Reflections of the Way Life Used to Be

16.7K

After Hutch is shot, Starsky starts his investigation in the most unlikely place–a drug smuggling case from eight years earlier.

 

“Reflections of the Way Life Used to Be” was published in 2008 as a stand alone zine with a color cover illo by Lorraine Brevig and an interior black and white illo of Starsky by Julie Henderson It premiered at that year’s SHareCon. The publisher and editor was Keri T. This zine is still in print and can be obtained by writing Keri at rosiered2000@aol.com.

---

COVER ILLO by LORRAINE BREVIG

___________________________________________________________________________

STARSKY by JULIE H.

 

June, 1978

Balloons. Many, many balloons bounced in the afternoon breeze on the corner of Moreno and Falkner. Red, yellow, and blue rubber spheres glistened in the sun, obscuring the name of the new building, but Ken Hutchinson didn’t even have to be told what was Starsky’s ultimate destination; it was obvious. If a place was bright, loud, or ostentatious-especially all three-that was the one his partner would pick.

“Y’know, Starsk, I thought we had an agreement here. You get to choose on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, and I got the other three days.”

“And Sundays are up for grabs,” Starsky agreed, turning the steering wheel in a hard right to make it into the crowded parking lot. “But, Hutch, this is the opening night for Bernie’s! After his old place burned down, I thought you’d want to celebrate his rebirth. You always liked the old place.”

“The old place had some charm.” Hutch winced at the sight of a goggle-eyed hamburger, complete with a pair of comely legs, standing on the sidewalk handing out flyers for Bernie’s. “This place looks like a-“

“Giant Hamburger?” Starsky grinned in absolute delight, craning his neck to take in the astonishing building. A huge sesame seed bun sat atop of the flat roofed building, with molded plastic burger, tomatoes, and lettuce poking out from either side. The entire thing seemed wreathed in balloons of every hue, each bearing the name Bernie’s Burger Barn in flowing script.

“I had my stomach all set on the lentil soup at Alda’s,” Hutch said faintly, wondering if there might be anything at Bernie’s that wasn’t fried in animal fat. It was with the utmost reluctance that he followed Starsky around the side of the building.

“We always go to Alda’s.” Starsky waved a dismissive hand, urging Hutch forward. The Hamburger girl tottered over on lethal-looking high heels to thrust a flyer into Starsky’s hand. “Hey, two dinners for the price of one, Hutch. Can’t beat that!”

“Okay, but tomorrow we go to Alda’s,” Hutch conceded, batting an errant balloon out of his face. A festive balloon arch bobbed overhead as they joined a swarm of people at the front door.

“Alda doesn’t like me.” Starsky stepped aside to let a couple with two small boys walk in front of them.

“Aw, Starsk, she likes you. You’re just intimidated because Alda is taller than you are.”

“I know she hates me,” Starsky said. “I can tell by the way she flattens all my hamburgers into pancakes.” He grabbed a hamburger bun shaped menu out of the rack just inside the door. “Whatcha want? I’m buying.”

“You’ve got a two for one,” Hutch reminded, reading over his shoulder. Once they’d walked inside the restaurant, the music was so loud he couldn’t hear Starsky’s reply, even standing so close that they were practically attached.

Bernie’s opening night appeared to be a big success. There was standing room only at the small bar serving beer and well drinks, and on the right side of the spacious room nearly every table was filled with happy customers downing their burgers. Hutch did spot a few green salads and pasta dishes, but Bernie mostly served beef. And lots of it. The old place, which really had been a converted barn, had featured booths built right into old horse stalls. He had always liked the country-homey feel to the place, but a grease fire had gotten out of control and burned the wooden structure to the ground. This time, Bernie had gone for one-hundred percent concrete, plastic, and glass. No way to burn this monstrosity down, unfortunately.

Waitresses wearing t-shirts with a wide-eyed hamburger stretched across their breasts were serving the diners, and another pair of female legs topped by a hamburger costume circulated, handing out crayons and coloring books to the kiddies.

A Rolling Stones tune segued into Rod Stewart, and Starsky bounced in place, wiggling his hips in time to the music. His enthusiasm building, he executed a complicated side-step-pelvis thrust that caught the hamburger girl’s attention. She sidled up, her plushy bun forcing Hutch out of the way, and began gyrating her lettuce in a most disturbing manner. At least, that was Hutch’s opinion. The crowd of diners cheered the dancers on, prompting both to perform even more stupendous moves. Hutch was caught between wanting to cover his face in embarrassment, and watching Starsky’s tight ass undulate under threadbare blue jeans.

Rod finished extolling the merits of Maggie May, and the Bee Gees were warbling their falsetto harmonies over the speakers, when the hostess came up to guide Starsky and Hutch to their seats.

“You’re an incredible dancer,” she complimented, nearly drooling down the front of Starsky’s blue and white plaid shirt.

“Natural talent, darlin’,” Starsky flirted back, his face alight with the joy of life. Hutch couldn’t quite blame his friend for his happiness. They’d both weathered a hard couple of months, capped by the murder of Hutch’s ex-wife in the living room of his own house. Not to mention a car accident where he’d played a practical joke on Starsky that went too far, and last but certainly not least, Starsky nearly becoming the final victim of a crazed Shakespearean-quoting serial killer. Who wouldn’t be dancing with all that behind him?

