Return of the Killer Tomato

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The saga of Starsky’s new car continues: as Starsky’s revenge-prank on Hutch begins to boomerang as it takes over their life.

 

Originally published in in Barely Legal, produced by Light and Shadow Press in 2006. Scanned and proof-read by St. Anne, with final proofing by JendaZZ. Special thanks to both.

This is a sequel to Canario and is part of Kath’s Living Well Universe.

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5:40 p.m.
Wednesday afternoon
Left the station.

“What a crock,” Hutch groused, rolling his neck, obviously trying to stretch out the kinks. “We could’ve been out of here on time for a change if–”

“–If the Cap’n hadn’t called us in for a meeting with Halloway from Narcotics,” Starsky interrupted. “I can’t believe Dobey’s lending us to that turkey.”

“Well, Holloway’s team is short-handed,” Hutch said in a conciliatory tone. “And we don’t have anything hot on our desks right now.”

Starsky gave a noncommittal grunt as he fished out the keys to his new ride. After driving the Torino for so many years it felt weird coming out to the police garage and getting into a different car. But times change, he thought philosophically, stepping up to the Camaro. People change…just like me and Hutch. He peered through his lashes, surreptitiously checking out his tall blond lover, watching as he fidgeted impatiently on the other side of the car. An ache settled behind his breastbone, an ache that was totally unrelated to long-healed gunshot wounds. It was a good ache, a manifestation of how much he loved his partner.

“C’mon,” Hutch urged, oblivious to Starsky’s attention. “Hurry it up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on, Blintz,” Starsky answered with a grin that said, Go ahead…take off your shirt. I dare you.

He’d no sooner slipped the key into the lock when his grin faded. “Damnit!”

“What?” Hutch demanded.

“Damn-damn-damn,” Starsky muttered, punching the air in frustration. “I can’t believe I forgot to order flowers for Merle’s mom.” Feeling like a first-class heel, he opened the driver’s side door and flopped angrily into the bucket seat. He reached across and lifted the latch to unlock Hutch’s door. “I gotta be gettin’ fuckin’ senile,” Starsky mumbled, jabbing the key into the ignition. The big motor turned over with a roar and he jammed the gearshift into reverse.

“And what’s so fuckin’ funny?” he barked to his partner’s smirking profile.

“Nothing,” Hutch answered softly, laying a soothing hand on Starsky’s knee. “I called the florist first thing this morning and sent a wreath from both of us.”

 

6:36 p.m.
Hutch’s wheels are MIA

Starsky had been cooling his heels for nearly an hour before Hutch returned to the Camaro. He feigned disinterest as his blond partner dropped his lanky frame into the passenger seat with a huff.

“My car is gone,” Hutch said.

“Your car is gone,” Starsky repeated, turning his head away to keep Hutch from seeing any hint of a devilish grin. “What was your first clue?” Digging around in the pocket of his old blue windbreaker, Starsky fumbled out his aviator sunglasses. It had been a couple of years since he’d worn this jacket with any regularity, but he’d had a wrestling match with a pitcher of maple syrup only yesterday and needed something to hide his shoulder holster while his favorite leather jacket was at the cleaners. Shoving the glasses onto his face, he took a moment to compose his features before turning back to his partner.

The dirty look Hutch tossed in his direction would have withered a lesser man. But after thirteen years together–first as partners with the Bay City P.D. and for the last two years as lovers– Starsky had developed a certain immunity to Hutch’s more emotive expressions.

“Well, are we just gonna sit here and look at the empty parking place where your car used to be, or do you have a plan?” Starsky asked, his tone carefully neutral.

With a troubled sigh, the blond cop slowly ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. “I talked to the evening security guy at the storage lot across the street. He says a tow truck came through about midnight and hauled away some car that might have been my LTD.”

Drawing upon every ounce of his undercover acting ability in an effort to maintain his nonchalant manner, Starsky asked, “Did he say which towing company hauled it away?”

“He didn’t catch the name.”

Grinning inwardly, Starsky made no outward show of emotion as he pretended to absorb this information. He knew very well where Hutch’s car was; he’d had it towed away himself. The battered old hunk of squash was sitting on the back lot of Merle the Earl’s car detailing garage.

Just yesterday, he and Hutch had come to this part of town to pick up Starsky’s new wheels at the dealership across the street. Starsky’s beloved new Camaro, complete with all the bells and whistles a car aficionado could want, had finally arrived…but painted the wrong color. Due to an ordering error–one unwittingly caused by Hutch–his beautiful, tough new car was a most un-macho shade of canary yellow. What had started out as such a great morning had quickly become The Day From Hell, made much worse by Hutch’s constant deprecating patter regarding the “Canario”. To add insult to injury, last night–after Hutch had finally said he was sorry and proved it with the best-damned lovemaking a man could ask for–his lover had negated most of his belated apology by stating that the Camaro was “only a car.”

Only a car, my ass.

Hutch just didn’t get it.

That phrase alone necessitated some retaliation. All in good fun, of course, Starsky thought.

“Guess I’ll just have to start calling tow companies,” Hutch said with another sigh.

Starsky nodded his agreement, figuring it would serve Hutch right to have to live without the rolling junkyard for a couple of days–especially since the blond liked to pretend his LTD meant nothing to him. Yeah, Starsky thought. I’ll let the Blintz sweat this one out. After Hutch had “suffered” enough or, at least, admitted he missed his car, Starsky would take him by Merle’s place and pick up the bomber-mobile. And as a peace offering afterwards he figured he would treat his lover to one of those fancy meals that consisted of wine and caviar and snails, which would be sure to leave a crater in his wallet but a smile on Hutch’s face.

Head hung in seeming defeat, Hutch placed a warm hand on Starsky’s thigh. “Let’s go home, babe.”

Starsky felt a moment of contrition as the long fingers gently cupped his knee, but he shoved that feeling away. It’s just to teach him a lesson; it’ll only be for a couple of days….

His glee tinged with just the tiniest hint of guilt, Starsky put the Camaro in gear and headed for their shared house on the other side of town.

 

7:10 p.m.
Fix dinner.

While his partner showered, Hutch slipped into an old pair of red running shorts. Once dressed, he went out to the back patio and fired up the grill. Been ordering out too much lately, Hutch thought, craving some “real” food.

Once he was certain the charcoal had caught, Hutch went back in and fished a couple of chicken breasts from the freezer. Bypassing the microwave with disdain, he chucked the frozen chicken into a stoneware bowl. He accepted the dubious presence of the microwave in their kitchen because Starsky loved it, but he preferred to thaw their dinner in a more natural fashion than “nuking it,” as his partner would say. He placed the bowl under the hot water faucet and turned the tap.

Food prep temporarily under control, Hutch went to the hallway to retrieve the Greater B. C. Yellow Pages from the phone caddy’s drawer. Carrying the phone book back to the kitchen, he set it on the counter and flipped through the alphabet until he got to “T” for towing. Tunelessly, Hutch began to unconsciously whistle a song from The Music Man. He quickly paged through the listing for towing companies.

Hutch stopped whistling.

Including all the gas stations that also had a tow truck, there were seven pages of tow company listings. Hutch counted the entries in just one column: forty. If you took forty listings times four columns per page times seven pages, that came out to…Hutch paused to do the math. I might have to call a thousand places to find my car, he thought weakly, groping for a stool.

If he hadn’t already been rendered weak-kneed by the phone book, the sight of a wet, sleek Starsky marching naked into the kitchen would have finished the job. Without a sideways glance or even a hint of modesty, his lover tromped over to the sink and shut off the faucet.

“You trying to freeze my balls off, Hutchinson?”

Having the grace to at least act abashed, Hutch shook his head. “Sorry, Starsk. I forgot you were in the shower. I wanted to thaw out dinner.”

“Why didn’t you just nuke it?” Starsky asked tolerantly, sketching his thumb in the direction of the microwave. “That’s what it’s for.”

“You know I don’t like that escapee from the Atomic Café.”

“That was a good movie…and you’re gonna have to get over this technophobic attitude, Hutch. This is the wave of the future.”

“Cukes, Starsk–not nukes,” Hutch bandied back, tossing his partner a cucumber from a basket hanging over the counter. Starsky caught it dexterously in his left hand. “That’s the wave of the future. And for the near future–as in tonight–you’re on salad detail.”

“You know, I saw an ad during the late, late show for a salad shooter….”

“Uh, Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think it’s safe to walk around nude in the kitchen?” Hutch picked up a barbecue fork and gestured pointedly in the direction of his partner’s weenie. “A man could have an accident in the kitchen; it’s the second most dangerous room in the house.”

“I know, I know…and the bathroom is the most dangerous. That don’t mean I should take a shower with my clothes on. How about this?” he asked, snatching an apron off its hook by the fridge. It was a gag gift he’d picked up for Hutch last spring at the East Bay City 3rd Annual Pulled Pork Bar-B-Q Contest. Blazoned across the chest of the chef-styled apron in bold red letters was the question, “How’s Yer Pork?” He slipped it on over his head and wrapped the strings around his narrow waist, tying it in the front with a flourish. “That takes care of the important parts.”

