. "Hopefully tomorrow we'll only have to deal with the regular bear instead of the grizzly."
"We ain't that lucky, partner," Starsky sighed, nudging the open cases pile toward his partner. "What's next?"
"What, your eyes are sore, too?"
Under the power of a grin he could never resist, Hutch pulled the stack toward him and flipped open the next file folder to examine the contents within.
Nearly twenty minutes, two candy-bars and a soda later — by Starsky's peculiar way of telling the time--Hutch was still poring over the contents of the folder as Starsky looked on with fond amusement. Something had definitely sparked his partner's interest, that was for sure. If Hutch had been a dog, his ears would have been pricked up and his tail pointing.
Starsky himself benefitted from the same intensity every time they had sex, and, by his reckoning, to get to experience it both in and out of bed was one of the best feelings around.
"Okay, buddy," he said finally as the twenty third minute had passed without a word from his partner, "you ain't readin' War and Peace over there. What's got your wind up?"
"Hmm?" Hutch looked up from the folder, coming back into himself as he caught the amused smirk on Starsky's face. "Oh. It's a... pretty interesting case. One of the ones Lieutenant Marston was working before he got shot in that liquor store hold-up last week."
"Ok, so what's it about? Must be somethin' big if a Lieutenant was workin' it."
"Basically, breach of contract."
Starsky's brows shot toward the ceiling. "You mind repeating that? Never mind. What in the hell is a cop, a Lieutenant, doin' investigating a breach of contract case? Small-claims court takes care'a those."
"Not this one, partner. Listen. Apparently, it involves a housecleaning service. Thirteen, no, fifteen people have come forward with complaints about it."
"Still doesn't sound like something we should be handling at all. You gotta give me more to go on, Hutch."
"I'm getting there, Starsk. Hold your horses." His finger followed the lines of neat printing before him until he found his place. "I'm not exactly sure what kind of housecleaning this company does, but these guys paid upwards of a thousand dollars, up front, for a three month contract of once a week visits. In eleven of the cases, the maids showed up two, three times and then dropped out of sight. In the rest, they never bothered to show up at all. Now, maybe one customer, or even a few, and I'd agree with you on the small-claims court thing, but fifteen people — that we know of — at a thousand bucks a pop and we're talking about a serious swindle going on here. And apparently, when the irate customers called to complain, all they got was a busy signal. And no one's answering the door at the business address listed on the contracts."
"Okay. So what's the name of this fly-by-night operation?"
"That's just it," Hutch replied, eyes gleaming with interest. "The customers absolutely refuse to say."
Starsky's brows hiked again. "All of em?"
"Every single one. Even when it's explained to them that without a name to go on, there's nothing we can do, they refuse to divulge the name of the company or anyone they've dealt with."
"Maybe it ain't a housecleaning company at all?" Starsky hazarded. "Maybe they're using it as a front to keep us from sniffin' in another direction? Or they're being leaned on to keep their mouths shut?"
"Maybe," Hutch said slowly, tapping his bottom lip with his pen, a move that Starsky found sexy as hell. "But my gut is telling me no. That the housecleaning part is absolutely legit. Their stories match up too well, and we've got no evidence that they're in league with one another."
"No evidence that they aren't, either," Starsky pointed out.
"True. But...."
"Your gut again?"
Hutch gave him a shy smile that, combined with the pen thing ten seconds earlier, was causing the blood to drain from Starsky's brain and enter another region of his body entirely. He only just managed to keep from shifting in his chair.
"Yeah," Hutch replied.
"Ok, so you're sayin' that you think the maid angle is legit, but these guys got somethin' to hide. So... maybe it's one of those 'special' cleaning gigs. You know, where the ladies are all foxes and they do your laundry all dressed up in kinky clothes?"
"Is that why your place is always so clean," Hutch teased, grinning at him.
Starsky rolled his eyes. "Always a comedian. I'm serious. I see commercials for them sometimes when I'm catchin' a classic on the tube."
