Rainy Days, or Ballplayer and Cabbie

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An AU where Hutch is a ballplayer, and Starsky is a cab driver.

 

(with thanks to Kuonji for brainstorming help)

I think this is my favorite thing that I’ve ever written for S&H.

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Part 1

“I am NOT going to advertise deodorant!” Hutch stood up and yelled at his agent.

“Why not? Ya smell bad enough.”

Hutch, his agent, and the slimy little man representing the deodorant company all turned in shock to stare at the man who’d spoken.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick, a flat cap stuffing down his wild, curly hair. He wore jeans and a leather jacket over a flannel shirt.

“Who are you?” demanded Hutch.

The man shifted his toothpick. “Your cabbie. I’ve been waiting twenty minutes. Any longer and I start the clock.”

Hutch pointed to the door. “So start it! Get out of here!”

“Yeah—only next time don’t call a cab if you don’t want one—even if you are a famous baseball player.” The man regarded him with an unimpressed expression. He straightened, uncrossed his arms, and left the room with a jaunty, cocky walk, looking as if he’d been born on the streets and could’ve passed as a not-so-petty criminal.

Hutch watched him go, glaring after him a moment. He was used to the little people asking for autographs, acting doe-eyed and thrilled to see a famous baseball player. Hutch was at the top of his game lately, and, with his team having just won the World Series, it was his time to shine. That was why he needed to get as many contracts and advertising gigs as he could, before it was too late. He wouldn’t stay young forever.

As much as he occasionally complained about the people screaming his name, mobbing him, asking for autographs, he didn’t much care for this dismissive attitude, either. What did that guy know? He was just a cab driver.

Hutch turned back to his agent and the man trying to get him to sell his soul, what was left of it, to a deodorant company.

He wouldn’t be cheap, at least.

* * *

“Forty-two dollars and fifty cents.”

“What?” said Hutch, glancing up, glaring, as he got in the back seat of the cab.

“You heard me. Forty-two fifty. That’s how much you racked up, waiting around in there.”

“And I just earned several thousand, making that deal. Which is more important?”

The cab driver pulled away from the curb. “Thought you weren’t going to take that deal.”

“I changed my mind. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.” The cabbie shrugged, not looking around. His dark blue eyes caught Hutch’s in the rear-view mirror. Something about them made Hutch stop for a minute, actually pay attention to him.

The eyes held amusement. “Guess you were stinky enough, then.”

Hutch flexed a fist, his jaw tightening. This guy was nothing, he reminded himself. Just a cab driver.

They arrived at his destination and he slammed the door, peeled off twenties, a ten, and a few ones to pay the driver.

“What, no tip?”

“Sure, Curly. Don’t insult major league players.”

He turned and left.

* * *

Three years later—

Hutch stepped onto the curb, mindless of the water. He held his trench coat tight at the collar and his hat brim tilted down, only partly for protection from the sheets of rain.

He held a hand up and stepped out, into the puddle. The cab’s headlights cut through the rain, showing streaks and individual drops, a chunk of rain illuminated in front of it, a tangible, touchable shape of light and water.

Thank goodness. The cab slowed and pulled to the curb. Hutch jumped back to avoid the wave of water splashing towards him from its tires. He jumped over it and got into the cab, only a little more wet.

“The train station—and step on it.”

“Hutch? Is that you?”

He started, and looked up quickly to meet the blue eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Uh—do I know you?”

It couldn’t be. Not the enforcer. He wouldn’t be driving a cab, much less sounding surprised to see Hutch, and almost friendly.

“Uh—no. I just drove a cab for you once.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t remember the man at all. He’d been in so many cabs, met so many people in his whirlwind life–which would be ending far too soon, if he couldn’t get his hands on some dough.

He snorted. “I hope I gave you a big tip.”

The cabbie laughed. “You could say that.”

“Well, good, because I can’t afford anything this time.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

They drove in silence, the sound of rain drumming down safe and soporific, as if the vehicle was all that was left of the world now, and only water outside.

He kept turning, craning his neck to see out the back. “Uh—could you step on it? I think I’m being followed.”

“Listen mister, you in some kind of trouble?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Anything I should know about? Like, they’re gonna be hauling my body out of the bullet-shattered wreck next to yours?”

Hutch winced. “I hope not. I mean, of course not. I owe some people money, that’s all. I’d be no good for it dead.”

“What happened to all that money you made from—um, commercials and such?”

“Well…” The circumstances flitted briefly through Hutch’s mind. Well, why not? He didn’t have anyone else to talk to right now. Has-beens suddenly found they had fewer friends…

“Mismanagement by my financial people…okay, yeah, that’s a laugh. Theft, downright theft.” He laughed, a hollow sound. “And then there was the surgery, and the divorce settlement, and the child support… And now I’m into a gangster for a thousand dollars for a late night poker game when I was drunk—just a thousand dollars!—but I can’t get hold of it.

“I just have to make it to the weekend. I’ll get a paycheck then for some royalties. It might even be enough to cover it. But there’s an enforcer, someone who’s supposed to ‘convince’ me. I already told them, I can’t come up with it any quicker than Friday. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

The cabbie was silent a moment. “How bad is it?”

Hutch shrugged broadly. “I don’t know. I’ve never been in this kind of trouble before in my life. He already wrecked my hotel room and I think I’m next.”

The cab driver seemed to digest this. “Any truth to the rumor you’re planning to make comeback?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with…”

“Hey, just answer the question, okay, pal?”

Hutch frowned, bristling a little at the tone. “Sure. Why not? I can’t sink any lower.”

“Sure ya can. There’s always lower. Wouldja just answer me? Are ya gonna make a comeback, or are ya gonna spend your life drinkin’ and gamblin?’”

“Look pallie—! I’ve put up with a lot so far.”

“No, I think I have.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Guy chasing me. Running from a gangster. You know how hard I’ve worked to avoid those kinda guys? Too damn hard, lemmee tell ya. So I’ll ask ya one last time—what are you gonna do?”

Hutch let his air out in a giant expulsion of breath. “I’m gonna lay low till Friday, hope to heaven I get enough money to pay the guy back before somebody decides to break my arms, and then never gamble again! And if I can get a job in the league, then, yeah, I’ll take it. I don’t know what business it is of yours.”

“It is. I’m gonna bail you out.”

“What?”

“You heard me, mister.”

“What?!”

The cab driver suddenly wrenched the wheel to the right, and the car squealed around a tight corner. He crouched over the wheel, head low. They accelerated, accelerated— Hutch found himself pressed back against the seat, gasping. He didn’t complain. If it let them lose the enforcer, he was all for a little speed.

The next few minutes were some of the tensest Hutch had ever had in a car. He found himself gripping the seat, gnawing his lip. But he kept his mouth shut. If this cabbie could get him away from the guy, he’d have a much better chance of hiding out till the weekend.