Hutch nodded, liking the way his partner’s tawny rump was exposed in the back. Starsky turned around and Hutch had to stifle an earthy chuckle; his partner’s wealth of chest hair contrasted nicely with the white apron. He could feel a gentle, sensual heat rising in his face–and other places. Gently shaking his head to clear out the sensual fog that looked to distract him, it suddenly occurred to him exactly why they ended up ordering out so often. With difficulty, Hutch gathered up his grilling supplies–tongs, forks, marinade, and meat–and escaped to the back yard.

~*~*~

Dinner was sizzling nicely when Hutch came back into the kitchen to find Starsky engaged in the creation of a mega salad. Vegetables covered the entire counter along with jars of pickles and peppers and bottles of oil and spices. He watched as his partner–no doubt deliberately showing off–shifted from foot to foot, causing his ass muscles to bunch and flow delectably. Like a bee to pollen, Hutch was irresistibly drawn in. Plastering his front to Starsky’s back, he reached his long arms around his lover, their hands meeting in the vegetables like some Vedic kitchen god.

“What did you do with the phone book?” Hutch murmured into Starsky’s ear, his chin resting on his partners shoulder.

“Put it up,” his partner said, rubbing his cheek against Hutch’s.

“You never put things away,” he answered, nuzzling a tender earlobe.

“Wrong again, Blintz; you’re the one who never puts things up,” Starsky remonstrated gently. “Before we lived together, whose place always looked like a dump?”

Rather than acknowledge the validity of his partner’s words, Hutch nipped the tantalizing lobe. Starsky purred in response. Encouraged by the throaty rumble, he ran his hands up Starsky’s chest, his fingertips seeking the buds of the other man’s nipples. He teased the tiny nubs peeking out from the edge of the apron and pinched them to hardness before allowing his hands to trace down his companion’s sides.

“That’s nice,” Starsky murmured, turning to face Hutch.

Pulling Starsky close, he bent his head just slightly and he covered his lover’s lips with his own. He nibbled and licked the beloved mouth for an eternity before gently insinuating his tongue into the moist haven. Starsky accepted his tongue, welcomed it with a gentle sucking caress that went straight to Hutch’s groin. Giving a small groan, he pushed his pelvis against Starsky’s hip. His cock responded rapturously, filling the front of his jogging shorts, seemingly wanting to climb out of the skimpy garment. They kissed for what felt like hours, Starsky sucking his tongue sweetly, Hutch rhythmically riding his lover’s hip.

After awhile, Starsky’s hands crept down from their position on his waist; Hutch felt them cup his buttocks through the worn fabric. Strong fingers grasped the globes of his ass, snugging him in closer, increasing the pressure on his erection. Starsky broke their kiss to whisper, “Can you come like this, babe?”

“Yeah,” Hutch breathed out weakly.

“Then come, lover.”

At these words, with a few short thrusts, Hutch gave himself over to orgasm. Rushing up from some place deep inside, a place that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with love, was a wave of feeling so tender, so powerful, it almost floored him. Hutch felt his partner’s grip strengthen. Starsky’s arms became two muscular cables holding him up, binding him in place, keeping him safe as he came and came and came, the exquisite feeling of being loved and loving transformed physical release into a sublime joy.

At last it was over, leaving him weak with pleasure. With a whoosh of mutually pent breath, both men slipped to the floor in a tangle of limbs, leaning against each other weakly, heads resting on their opposite’s shoulder, Hutch with a damp spot staining the front of his shorts a darker red, Starsky with a smaller, but no-less-noticeable wet circle engulfing the “PORK” on his apron.

Starsky began to laugh. It started small, just a chuckle, but in seconds it came from the belly. After a moment’s pause, Hutch joined him. Several minutes passed before Hutch found the strength to push back a bit and wipe the tears of mirth from his face. He looked his partner full in the face, delighting in the twinkling, streamy-eyed gaze that met his.

“What’s so funny?” Starsky asked around a crooked smile.

“You started,” Hutch answered. “You tell me.”

“I asked first.”

He’s such a kid, Hutch thought, loving that about his partner. “Okay. I’m laughing because I’m happy. You make me happy.” Hutch dropped his eyes self-consciously. He knew Starsky didn’t go in for soapy scenes, not that he did, either. Just sometimes it was all too much and he had to tell his lover or the emotion would be too big to handle.

He felt Starsky’s hand trace his jaw, the lightly callused pad of a questing thumb caressing his lower lip. Hutch looked up, into the face of love. Starsky tenderly touched his lips to Hutch’s. The cobalt eyes were full of emotion–emotion Hutch knew he couldn’t begin to articulate. So different, but so much the same, Hutch thought, understanding his partner’s feelings without the aid of totally inadequate words. He grasped Starsky’s thigh through the apron, gripping it for both emotional and physical support. Starsky laid his hand atop Hutch’s, just holding it there as they came back to themselves.

With a wiggle of an eyebrow, Starsky said, “Are you all right?” For one used to reading it, that impishly elastic face spoke volumes. He answered with a nod.

“Good,” Starsky murmured.

“So,” Hutch asked in a more normal tone of voice, trying to get things back on an even keel. “What were you laughing about?”

“I was laughing because I think our dinner’s burnt–again.”

Hutch sniffed the air experimentally, then groaned at the faint scent of charred chicken. “Whatdaya want? Pizza again?”

“Nah, we eat out too much. Let’s see what we can add to this salad….”

 

10:27 p.m.
TV time screwed.

After their impromptu dinner of chef-salad-ala-leftovers, their evening had proven to be one of escalating tensions. Every time Starsky turned up the TV to drown out his partner, Hutch would likewise ratchet up his own volume on the blower. What started as a murmur had progressed through shout and had now grown to a roar any lion would be proud of. The noise had completely destroyed his enjoyment of Real People.

“Keep it down in there, willya!” Starsky bellowed for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I’m on the fucking phone!”

“I know you’re on the fucking phone. You’ve been on the fucking phone all evening. How’s a guy supposed to watch Quincy when his partner’s talking at the top of his lungs on the fucking phone?”

“I’m calling every tow company in the phonebook,” Hutch whined. At least, it sounded like whining to Starsky. The little voice of reason in his head whispered that he himself was probably doing a pretty good imitation of whining, too, but Starsky chose not to listen to that voice.

“How many are there?” Starsky yelled above the even-louder commercial that urged him to Ask any mermaid you happen to see, “What’s the best tuna?”

“What?”

“HOW MANY ARE THERE?”

“Chicken of the Sea!” sang the invisible jinglers.

“HOW MANY WHAT?”

“TOW-TRUCK PLACES!”

“I’ve called forty-one!”

Forty-fucking-phone-calls in two-and-a-half hours? This does not sound good, Starsky thought grimly. Then he thought to ask his original question again. “How many tow-truck listings are there?”

Hutch’s answer was lost to the cheery sound of the Coca-Cola singers harmonizing about how they’d “Like to give the world a Coke.”

“What?”

“TOW-TRUCK PLACES–HOW MANY?” Starsky screamed most inharmoniously.

“A THOUSAND!” his Blintz bellowed back.

Oh shit.

The small voice was talking again, asking him if his practical joke was very practical. Angry, Starsky reached for the old broom handle that he kept by his chair. He used it, in lieu of a remote control, to jab the volume button to the max on their old Magnavox. Our next TV is gonna have remote control no matter what Hutch says AND we’re gonna get a BetaMax so I can record Alice while I watch Fall Guy.

“Hi,” Hutch yelled.

Quincy revved his handsaw.

“I’m calling to see if your company towed my car.”

“The body has obviously been in the water for at least a week.”

“No. I’m not calling to have my car towed. It’s already been towed.”

“Therefore the killer must have–” Quincy began, but the rest was lost to Hutch’s overloud query. Damnit! What did Quincy just say?

“Look, can’t I just give you the license plate, make, and model of my car and have you check your records?”

“–And that means the killer is–”

“A Ford LTD, tan, plate number 5-2-2-L-Q-D.”

“I CAN’T HEAR THE TV!” Starsky roared, only to be met by Hutch’s answering shout.

“Turn down the damned TV–I’m talkin’ to somebody!”

“Fine!” Starsky said, more to himself than for Hutch’s benefit. “I’m gonna take out the trash!” With a riposte any bullfighter would be proud of, Starsky used his broomstick to flick off the television. Leaping to his feet and spinning on his sock-clad toes, an imaginary cape swirling dramatically behind him, Starsky stalked off to the kitchen.

“Don’t forget to stir the compost heap!” Hutch called after his retreating form.

I’m gonna stir your brains with my remote control, Starsky thought.

 

11:11 p.m.
Turn in.

Darkness clothed their bedroom, but Hutch could feel–with that special sixth-sense he’d always had when it came to matters concerning his partner–that Starsky was still awake.

“So,” Hutch ventured. “What are you going to do about the Canario?”

“Whadaya mean?” Starsky answered roughly, his back facing Hutch.

“Well, it doesn’t sound like Merle is going to be back anytime soon,” Hutch said quietly, laying his hand upon his lover’s shoulder. Like touching a rock. Time to pour some oil on these troubled waters. He began to lightly stroke his lover’s neck.

