It’s All in the Game

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Ah, games… Starsky knew about games and how to play them to win. Office politics, bedroom activities, partner management. He was especially good at that one–even better than he was at chess. Right? Right? He held the winning hand didn’t he? And just how well could Hutch bluff?

Sequel to As Soon As Forever Is Through.

Seventh in the Golden Boy series.

 

It’s All in the Game first appeared in the Starsky & Hutch slash zine, Back to Back, published in 2005 by Idiot Triplets Press.

Many people help bring classic zinefic to the archive. I’d like to especially thank Morgan Dawn for helping to provide digitized stories, and Keri T. for her meticulous work in proofreading. I’d also like to thank both of them for their long running support of the archive and their hard work in helping bring zinefic to the net.

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Many a tear has to fall, but it’s all in the game.
All in the wonderful game that we know as love.
You have words with him and your future’s looking dim,
But these things your hearts can rise above.
Dawes and Sigman

 

My uncle, Shecky Starsky, liked to entertain. He wrote his own material. One of his better jokes went: “What do solitaire and masturbation have in common? One you play by yourself; the other you play with yourself.”

Meaning, it’s all a game. Life’s a game. And love? It’s the biggest game of all. It just depends who you’re playing with. Sometimes you’re teammates and sometimes you’re opponents. Sometimes it’s chess; sometimes it’s poker. You’re playing your hand, but he’s holding five aces. It’s all in the game.

Hutch and I played the Closet Built for Two Game when we worked together as cops. We were very, very close friends. And even though we had a deep, deep love for each other that could break out in passion, we weren’t gay. (He was gay. And I was gay. But, we weren’t gay together.) We were very comfortable all mooshed together in a very hot closet of passionate friendship.

He didn’t act gay. He’d been married. He was an athlete, a wrestler. (It’s a manly sport of close male contact with a guy all over you trying to get a good grip so that he can throw you on your back and pin you. Okay, it sounds a lot like sex, but it’s a highly competitive and demanding sport.) He didn’t sashay around like some tight-assed little faggot. He stomped like he was walking through a cornfield trying to avoid cow patties.

So what if he liked Judy Garland, knew all the songs from Broadway musicals, and was up on the latest fashions? So what if he enjoyed interior decorating, was a terrific cook, and had the nude male wrestling scene from the book Women in Love book-marked and underlined, with comments in the margin? He was just weird, that’s all.

He was tall, blue-eyed, and blond — the ultimate goy. He was sometimes distant and dreamy, sometimes frosty and fierce. He was educated, but lacked street smarts. He was vulnerable and victim, because he trusted too much. He was full of hunger and longing that he was only able to show during our Let’s Get Drunk Game. And, in that giving of himself, in its intensity and its dark secrets, he showed me what sex with love could be. Oh man, was there fire under that sometime ice.

And me? I was so in love with him I just about broke my balls with a rolodex of women trying to prove to myself that I was straight.

So when I hear about marriage only being for straight people, I tell them that it’s too late for that debate at my house. It’s silver anniversary time real soon. And no matter what kind of rights “they” think we should have or have not, no one, absolutely no one can tell me that we’re not permanently attached. No piece of paper is going to make it more sanctified or insane than it already is. We’re already married.

Oi, are we married.

 

Nighttime. Time for sleep. Time for deep, deep sleep. Time to spoon together with Hutch naked and nice, and quiet and safe. Deep sleep; sleepy sleep.

The phone rang.

The cell phone sitting on the bedside table played the beginning notes of “I Fought the Law (and the Law Won)” and a hand snaked out to grab it.

“Wha?” a sleep-encrusted voice croaked. “Wayaminna. Here.” Hutch nudged me and put the phone by my ear.

“Yeah?”

“This is Donaldson.”

“Time’s it?”

“3:15.”

“Whazzup?”

“There’s been a fatality off Long Point Pier.”

“Uh-huh.” I struggled to find the ‘On’ switch for my brain.

“White male, age 50-55, found behind the driver’s seat of a 1998 silver Honda that was upright in ten feet of water.”

“Coast patrol?” I took the phone from my partner.

“They said to call you.”

“Shit.” (Well, there went the rest of the night.)

“There was another occupant of the car,” the voice said, perkily professional.

“Uh-huh.”

“White female, 20-25, wet.”

“Wet?”

“Yes, sir, wet.”

“What do you mean, wet?” I left the last embrace of sleep and struggled to sit up in bed.

“She was found walking away from the scene, soaking wet.”

“What’s her story?”

“She says she can’t remember a thing.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Gimme an hour.” I yawned and opened my eyes real wide to try to wake them up.

“You going in?” Hutch rolled over onto his back, stretched and yawned.

“Did it sound like I’m going in? I hate this job.”

“You could always retire.”

“Don’t start singing the retirement song. It’s too damn early in the morning.”

“Whatever. What time is it?”

“Don’t ask.”

“What is it?” He yawned again.

“A wet lady.”

“A what?”

“Tell you more later. Go back to sleep.”

“Coffee?” he asked with a sound in his voice that said, You don’t really expect me to get up and make it for you, do you?

“Nah, I’ll get some at the Qwikkie. Where’s my gray suit?”

“Closet.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Drycleaner’s bag hall closet.”

I stumbled around putting my shirt and tie on. “I’m out of underwear and socks.”

“Dryer.”

“You seen my shoes?”

“Living room.” Then he closed his eyes and prepared to continue his sleeping life, while I went out to face a cup of hot horse piss and make a living. “No kiss?” He puckered his lips.