Leading them over to a table on the far side of the room, the hostess gracefully pulled out a chair for Starsky and then belatedly remembered to pull out a second one for Hutch. “Cathy will be your waitress, but just give me a wave if you need anything special,” she purred, her prominent chest jutting out at Starsky like a hunting dog on point. “I’m Margery.”

“Thanks, Margery.” Starsky smiled so coyly Hutch nearly threw up all over the plastic table display of daily specials. “You’ve already been more than helpful.”

“Laying them out in the aisles, now, Starsk,” Hutch teased, scanning the menu. The fare hadn’t changed much from Bernie’s old place, and Hutch was pleased to spot some of his old favorites. “As long as you’re buying, I’ll get a steak sandwich and coffee.”

“Oh, go for the expensive stuff, huh? You want some lobster or veal on top of that?”

“If they had veal on the menu, I’d eat it.”

Starsky drummed his fingers in time to the Village People’s hit YMCA, singing the catchy chorus under his breath. “Think Chickie’s on the up and up about that drug buy going down tomorrow afternoon?” he asked, referring to the snitch they’d talked with an hour earlier.

“He’s never steered us wrong before.”

“He just seemed kind of squirrelly. Twitchy.”

Hutch laughed, watching Starsky bop in place, and pressed his hand down on Starsky’s fingers to stop the miniature drum solo. The restaurant was noisy enough without Starsky adding a downbeat. “Starsk, the guy was born squirrelly. He’s like a rock star on speed.”

“Speaking of that, I got a line on the KISS concert tickets for Kiko and Pete-“

“Molly,” Hutch corrected automatically, resigned to the thought that he was going to be accompanying the two teenagers to a louder-than-that rock concert. His suggestion of John Denver as an alternative choice had been met with disdain when Molly had announced what she wanted for her birthday.

At least Kiko and Molly still wanted to include them in their increasingly active social lives. He’d been with Kiko so long he was starting to think of himself as the boy’s foster father rather than just an assigned Big Brother.

“The kids,” Starsky amended. “We can get four seats up pretty close for the show on July 14th. Just a couple days before her actual birthday.”

“Thanks, I wasn’t sure you’d remember with everything that’s gone on lately.”

“Forget Pete’s fourteenth? She’s all grown up and in love with a singer who paints his face like a giant clown cat.” Starsky shuddered dramatically.

 “Good thing your head is so hard you never forget a single thing, elephant boy, after two bonks on the noggin in a two week period.”

“Starskys all got hard heads.” Starsky quirked a smile at Hutch, tapping his forehead. “Y’know when my brother was a baby I tried to drop a hammer on him? Ma says I took a long time to come around to being an older brother.”

“Yeah.” Hutch caught Cathy’s eye, signaling her over. The poor woman was running ragged with all the celebrating customers. “I told my mother to take Karen back and get us a puppy instead.”

Starsky laughed aloud just as the waitress showed up. She must have assumed he was laughing at her and turned toward Hutch, plastering on a fake and very tense smile. “May I take your order, sir?”

Giving Starsky a smug grin, Hutch ordered for the both of them, even though Starsky had never mentioned what he wanted. Unless Starsky was feeling very odd, a hamburger, rare, with blue cheese dressing and all the fixings, was a good bet. And the plateful of French fries from which Hutch could sneak a few.

“How’d you know?” Starsky asked when Cathy had gone.

“Good memory,” Hutch said as innocently as possible under the circumstances.

“Oh, you say that now, Hutchinson.” Starsky rolled his eyes, looking around expectantly. “I suppose you know where the can is, too, Big Brain?”

It never ceased to amaze Hutch that someone with a bladder the size of Starsky’s didn’t scope out the restrooms the moment he stepped into a new place. Of course, with all the balloons obscuring sight lines, maybe Starsky had missed the jaunty hamburger girl and boy painted on the doors just past the bar. “To the left.”

“Show off.” Starsky strolled off, his distinctive rolling gait a joy to watch.

The food, as it had been in the old barn, was tasty and well prepared. Hutch snagged more than his fair share of French fries because Starsky tossed a couple at him following an argument about the chances of the Dodgers beating the Yankees. Starsky had always maintained a loyalty for East coast teams despite having lived in California most of his life.

“You done?” Starsky dropped the two-fer coupon on the table with a pile of ones and quarters.

“You don’t have anything bigger?” Hutch debated on whether to swap out the untidy pile for a five, but decided against it. If Starsky wanted to pay, that was his business.

“Got change for the laundromat, but all those quarters weigh down my pockets.”

“God forbid your jeans should be any lower or tighter.” Hutch found himself checking out the fit of his partner’s jeans as Starsky walked ahead of him. Belatedly, he realized that he was admiring a guy’s butt when there was no shortage of beautiful women around.

“Good night, gentlemen.” Margery waved, but her eyes were glued on Starsky. “Hope you come back again really soon.”

“I’ll be out in the car,” Hutch said to no one in particular, since neither of them was paying the least bit of attention to him.