The cab squealed to a stop in front of a small, rather dilapidated apartment building. “Get out—third floor sixth apahtment. Here’s the key. Don’t steal my stuff.” He thrust a small, cold metal object into Hutch’s hand. “I’ll hide the cab.”

Then Hutch was on the sidewalk and the cab squealed away. He blinked after it, then hurried into the building, tucking his collar higher, tugging his hat lower. Best to not be recognized. Not that he had as much trouble with that anymore. But still, it was neither convenient nor safe at the moment.

He took the ancient, squealing, and very slow elevator, shook out his coat and shifted from one squishy boot to another, watching the numbers of the floors with grim nervousness.

He fumbled with the key and managed to let himself into the small apartment without anyone seeing him. It was quiet, although he heard the canned laughter of a sitcom from somewhere down the hall. He got inside, relocked the door, flipped on the light, and looked around.

The cabbie’s pad was surprisingly neat, although less than fancy. A couch, a TV, a kitchenette, a bathroom and at the far end of the apartment’s main room, against the wall near the window and fire escape, a single bed with a neatly-tucked blue blanket, looking as precise as if it had been made by a soldier.

The apartment smelled faintly of garlic and spaghetti sauce.

Standing in the near-darkness, with only the light from the streetlight outside and the rain drumming against the window and roof, Hutch felt himself beginning to relax. It felt homey.

He slipped off his wet boots and propped them up to drain and dry, took off his raincoat and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair, took off his hat and propped it up on the edge of the other chair. Then went to the sink and got a drink. He used his hands, cupping them, then shook them out. He did this so he wouldn’t get a cup dirty. He didn’t see where they were kept anyway, except for one single coffee mug, next to the sink and a tiny coffee maker.

There was a knock at the door.

Hutch moved to the door in his stocking feet, his heart yammering, and he lowered his voice, standing close to the door. “Who’s there?”

“Me, you idiot. Let me in,” said the cabbie.

Hutch fumbled with the lock and pulled the door open. The cab driver, looking fresh and competent and sturdy, surveyed the room. “Make yourself at home?”

“Thought I’d dry ‘em out for a minute or two,” said Hutch, feeling himself start to flush. “Thanks, by the way. I owe you.”

“Yeah, you do.”

The cabbie removed his flat cap, revealing a mess of curly, damp hair. He strode to a telephone and picked it up, dialed. He looked at Hutch, and hesitated, covered the speaker for a moment. “Look, why doncha go ahead and get something to eat? Help yourself.”

Hutch shook his head. “Not hungry, thanks.”

The cabbie shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He spoke into the phone. “Heya, Willie. I gotta speak to my uncle, okay? Yeah, this is Davey.” He waited a few moments, drumming his fingers on the phone, tapping one foot.

“Siddown if ya want to,” he told Hutch, making a shooing motion with his free hand. Obediently, Hutch moved to the other kitchen chair, and sat. It creaked a little, in the quiet room.

He realized he was hungry, but he felt far too stressed to eat anything. It probably would’ve come right back up.

“Uncle Saulie? Yeah! Listen—it’s good to hear you too—listen…wouldja…” He forced a laugh. “Yeah, plenty to eat. I’m not starvin.’ … Well I never said the cab business wasn’t tough… Look, I didn’t call ya about that. I know I’ve got a job anytime… It actually is kind of about that. I figure it’s probably you, anyway. Listen, don’t be mad, Saulie, okay? Just…you know…one of my pals is kinda into you for some dough. Could you give him a few extra days?” Silence. “Yeah, nothing much. Only goes so far, sure. But he’s a good guy, he’ll have it.” Silence. “Thousand. Yeah. Hutchinson.” Then he relaxed into a smile. “Sure! Thanks, I’ll tell him. Yeah, see ya. Sunday? Aw, Saulie. You know I’m busy… Yeah, I wouldn’t wanna disappoint my aunt. Okay, okay, I’ll be there. Think you wanna force feed me or something… Bye.” He hung up. His smile disappeared.

“Uncle Saul says to tell you you’re one lucky duck. You have till Saturday, and no more reprieves. Family only goes so far.”

Hutch stared at him, feeling as if his eyes would boggle from his head.

“Now, he’ll call off his goon, but it might take a few hours for the message to get through, and some of his guys are, shall we say, persistent. So I suggest you stay here tonight, unless you have somewhere within walking distance, somewhere you can trust, and you don’t mind risking the walk.”

“Risking the…? No, I’m fine—more than fine here. I’ll be glad to sleep on your couch.” He was still goggling at the cab driver. “Who are you?”

“David Starsky.” The curly-headed man flopped into a seat with a sigh. “Think you could at least say ‘thank you.’”

Part 2 

“Thank you,” said Hutch. He flexed his fists on the table, looking down at them, feeling odd and somehow worse than he’d have expected, after just being rescued out of left field from this terrible situation he’d gotten himself into. “I hope it was a big tip.”

“Don’t worry about that. Well, I worked enough hours today so I’ll be staying here, too. I’ll warm us up some spaghetti.”

Hutch shook his head. “I couldn’t eat. Thanks anyway.”

“Wanna drink?”

“I’d better not. That’s what got me into trouble in the first place.” He looked up. “I’ve been known to play poker before without getting into trouble with the mob.” Then he flushed and looked down.

“You can say it. I ain’t in it.” Then after a moment, “Ya wanna play for nickels?”

Miserably, Hutch shook his head ‘no.’

“Matchsticks?”

Hutch drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay.” His voice sounded odd. He didn’t like admitting, however obliquely, that he was down to his last couple of dollars, not even enough to play nickel-ante poker with.

“I’ll get the deck.”

Starsky returned with cards and matches, shuffled, divided the matches in half, and shoved half of them towards Hutch, then the cards for him to cut. “Five card draw.”

“Sure.” Feeling more in his element now, Hutch sat back to play. He discarded two low-number cards, kept three face cards and called Starsky’s five-match bet. When he drew a six and a seven, he said, “Fold.”

“No bluffing, then?”

“Sometimes you just have to play the cards you’re dealt.”

Starsky put down his cards, took the matches, and shoved the cards towards Hutch to shuffle. “So what was your losing hand, when you got stuck into my uncle for all that lettuce?”

Hutch rubbed the edge of his eye. “Three aces.”

Starsky whistled. “That’s not bad.”

“Against four sixes it is.” He grimaced. He fumbled once shuffling, and cards splayed about on the table. He picked them up, began again. Neither man said anything.

“You didn’t give me a tip,” said the curly-headed man suddenly. “You basically called me a jerk. I was razzing you about selling out, and you didn’t take it well.”

Hutch swallowed. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

“Just as well.” Starsky shrugged. “Don’t suppose you’d have let me help you if you did.” He accepted his cards, and studied them, rearranging them neatly, moving one from the middle onto the end and lining them up so they were equidistant.