I went over to his side of the bed, leaned in, and gave him a quick smooch. He reached out and grabbed my dick. Then he brought himself up to give my dick a kiss, too.

I had to make an immediate command decision, work ethic and professional duty vs. the offer of a blow job, since we were both up anyway.

“Kiss it some more,” I said.

 

If I was running a few minutes late because of my dick finding happiness in his mouth, so what? The dead guy was going nowhere. And Donaldson’s hot air was probably drying off the wet lady. I pulled up at the Qwikkie, that U.N. of bad coffee.

Before it was the Qwikkie, it was Sami’s Qwik Stop. A guy named Sol owned it. Then, Muhammed and his brother, Abdul, owned it. Then, the Shah family had it. I never did find out who Sami was.

A Korean family named Lee just bought it. (I wondered if they knew what Qwikkie meant here in the states? Maybe I should tell them.) They have a huge hand-painted sign that says “GRAN OPENIN” leaning against the wall behind the cash register. It made me glad to see that the tradition of bad spelling and bad coffee continued.

 

You know, Hutch and I used to stop there for coffee on night shift. And every night, it would be the same game.

“How about a cup of coffee?” I’d say about a block away from Sami’s.

“Sure. Just as long as it’s not that dreck from Sami’s.”

“Look, here’s Sami’s,” I’d say as I pulled in.

“I just said I didn’t want any coffee from here.”

“Yeah, but we’re here now. Large or small?”

“None.”

“C’mon, blondie, live a little,” I’d say charmingly.

“Oh, all right, just a small one.”

“Anything else? Jelly donut? They got great jelly donuts.”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll get you a jelly donut.”

“I don’t want a jelly donut.”

“Right. A large coffee and a jelly donut. Be right back.”

He always drank the coffee and ate the donut. It was just our little game. We had lots of games back then in our comfy little closet.

 

Games like the way we used to stretch out on my bed together and watch TV after the four-to-midnight shift. He’d throw his leg over mine and keep it there for a while. (I’d wonder if he was trying to tell me to move over or to jump him.) Games like all those double dates I’d arrange just so I could go out with him. (I’d be trying to entertain and impress him while the women sat there looking bored.) Games when I used to wander in to his gym right about the time he was coming out of the shower.

Games like all those “must have been drunk” morning afters, when we’d wake up naked in the same bed and not be able to remember how we got there.(Yeah, there were many muddled mornings when we’d be tangled up together in damp sheets.) Call it the Convenient Amnesia Game.

Then there was the We’re Not Living Together Game. He used part of my closet and kept a toothbrush, shampoo, and comb in my bathroom. He had his own shelf in my kitchen for his health food. His bottle of black market Russian vodka was sitting right next to my ice bucket. He kept his record collection at my place because I had a great sound system that we bought together. His favorite magazines were in my rack. If someone needed to reach him, they’d call my place. But, we weren’t living together.

 

By the time I got to the station, the wet lady, Coral Peters, was dried off and calling her lawyer from a phone in Detective Services. Since she had turned her clothes over to forensics, she was naked under the gray Property of Bay City PD blanket. She was an attractive bottle blonde with silicone tits. She was 25-years-old and the fourth wife of the deceased, Charles Peters. And she still seemed to have serious memory loss.

It was early, way too early to be up and out of bed and dealing with Donaldson. But there he was waiting for me in the hall.

“So, what do you think, Lieutenant?”

“Well…”

“I think she might have amnesia, you know? She can’t seem to remember anything.”

“It’s…”

“She seems really young to be married to such an old guy. Oops, sorry, sir. You’re about his age, huh? That probably doesn’t seem that old to you, does it? My father’s about the same age, I think. You might be older than him, though.”

“Donaldson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You witnessed a post yet?”

“You mean the autopsy?”

“Yeah, that thing they do on the stiff down at the morgue. Didn’t you visit Pathology when you were in training?”

“Yes, sir. But I had to leave kind of in a hurry and didn’t see the whole thing.”

“So you haven’t been to one since?”

“No, sir. I haven’t been assigned to Homicide rotation all that long.”

“So how long is it, now?”

“Three weeks.”

“Three whole weeks, huh? It feels longer. Tell you what, Donaldson. You go down to the morgue and meet up with Sgt. Matthews. Tell her that I wanted you to witness the post-mortem.”

“Yes, sir, right away.”

“Don’t forget to take lots of notes for later reference,” I called to his eager dumb back. Let him try to take notes while he’s puking in a wastebasket after they pull the victim’s guts out to weigh them. (Old guy, my ass.)

After Donaldson went on to his gruesome fate, night supervisor Sgt. Sylvester joined me. “You were kind of tough on the kid, weren’t you, Lieutenant?” he asked with a smile on his face.

“Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the judge. What have we got?”

“You mean besides a possible drowning victim and a female who can’t remember anything?”

“There’s more?”

“We’ve got three vehicles stuck on the beach off Long Point Pier. Oh yeah, there’s a crew from Channel 5 filming it.”

“Terrific. We can start the day looking like assholes on the morning news. What three vehicles?”

“Donaldson’s cruiser, the silver Honda, and the department tow truck.”

“How the hell did they get stuck?”

“The tide came in.”

“What are we doing about it?”

“Trying to find out when the tide goes back out.”

“When you do, how about sending Donaldson out there with a sand bucket and shovel to dig them out? Go down there and see what’s up. Keep me informed.”

“You want to be in on the interrogation of the Mrs.?”

“Definitely. Have Humphrey call me when her counsel gets here.”

