Table of Contents
Abridged from the Author’s Notes:
This novel begins in June 1976, shortly before the second season of S&H and before the sixth season of Emergency! (For those who’d like to know more about the TV show, Emergency! see Wikipedia.) Wherever possible I have tried to mesh events and airdates with Starsky & Hutch canon airdates and events in the spirit of a true crossover.
Sample abridged from the novel:
Starsky yawned and performed a series of unconsciously sexual stretches. When Starsky winked at him, Hutch …stood with his back to his partner and adjusted himself in his jeans. This isn’t happening to me now. Not after the great time we had last night…just being us. Damn it, that’s sacred, he’s sacred!
Hutch hadn’t endured a morning this vulnerable in ages. What made this one different than any of a thousand mornings? The closeness, his mind answered immediately.
Seven years of burying my tendencies… Amputating half my libido for the sake of loyalty and safety… I have to focus on what’s real. He’s real. Our partnership is real. He would die for me. I would die for him. That’s real. Respect what’s real…
He knew how to get through this vulnerable morning without breaking his seven-year fast.
***
Hutch sat behind the wheel in his parking spot beside the muddy Land Rover and tried to concentrate on the scenery. Out here, roughly one hour and five minute’s drive from Venice, he could pretend he wasn’t one of LA’s finest. He was Ken–an out-of-practice closet case who needed a little attention and understanding from a man who reached for him with sex on his mind, not a man who reached for him with his heart and soul and pushed every platonic boundary before drawing back to the safe side of heterosexuality.
Johnny Gage stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorjamb and giving him a come hither smile. This was a man, certainly, but a different man, with different selling points and attractions. This was no substitute for the straight, straight, forever and ever amen, straight ideal.
Satisfied, Ken left the car.
From the Archivist: Special thanks must go to KAM for writing this terrific crossover novel and allowing us to archive it; Lorraine, for allowing us to reproduce her amazing art pieces, and Keri, who published the original zine, provided all the files for the digital version, and keeps me focused and on target–a formidable task in itself.
For those who’d like to know more about the TV show, Emergency! see Wikipedia.
Abridged from the Author’s Notes:
The characters of John “Johnny” Gage, Roy DeSoto, Kelly “Kel” Brackett, Joe Early, Dixie McCall, Mike Morton, Chet Kelley, Marco Lopez, Hank Stanley, Mike Stoker, Joanne DeSoto, and Henry the hound dog were created by Jack Webb and Robert A. Cinader for the television show Emergency!, and are respectfully borrowed for the enrichment of this fandom story. I’m delighted to have these characters as “honored guests” in this Starsky/Hutch novel.
The television show Emergency! ran from 1972-1978 with two spinoff movies in 1979. The series pilot, “The Wedworth-Townsend Act,” aired in 1972, depicts a fictionalized account of real life events that led to the groundbreaking Wedworth-Townsend Act that allowed trained firefighter paramedics to operate in California. LA County was in many ways the birthplace of the paramedic program. I place season two of the series in 1972-1973 based on canon evidence, and from there I have tried to follow the canon timeline based loosely on the episode airdates.
In present day emergency medicine, ER physicians and trauma surgeons are usually the products of different specialties. However, in Emergency! Kelly Brackett, M.D., carries F.A.C.S. (Fellow of the American College of Surgeons) credentials and is shown performing surgical procedures in many episodes. I have chosen to follow the show’s canon in this, and therefore refer to him occasionally as a surgeon.
For my medical research surrounding the “Sweet Revenge” episode in Starsky & Hutch, I depended on actual paramedic cardiac protocols from several rescue departments across the country. For other rescue scenes, I depended on Emergency! canon, internet resources regarding emergency medicine in the 1970s, and nursing school texts circa 1982.
~*~*~
Cover Art by Lorraine Brevig
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST by Kaye Austen Michaels
~*~*~
Starsky and Hutch were created by William Blinn, Leonard Goldberg, and Aaron Spelling, but mostly by Paul Michael Glaser and David Soul.
John “Johnny” Gage, Roy DeSoto, Kelly “Kel” Brackett, Joe Early, Dixie McCall, Mike Morton, Chet Kelley, Marco Lopez, Hank Stanley, Mike Stoker, Joanne DeSoto, and Henry the hound dog were created by Jack Webb and Robert A. Cinader for the television show Emergency!, and they are respectfully borrowed for the enrichment of this fandom publication. I’m delighted to have these characters as “honored guests” in this Starsky/Hutch novel.
The television show Emergency! ran from 1972-1978 with two spinoff movies in 1979. Although the pilot of the series, “The Wedworth-Townsend Act” aired in 1972, the episode depicts a fictionalized account of real life events in California in 1969-1970 that led to the groundbreaking Wedworth-Townsend Act. Signed into law by Governor Reagan in July 1970, the Act allowed trained firefighter paramedics to operate in California. LA County was in many ways the birthplace of the paramedic program. Based on history, Roy and Johnny would have begun their paramedic training in Fall 1969, finishing in December 1969. For this reason, I view the pilot and the first season of Emergency! as taking place between 1969 and early 1971.
I place season two of the series in 1972-1973 based on canon evidence, and from there I have tried to follow the canon timeline based loosely on the episode airdates. Wherever possible I have tried to mesh events and airdates with Starsky & Hutch canon airdates and events in the spirit of a true crossover. This novel begins in June 1976, shortly before the second season of S&H and before the sixth season of Emergency!
The Emergency! series finale, originally airing in December 1978, portrays Gage’s and DeSoto’s promotion to captain. The two spinoff movies that aired in June and July 1979, intended to garner interest in a new Emergency! series about San Francisco paramedics, involve Gage and DeSoto traveling to San Francisco as paramedic observers. Since they would likely not have been sent to San Francisco in this capacity as captains, I have chosen to reference the events in these episodes as taking place during June and very early July 1978.
We do know based on Emergency! canon that Johnny Gage is of Native American heritage. I have chosen to give him Nomlaki tribal membership. As far as I know, Johnny’s specific tribal background is not given in canon, so I have taken artistic license. I have attempted to remain true to his character’s devotion to and enthusiasm for his Native American background as seen in several Emergency! episodes.
In present day emergency medicine, ER physicians and trauma surgeons are usually the products of different specialties. However, in Emergency! Kelly Brackett, M.D., carries F.A.C.S. (Fellow of the American College of Surgeons) credentials and is shown performing surgical procedures in many episodes. I have chosen to follow the show’s canon in this, and therefore refer to him occasionally as a surgeon.
For my medical research surrounding the “Sweet Revenge” episode in Starsky & Hutch, I depended on actual paramedic cardiac protocols from several rescue departments across the country. For other rescue scenes, I depended on Emergency! canon, internet resources regarding emergency medicine in the 1970s, and nursing school texts circa 1982.
As much as possible, I have tried to remain realistic to the LA County Fire Department experience in equipment references, dialogue, and their various codes and abbreviations based on research into the actual LACoFD along with Emergency! canon. In some cases, such as using station numbers possessively (i.e. Chet visited 8’s yesterday.) realism meant sacrificing grammatical accuracy. Please excuse these grammatical inconsistencies as they are present to preserve the flavor of the series and of real life fire rescue work. With regards to fire department shift schedule, Emergency! canon is ambiguous about which shift the main characters worked, but I am using A-shift in this novel.
For information on the Jewish faith and Yiddish language, I relied heavily on some excellent online resources, and I derived so much pleasure researching the Jewish faith that I sometimes forgot I was looking for specific information pertinent to this story. Please overlook any Yiddish misspellings. One thing I learned quickly is that no two Yiddish-English dictionaries seemed to have the same spelling for a Yiddish term. I adopted the spelling I found to be most common, and I hope I have stayed true to the flavor of such a fascinating language.
Lyrics and/or mention of the following songs were used with respect and no intention of copyright infringement:
“One”–Three Dog Night
“Good Morning Starshine”–Oliver
“Queen For a Day”–Donna Summer
“Tell It Like It Is”–Aaron Neville
“Johnny Angel”–Shelley Fabares
“Tequila Sunrise”–The Eagles
“Already Gone”–The Eagles
Prologue
Hutch woke to a light rhythmic snore that called to mind home and comfort, warming him deeper than the morning sun filtering into the apartment. The nearness startled him, though, the sound’s definition and volume what he’d expect from hearing the snore in his ear while sharing a bed with the man responsible. If he had awakened in a special world where the impossible became reality, he intended to make the most of it. Languidly stretching, he rolled over in bed to nose through thick dark hair and find a tasty earlobe to kiss.
He rolled off the sofa.
“Oomph, what the hell!” yelled the man he’d rolled onto.
Hutch yelped from the dull pain of an elbow jammed into his sternum. He lay sprawled across Starsky’s side, and the warm thigh pressing into his crotch made him happy to be awake. Unfortunately, it made his crotch happy, too, and he’d have a hard-on instead of morning excitement, if he didn’t get his ass in gear and get it away from the ass currently beneath him. He rolled the rest of the way off Starsky and collided with the coffee table. “What the hell are you doing on my floor?” he yelled back.
Starsky yawned, giving Hutch a face full of pizza-and-Raisinettes breath, and performed a series of unconsciously sexual stretches. When Starsky winked at him, Hutch scrambled out of the tight space between temptation and the coffee table, crawling over to open floor where he could stand with his back to his partner and adjust himself in his jeans, hopefully with some discretion. No! This isn’t happening to me now. Not this morning. Not after the great time we had last night, just being here, being us. Damn it, that’s sacred, he’s sacred! Wait, what am I afraid of here? This is nothing to worry about. Just my body reminding me that I’m alive, young, healthy, and partnered to the sexiest man in the LAPD who also happens to be one of the finest people to walk the planet. I’d be dead if I didn’t get hard once in a while for a combination like that! I can control it. I always have.
“I crashed here last night,” Starsky explained as if to an amnesiac.
Hutch looked over his shoulder. “Obviously. But I offered you the bed.”
Starsky sat up and ran both hands through his cushion-matted hair. “I know. But I was beat to a pulp, and your floor looked damned good with all the sofa throw cushions to soften it up.”
Hutch looked at his naked sofa. “I can see that. At least you left me one small cushion for a pillow.”
“Hey, anything for my partner.”
Anything. Anything but one thing. One subject never broached, one line never crossed. Old tendencies, Hutchinson, old news. Hutch rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t endured a morning this vulnerable in ages. What made this one different than any of a thousand mornings?
The closeness, his mind answered immediately.
He and Starsky had just come off a week-long stakeout assignment, spending on average ten hours per day stuck in the Torino together. After the case had unexpectedly wrapped up around midnight–Hutch consulted his watch: just nine hours ago–he had invited Starsky to pick up pizza from their favorite late-night place and bring it over to Venice so they could unwind and celebrate the big arrest. Two skilled procurers of raw methamphetamines were now in lock-up cooling their outrage at being busted. Hutch fingered his crotch experimentally. He had done his own cooling. Good. Able to walk without embarrassing himself, he went in search of granola and milk.
~*~*~
Starsky watched Hutch hold the fridge door open and stare inside with deep concentration. Tingling rippled over the back of his neck, the beginning of his fight-and-flight response to something that deviated dangerously from the norm. It was the sensation that warned him when he and Hutch were walking into an ambush, or when friendly faces hid enemy minds on the streets. Something was off. No, not something. Someone. Hutch was off. Starsky remembered jungle thunderstorms and the electricity in the air before the heavens opened and poured out all their fury. That same electricity crackled in the air around Hutch, whereas the night before there had been nothing in the apartment but easy contentment. In all their years together, Starsky couldn’t remember feeling quite that close to his best friend, just sitting around putting away good pizza and even better conversation. His world had narrowed down to a sofa, pizza boxes, and two people who could read each other like never-ending best-selling novels.
But the Hutch of this morning was a different person. For one, the man didn’t usually need five minutes to find the milk for his bowl of shredded cardboard. And then there was that nonsense of Hutch’s just now, acting like the morning wood showing in his jeans was something to hide. Hutch had probably been grooving in his sleep on some memories of Abby, and woke with some cockeyed thought that he should have erased her from his fantasy collection after she stuffed him with vitamins and left him alone and water logged a week later. If so, Starsky would put a couple of knuckles upside the back of Hutch’s head for unnecessary martyrdom. In his opinion, the woman was so flaky she belonged in a Kellogg’s box, but if Hutch wanted to snuggle up with memories in a post-break-up drought, then that was one guilty pleasure he shouldn’t feel guilty about.
Starsky had his own morning wood to contend with, but it was the fault of a brown-eyed girl in Supply Division, and he had plans to make those early morning fantasies a nighttime reality in about ten hours. Now he just had to snap Hutch out of his funk and remind him that there were other fish in the sea besides fasting blonde mermaids. “You lost the milk or something?” he asked. “Or just trying out a new method of personal air conditioning?”
“The pizza boxes are crowding my fridge. That veggie-and-cheese you ordered for me was something else, Starsk, thanks.”
“Yeah? Great. Hey, you could make breakfast out of it.”
Instead, Hutch pulled out the box containing the last three slices of Starsky’s deli special topped with pepperoni, salami, and Italian sausage. He selected a cold slice and didn’t even scowl at the congealed cheese and pepperoni grease before he gobbled down a good chunk of it.
Starsky figured his own expression could win a photo contest. “Okay, did you spill something in my car last night when I wasn’t looking?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Eating my kind of pizza in the morning and not even bitching about how gross it looks all cold and congealed, that’s a helluva way to butter me up, that’s what.”
Hutch glared at the pizza and then at Starsky. “I didn’t spill anything in your precious car. This morning just didn’t feel like a granola morning.”
“Hate to knock your usual, pal, but no morning’s a granola morning in my book.” Starsky hopped up from the floor, worked out the sleep crinkles in his denim shorts, and headed for the kitchen counter. Hutch rushed past him to the sofa.
Starsky whipped around and stared. “Regretting that cold pizza breakfast? I know it’s not your thing.”
“No, it’s okay for a change.” Hutch polished off the slice for confirmation.
Shrugging, Starsky delved into the box for his own slice. “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s the complete breakfast. Meat, bread, dairy, and dependin’ on your viewpoint, the tomato sauce is either fruit or vegetable. Four food groups. It’s an idea whose time has come.”
Hutch coughed, tapped his chest, and gave Starsky a look that was either indigestion coming on fast or intense emotional discomfort. For his own peace of mind, Starsky latched on to the former explanation. “So, whatmff shouldmmff–” Taking pity on his partner, he decided not to talk with his mouth full. He plucked the last remaining soda can from the fridge and washed down that tasty bite of deli special. “What should we do today, huh? I got a date tonight, but until eight p.m., I’m all yours.”
Hutch sprang off the sofa in a beeline for the sink where he ran a glass of water and gulped half the cool liquid down before he paused for breath. He clutched at his brow the way he only did with a throbbing sinus headache, and his laugh didn’t sound at all natural. “Starsk, don’t take this wrong, but after this week’s stakeout gig, I’m about to OD on being attached to your hip.”
Starsky demolished a third of the pizza slice in one chomp, watching Hutch while he chewed. “What’s that supposed to mean, attached to my hip?” He eyed his favorite breakfast with less enthusiasm.
“We’ve been cooped up in that Torino for sixty hours over the last five days, Starsky! I was afraid I’d turn red and end up with a white check-stripe down my back!”
“Hey, it’s too early in the mornin’ for you to come down on my car.” Starsky wagged the pizza crust at him. “You used to bitch about stakeouts in my old car too.”
“You mean the Torino’s predecessor? It was a motorized yellow jacket, Starsky, and buzzed like one, to boot!”
“It was a ’69 Falcon! Already a classic.”
“A yellow-and-black classic. You just don’t get the concept of the neutral undercover sedan.”
“If it doesn’t have flash, it’s not worth my cash.”
“That’s it!” Hutch exaggerated a fast walk over to the door and held it open. “If you start rhyming like Huggy, you really have to go.”
Getting growly fast, Starsky hated nothing more than when he couldn’t put his finger on a Hutchinson problem and fix it. “Aw, shut the door, willya, and tell me what’s circling your bowl? This has nothing to do with the Torino or the stakeout.”
Hutch shut the door, but he remained propped against its solidity. “Aren’t you tired of me after this last week? I think even our shadows are glued together.”
Starsky smiled. “Yeah, it’s kinda nice.” He popped the pizza crust in his mouth and pondered his next move in the chess game their partnership could be when Hutch had something needling him. Maybe he needed to taunt Hutch into one of their playful ruckuses, release some of that tension. “Guess you’re not ready for me to move in? That’s okay.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think your floor gave me a pain. I’m better off sticking to the nice comfy bed at my place.”
Hutch didn’t respond with an appropriate put down. He just smiled. “Sounds good. Why don’t you go sack out there now, sleep off the late night we had?”
Starsky heard a friendly but serious dismissal in those words. Well, damn. Maybe he’d overstepped bounds he hadn’t even known existed. Time for a judicious hit of truth. “Hell, I didn’t mean to crowd you, buddy, but I thought you might wanna look at my mug instead of the four walls in this apartment, now that you’re off your water-and-vitamin diet and the perks that came with it.”
Hutch seemed to relax against the door, but his persistent smile didn’t match the downturn of his eyes. “Starsky, it’s been a few weeks now. I’m fine. Abby and I called it quits on good terms. You don’t have to buddy-sit me through this.”
“I just feel responsible, that’s all. That night she invited me over to dinner with you guys, I gave her a hard time about the fasting and vitamins and shit, but I didn’t mean to run her off.”
“You think–?” Hutch looked at him then and laughed. “We called things off because her new astrology hobby told her we were trying to force ourselves into a couple when she needed to pursue her path in life solo. Far be it from me to disturb the lady’s path in life. Now do you feel better? Can I have a day to myself to go running in the park? I missed my early morning run today; I need to make up for it. And don’t you need beauty sleep for your date tonight? Who’s the poor–I mean, lucky girl?”
Starsky flipped him off with both hands. “Beth, from Supply.”
Hutch goggled at him. “Isn’t she Bigelow’s sister?”
“I’ll have you know that gorgeous creature has never been within a hundred miles of Bigelow’s family tree! You oughta be ashamed of yourself!”
Patting his chest, Hutch swallowed his laughter. “My mistake.”
Time for a change of subject. Get him off the touchy topic of women, dates, and getting laid. Distract him with something all the way across the football field from that subject and then come back to it when he least expects it. More effective that way. “What I really need to do is go home and call Ma. I missed the Friday call yesterday.”
“You sound like that’s some kind of a chore.”
“Nah, I just hope she isn’t still on the Aunt Ruth kick.”
“Aunt Ruth kick?”
“Yeah, last week the phone call was all about Aunt Ruth. Ma bitching about her.”
“So, what did–Aunt Ruth is your paternal aunt, right?”
“Yep. Pop’s younger sister.”
“What did she do to get your mother on her case?”
“Every year, Aunt Ruth sends Nick and me three cards: birthday, Yom Kippur, and Chanukah. The cards are nice, but I gotta tell you, the checks inside come in handy. A hundred for my birthday and Chanukah. Two hundred for Yom Kippur. I don’t know what the woman’s atoning for, but if she wants to do it to the tune of two hundred smackeroos, who’m I to complain?”
Hutch whistled. “That’s a lot of atonement. Now I know why you’re more likely to pick up our take-out tab during the Fall. What’d she do, miss your high school graduation or something? And I thought the main thrust of Yom Kippur was to atone for spiritual missteps between a person and God, not missteps between people.”
No wonder his mouth hurt, Starsky thought, if the grin stretching his lips was half as big as the pride he felt in knowing that tall, quirky doorstop across the living room. “Hutch, you sure you didn’t have a bar mitzvah? If you didn’t have extra skin on your dick, I’d swear you were lying about your Gentile background.”
~*~*~
Touched deep inside by the inherent compliment in Starsky’s remark, Hutch had to think how to stand with two very mushy knees. Then the earthy flavor of his partner’s speech tripped the wire on another landmine threatening his tenuous control. Certainly Starsky had known from the first Academy communal shower that his dorm-mate had a foreskin. Hard for Starsky to miss that, when he could look around in the showers the way every unwaveringly straight man could: casually and with no fear of revealing something best hidden. But he’d never used the word “dick” in conjunction with Hutch except to call him “dickhead” when appropriate. Why of all mornings did Starsky have to pick this one to break a seven-year silence on the subject!?
Seven years of burying my tendencies, ignoring every other healthy outlet for what I need. Amputating half my libido for the sake of loyalty and safety, afraid I can’t open the floodgates even a little without washing everything away. Maybe I need more change in my life than cold pizza. No! If I want to deal with the phantom pain from my amputated sexuality, I have to focus on what’s real. He’s real. Our partnership is real. He would die for me. I would die for him. That’s real. Respect what’s real.
Hutch wasn’t sure what, if anything, had shown in his face during his dark thoughts, but judging by his partner’s expression, Starsky was wondering if aliens had invisibly entered the apartment and abducted Hutch’s brain. The extent of Starsky’s concern was evident when he didn’t actually say anything about aliens. He said simply, “Hey, partner, what’s with you this morning?”
Hutch left the door before he ended up stuck to it. He returned to the sink and his trusty glass of water. “I should have stuck to granola and milk. I think that pizza is trying to bite me back. You were telling me what your aunt did to get your mother riled. Somehow I can’t believe it’s because she sends you cards with nice, fat checks in them.”
“Nope. Nick got his birthday card last week right on time, but no check inside. Ma was all bent out of shape, wondering why I got my birthday check this year same as usual, but Nicky got shafted.”
Hutch smiled around the glass rim. “Wonder what he did to piss off Aunt Ruth?”
“Who knows? Hell, I haven’t seen the woman in forever, and far as I know, Nick hasn’t either. Hard to image how the guy could piss off a relative thousands of miles and several time zones away, but with Nick, anything’s possible.”
“No kidding. Sounds like he picked the wrong one to rub the wrong way.”
“Yeah.” Starsky scratched around the waistband of his shorts where sleeping on the floor had left an indentation in spite of the cushions. Hutch made himself look away from the welt and the agile fingers in motion on Starsky’s tanned skin. “Aunt Ruth’s high up in some corporation in Japan, but to hear Ma talk, she’s a sad case ’cause she’s still single.” He straightened his t-shirt and frowned at the pizza grease stain he left on the light cotton. “Thanks to Dobey’s gift of a weekend off, I’m ending my dry spell tonight.”
“Little over confident there, stud?”
Starsky’s grin was wolfish. “I know what I got, and I know when a lady wants it.”
Hutch put his arm around Starsky’s shoulders, walking him to the door. “Go make your mother a happy woman with a good phone call, and don’t get up to anything with Beth that I wouldn’t do.”
Starsky raised both eyebrows. “You mean, in or out of a dry spell? Come on, Hutch. If you’re not moping over Abby, then you need to be out there getting yourself some prime chick flesh.”
“Any day now I’ll go out to a poultry farm and check out the hencoop.”
“Anybody ever tell you your sense of humor is paralyzed?”
Hutch tried to push him over the threshold into the hall. “You do. All the time.”
Starsky resisted his efforts. “Can I at least get my things?”
“Things?”
Starsky nodded at the coffee table. “My wallet and keys? You think I’d sleep on the floor with those things in my pockets pressing into places I don’t want things pressing?”
Hutch wanted to punch a hole in the wall to redirect the focus he couldn’t seem to mentally command this morning. One more reference to anything below the waist, and he’d self-destruct. Starsky, I’m trying to do the right thing here, damn it, couldn’t you make it a little easier on me? This has to do with me respecting the most important person in my life, and by God, if I have to push you all the way back to your apartment to show you that respect, I will. He retrieved the prized possessions and shoved them into his friend’s waiting hands. “There. Now scram.”
Starsky smiled. “You got a big date you aren’t telling me about?”
“Yes. With my sneakers and the sunshine in the park.” He started to close the door, but paused with a crack left for him to look into the eyes that always reflected higher esteem for him than he showed himself. “Starsk? Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For the twenty or so hours you spent with me this week that weren’t part of the stakeout’s mandatory sixty.”
Starsky’s smile made the sunshine in the park seem a worthless pursuit. “Anytime, you know that.”
“I know.”
“Call me if you find something exciting out there to do.”
“I won’t go off on vacation without you, Starsky.” With another smile, Hutch closed the door.
He braced his forehead against the football poster and tried to catch his breath. He knew how to handle unwanted needs. Get the hell out of Dodge; that was how. Go somewhere temptation didn’t lurk, and run until the need cooled in his veins. He knew there were places in the park he had to avoid. Places where every masculine smile was an invitation. But if he kept to the jogging trails, he wouldn’t run headlong into temptation. He could go on avoiding any masculine touch for fear the weakening of his resistance might threaten his immunity to the man who had just taken all of the apartment’s sunlight out the door with him. He could get through this vulnerable morning without breaking his seven-year fast.
Seven years in the wilderness.
~*~*~
Starsky whistled all the way down the stairs and out into the morning sunshine. Hutch was ready to jump back in the game. Starsky could spot the signs. Grinning, he slapped a light drum beat on the Torino’s front fender on his way to the driver’s door. Oh, yeah, Hutch was ready for action. The first pretty girl who turned his head in the park would be in for a real treat. Confident that Hutch’s needs were taken care of, Starsky could relax into anticipation of a hot, sweaty night with a brown-eyed girl, and a fast-and-free, easy summer. And fast, free, and easy always did look better if Hutch was strapped in for the same ride.
Maybe Hutch would find his own brown-eyed girl in the park. He didn’t need another wispy, blue-eyed blonde reminding him of blondes gone by. Starsky slid easily behind into the seat and tapped the same drum beat on the steering wheel.
Hutch always did fare better with brunettes.
Part One
The park attracted crowds for numerous reasons–its vicinity to Venice Beach, the well-kept jogging trails, bike paths, and grassy clearings between the palms and landscaping, and its relative safety. On this sunny bicentennial June morning, the playground equipment hosted an entire school room’s worth of children, a Red Rover match commandeered one of the grassy meadows, and a smaller clearing’s feisty game of whiffle ball had drawn spectators. Among all the joggers and sunbathers, Hutch was the only one trying to combine the activities. He had chosen his skimpiest white-trimmed navy running shorts and fitted beige pullover with both runner’s comfort and sun worship in mind. If he could just shake his tension headache, if the sun’s heat on his skin could replace the burn of need in his gut, then pushing Starsky out of his apartment would have been worthwhile. Lifting his face, eyes closed, to the solar radiance, he jogged around the bend he knew by memory, and promptly slammed into a palm tree that must have migrated to the center of the path. Before he hit the ground, he opened his eyes and saw not a mobile palm tree but a dark-haired man of his identical height in light blue summer sweats. Though open-eyed, the man obviously hadn’t expected someone to veer into his “lane” on the jogging path.
They landed on the grassy, shrubbery-lined trailside in a tangle of limbs, exclamations, and muttered apologies. Thanks to his light sweats, the stranger had nothing to show for the collision but grass stains and trail burn in the cotton over his knees, but Hutch had a nifty scrape across his bare left knee and his right ankle had ended up twisted underneath his rump on the other end of the “wreck.”
“Pretty nasty headache there?” the man asked.
Hutch couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Had he collided with a psychic? “Headache? Yeah, how’d you know that?”
“You had your face to the sun. To feel the sun on your eyelids? I’ve done that before.”
“Are you all right?” Hutch asked again.
“I’m still in one piece.” The other man brushed dark bangs away from his forehead and laughed. “But if you drive like you run, it’s a wonder I haven’t met you before now.”
“Why?” Hutch tried to stretch his legs before depending on them to stand.
“I’m a paramedic. Easy, I see blood on that knee, and you’re favoring the ankle.”
“I’m fine.” Hutch played reluctant patient, scooting backward from the paramedic’s solicitous reach for his ankle, but he wasn’t focused on the helping hand, or his own ankle. His eyes swept over his would-be rescuer’s wiry, athletic body. He got a similar scrutiny from dark brown eyes in a heated gaze that traveled from the possible ankle injury and knee wound to his biceps and back down again. Under that gaze and the lure of the quirky smile that went with it, Hutch felt trapped in a sexy spotlight. His morning was running true to form. Keeping to the jogging trails hadn’t protected him from temptation after all. “Really. I’m fine.”
Resting on his heels in a squat reminiscent of rescue workers at the scene of an accident, the victim of Hutch’s need for solar headache relief folded his arms over his knees. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, or are you some kind of doctor out for a morning jog?”
“Med school dropout,” Hutch admitted, chuckling.
“Well, don’t you think active paramedic trumps med school dropout in this situation?”
“All right. Have a look. But it’s nothing.”
“I didn’t say you were gonna spring an arterial bleed,” the paramedic teased, his eyes sparkling with good humor and mischief.
Again Hutch tried to scoot backward. “Look, I’m sure you don’t need a busman’s holiday.”
“Hey, I can’t be that scary! If you don’t want some stranger checking out your aches and pains, maybe it would help if I introduce myself?” He held out his hand. “Name’s John. Call me Johnny.”
“Hu–I’m Ken. Nice to meet you.” After the handshake, Hutch relaxed in his spot on the trailside with his knees bent and nodded at his legs. “Which do you want first? Knee or ankle?”
“Ankle,” Johnny said, kneeling at his feet. “I’ve got some stuff back at my truck for that knee.” When Hutch lifted his right foot, and Johnny cradled the ankle in preparation for assessing its stability, the patient flinched, then laughed somewhat nervously. Johnny’s expression was strictly professional, but his fingers felt more caressing than examining, and his hands lingered around the ankle joint, sliding slowly up to assess the calf.
When those gifted hands approached his knee, his uninjured knee, Hutch drew back his leg and cleared his throat a couple times before he said, “If I were a pretty girl, I’d accuse you of a classic paramedic pick-up scenario.”
“You think they taught us pick-up techniques in paramedic training?”
“Actually, I doubt you needed much training in that area.” Watch it, you’re flirting here!
Johnny’s smile seemed to use the entire lower half of his face. “And maybe I’m an equal opportunity picker-upper.”
Hutch smiled, too, but he shook his head. “I’m flattered, but I’m not–”
“Available?” Johnny interrupted, giving him that knowing scrutiny again. “Oh, well. The ankle feels sound. Looks like you gave it a good twist, and I can tell it’s tender. Here, let me help you up.”
Hutch accepted his hand up, and couldn’t seem to pull free after they stood facing each other as equals. Johnny grinned at him and gently pulled his hand back. “Okay, Ken, tell me this: just how not available are you? I don’t travel the home wrecking road.”
“I’m not seeing anyone right now,” Hutch blurted out. What the hell are you doing? Thank him and turn around and walk away like you have some sense!
“But you were recently?”
“How’d you know?”
“I only get that ‘sun on my eyelids’ headache when I’m trying to shake a girl who got too close.”
A girl? Not hardly. Starsky’s about as un-girly as they come. But like any talented plainclothes detective, Hutch had a good cover story ready at hand, this one grounded in partial truth. He nodded and raked his hand through his hair and down to squeeze the back of his neck. “Yeah. We called it quits a few weeks ago.”
“Got too close?”
“No, too many fad diets and unfavorable zodiac alignment.”
Johnny laughed. “I can take a hint. No personal questions. Still want something for that knee?”
“I won’t deny it smarts,” Hutch said, smiling again.
“Then follow me. My truck’s in the parking lot by the basketball courts.”
You’re in trouble, you know that? If you go anywhere with this very attractive, very charismatic guy, you’ll lose the battle. Oh, hell. Go on. It’s just a little first aid. After a few limps to work out the kinks, Hutch’s ankle cooperated, and he could match Johnny’s long-legged stride all the way to the courtside parking lot and a muddy beige Land Rover 4 X 4 that had seen better days but looked up to quite a few all-terrain challenges yet. Johnny lifted the hatch and leaned halfway in the back, and Hutch stared at the asphalt underfoot or the nearest court’s one-on-one, but he kept swinging quick glances over at his new acquaintance’s ass. Nice ass. Looks firm, tight. I wonder how tight. No, I don’t. But it is a nice ass. Not in the league with the one I fell onto in my living room this morning, but then nobody’s ass is in that league, and it’s not fair to compare apples and oranges. God, I shouldn’t be standing here thinking any of this. Asses, apples, and oranges. I’m losing my mind. Here’s a new rule for you, Hutchinson. Next time Starsky stays over and camps out on your floor, you’re sleeping in the tub. No more little roll-off-the-sofa accidents. When the sounds of rummaging quieted, Hutch shifted his eyes back to the truck, where Johnny had located his advanced first aid kit.
Johnny went down on bended knee in front of him and set to work, quietly and efficiently. Within minutes, Hutch sported a properly dressed and bandaged knee, and a flushed hot complexion from forehead to neckline. Without bothering to rise, Johnny peered up at him, squinting in the fierce summer sun before lifting his hand to serve as visor. “I have a great remedy for that headache, too, but it’s not in this kit, and I can’t dole it out in the middle of a public parking lot.”
Hutch beckoned with both hands in a get-up motion. “Thanks for the first aid, and for the offer, but like I said, I’m not–”
“I know. You’re not. You’re not, not, not. Just like I’m not, not, not. We’re both not. Do you wanna hear about my remedy… or not?”
Hutch started to laugh. “I’m not getting anything by you, am I?”
Johnny rose to his feet and put away the kit. “Nope. Without a plaid flannel shirt and cheesy mustache, you’re not a complete giveaway, and that stretch of jogging path isn’t exactly the ‘tearoom’ over by the lily pond, but–what? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Not nothing. You look like I just signed your death warrant in permanent ink.”
Hutch walked over to lean against the 4 x 4’s rear fender. “If I were a complete giveaway, that’s exactly what it would be. Oh, hell. What’s your headache remedy?”
“You. Me. A nice, discreet motel just five or so miles from here.”
“No. Has to be farther away than that.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Okay. How far away do you need it to be?”
“Outside LA County, preferably.”
Johnny’s eyes widened and blinked rapidly. “These reasons of yours. They’re serious business?”
“Life or death.”
“Well, then. If you’re up to an hour’s drive, there’s a Mom & Pop motel I know close to Laguna Beach. It’s clean, and the Mom and Pop that run the place don’t ask a lot of questions. They’ll give me an early check-in without thinking twice. Best of all, it’s before you get to the touristy part of Laguna Beach. This little well-kept secret is on the edge of wilderness.”
Hutch turned closed eyes back to the sun. “That’s a long way for you to drive just to give me a little headache relief.”
“Oh, hey, you’re worth a little extra effort.”
“How do I get to this Mom and Pop operation?”
Johnny stared at him again. “Thought you’d just ride with me.”
“No, I need to have my own wheels. My place is just a few blocks from here.” Hutch turned in a half circle and pointed in the general direction of Ocean Avenue. “I can walk home and get my car.”
“You live in Venice,” Johnny said with a smile.
Hutch shrugged. “You?”
“Topanga. I only hit this park when I want to meet–well, when I’ve got that itch.”
“What itch?”
“You know damn well what itch.” Johnny sounded impatient for the first time in their short acquaintance. “Look, we’ve established that we’re both not, not, not, so you can stop playing the naïve straight guy already.”
“Wait just a minute. I’m not playing anything.”
Johnny reached out, a tentative hand of peace that hesitated and then found purchase on Hutch’s shoulder. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s just–a closet’s fine, doing the bi thing, that’s fine–I do it, too–but I really don’t get off on the denial trip.”
“I’m admitting nothing, and denying nothing. That’s the way it has to be. If you’re interested in me on those terms, fine. If not, tough.” Again, Hutch shrugged, and Johnny tightened his hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, twice, and then letting go.
“I’ll give you directions to Canyon Vista, and I’ll look for you to meet me there in about an hour.” Johnny’s gentle smile returned. “You wouldn’t stand a guy up, would you?”
“I’ll do my best not to. I’ve got a horrible headache and an unrelenting itch that need taking care of, and you’re looking like pretty good medicine right now.”
Johnny blew a raspberry at him. “If that’s your idea of a come on line–!”
Hutch laughed. “Be fair. I didn’t go through paramedic training.”
~*~*~
Hutch sat behind the wheel in his parking spot beside the muddy Land Rover and tried to concentrate on the scenery. Canyon Vista lived up to its name. Behind the faux chalet motel with its squat brick add-on that was admittedly a little ridiculous, the natural beauty took his breath. He had a view of the lovely Crystal Cove backcountry with its rolling hills, canyons, and woodland. Out here, roughly one hour and five minute’s drive from Venice, he could pretend he wasn’t one of LA’s finest.
If he could just think of himself as Ken, not Hutch, he might get through this and have the good time he desperately needed. Ken. He was Ken–an out-of-practice closet case who needed a little attention and understanding from a man who reached for him with sex on his mind, not a man who reached for him with his heart and soul and pushed every platonic boundary before drawing back to the safe side of heterosexuality.
If the parking space Johnny had chosen was any indication, his room was dead last in the line of doors in the brick add-on. Ken was surprised that his car, Johnny’s 4 x 4, and an aged family station wagon three doors down comprised the only occupants in this side parking lot. Then the door opened in front of the 4 x 4, and Johnny stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorjamb and giving him a come hither smile.
Ken did a few swift comparisons to reassure himself about his motives.
Sure, Johnny had a naturally tan complexion and dark, unruly hair, but the unruliness came not in the form of thick waves and curls, but fine, straight hair with shaggy bangs over the forehead. His masculine features were softer than the face Hut–Ken knew best in the world, and the lovely chiseling in the brow, high cheekbones, and fine nose hinted at Native American ancestry. Johnny’s straight line figure couldn’t stand up to a certain muscled, sturdy physique, naturally filled-out in all the right places, but his slender athleticism had its appeal.
This was a man, certainly, but a different man, with different selling points and attractions. This was no substitute for the straight, straight, forever and ever amen, straight ideal.
Satisfied, Ken left the car.
Meeting Johnny at the door, he lifted his hand to the high cheekbone in a caress that made his new friend flush a little under all his lounging confidence. He stepped into the room, and Johnny followed, closing the door behind them. “Love that view, huh? We can leave the curtains drawn, too, ’cause there’s a sheer drop out back and we won’t have any peeping Toms passing by.”
Ken gave the room an investigative scrutiny. Two double beds flanked a small chest of drawers in mass production fake oak finish. For viewing enjoyment, there was the small TV on the matching fake oak dresser. Guests could share a meal at a corner round table under a lamp that dangled from a cheap gold chain, but the two chairs looked as sturdy as matchsticks. The picture window and its view were indeed the room’s best features. Scratch that. The man standing behind him with his hands on Ken’s shoulders was the room’s best feature. Determined not to show his rustiness, Ken did an about-face, seeking a kiss, but Johnny casually averted his face and Ken’s lips landed east of the target on the jaw line. Johnny brushed a kiss over Ken’s eyebrows, down his nose, then ducked his head to find room for a kiss in the center of his chin.
“Oh, boy.” Ken stepped away from the very arms he had wanted to reach for him sexually.
“What? You’re a mouth kisser, but you can’t handle a kiss on the chin?”
“I’m not a…” Ken sat down on the foot of the bed nearest the window. “Look, you have all these labels, terms, a whole damned code I know nothing about, and seeing what I’ve seen over the years, I thought I knew damn near everything that strayed off the well-worn path. But it’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”
“How long?” Johnny squatted down in front of him and folded his arms over Ken’s knees. Ken could feel the pressure through his jeans on the bandaged jogging wound, and he almost wanted the pressure to escalate to pain for a distraction.
“Years.”
“How many?”
Ken slid to the side so he wouldn’t topple Johnny over on his ass, and hurried up from the bed, heading for the door. “This–this is a mistake.”
“Ken, wait. I don’t need names, dates, details. I just need to know what we’re dealing with here. What you might be ready for, what might be too much.”
“Johnny, I haven’t been to bed with a man in seven years.”
Johnny’s mouth opened wide in visible surprise, but he turned the gaping stare into a chuckle. “Last time being when you were about fifteen, then?”
Ken laughed. “Try twenty-three. I’m thirty, coming up hard on thirty-one.”
“Yeah? I’m coming up on thirty myself.”
“Point is, I don’t know what your special code book says about a situation like this. I don’t know what to expect, what to ask for, what is and what isn’t done in a first rendezvous at a nice motel just off the Pacific Coast Highway.”
Johnny nodded. “Good deal, that’s all I needed to know. Why don’t you tell me what you want right now, and I’ll tell you if I’m up for it?”
Ken walked up to him and slid his arms around the slender waist, dropping his hands down to squeeze the gentle curve of ass. He heard a soft gulp, but Johnny smiled. “Been a long time since I did that,” Johnny admitted. “I don’t normally bottom. I’m not some kinda top guy either. Usually, I keep things simpler, you know? Suck offs, rub offs, that sort of thing. But…you’re, hell, you’re something real special, I can tell. Hey, come on, you don’t have to get all pink cheeked over that.”
“You’re the nicest guy I’ve ever literally run into at the park.”
“Think you could go down on this nice guy who’s about to bottom for you?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. You don’t have to suck me either. But as long as we’re making a game plan….”
Ken found he could go down on the handsome paramedic. He hadn’t been on his knees for a man since college, but he didn’t mind kneeling for this one. He divested Johnny of his blue jersey, tossing it on the bed, and drew his lips down the smooth, toned chest, over the lightly ribbed abdomen, down to the waistband of the sweats and the thin cotton below that outlined a sizeable hard-on. Johnny cradled the back of his head in hand and pressed, urging Ken to look up at him.
“Maybe we should move this to the bed?”
“No. Want you just like this,” Ken said.
“I was concerned about your knee on that hard floor with cheap motel carpet.”
“I think you and I both know the knee isn’t all that bad, but it made a fine excuse to have your hands all over my leg.” Ken jerked the sweats down in a rough movement that had Johnny gasping.
He’d hoped he’d find Johnny an uncut boy like himself, another welcome difference from the straight ideal, but, no, the erection hardening further under his very eyes had a delineated ridge, its length, thickness, and shape appropriate to Johnny’s tall, wiry frame. An impressive sight, as were the proud balls underneath, full and heavy in the palm of Ken’s hand. He got a wicked little cry from Johnny when he rolled them. That small noise quieted his last doubt. If he could make Johnny sound like that, and bring that much pleasure, then he really wasn’t in this just for himself. Closing his eyes, thinking of himself as “Ken” so intently that the three letters shone in the darkness behind his eyelids, he lowered his head and took Johnny’s cock to the very edge of his throat.
His next conscious observation involved a bed, his own nudity, and a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Johnny lay on his back beside him, one leg bent, staring at the ceiling and making a farce of smoking an imaginary cigarette.
“What the–?”
“You are something special,” Johnny said, carding through Ken’s damp, mussed hair. “Things kind of got wild there at the end. I don’t know where you went inside yourself, but you took me there, too, and after I came to my senses, you had me in front of you returning the favor.”
“And then what? How’d I end up in bed naked?”
“You got all tangled up in your jeans around your knees and hopped around in the funniest dance I’ve ever seen trying to get them off before you went down for the count. Then I took care of the rest and half-dragged you into bed with me. You damn near passed out. Either I’m more than a halfway decent blow, you’ve been needing this a long, long time, or you have the most stressful job on the planet and you’re worn slap out.”
Ken patted Johnny’s arm. “I think it’s probably a combination of all three.”
“I am curious about what you do for a living. Since dropping out of med school.”
Rolling onto his side, Ken dropped a kiss on Johnny’s shoulder. “What’s your best guess?”
“Well, I think it’s safe to say you’re not a professional comedian.”
Ken confiscated one of the bed pillows and slapped Johnny on the thigh with it, and then aimed for the face, missing by a fraction of an inch when his agile, laughing bedmate scooted down in bed. “Some nerve you have! Is this how you treat a guy who just gave you an incredible orgasm?”
“I don’t know about incredible…” Johnny teased. “Okay, it was pretty incredible.”
“More than halfway decent for me, too.” Drawn to the tenderness in Johnny’s face, Ken wanted to kiss him and find out if his expressive mouth made him a creative, energetic kisser. But that was apparently off limits.
Johnny bent his arm, pointing his elbow at the bathroom. “You want me to take care of the preliminaries?”
“What do you–? Oh. Oh, right.” Ken’s cheeks burned again, but his cock gave thanks for Johnny’s good memory. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take care of that for you. It’s the least I can do.”
Johnny tweaked his chin, his thumb lingering in a caress. “Look, just ’cause it’s been a while doesn’t mean I’m not gonna enjoy this as much as you. Although…” he dropped his hand to stroke it up the length of Ken’s cock. “How you managed to cram all this in those tight running shorts I saw in the park is completely beyond me, and what we’re talking about here is a tighter fit than those shorts.”
Trying to fight a grin, Ken pushed his hand away. “Anyone ever tell you, you talk too much?”
“Yeah. My partner, Roy.”
“Partner?”
“Work partner.” Johnny slapped his knees, hooting. “Oh, God. You thought… No, no. No way. Roy’s my best friend, but he’s so straight you could draw lines by him. Married man with kids. I’ve never been sexually attracted to him, or vice versa, and thank the stars for that, ’cause like I said, I don’t travel the home-wrecking road.”
“Should’ve known,” Ken said. “How many times have I been hit with that partner misunderstanding?” Then he heard himself, and clamped his mouth shut. It was too, too easy to talk around this gregarious rescue worker. But Johnny was already out of bed and hunting for something in a duffle bag on the dresser. Before Ken realized what was happening, a blue-and-white tube flew through the air at him, and he boggled the catch.
Johnny scrambled back onto the bed from the foot, crawling up beside him. “I think it’s safe to say you don’t play centerfield for the Dodgers either.”
“Why don’t you just enjoy the mystery?”
“Why don’t you give me something else to enjoy?”
Ken tried hard to do just that. He maneuvered them under the covers, needing the illusion of extra privacy, or needing to do more by feel than by sight, unable yet to handle the intimacy. He watched Johnny’s eyes, and the expressive right eyebrow that could say more in one quirk than a five-minute monologue, and he knew by the relaxed tension in Johnny’s chest and arms when he was stretched to full readiness. Johnny fumbled around with pillows for long enough that Ken wondered about cold feet, but then Johnny found his comfortable spot, on his back surprisingly, and beneath the covers Ken felt strong legs wrap around his waist, sliding down with his own forward movement until heels dug lightly into his backside. He had to close his eyes with his first gentle push into tight heat. He didn’t want to see a glimmer of pain in those dark eyes, and he trusted that Johnny would let him know some other way if he needed to slow down, withdraw, or shelve the idea completely. When he dared open his eyes again, his first sight was Johnny’s smile, and he knew that he’d passed an important test he hadn’t known he was taking. After a few shallow thrusts more suitable for straight sex, Ken remembered the power and angling required to make this a joyride for two. Johnny reacted at once, thrusting upward in rhythm with him, giving him the welcome sensation of a firebrand cock rubbing his skin in its search for friction. Ken rode him until delighted whimpers mingled with Johnny’s gasps and grunts. His own world changing, his whole groin primed to explode and take all of him with it, he realized on some level of consciousness outside himself what this meant….
He was with a man he wanted, who wanted him as no one but Ken, with no long complicated history, no ties that bound without mercy and that sustained his very life.
He felt ashamed of the two times in the park he had tried to say he wasn’t into men.
“Hey,” Johnny whispered.
Ken shook his head to clear the sweat-soaked strands from his eyes. “Am I hurting you?”
“No. But you’re doing it again, going somewhere inside yourself. This is sex. Really good sex. No deep thoughts allowed during good sex. Just be right here. Okay?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay.” Johnny relaxed back in his nest of pillows.
Ken watched him closely in the homestretch. He knew when to take hold of Johnny’s prick, and the feel of it sliding in the tunnel of his hand reminded him what he missed out on with every woman he bedded. He knew how to synchronize the jerk-off to his fucking. The mechanics came back to him easily just like the cliché of riding a bicycle. But he was wholly unprepared for the rapture in Johnny’s eyes or the surprised, harsh cry, “You’re…gonna make me come…gonna make me…K-Ken!”
Warm wetness on his hand coupled with the fading cries from the man beneath him toppled Ken down the hill to a meadow where the air had the freshness after a rain. Freedom. He could get no sound past his parched, needle-sized throat, but his eyes must have done the equivalent of shouting for him, because Johnny nodded happily and then went limp in a helpless doze.
~*~*~
“While we’re out here I thought we might go hiking if your ankle doesn’t object.”
Ken yawned and stretched. “Wha’?”
“Good morning. Or good afternoon.” Johnny had brought a change of clothing in his duffle. Freshly showered from the look of the wet ringlets close to his face, and now in jeans and a short-sleeved garnet safari shirt, he sat on the edge of the other bed, scrunching his bare toes in the carpet.
“What time’s it?”
“Going on three p.m. We have the room for the night. Do you have to be in LA for work early in the morning?”
“No. I’m supposedly off tomorrow. What about you?”
“I’m off until Tuesday.”
“Must be nice.”
Johnny pointed a slender finger at him, but his accompanying frown lacked real heat. “Hey, I pull twenty-four-hour duty. My station splits the calendar between three shifts, A, B, and C, but for my money, A-shift always catches the brunt, and take a wild guess which one I’m on. Believe me, after you field as many calls as we do in a shift, you need the time off just to recover.”
“Imagine so. I’m used to long hours and sleepless nights, but I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.”
“No, but I’m glad you were in something else of mine.”
Ken sat up in bed and tried to shake the rest of the cobwebs from his brain. “Johnny, this has been–”
“This is it, huh? This is the ‘thanks, but go away now’ speech. It’s okay. I’ve made them myself. And I figured I’d be making one this time. I just thought it could wait until we got full use of the room and took in some of the local sights.”
Ken hunted around for his discarded jeans. “I’d be glad to contribute some towards the room.”
Johnny’s frowns were as potent as his smiles. “If you were trying to make me mad, you just succeeded. Now I don’t just feel brushed off, I feel like a cheap hustler.”
“Believe me, you’re the farthest thing from that. Look, I need a shower. If you’re still here when I get out, I’ll be grateful, and maybe we can come to a better understanding about what’s going on.”
Comfortably dressed and clear headed after his shower, Ken came out of the steamy bathroom and smiled his relief at Johnny standing in front of the picture window. Ken walked up behind him and hugged him around the waist, drawing him back tightly to himself. “I’d love to go hiking with you, Johnny. I’d love to lounge around here with you and wear ourselves out in bed until morning, but it’d just be setting us both up for a heavier fall.”
“Fair enough. I think I’ll stick around, though. Might as well.”
“Come see me off?”
“My pleasure.”
Outside, Ken held out his hand. He felt ridiculous ending things with a handshake, but then, it seemed appropriate to Johnny’s open spirit and low tolerance for bullshit that wasn’t shoveled out in the form of humor. “Thank you. I know that’s vague and maybe impersonal, but I mean more than you’ll ever know when I say it.”
“I understand,” Johnny said, shaking his hand.
Ken was oddly relieved that Johnny hung around outside the room to watch him settle in his car. He got no further than settling. His temperamental Ford had other ideas about driving back to LA. With a whumpeta-whumpeta sound emanating from below the hood, the car refused to crank.
Hutch slammed his fist against the bottom curve of the steering wheel. “Damn it, sweetheart, don’t pull this on me now.”
Johnny appeared at the window, tapping lightly on the glass. “I know that sound. I think I can take care of it. Let me get my tools from the truck.”
Hutch opened the car door and rose to lean an elbow on the roof. “You work on cars, too? Is there anything you don’t do?”
Johnny motioned for him to pop the hood. “Roy and I have to pamper our squad’s inner workings all the time. We can’t wait for someone else to solve our minor repair issues when LA’s expecting us available for calls. As for what else I do…” Johnny laughed. “You got a taste of that just a little while ago.” He ducked into the back of his truck and emerged with a beat-up black metal toolbox. “But I also like to backpack, fish, rock climb, just about any outdoor activity you can name, I’m into it.”
Hutch needed to lose his hearing capacity right that second. And his sight, too. He was looking at more than a one-afternoon stand. He was looking at a male companion. A wet dream of a male companion. Then all thoughts of wet dreams fled with the familiar crackle of radio static, far too suddenly for Hutch to reach the volume toggle switch.
“Zebra Three. Come in, Zebra Three.”
Under no illusion that an LA County paramedic wouldn’t recognize a police zebra-unit call sign, Hutch wasn’t surprised to hear a bump under the hood and a muttered curse. Startled and probably shocked, Johnny had impacted the raised hood with his skull. Hutch took time for a quick look around the side of the car. “You okay?”
“Zebra Three. Come in, Zebra Three,” the radio insisted.
“Fine,” Johnny said. “Take your call.”
“Zebra Three to Central,” Hutch said into the mic. “Central, how do you read?”
“Zebra Three, stand by for patch-through landline call from Sergeant Starsky.”
“Hutch?”
Another slight bump under the hood. Hutch tried to ignore it and the muttering that followed. “Yeah, Starsk, what’s up?”
“Dobey’s calling us in. Double homicide at a warehouse on Marshall. Looks like a drug buy gone bad, but Dobey wants us to get our hands on it before Narco sweeps in.”
“Starsky–”
“I know, I know. We were supposed to have the weekend off for a change. Dobey swears he’ll make it up to us, buddy, and this time I think he means it.”
“Starsky, that’s not it. I’m about an hour out.”
“What? Where the hell are you, Hutch?”
“I wanted to get out of the city. Went for a drive. I’m a little piece from Laguna Beach.”
“Laguna Beach! Hutch, that’s not getting out of the city, that’s a friggin’ impromptu vacation. Surprised Central could even raise you that far.”
“I’m within the fifty-mile police band radius, Starsky.”
“And what happened to not going off on vacation without me? Shoulda called me, partner; we could’ve played hooky from the city together and pretended not to hear the radio. You know, this mornin’ I was hoping you’d go out and find some action, but now I’m just jealous. If you tell me you’re seducing a beach beauty down there, and me stuck here with two stiffs and likely to miss out on my date tonight on top of it, I’ll officially bust you in the chops when you get here.”
“Starsky, it was nothing but a–” At another mutter from under the hood, Hutch lowered his voice. “It was nothing but a spur of the moment drive that went farther than I planned. And I’m having a little car trouble. Starsky, you better damn well quit laughing right now. Listen, I’ll meet you at the scene as soon as I can. Tell Dobey I’m on my way.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell your little beach princess she’ll have to find another knight in shining armor. You’ve got dragons to slay elsewhere.”
Hutch shoved the mic back into its cradle and tried to find any words that might soften the blows he’d never meant Johnny to take. The slamming of the hood nearly lifted him off the ground. Johnny came around the car, wiping his hands on a tool rag. “I think she’ll crank with no problem now.”
“Johnny.”
“You’re a cop,” Johnny said, looking around Hutch to the police band radio.
“Yes.”
“That explains a few things. You’re not out to your partner?”
Hutch glanced around swiftly to check for potential eavesdroppers. “Listen, for my partner’s safety, and my own, I’ve had to live like there’s nothing to be out to him about. What did you expect me to say to him on police band? ‘Sorry, Starsky, I’ll be at least an hour getting to the crime scene because I’ve been in Crystal Cove fucking some guy I just met this morning?'”
“You sound like a cop, all right,” Johnny said with a hint of disapproval.
Having learned that Johnny tended toward milder language, Hutch had to cool his temper. “You have a problem with cops?”
Johnny’s open grin reappeared. “Are you kidding? Firemen and paramedics depend on you guys half a dozen ways. I sort of dated a lady deputy few years back.”
“Sort of?”
“Yeah. Didn’t work out.”
“Why not? Because of the um–” Hutch gestured between them. “Itch?”
“No, not just that. Going out with her was like a police department ride-along, and we ended up in the bedroom on the first date, but she pulled out the cuffs. Now, don’t get me wrong, I can handle a little cuff action, but she made it clear I’d always be the one in bracelets. After spending the next shift with a bruised ego and sore shoulder, I figured I better let her find some nice accountant to bully.”
Hutch had laughed all through the anecdote, and already his chest felt lighter. When Johnny grew quiet, he said, “Are you out to your partner?”
Johnny shrugged. “Roy knows me too well. I couldn’t hide from him that I can turn on to men. He’s an easygoing kind of guy who accepts me like I am. He mainly cares what kind of fireman-paramedic I am, and I passed that inspection long ago far as he’s concerned. Maybe you and your partner don’t have that kind of closeness.”
His chest tightness returned. “No, you don’t get it. Starsky knows me so well, he’d never in a million years believe I could keep something like this from him. His sonar is off, you understand? And for his sake, I’ve tried to be one hundred percent straight. I’ve tried hard.”
“How long have you been partners?”
“Almost five years. But really it’s been more like seven. I knew when I met him at the Academy he’d be the only partner I’d want to face the inner city streets with.”
Johnny squinted up at the sun with a small headshake. “Seven years. That explains something else. You have tried hard. But when it’s in you, down deep, it can be like an addiction that sneaks up and pushes you into situations you shouldn’t be in, if you don’t feed it every once in a while, at least.”
“Don’t compare this to an addiction!” Hutch shouted at him, unnerved by the remarkable perception. “You can’t possibly know enough about addiction to make that comparison!”
For answer, Johnny just silently walked his tool box over to his truck and had one leg into the driver’s seat before Hutch called him back over with what Starsky would swear sounded like a rare Hutchinson apology.
Johnny returned slowly and stood in front of him, guarded, hands shoved down in his front pockets. “I’ve never been down the addiction road myself, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve seen a drunk trying to kick booze on disulferam end up in respiratory arrest for taking a drink.”
Hutch sat down on the edge of his driver’s seat. “Last year, I was kidnapped by a syndicate boss and forcibly strung out on heroin as a torture tactic to get information out of me. Starsky helped me get clear of it and I’ve been clean ever since. I keep telling myself if I could fight an addiction like that, I can keep fighting off the need for this.” Hutch waved a hand at Johnny, then bowed his head, rubbing, kneading his brow until his eyes burned. “Can’t believe I just told you that. Only a handful of people in the world know about that.” Are you insane!? You just opened your mouth and let that slip right out. He might be kind-hearted and genuine, but he’s still a relative stranger, and you’re handing him career-ending information? When you do vulnerable, you go for broke! If you’re this susceptible after a few hours with a man, you better wait seven more years before you do this again!
“People tell me things,” Johnny said, cutting into Hutch’s thoughts. “I think they make the connection between medical professional and confidentiality, you know? But part of it’s probably what the guys at the station call my ‘magnetism.’ They give me a real hard time about it.”
Hutch smiled up at him. “I notice you don’t feel compelled to reassure me you won’t rat me out to the LAPD as a recovered addict.”
Johnny’s expression remained serious. “If you don’t know enough about me after this morning to know I wouldn’t do something like that, you’re not much of a cop. And I have a notion you’re probably one of the best in your department.”
“Well, I would’ve said I was one of the most discreet, until I ran up against your magnetism.”
“Come here.” Johnny reached for his hand.
“Johnny, I needed to be on the road about thirty minutes before they radioed in.”
“This’ll only take a minute. The dead bodies aren’t going anywhere, are they? Sorry, I know that sounded bad.”
“No, you’re right. This isn’t quite the time-sensitive emergency you’re used to.” Hutch shut the driver’s side door three times until it stuck and followed Johnny back to their room.
Inside, closed off from a cold, prejudiced world, Johnny latched his hands behind Hutch’s neck and kissed him. Hutch didn’t know where Ken had gone, and didn’t care. He pushed his hands in Johnny’s hair and opened his mouth to the tender probe of tongue against his lips. Johnny’s promise of a minute’s delay fell victim to a spark that burst into prolonged flame. Hutch was breathless, dizzy, and all the way hard, yet again, when Johnny released him. He was a creative, energetic kisser.
“Thought you didn’t kiss guys.”
“I don’t have a problem with it, or anything, but I’m usually only with a guy one time, and kissing’s just way too involved for a one-shot.” Johnny smiled. “But I should’ve known I’d never get all the way through this without tasting your mouth.”
“Johnny–”
“No, listen. Roy knows I can go both ways, but I have to be straight, straight, straight around the station. The guys I work with, they’re okay types–well, Chet’s a maniac, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, I can’t be sure any one of ’em would ever let me darken the station again if they found out. That’s not counting what my captain or LA County would have to say on the subject. And I love my job. I don’t want anything to jeopardize it. So, I know, okay? I know a little of what you’re up against.”
With the taste of hope on his lips, Hutch felt the phantom ache begin to dull, and he knew he was ready to ease the floodgates open. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying, maybe we can help each other out. We don’t have to see each other on a regular basis. If we need to, we can pretend we don’t know the other one exists most of the time. But when we get that itch, we can call each other. We’re in the same boat, and we both know how to be discreet and how important it is. How’s that for a sweet set up?”
“If I give you my home phone number, you’ll have to be very careful. If someone other than me answers, you say nothing and just hang up, understand?”
“Someone else might answer your phone? You have a roommate or something?”
“No roommate, but when my partner is over at my place, he’s been known to pick up.”
“Damn, just when I had all these plans for heavy breathing and–oomph. Kidding. Kidding!” Johnny stepped back from Hutch’s fake punch to the stomach and held out his hand for another shake. “Let’s try this again and get the vital statistics right. Name’s John Gage, fireman-paramedic, LA County Station 51. Call me Johnny.”
Hutch shook his hand. “Name’s Ken Hutchinson, Detective Sergeant, LAPD-Metro, Homicide. Call me Hu–” Hutch bit his tongue. He had to have a boundary, a line in the sand that separated this from his other life. “Call me Ken.”
Johnny studied him for a moment and then that slow smile eased Hutch’s mind. “You better get on the road. Your partner’s waiting. And I don’t know about yours, but Roy hates to be kept waiting.”
Hutch smiled. “Same here.” He pulled Johnny close by the button placket of his shirt for a quick, hungry kiss. “I will call you.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re not the type to stand a guy up.”
~*~*~
Starsky sniffed under his right arm, then his left, checking his deodorant. Nancy had a finely tuned sense of smell, and one whiff of natural male usually had her scrunching her little button nose. He didn’t like that look on her. Even when serious she looked more like sixteen than her actual twenty-six years, but with a scrunched nose on top of her baby face and her long, free-flowing hair, she made him feel like a lecherous uncle taking his thirteen-year-old niece out on the town. And tonight he’d hoped there would be an addition to their movie date, but Hutch wasn’t answering his phone, and Starsky had rearranged the contents of his kitchen cabinets to fight down the escalating concern.
Hutch had asked to be left alone, insisting that he didn’t mind Starsky in particular, just company in general, and Starsky was in that general category right now. But, damn it, two weeks weren’t enough time, not nearly enough, certainly too soon for Hutch to be shouldering the twin burdens of grief and guilt alone. Guilt. That was Starsky’s burden more than Hutch’s in this case. He didn’t know if he would ever look at the month of October the same way again.
The knock on his door startled him as he reached for his leather jacket on the mirrored rack, but the voice that followed calmed his nerves better than a glass of warm milk, “Starsky. Me.”
Leaving the jacket on its peg, Starsky opened the door. A rush of nippier than usual October night air made him shiver in spite of his blue-and-white button-up, but Hutch wasn’t shivering. He was shaking and showing defiant, inwardly directed rage in his face, like a cat fresh out of an unwanted cold bath spitting mad that it’d been suckered into the water. The purplish circles under his eyes and streaks of moisture on his cheeks proved Starsky right. Too soon. Too damned soon. Starsky motioned him in and slammed the door. He ran down a list of mental options, trying to pick the right response. But with Hutch that was more complicated than selecting a paint color from a color strip.
Starsky opted for cheerful. “Been trying to call you. Thought you might wanna come out with Nancy and me, help us make fun of Hollywood’s latest box office flop. Huh, what you say to a movie? I’ll spring for popcorn.”
But Hutch stared across the room at the line of vintage car paintings on the wall and gave no sign that he’d heard a word Starsky said. In the comfortable temperature of Starsky’s living room, Hutch should have already shed his tan leather jacket, but he was still shaking. Starsky walked up behind him and put gentle hands on Hutch’s arms at the elbow. “Hey, partner, are you really that cold, or is this something else? Where were you tonight? I tried calling a few times.”
“Went out. I thought…” Hutch’s neck tensed. “Thought I needed….”
Starsky felt the flinch in Hutch’s arms and released him slowly. Definitely too soon for that, he told Hutch in his head, knowing if he said that out loud the words might sound scolding. “A warm, willing body?” he asked, keeping his voice to the low-pitched softness he typically used to quiet Hutch’s inner storms.
“Goddamned itch,” Hutch snarled. “Of all the times!”
Itch? If Hutch meant the itch to combat shock and internal rage with a night in the arms of a beautiful woman who didn’t expect the social gallantries of an established relationship, Starsky knew exactly how annoying that itch could be, and how necessary to scratch it. But if Hutch hadn’t managed to do any scratching… “Left the lady in the lurch?”
Hutch flinched again, more visibly this time, and walked away from Starsky in a distinct rush. Starsky frowned. Okay. This was more than just Hutchinson anger at involving a stranger in his personal problems. “Hutch, it’s okay. I’m sure you didn’t leave her thinking it was some flaw in her character that had you heading out the door.”
“I’m so cold,” Hutch said.
Based on the tone of voice, Starsky considered the irrational possibility that Hutch meant something more than body temperature. “You’re in some kind of shock, that’s what.” He clamped a hand on Hutch’s shoulder and steered him down the hall toward the bathroom. “Get yourself into a hot shower. I’ll call Nancy and beg off tonight.”
Hutch looked over his shoulder. “No, Starsk, you don’t need–”
“Hush, need.”
Hutch’s laughter sounded as hollow as he looked, and if Starsky didn’t erase that look on his partner soon, he would be the one shaking next.
“Need. That’s just it.” Hutch shook his head. “Thought I needed…but I didn’t. I need….”
“You need your partner, dummy,” Starsky said with a smile, urging him into the blue bathroom. Simple concept, and it should have been instantly comforting, but Hutch’s hollow look now had a pained grimace to go with it. “Go on in there, and don’t drown. I’ll bring you something to put on.”
Something to put on? There was nothing wrong with Hutch’s clothes. Starsky realized he was acting like Hutch had come in out of a pouring rainstorm. All that shaking, like the man was drenched. But maybe Hutch could use more comfort than sitting around in what amounted to work clothes: cords, turtleneck, and leather jacket. After Starsky placed a quick call to Nancy, who responded with her usual happy-go-lucky, whatever ambivalence, he located the comfortable pair of pajamas that he crawled into whenever he was sick, and barged into the bathroom without bothering to knock. Hutch would be insulted by a knock, Starsky knew. That filled Starsky with relief brightened by happiness. The ghost of Gillian might have the strength to push Hutch out of a stranger’s arms and bring him shaking to Starsky’s door, but once inside Starsky’s domain, Hutch could relax, and no haunting memories stood a chance against the bonds of partnership. With only a quick glance at the shower stall to make sure Hutch was upright and doing his best not to drown, Starsky left the pajamas on the bathroom counter and hung his old blue robe behind the door.
When Hutch appeared some time later, he immediately sank down on the sofa. Starsky brought a steaming mug from the kitchen and handed it over, the clink of the spoon against the mug’s stoneware getting Hutch’s attention. Hutch reached for the mug, but Starsky held it just above his hands. “Careful. Hot.” He turned it so Hutch could grasp the remaining space on the handle.
“What is it?” Hutch asked, sniffing the contents.
“Re-heated won-ton.”
“Not your Aunt Rose’s homemade recipe?”
Starsky sat down beside him and thwacked him on the knee. “Would I do that to ya?”
Hutch looked down at his borrowed pajama bottoms and flicked at the robe’s hem. “Always knew you’d give me the shirt off your back, Starsky, but I have to say, these feel even better. Thanks.”
“That’s okay, good for them to be pulled out for something other than the flu.” Starsky wanted a rewind button for his mouth. That couldn’t possibly have come out worse, but Hutch was occupied with the steaming won-ton and made no comment. “You want something alcoholic to go with that?”
Hutch blew on the spoonful of broth and dumpling. Then he gave Starsky a weary smile. “I look like I need it?”
Yes. “Well, you’re warmin’ up, I can tell. Your call. Sometimes a good shot of something hard helps, sometimes it doesn’t.”
Yelping as the hot broth got acquainted with his tongue, Hutch slurped up the dumpling and chewed cautiously. Finally, he shook his head. “Might just be easier for you to knock me over the head with a hammer.”
Starsky held out both hands to show off empty palms, fiddled in his pockets, and then looked around the couch. “Sorry. Fresh out of hammers.”
What Hutch needed was human warmth and tenderness, not from the arms of a stranger but from someone whose tenderness carried with it years of sincerity. But how to get Hutch to accept that without triggering his stubborn stand-alone impulse? Starsky casually draped his arm on the back of the sofa behind Hutch. “Not that you need a worried partner hanging all over you or anything, but if an arm around you would do more good than whiskey or a hammer?”
For a second, Starsky caught the flicker of an unfamiliar panic in Hutch’s eyes. Damn. Memories might not sever the ties of partnership, but there was a barrier between the partners, all right. Starsky couldn’t blame Hutch for putting up a wall. He was grateful Hutch left it small enough to climb over. And one week wasn’t enough time for Hutch to deal with his partner’s willingness to bribe an “unsuitable” girlfriend to get out of town, either. But this didn’t look like the shocked pain he’d seen in Hutch a week after Gillian’s death when he’d confessed the ultimatum he’d given her: Tell Hutch you’re a hooker, or I will.
Then Hutch slid over and Starsky let his arm drift down from the back of the sofa to rest along Hutch’s shoulders. Several minutes passed by with only the clink of the spoon and Hutch’s sipping louder than the ticking of the second hand on Starsky’s watch. Starsky knew he could sit like this all night if Hutch needed it. Hell, Hutch had done the same for him more times than Starsky could count on one hand. He let himself really snuggle into the sofa’s warm softness, tightened the arm around Hutch’s shoulders, squeezing him closer.
Hutch burst off the sofa and didn’t stop until he reached the kitchen bar counter, slapping the mug down so hard Starsky expected the stoneware to crack. Fortunately, Hutch had downed enough soup that none splashed over the sides to burn his hand. Starsky swore at himself, hoping Hutch couldn’t hear him. Hutch could toss barbs Starsky’s way in the spirit of competition, but he didn’t generally approve of Starsky calling himself a “fucking insensitive asshole moron.”
“Hutch, there’s nothing wrong with leaning. Even less so when it’s a guy who’s leaned on you a time or ten. I’m trying to help here.”
Hutch didn’t turn from the counter. “I know you think you’re helping, just like you thought you were helping when–”
“Oh. This is a ‘you’ve done enough already’ thing?”
Starsky hadn’t strangled Gillian with his own hands. The vicious, sleazy syndicate boss wannabe Al Grossman had done the real dirty work. Her life might not have put a myriad of choices in front of her, but she had chosen the life of a prostitute, and she had chosen to walk away from it for Hutch. Starsky couldn’t blame himself for an adult human being’s choices. But his ultimatum had pushed her into walking without a safety net, and he couldn’t hide from the knowledge that he was the catalyst, that a human being was dead who might not have been had Starsky not interfered. Hutch apparently couldn’t hide from it, either, and why should he?
“You thought I was in danger of getting more broken than my heart,” Hutch said with a surprisingly level voice. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t have done something similar had the roles been reversed. Honestly, I don’t know what I would’ve done. And I hate like hell you were in that position, because whenever I try to walk a mile in your shoes, I feel like breaking my own legs just to stop walking!”
“Then come back over here and lean a little, if that’s what you need. Hey, you’d be doin’ me a favor, too. Now that I blew off the date with Nancy, my dick’s out of luck tonight, but at least my arm could get a workout.”
Hutch glanced at him with another quickly concealed glimmer of pain in his eyes, and Starsky briefly questioned whether he was doing more harm than good. He relaxed when Hutch returned to the sofa and rested back against his outstretched arm.
“Your arm gets tired, you say so,” Hutch told him.
“Yeah, sometime around 1980 I might need to stretch, work the kinks out.”
Hutch laughed.
For that sound Starsky could leave his arm around Hutch for decades.
So, this was the test of a man’s mettle. Knowing he was partly responsible for his best friend’s grief and loss ripped through Starsky every time he saw Hutch’s pale, expressionless mask, and he didn’t have the luxury of hiding away to lick his wounds, because Hutch wanted closeness, needed it to heal, instead of showing Starsky the door. In the face of Hutch’s miraculous forgiveness and generosity of spirit, Starsky gladly accepted the pain of holding Hutch close while knowing some of the scars on Hutch’s psyche owed their existence to Starsky’s rash handling of Gillian’s dangerous secret.
There was simply no one else on the planet like Hutch, and Starsky doubted that a scan of the entire universe, if such a thing were possible outside of science fiction, would pull up a match. Doing whatever it took not to fuck up their partnership or friendship shared the same slot on top of Starsky’s priority list with keeping Hutch safe. Unfortunately, those two priorities had a tendency to clash every now and then. And one day, Starsky feared deep in his soul, they might clash with enough violence to rip Hutch and him apart.
But for now Hutch sat at his side, in the half-embrace of Starsky’s arm, and tipped his head back, closing his eyes, and resting. In another hour they might turn on the TV, and Hutch might have an appetite for the leftover pizza in Starsky’s fridge. Eventually, they’d fight over who got the bed, and Starsky would give in, making up the couch with blankets and comfy pillows for Hutch to sleep.
Or maybe they would just sit here without moving until morning found them.
Either way, Starsky felt like a king.
~*~*~
“Can’t take you out anymore, Hutch, you keep insulting my friends.”
Downstairs in the ratty lobby of the Hotel Brenner, Starsky gestured with a twitch of his shoulder at the registration desk, and Hutch left him to quiz the hostile information source behind the desk. He needed to get out of the building before he punched his fist through a wall or did enough damage to the furniture to warrant a complaint that Dobey would take out of his paycheck if not his hide.
He took refuge in his car and leaned over the steering wheel, peering out through the dirty windshield into the darkness that couldn’t hide the ugliness of the city they called home. Couldn’t hide predators like Artie Solkin.
Hutch banged his forehead on the top curve of the steering wheel. Where the hell had all that come from? What dark corner of his soul had secretly housed the venom he’d just spit in Solkin’s’ face?
Hutch rolled his forehead from side to side, not caring if the steering wheel left ridges on his skin. In a fit of righteous anger over the murder of a seventeen-year-old kid, faced with the greasy ne’r-do-well, Solkin, who made a hobby of exploiting teenagers for his own criminal gain, Hutch had railed at him with the fury of a bigot. Worse, he’d sounded like a self-loathing, if-I-hate-fags-I-can’t-really-be-one bigot. Hutch had no patience with any form of loathing, but he really disliked the kind that people turned on themselves.
Fagin, fagelah, what’s the difference? You’re vermin….
Artie had caught the subtext, damn him. The man was sly as a weasel and had the same devious smarts. Enraged at the out-of-line insults, Artie had stared right down into Hutch’s darkest, secret place and saw what he was trying to hide. And Hutch, sickened, had seen the brief flare of triumph in the weasel’s eyes. Starsky, bless his everlasting soul, hadn’t said a thing until Artie left the room, but his quiet words when they were alone said it all.
Can’t take you out anymore, Hutch, you keep insulting my friends.
Artie Solkin was no one’s friend, but Starsky’s rebuke said in no uncertain terms that Hutch’s hateful words were a particularly potent form of stooping to Solkin’s level. And Hutch had to agree. It was one thing to call Artie “Fagin.” The streets had proof that Artie recruited minors to steal for him and commit a number of other petty crimes for profit. No proof that law enforcement could get to stick on him for the amount of time needed to land him in jail, but the streets knew the truth about their own. There was no proof that Artie used the kids for sexual purposes. And if Artie did indulge in that kind of sickness, that made him a pedophile, not gay, not fagelah. The linking of pedophilia and homosexuality was the stuff of ignorance, straight out of the dark ages, not the thinking of the sane, rational, liberally educated man Hutch believed himself to be.
That was the problem: he wasn’t thinking when he lashed out at Artie. Out of his head with rage over the tragic life and senseless death of young Jimmy Shannon, he’d done the one thing he hated to see other people do–he’d known where to find Artie’s emotional jugular vein, and he’d aimed for it.
Christ, if some bastard breathed the hateful suggestion that if Hutch could get it up for men, he probably liked underage boys, the bastard would need emergent dental care by the time Hutch got through with him. Hell, if someone said that about Hutch in front of Starsky, the bastard wouldn’t have to worry about Hutch, because dead men can’t worry.
Which brought Hutch right back to square one, the reason he couldn’t be open, even around Starsky, about his very legal, very vanilla need for the sexual touch of a willing, good-hearted, adult male. If Hutch gave the bastards at Metro a chance to spew that kind of slanderous filth, Starsky would be chained to IA’s rack of torture too often to get a lick of police work done. But if scratching his itch in hiding could make Hutch capable of spewing that same kind of filth, even to a jerk like Artie Solkin….
Hutch groaned in the sudden claustrophobic tightness of the front seat. Was he turning into a self-loathing, outwardly bigoted closet case? His own worst nightmare.
The passenger door opened, and Starsky slid inside. Hutch didn’t look up from the steering wheel until he heard the door shut. “Get anything out of the slime at the desk?”
Starsky was silent. When the silence grew palpable, Hutch said, irritably, “What?”
“You’re in rare form, Hutch.”
Defensiveness rose in Hutch again. “A kid is dead, Starsky! I’m supposed to smile and pat Solkin’s back when he stands there in Jimmy Shannon’s room, knowing what he knows, and gives us the run around?”
“No, I’m not sayin’ that.” Starsky didn’t look at him. “But winding up a pathetic specimen like Artie won’t get us what we need. And when you let a dolt like that wind you up, he wins.”
“Thank you, Mother Mary Josephine. How many demerits do I get?”
Starsky looked at him then, and his voice was a low growl, “Damn it, Hutch, what’s the matter with you tonight, huh? And don’t lay it all at poor Shannon’s feet. This isn’t all about a murdered kid you didn’t even know. Or how he lived. God, that’s bad enough.”
“Artie Solkin is a monster. I’m tired of watching him go back on the street to do more damage. Aren’t you?”
Starsky nodded. “No question. But back there,” he jerked a thumb at the window in the direction of the squalid hotel, “if poetic justice was what you were aiming for, you could’ve just whipped out a baseball bat and whacked him in the nuts with it.”
“Oh, come on, Starsky.”
“Remember our first week in the Academy? Remember Lenny Davidson?”
Hutch swallowed hard. Yes, he remembered soft-spoken, quick-witted, and quite handsome Cadet Davidson. He remembered watching Davidson leave the Academy with a battered duffle bag slung over his shoulder, having been expelled for suspicion of homosexuality thanks to an overheard phone call. A phone call to his boyfriend. Not the brightest move to make, placing the call on Academy grounds, but Davidson hadn’t deserved the stool pigeon fascist who’d informed on him–and the identity of the informant was never revealed–or the immediate expulsion when he’d refused to lie about the phone call to Academy brass.
“Yes, I remember,” Hutch said. “If he’d stayed, you would’ve had tough competition for the marksman honors.”
“Damn right, the boy knew his way around firearms. You remember what I said when we watched him leave, you, me, and Colby? I said, ‘I didn’t know fagelahs could shoot.’ ‘Course, I didn’t mean just weaponry. Shitty thing to say. Even back then, I knew it was a shitty thing to say. Colby just laughed himself hoarse, but you–” Starsky smiled over at Hutch. “You climbed my ass about it, but good. Right there in front of Colby. Remember?”
Hutch had to smile as well. “I remember. Really gave you a tongue lashing.”
“Hell, yes. To the point that Colby called you an activist do-gooder for about a week before you hauled his ass into the Academy gym and shut him up with a few falls on the mat. You always did know how to put Colby in his place, buddy.”
“Starsky–”
“I was so damned proud of you, Hutch. Even while my ass was burnin’ from the strip you tore off it, I was proud. Told myself right then I’d never use that word again, because it made me less of a man than the sissy I was tryin’ to make Davidson out to be.”
“And you haven’t used it.”
“Not once. I don’t get guys with guys, but that’s their lookout. I don’t plan on thinking about it much until something makes me.” Starsky’s face was stern, unyielding in the dull light from the streetlamp. “Don’t you ever let me hear that word come outta your mouth again, either. Because that kind of bigot, you’re not, and no information we need is worth the act you put on in there just now.”
An act? Hutch stared at Starsky and felt the truth slam into him. Starsky thought it had been an act designed to pry information out of a hostile potential suspect. But Hutch knew it ran deeper than that.
Undercover.
He’d felt the discomfort building since Abby had come back into his life. With Abby, he could go through the motions. He’d never been a talented actor outside of the undercover world, but that was just it. He was undercover. He could make Abby cry out to him in bed, could leave her shaking, whimpering, telling him if she came one more time she’d be sore, and laughing and reaching for him while she said it–and he’d be left with gratitude that he’d pleased her, relief that he could go to sleep and forget for a while that his climax had been pale and halfhearted by comparison.
And none of her vitamins could make him come harder, or make her a man.
The worry that he was using her nagged at him whenever they spent time together. Hardest of all on Hutch’s conscience, he couldn’t remember feeling that way about Gillian, and he was still terrified that it was because his subconscious had picked up on shady vibes from her and excused him for having his own secret while she had hers.
Abby was too kind to notice, even when he fell asleep on her at a romantic picnic in the park, fell asleep daydreaming about another park, a summer morning, big brown eyes, and masculine hands.
Hutch’s feeling of leading a dual life had intensified after the recent date in Johnny’s favorite mountain campground. Hutch had needed to get away from Abby no more, no less than he needed time away from the feel and memory of looking up into Starsky’s eyes from the cradle of his arms in the perfect tango dip that had no business taking place at all, much less in Dobey’s office, for God’s sake. But after a night tumbling with Johnny in a tent under stars that twinkled down through air clear of smog, Hutch had felt compelled to beef up his straight cop persona, solidify it until no one could see through it, especially the one person who usually had x-ray vision when it came to Hutch.
Act straight, talk straight, think straight.
Shouldn’t be too hard, Hutch had consoled himself throughout the week after his night with Johnny. He’d been doing exactly that for years. After all, this thing was just an itch. A need that waxed and waned. It didn’t define him. Didn’t define Johnny either.
Hutch wanted to grab Starsky and kiss him for completely nonsexual reasons, and how was that for irony? The outburst at Artie Solkin had been mostly an act fueled by fear, anger, and desperation. Hutch wasn’t in danger of turning into that kind of bigot. He’d just gotten a little too wrapped up in a cover persona, the way he tended to do in cover cases on the job. But why now? Why hadn’t the overdone typical straight cop persona surfaced before in the six years Hutch had carried his badge?
Another puzzle piece fell into place, and Hutch breathed freely for the first time since he descended the Hotel Brenner’s stairs. Up until five months ago, he hadn’t tried to carry his badge and an intermittent homosexual affair at the same time. That explained the mutation of the teeth to fangs in his undercover act. It didn’t take as much camouflage to cover self-denied needs as it did to hide actions. Well, now that he knew what had prompted his venomous treatment of Artie Solkin, Hutch could guard against it happening again. If he had to live the cover of a hundred percent, never look at another guy, straight cop, he could damn well make his persona a tolerant one. He had his own ingrained tolerance to draw from, and if that wasn’t sufficient character material, he was sitting next to one of the most tolerant straight cops in the LAPD. Thank God for a man like Starsky, who could remind Hutch of his inner good guy while using himself as an object lesson to cool the dressing down’s sting.
Of all the memories to hit him next, he flashed back to an overcast, terrifying afternoon in the old county zoo, where one look from Hutch, one shake of his head, had seemed to exert telekinetic force on Starsky’s straining left arm, those capable fingers loosening on the weapon, sparing the life of one George Prudholm, revenge artist and cop killer who had pushed Starsky to the limits of humanity. Standing there, riveted by the tension, Hutch had known deep inside that Starsky wouldn’t pull the trigger. He’d known there were lines Starsky never crossed…would never cross until Hutch’s safety depended on it. Even so, Starsky had told him later outside of Booking that Hutch had handed his conscience back to him. Such an uncharacteristic remark for David Starsky, and it stuck, lodged in the most treasured place in Hutch’s heart. Time for him to return the favor.
“Starsk, you know the time you told me I’d handed your conscience back to you?”
Starsky’s eyes clouded at first, but then he offered Hutch a smile that bordered on shy. “You remember that?”
Hutch grinned. “Not every day my partner says something like that. Of course, I remember.”
“Not every day I’m staring down a cop killer with my gun leveled at his head, and I feel like my partner’s transformed himself into one of those little Saturday mornin’ cartoon angels that perches on people’s shoulder trying to make ’em do right.”
Hutch laughed and elbowed Starsky’s arm. “Well, consider us even, partner. And you look pretty fetching in a little white, winged dress with a halo over all that hair.”
Starsky’s astonished gape was worth the risk Hutch took saying something that could be so revealing if he let depth of feeling color the words. Then those lovely eyes narrowed, and Starsky wagged a fist at him. “There are places I could bury your body, Hutch, where nobody’d ever find it.”
Relaxing behind the wheel, Hutch breathed deeply and cranked the engine. Enough said. They were on equal ground again. “All right, let’s head to Metro and pull files. If we don’t report in, Dobey’s liable to think we’ve both fallen in a newly dug hole somewhere.”
~*~*~
“Oh, for–!” Joe Collandra did not look happy. He shook his broom handle at the two patrons who bellied up to his lunch counter. “Why you guys gotta eat in here all’a time now, huh? I don’t need it out on the street that this is some kinda hangout for the cops! It’ll scare away the customers.”
Hutch looked around at the neat as a pin and very empty JC’s Café. Starsky looked, too, and then shrugged, turning back to the counter. “So, who’s gonna be spreadin’ the word?”
An astute question on Starsky’s part, Hutch thought, having had the same one himself several times in the café. He wanted to ask Joe if there ever were customers, or how the man managed to keep the business open if not, but he knew posing that question was way outside the boundaries of the uneasy friendship he and Starsky had forged with the gifted psychic, and besides, he probably didn’t want to know the answer either way. “We eat here all the time, Joe, because we can get a couple of burgers done just right and at the right price. Quality burgers, especially if your apprentice isn’t flipping them.”
“I heard that!” Huggy barked from the kitchen. Then the apprentice short-order cook/psychic appeared in the open serving window. “Why’re you dudes really here? You need to bend my ears?”
Grumbling under his breath, Joe carted his broom into the kitchen to begin their burger preparation. Starsky reached across the counter and snagged two cups and saucers. “No, Huggy, not this time.” He rattled his cup on its saucer, the universal sign language for “coffee, now, please,” and Huggy came out of the kitchen with a fresh, steaming carafe that looked more appetizing than the older brew sitting out front on its Bun warmer.
“We’re celebrating, Huggy,” Hutch said, watching the stream of black liquid flow into his cup under Huggy’s expert control. “Starsky got official clearance today from IA.”
“Didn’t think there was any question on the matter.” Huggy didn’t outwardly show concern, but the stream of coffee into Starsky’s saucer wasn’t as smooth.
Starsky pulled the sugar dispenser over along with a napkin. “They didn’t yank my badge, make a dog-and-pony show of it in front of the review board or anything, but it’s still nice to have it clean in my record.”
Joe appeared in the serving window. “They’re not giving you grief over quick-frying the kidnappers, then? One shot, gas tank, boom! You’re efficient.”
Hutch patted his partner on the back when Starsky strangled on his first sip of coffee. Starsky’s survival assured, Hutch flashed a look at Joe. Huggy had said the man never read newspapers because they nearly made his head explode with all the unwanted tripping energy, and Joe obviously knew details that hadn’t made the papers. That left… Reading his glare, Huggy held up both hands and shook his head, claiming innocence.
“I saw it,” Joe answered Hutch’s silent question. “Not long after your partner hustled you out of here making fun of my six-foot tall male rose on fire. Saw why he did it, too.”
Still coughing and sputtering, Starsky was a barely leashed bundle of energy beside him, and Hutch casually covered the leather jacket sleeve with his hand. Under his palm, Starsky’s wrist twitched and went still. Hutch frowned at the psychic. “I don’t know what you saw, Joe, but here’s the truth of it. The suspects were attempting to flee after using potentially deadly force on a police officer. Starsky was within his rights to prevent their escape with whatever force he deemed necessary. And that’s IA’s take on it, as well.”
At Joe’s motioning, Huggy ducked back through the swinging door into the kitchen. Joe stared through the window at Starsky. “Two-for-one deal, huh? Get the bad guys and set a great big example for anyone else looking to put a hole in your partner that they’re liable to end up meeting their maker if they try it?”
Hutch shot off the red leather barstool, slamming both hands down on the red-topped counter. “What’s this, Joe? He’s been through the Department’s grilling, but now he has to get through yours?”
Starsky tugged on the hem of Hutch’s plaid over shirt. “Siddown, Hutch, the man’s partly right.”
Hutch sat down. Huggy breezed through the swinging door with two hamburger-and-fries plates, setting them down with the next thing to an apologetic smile. Distracted by the silent tug-of-war between his partner and Joe, Hutch bit down on his burger without checking for pickles. The crunch of sweet onions told him Huggy had remembered this time which partner got what.
“Partly?” Joe asked, folding his arms over his chest.
“Yeah. I didn’t have to leave them dead. I could’ve disabled the car and then taken my chances on putting them out of commission solo, and IA could’ve made a big deal out of that, but they didn’t. Why, I don’t know. Because we found Joanna, because there wasn’t anybody to kick up a fuss and demand an investigation? Who knows? But it didn’t go down like you’re thinking.”
“Starsky, eat.” Hutch nudged the burger plate closer to his tense partner.
“Well, if I’m wrong, correct me, Detective.”
“Damn it, Joe!” Hutch slammed his burger down on his plate and shoved the whole business aside. “What the hell is the point of all this?”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to send a message,” Starsky told Joe. “I thought Hutch was dead. Gunshot to the chest, then a header through plate glass. I forgot about the vest. I thought it was game over, and the sons-of-bitches responsible were burning rubber to get out of there. They thought they’d been double-crossed. No way was I lettin’ them get back to Joanna and take it out on her or skip town and start this shit all over again somewhere else. And maybe it would’ve been nice for my inner cop and conscience to stand around and debate the ethics, but I didn’t have that kind of time. Soon as I had a clear shot, my aim eye and trigger finger just took care of business for me.”
“And that’s all there was to it?” Joe asked, looking like a stubble-faced, apron-wearing St. Peter at the Gate quizzing an earthling demanding entrance to the Kingdom.
Starsky swigged down more coffee. “Yes, damn it, that’s all there was to it. What you want from me, Joe, huh? I feel like I’m on the couch, and you’re some damned shrink trying to get me to confess to some watershed event in my childhood. Well, as much as we owe ya, I’d love to play along, but I don’t have a clue what you’re wantin’ to hear.”
Joe shrugged. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m the phony around here, remember?”
“You want to hear I have regrets? At the time, I didn’t. Not one. Didn’t even realize until I’d gotten back to Hutch and got the report from the patrol unit that I might’ve nailed the coffin lid down on Joanna. Then I started regretting, hell yes. But even then, after what they’d pulled on Hutch, I couldn’t regret too much.”
“I know,” Joe said, and his arms loosened and relaxed at his sides. “I’m not sparing any grief for the sick creeps, either. I’d even say they got what was coming to them. And what you did might’ve saved Joanna’s life, if it helps.”
“What?” Hutch asked.
There went that Joe Collandra shrug and jaw twitch again. “When you came in here bruised, bleeding, and coughing up a storm, and Starsky looking like he’d crashed all the way down to Hell and was having to climb back up again, I knew what I saw had really happened. Knew you had no place left to go for help. If I’d thought for a minute you still had some other source out there, some other way to find her, I doubt I could’ve pulled my shit together and went down into that nightmare again, y’know?” He looked at Starsky. “So, don’t think I was on some kind of morals kick. That wasn’t what I was after.”
“What were you after, then?”
“Some other time. If you don’t know now, it’s a good thing Huggy’s my apprentice, not you, ’cause you’d never make a psychic.” He disappeared from the window, and Starsky rolled his shoulders, shaking his head before lifting his forgotten burger for a huge bite.
Hutch’s burger didn’t look worth the trouble.
“Y’okay?” Starsky asked through a mouthful. He waved the burger between them, dropping a sprig of lettuce and a few sesame seeds from the bun. “We’ve never really talked about–y’know, but you–”
“I knew.” Hutch poked a stray edge of onion back under the top bun. “I know your long-range accuracy. If you missed all four tires and hit the gas tank instead, it had to be a purpose shot. Moving target or not.”
Starsky smiled at him. “See what happens when I don’t have you around playing cartoon angel on my shoulder?”
Hutch found a smile for their running joke. “Damn, Starsk, fast as it all played out, I doubt I would’ve had the time to get in costume.”
“But you’re okay with it all?”
Hutch nodded. He’d always known there were lines Starsky would cross for him. Didn’t Starsky know he had lines only Starsky could make him cross as well? He hoped he’d never have to prove it, because only life-threatening danger to Starsky could push him that far, but he knew there were no moral brakes when it came to Starsky. In the secured jail cell with Simon Marcus, he’d have ripped the bastard’s throat out with his bare hands if he hadn’t needed the twisted riddles to find Starsky alive.
The lack of brakes should scare him, Hutch knew. But he wasn’t scared. He was hard. Hutch shifted in the stool and rose to his feet, carefully turning away from Starsky until he could get control and walk normally. “Back in a minute.”
Joe had come back out front to finish his sweeping. On his way to the unisex restroom, Hutch caught Joe’s eye and saw a fresh frown darken the man’s face. Inside the dingy bathroom lit only by a single bulb dangling from a wire with no fixture covering to keep it in place, Hutch stood in front of the chipped porcelain sink and turned the cold water on full blast, sloshing some on his face. He held cold, wet hands to the back of his neck and made himself look in the mirror.
Not again.
Throughout the case, he’d felt some unseen entity chasing him. Chasing him and trying to pin him down and make him admit something. First the cross-dressing Fireball, then the bar robber in old lady drag, and poor Charlie Siren’s basketball player in drag quip. Even Starsky had seemed in on the big karmic kick in the ass with his jokes about Hutch looking good in basic black and pearls and buying Hutch flowers with the ransom money.
Well, there was nothing to admit! And Hutch sure as hell had no future plans to don a dress and pantyhose. He sloshed more water in his face. Nothing to admit. Just one of those weird number things, like when you played a lottery ticket that didn’t win, but you saw the same numbers cropping up everywhere for days afterward. He wasn’t hiding anything from himself.
Hutch adjusted his jeans again. Not this time. This time the itch could just quiet itself without a little help from a friend. He couldn’t call Johnny. Not after their last outing, when Hutch had lost control. He ducked his head and gripped the sides of the sink, fury flooding him again. All the fear, desperation, and rage he hadn’t worked out on the black-robed freaks who’d had Starsky awaiting execution, he’d fucked out of his system with Johnny. He could still see the concern and a hint of fear that rose in those soft eyes afterward. He couldn’t pick up the phone now and risk hearing that the warm voice had gone cold, telling him to go fuck himself. No, Johnny wouldn’t say to go fuck himself. Get lost, maybe. Leave me the hell alone, probably. Hutch knew right then how important it was to hear kindness in that strong, distinctive voice, and the thought that he might not hear it again had deflated his hard-on. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Hutch turned off the faucet, dried his face with sandpapery towels, and headed back out to Starsky.
His plate was empty save for a few scraggly french fries. “Where’s my burger?”
Starsky swallowed guiltily and patted his stomach. “It got cold.”
“Yeah?”
“You were gone more’n a minute. I was about to go see if you got sucked down by the toilet monster.”
“But you ate my burger instead?”
Starsky gave him a don’t-yell grin. “What would you want with a cold burger? ‘Course, I ate it. Joe’s making you another one.”
“Damn it, Starsky!” He knew better than to point out that if Starsky could eat Hutch’s cold burger, Hutch could’ve put it away just as easily. That kind of logic didn’t appeal to Starsky, who probably saw it as a good deed that he hadn’t left cold meat for his partner to choke down. Joe appeared genie-like and slapped another plate down in front of Hutch.
“This one’s on the house,” Joe said, and turned to straighten the desserts in their glass case, as if the little bowls of Jello, pudding, and parfait improved with proper arrangement. But he was looking over his shoulder at the counter when Hutch elbowed Starsky’s forearm and asked him to pass the pepper.
~*~*~
The man was oblivious. Couldn’t see two inches in front of his face. Joe scowled and tidied the one-serving boxes of cereal on top of the dessert display. So much for getting David Starsky to admit there was a whole lot more heart than trigger finger in that deadly shot that could’ve burned down half a city block. And why should the man admit it, and to Joe, of all people? Starsky was right. Joe was trying to be the man’s shrink, not his psychic, and maybe it had something to do with shoving his special sight into Starsky’s face because the man hadn’t believed in him at first.
Hutchinson, though, believed in Joe, had from the get go, which flattered Joe all the more because he had the idea Hutch was primarily a rational, fact-over-fantasy kind of guy. Pleased with the cereal boxes, Joe made up his mind to at least do what he could for his believer. Better for the man to leave off wanting what wouldn’t be his.
Fate played right into his hands when Hutch left his keys on the counter and came back, sans Starsky, to retrieve them. Joe plucked the ring of keys from the counter and twirled them just out of Hutch’s reach.
Hutch eyed the keys, then Joe. “My keys, please.”
“Got something to say to you first. A word of advice.”
Hutch looked nervous. “You didn’t just see something, I hope.”
Joe shook his head. “Do I look like I just tripped on a scene? Am I clutching my head like the mother of all migraines is coming on fast? No. Listen up, Hutch.” He nodded significantly at the bar stool Starsky had occupied. “Sometimes a man can’t get what he wants. But he’s usually able to find what he needs.”
Hutch paled for a second before the street cop bravado took over and allowed him to smile. “What are you, the psychic Mick Jagger?”
“Hell, no. I’d been saying that for years before that big-lipped Brit started making money off it. It’s okay to take what you need instead of what you really want. And sometimes, Hutch, if you make the needing about want instead, you’ll quit needing what you really want and start wanting what you need. Get me?”
Hutch got it, judging by the wild look in his eyes, but the man’s mask was good. He grabbed the keys out of Joe’s grasp and backed away from the counter. “Thanks for the free advice, but if that’s a service you dole out with every burger, I think I’ll take my business to McDonald’s.”
Joe watched him leave. He was 0 for 2 for the day. Good thing he was a psychic and not a shrink. But Hutch’s mind was fertile soil for planting seeds. Maybe one of them would actually sprout, and Hutch would listen to his advice. Joe couldn’t tell much from one of his fleeting scenes, but that LA County paramedic had the look of a real classy guy. And he wasn’t stumbling around in the dark like David Starsky.
“What the hell was that all about?” asked an angry voice at his side.
Joe saw that Huggy had abandoned the mound of dishes in the kitchen sink. “What?”
“That jive you were giving Hutch.”
“What, you don’t know? I thought you knew all there was to know about those guys.”
Huggy’s ears were practically steaming. “You have some kind of vision about m’man Hutch, I better hear about it right now.”
Joe pretended to grab his hair and writhe. He stopped abruptly and gave Huggy a frown. “You see me doing that lately? No. It wasn’t a damned vision. It’s plain as the nose on your face. Hell, you could see it when he asked Starsky to pass him the pepper. If a man looked at me like that when I passed him a pepper shaker, I’d move a few stools down the bar with a firm ‘No Thank You.'”
Huggy’s anger didn’t cool. In fact, the ferocity in the skinny sorcerer’s apprentice made Joe long for the security of his broom handle. “I got no problem with it,” Joe assured him. “God knows, half the country would label me a freak for this so-called gift I was born with. Guys just aren’t my scene.”
“They’re not Starsky’s scene, either.”
Joe noticed Huggy didn’t say the same for Hutch. “And Hutch? You’re trying to tell me I’m misreading him?”
The fire died out of Huggy’s eyes. “I have my thoughts on the matter, which I keep to myself, and so should you.”
“Why?”
“Because if the wrong people get the same ideas you did, Blondie could end up pistol-whipped in an alley with Starsky having to watch at gunpoint. By their brothers in blue, no less. So I hope to holy hell what you seen is ’cause you’re special, so sensitive and all, and not just ’cause it’s gotten too much for Hutch to hide.”
Huggy pushed through the swinging door so hard the vibration caused one of the small cereal boxes to topple off the desert display. Joe left it lying on the floor. He began gathering the dishes to add to Huggy’s pile in the sink. When he touched Hutch’s plate, searing pain lanced through his head, gathering in a ball of tension and agony at the base of his skull. He couldn’t tear his hand off the plate, couldn’t close his eyes to the horror of a large Ford sedan rolling down a mountainside, rolling and rolling, until the battered car came to a stop upside down with its cargo pinned beneath it. Its still and lifeless-looking cargo, a too familiar face framed by mussed and blood streaked blond hair. Joe’s head twisted again, movement he had no control over, and he saw his own café, Starsky pacing like a big cat of prey, begging for Joe to draw him a map, and then overturning tables and hurling napkin dispensers when Joe couldn’t provide the easy answer Starsky needed.
No!
Joe backed up and leaned against the serving counter.
“What’d you see, Joe?”
Clutching at his chest, Joe felt for his heartbeat to make sure his heart was still intact, and glared at his apprentice. “Wouldya stop sneakin’ up on me? You think the way to get promoted from apprentice to sorcerer is to give me a heart attack?”
“What’d you see, man, out with it?!” Huggy insisted. “I saw you just now through the serving window. You touched Hutch’s plate and started writhing and stuff like when you get a vision.”
Joe hated his life. “What good will it do if I tell you, huh, tell me that?”
“Tell me so I can fix it.”
God! When would people learn that psychics couldn’t prevent the inevitable? What could he tell the man? Anything but the horrible, unavoidable truth. Inspired by their previous conversation, Joe decided to hit Huggy with the lesser of two bombshells. “A guy. I saw a guy. Maybe it’s a drinking buddy of Hutch’s. No big deal.”
Huggy stood with arms folded, a fierce skeptic. “You already know Hutch’s drinking buddies. Me and that sharp shootin’ hamburger thief you were givin’ a hard time.”
“So maybe Hutch has a long lost cousin. Let it go, Huggy.”
“Not happenin’, Joe. You looked like you do when what you see don’t go down easy. What, something gonna happen to this guy?”
“Nothing like that. Look, I was just surprised, that’s all. I’m not used to immediate confirmation of a hunch. Doesn’t usually work like that.”
“Any clue who the guy is?”
“Why do you care? You Hutchinson’s keeper or something? I thought that was Starsky’s job.”
“Starsky’s not here right now; I am. I’m not playin’ around, Joe!”
“He’s a fireman by the looks of his uniform. I saw a red truck, yellow lettering, LA County. A big fifty-one in a circle. I didn’t see his whole name. Just caught a flash of the name badge. Little print. Last name started with G. G-a-something.”
“If that’s all you saw, why you think this guy’s what you think he is to Hutch?”
Joe straightened his apron, but he wanted to lift the apron’s skirt and pull it over his head. Because the first scene of him I flashed on involved Hutch and didn’t include uniforms of any kind. Took me two days to stop blushing. “Call it interpretation. Look, I tell you what I see. You wanna play detective and figure out the meaning, go right ahead. But you don’t need to bother yourself over it, Huggy, it’s not gonna matter.” Oh, no. Wrong thing to say. Huggy advanced on him, looking dire. “I mean, it’s probably one of those temporary things, that’s all. For your friend’s sake, leave this be, huh?”
Huggy backed off, but worry still narrowed his eyes and tightened his lips. “I owe both my friends enough to get a line on this guy. I owe Starsky enough to tell him if I run across anything liable to put Hutch’s back to the wall. I owe Hutch enough to keep my mouth shut if the guy’s clean, unless Starsky puts my back put to the wall. When you’re in the middle of two friends like those guys, you learn to walk that kinda line.” Shaking his head, he returned to his kitchen duties.
Joe could empathize with being trapped in the middle, but he had no intention of walking any line. Damn this curse of his! Just when he’d gotten comfortable in a place, he had to close down shop and leave again. Whenever that tragedy of Hutch’s occurred, and Joe could only hope it wasn’t tomorrow or the next day, he didn’t plan to be around for Starsky to find. Atlantic City still haunted him, but he knew he’d never survive telling Starsky his partner was dead.
Joe looked around the café and nodded. He’d be out of LA by week’s end.
~*~*~
Roy DeSoto thought he might actually get the chance to enjoy his meatloaf. Marco’s meatloaf had to be savored to fully appreciate the Latin touches: extra paprika, mild green chilies, and a hint of Tabasco in the sauce. Following a day of light calls and much needed downtime, Station 51 had gathered around the big Formica-topped table for the evening meal, and even Johnny looked relaxed–as relaxed as a fidgety Johnny could look. Roy had stopped trying to pin his partner down on the reason behind the fidgetiness. In between calls, Johnny couldn’t tolerate chatter that delved deeper than the squad’s quirky engine.
With one perfectly sized bite of meatloaf loaded on his fork, Captain Stanley saluted their chef with the raised utensil and opened his mouth, either to compliment Marco verbally or sink his teeth into the succulent meat, but the wall phone’s jangle jarred the captain’s usually steady hand. In the way of bored firemen, nearly everyone’s attention centered on the captain’s forkful of meatloaf as it plopped onto his plate, but Johnny cocked his head, listening, almost as if he expected the phone to go quiet before Mike could reach it. In the silence, Johnny began pushing his chair back from the table, and Roy watched him, wondering. It wasn’t like his partner to leave Marco’s meatloaf untouched.
When the phone rang again, Johnny stumbled out of his chair, and waved Mike off. “I’ll get it, I’ll get it!”
Chet’s ears perked immediately, twin antennae beneath those curls, his mustache quivering. If Johnny intended to keep anything about this call secret, he’d just blown it with his mad dash to the wall phone. Roy shoveled down meatloaf to keep from laughing, which would just annoy Johnny and make for an unpleasant remainder of the shift. Fidgety Johnny was one thing, surly Johnny was another.
“Station 51, Gage,” Johnny said. His lips curved, those expressive eyebrows scooting up on his forehead, and then he turned his back to the table, but his whole body vibrated with an energy that didn’t find an outlet in his audible whisper, “Hey, you.”
Chet made hourglass figures in the air to Marco, who gave a low whistle.
“I’m off tomorrow. When? Oh, man. No, day after tomorrow Roy and I are off, but we’re out of town at a paramedics’ conference. Nope, day after that we’re back on shift here. Tomorrow, then? You’re sure? Hm, guess you can’t be, then. Hey, good luck, and–Mm-hm.” Johnny glanced over his shoulder, frowned at Chet’s double thumbs up sign, and hastily swiveled back toward the wall. “Dinner? Sounds great. You can let me know last minute, that’s fine. I’m glad you called. I’ll see you then if it works out.”
“‘Hey, you’?” Chet asked as soon as Johnny hung up the phone. “Who’s Hey You?”
“Nobody,” Johnny said, and his return to the table took three times as long, but there was a gleam in his eye that Roy recognized from years of partnership, a bursting happiness that Johnny was attempting to shroud in deadpan nonchalance to keep Chet off the scent.
Marco wagged a meatloaf-laden fork at him. “I think we need to know who Hey You is, what do you think, Mike?”
Station 51’s quietest firefighter, Mike said nothing, but his smile showed curiosity.
Captain Stanley raised both hands in prelude to playing the diplomat. “Look, guys, if Johnny doesn’t want to share with the class, he doesn’t have to.” Then their youthful captain grinned. “But I think if he chooses not to, he needs to wash the engine tomorrow.”
Roy saw nervousness in his partner’s fumbling with his milk glass and restless elbow tapping on the table, and he tensed in sympathy. He should have known. When Johnny didn’t start bragging after the second prod from Chet, he had something to hide…and not just to get under Chet’s skin. Oh, no. Could this be one of those dates? Roy hurried to create a diversion. “You know, Marco, I think you ought to enter this meatloaf in that cooking contest I was reading about in the–”
“Johnny, if Hey You is calling you up for a date this close to Valentine’s Day, it must be pretty serious,” Chet interrupted. “Are you getting serious with some girl we know nothing about?”
Johnny scowled at him. “Chet, don’t be ridiculous. Didn’t you just hear me on the phone? Obviously, you did. Did I sound serious?”
Actually, he had sounded serious, to people who knew John Gage like his station mates, especially the one person in the station who knew the possible explanation for Johnny’s breakneck dive for the telephone.
“Come on, Johnny,” Marco wheedled. “All we want are some vital statistics. Right, fellas? You don’t have to give us the full rundown.”
“I think this milk is sour,” Roy spoke up loudly, holding his glass theatrically high to investigate its color in the light. Johnny shot him a panicked glance, and Roy tried to shrug discreetly to indicate his willingness to help if Johnny could telegraph any ideas his way.
“Maybe this girl’s some kind of reject,” Chet mused, doing his dog on a bone shtick. “Blind date you can’t shake, Johnny, is that it? Some kind of feminine stalker. I mean, admit it, your taste in women isn’t exactly gourmet.”
Utterly defeated, Roy brought his milk glass down. His partner’s career plans, livelihood, and pension combined could not stand up to a taunt like that one. Johnny pushed his plate away and folded his arms over his chest. “Okay. I don’t know why this is such a big deal, but if you want vital statistics, I’ll give you a few. Show you poor saps what you’re missing out on.”
Roy tried frantically to wave Johnny off the topic. If he gave them food to gnaw on, they would demand more. Eventually, they would want to meet this girl, start nagging Johnny about why he didn’t have photos of her, and all the other friendly busybody tactics they employed to great effect whenever they thought him on the verge of a significant relationship.
“We’re talking looong legs,” Johnny said, smiling. “Hair like the morning sun, I’m not kidding. Blue eyes, too. Loves the outdoors, running, swimming. Real independent. And smart? Woo-eee, yeah, more than a pretty face, I’ll tell you that. Now can I please finish my meatloaf before the–”
Too late. The squonking of the station alarm saved Johnny from tightening the noose around his own neck, and pulled Roy back from the onset of a seizure trying to warn his partner in any recognizable sign language that he was digging a grave for himself.
Sure enough, on their way to the squad, Roy heard Chet say behind them, “Hey, Gage, you got a photo of this dream girl? I need a new pinup for my locker.”
~*~*~
“At least tell me one thing about her.” Starsky reached the last quarter of his burrito across the desk and swung it directly under Hutch’s nose like a smelly hypnotic pendant. “Just one thing.”
Almost regretting sleazy Attorney Balford’s hasty departure after Dobey’s skewering, Hutch pulled the ruined paper from the typewriter and balled it up, growling, “Thanks a lot. I was two letters away from finishing this report when your foul lunch made me type them backward.” He groaned, and lifted the ice pack back to his sore temple. “Needed some more of this anyway. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hutch, get serious. You have a big date tonight. You’ve been doing that little ‘I’ve got a date’ humming thing under your breath for the last hour. Actually, you’ve been doing it off and on since yesterday, which means a planned date, which means big, and I need details.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m bored with the cover op letdown, ’cause I need fodder for the next stakeout bullshit session, ’cause if this chick is big news, big enough that you’ll pass on celebrating the Humphries bust with me at Huggy’s, then–”
“Wait a minute,” Hutch protested. “I’m not passing on anything. In case you’ve forgotten, you have a date with Terry tonight.”
Starsky smiled. “Didn’t forget. But Terry’s got to be at school early in the morning for some faculty meeting, so I won’t be staying over, and I figured you and me could hit the Pits about eleven.”
“Well, sorry, buddy, but I can’t promise to be unoccupied at the hour of eleven.”
Starsky gobbled down the rest of his burrito and didn’t bother to finish chewing before he crowed, “I knew it! Come on, Hu-u-u-tch, I need to know something. Anything.”
“Why?”
“Got to know if this girl’s–” Starsky suddenly began coughing, a very fake cough to Hutch’s ears, and resorted to draining his Coke bottle.
Hutch knew the reason for the aborted remark. Starsky’s desire to “screen” his partner’s girlfriends for suitability and worthiness of Hutch was still a sore wound in their friendship, months after Gillian’s death. Reminded of his role in Gillian’s last days, Starsky would shut up now, afraid of hurting Hutch with unpleasant memories. Taking mercy on his partner, and needing to pretend that no barriers remained, Hutch chose to play along…up to a point. “How about hair color?”
“What?”
“You wanted to know one thing. How about hair color?”
“Okay, we’ll start with hair color.”
Praising himself for cleverness, Hutch said, “Brunet.”
“You’ve been doing the humming thing over Christine? Thought it was pretty casual between you two.”
“It’s beautifully casual, actually.”
Starsky snapped his fingers. “Hey, wait a minute. Can’t be Christine; Terry told me she’s out of town for two weeks on a photo shoot. Dating two brunettes at the same time, buddy? Living dangerously, if y’ask me.”
Dating his best friend’s girlfriend’s best friend didn’t just sound convoluted; it was a tactical error, Hutch decided. “So, who’s asking?”
“Hey, what’s between you and Christine is just that, but keep in mind, you screw up too bad with her and I could land in the doghouse, too. Do your partner a favor and don’t be getting these brunettes mixed up at the wrong time, hm?”
Hutch had to laugh. “Trust me, Starsk, there’s little chance of that!”
“What’s she do?”
Knowing this could get dangerous faster than Starsky could choke down a burrito, Hutch thought kindly of sewing his lips shut, but Starsky’s avid interest and animated body language, clearly the result of being included in Hutch’s plans, however far on the periphery, made Hutch reluctant to call a halt to the information sharing. “Hard-working public servant, just like yours truly.”
“She’s not a cop?” Starsky instinctively glanced around the squadroom, but the detectives and officers currently sharing their working space were all male.
“There’re other public service professions that don’t involve law enforcement, Starsky.”
“Yeah, s’pose you’re right. As much under your breath humming as you’ve been doing, she must be Kate Jackson class.”
“Beautiful inside and out,” Hutch agreed.
Starsky smirked and cupped his hands chest level. “Straight A or all D’s?”
“Damn it, Starsky, you don’t have to be so crass.”
“Don’t pretend the boob action doesn’t matter to you, Hutch. Is she a little petite in that department?”
“Little and petite are redundant, moron, and you know, I should be worried that my best friend is more concerned with breast size than the fact that his buddy just might have met someone warm, caring, and devoted to the welfare of others.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve seen your eyes pop at busty strippers too many times to be taken in by all that. Name?”
Hutch grinned. “Nope.”
“Her name’s Nope?”
“No, the name is not part of the bargain. I already told you more than one thing. So get yourself a candy bar, finish your report, and let’s brief Dobey so I can get out of here.”
“You’re cooking for her, aren’t you?” Starsky leaned over the desk until Hutch could smell the onions and refried beans on his breath.
“Maybe. Maybe this dream date of mine happens to have a great apartment with a great kitchen where I can work my culinary magic.”
“Maybe you could just tell me her first name.”
“If I tell you the first letter of the first name, will you quit bugging me so I can at least finish my report?” Hutch asked.
“All right.”
“J.”
“J? Damn. I was hoping for X or Z, that would narrow things down. J could be anything. Julie, Jane, Jessica, Jennifer, Joanne, Jodie, Janice–”
“Starsky!”
“Okay, okay. Want something from the machine?”
“Nope. Don’t wanna spoil my dinner.”
~*~*~
“Ken?” Johnny knocked on the carved door and waited, hoping for the sound of footsteps. The phone call had caught him just before he left his apartment. Unexpected police-related errand, Ken had said, but come on over and if no one answers, look for the key on the lintel. Johnny waited for another minute and then reached up, brushing fingers through dust until his fingertips landed on cold metal. He felt strange letting himself in Ken’s apartment, but Ken had promised to be back only a few minutes’ late at most for their scheduled rendezvous.
Inside the apartment, looking around, Johnny almost turned and walked back out again. This was a huge step. He had never been to Ken’s place, and Ken had yet to see his.
In seven months they had scratched each other’s itch whenever the LAPD and LA County Fire Department provided a rare shared day off, with little communication in between. From late June to September, they managed four weekends in Crystal Cove, enjoying the hiking Johnny had suggested their first time together. Then Johnny hadn’t heard from him until October, when Ken suggested they meet at a motel about half an hour north of LA, but that time didn’t count. A worn, frail Ken had shown up with dark circles under his eyes, a hollow look, and the same shell shock slowness to his movements that Johnny had seen in family members who lost loved ones in Rampart’s ER. Twenty minutes after Ken arrived, he made apologies and left, without one kiss or touch, and Johnny had known why, if not the details. The man was grieving, and he didn’t need sex. He needed a shoulder to lean on, a shoulder used to bearing that weight, and Johnny knew when Ken pulled the old Ford onto the main highway that he was turning his car in the direction of his partner.
November had brought them together twice at a secluded campground in the Angeles National Forest, near Station 86’s territory, where Johnny had always wanted to buy a house when he saved enough to get out of an apartment. Both encounters had created more sparks than their well-tended campfire, but no matter how good the sex, Johnny still had the sense Ken was running from something–from something pleasant, the first time, because Ken was full of his unique humor in the form of quips about impromptu dance lessons in his captain’s office. The second November night they spent under the stars, Ken was morose, complaining bitterly how a cop’s life tended to wreak havoc on the people close to him, innocent victims of collateral damage, more often than not the women in a cop’s world. December had passed without so much as a Christmas card, drawing 1976 to a close.
Then, out of the blue, the second week in January, Ken had summoned him to a meeting spot out in the middle of LA County ranchland, this particular stretch a wasteland of brown blowing grasses and only the occasional clump of trees. Ken looked like a different person. He had three emotions competing for expression–fear, relief, and joy–and Johnny knew the details this time. The newspapers had run several feature stories on Detective Starsky’s abduction by the murderous cult whose leader he and his partner had brought to justice, and the subsequent rescue led by Detective Hutchinson.
Ken’s car was different, too, sporting customized touches of fur where Johnny didn’t expect to see fur in a car, and a kind of fur he couldn’t even identify. Ken had laughed about what he called a temporary aberration. If he could have gotten in touch with Johnny, he’d said, the old girl would have had a tune up without Starsky’s mechanic friend Earle getting his far out notions within a mile of her. Knowing his expertise didn’t run to anything more complicated than fan belts, spark plugs, electrical shorts, and oil changes, Johnny hadn’t let on that he was no prize-winning mechanic, too pleased by Ken’s compliment to play modest.
Johnny hadn’t known exactly what the wasteland meant to Ken, but he’d had the strangest feeling it was a place of desperation that Ken needed cleansed from his system, and it turned the man into a creature as wild as their surroundings. Ken had wanted Johnny under him in the back of the 4 x 4. So for only the second time–after their first afternoon in the Canyon Vista they had kept things simpler: a little sixty-nining here, a few leisurely rub-offs there–Johnny took Ken inside of him, and Ken took him for a tumultuous, screaming ride that stayed just on the safe side of the pleasure/pain line. Afterward, Ken had seemed more drained than sated, their parting awkward, quiet, and distant.
And Johnny had fidgeted through the next three weeks, hearing nothing, wanting to call but either too busy, or too wary, or too something. Finally, Ken had called the station, using their prearranged code of two rings, hang up, and dial again, and the invitation to Venice Place had shocked Johnny’s dark uniform socks off. Was Chet right? Did it mean something, this date with Valentine’s Day just a hop, skip, and jump away? Did Johnny want it to mean something? Just scratching their mutual itch, he reminded himself. Nothing else. Better for both of them if it stayed that way.
Bored with puttering around the open living room, taking pleasurable note of the football poster, the antique piano, the impressive selection of books on the shelf beside the kitchen, Johnny wandered into an alcove where a lovely brass bed stopped him in his tracks. He wanted Ken in that bed. Wanted to show him that he could give as good as he could take. Wanted to know he could climb inside the man of mystery and make him come as easily as Ken put him in outer space from deep inside. Wondered if he could get up the guts to ask Ken for it after dinner.
Stomach grumbling, he backtracked to the kitchen where mouthwatering aromas reminded him that dinner time had come and gone without proper nourishment. He peeked in the oven. Admittedly no gourmand, Johnny recognized a casserole when he saw one, and this gorgeous example appeared somewhere between golden brown and burning. He glanced at his watch, disturbed by the time.
“Better be glad your itch-scratcher is a fireman, if you’re gonna go off and leave your oven on,” Johnny said aloud to an absent Ken, switching off the oven and locating a potholder and glove to rescue the casserole from the 350 degree heat. He set the dish on another potholder atop the stove and valiantly resisted the urge to lift the glass lid and steal a crumb from the top bubbly layer.
An hour later, he was back in the kitchen, putting the covered dish in the fridge. Thirty-two minutes after finding a home for the casserole in the sparsely stocked refrigerator, Johnny began hunting for scrap paper and a pen to leave Ken a note. He found a small note pad in a kitchen drawer along with what looked like a twenty-year-old pencil, but he carried them both over to the couch and sat down, staring at them with no intention of writing, unwilling to give up on their date. Ken had given him no details, but Johnny assumed the police-errand had something to do with the undercover operation that had apparently ended successfully that afternoon, making this rendezvous possible.
When ten o’clock rolled around, Johnny had to accept a night with no Ken. With an early flight to Sacramento the next morning, he couldn’t afford to hang around and wait until midnight. He began composing the safest, most generic note he could, and felt secure in signing it with his first initial, something personal, however trivial, to indicate he’d really been there. Sticking the folded note to the fridge with a magnet, he gave the Venice apartment one last, wistful glance from corner to corner, and let himself out, returning the key to its home on the lintel.
~*~*~
Starsky stood in the center of Hutch’s living room and tried to shake the chill he could feel all the way through his leather jacket and thick blue turtleneck. He hadn’t worried when he’d phoned the apartment at eleven the night before just to see if Hutch would answer, and got no answer. Hutch and his lady were probably busy, he’d told himself, doing what he’d missed out on with Terry thanks to a dumb faculty meeting. But when a seven a.m. wakeup call didn’t bring a growling, muttering Hutch to the phone, Starsky began to itch in the uncomfortable place inside that stayed dormant when Hutch was safe and sound. Still, maybe the line about the lady’s great home wasn’t the red herring he thought, and Hutch had spent the night at her place. When Starsky got to Metro and found no Hutch already in the squadroom throwing back putrid coffee and beaming from ear-to-ear after a night of good sex, he felt a worried ache join the itching. He nearly knocked poor bumbling Woolfolk down on his way out of the squadroom.
So in tune to his partner, he knew the exact feel of his home after a night Hutch had spent with some lovely lady. This was not a warm morning-after apartment. This apartment felt cold. He could practically taste the disappointment. Had Hutch’s big date stood him up? Starsky couldn’t imagine a woman that foolish, but even if she had, that didn’t explain Hutch’s absence. He looked around, trying to recreate the previous evening’s hours just from what he knew of Hutch. He’d long since memorized ninety percent of the clothes in Hutch’s wardrobe, and a quick catalog of the closet and chest-of-drawers told him Hutch hadn’t packed an overnight bag. Not necessarily a big clue. Hutch sometimes took only himself and a bottle of wine to an overnight date. He paused at the chest-of-drawers, drawn to a photo of Hutch clowning around with him at the Pits, and held the framed snapshot to his chest, needing even the illusion of closeness. He breathed deeply to fight the sensation of doom.
“Hutch, where’d you run off to, huh?”
Close inspection of the kitchen informed him that the old wooden table had seen no romantic dinner in the last twelve hours. Knowing Hutch, there would still be dishes and glasses in the sink, the lure of the couch, greenhouse, or bed too strong to waste time with after-dinner cleanup. He decided to see if Hutch had any orange juice in the fridge. In the absence of root beer, a cold glass of juice might kick-start his brain. He paused with his hand on the door handle, staring at the folded note held aloft by Hutch’s jazz festival magnet. Instantly forgetting the juice, Starsky grabbed the note.
Hey, you,
Waited until ten. Put the casserole in the fridge.
Call me, if I don’t call you first.
And leave a message. My machine likes your voice. –J.
Starsky hurried to the door and ducked halfway outside, reaching for the lintel. The key was there, but a few inches down from its usual location.
Mind whirling, Starsky slammed the door shut and headed for the couch to ponder the note’s ramifications. He berated himself for not probing Hutch about this mystery girl. Here he needed a contact who might know something, anything, and he knew nothing about her except the first letter of her name, but Hutch clearly trusted her enough to tell her about the spare key. He read the brief note again, wondering why it struck him as off somehow, or out of place, and raised the little hairs on the back of his neck. Worse, he had the urge to yowl like the territorial tomcat that hung around his apartment complex. He shook off the odd impulse. Action his only comfort during times of uncertainty for Hutch, Starsky seized the coffee table phone and sought outside help.
After three rings that lasted an eternity each, Huggy’s sleep-gravelly voice answered. “I hope the fool calling a bartender at home at this unconscionable hour has a good reason or said fool is gonna be a dead fool; is whoever this is with me so far?”
“I think Hutch is in trouble.”
Hacking and coughing assaulted Starsky’s ear and then a faint sound like a match striking. A few muffled breaths later, Huggy sounded clear as a crystal bell. “Sorry ’bout that, man. Few puffs of a morning cigarette, and I’m right as rain. Now what’s this about Hutch?”
“He had a date last night, but from the looks of a note I found on his fridge, he skipped out on the lady after he went through the trouble of cooking dinner for her. Wasn’t even here when she showed. She left at ten last night without seeing him. He’s still not here this morning.”
“Maybe the lady showed back up at eleven and whisked him away to her place.”
Starsky glowered at the phone. “You’re still asleep. Take a few more drags off that cigarette, wouldya, and wake up. I’m tellin’ you, I got a feeling, and this feeling has Vic Humphries all over it, you hear what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I dig the nastiness of that. But, Starsky, what you’re talkin’ about is a little faster than that man’s known to move, you know? I mean, Vic probably takes an hour to put on that dead animal hairpiece o’his. Hutch is a big boy, bro; maybe he just had second thoughts about this date.”
“You really think the Hutch we know would stand a lady up without so much as a call to say, ‘I’m just not into this,’ or, even worse, not show up for work this mornin’ without a phone call to me?”
“I’ll admit it’d be a shocker, but hear me on this, Starsky; we just might not know everything there is to know about Hutch. And some things we do know, but we don’t talk about ’em or think about ’em ’cause it’d make opening Pandora’s Box look like digging into a pack of Crackerjacks.”
Starsky could have sworn the note clutched between his right middle fingers was burning his skin. He hastily shoved it in his jacket pocket. “Huggy, at a time like this, that cigarette of yours better be the nicotine variety!” And what the hell have I been smoking, thinking a damned piece of paper’s going to burst into flame in my hand?
“Have you known me to overindulge in any other kind!?” Huggy snapped. “I know you’re upset. I know it goes both ways. If I was giving Hutch this kind of lip with you unaccounted for, he’d be over here five minutes later dragging my ass out of bed to snarl some sense in my ear. All I’m sayin’ is maybe there’s an explanation that doesn’t involve bodily harm. But I’ll put some feelers out, dredge the streets, and see what I turn. Anything hot, I’ll holler.”
“Thanks, Huggy. That’s all I’m asking.” Starsky hung up and touched his jacket pocket but declined withdrawing the note for another look.
Huggy might be right. Starsky didn’t spend every single second of every single day with his partner, and he couldn’t swear under oath that he knew one hundred percent of everything going through Hutch’s mind. But there were certainties Starsky could count on: Hutch didn’t cook dinner for a special date with a beautiful lady and walk out on them both. Hutch didn’t skip out on work without a phone call to Starsky unless a very unpleasant reason had him doing the skipping. Starsky hurried from the apartment to take his concerns to Dobey, and he hoped to hell Dobey was an easier sell than Huggy, so he could begin the search in earnest.
~*~*~
Starsky had never mourned a hit man until now. Looking out the window to the death scene below, knowing that his only source of information on Hutch’s whereabouts lay dead and out of his reach, he felt lightheaded and had to grab the windowsill. Was this the universe’s way of kicking his ass for risking Joanna Haymes’ life when he’d blown away her kidnappers? Now Hutch was the missing person whose location had gone to the grave of the scum likely responsible for his disappearance.
And maybe if Starsky had used a lighter, softer hand in the situation with Gillian, maybe if he’d acted like it was a legitimate shame that Abby had walked out for good, Hutch might have opened up to him about this new girl, and Starsky could be knocking on her door to find out what she knew, if anything.
If Hutch had called her before….
Starsky pounded his fist on the concrete sill until he could think through the pain ripping his heart with tiny claws that only prolonged the suffering. She might be the last person to ever hear Hutch’s voice, and Starsky didn’t even know her name.
He had no time to waste on a trek down to the parking lot to disperse the crowd hovering around Slater’s twisted body. He had even less time to waste on useless guilt. He couldn’t use a light or soft hand with the people who crossed Hutch’s path. If he cared less, maybe he could let more slide, but caring less about Hutch, or for Hutch, was never an option.
Right now he needed his professionalism to ground him. Starsky returned to Slater’s room to call in the coroner’s meat wagon and search for any clue to what the dead man couldn’t tell him.
~*~*~
“If you ask me about it one more time, Chet, I’m going to take a razor to that mop of yours one night when you’re sacked out.”
Chet brought the silverware over to the table. “Hey, calm down, Johnny. It happens to all of us. People stand people up. In this lady’s case, some kind, considerate citizen in your acquaintance probably called and warned her off.” He exchanged a high five with Marco, who then poured fresh coffee for everyone.
“Can we talk about anything besides the date that didn’t happen?” Roy pleaded, knowing Johnny had reached the end of his patience after the first few questions.
“Thank you, Roy,” Johnny said, smiling, and holding aloft his cup of coffee in salute. “Good to know I can count on my best friend.”
At the station alarm, a groan went up from the whole table of hungry firemen. “Squad 51. Unknown type rescue, textile facility, 511 Heyward Road, cross street Dunmore. Time out 12:01.”
Chet relaxed and began loading his spaghetti down with grated parmesan cheese. “You can always count on missing lunch when Mike does his famous spaghetti, too, Gage.”
“Don’t I know it,” Johnny grumbled, pushing his chair back from the table and reaching for his handy-talkie.
En route to the call, Roy ventured a sideways glance at his passenger. “Could’ve told you to expect something like this.”
“Like what?” Johnny asked.
“The guys harping on your case about the big date. You shouldn’t have egged them on the other day. At least tell me you gave them nothing real when you started listing vital statistics.”
“No, it was real, but nothing that could come back to bite me.”
“Not bright, Johnny.”
“Why?”
Roy risked another glance away from the road. “Because it’s someone you can’t parade around the station, isn’t it?”
Johnny looked out his window. “Roy, we agreed you wouldn’t ask questions about guys.”
“I’m not asking questions. But you’ve got to play this lower key if you don’t want Chet doing his Bulldog Drummond impression and finding out more than you want him to know. Okay?”
“Doesn’t matter anyway. I think it’s probably a no-go.”
“Because he didn’t show for the date?”
“He could’ve called to say he couldn’t make it after all. That’s all I’m saying. I can understand things come up.” Johnny pointed his thumbs back at his chest. “I’m a reasonable guy, right?”
“Right,” Roy said, concealing a smile.
“I can understand having to cancel your plans at the last minute. But how long does a phone call take, huh? If not beforehand, then afterward, or the next morning. A ‘sorry I missed you’ kind of thing. How hard is that? I mean, I’m a guy, I know guys can skimp on the little details. But I’ve always tried to remember the basics, and a cancellation phone call is a basic. Right?”
“You were in Sacramento with me all yesterday. How do you know he didn’t call?”
“I don’t know, but I made sure he knew he could leave me a message. He’s left me messages before. When I got home last night, I checked the machine. No message. Machine was working, tape was good.”
In his surprise, Roy almost put his foot on the brake in the middle of an intersection. “You have an answering machine? Since when?”
“It’s not like buying a Rolls Royce. Okay, yeah, I splurged on a state-of-the-art gadget. Fat lot of good it did me this time. He didn’t even bother to leave me a message.”
“Don’t you think it’s premature to write the guy off just because he didn’t make one date? I’m guessing he’s kept all the others.”
Johnny stared at him. “How’d you know there’ve been others?”
“Because even you wouldn’t be this riled about someone you’d just met, and I wouldn’t have thought you’d buy an answering machine if you were dating Miss America, much less some guy.”
“I’m not riled!” Johnny shifted in his seat, adjusted his helmet, and then folded his arms over his chest, looking petulant. “I can’t believe you said that. Me, riled? Do I look riled? I’m not either riled!”
“Oka-ay.”
“And I’m not writing him off,” Johnny said, typically reversing his entire stance on the subject. “Where’d you get the idea I’m writing him off?”
Roy nodded, glad he knew just how to talk a temperamental Johnny off a limb. Now they could get through their shift without a bad mood tripping them up.
Instead, Roy watched Johnny’s disappointment and frustration escalate to anger, and then anger cooled to concern. After two straightforward rescue calls that Johnny breezed through on professional autopilot, his concern had advanced to worry that seemed out of proportion to the situation. When the captain retired to his office, Mike began his inventory of the engine’s equipment, and Marco and Chet ducked out back for some fresh air, Roy cornered Johnny in the kitchen and pushed him by the shoulder over to the table where he sat down beside him.
“Okay. Out with it. You’ve been acting hung up all day. It’s the no-show, isn’t it?”
“Roy!” Johnny looked around.
“No one can hear us. What’s going on, Johnny?”
“Something’s wrong.”
“Because you didn’t get a call?”
“No.” Johnny jumped up from the table and went in search of his coffee mug and the stale coffee in its stainless steel carafe on the stove. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Why? You know I don’t pry into stuff like this, but this time something’s really under your skin, and if you can’t talk to me, who else is there?”
“It’s not that I don’t wanna talk about it. This gu–this person has to be even more careful than I do. I gave my word, Roy. Things I wouldn’t talk about, places I wouldn’t call, messages I wouldn’t leave. I can’t even call anyone to see if the person’s all right.”
“Why wouldn’t the person be all right? Granted, their manners could use a brush-up, but people get caught up in their busy lives and forget to do the courteous thing.”
“No, you don’t understand. This person–let’s just say there are reasons a no-show might be more than a no-show.”
“Johnny, what’ve you gotten yourself into?”
“Something a heckuva lot heavier than I planned, that’s for sure.” Elbows on the table, chin propped in hand, Johnny ignored the cup of coffee he’d just poured.
~*~*~
“We made it, partner,” Starsky said for the fourth time. He knew he had to let go of Hutch long enough to get back to the Torino’s radio to place an emergency call and summon a black-and-white to take care of the KO’d Humphries, but his hands did not want to move from their tender hold on his miraculously living, breathing partner’s face.
“Found me,” Hutch murmured. “Knew…you would.” A cough that sounded more like a failed attempt at laughter pulled Starsky’s heartstrings yet again. “Took…you…long enough. Slow poke.”
“Damn right I found you, and if you were as slow to get in trouble as I was gettin’ here, we’d both be in good shape. Now, shh, partner, save your breath.”
“Leg,” Hutch whimpered.
“I know, I know, buddy. Thing is, I can’t do much about that without taking a chance on hurting you worse, understand? I tried to ease the pressure, but your leg’s caught somehow I can’t see, and I could rip it to shreds trying to pull you free. I need some reinforcements.”
“Don’t…leave.”
“Radio’s busted, Hutch. I gotta get back to the Torino for the radio.”
“Please.”
Starsky brushed through Hutch’s hair, shed his jacket, and bunched it up to place it beneath Hutch’s head for a pillow, wiping the sweat-streaked forehead with his own spit-dampened turtleneck sleeve. “I’ll be back before you know I was gone,” he promised. “I’m not leaving your sight for the next fifty-odd years. You got that?”
“Starsk.”
“That’s right. You keep saying that name to yourself. Betcha I’ll be back before you’ve made it to ten times.”
~*~*~
Johnny gave up trying to shove Henry out of his lap. When the station’s hound dog settled down for a nap, one of his hundred during the day, nothing short of the station alarm could rouse him. About to pick up the newspaper for a welcome distraction, Johnny jumped when the station alarm began its best effort to rouse the sleeping dog. Still, Johnny had to pick Henry up and deposit him on the other end of the sofa before the alarm rang through its cycle in preparation for the dispatcher’s announcement.
“Station 51. Single motor vehicle accident. Man pinned under car in canyon off Mountain Road, two miles north of Rockbridge Tunnel. Time out 14:40.”
Meeting Roy at the squad, Johnny shivered and slipped into his navy uniform jacket. “You cold?”
“Station 51, ten-four, KMG 365,” Captain Stanley acknowledged the alarm call, while Mike had a look at the wall map.
In his shirtsleeves, Roy joined him in the squad and cranked the engine. “Cold? No.”
“I’m freezing. Like…what’s that saying…like a goose walked over my grave.”
Roy pulled out of the engine bay, the lead engine’s lights and sirens providing them a clear path across the lanes of traffic. “Well, put on the heat. I don’t mind.”
“No. You know the squad loves any excuse to throw a short. Can’t risk that right now.”
~*~*~
“Hear that, Hutch?” Starsky scanned the high hillside, craving sight of the fire department response he could hear approaching, but their location didn’t afford a clear view of the road, one reason Hutch had spent two nights in a hell Starsky couldn’t imagine. “That’s help on the way. We’ll get your leg free, and the paramedics’ll get some fluids going, better stuff for you than the tepid junk in this old canteen of mine.”
“Paramedic,” Hutch said softly, twisting his head side to side.
“That’s right.”
“Paramedic,” Hutch said again.
“Right, Hutch. They’re on their way. We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy. If I thought I could do it without hurting you real bad, I’d lift that damn piece of junk car off you with my two bare hands.”
“Starsk….”
Starsky dropped back to his knees and smoothed Hutch’s hair, trying to avoid the blood-caked laceration and bruising on the high forehead. “That’s my name. Wear it out.”
~*~*~
“Oh, my God.”
Roy had rarely heard the sound of panic in his partner’s voice. Stepping carefully over a shaky rock outcropping with thick brambles on all sides, he planted his feet for stability and whipped around for a look at Johnny. “What?”
Johnny ignored the bulky weight of the Biophone case and drug box swinging by thin handles gripped to the point of blanching the skin on the tops of his hands and knuckles. He slipped and scuffed his way to the top of a shifting rock and dirt mound for a better view, craning his neck to peer down the hillside. “Is that a Ford? A light brown Ford?”
They had reached the first line of sight. Roy looked closer at the overturned car, still a football field’s distance as the crow flew. His initial thought had nothing to do with make, model, or color of the vehicle. Twisting for a look back at the high mountain road and the point of exit, then down to the totaled car with twigs and limbs caught in the undercarriage, he feared that LA County had called them to a DOS. He couldn’t let himself even linger on the words “dead on scene,” when he had a good idea that Johnny desperately needed him to say that, no, the vehicle in question looked like an orange pick-up. But he had never lied to his partner and didn’t intend to start now. “Could be a Ford,” Roy said. “But I can’t say for certain.”
To Roy’s astonishment, Johnny started to descend the hillside with no safety line in place. Hastily dumping the remainder of their equipment, including the heavy portable oxygen tank in its pale blue case, Roy grabbed for his partner’s arm and saved him from a nasty slip. “Johnny! Are you nuts? We rappel from here with lines!”
Behind them, topside, the engine arrived with a wail and crunch on the dirt overlook spot. Johnny turned wild-eyed fear on Roy. “You don’t understand. That’s Ken down there!”
“You have no way to know that for sure.” Ken. So that was his name. The only man Johnny had ever dared brag about to the whole station, if under the guise of a girl; the one man Johnny had worried over to the point of worrying Roy. “Even if it is, we’re all he’s got right now. What good would you be to him if you take a header down that cliff side? By the book, partner. You know just as well as I do, that’s the only way to handle a rescue that’s personal.”
Johnny nodded and set down the drug box and Biophone. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up to the roadside. “Cap’n! Throw us down two lines and safety belts? And we’ll need you to send down our equipment here and a cervical collar and backboard in the Stokes.”
“Will do, Johnny!” Stanley shouted back.
With Johnny’s attention riveted on the overturned car, Roy had to watch for the lines and safety belts to snake their way down the cliff, courtesy of Chet and Marco who would be securing the lines to the engine. Thrusting a belt and rope at his partner, Roy hurried into his own safety harness. “Okay, now take it easy going down.”
Roy had deluded himself that the safety rope and belt would keep Johnny in line. Johnny rappelled at a breakneck pace, working the rope furiously through his gloved hands, and only the protective covering kept his hands from sacrificing flesh. He seemed to be finding all the switchbacks in the terrain and undergrowth and nearly fell two or three times in spite of the rope designed to prevent a tumble. Roy shot a look skyward in exasperation with his partner, whose reckless descent could result in a broken leg, or worse, in addition to the injuries that awaited them at the vehicle.
A disheveled man in scruffy jeans and wrinkled turtleneck stood up from behind the car to wave them over, practically doing jumping jacks in his excitement. Rushing around the car, Johnny ditched his belt and line, throwing his gloves to the ground, and dropped to his knees beside a blond man who had a shocky look that turned Roy’s stomach. He had figured this for one of their heavier rescues, but the impact felt greater now that he knew the real reason Johnny’s no-show hadn’t called to apologize for missing their date. Making eye contact with Johnny while shedding his own gloves and harness, Roy raised his eyebrows in a silent question, wanting confirmation that this was indeed the special man in Johnny’s life. Johnny gave him a fearful little nod that said everything.
Roy knelt on the other side of the victim and touched his shoulder to see if he could rouse him. Bloodshot, weary blue eyes blinked at him. “Hey, I’m Roy DeSoto, and this is my partner, Johnny Gage. We’re here to get you out of this little fix. What’s your name?”
Both Johnny and the victim’s friend were visibly hanging on the man’s answer as if it might be earth-shattering news. “Hutchinson,” the patient said weakly. “Ken. No. Hutch. H-Hutch.” He rolled his head slowly to look at his companion. “This…worried guy here…is Star-Starsky.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Canyon…six miles…out…in the county…been here…forever.”
“What happened?” Johnny asked Starsky in a voice Roy had never heard him use. He’d heard Johnny sad, angry, frustrated, dejected, disappointed, but nothing like this, as if Johnny’s world had stopped but he kept spinning with the whole weight of the planet’s gravity now on his own shoulders.
“His leg is pinned, and he keeps talking about the pressure.” Though sound in body, Starsky looked closer to shock than the accident victim, and he had the same world-stopped-helpless-spinning hollowness in his voice. Roy wanted to tell him to sit down and put his head between his knees, but had the feeling he would take a post-traumatic uppercut to the jaw if he dared make the suggestion. “His car went off the road up there.” Starsky pointed, with tremors in his arm visible through the turtleneck sleeve. “Must’ve rolled…I dunno how many times. Christ.”
Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off their patient. “But how–was he….”
Anger broke through in splotches of red on Starsky’s gray-faced mask of shock. “What’s it matter how it happened? You’re here to make sure he walks away from it. Or, not walk, yet, maybe, but–oh, God, Hutch. What are you guys waiting for, huh? We need to get that pressure off his leg!”
“Any background information we can get might help us give better care,” Roy told him. “As for the car, we’re waiting for our engine company to get down here so we can extricate properly and not do more damage than good. I think most of the pressure might be on the fleshy part of his hip and thigh. Looks like there’s some space beneath the dented roof here, so I don’t think the weight of the car is on his leg all the way down, but he’s caught somewhere under there. Probably just his jeans snagged, but we don’t have clear sight to be sure we wouldn’t be ripping into his leg.”
“Right, sorry. Same reason I didn’t try to lift it.” Starsky nodded and even tried to smile. “Thought you guys would never get here.”
“Sorry,” the injured man said, too, but his bloodshot eyes focused on Johnny.
“Hey, partner, you got nothing to be sorry for,” Starsky reassured him, going down in a quick squat to squeeze his shoulder before looking up at Roy. “We’re detectives with LAPD Metro. Near as I can figure, my partner was the victim of an ordered hit. Hired professional. Rammed him, broadsided him off the road, and left him for dead. He’s been out here for–”
“Oh, God,” Johnny muttered again. “Two nights.”
Interior Art by Lorraine Brevig
“What’d you say?” Starsky asked sharply.
“How many nights?” Johnny recovered, and Roy could tell he was trying to keep his voice steady and confident. “Temps dip down here at night, and this time of year, we’re looking at significant exposure.”
“Two nights. What’s taking the engine crew so long?”
“Look, Detective Starsky, it takes time to get equipment down that cliff side. Now, just sit down, try to relax, and let us handle this, okay?”
Starsky didn’t sit down per Roy’s order, but he backed off a foot or so. Physically, at least. Emotionally, he crowded in close, his expression tense and worried. He looked exhausted, his clothes slept in and soiled by more than one day’s use, and by his general appearance no one could tell he hadn’t spent the same two nights in a canyon with no food, water, or peaceful rest. Roy hoped they could get through this rescue without two patients to treat.
“What’ve we got?” Captain Stanley arrived on the scene followed by Marco and Chet, who balanced the heavily laden Stokes stretcher between them. Johnny grabbed the Biophone out of the Stokes “basket.”
“I think we’re past the threat of spark explosion,” Roy said, beckoning for Chet to hand him the backboard and assist with sliding it under Hutchinson while Johnny worked around them, examining the forehead bruising and assessing for possible chest or abdominal injury. “His leg is pinned under the door frame. We’ll need the Porto-Power.”
Stanley looked up at the cliff. “Terrain’s fairly gentle in places, but with the kind of injuries he might have, getting him topside would age us all a few years.” He raised LA County through the crackle of static on his handy-talkie. “LA, Engine 51. Request Snorkel company at our location.”
“Engine 51, LA. We will dispatch assistance.”
Stanley clicked his HT relay button again. “Mike, I need you down here with the Porto-Power.”
“Ten-four,” came Mike’s disjointed response. “Cap? LA just called Truck 43 to our location.”
When Roy lifted the cervical collar from the Stokes, Starsky muttered explicit remarks of self-blame. “What?” Roy asked without looking away from his careful application of the protective device around the patient’s neck.
“I lifted his head,” Starsky answered. “When I first found him. Didn’t think.”
“Don’t worry,” Roy reassured him. “This is standard procedure. I don’t see any signs that we’re dealing with a cervical injury here, but we have to cover the bases.” Finished with the collar, he reached for the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope to begin taking vitals.
“I just hope that cliff isn’t high enough to prevent transmission to Rampart. We’d waste a lot of time going topside to relay.” Johnny concentrated harder than ever before on connecting the silver Biophone antenna. “Rampart, this is Squad 51. How do you read?”
“Squad 51, Rampart Emergency, we’re reading you loud and clear.” Dixie McCall’s voice transmitted free of static, and Johnny shot a grateful look at the open canyon beyond the car.
“Rampart, we have a male, thirty-one years of age, victim of a rollover MVA and over thirty-six hours’ exposure in a canyon. We’ve applied cervical collar and backboard. Stand by for vitals.”
“Ten-four, 51. Standing by.”
Roy looked up sharply at the exact age, and saw that the detective had turned narrowed eyes on Johnny. “How do you know his age?” Starsky asked, tone menacing.
“Respirations 28 and shallow, Johnny. BP 90/60. Pulse 90 and thready. Pupils equal and reactive.” To Starsky he said, “Most of us have to estimate ages, but Johnny’s so good at it, he should set up one of those carnival age-guessing stands. Now, please, sit down before you fall down? We need to give full attention to your partner, and we can’t do that if you pass out on us.”
“I won’t pass out,” Starsky said firmly, but he sat down and clasped his hands in front of his knees, watching Johnny as a hawk might fixate on prey while the vitals were relayed to Rampart.
A masculine voice replaced their favorite nurse’s, “Squad 51, this is Dr. Brackett. What is the victim’s overall condition?”
“Shocky, Rampart.” Johnny hid his eyes behind his hand, but the pen that he’d used to jot down the vitals wobbled in his unsteady grasp. “Looks dehydrated. Skin is cooler than normal to touch. He does have a laceration and bruising on the forehead, but no hematoma. We’ve dressed the laceration. He responds to stimuli on his arms and his right leg, and there’s no acute chest wall or abdominal tenderness.”
“What’s his mental status, 51?”
“Rampart, he has a lowered level of consciousness, but he does know his name and where he is.”
“All right, 51. Start an IV with lactated Ringers, TKO. Let’s get him here as soon as possible.”
“Ten-four, Rampart,” Johnny acknowledged, still taking refuge behind his hand. “IV lactated Ringers. Uh, Rampart, we’ve got an extrication situation. His left leg is pinned under his vehicle.”
“I’ll stand by, 51.”
With Johnny busy gathering the necessary IV supplies from the drug box, Roy watched the other firemen huddle to discuss the best placement of the portable hydraulic device for extrication. IV bag in hand, Johnny inched closer to their patient, appearing to Roy’s concerned eyes somewhat steadier and steeled to face the man in quiet agony. When Johnny reached for the right arm, pushing up the green plaid sleeve to swab the skin with alcohol, Hutchinson opened his eyes and struggled to focus. “Little… more…than a scraped knee,” he whispered, coughing after the few words. “You…up…to it?”
The pain tightening Johnny’s brow made Roy want to tell him to sit this one out, for his own sake, but this was not a one-man rescue. Johnny offered one of his comfort-the-patient smiles. “Listen to the trooper here. Trying to be a comedian. We can take what you dish out, Detective, but that doesn’t mean you need to go and make this any more difficult just to test us.”
“Wearing…plaid,” Hutchinson said.
Scratch coherency off the list, Roy thought, but he saw that the remark meant something to Johnny, who ducked his head to concentrate on the tourniquet. “You need to rest that voice, okay?” Johnny found a vein in the right forearm that satisfied him, and positioned the needle. “Little stick here.”
Hutchinson squeezed his eyes shut. “Fucking needle.”
Roy felt a rush of wind beside him and wondered if the other detective had sprouted wings. On his knees at Hutchinson’s side, Starsky began to squeeze his partner’s left shoulder and rub his midsection at the same time. Having seen needle-fear in both adults and children, Roy still had a hard time fathoming a guy tough enough to survive what Hutchinson had endured with a firm grip on sanity only to fall apart at a tiny IV needle stick. Again, Johnny apparently knew something Roy didn’t, because he drew the needle back before it even touched the skin, his expression one of dismay, the guilt Johnny occasionally showed when he had to inadvertently cause a patient pain to do them clinical good. “I’m sorry,” Johnny told Hutchinson. “I’m really, I’m sorry. I have to, okay? I have to. I’ll get it in one stick, though, I promise. One stick!” He glanced at Roy. “Guess we can’t butterfly it, can we? He needs volume, and the best way is the flexible cannula.”
“Right. He’s got to be near bone dry.”
“One stick,” Johnny told Hutchinson again, and he lived up to his promise, remarkably cool and professional under Starsky’s penetrating stare. He lifted the IV bag and nodded at Starsky. “You could hold this for us while we prep him for transport.”
Roy noticed that Hutchinson was threatening to bite his lower lip in two. “Hurting pretty bad?”
Hutchinson tried to shake his head, but the lower lip biting continued. Dutifully holding the IV bag aloft, Starsky gently nudged the man’s shoulder with the toe of his sneaker until Hutchinson lifted his eyes to him. “All this time I thought your name was Hutch and come to find out, it’s Hercules?”
Hutchinson managed a quick smile but went back to biting his lip. Operated by Chet, the Porto-Power began its hydraulic action, and Hutchinson’s silent stoicism gave way to bone-chilling groans as full circulation flow returned to the extremity, feeding the nerve system and its registry of pain. Roy could see Johnny’s professional veneer cracking in a clear desire to run back up the hillside and escape the sound before it shattered him, but Johnny stroked Hutchinson’s bare forearm, murmuring well-meant platitudes he used to ease pediatric patients. The groans only intensified. Either the dose of soothing murmurs wasn’t adult-strength, or Hutchinson required more pain relief than verbal reassurance.
“Here!” Starsky thrust the IV bag at Johnny without waiting for agreement, and knelt, leaning over Hutchinson with an amazingly gentle but iron grip on both of his shoulders. “Look at me, Hutch. Look at me. Just me.”
Hutchinson blinked until his eyes cooperated and focused on Starsky’s face. “Starsk.”
“That’s my name. Go right ahead and wear it out. We’ll come up with a new one if we have to, you and me.” Starsky’s laughter sounded forced, but it brought a smile to Hutchinson’s cracked lips, and a tinge of blood to the surface. Johnny handed off the IV bag to Marco and switched places with Roy to cut away the ripped denim pants leg and assess the injuries for a report to Rampart. Hutchinson hissed with pain and tried to look around Starsky’s imposing form at the goings-on, but Starsky blocked his view, shifting to the left or right as necessary. “Nuh-uh. Don’t look away,” he scolded his partner. “Look at me.” When Hutchinson groaned again, Starsky tightened the grip on his shoulders. “Hey, you forget my name already?”