Hutch glanced at him. “Why did you help me, anyway? You don’t owe me anything, especially from the sounds of what you just said.” He arranged his own cards, and glanced up quickly, in time to see the other man shrug.

“You won the world series for me, didn’t you? Me and a bunch of other Yankee fans, screaming our lungs out. Saw that home run you made in the ninth,” he said with relish, a smile creeping into his voice. “I had a hundred bucks riding on that game. But more than that, you know. You could probably walk down any street here in New York City, and find somebody who’d be willing to help you. Man, you’re a Yankee! At least you were after they traded for you, and till they traded you off again.” He smiled suddenly, a big, toothy, honest smile. “I guess I can swallow a little insult for that. I don’t wanna see one of my heroes get his arms broken by Uncle Saulie’s goons. Saulie never did appreciate a good game of baseball.” He shook his head slowly, regarding his cards, adjusting them a little more. “Practically un-American.”

Hutch laughed. It felt like the first real laugh he’d had in ages. He pushed ten matches into the pot.

Starsky raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Last of the big spenders?” He met the bet, discarded one card, looked at the one he got instead, and laid them down, face up, fanned out. A row of lovely red diamonds, and one black spade.

Hutch flashed his own—a pair of jacks—and took the pot.

Starsky drummed his fingers. “You know, I’m awful hungry, even if you’re not.” He jumped up. “You wanna shower? Go ahead. I’ll lend you something.”

Hutch fitted the cards back into a neat pack, left the matches where they lay, in piles. He stood up. “I hate to inconvenience you.”

“Nah, are you kidding?” He cast Hutch a quick smile, and walked to a tiny dresser. “Here. Wear that. Oughta fit ya.” He pulled out a New York Yankees sweatshirt, and a pair of blue sweatpants. “I can probably sell ‘em for a hundred bucks on the street later!”

Hutch laughed. “If I’m worth that much around here, I should’ve just stood on the corner and hawked autographs.”

“You shoulda,” said Starsky. He scratched his head ruefully, looking into the fridge. “Darn. Ain’t got nothing good enough for a Yankee.”

“I’m really not hungry.” He took the clothes and padded to the bathroom. His feet were getting cold, really chilled from the wet socks. He’d be glad of a hot shower.

“I’ll make ya the best pot of spaghetti you’ve ever eaten.” Starsky began to rustle around the kitchen, banging a pot into the sink, and turning the water on to run. The sound of it melded with the sound of the rain, and Hutch shut the door quietly behind him, stripped down and took a shower. He didn’t have any fresh underwear or socks; he reused the one, did without the other, left his towel in a careful pile next to the other wet towel on the floor, and brought his clothes out to hang up to dry.

He felt funny in another man’s furry, warm sweatshirt and pants, but they fit and he was too warm and comfortable to complain.

Starsky glanced at him on the way out. “Oh, sorry. I should’ve given you socks.” He left. “What’d ya do with the towel?” Starsky returned, and gave him a folded pair of tube socks.

“I put it on the floor with the other one.”

“Supposed to hang it up. I don’t have another one.” He walked into the bathroom and hung it up.

Hutch swallowed. He’d used another man’s towel, and now the cabbie would be without a clean one.

“Sorry.”

“S’all right, I didn’t tell ya.”

Hutch sat down, slipped on the socks—ah, more warmth and comfort, so good after a long, wet, anxious day of running.

The cabbie—with all his hidden depths—returned to the kitchen, fished out a piece of spaghetti with a fork and tasted it. Then he dragged the pot of spaghetti off the stove, and in a few minutes, carried it over, drained, sauced, steaming, and smelling heavenly.

Starsky waggled his eyebrows. “Still say ya aren’t hungry, mister?”

Hutch shook his head.

“Good. Get the plates.” He jutted his chin to a tiny cupboard. Hutch jumped up, and between them they had the table set in a couple of minutes. The cups were in there, too.

Starsky dished Hutch first, using two largish forks, holding a big helping of long, lightly-sauced, heavenly-smelling spaghetti out and onto his plate without spilling a drop. Then he dished his own and sat down.

“Bread.” He jumped up again, and returned with a big hunk of Italian bread. He tore it in half, and handed half over.

Hutch hesitated.

“Go on, take it.” Starsky shook it at him. “I need to buy some groceries, that’s all. It’ll go stale if you don’t eat it.”

“Thanks.”

Savoring, slurping, they finished the spaghetti, buttered and ate the bread, swabbing up the last of the sauce with it, and sat back, pleasantly sated.

Starsky patted his stomach. “Needs wine. You sure?” He glanced at Hutch.

He shrugged. “Guess a glass wouldn’t hurt.”

“Good. Get ‘em.” He got up, and returned with a bottle of red from under the sink. Hutch carried the glasses carefully. Starsky poured, lifted his glass. “To rainy days.”

“Rainy days,” echoed Hutch, and sipped. He smiled. “Mm. Good stuff.”

“Thanks.” Starsky winked. “Probably don’t wanna know where I got it. Yeah.” He sat back, crossed one leg over the other, and swirled his wine. “I try to stay clean, but you don’t know how hard that is, here, or with my family around. I’m thinking of…” He checked himself, and gave Hutch a smile, only slightly less than sincere. “You about ready for bed? I’ll clean up this stuff and let you have the couch.”

“I spilled my guts. Go ahead. What are you thinking of?” He finished the last of his nice glass of wine, and sat back to listen.

“Moving.” Starsky got up abruptly, and began to clear away the dishes.

“Lemme help.” Hutch followed him.

“No, what would my Aunt Lavonia say? Besides, I’m already makin’ ya take the couch.”

“That’s fine.”

Starsky snorted. “Ya won’t think so once you’ve slept on it. There’s a blanket in the cupboard. Go get it, huh?”

Hutch went.

In a few minutes, the dishes were clean, Starsky had gathered his pajamas and begun to yawn, and Hutch had arranged himself on the sofa. He fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

The deep, rumbling, nightmare voice of the enforcer awoke him, some unspecified time later.

“Davey, let me in. A little bird told me you have a certain blond guy in here. Now, you know I have a job to do. There ain’t no use hiding him.”

“Why, doesn’t news travel fast,” said Starsky in an ironic tone.

Hutch blinked all around and sat up fast, looking around frantically for some way of escape. Starsky glanced at him, and then spoke through the door again. “Go away, Jake. Call Saul. He rescinded the order.”

“Aw, Davey, why do you have to be difficult?” Something heavy leaned against the door.

Hutch kicked his covers off, jumped up, and ran across the room to Starsky’s rumpled bed. He climbed across it to the window, shoved the window up and swung one leg out onto the fire escape. It was still raining.

Starsky shook his head. “Boots.”

“What’s that?” said the enforcer.

“Just call Saulie, would ya? Why would I lie?”

