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?"

"I'm Starsky, he's Hutch," Starsky replied, not taking his eyes off of Bobby.

"Okay. I know that it seems like we're a bunch of ungrateful prima donnas, but the fact is, we're scared. Not of the shitheaps that get their rocks off using us as punching bags, but of you. You've got to understand... even if you are on our side, like you say you are, and you do manage to arrest the idiots, our names are going to be showing up on your reports, big as life, and none of us can deal with that. I'd rather be beaten up every day of my life than have to tell my family, boss, and friends that I'm a queer who enjoys dressing in women's clothing to perform on some shitty stage in a shitty bar."

"Don't waste your breath, Mike," Bobby scoffed. "You can talk to them till you're blue in the face, but they'll never understand what it is to be like us." Jutting out his pelvis, Bobby gave Starsky a frank leer, his eyes tracing over every single inch of the muscled body before zeroing in on Starsky's crotch and licking his lips — all in an effort to make Starsky feel disgusted and out him as the bigot Bobby was sure he was. "Like what you see, pig?" he purred, tracing a hand down along his own body and cupping his crotch.

"You're beautiful, Bobby, there ain't no denying, but sorry — you don't hold a candle to what I already got."

Bobby's leer changed into a smirk, quite obviously believing that Starsky was exaggerating heavily to bolster his macho street image. God, all cops were alike.

Then he felt a second set of eyes on him, and when he glanced over at Hutch, whose glare was hot enough to melt the polar ice caps, everyone in the room could all but hear the young dancer adding two and two and coming up with the most unexpected answer of them all.

"Oh my god," he whispered, hand blindly scrabbling for a hold on the table. "You're... you're...."

"People," Starsky said. "Just like you. And we wanna help. What's it gonna be?"

The spell of mistrust broken, the group clustered around Starsky and Hutch and began telling their tales of bigotry and woe.

*******

"Do you think you'll be able to catch them?" Sugar asked an hour later, drawing deep of another cigarette. But for the three of them, and the bartender, the club was empty. With the absence of the crowd and the lights turned down low, it seemed like a sad and lonely place, like a glorious diva whose heyday was over three decades ago just sitting quietly and waiting for someone to recognize her.

After the interviews with the dancers, Hutch had convinced them all to go home, and both partners escorted the young men to their waiting cars. They hadn't seen anyone in the alleyway when they left, but that didn't mean anything. No one in his right mind would dare approach someone if Starsky and Hutch were around. Even the most bitter bully valued his life more than that.

And the fact that Starsky and Hutch were willing to be seen in public playing valet to a group of drag queens in a gay bar told said drag queens more about their trustworthiness than almost anything else they could have done. Even Bobby was impressed and apologized to them both, several times.

"We'll catch them, Sugar," Hutch replied, patting her shoulder softly. She hadn't done escort duty and was still dressed in her tattered robe. Her face, washed clean of heavy makeup, seemed incredibly fragile and vulnerable.

"I don't see how. The descriptions the girls gave you were about as generic as Wonder Bread. Medium weight, medium height, medium voice." She shook her head, letting go a bitter chuckle as she watched the curled ribbons of cigarette smoke dissipate in the humid air.

"Our world's full of medium people," Starsky said, grinning. He peered at his notes before flipping the small notebook closed and tucking it into his jacket's inner pocket. "In the meantime, make sure your dancers are escorted to their cars every night. Some of those big leather bruisers should do the trick, as long as you tell them to leave their attitudes at the door. If our suspects are cops, they'll find a way to shoot first and ask questions later."

"And if the assaults continue, call us immediately," Hutch added, handing her his card. "Home number's on the back. Any time, Sugar. Day or night, okay? We need to be completely inside the loop if we're going catch whoever's doing this."

Nodding, Sugar slipped the card into the pocket of her robe, her gaze idly tracking Albert as he cleaned the bar's top. "Oh! I knew I forgot something." She turned to both men. "Earlier tonight, you said that Huggy hadn't sent you here. And I'm pretty sure you weren't here just to watch my show, fantastic as it is. And I know you weren't here looking for a third to mess the sheets with, to my everlasting regret. Why did you come? Is there something I can help you with?"

"That's right!" Starsky snapped his fingers. "We're working on a case and figure if you can't help us, maybe you can at least point us in the right direction."

"Oooh! I get to play detective, detectives? I'm all ears." Grinning, she leaned forward and propped her elbows on the bartop, resting her chin in her hands.

As they explained the particulars to her, Sugar's face became increasingly stormy until she exploded. "Damn those idiots! I told them to pack up their shit and leave two years ago! Why in the hell are they back?"

"We were kinda hoping you could tell us," Starsky said.

Hutch nodded in agreement. "Just the basics, like... oh, who they are, what they are, where they are, things like that."

"The victims are refusing to cooperate. All we got is that it's supposedly a cleaning service, but the only things getting cleaned are the marks' wallets," Starsky explained. "We're completely in the dark, here. Anything you can give us would be a big help."

"If you don't mind my asking, what made you decide to come here for your information? How did you know I could help you?"

"We didn't know," Hutch said, grabbing Starsky's tall glass of lemonade and finishing it off, ignoring the scathing look from his partner. "Starsk put the pieces together, figuring if these guys got ripped badly enough to come to the cops, but refusing to divulge the identity of the perp, they had something big to hide. So...." Hutch shrugged and spread his hands in a 'there you have it' gesture.

After thinking for several minutes, Sugar gave them all the information she could on the two men she had in mind. They had run the same scam three years ago, under the name Maid to Order. She'd finally convinced them to relocate elsewhere by showing up at their home address with a group of leathermen and suggesting that it would be in their best interests if they both developed sudden, uncontrollable urges to get the hell out of Bay City as soon as possible.

"So, do you think you'll be able to catch them?" she asked after she had finally mined her brain for anything she had on the two men in question.

"Oh, we'll catch them all right," Hutch said. Leaning over, he pecked her on the cheek.

"Thanks, Sugar," Starsky added, giving her his own kiss. "You're a real princess."

"Princess? Honey, I'm a Queen!"

*******

"Well, that was easier than I thought it was gonna be," Starsky commented the next afternoon. He was sitting at his desk, slowly typing out the arrest report.

"Just goes to show you the inadequacy of the common criminal mind," Hutch replied, thumbing through yet another case folder. "You get run out of town on a rail, and not only do you come back and run the same exact scam under the same exact name, you move back into your same apartment to do it!" He shook his head. "Sometimes, I think these idiots want to be sent up the river, I really do."

"Well, I ain't gonna argue with you on that one." Starsky gave his partner a speculative look that turned 'little Ken' to solid granite. "Though I gotta say, if it had been legit, you'd'a fit right in as one of the maids. Course," he continued, smirking, "as soon as you'd been asked to actually clean anything, the gig would've been up."

