The Price of Cars in ’77

616

Starsky plays hooky to replace his car, and Hutch ends up paying for it.

 

Written in 2005. First published in the gen multifandom zine, Brotherhood 3, produced in 2007 by Pyramid Press.

K. Hanna Korossy is a prolific fanfiction writer who has written stories in multiple fandoms, including Starsky & Hutch. You can find more of her fan fiction at Archive of Our Own at this link and at fanfiction.net at this link.

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The phone rang just as he reached the door, and Hutch looked back at it, undecided whether to stop to answer it or continue on out. He was already running late to pick up Starsky for work, and if his partner caught him still home, he’d be sure to rub it in. On the other hand, maybe it was Olivia calling. Hutch had been waiting for her to return his call for two days…

He turned back impatiently as the phone rang again and grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hey.”

Starsky. Terrific. “Hey, listen, I was just heading out the door — ” Hutch quickly began.

“Listen, I don’t think I’m gonna go in today.”

Hutch stopped adjusting his cuffs and gave the phone his full attention. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure, I just heard from the guy who’s gonna sell me his Torino, and he says I can pick it up today if I want or else it’s gonna be next Monday. So I figured — “

“You figured on sneaking a sick day past Dobey so you can go play with your new toy.” Hutch was smiling even as he shook his head. “He’s gonna see right through that when you drive up tomorrow in the latest striped tomato.”

“That’s tomorrow,” Starsky said smugly. “You don’t mind, do ya?”

“Mind?” Hutch pulled out his watch absently to check it. “Desk-bound all day with Dobey right next door on this new diet? Why should I mind?”

He could just imagine Starsky’s grimace. “You’re right. Forget it. The car can wait.”

Hutch instantly regretted the teasing. “No, don’t worry about it, Starsk, really — go see your new baby.” He knew how restless Starsky had been ever since his beloved Torino had been blown up by a party still unknown. If Dobey hadn’t somehow managed to cover it as a line-of-duty loss and scrape up the funds to replace it, Hutch would have dreaded the coming months with a mopey, grounded partner. Hutch needed that new car almost as much as Starsky did, and that would make even a day of desk duty bearable.

“You sure?” Hesitant. They didn’t bail out on each other easily or without reservation.

“I’m sure. I’ve got a lot of work to do on the Murphy murders before the grand jury next week, anyway.”

“Okay. Hey, I’ll come by this afternoon so you can see her.”

“Starsky…” Hutch sighed. Lost cause, his partner. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Listen, I have to go — Dobey’s not gonna be any happier if I’m late.”

“I’ll call him about not comin’ in, tell him I’ve got this bug goin’ around. Hutch…” Starsky’s voice turned serious. “Be careful.”

Hutch smiled again. Starsky was responsible even when he was being irresponsible, at least where Hutch was concerned. “Sure.”

“See ya.”

Hutch hung up and headed again for the door, starting to whistle to himself. The day would be tedious, just him and the paperwork, but at least he had the afternoon to look forward to. If Starsky was that happy just at the thought of getting his new car, he was bound to be bouncing off walls once he actually had possession. It would make for an interesting evening.

The LTD started with a wheeze, which reminded Hutch he had some car issues of his own that would need some working out. With Starsky back in the driver’s seat, maybe Hutch could drop off his own car for a few days and let Merl work his magic. The engine was starting to sound asthmatic, and while he argued hotly Starsky’s every complaint about the old car, Hutch secretly agreed it was overdue for some work. But for now, he gave it a gentle pat on the dash and a whispered reassurance, and pulled away from the curb, heading for downtown.

He’d made it about halfway before a call caught his attention.

“All units in the vicinity, silent alarm at Zela Jewelers, 559 Jefferson Boulevard. Code Two.”

A uniformed unit called in that they were two minutes away, but no other unit picked up the call. Hutch glanced up at the cross-street, calculated distance, and picked up the mike. “Zebra-Three responding to Zela Jewelers, ETA three minutes.”

“Roger, Zebra-Three.”

Hutch sped up, beginning to weave expertly through traffic. Starsky would kill him if he knew he was answering a call, but with any luck, he never would. A good percentage of silent alarms was accidental trippings, and this early in the morning, chances were this was one of them. Hutch just didn’t want the Adam unit going in alone if it wasn’t a false alarm.