Hutch climbed back off the bed and ran back for his boots.

The enforcer said, “I just follow orders.”

“Then call him. See what he orders.” Starsky spoke with patient weariness.

“All right, Davey. You better not be lying.” Big footsteps retreated down the hall.

Hutch, hopping on one foot, tugging on his boots, fell over. Behind him, the open window wafted in a freezing breeze full of rain.

“Ah, you’re getting my bed wet.” Starsky cursed and ran over. He knelt on the bed and slammed the window down, turned the lock. He yanked the curtains shut.

“So I’m wetting your bed now?” Hutch stood up, feeling very odd in one boot, off-balance. Sleep still muzzled his brain, leaving him feeling even more lopsided. “Sorry.”

“S’okay. I get grumpy when I’m woke up like that. Damn Jake anyway.”

“He won’t be back?”

“No, if my uncle gives a promise, he keeps it. He promised me once that I never had to join his team unless I wanted to.” He gave Hutch a quixotic smile, and padded to the stove. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup of cocoa. Maybe a little bourbon.”

It had been years since Hutch had cocoa, that childhood beverage replaced by a man’s drinks, a man’s hurry. Sitting on a kitchen chair, blowing on his mug, he propped his feet on the bottom rung of the chair, and felt like a kid again.

Curly gave him a generous dash of bourbon in his cocoa, and sat across from him, not talking, just blowing on and sipping his own mug. He got out the cards again and began to deal them rather uncertainly, not looking at Hutch’s face, using only one hand at first. Then when Hutch didn’t object, he finished with both hands, tamped the rest of the deck back into shape, and glanced up at Hutch, hesitating with the cards in his hands.

“Five cards or seven?”

“Five.”

Starsky put down the deck. They played a few hands, till Hutch was calm and yawning. He crawled back onto the couch, barely able to keep his eyes open. He was only just aware of Starsky pushing the chairs back into place, flicking off the light, and padding away.

Part 3

“Aw, isn’t he just the most adorable? His golden curls tousled like a little boy’s…” A woman’s voice proclaimed these words far too early in the morning.

“Marla, would you keep your voice down?” This was Starsky, trying to whisper. “Now what about that breakfast, hm?”

“Oh, my, yes. I’ll get it right away.”

Footsteps leaving; the door opening; more footsteps.

“Is this him? Hutch? Really?” This was a boy’s voice, excitable and not quite grown. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“Wouldja keep quiet?” said Starsky in an exasperated tone.

“What about me? I want to see.” Another female voice. “Oo, is he real? Can I touch him?”

“No, you can’t touch him. Looking only. Nobody touches him. Gimmee your five dollars.”

Crumpling money sounds.

Hutch had had enough. He pulled the quilt down, squinted one eye open and stared up at the cabbie, who was accepting money from a young man and an excitable-looking woman. Starsky seemed calmly in charge. Hutch opened his other eye, too, and glared. “You ass.”

“Ooh, he talks!” chirped the lady. The boy’s eyes widened in a look of blissful, utter devotion.

“Damn it, would you get them out of here?” Hutch yawned—a jaw-cracking yawn, painful and unavoidable.

“Okay,” said Starsky. “G’wan. I only promised you a peek and you heard him talk and everything.” Starsky herded them mercilessly from the room.

He closed and bolted the door, and then turned to the kitchen, slipping folded bills into his pocket. “Didn’t think they’d wake you.”

Hutch glared at Starsky. “You sold access to me while I was sleeping?”

“You make it sound dirty. Besides, you get half the money. And I didn’t have anything to give you for breakfast,” he added, half defiant, half sulky.

Hutch snorted and headed to the bathroom. When he returned an older woman was frying bacon on the stove, clucking to Starsky. “Such a nice young man. When is he coming back to the Yankees?”

Starsky stood leaning nearby with his arms crossed. “No, I dunno about that, Mar. Just give him a break, huh? He might not wanna talk about it.”

Hutch emerged, cleaned up, dressed in his own clothes now, and smiled at them both, feeling much more human after a quick shower and change. “That smells delicious.”

“You’ll love Marla’s cooking.”

Hutch sniffed, wafting the smell towards his face.

Starsky walked over and drew crumpled bills from his pocket. He set about unfolding them and making two piles. It was almost twenty dollars apiece.

“Thanks.” Hutch accepted the pile pushed towards him.

Starsky repocketed his own, got up, and walked away without a word, silent and somehow mysterious.

Marla brought food; he ate; they both ate, not talking. Strangers again. Then again, hadn’t they always been? But he found he missed the easy, comfortable presence of the man last night—the one who had seemed utterly competent, confident, able to win a car chase, call off the mob with one phone call, play poker at the kitchen table, and cook the world’s best spaghetti.

“So…I can go today?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s safe?”

“Don’t see why not.”

He put down the last of his muffin. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“No problem.” Starsky spoke in a voice that sounded slightly gruffer than normal, and he was not looking at Hutch.

Hutch should go. He really should. The cab driver let people ogle him for money, had an uncle in the mob…

“Unless you’d like me to stay. I mean, I haven’t enough for a hotel,” he finished in a quick, awkward rush of words. Supposed he’d misread the situation? Then he’d just admitted an awkward truth and embarrassed himself yet again.

Starsky looked up, smiling around a mouthful of toast. “If you want.”

Marla began exclaiming about how he could meet everyone, and wouldn’t her nephew in Missouri just die when he heard?

“I’ll show you around,” said Starsky.

Hutch glanced at Starsky again, to find the cabbie regarding him with a shy, pleased look.

Hutch said, “Maybe you should work.”

“I can skip a day.”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Marla, giving him a swat on the shoulder with a dishtowel. “You’ve got to see the neighborhood. So many people will want to meet you!”

“And I suppose I’ll end up signing autographs all day?” said Hutch, only half joking.

“Just a few,” said Starsky. “I’ll show you around and get you the world’s best corned beef sandwich for lunch!”

* * *

He couldn’t keep up with Starsky’s eating. Every block seemed to have the best of something or other. He gave up trying.

Everywhere, he had to meet someone. He let the names wash over him, practically unheard, knowing he’d never remember them. But he gave everyone a smile and a handshake or an autograph, the way he used to do; the way he’d busted his ass, trying so hard to make the fans like him—to please them. It wasn’t a hard pattern to fall back into, now that people wanted him. It brought a weird feeling of déjà vu, as if he were reliving the past.

Then they were alone, in the cab again, going somewhere new. Starsky pointed things out. With his eyes on the road, he couldn’t spare attention to Hutch, and sometimes his meaning wasn’t clear, his voice wasn’t loud enough. Hutch kept silent, though, watching the cabbie more than the surroundings. Starsky had taken his cab, and was ferrying Hutch everywhere with the clock turned off.