“Yeah, so?” Starsky growled, but softly. Hutch could already hear some of the defensiveness retreating.

“He’s probably going to be racked and stacked with work when he does get back.”

“Yeah,” Starsky opined. “That sounds about right.”

“I was wondering what you’re going to do about it,” Hutch said, even as his dug his fingers into a knot of muscle.

“Huh,” Starsky said, rolling bonelessly onto his stomach, his voice now muffled by the pillow. “It’s not like I can buy a can of Krylon and paint it myself.”

Hutch sat up and repositioned himself such that he could continue to deliver the backrub. “I thought we might help the process along.”

“How?” Starsky mumbled into his pillow. The moonlight was enough to show that his lover was practically drooling.

“Maybe we could strip off the current paint job.”

“Humph. You’ve never stripped a car before in your life.”

Hutch figured the Humph Starsky gave him was deserved, and so he let it go. “No,” Hutch admitted, remembering his Prince and the Pauper days back home in Minnesota–where being “poor” on the toney side of town meant being given the family’s two-year-old Oldsmobile when he turned sixteen. “But you have.” He continued to rubdown his partner, his hands now branching out, cupping Starsky’s shoulders, rolling them forward and back in an effort to loosen the tense flesh locking the joints in place. Starsky gave a small purr.

“That was a long time ago…back when I was a kid and couldn’t afford any better,” Starsky said at last, the hesitation in his voice readily evident to Hutch.

“You could show me what to do,” Hutch said brightly. But after a moment, he changed his tone, willing to cede the field–to admit with actions, if not with words, that his teasing had crossed an unspoken line. “I could, you know, do most of the work. Kinda make up for…well, just make up for the all the crap that went down with your car.”

~*~*~

The touch of those strong fingertips digging into the knotted places under Starsky’s shoulder blades was pure paradise, but he was unable to fully appreciate his partner’s artistry. Why? Because I am such an asshole, Starsky thought, feeling too small to get a job sweeping up at the flea circus. As heat suffused his face, he was glad for the darkness that hid the embarrassed glow. Here I am, getting a terrific backrub, and here is Hutch offering to bust his hump to fix my car.

There was only one way to meet such generosity: Enthusiasm, even if it was forced. “This is a terrific idea, babe! This way, when Merle gets back, he’ll have a blank canvass to work his magic on.”

“Well, it’ll be a helluva lot cheaper if we do some of the work ourselves, that’s for sure,” Hutch opined around a big yawn. “With all the stuff that needs fixing around here–the roof, the deck, the basement, the bathroom off the kitchen–and on top of that the new car payment, we’re gonna need to tighten our financial belts a bit.”

Broke again…fucking terrific.

“But more important than the money,” Hutch continued, “I owe you. I was a jerk, especially with that crack about it being ‘just a car.'”

Starsky felt Hutch’s fingers give a last, lingering caress. “Love you, Starsk,” he whispered, a moment before the velvety scratch of his lover’s mustache ghosted across the nape of his neck. The bucking mattress told Starsky that his partner had stretched out on his side of the bed.

I’m gonna tell Hutch where to find his car, Starsky promised himself, listening to the soft burr of his lover’s breathing, knowing he’d already dropped off. But not right now…tomorrow.

 

Thursday 8:02 a.m.
Code 314–Pop a pervy perp
on our way to Parker Center

Just past the bus stop, Starsky made a hard right into the Straus-Ortega Automotive parking lot. A supplier for many of the eastside’s auto-body shops, it opened early and closed late. Should be able to get everything we need here to strip the paint off the body and then prime the car.

Easing into a tight space between a lime-green Gremlin and a blue-over-white Ford pick-up truck, Starsky fed the engine a little gas before turning the key. Despite the humiliating color, he liked the deep rumble of the V-8 engine and was supremely satisfied with the Camaro’s cornering. This is gonna work out after all. Me and Hutch’ll have my new beauty all ready for Merle when he gets back.

Twenty minutes later, after buying everything from a sanding wheel to hundreds of sandpaper discs in textures ranging from extremely rough to finely smooth, he and Hutch dumped everything into the trunk before closing it with a solid chunk. “Whadaya say we hit a drive-thru for breakfast?” Starsky asked his partner when they were on the road again, feeling quite optimistic about his car’s prospects now that they had laid in the proper supplies to begin the renewal process. “There’s that new place on the way that makes an unbelievable grape-jelly pierogi.”

“I can’t imagine anything more disgusting than a jelly pierogi,” Hutch groused. “Except maybe that peanut-butter burrito you made me eat for lunch last week.”

“Disgusting!” Starsky gave a deliberate snort. “That’s nothing compared to the tofu pup special you ordered for me at Govinda’s Vegetarian Palace. I wanted a real hotdog and all I got was a soybean dildo.”

“Put enough mustard on ’em and you can’t tell the difference, Starsk. Besides,” Hutch added cattily, “the only thing real in a so-called real hotdog are the yummy beef lips and those nutritious ground-up bones.”

“Propaganda!”

“You don’t even know what propaganda means,” Hutch sniffed.

At just that moment, Starsky saw something that made his hackles rise. “But I sure as hell know what exhibitionist means. Hold on!”

Starsky placed a steadying hand upon his partner’s chest before spinning the steering wheel and gunning the engine. Emitting a throaty roar–reminiscent of the retired Torino, but deeper and more guttural–his car executed a sharp one-eighty scant feet ahead of a bread delivery truck.

“There! Beside the dumpster…right next to those kids at the bus stop!”

But Hutch already had the radio in hand. “Dispatch, this is Zebra-3. We have a 314–indecent exposure in progress and are responding!”

~*~*~

“What’s with the car?” their perp–the dicky waving flasher–asked snidely, pointing with his chin at the Camaro’s bright yellow hood a mere inch away from his face. “What are you guys, the school-bus avengers?”

“You,” Starsky informed, as he closed the cuffs and hauled the guy up none-too-gently, “have the right to remain silent–and that includes keeping any cute comments about my car to yourself.”

“Dispatch,” Hutch said into the radio as soon as they had settled their suspect into the back seat, “we are 10-19–returning to station with suspect in custody.”

The arrest seemed to be straightforward enough, until Hutch noticed what their passenger was up to. Oh no!

“Starsk…you are not going to believe this.”

“What?”

“I think our perp just took a wiz in his pants…all over your new leather seats.”

~*~*~

The smell of urine hit Starsky at the same moment he perceived the twitching smirk that wasn’t quite hidden by his partner’s mustache. Angry at their prisoner, angry at Hutch, and just plain angry at an unfair world that would bring the black rain down on such a terrific car, Starsky cast an evil glare at his partner. The Red Sox’ll win the pennant before I tell you where your car’s stashed, Hutchinson! Leaving this thought unspoken, Starsky merely said, “Now we don’t have time for breakfast.”

“How can you think about eating with that stink in your nose?”

“By the time we book this asshole, finish the paperwork, and fumigate the Canario, I’ll be hungry as hell and it’ll be time for an early lunch. I know just the place!”

“I don’t know, Starsk,” Hutch responded. “Not sure I’ll be able to think about food even then. “Something about this car kinda puts me in mind of urine.”

“I second that emotion,” their perp piped in.

“SHUT UP!” both cops yelled in unison.

 

10:57 a.m.
The Dime-monster
rears its ugly head.

“You know,” Hutch said pensively, “if I’m working on the Canario in the evenings, that means I’m going to have to call tow-truck companies during the day in between cases using a pay phone. That is, unless you’d like to make a few calls for me? Maybe during commercials?” He infused his voice with a note of expectation in the hope his partner could be persuaded to help out.

“I hate to say I told you so,” Starsky said in a totally I-told-you-so tone, “but who wouldn’t listen to me when I said I wouldn’t want to leave my car all alone in a strange part of town overnight? Who didn’t care enough about his car to go pick it up, eh? I told you then that I didn’t want to hear it if someone stole your wheels.”

“Fine,” Hutch said coolly. “I’ll make my own phone calls. I just thought I’d ask.”

~*~*~

Starsky watched as his partner bought a sandwich from a roadside roachcoach and paid with a twenty.

“Can I have that change in dimes, please?” his Blintz asked politely.

“All seventeen bucks and thirty-seven cents?” said the lunch-counter man.

“Yeah…if you’ve got it.”

“You can have a ten, a five, and the two-thirty in dimes,” the man said with a rueful shake of his head, as if he thought Hutch might be soft in the head.

“Thanks,” Hutch growled, taking the proffered change.

~*~*~

Hutch had made him pull over in front of a bodega and he watched as the big blond bought a pack of gum. He laughed silently when the girl at the counter frowned at the ten he tired to pay with. “You got anything smaller?” she asked rudely.

“Uhm, no.”

With a flip of her hair, she clearly showed that she thought old guys who buy a twelve-cent pack of gun with a ten were most definitely lame.

Obvious to one who’d know him so long, Starsky watched as Hutch screwed up his courage to ask, “Can I have that change in dimes, please?”

“How much?” the girl asked. “Like, a dollar?”

“No. The whole thing.”

“Mister, you gotta be kidding me.”