Hutch snorted. "Oh, sure. You'll remember those ads, but not Crazy Bigelow and his big Benz's."
"I remember your big Benz, partner. That's all the rememberin' I need to do."
Flushing to the roots of his hair, Hutch cleared his throat. "The case, Starsk. The case."
"You started it!"
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, what you say kind of rings true, only... if businesses like that are being openly advertised on television, then there'd be no need for these men to be hiding the name of the company. As far as I know, doing laundry in kinky clothes isn't in the California penal code."
"Maybe these maids are doin' more than just mopping the floors and changing the sheets."
"Maybe, but again...."
"I know, I know. Your gut. Ok."
"It's so close, like the answer's right there, only I can't put my finger on it." Hutch ran a frustrated hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in places and reminding Starsky of a newly hatched chick. Not that he'd ever mention that to his partner. He didn't want to be confined to the couch of his own apartment for the next ten nights running. Or, worse yet, be stuck alone in his own apartment for those same ten nights.
"Marston have any leads?"
"Nothing that we haven't talked about already. This case is just one blind alley after another."
"Okay. Let's think about it. You said all the complainants so far are guys, right?"
Hutch double checked to be sure. "Yup. All men."
"And I'm guessin', seeing as they're willing and able to drop a cool grand on someone swamping out their bathrooms for 'em that they're rollin' in green."
Checking the addresses of the men, Hutch nodded. "All from the right side of the tracks. The very right side."
"Hmm. Ok, so we got a bunch of rich guys who are willing to pay more than you and me make in a month for something they could have for free if they did it themselves, or for much cheaper if they went with one of the usual housecleaning outfits. But it's also something they would rather deal with getting the major rip-off than tell a cop the name of the outfit."
"Right," Hutch replied, nodding, fascinated as always at the sights and sounds of his partner processing the information Hutch had fed him.
People who took Starsky's act at face value didn't know what they were missing, and some of them, especially the people they were paid to take down, to their eternal regret.
"Are any of 'em married?"
A glimmer of excitement went through Hutch at the suddenly asked question, though he wasn't sure why. He checked the list. "Eleven single, two divorced, five currently seeing someone is what it says here."
When Starsky's eyes gained a glint they hadn't had the moment before, Hutch's nape hairs stood on end. "You're onto something. What is it?"
Starsky's feet hit the floor with twin thuds. "What if it ain't lady maids we're lookin' for?"
For a moment, Starsky's question sailed right over Hutch's head, but, good angler that he was, he set his hook and hauled it back, hearing it again in his head. He broke out in a broad, proud grin. "What do you say we pay our old friend Sugar a visit?"
Starsky matched the grin, tooth for tooth. "Took the words right outta my mouth, partner."
*******
After stopping at Starsky's apartment for quick showers and changes of clothing, the partners made their way over to the Green Parrot. It had changed little since their last visit, a little over a year previous; still small, dark, smoke-filled, and with a subtle edge of dark excitement that usually came with operating outside the societal norm.
As they entered, both men were well aware of the gazes that roamed over them, the men's much more frank and appreciative than the women's. Starsky, as was his nature, ate it up, all of it, and put on a show of his own, displaying his well-honed body and tight-packed jeans to their best advantages while also — in ways far more subtle than the glances they were attracting — displaying his ownership of his gorgeous partner's affections, just in case anyone might be of a mind to take liberties.
Not that Starsky could blame them if they were. In his tight jeans and tighter t-shirt, the color of which threw his platinum hair and pale eyes into startling relief, Hutch looked positively godlike, and Starsky enjoyed every bit of the attention his partner was receiving. After all, who wouldn't appreciate a perfect work of art. And who would blame them when they did?
The fringed buckskin jacket — Starsky's personal favorite — completed the ensemble and he gave a few of the fringes a quick tug, earning him a swat to the back of the head.