He parked down the block from the store, behind the cruiser. Already up ahead the two uniforms were coming up on the jewelry store front, going in low just in case. He caught the eye of one, motioned he would take the back, and got a nod in response. Hutch drew his gun and peeled off into a nearby alley.

Like many city blocks, the back alley connected several buildings in a row, including the jewelry store. And there sat the reason for the silent alarm, a dark sedan parked in the cover of the alley, the driver at the wheel with his back to Hutch. Another man was just coming out of the rear of the jewelry store, bags in both hands, and ran for the sedan.

Hutch moved closer, slipping from cover to cover, as the second man threw his bags into the trunk of the sedan and slammed the lid shut, then started for the passenger-side door. Which meant there were probably just the two of them, but also that Hutch was out of time. He hoped the officers in front would be ready, because the driver would take off as soon as he saw the detective.

Thirty feet away, Hutch sprang up from hiding. “POLICE! HOLD IT!”

Sure enough, the car lurched forward and around the corner of the store, toward the street. The second thief stood frozen in its wake, half-turned toward Hutch.

“Hands up!”

The man, clad in black, slowly obeyed. Nothing in his hands, Hutch saw with relief, and he walked closer, gun never wavering. It would have been better to do this with one of the uniforms there for cover, but from the sounds on the street, they were busy with the driver. He’d just have to cuff the man himself.

“Face down on the ground,” he snapped, close enough now to see the rounded profile, stubbled chin, and shaggy black hair. The head turned toward him a little, sneering. “Now!” Hutch added. He was only a half-dozen feet away, but he stopped there, waiting to be obeyed.

The man started to fold over, and just as Hutch thought he was about to stretch out on the ground, the thief suddenly lunged at him.

He was too close for re-aiming, so Hutch improvised, bringing his joined fists and the butt of his Colt down on the back of his assailant.

It barely slowed the suspect’s charge as he barreled into Hutch. The Colt went flying.

Furious now both at the thief and himself, Hutch quickly rolled, putting himself on top. A quick punch to the man’s nose sent blood spurting, and as the thief howled, Hutch grabbed his collar, preparing to hoist him up.

The man bucked, throwing him off. Unbalanced, Hutch landed in a sprawl, and his eyes swept the area for his gun. There, on the other side of the suspect. Terrific.

And then the guy charged him again, like an enraged bull.

Hutch slammed hard into the side of the building, caught between literal rock and a hard head. His ribs groaned in protest, but it was his head smacking against the brick wall that grayed his vision and made him gasp.

He was losing. And with a desperate suspect and his gun in play, that could be fatal.

The suspect backed up, maybe preparing for another charge. Hutch saw him hazily, wondering inanely for a moment what the guy was on that gave him that kind of stamina. He could probably hit the wall headfirst and still keep going.

Hmm.

The man in black roared as he lurched toward him, and Hutch rolled away at the last moment.

He could hear the crunch, and the quiet grunt as the guy folded onto the ground next to him, unconscious, maybe worse. Hutch really didn’t care just then. Another second and he sank down to join him, panting wearily to try to fill his lungs and clear his head.

“Detective Hutchinson?”

Another shadow appeared at the corner of the building, but it was one of the uniforms. Hutch grimaced. “Good timing,” he gasped, and shoved the body next to him with one foot. “Here’s the other one.”

“Are you all right, Detective?” The young officer was standing over the thief, but he was looking at Hutch with concern.

“Yeah, just…got a little unexpected exercise.” Hutch started pushing himself back upright.

“But, sir…you’re bleeding.”

Which maybe explained why the alley was starting to do a slow spin and his legs didn’t seem to know what to do. Hutch sank back down, bewildered, and rubbed absently at something that was dripping down his neck.

His hand came back smeared with red.

Hutch groaned as his stomach lurched, adding its protest now that he was paying attention. Head injury, nausea, vision problems, all added up to a concussion. It looked like he wouldn’t be keeping this a secret from his partner, after all. Starsky really was gonna kill him.