Shoulders slumping, Starsky saw Hutch retreat from the field of battle. “Just give me some dimes.”

“I can give you a dollar’s worth.”

~*~*~

This time Hutch made him stop in front of a newsstand. He watched his partner buy the morning paper again, despite the fact that they’d read theirs at home over coffee this morning. Hutch handed over a five and asked, “Can I have all the change in dimes?”

“No problem.”

“Think you can spare a few more?”

“As many as you want, pal.”

Hutch turned to him and pantomimed a high-five in the air in his general direction, his million-mega-watt smile lighting up the street corner. With a twinge of guilt, Starsky returned the high-five in response and gave a little grin of his own. But he felt that small smile evaporate when the paper sack Hutch was using to carry his dimes broke, scattering coins all over the floor of his car.

“Well, look at it this way, Starsk,” he said blithely, getting into his car, choosing to leave the coins on the floor to slide around. “In some places, having money on the floor of a new car is good luck.”

Even if that car turns out to be your hearse? Starsky thought evilly.

 

6:17 p.m.
Worked late again
to meet a snitch.

“Why the hell did you say we’d meet Willy the Shake way out here?”

“‘Cause this is the only pay phone I know that still accepts dimes. All the others have been converted to quarters.”

“You brought us all the way out here to meet a two-bit snitch–who probably won’t show–forcing us to have a crappy sack dinner on the hood of my car, just so you could save fifteen cents?”

“Fifteen cents times nine-hundred-fifty-nine remaining tow-truck companies equals–” Hutch paused to do the math in his head “–one-hundred-forty-three-dollars-and-eighty-five-cents.”

“Wow…that’s more than my car payment.”

“No kidding, partner,” Hutch shot back. “I’m trying to save us a buck here, so cut me a break, okay? You think I like the fact that tracking down my car is costing us a mint?”

“No. I guess not.”

Starsky had an odd look on his face as Hutch got out of the car to feed the pay phone. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the crumpled paper of the names and numbers he was going to try and call today.

He’s probably thinking “I told you so”–which he did. Which he hasn’t hesitated to point out either.

With a frustrated intake of breath, Hutch made ready to start the process all over again.

“Hi…I’m calling to see if your company towed my car….”

 

9:02 p.m.
LaSalle Auto Shop 101.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s too late to be messin’ with this stuff,” Starsky said grumpily, but Hutch ignored him.

“Com’on, Starsk,” Hutch wheedled. “I know I won’t get far tonight, but you can at least show me the basics.”

“But I’m missing Cheers,” Starsky whined.

“Just teach me real quick what I need to do and that way you won’t miss Taxi.”

With much grumbling, Starsky carefully removed both headlamp chrome retaining rings and the outer headlight mounting buckets, leaving the front of his car looking like it had gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali. Once the parts were safely stowed in the corner, under some newspapers, he taught Hutch how to use the sander on the fiberglass nose, knowing that he was going to need to replace the whole thing anyway, therefore it was the perfect surface for Hutch to learn on. Even if he screws it up, it won’t matter.

And he did miss Taxi, but he was just in time for the beginning of Hill Street Blues.

Thank god! This is my favorite show, he thought, settling in with a cold beer and a can of peanuts.

 

10:20 p.m.
Revenge of Radiohead.

Hutch, covered in the yellow dust that used to be the Camaro’s paint job, zipped up his pants as he exited the hall bathroom. Then he tuned into the wolf whistle his partner gave before he declared aloud, “She is soooo hot!”

“Who?”

“That lady district attorney–Joyce Davenport. Cap’n Furillo is one lucky guy.”

“Captain Furillo is a figment of some TV writer’s imagination, so he’s not anything, including lucky,” Hutch said with a shake of his head, reminded of his great-grandmother who used to think the afternoon soaps were real. “But I’ll grant you, Veronica Hamel is hot.” What he neglected to mention, though, was how much she reminded him of Vanessa.

Hutch liked that they could still appreciate a beautiful woman, could talk about them openly, despite the changes in their relationship and without either of them feeling threatened. He just didn’t think that kind of ease applied to mentions of hot ex-wives.

He then remembered what he’d come in for, besides taking a leak. He went back into the bathroom and took their radio out of the window. This was not their old transistor radio–it had given up the ghost some months ago. This was a new state-of-the-art model that didn’t rely on just on batteries; it could also be plugged in.

He came into the living room, radio in hand and, because the commercial was still on, Starsky could give him the time of day.

“Wha’cha gonna do with the radio?”

“Listen to it while I work.”

“You can’t hear it over the sander.”

“No, but I can hear it when it stops.”

“Huh…seems like a waste of effort to me.”

“Well, it’s my effort to waste.” But Hutch saw that his repartee went unheeded as Mick Belker–snarling like a demented dog as he took down a suspect–was back on the air. With a shrug, he went back to the garage and plugged the radio into the octopus-like extension cord that already powered his sander, two large fans, three shop lights, and an air purifier. But the radio proved to be the straw that broke a very weak camel’s back.

~*~*~

How the hell was I supposed to know it would blowout every fuse in the box? Hutch asked himself, filled with righteous indignation as he drove the Canario to Dobey’s to borrow enough fuses to get the power back on.

Of course, by the time he got back, his partner was sitting in the dark, consumed by the blues, as Hill Street was long over.

Hutch didn’t mind sleeping on the couch. The bedroom was pretty frosty anyway–and there wasn’t even any air conditioning going.

 

Friday 9:08 a.m.
Get bad news from booking.

“Can you believe Judge Fusko?” Hutch hissed, slamming his coffee down on his desk and losing half of it in the process. He paid no heed to the brown wave that lapped up at the feet of their ceramic piggybank. “He let that short-eyed freak go with a warning!”

“What? That guy we arrested yesterday?” Starsky said, disbelief readily evident.

“One and the same.”

“I’ll be damned…Judge Fuck-o let him go? On what grounds?”

“Here’s the funny part,” Hutch said incredulously, silently agreeing with his partner’s nickname for the man he considered the worst judge in the county, possibly the world. “He bought that prick’s song and dance about a bladder infection and needing to take an emergency leak, leaving him no choice but to whip it out on the street corner.”

Hutch looked on appreciably as his partner shook his head, the clean dark curls catching the overhead fluorescents perfectly. “Anybody who took a look at that guy’s sheet–” At this, Starsky reached into his out-basket and snagged his copy of the arrest form. He read it with a hard scowl kinking his features. “Here’s his name: Norman Lasser. Been cited by three different beat cops outside two separate schools for loitering.”

“This turkey is bad news,” Hutch opined.

“What are we gonna do about it, partner?”

“I think we better keep our eyes on this creep.”

“Think we can throw a surveillance net over this animal?”

“Yeah.”

 

Seven days later….
Friday night, 11:07 p.m.
First day off in two weeks.

Dog tired in body, but satisfied in spirit, Starsky sat at his desk in Parker Center carefully filling out the last few lines of an arrest report. Methodically, he documented every step of his and Hutch’s investigation, knowing that no matter how good the arrest, convictions came from perfect paperwork expertly detailed. And he wanted this conviction to stick.

For the last week, he and Hutch had spent nearly every working hour–and not a few hours of their own time–keeping track of Norman “Short-Eyes” Lasser. But all their hard work had paid off and ended up saving an innocent five-year-old girl from being accosted in the process. With the weight of their personal observations plus having arrested the freak in the process of kidnapping the child, they’d had no trouble getting a search warrant for Lasser’s house. There they found photographic evidence of at least three other major crimes with children to put this freak away for a long, long time.

And who knows? Starsky thought grimly, well aware that even convicts have certain standards. Maybe someone will do us all a favor and kill this creep in prison.

He’d had no time to enter into his little black book any of the personal musings he so enjoyed. In fact, they’d had no time to do anything of a personal nature this week: no lovemaking, no work on his car, nothing. Hutch hadn’t even found the time to call about his LTD and such being the case, their piggybank bulged with dimes, while the Camaro’s ashtray sloshed change onto the floor every time he made a sharp turn. As far as his partner knew, the squash was still being held prisoner by some nameless wrecking service.

Starsky was tired, disheartened, pissed, grumpy, all of the above. He had never expected his scheme of having Hutch’s car towed would have lasted this long, but there just hadn’t been a chance for anything lately. It was going to be a helluva lot harder to ‘fess up now, after all this time. Hutch wasn’t even going to remember that this was really his fault. And besides, Hutch had been so damned nice about everything lately. The revenge thing looked small and petty in the light of all that. This was not how it was supposed to play out.

What the hell am I going to do?

Starsky was just pulling the triplicate report off the typewriter when he felt a warm hand grip his shoulder. “You ’bout ready, Starsk?”

Ready? Sure, Starsky was ready…ready for this charade to be over, ready for his car to not look like it belonged to Big Bird, ready to be able to sleep at night without feeling guilt eating him alive over what he’d done to Hutch. Most of all, he was ready to stop being celibate. This ‘no time or energy for sex’ thing sucked.

Problem was, once he told Hutch the truth, his dry spell was likely to continue.

“Yeah…let me just check the carbon copies and then I’ll be ready to go.”