“Starsk.” Hutchinson inhaled harshly, coughed, and whispered, “Starsk.”
“Rampart, Squad 51,” Johnny relayed, his voice lighter for the first time since reaching the canyon, and Roy understood. The space between the semi-soft dirt and the car’s roof had meant the difference between a fractured leg and crushed leg.
“Squad 51,” Brackett responded. “Is the victim free of the car?”
“Affirmative, Rampart. He has a large contusion over his left dorsal upper thigh and the lower extremity is fractured, but there’s no compound fracture or evidence of internal bleeding. There is edema, and a laceration on the mid-calf.”
“Ten-four, 51. Splint and immobilize the leg, and transport immediately.”
“Ten-four, Rampart.” Johnny re-cradled the Biophone receiver and tapped Starsky’s shoulder. “Sorry, but you’ll have to move for a minute. We need to splint that leg, and it won’t be easy for him.”
“Tell me how to make it easier,” Starsky demanded.
“Just being here seems to be doing the trick.” Johnny ventured a smile at him.
Starsky returned the smile, a quick flash of teeth that served as well as a handshake. He helped himself to a loose twining of fingers with Hutchinson’s hand, and the smile broadened in Hutchinson’s direction. “Okay, partner, how about a trade? You give me my jacket back and you get to keep my hand. Squeeze hard as you need.”
“Gun hand,” Hutchinson whispered, shaking his head.
“Aw, hell, I got another one, or I can learn to fire a lousy gun with my toes.”
“You need your…toes for dancing, Astaire,” Hutchinson said with a half-chuckle, half-cough.
“Maybe I’ll learn to dance on my hands, start a new disco craze. You give me a real knuckle-bruiser if you need, Hutch, hear me?”
“You…can’t…start that craze, Starsk.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve got two left hands.”
Chet had almost worshipful awe on his face. “You guys are something. This guy here’s been pinned under his car for, what, couple of days, and you two got an Abbot and Costello routine going.”
Marco laughed. “Tough customer, isn’t he, your partner?”
Starsky’s chest visibly puffed with evident pride. “One of the toughest under the sun.”
The splint work and the transfer into the Stokes taxed both paramedics and their patient, and pushed Detective Starsky one step closer to an all-out nervous breakdown. Roy glanced at Johnny and gave a sideways nod at the drug box. “He could use some pain relief. There isn’t a significant head injury to worry about. Maybe low-dose morphine, if we could get Brackett to go for it?”
“No!” Johnny and Starsky said in unison, their shared look afterward a sky-to-ground lightning strike. Johnny shook off the stare and scratched nervously at his eyebrow. “You know Brackett doesn’t like to dole out pain meds until he assesses the patient in person. And this guy’s not exactly with it enough to tell us about any allergies.”
Usually the first to push Brackett for anything to ease a patient’s suffering, Johnny’s equivocation in this case stunned Roy, but he did have a point about drug allergies. Roy addressed the concern with Starsky, “Your partner allergic to any medications that you know of?”
“He doesn’t like pain meds.” Starsky’s gaze never left Johnny. “He’d rather do without them.”
Roy lifted his shoulders in a shrug of surrender. “Okay, then.”
Truck 43 had arrived some time ago, the mechanical grinding of the Snorkel’s ladder and glorified cherry-picker basket now alerting the rescuers to its movement out from the cliff and down to a suitable elevation for loading Hutchinson’s Stokes. The 51 engine crew remaining behind for rescue site clean-up, Roy and Johnny handled the transport over to the Snorkel carriage. Even the short and level transport proved a shade harrowing with Hutchinson’s pain and unstable fractures to consider. By the end, Johnny had sweated more profusely through his undershirt and uniform than he did in a prolonged fire rescue. Fortunately for them all, Hutchinson had closed his eyes and drifted into an exhausted sleep. With Starsky glued to Hutchinson’s hand, Roy knew there wasn’t room for all of them to ride topside in the Snorkel. He latched the gate behind Johnny and handed him the Biophone. “I’ll meet you up there in a minute.” Johnny nodded and gestured for the Snorkel crewman to begin the ascent.
Roy reached the top of the cliff and unhooked his safety line just as the ambulance attendants took charge of loading Hutchinson onto the gurney for transport, and Starsky let go of his partner’s hand. Roy had no chance to intervene before the detective seized Johnny’s arm and pulled him around from following the gurney to the waiting ambulance carriage.
“You tell me right now how you know what you know!” Starsky snarled at Johnny.
Johnny’s eyes widened with surprise and irritation, and Roy was grateful their station mates remained below. “I–what–I–What’re you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that!” Starsky snapped at him. “You know things Hutch’s mother doesn’t know about him, and I wanna know how!”
Roy tried to pull Starsky’s hand free. “Look, we know you’re upset, but this isn’t the time to lose your cool–”
Starsky turned a violent glare on him. “Damn right I’m upset! My partner was down in that canyon because someone knew how to get to him, knew how to set him up, more knowledge than I’d give the guy who put out the contract credit for knowing. So, if I sound suspicious, I got reason!”
“You don’t have reason to be suspicious of us,” Roy argued on his partner’s behalf. Johnny was straining his jaw in the effort not to let loose on Hutchinson’s friend. “We’re LA County firemen-paramedics, and we go where the County sends us.”
Starsky eyed Johnny, who unclenched his jaw and spoke tightly, “Look, man, all I know for sure is your partner’s in shock, and he has a couple of fractures in his leg that need medical care for him to walk right again. Can we play cops and robbers later, maybe?”
Backing off, Starsky shrugged his dirt-soiled jacket back into a better fit and curtly nodded. At the ambulance, Roy climbed aboard with the gurney, but he paused in the doorway when Starsky started to climb up behind him. “No room, Detective. My partner and I need the space to give transport care. But you can follow us. We’re transporting to Rampart General.”
“I’m going in that ambulance,” Starsky said, “if I have to cling to the inside roof by my fingers and toes. I promised him I wouldn’t be out of his sight. He’s been pinned in that canyon for the better part of three days.”
Johnny looked longingly at the ambulance’s cabin. “Roy, you think you can handle the transport?” He came closer to the cabin and whispered, “He’s his pain relief, Roy. I’ll be damned if I deny Ken that. And Starsky’ll be less nervous with you in there than with me. I’ll drive the squad.”
“Come on, Detective,” Roy said, leaning out of the ambulance to watch Johnny’s lingering backward glance on the way to the squad.
He had never been so proud of his partner.
~*~*~
Starsky decided Rampart General’s ambulance bay had to be the most beautiful place on earth in his gratitude to have Hutch within reach of advanced medical care. The paramedic from the rescue squad met them at the ambulance, and Starsky had to fight the weird, yowling tomcat sensation yet again when the man patted Hutch’s shoulder as the ambulance attendant and the other fireman pushed the gurney through the double doors into the ER. Starsky had kept Hutch’s hand in his from canyon to ambulance to hospital, and he had no plans of releasing him until someone pried him loose, and that someone had better have the Omaha Tiger’s size and Hutch’s gumption to match.
That someone turned out to be an emergency physician who didn’t need the Omaha Tiger’s size to be intimidating, and whose air of authority went beyond the white lab coat over his crisp beige dress shirt and gold tie. Following the gurney into the yellow-tiled examination room, the doctor went to work immediately, aiding the two paramedics in transferring Hutch to the examination bed, Starsky moving with the transfer to keep his grip on Hutch’s hand without causing his partner pain or hindering the transfer. “Roy,” the doctor said. “Would you make sure Dixie and Joe are on their way?”
“Sure thing, Dr. Brackett.” The door swung open to admit a nurse whose expression was all efficiency and know-how, and an older, kindly-faced doctor. Roy said, “No need for a search party.”
“You’ll have to wait outside now,” Brackett told Starsky. “I’ll come out to speak to you as soon as I can.”
“I’m staying.” Starsky had faced down doctors before. Break through their need to impose their will, show them no fear, no undue respect, let them know they put their pants on the same way as everyone else, and they always relented.
This physician, however, gave no sign of relenting. Clearly the top dog in his pound, he tried to pull Starsky’s hand from its hold on Hutch’s. “I don’t have time to debate this issue with you, Mr.–”
“Not mister. It’s Detective. Starsky. This is my partner, Detective Hutchinson.”
“Uh, Doc?”
Brackett looked away from Starsky. “Yes, Johnny?”
Johnny gestured toward the door. “A word?”
Brackett joined the paramedics in the open doorway, the swinging door propped by the sturdier fireman. Starsky couldn’t hear their low-voiced discussion, but something Johnny said registered, because the doctor came back to the examination table with a change of heart. “If I allow you to stay in the room, you need to stand away from the table. We can’t perform a proper examination if we can’t access him from all sides. Do we have an agreement?”
Starsky backed away from Hutch’s side, leaving space for either doctor or nurse to squeeze in and perform the necessary examination. Brackett addressed the waiting firemen, “Thanks, Roy, Johnny. We’ll take it from here.”
Johnny lingered, watching the sleeping Hutch who had not roused from his slumber through all the bumps in the road en route, or the painful transfer from gurney to table. Roy squeezed his shoulder. “Johnny. Come on. We need to make ourselves available for calls.”
With a headshake that Starsky recognized as resignation in the face of the unchangeable, Johnny followed his partner into the corridor, and the door swung shut behind them.
~*~*~
Brackett left the examination room where his uncontrolled hypertension patient had stabilized on intravenous beta blocker, and headed for the nurses station to get a much needed cup of coffee. He found Roy and Johnny still there from their most recent transport, a motorcycle accident victim with a head injury and nasty displaced humeral fracture.
Now in the middle of restocking their black drug box with supplies, Johnny swiveled from the supply drawers when Brackett reached the coffee pot. “Late night, Doc? How’s, uh, how’s that police detective we brought in this morning?”
Brackett studied him. He had always known Johnny to be concerned and compassionate in equal measure to his partner, and he was accustomed to Roy and Johnny following up their rescues, but the sharp-voiced question and breath-holding wait for details strayed from the norm. “The case really got to you, Johnny?”
Roy looked up from counting bags of saline. “You know how it is, Doc. Some rescues are tougher to shake than others.”
Brackett smiled, but he had to look away from Johnny’s piercing eyes. He knew the truth of that remark more than the firemen could imagine. He had yet to shake the memories of the times Johnny had come into Rampart with line-of-duty injuries. But that was a cross he’d learned to carry in silence, and the least he could do was lift the one from Johnny’s shoulders now. “He’s doing well. We were able to spare him an ICU admission. We’ve cleared him of serious internal injury or bowel obstruction. He has nasty contusions and scrapes, as you know, and we’re empirically treating him with IV antibiotics against sepsis, but his kidneys are functioning remarkably well, his lungs are clear, and the hydration is perking him up. He’ll be transferred to Memorial after we stabilize him overnight, so their Orthopedic Trauma surgical team can get a crack at that leg.”
“They can’t handle that here?” Johnny asked, frowning.
“Not a case of this complexity, I’m afraid. If that detective wants any chance at returning to full-duty police work, he’ll need significant orthopedic repair. He can get that at Memorial far better than here.”
Johnny fidgeted with his handy-talkie strap. “Can we see him?”
“Visiting hours were over long ago, but I can make an exception for hardworking paramedics,” Brackett said with a soft smile. “After his isolation in that canyon, Detective Hutchinson has to be eager for the presence of human beings. In lieu of family, we’re allowing his partner to stay with him. Med/Surg, Johnny. I can’t recall the room number right now, but his name will be outside the door.”
“Coming, Roy?” Couched in a light, breezy tone, the invitation didn’t match the anticipation in Johnny’s eyes or his transparent expectation of Roy’s answer in the negative.
Roy glanced at Brackett. “You go on, Johnny. I’ll finish up here. We probably have only a few minutes before they’re calling us back out.”
“So, I’m the designated visitor this time?” Johnny plucked one of the saline bags out of Roy’s pile and dropped it into the drug box before his partner could reach it. Roy gave him a slight shove between his shoulder blades. “All right, I’m going, I’m going.”
This was a game Brackett knew too well. Downplaying attachment. Empty inclusions to hide the need for one-on-one interaction. Just a few of the mechanisms that made the walls of a closet move torturously inward over time like the booby-trapped temple room in a cliché adventure film. Seeing Johnny take up the survival sport hurt Brackett far deeper than surface jealousy could touch. He sought detachment in professionalism, his one haven. “If he’s asleep, Johnny, don’t wake him. The one thing he needs now more than IV fluids and antibiotics is curative rest.”
“Ten-four, Doc.” Clutching his handy-talkie, Johnny hurried down the hall to the elevator.
~*~*~
Hutch heard a soft knock on his door and started to play possum. Starsky would exercise his right to walk in without bothering to knock, and Hutch was in no mood for a well-meaning nurse wanting to fluff his pillow. His lust for the arms of civilization did not extend to IVs or nurses measuring urine output in his catheter’s leg bag. After eight hours of hospitalization, he wanted to form a sheet-rope and escape out the window, but his bum leg precluded that plan. At the second knock, he reluctantly croaked, “Come in,” and then lifted his hand to his sore throat, hoping the external warmth of his palm would soothe the ache.
A different but not unwelcome dark head peeked into the room. Johnny rushed inside, shutting the door with force to insure its closure. “I was prepared to make my acting debut, coming in here like the concerned paramedic following up on a rescue. Where’s your partner? I thought he’d be glued to your IV stand or something.”
Hutch pretended to scowl. “He abandoned me, the no-good bastard.”
Johnny burst out laughing.
Hutch smiled. “I can see you learned enough about him this afternoon to know that’s a load of bull. No, Captain Dobey gave him long enough to see me squared away, and then called him in to lock down the case on the guy who ordered the hit on me.”
“There’s a chance the case isn’t locked down?”
“Just some I’s that need dotting and T’s crossed. But timeliness counts in things like this, and the slime we’re talking about is particularly slippery. Starsky’ll cross those T’s in world record time.”
“I only have a few minutes. We’re on a transport and re-stocking supplies for the night.”
“It’s good to see you. I wanted to thank you for all you did this morning. You and your partner, both. Again, thank you seems inadequate, but–” Hutch put his hand back to his throat, and Johnny came closer to the bedside.
“Don’t try to talk if it’s too painful. How you doing?” Johnny smacked his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Boy, I’m a bright one. Just told you to save your voice, then turn around and ask you a question.”
Hutch took a moment to relish the sight of Johnny in uniform. The outfit suited his slender physique, from the crisp blue short-sleeved shirt with its silver badge and yellow County of Los Angeles paramedic shoulder patch, to the blackish-navy pants that emphasized his long legs. Hutch tried out a grin, hoping his chapped lips would cooperate. “I’m all right other than a beat-up leg and a sore throat from yelling for help. Right now I’m realizing I have a thing for the LA County Fire Department uniform.”
“You could’ve picked an easier way to find that out.” Johnny walked around to the right side of the bed and sat down on the edge at Hutch’s thigh level, well away from his immobilized left leg.
His raw throat didn’t allow for laughter, so Hutch nodded to show he got the joke. “I’m not known for doing things the easy way.” He reached out to draw a fingertip caress from Johnny’s shoulder to elbow. “You make one sexy fireman.”
“Why, thank you. You make one sexy patient.”
Hutch felt a sinking sensation. Years of interrogating suspects had taught him to recognize even the briefest hesitancy in the human voice. Surely Johnny wasn’t hung up on the medical professional and patient boundary. Unless… “I know I was next door to the Land of Oz out there this morning. Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”
Johnny’s smile had a nervous unsteadiness. “Nah. You were okay. I was the one who had to be careful. You, uh, you really put me to the test.”
“You get an A, Fireman Gage. And if hospital breath isn’t a turn off, I could use more than a pat on the chest.”
His fireman looked surprised. “I think someone got some pain medication he could live with.”
“That British import wonder drug, Ibuprofen, maximum dose.” Hutch tried to move his lips into a seductive smirk. “But I don’t need pain killers to want a kiss from you right now.”
Johnny gave him a tender-sweet smile. Hutch cautiously leaned forward from his propped position and Johnny met him halfway. Their lips touched, and Hutch felt Johnny’s fingertips brush his cheek, but the kiss stayed light until Hutch parted his lips and insisted on having Johnny in his mouth. He knew he had to let go, that Starsky could walk through the door any minute, but the room had turned so cold on Starsky’s departure and here to fill the void was human caring and warmth from a person Hutch found so easy to like. He accepted the warmth until his chest ached and his throat protested to the point that Johnny picked up on the discomfort.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t you dare be sorry,” Hutch said harshly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Johnny looked startled, and compounded the denial by patting Hutch’s chest again. “Rest that throat now before you lose your voice. Your partner might think Rampart’s not up to the job.”
“Don’t talk to me like a paramedic to a patient.”
“How should I talk to you, Ken?”
“Man to man, for starters.”
Johnny took Hutch’s IV hand in his and stroked each finger. “Seeing you in that shape this morning, knowing what had happened to you, the way it made me feel….”
“Don’t,” Hutch interrupted, to dam the flow of familiar words.
“Don’t what?”
“I’ve had more than a few women walk away because of what I do. I can’t blame them, especially the last one. But I won’t accept it from you.”
“I’m not walking away,” Johnny said, continuing to stroke Hutch’s fingers. “I’m saying I can’t keep thinking of you as just an itch I need to scratch.”
Hutch turned Johnny’s hand over in their grasp and took a turn stroking his hand. “You know it’s more than that for both of us. If I didn’t want you in my life, Johnny, I wouldn’t be concerned you were trying to bow out.”
“Then we’re even.” Johnny smiled again, and Hutch relaxed. “I just didn’t want to get too heavy on you, when heavy wasn’t what we’d had in mind.” He looked at Hutch’s injured leg, but personal concern weighted his expression, not clinical curiosity. “Heard they’re transferring you to Memorial tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Surgery’s already scheduled, but Dr. Brackett says it’s dependent on some of this swelling in my leg going down. He thinks I’ll be ready, though, and he said it’s important they get in there as quickly as possible to fixate the fractures.”
“I’d like to drop by and see you there.”
Hutch sat forward again to slide his hand into Johnny’s hair, so soft and fine against his fingers that the strands slipped easily through his grasp. “It’s better if you don’t, Johnny. Starsky will be hovering close from admission to discharge. It’s what we do after something like this. I couldn’t stop him if I wanted, and I don’t want to. It’s part of who we are, what keeps us alive on the streets, and my life wouldn’t be my life without it. I wouldn’t be me without it. Besides, his protective instincts are at fever pitch right now, and I don’t want you on the wrong side of that.”
Johnny laughed. “Already been there, a little.”
“What?”
“You were too out of it at the scene to notice, but your partner made it pretty clear he’d be happy to cuff Roy and me to your wrecked car and leave us there if we so much as breathed on you wrong.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No. I’m as capable of jealousy as the next guy, but I get the partner thing. I’ve worked with Roy for years, and when you go into a burning building with a guy, you learn real fast if you can trust him, if he’s solid, and once you know, you can’t go back to the days before you knew him. When I’m in all that heat and smoke, the only thing keeping me breathing is my oxygen mask, and I’ve got less than four minutes if it plays out. But I know exactly where Roy is, and that he’ll get me out if I go down, and vice versa. On some of our rescues that aren’t even fire-related, we get into hair-raising situations I wouldn’t wanna be in with anyone but Roy, and I hate when he’s on vacation and I have to work with a replacement.”
“God, you do understand. The whole time I was lying in that canyon, I knew Starsky would find me. I knew he was out there tearing the city apart looking for me.” Hutch thumbed through the bangs over Johnny’s forehead. “I thought about him almost constantly to keep that hope alive in my mind, and that kept me alive, I think.”
“I wish I could’ve come to your rescue,” Johnny said with a chuckle. “Before LA County called us in, I mean. By the time I got through being disappointed and huffy that you’d stood me up after all, and started getting worried, the station alarm was going off.”
“I don’t expect you to be like Starsky, Johnny. I don’t want you to be.”
“Good to know, ’cause I can’t be,” Johnny said. “For guys in our line of work, a good partnership can’t be duplicated off the job. You can’t be what Roy is to me; I can’t be what Starsky is to you. Heck, much as Roy loves Joanne, and man, that’s one guy who’s crazy in love with his wife, she can’t be what I am to him. ‘Course, I can’t be what she is to him, either, and I damn sure don’t look like she does in a bikini, so I guess it kind of balances out.”
Hutch managed a hoarse chuckle. “I thought about you in that canyon, too. About that last time we got together, out in the ranchland. Wondered if I’d been too rough.”
“I can take it a little hard and not break. What made you think about that anyway?”
“When you’re stuck out in the middle of nowhere like I was, all life’s regrets come calling, from the biggies on down to the trivial and in between. I thought about how I could’ve made it up to you that night after dinner at my place.”
“How?” Johnny asked, husky-voiced.
“Slow, sweet fucking, all night long.”
Flushed and open-mouthed, Johnny jerked when the handy-talkie beeped and crackled at his side, and Hutch tried to pull his hand free, but strands of Johnny’s hair had affixed themselves to the adhesive tape securing the IV site. Yelping, Johnny had to respond to the call while working furiously with his other hand to free his hair.
“Squad 51, stand by for response,” the dispatcher said. “Squad 51, ten-four,” Johnny responded, finally detached from the bandage tape. He rose from the bed. “Sorry, got to go. That means they’re calling us out.”
“I know. Be careful out there, Johnny.”
“Count on it.” Johnny didn’t wait to be asked for a kiss this time, their meeting of mouths exciting and edgy, with a little tongue nipping. “Give me a rain check on that slow, sweet fucking?”
The expletive sounded foreign in Johnny’s voice, but the erotic intent made Hutch shiver with delight. “Sure. Before I’m out of a cast, even, if I can figure out how.”
At the door, Johnny turned with a farewell smile, and Hutch said, “Johnny, I’ll try to call you from Memorial, let you know how things are going.”
“Good deal.”
~*~*~
Keeping his pace to a borderline acceptable stride-run in Rampart’s Med/Surg unit, Starsky rounded the corner onto the west wing and made it past the nurses station without a scolding only to collide with a speeding fireman. Even if the man had come from the opposite direction of Hutch’s room, Starsky would still have known with his detective’s hunch-certainty that Hutch had just had a visitor. They pushed apart, and the fireman began his apology but then swallowed the words upon looking into Starsky’s face. Starsky had learned his first year out of uniform that honest faces were a bane to undercover cops. He and Hutch had used poker, role playing, and any number of tricks to chisel the honesty from their faces to survive cover ops, but this paramedic’s expression showed guilty knowledge as only an untamed honest face can, and Starsky instinctively blocked his way when he would have hurried past.
“What’re you doing up here?”
“Looking in on your partner,” John Gage said. “Roy and I are here on a call, and we like to follow up on some of our rescues. Got to run, actually, we’re being called back out.” He waved the handy-talkie.
Harmless explanation, though it didn’t jibe with the flicker of guilt in Gage’s eyes or his uncanny guesswork at the rescue site, but Starsky knew when to take the high road. He held out his hand. “Thanks for all you did this morning for Hutch. Dr. Brackett said you guys did a bang-up job on him in the field.”
“You’re welcome. We’re just glad he’s doing so well.” Gage smiled and shook his hand. “Speaking of partners, mine’s downstairs, and we have a patient out there somewhere waiting on us.”
The friction in their clasped hands reminded Starsky of a match scrape on flint, the sensation he only felt in the presence of someone he needed to know better for reasons that had nothing to do with himself and everything to do with Hutch. But he let Johnny pull free and hurry down the hall.
Inside Hutch’s room, Starsky sensed no trespass. He caught no whiff of danger. No immediate threat balled his fists or clenched his jaw. Hutch turned his head and shone a smile on him that soothed the friction still tickling Starsky’s hand. Then the smile changed to a harsh sigh as Hutch stretched in bed, and Starsky realized his partner had been carefully hiding the depth of his pain from his visitor as he did with other outsiders. Under Starsky’s watchful eye, Hutch let the honest need and suffering flood back into his brave face.
That honesty the fuel of Starsky’s life, he hurried to the bedside and sat down at Hutch’s waist level. Hand brushing all the wayward clumps of blond bed hair into respectable order, he said nothing, just watched his partner’s struggle, letting Hutch feel the strength of his support. The pain and tension turning Hutch’s eyes to cold darkness began to recede, and Starsky maintained eye contact until he saw clear blue again. Hutch lifted his IV hand to Starsky’s hair, tugging, opening his fingers through a handful, mesmerized by something Starsky couldn’t see.
“Doesn’t slip right through,” Hutch said.
“Hm? What doesn’t?”
“Nothing.” Hutch dropped his hand.
“You have any visitors while I was gone?” Starsky asked.
He got a yawn, then a nod, and Hutch relaxed back against the bed. “One of the paramedics came by to check on me. Nice. Everything squared away with Dobey?”
Starsky squeezed Hutch’s healthy knee. “Yeah, but he knows he’s in for some big time payback for calling me in like this. Can’t knock his reason, though. Between us, we’ve got Humphries up for such a heavy fall the whole planet’ll shake when he finally lands.”
Hutch grinned. “That’s my partner. Poor dumb Vic, should’ve quit when he was only behind one thirty-year sentence.”
Starsky had never met a Hutchinson grin he couldn’t match. “Hey, the man’s lucky he’s still breathing, doin’ what he did to you.”
“And you can make book he knows it, too.”
~*~*~
Starsky paced Memorial’s surgery waiting room until his bladder demanded he pay the piper for the five cups of coffee he’d downed since Hutch’s gurney had wheeled out of his sight into the preoperative staging area. When he returned, the auxiliary worker at the Family Needs desk flagged him down. He dashed over to the older woman in hopes of a conspiratorial word on his partner. These kind ladies were known to drop little hints like, “The surgeon was just in here looking for you,” or “You’ll be hearing something any moment now.” Instead, she handed him a folded note.
“A young lady called for you, Detective, a Ms. Roberts. I took a message for you and told her to feel free to try again.”
“Thanks.” A message from Terry at least warranted a break from pacing. Starsky claimed a chair far away from the TV’s loud soap opera distraction.
The volunteer had captured Terry’s instinctually kind brevity: I called to see how my favorite guys are faring. Hang in there. I love you.
Starsky should have felt hugged by proxy, warmed and comforted. But the elderly lady’s elegant handwriting jarred his memory and made space for a fragmented thought to take full shape. Starsky dug in his jacket pocket until he found another folded note he had forgotten until that very second. Holding them both up to the room’s passable lighting, he saw the difference immediately. Still, he couldn’t accept the conclusion. He dug in his pocket once more until he located a balled up napkin he’d used for scribbling a witness’ address several weeks back. This time he squeezed his legs together for a makeshift table and spread all three samples of writing side by side.
Studying the handwriting styles with a detective’s peripheral knowledge of handwriting analysis, he couldn’t hide from what made one of the notes “out of place.”
Garcia Lunez
2434 Riverdale Circle
Masculine.
I called to see how my favorite guys are faring. Hang in there. I love you.
Feminine.
Hey, you,
Waited until ten. Put the casserole in the fridge.
Call me, if I don’t call you first.
And leave a message. My machine likes your voice. –J.
Masculine.
He pushed all the notes off his legs and let them fall where they would. Fifty thoughts competed for center stage. Different voices. Different scenes. All corroborating evidence.
“Brunet.”
“Hard-working public servant, just like yours truly.”
“There are other public service professions that don’t include law enforcement, Starsky.”
“I should be worried that my best friend is more concerned with breast size than the fact that his buddy just might have met someone warm, caring, and devoted to the welfare of others.”
“…Hear me on this, Starsky; we just might not know everything there is to know about Hutch. And some things we do know, but we don’t talk about ’em or think about ’em ’cause it’d make opening Pandora’s Box look like digging into a pack of Crackerjacks.”
“Paramedic.”
“Little…more…than a scraped knee.”
“Oh, God. Two nights.”
“Rampart, we have a male, thirty-one years of age….”
“I’m sorry…I’m really, I’m sorry. I have to, okay? I have to. I’ll get it in one stick, though, I promise. One stick!”
“You know things Hutch’s mother doesn’t know about him, and I wanna know how!”
“J could be anything. Julie, Jane, Jessica, Jennifer, Joanne, Jodie, Janice–“
John.
John “Johnny” Gage.
Starsky didn’t have the luxury of incontrovertible proof that the evidence had come together to form a wacky coincidental picture. He’d known the possibility lurked, following them around like a shadow. From week two of their rapidly developing Academy friendship, he’d known.
On the Academy grounds, Ken Hutchinson walked, talked, and looked like any other straight-laced, straight-dicking cadet, except for his liberal world view that had come out in his staunch defense of a gay cadet who was expelled from the program, and a tendency in the showers to keep his eyes closed under the water spray or fixated on the wall in front of him. Off the grounds, in the company of the one person he trusted above all others, Hutch tried a little too hard not to look at certain members of a gender Starsky gave no consideration, flushed a little too vividly at the wrong jokes.
Starsky had watched his best friend kick the tendencies along with the Marlboros and lighter, as if all vices had to be shed simultaneously to ensure success. As tenaciously as a drunk down to one kidney and a failing liver clung to AA, Hutch emerged from the LAPD’s feeder school a non-smoking, married, straight man whose eyes never strayed where Starsky’s wouldn’t.
Bending over, clenching his arms around his gut, and trying to hold down his half-pot of coffee, Starsky knew he was feeling the same way that drunk’s family would if handed proof that the recovering alcoholic had been spotted in an all-night binge at a dive bar. His gut roiled as it hadn’t since he peeked in the Venus Massage Parlor’s back room. The aftermath of Starsky’s instinctual actions on that fateful discovery had ripped Hutch to shreds, but that memory didn’t cool Starsky’s heels. Instinct always his parachute in freefall, he pulled the release again this time. Gathering up the incriminating notes, he crossed to the room’s far corner where a small table between two armchairs held magazines and the phone meant for relatives’ use. Unfortunately, a woman in nail-biting distress had taken up residence in one of the armchairs. Blinded to anything but Hutch, robbed in his desperation of the compassion he would have shown under any other circumstances, Starsky brusquely asked the woman if she would find another seat.
When she stared at him like he’d pushed straight up through the floor from the Infernal Regions, he resorted to pulling his badge. “Please. I need to make a private call.”
She hurriedly took her nail biting elsewhere, leaving Starsky the corner, and the phone, to himself. He dialed a number from memory and waited, bouncing one foot on his toes and trying not to claw jagged tears in the chair arm’s shoddy upholstery.
“Huggy as in Bear, Barkeep Extraordinaire. Make it snappy if you please or if you don’t. I’m waiting on an important call.”
Starsky knew the important call Huggy meant and felt a twinge of unease. “It’s Starsky.”
“The important call from the man himself,” Huggy returned. “And, man, am I glad. Phone’s been ringing off the hook this morning and for the last hour I jump in my shoes every time. How’s our fair-haired hero?”
“Still in surgery.”
“Still? But I thought–“
“This call is about something else, Hug, sorry. I need a favor.”
“This favor have something to do with Hutch? Don’t bother to answer such a fool question. ‘Course it has to do with Hutch else you wouldn’t be calling it in at a time like this. Name the deed, and it’s done.”
For the first time Starsky regretted that his most trusted source of information had more brains than fashion sense. “Information, Huggy. My ears only. I need you to find out everything you can about an LA County paramedic named John Gage. Station 51.”
Dead silence. Starsky thought he had a failed connection until Huggy actually groaned. “Aw, man, don’t do this to me. Last time we went down this road, the object of my inquiries ended up in the county morgue, and Hutch looked like death for weeks. I don’t want another one on my conscience. Got shadows enough of my own chasing me down alleys.”
“What are you implying, Huggy? That I knew how Gillian would end up when I called you, or that I hoped she would?”
“Don’t be stupid, man; I ain’t saying nothing of the kind. I’m saying these ‘for your ears only’ investigations of yours put me in a sticky, prickly, tight spot, and they don’t do Hutch one bit of good, neither.”
“I can appreciate that, Huggy, but if I’d put you on Jeanie Walton’s trail at the beginning, I might’ve spared Hutch a living hell. This is important, Huggy. I got no one else I can go to, and you know it.”
“I’ll say it’s important. The kind of important spelled d-e-s-p-e-r-a-t-e.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Because you know what you’re telling me about Hutch when you ask me to dig this info up for you, now don’t you?”
“I haven’t told you anything about Hutch.”
“Oh, come on, man, don’t try to play me. You can’t jive a jive artist. You wouldn’t be calling this in right now with Hutch under the knife if he was just thinking about buying a clunker from the guy to replace his smashed up beater. It’s personal, or you wouldn’t be pulling the ‘my ears only’ string.”
“Okay, while we’re giving up the games, care to explain why you don’t sound surprised? You’ve been thinking along these lines before now, considering that Pandora’s Box crap you hit me with the other day.”
“I don’t often get surprised, Starsky, you know that. And I’ve learned sure enough not to show it when I do. You could tell me you’re quitting the force to sign on with the Parrot as their new Judy Garland act, and I wouldn’t let on that I wet myself. Let’s just say I’m not wetting myself right now. He’s one tight closet, our golden boy, but I seen a little too much in my time not to spot a guy damn near killing himself to be as straight as his best buddy. And don’t you even think of floating the notion that you ain’t been eyewitness to that struggle yourself, even if you didn’t know he’d stopped struggling.”
“Last thing I’m doing right now is floating, Huggy. I can count on you for the rundown?”
“All right, I’ll do this. But you’re running out of free passes on these little snoop jobs. How you want me to get back to you?”
“Call the room here at Memorial. Room 408. In the meantime, I’ll let you know soon as I have word on Hutch.”
“Starsky, you give some thought to the obvious here? I can’t guarantee it won’t get back to this dude that someone’s sniffing at his heels, and that just might get back to Hutch. I can tell from your voice you didn’t get this dude’s name from Hutch’s own lips.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“Just be sure this little situation don’t leave you wantin’ to jump off it.”
~*~*~
Huggy hung up the phone and nodded at Dianne to let her know he’d be in the back room if she needed him. He had known the day would come. He believed in friendship, loyalty, and his own version of the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have done to you, but don’t be fool enough to expect it in return. Starsky and Hutch had shaved some of the cynicism from his Golden Rule over the years. They returned favors. They watched his back. They fished him out of cesspools too deep to swim in. For that reason, Huggy carried the double burden of being their closest friend and unofficial police source. He shut himself in his cramped, dingy office and dug through his card table desk’s stack of magazines and restauranteur catalogs. Underneath he found the file he had discreetly compiled on one LA County fireman-paramedic since the day Joe Collandra–the runaway, no-good, friend-ditching fink!–had given him the start of a trail to follow.
Joe, you ever show your face in LA again, I might just choke you with those apron strings, now I know what you really saw that day and didn’t tell me.
Opening the file, Huggy thumbed through scraps of paper, notes he’d taken in his own special shorthand. No one who looked at the notes would get more than gibberish out of them, but they told the tale of two good men and their effort to hide a forbidden romance from a dangerous world.
Hutch, man, I tried to steer Starsky clear. I tried. When hitting him with the whole Gillian mess didn’t cool his burn, my back’s against the wall here.
Huggy believed in the Golden Rule, but he also believed in the value of his own skin. He had no plan to admit that he’d known about Gage before Starsky tipped him to the guy. With that decision made, he had to let some time elapse, a reasonable amount that wouldn’t have Starsky suspicious of his superhero informant powers. Three hours ought to do it. Yeah, with Starsky out of his head worried about Hutch in surgery, the man wouldn’t be doing a lot of math. And if Starsky did pull out the arithmetic, Huggy could fudge his way around it. Right. Three hours. Huggy looked up at the Michelob wall clock.
Well, Hutch, brother, you got three more hours before your bloodhound partner is on the scent of you and your fireman, and you’ll probably be knocked out under the knife for all of ’em. One of these days I’ll learn to get the hell out of the middle!
~*~*~
The shrill phone ring in Hutch’s room jarred Starsky out of a cramped snooze in the visitor’s so-called recliner. He jerked and thrashed into an upright position, rubbing his eyes, focusing finally on the empty bed. Hutch was still in recovery. Starsky had caught only a glimpse of him in the post-operative recovery area, thanks to his medical power of attorney, and then got shuffled out by insistent nurses who had the ludicrous idea that he would be more comfortable waiting for Hutch in the room on the Subacute Rehab unit. In these situations, Starsky’s comfort decreased with every inch out of Hutch’s line of sight, but nurses and doctors rarely grasped that simple concept, so Starsky called a retreat, saving his ammunition for the bigger issues that would surface.
On the phone’s fourth ring, Starsky managed enough coordination to grab the receiver. His assumption that Dobey waited on the line for an update died with Huggy’s greeting. He double checked his watch for the passage of time. Three hours? “You can’t possibly have anything for me.”
“When they’re clean, man,” Huggy said, “there’s not much blood-hounding to do. This amounted to a few phone calls, is all.”
“Yeah, but did you dig deep enough?”
“Y’know, Starsky, I’m getting this crazy idea you wanted me to turn up something.”
“Think what the hell you want, Huggy. Let’s hear it.”
“He’s so clean he could squeak the national anthem. And it’s not the kind of cleanliness that hides something shady. He’s solid. He and his partner are both on the fast track to make captain. They’re considered one of the best, closest fire department paramedic teams in LA County. In their field, when they talk, people listen. Sound familiar?”
“Thanks. And his partner?”
Huggy laughed. “Didn’t know I was supposed to snoop on his partner, too. Well, here’s an incidental freebie. Partner’s a family man, and there’s no hint of anything on the side. Back to Johnny boy. He has a reputation for being a heartbreaker with the ladies, but he’s a real soft touch with ’em. He’s considered one cool cat around the stations. Only thing he’s hiding, and apparently so well his employers aren’t on to him, is a fondness for playing in the other sandbox time to time. Nothing wild or kinky. He likes it discreet and tends to stay well clear of the popular gay hangouts. Been known to drop down to a little roadside motel between Crystal Cove and Laguna Beach. Not very often, and the last few times he’s been with a blond man who drives a beat-up Ford. Now don’t worry: my source on this isn’t likely to know the blond man’s identity and even less likely to care.”
Laguna Beach. What was it about the place that itched Starsky’s memory? He put his thumb and forefinger to his temples and closed his eyes to look inside himself and into the past. A June weekend. Calling Hutch in only to find him an hour away. Hutch flushing and snapping at questions about his scraped knee in the locker room that evening. Good God. Had this been going on since then, or even before?
“Did you swallow your tongue or something?”
Starsky cleared his throat to excuse the silence. “Huggy, I gotta say, you’ve put together a regular dossier here. How the hell did you manage that with a few phone calls?”
“Uh-uh, Starsky. You ask for the info, I deliver. I do not, however, tell you how I came by the info. It’s up to you how you use the info, but may I suggest you remember that discretion is the better part of valor, anger, and a few other emotions, and that partners like Hutch don’t grow on the invisible trees around Metro?”
“I’ll grant you got a thing for crazy ideas, but can you honestly drum up a scenario in that fertile mind of yours where I’d walk away from Hutch?”
“Can’t say as I can, brother. Can’t say as I can.”
“Right, and I ain’t walking on this. I may break the lug’s other leg when he gets back from Recovery, but I ain’t walking.”
“Go find a pool to dip yourself in and cool down before he gets to the room then. You never spent a second in these moccasins, kemosabe, so you got about zero right to judge Hutch on this.”
“I hear you.”
Hanging up the phone, Starsky shoved the recliner out of his way and sought the sunlight beaming full force through the window. He found no solace in the warmth. He shed his jacket in ripping, tearing movements and hurled it across the room, turning back to the window and pounding his fists uselessly against the reinforced glass. His traitorous mind wouldn’t let him turn the window into John Gage’s honest face or Hutch’s sweetly smiling one. He needed to escape the room, the hospital, track down the Torino in the visitor’s parking lot and drive, drive, drive until the engine roar deadened his hearing and numbed his brain, but he couldn’t risk Hutch coming groggily back to an empty room.
He pounded the window again, then dropped the blinds to deter him from cracking his fist…or the window. Admittedly no high-priced hooker tied to a syndicate, Gage still posed a threat to Hutch’s continued good health. Damn Hutch for taking chances, inviting the guy up to his apartment like any woman the guys at Metro would make catcalls over while slapping Hutch on the back in jealous but admiring support. But what never-see-Hutch-again incentive could Starsky offer a clean-living, well-respected rescue worker, when the hooker with a heart of gold had turned down cold hard cash?
Fast track to making captain.
One anonymous phone call to Gage with a warning that LA County wasn’t known for awarding leadership of a fire station to men who dicked around with other men….
He had his hand on the phone receiver before he came to his senses.
Christ!
Starsky lurched toward the bathroom, where he went down on his knees in front of the toilet, the stress and coffee finally exacting their due on his stomach. The porcelain god cared as little for his prayers as any other, but his emptier stomach settled. He was at the room’s sink, washing his hands and face with the scrap of hospital wash cloth, when the door opened and orderlies wheeled a zonked Hutch into the room. Starsky insisted on aiding the transfer from gurney to bed, but he let the experts handle the post-operative positioning of Hutch’s left leg. With Hutch situated, the orderlies quietly departed, leaving Starsky alone with a visible object for his silent, burning rage, but the innocence of Hutch’s face in sleep fought Starsky into a corner. He battled back to the visitor’s chair, drawing it close to the bed so he could sit there and mouth accusations, curses, and questions at the sedated man.
How does he touch you, Hutch, that you’re willing to risk your life for it?
Starsky shot out of the chair and pulled up just shy of the door. He didn’t want that question answered. He had always preferred an ostrich approach to this subject, and sometimes on the streets, he wished he could find a spot of sand in all the concrete to bury his head good and deep. But now he had a decision to make. Did he confront Hutch or leave this in the shadows Hutch preferred? Did he let Hutch wake to find this new knowledge all over his face, or did he fashion a mask to match his partner’s? He knew the answer rested with Hutch’s motive for keeping silent. If Starsky thought for one second Hutch didn’t trust him to face it like a man and, more importantly, like an unshakeable best friend….
He turned his gaze to the ceiling. And if there’s anyone up there, this question’s for you. Why give me a partner like Hutch, give him these needs, and put me here with a dick that doesn’t play that way? Sick fucking joker, that’s what you are!
He returned to the chair for another study of Hutch’s sleeping face. No. Hutch couldn’t possibly trust him implicitly with his life, his conscience, his darkest hours and bleakest days, and then have no faith in him with this. Starsky gripped the chair arms until the cheap imitation leather squeaked in his grasp. What was so important to Hutch that he’d risk poisoning their partnership with secrets?
The answer came instantly to mind.
Starsky’s safety.
You think it’s too dangerous for me to carry this with you?
Starsky laughed hollowly at himself. He’d given Hutch reason to fear.
I pull some crazy shit when I think you’re on thin ice, don’t I? You’re not anxious for this Johnny Gage to land in the hospital or me to go to jail for putting him there. What I almost did a little while ago would’ve been bad enough.
If he could just hold on to his anger, he’d survive this.
Hutch’s eyelids twitched, and Starsky almost looked away, but he held firm, ready to face secrets in blue eyes. Foggy-eyed, Hutch blinked at him, and then that gradual, silky smile threatened Starsky’s gut again, but in a beautiful way. He had no problem getting angry with Hutch, but on the receiving end of the one smile that said everything good in Hutch’s life started with Starsky, he could never prevent a grudge from slipping right through his fingers.
Okay, we’ll play this your way, Hutch. For now.
He knelt at the bedside and gently cuffed Hutch’s chin. “Nice of you to join me, partner. Want some ice chips for that after surgery dry mouth?”
~*~*~
He could talk about wanting to pull more shifts in the beautiful Station 86 territory, but after several days trapped on special duty there during an unusually violent storm that demolished roads and bridges connecting the area to greater LA, Roy had given thought to kissing Station 51’s engine bay floor, so happy to be back on his home stomping ground. The guys had thrown their paramedic team a “Welcome Home” party of sorts. Pizza and sub sandwiches for dinner, which for once wasn’t interrupted by the station alarm, and afterward everyone settled around the rec room TV to jeer at sitcoms.
Everyone except Johnny.
Eventually, Roy felt compelled to heave Henry the hound from his lap and track down his absent partner. He grabbed a couple of sodas out of the ice bucket and stole the bottle opener from Chet on the way to the engine bay. Working the bottle tops off, he saw no sign of Johnny tinkering on the squad engine. Noise from the adjacent room was promising. Roy found Johnny sitting on the floor-seat of his locker with his feet propped on the locker bench and his arms draped loosely over his raised knees. Roy stopped at the Smokey the Bear poster taped to the inside of the locker’s door and nudged Johnny’s elbow with one of the cold bottles. Johnny glanced up but didn’t smile or say thank you for the soda that he yanked from Roy’s hand and began to gulp at dying of thirst speed.
Roy preferred to sip his beverage. “Tell me you’re not out here pouting about Chet and Marco putting you in the doghouse with Debby.”
Throughout their enforced duty away from the city, Johnny had worked himself into a frenzy trying to contact and cancel a date with girl he’d arranged to take sailing. In his absence, thinking they were doing him a favor in not disappointing the pretty supply clerk, Chet and Marco had taken Debby sailing on Johnny’s behalf, but the outing’s dismal failure had left Debby with no desire to see a firefighter again, including Johnny.
Usually, Johnny’s anger at Chet flared and faded in minutes, and no one could stay cross with loveable Marco, but on this occasion, Johnny couldn’t shake the grumps. To Roy’s surprise, he didn’t bristle or protest the “pouting” jibe. He only shrugged. “Serves me right, Roy.”
“What does?”
“This whole thing with Debby.”
“Johnny, do you really want to date some girl who takes it out on you that Chet and Marco didn’t know enough about sailing to show her a good time out there?”
“Not what I mean,” Johnny said. “I didn’t wanna take Debby sailing in the first place, so it kinda serves me right that my chance is blown with her.”
“What? You were all but enlisting the LA County dispatcher in getting a message to her about canceling. All you could talk about was the big sailing date.”
Johnny set his empty soda bottle on the bench at his feet. “You know why I was so anxious to cancel with her. I know what it’s like now to wait for word and worry. I didn’t want her thinking a bunch of worse case scenarios about me when I didn’t show up.”
“But you did want to go sailing?”
“Yeah, but not with Debby.”
“You lost me again.”
Johnny shot him a “why, me” look and raised one hand to his ear and waved the other at the door. Roy understood, then. After complete silence since the canyon rescue, Johnny meant to talk about his detective friend. Roy eased over to the door and leaned out to assess the noise level from the kitchen and rec room. Riotous laughter on top of the loud television assured him that only the station alarm could be overheard by their station mates. He returned to Johnny and nodded the all clear.
Johnny began picking at his left shoelace. “When I first made the arrangements, I was planning to take Ken. He was a sea scout as a kid in Duluth. Thought he’d really enjoy it. I wanted to celebrate his recovery and making it back to full duty. He didn’t have it easy. Tough rehab regimen after the cast came off. He ended up with some back strain. It was a long haul for him.”
“So, what happened?”
“After I got everything settled, Ken called and told me his partner’s girlfriend–you remember Detective Starsky?”
Roy smiled. “How could I forget him? I didn’t think we’d get out of that rescue without him decking one of us from post-traumatic stress release.”
“Yeah, well, he’s definitely had a run of stress lately. His girlfriend passed away.”
“Oh, man. That’s…that’s rough. So Ken had to cancel to be at the services?”
“No, Roy. She died a couple weeks ago.”
Roy nodded again, his preferred tic when trying to find his way through a Johnny maze. He came around and straddled the end of the locker bench, clicking his fingers on the bottle he set in front of him. “Couple weeks ago? What did that have to do with your scheduled outing yesterday? Yesterday, if you hadn’t been stuck at 86’s anyway.”
“I don’t know. Ken just said he wouldn’t be available for the next couple weeks and felt he should go ahead and beg off the sailing trip. Well, I had the boat squared away, so I figured I didn’t have to lose out altogether, right? And let’s face it.” Johnny smiled. “Debby is a head-turner.”
A tall blonde head-turner, too, but Roy wisely kept that tidbit to himself. “Have you tried calling Ken?”
“Yep. Can’t reach him. He meant it when he said he’d be unavailable. I guess Starsky’s really broken up over the whole thing, I mean, why he wouldn’t he be, right?”
“Right.”
“And I guess Ken’s been hovering these last couple weeks.”
“Hovering?”
“Yeah. It’s what they do in situations like this. Roy, tell me something?”
Still trying to comprehend the meaning of hovering in the context of their conversation, Roy didn’t respond until Johnny tapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, what?”
“You ever remember the guys on our favorite cop shows hovering?”
“Maybe it’d help me if you tell me what you mean by hovering? You say hovering, I think helicopter.”
“Never mind. I’m just saying I don’t recall seeing much of the whole hovering thing.”
“On television, the cops have an hour to solve the crime, track down the bad guys, and haul them in between opening and closing credits. They don’t have much time to show a lot of hovering, I guess.”
Johnny waved his hand between them. “You and me, we don’t exactly hover, either.”
Roy laughed. “Sorry, pal, but on my time off, I’m almost too exhausted to hover around Joanne and the kids. Adding you to the list would break this camel’s back.”
“But we’ve got a damn good partnership.”
Roy lifted his bottle, and Johnny clicked his empty against it. “Best of the best. Only thing that won’t be good about getting our own station assignments as captains will be working without you. Joanne swears that’s why I’m in no rush to take the exam, and pokes fun at me about it whenever I complain about my measly paycheck having to cover the bills.”
“Exactly,” Johnny said, reaching over to swat at Roy’s knee. “Hey, Roy, y’know, we could apply for the same station assignment. We’d be on different shifts, yeah, but it’d still be like working together. With you and me covering the A and B shifts, unless we had some real goof-off captain on C shift, we’d be the best damn station in LA County.”
“Sounds like a plan. Don’t know if LA’ll go for it, but it’s worth a shot. But cool your heels, okay? I’m not ready to throw in my paramedic towel just yet.”
“Me, neither,” Johnny said with enthusiasm. He scratched his eyebrow and went back to picking at his frayed uniform shoelace. “Roy, don’t take this wrong, but I’m kinda glad we don’t hover.”
“We’ll leave hovering to cops and helicopters. Now come back to the rec room before Chet’s in here teasing you to death about Debby. I’ve missed the guys, but not enough for a session of Chet ragging on you.”
“All right.” Johnny patted his stomach. “I could use another ro–“
“Chet fed the last roast beef sandwich to Henry.”
“–Slice of pizza,” Johnny finished, crestfallen.
Roy slapped him on the back and steered him toward the kitchen. “And replace that shoelace. I’m tired of watching you pick at it.”
“Nag, nag,” Johnny teased. “Anyone’d think you’d already made captain.”
~*~*~
“Raid One to Raid Two,” Starsky said into the radio. “You guys in position?”
“Ten-four, Raid One. Wish we were going in there to catch the matinee,” Detective Parks of Narcotics Division responded.
Hutch snickered and snatched the walkie-talkie from Starsky’s hand. “Takes a twisted bunch of characters to set up a smack lab in an abandoned porno theater, Parks, but I think you just beat them out for twisted with that remark.”
Starsky nudged Hutch in the side. “You ever meet any Narcs that ain’t twisted, Blondie?”
“Heard that, Starsky,” Parks said. “You better watch your division trashing. Think you’re hot stuff ’cause Chief Ryan put you and Hutch up for commendations.”
Hearing admiration in Parks’ tone, Starsky laughed. “He had to save face for letting a couple of B-movie look-alikes fool him into thinking we’re dirty. When the embarrassment dies down, he’ll be fed up with us again.”
“All comes down to this, Parks: Ryan will always think Starsky needs a new wardrobe.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you help him out then, Hutch?” Parks laughed. “My partner’s my personal shopper; does it for free, too.”
“Do not!” yelled Detective Barnett in the background. “I charge you fifty bucks a pop, and I’m always having to hit you up for it weeks later, cheapskate. Partnered to you, it’s hard for a guy to scrabble enough dough together to take his wife out for an I-need-to-get-laid French dinner.”
“What, I ain’t enough for you, you sex fiend?”
“Nah, but maybe you lend me your wife for a night, we’ll call it even.”
Starsky took the handheld from Hutch with a drawn-out groan. “Thanks a lot, guys. That’s more’n we ever needed to know.”
Parks’ lewd laughter responded. “Room to talk, Starsky. We got a running bet that Hutch paints your toenails for you. What’s your favorite color? Pink…or candy apple red?”
Hutch’s face was candy apple red. Annoyed at the quick trigger flush, when he knew that months ago Hutch would have grabbed the radio and filled Parks’ ear with some X-rated panting to get his goat, Starsky spoke gruffly, “Why don’t you come round and find out, Parks? You’ll get a good look before I park my foot up your snout.”
The silence broke with a chuckle. “Uh, Starsky, I didn’t mean to step on any toes, there, pal.”
Holding the radio away from his ear until the chorus of laughter quieted, Starsky waited for the strategic moment. “With your ballet slippers, Parks, don’t you worry; I didn’t feel a thing.”
Barnett’s laughter nearly drowned out Parks’ blustering. Hutch did grab for the walkie-talkie this time, with a quick “you know better” frown for Starsky. “Okay, guys, enough. We need to keep the channel clear for police work. Rosman could show any second, and he’s our canary in a coal mine. He goes in and stays in, we’ll know it’s a live day at the lab.”
“Yessir, Captain Hutchinson, sir,” Parks said with faux meekness.
~*~*~
“Man, I thought we were all goners,” Barnett said.
His throat still smoke-scratchy, Starsky coughed against his jacket sleeve and cast a look over his shoulder at the fully involved upper story of the theater turned smack lab. Arson investigation would render a verdict on the explosion’s trigger, but Starsky could care less. He cared only that the lab had waited to burst in flame when the raiding teams were herding the cuffed workers down the back stairs to the alleyway exit.
At the rear of the exodus, separated from his partner, Detective Parks caught the worst of the explosion’s concussion and would’ve lain injured and enveloped by toxic smoke had Hutch’s sharp hearing not picked up his falling moan. Watching Barnett and the uniformed officers safely outside with the lab workers in custody, listening only for Hutch’s breathing behind him on their way to the exit, Starsky had felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to a Hutch already stripped down to his bare chest and holster. Wrapping his blue over-shirt around his face, Hutch covered his mouth and nose in a makeshift mask that twisted the shirt’s back guitar patch. Unable to manage a quick waist-up disrobing with a leather jacket, Starsky readily accepted Hutch’s offered green t-shirt for his own mask. With Hutch’s scent strong in his nostrils, somehow more reassuring than oxygen pumped from a tank, Starsky followed him back up the stairs to the fallen Parks.
Getting Parks free of the building required only basic teamwork and a makeshift gurney-carry with Hutch hoisting the man aloft beneath the arms and Starsky supporting his legs, walking cautiously backward down the stairs with only Hutch’s careful line of sight across Starsky’s shoulder and his own surefooted confidence to guide him. Six feet away from the exit door outside in the blessed fresh air, almost bowled over by a panicked onrushing Barnett, the rescuers nearly dropped their precious cargo when the second story windows blew out overhead.
On the fire department arrival, the alley filled with jacketed, masked men lugging hoses and axes. The smaller rescue squad truck pulled farther into the alley that the engine couldn’t access, and Starsky heard Hutch exhale slowly through a cough on sight of the passenger door’s big, yellow Station 38. Starsky handed over the wrinkled t-shirt and Hutch shook it out with his button-up until they both resembled clothing again. Presentably dressed once more, Hutch left to check on the uniformed officers and their prisoners, and when he returned to the triage area, oxygen support had brought Parks to the surface of consciousness, the paramedics splinting his injured right arm and starting an IV per Harbor General ER’s orders.
Lifting his oxygen mask and coughing, Parks cleared his throat and waved off the paramedic who protested the mask removal. “Hey, guys, you’re a couple of crazy mothers, but I gotta say, count me out of just about any future drug lab raid that doesn’t include Starsky and Hutch.”
Barnett wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead with a ratty handkerchief. “He’s not just blowing steam, fellas. Only thing kept me from a coronary when I realized he wasn’t out with the rest of us is that I knew you guys were in there with him.”
Hutch gave the shaken detective a quick pat on the back. “Can’t let the sickos out there start blowing up chunks of the Blue Wall, Barnett.”
“Yeah, and we don’t wanna lose one of the guys with a sense of humor,” Starsky teased Parks, tapping the man’s heel with the toe of his sneaker. Parks raised his healthy left arm to demonstrate his talent for bird flipping, and returned the mask to his face.
“Hey!” yelled a cuffed man, racing down the alley, oblivious to the police officers drawing their weapons behind him. “Hey!”
“Hold your fire!” Hutch called to the uniformed men, breaking into a run toward the prisoner.
Starsky took off down the alley at Hutch’s side. “Down on your knees, man, you wanta take a bullet?!” he yelled to Rosman, knowing one of the officers might fire a wing shot if they thought Hutch in danger from Rosman, whose identity as the LA County Sheriff Department’s inside man had been purposely withheld from the uniformed back-up. Starsky couldn’t guess what had frightened their “under” officer into threatening his cover to break away from the other cuffed lab workers. Rosman stumbled and fell to his knees, lifting his front-cuffed hands high above his head just as Hutch skidded to a stop to pull him up theatrically by the shoulders for the benefit of the prisoners.
“Are you out of your mind, Rosman!” Hutch barked in the man’s face, the anger only partially sham. “You’re no damn rookie, you know you–.”
“Did a head count,” Rosman interrupted, gasping for breath. “They’re not all out. The uniforms back there wouldn’t listen. I’m telling you, Hutchinson, they’re not all out.”
“Thought you said there’d be six workers here today,” Starsky said. He scanned the alley, pointing at each prisoner in turn. “I count six.”
“They brought in three extra to get the shipment ready on time. They’re not out here.”
“Couldn’t possibly be alive, y’think?” Starsky asked Hutch.
“Only one way to find out,” Hutch said. Officer Mathews made it to the scene, and Hutch thrust Rosman roughly at him. “Get this guy out of here and keep him in line!”
They had no prayer of getting close to the building or the firefighters engaged in a losing battle, but hope waited at the triage area. Doubling back to the paramedics, Hutch asked the man packing away the drug box, “Can you raise one of your guys on the radio? We’ve got reason to believe there’re three people trapped inside.”
“In that inferno!” Barnett shook his head. “Three racks of barbecued ribs, maybe. Damn. Thought we had everybody!”
“So did we,” Starsky reassured him. “They upped the staffing last minute on us.”
The paramedic had raised his captain on the line. “Cap’n? One of the cops says there’s the possibility of live ones inside! You doing a sweep?”
“We’ve had Tony and Will sweeping, but they’re on their way to you now. Heat exhaustion with Tony, looks like, and Will’s mask went south on him. LA called in a second alarm a while back on my order, should be here any second.” True to the captain’s word, sirens grew louder on a rapid approach, and the captain’s voice crackled again, “I knew it! They’re sending us 51, Engine 36, and Truck 3’s ladder company, too, thank Christ. We’re in luck.”
Hutch’s head jerked up, his mouth moving slowly to form words under his breath, and Starsky, able to decipher a Hutchinson whisper from a football field away if necessary, realized he was counting days. Trying to remember his schedule, buddy?
The captain’s next transmission crushed any hope that another shift was responding. “Kyle, you and Clark stay put at triage. We’ll send Gage and DeSoto in to handle the medical needs on evac of any live ones, and they’re A-Shift’s best brooms anyway.”
“Roger, Cap’n, we’ll wait here for Tony and Will. Do you have an ETA on the ambulance, though? We need to transport this police officer.”
“ETA ten minutes. Hang tight.”
“We’ll alert Harbor General. Thanks, Cap.”
“Brooms?” Hutch asked hoarsely.
“Figure of speech.” The other paramedic smiled at Hutch. “When we think someone’s trapped inside after initial evac, we run a sweep. Two guys go through in tandem, right into the white of the flame if they have to, and ‘sweep’ for signs of life. Only catch is, our brooms sometimes end up on wild goose chases, just like this one might be, and when you’re on a sweep, you’re not standing behind the protective cooling spray of a hose, you’re moving around in all the concentrated heat.”
Starsky watched Hutch try to control the worry freezing the muscles around his mouth into a thin lip line. Illustrating the paramedic’s point, two Station 38 firefighters came stumbling down the alley toward them, one leaning heavily against the other, and their comrades hurried from the triage area to meet them halfway. Supported by their paramedics, the walking “wounded” headed straight for the prepared shock blankets spread on the asphalt by the spare oxygen tank.
“In by two, out by two, right guys?” one of the paramedics said to them. “Tony, how you doing there, buddy? Will, easy, Will, that’s it, try to breathe deep. Let him down slowly, Kyle. I can hear the wheezing already. Sorry excuse for a mask, huh?” The paramedics went to work on their station mates, dividing the labor, while Barnett and Parks watched with avid interest. Starsky smiled. Some guys never grew out of wanting to be firemen, even after they chose other professions.
“What’s it like in there, Tony?” the other paramedic asked, taking his pulse.
“Hotter’n Satan’s left tit. The smoke’s lethal, man. You guys are gonna be busy. Brad and Danny are caught in a tight spot, and the only way 51’s getting in there is up the Big Daddy to the roof entrance, if there’s enough roof left to hold their weight. Wouldn’t be surprised if this one runs three alarm, and I don’t see how there could be survivors, but I’m glad it ain’t us sweeping in there now.”
“Big Daddy?” Hutch asked.
The mechanized high-rise ladder rose into view, seeming to climb of its own power into the sky rather than from the ladder truck they could not see, and continued to grow until the top rung braced against the theater roof’s stone façade.
“Big Daddy,” Tony said, pointing. “And there they go.”
Hutch clenched his fists at his side as a pair of firefighters came into view halfway up the ladder ascent. From their safe distance at triage, Starsky couldn’t make out any details beyond their helmets, protective turnout coats, and the yellow oxygen tanks strapped to their backs, but Firefighter Tony had designated himself the color analyst. “That’s Gage in front. You can always spot a rock climber on the ladder. Going up that thing like a mountain goat.”
The paramedic in charge of vitals had reached for the Biophone to call in, but the thunder of another contained explosion and pressure-shattered glass rocked the alley. Starsky watched in horror as the upper rungs of the fire ladder quaked, toppling the lead firefighter over its guardrail, where he clung, dangling over a forty foot drop to concrete. Tony jumped to his feet for a better look, swaying in his dizziness, and Will tried to struggle to a sitting position on the shock blanket, restrained by both paramedics who themselves couldn’t take their eyes off the ladder. The ladder shifted again from its brace against the façade, and the dangling firefighter dropped to a one-handed hold.
“Jesus Christ, Johnny!” Hutch shouted.
All eyes swung Hutch’s way, but Tony posed the burning question. “You know Gage?”
With Hutch transfixed by Roy’s efforts to lower a safety line to his dangling partner, Starsky answered for him, unwilling for Hutch’s instinctive reaction to become grist for fire station gossip with potentially disastrous results. “Yeah, we know him. He and Roy really came through for my partner here after his car went off a cliff.”
Tony pointed at Hutch. “I know who you are!” He nodded at his comrades. “Guys, this is Canyon Super Cop.”
Hutch shot him an icy look. “What?”
“Aw, that’s what 51’s captain calls you when he spins that yarn. Trapped in a canyon for days, weren’t you, pinned under your car? And cracking jokes while Roy and Johnny worked on you.”
“You’re looking at two of the toughest sons-of-bitches in the LAPD,” Barnett said. “And I’m not just saying that ’cause they got my partner out of that theater.”
“You guys are like something straight out of Police Story,” Tony said. “Man, how about a handshake?”
Hutch shook the offered hand, but turned his attention to the ladder where Johnny had reached safety within the guard rails thanks to Roy’s determination and prowess with the safety line. They completed the ascent and disappeared from view over the roof’s façade, but Hutch didn’t budge from his vigil. Starsky remained at his side through the ambulance arrival and departure with the wheezing firefighter and Detective Parks in its carriage. Grumbling over the crowded ambulance, Barnett rushed off to his car to follow the transport into Harbor General. The paramedics coaxed Tony back to his shock blanket for fluids and oxygen.
Of all the times for their paths to cross with Station 51, Starsky grumped to himself, worried about the tremor in Hutch’s jaw as he watched the theater. The ninth precinct should not even have been covering an investigation in this territory, but the assholes they were after had started their mayhem in Metro’s backyard before spreading into the County, and teaming up with the LA County Sheriff’s Department had offered the best means of tightening the noose.
He slid his arm around Hutch’s waist. “They’ll be okay, partner, they know their business ’bout as good as we know ours,” Starsky said. Hutch’s fearful expression had a new layer to it, and Starsky rushed to quiet that secret worry. “Hey, they didn’t haul my carcass out of a canyon, but they took care of my partner, so that gives me a vested interest, too, ‘kay?”
“Yeah, I… Let’s go get the rundown from Rosman, Starsk.”
Part Two
“Weston! You’ve got some nerve walking yourself in here,” Stanley barked at the visiting LAFD paramedic who let a pool of late September sunshine into the kitchen with his backdoor entry.
Every Station 51 firefighter knew the captain’s bark threatened as much real anger as Henry the hound dog’s. Weston laughed it off and came over to the table, accepting a mug of coffee from Marco.
“What’s a city guy doing on county territory, that’s what I wanna know?” Chet said. He held out a chair for Weston. “And if you’re here for lunch, you’re out of luck, pal. Johnny’s at the stove, trying to make sense of flipping burgers.”
Johnny brandished his spatula at him. “I’ll come flip some on your head if you don’t shut up.”
From his denim jacket pocket, Weston brought forth a stack of gift certificates. “Here to pay up for my station’s humiliating defeat on the court, guys. We’ve learned our lesson. No more basketball with LACoFD boys.” He dropped the certificates on the table. “There you go. Dinner for two for each of you at Carmine’s Steak House.”
“Woo-hoo!” Chet grabbed for his.
Roy kicked back in his chair, drawing his certificate to him. “This comes in handy, Weston. Joanne wanted us to go out this weekend on my night off.”
Chet picked up one of the certificates and took it over to wave it in front of Johnny’s nose. “Hey, Gage, maybe you could use yours to take out that new Rampart ER nurse. I hear she’s been making goo-goo eyes at you for weeks now.”
Johnny scowled at him. “Chet, get that out of my face before you drop it in the frying pan!”
“Anything of interest going on at LAFD 63, Weston?” Stanley asked.
Marco laughed before Weston could answer. “Aw, Cap’n, he works Venice. Might as well be a beach bum.”
Chet leaned against the counter and gave Weston an evil grin that lifted his mustache at the corners. “I don’t know, Marco. He has to put up with fruits in pink Speedos tripping on their roller skates. I think he deserves hazard pay.”
Johnny pushed back from the stove. “That’s it! You want lunch, Chet, you fix it yourself!”
Chet gaped at him. “What’s your problem?”
“Same problem we all have, Chet,” Roy answered immediately, “trying to find something large enough to stuff in that overactive mouth of yours.”
Stung by Roy’s unusually harsh rebuke, Chet eased back to the table, and Johnny returned to flipping the sizzling hamburger patties. Weston lowered his coffee mug. “I don’t know about pink Speedos, but we did have a crazy call several nights ago. Like something straight out of Psycho.”
“Yeah?” Mike asked. “What do you mean?”
“Guy stabbed in his shower by some pint-sized woman stalker. I kid you not. She was maybe five-feet tall and the guy over six-feet, real healthy specimen, but when we got there, he was slumped over his partner’s supporting arm, bleeding like a son-of-bitch from the left shoulder, and she was trying to gnaw a hole through the cops that had her in custody.”
“Partner?” Chet asked. “What, one of the pink Speedo brigade crossed over to the wrong side of the street and got a chick good and riled at him?”
“No, no, you dumbass,” Weston laughed. “Guy’s LAPD. A cop, stabbed in his own shower! Blond, yes, but no Janet Leigh, you can take my word for it.”
“Goddamn it!”
The laughter at the table died instantly at the uncharacteristic oath from Johnny, who stepped back from the stove, letting the spatula fall to the floor, and waved his hand up down, clutching it at the wrist. Roy jumped up and reached the stove in a single stride, pulling Johnny’s hand free for a look.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Gage?” Chet demanded.
“He burned himself,” Roy answered.
“Hand slipped on the flipper-thingy,” Johnny explained in a choked voice, looking at Roy as if his were the only safe face in the room.
“That does it, Johnny,” Stanley said with sympathy. “Last time we make you cook.”
“Hey, Cap, if I burn myself do I get out of KP duty, too?”
“Shut up, Chet!” Johnny yelled on his way to the sink to run water over the burn. “Just…just for once in your life, shut up!”
Weston rose from his seat. “Think I’d better head on out. Heading down to San Diego for my mom’s birthday and I don’t wanna waste any of my hard-earned time off sitting here with you chumps.”
“Weston, how’d your crazy call end up?” Roy asked, sensing that Johnny couldn’t formulate a question in a steady voice.
“Oh, fine. Once his partner got past the overprotective ‘Me Friend, You Stranger’ routine and let us do our jobs, we got the guy stabilized and had an easy transport to Memorial. He’ll have one hell of a sore shoulder for a while, but he’s lucky. Crazy gal was aiming for his heart, no doubt about it.”
Head bowed, Johnny doubled over the sink, and Marco said, “Roy, maybe you oughta ride him into Rampart, let ’em have a look?”
Johnny straightened. “I’m fine. I’ll get some stuff for this out of the drug box.” He started out of the room toward the engine bay, and Roy followed close on his heels.
“Hey, Roy,” Chet said, “while you’re out there, see if you can patch up his brain, too.”
Giving Chet a drop-dead glare, Johnny stalked out of the room. Roy slowed down at Chet’s chair and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing a little harder than friendliness required. “You know, Chet, one of these days Johnny’s gonna slug you into next week, and don’t look to me to hold the ice to your jaw afterward.”
“What’d I say?” Chet asked in his best bewildered innocence.
“Chet, get over there and finish the burgers,” Stanley ordered. “Quietly, if you please.”
At the squad, Roy closed the drug box for his partner and shoved it back in place in the squad’s storage bay. He examined Johnny’s efforts at bandaging his hand and let out a grunt of exasperation. “Let me do that. You’re shaking too hard to put on a Band-Aid right now.” Johnny sat down on the squad’s running board and let him work unhindered. “I guess it’s safe to say you had no idea.”
Johnny shook his head in eerie silence that worried Roy more than the minor burn.
“No chance this is another cop?”
“Another six-foot, blond LAPD cop in Venice with an overprotective partner? You wanna take those odds to Vegas?”
“He sounds all right by Weston’s account, but with an injury like that I doubt he’s on duty today. Probably at home licking his wounds. Why don’t you give him a call?”
Johnny gestured with both hands at the kitchen where laughter and the sounds of hungry firefighters at chow could be heard.
“Not in there, I know,” Roy said. “Go in the captain’s office. I’ll keep an eye out.”
Not two minutes after Johnny dashed into Stanley’s office, the station alarm rang through a squad call. “Squad 51. Man injured in accident with lawn mower. 1423 Barnes Court. Cross Street Wilcox. Time out 12:35.”
Johnny appeared in the engine bay just as Stanley arrived to acknowledge the call. “Squad 51, KMG 365.” He turned from the radio to Johnny. “You up to a call, pal?”
Johnny held up his bandaged hand. “I’m fine, Cap. No problem.”
“That’s my trooper. We’ll save some lunch for you guys.”
Once they were safely through the worst of the morning traffic, Roy said, “Well?”
Johnny didn’t have to ask what he meant. “His partner answered the phone.”
“So?”
“So, I had to hang up without saying a damn word.”
“Oh.”
Johnny shifted from his study of the scenery flying past his window. “What’s that ‘oh’ mean?”
“Nothing. When were you supposed to see him again?”
“He’s been working a case, but he knows I’m houseboat-sitting for my cousin at the marina this weekend. He said he’d stop by if he had a night off. Now, who knows?”
“You think this stabbing might’ve had something to do with the case? Sounds personal to me.”
Johnny shrugged. “He’s been seeing a lady police officer off and on, but I’m willing to bet she’s taller than five-feet. Maybe he was seeing someone else, too, and it got out of hand somehow. I don’t know. God, I wish I knew!”
“Lady cop, mystery lady, and you. Spreading himself kind of thin, isn’t he?”
That earned Roy a hard look. “What’re you trying to say?”
“When’s the last time you went out with a girl, Johnny?”
Johnny looked away again. “I dunno. Um. Month ago, maybe? Why?”
“I just don’t want you getting the raw end of the deal, that’s all.”
“Who said anything about a raw end?”
“Johnny, I know I’ve never been into guys, so maybe I’m talking completely out of turn here, but I remember what it was like when I first started getting serious about Joanne, and it can’t be that much different when a man cares about another man, right? Or is that my straight ignorance talking?”
“You’re not ignorant.”
“Okay, then. When a guy’s in love, he needs the daily details, not just the dates and occasional sleep overs. I would’ve hated being the last to know about important stuff happening to her, and that hasn’t changed after years of marriage and two kids.”
“Who said anything about being in love?”
Roy located the subdivision, made a hard left against an unfriendly traffic light with help from the corridor the surrounding cars allowed their rescue vehicle, and Johnny flipped off the siren. “I was in that canyon rescue, too, remember? You wore your heart on your sleeve the whole time. I saw you do a little victory dance in the apparatus bay after that drug lab fire when Stanley told us the detectives called from Metro to see how everyone came out.”
“Hah. Talk about premature. I thought that meant Ken had told his partner about us. He corrected that little notion quick enough next time I saw him.”
“Uh-huh, and now your social calendar is empty except for when this guy squeezes a little time for you out of his schedule. Look, I know you’re both in a tough position, and it stinks that you can’t experience some of the simple things Joanne and I take for granted. Seeing you go through this makes me appreciate my marriage in a way I never thought to, and I always figured I was pretty good husband material before. But watch yourself, okay? Get what you need and deserve out of all this, too.”
~*~*~
Hutch stopped at the gangplank for a longer look. He’d expected the usual canal narrow boat or maybe a larger barge converted to live-aboard, but the two-level oddly shaped houseboat of exotic wood construction looked more appropriate to a large Indian waterway or the South China Sea. Johnny appeared in the fore entrance, decked out in his usual off-duty jeans and flannel shirt, and Hutch came aboard quickly, wanting the privacy of indoors for a kiss. Johnny led him into the spacious cabin, and walked over to pull the thin silken curtains over the hull-to-top-deck window, obscuring its view of the marina and any curious mariners’ view of them. But he didn’t turn from the window, and Hutch waited by the galley kitchen’s bamboo table and chairs.
“How you want it tonight?” Johnny asked quietly.
Hutch felt thrown back in time to the first encounter at the Canyon Vista motel, minus the laughter and classic Gage confidence. “What do you mean, how do I want it? What happened to dinner and conversation first?”
“I think we need to stop pretending this is anything but what it is,” Johnny said, still facing the window, but there was a slump to his shoulders that gave a clue to his mood. “So, what’ll it be? With your hurt shoulder, you’re probably not up to anything strenuous.”
Ah. Hutch felt better then about approaching the man at the window. He slipped his arms around Johnny’s waist and kissed the shell of left ear beneath a wave of black silk hair. “I’m fine. I’ll be good as new in no time.”
“This time, maybe.” Johnny left Hutch’s light embrace and went to the tiny fridge where he pulled out a bottle of wine and ferreted two bamboo-stemmed goblets from the adjacent tall teak shelf.
Hutch came back over to the small table and rested his hand on the nearest chair back, more for something to grip than anything else. “Johnny, I appreciate the concern, but you don’t have much room to complain. I wasn’t prepared to watch you hang one-handed off a high-rise ladder over asphalt!”
Johnny slapped the wine bottle down before he’d poured a drop, and spun around. “I don’t complain about your job, you don’t complain about mine, we’re even. I’m complaining that I had to hear it from an LAFD Station 63 paramedic that you’d been stabbed in your shower!”
“What?” Suddenly registering the houseboat’s coziness as stuffy, Hutch peeled off his black leather jacket and beige pullover, but stripping down to his blue cotton tee didn’t alleviate the perspiration.
“Yeah, you thought you were breaking the news to me yesterday when you called to confirm our little get-together tonight? I heard about it five days ago, only not from the horse’s mouth. Or the horse’s best friend. I had to get broadsided with it by a guy who dropped in our station to pay off basketball game winnings and hung around to tell wild Venice rescue stories.”
Hutch sighed. “Well, now I know why you sounded more pissed than shocked on the phone yesterday.”
“The last five days, I’ve tried calling your place maybe a dozen times. Drove by Venice Place on my way–well out of my way, actually–to the station a couple of days ago, but that Torino was parked out front, so I kept right on driving.”
“Yes, Starsky was staying with me until yesterday morning.”
“Hovering. I get it.”
“No, you don’t get it,” Hutch argued, raising his voice. “I wanted to stay in my own home instead of a safe house while they secured the woman’s admission to a criminal psych facility, and neither Dobey nor Starsky would hear of it without him staying, too, as visibly as possible! We’ve both been in danger before because someone we thought was all squared away really wasn’t.”
“I do get that!” Johnny said loudly. “You think I don’t? I do! I wouldn’t have wanted it any different. But do you have any idea how nice it would’ve been if when I called and Starsky answered, I could’ve said, ‘Hey, Starsky, how’s Ken hanging in there? You guys need anything?’ Instead, I had to hang up like some prank caller missing his target.”
“I wondered…Starsky told me we were getting hang-up calls. I’ve been kind of thrown sideways this past week and–Damn.”
Johnny abandoned the wine and reclaimed his post in front of the window, parting the curtain a few inches to stare at the night sky over the water. “Last thing you need is some guy turning into a boa constrictor on you after what you went through.”
Hutch allowed himself a small laugh. “Now, that sounds like the Johnny I know and–”
“Don’t,” Johnny cut him off.
“Don’t what?”
“Nothing. All I’m saying is I’m not very good at this. Being with someone who runs the risks you do all the time…and not knowing.”
“You think it’s easy for me? I’ll admit I didn’t give much thought to what firemen are up against until that day in the alley. But I’ve heard you talk about some of your rescues. Having to get down cliffsides to stranded hang-gliders. Climbing up burning oil towers to trapped workers. How many times have you been injured in the line-of-duty, Johnny?”
“I don’t know. A few, I guess.”
“More than a few, I guess,” Hutch said. “Come on, let’s hear a list.”
“What good will that do?”
“Humor me!”
Johnny turned away from the window and began counting on his fingers. “Bitten by a rattlesnake once. That was no fun. I’ve been hit by a car on a rescue. Got a nasty virus from exposure to a patient’s Southeast Asian monkey. Trapped in a cave-in. Close calls with smoke inhalation. Radiation exposure once, but I got cleared from that pretty quickly.”
“That’s not the whole list, is it?”
“Probably not, but I don’t wanna think about any others, if you don’t mind.”
Hutch smiled. “Good, because I’m not sure I could stand hearing any more.”
“What’s your point?”
“When we’re on our respective jobs, we have to think about ourselves and our partners full time. We can’t have a lot of other things crowding in, working our brains over, and distracting us. Do you honestly want to know every time I hit a little speed bump? Because I know I can’t handle thinking about what might be happening to you.”
“Getting stabbed in your shower is more than a speed bump!”
Hutch shrugged off the severity of his terrifying encounter with a madwoman. “Not really. I’m still here, still standing, perfectly capable of throwing you down and sucking you to Heaven and back. Speed bump.”
“Okay, what about when it’s more than a speed bump? At least there’s someone who could let you know if something happened to me that I wasn’t gonna walk away from any time soon…or ever.”
Hutch shuddered, trying to block the image of Johnny dropping from the ladder. “Who?”
“Who do you think? Roy, that’s who.”
Concern and fear were joined by anger, and Hutch slapped at the slatted chair back. “You’ve told Roy about me, about us?! Damn it, Johnny, I thought you knew what was riding on your ability to keep your mouth shut.”
Johnny’s eyes narrowed to a long, still, deadly look, angrier than Hutch had ever seen him. “How much fun would it be for you if I showed you just how good I can be at keeping my mouth shut? Seems to me our little thing is all about how wide I can open my mouth. That’s how you like me best, isn’t it?”
In his own mind, he’d occasionally likened Johnny to a playful, tame, and loyal wolf pup, and somehow he’d missed the pup growing into an adult of its species with teeth to back up its bark. “Johnny, that’s not fair, and even worse, it’s inaccurate.”
The wolf sheathed its incisors, ducking its head and sitting back on its haunches. “God, Ken, he was with me in the canyon that day. He’d never seen me act like that around other rescues. When I saw your car, I thought you had to be dead. I couldn’t half-breathe until I saw Starsky flag us down, knowing he wouldn’t be doing that if you were past help. Since then, Roy and me, we mention you from time to time. Nowhere anyone can hear us. If that’s a problem, then you need to turn around and walk out that door right now, ’cause I’m not lying to my partner!”
“And you think I am? I’m not lying to Starsky. He doesn’t ask. I told you, his sonar’s off, and I just can’t afford to turn it on to this.” He neared within reach and squeezed Johnny’s hips through the snug denim. “Can’t tear you a new one for your reactions in the canyon, though. I screamed out your name when you were dangling from that ladder, and I would’ve been in one hell of a fix if I hadn’t had the cover of that rescue to explain my concern…or even knowing your name.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I know we can’t go out on the town holding hands. But I don’t understand why you can’t bring Starsky in on this. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s a great guy, and he thinks you walk on water. You really think he’d turn on you for sleeping with a man every once in a blue moon?”
Hutch stroked the button placket of Johnny’s shirt. “Great guy doesn’t cover it. And no, that’s not it. I could dye my hair purple and wear a cock ring, and Starsky wouldn’t walk out on me or our partnership. I know that.”
“Then what’re you saying? A straight man and a gay man can’t work together all open and above board, is that what you’re saying? Roy and I can.”
“Where’s that labeling coming from? We’re not, not, not. Remember?”
Johnny broke eye contact. “I’ve had to do some thinking about my preferences. When I’m ready to give up women for a guy–”
“Johnny, don’t,” Hutch said tenderly. “Not for me. It’s not something I can afford to give you in return, for the same reason I can’t share this with Starsky, hard as it is to keep it from him. Kicks me right in the balls sometimes, having something in my life he’s not a part of.”
“Just spell it out for me, why he can’t be? Is it me? You think he’d–hurt me?”
Hutch laughed out loud and kissed him between the eyes. “Not unless you hurt me first, and you’d never hurt me in a way that’d make him come after you.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, once it’s out in the open between us, once Starsky knew, there’d be things he’d worry about that he doesn’t right now. He’d be inclined to protect me from the wrong kind of teasing, for one thing. That may sound childish, but in our line of work, it’s life or death. There’s always been locker room shit talked about Starsky and me, but we live the lives of straight playboys, and for me, it’s partly cover, but for him it’s real to the core. That protects us, and we play off the jokes like there’s nothing to them. If he starts instinctively climbing down the throat of every dirty-mouthed bigot that tells a gay joke around me, some of that locker room shit might start to smell real, and that could get us both killed. I know you don’t want me running that risk, or putting Starsky in that kind of danger. If I thought you didn’t care about his safety as well as mine, I wouldn’t be standing here holding you.”
He received a long kiss from the man in his arms, and felt the response beneath Johnny’s waist harden to painful teasing tightness against his own denim-trapped erection. Johnny pulled back, eyes glittering. “What was that you said about sucking me to Heaven and back?”
Hutch smiled, knowing his explanation was accepted, his forced subterfuge forgiven. “Let’s grab the wine, and you give me a cook’s tour of this pleasure boat. Naked.”
~*~*~
“Seventy-five percent of the time we spend together, and you’re not even a good kisser.”
“How do you know that?”
Hutch jerked the wheel, looking over his shoulder. Catching Starsky off-guard, he glimpsed a fleeting expression on Starsky’s face that nearly caused a wreck. At Starsky’s yell, Hutch whipped his head around and swerved into the left lane to avoid ramming an aged Volvo ahead. Heart in his throat, his internal organs a gastrointestinal Jello, he turned down the next side street in search of a place to pull over and learn to breathe again. The rear parking spaces of a closed-down seafood shack sufficed.
When the car rested in park, shielded from view of the road by the restaurant building, Hutch whirled in his seat. “It’s damn sure not because I’ve been sneaking smooches when you’re sacked out on a stakeout!” The flash of fear in Starsky’s eyes confirmed that Hutch’s nightmare had merged with reality. “You know!” Hutch yelled.
“Hutch–”
Hutch pounded his hand against the steering wheel and fled the car, leaving the door open behind him. Turning slow-motion circles on the cracked concrete, he sought salvation from any source, but the rusted dumpster, broken backdoor window, and weeds climbing through the pavement offered none.
Starsky had joined him. On one of the circles, Hutch narrowly avoided colliding with his partner, who stepped back just in time. “Hutch, come back to the car, huh, and we’ll–”
“How long have you known?!” Hutch couldn’t find the volume switch for his voice. He wanted to yell until his lungs ached, and perhaps that pain might mask the stabbing sensations around his heart.
Starsky reached for his arms with clear desire to stop the circular pacing. “Known what, Hutch? Listen, come back to the car, will ya, it’s hot as all hell out here!”
“Tell me how long you’ve known about my thing with men, or I won’t go anywhere with you.”
The sheen of sweat clinging to lashes and cheeks brightened Starsky’s eyes, and another flicker of fear in them made Hutch want to burrow through the concrete until he found himself in some forbidden Chinese bathhouse. “Since the Academy, Hutch.”
Hutch opened his mouth, but no words found the exit, and he couldn’t get his mouth to close no matter how he worked his jaw. He felt his chest moving, but he had the sense that his expelled breaths were clogging his windpipe. “Do you…have a-any idea how I’ve driven myself to the point of loony bin material trying to keep this out of your life?! What, did you get off on watching me perfect my Oscar-winning straight guy performance? Had enough of it after eight years, buddy, huh?”
“Hutch, you can’t think out here in this goddamned heat; I can’t think, either.”
“I’m thinking, all right. Thinking I need to drop you off at some watering hole for that drink you wanted so damn bad, and pretend you don’t exist for a few days. Or maybe longer than that! When will it be safe again? How’s it ever supposed to be safe again?!”
“Just take it easy, will ya,” Starsky said, patting Hutch’s arms and shaking his shoulders by turn. “We can handle this, you and me.”
“Take it easy? I find out you’re up on the cross with me after all, and you want me to take it easy!?”
“Damn it, shut up, Hutch!” Starsky grabbed his shoulders, clenching until Hutch felt fingernails through leather and two layers of cloth. “Okay, just shut up, let me think, all right? Before I say something shitty I can’t take back.”
Hutch wanted to die. Right that moment. Right there. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked in a soft, lethal voice, having finally found the volume switch. “I’m not Fifi. You better hurry up and remember you’re dealing with a man here. I’ll walk back to Venice before I let you try to hush me like I’m some hysterical female.”
That earned him freedom from Starsky’s touch, but it wasn’t worth the gut-shredding pain in his eyes. “There’s nothing in you but man, Hutch, there’s nothing you do in the bedroom that’s gonna change that, but right now, yeah, you’re pretty close to hysterics, and this is hard enough without that.”
“Hard! Hard? Throughout this case, I’ve been at war with myself every second. Every time you’d wonder out loud how you could be so close to Blaine and not know. All that breast beating, and me sitting there feeling like Judas after the payoff. Well, now I got the same question for you. You knew about me. Why not him?”
“Hutch, two weeks into the Academy, I was closer to you than I ever was with John. That’s how. I knew guys made you look twice. I also knew when you gave all that up.”
“And you let almost eight years go by without saying one word about it?!”
“Hell, you gave up smoking at the same time, and for a while you’d get this guilty little kid look on your face when you’d forget and reach for a pack at the store. Same thing when we were around gays on our beat. Only thing to do about something your buddy wants to shake off that bad, is to keep your mouth shut about it and let him! Do we sit around and talk about that shit with Forest and his dirty little torture needles? Hell, no.”
“Why drag this out into the open now then? That’s what you were doing, right? All those long looks, whenever we discussed Blaine, like you were trying to pull something out of me. Those little probing remarks. ‘You’re not that sophisticated. Something to contend with?’ Hell, yes, it’s something to contend with. I’ve been killing myself trying to protect you from this. Sitting in that car telling you it’s no big thing, when part of me wanted to rub your face in it so you’d see it’s a hell of a lot bigger for the people in the trenches than the ones like you outside them.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know fuck all! I’ve been watching you bleed during this case. Couldn’t find enough bandages for all the wounds, keeping my own to myself, scared you’d see too much if I reached out, and you knew all along!”
One second Hutch had the safety of three feet separation, the next Starsky was close enough for a kiss, but tongue sucking was the last thing on his mind. Hands on Hutch’s face, fingers reaching into his hair, covering his ears with sweaty palms, Starsky applied pressure until Hutch saw black-tinged yellow spots in the glaring sunlight, but the rough touch focused him, and he felt his heart rate slowing.
“I was bleeding!” Starsky shouted. “For Blaine, for Maggie, but mostly for you!”
Hutch must have returned to sanity in Starsky’s estimation, because the tough-loving hands dropped with Starsky’s retreat to a safe distance. “Look, maybe it was easier for me to keep quiet because I could pretend it wasn’t there all these years, like some damn tail we couldn’t shake. But seeing what happened to Big John Blaine after he was dead and out of the picture, I can’t bury my head in the sand. You saw Dobey. Sweating it out. Willing to make one of his best friends out to be a pill-popper to keep the pressure from crushing him. Now it’s time to get real about this thing.”
Hutch wondered if grabbing Starsky’s face could have the same temporarily calming influence, but he knew he couldn’t keep his hands from caressing Starsky’s late-day shadow-roughed cheeks in a way too telling now that the veil no longer hung protectively between them.
“Real? You think it hasn’t been real all along? You think this is some kind of game? No, you think it’s a vice. You put it in the same category with cigarettes and heroin, when you weren’t comparing it to the common cold virus. Gee, thanks, Starsk, you’re just full of sympathy. Maybe I should go find Peter Whitelaw and let him lecture me a little more from his gay platform.”
“Or maybe your paramedic, huh, he give you the right kind of sympathy?” Starsky snapped, then closed his eyes and clamped down hard on his jaw.
Hutch experienced very real and frightening paralysis from the neck down that lasted only a few seconds, but left him breathing like a winded swimmer. At a loss, he could only repeat his earlier question. “How long have you known?”
“Hutch–”
“How fucking long, Starsky?!”
“Since the Humphries case, all right! You left me enough breadcrumbs.”
With one ear, Hutch listened to Starsky delineate the clues that led him to the truth; with one ear he heard the roar of traffic, the rustle of a crushed paper cup pushed slowly along the concrete by the weak breeze. With his mind, he relived the self-hatred he’d felt for betraying Starsky’s trust to keep him safe, the guilt he’d felt over locking Johnny on the periphery of his life with Starsky, again to keep Starsky safe. All the phone calls he could have made, truths he could have told in place of silent lies. He remembered Starsky explaining away his lapse at the drug lab fire, Starsky casually suggesting they call later from Metro to check on Station 51’s welfare, the fire station he thought Starsky had “adopted” out of gratitude for their hard work to bring Hutch out of a canyon in one piece. All the hints he’d missed that Starsky was covering his back, walking the road with him, and respecting his silence.
He felt queasy.
Queasy escalated to nauseated and lightheaded. Impending heat stroke occurred to Hutch, but he knew better. He buckled at the knees and sat down heavily on the pavement, letting his arms hang loosely at his sides. Starsky squatted in front of him.
“For God’s sake, Starsky, why didn’t you say something?”
Starsky’s gaze fixated on a line of ants in front of Hutch’s shoes and their determined trek to the fault line in the concrete where they disappeared one by one below ground to their safe haven. Hutch wanted to shrink himself and join them.
“Had to come from you, partner. If I’d thought for a minute you didn’t trust me to hang by you with this, I would’ve been sitting on you in that hospital bed after surgery waking you up to face me with it. But I had a good idea what was behind all the cloak-and-dagger. Me. My safety. Something that sacred to you, Hutch, I got no right to force your hand with. You never stood between me and what it takes for me to feel you’re safe.”
“You’re forcing my hand with it now.”
“God, I don’t want to, Hutch, but this thing with Blaine… When you said that about him staying in the closet–”
“You thought I was talking about me, too? If I thought sex with men could change your opinion of me, you can be sure I wouldn’t have been able to talk so calmly about it. I was talking about John. Maybe he didn’t have the luxury of knowing your loyalty like I do.”
“All I could see at that crime scene was you on that dirty flophouse bed, a victim of that life.”
“Starsky, it’s not the same thing. I’m not in the Parrot looking for a quick lay on a Friday night. I don’t keep a hotel room in the city where my comings and goings can be tracked. I’ve stayed miles away from the life you’re referring to with that stomachache look on your face. What I have with Johnny–”
“Don’t sit there and act like you don’t take chances with him, too, Hutch! Letting him come to Venice Place–”
“Big deal. IA expects me to have no male friends besides you? Johnny’s only been to my place once since that night, and we were careful to make sure nothing was seen to prove he’s anything but a friend who came by for a few beers and decided to crash on my couch instead of driving home. Hell, Paco did that after we finished the Sterling case. You’ve done it countless times. Huggy’s stayed over before. If people never saw women coming and going, I might worry about appearances.”
“Yeah, and what if Gage lets the wrong thing slip around his station? Gossip travels faster in fire stations than police departments, and that’s sayin’ something. It’s not a big leap from the LA County Fire Department to the LAPD.”
“Mission accomplished, Starsky. You got me talking. What is it you want?”
“I just thought, seeing what we have with this business, you could maybe give it up again? You did before. You’re gonna give it up anyway when you meet the right woman, settle down. I mean, I could never see you putting a woman through Maggie’s hell. You were faithful to Vanessa right up to the day she left you.”
“What makes you think I’m looking to settle down with a woman?”
“I know smokescreens when I see ’em, Hutch, and that’s not what it’s about for you with women. I know it’s the sex. It is for me, too. But underneath that, there’s a search somewhere, right?”
“A search for one woman above all others, you mean? No. Not really. I like women. I like the way they talk, think. The challenge of giving them pleasure. Taking a woman to bed and figuring out every little nook and cranny that makes her soak my sheets she’s so turned on. Lot harder to make a woman come, really come, than to get a man off, Starsk. A gay man, anyway. Never tried it with a straight man.”
Starsky leapt up from his squat and walked a few feet away, stopping with his back to Hutch and fidgeting in his pockets. Hutch heard the rattle of keys and coins. “So, you’re gonna keep playing the field ’til you’re ninety in a nursing home chasing the nurses ’round your bedpan, that it?”
“I should be so lucky. Starsky, as long as I can give women as much as they give me, I’ll keep bedding them. For my pleasure, for theirs. And yes, for my safety and yours. But you don’t see me out there looking for a forever after kind of girl. That was my mistake with Diana. She came on like a woman who knew the meaning of a one-night stand, but her mental condition made her ill-equipped to handle it, and I couldn’t spot it in time.”
“Spotted it before your asshole partner did.” Starsky pivoted slowly, hands still hidden, fingers flexing in the denim and captivating Hutch’s attention against his will until he resorted to counting ants again. “That’s why I’m asking you this time before it comes down to something worse than a shoulder wound. Stop playing with fire?”
“You mean stop playing with a fireman? Cute, Starsky.”
“I didn’t mean it to be cute! I’m serious, Hutch.”
“You want me to give up sex with a man? I did before, you’re right. Seven years of feeling like an amputee with phantom pain. You ready to try giving up women for seven years?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because I’m straight, damn it, I don’t swing back and forth. If I give up women, I’ll either have to grow an extra hand to keep up with my libido and end up a blind, hairy, three-handed freak, or land in Cabrillo talking in backward sentences.”
“And I’m gay! What do I grow extra to replace men?”
Hutch could hardly believe he’d said the words out loud, but they electrified Starsky. “No! Don’t saddle yourself with that! Not you. You don’t fit the profile.”
“What profile? Orientation comes with its own MO now? Because I don’t hit the back rooms of bath houses to stick my dick through a hole in the wall and let some guy I don’t even see on the other side suck me off, I’m not gay? My married life with Vanessa was such a stunning success it’s proof I’m straight? Haven’t you learned the real lesson behind this case? People get caught in nasty traps when they can’t be themselves.”
“I can see that with Blaine, Hutch. But I don’t buy it with you. Your dick needs a little more variety than mine, fine, I can understand that. But if you’re sitting there trying to make me believe you prefer–”
“You nailed it, Starsky. Preferences. Want me to put it in a framework you’d relate to? Say a sadistic inventor came around with a ray gun that would make it impossible for me to get hard for both men and women, and held it right up to my dick, but last minute, he lets me choose. Do I keep hard-ons for men, or hard-ons for women? Hard-ons for men, no contest. Oversimplified? Yes. But true.”
“Are you saying in a different world, you’d settle down with this Johnny Gage? Set up housekeeping with him?”
“The world is what it is, Starsk, and it’s not likely to change any time soon, I’m sad to say. Johnny and I give each other what we can and make the best of it.”
Starsky started kicking the crushed paper cup aimlessly between his heels.
Hutch raised his legs to his chest and hugged his ankles, resting his forehead on his knees and wishing the heat could just incinerate him and be done with it. “You know damn well the choice I’ll make. So, before I hurt a good man who isn’t looking for that killer right hook to the heart, you have to tell me. Is our partnership really riding on it?”
“Our partnership is cement, Hutch. Never has had wheels.”
He had his proof. For years Starsky had known his partner’s deepest need, for months he’d known about Johnny, and he’d remained Starsky through and through. Hutch didn’t have to fear losing the touches, the humor, the flirting, the in-Hutch’s-face and in-Hutch’s-life closeness Starsky had made into trademarks of their partnership. There all along, they were unlikely to disappear now. Without Hutch even realizing the process was underway, Starsky had developed control and self-restraint against turning himself into a life-sized shield from the off-color needling that occasionally came Hutch’s way.
He had Starsky.
In the fresh air of relief, Hutch could unfold and stretch, no longer wanting to escape into heat stroke unconsciousness. “Okay, then. After everything I’ve told you, are you asking me to walk away from him? We’re not talking about some anonymous ‘it’ here anymore, Starsky. Some ‘bad habit’ I’m drawn to. Some lifestyle. We’re talking about a person. You’ve met him, talked to him. A few minutes with him is enough to see what he’s all about, and what he’s about has nothing to do with what we saw at the St. Francis. Are you asking me to call Johnny up out of the blue and say, ‘I won’t ever see you again?'”
“Put like that, I got no right–”
“No!” Hutch made it back to his feet and pulled Starsky around to face him. “You know you’re the one person in the world who has that right. My final decision is mine alone. But you have the right to ask. Are you asking?”
Starsky squeezed Hutch’s hand and then gently tugged his arm free. He didn’t pace. He flexed up and down on the balls of his feet a few times and finally turned his back, walking all the way over to the building to peer in the broken window. Fresh beads of sweat gathered over Hutch’s brow. He watched Starsky’s aimless wandering, every move, each shoulder twitch, each snap of his fingers at his side, each bounce that invaded Starsky’s normal gait and testified to something worrying that sharp mind. When Starsky returned, his loss for an answer was obvious. Hutch would have preferred a quick, surgical cut, but he didn’t complain over the reprieve.
Glancing back at the LTD, Starsky said, “Drop me off at Merle’s, wouldya? Car’s supposed to be ready.”
“And this other?”
“I’ll let you know when I know myself.”
~*~*~
Hutch couldn’t get cold. He’d tried a chilly shower. He’d opened his fridge and tried to shove half his upper body inside. In his navy running shorts and cut-off sleeveless sweatshirt, he sat in the greenhouse working on his fourth beer, knowing the wisdom in plain water over alcohol in conjunction with heat, but past caring.
“You’ve never stood between me and what it takes for me to feel you’re safe….”
Wasn’t it worth seven more years of phantom pain to keep the treasure of Starsky’s peace of mind untarnished by worry and fear?
In his push off the greenhouse bench, he overturned his beer and left it to pour slowly from the bottle into a puddle. Sitting hunched over on the sofa, he dragged the phone across the coffee table to him. He let the dialed number ring twice, slammed down the receiver, and took it up again. This time he waited through two rings and on the third, a familiar voice answered.
“Station 51. Gage.”
Hutch closed his eyes, afloat in the houseboat again, in folds of down duvet on the bamboo bed with Johnny squirming beneath him, atop him, as concerned for Hutch’s healing shoulder as their impassioned rub-off, reaching for him, rolling with him, coming to rest in his arms and sighing out through gasps for breath….
“Station 51? Anybody there?” Another pause and then a barely audible whisper. “Ken?”
Hutch hung up and shoved the phone off the table.
~*~*~
Starsky wanted to let himself in with his key, prove his rights still intact, but Hutch deserved the few extra seconds to answer his knock. Hutch appeared at the door flushed, heat rumpled, and visibly prickly, openly scanning Starsky’s face and posture for the answer to the question that had chased them all the way to Merle’s.
Starsky pushed lightly by him into the apartment.
“You changed,” Hutch said.
At first he thought Hutch meant more than his clothes, but when he saw Hutch’s gaze had landed on his shirt before sliding quickly away, he still didn’t understand the significance. Fatally tired of the heat, he’d dropped by his apartment for his cut-off jeans and red jersey, willing to stuff his Beretta down his sock if they were hauled back in despite Dobey’s promise of a half-day. Then he got another look at Hutch’s face and understood. The extra time required for the drive home and clothes’ change meant Starsky’d had time to think. His answer couldn’t be rationalized as off the cuff or treated as a heat of the moment knee-jerk reaction.
“Yeah.” An annoying mmp-mmp from the floor drew Starsky’s attention to the overturned phone. He gathered the apparatus and returned it to safety on the coffee table.
Hutch dropped down in the center of the sofa, raising his legs and crossing his ankles on the table. Starsky sat down beside him. “You don’t let me do that without a fight.”
“What?”
“Put my feet up on the furniture.”
“Go right ahead. Today I’ll grant you immunity.”
Starsky promptly put his legs up on the table right next to Hutch’s. Their bare calves touched, and he felt a flinch from Hutch’s leg. “Have a fight with the phone?”
Hutch pointedly ignored the phone. “Tried calling the station.”
Starsky knew he didn’t mean Metro. “And?”
“Couldn’t get word number one out of my mouth.”
Starsky hitched his hip and strained his fingers’ agility to pull his wallet from the vacuum-tight denim pocket. “You don’t have to.”
“What?”
Starsky opened his wallet and dug behind the folded bills for a scrap of notepad paper. He handed the note to Hutch and dumped the wallet on the coffee table by the phone. “There. The note I told you about. My first real clue you were missing that day.”
Hutch took the note and read it in a hushed voice. “‘Hey, you. Waited until ten. Put the casserole in the fridge. Call me, if I don’t call you first. And leave a message. My machine likes your voice. –J.'” He folded it into a tiny triangle. “You’ve kept it?”
“Yeah. Don’t know exactly why. Maybe holding on to it was my way of promising myself it’d be out in the open between us one day.”
“Starsk.”
“I gotta be honest, Hutch. What I said in the car today wasn’t all to get you talking. I meant what I said about not taking a stand. For or against. Homosexuality, I mean. I took a stand for you where it counts, in here,” Starsky tapped a fist to his heart, “years ago. What it makes me that I can’t accept the general idea but can accept you in the middle of it, I don’t know, but I’m working on the rest.”
“Makes you an honest, loyal friend, Starsky.”
“Anyway,” Starsky cleared his throat. “You are right about one thing. I was makin’ some lousy comparisons. Ostriching, again. If I didn’t have to see you as gay, I didn’t have to see you really needing a guy that way. Not just doing it for kicks and variety.”
“Like I said about Blaine, being gay doesn’t change all the things I’ve always been.”
“I know that.” Starsky cleared his throat again, wishing he could breathe freely through this next, more difficult part. “About Gage. He’s a class act. You know how I know?”
“How?”
“That day, after the rollover, he drove the squad for me to have room in the ambulance with you, talked that doctor into keeping me in the exam room at Rampart. Puts you above himself. Puts partnership where it oughta be, too. Some partner I’d be if I let you pull the plug on all that, and the last thing I want is you eating your heart out over reaching for what you need.”
“Starsky, you know what I need most of all. If this thing with Blaine has put fear in you somewhere I can’t reach it over all this, I need to know now.”
“Covered you at the drug lab fire that day, Hutch. I’ll keep right on covering you. If you’re brave enough to be yourself as best you can in the Department we got to contend with, I wouldn’t be worth my badge or us if I didn’t walk that gauntlet with you.”
“You can count on my guard being up at all times, Starsky. I don’t plan on walking any gauntlet I don’t have to, or dragging you through it with me. Johnny isn’t pushing me to open the closet. He can’t afford that any more than I can. He’s never asked for much. Just add him to the small list of people I care about knowing if–”
With two fingertips Starsky nudged Hutch’s chin upward until he succeeded in closing his mouth. “We don’t talk about that list. Now there’s something I gotta do.” He pulled the phone close. “You tried calling the station. That means he’s on today?”
Hutch stared at the phone, then at Starsky and clamped his hand down over Starsky’s on the receiver. “Don’t get melodramatic, Starsk.”
Starsky glared at him. “Shaddup, melodramatic. I know my partner. With me, you need to see action. Otherwise, you’ll be watching me under those poity blond lashes of yours for weeks wondering if I’m really onboard with this.”
Hutch folded his arms over his chest. “Now I know we’ll be fine.”
“Huh?”
“If you can sit there poker faced and tell me in some atrocious imitation of a Betty Boop accent that I have pretty lashes.”
Starsky grinned, shrugging. “Told you before you got beautiful eyes, ‘specially when you’re angry.”
“Yeah, but that was before I knew you knew. Hell, the first time was before Johnny.”
“Really? When–”
“Starsky.” Hutch shook his head. “You really want a history lesson?”
“Nah, not really. Knowing you it’d be National Geographic style. I’m still not over the spread with those women in Africa wearing the wooden circle thingies sewn into their lips and ears. Don’t think I could handle the Hutchinson Geographic take on all this.”
Hutch smirked. “Moron.” But he nodded at the phone. “Go ahead.” When Starsky started to dial, Hutch pressed his hand down again. “No, not the main station number. That rings in the captain’s office, remember? There’s another one, 555-4308. Let it ring twice, hang up, dial again. If it rings more than four times on the second try, just hang up, because they’re out on a call.”
Starsky followed instructions to the letter. On the second dialing, three rings passed before a man’s voice answered. “Station 51. Gage.”
“You guys melting over in that station, or what?”
“Who the–?”
“It’s David Starsky.”
“H-hello, there!”
Starsky’s throat tightened all the way below his clavicle at the undisguised joy in the voice. “How many calls you guys had today?”
“More’n a few. You’d think people wouldn’t play with matches during a heat wave, but LA’s never been the most logical place on earth. How you guys holding up?”
“We only had half a shift today. Captain took mercy on us after a–” Starsky couldn’t allow himself an image of John Blaine right then. “Tough case. We’re kicking back at Hutch’s pouring down cold brew. ‘Least, he is, I can smell it on him. Mannerless bozo hasn’t offered his partner any.” Hutch marched over to the fridge and Starsky had to duck and fling out his free hand to catch the miniature brown missile launched his way.
Laughter on the line. “You’re cruel telling an overworked fireman about cold beer on a day like today.”
“Well, you know Hutch’s got one here waitin’ on you.”
“Yeah, I–yeah.”
“You and that partner of yours watch yourselves out there. People get crazy in the heat.”
“Ten-four.”
Starsky re-cradled the receiver and found himself the proud parent of a newborn sun in Hutch’s ear-to-ear smile. Hutch presented him with a bottle opener in the manner of handing over the keys to a brand-new Alfa Romeo. Starsky opened the bottle with a flourish, holding it high in salute. Giving himself a reward swallow of beer, he started to reach an arm around Hutch’s shoulders but paused. The infant sun went quickly underground. “Starsk, don’t you dare hesitate.”
Smiling, Starsky corralled Hutch’s shoulders and pulled him to his side. “Won’t.”
Hutch took the beer from his hand. “Nobody taught you to share?”
Starsky watched him lift the beer to his lips and couldn’t help but wonder when Hutch had last kissed Gage. Did they kiss? He knew some guys were all into cock and no kissing, but he couldn’t see his tenderhearted Hutch wanting that deprivation of oral intimacy or being drawn to someone who did. Yeah, they probably kissed. And why he was concerned with that now instead of months ago when he first discovered their relationship, he couldn’t figure. Maybe it was the heightened immediacy of the situation now that Hutch knew he was in on the big secret. But a gun to his head couldn’t have made him reach for the beer bottle before it met Hutch’s mouth, and he waited patiently until Hutch had his fill and passed the bottle back. Starsky let the bottle mouth linger on his next gulp. It was the one way he’d always been able to swap spit with Hutch and he wasn’t giving up the pleasure now.
~*~*~
Johnny hung up the phone and spun around in a circle, shooting one fist toward the ceiling and the other out to the side. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”
“Hey, guys!” Chet said in the kitchen doorway. “Gage is in here trying to perfect his John Travolta act for Halloween!”
Before Johnny knew what hit him, he had an audience of five curious, catcalling firefighters crowded in the kitchen doorway. He froze mid-spin and tried to look serious and dignified, patting down his uniform shirt. “Heh. Heh. Hi, guys.”
Roy was giving him the typical “you’re a mess” look, but Captain Stanley actually demanded an explanation, unable to completely hide his smile in sternness.
Johnny felt his cheeks go flame hot. “I, uh, got a line on a bargain waterbed.”
Chet pointed at the phone. “A call about a waterbed has you doing Saturday Night Fever in the kitchen?”
“Hey, I’ve been steamed since I lost out on the waterbed in the fireman’s picnic ticket sale contest, okay. Which wasn’t fair, because really–”
Chet yawned and waved him off the topic. “Yeah, whatever. You’re a fruitcake, Johnny.”
The crowd dispersed, save for Roy, who waited until the others had time to get out of earshot. “Is this victory dance the real thing?”
“Real with an ‘r’ for really real, Roy. Yeah.” He shadow boxed the air and spun around again. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Roy smiled. “You can’t dance, you know that, right?”
~*~*~
“Yes, Ma, I got my check right on time. Why?”
“You should send it back to her, David, that’s what. That woman has never been right.”
Starsky propped the phone between his shoulder and ear to free his hands for coffee preparation. “Ma, Aunt Ruth has a thing for baseball, Japan, and giving her nephews money. That doesn’t make her a freak show in my book, sorry.”
“One of her nephews! There wasn’t a check in Nicky’s card. There hasn’t been since his birthday last year! I ask you, what has my Nicky done to be snubbed like that by the woman?”
“Did you ask Nick that?”
“Why should I? You think I’d believe Ruth Starsky over my boychik?”
“Well, I hate to seem disloyal to Nick’n all, Ma, but I’m not turning down a two-hundred dollar check. I’m thinkin’ about buying a house, so I’m countin’ pennies.”
He had to drop the coffee filter and hold the phone out from his ear when his mother’s delighted babbling reached a harmful decibel. “Davey, who is she?”
“Who is who?”
“Ah, Davey, when a bachelor like you wants to buy a house, there’s just one reason. You’ve found a girl to settle down with, haven’t you? What’s she like? Where did you meet?”
“Actually, if I can swing this, it’ll be more an investment thing. A fixer-upper that I fix up and turn a profit on resale, y’know? I’m thinkin’ I’ll ask Hutch to go in on it with me.”
There was a lengthy silence. His mother’s voice sounded distant and scratchy across the line, “Then you should go. This call is costing you a fortune.”
“Ma, we only talk once a week, I think my bank account can stand the strain.”
“It’s okay, David, I need to go next door and check on Mrs. Feingold; she’s down with the lumbago again. I’ll expect to hear from you next Friday.”
Starsky had pursed his lips to smack one of his customary kisses at her, but the dial tone caught him in mid smack. He re-cradled the phone and stood in front of his kitchen counter at a loss for what he’d been doing. He had that weird ache in his chest again, a dull throbbing just under his breastbone that he’d felt occasionally throughout the last case. Small wonder. Anyone who didn’t feel heartsick after encountering poor little Guy was missing something in the humanity department, like Guy’s monster of a mother.
No. Starsky wasn’t supposed to think of her as a monster. She was mentally ill. She needed help. She had been a victim herself in her own childhood. Forget the fancy language and theories. Starsky had seen nothing but a cold, cruel monster, and two of her parting phrases on the day of her arrest stuck with him, resisting any effort on his part to shake them loose.
I never wanted him.
He looks too much like his father.
If he couldn’t shake those hateful words, he wished he could lose the nagging sensation that he’d been thinking through a concrete wall through the entire case. He knew Hutch felt a similar guilt that they had wasted critical time chasing down the boy’s father as the culprit, when Guy’s torment had come at the hands of his mother all along. But this thing chewing at Starsky was more bothersome than guilt. He couldn’t escape the gut-deep certainty that he should have known better. All he’d done was flinch away from Guy’s acceptance of the ill treatment, something raw inside him trickling blood at witnessing the phenomenon Sgt. Sheila Peterson said was all part of the pattern. And while overjoyed that Guy’s sister Vikki came out of the whole mess physically unharmed, he’d felt another internal scrape that the big-eyed, curly-haired little boy had seen a sibling receive all the “proper” mothering.
Coffee. That’s what he’d been doing. Starsky pushed all thoughts of mothers and sons from his mind and concentrated on getting that comforting little drip-drip-drip into the glass carafe. He didn’t want to wait for shitty Metro coffee today. Today was too big. He needed all cylinders firing properly to convince Hutch that buying a house with him was the best idea since packaging sea kelp.
Lulled by the brewing coffee sounds, Starsky lost himself once again in the roommate daydream….
~*~*~
Armed against contagion and grime with his rattiest pair of puke-green sweats that rarely saw the outside of his drawer, Hutch lifted one end of the dusty, vermin-gnawed, stained sofa and waited for Starsky to hoist his end. “I swear we busted a dope-addicted pimp and his girls in this same house.”
“We did not!” Starsky started to lower his end of the sofa, but Hutch’s warning look reminded him that his back couldn’t take insult to injury, and they slowly carried the sofa down the concrete blocks they had placed for makeshift steps in lieu of the broken door.
“I’m telling you, Starsk, when I chased you through the neighborhood yesterday, it looked damned familiar. Like I’d run through it before, chasing some other degenerate.”
Starsky had the task of navigating them toward the dumpster. “Oh, thanks, partner. I’m a degenerate now? You’re all heart. I didn’t make you fall off the porch.”
“No, you bought this piece of crap with our money and I was obligated to set foot on the porch to really feel how far down the toilet you’d flushed part of my savings.”
At the dumpster, the sofa situated beside it for pickup, Starsky sat down heavily on one end and coughed through a cloud of toxic dust. “I told you–”
“You don’t want any of that on you anywhere,” Hutch advised, pulling him up by the hand and giving him a swat to the small of his back to urge him back toward the house. “Starsky, I’m back here, okay? If you want us to fix the place up, we’ll fix it up, put it on the market and maybe, just maybe, get our shirts handed back to us. But I swear to God, if this is just a fly-by-night idea you lose interest in as quickly as pet rocks, and leave me sitting with this eyesore, you’ll have to run a hell of a lot farther than the next neighborhood to keep your ass in one piece.”
“Learned long ago my ass is safe from your threats–” Starsky bit down on the inside of his cheek and howled and grabbed at his jaw, pain shooting through his mouth and reminding him of toothaches gone by.
Looking angry, Hutch pulled Starsky to a halt by the hem of his old Army sweatshirt. “Damn it, you’ve known for years and never censored come-backs. Why now?”
Annoyed at his own discomfort, Starsky twisted himself free of Hutch’s tug on his hem. “Yeah, but that was before you knew I knew.”
“Well, if we’re starting a house renovation together, you can’t blush like a sixteen-year-old back seat virgin every time you make a wisecrack like that one.”
Starsky hurried up the concrete block steps and lifted the blue leather van seat into an awkward cradling carry. “Working on it, okay?”
Hutch managed the wooden-armed chair that had seen better decades. “You know half the guys at Metro think we’re fixing this place up to move in together. You didn’t exactly silence the rumors when you blurted out to Dobey in front of the whole squadroom that we’re buying the place. For a guy panicked half out of his skin over me after Blaine’s death, you’re giving IA a cannon to aim right at us.”
Starsky grunted, shifting the van seat in his arms so he could see around it and monitor Hutch’s progress with the heavier armchair. “Uh-huh. Keep ’em focused on the smoke where nothing’s been going on, where IA’s come up dry for years, and they’re even less likely to see the real fire.”
“So, part of this whole house thing is a giant roach-infested smokescreen to protect me? And here I thought you’d developed a sudden itch for a roommate.”
Starsky had an itch. An itch he couldn’t scratch, with no balm in sight to soothe the burning under his skin. He had thought about rooming with Hutch. Ever since their confrontation about Hutch’s preferred orientation, the air in the partnership smelled sweeter, almost a therapeutic oxygen, and Starsky couldn’t breathe in enough to suit him. He had been finding ways to increase their time together by increments of five percent, knowing he had to slow down before they reached one hundred, but reluctant to draw back when Hutch voiced no complaints. The house had presented just another opportunity for them to spend time together off the job, and economic investment had little to do with Starsky’s big idea.
Sharing living space with Hutch would take adjusting, sure, and they might come to blows if not attempted murder at some point during the first two weeks, but then they would settle into their respective spaces in the house, the respective spaces just conveniently closer together for late night bull sessions, impromptu parties, meals grabbed in minutes on cases. And when they needed parties of a more private nature, they could work that out, Starsky firmly believed. One could entertain in, one spend the night out, that sort of thing. Or just stay firmly behind their closed doors until morning light.
But then Starsky’s plans had hit an unexpected snag. Hutch had asked the wrong question earlier. Censoring jokes was nothing compared to Starsky’s sudden curiosity about Hutch’s sex life. Hutch’s sex life with men, one man in particular. Carrying the secret in silence at Hutch’s side, Starsky hadn’t let himself ponder what drew Hutch to men. But now that Hutch knew of his awareness, Starsky had dug his inquisitiveness fully out of the sand, and his initial vow that he’d be sure to find accommodations elsewhere if Hutch brought John Gage over for the night, had softened to padding the bottom crack under his bedroom door with a pillow. Then Starsky ditched the idea of a pillow because maybe they weren’t loud. That led to guessing just how loud they were, which in turn made him wonder if Hutch sounded different in bed with men than women. After that he hit the all-time most dangerous thought that maybe he could encourage Hutch to have Gage over and casually leave his own door cracked. If he was going to build an understanding of this whole thing, he had to gather investigative evidence like any good detective….
No, they’d fix up the house and deed it over to the first reasonable offer. Forget sitting on it for a better profit. Hutch was right: they needed to reclaim their shirts.
Back at the Torino, the porch cleaning accomplished, he hauled the two bargain-store lawn chairs out of the trunk and handed one off to Hutch. “That C.D. Phelps was really something.”
Hutch chose a spot for his chair on the right side of the front door, facing the porch ledge where he’d tumbled to his ass courtesy of the failed railing. “Umm. She sure was.”
Starsky plopped his chair down in the van seat’s old location and took a load off with a satisfied stretch, reaching for the porch roof. “Still say she liked me best.”
“Don’t delude yourself, Starsky. She needed a man interested in more than her legs.”
Starsky remembered Hutch’s commentary on bedding women, never heard so bluntly as during the heat-fueled confrontation behind the abandoned seafood shack.
I like women. I like the way they talk, think. The challenge of giving them pleasure. Taking a woman to bed and figuring out every little nook and cranny that makes her soak my sheets she’s so turned on. Lot harder to make a woman come, really come, than to get a man off, Starsk. A gay man, anyway. Never tried it with a straight man.
He left the chair in a rush and gripped the remaining porch railing until the wood creaked around a rusty nail he gave a wide berth. After a useless consideration of the dirt lawn, he turned around, propped against the railing and giving the rickety board a chance to bear human weight better than its right-sided twin. “How you figure she likes it?”
“Why ask me?” Hutch yawned, flicking tufts of armchair upholstery off his right leg. “Why not take her out and see for yourself?”
“You were the one trying to figure out how she ticked, and get to the core of her personality. Don’t tell me you didn’t put all the information into your store of fantasies for a rainy night with just you and your hand?”
Hutch smiled. “Have to admit… Back before I knew you know what you know, I wondered if it would change these conversations, once it was out in the open with us. If it’d turn you off competing with me for girls.”
Starsky shrugged. “Nah. Too much fun watching you lose. And the competition keeps me on my toes. Not that I need a refresher course or anything.”
Hutch squared his jaw, poked his lips out a tad, the concentrated expression most often seen with case work. “I think she likes it on top. She likes the edge, a little bit of control. But she responds too easily to chivalry to be out for domination to make a point. She wants softness, too, and intimacy. On top, yes, but with her body melting to yours and cradled in your arms on your chest from the waist up, moving slow and easy where you connect.”
His sweatshirt and gym shorts suddenly as tight as one of those early ’20’s bathing suits, Starsky wheeled back to the railing, needing to hide his arousal from his partner and uncertain why. “I did ask her out, by the way. Called her up from the squadroom today while you were in R&I. Wanted to thank her for giving us a fair shake with her second article. See how she’s doing after that rooftop mess.”
“Really? How’s she handling it?”
“Like the tough lady she is.”
“Good. She go for the date?”
“Asked her to have dinner with both of us, actually.” Starsky peeked over his shoulder at Hutch’s reaction.
Hutch kept a straight face, his blue eyes giving nothing away, even to the man used to reading them like tea leaves. “Thinking what I think?”
“Thought I’d see what might happen,” Starsky admitted, hoping his eyes managed the same neutrality as those baby blues.
“And?”
“I think she saw right through me. She said her journalistic ethics didn’t allow her to fraternize on a social level with the subjects of her work.”
“Hm. Nice way of saying she’s not into threesomes.”
“That’s what I figure.”
They looked at each other. They looked away. Inexorably, their eyes shifted to lock again. “Shame,” Starsky said.
“Shame,” Hutch agreed, soft-voiced. “You could call her up and try again. I mean, ask her out with just you in the picture. She might change her tune.”
“Why don’t you?”
Hutch smiled again, too enigmatic for Starsky’s comfort. “Not that interested anymore.”
“Me, neither. Not for one-on-one action.”
“So, it’s the threesome you were really interested in?”
Starsky returned to his abandoned lawn chair. “Maybe. But not with just anybody.”
And if his imagination presented him one more time with a scene of Hutch and Gage tangled in bed sheets together, sweaty and out of breath, Starsky would make a one-way trip to San Leone and talk Polly “Crackers” into taking in a roommate.
~*~*~
“Station 51. Gage.”
“Thank God!”
“Ken? What’s wrong?”
“I’m just relieved to hear your voice. Johnny, you and Roy hearing anything on the paramedic grapevine about a nasty bug?”
“No. Why?”
“There’s something out there that wants to give bubonic plague a run for the money. I’m risking a hell of a lot more than my job by telling you that, and I can’t go into particulars, but please, for God’s sake, don’t let a patient even sneeze on you, promise me?”
“Ken, what are you–?”
“Sorry, but I’ve got to run. Starsky and I are hot on the trail of the source. This fell into our laps because of a good friend who’s no longer with us thanks to this damned thing, and–”
“Ken, are you all right? Starsky?”
“We’ve just been sprung from quarantine and they’re setting us free to roam the streets, so I think we’re in the clear. I mean it, Johnny; you guys go overboard with every precaution, even if Roy thinks you’re ready for the funny farm. You’ve already fought your way through one deadly virus, and once is enough for any lifetime.”
“Hey, don’t you worry about me. I’m tough, and I’m careful to avoid pet monkeys!”
~*~*~
“Here they are, Kel, the updated list of current virus cases at Lincoln.” Dixie handed over the folder and availed herself of the most comfortable of Kelly Brackett’s office chairs. “Just my womanly curiosity here, but why are they keeping us informed of infected patients’ identities at area hospitals?”
Kel looked up from the folder. “They’re trying to keep tabs on the spread of the virus, Dix, and the pattern of contagion and transmission. If we have patients present here with certain symptomatology, we’re supposed to get as detailed a history as possible and see if there are any connections between them and the infected on lists.”
“But confidentiality doesn’t allow us to run down a list with the patient or their family members and check names off like a teacher doing roll call.”
“No, you’re right. But the lists are at our disposal if we hear anything in the volunteered patient history that proves a link. Tracking the disease spread is just part of the process in finding the source…and hopefully an antitoxin.”
Dixie rose slowly, straightening her white cotton tunic and shaking her hair loose from her starched collar. “Well, I’m back to the madhouse out there.” She stopped cold, concerned by Brackett’s burning stare at the open folder on his desk.
“Kel, something wrong? Someone we know?”
She had read the list and tried now to call to mind any name that might explain the worry she saw clearly on Kel’s face. On cursory read through, nothing had raised a red flag for her. Stranger yet, this Kelly Brackett worry was a particular variant she usually only saw when something threatened the well being of one LA County fireman, but she hadn’t seen a name on the list that was an obvious connection to Johnny Gage.
Long resigned to the orientation that had taken Kel out of her arms years ago, and a sympathetic observer to the torch he carried as quietly as he lived in the closet, she walked around the desk to squeeze his shoulders. “If there’s something to worry about, I’d like to worry with you, please.”
He shook his head, smiling up at her. “Nothing, Dix. Just worried about the growing number of cases, that’s all. This virus has the potential to spread much faster than the Koki monkey fever we encountered five years ago.”
~*~*~
Kelly Brackett tilted the podium’s microphone to suit his height and cleared his throat. He had never fancied himself a public speaker, regardless what he heard to the contrary. Fortunately, he did not own the spotlight this time. The knowledge he possessed made connecting with one dark-eyed gaze in the room nearly impossible to bear.
“Your attention, please? I know many of you had questions about the special precautions bulletin that was recently issued. At the time we were not at liberty to provide details. This meeting is meant to address your concerns, and it isn’t the only one of its kind. Across metro LA and LA County at all receiving hospitals, medical staff have been briefed and given special instruction regarding a potential viral epidemic. We feel it is equally necessary to give area paramedics and ambulance personnel the benefit of this information. What we discuss in this meeting is not to be widely disseminated outside these walls. In situations like these, openness at the wrong time can create a panic that will endanger more lives than the highly contagious disease in discussion.”
He watched Johnny whisper behind his hand to Roy, who nodded and moved his level hand up and down in a settle down gesture that silenced Johnny. Did Johnny know? Brackett had to consciously hold down a headshake. Johnny’s ears were perked, his posture in the chair one of undivided attention, but he could not possibly hide the distress that would surely accompany full knowledge.
“With me are two physician researchers from Disease Control in Alabama, Drs. Meredith and Kaufman. They’ve been working nonstop along with local law enforcement to track the virus’ source. You’re going to hear what they know. Don’t make the mistake of believing this is a metro problem. I fully expect LA County rescue services to encounter infected patients, and Rampart will be a receiving hospital before transfer to isolation headquarters at Lincoln. Doctors, if you’d take the floor?”
Brackett stepped off to the side and gave the Disease Control experts full command of the conference room podium. Lovely, soft-spoken Judith Kaufman, whose limp dark curls and wrinkled blouse and skirt revealed her weariness, thanked him for the introduction and delved right into a slide show presentation on LA’s own version of hemorrhagic fever. On the slides and reduced to charts and graphs, the killer virus appeared distant, tame, academic. Still, Brackett watched Johnny’s face throughout Kaufman’s lecture, until he saw Johnny glance at him and then whisper again to Roy, probably wondering why Brackett seemed determined to single him out from the crowd of rescue personnel.
When Dr. Kaufman stumbled over her words in discussing the dangers to law enforcement and rescue services, Johnny switched his attention to her, and the first sign of alarm showed on his face. He shook his head quickly, once, twice, and then nodded, his way of reassuring himself that he hadn’t made a mistake. Brackett could read his body language with ease, but couldn’t decipher the resultant text. He saw Johnny’s gaze swing back to him, and stared intently. Johnny shifted in his seat, visibly fidgeting, until Roy rested a hand lightly on his forearm. Johnny shrugged off the touch and focused on the podium, but his air of reassurance in the face of doubt had evaporated.
Meredith took over the discussion, detailing plans for containing the virus and avoiding city wide panic. The senior researcher’s lecture ended with a question and answer session, but Johnny did not participate. Roy had a few practical questions, but his voice held more urgency than usual. At the end of the Q&A session, the visiting physicians thanked Brackett for hosting the meeting and hurried away to continue their lifesaving research at Lincoln Hospital. One by one, or in pairs, the LA County paramedics and ambulance attendants filed out of the conference room, the hum of their conversation at an anxious pitch, appropriate to the disturbing information they’d received.
In minutes, Brackett was left alone in the room with one man. Roy had squeezed Johnny’s shoulder, said something clearly meant to be comforting with a wan smile that didn’t live up to the task, and left the room. Johnny approached the podium, scratching through his bangs and fairly quivering with nervous energy. Brackett wanted to plead heavy patient load and escape the questions he could read in Johnny’s eyes, but he made himself stand firm. He had guessed Johnny’s sexual preference in the earliest years of their acquaintance. That knowledge was no burden. Until an injured LAPD homicide detective showed up in Rampart’s ER and Brackett had to watch the unmistakable play of emotion on Johnny’s face, he’d never seen concrete evidence or had a masculine face to tie to Johnny. Knowing Johnny had a lover was a burden heavier than the entire Rampart campus. Today it felt heavier still.
“This is a bad one, huh, Doc?”
Brackett knew he couldn’t ask Johnny to pack his bags and take the first flight to New York or Hawaii, but he’d never faced such strong temptation to try out the request and see how far it got him. “It’s bad, Johnny. This organism generates an acute illness that makes what you and I faced back in ’72 look like the common flu.”
Johnny scratched at his ear, his other hand distorted almost beyond recognition in its clawed grasp of the handy-talkie at his side. “But what those research docs said about the incubation period and all, they know when someone’s got it and when they don’t, right?”
“What do you mean?” Brackett asked, hoping Johnny’s keen intellect would make the leap without benefit of a direct question that medical ethics and confidentiality did not allow him to answer.
“I mean, if someone gets the all clear, then they’re fine.”
“Not necessarily. Were you exposed in some way? You and Roy haven’t transported a patient with suspect symptoms.” Good Lord! Had he been with Hutchinson since the man’s initial exposure? Brackett hadn’t even given that possibility consideration. From what he’d heard, the detective had listed no other close contact besides his partner during that period, and surely a police-levied closet wouldn’t keep the man’s mouth shut if it might mean Johnny’s life.
“No, nuh-uh,” Johnny said firmly, instantly relieving Brackett’s mind. “I just…want to know what we’re up against out there, that’s all. I’d rather hear it from you than the DC experts. You’re the only expert I care about.”
Brackett’s chest tightened at the unintentionally cruel words. “Johnny, we in the medical profession like to think we’re winning the war against disease, but against viruses in particular, we’re still children playing with a chemistry set. Viruses evolve. They don’t play by the same rules any two times in a row, or die quietly with the right antibiotic like nonresistant bacteria. Initial information on the virus’ incubation period was misleading in this case, and there is the strong possibility that people exposed during the earliest days and believed clear of infection are in fact now actively ill.”
He watched Johnny’s healthy complexion turn sickly in seconds.
Brackett owed him the truth Meredith and Kaufman had danced around in their academic approach to the problem. With one hand on the man’s shoulder, wanting to turn the casual touch into an embrace that could hold off death, pain, despair, he tried to sound professionally detached. “Johnny, right now with no serum antibodies isolated, this virus is a forty-eight hour death sentence once symptoms make an appearance. Please take care and keep your guard up out there at all times. I can think of nothing worse than seeing you and Roy come in here on the wrong side of this thing.”
A weak nod was his only reassurance that Johnny had heard his plea. The shaken man walked in a robotic straight line from the room.
~*~*~
They sat in the squad in Rampart’s ambulance bay. “I’m going to tell Joanne to take the kids to her sister’s place until this thing blows over. How do we handle this with the guys? Stanley’s got a family, so does Mike. Chet doesn’t have any close relatives in LA that I know of, but Marco’s practically related to a whole section of the city, and I know he can’t evacuate all of them.”
“That’s how it gets spread outside a city,” Johnny said, sounding a thousand miles away.
“What?”
“You heard the DC people. If every paramedic or fireman packs his family off to who knows where, and it turns out that one was exposed somehow–”
Roy turned an angry frown on him. “Are you saying I should let Joanne and the kids stay here and take their chances? Is that what you’re saying? Because I don’t care what–”
“No, I’m not saying that!” Johnny shouted. “Hell, Roy, I don’t know anything right now. I don’t know anything!”
Chastened, Roy turned fully in the driver’s seat to face him. “You think–?”
The misery on Johnny’s face answered before his mouth opened. “He’s got it, Roy.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You saw Brackett in there. Kept his eyes on me the whole time. Like he was trying to tell me something by telepathy.”
“Johnny, do you hear what you’re saying? You’re saying Brackett knows about you and Ken. How would he know that? How would he even know that you–you know, go out with men?”
Johnny jerked his elbow against his door and jabbed at the dashboard for good measure. “I don’t know! I just know the way he acted, what he said to me after you left the room. Ken’d be at Lincoln, wouldn’t he? That’s where all the–yeah. Lincoln. I have to get to Lincoln Hospital, Roy.”
“Johnny, we’re on shift. We could be called out any second.”
“He could be dead by tomorrow morning! Brackett said this thing is a forty-eight hour death sentence as long as there isn’t a serum.”
Roy cranked the squad and just as quickly killed the engine, yanking the keys from the ignition. “Johnny, I know this is bad. I know it’s got to feel like someone cutting your legs out from under you. But you’re a paramedic. You go over to that hospital and expose yourself to this thing, and you could be carrying it around to patients on our calls and not even know it. Can you live with that?”
Johnny lowered his head, his arms trembling at his sides, his helmet askew. “No more than I could live with exposing you.”
Keying the ignition again, Roy said, “We’ll make some calls. Okay? We’ll find out what we can. See if we can get some facts before we jump to any dangerous conclusions.”
“Dangerous?” Johnny’s ironic laughter touched a raw nerve in Roy. “For which one of us, me or him?”
“Both. And me!” Roy said, knowing he sounded as angered as he felt. “I had to watch you go through this once before, and I’m not anxious for a repeat. Watching your fever shoot past 104 and Dix walking around in a daze, telling me my partner was waiting in the squad for me when the guy out there was nothing but a warm body to fill the seat so LA County could keep me on shift. Knowing you might be dead before I could get back there and tell you what it’d meant to have a pain in the ass, first rate partner like you.”
Before Johnny could respond, the radio invaded with some innocent person’s need, demanding that both paramedics forget friends, lovers, family, disease and death and race to head off the as yet unknown danger over which they could actually exert some control.
~*~*~
Judith Kaufman turned the corner in the isolation corridor and pulled up short. A young man in the navy-and-blue LA County fire department uniform stood staring through the glass into Hutch’s room. She glanced around to see who might have let him in the restricted area, but no one was in sight. She had just coaxed David Starsky into taking advantage of Hutch’s stable vitals and deep restorative sleep to leave the floor for a quick meal and shower in the physician’s lounge. Captain Dobey had been in and out but was currently visiting with Mrs. Yeager and Richie down the hall in the intensive unit.
“Can I help you?” she asked. “You’re not supposed to be here. This is an isolation ward.”
“I know.”
“How did you get in here?”
“You’re that doctor,” he said, not answering her, but she sensed the evasion wasn’t deliberate. “You talked to us at Rampart.” He gave her a quick smile that made his pleasant face really quite attractive and persuasive. “Between the uniform and a couple of white lies, I got past a very sympathetic nurse. I won’t tell you which one, so don’t ask.”
Something in his face reached straight into her heart and twisted it. Maybe it was the way he turned back to the glass and watched Hutch sleep with the same intensity she had watched her favorite “little boy” at rest.
“You’re a friend of Hutch’s?” she asked, knowing she had just broken confidentiality and finding it very difficult to care in this raw moment when human emotion reigned supreme over emotionless policies.
He turned shocked eyes on her. “You call him Hutch?”
“Yes, I realize as a doctor, there might be call for distance, but some patients do become friends.”
“No, that’s not…. I thought only Starsky–” He offered her his hand. “John Gage.”
“Judith Kaufman.”
He went back to staring through the glass. “Is it true what I heard? Dr. Brackett told us at Rampart this morning that the serum’s been found. Does that mean he’s gonna make it?”
She felt compelled to issue a disclaimer. “I’m not really supposed to–”
“I’m not asking for every detail in the chart. I just need to know he’s gonna be all right.”
“We have every hope of his full recovery. The serum has already proven successful in stabilizing other critical patients.”
“Where’s his partner?”
“I put my foot down and insisted he go downstairs for something to eat and drink. He’s been living on adrenaline and sheer will the last forty-eight hours, taking on everybody he had to: my colleague and me, his captain, the entire LAPD, to bring the source into our custody.”
“Tearing the city apart,” John said.
“Yes.”
He traced the large scrawl of STARSK on the glass with his fingertip. “That lipstick?”
She laughed, hoping she didn’t sound bitter. “Yes. Mine, in fact.”
He glanced at her.
“I suppose he wanted a means of being here even when he couldn’t physically be present,” she said, questioning her need to offer an explanation.
“Hovering by proxy,” John said with a short laugh of his own.
“Yes.”
He traced the name again. “Saved his life. Again.”
Before Judith could stop herself, she said, “It looks like a big room, doesn’t it? Especially now that it’s been emptied of oxygen tent and extraneous equipment. You could clear the room entirely and there would still be room for just one person. Besides the patient.”
He turned a look her way that took her breath and made her feel petty for pulling all the clothes from her closet and leaving them in a heap on her floor in the rented apartment she shared with Meredith, reflexive actions in a frustrated, exhausted fury after she had booked her return flight to Birmingham.
Without another word, John turned and returned from whence he came.
~*~*~
Starsky tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for the elevator. When the door finally jolted open, he nearly trampled the exiting passenger. Brushing by, he felt his arm seized, and looked around. For the second time, he’d collided with John Gage in a hospital. This time the paramedic’s face held no guilt. But there was something wild in his eyes.
Starsky stepped back off the elevator with him. “I didn’t call you,” he said, an admission that stopped just short of apology. He wanted to resent Gage’s presence as an intrusion, but the man wasn’t someone who inspired resentment. For not the first time, he caught himself wondering if Hutch had felt that way about Terry. Then, astonished that he’d made that connection, he wanted to shut himself off in the elevator before he took out his crisis-driven, pent-in, fight-and-flight testosterone overload on this innocent civilian.
Unfortunately, the innocent civilian looked to be spoiling for a fight himself, and Gage’s glare hinted at a scrappy fighter if cornered. By Hutch’s account, Gage had spent part of his childhood on a reservation in close proximity to white townsfolk who didn’t care for a sovereign American Indian nation in their backyard. Probably, the young Johnny had learned early on to protect himself against creeps who thought “redskin” baiting was a patriotic US of A pastime. Right now Gage’s angry eyes labeled Starsky one of those forked-tongued land-poachers.
“I’d give anything to be angry with you,” Gage told him. “Wish to hell I could be.” He broke off with a headshake. “From what I hear, if you’d taken the time to do anything but what you did, he wouldn’t be here right now. Tell me who I get to be angry at?”
Starsky understood. He’d come close to pounding his fists into Huggy’s chest, so out of his mind with the need to vent his rage, fear, and helplessness. “The bastard responsible is dead, if that helps, but his blood saved Hutch’s life and a lot of others on his way out.”
“That helps,” Gage said. He pointed at the elevator. “Tell Ken I stopped by. You forget that, and you’ll deal with me. Just because I don’t go around scrawling my name in lipstick doesn’t mean I haven’t been here, inside, every second since I found out.” The handy-talkie at his side crackled, requesting a response, and Gage lifted it to snap, “LA, Squad 51. Ten-four!”
Starsky watched him storm down the hall. Knowing he’d seen a man locked out of Hutch’s life, a man trying hard to at least shatter the glass that tempted with a view but no entry, Starsky couldn’t imagine the heartache. He only knew he’d never survive if he were locked outside the same impenetrable glass surrounding Hutch’s life.
~*~*~
The dinghy floated calmly on the placid lake, and gave Hutch a chance to catch his breath and talk his rampant hard-on into quiescence before he never enjoyed sex again. He knew Starsky couldn’t possibly have missed the sudden fullness in his jeans, just as he hadn’t missed the softness in red long johns–softness that remained soft–pressing against him. When air had to fight for space between them, and Starsky held him two insignificant inches from mouth to mouth contact, Hutch had no safety valve to release the pressure before it escalated to instinctual desire. And now he had the crash-down discomfort that Starsky probably chalked it up to nothing more than that.
He had felt his bones melt in relief when the most beautiful examples of outdoors’ women he’d ever seen graced them with their refreshingly feminine presence. In his relief, he had joined Starsky wholeheartedly in the ridiculous handshake meant to reassure the girls that they had not interrupted some lovers’ tryst outside a door painted in blood.
But for LA County’s fire department shift schedule, he could have been here with an avid fisherman who’d want to go off trail for hikes in the raw wilderness and get up to all kinds of mischief under the stars, and who could spend days in the outdoors without begging for a hamburger stand.
No. Hutch couldn’t blame the fire department or the last minute planning that precipitated the trip. The very instant the words “vacation days” and “lake cabin” left Dobey’s mouth, Hutch’s mind had flashed on four days with his favorite junk food addict and nightlife-loving city dweller allergic to more than three trees in a clump. Four days of teaching Starsky to appreciate the world far removed from concrete and the lullaby of traffic.
Now he was doubly glad he had talked Starsky into joining him. If they had stumbled on to something more sinister than crazy frat boys, and his encounter with the belligerent religious group led him to believe they had, then he wanted no one but his partner at his side. Starsky might be a virgin to the woods, but he had taken danger and crisis of the criminal sort to bed numerous times and conquered them both.
In the meantime, Hutch could exercise his need for physical release with one of the lovely Martin sisters. He’d seen the plans developing in Starsky’s eyes. If the girls were willing, whatever happened would unfold in a group of four with no walls of privacy between pairs.
But if Starsky didn’t get his ass out here, damn it, they wouldn’t have a single fish to fry before the girls returned. Hutch rolled his eyes. Virgin, indeed. Starsky had probably gotten backed into a corner by a fuzzy caterpillar he couldn’t find his way around. Oh, hell, part of teaching Starsky to love the wilderness meant rescuing him from insects. Hutch began rowing to shore.
~*~*~
Starsky came rushing around the side of the cabin with all ten trout in tow and found Hutch in the middle of a growling bear noise. He advanced on his partner, ready to push him to the ground and bury him in smelly trout. “That’s it!” he snarled. “Owls, one thing. Lovesick moose, another. But you start making me think I’m gonna be eaten by a bear, and it’s war, hear me?”
“Not to frighten you, buddy, but those first bear sounds were all natural. Not of my making.” Hutch rubbed his hands together, laughing. “Come on in the cabin, Gorton.”
“Gorton, hell.” Starsky held up the string of trout. “These ain’t frozen! These beauties are as fresh as the water they were just swimming in. But I thought you were hot to get back to the city.”
Hutch shrugged, yawning and stretching. “Changed my mind. Why let those fish and all your beginner’s luck go to waste?”
“Beginner’s luck, nothing! I’m a better fisherman than you, and you can’t admit it.”
“For that, I oughta make you clean and cook them, too.”
“Fine by me.”
“Not fine by me. I want edible fish.” Hutch led the way up the steps to the cabin porch and let the screen door slam in Starsky’s face.
Starsky stood there, wanting to burst out in laughter but knowing he’d spoil the game if he did. “Hey, jackass, nobody ever teach you not to bite the man that feeds you?”
Hutch returned to the door, peering at him through the screen. Starsky felt his skin flame inch by inch under Hutch’s intent gaze that lighted on his groin and leapt back to his eyes. “When I bite you, Starsky, you’ll know it.”
He couldn’t let Hutch win this quickly. “Maybe I oughta call Johnny-boy up and ask him about the signs and symptoms.”
Hutch laughed at him. “Johnny’s no bite and tell, my friend.”
“Fine. Maybe I’ll just know when I come down with rabies.”
“You came into this world a mad dog, Starsky. And leave those on the porch. I’ll clean them there.”
They continued the parry and thrust throughout dinner preparation, pausing only for Starsky to shed his waders and grab a shower, but seated side by side at the kitchen bar, an impressive fried fish dinner in front of them, Starsky wanted the conversation to turn serious. “We really do have something to celebrate.”
“What? Lizzie Tice’s homecoming?”
“That, too, but I’m thinking about the house sale closing last week. Few months of playing weekend warriors, and we turned a pretty nice profit, buddy.”
“Starsky, we turned that nice profit because the area’s being re-zoned, and I have a good idea the buyer’s going to tear down all our hard work and put up a quick mart. We’ll probably be responding to a 2-11 there some time in the future.”
Starsky snatched Hutch’s fork from him and speared a healthy bite of fish which he then shoved into Hutch’s open mouth. Hutch gurgled and chewed, but cussed Starsky with his eyes. “There. And I don’t care why we turned the profit. We had a good time getting the place in shape. Now we gotta figure out what to do with the money. I think it’d make a good down payment on something nicer.”
After a sip of Coors, Hutch swiveled on the stool, propped his elbow on the counter, and rested his chin in hand for a good, long stare at his partner. “Nicer? Starsky, there are people who make careers out of continually buying and fixing up properties for re-sale, but we have careers already. One time was fine, and it had its fun moments, I’ll agree. But to make a second career out of it–”
“Not talking about another fixer-upper. I’m talking about something to live in.”
“You and me?”
“No, me and Huggy. Of course, you and me.” Deciding that he couldn’t carry on this conversation and pick for trout bones at the same time, Starsky pushed his plate aside.
“Starsky, we’d make lousy roommates.”
“How you figure that? We did fine at the Academy.”
“Oh, really? I seem to remember–”
“Don’t remind me. I’m talking here and now.”
Hutch reached for his Coors, and his way of drinking looked like a stall. Finally, he gave up stalling in favor of his characteristic devil’s advocacy, something Starsky knew only too well how to combat. “Ignoring the fact that we’d be pressing our luck in the Department–”
“How? Not in the way you think. There’d be enough women in and out that we’d more likely get hauled into IA and questioned about running a little stable of our own.”
Hutch glared at him. “You’re shameless.”
He countered the glare with a wink. “Not shameless. Just factual.”
“Two weeks. I give us two weeks without doing each other bodily harm.”
“Funny, I had it figured at two weeks myself. We even see eye to eye on how long it’d take for us to murder each other.”
“You’d get tired of my music.”
“Never.”
That made Hutch show his teeth in a smile. “Not mine, mine, turkey. The purchased music I choose to listen to on occasion.”
“That, maybe.”
“You’d bitch about finding your way through my health food on the way to your gut-rotting junk every morning at breakfast.”
“Probably. Might toss some of it when you weren’t looking, too.”
“For which I’d take it out of your hide and make you go to the store for replacements. Every time we did laundry, I’d end up with pink socks thanks to your red eyesores.”
Starsky grinned evilly at him. “Where’s the big deal in that for you?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny, asshole. I’d have to wear earmuffs to sleep to keep from hearing the TV in your room blaring out your late night fright flick of choice.”
“Earmuffs are cheap. I’ll buy you a pair. And no pink, promise.”
“You’re all kindness and generosity,” Hutch snapped. “With our nonexistent time off, you’d always be wanting to vacuum when I’m trying to meditate.”
“So? In your Zen state, you wouldn’t even notice until I’d run the vacuum right under your ass.”
“We’d fight over the hot water for showers.”
“Yeah.”
“We’d haggle over utility bills.”
“Um-hm.”
“Probably end up in hock to the ER after one too many household practical jokes.”
Starsky knew his face had to have a dreamy quality, because he felt the fuzzy warmth from his hair to his socks. “Sounds–”
“Pretty damned good,” Hutch admitted, smiling again.
“Then let’s do it.”
“Starsky, you’re forgetting, there’s the little matter of my taste in bed partners.”
“Doesn’t matter, Hutch,” Starsky said quickly, hoping to hell he looked casual.
“Doesn’t matter?”
“It’d be your house, too. You could have anyone over you wanted. What, you want it to matter?”
Hutch’s face had a vague forlornness Starsky couldn’t understand. Instead of showing clichéd discomfiture, Starsky had brought an open invitation to the table. How could Hutch possibly want him to take a step backward and play the grossed out, “not in my house” card?
“You want us to wait on the house hunting, we’ll wait,” Starsky said, tasting fish in the back of his throat. He reached for his beer to sanitize more than just his throat.
“We can hunt. Let’s just hunt slowly.”
“Expensive, anyway, breaking my lease before the renewal time, and you’d have to put your place on the market.”
“Right.”
“Let’s clean this up and head on back, huh?”
“Sounds good,” Hutch agreed, looking relieved. “Nighttime in this neck of the woods leaves a lot to be desired.”
~*~*~
“Hold up, partner,” Starsky said behind him, pushing Dobey’s door shut.
“What?”
“You, me. Case conference.” Starsky looked around at the squad shift’s late evening workers. “Not here.”
Hutch turned from plucking the phone directory out of its prison of files and papers on top of the file cabinets. He knew by Starsky’s serious cop expression that he hadn’t pulled any wool over those sharp eyes. Phone book tucked under arm, he followed Starsky to interrogation room seven and tried sitting down casually at the table while Starsky saw to their privacy, shutting and locking the door. When he opened the phone book to the start of the “G” pages, Starsky shut the book on his hand.
“You really think you’re going under on this one?” Starsky asked.
“The college was my lead, Starsk.”
“Professor Gage? Professor J. Gage? Thought you got that past me, didn’t you? Well, you didn’t. I just couldn’t say anything in front of Dobey.”
“Any more than I could,” Hutch said, pushing Starsky’s hand aside.
“Uh-huh. I saw you rubbing your eyes when you came in Dobey’s office. Your ‘why me, what’d I do to deserve this’ eye rubbing.”
“I don’t see how you saw anything, you and Dobey were so intent on leaving me out of the discussion.”
Staring down at him, Starsky propped his hip on the table edge at Hutch’s side. “If you think I have to look right at you to see every move you make, you’ve been sleep walking through about six years of our partnership. We’re dealing with a pro here, Hutch. Or pros, if you bring the lipstick into the mix as more than a red herring to put us on the trail of a woman.”
“Thank you for the case summary, Detective. I’m glad you’re back on the job.”
“Don’t hand me that. The under cop in this op can’t afford distractions. What do you know about Johnny’s family?”
“Not much. He talks about an aunt from time to time. I’ve seen his cousin’s houseboat. He’s said very little about his parents, and I haven’t pried. His mother is Nomlaki Indian, his father Caucasian, and his father left when he was a kid. He and his mom were forced off the Rancheria along with the whole tribe in ’59 when Johnny was thirteen, because our ‘generous’ government withdrew recognition of the tribe and sold off the land to private buyers. That’s about all I know. Don’t know what happened to his mother or his father.”
“None of that lets out this Professor Gage.”
Hutch opened the phone book, keeping quiet until he found the “G” listings. He drew his finger down the pertinent entries. “Fifteen Gage listings in the directory. Coincidental names, that’s all.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t, but–”
“You’re prepared to go under and bust a guy who could be who knows what to Johnny?”
Hutch shut the book this time. “I’m a cop, Starsky. I’m not the one sleeping with a potential suspect! Not just sleeping with her but letting her fix breakfast.”
“That’s got nothing to do with this.”
“Fine, then. Hell, yes I’m prepared. If he’s Johnny’s long lost father, uncle, or cousin twice removed, that’s a tragedy, but my job is to get a killer off the streets, and if this professor is a killer, he’s going down. I’m sure as hell not stupid enough to call Johnny up and ask him about any relations to ease my mind. I’ll go in blind and take the consequences, if any, with Johnny later.”
Starsky sized him up with a look that never strayed below his chin. “Okay.”