Seemingly unconcerned, Hutch checked Starsky's watch and yawned, making sure his untucked shirt rucked up over his belly during a long, satisfying stretch. "Well, partner, since we put in so many hours yesterday, what say we knock off a little early today?"

"Yeah? You're on!"

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Have a good rest of the day off!"

"Hey!"

"Hey, what, buddy? I just remembered that Sweet Alice asked me to her apartment to clean up her etchings. And you know how I always like to give Sweet Alice a hand. Or two." His own smirk was positively evil.

"Okay, okay," Starsky replied, admitting defeat. "I was wrong. You'd be a perfect naked housecleaner, okay? In fact, when we get home, how about we French Maid and the horny cop?"

"Only if you wear the maid's uniform, partner."

Starsky sighed. Finishing the report, he pulled it out and signed with a flourish. "Another one bites the dust. Sign and let's get on with this mess or the only games we'll be playing will be Two Sleeping Cops and The Bed That Ain't Seen Any Action In A Year."

"Well, at least the next item on the agenda doesn't require any traveling."

"Yeah? Where?"

"The holding pens downstairs."

"What's goin' on there? Their cockroaches come down with food poisoning again?"

"Close, but no cigar. Seems the prison trustees who oversee the laundry concession are taking a larger cut of the profits than the warden is comfortable with."

"So? Why the hell doesn't the warden just smack 'em down? Why do we gotta get involved?"

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Starsk, this is Willowsby we're talking about. The guy who would have to go on a starvation diet just to weigh as much as...." He flicked his eyes toward the closed office door behind his partner. Dobey had been conspicuous by his absence all day.

"Point taken. Man, why don't we ever get to see this kinda action on our own? Seems all we get handed are the ones that guarantee one of us will get shot at, shot up, punched out, or kidnapped."

"Starsky, if we got these cases handed to us regularly, you'd be complaining so much we'd never have time for anything else in our lives."

"Hell, we already don't got time for anything else in our lives!"

Hutch shot him a look. "I mean anything...."

Starsky's eyes widened. "Ohhhhh. Gotcha. Well, I guess it's time to pay Willowsby a visit, then. Why don't we stop by your locker and you can give him the laundry that's been sittin' in it for the past seven years? If it hasn't grown legs and walked there by itself by now."

"Fun-ny, Starsk. You know, Sweet Alice is still a possibility."

Whistling innocently, Starsky rounded the desk, waited for his partner to walk by, and booted him one in the ass.

*********

"Y'know," Starsky commented on their way to the Torino, "if we keep on getting cases like this fallin' in our laps, we'll beat out Iron Mike's arrest record in no time flat."

"Yeah, and you'd be bored stiff in a week, and I'd be pulling my hair out by the roots having to deal with it."

Smirking, Starsky ruffled the fine blond strands. "Don't do that, partner. Don't got enough up there as it is."

If Starsky hadn't chosen that exact minute to duck into the car, Hutch's glare would have vaporized him on the spot. As it was, he spent the next five minutes rubbing the sting out of the arm Hutch had belted a good one. "Help! Police brutality! You saw it, officer! He pasted me one!"

"I'll past you ten if you don't quit making cracks about my hair, buddy."

"Aww, blondie, you know I love that mop a'sunshine you got on your head. I can't help it if the Starsky genes guarantee I'll be keepin' these gorgeous locks for the rest of my life."

"Abramovicz," Hutch corrected.

"Huh?"

"Abramovicz. The genes for baldness, or lack thereof, are carried down through the mother, not the father."

Pulling out into traffic, Starsky nonetheless gave his partner a long stare over the rims of his sunglasses. "I've met your mother, Hutch. That ain't no wig she's wearin'."

Hutch resisted, barely, the urge to put another bruise directly atop the one he'd already dealt his exasperating partner. "You don't look at your mother, dummy. You look at your mother's father. Or her brothers. Or... whatever."

"Never did get to meet my Ma's pop," Starsky mused. "But my uncle Schmuel was as bald as a cueball from the time I learned to crawl."

"Schmuel... was he the one who got hit by the jackhammer?"

"That was Aaron. Schmuel went out in style. Latrine explosion." He smirked at his partner's look. "No foolin', Hutch. Camp Pendleton, World War One. Basic training. He was pukin' out the last of a weekend pass in the wrong place during a live ammunition demo. They buried what was left of him in a shoebox."

"You're a ghoul."

"Yeah," Starsky said with morbid relish. "And you love me for it."

"No comment, officer. Where are we headed, anyway?"

"Pancho Villa's. I'm hungry and you're buyin' me a burrito."

"Oh, come on, Starsk! Not Pancho Villa's again! That makes what, the fourth time this week?"

"Would'a only been three if someone hadn't chucked my El Grande Burrito in the trash instead'a givin' it to me like I asked."

"Was it my fault I thought I saw something crawling in it? Man, you do your partner a failure, putting yourself between him and food poisoning and this is the thanks you get."

"The only thing you put yourself between was me and a full stomach."

"Hey! I offered half of my salad, buddy."

"Yeah... green glop and white pasty shit covered in purple glop. Just what a grown man needs when he's chasin' down hypes in an alley."

"You don't see me running out of gas during a chase," Hutch retorted, smirking as he patted his flat belly.

"That's cause you're too busy trippin' over your own feet to even step on the gas." Knowing Hutch wasn't going to give in, he sighed. "Ok, where are we going for lunch, Sahib?"

"How about Roscoe's?"

"Aww, Hutch—"

"Ah-ah, partner. I could suggest Begin Vegan."

"Roscoe's it is."

"Thought you'd see it my way."

*******

Roscoe's was just another corner tavern in a city full of them, about one step up in quality from The Pits, which made it about ten steps up from The Green Parrot. It was smoky and crowded even during midday, but the service was good and the food was decent, even for Hutch who, as usual, ordered a salad and filched more than half of Starsky's fries while at the same time pontificating on the dangers of fat-laden food. Starsky had long since given up on pointing out the hypocrisy of those actions, figuring his partner was just the guy-version of the ladies who drank Tab while wolfing down a double hamburger with the works.

Down to his last crumbs, Starsky eased himself back against the seatback and let his idle gaze roam the room. Along the scarred bar was the usual assortment of haggardly dressed winos; sweaty businessmen stretching out the last few minutes of a long, liquid lunch; desperate-looking women hoping to catch their next meal ticket; and hustlers of both sexes looking strung out, hollow, and old beyond their years. Desperation and sadness hung in the air like the blue-grey smoke hugging the ceiling.

From the corner of his eye, he picked up a flash of light striking a badge and his gaze tracked the uniformed cop as he looked furtively around before slipping off his barstool and heading through the beaded curtains at the back of the bar.

