Broken Glass

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Hutch is in a bad mood and learns a valuable lesson about friendship.

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“Know what I wonder?” Starsky asks.

“Nothing would surprise me,” I reply dryly.

“Just who invented cottage cheese anyway?” my ever-curious partner asks and takes a bite of his cheeseburger. “And, more importantly, how did they know when they were done?”

Spoonful of cottage cheese suspended mid-air, I open my mouth to say something, but the words simply won’t come. Starsky’s logic often leaves me at a loss for words, and this is no exception. How can I possibly argue with that? I place the spoon back in the bowl and pick up the fresh peach I’ve been nibbling on. Sighing, I take a bite and stare at the passing traffic out the window of the small diner.

“Well?” Starsky says through another mouthful of burger.

“Well, what?”

“Ever think about it?”

Mockingly, I shake my head. “No, Starsk. I guess I’m just not that inquisitive.”

“Uh-huh.” Starsky wipes the corner of his mouth with his disgusting, wadded up, ketchup-stained napkin.

“Know what I wonder?” I say and lean in close.

“What?” His curiosity always gets the best of him.

“How one man can eat so much crap and still manage to function on a daily basis.” A satisfied smile on my face, I place the spoonful of cottage cheese in my mouth, pulling the empty spoon back out with an exaggerated swipe.

Starsky snorts. “Well, at least I’m not eating curdled milk.”

“No, fried, greasy animal carcass is much better for you.” I answer sharply.

“Whatever.” Starsky says, rolling his eyes as he pops the last of the burger into his mouth.

“Whatever,” I mock him.

God, will this day ever end? It’s been one of THOSE days with Starsky. There’s always something on his mind. Always something to yammer about, endlessly, on and on, until I think I’m gonna scream. Starsky can be so damned irritating when he wants to be. Some days I just want to know, why me? How did I get stuck with a living, breathing version of “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” for a partner? And where does he come up with these things anyway? He’s as busy as I am, and I certainly don’t have time to sit and ponder about the world’s biggest tumor.

“You know, you’ve been grouchy all day. What’s eatin’ at ya anyway?” he asks me.

OK, now he’s just pushing my buttons. He knows perfectly well what’s eating at me–he is.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Bull,” he says back.

“Just let it be,” I warn him. Might as well talk to the wall.

“Well, if I have to spend another three hours with Mr. Grumpy 1978, I’d like to know what’s going on in that big blond head of his.”

“Just let it be,” I say it slower, more deliberate, in a tone I think he’ll understand.

“All right.” He sighs at me.

The waitress comes over and he begins turning on the old Starsky charm. Poor girl is falling for it, too. She’ll probably be another notch on the David Starsky headboard before the month’s up. I’m sure I’ll be drug in here day after day until he finally lands a date with her. She is pretty–tall redhead, gorgeous green eyes. And she seems nice enough. I can see their children now. Curly-topped Irish Jews with lopsided smiles, wearing waitress caps and blue Adidas sneakers, reciting endless trivial facts about things nobody gives two shits about. The image makes me smirk.

“Thank you, Lily,” Starsky says, reading her nametag. “It was great. And the service wasn’t all that bad either, schweetheart. Keep the change.” He waggles his eyebrows and hands her some money.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling and batting her eyes. One, two, three—oh, there it is. The giggle. God, why do girls fall for that ‘schweetheart’ crap?

“Are you ready?” I ask him.

He glares at me out of the corner of his eye. “Give me a minute,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, I’ll be in the car, should you decide you’d like to get back to work at some point today.” I get up from the table and leave the diner.

I step outside and take a deep breath full of smog. There, sitting across the street, is the other source of my discontent. That damned car. Big, gaudy, hideous overripe tomato with the glaring white stripe. Tires he can’t afford, waxed and polished until the glare hurts your eyes. I swear, if that car and me were both sinking into the ocean, he’d do everything he could to save it before he’d even THINK about throwing me a life preserver. Oh, come on, Hutchinson, you know that’s not true. He’d crawl across broken glass for you and you know it. God, what is wrong with me anyway? Why am I so frigging irritated lately?