~*~*~

Hutch fell asleep on the drive home and woke to the horrible skreeetttch that was the sound of Starsky opening their rusty garage door. His lover got back in and put the car in gear, expertly maneuvering the wide-bodied vehicle through the narrow doorway. “Should’ve woke me up,” Hutch said around a big yawn. “I would have got out and let the Canario in.”

“I know.”

Starsky’s voice was small, quiet even, in a way that wasn’t normal for his exuberant lover.

“What’s wrong, babe?” Hutch asked gently. “We got the bad guy. The DA is going to jack the jail up and put him under it.”

“It’s not the case.”

“Then what?”

Pure mumble passed over Starsky’s lips.

“Say again?”

“Canario.”

Uh-oh, Hutch thought. Here it comes. The yellow car had been bad enough, but now the paint had been sanded off a quarter of it, making it look like a refuge from a junk yard. He could understand why that bothered Starsky, but he wasn’t willing to take the rap for it. “Look, if you’re mad because I haven’t gotten too far with stripping the Canario, you can just stuff it. When have I had a minute–”

“I’m not mad about the stripping…or the lack of stripping either,” Starsky added desultorily, putting the car in park and putting the engine. They sat in the dark of the garage, neither of them having thought of turning on the light this morning before they left, even if they would have trusted the mouse-gnawed wiring not to burn the place down in their absence.

“What’s going on, buddy?” Hutch asked softly.

“My name is David Starsky and I drive a Canario,” his lover lamented, sounding like a new-to-sobriety member of Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“Starsk–”

“Months of research–”

“Starsk–”

“Visited every dealership in three counties–”

“Starsk–”

“Waited weeks for the special-order shipment to arrive–”

“Starsk–”

“For what? My badass muscle machine ain’t a pony car…it’s a powderpuff.”

“Starsk!”

His lover finally switched on the dome light and Hutch could see the gleam of something that looked a hell of a lot like unshed tears.

Hutch’s left hand leapt to his lover’s slumped shoulder and held on for dear life. In ten years, he could count on one hand the amount of times he’d seen his partner tear up–and have three fingers leftover. “Hey!” he desperately soothed. “It’s just temporary.”

“No,” Starsky said, shaking his head in what looked to be defeat. “My car has been dented, had metal pipes dropped on it, sprung a leak. It’s been rained on. Pissed on. It’s cursed. Even I’m callin’ it the Canario. I’m doomed to drive the land-yacht version of the Yellow Submarine.”

Giving a squeeze of encouragement, Hutch took Starsky’s keys from the ignition and put them in his pocket–sometimes his partner would chose to “drive the blues away” and he didn’t want to risk Starsky taking off while in this dark state of mind. “It’s late….”

“I know it’s late.”

Hutch smiled, and sang an improvised version of We Got Tonight, the famous Bob Seger song.

“I know you’re weary…I know your plans…should include sleeeep.”

“Give it a rest, babe,” Starsky interrupted. “I know you mean well. I’m just gonna crash and burn. After a few hours sleep, it won’t hurt as much.”

With that, Hutch watched his lover exit the car, drag himself across the garage, mount the two steps into their mudroom, and disappear into their house.

Well, I was going to spend most of tomorrow trying to find the LTD….

 

Saturday 6:07 a.m.
First day off in two weeks.

God-damned-noise!

Starsky’s pillow wasn’t making an appreciable dent in the buzz-saw-like sound assaulting his exhausted brain. Tugging on a pair of pajama bottoms (one of Hutch’s–all of his were dirty and there had been no time to do the wash) he stomped out to the garage. He threw open the door to find his obviously insane partner in the midst of a cloud of dust made golden by the dawn light filtering through the row of tiny windows that ran the width of the garage door. Stunned for a moment, as this was not what Starsky expected, he couldn’t help but think, Hutch looks like he’s beaming up. But he quickly shook off the image in order to hold on to his anger.

“What the hell are you doing?” Starsky demanded. At first Hutch didn’t hear him and he was obliged to yell his question again. At last Hutch stopped. Turning, he pulled down the bandanna that served to filter out the paint particles.

“What do you want, babe? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“You’re busy?” Starsky barked. “What about me? Don’t you think I’m busy?”

“Doing what?” Hutch asked, his expression puzzled.

“I was sleeping, Blintz…you know, that thing we haven’t gotten much of lately?”

“But I thought…your car….”

“Like you say, Hutch, it’s just a car,” Starsky said bitterly. “Now shut it off and let me get some sleep.”

“No.”

Starsky had just turned on his heel when he was drawn back by the defiant syllable.

“No, what? No you’re not going to stop sanding off the paint?”

“No…the Canario is not just a car.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Suppose I don’t?”

“Don’t play stupid, Starsk,” Hutch tut-tutted. “This car is as much a part of you as your dick. We’ve got to get the Canario back in order in order for you to be back in order.”

“Wha’th’hell? Have you been snorting too much paint dust, Hutchinson?”

“If I have, it’s for you!”

“For me? If you hadn’t fucked up my sample book, I wouldn’t have a Canario!”

“Oh, is that the song you’re singing today?” Hutch shook his head, obviously disgusted. “Fine. Think what you want. But get out of my garage. I’ve got a car to strip.” With that, he hiked his makeshift mask into place and began to sand anew.

Fine! Starsky thought, storming back to their bedroom to change into yesterday’s jeans and his cleanest dirty shirt.

~*~*~

By the time he caught the cross-town bus, a lot of his pissyness had bled away–but not all. Nevertheless, Starsky wondered how he’d managed to end up at his best friend’s door–at least the best friend he wasn’t sleeping with–at ten after seven on a Saturday morning.

This is stupid. Huggy’s probably dead asleep.

He thought about leaving before Huggy even knew he was there, but he realized he didn’t even have change for the return bus fare: all of his coins were either in the piggybank at work or stuffed into the Canario’s ashtray, waiting for that mythic day when Hutch would get a chance to call some tow-truck companies from the one pay phone in the city that took dimes and find his car that was never really lost in the first place.

Don’t got a lot of options here. He knocked.

It was several minutes, and a “be right there, man” before Huggy appeared half-naked, rubbing at the sand in his eyes. “What brings you to my doorstep? Collecting for the policemen’s ball?” Peering out the door, Huggy looked left, then right. “Where’s your better half, oh-centurion-of- mine?” he asked, scratching his narrow chest.

“He’s paying his debt to society,” Starsky said, pushing past Huggy and into his living room.

“And which society would that be?” Huggy asked, turning to the kitchen, obviously trusting that Starsky would follow him. “The one that doesn’t make bones about the irony of riding around in a canary-colored undercover vehicle?”

“Something like that,” Starsky answered, already pulling down the wherewithal to brew coffee.

“So let’s see this new car of yours that I’ve heard so much about but haven’t laid eyes upon.”

“I can’t…I…uhm…took the bus.” At Huggy’s questioning brow, he explained, as briefly as possible, where Hutch was and what he was doing.

“Sounds like a sweet deal to me, Starsky. Why the long face?”

Starsky hung his head, ashamed to tell Huggy about his fight with Hutch. And why is that?

‘Cause I know I’m being a royal asshole. He squirmed under Huggy’s dark gaze and then it seemed his friend let him off the hook. “Why don’t you finish the coffee while I get dressed? I got some deliveries coming in this morning. You can help me unload….”

~*~*~

And so Starsky accompanied Huggy to the bar and was duly put to work, taking in deliveries: beer, wine, liquor, meat, and frozen food–mostly French fries and battered onion rings. But as much fun as it was to hang with Huggy and do work that had nothing to do with monstrous child rapists…it just wasn’t the same as being with Hutch. Also, he was beginning to get a case of the creeping guilts: Here he was, sure, helping out a friend, but it was a friend who didn’t particularly need his help. In fact, by the lunch rush, Starsky was getting the distinct impression he was getting on Huggy’s nerves.

“I can’t play another game of pool with you, Starsk! I got work to do!”

“Fine,” he responded in a huff. “I’ll go play some pinball.”

“You’ve played four hundred games of pinball. Let some of my paying customers have a turn at the machine, man.” Snatching the fry out of Starsky’s hand, he added, “And stop eating all my profits. Four free plates of French fries is my limit.”

Feeling like a scolded child, Starsky blustered, “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“Go home and make up with your partner, dummy,” Huggy said, doing a credible imitation of Redd Foxx from Sanford and Son.

Yeah, dummy. Good idea.

“Uh, Huggy?”

“What now?”

“Can you lend me some bus fare?”

 

12:44 p.m.
Apocalypse–
Yellow be thy color

Every surface in the garage–floor, walls, doors, windows–was covered in a fine yellow paint dust. BCS43511 Buttercup Canary Sunrise dust, to be exact. In the hours he’d been gone, he saw that Hutch had managed to strip the front third of the car completely clean of color, making the nose look like it had begun to burn up during re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere. Just like the garage, his lover was likewise coated in a fine dusting of artificial pollen.

“What am I gonna do with you?” Starsky asked, when Hutch finally noticed him and turned off the sander.