He heard Starsky say, “Bernie really made some improvements on the décor…” before slipping out into the early evening. June being what it was, there was a hint of fog in the air. In an hour or so, the gloom would come creeping back in, blanketing the city in mist and smog, but for right now the sun held court in the pale, not quite blue sky.

Hutch leaned against the top of Starsky’s red and white Torino, soaking in the heat from the metal like a cat curling up where it was the warmest. Vehicles of every size filled up all available space in the parking lot, but several more hopeful patrons circled the place in their cars, looking for an elusive slot. Balloons were tied to every upright tree and pole, bobbing gaily in the slight breeze, squeaking when their rubber sides collided.

Each time a car drove by, all the balloons swayed and jittered, giving the weird illusion they were alive and watching the curious humans with rapt interest.

The original hamburger girl with the stiletto heels had apparently taken a break, replaced by the one who’d been handing out coloring books inside. Hutch grinned at his detective abilities, having noticed the second girl’s much more comfortable sneakers right away. She started to hand him a coupon, but realized that he’d already had his meal and dashed off to pester a group getting out of a taxi.

To get his mind off thinking about Starsky’s butt, of all things, Hutch people-watched with the detached eye that he’d cultivated over many years as a cop. Two kids walking furtively along, their heads close together. Planning something illegal or just the natural distrust of adults all teenagers had? A pretty girl, wearing a red mini, was leaving the mom and pop grocery juggling two bags. Now, she had the kind of attributes any red-blooded guy should admire. The girl struggled with the bags that threatened to escape her arms at any moment, walking cautiously over to the curb. Not far from her, on the corner where Falkner turned into Moreno, a trio of weary businessmen waited for a bus.

Across Falkner, a blue Dodge with a dented door pulled into the service station, probably to consult with the mechanic in the body shop. It wasn’t until the brown-haired driver carrying a brown briefcase got out that Hutch began to pay more attention. As he looked closer, the car sparked a chord in his memory. He’d spotted that car earlier in the day-license plate number 535 ONN-the letters so similar to Starsky’s car that they’d both commented on it. Was this a mere coincidence, one of those weird twists of fate where two people kept arriving in the same places at the same times, or something more? Hutch rarely believed in coincidence, not in his line of work.

He straightened, trying to watch the man more closely, but his view was obscured by the girl in the red mini walking into the crosswalk, the wind whipping her tiny scrap of a skirt around to reveal much more leg and buttocks than she’d probably intended the general public to see. She’d judged her ability to cross safely a little close, and several waiting cars honked, startling the girl. Juggling her bags, she broke into a run as a VW bug trundled past her.

Glancing back at the restaurant, Hutch saw that his partner was still chatting with the gregarious Margery, and wouldn’t be out for a while. Settling his sunglasses on his nose, Hutch started over to the crosswalk. The woman tripped on uneven pavement, falling forward to the tune of more car horns; a loaf of bread and four oranges tumbling out of the bags. Bright oranges rolled haphazardly under her feet, and Hutch reached out to grab the woman before she landed on her face.

He was jerked backward with the force of a ten ton-truck hitting him in the chest. Struggling to take a breath, he tried to make sense of what was happening. The wind wasn’t nearly strong enough to have caused that kind of sensation. Had the girl pushed him?

Hearing a weird, undulating noise that seemed to be coming from inside his own head, Hutch grabbed hold of the nearest parking meter for support, unable to remain standing. His legs wouldn’t hold him up and he slipped sideways, landing painfully on his hip and shoulder. The pretty girl just stood above him, her lipsticked mouth wide open, blood spattered darkly across her red and white striped t-shirt, waving her arms wildly. Why was she screaming, and why didn’t she stop?

Taking in a shockingly painful breath, one that didn’t bring in enough air by half, Hutch planned to ask the girl what was going on but the truck was now sitting on his chest, crushing his lungs to dust.

At the sound of a single gunshot, Starsky jerked upright, left hand going for the pistol holstered under his arm without conscious thought. He swatted away the balloons that concealed Bernie’s plate glass windows, trying to see out. A crowd of people were congregating on the corner, terror infusing their movements with frantic haste, but Starsky couldn’t see what or who they had gathered around. The hamburger girl let go of her coupons so that they flapped around her in a mini whirlwind.

“What’s that?” Margery ran to the front door but there were enough patrons crowded there waiting for tables that she couldn’t get through. Shrill screams rent the air, sending chills up Starsky’s backbone. “What happened?” Margery begged.

“A girl’s screaming,” a man answered helpfully. Others nodded, several children starting to cry with loud wails. The noise level in the place rose until it was impossible to hear what anyone else was saying.

On full alert, with his gut telling him that Hutch had been shot even though there was no rational reason to think so, Starsky muscled his way through the milling throng. He made it to the sidewalk just as a blue Dodge peeled out from the gas station across the street and whipped around onto Moreno, nearly plowing into a white Camaro parked crossways in the intersection. He paid it little heed, running for the group clustered just beyond the parking lot. The damned balloons were distracting, giving the scene an inappropriately jolly atmosphere despite the eerie screams scoring the drama.

“Police!” Starsky yelled, holding his badge aloft to give himself authority. Oh, please God, please don’t let it be Hutch. Where was he? “Move back!”