Restroom, Starsky guessed.

Then another officer did the same thing, followed by yet another, and another.

"Hutch," he said, sharp and soft, causing his partner's eyes to dart up swiftly to his.

"What is it?"

Starsky cocked his head in the direction of the next two cops who were easing themselves off their stools.

"Yeah? So? They've all joined your Pint Sized Bladder Club."

"Last time I checked, takin' a group piss wasn't covered in the manual. That's number five and six, if you don't count the ones in the suits goin' back there, too."

"Hmm." Hutch pushed his empty plate aside and slid from his side of the booth. "Now that you mention it, I think I need to tap the ol' kidneys myself. How 'bout you, partner?"

"Never know when we might get another chance," Starsky agreed, accepting a hand up from Hutch and swinging in behind him as Hutch started to move purposefully toward the back of the bar.

"Interesting," Hutch remarked as they came through the beaded curtain to face a blank wall. "Entrance to a parallel dimension?" He cocked an eyebrow at Starsky.

"Either that, or they asked Scotty to beam 'em up to the Enterprise."

"There is that." Stepping forward, Hutch began lightly tapping on the wall before him. The sounds made had a definite echo, but he couldn't find a seam anywhere. He put his ear to the wall, but couldn't hear anything.

"Lemme try," Starsky said, shouldering Hutch out of the way and raising a fist to tap out S-O-S on the wall. When the panel slid open less than a second later, both men pushed in past the guard and into the large, white room filled with blaring television sets and dominated by a large green chalkboard.

"You really need to change your code, sweetheart," Hutch told the guard, patting a florid, fleshy cheek before pushing the man away and grabbing his Python from its holster.

"Well, well, well!" Starsky effused, his grin a mile wide, his Beretta out and ready. "What have we here?"

"Looks like a little off-track betting going on, Starsk," Hutch replied, loudly enough to be heard over the excited voices of racetrack announcers calling the stretch run.

"Ain't that just ducky. Hey there, Rodrigo, Bennington! You guys buildin' up your kids' college funds playin' the ponies, are ya? Good for you. That's real good. Isn't that good, Hutch?"

"S-Sergeant Starsky—"

"No, no, Starsk. You've got it wrong." Hutch's gun tracked steadily around the room. One after another, hands raised toward the ceiling. "See, I think these shining example of Bay City's boys in blue are simply doing their civic duty, right?"

"R-right!" Bennington, a rookie cop who looked all of twelve, replied, nodding swiftly. "That's exactly what we're doing, right Rod?"

Rodrigo matched the frenetic nod. His cap flipped off his rapidly moving head and into Starsky's hands.

"No kiddin'," Starsky remarked, twirling the shiny-brimmed cap around one finger like he would a Frisbee. "How's that?"

"I — uh — we — that is — err...." Rodrigo's face flamed red as he jangled to a stop.

"Please," Hutch said, waggling a finger at them, "don't you fine young men go hiding your lights under a bushel basket, now. Tell Sergeant Starsky all about how you were courageously trying to prevent these poor people from going to jail for squandering their life savings on some illegal betting."

"Yeah," Starsky said. "Tell me. I really wanna hear. Never know when I might have to do the same thing one day. Right, partner?"

"Right, partner."

"So?" Starsky tapped his foot. "I'm waitin'. Freeze, turkey!" he shouted, not even bothering to look behind him at the one of the bookies started making his way toward the door. "One more step, buddy boy, and you'll be laid out on a slab, all ready to be carved up and stuffed for Thanksgiving."

Determined to escape despite the threat, the bookie threw the day's receipts at Hutch and bolted for the door. One step away from freedom and he was frozen in his tracks by a bullet that came within an inch of giving his hair a permanent part right down the middle. "My partner ordered you to freeze, slimeball."

Drawn by the sound of gunfire, the bartender slid into the room. The Python's gaping maw swung around at him, and he squeaked like a mouse, hands shooting straight up over his head. "Detectives? What--?"

"Call the Health Inspector, Mike," Hutch ordered. "You've got a room full of vermin in here."

"Ver — what?"

"Get the paddywagon, Betts," Starsky translated.

"Oh. Oh! S-sure! Right away!"

Backing up until his ass hit the chalkboard, Starsky turned briefly toward the second bookie. "I'm very disappointed in you, Farooq. Very disappointed. What did I tell you the last time I caught you runnin' a racket like this, huh?"

"Starsky, please. You can't... you gotta gimme... you... Hutch??"

"Sorry, Farooq. You're on your own, here. You can't say we didn't warn you."

"I can't go back to jail again, guys! I'm still on parole! They'll send me up for life, and even if they don't, when my boss finds out I got busted again, he'll kill me! Either way, man, I'm toast!"

"Should have thought of that before you and Mr. Charming over there decided to set up a numbers joint in this fine establishment."

"Come on, Hutch. Please, man, I'm beggin' ya. Can't you just... pretend I wasn't even here?" Seeing the stone faces on both men, tears sprang into his eyes. "Please, Hutch... Starsky... he'll kill me! We didn't even make that much money! Here... y-you can have it all back! See? I've got it all right here! Down to the last dime. No harm, no foul, right? Please?"

"Read him his rights, Detective Hutchinson," Starsky said, turning away in mock disgust. "I can't stand to see a grown man grovel."

"No, no please! You don't understand! The boss — he's... he's... really bad!"

"Man," Starsky replied, clicking his tongue, "that's too bad, buddy. My heart bleeds for you. It really does. But if we were to let you off with another warning, well, Hutch and me couldn't sleep nights knowin' a mastermind like you was runnin' loose on the streets. No, I think a little time in the slams to think about what you've done is just what the doctor ordered. How 'bout it, Hutch?"

"Definitely. Look on the bright side, Farooq. Between the slop they feed you in the pen and all the exercise you're going to get running away from the vice bulls, you'll lose that little paunch you've got going."

"But—"

"Shut it, Farooq." Starsky turned his glare on the six police officers clustered around the front table, pale-faced and sweating. "As for you guys..."

"You're not gonna arrest us," rumbled a third cop, a patrolman named Kraftson. A stereotypical donut-shop cop three years away from retirement, he was bound and determined to spend every minute of that time on his ass scarfing down coffee and donuts. "You can't send up your brothers in blue."

"Wanna bet?" Starsky replied mildly.

"No, Starsk, I think he's right. Jail would be too good for these losers. We've got a better idea."

Starsky looked at him. "We do?"

"Sure!" Hutch replied, beaming a smile full of sunshine. "We'll just have them explain their presence here to our Captain! You boys do remember our Captain, don't you? Tall, beefy guy with the disposition of a grizzly with a thorn in his paw? Goes by the name Harold Dobey?"

The six men opposite went white as sheets.

"I'd rather go to jail!" the rookie wailed.