 

In the meantime, I escaped to my office, a small room that looks out on the parking lot. It has the prestige-thing of a window. Too bad it isn’t a corner office. Then I’d have two windows looking out on the parking lot.

At one corner of my command post sits a computer so old and slow that it probably has Alzheimer’s. On top of the monitor is a stuffed zebra with a place for a photo on its belly. It’s a picture of me and Hutch in front of our house with Lady, our Golden Retriever, and Diego Garcia, our sometimes cat (sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s not).

In the photo, Lady is jumping and barking at Diego, who is hissing and trying to escape from Hutch’s arms. Hutch is saying, When is the fucking camera going to take the picture? I told you this was a bad idea. I’m saying, I want a picture of my happy family on my desk. Hold the fucking cat and smile. It’s a real slice of life, that picture.

On the other corner, there’s a mini-Mr. Coffee machine. When I had the macho Mr. Coffee, I ended up sharing with Detective Services. And every damn time I went to pour a cup of coffee, there was nothing but an oil slick at the bottom of the pot. This way, I got mine, they got theirs. (And if theirs is dry burnt dreck, who the hell cares?)

Sylvester called. The three vehicles were still stuck. He told me that someone told him that it was some kind of really high tide having something to do with the moon or Mars or something and that it was sometimes like that as far as he could find out. (Nothing like solid information and concrete facts, I always say.) And, oh yeah, Channel 12 was down on the beach with a crew now, too.

 

Det. Humphrey met me outside Interrogation Room C. “Just a heads up, Lieutenant,” she said. “Her counsel is Joe Monroe.” I knew right then that this was going to be a waste of time. But we had to attempt to question her for the record.

After about an hour of teeth pulling, hair splitting, and hemming and hawing, the game started to bore me. Between the monotonous advice of Joe “The Stallmeister” Monroe’s “You don’t have to answer that, Coral,” and the repetitious “I really don’t recall,” of the newly made widow, I’d had enough of their duet and was ready to find some other entertainment.

While this song-and-dance routine was going on, I did notice that Mrs. Peters kept coyly crossing and uncrossing her legs in a Sharon Stone-like movie maneuver. I saw enough to confirm my belief that she was a bleached blonde. I also noticed that she had no cuts or bruises on her lovely legs.

We left them in the interrogation room for a few minutes in the hopes that maybe she’d remember something useful like who was driving the car. But, I doubted if we’d even get that much from a client of The Stallmeister. I asked Humphrey if any pictures had been taken of the bereaved widow. ‘No’ wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.

The phone rang outside the interrogation room. Humphrey took the call. “I’ll let him know,” she said and hung up.

“So?”

“Uh…” She was a take-charge, tell-it-like-it-is black woman, but right now she seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“That was Sylvester.”

“And?”

“He said that it’s some kind of record tide that came in.”

“He told me that already.”

“No, it’s some kind of record.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the highest it’s been in years.”

“That’s just what I want to hear. Anything else?”

“Uh…”

“Spit it out. What can be worse than three vehicles underwater and two news crews filming it?”

“How about a helicopter with Action 11 and a live feed of their story, ‘Crisis in the Surf’ that’s pre-empted The Morning Show?”

Yeah, that was definitely worse. I wanted to call Hutch and tell him I loved him. I also wanted to let him know that he didn’t need to thaw anything out for dinner tonight. I wouldn’t be there. I’d be in the morgue with a tag on my big toe that said, “Victim of Public Humiliation.”

 

We went back into the interrogation room and sat down. Mr. Monroe informed us that his client had developed a splitting headache while we were gone. She might have a concussion or something.

“I understand,” I said. “Does Mrs. Peters need an aspirin or an ambulance? We can provide both. You just let us know what we can do for your client.” That surprised him. He thought I was going to fight him on the trip to the hospital or question the sudden headache as a stall. He looked at her; she looked at him. They looked at each other and had a brief whispered conversation.

“I think I should drive her to the emergency room, Lieutenant.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Monroe,” I said as I got up to leave the room. “Sgt. Humphrey will escort you to the hospital. That way if your client develops a sudden health crisis or needs an aspirin she can offer support. Excuse me.”

I left the room without looking back. I had a hunch this case involved a poor shmuck with a ton of life insurance and a will that left everything to wife #4, a will so new that the ink on it was still wet.

 

I headed for my office. I needed some peace and quiet before the shit really hit the fan. That would be when the chief called to ask about the three drowned vehicles, the dead guy, the news helicopter, and when I wanted to resign to take up my new career as a school crossing guard.

Now the Waiting Game began. I had to wait for the Pathology report on the victim. Then I had to wait for the hospital report on the female passenger/driver/suspect to see if she had a concussion, skull fracture, or sudden brain tumor. I had to wait for word about any insurance and wills. So why not wait in comfort? I could lay low, sip a cup of Kona Blend, eat a Snickers bar, and wait.

In order to facilitate waiting, I use a cool-looking Swedish lounge chair that I appropriated from Hutch’s home office. (When not in use, I wedge it behind the file cabinet and secure it with a bicycle lock against police re-appropriation. Never trust a cop, especially at this station, is my motto.) It looks a lot like a deck chair or something you use at the beach. Maybe I should drag it down there and watch the tsunami.

Anyway, after Hutch realized that his chair wasn’t stolen but appropriated, and we finished arguing about me never asking, but just taking his stuff (And I told him that he had the luxury of working at home as a writer, while I had to slave in a crummy office. He could lie down on the nice clean bed, if he got tired. I had to lie on the dirty floor if I tried to get some of that famous rest he was always harping about. And he said, Maybe it might be a good time to start thinking about retirement, if I was so damn tired. And I said, So we can be together 24/7?) he generously gave me the chair.