“He was shot!” The hamburger girl sobbed, grabbing at Starsky’s arm. “I saw it. Your friend.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the girl in red who still stood in the street, her audible terror louder than an air raid siren.

“Call an ambulance,” Starsky ordered with the part of his brain still functioning like a cop. Hutch was shot? How was that possible on an ordinary evening like this one?

A heavy-set man was bent over the victim, preventing Starsky from seeing his friend. Voices assailed him from all sides as the crowd pushed closer to get a better look.

“He’s a doctor, and the other man was just standing there when some madman must have fired a gun,” a voice whispered.

“Isn’t it just awful?” a woman agreed.

The heavy-set man moved, so that Starsky saw blood covering his hands, and then a glimpse of Hutch’s blond hair fanned out over the dirty sidewalk.

“I’m a cop.” Starsky froze, unable to take his eyes off Hutch’s pale face. The girl standing in the street surrounded by vegetables and fruit continued to scream, mingling in a discordant key with that of approaching sirens. “Can somebody shut her up?” he snapped, and her shrieks stopped abruptly as if someone had lifted the needle off an LP. “He’s my…how bad is it?”

“You know him?” the doctor asked. “A single shot to the abdomen. Doesn’t seem to have hit the aorta, but he’s bleeding heavily.” Hutch moaned deep in his throat when the doctor pressed harder on the handkerchief that covered the wound, but didn’t open his eyes. “I’m Alan Hillsborough, head of radiology at Memorial, not far from here.”

Tearing his gaze away from Hutch, Starsky scanned the neighborhood. He’d heard one shot-a single shot had downed his partner. A sniper?

If so, the gunman, or woman, might still be watching, ready to strike again. Amateur snipers often stayed around, spraying the area with bullets for reasons only they understood. If it was a professional, the police might never find him. He and Hutch had made countless enemies in their years on the force, but Starsky couldn’t dredge up anyone in particular who’d want to off Hutch in this manner. Could it have been a random, completely senseless shooting? Drive-by shootings happened occasionally in gang infested neighborhoods, frequently downing innocent victims, but Falkner Street was the northern border of a middle-class, family-oriented community which prided itself on the lowest crime rate in Bay City.

“Did you see anything?” Starsky realized his hands were shaking and holstered his gun before he dropped it on the sidewalk.

“I didn’t see him fall, but that girl did.” Hillsborough kept his eye on Hutch’s breathing, taking his pulse with one hand while maintaining steady pressure on the makeshift bandage. “I was driving by. That’s my car.” He nodded at the Camaro.

Starsky looked over at the woman Hillsborough had indicated. The screamer was being comforted by the hamburger girl; both of them huddled against the side of Bernie’s Burger Barn, hugging each other. He couldn’t conceive of leaving Hutch’s side, but he should be doing his job, shouldn’t he? Hutch had a trained doctor with him, and Starsky should be gathering evidence that would solve this crime.

Just the thought of having to concentrate enough to question witnesses made his head pound. How could he do that part of the job without Hutch? Starsky’s belly roiled, his recently eaten burger threatening to make a re-appearance.

Avenge Hutch’s shooting, came unbidden to his befuddled brain, but he ignored that. Hutch would be fine. The doc had said it was a gut wound. Those healed up well, didn’t they?

“His name is Hutch, Ken Hutchinson,” Starsky said, finally allowing himself to touch Hutch’s blood spattered shoulder. He wanted to gather him up in his arms and hold him until all the badness went away, but he couldn’t. The movement might hurt him, and Starsky never wanted to see Hutch hurt again. “Take care’a him, will you? He’s the only partner I got.”

“Of course.” Hillsborough looked up and Starsky saw intelligence and compassion on his face. This man was a good doctor. Hutch was as safe as he could be. “I can see the paramedics now.”

Two cruisers had already pulled up, spilling out pairs of blue uniformed officers. They quickly cordoned off the street corner, questioning those on both sides of the street for witnesses. Starsky stood very still amongst the organized chaos, trying to make out where the sniper could have been. Hutch must have walked out of the parking lot, passing the Torino parked two spaces in, and over to the corner as if he were going to use the crosswalk. Why? There were drops of red all over the sidewalk, dotting several oranges and bananas that lay nearby. What had he seen, what was he doing?

“Detective Starsky?”

Starsky turned, berating himself for being so out of it he’d failed to acknowledge the responding officers. If Hutch was the victim, did that put Starsky on the side of the injured party instead of lead detective on the scene? He felt off-kilter.

“Yeah?” He recognized the man, a long-term veteran of the police force. “John. The doctor…” He gestured over at Hillsborough who had moved back to let the paramedics load Hutch onto a stretcher and start an IV. “They’re takin’ Hutch to Memorial, but the doctor said that girl in red saw it all.”

“That’s what I came to tell you.” John Campbell nodded, his blunt face heavily lined by years of duty on the front lines of the city. “Her name is Siobhan Penrhys,” he paused to give Starsky the unusual Celtic spelling. “An Irish girl, only here a couple of months. She’s in shock, and I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to get out of her. The other one, in the hamburger costume, says she may have seen something, too.”