~*~*~
On his way to the door, Johnny looked at the fire department calendar on the wall beside his kitchen bar counter, just for confirmation that he wasn’t walking through a daydream. February. He couldn’t believe the changes in his life wrought by the passage of time. Two years ago, he had let Valentine’s Day go by unnoticed. Last year he’d been waiting for word that Ken would walk again without permanent muscle or bone damage in his left leg. This year on the day itself he’d been wondering how Ken’s current case was coming along…. Now, several days later, a knock on the door brought the fourteenth back in his heart for an encore.
He opened the door to paradise on his doorstep. “Wasn’t sure you’d get to come by tonight.”
Ken’s smile made his legs weak. “Left Starsky with a spaghetti dinner cleanup and two girls to help him.”
Johnny gaped. “Two?”
“Believe me, Starsky’s more than capable of handling two girls all on his lonesome.”
“Damn. I’m known at the station as a ladies man, but I’ve never done the two at once thing.” Johnny wondered why the relaxed smile tensed. “I’m guessing one of the girls was your date? How’d she take your sudden departure?”
“By the time we got back to Starsky’s place, she was too busy flirting with him to care. If that’s her idea of foreplay, I’ve got better things to do with my time.” Ken eyed him in the undressing way that hardened Johnny every time. “Much better.”
“Come on in, then.”
But Ken looked uncomfortable. “Before I step over that threshold, I need you to answer a question. Are you related to a Professor Gage who teaches–taught–at Jameson College?”
“No. Not that I know of. Why?”
For answer, Ken dashed over the threshold, shutting the door in a bold slam and pulling him by his belt loops into a mouth-bending kiss that put Johnny right on the edge of flight. Breathlessly, Ken chuckled afterward. “Before I let you put those fantastic lips of yours around my cock, I had to know I hadn’t just taken your uncle, cousin, or whoever down for a heavy fall.”
“Sounds like I should be glad I don’t know this Professor Gage.”
“He’s got a deadly personality. And I don’t care for his teaching methods either.”
“All r-i-i-ght. You can tell me what you’re allowed to tell me over dessert, how’s that?”
“Dessert? That’s exactly why I’m here. And I’m not talking about cake and coffee.”
“Got some excess energy to work off?” Johnny teased, reaching for the bulge in Ken’s cords he loved to see and preferred to feel.
“Right now. Show me that new waterbed.”
On the way to the bedroom, Ken paused by the end table beside the sofa and picked up one of the travel brochures Johnny had left there. “What’s this? Planning a trip?”
“Thinking about it. Arizona, the Sonora Desert. In a couple months there’s a vision trek. Thought if you could actually get some real time off, you might be interested in coming along.”
“It’s not affiliated with the Nomlaki, though?”
“Intertribal. Interested?”
“Absolutely. But right now I’m interested in seeing you out of those jeans.” Ken dropped the brochure, missing the table completely, and hustled Johnny into the bedroom with a swat to his ass.
Seeing Ken sprawled in the middle of his waterbed had to top Johnny’s list of all-time favorite things. Feeling the bed’s gentle, harbor-like sway under him while he lounged between Ken’s legs and sucked him to teeth-grinding desperation ranked pretty high as well. He didn’t need a vision trek to reach ancient enlightenment. It was enough to pull away from Ken’s cock, roll with him in a kiss until they had reached each side of the bed and returned to the middle with Johnny on top, pressing down on Ken’s shoulders, using his cock to nudge the base of Ken’s. Ken’s eyes widened and he started to initiate another flip that would land Johnny squarely beneath him, but his captor decided to risk showing off his own strength, hard-earned and deceptive with his spare frame and lack of showy musculature. Again he angled his cock to nudge the skin beneath Ken’s sac.
The captive rose up on elbow, pushing Johnny backward in another kiss. “You don’t have to wrestle me down for it,” Ken whispered. “Just ask.”
Johnny caught his breath in a stifled shout of surprise. He released Ken’s shoulders and let him find his comfort spot in the bed. “Will you?”
“Yes.”
But there was open warfare in Ken’s eyes. Propped over him, brushing his mussed blond hair off his forehead, Johnny could see the battle. He shied from the struggle as his ancestor would have walked miles to avoid crossing a holy burial ground out of respect. When he reached for the lube, he daubed it on his fingers and applied it generously to himself, watching Ken’s battle go quiet with confusion.
“But I thought–?”
Johnny slicked him from base to crown, making the lubricating as pleasurable as he could for a tormented erection long overdue for release. “Now that you said yes, I’m too damned excited to follow through with what it’d take to get you ready.”
“Johnny–”
“Hope you’re ready for a wild ride,” Johnny warned him, smiling through his own disappointment and confusion. “I haven’t managed to get on horseback lately so I’m gonna pretend you’re a barely broken Appaloosa with a lot of spirit.”
And with that, Johnny straddled his mount and sank down on Ken’s cock, drawing a shout and the bucks he’d wanted. He rode every buck and thrust like the naturally gifted bareback horseman he’d been since he could crawl. He shifted away from Ken’s reach for his cock, wanting to set the pace, ignite his own orgasm, control the entire encounter as if he’d been able to take Ken the way he’d wanted for over a year. He sat tall in the saddle, daring Ken to stare up at him through the entire ride into madness. When Ken began to shudder from shoulders to knees, and Johnny felt the pulse and jerks within his ass, he helped himself to one satisfaction he needed more than orgasm.
Forcing by will Ken’s eyes to stay locked on his and not the spurting fluid of sex, Johnny cried out from his heart, “Ah, Ken, love this…ah…love us…I-I love you! So much. So, so…oh, God…..”
~*~*~
Fully dressed without bothering to shower first, Hutch sat on the wooden edge of the waterbed. He’d spent only a few minutes in Johnny’s arms before he knew he had to leave their comfort. After the earlier lovemaking, they had eaten stale, store-bought cake out of Johnny’s fridge and put away a pot of fireman’s coffee. There was no more talk of Arizona. There was little talk at all. When they returned to bed, Hutch went down on his tired horseman, but pleaded a need for sleep when Johnny would have reciprocated.
In the quiet of Johnny’s room, full of Johnny’s things, his generous, fun, caring personality, his life in the sunlight and fresh air of a rescuer/caregiver who knew little of the darkness street cops saw on a daily basis, Hutch knew he had a life-changing decision to make.
He was one more night, one more kiss, one more Johnny Gage smile from crossing a line he had not even seen ahead of him. Already his feelings ran deeper than anything he’d experienced with some of the gracious ladies who had blessed his life. The words he’d given his Russian ballerina sounded foolish and insincere in his memory, when compared to the quiet, deep care he felt for the man asleep in the waterbed with his left arm flung over his face, his light snore muffled by his elbow.
Life would be so much simpler if Hutch could slip out of his clothes and back into bed and wake up in the morning devotedly involved with a man and free of desire for another. A desire that had burned just under the surface for years, with occasional flares like an arthritic knee that throbbed in the background daily but ached with the rain.
But did he even want to be free?
If the desire he felt for Starsky was an ache, it was a beautiful, life-affirming pain that stretched his chest like gulps of freshest air. He couldn’t imagine his life without the bolts of what-if electricity he felt when Starsky touched him or smiled at him in the way he only did with Hutch. Or moments like that evening’s impromptu body-to-body undulations at the pier in the struggle against a fish too strong for Hutch’s obscenely expensive fishing rod.
Freedom, he could reach for with Johnny, yes. Completeness lay just out of reach.
Hutch could see happiness with Johnny, his handsome, accident-prone, country-raised hobby-guitarist, ancient soul and brave heart with the clay feet of slapdash table manners and amusing jealousy of other fire stations that got more recognition than his beloved 51. The question he had to ask, that Johnny deserved from him, was how much happiness Hutch could give in return when he didn’t want to be free of the need to look at Starsky with the rose-colored glasses of false hope. If the prisoner had no desire to walk through a wide open door, he might as well stay behind bars, but he didn’t have to drag someone else into the cell with him.
The predicament took him all the way back to adolescence, when he first realized that he came harder and quicker to uninformed but imaginative jerk-off fantasies about an attractive college boy in his acquaintance than he did with his girlfriend in mind. As the awakening teenager, he had turned down a buddy perfectly willing to experiment with him. The scared, finicky, introspective Hutch hadn’t wanted a comfortable, appealing outlet for his new feelings. Finding it easier to want what he couldn’t have, and what didn’t force him to take the risk inherent with action, he wanted the inapproachable Ivy League tennis star who spent breaks home from Harvard on the courts of Duluth’s most prestigious country club. Content to lust after the tennis star from a distance, Hutch had played on the outskirts of sexuality with his girlfriend and kept his buddy at arm’s length.
Was he about to make the same mistake this time? Was he about to walk out on the “sure thing” in favor of an impossibility, just to avoid the risk of being in love, truly in love, with a man?
No. This was different. Hutch’s heart pounded painfully hard until his very rib cage felt sore. At this important crossroad in life, he yearned breathlessly for the path that kept him close to Starsky. He remembered the emotionally charged day he realized that Starsky knew about his sexuality, and about Johnny. He remembered Starsky asking if he would settle down with Johnny in a different world, and his own evasive answer. He had known Starsky referred to a world without police prejudice and the danger of gang beating or subtler but deadly sabotage, but wiping all the hatred off the face of the planet still didn’t make it a world where Hutch was free to give his heart away. The right question was, in a world where Hutch had never known David Starsky? Where seventy-five percent of his time wasn’t given to a man he’d never kiss, never know the salty orgasmic stickiness of him in his hands or mouth. Would Johnny even want a Hutch that had never been touched by the transforming hand of Starsky?
Astonished, Hutch knew there was no decision to make, no predicament, after all. The stone blindfold over his mind’s eye shattered. Years of rationalizing his desire for Starsky as helpless attraction, the temptation of a gorgeous, heterosexual best friend who happened to be both tolerant and openly affectionate, had blinded Hutch to profound truth. If he could turn his back on the certain love that Johnny offered him, when he cared for Johnny as deeply as he did, there was only one explanation.
He was already in love, truly in love, with a man.
He was in love with David Starsky.
Johnny rolled in the bed as if adrift at sea, reaching blindly in sleep for the human warmth he unconsciously expected to find within his grasp. Cringing, Hutch set himself aside and thought about the man in bed. He’d selfishly, unconscionably missed the signs that Johnny had already fallen hard, beyond any hope of a painless separation, until one orgasmic revelation showed Johnny’s level of commitment. Hutch had no choice but to cut the ties before they turned into a choke hold around the man he cared for. Up until now, Johnny had been no substitute. Hutch was guilty of leading him on, but unintentionally, or at least only with subconscious intent. If he stayed with Johnny now, he would be using him to fulfill a need that the object of his deeper affection couldn’t. Hutch would gladly starve for male attention before he’d do that to the man who had made the mistake of falling in love with him.
Chest burning with grief, arms hanging leaden and heavy, already missing Johnny’s comfortable fit in them, he walked over to the corner steamer trunk that Johnny had converted to a writing desk, and hunted for a suitable piece of paper and pen. He made himself look one last time at the framed copy of Johnny’s high school newspaper, with John Roderick Gage proudly credited as editor, alongside high school track honors, and pictures of fishing trips, prominently featuring Roy DeSoto and another curly-haired, mustached man Hutch thought he remembered from his encounter with Station 51. On the steamer trunk, beside the yellow legal pad, stood another picture of Johnny and Roy, surrounded by two men in lab coats and a lovely nurse in whites and cap. Johnny looked younger, with a short haircut and straight combed over-the-forehead bangs. The paramedics and two of the medical personnel stared at the camera with goofy expressions, tongues out, eyelids stretched by fingers, rabbit ears. But the dark-haired doctor, whom Hutch recognized as his former treating physician, Dr. Brackett, smiled over the nurse’s head at Johnny. Hutch could understand. In a crowd, small or large, Johnny Gage drew attention.
Just like….
David Starsky.
After half an hour’s futile search for words, Hutch gave up trying to compose a painfully literal Dear John letter. There were no words. No justification. If he couldn’t spare Johnny the pain of separation, he had no right to spare himself the serrated cut of facing Johnny in the morning light, before he walked out of his life and into the chill outside warm masculine arms.
He could already feel the phantom pain creeping back.
~*~*~
Dawn brought sunshine through the blinds on Johnny’s easterly window, but Hutch remained in darkest night. Hours spent in silent vigil at the deathbed of a relationship had left him cold to the bone, fighting a nasty sore throat, and in need of Visine or stitches to sew his eyelids open. Johnny yawned and stretched, blinking in the strips of sunlight across his face, and then his candid dark eyes settled on Hutch’s face. From there, Johnny looked down at the paper and pen Hutch still held in his lap, and in a blur of motion, he pushed violently back in bed to a propped position against the shelved headboard.
Stark fear showed in Johnny’s gentle eyes. “No… This…this is it.”
Hutch could only nod. “I’m–”
“If you say you’re sorry, so help me I’ll–” The gentleness disappeared, and Johnny made a move as if to shove Hutch from the edge of the bed, but withdrew and slumped back against the headboard. “At least you didn’t leave some useless note. Just go. I don’t wanna know why.” When Hutch rose slowly, Johnny waved him back down. “No, wait. Yeah, I do. Is it because of what I wanted to do last night?”
“No.”
“Because of what I said?”
The declaration of love rang in Hutch’s ears. The truth in the words. The silent promise of years stretching into decades, if not forever, that he’d never expected a man to offer him, and never anticipated wanting.
In the ongoing silence, Johnny laughed. The sound had moistness to it consistent with unshed tears. “That’s funny. No, really. Hilarious. I’ve been holding on to those words for months. Last night I thought–hell, thought it was finally safe….”
“Johnny.” Hutch needed water for the hoarseness but took the pain as just punishment. “You weren’t just an occasional lay. You’d become my lover, and it’s my fault I didn’t set you free before we crossed that line.”
“Past tense already. You’re good at this.” Johnny’s facial expression of anger had the same down to earth quality as his occasional tendency to chew with his mouth open. “I don’t know whether I was an eternal optimist or just plain stupid.” He held up his hand to ward off any response. “Tell me something. Women you’ve gone to bed with. They call you Hutch?”
“Some of them, yes. Why?”
“Never mind. Just wanted to know how dumb I’ve really been. You know what? I wish I’d said those words months ago. Maybe by now I’d be sharing this bed with someone who can give as good as they take, and I don’t mean sex.”
“I’m going now. This isn’t helping either of us, and we’re both on shift today.” Hutch handed him the paper and pen and left the bed. In the room’s doorway he paused and braced his hand against the jamb. “I’ll never be able to make you understand how close I came to being happy–really happy–with you, or why that says more about how I feel about you than any words could.”
~*~*~
When Johnny heard the apartment door slam, he looked down at the paper in his hand.
I’ll miss you. Be well. Be safe. –Hutch
At least he had not written, “Be happy.”
Johnny drew his right knee to his chest, encircled it with a crushing embrace and leaned over to rest his forehead in the crook of his arm. The note drifted down to the bed at his side. He had never been one to seek release in tears, but at that moment, he wished he could. His shoulders shook, the movement migrating down his arms and chest in racking chills that usually came with a dangerous fever, but his eyes stayed dry. He gagged. Dry useless heaves that brought nothing out of his system. Eventually, he pulled himself out of bed and walked in a stupor to his bathroom for a shower.
He stood under the streaming water for well over a minute before he realized he had not turned on the hot. He found the right temperature but couldn’t seem to remember where he’d put the soap, somewhat surprised to find it in the same porcelain turtle dish where he’d kept it for years. He left the shower with the suspicion that he’d only bathed the right side of his body. He ended up with three shaving nicks. He wished he could cut his entire ass off, and thereby remove the stretched tenderness from a part of Ken–Hutch–he’d never feel inside him again. He walked out the door and had to stop and look down to make sure he had put on clothes. He saw a plaid button-up and jeans but couldn’t remember going into his closet for them.
Outside, he walked up and down the parking lot twice before he realized he had passed his vehicle. He stopped and gave serious consideration to calling in with a fever or stomach bug. In his shape, he made for a danger to patients rather than a help. He splayed his hands on the driver’s window and pressed his forehead to the glass.
No! He had nothing left but his work with Roy and the life-saving expertise he brought to the people who needed him. He’d be damned if he let anything get in the way of that. Certainly not a gorgeous, witty, talented, passionate, tender, asshole, son-of-a-bitch, jerk of a blond detective he hadn’t meant to fall in love with in the first damn place.
~*~*~
Hutch huddled against the car door in weary middle-of-an-all-night stakeout position, working on his thermos of coffee, and watching Starsky’s apartment door. He’d made it to Venice from Topanga on autopilot and walked back out of his apartment showered, but dressed in clothes he’d pulled from the dirty clothes pile in the bathroom without realizing the error until he reached the sidewalk outside, too late and too far to mount the stairs again. He had made the coffee strong enough to starch his veins, needing an instant dose of caffeine clarity if he meant to stay alive, and make sure Starsky stayed alive, throughout their shift. Knowing full well the kindest thing he could do for himself would be a straight shot to Metro, he held himself unworthy of kindness, and turned the LTD toward Starsky’s apartment. He arrived with only ten minutes to spare before the door opened and Starsky stepped outside, arm in arm with two girls, who giggled and kissed him on each cheek. Clearly Starsky had gotten the threesome he had been hot for recently, but it didn’t include Hutch. The round robin kissing on the top step now involved open mouthed communion.
Hutch turned his head, sickened. He hadn’t appreciated the door slam in his face when he’d stopped by during the case to compare notes and found Starsky more interested in comparing notes with the smoky-voiced car saleswoman, but he had been able to laugh it off later and chalk up a score to his talent for bad timing. This early morning spectacle looked crass, an ostentatious show of heterosexuality, and for what audience? In the last couple of months, Starsky had bedded any female that had a pulse and looked at him once. If the hyper-sexuality had reared its head right after their open discussion of male-male activities, Hutch would be inclined to label it an unconscious, knee-jerk reaction on Starsky’s part to prove that their close partnership didn’t mean they shared the same needs in bed the way they occasionally showed up in the squadroom unintentionally wearing the same outfit. But this tendency was so far removed from their showdown on the subject after Blaine’s death that Hutch couldn’t explain it so simply. Nor could he excuse himself. He’d left Starsky with the girls, anticipating the result, setting his partner up to disappoint him.
And Hutch couldn’t escape the dawning truth that he’d be laughing this Starsky escapade off, too, if Johnny’s door and heart were still open to him.
Johnny riding his cock with the excited fury of a rodeo star trying to break eight seconds, those slender, strong legs gripping Hutch’s side, sweat beading and dripping down that smooth, tan chest, ab muscles showing in exertion, love and passion flaring in Johnny’s eyes, his breaths and gasps….
“Ah, Ken, love this…ah…love us…I-I love you! So much. So, so…oh, God….”
One more round of kisses, arm squeezes, and laughter, and Starsky handed Rachel and Mary over to the care of the cab driver. Hutch screwed the lid on the thermos and wished their work allowed him a shot of vodka to wash down the coffee. He wanted to crank the car and gun it from the lot on a straight line away from Metro. In a sensible world where Hutch was free to give his heart to the man capable of responding in like kind, he could stop by a roadside stand and show up at Station 51 with a massive box of donuts and tell Johnny he’d never be such a masochistic fool again if he could have one more chance. But theirs was no sensible world, and destroying Johnny’s livelihood was no way to follow up breaking his heart.
Starsky had spotted him. Bright smile suddenly five times bigger than the ones he’d given the girls on the steps of his apartment, waving like a lunatic, Starsky bounce-strutted toward the LTD.
Gone were Hutch’s thoughts of donuts and second chances.
~*~*~
Chet pulled his left arm free of the shirt sleeve and reached into the locker for his blue uniform shirt. “Anyway, like I was saying, I went by 8’s to see how Carl was doing after that electrocution scare last week, and–”
The slam of the rear entrance door created an interruption, and all the firemen turned to greet the new arrival. Roy paused in buttoning his uniform and watched Johnny stride under a full black thundercloud into the locker room. The man’s face had the hollowness and sweat sheen of shock. His shirt was buttoned incorrectly and one hem peeked out of his jeans on the left side. Before Roy could say a word, Johnny flung open his locker door, and Chet resumed his story.
“Anyway, Carl was telling us about one of their runs yesterday. Telling you, guys, West Hollywood’s ’bout as bad as Venice. Nightclub fire, right? Only not just any nightclub. One of those drag clubs. So, 8’s gets called in, single response, and Carl and Roger go in on a sweep, ’cause they get the word a couple of the…” Chet snickered, and made an hour-glass figure in the air, “…girls are still in there.”
Roy wanted to wrap duct tape around Chet’s mouth but had none available. Johnny’s face had paled by another shade but he kept going through the motions of undressing.
“So, Carl and Roger are going through, smoke’s thick as cotton, and they find the ‘girls’ in one of the back dressing rooms. Apparently, instead of evacuating with the others, they had to go back for their makeup. Some real fancy, designer kind, they said. Just goes to show, when a guy tries to be a woman, he ends up more flipped out than any real chick.”
Before anyone saw it coming, Johnny lunged at Chet and pushed him up against his open locker door. “Enough! Hear me, Chet! Enough!”
“Johnny!” Roy grabbed at his friend’s shoulders and tried to haul him back before he could do more damage than shaking Chet up.
Chet had never looked so stunned, mouth hanging open, mustache perfectly still, too thrown to smooth his shirt or pull away from the locker before his awkward weight distribution snapped the hinges on the door. “G-Gage, what the hell?”
“You’re talking about me!” Johnny shouted at him, struggling against Roy’s hold while Marco and Mike looked on in a half-stupor.
“Johnny, please,” Roy pleaded.
“Talking about you how?” Chet asked, for once sounding more alarmed than curious.
“I don’t mean pink Speedos and roller skates or trying to be a woman,” Johnny gasped, still trying to get through Roy, who had moved around in front of him to serve as a buffer. “But what’s underneath it all, what you’re really running your mouth about, you’re talking about me! You don’t know it, but you are! And I’m good and sick of it!”
“How’m I–”
“Johnny,” Roy barked, hoping the harsh tone would distract him before he jettisoned his career.
“I don’t sleep with just women!” Johnny yelled. “That plain enough for you?”
Roy felt helpless and sickened when he saw Marco and Mike rush to get their uniform pants up even though Johnny hadn’t cast a single glance in their direction.
“What’s going on in here!” snapped Captain Stanley from the doorway.
“Just a little disagreement, Cap,” Roy said, pushing Johnny toward the engine bay. “Go on,” he whispered to him, “Rec room. Cool off.”
Unbuttoned uniform shirt askew and belt hanging loose at the waist, Johnny trudged past Captain Stanley as if the man were invisible. Roy watched him safely through the engine bay before giving Chet his coolest stare. “Damn you,” he said quietly.
Chet’s astonishment instantly doubled. “Aw, come on, Roy, how’d I–hell, you laugh at some of the things I say when, and I mean–”
“Jury-rigged peace pipes and practical jokes are one thing,” Roy growled at him. “That stuff couldn’t cost Johnny his job and me a partner!”
“You knew!” Chet accused him. “You knew, and didn’t tell us.”
“Tell me how the hell it’s any of your business, Chet?” Roy said. He looked around at Marco and Mike, who avoided his eyes. “Tell me how it’s any of our business, huh? Any of us. Tell me that.”
Stanley raised both hands. “All right. Everyone finish gearing up for shift. We’ll deal with whatever this is later. Could be getting a run any second.”
Roy buttoned his shirt without another glance at his station mates and hurried to the rec room where he found Johnny fully dressed and sitting hunched over on the leather couch with his elbows on his knees and his forehead braced in his open palms. Henry sat on his other side, and with the sensitivity of dogs to human despair, nudged his wet nose against Johnny’s side, but Johnny was past stroking the hound’s ears or offering any other reassurance. Roy sat down beside him and, for want of anything better to do, laid his hand against the small of Johnny’s back. Johnny flinched and jerked as though seconds from bursting off the couch.
“Shouldn’t have come in today,” Johnny muttered. “Knew it. Knew I shouldn’t have come in.”
“Johnny.”
“You were right, Roy,” Johnny said dully. “Got myself in good and deep this time. And now it’s over, and I just lost everything else that matters to me. I did, didn’t I? Just lost everything in there.”
Roy couldn’t offer him pat phrases of comfort. “Not if I can help it,” he said instead, putting his whole being into the words.
Upholding its reputation for the worst possible timing, the station alarm began ringing through a multiple station alert.
“Station 51. Engine 37. Truck 8. Structure fire. Plastics company, 1806 Oak Road, nearest cross street Webber. Be advised, informant reports highly flammable materials stored on site. Use caution.”
~*~*~
Starsky made a horrid face at the thermos and quickly screwed the cup lid in place. “God, this coffee is–there aren’t words for what this coffee is. Did you stir some dirty socks in the percolator or something?”
“Starsky, if you have to complain about the coffee, don’t drink it. Nobody asked you to.”
The bad-coffee grimace turned into raised eyebrow confusion. “You’re pissy for a guy who was up all night doing the unmentionable.”
“Oh, that’s what I was doing? Thanks for the newsflash, Jimmy, did you get the tip from Lois or Clark? I think you’ve got the market cornered on the unmentionable, Starsk.”
Starsky patted his groin and let out a tomcat growl. “All I know is, the college back east should be named Rachel and Mary.”
Hutch concentrated on the early morning traffic, determined not to let even his peripheral vision register Starsky’s presence until they reached Metro. Unfortunately, Starsky had gotten it into his head to swap sexual war stories. “You went over to Johnny’s, right?”
Hutch counted the billboards and business signs in passing. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
He felt Starsky’s full gaze center on his profile. “You two have a blow out?”
“Damn it, Starsky, there were only six words in my last sentence, and you managed to misinterpret all of them.”
The radio’s beep and interruption of static sounded deafening in Hutch’s hypersensitivity to silence. “Zebra Three, come in, Zebra Three.”
Still watching Hutch’s profile, Starsky reached for the mic. “Zebra Three, go ahead Control.”
“Shots fired at Dale Terrace Apartments unit eighteen, apartment B, respond code-three.”
“Ten-four, Control, we are responding.”
~*~*~
Roy took the red light at ten miles over and noticed that Johnny didn’t give him the customary side look. “What happened?”
Johnny fidgeted with his helmet’s chin strap. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“All right.”
Just as Roy anticipated, the feigned indifference unlocked Johnny’s jaw. “I’m an idiot, Roy, that’s what.”
“Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”
“You’re the one who asked.”
“Well, I was hoping if I asked, you’d decide you didn’t wanna talk about it.”
“Roy, if they ever do an autopsy on your brain, they’ll find a bunch of one way streets with no cross-street connectors.”
Roy produced the expected long-suffering sigh. “Okay, you win. Maybe it’s better if you do talk about it.”
“Oh, yeah? Like how?”
“Because, Johnny, when you clam up, things go from bad to worse, and this run we’re on? You know the one fire hazard the whole station has feared for years? Plastics company with the storage room, two aisles of 325-pound cartons stacked eight-feet high? That’s where we’re headed now. So get this other out of your system before we get there.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you what happened. Here’s some advice for you, Roy. Just in case things don’t work out for you and Joanne, and you start thinking a guy might be the ticket? Don’t ever tell a guy you love him.” Warming to his subject, Johnny used his hands as visual aids, pointing, slicing the air. “You can tell a buddy you love him in a back-patting way. No problem. But don’t ever drag out the romantic version with a guy.”
Roy braked gently to give a pickup time to pull over and free the lane for speed passing. “Well, I doubt that’ll ever come into play for me, but thanks for the advice just the same.”
“And another thing. Don’t ever fall for a cop. No sir.” Another slice of Johnny’s hand through the air. “And if you have to fall for a cop, don’t fall for one positively hung up on his partner. His straight partner. That’s disaster in the making right there.”
“Sounds like the decks were stacked against you.”
“Hell, Roy, the decks were stacked so high I’d have had to use the Snorkel to get over ’em. Crummy jerk. I was willing to give up girls for him! Me!”
“Uh-huh.”
“You remember what you used to say about me, right? ‘Never met a skirt he didn’t like.’ You even told Dix that once or twice.”
“And several variations of the same.”
“Yeah, some of it was cover, but not all. I’ve never had a problem knowing what to do with girls in the bedroom.”
Roy slid him a quick sideways glance. “Never thought you did.”
“I mean, some guys who sleep with men can’t even get it up for women, you know? No guy, no go. And that’s fine for them, but that’s never been me. So, maybe I prefer guys. Maybe I know that now. So what? We can’t always have what we prefer in life, right?”
“No, I guess not. What’re you saying?”
“If you find out ice cream gives you hives, but sorbet doesn’t, and sorbet is right there available, why not take the sorbet and forget about the ice cream, that’s what I’m saying.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I think I’d be better off just going back to girls.”
For that brilliant timing, Roy had only a frown. “Pity you couldn’t have made that decision before you outed yourself to the whole A-shift in the locker room.”
“Not just A-shift. By the time Chet runs out of breath, every station in LA County will know.” Johnny looked out his window, then down at his lap. “That was dumb, you’re right. This might be our last run together, partner.”
“Doubt it. Stanley’s a fair guy. He knows you’d be tough to replace. If he can convince the other guys to deal with it, and keep their mouths shut about it, then we’ve got a chance.”
“Thanks, Roy.”
“For what?”
“The we.”
“Don’t mention it.” Roy smirked and, safely speeding down a straight-away, risked moving his right hand from the steering wheel to pat Johnny’s shoulder. “After all, I love you, Johnny.”
Johnny groaned and rested his head back against the cab divider. “Everybody’s a comedian.”
~*~*~
Starsky cut the siren two blocks from the apartment complex entrance. Hutch had to slow down to make the tight right turn into the lot, the entrance and exit both narrowed by the median sign’s brickwork and flowerbed. Starsky wrestled with the half-broken window knob until he’d managed to lower the window. “Left up here. We’re looking for 18B.”
The apartments were the usual cheap wood painted to look expensive and alluring, with unnecessary trim work and ridiculous diamond-paned front windows. On the end unit’s strip of “lawn,” a miniature man jumped up and down, waving both hands overhead. Hutch slammed on the brakes and rushed to calm him down before they had a cardiac case on their hands along with whatever awaited them in 18B.
“Up there!” the man pointed behind him at the third floor. “The Nelsons. I think somebody’s gonna get killed in there!”
“Sir, stand still and take a deep breath. All right. Now who are you?”
“Roger Dawson, the apartment manager.” Back to pointing with over half his body involved in the gesture, the little man reminded Hutch of a terrier jumping for a treat dangled just out of reach. “Maryann Parker in the neighboring unit called me when she heard gunshots, and I told her to stay put and I called the police.”
Hutch patted his shoulder and nodded over his head at Starsky. “You take your own advice and stay put, Mr. Dawson. We’ll take care of it.”
They took the outside steps along each side of the narrow stairwell, leaving a free space in between so that any fleeing suspect would run into a trap rather than bowling them all down the stairs. When another shot rang out, they didn’t waste time knocking on the door to announce police presence. Gun cocked and ready in a two-handed grip over his head, Starsky delivered the lock-busting kick to the door, and Hutch went in first and high, his own weapon leveled at the living room. Raised voices and an enraged feminine scream from the back of the apartment drew them down the hall.
“Put the gun down, Denise! You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“I’m gonna hurt you, you two-timing son-of-a-bitch. After I take care of the other woman here.” The venom in her voice threatened imminent murder and hastened the detectives down the hall.
With their shared knowledge that too many cops lost their lives in the middle of domestic disputes, Hutch fielded Starsky’s “you stay alive, damn it” look with one of his own in response.
“Mrs. Nelson, it’s the police!” Hutch called from the hallway. “Drop your weapon, and come out of the room slowly with your hands in the air.” He held his breath, watching Starsky, memorizing every laughter line, each bit of stubble Starsky had missed in a rushed morning shave, the nick on the right jaw line with a piece of Kleenex stuck to it. He wanted a picture of that face burned into his brain for posterity or to carry into eternity, because if they had to breach that doorway with no clear line of sight, a civilian’s gun draw might out of tragic luck be quicker than one of theirs.
They heard a heavy, muffled metallic thud followed by a woman’s harsh sobs, but no accompanying footfalls. Starsky nodded sideways at the open door, twirling his fingers to indicate an “in and out.” Guns raised, they peeked in from either side of the door, glimpsing the gun on the floor at the woman’s feet. On their armed entry, the woman jumped and then crumpled to her knees.
Starsky emptied the woman’s gun of its remaining two bullets, and turned his attention to the couple huddled together under the covers, trying to hide their nudity. He lifted his navy windbreaker to holster his gun. “Either of you hurt?”
“No,” said the man whose voice they had already heard. “She, uh, she just waved it around yelling and then shot at the floor.”
“At the floor?” Hutch’s thoughts aligned with Starsky’s instantly, because Starsky took off out the door and down the hall, no doubt to check on the apartment below.
“What’s the trouble?” the woman in the bed asked.
Hutch squatted to put his arm around Denise’s shoulders and help her to her feet. “If these floors are as thin as some we’ve seen, then there’s a good chance the bullets reached the apartment below.”
“Y-you mean, I-I might’ve hurt s-somebody?” Denise pushed her long dark hair over her shoulders and revealed a tear-streaked face, mascara trailing down and dripping from her chin. “I-I didn’t think!”
“No, I guess you didn’t,” Hutch tried to keep his voice level and soft. The poor shivering creature in his semi-embrace had suffered enough.
“I w-work third shift at the Mercury Answering Service. We had an equipment malfunction this morning, so they l-let us out early. N-now I know why Billy wanted me to take the t-third shift job.”
“Denise–”
“You just shut up, you lousy creep! I wish to God I’d aimed at you instead of the floor!”
“Take it easy, Mrs. Nelson.”
“Take it easy?” she yelled at Hutch. Then her face stiffened again and fresh tears welled in her eyes. “I have a permit for that gun if that makes any difference. Working third shift, I need to feel safe.”
“I understand that, Mrs. Nelson, but carrying the gun in your purse makes it a concealed weapon.”
“Concealed weapon!” She waved her hand at the bed. “You’re talking to me about concealment?”
Starsky appeared in the doorway. “Downstairs apartment is empty. Mr. Dawson said the family’s on vacation.”
“Thank God,” Denise sobbed. “Can you believe the nerve of this guy? Shacking up with his ex-wife!”
“Denise, this was a one-time thing,” said the ex-wife, steadier-voiced now.
“Oh, spin me another yarn, you man-stealing cow!” Denise screeched at her. “When it’s over, it’s supposed to be over!”
“Denise,” Billy Nelson pleaded, “you acted like you didn’t even wanna be around me.”
“I was having a rough time, you orangoutang! That doesn’t mean you go running back to the woman you ditched three years ago. How do you think that makes me feel? You’d rather have what you already discarded than be with me.”
“I really don’t like being referred to as yesterday’s garbage,” the other woman protested.
Hutch suddenly had 120 pounds of enraged female struggling against his hold to do more violence with her bare hands than she had with her firearm. “I don’t give a good diggity damn what you want to be referred to, you, you female orangoutang! You know what, Billy? You’re gonna have two ex-wives. Which of us will you want to shack up with now?”
Eyeing Denise’s fingernails and her teeth-bared, wild eyed rage, Billy began to shiver and draw the covers tighter to himself. “I think I’m gonna try celibacy.”
~*~*~
“There’s no doubt, Cap, we’ve got to get into that storage room. From what I could see through the window, he’s pinned good, and if shock’s setting in and we can’t get an IV started in time….”
Captain Stanley nodded at Roy. “Right. I was afraid of that.”
“We could try going in through the roof,” Johnny suggested. “It’s basically reinforced tin. K-12 should handle it. Lower down with ladders, use the Stokes for evacuation.”
“Good idea, Johnny,” Stanley said, scratching his chin. “Except I think it’s too risky putting direct pressure on the roof. We’d need the Snorkel. Hover above the roof and lower down with the ropes and safety belts from the carriage.”
“Not enough time to get the Snorkel company here,” Roy said with a headshake. “We need to get him out now. The main facility could go up any second.”
“And take all of us with it,” Johnny agreed.
“Now listen, you two. We’ve talked about this before. If we send you in there, we’ll have to run at least an inch-and-half line with you, and as soon as those lower boxes soak up the water, the whole business is coming down on your heads.”
“We know that, Cap,” Roy said, “but I don’t see any way around it. You, Johnny?”
“Nope. We’ll just have to make it double-quick in and out and wait to get him out here before we contact Rampart and start treatment.”
“Okay.” Stanley raised his horn and called, “Chet! Marco! Need you both over here with the inch-and-a-half!”
Marco and Chet emerged from the warehouse proper with their water line stretched between them and team-carried it over to the brainstorming firemen. “Yeah, Cap?” Chet asked.
“We’ve got a man pinned in the storage room. Johnny and Roy need to get to him, but there’s no good way but the direct route. You and Marco need to lay a cover spray on both sides, give them a clear corridor to get through.”
“Ten-four, Cap.” Marco readjusted his oxygen mask and nodded at Chet.
“Guys, remember what we’ve talked about. Those boxes won’t hold long. And if they come down on you, it’s–”
“Curtains,” Chet said. “Yeah, Cap, we know.”
~*~*~
“Wanted to let her off with a warning.” Hutch leaned against the LTD’s rear fender and watched the black and white leave the parking lot with Denise Nelson in custody.
“I thought about accidental discharge of firearm,” Starsky said, chuckling.
“Four accidental discharges? Dobey would’ve laughed at us and then chewed us bloody.”
“Still….”
“Yeah,” Hutch said. “If she hadn’t tried to go for my gun there at the end to finish what she started, we might’ve been able to spare her the arrest.”
“Her husband was too scared to prefer charges, but I’ll bet you the other woman won’t have any such trouble.” Starsky scuffed his heel over a crack in the asphalt. “Hmmph.”
“What?”
“Just thinking.”
“Too early in the morning for that, Starsk. What’re you thinking about anyway?”
“Ex-wives.”
“Meaning mine?”
“How’d you–”
“You don’t have an ex-wife lurking around, unless you’ve been hiding something from me for… No, wait, I’m the one who hides things for years.” Hutch rested his palms back on the trunk and leaned his weight heavily on them.
Starsky squeezed the nape of Hutch’s neck, letting his fingers linger in the longer blond hair. The common touch somehow appealed to him more now that those long strands tangled in his fingers, tickling his skin. “Hey, no self-inflicted ass-kicking after a domestic call. It’s bad luck.”
“Since when?”
“Since now. And, yeah, I was thinking about Vanessa.”
“Well, don’t give her a second thought, partner. Who the hell knows where she is, and who the hell cares. All I know is she wants nothing to do with me, and that’s about fifty-percent more than I want to do with her.”
Starsky stared at him under the sun protection of his left hand. From the direction of the highway came the wailing of a fire truck siren. Hutch’s neck muscles tensed against Starsky’s hand, and he squeezed again, wanting badly to distract Hutch from the sound before it faded in the distance.
“When it’s over, it’s supposed to be over,” Hutch said.
“What?” Starsky asked, uncertain he’d heard right.
“Nothing. Let’s make ourselves available and head on into the station.”
“Hutch, you and Johnny really have it out?”
“Yeah.”
“What about?”
Hutch’s face soured with his patented dark irony. “The tooth fairy. I say she’s a drag queen; Johnny disagrees.”
What could Starsky say to that? He walked around the car, slid into the passenger seat, and reached for the mic. “Zebra Three to Control. Log us available for calls.”
~*~*~
Through the enveloping smoke, Johnny watched Chet and Marco double team the flames that threatened the exit corridor. “We’ve gotta get him out of here now!”
Roy returned his mask to his face, Johnny’s cue to remove his own and apply it to the patient’s face in lieu of the more volatile portable oxygen supply they couldn’t afford to bring into the flammable setting. “His neck feels sound!” Roy shouted through his mask. “I think we’re just dealing with the bump on his head and the compound fractured leg where he was pinned. Let’s try to–”
With no mask straps to impede his hearing, Johnny caught a sound that froze him stiff inside. He looked over at Marco and Chet, and then up the row of cartons, watching the top boxes start to wobble. On his feet, he forgot his mask and the patient, taking off toward the firemen, shouting, “Marco! Chet!”
Over the water spray they had little hope of hearing him. Chet moved out of the danger zone of his own accord, aiming his spray at a new outbreak of flames near the exit, but Marco stood to take the brunt of any carton avalanche. Pumping his arms for an extra burst of speed, Johnny threw himself at Marco, hearing a sound oddly like thunder, and registering a blow to his right shoulder. He saw his aunt. He saw Roy. He saw Ken. Fleeting glimpses of friendly faces or once friendly faces. The last image, strangely enough, was Dr. Brackett, shining one of those rare smiles on him. His fuzziness cleared, and Johnny wondered if he’d blacked out and had come to in Rampart and, if so, what shape could he be in, if Brackett was smiling at him in that tender physician way?
“Johnny! Marco! Johnny, can you hear me, damn it?! Johnny!”
Roy’s voice.
Thank God.
Johnny felt a mask slapped to his face and looked up into Marco’s panicked eyes. Marco sat propped against a sturdier section of cartons, and supported Johnny in a cradling hold. The firmness Johnny felt behind his back was Marco’s chest. Chet gave them cover spray, his herky-jerky movements with the hose line testifying to the closeness of disaster. Johnny tried to talk. “I–”
“Shut up, ‘migo,” Marco ordered. “Breathe deep. You took in a little too much smoke, and caught a glancing blow on your shoulder from one of the boxes; I don’t know how bad it is. But if you hadn’t knocked me down, I would’ve been Marco pancake right about now.”
“Roy!” Johnny shouted.
“Johnny, that you? Thank God! You all right?”
Johnny didn’t understand why Roy couldn’t see for himself. Then he turned his head and quaked at the hill of cartons that had efficiently cut the corridor in half, leaving Roy and the patient trapped on the other side with no water support and just one oxygen mask between them. He tried desperately to stand. “We have to get those boxes moved!”
Instantly, strong arms pinned him in place. “Johnny, stay put!”
“They won’t be able to breathe over there. That guy’s in shock, losing blood!”
“Cap’s got 37’s trying to get to them from the other side through the connecting wall with the main facility,” Chet shouted to him. “We’re gonna get ’em out, Johnny. We’re gonna get all of us out! Now sit there and breathe, you stubborn son-of-a-bitch!”
~*~*~
“Damn it!” Hutch wagged his offended finger in the air and then sucked gently on the tip.
Phone propped on his shoulder in wait for a response on the line, Starsky looked up from spinning his quarter on the desktop. “Paper cut?”
Hutch tried wagging his finger again but the cool breeze he generated only stung the tiny cut. He flung the culprit file folder over to Starsky’s side of the desk. “I should go home and start over.”
“No argument from me on that one. First that guy cut you off coming into Metro’s lot, and then the elevator tried to close on you, and–”
“Thank you, Starsky. Just what I needed. The play-by-play of a lousy morning.”
“I think you stumbled over a nasty little leprechaun this morning.”
“Starsky, you’re not Irish. I doubt there’s a drop of Irish blood in your entire family going back two-hundred years. How the hell do you know anything about leprechauns?”
“Know enough to know they don’t always bring good luck,” Starsky countered. He took the phone receiver in hand, shook it, and then said loudly, “Hello? Hello anybody there?” Frowning, he dropped the receiver back in its cradle. “Hung up on me, the little rat. Hung up on by a snitch, how’d you like that?”
Dobey’s door opened, and Hutch instinctively cringed, expecting his bad luck to continue, but the captain’s irritated frown centered on Starsky. Twitching his shoulder an inch in the office’s direction, Starsky whispered, “He’s lookin’ at me?” Hutch nodded. Starsky shifted slowly in his chair, already assuming his innocent smile that never worked with anyone, especially Dobey.
“Starsky, get in here and explain this report.”
“Uh, what’s to explain, Cap’n? It’s pretty cut and dried.”
“Not the way you wrote it. Reads like a State Department brief without all the fifty-cent words.”
“I think your leprechaun knows we’re a package deal,” Starsky said to Hutch and followed Dobey into the office.
Shaking his head, chuckling a little under breath, Hutch returned to sorting their recent case files. He reached for his coffee mug and boggled the clutch. The cup landed on its side, rolled to the edge of the table, and missed the safety net of his hand by mere centimeters. At the resultant crack and thud on the floor, he pounded his fist on the table and looked for Woolfolk’s box of tissues to begin the cleanup.
Motion behind him turned his head. Minnie had come over from the room’s corner desk where she had been in consultation with the team of detectives making an R&I request. She brought tissues with her and made quick work of the coffee spill, but Hutch leaned over and gently pushed her hand away from the shards of mug. Minnie walked around the table and helped herself to Starsky’s chair.
“Having a rough morning, honey?”
“You could say that.”
“Hutch, you haven’t been out there breaking somebody’s heart?”
Hutch immediately dropped the two largest shards he’d gathered. “What?”
“Small squadroom, handsome. I heard Starsky cataloging your run of bad luck. Sounds to me like you’re getting spanked by the invisible hand.”
Hutch abandoned the broken mug for eye contact with the woman he hadn’t known was a practitioner of the occult. “Invisible hand?”
“My granddaddy used to say the universe has a way of spanking heartbreakers with the invisible hand. Everything from the insignificant and annoying to the big, bad, and ugly.”
“Minnie, I’ve been through plenty of breakups in my time without inciting the universe’s wrath.”
“Not talking about breakups, Hutch. Talking about breaking someone’s heart into pieces, the kind of pieces that don’t fit together right for a good, long while and really mess a body up. That’s not the same thing. Bet you haven’t done much of that in your time.”
Hutch went back to gathering mug pieces. “No offense to Granddaddy Kaplan, but I don’t believe in universal spanking.”
“Granddaddy Johnson. My maternal grandfather. And he was smarter than a whole room of Harvard Ph.D.s. I learned long ago I’d do right by myself whenever I let his wisdom guide me.”
“Did he give you any advice on how to appease the invisible hand?”
She gave him a motherly smile. “Nope. Has to run its course. Usually ends with something much bigger than a broken coffee mug, so watch yourself, honey, and let Starsky do his usual bang up job covering your tail out there.”
Hutch dumped the mug shards into the nearby trashcan, but he couldn’t take his eyes off their incompleteness. “Did he tell you what happens to the heartbreakees?”
“Um-hm. Universe lets up on them, a little, to soften the blow. Sprinkles a little magic their way. A little miracle here, a little windfall there. Maybe their fondest wish comes true. Guess it’s kinda like the Good Book talks about the first being last, the last being first.”
Remembering Johnny’s dazed, pale-faced silence at his parting words, Hutch hoped for his ex-lover’s sake that part of Granddaddy Johnson’s superstition had basis in fact.
~*~*~
Captain Stanley leaned into the kitchen doorway and motioned for Johnny. “Gage? My office.”
Johnny felt the weight of four pairs of eyes on his back as he left the table. Five, counting Henry, who actually lifted his head from the sofa with a half-hearted woof. Whatever news Stanley had for him, Johnny was glad for the summons, an excuse to ditch the quietest lunch he’d ever experienced at Station 51. When even Chet couldn’t find some lame conversation starter, A-shift had little hope of returning to normalcy in the near future. In the setting of a fire to fight, they could rely on old patterns, old lines of communication, and function as a team, but in quarters, they resembled separate islands in a chain.
Stanley sat behind his deck and kicked back in his chair. The informal posture should have eased Johnny’s mind, but he stood in inspection formation, with his hands clasped behind his back, as if facing the battalion chief.
“Johnny, I had a talk with each of the guys while you and Roy were at Rampart with the storage room injury victim. The consensus is that you’re one hell of a firefighter and paramedic.”
“Thank you, Cap.”
“By the way, how’s the shoulder?”
Johnny jiggled his arm and patted the shoulder for good measure. “No dislocation, muscle tear, or fracture. Brackett said I was real lucky. I’ll have a nifty bruise, and it’ll be sore as hell, but nothing to keep me off the job.”
Stanley smiled. “What happened this morning in the locker room doesn’t change the fact that you’ve saved the life of each and every one of us at one point or another, and what you did for Marco this morning is just another example.”
“You guys have saved my bacon more than once, too,” Johnny said.
“We’re a good team, A-shift. But a good team doesn’t mean that one member can make life decisions for another. Roy made a valid point this morning. What you do in your off-duty time, short of something illegal, shouldn’t be any of our business. If Roy wanted to have an affair with a swimsuit model, Marco started dating three nurses at the same time, or Mike decided to join a nudist colony, there would be no threat to their job security. There shouldn’t be in your case either. None of it has anything to do with what’s expected of you here in the station or out in the field.”
Johnny tugged on both ear lobes and stepped closer to the desk in case his hearing had decided to play tricks on him. “Cap, are you saying–?”
“I’m saying if you decide to spin the bottle with one of the guys from B-shift, I don’t care, as long as you continue to serve LA County with the distinction you always have. I draw the line at A-shift, though. I won’t stand for two firefighters on the same shift involved with each other on that level. Too dangerous. Too much chance of lethal hesitation or distraction in the field.”
“Captain, I’ve, uh, never been involved with a firefighter.” He felt the dull pain in his chest again and wondered briefly if he’d ever been the cause of someone feeling the uncomfortable sensation. “As of this morning, I’m not involved with anyone.”
Stanley rubbed his chin, nodding. “Ah. So that’s what triggered the explosion?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You usually put Chet in his place with a witty comeback or make his nonsense backfire on him. I figured this morning there had to be extenuating circumstances for you to resort to physical confrontation.”
“Um, yessir. Are you saying I get to keep my job? Working here, with Roy?”
“That’s about the size of it, yes. Now, I’m sorry to say I doubt the Board of Supervisors would back me, so I did my best to impress on the guys, especially Chet, that what was said in the locker room this morning has to stay with A-shift if they want you around to patch up their line-of-duty injuries.”
“And they agreed?”
“They each gave their word, and I believe them.”
“Cap, I don’t understand. It’s so quiet out there. When you called me in here, I figured it was to tell me the guys wanted me out. Not Roy, I knew, but the others–”
“Johnny, you work with good men. You threw them for a loop this morning. I can’t blame them; threw me, too, when I got to the bottom of what happened. I’m sure their initial reactions were as flawed as the next guy’s, and they’re probably sitting in there right now none too proud of it. You go in there and let them know all is forgiven, and you’ll be surprised how quickly everything gets back to normal.”
Johnny couldn’t think of anything to do but go all the way up to the desk and offer his hand to the man that had saved his career. Stanley accepted the handshake with another smile. “Cap, you’re the greatest. I thought I was done for. Big time.”
Looking serious again, Stanley settled back in his chair. “I also reminded Chet that we serve all the citizens of LA County, from a parish priest to a used car salesman to a drag performer. Singling out a group of citizenry for derogatory remarks is unprofessional and ill befitting a fireman. I think he got the message, but I doubt he’ll refrain from teasing you in his way. If it gets to be a problem, let me know.”
Johnny could handle Chet’s teasing. “Aw, Cap, I’ll just hit him with a witty comeback.”
“Well, good, glad to hear it. Now get on back in there and finish your lunch. I have what feels like a 5,000-page report to type up, and I’ve already wasted enough time on something trivial.”
Johnny went whistling back to the kitchen. Silence greeted him. He paused at the table and clutched his shoulder, already feeling the soreness. “Thanks, guys. It’s great sharing a station with big-hearted Joes like you.”
Roy smiled and tucked into his hamburger. Marco pulled Johnny’s chair out from the table while Mike brought over the frying pan and dumped some fresh french fries on Johnny’s plate. Johnny thanked him with a smile and sat down to actually enjoy his food.
Chet pulled his chair over to Johnny’s side and draped an arm around Johnny’s back, avoiding the sore shoulder. “Don’t need to thank me, Johnny. I love you like you’re my sister.”
Mike and Marco both tensed, but they relaxed again when Johnny responded by shoving a handful of fries in Chet’s mouth.
Chewing vigorously, Chet said, “Not funny?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, then. I love you like my brother. Hell, my brother’s a klepto. No, really, guys, he is, and I still love him.” He looked around at the various reactions. “That came out wrong, too, huh?”
Johnny took mercy on him. “Yeah, it did. But that’s okay. I know you’re kind of slow, Mr. 74 on the Engineer’s Exam.”
Marco burst out laughing, and Mike even added a couple of chuckles. Chet flushed, but his arm tightened in a half-hug around Johnny’s back before drawing away, and Johnny found he had an enormous appetite for the same hamburger that had tasted like sawdust only minutes before his summons to Stanley’s office.
~*~*~
“You guys are laying a lot on the line, expectin’ an ugly piece of work like Wheeler to fall for the crooked cops bait.”
“Huggy, are you in with this or not?” Hutch sat down on the sofa bed and covered his face with sweaty palms, needing to hide from the other men in the room. At some point in the next few hours, he had to find a minute to process Vanessa’s death. Two swallows of brandy had warmed his gullet an eternity ago, but the aftermath of shock lurked ever closer. He couldn’t hide from Starsky. Weight dipped the pullout mattress at his side, and Starsky slid a warm arm around his waist.
“Hutch, I know you’ve had a rough go, but man, you know better’n to ask me that.”
Hutch let his hands fall to his lap. “Huggy, right now I don’t know better than anything.”
Huggy nodded. “I hear ya.”
The phone rang. Starsky hopped up, but Huggy beat him to the shelf beside the small TV, reminding them both with a look that they were guests in his apartment. After a grunted salutation, he thrust the phone at Starsky. “For you, of course. Dobey.”
Starsky took the phone. Feeling the other side of the adrenaline high turn his inner workings to cement, Hutch lacked the energy or motivation to move over and listen in on this conversation.
Starsky’s alarmed fidgeting with his wristwatch told the tale. “What–! But how’d they– Well, yeah, I figured they would, but… How much time you figure we got? Listen, we’ll find a place. I’ll get back to you about the diamond photo… I know, Cap, I know. Thanks for the call. We both owe you.” He stood there dangling the receiver by its cord. Huggy had to help him find the remainder of the phone.
Hutch wearily lifted his head, prepared to take it on the chin. “Bad news?”
“We’ve gotta get out of here. Someone whispered in Simonetti’s ear that we’d be likely to go to Huggy, and he tracked down the address. If Dobey hadn’t gotten wind of it, we’d’ve been sitting here when they knocked on the door. We’ve got maybe five minutes at most.”
“Where will you guys go? I have a buddy in Long Beach. You want me to call him up?”
“We’d never get there. Simonetti went over Dobey’s head and got the okay from the chief to order roadblocks. They’re already set up south of the city.”
“Roadblocks!” Hutch found it hard to stand. “Where’d the Blue Wall go? We’ve caught hell over the years for bringing down dirty cops, and never had roadblocks to help us out. I guess now the Department’s determined to see that I really get a taste.”
“Hutch, this is Simonetti’s vendetta.”
“Oh, yeah? What about the Department snitch that put him on Huggy’s trail? I’d give my front teeth to know who that was.”
Starsky headed for the door. “Whoever it is better hope I don’t find out. It’ll get so hot, the fink’ll be in Dobey’s office asking for a transfer to Fargo, North Dakota. We’ve always had enemies in the Department, Hutch, that’s nothing new.”
“And warrant-dodging will really make us popular.” Hutch caught up to Starsky at the door and slammed it shut in front of him, gripping his arm. “If I go back in now, Dobey could work something out for you, before you get in over your head.”
Starsky jerked his arm free and reached for the doorknob. “No! If you think I’m lettin’ you take your chances in court on circumstantial evidence strong enough to make Dobey sign off on that warrant–”
“The people we’ve arrested have had to take their chances.” Hutch put his hand down on Starsky’s, preventing a turn of the knob. “What makes me any different? Roadblocks! That son-of-a-bitch Simonetti is dragging uniformed cops off their regular duties, leaving innocent citizens unprotected. How am I supposed to live with that?”
“It’s a railroad job, and it’s on Simonetti’s head, and Dryden’s, not yours. You’re not guilty, damn it!”
“And if I were?”
“Hutch, we don’t have time–”
“If I were?!”
“We wouldn’t be here! If you’d killed her, you would’ve either turned the gun on yourself or turned yourself in, and you know it!”
“And if I’d called you over, with her lying there on the floor, and told you I’d done it?”
“Hutch, can we please wait ’til we’re in a safe location to debate our moral backsliding? I won’t stand by and watch you go to prison. Not now, not ever. If you go down, I go too. If they get here before we’re gone, they’ll have to get through me to get to you. Hear what I’m saying?”
Hutch heard. Resisting arrest in this situation could only earn Starsky a quick trip to the morgue. Knowing that, Hutch could easily let morality and ethics take the fast train to Hell. He released Starsky’s hand and remembered that they weren’t alone. Huggy had witnessed their aborted debate and looked pretty shell-shocked for a guy who had supposedly seen and heard it all. Hutch clasped their host’s shoulder and tried to smile. “Thanks for the hospitality, Huggy.”
Huggy’s quiet nod was potent. “Go ahead and take the caddy, man.”
“No,” Hutch said. “The caddy stays. We’ll have to chance it with the LTD. When they get here, you need to look sleepy, confused, and like you haven’t seen us in days. Don’t give them reason to hassle you. Let them search the place and go away thinking they got a frozen tip.”
“And the plan?” Huggy asked.
“The plan hasn’t changed,” Starsky told him. “I’ll get back here in the morning.”
“You dudes watch yourselves. Don’t wanna have to make visitations to San Quentin.”
~*~*~
“Chief thinks you’re guilty,” Starsky said when they had safely escaped Huggy’s neighborhood. “That’s why he okayed the all points south block first. Figures you’ll head for the border.”
“That’s why we’re going west.”
“West? What the hell is west?”
Spotting an oncoming black-and-white, Hutch jerked the LTD onto the next side street and cut the lights. “Starsky, we agreed we don’t stand a chance this time trying to hide in bowling alleys or pool halls. By now it’s on the street, and there are about six dozen creeps in any given dive who’d love to drop a dime on the cops and rat us out.”
“Right.” Starsky was staring out the rear window. “Okay, he’s by us.”
Hutch turned into an alley between two store fronts, backed carefully out, and returned to the main road. “So, we need somewhere no one in the Department would connect with either one of us. Dumb, going to Huggy’s, and it almost cost us. And him!”
“Right.”
“So we’re headed west.”
“Yeah, I get that. What’s west, I’m asking?”
“Topanga.”
“Hutch, Huggy was one thing; give and take, he owes us, we owe him, fine, and he’d say the same thing. But you’re talking about your–”
“My what?” Hutch asked sharply, barely remembering to brake at the red light.
Starsky didn’t meet his eyes. “He’s a civilian, Hutch.”
“A fireman-paramedic isn’t exactly a civilian, Starsky. He’s been in plenty of tight spots; not of a criminal nature, I’ll grant you, but he’s–he’s good for it. I think we can manage it without putting him at too much risk. He’ll get some say-so. Be on the lookout for a relatively safe payphone.”
~*~*~
The minute Big Red pulled out of the station transporting 51’s engine company to a rubbish fire that didn’t require paramedic response, Johnny asked permission with a look at Roy to turn off the late night John Wayne versus Indians flick. Roy shrugged his disinterest and Johnny flipped the TV switch.
Roy yawned. “Chet just watches those to get your goat.”
“I know, but as long as he’s getting my goat with that, he lays off the other,” Johnny said, stretching in the uncomfortable dining table chair.
“I’m gonna turn in.” Roy yawned again. “I’ve got a feeling this’ll be a busy night. You watch, by the time midnight rolls around, we’ll start fielding runs.”
“I’ll be in there in a few. Got an itch for milk and cookies.”
Roy stood in the kitchen doorway watching him prepare his snack. “You’re really okay.”
Johnny smiled at him and tried to formulate an answer through a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie, but Roy held up both hands and said, “Never mind. I get the picture. Don’t eat the whole jar.”
“I won’t eat the jar, Mom, but I might eat all the cookies in it.”
“Yeah, junior, and don’t be surprised if you get a tummy ache.”
Left alone in the kitchen, Johnny could lose the plastic smile. He carried his handful of cookies and milk glass over to the semi circle of chairs and settled in the one he’d left good and warm. Halfway through his handful, and already thinking of a second helping, Johnny nearly choked on his cookie when the kitchen phone rang twice. He expected a third ring, but silence had him swallowing hard and rapping on his chest to make sure the cookie was taking the full trip. When the phone rang again, he leapt up out of habit to answer.
“Station 51. Gage.” He took a sip of milk and told himself he didn’t want to hear a certain voice on the other line.
“Johnny. Glad you’re there.”
Johnny glanced over his shoulder at the doorway. Sacked out in the dorm, Roy might have heard the phone ring, but probably not. Anger suffused Johnny; his grip tightened on his glass and the phone. He loosened his left hand before he ended up needing stitches. “You’ve got some nerve calling here.”
“I know,” Ken sounded exhausted, and somehow older. “I’m in trouble, Johnny.”
“Who’d you piss off this time?”
“Internal Affairs. Look, I don’t have a lot of time for explanations, and that’s in no way fair to you at all, but I need your help. Not just for my sake, but for Starsky’s. If I had anyone else to turn to, I would, but you’re–“
“A last resort?” Johnny interrupted. “That fits.”
“Johnny, listen to me, damn it. At this payphone, we’re sitting ducks. Does your station get newspaper delivery?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. Tomorrow there’ll be an article, probably front page, with my picture plastered all over it. Don’t believe everything you read. The part about my–my ex-wife being murdered in my living room? It’s true. But I wasn’t there when the trigger was pulled. I didn’t even have the chance to save her. You have to believe that.”
Johnny clutched his milk glass to prevent a shattering spill.
“Johnny?”
“I’m here.”
“Starsky and I are on the run. There’s a warrant out for my arrest, but our captain’s working behind the scenes to give us a chance to flush out the real killers, and that article is part of our plan. We need a place to crash for the night. Feels like the whole Department’s out in force looking for us. We went to a friend’s place, but someone tipped IA, and we got out of there just in the nick of time.”
“You want to stay at my place.”
“Yeah. I’ve got no right to ask, especially after–but I’m asking. Before you decide, here’s something you have to know. If by some stretch of the imagination, the Department ties us to you, and things don’t work out, you could be up for an accessory charge. At the very least, aiding and abetting, and harboring a fugitive. Do you understand?”
Johnny’s chest had shrunk inside to the size of a doll’s, and his heart took up the 1812 Overture. “I understand.”
“Okay, here’s where I give you about thirty seconds to tell me yes or no.”
“Will you guys be there when I get in from shift tomorrow morning?”
“Probably, yes.”
Facing Ken again worried Johnny more than the possibility of arrest on charges he really knew little about as far as the consequences they entailed. That danger seemed remote. The danger of Ken was real and close. Too close. He could feel warm lips caressing his neck, and large, graceful hands stroking him to hardness.
“Twenty seconds and counting, Johnny.”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
“You mean–“
“Yes, okay. Just do what you have to do. Wait a sec. How’re you gonna get in?”
“Don’t worry about that. We know our way around locks, and believe me, in this case, that can only help your cause. Better if it doesn’t look like you put out the welcome mat. Thanks for this, Johnny. This is about more than getting my badge back. This is–“
“Life or death. I know. I’ve heard that before.”
~*~*~
The change of shift in the morning tortured Johnny to the point of banging his head on his locker door. Newspaper delivery caused a sensation. Station 51’s departing A-shift and the arriving B-shift gathered around the table in a loud debate over Canyon Super Cop. The debate evolved into something close to a mock trial, and Johnny didn’t hang around to hear the verdict. The phone began ringing, and he wasn’t surprised to hear Chet announce that the guys from Station 38’s A-shift had called to express their shock and certainty that it had to be some kind of frame job all the way. After all, if Canyon Super Cop could be dirty, and a murderer, then the city had really gone to the dogs and might just take the whole world with it.
He had changed into his jeans when Roy appeared in the locker room to exchange his turnout uniform for civvies. “Thought I heard the phone last night?”
Johnny said nothing.
“You weren’t surprised about that newspaper article.”
“Nothing about that guy surprises me, Roy.”
“Come on, Johnny. He called you, didn’t he?”
“Why would he call me?”
Roy sat down on the locker bench. “Most likely because he needs something. Johnny, anything he asked of you right now would be illegal. You know that, right?”
“Think he’s guilty, huh?”
“Let’s just say a guy who drops you like a hot potato when you lay some human emotion on him doesn’t get the benefit of the doubt from me.”
“He didn’t do it, Roy.”
“That’s for the courts to decide. Tell me he didn’t ask you to do something stupid.”
Johnny finished buttoning his shirt and stooped to retrieve his boots from the foot of his locker. “You know me, Roy. I’m in no big hurry to get on the wrong side of the law.”
“I know you, all right. You’re a terrible liar.”
~*~*~
After a quick look through the peep hole, Hutch opened the door to a yawning Johnny who gave him a sour look and brushed past him into the living room. His jeans and garnet safari shirt triggered memories Hutch couldn’t afford, but he made himself keep looking to prove he wasn’t beaten. Johnny stood in front of the sofa where Starsky slept in a sprawl with Johnny’s afghan spread over his knees. Hutch’s black leather jacket moved up and down on the sleeper’s chest with his breaths.
“Talked him into closing his eyes a little while ago,” Hutch whispered. “He has the most dangerous part of our plan ahead of him this morning.”
Johnny pointed at the lone blue sneaker on the floor. “Why’s he got just one shoe off?”
Hutch shushed him and then chuckled softly, “Always happens when he conks out in a chair or couch. I don’t have the faintest idea why.”
“I need coffee,” Johnny said and went into the small open kitchen. “Want some?”
Hutch nodded, fighting a yawn of his own. “I could use some, yes.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
“No. I won’t see any real sleep until this thing is over and done with.”
“Saw what you meant about locks.”
“We’ll pay for the repairs.”
“Forget it. There’s cereal and milk if you want.”
“Not hungry.” Hutch stood at the border of carpet and kitchen linoleum and watched Johnny go through the motions of coffee preparation.
“Sorry about your ex-wife.”
“Thanks.”
Johnny’s movements turned rapid and sloppy. Coffee grounds spilled over the can’s edge, and he let tap water overrun the carafe, then poured a third of it over the side of the machine’s water reservoir. He pushed the carafe into position and flipped the switch, then gripped the counter with both hands, slump shouldered.
“Johnny, say what you need to say. I owe you that much.”
Johnny whirled on him. “You don’t owe me a damn thing. You didn’t earn the right to owe me anything. You got that?”
“Yes.”
“I used to be real hung up on never telling lies. Just ask Roy. ‘Bout drove him nuts. He believes there are times when a little lie can do more good for somebody than harm. Not me. I come from a people who speak straight sense. Well, I guess I really do have some white in me, because since I met you, I’ve been telling more lies than I ever did in my life. And this morning, I had to lie to my partner for you, and I didn’t like it!”
“I can understand that.”
“I guess you can. You’re pretty good at lying yourself.”
“I never lied to you, Johnny.”
Johnny’s expression made Hutch glad the man didn’t have a butcher knife within easy reach. “Coffee’s about ready. I’m going to bed. After a night with five runs, I don’t need to waste my time on a jerk like you.” When he started to push past, Hutch took him by the shoulders. “Ease off the shoulder!”
“What?”
“The shoulder,” Johnny gasped. “Hurt it on the job a week ago. Still sore.”
Hutch instantly released him. “What happened?”
“Don’t pretend to care,” Johnny snapped at him, rubbing his right shoulder, the deep wounds reflected in his eyes demanding an instinctive reaction.
Hutch’s lips were on Johnny’s before he could take a step back and think the action through. Johnny’s mouth softened against his, then hardened, and Johnny jerked backward. Hutch saw the punch coming and caught Johnny’s wrist in a right-handed grip tighter than a handcuff.
“You’re not the first person to try a version of that lately,” Hutch told him. “This time I had it coming. I’d even let you take your shot, but if Starsky wakes up and finds me with the beginnings of a black eye, things’ll get real tense around here real fast.” He loosened his hold on Johnny’s wrist to let his captive pull free. “Okay?”
“It’s not okay!” Back to rubbing his sore shoulder, Johnny returned to the coffee machine and got two mugs out of the cabinet directly overhead. “It’s not okay to have your cake and eat it, too. But your people are good at that. You want land, take it. You want people, take them. You need some kind of substitute lover, take him. Damn the consequences.”
“Johnny, could we please leave US-Indian relations out of this discussion? It really has no bearing, and I’m damned any way I respond.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong! It’s got more to do with it than you think, but, fine.” Johnny made his little sweeping hand gesture of giving in less than graciously. “You want me to come to this fight with my right hand tied behind my back, fine.”
A snuffle followed by rhythmic snoring reassured Hutch that Starsky slept, his catlike senses dulled by inhuman stress and exhaustion. “I don’t want to fight at all, damn it! You were never a substitute. First day I saw you, I wanted you, and wanting you didn’t have a damn thing to do with Starsky. It was more than just fucking with you and me, and you damn well know it.”
“Do I? When things stopped being casual, you could’ve told me where you stood. Then if I went in knowing I didn’t stand a chance, it was my own fault. A couple of times, I started figuring it out, but every time I pulled away, you reeled me back in. Catch and release might be humane in fishing, but it’s lousy with people!”
“You think it’s been a walk in the park for me? I’m still attracted to you. The woman I was married to is dead, I’m up against a murder rap, on the run with my partner who’s asleep just six feet away, and I still had to kiss you when you looked at me that way. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t have walked out last week. I’d still be taking what I need from you when I can’t give you what you deserve in return.”
“I love how people who pull that noble ‘can’t give you what you need’ crap never ask the other person how they feel about it. Maybe I’m one of those gluttons for punishment who wants what little I can have of you, instead of not having you at all.”
“You’re not one of those, though, are you?”
Johnny’s pained shrug answered for him.
“I thought so. I’m the same way. Yes, I sleep around. But when it comes to that big, elusive l-o-v-e, right down to what love is, I’ve only got room for one person at a time.”
“And I know who that is. Let me tell you what I think is really going on here. Instead of the guy who wants you, too, you’re hanging your hopes on a straight guy who wouldn’t know what to do with your dick if you pulled it out for him.” Johnny laughed, and Hutch had never heard him so bitter. “You know what’s funny? I say I don’t go the home-wrecker route, and then I get involved with a married man. It’s a sexless marriage, too, which is even more pathetic.”
Hutch felt his own anger flare. “That’s rich, coming from a guy who claims to understand close partnerships.”
“Difference is, I’m not in love with Roy, he doesn’t think he owns me, and we don’t go around using people for the sake of our partnership! You guys are users, plain and simple. You even think you’re above the law you’re supposed to be upholding.”
“Starsky and I have both bled for the law, and not just physically! This isn’t the law. This is an IA-driven miscarriage of justice.”
“Yeah? Several years back, Roy and I were accused of stealing money from a patient. We had to sweat out the cops’ investigation and hire a lawyer, and keep doing our jobs at the same time ’cause LA County depended on us. We weren’t guilty either, but we had a rough time of it until the cops figured it out and arrested someone else.”
“If you have to stand there and judge me, Johnny, could you at least use a valid comparison? This isn’t a case of stolen money. This is Murder One. IA has built up a convincing circumstantial case against me. Enough to get me wrongly convicted. I could get the death penalty, and that’d be the easy way out. As an accessory, Starsky would get prison time. You can’t possibly imagine the hell cops go through in prison, but it’s a hell I’ll run to the ends of the earth to keep him away from.”
“But you’re not running, are you? You’ve got some big plan.”
“We want to see justice done. My ex-wife and I weren’t exactly friends, but I want her killers to get what’s coming to them. If we can’t get the evidence we need, then hell, yes, I’ll run rather than let Starsky go to prison because of me. Worst of it all, it’ll probably break us in the end if we have to do that, but at least he’ll be alive.”
Noise behind him signaled a waking Starsky, and Hutch turned in the kitchen archway to watch the process. Stretching in half-sleep, eyelids fluttering, Starsky twisted in the afghan, pushed Hutch’s jacket off his chest, and rubbed at his eyes. Knowing he had only a few seconds before Starsky joined them on this side of sleep, Hutch went up close to Johnny and whispered, “He doesn’t know where things stand with us, and I don’t want him hit with it this morning.”
“Fine, what’s one more lie.” Johnny brought down another mug from the cabinet.
“Mornin’,” Starsky said from the couch.
Having seen the genuine, happy Gage grin once upon a time, Hutch could tell the smile Johnny offered Starsky had the artificiality of a male model posing for the camera, but Starsky didn’t know him well enough to spot the difference. “Want some coffee?” Johnny asked in a voice so sweet the beverage required no sugar.
“Sure, thanks.” Starsky straightened his holster underneath his jacket. “And thanks doesn’t even cover what you’ve done for us letting us crash here last night, but we appreciate it.”
Johnny carried a steaming mug over to him. “Hope you like it black and sweet. Cream just ruins good coffee, don’t you think?” Hutch swallowed wrong at the emphasis on the word cream and could have sworn Johnny actually batted his eyelashes at Starsky in a way any sequined queen could applaud. “So, what big plan did you guys come up with?”
Starsky looked surprised at the question and almost boggled the mug of coffee Johnny handed him. “I don’t think you need–” He raised his eyebrows at Hutch for help with the awkward situation.
Hutch nodded at him and lowered his coffee mug. “Johnny, it’s best if you know as little as possible. In case things don’t work out.”
Johnny rolled his eyes at both of his guests. “Give me a break. I know I’m in up to my neck already. I didn’t watch years of Adam-12 for nothing. If your plan involves getting back to metro LA, you’re in a fix, because the news this morning said roadblocks have been set up in every direction.”
Again, Starsky looked at Hutch. “In one way that helps us, if Wheeler’s had the TV on. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to convince him with just a lousy newspaper.”
“Yeah, but our plan hinges on you getting that diamond photo and making it to Wheeler’s.”
“Guess I’ll have to ‘borrow’ a car and hope Dobey can get me out of that rap later.” Starsky smacked his forehead before taking another long swallow of coffee. “I’m still asleep. No matter what car I take, if I’m stopped at a roadblock, that’s all she wrote.”
“And I have to be able to get to the meet location Huggy finds for us. We try to pull Wheeler too far out of his stomping ground, and he’ll smell a rat.”
Perched on the arm of the sofa, Johnny had been sipping his coffee and looking remote and untouchable during the exchange. When he spoke, his words stunned both detectives. “I have a Land Rover with plenty of room in the back and tons of junk for someone to hide under.” He looked at Hutch, and hurt showed in his eyes again. “You should remember. There was room for you to nail me through the floorboard.”
Hutch’s face heated, but no more than Starsky’s, evidenced by the heightened color in his cheeks and his quick head turn to the safety of the pictures of various peaks and summits their rock-climber host displayed on his wall.
“Johnny, there’s no way we could let you put yourself in that kind of danger. If you got caught, you’d be looking at prison time, too. Not just a slap on the wrist. And our captain could probably do little about it.”
“They’d have to catch me first,” Johnny sounded both terrified and energized at the same time. “I can run as far and fast as you can. I can think of three Rancherias that would take me in a heartbeat, and I’d love to see your cavalry get me there.”
“Damn it, Johnny, this isn’t Adam-12 or one of your hated Westerns. This is real life, and you could get killed. Why would you even want to–?”
Johnny left the sofa and stood on equal footing with Hutch, eye contact level between them. “Because what I said to you last week hasn’t changed. That doesn’t go away overnight.” He glanced over his shoulder at Starsky and then back to Hutch with sadness thinning his lips and making his eyes seem bigger and more lustrous. “You should know something about that.”
~*~*~
Captain Dobey couldn’t stomach the tepid coffee but had no energy to trek from his chair to the squadroom for a warming refill. He had even less desire to face the officers in the room and know that he would be instinctively reading their expressions and demeanor to decide if they were pro-Hutchinson or violently opposed. He took a bite of candy bar but just as quickly spit it out in a tissue, certain it would come back up the wrong way if he let himself swallow the overly sweet confection. A knock on his door made him tip the cup of coffee over and initiated a mad grab for tissues to save the open file in front of him.
“Come in!”
The door opened, and a stranger in jeans and a reddish shirt entered–a young man with medium-length dark hair and shaggy bangs. He looked like someone Dobey felt he should know, but he couldn’t place the memory. “What can I do for you?”
The young man quickly closed the door. “You’re Captain Dobey? I know that’s what the sign on the door says, but–you’re the real deal?”
“Last time I looked in the mirror, young man. Who are you?”
The stranger approached the desk and drew a leather badge holder out of his right pocket, depositing it on the desk. “I’m, uh, here to pick up a photo of a diamond.”
Dobey picked up the badge holder and felt his stomach churn without the benefit of the candy bar when he recognized Starsky’s badge and credentials. “I’ll need to know how you came by this.”
“I got it from the source.” The man pulled out his own wallet and handed it over.
Dobey flipped open the wallet and looked first at the driver’s license to confirm identity. “John Gage,” he read out loud, and noted the LA County Fire Department credentials. Certified paramedic. “How do you know my detectives?”
“My partner and I treated Hutch after his canyon rollover accident last year. We kept in touch with Starsky and Hutch a little since then.”
“More than just a little if they’ve roped you into a caper like this one.”
“Nobody roped me into anything, Captain. I volunteered.”
“Your partner in on this, too?”
“No, he’s a family man. No place for him in this.”
Dobey nodded. The man’s responses rang true. His face had an inherent honesty. Dobey smiled. “Fireman-paramedic. This isn’t really in your line. You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“Me, scared? Nah, I’m not–” Gage tried to smile, but the expression wobbled and his casual shrug didn’t quite do the job either. “Didn’t take a full breath until I got past the roadblock. After I flashed those LA County Fire Department credentials, the officer waved me through without a vehicle search. But I’m–um, yeah–I’m petrified. Shows that bad, huh?”
“Yes, but it makes me respect you all the more. You shouldn’t go into something like this without good, healthy fear.” Dobey dug under his desk blotter and pulled out a folded newspaper and color photo of the gemstone that had sealed Hutchinson’s fate with IA. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your helping my men.”
“No need to thank me, Captain. I’m one of a dozen Station 51 firemen more than willing to help out Canyon Super Cop. He’s part of our station lore now.” Gage accepted the newspaper and photo without looking at either. He then pocketed both his wallet and Starsky’s badge holder.
Dobey chuckled. “All the same, you can’t be talking about this.”
Gage pierced him with a stare two times older than the age Dobey had assigned him based on appearance alone. “You just said a mouthful, Captain.”
“Good luck. You have to understand that my hands are tied if something goes wrong.”
“So I’ve heard.”
~*~*~
“You guys all cozy back there?” Johnny asked when he got back to the 4 x 4 from the payphone several blocks removed from Metro.
Hutch heard the driver’s door shut and judged it safe to peek out from beneath the tarp, raising his head high enough to see over the second row of seats and give Johnny a warning look. A foot to his shin made him yelp and duck his head under the tarp to growl at Starsky, “Will you please just lie still?”
“Under this thing? I lie any stiller, I’m gonna start feeling like a corpse.”
“This isn’t my idea of a good time, either. Your aftershave is nauseating in close quarters under a tarp. Did you know that?”
“Now, I do, thanks to my smart ass partner, and you’re not even smelling my aftershave, seein’ as I didn’t even have a chance to shave this morning. Something back here smells like dead fish.”
“That’s probably my tackle box,” Johnny said.
“Terrific.”
“Starsky, it’s a tackle box, not a carnivorous rodent.”
“Guys–”
“Tackle boxes have hooks in ’em, dummy.”
“Yeah, and they won’t jump out of the box and get you, so relax.”
“Detectives!” Johnny barked with authority befitting a fire captain. “Your friend Huggy said he’s got a little problem. Thinks his apartment’s being staked out by what he called a couple of suited stiffs in a style-less piece of police automobile crap. He’s going to use his neighbor’s car and lure them out for a little drive and lose them on the way to the meeting spot he lined up for you guys. He said the caddy’ll be waiting at his place for you, Starsky, with the key under the driver’s floor mat.”
Hutch whistled. “Damn. Simonetti and Dryden must have more going for them in the way of cerebral activity than I gave them credit for.”
“Where’s the meeting place?” Starsky asked and stretched to push his head out from the tarp for a look at Hutch. “We could at least get you squared away.”
“Huggy found you a safe meeting spot in a mortuary,” Johnny said.
“Not the old Sunny Glen!” Starsky’s moan conveyed his opinion of the mortuary-cum-brothel-cum-drug-connection where they had busted more than one organized crime heavyweight. “Place gives me the purple willies.”
“It’s the Ventura Hills Mortuary. Huggy said his cousin runs the place, and it’s closed to the public for planned remodeling. Key will be under the mat at the back door mortician’s entrance.”
“Cousin?” Starsky snorted. “Wonder if it’s a real cousin.”
“Come again?” Johnny asked.
Hutch smiled. “You’d have to know Huggy.”
“Would’ve been nice,” Johnny agreed with a telling frown.
“Johnny, Huggy doesn’t know I’m–” Another sudden shift from his tarp mate brought a few choice words out of Hutch’s mouth. “What’s your problem, Starsky?”
“You have big feet; that’s my problem.”
“And it is true what they say about physiologic correlation,” Johnny said. “The bigger the foot, the bigger the mouthful, in my experience anyway.”
Throat clearing from Starsky under the tarp interrupted Hutch’s internal debate over which man deserved to die a painful death first. “Hutch, we can’t sit here like this.”
“Johnny, did Huggy give you directions?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, then. Step on it.”
The short trip to the mortuary had the solemnity of a funeral. Hutch guessed they were all feeling impending separation of a kind. He couldn’t give more than a passing thought to another parting from Johnny, because sending Starsky off to an in-person meet with the murderous high-stakes fence Wheeler was a crushing weight that barely allowed Hutch to breathe under the already suffocating tarp. His lungs gave thanks when the 4 x 4 stopped again for longer than a traffic light pause, and Johnny announced their arrival at the enclosed private back entrance to the mortuary.
Moments later, the warmth of sunlight hit the tarp, and Hutch knew Johnny had opened the hatch. “You guys alive in there?”
“Barely,” Starsky muttered.
Hutch sat up, hunching slightly to keep from banging his head on the roof, and patted down his hair. Starsky made a smart remark about a fashion show and got an elbow in the side for his trouble. For good measure, Hutch slapped the hatch shut as soon as he reached the safety of pavement and fresh air. He could hear Starsky’s muffled curses and flashed him a “gotcha” grin. Starsky found a comfortable position cross-legged on top of the tarp and busied himself moving the offending tackle box and assorted other items that had made their ride lumpy and bumpy.
Hutch doubted a favorable reception, but he held out his hand, which Johnny actually accepted in a firm shake. “If we get through today alive and on the right side of the law, we’ll owe a hell of a lot of it to you. Get him safely to Huggy’s.”
Johnny looked down at the tops of his boots and slowly lifted his head. He had drummed up a smile. “Well, I thought about driving him straight to Baja and dropping him off on the side of the road, but that wouldn’t solve my problem. You’d just go after him.”
Hutch returned the smile, wanting Johnny to remember him that way. “We’ll call when we have some good news for you.”
“If it doesn’t go down right, and you need me to ferry you guys somewhere, call. If things go according to plan, I’ll read the edited version in the papers like everybody else.”
“Johnny–”
“I don’t want you to call.” Johnny’s lips had a fine tremor that registered in his voice. “I don’t ever wanna see you again, Hutch.”
Hutch put his palm to Johnny’s cheek. “What happened to Ken?”
“He’ll live on in my fantasies…for a while at least. Oh, hell, while I’m torturing myself here–” Johnny latched his hands behind Hutch’s neck in the way he’d always liked and delivered a farewell kiss that opened Hutch’s mouth to a thrusting, demonstrative tongue. Hutch came out of the kiss feeling Johnny had finally fucked him, but the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat increased to dangerous tachycardia when he glanced back at the 4 x 4’s rear window and saw that Starsky had abandoned making his hiding place more comfortable to watch the scene outside the jeep unfold.
The look on Starsky’s face took more of Hutch’s breath than Johnny’s kiss.
He’d never seen it on Starsky.
Any closeted gay man would recognize it.
Confusing, thrilling, terrifying, brand new arousal.
What’s going on in your head, Starsk? Are you hot and bothered by two men kissing because it’s like watching creative new moves in a porn flick, or is this something more? It is more than that, isn’t it? You’re having some pretty sexy thoughts over there, aren’t you? Are you wondering what it’s like to kiss a man? God, am I watching my dream come true, and you’re wondering what it’d be like to kiss me?
Then the direction of Starsky’s gaze threatened Hutch’s heart with spontaneous combustion.
Johnny.
Surely the universe couldn’t possibly be that twisted, to open Starsky’s eyes to a fledgling desire for the same gender, and then turn those beautiful eyes to another man. Unfortunately, Hutch wasn’t up against the universe, but something less predictable. Attraction had no logic and didn’t always play nice.
Hutch’s heart slowed with something akin to resignation, but instinct urged him to haul Starsky out of the Land Rover and away from prolonged exposure to the new attraction. He dismissed the thought as foolish and beneath him. Starsky was still in that half-awake, half-aware, fragile gray time, when darkest night yielded to dawn, and Johnny, if he’d even noticed their spectator, was too good-hearted to wound Hutch that way. Johnny was hurting, and he’d taken his parting shots in the form of flirtation and innuendo meant to rattle a straight guy, but he wasn’t malicious.
Those parting shots might have backfired, though. To a mind opening the door to a new sexuality, Hutch knew from his own experience, that kind of gently blatant homosexuality could be a revelation. As a freshman in college, he’d watched the ease with which two guys necked in a corner booth at a progressive “underground” hangout, and wished he had their courage. Six days after that collegiate epiphany, he’d bumbled and blushed his way through his first homosexual encounter.
Years later, he could still remember the wistful, envious respect he’d felt watching them.
His heart took up a new, rejoicing rhythm.
That’s what he’d seen when Starsky had looked at Johnny.
Not desire.
He found Starsky’s gaze had shifted to him. February changed to July the instant their eyes met. Hutch could taste heated moisture on his lips, and it tasted nothing like Johnny. With one blazing look, Starsky reduced the three-foot separation and barriers of metal and glass to insignificant trivialities that belonged on another plane. Hutch realized with a flame of embarrassment that he’d moved his lips in close approximation to the kiss he’d seen taking shape in Starsky’s eyes just before the lids closed as if Starsky had gone in for a real lip lock. Spellbound, his natural concentration on Starsky’s every movement enhanced by the ground-shaking shift in their whole dynamic, Hutch could see the slightest flutter of long, beautiful lashes against Starsky’s cheek. He knew the precise second before those eyes opened again, and revealed a shaken vulnerability in Starsky he’d never seen. Starsky ducked back under the tarp, and Hutch caught his breath in a ragged gasp, rattled more by an imagined meeting of lips than any ten-minute long full body frenching with a man or woman.
“Buzzer-beating half-court shot, but it bounced right off the rim,” Johnny said with a look that traveled between his passengers, and patted Hutch’s shoulder. “And your team’s star center went up for the rebound. Oh, well, I had to try. Good luck clearing your name, and with everything else.”
Hutch watched Johnny execute a three point turn to maneuver the 4 x 4 out of the hearse bay, and wished for one more glimpse of Starsky through the rear window, but as with any disguise or camouflage, Starsky took this concealment seriously and remained out of sight. Hutch blew out a few long breaths and turned to locate the hidden key and let himself into a cold, empty mortuary for a torturous wait.
~*~*~
“I still don’t see why I can’t just drive you to this Wheeler guy’s place. Seems like a real waste of time taking you over to Huggy’s just so you can pick up his car. Once you’re out there driving yourself around, aren’t you taking a chance on being picked up?”
Starsky bunched a portion of the tarp into a comfortable pillow and turned over on his back, folding his hands over his stomach. He stared at the 4 x 4’s roof and tried not to think of the possibility that Huggy might be inadvertently leading Simonetti and Dryden right to Hutch at the mortuary. “It’s a chance I have to take.”
“Why?”
“This ain’t a fake cop movie, Gage, where the bad guys turn blind and stupid when it’s convenient for the good guys. Wheeler’s place is an estate with surveillance security and a couple of armed gorillas guarding the front gate. Alone, I got a chance of getting through, but even so, if I can’t convince ’em I’m a good risk that front gate might be the last thing I see on this earth.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh, and that’s not counting what might happen after I do get in. Which is why I gotta know something.” Starsky shuddered at the thought of leaving Hutch in anyone else’s hands, even a good man like Gage clearly willing to risk his skin for him. Hutch was Starsky’s responsibility, his partner, his….
Hutch was his.
But he wasn’t, really, was he? And Starsky couldn’t afford to let valuable time slip by without emphasizing a few important things to Gage. “If I don’t make it out of this, you gonna stand by Hutch? Make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.”
“If something happens to you, there won’t be enough left of Hutch to stand by.”
Starsky’s gut clenched beneath his hands. “It’s up to you to make sure there is.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Johnny said, broken-voiced, “but I’ve got a partner to think of, too.”
“Your partner’s more important to you than what you got with Hutch?”
“You’re the last person that can say that to me! You expect me to believe your partnership with Hutch isn’t more important to you than any of the girls you date?”
Starsky had to smile at that, and the uncomfortable burn in his chest from the kiss he’d witnessed outside the mortuary started to cool. “No, I won’t to try to sell you that one. All the same, Hutch is your–”
“My what?” Johnny asked angrily, reminding Starsky of Hutch’s question the night before. “My partner? I’ve only got one partner, and I have to hope like hell this business doesn’t screw that up. Boyfriend, lover, significant other? None of the above.”
“Listen, Gage, I might be walking into who the hell knows what this morning, and I owe you a couple times over for what you’ve done for Hutch, but you still don’t wanna be dismissing him around me. Bad move.”
“He walked out on me last week, Detective!” Johnny shouted. “Maybe before you start throwing your tough guy weight around, you should know who dismissed who!”
Shocked, Starsky rose up on elbow, nearly high enough to be seen through the 4 x 4’s back windows, and twisted his neck for a look at Johnny, but still got an eyeful of the back of the rear row of seats. “Wha–?”
“You heard right. What you saw back there at the mortuary was my last humiliating attempt to make him see what he’s giving up. Didn’t work. It’s over, and you’re a man, you ought to know I’ve got no pride left if I’m telling you about it.”
Starsky forced himself to remember the scene outside the 4 x 4. Unable to make out their words over his shifting and remodeling of his hiding place, he’d focused on their actions. The one that spoke loudest to him now was Hutch’s hand on Johnny’s cheek. It took him back several years to a sunny day outside a mansion and Hutch’s similar stance before a tall, fragile blonde who had just found her freedom from a syndicate boss over Hutch’s heroin-racked body.
“If we’re gonna end it, we’re gonna end it….”
Hutch’s gentle, farewell gesture. How could Starsky have missed that?
He had no time to process the news or what it meant to him before Johnny said, “Based on Huggy’s directions, I think we’re almost there.”
Starsky ducked back to the floor of the vehicle. “Okay, let me tell you what to look for. Listen carefully. You see anything like this, you keep right on driving, and I’ll figure out a plan B. One that doesn’t involve you or your car. Time you were back in Topanga and well away from this.”
~*~*~
Dobey himself led the arrest team that descended on the mortuary after Hutch’s call, and on the strength of Huggy’s tape recording, insisted that Starsky and Hutch disappear for at least forty-eight hours with the Department’s blessing and get some rest. He would handle the chief and IA, Dobey said, and any red tape that needed wading through could damn well get waded through later. He then dispatched one of the black-and-white teams to drive his detectives back to Venice Place where the Torino waited. Dobey had also stonewalled any attempt on Simonetti’s part to tow the Torino back to Metro for forensics. For that little kindness alone, Starsky wanted to buy their captain a chocolate cake the size of the County South Court building.
He thought Hutch would stumble up the stairs to the apartment and crash, but his partner had other ideas. Hutch wanted to pick up the LTD from Johnny’s. On the drive to Topanga, Starsky managed to keep quiet about Gage’s revelation. Easy to do when Hutch conked out the second after he hit the passenger seat and didn’t stir until they reached Gage’s apartment complex. He waved off Starsky’s concerns that he was too sleepy to drive back to Venice, and Starsky watched him wobble over to the LTD. With one long look at Johnny’s building, Hutch descended into the driver’s seat.
By the grace of fairly light traffic, favorable traffic lights, and years of experience driving half- dead from stakeout duty, they made it back to Venice in respectable shape and good time. Starsky yawned cavernously and followed Hutch up the stairs to the apartment, assuming his invitation stood open as always. Hutch let them in and stood in the living room stretching his arms out and breathing deeply, rubbing his face, brushing through his hair, and yawning. Hutch did not look at the floor between the sofa and dining area, and Starsky doubted he ever would again.
On that thought, Starsky closed the door and the noise startled Hutch into whirling around. Again he felt the rise in temperature when those soft, bloodshot, sleepy eyes settled on him. He fidgeted by the sofa, unwilling to sit down or numb himself with the beer he knew Hutch would offer him if he didn’t open his mouth and get this started now that they had two seconds in succession without worrying if they were going to land in prison or worse.
“Hutch, what did Johnny mean this morning about what he said last week? Something that doesn’t change, doesn’t go away overnight?”
Hutch shed his leather jacket and dumped it on the sofa. Instinctively, he reached for his holster but it wasn’t there. Dobey had not yet returned his gun and badge, and his holster dangled empty from its wall peg. Starsky feared silence or evasion, but Hutch had obviously decided that he deserved nothing but truth. “He told me he loves me.”
Starsky swallowed hard. “That’s why you ran out on him?”
Hutch’s expressive anger reached beyond him, and Starsky knew it was stretching toward Topanga. “He told you.”
“Does it matter? Answer me, Hutch. It’s not like you to run from words.”
Hutch rubbed his hands together and then tightly clenched them. “It’s not the words, Starsk, it’s the feeling behind them. He means it.”
“From what he was willing to do this morning, I kinda got that impression. You walk out on the guy, and then you go to him when one wrong step could land him prison?”
“I had no choice!” Hutch’s words emerged harsh and scratchy, and Starsky’s throat ached in sympathy. “It was either that or risk letting you go to prison. I didn’t expect him to get involved like that. I just wanted shelter last night to buy us time.”
“Okay, so why’re you running from the feeling?”
Hutch’s clenched hands loosened, his arms falling to his side, and he stood there watching Starsky with vulnerable need and want showing in his lined brow, his quick, closed eyes and tilt downward of head, and the set to his jaw that told Starsky he was biting down on words he couldn’t afford to say. A great man could have resisted, turned away, and waited for a less fragile, volatile time.
Starsky didn’t aim for greatness.
He closed the distance and lifted Hutch’s chin with a fingertip. “Me? That’s why?”
Hutch’s eyes closed again, but not before they revealed the truth Starsky needed to see. He took advantage of the closed eyelids to kiss them one by one. Hutch’s trembling became shaking and Starsky enfolded him in steady arms, hoping their warmth and solidity could quiet the tremors. He touched his lips to Hutch’s cheek, the earthy scent of sweat and unwashed skin not repellant but actually luring him closer to the natural essence of his partner. Somehow, it meant even more to put his lips to Hutch’s and open them, sharing his stale, tangy breath, over a day removed from toothpaste, with Hutch’s equally ripe mouth. Hutch made a strange, growling, grunted deep-voiced moan into his mouth and Starsky felt those powerful, heartbreakingly gentle hands shove into his hair, holding him in place. He had no intention of breaking away. He’d found Hutch’s tongue and meant to suck every hint of Johnny Gage clean from it until Hutch could taste nothing but Starsky.
Somewhere inside a voice protested the motivation. Frenching his male partner had never been on Starsky’s agenda until he’d seen Hutch taken in a breath-stealing kiss by another man, and his sense of ownership had risen up in arms more violently than ever. If Hutch had to have a man’s mouth on his, it’d be Starsky’s, goddamn it, if he needed a man’s arms, he’d have Starsky’s, if he wanted cock, he’d–
Hutch had dropped his arms to encircle Starsky’s waist and pull their lower bodies taut. Starsky felt the solid heat of Hutch’s erection and kissed him harder, deeper, searching for that raw, thirsty, scratchy throat to soothe it with the moisture of his tongue. Their mouths moved over, under, together, against, drawing away, returning. His hands found Hutch’s hair, his jaw line, his shoulders, coming to rest on his ass and squeezing until Hutch began undulating against him, spreading Starsky’s legs with a strong thigh that pushed up against Starsky’s groin.
In the blazing inferno of Hutch’s kiss and frantic dry humping, Starsky begged his cock to join in the fun. Scorching heat threatened to suffocate him, but his dick remained soft, no longer even touched by the weird beginnings of arousal he’d experienced in the back of the 4 x 4. His next hope was that he had Hutch too far gone to notice, but he knew better. Hutch pulled out of the kiss and stepped away from Starsky’s reaching arms.
Flushed, hair wildly disheveled, eyes even wilder, Hutch rubbed at his own swollen lips and tried to smile. “Not doing it for you?”
Starsky quaked inside at the tenderness in the now hoarser voice. “Hutch….”
“It’s okay,” Hutch soothed. “I understand. Takes–takes time, Starsk. Coming from where you are. It’s not an overnight shift. I can wait. Come to bed with me?”
Starsky blinked. Hadn’t the man just said–?
Hutch laughed and reached out to stroke a fingertip down Starsky’s chest. “Not for sex, goof. I’m worn out down to my toenails and what I could use more than anything right now is sleep. About thirty-six hours’ worth.”
“Hutch, maybe it’s just that now’s not the right time for the sex, what with–”
“Starsky, don’t. You don’t have to make excuses. I told you, I understand. But I don’t care to be in that bed alone right now, and I’d like your arms around me if that’s not–”
“Too much to ask?” Starsky shook his head. “You know it’s not. Never has been. But can you handle it, I mean–” He held out his hand, wanting to touch the bulge visible in Hutch’s jeans, to offer it an apology and a promise. “I could, um, help you out.”
Hutch glanced down at his arousal. “We’ll wait ’til it’s a party of two. Starsk, I told you, I’m exhausted. This’ll go down in no time and I’ll be dead to the world for hours on end.”
“Okay.”
~*~*~
In the middle of the night, Starsky left the warmth of Hutch’s arms. The full moon cast its silvery glow through the skylight, and Starsky couldn’t turn it off like a lamp to cloak them in darkness. Wrapped tighter around Hutch than a strait jacket, stripped down to nothing but his underwear, he had spent half the night awake, feeling Hutch’s cock harden against him while the man slept, snoring from exhaustion. Knowing he had Hutch’s tacit permission, if not the actual words, Starsky had risked brushing his fingertips over the hard flesh in Hutch’s boxers. The thick, lengthy cock twitched, growing, until Starsky saw a tip of spongy cockhead peek out of the boxer’s slit. The intimacy shocked Starsky to his core, but his own dick slept harder than Hutch. Alarmed, confused, he gently tucked Hutch back in and gave the needy organ a farewell pat before he left the bed. Hutch moaned without waking and a little smear of wetness appeared on front of the boxers. Starsky ached from the need to feel that unconscious, comfortable arousal.
In the living room, he went to the bookshelf and knelt down to rummage through the stash of magazines where a small collection of Playboy issues hid below the National Geographic, American Scholar, and Life. Starsky had never found male beefcake mags, though. He knew Hutch’s sense of caution didn’t allow them. The girlie magazines were mostly cover, he had realized, displayed not blatantly on the coffee table but somewhere more subtle yet easily located by anyone snooping for clues as to Hutch’s orientation. He found the issue he was looking for and took it over to the sofa.
One flip to the centerfold, a busty, chestnut-haired beauty with sloe eyes and the perfect spread to her legs, her high-heeled dainty feet posed in the air, and Starsky instantly hardened. Oh, the things he could do to that sweet wetness….
Starsky thrust the magazine to the floor, ashamed for the first time of his healthy libido and eager cock. Where the hell had his cock been hours ago? He could put his tongue down the throat of the man more important to him than life itself without a blip on the radar screen of arousal, but one look at a nude female stranger who put her goods on display for every horny Tom, Dick, and Harry, and he turned into a hot rock down there, ready for action. Fucked up, he accused himself. That’s what it was.
Not fucked up.
Straight.
Hopelessly straight.
Starsky returned the magazine to its place and went back to the sofa where he sat, hard, wanting, but denying himself the relief of a handjob. If he couldn’t soothe Hutch’s ache, then he could just ache with him. All fucking night long. For a desperate, irrational second, Starsky wondered if estrogen shots would help his cause.
Anything for Hutch.
~*~*~
Johnny didn’t like the look on Roy’s face. He hadn’t heard from him during their days off, and he thought Roy would be glad to see him in one piece. But without the hint of a greeting, Roy changed into his dress uniform for morning inspection, and he looked good and steamed.
“Hey, Roy,” Johnny ventured tentatively, “if you’re sore about something, best to get it out.”
Roy slammed his locker shut. “You read this morning’s paper?”
“Nope. Figured I’d see the station’s when I got here. Slept in this morning.”
“Well, go on in there. The guys are having a field day with it.”
Johnny decided he could be a few minutes late changing into his uniform. He headed for the kitchen where Chet held court over the departing C-shift guys and Marco and Mike, waving the newspaper high over his head.
“Didn’t I call it?!” Chet crowed. “Told you guys he wasn’t guilty! Told you. Pay up, Chester. Fifty bucks right now.”
“Knew better than to take that dumb bet,” Mark Chester from C-shift complained, reaching into his slacks for his wallet.
Chet pocketed the fifty, and then spotted Johnny. “Hey, Gage, Canyon Super Cop and his partner are off the hook!”
“Good news,” Johnny said, trying to keep his tone neutral. He’d ached through the forty-something hours since he’d left Hutch at the mortuary, but he had clung to the no news is good news maxim and slept the anxiety away when he could.
“Listen to this,” Chet held up the paper up and read aloud, “‘The detectives’ undercover operation not only netted one of LA’s most dangerous and well-connected fences, but exposed a fault line in the LAPD Internal Affairs Division’s investigative skills. While reprimands are expected in that quarter, the officers themselves are satisfied with the return of their badges and reinstatement. When asked to account for their success, Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson are quick to praise their partnership, but they also credit the assistance they received from sources that wish to remain anonymous.'”
Oh, boy.
Johnny slunk back to the locker room to face Roy’s anger.
“Sources that wish to remain anonymous?” Roy said when Johnny came into sight.
Johnny opened his locker.
“Lying to me is one thing,” Roy said. “I don’t like it, but I can understand it. But you put this whole station at risk. You know the kind of scrutiny we’d have gotten if you’d been caught? Not to mention what you were risking yourself! Stanley went to bat for you, Gage! Without him backing you, you would’ve been out, lickety-split, a week ago. One week later, you let that jerk detective talk you into putting it all on the line again.”
“He wasn’t guilty, Roy. I told you.” Johnny shivered at the chill in the room and his surname, which he hadn’t heard Roy use that way in years.
“That’s not the point!”
“It was something I had to do! Maybe I can’t make you understand that, but it’s true.”
Roy nodded. “Here’s something I have to do. Stanley told me there’s a captain’s exam in December. I’m taking it, Johnny.”
“Roy, but that–that means–”
“Joanne’s thinking about having another baby. After all this, I just figure it’s time for me to make that move while I still have a chance at promotion. I suggest you do the same.”
Johnny watched him leave the locker room and then sat down heavily on the bench with the uniform shirt clutched in his hands, caring nothing about wrinkles.
~*~*~
Dobey was in his office still hooting over the chinchilla that had a secret. Hutch hadn’t left his perch on Starsky’s desk, scratching under his chin and laughing himself hoarse. Starsky contemplated Louise. Poor cute, dumb animal. Couldn’t be a chinchilla any more than he could be a–
“When we’re off shift today, we’re off until Monday,” Hutch said. “Want to take in a steak and movie or something?”
Did he ever, but Starsky caught himself mid nod and turned it into a headshake. “I–not tonight, huh? I got something I need to–someplace I need to be.”
Hutch smiled at him. “Don’t tell me you’re going out gunning for the chinchilla con artist! Honestly, I could use some time to myself. After this week, I have some things I need to sift through up here.” He tapped his forehead.
“Hey, if you need someone around to help with that sifting–”
“No thanks, this is one of those things better done alone.”
Starsky gently put Louise back in her box and decided he had to buy some books on the care and feeding of guinea pigs since the chinchilla guides no longer applied. If only buying books on the care and feeding of gay men could help him out, but he’d decided on more direct research. Without correcting Hutch’s assumption, Starsky nodded at the box where Louise skittered around in the too small space, chirping. “You mind babysitting my ‘pig tonight? I don’t think she liked being alone while we, uh–you know….”
“Played the all male version of Bonnie and Clyde on the run from the law? Sure, Starsk, I’ll pig-sit. Hell, she might like me better. You might find yourself replaced.”
Starsky felt the tension coil in his gut at the words, needing to believe with every fiber of his being that Hutch didn’t mean anyone but Louise.
~*~*~
“Dan, wait–” Brackett’s voice filtered from the cracked open door.
“Forget it, Kel. I should have known better!”
Johnny watched the well-dressed man storm out of the coffee room and apologize brusquely to a nurse he bumped into on his way down the corridor. Turning back to the nurse’s desk, Johnny saw alarm on Dixie’s lovely face when Brackett appeared in the coffee room doorway. “Well, it looks like I’m not the only one with someone furious at them today,” Johnny said to her, eyeing the elevators where Roy had taken one up to the Med/Surg floor to look in on a patient they had transported earlier that morning.
“What’d you do, Johnny?” Dixie asked, but she was still watching Brackett.
“I screwed up off the job, Dixie. Personal. Roy’s real uptight about it.”
She looked at him then and gave him her slow, soft smile. “Don’t you worry about it, Johnny. Roy never can stay mad at you for more than a day.”
“Care to lay down a bet this time?”
She patted his arm, but her attention had shifted down the corridor. “Wouldn’t take your hard-earned money that way. Excuse me; I see disaster developing at triage. We have a new girl, and she’s having a hard time adjusting.”
Brackett came over to the nurses station and stood in front of the coffee table staring at the machine. Odd, considering he had just left the coffee room. Johnny leaned against Dixie’s desk. “Doc, you okay?”
Brackett didn’t look at him. “Fine, Johnny.”
“That guy looked like somebody important.”
“Researcher at USC. Biochemical. Are you and Roy here on a transport or just for supplies?”
“We brought in an elderly lady with pneumonia on top of her COPD. Dr. Early took the call-in from the field, and Dr. Morton’s in with her now.”
Brackett smiled. “Well, with those two on the case, I’d be redundant. You have time for a cup of cafeteria coffee? This looks hours’ old.”
Surprised by the invitation, Johnny found he was pleased. “Got as long as this gives me,” he answered, holding up the handy-talkie. “Roy went up to see about the near-drowning we brought in this morning, Mr. Palmer.”
“Ah. You guys did a nice job with him. Well, come on then, let’s get that coffee before your dispatcher’s on the horn calling you guys back out.”
“I’m not knocking the invite, Doc, but didn’t you just have coffee?”
Brackett shot an uncomfortable look at the coffee room. “Today I need all the coffee I can get!”
~*~*~
Brackett noticed that he and Johnny used the same amount of sugar in their coffee: little to none. For once the cafeteria’s outside dining section offered relative privacy at a table in the corner by the fencing, out of earshot from the few diners huddled close at tables across the patio.
“Tough day, Doc?” Johnny asked.
“You could say that. You guys have been busy too.”
“Same old, same old,” Johnny said, shrugging with a smile.
“Same here,” Brackett responded with a smile to match.
“Uh, Doc, if you don’t mind my asking, what could you have done to rile a–what’d you say he was, biochemical researcher?”
Brackett sipped his coffee and listened to the sounds around them, needing reassurance they couldn’t be overheard. If he meant to out himself to Johnny, and now seemed as good a time as any, he could at least protect his own job security. “He was a friend, Johnny. I had to tell him I wouldn’t be seeing him again. I certainly didn’t mean to spring that on him in the coffee room where our conversation could have been interrupted at any time, but that’s how it worked out.”
Johnny looked torn between grabbing his HT and bolting or pulling his chair closer for a conspiratorial chat. Finally, the Gage curiosity won out, and Johnny raised his eyebrows. “A friend friend? The kind of friend I think you mean?”
“Yes.”
Johnny pointed and let the finger wag up and down at him. “You’re–”
Brackett looked around again and hushed his voice to a whisper. “Yes. Carefully and most likely permanently closeted except with a few trusted friends, but yes, I’m gay.”
Johnny put his cup down in its saucer and looked steadily at him. “I always thought you and Dix–”
“We were. Back in the days when I was still trying to be something I’m not. Realizing that I stood to hurt her a great deal if I didn’t find some honesty within myself was my biggest wake-up call. Since then she’s been my dearest friend, and a lifeline.”
“What about this researcher guy–sorry, I don’t wanna pry.”
“It’s all right.” Brackett patted Johnny’s shoulder and then hurriedly folded his hands on the table. The heat from that simple touch made him furious. He didn’t need the reminder that one brief clasp of Johnny’s clothed shoulder could make him burn more than naked kisses shared with Daniel. Remembering what he’d meant to say to Johnny, he forced down his anger. “I ended things with Daniel for the same reason that I broke off romantic involvement with Dixie. I stood to hurt him more down the line if I didn’t call a halt now. I know I’ll never be able to give him the same depth of commitment he was beginning to want. In many relationships, one partner is likely to love the other more than is reciprocated, but letting Daniel wake up to that years from now is not something I want on my conscience. Sometimes doing the right thing hurts like utter hell, but not doing the right thing would be the more selfish and damaging path to take.”
Johnny stared into his half-empty coffee cup. “God.”
“What?”
“You just saved me from starting to hate somebody I really didn’t wanna hate.”
Brackett nodded. “I wondered if you’d been on the receiving end of that conversation. You’ve been acting like a jilted man, but I hadn’t heard your name in connection with any of Rampart’s nurses recently. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Johnny.”
“You knew, didn’t you? About me, about my thing with Ken Hutchinson. Last year when the virus hit, you knew then.”
“Johnny, I knew when you and Roy brought him in from the rollover MVA. I might be an overworked emergency room physician, but I’m not blind to human emotion. I saw how you looked at him and how he looked at his partner when he woke up in the examination room after you and Roy left. I also saw a vast amount of love in his partner, but not of a sexual nature. Unfortunately, that doesn’t keep Detective Hutchinson from being in love with him, now does it?”
Johnny now looked irritated. “You have some kind of crystal ball or something?”
“No.” Brackett allowed himself a chuckle. “I’m, I believe, about twelve, maybe thirteen years older than you are, Johnny? In our community, that’s the equivalent of a century’s worth of experience. I’ve learned to read men. I’ve known for years that you’re a young man trying to figure out your sexuality while enjoying the shield of beautiful women naturally drawn to your magnetism.”
“Magnetism?” Johnny offered him a brighter smile. “The guys at the station must really be on to something if even you noticed it.”
Brackett nudged Johnny’s coffee cup closer to him with a pointed headshake. “That wasn’t meant to inflate your already healthy ego there, Romeo.”
“I thought I knew how to read men,” Johnny muttered, sobering. “I guess not. I didn’t even know you–I mean, how could you know about me, but I didn’t even…” Then Johnny smiled. “I guess my sonar was off when it comes to you.”
“One of the greatest disservices societal prejudice does to us, Johnny, is keep us sequestered from our greater gay community. When I was your age, there wasn’t much of a gay community, except deeply underground. Now we have the beginnings of one, but professional men like us who stand to lose their careers if outed can’t afford to frequent gay social gatherings. We’re trapped in sham bisexuality, in some cases sham marriages, or tight closets, and suspended somewhere between two worlds. It’s painful and unfair.”
“Guess I never thought about it like that. I don’t really have any gay friends, though, come to think of it. Roy’s one hell of a guy, and the best friend I could ask for, but there are some things he just doesn’t get.”
“No, he wouldn’t, hard as he might try.” Brackett cleared his throat and hoped he could sound older, wiser, altruistic, and the farthest thing removed from sexually attracted. “I want you to know that you can talk to me. I’d like to be your friend, Johnny. A safe and trustworthy resource, you might say.”
Johnny’s reaction surprised him. Anger. Inwardly directed, but still hurtful to witness. Rising hurriedly and shoving the chair back under the table, Johnny grabbed the handy-talkie. “Thanks, Dr. Brackett, but I think the farther I can get from the whole gay thing, the better.”
“What do you mean?” Brackett asked, keeping his voice level and quiet.
Johnny’s urgent look around the patio was followed by a drop in his volume, too. “It’s done nothing but mess me over. It might’ve screwed up my partnership with Roy. I want to make captain, and I don’t want to fight a new hassle every day of the week doing it.”
“Johnny, I can appreciate your concerns, but you can’t just turn your back on a large part of yourself without unpleasant consequences. Take it from a man who tried.”
“You just watch me.” With a nod and thanks for the coffee, Johnny left him sitting.
Brackett watched him weave through the line of cafeteria patrons at the patio’s entrance and shook his head again, sadness overwhelming him. “I do watch you, Johnny,” he whispered. “Always have, always will. God help me.”
He had just found the inner strength to face the ER when Dixie appeared in the sliding doorway and then joined him at the table. She sat down and looked from his disturbed expression down to Johnny’s coffee mug. “Plying a certain fireman with coffee?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You know, I’d love to get good and mad at him for making you feel this way, but I can’t, because he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Why don’t you tell him the truth, Kel? He may not be able to reciprocate, but at least he’ll know, and that might spare you some discomfort. He’s a good guy. He wouldn’t purposely wound you.”
“I can’t.”
She gave him her acute study. “It’s not rejection you’re afraid of. You’re afraid he’d go for it.”
He turned a startled look on her, worried for Johnny’s cover if she’d guessed that Johnny shared her best friend’s orientation. She leaned closer and rubbed a circle between his shoulder blades.
“Come on, Kel,” she whispered. “I know you. You’re not one to fall hard for a straight man. Have you noticed me trying to set him up with any of the new nurses lately? I stopped doing that a while back, and it wasn’t just because I know how you feel. What would be so wrong with it if he did share your feelings?”
He wished he shared Dixie’s confidence that Johnny would, but he didn’t intend to let her see that secret pain. The surface truth was hard enough. “He’s a paramedic. As long as I have to work with him in that capacity, I can’t afford a sexual connection with him. The slightest hesitation on a rescue relay because I’m distracted by worry with him out there in a dangerous setting could cost a patient’s life, or Johnny his.”
“You worry anyway. We all do, with those two men more than any others. I know we aren’t supposed to play favorites, but you and I both know that Johnny and Roy have a special place in all our hearts. Joe and Mike would say the same thing.”
“Imagine that worry increased by tenfold if I were in a relationship with him, Dixie. Not only can I not accept the potential danger to patients, but I can’t afford a scandal that could affect the entire paramedic program.”
“Kel, you don’t have to carry the whole paramedic program on your shoulders.” She squeezed his forearm and he felt the warmth through his lab coat and dress shirt sleeve. The friendly warmth of kindness, not the fireburn of touching Johnny, even platonically. “It’s a winner, it’s a go. Not just in LA but all over California and elsewhere. It doesn’t rise and fall based on your actions. It’s a sure thing.”
He looked hard at her. “You don’t know how easily sure things are rocked by homosexual scandal, Dixie. I’d rather not have Johnny find out the hard way.”
~*~*~
Starsky wondered if Huggy had played a subtle joke on him, picking out a bar called “The Wildewood.” Joke or not, he hadn’t driven all the way to Oceanside to check out a gay bar only to turn tail and run at the name. He’d asked Huggy to place some calls to his connections and find him a bar where he wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb, as in any leather bars or kink taverns, and somewhere that wasn’t subject to a raid on underage activity any second. Yeah, Huggy, and if my wood really does go wild in there, I won’t know whether to kiss or kill you for it.
He got a strange look from the muscular specimen in charge of the door check, but the strange look turned into an erotic appraisal that stripped Starsky down to bare skin, and he had to hold himself in check, knowing his instinct to deck the guy if a hand dared to follow the path those intense eyes had taken. But the man apparently knew better than to touch what he saw, and Starsky passed into the bar without difficulty.
He expected the Parrot’s closed-in heat and sweat, but The Wildewood had ample space for a tri-level dance floor, ringed by intimate tables for two, and three separate bar areas, one surrounding a raised go-go stage where two scantily-clad men engaged in something more reminiscent of sex than dancing. Starsky knew to avoid the go-go bar, certain he would draw unwelcome attention for sitting there and pointedly looking away from the sexual display. Instead he found an empty stool at the bar that circled an indoor fountain. The fountain’s centerpiece was itself sculptural pornography: two perfect male nudes grappling in a back-to-front sexual embrace, the front nude in a perpetual orgasm, providing a grand arc of water.
Starsky ordered a beer and tried to ignore the watery ejaculation right above his left ear.
Nursing his beer, he watched the comings and goings. He felt thrust into a foreign country with no passport, no lingua franca, no contacts, and no buffer. Huggy’s no-nonsense opinion of this field trip taunted him.
“What you hope to accomplish, Starsky?”
“Huggy, I’m a cop. When I don’t understand something, I investigate it. Find witnesses and interrogate ’em until I know what they know. That’s what I do.”
“What you gonna ask? ‘I got a buddy I think the world of but my dick don’t get hard for him, can you tell me why not?’ They’re gonna say, ’cause you’re straight, you dumb son-of-a-bitch.’ How’s that gonna help you and Hutch?”
“Who said I’m gonna ask any of that?!”
“Come on, Starsky, you take me for a fool? You’re not driving damn near ninety miles to a gay bar ’cause you got a thing for loud disco and watered-down beer. You could get that right here. You think you’re gonna go in this joint and walk out turning on to guys? Doesn’t work that way.”
Huggy was right. Sitting here trapped on the sidelines of a lifestyle only made Starsky feel farther away from Hutch.
By the time he ordered his second beer, though, Starsky had made a crucial observation. Watching the interaction around him and on the nearest dance floor, he realized that human beings are more alike than they give themselves credit for. He saw the same surface connections, rejections, and personalities that he saw in any straight bar. Some men were wallflowers, some were prowlers, some were like bees flitting between flowers, some clung to partners, some tried to pick jealous brawls, some were loners.
Smiling, Starsky felt his chest loosen, his posture relax, and the growing comfort must have registered in his expression, conveying an openness, because he received his first proposition less than five minutes later from a fresh-faced, physically fit brown-haired boy who looked barely legal, and Starsky guessed him to be twenty-two. Starsky squeezed his shoulder and gave him a polite ‘waiting for someone’ and watched the kid dance away to try his luck elsewhere. The second proposition came from a man around his own age and build, sandy-haired, shamelessly filling his skin-tight jeans to bursting. The guy leaned down to whisper in graphic detail what he’d love to do to Starsky’s cock. One part of Starsky’s mind questioned whether the human penis could even manage some of the gymnastics described; one part wondered if Hutch knew how to do those things. He’d probably kill John Gage with his bare hands if he found out that Gage had done any of those things to Hutch’s cock. The remainder of his melting brain tried to figure out what he could say when Sandy Hair quit whispering in his ear.
At the end of the quadruple-X-rated invitation, Starsky stroked his hand down the guy’s chest and said, huskily, “Had that last night. Looking for something a little different tonight, sorry.” Sandy-haired dirty-mouth walked away, shaking his head, and Starsky breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
But his cock had twitched during Sandy Hair’s recital.
Progress!
Starsky decided it was high time he found a “witness.” If he didn’t “pair off” he’d just set himself up for more of those awkward come-ons. He looked around the bar until he spotted the perfect information source. Wallflowers make excellent observers, and Starsky doubted he’d find a better target than the dark-haired man in his late thirties who dressed to fit in at a Marlboro Man convention but wore glasses and watched the dance floor wistfully.
With the casual and seductive approach he used to net women, Starsky slid on to the empty stool beside his prospective witness. “Hi,” he said loudly over the blaring disco beat. “I’m David.”
Hazel eyes swung his way and promptly widened behind the thin-cut glasses. “My God, yes you are!” the man drawled. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”
“Huh?”
“Because I think I’m looking at the reason Michelangelo took four years to finish the Sistine Chapel ceiling.”
Starsky smiled, flattered in spite of himself. “Nope, ‘fraid not. I’m a product of Brooklyn, not Vatican City.”
Again those eyes widened. “Brains to go with the package. Either I’ve had one too many martinis or I’m in love. The name’s Eric. You’re a long way from home, stranger.”
More ways than you know. “Buy you a drink, Eric?”
Eric held up his empty martini glass. “Had my fill, actually, but I’d love to dance.”
Starsky hoped he had not gulped out loud. “I was thinkin’ we could sit and talk.”
Eric smiled. “Listen, David of Brooklyn, I come here to meet men and dance. Talk is one of the last items on my agenda.” But he reached across and lifted Starsky’s right hand, squeezing warmly. “You’re even more attractive looking all disappointed. Tell you what, come out on the floor with me and we’ll talk there.”
“Out there–” Starsky tilted his head to the side and tapped the base of his beer bottle against his ear. “Won’t be able to hear ourselves think.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Abandoning his beer, Starsky felt a momentary qualm letting Eric pull him away from the bar. The man obviously hoped for more than a dance. Undercover, Starsky reminded himself. Not always kosher the things that had to be done undercover, and disappointing a nice guy named Eric couldn’t be helped. One dance, Starsky decided. He had to take control of this encounter if he wanted to get past dead-end flirtation to the information he needed.
The music changed when they reached the crowded floor, the disco switching to a tune Starsky recognized, and he had just found a respectable set of moves that didn’t force him right into Eric’s personal space when his dance partner abruptly unbuttoned and pulled off his flannel shirt. Starsky stared. If forced to guess, he would have said Eric had a chest no less hairy than his own, but a hairless, nearly artificially smooth display of skin and muscle tone greeted him. Glancing around, Starsky saw that other men were in the process of shirt removal, and most of the naked chests revealed were smooth, some glistening with sweat sheen. Eric watched him, grinning, and gave him a two-handed lift up motion. Starsky didn’t want to clutch the hem of his shirt like a nervous prude. His own unveiling drew a gasp from his new acquaintance. He tucked his faded blue button-up in the back of his jeans and prided himself on not missing a beat with the song.
“Don’t bother to shave, sweetheart?” Eric commented, drawing a fingertip down through Starsky’s chest hair. “Very, very fit you are, too, Butch, so it’s not that you don’t care about appearance. You want to tell Uncle Eric what a straight man’s doing in The Wildewood?”
~*~*~
Huggy scowled at him when Hutch took his favored place at the bar close to the Dos Equis wall sign. More precisely, Huggy scowled at the air-vented white shoebox Hutch set on the counter at his side. “Hutch, what you doing bringing that rodent in my place of business? I done told you and Starsky, spotted dogs, tarantulas, or chinchilla-wanna-bes, it’s all the same. I don’t need problems with health inspectors.”
Hutch looked around the bar. “You see any health inspectors lurking around this time of night?”
“Fine,” Huggy snapped. “Just don’t let her out of her box.”
“Starsky asked me not to leave her alone. Actually, for an expensive little critter, she’ll grow on you after a while. Set me up, will ya, Huggy?”
Huggy served the requested beer and peered in the box. He then looked at his watch for the fourth time since Hutch arrived. “You and Starsky have both lost your marbles.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hutch lowered his beer before he’d had a swig and gave his friend a closer look.
“Nothin’,” Huggy said, but when the phone rang he jumped and almost twirled, ears visibly perked. His waitress answered the phone, shook her head at him, and called one of the patrons over from the blue-and-white checked tables. “Damn,” Huggy muttered.
Hutch drank through the heavy foam and in lieu of a napkin wiped at the corner of his mouth with his jersey sleeve. “Huggy, what’s your problem? You’re as antsy as I’ve ever seen you. Waiting on someone?”
“None of your concern,” Huggy said uneasily, and he looked as if he wished Hutch had found any other bar in the city to wet his whistle.
“Knew I missed the welcome mat on the way in,” Hutch said. “Huggy….”
The phone rang again, and another waitress beat Huggy to it. Sipping his beer, Hutch watched her catch Huggy’s eye and distinctly mouth, “Not Starsky.”
Hutch choked on his swallow of beer and slapped the glass down on the bar when Huggy cringed. “Waiting on word from Starsky? Why?”
Huggy turned hollow, pained eyes on him and Hutch’s finely tuned sense of mercy almost made him drop the subject. Almost. This was Starsky, after all. Huggy pulled the pack of smokes out of his vest pocket and fished one out, lighting up with fingers that trembled, unsteadily shoving the pack back again. “Hutch, please, leave this be. Ain’t nothing gonna come out of it that–”
“Huggy, you can hide behind that cigarette all you want, but you’re gonna tell me where Starsky is and why you’re hanging on every ring of the phone hoping it’s him.”
“Set him up with a little out of town action, that’s all,” Huggy demurred. “Told me he’d give me a buzz when he got home.”
“You know, Starsky’s the sucker who paid a couple hundred bucks for a guinea pig, Huggy, not me. And I’m not buying this either. Out of town where?”
“Come on, man, he’ll kill me!”
“Let me put it this way for you. You tell me, and I can smooth things over with Starsky before he gets to you. But you’re making me furious and I’m right here in front of you. Which battle you wanna choose, Huggy?”
“Damn.” Huggy gestured for Hutch to slide down the bar to the very end, a few feet removed from the nearest patron. Once there, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Louise’s skittering in her box. “He drove down close to Oceanside. Place called The Wildewood. Kinda establishment that don’t see many women pass through its doors, get my drift?”
Hutch was glad he didn’t have Louise in his hands. He would have inadvertently squeezed the life out of the poor creature. “A g-gay bar?” Immediately he swung a hunted look around to see if anyone had overheard, but the music and booze held the patrons’ attention.
Huggy looked miserable. “Yeah. Asked me to help him find a place where’d he stand the chance of fitting in for more than a few seconds. I called Sugar–”
“Sugar knows Starsky was looking for a gay bar?!”
“No, ‘course not! What you take me for, huh? I told her I knew a guy who wanted to broaden his horizons a little bit, try a walk on the other side, and didn’t want more action than he could handle. She told me she couldn’t promise that in the San Diego bars, but she knows the guy who runs The Wildewood and it’s a honey of a joint.”
Hutch willed Huggy to face him eye to eye. “How long have you known about me, Huggy?”
Huggy shrugged.
“Not as tight a closet as I thought I was,” Hutch said. “Huggy, you can get over your discomfort right now and give me the full run down. You’ve got immunity. It’s Starsky’s ass I’ll put in a sling.”
~*~*~
“I’m not the only man out here with chest hair,” Starsky protested.
Eric smiled at him, still dancing. “No, handsome, you’re not. But that’s just one clue. You’re wearing the wrong jeans, wrong kind of shirt, and when I suggested we dance, you got this look like I’d proposed setting you up in a dental chair and having some fun with a drill. If that weren’t enough, you’re not advertising, and a man as scrumptious as you are would probably have the advertisement in plain sight so you wouldn’t have to wade through a bunch of useless offers. Hell, even I advertise, in case one of these Greek Godlettes decides to overlook my age and prescription eyewear.”
“Advertisement?”
Eric turned around and showed off two handkerchiefs tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. On the left side, navy blue and a lighter blue on the right. “Advertisement.”
The music changed again, a slower tempo number, and Eric danced closer. “Still want to talk? We do it cheek to cheek.”
Starsky had known his cover couldn’t hold until the bar’s closing time, but he had hoped for longer than two hours. He slipped his arm around Eric’s waist and let him in close, a convincing nearness for slow dancing. Eric draped his arms over Starsky’s shoulders and made a contented sound that ratcheted Starsky’s guilt up a notch. Over Eric’s shoulder he watched the other two dance floors and the dancers, his mind spinning and trying to light on even one question he could ask the man in his arms. Over by the go-go stage a very young boy slipped his hand into an older man’s and the older man discreetly shoved an envelope down the boy’s back pocket. Starsky tensed from head to toe, feeling the badge holder in his own pocket burning his skin.
Eric followed his gaze. “What? Oh, don’t worry, Father Superior, he looks like a baby barely out of diapers, but he’s legal.”
“Legal and paid for,” Starsky muttered.
“Kyle’s no hustler. He’s–oh. Oh, no. That older guy is Mike, The Wildewood’s manager. Kyle performed earlier tonight. He’s phenomenal in drag. Mike’s just paying him. Cash, probably. Not kosher with the IRS, I’m sure, but…oh, oh my God.”
Eric tensed then and jerked away from him. Starsky turned his head. “What?”
“You’re a cop. You’re a fucking cop! Well, buster, whatever you’re investigating, you won’t be using me for a stool pigeon! Should’ve known, damn it, should’ve known when a guy like you looked twice at me!”
Starsky grabbed for Eric’s arm. “Wait!”
“Let go of me, you Neanderthal!”
“I won’t hurt you,” Starsky snapped at him. “Please, just listen. Please, willya, huh?”
Eric stared at him, seething, hazel eyes afraid and the fear magnified by the glasses. Something in Starsky’s expression convinced him. He came back to Starsky’s arms and tried to act like a man happy to be slow dancing with him. “Andrew must’ve had a real hard-on for you to let you through the front door. He can usually smell cop with a raging head cold. He can smell straight, smart-assed Marines, too, and they don’t get in either. Too many of ’em like to come over from Pendleton and hassle queers. Gay Marines are too afraid to be seen here and outed.”
Starsky sighed. “Yes, I’m a cop. I’m miles and miles from my jurisdiction and I’m not on duty. I’m here at my own risk, so–”
“What’s that mean?”
Starsky glanced around. “You know probably a dozen guys in here have legitimate and understandable reason to want to wipe the floor with a cop, and if the watch dogs in my Department somehow got wind of me being here, my life wouldn’t be worth shit. Okay? I got good reason to be here and it’s got nothin’ to do with giving any of you guys a hard time.”
“Please just tell me you’re not Vice. Wherever you work.”
“Nope. Or Narco. Homicide, primarily. Plain clothes. That pass inspection?”
Eric finally gave him another sweet smile. “Yeah, guess I can live with that. You’ve been a sport, Detective, dancing with me like this. Why don’t we continue this at one of those cozy tables? You want to talk, we’ll talk.”
~*~*~
Hutch couldn’t remember the last time he’d smoked while driving. He’d stolen the pack of smokes from Huggy’s pocket over his useless protests that Hutch didn’t smoke, pocketed Huggy’s lighter, too, and left Louise in the stunned barkeep’s care. No smoking except when an undercover persona called for it had been Hutch’s rule for nearly a decade, but if he meant to make it to Oceanside in one piece, sanity intact, he required either alcohol or nicotine, and alcohol didn’t mix with driving. In worn jeans and his green jersey with one of the yellow stripes missing from the right sleeve, he was suitably attired for entertaining at home or getting a drink at Huggy’s when the loneliness in his apartment palled. The outfit was not his preferred attire for a bar where clothes could make him an outsider and draw the wrong kind of attention, but he had no time to go back to Venice to change. He had just enough gas to make the trip barring an accident that stalled traffic on the interstate, and he had to make time.
“Hutch, what good will it do for you to go chasin’ after him? Might even miss each other on the way. It’s a good hour-and-half drive, you know.”
“I’ll make it in an hour.”
He drew in more of the false nicotine comfort and let his foot turn to lead, pushing the speedometer to eighty-five. If he found Starsky within two feet of another man, he’d kill the little sneak, plain and simple, and the guy with him better have good health insurance, too.
~*~*~
Settled at one of the tables, with Eric drinking down the courage of another martini, Starsky assumed all his natural confidence. If he meant to solve his problem, he had to toss his pride and inexperience. “Here’s my situation. My best friend in the whole damned world is gay. Bisexual, I’d call it, but he thinks of himself as gay. He’s the best thing in my life, with no competition for top spot, you got that? I’d take a bullet for him in a New York second. What I really wanna do should be a slice’a pie in comparison. I wanna take him to bed. Not a one-night stand, not to play around. I wanna take him to bed and keep takin’ him there. There’s just one hang up. My dick thinks it’s still on the other side of the street. We got into some pretty hard core kissing the other night, but I didn’t get a rise. My friend–my partner–said something about it not bein’ an overnight shift. What I wanna know is, what kinda shift is it? How long? And is there something I can do, some trade secret, I guess, to hurry it along?”
Eric coughed and put the martini down. He reached across the table and patted Starsky’s hand. “I’m sorry. Won’t work, don’t even put yourself–and him–through it. I can guess a lot of your motivation. You’re thinking maybe you’re his ticket to everlasting satisfaction, and you think it’ll be safer for him to be with you. Admirable, noble, touching. But it won’t work.”
Starsky pushed back from the table. “Thanks for the opinion. I think I’ll see if I can get a different one.”
“David, at least give me a chance to explain–”
“Look, I got next to no time. This is a huge risk I’m takin’ right now. I can’t waste what little time I got hearing that I can’t do what I’ve already made up my mind to do anyway. Just thought I could get some ideas how to make it easier for both of us.”
“Listen, David, none of these guys will tell you what you want to hear, unless they think it’ll get them into those faded jeans of yours. Just sit down, please? Damn, I’m grateful I’ve never been up against you in an interrogation room!”
Starsky sat down and folded his hands on the table. “Why won’t it work for my buddy and me?”
“Because straight men and gay men just don’t work. Not for anything serious. Maybe they’re good for a couple rolls in the sheets. And trust me, you’d be all into it if he went down on you, ’cause no one can suck dick like a man, especially a man that knows what he’s doing. Did you just swallow your tongue? Want some water? You’re the most brilliant shade of red I’ve ever seen!”
“I’m fine,” Starsky said. “And I don’t think you can generalize like that.”
“Who’s generalizing? I’ve seen it time and again. It’s not uncommon. Of course, I’ve seen the bad side of it, too. A guy my age, who’s been in this scene long as I have, has at least two friends who took a so-called straight man home to bed one night and woke up with the guy beating the shit out of them for ‘leading him into temptation’ or some shit like that. It’s a hot thing right now to sleep with someone who isn’t ‘in the life,’ but smart guys stay away from ‘experimenting’ straights.”
“Jesus Christ!” Starsky thought fondly of polishing off Eric’s martini, scared spitless at the image of Hutch taking someone home and waking up to violent heterosexual fury and damaging fists.
Eric misinterpreted his exclamation. “Relax. I’ve seen enough of you in action to know you’d never be like that. But it doesn’t change reality. Look, what gets you off is good snatch and a pair of perky tits, am I right? Well, your buddy could bottom for you daily, and he still wouldn’t be pussy.”
Starsky shrugged away that reality. “You don’t understand. I’ve seen him kiss girls. Got exactly zero charge out of that. But a while back I saw him kiss a guy, and I won’t go into details, but if we hadn’t been in a tight spot, I’d’a grabbed him right after and showed him I could melt his socks. Watchin’ him get tongue from a guy just about fucking melted my socks!”
Eric laughed. “Maybe you have an ounce of cock lust.”
“An ounce of–? You wanna run that by me again, with an explanation or two?”
“It’s how I measure attraction to men. A half-pound of cock lust in a guy, and he’s a solid bisexual. If he has three-quarters of a pound, he can still do women, but it’s really not his favorite thing. A whole pound of cock lust, and a guy won’t feel a twitch unless he gets dick.”
“Yeah? How much have you got?”
Eric sat taller in his seat. “I have two pounds of cock lust, David, I break my own scales! So, you said you’d call your friend bisexual. He actually sleeps with women, no fake fooling around action?”
“Yeah.”
Eric finished his drink. “Because he has to for cover or because he wants to?”
“Both, I think. Yeah, both.”
“All right. Hold out both of your hands, palms up, nice and even like a measuring scale.” Eric balanced his glass on Starsky’s left hand and then carefully set the half-empty bottle of Starsky’s beer on the right. When the right hand dipped a little under the heavier weight, Eric nodded. “See. Say you have an ounce of cock lust, admirably represented here by the empty martini glassware, but your buddy has closer to three-quarters of a pound, like this good hefty beer. Don’t balance, do they? You guys won’t either. You’ll still be drawn to women, and he’ll want more of you than you can give.” Eric removed the damning evidence from Starsky’s hands and nudged the beer closer to Starsky as if certain he needed it.
“I don’t think things like sex and feelings can be reduced to quirky measurements,” Starsky said, hope shriveling inside and leaving him dry-throated and drained.
“Why not? Measurements don’t lie, quirky or not, and they’re a hell of a lot less messy than the alternative.” He smiled with a hint of sadness. “Damn, I wish your friend were here. I could get along very well with a guy packing more than half a pound of cock lust.”
Starsky had to chuckle at that. “How do you know you’d be his type?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be, but since we’re having this conversation, I have to assume he isn’t turned off by dark-haired guys. What’s he look like?”
“He’s–” Starsky stopped. To him, Hutch looked like Hutch. Home. Safety. Friendship. Sunshine and ocean breezes, fresh forest after a rain, music at midnight. How did you put that into a description?
Eric tapped on his hand. “Hello, still there? What’s he look like? You’re thinking about fucking the guy, and you can’t tell me what he looks like?”
Starsky snapped back to the conversation and tried to put all the beauty of Hutch into words a man could appreciate. “He’s 6’1″, blond, blue-eyed, runner’s body with street cop muscle to back it up, hung like you wouldn’t believe.”
Eric put his hand over his heart, letting his eyes roll dramatically. “Stop, stop, you’ll give me palpitations. Hung like I wouldn’t believe? Coming from you, that’s saying something.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on. You might not be wearing the most popular brand of jeans for this crowd, but there’s not a damn thing with the ones you’ve got on, and the way you wear them, there’s no doubt what neighborhood in Brooklyn you probably hail from. Two big mouthfuls of cut kosher meat, that’s what you’re packing. Mind you, the guys who take a chance on me are never disappointed. I’ve been measured at ten raring to go, and like I said, measurements don’t lie.”
“Ten…as in inches?” Starsky’s cheeks flamed again.
Eric’s laughter had an addictive quality. “I didn’t say that to get your ounce of cock lust all fired up. You and me, we wouldn’t even get off the ground, and I should’ve seen that time you looked my way.” He reached behind him and then waved the navy blue handkerchief in the air. “I like it on top, and God himself couldn’t top you, now could he?”
“Seeing what I have over years on the job, I’m not sure I believe all that much in God.”
“What do you believe in?”
Starsky smiled. “My partner.”
“Umm. Don’t confuse buddy-brother love for romantic love, David. Not the same thing.”
“You don’t know a damned thing about me and–” Starsky drew the line at giving Hutch’s name. Not that it probably mattered, this far away, but the cop in him balked at handing out privileged information.
“What did you really come here for, David? What’d you hope to learn? You wanted someone to explain it all to you? What it’s like to be gay? What it’s like to prefer men? To live gay in our society?”
Starsky frowned. “Yeah, maybe. Guess I needed to hear it from an objective source.”
“Not from your friend.”
“Right.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not something I can do for you in an hour. In a day, even. You can’t shrink-wrap something like an entire life of discovery, fear, wonder, love, loss. Could you tell me in an hour what it’s like to be straight, to want a woman of your own? Love is love, yes, to a point. Loss is loss. But after you get past all the similarities, there are a hell of a lot of differences it’d take a year to talk about. And probably even longer for you to understand. And vice versa.”
“I understand. Thanks for being honest.” Starsky found he could smile again. “Mind being honest with me about something else?”
“Um-hm, what?”
“Why was a guy like you sitting at that bar just watching men pass by? You talk with a lot of experience, confidence. Never mind the ten inches. But then you were shocked that I approached you. Doesn’t jive, and the detective in me wants to know why.”
Eric flushed and seemed to be seeking answers from his empty martini glass. “Maybe the ten inches boast was a slight exaggeration.”
Starsky laughed out loud. “Yeah, maybe it was. Still doesn’t answer my question.”
“Why do you care?”
“You’ve been nice to me. You could’ve caused a scene back there on the dance floor and gotten me into a lot of embarrassment if not outright danger. But you didn’t.”
Eric adjusted his glasses somewhat nervously. “Who knows why a guy isn’t the hottest thing on the menu? Never have been. Always one of the watchers, not the doers. And every time I come here I get reminded of it.”
“Then why do you come here?”
“That’s one of the differences it’d take you a while to understand,” Eric said harshly with a flare of resentment in his expression. “It’s not that easy to meet men outside of a place like this. You run into a pretty lady at the Laundromat, strike up a conversation, and if the vibe’s right, you can get away with asking her to take in a movie. If I do that with some random guy on the street or in the Laundromat, I’m liable to get my block knocked off and shoved up my ass.”
Again Starsky realized what a gift Johnny Gage had been to Hutch. How could Starsky’s favorite person safely find an outlet for his needs that didn’t involve bars his job and continued good health forbid him to patronize, or dangerously approaching guys who could do more damage than out him to the LAPD? How had Hutch and Gage met that they had just known they could land in bed together without a destructive crash? He shrugged off the dark thoughts and turned another smile on Eric. “What’s the light blue one stand for?”
“Huh? Oh, the handkerchief?” Eric grinned. “I’m one of the guys who really know how to suck dick, and I love doing it. I could take you some place private and show you. I’m not exaggerating when I say I’d make you wish you had three lungs to scream with.”
Starsky felt another twitch in his cock. “Uh, I’ll just bet you would. But, no, thanks. What I wouldn’t mind is another dance.”
“Even a slow one?”
“Even a slow one. Uh, if you don’t, you know–”
Eric’s grin returned. “Line us up from the waist down?”
“Right.”
“I’ll keep a six-inch buffer of air at all times, how’s that?”
Starsky rose from the table and held out his hand to his new friend. “That I can handle.”
~*~*~
Hutch was too stunned to take more than a few steps into the bar. Forbidden for years to enter a world that could have been his by birthright, he had to take a minute just to breathe in the scent–male sweat, exertion, passion. The freedom to look where he chose, to linger on attractive faces that returned his gaze with welcome and in more than a few cases avid interest, opened his chest and filled his veins with buzzing adrenaline. He had no real desire to sit at the go-go stage and admire the view, but he laughed fondly over the fountain sculpture, and the dance floors drew him involuntarily forward to a paradise where he could dance with Starsky unafraid of repercussions outside their own relationship.
Then his newly opened, expanding lungs tightened again, and his brain sent signals to his fists to clench in tandem. Starsky had found the dance floor and a very attractive partner to share it with. Hutch caught his breath in sharp, short gasps.
“I don’t own him, I don’t own him, I don’t own him,” he chanted to himself.
His words couldn’t convince his mind or his heart.
~*~*~
“This is nice,” Eric murmured. “Got to say, I wish I we still had our shirts off.”
“Don’t, Eric. Remember what you said. When it comes to cock lust, a guy with an ounce and one with two whole pounds just aren’t in the cards.”
Eric smiled into Starsky’s shoulder, careful to maintain their buffer of air below the waist. “I know, I know. You’ve done me a huge favor dancing with me like this, though, and you could do me an even bigger favor.”
“What’s that?” Starsky asked, trying not to sound wary.
“Well, probably ten or more guys are watching us right now. You motion behind the main dance floor–which is the way to the back room, by the way–and act like you’d just love to take me back there, and I’ll act like I’m really not into it–”
“And then I walk away all dejected and down at the mouth?” Starsky guessed with a small smile.
“Yup. Now, some of those guys probably have the idea you’re one of those experimenting straight men, and they’ll think I’m being cautious. Some will think you want my ass and I’m not giving it up. But almost every one of ’em will want a second look at me when I turn a prize like you down cold after a couple of slow dances, and at least one will be someone I’m willing to take a second look at.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Honey, gay men are the champions of complicated. We have to be. I swear, if the CIA would hire on a few of my friends, the Cold War’d be history by the new decade. ”
Starsky laughed. “Okay, I can play along. You find yourself someone to take home who’ll treat you right.”
“David, there’s not another man in this bar that could treat me as right as you would’ve if you’d only been–”
“I meant more than just sex,” Starsky interrupted.
Eric hit him with those expressive hazel eyes. “So did I.”
“All right, before I start play-acting, here’s something I gotta do.”
“What’s that?”
Starsky dipped his head and planted a soft, not too brief kiss on Eric’s cheek. “Thank you.”
Eric touched his own cheek, clearly surprised. “For what?”
“I came here with the attitude this was something I had to do. You may not’a told me what I wanted to hear, but you made this fun. And I think I’m gonna walk out of here a better person than the one that came in.”
“Hell, David, you had a lot going for you before you came in or I couldn’t have made anything fun for you. Guy like you gives me hope for heterosexuals everywhere.”
Starsky laughed again and then dredged up his acting ability from his undercover experience. Tugging Eric by the belt loops, he tried to pull him toward the main dance floor, pointing with his other hand in the vicinity of this back room Eric mentioned. Eric dug his heels in and shook his head, tugging at Starsky’s arm until Starsky released him. Starsky cupped his cheek and then pointed again, but Eric pushed his arm away. Finally, Starsky shook his head, let his chin droop a little, and walked away without looking back. He was smiling on the inside, though.
Until he made it to the edge of the dance floor and looked up into blue eyes he had never anticipated being part of Eric’s audience.
~*~*~
Hutch couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Starsky so shocked.
“H-Hutch, what’re you–”
“What am I doing here?” Hutch ground out through teeth that couldn’t stop gritting. “I think that’s my line, don’t you?”
“I–”
“I’d ask what you could’ve possibly needed here you couldn’t get from me, but I guess I just found out.”
“I–”
“What the hell were you thinking? What if this place got raided? You would’ve been right in the middle of it!”
Starsky tried to take him by the arm, but Hutch pulled away. Starsky brushed his hands back through his hair and then held them palms out at chest level gesturing for Hutch to take it easy. “You’re right. Dumb, dumb stunt. Let’s get out of here, huh?”
“Why? Because Tyrone Power over there turned you down?”
“Hutch, it’s not like that. He’s just a nice guy and I was doing him a favor. Can’t you tell when I’m pulling a cover op by now?”
Hutch searched his partner’s honest, pleading eyes. His anger didn’t subside.
Starsky touched his arm again. “Come on, willya? Let’s go home.”
“Oh, no. You’re here, I’m here. If you got to enjoy a couple of hours in a world I haven’t been able to go near for fear of my whole life crashing down around me, then we’ll just stay a while longer and make the most of it.”
“Stay? What you just said about a raid–”
“You didn’t worry that much about it. I figure, in for a penny, in for a pound.”
Starsky’s expression turned into a mixture of worry and discomfort. “You’re angry, huh?”
“I’m furious. Angry’s what I’ll be when I’ve calmed down some.”
“Damn. What all did Huggy tell you?”
“Never you mind. We’ll deal with that later. Come on.” Hutch took Starsky’s hand and started toward the dance floor.
“Hutch, I don’t think I–”
“What? You can dance up close to some stranger but you can’t with me? What are you afraid of? Worried I’ll get hard on you or that you will?”
Starsky looked him in the eye. “No, Hutch. I’m scared I won’t.”
Hutch’s chest opened again and his eyes must have softened too, enough to draw a breath of relief from Starsky. He squeezed Starsky’s hand and led him onto the floor. The fast tempo song currently playing had some of the dancers taking off their shirts, and Hutch watched in astonishment as Starsky shed his, tucking the shirt in the back of his jeans. Trying to make his two left feet cooperate with freestyle dancing, Hutch awkwardly pulled his jersey up over his head, then stopped when Starsky’s hands grabbed the jersey’s hem and aided in the disrobing. Starsky twirled him and stuffed the jersey down in the back of his jeans, then pulled him back around and up close, their thighs meeting on every other pounding beat of the song. Hutch realized Starsky was dancing closer to him on a fast number than he had with the dark-haired stranger during a slow song. Dizzy, blood rushing, Hutch looped his arms around Starsky’s neck and let the rhythm and nearness of his partner’s body guide him in the dance.
~*~*~
In his suspenders and nighttime turnout gear, Johnny sat hunched at the table with his hands folded into a loose fist under his chin. It was Johnny’s preferred posture when upset or angry, Roy knew, and he went over to the refrigerator for an apple to have an excuse for being out in the kitchen when everyone else was asleep in the dorm. He brought his apple over to the other side of the table and sat down. “You should be in there sacked out.”
“Should. But I’m not.” Johnny didn’t look at him. “What’s your excuse?”
Roy held up his apple even though Johnny didn’t look up from his study of the tabletop. “Hungry.” He bit into the apple and waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, he swallowed his bite of apple and said, “Look, it’s been a chilly day in the squad, and the other guys are starting to notice. Guess it’s time we clear the air?”
Johnny looked up at him then. “You said everything this morning, as I recall.”
“No. No, I didn’t. I owe you a pretty big apology, Johnny.”
“For what?”
“For letting you think my decision to take the captain’s exam is all because of what you did to help out that detective.”
“It wasn’t?”
Roy munched on his apple. “No,” he said through a bite. “I made my mind up a few weeks ago. Just hadn’t figured out how to talk to you about it.”
“Are you saying this thing with Ken–I mean, Hutch–didn’t make you want to stop being my partner?”
Roy felt a twinge of discomfort. “Johnny, working with you is so important to me it’s had me fighting with Joanne the last couple of weeks. Soon as I realized she wasn’t just kidding about wanting me to take the exam this year.”
Johnny looked skeptical. “You haven’t been acting like you usually do when you and Joanne mix it up.”
Roy smiled. “Figured if I didn’t do an extra good job hiding it, you’d be pestering me like always, trying to find out what’s wrong.”
“So, you’re still going through with it?”
“Yeah. Kind of promised Joanne. She’s got nothing against you, Johnny, or the paramedic work. But she really does want to try for another baby. And our kids are getting older. Next thing you know there’ll be things they need. Braces, things for school, bigger rooms. We need the hike in salary that promotion would bring me.”
Johnny nodded. “I can understand that. I’ve been doing some thinking today, and I’m gonna try for it, too. I don’t want to break in another partner, Roy.”
Roy tossed his apple core in the trashcan behind him. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Selfish, maybe, but I didn’t wanna think about you out there working the squad without me. Not saying captains don’t see a fair amount of danger. They do. But it’s not like what you and I run up against on a shift.”
Johnny got up and plucked a glass out of the dish drain. He went to the fridge but paused with the door open and looked over his shoulder. “So, why did you say that stuff this morning?”
“Why do you think? I was mad, Johnny. Mad at you for taking that kind of chance. Mostly mad at Hutchinson for putting you in that position. If I didn’t have a family to worry about, I’d risk an assault on a police officer charge and bloody his nose.”
Johnny’s laughter jarred his smooth pouring of milk. “Wouldn’t advise that. Hutch has incredible reflexes, and Starsky would clean your clock sure as you’re sitting there.”
“Yeah, you’re not kidding on that one.”
“Besides, Hutch didn’t ask me to do what little I did. I volunteered. All he asked for was a place for him and Starsky to stay that night. Like I said this morning, Roy, it was something I had to do. Can’t explain it. Just…just had to.”
“I know. Think that’s what part of the problem was for me.” Roy cleared his throat. Johnny brought his milk over to the table and sat back down. “Seeing what you did for him…that’s the kind of thing I’d do for Joanne and my children. Anything, all the way, no questions asked. I know I’ve tried to be supportive of your thing with guys, but I think part of me, down deep, kind of hoped you’d–I don’t know–grow out of it or something and find a woman to settle down with, have kids of your own. I realize now it’s stupid to think the kind of life that works for me will automatically work for someone else. Seeing what you were willing to do for Hutchinson, I know it’s not a phase you’re going through.”
“Be easier for me if it were,” Johnny said, swirling his milk around in the glass. “I still think I might live longer and happier if I give up ice cream for the sorbet, you know?”
“Johnny, whatever you decide, do me a favor?”
“Yeah?”
“Find yourself someone, guy or girl, who’ll care as much about you as you did for Hutchinson?”
Johnny grinned. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“Good. Now, it’s a long ways ’til December. Let’s make the most of our time left in the squad, okay? Air’s clear?”
“Air’s clear. But, Roy, you’re talking like you know we’re both gonna pass the exam and get promoted. You think Stanley will back me, knowing what he knows?”
Roy nodded. “He knows fire captain material when he sees it.”
~*~*~
The lights in the bar had dimmed to match the romantic mood of the ballad playing. The dance floor thinned to couples only, and Starsky didn’t hesitate to pull Hutch into his arms. No six-inch buffer of air for them. Starsky tightened his arms around Hutch’s waist, enjoyed the feel of Hutch’s embrace around his shoulders.
“Starsk…” Hutch murmured.
“Feels good,” Starsky whispered back.
“Starsky.”