"Smart boy, Bennington," Starsky praised. "Chuck these human anchors you've got dragging you down and maybe you'll make something of yourself yet."

"Come on, Farooq," Hutch ordered, grabbing the skinny bookie by the arm and yanking him toward the door. "Don't go anywhere, kids. We'll be back after we call Daddy to come pick you up."

Giving the clustered, sweating men a wink and a smirk, Starsky turned and strolled after his partner and a still whining Farooq.

*******

"What?" Starsky asked, glancing down at the hand suddenly attached to his jacket sleeve, then back up at the profile of his hyper-alert partner. "Hutch?"

"There! Did you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"That! Someone's calling for help! C'mon!"

"Think it's time to see a doctor about these hallucinations you're having, partner," Starsky muttered before gamely trotting off after Hutch.

Cutting diagonally across the running path and through the trees, Starsky finally caught up with his partner just as Hutch pulled himself to a stop, swearing. Starsky followed Hutch's gaze, and his belly gave a lurch. "Aww, geez."

The small playground in the center of the park resembled a demolition site. A large swing set — actually, several swing sets bolted together — had somehow folded in upon itself, crumbling and pinning the unfortunate kids beneath rusted metal and splintered beams. Mothers were screaming for help, their strident voices mixing with the higher pitched wails of the trapped kids. The scene was a mess, and no one seemed to know what to do.

Dodging around Hutch, who was trying to fend off the desperate clutches of a distraught mother, Starsky ploughed through the soft, shifting sand, pushing the useless bystanders out of his way with less-than-gentle shoves. When he got to the site of the collapse, he dropped to his knees to assess the situation. What he saw wasn't good. There were at least a dozen kids beneath the wreckage of twisted metal and wood, and blood was pooling in garish clown-spots all over the white sand.

"Hang on, guys!" Starsky shouted to be heard over the wails of the children and the screams of the adults. "Just hang on. Don't move. We'll come to you. We're gonna get you outta here, I promise. You just need to hang on and keep as calm as you can. Can you do that for me?"

The pain-filled cries dimmed only slightly, but Starsky would take anything he could get at this point. Looking up, he saw a richly-tailored woman standing two feet away, her hands twisting an expensive handkerchief. "You! Yeah, you! I need you to call this in! Now!"

"I— but—"

"Listen! My buddy and me are cops. Our car is back through the trees that way and across the running path. Big red Torino with a white stripe. Ya can't miss it. Grab the mic under the dash, press the button on the side, and tell whoever answers that Zebra Three needs backup. Got me? Zebra Three, at Inman Park. Tell 'em to call in the firefighters and get at least five ambulances over here! Move it! Go! Now!"

The woman lurched away, teetering on her expensive high-heels, but at least she was headed in the right direction.

"Hutch! Hutch!! Get your ass over here! I need help!"

"I'm right here, buddy. I had to — oh, damn."

"Yeah. It ain't pretty, but I see all of 'em movin', so that's a start. C'mon. Help me move some of the bigger pieces up top here outta the way so we can get in there."

When the movement of the wreckage caused other parts to settle, the screams renewed themselves, drilling holes in both men's brains. With great effort, and no help from the bystanders, they managed to get most of the rusted metal framework pushed up and out of the way. This gave them better access to the children and they carefully stepped into the small space they'd manage to open.

Starsky went down to his haunches. Reaching out, he tenderly brushed a sweaty lock of black hair from the forehead of a girl no more than five. She was pinned beneath one of the heavy, splintered beams, her lower body completely covered save for one tiny foot clad in a dainty lace edged anklet. An equally tiny shoe lay beside the foot like a cast-off party favor. There was something about that that made Starsky's throat close up. He swallowed thickly and forced himself to smile into the solemn eyes of the youngster.

"Hello there, little Miss. Can you tell me your name?"

Her eyes looked past him as if searching for something, before returning to his face. Tears welled in those enormous, dark eyes and spilled to dirty cheeks. Slowly, the little girl shook her head 'no'.

"Do you know your name, sweetheart?"

After another far away gaze, she nodded.

"Can you please tell me what it is?"

A hard swallow, and her lips parted. "Not... s'posed to talk... to strangers," she whispered.

"Aww, sweetie, I'm not a stranger. My name is David, and I'm a policeman. Did your mommy or your teacher tell you that it's okay to talk to policemen?"

She gave him a solemn nod before arching her back and uttering a single, infinitely weary cry. Her fingers strained, searching, and Starsky immediately cupped the tiny hand in his, warming it as best he could.

"I know it hurts, sweetheart, but we're gonna get you out of there as quick as we can, okay?"

"Y'promise?"

Starsky felt his own eyes sting but forced another smile to emerge. "I promise, sweetheart. And when a policeman makes a promise, it's for keeps. He doesn't break it for anything. Not anything in the whole wide world."

Her eyes grew impossibly larger at his tender words and, finally, she relaxed her rigid body and gave herself over to his keeping.

Gritting his teeth, Starsky had to look away for a moment, and was gratified to feel a large, warm hand come down on his shoulder and give it a comforting squeeze.

Allowing Hutch to give him a hand up, he followed his partner through the twisted wreckage, stopping to exchange soft words of encouragement to each child they passed. They didn't dare move any of them, not knowing the extent of their injuries, so they satisfied themselves by offering the best comfort they could, calming the children and keeping them that way until the rescuers could arrive.

At long last, sirens signaled the approach of the rescue vehicles. It took several more hours, but by dusk, the last of the children had been loaded into ambulances or the arms of their parents, and the exhausted partners were finally able to stand down.

Looking at the somewhat dazed expression on his partner's face, Hutch clapped him on the back and smirked. "Should I be worried?"

"Huh-what?" Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Starsky blinked up at his partner. "What'd you say?"

"I asked if I should be worried."

"About what?"

"I saw the way that the beautiful little Miss Katie looked up at you, Starsk. And that hug and kiss she gave you before the ambulance took her away...." His smirk deepened. "So, I'm just wondering if you're gonna dump me and go back to dating younger women."

"Meathead," Starsky growled, cuffing Hutch on the shoulder before grabbing his arm by the jacket and yanking him away from the scene. "Let's get somethin' to eat before my stomach and my backbone become kissin' cousins."

"Heaven forbid that should happen," Hutch needled, ducking as another lazy cuff came his way.

*******

They heard their names being bellowed before they even stepped into the office the next morning. Exchanging resigned glances, they pushed through the glass doors and stopped in front of Dobey, who was dressed in an eye-gouging ensemble of a loud, plaid suit, puke green shirt, and an even louder striped tie.

"You wanted us, Cap?" Hutch asked.

"Those cases I gave you to do!"

Starsky held up a placating hand. "We're almost done with 'em, Cap'n. See? Only two, three left."

