Beginnings

204

This “first meeting” and background story, covers multiple periods between Starsky and Hutch’s thirteenth birthdays and their developing friendship at the LA Police Academy.

 

Originally published in the gen anthology zine, Casa Cabrillo, in 1980.

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THE BAR MITZVAH: Starsky

He wandered around the hall, acutely conscious of his blue wool suit, navy tie, and well-shined shoes. His father’s gift rode securely in his pocket, a gold pen and twenty dollars.

Far in the corner of the room, crouching so his aunt couldn’t see them, were two of his cousins sneaking some of the sweet wine. They waved at him, but he, a Bar Mitzvah, looked at them with scorn. He was thirteen and well on his way to manhood.

He strode deliberately to a flower-decorated table and picked up one of the small goblets of wine, sipping it slowly as his cousins watched. The tablecloth was white; the silver from the temple gleamed in the candles’ light, and as he glanced around the small hall, he felt a sense of wonder stirring deep inside him. It was all for him—David Michael Starsky—all this, the gifts, the shouted Mazel Tovs that still rang in his ears. He was a man in the eyes of his faith, able to participate in a minyan, wear the religious bindings, the t’fillin, and most important to him, he was responsible for his acts.

He drank deep of the wine, then, catching his mother’s eye, quickly set the glass down and beat a hasty retreat out of her sight. Someday he would be able to drink as much wine as he pleased, but it wouldn’t be this sweet stuff. It was fine for the old people, for women and kids, but he was sure that real men drank something else, maybe even champagne.

He groaned to himself as his Aunt Sophy approached, her three chins bobbing as she swept across the room. “Davey! A moment of your valuable time! Here, give me a kiss for good luck.” Her dark eyes twinkled, and she held his shoulders tightly, planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

He could hear his cousins giggling, and he resolved to get even later. He pecked at her soft face politely and vowed to escape by any route open.

Her hand tugged at his fingers, and as he uncurled them, he saw the familiar green of money. A brand new ten-dollar bill lay in his palm. His fingers closed around it as he stared at the wrinkled old woman.

“Thanks,” he whispered. “Thanks a lot.”

Her smile warmed him, and she answered with a hearty “Mazel Tov! Such a good boy to his mother.” Another pat and she was gone, soon busy over at the sweets table with the other ladies. He grinned and sauntered over to his cousins, carefully folding the ten into a triangle so the denomination was hidden.

“Betcha wanna know what I’ve got here.” He held out his hand, the green peeking through his fingers. “She gave me a hundred bucks! You saw her.” He drew the bill forward showing them the one and the zero. “How’d you like to get that much?” He watched as their eyes rounded like prune cookies, and he nodded wisely. “Maybe when you Bar Mitzvah she’ll give you that much.”

Wide smiles appeared on their shiny faces and something not quite so pleasant.

A sudden guilty feeling swept through him. Was that the purpose of this service? Was that why he’d studied so hard and why family and friends were gathered here? Just so he could collect money? He met the eyes of the rabbi and flushed. A man, and already he was acting in a shameful way. What would his father say—his mother??

“I’m just kidding, she only gave me ten dollars, and I’m going to give that to my mother.” He hurried off, not wanting to meet their astonished stares. The money burned his hand; he had spoiled the gift for himself.

A hand fell on his arm, and he jumped, then saw it was his mother’s. He reached around and patted it. He didn’t care if anyone saw him or not. She had worked so hard for this day. He loved her. Quickly he pushed the ten into her hand. “Keep it. I’ll tell you later about it.”

She smiled down at him, her dark eyes warm and full of good-natured amusement. He wanted to get away from their probing gaze. His mother always knew when he’d done something wrong.

“David, come over here!” He heard his father’s big laugh, and at the same minute, his mother pushed him toward the spot where his father was standing. Would she tell him about the money after he told her? He was just a little afraid of his father. His temper was sometimes scary, but since he was a cop, it was sort of expected. Cops had a lot of worries, and his dad spent a lot of time sitting quietly in the corner of the living room just staring into space. But compared to some of the kids’ fathers, he had a good one. And suddenly, he loved him very much.