 

I got to thinking about games. Periodically, I get to participate in the Let’s Improve the Police Department Game. The latest improvement involved the creation of the Section Rotation that some schmuck in city hall thought would be a cost-saving measure. Instead of an experienced career officer in a permanent position, I get a neo like Donaldson every three to six months to help with the caseload. This cockamamy scheme is just another way to fuck with you and your department. (Do I sound bitter?)

Then, there’s the She Loves Me For Myself (and not for my money) Game that the victim got into with his new, young wife. Looks like he got in too deep and ended up losing everything. After awhile, you get a sixth sense about these things. You just have to wait around for confirmation of the facts.

Actually, I’d like to be surprised. I’d like to find out that Mr. Peters was the unfortunate victim of an auto accident that led to his being trapped in a car underwater and drowning. I’d like to be told that his lovely wife miraculously escaped, but has no memory of her ordeal due to a concussion. I’d like to be informed that she hasn’t got a clue about life insurance policies, accidental death riders, and double indemnity for drowning. I’d like to discover that there was no new will that left his kids zip and named her as the sole beneficiary. Now, that would be a surprise. (But that’s like wishing Bambi’s mother would pick up a rifle and shoot the hunter first. Just ain’t gonna happen.)

In the meantime, I’d just wait. Let it come to me.

Oh, yeah. There was also the little Information Gathering Game I was playing by agreeing so readily to that trip to the hospital. Examination records would probably show that this female accident “victim” didn’t have a scratch on her. And that information might fit into the Prosecution’s game plan, if this case ever came to trial.

 

After Bova and I had our break, I secured it to the file cabinet and went to take a leak. By the time I got back the phone was ringing off the hook.

Sylvester called: no luck yet on extricating the vehicles. Sandy Beech from I-Witness News had just showed up and was preparing to broadcast live from the scene. Was I interested in talking to her? (Hell no!) I’m sure you’ve got things under control down there, I told him. Do the best you can.

Matthews called and told me that Donaldson had gone home sick after his field trip to the morgue. (Maybe he’ll consider a career change.) I thanked her and asked for her report as soon as possible.

The medical examiner called with the bottom line on the Path report: no fluid in lungs; victim didn’t drown. (Why am I not surprised?) Head trauma and skull fracture. Cause of death: brain hemorrhage. She’d get the full report to me by the end of the day.

Humphrey called from the hospital. Mrs. Peters had been admitted for observation. She was still complaining about a headache. (Looks like her husband was the one with the real head pain.) I told her to stay put until her relief got there.

The chief called. Topics included: What the hell is going on? We look like idiots. It’s on every damn channel. Can’t you control a crime scene better than that? Why aren’t you down there? (Because I’m here listening to you rip me a new one.) How did you let it get so fucked up? (Because I was at home asleep and not even on duty?)

When he finally shut up to keep from hyperventilating, I explained to him that Sylvester had been in charge; our new man, Donaldson, had started the ball rolling by getting his cruiser stuck; I was home sleeping at the time in question. And, by the way, we are definitely dealing with a homicide and not a car accident. And said homicide is looking a lot like a Mr. and Mrs. Murder for the money. And that was going to be a news story that was going to make the drowned vehicles look all wet. Should I concentrate on cars or crime, I wanted to know.

By the time I got done apologizing for being insubordinate, taking phone calls, making phone calls, and receiving updates, it was closing in on noon. Time to call my baby. (6 and 12: 24/7 — that was our equation for staying in touch.)

 

“Hey, babe, whatcha doin?” I asked when he picked up the phone.

“Watching ‘Crisis in the Surf,’ that brand new underwater adventure.”

“Very funny. How do things look down there?”

“Wet.”

“All right, smart ass.”

“Why were the vehicles parked so close to the surf? We’ve been experiencing record high tides due to seismic activity.”

“So?”

“Well, duh, like Bay City, beach patrol, unusually high tides. You park next to water, car going under. Don’t you people pay attention to anything besides coffee and donuts?”

“Give me a fucking break, will you? I don’t know high tides from Tide detergent.”

“I was just making an observation.”

“Well, observe something else.”

“My mother’s coming for a visit.”

“Yeah, yeah. You ever consider being a stand-up comic?”

“I’m serious. She’s coming for a visit.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?”

“Your mother’s coming for a visit?”

“Bingo.”

“Uh…”

“Well, don’t be too thrilled about it.”

“It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“It’s just great. That’s what it is.”

“Good save, Starsk. We need to get the picture.”

“What picture?”

“You know, that painting she gave us.”

“Oh yeah, that picture. Tell you what, I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“You’re busy. I can do it.”

“No. Let me. No point hurting your back or something, babe. Hey, incoming call. Gotta go. Love ya. Kiss kiss.” I hung up real fast.

I lied. I didn’t have another call. What I had was a couple of complications down at the storage unit.

 

See, after we made it official and moved in together, our mothers made it official and sent us housewarming gifts. My mother sent a handmade plaque that she made from a crafts kit. It says to not go to bed mad. (I’ve lost a lot of sleep because of that gift.) One of the words was misspelled, but why remake it? You understand the sentiment, right? Mazel tov.

Anyway, in the fine tradition of my son is gay — and you are his partner so hang this on your wall and remember that I love you and hope you should get along; or, my son is gay and you, his partner, are no doubt the reason, so hang this on your wall and remember that he could have had anyone in the world and he chose you? — Hutch’s mother sent handmade wall art, too.