Squeezing into a gap at the bar, both men turned toward the small stage where, as usual, Sugar was holding court. Dressed in a sequined red gown and platinum-haired wig, she could have been impersonating any one of a dozen stars of stage and screen. Currently, she was Marilyn, her breathy voice singing out the lyrics to "I Enjoy Being A Girl" while behind her, nine gorgeously dressed gowned crossdressers sang and danced backup.
Starsky looked on in definite interest as the chorus line started up a high-kick, the slits in their long gowns exposing long, smooth, shapely legs all the way to the hip. The high, spike heeled pumps each dancer wore tensed the line of their calves, displaying it to exquisite perfection, causing Starsky to whistle in admiration every bit as frank as the looks he had been receiving from many of the bar's patrons.
"Down, boy," Hutch murmured, shoving a cold lemonade into his hand.
"Down, boy, hell," Starsky replied after a long swig. "They got better legs than most of the women I used to date. Most — well some — of the women you used to date, too." Hutch's preference for long-legged blondes was legendary throughout the department.
Feeling eyes on him, Starsky looked back toward the stage. Sugar had noticed them and was wide-eyed and pale beneath the heavy patina of her stage makeup. Both men quickly waved away her concern, saluting her with their drinks, and she relaxed enough to finish with a campy flourish just for them.
The raucous applause made her break out in a beaming grin of pleasure. "Thank you all," she vamped. "You've been a wonderful audience, but I simply must dash! I've spied two gorgeous hunks of delicious manmeat by the bar and, well," she announced dramatically, pressing a hand to her impressive, if fake, bosom, "I've decided to give up my vegetarian diet for the night."
Hoots of delighted laughter from the lesbians in the crowd followed the 'vegetarian' comment while the men tracked her progress toward the bar with interest, intent on discovering for themselves who the 'hunks of delicious manmeat' were.
"Well, hel-lo sailors!" she gushed when she reached them.
"Ms. West," Hutch replied, gallantly bring one beringed hand to his lips and bestowing his most courtly kiss to the back of it, "you're looking lovely this evening."
"Oooh," she cooed. "I bet you say that to all the boys, honey."
"Only the pretty ones," Hutch assured her.
Chuckling, Starsky eased an arm around her waist and gently eased her to his side, pressing a kiss to one powdered and rouged cheek. "How ya doin, Sugar?"
A brassy laugh greeted his question, as one long nail briefly trailed a line through the exposed hair on his chest from his sternal notch down to his upper abdomen. "Well, big boy, why don't you come up to my dressing room and find out for yourself?"
"Sugar, honey, I think you're too much woman for even me to handle."
Her eyes widened and a grin of such delight spread over her face that one would think she'd just been handed the Crown Jewels. "Why, Detective Starsky," Scarlett O'Hara came out briefly to play, fanning hand and all, "I do declare, I think that was the nicest compliment anyone's ever given l'il ol' me." Almost instantaneously, Mae West was back. "And the biggest line of bull I've ever heard." She gave him a lewd wink, laughing again at the brief red staining his cheeks.
"Here you go, Sugar!" The bartender's arm snaked out from between Starsky and Hutch, bearing a tall glass heaped with liquor, ice, fruit and an umbrella. "Great set. You had 'em eating outta your hand."
"Just my hand?" she asked tartly, taking the drink and sipping it. "Mm. Nice and fruity. Just the way I like it." Her grin dimmed as she leaned closer to the partners. "Did Huggy send you?" she said, her normal, non-stage voice pitched low and for their ears only.
Exchanging glances, they turned back to her. "No," Hutch said carefully, his radar on high alert. "Should he have?"
Disappointment flickered in her eyes, but after a moment, she waved it away. "Oh, no reason, really. It's nothing important."
Reaching out, Starsky clasped her elbow gently. "C'mon, Sugar. This is us, here. If you've got a problem and we can help, we wanna know about it."
"That's just it," Sugar replied after a brief hesitation. "I don't think you can."
Hutch's nape hairs stood up, and he looked down into her eyes. "Talk to us, Sugar. Tell us what's wrong."