Smiling, conscious of his new status as an adult, he walked over to the men. The rabbi shook his hand, lightly brushed back his hair, and pulled him even with the others.

“Will we be seeing more of you at Temple now?” His black eyes sparkled in his bearded face, and the tone was kind.

He smiled back and shrugged. “If I thought you needed me—for advice.”

He grinned sheepishly as his father stared, and then laughter burst from the older man. His grin widened as the laughter welled around him, swelled until it was all he could hear. Mixed with the sweet wine and the perfume of the flowers, it made him dizzy.

He was lucky—the luckiest kid on his block. Hell, the luckiest kid in the whole neighborhood. His parents loved him; his brother looked up to him; and outside, waiting until it was darker, were the members of his gang. Guiltily, he pushed aside the wish that he was out there. Deep inside he wanted to be here, wanted to be grown up at last. He knew that his parents didn’t like some of his friends, or the fact that they hung around doing nothing for hours on end. But they were his protection on the streets, and every kid had to belong to a gang in order to survive. That’s what his dad had finally told his mom. And it was the truth.

He nibbled on the inside of his cheek and thought about the oldest of his friends. Manny, who at sixteen already looked like a tomcat. Yeah, Manny was probably hanging around Guzman’s store waiting for one of the guys to send him on an errand. And while he waited, he was probably smoking a joint or two. Manny knew everybody.

He swallowed when he intercepted his father’s sharp glance and went looking for his cousins. It was always safe to hang around them. They were too young to influence anybody. They were standing in front of the sweets table stuffing the little filled cakes into already sticky faces. Leon had powdered sugar smeared all over his jacket, and David took pleasure in thinking about how mad his aunt was going to be when she saw him.

Again, his mind flitted to his friends, this time to Sheik. He realized he didn’t know Sheik’s real name—not that it mattered. He was undoubtedly making it with Eileen Moyer while her mother worked. For a moment he thought about Sharman, the only girl he’d even looked at twice. And all of a sudden, his skin was too tight. She was the prettiest girl in any of his classes, and he wondered if she was Jewish.

“Want one?” Leon’s voice brought him back to the stuffy hall, back to the lights and noise.

“Huh? Oh, no, I’m savin’ room for a submarine sandwich later.”

Understanding gleamed in his cousin’s eyes, chasing away the solemn expression as the round cheeks lifted. Leon rubbed his stomach. “Yeah, with lotsa those little pepper seeds on it… and pastrami.”

David shut off the flow of words and wondered what Eddie was doing right now. He’d wanted his best friend to be here, to share tonight with him, but Eddie’d said no. He’d understood. Eddie Mahoney had lost his father in an alley a couple of months ago. Some dumbass robber had killed him for fifteen bucks, and Eddie had nearly gone crazy, swearing to kill the guy with the murder gun if he ever found it. He’d meant it too, that much David was sure of.

He saw his father standing, one arm around his mother’s waist, smiling and talking to a neighbor. His dad had finally been able to convince Eddie not to do anything rash, explained how dangerous it would be for him to go looking for a killer… and what about Eddie’s mother? She needed him now. His dad had been great, talking about how hard the cops were working to find the creep, and how bad everyone would feel if Eddie got killed. A tiny shiver crept up into his neck hairs… He didn’t want to lose his very best friend—not ever. His dad had probably saved Eddie’s life that night. That was what he wanted to do too. Make people understand what a cop did; work with them so they wouldn’t get into trouble all the time.

His heart beat a little faster, and he barely said goodbye to Leon, who was still talking about Godknewwhat. Crossing the room, he noticed his father’s broad shoulders, the way the light danced off his curly hair. His own hair was like that his mom always said. And a deep need to talk to this man surfaced. He was going to tell him what he’d decided to do with his life.

He pulled at his father’s arm and smiled at his mother. “Can I talk to Dad for a couple of minutes?” It was man’s business, he justified to himself.

As she matched his smile, she lightly touched her husband’s arm in a gesture he’d seen a thousand times. He loved the way they touched, exchanging looks meant for no one else. “Just a minute,” he said again.

His father’s hand, large fingers heavy on his shoulder, steered him into a quiet corner. “So what’s so important, son?”