I cross the street and yank open the Torino’s door. I flop down in the passenger’s seat and look back at the diner. He’s still in there, smiling, mouth going a mile a minute. Not a stupid care in the world. Lily is laughing and writing on her notepad. She tears off the sheet and gives it to him. Mission accomplished. Well, maybe I won’t be drug back here anytime soon. Especially not after he drops her for some other waitress, or stewardess, or secretary or female construction worker. Too bad. I could almost stomach their food, although I’d never admit it to him.

He comes bounding out of the diner and practically dances across the street. Lily is watching him as she takes an older couple’s order. He pauses before getting in the car and waves at her. She shyly returns the wave and he climbs inside, humming. I just stare straight ahead and say nothing. The humming stops and I can see out of the corner of my eye he’s looking at me.

“Know what?” he asks.

“I know lots of things,” I answer.

“She’s got a friend,” he says.

I continue not to look at him. “Well, good for her. We all need friends.”

He leans against the door. “No, smart guy, she’s got a friend for you. She says she’s really pretty and smart. Works for an insurance company.”

“How fascinating.” I’m still not looking at him.

“Thought we could double date. Haven’t done that in a while.”

OK, I’ll look at him. “Thank you, but no thank you. I’m sure Lily’s insurance company friend is just the bee’s knees, but I think I’m busy that day.” I turn on my most condescending tone.

He chuffs at me. I hate it when he does that. “Suit yourself, Mr. High and Mighty. Next time I’ll make sure and find you a rocket scientist or brain surgeon or something.”

“How about you try not to let there be a ‘next time.’ ” I raise an eyebrow at him.

He looks at me for a second longer, then starts the car. “Man, you really are in a bad mood, ain’t ya?”

“You got it,” I say and look back through the windshield.

“Boy, I’ll sure be glad when I drop you off tonight, Mr. Breath of Fresh Air,” he says and pulls into traffic.

“Not any happier than I’ll be, Mr. Can’t Even Have Lunch Without Hitting on Everything in a Skirt.” There. That’ll get him.

“Jealous?” he smirks.

“Nope. Just embarrassed.” The words had barely left my mouth before the regret set in.

“Embarrassed about what?” Now his eyebrows are raised.

“Starsky…” I don’t want to go there, Starsk. Please take the hint.

He’s never been very good at taking hints, except when we’re working, of course. “No, no. You said it. Go on, spit it out. I embarrass you?”

“Forget it, will ya?”

He shakes his head. “No, I won’t forget it, Hutch. Do I embarrass you?”

I look at him questioningly for a moment. Maybe it would do me good to get some things out into the open. “Honestly?” I ask him.

“Honestly.” He nods.

I shrug. “Sometimes.”

“When sometimes?”

I don’t know why exactly, but something in the tone of his voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. So I let him have it, both barrels. “Like when you don’t know when to keep your mouth shut. When you’re rattling off some strange fact that you’ve read in World News Report or hitting on some poor waitress when all you should be doing is having lunch and getting back to work.”

“I see,” he says flatly.

I shake my head at him, no longer able to control my words. “No, Starsky, you don’t see. You don’t see yourself at all. You’re just this big kid walking around in a man’s body. You drive this stupid toy car and wear those crummy Salvation Army clothes. You chase everything in a skirt. You just don’t care about anything that’s important.”

We’ve hit a red light, so he turns his head sharply and looks me straight in the eye. “I don’t, huh? Like what? What should I care about, Hutch? Health food and looking like I just stepped off the cover of GQ? Should I walk around with the weight of the world on my shoulders all the time, biting everybody’s head off? Would that not embarrass you?”

The light turns green and he steps hard on the gas, forcing my head back against the seat. I sit up and look at him. “Well, it would help if you cared about something, instead of just bouncing around like some big dopey puppy waiting for its master to come home and play.”

“You really think I don’t care about anything?”

“I don’t ever see any evidence of it.”

His knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “No, huh? Well, Blondie, maybe you should pull your head out of that tight ass of yours and look around once in a while. I care about plenty.”

Hey, wait a minute! “Tight ass?” I repeat.

He smiles smugly and nods. “Yes, tight ass. Anybody put a lump of coal up there, they’d have a diamond in about five minutes.”