“Sir?” Something white waved in front of his face, and it took some focusing to realize it was a handkerchief. “You want me to call you an ambulance?”

“For him,” Hutch said tiredly, giving his downed assailant an even harder shove with his toe. “Whoever heard of robbing a jewelry store an hour before opening?” he groused as he took the handkerchief and balled it up, pressing it to where his head throbbed worst. The contact made him hiss, and the alley rippled around him like a reflection on water.

“Yes, sir,” the officer said uncertainly. He started to rise.

Hutch grabbed him, catching his arm only by sheer luck. The gorge was starting to rise in his throat, and he had to swallow first to speak. “Call Detective Starsky, too. Tell him what happened, and that I asked for him.” It was the best he could do to allay his partner’s inevitable fear at the news Hutch had been injured. “Grab my weapon — it’s over there somewhere. And when you’re done with him,” another jab at the body beside him, this one eliciting a soft groan, “drop me off at County on the way.”

“Yes, sir.” The uniform cuffed the unconscious suspect, and after retrieving Hutch’s gun, quickly disappeared around the side of the store, probably to get his partner’s help to deal with the delirious detective in the alley. Hutch leaned back against the brick wall, jerking away when it put pressure on the gash.

That proved too much for his stomach. Hutch’s misery was complete as he leaned over to vomit his breakfast onto the ground beside him. Heaves and a splintering headache were a bad mix; he was clinging to consciousness through determination alone by the time he sagged back against the wall. The handkerchief was a sodden ball against the back of his head, and his vision had just doubled.

The suspect groaned again beside Hutch.

“I know how you feel,” Hutch mumbled back, and sat as still as he could while he waited for the uniforms to return.

Starsky wasn’t going to kill him. Hutch was going to shoot his partner first.

Or, at the very least, throw up in his nice new car.

 

Time and suffering had a way of changing priorities. After spending an hour slumped in the waiting room, an icepack barely dimming his headache, the nervous young patrolmen a discrete two chairs away, Hutch would have settled for tossing Starsky an unfocused glare. An hour after that, when his heaving stomach sent him stumbling to the bathroom for the third time, all he wanted was Starsky there.

Hutch leaned back against the stall partition with a groan, brushing a string of spit from his chin with the back of his hand. The hand that was propping his head was cupped over his eyes, shading them from the glare of the bathroom’s stark light, and he squinted out from under it at the uniform by the door. “Someone reach Starsky yet?” he whispered, voice and throat raw from stomach acid.

In all, he must have cut quite the figure because the young officer — Culuag? — hadn’t budged from his station by the restroom door, as far as he could get from Hutch while keeping him in sight. Probably babysitting Hutch by order of his training officer. “Uh, no, sir.”

Hutch nodded once and tilted his head sideways against the cool metal behind him, avoiding putting pressure on the rising, tender lump on the back of his head. The ice pack melting on the floor in front of him would’ve probably felt good on it, but it was too much effort to keep it there, especially when he was spilling his guts into the toilet. And forget going back to the waiting room; this time he was staying put.

Pathetic. A half-hour without his partner and already Hutch was in the hospital. How was that for a competent detective? Starsky would never let him live it down. And yet, the only thing Hutch could think of that he might have done differently was not getting close enough to the thief for the guy to charge him. The suspect hadn’t been cooperating, though, and Hutch wasn’t about to shoot someone because he wouldn’t get down on the ground. That was where a partner came in, why officers and detectives usually worked in twos. Hutch had done okay, managing to subdue the suspect without getting himself killed. He was just supposed to be working as part of a duet instead of a solo act. Getting used to relying on your partner wasn’t a weakness.

It had gone a little deeper than that, though, over time. Five years ago, when he was feeling miserable, Hutch had wanted Vanessa there to look after him even though she’d never much been the nurturing type. Five years before that, it was an instinctive craving for his mom when he was sick, even in college when he’d gotten mono. It was human nature to want someone to share your misery. And in recent years, that someone had become Starsky.