The blue eyes were warm, a tiny smile quirked the wide mouth, and David felt the man’s strength flowing around him like a great overcoat. He gloried in the feeling for a moment longer. “I know what I want to be, Dad. My first real decision as a man.”

He hoped that this was making sense to his father—to this sometimes-angry person who filled his life. His goyim father—bringing his holidays and beliefs into all their lives. Sometimes it was confusing to know who to believe, but his mother had won the battle of faith. When it came to her son, he was to be Bar Mitzvahed, and that was that. So here he stood, telling his father what he intended to do for the rest of his life.

“What is it, Davey? Something that’ll get you out of the streets, I hope.”

He shook his head. “No. I want to be a cop. Want to do what you do. Maybe be your partner when I’m good enough?” He looked up, hoping to see a pleased expression in the blue eyes.

Instead, he watched as they bleached out to a cold grey, and a deep frown line appeared above them. His dad said nothing, just stared down at him, anger crackling off his whole body.

“I want to work the streets like you do, Dad,” he persisted, wishing desperately to communicate how important this was.

“Nol” And the heavy fingers crushed his suit, working their strength into his flesh until he winced. “No. You don’t understand. I don’t want you to throw away your life out there. It’s not what you think it is.”

He blinked back tears. There was a terrible urgency about his father that he had never seen before. The anger was still there, but so was something else… something struggling to get out. And with a terrifying flash of understanding, he knew what it was. His big, brave, invincible father was afraid of the streets. He was afraid of someone or something out there. Panic invaded his own body, numbing all his other senses. Were all cops as afraid as his dad was?

“Promise me, son, that you’ll do something else. For your mother’s sake. Don’t mention this to her.”

And, as quickly as it had come, the fear left him. That was it. Of course, his dad wasn’t really afraid. He’d been all wrong! It was because of his mother, that was all. His dad and he would keep his great plan a secret. He had been scared for no reason.

They walked back to the center of the room, and he was once again surrounded by the lights and laughter, by the loving warmth of his family. It was all so perfect, except that Eddie wasn’t here to share it. As he accepted another gift, he laughed at his dad, who grinned back at him. Yeah, he was lucky—that was the word.

***

They buried his father three days later. Some of the flowers were from his Bar Mitzvah…

…and Eddie held him while he cried.

***

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY: Hutch

“Kenneth!”

He winced as his mother’s voice insinuated itself on his reverie. With an impatient shrug, he came to the front of their wide veranda and stood looking over to where she was waving at an approaching car.

“Who is it?” was all he asked, not actually caring. The only person he’d really wanted to invite to his birthday party was in Europe on one of those dumb tours the Mitchells were always taking. He’d been able to avoid going on the tours up until now, but his grandfather was getting harder to convince all the time.

His gaze wandered around the wide expanse of lawn, the carefully trimmed hedges with flowered borders, a flock of fat pigeons that was parading around the little fish pond, and finally fixed on the long black car. Of course. It was Roger Houghton in the family car, complete with chauffeur. He hid his dislike behind a smile. Creep! Why couldn’t he just be thirteen without all this fuss? He longed for the quiet atmosphere at the farm, for all the wonderful smells in the bam and kitchen. But, most of all, he longed for his other grandparents.

“Dear? Come and greet your guest.” Again, his mother’s soft voice intruded.

As he went the rest of the way down the steps, he saw Roger getting out of the limo, and he extended his hand for a polite handshake. The afternoon heat hit him with all its intensity, and he knew his fair skin was flushed like a girl’s. One hand slid down the front of his shirt, making certain his tie was straight, his jacket neat. Always the same—had to be the best-dressed, had to get the best grades. Being a Hutchinson was a pain in the ass at times… but he knew as long as his grandfather was alive, it would never change.

“Nice to see you, Roger,” he said quietly, shaking the slim fingers. It was sort of like holding a dead fish, and he fought to keep the distaste from his face. Roger Houghton was a pest, the sneakiest kid he knew, but because his family was rich, all the mothers in town invited him to all the parties. Guiltily, he reminded himself he was also invited to all the parties, and for exactly the same reason.

He spun around on his heel, leading the way back into the cool house. “Come on, the rest of the kids are inside.”