That does it. I’m done feeling bad. He asked for this–every last bit of it. “Oh, so just because I have more on my mind than what motor oil to put in my car or what woman I’m gonna get a blow job from over the weekend, that makes me a tight ass?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He’s still smiling.

That smile is making my blood boil. “Well, I’d rather be a tight ass than a moron any day.” It was a crummy thing to say, but it makes me feel good—for a second anyway. The silence that follows makes me feel anything but good.

His low and flat voice breaks the silence. “Moron, huh? That’s what you really think of me?”

Suddenly, I don’t feel quite so smart. “Starsky, I…” For some reason the apology won’t come, so I light into him again. “God, Starsk, why couldn’t you just leave it alone, huh? You knew I was in no mood for your crap today, and you just laid it on anyway. I swear, you were just looking for a fight. Well, are you happy now?”

Another red light, only this time he’s not looking at me. He’s playing with the hem of his T-shirt. A T-shirt I bought for him, I realize. “No, Hutch, I can honestly say that I am not happy now. I was happy.” He looks away from the shirt and out the window so that I’m staring at the back of his bobbing head. “But you, as usual, just couldn’t have that. No, you have to pick at me and say mean things until I’m just as miserable as you are. I don’t know what your problem is lately, but I’m pretty damned tired of it, I can tell you that.”

The truth hurts, they say. Sure does, and it makes me angry all over again. I snort. “You’re tired of it? That’s a laugh! You don’t know what tired is, Gordo, until you’ve driven around all day in this–this piece of junk listening to…” He slams on the brakes, and we’re not even at a red light.

He turns in his seat and his eyes roam angrily over my face. “You know what? I got your point, Hutch, OK? You don’t have to say it again. I mean, I know I’m a moron and all, but I understood you the first time. Just drop it before one of us says something we’re gonna regret.”

Too late for that, buddy. “Starsky…” I don’t know what I’m about to say.

He solves that problem for me. “I said to drop it,” he says and lets off the brake. He bites his lip and changes lanes. Gripping the steering wheel harder with his right hand, he rests his chin on his left. He has that look in his eye, the one he gets when someone has hurt his feelings. Lately, I’ve been the one responsible for that look, a fact I’m not overly proud of, that’s for sure.

I look away from him and stare out the passenger window, wondering just what exactly is wrong with me anyway. Why have I been so mean to him? I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I know I haven’t been very pleasant. I want to tell him I don’t know what’s wrong, and I want him to tell me that it’s all right. I want him to tell me some silly joke and then I’ll laugh and he’ll laugh and it’ll all be OK again. I want anything right now but this damned uncomfortable silence. But what I want to do and what I actually do have been two different things lately. So instead I just continue to sit there, drumming my fingers on my knee, hoping that the next few hours pass as quickly as possible so that I can just go home and try to clear my head.

The sudden crackle of the radio startles us both. “All units, all units in the vicinity of Turner and Vine, domestic disturbance reported at 3806 Turner. Please respond.”

We both reach for the microphone. He pulls his hand back first, so I take it. “Zebra 3, we are in the area and responding.”

“Roger, Zebra 3. Approach with caution. Possible hostage situation.”

“10-4. ETA…” I glance at him.

“Three minutes,” he says, looking at his watch.

“Three minutes.” I repeat into the mike and hang it back in its holder.

I slap the mars light on the roof and Starsky hits the siren. We arrive in less than three minutes. He slides the car to a stop. That familiar brief second between us before we enter a dangerous situation happens–the one where our eyes lock and he gives me a small nod and I give him a slight smile. Translation: “Don’t get hurt.” I don’t know when it started, it’s probably always been there–I’m just damn glad it’s there today.

We’re the first on the scene. Starsky bounds into the building before me and is met in the lobby by a hysterical woman surrounded by three crying children. Her lip is split open and a black eye has already begun. The children, all varying ages, appear to be physically unharmed. I stand behind Starsky and listen as she explains her ex-boyfriend, a heroin junkie, busted into her apartment and began trashing the place looking for money. When she tried to stop him, he beat her up. He must have realized the police were on the way, because he literally threw her out the door, followed by three of her children. There’s a fourth child, a six-year-old girl, still inside.

“Please, get my baby!” The woman screams at us.

“What’s his name?” Starsky asks.