(Do you notice a theme here? Handmade, goes on wall, you can’t miss it. Think of me and don’t forget I knew you when, I didn’t raise you to be gay, what happened, is it all my fault, I guess this means no grandchildren.)

It was an original oil painting. And it wasn’t just the fact that it was all green and orange. You couldn’t tell what the green and orange things were on the canvas. Alligators and huge citrus fruit? Cucumbers and giant basketballs? Army tanks that were melted and congealed with huge citrus fruit and giant basketballs? Who knew?

It was a big painting. A B-I-G painting. And it had a title. It was called “Untitled”. (How not calling it anything calls it something, I don’t know, but that’s what she called it.) Hutch said that way it was up to the viewer to make an interpretation.

My interpretation was that “Untitled” was a big, ugly wall hanging that we were stuck with. Hutch took a dual view: my mother approves, she sent us a gift, she made it herself, how nice; this is the ugliest thing I have ever seen, her use of color bites, migod, what was she thinking, it’s huge.

(Then, my deductive reasoning kicked in. Aha! I thought; she has a plan: she’s trying to make us break up by sending “Untitled”. She expects me to say, “I’m not fuckin’ having that piece of shit on any of my walls!” Then, we’ll have a huge fight, he’ll leave, move back to Minnesota and marry a nice Lutheran girl.)

“What the hell should we do with it?” he asked.

“Hang it!” I answered.

 

When we moved to this house, we felt that “Untitled” no longer needed to be hanging around. So we found a new home for it in the garage, where it leaned facing the wall. When the garage got too full of stuff and we got a storage unit, it went over there to lean.

Now the complication wasn’t so much that the painting was no longer in storage. The problem was that it wasn’t there anymore because I needed room for something else. And when I needed the room for the something else, then I got rid of the picture. It was as simple as that. Right? Right? (Yeah, right.)

I mean, Hutch’s mother hasn’t visited us in like forever. Who knew that her masterpiece would need to come out of hiding? Not me. That’s for sure. All I knew was I needed the space to put something I bought and couldn’t bring home because I couldn’t tell Hutch because if he knew what it was that I got then he would probably kill me. So, valuing my life, it seemed a good idea to just put it in storage and use it from time to time and just not mention it to my loving but motorcycle-hating partner.

Yeah, I bought a Harley.

 

And that first free-wheeling, easy riding ecstasy of just me and the bike on the open road was like nothing before or since. Because since, all I feel is guilty, paranoid, and resentful. (There’s nothing like your first.)

Now, I could ask for help about the schizoid feelings that have developed since buying the bike, feelings that make me suspect that the bike may be haunted. But I’m schooled enough in Psychology 101 to be able to analyze these conflicting emotions. (Plus, I watch Dr. Phil, whenever I get the chance.)

Okay, the guilt comes from the unsanctioned, big purchase and the new credit card bill with my office rather than home address on it. (I counter that with relief that what Hutch, my accountant, doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt him.)

The paranoia seeps in with the thought that my accountant may start noticing that I’m borrowing from petty cash for lunch money because I’m on a budget, so that I can pay for the bike. Overriding that is the concern that he might see me riding and the game will be up. (I counter that with the maxim: drive fast and wear a visored helmet.)

Along with the pervasive guiltanoia, there is resentment. Because there are other kinds of secrets and private personal things that some people also don’t share all that openly.

I mean Bran. (And, I don’t mean the cereal.)

And who or what is Bran? I’ll tell you. He’s the guy in the silver frame.

And where is that frame? It’s in my partner’s office, that’s where it is. And it’s been there since we moved into this house. Before that, it was in the other house. And before that it was at his place on a bookcase. That handsome, British-looking, silver-haired, smug, my-shit-don’t-stink face in that silver frame. (Did I mention that his name is Bran?)

What the hell kind of name is that, anyway? If he had a name like Brad or Bart or Bob, I’d think that Hutch made the guy up. And that he kept him around just to make me jealous and to keep me on my toes. But who would make up a name like Bran? No, he’s real all right.

Every so often, Bran makes his way out into the living room. There he’ll be on the mantle, looking down on me while I try to do a crossword puzzle in order to impress him. (Me with a G.E.D. and a college degree that took about twenty years to complete.) But he remains unimpressed, that Oxford-educated silver-framed fucker.

All I’ve ever really found out from Hutch is that the guy’s name is Bran, he met him in England, he’s an editor, and oh, yeah, he was his first. He was wonderful and encouraging, showed him what it meant to have a special gift. (Which I’m assuming is Hutch’s ability to suck and lick at the same time, or could be the fact that he’s double-jointed when he wants to be.)

And what I say is: if he can have Bran (he must be like 80 or 90, or dead by now — hopefully dead) in the silver frame on the bookcase next to his computer, then I can have a red Harley with silver detailing in storage. That’s fair play. Both of us should have secrets if one of us has a secret past. Right?

(Yeah, right.)

 

The good news was that Huggy Bear had the painting. (I gave it to him as a thank you, when he helped me move the bike in.) All I had to do was get it back from him. Hutch would never know a thing. He never went down there. The kitchen was his territory. Storage was mine.

I just hate to get rid of things. Because you never knew when you might need something. The day you throw it away, the very next day you need it. That’s how it goes. So why not hang onto it in the first place? (I got rid of the picture and now I need it. I rest my case.)

Now, I just had to call Hug and get it back. No problem. Right? (Wrong.)

 

“I got rid of it. It was too fugly to five with,” he explained.

“What’d you do with it?”

“Janice Jump has it at her place.”

“You gave it to a madame?”