He had time to see the chauffeur hand Roger a large, fancy wrapped box, and he sighed. Most of the things he got he never used, but still, he’d have to sit down and write those silly thank-you notes. He supposed all mothers made sure of that, yet he knew his own was the most insistent. He could hear her repeating the same words over and over again.

“Remember, dear, your family is very important in this town, and because of that, you have certain obligations.” And so on and so on…

He was careful not to slam the door after his guest. His mother was still standing out in the sun, her blonde hair lifting away from her face as the hot wind stirred it. As he watched, he saw the Houghton chauffeur nod, then climb back into the car.

At least he was luckier than Roger. He was allowed to ride his bike almost everywhere. For a moment he pitied the boy beside him. “So, where’re you going to school this fall?”

Roger stared at him, gray eyes slightly suspicious. “Me? Oh, I suppose Pickering for another year. They go to tenth, you know.”

He knew and didn’t give a darn. Only cared that he and Jack Mitchell were going to be together at Radleigh High. And after that, University of Minnesota, and finally med school. They were going to practice together, maybe in Chicago. Yeah, he and Jack had it all planned out.

“That’s nice,” he said hastily, suddenly aware he hadn’t responded at all. “I’d like to get a game of baseball going later on. You interested?”

He saw a puzzled look cross Roger’s face and shut up. No use being sociable. He strode down the hall, fielding imaginary balls. “In here.”

Well, there it was—twenty-five kids, a cake as big as the Taj Mahal, those dumb hats and favors—Christ, he was thirteen, and his mother still insisted on buying those dumb favors! And, of course, there was a huge pile of presents over on the buffet. Always the same and always boring.

His eyes sought out the largest package, gold-wrapped and obviously heavy—from his grandfather Hutchinson. It would be the chemistry set he wanted. He almost always got what he wanted—he’d learned early on all the tricks. Just do whatever was required by his family, and he could have anything—except freedom to play with the Hermann boys or ask Merrillee Brown to a movie.

He looked around at the expectant faces, many of them as fair as his own, and tried to smile. He was lucky… any boy who lived in this house and had what he had, had to be lucky. So why wasn’t he happy? The answer came immediately. He wanted to go to a real ballgame, wanted to swim in the river, and wanted most of all to pal around with Jack Mitchell. So what if his family was new in town! They had more money than anybody. And were kind of fun to be around.

“Hey, Kenny, you going to stand there staring all day? Let’s eat!”

He gave the speaker an angry look but didn’t tell him to shut up. Instead, he nodded agreeably and walked over to the table. As if by magic the cook appeared carrying a huge silver bowl of ice cream. He smiled. Ingrid hadn’t forgotten—it was vanilla and peach, his favorites.

“Thanks,” he whispered as she set it down and started to leave.

Her round face beamed, and she bobbed her head with its crown of silver braids. “Yah, liebchen,” was all she said, but her blue eyes never left his face. Then, with a rustle of her starched apron, she was gone. He silently picked up a serving spoon, and the kids cheered.

“Well, am I to be ignored?” a deep voice rumbled above all the other voices.

Ken jerked his head up, a half-smile frozen on his lips. His grandfather, home early from his office. His hand trembled when their eyes met, and he wished angrily that he was eighteen today and as tall as the old man. Maybe then he would tell him a few things.

“Darling, get Grandfather a chair.” Softest of commands, but a command nevertheless.

He did as his mother told him, and the old man settled himself comfortably—right by the presents. He said nothing further, merely watched all the guests with an eagle eye. His mother bent over the grey head, murmuring things Ken couldn’t hear. He supposed it was about the kids. Her hand rested on his grandfather’s shoulder every few moments, and he realized all of a sudden that she got along better with him than she did with her own parents. He wondered why, then busied himself with dishing put the ice cream.

The cake would be cut last and pieces sent home the way they did with wedding cake. He thought it was a dumb thing to do and impulsively reached for the huge, silver cake knife, careful to avoid the watching eyes. Before they could say anything, he plunged the knife deep into the first layer and cut a big slice. “Anybody out there want the first piece?” Some of the boys hooted his words, and a few girls giggled. He blushed. It always happened to him. He’d say the wrong words and get razzed, then….