Starsky looked up into Hutch’s shimmering eyes and read the question they asked. For answer, he lifted his chin. Hutch made a sound on the near side of a whimper and brought his lips down to cover Starsky’s in a kiss that played havoc with Starsky’s equilibrium. He opened Hutch’s mouth with his own, wanting their tongues to meet and rub as closely as the rest of their bodies. Even the shocker of tasting nicotine in Hutch’s mouth couldn’t knock him out of the perfect moment. Underneath the smoky flavor of cigarette, Starsky tasted the real Hutch, and there was only one thing to say about that. “Taste so damn good,” Starsky said. Halfway into another dimension from the kiss, he stopped worrying that his cock didn’t fill and rise to the occasion. He had Hutch in his arms, swaying to the music, kissing him breathless, and he didn’t care who saw them, or what anyone thought.
Hutch broke the kiss and licked his lips.
Starsky heard Eric’s warning ringing in his ears and dismissed it. What did anyone know about this powerful, wordless, unbreakable thing he had with Hutch? No damn scale could measure it. He wanted privacy then, a quiet place where he could explore Hutch from head to toe. “Partner, let’s get out of here, hm? Go somewhere we can lose more than the shirts?”
Hutch jerked his head up from nibbling at Starsky’s ear. “What? Starsky, you’re not even–”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want. You said once you like the challenge of making women come. Well, here’s a challenge for you.”
“But, Starsky, you’re not just–You’re my partner. You’re–everything.”
“All the more reason. Believe in what we got. I do. Don’t you want me?”
Hutch made that whimpery sound again and pulled Starsky up taut against him, letting him feel the outline and heat of an erection through two layers of denim.
“Well, then. Lookit, I’m gonna stop by the john and then we’ll hit the road.”
“I can’t possibly make it back to LA.”
“We won’t even try. We’ll find a place. Back in a sec.” Starsky kissed him again, a quick peck of lips. “You behave yourself out here. If I find another guy propositioning you, I’ll cripple him, I swear.”
Hutch smiled. “Don’t worry; I know the feeling. That friend of yours earlier doesn’t know how close he came to a broken jaw.”
Winking at him, Starsky left to find the bathrooms. He had just finished his business at the urinal and tucked himself away when a familiar face appeared in the mirror.
Eric pulled up short and then stepped away from the urinal with a smile. “You know, you didn’t tell me your friend is the most beautiful man in the state of California, bar none.”
Starsky walked over to the sink to wash his hands. “He’s something else, I know.”
When Starsky turned around, Eric pulled a small tube from his left pocket and handed it over. “Merry Christmas or Happy Birthday, whichever comes first.”
Starsky looked down at the tube of K-Y. “Uh, thanks.”
“It’s brand new. Unopened. Brought it with me tonight hoping I’d feel luckier with it in my pocket. I think you and your friend will have need of it.”
“But–”
Eric smiled again. “Saw that lip action out there, and there wasn’t a damned thing buddy-buddy about it. I know what you mean now about hard core. If you can kiss a man the way you were kissing him, you might have closer to half a pound of cock lust than I thought, with the right guy.”
Starsky pocketed the lube. “Thanks, but don’t you think you might need it yourself?”
Eric’s smile widened into a smirk. “I found myself a honey with an oceanfront cottage and plenty of K-Y on hand.”
As verification, a voice called into the restroom, “Eric, baby, what’s taking you so long? You’re killing me here.”
Starsky laughed and slapped Eric on the back. “Good for you. Hope it works out.”
“For tonight at least. One day at a time, that’s my motto.”
When Starsky caught up to Hutch by the pornographic fountain, Hutch gave him a strange look.
“What’re you grinning like that about?”
Starsky put his arm around Hutch’s shoulders and hugged him close to his side. “I think I just got a seal of approval from an expert.”
~*~*~
They ended up at a motel just off the Pacific Coast Highway, the cookie-cutter architecture not unlike the Canyon Vista. Hutch didn’t have the presence of mind to worry about similarities or memories. Starsky had to take care of registration while Hutch waited in the LTD, trying not to cream his jeans just from thinking about why he was parked beside the Torino outside a motel. When Starsky came strutting back into view, swinging the room key from his fingers, Hutch slammed out of the car and raced up to him. He skidded to a stop with a foot’s distance remaining, knowing if he inched closer, he’d pull the man into some third base moves in the middle of the parking lot. Starsky just laughed at him and guided him toward the room where Hutch fully expected his life to change forever. Starsky stopped outside the door and gave Hutch a combustible look.
“Ready?”
“If you don’t open that damn door, Starsky, I’ll kick the thing in!”
“All righty. Since you put it that way.” But Starsky’s hands weren’t steady either, and the key scraped against the lock several times in his fumbling before slipping into place.
The door seemed to take five hours to open a few inches. Hutch dashed inside, dragging Starsky with him, and kicked the door shut in the way that Starsky had made famous with Dobey’s office door. Panting, Hutch locked eyes with Starsky and unbuttoned his own jeans, sliding down the zipper and shoving the pants and his white cotton underwear down to his thighs in a lightning move that made Starsky groan and Hutch gasp with the rush of air on his cock. Starsky neared and slid questing fingers up Hutch’s throbbing cock. Hutch banged his head back against the door and howled, shooting as if he’d had no physical contact for years. Bringing his hand down in a loose fist around the emissions, Starsky let his fingers grow sticky with the thick fluid. Afterward, he wiped the stickiness on his jeans, his smile one of amazement.
“Hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Starsky growled.
“G-glad you approve.” Hutch breathed deep. “Maybe now I can survive the next hour.”
Starsky delved in his pocket and produced a tube of K-Y. “Friend gave me this tonight. Don’t know if we’ll need it, but–”
Hutch’s breathing had slowed, but now sped again. “Oh, we’ll need it, all right.” Starsky looked a little overwhelmed, and Hutch rushed to reassure him. “I’m gonna get you hard, make you come, get you hard again, and then you’re gonna nail me to that bed over there.”
“Oh, God, Hutch.”
“Um-hm. Plan to make you say that a lot tonight. Starsk, I know this is new for you, but I don’t want this to be a one-man show. I need you to tell me what you want. How do you want the next ten minutes to play out?”
Starsky stroked his still-sticky forefinger over Hutch’s lips, down to his chin. “Suck me, Hutch. You’ve got the prettiest mouth I’ve ever seen on anyone. Right now if I think about your ass, I’ll short circuit or something. But I could think about your mouth all damn day long.”
Hutch needed no further encouragement. He made quick work of sliding his jeans and underwear down to his ankles and off, tossing them aside, then went to work on Starsky’s belt. Down on his knees in front of his partner, Hutch had no patience, no time to do anything but force the jeans and tight little bikini-cut brief down to Starsky’s knees, stroking his hands back up lightly-haired, muscular thighs and around to squeeze handfuls of an ass too sensual to be legal. Starsky sighed out a few broken words and petted through Hutch’s hair. Hutch felt a twist of confusion inside, accustomed to finding his guy of choice already hard and leaking by this point in the proceedings, but he refused to surrender to the challenge. He licked a pattern across Starsky’s balls with the very tip of his tongue, rewarded by fine tremors in Starsky’s thighs, and raised his head to suck the head of Starsky’s cock with the gentlest pressure. Carefully covering his teeth with his lips, he let his mouth fill with saliva to give hot wetness where it was most needed. Starsky let out a harsh, unbelieving cry and Hutch wanted to sing around his mouthful when he felt the prick at his mercy start to grow.
“Jesus, Hutch, God, gettin’ hard, gettin’…that’s it, that’s it, suck me, suck me, oh–”
Hutch had no problem fulfilling that request. He slid his hands down and held tight to Starsky’s legs, just beneath the luscious curve of ass, and initiated the bobbing motion any man wanted to feel. Suck, slide, release, lick, suck…a rhythm Hutch could play as well as any ditty on the guitar, and Starsky began to moan softly in the back of his throat, thrusting loosely, controlled, gently covering Hutch’s nape with his warm palm.
Hutch didn’t want him controlled, tender, or concerned. He wanted him unleashed, out of his mind and out of his body with need and raw passion. He let Starsky feel the tiniest nip of teeth where a good, hard dick could appreciate it, and Starsky’s moan sharpened to a cry. “H-Hutch! C-Can’t believe it’s you…down there…us…real…sucking…me…Oh!”
Slipping his mouth slowly off Starsky’s shaft, Hutch looked up and squeezed Starsky’s legs to get his attention. Heated blue eyes blinked down at him. “Starsk, God knows I love the sound of your voice, but you don’t have to talk yourself into coming. I’m gonna make you come from your toes to your scalp. Just let yourself feel it.”
Starsky pushed against his nape until Hutch rested his cheek against Starsky’s stomach and allowed a tender hand to brush through his hair, finding reassurance, normalcy in the middle of the whirlwind. Hutch could sympathize with that need. Having his mouth around Starsky’s cock had turned his entire world upside down, and he didn’t know if he’d even recognize himself in the mirror when he looked the next time. He knew he’d like the new reflection better. After a moment of calming, Starsky grunted a little and pushed his belly forward, an encouraging motion that cued Hutch to go down on him again. Hutch snarled at the treat waiting for him and sank his mouth over the needy flesh. Starsky bucked, hissed, and began thrusting in earnest, taking Hutch’s mouth with the partner-tempered roughness Hutch wanted. One judicious rolling of Starsky’s balls in fingers warmed from gripping his leg, and Starsky yelled, stilling before jerking in orgasm, giving Hutch the first true taste of his partner.
Starsky collapsed to his knees and hunched over, shaking, his breathing erratic and eyes wild. Swallowing, wiping the back of his tender mouth with his hand, Hutch gathered him into a loose embrace at first, and then held fast.
“I’ll be damned if it ain’t true,” Starsky gasped into Hutch’s shoulder. “No one can suck dick like a man.”
“Hm?”
“I should get you a light blue hanky. But you only wear it for me, got that?”
Hutch snorted against Starsky’s hair. “God, Starsk, who’ve you been talking to?”
“Never mind. Let’s go get comfy in bed, rev up our engines and see where they take us.”
Hutch kissed him. “Better plan on taking me across the finish line, you drag racing stud.”
~*~*~
Johnny couldn’t believe his eyes. “An empty coffee pot!” He wagged the carafe at Roy to get his attention and have someone share in his misery. “At the nurses station? What’s the world coming to?”
Roy yawned. “Try the coffee room. Right now I’m so tired I think coffee would do the opposite of its intended purpose and put me right to sleep.”
“I’ll risk it. Won’t get through the rest of the night without it.” Johnny glared at his partner when another DeSoto yawn triggered one of his own. “Stop that.” He left Roy yawning in front of the supply drawers and headed for the coffee room, fully expecting to find it empty this time of night.
Instead he walked in on Brackett peeling an orange and trying to read a newspaper with the weariest, droopiest eyes Johnny had seen this side of Roy. He started to back out of the room and leave the man undisturbed, but his sudden desire to right that afternoon’s wrong overwhelmed him and pushed him over the threshold. Brackett didn’t even notice his arrival until Johnny walked behind him to the counter where clean coffee cups were drying upside down on a dish towel beside the coffee machine.
“Johnny?”
“Yeah, Doc. It’s me. In here hunting coffee. The pot at the nurses station is empty.”
Brackett turned around and blinked at him. “Must be later than I thought, you’re in turnout gear.”
Johnny looked down at the bulky pants and heavy boots. “Yep. You’ve been here nonstop since this morning?”
“Yes. Had a few patients go critical this evening, and I stayed to see them through the worst of the crisis. You and Roy here on a rough one?”
“Saw it in my face, huh?” Johnny went over to the table and sat down across from Brackett. “Yeah. Toddler took a header out of her unsecured crib. Head injury. Neuro’s already down here with her, and Roy and I were hoping we could hang around long enough to know she’s gonna be okay.”
“Hard to tell with those, Johnny,” Brackett said through a yawn. “Might be touch and go for a good long while. You said Neuro is with her?”
“Yeah.” Johnny waved him back down when he would’ve left his seat. “So there’s no reason for you to ditch your orange and paper.”
“Parents here?”
“Yeah. Roy’s gonna sit with them for a while when he finishes checking our drug box. ‘Least until LA calls us out again.”
Brackett separated the orange slices and offered Johnny one. Johnny accepted the sticky wedge and popped it in his mouth, cupping his hand to use as a spittoon for the seeds. He reached for a napkin and wadded the seeds in it. “Uh, Doc?”
Brackett was concentrating on his orange. “Um?”
Johnny took a long, unobserved look at him. The usually neat dark hair over Brackett’s forehead was untidy. His long lashes looked moister than usual, evidence of sweat and too much hard work crammed into a short time, but his eyes, though puffy with fatigue, were still stunning. Johnny had always noticed Brackett’s eyes; he’d tried for the longest time to figure out if they were blue, gray, or dark brown-black. Over time he’d decided that they were blue, but their color changed with lighting and possibly even with Brackett’s mood. Maybe like a mood ring, they were bluest when Brackett was happiest. Right now they shone brilliantly dark like a starlit night, perhaps a side effect of tiredness. Johnny wondered if Brackett was a man who could lose himself, relax and unwind, in a good snuggle. The doctor’s broad chest and sturdy arms no doubt provided good snuggling.
And why the hell he was thinking about Brackett’s eyes and taste in snuggling he didn’t know, but he slapped a mental lid down on those thoughts and jumped up from the table. He’d made it to within inches of the door when Brackett said, “Still running, Johnny?”
He froze. “What?”
“Staying as far from the gay thing as possible? Does that include me now? If so, I should never have told you. I hoped to gain a closer friend, not lose one altogether.”
Johnny couldn’t shake off the cheek-warming wave of shame. On seeing Brackett, he had come in the room as much to right a wrong as for the coffee, and here he was high-tailing it again. He returned to the table and set his mug down. “Doc, you’ve always been, um, a good friend to Roy and me.”
“Thank you, and likewise.”
“But I know what you meant earlier. And I’d like to think of you that way. That kind of friend. A resource, like you said. Won’t say I’m not still running, though. I meant what I said about getting messed over. I’m–oh, hell. I’m real shook up inside right now.”
Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Brackett nodded. “I know. I’m sure it doesn’t help that you know Hutchinson is a good man who likely didn’t realize he was in over his head until it was too late to pull out without shaking you up. On some level, it’d be easier if he were a monster you could hate.”
Johnny helped himself to another orange slice and noticed that the liberty he took brought another brief, patented half-smile to Brackett’s weary face. “Bottom line, he had a choice. And he didn’t choose me. Gave him another chance to choose and I still ended up empty-handed. Not easy for a man to take.”
Brackett finished the last piece of orange and thoroughly cleaned the corners of his mouth with his napkin before he settled back in his chair. “No, it isn’t. That’s one of the similarities that cross orientation lines. Men don’t handle rejection well.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“Even the silent kind,” Brackett murmured, watching Johnny in that intent way of his.
Johnny frowned. “Silent kind?”
“And sometimes that kind is at least partially self-inflicted and the recipient has no room to complain.” Brackett rose from his chair. “I’ll check in on that head injury. You and Roy be careful out there tonight.”
“You get some rest, Doc; you look like you need it.”
~*~*~
Well, Hutch wanted a challenge.
He got one.
Removing the remainder of their clothing separately to avoid injury in their state of excitement, they chose the bounciest of the two double beds in the room and dragged the faded pastel print bedspread and top sheet down to the foot. When they rushed into each other’s arms in the middle of the bed, Hutch had to admit, in broken words between kisses, that Starsky was no slouchy kisser. Hutch was already one or two kisses from forgetting every other pair of lips, and Starsky seemed determined to deliver the knockout punch to those memories. Four or five open-mouthed, writhing kisses later, Hutch sported a hard-on that begged for immediate Starsky attention, but he found no answering hardness when his hand strayed below Starsky’s waist. He found soft, curly hair to tug that earned him a hiss and twitch of Starsky’s hips, but his hand closed around a sizable cock semi-erect at best, and the flesh didn’t flush or harden further in his caressing grip. Starsky showed no concern, though. He pushed Hutch gently down to the bed until they were sharing one of the flat, lumpy hotel pillows. Starsky moved away from Hutch’s hold but only for the purposes of turning onto his side and stretching out beside Hutch, propped on one elbow and using his non-dominant right hand to trace circles on Hutch’s chest. Lips red and swollen from kissing, curly hair riotous, Starsky looked wanton and devilish, everything Hutch loved most about him.
“You sensitive here?” Starsky walked his fingers up toward one of Hutch’s nipples.
Hutch tilted his chin downward for a look at his chest. “Not really–” A warm mouth closed over his nipple, tongue flashing out to lick, and Hutch yelled, “Damn it, Starsky!”
Starsky lifted his head. “Happiest ‘Damn it, Starsky’ I ever heard. Must be more sensitive than you thought.”
“Must’ve needed the right mouth,” Hutch said, sounding drunk on happiness and past caring. Starsky’s responsive grin and seductively mobile eyebrows made the mushy thought worthwhile. Even more worthwhile was Starsky’s return to sucking Hutch’s nipples, evenly dividing his time between each, until Hutch shook, sweating, calling out, and hovering just on the edge of his second climax.
“Starsk, stop, s-stop! Damn it, man, I’ll be over the edge before you’re inside me.”
“Jesus, Hutch! Know what you want, don’tcha?”
“Tonight I do, absolutely. How about yours? They give you any jolts?” Hutch flicked his fingers across Starsky’s right nipple.
Starsky shook his head. “Nah. Duds, I’m afraid.” Hutch raised his head and closed his mouth around the brown nipple, using his tongue to deliver the same flicking action before applying his teeth in the merest clench and pull. Starsky shouted and grabbed Hutch by the ears, his palms warm and trembling. “H-Hutch, G-God! Oh-h.”
The palms gentled on the sides of his face, and Hutch grinned around the nipple. “Never had a woman bite you there, huh?”
“Uh–no. Quit with the questions, willya, and do the other one!”
Hutch did as he was told, and Starsky growled in undeniable pleasure, urging Hutch away from his chest and raising up to straddle his partner, moving until his cock brushed against Hutch’s lips. “Put your mouth on me, Hutch.”
“But–”
“Get me all the way hard, babe, so I can give you what you want.”
What do you want? Hutch mentally pushed the question aside. If Starsky didn’t want him, he wouldn’t be here doing things with him in bed that left the border of heterosexuality miles behind them. He sucked Starsky in, fighting the awkward position to give the best head possible, and Starsky closed his eyes. Hutch battled a momentary concern that Starsky was envisioning a feminine mouth around the head of his dick, but then those lids fluttered again, and Starsky was blinking at him, shining pure affection, wonder, and need down on him. Hutch felt his partner’s cock stiffen between his lips, but Starsky pulled away and Hutch mourned the departure, preferring to have had at least one droplet of pre-come on his tongue to remind him of Starsky’s taste.
Starsky’s smile was all electricity. “You could make me come so fast with that pretty mouth, but I got other plans for us.” He stretched to retrieve the tube of lube he’d put on the nightstand. “Gonna make your legs shake, buddy, make you scream the roof off.”
Promises generally made to a woman. Oh, well, Hutch couldn’t fault the man for using what he knew. And speaking of what Starsky knew and didn’t know… Hutch reached up to squeeze his ribs with gentle pressure until Starsky looked down at him. “Starsk, you might not last until I come this first time, and that’s okay.”
“What? Think I don’t have what it takes? If there’s one thing I got at crunch time, it’s stamina.”
“I know,” Hutch said, smiling, “but this is different than a good roll with a girl. Have you ever had a woman through the back door?”
“Nope. Too many ways to make ’em happy from the front.”
“Okay, then. You’re gonna be shoving that huge, happy cock of yours–what?”
Starsky winked at him. “Really think it’s huge or you just stroking my ego?”
“I’ll show you stroking.” Hutch stroked his hand up the erection in question, letting his fingertips play with the head, teasing the slit, until Starsky flung his head back and began to pant. “It’s impressive, you know it’s impressive, and you can just stop gloating, bad boy.”
Starsky smiled down at him. “Unnh, gonna put it to good use. Give you the ride of your life, and you’re loony if you think I’m stoppin’ before you’re coming all over the place.”
Hutch groaned. Starsky had him hotter than the inside of a car parked in hundred-degree weather, just from those erotic promises in that one-of-a-kind voice. Maybe that was the point. Close as Hutch was, he’d probably shoot the very instant Starsky got inside. Still, better to issue a warning now than risk a bruised Starsky ego later. “Starsk, you’ll be putting yourself in the tightest, hottest place you’ve ever been. And when I say tight, I mean it! Haven’t had a cock up there since…oh…summer of ’66, I think.”
“Summer of–!” Starsky’s mouth fell open and he stared at Hutch in clear disbelief. “But I thought–”
Hutch knew what he thought, and about whom. “No, Starsk.” He bit his lip. “I would have.” He moved his hand to cup Starsky’s cheek. “Oh, hey, you gorgeous man, you. You don’t need that look.”
“What look?”
“That ‘my partner, mine!’ look you get sometimes. I didn’t tell you to make you jealous. I just didn’t want to start this out lying to you. I cared about him. I would’ve given him that, but–”
“What? Is he a bottom or something?”
Hutch laughed. “Oh, no. Johnny’s no bottom. I thought one time he wanted–oh, hell, does it matter? This is about you and me. And I don’t even have words for what it’ll mean to have you inside me, Starsk.”
Starsky gave him a gentle, almost soothing kiss. “If you can’t find words, then that’s good enough for me. Wanna do this right, Hutch.”
“It’s not rocket science.” He tried to think of anything that might send Starsky barreling out of the hotel room in a disgusted panic. He didn’t feel full, his health shake regimen kept him regular, and he’d had a good, long shower quite a while after his last… He realized he’d been thinking out loud when he saw Starsky’s astonishingly red face.
His David Starsky, red-faced, yet.
Cheeks flaming hotter than his dick, Hutch tried to laugh but came out with a squeaky chuckle. “Well, uh, now I know you’re a stud when that little–er–speech didn’t make you deflate.”
Starsky just kissed him again, playing with Hutch’s chest. “Anything I encounter, well, it’s you, y’know? No need for you to get all shy now.”
“In that case…” Hutch spread his legs and then drew them back until his knees flanked his chest. He clutched at his own shins and presented Starsky unobstructed access.
Starsky’s flushed face now had wide eyes to match. “Hutch, damn, God, you–you’re goin’ all out. Any reason you think you need to give me the whole enchilada tonight?”
“I want to, isn’t that reason enough?”
“You’re not thinking this is a one-time deal?”
“I–Honestly, I hadn’t even thought that far ahead. Might not be a one-time deal, and God I hope not, but the fact remains, your known orientation is our best cover. Can’t let this change us on the outside, Starsky, if we want to survive out there, doing what we do. And that means women in our beds and smart comebacks to the locker room bigots.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know alla that. Shit for a reality, but there it is….”
“So, let’s get the most out of this. Shove that other pillow up under my ass; I want to be at the perfect angle for you to really get up in there.”
Starsky ever so gently lifted Hutch’s ass one-handed and situated the pillow until Hutch nodded his approval. Slicking his forefinger with the lube, Starsky drew the tip of his finger around the puckered entrance to Hutch’s body and then pushed the digit inside. Hutch held to his control by invisible threads, coaching Starsky through the stretching, twisting, circling of that one finger, then two, wanting to tell Starsky to shove them as far as possible in hopes of contact with that special spot. Instead he contented himself with the necessities. The fancy stuff could wait. His balls ached from needing Starsky and that kind of reckless want didn’t make for good, patient coaching.
“Damn, Hutch, this–you–doing something to me, I swear.”
“Something good, I hope. Starsk, I appreciate the thorough stretching, but if you don’t put your cock where your fingers are soon, I’ll lose my mind.”
“More’n ready on this end, buddy boy, but I’ve only got two fingers up there so far.”
“My asshole isn’t the eye of a needle, either. Trust me on this, Starsky.” Hutch clenched down on those fingers and watched Starsky’s breath catch. “Uh-huh. Don’t you want some of that around your prick? Look, I won’t let you hurt me. I know in the long run you’d suffer far worse than I would if you did. Okay? Take me on that ride you were talking about, Starsky. Now.”
Starsky started to slick himself with the lube, but Hutch pointed his foot and nudged Starsky’s bicep with his toes. “Bring that big boy up here and let me slick him up right.”
Biting down on a whimper, Starsky crawled forward between Hutch’s legs and arched over him. Hutch closed his lips around the firm, hot flesh he could lick, suck on forever and count himself lucky. When Starsky’s shoulders rolled forward and then shook, Hutch knew to release him.
“Never had anyone so damn sexy,” Starsky muttered, bracing his hands on the pillow just above Hutch’s shoulders. “All right. You stop me if–”
“Stop you, hell.”
Starsky smiled, and then Hutch felt something larger, hotter than fingers seeking entrance. He saw no confusion on Starsky’s face. He saw exertion, restraint, and in Starsky’s gasps he heard amazement. “You…were right…so hot…could set me on fire…tight, o-oh-ohoho, Hutch!”
“You were right about making my legs shake…so we’re even….”
As Starsky pushed in, Hutch tried to hide any pain that came with his body’s attempt to relearn this unique dance, but the slow, deliberate force told him that Starsky felt the unspoken struggle. Blissfully soon, Hutch’s ass remembered that a big cock pushing its way through muscle could be a very, very good thing, and he let out a cleansing breath. He saw Starsky’s control breaking, and he moved his hand to caress Starsky’s sweat-dampened cheek.
“All the way, Starsk.”
“Uhnn…” Starsky pressed up until Hutch could feel his hips, the tickle of short hairs, the wrinkly, soft skin that protected Starsky’s tightening balls. But Starsky’s slow withdrawal and tentative reentry tortured Hutch.
“So gentle,” Hutch breathed, “but I don’t want gentle.”
“Hutch!”
“Want you to fuck me like you could never fuck a woman. Hard, fast, crazy, good.”
Starsky’s breathing was just a series of panting gasps. “Hutch…stop…you don’t know….”
“How rough you wanna get? Show me. Show me your inner wild man. Way you make me feel I might just melt, but I won’t break.”
“Oh, God. G-gonna lose it, real fast.”
Hutch smirked. “Told you.”
He should have known Starsky would take that as a challenge. Staring down into Hutch’s eyes with as much determination as pleasure, Starsky jerked out just shy of slipping free and then shoved in again, this time deeper. On each pull and push he worked his way deeper, arms straining, hips doing the work of two men, and on one gasping thrust Hutch felt his balls quiver from pressure within him.
“Oh, yes, Starsk! Oh, holy–!”
“So, that’s where it is,” Starsky murmured, then snickered.
Hutch tried to catch his breath for speech. “How’d you–”
Starsky held himself halfway in, poised for another sweet push to that internal gland. “May not be an expert…but I know…a thing or two.”
“Sta-a-rsky…” Oh, God. Was that a whine? Hutch closed his eyes, wanting to hide the naked want melting him from the heart, through his bones….
“Look at me, Hutch. Got to see it in your eyes when you come. Gonna…send you flyin’…without even touching your big prick.”
“Starsk!” Hutch opened his eyes and hoped the heat in his cheeks showed in a satisfactory flush.
“No other man…does this to you…un’erstand?” Starsky’s thrusts were more like lunges now, desperate, needy, and connecting on every other stroke with the part of Hutch that needed to feel him most. “Not…while…I’m breathin’….”
“Starsky!”
“Uhh-nnn. Hutch, say it!”
“No…other…man…does this to me…S-Starsk!”
He loosened his legs to wrap them around Starsky, needing more skin-to-skin contact, and Starsky took his weight without faltering in his rhythm. Forceful, hard, fast, crazy, good–Hutch got his wish. He thought wildly that they might push right through the wall behind the cheap motel headboard, and hoped the neighboring room was vacant. He used his hands, freed from holding his legs back, to stroke Starsky’s face, tug at the tousled, drenched curls over his forehead, and brush his thumbs over Starsky’s lips. When that needy cock inside him flared, Hutch lost his soul to the man arching over him, and screamed harshly at the ceiling. Thick, liquid warmth landed on his belly and chest, and the room smelled of sex. Starsky’s roar took over where Hutch’s scream left off, and three final, short, jerky thrusts brought Starsky over to Hutch’s side of the little death and its accompanying paradise.
~*~*~
Starsky had reason to be grateful for their late-night shower when he woke to warm lips nuzzling his fresh morning erection. He smiled lazily and reached down to smooth the blond bed-head that now bobbed over his groin. Flashes from the previous night hit each of his senses simultaneously: the taste of Hutch’s kisses, the heat and squeeze of his ass, the bracing water in the shower they shared when their legs became functional afterward, the sound of Hutch’s sleepy breathing in his arms, and the scent of their freshly washed bodies in a room that still reeked of sex. Hutch was going to town on him now, using those long fingers to tease Starsky’s balls, and Starsky stopped thinking about anything but his dick and the deep, expert mouth sucking him off. Too soon he arched, feeling the orgasm shoot through his spine and every nerve ending that branched from it, and he cried out watching Hutch swallow every burst. He lunged and rolled Hutch over on his back, stretching out with him and seeking kisses flavored with the intimacy between them.
“Could kiss you all day,” he said into the corner of Hutch’s mouth. He trailed his hand down the smooth sinewy muscle of Hutch’s abdomen to tug on the cock that throbbed in his loose fist. “How you want….”
“Shower,” Hutch gasped, lifting his hips to thrust in the cradle of Starsky’s hand. “You can stroke me off under the water…ohh-oooh, Starsk, don’t make me come all over myself again.”
“Why not? Thought it was damned hot. Both times.”
Hutch smiled. “Sure was. But this morning if I’m going back in the shower because of another orgasm, I’d rather just combine the two.”
In the shower Starsky wrestled with the sense that he should offer more than a warm hand. He’d seen the feverish glances at his ass, and he knew for a damned fact that his partner didn’t live life on the bottom, either. Hutch hadn’t asked, seemed afraid to let his gaze stay on Starsky’s backside for more than a few seconds, and Starsky ached to squelch that fear, but his determination not to screw up this fledgling addition to their partnership overruled that desire. He wasn’t ready, any more than he could put his mouth on the straining cock he stroked. In the case of sucking cock, the deterrent wasn’t the stigma of obscene names and slurs he’d heard on the streets, both East Coast and West, but the discomfort that he was out of his league, out of his depth. He didn’t apologize for being a take-charge man in bed, and he didn’t begrudge the same attitude in Hutch, but Starsky had taken the coaching through their first intercourse, and he couldn’t handle playing the student again so soon.
A handjob he could deliver without expert tips, and he brought Hutch to his knees with it, following him down under the shower spray to hold him through the aftershocks and kiss away Hutch’s stuttering, gasping words of praise.
Out in the room, Starsky wanted to lounge in bed and nap with his new bedmate, but Hutch had started retrieving his discarded clothing, sniffing at each piece and then shrugging. Starsky waited until Hutch had the jersey pulled down over his head.
“Hey, after a shower like that, won’t we be a hazard on the road, partner?”
Hutch’s bright-eyed smile approved of the question, but he still kept tugging his jeans into place. “Got to face the city again sometime, Starsk.”
“Yeah, but what’s the rush? Thought we had until Monday. Dobey must be sneaking candy bars when we aren’t looking. Got sweetness just oozing out of him all of a sudden.”
“Bereavement time,” Hutch said quietly and sat down on the edge of the bed to toe on his mocs. “I didn’t request any officially from the department, so Dobey’s trying to provide me some the unofficial way, and he knows this ordeal put you through the ringer, too.”
Nothing like the reminder of death for a slap back to reality. Starsky left his sprawl on the bed and reached for his own bunched jeans. He knew Vanessa’s family had claimed her body and seen to the arrangements, pointedly refusing Hutch any part of the process. Hutch had taken their grieved venting and abuse in stoic silence followed by a few cutting if censored remarks of his own, and Starsky had watched in quiet rage, all too aware that neither the situation, nor Hutch’s state of mind, called for the typical retaliation he would have meted out to anyone foolish enough to disrespect Hutch. He’d seen the rage in Hutch’s eyes and knew if the thinly veiled accusations and hateful words had come from fellow police officers instead of grieving, late middle-aged parents, Hutch would have been hauled back into IA for fisticuffs in the squadroom. Hutch hadn’t exactly wanted to plan Vanessa’s funeral and sit on the front row of the church service, Starsky knew, but the man didn’t need to be told, yet again, that Vanessa’s life had ended the minute she laid eyes on Hutch years ago.
“Sorry, Hutch.”
Hutch looked over his shoulder. “For what?”
Starsky zipped up and gestured at the bed. “Timing and all.”
Hutch brought one knee up on the bed and turned around for better eye contact. “I’m not in mourning. That’s why I didn’t request time from the department. It’d be a final insult to Van to pretend emotions that aren’t there, and the grief I feel about what happened to her, what I couldn’t prevent, knowing she had to stare down her killers and see her last minute coming violently like that…that’s too complicated for one of those canary yellow bereavement time request forms.”
Starsky nodded. “I can understand that.”
“I’m not rushing back to the city to hole up in my apartment and cry, you can believe that! What we did here, I–I think it’s shifted my sanity back into place.” Hutch gave him another smile. “Besides, you don’t want Huggy to get ideas about Louise. He might decide to turn her back into a chinchilla if someone makes him the right offer.”
Starsky’s hands slipped on his shirt buttons. “You left Louise with Huggy?”
“What else was I supposed to do with her, bring her down here with me in the front seat? I took her by the bar with me for a beer. Didn’t know I’d be chasing after you–Oh.”
“Oh? What oh?”
Hutch pressed the heel of his palm against his brow and rubbed. “I just remembered that I’m supposed to be furious with you.”
Letting his shirt hang loose, Starsky crawled over the bed to kneel behind Hutch and knead his shoulders. “Hey, thought we screwed all the furious out of you.”
“You could’ve ruined Johnny’s career, putting Huggy’s contacts on his trail like that!”
Starsky’s hands jerked on the tense muscles. “Huggy told you about–oh, shit.”
“Yeah, oh shit, is right. And don’t be planning revenge on Huggy. He’s in the middle. He didn’t squeal on you, Starsky. He only told me he’d gotten a line on Johnny, but it doesn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out who put him up to it. I know you, and I’d knock down anyone else who’d say it, but you are pushy. I know you didn’t give Huggy a hell of a lot of choice. Neither did I, when I demanded the full run down from him. I’m sure I looked ready to wipe the bar with him.”
In the middle of his churning stress, Starsky found a chuckle. “I know that look on you. Hell, it makes me wanna cut and run even. And not to remind you, but a few days ago we risked a lot more than Johnny’s career.”
“I know!” Hutch bowed his head. “I’m still not ready to forgive myself for that.”
“And he’s an adult,” Starsky said firmly. “He could’ve turned you down when you dropped a dime on him that night, but he didn’t. What I did, he had no say in, but I’d just pieced it all together. You were in surgery, and I had to know, damn it. I knew I could count on Huggy for discretion. Knew he’d care more about you than the information.”
“I know all that,” Hutch said, sounding far too weary for a man who’d enjoyed three orgasms in less than twelve hours. “I know.”
“Then what’s the problem here, really, Hutch? It’s not Gage’s career.”
“I’m an adult, too!” Hutch pulled his shoulders free of Starsky’s massage and walked over to lean his palms on the light oak dresser. “I know I’ve made some mistakes when it comes to relationships. Who hasn’t? But I’m no protected witness for you to give my acquaintances clearance checks. I don’t need a keeper.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
The low anger in Starsky’s voice turned Hutch around to face him. “Starsky, I don’t mean that you set out intentionally to be my–”
“That’s not it. I can’t believe you can’t hear the hypocrisy in what you just said. You might not clear my acquaintances, but you clear information. You don’t mind holding out on me with what you think I can’t handle, what you think might be dangerous for me to know. I had to find out from some slips of paper that you were seeing a guy. Had to find out from Gage that you guys were through. Seems I’ve had a keeper, too.”
Hutch shrugged loosely. “You’re right. Damn it, you’re right.”
“And another thing. I wasn’t tasting pure Hutchinson in your mouth last night. If you tell me you’re smoking again after–what, a nine-year break?–we’re gonna go round and round!”
Looking like a kid caught with weed, Hutch flushed. “Are you saying you won’t kiss me if I have cigarette breath?”
“No. I can’t think of anything that would make me not want to kiss you. I’m sayin’–”
“I know what you’re saying.” Hutch shook his head. “And I’m not. Smoking, that is. Last night I just–all this had me a little rattled. That’s the point. What we’re getting into won’t be easy. Starsky, how do we do this? How do we do this,” he pointed at the rumpled bed, “leading the lives we have to out there, without it ripping us right down the middle?”
“One step at a time, I guess. You’re the most real thing in my life, Hutch. We start with that, and we don’t ever deny it to each other, no matter how we have to hide it from everybody else. Take it from there.”
Hutch walked back over to him for a kiss. When their lips separated again, Hutch said, “Well, there’s one person we’ll have a devil of a time hiding it from and might as well not even try.”
Starsky kissed his jaw. “Huggy’s known about you a long time, Hutch, long time before I had him check out Gage. Never kept him from thinking you hung the moon.”
Hutch smiled. “I’ve known just as long that Huggy is a two-way street. Should’ve guessed he’d spot it in me.”
“Yeah? Now I’m one, too.”
Hutch’s eyes were deadly serious. “No, Starsk, no you’re not.”
“Huh? What other guy was in here buried up to his balls in your ass last night?”
“Yes, you were, and I’m still feeling it! I know I was a little accusatory in the bar last night, watching you with that guy on the dance floor, but after a night with you, I know for a fact I’m the only guy in the world you’d do any of this with.”
“I’ll buy that. So what’s the problem?” Starsky couldn’t see the downside in that. Thought it would be reassuring for Hutch, in fact. But Hutch didn’t look reassured. He had a worried look that reminded Starsky of Eric.
Because straight men and gay men just don’t work. Not for anything serious.
“Problem is, you’re walking a beat you’re not used to now, Detective. Better know you can call on your partner for back-up when it gets too hot to handle.”
~*~*~
Starsky barely lifted his foot off the gas at the last red light before he turned onto Ocean Avenue. His bladder felt like a hollow lead ball in his lower gut with a fire burning inside it, and he was the world’s biggest dumbass for being on the road to Venice instead of in his own comfortable apartment with his very comfortable bathroom. For the tenth time, he told himself he could have called Hutch to see if he’d heard from Lisa Kendricks. He didn’t have to drive over to Venice to find out.
But then, with a phone call, he wouldn’t get to see for himself that Lisa wasn’t Hutch’s roommate for the night. The squabbling and competition over her had felt good so far, natural, like the kind of thing they did before they kicked down the last wall between them, but he couldn’t deny his hope that Hutch didn’t want to make good on all that charming blond flirtation with the witness under their protection. Starsky closed his eyes and begged his bladder not to burst.
Of course, he didn’t exactly know what he’d do once there at Hutch’s place this time of night, after they did their job and made sure Lisa was where she should be, tucked away for the night and not screaming down the hotel. He and Hutch hadn’t done anything since that night at the roadside motel, both apparently sharing the fear that too much too soon would just push them off some kind of cliff. But whatever Hutch needed from him, Starsky was good for, he knew that much. Didn’t mean he was going looking for it, and that sure as shit wasn’t why he was pulling up in his favored parking spot in front of Chez Helene, but now that he knew he could quench Hutch’s thirst, he could be human Gatorade for his partner. Absolutely.
In his haste to get to the john, he almost forgot to lock the Torino. Even in Venice, his pride and joy didn’t need to be left at the tender mercies of any undesirable elements that might happen by. Keys pocketed, he rushed into Venice Place and up the stairs.
Hutch showing off leg in the short orange bathrobe was welcoming, but the expression on his face didn’t match. Starsky read irritation in the set to Hutch’s lips, and guilt in his eyes, and didn’t like the combination. First things first, though. He pushed by Hutch and made for the bathroom, but Hutch blocked his way, and Starsky thought he might dissolve in a puddle at Hutch’s feet. God, he had to piss! Like yesterday, already. He heard Hutch saying something about the john being out of order. Or out of water. Or something. Something that meant he couldn’t go in and relieve his crushing need.
Something didn’t smell right, and it wasn’t just the faint tang of heated cardboard telling him Hutch was reheating leftover pizza in its box. Hutch’s body language wasn’t right, either, his explanations for Lisa’s absence from the hotel too rushed, unconcerned, glib.
Hutch was never glib about an innocent person’s safety.
Though his mind worked up to the truth by degrees, Starsky didn’t expect the slicing shock he felt when Lisa emerged from the bathroom showing off plenty of leg herself. The guilt on Hutch’s face solidified, and for a second, Starsky actually believed he wasn’t seeing what he was seeing. But no, something had changed. In the old days, Hutch would’ve shown up at the front door grinning over his victory, discreetly bragging that the lady had chosen him, and Starsky would have come in to try and sway the balance back in his favor, both of them flirting and exerting all their charm until the lady made her choice clear. This new deception, guilt, and false show of innocence from Hutch scoured Starsky on the inside and left him confused, thrown off his rhythm.
“Some buddy. Trust him with your life, and look what he tries to do behind your back.” Starsky felt a small triumph at the flash of hurt in Hutch’s eyes before the excuses started up again. Starsky didn’t care. He just wanted to get Lisa out of the bathroom before he left a puddle on Hutch’s precious hardwood flooring.
When Lisa came out again all flustered, Starsky thought they might finally resort to old patterns, familiar territory, but Hutch didn’t want to play the old game. He wanted to play sore loser and slam the bathroom door in Starsky’s desperate face.
Oh, the cruelty! Starsky pulled his bladder–and his wits–together, and decided two could play that game. Hell, Starsky could play it better. He turned the spotlight of his charm on Lisa and had her out of Hutch’s apartment before the count of ten.
~*~*~
Hutch let the shower pour over him, and tried to regain his balance. His emotional center felt somewhere five thousand miles away. He knew the day would come. The pursuit of women was essential to Starsky’s nature, and Starsky couldn’t silence that urge any more than the scorpion could spare the frog its fatal sting in the middle of the river. Hutch just hadn’t counted on it happening so soon. He hadn’t finished hammering out the weakened kinks in his armor he’d have to wear around Starsky in female pursuit mode. When Lisa had shown up at his door, he’d seen a golden opportunity to keep harsh reality at bay for one more night. He’d been a fool to think he could keep Starsky off the scent.
Okay. Plan B, then. He’d finish this shower in record time so Starsky wouldn’t bust a kidney, and then he’d rejoin the fray. He might not keep Lisa out of Starsky’s bed, but if Lisa wanted more than someone to watch over her while she slept, perhaps she could handle two man-sized teddy bears. He just had to forget she was a witness…and that he wanted no one in his arms but Starsky.
He opened the door five minutes later to an empty apartment.
Stunned, cut below the knees, he wandered over to the sofa and sat down, unable to summon the strength to go in search of clothing. Pulling his robe tight about himself, he stared at the poster on his door and kept swallowing over and over just to reassure himself he still could. He would not chase over to Starsky’s apartment. He wouldn’t. He’d wait until morning, play it cool, keep his dignity intact.
Somewhere around four a.m., he realized he’d better at least stretch out on his bed if he wanted his back to function without a brace.
~*~*~
The crack of gunfire brought Starsky out of a dead sleep with a yell. Where was his Beretta? Hell, where were the Marines? He clutched at his chest. Not gunfire. His front door. Hutch.
“Rise and shine, Lochinvar!”
Pissy Hutch.
Oh, terrific.
“You missed Reveille,” Hutch snapped, kneeling by the coffee table to pick up the phone.
Not only had Lisa clung to her ladylike virtue the night before, but now Starsky had a pissy Hutch to placate, and his heart was still beating ninety to nothing. The barrage of discarded couch throw cushions in his face didn’t help matters, but Hutch kept flinging them at him.
“That was a real class act you pulled last night!” Hutch was getting louder.
Partially concerned for Lisa’s sleep, and for his own tender ears, Starsky shushed him. “Figured it makes us even,” he said with a satisfied smile, and tried to roll over and go back to sleep. If Hutch wanted to be over here at this hour, and pissy on top of it, he could just make himself useful and brew the coffee.
Instead, Hutch designated himself Lisa’s in-person wakeup call.
Oh, no. That wasn’t how it was playing out. Not after Hutch’s little bathroom stunt. Starsky scrambled off the couch and intercepted his partner at the bedroom door. They wrestled with the doorknob, and in a brief moment of twisting lower body contact, Starsky felt the softness of Hutch’s groin firm to long hardness against his hip. He’d deal with that later. At the moment he had no intention of letting Hutch win the great doorknob war. He could match Hutch’s evil little smile, too. They might’ve continued the muscling indefinitely had the doorknob not surrendered to their concerted strength, and Hutch stumbled into the room.
The empty room.
“Well, I see you did just about as well as I did, huh?” Hutch’s smile was harder than the bulge in his jeans.
Starsky looked around his apartment in disbelief, turning just in time to see Hutch headed for the note on the bed. Oh, hell no! Starsky made like a flying squirrel, but he landed on the bed spread-eagled and empty-handed, Hutch’s graceful arm striking out in front of his face and snatching the envelope right out from under his nose.
Damn it!
“Hey, you can’t read my mail!”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Hutch said in his annoying-as-hell mock-scolding voice, turning away to shield the note from Starsky’s reach. Starsky tried looking over Hutch’s shoulder, but all he got for his trouble was a heady whiff of aftershave and the faintest hint of cologne. “Ken?” Hutch was gloating now. “Ken.”
Starsky halfway zoned out while Hutch read the note aloud. So she’d gone back to the hotel, blah, blah. Fine for her. Starsky wanted to know if Hutch was still hard in his jeans and if that meant Hutch needed something Lisa couldn’t give him. But it wouldn’t do to let go of his outrage that quickly, so he snatched the note out of Hutch’s hands and pretended to confirm the message.
“Well, lover boy, you must have made some impression on her. She didn’t even get your name right.”
That left no doubt in Starsky’s mind that he was saddled with a grade-A, corn-fed, Midwestern asshole for a partner. Well, fine then. Hutch could just suck on the note, because he wasn’t getting Starsky’s cock in his mouth anytime in the next year. He shoved the stationery in Hutch’s mouth and stalked away to brew his own damn coffee.
Obviously, Midwestern assholes knew how to speak coherently around a mouthful of notepaper. “Starsk, come on, I’m–I’m glad you struck out.”
Starsky shot a glare over his shoulder. “I can see that.”
Hutch spat the note out in his hands and wadded it into a small ball. “Not what I meant. Only reason I wanted her at Venice Place was so she wouldn’t be with you.”
Starsky waited halfway between the kitchen and the bedroom doorway. He could go either way. “Yeah, that sounds much better,” he said with sarcasm Hutch could appreciate.
“Well, if she wasn’t with you, and I slept on the sofa, it would’ve all worked out fine.”
Cursing his strange fascination for Midwestern assholes, Starsky went back to the doorway and stared Hutch in the eyes. Where he’d seen gloating a minute ago, he now saw truth and need. “Protecting your interests, Hutch?”
Those blue eyes flashed at him. Uh, oh. Hutch didn’t like being read that easily, not even by Starsky. “Maybe.”
“You know, you were right, babe. If we’re gonna survive any additions to our partnership on top of what we do out there, we gotta have women in our beds from time to time.”
Hutch looked away. “I know. God, I know all about cover.”
Not just for cover. Starsky had little intention of trying to live by cock alone. But now was not the time to remind Hutch of that, not when Hutch stood there looking a little lost and a lot more twitchy, clenching and unclenching his fist around the small wad of notepaper. Starsky stroked his cheek. “Hey, I’m not that disappointed I struck out.”
Hutch smiled. “Okay. If I’m not disappointed, you’re not disappointed, and she left us both chasing our tails–”
“Then it’d serve the lady right if we just took care of business ourselves,” Starsky finished, stepping closer. “You got a need, Hutch?”
Hutch glanced down at his blatant need. “Yeah. You?”
“I was workin’ on a nice morning stiffie until that gunshot door slam scared it away.” He fingered the front of his boxers. “Know just how you could bring it back. I guess we have a few minutes before we need to see about Lisa.” Yeah, he’d lied about not letting Hutch put him in his mouth for the next year, because Hutch was licking his lips, and oh, God, that mouth looked like the best thing going.
“A few minutes?” Hutch frowned. “Not sure whether that’s a compliment on how fast I can bring you off, or a comment on my lasting power.”
“Well, the first one applies, but I was really just reminding us that we’re sort of on duty and sort of got a witness that needs protecting.”
“Then let’s sort of get to it,” Hutch said with another breezy smile that made Starsky feel Spring had already arrived in his apartment.
Starsky thought Hutch would go straight for the prize, but he was pulled into warm arms as Hutch backed up to lean against the doorframe, and Hutch kissed him sweetly, tenderly. Starsky liked both of those, but he preferred ravenously, and he tongued Hutch’s lips until that sweet mouth opened for him. So, Hutch wanted to start out romantic. Starsky could go for that. He didn’t know how he felt about most of it, but kissing Hutch was like winning a sweepstakes, and that showed no sign of changing.
Freeing his mouth to breathe, Hutch fingered the hem of Starsky’s boxers. “Why the geezer shorts? Trying to preserve the proprieties around Lisa?”
“Sometimes a man’s gotta have a little room, is all.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I prefer your painted-ons.”
“I’ll remember that.” Starsky bit down on his lip when Hutch jerked the boxers down to his knees. The intimacy was still a shock to his system. He didn’t harden, but his cock’s twitch was hopeful.
Hutch knelt and rubbed the bridge of his nose lightly up and down the soft flesh, and Starsky let out a sigh, but Hutch caught his eye and said, “Starsk, you’re sure? I mean–”
“Hutch, please, you could do something a lot better with that mouth than ask dumb questions.”
Hutch shot him the finger at the same time as he sucked Starsky into his mouth. Starsky laughed, but the laughter changed quickly to hungry moans when the warm, wet suction made him grow. No one had ever sucked him off in his bedroom doorway. Sucking off didn’t even describe this accurately, though. Hutch was making a meal off him, doing things to Starsky’s cock with lips, teeth, and tongue that Starsky thought existed only in the pages of porn books no straight guy would risk getting caught dead with. He shouted pleas, encouragement, and finally Hutch’s name until a sharp nip of teeth and a gentle headshake reminded him that it was better for the neighbors not to know who was putting him in orbit. When Hutch gave him the real bobbing action, alternating rhythm and depth, hard and soft by turn, Starsky came violently, his yell lasting until Hutch had swallowed the very last drop. Dear God, he needed a new pair of legs. He wobbled, trembling, back to the opposite doorjamb and rested against it, catching his breath.
Still on his knees, Hutch swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, capturing a few stray drops, and Starsky groaned again. Hutch smirked. “You’re loud, you know that? I’m thinking it might not be safe for us to do this sort of thing within fifty miles of civilization.”
Starsky grunted. “Your own fault for bein’ so damned good at it.”
“Well, Starsky, if you like, I can try learning to give a bad blowjob, just for you.”
“No thanks. We’ll figure something out before we get that drastic.” He waited for Hutch to demand his due, make a play for Starsky’s ass, or ask for a return of the favor, but Hutch just stood, stretching, fighting obvious twinges in his back. Starsky’s mind whirled. His partner needed him, and they didn’t have time to get naked and hit the sack. Starsky still had his shirt on, and Hutch was dressed to hit the streets. What could they do that wouldn’t leave Starsky weirded out for days or take so long they’d have Dobey calling to find out why the hell they weren’t glued to Lisa Hendricks?
Vague possibilities coalesced into a plan. He dashed into his bathroom and pulled drawers open until he found the small jar of cocoa butter. Thank God some women didn’t appreciate a callus-roughened gun hand on their tender parts. Starsky had learned that butter-softened hands got him more yardage in the bedroom than the right words, and he was about to be rewarded double-time now. Or Hutch was. Or both of them. He returned to Hutch and nodded at the zipped jeans. “Mind setting yourself free before you do irreversible damage?”
Hutch unzipped and stepped out of underwear and jeans, clumsy in his impatience. His cock strained upward, red, moist-tipped, skin taut, and he fluttered a hand over it but apparently decided just one touch would torture rather than soothe, and dropped his hand to his side. “Starsky, what–?”
Starsky had slicked a streak of cocoa butter down the inside of both his thighs and now reached for Hutch’s prick to spread the sweet grease, enjoying the feel of the foreskin sliding against his palms. Hutch clenched his teeth, but the sweat beading on his forehead spoke of his battle not to scream. Starsky lined himself up against the doorframe again and put his legs together. He gestured at the small, greased space between his thighs. “Have at me, you horny blond.”
Hutch didn’t ask questions. He clamped both hands down on Starsky’s shoulders and thrust between his legs. The standing position was awkward, but they worked together to render the two-inch difference in their height insignificant, and Hutch found a rhythm that forced pants and muffled cries through his clenched teeth. He never took his eyes off Starsky’s face, and the heat in his stare made Starsky flush. Starsky reached around and massaged his partner’s back, kneading the muscles in time with Hutch’s thrusts. After a kiss that banged Starsky’s head back against the jamb, Hutch came with a few brief shouts, and Starsky hugged him close to keep him from sagging at the knees.
After a moment’s rest, Hutch moved restlessly in his arms. “You didn’t get hard again.”
Starsky kissed his forehead. “Nah, once’ll do me this time of morning. We need to get a move on, hop in the shower, and get out there. Lisa’s probably working herself into a tizzy by now.”
Hutch lifted his head and frowned. “You know, for a girl who claims to need a strong man around so she can sleep, she left the hotel last night and took a cab over to my place on her own. Then ditched you and went back to the hotel by herself in the middle of the night. How scared could she be?”
Starsky sucked in his breath. “That reminds me–”
“The pretty little lady who almost turned us and our favorite brainwashed amnesiac into burnt toast? Yeah, me too. Starsky, you don’t think–”
“What’s this? We have sex, and suddenly we can think like cops again?”
Hutch smiled. “Last night we were working against each other. Now, we’re working together. I just can’t believe Lisa could be anything but what she claims to be.”
“I don’t wanna believe it, either.” Starsky yawned and moved away from the doorjamb before it could leave a permanent indentation in his back. “We’ll drop by the hotel, play a couple of jilted Joes who’re a little unhappy with her, and see where things go from there. And coffee, I need coffee.”
Hutch kissed him. “I’ll make sure you get coffee, gorgeous.”
~*~*~
He was back in the canyon. Instead of a light brown Ford, a newer model dark sedan lay overturned. He rushed around the car where he found not a blond policeman but a brown-haired doctor whose handsome face was blood streaked from a forehead laceration. Wait! Something wasn’t right. Brackett had been in a car accident only a few weeks before Ken’s, but he’d been broadsided by a speeding driver at a busy intersection. And where the hell was Roy? Where was the engine company? Brackett bent his arm at a ninety degree angle, offering his hand, just as he’d done in the ER after his accident. In a replay of that day in Rampart, Johnny took Brackett’s hand and patted it. Brackett’s grimace of pain eased, and his eyes lightened to a startling blue. Johnny felt power surge through him.
He woke, sweating profusely, and flailed around until he was sitting upright on his bedroll.
Just five feet or so from him, a large gray-tan coyote sat on its haunches and watched him. The animal perked its ears and whined. Lowering its head, showing submission, the coyote then yipped. Am I still dreaming? If that’s my animal guide, I’m screwed. Of all the spirit visitors I could have, wouldn’t you know I’d get Coyote? Summoning rational thought, Johnny tried to shoo the animal. With another high-pitched yip, the coyote rose on all fours and padded away. Johnny sighed loudly in relief at the tracks left in the sand. Beside him, a few feet away on his own bedroll, Roy snored, and the desert chill in the cloudless April morning cleared Johnny’s head. He stretched and nudged Roy’s shoulder. “Hey, Roy?”
Roy snorted, stirred, and swatted at Johnny’s hand. “Mmph?”
“Come on, Roy, wake up. Let’s strike camp and head back into town, huh?”
Rising up on elbow, Roy yawned and scratched through his bedroll hair. “You want to head back? I thought we were supposed to meet up with the rest of the group and go back at ten.”
Johnny was already prepping their site for departure. “There’s no law that says we can’t go back on our own before then.”
“Won’t the group leader be concerned when two of the trek participants don’t show up at the meeting place?”
Johnny sat back on his heels. “The group leader is camped about half a mile from here, I think. We can stop by his site and tell him we’re starting back early.”
“Johnny, is something wrong?”
Rolling his bedroll as tightly as possible, Johnny shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong. Why would anything be wrong?”
“Well, all you could talk about was this trek, and now you’re wanting to duck out early?” Roy cleared his throat and sat up straight. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“I just remembered who you really wanted to be on this trek with, that’s all. Guess it’s not the same thing with your old married-guy partner.”
Johnny winced. “No, Roy, it’s not that. Has nothing to do with Ke–Hutch, trust me. I’m glad you could get the time off and come with me. And grateful to Joanne for sparing you for five days. I’ve had a great time, and I think you have, too, it’s just–”
“Disappointed you didn’t get some kind of vision?” Roy said with a knowing smile.
Johnny flushed and tried to look nonchalant at the same time. A vision would’ve been a hell of a lot less confusing than that dream, never mind waking up to a granddaddy coyote! “Aw, heck. Didn’t expect one. When they start making this kind of thing some generic intertribal togetherness project, it gets all diluted, you know? Just a glorified nature hike and camp-out. Tell the truth, I could do with some real coffee and a halfway decent breakfast.”
That was true enough. And Roy clearly didn’t detect any evasion, because he nodded and patted his stomach. “So could I.”
They struck camp, chatting about their experiences on the trek. Ten minutes after they stopped by the group leader’s site, they were on their way, reaching town before the sun was halfway to its noon zenith. Roy wanted to stop in at the Chamber of Commerce and pick up some materials for Joanne and the kids, but Johnny was too fidgety for pamphlet-gathering. He told Roy to meet him at the Desert Sunrise Café when he had all his tourism brochures. Ambling over to the café, Johnny sniffed discreetly at his shirt and decided he didn’t smell too gamey for a guy who’d just come off a vision trek. He wanted a good shower and shave, but he’d have to wait until they got back to the motel for that.
Spotting a payphone in front of the town drugstore, he had the strongest urge to dial Rampart and see if Brackett was on shift, but he shook his head. That would just be all kinds of weird. What could he say? “Doc, I’m in Arizona on vacation, just calling to chat.” No. No way. Oh, hell. Why not? They were supposed to be friends, right? Couldn’t one friend call another from out of town just to say “Hi?” He dropped his pack and bedroll beside the phone booth and delved into his pocket for the right coins. Accusing himself of going loony, he dialed the hospital and waited for the switchboard operator to patch him through to the nurses station extension. When Dixie answered, Johnny wanted to kick himself.
She didn’t seem surprised by the call. “Hey, there, vacation boy. You and Roy having a good time out in the desert?”
“Sure. About ready for civilization again, though. Wanted to check in and see how you hard-working so-and-sos are making out.” They chatted about the ER’s fairly laid back morning, a rarity at Rampart, and then Johnny took what felt like the ultimate risk. “Hey, listen, Dr. Brackett got a minute?”
“I imagine so. Anything wrong, Johnny?”
He knew she meant something medically amiss. Rampart’s ER staff had fielded out-of-town medical-related phone calls from Johnny and Roy before. “No. Nothing for you guys to worry about.”
“Okay, I’ll get him. Hold on.”
Johnny almost hung up during the silence. He welcomed the operator’s interruption, and fed more coins into the phone’s slot. This was dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. “Johnny?”
Not dumb. Johnny grinned. “Hiya, Doc.”
“Dixie said you’re calling from Arizona.”
“Right. Roy and I are out here on a vision trek. I guess I should say, I’m on the vision trek, and Roy tagged along for some good camping.”
“That’s something I don’t get to hear you talk about very often, your Native American heritage.”
Johnny smiled. “Ah, I appreciate the ‘Native American,’ Dr. Brackett, but you can say Indian. I’m American Indian, and damned proud of it.”
“With this trek being in Arizona, I gather it’s not affiliated with the Nomlaki?”
Johnny was impressed, although he didn’t know why. This was Kelly Brackett, after all. What the man didn’t know about anything would probably fill a piece of scrap paper at most. “Nah, and honestly, I should’ve done more research before blowing my vacation fund on it. I think it was arranged by some travel agency that thinks all Indians do rain dances, squat in teepees, and immediately see visions once they’re ten miles out in the wilderness.”
Brackett’s laughter sounded good over the telephone. Real good. Johnny wanted to hear it again. “Do you ever feel isolated from that part of yourself, living in LA?”
“You mean, do I have as few Indian friends as friends from my other–eh–community?” Johnny chuckled. “About as few. But I’m a rescue man, you know, and when I look at someone who needs rescue, I don’t see white, black, red, yellow, brown, or purple, gay or straight. I see a person, a human being, who needs what I can do for them. And I tend to pick my friends the same way.”
“Yes, I know, Johnny. That’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you.”
Brackett admired something about him. More than one thing, apparently. Well, now. Johnny felt a swell of pride. Enjoying the call, he hoped Roy took a good while rustling up those brochures.
“So, did you at least get a vision out of this?”
I dreamt about you, and it felt important, but I don’t know why. “Nope. That’s my punishment for buying into a commercialized version of an ancient ritual. Hell, a Nomlaki shouldn’t be out here in the desert. I should be in Northern California looking for sacred waters. Even worse, when I woke up this morning, I had a visitor. Biggest damn coyote I’ve ever seen. If that’s supposed to be my spirit guide, I’m in real trouble.”
“Oh, why is that?”
“Because the Navajo will tell you, you can’t believe a damned thing Coyote says! Just my luck to have a pathological liar and troublemaker for a guide in life.”
Brackett laughed again, longer this time. “Is Coyote similar to Loki in the Norse mythology, then? Well, Johnny, never fear. If Coyote is guiding you, he must be ready to turn over a new leaf, because he couldn’t hang around you for long without your inherent honesty rubbing off on him.”
The adolescent in Johnny got a kick out of hearing the words “rubbing off” from the sophisticated doctor. The adult in him appreciated the intelligent compliment. “Thanks, Doc. So, I hear it’s been a pretty easy morning–”
“Hold on a moment, please.” Muffled voices filtered through sudden static, and Brackett said, “Johnny, I’m needed in a patient’s room. Listen, it was wonderful to talk to you. Tell Roy I said hello, and you guys have a safe trip back.”
“Sure thing, great talking to you, Doc.” Johnny didn’t hang up the phone until the dial tone got annoying.
“‘Great talking to you, Doc’?” queried a voice behind him. Johnny whirled around. Roy stood there clutching enough brochures to start his own tourism kiosk. “Who were you talking to?”
“I called Rampart to see how the gang’s doing.”
“You called Rampart on your vacation.”
“Yeah, so? No use in calling the station. Our guys aren’t on shift today. I talked to Dixie and Dr. Brackett. He says hello, by the way.”
Roy gave him a look that told Johnny if his trekmate’s hands weren’t occupied with the Chamber of Commerce materials, he’d be feeling Johnny’s forehead for fever. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird ever since we woke up this morning.”
Johnny took an exaggerated breath and stretched, raising his arms high overhead. “I’m feeling g-g-g-g-reat,” he said, doing a passable Tony the Tiger impersonation. “Let’s get that breakfast.”
~*~*~
Starsky lay on his back and stared at the ceiling but saw nothing. Big fat nothing. Just like Hutch remembered. Little by little, Starsky had begun to think that he might not be worth remembering, and he couldn’t disagree with that assessment, knowing what he did about that damned car accident. His mind drifted back to the morning he’d lost the beautiful mind of the most beautiful man he’d ever known. He’d swung by Venice to pick up Hutch for their shift, but Hutch had pulled him into the apartment acting like it was perfectly natural for a grown man to have a spring fever of 105. After Hutch brought him to standing attention with that hot, wet mouth, they ended up on the sofa rubbing off with the enthusiasm of high schoolers making out behind the football stadium. Toward the end, before the heat of passion had him too foggy-eyed to see, Starsky had spotted something in Hutch’s eyes that scared the hell out of him.
Not buddy love. Not partner love. Not best friend, most important person in the whole world love. Not even just erotic, hot-for-your-bod love. Romantic, red roses and moonlight, white lace and promises love. And Starsky didn’t know how to catch up to that feeling before it left him behind. He didn’t know how to put the brakes on Hutch before the man changed, slipped through his grasp, and became someone Starsky didn’t understand.
Hutch didn’t even sound like a cop sometimes nowadays. His edge had softened. Like all that floral nonsense about springtime and the smell of the air. In LA, for crying out loud! Normally Starsky was warmed with fondness and amusement at Hutch’s nature kick, but that morning he’d ground his teeth against it. Hutch’s amnesiac alter ego was right. Macho power trip, that’s how Starsky had responded to Hutch’s ode to springtime.
Rev up the engine, Butch. Prove how much testosterone and speed you got in your big, two-ton red-and-white hunk of dick. Prove it in a hurry because now you’re fucking your partner, and every time you come inside him, you’re scared you’re changing him, and yourself, but you can’t stop. Scared you’ll hear a lisp in Hutch’s voice one morning and feel a little less strength in that wrist. And, hell, while you’re at it, you might as well start saying fagelah again, if you’re still thinking shit like that!
Starsky felt his body turning to lead, sinking into the mattress, weighed down all the way to the floor, even though he knew he wasn’t moving. Now that his macho power trip had crashed them through a construction shack, he didn’t even have the balls to bring up the one set of memories that might shock Hutch into remembering everything else.
“In this supposed relationship of ours….”
Relationship, hell. If only Hutch knew….
But that was the problem. Hutch didn’t know, thanks to a bump on the head that was all Starsky’s fault. And Starsky had the same close-lipped touch of cowardice he’d fought after John Blaine’s death when faced with Maggie.
I regret to inform you, Hutch, that you’re a cop, which you seem to take great exception to all of a sudden, and by the way, I also regret to inform you, you’re gay.
Regret? He didn’t regret it. He didn’t! Okay, he was a coward, but Hutch hadn’t taken any of the other memories well. Starsky couldn’t risk the final revelation leaving this stranger with Hutch’s face hating him more than ever. He now knew what he’d never wanted to know, how it felt to be locked outside the glass around Hutch’s life.
That forced him to think about one other person who knew that feeling. He’d resisted thinking about him before. He’d tried not to think about him when Huggy and Dobey failed to spark a memory in Hutch. Selfish son-of-a-bitch, that’s what he was, Starsky railed at himself.
He hadn’t called John Gage and asked him to drop by, because he knew something inside would twist into a permanent knot if Hutch took one look at Gage and remembered the life Starsky couldn’t bring his partner back to for love or money.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the hunch to Hutch’s posture. The man sat up in bed staring out the hospital room window at the night settling over the city.
Damn your selfish pride, Starsky. If Hutch doesn’t remember anything by morning, you’re calling Gage and offering him whatever it takes to get him over here.
~*~*~
Staring out the window, Hutch’s gaze drifted to the floral arrangement on his over-the-bed table, and he was tempted to hurl the vase and its contents across the room. He wanted to ask Dobey if there was a special point to the red-and-white flowers, but he’d be lucky if Dobey ever spoke to him again. There was nothing in the world like knowing he’d taken a practical joke too far–even a joke with a lesson behind it–and not knowing what the hell to do about it. Since the first morning waking in the hospital bed and watching Starsky bail his ass out from the sticky predicament of having to ‘fess up his ruse or accept a shot of morphine-derivative, Hutch had been on a runaway train with the throttle fused wide open, the end of the line flying to meet him, and no brakes to speak of.
It wasn’t supposed to be all that serious.
Hutch concentrated on the flower stalk’s red buds to keep from groaning out loud. What had he expected, if he didn’t expect it to be serious? Honestly? He’d expected that the first private moment they had, Starsky would sidle up to the bed, all charm and swagger, and brush the hair away from Hutch’s bandages, leaning down to whisper in his ear, “Now, I know you’ll remember me when I–” And that strong left hand would cup Hutch’s crotch and thumb his balls through the sheets and hospital gown. Then Hutch could jolt back to memory, and after an enthusiastic reunion, he would read Starsky the riot act about unsafe driving and lack of appreciation for his partner’s well-honed sense of self-preservation in the face of cement trucks.
Oh, sure. Like that was realistic!
Hutch couldn’t believe his own stupidity. If he’d just taken two seconds to put himself in Starsky’s shoes, he would’ve found the brakes on this joke somewhere if he had to order them from a catalog. Starsky had to be piss himself scared, first being brought to a hospital room empty of Hutch, then finding out Hutch wasn’t quite Hutch anymore. Certainly, that was part of Hutch’s plan: get Starsky just scared enough to think about what he stood to lose, and maybe the daredevil wouldn’t pull such an asinine stunt again.
Maybe, too, he’d counted on Starsky seeing straight through him. He’d thought Starsky would see what the docs and nurses couldn’t, and fold those arms over his chest with his only-for-you-Hutch look. He’d hear Starsky’s sour chuckle, and then, “Ha, ha, Hutch, good one. You’re an asshole, you know that? I owe ya for this, you big dumb cluck.”
Apparently, though, Hutch’s talent for undercover work had worked against him once again. Or maybe Starsky couldn’t fathom Hutch being angry enough at him to take their whole friendship, partnership, life together away. Angry. He was angry, damn it, so angry that he’d been a snotty, rude amnesiac, to everyone from the nice Dr. Green on down to Dobey and Huggy. Part of the latter was good cover work. He couldn’t very well treat Starsky like unwashed socks, and then ooze charm with Huggy and Dobey without Starsky getting suspicious. And by the time their friends came by, Hutch was clinging to his act with disappointment and contrariness.
Disappointment that all Starsky could think to do was spout stories about police work. Hutch didn’t want to hear about police work. Hell, police work had gotten them into this damned mess. He wanted to hear Starsky talk about them. He wanted to hear Starsky remind him about something that meant more to Hutch than police work ever would. Sure, Starsky talked about their partnership, but that’s as personal as he took it. Hutch had had to carefully nudge him into reliving the time after Gillian’s death, when Starsky had taken lumps from Hutch and kept on holding him through the pain. He was no longer punishing Starsky for the car accident. Not really. Not totally. He was punishing Starsky for silence on the one subject that would probably bring Hutch out of real amnesia.
In the darkened, quiet hospital room, Starsky lying with a comatose patient’s stillness on his bed, Hutch had to ask himself if he could have done better had the burden been his to carry. If he were face to face with a Starsky who remembered nothing about him, not one damn thing about their nine-year-long friendship, could he really look the man in the eyes and say, “But, Starsk, you’re the only man allowed to fuck me, don’t you remember that?”
He wanted to believe his balls were up to the challenge, but he knew his heart would probably shrink from the possibility of rejection, disgust, or worse…despair. Starsky’s despair in realizing he’d let himself do things no other man could’ve tempted him to do.
Oh, God. Was Starsky lying over there hoping he got parts of Hutch back, but not others? By keeping his mouth shut, did Starsky hope the amnesia had affected the part of Hutch’s brain that signaled his dick to rise in the presence of a drop-dead gorgeous man?
Hutch slowly lowered himself to the propped pillows and couldn’t stifle the groan his sore body pulled from him. Maybe if he nudged just a little harder, he’d find out. “You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“You wanna talk?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
Deciding to start with at least a grain of truth if not a full confession, Hutch said, “Well, I heard some stories this afternoon about some pretty rough times I had, and I, uh, just wanna thank you for being there.”
“Go to sleep. It’s no big deal.”
Ouch. Starsky’s humility made appearances at strange times, and Hutch could have done without it right then. “Yes, it is.”
“Hey, plenty of times you were there for me.”
That felt better. “Yeah?” Hutch asked hopefully. Maybe now he’d hear something. Some little clue that Starsky didn’t regret what they’d become to each other. Maybe even a clue as to what exactly they had become to each other in Starsky’s mind.
“Times there were when I almost packed it in,” Starsky said, sounding world weary and distant. “You know I once almost quit the police force?”
Hutch’s heart skipped a few beats, and it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. He could guess where this was headed, and he wanted to sit down on the call button until he got a nurse to wheel him out of the room for more tests, up to and including a spinal tap if necessary. But he glanced sideways and forced himself to ask, “So, why didn’t you?”
“The only job you could find me was defensive end on the Canadian football team.”
Oddly, he could manage a smile when his heart was freezing over. “Is that right?”
“I was going through some pretty rough changes then. You remember Terry?”
That did it. Defeated, Hutch lay there and let the torture continue, let Starsky ramble on about the night they opened the presents Terry left for them. He’d thought he couldn’t feel worse about himself than he did for leaving Starsky on the string with the amnesia for so long, but now he sank lower in his own estimation. Jealous of a dead woman, how about that? Served him right to listen, didn’t it? He’d hoped for a hint of what Starsky thought about their extracurricular activities, and instead he got a reminder of the time his partner had come the closest to a good, old-fashioned heterosexual marriage.
He tried to take the high road. He’d cared about Terry and mourned her right along with Starsky. In fact, he couldn’t remember having to fight down gorge-rising jealousy when she was alive. Starsky wasn’t even singing Terry’s praises over there; he was relating how Hutch’s presence had overcome the emotional upheaval of her death. But that didn’t cool the burn of knowing that if Terry lived today, Hutch would probably not have learned the feel of Starsky’s lips on his, or make him feel less like slime for even thinking that way.
With those unpleasant thoughts at the forefront of his mind, and his conscience already urging him to end this charade pronto, bad timing or not, it was all too easy to slip up and needle Starsky about his nonexistent Monopoly prowess. Things just went downhill from there….
~*~*~
They were back to lying silently in their beds, their shouting match interrupted by the night nurse who threatened to sedate both of them if they didn’t shut up and let her other patients get their much-needed sleep. Hutch’s return of memory function hadn’t exactly prompted her to sing and dance. She calmly noted it in his chart and left the room with a final warning glare meant to reinforce her threat.
Starsky didn’t want to talk to the son-of-a-bitch, anyway, except to call him a lousy asshole phony, and he’d said that already. Three times. He’d used up all his willpower letting the nurse leave without asking her to move him to another room. His rage would be a lot more satisfying if only his conscience didn’t remind him that Hutch’s bruises and lacerations were real, along with the concussion, and Hutch might need physical therapy to help with his neck strain.
“Starsk, I can understand the silent treatment, but it won’t get us anywhere.”
Starsky couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Hutch’s voice that meek, but his own rage hadn’t boiled itself out yet. “Oh, no? I thought you got off on hostility. You must. You said I’m horrible and hostile, but that didn’t stop you from wanting into my pants.”
He heard a choked gasp from the man in the other bed and knew he’d just somehow cut Hutch deeper than a few days of fake amnesia had cut Starsky. “Now you bring it up? Now, when you know I’m back to myself?”
Busted. Concede the point, his conscience urged him. Fight back, his rage countered. His temper had control of his mouth. “Hate to break it to ya, pally, but you’re nowhere near back to yourself. When was I supposed to bring it up? Huh? When you were sitting over there reading your For the Man Who Has Everything magazine with the pinup girl cover? When everything else I told you about your life only made you angrier?”
Hutch sat up in the bed, moaned and twitched, and then glared at him. “Of course, I was angry! I don’t take it kindly when my partner risks my life, his own, and God knows how many innocent civilians trying to chase down a couple of lousy 2-11 suspects just to prove he can. And if the injuries I got in the accident aren’t enough, I have to listen to my partner running off at the mouth about pretty nurses, but he can’t say shit to me about the times we’ve shared a bed!”
Starsky sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Christ, Hutch, I said that in front of Dr. Green. What else was I supposed to say in front of the man?”
“You know what I mean. We had plenty of time when there was no one around. When were you going to tell me about my thing for men, Starsky? When I got my first hard-on for you and thought I was losing my mind double time? Or did you think the amnesia would wipe those nerve centers clean?”
“You’re talking like you really had amnesia.”
“For all you knew, I did! Was it your plan to let me swing on that vine alone, partner?”
Starsky humphed and grabbed hold of his pillow, squeezing it until the stuffing shifted and his arms brushed each other. He remembered the morning in that roadside motel, Hutch telling him he was walking a different beat and had better know to call on his partner for back-up if it got to be too much to handle. But how could he call on his partner when his partner was the reason he needed back-up?
Tell me how to fall in love with you, because I can’t seem to get there. Love I got, in plenty, but the in love part is a different ballgame. Can’t seem to make it, and I’m scared shitless if I tell you that, you’ll get yourself killed out there trying to find another man who can do what I can’t.
“I couldn’t even get through to you with simple stuff, Hutch. Should’ve known something was off, when you were so damned angry instead of scared. I remember Terry Nash. Yeah, he was angry, but when we convinced him his fake life wasn’t his, he got scared that he’d never remember who he was. I think he would’ve sold his soul for someone to tell him one little thing about his real life. You weren’t one little bit scared, and you didn’t wanta hear anything about your past.”
“Not true, Starsky. I wanted to hear something about my past, but you had that section of memory lane cordoned off.”
Starsky scrambled off the bed, dropped the pillow, and stood two feet from Hutch’s bedside, seething. “This ain’t even about the accident anymore, is it? It’s all about that!”
Hutch couldn’t move nearly as fast, but he made it out of bed without assistance and stood nose to nose with his partner. “You said the way to keep this from ripping us apart was to never deny what we have, not to each other, no matter how much we have to deny it to the world. Well, guess what? Silence can be a damned effective denial!”
“Oh, yeah?” Starsky shouted. “Yeah? Well, look who did the denying first!”
“What!” Hutch yelled.
“By pretending amnesia, asshole!”
“Forgetting something isn’t the same thing as denying it.”
“You didn’t forget, you big blond dumbass, you were faking it!”
“Yes, but you didn’t know I was faking it!”
Starsky raised both hands. Realizing he was about to shove an injured Hutch out of his personal space, Starsky changed course and wrapped his arms around Hutch instead. Hutch jerked in his embrace and for a second Starsky feared he would fight the hold and cause himself undue pain, but Hutch calmed and leaned into him.
Starsky sighed. “Way I see it we need to call this a draw before that night nurse is in here with lights-out shots for both of us. We both screwed up big time, Hutch. That car accident was my fault, and believe me, I feel like a bastard every time your breathing hitches when you move. And you were a bastard for letting me think I’d done something worse to you than cuts and bruises. As for the other….”
“I’d have to say we share equal blame there as well,” Hutch admitted in a strangled voice. “I asked myself if I could’ve handled it better if you were the one with amnesia, and I think the answer is closer to no than yes.”
“I swear to God, Hutch, if you ever get amnesia again, it better be the real thing, ’cause if I find out it isn’t, I’m giving you a frontal lobotomy with a rusty spoon.”
Hutch shuddered in Starsky’s arms. “No intention of there being a next time, real or otherwise. I have a lot of damage control to do after this one.”
“I won’t lie; I think you gave Dobey a few more gray hairs and some uncomfortable moments this afternoon. Probably best all the way around for us to play it like the amnesia was real and you just had some kind of spontaneous memory return.”
“I know, and that doesn’t sit well with me. I was actually trying to keep things familiar, joking about his weight. It’s something he’s gotten from us all the time. But I guess it had to be especially insulting coming from someone who was temporarily a perfect stranger.”
“Yeah. Now, Huggy….”
“I think Huggy had an inkling,” Hutch said, and he tilted his head back so Starsky could see his smile. “All that needling about your driving and laughing about my chief of police joke.” The awkward movement of Hutch’s head atop the neck brace was probably a fond headshake. “Huggy knows we can pull dumb stunts on each other from time to time. We tend to forgive and forget after them, but Huggy is an outside observer.”
“Man should’ve been a cop. Can’t get a damn thing past him.”
“Oh, Huggy does his fair share of police work, even if it is obliquely.”
“Thanks, by the way.”
Hutch pulled back again and looked him in the eyes. “For what?”
“When Huggy got through running his mouth about the vigilante case, I was feeling pretty low. Hell, I know it was an act, punching you, but it didn’t make me comfortable hearing about it again today when I’m the reason you were laid up over there. Couldn’t’ve been easy for you to relive what happened to Gillian, but now I know you did it just to even the score, remind me you were capable of throwing a punch, too. When it comes down to it, you didn’t leave your partner swinging on the vine alone.”
Hutch stared at him for a few seconds, and then Starsky got an enthusiastic kiss, if a technically hindered one. The neck brace and muscle strain made for stiffness on Hutch’s part, but Starsky let the gentle play of lips lull him for one blissful moment when he didn’t have to think about what he did or didn’t feel. Then his brain started clicking against his best efforts not to listen, telling him things would be a hell of a lot less confusing if having Hutch’s lips on his didn’t feel so frigging good, and since it felt so frigging good, why didn’t it get Starsky hard? Hutch pulled out of their kiss, but he didn’t pull away. He did his best to hold Starsky, semi-sprained arm and all. Starsky thought back to The Wildewood, and asked himself what Eric would say. His cop’s memory kicked in and told him exactly what Eric would say…what Eric had already said….
Look, what gets you off is good snatch and a pair of perky tits, am I right? Well, your buddy could bottom for you daily, and he still wouldn’t be pussy.
You’ll still be drawn to women, and he’ll want more of you than you can give.
“Starsky, about this amnesia thing…somewhere in my hollow head, I thought I was doing us both a favor, and I jumped in without looking. I realized pretty quickly it was a bad idea with a capital B, but I couldn’t figure out how to put the brakes on.” At Starsky’s silence, Hutch said, “Yeah, I know. Makes no sense.”
“No, I…” Starsky could only grind his teeth in frustration with himself. “I know what you mean.”
And when that comes out in the wash, it’ll make the amnesia look cleaner than bleached laundry in comparison.
~*~*~
“All I’m saying is you should give her a call. We’re off tomorrow, she’s off tomorrow. Joanne and I would be there, smooth things over some. Like an old-fashioned double date. I mean, you’re the one who keeps saying you’re going back to sorbet for a while. I think Marissa is particularly good quality sorbet, that’s all, and so does Joanne.”
Johnny slid out from under the squad to continue this discussion. Not only was the dang rattle back, and Roy couldn’t hear it as usual, but now Roy was trying to set him up with some woman Joanne had met at the last PTA meeting. “Roy, she has a kid. That’s like sorbet with added sprinkles on top.”
Roy was going through the OB kit and checking off their equipment list. “Uh, yeah, she has a kid. That’s how Joanne met her at the PTA. She lost her husband in ‘Nam late in ’71 when their son, Tommy, was just a baby. So what? You like kids, you’re great with kids. Look, I’m not trying to coax you over to my lifestyle. You’re the one who said–”
“I know what I said.” Johnny reached for his oil rag and gave him a “drop this please look,” but Roy wasn’t put off by a look.
“Then give her a call and invite her out to dinner with us tomorrow night. You don’t have any other plans, do you?”
“No, Roy, I’m a pathetic loser with nothing to do on a Friday night.” Johnny had to find plans quickly. Hell, to avoid this, he’d settle for front row seats at the opera.
“How’s the rattle?”
“The rattle you don’t hear? Not the muffler this time.”
“Wasn’t the muffler last time, it turned out.”
“Roy, I told you–! Aw, damn, I don’t know what the–”
The station alarm cut him off mid sentence, and Johnny rolled off the mechanic’s board, sliding it out of harm’s way. “Squad 51,” the dispatcher said. “Man down in taxi cab. Corner of West Beech and 71st Street. Time out 13:08.”
In the absence of Captain Stanley, who was sequestered in an office meeting with the chief engineer, Roy hurried to acknowledge their run. “Squad 51. KMG 365.”
~*~*~
When they got to the call destination, they found a small crowd gathered around the County Express cab idling with its left rear door and driver’s door both open. Roy started dispersing the crowd, but one man in a gray three-piece business suit complete with briefcase stepped forward as the fare.
“What happened?” Johnny asked him, already leaning into the driver’s side and pulling the driver back from his slump over the steering wheel to open his airway.
“That’s what I’d like to know!” the businessman said, frantically waving his free hand at the cab. “He drew up to the corner to let me out, and I reached up to pay my fare. When my hand touched his shoulder, he just started yelling, begging me not to kill him, telling me how many kids he had and all kinds of craziness, and then he grabbed his chest and slumped over. I got on his radio and told his dispatcher to call the rescue squad.”
“Good thinking,” Roy praised with a small smile, kneeling on the curb and opening the Biophone. “Vitals, Johnny?”
“Would it be a problem for me to go now?” the businessman asked. “I’m late for a meeting.”
“No, go ahead,” Roy told him.
“Looks like we might have a cardiac, Roy,” Johnny said.
~*~*~
“…Kel, I’m just saying you shouldn’t hesitate to go and enjoy a meal there alone. You never take enough time for yourself, and just because Joe and I can’t make it, doesn’t mean–Oh, here come the boys with your cardiac.” Dixie walked across the hall to hold open the examination room door. With a pat to her shoulder, Brackett strode into the room ahead of the gurney, and Roy followed them in.
Left to his own devices, Johnny stopped at the nurses station for an after lunch cup of coffee while Roy gave his report as the ride-in paramedic. He stood there sipping the stale brew and curious about the odd interchange between Dixie and Brackett. A few minutes later, Roy joined him at the station, followed shortly by Dixie, who stopped at the phone and paged Dr. Early. When Dixie put the receiver down, Johnny asked, “That bad?”
“No, Mr. Willis is awake and coherent. You boys did a good job with him. But Kel will be occupied with him until the Cardiac Cath lab is ready, so I need to make sure Joe is around to cover. Mike would have my head if I left him on by himself.”
“I would not!” Dr. Morton came up behind Dixie and squeezed her shoulders on his way to the coffee pot. “I’m no wet behind the ears resident now, Dix.”
Dixie winked at the paramedics. “No, Mike, of course not.”
Morton snorted a laugh and after a quick nod at Roy and Johnny, carried his coffee and charts down the corridor.
“What was that about earlier, Dix?” Johnny asked, warming his coffee and offering some to Roy, who shook his head.
“With Mike? Oh, nothing. I tease him, because it seems like every time we have him cover, all heck breaks loose and we end up with several MVAs and a few minor disasters at the same time.”
“No, I meant with Brackett. When we were bringing in Mr. Willis.”
“Oh.” Dixie smiled. “Well, you know Kel’s dream is to retire on a South Sea’s island. Not that he’ll ever do it, but he and Joe trade what-if retirement scenarios all the time. There’s a great Pan Asian restaurant Kel knows about that’s having an island theme night tomorrow, and he arranged to be off for part of the evening shift, but I have to work, and Joe had to back out because Neurology needs him to cover teaching rounds. I’m trying to convince Kel to go anyway.”
“Why won’t he?” Roy asked.
Dixie shrugged. “He doesn’t like to go out to eat alone. I can’t blame him. All of us have to eat alone too much with a job like this. We’re not lucky like you firehouse boys.”
Johnny smiled, a plan percolating. With luck, he wouldn’t have to resort to the opera. After two white-clad Cath technicians went into Willis’ examination room, Brackett came out ahead of the gurney and watched them wheel the cab driver toward the elevator. He then crossed the hall and acknowledged Roy and Johnny with a brief smile.
“How’s he doing, Doc?” Roy asked.
“He’ll make a good bid for full recovery,” Brackett said. “We’ll know more after the heart catheterization, but I think his blockage is moderate at worst.”
“Was he able to tell you anything?” Johnny set his mug down in the row of used mugs. “That was a weird one.”
“Actually, he was quite vocal when he regained consciousness. I had to advise him not to overdo considering his shortness of breath and cardiac event. Apparently, he left the Metro Cab Company during that recent string of cab driver homicides, and took a job with County Express. He said when he felt his passenger’s hand on his shoulder he panicked and thought the killer was about to strangle him. The sudden stress most likely brought on a heart attack that was probably waiting in the wings anyway.”
Roy frowned. “According to the papers, the cops arrested that maniac last week.”
“Oh, really?” Brackett smiled at Dixie. “I’m behind the times, I suppose, when it comes to current events. In any case, fear of that nature is very rarely rational or based on fact.”
Johnny felt his stomach sour. “Uh, Roy, I’m off to get a snack from the machine. Want something?” He barely waited for the answering headshake, so eager to be away from the current conversation.
“What’s his problem?” he heard Dixie ask.
He heard Roy clear his throat and could imagine the discomfort on his partner’s face. “Um, the arresting officers in the case were a couple of guys we know at LAPD Metro.”
Johnny wasn’t surprised that Brackett tracked him down in the coffee room. He held up the orange he’d gotten from the machine. “You know, that thing still doesn’t know the difference between apples and oranges. I pushed ‘apple’ and look what I got.”
Brackett sat down across from him. “Johnny, are you all right?”
“Dixie said you know a good restaurant with a South Seas island theme.”
Brackett scowled at the door. “Did she now?”
Johnny separated the orange slices and held one out, unaccountably happy when Brackett took the fruit from him with a smile. “Well, I can’t make up for Dixie or Dr. Early, but I’m off tomorrow, and if you’d like–”
The smile dimmed just before Brackett popped the orange slice in his mouth. “Johnny, I appreciate the offer,” he said, voice muffled by trying to speak politely around his food, “but I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”
“Why not? Can’t a couple of friends grab a bite to eat together?”
“Yes, but–”
Johnny frowned at him. “Hey, I know about your closet, but you know, it’s not like I’m out to all of LA County. I’m not. From what I can tell, Chet has actually kept his mouth shut this time. It’s not like anyone who saw us at a restaurant together would automatically think what you’re worried about them thinking.”
“That’s not–”
“Listen, you’d be doing me a favor. Roy’s trying his best to hook me up with a widow Joanne met at a PTA meeting. But if I’ve made plans to try out this Pan Asian place with you, I can’t very well be out on a date with the PTA widow, can I? Besides, it’ll give me a chance to see what you’re like outside this old stack of bricks.”
Johnny never would have thought Brackett the type to roll his eyes, but he got a full-fledged roll of those blue eyes, and the expression made the doctor appear ten years younger. “You know what I’m like outside Rampart. You’ve seen me at firemen’s picnics and paramedic conferences.”
“Uh-huh. Usually when Dixie and Dr. Early are around, not all on your lonesome. And paramedic conferences don’t count. Look, we’ll meet there, okay? Seven work for you?”
~*~*~
Roy didn’t crank the engine when Johnny got in the squad. “So, you gonna call Marissa?”
Johnny grinned at him. “Sorry, Roy, but I have plans tomorrow night.”
“You do?”
“I do. I’m meeting Dr. Brackett at that restaurant he wants to try.”
“You are.”
“Yep.”
Roy glanced back at the receiving entrance and then at his wristwatch. “When did this happen?”
“Just now.”
His partner could be a bulldog when he wanted. “Well, hey, that’s great. Maybe the four of us can go and give him a whole group of people to eat with, instead of just one. He’d probably like the company.”
Exasperated, Johnny waved both hands to nix the idea. “Roy, now think about it. You and Joanne, me and Marissa–Brackett would feel like a fifth wheel, now wouldn’t he?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Or maybe Brackett could find someone to bring along to make six.”
“Roy, if he could find someone, Dixie wouldn’t be trying to convince him to go alone.”
Crestfallen, Roy nodded. “Yeah, I see your point. Don’t think I don’t know you’re doing this to get out of a blind date.”
“I’m wounded, partner. No, really. And here I’m just trying to help out a friend who’s been very good to us over the years and who needs a favor.”
“Right, and who just happens to need it on the night you want to bail on a blind date. At least, I hope that’s what this is. You do remember that Brackett’s straight, right?”
Johnny said nothing. What could he say? If he lied, Roy would see straight through him. If he hedged, Roy would see straight through him. Maybe if he just kept his mouth shut, Roy would think he had indigestion from their lunch grabbed on the go.
“Brackett is straight, right?”
“Roy, I’m just meeting him for a friendly dinner. I’m not asking him to elope.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“Now, Roy, I didn’t say one way or the other!”
“You didn’t have to. You can’t hide that little lip curl you get when you know something I don’t. Unbelievable. The man’s closet makes yours look like a sunroom.”
“Okay, now listen. This isn’t like that. I’m not interested in Dr. Brackett.”
~*~*~
I’m not interested in Dr. Brackett….
Johnny kept repeating the sentence in his head and so far it had gotten him from the restaurant lobby to their table for two in the corner under the coconut palm decoration. Used to seeing the man three-quarters hidden beneath a knee-length lab coat, Johnny wasn’t prepared for the well-built gentleman in navy dress slacks, powder blue dress shirt, and blue-and-white patterned tie. The outfit showed off his eyes, accentuated his chest and shoulders above the waist, and flattered an already thought-provoking ass and strong legs below. Was he wearing that at Rampart today? I can’t remember. If he went home to change, he picked out some killer threads.
I’m not interested in Dr. Brackett….
Johnny told himself that for the tenth time when Brackett flashed the briefest glance over Johnny’s camel suede sports coat and chocolate brown shirt and down his fitted, flared-bottom herringbone slacks. Johnny flushed at the scrutiny and the approval in those sincere eyes, suddenly aware that he had picked one of his favorite “first date” outfits out of the closet that evening. Whoa. Did we both dress to impress? No. This wasn’t a date, and Johnny needed to get a grip.
The fledgling interest Johnny had taken in the non-date died instantly when he looked across the dimly lit dining room and spotted a head of golden hair he’d recognize anywhere. From his angle, he could see Hut–oh, hell, seeing the detective in living color, Johnny couldn’t think of him as anything but Ken. He was still Ken, damn it, and just as beautiful. Equally beautiful in a different way, a sweet-faced, saucy-eyed lady with short hair and adorable glasses sat beside him. Johnny couldn’t see the occupants of the opposite booth bench. Brackett cleared his throat, and Johnny flushed deeper.
“I saw them when we walked in,” Brackett said. “Would you like to leave?”
“Who’s–?”
Brackett read his mind with frightening ease. “Detective Starsky and a young blonde woman in a country-western style dress are sitting opposite. Johnny, we could ask for a different seat.”
“No.” Johnny prided himself on a level voice. “This is a great place, Doc. I’m in the mood for an exotic drink and something spicy with lots of coconut. How about you?”
Brackett gave him a different smile than any he’d seen at Rampart. “My drink will have to be virgin. I’m headed back in after we eat. But I wholly agree with both spicy and coconut.”
The waiter arrived in some kind of island costume that could have been Tahitian or native Samoan and took their drink orders. Brackett remarked on the creative menu, and Johnny laughed with the doctor’s sharp wit while they made good-natured fun of the hokey decorations, but Johnny’s eyes strayed several times to the booth across the room. On one such wayward glance, against his better judgment, he saw a look on Ken’s face that seared him under his skin. He knew that look. Someone at the booth had said something that would have earned a lash of Ken’s bullwhip tongue in less polite company. Ken turned his head away from his dining partners, and Johnny felt a flash of panic that they would make eye contact.
He rose from his seat and said, “Excuse me, back in a minute. Feel free to pick something off the menu for me. Spicy and coconut.”
He hoped to God he could reach the men’s room unseen.
The nicely appointed restroom was blessedly free of tacky decorations, and also empty and quiet. Johnny shut himself in the end stall and checked the seat before sitting on the very edge and hunching over, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang. Damn! What did it take to get over a man like Ken Hutchinson? Some man Johnny was, leaving a good friend, a good man like Kelly Brackett, out there alone in order to sit in here and mope over the past, afraid of a little eye contact. So what if Ken did see him? Johnny could smile and look away like it wasn’t breaking his heart in half again, couldn’t he? Sure he could. And more importantly, he owed Brackett that much. He straightened his coat and reached for the stall latch, but he heard the outer door open, and a familiar voice made him drop his hand from the latch and shrink back in the stall. He couldn’t believe his rotten luck.
“Don’t go that route, my ass,” Ken muttered, as if talking to himself. “Literally my ass!” Then the sound of running water told Johnny that Ken was at the row of sinks across from the urinals. The water stopped, and the mutterings resumed. “…and if she’s a country-western singer, I’m Burl Ives.”
Johnny knew he should summon his courage to walk out casually with a surprised greeting, and then head back to Brackett. But he couldn’t. Frozen in place by the inability to handle a full-on look at Ken’s attractiveness, even less prepared to face Ken’s unhappiness without being able to hold him and kiss away the frown, Johnny kept to his hiding place. This was what he got for thwarting Roy’s matchmaking. Hell, a date with Marissa at the opera would have been better than this!
It couldn’t get worse….
He heard the faint squeak of the outer door opening again. “Hutch?”
Scratch that. Worse had arrived with a vengeance! Johnny spun inside, fighting the memory of Arizona. This had to be the work of Coyote, the timeless troublemaker!
“What’re you doing in here, Starsky?” Ken snapped.
“It’s a men’s room. I’m a man. Kinda got an open invitation. Hutch, what’s the matter? You left the booth so fast I thought the breeze would blow Minnie’s glasses off her nose.”
“Not in here, Starsky!”
“Why? It’s–hang on–”
Johnny heard footfalls. Oh, crap! He hurriedly crouched on top of the toilet seat and hoped Starsky would do no more than a cursory sweep for shoes. He also prayed to the gods of bad comedy that Brackett wouldn’t come in to see what was taking Johnny long enough to have had a men’s room quickie with some stranger. Not that Johnny ever took those kinds of chances, but he didn’t want Brackett to get the wrong idea. No, Brackett had probably seen the detectives make their way back here and could guess what he was doing, which made him fidget in his crouch with embarrassment. If he cared that much what Brackett thought of his personal life, he really should be out there with him instead of trying to blend into a toilet. The footfalls grew fainter, and Johnny dared to breathe again.
“It’s just us in here, Hutch. Come on, what’s eating you? Is it that story KC told?”
“You think?”
“I tried to change the subject, but Minnie wanted to know how KC met me, and I would’ve looked like a class idiot trying to keep KC from answering her. You heard KC. I thought she was some guy cabbie. What was I supposed to say to some Joe Cab Driver trying to pick me up? Except with you, I don’t go that route. You knew that from the get-go.”
Johnny closed his eyes against a wave of pain. He’d known. That day in the mortuary parking lot, he’d known it was only a matter of time.
“I just wish someone would explain to my satisfaction what it is I’m doing here,” Hutch said.
“You’re here ’cause Minnie mentioned this islands shindig in front of KC in the squadroom, and you volunteered, like the pure gold gentleman you are, to be Minnie’s date. I would’ve offered, but KC would’ve whapped me upside the head with her cowgirl hat.”
“No! I’m not on a date. I’m here with my friend Minnie, and my date is here with a date.”
“Ah, Hutch, you can’t look at it like that. We’re having a night on the town with two beautiful, charming ladies. It’s good for us to be out like this.”
“You can just drop the fiction that it’s some kind of hardship or duty on your part, Starsky. After watching you slow dance KC around St. Jacques’ office, I’m not buying it.”
“Why should it have to be a hardship? If it’s something we gotta do to be safe, does it have to make us miserable, too?”
Johnny winced. Good one, Starsky.
Hutch’s tone only got more acidic, proving he didn’t appreciate Starsky’s point of view either. “I don’t know which of you is more obtuse: you or Loretta Lynn Jr. out there who actually thought some guy who answered her ad in Variety would be her one-way ticket to the Country Music Hall of Fame. Served her right it was Huggy in disguise.”
“Damn it, Hutch. Say what you like about me, but KC’s a nice girl, and she’s off to Nashville tomorrow with no backing and nothing but a wing and a prayer. Besides that, she–”
“She helped me get to you before Fitzgerald could do more than bruise that thick skull of yours. Believe me, Starsky, that’s the real reason I’m out there playing nice.”
Heavy footsteps preceded the squeak of the door, but Johnny let silence reign for a good minute before he risked unlatching the stall to peek out. In the privacy of the now empty restroom, he went over to the sink and washed off his face. In every dating scenario Johnny knew of, when a person was thrown over for the greener grass of someone else, and they got a chance to watch their heartbreaker getting his or her heart broken by the greener grass, there was supposed to be a godlike feeling, complete with the illusion of smiting power.
Johnny didn’t feel godlike.
When he returned to the table, he was quiet except for a quick apology that he’d taken so long. Brackett nodded. “When I saw the detectives go back to the restrooms, I guessed that you might be–er–trapped. I did order for you. It’s supposed to be an authentic old Cook Island tavern dish from the great days of sail and pirates.”
Johnny beamed at him. “Pirates? Great. I had the biggest thing for pirate stories when I was a kid. The Rez library didn’t get nearly enough pirate books.”
“I haven’t outgrown my pirate fascination. I think it’s what’s behind my retirement fantasy of combing a South Seas beach. And I have a weakness for any movie with Errol Flynn in tights and brandishing a rapier. So, did you learn anything interesting?”
Johnny almost spewed his sip of piña colada. He noticed that Brackett’s eyes twinkled at him, and he didn’t know whether to be more shocked by the Errol Flynn remark or the question that followed. “Dr. Brackett, are you asking me to dish?”
Brackett laughed. “I think maybe I am. Dixie isn’t alone in her appreciation for good gossip.”
“They’re together,” Johnny said in a cautious whisper, looking around to judge anyone’s ability to overhear him. “Sort of. Ken isn’t happy. He’s jealous of Starsky’s date over there. You know, he was never jealous with me. He never asked if I was seeing anyone besides him. Funny thing is, when I talked about giving up girls for him, he fed me the same ‘got to have cover’ line that Starsky’s feeding him now. And I should be laughing my tail off, right, but what I really wanna do is go somewhere and run until I drop.”
“You’re still in love with him.” The hint of sadness in Brackett’s voice brought Johnny up short. Before he could respond, the waiter brought their entrées and made an elaborate presentation of them. But Johnny’s eyes stayed fixed on Brackett.
The waiter left, and Johnny didn’t even look down at his plate to see what he’d be eating. “I think I’m a little scared, actually. Why is the whole relationship thing so damned hard? It’s no secret men and women are completely different species, but you’d think two guys could relate well enough to muddle through.”
“I think it’s harder for men,” Brackett disagreed. “Women complain about men not being willing to talk about how they feel. Imagine the trouble two men have trying to walk a minefield of feelings together. It’s very often like two men in blindfolds trying to lead each other out of a dark room.”
“Yeah, but those two guys? I wasn’t around them together much, but when I was, I thought they were sharing the same brain. Now, it’s like they’re talking to each other through a brick wall.”
“They weren’t in a romantic relationship with each other back then, were they?”
“No. It makes that much difference?”
“Yes, I think it does. I think you’d find that as far as their professional lives are concerned, they probably still share the same thought processes. But as soon as the topic is their personal relationship, the barriers spring right out of the ground.” Brackett took a long draught from his coconut shell drink. “But that’s the danger of a relationship that mixes professional and personal. If they’re not careful, all the barriers in their romantic liaison will start to wear on their professional partnership.”
Johnny thought there might be a barrier at his table, because he could just swear Brackett was saying something else behind the screen of Starsky and Hutch, something Johnny really needed to hear but was deaf to for some reason. Finally, he shrugged. “I’d just like to think there’s someone out there that speaks my language, and vice versa.”
“I could be wrong, but I think if you make peace with the breakup with Hutchinson, you’ll be more open to finding that person. You can’t be responsible for Hutchinson’s choices, Johnny, and you can’t protect him from the consequences of his choices. He made his choice by himself, and in my opinion, he didn’t choose well.”
The implied compliment brought heat to Johnny’s cheeks.
“Trying to balance the stress of their work, the potential for violent fall-out if they’re discovered, and a closet is hard enough,” Brackett continued, “but Hutchinson is sharing that closet with a man who might well be second guessing whether two men should be physically intimate even behind closed doors, and it won’t go easy for Hutchinson.”
“How do you know that?” Johnny asked. “About Starsky, I mean.”
Brackett gave him a heartbreaking frown. “I don’t know Detective Starsky, so I may be way off base, but remembering what I saw of him in the examination room with Hutchinson that day, and what I’ve heard from you just now, I have a fairly good idea where Starsky’s coming from. For many years, I was the man Starsky is right now, and it wouldn’t have been easy going for any man unlucky enough to fall in love with me at that time.” He smiled. “I’m still a challenge on my best day, but thankfully it’s no longer due to self doubt and denial.”
“Got all that out of your system, huh?”
Motioning with his knife and fork for Johnny to pay some attention to the food, Brackett nodded. “You saw me during the death throes of that period of my life, back in late ’69, early ’70 when we were trying to get the paramedic program off the ground.”
“Yeah, oh, man, I remember,” Johnny said with a grin. “You were one tough nut to crack, all right. Love how you say ‘we’ were trying to get the paramedic program off the ground. Back then you were one of our toughest critics until my amateur medical prowess made you see the light.”
“Listen, you were pretty hard to get along with yourself, you arrogant hose jockey–” Brackett flushed and looked down at his plate.
Johnny burst out laughing. “Yessir, Doc, I’m a right good hose jockey, too.” Brackett’s flush deepened. Johnny discovered a new sport: Brackett-baiting, more fun than a hybrid of basketball and fly fishing. “That’s when you and Dix were an item, right? Was she the first person you came out to?”
“No, Johnny. First I had to come out to myself. Next to that, coming out to Dixie was as easy as tying my shoes.”
Johnny shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard for me.”
Brackett had that post-surgical serious expression again. “You’re not out to yourself.”
Johnny stared across the table. “How the hell–” he immediately lowered his voice to a whisper, wary of their topic of conversation. “How do you figure that?”
“Coming out to yourself isn’t just admitting you can enjoy sex with men, Johnny. It’s when you admit to yourself that you’re not just in it for kicks or because men give excellent blowjobs.”
Brackett smiled, probably amused by the flush Johnny could feel staining his cheeks. He’d never expected to hear the word “blowjob” in Brackett’s voice, and it was doing weird things to his groin.
“Uh, okay, yeah, I’ve done that.”
“It’s when you admit that a woman can be a best friend, sister, confidante, or mentor, but can never be the long-term lover you need. I’m not being misogynistic. I have a tremendous respect for women. I’m not saying it’s wrong to be gender-blind or that there aren’t legitimately happy bisexuals who can be fulfilled either way. But that’s not quite the same thing we’re talking about.”
Johnny glanced across the room, praying that his eyes wouldn’t meet a pair of baby blues. He saw instead that golden cap of hair as Ken bent his head to hear something the lady at his side whispered in his ear. He fought down a rising ache in his chest. “I was willing to give up girls for Ken. That doesn’t count?”
“You were also the man telling me on Rampart’s patio that you want to run as far from the ‘gay thing’ as possible. And I know Roy DeSoto. He wouldn’t be trying to set you up with some young widow if you weren’t sending definite signals that you’d like to try a serious relationship with a woman. That’s not wrong, Johnny. This isn’t about right or wrong. This is about knowing what you need in life, and admitting it to yourself. But don’t think you’re past the coming out to yourself part, when you’re not. And this is admittedly more subjective than I make it sound. What I think constitutes coming out to yourself may not be every gay man’s idea of it, but I think there are plenty who would agree with me.”
Johnny had finally unwrapped his silverware, but he still had no thought to food as yet, and that would have stunned Roy into heart failure. “And you were trying to get through all that during the paramedic state legislation mess?”
“Yes. When you and Roy and seemingly everyone else in Los Angeles were trying to sway me over to the side of the angels in the great paramedic debate, I was also trying to figure out how best to tell Dixie that I could never be the lover she needed. I wanted to blame most of our friction on our disagreements about the paramedic program, but she saw through that in a hurry, and as soon as the program was up and running, she called me on it. That was a hard talk, but the best one of my life thus far. She became my champion and my family.”
“Why do you think she was so understanding?”
“Dixie’s a very practical person. She doesn’t like to cry over spilt milk; she prefers to get a mop and clean it up. Not that we didn’t both cry a little. She also shares my soft spot for underdogs and hard-fought causes, and a physician quickly approaching middle age who hasn’t found love because he’s been trying to find it with the wrong gender in order to safeguard his life’s work and livelihood, well, that qualifies as both in Dixie’s book.”
“I guess that was a rough stretch for you. Damn. I remember I was a horse’s ass through some of it, when we thought you weren’t gonna testify in favor of the program for the committee in Sacramento. Thought you were just a hard case in love with yourself and your principles.”
“Johnny, I won’t apologize for my initial reservations about the paramedic program, and when I first declined to testify, my reservations were my reason. On the other hand, when I did decide to testify in favor, I was worried that my inclinations might torpedo the whole project. As I’m sure you remember, very powerful interest groups were against the program. The California Medical Association, The California Nurse’s Association, even the State of California Fire Chiefs opposed the legislation! I knew my few same-sex encounters had been as strictly private and discreet as humanly possible, but after I testified, I lived in fear that someone, somewhere, would discover my secret and use it to create scandal that could sink the program before Governor Reagan would have a chance to sign it into law.”
“God, but you weren’t the only doctor testifying for it or the only person pushing the bill!”
“No, but as Assemblyman Wolski kept reminding me, our side was banking on my reputation as chief expert, and a man’s reputation is no kind of bank to finance something as history-making and life-saving as the paramedic program!”
Johnny was reeling inside with awe…and a deep respect for the strong but vulnerable, human hero sitting across from him. His own food was most likely cold, but Johnny knew he’d enjoy the hell out of it anyway. He felt high on helium, like when he was a kid and he’d inhaled a whiff from a balloon to make his voice sound funny. Instinct told him not to show Brackett any hero-worship. He opted instead for a joke. “You know, Doc, you’re one surprise after another. Never would’ve thought you’d like Errol Flynn pirate movies.”
“Okay.” With another smile, a grateful one this time, Brackett raised both hands in fake surrender. “I admit it. I like all Errol Flynn movies.”
“Does that mean you like pretty blonds?” This time Johnny had no itch to look across the room.
“For my movie star fantasy, yes.” Brackett’s eyes were suddenly piercing. “I prefer my real life men tall, dark, and handsome.”
Johnny thought it just his luck that he’d finally gotten a bite of food into his mouth only to nearly break a tooth on the fork holding the curried coconut rice. I’m not interested in Dr. Brackett….
A little voice inside his head wanted to know why he kept telling himself that.
~*~*~
When Hutch opened the door to his apartment, he found Starsky pacing in front of the coffee table. “You waited up for me, Mom? How sweet.”
Starsky gave him a stormy look forceful enough to shut the door by itself, but Hutch did the honors, double checking the lock. “Didn’t expect you’d stay there after I left,” Starsky said.
Hutch sat down on the sofa and began removing his boots. “Laura and I had a few things to say to each other that somehow didn’t bear saying with you standing around wearing lemon meringue, so we waited for Hannah to turn in for the night.”
Starsky kept his distance behind the coffee table and fidgeted in place. “Are you two picking up where you left off?”
“Laura Kanen is about as sexually interested in me as Hannah is. Couldn’t you tell that tonight?”
The stone set to Starsky’s features began to ease, the merest softening that only Hutch could detect. “Hey, don’t knock Hannah. She’s a fiery lady for her age. For any age!”
“Yes, she is, but you’re her type, not me.”
“How do you know that?”
“She flirted with you through the whole card game, that’s how.” Hutch smiled.
Starsky didn’t smile. He growled. “You were baitin’ me all night tonight,” he accused, advancing around the coffee table and making Hutch wonder if he should run for cover or prepare to be pounced. “That damned ballerina comment!”
Hutch smirked. “I should be worried that you really do think I’d be dynamite in a tutu and toe shoes, but somehow I can’t find the will to care.”
A loud whump sounded when Starsky landed on the sofa beside him. “You love a girl with spunk? When you said that in front of Laura and Hannah I thought I’d swallow my tongue!”
Hutch reached for him. “Forget girls with spunk, Starsk, give me some of yours!”
Starsky growled again and took Hutch’s mouth in a kiss that hurt in the most beautiful way. Only two well-matched men could kiss like this, Hutch knew, and he wanted it to go on forever. And if Starsky went along with his plan, maybe it could go on forever, uninterrupted by cornered serial killers or teenage street hustlers who thought the world owed them a dime a second just for breathing the air. When Starsky’s lips found the little mole just below Hutch’s jaw, Hutch breathed in the scent of lemon that lingered on Starsky’s black leather jacket. The shirt underneath smelled even stronger of lemon pie. Hutch wanted to bathe Starsky in lemon meringue and spend an entire night licking it all off. He added that to his list of things for them to do in the first weeks of their happy ever after off the police force.
Blazing a trail of passion across the barren wilderness.
Taking a moonlit walk.
Sipping margaritas by the sunset.
Strolling back to their villa arm in arm.
Getting naked and naughty with lemon pies in the villa kitchen.
All Starsky had to do was agree, and they could call Dobey in the morning and break the news.
Find yourself a couple of other schmucks, Captain, we’re done with the lousy hours, crummy pay, and fight-and-flight stress cocktail. Tired of hiding who we are and what we want. You want us, you can find us in Rio. Leave a message, and the concierge will be more than happy to deliver it.
Starsky was murmuring in his ear, and Hutch strained to listen. “Got…hard…” Starsky moaned in his ear. “In that hallway. When you started counting down the plan for Salinas, and I knew you were talking to me the whole time, I got hard. Goddamn, the way we work, Hutch, it’s a thing of beauty! Never been so scared, knowing that nut had your gun trained on you close range, but it’s like I was in your head, and you in mine, and…oh, man, oh, man, give me your mouth!”
Hutch wanted to sit up straight and question whether Starsky was hard for him or for their working partnership, because the answer just might screw with Hutch’s big plan, but his dick said screw the question. Starsky pushed them over until Hutch felt the sofa arm against his shoulder blades. Hurried fingers tugged at his navy over-shirt, and Hutch lifted his back before Starsky could make good on his bid to rip the shirt off in shreds. The navy shirt landed on the piano bench, and Hutch wasn’t even sure who had flung the garment.
Starsky was staring at the expanse of skin visible from Hutch’s low-buttoned powder blue shirt. “You’re so damned hot when you leave chest showing. Oughta do it more often! And your hair…” Starsky pulled his fingers through the slightly curling waves that reached to Hutch’s jaw line. “Shines. Just shines. Something about tonight, Hutch. Something got you glowing. What’s it, hm? What’s got you lookin’ like a guy who just stepped off an acceptance speech at the Oscars?”
This could be our first night to be just best friends and lovers without having to circle the wagons against the big bad world out there. Why wouldn’t I glow?
“Might have something to do with the guy propped over me right now. Of course, he promised to show me some spunk, but if he’s gonna spout words all night instead, I can lie here and listen.”
Starsky crawled backward and attacked Hutch’s jeans with fervor. “You’ll be spouting, Blondie. In my mouth. Want to try something new tonight.”
“Starsky.” Hutch tried to sit up, but Starsky’s firm left hand on his belly made him lie still. “You mean you’re going down on me? You don’t–”
“I don’t what? Don’t have to? Don’t want to? Don’t you believe it! I’ve been holding back thinking I’d screw it up and leave you with permanent tooth marks or something dumb, but hell, the way we work together, I don’t know what I was thinking. Right when my mouth touches you, it’s gonna know just what to do.”
Hutch didn’t dare suggest that it wasn’t that easy. With that kind of faith in their bond, he could only lie back against the sofa arm and watch in a feverish haze as his primarily straight partner freed him from jeans and underwear and stared at his erection with the intention of sucking it. Under Starsky’s hotter than a spotlight focus, Hutch felt his cock throb, pulse, and he looked down at the tiny bubble of fluid on its tip. Starsky met his eyes and then followed his gaze to the bead of pre-come. “Mine!” Starsky snarled and ducked his head to catch the fluid with his tongue.
Crying out more from the word than the act, Hutch shivered. For the next few minutes, he left earth and hovered somewhere just above the stratosphere. It didn’t matter that Starsky sucked too hard around the head at first, or that he took a few tries to synchronize the fist he had wrapped around the base of Hutch’s cock with the action of his mouth. It didn’t matter that he nibbled too lightly or let his teeth scrape on one downward stroke of his lips. What mattered were the loving eyes watching Hutch’s face the whole time Starsky worked on him. What mattered was that the heat and wetness surrounding Hutch’s dick belonged to Starsky.
David Michael Starsky.
My love, my life….
Chains around Hutch’s heart, chains which he hadn’t even realized were there, began to loosen at the simple reassurance of watching Starsky’s lustrous curls bobbing. This wasn’t curiosity. This wasn’t Starsky trying to prove something. This was the generous heart and soul of his partner on display. Giving for the sake of giving. Sucking for the sheer sake of sucking. Hutch reached down to pet Starsky’s hair, trace his ear, and caress his jaw.
“You’re gorgeous,” he moaned to Starsky, letting his hips jerk slowly, far slower than he would have liked, but a safe pace for the novice blowjob artist currently attached to his dick. “You’re gorgeous…so gorgeous to do this to me….”
Then two things happened at once: Starsky stiffened from shoulders to toes, his face scrunching in the unmistakable ecstasy of sexual pleasure, and Hutch, seeing that his partner had come in his pants during his first blowjob, couldn’t even issue a warning grunt before he jerked upward in his own release. Thrusting blindly in the throes of his own orgasm, Starsky tried desperately to hold Hutch’s cock between his lips and accept the gush, but he sputtered, coughed, and let go of Hutch with a noisy pop release of suction. Apparently determined to catch Hutch’s offering somehow, Starsky pressed forward and cradled Hutch’s waist, and Hutch thrust his last spurts of come against Starsky’s chest.
He was quite sure they heard his yell in Santa Barbara.
Lulled by the bliss of afterglow, he lay in the circle of Starsky’s arms and counted his miracles.
~*~*~
Starsky stirred first. They hadn’t slept, but lying there just breathing with each other was even better, to his way of thinking. He wanted out of his sticky undershorts, but the stickiness reminded him of their passionate connection, and he wanted to feel the physical proof of that a while longer. He waited for the change to come over him. The difference he felt when he was seeing someone and woke up to being in love, in lust, and completely infatuated with them. He could always recognize the change, because his body marked the transformation of feelings with a few minutes or so of embarrassing reactions. When that important moment hit him, his palms got sweaty, his skin broke out in goose bumps, and his face would go flush-hot. It didn’t happen with every woman he dated, and it was one sure-fire way to know if he was really hooked or just in it with her for kicks. Having Hutch in his mouth, watching his eyes the whole time, sharing the closest thing to a simultaneous orgasm he could remember having with anyone, Starsky knew it would happen any moment now. He rose up from his resting place on Hutch’s chest and looked at his smiling face.
Nothing happened.
He tried to trick his body into it. Closing his eyes, he thought as hard as he could, sweaty palms, goose bumps, sweaty palms, goose bumps. Come on, he urged his body; you came so close to losing him the other day. One twitch of Salinas’ finger on that trigger, and Hutch wouldn’t be lying under you right now. Come on, damn it, Hutch is everything in the world to you; you love him more than your next breath. You can do it, just a few chill bumps and a little sweat.
But his stubborn body paid no attention.
“Starsk, you okay?”
He opened his eyes, afraid of how he must have looked to Hutch, and gave his best nonchalant shrug. “Better’n okay, babe. How about you?”
“If I’m not in Heaven, then it’s the neighboring piece of real estate.”
Starsky grinned. “Not so bad with the skin flute, am I?”
“Even better at fishing for compliments. You saw what you did to me. You want a shower, maybe change into something less…sticky?”
“In a minute, yeah.” Starsky sat up and stretched, yawning. Coming fully back to awareness, he remembered why he’d let himself in to Hutch’s apartment and paced like an angry jungle cat guarding its lair. “Hutch? Did you really tell Laura you’d quit being a cop for her?”
Hutch stared at him with a strange mixture of surprise and hope. “No, not really, nothing more than a joke she could tell right off was a joke. Tonight I did tell her the truth, though. I told her I didn’t see myself being a cop for the rest of my life.”
“No?” Starsky’s legs turned to concrete heaviness and his upper body grew wet and cold with the sweat that came of fear. Was this how it felt to take a mobster’s cement bath in some river? He tried to joke around the sensation. “Putting in for early retirement?”
“Well, I’d certainly think about giving it a shot if my partner wanted to brave the wilds of temporary unemployment with me. I could see a lot of advantages in quitting while we’re ahead.”
“Yeah?”
“We wouldn’t end up two forty-year-olds with one stomach between us thanks to ulcers and popping antacids like M&Ms.”
Starsky could play this game. It reminded him of their roommate discussion at Pine Lake, and that hadn’t actually come to fruition yet, so maybe this was just Hutch needing to verbalize some alternatives just to remind himself he wasn’t a canary in a birdcage with no door. “We could catch a matinee whenever we wanted.”
Hutch’s eyes were shining to match his hair. “I have a whole list, buddy, starting with a trail of passion and ending up in a villa in Rio.”
Starsky let his gaze drift down to where Hutch’s cock was beginning to fill. He was fascinated by the mechanics, different than his own. One moment Hutch’s hood guarded his soft flesh, allowing only a tiny circle of glans and that oh, so sensitive slit to show free, and wham, one fantasy about sharing a villa with Starsky in Rio, and that skin pulled taut, making that dick a familiar, if imposing, sight. Starsky cursed himself yet again. If he could find Saturday morning cartoon enjoyment in watching the head of Hutch’s cockhead pop free of its hood, then there was no earthly reason his body shouldn’t be telling him what he wanted to hear. He found Hutch watching him. “I wondered if you were talking to Laura or me tonight, with that sexy list of yours.”
“I love it when you use your head.”
Starsky wagged his tongue at him. “And after the villa in Rio, what next?”
Again Hutch’s face was practically glowing with hope. Starsky wanted to move, but he couldn’t so much as twitch his knee. Hutch meant it! For Hutch’s sake, Starsky thought about the possibility. Just him and Hutch….
Starsky’s heart faltered. He thought about days on end of just him and Hutch without the work bonding them together, with Hutch wanting everything from him, including the biggie that Starsky couldn’t seem to get his heart to cooperate with giving. Holy fuck! They’d be ripped apart and moving to opposite sides of the country to get away from each other in less than a month, two at most! No, if they had a prayer of staying together, it had to be behind the badge, couldn’t Hutch see that?
And Starsky was suddenly aghast at himself. When had he gone from thinking he had an unbreakable thing with Hutch to thinking the badge kept them together?
I thought it was unbreakable before I actually went to bed with him and realized sex with another guy is a stretch for me. It’s good when I get through stretching, but it’s still a stretch. I can handle it if it’s just another part of our partnership, just something else we do together, but if it’s the only thing we do together, my measly ounce of cock lust is gonna come up short real fast, and Hutch’ll know it’s a stretch. Can’t have that. God, can’t have that. Can’t do that to him!
He forced a laugh. “Aw, Hutch, what would we do if we pulled ourselves off the streets? You got some grand scheme in that smart head of yours?”
Hutch yawned and sat up himself, straightening his tousled hair. “Who needs a grand scheme, the way we work together?”
“Yeah, but as what? ‘Cause, I hate to break it to you, I’m not into sushi, or being a chef, and if you think I’m gonna be a go-cart mechanic outside your one-man sushi stand off the Pacific Coast Highway, we need someone to help us with our business plan.”
“Come on, Starsky, haven’t you ever thought about what you might like to do if you weren’t tied to a gun and badge?”
“I have hobbies, Hutch, not second career plans. What about you?” Starsky swallowed hard. “You have, haven’t you? You’ve thought about what you’d like to do. All right, let’s hear it.”
Hutch lightly stroked fingers up his still interested dick, and Starsky couldn’t seem to wrest his eyes from the display. “Just a pipe dream or two, Starsk.”
“Well, pull out that pipe and let’s smoke it.”
“You already did that.” Wrapping his fingers loosely around his shaft, Hutch gave a couple tugs, then spit into his palm and let his hand glide the foreskin. Starsky reached over and covered Hutch’s hand with his own, but not to lend strength to the handjob. He had to still that erotic motion or he wouldn’t be able to think himself out of a room with no walls, much less a conversation that could change the rest of their lives. He questioned if that was Hutch’s motive for the exhibitionism. Distract Starsky from how badly Hutch wanted a dream they couldn’t share?
“Out with it, Hutch. What’d you like to be when you grow up?”
Hutch sighed, and pulled his hand from Starsky’s grasp. Left with his hand on Hutch’s hard cock, Starsky jerked his arm as though singed, and cupped his knees in his palms, flexing his fingers over the worn patches in his jeans. Hutch had fixed his gaze on the piano. “I wouldn’t mind finding a pretty piece of land in the hills. Maybe breed horses.”
“What the hell do you know about breeding horses?”
Hutch glared at him. “I was raised around horses. I know enough to know I could hire the right people to teach me what I don’t know.”
Starsky pointed at his own chest. “What would I do on this horse farm of yours? I’m a city boy, remember?”
Hutch grinned at him, easing Starsky’s mind that maybe, maybe all this was a great big joke. “There’d be a permanent position for you as chief stall mucker-outer.” Starsky popped him lightly on the shoulder. Hutch gave him a sultry wink. “And you could always tie me up with tack and have your wicked way with me over a hay bale in the stable.”
Starsky’s eyes widened. “You’d let me tie you up?”
Hutch flushed. “Maybe. Gently. If it didn’t leave that big of a mark.”
Starsky smiled. “You’re not really gonna let me tie you up, are you?”
Hutch faced him down without a smile. “I’m not really getting my horse farm, am I?”
“Maybe when we’re older’n dirt, and it’s time to let the next generation protect and serve. For now, why fix what ain’t broken?”
Sitting up straighter, Hutch retreated behind a faraway look that Starsky couldn’t read. “Just a fantasy, Starsk, that’s all. If we were really talking about quitting, I’d want us to find something we could both find fulfillment in. Nothing to get riled over.”
“Hey, I’m not riled. Just don’t tell me you want to quit and become a paramedic. You did a good job playing one, but once is enough!”
Hutch scowled, looking sore all over. “Don’t worry. I discovered quickly it had been more fun dating one than trying to be one.”
Oh, now Starsky was riled! A red haze crossed his eyes. “Y’know, buddy, if you’re so hot for that horse farm, I’m sure Gage would take you up on it in a heartbeat. Hell, wasn’t he raised on some kind of Reservation ranch? Perfect for the job, the stall mucking and anything else!”
Hutch twisted on the couch and hit Starsky with the full force of outraged blue eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Get over it, will you? I was talking in the past tense. I haven’t seen Johnny in nearly three months. Spotting him in a restaurant looking all chummy with Dr. Kelly Brackett at a table for two doesn’t count! Did I take Johnny to Pine Lake? No, I wanted you there. Believe me, if I wanted to form some two-person Boy Scout troop with Johnny Gage, I would’ve done it long before now!”
Rising and adjusting himself so he wouldn’t need surgical removal of his shorts, Starsky decided he could get a shower in his own place. He was glad he didn’t have to scramble around awkwardly for discarded clothing and try to get dressed in his state of mind. Hutch read his intention clearly, because he tried to grab for Starsky’s hand.
“Hey, why don’t we get a couple of beers and just cool down?” Hutch offered.
Starsky pulled his hand free and started toward the door. “It’s late. We’re on shift tomorrow.”
He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder at Hutch, whose glow had faded into a worn dullness that spoke of bone-deep fatigue. Unless Starsky’s imagination had kicked into high gear, Hutch’s hair even appeared duller. “We’re going to do this, Starsky. We’re going to stay together. Nothing’s stronger than what we’ve been to each other for almost ten years! So, you can walk out that door pissed off right now if you want to, but when you get home, get a shower, down a brew, and sit and think about it, we’ll still be together.”
“Yeah,” Starsky said. And he walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him just to hear something other than the sound of his own beating heart.
~*~*~
Hutch heard a sound over the shower spray and cut the water to listen closer. Hard experience had taught him that the shower wasn’t the place to let down his guard. Hearing what sounded like footsteps, Hutch grabbed for his towel and slung it around his waist, reaching for his holster on the door’s peg. Gun in hand, cocked and taking no chances, he cracked open the door and caught a flash of black leather and the hint of lemon essence. That lemon pie Laura had shoved in poor Starsky’s face was better than a cowbell. Hutch holstered the Magnum and stepped out of the bathroom.
Starsky turned around in front of the stained glass and widened his eyes at the low slung towel before hastily averting his face.
“Let yourself in,” Hutch said.
Starsky looked down at his keychain, then pocketed the keys. “You don’t want me letting myself in, ask for your key back.”
“Your right to come in here unannounced has nothing to do with something tangible like a key, Starsky. I thought you were headed home.”
“Was. Got halfway, turned around.” Starsky hadn’t made a move forward or away, and Hutch didn’t know what strings to pull to get his sexy, life-size marionette moving.
“Why?”
“Want…” Starsky looked ready to crouch or spring. Caged motion with no outlet thrummed through him, and he seemed to be clenched from jaw to toes. “I want to be with you, damn it. You know that, right?”
Hutch took a step toward him.
That pulled the strings with a vengeance. Starsky rushed him, stripping the towel and pulling Hutch against him in one smooth movement. Their mouths crushing together, Hutch caught the salty tang of stale come–his own–around Starsky’s lips and chin. He fingered the crustiness of more spill on Starsky’s shirt and forgot to breathe in the kiss. When Starsky pulled back, Hutch was left gasping, clinging for dear life.
“Got room in that shower for two?”
“You know it.”
“Only so I’ll be clean for your bed,” Starsky told him. “I won’t be had for the first time standing up under your shower’s lousy water pressure.”
Hutch felt his knees start to give way. “Won’t be had–Starsky, if you mean what I think you mean–”
“Usually what you think I mean is a solid guess.”
Starsky might have wanted nothing more than a quick wash, but Hutch led him by the hand into the bathroom, slowly, tenderly undressed him, and turned the water to the temperature Starsky liked best, or Venice Place’s closest approximation. Starsky looped his arms around Hutch’s waist and stood still while Hutch lathered his hands and went to work on those thick waves of downy soft hair. He liked the way Starsky bowed his head for Hutch to have better access. He loved it when Starsky began stropping his wet calf against Hutch’s, the water-matted hair tickling Hutch’s leg and hardening his cock at the same time.
“Keep that up,” Hutch warned in a teasing snarl, “and I’ll be turning you around and taking you up against the shower wall.”
“No you won’t.” Starsky’s grin and tone of voice said Hutch’s care-taking nature made him sure what wouldn’t happen. “Not this time, anyway.”
“Want my mouth on you?” Hutch gently soaped down Starsky’s chest and hovered the cloth over his groin.
Starsky shivered under the warm spray. “Hutch, I want you. Any and every way I can get you.”
With a declaration like that, Hutch could forget that he still had to strap on his holster the next morning and take whatever the inner city of LA could dish out. “Well, all right, then.”
He wasn’t allowed to suck Starsky off, though, his partner stopping him shy of release. Starsky had become bobble-kneed and incoherent, but Hutch got the gist. Starsky wanted to come with Hutch inside him. Any more talk like that out of Starsky’s mouth, and they’d be waiting to see if Hutch could get it up a third time in less than three hours, so he hurriedly finished the practical side to their shower and hustled them out to dry off and get in bed.
He’d dreamed of having Starsky–having him all the way–in the old brass bed. Once there, rolling with him, petting him, gentling the barely leashed tiger so Hutch could get his own hormones under control to even think about preparing him, Hutch knew he had found his one true calling. Loving Starsky. On one passionate tumble, Starsky landed on his back with Hutch between his legs, draped over him and staring down into the honest, tell-all blueness of Starsky’s eyes. Hutch was about to ask if Starsky was ready for the first step, when something in those soulful eyes stole Hutch’s breath. For all that Starsky reached for him with his body, and offered with his lips, the man inside shining through those eyes wasn’t ready. Hutch could see the battle waging, a battlefield split between Starsky’s mind, heart, and body, and forcing the conclusion of the war before its due would rip Starsky apart. Hutch knew it as clearly as his own name. He bowed his head and tried to slow his own pounding heart.
“Hey, did you forget the next step in this dance?” Starsky asked with a soft chuckle. “I think it involves your fingers, some lubey stuff, and my ass.”
Hutch scrambled desperately in his mind for something that wouldn’t make Starsky feel inadequate. He hated to play up weakness on his part as the one excuse Starsky wouldn’t question, but he had no other means to an end that would keep Starsky’s psyche intact. “With all the–well–”
“Hutch?” Starsky encircled his shoulders in warm arms and pulled him down on that strong chest. “What’s wrong?”
“Keyed up, Starsk. Too keyed up to do you right. You know, close call and all, what it’s like.”
“What you need?”
“Take a rain check and take me instead?”
Starsky’s face showed brief disappointment, but glaring relief blazed out of his eyes and confirmed Hutch’s decision. “Hey, what you need, you get, Blondie.”
Hutch rolled over and reached under the bed for the small shoebox that contained a couple of screwdrivers, some spare nails, rug swatches, recipe cards, and various other incidentals. Hidden beneath it all was the tube of K-Y, in the hopes that anyone snooping would not bother sifting through the junk to find the box’s most valuable and controversial item. Hutch took cover seriously, and he knew all too well that to the mentality of the LAPD, a tube of K-Y in a man’s apartment labeled him queer right off the bat. He ditched the box on the floor and lobbed the tube over his shoulder at Starsky. On his side, with his back to Starsky, he crooked his top leg and swiveled his hips.
Starsky’s happy growl applied a warm salve to the splintering crack starting in Hutch’s heart. He lost himself in the enjoyment of Starsky stretching him, loving him with those lubed fingers, and didn’t let himself dwell on what it would have felt like to be doing this to Starsky. When he felt Starsky’s third finger easing the way, he clenched down to show his readiness. He nodded for Starsky to spoon up behind him and try it from this position. If he couldn’t have Starsky’s ass, he wanted a soft, slow fuck, and side spooning was his favorite way to get it. Starsky slid into him with ease, the channel more than ready for him.
“Tell me,” Starsky breathed. “Tell me how to make it the best ever…best you ever had.”
“Starsk. God, already is, it’s you. Just hold me, give me all you got, maybe touch me a little behind my balls?”
“Anything, babe.” Starsky held him close in heated arms and began to thrust in earnest, trailing his fingers down over Hutch’s prick, pumping him, caressing him, dipping down to his balls and the sensitive skin underneath. Whimpery sounds emerged from behind Hutch, Starsky sounding undone already. “Y’know…never done this in your bed…ah, Hutch. Done other stuff…but not this, the one big It, and…Hutch!”
Hutch crooned his enjoyment, his passion, his unquenchable need for Starsky. He moved on Starsky’s cock, reached behind him to pet Starsky’s thigh. He wanted to shout special words, life changing words, but fear that transcended his pleasure made him clamp his lips tight against them. Starsky rocked behind him, groans changing to grunts, breathing rapid.
“So damned good, so…with you…perfect, oh, God, oh, Hutch, please…please….”
“What, Starsk?”
“You’ll…do this to me one day, won’t you?”
“You know I will,” Hutch whispered. One day. When your eyes don’t tell me I’d be taking you way beyond the pale. “Starsk, I’m–”
“Me, too. Hutch, oho, Huuuutch…” Starsky was going to rock them right off the bed.
Hearing Starsky go far away in the squall of orgasm, Hutch couldn’t keep the vise grip on his emotions. He flung his head back, howling his completion, “Oh, oh, Starsk, I love you!”
~*~*~
Starsky could practically hear the door calling to him. Freedom waited just outside the door and down the stairs. The Torino and the street, the two places Starsky felt at home. Unfortunately, home would be an empty place without the man in Starsky’s arms, and Starsky knew he’d never be free again. He could walk out the door, but he couldn’t leave Hutch, any more than he could survive slitting his wrists to the bone. Nor could he rationalize any longer that Hutch could get by on a diet of sex and affection alone, so staying with him to fulfill his needs was a hollow purpose, when Starsky couldn’t fulfill the biggest need of all.
Oh, oh, Starsk, I love you!
Starsky let out a harsh groan and tightened his legs around Hutch’s. The most beautiful words he’d ever heard, and his heart wouldn’t let him respond in like kind, wouldn’t let him hide behind the truth of his background love for the man he held, when his conscience knew that wasn’t the kind of love Hutch was screaming about in orgasm.
He tried to think of where to go next, what to do in the morning light when he saw Hutch’s eyes open for him and him alone. Call a halt to the sex, because he didn’t deserve taking that pleasure from Hutch when he couldn’t give him the whole emotional enchilada in return? Set Hutch free to go back to the life-threatening world of propositioning men? Keep giving Hutch all he could physically, careful not to lie to Hutch about being in love?
How Hutch could light a fire in him, make him come like he hadn’t been touched in decades, but leave his heart untouched by Cupid’s arrow, Starsky didn’t know. But he knew the truth about himself, and he didn’t have to take his body’s word for it. If he was in love, he’d have to fight getting hard every time Hutch walked in the room, not wait for those wet, warm lips to bring him up, or crisis hard-ons. He wouldn’t be chasing skirts for his own pleasure and not just for protective coloring. He would have been able to spread his legs and take Hutch’s cock all the way to his throat from the back door. God! Hutch’s natural kindness made Starsky’s chest ache. That bullshit about being too keyed up after a close call was clever, but it was still bullshit. Starsky knew his Hutch, and he knew the man people made the mistake of seeing as reserved could be ferocious and single-minded about what he wanted. And Hutch had wanted him, wanted his ass hard, Starsky had known it from the second he suggested they take that step. The only thing that could make Hutch back away from something he wanted that much was a belief that taking it would hurt Starsky. Knowing he must have been giving off some kind of ridiculous “don’t violate me” vibe, Starsky flushed with shame. In love he wasn’t, and he could lie here and torture himself all night, but he still wouldn’t be in love by morning.
But he could love Hutch. He could love him with every breath he had. He’d done that for years. If Hutch didn’t ask the right questions, Starsky wouldn’t have to worry about having the wrong answers, and he’d keep giving Hutch everything he could. He didn’t plan out what he’d do if he met a woman he could fall in love with, or if Hutch did ask the right questions. With the lives they led, living in the moment wasn’t just pretty phrasing; it was the only way to keep sanity and mind together. No more topping Hutch, though. If they couldn’t share and share alike, they wouldn’t do it, and Starsky knew he couldn’t try again to take Hutch up the ass until he was damn sure Hutch wouldn’t see “Please, Don’t” in his eyes. But he could stroke his partner off, rub him off, and thank God he knew now he could suck him off, but that made sense, because like Eric said, no one could suck dick like a man.
Something itched the back of Starsky’s mind, then. A feeling he was accustomed to in police work when some little inconsistency or important evasion in a witness statement itched him until he scratched at it to see what was underneath the itch. Usually, the turning point in a case. Half-asleep and worried out of his skull, he couldn’t scratch at this mental irritation. He turned his mind’s eye from it and tried to get comfortable for sleep.
Hutch’s shoulder twitched, and the warm body in Starsky’s arms went rigid for a second before Hutch twisted in his hold and looked over his shoulder with amazed eyes. “You’re…you’re still here.”
“Where the hell else would I be?” Starsky asked truthfully, giving his best friend a smile he could only hope didn’t shake. He nuzzled under the tousled hair over Hutch’s forehead and planted a kiss there, then drew his lips down to seal with Hutch’s. Soft, light on tongue, the kiss seemed to last for an hour before Hutch broke away, licking his top lip and yawning. Starsky smiled easily this time. “Back to sleep with ya. Morning’s coming early.”
Hutch closed his eyes.
~*~*~
Hutch didn’t want to wake up, but he could hear ambient noise and feel the grittiness of sleep in his eyes and knew he was awake whether he liked it or not. In his last dream, he was in Starsky’s arms, and he wouldn’t see a change in Starsky’s eyes when they greeted each other in the cold light of day. Before that comforting fantasy, fueled by Starsky’s soft kiss, he’d fought nightmares about his last night in Johnny’s bed. Were the tables about to turn on him and leave his whole idea of life in ruins? Johnny had known the instant he woke and saw Hutch sitting on the side of his bed. If Hutch looked over at Starsky and saw guilt, pain, and awkwardness, his heart would never stand the strain of knowing that the same fate had come calling for him.
His first good sign was that he still rested in Starsky’s embrace. Starsky was partially sprawled over him, behind him, their legs tangled. Even more reassuring, he heard a light snore, Starsky’s breath fluffing the hair over Hutch’s ear. Starsky was asleep, not waiting up to tell Hutch they were through. Better yet, Starsky had the beginnings of a morning hard-on. Not unusual for any man under any number of circumstances, and more physiological than emotional, but Hutch chose to take it as proof that Starsky was happy in sleep.
And emotion did have something to do with the mechanics, because now that Hutch saw no impending “farewell, let’s still be friends,” his own morning excitement escalated to morning need, and he allowed himself to turn in Starsky’s hold and kiss his partner’s eyelids.
Starsky smiled softly in sleep and then a yawn complete with raunchy morning breath hit Hutch full in the face. He laughed loudly, Starsky cracked one eyelid open a slit, and that tiny opening told Hutch in no uncertain terms to leave him the hell alone. It was so like the Starsky he knew, the morning hater of all morning haters, that Hutch was instantly relieved of the last crushing worry. He could kiss away the morning grumbles. Starsky seemed content to let him try. When Hutch’s hand wandered down to cup and roll Starsky’s balls, his thumb lightly caressing the sensitive skin where the sac met Starsky’s body, the morning grouchiness disappeared, and Starsky thrust, begging for more attention.
Without releasing the treasures in his right hand, Hutch stretched until he reached the discarded tube of lube on the nightstand. He slicked his hand, his own cock and balls, and then did the honors for Starsky’s tender parts. In the warm, moistened grasp of Hutch’s hand, Starsky’s erection came fully to life, and Starsky grunted his approval. Before Hutch could do more than think about what he’d like, Starsky spread his legs and gestured for Hutch to stretch out over him in that comfortable space. Oh, so Starsky wanted some morning “Missionary” frottage. Hutch could get behind that. Or, on top of it, to be precise. He snorted at his own humor and lined himself up against Starsky’s dick, bracing his hands on either side of Starsky’s pillow, and flexed his knees for good thrust action. After a kiss, Starsky yawned again, scratched his short nails up and down Hutch’s back, and said, “Good mornin’, Starshine.”
“Starsky, don’t you dare start singing that, or we’re in trouble, because you can’t sing that song without a Neru shirt, bead necklaces, and a flower nosegay, and I don’t need to imagine you in a getup like that.”
“No singing, promise. Not that kind. But that’s how you look in the morning, can’t help it.”
“I’ll give you an ‘early morning singing song,'” Hutch vowed, stropping their dicks together, the friction encouraged by the slick he’d applied. Starsky’s grin heated. Hutch thrust harder, watching his response.
Starsky’s grin went from heated to wicked and a touch sly. Wrapping his left leg around Hutch’s waist and his right over the back of Hutch’s thighs, he tossed his head on the pillow with a wanton purr, “That’s right, baby, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
Jerking hard and thrusting harder in his joy at Starsky’s attempt to simulate what they hadn’t managed the previous night, Hutch gave him exactly that. He humped against that beautiful, cut cock while Starsky thrashed and did his damnedest to look like a man getting nailed to a mattress. It was chokingly erotic, and Hutch feared they would both run out of breath before they reached the finish line.
Starsky did sing for him. Continuous little groans and pleas that sounded like a song met Hutch’s ears while he kept time with the dance of Starsky’s hips. “Come on, Hutch,” Starsky gasped after one particularly good bit of friction. “Lemme feel that velvet monster’a yours!”
The strop and glide didn’t work on every thrust, the friction nowhere near intercourse, but the enthusiasm Starsky brought to their dance made up for all that. If Hutch could have this heat and closeness with Starsky every once in a while, he could live without plundering the ass that had starred in so many of his wet dreams. Then Starsky tightened those muscular legs around Hutch and groaned out dirty talk that set Hutch’s mind on fire. He pushed forward to close his mouth over Starsky’s and take those dirty words off Starsky’s tongue onto his own; he felt the rumble of a shout from Starsky’s throat. Thick wetness splashed against him on Starsky’s upsurge, the passionate release triggering Hutch’s. Shaking, coming harder than he could ever remember from morning sex, Hutch sang into their unbroken kiss, one long, shrill cry of love, knowing Starsky was the first to hear it from him and feeling safe letting it free.
After all, he had no doubts that this beautiful thing between them meant more to Starsky than their work partnership.
Starsky rolled him over with a quick kiss when the alarm clock intruded, and jumped out of bed. “Come on already, shower time,” Starsky ordered, snapping his fingers against his thigh. “Duty calls. We’re at the top of our game, Hutch. Gonna clean those streets spotless, have one helluva summer. I can feel it all the way down in here.” Starsky thumped his chest and headed for the bathroom, jiggling that ass in his natural strut, whistling to beat the band.
Hutch sighed and stared at the ceiling.
Right. No doubts at all….
~*~*~
Brackett helped Dixie hand out gag prizes for the Frisbee tossing contest, but his mind kept straying to the morose fireman who refereed the three-legged race thirty feet away. The City of Angels and Mother Nature had donated a flawless July day for the Fire Department Field Day for Special Needs Children. Volunteers from every LA County station signed up to participate in various events, others volunteered to judge, and the special needs children attending LA County schools were invited to watch the hilarity and get a few good laughs at the rescue workers’ expense. The children would also benefit from the funds raised from donated concessions and t-shirt sales. Area medical personnel had also received the invitation to join in the fun, and Rampart’s ER staff quickly agreed to donate their time in shifts as patient load allowed. In addition to the kind of good cause that always stirred his blood, Brackett couldn’t pass up a rare chance to interact with Johnny Gage away from the professional restriction of the hospital. He’d hoped Johnny’s recent sulk would have lifted outside the work environment, but just a few minutes into the day’s festivities he knew otherwise. Johnny had snapped out two or three words to him all afternoon. When Dixie informed him of their ten-minute break before the egg-spoon carry, Brackett hurried to consult the one expert on Johnny Gage who might have an answer or two as to how he might have landed on Johnny’s hit list.
He cornered Roy DeSoto by the picnic table where a Station 51 C-Shift paramedic was making balloon animals for a line of enthusiastic children. Roy had the task of supplying the balloon artist with balloons and refreshing sips of Gatorade from a thermos. “Roy? Can you spare me a moment?”
Roy smiled and handed another balloon to the talented fireman at his side. “Manage without me a few minutes, Chuck?”
“For the great Kelly Brackett, M.D.? No problem.” Chuck handed over a yellow balloon giraffe to a little girl whose smile gleamed brighter than the metal braces around her legs.
“Thanks, Chuck.” Brackett gestured for Roy to join him beside the concession stand. Roy ordered two large lemonades and passed one to Brackett.
“What’s up, Doc?” Roy asked, smiling. Then he smiled wider and tapped the side of his head with the lemonade cup. “Now you know I have kids. I hear enough Bugs Bunny on Saturday mornings I’m not on shift that I’m talking like the wascally wabbit himself.”
Brackett laughed. “That’s okay. It makes you the perfect volunteer for today’s fundraiser. Speaking of volunteers, I’d like to talk to you about your partner. I have the impression that I may have offended him, but I don’t know how or when and, well, I wondered if you might have any insight?”
Roy nodded. “I’ve noticed the chilliness in Rampart recently. You’ve been getting the Johnny Gage silent treatment. He doesn’t do it often, but it’s effective. I remember one time I made the mistake of calling Johnny a ‘nut.’ I meant it in a friendly way, but he took it to heart, and I earned cold silences and snide remarks until we got it out in the open and I could apologize. Johnny’s kind of sensitive at times, Doc, and it doesn’t always have to be over something big. Or it might be. You say anything about his medical knowledge or work lately?”
“Not that I can recall. Johnny’s a fine paramedic, Roy, you know that. One of the best, and partnered with one of the best.” Brackett sipped the lemonade. He wasn’t in the mood for the sweet treat, but he didn’t want to insult Roy’s generosity. “I’ve had no reason to say anything derogatory about his work.”
“I didn’t think so. I’m afraid I can’t help you much, because it’s not always easy to track down what’s eating Johnny. Could’ve been something you said a month or more ago, and it’s just now surfacing and making him squirm. Best thing to do is corner him and get him talking.”
“Will he just open up and let it out, though?”
“Not always, Doc, and be prepared for him to go all cryptic before he gets to the heart of the matter. Good luck. I’m rooting for you. You’re one of the good guys on our team, but besides that, I don’t like seeing Johnny turn into a walking iceberg every time we do a run into Rampart!”
“Roy?” Chuck called, pointing frantically at the kids clamoring for balloon toys.
“Got to go, Doc. Johnny’s up for a break before the rope relay. Best catch him now.”
Brackett thanked Roy with a pat to his back and turned to watch Johnny head toward the other concession stand. Avoidance. Brackett wasn’t standing for that! He dropped his lemonade cup in the trashcan and hurried over to the other concessions area before Johnny could escape. Coming up behind the paramedic, he heard him place an order for a cheese dog, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Johnny swung around in the middle of handing his dollar over.
“Doc,” Johnny said coldly, turning back around.
Brackett didn’t like talking to the back of Johnny’s dark head, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Johnny, I’d like a word.”
Johnny didn’t say anything until he received his cheese-topped hotdog in its paper liner. He grabbed a couple of napkins and gestured with his shoulder at the park bench across from the empty jungle gym. Even the park kids had abandoned the playground equipment to gather around and watch the firemen making fools of themselves for a good cause.
Brackett sat down on the bench beside Johnny and told himself not to notice the man’s long, slender legs in the easy-worn jeans, or the way his naturally tan arms glistened almost golden out of the short-sleeved brown double-pocketed shirt. He tried not to think how those legs might feel straddling him, or how efficiently they could drive Johnny into him, deeper and deeper until….
“Doc?”
Looking away, Brackett regretted dumping his lemonade. The cold drink would have done wonders for a scratchy throat. When he turned his face again, he found Johnny giving him an appraising glance. He imagined he had to look strange in khaki slacks and Fire Department Field Day t-shirt, so casual compared to his Rampart wardrobe. Johnny bit down hard into the hotdog, and Brackett took advantage. “You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder, Johnny, for a couple of weeks now. If I’ve done something to upset you, I’d prefer you tell me so I can do something about it.”
He got the eyebrow-arched, thin-lipped glare that signaled trouble. He’d seen Johnny give Mike Morton the same glare before the two had one of their occasional clashes. “I didn’t think I was some kind of two-timing hypocrite until you made me feel like one!”
Brackett folded his arms over his chest and waited, but Johnny offered no explanation for the odd remark. “All right, I’m sorry, I don’t how I could have made you feel that way about yourself.”
“All that talk about–” Johnny scanned their immediate vicinity, and lowered his voice. “Coming out to myself?”
“Yes?” Brackett couldn’t believe it. Johnny’s discontent stemmed from a conversation they’d had at a restaurant in May? “That was a long time ago.”
“The San Francisco trips weren’t.”
“San Francisco trips?” Brackett understood what Roy meant by “going all cryptic.”
“LA sent Roy and me up there as observers late last month and to a paramedic conference the beginning of this one. You knew about all that.”
“I heard something of it through the paramedic grapevine. What about the trips upset you?”
Johnny polished off his hotdog in two more bites and swiped at his mouth with the greasy napkin. “I met this nurse up there, took her out in between ride alongs and meetings. Nice girl. Real nice. She wanted something serious with me, distance and all, and I liked her. I really liked her, damn it! But every time I was with her, I kept hearing you in my head, and finally I just had to call it off before Roy and I left this last time.”
Hoping fervently that his heart wasn’t audibly pounding, Brackett unfolded his arms and risked putting a gentle hand on Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny flinched but didn’t move away or shoot him any back off looks. “Johnny, when you said two-timing, did you mean two-timing her, or two-timing me?”
Johnny stared down at a clump of melted cheese that had dropped on his jeans. He plucked it off with his napkin and dabbed at the grease stain. His silence was an answer in itself.
Brackett pulled his hand away before anyone could glance over and question the prolonged touch. “Johnny, you’re no hypocrite. First of all, we’re not even dating. You can’t two-time a friend, not the way you’re implying. Yes, we’re both interested in men, but that doesn’t mean you owe me some kind of loyalty, or that you’re cheating on our friendship if you form an attachment to a woman. I told you, my opinions are just that: opinions. You have to decide for yourself what you need in life.”
“I have, and it’s a hell of a thing for a guy in my line of work. I’m out to myself now, Doc, and everything you said it means. I’ll probably end up next thing to a monk, because I’m prepping for the captain’s exam in December, and I can’t afford any slip-ups that get me kicked out of the department.”
“And you’re blaming me for all this? If so, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to complicate things for you by pressuring you to make tough decisions at such a critical juncture.”
Johnny slowly shook his head with a shy, sweet smile Brackett knew meant forgiveness. “Not your fault. You just talked some sense to me, and I’ve been letting it get me down, that’s all. No more cold shoulder, I promise. Hey, we got a few minutes before the next event; let me buy you some lunch?”