“What’s her name?” Starsky had pulled out a small notebook to jot down Siobhan’s name, but he could barely recognize his own handwriting. Every part of him wanted to be back with Hutch, making sure he was still breathing. How much blood had he lost?

“Toya Neekelaputi,” John said, stumbling over the exotic syllables.

“What?” This was too much, that both witnesses had such tongue twisting names.

“Toya Neekelaputi, American-born East Indian, going to UCLA, with a major in economics. First day of her new part time job.”

“Man, talk about timing.” Starsky couldn’t keep his focus on the facts at hand. He was far too concerned about Hutch’s welfare. He was useless here. Campbell and his partner were competent men who knew how to handle a crime scene, and unless Dobey came himself, the other pair of detectives on duty out of Metro were no slouches, either. He had to let go, just for a short time anyway, and let others take over.

Hutch was being loaded onto the ambulance, and Starsky wanted to ride with him. He fished the keys to the Torino out of one tight denim pocket and entrusted them to Campbell. “My car….”

“I saw it. Not hard to disguise that parade float,” Campbell teased gently. “You going with your partner?”

“Yeah, if they’ll let me.” Starsky could feel the pull of some elemental force drawing him to Hutch’s side. “Find out whatever you can from Siobhan and-uh-?”

“Toya.” Campbell nodded, obviously understanding completely. When it came to a man’s partner, nothing else mattered. Brothers in arms banded together in times of stress. It was every cop’s nightmare to see his other half be gunned down. “We got your back, Starsky. And Hutch’s. We’ll all be praying for him.”

“Thanks.” Starsky grabbed the swinging back door of the ambulance, hopping inside. The paramedic, a man he vaguely recognized from previous traumas, nodded mutely, listening with a stethoscope to Hutch’s heartbeat. The blond man lay unmoving, strapped onto the gurney, with a green plastic oxygen mask obscuring most of his face. IV tubing was taped into the hollow of his left arm, supplying necessary fluids, but they didn’t seem to be doing very much good. Hutch was pale as a corpse, his shirt so soaked with blood it no longer could be described as moss green.

Starsky just barely had time to squeeze himself into a cramped corner before the ambulance took off with a loud, ear splitting wail. They were going in code three, with lights and sirens, which meant Hutch must be in a bad way.

The fingers of both hands locked together, Starsky pressed his fists to his mouth, unconsciously mimicking a position of prayer. He could taste the dried blood on his knuckles and shuddered, feeling like a vampire. He couldn’t lose his best friend, the only person he could really depend on in this whole world. His confidant, partner, and….

Hutch writhed until the paramedic injected something into his IV tubing, calming him immediately. Starsky yearned to say something, to soothe and support his friend, but with the sirens and ambient drone of the engine, it was far too noisy in the vehicle for talking. Hopefully, Hutch was getting some good painkillers to keep him too far under to feel the agony of the bullet wound. Starsky remembered the pain far too well. He’d sat for over an hour on the cold floor of an Italian restaurant, that awful pain branded onto his soul. At least Hutch hadn’t had to wait long for medical help.

Starsky had never seen Hutch shot before. He himself had taken bullets in the line of duty-one in his first year as a detective, two more in ’75 in the ill-fated restaurant, and another earlier this year, in the leg. But never Hutch. His broad, tanned body was bulletproof. Other, weird things happened to Hutch. Getting hooked on heroin by a vengeful gangster, or breaking an arm and three ribs after being thrown ten feet across a room by a two-hundred and seventy pound, seven foot ex-wrestler. Lying trapped under his car for days with a fractured leg. But Hutch never got shot. Was this the exception that proved the rule, or the straw that broke the camel’s back?

Hutch, don’t leave me. Starsky heard the words over and over in his head, but he didn’t say them aloud. That would jinx everything, like having a black cat walk in front of you. Although ethnically Jewish, Starsky’s religious upbringing, on opposite coasts after he’d been shipped west following his father’s murder, had been haphazard and unconventional. His mother’s sister had married a Catholic, exposing young David Starsky, just past his Bar Mitzvah, to Christian dogma; Mass, communion, and the best of all, Christmas. But Rose Cavanough was a woman who never found a superstition, old wives tale, or useful bit of religious rhetoric she didn’t take to heart. She’d accumulated everything into her worship of life, and passed them along to her nephew. Starsky had embraced this all-encompassing belief system wholeheartedly. If one thing worked for the Hindus and another for the Buddhists, and yet something else for the Druids, who was he to argue?

Therefore, whatever karma, fate, or just plain blessing from God that was keeping Hutch alive, he wasn’t about to alter the status quo by voicing his fears aloud. He had to keep strong for Hutch, so that Hutch could be strong.

At Memorial, time dissolved into a fast paced crowd of white: doctors and nurses racing to grab the gurney and whisk Hutch into a trauma room. Starsky was banished to the hall where he watched the action through the tiny window slit in the door. He’d already seen too much: the gaping, bloody wound on Hutch’s abdomen, the doctors starting lines and ordering transfusions, and Hutch enduring the whole thing without moving.