There were some good excuses Hutch could have given for that: cops felt better when a fellow cop was watching their back, partners tended to look after each other and saw each other at their worst already, and Starsky had a tendency to worry about him anyway. But the simple truth of it was, Hutch felt better with the man there. After helping him through a difficult divorce, a few other visits to the hospital, the violation of forced heroin withdrawal, Starsky knew him better than his mom or ex ever had, knew what was bothering him and what would make him feel better and how to take his mind off it in the meantime. If it was weakness to want a friend like that with you when you were feeling lousy, so be it. Hutch’s pride had pretty much already been stripped away anyway when he’d first sunk onto the filthy bathroom floor and started heaving up what was left in his stomach.

Speaking of which, his stomach lurched again, and, moaning, Hutch leaned back over the porcelain bowl. Each ripple of nausea hit his head like a stick of dynamite, threatening to send it flying off and squeezing involuntary tears from his eyes. The nurse had refused to give him something for the pain until he saw a doctor, and the doctors were all busy with an unusually heavy volume of more serious complaints, but if someone didn’t give him something soon, his head was going to split in half like a ripe…some kind of fruit.

The taste in his mouth was acrid, only bile now, and Hutch grimaced as he sank his chin onto the edge of the toilet bowl. If there was something that wasn’t truly lousy about this whole situation, he didn’t know what it was. And where was Starsky, anyway? How long did it take to go pick up a lousy car?

Another shuffle of sound at the doorway. His babysitter was getting impatient. Hutch was tempted to relieve the kid of duty, except his T.O. had assigned him there, and Hutch wasn’t about to interfere with that. Sorry, kid, he thought wearily. Watching over a bloody and nauseated detective had probably never been in his job description.

He heard the kid unexpectedly move closer, leaving the door to swing shut and going so far as to edge into the stall Hutch was starting to call home. Hutch pried open an eye to give him a bleary look; surely he didn’t look like he was dying yet?

Denim jeans swam into his vision. Worn blue Adidas shoes sticking out at the bottom. Hutch blinked at them a moment, wondering stupidly how the kid could have changed into civvies so fast. And Adidas’ — what were the chances?

A soft swish of air as his company crouched down to his eye-level, and Hutch frowned. “Starsky?”

“I’m here, partner.” The voice was as warm as the hand that slid under his jaw to keep it from resting on its porcelain cradle, while crinkled eyes assessed him. “Get me a blanket, another ice pack, and a cup of water. And tell the head nurse if she doesn’t find a doctor soon, I’ll find one.”

The latter wasn’t directed at him, but the words and voice, the tone of command, the thumb that was rubbing his cheek even while he barked orders to someone else, erased Hutch’s momentary doubt that his bruised head was playing tricks on him. “Starsky,” Hutch murmured again, closing his eyes gratefully. He wasn’t senior officer on the scene anymore, free to keel over, start screaming, or eat his gun and put himself out of his misery, and someone else would pick up the pieces. Although the desire to do any of the above had faded sharply with his partner’s arrival.

“What did I tell you about bein’ careful, huh?” Even the scold was a caress, while careful hands probed the back of his skull. One just brushed the edge of the swelling, making Hutch hiss. Starsky immediately withdrew. “Sorry.” He leaned forward instead to do a visual check, and Hutch dropped his head down to give him access. “How you feelin’?” came from above him.

“Been better,” he croaked.

He could feel Starsky’s wince. “Bet you feel like you’ve gone a coupla rounds with the Omaha Tiger,” he said softly. He tilted Hutch’s head back again and rubbed the side lightly, far from the tender area.

“Worse,” Hutch groaned. The touch was distracting, though, and he swayed a little with it.

The door opened, and Starsky turned away for a moment. There was a brief exchange of words, and the lights suddenly went out in the room, leaving only the sunlight that filtered in through the translucent windows. Hutch’s squint eased, as did the fierce throb behind his eyes.

A blanket was bundled around him, alleviating another source of discomfort he hadn’t even identified until then, and while he was marveling at the warmth, cold on the back of his head took his breath away. Hutch jerked away from it, only to be held in place by gentle hands.

“Give it a minute to work, Hutch.”

It did, numbness beating back the throb of pain. Hutch let out a long, slow breath.

“You wanna rinse your mouth out?”

He weakly tilted forward to do so, Starsky holding the cup as he drank and swished and spit. The disappearance of the acrid taste diminished the nausea.