Brackett glanced at the July sun, the green grass at their feet, and listened to the sound of children’s laughter in the distance. He hung suspended between happiness and fear, with a sour grapes taste in his mouth. He had Johnny’s friendship. After Johnny earned his promotion, he would no longer be taking orders from Brackett in a paramedic-doctor relationship. Those happy realities should have lifted Brackett’s mood to the blue sky. But with the removal of the obstacles came fear. A clear path meant he had to face his own insecurity if he planned to take any decisive action.
He knew he was no male ideal, especially within a community that rewarded the young, fit, and beautiful, like the man sitting next to him. He could take one look at Johnny and feel his chest constrict at the man’s breathtaking handsomeness. John Gage and Ken Hutchinson might not have been emotionally matched, but physically they had made a bonafide supercouple: both men young, athletic, successful, film star attractive. More daunting than Johnny’s physical charms were the good, heroic heart that beat within his chest, and the sharp mind that animated his warm brown eyes. In close proximity to such a man outside the confines of Rampart, Brackett tended to forget he was a highly respected surgeon with years of calling the shots in his own emergency department. When the confidence that went with those credentials abandoned him, he was simply a man, a few years on the wrong side of forty, softening a little around the middle and too tired after a sixteen-hour ER shift to think about explosive sexual gymnastics. Johnny’s captaincy wouldn’t change that reality.
Now that Johnny knew which side of the orientation fence offered him the best chance of long term happiness, he was free to pursue and bed any man he wanted. He could talk about living like a monk, but Brackett knew better. Johnny would learn what men had known for centuries: there is always a way. Discretion matters. Secrecy is essential. But men will always find a way to get their needs met. And what could Kel Brackett offer a young man who had turned the head of an Adonis like Detective Hutchinson? After that perfection, Brackett was supposed to undress for Johnny and expect to see no hint of disappointment or comparison in those candid eyes? It was easy to hide his insecurity from Dixie and leave her thinking his sole concern was crossing the professional-romantic boundary. Truthfully, his deeper reservation originated in honest male vanity and ego, along with the uncomfortable notion that Johnny deserved the opportunity to find someone better suited to him.
Coming out of his thoughts, he caught Johnny watching him again, this time with concern. “Hey, Doc, it’s okay to tell me you’re steamed about the silent treatment. Roy never took it well, either, the few times I pulled it on him.”
Brackett smiled. If their friendship gave him wistful moments, he was to blame for losing his heart to a man whose sexual attraction came with a loveable personality. Oh, well. Torturous though it might be at times, he owed it to Johnny to preserve that friendship. “I didn’t enjoy it, Johnny, but right now I’m just glad that we’ve cleared up the problem. I only have a few minutes until I’m due to help Dixie at the egg-spoon carry, so why don’t I let you treat me to one of those cheese dogs?”
Part Three
Starsky crouched behind Hutch and gently squeezed the back of his neck under the longish hair, but Hutch jerked away from the touch and came off his knees in a motion that left him reaching around to press a palm into his back. Starsky winced in shared pain. With every passing year, Hutch showed more signs of achiness and stiffness in his back. One too many car accidents in the line of duty had taken their toll, not to mention other injuries that left their marks. Every time Hutch reached for his back, his expression grew a little more fatigued, and Starsky sometimes thought he grabbed at his back to hide the pain’s true origin: deep inside, where no muscle relaxants or anti-inflammatories could reach.
Hutch stood with his back to the body on the flophouse room’s floor. He lifted a hand, let it weigh some imaginary burden in mid air, and then dropped it to his side. “I don’t know…I don’t know whether to be grateful he’s off the streets for good, or pissed that he denied his victims a chance to face him in court. He’ll never hurt another girl, that’s all I can focus on.”
“He” was Warren Temple, serial rapist. Arrested three times in the past year, released each time through loopholes in the system, the bastard made the late JoJo Ferenti look like an altar boy, and Hutch had wanted him under lock and key with a ferocity he usually reserved for freaks that threatened Starsky. Starsky had wanted to pin him to the wall, but Temple was just another in a whole long list of sickos. To Hutch, Starsky knew, Temple was a symbol of well-constructed, supposedly concrete ideals crumbling under their feet. When a brave young woman came forward with her statement about an assault that had taken place earlier in the summer, the fourth arrest warrant soon followed. Tracking Temple to his flophouse digs took little effort, but they got little more than a corpse in return, the rapist sprawled on his floor with an empty prescription bottle at his side. Hutch had wilted in front of Starsky’s eyes, all that driving fire and action sucked out of him in the face of death.
“Three years since the Ferenti case and the monsters who attacked Lisa, two years since Willits and Billings, and we’re still dealing with a system that treats the female victims of rape as guilty until proven innocent! God, what kind of world do we live in, Starsky, that the most violent criminals get to walk away clean if the DA thinks the female plaintiff wears skimpy clothing or might come across to the jury as ‘easy?'”
“I know,” Starsky said quietly, staring at Hutch’s rigid back. “Same old shit. Still smells bad, still doesn’t wash clean.”
“This case was our chance to change all that. A chance to put the rapist on trial, not the victim. If we could have gotten Temple to court, Cassandra was going to stand up against the whole system and put him away with clear, indisputable testimony.”
God, Starsky hated when Hutch got like this, because there was no wand Starsky could wave to make the world spin the way Hutch desperately needed it to. He’d wanted Hutch to get his edge back, and now he knew to be careful what he wished for. He could use a dose of Ode to Summertime from Hutch right now. Some floral comment on the sun beating down on asphalt or the like. “Hutch, we’ve gotta call it in. We don’t even have proof that Temple took himself out of this world. He could’ve had a little help.”
Hutch whirled on him, staring, and then thrust a finger at the empty bottle. “Come on, Starsky, we’ve seen how many phenobarbital ODs? I’ll admit pills are more a woman’s end-it-all of choice, but it’s just like Temple not to want to shed any of his own blood. He got his kicks shedding other people’s!”
“I know,” Starsky said for the tenth time since they’d busted the door down and found their case essentially closed. “But we owe it to his victims to go SOP on this one.”
“I know,” Hutch agreed, nodding, eyes closed. “Jesus, I’m tired.” He flicked the hem of his Hawaiian shirt up and down to create a breeze. “And when did it get so goddamned hot!”
“Hutch, it’s August. What you expect in LA in August, snow?”
The new strip of blond hair over Hutch’s top lip made it impossible for Starsky to tell if the resulting twitch of lips signaled a smile or the beginnings of an annoyed frown. But Hutch’s voice was gentler, softer. “Right. We call it in. Do the legwork. Dobey’s not going to believe this. I think he’s convinced we both walked under a whole construction site’s worth of ladders and crossed paths with a pride of black cats.”
Starsky fished out a Kleenex from his light windbreaker pocket and used it to pick up the nightstand phone’s receiver. He knew what Hutch meant. The glorious summer Starsky had promised had not come into reality. They’d labored to bring a cop killer to justice, only to have the case overturned in a mistrial due to jury tampering. A high school coke sting had ended with two honors students looking at juvenile hall instead of college scholarships, but their wealthy parents had somehow greased the gears in the DA’s office and the junior prosecutors were suddenly allergic to the case file. And now this thing with Temple….
No wonder Hutch questioned the excessive heat. He had to be thinking they had taken a left turn at Albuquerque and ended up in Hell. Starsky couldn’t disagree.
~*~*~
“Ten-four, Rampart. O2 in place, and we’ll be transporting immediately.” Johnny hung up the Biophone and tried to brush the weeping moisture from his smoke-burned eyes. The rough material of his jacket scraped against his skin, and he coughed.
Roy looked just as tattered, soot-stained, and weary. Hottest fire Johnny could imagine was a junkyard two-alarm in the middle of August, and that’s where they were. A multiple station response meant more firefighters exposed to the deadly combination of heat, smoke, and potential toxins, but they had lucked out. Only two Station 10 firemen had succumbed to the blaze in the yard’s tiny office shack while trying to rescue the day clerk, and their injuries were not life threatening. Their rescue, a middle-aged man with five kids, escaped unscathed.
“You’ll manage the ride in?” Johnny asked, slipping his helmet back on for the ride into Rampart. “Or you want me to?”
“My turn, I think,” Roy answered, coughing. “Anyway, you sound a little wheezy. Need a hit of O2 yourself?”
“I’m not either wheezy!” Johnny shot back, glaring.
Roy grinned at him over the soft chuckles of their recovering patient on his shock blanket. “I dunno, Johnny. You let Brackett hear you breathing like that, and he’ll have you flat on your back on the exam table hooked up to monitors and an IV of Ringers.”
Johnny brandished his handy-talkie at Roy with a warning, “I mean business” headshake, but Roy only smirked, oblivious to the two smoke inhalation victims who now watched Johnny with open curiosity. The least oxygen-impaired firefighter coughed against his fist and choked out, “Brackett doesn’t think you’re tough enough to handle a little smoke, Gage? Since when?”
“I don’t know, Jackson,” the other firefighter said hoarsely. “I think the great Rampart paramedic teacher might just have a pet, sounds like to me, huh, Roy?”
“Hah!” Jackson coughed and Roy tried to force the mask back in place against the fireman’s efforts to pull it free. “Only pet Brackett has time for is that hot little Ms. McCall. Hell, they can play the colleague game all they want, but everybody knows they’ve been getting horizontal for years!”
Johnny jumped to his feet when the ambulance attendants brought over the stretchers. “You’ve got these two bozos under wraps, Roy? I’ll take the squad and meet you at Rampart.”
Walking away in a rush he didn’t try to hide, he heard Jackson snickering through a wheeze. “Touchy Gage, huh, Roy? Come on, tell us. We always did think Johnny had a thing for Dixie. He’s still pining over the good doctor’s woman?”
“I’ll plead the fifth on that one,” Roy answered.
~*~*~
“Promise me, if the autopsy confirms barbiturate poisoning as the cause of death, we close the case.” Hutch tilted his face to the breeze blowing in through the half-rolled down window.
Starsky adjusted his shades. “I think that’s all we owe Temple or his victims. After that, we close the door and thank the son-of-a-bitch for saving the taxpayers the expense of a trial. We’ve got a stack of other cases waiting for our attention.”
“You saw Curt back there.” Hutch’s huffed breath was the closest thing he’d managed to a laugh in recent weeks. “We know we’re being perfectionists when the ME looks at us like we’re off our rockers for not just calling in the meat wagon and leaving him to his nice, cool lab.”
“I think everyone’s running on empty right now,” Starsky agreed. “You’re right. Damned heat’s practically stalking us, feels like.”
“What I need is a cold beer and a colder shower–” Hutch started, but the jump in radio static interrupted him.
“Zebra Three, come in. Control to Zebra Three, come in.”
Hutch glanced at Starsky, reaching for the mic. “Weren’t we logged unavailable?” He pressed down on the switch. “Zebra Three to Control.”
“Zebra Three, see Captain Dobey at Rampart Emergency in regards to R. Dobey.”
Starsky’s foot slipped on the gas, and he heard a muffled curse from Hutch that broke radio protocol. Hutch acknowledged the call with a shaky voice and cradled the mic. Grabbing the Mars light, Hutch rolled the window down all the way, hoisted himself out halfway to situate the light and slid back into the seat heavily with a groan. “Starsk?”
Starsky flipped the siren switch. “Yeah?”
“Remember how you promised me to show more appreciation for red lights?”
“Yeah.”
“Temporarily forget that promise, would you?”
Starsky spared a glance from traffic to meet worried, heat-shimmering eyes. Even as his foot slammed down on the gas pedal, he freed one hand to reach for Hutch’s and hold tight. “She’ll be okay, Hutch. Hear me? Whatever’s going on, she’ll be okay.”
“All the same–”
Starsky squeezed Hutch’s hand. “All the same.” The way their summer was going, he would have preferred teleportation to Rampart. As it was, he declared open season on all red lights between them and the hospital.
~*~*~
Longing for a cup of coffee the way only a fireman can appreciate the hot beverage after beating down a scorcher, Johnny paused before he turned the corner away from the unusually crowded waiting area. Standing room only. Couples stood around comforting each other. The tang of shock and fear left a sour stench in the air. Johnny recognized the heavyset black man sitting in a corner chair. Clutching a tweed hat, he alternately pulled and adjusted his wide brown-and-green striped tie, and tried not to look at the other people as if he knew there was more to fear than they could imagine. Considering the man’s profession, Johnny guessed that he did have that kind of unwelcome knowledge.
“Uh, Roy?” Johnny slowed Roy’s march down the corridor with a hand on his shoulder. “Can you handle the report on Jackson and McNally?”
“Sure, I was the ride-in anyway. What’s wrong?”
“I see someone I want to check on,” Johnny replied and did a 180 to return to the waiting area.
He had to stand directly in front of the man and clear his throat before dark, panicked eyes lifted to stare blankly at him. “Captain Dobey?”
“Do I know–” Captain Dobey pressed his hat down over one knee. “I do know you.”
“Johnny Gage,” he reminded the stricken man. “You didn’t see me in uniform that day.”
Dobey paid little attention to Johnny’s uniform now either. “I’m not here about–”
“I know, sir. The district your men work is more County or Memorial’s territory. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here?”
“My little–” Dobey touched his cheek as though he might have bitten the inside of his lip to keep from breaking down. “My little girl. She’s attending a special summer camp for artistically gifted children, on a field trip today, and the bus had an accident. I just got here a couple of minutes ago. My wife, Edith, they let her back there, and she hasn’t come out yet. That’s not a good sign, because I know what the docs do when they’re bustling around with a patient, they don’t want anyone in the way.”
With no free chair available, Johnny knelt down in front of the captain. “Yessir, that’s true, I’ll admit. But I know this ER staff, and if Nurse Dixie had anything to say about it, your wife is probably back there just to put your little girl at ease so they can work on a calmer patient. Okay? Doesn’t have to mean what you think.”
Dobey took note of Johnny’s ash-stained, blackened cheeks, watery eyes, and said, “Fire? A bad one? You’re in here on a transport.”
“Fire, yes. Not nearly as bad as it could’ve been. Here on a transport, but it’s cut and dried smoke inhalation. Firefighters. Captain, do you have anyone coming to wait here with you?”
“I have central dispatch trying to reach Starsky and Hutch, but they were out making an arrest this afternoon, and I don’t know how long it’ll take to raise them on the radio.”
Johnny marveled that hearing the names didn’t faze him. “Well, sir, if you don’t mind that I smell like an out-of-control fireplace, I’ll just sit here with you a while until my partner gets through with the report and LA calls us back out.”
“Drop the sir, please. I’m not your captain, young man.” Dobey’s smile lacked any real life, but it was the effort that spoke volumes. “And you could smell like ammonia and bleach combined, and I wouldn’t even notice right now.”
“I can understand that.”
The minutes crawled by, each seeming slower than the one before. Johnny saw Brackett emerge from the treatment rooms three times, and on two out of the three, the doctor pulled a couple aside and spoke slowly and softly to them. His words generated a firestorm of emotion, the women buckling at the knees, their sobbing husbands trying to brace them with the help of Brackett. Each time that drama occurred, the police captain tensed and muttered what sounded to Johnny’s inexperienced ears like some kind of prayer. Not two minutes later judging by the clicking of seconds on Johnny’s wristwatch, a lady in a pastel print dress came into view and drew a gasp from Dobey. There was something of the timeless mother about her, and her carriage, quiet confidence, and beautiful aura reminded Johnny poignantly of his own late mother. He felt moisture prick his eyes that had nothing to do with smoke residue.
Dobey nearly bowled Johnny over in his haste to meet his wife halfway. They embraced a foot away, the lady resting her head against her husband’s shoulder and clinging to him. “She’ll be fine, Harold. Her right arm is broken, but it was a clean break, and she has some scrapes and bruises. She had a little bump on her forehead, and Dr. Early wants to keep her overnight and watch her, but he thinks she’ll be fine, and I–oh, good Lord, I have to believe him!”
“Uh, ma’am?” Johnny rose, hating to intrude, but wanting to reassure. “Dr. Joe Early is one of the best neurosurgeons in LA. If he gives your little girl the thumbs up, you can believe him.”
Dobey wiped at Edith’s tearstained eyes with his own pocket handkerchief, then pointed the hanky at Johnny. “This is John Gage, baby. He’s a friend of Starsky and Hutch’s. He was kind enough to sit and wait with me so I wouldn’t chew a hole in my hat. When can we see Rosie?”
“They wanted me out of there while they set her arm,” Edith answered after shaking hands with Johnny and smiling her gratitude. “But then we can be with her.”
“Your daughter’s in good hands,” Johnny told them. “If you don’t mind, I better catch up to my partner. We’ll probably get a run any minute now.”
~*~*~
Dobey had just gotten Edith settled in the newly vacated chair beside him when his senior detective team showed at the Receiving entrance and wove expertly through the crowd to the corner. Starsky still vibrated with the frantic energy of bending LA traffic to his will, but Hutch was outwardly cool, only his eyes revealing the depth of his worry. Hutch went straight to Edith, crouching down to face her at eye level and pat her arm. Starsky stood at Dobey’s side and clasped his shoulder. “Got here fast as we could, Cap’n,” Starsky said.
“Got here quicker than I thought you would.”
“Yeah, well, I played kinda fast and loose with the traffic laws,” Starsky admitted. “Within reason,” he added.
“And your partner let you get away with that?” Dobey shot a look at Hutch.
Hutch smiled. “I encouraged him, Captain. How’s Rosie? Have you heard anything? What happened?”
Dobey let Edith explain the turn of events and share the good news. “You just missed your friend,” he informed them. “He waited with me until Edith came out.”
“Our friend?” Starsky asked.
“Your fireman-paramedic friend, Gage. He was just here. Went off around that corner somewhere to meet up with his partner. Very nice young man. I’ll bet he doesn’t give his captain a few new gray hairs each week!” Dobey was surprised to see sudden discomfort on Hutch’s face that he was sure had nothing to do with the little joke.
Starsky had tensed, too. “Um, Captain, Edith, anything we can do for you? Get you something to eat, some coffee from the cafeteria?”
Edith smiled and patted her stomach. “Now that I know Rosie’s out of danger, I think I could manage a cup of coffee and maybe a little bowl of soup just to settle my stomach. How about you, Harold?”
“Nothing for me, thanks, but if one of you could call Metro and tell Chief Ryan I won’t be there for this afternoon’s meeting? I don’t want to budge from here until the doctor comes out and tells us we can see her.”
“Certainly, Captain.” Hutch stood with another squeeze of Edith’s shoulder. “I’ll make the call, and Starsk, you can make a food run to the cafeteria?”
Starsky eyed him, looked over Hutch’s shoulder at the main corridor, and then looked back again with a raised eyebrow. Hutch’s cheeks pinked, but he answered with raised eyebrows himself and a quick headshake. Ever the former field detective, even in personal crisis, Dobey couldn’t help but link the silent dialogue to his mention of the LA County fireman, what with the direction Starsky’s gaze had taken, but he saw no logical explanation for the translation he’d normally attach to that particular wordless exchange. Why would Starsky want Hutch to avoid Johnny Gage, of all things? Made no damn sense. With a shrug, Starsky offered Edith a comforting smile and left in search of coffee and soup.
“Do you have any other calls you’d like me to make?” Hutch offered. “Does Cal know?”
“Cal’s out of town this week on a church trip.” Edith rummaged in her purse and pulled out her address book. “But you could call my sister and my aunt Kathy, and let them know I’ll be calling later with more details. Why don’t I make you a list?”
“All right. Before I get started on those calls…” Hutch walked around to Dobey’s side and whispered, “Point me in the direction of the men’s room, Captain?”
~*~*~
Johnny met up with Roy at the nurses station. Shaking his head at the handy-talkie, Roy handed him a cup of coffee. Joe Early finished making notes in his metallic-bound chart and looked up when Dixie returned to her post behind the counter. “Any luck?” Joe asked her.
“He won’t even let me in the room.” Dixie’s eyes were more troubled than Johnny remembered ever seeing. “He’s never done that before.”
“Who, what?” Johnny asked, certain they were talking about Brackett.
“Dr. Brackett lost two of the bus accident victims back to back,” Roy said.
“I thought so,” Johnny murmured. “Saw him come out to talk to the parents.”
“Yes, well, after he spoke to the last family he went straight to his office and locked himself inside. He’s a sore loser,” Dixie mused, waving her hand to decline the cup of coffee Joe offered her. “Fights harder against death than any ten men combined, but he’s usually able to shake it off enough to go to the next patient.”
“You need him out here right now?” Roy closed the drug box and moved it to the counter.
“We’ve got things under control right now,” Joe said. “All the children are in treatment or being transferred to the pediatric OR. We’re more worried about Kel. This is unlike him.”
Before he could think of how it might sound, Johnny said, “Maybe if I had a go at it?”
Dixie gave him the oddest look, and something flashed in her eyes that made Johnny step back, but Joe nodded approval. “Might not be a bad idea, Johnny. I’m not knocking Dixie’s maternal instincts, but a good man-to-man chat might be just what the doctor ordered. I’d try myself but someone has to be out here monitoring the situation.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do. Roy, come get me if they call us out?”
“Sure thing, partner.” Roy smiled at him. “Go easy on him, Johnny. He probably doesn’t need any of the special John Gage logic right now.”
Johnny would have flipped him the finger had Dixie and Joe not been present. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and promised silently that Roy would find his dorm bed short-sheeted in retaliation. But he knew what prompted Roy’s joking. He’d seen the terror in Roy’s eyes, the need to think of anything but what it would feel like to have a doctor tell him his children had been fatally injured. Johnny might even spare him the short-sheeting. Right now he had other fish to fry.
The Dobeys were still in waiting. Apparently, the captain’s two-man support system hadn’t arrived yet. Johnny gave them a brief smile and passed by the visitor phone booth to Brackett’s office. That door always made Johnny stop and pause. He couldn’t even imagine all the work and sacrifices that Brackett had put into earning that nameplate. Dismissing the intimidating thoughts, Johnny knocked.
“Not now.” Brackett’s voice was a mere whisper, but Johnny had an idea the thick door was actually muffling a shout.
“Doc, it’s me, Johnny.”
In the silence that followed, Johnny almost admitted defeat. He was stunned when the door opened for just the space he needed to slip in sideways. Brackett shut the door behind him and stood in front of it with his arms folded over his chest. His eyes shone too brightly, even with the office lighting, but he held his jaw firmly clenched and gave a good impression of a statue. “You shouldn’t be here, Johnny. I won’t be pleasant. Hell, I won’t even be civil.”
“That’s okay. It’s not a civil situation.” Johnny wanted to reach out and touch him, but he had the strangest sensation that unless he timed it just right, the softest touch would crumble the proud statue into dusty bits. “Not a damn thing civil you can say about losing anyone, but two kids…I get it, Doc. That’s why I’m here. ‘Cause I’m not some moron with platitudes. I’ve been there, watched kids die in the ambulance en route, knowing if I could’ve just gotten ’em to you, they might have had a fighting chance. More than a fighting chance. But even supermen like you can’t stop every speeding bullet.”
“Senseless!” Brackett shouted. “The driver of the other car in the accident is an epileptic who drove without his medication. He knew better. He’s likely to lose his medical permit to drive, but he’s in stable condition, while two children–” Brackett balled his fists and stared at the pictures and diplomas on the wall behind his desk. “It’s all I can do not to go to his room and wring his neck!”
“I know what you need,” Johnny said, visited by inspiration from childhood. “You need something to take the stinging fight out of you so you can face the madhouse out there.”
“The last thing I need is–”
“Now hear me out, Doc,” Johnny interrupted. Squaring his stance and prepared to stand untippable like one of those Weevil toys, he cupped his palms and pointed fingers back at his shoulders. “Give me a good hard shove.”
“You should be out there available for calls,” Brackett snapped. “Not in here playing amateur psychiatrist, and doing a fairly poor job of it!”
“Roy’s monitoring the handy-talkie. We are logged available. What are you worried about? Isn’t this room solid for sound?”
Brackett seemed fixated by Johnny’s left shoulder. “Room’s sound proof. When the hospital was built, the physician offices were designed to keep discussions confidential. I’ve had to crush people’s hopes in here. I’ve had to put no-win decisions in front of family members who weren’t prepared to lose loved ones. This room has seen a flood of tears, and–”
“Now, see, that’s what you need to forget about for five minutes or so. Come on, Dr. Brackett. I know you’ve got spirit. Show me some. You won’t hurt me. You don’t have it in you. Hell, I’ve got on my jacket.” Johnny wriggled one of his bulky sleeves to show off the thickness of the reflector-striped protective material. With an annoyed sigh, Brackett gave him a half-hearted push that barely moved Johnny’s shoulders.
“Harder!” Johnny ordered.
Brackett’s next shove intensified by a fraction at best.
“Harder, Dr. Brackett! Are you a girl or a man?”
That got him a better shove. He could feel his right shoulder flinch back. “That’s right, harder!” he said with enthusiastic approval.
Brackett gave him a wan smile. “It’s a good thing no one can hear you. I’d have a devil of a time explaining what’s really going on in here.”
Johnny grinned and felt wickedness seize him. He panted for a few seconds and then moaned, “Oh, Dr. Brackett, harder, harder, yeah, yeah!”
It sounded ridiculous, especially using the man’s honorific, but it worked. Brackett unleashed a fury of shoves on him, and in the end, Johnny had to almost lock his knees to keep from stumbling backward and down to the floor, but then Brackett suddenly melted against him, fury spent. Johnny cradled him in strong arms and let the exhausted man rest against his chest.
“Where’d you learn that?” Brackett asked. Only a couple of inches shorter than Johnny at most, he had to bend to rest his forehead on Johnny’s shoulder, but Johnny didn’t mind. He loosened his arms and lifted a hand to squeeze the back of Brackett’s neck.
“Look, I’m gonna tell you something I haven’t told anyone, not even Roy. That was what Mama used to do for me on the Rez. When I came home all banged up from fighting some jerks in town who’d called me a half-breed and a few worse names than that, and she knew I was spoiling to fight the rest of the world, too, she’d stand in front of me and tell me to try to shove her down. She wasn’t encouraging violence or anything; she knew I couldn’t do more than push like a weakling at her shoulders. God knows I wouldn’t hurt my mama! After two or three little pushes, I’d be a drained boy, no fight left, and she’d hold me until I felt whole again.”
“Hold me, Johnny?”
“Thought that’s what I was doing.”
“Like you mean it, not to keep me from slumping to the floor.”
Johnny gathered him close. Cheek to cheek, holding tight, Johnny was stunned to find he enjoyed the scrape of Brackett’s afternoon stubble against his own smoother cheek and how right the doctor’s arms felt looped around his waist. Keep this casual, you idiot! “Now think about the one place you’d like to be right now if you could have an instant vacation.”
Brackett’s laughter shook them both. “New Orleans.”
“Ah. I remember a couple years back when we were trying to help Roy figure out where to take his family on vacation, you kept pushing for New Orleans.”
“One of my favorite cities. The music, the food, the bohemian lifestyle I’d never be brave enough to live here.”
“Sounds great. Maybe one day we could take a trip there together.”
Brackett tensed with nearly a block of wood’s rigidity. Oh, right. The man was dead set against them being anything but friends. How many times did Johnny have to hear Brackett talk about friendship to get that through his head? He tried to laugh. “Hey, don’t friends travel together? It’s not like we’d have to post it on the coffee room bulletin board.”
“I need to get back out there.” Brackett pulled out of Johnny’s arms and straightened his lab coat, adjusting his red-and-gold checked tie.
“Better?” Johnny asked.
“Yes. You’re not bad for an amateur psychiatrist.”
“I’ll send you my bill.”
He let Brackett walk out first, head held high, shoulders straight. Following behind him a few moments later, he found Dixie waiting outside the office. The fight had left her eyes, too, replaced by warm approval. He gestured around for Roy, and she pointed down the corridor. “He said for you to meet him at the squad. No call-outs yet, Johnny.”
He turned to leave, but her whisper stopped him. “Thank you.”
He smiled back at her. “My pleasure.”
She hastened back to the nerve center of the busy ER, and Johnny looked around the waiting area to wave farewell to the Dobeys, but they were nowhere to be seen. Then a vision at the telephone booth caught his eye and made his mouth water. Good Lord, the man was gorgeous! Johnny paused for a second look, trying to guess which way he swung. Fitted jeans showed off long, strong legs and a tempting ass in a way best appreciated by another man. He wore a tasteful gold necklace–two necklaces, maybe, one with a little moon and star? Good sign. The Hawaiian shirt under a shapeless beige jacket was a minus, but that blond hair and carefully groomed mustache redeemed him, and his physique tipped the scales. Oh, yeah, definitely bisexual, and probably gay. He didn’t have Ken’s angel boy beauty, but this tough guy’s sex appeal could start a four-alarm fire in a blizzard! Too bad Johnny reeked like a chimney and couldn’t forget the feel of Kelly Brackett in his arms. Amused by his thing for blonds, Johnny started down the Receiving entrance corridor, but a familiar voice froze him in place.
“Johnny.”
~*~*~
Hutch hung up the phone and held his breath until Johnny turned. Then he let it out in a relieved exhalation, because nothing but a distant fondness stirred in him. A pleasant memory. Nothing dramatic. His cock stayed quiet. His blood didn’t boil. Johnny was staring at him, that eyebrow quirked and eyes wide in shock. Hutch frowned. He could read those thoughts as if Johnny spoke them aloud. What the hell happened to you, man? I didn’t even recognize you. Hutch felt weight settle in his gut. Well, thanks, Johnny, but hey, you look great, not a day older.
Johnny stopped at a respectable conversational distance. He twirled his forefinger in the air at the level of Hutch’s lips. “Nice mustache. Thought you didn’t want to be a dead give-away?”
“Last I heard, IA can’t haul me in for questioning based on facial hair.”
“So, you’re trying to be more obvious?” Johnny asked, squinting at him.
“Maybe nowadays I have bigger concerns than what kind of orientation clues I’m showing.”
“I thought–” Johnny shook his head, still looking dazed. “Thought you were someone else.”
“Yeah,” Hutch said. “I got that.”
“No, I–you had me–oh, man.” Johnny waved his hand and then dropped his arm. “Look, I gotta go. Roy’s out at the squad, and we’ve been away from quarters too long as it is.”
“I just wanted to thank you for sitting with my captain. You’re a good man, Johnny.”
Johnny smiled. “Yeah, well, you know what they say. Takes one to know one. Take care of yourself out there, Ke–Hutch. You know, you really look like a Hutch now.”
Before Hutch could puzzle out the meaning behind that, Johnny had turned and hurried toward the ambulance bay doors. Hutch still hadn’t budged from the telephone booth when Starsky appeared in front of him, holding out a cup of soda with extra ice. Hutch accepted the cold drink with a smile of thanks, but the weight of Starsky’s gaze made him flush.
This, this, was why Hutch walked the streets carrying a badge months after he would have hung up the holster for good. On the job with Starsky, at the strangest times, he’d catch a glimmer of something in Starsky’s eyes that told him he was the most beautiful thing in Starsky’s world. Oddly, he caught more of those glimmers outside of bed than he did when they were rolling together between the sheets. But that was a thought Hutch never let himself linger on for more than a painful second or two.
“How you holding up?” The warm concern in Starsky’s voice instantly soothed the nick Hutch had taken to his self-esteem at the shock in Johnny Gage’s eyes.
He could dye his hair fuchsia, pierce both his ears, and gain twenty pounds, and he knew that caressing tone in Starsky’s voice, the tone reserved for Hutch alone, would never fade away. He didn’t want to think that anything could make it fade, and he intended to never find out. He didn’t intend to do any of the above to his appearance, either, but the solidity of their bond comforted him nonetheless.
“Fine. How about you?”
Starsky smiled. “Good to go, now that we know Rosie’s out of the woods.”
“How’re the Dobeys?”
“They’re with Rosie in her observation room. Edith’s sipping her coffee and putting away a spoonful of soup every minute or so. Dobey’s trying to act calm and collected. He had a rough go in that waiting area. I know he had to be out of his mind waiting for word. Some of the other kids were hurt much worse than our Miss Rosie, and a couple of them didn’t make it.”
“Damn. That’ll be doubly rough on Rosie when she’s able to ask questions about her friends.”
“I know. But she’s got two of the finest parents and a stand-up big brother.”
“And she’s got us,” Hutch added.
Starsky smiled again. “And she’s got us, partner. Come on, there’re free seats in waiting now. We can spare some time to sit. Call this our lunch hour.”
“Technically, we should eat something if this is supposed to be our lunch hour.”
Starsky shuddered. “No way. The food in that cafeteria looks worse than Metro’s.”
“And you’re letting Edith eat it? What’s the matter with you?”
His growl just prompted a Starsky wink. “Right now she could eat fried grasshoppers, Hutch. She’s just going through the motions. But I wouldn’t want the dubious cuisine down there to upset your delicate constitution.”
For that, Hutch could only glare at him, and think of glaciers and the frozen tundra to squelch his awakening cock. “There’s not a damn thing delicate about me, including my constitution.”
And apparently, his self esteem wasn’t too fragile, either, considering how quickly one look from Starsky could have him feeling ten-feet tall and unshakeable. Hutch smiled and trailed Starsky to the available seats in the waiting area. He even handed over his cup of icy soda for Starsky to have a sip, and got a charge out of the private smile he received in return.
In the refreshing coolness of Rampart Emergency, the heat had quit stalking them.
~*~*~
Brackett signed off on tape with Squad 45 and turned at tapping on the baystation’s window. Since the radio equipment had moved into a glassed-in room in the nurses station, Brackett had noticed fewer problems with ambient noise distractions, but he didn’t like feeling shut away from the main corridor. Thank goodness for Dixie’s manicured nails. Brackett could tell by the timbre of her tap on the glass how urgently he was needed. Right now, having gotten his attention, she’d returned to her perch on the counter stool, and had her hand over the phone’s speech receiver.
“I think you ought to take this call,” she told him when he stepped out of the radio room. He motioned for her to give him a head’s up. “It’s about the Ryland soup botulism warning. We’ve been monitoring for cases, and I don’t recall any recent admissions.”
“No,” Brackett confirmed. “Why?”
“I have a detective on the line from LAPD Metro.” Dixie scrunched her nose in confusion. “Sounds like he and his partner were on some kind of undercover drill. Well, to be honest, it sounds to me like an elaborate game of hide and seek. Only, in this case, it might be deadly for the partner who’s doing the hiding. There’s reason to believe he’s been exposed to the botulism through a cold can of Ryland soup, and the LAPD is out in force trying to locate him.”
He reached for the phone and Dixie stepped away down the corridor. “This is Dr. Brackett.”
“Detective Starsky here. I know you treat a lot of patients, Dr. Brackett, and you probably don’t remember my partner, Ken Hutchinson.”
Brackett heard worry verging on panic in Starsky’s voice and rushed to save him breath. “On the contrary, Detective, your partner is one of those patients difficult to forget. I remember both of you, in fact. I understand from Ms. McCall that Detective Hutchinson has been exposed to the botulism toxin?”
“That’s right, Doc. My captain and I are calling all the area hospitals. Look, if he comes in there, it might be in disguise. I don’t have time to explain why and all that, but if you get a patient in there who’s in some kind of disguise, could you call Metro Division immediately and ask for Captain Dobey? He’ll be able to get in touch with me. I’m out on the streets trying to track down Hutch.”
“Detective, how long ago was the exposure?”
Starsky’s answer sent a chill down Brackett’s spine. He didn’t have to tell the man that his partner-lover was already walking the tightrope over death; he could hear it in the quaver of Starsky’s voice on a three-word answer. “Get to him as quickly as possible, Detective. If he presents here, we’ll take good care of him and notify you immediately.”
“Right, Doc. If I have to, I’ll tear the city streets up in chunks to find him.”
“I imagine you would. Good luck.” Brackett hung up the phone, then immediately picked up the receiver again. He glanced around the corridor, decided his privacy was assured for a minute or two, and quickly dialed a number. About to do something he’d never dared before, Brackett felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. He promised himself if the wrong voice answered–any voice other than the one he wanted to hear–he wouldn’t hang up like a prank caller. He’d ask to speak to Captain Stanley and try to have a damn good makeshift reason for calling.
“Station 51. Fireman Gage here.”
Brackett smiled. Just the sound of that robust, healthy voice calmed him. “Johnny.”
“Doc? Dr. Brackett, is that you?”
“Yes. I was just calling to see what kind of day you guys are having. Haven’t seen you and Roy in here on a run yet.”
“No, it’s been a quiet day so far. Hold on, I need to find some wood to knock on.”
Emphasis on wood. Brackett wanted to laugh. That occasionally naughty sense of humor made him wonder if he could get Johnny to talk “dirty” to him in the bedroom…if he ever saw the inside of a bedroom with Johnny.
“Doc? Everything okay over there? You don’t usually make a habit of calling the station.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t have called?”
“No!” The reply was firm and quick. “I’m alone in here right now. Got stuck doing the dishes while the rest of the guys are out back drinking lemonade and soaking up the sun. As much sun as they can soak up in uniform, anyway. Doc, you sure everything’s all right? You sound funny.”
“I’m fine. Busy day here, as usual.” Brackett thanked the powers that be for medical confidentiality. He had no intention of telling Johnny that his “ex” might be ex in more ways than one if David Starsky and medical science couldn’t pull off a miracle. He heard sudden noise in the background, the dull tones warning him that their phone call was about to end.
“Wouldn’t you know it?!” Johnny griped. “The minute we get on the phone and talk about a quiet day, there goes the alarm. Gotta run, Doc. Guys’ll be busting in here any minute. We might just be seeing you soon.”
“Be careful out there, Johnny.”
“Always, count on it. I want this run over quick and clean so I can get back to studying for the captain’s exam!”
~*~*~
Starsky fished the charred record album out of the oven and dropped it in the sink, yelping as a frayed part of the dishcloth allowed the heated cover contact with his hand. Hutch came up behind and rested his hands on Starsky’s shoulders. “Damn,” Starsky muttered. “Go ahead. Chew me out. Anyone uncouth enough to ruin a Buddy Holly album deserves what’s coming to him.”
Hutch kissed him on the neck. “Actually, it was a gift for you. A ‘thank you for plucking my ass out of the fire yet again’ gift.”
“Double damn. That just makes it worse!”
Hutch chuckled. “Thought you’d say that. Punishment fits the crime, I’d say.”
Starsky turned and braced his hips against the sink. “You blow a pretty wad of bread on one of eight signed Buddy Holly albums in the entire country, and that’s what you say when I burn it to a crisp? Hutch, please tell me you haven’t been hitting the cold soup cans again.”
Smacking Starsky on the side of rump accessible to him, Hutch left him at the sink and went back to his modified lotus position on the coffee table. “We were about to break new ground, partner. Get your ass back over here.”
“Oho, no. I’m through winding you up with some overblown memory from my childhood.” He could see Hutch’s shoulders tense through the bathrobe. “I want you to find an explanation in your superior stream of consciousness why the hell we got ourselves into that mess, me chasing you all over the city, you dying of botulism one minute at a time and too skeptical and stubborn to come in out of the cold.”
“Interesting, you say ‘why’ instead of ‘how.’ I remember you did that one other time.” Hutch looked down at his wrists, folded over his ankles. “You like for there to be reasons, don’t you?”
Starsky sat cross-legged behind Hutch and wrapped his arms around the cushy warmth of the old robe. He let one hand rest on Hutch’s waist, the other on that broad chest where he could thumb the opening of Hutch’s pajamas. Chin tucked over Hutch’s shoulder, he blew softly in his ear. “Reasons? Yeah, I like reasons. More we know, more we can do to keep it from happening again.”
“It was just supposed to be a competition, Starsk. Something we’ve done plenty of times before. And the best way to get you into a competition is to rile that ego of yours with a challenge. Right, wasn’t I? Those barbs about your sorely lacking gray matter had you right where I wanted you.”
Yeah, just a competition. The way faking amnesia was just supposed to be a joke. God, Hutch, just once I’d like it if you’d consider half-measures with some of this shit. “Sorely lacking, my ass. Found you in the end, didn’t I?”
“Just in time, genius.” Hutch smirked at him over his shoulder. “My hero.”
Starsky rolled his eyes. “Why the competition?”
“God, Starsk, am I the weirdo here to want a weekend of escape? After the summer we’ve had? And then losing out on Pardee, coming close to nailing a bastard like that and having him slip through our fingers just because my car doesn’t match yours for stamina? I wanted a weekend where we could have a little fun, spice things up some. Use our police training for something more lighthearted than chasing psychos around the city. What’s so godawful about that?”
“Nothing much, explained that way. And the money, the bet?”
Hutch seemed to rest more fully in Starsky’s embrace. “If I’d won, I planned to put it in the account with the money we made on that fixer-upper that’s now a fancy laundromat.” He coughed, and when he spoke again, his voice wasn’t quite steady. “I’ve been setting aside some money out of every paycheck, putting some in that account, some into investments.”
“For what, Hutch?”
Starsky regretted the question, because Hutch jerked out of his hold and nearly tumbled off the coffee table in his haste to relocate to the sofa. “For what?! For us, what do you think! Call it a contingency account. Call it a nest egg. Call it whatever you like, but it’s for our future. Are we speaking the same language here, Starsky?”
“Future sounds good. Kinda concerns me that the guy providing for that future could think I’d pull a rotten stunt like pretending to get myself blown away just to win a lousy bet.”
“Your ferocity in the middle of competition is one of the things I love about you. You can get ruthlessly focused, and it’s saved my life before–saved my life again this time–and it’s also helped us put away a few heavy caliber public enemies!”
“Don’t hand me that, Hutch!” Starsky yelled, goaded into anger he’d wanted to keep inside. “Save your bullshit for some other time. Have I ever–ever!–given you reason to doubt my motives? Doubt that I was trying to do right by you?”
Hutch stared right over Starsky’s shoulder at the sink. “Starsky, it’s just like the summer. Bad luck around every corner. Who knew I’d get sick from eating cold soup?”
“Answer the damn question! Have I ever given you reason to doubt that I had your best interests in mind?” Starsky raised both hands. “And for God’s sake, don’t bring up the car accident back in May. That had nothing to do with you and everything to do with my own stupidity.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Hutch said. “On the job? No, never, you’ve never given me reason to doubt. But in our personal lives?” Hutch looked at him briefly before turning his face again. “Sometimes I question whether we’re on the same page. And the harder the job got over the summer, the less time we spent on sex. With each other, that is. You’ve been getting your share to lend our camouflage some realism.”
Starsky hated hearing those casual assumptions that his liaisons with women were for smoke and mirror purposes only. “Are you saying you haven’t been getting any that wasn’t with me?”
“No, but I think what I get out of time spent with women is a lot different than what you do, and that’s just one more beef I have with our jobs. A career really starts to lose its appeal after years of having to put on some elaborate front just to stay alive.”
Starsky felt he might choke on his own breath. “Is that why you wanted to spice things up with that glorified hide and seek?” He could see the answer on Hutch’s face. Oh, Christ! Bail out, bail out now, Starsky, mayday, before something worse than a poisoned can of soup comes of all this! “Hutch, there’s no one person on this whole earth who means more to me than you do.”
Hutch’s smile held no animation. “See…something about the way you say that doesn’t rub me the right way.”
“How else can I say that any clearer?”
“I could give you a couple of pointers.”
Starsky could see their relationship going down like a plane with both engines on fire, but he couldn’t find the parachutes. Maybe he could delay the crash landing. Give his heart a chance to come in at the zero hour and save the day. “Then they’d be your words, not mine. You want that?”
“No, I don’t want that.”
“What do you want, Hutch?”
Hutch swung angry eyes back to sear him. “What do you want? Why is it always what I want?”
“I’m not the one sitting here with some obvious complaints about the status quo.”
“Status quo! We haven’t had status quo. It’s been four months since you fucked me, Starsky.”
“So? We’ve done plenty of other things. Good things.”
“So?! So, I miss that with you, lover! That’s so! And it worries me, because you’re not the kind of guy to back away from some good rutting action. Or is it that you’re getting enough intercourse with women, so you save all the other stuff for me?”
Starsky wished he’d just floated away on stream of consciousness when he had the chance, carried on his wind-up tale about his closet on his eighth birthday. “I know I give the impression that sex is first and foremost on my mind, and yeah, maybe it is a lot of the time. Makes me a normal guy. It’s obviously on your mind just as much or we wouldn’t be having this discussion. But lately, believe it or not, there’ve been a few other things to think about. You’ve been going through some changes, Hutch, and I’m trying to figure ’em out.”
Hutch looked completely blank. “Changes? What changes?”
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
Hutch had never been a slave to fashion, but Starsky saw right away that he’d miscalculated the extent of Hutch’s normal, masculine vanity. An angry flush spread across Hutch’s cheeks. “You have a problem with my appearance, buddy? I thought we were past all that superficial nonsense!”
Starsky could answer that one without hedging. “No, I don’t have a problem with it! There’s something about you lately that’s kinda dangerous sexy, but it’s different than what I’ve seen for almost a decade, and I’m trying to figure out what brought it on, that’s all.”
The last thing he expected was for Hutch to leave the sofa to plop down on the coffee table facing him and then lift those long, pajama-clad legs to fit them around Starsky’s waist. Hutch took his face in big, warm hands and kissed him with plenty of tongue.
“Wh-wha’?” Starsky sputtered on the other side of the kiss.
Hutch beamed at him. “That was for thinking the real me is dangerous sexy.”
“The real you? What the hell–?”
“For years I dressed for the job, Starsky. First a uniform and then plainclothes that went with the straight, boy-next-door cop persona I was trying to carry off. No more. If I want to wear jewelry, I’ll wear it. If I want a mustache, I’ll have one. I’ve bulked up some, yes. The all-natural way: tailor-made workouts at the gym, tougher morning run, and improved protein shake. I’ve come into my own. It’s my way of saying what I can’t say out loud while walking around with a badge in my pocket.”
Starsky was suddenly afraid he’d “caught” some of the end-stage botulism mental confusion Hutch had suffered. “What the hell are you talking about?” His brain climbed out of the fog then, and on the whole, he preferred the fog. “Are you saying you’re trying to look gay? Are you out of your mind?! You wanna get yourself killed?”
“Starsky, relax, I’m not trying for anything blatant or that might put you in danger alongside me. If I haven’t been the target of the nasty elements on the Force by now, it won’t happen because I grew a mustache and fill my jeans out better. But I know the difference, and it’s one way they don’t win, the hate-mongers who make a sport out of bloodying people like us.”
People like us. Starsky felt he’d just been drafted into an army he never meant to join. “Hutch, I can sympathize with standing up for what you believe, but you go much farther down the lifestyle road, I’m not gonna be able to keep up.”
The high beams in Hutch’s smile shifted to low. “Lifestyle! Who said anything about lifestyle? It’s a state of mind, personal acceptance, and one I thought we shared. Are you saying I’m on my own?”
“Holy Christ, Hutch, I’ve been getting naked with you since February. What else can I do to show you that you’re not on your own?” And, please, if there’s any kind of God up there, don’t let the answer have anything to do with certain special words.
He needn’t have worried. After being cooped up in the hospital recovering from the toxin that had invaded his body, Hutch was horny, simple as that. He had sex on the brain, not words. Hutch wriggled his ass closer to Starsky’s crotch. “You could stick that big, juicy meat of yours where the sun don’t shine.”
“No!” Starsky protested immediately, involuntarily. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Fair, what do you mean fair?”
“I mean right. It wouldn’t be right to tax your body like that right now. The doctor at County said you have to take it real easy for a while. That’s why you’re not back at work yet.”
“I do believe I’m involved with the world’s toughest tender guy.” Hutch started sucking a mark on Starsky’s collar bone, pushing aside his shirt collar for better access. “Yes, I like a good pounding from you, but I don’t have to get that today. We could do it soft, easy, and I’m already stretched.”
He tried to think through the tingling sensation of teeth nipping at his skin. “Stretched–how?”
Hutch was doing a good impression of bashful. “I don’t know if you can handle–after that lifestyle remark….”
“Hutch, I can handle anything but the unknown when it comes to you.”
“Okay, then. I have a toy.”
“A toy.”
“You won’t believe my hiding place for it.”
“You went out and bought a toy.”
“Yes, a couple of months ago. I told you, four months since I had you up inside me–that’s a long time.” Hutch uncurled his legs from around Starsky’s waist and climbed off the coffee table. Starsky watched in astonishment as Hutch headed for the kitchen. He forced himself to follow.
Hutch was right. Starsky couldn’t believe that he reached for the sugar canister. He was slack-jawed when Hutch got out a pair of tongs and shoved them down inside the canister, bringing forth a–oh, shit, was that what Starsky thought it was?–wrapped in a plastic baggy.
“You keep a rubber dick in your sugar canister!”
Hutch laughed at him. “I sterilize before and after each use, dummy, and keep it wrapped tightly in plastic. What do you take me for, unhygienic?”
Starsky couldn’t decide whether to be turned on or appalled at the lengths he’d driven Hutch to in getting a cock up the ass. He studied the flesh-colored dildo and then started laughing in spite of himself. It was so Hutch to keep it in the kitchen, in a sugar canister, for God’s sake, went right along with the guy who’d pick pizza up off the floor and eat it or re-heat it in its refrigerated cardboard box. He pointed at the “toy” and tried to talk through his laughter. “It’s–pretty normal size to be one of those things, ain’t it, or am I just ignorant on the subject?”
“No, I drove a long way to get this, and I went shopping for one as close to your natural size as I could find. Wanted my fantasies to come at least close to reality.”
For some reason, Starsky couldn’t seem to breathe. “You mean, you use this thing on yourself and pretend it’s really me?” Oh, God, oh, Hutch. You shouldn’t have to settle for a fake dick.
“It’s nowhere near as good as the real thing, I’ll admit, but it’s gotten me through a few rainy nights.” Hutch speared him with a perceptive stare. “You want to play with it, don’t you?”
I want to get comfortable with the thought of taking your real thing up my ass so I can start giving you mine again. Leave the toys for the poor schmucks who don’t have anybody.
“Come on, Starsky, live a little. This way you can really make sure you’re not giving it to me too hard for my recovering body to handle.”
Starsky thought about all those nights, rainy or otherwise, when Hutch had wanted a nice, warm cock attached to a nice, warm partner, a cock whose owner didn’t refuse to breech those luscious cheeks. Well, okay then. He could use that rubber dick on Hutch. Give him a little ass attention without breaking the share-and-share-alike rule. Hutch wasn’t asking to put it up Starsky’s ass, after all. Hell, Starsky had lain in a hospital bed with a perfectly sound body letting docs and nurses stick cannulas up his nose and IVs in his arm, no means too desperate to reel Hutch in for the medical help he needed. Sex play with a dildo had nothing on that!
“I can tell you’ve made up your mind,” Hutch said, kissing the side of Starsky’s nose. “Meet me on the bed naked in about five minutes. I’ll take care of some preliminaries.”
Hutch came to him four minutes and fifteen seconds later–Starsky timed him to keep from thinking about that rubber dick–wearing nothing but a smile that would have caused heart failure in anyone unused to Hutch’s charm. As it was, the bed sheets suddenly felt fresh out of the dryer, and Starsky had a momentary, irrational fear Hutch’s charisma might just persuade him into taking that rubber dick up his ass. But Hutch just left the sex toy on the nightstand, slid into bed with him, gathered him into melting kiss, and then said something about giving Starsky his favorite first. Next thing Starsky knew, his dick was sucked into the hottest, sexiest mouth he’d ever known, and he relaxed while Hutch brought him up, teased him to the brink, and slowed him down without the slightest break between shifting gears that Starsky could pinpoint.
“Now,” Hutch whispered, reaching across Starsky for the neglected toy. “It’s already lubed, and I am, too. Tell me how you want me. Spread wide, legs over your shoulders, or hands and knees?”
Starsky gripped the base of the dildo, the only part of the toy not slick with lube, and tried to adjust to the feel of it in his hand. “I want to watch you.”
“You read my mind,” Hutch teased with another kiss.
They ended up with Hutch’s butt propped on pillows, his even shapelier legs spread plenty wide for Starsky to take up residence between them. Starsky stared at the man spread out before him. This was one big hunk of man he was in bed with, one big, rock solid, fit to kiss and kill guy who liked men. Starsky was out of his league now for sure.
“Starsk, if you–”
Oh, no. It wouldn’t do for Hutch to sense that insecurity. The one place David Starsky didn’t get insecure was in bed, and not even Hutch was allowed to see that tiny lapse. He wagged the dildo at Hutch. “I’m gonna turn you into human cotton candy on this stick, and you better tell me if I get out of hand.” Hutch whimpered and hardened still further right under Starsky’s steady gaze.
Over his insecurity, Starsky couldn’t shake the weirds. Easing the toy into Hutch’s body, he heard an inner voice telling him this was ridiculous. Maybe it was all right for two girls in bed together who wanted something hard between them, but here were two red-blooded guys with very healthy red-blooded cocks, resorting to a lifeless piece of rubber?
Hutch liked it though. Those beautiful eyes grew wanton, his whimpers moist and steamy, the cool, in-control intellectual now a picture of lust. Watching him, Starsky knew that ninety percent of gay men would sell one of their kidneys on the black market for the chance to do this to a gorgeous alpha stud like Hutch. When did I get so damned conservative and strait-laced about sex? The freer spirited Hutch gets with his sexuality, the tighter I’m clinging to old, worn-out notions about my own. What gives? He heard Hutch’s professor voice in his head chanting snidely, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
On one thrust, Hutch cried out and rocked forward on the pillows. “There, yes, oh, yes, oh, my!” He winked at Starsky. “Button, button, magic button.”
Feeling almost godlike in his power to bring pleasure, Starsky worked the dildo with his left hand, lapped at his right until he got the palm good and wet, and took himself in hand. Hutch watched heatedly, cooing at him, masculine sounds in spite of their softness. Panting as his handjob warmed up and Hutch clenched down on the toy, Starsky knew he was the most undeserving, but luckiest man to walk the earth. Oh, God, Hutch, please don’t ever take this away from me, this chance to give you this, just because I don’t feel all the fairy tale stuff that goes with it. This makes me whole.
“Love that look on you,” Hutch moaned. “When you really start getting into it.”
Starsky was into it, all right. Rocking up into the cradle of his hand, trying to keep the rhythm of the dildo’s movement in Hutch, he nearly screamed his head off when Hutch began fondling himself, playing with his balls and then stroking that eye-popping prick. They watched each other all the while, and later, Starsky couldn’t have said who came first or longest. Somehow the dildo ended up on the floor, and Starsky landed in Hutch’s arms, and that’s all he cared about.
The lifestyle, the worry that if he didn’t put the brakes on, they’d be marching in a pride parade in San Francisco within a year, all that could wait until Starsky had a brain cell to think with again.
“Thank you,” Hutch whispered in his ear, and Starsky melted into sleep.
~*~*~
“Hutch!”
Hutch turned from the lunch counter and managed a smile for lovely Orange and her dog Sandy. The very adult orphan Annie gestured for him to join her. By the crook of her finger and bubble-gum smile, he guessed she just wanted to chat and wasn’t going to hit him up for funds in return for juicy info. He was in the market for info at the moment, dropping by the diner to pump another snitch for any enlightening background on Don Whitticomb, but he could always spare time for Orange. He held up his hand in the universal sign for “give me a few minutes” and ordered a cherry coke float from the man behind the counter. When he had the dessert drink in hand, he carried it over and made a gift of it to her.
She burbled her surprise and pleasure and toyed so ladylike with the long-handled spoon. “Always such a gentleman, Hutch,” she praised him. “My dog Sandy thinks you’re just the sweetest man ever, don’t you, Sandy?”
Sandy woofed, but Hutch wasn’t sure the sound was an answer or just knee-jerk response to Orange’s little girl voice. “Thanks, Orange. How’s life treating you and Sandy these days?”
“We’re doing fine, thanks. Did you find out what you came in here needing to know?”
He had never underestimated Orange’s brains behind the overgrown child act. “Not yet, but it’s nothing you can help me with, Orange. Out of your corner of the market, I think.”
“Oh, okay. How’s your partner? Sandy and I think he’s sweet, too, to be so nice to that poor girl. I just cried and cried when I read about it in the paper, didn’t I, Sandy? Blind! How scared she must be! And Starsky makes such a wonderful prince charming. Just like a fairy tale!”
Hutch blinked. He knew that last bit was nowhere to be found in the LA papers, for which he thanked Mary and all the Saints. “Where did you get that, Orange?”
She blushed. “Oh, did I say something I shouldn’t have? Everyone’s talking about it, Hutch. How Starsky quit being a cop over the accident and is taking her out to the park and to art museums so she can feel all the sculptures. My friend Carmen thinks they’ll elope.”
Flinching, Hutch reminded himself that rumors on the street never stayed small. They grew like a lawn in the rainy season. Next, the street would have it that Emily was pregnant with Starsky’s love child and all the working girls in the ninth precinct would be weaving sob yarns over the poor blind girl, afraid she’d never see her newborn baby’s face. Christ! Worse than a damned soap opera. They didn’t know Starsky’s tendency to rescue broken hearts as a volunteer project. Emily was only one of many cases, following on the heels of fragile Sharman, emotionally stunted Rosey, the jilted stewardess Sharon. Hell, Hutch hadn’t breathed a word of surprise when Starsky confessed that he’d proposed to Terry after he found out that her condition was terminal. Starsky went to enormous lengths to mend broken hearts and shattered lives, especially if he had the slightest inclination he was to blame.
“Hutch?” Orange’s voice was shrill, and had nothing to do with her act. “Hutch!”
Hutch realized he was gripping the table with both hands, knuckles gone white. He saw funny lights in front of his eyes and couldn’t get his mouth to work. He had to get out of the diner before he succumbed to paralyzing fear brought on by a suspicion he should have had about eight months ago if he meant to keep his heart intact. If he had the balls to be honest with himself, he could admit that he’d had that suspicion occasionally over those special eight months, but he’d filed it away in the explore-under-penalty-of-death section in his mind. And maybe he’d been getting a taste of the unintentional cruelty Johnny had referred to as “catch and release.”
No!
No, Starsky might go that route with damsels in distress, but he’d never–!
God, no.
That would mean… Did Starsky think deep down that Hutch was broken somehow for wanting their physical relationship? Did Starsky hold himself responsible for “making” Hutch fall in love with him? Oh, fuck, did Starsky think he was broken for wanting Hutch, for falling in love with his male partner? Knowing who he was and what he wanted had made Hutch more alive and whole than he’d ever been, made it possible for him to wade through the shit that grew deeper and deeper on the job. Didn’t Starsky get that?
Did Starsky even really want–?
His mind went unbidden back to their first night in bed together.
Starsky dragging him out of the gay club in a rush to get them somewhere they could do more than dance upright…but no bulging hardness in Starsky’s jeans to explain the mad rush. Starsky hovering over him in bed with his cock at Hutch’s lips, “Get me all the way hard, babe, so I can give you what you want.” Hutch shot down that memory before it had him running for the dingy restaurant’s broken down men’s room. If he had to throw his guts up, he’d prefer to do it in a back alley.
“Hutch, are you okay? You’re scaring Sandy!”
Hutch sat up straight in the squeaky diner chair and nodded. “Fine. I’m just fine. Listen, Orange, Starsky hasn’t quit the Force, okay? He’s just taking some time off. You put that out on the street for me, please?”
“I’m glad, Hutch.” She gave him a very grown-up and prescient smile. “Sandy would just hate it if you two weren’t together. You know…out on the streets.”
With a shaky smile, he patted her outrageous orange wig, and scratched behind Sandy’s ears. Hurrying from the diner, he bypassed the alley and headed straight for the LTD. After he got through pounding the pavement on the case that should be theirs instead of his by default, he’d swing by Starsky’s place and try to talk sense into the man before the precinct working girls were knitting baby booties in their spare time. And he’d broach the subject of unnecessary guilt trips, spoken from the mouth of personal experience, and see where that got him.
~*~*~
Hutch drove with a blasting public radio broadcast that gave him the white noise-like background that music couldn’t. He’d gotten nowhere at Starsky’s. In fact, he thought highly of communing with his plants when he got home, because they were a far better audience than his block of wood partner at the moment.
In the middle of a politicized but well-founded rant on the privacy that should be afforded public school teachers in regards to sexual orientation, Hutch heard the meemp and scratch of the police radio. He dialed down the rant and reached for the mic. “Zebra Three, responding. Control?”
“Patch through land-line call from Sergeant Starsky.”
“Go ahead.”
“Hutch?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, Hutch, I heard you tonight.”
Hutch was grateful for a traffic light that allowed him to concentrate on the tone of Starsky’s voice. “Yeah? Good, then maybe you’ve got more going for you than a turtle after all.”
“Hutch, I mean it. I heard you. Look, I’ve been wanting to handle this situation like a cop, but I felt I lost that right when I pulled the trigger, and I’m not doin’ a class A job of handling it like a regular guy off the job either. But I didn’t mean to make like a brick wall, and I wish I could show–“
“Police band, Starsk,” Hutch said before his hurting partner could say something unsuitable for interceptable radio traffic.
“F’crying out loud, Hutch, I know that! I’m not a five-year-old. Sheesh. I just wanted to say that I got the feeling you came by to speak your piece on more than just standard operating procedure, and if you want to come back, you’ll have my undivided attention. Whaddaya say?”
“I say it’s late, and you should catch some Zs while you can. Anything else can wait until we’ve got this case squared away.”
The sigh of relief was audible through radio static. “Okay. I’ll take your word it’s not lights-and-siren priority. Grab some shut-eye, partner.”
Hutch smiled. “Will do. ‘Night, Starsk.”
After re-cradling the mic on the first try without moving his gaze from traffic, Hutch gave his own sigh of relief in the sudden stillness before he cranked the car radio’s volume again. He’d just netted one more day or two of keeping his suspicion from the harsh open air, and maybe Starsky would cooperate by proving him wrong before Hutch had to risk tainting their relationship with doubt in Starsky’s feelings.
~*~*~
In the silence after the resounding metallic clatter and crash, Starsky went from smug to good and truly pissed at himself faster than he pushed the Torino from zero to sixty. He grabbed for the doorknob and in his haste and fear nearly wrenched the knob free from its casing. Flying out the door, he yelled, “Hu-u-u-tch!”
When Starsky stepped out of the doorway’s protection, something big, warm, and Hutch-scented pounced on him, grabbing him from behind and dragging him back over the threshold into the apartment. Hutch unleashed all his fingertips in the task of tickling Starsky breathless around the middle, under his ribcage, up to his armpits. Starsky squirmed in the tackle and jerked them around in a crazy circle until his leg connected with the front door and bopped it closed.
“What the hell–!” Starsky yelled again, hooting under Hutch’s ticklish onslaught. “Thought you’d taken a long walk off a short pier out there and broke your skull!”
“Served you right for thinking that, setting me up for that long walk!”
“What was that noise then, and lemme go!”
“The noise was the trashcan you’d left on the second step. New version of a welcome mat?”
“No, tomorrow’s trash day, asshole, and I was getting ready to haul it over to the complex dumpster. Damn it, Hutch, I thought I’d done damage, you blockhead.”
Hutch didn’t release him, and Starsky quit fighting the embrace. A few good tugs downward and they ended up sprawled on the floor in the small foyer, wrestling. “Well, now you’ve got garbage splattered all over your front sidewalk.”
Starsky glared at him. “I thought you’d feel the sun on your face, the change in temperature, and know where you were, dummy. Wasn’t aiming to put my perfectly good partner in traction!”
“I did feel it, which is why I sent the trashcan tumbling so I could lie in wait for your sexy ass. Hate to break it to you, but the Starsky Maid Service is out of business for the rest of the day.”
“That so?” Starsky executed a passable flip-over that landed Hutch in a sprawl of limbs beneath him. “I’m not a rag doll, y’know.”
Hutch stared up at him, eyes glittering, more feral than a big, blond tiger hiding his stripes from unsuspecting prey. He clamped one long, muscular leg tightly around the back of Starsky’s thighs and the other around his shins, and the two “combatants” stayed locked in a struggle of wills until Hutch “cheated” with crawling, tickling fingers up Starsky’s side. Starsky howled and rose up instinctively, sufficient advantage for Hutch to roll them yet again, this time closer to the sofa.
“Cheat!” Starsky shouted from under Mount Hutchinson.
Hutch pinned him for a kiss. Giving in to the change of mood with closed eyes and open mouth, Starsky drank Hutch in, but didn’t get his fill. He had bottomless capacity for Hutch’s kisses, the soft, wet dance of lips, firm thrust and rub of tongue against his, finishing with nipping, sucking, and gentling pecks. Hutch knew how to appease every need in Starsky when it came to mouth-to-mouth romancing, and Starsky thought, with the one fragment of mind left for conscious thought, that this time surely he’d rise to the occasion at the same time his partner did. He had stopped waiting for his body to declare itself with the usual in-love side effects, hoping the “watched pot never boils” phenomenon would respond better to disinterest than constant observation.
Hutch popped the dishcloth against Starsky’s hip and flung it toward the sofa. “Something about you putting a blindfold on me really got my juices flowing.” He used his knees to spread Starsky’s legs and propped over him in Starsky’s light embrace.
Softly grunting his encouragement, Starsky knew then that Hutch wanted more than kisses and macho cuddling in the form of a wrestling match. He’d held Hutch at arms’ length during Emily’s crisis, and it was no wonder his lovingly possessive partner wanted to stake his claim. A claim he had a right to stake, Starsky told himself again. A claim Starsky had given him reason to believe he had a right to stake. Looking up into the kindness in Hutch’s clear blue eyes, Starsky felt the old, familiar love well up in him again. He tried to ignore the small fact that it was the ages old love he’d felt for years, instead of the new, rose-scented, candlelit, trumpet-blaring love he knew Hutch needed. Starsky would give what he could and do his own kind of praying that it would fill Hutch up to contentment, if not overflowing.
Hutch ground downward, finding the crotch of Starsky’s jeans below the loose-fitting blue tunic. Starsky swore he could feel the feverish heat of Hutch’s hard-on through the jeans. With another kiss meant to engulf them both in flames, Hutch circled his hips, rubbing where he expected to find answering hardness. Starsky matched his movement, hissing, but he might as well have been vacuuming for all the response below his waist.
Oh, shit, Starsky thought, how do I play this, how do I cover, how the hell do I explain….
“Oh, fuck!” Hutch said.
Thanks for the cue, Hutch. That’s how I can play it.
~*~*~
“You don’t say?” Starsky’s eyes sparkled, and he grinned. “Got a need?”
Hutch’s hard-on wilted in the wake of a cold sweat that left him shuddering. He crawled backward out of the cradle of Starsky’s arms and legs and tried to sit up and think. Think through the numb shock at the realization that the time for proof was over, and his world-shattering suspicion had basis in reality. “You–you weren’t getting a rise out of that at all just now, were you?”
Starsky didn’t sit upright, but he braced on his palms and lifted his upper body to face Hutch at nearly eye level. “Hey, what’s the matter?”
“You always say something like that–w-when we’re getting started. Asking me if I got a need. Couldn’t you damn well tell? I was a few seconds shy of rock-hard, but you–”
Terror flashed in Starsky’s eyes. His chuckle sounded hollow. “Hutch, we were wrestling, horsing around, buddy-buddy shit, what’d you–”
“No!” Hutch rubbed at his brow and swallowed hard. “Wrestling with you stopped being ‘buddy-buddy shit’ for me a long time ago.”
The too-calm stare from Starsky told Hutch his partner’s mind was whirling behind the protective camouflage, trying to find a way out of the emotional corner Hutch had backed him into. “Really?” The surface calm registered in Starsky’s voice. “Since when?”
“Since I fell in love with you!” Hutch yelled at him, wanting to shatter that mask of Starsky calm. “But you’re not–”
Starsky sat up then and cupped Hutch’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the ridge of the right cheek bone. The soothing touch quieted something wild in Hutch, but then that special left hand dipped down and tweaked Hutch’s balls through the denim, and Starsky’s leer was an invitation. “You got some objection to getting the game started with that pretty mouth of yours?”
Appalled, Hutch slapped Starsky’s hand away and had to fight not to cover his own groin with protective hands. “Holy God, Starsky, you think–you think this is just about sex? You think all I care about right now is ‘getting the game started?'”
The leer disappeared, replaced by potent worry. “Hutch, take it easy. Hey, just ’cause I didn’t sprout wood at a little junior varsity contact–”
Now Hutch had to fight not to cover his eyes, unwilling to see the rationalization in his partner’s. “No, Starsky, don’t. Just don’t. It’s not just now. With one or two notable exceptions at most, y-you never get hard for me until I go down on you.”
“What’s it matter when I get up? Point is, I get up, and we both get good and rocked when I do.”
Hutch knew he had to look stricken, but he couldn’t call a mask like the one Starsky wore into being at will. “Starsky, I’m going to ask you a question.”
“Please, Hutch.” Starsky closed his eyes and shook his head. “You know I can’t lie to you.”
That was his answer. Right there. But Hutch had to press forward, feel the knife twist to convince himself this nightmare was real. “You’re not in love with me. Are you?”
Starsky’s jaw trembled. His eyes remained closed. “I love you more’n anything else in my whole damned life.”
“That’s not in question. That’s never been in question. Are you in love with me? That’s the question here.”
Starsky’s eyes opened then, and they cut into Hutch’s soul. “No.”
Hutch made it to his feet and stumbled a few steps over to the bookshelves where he had to reach for the solidity of shelving to brace his flagging strength. “I had a feeling. I thought the way you responded was just a product of living straight for so long. But that’s it, isn’t it? You can’t clear the hurdle of orientation. All that discomfort of yours with the so-called lifestyle….”
“I’ve tried!” Starsky’s shout was half-groan. “I’ve wanted it more’n anything! Done everything but go in for hypnotism trying to fall for you that way.” A rush of air behind Hutch preceded warmth on his neck and against his back as Starsky rested against him, slipping his arms around Hutch’s waist.
“I should’ve said something, asked the right questions before now,” Hutch said. “I just thought…the way you’d always get into it and come back for more….”
“That’s right, Hutch. We’re good together, you and me, and it’s something you need.”
Hutch roughly pulled Starsky’s arms from around his waist and slid to the side, whirling on him. “Do you hear yourself? Goddamn it, Starsky, you still think it’s like some kind of disease, not something that’s as much a part of my personality, my makeup, as my music or taste for wheat germ and granola! My sexuality doesn’t define me entirely, but it’s a big part of who I am, and it’s taken me years to embrace that. I don’t need you acting like it’s a disease that needs treatment!”
That broke the mask in two, Starsky’s turn to look stricken. “That’s not–not fair! I don’t think that, act like that!”
“Yes, you do, damn it. Not a nasty virus, like the common cold; more like diabetes, and I need a shot of gay sex every now and then to keep from going into some homosexual coma. Well, buddy, I don’t need you to be my human insulin. If that’s what I wanted, a quick fix every now and then, I’d risk driving down to Oceanside on my days off and pick up some stranger for a backroom quickie in The Wildewood. Maybe that’s how the game has to be played by a lot of men like me, but it’s not what I’m after. I want, I need a lover! I wanted you!”
“What the fuck do you think I’ve been when we’re naked in bed together, huh?”
“Starsky, tell me you jumped into this because you were bi-curious. Because you thought exploring the world of guy-guy sex might be fun and exciting with your gay best friend. That’s a cliché, but not a bad one. Tell me you were jealous of Johnny and wanted to show me you could give me better. I can handle that.”
White-hot anger flashed in Starsky’s eyes. “I jumped into it because I care about you. Because I love you. Just because I can’t sandwich that word between ‘in’ and ‘with’ doesn’t mean I didn’t have my heart in the right place. I want you alive, with me, not getting what you need with some stranger who might wake up next to you the morning after and beat you to a bloody pulp!”
Hutch crumbled inside, his greatest worry confirmed. He’d been one of Starsky’s rescue projects. Nothing more or less significant than the broken princesses Starsky tried to slay dragons for. He was furious, out of his skull angry with Starsky for letting him think what they had was different, but his rational mind came to bat for him. If he wanted to walk out of here with their working partnership intact–and by God, if that’s all he could have of Starsky, he wanted it!–he had to focus on his partner.
Starsky had apparently seen the havoc his words wreaked. He moved up to Hutch and brushed his hands up into Hutch’s hair, back around to squeeze at the nape of his neck. “I can get there with the rest of it, Hutch, I promise. I’ll figure something out, I’ll–”
Hutch bowed his head. “You can’t make yourself fall in love with someone. You can walk away from it when you feel it happening to you. I know, I’ve done it. Over time you can kill the flame with intent, but you can’t ignite it by force of will. It’s not a choice I have, that the right kind of touch of your hand on mine makes me see stars. Or that I sometimes get hard when you walk in the room. You didn’t ‘make’ me fall in love with you either, so don’t be laying blame where none’s due.”
“Hutch, for God’s sake, don’t do this, huh? Don’t pull out on what we got.”
“I care about you, too! I’ve seen the toll all this has taken on you. I thought it was the job getting to you, like it’s getting to me, and maybe that’s part of it, but this other has been dragging you down. Hasn’t it? God, you’ve been fighting so hard, trying to make yourself feel something, trying to keep me from finding out you don’t. Admit it. I’m right.”
Starsky dropped his hands from Hutch’s neck and let his head hang down. Hutch pulled him close, pressing him into the shiny, smooth material of his jacket. Starsky gave in, holding him, arms tight around Hutch’s back, resting his forehead against the side of Hutch’s neck.
“Don’t worry, Starsk.” Hutch swallowed three times around the lump in his throat to make sure his voice wouldn’t shake or sound choked, but he knew with Starsky’s face pressed against him, Starsky would feel the swallows and know their reason. “This won’t break us. We’ve been too strong over the last decade to throw in the towel because we swing different ways and can’t meet in the middle.”
“Hutch, if you just give me a chance to master swinging in your direction–”
“Eight months, Starsky. Isn’t that long enough for you to fight your own nature? It’s not your fault. I knew better. I knew we were really rolling the dice the first night we went to bed together, but I let us go through with it because I saw something that led me to believe you might have some latent–oh, hell. No need to go into that now.”
Starsky pulled back, eyes glistening, and the grimaces he made were his tell-tale last bastion against tears. Hutch thumbed under those beautiful long lashes and was relieved to find the soft skin still dry. “Please, don’t, Starsky. I’ve never once seen a tear fall from these eyes. Seen the tears well up, but never fall. Don’t make me the reason one finally does.”
“Then don’t walk out that door, damn it. Hutch, we can make it work.”
“Make it work until when? Until you meet some lady you can have all those romantic feelings about, and you have to break it to me that our little thing on the side is over? I don’t want you in that position. Hell, if I walk now, maybe the universe’ll think I need another swatting, not you.”
Starsky’s confused frown was easier on Hutch’s eyes than his battle against tears. “What?”
“Nothing.” Hutch knew if he didn’t make a quick escape soon, he’d be shaking uncontrollably, rigid control giving way, and he had to be out of Starsky’s line of sight when that happened. “Just give me the weekend to myself, okay? You want to drive Monday, or you want me to pick you up here?”
“Hutch–”
“Driving, Starsk. You or me?”
“Me. I’ll swi–come by Venice and pick you up regular time.”
“All right.” He tilted Starsky’s chin and left a kiss on his forehead. “Rest, Starsky. You don’t have to fight anymore.”
“It’s not about goddamned fighting, Hutch, can’t you–”
The phone rang.
In his obvious distress, Starsky stomped his foot like a ten-year-old, but the language that followed was anything but juvenile.
“What?” Hutch asked, grateful for the distraction that might preserve his sanity until he could get out the front door.
Over the phone’s insistent ringing, Starsky said loudly, “It’s probably Ma. She called before you came over, panicking about Nick. He was supposed to take her out to lunch today but never showed.”
At another jangle of the phone, Hutch turned Starsky and gave him a little shove between the shoulder blades. “Go. Answer it. If your mother’s calling you outside your usual Friday afternoon timeslot, she must really be worked up.”
“Hold on. Stay right there!” Starsky ordered and dashed toward the kitchen’s wall phone. Hutch should have made his escape right then, but his legs seemed to be obeying Starsky’s command. Starsky grabbed the receiver. “Starsky here! Ma? Listen, Ma…Ma, hold on. Mom! Stop. I’ll be right back, okay? Hutch is here, and…just gimme a minute, please? I’ll be right back.” He let the receiver dangle and turned to Hutch.
Feeling the beginning of the shakes, Hutch started for the door, and Starsky met him there, safely out of earshot from the phone. “Hutch, I–”
“I know,” Hutch said, with the very last smile he could possibly plaster on his face that would come close to normal. “Don’t call me later, unless there’s something I need to know about your mother or Nick…and I love you, too.”
He walked out of the door on autopilot, didn’t feel the stairs beneath his feet, and trudged right through the strewn garbage. His feet led him to his car with no input from his brain. He cranked the car and backed the LTD out of its space without even looking in the rearview mirror. Two blocks down Starsky’s quiet street, he pulled over to the side of the road. He leaned heavily back against the seat, gasping for breath. He knew respiratory distress from the botulism scare and had experienced the beginning stages of it during the plague virus before his fever knocked him out of caring. Right now he wondered if he was undergoing a combination of both with a severe asthma attack thrown in for good measure. He had a visceral sympathy for every fish he’d ever pulled out of water and left flapping in a boat or on dry land. Afraid that Starsky might ditch the phone call after all and come gunning that Torino after him, Hutch ignored the thudding of his heart in his chest and cranked the car again.
~*~*~
Starsky counted to fifteen and lifted the phone receiver. “Ma, sorry, I was–” His voice didn’t sound normal to him, but his mother wouldn’t pick up on it in the middle of her worry for Nick. Rebekah Starsky could never see anything with her Nick-centric tunnel vision engaged, and Starsky had long since accustomed himself to that fact of life. “Ma? What’s–”
“Your brother was out with his new boss and his family,” Ma said, as if that explained everything and excused the worry Nick had caused.
Starsky struggled not to cuss out loud and thereby earn a fifteen-minute mother lecture. He’d let Hutch walk out the door for this? “Nicky couldn’t find a phone anywhere in the vicinity and call to let you know he’d had a change of plans?”
His mother tsk-tsked at him. “Your brother’s a busy man, David. He’s really making something of himself, and these connections are important. I was just being a silly old woman.”
Another cut opened inside Starsky and trickled. Ma had perfected the Jewish mother shtick, but only as far as Nick was concerned. Starsky could lie in a hospital bed recovering from a poisoning and get a sedate bouquet of get-well flowers, but if Nick didn’t drag his ass away from his hoodlum street contacts for brunch with his mother, Ma was ready to call out the State Police.
“David, I meant to ask you earlier, but I just couldn’t think. How’s Emily?”
Starsky leaned against the wall and toyed with the phone cord. There was only one area of Starsky’s life in which Ma did live up to her Jewish mother genes, and it was ironically the one that Starsky wished she would ignore. She still sent him copies of Sharman’s newest magazine covers in eternal hope. “Ma, Emily’ll be leaving town in a few days. We won’t be seeing each other again.”
“But, why?” his mother’s voice grew shrill, the tone she usually saved for Nick worry. “David, don’t tell me you let that job push away another–“
“Ma!” Starsky dared interrupt. “She’s got a lot to deal with in her life right now. She doesn’t need a cop or a boyfriend, and certainly not a guy who’s both. She needs her family and friends.”
“Oh, nonsense. That’s just a woman’s way of telling you that you need to pursue her, that’s all. David, if you let go the moment a woman exerts her independence, how do you expect to keep one for more than a week?”
“Ma, if you don’t mind, I’d really rather not talk about–”
“And what is Hutch doing over there on a Saturday? Didn’t you say you were off today?”
Starsky was glad that the newest cut inside now burned with anger instead of pain. “Hutch has an open invitation here, you know that.”
“Yes, but don’t you understand how that would look to a woman you’re dating? A lady doesn’t want her gentleman’s friends always underfoot. Your father was very conscientious about making sure I knew I came first and his friends a distant third.”
“I’m not dating a woman right now, and I wouldn’t even call what Emily and I had ‘dating.’ Hutch isn’t just my best friend, he’s my partner, and until he tells me he’d like to come in third instead of first, then first is where he stays.”
“David, you should be careful….”
Out of nowhere, blinding clarity seized Starsky with full recognition of his mother’s underlying worry. He laughed, the sound a violent one, and heard her gasp on the other end of the line, but he didn’t care. “You’re worried I’m not just talking about a work partner, Ma? Well, let me put your mind at ease on that score. I’ve just had it pounded into my head how damned straight I am, so you can go back to excusing Nick for dumping you to hang out with a two-bit Mobster hanger-on, and I’ll get back to cleaning my apartment.”
“David, I would have never suggested, I would have never thought–!”
He sighed. His mother was a terrible liar. Wanting to slam the phone down, he knew he’d never forgive himself if he hung up on her. “Listen, Ma, I’m worn out. This thing with Emily was a mess from start to finish. Shouldn’t have even told you about her. Don’t know why I did. I’ll call you next Friday, regular time, all right?” He blew the expected kisses at her and let the receiver dangle with a dial tone blaring for a moment before he could find the strength to lift his arm.
~*~*~
Hutch drove in a blind haze to the nearest liquor store in Venice. From there, he made another stop to gas the car so he wouldn’t have to worry about a half-empty tank if he couldn’t stand the memories stalking him in his apartment and had to get away for the weekend. He left the station with more than gas: a small cellophane-wrapped pack stuck into his front jacket pocket. Finally, parked in one recognizable piece outside his apartment, he debated starting the binge right there in the car, but he shrugged off the foolish thought. He’d make it up those stairs if it damn well killed him.
Once inside the refuge of home, he lost no time finding a suitable equivalent of a shot glass and a frayed box of matches. He had to make do with a saucer for an ashtray. He hadn’t even lit a cigarette outside of undercover work since the night he and Starsky first shared a bed. Things had truly come full circle. Sitting down at his kitchen table, he pulled the bottle of Vodka from its brown bag, tapped the box of cigarettes against his chest, and had his first shot poured and first smoke lit before another minute passed. Staring into space, puffing and sipping by turn, he knew the dual vices would numb his brain, but numbing could only do so much. He wanted comfort, vindication, someone to tell him he wasn’t losing his mind, breaking down from the inside out and not only wrecking his own life but Starsky’s as well. Unfortunately, their self-sufficient circle of two had never made for an extensive support system of friends and family.
Hutch took a slow drag on the cigarette, frowning at the reality. He could fill the apartment and Chez Helene’s patio with friendly acquaintances, co-workers, and people he and Starsky had met through the years, and throw one hell of a party. But he couldn’t think of one person in LA besides Starsky who could serve as confidant or comforter, with the possible exception of Huggy, and Huggy needed nothing less than to be dragged into the middle of his two best friends’ implosion. Maybe he needed to go farther than LA. Hutch thought about the phone call that had interrupted the big break-up. He drew in another hit of nicotine to get past those three words. Armed with an idea, he carried his drink over to the sofa and rested the shot glass on his coffee table beside the phone. He didn’t have the habit of a Friday weekly phone call to keep his mother’s number at the front of his mind, but his memory retrieved the digits.
Valerie Hutchinson answered on the second ring. Surprised she wasn’t spending the day prowling the Duluth fashion district with her friends, Hutch stammered, “M-Mom?”
“Ken? Hi. Hold on a second, would you? I’m trying–well, I’m trying to carve a jack-o-lantern, but I’m…I’m making a terrible mess of the whole kitchen, and–“
Hutch considered the possibility that he’d dialed the wrong number and ended up with the wild coincidence of some other mother who had a son named Ken. “You’re carving a pumpkin? Mom, you never carve pumpkins.”
“I’ve carved one the last two years, I’ll have you know,” his mother said. “But this year, I’m trying to get fancy with the pattern for the neighborhood party, and I’m not artistic outside of putting ensemble outfits together with the perfect shoes and accessories.”
“Mom–”
“Okay, Ken,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve washed all the icky goo and seeds off my hands. Now, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s–” Hutch silenced the pat lie. What the hell wasn’t wrong?
He knew in that instant he couldn’t reach out to her for comfort…for her own sake. In the five years since his father died, his mother might have stepped far enough out of that cold man’s shadow to get excited over her son’s stunt work in a Hollywood Western and carve jack-o-lanterns, but the timidity in her voice told Hutch he was still right to shelter her from the storms that crashed down on him in police work. This was no time to hit her with the shock of his sexual orientation either. Not on the phone, when he couldn’t be there to pat her hand or hold her while she cried, too far away for her to hold him if he cried….
“Ken? Did I lose the connection?”
“No, Mom, I’m here.”
One day Hutch would go back to Duluth, take his mom out to a nice, long dinner at the quietest restaurant in the city, and then share the news gently with her in her kitchen over a cup of her favorite coffee. Until then, he had to carry this burden alone.
The cigarette tasted foul to him so he propped it on the saucer’s edge, and looked away from the translucent temptation of the Vodka bottle. “Mom, you have fun at that neighborhood party. I’m rushed for time right now, case work and all, but I’ll call back when we can catch up.”
“All right, Ken. Tell your partner hello for me.”
“Sure, Mom. Sure will. ‘Bye.”
Hanging up the phone with a shaking hand, he fumbled for the cigarette on its saucer ashtray, but instead of lifting it to his mouth he stared down at the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers.
What the fuck was he thinking?!
He knew how easily addictions slid into the place of one that had been vanquished, no matter how many years before. With his history of forced heroin usage, he could end up a chain-smoking alcoholic in the blink of an eye if he didn’t nip this in the bud right that second. He stubbed out the cigarette in its saucer ashtray. Gathering up the twin vices, he went over to the kitchen and tossed the remainder of the pack in the little wastebasket under the sink. He resolutely poured the almost full bottle of Vodka down the drain and stuffed the empty down on top of the discarded cigarette pack. Aching inside, shaking with the violence of fever, he shed his jacket and holster, leaving them both on the floor, and went to the bathroom to wash his face.
In front of the mirror, he removed his shirt and stared at his chest, his necklaces standing out against his autumn pale skin. “You’re not broken!” he told his reflection. “Not for wanting what you do, or because you can’t have it. And you respect yourself and Starsky too much to trash your partnership over it. You’ve got forty-eight hours, Hutchinson. Suck it up and take it like the man you are.”
Satisfied with his resolution, he still couldn’t face sleeping in the bed where the impression of two bodies was still visible in the mattress. He settled for the sofa instead. Stretching out, burying his face in the side cushion, he felt the rock wall around his reservoir of emotion crash down.
For the first time in two years, Hutch cried.
~*~*~
Starsky stood in his kitchen. His freshly cleaned kitchen. If he could just go through the simple motions of frying an egg, he might survive the night as a recognizably whole person. He did fine getting the pan out of its cabinet and slapping it down on the stove. But when he opened his fridge, he spotted the jar of boysenberry jam he kept on hand for Hutch, and all bets were off. He grabbed the bottle and hurled it to the floor with a comforting crash. Next went the eggs, the milk, and two cans of beer. By the time he finished, his clean kitchen floor closely resembled the garbage cluttered front sidewalk, and he sat in the middle of the mess with his knees pulled to his chest, hugging himself against creeping cold.
Ever since that dumb word association game at Hutch’s, he had been getting flashes of a memory. He’d caught another flash of it on the phone with his mother right after Hutch left. Alone now in his kitchen, he couldn’t fight it off….
The closet smelled bad. Smelled like those little white balls his ma had named after a bug. Moth balls, that was it. But he had to stay in there, because if his father found him, he’d be grounded for a month or more. He might never see the Yankees play again….
The door opened, shedding light that made Davey squinch his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes again, he found his father kneeling in front of him and patting his knee. “Davey? What’re you doing in here?”
Davey wanted to sound tough and strong, but he was tired of the bad-smelling closet and it was his birthday. He was supposed to be having cake and ice cream with the other kids! “I was trying to fix Sarah’s doll,” he told Pop. “Her doll’s arm fell off, and I wanted to see if I could put it back in again.”
“Okay, but why are you hiding in this closet, then?”
“Ma found me with the doll. Pop, she was so mad! She yelled at me. She said…” His mother had said things eight-year-old Davey didn’t even understand and couldn’t repeat. “She was real mad. I thought I was gonna get a spanking. I told her I was trying to fix it, that I wasn’t playing with it. But she didn’t believe me. Pop, why didn’t she believe me?”
“And you came in here to hide from your mother?” Pop sounded really worried.
Davey flushed all over his face. “Nah, I came in here to hide from you. I figured if she was that mad, you’d be even madder!”
Pop smiled that soft smile that Davey always liked to see, and ruffled his curls. “Hey, kiddo. You don’t have to hide from me. If I get good and mad, we’ll deal with it man to man. Hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Now, as for your mother…she has very strong ideas about what toys belong to girls, and what toys belong to boys.”
“And you? You do, too?”
“Why? Did you want to play with the baby doll, Davey?”
“Will you get good and mad if I say yes?”
“No. No, I won’t.”
Reassured, Davey thought about the actual question. “Nah,” he said finally. “I think dolls are dumb. What’s the point? They just lie around and look at you. I just wanted to fix it for Sarah.”
“Well, Davey, what I think is that it isn’t the kind of toy that matters, but what you do with the toys. You wanted to do something nice for your little cousin.”
Davey didn’t want to sound like a goody-two-shoes. “Actually, I just hoped if I fixed the doll, Sarah would stop bawling. She’s loud when she gets like that!”
Pop laughed. “I understand. You know how my sister Ruth played for the women’s baseball league during the war when a lot of the men were off in Europe?”
“Yeah.”
“What would have happened if someone had told her that girls shouldn’t play baseball?”
Davey scrunched his nose. “I don’t think girls should play baseball.”
Pop looked disappointed in him. “Don’t you dare say that around Ruth! She’ll wrestle you down over her knee and give you a good swatting!”
“Okay, maybe Aunt Ruth did play good ball,” Davey admitted, wanting to redeem himself in his father’s eyes. “You sure talk like she did anyway.”
“Yeah, you should’ve seen her field a line drive, but that was a little before your time. Now, come out of this closet and get some cake. It’s your birthday, slugger. I’ll talk to your mother about the doll thing.” Pop’s face was so kind. His eyes so bright and happy. Davey reached for his father’s hand and was tugged gently from the closet.
Starsky shook himself free of the living, breathing memory, but the warmth of his father dissipated and left him sitting alone and vulnerable in his cold, trashed kitchen.
~*~*~
The alarm brought Hutch out of an uneasy sleep. He sat up in bed feeling like he’d actually been on a weekend-long drunk. Smacking at the alarm clock, he was infuriated with himself for missing his morning run when he most needed the exercise endorphins to keep him on an even keel. This was one Monday morning he wished the universe had just skipped in favor of Tuesday.
He had to face Starsky again.
That unpleasant reality forced Hutch out of bed. In place of endorphins, he needed strong coffee with a sugar boost. Yeah, Hutchinson, sugary coffee might’ve helped you get past a heroin addiction, but it’ll take a hell of lot more than that to get you past your need for Starsky. He plodded into the kitchen to put the coffee on to brew and then went through the motions of showering and finding something clean to wear. Jeans and a sweatshirt jersey under an old bowling shirt sufficed. He defiantly let his necklaces hang outside on the jersey and took special care combing through his mustache.
You are who you are, and Starsky can just go to hell if he has a problem with it!
The anger carried him back to the kitchen. But the shield of anger couldn’t protect him from the slicing agony that hit him when he reached for the sugar canister which held more than sugar. The apartment spun with the memory of Starsky using the dildo on him. Embarrassment, the kind Hutch hadn’t experienced since the one and only time he wet the bed as a six-year-old, made him sick to his stomach. I let him shove a fake dick up my ass, and then I find out he didn’t even want to have regular sex with me. Let him, hell! I practically bullied him into it. After he’d said all that stuff about lifestyle! God, the kind of pity he had to have, to go through with it. Pity. Congratulations, Hutchinson, you now know you were an eight-month-long pity fuck! God, oh God, I’m gonna be sick!
By the slimmest margin, he kept his stomach in its proper place. Making himself look at the sugar canister again, he knew he had to get rid of the damned “toy.” Clawing through the sugar without tongs, he retrieved the baggy and turned in a circle, trying to locate the trashcan he hadn’t moved in the whole time he’d lived there. No! He couldn’t dispose of a dildo in his kitchen trash can. What could he do, run downstairs with it shoved down the front of his jeans and toss it into Chez Helene’s dumpster?
He laughed a little crazily at that image.
The scrape of a key against a lock gave him only seconds to process disbelief that Starsky would let himself in on this morning of all mornings. The door swung open, and Starsky stood there dressed in jeans and a nice shirt under his leather jacket, as if he’d been perfectly fine during his morning routine.
“Why didn’t you knock?!” Hutch yelled. “Didn’t you know I’d want you to knock today?!”
Starsky looked backhanded. His gaze dropped from Hutch’s face, but that was worse, because those startled eyes found the contraband in Hutch’s grasp. Hutch looked down at the dildo. Oh, God no. Does he think–? He does! He thinks I’ve been shut in here all weekend screwing myself with this thing like some jilted dick queen. Don’t take a step backward, Hutchinson. You’ve come a long way. You’re not letting this guy push you back into self doubt and denial. Yes, I like dick, he screamed silently at his partner. And there’s not a damned thing pitiable about it!
Before he could get the words out of his mouth, the embarrassment rushed him again. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. How could he possibly ride around their district in the same car with Starsky? “Get out!” he shouted. Don’t look at me, Starsky!
Starsky flinched and tore his gaze from the plastic baggy. “Hutch–”
“Get out! I’ll meet you downstairs. Get the hell out of here right now, Starsky, I mean it! In fact, you just go on to Metro without me. I’ll take my own car.”
“Hutch, I’m sorry I didn’t knock. I just–habit, y’know, and I know you’re mad, but–”
“Get out!” He wasn’t mad. Anger would have been a blessing compared to the humiliation gripping him. Nothing had ever made him feel so vulnerable. He quailed under sudden fear that he’d take one step into the station and every cop there would scream, “Faggot!”
Starsky backed out of the apartment quickly and Hutch took his first deep breath at the door’s slam. He had no time to mess around with dildo disposal. Returning to the kitchen, he dug into the sugar to shove the baggy inside and shook the canister until the sugar settled. He managed to fill a thermos with coffee in spite of fumble fingers and went into the bathroom for one more talk with his mirror.
You’re not going backward. You won’t. Humiliated, you might be, but you’re not afraid. You’ll walk in that station looking the way you want to look, being yourself, and if anyone says one damn word, you’ll bloody them, not the other way around! And goddamn it, that’s called life, not lifestyle!
If he could find some emotion to replace humiliation, he might last through a shift with Starsky.
Ten minutes later, he got his wish.
Nothing replaced humiliation more efficiently than fear and grief.
At first Hutch thought the stand-still pace on Venice Boulevard was due to clogged morning rush, but the lack of oncoming traffic triggered a nasty hunch. When the cars in front of him began making cautious u-turns only possible if something blocked both lanes of traffic ahead, Hutch’s suspicion received confirmation. A car accident. He prepared to do the same turn around and find an alternate route to Metro, but the final car ahead of him moved out of his way, and he witnessed a sight that made him stumble out of his car and go down on bended knee in the middle of the street. He knelt there, overcome, numb to the possibility that a car behind him might not see his parked car in time to avoid slamming into them both.
Fifty feet ahead at the intersection, an eighteen-wheeler had been broadsided by a red car now scrunched under the trailer’s carriage, showing only its Torino-shaped rear fender and bumper. Hutch shot off his knees and raced toward the scene. Alive, Starsky, be alive, please, be alive. He bargained with both the devil and God in the same breath, offering himself on a platter for any cosmic whim if Starsky could only still be breathing and salvageable in that car.
Halfway to the accident site, he stopped as the glare of sunlight shifted. The car under the truck was red but minus the tell-tale white stripe. Straining his eyes, Hutch saw that it wasn’t even a Ford. He felt his lungs rush to his throat. With dizzying relief, he doubled back to the LTD for the radio.
Leaning in the open car door, he grabbed the mic. “Central, Zebra Three!”
“Zebra Three, Central, go ahead.”
“Central, I’m first on the scene of an MVA with injuries and possible fatalities, at the intersection of Venice and Lincoln. Request patrol units, ambulance, and fire department response.”
“Ten-four, Zebra Three. Dispatching assistance.”
“Notify Captain Dobey and Detective Starsky at Metro Division.” Letting the mic fall where it would, Hutch flipped on his hazard lights, went to his trunk for his blankets and basic first aid kit, and rushed back to the accident.
~*~*~
Snapping at anyone who dared bother him with paperwork or small talk, Starsky watched the squadroom doors. At the first glimpse of Hutch in the hall, he barreled out of his chair and met his partner at the doors. He didn’t like the look of Hutch at all. In Vietnam, he had seen victims of shell shock, and Hutch was a walking classic case. Starsky grabbed him by the arms. “What happened?”
Hutch moved his mouth wordlessly, stretched his jaw, and gulped in a breath. “Didn’t Dispatch get through with my message? I asked them to let you and Dobey know that I’d be late.”
“You stopped to assist at a car accident, I know. But what happened; you look–” He eyed the bustling squadroom. Grateful that Dobey had already left for his meeting with the DA, Starsky nodded at the captain’s office. “In here.”
He saw concrete evidence that something nasty had rattled Hutch when he followed Starsky meekly into Dobey’s office and stood at loose ends, his arms hanging by his side. Car accidents could be horrific, especially for first responders who got there before the carnage was draped in sheets. But he and Hutch had seen their fair share of accidents and he couldn’t remember Hutch ever reacting quite this way. Gripping Hutch’s shoulders, Starsky insisted on eye contact. “What happened out there? What was it, kids involved or something?”
“It was bad. Car crushed up under a tractor trailer. The driver…” Hutch clutched at his throat.
Oh, shit. Decapitated? Starsky squeezed his shoulders. “Oh, man, I hate you had to see that. No wonder you’re all shook up.”
“When I first saw the accident, I thought… It was a red car. The rear end was shaped like a Torino, or I guess my mind made it look that way. Wasn’t a Ford. Some kind of Dodge.”
“Probably a Charger, they got a touch of Torino in the frame.” Then the meaning of Hutch’s unusual car talk slammed into him. “You thought it was me!”
“I thought I’d killed you!” Hutch shouted.
Although glad the wooden tone was gone from Hutch’s voice, Starsky knew from the spike in volume he had to calm his partner fast to avoid a meltdown that would leave Hutch sour and scratchy, angry at himself for letting go. Still gripping those strong shoulders, he nudged Hutch backward to the nearest chair and pushed him down. With Hutch seated, Starsky knelt in front of him and squeezed his knees. “Hey. Even if it had been–” Starsky didn’t want to say “me” and make it sound more real than a what-might-have-been. “Even it’d been my car, it was an accident, would’n’t have been your fault.”
A look of angry disbelief was the only warning before Hutch pushed out of the chair, toppling Starsky on his ass. Along with his independence, Hutch had obviously recovered his new allergy to Starsky’s nearness. He took refuge between Dobey’s desk and the window and dared Starsky with his eyes to come any closer. “You tell me you wouldn’t have thought the same thing if you’d kicked me out of your apartment like that, under those circumstances, and then saw what looked like my car crumpled up under a damned eighteen-wheeler!”
Starsky dusted off the seat of his pants and nodded. “I won’t tell you that ’cause I’d likely end up struck by a lightning bolt. Hutch, about this morning at your place–”
“No!” Hutch had that shamed puppy look Starsky had seen that morning. Wrong, criminally wrong for Hutch to have that look, a man who had nothing whatsoever to be ashamed of, and whose face should never have to show shame. “I can’t–can’t talk about it.”
Starsky glanced at the office door, made of thinner wood than needed for some of the conversations that had to take place in the room. “Can’t talk about it here even if you could. But are we gonna be okay out there?”
Hutch absently fingered the chain on one of his necklaces. “This morning when you left, I didn’t know if I could stand a minute in the same car with you, much less a whole shift. Now I’m just grateful for the chance to get in that Torino with you. Let’s leave it at that for right now.”
“Okay.” That would have to do. Starsky sucked in his own anguish. For Hutch’s sake, he could pretend he hadn’t spent the most hellish weekend of his life. He could act like he hadn’t been scared to death that when he saw Hutch again, he’d see a broken man who didn’t want anything to do with him after a weekend to mull over Starsky’s crimes. Crimes of which Starsky had convicted himself, with his conscience as the jury and his heart the judge. He would never have wished Hutch to find out in such a horrific way that their partnership was still worth keeping, but he wouldn’t knock the end result.
“Come on then, partner. Let’s get out there.”
Hutch turned to look out the window through a crack in the blinds. “You go on. I’ll catch up.”
With a long look at the back of Hutch’s head, Starsky left him to his solitude.
~*~*~
Hutch looked down at the street where Starsky had left the Torino. He was no fool. He knew he wasn’t over the humiliation. He knew his anger had yet to reach its maturity. But for the moment, he could push both negative emotions aside with the powerful, simple joy in Starsky being alive. That was enough to get him through a shift with his partner. And the first was the most important, the most difficult. After that, it’d be one day at a time. One emotional battle at a time.
Too bad he was reminded of the song lyric that one was the loneliest number.
~*~*~
Spotting the red alarm light on outside the radio room, Dixie hurried to the baystation and clicked down on the receiver to acknowledge. “Rampart Emergency.”
“Rampart, this is County 51… Rampart, how…you… This is…51, over!”
“Squad 51, Rampart. You’re not transmitting clearly. Do you have a bad connection?”
Johnny Gage’s voice answered. “No, Rampart. We’re, uh, in the middle of a juke joint brawl. Deputies had to clear the scene for us to get in here, but I think it’s about to get rowdy again.”
Juke joint? “Okay, 51. Stand by.” Dixie frowned and beckoned through the window for Kel. Noticing her slightly urgent summons, he didn’t dawdle in his conversation with Mike Morton, who crossed the hall to the coffee room. “You won’t believe this,” she told Kel when he stepped in the baystation room. “It’s 51 at the scene of some juke joint ruckus. Not something I’m used to hearing this far removed from the Mason-Dixon line.”
Kel smiled and took over at the receiver while she reached for the chart to make record-of-care notations. “Squad 51, this is Dr. Brackett, what do you have?”
Roy’s voice answered. “Rampart, we have two patients, both male, approximate ages thirty-five and forty. Stand by, Rampart.” The receiver crackled with static and Roy’s voice sounded disjointed, “Now just calm down, and let my partner help you. We’re not police, we’re not federal agents, and we don’t care about moonshine or anything else you’ve been up to in here. We’re here to help you get out of here alive!”
Dixie’s eyes widened and she imagined her expression had to match Kel’s startled one.
“Rampart–” Roy transmitted again, but a yell that could only belong to Johnny interrupted.
“Hey, let me go, damn it!” Johnny shouted. “I’m trying to help your buddy, not hurt him! Can we get some help over here, people? Where the hell is that deputy?!”
“Rampart, we have a situation here,” Roy said in rush of syllables.
Kel leaned over the receiver as if he wanted to climb inside the apparatus and transport himself to the scene. “Johnny!” he barked, the bite of fear in his voice.
“Rampart,” Roy continued, “Patient number one is now unconscious. Vitals are as–“
“Johnny?” Kel relayed again, cutting off Roy’s transmission.
Dixie held in her gasp with effort. She gently lifted Kel’s hand from the receiver. “The patient, Kel,” she whispered for his ear alone. “The patient.”
Kel visibly shook himself. “Say again, 51? Vitals–?”
“Rampart, BP is 85/70. Pulse is 110 and thready. Respirations are 26 and shallow. Before the patient lost consciousness, he was complaining of blurred vision, nausea, severe headache, and abdominal pain. Be advised, patient may have consumed a home brew of ethanol.”
“Ten-four, 51. The other patient?”
“Rampart, the other patient is conscious and combative. We don’t have vitals yet.”
Dixie squeezed Kel’s shoulder in solidarity, noting that he didn’t ask about Johnny again. “All right, 51,” Kel said. “Is patient number two suffering the same symptoms as number one?”
“Affirmative, Rampart,” Johnny’s voice said over the radio, and Kel leaned over the receiver again, bracing his palms on either side of the machine, the position this time one of nearly boneless relief. “Vitals on patient two are BP 100/70, pulse 105, and respirations 24. Patient is in a lot of pain, Rampart. Says he feels like the inside of his head is on fire.”
“Okay, 51. Advise deputies on the scene to see that the establishment shuts down all beverage sales immediately with suspicion of wood alcohol poisoning. Put both patients on 02, get IVs started with D5W, and monitor vitals. Transport as soon as possible.”
“That’s affirmative, Rampart,” Roy acknowledged. “O2, D5W, monitor vitals, transport. The ambulance just arrived.”
“We’ll be standing by.” Kel released the transmitter and brushed both hands over his face. When he faced Dixie again, his eyes thanked her, but he stalked off to the nearest prepped treatment room without a word.
~*~*~
Roy thought his partner looked none too worse for wear after being grabbed from behind in a bear hug by a mountain man from the wilds of Northeast Georgia. A mountain man too drunk on homebrewed poison to tell a rescue worker from a cop. But they’d managed the double transport and fended off cardiac or respiratory arrest in both patients, and now they walked the relatively safe corridor of Rampart behind the gurneys.
Brackett met them halfway down the hall to the treatment rooms. Roy watched him give both patients his corridor once-over, a quick assessing glance that probably diagnosed more in a few seconds than some Harvard specialists could piece together from a full case study, but then the doctor’s blue eyes swept over Johnny in a similar manner. Roy could tell what Brackett looked for: changes in gait, visible injuries, and respirations. Clearly satisfied, Brackett focused on Roy.
“Any changes in the vitals since your last transmission en route?” Brackett asked brusquely.
Roy shook his head. “No, Doc. No improvement, but they’re stable.”
“All right, we’ll take it from here. Thanks, guys.” Brackett turned and escorted the ambulance attendants and gurneys down the hall.
Johnny stood rooted to the spot and stared at Brackett’s back. “What’s with him?”
The essence of lilacs behind them came with Dixie’s arrival. “What’s with what him?”
“Brackett,” Johnny said, shrugging. “He didn’t even wait for us to give the ride-along report.”
“Can’t waste any time with alcohol poisoning,” Dixie said. “Come on over to the station and give me your report, starting with what the heck happened out there?”
Roy relieved himself of the drug box’s weight, propping it on Dixie’s counter. “We weren’t there at the beginning, of course, but from what we heard, those two we brought in had been sampling some under-the-counter goods at the joint and started getting sick. Apparently, someone there who knew what’s what accused the bartender of selling cut moonshine, and things got ugly. When we got there, the sheriff’s department supposedly had the troublemakers all squared away–”
“Supposedly nothing!” Johnny cut in, rolling his left shoulder that had taken the brunt of the mountain man’s bruising disfavor. “They let a few of the gargantuans slip back in there to start trouble all over again. You should’ve seen the place, Dix. Like something straight off a B-movie set on some hillbilly flick.”
Freshly out of danger, they joked with Dixie about the more comedic aspects of the rescue and then gave her the formal report from transport. Brackett arrived from the treatment room while Johnny was cataloguing their supply needs, but he didn’t even glance Johnny’s way.
“Any word, Doc?” Roy asked him.
“They’ve both had a very close call.” Brackett made a move toward the corner coffee machine but held back, fidgeting with his stethoscope and carefully keeping his gaze averted from the supply drawer where Johnny had spread the needed supplies on the pull-out counter. “But you got them here in time for us to do all we can to give them a second chance at living life the smart way.”
“That’s what we like to hear.” Johnny’s smile for Brackett lit up the entire nurses station.
Brackett gave him a curt nod and left the station with the speed he generally showed in cardiac emergencies. For the second time in less than ten minutes, Johnny stared at the back of the man’s lab coat. “All right,” Johnny snapped. “What did I do?”
Dixie sat down on the stool, crossing her legs with such grace that the white nursing slacks barely creased. “It’s nothing you did. During your excitement out there, he was worried. Enough to break radio protocol during a rescue transmission. You can imagine that’s not sitting well.”
“But that’s–” Johnny slapped the IV bags and drug vials into their appropriate slots in the drug box. “If he’s gonna get a bee in his bonnet about that, I’ll just–”
Dixie put a hand on his arm. “Best thing you could do is let him shake it off, Johnny. Pretend you’re just some rookie paramedic for the rest of the day, okay?”
“Yeah, partner,” Roy agreed, “let’s head back to quarters and pretend Chet’s cooking is edible.”
Out in the squad, Johnny folded his hands under his chin and brooded while Roy waited for an incoming ambulance to pull out of their way. “You know the song playing at that joint, Roy?”
“Which one?”
Johnny shrugged, hunched over, hands still under his chin. “Something about the guy whose blind dog up and died after his drunk girlfriend crashed his pickup and ran away with the mechanic?”
“Johnny, you’ve just about summed up every country western song written.”
Johnny glared at him. “Well, now I know why they write ’em. I know how that feels.” He looked queasy and clutched his stomach. “I’m feeling like that right now!”
Roy cut the engine and gave him his full attention. “You have a thing for Brackett, don’t you?”
Johnny looked even queasier. “I–yeah. God, yeah, I think I do. Damn it, Roy, we’re talking about Kelly Brackett here!”
Roy smiled. “Right. The same Kelly Brackett who broke radio protocol over you while I was trying to read out vitals. Your point is–?”
Groaning, Johnny pressed his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “I don’t think I can face Chet’s cooking today.”
“We’ll grab a couple burgers on the way back to quarters,” Roy offered.
~*~*~
“A minute of your time, Doctor?”
Brackett put his briefcase on the roof of his sedan and tried to find a welcoming expression before he turned to face his friend. “Something I can do for you, Joe?”
“You can tell me why you’ve been under a storm cloud all day long. I tried to pin Dix down about it, but she told me I’d have to get it from the source. That woman loves hearing gossip, but she sure doesn’t dish much of it out!”
“One of Dixie’s many fine qualities.”
Joe’s smile barely moved his lips. He stretched his arm along the frame of the driver’s side window and effectively cornered the would-be driver. “We’re both going home to lonely lives. That doesn’t mean you have to carry home more weight than is in this briefcase.”
Brackett sighed. Joe was nothing if not persistent when it came to medicine or his friendships. “Squad 51 got into trouble at a rescue today, and I let my concern for them interfere with patient care.”
“Let me translate that. Johnny Gage was in trouble out there, and you’re accusing yourself now of letting romantic interest cloud your judgment.”
Brackett dropped his car keys.
Joe smiled again. “No, you’re not that obvious. I’ve worked with you for over a decade, and I knew years ago the only reason Dixie wasn’t making plans to be Mrs. Kelly Brackett had to be that you played for the other team.” That down to earth phraseology from a neurosurgeon got to Brackett every time. He found himself nodding his confirmation of Joe’s guess. “Thought so. Kel, don’t make a bigger deal out of what happened today than it is.”
He bristled. “It’s big enough already, Joe. I delayed Roy’s transmission of vitals on an unconscious, potentially critically ill patient, which is a great disservice to the patient, but it’s no favor to Johnny or me either, being that it’s part of the legal medical record at this point! It’s what I’ve always feared, why I knew I couldn’t afford to be in a romantic relationship with him even if he–” Brackett bent to retrieve his keys, wishing the sudden movement could redirect Joe’s focus and erase that careless last statement.
Joe chuckled, no doubt reading his mind. “You don’t have to shield him from me, Kel. I’m not the Fire Department Board of Supervisors, and I already have a good idea where his preferences lie. His nurse chasing always did look over the top to me, like a game more than a deep interest in the women he chased. And I’ve noticed tension between you guys that at times seemed a little sexual.”
Brackett hated Joe’s intelligence right then. “I thought if I kept our interaction on a strictly platonic level I could avoid that kind of distraction, but even as friends, I’ve let him get too close.”
“Doesn’t work that way, Doctor. You can’t compartmentalize emotions like that. I don’t make friends all that easily. I can ham it up at a party, pound out a few tunes on the piano, but when it comes to long-lasting relationships, I’m no whiz kid. You, Dix, and Mike have been my closest circle for years, but I’m not romantically interested in any one of you. And yet, when you were broadsided in that horrific car accident that left a little girl fatherless and you all banged up but damned lucky, I couldn’t even think how to relay an acknowledgement on the radio until 51 gave me your vitals. If they’d been in the tank instead of relatively stable, I honestly don’t know that I could’ve handled the call, and Mike was standing right there beside me just as flabbergasted.”
“What’s your point, Joe?”
“My point is, being involved in close personal relationships, platonic or otherwise, will leave you vulnerable to distraction, yes, but living without them leaves you vulnerable to much worse! So, why don’t you quit kicking yourself for being a warm-blooded human being and see if young Johnny would like to be more in your quiet little life than just a good friend?”
Brackett studied his most respected colleague. Grayish-white hair tousled around the forehead, those glasses askew, piercing but kind eyes behind them, a friendly smile with no hint of facetiousness, Joe looked like the average father-next-door. Brackett had to smile in response. “Joe, did you just tell me to ask a paramedic under my ‘supervision’ out on a date?”
Joe frowned. “Well, if you have to make it sound all sordid, then I guess I didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t mean to make it sound that way, but that’s the way LA County would make it sound. I have to be careful, Joe, and Johnny does, too. He’s pushing for captaincy. But thank you for being so unusually understanding about–”
“About what?” Joe’s frown deepened. “The insignificant detail that one of my closest friends is gay? My understanding is something so rare you have to thank me for it, or do you need an explanation? Is that it? You want me to tell you I had a favorite uncle who was gay? No, I didn’t. Fact is, if anyone in my entire family tree was, I don’t know about it. Why do I have to have a reason to be open-minded?”
“Because in all my years of shielding myself from inevitable fall-out, Joe, I’ve learned one thing: more straight people than not do need a reason.”
Joe looked hurt, and Brackett regretted his words, however true they might be in his own personal experience. “Fine,” Joe snapped. “Then how’s this for one, all scientific and medically sound for you, Dr. Brackett: the APA finally got their act together and declassified homosexuality as a mental disorder back in ’73. But in my amateur opinion, in some areas of human relations, you’re still loose a few screws!”
Brackett didn’t try to argue, or stop Joe from leaving. He gathered his briefcase, got into his car, and went through all the motions required to get him home to his quiet little life.
~*~*~
“No, Starsk, drink it. You’re supposed to drink the coffee, not wear it.” Hutch wrested the cup from Starsky’s wobbly grasp and held it up to his partner’s lips. Leaning in the open passenger door, he was close, far too close to Starsky.
Mostly, he was too flustered from having to hoist Starsky back onto his barstool from behind while the halfway plastered nut made lewd cracks that could have gotten them both hauled outside the bar for a quick and dirty re-enactment of the Civil War. Complete with a ceremonial hanging of two confirmed Yankee spies!
Hutch could happily go a month of Sundays with no more undercover work in a honky-tonk like the Smokey Mountain Inn, but wood alcohol and the human body mixed no better than lit matches and nitro, and if he and Starsky couldn’t pin down the source of the bad corn, Dobey would have the citywide body count he didn’t want. The LA County Sheriff’s Department was already screaming louder than soft-spoken Agent Kendall of the Treasury.
Three steps past wasted on good ole white lightning, Starsky batted playfully at the Styrofoam cup and giggled up at Hutch. “You really know how to back a guy up, par-hic!-tner!”
Hutch growled under his breath and stomped around to the driver’s side. “I swear, Starsky, if you weren’t too trashed to know better, I’d kick your ass for pushing my buttons like this.”
Starsky was doodling circles around the rim of the coffee cup. When Hutch slid into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine, Starsky leaned over and covered Hutch’s hand on the ignition with a sweaty palm. Blue eyes danced at him, but it was the Duke who spoke with Starsky’s lips, “Hey, pil-l-l-grim, you make a ri-uh-ght purdy cowboy there.”
Gawking at the brilliant John Wayne impression, better than any Bogey Starsky had ever done, Hutch was about to snarl a rebuke for the cruelty of the words, but his mind gave him a distracting image. He saw Starsky saying those words from a perch on a paddock’s top fence, his legs spread wide in tight Wranglers to show off his enjoyment of watching Hutch lead a skittish yearling around the circle. His tone of voice made it clear that when Hutch finished nurturing the precious horseflesh, his flesh would be Starsky’s for the taking, ass and all. Hutch could see everything in detail, down to the old black New York t-shirt straining against Starsky’s natural musculature, a baseball cap askew on dark curls instead of a Stetson. It was enough to steal Hutch’s breath, the impossible, unobtainable beauty of the fantasy. He choked on a wave of pain and wrenched his hand free of Starsky’s loose hold.
Putting the Torino in gear, he concentrated on pulling out of the drive-through diner’s parking lot. “Starsky, do me a favor. Please?”
“Any…thing, Hutch. Anything at all.”
“Shut up and drink your coffee.”
“Okay, but first, I have a queshtion. Can I ask a quesh-tion?”
“Does it have anything to do with our case?”
“Case?” Starsky blinked at him, lashes fluttering.
Hutch managed to turn into traffic. “The case we were investigating, Elliot Ness, until you tried to prove you could hold your homemade liquor like a true down home ridge-runner.”
“Oh. No, not that case. But it’s a mystery I’m tryin’ to sholve, of sorts….”
“All right. What’s the question?”
“D’you play with dolls when you were a–hic!–kid?”
“Why the hell would I have played–”
Abruptly certain exactly why Starsky would ask such an asinine question, Hutch narrowly avoided plowing into the back of a two-tone Cutlass Supreme. In hearty agreement with the honking horns behind him, he took the next right into a grocery store parking lot and didn’t care how crookedly he parked in the farthest row from the store. Heaving a deep breath, he leveled the full fury of his disbelief on his passenger. “Cute, Starsky! Real cute. You’re a lousy drunk, you know that?! And if those’re the kind of hang-ups you’ve been dealing with, no wonder you can’t–oh, hell, there’s no possible good that could come from talking about that when you’re in command of all of three brain cells at the moment.”
Starsky seemed genuinely taken aback by the anger in Hutch’s voice. “Hey, hey…Hutch, it’s a serious ques–question.”
“Okay, I’ll treat it like a serious question, then. No, Starsky. I didn’t play with dolls. I didn’t make fancy little outfits for my teddy bears either. I didn’t have any teddy bears. I was an outdoor kid. My favorite playthings were my tire swing by the pond, my secret fort in the woods, and my Sea Scout kit. But you know what, buddy, there wouldn’t be a damned thing wrong with me if I’d had a whole shelf full of Li’l Miss Susie Wet’n’Cries.”
“Nah, Hutch, you’re per-hic!-fect!” Starsky gave him a wet, slap-happy smile of affection.
Whereas Hutch would normally give his eye-teeth to see that smile on his partner’s face, he now wanted to obliterate it from his memory. He didn’t think his mind and heart could co-exist with that expression tipping the scales he’d perfectly balanced to get through each day at Starsky’s side as best friend, partner, and ex-lover. Or ex-fuck-buddy. Or ex-whatever-the-hell-they’d-been.
He needed to dig a special hole down deep inside where he could bury all the little hurts, the emotional landmines he stepped on through each shift with Starsky, bury them somewhere so deep they wouldn’t be ammunition he could use against his partner later in his own hurt and despair. He’d long ago made a hole like that for his fear of the dangers that stalked Starsky. He was pretty sure Starsky had a similar place to bury his fear of the dangers that stalked Hutch. Over the couple of weeks since their personal split, Hutch had let his raw sensitivity and humiliation out to paw and nip at Starsky in ways he wasn’t completely proud of, and he had to change that trend or their partnership would soon meet the same death as their romantic connection.
After another deep cleansing breath, Hutch sat up straight behind the wheel and tried to put his mind back into cop mode. “Okay, Starsky. We’re getting you more coffee, and the second you can even fake sobriety, we’ll hit the next bar on Dobey’s list. And so help me God, if you so much as look at anything stronger than ginger ale for the next two weeks, I’ll take you over my knee!”
Starsky giggled at him and wagged one of the little black dancing pumps.
“And keep your eyes peeled for that yellow pickup truck.”
“You kiddin’?” Starsky leered at him. “I’ll be looking for the brick battleship drivin’ it.”
Hutch grimaced. “I just bet you will. Damn, I hope Kendall’s doing better than we are.”
~*~*~
Starsky hobbled into his kitchen and stood in front of the fridge. When he lacked the will to open the door and fish out a cold brew, he needed to bop himself over the head with one of his crutches until he earned himself an unconscious oblivion. Hutch was probably at Roxy’s house by now. Pounding his crutches harder against the floor than strictly necessary, Starsky turned and hobbled back to the sofa. The sneaky, date-stealing son-of-a-bitch.
Starsky lowered slowly to the sofa and folded in on himself. He ought to be aiming the last part of that name at the mirror. Had he really expected Hutch to walk out his door that horrible afternoon, when Starsky’s secret failure came to light, and just turn up after a weekend apart looking like the Hutch of summer ’75, raring to hit the streets, buddies until the bitter end? Hutch was one hell of a human being, but he was no saint, and thank the stars in the sky for that! But well, hell, Starsky was no plaster saint either, and maybe he’d gotten a little courtroom vindication out of making Hutch sound like the klutz who’d put his partner into a walking boot and crutches. He didn’t know that would cost him Roxy. Or worse, that Roxy would waltz off with Hutch.
Yeah, that was much worse.
And for crying out loud, it hadn’t occurred to him a couple of years back, but there was something demoralizing about losing a girl to a guy who wasn’t all that interested in her body, except to talk about her long legs and pretty mouth. Of course, Starsky grumped, Hutch would be interested in those attributes in a woman.
A soft knock on the door forced another curse from Starsky. Who the hell–? He heaved himself off the sofa, leaned heavily on the crutches, and agonized his way to the foyer. He blessed his crutches seconds later, for they kept him on his feet in his shock at finding Hutch on the front step. Hutch in a tailored classic tuxedo. Oh, this was rubbing salt in the wound. Now he knew firsthand what Roxy would be feasting her eyes on all night long at the dance contest where he should have been wowing Ms. Almond Eyes and the fancy-pants judges.
“If you’re here lookin’ for pointers, forget it,” Starsky sniped.
Hutch acknowledged the hit with only a slight frown. He lounged in the doorway, shoulder propped on the frame, careless of getting dust on his tux. “Roxy and I had a little chat when I picked her up. See, she really wants to participate in this dance contest, and I can help her out with that, sure, but she doesn’t want to lose out on a date with you either, and since I know that’s something you two have in common…” Hutch shrugged.
“What’re you saying?”
Starsky could see the beginnings of flustered embarrassment on Hutch’s face. “I thought you might like to come along and be our cheerleader.” Hutch’s smile had the devil in it. “Not to be confused with pom-pom girl.” The smile faded, and Hutch scratched at the corner of his mustache. “Hell, it seemed a good idea on the way over here, but maybe you don’t want to sit around and watch me dance with your girl.” Hutch nodded to himself. “Right. Bad idea. Chalk it up to one too many hits of Roxy’s hairspray on the drive over, and I’ll–”
Starsky grabbed him by the wrist before he could turn and descend the stairs. “Not a bad idea. First off, Roxy’s not my girl. I like her, but there’re no strings between us, and she likes that much as me. Second, I’d planned a pretty lousy evening with bad TV and too much beer. It’ll be a helluva lot more fun watching my partner coax his two left feet around the dance floor in front of hoity-toity judges. I owe you for all that fun you had watching me show off my tuxedo rental tag.”
Hutch pulled himself up straight and primped his bowtie. “You really think I don’t even know how to foxtrot? Care to put some money down on that, buddy?”
Grinning, Starsky held out his hand palm-up and beckoned with his fingers. “A cool hundred says you step on Roxy’s feet twice before the first dance is up. Might as well pay up now.”
“You’ve got a bet, and I’ll wait for you to pay me there, chump.”
They shook hands on the wager, and Starsky wanted to keep his fingers in the warmth of Hutch’s hand, but Hutch pulled away quickly and almost wiped his palm on the bottom placket of his jacket before he caught himself and smoothed the hem instead. The hurt in that instinctive gesture tightened Starsky’s throat, and he said quietly, “You sure about this, Hutch? The three of us all–”
Hutch looked down at his polished shoes. “I have no intention of it staying a threesome beyond the contest, if that’s what you mean, but the rest of it… Starsk, I’ve seen you cut a wide swath through LA’s single female population for years. I won’t buckle at the knees watching you charm Roxy tonight.”
“Why, Hutch?” Starsky asked. “Why’re you really doing this? Has nothing to do with Roxy.”
“I haven’t been, uh, all that proud of myself the last few weeks, the way I was handling things, and let’s face it, one of us in this partnership has to be the adult, which usually falls to me, so–”
Starsky almost laughed. The non-apology apology was so typical of his proud partner. “You had a right, Hutch, and I had it coming.”
“For what?”
Starsky had to lean on his crutches again to keep from tipping over. For what?! He tried to maintain eye contact so he could really read Hutch. Forgiveness was one thing, but Hutch sounded like he had decided to re-visit amnesia. No hole in the memory could gape wide enough to let recent events slip through; at least, they hadn’t slipped Starsky’s memory. “For what, Hutch? You’ve gotta be kidding me. Try for leading you on, even if I didn’t think I was at the time. Try lying to you; ’cause I’ve been facing the cold hard fact that not telling all the truth, whatever the reason, ain’t all that different from lying. I should’ve told you months ago I couldn’t–”
Hutch’s bee-stung expression silenced him. “Couldn’t be someone you’re not? Okay, fine, let’s split the check. You’ve been a half-liar; I’ve been a half-ass. Go get on that patched-up tux of yours.”
“Yeah. You wanna bring Roxy up? I’ll go in my room and change, give me ten minutes. And we’ll take my car. I won’t show up at a dance contest in your overgrown squash on wheels.”
~*~*~
Hutch held out Roxy’s chair for her, but she declined with a pat on his cheek and plopped down “side-saddle” with a rustle of skirts on Starsky’s lap. To her credit, she avoided putting pressure on his injured leg, which he rested outstretched on the extra chair at their table for four. Starsky looped his arm around her tiny sequined waist but he looked over her shoulder, through the cascade of her rich, brown hair, at Hutch, trying to gauge his tolerance level. Roxy’s dance partner was smiling, though, when he sat down at the table and reached his hand over, palm up.
“A hundred, Starsky? I’ll have it now if you please.”
Roxy chuckled. “What’s this, a bet?” she asked with a faint trace of Spanish accent in her sensual voice. “Or a reward for making it to the next round?”
“I didn’t step on your feet once, did I, Roxy?”
She tossed her hair in a soft brown, rose-scented cloud. “Not once, Hutch. Your style is perhaps a bit sedate for these judges, but no one can fault your technique. We might advance to the semi-finals tonight, if the gods of dance are with us.” She kissed Starsky’s cheek. “Of course, with David’s style, there’d be no question of finals placement, and if I could meld the two of you into one person, I’d have a shot at the nationals.”
Starsky grumbled and delved his free hand into his pants pocket. He slid his wallet across the table to Hutch. “Take your winnings, Arthur Murray, I made sure I brought along enough to cover it just in case you surprised me. So, you surprised me. Where’d you learn those moves, anyway?”
Hutch smirked at him, digging into Starsky’s wallet for the appropriate combination of tens and twenties. “On a disco floor, I might be hopeless, but I grew up in Duluth, dum-dum. Every boy with two legs and a certain societal standing was expected to learn the basics of ballroom dance so the eligible young ladies could be seen in polite society with decent dance partners. It’s been sixteen years since my last country club cotillion, but it’s just like riding a bicycle.”
Roxy handed Starsky’s wallet back to him and oohed at the wad of bills Hutch pocketed. “What are your plans for that windfall, Hutch?”
He smiled at her. “Oh, I have a special account I put these little windfalls into, Roxy. You know, for a rainy day.”
Starsky sucked in his breath, Roxy’s negligible weight suddenly crushing his lap. Their account. He wanted Hutch to look at him so badly he could taste the need to feel those blue eyes on his face, but Hutch had turned pointedly away to watch the exhibition dancers whose performance gave the contestants a chance to catch their breath before the next round.
Roxy patted Starsky’s shoulder. “All right, big guy, I think I’ve taxed your injured leg enough. I’m going to powder my nose before this little break is over.” She rose slowly, watching his outstretched leg with each movement. Swishing her skirts to their full length, she clattered in her three-inch heels across the hardwood flooring toward the side exit to the restrooms.
Before Starsky could say a word to Hutch in her absence, their table had a visit from one half of the dance partnership trying to keep Hutch and Roxy out of the semi-finals. A tall, dark-haired young man, whose dove-gray tuxedo matched his partner’s silver-and-diamond sequined gown, stood behind Hutch’s chair and reached over his shoulder, champagne glass in hand. Except for the tuxedo, the man could have starred in an Aqua Velva commercial. No doubt the guy would agree; he probably stood in front of his mirror fresh out of the shower and watched the water bead on his smooth, toned chest.
Feeling nauseated, Starsky grabbed for his dainty cup of coffee and then thought better of it. In his current frame of mind, questioning why the hell he was even speculating on what this intruder did in the privacy of his own home, he’d likely break the fine china demitasse in half.
Hutch tilted his head back and accepted the offering with a smile. “Thank you, er–”
“Luke. Luke Sullivan. I just had to drop by and tell you that you were stunning out there.”
Starsky tensed from the neck down. Hutch held out his hand for shaking and gave the newcomer another polite smile. “Thank you, Luke. You and your partner are giving us some tough competition. I’m Ken, this is David, and the lovely lady who was here making us both look good is Roxy. Actually, I’m a stand-in for my injured friend here.”
Prolonging the handshake until Starsky wanted to slap the man’s hand away from Hutch’s, Sullivan nodded at the introductions, but he only had eyes for Hutch. “Do you dance the full circuit? I haven’t seen you before.”
“Oh, no. No, no. Strictly a hobby for me. Roxy’s the serious dancer.”
Hutch was all charming modesty and subtly preening under the attention. Preening! Starsky’s gut clenched. He tried to get a hold on himself. He’d been sitting there in front of Hutch with a woman on his lap, while Hutch looked on in perfect composure, and here he was throwing some internal possessive hissy fit over a little flirtation between Hutch and some stranger? Christ, he was a schmuck, but couldn’t Hutch hear the too-suave smoothness in Sullivan’s voice? Or did he just see a tall, handsome dark-haired guy. God knows, that’s Hutch’s type.
Starsky had to turn his head and stare at the neighboring table of giggling, half-tipsy dance contestants to keep his cool, appalled at his train of thought. In this setting, twenty miles out of LA and away from the prying eyes of the police department, Hutch probably enjoyed being seen for what he was: a handsome, elegant, single man who turned on to men. What right did Starsky have to interfere with Hutch’s freedom that could never be found in their precinct? If he’d had the right kind of feelings to go with the sex, and could have staked his claim on Hutch for good, then maybe he could back Aqua Velva Man into a corner and brandish a crutch at him, but as it was….
Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he saw Sullivan bending low to squeeze Hutch’s shoulder and whisper something in his ear. Sullivan nodded at Starsky one more time and then made his excuses, leaving to re-join his beautiful blonde dance partner at their table.
Hutch cleared his throat and pushed back in his chair. “I’m going out for some fresh air before Rox and I have to cut another rug out there. Back in a few.”
Starsky watched Hutch’s overly casual stride toward the other end of the convention hall and the wide double doors with the red exit sign overhead. Prickling on the back of his neck warned him that his wasn’t the only pair of eyes interested in Hutch’s exit. Starsky shifted in his seat and saw that Sullivan watched, too. Suddenly terrified about what that whisper in Hutch’s ear might have been, Starsky nearly broke his ass trying to haul himself out of the cheap metal-and-padding chair with his crutches. He made sure that Sullivan saw him hobbling in Hutch’s footsteps and thought about giving him a jaunty grin, then decided that might be over the top. Thanks to his bum foot and lack of talent for crutches, Starsky didn’t have a prayer of catching up to Hutch before the double doors shut behind him. But he knew Hutch wouldn’t be going far with the next round of the contest minutes away.
Huffing by the time he reached the exit, he was grateful for the cool night air outside in the unloading bay for caterers and other convention personnel. The sole light stood about fifty feet away and its cracked cover lent the light a shard effect, triangles of pale yellow light on the dark gray asphalt. Hutch leaned against the building’s outer wall, and his stance gave away what Starsky couldn’t otherwise have seen in the poor lighting.
Hutch was rock-hard in those tuxedo slacks.
Starsky felt ridiculous. And pissed. Pissed at Hutch for being so reckless, pissed at himself for heading off the little backdoor rendezvous, pissed at Sullivan for breathing. Then Hutch spotted him, and Starsky really wished he’d stayed put in the convention hall. Hutch did not look happy to see him. “What’re you doing out here, Starsky?”
Starsky could only make fish faces at him.
Hutch’s brow knit and then Starsky saw his right fist clench. “You thought–you thought I was coming out here to meet up with that dancer. Didn’t you?” At Starsky’s weak shrug, Hutch barked, “Didn’t you!”
“Yeah, I guess, when I saw him watching you leave. Thought maybe that whisper routine back there was an invitation.”
Hutch laughed, and the sound was the least amused Starsky had ever heard. “You know what, you’re priceless. Everything’s black and white to you. Everything fits the pattern you have in your head. Guess what? When Sullivan was whispering to me, he was telling me that if his partner–his sexual partner, not his dance partner–was here, they’d be inviting me back to their place for a nightcap.”
Starsky couldn’t wrap his mind around that one. “But since his partner’s not here, he’s not interested, is that it?”
“Oh, he was interested, yes. But he and his partner have a rule in their relationship. They don’t stray separately, and they don’t do threesomes unless they can both agree on the third. It’s what they call ‘playing.'”
“Would you’ve gone with ’em?” Starsky slapped a hand over his mouth.
Hutch’s shock paled Starsky’s. “D-did you really just ask me that? Who–who the hell are you to ask me that?”
“I–Sorry, I–” So this was how it had to be, then? Questions he no longer had the right to ask, topics they could no longer discuss? What would keep the list from growing to include everything in their respective lives? Starsky felt something begin to die inside.
Hutch covered his eyes with his hand and waved the other one at Starsky. “No. Damn. I don’t want you to feel you can’t–can’t talk to me. No, Starsk, I wouldn’t have gone with them. I’ve never gotten off on the ‘more men the merrier’ game. I’m a pretty conventional guy when it comes right down to it, I guess.”
Conventional could never apply to the miracle that was Hutch, but Starsky knew what he meant. Emboldened by the open communication, he chose to ask the next burning question. “And if Sullivan had been on his own tonight…single, I mean?”
Hutch lowered his hand from his eyes. The discomfort in his expression made Starsky’s arms throb to reach out and enfold him, but he clung to his crutches, uncertain how Hutch would handle the gesture. And something inside gasped another dying breath in the pain of questioning his instinct to wrap his arms around his hurting partner. “I…I don’t know,” Hutch said, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “You should go back in there. Roxy’ll wonder what happened to us.”
Starsky made himself laugh. “You’re joking, right? At shindigs like this, when one girl goes to the powder room, there’ll be a mad rush of females behind her. Some kinda natural law, can’t just one woman go to the bathroom. There’ll be a line as long as a cruise ship outside the women’s room. Roxy’ll be lucky to get back to the table in time for the next round. Hutch–”
Hutch shoved his hands in his pockets and tucked his chin. A dismissal if Starsky had ever seen one. He’d been callous beyond excuse already to come out here and intrude on Hutch’s battle with his needs. Hutch caught his eye then, and fury darkened his face. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare fucking pity me, David Starsky! Believe me, eight months of your pity were plenty to hold me for a lifetime!”
Starsky nodded. Hutch didn’t want to hear that pity, at least in its truest form, had nothing to do with his desire to be everything Hutch needed. He swiveled as best he could on the crutches and considered how to manage the door, but Hutch was just wordlessly right there for him, holding open the door and steadying Starsky by the shoulder until he could make it over the hump at the base of the door.
At the snick of the doors behind him, Starsky let his proud posture over the crutches slump, resting heavily on them. He knew he would be spending the night alone. Roxy was a kind, gorgeous lady, every inch of her a lady down to her Old World Barcelona manners, and he could only imagine the delights that fiery Spanish temperament probably offered between the sheets. But she deserved someone in her bed who wouldn’t be thinking about his partner’s cold, lonely bed. Who wouldn’t be wondering if Hutch still pulled out that “toy” and pretended the dick belonged to Starsky.
And guilt never made for much of an aphrodisiac.
~*~*~
Hutch fought anger that wouldn’t die down with strong mental encouragement. Bad enough for Starsky to find him out here with a demanding hard-on, far worse that Hutch couldn’t tell him the truth. While Sullivan’s interest and heated whisper had generated a tiny flash of excitement, Starsky’s unmistakable possessive jealousy had hardened Hutch to the point of needing escape from the room.
Chiding himself for being a pathetic push-over for Starsky, when he should have been ripping the hypocrite a new one for meddling where only a lover had a right to, Hutch resorted to deep breathing exercises to get his erection under control. He was running out of time, and he still had to bury this little interlude in that new hole he’d dug deep inside so he could go back in the convention hall with a smile on his face that would fool even Starsky.
Right. Breathe in. Breathe out. Dig, dig, dig. Deeper, deeper. Cover it all up.
Hutch smiled. A five-hundred dollar purse waited for each semi-finalist couple, a thousand for the two finalists, and a five-thousand grand prize went to the night’s winners along with an invitation to the regional contest. Hutch didn’t believe they had a prayer at top place; Roxy was right: his wooden technique wouldn’t get a blue-ribbon nod from the judges. But semi-finalist placement was more than possible, and Hutch already had stocks in mind for investment with his two-hundred-and-fifty-buck share. At least his joint account with Starsky could grow even if their romantic relationship no longer had a palpable heartbeat.
~*~*~
Hutch fumed over his cup of morning battery acid. God, he wanted out of this job! Seeing the grief and defeat on Dobey’s face had given him one more reason to want out. Dobey had barely muttered a greeting to his detective, didn’t even ask where Starsky was, and shut himself in his office without a glance at the squadroom coffee pot.
The man had to be reeling. How many times had he gotten a stunning blow from someone he considered a close, personal friend? Dobey had never wanted to believe “Iron” Mike Ferguson could be in Matty Coyle’s pocket. He’d never had a clue that “Big” John Blaine was gay, and Hutch knew that regardless of Dobey’s personal feelings about homosexuality, Blaine’s biggest sin in Dobey’s book was the infidelity against Maggie Blaine. But Lieutenant Slate had to be the worst traitor of all. Granted, the circumstances were extenuating, but even the brutal rape of his only child didn’t absolve the lieutenant from turning into a conniving would-be murderer who hadn’t hesitated to involve the police department, and young, innocent cops, in his quest for vigilante justice. Three times in three years Dobey had been forced to re-evaluate a friendship.
On a far lesser scale, Hutch was doing some re-evaluating of his own, and the object of his re-evaluation came breezing through the squadroom doors right then, munching on a jelly donut and spreading a sugar-and-jelly coated smile around the room at the other officers already hard at work. Hutch knocked back another swallow of gut-busting coffee to disguise the ache in his chest. Starsky swung the bag of donuts across the table at him, dangling the bulging sack in front of Hutch’s nose, until Hutch swiped at it like a piñata.
“Get that out of my face, Starsky!” Hutch yelled.
“Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Starsky climbed into his chair, perching his butt on the back.
“At least I got up on the wrong side of my own bed this morning,” Hutch snapped. He eyed the other detectives and hastily went back to typing his report.
“Funny thing, so did I.” Starsky polished off the donut in hand and delved back into the bag.
Oh, great. So the Meter Maid from Hell, Ms. Blonde-and-Bitchy O’Reilly had enjoyed a night in Starsky’s bed. Could this morning get any better? Hutch thought about pitching his coffee mug against Dobey’s door to generate some real fireworks and see if that relieved his agitation, but why take the joy of being the teenager in the partnership away from Starsky?
“I wish you’d learn to type in rhythm,” Starsky taunted, grinning at him.
“You have jelly on your front teeth,” Hutch shot back. “Makes you look like a blood-sucking vampire. A vast improvement on your general state of appearance, by the way. Try spreading some chalk all over your face to complete the look.”
One of the other detectives whistled. Not the newly promoted Woolfolk, who was still too timid to breathe out of turn, but perhaps Simmons? Yes, it was Simmons, who rested back in his chair and gave the partners a smile. “Should we order out for pizza, or is this tiff going to be a short one?”
“Back off, Simmons,” Starsky said.
Babcock whistled next. “Touchy, touchy. You take out a girl who’s gunning for Hutch’s reputation, you gotta pay the piper the morning after, my friend. In my book, that’s not kosher for a partner to do.”
Hutch could be mad all the hell he wanted, but he’d be damned if Babcock started giving Starsky lessons on partnership. “Yeah, Babcock? Since when would your WASP ass know jack about anything kosher?”
Babcock pointed at Hutch. “You really wanna call this kettle black, Mr. Pot?”
“Not so,” Starsky argued. “Hutch is an honorary member of the Kosher Club. I don’t see your honorary membership papers, Babcock.”
“You guys are no fun,” Simmons complained. “You work up a good head of steam at each other but once someone else jumps in, you close ranks and fight back to back. Where’s the fun in that for us?”
“You want fun?” Starsky gestured at the squadroom doors. “Go play hopscotch in the street.” When the other men went back to their paperwork, grumbling, Starsky clucked his tongue until Hutch looked at him. “Hey,” he said in a low voice. “Thought you were used to seeing me cut a swath through the single female population?”
Hutch packed all of his hurt and betrayal into a deadly glare, knowing he’d have to bury it quickly in that special hole later anyway. “You want to cut a swath? Cut away. But do you have to include a girl who’s trying her damnedest to cut a swath through my career with a groundless sexual harassment railroad job!?”
“I think you’ll find that little complaint is history,” Starsky said with his best enigmatic smile.
Hutch leaned over the table so anyone in the room would have to strain to hear his next words. “Starsky, if by that you mean you took that harpie to bed and used your dubious talents in that arena to convince her to drop the complaint, then on the whole, I would’ve preferred to be skewered through the balls by the entire IA Division.”
Starsky swallowed, then coughed and couldn’t stop coughing. Hutch thrust his coffee mug at his choking partner. Starsky grabbed for it, nearly toppled off the back of the chair, and thumped the donut bag against his chest while he tried to wash down the wayward bite of donut.
“Hutchinson!”
Starsky had to grab the edge of the table not to fall over at the loud voice behind him. Juggling the coffee mug, donuts, and his own balance, Starsky presented a hilarious picture, and Hutch was the only detective in the room not laughing. Dobey didn’t count. The man couldn’t have laughed at Red Skelton tricking Buster Keaton into slipping on a banana peeling after the week he’d had.
“Yeah, Captain?”
“I was supposed to get the Garner report from R&I yesterday afternoon, and it’s still not in my office. I’ve tried calling down there, but I’m getting the runaround.”
Hutch rose quickly, thrilled at the excuse to get out of Starsky’s sight. “You know what, Captain? I’ll go right down there myself and give this little matter the personal touch. I’ll have that file in your hands in less than half an hour, guaranteed.”
Starsky had regained his equilibrium and was rolling his eyes at Hutch. Dobey gave Hutch a wan smile. “Well–er, thanks, Hutch.”
Hutch chose the stairs for a nice, long walk down to R&I’s domain. He regretted his decision the instant he reached the fourth floor landing and crossed paths with a petite blonde in uniform. He prided himself on walking by her without giving her the Face of Death, but her voice, unusually gentle, stopped him from descending the next flight of stairs.
“Can I help you, Ms. O’Reilly? If you need help filing your paperwork, I’m sure you could find half a dozen people in Metro with some axe to grind against me who’d love to give you tips.”
She frowned. “I wanted to apologize. There won’t be any paperwork.”
Hutch knew the weakness in his knees wasn’t relief but resignation that his guess was correct. Little Miss Dee was the newest notch in Starsky’s gun belt. “Oh, really? To what do I owe this refreshing change of heart? I still haven’t paid my parking notices.”
“Screw the parking tickets,” O’Reilly said sharply. “I was mad at the world in general, Metro Division in particular, and you happened to get in my way, that’s all. Your partner took me out to dinner last night and let me get all my gripes off my chest. I’ve been trying for several years to get into actual police work. You should see my marks from the Academy. They might even rival yours, Detective. But look where I am, and look where you are! I don’t expect to be in plainclothes this soon, but I shouldn’t be plastering tickets on ugly ass cars like yours either!”
Hutch raised his finger and prepared to lecture her on the LTD’s hidden qualities, but his inner grown-up rose to the fore. “And that’s all it took to change your mind about me, letting you get your frustration out in the open?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” O’Reilly smiled. “David gave me some good advice. He explained that it’s really a game more than a ladder, and sometimes, for good enough cause, you have to bend the rules as long as you don’t compromise ethics or safety. I think he meant I shouldn’t be afraid to be flamboyant. Make my presence felt, you know, but not by lodging complaints against hard-working cops. He told me some of the things you and he did before you were promoted. Cases you worked on, how you had to learn to get around departmental jealousy and back-biting.”
Hutch felt his self-righteousness dwindling. “I’m glad he was able to help.”
O’Reilly suddenly blushed and looked all of sixteen. “May I ask you something personal about your partner? I mean, no one knows a guy like his partner, right?”
“Sure, why not, ask away. Least I can do in return for being spared an IA grilling.”
“David was quite the gentleman. But a little too gentlemanly, doggone it. He had me home by my teenage curfew! Is he seeing someone special, or do I just need to come on a little stronger next time? Or is he the kind of guy who prefers to do all the coming on?”
Warmth filled Hutch’s chest. Starsky hadn’t slept with her! He could tell by her blush that she hoped the answer was negative, but there was a vulnerable quality in her eyes that warned him she would take it personally if he implied that Starsky was free as a bird but hadn’t deemed her offer all that tempting. “Uh, he’s–coming off one of those troubled relationships. Long distance thing, you know.” Long distance, hell! There was no bridge that could span the distance between straight and gay. “I think he’s just a little gun-shy.”
The answer was the right one. O’Reilly beamed at him, nodding. “I thought that might be the case. Well, I’ll just give him space and let him come to me. Thank you, Hutch.”
He could only watch in silence as she ascended the stairs he’d just come down. He shrugged off the remnants of his surprise and by the next flight of stairs he was whistling. When he got back to the squadroom fifteen minutes later, Garner file in hand, he thwapped Starsky on the head with the folder. “So, tell me, where does the world’s best partner want to go for lunch today?”
Admittedly an odd question to ask just minutes after breakfast, and Starsky eyed him with acute concern for Hutch’s sanity clear in the expression.
“Oh, come on, Starsk. Close your gaping mouth before the whole squadroom smells like a hellish combination of jelly donuts and foul station coffee. I ran into Dee O’Reilly on the way to R&I, and she cleared up a few things for me.”
Starsky’s wide-open mouth moved into a smirk. “Does this mean the world’s best partner not only gets to pick the locale but also has his lunch tab picked up by the world’s second best partner?”
Hutch groaned. “Within reason, Starsky, and don’t make me take you somewhere I’ll have to drink a Tums milkshake afterward. By the way, you could clear something else up for me.”
“What?”
“When you asked O’Reilly out, you couldn’t have known about the harassment complaint. So, what was the draw?”
Starsky’s smirk turned evil. “Back then I wanted the chance to convince her that your rolling garbage heap is shabby enough without a coating of parking tickets.”
Hutch hid a smile. “You know what, I ought to make you walk to lunch, wherever you pick.”
He ducked into Dobey’s office and handed over the file, getting a subdued grunt of thanks for his trouble. God, he hated his job. He hated the wear and tear on the human spirit, even a spirit as strong as Harold Dobey. But for now the job gave him Starsky and nearly seventy-five percent of Starsky’s time, and until something enormous tipped the balance, the scales still weighed in favor of carrying a badge. Yeah, his day would be just fine if Starsky didn’t choose somewhere like Thai Fire for lunch.
~*~*~
“….you’d have a bright future in law enforcement, Huggy, if you’d give up the suds-and-pool business. Dobey was the closest I’d ever seen him to singing your praises after you produced those diamonds. We may have lost the Baron, but we saved the hotel’s reputation and the city one hell of a lawsuit.”
“No thanks, golden boy. I’ve got my hands full right here, and nothin’ suits me like suds. ‘Sides, what would you lone avengers do without your personal ear to the street?”
“Lone avengers? Huggy, the word ‘lone’ doesn’t usually go in front of a plural.”
“Does in this case. Your other half’s sitting over there like a curly-topped lump on a log.”
Starsky couldn’t take his eyes off the patron across the bar at the counter. Six-feet tall in platform linen wedges, she wore a pantsuit that looked fresh out of Elizabeth Taylor’s ’50s-era closet. Her hair coiled in an elaborate strawberry-blonde braid around her face but dropped in free waves down her back. When she turned, presenting him her profile, Starsky gasped at the masculine cut to her features and the subtle bulge at her throat that could only be an Adam’s apple.
“Starsk?”
He couldn’t answer Hutch or respond to the nudge he felt in his shoulder. Suspended between the Pits circa ’78 and Brooklyn circa ’54, he gave in to yet another memory that ripped through locked doors in his mind.
Davey clutched the ballgame program in popcorn-grease stained fingers and rested in the perfect comfort of his father’s arm around his shoulder in the taxi. “We won, Pop.”
“That we did, slugger. That Mantle is something else! Just a rookie a couple of years back, and look at him now! He’ll be the next Ruth, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Aw, Mike,” their driver said, looking over his shoulder at them. “You guys gotta lot a’nerve livin’ in Brooklyn and pulling for those Bronx bums.”
“Hey, Sal, if Mantle gets traded to the Dodgers, I’ll consider pullin’ for them. In the meantime, Duke Snyder’s got nothin’ on that big, blond Midwesterner. The boy hits the ball like Superman, not an Oklahoma farm kid.”
“Ooh, look’a here,” Sal said, easing the cab over into the right lane. “I see a fare I just gotta stop for, Mike, you mind?”
Pop whistled. “I see what you mean, Sal. No, pull on over, we’ve got time.”
Davey craned his neck to look, too. A tall woman in a party dress was hailing their cab. She looked like a movie star and Davey felt butterflies in his stomach. When the cab stopped, and the woman came closer, she was even taller. Sal muttered something that Davey knew he wasn’t supposed to say in front of kids, and started to pull away from the curb again, but Pop sat forward in his seat.
“Sal, you’ve stopped.”
“Yeah, but Mike!”
“Mister, please,” the woman’s voice sounded funny. Not quite high but not low either. “I just need to go five blocks, but these heels are murder on my feet.”
“Then wear the kind of shoes you’re supposed to, freak.” Sal jerked a thumb at the backseat. “Go on, get in. I won’t turn down your money.”
“Thank you.” The woman slid into the backseat beside Davey and gave him a soft, shining smile, her teeth white and perfect. “Out at the ballgame, sport?”
“Hey, you gonna ride in my cab, you’re not even gonna think about talkin’ to that kid!”
“Sal!” Pop said in his mean-business voice. “David’s my son. I’ll decide who can talk to him, if you don’t mind.” Davey couldn’t understand why they were arguing about the nice lady.
“Hey, lady,” Sal made the word sound bad. “Don’t you know it’s against the law for you to be out in public like that? Mike, why don’t you do your duty, huh? Got in the wrong cab, girlie, you’re sitting two feet away from one of the NYPD’s finest.”
The lady suddenly had the kind of fear on her face that Davey felt when he’d watched War of the Worlds. Pop didn’t smile at the lady, but he didn’t smile at Sal, either. “I’m off duty, Sal, and on an outing with my son. I think you’re the one who needs to remember there’s a minor in this taxi, if you don’t want this to be the last ride I take with you.”
Sal waved a hand at the backseat. “Okay, okay, fine.”
The rest of the way to the lady’s stop was quiet. When Sal pulled over, and the lady reached into her little purse, Sal looked even angrier, but he snatched the change from her hand. Frowning at Sal, Pop then tipped his hat at the lady. “Ma’am.”
“Chivalry is most certainly not dead.” She winked at Davey. “I’m a Yankees fan, too.”
“Get on out!” Sal yelled.
When he and Pop got home, Davey couldn’t wait to tell his mother and little Nicky about Yankee Stadium, but for some reason when he opened his mouth, he told her all about the cab ride instead. “She looked like a movie actress, Ma. With a fancy dress, but her feet were hurting, and Sal told her she oughta be wearing the right kind of shoes. He wanted Pop to arrest her, Ma, but Pop won’t tell me why. What’s wrong with wearing a party dress? Oh, and she talked funny, and she was a Yankees fan, and she told Pop something about–“
“David!” Ma’s welcome home smile disappeared, her voice suddenly cold and sharp like an icicle. “Go to your room. Take Nicky with you.”