“Ba–Basil.”

“Does he have a gun?”

“No, no, he doesn’t.”

“Which apartment?” I ask.

The lady points at the door across the hall. Starsky glances over his shoulder at me and we move, in unison, toward the door. I look back at the lady and whisper, “Stay there.” She nods and gathers her children closer.

“Basil?” Starsky calls out as he raps on the door with the barrel of his gun. “Basil, it’s the police. Open the door.”

There’s a lot of incoherent babbling coming from inside the apartment. We can hear the sobs of a small child. Starsky looks at me questioningly. “Think we should we go in?” he’s asking me with his eyes. I nod and take the safety off my gun.

“Basil, open the door now!” Starsky gives him one more warning. There’s no response. Knowing it’s locked, Starsky steps back and kicks at the door. The second kick causes the door to fly open and the door jam splinters. I immediately crouch in the doorway, with Starsky hovering above me, his gun pointing to the left, mine to the right.

Seeing nothing but a lot of broken furniture and glass, we both move in. We follow the sounds of Basil’s murmuring and the little girl’s crying down a narrow hallway, creeping with our backs against opposite walls. We reach the bedroom and Starsky springs through the doorway, gun drawn. I remain in the hallway, watching Starsky’s expression in order to evaluate what my next move should be.

Starsky’s eyes widen and dart around the room as he goes in farther. I move across the hallway and slowly step into the room as well. Starsky and I exchange a quick glance as we both take in the scene before us. Huddled in the corner between the bed and the dresser is perhaps the biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life, approximately 6’8″ and well over 300 pounds. The small girl he’s holding in front of him looks like a doll in comparison to his large frame. Her bare feet flail in the air as he holds her out away from him, not offering to give her up, but using her as a shield.

“Don’t come any closer,” he screams at us. “Put the guns down or I’ll snap her neck, I swear to God!”

“All right, all right,” Starsky says softly. He releases his grip on his gun and lets it fall lax in his hand.

“Put it down!” Basil screams.

Starsky raises his right hand in the air, crouches and places his gun on the floor. Raising his left hand as well, he rises and gives me a quick glance. He takes a step forward as I lower my gun, letting it rest by my side.

“It’s all right, honey,” Starsky says softly to the screaming child as he continues to move closer to her and Basil. “It’s gonna be all right.” Her frightened blue eyes dart back and forth between Starsky and I, and I nod my head in reassurance.

“Basil, give us the little girl,” Starsky pleads softly.

“Don’t come any closer!” Basil yells, jerking the girl back to his chest and wrapping his hand around her throat. “I’ll do it! You let me outta here or I’ll kill her, I swear!”

“OK, OK,” Starsky says and steps to the side.

Basil begins to move out of the corner, then stops as he notices the gun still in my hand. “You put it down!” he yells, and his grip tightens on the little girl’s throat. She gasps and her eyes widen. I exchange one final brief glance with Starsky, and I gently lower my gun to the floor as well.

“You let me outta here!” Basil shouts again.

“OK, OK,” I say. “We’ll let you out, Basil. Just put her down.”

Basil laughs. “What, you think I’m stupid? I put her down, you’ll both shoot me before I’m out the door. You think I don’t know there’s cops crawling all over the place by now? You think I don’t know they’ll kill me if I even stick my head out this apartment? No, she’s coming with me!”

He was right. Both Starsky and I had noticed out the bedroom window at least one black and white that was parked in the street. There were probably officers in the living room, waiting to take Basil once he emerged from the bedroom. Our job was to make sure he didn’t leave the room with that little girl in his arms.

Starsky steps back even farther and I can feel what he’s thinking. If he lets Basil by, he can hit him from behind, hopefully loosening his grip on the girl. In the meantime, I’ll grab her and get her out into the living room to the other officers. I take a slight step closer to our guns, hoping to be able to grab them and the girl at the same time. Starsky is going to be alone wrestling with this monster while I’m getting the girl out, and the last thing I want is for Basil to have access to a weapon. Starsky is tough, but he’s not going to be any match for this giant. He’s gonna get roughed up, I know, before I get back, but I’d rather see him with a bloody nose than a bullet hole.