“Yeah. She said it would cover up that big crack in the wall from the last quake.”

“Let me get this straight. Hutch’s mother’s original painting that she made for our housewarming is hanging in a whorehouse?”

“Damn straight. But, for a slight fee, I can get it back for you.”

“Just get it back.”

Okay, it was a bit more complicated than I had originally planned, but I could count on Huggy to come through for me (for a slight fee.)

 

I popped into Detective Services a while later. There was a small TV on one of the desks. Sandy Beech was reporting about the police cruiser that was wedged under Long Point Pier. A live feed also showed the silver Honda drifting in the water. (Apparently a lot of water can cause cars to float given enough time and tide.) They all saw me looking at the TV. Nobody said a word. It was like I had a terminal disease and they knew it, and they knew that I knew they knew, it was just too tragic for words. I trudged back to my office and waited for the chief to call.

The phone rang. It was Sylvester. I know, I know. I saw, I saw. I told him. The vehicles are now boats. Do what you can. O’Hara is coming down to relieve you. Go get some rest.

Humphrey called. She was still on duty. Right after the widow was rolled into her room, some young guy turned up with an overnight bag for her. Might be the boyfriend. She thought she should maybe hang around and see what developed. Stay on it, I told her. Good work. Call me if anything turns up.

The chief called. I saved my ass when I reported the erudite information regarding seismic activity and tides and it being out of our control. And by the way, the victim didn’t drown and the widow might have a boyfriend. I was waiting on info regarding life insurance and wills, which might take a day or two. We were on top of it. I hung up before he could say anything like surfs up.

The Pathology Lab called. Their system was down again. Did I absolutely need the report today? You could hear the “You’d better say no, buster” in her voice. I said tomorrow would be soon enough and thanks for calling. (And thanks for nothing.)

I already knew that it was a homicide. It was still a waiting game on some of the details, that’s all. They knew my phone number. If anything else floated away or turned into a corpse, they’d call me. Tomorrow was another day. I might as well go home and curl up with a warm partner. I left a message on the answering machine at 6:00 to let him know I’d be home for dinner and that I was thinking of our favorite number…69.

 

On the way home, Huggy called my cell. No picture.

“What do you mean, no picture?”

“She got rid of it. She said it made the Johns nauseous,” he explained.

“What the hell did she do with it?”

“She gave it to her mother.”

“She’s got a mother?”

“Even whores have mothers, Starsk.”

“Location?”

“In a nursing home.”

“The picture is in a nursing home?”

“No, the mother is. She had a stroke.”

“I’m sorry to hear that the madame’s mama is sick; I really the fuck am. Just tell me where the picture is.”

“In the mother’s apartment.”

“Okay, get the address, and the key. Well go get it tomorrow.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

“What’s for dinner?” I said as I came through the back door to home sweet home. Hutch was sitting at the kitchen table eating a salad. (Actually, he was stabbing the lettuce leaves with his fork.) I noticed that there wasn’t a place set for me at the table. “You didn’t get my message?” He just kept impaling his salad, not saying anything. “Something happen?” I asked in my kind and concerned way. “Everything all right?” I went over and reached out to rub his neck.

That’s when I saw it. It was parked right next to the salad that he was mutilating. It was the storage key.

I backed away. Knowing that a fork could be a lethal weapon, I wanted a table length between us. I sat down and waited for him to tell me what I already knew. The brutal force of the fork just confirmed it. He’d been down to storage.

What to do? What to do? Leave now or take the time to pack a bag? Well, maybe he went down there and was just pissed off because the key wouldn’t open the door.

He finished killing his salad, got up, and sailed the plate into the sink. It landed with a crash. (It was from our Harmony china pattern. It was a service for four. Now it was a service for four with three salad plates.) No, he’d definitely opened the door.

What to say? What to say? Stall, fall on his mercy, plead mid-life crisis, or try to convince him that the motorcycle was a hallucination?

He came back to the table, sat down and looked at me. He looked at me and through me all the way to the storage unit with the Harley in it.

“I went to storage today,” he said pleasantly and smiled. The smile was something between a cougar inviting a rabbit to dinner and a serial killer saying hello to his next victim.

“Oh,” I said.

“Uh-huh. And, do you know what wasn’t in there?”

“It’s in there. The picture’s in there. You just didn’t look hard enough.”

“Oh? Well, maybe I was distracted by the…motorcycle!”

(My gut instincts said, Lie, lie, lie! What motorcycle, I could say. Or, Are you sure you had the right unit; we have no motorcycle. Or, Oh that motorcycle; I’m just storing it for a friend. None of which sounded believable.)

He just kept smiling that salad-stabber smile and looking at me. He had me. Man, did he have me. I had a number of serious violations against me. 1. I made a major purchase without informing him. 2. Said purchase was the one thing that he told me I couldn’t have because too many people got killed on them and he didn’t want to be scraping me off the pavement, so stop with the bike business already; I wasn’t getting one.

Anyway you looked at it, I was fucked.

So I did the only possible thing I could do in the situation. I started rubbing my left shoulder with my right hand, trying to distract him. I massaged the area where I’d suffered that serious gunshot wound in the 70’s. Call it the Shoulder Pain Game. (See, Hutch is at heart compassionate, caring, and kind. He responds to people’s pain, especially mine. And, since he witnessed the shooting, he knew how bad the wound had been.)

Right now, I really, really needed to take his mind off that bike (not to mention the fact that the painting was temporarily missing, which he didn’t know and which I preferred to keep that way). So, while I was rubbing, I was also making Bogey like grimaces that would let him know that I was hurting. Call it the Casablanca Move.