“But, Ma–“
“Now, David!”
“Rebekah….”
“You wait just a minute, Michael. Wait until your sons are out of the room.”
Davey knew better than to hang around when Ma sounded like that. He took five-year-old Nicky by the hand and led him down the hall to the room they shared. But when Nicky went over to the toy corner and started playing with Davey’s train set, Davey cracked the bedroom door just enough to hear the conversation in the living room.
“I can’t believe you let a pervert like that in the same cab with your son!” Ma was saying.
“Rebekah, he was harmless. David didn’t know the difference. Sal was the problem. If I’d let Sal keep on running his big mouth, David would have been more confused than he is now.”
“You should’ve arrested him like Sal said!”
Davey’s eyes got big. Him? The lady in the dress was a him? How was that possible? It wasn’t even Halloween!
“I was off duty!” Pop didn’t yell, but he sounded very angry. “You would’ve wanted me to do that in front of David? Who would have explained to him why I was arresting a nice lady in a fancy party dress for riding in a cab on a hot Saturday afternoon?”
“Well, someone needs to! You’re just letting him see things he shouldn’t without telling him why he shouldn’t! We’re put on this earth the way we’re meant to be, and these perverts trying to change themselves to be like what they want, it’s–it’s against nature.”
“That’s enough, Rebekah!”
“And I’m your wife, don’t you respect my feelings?”
“Rebekah, I’ve loved and respected you since we were both eighteen and barely out of school. I’ve never loved anyone more than I love you and my kids. But you don’t own my convictions. I’ve seen what hate does out there. I’ve had to clean up the messes after it. You haven’t had to see it face to face. I won’t teach my sons to mistreat people just because they’re different than we are. If you want to teach them that, you’d better not do it in front of me, is that clear?”
“Michael.”
“No, Rebekah. Less than a month after I got your letter that David had been born, I was walking into Dachau with the 3rd Battalion–”
Ma made a scared sound. “You’ve never talked about–“
“Well, I’m talking about it now! What me and the guys in my rifle company saw when we walked into that camp was nothing but hate on the largest scale imaginable! And I had to walk around there knowing those wasted bodies with their souls hanging by a thread were our people. That it was true, somebody out there hated us enough to want to wipe us all off the face of the earth.”
“Michael, it’s not the same–“
“The hell it isn’t! I mean it, Rebekah, as long as I’m breathing, David and Nicky will grow up in a world, or at least a home, where hate doesn’t have a place. So you can think what you want about men in dresses, but you keep it to yourself or take it out on me, not David!”
“Starsky, what the hell is wrong with you!”
Starsky blinked. The hallway was gone. The voice so loud in his ear had the underlying kindness of Pop’s, but none of the accent. A large hand flashed in front of his face, side to side, up and down, and Starsky swatted at the hand. “Hey!”
“He’s back to the land of the living,” Huggy crowed. “Hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, friend, but that trance of yours is wasted on Ms. Rita over there. She’s not your type.”
Still discombobulated inside, Starsky pushed his beer glass away. “Oh, I don’t know; we got a lot in common. Neither one of us satisfied with what we were put on the earth to be.”
“What the hell?” Hutch’s voice switched from alarm to worry-tinged anger.
Starsky’s headshake didn’t clear the cobwebs. He needed water on his face. Quiet. Somewhere to think. He stumbled out of his chair and hurried to the back hall and restrooms.
~*~*~
Hutch started to follow his partner, but Huggy put a warm hand on his forearm. “Leave him be, Hutch. Couldn’t you tell he don’t want company? And did he say what I think he said?”
“That’s one of the most un-Starsky things I’ve ever heard out of his mouth,” Hutch said, rubbing his forehead and pouring the remainder of Starsky’s beer into his own half-full glass. “But he’s been doing that lately.”
“Since the two of you stopped hitting the sack together?” Huggy asked in his soft, “sensitive information” voice.
Hutch let Starsky’s glass slip from his hand, and it wasn’t paranoia that made him feel every eye in the bar turn his way at the crack of breaking glassware. With some bartender’s sleight of hand, Huggy produced a dingy rag and whisked spilled beer and broken glass into a dripping bundle that he deposited on the adjacent table for the busboy. That same bartender’s magic somehow discouraged all the curious stares, removing the “spotlight” from Hutch. Background conversation reached its usual noisiness, and someone cranked up a pounding jukebox tune that could have covered an artillery barrage.
Huggy’s frown scolded him. “Give me credit, Blondie, and do me the favor of not breaking every good glass in my establishment. Separately, you guys got a prayer of keeping things from me. But anytime I see you together, I can read the lay of the land sure enough. You didn’t have to tell me when it started for me to know it started. I didn’t need a formal announcement to know when it ended. Don’t know the whys or wherefores, don’t have to.”
Hutch picked up his own beverage, holding the glass aloft in a tight grip to show Huggy there was no danger of a repeat. “I keep asking myself, did I screw up his wiring inside, letting him try to play a role he was never meant to? You know what he asked me recently? Asked me if I played with dolls when I was a kid. Of course, at the time he was three sheets to the wind on corn liquor!”
“Well, hell, Hutch, put a beer boy like Starsky on high octane homebrew, it’s a wonder he didn’t ask you in Portuguese!” Huggy laughed. “‘Sides, speaking of wires gettin’ twisted, didn’t that woman-in-drag killer really do a number on Curly? Drugged him up, nearly had him filleted before you got there in true hero fashion? Maybe that’s still got him tied in knots about people dressing like the other gender. Or maybe he’s just twisted in knots, period. He was having a rotten string of luck there for a while, worst I seen in years. And I don’t know if I buy your nonsense about biorhythms, neither.”
“Yeah, I’m glad Minnie didn’t catch wind of that bad luck. She might’ve said something to Starsky that he wouldn’t want to hear.” Hutch took another lengthy draught of beer.
“Wanna spell that one out for me, professor?”
“Minnie? Minnie Kaplan, you know her. She works with us; she’s been in here for drinks with us. Oh, you mean what she would’ve said?” Hutch shook his head. “Never mind, not important. And Monique Travers wasn’t in drag, Huggy, She was suffering from multiple personality disorder, and her protective personality happened to be male. Starsky knows the difference. This is something else. Something personal.”
“I don’t follow.” Huggy scooped a handful of peanuts from the basket he’d brought over to the table with their beers.
“Well, take this last case. Last year when we were working that extortion sting you and Turkey got in the middle of, Starsky had no problem going under as the cliché fey hairdresser. This time, he made himself the straightest, womanizing male hairdresser ever to wield a comb and curlers. You wouldn’t believe the attention he drew from patrons who didn’t expect a heterosexual Don Juan giving them a permanent wave!”
Huggy nodded, munching on the peanuts, and tapped Hutch’s hand with two salty fingers. “Your trouble is, you’re too close to the situation. To me, m’man Starsky looks like a dude trying to figure himself out, trying to find his way in a foreign country with no map, but he’s gettin’ static from somewhere. Something’s interfering with the right signals. One thing’s for sure; it ain’t you.”
“How the hell can you be so sure it isn’t me?” Hutch waved a hand at his hair and mustache, fingered his necklaces, his open-chested denim shirt. “I’ve changed and left him behind. When I met him at the academy, he had some hang-ups, but he quickly became one of the most tolerant, open-minded cops on the Force. Hell, I couldn’t say anything about his hang-ups. In the Academy and the first few years on the streets I was trying so hard to hide there wasn’t a closet too small. But Starsky was there through all of it. And, God, you should’ve seen him that night in The Wildewood. So curious, eager, embracing! That’s the Starsky I’ve always known. Now, he’s heading in the opposite direction, and I can’t help but believe I’m the reason!”
Huggy coughed against his fist and Hutch closed his eyes, certain Starsky had come up behind him too quickly for Huggy to silence the outpouring of frustration. Starsky knelt beside the chair and casually draped an arm over Hutch’s knee. Damp ringlets dipped over his forehead, curling around his ears, likely fresh from drowning his face in Huggy’s sink. Looking up into Hutch’s heated face, Starsky tugged on the gold chain that dangled the squiggly pendant.
“You’re the reason,” Starsky whispered, “I still believe any of us can ever really know who the hell we are. You figured out who you are, and you’ve been fighting for it ever since, every way you can. You always were good-lookin’. Now you’re knock-’em-dead, inside and out. Doesn’t take a whole pound of cock lust for me to see that. Don’t ever let me hear you down on yourself for being you.”
Trembling inside from Starsky’s words and hoping it didn’t show on the outside, Hutch had to focus on practicalities to keep from pulling Starsky up into a tongue kiss in front of Huggy and the late-night Pits crowd. If honest with himself, he cared less about the crowd than what the kiss would do to Starsky’s already fragile equilibrium, but he knew Starsky would respond to the threat of danger. “You need to get up, Starsk. This place isn’t exactly empty, and we’re in our territory.”
Starsky followed his gaze around the bar, wrinkling his nose at the heavy cigarette smoke fog. “So? People have seen me draped all over you in one of Huggy’s bars since our first year out of uniform. We’re not ditching anything in our partnership, Hutch. I decided that after that dance contest. If we do, I won’t be able to hack it. Any of it. Listen, I’m going through some unexpected shit right now, but what it is, it’s all me. It’s all about me. It’s not you, not your fault. You promise me you’ll remember that if I get a little dicey to handle?”
Hutch thought his vocal chords might have atrophied because they sure as hell weren’t helping him produce speech. Huggy cleared his throat. “Unless I heard wrong, I think the man just asked you something, Goldilocks.”
Hutch gently pulled his pendant from Starsky’s fingers. “I promise. You plan to let me in on some of that unexpected shit?”
Starsky smiled but the expression was paradoxically sad. “Yeah, soon as I figure it out enough to call it more’n just ‘unexpected shit.’ Huggy, you were gonna get that article on ESP for me?”
“Think you need to be messin’ with otherworldly stuff if you’re already surfing big waves, bro?”
“Huggy, Dobey’s hauling Hutch and me in tomorrow for about twelve hours of paperwork catch-up, which means we probably won’t see the sunlight until day after tomorrow. Once Dobey gets going on this kinda kick, even Edith’s pork roast and seven-layer cake can’t snap him out of it. So I’ll need something otherworldly, believe me.”
Huggy nodded. “I hear ya. One article on tapping into your hidden talent for ESP coming right up, gents. Back in a sec.”
~*~*~
Alone. Starsky had never felt so goddamned alone. Hutch was laid up in the hospital from a slug of lead that missed his heart by less than a hand length, and Starsky couldn’t bring himself to talk about the case with his partner, his only real partner, for fear that the very mention of it would somehow mystically trap Hutch in the same deadly danger of that horrible morning.
He’d never forget Hutch slumped in that hallway, bleeding from the chest and mourning his inability to shoot a kid who hadn’t had any qualms about shooting him. Starsky had knelt in front of him, too terrified to spit, because Hutch in that moment sounded like a man too good for this world, the kind of hero that had to fall because karma was screwed to shit, and only the good die young, and all that other universal craziness.
Like Pop.
Sitting in the ER, waiting for someone to shatter his soul in a million pieces with the confirmation that the universe had demanded its golden boy back after all, Starsky had run across the spirit of his own grandmother at the best and worst possible time. He’d let her soothe him as if he were ten years old, drank her soup, and soaked in her love and positive outlook on the world. But Starsky couldn’t shake his knowledge that the world was a cesspool half the time in which men like Hutch were laid flat on operating tables because they couldn’t abandon their inherent goodness even in self defense.
Left alone with his fear and heartache after the doctor called Mrs. Greene back to the treatment room, Starsky had succumbed to another time-travel excursion against his will. The long-buried memories were rising from the dead more frequently now, more vividly than ever before, and in this one he fell back through decades to the last time he had felt “angry at the world” aloneness.
David was supposed to stay in the room with his grandmother and Nicky. The once feisty lady who had introduced him to the joys of Italian food was now bedridden with the sickness ma said would be over soon. Over, because Gramma would be dead.
Dead like Pop. Dead like Laura Anderson.
Out in the little living room, Ma was visiting with Uncle Al and Aunt Rose, who were about to leave for LA. Nicky was napping, curled up at the foot of Gramma’s bed, and David couldn’t stand the silence in the room, broken only by his grandmother’s labored breathing. He crept to the door and peeked out, wanting to be a part of the grown-up discussion if only in secret.
“Rebekah, this is–this is sudden.” Uncle Al sat in the old wing chair with the lace thingy draped over its back. “You’ll need help with Nick as he gets older. David’s getting to be an age where he could be a real help to you. We have room, and we’d love to have him, but I don’t understand–“
“He needs a man in his life, Al, don’t you see that? Over the last year since Mike…I’ve come to see that!” Ma dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Someone has to make a man out of him! Michael was too busy teaching him those ideals of his. Where did Michael’s ideals get him? Dead, that’s where it got him!” Aunt Rose put her arm around Ma’s shoulders. “And not just dead, but set up by the people he trusted, the so-called Blue Wall he believed in! He was trying to protect mobsters from an illegal police operation! What were those hoodlums to us, for Mike to risk his life for them? But Mike said if they couldn’t be gotten legally, he didn’t want to get them. So now I’m the widow of a ruined cop, and I had to accept help from Joseph Durniak to pay for Mike’s burial costs.” She broke down, sobbing, and Aunt Rose rocked her in a tight embrace.
“Rebekah, you’ve had it rough, you and the boys. That’s what I’m saying. It’s hard for us to imagine how you could let your boy go with us at a time like this.”
Go with them? David held his breath. Did Ma want him to go visit California?
“Look at him, Al! He’s a pretty boy, too pretty for his age. Those big blue eyes of Mike’s and those curls. And what boy his age stops spending time with other boys and forms such a fast friendship with the little Shiksa next door?”
David felt anger boil up inside him. What was wrong with being friends with Laura? Ma had never told him he couldn’t go over to the Andersons. He’d stopped hanging around his other friends because they told nasty lies about Pop working for the mob, and David didn’t want to fight them. He thought fighting them would just worry Ma. Maybe he should have fought with them. Maybe something was wrong with him because he didn’t. And he wasn’t pretty! How could she say he was pretty?
“Rebekah, you’re starting to worry me. If David takes after Mike, you have nothing to be concerned about. Mike was solid as a rock.”
“I was his wife!” Ma clasped the handkerchief to her mouth. “I know how solid he was! But even solid men need to stay alive to raise their sons. Without Mike to look out for him, David will never survive here. I’m not worried about Nicky. He’s a tough little boy. David’s another story. You take him with you, Al; you take him and teach him how to be a man. Show him how to survive in this world. Tell him what happens to men who can’t see anything but their ideals. Don’t let him end up like Michael!”
Unable to stand it any longer, David ran out into the living room. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks, but he couldn’t stop them. “I don’t wanna go!” he sobbed. “Ma, don’t make me go. I wanna stay here. I wanna be like Pop. Why can’t I stay here with you and be a cop like Pop?”
He tried to hug his mother, but she held him by the shoulders at arms length and lightly shook him. “David! Young men do not cry. Do you hear me? Especially young men without fathers. Young men without fathers have to be tougher than all the other boys, do you understand?”
“Hey, slugger,” Uncle Al said, slapping David on the back in the man-to-man way that Pop had done sometimes. “You’ll like it in LA. You’ll have room to play ball. And you can help me in my garage. You always said you’d like to see my garage. You can be just like your father. There’s a policeman who lives next door to us. I bet he’d be happy to tell you all about what it’s like to be a cop in LA, and Rose says his wife Maggie makes better brownies than hers!”
Aunt Rose stood and held out her hand to David. “Come on, Davey, let’s go in the kitchen and see if there’s another piece of cake with your name on it.” David looked at Ma, who nodded, and he took Aunt Rose’s hand. She pulled him against her, cradling him to her side, and ruffled his curls.
Ma frowned at her. “Rose, don’t you coddle him.”
Aunt Rose held David tighter and her face wasn’t pretty when she looked at Ma. “Rebekah, I respect the tragedy you’ve been through and the sacrifice you’re making for your child, but if your son is going to be living in my home, I’ll coddle him all I please, and if you don’t mind my saying so, or even if you do, I think he could’ve used some more coddling from you. Come along, Davey.”
A noise from Gramma’s room made Ma jump up from the old sofa. “Nicky?” She hurried toward the room. “Nicky, Mama’s coming.”
Aunt Rose and Uncle Al nodded at each other over David’s head, and then Aunt Rose took him into the kitchen for chocolate cake. David choked back the rest of his tears. He’d never cry again. He wouldn’t. So there!
Starsky had felt the shards of memory cutting him inside ever since he left the ER, armed only with the promise from a flighty ER nurse that Hutch was really holding his own. Why the hell were the memories surfacing now? What good could they do him? All this one accomplished was to make him angry at Hutch for taking that bullet. Never mind that Starsky knew he would have hesitated a few deadly seconds if sixteen-year-old Lonnie Craig hadn’t been wearing a ski mask that disguised his youth. That didn’t matter. If anything, that hard lesson should have taught Hutch that a gun was a gun and bullets killed from the hands of children as well as from adults.
Starsky grunted at his own hypocrisy. He could talk a tough game, but he knew he couldn’t have pulled the trigger on the little girl either, and he had to put that same inherent goodness of Hutch’s into the category of things about Hutch that Starsky loved but which scared him to death.
Finding out Dobey had saddled him with a woman for a substitute did nothing to help Starsky regain his inner control. He’d been holding women at arms length off the job, so fate decided to throw one at him where he couldn’t avoid her. And why had he been making his bedroom off limits to women, for God’s sake? First Roxy, then Dee O’Reilly, and the women he encountered during the hotel diamond operation never progressed beyond public spectacles of flirtation. It was as if he’d given women up for Lent, but it was the wrong time of year and he wasn’t Catholic! A more recent memory made Starsky cold despite his cozy bathrobe. A conversation with Hutch he had no right to forget.
“You want me to give up sex with a man? I did before, you’re right. Seven years of feeling like an amputee with phantom pain. You ready to try giving up women for seven years?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because I’m straight, damn it, I don’t swing back and forth. If I give up women, I’ll either have to grow an extra hand to keep up with my libido and end up a blind, hairy, three-handed freak, or land in Cabrillo talking in backward sentences.”
“And I’m gay! What do I grow extra to replace men?”
Starsky cinched his robe until he felt the squeeze around his midsection. He was doing it again, damn it. He’d stopped taking Hutch’s ass because he couldn’t hoist his ass in return, and now that Hutch had no man in his life, Starsky had gone on a starvation diet with women to match. If he couldn’t fall for the right person, he’d apparently decided not put himself out there in anyone’s path, and damn the consequences to his own sanity. Who knew he was so bloody good at self-fulfilling prophecy? He was already close to landing in Cabrillo, if that sideshow Tarzan-Jane shit he pulled on Meredith was a sign of things to come! Or hell, maybe that had been his subconscious trying to push her away, too, before she could think about his bed.
“Phillip,” Starsky told his hapless fern. “We need to get you a lady.”
And while we’re at it, we need to get me one, too.
The doorbell saved him from his thoughts. Starsky squared his shoulders and summoned all his charm and charisma. If that was Meredith at his door, and she gave him the slightest come-on sign, they’d still be in bed together when the sun came around again.
High time he quit mourning that his sorry excuse for a dick didn’t get hard at the sight of men, even the one true perfect man. High time he started acting like the man he was, the straight man he was. And he could damn well stop wishing he’d been the one wielding that razor for Hutch’s hospital shave instead of a pretty nurse Hutch had paid such polite attention.
~*~*~
Starsky watched Meredith walk down the corridor from Dobey’s office. They knew where they stood. They had each other’s respect. They knew they had no future together. No hard feelings, no damage done. Ready to offer his partner a ride home, he turned to Hutch…and withered. Hutch was looking at him with the appreciation a bug sprayer showed for a cockroach.
“Hey, partner–”
“Don’t,” Hutch said with deadly quiet. “Your partner just traipsed on down the hallway there. You can catch her if you run. Won’t even have to break a sweat.”
Starsky reached for Hutch’s healthy arm, but Hutch jerked away from him. “Come on, that’s not funny. Look, let me take you home. You have to be exhausted. Hell, you oughta be back in the hospital letting those nurses wait on you hand and foot! You shouldn’t have come in for the debriefing with Dobey this morning. Meredith and I had the information he needed.”
“Oh, now you’re concerned all of a sudden? You can put your concern the same place you put your pity, Starsky. I’ll find my own way home. You’ve got paperwork to finish up, and you won’t even have to listen to my out-of-rhythm typing. And another thing: if you show up at my place any time today, it’d better be to tell me the sky’s falling and you’re Chicken Little in disguise.”
Starsky didn’t know how long he stayed in the hall after Hutch disappeared around the corner. Unwilling to go back through Dobey’s office to the squadroom, he took the long way around back to his desk. A never-ending day filled with the bureaucratic aftermath of case closure stretched before him with no sarcastic partner across the table to commiserate with, no paperwork-pissy Hutch to taunt and prod until they got a good snarl fest going that relieved their boredom.
The day stretched not only long but miserable.
Starsky broke two typewriter ribbons trying to correct a paper jam, bit off part of the aluminum wrapper around his cold beef burrito, and knocked over their piggybank three times when he had to venture over to Hutch’s cluttered part of the desk for necessary files.
At a loss, he tried calling Hutch, who picked up on the second ring and said, “Starsky, I didn’t give you permission to call me.”
Staring at the receiver, Starsky started to make a crack about Hutch’s ESP being better than his, but Hutch didn’t sound ready for jokes. Maybe it would make Hutch feel better to know how empty Starsky’s day was without him. “Listen, Mr. Prickly Pear, it’s lousy here without you. I’ve suddenly got all thumbs and zero hand-eye coordination.”
“Good,” Hutch snapped and hung up.
Starsky listened to the dial tone for about ten seconds, then slammed the receiver down in its cradle. Muttering, he grabbed the phone again. Three rings passed before Hutch answered with a barely coherent snarled greeting. “And since when do I need permission to call you?!” Starsky yelled at him.
Hutch’s laughter was pure evil, and Starsky had to hold the receiver away from his ear, cringing. “Since you can’t find a thank you for the dumb putz who signed out against medical advice and bleeding all over the place, to come after your sorry ass, just for starters.”
Starsky was grateful the squadroom had emptied out after lunch. “Hey, if you’re dragging out the Yiddish flash cards, buddy, get your definitions right. I’m the putz around here, and don’t think I don’t know it. I’m also feeling like I need training wheels for my badge all over again. First I walked right into crazy Monique’s trap and then yesterday I’m sitting out there eagle-eying Trane’s place and the same pint-sized female Dillinger who put you out of commission gets the drop on me. Today I can’t even handle office supplies.”
“You know what, Starsky? Looks like I didn’t fool the universe after all. It’s your turn, Casanova. Hope you enjoy a good spanking from the invisible hand; you’ve earned it!”
Starsky didn’t wait for the dial tone to slam down the receiver after that. Back to mind-numbing paperwork, worried sick about Hutch, he’d worked up a good, low-volume cussing streak by the time Minnie came in to deliver a batch of records to Dobey. On her way back through, she brought over a candy bar and held it right in front of his nose. “Having a bad day, Starsky honey?”
Starsky tried to smile for her. He did accept her offering, unwrapping and nibbling at the candy to show his appreciation. “Hell, Min, I’m really off my game. Hutch tried to tell me it’s my biorhythms. I’m starting to believe him, but I don’t know how much I can buy from a guy who’s talking about invisible hands and Chicken Little.”
Minnie plopped right down on the table to his side and folded her arms. “What did Hutch say about invisible hands?”
“Something about a spanking from the invisible hand–ow, Minnie, God, what’d you do that for!” Starsky grabbed his shoulder where Minnie had packed a singularly powerful punch.
“David Starsky, whose heart have you been out there breaking?!”
~*~*~
“Zebra Three, come in Zebra Three.”
Starsky stretched awkwardly for the mic in the middle of a sharp left turn. “Zebra Three.”
“Stand by for patch-through from Huggy Bear.”
“Standing by.”
“Starsky?”
“Yeah, Hug, what you got for me?”
“You still out looking for Hutch?”
“You know it.”
“He’s found.”
“But, Huggy, I just called and you said–”
“He wasn’t here then! I don’t know where he was twenty minutes ago. He’s been here about ten. Took that long for me to feel I could leave him on his lonesome and call you.”
“How many has he had?”
“Two, so far.”
Starsky sighed. “Okay, two’s not bad, a little much for ten minutes, but still, I can fix that.”
“Uh-uh-uh, Starsky,” Huggy said, sounding oddly like Hutch. “This one’s not a regular two-glass pout. When he first got here, he started to bum a cigarette off me, but changed his mind and said if he took to smoking every time you gave him cause nowadays, he’d have emphysema at fifty.”
Starsky boggled the mic in his shock. He remembered tasting nicotine on Hutch’s breath that night at The Wildewood, and Hutch’s reassurance the next morning that it was a one-time thing. Right, a one-time thing until Starsky turned his life into a waking nightmare. Well, there was no call to let Huggy in on that private Hell. “Hutch doesn’t smoke unless he has to for a cover op!”
“You know that, I know that, tell him that!” Huggy agreed. “Seems the more accurate frequency is when he’s undercover and the one or two times per year his whole world gets turned upside down. So, whatever it is you done, you need to get your butt here and turn his world back upright again.”
When would they ever learn that Huggy always knew more than even they gave him credit for? Starsky felt an odd throbbing in his shoulder where Minnie had popped him one. God, if only he could turn Hutch’s world upright again! “Whatever–? You mean, he didn’t tell you?”
“No, man, he ain’t told me. He’s sitting here slumped over my counter and actually payin’ attention to the bad disco on the jukebox!”
“Oh, shit!” Starsky said in his astonishment.
Huggy’s laugh was sour. “Yeah, pretty much my reaction, too. Somewhere Willie Nelson and that pretty Sue Ann Grainger are thinkin’ they failed their little boy. I’d get your tail here quick.”
Approximately eight minutes later, more than five thanks to a no-lights ambulance that wouldn’t oblige and get the hell out of his way, Starsky walked into a bar jam-packed with people having late lunches, kicking back and mellowing out to music and the atmosphere. The least mellow person was the sole patron at the bar counter. He was also the only patron wearing a sling over his white shirt that showed a faint tinge of rusty red under the sling strap. Starsky made a beeline for that red tinge. “Hutch, you’re bleeding again.”
Hutch groaned and beckoned for Huggy. “You’re a traitor, you know that,” he told Huggy when the barkeep leaned over the counter within earshot. “What happened to your loyalty?”
Huggy put his hands on his hips. “My loyalty in this situation is to my tender ass. It wouldn’t be in good shape after your partner got through kicking it for withholding your whereabouts.”
“Damn right,” Starsky approved. “Give us a few minutes, Huggy?”
“No more than a few, Huggy,” Hutch countered. “That’s all it’ll take for me to tell him to get the hell out of here and leave me alone.”
Huggy glared at Hutch. “No offense, and I hate to be rough on a man bleeding and all, but I liked you better when you were moping to Donna Summer!”
Hutch was now on his third beer. Starsky grabbed the glass away from Hutch’s hand and gestured with it at one of the back corner tables where they would have the illusion of privacy. “Come on, at least sit down where you can rest back against something. You might’ve torn a stitch, and how’d you get here? Don’t tell me you tried to drive your heap in this condition?”
“I have a mother, Starsky. I may not have been able to call her and tell her that I’m fresh out of the hospital from a gunshot wound to the left chest, but I do have a mother. I don’t need another.”
“Fine.” Starsky carried Hutch’s glass over to the table. “You don’t need a mother. You need a partner with some heavy apologies for being an ass, and that’s why I’m here.”
Hutch chose the corner booth and slid in with a groan and twinge that blanched his face. “I don’t want apologies from you, Starsky. I want reasons. You said if you got dicey to handle I should remember it’s not about me. Okay, then, what’s it about? What’s going on with you that you could stand there in that hospital room doorway and tell me your partner was ‘filled in plenty.'”
Starsky had come to apologize for many things, but that one had never crossed his mind. He scratched his forehead, hoping to stimulate his brain and pick up on what offense Hutch could have taken at the harmless joke. “What’s so bad about that? You are filled in plenty, aren’tcha?”
Hutch’s face paled by another shade. “What the–?!”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult. You’re the one who’s been so proud of ‘filling out your jeans’ and ‘coming into your own.’ I told you the other night in here, I like who you are, what you’ve done with yourself. I didn’t think teasing you about it would be a problem.”
“You weren’t talking about Meredith when you said that?”
Starsky could have sworn he felt the heat from a light bulb just overhead. “You thought I meant Meredith?! My jokes aren’t perfect, Hutch, but they’re usually better’n yours. What would’ve been funny about that? Of course, she was filled in on everything; she was out there with me!”
“But I thought…you didn’t want to talk to me about the case–”
“I was scared, you big dope! I’d come six inches from never seeing you alive again. The only way I felt sure you were out of harm’s way was to keep you in the dark. God knows that wasn’t rational thinking, what with you laid up in a hospital bed and attached to IVs, but would you’ve been thinking rational if I’d gotten a slug six inches from my ticker?”
“No.” Hutch put a hand over his sling.
“In case you don’t remember, the last time I took lead anywhere close to my heart, you decided you could take on a couple of cornered hit men in a restaurant by yourself.” At Hutch’s almost humorous silence, Starsky grinned. “And did it too, super cop.”
“Starsky, that doesn’t explain yesterday…or today. When Dobey and I busted in there, you acted like we were both last week’s chopped liver, but me especially. And today in Dobey’s office, I felt I was the third wheel; not in a relationship, in a police partnership!”
“You can call me a putz sure enough for that one. I was trying to make some things up to Meredith but went overboard and clipped you in the process, and I’ve got no words to excuse that.”
“Wait a second. Make what things up to Meredith?”
If Starsky had to swallow the amount of pride needed to confess his treatment of Meredith, he required something to wash it down the right pipe. Normally he would have snatched Hutch’s beer glass and drained half its contents without asking, but under the circumstances, he pointed at the beverage and said, “You mind?” Hutch didn’t even hesitate in pushing the glass over to him. Starsky’s heart sang at the small but significant proof that they were still fixable. He wet his whistle and told Hutch about his rocky first few hours with Detective Second Class Meredith. “I know I’m not the world’s poster boy for women’s lib, but damn it, Hutch, I didn’t know I was a caveman!”
“You were under a lot of stress.” The rationalization sounded lame even in the kindness of Hutch’s voice. “The kind of stress that can alter behavior or exaggerate latent tendencies.”
Starsky needed more than beer to help him confess his theory for the overblown macho trip. What could he say? I’ve been getting these repressed memories from my childhood, Hutch, and I think they’re making me act out, but I don’t know why I’m getting them or why now, or what I’m supposed to do about them. Oh, yeah, and how many weeks do you think the police shrink would sideline me if I let word of this slip? No. Hutch’s plate threatened to break under its full load already. He didn’t need Starsky’s enforced walks down memory lane on top of his own troubles.
“All right, so you pulled some male ego on her. I’m sure she’s seen more than her fair share of that before you got your hands on her.”
Starsky squirmed at the unfortunate turn of phrase. “Well, yeah, now that you mention it.”
Hutch looked at him sharply. “What?”
He pretended to be very interested in the condensation pattern on the glass. “I don’t think you want to hear–”
“Starsky, we’re here to hash this out. So hash already.”
“I took her to bed the night before she had to go under at Trane’s.” Hutch visibly flinched. Starsky nodded. “Yeah, tell me about it. Not the smartest time to lay something like that on an inexperienced under cop. Anyway, I’ve been trying to make amends. Make sure she knows she did okay, she’ll make it. She’ll be the cop she wants to be. She already is.”
“Starsk–”
“I took for granted you’d know what it meant to see you come busting in there for me. I took you for granted. That’s my crime, Hutch. And it’s a doozy. I flat out deserved Minnie telling me all about how I’d broken your heart into bits and pieces that won’t fit together right for a long time. Oh, she didn’t know she was referring to you. I think she’s got it in her head that I seduced Meredith and dropped her.”
“Minnie–when?!”
“After I got off the phone with you, Minnie came by the squadroom and I made reference to what you said. I got one helluva punch to the shoulder and then a Mother Minnie lecture on top of it!”
“Damn.” Hutch put his hand over his mouth and looked down at the table. “I regretted it right after I said it. That’s one of the reasons I decided to get out of the apartment for a while. Didn’t want to be there for you to ring the phone off the hook wanting to know what the hell I was talking about. I didn’t think you’d get it from the source.”
Starsky wanted to ask him if it was true. Not the universal spanking bullshit, but that Starsky had broken his heart. Unfortunately, Starsky saw two problems. Number one, you just didn’t ask a man that kind of question. And number two, Starsky wanted the answer to be “no,” but the sorrow in Hutch’s eyes was too real, too honest, for the answer to be anything but “yes.” Saving them both discomfort, Starsky cut right to what needed to be said. “I never meant for–”
“Stop. Don’t say it.” Hutch raised his hand and had to clutch at his sling, complexion turning pasty. “It’s not–not your fault, Starsky.”
Tired of hearing that it wasn’t his fault, Starsky ached to pound his fists on the table. He wanted someone to tell him how to make things better for his partner. No, he wanted someone to wave a magic wand and make it possible for him to be better for his partner. Without giving it much thought, he said, “Hutch, you’ve got no problem being with a woman. You’ve been with women. Maybe you oughta–”
“I can get it up, if that’s what you mean.” Hutch’s expression grew pained, and Starsky couldn’t tell if the injury or the conversation was to blame. “But my motivation to be with them isn’t the same, and that makes me wary of using them.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t have to be some kind of relationship thing. Let’s face it: sometimes a woman just wants a good screw, just like a guy. If you meet a girl that just wants a quick romp without a ball-and-chain attached to it, why not take her up on it?”
Hutch absently rubbed his sling strap. “I notice you’re not suggesting I go out and find a man for the same purpose.”
Starsky’s gut tightened the way it always did when he thought about Hutch with any other man. “At least with women, I know you won’t get–”
“Won’t get hurt?” Hutch finished with a mocking laugh. “You’re forgetting Diana Harmon? And injury doesn’t have to be physical. I’ve had my share of emotional hurts doled out by women. No, Starsky, an unhealthy relationship is just as dangerous with a woman as it is with a man.”
He didn’t like the way Hutch said that. “You’re not saying what we have is unhealthy?”
“No.” Hutch grimaced again. “Not yet. Just don’t…don’t put me through another couple of days like these last two, Starsky. What we are to each other on the job, that’s the one thing I have with you that belongs to us. Just us. You need to be with women. I get that. I can handle it, or at least, I’m trying. What I can’t handle is some woman intruding on our partnership.”
“Like a female cop? You don’t want me dating Meredith, do you?”
Hutch looked uncomfortable. “You didn’t tell me not to date Johnny. I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I told you to back off from Meredith.”
Bristling, Starsky wanted to give in to the wave of jealousy that nearly always washed over him at the mention of Gage, but that wouldn’t help either of them. “If he’d been a cop, especially a ninth precinct cop, I would’ve had a much harder time with it. I can get what you mean about female cops.” He reached across the table and clasped Hutch’s wrist. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not goin’ anywhere with her. She’s got to find her place on the Force, and let’s be honest, in the LAPD of today a relationship like ours would bring her more shit than she can shovel at this stage in her career.”
Hutch looked away. “I’m sorry we live in a society that makes you two even consider that.”
“Hey, stand in line to kick society’s ass. I’m pissed at it for making things so hard on you. And with Meredith, if we were serious about each other, we could fight through all the hassles, but we’re not, so it’s best to dodge the bullet. But she’s a special woman, and I think I managed to walk out of that office today with a friend instead of an enemy.”
“I’m glad,” Hutch said and Starsky could tell he meant it.
“Now I know we’ve been having a tough talk, but how much of that pain on your face is the topic of conversation and how much is your patch-up job there?”
Hutch winced and rubbed at his sling. He then held up thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “This much the talk.” He widened the fingers to about three inches. “This much the patch-up.”
“What’ll it take for me to convince you to let me drive you by the ER for a doc to have a look?”
“Well, partner…” Hutch made a show of considering the question. “You could spring for a Donna Summer album. I think my plants might grow well to her stuff.”
Hutch had called him partner! In his enormous relief and gratitude, Starsky was willing to call Ms. Summer up and ask her to go by Venice and serenade the ferns in person.
~*~*~
Queasy and still in the ice chip period after surfacing from anesthesia, Hutch lay in the hospital bed and called himself names. Exploratory surgery followed by internal suture repair, the surgeon had told him when Hutch’s eyes fluttered open. His LAPD health insurance plan would just love that. And all his fault, too. Next time he wanted to play knight in shining armor and go after the David in Distress, he should just dispatch the Green Berets to take care of it.
Right. Sure. He was just as likely to join Anita Bryant’s entourage.
The door opened, and Starsky walked in with a thin brown bag clutched tightly in hand. Too nauseated to smile, Hutch gave him the briefest nod possible, and Starsky smiled brightly enough for both of them. He dropped the bag on the room’s other bed and came over to Hutch’s over-the-bed table, zeroing in on the small pitcher of ice chips.
“Want something?”
“A couple of those…thanks.”
Starsky poured a few ice chips into one of the hospital-issue Dixie cups and held the cup up for Hutch with the ease of practice. Several ice chips later, Hutch felt human. “Where’ve you been?”
“When they brought you up here from recovery and I saw you were doin’ all right, I left on a quick errand. They told me you’d be zonked a good while.”
“Too stubborn to stay zonked.”
Starsky laughed. “Yeah, that’s why I ran a quick errand. Brought you something.” He snatched the bag off the other bed and slowly withdrew half of a record album at Hutch’s eye level.
A Donna Summer album. Hutch knew it would hurt to laugh so he didn’t try. “I have a problematic Anthurium that’ll just love ‘Queen for a Day.'”
Starsky slid the album back in its protective bag and rested it on the bedside table beside the telephone. “Is that the plant with the naughty-lookin’ flowers?”
“Yep. Bet the blossoms’ll stand straight up for Ms. Summer there. Thanks, Starsk.”
“How you holding up?”
“I’ve been better, been worse. You know how it is.”
“Hutch–”
“Don’t, Starsky. You would’ve done the same for me, and you know it.”
“Yeah.”
“All right, then. Park your ass on that other bed since the Department’s paying for this to be a ‘private’ room, and get some rest.”
“Mind if I turn on the TV?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Starsky smiled and made a farce of flinging himself onto the other bed, scrunching around to get comfy. He ended up with his back partially to Hutch, his ass in plain view and too delicious for words in those tight jeans. Hutch knew he shouldn’t look. He knew Starsky wouldn’t mind, but for his own sanity, he shouldn’t look.
He couldn’t help himself.
He knew the feel of that ass in his hands, squeezing handfuls while Starsky lunged over him, thrusting into him, those ass muscles working in Hutch’s hands, sweat streaming down Starsky’s face. Hutch gasped, glad the post-anesthesia stupor still had a dampening effect on his cock.
Starsky looked over at him. “You okay, partner?”
“F-fine. I’m gonna catch some shut-eye. Don’t watch anything that’ll rot your brain.” Hutch closed his eyes and tried to locate that special hole inside. Somewhat irrational on the fuzzy drugs, he hoped the surgeons hadn’t located that special place and amputated it. He needed to bury this whole business with Joan Meredith in there. He should be thinking about what would happen when the hole got too full to handle anything else, or if Starsky did something too big and hurtful to fit in the little place.
But right now he needed a nap.
~*~*~
Melinda stroked Starsky’s cheek. “I’m going to stop by the ladies’ room for just a minute before we leave. I was in such a hurry from the Mart, and I’d like to freshen up.” With her blinding smile, she turned to Huggy. “Mr. Bear, if you’d point me in the right direction?”
Huggy twirled both hands in the direction of the back hall and Melinda left with another caress of Starsky’s cheek. Hutch was glad to be free of her clinging arms, but he had to fight not to use his newfound freedom to throttle his partner. How could Starsky even look twice at the woman, knowing what she’d almost cost Hutch?
His life, to be precise.
His dignity he’d handed over to her; he couldn’t blame her entirely for that.
Caught between the rock and a hard place of a blown cover and a cop groupie whose ethics weren’t set in stone, Hutch had taken Starsky’s “advice” and given in to a quick screw. Uninspired by Melinda’s salads-and-water physique, he’d resorted to the cliché of thinking of someone else while in her arms. He couldn’t let himself think of Starsky while touching a stranger. Somehow he’d known the sacrilege in that would have broken his heart beyond what the glue of their partnership could repair. Strapped for safe inspiration, Hutch had conjured up the image of the dancer, Luke Sullivan, and what Melinda didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. After all, she wasn’t in bed with Ken Hutchinson either. She was with her fantasy of an undercover cop. As long as he gave her the warm body to go with her imagination, he had fulfilled her need for the night.
He’d found the release of orgasm, held her on the other side of two of her own, and sank under the oblivion of sleep. An hour later, he was awake and hating himself. The questions barraged him with the violence of bullets: What if she was involved with the fur thefts? What if she squealed to Parker anyway and left Hutch looking a double dupe for sleeping with her and taking her word? And where the fuck was his self-respect all of a sudden? He’d wanted to preserve his own skin, and hopefully his badge. Funny how that badge seemed less worth preserving as each month, or each case, passed.
Pleading urgent police business, he’d hurried from her bed before she could try extorting an encore out of him. Along with a firm goodbye, he left her with a few legal-sounding threats about where she stood in the law enforcement food chain. He hadn’t known she could do more damage on his side than if she had run to Parker in a snit.
And now Starsky wanted to take her out to an intimate dinner?
“Melinda Rogers, Starsky?” He gave the back hallway a cursory glance. “You and Melinda?”
Huggy looked ill at ease. Hutch didn’t blame him. That night in the Pits, Melinda had been vocal about her thrill for “slumming” in Huggy’s bar, but now in her awareness of his connection to the detectives, Huggy was suddenly “Mr. Bear.” Hutch hadn’t exactly been complimentary, but at least Huggy knew full well it was Jack Ives from Bloomington talking that native trash, not Hutch.
Starsky had on his straight from the devil smirk. “Be at the Coast Café in half an hour, and be there undercover. I don’t care what persona you drag out of the closet, just make sure your own mother wouldn’t know you. Ask for a table by the outside dining porch. And Huggy, at exactly 7:35, I want you to start calling the café. Make like you’re Dobey and demand to speak to me on official business.”
“You got an itch to see me doing time?” Huggy canted his head to the side, looking interested. “Not only impersonating a police officer, but a captain?”
“Aw come on, Huggy; it’s for a good cause. Nothing to come back to bite you.”
Huggy shot a sour glance at the back hall. “Hey, I’m game.”
Hutch tugged on Starsky’s jacket hem. “Starsky, what are you up to?”
Starsky tilted his head, rolling his shoulder toward the back hall, and Hutch spotted Melinda on her way back from freshening up. “You’ll see,” he whispered.
Hutch showed up at the café as a country guitar picker, but he’d given him some spit and polish and made him a Nashville Somebody with a rhinestone studded cowboy hat that he kept around for just such a cover. Flashing the right smile and green presidential portrait, he got his requested table and waited for whatever Starsky had up his beige jacket sleeve.
His first clue of something quirky going down came in the form of Bill Walters, G-man extraordinaire, who followed the teenage hostess to a table across the tiny dining room. Out of his drab three-piece and in slacks and polo, Walters could have passed for a junior attorney out for a blind date. Hutch laughed into his wine glass.
Starsky and Melinda showed ten minutes later. Huggy was right on the money time-wise, because one of the other hostesses rushed up behind them and tapped Starsky on the shoulder. “Are you Detective Starsky?”
“I was a few minutes ago,” Starsky answered the girl with sideways grin.
“Your captain is on the phone with urgent business.”
Starsky turned to Melinda and held out her chair for her. “Sorry about this. I’ll be right back.”
She was starry-eyed over the official phone call and beamed her understanding. Hutch snickered and helped himself to another sip of wine. Good wine. Even better floor show.
When Starsky returned a few minutes later, he seemed to sag from the shoulders with overdone apology. “Problem with cops, Melinda, is our captains always know how and where to find us. I’m being called back in on a homicide. Gotta try to locate Hutch. Um, but you–”
“I’ll just stay and enjoy a light supper and perhaps meet up with you later?” she offered.
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to have to eat all alone. Hey, wait a sec–is that? It is! Hey, Bill!” Starsky held out his hand to Melinda and escorted her over to the FBI agent’s table. Hutch had to strain to hear Starsky’s next words, but he caught them as whispers. “Bill, lucky you being here.”
Walters sat up straight in his seat. “Lucky? Luck has nothing to do with it, Starsky, you–”
“Allow me to introduce Melinda Rogers,” Starsky interrupted. “She recently helped us put your reformed angel back in the government’s extended stay retreat.”
“I know who she is, Starsky.” Walters nodded at Melinda, who’d gone from starry-eyed to near euphoric in the presence of a federal agent. “What is she–?”
“Melinda, the only way I could possibly feel right about leaving our date like this is if you have someone to keep you company. Bill, you wouldn’t mind sharing your off-duty dinner with the lovely Ms. Rogers? I’m sure you’d find a lot to talk about.”
Melinda was already sliding into the empty chair at Bill’s table for two. “I’ve always wanted to hear about Quantico,” she said to Bill.
Bill perked right up. “Well, it’s a fascinating place actually.”
Starsky backed away from the table and didn’t even look in Hutch’s direction on his way out of the dining room. Several minutes later, Hutch’s server brought a basket of toasted pita triangles with a folded note tucked in with the bread. Thanking the server, Hutch discreetly unfolded the note.
Keep it to an appetizer and meet me next door at the ice cream shop.
High on the rare gift of being Starsky’s partner, Hutch ordered the quickest-to-eat appetizer on the menu. He could have enjoyed a thousand laughs at the new couple’s expense, but he yearned to be where Starsky was. With a hearty appetite for ice cream, he paid his bill, left an enormous tip in his elation, and hurried next door.
Starsky had ordered a variety bowl for each of them. Hutch’s bowlful had begun to melt, but he could distinguish pistachio, mint chocolate chip, and peanut-fudge. He stirred them all together and enjoyed a dripping spoon’s worth before he said, “Okay, how’d you get Walters there?”
Starsky laughed around his spoonful of black cherry walnut. “Told him I’d give him a courtesy briefing on the case, but only if he came alone and left his fancy-talking partner, Ohlin, at home.”
“And he bought that? Well, obviously he did, he was there, but–Damn. I didn’t know the man was that gullible.”
“Greedy’s what he is,” Starsky corrected. “He’s the kind who wants to show up Ohlin. He thought he’d get the scoop from me and then present it to their bureau chief.”
“And instead he got Melinda Rogers.”
“Yep. I tried to think what fate could possibly be worthy of the woman who blew my partner’s cover, embarrassed him in front of Dobey, and put his life in danger? And then I thought: Bill Walters! They’re made for each other. Ten to one, they’re tying the knot in less than a month.”
“Hee hee. More power to them.” Hutch held out his spoon and clinked it against Starsky’s. “Well done, buddy.” He licked his spoon and got lost for a moment in Starsky’s eyes, wanting so badly to speak his heart. “Starsk, I–”
“I know, Hutch.” Starsky gave him a bashful smile. “That’s always been mutual.”
Right. You could love someone with all your heart and soul and still not be in love with them. Hutch nodded at Starsky’s gentle reminder and kept his “I love you” to himself. “Starsky, you’re not still trying to make amends for a certain underappreciated little rescue operation of mine, are you? Because man, I forgave you soon as my Anthurium fell in love with Ms. Summer.”
Starsky did a marvelous job snorting strawberry cheesecake ice cream up his nose. After an uproar with napkins and dropping his spoon on the floor, he pulled himself together and snatched Hutch’s spoon. “I know that, dummy. I’m just building up some good karma in case I screw up again.”
“Just checking.” He watched Starsky dig into his bowl with the confiscated spoon. “How am I supposed to eat my ice cream now?”
“I guess you don’t get to. You wouldn’t wanna ruin your girlish figure, would you?”
“You need more than good karma to handle the payback for that one, Starsk.”
Starsky winked at him. “Take your best shot, Blondie.”
~*~*~
“You came by after all,” Dixie approved with a smile and kiss on Kel’s cheek.
Kel lightly caressed the fluffed pony tail that coiled over her right shoulder. “I said I would.”
“Yes, but I know how you feel about get-togethers like this.”
“It’s a good cause.”
She watched him scan her crowded apartment until his gaze lighted on Johnny keeping Joe company by the piano. Johnny lifted his head with a laugh at something Joe said and caught Kel’s eye, waving. “There’s just something about Johnny in jeans and a suede jacket,” she murmured in his ear.
“Dix,” he warned.
“But then, you’re looking in top form yourself. That blue shirt always has made your eyes pop, and the cut of those dark slacks is very flattering.” She patted his back and waited for his “you’re on thin ice, Dix” expression.
She didn’t have to wait long. “Dixie, I mean it.” He lowered his voice in deference to the milling crowd of Station 51 firefighters, Rampart staff, and their friends and family. “You got me here. You’d better not try to stir up anything. Johnny has been all business over the last couple of months, and it’s better for both of us. So no set ups, no clever matchmaking, do you understand?”
Dixie wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “Did you ever think he might be acting that way because since that juke joint fracas, you’ve been treating him like he’s fresh out of paramedic training? Oh, you don’t question his ability or talk down to him, but you’re so formal on that radio and whenever he’s around, you should be wearing tux and tails to match!”
“Dixie–”
“Look, all I’m saying, Kel, is you’re both here, both off duty, surrounded by friends. I know there are things you can’t say or do, and that’s a shame, but still, take advantage of this time to interact with him like a fellow human being. How hard is that?”
He smiled for her. “All right. Since you asked so nicely, I’ll try.”
He didn’t try hard enough. Neither of them did. Attempting to play hostess and keep an eye on two of her favorite men at the same time, Dixie watched in mounting frustration as Kel and Johnny performed an elaborate dance of avoidance. Joe didn’t help, damn and bless his solid gold heart. Probably in tribute to Kel’s soft spot for New Orleans, Joe sat down at the piano and pulled out classic Aaron Neville from memory. Dixie could have clobbered him.
“If you want something to play with, go and find yourself a toy…” Joe sang. “Baby, my time is too expensive…and I’m not a little boy.”
Dixie made her way around the crowd with champagne flutes on a tray and saw Johnny and Kel switch corners of the living room yet again with another long look between them.
“If you are serious, then don’t play with my heart, it makes me furious…” Joe didn’t quite hit Neville’s high note, but he had the song’s bluesy mood down cold. “But if you want me to love you…then baby I will…you know that I will.”
Exchanging the discreetly pregnant Joanne DeSoto’s empty water glass for a goblet of apple juice, Dixie looked around for Kel and Johnny and saw blue eyes meet brown over the heads of happily chatting party guests.
“Tell it like it is,” Joe urged, a little off-key. “Don’t be ashamed. Let your conscience be your guide. I know down deep inside me, I believe you love me. Forget your foolish pride.”
She had to get the pigs-in-blankets out of the oven before they burned, because Chet Kelly would dangle her off her balcony by her feet if she ruined his favorite party snack, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the intricate patterns Johnny and Kel wove to keep out of each other’s space.
Then Dixie got the shock of her life, when she spotted Joe’s gaze tracking the same two guests while he sang. “You know life is too short to have sorrow. You may be here today, oh my darling, and you may be gone tomorrow. So you might as well get what you want. So go on and live. Baby, go on and live. Tell it like it is….”
Her first thought was, Oh, God, Joe knows!
Her second thought was, Oh, God, Kel will bolt!
But Kel didn’t bolt. He chatted, mingled, and exchanged laughter with everyone but Johnny, who managed to do the same in reverse. Only their eyes seemed determined never to lose complete connection. The apartment fairly crackled with electric tension, and Dixie couldn’t believe that every female in the room wasn’t as quiveringly aware of it as she was. It was the kind of sexual tension that built up to two people meeting in the middle of a crowd in a knee-buckling kiss, and she wished to hell they’d just do it and get it over with before she broke out in a sweat that ruined her brand-new blouse. Unfortunately, life didn’t imitate Hollywood, and Hollywood wasn’t filming too many homosexual love stories anyway, so Dixie didn’t get her wish.
Kel hit his bolting point about twenty minutes later, and Dixie didn’t even see it coming.
Joe Early was the cause, though Dixie couldn’t blame him. The man had to be goggle-eyed that his party entertainment had passed without an uproar only to see fireworks with something far more innocuous. Taking his duty seriously as co-host, Joe tapped a spoon against his champagne flute to get everyone’s attention. “As you all know, we’re here to celebrate the accomplishments of two of LA County’s finest paramedics, who got word that they passed their captaincy exams with flying colors.”
Roy held up his hand. “Uh, Doc, thanks, but promotions aren’t official yet. Johnny and I still have to go through the interview part of the process and then the committee has to vote.”
“Formalities!” Captain Stanley called out, raising his glass in salute. “You guys are shoe-ins.”
“Aw, don’t jinx us, Cap,” Johnny pleaded.
“Then let me just state the facts,” Joe said. “As of right now, Johnny and Roy are two of the youngest LA County firemen to pass the exam, and if they’re promoted, they’ll be the first two captains in LA County history who are also paramedics. So, I thought it appropriate if their two supervising physicians gave them a little send-off. How about it, Kel, let’s divide the labor.” Joe raised his flute in a toast. “I’ll start with Mr. DeSoto here. Roy, you’ve been a solid, dependable presence in Rampart for nearly ten years now. You single-handedly drummed up support among firemen for the paramedic program back when it was just a fond wish, and you’ve never looked back. This entire apartment complex couldn’t hold the crowd if we’d invited everyone who’d like to shake your hand and thank you for what you’ve done over the years. You’ll make one hell of a captain, but I hope you never forget your paramedic roots, and that you’re not a stranger at Rampart. Congratulations, Roy DeSoto!”
After the round of applause that had Roy blushing vivid red in his wife’s embrace and Johnny’s fond shoulder squeeze, Joe turned the attention on Kel. “Well, Dr. Brackett? Your turn.”
Kel raised his champagne flute and looked at Johnny. Kel’s poise in public speaking well known, the party hushed to hear his toast, no doubt expecting an oration. Johnny’s eye contact wavered, and he fidgeted in place, but Roy’s hand on his shoulder seemed to steady him. Kel cleared his throat. Dixie held her breath. What was wrong? A simple toast, Kel, she tried to convey to him through telepathy. Just wish him luck and Godspeed or whatever you’d say to anyone else.
Anyone he wasn’t in love with.
Around her, she heard murmurs as the silence dragged on. What happened to Brackett’s eloquence? What’s going on, did Johnny and Brackett have some kind of falling out?
“Johnny,” Kel said finally, having to clear his throat again. “It’s been a privilege and an honor to work with you for nearly a decade. Your passion for rescue work and medical care inspires all of us. Best of luck to you with the promotion and the leadership position you deserve.”
Recognizing that Kel had said all he could without showing a crack through his professional exterior, Dixie rushed to start the applause before another silence could take shape. The hurt on Johnny’s face changed into a narrowed-eyes glare that he shot Joe’s way. Dixie had no time to think about that. Kel was beating a hasty retreat, and Dixie had to bump hips with several people to get through the crowd and reach the outside hallway.
“Kel!”
He kept walking.
“Kel, slow down.”
He turned. “Dixie, I asked you–”
She didn’t wring her hands–she wasn’t a hand-wringing kind of woman–but she knew the feeling behind the gesture. “Do you really think I had anything to do with that? Joe didn’t mean anything by it either. He’s probably in there kerflummoxed right now.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t know Joe was such an Aaron Neville fan.”
Dixie smiled and brushed a stray hair off Kel’s crisp collar. “Oh, Kel. He’s a sentimental old bachelor. Cut him some slack. You don’t need to prove that history repeats itself. Years ago, you walked out of a party just like this one, because of Johnny Gage. Back then he was being an immature pup and taunting you about your stance on the paramedic program. This time he’s done nothing to deserve you walking out. And neither of you is an immature pup. And if you are, then grow up already!”
“I think he’d rather I leave after that awkward situation just now.”
“Nonsense. Your sudden departure would be even more hurtful and telling. You don’t want it all over the fire stations that you and Johnny have had some kind of falling out? If the wrong people get word of something like that, it could influence the committee voting on promotions. You know your opinion of the paramedics is considered gospel.”
Kel stared at her. “I–My God, Dixie, I didn’t even think of that. I did bring along a couple of congratulation gifts for Johnny and Roy. Little tokens, really. I left them in my car. I’ll just go down and get them, and then come back and try to behave like an adolescent dog at least. All right?”
“Sounds wonderful, Kel. Thanks.” One fire successfully extinguished, Dixie hastened back to the party to see about dousing Johnny’s.
She found him on the balcony with Joe, who looked ready to climb over the railing and rappel his way down the side of the building without rope. Before Dixie could jump in and defuse the situation, Johnny pounced. “Was that to put me on the spot, Doc, or him?”
Dixie set a record getting the sliding glass door to close behind her and seal off anyone’s ability to overhear every word. Joe had retreated into his Rampart ultra-quiet, unassuming persona. Johnny didn’t back off an inch. “Come on, Dr. Early. I’m not surprised you know about Brackett. You’ve been one of his closest friends for years. I don’t know what he told you about me, but–”
“Johnny, what I know about you is an assumption I made strictly on my own.”
Johnny looked relieved. Dixie surmised that proof of Kel’s discretion reassured him. “Well, anyway, I’ll tell you this much. Brackett’s been a friend to me at a time when I couldn’t figure out who the hell I was or what to do about it. I don’t want him to start regretting that because people try to make something out of it.”
“Johnny, what you have to understand about Kel–”
“I understand. Believe me. He’s been trying to show me for months that he doesn’t want anything but friendship with me. I didn’t need to see him forced into showing me that again today in front of a room full of people.”
Joe quietly showed distress more effectively than louder, expressive people. “Johnny, I apologize. I honestly didn’t think. I’m an old foolish bachelor, and I don’t have the fashionable excuse of ‘forbidden love.’ I’m just terminally shy around women in any romantic setting, and guilty of trying to live vicariously through my friends, but I didn’t intend the toasts to be anything but what they were!”
“Do me a favor and, uh, don’t try to live vicariously through Brackett? I don’t like seeing him upset because of me. And, um,” Johnny scratched at his eyebrow and offered Joe a kind smile. “Your apology is accepted.”
Joe nodded his gratitude. “Thanks, Johnny. Kel will be much harder on me.”
“No chance, Doc.” Johnny patted Joe’s shoulder. “You can do no wrong in his eyes.”
When Johnny turned to leave the balcony, Dixie found her voice. She clasped Johnny by the arms and tried to get a good look in his eyes. “Johnny, what you think you know about Kel–”
“Not you, too, Dix,” he scolded her, shaking his head. “Both of you, leave well enough alone, please? Brackett doesn’t have an easy time of it, and I’m not looking to be outed before the promotion committee meets to vote either!” He kissed her cheek. “Thanks for the great party, though. I’m gonna head out before Chet finds some way to tease me about all this.”
She had to let him go, resisting the urge to cuss at the door’s squeaking slide behind Johnny. Joe let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve set things back months, haven’t I?”
She put an arm around his shoulders. “You might be an old fool, but you’re my favorite old fool, and you’re not even old. You know Kel, Joe. He doesn’t like to be manipulated. I guess none of us does, but he calls it ‘being set up for the kill.’ He and Johnny are both more stubborn than a platoon of Marines on mules. If they’re going to be anything but what they are now, it’ll have to come from them, and Johnny’s right. We’d better stop trying to force the issue.”
Joe was shaking his head again. “Johnny really cares for him, doesn’t he? I knew there was a mutual attraction, but I didn’t realize how deep his feelings ran.”
“I know.” Dixie chuckled. “Never thought I’d see it. Johnny acting like Romeo after he met–well, I can’t say Juliet. Another Romeo, I guess, except that Kel’s no Romeo.”
“No, Dix. With Johnny and Kel, it’s more like Romeo in love with a middle-aged Hamlet.”
“That’s part of it, you know,” Dixie said softly. “The age difference.”
“It’s not that big of a difference. What, ten years? Maybe twelve at most?”
“Closer to thirteen, I think. But the years aren’t what matters. It’s that both of them are still stuck in the teacher-student mindset whether they realize it or not. Oh, well, let’s go back inside before people start talking about us.”
Joe smirked. “Better yet, let’s go back in there and see if we can get them talking about us.”
Dixie laughed. “Joe Early, you can be a devil when you want to be, and you and I need to talk about your terminal shyness around women!”
~*~*~
Johnny had never had such appreciation for the parking lot of Dixie’s apartment complex. The air was positively fresh compared to the cloying combination of perfume, potpourri, and booze in her small bachelorette pad. He homed in on his Land Rover and would have made it all the way there without interruption but for the one voice that could halt him faster than a brick wall.
Brackett met him at the 4 x 4. He clutched two small wrapped parcels. Although a naturally curious fellow, Johnny couldn’t pay much attention to the parcels when the blue of Brackett’s shirt perfectly matched his eyes and made his brown hair seem darker, shinier. The shirt collar was slightly askew, and Johnny wanted to straighten it…after he’d nipped at the skin that showed. He begged his ancestors to keep that from showing in his face. “Doc?”
Brackett bit the corner of his lip the way he did when a medical case had him stumped. “I hope you know how proud I am of you and your success with the captaincy exam. In there, I was caught off guard, and–”
“I know, Doc, it’s okay. What you said was nice, and I know you meant it.”
Brackett held up the parcels. “I brought a little something for you and Roy. You’re leaving already?”
“Yeah, I like parties and all, but it’s such a gorgeous day out here. I’d rather be outside.”
Smiling, Brackett handed him one of the wrapped gifts. “Maybe you’ll like this little reminder of the outside when you’re stuck in a fire station doing the paperwork that comes from being captain.”
Johnny ripped through the wrapping in seconds. Inside a small square box, nestled on tissue paper, a smooth creek stone the size of a nickel and roughly four times the thickness was cradled in an intricate knot of leather on a leather chain. Johnny recognized the leatherwork. He looked up, shocked.
“An old patient of mine is full-blooded Wintu,” Brackett said. “We’ve kept in touch over the years. I told him that one of my paramedics is of Nomlaki heritage, and I wanted to make a gift of something that would be meaningful on the verge of a challenging new aspect of his career. He sent me this to give to you.”
Johnny rubbed his thumb over the smooth stone. “It’s a Wintu charm stone. The Wintu and Nomlaki are, well, like tribal neighbors through history. We’re kind of under the same tribal umbrella.”
“That’s what he said. This belonged to him. He said he found a sacred pool and bathed in it, then slept and dreamed, and when he woke up, he swam to the bottom of the pool until he found the perfect stone. He’s a healer in his own right, but he’s very old, and he said it’s time a younger healer had the stone. I remember what you said on the phone call from Arizona about looking for sacred waters, and I hope this brings you more guidance and luck than Coyote.”
Johnny knew Brackett’s strict scientific mindset had to struggle with such things. The physician mentioned God from time to time but only in the vaguest terms possible. Sacred pools and charm stones as the source of healing power were beyond the pale for a man like Kelly Brackett, M.D. For him to show this kind of respect for Johnny’s ancestral belief structure….
Johnny was speechless.
Brackett flushed. “I hope it isn’t a faux pas for someone to give you this who isn’t–”
Unable to think of words to dispel that fear, Johnny pressed forward and kissed his cheek. He felt warmth like a flash fire beneath his lips, the heat of Brackett’s shaven skin, and he wanted to draw his mouth down and cover the strong, masculine lips now parted in surprise, but he remembered just in time that they were standing in the wide open parking lot. Dixie’s apartment didn’t face the lot, but party guests could be coming by at any moment. He pulled back and found safe distance again, making sure they passed for any two guys standing around having a conversation. “Thanks, Doc. This is–man, this is something else. Small enough I can wear it under my uniform. I’m kind of thrown for a loop here. This is worth two kisses on the cheek.”
“Johnny–” Brackett looked acutely uncomfortable by this point.
“Hey, take it easy there.” Johnny hoped his voice didn’t waver. “I’m no expert in gay culture but I thought one of the privileges of membership was the kiss on the cheek between friends?”
Brackett smiled. “Yes, but you see, Johnny, I–”
“Dr. Brackett!”
They both turned at the frantic voice. The young lady running toward them was Sharon, one of Rampart’s ER nurses. “Dr. Brackett,” she called before she reached them. “There’s a choking! Dixie and Roy are doing what they can, but–”
“Where’s Dr. Early?”
Sharon skidded to a stop and would have tripped over her own feet if Johnny hadn’t steadied her by the arm. She was wild-eyed and afraid. “It is Dr. Early!”
“Oh, my God!” Brackett took off in a dead run back toward the complex.
Johnny took Sharon by the hand. “Are you up to another mad sprint?”
“Sure,” she said, still gasping.
“Okay, then, let’s go!”
~*~*~
Brackett peeked in room 205, thrilled by the sight of Joe propped up in bed against nurse-fluffed pillows, glasses riding low and his nose buried in a medical journal. He pushed his hands into his lab coat pockets and came over to sit on the edge of the bed. Joe looked up and blinked owlishly at him.
“How’re you doing, old man?”
Joe touched a finger to the bandage over his former tracheotomy site and rasped, “Who…you calling old man? I’m a spring…chicken.”
Checking Joe’s IV of fluids, Brackett turned a stern physician frown on him. “You gave us quite a scare yesterday, Joe. Mike’s beating himself up because he wasn’t there when it happened. I told him someone had to be holding the fort down here.”
Joe nodded. “I know. Stupid. What idiot…tries to sing…with a peppermint in his mouth?”
“The important thing is, your heart behaved well. With your cardiac history, I was extremely concerned, but your ticker stood you in good stead.”
“Only…the good…die young,” Joe said with a proud smile.
“Well, it’s a damn good thing you were being so wicked at the party yesterday then!”
Joe almost let his head droop. “Uh…Kel….”
“Water under the bridge, Joe, and not just because you almost sang yourself into eternity!”
“My tests are…okay?”
“Yes, thankfully. We got an airway established before the hypoxia had a chance to do its dirty work. No sign of neural deficit or brain injury.”
“Well, let’s…pretend my memory is impaired…because I’m going to forget that Dixie and I…agreed not to push…the issue. That boy has strong feelings for you, Kel.”
Brackett frowned again. “Now listen, Joe. I came up here to see my old friend, not–”
“So you’re here…you’ve seen me…now listen to me! You saw what happened to me! Served…me…right singing a song about being here today, gone…tomorrow. Tell the boy what he means to you, because he’s…convinced…you’re just his friendly mentor.”
“Joe, that’s just it.” Brackett sighed. “He is a boy. Not as a man, or as a fireman-paramedic, but in terms of his sexual orientation, he’s barely more than a teenager! I can’t even begin to explain that to you, but the truth is, as much as I’ve waited and hoped for the day he made captain, I’m terrified of it as well. I want him to have a chance to learn about himself and find someone in his peer group. I don’t want him to turn to me because I’m one of the only safe, trustworthy gay men in his life and then wake up one morning and realize he’s next to a garden-variety middle-aged guy.”
“A garden-variety middle-aged guy who loves him. You do, don’t you?”
“Painfully, I’m afraid.” Brackett made a cursory examination, confirming the vitals he’d seen on the nurse’s chart. Afterward he gave Joe a smile of approval. “You’re a tough spring chicken. You’ll be wreaking havoc downstairs in less than week, I guarantee it.”
“Kel, make me a deal? I’m…” Joe flicked in annoyance at the bandage over his throat. “I’m letting Dixie…set me up…for a date with a friend of hers. I…might not be any good…at it. But, at least I’m trying. You promise you’ll…give some thought to telling Johnny where you stand?”
“I promise, Joe. Just don’t…hold your breath.”
Joe glared at him. “Not funny, Doctor.”
“I know, I know. My humor has never been award-winning. I have to get back downstairs, but I’ll be up to see you again this afternoon.”
~*~*~
Their typewriter hated him, Starsky decided. Hutch could peck out a report without four paper cuts from fighting a crinkled sheet that wanted to jam every single time. Hutch didn’t end up with broken ribbons. Hutch should be here typing this annoying piece of crap report while Starsky munched on a candy bar and flung tiny wadded up balls of the candy wrapper at his hunting-and-pecking partner. Yanking a ruined report from the carriage, Starsky crumpled it and hurled it in the trashcan behind him without looking. He sucked on his pinky where the latest insult resided and reached for a new form.
He was not in a bad mood because Hutch was out with Kate.
The man had to have cover. Starsky knew Hutch’s safety increased with each approving whistle and envious lewd remark from one of the other detectives about Hutch’s new perfect-10 girlfriend. Hutch also needed companionship of the sexual kind, as every man did. If Hutch could find both with Kate Larrabee, then Starsky should just suck up his bad vibes and leave the lovebirds to it. He thought he was doing very well, actually. He hadn’t once yelled at Hutch what he’d been thinking as loudly as a shout: What happened to needing dick? He was trying to look at Kate and see a human being, not a flake who’d hired a hitman to significantly shorten her own lifespan, because, really, that defined flakiness.
Hutch always did go for flaky women.
Starsky didn’t let himself think too long and hard on the sappy smile he’d found on Hutch’s face the day he’d arrived at Kate’s house with the hitman’s new address. Freshly wet from a water fight, Hutch had grinned like a schoolboy with his arms around Kate, and Starsky had wanted to chew nails behind his glib, indulgent façade. He remembered that expression on Hutch’s face from when he’d put it there, and he’d still be putting it there if he wasn’t such a screw-up in the falling-in-love department. Maybe if Hutch had seen that expression on Starsky’s face more often when they were up to things more intimate than water fighting, he wouldn’t be taking the day off to spend time with a Swedish model.
And how was that for fercockt?
Translation for your Yiddish flash cards, Hutch: All Fucked Up. Synonym: David Starsky.
The scent of perfume jolted him from his cranky haze. The brand of perfume brought his neck up with a snap, and he typed a few letters of gibberish before he got control of his fingers. “Kate?”
Dressed in slacks and a pricey cashmere sweater, taller than Starsky in her short-heeled suede boots, she clutched her leather purse to her chest, and the look of fear was back on her camera-ready features. “I wanted to talk with you, David.”
Her accent made the simplest phrases stylish and cosmopolitan. Starsky hopped up and pulled a chair out for her. She sat down with the air of accepting his chivalrous attentions as force of habit. “Maybe I got my dates wrong, but I thought you and Hutch were–”
“I called him a little while ago to tell him Randolph needed an emergency shoot.”
“But you’re not really on your way to a photo shoot?” Starsky heard his voice harden. Damn. This wasn’t happening again. Not to Hutch. He thought he’d seen the last of this with Abby.
“No, my flight to New York leaves in two hours. I wanted to thank you for putting me in contact with your friend Sharman. Her magazine has offered me a contract, and I’ve–I’ve accepted.”
Starsky turned away so he could grimace without her seeing it. Kate had mentioned wanting to break into the modeling scene in New York, but she’d made it sound like a temporary thing, a bi-monthly commute. What he’d done was enable her abandonment of Hutch. Starsky stomped ruthlessly on the tiny voice in his mind chanting, Good Riddance. Already turned in the right direction, he moved over to the coffee pot. “I thought you were gonna do the bi-coastal thing. Keep your work here in LA.”
“I thought so as well.”
Starsky held up a mug. “You want?”
She smiled briefly, the graceful movement of her head a polite refusal. Well, fine, but Starsky wasn’t getting through this conversation without the upper of hard-core Metro caffeine. He poured himself a full mug and came back over to his chair, pulling it out so he could sit facing her. “I shouldn’t ask, but Hutch is my partner, closer to me than–than anybody, so I’m gonna be bad mannered and nosy and just ask why. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“I’m in love with him,” Kate said.
Starsky’s smooth swallow of coffee burned on its way down his throat. “If that’s supposed to clear up my confusion–”
“He’s not in love with me.”
Starsky had to do more ruthless stomping on the little inner voice that had taken to sounding like a cheerleader complete with pom-poms: We’re so happy, we’re so glad; we don’t care if you’re feeling bad, go-o-o-o-o Hutch! He told himself sternly that after what Kate had been through, she didn’t need an overgrown, insensitive child reacting to her news, and it was no laughing matter for Hutch either. In love with Kate he might not be, but Hutch would see this as a failure on his part, regardless, and Starsky knew only too well how that felt. That sobered him in double quick time.
“You run any of that by him?” he asked her.
“Of course not!” A flash of spirit showed in her eyes. “I care about him.”
You care about him, but you’re taking off across the country without even a goodbye. Hell, at least Abby showed for the picnic that day even if she didn’t stay long.
Starsky’s thoughts must have shown through his mask of polite concern, because Kate flushed under her expertly applied blush and clutched her purse tighter to her. “You should feel free to say it. I know I’m rather a coward when it comes to facing–” She buried her face in her hands.
“Look, Kate, Hutch and me–we didn’t understand what you did, and we didn’t really approve of your reasons. In our line of work, death is the enemy. Always, no exceptions. But we’ve never been in your shoes, and we’re not the types to sit around in judgment.”
She didn’t seem to care about that olive branch, so focused on her rationalization for ditching Hutch. “I thought it would be different with him this time, but it is the same as it was years ago. He’s trying so hard to be there for me. Too hard! And I can tell it costs him something. What, I don’t know, but I don’t want to be with someone who has to try that hard to love me.”
That put Starsky in a sticky position. He couldn’t throw mental darts at Kate without lobbing a few at his partner. Hadn’t Hutch done the same thing? Walk instead of stay with someone trying too hard? No. Walk from the sex, Hutch had, but he hadn’t abandoned Starsky.
He’d heard enough. “You need a ride to the airport?”
“No, thank you. I have a taxi waiting for me. I wanted you to–”
“You wanted me to be your messenger boy,” Starsky said shortly. “Fine.”
“I know I’ll have to come back to LA for the trial and testify, but I’m putting my house on the market and…and hopefully by the time I do have to return, Hutch will have forgotten me again.”
Lady, you can count on it. Any way I have to make it happen, I will.
He made himself walk her to the squadroom door. He didn’t offer his hand to shake or a hug, but he wished her a safe trip and good luck in New York. When sufficient time had elapsed for her to make it downstairs in the elevator and out to her taxi, Starsky began pounding on Dobey’s door.
“Get in here, Starsky!” Dobey hollered. Starsky peeked in the office. He didn’t want to waste the time to go all the way inside for the social graces. “Well?!”
“I need to head out, swing by Hutch’s with some news. Not the good kind.” At Dobey’s raised eyebrows, Starsky said, “Personal matter, Cap’n.”
“Something that can’t be relayed over the phone?”
“No, not really phone news, Cap’n. I promise I’ll come right back and baby-sit the typewriter.”
Dobey wagged his pen at Starsky. “Right. I heard how much babysitting you were getting done out there. I’ll bet you don’t have one report fully typed yet. Go on, get out of here. I’ll get more out of you tomorrow when Hutch is back anyway. He will be in tomorrow?”
“I’m guessin’, yeah, Cap’n. Thanks.” Starsky backed out before Dobey could change his mind.
“Stay in radio range!” Dobey’s shout penetrated the office door and rang in the squadroom.
~*~*~
Hutch gulped in more of the fresh, woodsy air, the ever-present rain smell of the river. Under the winter-bare canopy of a big-leaf maple, on a small clearing free of poison oak, he had spread his oversized beach towel. A few feet off the trail, he faced the path that followed the West Fork San Gabriel River, but December meant fewer hikers and tourists, which tickled him pink. He hadn’t come here to people watch. So far he’d only spotted two die-hard canyoneers probably on their way past the campground to catch a glimpse of the impressive higher waterfalls. Hutch had no urge to follow, no desire to see if Johnny’s spirit still permeated the campsites. He wasn’t here to walk down memory lane.
He was here because it was probably the last place Starsky would ever look for him.
The sound of footsteps crunching on the path turned Hutch’s attention to the trail. He rubbed his eyes, blinked two or three times, and swore he had to be hallucinating or the curly-haired hiker in faded jeans, red shirt, and leather jacket had to be Starsky’s doppelganger. A doppelganger wearing blue Adidas in lieu of hiking boots. Jesus Christ!
Starsky waved at him and scrambled up the incline off the trail to Hutch’s location. He dropped down beside Hutch on the beach towel and matched Hutch’s posture. He wasn’t even huffing. Hutch stared shamelessly at his profile because the stare had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with disbelief. “I’m impressed,” he said finally. “How the hell did you find your way in here?”
Starsky raised both eyebrows. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy. I know I played the big fraidy-cat virgin in the woods at Pine Lake, and I’m no Daniel Boone, but I tromped around places in the Army that make this look like MacArthur Park.”
Including Vietnam. Hutch wanted to smack his own forehead. “Why’d you play the fraidy-cat virgin then?”
Starsky gave him a knowing smile and leaned to the side to bump arms with him. “Would you’ve had as much fun if I’d been all loosy-goosy about it? Admit it; you had fun playing Nature Boy to my City Boy. And it wasn’t all an act. I’ve never been much for camping and fishing. I had a lot to learn from you, and I wouldn’t’na wanted to be up there on my own.”
“I’ll buy that. But did you plant a tracking device in the LTD? How’d you know I’d be here?”
“You weren’t at the beach. You weren’t at home. Huggy hadn’t seen you. No sign of you at your favorite bookstore or that nursery warehouse. Then I got to thinking about Abby, and I remembered right after she left, you had a wilderness parking pass on your dashboard. Thought I’d give it a shot. I lucked out getting on the right road and spotted the LTD in that big parking lot across the bridge. From there I just followed the little trail map on the brochure at the trailhead and hoped to hell you weren’t all the friggin’ way up at the 2000-foot elevation campground!”
Hutch looked down at his scuffed mocs. His jeans and pullover were fine for outdoors recreation but his footwear would never have been reliable over rocks. “Would’ve needed better shoes. You’d make a stand-up US Marshall. I’m impressed, Starsky. Really.”
“You said that already.” Starsky looked at the river. “Back then, I didn’t even think–I thought it was somewhere you could get away alone and think. But you weren’t alone. You were up here with–”
“Yes,” Hutch cut in before Starsky could say his name. “But not here here. About five miles farther up the trail at the camp.” He knew he wasn’t imagining the sudden tension in Starsky’s shoulders. “I’m not here for memories, Starsk.”
“I know that. But, well, on the drive up here I was thinking about that article in the paper today, and I got the notion maybe it helped put this place back in your head.”
“What article?”
Starsky’s tilted head frown let Hutch know that evasion was useless. “Big front page spread, Hutch. Two young paramedics make LA County history with promotions to captaincy? Gage is the blushing new captain of Station 38’s A-shift, and DeSoto landed A-shift at 58.”
“Yes, okay, I saw it. If I were a bigger person, I would’ve called to offer my congratulations. I didn’t. Nor am I here to relive the past, when the present is currently kicking my ass. So, you were thinking about Abby. That means I was right; Kate’s gone?”
“You don’t need to be praising my detective skills, Sherlock.”
Hutch shrugged. “Heard it in her voice on the phone. I knew the photo shoot was a load of bull, and I would’ve bet the greenhouse that she’d look you up to play messenger.”
“Is that why you went running all the way to the Angeles National Forest? You thought I couldn’t find you here? Were you running from the news or from me?”
“Somewhere between both,” Hutch admitted. “So, she saw right through me, huh?”
“She didn’t say anything about…that, Hutch. If she even had a suspicion, she didn’t say anything to me. She ran all the way from her illness to a hitman, partner. She’s not exactly famous for hanging around and working through something that doesn’t just fall into place.”
“Why’d she say she was leaving?”
Starsky’s silence proved that was the one question he’d hoped Hutch wouldn’t ask. “She said you weren’t in love with her, and she didn’t want to be with someone who had to try too hard.”
Hutch barked out a laugh. The parallel was obvious. Starsky had surely spotted it, too.
“Don’t, Hutch. You’re not in the same boat. You didn’t run all the way across the country. You’re still here, working with me, there for me, watching my back. You did hang around when it got rough. God knows, there aren’t words strong enough to tell you what that means to me.” Starsky rubbed a warm circle on Hutch’s back, straying up to squeeze his neck.
“Stop, Starsky.” Hutch leaned forward away from the touch. “I can’t…can’t handle it right now.”
“What, Hutch, what’s–”
“Because when you touch me right now, I want to kiss you!” Hutch blared at him. “I want to hold you, skin to skin, and lay you under me and make you feel something!”
Anyone who thought Starsky would churn up the rocks on the way back down the trail after that announcement, didn’t know Starsky. Hutch didn’t even think it. Starsky was made of sterner stuff. His warm hand on Hutch’s back just rubbed harder. “There are things we could do.”
“Damn it, Starsky, I will not use you like that!”
“You shouldn’t think about it like that! I get something out of it, too, y’know.”
“Like what, Starsky? What do you get out of it?”
“Once we’re into it, you get my rocks off, that’s what, but there’s also the high I get being there for you like that.”
“How’s that any different than what I got out of being with Kate? I could be with her because she needed me. I responded to that need. I got off on fulfilling that need. How healthy is that? It’s no damned wonder she took the fast train.”
“It’s not like that between us, Hutch! There’s more to us than that. So maybe we don’t go into it for the same reasons. Maybe you don’t want me to be your ‘human insulin.’ But, come on, man, we’re two guys. Sex can be just sex for guys, and don’t tell me it’s different for gay guys. I saw for myself at The Wildewood that it’s not.”
“I don’t want just sex with you! How many times do I have to say that?” Hutch pointed down the trail. “You want what? For us to go take advantage of that campground right now?”
“What if I do want that?”
“We don’t have a tent.”
“Oh.”
“This time of year we’d likely freak out more rocks than hikers but that’s no guarantee.” At Starsky’s crestfallen face, Hutch felt a blaze of anger. “Why’re you so anxious to drag me up there and get me laid? You want to erase some memories, Starsky? Is that it?! Well, guess what: you didn’t know it, but you were along for the ride both times I was up here with Johnny. No kidding. Whenever there was any talking going on, I was talking about you. Or something that dealt directly with you. I don’t know why the hell Johnny didn’t run the other way!”
“Takes a–” Starsky cleared his throat. “Takes a strong man to run from you, Hutch.”
“Why? I’m not the world’s grand prize.”
Starsky shook his head. “One of the more special things about you is you don’t know you’re so special. And when we were together like that, it was special.”
“If you’re trying to help me get over Kate, I don’t need your body to do it, Starsky. Hardest part of it for me is that she might be out there thinking there’s some shortcoming on her part.”
“Give me a break!” Starsky said harshly. “Please, not the martyr thing. Kate’s a grown woman. She could’ve sat down with you and talked the thing out, gave you a chance to tell her it’s not her. She didn’t even give you that courtesy, so spare me the bullshit. Whatever she thinks, it’s her fault for not asking the right questions herself.”
In his darker moments, Hutch wished he hadn’t asked Starsky the right questions.
He could feel Starsky’s presence raising the fine hairs on his arms beneath his sleeves. With one encouraging look from him, Starsky would go with him deeper off trail and test drive the beach towel. Hutch was hard just from the imagined sound of groans and heavy breathing lifting through the spruce to the winter sky. He fled the towel and skidded down the uneven ground to the riverbed trail. He didn’t make it far before he was grabbed from behind by warm arms. Starsky turned him around into a crushing hold. Hutch couldn’t fight it. Shattered inside, he forgot the trail, abandoned his mantle of righteousness, and clung to his partner. Starsky’s soothing whispers were almost a lullaby, and then he pressed his leg between Hutch’s, presenting that rock-hard thigh to rub against. The blatant invitation took Hutch back to the bleak day of their break-up, when Starsky had tried to turn a moment of intense distress into sex. The same disgust he’d felt then turned his stomach now.
“No!” Hutch pulled roughly away and clenched his toes in his mocs for balance. He stood two feet from Starsky but could still feel him, the warmth of that body warding off chill.
“Hutch, there’s nothing wrong with lettin’ go, lettin’ it all out a little before you explode.”
“I’m not a boiler engine, Starsky, I’m a human being! And I’ll tell you what’s wrong. You’re what’s wrong. You think you’re helping, but you’re not. You’re not in love with me, you don’t want me, and every time I think I’m getting over finding out that I was one of your mercy missions, you go and pull a stunt like this!”
Starsky held out both hands, their palms up in some kind of poignant supplication. “Damn it, I just don’t know how not to try to be what you need.”
“You want to help me? Let me keep what dignity I can out of this whole situation. Don’t try to make me your humanitarian project for the day.” Throat tight with the need to yell and fume at his partner, Hutch caught his breath with effort. “I need to go on ahead. Get the towel, would you, and I’ll be–I’ll wait at the parking lot.”
~*~*~
Could you love someone too much?
Could you love someone the wrong way?
Starsky reached the trailhead without the answer to either question, but he knew his love for Hutch had never caused his partner the kind of pain it had today. He had one thing left he could offer Hutch. He had needed the whole mile of trail from their towel spot to talk himself into the greatest sacrifice he’d ever contemplated. Reaching the parking lot and finding that Hutch hadn’t given in to human weakness and taken off in the LTD, Starsky still didn’t know if he had the strength of will to cross the lot and hand over the way to rip his life in two.
Hutch leaned against the passenger door, arms folded over his chest. He looked composed, a well-meaning front to put Starsky at ease. Starsky stopped a foot away and held the towel bundled to his chest. Maybe Hutch wouldn’t see his pounding heart. “I guess it’s time we face a couple facts.”
Hutch’s composed front crumbled, but he kept the stoic silence.
“I’m making things worse for you instead of better. Fact one. I know the main thing keeping you from finding someone who can make it better is our job. Fact two. I also know the job’s been eating your gut out the last…however long. If you need to walk on it, you won’t get any static from me.”
“Do you want me to walk?”
Starsky was aghast at the very question. “Hell no! No, I–”
“You’ve got both facts wrong. Fact one, no matter how rough things get between us right now, I’d rather be with you on the job than without you off the job.”
“You don’t have to make that kind of choice, Hutch. If you turned in your badge, you wouldn’t lose me. I wasn’t saying that.”
“I’d lose our partnership. Off the job, the way things are right now, what would be left of us, Starsky? Tell me the truth. How much of us would survive one of us walking?” He didn’t give Starsky a chance to answer. “Fact two, it isn’t just the job keeping me from seeking out male companionship. I managed both the job and Johnny; I managed the job and you.”
“Then what–”
“No, Starsky. You’re trying to wade through ‘unexpected shit,’ remember? As yet, you haven’t let me in on what that is. I have private shit of my own to get through. I’ll let you deal with yours; you let me deal with mine.”
Starsky didn’t like that arrangement, but he wasn’t ready to take Hutch back to late-fifties Brooklyn either. He could make one promise. “Hutch, say what you want, I know how you feel about police work right now. If it gets too much, too big, and you need to walk, I promise I’ll prove to you it won’t break us.”
Hutch didn’t say he accepted the promise, but his eyes shone with belief in Starsky. “Right now you’d better get back to LA or Dobey might make it a moot point for both of us.”
“Nah, he told me to stay in radio range. Technically, this is still radio range. ‘Sides, I had dispatch patch me through when I got here and told him I’d had to track you down.”
“What was his reaction?”
Starsky laughed. “He yelled, threw his usual fit, and then told me to take the rest of the day. Said for us to consider it an early Christmas present. The only one we’re getting!”
Hutch’s smile looked almost normal and the mustache almost hid the droop in the corners. “Well, hop on in; I’ll take you down the road apiece and show you some breathtaking views. We’ll come back for the Tomato.”
Starsky surrendered and got in the car. After all, he needed to get his bearings around the area in case he wanted to use it as a bolt hole of his own. Nick was due for a visit in less than a week, and unless his brother had undergone a frontal lobotomy, Starsky would probably want to run away from home halfway through the kid’s stay.
~*~*~
“Guess you could say I’m lucky.”
Too weary to agree with Nick in words, Starsky nodded. The elation of knowing Nick still had the humanity to call and warn his brother of danger at risk to himself had begun to fade in the aftermath of Stryker’s arrest and the closed session debriefing with the Feds. Back at Starsky’s apartment, Hutch having left them to work out their differences, Nick had rummaged through Starsky’s cabinets and found a bottle of Chianti in lieu of beer. Sprawled on the couch, wine glass clasped by its base to his chest, Starsky watched the liquid move when he yawned. Unfortunately, no wine in the world could make him drunk enough to forget that afternoon. Nick’s angry door slam still echoed in his heart.
You were never there for me….
Why did he keep setting himself up for this kind of letdown? He’d known before the kid arrived that he’d get his fill of Nick’s two-faced disregard for common decency before the first day was out. He’d seen his brother’s true colors on the few trips he’d made back east, enduring Nick’s resentment when he wouldn’t go out for drinks with the petty gangsters Nick called friends. He could still hear Ma scolding him for not showing an interest in Nicky’s friends or giving Nicky any encouragement. Each time, he’d tried to explain to her that going out socially with some of Nick’s so-called friends could seriously undermine his integrity as a cop all the way on the West Coast, but she didn’t believe him. Each time, he flew back to California with his mother’s complaint that he didn’t look out for his brother still ringing in his ears.
But let Nick show up after four years with less than a week’s notice, and Starsky was ready again to believe his baby brother was family, blood was thicker than water, and bygones could be bygones. He hadn’t wanted to see reason or hear reason about his brother, even from Hutch, who had Starsky’s best interests at heart.
“Don’t like playing the dupe in the Feds’ dog-and-pony show,” Nick said.
“You were the dupe. Believe me, what we worked out for you might just keep your head attached to your neck. It could’ve been worse.”
“Yeah, I don’t know why I thought coming out here was a good idea.”
“Why did you come out here, Nick?”
“Mama wanted me to snoop around for the twenty-five-year-old daughter of a brain surgeon she hopes you got stashed here in the apartment.”
Starsky couldn’t find the will to laugh at the feeble joke, and eventually Nick’s nervous chuckle broke the silence. Starsky sighed. “If you only knew how many times I’d offered to pay her way out here for a visit. She coulda snooped around the place herself if she’d wanted.”
“Aw, David, you know Mama. Hell, Manhattan’s a foreign country to her.”
“Yeah, I know Ma. I know that’s not the reason she ain’t been out here.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Nick demanded.
“You didn’t answer my question. Why are you really out here? Okay, so maybe you wanted to be a cross-country player, and Tony Marcano built up Frank Stryker to be an all-expenses-paid ticket to the big time, but that’s not the real reason you took a break from all the mutual back slapping with the ‘big boys back east.’ I wanna know what is.”
Nick shrugged. “Sometimes it’s a drag at home. Lotta hard liner busybodies mutterin’ that Pop’s rolling in his grave just ’cause I’m a self-made man insteada some kinda wage slave. Thought I’d come out here and get a little respect from my big brother. But all I got was the same patronizing bullshit. From the get go you talked down to me like I’m some pisher straight off the plane. And Hutch was even worse. Who’s he to judge me, huh? What’s he know ’bout me or where I’m comin’ from?”
Slapping the wine glass down on the coffee table before he could crush the stem between his fingers, Starsky felt an itch in his palm that had Nick’s name on it. He struggled to cool himself down before he could make good on the desire to slap the grown-up brat. “You back the hell up right there. You owe Hutch your life. Lucky, you said a minute ago? You don’t know the half of it! The Feds weren’t too interested in what I had to say, bein’ your brother, but they couldn’t ignore Hutch. Without him backing me, you’d be the government’s newest line of shark bait in Marcano’s bloody ocean.”
Nick drained his glass and poured another. “Hutch did that for you, not me.”
“You really don’t know Hutch at all, do you? His sense of justice is so finely tuned you could sing to it. He would’ve backed you against a Federal railroad job, regardless.”
“He’s no saint, David, like you wanna make him out to be.”
“No, he ain’t a saint! He’s a mensch; that’s what Pop would’ve said. And that’s a hundred percent better’n any saint out there. Doesn’t surprise me you don’t know him. You don’t even know me, and I’m your brother by blood.”
“I wanted to know you!” Nick whined from his boneless lounge in the armchair. “I know you didn’t have a choice when you were a kid, but you could’ve moved back later. Every time you came home for a visit, you couldn’t wait to leave again. Didn’t want a thing to do with your old friends.”
“By those friends, you mean the creeps you named out to me this afternoon? Yeah, I grew up with ’em, Nick, and I quit hanging out with them when I was eleven years old, ’cause all they wanted to talk about was Pop being a mobster. I could laugh until I cry to see most of them trying so hard to get O.C. after their names now they’re grown up.”
“No, man, you got it wrong. Pop’s got respect in those circles ’cause he tried to do right by them against some dirty badges, and that respect’s passed down to me. They know I’m a hundred percent.”
“Jesus, Nick. Listen to yourself. You’re spouting their party line all the way. Maybe the old generation, the Durniaks, maybe they had that old world sentiment. But the new generation, the thugs like Tony Marcano? They don’t deal in that kind of honor. The Feds have a file on him that would straighten your hair! And those are the guys you wanted me to kiss up to whenever I was in town? There’s a good reason I left those guys behind.”
Nick showed a new flare of resentment. “Yeah? You left me behind, too! Look, I know Mama had to send you out here because she couldn’t afford to raise us both.”
“She sent me out here because I wasn’t man enough to meet her approval at twelve years old, that’s why she sent me out here!”
Starsky couldn’t believe those shouted words had actually left his mouth. He could understand why Nick nearly slipped off the armchair. “What the hell kinda messed up crap is that, David! Things were tight after Pop died, that’s why she–”
“Come on, Nick. I get why you bought that story as a kid. I made myself believe it, too. But grow up already. She kept the same apartment, and we shared a room anyway, you and me. She had family around to help her feed her kids. She thought I was a girly little kid who’d either get laid out cold or end up like fey Benny Reubens down the street!” Forget the wine in his glass. He thought about snatching the half-full bottle off the coffee table and drinking it dry.
Nick was watching him as if he expected Starsky to sprout a flame over his head and begin speaking in Gentile tongues. “I don’t know where you’re getting this twisted shit about Mama!”
“I’m remembering things I heard with my own ears, Nick, when you were too small to know what the hell was going on!”
“Well, you need to get yourself a head shrinker, or hell, go play with the Catholics and find an exorcist, ’cause you got some kind of weird thing going on planting far out memories. Mama’s not like that. Yeah, she wants us married to good women. She wants grandkids. Who doesn’t, woman her age? And maybe she thinks you make too big a deal outta this thing with Hutch.”
Alarmed, Starsky said sharply, “What thing?”
Nick’s shrug relieved him. The kid wasn’t talking about anything specific. “Your partnership, whatever you call it. It’s all she hears outta you, David, and she gets good’n tired of it. Comin’ out here, I see what she means. You talk about my back slappin’ with the guys back East. Well, man, I hate to tell ya, but every time you so much as look at Hutch, it’s one big pat on the back. If he said the sky was blue, you’d fall all over yourself congratulatin’ him for it!”
This was a new rendition of the “why’re you a cop” lecture without the benefit of anesthetic booze, and most painful of all, he could hear a lot of Ma in it. Starsky was glad when his temper flared. Anger could see him through. “Nick, you’re cruisin’ for more trouble than you can handle. And if Ma’s not sick of you bein’ some wise guys’ Robin Hood–”
“I’m out there, damn it! I see her on a regular basis. You could spread some’a that back pattin’ around your family, but no, family means shit to you, doesn’t it?!”
“Family? You’re my shinin’ example of family? You’ve lied to me every step of the way! You dragged me and Hutch into a mob crossfire, and then you sit over there and put down the man that helped clean up the stinkin’ mess you left behind. If that’s family, spare me! You’re damned right: I love Hutch more’n my own flesh and blood. You wanna know why? It’s because he’s actually been my flesh and blood. If I was deaf, dumb, and blind, I’d trust him to lead me through a landmined rice paddy. He’s the kind of guy you can always turn your back on and know you won’t feel a knife sticking in your ribs. That kind of trust’s what real family’s all about, Nick, and it has to be earned. I don’t know what Ma’s been teaching you over the years, but she missed that lesson along the way.”
Nick shook his head, and the look of contrition and healthy shame Starsky had hoped to see never materialized. “I don’t get you, David. ‘Least when you came home the last time you were good for a coupla laughs. Something’s changed you, and if it’s your job or Hutch, I’d get the hell away from one or the other if I was you, before you end up an old man at forty. ‘Cause, man, I really don’t get you.”
Starsky had never known such a twist of agony. You want to know why I’m not a barrel of laughs, Nick? The job’s just a part of it. The main reason? I’m a miserable bastard, you’re right, and it’s because of Hutch but it’s not his fault. Blame’s mine, all mine. If I could fall in love with whom I damn well please, if I could make my dick do whatever the hell I want it to, I’d be happily tucked away with him in that closet the Department forces him to keep, and you’d see a different man sitting here. Shittiest thing is, I can’t even hit you with the truth, because I can’t put that kind of weapon in your hands. You’re my brother but I can’t trust you not to put a knife through my back or Hutch’s. With that kind of reality, I’m supposed to be a regular laugh riot? Hah!
Aloud he said, “You don’t get me, Nick? Well, kiddo, that makes two of us.”
~*~*~
“You okay?” Hutch reached into the popcorn bowl. “We don’t get many Saturdays to lounge in front of the tube, but you’re too busy imitating a zombie over there to enjoy it. Thinking about Nick?”
“Yeah, he’s been back for just long enough to get into trouble.” Starsky draped his arm along the back of the sofa and lifted his hand to rifle through Hutch’s hair. “Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For everything, in general. Specifically, that all-is-well act you put on at Huggy’s before Nick left. I didn’t need Huggy getting an even worse opinion of Nick than he already had, and any inkling of what went down with Stryker would’ve had him wanting to slip rubbing alcohol into Nick’s beer.”
The phone didn’t give Hutch a chance to respond. Sighing in a “not again” manner, Starsky trudged over to the wall phone. “Starsky here.” Hutch watched Starsky’s apprehension increase. “Slow down, Ma. What’d he tell you? Yeah…yes, he’ll have to testify at the Stryker trial….Ma, calm down. Listen to me, please. It’s the best we could do for him, okay? Ma, you don’t understand. Ma, listen! Stryker’s a dead duck. What we’ve got on him, the way it went down, he’s beyond salvaging. They’ll put Nick on the stand and make him look like a buffoon, and it’ll save his life. The big boys won’t go through the trouble of keeping him quiet. We had to talk the Feds out of using Nick to get to his pal, Big Tony, and if they had let Nick go without testifying, he would’ve been dead the same day he got back to New York, because Tony would have assumed they’d turned him. Do you understand?”
Hutch left the couch and walked over to put his hands on Starsky’s shoulders. He couldn’t make out Rebekah’s words, but he caught the shrillness in her voice and knew she wasn’t cutting Starsky any slack. Starsky bowed his head. “Ma! Sorry for yelling, but don’t hand me that ‘Big Tony looks out for Nicky’ bull. Tony Marcano’s a killer, Ma. He’s a heavyweight nasty, and if you can’t convince Nick to pull out of that playground, he’s gonna end up one in one Marcano’s cement baths. Yeah, Ma, I’m trying to scare you! You need to wake up to what Nick’s involved with before he gets himself killed. If he comes back here and stirs up any more trouble, odds are Hutch and I won’t be able to get him out of it. If he stirs up a hornet’s nest out there, I got even less clout. Do you hear me?”
Squeezing Starsky’s shoulders, Hutch stood there trying to lend strength.
“Yeah, Ma, you can put that on Nick’s tombstone. Famous last words. ‘My Nicky’s a good boy with a good job and a nice girlfriend.’ No, I don’t usually talk to you like this.” Starsky glanced at Hutch and then covered his eyes and turned his chin. “Maybe I’d be nicer if you weren’t calling to chew me out because I can’t make life perfect for your overgrown street hood son. Yes, he’s my brother, damn it! Tell him to act like it!” Starsky swiveled, tangled up in the cord, and slammed down the receiver.
Hutch gently lifted the cord for Starsky to duck under and away from its tangle. “Hey, easy there, Starsk. Never heard you that rough on her before.”
Starsky didn’t meet his eyes. “Why do I try? Tell me, Hutch. First night Nick was here, he hit me with the whole ‘why’re you a cop thing,’ and yeah, I was halfway to drunk, but some of what he said struck a nerve. Why do we keep putting ourselves through this, day in, day out, when less and less people show any kind of gratitude and not much good seems to come of any of it!”
“We’re gluttons for punishment, or we’re symbiotically tied to Captain Dobey some way.”
Starsky chuckled. Not a laugh, but a far cry from his sullen frown. “Yeah, that’s it. He’s the mad scientist operating our Frankensteins.”
“Beats any other reason. Come back over to the sofa and try to unwind? I’ll let you throw popcorn at me. But no stuffing it down my shirt.”
“Well, just take all my fun away!”
~*~*~
Starsky couldn’t believe his own stupidity. He was due at the gym to pay the caterer for Buzzy’s little celebration feast, and he ought to be there getting one of the damned rum raisin bonbons he’d requested because he doubted anybody would save him one. Instead, he was twenty-something miles outside LA on his way to a meeting he should have cancelled from the law office after the will reading.
This was crazy, anyway. He loved the city. He liked the sounds, the sights, the smells of the city. What he knew about horses he’d learned from John Wayne and Glenn Ford, and he had a feeling that one of the beasts would as likely bite him as look at him. But ever since he had tracked Hutch down after Kate jumped ship, he couldn’t get this area out of his mind. He wanted the beauty of this place to belong to Hutch and him. Maybe that was why this burst bubble hurt worse than losing the Mazzeroti and Cartier dreams.
Fifty-three nieces and nephews. How could any one man have that many nieces and nephews?
He pulled up outside the property gate where he’d been instructed to park, grateful the secondary road off the main highway was in good repair. The Torino wasn’t meant for off-road adventure. Looking around, he could just see the roof of the main farmhouse through a copse of trees. Immediately beyond the gate stretched pastureland, the expanse occasionally broken by circular fencing. Starsky thought the circular areas were called paddocks.
Right on time, he heard a motor rumble and watched with an amused smile as a decrepit mid-’30’s pickup rattled into view. The man who climbed out of the truck had probably been a young teenager when the vehicle first rolled off the manufacturer’s line. Dressed in overalls and a bright yellow shirt, the farmer tipped the bill of his Padres baseball cap and unlatched the gate.
He came over to shake Starsky’s hand. “Mathew Gilbert. You’re Mr. Starsky?”
“David Starsky, yes.” Starsky let the true sense of foolishness wash over him. “In all fairness, I should’ve called and cancelled this meeting.”
“Not interested in the property?”
“No, that’s not the problem.”
“It’s the stock, huh? You wanted a farm with the stock? Sorry, Mister, but I didn’t know how soon the property would sell without going to one of them real estate sharks and I needed to make sure the animals had a good place to go before I got where I couldn’t manage ’em. Bitch of the worst kind, getting old. The riding academy down the road took my horses off my hands.”
“Was this a horse farm?”
“Not particularly, no. Why, you interested in a horse farm?”
“Would this be too small for one? Fifteen acres, you said?”
For some reason, Mathew Gilbert began wheezing with laughter. Starsky got a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Sixteen and a half. Son, you’re no horse farmer, are you? For answer, no. Horse farms come in all sizes, five acres to five hundred. But level with old Mathew here. You’re a city slicker from back yonder, ain’t ya, in your gussied up suit and flashy red car back there.”
“I’m an inner city homicide detective. I was at my uncle’s will reading this afternoon, and–”
“And you didn’t walk away with a million dollar check?”
“Right.”
“So, what had you calling my ad in the classifieds, back when you thought you had a million dollar check coming to you?”
“My partner, Detective Hutchinson–he’s the horse freak. Guess you could say I was willing to invest in his dream.”
“Say no more,” Gilbert said with another shoulder slap of friendliness. “I flew a B-17 in the war. Tallulah Pride, she was called, and that dame gave a better ride than a fancy Paris paid girl, let me tell you! My navigator was my best friend, and all he could talk about every mission was wanting to open an ice cream parlor. Hell, I was coming back to a farm, and I knew jack about ice cream outside eating it, but when we got back stateside, I sure enough went in on an ice cream parlor with him.”
“Did he make a go of it?”
“Hell, son, it’s a franchise now. Tell you what, since you’re here, you wanna look around at the place anyway? We could talk financing. Payments, something?”
“Thank you, Mr. Gilbert.”
“Mathew.”
“Thanks, Mathew, but I don’t wanna waste your time. I did my homework. Your asking price is reasonable for quality land this close to the San Gabriels–I wouldn’t be telling you that if I thought I could negotiate an offer–but I couldn’t make the payments on this place and keep my apartment in LA. Out here’s too far for a primary residence for a guy who has to be in metro LA at a moment’s notice.”
“This was supposed to be a retirement thing?”
“Or a ‘tired of the grind’ thing, yeah.”
Mathew nodded. “If your partner looks as tired of the grind as you do right now, you oughta bring him out here and look the place over. That time might be sooner’n you think.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Another thing to keep in mind. This place might sell tomorrow, might still be here next year. Never can tell. But if this place is gone, the nearest thing I got for a neighbor is Miss Luna. Her spread’s about the size of mine, and she’s edging on eighty-two. When she passes or her family talks her into a home somewhere, that land’ll go up for sale, you can bet. Keep your eyes open.”
“I’ll do that.” With another handshake in which Mathew proved that age hadn’t robbed him of grip, and a last longing glance at an impossible dream, Starsky turned back to the Torino, hoping his tiny probate check could at least cover the catering bill for the Golden Angel’s victory celebration.
~*~*~
Hutch pulled Starsky off to the side and looked him up and down. His partner’s gloomy mood had its origins in something deeper than disappointment. He thought embarrassment might be the cause. Some of the Golden Angel’s gym buddies were still snickering at the puny inheritance.
“Starsk, look, this kind of thing happens all the time. The unexpected million-dollar bequest is really more a fictional device than real life. Usually, if someone’s looking to inherit that kind of money, they’re aware of it long before their benefactor passes on.”
“I know that. I just–” Starsky’s shrug was almost too tiny to see. He hadn’t even shed the suit coat to get more comfortable.
“Just what? Didn’t want to give up the dream of that Mazzeroti under your butt?” Hutch smiled.
He did a quick survey of their surroundings. For all intents and purposes, they were miles away from other people’s minds. Hammerlock Grange and Buzzy had climbed into one of the rings to entertain the “crowd” with what looked like new moves for their next grudge match. Hutch felt safe cuffing Starsky under the chin and letting his hand linger a moment or two longer than necessary. “Yeah, it’s a shame. Forget that bullshit of mine about you not being the type. You would’ve looked fine in a Mazzeroti. Emphasis on fine. Hey, partner, maybe that’s why the whole thing fell through. Someone’s looking out for me. I can barely handle how you look in the Torino. Don’t know that I’d survive watching you warm the leather in one of those sleek European jobs.”
Starsky’s responsive quirk of lips didn’t even pretend to be a smile.
Hutch scratched at his mustache. “Not helping?”
“Uh, no.” But Starsky’s headshake wasn’t angry or distressed. “Look, it’s not the car, okay? Maybe it was dumb to put my hope in a long shot, but I saw a chance for us to make a big break, y’know? Get out while it’s ’cause we want to, not ’cause it’s too much to stomach or one of us–”
“Don’t!” Hutch said loudly in his private terror at the dark possibilities that always trailed them like a menacing shadow. Thankfully, Hammerlock had just slammed Buzzy up against the ropes and his supporters were clamoring too loudly for Hutch’s voice to register. “If you’re thinking that way, maybe we should go into Dobey’s office tomorrow and tell him we’re taking a permanent vacation.”
Fear darkened Starsky’s eyes. The expression was so rare for him that Hutch could’ve spotted it from across a dark room. Hutch remembered Starsky’s promise at that trailhead parking lot. Was Starsky questioning his ability to keep it? Did Starsky fear they would dissolve completely without their professional partnership?
Then Starsky turned on a spotlight grin complete with boyish confidence. “Nah, it’s a new year, right? Last one in the decade. Last chance for karma to make it up to us for all the crap that went down over the last nine years; ’79 has to be a beaut!” He jerked a thumb at the table of catered treats. “Even if my uncle’s will was a kick in the tuches.”
Hutch snapped his fingers. “I know what’ll cheer you up.” He dashed back to the table in an exaggerated hurry and retrieved the candy he’d hidden under a napkin. He carried the treat back to Starsky with equally exaggerated ceremony, presenting the daintily wrapped confection on his open palm as if his hand were a tray of solid gold.
“What’s’at?” Starsky asked.
Hutch rolled his eyes. “The rum raisin bonbons that you requested? I saved one for you.”
Starsky snatched the treat and barely got it out of the wrapper on its way to his mouth. Closing his eyes in ecstasy, he made appreciative noises. He took a long time swallowing, until Hutch thought he might break out in a sweat at the sight. “Umm…yeah, this helps, Hutch. This helps.”
~*~*~
“So, you wanna talk, talk.” The words and their belligerence reminded Hutch of Nick Starsky, but the woman across the table from him had ten more valid reasons than Nick could ever invent. “How’s it that I got stuck with you of all people for a bodyguard?”
“You’re being moved to a location outside the city tomorrow, Marianne. I stuck my neck out with the Feds and my captain to get this assignment tonight.”
She lit her fifth cigarette and raised the tumbler of scotch to her lips. Staring at him over the rim of the glass, she tilted her head in a nod at the deck of cards on the table. “Deal. We’re gonna sit here like this, we’re gonna play cards.”
He dealt the cards for gin. Since relocation to the safe house, Marianne had holed up in the bedroom or the bathroom, and her noisy sobs had rocked Hutch to the core. No one could hurt you like a brother; Hutch had seen Starsky learn that hard lesson during Nick’s visit. He now knew that included the death of a brother. Harry Owens might have led his life on the wrong side of the law, but he’d had more tears at his passing than a beloved Pope. Around ten p.m., Marianne came out of the bathroom, her tear-streaked cheeks and puffy red eyes untouched by Kleenex or makeup, and sat down at the dining table with a deck of cards and pack of cigarettes. Her first demand was for quality scotch on the rocks.
“I can’t excuse the way I took advantage of you and your situation.” Hutch turned the twenty-first card face up for the discard pile. “I won’t try. I was doing my job, but I wasn’t doing it well. The reason I wasn’t doing it well is that I did see you as a human being I could care about, and my objectivity flew out the window. I don’t regret that. If this job ever makes it possible for me to see someone like you as only a means to an end, I won’t be able to look myself in the mirror. Unfortunately, that sometimes puts me at odds with the people who sign off on my right to carry a badge.”
“Pretty words,” Marianne scoffed. “You’re good at pretty words.”
“I’m telling you the truth. That’s why I’m here. I want to see you safely through the night and for you to have the chance to say whatever will help you put at least some of this behind you. This is the last chance we’ll have to talk without authority figures present like my captain and interested government parties. That’s all I can offer you or your brother’s memory.”
“All right, cop.” Marianne slapped her hand of cards face down on the table and latched her fingers, stretching her hands, pressing the insides of her knuckles outward until Hutch heard a distinct pop. “Why the full-court press with nothing but a few kisses waiting for me?”
Flustered, he hadn’t seen that one coming. “Marianne–”
“Hell, I should’ve known from the start that what you were up to had nothing to do with getting into my panties. The only time I ever got that kind of celibate attention from a man he was in a black suit and riding a bicycle, trying to sell Joseph Smith as the new messiah. When you didn’t hit me over the head with the Book of Mormon, I should’ve figured you for a cop trying to get to Fitch!” She stared at the smoke curling from her cigarette, and then laughed. “No, I got it backwards. Maybe that’s why I didn’t make you as a cop. Most cops would’ve had me on my back the first night they made contact.”
“Would you have wanted me to add that insult to injury?”
Marianne grinned at him, the expression far from friendly. “After a five-year stint in women’s prison? What do you think, cop? If you were gonna take advantage of me anyway, I could’ve used the recreation as a bonus. Hell, even Harry thought we were sleeping together in the Biblical sense. I didn’t correct the notion, by the way. So sue me.”
“Better for me that you didn’t.”
“Okay. So tell me what makes you so damned ethical? Hm?”
“I had my reasons, Marianne. It’s not in the police manual, and the LAPD brass would love the public to believe that cops never resort to sexual activity undercover, but that’s just not reality. I’ve had to bed women undercover. You’re right, most male cops know that’s the short cut to a bond with a female target, and that’s not intended as a chauvinist remark. It’s just statistics.”
Marianne squinted at him. “People actually keep statistics on that stuff?”
“If I’d taken you to bed the first time I had a chance,” Hutch continued, ignoring her question, “I might have had you under wraps long before things got nasty.”
“Oh, and that’s not chauvinism either? We’re still talking statistics here?”
Touché. “If I’d played the cards differently, I might’ve saved Harry’s life! As it was, I ended up with my superior officer, my partner, and the DA all on my back wondering what the hell was taking me so long to do a persuasion job I could’ve done in half the time two years ago.”
“You’re using pretty words again without telling me shit. What were those gold-plated reasons of yours, Mr. Morality? Because you know what, I don’t like mysteries anymore.” Marianne waved the cigarette in the air in a circle around her face and down to her chest. “Am I that repulsive? You were afraid you’d pick something up you’d need antibiotics to get rid of? Or did you figure prison had turned me into a lesbian? Hell, it can’t be the last one. Most guys would jump at the chance to screw a lesbian.”
“My reasons had everything to do with me, and nothing to do with you, Marianne. You’re a beautiful, talented, desirable woman. And you don’t need to know my reasons, because they wouldn’t make you feel any better and might possibly make you feel worse.”
“You’re the same in real life as you are undercover. Mouthy without one ounce of meaning to back up the words. And you really wanted me to put anything behind me tonight? Hah! I’d do better paying a scam artist to call up Harry in a séance and see if he could tell me what your–”
“I was trying to help you without ripping you up inside!” Hutch burst out, goaded into partial confession. “I respected you too much to leave you looking back on our time together as some kind of pity ride. I know how that feels, and it’s lousy!”
Marianne closed her mouth with a snap. The next thing Hutch knew, he had a face full of scotch and ice. He sat there, dripping, plucking the ice from his lap, but he kept his temper with superhuman effort, squelching his first childish impulse to lift his tumbler and fling its seltzer water right back at her. Looking shocked at her action, she dropped the tumbler to the floor and jumped at the shattering glass.
Hutch hated his job more than ever. If not for the job he could have told the absolute truth. A truth that had nothing to do with pretty words and rationalizations. A hard truth he risked his life for on a daily basis. She deserved that from him, at the very least, but he couldn’t risk sacrificing his partnership with Starsky on the altar of salving this woman’s hurt pride and shredded soul. He sat there staring at her, thinking the words he wished his life, his career, his partnership, and the world outside would let him say. I’m gay, Marianne. I could have performed and given you all the recreation you wanted. But sleeping with you would’ve been a double lie, and I couldn’t stomach doing that to you. Two years ago, I could have and would have. I’ve changed inside, and I’m not willing to sell my conscience to this damned job! After that mess with Melinda Rogers, I promised myself, never again.”
Marianne left her chair, tiptoed carefully around the broken glass, and went into the kitchen. She returned with a clean dish towel and handed it across the table. “Here, wipe your face. Sorry. That couldn’t have felt good, all that alcohol on your scrapes and bruises.”
He dried his face but the towel didn’t remove the stink of booze, and he dropped the cloth by the discard pile of cards. “Well, it doesn’t come close to making us even, but at least I don’t feel one hundred percent the bad guy now.”
Sitting down slowly, she extended her pack of cigarettes in a silent offering. “No, thanks,” Hutch said, vindicated that he didn’t sound wistful.
She shrugged and dug a fresh one out of for herself. “You weren’t just shooting me bull about a pity ride. That jazz you played so well about knowing what you really want out of life and caring enough about yourself to own it, telling me to know who I am and like it, or words to that effect…you were talking from a place that was real. I don’t know who hurt you, but she did a number on you worse than what you did to me! You hate this whole cop thing, too, don’t you? You know, in a way that’s probably all twisted up, I think I feel better about some of the situation, hearing that the guy telling me I was trapped, is just as trapped as I am. How much owning what you want are you doing, staying in a job you hate this much, huh?”
“Maybe I know some of what you meant by making the only choice you know how.”
She gave him a sickly smile. “Couple of real prize winners, we are. We deserved each other. But nothing we say here tonight, nothing can b-bring H-Harry back.”
Hutch offered a silent plea that she wouldn’t cry again. She didn’t. She brushed her fingers through her unruly curls and scrubbed at her face with her palms until she let out a little gasp and scream. Her way of pulling herself together, Hutch recognized, and left her to it. Sudden darkness made her gasp. “What–? What happened to the lights?”
Hutch reached instinctively for the Magnum and whispered, “Get out of your chair, get close to the floor away from the broken glass, and stay with me. Don’t talk.” With his left hand, he felt along the underside of the table for one of the silent alarm triggers he knew were scattered through the house and firmly pressed the rubbery button.
He could sense her fear. When he touched her shoulder, he knew she bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. In his mind he ran through a list of people who knew the safe house location. Starsky, Dobey, the DA, the prosecutor Stanton…the Feds. Ah, shit. Anytime you let the Federal Bureau of Imbeciles in on something, the shit hit the fan as a matter of course. He couldn’t remember who had invited the Feds to the party. He’d thought Fitch was bound for a grand jury, strictly the DA’s and Stanton’s playground.
On their hands and knees to present a more difficult target, he herded Marianne behind him and tried to maneuver them toward one of the designated emergency exits in the kitchen. He was already picking up sounds that were out of place. Whoever this was, he wasn’t taking a chance on a long-range sniper shot going awry, and the killer hadn’t much choice, as the dining table was purposely situated away from a window with a good angle. In the dark, the person with intent held the advantage, and Hutch could only depend on his sense of hearing until his eyes adjusted.
He heard Marianne grunt in discomfort, having likely banged her knee on the kitchen doorframe, but her mistake was rising up a good few inches behind Hutch’s protective body shield. He caught only the glint of glass thanks to his adjusting eyes, but his mind yelled, night scope! He squirmed around and pushed Marianne down, covering her with his body, while a muffled sneeze noise preceded a whoosh of air and splintering wood in the precise location where Marianne’s head had been. Their low crouch between the kitchen doorway and living room couch had saved them until Marianne’s movement brought her into view of the night scope. Night scoped weapon with silencer. Hutch’s guess was confirmed: a professional with all the best toys. And a guy with that kind of backing probably had the training-heightened senses to smell the alcohol residue all over Hutch’s face and locate them by scent. Tugging Marianne along with him, he licked one hand and smeared saliva over his cheeks and forehead. Not foolproof, a flimsy deterrent at best, but he felt more in control. If he could just get a bead on the guy. Shadow movement, the flicker of glass again, something!
With his pupils’ sudden compensation, he could barely make out a darker splotch against the grayness of moonlight filtering through the three small squares of glass high in the house’s decorative front doorway. Location pinpointed, he watched for movement that would indicate the man taking aim again. The pro would never expect a cornered street cop to narrow the distance in the darkness, and surprise was the only chance Hutch had. When the dark splotch rounded the couch, giving Hutch a clear path, he shoved Marianne all the way down on her face and rushed the intruder in a burst of motion that flung him squarely against the man’s knees. Harsh breath pushed from the stranger, and Hutch timed their fall, knowing he had seconds to disarm the man before loosely-grasped advantage switched sides again. Grabbing for the man’s wrist, he slammed the killer’s gloved hand on the floor with sufficient force to break bones and applied pressure to the base of the thumb to encourage the fingers to loosen their grip on the weapon. The wail of sirens in the distance evened Hutch’s breathing and gave him the shot of confidence needed to fend off the wiry assassin’s attempt to roll him.
He heard Marianne whimpering in the background but couldn’t give thought to her feelings. Keeping an iron grip on the man’s wrist, he tried to get his other hand close to the man’s head to use the Magnum as a blunt instrument. In the same instant that Hutch jammed the butt of his gun against the killer’s temple and felt the laxity of unconsciousness in his prey, the front door crashed open, Marianne screamed, and Starsky’s voice yelled, “Hold your fire, damn it!”
“Lights, Starsky!” Hutch shouted to indicate that it was safe. The glare of flashlights momentarily stunned him, but he blinked through the pain in his eyes and spared only the time to assure the killer was out of commission and the beautiful presence of his partner was reality. Old jeans, white inside-out sweatshirt, Beretta clasped in a lifted two-hand security hold, tightly controlled relief on that rugged face; yes, Starsky was really there in gorgeous living color. Hutch crawled over to assess Marianne’s condition.
The speed with which Starsky reached him and knelt discreetly to draw a hand along the back of Hutch’s neck didn’t even allow for a passing glance at the fallen intruder. Hutch nodded an “I’m okay” at Starsky and turned his attention to Marianne. With another pat at the nape of Hutch’s neck, Starsky left to begin the crime scene procedure.
At Hutch’s coaxing, Marianne sat up willingly and clung to him. “M-my br-brother would say this makes you and me officially even Steven, and th-though I didn’t agree with H-Harry on everything, I’d agree with him on th-that.”
“How’re you doing?” Hutch stroked her hair and kept the warmth of his arms around her.
“I don’t think I kn-know.”
He heard the chattering of her teeth, felt the chill to her skin. “You’re in shock.” He looked around at the milling uniformed officers. “Somebody find me some blankets!”
“Jesus, Hutch,” Starsky said from where he crouched by the subdued assassin. “He was vested!”
“I thought he felt bulky around the chest when I was grappling with him.”
The man was dressed in the skin-tight head to toe black garments made famous by television ninjas and cat burglars. Unmasked now, he had nondescript features, short sandy hair, and nothing that made him familiar to Hutch. Thinking as usual along the same wavelength, Starsky asked, “Recognize him as a Fitch man?”
“No. Probably imported, doubt he’s even on our books.”
“He’s on nobody’s books now, partner. That hit to the temple took him out for good.”
Hutch looked up, stunned. “What? I thought I’d just knocked him cold.”
“Colder’n cold, and if you think I’m standing here wishing him warm, think again!”
In his off-duty slacks and sweater with his incongruous tweed hat, Captain Dobey arrived on the scene while the uniformed officer who had located bedding helped Hutch drape warming blankets around the visibly shivering Marianne. “She okay?” the captain asked Hutch.
“She’s uninjured. We’re trying to fight shock right now.” Hutch tilted his head at the kitchen door frame. “The guy got off one round before I could bring him down.”
“Cap’n, he brought him down in the dark, head to head with a vested killer packing a night-scoped 9 mm with a silencer!” Starsky shuddered and turned stern eyes on Hutch. “Next time we’re in the protective custody gig, whoever it is, whatever the circumstances, we do it together!”
“Starsky, this shouldn’t have been a heavy protection,” Dobey told him. “In cases like this, it’s always a possibility. But with what we had on Fitch independent of Marianne after the way things turned out, and most of his cronies out of the picture permanently or not in a position to put resources into retaliation, tonight was supposed to be proper protocol more than anything else!”
Hutch pursed his lips in a shushing manner and scanned the room’s uniformed personnel and Metro crime team. Dobey raised a loosely curled fist. “Hutchinson, if you mean to suggest–”
“Can I cl-close my eyes?” Marianne asked. “I j-just wanna close my eyes.”
“No, no you don’t, stay awake for me there,” Hutch said, shaking her a little. “Think about it, Cap’n,” he whispered. “Who knew about this place and our plan to keep Marianne here tonight? I know the Feds are always good for a leak or two, but still–”
“But still,” Dobey repeated, nodding with a troubled frown. “Speaking of the boys in suits, first order of business is to keep them out of this loop, and Ms. Owens looks in need of medical attention.”
Hutch tightened his arms around the shock victim and rocked her. “Yeah, but I’m wary of Memorial or Lincoln. God knows, we’ve had trouble at both places with security infiltration.”
“Hutch and I need to get her out of here quietly and take her out of the precinct altogether,” Starsky whispered. Dobey and Hutch eyed each other and then Starsky. “I’m sayin’ we take her where Miss Rosie got such good care when she broke her arm in that bus accident.”
Rampart General.
Dobey nodded his approval. “You boys get her out of here and do just that. I’ll meet you there when this place is squared away.”
~*~*~
“I just don’t get it. Dobey’s right. We had Fitch cold on–” Starsky made sure Marianne was still asleep. “Harry Owens’ murder. With Casey six feet under, Fitch was up for the whole fall himself. Silencing Marianne wouldn’t have pulled his nuts out of the fire!”
“I can shed some light on that,” said a deep voice from the doorway. Dobey carefully shut the door and joined his detectives at the bedside. “On the way here I received some disturbing news. Someone got to Fitch in his maximum security cell and silenced him. Looks professional. So was tonight’s attempt, as you well know. Your guy got in through a precision-cut hole in the back bedroom’s window, after he’d chloroformed the gate guards, taken out the perimeter security system, and hit the breaker box. You’re lucky he didn’t locate the hidden wiring for the silent alarm system.”
Stretching in the uncomfortable visitor’s recliner, Hutch let out a soft whistle. Starsky rocked back and forth in his perch on the room’s empty bed. Dobey approached the head of Marianne’s bed and looked down at the patient. “Can she be safely awakened for a couple of questions?”
“Let me be the judge of that,” said another deep voice from the doorway. Dr. Brackett leaned out of the room, apparently to double check their privacy, and then fully entered, making sure to firmly close the door. Flipping open the metal-bound chart, he delved into his lab coat pocket for his stethoscope and gently nudged Dobey out of the way to perform a brief examination that didn’t require curtaining of the bed. He then addressed Dobey. “These questions. Are they important? Crucial to her welfare? Time sensitive?”
“Yes to all three, Dr. Brackett.” Dobey clutched his hat at waist level, a gesture of respect. “We need information that could help us keep Ms. Owens alive, and she’s our best bet as a source.”
Brackett nodded. He closed the patient chart and included Starsky and Hutch in his eye contact. “Her vitals are stable, which is to be expected with simple psychological shock. She’s not reacting adversely to the sedative. She’ll be drowsy, and I can’t guarantee coherency. Keep your questions simple and brief. Make sure she remains calm. I don’t want her put under any undue stress. If you need me, you know where the call button is.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Starsky said.
“And thank you for limiting the personnel who have access to this room,” Hutch added.
Brackett spread a smile equally among all three men. “You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gather you’d rather I not be present while you question her?”
“For your own sake, Dr. Brackett,” Dobey said. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
“Captain Dobey, I once had a tremendously important scientist in my care who came with CIA babysitters. Believe me, I know about ‘need to know.'”
Starsky and Hutch exchanged tiny smiles and raised eyebrows at Brackett’s departure. Dobey coughed lightly to interrupt their wordless conversation and leaned over the bed’s half-raised protective railing. He gently shook Marianne’s shoulder. “Ms. Owens?”
She opened her eyes at his second nudge. Hutch left the visitor’s chair and took up his post at the opposite bedside from Dobey so she could have the reassurance of his presence in her line of sight.
“Ms. Owens, I’m Captain Dobey. You met me earlier. I need to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”
Yawning, she moved her head in a partial nod.
“I have to tell you first that Joe Fitch is dead. He was murdered in his secured holding cell. We’re doing everything we can to ensure your safety, but we need to know, was Fitch involved with anyone higher on the organized crime food chain? Do you ever remember hearing him talk about someone as if he answered to them, or was courting their favor?” When Marianne yawned again, Dobey shook his head. “I’m sorry; I’m supposed to keep these questions brief.”
“Not your questions doing it, Captain; it’s hospitals. Can’t ever keep my eyes open in a hospital. You said Fitch is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Good riddance, the murdering bastard!”
Dobey didn’t even blink at the profanity from the lips of the blues singer. “I can understand how you would feel that way. Did you hear my questions?”
“Yeah, I heard you.” She tossed her head on the pillow. “He didn’t let me hear as much as you guys wanna think. But lately he’d gotten even more paranoid. You know that, you–” she yawned and tried to lift her hand to cover her mouth but was too weak to manage the nod to good manners. “You saw him plowing through the witnesses. Like if he didn’t nix the grand jury he wouldn’t be facing a trial, he’d be facing the hangman at dawn! Didn’t give me any slack on the leash either. Before all that, he’d started making noises about the Bay Area. Someone he wanted an ‘in’ with up San Francisco way. I think when he got ‘in,’ he got scared. Fitch was no altar boy, but back in the days before The Old Man, I don’t think he would’ve let H-Harry end up dead.”
Hutch reached his hand down to hers, and she eagerly grasped it in a fist on top of her bed covers. “Marianne, you mentioned ‘the old man,’ and you said it like a nickname. Who is that?”
“I don’t know.” She tossed her head again. “That’s how Fitch talked about him. That’s the only thing I ever heard him called, the Bay Area guy. Fitch would get all hushed and cowed whenever he’d bring him up, and I never heard him say a thing about the guy except when it was just Harry and me around. Mostly when Fitch forgot I was in the room.”
Dobey patted her shoulder. “All right, Ms. Owens, you can go back to sleep now. Don’t worry: we’re going to see you through all this.”
“But I don’t get it. Why does someone want me dead? I don’t know anything!”
“Close your eyes and rest, Marianne,” Hutch soothed. “There are three people in this room you can trust with your life.”
She closed her eyes.
Dobey motioned at the room’s corner sink by the bathroom, and his detectives joined him there for a huddle. Glancing over his shoulder, Dobey pitched his voice lower than usual, harder to overhear. “Who do we know in San Francisco with the clout to eliminate anyone who might have had Fitch’s ear about a Bay Area connection? That’s long distance clout.”
“In the short amount of time it took for the hits to go down, with government or police leaks making it possible?” Hutch puffed out his cheeks in a held breath and rubbed at the corners of his eyes. He exhaled and stretched out the kinks in his back. “I don’t have a clue. You, Starsk?”
“I don’t have the R&I computer in front of me, but no. Nothing that big on the radar screen. This guy must have a network of connections that functions like remote control. Hell, it’s ‘beam me up, Scottie’ stuff. That guy at the safe house tonight mighta looked like some cheesy villain from a Bruce Lee movie, but he had special forces training and the gadgets to match.”
“Most important thing now is Marianne,” Hutch pointed out with a quick look behind him. “The Feds won’t have a vested interest in her now that Fitch is out of the picture, and we can’t trust her with them anyway. They have to be the source, unless we want to believe the DA is telling safe house tales out of school, or Stanton, and if I find out Stanton’s the mole, I’ll do more than throw him out of a room by his suit coat.”
“The DA didn’t know which safe house we chose,” Dobey said. “And Stanton was out of the office today when the decisions were made.”
Hutch forgot to lower his voice. “What, but I thought–Back at the house, you–”
“You reminded me it’s better to be safe than sorry, Hutchinson. I didn’t make my meeting with the DA today. He was in court and I was tied up with the FBI. I was trying to get past their damned classified stonewall to some kind of explanation why they were suddenly all over our backs.”
“Then that leaves us right back where Hutch said.” Starsky looked around Hutch at the sleeping Marianne. “How do we keep her safe without the protected witness backing from the government? She can’t stay here in the city. And the legit Feds might not want to break their backs for her now, but the wolves in sheep’s clothing will be real interested in where she is.”
“You let me worry about holding off the suits,” Dobey said. “We don’t make the same mistakes we’ve made before. No elaborate travel plans, cash disbursement or any kind of paper trail. We pool the cash we have between us, and I can bring you what I’ve got in petty. You stay here with her until Brackett releases her. Then you walk her straight from the discharge desk to my car and drive her out of the state to the destination of her choice. Make sure she understands that it can’t be anywhere she might’ve mentioned to her brother or to Fitch, even in passing.”
“How long do we get to hold her hand, Captain?” Hutch asked, worried over the short-term nature of the solution. “And what about the guy I took out tonight, the SOP that comes with it?”
“I’ll handle IA on that. You’re in the clear except the formalities, and the formalities don’t come ahead of innocent human life! See Ms. Owens settled in a safe place to stay that doesn’t generate red tape. You didn’t hear this from me, but help her find a clean source of income that won’t end up on a W2. There are Mom and Pop operations that’ll pay cash under the table or exchange room and board for decent work. Tax evasion is the least of Ms. Owens’ worries. We need time to figure out who’s behind this. Take a week plus travel time, Hutch. You need to be scarce for that long yourself.”
“Captain–”
“Don’t argue with me, Hutchinson. We don’t know what we’re up against, and whoever it is might think it’s worthwhile to make another attempt at eliminating the cop they know was close enough to Marianne to possibly hear things he shouldn’t have.”
“We’ll make a real vacation of it, Cap’n.” Starsky thumped Hutch on the shoulder. “And Hutch can argue all the way to wherever Marianne wants us to take her.”
Hutch shot him a hard look. “I was going to say, what happens after the week? We leave Marianne to her own devices and just hope the wolves forget about her?”
Dobey’s headshake was apologetic. “I’m afraid so. In situations like this, less fanfare is better. She might have a chance staying under the radar without a long-term guard drawing attention.” He checked his watch. “I’m heading home. Edith will be pacing the kitchen by now. I’ll have my car back here with a full tank of gas before Ms. Owens’ discharge.”
Decisions made, Dobey on his way home with the peace of mind of his law firmly laid down, Hutch turned to carry his worry back to the visitor’s chair, but Starsky clutched at his arm and stopped him. Hutch watched him, wary of what they could possibly say to each other in this first semblance of privacy after the distance that had grown between them during the case.
“Finally,” Starsky said. “No docs, nurses, or Dobey. Hutch, I–”
Hearing the rasp of post-crisis letdown in Starsky’s voice, Hutch faced him with nothing to offer but his own vulnerability and exhaustion. “Take what you need, Starsky.”
“I don’t know if you–”
“Damn it, Starsky, if we have to start debating the basics, we might as well call it a day.”
Starsky wrapped around him and pressed his face to Hutch’s neck. Startled, Hutch kept still and let him do the holding. When Starsky lifted his face for a look at Marianne and started to pull away, Hutch slipped his arms around his partner’s waist. “She’s out, which is nice for her. This is nice for us.”
“You okay?”
Starsky translation: would the closeness ignite a fire below Hutch’s waist. Hutch laughed. “It’s fine, Starsk; I’m too tired in my bones to get it up right now, even for you.”
“Uh, Hutch, not to be nosy or crude, but why does your face stink like bad booze?”
“I took a shower in scotch.” Hutch pulled free to make use of soap and wash cloths at the sink.
“Come again?”
“Marianne was pushing me for an explanation of why I didn’t take her to bed undercover, and when I couldn’t give her more than a few hollow-sounding excuses, I got a tumbler of scotch and ice in the face. I owed her the truth, the real truth, and couldn’t even pay her the compliment of being fully honest with her. Hell, upside that, getting a faceful of booze didn’t even sting!”
Starsky’s glare at the bed didn’t cut the woman any slack for being a traumatized shock victim. Then his face abruptly cleared and he swung back around. “Wait a sec, you really didn’t–”
“Sleep with her? No.” Hutch rinsed his face again and patted dry with the wash cloth. “Why? Is that so hard for you to believe? Maybe I wanted to come out of this case with at least a shred of my self-respect and conscience intact.”
Starsky was hiding a grin he thought inappropriate. Hutch had seen it too many times not to recognize the signs. “Not hard to believe. I knew you’d worked yourself up into a real ethical tizzy over the whole mess. Maybe I’m–glad.”
“Thought so. Go ahead and smile, Starsky, before that solemnity freezes on your face.”
But when Starsky smiled at him in that boyish way, Hutch had to re-evaluate the level of tiredness required to prevent hard-ons. “Does it bother you, me being glad?
“No. Wish I understood it.”
Starsky toyed with his metallic watch band. “Maybe I know if you’d slept with her you would’ve been hurting a lot worse than you are now. Sounds like you and Marianne worked things out?”
There was more to Starsky’s relief than concern for his best friend’s feelings, but Hutch didn’t press the issue, somehow certain Starsky couldn’t pinpoint more than that surface reason himself. “Let’s put it this way: a road trip with her should be a lot less awkward for all of us now.”
“Good to know. I was thinking you might be balking at the road trip ’cause of me. We were on opposite sides of the river on this case, Hutch, and I didn’t know how to get across it.”
Knowing they needed levity, Hutch washed his hands and left them dripping. He flicked his wet fingers at Starsky’s face, making him blink at the water droplets. “Ass!” Starsky hissed, fending off Hutch’s hands.
“To quote you, I got dicey to handle over the last couple of weeks, but it was the job, not you. Okay, maybe some you. You were pushing me harder than Stanton!”
“Yeah. Wanted you in and out of it quick. I knew from the start this case had the makings of a ball-buster, and I didn’t like you walking the tight-rope with Fitch.”
“Well, my balls are fine, thank you. Your turn for the chair, Starsk. I’m sacking out for a few winks on the other bed. Wake me if Marianne needs anything.”
“Sleep. If she needs something, I’ll see that she gets it.”
~*~*~
Hutch looked so dejected, Starsky had to take action. He gathered up the newspaper and rolled it to thwack Hutch’s thigh with it. “Hey, weren’t you gonna put some Donna Summer on for that overachieving plant of yours there?”
“Huh? Oh. What’s the point? I don’t need my plants on growth music when I can’t expand to accommodate them!”
Starsky clucked his tongue. “Uh-uh. Positive attitude, Hutch.”
The phone interrupted Hutch’s scathing reply. Starsky smirked and returned to his beer and newspaper. He refused to let Hutch’s disappointment filter into his own contentment just yet. They would find a way around the pay hike defeat to make some room for Hutch’s green leafies.
After all, in a little over one week’s time they had successfully transported Marianne eleven driving hours away to a small town in Colorado that she’d read about in prison. They worked out living arrangements for her with a middle-aged seamstress. When the seamstress found out that Marianne had handmade the vintage “frock” she wore to respond to the newspaper ad, she had no qualms bartering room and board for sewing help. Starsky and Hutch had no qualms feeding her a sympathetic cover story to explain Marianne’s “hiding out” that involved an abusive ex-husband with law enforcement connections. Their concern for the seamstress’ safety eased on discovery of the rifle she kept in a locked armoire in her bedroom. She insisted on taking them out back of the house, where she lined up cans on posts an obscene distance away and proved she knew her way around the gun.
“Woman-beatin’ prick comes round here, he’ll get his hairy sacs shot off!” she had reassured them when they bid farewell at week’s end.
After taking three leisurely days to travel, they were back in the City of Angels, and Starsky spent the night on Hutch’s couch as if they’d just come in from twenty-four straight hours of driving instead of the remaining three-hour leg of the journey. He had awakened to Hutch singing in the greenhouse and puttering around with the glow of a job well done all over him. In that unguarded, early morning moment, Starsky had caught a glimpse of the Hutch that didn’t eye his own holster straps as though the leather might turn into a coiled poisonous snake around his shoulder. Neither man-eating wild monkeys nor cheapskate LA taxpayers who didn’t want to compensate their public servants could dampen the joy Starsky found in a happy Hutch.
When Hutch returned to the greenhouse, he sat down quietly beside Starsky on the bench, so frozen in expression and movement that Starsky wanted to check for breathing. “Hutch, who was it on the phone?” Hutch didn’t answer. Not in words. He grabbed Starsky’s beer out of his grasp and lobbed the bottle at the floor where it landed six feet away and shattered. “What the–!” Starsky ditched the newspaper and shook Hutch’s shoulder in a squeeze hold. “Hutch! Who was it on the phone?”
“Dobey.”
“Calling from home or the station?”
“Station.”
“Okay, I’m getting this from the source. You sit tight.” Hutch didn’t budge, and Starsky nearly pitched himself over head first scrambling off the bench to get to the coffee table phone. He waited with finger-tapping impatience through the ringing, but the sound of Dobey’s voice made him wish the ringing had gone on indefinitely. This was not good. “Cap’n, it’s Starsky. What’s going down, what’d you call to tell Hutch? He’s a block of wood right now.”
“I knew he wouldn’t take it at all well, but after what you men did for her, you deserved to hear it from me before you have to come on shift tomorrow. They got to Marianne, Starsky.”
“What?! When?”
“Sometime during the night. I got a phone call at home this morning from the sheriff out there. Apparently, Ms. Andrews had my name and number as an emergency contact?”
“Uh…yeah.” Starsky tried to think through the combined shock and crushing worry for Hutch. “I guess we forgot to tell you that last night. We thought it’d be better to give her your home number and direct extension at the station. You know how it is, sometimes it’s hard to get hold of Hutch and me if we’re on a case, stakeout, something.”
“Well, when Ms. Andrews went to Marianne’s room this morning to see if she wanted breakfast, she didn’t get an answer to her knock. She found the room’s lock had been tampered with, and Marianne was dead right where she lay in bed. Head shot, Starsky. After Ms. Andrews quit screaming the place down, she called the sheriff and gave him my numbers right off the bat.”
Starsky tugged at his hair and dropped down on the couch. “We watched for some kind of tail all the way. We kept a low profile. We didn’t even get word to you about where we’d relocated her until last night, and we stopped by your house to tell you. How the hell—!”
“Starsky, it’s nothing you and Hutch did. I came straight to the station and got on the horn to Bureau Chief Dodds, my contact in this region. They’re doing their own damage control this morning. An old wire tap on Harry Owens’ club should have been removed last week, but the order didn’t make it through proper channels. This morning the young agent monitoring the tap was found dead. Apparent suicide. From what they’ve pieced together, Marianne called yesterday to speak to a Chicky? You recognize the name?”
“Yeah. Marianne mentioned him a couple times on the way out there. He was the club’s piano man. Accompanied her and stuff. Old friend of hers. Damn! Cap’n, we warned her. We told her she had to pretend LA had fallen into the ocean. She couldn’t make contact of any kind, letter, phone call, telegram, smoke signals, nothing! Oh, man, Hutch doesn’t need this shit!” Realizing he’d said that out loud, Starsky muttered, “Sorry, Cap’n.”
Dobey’s sigh was loud over the line. “There’s really nothing else to call it, Starsky. I’ve had the commissioner in my office this past week giving me hell because I didn’t cooperate with the Feds. I’ve had Stanton trying to tear me limb from limb. And now we’re supposed to believe this dead wet-behind-the-ears agent was the mastermind behind all this?”
“I don’t buy it either. We couldn’t have trusted her with the Feds, though, Cap’n.”
“Starsky, the entire FBI isn’t corrupt.”
“I know that, but with pros like these, how’re we supposed to separate the good apples from the bad when lives are at stake?”
“Professionals, for certain. According to what the sheriff has gleaned from the crime scene and Ms. Andrews, the killer was in and out with no muss, no fuss, so quiet that Ms. Andrews didn’t hear a peep. That means silencer, too, and a particularly effective one. The fact that whoever it was didn’t molest Ms. Andrews in any way? It’s the pros who only take out the immediate threat, follow strict orders, and don’t mess around with collateral damage.”
“Yeah. Marianne was compromised on a tapped call yesterday, and she’s dead in Colorado by this morning? Captain, who the hell are we dealing with here?”
“I don’t know, Starsky, but I doubt we’ve seen the last of them. My Bureau contact is pretty vocal about wanting Hutch under protection. I told him after this past week, you’re just as vulnerable in terms of what you know, and he agreed.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Let me see if I heard you right. The FBI wants to protect a couple of local cops? When did they become so concerned about our welfare?”
“It’s not unheard of, Starsky!” Dobey sounded annoyed. “Especially under unusual circumstances, and these are unusual circumstances!”
“I’ll say! No way. Hutch won’t go for it, and I won’t either. Not federal. The only people I trust to protect us are us. Anybody coming after him will have to get through me, and vice versa.”
“And I don’t have to tell you how many times that’s happened in partnerships. Watch yourselves, Starsky, and there’s no shame in coming out of the cold. I’ll see you here tomorrow morning regular time. Tell Hutch I’m sorry. I know he got in deep with this one.”
“Yeah, too deep. Thanks, Cap’n.” Lost in a funk over the news, Starsky had to hear the irritating off-the-hook tone to know that he hadn’t replaced the receiver. He absently dropped it down in its cradle and tried to find words to offer Hutch. Over the last week, Starsky had come to like Marianne and care about her as an entity separate from protective police work. Funny, blunt, damaged but brave, she’d grown on him. He’d convinced himself that time spent with her away from case work was the reason, not his knowledge that she hadn’t shared a bed with Hutch, because that would just be weird.
Either way, it didn’t matter shit now, did it, in a world where monkeys could eat a woman and child out for a pleasure stroll and Hutch had to face this kind of pain after he’d risked his life to preserve Marianne’s. Feeling eighty years old inside and out, Starsky went back to the greenhouse where he found Hutch slumped over, arms crossed over his knees. Starsky stroked up the soft velour spread tight over Hutch’s back, squeezing tense muscles just under his neck.
“I stood in that room at Rampart and told her she could trust us with her life.”
Starsky kneaded the knotted muscles. “Hutch, it doesn’t help, I know, but Dobey said she ignored our warning and called that Chicky at the club. We tried. We did everything we could. Even the Feds can’t always keep protected witnesses from going out of bounds and paying for it. She’s past our help now. This person, organization, whatever–they got reach, Hutch. Incredible reach. Maybe it’s about time we think about who’s looking out for us. Dobey said–”
“I’m not running to the FBI like some scared kid after a nightmare!” Hutch clutched at his knees and nodded his bowed head.
Starsky stroked through Hutch’s hair. “Nah, I didn’t think you would. Me neither.”
“I may never get my hands around the neck of the bastard that did this to her, but whoever it is better have their affairs in order if they come looking for me! I’m one more of these away from being done, you understand? One more breech of trust that ends with someone dead. One more time the whole system fails. One more, Starsky. I won’t have anything left in me after another one.”
“I know. Babe, I know. We’ll just have to put our heads together, stand back to back and side to side like always, and make sure it doesn’t happen.”
~*~*~
“Hey, Cap, can I ask you something?”
Johnny turned from the coffee pot warming on the stove. Two of his engine boys were lingering over their morning coffee at the dining table. He approved of the men who made up 38’s A-shift. These guys were his team. They would never replace 51’s crew in his heart, but they helped fill the gaping hole left by Roy and the others. He nodded at Jerry. “Sure, what?”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“I can answer that!” the other guy, E.B., cawed. Whenever E.B. talked loudly, he sounded just like a crow. “My guess is, The Graduate!”
Joyful snickering ensued. Johnny rolled his eyes. “All right, guys. You’ve been giving me that bull for weeks now. You got something you wanna say, then say it!” He suddenly had two innocent cherubs staring at him instead of veteran firemen just a few years his junior. Shrugging, Johnny fixed his cup of coffee and went back to his office. “Hose drills in ten minutes out front, guys,” he told them in passing, trying to look stern.
He hadn’t adjusted to having his own office–his own during A-shift, anyway. He shared the space with the B and C shift captains, reminded of their presence every time he came in after days off and couldn’t locate his favorite pen or had to go digging through the desk drawers for the stapler. He’d never adjust to the amount of time spent hunting and pecking on the typewriter. With boring paperwork always waiting for him, Johnny found he looked forward to the monotony-breaker runs more as captain than he had as a paramedic. He settled down to a stack of equipment usage surveys to bide the time until hose drills. Perhaps an alarm would delay both. He cocked his head, listening. The alarm stayed quiet. Grumbling, Johnny slid one of the forms into the machine. When the phone rang at his side, he blessed whoever was on the line.
“Station 38, Captain Gage.”
“Hey, partner.”
Johnny’s morning brightened considerably. “Hey, yourself! Holding down 58’s typewriter?”
“Damn equipment usage surveys! Nothing but useless crap, if you ask me.”
Johnny laughed. Strong words for Roy DeSoto. Good to know he wasn’t the only one captaincy had given the grumbles. “We’re still just a couple of hose jockeys at heart.”
“Always will be, Johnny. Listen, you got a few minutes?”
“You didn’t just ask me that, right? I got all the time you want. I’d love an excuse to conveniently miss hose drills. What’s on your mind?”
“You, actually. Got any Valentine’s Day plans with that special person?”
Stretching the phone cord to its limits, Johnny wheeled his chair around to kick the door closed. Privacy secured, he wheeled back to the desk. The question bothered him more than it should. For the last few years, Valentine’s Day week had left him wanting to put up a heart poster and shoot darts at it. First ’77 with Ke–Hutch’s injury, then the break-up in ’78, and ’79 was shaping up no better. This year he had no lover to lose. “What special person would that be?”
“The one who gave you jewelry for making captain?”
“Roy, you better be behind concrete doors.” Johnny laughed. “And he gave you jewelry, too.”
“Sterling silver paramedic cuff links, personal as a boxed pen set. Don’t get me wrong: I like my cuff links. I’m wearing them right now. But they’re not a one-of-a-kind charm stone with handcrafted leatherwork. Being a dumb straight man, I didn’t think much about it, but Joanne flipped when I told her. Got all giggly and wanted to know when you guys are getting married and if she could cater.”
Johnny liked Roy’s wife. He did. He always had. Right now he wanted to strangle her for having beautiful ideas with no basis in reality. “She’s pregnant, Roy. Overly emotional and hormonal. She’d be saying that if he’d given me a pocket guide to the skeletal system.”
“No bones about it.” Roy chuckled.
Johnny groaned. “Roy, I miss you. I do. But I don’t need cabbages like that this time of morning. What’s your real reason for calling?”
“That is my real reason. I’ve been hearing things, Johnny. Word around the stations has it that you’re spending more of your free time over at Rampart than you do at home. Hell, if Joanne and I barbecued out in Rampart’s dining patio, we might see more of you.”
“You sure would. My luck it’d be my station responding when you set the back fence on fire.”
“Not when we work the same shift and have the same days off, birdbrain.”
“Oh. Right. Listen, Roy, we’re just friends, and I’m not there that much. Yeah, on my days off I might stop by and visit the whole gang. Now that I’m a captain, if I didn’t go by for social visits, I’d never be there, you know that. Don’t you ever drop in and see everybody?”
“Occasionally, but the paramedic teams running out of Rampart aren’t interested in spreading rumors about me.”
“Well, I’m not doing anything newsworthy either! I’m lucky if I get five minutes of conversation with him. Mostly I hang around and talk to Dixie at the nurses station.”
“Ah, so that’s how it got started.”
“What? How what got started?”
“Prepare to be knocked off your feet, Johnny. The LA County grapevine has you in hot pursuit of Dixie McCall. And I think the rumor is helped along by Brackett’s little flub at the celebration party in December. Tongues are wagging that you guys are rivals for a certain nurse’s affection, and that Brackett asked for the competition by waiting so long to ‘make an honest woman’ of her.”
Johnny wanted to lean over and bang his forehead on the typewriter keyboard. Valentine’s week had broken its personal record for nastiness. “That explains the Graduate jokes I’ve been getting from the guys. Man! And Dixie’s not even that much older than me! Not Mrs. Robinson class anyway.”
“It’s that younger man, older woman double standard, Johnny.”
“Damn. I’ll bet Dixie wants to get a scalpel and peroxide after me.”
“Don’t you believe it. Knowing Dixie, she’s getting one big kick out of it.”
“You hear anything from the guys at 51 about it?”
“Our guys at 51 don’t know what to think.” Roy’s voice hushed to a whisper. “That day in the locker room you said you didn’t just sleep with women. You never really made yourself out to be a men-only guy. Far as I know, I’m the only one you’ve come out to as exclusively gay.”
“And Brackett, for all the damn good it does me.” Johnny rubbed his brow. “Guess I should be glad the grapevine thinks I’m making a play for Dix.”
“It makes for nice cover, but it won’t last. I hate having to say this to you, but you might think about lowering your profile at Rampart. Sooner or later, someone who doesn’t think in stereotypes will figure out you’re hanging around for Brackett instead of Dixie, and the grapevine’ll burst into flame.”
“It’s not like I drag him off to his office and hole up there with him for a half hour at the time!” Johnny tapped two fingers on his forehead trying to kill the image of making out with Brackett on his enormous office desk. “Like I said, we’re just friends, and hell, sometimes I doubt I can really call us that, as little contact as we have. I don’t know why, but he won’t even let me get close enough to flirt, if I wanted to be reckless and flirt in the middle of Rampart’s ER.”
“I’m just a concerned former partner, Johnny, who–“
“You’re not former anything.”