"You shouldn't have any left! You started on these four days ago!"

"Come on, Captain," Hutch said, keeping his exasperation as much in check as he could. "You dumped over twenty cases on us, cases that we weren't even in on. We've been busting our behinds, putting in twenty hour days, doing our own beat on top of the cases you've given us. I'd say that clearing out eighteen cases in four days, plus the dozen or so of our own, is pretty damn good."

Raising his finger, Dobey took in a breath, and Starsky smoothly stepped in. "Cap'n, come on. You know we're not slacking off. We've been workin' our tails off, and you know it. Until you can figure out a way to make the days last thirty, thirty five hours, give us a break, huh?"

Dobey took another deep breath, held it, then relaxed, deflating like an overfilled balloon. "Yeah, all right," he sighed, wiping his forehead with an everpresent handkerchief. "Maybe I have been riding you boys a little hard, but I wouldn't have to if... if...." He sighed again. "Damn."

"Captain," Hutch said, chancing to lay a hand on the beefy forearm as Dobey began to turn away. "What is it? What's wrong? We thought maybe it was Cal, but after that gang bust-up...."

Dobey eyed them both for a long moment. His face and manner gentled. "Part of it was Cal," he grumbled, "but you boys helped us get over that particular hump." After looking around the mostly empty squadroom, he tilted his head toward his office, and both men followed him in, Starsky shutting the door behind him.

"Sit down."

They sat.

"The truth of the matter is that someone, and before you ask, I have no idea who, has been planting a bug in the Chief's ear about you two."

Glances were exchanged before Hutch spoke up. "What kind of bug, Cap?" He had a feeling he knew what the answer was going to be, and knew that Starsky did, too.

"Don't pull the farmboy rube act with me, Hutchinson. You know exactly what kind of bug. You both do."

"We probably do," Hutch allowed. "Is there anything in particular we should know about this... bug? Like how dangerous it is? What the repercussions of an attack would be?"

Dobey shifted his heavy mass uncomfortably in his chair, his hands twisting around the sweaty handkerchief still in his grip. "Let's just say that if I can't prove to the Chief the absolute necessity of having you both, as partners, here in this department, one of you will be packing his things and moving to another precinct."

"Damn," Hutch breathed, slumping back in his chair and rubbing his mouth.

Anger blazing, Starsky jumped up from his chair. "Isn't this fucking rich!" he yelled, stabbing his pointed finger inches away from his superior's face. "We've busted our asses for this department! We've got the highest arrest and conviction record in the whole goddamned state! He ought'a know! He brings it up every time he plays kissass with some reporter! And this is how we get repaid?"

"Starsk," Hutch whispered.

"No! Damnit, Hutch, I'm sick to death of this! Ain't a whole damn division been through what me and you have been through for this goddamned force! We been shot, stabbed, poisoned, kidnapped, tortured, beaten to within an inch of our lives and still managed to save this city, the mayor's job, and the chief's goddamned pride! Well fine, Captain, Sir. You like giving in to that kinda shit? You got it!" Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he yanked out his badge wallet and tossed it on Dobey's desk, followed by his gun. "Tell the Chief I hope he chokes on it!"

"Starsky!"

Dobey's only answer was a slamming door.

"Hutchinson...."

Hutch turned upon him eyes so cold, Dobey actually shivered. "You just let go of the best cop this city's ever seen. There'll never be another one like him again. You can make book on it." His smile was bitterness personified. "But hey, there's a bright side to this, right? At least you won't have to worry about the Chief taking another bite out of your ass, will you. Thanks, Captain. If that's all, sir...."

"Hutchinson!"

Hutch swung around, glaring at him.

Dobey held out Starsky's badge and gun. "As Captain, there are certain things I have to know about the men who work under me, and there are things that I don't have to know — would prefer not to know, if you want the truth. As far as I'm concerned, I know all I need to know about you two. You're damn good cops. And I'll... do my best to remind the Chief of that fact. Tell your partner that when you give these back to him. Dismissed."

After a long moment, Hutch stepped forward and grabbed the badge and gun. Locking gazes with Dobey, he nodded once, turned and left the office.

*******

Hutch found his partner in the parking lot, leaning against the front fender of his car, gazing up at the sky.

"Hey."

Starsky looked over at him. "Hey." His voice was as weary as a drowning man about to go down for the third time. "Keep 'em," he said when he noticed what Hutch carried. "I don't want 'em anymore."

Hutch settled a hip against the car door. "If you really don't want to go back, I'll support you fully. You know my relationship with this job is love-hate. More hate than love lately. But if you let some self-righteous bigot chase you out of here... well, I just think that five, ten years from now, you're going to look back and kick yourself for it."

Starsky's gaze went back to the overcast sky. "Never thought I'd find myself in Sugar's shoes, but here I am. Now I know exactly how she feels, and buddy, it ain't pretty. And you know what the really sad part about all of this is?"

"Tell me."

"The sad part, Hutch, is that the same people who are hurtin' her and her dancers are the ones hurtin' you and me. Cops." He shook his head. "Seems like only you and me remember the Oath we took when we got our badges. To everyone else, it was just words. Didn't mean anything."

Reaching out, Hutch slipped an arm across Starsky's broad shoulders, cupping the back of his neck gently and not giving a shit who saw, or what they thought if they did see. "I know it feels that way now, babe. I know because I feel it too, sometimes. But you know, deep down, that it's not true. Most of the cops in this city are good men who care. Dobey does."

""How can you say that after—"

"He does, Starsk. He doesn't care what the rumors are, or even if they're true or not. God knows he's seen us in enough intimate situations that any doubt probably got washed out of him a long time ago. I think he dumped all those cases on us because he didn't want to get stuck telling us that the Chief thinks we're a couple of limp-wristed fagelahs." He squeezed Starsky's neck tenderly, then reached up to feather his fingers through the thick curls. "He's supporting us in his own way. You know he is."

Several moments later, Starsky finally nodded. "Yeah," he sighed. "I know."

Smiling, Hutch tugged playfully at the hair in his hands. "C'mon. Let's take the rest of the day off. I think we deserve a little down time, don't you?"

"I guess I could go for a beer," Starsky allowed.

Hutch stared at him. "We finally get more than a couple of hours off, and you want a beer?"

Raking his hot gaze up and down his partner's long body, Starsky leered. "Gotta wet my whistle before I can wet yours, baby blue."

Hutch's 'whistle' let him know that that was a fine idea indeed.

*******

On their way to The Pits for Starsky's promised beer, they found themselves stuck in traffic even heavier than normal. Head against the backrest, Hutch tried to steal a few minutes' shuteye, but he was jerked abruptly from his warm, comfortable doze by his partner's voice breaking the silence.

"Would ya look at that?"