“And this is the old ballpark,” said Starsky, pulling up to a weedy lot. “We’d play here as kids. School’s in, so we should have it to ourselves. If ya don’t mind.” He was looking at Hutch, awkward again, and then he pulled open the glove box to reveal—a ball and glove. “If ya do, just say so.”

“That’s what this was about? This is where you wanted to go?”

“Don’t have to. Just thought you might like to toss the old baseball around a little.”

Since this was patently a lie, Hutch raised an eyebrow. Starsky looked down. “Well. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.” He drummed his fingers on his thighs. “Skip it. Never mind. I’ll show ya—” He reached for the ignition again.

“Not so fast. We’re here, let’s play.”

There was no missing the cabbie’s quick grin. Starsky hopped from the car, glove ready. He had a second one in the trunk, both a bit ratty, like the ball. He gave Hutch one, then ran to the pitcher’s mound, crouching, swaying from side to side, and pounding his ball in the glove.

Hutch fitted the unfamiliar glove on, the one shaped to another man’s hand. He looked down at it, feeling the old cobwebs of memory whisking down around him; a place not unlike this; a glove that hadn’t fit; memories of boyhood spent with a passion for a game. Just a game, back then.

“This your glove?” He turned it over, took it off again and looked for a name. He saw faint, faded writing. ‘N. Starsky.’ The blue ink had bled in some places, faded in others.

“Hutch, don’t do that. Let’s play catch, huh?”

Hutch looked up at the appeal. “Sure, Starsk.” He didn’t know what the nickname came from–he’d barely met the man–but it felt right, natural, and it made the cabbie grin.

He threw the ball.

Soon they were in an easy rhythm.

“Should’ve brought a bat.”

“And a dog for outfield.”

“No, just a bunch of balls.”

They played catch till dusk, sometimes talking, sometimes not.

When school kids arrived, they included them, and Hutch dutifully autographed till his hand ached.

Starsky drove him back at last, heated up the lasagna, cooked the steaks, and fixed the salad that had somehow materialized in his fridge. Hutch tried to help, but Starsky wouldn’t hear of it, would only let him pour wine and set the table.

“Cooking’s one thing I’m good at,” he said. He wore a Kiss the Cook apron, and carried over the pan of sizzling steaks.

“You’re good at lots of things. Driving, for one.”

“Ah, g’wan.” Starsky fetched the lasagna, tossed the salad, sipped his wine. He gave Hutch the biggest steak and an end piece of lasagna. “This is Marla’s doing. She makes just the best lasagna.” He used two forks to dish a big helping of salad for the ballplayer. “You like parmesano? I’ll get you some parmesano.”

* * *

“Hutch.” Starsky sounded oddly uncertain in the dark. Hutch lay on the sofa, and Starsky was a lump in the dark across the room on his bed.

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t have been rude to you, not even a little—last time I met you. I was just so disappointed.”

Hutch’s throat had a rising up, hurting sensation. What had he done now to disappoint, to hurt? He’d given enough disappointment in his life, starting with his father. Never quite good enough. He shut his eyes, determined to let it wash over him, to not be affected.

Starsky kept talking in a small voice. “I guess I idealized you. We all did, couldn’t have met a guy from the neighborhood who’d have been any different. But then you were—well, I guess I didn’t expect you to get mad and let loose on people, much less worry about money and earning it with—with tawdry commercials. I don’t know why. It ain’t dishonest, not like what my uncle does.

“I guess you were just—you were Hutch, you know?” He was silent a moment, and Hutch held the faint hope it had ended; but no. He continued. “You don’t know. ‘Cuz you were Hutch. Well, watching you, we felt like our hearts were flying when you hit a homer. I was just so disappointed to see that Hutch could be bought, could act like that.”

Hutch cleared his throat. “I don’t remember, Starsky. I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Well. It’s just as well. You didn’t do anything so awful. Night, Hutch. Sleep good.”

Hutch kept his eyes tightly closed. It was terrible, disappointing people. He’d been doing it all his life. You’d think he’d have adjusted to it by now.

* * *

They ate eggs and toast. Starsky cooked the eggs with pungent, fresh basil, onions, eggplant, and prosciutto. They drank thick, sweet coffee and Starsky piled the dishes in the sink. He was grim and silent this morning, not looking at Hutch. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Hutch followed him, waited while he locked the door, then followed him down to the cab. He sat in the front seat. Starsky drove him to pick up his check, then to a bank to cash it, and then to his uncle Saul’s to pay off the debt. Starsky followed him inside without saying anything.

“Here you go.” Hutch, feeling very ill at ease, handed over the thousand dollars. His check had only covered most of it—982; the twenty Starsky had given him yesterday covered the rest.

Saul, a thick-set, overweight Italian man, gave him a receipt and then talked to ‘Davey’ for a couple of minutes. Starsky kept his replies monosyllabic whenever possible, and seemed obviously uncomfortable.

“Well, we should get going,” said Starsky.

“Wait, Davey. You stop by and you don’t even wait to see your brother?”

“Dave!” A curly-headed man with his shirt open showing a lot of chest hair strode into the room. In some ways he looked a lot like Starsky. He seemed to be younger, and he was all smiles, and wore too much jewelry and acted just a little too slick. He caught his brother in a hug, kissed him on both cheeks. Starsky returned the greeting, but with less enthusiasm.

“Dave. Let me look at you!” He held his brother at arm’s length. “You not starving, being a cabbie?” He turned to Saul. “Maybe we can throw some business his way, huh, Saulie? Maybe pass out his card to drunks…”

Saul laughed. “Pass out his cards to drunks. I swear, I oughta… Nicky, don’t harass your brother. He’s an honest citizen. Davey, I’ll see you Sunday. Don’t forget.” He pointed a finger at Starsky.

“Yeah, Saulie. I won’t forget.”

At last they got out of there.

“Where do you wanna go?” said Starsky, driving away from the nightclub by day.

“The airport. My agent said I was supposed to have a ticket waiting, to leave today. He’s got some kind of training camp lined up. Maybe I’ll make the league this year.”

“Thought you said you were gonna make it?” Starsky looked at him; it felt like the first time all day.

Hutch grimaced. “Yeah, but they’ve got to let me in. I just haven’t been up to snuff since the surgery. Oh, I’ve been getting better—and it’s been long enough. I try to stay fit, work on mobility, flexibility, batting practice… But it takes time, y’know? And if I can’t prove my stuff, I can’t. I’ll be a has-been no matter what I want.”

“You won’t be,” said Starsky. “You’ll make it.” He spoke rather gently now, with softness in his voice.

“Thanks. I hope so.” He didn’t know what to say.

Starsky drove him to the airport. He didn’t have anything but the clothes on his back—and these getting rather pungent. The enforcer had trashed his hotel room, destroying everything else; he’d no doubt have an irate bill from the hotel waiting for him when he got home to Duluth.