Roy’s warm silence had a smile in it that Johnny could easily see from memory. “Thanks, junior. Same goes for you. Look, just be careful? You’ve made captain and I’m hearing good things. Your men like you; the battalion chief’s happy with you. I think you’d have to get caught in pretty blatant circumstances to blow all that. But Brackett’s in a tougher spot. The pencil pushers at Rampart might decide if Brackett has an ‘unsuitable’ private life, he oughta just be in private practice, you know?”
Johnny’s stomach twisted the way it did when he got hold of sugary coffee. Roy was never an alarmist. He’d talked Johnny off the limb of a random IRS audit, and he’d held Johnny’s hand–figuratively speaking–through dozens of other flash fires of Johnny Gage worry that fizzled into nothing. When Roy was worried, a man had to take notice.
Fingering the Wintu charm stone beneath his uniform shirt, Johnny wished he could forget what it felt like to press his lips, however briefly, to Brackett’s cheek. “I hear what you’re saying, Roy. Maybe it’s time the grapevine thinks I’m tired of chasing Dixie.”
“Couldn’t hurt. Something will work out, Johnny. I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but I swear the good doctor’s not pushing you away because he doesn’t have any interest.”
“Roy, I’d rather not talk anymore about it,” Johnny said, knowing he sounded like a sour sore loser but, well, he was a sour sore loser. No shame in being himself. “And if it’s too dangerous for me to swing by Rampart for off-duty visits, then we shouldn’t be talking about this on the phone at our stations even behind closed doors.”
“It’s not fair, Johnny. Damn it, it’s not–okay. Change of subject. You still moping because 86’s didn’t have an opening when we got promoted?”
Johnny lounged in the squeaky chair and took stock of his office. “Nah. I’ve got good guys here, Roy. Bigger kitchen than 51’s. Better beds in the dorm, too. I won’t say I wouldn’t give serious thought to a slot at 86’s if it opened up, but I’m not waiting by the phone.” He heard the dull tones of an alarm.
“Gotta run, Johnny,” Roy said hurriedly. “That’s a full station alarm.”
“Yeah, I hear it. Careful out there.”
“You too. Don’t get any paper cuts messing with those survey forms.”
“Weirdo,” Johnny shot back and hung up the phone.
There went his sneaky plan to casually drop by Rampart and attempt some Brackett-watching on Valentine’s Day. The grapevine wouldn’t know what to make of it if he didn’t show up with a dozen red roses for Dixie. And he would likely end up scheduled for a not-so-elective gastric lavage if he showed up with a dozen red roses for Brackett.
~*~*~
“I can’t bee-leeeve I let you padded room escapees drag me out here!” Huggy’s shivering was almost rhythmic in his huddled seat on the fallen log situated the bare minimum safety distance Hutch would allow from the rock-ringed campfire. In addition to his beat-up sneakers and three pairs of socks, he wore jeans, two sweaters crammed under a leather jacket, a garish scarf, and a polar-rated hat with earflaps over which he’d draped the lavender knitted shawl that he’d borrowed from Cora Lee.
Hutch dipped his toasted marshmallow into caramel topping and extended the treat on its spiked stick to their freezing camping mate. “Huggy, it’s late February, I’ll grant you, but this is California, not Alaska, and there’s a reason this is a year-round campground. This elevation allows for milder temps and climate, and they don’t see enough snow and ice to impede the roads or trails.” He took off his flannel, fleece-lined coat and draped it over his knees to prove his point. “I think it’s quite comfortable.”
Moving an inch or two closer to Huggy on the log, Starsky blew into his cupped hands and touched the breath-warmed palms to his cheeks. “Brr. You’re part polar bear, then, Blondie. It’s colder’n a witch’s tit in Antarctica out here.” He pulled his own fleece-lined jacket tightly around his chest, and his shivering matched Huggy’s in rhythm. “This camp is named right. I’m starting to feel like some of the soldiers at the original Valley Forge.”
“You could’ve warned us,” Huggy complained through a mouthful of marshmallow. “Seeing as you’d been here before.”
Hutch prepared to be pummeled by two unsatisfied campers. “Uh, well, actually I haven’t been here before. I’ve been to a different campground in the park, but the Angeles National Forest covers a fairly large geographic area, and campgrounds vary.”
“Vary how?” Starsky asked, instantly suspicious.
“Weather conditions, amenities, number of sites, trail access,” Hutch tried to muffle the last word against his fist, “elevation.”
“Elevation?” Starsky sat forward on the log, and his eyes flashed at Hutch through the flicker of campfire light. “How’s that? This is the same elevation as that other trail I’ve been on, right?”
“Er, no. We’re–uh–a little higher than that campground even.”
“A little higher?” Huggy wagged the marshmallow stick at Hutch. “How much higher? A couple inches? Few feet? Dozen yards?”
“I’d say we’re about…um…3,500 feet above sea level right now.”
“What?!” Two voices screeched at him.
Huggy put a hand to his forehead. “I feel faint. I’m dizzy. I’m not built for high altitudes. I’m a cool cat, not a mountain lion. You didn’t tell me we were gonna be perched on the top of Mt. Everest, you sneaky blond torture artist!”
“I wanna know how the hell he got us up here this high without us knowing it!” Starsky added.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Hutch glared at both of them. “First, this elevation is 20,000-something feet below Everest’s peak. Second, we didn’t hike up the 3,000 feet, you idiots. We drove up the mountain roads and then probably climbed between 500 to 800 feet over the course of the three and a half-mile trail hike to the campsites. Such a gradual climb you don’t even notice it!”
“I noticed the hike,” Starsky whined, bending over to rub his calves. Huggy nodded at him and bent over to do the same. They shivered and rubbed their calves in a weird choreographed protest.
Hutch resorted to drastic measures probably absent from any Boy Scout manual. Using an old family recipe handed down to him from his grandfather, he poured hot water from the enamelware coffee boiler into their tin mugs, and mixed in the special cocoa powder he’d brought along in his knapsack in plastic baggies. From his sack he withdrew a silver flask, added rum to each mug, and stirred the contents with a cinnamon stick. “Here,” he said, handing over the beverages, “In ten minutes, you’ll be warm, happy, and hugging trees all over the campsite.”
Starsky and Huggy sniffed at the steam from the mugs and their matching skeptical expressions were almost comical. “What is it?” Huggy had to know, ever the food and drink critic.
“Well, it’s not bear piss, Huggy, can’t you tell that much? Knock it back, it won’t hurt you.”
“It’s hot cocoa!” Starsky announced. “With a rum kick.”
That convinced Huggy. Hutch watched in sly amusement as his companions drank down the spiked hot chocolate. The drink was meant to be sipped and savored, but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, and their improved dispositions would sure help him.
Fifteen minutes later, Starsky was lounging on the ground using the log as a backrest. Staring up at the stars, he’d shed his jacket and had his hands folded over his belly. “I knew this was the way to go! You’ve made a believer out of me, Hutch. There’s something to this wilderness kick, all right. Get out of the city, away from all the crud we put up with in that concrete jungle.”
“This tree is pretty. I’m tellin’ you, dudes, this tree…” Huggy wrapped his lanky arms as far as they would reach around the tree trunk at chest level. “Never seen one like this before. It’s like…man, it’s like my own special tree, dig?”
Hutch sipped his hot cocoa to avoid laughing out loud. “Huggy, it’s a white fir. They’re one of the most common trees in the canopy.”
“What about this one?” Huggy tromped over to a towering bare deciduous with at least a four-foot diameter at breast level and tried to hug it too. “This one’s gotta be rare. It’s got this vibe, like, it’s been here for years, it’ll be here for years after we gone, and it knows things.”
“Nope, sorry, Huggy. That’s a California black oak. Not rare. But it is old. Probably more than a hundred years old with another hundred yet to live unless disease or fire gets to it.”
“Huggy,” Starsky said, then giggled, “quit getting fresh with that tree and come back over to the fire. How can we tell ghost stories with you molesting the trees?”
“I’m not molesting nothing, dirty mouth. I respect nature. Nature is…” Now minus the knitted shawl, earflap hat, and jacket, Huggy waved his arms in a sweeping, majestic arc that included the whole campsite. “It’s our one real mother, y’know? Mama Nature in all her glory.”
Hutch couldn’t hide his smile. Ah, the power of chocolate and booze on a cold mountain night.
Huggy came back to the campfire and stretched out on the ground beside Starsky. He bunched his jacket inside out against the log for a pillow. “I gotta thank you for bringing me out here. Does something for a brother, filling his lungs with this righteous air. I can feel the smog just peelin’ off me.”
“I think you put more rum in his mug,” Starsky accused Hutch.
“No, serious. You guys really been there for me lately. When things went south with Julius, I thought my days on the side with all the marbles were through. I know Dobey wanted you to haul me in and play heavy until I gave you Big Red.”
Starsky hadn’t given up his concentrated study of the constellations. “Nope, Huggy. I know you and Dobey won’t ever be bosom buddies, but this time it wasn’t you so much, it was us.”
“Talk to me, Starsky, not that wise old tree over there.”
Hutch laughed. “What he’s trying to say is Dobey was worried we might cross a line we couldn’t find our way back over. You have to understand, over the last several years, that snake has bitten Dobey numerous times. First Mike Ferguson, then Lieutenant Slate, and now this thing with Luke. Most of Dobey’s longest-standing police friendships have ended in that kind of betrayal. John Blaine was by no means a crooked cop, but his choices in life came as a shock. The captain’s seen us get more and more fed up with the system, and he thought the mess you’d gotten yourself into just might turn us.”
Huggy made an obscene gesture in what he probably thought was the general direction of LA. “Hah. Should’ve known better, the old worry wart.”
Starsky took a deep, lung-stretching breath. “Once he figured out we were trying to let good police work play out and keep you alive, not turn a blind eye to justice, he calmed down.”
“Luke Huntley goin’ crooked, that really tore you up, didn’t it, Hutch?”
Surprised by Huggy’s question, Hutch needed another sip from his mug before he could make verbal sense of his jumbled up feelings. “The whole thing did. Doris’ gambling addiction and victimization by that sleaze-bag Reuben. Realizing their marriage wasn’t straight out of The Waltons the way I thought it was, the way I guess I’d needed it to be after seeing the unhealthy shit in my own parents’ marriage. But the thing with Luke was the worst. My father was a cold, money-grubbing lawyer who made some of the sharks Starsky and I’ve fished out of the sea look warm and cuddly. Luke is the exact opposite, so it’s no big shock that I latched onto him as a replacement dad. And there’s nothing in the world like waking up to firsthand evidence that a parent figure ain’t all they’re cracked up to be.”
Starsky made an odd jerky movement and finally brought his gaze down from the stars. He patted around on the ground until he found his mug, tilted it and grunted when one measly drop fell. “You got more of that cocoa mix, Hutch?”
“No, Starsk, afraid not. Here, you can have the rest of mine.”
Starsky reached eagerly for the offering but paused with his hand halfway to the mug. “Hit it with another shot of rum, would ya?”
“Everything okay, Starsky?” Hutch dug into his knapsack for the rum flask.
“Sure, but I’m starting to feel the cold again and I want the warm fuzzies back.”
Huggy stretched and wriggled. “Umm, my fuzzies are nice and warm.”
Starsky nearly upended Hutch’s mug. “Huggy, on what level of consciousness d’you think I’d ever wanna know about your fuzzies?”
“Drink your concoction there, killjoy.” Huggy winked at Hutch. “I wanna know about Blondie’s little jaunt to Minnesota last week. You go up there for what I think you did?”
Starsky made quick work of Hutch’s remaining hot chocolate. “Man’s gotta have a reason to go see his mother, Hug? Just because you and I can’t go back home doesn’t mean Hutch–”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Hutch interrupted.
“Hey, brother,” Huggy said at the same time. “That neighborhood was never a home, and that’s the main reason Julius helped me get out of it way back when. I’m not itching to go back except to see Cora Lee now and again.”
“What did you mean, Starsky? Why can’t you go back?”
Starsky fidgeted. “Aw, come on, Hutch, you know what I mean. Ma and Nick, they’ve got their own lives. I’m the one they call when things go screwy and other than that….”
“Hutch ain’t known for tearing up the flight paths between LA and Duluth either,” Huggy said.
“Last few weeks have been tough on him, Huggy. After what happened with Mari–” Starsky broke off and went back to staring at the sky. “And if the fiasco with Huntley wasn’t enough, he had the real thrill of putting himself into the mind of a killing machine like Eddie Carlyle.”
“Wait a second, I really appreciated the psychological challenge of that case. Closest I’ve ever come to the police version of performance art.” Hutch had appreciated several aspects of the case, and he had a fond memory of trying on Carlyle’s clothes for Starsky while his amused partner sprawled in the armchair and fondled the long-range sniper rifle he’d come across. In Hutch’s fantasies, Starsky sprawled in the chair fondling his own gun, the circumcised one, but Starsky’s unconscious tinkering with the rifle had verged on scorching Hutch’s eyeballs as it was.
At the moment, Starsky’s look was scorching him in a less pleasant way. “Yeah? I s’pose you liked the psychological challenge of Carlyle busting out of Memorial and getting to Schiller’s just in time to nearly make it your last performance?”
Hutch didn’t know what burr had crawled up Starsky’s ass, but he hoped the rum in those last few ounces of cocoa would remove it soon. “You’re just ticked that your teeny-bopper girlfriend beat you to the punch on the rescue.”
“She’s not my girlfriend!” Starsky yelled. “Jesus, I’m still catching flak at the station over some of the dumb things Joey said. God knows, I’d give her my right kidney if she needed it, for helping me get to you that day, but damn it, Hutch, don’t you see what she is? She’s a kid whose mother doesn’t give a good rat’s ass about her, or what’s she gonna grow up to be, or who she’s gonna grow up to be. Or maybe Mrs. Carston’s already made her up mind what Joey’s gonna be, and she doesn’t like what her fucking focus group’s little crystal ball has shown her about Joey, so she’s perfectly fine with letting the kid run around the city in her damned Mercedes!”
“Easy, Starsky, easy.” Hutch wanted to stretch out on the other side of Starsky and pull him into loving arms, but he and Huggy didn’t need Starsky bolting down the mountain. “Joey hasn’t had a good home life, no, but I think this ordeal might’ve been a wake-up call for her mother. The woman is self-centered and misguided, but she’s no monster. I think they have a shot at pulling things together. Hell, I used to think my mom didn’t give a rat’s ass about me, but I’ve come to realize she was so cowed by my father that her emotions toward me were blunted. Last week I got to see a different side of her. I got to experience what it’s like to have a mother in more than name only, and maybe Joey will, too.”
Starsky smiled and got somewhat unsteadily to his feet. “I need to–” he gestured at the nearest clump of trees. “Answer the call of nature. Go ahead and fill Huggy in on the details.”
When Starsky reached the treeline, Huggy said, “I thought he was real close to his mama.”
Hutch frowned at the figure disappearing beyond the border of firs. Starsky had to be really upset not to make nervous jokes about waking up man-eating hibernating chipmunks. “She sent him away as a child, Huggy.”
“I know that, but they got past all that, right? He calls her every week.”
“Sure he does, but I remember I used to think some of the calls I overheard were a little forced. Like Starsky was playing to an audience. Recently I’ve heard him sound more real on the phone with her, but that was disturbing, too. It was like he was retaliating for something. I don’t know that Starsky’s Brooklyn childhood was exactly idyllic. I’ve wondered from time to time if his dad wasn’t more of a hard-liner than Starsky will admit to.”
“You don’t mean–” For a tipsy camper, Huggy sounded really sober.
“I don’t know, and Starsky’s lips are closed tighter than a clam on the subject.”
“Best we leave it alone then. So, how’d it go with your mom?”
Hutch smiled. “I had a plan all worked out. I took her to her favorite restaurant, talked her into splurging on dessert. Then the plan fell apart. I was supposed to take her home, fix her coffee, and tell her about my orientation in the privacy of her own nice, quiet kitchen.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. My brain disengaged, and I blurted it out right when the waiter arrived with our desserts.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Oh, Lord is right. The waiter dropped my pecan-crusted sweet potato soufflé on the floor. Stop giggling, Huggy!” Huggy ignored him, and Hutch had to laugh too. “Okay, that part was funny. But then Mom started crying, and got embarrassed that she was crying in a restaurant, and finally left the table. Crying all the way through the dining rooms, mind you. I had to give the waiter a wad of cash and get out of there to see about Mom.”
“Ouch. She didn’t spend the rest of the visit cryin’?”
“No, she shut herself in her room that night, but the next morning she was a lot better.”
Starsky had returned. He plopped down cross-legged in his old spot and flicked a marshmallow at Hutch. “Details, partner. Tell him what happened the next morning.”
“Starsky!” Hutch knew the heat in his cheeks had nothing to do with his half cup of hot rum cocoa. “Huggy doesn’t want a boring surgical dissection of the whole thing.”
“Says who!” Huggy folded his arms and sat in the manner of a great warrior chief presiding over his council. “Give with the dissection already!”
“I fixed breakfast for her and we talked some things out. She told me she loves me, I’m her son, and that’s what matters most to her. She’s scared for me, that my life will be harder than usual. If she only knew my sexuality isn’t nearly as dangerous or hard as my career.”
“No, but the combination is a killer one-two punch,” Huggy said seriously.
Starsky cleared his throat. “Still editing details, Hutch.”
“Starsky!”
“What am I missing?” Huggy frowned. “Don’t make me beat it out of you with marshmallows!”
Hutch mumbled the tidbit he’d hoped to keep to himself. “She–er, she took me shopping.”
Starsky’s chuckles escalated to outright belly laughter. After a stunned silence, Huggy’s loud laughter joined Starsky’s. Hutch sighed and waited for the hilarity to die its slow, agonizing death. Huggy clutched at his chest, rolling his eyes worse than a silent movie actor. “Oh, man. She took you shopping shopping? Like, fashion store shopping?”
Hutch seared him with a warning glare. “She was trying to meet me in the middle, Huggy. What does a sheltered Minnesotan widow know about gay men except the clichés that make it to the mass media? She thought it was something we could do together. When she realized I was having a miserable time following her around fancy boutiques, I think it actually made her feel better to know that my orientation hadn’t changed the person she’d always known as her son. I was still Hutch. The rest of the visit went great from there on out.”
Huggy clapped his hands, obviously delighted. “So that’s how you became out and proud in Minnesota! Man, I’m proud of you, brother. P-r-o-u-d.” He stretched his arms to the sky and let out a weird primal yowl, then did a little shoulder-rolling dance in place. “It’s a great night to be alive. You guys, you’re my boys. You know that, right? We tight. I mean, we’re so tight, we’re out of sight!”
Starsky’s smile was halfway between amused and indulgent. “Huggy, I think you have some kinda strange reaction to alcohol and chocolate.”
“I’m telling the truth. We’ve been to hell and back, you, Blondie, and me. Ain’t a damn thing broken us yet. Not a damn thing will. I feel that here.” Huggy pounded a fist on his chest above his heart. “There’s nothing that could make me doubt my boys or what we got. We’re family!”
Hutch smiled, warmed more than he wanted to admit. “Huggy, I agree with the sentiment, and yes, we have a perfectly good campfire here, but we’re not singing Kum Ba Yah.”
~*~*~
Starsky had stopped listening to the sounds of nature outside their roomy three-person tent. He and Hutch lay side by side in sleeping bags, the tent’s central post between them, and Huggy stretched out horizontally in his double-thickness bag at their feet. Hutch had rolled over to face Starsky, and his peaceful face in sleep burned Starsky so deep in his chest he felt pangs in his stomach. Huggy’s circle-of-love remarks had infected him with a strong quit-while-ahead sense that things were good, the world spinning right, and they were in a fragile balance that needed preservation at all cost. He’d wanted to drag Hutch off somewhere and talk about what carrying the badge was and wasn’t worth. But Huggy stuck like an industrial adhesive, and Hutch was too content for Starsky to broach a dynamite subject.
He watched the fine hairs of Hutch’s mustache twitch in the corner of his mouth on an intake of breath. He knew what those hairs could do to a sensitive lip. His upper lip burned now with the memory. Mustache or no, kissing Hutch had never come hard to Starsky. He knew if he rolled closer to Hutch and pressed his lips to that tender, mustached mouth, the tent, campfire embers, and the whole forest would vanish. He’d be suspended in the stars above the tree canopy, floating with Hutch. Kissing him felt that good. So, why didn’t it translate into a ready-to-fuck hard-on? Starsky chewed on his lip, worrying at the matter of kissing and sexuality. Didn’t straight guys usually have problems with kissing men, even if they could handle jerk-offs and blowjobs? Or was he hung up on clichés like Hutch’s mom and her mother-son shopping trip?
With no gay oracle popping up in the tent to lend him wisdom, Starsky didn’t roll closer. He lay still and called himself a double coward. He’d promised Hutch that walking off the job wouldn’t break them, but what if Hutch was right? What if Starsky’s own fears last May after the Salinas case were well-founded? Without their work bonding them together, how many times like this could they expect to have? What incentive was there for Hutch to even stay in California, especially now that he knew his welcome in Duluth didn’t require hiding himself from the world? Their bond as partners was tested and true, their ability to remain friends off the job as yet unproven. Huggy was right: this unlikely trio was a family. Starsky had already lost his birth family for the most part. He couldn’t imagine life without this one. If keeping the badge meant keeping his family, he’d carry the shield until the next ice age. If the badge wasn’t worth that, then Starsky didn’t know what anything was worth in the whole world.
~*~*~
Captain Dobey had endured a hellish afternoon. The press droned ever closer, enemy bombers ready to initiate an air raid and destroy, make mincemeat of someone over Lionel Rigger’s murder. Dobey deflected them as best he could, but he feared that only a drastic move on the part of his men would defuse their smear campaign against the LAPD. Afraid he knew what the press thought that drastic move should be, he was even more frightened that his two best men might already be considering it, for different reasons. More than anything in his life, Dobey dreaded the next twenty-four hours.
Declining a wait for the elevator, the captain descended the stairs from the chief’s floor to Robbery & Homicide. As he neared the bottom, he spotted one half of his current worry sitting on the second step, hunched over with his arms on his knees. Dobey wasn’t one to believe in ESP or telepathy or any such nonsense, but he had the sudden sense that Starsky was re-visiting another time when he’d perched on that same step.
“Where’s Hutch?” Lingering on the bottom step, Dobey leaned against the rail.
Starsky didn’t look up at him. “Soon as the paramedics were through with him, I talked him into going home. There’s nothing else he can do right now, and that explosion was–” Starsky visibly shuddered. “It was close enough to leave him with some nasty after-effects.”
“Paramedics cleared him, right?”
“From the major stuff. Doesn’t mean he won’t have one helluva headache, earache, dizziness. Why should he have to hang around here and feel like that? I’m the one who should take the heat.”
Dobey had no answer for that except bland reassurances and platitudes that Starsky would view as insults. “How’d it go for you with IA?”
Starsky shook his head, loosely shrugging. “It was all right. Much better’n it could’ve been.”
In other words, Simonetti just happened to be on vacation this week. Thank God for big favors, Dobey reflected, glancing upward. “Not too rough, then.”
Another shrug. That Starsky hadn’t stood to converse at eye level with his superior demonstrated his despair. “They weren’t trying to bury me, or they would’ve asked different questions. That bothers me, but I can’t put my finger on why.”
“What do you mean by different questions?”
Starsky rubbed at his knees. “I got out of there without having to tell them the truth. That it didn’t have to be Lionel. That it could’ve been an eighty-year-old grandma or a baby in a stroller up in that room. My instinct still would’ve taken me out of there like a bat out of hell to get to Hutch.”
“Starsky–”
“The whole point is to ‘protect and serve,’ right? That’s what they teach us. How can I protect and serve when the only person I wanna protect is Hutch?”
“Don’t doubt yourself because of this tragedy. You made a judgment call under pressure, and yes, it was the wrong one in this case, but I don’t fault you for it.”
“Tell that to Lionel’s wife and kid. Tell that to Huggy. I didn’t just lose a good man who shouldn’t have died. I have a feeling I’ve lost a friend; no, make that family member. And I can’t even focus on what’s lost because all I can see is Hutch still alive.”
“The grief is there, even if you can’t see it. And if you didn’t feel that way about Hutch being alive, I’d be shipping you to Memorial for a full medical evaluation. This is one isolated incident, not your entire career. You and Hutch have risked your lives to protect the innocent time and time again.”
“Isolated, hell.” Harsh laughter preceded Starsky finally standing. “I can risk my life, sure. It’s Hutch’s life I can’t give to anyone. Anyone, regardless.” Without a single full glance at Dobey, Starsky started down the hall for the double exit doors.
“Where do you think you’re going, Detective?” Dobey called after him.
“To check on Hutch,” Starsky said with no hint of asking permission.
Dobey harrumphed. “Probably a good idea,” he conceded. “Neither of you should be alone today. We don’t know what the fall-out from this thing will be.”
Starsky lifted a hand, then dropped it at his side and continued through the doors. A Hutchinson gesture of cynicism and despair. Dobey realized that any battle he might have waged to keep his two best detectives on the force had just been lost. He expected the next time he saw them, they would hand him their badges and guns.
~*~*~
“Okay, now that our badges are fish bait, where do we go from here? I’m thinking specifically of dinner. Hey, I know. It’s baked spaghetti night at the North Star mission. We could visit some old friends.” Starsky shut up, hoping silence would wipe the gray look off Hutch’s face before his complexion matched his charcoal jacket. Hutch could tell flat-liners like that, but he didn’t appreciate them from Starsky, and that was all Starsky had been tossing out since he arrived on the beach. Wise-cracking about pollution and littering the ocean at a time like this!
“We have money, Starsk,” Hutch said, back to watching the dying sunlight glimmer over the water. “Our joint account we opened when we sold the fixer-upper? It hasn’t had time to accumulate an impressive interest, but I’ve added to it here and there, and I’ve had some modest success with a few short-term, high-yield investments.”
“I know. I’ve been adding to it, too, instead of padding my personal savings account.”
Hutch’s smile was the first Starsky had seen from him in a day. “I thought maybe you were.”
Starsky returned the smile. “Yeah?”
“Well, I knew Glenda the Good Witch wasn’t responsible for additions that weren’t mine.”
“Yeah, ever since you reminded me of it at the dance contest, I slapped a part of every paycheck in there. And the holiday checks from Aunt Ruth, too. Last I checked we had a pretty good chunk of change. I’m thinking enough for a down payment on a place out in the country. Maybe it’s time to consider the roommate thing. Rustle you up a couple of horses. Okay, not rustle ’em up in the Western movie meaning of the word–what?” Starsky pocketed his useless badge holder and crossed his arms over the unzipped vee of his jacket. “Go ahead, Hutch. Poke holes in my suggestion.”
Hutch’s smile broadened. “If you knew what I wanted to do right now–”
“Then do it.”
Intense pain returned to Hutch’s face, the likes of which Starsky hadn’t seen since the first few minutes after Lionel pitched headfirst out the thrift shop’s upper window. “Starsky, I–”
“Damn it, Hutch, you all but landed on Mars when your car blew sky high, and–mmphh….”
Starsky had to grab Hutch’s shoulders to steady himself under the shock of Hutch kissing him. He parted his lips, tasting, remembering, reaching for that velvety tongue, but the moment died with the quickness with which the sea had devoured their badges. Starsky couldn’t stop himself from looking around to see how many people had witnessed their interlude. He instantly regretted it. The gig was up, then. No dummy, Hutch of all people knew that a naked marching band led by Deputy Chief Reasoner could have passed by unnoticed if Starsky had responded to the kiss the way a man in love would.
As expected, Hutch pulled away, apologies clouding his eyes, his face shuttered. “We didn’t have an audience. I wouldn’t have risked it otherwise, not without asking if you were ready for that.” He flicked his thumb across Starsky’s lower lip. “Doesn’t change anything, does it?”
Starsky marveled that he could fly out of the thrift shop, abandoning a protected witness, but he couldn’t manage a comforting lie for Hutch. “No, but it was a nice thought. Even nicer kiss.”
“That’s why I have to say ‘no’ to your place in the country. In reality, no, we’re not in a position financially to bite off something that big. Mainly because we might have a respectable down payment, but we wouldn’t get far with financing while we’re unemployed.”
“Yeah, that light bulb went off over my head when the words left my mouth.”
“But more importantly, we’re not ready for that kind of change.”
“Wait a second.” Starsky took Hutch’s hand and gave it a good strong squeeze to demand eye contact. “You still don’t believe we’re gonna make it off the job together as more than annual Christmas card exchangers. You’re still thinking today’s the end of us.”
“No…” Hutch sighed. “I believe in us more than that, but I also know we don’t need to stack the decks against ourselves. And jumping into a completely new way of life, certainly a gamble like that one, would stress us to the limit. I’ll always remember that you offered, and–”
“Okay, fine, we won’t even think about it. And maybe you’re right about big changes. But we don’t have to stay nailed down in the same old patterns, Hutch. This is our chance to find out what else there is to us. As people.” And I wish to hell I could tell you we could give being lovers another shot while we’re at it….
“For right now, I think we should make do on what we have in our regular bank accounts while we look for work, and go to that new Greek restaurant on Ocean for dinner. My treat.”
“Fine, I’ll buy breakfast. Let’s eat outdoors, some sidewalk café, like the idle rich on vacation.”
Hutch nodded. “And in between dinner and breakfast?”
Those dark lonely hours when it would be nice to lose themselves in each other’s arms with slow, soft loving. What could replace the comfort that lovemaking would have provided? Starsky shoved his hands down in his jacket pockets. “We splurge on decent booze and get sloshed in memory of the fallen but not forgotten.”
Hutch zipped his jacket against the rising breeze. “I’m with you on that one, partner. For this hopefully final occasion of its sort, I’ll bend my strict avoidance of intoxication. Do I get a cigarette?”
“Hell, no.”
“Just one?”
“Hell, no.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Starsky, you know that?”
“Hell, yes.”
~*~*~
Propped against the Torino’s passenger door, Hutch catalogued the detailing in the brickworked entrance illuminated by the front walk’s lamplight. Taxing his eyes to count bricks helped him ignore the clink of keys as Starsky rhythmically tapped his pants pocket. That was Starsky’s only outward sign of nervousness while waiting for Hutch to say yeah or nay to helping Allison “Laura Anderson” May and her father.
As if he had any choice in the matter. Hutch could no more deny a helping hand to Allison than he could walk past a bleeding kitten on the sidewalk without offering immediate first aid.
But we don’t have to stay nailed down in the same old patterns, Hutch.
They had, though. From their antics at the Employment Commission–when in doubt, compete for female attention–to their unofficial assist with the motorcyclists’ arrest, and finally their double-teamed pursuit of Allison, they hadn’t strayed from their usual MO. Apparently old dogs really didn’t have a prayer mastering new tricks.
Hutch clenched his jaw. His part in their newest side show bothered him. Unlike the meaningless competition over passing fancies like C.D. Phelps, this thing with Allison was the divide-and-conquer urgency he’d felt with Lisa Kendricks in the first blush of his new romance with Starsky. Now in the first blush of preserving their partnership outside the LAPD’s umbrella, Hutch didn’t need a Terry-esque cutie turning Starsky’s head. He still itched uncomfortably from Starsky’s smug little response to his complaint that he wanted some time alone with Allison. Time alone for what, Starsky’s tone had conveyed, if not his actual words. Hutch counted a few more bricks to avoid shouting at Starsky’s damned key clinking. Time alone with Allison meant time she wasn’t alone with Starsky, that’s what. It had to stop, Hutch yelled inside his mind. That was one old pattern, one thread he had to unravel at all costs, because one of these days….
One day the divide and conquer would divide him and Starsky instead of Starsky and the girl. Hutch saw it coming. From the vantage point of the old-time heroine tied to the railroad tracks, he saw the freight train roaring out of the distance toward him–the same train he hadn’t been able to jump clear of or put the brakes on when he started feigning amnesia.
He wanted to be angry with Starsky. Didn’t Don Juan know how it would make Hutch feel to go from standing on a lonely beach agreeing to put all his faith into their friendship, to watching Starsky moon over the first woman who crossed their path? But why shouldn’t Starsky moon over a beautiful woman? Why shouldn’t he do more than moon over her? Hutch knew Starsky wouldn’t turn on him if he went out looking for sexual release with another man, but there was the small matter of a promise Hutch had made in a Pacific Highway motel room, and until he found a way to free his heart from that promise, his sex life would consist of a rubber dick, his right hand, and fantasies.
“No other man…does this to you…un’erstand…. Not…while…I’m breathin’….”
“Starsky!”
“Uhh-nnn. Hutch, say it!”
“No…other…man…does this to me…S-Starsk!”
Shaking the memory, Hutch re-affirmed his vow to die a torturous death before he let on to Starsky what really kept him from seeking a male lover. His sense of fair play wouldn’t let him give in to selfish anger over Starsky’s pursuit of Allison, either. He would bury the negative feelings in that place inside where he shoveled all the other hurts. Worrisome, though, was the sense that the place had nearly reached capacity.
How many gentle reminders that Starsky wasn’t in love with him did he need? Hutch deserved someone spray-painting the word “pathetic” on his forehead for thinking that shedding their badges might flip a switch in Starsky’s brain and bring him across the street to Hutch’s side. For the hundredth time, Hutch told himself he should never have gone to bed with Starsky in the first place. Desperate for his partner, he’d latched on to any tiny sign that Starsky might be discovering a natural-born flexibility in his sexual orientation. He’d misread Starsky that day in the mausoleum parking lot after Vanessa’s death. Misread him in a life-changing, heartbreaking way. For Starsky to exit the rabbit hole Hutch had dragged him down, he needed a steady relationship with a good woman.
Marianne. That’s the woman Hutch really needed on his mind. He had to shuffle everything else aside and view Allison as the protected witness she was. After Marianne, after Lionel, could he really walk back into that nightmare?
Starsky’s key clinking stopped. “I know this is hell on you. I know you’re re-playing the whole thing with Marianne. And hell, Lionel was a last straw for both of us! But Allison–back when she was Laura–was the only friend I had that year after Pop–and then that summer I lost her, too….”
How was it that Starsky could tap into some of his brainwaves but not others? “Yes, I’ve been thinking about Marianne. Thought about her when Allison said those three huge letters.”
Starsky looked troubled. “FBI? Yeah, me, too.”
“My first thought when Allison said she was too scared to go to them for help? Smart girl, that’s what I thought. Starsky, you know I’m with you, hell or high water, right down the line. But are you prepared for another Marianne, knowing it’s your old friend Laura or your ‘Uncle Frank’ we’ll be putting in the line of fire if whatever this is gets out of hand?”
“Hutch, the odds that this thing is connected in any way to that shit with Marianne and Fitch–I mean, you’re talking out of sight, astronomical!”
“I know that, but didn’t what happened to Lionel prove that there’s plenty of that shit to go around, whether it’s connected or not?”
“I can’t walk away without helping, Hutch.”
“You know I can’t either.” Hutch felt the noose slip round his neck again. Once more into the breach, dear friends, and all that Light Brigade bullshit, only without the protection of badges. He resigned himself to old patterns. Except one. “All right, we help. But we need to cool it on the games until we get Allison and old man May past this thing.”
“What games?” Starsky asked, eyebrows quirked.
“You know damn well what games. Whatever’s between the two of you, whatever happens down the line, I’ll handle it. But this is not the sort of thing to mix with a skirt-chasing competition.”
Starsky nodded. “Fair enough. I think you know Allison is more to me than a ‘skirt.’ But I’ll treat her like she’s my sister until she and Uncle Frank are safe. You?”
“Same here.” Hutch nodded at the house where Allison’s shadow moved in front of the picture window. “We’ve kept her in suspense long enough. Go in there and tell her we’re onboard.”
Hurrying up the front walk, Starsky barely touched the ground in his enthusiasm. Hutch liked Allison. She did remind him on the surface of Terry, but in their short acquaintance, he already preferred Allison of the two. She didn’t appeal to his protective instincts the way artistic, vulnerable Marianne had, but she had her finger right on Starsky’s heartstrings. The hero and the damsel in distress…wasn’t that the stuff of fairy tale and legend? Sure, but Hutch stomached it no better than the blind-girl-and-cop soap opera. Why wasn’t someone out there shaking things up, re-writing the age-worn scripts?
Wasn’t it time for the male best friend to win the hero?
~*~*~
By virtue of the seating arrangement, Hutch got the first kiss on Allison’s cheek when she arrived for their lunch date. Starsky nudged Hutch aside to get his, and Huggy, arriving with a tray of beers, planted a smack on the opposite cheek. Laughing, Allison sat down and touched her cheeks. “Well, they’re still intact. You guys will have to try harder next time.”
Hindered by frantic trade, Huggy took her drink order and vanished. Hutch eyed Starsky’s watch, and Starsky nodded, clearing his throat in his way of preparing to say what he didn’t want to say. “Allison, we won’t have much time. First week back on the Force and they’re tryin’ to beat all the lost time out of us.”
“Nonstop action?” she smiled.
“You could say that.” Hutch slipped Allison’s fallen purse string over the back of the chair and squeezed her shoulder in passing. “You said on the phone you had good news for us?”
“I do. I have a new job.” She shone with pride in her accomplishment.
“That’s terrific.” Starsky draped an arm over her shoulders and snuggled in close. “Why don’t we ditch this fancy blond table decoration and go somewhere to really celebrate, schweetheart?”
Hutch smacked him on the back of the head. “Watch it, chump, or I’ll arm wrestle you.”
“Guys, guys!” Allison laughed again, but there was a note of strain in the laughter that Hutch had never heard before. “Let me tell you about the job before you pull me limb from limb.”
“Okay, guess the limb pulling can wait,” Starsky conceded, settling back in his chair.
“I’ve been hired by a company that sponsors English as second language courses. I’ll be teaching English to nonnative speakers. The position is global, so I’ll–”
Starsky’s grin disappeared. “Global. Wait, you’re leaving?”
She slowly nodded. “In two weeks. My first assignment is actually in New York City of all places. I’ve been cleared by the witness program to go back. Now that Dad–” she bowed her head. Smiling through the difficult moment, she touched a fingertip to the corners of her eyes. “I’ve always wanted to see 84th Street again. Now’s my chance. After that it’s off to Korea.”
“I don’t understand,” Starsky said. “You like it here. We–I–”
“David, please understand. For six years, it was just Dad and me. Then you and Hutch stepped in and helped me get through these first awful weeks without him. I need to stand on my own for a change, and it’s so much easier to go and travel than stay here in our house without him.”
“You could find a new place, move to a different part of the city. You can stand on your own in LA. You don’t have to globe trot to do that!”
With Starsky busy trying to keep a childhood friendship intact, it was up to Hutch to acknowledge Huggy, who waited just behind Starsky’s chair. “What’s up, Huggy?”
“Dobey’s on the phone for one of you guys. I thought about telling him you were at a fancier dining establishment, but apparently you geniuses told him where he could track you down?”
Starsky emerged from his daze. “Yeah. We’re waiting for word on a warrant. I’ll–”
“I’ll get it, Starsk,” Hutch offered, rising.
“No, I’m already up.” Starsky waved him back down. “Talk some sense into her, wouldya?”
Starsky followed Huggy to the counter, and Hutch wanted to be anywhere in the world but an uncomfortable chair in the Pits trapped between the warring emotions of selfish relief, worry for Starsky, and missing Allison. “He didn’t mean for that to sound so patronizing.”
She shook her head, brushed her long bangs off her face. “Oh, yes he did. He used to talk to me like that sometimes when we were kids. He had the big brother thing down to a science!”
“Don’t do this,” Hutch said. “You’re–you’re good for him. You’ve got to know that.”
“I have to, Hutch. I can’t stay around and play his little sister. We’re not kids anymore. My feelings for David are grown up now.”
“What makes you think his feelings for you aren’t?”
“Because he treats me the same as he did when we lived next door to each other!”
At some point later in the day, Hutch would lock himself in the john at Metro and call himself a dumbass martyr, but he owed Allison the truth…and he owed Starsky a ladder out of the rabbit hole. “Allison, some of that brother-sister stuff is–well, it’s my fault. See, when you came to us for help, Starsky and I talked about it, and we agreed that neither one of us would pursue you romantically while we were trying to get you and your father safely through his troubles. We didn’t know things would… God, you know how sorry we are that–”
She laid her hand on his arm. “Hutch, stop. I really appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I know David. I don’t know the adult David nearly as well as you do, I’ll admit, but every now and then the little boy he was peeks out from those blue eyes of his, and I can read that David plain as day! He’s not in love with me. I think he’d like to be, but that’s not the same thing, is it?”
Hutch was beginning to think the whole concept of love was just the universe’s big fat sucker punch. “No, it’s not.” Concern for Starsky filled him with sudden sharp anger. “So that’s it? You pop back into his life after twenty-one years when you have no one else to turn to, but when it’s over and done with, you can’t stick around and be his friend?”
She flinched. “It’s not–It’s not possible to be someone’s friend like that, Hutch, when you’re in love with them and they aren’t with you.”
He laughed, long and hard, his pain flowing out before he could dam it inside. “Allison, honey, you’re telling the wrong person that! But who am I to judge? You can’t handle it, you can’t. Good luck in your travels and with your new career.” Gathering her purse, she rose shakily from her chair, and he reached for her arm. “Sorry. That was rude. I’m worried about him and taking it out on you, and I’ll miss you, too. You don’t have to leave. Right now, I mean.”
“I think I do.” She smiled, tears brimming. “Once David gets off the phone, you guys will probably have to go back in to work anyway, right?”
“Probably, yes. Depends on whether the warrant’s come through.”
“Well, I’ll just duck on out then. Tell David I’ll stop by to see him before I leave for New York.” With another kiss on his cheek, she was gone.
Hutch waited for Starsky to come back and find her gone. Yes, it was time for the male best friend to win the hero, but did it have to be by default?
~*~*~
Johnny knocked on the door to Room 341 and waited. At the permission to enter, he peeked in the room. “Cap, how did you get yourself laid up in St. Francis?”
Stanley gave him a lip curl of disdain. “Get your butt in here, and drop the title. That white cap you wear with your dress uniform means you get to call me ‘Hank.'”
Johnny brought in the potted flowering cactus and set it on the over-the-bed table. “Sorry, Cap. I’ve tried, but I just can’t manage the Hank.”
“It’s good to see you, and thanks for the cactus. Sit yourself down and tell me how you’ve been.”
“Oh, no.” Johnny sat down but he waved off Stanley’s curiosity. “I wanna know how you came by that long-leg cast, and why you’re not at Rampart.”
“We were called in to assist with Station 71 in their territory, and their paramedic team does most of their runs out of here, that’s how. Case of unreported slippage. Structure fire in a house on the verge of collapse, and I got too close to a beam that had my name on it.”
“Damn. Sorry ’bout that, Cap. You’ll be out of here in a couple days, though. Then it’s a long haul until cast removal, I know, but you’ll be comfy at home.”
Stanley frowned at him. “Johnny, you know better. What fire captain wants to be laid up at home instead of pulling his shifts?”
Johnny smiled. “Yeah, okay. You got a point.”
“Now, tell me what’s eating you. I can see it plain as day.”
“I’m here to visit you, Cap, not–”
“BS. I know when you want to bend my ears about something. So let’s hear it.”
“Well, I did come to visit–oh, hell, okay. It’s this letter I got from the County about doing a shift over at City Station 9 next month. You hear about that?”
“The LACoFD and LAFD captaincy exchange program? Yeah, I heard.” Stanley grinned. “I got lucky. They didn’t pick me this go round. What’s your concern?”
“Aw, Cap, I don’t get the point of it, and I don’t like the idea of pulling a shift in city territory as some lame duck observing captain with a group of guys I don’t know, while some city captain hangs out with my guys for a shift.”
“You won’t be a lame duck captain, Johnny. Your training with the County has prepared you for anything you might run into at City 9’s, and you’ll have the full authority vested in any city captain.”
“There’s no way I can get out of it?”
Stanley stroked his chin. “Well, you could lodge a complaint with County, I guess, but it wouldn’t be in your best interest.”
“Why not?”
“Johnny, you’re hoping for a transfer to 86’s when their A-shift captain retires at the end of the year, right? Well, listen. You and Roy are the chief’s pride and joy right now. His paramedic captains. He’s right proud of both of you, which means you’ll get a lot of these vanity assignments. Go along with it, and you’ll reap the benefits. He’ll think of your name first when the position you’re interested in comes available. Politics, Johnny. You have to play the game at this level.”
“Damn it. Coyote strikes again, that’s what this is.”
“Sorry?”
“Uh, never mind, Cap.”
“Johnny, it’s just one shift. Just get through it and keep thinking, Station 86, Station 86, whenever you’re tired of the baloney the city guys are giving you.”
“I know, but you wait and see. My luck, there’ll be a three-alarm at the Bank of America building or some other disaster, and I’ll be stuck in the middle of it.”
“What day are you scheduled to be over there?”
Johnny dug in his pants pocket and pulled out the official letter. “Let’s see. May 15th .”
“What day of the week is that?”
Digging in his pocket again, Johnny found his wallet calendar and flipped to the appropriate month. “Tuesday, I think. Yeah, it’s a Tuesday.”
“At least it isn’t a Wednesday. Wasn’t Wednesday always your bad luck day?”
“Right.” Johnny brightened. “Hey, that’s right. Thanks, Cap, I feel better already. I mean, there isn’t much a Tuesday can throw at me, right?”
~*~*~
Cookie in his mouth, milk carton in hand, Starsky bopped between the fridge and the cabinet, swaying his hips to the internal beat of a pop song stuck in his head. He didn’t like the residue on the glass he pulled from the cabinet but he had no time to be picky. Ten minutes. He had ten minutes to eat, read his mail, and catch his breath before he had to scram again and pick up Hutch for their meeting with a cagey snitch on their current case. He and Hutch hadn’t slowed down after the mayor returned their badges. Their caseload had bred like horny rabbits, the toughest shifts they’d pulled since their first year out of uniform. Starsky wanted to blame Dobey, but the captain had looked apologetic when he handed over this latest blue-ribbon pain in the ass, and even worse, Dobey had started briefing them on a dance hall serial murder case. Briefing them the way he did when he wanted to bring them in to clean up other detectives’ messes or cold cases.
Starsky gulped milk and helped himself to another cookie from the tin on top of the fridge. Eight minutes. Maybe if he ignored the pile of mail on the coffee table he could sack out on top of his bed for seven of them. The phone jangled, and Starsky bit down too hard on his cookie, nipping his cheek. He gave serious consideration to ignoring the phone, but his luck, it’d be Rebound calling to reschedule their meeting, and Hutch would kill him if they showed up to a dead end rendezvous. So would Huggy, after the trouble he’d gone through to get Rebound out in the open. Huggy had recently told them that they were still family and he didn’t want to lose them on top of losing Lionel, but his wariness in brokering snitch meetings or passing along the information version of TNT showed that he hadn’t recovered from March’s tragedy. They didn’t need to round out the first week in April by blowing off this meeting. Wiping cookie crumbs from his lips, Starsky answered the phone.
“Starsky here. Make it snappy, I’m a busy man.”
“Too busy to call your mother, apparently,” Ma said.
He’d forgotten the weekly phone call! Starsky leaned back against the wall to get more comfortable. “Sorry, Ma. Hutch and me, we’re snowed under, going ninety to nothing on two cases at once, and it looks like we might be getting a third any day now.”
“What, that captain of yours doesn’t have any other officers to plague? Out there, risking your skin, and for what? So you can quit and risk your skin off the job and then go back to the same police force that turned its back on you? You’re too much like your father, David.”
“Ma, I’m sorry to run, but can we argue about the job some other time? I’ve got less than–”
“You wouldn’t believe who came to visit me today. Little Laura Anderson, David, can you believe? Or I should call her Allison now, she said. And the story she told me! Oh, I know, I could tell she was leaving out details, but you could’ve knocked me dead with a sneeze. FBI witness protection, and all those years–“
Starsky felt a dull ache start at the base of his skull. “Yeah, Ma, the FBI cleared her to contact a few old friends. She told me she might look in on you.”
“What I want to know is what she’s doing here in New York?”
“Her job–”
“Job schmob, David! You want me to believe you couldn’t talk her into staying in LA if you’d wanted to? Such a sweet, lovely girl. I tried to get it out of her why she was really out here, but all she could talk about was you and Hutch. You and Hutch, this. You and Hutch, that.”
“We worked her father’s case unofficially, Ma, so she spent a lot of time with us.”
“Yes, with both of you! What’s a sensible, respectable woman to think with two men glued to her side all the time? She’s not the kind of girl to go for that sexual revolution threesome mishegoss. Can’t Hutch find a woman of his own? He has to hang around and ruin your chances with every potential wife you meet?”
“Sweet, lovely girl, huh? Potential wife, huh?” Starsky bit his tongue but the pain didn’t stem the tide of anger or his inability to swallow it like a good son. “What happened to ‘little Shiksa next door’?”
“David, I have never called Laura–“
“Oh, no? Must’ve been someone else telling Uncle Al and Aunt Rose why you really wanted me to come live with them. I heard everything that day, Ma. Everything.” He hoped with all his heart to hear a stricken silence, but her answer was quick and held no remorse.
“I have nothing to be ashamed of.” Ma’s voice was perfectly level. “What mother doesn’t want her son safe and happy and married with children of his own?”
“Happy, yeah, long as it meets your criteria.”
“You think Hutch’s mother doesn’t want him settled with a good woman and family?”
“Sure, I’ll bet she would’ve liked that, but she knows it’s not gonna happen, and she loves him just the same.” Realizing what he’d said, Starsky brought his fist down on the top of his head.
Ma’s sharp mind didn’t miss much. “I knew it! Years ago, I knew it; the one time you brought him out here to meet me. I said to myself–“
“Why don’t we cut the bull? Every time you call and get on this kick, what you really wanna ask is if Hutch and I are doin’ things together that would turn your hair white. Well, we’re not, and I wish to God we were!”
“David Michael Starsky!”
“But, you see, there’s this little problem. Nature doesn’t agree with your assumption about me, so I can’t be with the one person on this planet who really loves and understands me, the one person I’m crazy about every way that counts but one. And not many women are just dying for marriage to a guy who works crazy hours, brings home crappy pay, and gets shot at more than the entire Kennedy clan! So, no, Ma, odds are, you won’t have a good Jewish girl or even a Shiksa for a daughter-in-law to kvell over with the neighbors. I came into this world alone, I’m going out alone.”
“David, I don’t know what’s happening to you!” Ma wailed. “Used to, you’d never speak to me like this. Every week you’d call and be my one bright spot of sunlight in that week, and now you forget to call, or when I call, you say these horrible things. The way you act now, David, after I went through pain–pain you can’t even imagine–sending you away from my home so you could have a better life.”
Starsky closed his eyes. Guilt yet. He heard his father saying, Don’t disrespect your mother, Davey. Don’t disrespect your mother. Sorry, Pop. I’ve had it up to here! “You know what, Ma, you’ve had it rough. Nobody’s saying you didn’t. I don’t have it so easy either. But you wouldn’t know that, ’cause you don’t wanna know it. You don’t even know me. So, maybe until I find my manners again, or you can find it in your heart to give a damn about me whether or not I live up to your expectations, we better not talk for a while. Tell Nick to keep his nose clean.” Starsky hung up the phone and bent over double, clutching at his hair with both hands.
Under the force of a splitting headache, he sank down against the wall and tried to brace his head against the wall’s solidity to fight a wave of dizziness. His legs weighed a metric ton. He wanted to move, he had precisely one minute to move out that front door or he’d be late to the meeting, but the room swam and then grew faint, and the memory was so vivid he knew he wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
Summer night in the middle of an LA heat wave. Drenched in sweat, scraped and sore from a bad slide in that afternoon’s neighborhood baseball game, he wanted cold milk from the fridge, not lukewarm water from his bathroom tap. Going down the hall past his aunt and uncle’s room, he saw their light was on, the door ajar. He heard their voices and smiled. It was nice how Uncle Al and Aunt Rose talked to each other late at night. He tiptoed the rest of the way to the kitchen and got the milk bottle out of the fridge. With just a small amount of milk left, he decided Aunt Rose wouldn’t mind him taking the bottle back to his room instead of getting a glass and drinking his milk in the kitchen. Heading back to his room, he overheard his name and paused. He knew better than to eavesdrop. He never heard anything good. But he didn’t want to walk on by.
“…but David doesn’t even want to go to the neighborhood party,” Uncle Al was saying.
“Well, maybe he’s made other plans,” Aunt Rose said.
“Maybe, but that pretty little Hannah Kirsch across the street has been fluttering her eyelashes at David for most of the summer, and he won’t even give her the time of day. I thought he could take her to the party, but he acted like I’d suggested a trip to the dentist when I mentioned it.”
“Al, for shame. No boy his age wants his uncle setting up a date for him!”
“Well, why isn’t he out there setting one up for himself? He acts like girls don’t exist.”
“Al, he’s fifteen.”
“So? At that age I was staying over at my friend Bernie’s house just so I could pant over his older sister when she came to breakfast in the morning. And if I was real lucky, I’d get a glimpse of her in her nightgown when she left her room to go to the bathroom all the kids shared. And another thing, you clean up after David, but you’ve never found a girly magazine hidden in his room.”
“Al Starsky, are you saying you want me to find a–a pornographic magazine in David’s room?”
“It’s a rite of passage for every father, Rose, getting to nudge and wink over a contraband naughty magazine his son has stashed away. David’s like a son to me.”
“You’d better do more than nudge and wink if I ever find something like that in David’s possession, Alvin Starsky, or you’ll have more trouble than you can ever handle.”
“Yes, Rose. Of course, I’d tell him it’s not the kind of thing nice boys have.”
“Or nice men! Do I need to go through your hiding places?”
“No, Rose.”
“And stop worrying about David. You sound just like Rebekah. The boy is fifteen. He’s been uprooted from his family after a horrible tragedy, sent out here mostly against his wishes, and he’s having to adjust. He’ll probably be a late bloomer with things like girls and dating. There’s nothing wrong with him. Certainly nothing like you’re suggesting!”
Uncle Al huffed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m letting Rebekah put ideas in my head. I just wish the boy would talk to me. Why is it whenever he has something on his mind, he heads next door? I don’t know how many times I’ve seen him sitting with John and Maggie on the front porch, eating brownies and talking like old pals. Why can’t he talk to us like that?”
“I think John reminds him of Mike, Al; he’s probably more comfortable talking to him, and Maggie is one of those very easy people to talk to. I wish I were more like her in that way. But I think the real reason has to do with those brownies you mentioned. You didn’t marry the world’s best cook. John did. Now go to sleep. It’s too hot for you to be sitting up kvetching like this.”
David went back to his room and slammed the door. Ma hadn’t wanted him spending time over at the Andersons, but she never told him that. Now Uncle Al was mad because he liked the Blaines, but couldn’t say it to David’s face. And Ma hadn’t wanted him being friends with a girl, but Uncle Al was trying to shove Hannah at him. He couldn’t make both Ma and Uncle Al happy, and he’d rather just play baseball and forget about all the rest of it, anyway. Why couldn’t kids just do what they wanted without somebody making them feel like they were a great big disappointment?
A great big disappointment. Starsky pulled himself to his feet and stumbled into his bathroom. That’s what he was. A cop who couldn’t keep a witness alive. A best friend who couldn’t give his partner what he needed most. A son who bad-mouthed his mother and stomped on her dreams. Couldn’t get it up for a man without the help of a good mouth. Couldn’t keep a relationship going with a woman. Trapped in some kind of damned sexual limbo.
He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Will someone tell me just who the fuck I am?
He’d find out. Once and for all. The next woman he met who turned his head, she’d be his for more than a one-night stand, damn it. He’d make it work. He’d work at making it work. If nature meant for him to be straight, he’d prove it. And no one, not even Hutch, would stop him!
~*~*~
Starsky arrived at the Pits twenty minutes late. He would have been later had he stopped by to get Hutch, but he figured at least one person should make the meeting, and he was closer. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Hutch at the bar counter. Camel leather blazer over an open-necked plaid shirt and those snug jeans stretching down miles to his boots, blond hair and mustache groomed to shining, necklaces shimmering against his golden skin, Hutch was really putting on a display. He looked so real, so comfortable in his own skin, that Starsky felt a pang of envy. His own black leather jacket and old red jersey felt slouchy on his shoulders, or maybe it was the weight of that phone call? Starsky threaded through the bar crowd to the counter and got a winning Hutch smile.
“Hey, you’re late, you’re late, for a very important date.”
“Well, I’m not a big white rabbit in a fancy suit, so what’s it matter?” Starsky availed himself of Hutch’s beer and took a long, satisfying swallow. “Sorry, got caught on the phone.”
“Thought so when I called and got a busy signal. High-tailed it here to meet Rebound, but lucky for us, he hasn’t made an appearance either. Huggy’s trying to find out why.” Hutch re-claimed his beer glass. “Give me that, clown. Get your own. I’m thirsty.”
“So, you been sittin’ here all on your lonesome?”
“Nope. A very nice young lady has been keeping me company. We’ve been shooting the breeze about Minnesota. Imagine that, a transplant from St. Paul. And a cop, too. She normally works out of Rampart Division, but she’s on loan to Metro for a special assignment.”
Starsky scanned the bar. “Where is this amazing specimen?”
“She went off to powder her nose, or whatever women say when they need to hit the ladies room. Oh, here she is.” Hutch beckoned her over. “Starsky, this is Sergeant Kira Craig. Kira, this character’s my partner, David Starsky.”
Starsky’s first impression was soft blonde curls, golden skin, white shirt fashionably belted over jeans that showcased shapely long, long legs. She’ll do! “Well, hel-l-o-o, Sergeant.” He shook her hand, but he turned her palm over and planted a kiss on her lightly perfumed wrist. “Very nice to meet you.”
She smiled, letting her hand linger in his. “Okay, how did two gorgeous guys like you end up partnered? Don’t they need to spread the talent around at Metro?”
“Lady,” Starsky said, “I like the way you think.”
Hutch cleared his throat and edged closer to the new acquaintances. “Uh, Starsk, I told Kira we should take her out to lunch sometime, tell her how to survive Metro’s shark-infested waters.”
Hutch’s way of saying this was supposed to be another platonic threesome. Nope, sorry, Hutch. That crap cost me a chance with Allison. I’m not losing my shot with this one. “A lunch date? Sounds good.” Starsky slipped his arm around Kira’s waist and pulled her in close. “How about you, me, the South of France?” he asked her.
Hutch muttered something impolite, but Starsky doubted Kira heard it. “Starsky, Kira’s a cop. A homicide detective.”
“I know, you told me. ‘Sides, she doesn’t look like a gunnery sergeant in the Marine Corps.”
“A homicide detective originally from Minnesota.”
Starsky winked at Kira. “I won’t hold that against her.”
“Now, listen here!” Hutch slapped his hands on his knees. “Fine. I’ll see what Huggy’s found out about Rebound. You know, the real reason we’re here in the middle of the day?”
“You do that. I’ll start telling Detective Craig here about those shark-infested waters.”
~*~*~
Huggy hung up the phone and turned around only to bump into the solid wall of Hutch. “Hey, big fella, I would’ve come over there and delivered the news.” Hutch looked sick to his stomach. Huggy touched his shoulder. “Problems, Hutch?”
“Knew it,” Hutch said. “Knew there’d come a day. No more room. No more room down in there to put anything else. Can’t shake it this time. I can’t.”
“Oka-a-ay. You just sit down right here and let me bring you a basket of fries, ’cause even my tame brew must be doing funky things to you on an empty stomach.” He looked down the bar at Starsky talking to the giggling blonde in low, intimate tones. “Or maybe it’s not my brew. As we all learned recently, nobody can hurt you like family, not just the one you’re born with, but the one you make. Nobody else is close enough to hurt you like that.”
Hutch blinked at him. “Hunh?”
Huggy gawked. “Man, when you turn a grunt into a word, you’re in a world of hurt. I’ll be back with those fries faster’n you can say French.”
“Huggy, forget the fries, and tell me what you heard from Rebound.”
Huggy adjusted his magenta scarf to occupy his hands so he wouldn’t smack Hutch on the back of the head. “That’s all you care about now, the police work? That’s all you come here for? I’m not allowed to care anymore, Detective Hutchinson? Can’t look out for you, that it?”
Hutch’s stricken expression made Huggy feel two inches tall. “Huggy, you know that’s not it. If you want the truth, your cook is heavy-handed with the grease, and if I choke down those fries right now, I’ll throw them right back up–all over your nice wiped counter.”
After that, Huggy had to slip around the counter and put his arm around Hutch’s shoulders. An unusual gesture of intimacy for them, but hell, Hutch needed it, and Huggy didn’t mind. “Look, sorry. Sounding off again. You know I’m trying not to do that so much anymore, but–”
“But it takes time to get over something like….”
“You can say his name, Hutch. Lionel. There, see? Yeah, takes time, and when I see Mardean and Jamie having a tough day, I get all scratchy and put out. The grizzly comes out in the Bear. But you guys don’t need me conking you over the heads with it. Rebound’s got a common case of bad car-itis. Clunker left him sitting. You oughta be real familiar with the disease, since you went out and bought yourself another piece of crap Ford. Where the hell you find ’em, I don’t know. Why didn’t you just keep Belle after you went through the trouble of patching those bullet holes?”
“Off the Force, I could have. On the Force, Belle combined with my wardrobe would likely get me cornered in an alley by goon cops with nightsticks. So, Rebound’s a wash out?”
“No, he’s trying to work out some transportation. So just hang tight.” Huggy looked down the bar again, where Starsky was playing with Kira’s hair. “Painful as that might be. Can’t the fool put the make on her somewhere outta your sight?”
Hutch rose from the bar stool. “I’m going to the john. Fill Starsky in on the Rebound thing. Oh, and do me a favor while you’re at it?”
“Sure. Name it.”
Hutch cast a side glance in Starsky’s direction. “Tell Valentino over there that Paul Muni would be ashamed of him.”
~*~*~
Hutch stormed into the Golden Lady Ballroom and snapped at the insincerely gracious Madame Bouvet behind the ticket counter when she tried to make small talk. He was in no mood for small talk with a woman who took a potshot at the caliber of LAPD officers every chance she got. The detectives assigned to the case before the new Starsky-Hutch-Kira team had done their damnedest, but this nutcase was cool, patient, and willing to let months go by in between killings. Actually, the serial killer had no discernible pattern other than his preference for blondes. He wasn’t an instant gratification killer who needed a new target every couple of nights to get his psychosexual kick. That made him hard to net. Try explaining that to a shrill-voiced French lady trapped in the ’40s.
Madame Bouvet wasn’t the reason for Hutch’s black mood, though. He couldn’t lay the blame at her feet for a month of on-the-job and personal life torture. For a month he’d watched the mating dance between Starsky and Kira, yet only last week Starsky had referred to them for the first time as “going out.” Going out didn’t hold the same meaning for Kira. She flirted freely with Hutch all the while and made it clear in actions, if not words, that she wanted no strings tying her down. Every time Hutch tried to bury the pain, he ran up against solid rock. He’d wait for the bitterness to ease and subside, but it never did. He carried it around with him, heavier than his Magnum. He felt it rising in his throat when Starsky cheerfully ignored Hutch’s daytime dates with Kira, so sure nothing sexual was going on between his case partners, in spite of Kira’s flirtation. Starsky’s smirking over the get-togethers had filled Hutch with fury. He could read it in Starsky’s eyes: heterosexual confidence in the harmlessness of his gay best friend hanging around his woman.
And Starsky had been right, the son-of-a-bitch. For weeks Hutch hadn’t taken Kira’s invitation to do more than divert some of her time away from Starsky. But that was over. After this afternoon, after running into Kate Larrabee, after the shock she’d given him…. All bets were off!
With their late evenings through morning taken over by the case, Hutch had used the free afternoon to run some errands. He’d bumped into Kate at the local drugstore. Long-term exposure to the dusty Golden Lady Ballroom had played havoc with his allergies, and his favorite natural remedies were no match for the head cold stuffiness he’d have if he didn’t nip it in the bud. In order not to draw undue attention to himself with sneezing and hacking, he’d resorted to getting a prescription for a mild antihistamine. He intended to take only half a dose as a preventive, hopefully heading off the nasal symptoms without knocking him out too much to be any good as an undercover police officer. In such a bleak mood over the prospect of more Starsky-Kira watching, he hadn’t recognized the tall, elegantly dressed lady in front of him in the prescription pick-up line until she completed her transaction and turned around. Then, he couldn’t catch his breath for a moment.
She had looked pale and stunned. When she would have walked by, trembling, he put a hand on her arm and gave her a smile that let her know he had no hard feelings. Hurrying through his own purchase, he’d escorted her outside to one of the street’s colorful benches where they could sit and talk undisturbed. “What’re you–” he laughed at his tongue-tied nervousness. “How long are you in town?”
“Just a week. I’m on a location shoot. Venice Beach. I knew there would be bi-coastal work, Hutch, but I–” She shook her head, touching a shaky hand to her temple in her distress. “I never meant to give you the pain of seeing me again.”
“It’s no pain, Kate. I’m sorry you feel that way. I wish you could’ve come to see me and said goodbye. But I understand why you felt you couldn’t. We’re both adults here, we know the situation we were in didn’t make for a long-lasting relationship.”
She smiled. “Thank you for that. It is good to see you now, like this, before the trial. I thought the trial would be sooner. Five months since–is there something wrong with the case?”
“The gears of justice grind ever slower, and the courts are clogged. How are you doing?” He nodded at her prescription bag. “If you don’t mind some honest concern, is everything okay?”
Her headshake was sad, resigned. “As is the way with these things, my remission is not complete. My doctor hopes this medicine will alleviate some of the symptoms. I’m allowed to work, so I work to forget the future. I won’t–I won’t make the same mistake I did before, Hutch. You helped me see how–” she shook her tiny fist at herself. “How foolish that was!”
He slid his arm around her and hugged her to his side, suddenly ashamed of the antihistamine in his own bag in the face of her serious illness. “I’m sorry. I hoped it was over for you.”
“May I call you sometimes from New York…just to–to hear a friendly voice?”
“Absolutely. I know it won’t be easy, Kate, but you do whatever helps you fight this thing.”
“I will. I must go now, Hutch. They’re expecting me back at the shoot in minutes.”
“Would you let me see you to the photo shoot?”
“That’s okay. It’s a short walk.” She kissed his cheek. “Please, do thank your partner for me.”
“Thank him for what?”
“For my job in New York. He made it possible, putting me in touch with his friend. Sharman has astonishing influence in the New York modeling scene. I’ve wanted to write to David and tell him how much I enjoy my work there, but I…I’m sorry; I tend to do things by proxy, don’t I?”
Hutch heard himself tell her he would convey her message. He heard his generic farewell and hope for a better future than she anticipated. Some part of him watched her cross the street. Most of him froze under the shock. Why hadn’t Starsky told him? With his mind already soured on the subject of Starsky, his detective’s tendency to spot patterns kicked in unbidden and reminded him of other times Starsky had interfered in the lives of people connected to him without giving him forewarning. Abby, Gillian, Johnny…now Kate.
Starsky tended to make his mind up about what was and wasn’t safe for Hutch and act accordingly, but that explanation didn’t hold water in the case of Kate. How could Starsky stoop that low, to abet that fragile woman’s escape from LA without even telling Hutch, and then show up in that forest playing the concerned-partner-reluctant-messenger to perfection? He remembered that cold December day, how Starsky had wanted them to record some new memories over the ones he’d made with Johnny. Hell, what harm was Kate? What harm were memories? One possible motivation for Starsky’s pattern occurred to him, and his shock caught fire with a sudden red-hazed rage.
He wasn’t seeing red in the dim ballroom hours later, but he hadn’t lost the rage. With a polite nod to Starsky he’d give to a stranger, he went in search of Kira. She had no problem cozying up to him at a table and giggling over nonsense while Starsky craned his neck, and nearly lamed his poor dance partner, trying to see what all the fuss was about. Hah! Starsky was in for a shock of his own when he found out he’d be escorting Susan home instead of Kira.
The gloves were off. No more friendly meals together grabbed on the go, walks in the park, or movie shows between two friends who happened to be from Minnesota. Tonight, Kira would get all she wanted of Ken Hutchinson. Let Starsky get a taste of some real competition for a change, a taste of his own “if I can’t have you, no one will” medicine. See how he liked that.
~*~*~
“Central, patch me through to Detective Hutchinson.”
“Patching through, Detective Starsky.”
“Yeah?!” Hutch’s voice barked over the radio static.
“Pull over, Hutch!”
“Why? So we can have a fistfight on the side of the road? No thank you.”
“Damn it, Hutch, I’m not fooling. Pull over now!”
“Or what, you’ll pull into the left lane and ram me off the road?”
Starsky fought the image of an upside-down Ford in a canyon. Hutch hadn’t meant to remind him of that. He hadn’t. Starsky knew that with the same certainty he knew Hutch hadn’t slept with Kira that afternoon, however incriminating the evidence. “Hey, pally, if I got some red paint on your puke beige eyesore, it might have a little character, but I’d never abuse the Torino that way. Now pull over somewhere we can talk, you stubborn ass!”
Hutch chose an abandoned carwash. He pulled the LTD behind the concrete-walled vehicle bays and slammed out of the car before the engine died. Starsky pulled up behind him and sat at the wheel, watching Hutch finish straightening his navy shirt and blazer. He remembered another high-voltage conversation from several years ago, in the parking lot of a closed-down seafood shack, the first time they had openly confronted Hutch’s sexuality. Starsky had a feeling this conversation might go worse than that one, but they’d never get through the rest of the dance hall case without clearing the air.
Concerned about the negativity thrumming just below the surface in Hutch, leery of his own boiling anger, he walked over slowly from the car. Hutch struck the first blow, getting in his face with a half-hearted retaliatory shove for the one Starsky had delivered in Kira’s foyer. “Why’re we here, Starsky? You caught me. Guilty as charged. Can’t you leave me the hell alone until we can put this case to bed?”
“You didn’t sleep with her,” Starsky blurted, intending to say something altogether different.
Hutch didn’t look thrilled. “What gives you that idea?”
Starsky zipped his jacket. The October of Blaine’s death had seen an odd LA heat wave. This was an unseasonably cool May, as though the coldness around Starsky’s heart–that couldn’t be warmed by Kira or the ridiculous fire they’d built in her fireplace–had influenced the city’s weather. “I remembered something I told Nick. I told him you were the kind of guy I could always turn my back on and know I wouldn’t get a knife in the ribs. That you and I had that kind of trust, and it had to be earned. When I saw your face after you came out of her room, I had my doubts, I’ll admit, but I don’t know, it just clicked and I knew. I knew you hadn’t actually slept with her.”
Hutch backed away from him, his face distorted with self revulsion that Starsky couldn’t understand. “Not because I didn’t try, you son-of-a-bitch!”
“What happened?”
“What the hell does it matter?!” Hutch shouted at him. “The intent was the same.”
“What happened?! This is my girl we’re talking about; don’t I deserve the play by play?”
“Premature ejaculation, Starsky! You want the rest of my shredded pride? There it is, on the ground. Didn’t even get past the foreplay before I came all over the sheets, and it sure as hell wasn’t because I was so all fired up to be with her. And so help me God, Starsky, you give me one macho smirk, and I’ll deck you right where you stand, you hear me?”
“Stress.” Starsky was almost giddy from the lead weight dropping from his shoulders. “Happens to guys in foxholes. Happened to me a couple times in ‘Nam. Extreme stress like that doesn’t just cause crisis hard-ons. It’s sometimes early lift-off, too. You didn’t wanna be there with her like that, and your body knew it.”
Hutch stared at him. “You’re happy, aren’t you?”
“You think I’d wanna believe my partner was thrilled to be doing that behind my back?”
“Get serious, Starsky. You told me you love the girl. Love her! But you’re not moping around that she’d two-time you. You’re not even yelling that I pissed on our friendship. You’re just thrilled that I didn’t fuck her. Just like you were so happy when you found out I hadn’t slept with Marianne. Like you were so glad I didn’t have a tryst lined up with that male dancer at Roxy’s contest. Well, guess what, buddy. Today I might’ve pushed the red button early, but I didn’t have any trouble screwing Kira the other night when I played bodyguard.”
Starsky knew his face had to be red under the wave of heat over his cheeks. “Why Kira? Huh?”
“You wanna know why? I’ll tell you why!” Hutch neared him again and stabbed his forefinger right under Starsky’s coin necklace. “When we met her that day, I tried to warn you off. Remember what we talked about after Joan Meredith? I told you what I couldn’t handle. Well, you didn’t just go after a female cop this time. You had to pick a Midwestern blonde female homicide detective. Can you be any more transparent? You might as well wear a t-shirt that reads ‘I’m Fucking A Female Ken Hutchinson.’ And there’ve been some nasty locker room jokes to that effect, but you’ve been walking around in some kind of fog, oblivious to them.”
Starsky thought back to the day he met Kira at Huggy’s. He remembered Hutch’s odd repetition of Kira’s vital statistics. In his anger with Ma and determination to break out of his weird limbo with women, he’d blown all that off and hadn’t thought about it since. He sought refuge in his anger to avoid guilt he couldn’t handle. “So what?! Unless I find a four-foot redheaded librarian, I’m supposed to not date women because they might make you uncomfortable or cause some thickheads to talk behind my back? You have to hang around and ruin my chances with every interested woman? Why can’t you pick on someone your own gender?!”
“Oh, that’s mature, Starsky. Maybe I could, if you hadn’t made me promise not to, you bastard. And if I broke that promise and did find someone, you’d have him quietly relocated to Peru.”
“What?!”
Hutch buckled a little at the knees, but regained his footing and backed away a few feet with obvious discomfort. “Wonderful. You don’t even remember. Our first night together, when you were buried up to your balls in my ass and acting like you wanted to be there? ‘No other man does this to you, not while I’m breathing,’ you said. You made me say it back to you, damn it. Not just words to me, Starsky. They were a goddamned vow! And I can’t get past it. I know I should, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to a guy to deny him that, and I’m not into exclusive bottoms, so where does that leave me?”
“That’s rich, Hutch. I remember the occasion, yeah.” Starsky wished the sun would stop shining. He felt its benevolent warmth bearing down and refracted off the asphalt, chasing away the coolness in the air, and he wanted more than anything to be standing in a pouring rainstorm. He’d thought that night was the beginning of something unbreakable. He’d thought they were unbreakable. In the heat of passion, he hadn’t thought what those words might do to Hutch after he and Starsky were broken. “So that’s it. I’m standing in the way. Long as I’m breathin’. What am I supposed to do, huh? Drop dead?”
He thought Hutch might deck him then. He deserved it. He waited for the blow. None came. Hutch was pale, pale white. “You don’t know me at all, do you? You think having you around hasn’t been worth it to me even if I never touch you or another man sexually for the rest of my life? You think I want you out of the picture so I can go on my merry little way? If I was that sorry a person, I would’ve been throwing this up in your face long before now. Hell, no. If I was like that, I wouldn’t let a stupid promise keep me from having any man I wanted!”
“Nothing kept you away from my girlfriend!”
“Girlfriend, my ass.” Hutch sneered. “What I did today, even just the willingness to take Kira to bed after you told me how you felt, is the sleaziest I’ve ever been in my life. My brains have been in my dick lately, so it’s appropriate my dick had to think up a way to stop me from going all the way through with it. I saw this coming; I knew I had it in me, and I still couldn’t stop it. I’ve been kicking my own ass about the pattern I was in, with that con artist Lisa, Allison, now with Kira. But let me tell you something, David Starsky. You have a not so nice little pattern of your own! Your pattern is a little subtler, though, and it started long before you and I even shared a bed.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“With Gi-Gillian, it was money you thought would do the trick. What’d you tell Abby when she came to talk to you? How’d you convince her to leave? Maybe some little sob story about how I’d want her to be somewhere safe?”
“Now, wait a minute, Abby didn’t ask me what I–”
“Kate was a piece of cake. Hook her up with Sharman Crane, get her a job in New York, and she was out of your hair.” Hutch’s face darkened. “Didn’t think I’d find out about that, did you?”
“Hutch, I should’ve told you, but Kate asked me–”
“Johnny was a tough one for you. You couldn’t view him as one of my ‘flaky’ women. A well-respected fireman-paramedic with a clean record and a solid partner who thinks the world of him? He was too much like one of us for you to dismiss him out of hand. But I bet you still tried to figure out what his price was to get the hell out of my life.”
Starsky tried very hard not to think about those few moments in the hospital room after Hutch’s surgery when he’d almost picked up the phone and placed an anonymous call. He was afraid his aborted call would register in his expression. That Hutch could look at him and know.
“Didn’t you?!” Hutch yelled.
“I was scared for you!” Starsky shouted, feeling the shame he could still remember from when Rosey got off the phone with old man Malone and knew Starsky for what he was. A two-timing, lying, loving hypocrite!
“What was your plan, Starsky? A little anonymous phone call? Plant the fear of God in Johnny Gage that he’d never keep his career if someone found out about us?” Hutch smiled, and the expression was deadly. “Nailed it, didn’t I? You know the truth about you? You don’t want me with anyone. You don’t want me sleeping with anyone else. Hell, you don’t want me to have memories of anyone else. But you can’t find it in yourself to be with me. You don’t want to play ball, but you want to own the goddamned team! That’s your pattern. You told me you love Kira for one reason only. You thought it’d make me back the hell off. You didn’t want me with her. Didn’t have a damned thing to do with her.”
Starsky felt a fine trembling start in his jaw. Could Hutch be right? Could the feelings he told himself he had developed for Kira be just another delusion? He was the disappointing son, the disappointing nephew, the disappointing partner. It was conceivable, suddenly; it made perfect sense that he could have played Hutch like that. After Hutch left his apartment, Starsky had gone out to buy Kira a present. He’d felt he had to solidify something between them, make those words about love into something tangible he could hand to her. Maybe to prove the words he’d handed Hutch were real? For the first time in his life, Starsky hated himself.
“She may be a game player, and she’s not faultless, but in this whole situation, I think we owe Kira the apology. Both of us using her for our own agenda,” Hutch said. “At least she was honest with us about what she was after. She didn’t tell you she loves you and you only. She didn’t tell me she wanted to be my happy ever after. We’re the schmucks, Starsky.”
“Hutch, I–”
“It’s really effective, your pattern, more than you know. I left Johnny before I had the chance to fall in love with him, because I couldn’t think of life without being in love with you. So even without trying, you did get me away from him. For months now I’ve been at your side, coping, wondering who could ever help me get over you.” Hutch walked up to him and put his palm gently against Starsky’s cheek. “Well, you did the honors, Starsky. You got me over you. I should thank you for that.” He turned and started toward the LTD.
Starsky put his hand to his cheek. His heart trip-hammering in his chest, he remembered that day after Vanessa’s death, Hutch putting his hand to Johnny’s cheek, the way he’d put his hand to Jeannie’s cheek. The farewell. The true sign that it was over, finito, forever and amen, done. “No!” he yelled harshly, his throat hurting. Angrier than he could ever remember being, he ran after Hutch and grabbed his arm. “You don’t end us like that! You can say what you want to me, but if you think for a second you can toss a decade of what we’ve been together into the trash with just one little gesture–”
“A decade of what we’ve been? What have we been, Starsky, to hear you talk? Kira likes to run her mouth, you know. Did you think she wouldn’t tell me about your little violin song, coming into this world alone, leaving it alone, so on and so on? How do you think that made me feel? I’d l-loved you with everything I had, everything in me, and you could still feel that alone? Worst of all, you could feel like that and not let me in on it?”
Courtesy of the rolled down driver’s window in the LTD, they heard the squawk of radio contact, and the dispatcher’s voice, “Zebra Three, come in Zebra Three? Zebra Three, how do you read? Emergency dispatch from Captain Dobey, trying to raise Zebra Three.”
Hutch pulled away from Starsky and leaned in through the window to reach the mic. “Zebra Three here. Relay dispatch.”
“Hutchinson?”
“Yeah, Captain, what’s going on?”
“There’s been another one. We didn’t know it, but there’s another blonde at Madame Bouvet’s. I should say there was another blonde. I need you and Starsky over here pronto!”
“At the dance hall?” Starsky asked. “That’s a break in MO.”
“No, the victim’s home address.”
~*~*~
Starsky caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror on his way out of the bedroom and stopped short. Black turtleneck, black leather jacket. In mourning? For your partner, best friend, ex-lover, or all three? You should be glad he’s over you. Or are you such a prick you liked having him in love with you even when you couldn’t give him that in return? He went into the kitchen for a caffeine boost. The world’s best cup of coffee couldn’t prepare him for a meeting with Kira at the Pits, which felt like returning to the scene of a crime he’d committed a month ago, but buoyed by caffeine, he might keep the meeting civil. The coffee from that morning was still warm in its carafe on the heat pad, and he poured a strong black cup, drinking it down in four swallows. Looking around for any distraction to still the hamster wheel in his head, he spotted something that froze him colder than his clothing choice. Here it was May already, but his wall calendar remained stuck on October. He hadn’t flipped the page once.
Time didn’t stand still since the break-up with Hutch, you dumb ass, just you.
He walked over to correct the error, but his hand refused to lift the page.
Face facts, Davey boy. You knew when the dust and smoke cleared in that dance hall that you never want to wade through this job’s shit without Hutch at your side. You can’t be his lover. After this mess with Kira, you might not even be friends. But he’s your partner. Fight for what you got left with him before it’s too late. And tell him the truth about what’s been screwing with your head for months now. You owe him that much.
But first he had to see a woman about a triangle.
~*~*~
Hutch chose a black leather jacket to go over his black turtleneck. Might as well dress to match my mood. He couldn’t figure the meeting with Kira. What could she have to say to him? After watching her leave Starsky’s side to comfort the dance hall serial killer, he had nothing to say to her either. He’d wanted to crawl over and hold Starsky to him, tenderly search him head to toe for any sign of injury, but he’d lost that right even if he could safely put on a public spectacle of that nature. Kira could have done it without raising a single eyebrow, and yet she found more reason to pet and soothe Joey Webster? Knowing what Starsky had said about feeling alone, dying alone, she could abandon him after he’d pitched a live grenade out the window? Hutch shrugged into his jacket. Well, she’d squelched his desire to apologize to her for using her. He wasn’t making a bid for sainthood, after all.
He’d go to this meeting and find some civil way to tell her he’d rather drink putrid mud than ever see her again. Thinking he was over Starsky had lasted less than twelve hours, but he wouldn’t let her see him hurting, and even if she wasn’t a blabbermouth cop who could cause him trouble all the way from Rampart Division, he still wouldn’t use his orientation as the deal breaker between them. He didn’t owe Kira a damned thing, and he had no desire to watch her feasting on his personal life with her overdone liberated, cosmopolitan woman act.
Starsky. There was the person he ought to be meeting with to see if Zebra Three was down to one zebra. Hutch had wondered what would happen when that hole he’d dug inside filled to overflowing. What happened was an outpouring of all the pain, bitterness, and agony he’d stored up over the course of seven months since their break-up. After the things he’d said to Starsky in that carwash parking lot, he’d be lucky to still have a partner. He’d call that a miracle, in fact. He couldn’t imagine the paradise of having Starsky’s friendship back in his possession.
But he’d fight for it. God Almighty, he’d fight for it!
~*~*~
“Can you believe Dobey?” Starsky broke a three-hour silence that Hutch was sure had to be Guinness Record Book worthy. “Minute we got out of Huggy’s he was pulling us in. Second shift, on top of it! We were supposed to have the day off!”
“The captain giveth, and the captain taketh away,” Hutch said from his high-seat at the lower helm station where the windows afforded a panoramic view.
He heard Starsky stretching behind him on the narrow starboard settee. “That in the New Testament?”
Hutch spared him a glance. “Yeah, the King Harold version.”
Starsky muttered around the mouth of his soda bottle.
“I’d watch how many of those you put away,” Hutch advised.
“Why?”
He looked pointedly at the region of Starsky’s body that housed his microscopic bladder. “We have five more hours before third shift relieves us, that’s why, and you’ve already found the facilities aren’t to your liking.”
“Yeah, why can’t they have a better whatchmacallit, head, on this Good Ship Lollipop?”
“It’s not a yacht, Starsky; it’s an old trawler originally built for deep-sea fishing jaunts, not round the clock stakeout duty. Believe it or not, there is an aft cabin with a bed and a galley, for all the good they’ll do us. It could be worse.”
Starsky included the whole of the salon in his fierce scrutiny. “For a dumb fill-in Narco stakeout we gotta be the relay team cooped up in a fishing boat. Can’t even do a damned thing if we spot the shipment coming in except relay the position to the strike team at the Port Authority.”
“Hence the phrase ‘relay team.'”
“Easy for you to talk. You don’t mind all this swaying on the water shit. I’m nauseous.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Wha’?”
“Your attitude might be nauseous, Starsky, but you’re nauseated.” Hutch wanted to throttle himself but he couldn’t let go of the binoculars. Three hours of silence in the small vessel moored below Pier 17 had ended, and he had to open his big mouth and push Starsky right back into muteness.
Ostensibly converted to a dock maintenance vessel, the trawler was on loan to the LAPD in an ongoing narcotics stakeout. The second shift team had been involved in a car accident on the way from Metro, and with Narco’s roster spread thin, Dobey had farmed Starsky and Hutch out on their supposed day off following the dance hall explosion. They were stuck until the night team arrived at eleven, forced into working together after their grand exit from Kira’s latest little set-up. They might have left the bar with their arms around each other’s shoulders, but they’d dropped their arms the instant they reached the sunlit back alley, nervously looking away from each other and neither able to say a word. Hutch had a sneaking suspicion Dobey thought the forced closeness of a stakeout might help them work through the tension he’d seen during the dance hall case. If he only knew….
“Captain probably figured we’d either talk to each other or go loony cooped up like this for eight hours.” Starsky chucked his soda bottle in the rope-handled bucket at his feet.
Hutch jumped. “Damn! I wish you wouldn’t do that!”
“What?”
Read my mind. “Make sudden noises like that in this confined space.”
“Hutch, if I breathe in this confined space it’d qualify as a sudden noise.”
Two days ago Hutch could have retorted, “Then don’t breathe” and Starsky would’ve known it for a joke and flipped him the finger. After yesterday’s debacle when dropping dead had surfaced in the conversation, jokes about not breathing held no humor whatsoever. Hutch remained silent, peering through his binoculars at the watery horizon.
“I didn’t tell Abby to leave,” Starsky said. Hutch’s hands jerked on the binoculars. “I just didn’t think it was a big cryin’ shame that she was gone, except how it hurt you. And, yeah, I should’ve told you about Kate. She came to me about an intro in the New York scene when I thought she was still planning to stay in LA. She talked like she’d live here and fly out there every now and then for jobs. Maybe I should’ve known better, maybe I was gullible, and maybe subconsciously I hoped she’d fly out there to stay. But I didn’t consciously try to get rid of her.”
“Starsky, the things I said–”
“You had a right to say ’em. No matter how I try to rationalize it, I know what I did probably helped Gillian out of this world a little faster’n the path she was already on. God knows, I didn’t mean for it to turn out like that, but if I’d stopped to think like a cop instead of your friend, I would’ve known better than to push her into going head to head with the Grossman’s.”
Hutch looked over his shoulder. “I know you’ve carried that burden, Starsky. I shouldn’t have rubbed your face in it after all this time.”
Starsky was staring through his own binoculars out the starboard window. “John Gage. I won’t lie. He scared the hell outta me for more reasons’n one. I was worried sick you’d get yourself killed playing on that side of the street, but I also had a hard time seeing another guy care about you the way he did in the canyon that day. If I hadn’t been outta my mind over the condition you were in, I’d’ve known right then he was a guy faced with an injured lover.”
“Starsky–”
“He’s a good man, Gage. And I wanna hate him. Christ, I wanna hate him, because he was honest to God in love with you, and I don’t know why the fucking hell I can’t be!” Starsky kicked the ice bucket at his feet, and Hutch jumped again. “I can’t spell out for you what was goin’ through my head that day in Memorial when I put two and two together about you guys. Whole damned world started spinning in the wrong direction for a little while. That anonymous call? You’re right: I thought about it, but, hell, I gotta believe nothing could’ve made me go through with it.”
“I believe that. You’re impulsive and fiercely protective of me, but you’re not cold-hearted and cruel. On some level, you thought you were helping Gillian, not just me. I always knew that.”
“Then why–”
“Why’d I say those things yesterday?” Hutch adjusted his binoculars to make out a speck on the horizon that turned out to be a harbor buoy. “I was furious. Not just with you, but with myself, for what I did. I’m a cop. Of all people, I should know that circumstantial evidence doesn’t always add up.”
“Hutch, I need to tell you something. Remember I said I was goin’ through some unexpected shit? Well, it’s been doing a number on me ever since… That word association hocus pocus of yours is stronger’n you think!”
“What?” For this, Hutch had to take a few seconds’ break from staring at the ocean. He tried to gauge Starsky’s expression. With a deadly serious profile, Starsky kept vigilant watch through the starboard window. “What’re you talking about?”
“That day you opened the door to some pretty heavy memories, Hutch. That thing with the closet, my eighth birthday party? Ever since, I’ve been getting these memories. Almost like flashbacks. Things from when I was a kid that I…I dunno…I buried or something.”
Hutch took a quick look through his binoculars, scanned his entire line of sight, and then set them down and swiveled in the high-seat to pay full attention to Starsky for a minute or two. “Are you saying your father abused you?”
Starsky cast him a startled glance and then went right back to staring out the window. “You’ve got the wrong parent in mind. Why’s it people always make that mistake? Maybe if I hadn’t buried some of those memories, I could’ve stopped us from making that mistake with Guy and his dad, when it was his mom all along.”
“Good God!” Hutch doubted his own hearing. “Your mother hit you?”
“No! No, she never laid a hand on me except the swats on the butt all kids get once in a while. But hell, maybe I better just tell you about it.”
Hutch wanted nothing more than to sit down beside Starsky and watch his face through the whole recital, but the city of LA depended on him keeping his post. So with his eyes glued dutifully to his binoculars, he listened intently as Starsky painted an honest picture of being prejudged and found wanting, then abandoned and sent away for reasons that had nothing to do with his welfare. Years of one child being preferred over another. Years of a mother’s failure to love and accept that had probably started at Starsky’s birth. Psychologists had theories why some mothers didn’t bond with their children, or one of their children, but no shrink in the world could fully heal the pain of the unwanted child or the damage that lingered into adulthood. This explained so much: Starsky’s battle with defining and proving his sexuality; his uncharacteristic behavior and questions; his almost “violent” protection of what he felt was his, what belonged to him; the recent phone call with his mother Hutch had overheard….
“Don’t sound like all that much when I say it all out loud,” Starsky finished, shrugging.
Hutch wanted to scream. He was glad New York was three thousand miles distant, and that teleportation existed only in Sci-Fi books and movies, because Starsky didn’t need him shaking Rebekah Starsky until her teeth rattled. “Starsky, there are kinds of abuse and neglect that don’t involve violent hands. You’re a fairly classic case, actually, complete with repression of memories.”
“Wish they’d stayed repressed. They’ve been playing with my head, making me act like some kinda weirdo bastard.” Starsky’s laughter was almost as dark as some Hutch had heard from his own mouth. “Guess the only good thing to come of it is if my actions did help you get over me.”
Shaken by the revelations, caught off guard, all Hutch could offer was brutal honesty. “I’m not.”
“Not what?”
“Not over you.”
“But you said–”
“I wanted to be, thought I was…I was saving face, okay? I’m a man for Chris’sakes, Starsky! All men have to save face! It’s a trait that piggy-backs on the Y chromosome.” Hutch tapped the binoculars against his brow. “I should’ve known only an act of God could get me over you, and considering that I’m next thing to an atheist–”
“You are not,” Starsky argued.
“Oh, right, Starsky, I’m in church every Sunday.”
“You might not be warming a pew somewhere every Sunday, but you got enough spirituality to float this boat on dry land, with your meditation and your music and your nature kick. You believe in some underlying beauty in the universe, don’t tell me you don’t.”
“I used to, maybe. This last year has damn near killed off that belief, too.”
“Don’t, Hutch. Don’t let me do that to you.”
“Starsky, I didn’t mean you. It’s not you or our relationship, good or bad. It’s the world we seem to be trapped in. Every day it gets dirtier and crazier. I can’t believe we were suckered into thinking things would be different this go round. Nothing’s changed. We may have dealt a fatal blow to the organization that killed Lionel, but who’s to say it’s really dead? And even if it is, there’ll be another one right behind it to take its place. What’s it gonna take to shake us out of the ‘this is what we are, what we do’ mindset that keeps us carrying badges?”
“It’s our way of being together, Hutch.”
“We proved off the Force we could hang together.”
“Yeah, acting like unofficial cops, we did. We had a case to work. How do we do this? How do we keep going without this thing between you and me ripping us apart?”
Hutch bowed his head and rubbed the binocular eyecups along his forehead. He remembered asking Starsky a similar question in the Pacific Coast Highway motel room the morning after they’d made each other come over and over again. If he stared real hard into the horizon, he could blank his mind of anything but an image of Starsky’s face beautifully distorted in orgasm. “I don’t know, Starsk. We’re partners. I think we both want to be friends, in spite of everything, and that counts for something. For myself, I’m through with women. I swore after Melinda Rogers I wouldn’t have sex with a woman undercover, but that’s exactly what I did with Kira, and I didn’t even have the LAPD’s backing to salve my conscience. Playing her little lust-struck puppet sickened me almost as much as hurting you with it.”
“Hutch, you know in this man’s police force, you gotta have cover. You can’t be making waves.”
“Hell I can’t. If I have to go around acting like I’m giving up fornication because I found God in a Baptist tent revival to keep you safe from people making dangerous assumptions about me, I will. But I won’t make a mockery of who I am. For me, women can be excellent friends. I like and respect women. But I’m done pretending I can give them anything beyond that long term.”
“And this other thing keeping you from finding a guy to be with long term?”
Hutch let out a long groan. “I should never have told you about that. I told myself I never would. I’ll get over it, Starsky. I’ll get past it. It’s my problem, not yours.”
“The hell it ain’t!” Starsky shouted. Hutch dropped the binoculars and had to do a hasty scoop with both hands to prevent their fall to the helm station counter. “Why do you think I’m so rattled by this whole thing? Some of what you said yesterday hit the nail on the head. I do want you to belong to me, but I got no right to expect that when I can’t love you like you need. I wish Ma was right about me, goddamn it! Don’t you get that? But one look at Kira’s nipples showing through those thin cotton shirts she wore had me busting my zipper, and with you I’d need you sucking the skin off my cock to get a rise. I don’t understand. Hear me? I don’t understand why I can’t want you like I should!”
“Starsky, you’re–”
“Don’t say I’m straight!” Starsky yelled. Then he got very quiet until Hutch heard a little hiccup sound that was out of place. Risking a head turn from his look out, he nearly choked on his hasty swallow. A decade of time spent with Starsky, and he had never seen one tear reach Starsky’s cheeks. He’d often thought Starsky had some internal mechanism that prevented the tears from falling. After hearing about Starsky’s childhood, he could guess what that mechanism was. But now Starsky sat cross- legged on the settee, binoculars lowered, eyeballing his section of harbor, and the turn of his head showed two trails of tears sliding down his face. Every couple of seconds he’d give a little hiccup sound and fresh moisture would make the trails glisten against his skin. Starsky had talked about years of childhood neglect and abandonment with dry eyes and a strong voice, but now he was silently crying.
Crying over Hutch.
Hutch felt his heart rip right down the middle.
Screw the LAPD and its stakeout! He discarded the binoculars. Crossing the narrow salon, he sat down on the settee and drew Starsky’s upper body against him in a crushing hold to give Starsky something to feel besides the pain. Starsky let himself be held, turned his face against Hutch’s neck. “If I could…” another little hiccup. “Rewind all the way back…to when I was born…and start over again, I’d come into this world queer as a three dollar bill, Hutch, I swear.”
Hutch patted through his hair, stroked his back. “Could you come back into the world not using phrases like ‘queer as a three dollar bill’?”
“Sorry,” Starsky said, but there was a slight chuckle in his voice Hutch had hoped to evoke.
“It’s okay, I’m joking. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You need…to be over there…watching the waves.”
“Starsky, we’re not the only team out here. We’re one of several. But, honestly, right this second, and I know this doesn’t say much for my loyalties to police work, I could care less if some asshole in a–” The glimmer of dying sunlight on fiberglass caught the corner of Hutch’s eye and he looked over Starsky’s shoulder out the starboard window. “Searay!”
“Huh?” Starsky looked up.
Hutch grabbed for Starsky’s binoculars. First and foremost a cop in any kind of emotional weather, Starsky seized the walkie and raised the strike team. “Relay One to Strike One, how do you read, over?”
“Strike One reading Relay One clear, over,” the narcotics officer acknowledged Starsky.
“We have a sighting. Looks like somebody made it past the Coast Guard, over.”
“Do you have a close-range visual for description, over?”
“New model Searay, cuddy cabin class,” Hutch said loud enough to be heard over the walkie. “At his rate of speed, you should have a visual at your position in a couple of minutes.”
“This time of day it’s likely a wash-out, but we’ll take action, over.”
Duty fulfilled, Hutch ditched the binoculars and untucked his turtleneck, using the hem to dab at Starsky’s cheeks. “We’ll figure something out, Starsk. We will. We always do. After yesterday, all that matters is we’re still together.”
~*~*~
“Captain Gage.”
“How do you like the exchange student experience?” Roy asked.
Johnny lounged in City Station 9’s luxurious captain’s chair and indulged in putting his feet up on the desk, something he rarely did at his home station. “I hate it. Like I told Cap’n Stanley, what’s the point? City and County stations switching captains for a shift is supposed to tell us what exactly?”
“I think it’s to encourage the LAFD and LACoFD to work together, and LAFD captains might notice things we could improve and vice versa. Keeping your eyes open for improvement suggestions?”
Johnny frowned, glancing at the wall clock. “Yeah, I have one already. The only experienced paramedic in this station called in sick this morning. I got on the horn to the City dispatch five minutes after start of shift, and here it is almost lunch time but no replacement. Guess what I’m left with? His rookie partner and a paramedic-in-training on ride along. That’s it!”
“Tough one. How’re you handling it?”
“Well, so far we’ve only had a couple of basic runs, and the rookie’s seen us through them, but anything out of the ordinary, I’ll have to request an alternative squad or get clearance to stand in as senior paramedic. You know what, Roy? LA County would’ve had us a replacement in minutes after we put in a call for one. What’s the city’s problem?”
“I guess that’s what this little exchange is really all about. Fresh eyes can spot problem areas that the regulars can’t. City 9’s captain might be griping about half a dozen things at County 38’s.”
Johnny bristled at the suggestion that his station wasn’t perfect. “Oh, and I suppose the city captain at 58’s right now is singing your praises?”
“You bet.” Roy laughed. “Of course, I slipped him a twenty under the table.”
“You did not.” The alarm clanged through a full station response, and Johnny groaned. “Here we go, speak of the devil. Gotta run, Roy.”
“Take it easy out there, partner.”
“Will do, and likewise.”
Hanging up the phone, Johnny waited for the dispatcher’s relay. “Station 9, shots fired in the Metropolitan Division parking garage, 100 West 7th Street. Policeman injured. Ambulance is responding. Scene cleared for emergency personnel. Time out 11:45.”
As the city station firemen gathered in the engine bay, Johnny hustled out of the office to the radio. “City, Station 9 is understaffed, request alternative squad.”
“Negative, City 9. Nearest available squad out with multiple injury structure fire.”
“City, this is Captain Gage of the LACoFD. I’m a certified LA County paramedic. Do I have clearance to act as senior paramedic on this call?”
“Affirmative, City 9.”
“Ten-four, City. We’re responding.” He turned to the engine where the men were in gear and climbing aboard. “I’m riding in the squad this time, boys. You’re on your own. We probably won’t need you out there, so if I return you to quarters, call into dispatch and log the engine out until we can get a replacement captain. All right, let’s go.”
The rookie paramedic took the wheel, the paramedic-in-training slid in next, and Johnny took the far passenger side he’d spent years in on an LA County squad. Cinching his helmet strap, he knew he had about one mile’s travel time to calculate the odds against the injured policeman belonging to a pair of detectives that had gotten widespread media coverage over the last several months. After all, Metro Division had to house hundreds of officers.
“Something wrong, Cap?” the trainee ride-along asked.
“No.” Johnny looked out the window. “I know people at Metro, that’s all.”
“Rough, Cap,” the rookie paramedic sympathized. “But the odds–”
“Step on the gas, Connors,” Johnny ordered their driver.
They beat the ambulance to the scene. The engine pulled ahead of them, clearing a crowd of people in its path with sharp siren blares, and drove toward the far end of the lot to turn around and await orders. The squad eased into the cleared path between people and parked police cars, and Johnny let out a sharp gasp on sight of the crowd gathered around a big red-and-white car.
“Oh, no. God, no.”
“Cap?”
“What you said about odds, Connors?” Removing his helmet and letting it fall to the foot, Johnny had his hand on the door handle, waiting for Connors to roll to a stop. “Bring all the necessary equipment. You guys know what we’ll need.” He jumped out and left the door swinging open. Pushing his way through clusters of police officers and administrative personnel in their civilian wear, he noticed that some of the burly uniformed officers nearest the car were wiping their cheeks, fisting at their eyes, none of them ashamed at the tears they were shedding. Oh, God, was this already a DOS? “Out of my way, people!” Johnny said loudly over the crowd’s murmurs, edging his way closer to a nightmare. “Paramedics; let us through, people! Stand back!”
For several seconds, he had to blink his eyes just to take in the scene. His mind didn’t want to compute the ashen-faced fair-haired detective crouched over the lifelessly still shooting victim who lay flat on his back in a puddle of thick, dark blood. Johnny flinched from the pattern of entrance wounds, doing a quick mental assessment of possible internal damage. Kneeling on the ground at the victim’s shoulder level, the heavyset black man in a brown suit had his hand over an upper left thoracic wound, but crimson stickiness oozed around his fingers. The victim’s partner had taken the ultimate step. Jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his mid forearms, he had plunged his fingers into two chest wounds, the blood flow barely staunched, and he used his strength to press the unconscious man to the pavement.
“Jesus Christ!” the trainee said behind Johnny.
The human pressure bandage and his helper looked up then, and Johnny had to acknowledge their identities against his will. Ken Hutchinson and Captain Dobey. Both men stared straight through him. Johnny held the trainee back with his hand. “You stay out of the way and just observe. We don’t have time on this one to give you any hands-on training.” Johnny’s mind was screaming, I can’t do this! I can’t do this! I shouldn’t be here. I should be at 38’s typing up specs for the new equipment! But he felt his crisis coolness slipping over him, and he took two very deep breaths, puffing his cheeks out, holding his breath, exhaling slowly. His best cure for nervousness worked again, clearing his mind.
Connors arrived with the rest of the equipment, and Johnny took a step forward, going down on one knee and pushing Dobey out of the way. “Captain, you’ll need to give us room, thanks.” He tried to get the detective’s attention. In this of all places, surrounded by the man’s colleagues, Johnny needed to see him as Hutch, but his eyes saw a lost, vulnerable Ken.
“Breathe, Starsky,” Ken was chanting. “Breathe, partner. Breathe, babe. Breathe, Starsk.”
“Hutch, you need to let him go and join your captain over there. We’ll take it from here.”
“Breathe, Starsk, that’s it, babe, breathe. I’m breathing with you, we’ve got to just breathe, let’s just breathe. Breathe, Starsk.”
The sounds escaping Starsky’s airway could only loosely be termed breathing, more like futile “fish out of water” gasping. Johnny snapped his fingers directly in front of Ken’s pasty face. “Hutch!” Nothing. That’s what he got for calling the man a name that sounded foreign in his voice. Only one person could get away with calling the detective “Hutch” right now, and he was bleeding out on Metro’s pavement. Johnny tried a new tack. Snapping his fingers again, he shouted, “Ken!”
Ken blinked, trembling, and met his eyes. The dead look in those eyes had Johnny fingering the smooth lump of his Wintu charm stone under his uniform shirt. God, Brackett, if I’ve ever wanted you at my side, it’s right now. Sad thing is, Starsky would never live to see Rampart, so you won’t even get a crack at him.
“J-Jo-Johnny?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Give me the rundown, Ken. You were the one who rolled him?”
“He was c-curled on his r-right side.”
“Exit wounds?”
“Th-through and through,” Ken said, nodding.
“Okay, so you rolled him for the ground to give pressure on one side, and you’ve had your fingers in the wounds from the get-go?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I needed to know. Now you need to let him go, Ken, so we can treat him.”
“I can’t–he’s bleeding.”
“Ken, you did good. You did real good. But if you don’t let him go, he’s going to die right here, right now, do you understand?”
A pretty uniformed lady, who looked vaguely familiar to Johnny, stretched over Ken, putting her arms around him. “Come on, baby, come away with Mother Minnie, okay, darlin’? Captain Dobey, give me a hand, please?”
With his clean hand, Dobey took Ken’s other side immediately and between the two of them, they helped lift Ken to his feet. He swayed in their hold, staring at his bloody hands. “His blood…on my hands.” Ken gave his superior officer a pitiful look. “Captain? His blood….”
“Hutch, you did all you could,” Dobey soothed him. “You did everything in your power. Come on now; let’s give the experts a chance to work.”
Johnny flung his paramedic scissors at the rookie and ordered him to cut away the sodden leather jacket and shirt while he got on the Biophone. Setting up the phone one-handed, he dug in the supply box for the ACS chest seals, ABD pads, gauze, and Vaseline gauze he knew they would need to keep Starsky alive until the ambulance arrived. “County Hospital, this is City Squad 9, how do you read?”
“Squad 9, this is County, Dr. Rhodes.”
“County, we have a male patient, approximate age 34, with multiple thoracic gunshot wounds. Patient is shocky, hemorrhaging, stand by for vitals.” Johnny went through the motions, wishing he could pretend the man on the pavement was just a practice dummy that happened to be pouring blood faster than an army of IVs could replace with saline. Starsky’s vitals told him that probably wouldn’t even matter. “County, I can only get a carotid pulse, faint, thready, 132. Left BP is 40 palp. His respirations are rapid and very shallow.”
“Squad 9, you’ll need to scoop and run. Is the ambulance on scene?”
“Negative, County. His airway sounds compromised. Request permission to insert an airway and apply chest seals and dressings on scene.”
“Ten-four, Squad 9. When you get him in the ambulance, hook him up to the monitor and start two IVs with Ringers, TKO. We’ll have the OR standing by.”
Johnny had never found complete comfort with airway insertion, but he knew the man at his mercy depended on airway suctioning to make it off the pavement a viable human being. Johnny’s forehead grew drenched with sweat in the short time it took to get the airway established, suctioned free of fluid, and hooked to a bag-valve mask. With Starsky’s torso bared, the extent of his injuries no longer hidden by clothing, Johnny heard a chilling whimper from Ken, and a wave of gasps rolled through the crowd. Someone, Captain Dobey, perhaps, was quietly praying. Johnny heard murmurs from know-it-all rubberneckers, questioning the quick and dirty technique. How to explain to a bunch of cops that Starsky had maybe five minutes of life left in him, and a perfectly sterile clinical field didn’t matter a damn if he didn’t live to see the OR because they pussyfooted around with trivialities?
Enlisting the trainee in “bagging” Starsky to promote respiration, Johnny focused on the rookie paramedic who looked like he’d been caught naked in the middle of the Apocalypse. “Okay, we have two chest wounds we need to seal off. I’ll take this one, you that one. You know the order. Chest seal first, pad around with regular gauze and then the ABDs, and finish with petroleum gauze for the wrap. Wrap tight. Don’t restrict his respiration, just tight enough to hopefully keep in what volume he’s got left. Don’t obstruct the valve. We do the same with the third wound, minus the seal. Got it?”
“I–I–” the rookie stammered.
“Just do it, by the book, right now!” Johnny shouted at him, knowing he needed to keep his voice calm and level but unable to swallow all of his own panic.
They were wrapping the third wound when the ambulance wailed onto the scene. The rookie took over bagging and the trainee pelted off to assist with the gurney. Several of the cops standing around made themselves useful by shutting the supply box and hoisting the other equipment to go in the ambulance transport. “Cap, you’re covered in blood and–and–” the rookie said to Johnny.
Johnny didn’t look down at his uniform, knowing it was probably soiled with more than just blood. “So are you. It happens. All right,” he told the ambulance attendants. “Easy with him, but get him up, get him on, get him out. We have to fly!”
Johnny was the last to board the ambulance. He felt breath on his neck and pivoted, halfway into the carriage. Not a good position for fending off someone as big, strong, and determined as Ken Hutchinson. But there was no way–! No way could Johnny transport a likely DOA with Ken watching his every move, knowing that final instant, seeing Johnny’s powerlessness against it.
Dobey approached the ambulance. “Let him, Captain,” he told Johnny with the respect of a peer. “There aren’t enough cops out here to hold him back.” Johnny glanced at the crowd of cops. How many would it take, then? Dobey gave him a knowing, terrified smile. “And no one would even try.”
Johnny nodded. “In!” he told Ken. “But you do what I say, no interference, understand?” Ken pushed by him and into the carriage. Johnny looked at the trainee. “Drive the squad behind us; tell the engine to return to quarters.” He gestured at the ambulance personnel. “Up front, we’re full back here.” He pounded on the rear doors. “Let’s go!”
In the ambulance, Johnny set the rookie to bagging Starsky. Something elementary, repetitive, that wouldn’t throw the kid. Ken sat silently on the opposite gurney bench, hunched over with his hands folded under his chin, and his eyes never strayed from Starsky’s face even when Johnny had to impede the view to start the IVs. He soon had the monitor hooked to gather basic cardiac data in deference to Starsky’s wrapped chest, and the dual IVs were rushing fluid into Starsky’s veins. Johnny had pushed the rookie aside once already to vac the fluid buildup from Starsky’s airway tubing when the monitor’s ominous beeping warned Johnny their ride was about to get bumpier.
“County, this is Squad 9. Patient is in V-fib! Beginning CPR,” Johnny relayed over the Biophone. Pushing the scissors in the rookie’s hands, he gestured for him to undo all their hard bandaging work for defibrillation access. Grabbing Ken by the hand, Johnny pulled him to a stooped position and shoved him at Starsky’s bagged airway. “You saw what the kid was doing. You have to be our third set of hands. Bag him like this,” Johnny squeezed the bag in standard rhythm to demonstrate, “and don’t stop unless I say so, can you do that?” He put Ken’s hands on the bag and then started chest compressions until the rookie’s cutting provided them with direct skin needed for electrical shock.
Wordlessly, Ken bagged with fierce perfection as if the next three seconds of his own life failed or succeeded based on his efforts. By the look on his face, Johnny knew that was possible. Prepping the defibrillator paddles, he elbowed the rookie aside and shouted, “Clear!” with a look at Ken and then the monitor while he placed the paddles. On the shock, Starsky’s body spasmed, and Johnny watched a feeble rhythm capture. He flung down the paddles and reached for the Biophone. “County, Squad 9. Rhythm established but not stable. Rate is 45. Be advised we cannot send you EKG strip due to placement of patient’s wounds.”
“Squad 9, administer 1 mg IV epinephrine and repeat vitals.”
“Ten-four.”
Epi on board, watching the rookie’s wary chest compressions and Ken’s robotic bagging, Johnny begged the monitor to show sinus rhythm. Shaking his head, he lifted the phone again, “County, Squad 9. Rate is irregular and down to 35.”
“Squad 9, administer 1 mg IV atropine.”
“Cap, the bleeding!” The rookie reached into the supply box for new ABD pads.
Johnny infused the atropine into Starsky’s IV and shook his head at the other paramedic. “No time for new pads! You re-wrap. It’s out of our hands now.” Watching Starsky’s rhythm falter yet again, noting the blood loss from the opened bandaging that the two IVs had no hope of replenishing with specialized saline, Johnny took a deep breath and knew he would hate this day for the rest of his life. “County, this is Squad 9. Be advised we are rolling Code-R with a patient in extremis.”
“Squad 9,” Dr. Rhodes said, “we are advised.”
The rookie stared at Johnny, two big brown eyes in a white mask. Ken’s hands faltered on the bag, and his face crimsoned, eyes bulging. “No!” Ken shouted his first word since the parking lot, and grabbed for Johnny’s jacket lapels. “He’s going to be alive when we reach that hospital. You hear me! Alive! He’s not dead now, he won’t be dead then!”
“It’s protocol! I have to advise them!” Johnny felt sweat trickling down his chest and back, and remembered that Ken was a medical school dropout who knew exactly what in extremis meant. “And he will be dead if you don’t get your damned hands off me and back on that bag!”
Ken released him with an apologetic headshake and resumed bagging with machine precision.
“Squad 9. Did the atropine increase his rate?”
Johnny was afraid to give the answer. “Negative, County. Rate is still irregular and bradycardic. BP has dropped, and patient is still losing volume.”
“Squad 9, repeat infusion of atropine.”
“Ten-four, County.” Johnny prepped the IV injection. “County! Rate is dropping!”
“No!” Ken’s shout lengthened into tearless sobs. “No, no, no. No, Starsk, not like this, not like this, Starsky, no….”
“Don’t administer cardiac shock,” Dr. Rhodes responded. “Wait for second atropine infusion to increase rate.”
Johnny stared at the cardiac monitor, begging it, offering it his soul in exchange for just one screen of sinus bradycardia, even a rate of 50.
“Squad 9, is heart rate increasing?”
Johnny jammed his fist against the overhead equipment bin. “Negative, County.”
“Begin cease-efforts protocol, Squad 9. He’s not viable.”
“Starsky, Starsky, I love you, please!” Ken pleaded in a series of choked gasps.
“Squad 9, do you copy on beginning cease-efforts protocol?”
Johnny took one look at Starsky’s deathly pale face, the bloom of death in Ken’s eyes, and the openly quavering rookie paramedic. “Say again, County, I’m not reading you. County, say again on last transmission?” He then reached over and dismantled the Biophone antenna.
“But, Captain,” the rookie began. “You just–”
“Shut up!” Johnny ordered him. “Keep bagging!” he encouraged Ken, knowing Ken needed no encouragement to keep squeezing that bag all the way to Hell and back. “I can’t shock him, but there’s not a damned thing keeping me from giving him CPR.”
“Thank you,” Ken breathed.
“Don’t thank me,” Johnny told him, starting chest compressions. “He’s losing volume faster than we can replace it, his heart rate’s in the basement and unstable, and there’s nothing more I can do. But I’m not letting County yank him out from under me until we hit that Receiving entrance.”
“Thank you,” Ken said again.
There was a substantial bump, and Johnny knew they’d stopped in the ambulance bay. Inside the Receiving Entrance, a surgical team met them and whisked Starsky’s gurney away without bothering to get the ride-in report. Johnny sighed. So, it would likely be over, but not in front of Ken. One less memory to torture Ken down the road. Down the road, hell! Johnny shivered, remembering Starsky’s words from another time and his own response. “If I don’t make it out of this, you gonna stand by Hutch? Make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.”
“If something happens to you, there won’t be enough left of Hutch to stand by.”
Ken tried following the gurney into the elevator, but the door slid shut in his face. He pounded on it with both fists and then started assaulting the Up button. “Hey!” Johnny called. “Wait there, I’ll go up with you.” Ken didn’t acknowledge him, lost in his own world with the elevator’s poor, defenseless Up button. “Ken! Cool your heels; they won’t let you in the OR anyway. I’ll be there in a second!”
The rookie stood clutching his metallic clipboard to his chest, a small square shield against the nastiness. “I don’t think–I don’t think I’m cut out for this after all.”
Johnny squeezed his shoulder. “No one comes out of a run like this looking like a hero.” No, the kid probably wasn’t paramedic material, although Johnny could be wrong. Sometimes the overconfident rookies tanked and the insecure ones found their backbones and turned into top-notch rescue workers, but that was for the kid’s regular captain and paramedic partner to decide. “Get a ride back to quarters in the squad. I’ll go up and get Detective Hutchinson settled.”
“What you did–”
“What I did was wrong,” Johnny said firmly. “But it was the only decent thing to do. That Dr. Rhodes knows there’s a two percent chance Starsky’ll make it up to the OR floor, much less survive, but still, he was too quick on the trigger to my mind.”
“How do you know he was too quick?”
Johnny smiled. “Because I’ve worked with a doctor who doesn’t know the meaning of ‘give up’ until he’s had a crack at the patient. Maybe Starsky’s surgeons’ll be the same way. What I did, Connors, it isn’t a decision to be made by a rookie.”
“I know. We’ll keep it between you and me. I mean, that antenna’s always been a little quirky. Sometimes it, uh, falls off on its own, you know.”
“You’re a good man, Connors. When you get back to quarters, if a replacement paramedic isn’t there, get on the phone to City dispatch and tell them your senior paramedic is at County. Tell them to send you a replacement pronto if they have to make one out of play-doh. Okay?”
“Ten-four, Cap.”
Johnny patted his back and hurried down the corridor to the elevator where the car had arrived, the door sliding open. He dashed in right behind Ken, who stood in the corner fixated on his blood-caked hands and fingernails. Johnny respectfully observed his silence, but on reaching the OR floor, he steered Ken to the nearest restroom. Glad to find it empty, Johnny ran warm water in the sink and took charge, methodically scrubbing Ken’s hands and nails with the antiseptic soap.
“Starsky’s going to die,” Ken said.
Johnny kept on scrubbing. “The surgeons here are first rate, I’ve heard.”
“Damn it, Johnny, level with me! He’s going to die?”
“I won’t be the one to tell you that!” Johnny’s voice sounded like thunder to him in the restroom acoustics. “We got him here. It’s up to the OR team now.”
“I didn’t even get to h-hold him one last time. I wanted–wanted to pull him into my arms, but something made me look for ex-exit wounds. When I saw those gaping–” Ken shuddered violently. “I flipped him right over and pressed him to the ground, trying to stop the bl-blood.”
Johnny had wondered how Ken avoided getting blood and gore all over his light beige jacket. “You saved his life. If you hadn’t done that, he might’ve been dead on scene.”
“Saved his life for what–for how long!?” Ken cried out. “For some surgeon to come tell me they did all they could but it wasn’t enough?”
Johnny dried Ken’s clean hands with several sandpapery towels and then squeezed those big hands in his own. “You’re right, okay? You don’t get more critical than he is, and maybe it’ll take a miracle, but I know if anyone’s capable of pulling off a miracle for you, Ken Hutchinson, it’s that man they just wheeled into the OR! And you love him enough for ten people; that counts for something at times like this. Come on. Let’s get you settled in the waiting room.”
Ken blocked his way when Johnny would have walked around to the door. “You make one hell of a captain. I’m glad it was you. I’m glad it was someone who knows, really knows, what Starsky means to me. What every last minute with him meant to me. I’ll always remember what you did for Starsky in that ambulance, and no matter how it–” Ken’s voice choked, and he turned his face. “I know you fought for him. You need to know it, too.”
Astonished by Ken’s grace under pressure and touched by the gratitude, Johnny gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, a gesture of solidarity between two men of their community, and led him out of the restroom and down the hall to the surgical waiting area.
Dobey had arrived. Watching the captain and his detective console each other silently through nods, headshakes, and shoulder squeezes, Johnny knew he couldn’t sit around on a death watch, but he couldn’t imagine sitting around taking notes on what made City 9’s station tick either. He needed to make one important stop and then to escape to the dark silence of his apartment. The adrenaline from the rescue was leaving his system, and he felt weaker than a two-day-old kitten. Trying to remember Station 38’s C-shift captain’s home number, he excused himself and crossed the room to the relatives’ phone table. He got it right on the third try.
Captain Matt Ford answered. “Ford residence.”
“Matt, it’s Johnny Gage.”
“Johnny, you don’t sound–uh, oh,” Matt said. “You were sent to City 9’s today, right?”
“Yeah.” Johnny was so tired.
“I’ve been seeing some rough footage on the news from LAPD Metro. You were on the call?”
“Had to stand in as senior paramedic.”
“Okay, details are sketchy on the broadcasts, but I’m guessing one of Station 51’s favorite mascot supercops is in pretty bad shape? You get him there alive?”
“He was alive when I last saw him. He’s in the OR now.”
“Right. You got him there; that’s what matters. Won’t ask you which one. You’re done in?”
“I’m–yeah, Matt. I’m wiped. Never had this happen before, but I think I’d be less than useless to the boys at City 9’s.”
“Thought so. No shame in it, Johnny. Happens to every one of us at least once in our careers. Responding to that call would’ve been bad enough, but being in the middle of it? Hell, man, I’m glad I’m just a regular captain, no paramedic training whatsoever. Look, I’ll get City 9’s captain back over to his station, and I’ll go fill in for you at 38’s. You got a ride home?”
“Yeah,” Johnny fibbed, too exhausted to listen to Matt’s suggestions for transportation.
“Then go home and stay put. I’ve been a captain longer than you have, Johnny, so trust me on this, and Stanley would tell you the same thing. I’ll take care of it with LA County.”
“Thanks, Matt.”
“Don’t mention it; you’d do the same for me.”
~*~*~
Brackett emerged from the ER’s surgical suite and shed his surgical cap, running a hand through his matted hair. He tugged loosely on his sweat-stained green scrub tunic and looked forward to changing into what Dixie called his “nice clothes” and lab coat. Joe caught him when he rounded the corner and thrust a spare green scrub tunic at him. “What’s this for?” Brackett folded the tunic and tucked it under his arm. “Do we have another surgical patient?”
“No, that isn’t for you.” Joe lowered his voice to conspiratorial. “You know that certain someone you thought had given up on you? He’s here. That scrub is for him. He’ll need it. If Dixie had seen him, she would’ve passed out. I don’t know what he got into out there, Kel, but he’s a mess. I sent him straight to your office. How’d the laparotomy go?”
“Intestinal nick as we suspected. She didn’t give us any trouble on the table. Clean, stable repair. Thanks, Joe.” Brackett waved the tunic and took off down the corridor to his office.
Bracing on Brackett’s desk, Johnny leaned over, back to the door, and his posture spoke of exhaustion too great for standing straight and tall. Brackett closed the door slowly to avoid a sudden loud noise and turned the lock. The small sound made Johnny jump, and he whirled. Brackett sucked in his breath. Johnny’s dark navy uniform jacket hid stains well, but the crimson-brown splotches down the front of his light blue shirt gave Brackett palpitations.
“My God, Johnny!”
Johnny looked down and his jaw worked, his gaze darting side to side in his way of blinking back tears. “Heh,” he said, voice rough. “Not mine.”
“I know. You wouldn’t be standing under your own power if it were, but for a second–” Brackett put a hand to his chest. “Good thing I have a very strong heart.”
He approached Johnny with slow steps, giving the shaken man time to show what he wanted: space, the comfort of touch, to yell and scream, or throw things. Johnny just waited for him to get within reach and then took Brackett’s hand in both of his. He let Johnny caress and squeeze his hand. Then Johnny released him and took a step back. “You–heh–gonna just stand there or–or you gonna hold me like I need, you dumb–dumb–doctor!”
Brackett’s better judgment warned him that with no slacks and lab coat to hide behind, his body would make his feelings for Johnny all too clear in his thin scrub bottoms, but he couldn’t hold Johnny at arms length under the circumstances. He tossed the surgical cap and spare scrub tunic onto his desk and took Johnny in his arms. Johnny let out a long breath and latched his arms around Brackett’s neck, clinging tight. With Johnny’s cheek against his, the warmth of his body pressing close, Brackett had no hope of controlling instinctive arousal that paid no heed to inappropriate timing. The warm firmness of Johnny’s groin nudged him in response, and Johnny leaned back to look him in the face.
“You–you do want me. How long have you–”
“Years, Johnny. Years.”
“Years!” Johnny shouted. “I’ll be mad at you later.” And then Johnny’s mouth was on his, palms fluttering with the weight of hummingbird wings against his cheeks.
Brackett didn’t care if the office walls fell down and exposed them to the entire ER. He tightened his arms around Johnny’s back, opened his mouth under the feverish kiss, and with their first touch of tongues and shared sigh, he knew the meaning of every sunrise since the first day he laid eyes on Johnny Gage and saw a brash young fireman who would challenge boundaries, open Brackett’s heart and then steal it. He’d known Johnny would kiss like this, with all his enthusiasm and tenderness that showed in his rapport with patients. But there was also a hint of masculine conqueror in Johnny, controlled and channeled into welcome passion that forced Brackett’s mouth to open its widest. As their kiss deepened, Johnny backed them up to the desk and then tried hoisting himself up to sit on the edge without breaking the kiss. Brackett helped him up, loosing a small cry in Johnny’s mouth when the lanky fireman wrapped his legs around, crossing those wiry, muscular legs behind Brackett’s thighs. The heat and musk of arousal thickened between them, Brackett sliding his hands down Johnny’s back to clutch his ass and draw him up tight into a thrust of hips. Contact with with the hard bulge of Johnny’s erection confirmed another hunch. Under those uniform slacks, Brackett’s fireman was hung like a fantasy. He rubbed harder against his fantasy man, wanting some clue that Johnny found him satisfactory.
Johnny pulled his kiss-swollen lips free of Brackett’s and whispered heatedly, “God, Doc, you’ve been keeping a lot hidden under those long lab coats. I figured you for a big guy, but damn.”
Relieved and thrilled, Brackett nuzzled his neck and wanted to kiss him again but needed to catch his breath. Johnny tensed suddenly in his arms, bowing his head, and his shoulders heaved. Concerned, Brackett eased back to tip Johnny’s chin up with gentle fingertips and found that handsome face tearstained. “Oh, Johnny, I’m sorry. I should’ve known better. You didn’t come here for this.”
Most frightening of all, Johnny wasn’t actively crying. The flood of emotion was dammed, allowing only the merest trickle of tears. “No, your instinct was right. I did want it. Hell, what man doesn’t wanna solve problems with sex? If world hunger could be solved by sex, there wouldn’t be a single person starving on the planet. It’s just–I can’t–there’s nothing–you can’t solve this. I think I just lost two people instead of one, and I wasn’t prepared to lose either!”
Brackett held him, petting through the fine, silken strands of Johnny’s dark hair. “What hap–”
“And on the bus over here,” Johnny interrupted, “all I could think about was Drew, and how he wasn’t nearly as bad off as what I saw today and you still couldn’t save him, so I don’t know why I even think there’s a chance!”
Drew. Brackett had to tax his memory bank. Ah. Five years ago, was it? Maybe six. A young LA County Sheriff’s deputy struck by a car off the freeway. Johnny and Roy had responded to the call, but the young man’s internal injuries were too severe for Brackett and the surgical team to pull him through emergency surgery. Johnny rarely spoke of his friend who had left behind a wife and very young daughter. Then Johnny’s other words filtered through Brackett’s consciousness, and he said gruffly, “You took a bus, in this condition, this frame of mind? From where!?”
“County Hospital. Shouldn’t have been there. Not County; I mean, Metro. Out of my hands. Shouldn’t have even been there. Didn’t wanna be there, couldn’t get out of it. I’m tellin’ ya, ever since I woke up in the desert and saw that big ole coyote staring me in the face, I knew I was in deep trouble!”
“Johnny….”
“But I saw the real thing today. Saw what I never wanted to see before. I get it. Ken belongs to him. Couldn’t love anyone in the whole crazy world the way he loves Starsky. Couldn’t have loved me that way if he’d busted his gut trying. And God, I wanna know what it feels like to love somebody that way and have somebody love me that way, but I’m scared. Scared spitless. ‘Cause I saw today what happens when you’re staring down losing somebody you love like that!”
“Johnny, you’ve been through a considerable trauma. I can tell that much. Why don’t I get you a cup of coffee and you try to take some deep breaths and tell me about it slowly?”
Johnny jerked free of the protective embrace and pushed Brackett away from him, not in rejection but for the space to hop off the desk. Turning in circles, brushing his hand roughly through his hair, Johnny gestured wildly at the office. “I gotta go. This–this is exactly what I told Roy I didn’t do. Hole up in your office, and–”
“Johnny, calm down.” Brackett eased up to him and put his hands on Johnny’s shoulders. “Do you think I care what anyone in this ER has to say about the two of us in here? This is my office. What we do or say in here behind closed doors is our business!”
“I gotta go,” Johnny repeated, heading for the door. “I can’t–can’t handle this. I need to be alone, need to think. ‘Cause I knew when we were kissing just now, if I start something with you, it’s gonna–gonna get real heavy, real fast. And after today, I–”
“Johnny, we don’t have to think about starting anything right now. I’m your friend. Let me be your friend right now, you need one.” Risking a few seconds away from physical contact with the incoherent man, Brackett plucked the scrub tunic off the desk. “We can start by getting you out of that bloodstained shirt.”
“No! No, I–I can’t be here, Doc.” Johnny opened the office door and hurried outside.
“Johnny!” Brackett chased after him, tunic bunched in his fist. But Johnny just waved a raised hand in a “stay back” plea and continued through the Admitting area to the Receiving Entrance.
“Kel?” Dixie’s voice sounded concerned behind him.
He clutched the tunic in both hands and wrung it into a wrinkled mess. “Damn it!”
Dixie touched his arm. “Kel, what was that all about?”
“Dr. Brackett, we need you in here!” Amelia, the nurse monitoring the patient in examination two, rarely had panic in her voice. When she did, time couldn’t be lost.
Brackett turned toward the summons as a matter of course. On his way past Dixie, he said, “Do me a favor. Call Station 38 and see if you can discreetly find out what the hell Johnny was involved in out there today.”
~*~*~
There was grayness, but at least it was a blank grayness. He was tired of the dreams. He’d seen everything from the crib to the stinking jungle, as if he were doing some weird kind of rewind of his entire life. At least the last time the grayness brightened with a dream, he’d seen the welcome Southern California sunshine. But he’d been doing push-ups on the Police Academy field, and that was too much like basic training. He was so tired. Usually after unwanted dreams, he could wake himself up and go to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Why couldn’t he wake himself up this time?
This grayness was different. There was warmth close by, very close. The kind of warmth that only came with love. Deep love. As deep as the love he’d felt in his dreams from Pop, but different than that, too. This love was electric. Crackling. Sexual love. Deeply romantic, sexual, everlasting love. He felt it wrap around him, and wanted to return it, wanted to wake and see the source of that love. But no, the grayness darkened again, then brightened. Another dream, damn it.
He, Hutch, and Colby stood jawing on the Academy front grounds. Colby suddenly hushed them, pointing at a young man who was trudging down the front walk with his duffle slung over his shoulder. Cadet Davidson. “They’re cutting him loose. Guess they think that call he made to a guy off campus really proves he’s a sexual deviant,” Colby said. “And, man, to think he was gunning for top marksman honors.”
Starsky snickered, “Funny. I didn’t know fagelahs could shoot.”
Colby burst out laughing, doubled over and nearly crying with mirth. But Hutch stared at Starsky with fury in his eyes. “Oh, that’s real nice, Starsky, you’re the guy I might be walking the streets with out there? You’ll protect and serve, but only the people you think are worthy of protection and service? Certain individuals, including ‘fagelahs,’ need not apply? If you have that kind of attitude, man, maybe I better reconsider partnering up with you, because what happens if you decide I have some quirk that you can’t live with? Whichever way Davidson swings, he’s a human being, and he didn’t deserve to get booted out of here when his marks top most of ours! I’ve seen you as a real fair-minded guy, Starsky. You mean you can’t see the injustice in this? God, I’m disappointed.”
Colby sobered up and glared at Hutch. “What, you some kind of do-gooder activist, Hutchinson?”
But Starsky just felt goose bumps break out over his arms and legs. His palms started to sweat. He felt the heat of fever flush his face. Staring at Hutch, he felt a rush of pride. He wanted this man’s respect. He wanted this man’s friendship. More than anything. But why did he feel like he was coming down with the stomach flu that was going around the Academy? Hell, if it was stomach flu, it sure felt good! He looked at Hutch from head to toe and the chill bumps on his skin intensified. He rubbed his palms on his Academy sweats, but the stickiness only doubled at the fierce stare Hutch was giving him. He had to say something important, and then he needed to head by the infirmary and see if he was about to puke up his guts. Maybe they could give him something to head off the stomach flu.
“No,” he said to Colby. “Hutch is right. That was a shitty thing for me to say. Davidson’s a stand-up guy and where he puts his dick for pleasure ain’t got a damned thing to do with it.” He meant it, and the beaming smile he got from Hutch was incredible reward.
“Now that’s the Starsky I know I wanna be partnered with,” Hutch said.
The grayness returned, but he still felt the prick of chill bumps. He heard something. Some sound penetrating the grayness. A mechanical sound. Almost like an off-the-hook phone but even more annoying. Then he heard a weird scraping sound close by, like a chair moving on a hard floor.
“Nurse?! Nurse?”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Is he–?”
That voice. It was the voice from the Academy front lawn.
“No, Sergeant, I’m sorry, there’s no change. Still no response to stimuli.”
“I guess I–”
“You dozed off, Sergeant, and I didn’t wake you. You need your rest.”
“I woke up, and I thought–I felt….”
“Sergeant, these things take time. You’ll just have to be patient. His vitals are encouraging.”
“Patient, hell. Don’t let me fall asleep again, I don’t care how much rest you think I need.”
He wanted desperately to wake now. He knew that voice. He knew who it belonged to.
Hutch.
The love of his life.
Now he knew why the grayness had such warmth, why there was the crackle of electric love. He had to wake up and tell Hutch all about it. But grayness gave way to pitch black. Sleepy, so sleepy, he succumbed. The love of his life would wait for him until morning. Would wait for him forever.
~*~*~
Startled by the insistent pounding on his front door, Johnny banged his forehead on the pipe. Couldn’t a man fix his leaky kitchen faucet in peace? He wiped his hands on the dish rag at his side and, rubbing his sore forehead, moved forward on his butt until he’d slid his upper body out from under the sink. The knocking got louder. Damn! Any more noise and Johnny would get complaints from the super. If it was a door-to-door salesman offering him a demonstration on a gadget vacuum cleaner this time of evening, he was in for a nasty fire captain lecture. Johnny opened the door to a handsome doctor who had obviously come straight from Rampart in his chocolate brown suit, yellow button-up, and silk beige tie. Johnny regretted his worn jeans and ratty cotton shirt that hung open all the way, sleeves rolled up to above his elbows, but Brackett didn’t seem to mind. In fact, those riveting eyes were undressing Johnny the rest of the way, and fast.
“Dr. Brackett.”
Brackett’s face darkened, mouth tightening. Johnny got the door closed before Brackett grabbed him by the upper arms and held him still. “You had your tongue down my throat yesterday,” Brackett said in a very tight voice. “Don’t you think we’re past titles now?”
Johnny hardened instantly, needfully, and tried to laugh through the roar of blood in his ears. “Uh, heh heh, habits die hard, Doc–I mean, Kel. That better?” Brackett was steering them farther into the living room. “Kel?”
Brackett let out a growl and kissed him until Johnny thought he might pass out from sensation overload. Dizziness made him unsteady on his feet. Nobody had ever kissed him like this, as if kissing him was a vocation. He swayed up against Brackett afterward and felt those strong arms go tight as chains around him. He could only bend his arms and rest his hands against Brackett’s chest. He felt Brackett’s lips touch his hair. “I got the story from Matt Ford at Station 38, and then saw the updated news coverage on the coffee room TV. Is there any word on Starsky’s condition?”
Johnny wanted to concentrate on the soft kisses in his hair, not unspeakable memories. “I got a call from Captain Dobey. Starsky survived the surgery, but he’s in a coma.”
“Are you okay?”
“I will be if we don’t talk about that. I’m trying not to think about that. I was over there fixing
the kitchen faucet on my day off ’cause I’m trying not to think about it. So if you came here to–”
“I came here meaning to read you the riot act about walking out yesterday. Not answering the messages I left on your machine last night. Shutting me out, acting like a petulant teenager!”
“Well, thanks a lot!” Johnny broke Brackett’s hold and stepped away. “I have a bone to pick with you, too, Mr. Wanted Me For Years. You have any idea what the last few months have been like, thinking I was nothing more to you than–”
“Months!” Brackett snarled at him. “Try years of watching you become the man of my dreams but thinking I’d never have you.”
“Yeah? And not once during those years you couldn’t open your mouth and say–”
Brackett’s hands lovingly curled around Johnny’s head, holding him in place for another fiery kiss. If arguing was foreplay, then they were in for years of hot sex, Johnny could see that.
“I’m saying it now.” Brackett pulled Johnny tightly to him. “You make me crazy. I want you. I want all of you. I had a taste of you yesterday and I won’t be able to live with myself until I’ve had more. Do you have any idea how often I think about you in a given day?”
Johnny kissed him then, and pulled them over to the sofa, reaching blindly behind him to scatter magazines and Station 38 paperwork to the floor. He fell down in a sprawl on the cushions, his legs naturally parting, and Brackett came down between them, already granite hard and thrusting. “Kel,” Johnny gasped. “Kel, easy, we don’t have to set a land speed record.”
“Easy!” Brackett shouted at him. “I could come just from hearing you call me by my first name. I’m a mess here, Johnny. I’m not used to this.”
“What do you need from me right now?”
“I want you so deep inside me I’ll feel you every step I take in that ER, but right now I need–”
“You need to fuck me with that nice big cock.” Johnny smiled and reached up to smooth the gentle dip of Brackett’s dark hair over his forehead. He stroked that firm jaw, the tender, full lower lip.
Brackett lowered his head. “How did you know?” His voice was almost pained with desire. “How did you I know I’d want you to talk dirty to me in that wholesome voice of yours?”
“Just a hunch,” Johnny chuckled. “If you can reach–down there in the magazine basket, pushed way down beside the magazines, is a tube of lube, I think.”
“You keep lube in your magazine basket?” Kel leaned out to the side to reach the small wicker basket between the sofa and armchair.
Oh, boy. He was already thinking of Brackett as “Kel.” He was in so deep. Things were going to get heavy faster than the blink of an eye, just as he’d thought when they kissed the first time. “Well, how many people go stuffing their hands way down inside a guy’s magazine basket? Seemed a safe hiding place to me.”
Kel snagged the lube and came back to rest in Johnny’s arms, kissing him. He brushed Johnny’s bangs off his forehead and fingered the charm stone on his chest. “You’re wearing the necklace.”
“I wear it all the time. Had it on yesterday under my uniform. Felt you with me all the way.”
Kel growled again, hooking Johnny on the sound. “Are you ready for this? Ready for an over-worked, sex-starved hothead to lose his self-control over you?”
Johnny gulped. “I’m a hothead myself,” he squeaked. Kel laughed. Oh, that rich beautiful sound.
They petted and caressed through undressing each other in the awkward confines of the sofa. With his shoulders braced against the sofa arm, an end cushion for a pillow, Johnny made himself comfortable for sofa sex. He wanted Kel in his big waterbed, but he didn’t want to move from his spot until he had Kel inside him losing all that self-control. He was having too much fun tracing the pattern of soft hair on Kel’s chest and arms, realizing he’d craved a guy furrier than himself without ever consciously knowing it. The revelation of Kel’s uncut, thick-headed cock spiraled Johnny into mad lust. After sliding his hands up and down the foreskin, he had to apply his hands elsewhere in a hurry to avoid coming long before his time. Kel chuckled at his excitement and showed him how lubing and stretching could qualify as a fulfilling sex act in itself, slicking him to the point of ridiculous over-preparation. Johnny didn’t rush him. He wanted Kel touching and looking at that most intimate part of him. He loved the way his dick was stroked, Kel swirling a thumb over its head with each foray of a stretching finger in Johnny’s ass. Finally, he crooked his right leg over the back of the sofa and let Kel shove a throw cushion under him for comfort. He found incredible joy in Kel hovering over him, between his spread legs, positioning with care and staring right into his eyes. Johnny slid his hands up Kel’s back, turned his head right and left to kiss those taut arms braced on either side of him. Kel shivered at the light kisses. Johnny winked at his newest, most important bedmate, or sofamate.
“I need you, Kel.”
Visceral sexual need showing in his tensed brow and pursed lips, Kel lunged forward in one exquisitely deep thrust, and Johnny couldn’t help but gloat inside that he–Johnny Gage–had put that look on Kelly Brackett’s face. Kel did lose control, but he stole Johnny’s as well. Fisting Johnny’s cock in his lubed palm, Kel nailed him to the sofa, groaning, grunting his delight. With every brushing of that special place inside Johnny, Kel looked him in the eye and gave him a little squeeze just under the cockhead. Each time drew a shout from Johnny, and Kel gasped and smiled, the expression plainly saying, “I know what you need, and I can give it to you better than anyone.” Wordlessly agreeing, Johnny moved with him, squeezing down on the rod doing such marvelous things to him. He wanted Kel’s wicked thumb back on the head of his dick, but he didn’t have the breath to ask for it. Arching, he tried to slide his prick up and down in Kel’s tender hold. Again, Kel locked eyes with him, and then rested his thumb right over Johnny’s slit, rubbing the beads of pre-come around and around until Johnny thought he might black out or melt into the sofa. Kel slowed his thrusts and rose up on his knees to look down at the movement of his thumb on Johnny’s cock. Covering Kel’s busy hand with his own sweaty palm, Johnny felt that surge of power in him that he remembered from the desert dream. Pumping Johnny’s dick harder under the blanket of Johnny’s hand, Kel pounded forward into him and took his mouth in a frenzied kiss. When Kel made a choked sound in his throat that Johnny felt in their kiss, he fell apart in the very best way. This wasn’t just sex. This was lovemaking. He was content to lie there under Kel for the rest of the night, but they couldn’t last this time, their built-up anticipation rising to the surface and speeding them toward flight. Long before either of them wanted, Kel stiffened, his smooth thrusts quickening, and he flung back his head, breaking their kiss, sweat trickling down his neck.
“Oh, God, Johnny, Oh, God, I’m coming, Johnny, I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Hearing those sexy words in Kel’s no-nonsense voice did even more for Johnny than the fist
tightening around his cock. He groaned long and hard and called out to Kel breathlessly as jets of come landed on his chest. Even before Kel’s climaxing thrusts slowed to stillness, Johnny knew he’d never be the same person who answered the knocking on his door. Making love with Kel Brackett had changed him forever, and Johnny thought that forever might just be a very nice word.
“I knew it could be like that between us,” Kel said a few minutes later, wiping the pool of fluid from Johnny’s chest with his dress shirt. He dropped the shirt to the floor and lowered himself into Johnny’s arms, nestling his face against Johnny’s neck.
Johnny tapped him on the back of the head. “Then why’d you wait so long to let me in on it?”
“Can’t we enjoy the afterglow before we start arguing again?”
“No, and you keep that dick right where it is. After we hash a few things out, I want round two.”
Kel raised his head and gave him a Dr. Brackett look. “I took you pretty hard. I don’t want to risk skin tears, and staying inside isn’t the most sanitary thing in the world, Johnny.”
Johnny tweaked his nose. “Don’t get all concerned doctor with me. You used enough slick for four hard rides. Two won’t do me any harm. And shut up about something clinical like hygiene after what we just did together.”
“And I’m forty-five years old. At my age it takes me a little longer than you to get it up again.”
“You make it sound like you’re eighty! Forty-five is plenty young for me, by the way, but you just fucked my brains out like a thirty-year-old porn star.”
Kel playfully smacked his shoulder. “Who taught you to talk like that?”
“There was this street cop.” Johnny was astonished at himself. If he could lie there with Kel’s softening cock in his ass and reference Ken Hutchinson, then he was really over that street cop.
“Tell him ‘thank you’ for me. You sound incredibly sexy.” Kel kissed his neck.
“Don’t change the subject, Kel. Why are we just now doing this?” Kel sighed. Johnny listened to him talk about paramedic/physician fraternization. That made sense to Johnny after the day before, and he discovered that he did need to talk about that horrible ambulance ride.
“I get that. Yesterday I had to do something that would’ve been harder for me if you’d been the doctor on the other end of the Biophone line.”
“What happened, Johnny?”
Johnny told him about the near-death transport. He ached, talking about it, and he was glad to have Kel’s weight blanketing him. After he trailed off into silence, Kel kissed him, kissed his cheeks, his earlobe. “You didn’t prescribe treatment against or without medical advice. You recognized that human life was still beating in Starsky’s chest, and you fought to preserve it. I’d be a lousy physician if I held that against you, but you were expecting me to lecture you, weren’t you?”
“Maybe. I know how you feel about paramedics taking things in their own hands.”
“In this case, you did the right thing, and you risked your reputation and job to do it. I’m proud of you.” Then Kel frowned at him. “About yesterday. I meant what I said about wanting to be your friend and not just your lover. You didn’t give me the chance.”
“I know. Things were just too intense. Okay, I get the paramedic and doctor thing. But why didn’t you say something after I made captain? Huh, tell me that.”
“You kept talking about friendship, Johnny.”
“Friendship! I kept talking about friendship because you kept talking about friendship!” Johnny laughed. “What you said in the restaurant that night about barriers and two men having trouble getting their feelings out, I guess there’s some truth to it.” He noticed that Kel tensed in his arms. “There’s something else. What is it, Kel?”
“A man of a certain age is supposed to conk out after sex, Johnny.”
“Will you quit with the age stuff! Men of all ages are known to roll over and go to sleep afterward, but this is important. You can ask Roy; I’ll keep after you until you satisfy my curiosity.”
He got another frown, but there was appreciation in Kel’s eyes. “You’re gorgeous, Johnny. No leading man in Hollywood has a thing on you. And the last relationship you had with a man was with someone just as devastating. Ken Hutchinson is a hard act to follow.”
He wanted to bask in the compliments, but now wasn’t the time. “Yeah, a hard act to follow for most guys, but not for you.” Kel didn’t look convinced. “Hey, why don’t you believe me?”
“Johnny, I watched you for years. You didn’t date a nurse who couldn’t moonlight as a cover model for Mademoiselle. Physical appearance is of supreme importance to you. I remember once when Dix wanted to set you up with a new nurse in Orthopedics, you asked her what the girl weighed. If she hadn’t swatted you on the back of the head for it, I would have!”
Johnny winced. “Okay, okay, I was shallow. Can’t a guy grow up and mature? And half the time I struck out with all those supermodel nurses. I think they knew somehow that I was trying real hard to be anything but myself. That’s a turn off in someone, but it took me years to see it.”
“You’ve matured quite a lot over the years, Johnny, but my point is, you’ve always been with someone that seventy-five percent of the world’s population would find attractive.”
“I hate to break it to you, Kel, but if that’s a sign of immaturity, I’m still immature. I’m with someone now that seventy-five perfect of the world would find attractive.” Again he saw doubt in Kel’s eyes. “You know what, I’m not the problem, you are! God, Kel, I can’t believe this. You don’t even know how incredible you are.” He caressed Kel’s brow with both thumbs. “You have these stunning eyes. And your mouth moves so sexy when you talk. And, damn, that classy East Coast voice you’ve got, wow. Your smile blows me away.” He drew his caresses down Kel’s shoulders to his forearms. “These strong arms and big gentle hands. Oh, and I’m crazy about your chest. Broad, sturdy. I already love feeling your chest hair rub against me. The way you’re hung is hotter than an oil fire, and I know I’m not the first man to tell you, you have an incredible ass! And that’s not even getting into who you are. Smartest man I’ve ever known, and that’s real hot in my book.”
Kel’s stunning eyes were misty, and Johnny knew in his gut that he was with a heroic man. Not many men could have made themselves vulnerable the way Kel had, admitting to his own insecurity like that. “Ah, Johnny.” Kel kissed him deeply. “Thank you, Johnny Angel.”
He almost moaned out loud. “Where’d that come from?”
“An old sock hop song.” Kel chuckled. “Showing my age again.”
“Shut up about your age, damn it! I hope to God that wasn’t one of the things keeping you from making a play for me.”
“Maybe it was, yes. A little.”
“Well, I like your age. I like you. I like that ‘Johnny Angel’ stuff. Like it so much, you better not call me that unless you want me knocking you down and climbing up your ass right then.”
Kel groaned. “O-oh, Johnny.”
“So, what changed your mind about us?”
“What do you mean?”
Johnny pretended to look exasperated, but he didn’t fool Kel, who winked at him. That sent Johnny soaring. Who would’ve thought Dr. Brackett could wink, and look that naughty doing it? “I mean, something brought you to my door tonight, ready for whatever happened.”
“The way you kissed me yesterday, Johnny, told me what I needed to know. A man doesn’t kiss someone like that unless he wants that person. Wants him desperately. I’ll admit, part of me still wondered how you could want me quite like that, but I decided not to turn my back on the miracle.”
“Guess I’ll just have to keep reminding you what you do to me. That is, if you want us–” Johnny busied himself massaging Kel’s back while he found the courage to ask an important question.
“Are we gonna be lovers, Kel?”
The Brackett frown he got this time was the one that usually floored student nurses. “Are you serious? After what we just did, you’re asking me that?”
“Yeah, okay, I’m asking. We just had amazing sex. No. Honestly, I think we skipped sex and went straight to making love. But that doesn’t make a couple of guys lovers, you know.”
“This is not a one-time thing, Johnny, if that’s what you mean. We’ll have our ups and downs, and you’re right, we’re both hotheads. There’ll be friction, and not just the sexy kind. But I want to be with you more than I’ve ever wanted to be with anyone in my life.”
“Good, same here.” Johnny grinned. “And we’re exclusive?”
“Realistically, Johnny, you’re all the man I can handle, and the only one I want to.”
“I’m in the same boat with you, Doc.”
“Don’t call me that, please. Makes me feel like I need my lab coat on, and right now, I want to be naked in your arms.” Kel snuggled closer and yawned.
“You’re getting sleepy.”
Kel yawned again. “Um-hm. Need a nap before I fuck you through the sofa again.”
Johnny gasped, his cock swelling. Holy hell, if he got that hard every time he heard that word in Kel’s voice… He smiled. “You’re really different away from Rampart.”
“God, I hope so!”
Kel didn’t get his nap. A knock on the door nearly sent both men tumbling off the sofa. They separated hurriedly, scurrying around gathering their clothes. The unwanted visitor knocked again. Johnny wagged his fist at the door. “I’m telling you, it’s time for Coyote to go plague someone else. No, wait a sec.” He smiled. “Coyote led me to you; I better hush complaining about him. You, uh, you can hide in my bathroom, I guess.”
“Johnny?” called Roy from the outer hallway.
The worried furrow in Kel’s brow relaxed. “I think I should at least duck in your bathroom and freshen up, wash my hands.”
Johnny tracked down the lube and shoved it back into the magazine basket, tidying the sofa and hoping Kel wouldn’t stay shut away in the bathroom. However, to his surprise, Kel returned to him just moments later. In his slacks and semen-crusted dress shirt, hiding the stains under his suit coat, Kel sat back down on the sofa.
Johnny scratched at his eyebrow. “Do you mind Roy knowing we’re together? If I let him in, he’s gonna know right off, and not just ’cause you’re not known for dropping by my place.”
Kel smiled at him. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Johnny, you in there?”
“Just a second, Roy!” Johnny shouted.
Kel took Johnny’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the fingertips and then letting go. “I assume you don’t mind that Dixie and Joe will know the next time they see me? I won’t be able to hide it from them, even if I wanted, and I don’t want to.” Overjoyed, Johnny had to kiss him hard and deep. Kel stroked his cheek. “Why do I feel I just passed an important test?”
“You did, hon. You did.” Oh, no, of all the dumbass things to say! Johnny’s cheeks flamed. The word had just slipped out of his mouth without any thought on his part. He dared a glance at Kel to see if the man wanted to punch him for such a “girly” endearment. Worse than that, he’d used the word to calm very young children who were in great pain on rescues. “Sorry, I know that sounded–”
“Feminine? No. Not the way you looked at me when you said it, and not in your all-male voice.”
Johnny wanted another kiss, but he couldn’t leave Roy standing in the hall. He buttoned his shirt and went to let his best friend in on his day of joy. Two steps into the apartment, Roy looked more embarrassed than Johnny had ever seen him. “Sorry, Doc, Johnny, I should’ve called.”
The Dr. Brackett who winked could also smirk. “Roy, as of today, I’m your best friend’s lover. I think you should call me Kel.”
Roy had a beaming smile for Johnny. “I just dropped by to see if you were okay after yesterday’s mess at Metro. But I can see you’re more than okay and in very good hands, so I’ll just make myself scarce. Catch you later, Johnny.” With a clasp of Johnny’s shoulder, Roy went over and held out his hand, shaking Kel’s. “Happy for you guys, Kel. Real happy.”