Suddenly, Basil’s attention turns to me. “You let me outta here!” he yells and begins to move toward the door. Luckily, clearing out of his way puts me one step closer to our guns. But this is going to happen faster than I thought it would. Basil is moving quicker and not as cautiously as I had anticipated.

Basil makes it halfway to the door when Starsky takes a giant step and leaps on his back, landing a knee in his kidney as he does so. At the same time, I jump forward and grab the little girl as Basil lets go of her and reaches over his head and grabs Starsky by the shoulders. I scoop the child under one arm and manage to bend over and grab at least MY gun before I dive out the door with her. As I dart down the hall, I get a glimpse of Starsky being thrown over Basil’s head like a rag doll and landing headfirst into a vanity, the sound of the shattering glass echoing throughout the apartment.

I run down the hall with the little girl screaming under my arm. The uniforms were not in the living room like I had hoped, but I can see them in the hallway with the mother. I put the little girl down and bellow at her to run. She’s too panicked to move, so she simply lies on the floor and continues to scream. “Somebody come get the girl!” I yell at the officers and wait just one split second for them to move.

Certain they’ll get her, I run back down the hall, my gun cocked and ready. I jump through the doorway, praying that Basil has not retrieved Starsky’s gun. Somehow an odd relief overtakes me as I see that the gun is lying right where it was left. Basil, however, is hovering over Starsky’s limp body, muttering obscenities as he draws his gigantic boot back and lands a blow to his abdomen. Starsky’s lack of response frightens me as much as if I’d seen Basil place a bullet directly in his head. I take a moment to assess my partner’s condition. He’s lying in shards of broken glass from the vanity mirror, cuts bleeding on his twisted right arm. His eyes are half-open and glazed as blood trickles down his forehead and from the corner of his mouth.

I shake myself back from the panic that has set in and point my gun at Basil. “Freeze!” I scream at him. He brings his foot back again, then pauses, looking at me. He begins to move toward me, tearing loose a savage scream as he does so. I fire the gun at him, hitting him in the shoulder. It doesn’t stop him, however, and before I can fire off another round, he extends his arms and grabs me by the throat. His huge hands entwine and tighten around my neck, causing me to lose my grip on my gun along with my ability to breathe or cry out.

Basil lifts me off the ground and slams me hard against the wall in the hallway. I reach up weakly and grab his arms, my effort to pull him away useless. Darkness begins to tinge my vision, and I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to remain conscious. I glance over his shoulder through the bedroom door to take one last look at Starsky. My vision blurs, then comes into focus again, as I realize Starsky is not lying by the vanity any longer. I watch as his broken form slithers weakly across the shards of glass, his left hand outstretched toward his gun.

The darkness that is threatening to overtake me continues to get closer and closer and it’s becoming more difficult to focus. I see Starsky’s shaky hand finally get a feeble grip on the gun and his broken body slowly rolls over onto its backside. A thunderous explosion echoes in my ears and the grip loosens from my throat. My body slides down the wall and thuds against the hard floor as the comfort of unconsciousness finally envelops me.

****

“Sergeant Hutchinson?” I can hear the words being repeated over and over and feel a light slap on my cheek. A blurry face appears before me as I slowly open my eyes. Where the hell am I?

I lift my head a little and the face of a uniformed police officer I recognize but can’t quite place comes into focus. I look around and recognize the hallway I’d passed out in. Basil’s huge body is lying within an arm’s reach, his cold, dead eyes seemingly staring at me.

Starsky! Where the hell is Starsky? I try to say the words, but the excruciating pain in my throat stops them from forming.

“Hey, hey, take it easy, Sergeant,” the young officer says, placing his hand on my chest. “Ambulance is on the way. Just lie still.”

I want to scream at him. How does he think I could possibly just lie here when I don’t know where my partner is? I roughly grab his hand and jerk it off my chest. I make it to my hands and knees and peer into the bedroom. I see Starsky’s blue sneakers lying in the broken glass, two other uniformed police officers crouched next to him. I grab hold of the bedroom door jam and lift myself to my feet. I stumble forward, knocking one of the officers out of the way.