"Wha-?" Hutch mumbled, turning out of instinct to follow his partner's pointing finger. Just ahead on the sidewalk in front of the Bay City Hotel and Convention Center was a very long line of people. Or at least Hutch thought they were people. The way they were dressed, it was kind of hard to tell.

He fell against the door as Starsky abruptly cut around the traffic and darted forward toward the parking garage, making liberal use of the 'Emergency Vehicles Only' lane.

"What are you doing?" Hutch demanded.

"Findin' a place to park. What does it look like I'm doin?"

"Starsky...."

"Oh, c'mon, Hutch, be a sport, huh? We got the rest of the day off, so let's spend it doin' something fun!"

"Fun is what I had planned for us when we finally got home, Starsky. Standing in a long line with people dressed in gold, red and blue velour and telling me to 'live long and prosper, Human' is not fun."

"It'd be fun if you just give it a chance," Starsky wheedled. "I never been to a Star Trek convention before. Maybe Captain Kirk is there. Or Mr. Spock?"

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Indulging in hero worship now, buddy?"

Starsky blushed, but didn't stop moving toward the entrance to the garage.

"Oh, and a news flash for you, partner. Even if he is here, the guy standing on a stage talking down to a bunch of screaming women and nerdy guys isn't the real Captain Kirk."

"Great. Bust a guy's bubble, why don't ya. Next you'll be tellin' me there's no Santa Claus."

"Besides, what if the actors are there? What're you going to do, salivate all over them?"

"I ain't salivating over anything. I just think it would be cool, that's all. And maybe I can pick up one of those Enterprise model kits I've been lookin' for for ages. Especially since someone didn't take my hints and give it to me for Christmas like I was sure he was gonna."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hutch replied with a very straight face.

"Liar." The word was said with affection. "C'mon, Hutch. Just for a little while, okay? We don't gotta stay. Just an hour, two tops. Just long enough to walk around the place, maybe pick up a few things, and if we happen to run into Captain Kirk—"

"Okay, okay," Hutch conceded, holding up a hand. "Stop babbling and find us a place to park, already. If I have to endure death by slow torture, I'd rather get it over with as quickly as possible."

"Atta boy," Starsky praised, his grin open and carefree.

And really, Hutch confessed silently, he'd do just about anything in the world for a glimpse of that smile. If it took standing around bored half out of his skull and surrounded by a bunch of geeks pretending to be from Alpha Centauri, well, he'd deal with it.

But Starsky was going to pay for this once they made it back home.

Oh, yes. He was going to pay big.

*******

Standing propped in one corner of a once-majestic grand ballroom, Hutch massaged his aching feet through his shoes as he looked down, with dismay, at all the purchases Starsky had racked up in the last forty five minutes. From the moment they'd shown their tickets at the door, Starsky had blown through the convention rooms like an F5 tornado, leaving stunned gazes in his wake. He reminded Hutch of a hummingbird cheerfully flitting from flower to flower, all frenetic energy and boundless appetite.

Within the space of less than one hour, Starsky had managed to purchase Enterprise blueprints — "I'm gonna frame 'em and put 'em in the living room, Hutch! How cool is that?" — two model Enterprises — "Gotta have a backup in case one gets busted up, partner." — one prop Communicator with realistic sounds — "Captain Starsky to Enterprise, two to beam up, Scotty!" — several novels, at least a dozen print zines — "I knew it, Hutch! I knew Kirk and Spock were doin' it! Look here! Wow. Spock has tentacles for a dick?" — a pair of 'official' Vulcan ears — "You can put 'em on, Hutch, and we can go into the greenhouse and pretend we're Kirk and Spock on shoreleave!" — a set of Kirk and Spock dolls — "Action figures, Hutch. They're called action figures." — and a lifesized stand-up cardboard cutout of Spock — "I'm gonna stick it up in front of my living room window and scare off burglars!"

And he'd left Hutch to play pack mule as he scurried off to find yet more things that he absolutely could not possibly be expected to live without.

Finally, after a twenty minute break spent holding up the wall and massaging his aching feet, Hutch spied his partner approaching. Thankfully, Starsky was empty-handed, and Hutch began to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

As if proving that such oncoming lights herald trains more than the wished-for escape, a scream rent the air. Both men turned in the direction of the noise, which was behind one of the dealers' tables.

"Stop! Thief! Stop thief! Somebody get them! They stole my phasers!! Stop thief! Somebody call the cops!"

The victim topped even Starsky and Hutch's combined weight, and as she was crammed into one of the show's red miniskirted costumes, Hutch thought maybe he'd need some brain bleach to scrub that image from his retinas.

A rustle of movement attracted his attention and he watched as four skinny young men made up to look like what he assumed were Klingons, dropped behind the long line of empty dealers' tables and disappeared from sight.

"C'mon!" Starsky yelled, heading for the tables and breaking left and gesturing for Hutch to go right.

Getting to the head of the row of tables, Hutch watched with some amusement as the four Klingon wannabes crawled as quickly as they could along the narrow passageway in a bid for freedom.

Said bid was quickly squelched as the end of the escape route was suddenly blocked by Starsky, arms crossed over his chest, ankles crossed as well.

"Give it up, boys," he said. "Give the nice lady back her phasers and beam back to your own ship, huh?"

"naDevvo' yIghoS," one of the Klingons growled, or tried to. The effect might have been better had he been blessed with anything other than his unfortunate pre-pubescent voice.

"Wanna try that again, boy?" Starsky asked. "In English, this time?"

"bIjatlh 'e' yImev! tlhIngan maH!"

Starsky looked over at Hutch, who shrugged and tried to keep the grin from erupting.

"Come on, boys. Playtime's over. Up, up! Let's go."

"Hab SoSlI' Quch!"

Several gasps sounded from the onlookers, and as one, they all backed away. One of the Klingons began to lift his toy phaser and point it at Starsky, baring his teeth and snarling. But before he could get the weapon hefted all the way, Starsky had drawn his Beretta and cocked it. "Bet this one hurts more," he said with a growl of his own.

Quickly dropping his toy weapon, the Klingon lumbered around, still on hands and knees, and tried to crawl over his companions toward the other end, where a vastly amused Hutch was waiting.

Finally realizing the futility of their escape, all four young men dropped their weapons and came to their feet, hands raised.

"Oh thank you!" the large woman cried, grabbing Starsky before he had a chance to even blink, and covering his face with grateful kisses. "Thank you so much! Those were real props from the show! Given to me by the Great Bird himself! They're priceless! Thank you so much for rescuing them for me!"

"Ma'am?" Hutch asked, fighting madly the urge to collapse in laughter at the sight of his partner's feeble struggles to break free of the effusive woman. "Uh, Ma'am? M-Ma'am? Could you let go of my partner, please?"