“I don’t know, Starsk,” Hutch said, pulling the protective bandanna free from his face. Sweat steamed down from his flattened bangs. “Shoot me and put me out of my misery?”

“Nah…I got a better idea,” Starsky said, knowing that actions speak louder than words. “Unplug all this electrical stuff and put it away, partner. I’m gonna get the hose.”

“Hose?” Hutch said suspiciously. “What for?”

“We’re gonna get the paint dust off my car, slap on a coat of primer to keep out any rust, and call it a day,” Starsky said reasonably, already bending to pull the coiled water hose out from beneath the rickety workbench.

“Why?” Hutch demanded. “Am I not doing it good enough for your precious Canario?”

Starsky stiffened. Then he let go of the hose and turned to face his partner. He crossed the few steps to stand in front of Hutch, who stood his ground like a skittish horse expecting the whip, yet ready to take the bit and fight back. Slowly, so as not to startle this man he loved above anyone and anything, Starsky gently brought his left hand to rest upon the sweaty brow–the only part of Hutch that wasn’t caked in flecks of paint. “You’re what revs my engine.”

“W-what?” Hutch stammered, seemingly taken aback. Indeed, he took a step backwards, but Starsky had to touch his lover, and so took a step forward, just as if they we’re dancing a tango.

“I wanna shift your gears.”

“B-but–” Hutch stepped to the side. Starsky followed.

“I wanna climb in you and drive you as hard and as fast as I can until I run outta gas.”

“Starsk–” His blond lover took a last step backwards, all that the tiny garage would allow, and found himself pinned to the Camaro’s left front fender. Starsky plastered them together, chest to groin, and brought up his other hand, sliding it around the long neck so that he could cup the sweet nape, regardless of the grit and sweat and dirt caked there, knowing only that he needed to hold on to his man with both hands.

“You’re my Canario.”

And then they kissed.

At first Hutch was passive beneath him, his jaw slack, his lips parted but immobile. But Starsky found it didn’t take long for him to give back, returning passion with passion. When they finally broke for breath, it was Hutch who said, “We gotta wash this car and seal it so we can take a long drive together.”

“Oh yeah.”

After pulling it into the driveway, together they washed Starsky’s car free of any hint of paint dust, sharing many warm looks, touching each other “accidentally” when they could. When every last speck had been sluiced away, they used new shop rags to give the sanded parts of the body an alcohol rub, so that the surface would dry quickly and cleanly. Finally, they put on a fast-drying primer, guaranteed to prevent rust and harden in ten minutes or your money back. Starsky then pulled his car back into garage and gave the place a quick spiff-up as well, trying not to dally too long. No. He had other plans and he was saving his most loving attentions for the one who most deserved them: Hutch.

“It’s set, Starsk,” Hutch announced, pulling his testing finger free from the underside of the right headlight bucket. “Dry as a bone.” Hutch, covered in yellow paint flecks to the point that he looked almost like an underdone Cheese-doodle, straightened and stretched. “I guess that means we’re done out here, right?”

“Nope,” Starsky announced, hose in hand, “we’re just getting started.”

“Good,” Hutch said, already stripping off his shirt. “I didn’t want to track this crap into the house anyway.” In a heartbeat, he was naked but for his beach shoes, his clothes kicked to the doorway that led to the mudroom. Starsky turned the hose on his partner, washing away the paint residue. It wasn’t long before his golden boy was no longer golden.

“You’re coated, too,” Hutch said, taking the nozzle from Starsky’s hand. “Strip.”

With a grin, Starsky complied, wanting nothing better than to be naked with this partner, but in deference to the gritty concrete floor, he too kept his Zorries on.

A few minutes later Hutch announced, “That about does it.”

Together they stowed the hose and when they stood, they immediately pressed close together, continuing their kiss from earlier, as if there had been no break. Starsky kissed his way around Hutch’s sweet, fuzzy lip until they were both gasping for breath. Too good, too fast, Starsky thought, vision swimming, and reluctantly parted their kiss.

He felt himself trembling–Hutch too–but with excitement, not the anger he’d felt for so much of this past week. The old garage door with its row of tiny windows caked with grime and cobwebs, filtered out the last of the twilight. Starsky could just make out the line of the fine, chiseled features–that cross between American aristocrat and Norwegian settler that looked like nothing less than a living cameo–all creamy soft in appearance, but firm in character, and kind. The line of Hutch’s straight nose, the lean jaw, and the shadow of the sculpted lips all combined to make a movie-star handsome package. Topping all this was a fall of shoulder-length white-gold hair that gleamed new-money bright even in this decayed light. But his partner’s eyes were soft and vague, shrouded in shadow. I love Hutch’s eyes. Wish I could see ’em. But that would mean separating, even if just long enough to cross the garage and switch on the overhead. Nope…not letting him go.

Leisurely, Starsky rubbed his stubbled chin over one high cheekbone, down his lover’s equally stubby cheek, under the fine chin, and back up the other side of the striking face. He noted that, like him, Hutch hadn’t shaved today, leaving them both with a crop of short whiskers that softly rasped and clung together like Velcro. Nice, Starsky thought, liking the bristly sensation. But he was gentle as he reversed his trail, rubbing anew all the planes of his partner’s face–Hutch’s skin was tender, and could easily be marked in their loveplay. Done it enough times to know.

“That’s good,” Hutch rumbled, the sound coming from deep within his chest.

Maybe as deep as his balls, Starsky thought.

“Damn right it’s good…and gonna get better,” Starsky answered wetly, placing his lips against the shell of his lover’s ear. He darted his tongue out, lashing the soft lobe, stealing a little taste. Hunger incited by Hutch’s appreciative groan, Starsky suddenly found himself needing more. He grasped the sweet nub of flesh between his teeth, firm enough to tease and please, but not hard enough to harm. Again Hutch groaned; again the sound came from deep within, calling to Starsky’s cock. He felt his shaft fill and rise, felt the first tear of pre-sem seep from the rounded tip, brought forth by nothing more than a moan from his love’s lips. Like Pavlov’s fucking dog! But Starsky pushed this thought aside, not caring that the vocal evidence of Hutch’s love could make his cock stand up and beg like a seal.

At that moment, Hutch’s head snapped back, and the earlobe he’d been ravishing escaped his grasp.

“Want more, David…” Hutch mumbled brokenly. Many times during their lovemaking, Starsky had seen Hutch react this way: That’s the signpost up ahead–the Incoherence Zone. Pleasurable anticipation arced down his spine and into this balls; Starsky felt his shaft tap-tap his tummy in applause. And why? Because Hutch only calls me David when he’s really flying high.

Starsky bent his neck and brought his lips into play upon his partner’s long, cabled neck. With the same mastery Ramon brought to his dips, Starsky nuzzled and nipped his way down to the sharp collarbones. At that, Starsky felt Hutch’s strong hands latch desperately onto his ass, reminiscent of a drowning man clutching a life preserver. I like the feel of Hutch’s hands on me! Giving a grunt of pleasure, Starsky ground his groin into his partner’s crotch. His shaft immediately met with Hutch’s oh-so-rigid member. Soon both of their cocks pushed and slid against the other, desperately trying to find a rhythm.

Too good! Too fucking good!

“Wanna suck you,” Starsky growled into Hutch’s neck. It took everything he had not to mark his partner as his own, not to leave a path of lovebites as wide as his palm.

“Yeah…yeah…good idea,” Hutch panted. “Don’t think I can stand…gotta lean against something.”

“No problemo,” Starsky answered, dancing them backwards, their rubber Zorries scuffing on the concrete beneath their feet. One, two, three steps, and he had Hutch pressed against the door of his Canario–Camaro–he quickly corrected. Starsky brought his hands up to Hutch’s shoulders, massaging, kneading, and then he allowed himself to move down the long torso as he slowly knelt before his partner. His hands, splayed wide, cupped and caressed every inch of Hutch’s creamy flesh from neck to nads. He feels so good, Starsky thought, lost in the sensation of loving his partner, and was therefore able to ignore the uncushioned floor.

But there was no way Starsky could ignore the hunk of meat that swayed with a light of its own in front of his face. Hutch is way more’n a mouthful. But Starsky, after two years of practice sucking this pole, had discovered he had a flare for fellatio. He could take Hutch’s big shaft down to the root, right down into his throat…‘Cause that’s the only way to get it all in.

At first he brushed his stubbled cheek against the head of Hutch’s cock, liking the way it jerked away, trying to escape the scrape of his whiskers. Again Starsky wished he’d taken the time to flip on the lights–after all, Hutch was just too beautiful to waste in the dark. But his other senses were kicking in, helping out in a way they wouldn’t have felt compelled to if his eyes had been put on the field. Scents were sharper and he thought dreamily, Hutch smells good. Not fresh-from-the-shower after having used the all-natural mint scrub he bought at the health food store kind of good, but simply clean–himself clean–nothing artificial. Warm. Male. Just plain Hutch…and he smells edible.