He didn't voice it as a request, and Sugar knew it. After taking an almost furtive look around, she sighed and placed her drink back down on the bar. "Let's go up to my dressing room. This doesn't need to be overheard," she said, giving them both significant glances. "By anyone."
Uh oh, both men thought, flicking brief glances toward one another.
In smooth concert, they each offered Sugar an arm, and she slipped her own through them, allowing them to escort her through the bar like the deserving Diva that she was.
******
Though stuffed to the proverbial rafters with gowns, boas, wigs, and make-up bags, and with an expensive, theater quality changing table, Sugar's office was old and ramshackle, much like the rest of the bar beneath its bright trappings. The sight made Starsky sad as he compared it in his mind to the upscale beauty of the trendy discos he and his partner used to frequent — sometimes still did, truth be told.
"Okay, Sugar," Hutch said, breaking Starsky's reverie. "Out with it. What's going on?"
"Unzip me," she ordered, presenting him her back. Large, gentle hands undid the gown's long, delicate zipper, and it was a measure of Sugar's distress that she didn't even joke about having such a handsome man helping her out of her clothes.
Wrapped in a tattered white robe, she sat down at her brightly lit make-up table and shook a cigarette out of the pack. Leaning over, Hutch snatched the lighter from the table and flicked it on, holding the flame steady until her cigarette was fully lit.
She took a long inhale, held it, and let it out in a billowing cloud of smoke. Both partners waited, with varying degrees of patience, as she removed her wig and collected her thoughts, looking a decade older and much, much sadder.
"The girls have been getting harassed," she finally said, simply, reluctantly.
Exchanging glances, the detectives moved closer and deliberately relaxed their posture. They knew 'the girls' were Sugar's dancers. While they didn't know any of the young men personally, Huggy spoke of them with great fondness with a certain protectiveness that hinted that he knew some more personally than others.
"By whom?" Hutch asked gently.
"It's... they're... oh, hell," Sugar said, as dispirited as they'd ever seen her. "They're cops."
The men's eyes met in the mirror, their mutual unvoiced hunch confirmed.
"Which ones?" Starsky asked, laying a hand on Sugar's shoulder in silent support and squeezing it briefly.
"You know you can trust us, Sugar," Hutch said.
"If I didn't know that, I wouldn't be talking to you at all," she replied with a trace of asperity. Then she sighed again. "It's been too dark to tell. They're always in the shadows. But even if we did know, we couldn't do anything about it." She paused, searching out their gazes in her mirror. "You see?"
They did. All too well, unfortunately. And for several reasons, none of them good. Given the present state of affairs in the world, any complaints brought forth by any one of the dancers would be treated sneeringly, at best; with violence, at worst. Violence done by the hand of the very men — and in some cases, women — who had sworn a duty to protect and to serve all of the citizens of their blighted city, not just the ones deemed acceptable by societal convention.
And none of the men, save Sugar, could even dare to step forward. Each of them was a young, upwardly mobile, and deeply closeted male during the day, and any complaint based on their nighttime activities would open a book whose writing would never stand the harsh light of day. Their lives could be, and probably would be, ruined.
"How long has this been going on?" Starsky asked in a low, calm voice which was all the more intense for its lack of intensity.
Sugar took another deep drag of her cigarette and waved her hand. "Three, maybe four months. That I'm aware of. Since I own the bar, I'm usually here well after closing, and whoever it is, they're pretty damned quiet about it. Never suspected a thing until Trudy came in one night looking like she'd been on the losing end of a fight with Sugar Ray Leonard."
"He was assaulted?" Hutch burst out, outraged.
"Badly beaten, yes, and no, we didn't report it. Not that I didn't want to march down to the station myself and park in front of your Chief's door and cause a scene that would have made the papers in New York, but she — he — wouldn't let me. He's too scared of what it will do to him professionally, and personally. They all are."
"Any other type of assault?" Starsky growled.