“Want me to get ya some ice chips to suck on?”

It was tempting but too much work. Hutch made a negative sound, and looked up at the blurry face he knew would be creased with worry. “Just…stay here.”

Starsky wasted no time settling next to him in the small space with a quiet humph, his version of Where else would I be? It didn’t take much coaxing for Hutch to rest his aching forehead in the hollow of Starsky’s shoulder, his partner’s arm going around him to hold him and the icepack in place. It almost made him forget they were sitting on a public restroom floor.

It also made him feel halfway coherent again for the first time since the alley. “You get your car?” Hutch whispered.

A pause. “Yeah. Hutch — ”

“If you’re thinking about apologizing, stow it,” he said.

“If I woulda gone in with ya — ”

” — maybe the guy wouldn’t have knocked me into the wall. Or maybe he would’ve knocked you into it, or worse. My head hurts too much for what-ifs right now, Starsky.”

“Dobey said he’d been tryin’ to reach me for three hours. Sorry I took so long.”

“He call you?” Hutch asked idly.

“Black-and-white was sitting in my driveway when I got back.”

He almost smiled at that. “I don’t think he’s gonna buy your bein’ sick excuse, Starsk.”

Starsky chuffed at that. “It’s not Dobey I’m worried about.”

Hutch meant to say something witty and encouraging, and found himself gagging instead. Starsky quickly hoisted him up and over the bowl, one hand on his forehead, the other warm on his stomach. It wasn’t enough to settle it, as Hutch started retching, interspersing each spasm with heartfelt groans. After a helpless moment, Starsky wrapped around him from behind, absorbing the worst of the shudders that were jack-hammering Hutch’s brain. Starsky rubbed his stomach soothingly, said something no doubt equally soothing into his ear, but Hutch was too miserable to hear it.

Whether from Starsky’s attempts or just the nausea finally regressing, this time the spasms were over faster, and soon Starsky was flushing the toilet and had him rinsing again, then was adjusting Hutch’s limp limbs and rewrapping the blanket around him, tucking him close once more. Starsky dabbed at his partner’s face with toilet paper, and Hutch found himself absently wondering what Officer Culuag would have thought of that. Probably would’ve taken one look and run the other way.

His breathing slowly calmed, his stomach settling into uneasy peace. Starsky’s heart thumped against his ear, in time with the throbs of his headache, but the icepack was working on that. Another time, Hutch would have considered the conditions uncomfortable at best, but right now it felt close to Heaven.

Hutch finally caught his breath enough to talk again. “‘S it look like your old car?” he asked with only a slight burr of fatigue.

“Would you forget about the car!” Starsky said with quiet exasperation.

“I wanna know.”

A beat. “It’s the same make and model and paint job. The engine needs a little tuning and it’s got bucket seats, but I can change that if I want. So, yeah, it’s mostly the same.”

Hutch nodded a half-inch or so.

Another stretch of silence. “It wasn’t worth this, Hutch.” Starsky’s voice had softened.

He sighed. “Paint it brown and we’ll call it even.”

Starsky pulled away to look at him, but Hutch’s eyes were too comfortably closed to see just how outraged his partner looked. The tone gave him some idea. “You’re cruel, you know that?”

Hutch laughed, moaning when it jolted his aching head and abdomen, and subsided against Starsky’s chest as he pulled Hutch a little closer.

“I got an idea, though,” Starsky said after a minute.

“Yeah?”

“Next time I play hooky, you come with me.”

He smiled at that. “Sounds good t’me.” Even going to pick up another garishly painted Torino sounded good just then.

And it hit Hutch with a clarity he would have thought beyond him just then: he didn’t want Starsky there just because he was feeling miserable, although there was no question he was incomparably better now than he had been a half-hour before. He just wanted Starsky there, period. Good times and bad, taco stands and health food stores, joy and sorrow. Starsky had a way of making the good things better, the bad, less awful. And Hutch had every intention of doing the same in return.

“Sounds good,” he murmured again. Starsky patted his leg, probably understanding him completely.

Hutch sat there on the dirty bathroom floor next to his partner, head aching and stomach churning and comfortable and contented, until the nurse arrived to fetch them.