"Oh, you're so wonderful!" the woman gushed, completely ignoring Hutch. "So brave and clever! What can I ever do to thank you? I'll do anything! Anything!!"

Having had more than enough, Hutch finally clamped one hand on a heaving shoulder and pulled the woman a half step back so that Starsky could disentangle himself and draw fresh breath into his lungs before he passed out.

"We're glad you're happy, Ma'am. Really. No thanks needed. We were just doing our jobs."

When the woman finally turned to face him, her glare died unborn, to be replaced by a look of abject awe. "Oh my God!" she screamed, covering her mouth and pointing at him with a trembling hand. "You're! You're! It's him! It's him!! He — you're... oh my God!!"

"It's Makora!" shouted another woman. "Look, guys! It's Makora!!"

As if it was just announced that the Beatles were spotted incognito in the center of a shopping mall, the crowd surged toward Hutch in a huge, screaming wave. Hands reached out to touch him, pens and pads were shoved in his face, and what seemed like a million flashbulbs from a million cameras all went off at once, temporarily blinding him.

He squeezed his watering eyes tightly. At the same time, he felt a hand gain purchase on his jacket and yank hard, pulling him through the small gap between seemingly a thousand bodies.

"Thank god," he whispered as he recognized his partner's touch.

"Just keep your head down, buddy, and let's get the hell outta here!"

*******

It took a great deal of fancy footwork and flat-out running speed before they were able to ditch their pursuers and circle back to the Torino. Once there, they collapsed against it, gasping air through tortured lungs and willing trembling legs to still. After a long moment, they had enough energy to look at one another. That was enough to make them gasp all over again, as gales of laughter overcame them and caused them to slide down the Torino's highly waxed sides to sit, slumped over, on the warm concrete.

"Who needs to be cops," Starsky gasped in between peals of laughter, "when we can be movie stars?"

"Look... who's talking?" Hutch retorted, wiping the tears that spilled from his eyes. "I'm the movie star, you're... the sex symbol!" Reaching out, he tried to wipe the lipstick from his partner's sweaty face, only succeeding in smearing it further along his cheeks and jaw.

"The Turbos should sign her up," Starsky agreed, wiping his own face and smearing the lipstick even worse. "Oh, man, I need a shower!"

"You and me both, buddy. Let's hit it. We can go back to my place, grab some dinner from Chez Helene's and make an early night of it, what do you say?"

"How early is early?"

"You know what ol' Ben says, Starsk. Early to bed...." He gave Starsky's groin a steaming glance. "Early to rise."

"You know how hot I get when you quote Poor Richard, babe. C'mon, let's go."

*******

"Looks like somebody needs to take a trip to see the Earl," Hutch remarked, smirking, as the Torino settled by the curb in front of Venice Place.

"That wasn't any backfire, partner," Starsky replied. His statement was corroborated by another pistol shot, and both men ducked down, grabbing for their weapons.

Nodding to Hutch, Starsky opened his door and slid out on his back, dropping to lie down on the pavement and squiggling over so that Hutch could drop down next to him.

Holding a hand out to keep Hutch down, Starsky got his feet under him and raised just enough to peek over the Torino's hood. He was back down in a flash.

"What'd you see?" Hutch whispered.

"Not much. Sounds like it's comin' from out back."

"What do we do?"

"You got any ideas?"

Whatever Hutch might have said was interrupted by the sound of another pistol shot, followed by the sound of glass breaking. Incredibly, laughter followed this. The men exchanged puzzled glances, and Hutch took a turn at peeking over the car's trunk.

After he ducked back down, both men could hear several different male voices speaking in French.

"What are they saying?" Starsky asked.

"I don't know. They're talking too fast for me to make it out."

Starsky gave him a wide-eyed stare.

Another shot, followed by more laughter. Hutch held up three fingers, and Starsky nodded. At the silent count of 'three', both men jumped to their feet and bulled through the open door to the restaurant, flying through the empty dining room, through the kitchen, and out to the back patio.

"Police! Freeze!" Starsky shouted.

Three men dressed in cooks whites turned, slack-jawed, their hands raised high in the air.

"Henri?" Hutch asked, confused. "Louis? Robert? What are you guys doing out here?"

"They're drunk, that is what they are," Simone, the restaurant manager said, easing out behind Starsky and Hutch, hands on her wide hips, glare in her eyes. "What have I told you idiots about this kind of thing, huh?" Narrowing her eyes, she stared out at where the shots had been aimed, then rounded back on the three cowering men. "My bay trees! Why did you shoot them? You know they are in love! Why? Why did you shoot them? Why? You... you... you idiots!!"

Each of the men looked as if he was praying for an earthquake to come and swallow him up.

"Arrest these men if you please, Detectives," she ordered. "Right now. Tree killers!"

"Simone...."

"I am serious, Detective Hutchinson. Arrest them! They are killing my beautiful trees! They belong in jail! How do you say... throw the book at them! Tree killers!"

"Is the gun registered?" Starsky asked.

Henry nodded, hands still in the air.

"Simone...."

"Detectives, if you will not arrest them, than I shall call your Captain to do it!"

"Simone, if I arrest them, they're going to get deported. Yes, it's a crime to discharge a weapon in a public place, but... think about it, okay? Do you really want them deported for something like this?"

"Yes! Deport them! Send them back to France! Forever! What do I care? They have shot Romeo and Juliet! Murderers! Tree killers!"

"Henri, Louis, Robert, do you promise never to shoot anything that isn't shooting you again?"

The men nodded so forcefully, Hutch was afraid they were going to give themselves whiplash.

"And will you use some of your pay to get a gardener in here to see how bad the damage is? And replace the trees if they can't be saved?"

Again, three forceful nods.

"Your word, guys."

"We promise!" Henri assured them. "Louis, call our gardener and have him come over right now."

Looking immensely relieved, Louis darted back into the restaurant, though not quickly enough to avoid a hard kick to his posterior from Simone.

"Sorry, Simone. That's the best we can do. I really don't think you want them deported. They're the best chefs you have."

"I do not care," she replied, crossing her arms over her formidable bosom. "Romeo, poor Romeo. And Juliet! My poor babies! My poor, poor babies!"

"Uh, Hutch... I think I hear Dobey calling us. We'd better split."

"Yeah. Good idea. See you later, Simone! Guys!"

"Murderers!"

"Zebra Three, Zebra Three, report of a one-eight-seven at the north entrance to Lincoln Park. Please respond code two."

"I thought you were joking!" Hutch exclaimed as they hustled toward the Torino, whose doors were still open.

"I was!" Starsky replied. "Didn't you log us out?"

"Sure did!" Sliding into the car, he grabbed the mic and keyed it. "Zebra Three, code two for a one eight seven north entrance to Lincoln Park. We are responding. ETA five minutes. Out."