He tried to look stern and judgelike, but I could see that I was getting to him. He was beginning to be concerned about how I was acting. (And was I acting.) He knew that I’d had a tough day that started at 3 am, that vehicles were on the news doing water aerobics, that I had a new case, that I could be called out again with very little sleep, and that I wasn’t getting any younger.

I could see and feel his hesitation. I could hear his interior voice arguing with him, saying: Fuck the shoulder pain; he’s hiding contraband in our storage locker; it’s a motorcycle, after all I told him, he fucking bought a motorcycle; vs. He’s hurting; he’s in pain; he’s had a hard day. I should be more supportive. I should try to make him feel better.

“Does your shoulder hurt?” he finally asked.

“No. It’s nothing,” I said, acting brave.

“You sure?”

“It’s just that it’s been a long day,” I explained while I rubbed and tried to win an Academy Award for Best Suffering. “I’m okay. I’m just tired. We got any aspirin?”

“Motrin might work better,” he said.

Then I knew I had him. Florence Nightingale was in and the hanging judge was out. I smiled at the near escape I’d had and almost blew it when he said, What’s so funny? I covered by telling him that I already felt better because he cared.

Yeah, I was a lying sack of shit secret Harley rider. But I was alive.

 

So he got up and made me tomato soup and toasted cheese, our “not feeling good” meal. Then, he took me into the bathroom, gave me some Motrin, and filled the tub up with lavender-scented bubbles. He undressed me and helped me into the water. Then he washed my back and made sure my shoulder stayed warm.

I should have felt guilty, but I was in love with all his attention. We didn’t even say anything. We just used our mouths for kissing. He washed my front and paid a lot of attention to my dick.

“Feel any better?” he asked after awhile.

“Yeah. Just tired, that’s all.”

“Let me put you to bed.”

He helped me out of the tub and dried me off with a soft towel, taking care of my crack with real tenderness. I was hard and getting harder. He smiled, pleased with his power. I smiled, pleased with his intentions.

He led me to the bedroom. He put a big bath towel on the bed and made me lay on my stomach. He got out the massage oil, took off his clothes, and rubbed my shoulders, and my back, and my ass. I felt warm, and oily, and incredibly aroused.

“Is there anything else you need?” he asked.

“Just you,” I whispered.

“Let me take care of it,” he said with desire in his voice. “Let’s play.”

So, he greased me up and we played the One, Two, Three Game. He put first one, then two, then three fingers in me and up me to stretch and prepare me.

“Anything else you need?”

“Yeah, you.” I was hot and ready and I needed more.

He knew what I needed. So he pulled me up on the fuck pillow and gave me what I wanted. He took care of it. He entered me slowly and filled me and fucked me. It was gentle and caring, and good, so good.

I started to move on it. But he made me stop.

“Let me. Let me.” He breathed heavily as he pulsed in slow rhythmic thrusts. His hands made me open as his cock massaged me deeper.

All he asked me to do was lay spread and take it. And he gave and he gave. And I took it and took it.

He gave it slow and gentle and steady and real and hot and hard and him.

He gave it good. And I took it good. And I took it.

He loved and lullabied me; he moved and massaged me; he caressed and creamed in me, all with his great big beautiful cock.

And I swam in the juices of our love and floated in the passion of our union. Cresting the high tide of welcome release. Waves of contentment washed over me as I sank into a deep sea of sleep.

 

“Gotta go,” he said as he kissed me lightly on the lips.

“Time is it?”

“Early. Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” I fell back asleep remembering those years-ago mornings, when he’d leave me in my bed and go back to his place.

I slept in. No one called. I wondered if the station house was now underwater, too. It didn’t matter. I woke up feeling like a million bucks, well-loved and well fucked. Maybe Hutch was making me waffles, something to help my shoulder. Know what I mean?

After taking an incredibly long leak, I wandered out into the kitchen. No Hutch and no fresh hot coffee in the pot. He probably went to the store to get some. Maybe he’d pick up some cherry Danish or jelly donuts; it’s a known fact that pastry helps my shoulder pain. I let Lady out and Diego in.

 

The phone rang. It was Huggy calling about the painting. It was missing.

“What do you mean it’s missing?”

“It’s not at the apartment?”

“Did you go look?”

“Didn’t have to. When the old lady had the stroke, Janice got rid of the place and everything in it.”

“Ah, shit, ah shit!”

“Listen, something that big and that ugly is bound to turn up soon, Starsk.”

“It better. Hutch doesn’t know that it’s missing, you get me?”

“I hear you.”

“And he knows about the bike.”

“Oh, man, you have my condolences. What’d he say?”

“Nothing. I distracted him. Then we went to bed and played doctor all night. So we’re cool. Call me as soon as you know something.”

 

Yeah, we were cool. Love is the answer. (And sex is the solution.)

I got some orange juice while I was waiting for my breakfast to arrive. I was just getting ready to call Hutch on his cell to ask for cheese Danish. That’s when I saw it. It was on the kitchen table. It was the guy in the silver frame. And he had a note for me.

I looked at him for a long time wondering what it was he had to tell me. Why he had the information. And why he had that smirk on his face like he just couldn’t wait to tell me the bad news.

I finally went over and picked up the note. It said: ME OR THE BIKE. CHOOSE. Big black letters. No signature. But I figured it was from Hutch and not good ol’ Bran. Even though I wouldn’t be surprised if Hutch discussed it with the photo and fiber-face came up with the idea of issuing an ultimatum. (Hell, for all I knew they were in touch by email or ESP. Who knew? I mean, even if the guy was dead, he could still talk to Hutch during a séance or something.)