Bending his neck, Starsky rubbed first his chin, then his lips, across the head of Hutch’s cock, knowing the contrast in sensation would be maddening. His partner’s big hand cupped Starsky’s jaw, gently holding him in place. The pad of Hutch’s thumb stroked Starsky’s bottom lip, leaving a ticklish itch in its wake, causing him to dart out his tongue to dispel the sensation. He expected the return of Hutch’s thumb, but instead his tongue was met by the snub head of Hutch’s cock. Then, inch by inch, Starsky swallowed, allowing Hutch to feed that fantastic cock into his mouth.

Nothing–no one–can compare with this man!

Hutch pulled out, resting the dark head of his shaft on Starsky’s lips–he immediately jabbed the pointy tip of his tongue into the slit that split the rounded head, teasing this tiny mouth in a way that had his partner hissing with delight.

“Please! Slow down! I’m gonna come!” Hutch begged.

Starsky pulled off the hard shaft with a wet smack. “Sorry,” he said, lightly patting Hutch’s stomach, soothing him, soothing them both.

“No! Don’t be. I just…just don’t want it to end.”

“Me neither.”

“Just go slower, babe,” Hutch entreated as his lover’s mouth once again descended upon his unbridled shaft.

“As slow as I can, my big blond beauty.”

Hutch moaned and gave a thrust, and the thick cock pounded the back of Starsky’s throat. But it didn’t matter to Starsky–he was riding the wave of their shared passion. Wrapping his arms around Hutch’s waist, Starsky’s arms tightened, bringing him closer–communicating the only way he knew how in this moment, with his body. He lashed the bottom of Hutch’s shaft as he again pulled out, and then grazed his teeth along the thin flesh on the return trip. Both men groaned, Hutch’s cries echoing in their dingy garage, Starsky’s delivered to the meat filling his mouth, until his lips were sealed around the base of Hutch’s cock, buried in the tufts of golden hair there, his chin planted firmly against his lover’s taut ballsac.

“Gonna come, babe,” Hutch announced, but that’s not what Starsky wanted… Hutch deserves better.

Starsky wrapped the fingers of his left hand around Hutch’s balls. Pressing firmly, he was able to stop Hutch from coming. “Whadayadoing?” his partner cried in breathless pants, sounding like he was going to Code Blue at any moment. Or would that be Code Blue Balls?

At last, when it appeared that Hutch was not going to have a coronary, Starsky pushed back a bit. Wishing once more that he’d had the sense to turn on a light, he made do with touches, taste, and the warm smell of his man. Hutch’s voice, calmer now, came to him in the dark.

“What do you have in mind, David?”

Heart melting at all the trust inherent in the loving tone, Starsky rocked back on his heels, gathered himself for a moment, and then pulled himself upright, using Hutch’s hand to steady them both. Starsky knew what he wanted…he wanted the one person he loved most in the world inside him…while inside the one thing he loved best.

A great lover…a great car. What more could a man want?

Just the thought of Hutch fucking him in the Camaro was almost enough to cause him to shoot his load.

“I thought you might like a special treat, Nature Boy,” Starsky purred, pressing his chest to Hutch’s. “I know you’ve been working on this car all day, but I thought you might like to do just a little more work…like, maybe, working that fine cock of yours up my ass while you kick back and relax in a butter-soft leather bucket seat?”

To give Hutch credit, his partner gave the impression of giving all due consideration to his offer, going so far as to give the passenger side seat the hairy eyeball. But he could tell what verdict would be handed down even before Hutch opened his mouth.

“There is no way me, you, and my aching back are gonna fit in that car and still be able to screw, Mister Magic Fingers,” Hutch woofed breathlessly, his words resolute, but his leaking cock clearly game to give it a try. His partner looked about for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “I know what to do.”

It was Hutch’s turn to lead their loving dance, and Starsky allowed him to move them the length of the fender in what would normally be a very cheesy waltz maneuver but for the sexy bump and rub of their cocks striking and nuzzling each other. Before he knew it, Starsky was being dipped, quickly splayed across the hood of his car, like a Thanksgiving turkey on a platter. Legs spread wide and dangling, Starsky was open and ready for action.

And then he felt it…the thing he’d most been craving.

The back of Hutch’s hand stroked the rimple of flesh that ran from the back of his balls right on to his hole. His lover’s fingertip touched the opening and slowly circled, as if silently asking for permission to enter. When he felt Hutch press two fingers into his body, instead of the usual one, he figured his lover must be as anxious for the big event as he was. In a flash, Starsky felt the fingers withdrawn, but he didn’t have to miss them long as Hutch stuffed them in again, deeper this time. And then Hutch touched that special place, the one deep inside that only he was allowed to touch. Starsky felt his whole world transform, his world lighting up like the big tree at Rockefeller Plaza.

“Don’t stop, man!” Starsky cried, his tone one of command. “Don’t you dare stop. Fuck me…just fuck me, babe.”

“Let me loosen you up,” Hutch said breathily, continuing to loosen his hole. Starsky could feel the walls of his ass cling to Hutch’s fingers, clamping down greedily in an effort to keep them in place.

“Please, Hutch, just get in there.” he cried, almost incoherent with desire. He was hungry for his partner’s steely rod and could easily imagine the glistening head, dripping pre-cum, imagine it kissing his stretched hole. I want Hutch to slam into my ass…want him to shove in so deep that the head comes out my throat…want him to fuck me hard.

“Cool your jets, loverboy,” Hutch crooned above him. “Got to…do this…right. Not…gonna…ever…hurt you.” Despite his staying words, he felt Hutch remove his fingers. But he gave a groan of loss when he realized his partner had pulled away completely, abandoning him on the hood of the car.

“Huuuuuuutch!”

“I’m right here,” his lover answered, already returning to the saddle of his pelvis. He heard something clonk down on the hood next to him and out of the corner of his eye, he could see that it was the big tub of petroleum jelly that usually lived on the shelf over the slop sink, right next to the bright orange jar of Goop Multipurpose Hand Cleaner.

Sure as hell glad Hutch didn’t mix up those two jars in the dim light.

The dark-blue label proudly proclaimed “Vaseline Petroleum Jelly locks in moisture to heal dry skin!” Dropping his chin to his chest, Starsky looked down his torso, past his raging hard-on, to see that Hutch already had a generous dollop of the lubricant on his index finger. The infamous Hutchinson finger.

“You’d think you were a Sea-scout or something,” Starsky gasped. “What’s their motto? Be lubricated?”

“Do a good turn daily,” Hutch rumbled, shoving the thick coating of jelly into Starsky anus. “And if this isn’t a good turn, I don’t know what is.”

“Love you…love you so damned much. Now bust my ass!”

And with nothing left to be said, his lover did exactly that.

Starsky felt the hard cock nose at his anus, sliding sensually in the thick jelly, and then there was only pressure. The pressure built upon itself, doubling, tripling, as his hole worked to stretch over the thick, rounded knob of his lover’s generous penis. There was a moment when Starsky was afraid the ring of muscle wouldn’t give–occasionally they couldn’t make it work, his body would lock down and lock out his love–but tonight his ass was hungry and worked to eat all of Hutch’s impressive meat.

The head popped in with a gush of pain that was immediately countermanded by the thrilling pleasure of Hutch’s hand gathering up his cock, tugging it, fondling it the way he liked best. In seconds, the hurting was healed as Hutch sank deeper into his body, at first nudging his prostate and then just flattening the tough gland as his shaft pushed past it. He’s never got in me this fast before, Starsky thought, doing his part to make it quick and easy, wanting them to be one. And then he felt the crisp caress of pubic hair a mere heartbeat before Hutch’s scrotum connected firmly with the cleft of his ass.

“I gotcha, Hutch…all of you…you’re all mine now.”

It seemed to Starsky that his partner had lost his voice, for there came no answer. But for two who had known each other for so long, words weren’t always a necessity. His partner found a way to communicate everything Starsky needed to know–Hutch’s big hands enfolded his hands within them, lacing their fingers together. Starsky was utterly hypnotized by the incredible fullness in his ass and the feeling of safety inherent in their joined hands…their joined bodies. With a great effort, he struggled to send a message to his love that would somehow convey the depth of his feelings.

But how?

Then he knew.

Starsky brought Hutch’s right hand to his lips and kissed it before placing it on his chest, right on the long wheal of scar over his heart. “Me and thee,” Starsky promised.

“Forever?” Hutch rasped brokenly.

“Forever is right now, babe. Now do me…do me good.”

Starsky calmly wrapped his legs around his partner’s lean waist, knowing that this was the most intimate clinch two men could possibly share. Hutch’s left hands gently pulled free from his grasp and came to rest on Starsky’s trembling stomach; as it had so many times in the past, it brought comfort, a visible sign of caring they had employed for years, one that could be safely expressed both in the privacy of their bedroom or in the most public of places.

The strong fingers ghosted over the muscles of Starsky’s belly, the tips following the trail of dark hair that arrowed from his navel to his cock. He felt the knowing fingers form a living comb that carded through his pubic hair, pushing the wiry curls away from the base of his shaft. Then Hutch’s hand moved down to cup his balls, roiling them inside their sac in a way that made Starsky moan helplessly.

Then he felt it, what he’d been craving. Hutch’s cock retreated, pulling all the way out, but he immediately felt the head pulse and dance against his anus, the little mouth of muscle already warmed up and ready for a heavy workout. Without any conscious effort on his part, Starsky felt his ass ring clench and pucker, felt it tease and kiss the head of Hutch’s cock in an effort to entice its entry.