He caught his mother’s open-mouthed stare and something dark rose in him. He slid the cake onto a plate and held it out. “Roger, you’re always after a first piece—here.” He let his voice trail off, a bright smile fixed on his face.

Silence greeted his statement, then a nervous shuffling of feet as Roger slowly stood up. He stared at his victim and extended his hand. “Don’t be bashful, Houghton. Everyone knows you deserve it.”

“Kenneth!”

There was no amusement in his mother’s tone and he shrugged, carelessly thudding the China plate back down on the table. “It’s true,” he said under his breath. “Everyone does know it.” He saw Roger’s smooth face turn red, anger darkening the gray eyes. Excitement raced through Ken; maybe he could liven his party some more.

“Kenneth! That’s no way for a gentleman to behave. You must apologize at once.”

His grandfather’s tone of voice left no doubt that he was upset, or that later, one Kenneth C. Hutchinson was going to get a lecture on proper treatment of guests. Recklessly, he ignored him.

“Come on, let’s eat!” and he led the way to the table.

For the next thirty minutes he listened to the noise and laughter and watched as Roger glared at him. He saw Gunnilla Jorgenson scowl as a large blob of frosting hit the front of her dress. Then, meeting his eyes, she forced a smile back on her face. “Nice party, Kenny,” she whispered, but her red cheeks told him differently. Mustn’t upset the birthday boy. Compassion made him set down his own plate and, grabbing her arm, he ushered her over to the pantry door.

“Come on, in here. There’s water.” He snatched up a towel, wet it, and dabbed awkwardly at the stain. “Oh-oh.” He swallowed and looked up to meet a pair of ice-blue eyes topped by waving silver hair.

“What’s going on?” a stern voice asked.

“Nothing! That is-uh-she has a spot on her dress.” He pointed to the spreading stain and held out the wet towel as evidence of his good intentions. “We weren’t doing anything,” he added lamely.

Gunnilla didn’t help. All of a sudden she was clutching her hand over her chest as if he’d been feeling her there. The sharp glance grew even more intense, and he actually felt his grandfather’s displeasure. “Call Ingrid,” he said crisply. “You return to your guests.”

He left the pantry feeling about four years old, feeling as though he’d messed his pants and was about to get another lesson in potty training. As he reentered the dining room, he stared at the kids, all of whom ignored him while they laughed and chased each other. He saw Roger whispering something in Chuck Gamer’s ear, and a blind fury enveloped him. He’d find someway to get even… God, how he hated this!

“Kenneth, why don’t you open your presents now?”

As if by magic, the commotion and laughter died away, and the kids all gathered around the buffet. Someone pushed a chair out, and he sat down on it, waiting for the ritual to begin. A creak behind him, and he knew his grandfather had come back. He didn’t look around. But Gunnilla was nowhere to be seen.

***

He picked up the last present and turned it over and over in his hands. Beside him a stack of gifts sat in their boxes, each with a card telling him who it was from. So he could write the thank-you notes, of course. The large package had been the chemistry set he’d wanted, and he’d fussed over it long enough that his grandfather no longer looked angry. He glanced around, seeing that Gunnilla was standing over by Roger. He felt his stomach churn, not quite sure why.

“Who’s that one from? Sure is dumb-looking.” There was quiet scorn in Roger’s voice. “Probably came from a dime store.” A sneer curled his thin lips.

Ken clutched the box tighter. It was poorly wrapped, and there were great strips of scotch tape angled all over the paper. A faint smudge was obvious where a thumb had held down the knot so as to tie an awkward bow. It was from Jack Mitchell, and he must have wrapped it himself.

Ken felt the heat rising on his neck as he struggled to rip off the tape. He heard one of the girls giggle, then be hushed up. That was worse than if everyone had simply laughed at his troubles. When was it going to be all right to treat him like a normal kid? The idea that they might think he felt like Roger just because his family had money hurt almost too much to bear. Hell, he knew that half the boys and girls here had come because their parents had made them come. Tomorrow the Duluth papers would have an article describing his birthday party as one of the summer events. As if his birthday really mattered to any of them. But his mother would save the clipping and paste it in her scrapbook. Some party. Why couldn’t the girls go home and the guys go out on the front lawn for a game of baseball?