Starsky has lost consciousness and his breathing is rough and labored. The gash on his forehead is still gushing blood and his right arm is twisted at an abnormal angle. There are tiny cuts all over his body from the shattered mirror. His gun is lying at the fingertips of his left hand. I kneel down, hearing the crunch of the glass under my weight, and grab his hand. God, he saved me. He used every last ounce of strength he had, crawled through broken glass and saved me.

“Ambulance,” I manage to croak out.

“It’s on its way, Hutch,” one of the uniforms answer, placing his hand on my back. The screaming of a siren just outside the window echoes his words.

Starsky coughs and opens his eyes slightly. Unfocused, the violet spheres slowly dart around the room, finally resting on me. He coughs again and the corners of his mouth turn up in a pain-filled smile.

“Hutch,” he breathes. “You OK?”

I nod my head at him, not able to control the tears falling from my eyes. Even if my throat didn’t feel like there were knives twisting inside of it, I don’t think I’d be able to speak.

He gives me a confused look and coughs again. “It’s OK, Hutch,” he says and closes his eyes again. They reopen a second later and he breathes out, “Man, that guy was really, really big.” His eyes close once more and his head lolls to the side. A strangled laugh escapes my abused throat through my tears. The ambulance attendants gently push me out of the way and I return to the hallway, where another set of paramedics begin to examine me.

******

I sit alone in the hospital waiting room, rubbing the bruises on my neck. I’ve been examined already and told that my injuries are all external and my voice will return to normal in a day or two. They give me a prescription for some painkillers and tell me I can go home. It’ll be a while before I leave, however. I haven’t seen Starsky since the ride in the ambulance, and the last time I saw him he was drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctor assured me he’d find me when he had some news about Starsk. I need to see him, need to know he’s going to be OK before I go anywhere.

After what seems like an eternity, the doctor finally appears, tells me that Starsky suffered a concussion and the gash on his forehead needed seven stitches. His right shoulder is dislocated, and he has a few cracked ribs. There are no signs of internal bleeding or more severe injuries, but he’s going to have to stay in the hospital for a few days to make absolutely sure. To sum it up, he had the absolute hell beaten out of him, and he’s going to have to take it easy for a while to recover.

I ask the doctor if I can see him. He tells me that he’s been given a very strong painkiller and will sleep for a long time. I tell him I don’t care, I need to see him, and he finally agrees, taking me up to his room.

I thank the doctor and slide a chair next to my partner’s bed. Starsky is sound asleep, his mouth partially open, his breaths long and even. He’s got a pretty good shiner and a split lip. He looks like hell, but I can’t help smiling at him. God, what would I ever do without him?

Basil Little, the man who almost choked the life out of me, is dead, shot square in the middle of the back by my half-conscious partner. Ah, the ironies of life. A smaller man named David brought down a big man named Little. Physically Starsky may not have stood a chance against this Goliath, but no one could ever match the huge spirit that thrives inside my best friend’s body. I love that spirit—I love it with every fiber of my being. And I’ll be damned if another day will pass without me telling him so.

He sleeps peacefully for close to eight hours, and I sleep next to him in the hospital chair. I wake up each time the nurse comes in to make sure he’s still responsive after the concussion. He’s doing just fine, they assure me. One of them is kind enough to bring me a pillow, and I place it behind my aching head.

Finally, as sunlight begins to stream through the blinds, he starts to wake up. His light groaning stirs me out of my dream—a sad dream about Basil and his heroin addiction. I have a frightening understanding for it and one person to thank for removing me from its evil grip.

“Starsk,” my voice is still rough. I lean forward and brush his curls off his forehead.

“Hutch?” Our weary eyes meet.

“Right here, buddy,” I say. “It’s OK.”

“You’re OK?” he asks. “You sound bad.”

“Yep. Just a little bruised. How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

“Well, close.” I snort. We both chuckle a little and then both wince in pain.

“We’re some pair,” he says.

“We sure are,” I answer.

He sighs and closes his eyes. “Basil?” he asks, keeping his eyes closed.

“He’s—he’s dead, Starsk.” I say it gently and touch his arm.

Starsky simply nods. It breaks his heart every time he’s forced to shoot someone, no matter what the circumstance.

We sit in silence for a while, and I’m afraid he’s going to drift off to sleep before I say what I have to, so I shake him lightly. He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Hmm?” he murmurs.