“I’m coming in again. Fast. Okay?”

Starsky could only moan agreement, speech being impossible. The grip on Starsky’s balls intensified in step with the press of the huge shaft that sank with blinding speed deep into his guts. “Gonna bust this sweet ass,” Hutch mewled, swiveling his hips, his cock stabbing deeper.

With a bark of momentary frustration, Hutch again jerked his cock all the way out of Starsky’s ass, leaving his hole exposed and empty. His dismay was silenced when Hutch slammed back in, stuffing Starsky’s ass so full that he could actually feel his guts churn in an effort to accommodate the meaty member. Panting as if he were in labor, Starsky breathed around the overfull sensation that was not actual pain, but something pretty damned close. Sweat streamed down his face–and from Hutch–his perennial head sweater–a veritable rain of clean perspiration rained down upon his torso from above. Who cares? Starsky thought jubilantly, loving every moment of his possession.

At that moment, Hutch ran both hands under Starsky’s thighs. Without warning, he found himself nearly folded in half as he felt his partner rear back and begin to really put the boots to him. If he’d thought he’d been deep-dicked before, this new angle afforded a profoundly deeper pounding, allowing Hutch to reach places within him that Starsky hadn’t known existed before, opening him in a way that brought nearly indescribable pleasure.

In a flash, Starsky’s mind fled his head and entered his rectum: the wet sound of their joining was the only language he knew; the wracking strain of acceptance was the only exercise he desired; the fast-paced push-pull of his lover’s heavy cock was the only sustenance he craved. He didn’t know how long Hutch hammered his ass, but his staccato grunts, which filled their tiny garage, went on long enough to wreck his voice.

After what felt like an eternity of mindless pleasure, Starsky felt his balls shift and tighten and begin to move their load of cream. Screaming orgasm rose with the tide of his jiz, his shaft shaking so hard as it shot his load all over Hutch’s chest, that he thought it might actually come loose. And just when he thought it couldn’t possibly get any better, he felt the muscular tunnel in his ass–the flesh that clung to Hutch’s cock like three coats of paint–lock down and begin to writhe as Hutch’s cock began to buck, tossing off its load of cream. In that moment he could feel that cock in his belly, feel his muscles striate, feel them grip and milk the trembling shaft that claimed him.

Somewhere in the distance far from the place Starsky was flying in, he thought he heard Hutch’s voice muttering breathlessly, “I think I’m really beginning to understand what you see in this car, babe. It’s great…great car…best car.”

And then there was only darkness, punctuated by the sound of heavy breathing.

Still joined, Hutch felt his cock slowly shrinking inside Starsky’s body, unwilling to pull out as long as his lover’s internal muscles still twitched and quivered, caressing his cock with living lightening. But nature eventually parted them and Hutch straightened with a groan, stroking Starsky’s thighs, fingertips lingering in the short hairs there.

The smile painted on Starsky’s face made his look all dreamy and goofy. Damnit, Starsk! There aren’t enough words to say how much I love you.

“Thank you,” his lover mumbled, before grasping Hutch’s forearms and pulling himself up. “That was…terrific.”

Hutch helped his partner to stand and once he knew he could do so unaided, he walked the few short steps to the light switch and flicked it on. Only then did they notice the huge, Starsky-shaped dent in the hood of the Canario.

~*~*~

“Starsk, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize–”

Waving off his partner’s concern, Starsky just shook his head. How could he get mad? Yeah, his car was cursed, there was no doubt about that now. But maybe he had brought it on himself. Maybe the curse of the Canario was never going to be broken until he put things to right.

“It’s okay, Hutch. Believe me, it was worth it.”

“You’re taking this awfully well.”

How could Hutch understand? He didn’t buy into bad luck and curses and stuff of that nature, but Starsky did. And it was time to end this one once and for all. “Will you take a drive with me?”

“Now? Where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere I should have gone long before this.”

Hutch looked at him as wondering whether Starsky’s brain had just gotten fucked right out of his skull. But, clearly still heady with the lovey-dovey halcyon of after-glow, his partner nodded amiably. “I’ll go wherever you want. Just let me put some clothes on first.”

I sure hope Hutch’s sex induced good mood holds out a little while longer.

 

7:32 p.m.
Drive to Merle’s

“You’re still not going to tell me where we’re going?” Hutch asked after they had been in the car ten minutes. The large hand slid across Starsky’s thigh, rubbing in loving circles, Hutch still in his post-fuck mellow yellow haze.

Making this the best chance Starsky was ever going to get to come clean.

“I want my partner back. I’m tired of riding around town with the Dime Monster.”

“What?”

“The dimes, the pay phone, the phone calls.”

“Aw, Starsk, I’m sorry about that. I know I’m being a pain in the ass. And you’re right. It was all my fault. If I hadn’t left the car there in the first place–”

“I never would have had the opportunity to show you how important a man’s wheels are.”

“Look, if this is another I told you so–”

“Zed. It was Zed’s.”

“Zed told me so?”

“No, Zed towed your car.”

“Who the hell is Zed and why would he tow my car?” Hutch’s mellow mood was rapidly evaporating.

“Because it’s not only a car.”

“Zed towed my car because it’s not a car?”

“No, because a car is not ‘only a car’.”

“Starsk, pull over. You must have inhaled some of that paint dust.”

“This happened before the paint dust. If the paint dust had happened first, none of this would have happened at all.”

“You’re scaring me.”

Bringing the car to a stop across from Merle’s, Starsky wasn’t surprised when the soothing strokes on his thigh turned into a clutching pinch.

“Why are we here?” Hutch asked, fully bewildered.

“For the car.”

“We can’t drop off the Canario…we need a car for the Carson stakeout tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we can. ‘Cause we can use the LTD.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your car. It was never missing. Zed’s towed it here.”

“Why would someone named Zed tow my car here?”

“Uh, well, kinda sorta maybe ’cause I might have told him to.”

“Are you telling me it was YOU who had my car towed away–and you didn’t tell me?”

“Technically, I’m telling you now.”

~*~*~

Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

What had started out as a small practical joke and a well justified–very well justified–act of revenge had wound up costing them a shitload of money.

“I told them to leave the car in Merle’s lot, not outside of it,” Starsky swore for at least the tenth time since they had gotten in the LTD. Daring to look over, he saw that Hutch was still steering the car with his left hand and clutching the huge stack of parking tickets in his right fist.

“Look at all these tickets! There’s over–” Hutch paused to do the math “–two hundred and forty dollars worth of citations here!”

“How was I supposed to know the tow truck driver was gonna put the Squash on the street instead of the lot?”

“If you hadn’t called, there wouldn’t have been a problem in the first place! To think how I was busting my butt using dimes and pay phones and sanding your damned car just to save us a little money–”

“I said I was sorry, Hutch. I really am. It’s just that the night you made that crack about my car…and then the next day at the station…I just got ticked off. It was stupid, I know, but–”

“But it wasn’t without cause.”

Stunned, Starsky looked across the seat at his partner, noticing that some of the mad lines were melting off his face. “You understand?”

“I don’t have to understand. I love you.”

Damn, maybe some of that post-screw high hasn’t all completely worn off after all.

Seizing the opportunity, Starsky leaned closer, his hand sliding up Hutch’s long leg.

“I love you, too. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. I was only gonna stash your car for a couple of days and then, to make things up, take you to that fancy French place you like, the Crappy Café.”

“La Crêperie Café,” Hutch immediately corrected.

“You know where I mean, even if I don’t say it right.”

“Yeah, well no matter how you say it, we can’t afford it. We’re lucky if we can afford McDonalds now.”

“Then I’ll make it up to you some other way.” Slinking even closer, Starsky nuzzled Hutch’s ear. “Want to go home and fuck me on the hood of this car?”

Visibly shuddering, Hutch nodded. “I just might.”

 

Sunday, 11:32 a.m.
Hutch intercepts
call from Merle’s.

“Hello?” Hutch tried to keep his voice down, not wanting to wake Starsky, who was still passed out in their bedroom. Getting fucked twice in one night was exhausting, even for someone with a libido like his partner.

“Is this Starsky or Hutch?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m calling from Merle’s. My boss asked me to give you a call.”

“Oh, yes.” Hutch immediately brightened. “Is Merle back in town?”

“Just got in this morning. He wanted me to let you know that Starsky and Hutch were the only friends of his from Bay City who bothered to send any flowers for the funeral. Said to tell you that your car is on the top of his list and he’ll start working on it today.”

“Really? That’s great. Tell Merle how much we appreciate that. Starsky will be….” Hutch paused, a devilish thought coming to mind.

Who needs the Crappy Café? I think I’ve got a better way to even things up with Starsky.

“Listen, um, one thing. Could you tell Merle we changed our mind about the color?”

“You don’t want the Mediterranean Midnight Blue anymore?”

“No, we’ve decided to go with beefsteak red…”

Pay back’s a bitch, partner.

“…and make sure to paint the top forest green.”

Wonder how Starsky’s going to like driving a tomato for real.