Sugar shook her head. "No. They haven't gone any farther than verbal intimidation and a few displays of their macho power. I'd know if it had happened. They trust me, and they'd tell me."
"They didn't until Trudy couldn't help it," Hutch reminded her gently.
"That was only because they didn't want to worry me. And," she added, a little abashed, "they know I'd do anything for them, and in this case, that 'anything' would have been a rash, impulsive act that they would not thank me for, believe me."
She eyed each of them very seriously, dark eyes deeply troubled. "If I made this whole thing public, as I should, it... wouldn't be good. As much as it shames me to admit it, gentlemen, I can't afford another Stonewall here. I want to, God knows how much I want to, but this dingy little bar has become a haven for so many men and women who have nowhere else to turn. Exposing them to public ridicule, even if it would be good for everyone involved in the end, well, it would destroy them." She sighed. "I won't make them martyrs to the Cause. I — I can't."
Both men startled as her hand came down hard on the table's top, rattling the bottles of perfume and makeup stored there. "God, I hate this! Why can't they just leave us alone? Who are we hurting? Tell me that, Detectives!" she spat, grinding out her cigarette in short, savage motions. "Tell me that."
Reaching out, Hutch tenderly grasped her hand in both of his, his eyes as gentle as Starsky had ever seen them. "No one, Sugar. You're not hurting anyone. You know that and we know that, and someday, someday soon, everyone will know that, too."
The cynical cast of Sugar's gaze softened as she took in Hutch's almost unbearably tender look. "Do you really believe that?" Her words could have been bitter — would have been bitter — had Hutch's statement come from anyone else.
Hutch squeezed the hand in his, warming it, stilling the trembling. "I have to. Don't you?"
With great effort, Sugar tore her gaze away from Hutch's all-consuming one to look over at Starsky who was leaning against the table with one hip, arms crossed, face expressionless. When she'd first met him, he'd adopted a similar stance, several times, and she realized how badly she'd misinterpreted it. He wasn't judging, or condemning. He was letting his partner do what his partner did best, while he did what he did best; covering his back, offering silent support. And love. It was so easy to see, once you knew where to look.
A thread of jealousy, green and putrescent, wended its way through her, then dispelled, unable to exist in the force of such love. Suddenly, all the pieces of the puzzle fell together and her eyes got almost impossibly wide. "You...." She licked her lips and looked back at Hutch. "You... two?"
She could almost hear the silent communication between them, even with Hutch's back to Starsky. After a moment, his face relaxed even farther and a smile of breathtaking beauty overspread his face. "Us, too," he replied.
Stunned, Sugar shook her head, absolutely at a loss for words.
Starsky stepped smoothly into the silence. "Whenever that 'someday' is, it isn't gonna be today. Today we need to figure out who's doing this to you and how to stop 'em. Do you have anything more for us to go on? Dates, times, anything?"
Shaking a fresh smoke from her pack, she waited patiently for Hutch to light it, drew in the smoke, and held it for a long time, as if comforted by the burn in her lungs. "Maybe it's best if you... talk to the girls. The last show is over for the night, and they should be changed and in their street clothes. They usually wait until the bar's closed, though I've told them that it's better to leave when there are more people on the streets." She sighed. "They refuse to listen. They tell me they're afraid to leave me alone." Her smile was a bitter one. "I don't have any secrets to hide."
Starsky and Hutch exchanged glances over Sugar's bowed head.
"Okay," Hutch said, giving her narrow shoulder a firm squeeze and letting go. "Where?"
"Their dressing room's large enough to handle all of us comfortably. Is that alright with you?"
"Lead the way," Hutch replied with a faint smile. Giving her a hand up, he fell into step behind her, Starsky picking up the rear.
*******
Like Sugar's room, the dancers' dressing room was old and ramshackle with peeling paint, a sagging ceiling, and water stains all over the place. The dancers were dressed in robes as they sat at their brightly lit makeup tables, applying cold cream to their faces to wash off the pancake they used for their drag routines.