He tore off one end of the paper, smiled to himself, and lifted the lid. And suddenly, he didn’t want anyone to see what lay there, cocooned in tissue paper. It wouldn’t make any sense to any of them, this gift. It was a private thing between Jack and himself.

“Show us!”

“What is it?”

“What’d Mitchell give you?” This was from Roger, and the question was followed by a knowing look.

He wanted to run, but couldn’t, so with exaggerated care, he slowly lifted out a large balsa wood model airplane. It looked as fragile as a butterfly wing when compared to the metal-boxed chemistry set or the expensive riding boots. “It’s a model I’ve wanted for a long time.”

He heard his grandfather clear his throat and winced inwardly, waiting for the sarcastic comment he knew was coming. He was right.

“Would’ve thought Prentice Mitchell had more money to spend than that.” The note of displeasure was heard by all the children, and hot anger rose in Ken’s chest.

“It’s what I wanted. He asked me, and I told him.” He ran one hand over the satiny soft wood, his eyes picturing the craft soaring like a bird in the late sunshine. No motors, no stupid complicated parts to get fouled up… it was beautiful. “Jack isn’t cheap.”

“You’re right. Ken,” Roger agreed. He closed the distance between them and reached for the plane. “He just doesn’t have any taste.” Faint snickers followed his remark. His slender fingers tested the wing. “What else could you expect from someone whose daddy’s a Nevada cowboy who made his money in manure!” This time the laughter was louder, several of his friends joining in.

“Yeah, it sticks to his shoes!”

Ken locked gazes with the other boy, fury making him see red. “You take that back!” He got to his feet and made a grab for Jack’s gift. A sharp snap… one wing went floating to the floor, deliberately broken by Roger.

“You son of a bitch!” He lashed out, feeling his fist connect with something solid. “You rotten bastard!”

“KENNETH!”

A roar behind him, and he whirled around, facing his grandfather. “Well, he is! I hate him! He’s a stinking snob. He had no right to break my plane!” He spun back around, rewarded with the sight of Roger Houghton, frantically trying to stop the flow of bright red blood from his nose. It dripped off his chin and was slowly making a lovely stain on his shirt.

Ken grinned. “And next time, I’ll knock some of your teeth out!” he announced pleasantly. He saw his mother dashing in from the kitchen, Ingrid in tow, and grinned even wider. Maybe the Duluth paper would mention the fight.

No! All of a sudden, the elation left him, and he stared at his enemy. Roger hadn’t so much as raised a finger in his own defense. Was he afraid, or was it just because he didn’t dare hit a Hutchinson?

“Wanna get even?” He stuck out his chin, trying to egg the other boy on, testing his theory. Immediately, some of the boys crowded around them, urging them on. His mother stared at him as if he’d gone mad, and he shook his head. “Sorry, Mom, but he insulted Jack. I’m not going to let him get away with it.” He held her eyes, then when he saw tears forming in their blue depths, looked away. “It isn’t fair,” he continued stubbornly. “Jack isn’t here to defend himself.” He knelt to pick up the broken wing. “And he broke my plane.”

“I’ll buy you another, Kenneth.” His grandfather spoke as though that would settle the matter.

Always the same solution. Buy another one.

“It won’t, be the same,” he insisted. “It won’t be from Jack.”

But he knew there would be no further discussion, knew deep inside that Roger Houghton wasn’t afraid of him, only his name. It stunk. Suddenly, he was very tired, and the afternoon had turned into something ugly, something that he couldn’t put a finger on. He wondered tiredly if he was ever going to find a friend who wouldn’t care if he was rich or poor, or what his last name was. Someone who just wanted a friend… and he wished desperately that Jack was here….

***

LOS ANGELES: Starsky

Sunday, January second, and here he stood staring at a row of stupid-looking palm trees. Two days into the new year and already he hated it. Los Angeles was enough to make any kid like himself feel terrible. Here it was practically summer as far as weather was concerned, and that bugged the hell out of him. And when his Uncle Al had read him the weather report for New York while they were eating breakfast—”Eight inches of snow, so how is it you’re not glad to be out here?”—it had been too much.