“Thanks, Starsk, for everything. I really mean it. I really appreciate—”

“Aw, woudja forget it?” said Starsky roughly. “It let me play the big man, show my pal the major league player around the neighborhood.”

Hutch swallowed. “Yeah.” He looked out the window.

“Hutch,” he said after a moment. “I don’t mean it. I’m just being an ass.” He hesitated. “You’re a great guy. You even like my cooking. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Sure, Starsk. You too. You know, if you ever want to write me…”

Starsky snorted. “Do I look like a writer?”

“Well, you could call, but I’m rarely in the same place very long. How about giving me your phone number, huh?”

Starsky hesitated. “Okay.”

They pulled up at the airport. Starsky scrawled down his phone number. “I’m home odd hours. Might not get me anyway. I won’t worry if I don’t hear from you.”

Hutch got out, and Starsky jumped out too and slammed the door, ran after him. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?” He turned.

Starsky looked embarrassed and chagrinned. “Um, could I have your autograph?” He held out the log book from his cab.

Hutch laughed, and took the tablet and pencil.

“Thanks.” Starsky took the tablet back, and then leaned forward and caught Hutch’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Have a good life, Hutch.” Hutch found himself smiling back into that warm and friendly gaze, and shaking his hand firmly.

A moment later, Starsky pulled free and turned and walked away quickly, his head down.

Hutch looked after the curly-headed man, and then at the busy airport. He not only needed to get his ticket, but also pass security before they took off without him.

Reluctantly, he turned to the airport.

Part four

Three months later—

He’d tried to call. He’d tried directory assistance, in case he’d gotten the number wrong somehow. But he had the correct number.

He finally tracked down Uncle Saul’s number and called him.

“Hello, sir. You might not remember me. I’m the baseball player who owed you money a few months back.”

“Oh yeah. Hutch. How the hell are ya?” His gravelly voice held no malice.

“Fine, sir. In fact, that’s why I’m calling you. I’ve had some good news. I wanted to call your nephew and tell him, but I can’t seem to get hold of his number. Do you have a new address or phone number for him? Has he moved?”

Silence on the other end of the line. “Perhaps you should tell me the good news and I’ll forward it to him when I get the chance.”

“Uh—okay. I’ve gotten picked up by a team. Minor league, but still. It’s—well, it’s good news for me. I wanted to tell him, because he told me I should be sure to go back to playing baseball…”

“If that’s all.”

“Yeah. Yes sir.”

He hung up with a dissatisfied feeling. But there was nothing he could do. If Starsky didn’t want contact, it was abundantly clear there was not a thing Hutch could do.

* * *

One year later—

He was in the neighborhood; he thought he’d stop by. This time he kept his head down and his profile low for an entirely different reason; he’d made pro again, just barely, and his team was facing the Yankees. That was why he was in New York.

Enemy on home turf was not the best plan; but he wanted to see Starsky again. Something nostalgic inside him called for it. So, the guy hadn’t returned his calls. But Hutch still thought of him sometimes, the guy who’d been there for Hutch, been a friend to him when he was down and out. He still got hungry for Starsky’s spaghetti, too.

He took a cab, found the same building—looking older and rattier—knocked at the same apartment’s door.

A grumpy-looking woman opened the door, one fist on her hip. “What?” Past her, the apartment looked different. A TV blared, a kid played on the carpet, and sausages sizzled in a frying pan. The walls were blue.

“Oh. Excuse me. I thought David Starsky lived here.”

“Starsky?” Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want him for?”

He spread his hands, protesting his innocence. “I used to know him. Thought I’d catch up.”

“Yeah, well he’s not here.” She started to shut the door.

He caught it. “Excuse me, can you tell me where he’s gone?”

She glared at him, and then at his hand, as if debating whether to slam the door on his fingers. Hastily, he withdrew them.

Mollified, she answered. “The guy who used to live here had to leave. He was having medical problems. That’s all I know.”

“Medical problems? Can you tell me what kind?”

“That’s all I know,” she repeated, and shut the door.

* * *

Over the phone, the private investigator had a deep voice and a precise, rhythmic way of talking. He actually called Hutch a ‘cat’ once. Hutch pictured him as a big, burly man, with that voice. The name Huggy Bear didn’t hurt, either; he figured a guy with a name like that had to be huge, a teddy bear inside but a real tough guy outside.

Something about him was reassuring; he had a lot of information and a calm, collected attitude. He didn’t have a New York accent, seemed to be a transplant, but he knew who Hutch was talking about right away.

“Of course, the Starsky’s.”

“I’m trying to locate and contact David, Dave, or Davey Starsky. He’s a cab driver.” He gave him the last known contact information, and the woman’s story. “I’m just trying to find Dave.”

“Well, I’m the man for the job. Never fear, Huggy’s here.” He took a little more information, and promised results, or at least a report, by the end of the week. “Oh, and I’d much appreciate an autograph, when you get the chance, Mr. Hutch, Mr. King of Swing.”

Hutch grinned. He hadn’t had a request like that yet in New York. “I don’t mind at all.”

* * *

When Huggy showed up at his apartment on Friday, Hutch was surprised and a bit unnerved by the sight of a skinny man with extremely colorful clothes. But he looked sober despite his polyester plaid pants, his giant purple sunglasses and the lime green golf shirt he wore.

“Hutch, my man. I have news.”

“Yeah? You found him.”

“Better sit down for this part.”

Hutch sat still, eyes wide and round while Huggy told the story. Huggy pronounced his words carefully, telling the tale, each word like nails in a coffin.

“Seems about two years ago, this guy Starsky,” (he pronounced the name carefully), “he was driving a cab one night, when somebody held him up. Ended up shot in the side, lost a lot of blood, stuck in the hospital for awhile, and then a wheelchair. Thing is, he kept his mouth shut tight, told the police he didn’t recognize the man who shot him, didn’t get a good look at his face.”

“And?” said Hutch.

“And, after that he disappeared, my man. One day he checked himself out of the hospital, just took off. Ain’t been seen or heard from since.”

“Oh. I see.”

There wasn’t much else to say.

“I can keep looking, but I guarantee I won’t be able to find anything unless he wants to be found. With connections like he’s got…” He shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you know. He’s your friend.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is,” said Hutch in a faint voice. “Thank you, Mr. Bear. How much do I owe you?” He reached for his wallet, and they settled up.

“Thank you.” Huggy nodded, smiling at the tip given him.

Since Starsky, Hutch had always tried to tip, no matter what mood he was in. He gave what he could afford when times were tough, was more generous when times were better.

* * *

Two years later—

The phone rang next to his ear, and Hutch picked it up automatically before it could wake his wife.

“‘Llo?” he asked, turning it around until he could hear from the right side.

“Hutch?”

He didn’t recognize the voice; it had a New York accent, and a pained quality to it, as if somebody on the other end of the line was hurting. He blinked, trying to wake up. “Who is this?”