“Starsk, I—I need to talk to you,” I say.

“Bout what?” he asks.

I look away from him. “About yesterday. About what I said.”

“Forget it,” he waves his hand in the air.

I shake my head and look back at him. “No, Starsk. I can’t forget it. I said some things that—well, that I didn’t mean.”

“I know, Hutch. It’s all right.”

I lift myself off the hospital chair and walk over to the window. My throat is killing me, but I have to say this. I have to make things right again. “No, Starsk, it’s not all right. It’s not all right at all. I got to thinking, you know, about how if you had have—well, if Basil had have gotten to your gun and—well, if things had have been different, one of the last things I said to you…”

“You called me a moron.” My back is to him, but I can hear the grin in his words.

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’re not a moron.” I turn around and look at him. I knew he was grinning at me.

“I know I’m not a moron. I know you know I’m not a moron. You were just in one of your moods.”

“But I shouldn’t take my moods out on you.” I move back to the bed and sit down on the side.

“Don’t worry about it.” He closes his eyes again.

“Starsky, I realized yesterday that I’ve—I’ve never told you…” He puts his hand on my arm. Why is this so hard to say?

He opens his eyes and looks at me. “You don’t have to tell me, Hutch. I know. Have I ever told you?”

I have to think for a minute. I don’t remember him ever saying the words, but he’s done so much for me, I’ve just always known. Suddenly I wonder who the real moron is here anyway.

I smile at him finally. “Well, no, I guess you’ve never said the words, but…”

His eyes widen and he pats my arm. “Ah! See? But you’ve never questioned it, have you?”

I torture him with silence. “Have you?” he says again, more forcefully.

“Never.” I finally say, placing my hand over his.

“And I’ve never questioned it, Hutch. I just know.” We smile at each other and our eyes lock, both of us nodding.

He takes a deep breath and winces a little. His eyes return to mine. “But, you know, Hutch, I am worried about you.”

I tilt my head. “Me? Why?”

He shrugs and tries to scoot himself up on the pillow. “You just haven’t been yourself. What’s wrong? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Oh, no, Starsk. No.” I rearrange the blanket around him then shift on the bed and fold my hands in my lap. “I don’t—I don’t know what’s wrong. I just get so frustrated.”

“Is it me?”

I look back at him. “Oh, God, no. No, it’s not you. I know I take it out on you, but it has nothing to do with you. I don’t—I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Then what is it?” He looks frustrated and too tired to deal with this right now.

“I don’t know,” I answer him and stand up. “Listen, we can talk about it later, OK? Right now, you should just go back to sleep. And I need to go home and get some real sleep.”

He scratches his jaw line and stares at the ceiling for a minute. “OK,” he finally says and smiles. “Did the doctor tell you when I can go home?”

“He said in a couple of days, probably.”

“Terrific.”

“Yeah.”

He turns his head toward me and waves his hand. “All right. Go home. Get some sleep. Come back later. I’ll share my creamed chicken with you.”

“Sounds delicious.” I smile.

He closes his eyes and nestles in his pillow. “See ya.”

I walk toward the door, but something is still bothering me. “Starsk?”

“Hmm?” His eyes open halfway.

I take a few steps closer and lower my voice. “You know, you—you called me a tight ass yesterday.”

“Yeah.” A mischievous grin forms on his face.

“Well, I apologized for calling you a moron. Don’t you want to apologize to me?”

“Nope.” He says simply.

My brows furrow and I step closer. “You mean, you really think I’m a tight ass?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because you are.”

“That’s no reason.”

“Yes, it is.”

I feel my anger rise, along with my scratchy voice. “No, it’s not, Starsk. You just can’t call someone something like that without having something to back it up with.”

“Can, too.” He’s still grinning.

“No, you…” I begin to argue, but then he looks at me, that shit-eating grin wider. OK, he got me. He lives to torment me, I swear. And right now I wouldn’t have it any other way. “What did I ever do to deserve you, huh?”

“Must have been something good,” he says through the grin, then closes his eyes. “Night,” he mumbles.

I watch him as he quickly drifts off to sleep, that grin still plastered on his face. I walk halfway through the door, then turn and take one last look at my unbelievable partner. “Must have been,” I say and leave.