All heads turned to the door as it opened, and the resulting doubletake would have had Starsky laughing if the situation wasn't so serious.
"Don't worry, girls," Sugar announced, sweeping in like the Belle of the Ball and appropriating a battered recliner, tucking her bare legs beneath her as she sat. "Your virtue is safe with these men."
Dejected groans filled the large room and Starsky couldn't help but let out a smirk, which earned him a slap to the belly from his partner.
"Class up, sport," Hutch said, doing an uncannily accurate impersonation of Francine, the dancer they'd met during the titty bar murder spree a few years back.
Chuckling, Starsky grabbed a wobbly wooden chair , swung it around and sat straddling the back; an action which earned even more erotic noises from the peanut gallery.
"Business before pleasure, ladies," Sugar said. "Gather around and listen. These gentlemen have some questions for you, and I need you all to be completely open with them, okay?"
In less than a second, the atmosphere in the room changed from coy flirtation to icy fear as the group clustered around Sugar like fawns to a doe.
"Before we begin, let me introduce you to Detectives David Starsky and Ken Hutchinson, Bay City police, Metro division."
The stir in the room at that announcement was blatant, and several of the men looked as if they were going to bolt, half-clad or not.
"Calm down, please," Sugar ordered. "They're here to help."
"Right," a tall, dark-skinned dancer proclaimed, "help. Sugar, they're cops!"
"Obviously," Sugar replied. "They're also two men who I'm honored to call friends." She sighed at the mistrustful and betrayed looks she was receiving. "Listen, none of what you've had to put up with for the past several months is going to stop unless we get some help. These men are ready, willing and able to help and believe me when I tell you, once they're on a case, they don't let up until the bad guy's behind bars."
"Yeah, us," another dancer said, voice flat and wounded.
"Not you," Hutch replied, stepping in. "You're the victims here. I know you don't have any reason to trust us, and too many reasons not to, but try to believe me when I tell you that my partner and I will do our best to see that the harassment stops and the perps are punished."
"Do you think we're stupid?" a tall, especially beautiful dancer shouted, jumping out of his seat and glaring down at Starsky and Hutch. "Do you think we're not wise to your petty little schemes by now?"
"Bobby...." Sugar warned.
"You stay out of this, Sugar! You may have some weird kink over cops, but the rest of us don't!" He turned back to his targets. "Sending your buddies out to rough up the skinny little faggots didn't work, so now you're trying to get us from the inside. Well, that may work on Sugar, but not on the rest of us. Just get out of here. You're making this place stink like a pigsty."
"Bobby!"
"It's okay, Sugar," Starsky said in that soft voice that was often the only precursor to a violent action. He eased out of the chair and came to his feet slowly, gracefully, his intensity giving off a nearly visible aura. "Now you listen good, all of you. Me and Hutch aren't rookies on a roust. We got no beef with you. And the ones we do have a beef with are cowards who hide behind their badges and get off on bullying anybody they think is weaker than them. Yeah, they, whoever they are, may be our brothers in blue, but the thing you gotta understand about Hutch and me is — we never let that stop us from doin' our jobs. And that's what we wanna do now, but we need your help."
"Help," Bobby snorted. "Yeah, right. You're gonna help me right into a jail cell, cop. Or maybe you'll help yourself to my ass, huh?"
Eyes flashing, Starsky grabbed the dancer by the bicep and squeezed hard enough to bruise. "You watch your mouth, Bobby. Like Hutch said, we know you got a bunch of reasons not to trust us, but that slack will only get you so far before it pulls up tight. Scream, rant, yell, cuss, do whatever you want, but you start makin' accusations about my partner and me bein' dirty cops and we'll leave and let you keep on gettin' roughed up by those thugs in uniform. You got me?"
Bobby's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
"So what's it gonna be, huh? You wanna let us help? Or do ya wanna keep on thinking up excuses when your boss asks how you got your third black eye in a month."
Another voice broke the tense silence. "Detective... Hutchinson, is it?"