“Thank you, Roy, that means a great deal.”
Shaking his head with an amused smile for Johnny, Roy left. Kel crooked his finger, beckoning. “Come back here, Johnny Angel. I’m ready for round two, and this time, you’re going to show me how deep you can get inside a man you want the way you want me.”
Johnny leaned against the closed door and took a deep breath. “I think… I think I love Coyote.”
~*~*~
Starsky woke to fuzziness and a chill. Each blink of his eyes taxed his strength, but he wanted to keep blinking, because every time his eyes opened for a second, he glimpsed a tall, whirling blond man and a white-and-red blur. Why was Hutch dancing with a white-and-red blur? The blur sharpened into focus. A woman. Hutch was dancing with a woman. Starsky wanted to cry out when his slumbering brain lit up, his mind a factory that had been shut down for repair but was now coming up to speed, assembly lines of thought running. How long had he been asleep? He could never remember being this groggy in the morning. His mind felt stretched, like his brain had expanded to the size of his dreams. Dreams he could remember. He had so much to tell Hutch. He didn’t know what he’d had to eat the night before that made those dreams so real, so vivid, but Einstein must’ve been noshing on the same stuff when he came up with the theory of relativity, because Starsky was totally sure he understood himself, his life, his place with Hutch better than he ever had. He was Genius Starsky, brain flying through space and time at warp speed, and he just needed to scoop Hutch up and take him along for the ride. If Hutch would quit swinging that white-and-red woman around already.
Back off, lady, he’s mine!
He tried to open his mouth to share the good news with Hutch, but his lips didn’t move. What–? Hutch, he said, send the lady packing, willya, and come sit down here, ’cause have I got news for you! Hutch stopped whirling the stranger lady, but he didn’t answer Starsky or sit down. Starsky wanted to lift his arm and touch his lips to figure out why they weren’t working, but his arm didn’t move either. He felt a twitch in his nose. Hutch came closer to the bed. Why was he in bed while Hutch danced with some chick in the same room? The woman came closer, too, and Starsky recognized the white cloth of a nursing uniform, the red her sweater. A nurse. Starsky frowned. Hadn’t he heard Hutch talking to a nurse in one of his dreams?
“Starsk, Starsk, you’re–you really are awake,” Hutch’s beautiful voice sounded miles distant down the world’s longest tunnel.
I’m awake, big deal. Wait until I knock your white socks off with what I figured out while I was asleep last night, you gorgeous blond galoot! Hutch didn’t react. He just kept that serene smile.
The nurse was poking around Starsky’s arms, peering in his eyes, leaning over him. “Sergeant Starsky, can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”
Of course, I can hear you. You’re shouting in my face. Aren’t you? Okay. Maybe not. Starsky tried blinking twice. That got a reaction. The nurse smiled. Hutch leaned over him next and brushed a hand through Starsky’s hair and around to cup his face. God, that touch!
Her red sweater flapping against her sides, the nurse hurried to the door. “I need to notify Sergeant Starsky’s physician that he’s out of the coma.” She left the room.
Coma! Shit! Maybe it wasn’t a late-night pastrami on rye that brought on those dreams after all.
“I should go tell Dobey you’re awake. The man’s so worried, he isn’t eating. But I want–I need a few minutes here alone with you, Starsk. You had me so–so damned scared.”
Not as scared as I am right now. If Dobey isn’t eating, I must’ve been halfway to The Great Beyond. Hutch, are you listening to me? Damn it, is anything coming out of my mouth?
The nurse returned, and Hutch looked disappointed, probably resenting her intrusion on his time alone with Starsky. Starsky agreed. Nurses were well and good, but he wanted Hutch all to himself so he could bring his partner up to speed. “The doctor will be here shortly,” the nurse said.
“When will Starsky be able to respond to us?” Hutch asked. “Talk, move, do more than blink?”
“That differs after coma, Sergeant, based on the patient’s condition among other things. The doctor will test his orientation to time and place, but I imagine Detective Starsky doesn’t even know where he is. His mind is probably a blank right now.”
The nurse disappeared from Starsky’s sight. He worked on moving his head on the pillow and with peripheral vision saw that she had taken a seat in a chair and picked up a paperback novel. “He moved his head.” Hutch sounded deliriously happy.
“Waking up is a slow process. Try not to over stimulate him and force some kind of response.”
Hey! Starsky had hopes that Hutch would be stimulating the hell out of him as soon as they could blow this Popsicle stand and find some privacy. Sudden pain throughout his body changed his mind. Christ, he hurt! What had happened to him? Starsky sobered. This was no laughing matter. Was he dying, was that what had Hutch so scared? Hutch, help me out here, partner, what the hell’s going on? Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay! Hutch!! And why do you have a bandage around your wrist? That’s not a good place to have a cut on your wrist, babe, what gives here?
“He’s in pain. Starsk, listen to me, buddy, take it easy. You’re fine. Now that I see those big blue eyes of yours, we’re both fine. You’re going to make it, you hear me?” Hutch turned to the nurse. “Can’t we ease his pain?”
“He’s getting his medications at the proper dosage and interval,” the nurse said. “Sensation of pain is part of his awakening process.”
Just in case something’s more serious here than I think, I better tell you the important stuff, Hutch. My brain must’ve been working double time while I was sacked out in that coma, whatever caused it. Guess what I figured out? I think I got a notion a long time ago that living straight would get me my family back in the form of a wife and kids of my own. Or maybe I thought I’d get the kind of family I didn’t really have as a kid. Wasn’t a front of the mind notion, though, you know? More like a back of the mind notion. But that wouldn’t have been the same as the family I really wanted back. Pop, Aunt Rose and Uncle Al are gone, and I could sleep with ten women or ten men, and they wouldn’t be coming back either way. Ma’s a hard liner with me, and she’d be a hard liner with me if I got married and had fifteen kids. It’s not me. It’s not what she thinks she knows about me. It’s just her. Somehow or other, Ma just never wanted me. And Nick, well, Nicky’s just Nick, but Ma’s so damned besotted by him she can’t see a damn thing wrong he does. I got the raw end of that deal, but I gotta just suck it up and accept it. You can’t change the parents you get. All I can do is be a bigger person than she is, help her if she ever needs it, and deal with the fact I’ll never be good enough in her book. So here’s the thing. When the family you were born with doesn’t stand the test of time, you got to create your own family and make it just like you want. I’ve got you, Huggy, and the Dobeys to start with. And Aunt Ruth, she’s not around, but at least she sends cards, so I know she’s thinking about me. I want you to take me to Duluth to meet your mom, Hutch. I know I met her years ago, but I want her to meet me as your life partner. I wanna get to know the lady who loves you enough to try and take you shopping just to show she’s in your corner. Hey, maybe I’ll get an adopted mom out of the bargain, you think? And whenever I get those nudgings about Ma, I’ll shrug ’em off. I was the apple of Pop’s eye, and no one can take that away from me. Pop loved the hell out of me. He would’ve thought the world of you. Important thing, I have one parent’s approval, even if it’s from beyond the grave. Some people don’t even get that lucky.
“He looks so serious,” Hutch said to the nurse, smiling all the while at Starsky. “Hey, partner, I don’t think you’re as blank in there as this lady wants me to believe. Are you?”
No kidding. Starsky blinked twice. Hutch looked like he’d just met God and found him a sucker for happy endings. Damn, Hutch, I love all that happiness all over you, but quit babbling that I’m blinking my eyes and shaddup and listen to me. All this time, I should’ve been finding strength in my memories of Pop, because he had his head screwed on right, but I missed him so damn much, I was too hurt by his death to go flipping through my memory scrapbook. I buried those good memories, and when I started remembering ’em, there were bad memories of Ma mixed in. Those bad memories were fucking me up before I even slept with you the first time, even though I didn’t know it. They kept me from being with you the way I really wanted.
Hutch leaned in close and straightened the blankets over Starsky’s lower body. “Starsk, you’re staring a hole in me. Are you trying to tell me something? What do you need?”
“Let him rest,” the nurse cautioned. “He’ll need his strength for the doctor’s examination.”
I need you to be quiet and listen, so I can get this all out before I go back to sleep! I’m real sleepy all of a sudden. Anyway, my mind was trying to flush those shitty memories out of my system, I think. You know, bring them to the surface so I could deal with ’em and get past ’em and get on with my life with you. But I clung to ’em and let them really mess me over. And I put you through hell, babe. Sheer hell. God, I’m so sorry for that. You got no idea how sorry.
“Starsk, you can close those eyes if you need to. You look sleepy. You woke up; that’s the most important thing. Go to sleep, you champion fighter, you should rest until the doc comes.”
Hutch’s smiling face was the eighth wonder of the world, as far as Starsky was concerned. I woke up for you, Hutch! I dreamt about us, you and me, in The Wildewood. Remember that? Dancing all close together with our shirts off. I kissed you, and you tasted so damned good, even though I could tell you’d bummed a cigarette somewhere. It was better’n any porno I’d ever seen, Hutch, and in my dream I got hard! We’re talking compass pointing due north, buddy boy!
“Starsky, you should see that smile on your face.” Hutch looked at the nurse and then bent over to whisper in Starsky’s ear. “I’d give my right arm to know what’s running through your head right now. If you’re not gonna nap until the doc gets here, how about working those vocal chords for me, huh? Can you try saying ‘Hutch’ for me?”
I will in a minute. This is more important. You need to know this stuff before that doctor gets in here and gives me some kind of night-night medicine. So after that dream, I asked myself why I couldn’t get that hard for you before under my own power, so to speak. Why’d it take you goin’ down on me with that hot, pretty mouth of yours to push my Up button? Am I gay, straight, bi, I asked myself? And you know what? If I’d slowed down enough over the last year to ask all these questions somewhere quiet where I could really hear myself think, I would’ve saved us a gut load of grief.
“Hey, Starsky, where’d the smile go? Are you hurting worse, buddy? Shh, don’t try to talk then. Rest, like the good nurse said. I know it has to be scary, being this disoriented, but you just licked three-quarters of the battle, Starsk, trust me. There, easy, I’m here. Right here and not going anywhere.” Hutch stroked Starsky’s hair, fluttered fingertips over his forehead.
Battle? What battle? I’ll worry about battles later. I’m such a dumbass, Hutch. I think deep inside I was trying so hard to be a hundred percent straight I got into one hell of a mental block. Took your mouth on me or a crisis to snap me out of it. Really, that guy at The Wildewood. Eric? He gave me the way out when he told me straight guys could get it up for a good blowjob. I took what he said to heart. My mind could handle me getting hard for you that way, ’cause it didn’t mean I wasn’t straight. And once I was hard, I could give you what you wanted, except the one thing my screwed-up subconscious said no guy should take from a man. I’m gonna give you that, Hutch, you wait and see. And it’ll be ’cause I wanna give it, I want that with you.
Gay, straight, bi? What’s it matter, I figure. Maybe Eric was right, I’ve got close to half a pound of cock lust with the right guy, and you’re my Mr. Right, Hutch. Maybe since I have a Mr. Right at all, I’m gay, but I never let myself face it or grow into it. All the negativity I heard about homosexuality from certain family members did a number on me through the years. Or maybe I really am straight, but I’ve got so much love in my heart for you that I’m one of the few people who can completely overcome their natural orientation. Who knows? And you know what, I’m gonna stop trying to figure it out. I was so caught up in nailing down my orientation with some proof or evidence, like the damned cop I am, my poor hormones didn’t stand a chance doing things the natural way with you. From now on, I don’t give a shit about classifications. I’m gonna be who I want to be. We’re doing that great big rewind here I was telling you about on the stakeout that day, Hutch. Can’t get any closer to going back to when I was born and starting over than this, I guess. I have no doubts I’m in love with you, Hutch, and if it took a coma to quiet my brain down and let me figure that out, it’s worth it. It’s all worth it!
Starsky wanted to touch Hutch’s fingers, squeeze them. He wanted Hutch to take his hand. He tried to talk his fingers into moving to get Hutch’s attention. Hutch’s eyes missed nothing. His smile brightened, and he rubbed Starsky’s fingers where they wriggled on the bed. “Starsk, you’re moving your hand. Trying real hard to come all the way out of this, aren’t you? That’s my partner.” Hutch gently lifted Starsky’s hand just a fraction off the bed and folded it in his own.
Ah, man, Hutch, I love you so damned much. I need my very own dunce cap. I kept telling myself I wasn’t feeling the right kind of love for you ’cause it didn’t feel like what I was used to when I was in love. Again, I was looking for some kind of proof instead of counting on what I felt. I kept trying to compare what I felt for you to what I felt when I was ‘in love’ with women. Problem is, I’m a shit-for-brains detective, ’cause I got it backward. What I felt for you, Hutch, it wasn’t different ’cause it was less than what I felt for the girls; it was different ’cause it was out of the ballpark more than what I felt for the girls. You wanna know how long I’ve been in love with you, Hutch? Huh? Honest to God truth based on the weird shit that happens to my body when I’m first waking up to having the love bug? You wouldn’t believe it! I dreamed about that, too. It was in the Academy, babe. I fell for you all the way back then, but I didn’t know what was happening to me, and by the time I felt a lesser version of that the first time with a woman, I was so busy trying to be straight that I couldn’t remember getting that way for you. Maybe it’ll happen again, I’d love you to see it. It’s a doozy!
Hutch had so much joy in his amazingly gentle eyes. “Starsky, the way you’re looking at me,” he whispered, “it’s something else!” He put a shushing finger to his own lip and looked over at the nurse, giving a little headshake at himself.
Something else is right! I’ve been head over heels for you since ’69, but I put all the feelings into our partnership, our friendship. Now, how big a dumbass am I? Doesn’t matter. What matters is how I feel about you. I got the rest of my life to make it up to you all these years I couldn’t get my head out of my ass. I know I broke your heart to pieces for a while there, Hutch. I know it. But I remember what Minnie said about the universal hand. She said for the folks that got their hearts broken, the universe gave ’em a little miracle here, a little windfall there. Maybe their fondest wish comes true. Well, Hutch, I’ll be your miracle, okay? Let me be your fondest wish, huh?
And I’m starting to feel kinda stupid here, because things are getting clearer, and I have a strong hunch you haven’t heard a word I’ve said this whole time. Huh. Guess people who come out of comas aren’t exactly rocket scientists after all. Oh, well, I’ll tell you all about it again later. Or maybe I’ll just spend the rest of my life showing you. Let me try something right now that’ll actually make you sit up and take notice. Starsky thought very hard about speech, trying to hear his voice outside his own head. His throat protested with scratchy, burning pain, but he opened his mouth, his lips actually moved, and he croaked, “H-u-utch.”
Hutch took notice. From the expression on his face, anybody would’ve thought he’d been handed half a million tax-free dollars and a whole farm of prize-winning thoroughbreds. Then Hutch looked away from him, and Starsky tried to follow his gaze. A stocky man with flat, light-brown hair came into the room. By his long lab coat and stethoscope, Starsky identified him as the doctor. The doctor had a smile for him that looked more real than the usual doctor-patient smile. But then the doc started shining a penlight in Starsky’s eyes, poking, prodding at him, and doing something with Starsky’s feet that made Hutch real happy for some reason. So, he had moved his foot when something sharp scraped against its sole. What was the big deal in that? Next Starsky had the insult of a cold stethoscope pressed to his already freezing chest, and he decided he didn’t like the doctor as much. Damn that thing was cold!
The doctor smiled at him again. “Detective, can you speak? If you can’t, blink once for me.”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Do you know your name?”
“David…Stars…ky.”
“All right. How old are you?”
“Thir–ty–four.”
“Do you know the month and year?”
“Last…I remember…it was May…1979.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“Which hospital?”
Starsky shook his head weakly on his pillow. “That’s all right,” the doctor answered with another smile. “I didn’t expect you to know the answer to that one. You’re in County Hospital, Detective. You suffered multiple gunshot wounds in an attack in the police department garage.”
Starsky tried frantically to look Hutch over for any sign of injury other than his bandaged wrist. Hutch stroked his hair again. “I’m fine, Starsk. Rest easy.”
“We’re taking good care of you, Detective,” the doctor continued. “You’ve been comatose, but it looks like you’re going to be fully back with us very soon. Your vitals are stable, certainly considering your circumstances. I’ll be checking in on you again shortly, and when you’re fully awake, we can talk about your surgical findings. I will say that you’re a very, very lucky young man, and you’re in good hands with your partner here. He takes his medical power of attorney and his involvement in your care quite seriously.” With a smile for Hutch, the doctor patted Starsky’s shoulder and turned to the door. “Nurse, if you’ll give me a moment out here in the hall?” The nurse jumped up from her chair where she was making notes in a chart, and followed him out of the room.
Hutch took Starsky’s hand in his. His alarmed frown returned. “Starsky, your palm is sweating!” He put his other hand to Starsky’s forehead. “You’re flushed, hot to the touch.” Looking more worried, he brought the blankets up to Starsky’s chest. “You’re chilled, but your forehead’s hot. I’m getting that doctor back in here!”
“Hu-ut-ch,” Starsky rasped. “No. It’s…fine…don’t…worry.”
“Starsky, you could have a fever, the beginnings of infection.”
“No…none’a that…trust me.”
“Then what, Starsky? If you know something, you need to tell me, and I need to tell the doctor!”
“I know…what it means. Harmless.”
“What does it mean, Starsk? I can’t help but be worried here. You’ve been through so much!”
Starsky summoned up every ounce of his rediscovered feeling for Hutch and gave him the giddiest grin he could muster right out of a coma. He wanted to reach for Hutch, but his arms weren’t up to moving off the bed. He made sure Hutch was looking him right in the eyes. “Means I’m…in love.”
Hutch’s eyes widened, he clutched at his chest, and then he gave a little choked sound and bent over, burying his face in the pillow beside Starsky’s cheek. He put his hand to Starsky’s opposite cheek and that warm hand trembled against Starsky’s skin. Hutch’s upper body shook. Starsky felt warm dampness spread on the pillow and reach his other cheek.
~*~*~
“Cap? The doc’s here for the paramedic trainee certification meeting.”
Johnny looked up from his meeting notes and nodded at his senior paramedic. “Send him in. Tell the guys to get the kitchen ready for us.” He rose to greet the supervising physician from Harbor General, but the man who filled the doorway with his inspiring presence skyrocketed Johnny’s pulse. “Kel!” He then eyed the open doorway and cleared his throat. “Dr. Brackett.”
Kel’s seductive smile had no place in an LA County fire station. Shutting the door and pointedly turning the lock, he approached the desk and drew a fingertip along its front edge. “We can be on a first name basis here, Johnny. It seems LA County has us down as fierce rivals. I’m here because Liam at Harbor General called and asked me to take over this meeting for him. They’re snowed under, and he can’t spare the time. He told me he’d owe me a tremendous favor, asking me to make nice with the captain trying to woo Dixie away from me.”
Johnny groaned. “You mean it’s all over Harbor General now?”
“The paramedic teams running out of Harbor General are just as fond of gossip as the Rampart squads, Johnny. I played along, grumbled about heavy patient load at Rampart, and then gave in graciously and said I’m always willing to help out for the good of the paramedic program.” Kel eased around the desk. “I’d hoped for a plausible reason to visit my lover in his very own station.” He ran his hands up Johnny’s navy jacket sleeves. “May I kiss you in the privacy of your office?”
Afraid he would squeak like a mouse if he tried to talk, Johnny laughed first. “You kidding? Dr. Kelly Brackett can go in any fire station in LA County and do what he damn well pleases, except maybe 98’s. They got an old-school captain that doesn’t hold with the paramedic program–” He went quiet under the persuasion of warm lips urging his mouth open wide. Kel held him lightly around the waist and Johnny encircled those broad shoulders, bracing for the dizziness that accompanied Kel’s deep kisses. This one went on way too long for the time or place, but Johnny couldn’t break it. Lightheaded from the rush of having Kel in his mouth, he finally had to pull free and lean into their tighter embrace. “You’re an incredible kisser.”
Kel brushed a kiss over his forehead. “I’m kissing you, Johnny, that’s the incredible part.”
Johnny smiled and straightened Kel’s mauve-and-navy tie, drawing his fingers down the faded rose dress shirt in a slow caress. Remembering that he had made it his mission to heal the great surgeon’s tiny cut in self esteem, he took Kel’s hand and pressed the warm palm against his hardened crotch. “Feel how hard I get for you?”
Kel thumbed the hardness under his hand. “Ah, what I’d like for you to do with this.”
God, what Kel’s thumb could do to him! Johnny had to lean against him again. “Have a little mercy here, hon? We have a meeting in the kitchen with my paramedics and trainee, the battalion chief is due any minute, and you’re trying to make me come in my pants? I think this is what they call ‘playing with fire,’ even in a locked office.”
“You’re absolutely right. And who would know that better than a fire captain?” Kel backed away, smiling, and treated Johnny to a view of a significant erection in his gray slacks. “There’s something about you that makes me wish I could throw discretion to the wind. It’s a damned good thing your station doesn’t run a squad out of Rampart. My professionalism is shot when it comes to you.”
Johnny couldn’t hold back a glance at his desk drawer where his transfer request forms were awaiting signature to file with LA County. Station 86 now ran a paramedic squad out of Rampart. As captain, he would have little to do with that part of 86’s daily workings, but he didn’t want to broach the subject with Kel yet. If approved, the transfer wouldn’t go into effect until December, and he and Kel might be a thing of the past by then. As much as he wanted their new relationship to last, his burn scars had yet to heal. He couldn’t fault Kel for insecurity when he had his own, and his couldn’t be repaired with compliments. He lacked the courage to broach that with Kel either. It was one thing for a man to need reassurance that he was physically attractive. It was another to need a promise that heartbreak wasn’t around the corner. If Ken Hutchinson had taught him anything, it was to hedge his bets.
“Johnny?”
He jumped slightly, and he felt Kel’s hands tighten on his hips. Needing a diversion, he stayed on the same train of thought. “I got a call this morning from Hutch. Starsky came out of the coma.”
Kel’s face showed the same relief he did when a patient under his care took a definite turn for the better. “Thank goodness, but it’ll be a long, hard, bitter fight for him. I hope they’re prepared for that.”
“There’s not a damned thing those two can’t do together. I’m glad we’re finally finding out what we can do together.”
Kel nodded at the doorway. “Yes, but if we want to go out there in presentable condition, we better open that door and go over your meeting notes like good closet dwellers.” Kel kissed his cheek, stole one more taste of his mouth, and then gave him a chance to take his seat behind the desk. When Kel opened the door, a conversation in the engine bay filtered into Johnny’s office.
“What’re you so worried about?” That was Johnny’s senior paramedic.
“I told you,” said the paramedic trainee. “I was glad to do my paramedic training program at Harbor General and come to Station 38 for field training, because I wouldn’t have to worry about Brackett. Now I find out, he’s gonna be at my certification meeting?”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. Cap thinks you’re ready, and word has it Cap was always Brackett’s favorite paramedic.”
Back at the desk, propped against its corner, Brackett raised an eyebrow at Johnny, who covered his face with his hand and went hot all over. “I swear, I didn’t–I mean, I never… He didn’t get that from me, okay?”
Brackett lifted the hand from Johnny’s eyes and brought it down to rest on the binder of meeting notes. “I’m sure he didn’t, but I have to admit…it’s true. Just don’t tell Roy that.”
~*~*~
The door opened, and Starsky looked up from his magazine. He gave thanks for loose pajama bottoms and their kindness to sudden erections brought on by a man in tight jeans and a golden shirt of some exotic material that clung to every curve of musculature without making an obscene statement. Add that to the slide of longish golden silk around the shirt’s raised collar, a sexy smile under that groomed mustache, and Starsky was a lost man the instant Hutch entered the room. Just days after his medical regimen decreased by several pain meds, he learned he had no problem getting hard for his partner. His healing body didn’t allow them to really celebrate his horniness, but Hutch got happier with each proof that he turned Starsky on.
Hutch shut the door and stopped halfway to the recliner. Eying Starsky’s lap where the blanket bunched higher over his groin, Hutch gave a soft, happy laugh and walked over to peek under the blanket. “Is that a hot water bottle you got under there, Starsk, or you happy to see me?”
“Haven’t had therapy yet, don’t need the hot water bottle, and where you been all morning?” Starsky grumped, frustrated more by his hard-on than by Hutch.
“I could help you out with that,” Hutch offered in a sultry voice, angling for a kiss.
Starsky wanted the kiss to go on forever, but Hutch’s smile on the other side of it made him feel just as good. “Yeah, you’re a real helpful kinda guy.”
Hutch kissed him again. “Mmm. Ever since you found your voice and talked a blue streak on all the stuff that was going through your head in and out of the coma, I’ve discovered a new pastime.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“Watching your eyes go all smokey with desire.”
“They doin’ it right now?”
“Oh, yes, and if you let me help you with that hard-on of yours, they’ll do it some more.”
Kissing and furtive handjobs were the limit of their bravery in the extended care hospital. Starsky’s room might look more like an efficiency apartment, complete with a pull-out sofa bed for Hutch, but the hospital bed reminded Starsky this was just one step down from County Hospital’s Med/Surg unit, and the medical staff who wandered in and out, along with his in-patient physical therapist, left no doubt. Huggy teased Starsky that a double cheeseburger was the first thing the bored patient wanted to get his mouth on when he graduated from the step-down facility, but Starsky knew better. He wanted his mouth on Hutch’s cock, and he doubted they’d make it back to his apartment before he got his wish.
Although not usually one to turn down a Hutchinson Special jerk-off, Starsky knew orgasm would leave him too wiped for his therapy session, and he didn’t want the therapist urging pain meds on him again. He enjoyed feeling his dick stiffen for Hutch. “We’ll save my energy for tonight. Just tell me what’s going on out in the real world.”
After one more kiss, Hutch stretched out on Starsky’s bed, arms crossed behind his head on the pillow and ankles crossed on the lump of blankets at the foot of the bed. “I told you when I left this morning I had to meet with the real estate agent. I’ve had an offer for Venice Place. I won’t make a lot out of it, but every little bit helps.” Hutch’s contented smile turned down into a thoughtful frown. “Never did get to expand the greenhouse.”
“Hutch, I know you hate selling the apartment. You loved that place.”
Hutch gave him a heated look. “I love you. I liked Venice Place.”
“What else did you do?”
“Stopped by Metro. Had to look into a few administrative things.”
Ah. Hutch’s sixty-day leave of absence ended on July 23rd, just three days away. They hadn’t alluded to the chunk of change missing from their joint account that had enabled Hutch to be at Starsky’s side throughout the County Hospital stay and the extended care admission. But Starsky had watched Hutch’s euphoria fade a little each day that the leave of absence deadline neared. Hutch had gone from avenging warrior–his avenging crusade fueled not just by Starsky’s shooting but the computer print-out discovery that Gunther Enterprises held private holdings near a certain small town in Colorado–to fierce medical advocate, to proud owner of an invisible pet elephant named The Future. Hutch tiptoed around his pet, never facing it head on, and Starsky figured it was high time to send the elephant in the room packing.
He stretched his arms overhead, proud of his ability to do so, and yawned. “I think–” Starsky grunted and shook his head, trying to shake his hair into neatness that didn’t require a barber. “I think today’s a good day to be The Day.”
“The day for what?”
“The first day I’m no longer an underpaid, overworked–formerly overworked–street cop.”
Hutch bolted upright in the bed. “Starsk…are you saying–” He pinched his chin between two fingers and seemed to be listening with sufficient intent to hear Starsky’s heartbeat four feet away. “Are you saying you’re not even going to try for reinstatement down the line?”
“Nope. I’m done. I’ve thought about the ways our lives might’ve been different if we’d quit all those other times we talked about it or thought about it. After the Salinas case. After Kate left. After we lost Marianne. We didn’t really get a chance to see how our lives could turn out off the Force after Lionel. I think it’s time we give it a try. So unless you’re set on polishing that badge a while longer, I’d really like that old bastard in San Francisco to be your last arrest.”
Hutch swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat on the bedside, gripping the edge with both hands. “You know what you’ve just done, you incredible man? You’ve just single-handedly killed my atheism. There is a God and he loves me.” Hutch sprang off the bed and flew at Starsky, gentling his landing embrace to suit Starsky’s recovery status, but their kiss taxed both men’s respiration and worked their jaws. Starsky registered a dull noise in the background, but kissing Hutch was too much fun to give in to distraction.
“Damn if the old broad wasn’t right!”
Hutch jerked out of the kiss and tripped, going down on his rump before Starsky could grab for him. The dull noise was apparently a knock on the door; a tall woman with short, dark curly hair stood in the open doorway. The police habit of tallying details about each new acquaintance kicked in, and Starsky placed her in her fifties. She wore a black leather jacket over a white cotton shirt, and her jeans had a tailored fit but were worn thin over the knees and at the cuffs over her top-of-the-line black leather boots. Something about her wasn’t new, though, and Starsky looked closer while Hutch reclaimed his footing and overcame acute embarrassment.
“Aunt Ruth!” Starsky coughed and patted his chest where his right lung throbbed.
The woman grinned at him, and Starsky’s heart hurt along with his lung, because he remembered that same grin on Pop’s face. “David, you’re a sight for jet-lagged eyes. God, it’s been years!”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen you since, what, Chanukah ’67?” Starsky didn’t concentrate on the miracle that his aunt had witnessed his male-male kiss and wasn’t halfway back down the corridor to the down elevator. He was too stunned by her very presence in his room. “Hutch, this is Ruth Starsky, Pop’s younger sister. Aunt Ruth, this is my partner, Ken Hutchinson.”
Ruth shook Hutch’s hand and looked him over without apologizing for the blatant sizing up. “Always knew if it was true, David would have bull’s eye taste in men. ‘Course, you were smart to snag a Starsky. We age well, we Starsky’s. Look at me.”
“I can see that. When you’re through being a spring chicken, you’ll be a very handsome hen.”
Ruth laughed out loud and flung her arm around Hutch, squeezing his side. “I like this one, David. I really do. And I’m picky as all hell.” Hutch brought over the room’s other visitor chair and used it to form a semi-circle with Starsky’s recliner and the bed, where he took up his post on its edge. Ruth thanked him with a nod.
Starsky was still astonished by her resemblance to what he’d imagined Pop would look like in his fifties. Her face had feminine touches, but the strong features and sharp blue eyes were unmistakable. “Hutch, Aunt Ruth is a celebrity in our family. She played in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League during World War Two. Pop said she was incredible.”
Hutch looked to Ruth for confirmation, and she smiled. “Had to go live in Milwaukee during the season to play. I was one of the Milwaukee Chicks. Can you imagine me in one of those short skirts we had to play in? And we were required by the league to wear lipstick!” She guffawed.
“What’re you–I can’t believe you’re here,” Starsky said.
“I flew into New York for one of my once-every-decade visits home, and stopped in to see Rebekah. For once she let me in without a ten-minute lecture on my old bachelor lady status, and started right in wailing over her injured boy close to death, but when I pointed out that she wasn’t wailing her way to the ticket counter at Trans-World for a flight out here, she shut up and I saw her true colors again.” Ruth shook her head. “Sorry, David; she’s your ma. I shouldn’t be saying–”
“You say what you like,” Starsky said. “Someone once told me a mother knows her child. Well, a son knows his mother. Even if it takes him a while to admit it to himself.”
“I wish I could tell you she’s likely to change, but–ah, well. Mike loved you more’n his own life, though. He loved Nick, too, but I think Mike tried to love you doubly hard to make up for what you didn’t get from Rebekah. Back to why I’m here. Once I heard all the details, I made Rebekah tell me where you were and hopped on the next flight out. Hell, you’re family. She ought to have herself out here, wailing and all, but if she’s not, then I damn well intend to be!”
Starsky glanced at Hutch. “Aunt Ruth, what you saw–”
She waved him into silence with a gently scolding look that took Starsky’s breath away it was so reminiscent of Pop. “Hush, hush. I didn’t flag down a transcontinental flight like a taxi to come out here and make noise about who you sleep with. ‘Sides, Rebekah had me prepared for it so it’s not even a shock. One of the things she was wailing about was her certainty that you were shacking up with your partner here. I wanted to tell her it’d be hard for a man with your injuries to shack up with anybody just yet, but she doesn’t listen to logic when she gets like that.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Ruth,” Hutch said in his careful voice, “because I can tell already you and I’ll be friends, but why haven’t you been around more over the years?”
Ruth turned a sad smile on Hutch. “Point well taken. I’ve been in Japan since late ’68. My company is headquartered there. I left Brooklyn for good in the mid-fifties, worked my way up from secretarial school to where I am now, an executive officer in a global corporation. I won’t bore you with what my corporation does. It’s legal and stale as ten-day-old bread.” Ruth reached over and took Starsky’s hand in her strong grip. “I’m sorry, David. I should’ve been out here to see you long before now. But I’ve kept up with your career. I’ve always been prouder than twins of your accomplishments.”
Starsky had to clear his throat several times. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. “Well, you’re here now,” Hutch said. “That’s the important thing.” Starsky nodded his agreement with that.
Ruth winked at him. “The important thing is, what’re we gonna do about you boys’ future?”
“Come again,” Starsky said.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say you’re out of the woods and actually thinking about the future, right? Here’s the thing, David. I’m a wealthy woman, and I’ll be raking in a nice salary for a good while yet. I don’t have children. Just a cat ornery’er than old Rhubarb. I’ve long known you’d be one of my primary beneficiaries. I also know wills are ridiculous things. So often, people in your life need help long before you kick that proverbial bucket. To my way of thinking, it’d be smarter to dole out your inheritance now rather than wait the twenty or thirty years until I’m worm-bait for you to benefit.”
“Aunt Ruth, I couldn’t–”
“Couldn’t what? Take my money? You’re a damned fool then. If you tell me you’re thinking about re-joining that police force, I’ll put a boot hole in you–” she glanced at the approximate location of Starsky’s ass under his blanket. “Somewhere Hutch wouldn’t appreciate another hole.”
Hutch was smothering laughter against his fist. Flushing red hot, Starsky glared at him. “We’ve already decided not to go back. We haven’t made definite second career plans, but–”
“All right then. You’ll want a second career. I know you’ll be getting some kind of disability benefit from the LAPD, but that’s not enough to finance a good, quality life.”
“I’ve put my apartment up for sale, and I got an offer this morning,” Hutch said. “We have a joint savings account we’ve been dipping into for living expenses.”
Starsky stared at Hutch, impressed by Ruth’s forceful personality and her obvious hypnotism over his partner, who normally would’ve balked like hell at sharing personal financial details with someone he barely knew. Ruth nodded her approval. “That’s a start. You still need a supplement. Something solid and dependable.” She looked at Starsky. “So, I’m giving you a job. Your job is to find a dream and make it reality. Your salary will be roughly three-thousand per month before taxes. Your job description? You keep me posted on your progress toward that dream. I won’t tell you how to use the money. I won’t put creative restrictions on you. I just want a letter, phone call, something from you every month telling me what’s going on in your new life.”
Hutch closed his gaping mouth and shot Starsky a you’re-on-your-own-here look. At least the shock had vanquished the last of the flagging interest in Starsky’s cock and he didn’t have to sit there debating his financial independence with a hard-on. “Aunt Ruth, you don’t have to pay me to keep in touch with you. I thought I was down to looking outside of blood relatives for any family. Having you back in my life means the world to me, and you don’t have to give me money to make up for not being around before now. Was that what those holiday checks were for, huh? Especially the one for Yom Kippur? Atoning for not bein’ around in person?”
“Damn it, why’d you have to be a detective!” Ruth closed her mouth tight, and her jaw trembled.
Hutch smiled. “Ruth, you’re my partner’s blood relative, all right. That’s exactly how Starsky looks when he’s trying hard not to cry. Go ahead.”
“I will not!” she snapped. Then she smiled. “Okay, I might let a few drops fall when I’m out of here and back in the hotel. I’m glad you want me around, David, but I’m not paying you for the privilege. I know what it means to live a dream. I played professional ball as a woman. I earn my own keep now and set my own rules. I know you lived a dream when you became a cop like Mike, but that dream’s over, and a man like you deserves more than one dream in life. I wanna make that possible. Just do me one favor. It’s not a requirement, just a request for consideration. Give some thought to moving out of LA, would you? This smog has gotta be hell on your healing lung. You need fresh country air.”
“All right, you’ve twisted my arm.” Starsky had to ask one question, though. He wasn’t his brother’s keeper, but… “Aunt Ruth, what about Nick? He’s family, too.”
Ruth shot him a venomous glare that shrank Starsky back in the recliner. “Nick doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He only knows self advancement, and he’ll screw, or screw over, anybody to get where he wants to go. If he thought he could net a fast buck or make a good ‘connection’ by shtupping a porcupine, he’d roll on an asbestos condom and get right to work!”
Hutch left the bed in a rush and stood with his back to the Starskys across the room. Starsky knew he was struggling with riotous laughter he didn’t think appropriate under the circumstances.
“But you were asking if I intend to consider him in my will? I don’t know. I sure as hell won’t be doling out money to him now. Organized crime in New York is flourishing without my hard-earned money helping it out. I cut off his holiday checks at the first hint I got of his mob leanings. I’m sorry; I know you want to believe he’ll reform, but from what I heard in just the short while I was there this go round, he’s climbing that ladder as fast as he can. You can’t save him, David. Oh, he told me what you did for him while he was out here. In that superficial way of his, he thinks you’re a hero. But then he was out the door to meet up with a guy I know for a fact is a family man of the wrong kind of family.”
“Damn. Should’ve known Ma was feeding me a line about him cleaning up his act. She never could see anything wrong with his ‘act’ in the first place!” Hutch walked back over to sit on the arm of the recliner, weaving his arm around to pull Starsky against his side. Starsky flexed his hand on Hutch’s knee. “If Pop had lived….”
Ruth’s strong jaw line quavered again. “Mike and I were very close, and I can tell you, he had a heart three times the size of most people’s, but I don’t know that he could’ve countered Rebekah’s ruination of Nick with her unbalanced indulgence of the boy’s every whim. I never did understand how Mike could fall in love with a woman like Rebekah, but he saw something in her. He loved her; that much I do know.”
Starsky rubbed circles on Hutch’s knee and smiled up at him, but another knock on the door kept him from voicing profound commentary on the nature of love. “I’ll get it,” Hutch said, already up and heading for the door. “That’s got to be Dobey. No one knocks like the captain.” He opened the door and swept his arm in an arc of welcome. “Come in, Captain.”
Dobey’s gaze lighted on Ruth, and he hesitated in the doorway. “I came by to speak to you and Starsky, Hutchinson, but maybe this isn’t a good time.”
“Official business, Captain?”
“Not–well, not exactly, no.”
“Come on in then and join the party,” Starsky urged. “My Aunt Ruth is visiting. More the merrier, right, Aunt Ruth? This is our superior officer, Captain Dobey.”
Hutch returned to his seat on the arm of Starsky’s chair. Fidgeting with his pea-green tie, Dobey joined them over by the room’s tinted glass window. He took Ruth’s offered hand in greeting, his tone of voice the one he used with an “important visitor,” but the charming smile that generally accompanied that tone was conspicuously absent. “I definitely see the resemblance,” he told Ruth.
“Nobody can mistake me for anything but a Starsky. We were discussing the boys’ future.”
If anything, Dobey got more uncomfortable at that announcement. He shifted in his seat on the edge of the bed. “Well, Ms. Starsky, you have a fine nephew, and his partner isn’t too shabby either.”
That sounded more like Dobey, and Hutch gave him the expected look of mild exasperation. “Thanks a lot, Captain, that’s real big of you.”
“Don’t mention it, Hutchinson.” Dobey slapped him on the back, clearly playing to Ruth’s audience. Hutch eyed Starsky, who twitched his shoulders in a shrug only Hutch would detect.
They maintained small talk for a few minutes, but Dobey abruptly left, making excuses about being late for lunch with Edith and having said nothing of the reason for his visit. With an enthusiastic hug for her nephew and his lover, Aunt Ruth was the next to go. “I’m pooped,” she told them in farewell. “Jetting from Japan to New York a couple days ago and then out here doesn’t go down easy on a woman my age. I don’t even know what time zone I’m in. Give me a good day and night’s rest at the hotel, and I’ll be back in to see you tomorrow perkier than ever.”
Alone with Hutch again, Starsky stared at the spot on the edge of the bed where the indentation of Dobey’s weight still showed on the mattress. “Dobey was way off-kilter.”
“I noticed.”
“You think it’s something to do with the case against Gunther? Whatever it was, he obviously felt like he couldn’t talk about it in front of Aunt Ruth.”
Hutch squeezed his shoulders in an impromptu massage. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out if I have to track him down at home. Right now I want–”
“What?”
“You.” Hutch lowered his head for a lengthy kiss. Again, Starsky thought he heard a muffled noise, but Hutch parted his lips and deepened the kiss, leaving Starsky unconcerned if the entire IA Division dropped in with a potted plant for him. An itch that only came with being stared at made him think twice, and he reluctantly pulled his lips away from Hutch’s talented mouth.
“I knocked,” Dobey said feebly from the doorway and then backed out and shut the door.
“Oh, God.” Hutch dashed off to chase down their soon-to-be former boss.
Starsky examined his feelings on the accidental discovery. He found much to his delight that he didn’t care one iota, except to hope Dobey hadn’t stumbled into a wall out there. Loving Hutch was the most beautiful thing in his life, and he was ready for a world where he could shout that from every mountain. Hutch brought a very subdued Captain Dobey back with him. Behind closed doors with them again, Dobey showed his discomfort in his tie adjusting, belt cinching, throat clearing and pacing. Starsky sighed. “Cap’n, please sit down. We’re all adults here.”
Dobey took the chair Ruth had vacated. “I saw your aunt get into her rental car out front and figured I should come back in and do what I needed to do while I still had the nerve. I couldn’t discuss this in front of her. Wouldn’t have been right. Very nice woman, your aunt.”
“Yes, she is,” Starsky said, proud of his new-found family.
Shifting his bulk around in the torturously small square chair, Dobey focused on the thin air somewhere to the right of Starsky and Hutch. “I came by here earlier to–” he frowned at his folded hands over his middle. “I hate to do this today, especially after that nice visit you had with your aunt, but I know Hutch’s leave of absence ends Monday, and–”
“And what, Captain?” Hutch prompted from his seat on Starsky’s chair arm.
“I came to ask you two not to re-join the police force,” Dobey said.
Starsky felt a pang in his chest and looked at Hutch, who also wore a stricken expression. “How long have you known?” Starsky asked, trying not to sound cut by Dobey’s words.
“I started putting two and two together when Hutchinson camped out in your bed during that little late-night hospital picnic we had over at County. You need to understand. I have nothing against homosexuals on the police force. I like to think I’m changing with the times, and Lord knows, John Blaine was a fine officer. But I can’t in good conscience send you back out there as partners like this. It’s just too damned dangerous! I’d be saying the same thing if you were a man and woman thinking about tying the knot and wanting to keep your work partnership at the same time. You just don’t know the danger in that kind of conflict of interest in a job like ours. There are valid reasons for the rules against fraternization in partnerships. Rules that were born out of preventable tragedies. I can’t watch the two of you become another statistic!”
“Cap’n, does this have something to do with what I said to you after Lionel Rigger died? About not knowing how to protect and serve when I only want to protect Hutch?”
Dobey still didn’t quite meet Starsky’s eyes. “I remember that, yes, and think about it, Starsky. If you were already feeling that way about each other then, how would you manage out there in light of this new development in your relationship?”
“Captain,” Hutch said in the softest voice he used with anyone but Starsky. “Are you saying you believe we were never involved romantically before Starsky was…was injured this time?”
Dobey crisscrossed his arms in his don’t-want-to-hear it demand. “If you were, I didn’t know about it! Now, I know, and I’d never sleep at night if I put you out there together in that kind of danger, but I can’t bear sending you out there partnered up with other people!”
Starsky and Hutch exchanged a guilty look. If Dobey only knew he’d sent them out like that for around eight months! Well, what the captain didn’t know couldn’t keep him awake at night.
“You know I was brought up with pretty strong doctrine that what you two are up to is all wrong in the eyes of God and nature. When you live as long as I do, you start to question doctrines of all kinds. Life doesn’t obey doctrine. No one knows that better than a police captain. What you do in your personal life is nothing for me to judge. I can be your friend. I can’t be your boss. I’m sorry.”
“Captain,” Hutch said gently. “This had you torn up, didn’t it?”
“Yes, Hutch. Feels like I’m betraying you, after what you’ve been through, but that’s just the point. This was a damned close call for both of you. Too damned close! I’ve got a lot of good years left in me, but in some ways, I’m getting to be an old man. This job ages a man before his time. I’m too old to watch my best and brightest detectives end their careers in tragedy, especially one I could prevent. The Force needs men like you. I’d give anything to have you back out there doing what you boys did best. But I can’t carry the burden of cost anymore. I let myself get too close. You’re family to me now, not just the team I throw all the hard stuff at because I know you can handle it.”
“Cap’n, we already decided not to come back.” Through his pajama top, Starsky patted the scar on his left chest below his shoulder. “This bad boy right here left me with permanent left arm weakness that physical therapy won’t bring all the way back to normal. No way would I go out there on the streets trying to protect Hutch with a weakened gun arm.”
“And I have no intention of being out there without him. I was ready for both of us to quit.”
Dobey’s face lightened. “I’m relieved. Do you understand, though, where I’m coming from?”
“If we’d planned on returning, it would’ve been a blow that you wouldn’t back us,” Starsky said, while Hutch nodded, “but, yeah, we get it. You’re in a tough position, and you were honest with us. Your friendship means more to us than keeping you as a boss.”
“You and Hutch will always have that, Starsky.” Dobey stood and held out his hand. He received two honest handshakes. “Edith and I’ll bring the kids by to see you over the weekend.”
Later that night, Starsky insisted on crawling into the pullout bed. Hutch fretted for a minute over the lack of spinal support, but Starsky shushed him with a few heavy kisses. He then had to lie quietly in Hutch’s arms and struggle through a bout of wheezing until his injured lung calmed down. “Crazy day, wasn’t it?” Hutch commented when Starsky had caught his breath and could respond.
“Yeah. Aunt Ruth is something else! Kinda like having Pop back instead of his sister. Hey, Hutch, d’you think she’s–”
“Does it matter if she is or isn’t?” Hutch asked with a chuckle.
“Nah. I just remember Pop thought Ruth was the sun, moon, and stars. Wondering if maybe that’s one reason he was so, I dunno, open-minded about some things, that’s all.”
“I think it might be one explanation. I think another might be that your father was one of those people referred to these days as ‘straight but not narrow.’ He didn’t let his heterosexuality blind him to the validity of other people’s differences. So, where are we headed?”
“Are you sayin’ I get to choose the next destination on our map?”
“Pretty much.”
“All righty. I must’ve had some subconscious notion our ship was comin’ in, because I made a phone call this morning on a whim, and I have great news. Pretty piece of farm land out near the San Gabriels I was interested in back when I thought my rich uncle had left me a packet–”
Hutch put a warm hand over Starsky’s mouth, caressing his cheek with the fingertips. “You went looking at land out in the country back then with us in mind?” Starsky playfully batted Hutch’s hand away and yawned, nodding. “Starsk, I’m ashamed at my blindness. All the time you were convinced you weren’t in love with me and told me you weren’t, I should’ve been able to see that for years your actions told a different story. Maybe not sexually, but every other way.”
Starsky had to risk another wheezing spell for a prolonged kiss after that. He gasped for breath, Hutch carefully stroking his back. Starsky inhaled deeply. “I called just out of curiosity to see if the guy’d sold his place yet. Turns out, he’s had several offers, but they’ve all fallen through for one reason or another. Soon as I can take a field trip from this hip little hangout, we need to swing by his place and see if you think you can make a horse farm out of it.”
“I love you for the suggestion, Starsk, but what will you do on a horse farm?”
“Hey, you heard Aunt Ruth. She wants me to have fresh air. I don’t think we need to cross Aunt Ruth. She could kick our asses.”
“I agree with you on that, but still–”
“I wanna work with that group of kids in our society known as ‘troubled youth.’ Y’know, kids who didn’t get a good start in life. Maybe kids who weren’t wanted. I know what that’s like, Hutch, and the damage it does years later. Probably some way I can start a kind of youth intervention program on the farm. Get at-risk kids out of the city to clean up their act somewhere safe.”
Hutch made a noise of approval and Starsky felt lips caressing his scalp. Shivers coursed his spine, blood rushing to his cock. “Starsk, don’t kick me for suggesting this, but if you plan to help kids work out their issues, you should talk to a professional about your own troubled childhood.”
“Aw, Hutch!”
“Hey, buddy, how can you help others if you haven’t sorted yourself all the way out?”
“Damn it, I hate when you’re right. Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go to a headshrinker and talk about Ma if you’ll go talk about your dad.”
“What?! Why should I talk to anyone about my father?”
“Hutch, the way you talk about your dad, the man was a cross between Hitler and the antichrist. I’m sure you’re not far off, but you got some pretty big issues with the man. Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean you don’t need to shake those issues.”
Hutch grumbled. “I can tell you what I’ll hear. I’ll hear a bunch of bullshit that I’m the classic case study of a gay male whose sexuality stems from a cold, distant father and a weak mother.”
“Hu-u-u-tch,” Starsky wheedled, rubbing the front of Hutch’s pajama bottoms.
Hutch gasped. “All right, all right, I’ll do it!”
“Umm…will you? Right now?”
“You’re talking about a different ‘do it’ now, aren’t you?”
“I’m talking about you putting your hand on my cock. I had a good PT appointment today; the night nurse has already made rounds. Please? I’m in bed with the hottest guy in California. I can’t sleep without a little help with this hard-on.”
“I’ll argue you down on the ‘hottest guy in California’ bit. Okay, just hold on a sec.” Hutch eased out from under Starsky’s weight and left the bed. He returned with a towel and motioned for Starsky to move over so the towel could go in the center of the bed. He then arranged a pillow to cradle Starsky’s side and helped him into position where he’d least likely get a cramp. Starsky struggled to shuck his pajama bottoms. His own bottoms pushed to his knees, Hutch lay down on his side facing Starsky, right up next to him, and held out his palm to lick. Grinning, Starsky made like Hutch’s hand was the best ice cream cone in the world. Hutch held Starsky’s cock in a loose fist that left room to line himself up against it. Gasping at the hot, hard dick in contact with his own, Starsky wanted to thrust against it with all his might, but Hutch gave him a stern headshake. “You let me do all the work, gorgeous guy. You just lie there and enjoy it. When you’re well, you can be a tiger in bed again, got it?”
“All right, just, move, Hutch, please!!”
Hutch thrust slowly at first, then harder and faster, stropping his cock against Starsky’s in the warm hold of his hand. Completely undone by the simple pleasure, Starsky smiled. “Bed’s squeaking.” The old sofa bed was squeaking. Hutch grunted at him. “Sexy kind of squeaking,” Starsky gasped. “Kind you hear and you know someone’s gettin’ lucky.”
“Starsk, oh, Starsk,” Hutch panted, working harder.
“Thinkin’ maybe the night nurse might hear it if she walks down the hall out there.”
“Starsky!”
“Wonderin’ if she’s the type to hurry on by or put her ear to the door and listen.”
Hutch had to bite down on a cry then, his movement frantic. “Ohoho, Starsk.”
“Talk to me, Hutch.”
“Your cock…and mine…meant to be together like this. Love how you were…so into…oh, man, oh, Starsk…so into kissing me today we got caught twice!”
“Hutch, Hutch… You make me so hard. Get hard just watching you walk in the room. Love it…when our balls touch. Hot, beautiful lover, oooooh, Hutch!” Starsky spasmed all too quickly, coming over Hutch’s hand and thrusting prick. Hutch murmured broken love words and climaxed before the last burst from Starsky’s cock.
~*~*~
“God, I needed that,” Johnny moaned, freshly down from the high induced by an inspired blowjob. He lay on his back trying to coordinate breathing and movement now that he’d returned to Earth. Kel sprawled against his side, nibbling his shoulder. Johnny hugged him close, sliding his hand along the fine hairs of Kel’s forearm. “Give me three seconds to recover and I’ll return the favor. Then a little later I’ll put my legs over your shoulders and we’ll see if we can capsize this water bed.”
Kel’s rich laughter stirred Johnny’s sated cock. “I love your grand strategy, but after the day I had at Rampart, I doubt I could get it up twice in one night.”
“What happened?” Johnny asked, instantly concerned. “When you walked in tonight, you were down on your knees for me before I could even say hello. Had to drag you in here so you could give me a blowjob in the comfort of our bed.”
“Some days are like that, Johnny, and I can’t carry on a decent conversation with you until I’ve had you first. Tonight’s one of those times. I’ll fill you in on the gritty daily life details after we’ve worn ourselves out in this bed. All day today when I thought about tonight I envisioned having you inside me, so why don’t I just lie here and wait not so patiently through your recovery time?”
Johnny toyed with Kel’s hair, enjoying its tendency to snag on his fingers. “You know what they say about gay firemen.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re always ready, and we know our way around poles.”
Kel smacked him on the side. “Did you just make that up, you irreverent hose jockey?”
“Maybe, and you don’t have to just lie there. While we’re waiting for Big John to spring back up, I’ll get you all stretched and slick. Would you, uh–” He twirled his fingers in a flip over motion.
“You want me on my back for you?” Something unreadable flickered in Kel’s eyes.
“Yeah, thought we might try it that way. I mean, I like topping you the other way, but–”
Kel surged forward and kissed him wetly, tenderly. “I thought you’d never ask. God knows, I love feeling you behind me, all that wiry strength of yours, but considering how you like it on your back, I’ve wondered why you didn’t want me that way when you’re on top.”
Johnny liked bottoming best when he could stare up at Kel and watch him come undone, but he hadn’t been able to shake a nagging fear that if he tried to take Kel face to face he’d find the same battle waging that he’d seen in lighter blue eyes once upon a time. With a new decade about to dawn, Johnny felt it was time to lay a few ghosts to rest. He tracked down the nearly empty tube of K-Y and set to work making sure this ride would be all pleasure. Kel brought his legs together and squeezed Johnny’s hips until he won eye contact. “You don’t have to tell me, Johnny; we all have our ghosts.”
His throat tight, Johnny crawled forward and answered with a kiss. “Scares the hell out of me when you read my mind like that,” he mock scolded.
Kel kissed him hard and held him harder. Johnny’s cock pulsed its demand for attention when Kel’s sturdy legs wrapped around him, ankles crossed over his lower back. Poised over his lover, Johnny sought reassurance that he belonged, that he had a right to possess Kel’s body this particular way. Under his scrutiny, Kel’s dick jumped, leaving a moist trail of pre-come. Johnny licked his lips and bent over to lap up the wetness, earning a joyous hiss from the man under him. He saw nothing but desire and welcome in his lover’s eyes. While the moment burned red-hot between them, Johnny took him hard and deep. Kel’s miracle-working hands stroked Johnny’s straining arms, his blue eyes going faraway and hazy. Johnny groaned his pleasure and gratitude again, angling his thrust still deeper, enjoying the sway the water bed added to their play. Kel’s flushed face shone beautifully with the sweat of lovemaking, his sensual mouth moving in silent screams of pleasure. Sometimes Johnny could make him scream out loud. He had a feeling he might this time. Harsh noises trapped in his throat, Johnny lunged deeper and tried to move his arm, but Kel moved his head side to side on the pillow and held Johnny’s arm in place.
“Won’t need…to…jerk me off,” Kel gasped. “You’re…on…fire tonight.”
“Hit that little joy button, didn’t I?” Johnny grinned, tasting sweat when he opened his mouth.
“Hitting…it…every stroke, oh my God!” Kel let out a yell on a sudden fierce thrust and bucked under him. “Slow…down, J-Johnny…want it to last…come here…kiss me.”
Johnny stretched forward and shared his sweat with Kel in a kiss that only fanned the flames. Kel cupped his face, brushed his damp hair off his forehead, and thumbed Johnny’s eyebrows. Looking down into Kel’s open face, so expressive in sex, Johnny’s heart seized. He saw the emotion flaring in Kel’s eyes and knew. Tonight was the night he would hear the words he’d long needed and had begun to believe he’d never hear from a male lover. Suddenly he was scared to death. Freezing mid-thrust, heart pounding, he couldn’t hold off stampeding orgasm. He shuddered, trembling all over, and poured himself into Kel, his cry of satisfaction loud and long. “Sorry,” he groaned afterward, dipping his head to rest his brow against Kel’s chest. “Know you wanted it to last.”
“Shh,” Kel urged. Then he yelled again when Johnny crawled backward and sucked Kel’s cock into his mouth. Going all out, Johnny didn’t stop until he had Kel in whimpering incoherency. Sated, they lay in each other’s arms in the middle of the rumpled bed, but Johnny couldn’t relax in spite of his release. He rested against Kel’s broad chest and remembered the night in the coffee room at Rampart when he’d wondered if Kel enjoyed snuggling. A man utterly at home in his own masculinity, Kel did enjoy a good snuggle. He had no need for macho posturing bullshit, and Johnny loved that about him.
“Johnny? You’re fairly tense for a guy who just yelled the apartment’s roof off.”
Kel’s perception made Johnny tense anew. “Just thinking about tomorrow.”
“Ah. You had big New Year’s plans?”
Johnny chuckled. “Yeah, but my date has to work. See, I met this hot doctor–”
“And he loves you.”
Johnny hid behind the pretense that Kel was teasing him and laughed. Kel rolled him over in bed and stared down at him. “Johnny, that wasn’t a joke. I know I said it jokingly, but I do, I do love you.”
Emotion rising inside him, Johnny wanted to say the words in return. When he opened his mouth to tell Kel that one important thing, he turned cold all over with fear. Stupid, that’s what he was. He knew they had something solid. They argued like the hotheads they were, but they’d also made it through a major fight when Johnny got the transfer offer for the vacant captain’s position at Station 86.
In Johnny’s frozen silence of fear, Kel had slipped out of bed and to the bathroom. He returned with his clothes in hand. “Where’re you going?” Johnny asked, alarmed.
“Morning will come early,” Kel said with a yawn. “And I think you need some space.”
“Space? Why would I need space?”
“I don’t know, Johnny. I just professed my love for you, and you stared at me like I suggested a tetanus shot for a lark. My educated guess is that I need to back off and stop pressuring you.”
“You’re not pressuring me!” Johnny sat up and flung his pillow off the bed, maddened with frustration. He’d lost one lover because he’d said the words. Was he losing another because he couldn’t? “You gotta understand. Last time I said that, my whole world crashed down.”
“And I’m not Ken Hutchinson!” Brackett said loudly, visibly angered. “I’m not running from being in love with someone else. I’m in love with you. I’ve been on Hutchinson’s side of that coin, remember? I left Daniel when I realized I was using him to run from being in love with you.”
Daniel. The biomedical researcher Kel had broken up with around the same time Ken had ended things with Johnny. “But that was back–”
“Yes, Johnny. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I’d wanted you, cared about you, for years.”
“I haven’t had years, Kel.” Johnny pointed back at his chest. “Look, maybe what I feel for you was building up, coming on gradually over years. I think it probably was, but that’s not the same thing as knowing it for years. When–not if, when–I’m able to take that step again, it’ll be with you, okay?”
Kel’s face softened. “I appreciate that, Johnny. Thank you.”
Johnny couldn’t figure out why he was still getting dressed. “You’re still leaving, aren’t you?”
“I’m just going back to my place to sleep.”
“This is just great!” Johnny was angry now. “Is this the real reason you wanted me to keep my apartment here? So it’d be easier for you to run off to your place when something didn’t suit you? It’d be harder for you to run home if you were with me out in 86’s territory!”
“If you were way out there, I probably wouldn’t be with you the night before an early shift.”
Johnny narrowed his eyes and pointed. “Don’t be so…so logical! You know what I mean! It’s what you do, Kel. I don’t understand it. You never back down from a challenge at Rampart. But in your personal life? Whenever it doesn’t go your way, you cut and run.”
“You’d prefer I be illogical? Maybe I could argue properly if you’d hit me with facts instead of vague generalizations.”
“Facts? You want facts? Okay, here’re some facts for you. I’m no big shot surgeon, but give me some credit? We’ve been lovers for seven months, but I’ve known you ten years! You walk out of parties if someone miffs you. Hell, I remember hearing Dixie rake you over the coals for walking out on a dinner she’d fixed because she disagreed with you about something at the hospital. Maybe it wasn’t your orientation that ran her off.”
“Neither I nor my orientation ran Dixie off, and I’ll thank you to leave her out of our arguments!” Fully dressed, Kel held up both hands and turned to the bedroom doorway. “I’m not fighting with you over something this pointless, Johnny.”
“Damn it, Kel, don’t leave. Not tonight. This is exactly what I’m talking about. When you walked out over the Station 86 thing I didn’t see you for days!”
“You could do me the credit of leaving our past arguments in the past. You know why I was upset about that transfer. Station 86 transports serious cases to Rampart. If you have to double as paramedic on a call, you’ll likely be taking orders from me. I made it clear from the beginning I couldn’t handle both a professional and romantic relationship with you.”
“And I told you, 86’s developed a solid paramedic team after that big flood and bridge wash-out, and they don’t need one of their captains playing medic. I’ve been A-shift’s captain out there since the first of December, and have you heard my voice on the Biophone once? Heck, no. But you still act like you’re waiting for that shoe to drop so you can be right. You love being right!”
“I’m fairly adept at being right,” Kel said caustically. “But believe me, Johnny, my days are generally too busy to sit around waiting for the chance to say ‘I told you so.’ Have you ever thought there might be something else behind my concern about Station 86? If you’re injured in the field out there, you’ll be helicoptered in to Rampart, not Harbor General or Memorial like 38’s Code-I cases. And throughout the autumn Santa Ana fire season, you’ll be on the front lines around the clock on any brush assignments. You didn’t even think how I might feel about that, did you? You just saw a chance to get out of the city, back to your outdoorsy roots.”
“You’ve seen me come in Code-I before. Pulled me out of most of my scrapes.”
“I wasn’t sleeping with you back then!” Kel shouted from the doorway. “Now I couldn’t treat you even if I had the presence of mind to with you in that shape. Joe would understand, fine. But if Mike and I were on, I’d not only be out of my head worried about you, but I’d likely have to tell him exactly why I couldn’t give care as the senior physician. You know Mike Morton, Johnny. He’s a fine doctor, but he sees life as one giant rule book. If I’m outed to him, how long do you think it will take for Rampart’s supervisory board to hear about it? So forgive me if it took a few days on my own to decide if I could continue with you knowing those were the risks I’d take!” He stormed out of the room.
Once again, Johnny was left staring at his bedroom doorway. He turned his head just in time to see the numbers on his nightstand alarm clock change to 12:00. Great! Just great. First day of 1980 and Johnny’s New Year’s kiss was headed for the parking lot.
~*~*~
Brackett paused at the door and considered knocking, but Johnny had given him his own key and meant for him to use it. Letting himself in, he heard the faint whoosh of the shower. He went into the bedroom and waited on the wooden edge of the waterbed, fingering the documents he’d meant to share with Johnny before their minor explosion. The water stopped running, and muffled noises preceded the door opening. Johnny emerged nude, damp, and breathtaking. Brackett wanted to feel that warm, glistening nudity in his arms. Eyebrows quirked in a silent question, Johnny stood four feet away, letting him look his fill. Brackett frowned at his unstudied sensuality. “Could you put on a robe, please? This is not the time for distractions.”
“Thought you couldn’t get it up twice tonight?” Johnny didn’t smile but his eyes flashed approval, and he pulled a skimpy pair of boxers from his dresser drawer.
No distraction whatsoever, those short thin boxers that left all the right things to the imagination! Brackett steeled himself. “I think you make my body forget that I’m over forty.” Johnny propped his butt against the dresser, arms folded over his smooth chest, and waited. Brackett chose his words carefully. “I didn’t leave because you couldn’t say what I wanted to hear. I was angry that you haven’t seen how hard I’ve tried to adjust to your new station assignment, and I was concerned you were showing me that we aren’t ready for this.” Brackett held out the papers. “But I realized if I made that decision unilaterally, I’d be letting us both down.”
Johnny wrinkled his brow and his nose twitched in an expression of avid curiosity. Snatching the papers, he sat down on the bed at Brackett’s side. “What’s this? Looks like a topography map, acreage…what, is this a real estate mock up?”
“A delightful former patient of mine, whom I knew as Miss Luna, passed away two months ago at the ripe old age of eighty-three. For years she’d lived alone on her eleven-acre property. Her family wants to sell the place. I knew nothing of it until her grandson came to see me about Miss Luna’s passing and we got into a conversation about his plans for the future. I contacted the real estate agent who’s showing the property. It’s right in prime Station 86 territory. I know you’ve wanted to live out there full time.”
Johnny clutched the papers in eager hands, his first reaction irrepressible delight. But the young fire captain, with a year’s experience in leading other men, handed the papers back with noble refusal.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Brackett was proud of his self-sufficient lover. “For the purposes of discretion, I would have to make a solo offer, yes. But the home would be ours. We’d equally share the mortgage and expenses.” He squeezed Johnny’s knee, drawing his hand up to caress the tensed thigh. “I couldn’t live there with you openly, Johnny, and I couldn’t be that far from Rampart on a daily basis, but I’d do my best to arrange my days off with your off rotations and spend that time with you out there. No running back to my place when we cross swords.”
“Are you saying you’d pull a forty-hour work week?”
“I can’t promise that. I could shoot for fifty and you’re the first person I’ve ever offered that. You won’t be pulling a normal work week, either, during brush fire season.”
“No, that’s true.” The irrepressible delight returned to Johnny’s face, shining in his wide, toothy grin and sparkling eyes. “You’d have to keep your place in LA.”
“I’m putting my place on the market. I just need somewhere in the city to rest between hospital shifts. I thought I’d take over your lease. This place would suit me, and if anyone asked questions, I could say that you sublet it to me.”
“You let me split the rent here along with the mortgage on the country house, and we got a deal.”
Brackett turned Johnny’s chin in hand for a kiss. “That’s quite an offer from my frugal fireman.”
“Go ahead, call me a tightwad,” Johnny laughed. “I still catch heat from the Station 51 guys about taking a girl out for an eight-dollar dinner years ago. I’m not a tightwad, really. Growing up on a reservation where people had to scrape dirt to get by, I learned the value of a buck, that’s all.”
“I understand, and knowing that makes me respect your offer all the more. You have a deal: everything between us fifty-fifty, Johnny. Partners.”
Johnny pulled him into a full body kiss that knocked them back on to the bed. He rose up afterward and traced the outline of Brackett’s nose with his fingertip. “I wish I could introduce you that way to someone, put my arm around you and say ‘This is my partner, Kelly Brackett.’ Kel, I guess I didn’t think too long and hard what my transfer might mean for you. It’s hard working without Roy. Harder than I thought it’d be, and I knew if I wanted to make a go of it, I needed to be doing something different than what he and I did together for years. Sure you still wanna do this house in the country thing? Up there, it won’t be just me on the front lines during Santa Ana season; our house will be too!”
“I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Johnny. Some risks are worth taking. I hope you’ll find you can take a few with me as well.”
~*~*~
“Let me in there, Simmons!”
“Uh-uh, Captain, you haven’t said the magic word.”
“Babcock!”
“You wouldn’t want us to be lax on security?”
“Simmons, Babcock, I’ll remember this the next time I’m deciding which team to loan Narco for a couple weeks of stakeout duty!”
“Magic word, Captain?”
“Tequila sunrise.”
Yesterday’s password had been “Already Gone.” Hutch wasn’t sure who was the big Eagles fan, Simmons or Babcock, or both. Backing away from the door, he hurried over to the small dining table where Starsky had a hot game of solitaire going. Dobey barged into the room with a glare over his shoulder at the grinning detectives who kept guard in the hall. “Of all the specially vetted teams I gave you to pick from, why did you have to insist on those clowns?”
Starsky looked up from the cards spread before him. “When the commissioner called us in to ream us for the stunt we pulled trying to reel Hutch in during the botulism scare, Simmons and Babcock stood shoulder to shoulder with me and took the reaming without so much as a gripe. Never griped once about it since. Hutch and I figure they’re about as solid as they come.”
“Well, solid or not, you’ll have to think about who you want for a replacement team. Simmons and Babcock have been on duty now for almost a week. Next week, you’ll have a different team. The same guys can’t do this week in, week out. They’ll lose their edge.”
Starsky eyed Hutch uneasily. Neither had wanted this stint of protective “custody” in the first place, but Dobey had talked them into accepting safe house incarceration for at least the part of the Gunther trial that required their testimony, insisting that they were most vulnerable to attack before and during their participation. Safe house meant a secluded Bed & Breakfast in Santa Monica. Dobey had coaxed a blank check out of the commissioner and sought help from the one man in the FBI he and his former detectives trusted. Bureau Chief Dodds suggested the privately owned four-room inn, and Dobey used his clout to rent every room in the place for a month. He then sent the staff packing with security clauses and heavy-handed hints as to how their lives could tilt upside down if they spoke to anyone about their unexpected vacation time. Camped out in the hallway outside Starsky and Hutch’s room, Simmons and Babcock didn’t budge until their former colleagues did. Most astonishing, Dobey had moved Starsky and Hutch into the same room. When he’d gotten raised eyebrows from his men, Dobey had finally huffed out that he’d told Simmons and Babcock it was easier to guard one room than two. Still, the sleeping arrangement was a significant acknowledgment of their relationship, and they showed their appreciation by accepting the protection gig as gracefully as possible.
Hutch went over to the small fridge Dobey had ordered for their room. “Starsk, what sounds good for chow? Peanut butter and jelly on honey wheat or baloney and tomato on white?”
“How about a prime rib swimming in au jus with a side of mashed potatoes?”
“Sorry, partner, you took a wrong turn and bypassed the Waldorf-Astoria.”
Starsky made a face at him that would have prompted sexy wrestling had Dobey not been present. “Okay, then. PB&J, I guess. I’ll fix the baloney and tomato for us tomorrow.”
Busily gathering the makings for sandwiches, Hutch held open the fridge and looked at their guest. “Captain? I can’t offer you much, but you’re welcome to what we’ve got.”
“I’ve already eaten, Hutch, at home with Edith, thanks. Let me know when I need to make another grocery run for you.”
“I’ll bet you had the prime rib.” Starsky slid the cards into one pile. “Cap, aren’t you worried these daily visits of yours might establish a pattern for someone who knows what to look for?”
Dobey sat up rigidly on the sofa. “Do you take me for some kind of rookie, Starsky? I know how to shake a damned tail, and I know how to watch for less than casual observers!”
Hutch raised both hands in a placating manner. “Hey, we know you’ve got things under control. It’s just hard for us to forget that we used to be on the other side of gigs like this.”
Grunting his acknowledgment, Dobey folded his arms over his middle and watched with a benign half-smile while Hutch set the table with their light meal. “I appreciate you boys giving me the peace of mind of protective custody. I know you were just beginning to whip your new place into shape, and this is a big disruption of your plans.”
Starsky had dug in to his sandwich with voracity, so Hutch answered for them both. “If we have to be disrupted, January’s a pretty good month for it. At least we had the holiday season free and clear. Thanksgiving in Duluth with Mom went off without a hitch, and I talked her into coming to California for December. Aunt Ruth flew in from Japan to spend Chanukah and Christmas with us, and she and Mom got along great. They both like the way the farm is shaping up.”
“The horse farm with no horses,” Starsky grumbled through a mouthful.
Hutch rolled his eyes at the frequent complaint. One would think Starsky had been the little boy demanding a pony every Christmas. At Dobey’s quirked brow, Hutch said, “When we first moved in, Starsky was still in recovery and tied down with daily PT. Then there was a lot of work to get the place ready for horses. The previous owner had let the place run down some in his old age. With the trial getting closer, we didn’t want to bring animals into the mix when we didn’t know how long we’d have to be away from home.”
“Makes sense. Well, hopefully your part in the proceedings won’t stretch beyond a few weeks. How are things progressing for you otherwise, Starsky?”
“Good, real good, Cap’n.”
“Starsky, I’d like more than a four-word answer. How are you doing?”
“Better’n the docs thought I’d do. I have to do deep breathing exercises every morning. I can’t drive my good-as-new Torino with just my left hand anymore, and the arm goes fluky on me if I don’t keep it limbered up. I gotta watch what I eat. But I’ve graduated to once a week PT. Might be back to three times a week for a while after this little hiatus. I’m in good shape, Cap’n.”
Dobey’s smile widened briefly before he resumed his all business attitude. “Are you prepared to take the stand tomorrow?”
Hutch swallowed a bite of PB&J down the wrong pipe and hacked into his napkin until he felt Starsky thwacking his back. Gulping ice water from the inn’s signature glass tumbler, Hutch nodded his certainty of survival to Starsky, and the thwacking ceased. “This soon, Captain? We both had coaching sessions with the chief prosecutor, but I thought I’d be the first to go up there.”
“Not looking that way, Hutch. I think the prosecution wants to set a dramatic tone right from the beginning.” Dobey watched Starsky, who kept right on eating.
“I’m fine with it, Cap’n,” Starsky said without looking up from his plate. “Want it over with.”
Dobey stayed through their dinner, but he left soon afterward, reminding them when they needed to be ready for their armed transport to the LA County courthouse. Hutch picked up his animal husbandry textbook on horse breeding and tossed the TV remote control over to Starsky. He’d just gotten comfortable in a sprawl on the sofa when he felt the weight of Starsky’s stare on him.
“Nothing good on the tube?”
“M*A*S*H’ll be on later, but the only blond on there is a priest, and that’s just not my thing.”
Hutch looked up from his book, startled. “Wh-what?”
“I don’t wanna watch TV,” Starsky complained. “Every night since we got here, you curl up with that book and I stare at the damned TV screen until I bore myself to sleep. Not tonight, Hutch.”
“That’s not all we’ve done,” Hutch pointed out reasonably.
“Oho, no. Sorry. First night you let us sixty-nine under all the covers like a coupla kids at a sleepover trying to stay up past bedtime. Second night we jerked off and I think you had us kissing the whole time so we couldn’t make noise. Third night we were down to rubbing off with PJs on. After that we turned into monks. We’re going in the wrong direction, Hutch.”
Hutch couldn’t ignore the seductive picture Starsky presented, curled in the armchair with one leg bent and the other hooked over the chair arm, advertising his hardening cock in the soft cotton sweats he wore around their suite. Hutch felt his own khakis tighten in the crotch. “Starsky,” he warned, using the textbook to point at the door behind him. “They’re right outside the room.”
“So?” Starsky leapt out of the armchair and landed on the sofa, crawling up to straddle Hutch. “I got a need, Hutch. A serious need, hear me?”
“God, I love hearing you say that.” So, so refreshing to hear Starsky say that he had a need. “It’s just–don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but you get loud.”
Sliding his hands under Hutch’s soft green pullover, Starsky found erect nipples to tweak with unerring fingers. “You’re the one who’s so damned irresistible. You’re the one who makes me see whole friggin’ solar systems when you touch me. My noise level is your fault; so deal with it.” Yanking his hands out from under the shirt long before Hutch was ready to lose the powerful sensation around his nipples, Starsky grabbed the textbook, tossing it over his shoulder. The book landed on the floor with a thump certain to bring Simmons or Babcock rushing into the room. Hutch relaxed when the door stayed closed. “We’re not cops anymore,” Starsky growled at him. “I’m not sayin’ we need to give our guys out there a porno soundtrack, but what we do behind closed doors is our business.”
“Agreed, but I just thought, this trial is a delicate situation, and while we’re–”
“Nuh-uh.” Starsky rolled his hips downward, pushing his erection against Hutch’s. “Our part in it might last a few weeks, but the trial itself will drag on months and months, you know that. If you think I’m keeping my hands off you for months, or even weeks, you’re batty. I need action, Hutch. Hard core action. Penetration. Intercourse. Good ole fashioned, down and dirty fucking. Following me so far?”
Hutch hated it when his throat turned to desert. “Starsk, sex is one thing, but–”
“I’m fine, damn it.” Starsky thrust down into Hutch’s crotch with increasing force to prove his point. “The sons-of-bitches didn’t put holes through my dick. I’ve been cleared to get as frisky in bed as I want. We’ve invented ten new ways to sixty-nine. Your rubber toy’s been getting so much action I coulda sworn I heard it complain about chafing. I got no problem with the sex we’ve been having, ’cause you light my fire, you sexy bastard, and you keep it lit! But I need the real deal, and I want you to finally get a shot at my virgin ass.”
“Oh, dear God!” Hutch’s cock started a plaintive throbbing, but he struggled to keep a clear head. “I can’t, Starsky. Christ, I want that with you! I’ve fantasized about your ass since I first clapped eyes on it! But I can’t do it tonight, not with you going on that stand tomorrow. Not here, like this, not for your first time. I want to have that with you in our home, in our bed.”
Starsky leaned over for a soothing kiss. “Okay. I get that. You’ve waited long enough; I guess you got a right to decide where and when you finally want it, and you wouldn’t be my Hutch if you didn’t worry about me like that. But please, babe, if I don’t get naked with you in about five seconds, I’m gonna cause a scene Simmons and Babcock’ll need therapy to get over!”
Looking back on the endless months he’d thought Starsky could never get into gay sex, Hutch questioned his own sanity in trying to fend off his partner’s heated advances. Here he had Starsky humping his crotch, inflamed beyond reason, in love and hot for him, and he wanted to cling to caution and let their bodyguards and the trial of the century inhibit him? Concern for his partner was one thing, lunacy another. He smiled and reached up to cup Starsky’s cheek. Starsky tensed, and Hutch tsked at him. “Starsk, don’t you know by now that doesn’t mean ‘farewell’ between us when I touch your cheek that way? You want the real deal, you can have it. My ass is yours for the taking. I know you wanted me to have you before you took me again, but we don’t need a balance sheet in our relationship.”
~*~*~
Sitting high astride Hutch’s hips, Starsky stretched up and back, flexing the muscles he had worked so hard to rehabilitate. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and watched Hutch’s eyes glaze over with desire no longer held in check. Hutch never gave him a chance to feel self-conscious about the altered landscape of his chest or the few pounds he’d yet to regain. Hard to feel less than studly when his lover’s appreciative stares clearly labeled him every gay man’s fondest wet dream. “Think this sofa’s tough enough to take what we dish out?” Hutch blinked up at him and Starsky grinned, snapping his fingers in front of Hutch’s eyes. “God, you make me feel wanted. I said, do you think this sofa–”
“I heard you,” Hutch said. “It probably is, but we’re not going to find out.”
“If you’re still worried about Simmons and Babcock–”
“I’m not. Whatever they overhear is a hazard of their occupation. Hell, we heard our fair share of shockers when we were the ones in the hall guarding witnesses. But I want us in that king size bed for one main reason: that antique dresser with the great big mirror. How’d you miss that?”
Starsky chuckled. “Probably ’cause you had us buried all the way under the covers.”
“Smart ass.”
Starsky rolled off his beloved perch and took Hutch’s hand to pull him off the sofa. “Up, Hutchinson, I want to see your ass!”
Hutch flaunted said ass all the way over to the bed, Starsky hot on his heels like the horny dog he was, swatting those luscious cheeks that staid khaki pants couldn’t make commonplace. They kept the playful mood until they were locked together, naked, in the middle of the vast bed, and Starsky came out of their kiss realizing he could give Hutch something more precious than his ass. He knew his sexuality conflicts had insinuated a doubt into that complex Hutchinson mind about whether Starsky enjoyed even the giving end of gay intercourse. Now was his chance to slay that doubt once and for all. They had come full circle, all the way back to another hotel room, but this time Starsky’s passion wasn’t overshadowed by uncertain sexual identity or worries over what he could offer Hutch long term. When Hutch went up on hands and knees, hiking that creamy smooth ass for easy access, Starsky could have sworn his balls jumped harder than his cock, and he let out a sharp cry that had Hutch looking over his shoulder and lifting a shushing index finger to his laughing lips.
“Like what you see?” Hutch tossed him the lube from Starsky’s toiletry bag.
“Holy–!” Starsky lowered his voice to soft bedroom volume. “You could explode a guy’s balls
like that.” He gripped his cock around the base and tried to think of naked synchronized swimming grandmas. “God, I almost blew my load all over you.”
Shuddering with want, Starsky ran his hands along the smooth flesh of Hutch’s ass, down to its masculine curves, and stroked fingertips up and down its cleft. With the cool lube on his fingers, he rubbed them together to generate heat and began a sensuous massage of each cheek, wanting the feel of Hutch’s skin branded right between the tiny lines on his fingerpads so that something of Hutch would show in his fingerprint. That was improbable, sure, but right then, with Hutch at his fingertips, softly pleading for what Starsky could give him, nothing seemed impossible. Moving his left hand down to stretch Hutch for their joining, he couldn’t get enough of watching his lubed fingers sink into that beautifully puckered opening. “Can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Starsky said. “I think you won the ass lottery, Hutch, and I get to share in the winnings. This is even hotter’n I remember.”
“I’d have to agree with that,” Hutch whimpered, and Starsky raised his head, feeling the breath whoosh out from him when he saw that Hutch was watching him in the mirror. Watching him prepare Hutch’s ass for a good, hard ride. “Come on, Starsk, I know you’re having fun back there, but I think we’re both ready for your cock to get its turn.”
Kneeling behind Hutch, Starsky knew what he wanted to watch, and it wasn’t in the mirror. He latched on to Hutch’s hips and sank his cock into Hutch in one smooth stroke that broke into shorter, wilder thrusts as the sensations overwhelmed him. If he held himself just right, he could watch his balls slap Hutch’s ass. Enthralled, Starsky stared, searching out fine details down to the brushing of his short hairs against Hutch’s smooth skin. Hutch’s whimpers became erotic sobbing gasps for breath, his deep, rich voice higher pitched in sexual furor, and his whispered words going straight to Starsky’s balls. “Starsk, Starsk, you’re…incredible. This is…oh, love this, love you, watching you watch yourself fuck me…so good, gotta touch myself, Starsky, oh!”
Oh, man. That Starsky had to watch. He took a break from tracking his cock’s movement and turned his eyes to the mirror. Hutch’s awkward jerking-off was somehow sexier than any naughty movie choreography, his rhythm off in his need to brace himself with his other hand so Starsky could have the best angle for pounding. Starsky had almost no breath left, tight chested more from the beautiful picture they made together than exertion. At the weirdest time for profound thought, Starsky understood, finally, why giving up his badge had proved such an easy decision. This, this, was what Starsky did, who Starsky was–loving Hutch–on a horse farm, on the open sea, on the moon, it didn’t matter. His life’s meaning was right here, squirming in front of him, pushing back onto his cock. He forgot about his ban on porno soundtracks and pushed into Hutch, testing with each thrust until he made Hutch yell and fling his head back. The way to Hutch’s ultimate pleasure mapped out, Starsky taxed every muscle in his lower body, pounding his lover’s ass, watching their frantic dance in the mirror. He heard himself scream Hutch’s name in an endless string of broken syllables, heard Hutch bawl out to him in return, felt Hutch seize in front of him, around him. Promising Hutch forever, the soul out of his body, Starsky pushed them both off the cliff into orgasmic free fall. “Hutch, Hutch, God, oh, God, oh, I love you!” he moaned in climax, and then collapsed over Hutch’s back.
Starsky surfaced to semi darkness and Hutch cradling him in one strong arm, tenderly bathing his softened cock with a warm hand towel. Starsky nuzzled the little birthmarks on Hutch’s neck, snuggling into the warm half-embrace. “Dunno about you, but I’m still orbitin’ the Milky Way.”
Hutch licked his lips. “Um, I think I could actually use a Milky Way right now. The candy kind”
“You, Health Food Man? Damn, Hutch, did I fuck a whole new personality into you?”
“I think you fused us through your cock,” Hutch chuckled. “I’m wondering how we’re gonna face Simmons and Babcock in the morning.”
Starsky yawned. “Did I get loud?”
“You got downright pornographic, and you pushed me in front of the microphone with you.”
Starsky flushed and tried to hide his twinge of embarrassment in a heated tongue kiss with his laughing partner. Hutch discarded the hand towel and pulled Starsky fully into his arms, reaching around to drape them in the bed covers. “You gave me one of the most erotic experiences since man discovered sex, Starsk, but I think you had a lot of built-up tension to work out. Am I right? The court appearance tomorrow is weighing heavier on you than you let on to Dobey?”
Starsky squirmed in Hutch’s arms, but his strong lover didn’t yield. “Yeah, okay, I’m not lookin’ forward to it, sure, but–you’ll be there. Bottom line, if you’re there, ain’t a damn thing I can’t handle. Let the monster sit over there at the defense table and give me the evil eye. He’s just a broken down old fogey who was no match for my partner or me.”
“That’s my hero,” Hutch praised, kissing Starsky’s scalp. “I wish you didn’t have to go through it, but you’ll be striking one hell of a blow for justice.”
“No one does the hero and justice thing like you, Hutch,” Starsky said with a yawn in between each word and let happy exhaustion carry him off to sleep.
~*~*~
The next morning after a light breakfast of cold cereal and milk, Starsky and Hutch left the room in their sedate going-to-court suits and found their bodyguards wearing matching smirks that translated roughly as “We know a secret!” Simmons glanced at Babcock’s knowing smirk and smacked his shoulder. Yelping, Babcock smacked Simmons’s shoulder in retaliation. Hutch made faces at their antics, but he was mostly thrilled that the answering smirk on Starsky’s face translated as, “You poor schmucks wish you had it good as me.” Waging a battle of smirks, with nary a word spoken, the quartet started down the hall to the stairs.
After fifteen minutes of waiting in the inn’s foyer for the special sedans to pull up in the front drive, Hutch got itchy. Starsky had a similar itch, shifting his stance, hawk-eyeing his watch every few seconds.
“Relax,” Babcock said. “You know how court shit goes. Probably off to a late start, and Dobey won’t let you guys near the place until it’s time for your debut.”
Thirty minutes later, all four men shared the itch. Hutch heard a relieved sigh from Simmons when Dobey’s sedan pulled up front. Hutch didn’t share the relief beyond gratitude that Dobey was unharmed. He knew his captain, and the man had aged a good ten years since he left the night before. Something had rattled Dobey out of his natural self command.
“It’s over,” Dobey said without preamble when he joined them in the foyer.
“What’s over?” Babcock asked.
“At approximately nine-fifteen this morning, a gunman put a head shot through Gunther’s chief counsel in front of the courthouse in the middle of the pre-session press conference.”
“Jesus Holy God!” Simmons shouted.
Dobey hushed him. “That’s not all. Officers undertook standard protocol, evacuating Gunther out back through the designated safe area to the waiting caravan, but a second gunman was lying in wait. I just got word a few minutes ago that Gunther was pronounced dead at Memorial.”
To inexperienced eyes, Starsky stood firm, but Hutch’s knowing gaze caught the slight sag at his knees, and he slipped his arm around his lover’s waist. “Shades of Ruby and Oswald?” Hutch said quietly, watching Dobey’s reaction.
“The front gunman who took out Gunther’s attorney was killed instantly in return fire, but the second shooter lived long enough to brag. Damn mess didn’t have a damned thing to do with Gunther. The shooters belong to a quasi-religious paramilitary cult with an eye-for-an-eye philosophy. They were protesting our country’s lenient judicial system and this happened to be the first high-profile trial of the new decade.” Dobey slammed his fist into his open palm.
Babcock frowned at him. “Captain, you can’t be mourning the son-of-a-bitch?!”
Hutch exchanged a sharp look with Starsky and saw awareness in his partner’s darkening eyes. They knew what Dobey was mourning. Dobey confirmed their hunch. “Hell, no, Babcock. I’m not sorry the bastard’s dead. But eight officers were escorting him to the caravan, and you want me to believe bad luck or bad timing caused none of them to get off a shot before the gunman fired three into his target? Or that eight officers couldn’t block the gunman’s line of sight? Eight officers! I’m glad they’re uninjured, but I’m ashamed of their faces, all of them!”
“Captain–” Simmons began.
“I should’ve seen it coming!”
“Captain,” Hutch said gently. “You can’t foresee random acts of homegrown nutcases.”
“No, I didn’t mean that.” Dobey told Hutch with a weary shrug. “I should’ve insisted Gunther have independent protection. I’ve heard mutterings from men at the precinct that you should’ve put a bullet in him when you went to arrest him in San Francisco.”
“Hell, no one would’ve blamed him if he had,” Babcock said.
Dobey whirled on him. “That’s the exact attitude those eight officers must’ve had, Babcock, and if that’s your real opinion of this situation, I’ll have your badge and gun! We’re not vigilantes.”
Hutch nodded, tightening his arm around Starsky’s waist, fully aware that he had yet to say a word. “I could’ve rationalized it. He did draw on me in a way. But after what he’d done to Starsky, to Marianne, Lionel, Mr. May, what his henchman put Allison through, I wanted justice for the bastard. Justice is much sweeter than revenge. I didn’t want him to have the easy way out.”
“It’s ATF’s problem now. They’ll be trying to get a line on this paramilitary group.” Dobey straightened his suit coat. “I’m sick of the whole damned business of law enforcement. Starsky, Hutch, you’re free to go home, and I’d understand if you didn’t hang around to do anything but pack. I have to get back to the station. I would’ve called, but this just isn’t the kind of news to deliver on the phone.” He stomped back out the front door, and Babcock let out a whistle.
“He’s taking it personal,” Simmons said.
“He better,” Starsky said, opening his mouth for the first time since the news. “If there’s an investigation, he’ll likely take the heat. Ninth precinct men, Dobey’s well-known closeness to us, yeah, he’ll have the accusation tossed in his face that he encouraged those guys not to try too hard to keep Gunther alive in the event someone tried to make him dead.”
“Just like some people still believe Jack Ruby had help from law enforcement to get into the basement of that Dallas jail,” Hutch added, shooting a worried look at the door.
“Aw, come on, you don’t think Dobey’s job is on the line?” Simmons scoffed.
“I don’t think he’ll be fired, no,” Hutch said. “But–”
“But he’ll likely have early retirement suggested to him,” Starsky finished. “To help the good old LAPD save face.” Hutch nodded.
Babcock looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Dobey saw it as a good thing. Early retirement, I mean. He just hasn’t been the same since you guys left. He’s tired. Real tired.”
“How you holding up, Starsky? You’ve got to be glad it’s all over but the shouting.”
Starsky gave Simmons a weak smile. “Never thought I’d say this, considering the hard time I gave Hutch at Pine Lake a couple of years ago, but I just wanna get back to our nice quiet farm.”
Babcock shook his head. “I don’t get it. I just don’t. City boy like you on a farm? What’d you do to him, Hutch?” Simmons gave him another shoulder slap.
Hutch opened his mouth to defend the great outdoors, but Starsky said, “Hey, I still need some city life. When I start whining about the cobwebs or bitching about the frogs and crickets, Hutch hauls my ass into the Torino and we hit the city for the big lights. We’ll be coming in for some Dodgers games during baseball season, and when we want some really good nightlife, there’s a club about an hour-and-a-half away in Oceanside we hit from time to time.”
“Starsky!” Hutch lightly pinched his partner’s side.
Babcock rubbed his hands together. “A well-kept secret, huh? What’s the name of this club?”
With a wink, Starsky said, “Forget it, man. You don’t have the right kind of flash for this place. Best let Simmons keep you the sheltered cocktail lounge lizard you’ve always been.”
~*~*~
Hutch stopped in the middle of loading posts and rails to watch the aged Land Rover pull up alongside him outside Miller’s Feed and Farm Supply. Confident there had to be dozens of ’72 safari 4 x 4s in LA County, he resumed hauling the rails into the back of his off-road Toyota.
A familiar voice said, “Hutch?”
Johnny slammed the driver’s door shut and walked over to hold out his hand. Hutch smiled, accepting the handshake. Slender and fit as ever in dark jeans and suede jacket, Johnny looked good. He also looked happy, his slow smile easy and welcoming. Hutch released his hand and stood back, relaxed in the man’s presence. “What’re you doing out this way, Johnny?”
Johnny didn’t seem perturbed either. “I could ask you the same thing. I live out here.”
“Out here? Long way from Station 38, isn’t it?”
“I transferred to Station 86 back in December. My partner and I bought a place out here, closed on it the end of January and moved in a couple of weeks ago.”
“Starsky and I moved out here in September. Partner?” Hutch folded his arms and tried to tone down his detective’s speculation. He failed. “That wouldn’t happen to be Dr. Kelly Brackett?”
Johnny made little noises of surprise. Then his mouth widened in a grin. “How’d you know?”
Hutch smiled. “Starsky and I saw the two of you out on a date.”
Johnny’s grin faded. “When? We, uh, well, with Kel and me closeted except to a few people, we don’t get out on many real dates, you know.”
“This was a couple of years back, some island theme night in a Far Eastern restaurant.”
Johnny slapped his hip and laughed. “We weren’t on a date. Back then we were just friends.”
Hutch squeezed Johnny’s shoulder. “Trust me. The way you guys were interacting? It was a date. I thought at the time Brackett was really taking a risk, banking on anyone who might recognize the two of you thinking you just were long-time colleagues out catching a meal together.”
There was a longing in Johnny’s brown eyes that only came from somewhere deep, like the soul. “Kel’s an amazing guy.”
Hutch loved that he only felt a friendly empathy at the words and that powerful longing, his mind instantly going to his own amazing guy. “You’re happy.”
“Yeah. I am. So are you, I can tell. You look good, Hutch.” Johnny’s gaze swept over Hutch’s jeans and Navajo beadwork-trimmed denim shirt with friendly interest.
“No problems calling me Hutch now? Yes, I’m happy. Happier than any one man has a right to be, I think sometimes. I have a miracle guy of my own.”
“Where’re you and Starsky living out here?”
“You know the old Gilbert place? We closed on it in late August.”
Johnny stared at him. “You’re kidding! Kel and I bought Miss Luna’s property. We’re the closest thing you guys have to neighbors, then.”
“I don’t believe this.” Hutch looked around at the quiet dusty parking lot, the lazily rocking chairs on the store’s front porch obeying the light breeze. “They say it’s a small world. That’s a long drive for Brackett into Rampart, though, right?”
“He can’t live with me full time.” Johnny had a wistful note in his voice. “But he spends all his time off out here. It’s the best we can do. I wouldn’t trade it for a thing. Except for more of him.”
“You really love him, don’t you?”
Johnny looked surprised at the question. Then his eyes took on that longing quality again. “Yeah, I do. I really love him. Huh. First time I’ve really said it out loud, and it’s to you of all people.”
“Life has its strange quirks like that.”
“So, what’re you loading into that–what is that, by the way?” Johnny turned his attention to Hutch’s vehicle. “Toyota Land Cruiser, ’73 model? You always did like relics.”
“Right on both counts. Starsky loves it because it’s cherry red even if I did the next thing to treason in leaving the Ford family. I told him between his candy apple Torino and my cherry red Toyota, we’ll have a fruit stand, not a horse farm. I’ve got posts, rails, and half rounds here for some repair work on a paddock. And if that early seventies heap of yours isn’t a relic, then–”
“You got me there.” Johnny just pitched in and helped him load the fencing materials into the back of the off-roader. “So, you’ll be keeping horses?”
“Eventually. I’ve been holding off because Starsky’s far too enthusiastic about the whole thing, and he’ll want me to give him riding lessons, but I’m just not sure he’s at the point in his recovery where that’s safe. How about you? Any plans for horses? With your captaincy, I know you won’t be running Miss Luna’s place as a working farm.”
“Nah. Just fresh air and open spaces. Kel and I’ve talked about stabling a couple of horses. He always wanted a horse as a kid, but his father was a hard ass who wouldn’t hear of it. Kel learned to ride on a friend’s horse. I’d like to see him finally have one of his own.” Johnny stepped back as Hutch loaded the last of the half rounds and closed the Toyota’s rear door. “You and Starsky need any help with that paddock work? I’ve done some of that in my time.”
Hutch was pleasantly surprised by both the offer and its natural ease. “Sure, we could use help. With it being that special holiday, I won’t be working on it today, but are you off tomorrow?”
“Yep. And Kel’s on both today and tomorrow, so I’m kinda bored.”
Hutch shoved his hands in his pockets and thought about Starsky’s reaction. “How about I call you tomorrow and see if the offer still stands?”
Johnny gave him a knowing smile. “Need to clear it with Starsky?” At Hutch’s smile and shrug, Johnny nodded. “I should probably clear it with Kel, too.” He dug in his back pocket and produced a little flip pad. “Got a pen?”
Hutch went around to the passenger’s side and rummaged through the glove compartment. He located a pen and Johnny scribbled down his number, jerking the tiny sheet of paper off the pad and thrusting it forward. “Give me a call. I wouldn’t mind helping out.”
“Sure thing, thanks. Sorry, Johnny, but I’ve got to run right now. Starsky graduated to a new form of physical therapy, and the place is somewhere out here, but I’m still learning the area. I’m supposed to meet him there in ten minutes.”
Johnny’s brow wrinkled. “A physical therapy practice out here? Must be brand new.”
~*~*~
A riding academy? Hutch stared at the sign over the ranch-style front gate. He consulted the slip of paper Starsky had used to jot down the address for him. No, no mistake. Hutch drove through the open gate and took in the gorgeous scenery on the way to the small parking lot. He would have gone into the academy office, but a miraculous sight in the nearest riding ring, safely removed from the disturbing noise of vehicles in the lot, drew him in the opposite direction. He rubbed his eyes twice on his way over to the paddock where people of all ages were engaged in walking practice. It couldn’t be! But the replica Milwaukee Chicks hat over those lush, dark curls proved the crazy reality. That really was Starsky in jeans and an LAPD sweatshirt astride a big, black gelding. At least someone had talked him into shedding his Adidas for riding boots. Hutch stepped carefully as he neared the ring and rested his arms crisscross fashion over the top fence railing. Starsky spotted him, but he didn’t take his hand off the reins to wave. Instead, he jerked his elbow in acknowledgment and very cautiously turned his mount toward the fence. The gelding accepted Starsky’s lead with a head toss and snort and carried him smoothly away from the other riders. Hutch looked on in amazement at the rapport between Starsky and the horse. This couldn’t possibly be his first lesson. Hutch had to clamp down on anger reminiscent of that first night in The Wildewood. The little sneak!
Starsky eased his mount to a stop at the fence, and the gelding hung his head over the railing, nickering. Hutch smiled. “Pretty fella, aren’t you? Yes, you are, pretty fella.” He stroked up to the horse’s forelock and noted the stunning white star on the horse’s forehead, the only hint of white on the whole animal as far as he could tell. Keeping his voice pitched low and smooth to avoid spooking the horse, he looked up at Starsky’s grinning face. “What the hell is this all about, Starsky?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Starsky answered, bending over to rub his mount’s neck.
“Happy–! Starsky, what kind of stunt is this? How long–when did–Damn it, Starsky!”
Starsky’s soft laughter only produced a soft whinny from the horse. “I graduated from PT a few weeks ago. Not today. I’ve been coming out here three days a week. Relax. I got clearance from my doctor and my physical therapist. My doc said that after enough time had passed for my internal patch-up jobs to heal, and with my arm strengthening exercises working out good, I’m in no more danger riding a horse than anybody. You know, it’s never one hundred percent safe for anyone to climb up on one of these beasties, Hutch.”
Slowly calming down, Hutch nodded at the truth in that. “You could’ve told me, Starsky. Why did you have to hide this?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. Besides, I’m not dumb. I know why you haven’t wanted to touch that investment capital Aunt Ruth fronted us for breeding stock. It’s not just your pride. You know Aunt Ruth wants a return on her investment, so it’s not another gift disguised as a salary. You just didn’t want a single horse on the place until you thought I was ready to learn to ride. Knowing my Hutch, that’d be two years from now. Decided I’d better take things in my own hands.”
Hutch sighed. “What am I gonna do with you?”
Starsky’s leer looked even sexier on horseback. “I got a few ideas, but we don’t wanna shock Star Midnight Runner here. I call him ‘Star’ for short.” He bent over again and flicked soft fingers over the horse’s cheek, earning him a happy head toss from the animal. “I want him, Hutch. The guy who owns the academy is interested in selling. Mr. Gilbert sold this beauty to the academy when he put his place on the market. I think Star wants to go home, and he likes me.”
“I can tell. I’d say he’s smitten with you. Horse has damned good taste in men, and you sit him real well. God, you’re my favorite fantasy sitting up there. Starsky, we couldn’t use him for breeding purposes. He’s–”
“Shh!” Starsky cupped his hands over the horse’s twitching ears. “Don’t remind him!” He puffed out his chest. “I’ve been snipped on too, just not in the same place. I figure we kinda match that way. And, hey, there’s another horse here who used to be Gilbert’s. Maybe we could use him. Big palomino stallion named Sun Kiss. The academy owner says he’s a noble, good-hearted horse, Hutch.”
Hutch rubbed lightly under Star’s chin and patted through the silky black mane. “Funny. If you didn’t go for a docile mare, I thought you’d want a stallion for your personal mount.”
Starsky’s “sexy man on horseback” leer returned. “Way I see it I’ve got a stallion at home to ride whenever I want. Don’t need a four-legged one.”
Arousal shooting through his veins, Hutch had to take his twitching hands off Star. “You know I love you more than anything, but this–Starsky, this is a dream come true.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “How saddle sore are you?”
Starsky bent over and whispered back, “Why?”
“Because I want to take you home and do things to your ass that your ass has only dreamed of.”
Starsky’s eyes widened. “You mean you’re ready? Finally, all the way ready to pop my cherry?”
Hutch thought he might drop to his knees right then. “I’m beyond ready. I passed ready a long, long way back down the road.”
Star must have sensed the electricity in the air. He nickered and stamped his right fore hoof. Starsky murmured at him. “I don’t have to finish my lesson,” he said huskily. “But I have to take care of Star here. You know the after-riding stuff.”
Hutch smiled at the inexperienced lingo. “I know. Tell you what, I’ll meet you at the stables and help with that after-riding stuff.”
“And you can meet Sun Kiss.”
“Maybe next time, Starsky. Right now you’re the only stallion I’m interested in.”
~*~*~
Roy appeared at the front door with baby Josie on his hip. “Johnny?”
Johnny tried to look over Roy’s shoulder into the house. “I know it’s a special day and all, well for people that the day doesn’t hate like me, but I’m, uh, not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Joanne’s at a bake sale. I’m on KP duty. Come on in.”
“KP duty?” Johnny followed Roy into the DeSotos’ homey kitchen. Roy handed him Josie. A couple of months shy of her first birthday, Josie burbled at him, and Johnny smiled, tweaking the curls around her ear. “This little lady’s gonna be a redhead.”
Roy looked pointedly at his daughter’s carroty curls and rolled his eyes at Johnny. “What gave you that idea?” Johnny stuck his tongue out at him, and Roy went back to washing dishes.
“Why’re you washing dishes in the middle of the day?”
“We’ve got a sitter lined up for the kids tonight. Joanne and I’ll have the place to ourselves, and I’m cooking my famous beef bourguignon. I want a clean kitchen for cooking. You can put Josie back in her high chair there if you want.”
Johnny noticed the high chair with its plush building blocks on the tray. “I like holding her.” He leaned against the counter by the countertop dish drain and bounced Josie on his hip. “But if you’re cooking tonight, you’ll be washing dishes twice in one day. Roy, you’ve never made a lick of sense.”
“You’re not here on Valentine’s Day to critique my dish washing. What’s going on?”
“That’s just it, Roy. It’s Valentine’s Day. You know what that day is usually like for me.”
“Yeah, but this year you have somebody. So what’s the problem?”
Johnny looked around the kitchen, the breakfast nook, and then craned his neck to see around the corner into the living room. Roy slid a plate into its slot in the drain. “My other rugrats are out in the backyard.”
“Oh, okay.” Johnny took a deep breath. “Thing is, Roy. I love Kel.”
Roy had on his know-it-all smirk. “You’re just now figuring that out?”
“Uh, no. It’s been working on me for a long time, I think.”
“Is he just now figuring that out?”
“What, that I love him or he loves me? He told me he does. Loves me, I mean. Told me over a month ago. I’m the one who can’t say it.”
“I figured he had to love you, buying that place out in 86’s territory.”
“Why? What’s that got to do with it?”
Roy stopped scrubbing the inside of a tall glass and gave Johnny one of his long, silent looks. “You never cease to amaze me. Don’t you know what he did when he took that step?”
“Uh, maybe you know something I don’t.”
“Johnny, the man is choosing you over his career. Not his medical career, per se, but his place at Rampart. Like I told you, you’re not taking a big chance. You’re a good, solid captain and at an outlying station like 86, you won’t catch a lot of flak if you’re discreet. I think LA County’s prepared to do a lot of winking and nudging for you unless you try to come out in some dramatic way. But Brackett’s in a tougher spot. It won’t take long for people to notice he’s spending more time away from Rampart or figure out where he’s spending it. Maybe it’ll take a year, maybe two, but he must be prepared to walk if he has to, or he wouldn’t be taking this kind of risk.”
“Risk. You’re not the first person to tell me something like that today.” Johnny made some funny faces for Josie until her primped-to-cry frown eased. “I ran into Ken Hutchinson today.”
Roy shot him a glare. “You’re here in a tizzy ’cause you haven’t been able to tell Brackett how you feel, is that it?” At Johnny’s nod, Roy’s glare darkened. “Don’t tell me you’re still carrying some kind of torch for Hutchinson!”
“Of course not!” Johnny shook his head so vigorously that Josie tried to imitate him. “It was like seeing an old school buddy, Roy. He looks good, he’s happy. But he’s not Kel.”
“No, he damn well isn’t.”
“He’s not a bad guy either, Roy.”
Roy wrung his dish towel fiercely. “No, I guess not. I just worry about you, Johnny. Heck, it was no easier when I was watching you screw up with about every other woman you tried to date.”
“Oh thanks, Roy. Thanks a lot. This is why I come to you for advice?”
“Your problem was, even if you’d been straight you were chasing the completely wrong kinds of women for you. I still remember that girl you got engaged to after knowing her for three seconds flat, what was her name? I thought I’d have to conk you over the head with a tire iron to bring you to your senses about that dead end, but she dumped you and saved you some serious grief.”
“Is there a point to all this?”
“Remember what I told you after Hutchinson dumped you? I told you to find a man or woman who cared as much about you as you cared for Hutchinson. Well, Johnny, you found him.”
“You’re telling me not to blow it with Kel?”
“No, that’d be heaping all the pressure on your shoulders. Brackett’s a tremendous guy, but he’s not perfect. Could be he’s the one who blows it, who knows? Hopefully, nothing will blow it beyond what you guys could fix. I’m just saying this Valentine’s Day thing and this fear of yours about telling him how you feel are just like that Weird Wednesday nonsense, and all the other superstitions you get. They’re not real, Johnny. What you have with Kelly Brackett is real.”
“What’s wrong with me that I can’t figure that out? I think–Roy, I think my trouble is I just don’t get what I do for him, y’know? Feels like I’m just taking all he has to give.”
“Now I know you’re in love, when you’re worried that you might not be good enough for someone.” Roy smiled. “Johnny, for a bright guy, you’ve always needed sense pounded into your head when it comes to relationships. As for what you do for Brackett, you give him you. You give him someone to love, be with, argue with, relax with, all the things Joanne and I give each other. Dixie told me she’s never seen someone complete Brackett the way you do. Those were her exact words.”
~*~*~
Starsky loved that the biggest bedroom in the old farmhouse allowed for a king-size four poster. He loved their bed with its down comforter, denim-colored cotton sheets, and the decorative antique wedding ring quilt that Hutch’s mom had given them for Christmas. It rested at the foot of the bed during the day and draped over the room’s armchair at night. In their beautiful bed he had plenty of room to roll around with Hutch and for them to sprawl out and have their space when they didn’t want to be wrapped around each other. But at the moment he wanted to quit rolling and get to rocking. Hutch had finally rolled them to a stop and lay between Starsky’s legs, tenderly stropping their cocks, and showing him every way imaginable to French kiss, including a few techniques he had missed along the way. Starsky loved the tender side to his partner, but he wanted to see that hard-loving stud come out in Hutch, the golden prize fantasy man that every patron in The Wildewood would bargain with the devil to take home for the night. Hutch pulled out of the kiss with tiny smacks against the corners of Starsky’s mouth, and Starsky filled his hands with the long sunlit silk of Hutch’s hair. “You take my breath away,” Starsky told him. “But I’m ready for you to take some of it another way.”
Hutch’s sappy smile was gorgeous in their sun-drenched room. “Just thought we’d cool our engines so we could take our time.”
“Hutch, we already did that when we got home from the riding school and jerked off in the shower. My engine’s been cooled, stretched, lubed, and now it’s starting to rev again, big time, so let’s keep it revved and you show me what you got.”
“Do you feel open?”
“You might as well have shoved the whole tube of K-Y up my ass without squirting it all over your fingers first. I’ve got the stuff running out of me, damn it!” Starsky laughed.
“Okay, why don’t we roll you on your side and stuff a few pillows–”
“Nope.”
“Nope?”
“I want a good face-to-face fuck, thank you.”
“Starsk, there are easier ways for first timers.”
“Might be,” Starsky said, “but I want you to see how much I want it.” Hutch kissed him, stealing more of his breath. “And while we’re on the subject of preferences?” The alarm in Hutch’s eyes almost made Starsky laugh again. “Can you fuck-and-suck?”
Hutch’s blue eyes doubled in size. “Can I–what?”
Starsky hoped he wasn’t blushing. He was too aroused to tell horny flush from embarrassed flush on his cheeks. “Uh, that first night at The Wildewood, this guy tried to pick me up by whispering some quadruple-X stuff in my ear about what he could do to my cock. That’s one of the things that stuck with me. He called it a ‘fuck-and-suck.’ When a guy can fuck a guy and suck his cock at the same time. I wondered at the time if you knew how to do that.”
Hutch’s bright pink cheeks and flushed neck probably had some embarrassment thrown in with the horniness. “Starsk, you don’t have to tackle the gay Kama Sutra the first time out. I’ve never done that with a guy, but I’m familiar with the mechanics. You really want to be that adventurous this time?”
“Life’s an adventure. And it’s great to think of us doing something you’ve never done before.”
Hutch lifted Starsky’s legs, right then left, and Starsky propped them against those strong Hutchinson shoulders. “You’re the guy who took it on yourself to visit a gay bar alone. Out of love for me, I know that now. You’re the guy who went off to learn to ride a horse all by yourself because your partner was being an old nursemaid. I guess it makes perfect sense you’d want us to tackle the most complicated first time scenario we could find. But first, I’m gonna give you a taste of the classic.”
Starsky blew a kiss at him. “Okay. Hit me with the classic.”
Hutch braced himself over Starsky, and Starsky felt warm, soft pressure at his asshole. His eyes fluttered closed and he let out a sigh of fulfilled anticipation. Hutch’s voice was strained, “You o-okay, Starsk? Too much?”
Opening his eyes to show off the love he knew had to be shining out from them, Starsky massaged Hutch’s tensed arms and smiled. “You put enough goop in me, I could handle it if you shoved a whole Genoa salami up there.”
“Only you would think about deli meat at a time like this.”
“You’re only a little smaller’n that, okay?” A sudden filling thrust from Hutch brought a cry up from all the way down in Starsky’s chest. “God, you feel…that’s you in there. That’s your big, bee-yoo-tiful cock up inside me.”
“Um-hm…Starsk…you’re…ohoh, God, you’re perfect, perfect, knew you’d be like this…oh!”
Hutch withdrew slowly and then eased into a rhythm that made Starsky’s hips itch to dance with him. He couldn’t do it easily with his legs braced against Hutch’s shoulders, but he loved feeling the beat in their movement all through his body. Hutch looked like one of those saints in religious ecstasy paintings, all enraptured, crowned with sunlight, shining his own light from within. Starsky felt his pulse race at the sight. He’d never seen quite that look on Hutch’s face. He’d known that Hutch loved him. Through all the craziness, Hutch had loved him. Even when Hutch had tried briefly to make him believe he’d fallen out of love with Starsky, something in Starsky’s heart refused to believe it. But the love in Hutch’s eyes now outshone everything seen yet. Starsky wanted to look away, self-preservation telling him it was dangerous to stare directly into the burning sun, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the miracle. He felt delicious pressure in his ass, filling him up to capacity; he felt white-hot pleasure sear him when Hutch nailed a particular spot. His cock was rubbing insistently against his belly with the motion of their fucking. Painfully hard, Starsky began to pant his desire for direct stimulation.
Hutch pulled back suddenly in withdrawal, but then kept going until he rested on his heels. He eased out from under Starsky’s legs and guided them around his waist. Starsky tried to move, but Hutch shook his head. “Lie back like that, and I’m gonna pull your ass up onto my lap. Then I want you to slide your legs down from my waist closer to the bed.”
With Starsky positioned, Hutch managed entry again, but in his thrust he bent forward until his head hovered over Starsky’s groin. Clamping one large, lubed hand around the base of Starsky’s cock, Hutch angled the dick at his mercy until he could lower his mouth over it. Starsky yelled out words that probably held no meaning in the English language. He couldn’t live through this. No man could survive the twin sensations of a dick changing his whole concept of self, along with the world’s most gifted mouth going down on him. Hutch found a rhythm of sorts with this, too. His thrusts weren’t as deep or hard or fast, but he alternated the delights. On thrusts forward, he lifted his mouth and let Starsky hear his joy in being inside his lover. On withdrawal, he bent his head and sucked Starsky senseless. Watching the paradise they could share together, Starsky knew he didn’t have to cling to this one time. There would be others. He could have this hero, this knight, this prince fresh from a fairy tale, whenever his heart desired. And his cock swelled along with his pride that he felt one hundred and ten percent male at that very thought. Screaming Hutch’s name when Hutch lifted his head and thrust into him, Starsky shot rope after rope of life affirming fluid, watching the splatters fall where they would. Then he gasped out a plea for Hutch to come for him. Hutch’s face tensed and he pushed up into Starsky, holding still and sounding nearly tortured in his pleasure. Starsky could understand. This was the most intense thing he could ever come through with his sanity intact, and Hutch had to feel the same way. Little cries of Starsky’s name and short, sharp thrusts signaled Hutch’s orgasm. Starsky lay back and enjoyed the change of pressure within him. He felt one last band loosen around his heart.
He’d given Hutch all of himself.
Hutch was his.
~*~*~
Johnny strode into Rampart General’s ER on a single-minded mission. He brushed aside greetings from several nurses, waved a hello to Mike Morton in passing, but he stopped at the sight of Dixie, whose timeless beauty in her pristine white nursing slacks and tunic always impressed him. She had a smile for him that glistened with her understated lipstick. When he neared within whispering range, she said, “He’ll be surprised to see you.”
“I know. It’s against our agreement that I won’t hang around here and generate questions, but I have something important–I gotta talk to him.”
Dixie’s smile brightened and she slipped her arm around his. “If it’s what I hope it is, you’ll make him a very happy man, and I’m all for that. He’s had a rougher than usual day.”
Touched by her approval, Johnny bent and kissed her cheek. His kiss landed closer to the side of her mouth and muted whistles behind them turned their heads. Johnny barely suppressed a groan. Meyers and Cliff, Station 45 paramedics, gave him two big thumbs up and made hourglass figures in the air until Dixie’s stern glare sent them running.
“You do know that you just confirmed the rumors about us?” she teased Johnny, smiling.
“Yeah, it’ll be all over the fire stations by supper that I was open-mouth kissing you in front of the nurses station. Sorry, Dix.”
She gave him a shoulder shove. “Don’t you be sorry. Good for my ego to have such a handsome young fire captain ‘chasing’ me. Anyway, it’s harmless and it helps you guys, and what people want to think is their own stupidity or cleverness. He’s in three, Johnny, catching up on some charting. Don’t get too frisky now, or we’ll have to do more than kiss in front of the nurses station to create a diversion!”
Laughing in spite of his nerves, Johnny saluted her and hurried off to find the object of his mission before the fear could grip him again. In the empty examination room that, judging by the disorder of equipment, had recently housed a patient, Kel stood at the exam table with his back to the door. His slumped shoulders attested to the rough day Dixie mentioned. Johnny ached to take the weary doctor in his arms, but the swinging examination room doors provided no security of privacy. Words were all Johnny could hope for here with the love of his life, but by God, he’d say those words even if he froze into a block of ice in the middle of the declaration. He cleared his throat to get Kel’s attention. Kel looked over his shoulder, and his hand jarred in mid scribble on the chart. “Johnny! What’re you–I thought we agreed–”
“I know. I’m here for something important.” Please, Kel, let’s not argue until after I’ve told you what you mean to me.
Kel had a tender smile for him instead of an argument. “God, it’s good to see you, Johnny. I thought I’d have to wait until tonight, and I didn’t know when I’d be getting out of here. Wait just a second, though? I need to get this down in the patient’s chart while it’s still at the front of my mind.”
Knowing how important it was to document medical information while fresh, Johnny tried to wait patiently, but he fidgeted, and he found it unbelievable that Kel couldn’t hear his racing heart beat. Great. All I need is to go into tachycardia trying to tell a doctor I’m in love with him. Kel finished his notations and started to turn. Johnny counted to ten, vowing to wait until Kel faced him. Too long. If he waited another second, he’d lose his nerve.
“I love you, Kel,” he blurted.
Kel swung all the way around and stared at him.
“I do, I love you, Kel, I really, I do,” Johnny babbled, now past the point of no return.
“Johnny,” Kel whispered.
“I know, I know, I would pick a place where you can’t even kiss me.” He took a step forward, intending to at least touch Kel’s cheek, but the examination door swung open, and Dr. Early burst in on them. The door swung shut behind him, and Early took note of the room’s two occupants with a rosy tint to his cheeks. Kel held up a hand to stall his retreat, and turned a conspiratorial smile on Johnny.
“Well?” Kel asked him. “Are you going to do the introductions, or am I?”
At first Johnny didn’t know what the hell he meant. Then, his memory clicked into action, and he remembered telling Kel he wanted to introduce him as a partner. Kel was giving him that chance. Not a blatant action, of course, as Joe Early knew about their relationship already, but the principle of the thing meant the world to Johnny. The best Valentine’s Day gift he could ask for. Meeting Kel in the center of the room, Johnny put his arm around him and said to their one man audience, “Dr. Early, I’d like you to meet my partner, Kelly Brackett.”
Joe’s kind smile filled Johnny with hope for his future with Kel. “Johnny, there’s just one thing wrong with your introduction. As my oldest friend’s partner, you really have to call me Joe.”
Kel laughed and Johnny joined in, so glad that he’d conquered his fear. “I can do that, Joe.”
“Good. Kel, I’d like your opinion on a case, but there’s no rush. In fact, I’m going to stand guard outside this door for three minutes. Whatever happens in this room during those three minutes is between the two of you, and I’ll make sure it stays that way. Good to see you, Johnny.” With a smile at Kel, Dr. Early stepped backwards out of the room.
The instant the door closed, Kel spun him into a crushing embrace and kissed his neck, his cheek. Johnny tilted his head and opened his lips over Kel’s in a forceful kiss. They grappled, softened the movement of their lips, and melted against each other. Finally, they broke apart, both of their chests heaving. “I love you so very much,” Kel gasped. “What brought this on?”
Johnny slid his hands around Kel’s waist. “Sometimes running into your past shows you how much you love your present. I ran into Hutch this morning outside Miller’s Feed and Farm Supply. He and Starsky are living at the old Gilbert place, oh, about two miles or so down the road from us. We’re practically neighbors.” Kel’s lips twitched, hiding a smile. “You’re not bothered by that?”
“Should I be?” Kel asked evenly.
“No!” Johnny assured him. “I was standing there talking to Hutch, and don’t get me wrong, he looked good. I mean, you–come on, you’ve seen Hutch. He’s–”
“Obscenely attractive?” Kel supplied, lips twitching again.
“Uh, yeah.”
Kel nodded. “His partner’s a stunner, too.”
“Hey!” Johnny thumped Kel’s shoulder. “Okay, all right, Starsky is hot as hell. But that’s beside the point. Anyway, I’m standing there, and Hutch is looking good and happy, and all I could think was, Kel Brackett is my partner!” Kel took his face in warm hands again and kissed him. “So…um…” He surrendered to another kiss, deeper this time. “I thought maybe it was time I took a risk.”
“Listen to me, Johnny; I know you might be expecting me to vanish any second now that you’ve made yourself vulnerable. But I don’t plan on vanishing. When I think about the future, you’re a part of it. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Johnny swallowed hard. “Me, too.” He wanted to kick himself. God, why couldn’t he be eloquent? “Me, too. I know that sounds lame.”
“The meaning is anything but lame. So Starsky and Hutch are our neighbors?”
“Yeah. And I offered to drop by and help Hutch out with some paddock repairs. You mind?”
“No, not in the least.”
Johnny narrowed his eyes. “You’re not even a little bit jealous, are you?”
Kel smiled. “Johnny, I was extremely jealous when Hutch was a patient here after his car accident, and you were so eager to visit him, your feelings were plain all over your face. It cut me deeply, I won’t lie. But a lot of water has gone under the bridge since then. I recognize what his place in your life was; I know where things stand now. I know you’re with me, you love me. I don’t need to be jealous. Plus, I’m more familiar with this sort of thing than you are.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Many men would tell you, Johnny, it’s not unusual in our community for ex-lovers to become friends. I fully expect Daniel and I will be friends again at some point. Starsky tends to be very protective of Hutch. It’ll be a good test of how solid he feels things are. If he feels secure in Hutch, he’ll have less of a problem with your being around as a friend. Just be prepared that he might not be able to handle it quite yet.”
“I won’t push things; that’s for sure. Hell, God and my ancestors have better sense than to get between Starsky and Hutch.” Johnny glanced at his watch. “I think our three minutes are up.”
“Joe could never handle walking in on us twice. You’ll be at the apartment tonight as planned?”
“You bet. Wearing nothing but…” Johnny winked. “Nothing.”
~*~*~
“This is the life.” Hutch spread his arms wide to embrace the fresh air and brought his curled fists back to pound on his chest. “Ah, ah, ah!” They sat on a blanket spread atop the prime hill on their land. Its spacious plateau and gentle slope made it a perfect picnic spot; its northeastern view of the San Gabriel Mountains qualified it as a mini vacation destination in Hutch’s opinion. “Our own little piece of paradise, practically in the Angeles National Forest’s back yard, Starsky, can you believe it? I still have to pinch myself.”
“I’d be glad to pinch you,” Starsky muttered. Hutch watched him dig another saran-wrapped turkey sandwich out of the picnic basket and had to look away so Starsky wouldn’t see his smile and know he was on to him. His expression back under control, Hutch turned his head again. Starsky bit a full quarter of the sandwich off and chewed furiously.
“Go ahead and ask me, Starsk. Ever since we hopped out of bed this afternoon, you’ve been giving me these ‘was it good for you’ looks.” Munching occupied his mouth, so Starsky conveyed his irritation with his eyes and tightly knit brow. Hutch sipped his Chablis. “All right, I should’ve said something earlier, but I was a little overwhelmed.” Starsky’s brow eased. “You have to know you’re the best lover I’ve ever had. What you gave me in there this afternoon? There’s no way to describe…” Hutch absently stroked the corner of his mustache. “Hell, if I wasn’t already gay, I would be now!”
Starsky coughed and took his turn at pounding on his chest, but fresh air wasn’t the motivation. Hutch thrust his glass of Chablis at him. Starsky traded his sandwich for the glass. He didn’t sip. He gulped. Hutch bit into the half-eaten sandwich and waited for Starsky to overcome his dining pratfall. “You’re tryin’ to kill me,” Starsky accused, but his smile ruined the effect.
“Serves you right!” Hutch kept the sandwich away from Starsky’s grasping fingers. “You could’ve said something yourself. I should be asking you for a post-game report.” Starsky’s smile got downright bashful and Hutch dangled the sandwich at him. “Well, did you like it?”
“It’s a great sandwich, Hutch.”
“Arrrh!” Hutch popped the remainder of the sandwich in his mouth and chewed defiantly. Starsky looked at him, then down at his own empty hands. “There’s one more sandwich in the basket.”
Dusting his fingers free of crumbs, Starsky ignored the picnic basket and lay back on the blanket, resting his head on his latched hands. “I liked it with you, Hutch. A lot. That’s the important thing. The act itself is okay, but you’re the big thrill; you had me hooked at the first stroke.”
“Ah, Starsk.” Hutch collected the empty wine glass and set it in the picnic basket. He lay down on his side beside his partner and stroked circles on Starsky’s chest under the sweatshirt.
“I took what Eric told me too seriously at the club that night. He had a lot of valid points. Great guy, lots of insight. But I was making some valid points, too, if I’d listened to my damned self. Like how what you and I have can’t be explained by conventional ideas on sex and sexuality. Like I told you, Hutch, I’m past the orientation hang-up. Now I’m just concerned with being me. Being me means being in love with you, bottom line. And today I found out being me also means getting a kick out of taking your dick up my ass, same as I do when I’m inside you making you scream for me.”
Admiring his down to earth wisdom, Hutch covered his partner’s lips in a soft, affirming kiss. Starsky’s fingers threaded through Hutch’s hair, then gripped the nape of his neck, drawing him down harder into the kiss. On the other side of the kiss, Hutch lifted his head and scanned the whole of their farm, from house to barn and stables, to the pasture land, paddocks, and front drive. He sighed.
“Hey, what’s that sound for?”
Hutch smiled down into Starsky’s dancing eyes. “Just thinking about this place. All the work ahead of us. All the changes. Challenges. What do you want to see happen next, Starsk?”
Starsky followed his line of sight down to the paddock. “By the weekend, I’d like to see Star and Sun Kiss out there nibbling grass.”
“Really? Well, then, we need to get busy with those paddock repairs.” He watched Starsky closely, counting under his breath until….
“Aw, man,” Starsky groaned.
Hutch laughed. “Your enthusiasm for farm work just bowls me over, Starsky.”
“Not that!” Starsky protested. “I just think there’re some things I’m better at than others.”
“Like tinkering with that old tractor-mower Gilbert left for us.”
“Right. I’m gonna get that thing humming, Hutch, or I spent what could’ve been my misspent youth in Uncle Al’s garage for nothin’! I just need time to pamper the old girl, that’s all.”
“All right.” Hutch had him right where he wanted him. “What if I told you there’s a way we could get the paddock repaired by the weekend and you could have all the time you wanted with old Bessie or whatever you’ve named that tractor?”
“How’s that? I’m not lettin’ you do all that back breaking work yourself, buddy, no way in hell!”
Hutch kissed him again. “I may have a helper lined up.”
Starsky looked around. “Where? You got some little farm elf I don’t know about?”
“Not an elf. You could call him a farm ‘fairy,’ I guess, but he’d take a swing at you for it. Guess who moved in to the old Luna Branch place a couple of weeks ago?”
“Who?”
“Two lovebirds by the name of Kel Brackett and John Gage. Johnny’s the new captain at our friendly neighborhood Station 86.” He prepared to defuse an impending explosion. Starsky blinked at him and then that gaze stilled, turning darker and serious, searching Hutch right down to his soul. Starsky smiled. Hutch let out a pent-in breath.
“Oh, yeah? We got a doc and a fireman next door? Good to know. Probably would’ve been better for us if Brackett was a vet instead of a people doctor, but–ow!” He rubbed his arm where Hutch had popped him one. “How’d you find all this out?”
“I ran into Johnny at the feed and seed place this morning. Brackett’s got him good and hooked. I feel bad for them. They have to be so careful Brackett can’t even live here with Johnny full time.”
“Rough. We’re lucky, I won’t deny it. Gage offered to help you with the paddock?”
“He did. He’s off tomorrow, but Brackett’s on at Rampart.”
Starsky gave him another serious look. “Sure, why not.”
“You’re not just being nice about it because you feel you owe him for…” Hutch fought images he didn’t need in his head. “For saving your life?”
Starsky drew him down into another bruising kiss, this one rough and hard to prove his healing strength and vitality. “I heard it from Dobey, Hutch. That day, you saved my life. Gage just took the chance you gave him and made the most of it until those docs could get hold of me at County. Not saying I don’t owe him. And I’m grateful. Always will be. But that’s not why I don’t have a problem with him hanging out here helping us out.”
“I noticed I’m not seeing a green tint to your complexion.”
Rolling Hutch over on the blanket, Starsky pressed their crotches together. “I was jealous back when I thought Gage could give you something I couldn’t, Hutch. After today I know for damned sure there’s nothing you can’t get from me. You were right, I do want to own the team, but I’ve found it’s a hell of a lot more fun to own the team when I’m playing ball, too. You belong to me. I know it, you know it. You know the same about me. Why be jealous?”
“You’re one hell of a man, Starsky. I just thank Christ you’re mine!”
“‘Sides,” Starsky said with a mischievous tone, grinding their crotches. “If he’s dumb enough to make a pass at you, I can kick his scrawny ass and send him back to Brackett for a patch-up.”
Laughing, Hutch prepared to initiate a roll of his own to fuel a bout of wrestling, but a weird hybrid of howl and whine had Starsky gripping Hutch to his chest for dear life. “What’sat!”
Hutch tried to look around the man determined to use him as a human security blanket. “I think it’s a coyote, Starsk. They usually howl by night, but they don’t just hide in holes during the day. Could be we have one somewhere out–”
“Somewhere right there!” Starsky half-shrieked.
Hutch twisted his head around to follow Starsky’s pointing finger. Behind them at the base of their little hill, an unusually large, tan-grayish coyote watched them. His ears were perked and tail flat behind him, not bushy and horizontal in a threat, but Hutch still wished he had his shotgun as a deterrent in case the animal was rabid, since he had approached that closely with no fear. Then thoughts of a deterrent fled as he had to fend off Starsky’s grappling arms because his partner was trying to shove him all the way under his body. His hero, Hutch smiled to himself, inwardly falling harder still for Starsky and his instinct to protect Hutch even when his own fear was palpable.
“Still a city boy, aren’t you?”
Starsky ignored the affectionate taunt. “Why’s it just staring at us like that?”
“He might think this is his territory. Unusual to see one out by himself this time of year. It’s their mating season. Relax, Starsk, coyotes are generally more afraid of us than we are of them.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say about spiders, snakes, and a bunch of other wild animals that like to eat people for snacks!”
“Coyotes aren’t known for eating people, Starsky, but it’s a good thing we aren’t in the horse breeding business yet. I’m told during foaling season, coyotes can be a pain in the ass.”
“You mean they eat baby horses!” Starsky yelled.
“Calm down. We’d never let a foal out without supervision. Man, that’s a granddaddy of coyotes. I’ve never seen one that big.” The coyote yipped at them, gave a little whine, and then a louder yelp. “He’s a handsome specimen. So expressive.”
“Well, why don’t you put a leash on him and name him, damn it!” Starsky snapped.
The coyote had obviously communicated what he wanted. With another yelp, the impressive animal loped off toward a clump of trees at the border of their property. Starsky rolled away from Hutch and lay on his back again, his chest rising and falling rapidly in his excitement “I don’t know why I feel this way,” Hutch said. “But I think we just got some sort of mythic approval.”
“Listen, nature boy, if you’re gonna start waxin’ Zen over a damned foal-eating coyote–!”
Hutch kissed him quiet. “You know what, Starsk? This morning I heard you complaining about the bullfrogs out in the little natural pond behind the barn.”
“They were loud this mornin’, Hutch.”
“Right. You know what you need? You need some city time.”
Starsky’s expression brightened immediately. “Yeah?”
“Why don’t we pack an overnight bag and hit the road? Maybe try Anaheim? Take in a movie, get a steak dinner. And Huggy could probably hook us up with a good, clean hot spot like The Wildewood. Somewhere we could dance up a sweat in each other’s arms.”
“When we do that in those places, we’re being shameless prick-teases, Hutch, ’cause we both know we’re never leaving with anybody but each other.”
“So? That’s part of the fun. And when we do leave with each other, we’ll find a nice hotel.”
Starsky’s jeans sported a mouth-watering bulge. “We get rowdy in hotel rooms, Hutch.”
“Oh, hell yes!”
Starsky grinned. “We need to be back tomorrow to get things ready for Star and Sun Kiss.”
Hutch traced the rings on Starsky’s pinky. “You’re really fine with all this? I know you have some leads on starting a youth intervention program, and you just might turn out a fine horseman.”
“Hutch, this is the first Valentine’s Day of the new decade, and already it’s a doozy! Best I’ve ever had. What I want more’n anything else is fifty more Valentine’s Days like this one to show you just how fine I am with all of it. I have you. We’ve got your mom, Aunt Ruth, Huggy, the Dobeys–family, Hutch, the kind that loves us for who we are. And, hey, sounds like we have good neighbors. I meant what I said. We’re lucky. We’re alive, we’re in love, and when we hit the sheets, or wherever we hit, we put the ‘hot’ in hot sex. What’s not to be fine with?”
Jumping up from the blanket, Hutch stretched his legs, limbering up for a run. He beckoned for Starsky. “If you beat me back to the house, you can fuck me over that big kitchen table before we leave for the city.” He took off down the hill. “Don’t forget the picnic basket!” he called over his shoulder. He was evil, he knew it. He also knew Starsky loved it. He turned his head briefly to watch Starsky fumbling with the basket and breaking into a dead run behind him.
Laughing, Hutch pelted toward the farmhouse. Starsky was yelling obscenities at him, love in every word. Somewhere in the distance, that almost human-sounding coyote howl lifted to the sky. Hutch smiled and put on a burst of speed. His miraculous partner wouldn’t want to win without a fight. Starsky was right. They were lucky. They were alive, they were in love….
And their dreams were coming true.
Epilogue
Starsky shed his light-weight jacket in the car, knowing he’d be drenched in sweat if he wore it over to the stables. June ’86 had proven hotter than usual on the farm. On his way back from the store, he’d passed the vet, so he knew he’d find Hutch out keeping an eye on Sun Kiss. God, the man loved his horse. Starsky issued another plea skyward: Not laminitis, not laminitis. He couldn’t fault the man’s affection. Starsky was shamelessly in love with Star, and the vet had better have left good news about his boy, too. If Star was sick, Starsky would…hell, he couldn’t think about it. He took the groceries over to the house and put them away so he wouldn’t have to think about it a while longer. The suspense got the better of him and pushed him toward the stables. Maybe their luck would hold. Just the day before he and Hutch had gone in for their annual physicals and received a clean bill of health, including the all clear on a very important new blood test they’d taken a couple of weeks previously. If he and Hutch were touched by the hand of benevolent fate, then maybe their beloved horses were as well. Sure enough, Starsky found Hutch leaning on the door of Sun Kiss’ stall, crooning at his stallion. Starsky slipped up and hugged him from behind, kissing his neck.
“Ah, hey, gorgeous guy.” Hutch looked down at Starsky’s hands clasped around his waist.
“Hey, I saw Doc Baker on my way in. What’s the word?”
“He was here, yeah. He says he doesn’t think laminitis is to blame for the swelling. I thought the edema might be too far from the hoof to be laminitic, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Believe it or not, he thinks it’s a reaction to a bee sting, and ointments might do the trick without resorting to systemic corticosteroid.”
“Oh, man, Hutch, that’s terrific! And…And Star?” There. He’d said it, and his voice didn’t shake even if his hands did. A little. He’d die before he let Hutch see his fear.
“I told him Star had been off his feed the last couple of days, and Doc Baker gave him a good going over. Seems the problem is your fault, Starsky.”
Starsky involuntarily tightened his arms around Hutch’s waist. “My fault! What’d I do?”
Hutch turned a smile over his shoulder at him. “Well, with this new group of kids here, you haven’t had as much time for him this week. He’s missing you, Starsky. Doc Baker said he’s otherwise very fit and healthy.” Starsky jumped around in a circle, whooping for dear life until Hutch shushed him with a hand over his mouth and a wild-eyed look reminding him that he didn’t make that kind of noise in a stable full of horses. “You want to try feeding him?” Hutch guessed.
“You bet your hot hunk of ass!” Starsky grabbed him in a feverish kiss, dancing him around. Hutch gave in to the whirling dervish act for a minute then pushed Starsky away, laughing, and handed him a bucket of fresh oats. Starsky went over to Star’s stall and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Hey, how’s my favorite four-legged fella?” Star lingered in the back of his stall, giving Starsky a baleful look. “Oh, hey, I know. Have I been a bad Starsky? Real bad? I’m sorry I haven’t been out here as much. Come ‘ere, pretty boy. Come on.” Star nickered and eased over to the stall’s half door, nudging Starsky’s shoulder with his nose. Starsky stroked his forehead and held up the bucket of sweet-smelling oats. “Wanna try a little of this for your Starsky, huh, boy?”
Hutch laughed. “The way you talk to that horse. I’ve known proud fathers of two-year-olds who didn’t talk like that.”
“Shaddup,” Starsky said out of the corner of his mouth. Star approved of the variation on baby talk. He dipped his head and sank his mouth down into the bucket. Starsky heard the welcome sound of munching. “That’s my boy!” He waited until Star showed every sign of taking in the regular amount and then eased the bucket over the door to hang it for Star’s ease of access. “You just take in all that good stuff, and later this evening when it’s cool you and me’ll go for a nice long ride. Just the two of us.” With another pat on Star’s nose, Starsky left him to his meal.
Hutch smiled. “Doc Baker said you’d be the cure.”
“I think this calls for a celebration,” Starsky told him. “Our good news yesterday, good news again today. Come ‘ere, my big blond beauty, you.” He pressed his happy lover against the door of the neighboring empty stall and kissed him breathless, wishing they didn’t have two layers of denim between them. Going down on bended knee, he did battle with Hutch’s tricky belt buckle. If he didn’t get his mouth on Hutch’s mile-long hard-on in the next minute–!
Hutch panted and thrust his hips but knew better than to assist with Starsky’s frenzied efforts. “Is this a good idea? When’re the kids due back from the forest hike with their stalwart guide?”
“Not until lunch. Then they’ll have an hour or so to rest before career day gets underway. Kel and Johnny aren’t supposed to be here for another hour. God, I gotta have you, Hutch, please! And you better not be thinking about that stalwart guide while I do, hear me?”
Hutch smacked him on the top of the head. “You’re an asshole, you know that? I made a general comment, that was all. He couldn’t be you, or come close to you, if someone put him through retrograde genetic engineering.”
“You get that lingo from him? That’s it!” Starsky jerked Hutch’s jeans down. He knew it revved Hutch’s engines when he played a little jealous. He was possessive, and he didn’t apologize for it. “Next time a fancy-schmancy think tank in Seattle wants us to host a group of kids from their at-risk youth program, I’m personally vetting the chaperone. No more hunky physicists who like to flaunt their leather jackets and Swiss Army knives!”
“Straight hunky physicist. Now shut up and suck me, you damn fool!” Hutch lightly shoved Starsky’s head down over his raging erection. Starsky sucked him in, marveling at the taste, the scent, the explosion of passion that only gripped him with this one person. He had Hutch halfway to babbling when approaching hoof beats made Hutch jerk and get a teeth scrape for his trouble. “Starsk, let go!” Starsky sucked harder and fondled Hutch’s sac. “Starsk, Starsk…that’s Johnny and Kel, they’ll…Starsky, they’ll hear me!” Starsky grinned around his mouthful and turned up the heat, rubbing the sensitive seam of skin just behind Hutch’s balls. Down to minutes before potential discovery, he exchanged his mouth for his hand, jerking Hutch’s cock and angling to catch the flood against his chest the way he loved. With a sharp, loud cry that garbled Starsky’s name and a few other words, Hutch painted the New York on Starsky’s t-shirt with creamy spurts. The rush of joy and love had Starsky’s cock pulsing in his undershorts. Hutch slid to the side and hastily tucked himself away, zipping up. Starsky took his time standing. “You get to greet the neighbors,” Hutch told him, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Aw, Hutch, I just came in my friggin’ pants, and look at my shirt!”
“Should’ve thought of that before you refused to put the brakes on.” Hutch kissed him. “I need to see to Sun Kiss.”
“Damned pain in the ass blond,” Starsky grumbled.
“Me or the horse?”
“Both of you,” Starsky grouched. Pulling the soiled t-shirt over his shoulders, he rolled it into a ball and stuffed it down in an empty oats bucket hanging from its nail on the stall post. Casting about for a replacement, he yanked the green t-shirt out of Hutch’s jeans and hoisted it over his loudly protesting lover’s face. “I’ll just wear this.”
Hutch didn’t quite manage to look stormy while Starsky slipped into the borrowed t-shirt and left it untucked to hide his groin. “What’ll I do for a shirt now, genius?”
“Fine by me if you parade around shirtless.” Starsky had a heated look for Hutch’s tanned chest. If he looked any longer he’d have to lick those brown nipples, so he turned to leave.
“Starsk?”
“Yeah?”
“You want me parading around shirtless in front of the stalwart guide?”
Starsky swiveled and pointed in the direction of the house. “Flannel. Long sleeve. I better not see you out there with anything that isn’t buttoned to your neck!” He pretended to stomp away.
“Starsk?” Hutch called again.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
Starsky carried an ear-to-ear smile outside into the June sunlight. Johnny and Kel had dismounted and stood beside their respective mounts. Their matching smirks caused a wave of heat to flood Starsky’s cheeks. Johnny’s jeans and red short-sleeved safari shirt were a common sight, but after years, Starsky still felt a jarring sensation when he saw Kelly Brackett, M.D. in jeans and a plain white cotton button-up. The man just didn’t look the same out of dressy clothes and a long lab coat. He didn’t look bad, though. Not at all. Youthful and vigorous at fifty-two, the doctor would keep Johnny Gage dancing a high step for decades to come, Starsky was sure of it.
“Celebrating something?” Johnny asked with a smile and nod at the stables.
“You’re early!” Starsky wagged a fist at him. “And that’s none of your damned–oh, hell. Yeah, we were celebrating. We know what you mean now about the euphoric high. Results came back yesterday. Should’ve tested sooner. You guys kept telling us how good it felt to get the all clear.”
Johnny broke into one of his jaw-busting grins. Kel didn’t release the reins that held his big strawberry roan mare, Blaze, in check, but he extended his free arm and slapped Starsky on the back. “Thank God. I’m glad to hear it!”
“We’re celebrating, too.” Johnny gave Kel a look of fierce pride. “Kel’s emergency clinic turned three years old today.”
“Well, happy birthday.” Starsky clapped his hand on Kel’s shoulder. “You ever miss Rampart?”
“Every now and then, yes. But the people out here need good medical care closer at hand, and starting that satellite clinic was the best move I’ve made in a long while. Of course, the best part of the deal is that it allows me to live with my sexy fireman here full time.”
Soothing his restless pinto, Coyote, with a neck massage, Johnny flashed a smile at his partner. Starsky didn’t know why he had chosen to name such a beautiful horse “Coyote” and Johnny clammed right up whenever asked. Hutch emerged from the stables and received two enthusiastic greetings. He wasn’t in flannel, but he’d found an old yellow t-shirt somewhere in the stables that didn’t look too shabby. With his arm around Starsky’s shoulders, Hutch lapsed into horse talk with Johnny, sharing the good news about Star and Sun Kiss.
“Congratulations on the newest group of kids to go through your intervention program,” Kel said to Starsky with a bright smile. “When word of your success with at-risk youth travels all the way to Seattle, you know you’ve made a name for yourself.”
“Thanks, but I’m really just the coordinator. The various agencies and organizations that sponsor the kids make it possible. Hutch and I host them and line up the activities and field trips, and we work closely with the chaperones who come with the kids.” Hutch’s arm tightened around Starsky’s shoulders, and he gave in to a devilish impulse. “My partner here finds it more enjoyable to work closely with some chaperones than others.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow at Hutch, who promptly flushed scarlet. Before Hutch could exact his revenge on Starsky, an approaching car engine distracted them all, and Johnny had to talk Coyote out of rearing at the noise. The rented Plymouth Voyager van pulled to a stop well shy of the stables, and Starsky shaded his eyes from the sun to watch the passengers file out. The driver was the last to disembark, and Hutch nudged Starsky. “Will you behave like an adult if I go over there to see how their hike went? I don’t know why they’re back this early.”
Starsky grinned. “Sure, but you so much as look at him too long, I’ll take him out the hard way!”
Shaking his head and brandishing his fist with a “you’re in trouble later” glare, Hutch left to meet the six teenagers and their guide at the van. Starsky turned around and found Johnny staring slack jawed at the guide. About half an inch taller than Johnny and Hutch, the man had light brown hair, a little spiky in front, that caught the sunlight and shimmered. He wore khaki utility pants and a light green cammo shirt over a beige tank top, and Starsky had to admit the guy’s aviator shades added something to his rugged features and boy next door smile.
“Who is that!?” Johnny cried out.
“Down, boy,” Kel advised sternly.
“I think he’s a spy,” Starsky griped.
“A what?” Kel and Johnny asked in unison.
“Supposedly he’s got a degree in physics, chemistry, something, and works for the Foundation that sponsors these kids. I ask you, does that look like a physicist?”
Johnny chuckled, scratching his forehead. “I dunno, I was once kicked out of an ad about firemen because the client didn’t think I looked like a fireman.”
Kel gave him a sultry look. “You don’t, Johnny Angel. You’ve always looked like a movie star.”
Johnny caressed Kel’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Thanks, hon.”
Starsky was too interested in the mystery of the farm’s visitor to comment on his friends’ affection. “This guy plays amateur hockey, f’God’s sake. I swear he’s had some special forces training, but Hutch rolls his eyes whenever I say anything about it. Man won’t even tell us his first name! Worse than Huggy Bear about it, I’m telling you.”
“Is he–” Johnny was nearly salivating.
“He’s straight. Not narrow, by any means, but definitely straight. Liberal tree hugger if ever I met one, and he’s from Minnesota, so he and Hutch are thick as thieves.”
“Crying damn shame,” Johnny said.
“What?”
“That he’s straight, and I’m taken.”
“Hey, watch it, lover boy!” Kel protested, but he didn’t sound at all worried.
Starsky threw both hands in the air. “Hutch said the same damned thing!” He grinned at Kel. “What’re guys like us to do, Kel?”
Kel gave the man talking to Hutch a lengthy once-over. “I say, if we can’t beat them, we join them, or use what they say against them.”
“Oh, I’ve been doing plenty of that. Can you imagine the mileage I’ve been getting in the bedroom out of all this? I’ll actually be sorry to see the guy go in a week.”
“You really think he’s some kind of spy?” Johnny asked.
“Well, I’ll tell you this, what the man can do with duct tape, a ballpoint pen, and a stick of chewing gum is something out of the CIA or Marvel comics, take your pick.” Starsky watched the guide lead the kids off to the two cabins that had been built for the sole purpose of hosting guests of the intervention program. Hutch returned to the trio of onlookers. “Problems?” Starsky asked.
“Tommy developed stomach cramps. Mac decided to hike the kids in early while a ranger drove Tommy back to the trail head to wait for them. Kel, would you mind–”
Kel was already handing Blaze’s reins to Johnny. “I’ll have a look, certainly.” His gait started out easy but picked up pace as he neared the cabins.
Johnny led the horses to the stable. “I’ll take care of these two. You think career day’s still on?”
“Should be,” Hutch said. “I don’t think it’s anything serious. You and Kel can tell the kids all about careers in medicine and fire rescue work, and Starsky and I’ll regale them with tales from the LAPD and running a horse farm. Mac’s all set to sing the praises of science. By the end of the day, they’ll all decide to go into construction work.”
Johnny laughed and coaxed Blaze and Coyote into the stables. Starsky raked his eyes over his gorgeous lover, reveling in all the little details that came together to make him Hutch: shining blond hair, slightly crooked mustache thanks to a hurried trim job that morning, clear blue eyes, perfectly kissable lips, strong shoulders, mind boggling body. “So? You convert him yet?”
After a second or two of silence, Hutch put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes skyward. “Sure, Starsky, in front of six teenagers in broad daylight, I converted him to the joy of man love. I know exactly what you’re doing. When we’re behind our closed bedroom door tonight, you want a good solid fuck-and-suck, don’t you?”
Starsky put a hand over his heart. “God,” he gasped. “You think I’m that…devious?”
“You’re a paradoxical blend of devious and transparent. I love you that way. I love you, and only you, period. And you don’t need a handsome stranger showing up at the farm for me to reassure you of that any time you need it.”
“I know I own the team.” Starsky grinned. “But I don’t want you to think I take it for granted.”
Hutch’s smile was tender but spicy. “I know you don’t. I’m still walking on a cloud from that little interlude in the stable just now. I’m proud of you, Starsky. Proud of all this, all that we have. I couldn’t do it without you.”
“And vice versa, thanks, Hutch. Tell you what, though.”
“What?”
“You could use your charms to wheedle the guy’s first name out of him.”
“Arrgh, you son-of-a–” With a guilty glance at the cabins, Hutch bit his lip and gave Starsky a shove toward the stable. “I should sling you in the manure pile!”
Starsky laughed, head over heels in love with his partner and his life. “I love you, too, Hutch.”
The End
Comments can be sent to the author either through the review function of the archive or directly at: kam2003sh@excite.com
~*~*~
Acknowledgments from Kaye Austen Michaels
My heartfelt gratitude goes out to the following individuals without whom this novel would never have been the life-changing journey it became for me:
Ellis Murdock: My medical consultant. Ellis, you are as much my sister as if we were related by blood, and your wisdom and sense of humor are astonishing. Thank you for giving so generously of your time and knowledge to help me achieve medical realism in this work wherever television canon allowed. You never complained no matter how many questions I had, or how many times I asked you to proof a medical sequence I’d written. You’re an imp, angel, and “ancient soul” all combined, and it’s a tremendous honor to know you. Thank you for being the first person I could show my truest self. Your unfailing support has been a lifeline.
Keri T: My editor and publisher. Keri, when I sent you the first 200 pages of this novel, I didn’t even realize how much my own life was changing as I was writing this story. I think it is a cosmic blessing that I overcame my shyness and shared the roughest draft WIP with you, because your subsequent encouragement, enthusiasm, and inspiration helped me travel from page 200 to page 343! When I revealed to you that I was awakening to a new concept of self, and how that pertained to my writing and this novel, you became fiercely protective of my creative vision, as dedicated to my cause as a mother cat to her kitten. Your compassion, concern, and advice have been essential to this novel. This has truly been a team effort, and I will always appreciate your hard work, selfless gift of time, and wisdom. You kept me true to what I wanted most for this novel: realism. Thank you for your patience when Real Life crowded in and pushed us down to the very wire time-wise with this project. Thank you doesn’t even cover it!
CC: A constant source of moral support and inspiration. CC, your encouragement of this novel when it was just a 20-page fledgling idea gave me the courage to spread my wings and explore vistas I never thought I would reach. From beginning to end, you have been a part of this experience, and I hope that the sunshine of your spirit shows through my portrayal of Dixie McCall, R.N. Dixie at her very best on Emergency! reminds me of you, CC: your lovely sense of humor, practicality, bravery, selflessness, and accomplishment.
Karen-Leigh: My mentor and lucky talisman. Karen-Leigh, your belief in me and what I have always wanted to accomplish as a writer has been a gift in my life ever since we first corresponded in 2001. Your beta-editing of my earliest works taught me how to stretch and grow as a writer. Your “reader’s ear” is one of the best I’ve ever encountered. Thank you for being such an important part of my fandom experience and fandom family.
S/H Readers: Thank you for traveling this road with me. Without our shared love of Starsky and Hutch, I wouldn’t have had the blessing of fandom and fanfiction in my life. Thank you for your support of my work, and for your encouragement. For those of you who have corresponded with me offlist, I very much hope to be a more frequent correspondent with each of you in the future as I overcome my health challenges, and look forward to being more active in fandom in the future.
~*~*~
Acknowledgments from Keri
Like KAM, I also have a few people I need to thank:
Lorraine: Thank you for the gorgeous cover and interior illustration! As always, your talent just shines in every piece. You didn’t have time for this project, and yet you took it on anyway–with gorgeous results. I’m truly grateful. I hope you’ll always be a part of VPP zines.
CC: You’re a wonderful friend. Thank you for the gift of your time and support. I owe you a big box of chocolates.
And last but certainly not least–to KAM: What a ride we’ve had, huh? This has been an amazing experience and I thank you so much for asking me to be your editor/publisher–it was an honor. You’re an incredible person and an inspirational writer. The clearness of your vision and your sense of purpose in writing this story was simply remarkable. I admire your character, talent, kindness and sense of humor more than I can say. Thank you for letting me share the ride.
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