I really needed some coffee. I wasn’t thinking straight.

This was just great. What a wonderful beginning to a fabulous day. No wonder the lovemaking felt so first time/even better than last time. It was the last time. Because I was not giving up that bike. I had a right to be freewheelin’ at 50 (something) without his damn permission! Choose? Don’t make me choose. Partner, you just might be surprised.

Still, under the big “CHOOSE” part there was a little P.S. It said: If the Motrin doesn’t help by the end of the day, you should call the doctor for an appointment. Try not to lift anything heavy.

Shit. It was heart of gold, loving beautiful man vs. a motorcycle. In this game, he sure knew how to play for all the marbles. Because after last night, what he was saying was: What do you want between your legs, baby, me or that machine?

 

I let Lady in, put Diego out and went to work. Why hang around a house that was no longer a home? It was breakfast at the Qwikkie for this abandoned cop.

Anyway, I still had the wet lady case to deal with along with anything new that had come up. Maybe I’d actually get that report from Pathology today. It was still too soon to have much information about insurance policies and wills. I decided to give Humphrey the case, since she had smelled out the possible boyfriend. I wondered if Donaldson had recovered from his ordeal yet.

I ran into Sylvester in the hall. He reported that the vehicles were no longer underwater and that the silver Honda was in the Impound lot. He apologized for the way it went down out there on the beach.

I told him that the tide was related to all that recent seismic activity, which naturally caused unusually high water, sounding all intelligent and scientific. It was no one’s fault, except maybe Donaldson. Hey, maybe this was the excuse we needed to dump his ass. Sylvester smiled evilly and said he’d get right on it.

 

If Hutch called at noon, all would be forgiven. But he didn’t call. (Well, I wasn’t calling him.) I waited until 12:09 and called him. His away message was up. It said: Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.

I hung up without letting him know what I thought of self-righteous bike-hating ex-partners who made glorious love to you and then ditched you in the morning all because you had neglected to mention a purchase.

I had a late lunch with Humphrey. She was pleased to be given the case. She was already doing background on the possible boyfriend. She’d get with Morgan and really start tracking down the financial history of the victim. Hey, was it true that Donaldson was being transferred to the Medical Examiner’s office? (You betcha. Good news traveled fast.)

After calling 50 or 60 times that day, I finally got the Pathology report at the end of the shift. A gray-haired woman dressed in black flew into my office, threw it at me, and screamed, “Here!” Then, she got back on her broom and left.

 

If he called at six, we’d be making up. But he didn’t call. (Well, I wasn’t fucking calling him. He’s the one that left.) I made it until 6:14. His away message was up. It said: Get your motor running. Head out on the highway. It’s either me or the bike that’s going to go bye-bye. (Cute. Real cute. I could always count on him for entertainment and wisecracks.)

 

The phone rang. It was Huggy.

“I’ve got it!”

“Where?”

“The Lees found it leaning against a dumpster. It’s at the Qwikkie. You can have it. But it’ll cost you.”

“What else is new? How much?”

“One hundred fifty bucks. Plus my overtime fee.”

“Pay them. I’ll square with you later. Bring it over. Just use your key.”

 

Well, what to do, what to do? I guess I’d grab a little dinner and work late. I guess I’d become a workaholic. I guess I’d find fulfillment with that Harley between my legs. (I once had a love, a love of my own…  I love him, I’m his, and everything he is, I am, too.) I guess I’ll start singing Broadway show tunes.

(What else did I have besides a caseload, a home-wrecker of a bike, and a good Karaoke voice?)

I watched the clock. I didn’t want to watch the clock. I didn’t want to know when it was getting close to midnight. Because if he didn’t call at midnight, I was really in deep shit and this was no game. I stopped watching the clock.

I read Sylvester’s updated report about “Crisis in the Surf.” He had incorporated information about tides and earthquakes. I read it slowly, which only brought me closer to midnight s-1-o-w-l-y. (Time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much, are you still mine?)

Damn, I was good.

Humphrey called. She told me that the possible boyfriend was now looking like a definite. Mr. Peters had been wealthy and only married to wife #4 for a short time. She’d keep digging.

The wet lady was definitely going to be hung out to dry, if we had anything to do with it. I knew all along what her game was; it was just a matter of time. Shit! I looked at the clock.

I watched the clock. I hated that clock. I didn’t want to know how close it was to midnight. It was just too close for comfort.

 

At 11:59 the phone rang.

“How’s the shoulder, Easy Rider?”

“It hurts, but not as much as my heart.”

“Good answer, David.”

“You ever coming back?”

“I’m already home.”

“You are?” The sun was shining at midnight in my world.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t know why I bought the bike and didn’t tell you.”

“That’s not the question.”

“Oh. What?”

“Do you know why there’s a great big sign that says “GRAN OPENIN” leaning in the living room?”

“Uh, tell you when I see you. Love ya. Kiss kiss.”

 

Yeah. This explanation was going to need real gamesmanship.

What to do? What to do?

Think, think, think.

Got it!

I’d limp in with a dozen red roses.

Call it the Double Distraction Game.

 

Once in a while he won’t call, but it’s all in the game.
Soon he’ll be there at your side with a sweet bouquet.
And he’ll kiss your lips and caress your waiting fingertips,
And your heart will fly away.

(You know, if I play my cards right in this human poker game and keep an ace up my sleeve, maybe Bran can go live with “Untitled” in storage. And me and a picture of my Harley can move right into that silver frame.)