"There goes our showers," Starsky said mournfully as he zipped the Torino into a tire-smoking U-turn and gunned it down the street.

"And it's the last shower I intend to miss, buddy. First thing tomorrow, I'm going in to Dobey's office and setting a few things straight. If he can't convince the Chief that we're the best damn cops on the force without working us half to death, well, then... forget it. This goes above and beyond, and I've had enough."

"Really," Starsky agreed.

Within five minutes, they arrived at the north entrance to Lincoln Park. The normally quiet, secluded area was awash with frenetic activity. Three patrol cars and the coroner's wagon were parked askew near the gate. As Starsky and Hutch stepped out into the cooling night air, they could hear the scuffing of tracking dogs headed down several of the hiking trails that meandered through the large park.

Both men flashed their badges to the uniform standing guard at the gate and walked into the park. Ten yards away lay the body of a young male with most of his head missing.

"Hey, Ginny. What've you got for us?"

"Hey, Hutch. Starsky. Looks like it was staged to look like a suicide, but whoever did it didn't do his homework. No powder burns. This guy was definitely murdered."

"Body's still warm," Starsky remarked, squatting down next to the coroner. "How long?"

"I'd say an hour at the most. No witnesses that we've been able to find so far. Jones over there," she gestured to a uniform standing off to the side, "found him during a routine patrol of the area."

"Hear anything?" Hutch asked Jones.

"No, sir. Like Ginny said, I was just doing my regular patrol. Stopped here because the gate was open, and this end of the park is usually locked up tight by five pm. So I went in and found him like this."

The body was twisted half on its back, a Beretta identical to Starsky's service pistol lying next to the right hand.

"Where's the cartridge?" Starsky asked.

"Nowhere to be found. Yet another clue that whoever did this isn't real up on staging a crime scene. But he did leave a note" She held up a sheet of white paper between two gloved fingers.

Squinting, Starsky peered at the carefully written words on the page. "'My tears are like the quiet drift/ Of petals from some magic rose; And all my grief flows from the rift/ Of unremembered skies and snows.'"

"Dylan Thomas," Hutch remarked.

"Yeah. A real picker upper. You're positive he didn't off himself."

Ginny shook her head. "Not unless his arms used to be ten feet long."

"Any ID?" Hutch asked.

"Not a thing, unless it's underneath him. Pockets are clean. No wallet, no jewelry, nothing except this lovely note. Oh, and this," she picked up an evidence baggy inside which was the shattered remains of a single bullet. "I don't hold out much hope of us being able to match it to this gun, or any other one for that matter."

After eyeing the slug, Starsky slowly rose and looked around. "Any idea where the shooter might have stood?"

"Over there, most likely," she replied, pointing to a small group of shrubs off to the right. "We've searched all through there and haven't found anything. Not even a set of footprints or a broken branch. We've got slim pickings on this one."

"Mm."

Collecting Hutch with a nod, Starsky moved over to the bushes and peered inside before moving off to the trees further down the path. "Jones, gimme your flashlight, wouldja?"

"Yes, sir!"

Grabbing the flashlight, Starsky shone it around the leaf litter carpeting the ground within a fifteen foot radius of the body. He was going around a second time when he felt Hutch's hand grab his arm. "Go back that way. Yeah. More, more, there!"

"What?"

"Keep it there. I see something. Hold it steady."

Walking to a large pine with low-hanging branches, Hutch pushed several of the branches aside, and with an "ah ha!" reached in and came out with a single cartridge that could well have been Starsky's. "Look what we have here!"

Pulling an evidence baggie out of his pocket, Starsky held it open and Hutch dropped the cartridge inside. "Looks like you were right on the money, there, Gin," Starsky complimented, returning the baggie to the coroner.

"I usually am," Ginny replied with a wink. "That's what forty-fifty dinners you boys owe me?"

"As soon as we get five minutes to do more than breathe, Ginny, we'll take you out for a night on the town. Dinner, dancing, the works. Sound good?"

"I'll believe that when I see it," she replied, snapping off her gloves and rising to her feet. "I think that's as much as we're going to get here tonight. K-9 brought the dogs back. They didn't find anything."

"Jones," Hutch ordered, "get the Park Ranger on the horn and tell him this place is closed until further notice. Then call the crime lab and tell them to get their tails out here before tomorrow morning, see if they can pick up anything we missed."

"Yessir, Sergeant."

"Guess that's it for us, then. Good doing business with you, Ginny. Call us if you get a match on either the fragments or the cartridge, okay?"

"Sure thing, Hutch. You'll have my report first thing in the morning."

"Better address it to Dobey," Starsky said, glancing at his partner. "We're overdue for a few days off and we're not takin' 'go to hell' for an answer this time."

"Good luck, guys," she replied. "You'll need it."

******

Dobey was still in his office when they returned to the precinct. His door was closed, but they could easily hear his bellow from time to time. When Hutch finished typing up the newest report, he stuffed it into the folder and gathered all of the now-closed cases together. "C'mon, partner. Time to make our stand. You with me?"

"All the way to the end, partner."

"Let's do it, then."

After knocking twice, Starsky opened the door without bothering to wait for a response. Both men ignored their boss' glare as they marched up to the broad desk. Hutch slammed the file folders down on the desk's top, causing several loose papers to seesaw down to the ground.

"Before you say anything, Cap," Hutch said, "Starsky and I are here to tell you that as of nine pm tonight, we are officially on the vacation that you granted us three weeks ago. We appreciate you covering our backs with the Chief, don't think we don't, but if we don't get some down time, the only thing we're going to be is the best dead cops in Bay City. And neither one of us is willing to buy a bullet because we're so tired that we make stupid mistakes."

Dobey's glare was the stuff of which nightmares were made, but neither man flinched, nor did they back down. Not counting brief cat-naps, they had been on duty for ninety-six straight hours and neither was willing to give even an inch on their demand.

"What about those cases I gave you?" Dobey demanded.

"Finished the last one," Hutch replied. "Right here. I know how you like us to give you a rundown on each case, so I'm gonna make this short and sweet. And after I'm done, Starsky and I are going to leave here and we're not coming back for a week. If you want our badges, Cap, you can have 'em, because we're not budging on this."

"Just get on with it," Dobey growled.

"Fine." Laying out the folders like a hand of poker, he pointed to them one at a time. "Twelve plumbers plumbing. Eleven swipers swiping. Ten Fords a'leaking. Nine trannies dancing. Eight maids a'bilking. Seven cons a'skimming. Six police playing. Five folding swings. Four crawling nerds. Three Frenchmen. Two myrtle loves. And a cartridge in a fir tree."

Recitation over, both men bowed, executed precise about-faces and left the room.

Dobey stared after them, slack jawed.

 

THE END

 

Sixty five pages all to set up a very bad pun. Merry Secret Santa, Dawn!