To keep himself calm, Starsky tried to guess the medical staff’s duties and procedures, having been on the receiving end of most of them over the course of his police career. The young blonde nurse was new, her frightened eyes betraying her. She had to be told twice to take Hutch’s blood pressure. The older nurse did her job with swift efficiency, untangling IV tubing lines and hanging new bottles of fluids gracefully. One time, she leaned over Hutch, whispering something into his ear. Starsky would have given his soul to know what that was, or to take her place, holding Hutch’s hand and whispering encouragement to him. The grim faced doctor with dark hair was probably a resident, only a few years out of medical school, but still learning. He was good, though; his actions gentle when he dealt with Hutch and assured when he dealt with the staff.

Mostly, though, Starsky watched Hutch. Stared at him until the sight of him bloody and broken was burned into his memory. Somehow, the fact that someone had shot him-raised a gun and shot him in cold blood was far, far worse than the time Roy Slater had sent Hutch’s car hurtling off the road and left him to die. Both were deliberate, but this one seemed so calculating. A gunman lying in wait for his victim.

Starsky shuddered, pressing one hand to the glass separating him from his partner. And nearly went head first through the window when Hutch’s blue eyes opened. The older nurse smiled slightly and bent over to speak to Hutch, but he just looked confused and in great pain. She motioned to the blonde nurse, sending her in Starsky’s direction.

“Officer?” the blonde nurse said tentatively, using her momentary break from the action to bobby-pin her cap more securely to her short hair. “Your partner is awake. You can visit with him for a couple of minutes but he’s going up to surgery as soon as they have the room cleaned upstairs.”

“Thanks!” Starsky barely listened to the second part of her sentence because he was already inside the crowded ER trauma room, approaching Hutch’s gurney with all speed.

“I’m James Carver. Detective Hutchinson is as hemodynamically stable as we can make him right now.” The resident nodded to him. “Dr. Lincoln, the surgeon, will be operating in less than half an hour to get the bullet out.”

“Hey,” Starsky said softly, eyes only for Hutch. “What’d you go and get shot for?” His voice cracked on the last word.

Hutch opened his eyes again, grimacing in pain. “Star…”

“Yeah, c’mon, don’t talk. Just get better.” Starsky touched his cheek, heartened when he could feel the steady beat of a pulse against his fingers.

“You…okay?” Hutch managed before closing his eyes again.

“You dumb lug,” Starsky scolded, his throat so tight he could barely take a breath. “You’re the one who got shot, not me.” He ran his thumb down the line of Hutch’s jaw, desperate to hear one more word from him.

“Surgery is here,” the little blonde nurse called out from the hall.

A group of men, all wearing small surgical caps and green scrubs, pressed into the room, demanding to know Hutch’s vitals. Carver rattled off a series of numbers that made very little sense to Starsky while the nurses covered the patient and made last checks on his IV fluids. The surgical team trundled Hutch’s gurney out and over to the elevator so quickly it was almost as if Hutch had been teleported out of the ER. Starsky stood against a counter in the trauma room staring at a pile of discarded clothes drenched in Hutch’s blood, feeling as if his heart had dropped out of his body.

“Detective?” Alan Hillsborough, the doctor who had first found Hutch on the sidewalk, came in with a cup of coffee and handed it to him. “I thought I’d stick around, see how your friend fared.”

“Thanks,” Starsky said blankly. How long would surgery take? Should he have asked more questions beyond the “is he going to make it?” that he’d demanded of every nurse and doctor since the ambulance pulled into the ER?

“Hutchinson is in the best hands,” Hillsborough confided. “Lincoln knows his field. If there’s any intestinal damage, he’s the guy to repair it.”

 Even after he’d tasted the coffee, Starsky found he wasn’t sure what to do with the cup that he didn’t want. “How long?” he asked, feeling stupid and disconnected. “How long will it take to get the bullet out?”

“Hard to say. Depends on what Lincoln finds when he opens him up,” Hillsborough said. “Every case is different. I’ll make sure he talks to you afterward. Why don’t you go up to the third floor and sit in the surgical waiting room?”

Minutes, and then hours passed without even a courtesy nod to Starsky. He’d never been one to wait patiently, a character flaw that would have made stakeouts pure hell if it had not been for Hutch’s steadying presence. He depended so heavily on having Hutch at his side that he sincerely did not know what might happen if Hutch wasn’t there. How would he be able to cope with the crap on the streets without the big blond?

Hutch had been wheeled into surgery barely an hour after his arrival in the ER, and Starsky found himself staring over at the pair of double doors that separated him from the buzzing hive that was the operating room with barely suppressed fear. Weren’t the doctors supposed to come out, sweaty and triumphant, to announce that Hutch was going to pull through? Every cop drama Starsky had ever watched on the TV had a scene like that. He could write the dialogue in his sleep by now, but he always looked forward to those scenes. The proof that things would return to normal and life would go on. Corny, but necessary.

He was getting punch-drunk on too little information and too much nasty vending machine coffee. “C’mon, guys, what’s taking so long?” he whispered, keeping his back to the wall clock so that he wouldn’t know for certain how many hours had passed.

“Starsky?” Captain Harold Dobey looked like he’d been through the wringer himself. His vest was unbuttoned, revealing a wide expanse of wrinkled white shirt, and his tie was stuffed in the pocket of his plaid sports jacket. “I would have come sooner, but I was coordinating the manhunt.”