“Just me. I know this is a bad time, but I didn’t know who else to call. I need some help.”

“Who’s ‘me?’”

The voice sounded hesitant now. “Dave Starsky.”

“Starsky?” He sat up and ran a hand back through his hair, blinking. “Man, where were you?” he hissed, keeping his voice down. “I tried to find you, hired a detective and everything.…”

“Really?” Starsky sounded pleased.

“Yeah, really. Are you—?”

“Look, it’s a cold night, I’m standing out in the rain, and I need a ride. I’m sorry, but I don’t know anybody else in town.”

“In town? You’re in town?”

“Yeah, I’m in town. Willya come get me? Please? I’m outside the jail. They’re not holding me, but I don’t have a ride and I’ve got six bucks in my pocket, not enough for a cab.”

“What happened?”

“A car wreck. I hate to put you out, but I hadda call someone. I really am desperate—just moved here, hardly know a soul.” His voice was mumbling lower and lower, with a hopeless quality to it.

“Are you okay? You hurt?”

“I’m fine. Will you come? It’s cold out. I didn’t wear a jacket; it wasn’t raining when I left.”

There was a shiver in his voice, and Hutch did hear the dripping now, the rain sounds both through the phone and from his roof. Beside him, his wife stirred a little in the warm bed, and made a sleepy sound in her throat. He lowered his voice yet again, shielding the speaker with one hand. “I’ll come get you. The jail, right? Why not the hospital?”

“I refused treatment.” His voice shuddered with another spasm of chill.

“I’ll be right there. How’d you get my number?”

“Bought it from a list of celebrity stuff. Thought I might call you one of these days. Hutch, please hurry.” He sounded pathetic and desperate as a bedraggled dog standing in the rain.

“I’ll be right there. Ten minutes tops.” Hutch hung up, shoved on some clothes, a coat, and boots, and grabbed a blanket and an extra coat for Starsky. It was a cold night for spring, not quite freezing, but hovering close.

He drove carefully on the rain-slicked roads in his smooth, purring Mercedes. He pulled up outside the jail, and opened the door. Stepping forward from where he’d been standing huddled in the shadows came a dark, bedraggled figure. His limp was pronounced, as was his shivering.

“Why couldn’t you wait inside?” said Hutch, incensed on his behalf. He handed over the blanket and the coat quickly. Starsky wrapped the one around himself while trying to wrestle with the seatbelt and wrap the other around his legs at the same time.

Hutch tucked it carefully, helping him, then pulled away from the curb, turned around and headed home.

“Not gonna take me to a hotel? I’ll—I’ll owe you the money,” said Starsky rather pathetically.

“I’ll take you home. It’s too late to find a good hotel tonight, and my place is close.” He reflected guiltily that it might disturb Alice. They’d have to keep quiet, but the place was big and Starsky could sleep on the couch.

“You haven’t answered me. Why didn’t you wait inside?”

“Cops,” answered Starsky, both cryptically and succinctly.

“You still on the run?”

Starsky, shaking visibly along his jaw, turned to look at him, a slow, surprised look. “You know about that?”

“Like I told you, I hired a P.I.” Hutch cranked the heat in the car higher.

“Well, I didn’t wanna tell you, but if you already know… Since Nicky shot me, it’s been one damn thing after another.”

Nicky? Hutch held his breath, afraid that if he said anything to indicate surprise, Starsky would clam up again.

“Yeah, first the cops coming after me, wanting me to testify, thinking they’ve finally found someone to bring down the Starsky family. Well, I can’t do that. I don’t wanna die, and anyway, they’re family, whatever you wanna say. And Nicky’s in hot water, hates me even more now, and Uncle Saulie…let’s just say I don’t distrust him, I don’t trust him. I don’t wanna let him get too close. I don’t plan to find out why he wants to find me. I’ll just keep hiding, thank you.”

“And running?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Starsk, why didn’t you call me before?”

“Oh, yeah right, like you’re gonna solve my problems!” Hutch was surprised by the bitterness in his voice. He blinked at the rain-lashed road. “Come on. Let’s get you home. A hot shower will sort you out.”

Starsky didn’t reply.

 

Part 5

The final chapter. 

By the time they reached the front step, walking up from the garage, Starsky was limping badly. Hutch put an arm around him to help him. For a moment, he felt Starsky shift his weight gratefully; then he pulled away again. “Don’t have to help me,” he grumbled.

Hutch showed him to the nearest bathroom and found him some clothes, brought them in and laid them down under the towel. “I’ll make you something to drink,” he called in over the sound of the water beating down in the shower. “A hot toddy.”

“Don’t put yourself out,” growled the New Yorker.

Hutch had it waiting for him when Starsky emerged, dried and clothed, stalking from the bathroom, still limping something awful.

“You hurt your leg in the crash. Should’ve gone to the hospital,” observed Hutch quietly. “You want me to drive you?”

Starsky send him such a glare. But he seemed less shivery now, and drank the beverage gratefully.

Hutch showed him to the couch, got him pillow and blankets, asked if he wanted anything to eat, drink, read.

“I’m fine,” growled Starsky.

“Not hungry?”

The growl of a stomach cut off his indignant reply.

Hutch smiled. “I wish I could make you spaghetti like you made me. But there’s plenty of things in the fridge. I’m sure we can find something. Well—I can. You sit here and rest. You’ve been through enough today.”

This time Starsky didn’t say anything, just followed him with his eyes until Hutch was out in the kitchen. Hutch made a turkey sandwich and hurried back with it, feeling oddly nervous about what Starsky would think of it.

The curly-headed man had fallen asleep in his absence, lying back on the couch at an uncomfortable angle, his cheeks flushed.

But he came awake at the sound of Hutch’s footsteps and sat up. He dug in, eating ravenously, without a sound. Hutch watched. At last Starsky cleaned his plate and looked up, his cheeks still full. He finished chewing and swallowed; his expression was much more human now. “Thanks. And sorry.”

“What for? I’m glad you called.”

“For being a grouch.”

“I’ll live.” He hated that uncertain look on Starsky’s long face. “So why’d Nicky shoot you?”

“Aw, I don’t wanna talk about that, Hutch. Lemmee go to sleep.”

“Sure, Starsk. Sorry.” It was like they’d seen each other weeks ago, instead of years. He still felt like he knew this guy, even though he never had, really. He got up and left the room. “Sleep good, Starsk.”

* * *

In the morning, he awoke before his alarm, hurriedly threw on some clothes, and went downstairs. He peered into the living room. No Starsky; no curly head slumped on the couch. He sagged, feeling old and tired. The guy had gone. Why had he gone?

He heard the sound of a toilet flush, and Starsky emerged from the bathroom, scratching his curls and yawning. “Waiting? Sorry.” He still walked unevenly, limping. He sat down quickly by the table, as though it felt good to get the weight off his leg.