“I got your message.” Starsky nodded tiredly, just glad to see another familiar face.

“How’s Hutch?”

“Still in the OR.” Starsky pointed to the green doors, resuming his restless pacing. “It’s going to be a long time. There was a lot of blood.”

“Sit down before you fall over, Dave.”

Starsky lifted his head, acknowledging Dobey’s worry. The captain never used his first name unless he was concerned, too. Even so, it took a supreme effort to force himself to sit in one of the hard molded plastic chairs and stay still. The moment he willed himself into a false state of calmness, both knees began to jitter, seemingly of their own accord, burning off the pent-up adrenaline.

Dobey placed one meaty hand on Starsky’s bouncing thigh, giving a brief pat that did succeed in stilling the movement for a moment. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Running his fingers through his unruly mop of curls, Starsky admitted, “I don’t know. I really don’t know, Capt’n.” It all seemed so utterly useless. What point was there in going over something he hadn’t even seen? Cops had already been combing the scene for half the night now. If they hadn’t found any clues, how was his meaningless little recitation going to help? “Uh….”

“Starsky! I know it’s your partner in there, on that operating table, but you’re still a good cop, with a sharp memory. Tell me what happened, now.”

“We went code 7 at Bernie’s Burger Barn, the new one on Falkner, at 6:30. Lotsa balloons, families, place looked great,” Starsky recounted, going over every step in his mind with a detective’s eye, just as he had for the last four hours. What had he missed? “Hutch went out to the parking lot ahead of me ’cause I was talking with the hostess….”

“You mean asking her out?” Dobey interrupted with a lifted eyebrow.

“Captain!” Starsky gaped at him before his brain re-engaged. “It was hard to see out through the front windows because there were balloons everywhere, and the wind was up, so the damned things were blowing all over the place.” He thought hard, once again hearing the single blast like a horrible echo. “The shot must have come from across the street.”

“Are you sure?”

Starsky rallied at the stern tone in Dobey’s voice. He’d always done better when he was challenged by authority. “A building-probably the one next to the gas station.” Starsky closed his eyes momentarily, seeing the scene as he hadn’t the first time. A shadowy figure on the rusty fire escape on the side of the apartment building, right near where a bunch of cars had been parked to one side of the mechanic’s garage. Had he noticed anything suspicious when they’d walked into Bernie’s? No, but he hadn’t been on the look out for anything, either. “I heard it, Captain. I didn’t see anything, I was still inside and the fucking balloons messed up all the sight lines out the windows.”

“What do you think? A professional? A sniper?”

“Someone after Hutch,” Starsky said reluctantly. He’d been trying to deny that fact for the last few hours, but it was staring him in the face. Someone had been waiting for Hutch, for that single moment when he was by himself and vulnerable. And because he’d lingered to flirt when he should have been by his partner’s side, Starsky had left Hutch wide open. “A shooter on the fire escape could have plowed down everyone on that street, men, women and children, but he didn’t.”

“He only pulled off a single shot.”

Starsky nodded, the movement making his head pound. “Nobody else was hurt, nobody… I really wasn’t paying much attention. By the time I ran out and saw Hutch lying there… I wasn’t bein’ the good little detective anymore.”

“You saw your partner bleeding,” Dobey said, the sympathy and understanding wrapping around Starsky until he couldn’t bear it any longer. He jumped up, prowling the room with frustrated energy.

Dobey tracked his movements, dark eyes sad. Starsky couldn’t look directly at him, couldn’t accept that Dobey was anticipating the worst. Just like two years ago when the situation had been reversed and the doctors told Hutch that Starsky needed surgery for a bullet in the back. Sealing up the pain in his heart, Starsky went to stand near the green double doors leading to the surgery suites. The doctor had to emerge any minute now. Had to come out and tell him that Hutch had survived.

Jangling keys caught Starsky’s attention, and he turned. Dobey was holding a ring of car keys in his big, blunt-fingered hand. “I talked to the patrolman who brought your car over. It’s in the south lot, by the way.” He held out the ring like a zoo keeper coaxing a wild animal back into the cage with a lure. “Sit down. He said that John Campbell was back at the scene interviewing a young woman.”

“The one who was screaming,” Starsky said hollowly, wedging the keys into the tight back pocket of his jeans. He should have been the one interviewing witnesses, not breaking down like some rookie at his first shooting.

“She was very upset, barely coherent,” Dobey continued. “And another woman?”

“With an Indian name, I can’t remember how to pronounce it.”

“Mentioned something about a blue car.”

Starsky gasped, beginning to cough until Dobey grabbed a paper cone from the water cooler and shoved it toward him. Getting control of himself, Starsky waved away the cup, but Dobey persisted until Starsky gave in and downed the contents. The water helped his throat, and the interval helped the jumbled images gel in his brain.

“Damn. I saw a car.” He sketched the silhouette of a car in the air. “Midnight blue, with a white roof. Dodge four door. Probably a Coronet.”

“License?” Dobey pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil, jotting everything down.

“I dunno. I saw it for a second, maybe two, and only because it practically smacked into a white Chevy in the intersection. Didn’t see the driver or-“

“Starsky, you can’t be a cop every minute of your life,” Dobey said gruffly.

“I shoulda been,” Starsky declared. “If it means Hutch’s life, I should have been.”

Dobey made a small movement, as if he’d planned to give Starsky a reassuring pat but thought better of it, and dropped his arms down to his side. He put the pad and pencil back in his pocket and stood indecisively rubbing the fabric of his slacks. “You’ll need to come down to the squadroom to make a full statement but you’re off for the next two days, do you hear that?”

“I wasn’t hurt.”

“Yes, you were,” Dobey said softly. “In ways you don’t even understand yet.”

 Starsky found himself oriented toward the surgery doors again without remembering having turned in that direction. “How long is this going to take?”

“As long as it needs to.” Dobey gruffly cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t want the surgeon to go too fast, would you?”

The thing is, he would. Starsky kept seeing Hutch lying on the street, the damn balloons bobbing around him as if this were some bizarre festival and he was the golden one sacrificed on the altar, red blood spilling out across his moss colored shirt. How many hours had it been now? Why didn’t anyone tell him anything? The ER had seemed chaotic to someone without much medical knowledge beyond stopping the bleeding and getting a victim to a doctor. Yet, he knew that the medical team were doing the best they knew how to save Hutch.

A gut wound. Torn intestines, the ER doctors had said. Possible peritonitis, an infection of the abdomen, was all he’d understood. But what did that mean in terms of Hutch’s survival?

“Dave Starsky?”

“Huh?” Starsky’s head snapped up so abruptly he felt a whiplash pain shoot all the way down his neck and across his shoulders.

“You’re Dave Starsky, Ken’s partner?”

It was Vanessa. For a moment Starsky couldn’t breathe, staring at the stunning brunette in the rabbit fur jacket.

 No, not Vanessa. She was dead.

Her sister, Nancy. Her twin. In what Starsky had always-and very privately-considered a very soap opera-ish element in the Hutchinson past, Hutch had been married to both women. First Nancy, before either of them had even graduated high school, and later while he was in college, her identical twin, Vanessa.

Starsky had never quite learned all the details-in fact, Hutch only mentioned Nancy when he had downed a six-pack of beer and was wallowing in soggy teenaged memories of the prom and track meets. She seemed to engender much fonder memories than her older sister by five minutes, though. When Hutch mentioned Vanessa, it was usually accompanied by a couple of swear words and a sour twist to his mouth.

That is, until Vanessa was murdered. Since then, Hutch’s recollections of his second wife seemed to have shifted to a more melancholy vein, to the tune of “maybe I could have tried harder with her.” Shortly after the funeral, when Starsky asked about the first Mrs. Hutchinson at a hastily convened wake-just he and Hutch-for the departed Vanessa Rutherford Hutchinson, he’d gotten a bittersweet sigh and a shake of the head. Hutch wasn’t yet ready to talk about that brief marriage.

What exactly had happened between the two of them?

“I heard about Ken.” Nancy bit down on her bottom lip, and Starsky belatedly wondered if he should be comforting her. Her sister had recently died and now her ex-husband was in the OR.

“How?”

“I-I’ve been dating a cop.” She gave a tiny shrug as if she knew that was absurd. “Jack Shellington, do you know him?”

“He’s in the Sutter Precinct.” Dobey extended his hand. “Harold Dobey, Captain at Metro.”

“Nancy Michaels.” She shook his hand grimly, glancing over at the OR doors just as Starsky was.

“How do you know Ken?” Dobey asked shrewdly.

“His first ex-wife,” Starsky said shortly. “We met at Van’s funeral.” He waved a hand at the plastic visitor’s bench, encouraging her to sit down. “Hutch-uh, Ken’s been in the operating room for over three hours, maybe four. I’ve lost track.”

“These things take time,” Nancy agreed. She sat down on a bench across from Starsky and Dobey, crossing her shapely legs. “I just…” she started, placing her purse neatly on her lap as if waiting for a bus. “I just wanted to offer some support. He’s still…family, I guess.”

Starsky looked over at her, thinking he should say something. She’d come after eleven-thirty at night for some old obligation? If she was family, where did that put him? Did partners count, by her reasoning?

An uncomfortable silence descended on the three people, only the muted sounds from the overhead paging system breaking the stillness. Starsky rubbed his palms along the soft denim covering his thighs, sure he could feel Hutch’s blood on his fingers. He’d washed it off hours ago, but his hands still felt sticky. Dobey picked up an old issue of Women’s Day, glanced at the cover, and put it down again.

Nancy took off her jacket, placing it next to her on the bench, and opened her purse, counting out some change. “I saw a coffee machine when I came in, down the hall. Captain Dobey, Dave? Would you like a cup of coffee?”

 Starsky shook his head as the captain stood to help her. Her voice, her every move was like her sister. He hadn’t known Hutch when he was married to Nancy, but he remembered the tempestuous union to Vanessa all too well. Nancy’s question vibrated a chord in his memory and eight years dropped away. He was back in the tiny walkup Hutch and Vanessa rented on Toledo Court, seeing the faded tulip wall paper and cracked lemon colored linoleum of the antiquated kitchen.