Hutch smiled at him. “No, that’s okay. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Mm. What do you got?” Starsky yawned again.

“How about toast, orange juice, eggs, bacon, sausage, bagels?”

“Sounds good. Got any pancakes to throw on top?”

He blinked at Starsky. “Um–it might take me awhile. I haven’t made pancakes in years.”

Actually, the maid usually cooked, but she didn’t get here this early. He pulled out some eggs.

“Hey, I’m just kidding.” Starsky got up laboriously. “You don’t have to cook for me.” He took the egg carton.

“I don’t mind. I finally have a chance to return the favor.” He retrieved the eggs. “You want to toast the bagels?”

“Sure.” Starsky limped to the toaster.

“Are you going to get that leg looked at?”

Starsky grimaced. “And where am I gonna get that kind of money?” A frown decorated his face now, and it didn’t look likely to leave any time soon.

“From me,” said Hutch. “I have good employee insurance, you know.”

“What?” Starsky gave him a startled look.

“You heard me.” Hutch leaned against the counter and grinned. “I could use a driver. Been meaning to get one for months. Hard to find someone trustworthy enough, and with enough experience. I was thinking, oh, an ex-cab driver might do.” He raised his eyebrows, smiling a little, offering. “Alice has been after me to get a driver. She thinks I’m a terrible one, shouldn’t be trusted behind the wheel of a car.” That part was only slightly exaggerated; she had been encouraging him to get a driver.

But Starsky scowled at him. “If you think for one damn second I’m taking charity…!” He almost spat the word, as if it were the dirtiest he’d ever heard. “I don’t take charity from anybody, and sure as hell not from you!”

“Starsk, you’re my pal. Let me help you.”

“I don’t take charity.” Starsky’s face had a stubborn set to it.

Hutch glared at him, thumped a hand down on the table. “Not even help from a friend? I seem to recall you helped me–”

“That was different.”

“Oh? How is it different?”

“I owed it to you. My uncle was the trouble, and you were my hero. Let’s not go pretending it was something more, some great friendship that can last for years without seeing or talking to each other. Yeah, so you tried to hunt me down in New York. Big deal. Probably felt guilty or something.”

Hutch stared at him, incensed, feeling like he was looking at a stranger. “Starsky you–you–”

“I what?” The dark blue eyes flashed at him dangerously, challengingly.

Hutch turned away. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He raised a hand, waving one dismissive hand. “Have a good life.”

“Damn, you’re sensitive,” said Starsky from close nearby. He was light on his feet; Hutch hadn’t heard him rise. “Hutch, you know I wanna take the job. I just got this issue with taking charity. It’s nothing personal…”

Hutch rubbed a hand on his face, and swallowed. He was too sensitive; he knew it. “Tell me one thing, Curly, and then you can go on about your business and keep your pride, and I won’t bug you anymore.”

“Yeah?” Starsky’s voice was wary.

Hutch turned to face him, spearing him with a stern gaze. “Who’s baseball glove was I using, when we played catch? Just tell me that.”

Curly blinked rapidly and looked down, rubbed a finger under his nose. “Uh–I don’t see how that’s–”

“Answer my question.”

The head came up; the eyes snapped blue fire; the jaw jutted stubborn and set. “No.”

“It was Nicky’s, wasn’t it? That was how you were feeling about things.”

“’Feeling?’ Now I gotta talk about ‘feelings?’”

“Yeah, you do. Because if that’s the truth–if I was your brother in some small way–then it’s not charity. Family helping family is never charity.” He had hands on both of Starsky’s arms now, looking into his eyes.

Starsky looked at him unhappily. “Aw, Hutch, don’t do this to me. You ain’t my brother. You’re–you’re famous.”

“So what?” spat Hutch. “You think that doesn’t come and go? You think anybody in the world will remember me in ten years? In twenty? I’m nobody, same as you are, same as the rest of the world.”

“No, you’re not. You’re Hutch.” Starsky gripped his arms in return.

“Starsky, if you walk out of my life again, over some stupid pride issue–”

Starsky shook his head emphatically. “No, Hutch. No. I won’t leave. I’ll stay if you want.”

“Good.”

“Okay, then.”

Hutch cleared his throat, looked down, gave Starsky a pat on the arm and extricated himself, turning away to regain control. Starsky’s hands were slow at first to let go; and then his grip grew light and nonexistent.

“How do you want your eggs?”

But Starsky stood watching Hutch, not turning away or leaving. His head was tilted just slightly, giving him a rather younger appearance. Odd to see him so uncertain-looking. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Um, it wasn’t Nicky’s glove. It was my dad’s. Nathan Starsky. I know that’s a helluva lot more messed up, but I don’t have Nicky’s old glove. He got rid of it, I think. I kept my dad’s–kept it with me every day. He died when I was little but I–I kept his glove. In the glove department. Seemed right, somehow, like he was with me, riding along. And then you and me got to the lot, and I thought, why not? We can play catch. I didn’t mean anything by it. But…you wanna take back all that you just said, it’s okay. Cuz I don’t wanna trick you–”

Hutch turned back, stared at him a moment, at the embarrassed, uncertain-looking Starsky, whose defiance had been stripped away, leaving only the naked admission. His face showed what it must’ve cost him.

Hutch touched his arm, shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care, Starsk. Just don’t go, okay?”

Starsky stared at him, then jerked his head in an abrupt ‘yes.’ “And…scrambled.”

“Huh–what?”

“Scrambled. That’s how I like my eggs.” He sat down on a stool, crossed his muscular arms and cracked a smile, a shy, rather boyish smile. “With cheese.”

* * *

When Alice came out, wrapped in her robe and yawning, she found her husband frying eggs for a strange man, both of them looking happy and a bit shy. Her eyes went to the stranger first, sitting on a stool, then her husband.

“Hello,” she said.

He leaned over and kissed her, snaking his free hand around her waist. She looked at the mess he was making on the stove, and tried not to judge him harshly by his kitchen skills.

“Hey, Honey. This is my friend, and he’s gonna be my new driver. Remember, you said I should get a driver?”

There was a sparkle in his eyes that she liked to see.

“That’s very nice, dear.” She wondered if he’d been up late drinking. And why he was cooking.

“I’d like you to meet him.”

She gave the new guy a smile. He was ragged and scruffy, but there was something nice in his face, something that made you want to take care of him. She began to worry less about her husband’s judgment. After all, wasn’t he always trying to rescue someone? And sometimes, it worked out quite well…

“This is Starsky,” said Hutch, sounding really happy.

“Starsky!” Alice’s eyes widened. “So this is the famous Starsky? How do you do?” She held out a hand, smiling at him with real warmth now.

The curly-headed man shook her hand, wearing an expression of wonder. “He talked about me?” His gaze shot to Hutch.

“‘Course I did, bozo.” Hutch flipped up the bagels in the toaster.

The end