He’d gotten to his feet, pushed aside his breakfast plate and headed for the door—and the streets. He wasn’t going to cry in front of his uncle. He was almost sixteen for Christ’s sake, not a baby anymore. Hadn’t been a baby since that day nearly three years ago. He forced himself to think about the snow instead.

Eight inches. That meant it would be lying heaped in snow drifts around all the steps of the brownstones on his block. The guys would be making plans to build that slide over in the far corner of Mercer Park… on that little embankment his gang had declared their own. His gang—shit, if it wasn’t for Eddie he might think they were all dead or something. No one else wrote, and he didn’t write a lot either. But sometimes, when it got too much to bear, he would sit down, snitch some of his Aunt Rosie’s stationery, and pour out his feelings to his old friend. Eddie always answered those letters real fast, and his hand would shake when he saw the familiar scrawl on a letter. He’d told them about how lousy this state was and all about the pansy gangs in his new neighborhood. He smiled a little. Even Manny had taken the time to send him a postcard asking about possible affiliations. He’d gotten a charge out of that.

He closed his eyes and took little breaths, trying to see all of them: Eddie, yelling that they needed someone to make snowballs with ice chunks in the middle; Manny, with that chipped front tooth making him look something like the Mad Magazine nut—why Manny would pass around beer and later a joint. Jesus! He sucked in a long breath. They’d feel so great, sitting around, fingers numb, cheeks all flat-feeling as the wind polished their skin and whistled around the cellar steps. Yeah, sure he’d be cold, but at least he’d be alive!

He watched as a funny looking bird sailed over the tops of the palms. It uttered a single scream that sent shivers down his spine before he identified it for what it was—a seagull. What in the hell was it doing in this part of town? The beach was—he tried to remember which way was west and couldn’t, so he thumbed his nose at the bird’s rear. “Dumb ass!” he yelled, then flushed when an old man turned to stare at him. “You too,” he muttered under his breath.

He ran his fingers through his hair, testing its new length. At least his aunt and uncle didn’t expect him to get a haircut every two weeks the way his mom had. He found he kind of liked the longer look, and every morning he’d check the curls, hoping they’d be looser, less kinky. Yeah, that part of being out here was okay.

Tinsel, glittering on a discarded Christmas tree, caught at his imagination. It sat on the curb in a neighbor’s yard, and for some reason, he identified with the poor thing. He was like that tree—useless, as out of place as Christmas was now that it was January. He’d always wondered why everyone apologized for having their decorations and lights up after the holiday, almost as if they were ashamed they hadn’t gotten rid of all the spirit with the turkey. Adults were strange, and if he thought about it, not too helpful.

Like now for instance, right when he’d needed his mom, she’d sent him out here. Couldn’t handle his being in trouble all the time was what she said. Had to provide a better atmosphere for Nicky. Shit, he should’ve told her what his brother needed—mostly a good sock in the chops. Uncle Alf might have been able to make his little brother get religion as the old people always said, if only his father were alive. Then, oh, God, then they would all be together instead of him standing on this street corner feeling like hell.

A bus rumbled by, choking him with its diesel exhaust, and that angered him even more. This goddamn city. Where were the streetcars, the subways with their electrically-run cars? It was going to take him almost an hour to get out to the Olympic to meet Officer Blaine again. An hour of boxing lessons and another hour to get home…

Home? It was impossible that he had thought of the house on Del Rio Street as his home. Home was a three-story brownstone; home had white marble steps that his mother scrubbed every day; home had a vestibule and storm windows and cellar steps where the coal chute was laid when winter came roaring in. How could a place where you had to mow lawns all winter be home? Why, right at this minute he bet that his aunt was out in the yard trimming roses or orange trees or cactus.

At least he was able to get away from some of that stuff by going down to punch the bag a few times, and if he was lucky, maybe Johnny would personally teach him how to develop a left hook. Without his gang he needed something to keep him ahead of the kids, even if they were soft. The odds were wrong, and he wasn’t stupid. He longed for Eddie to magically appear on the corner, then everything would be all right. But he couldn’t keep up the pretense the way he had at first; he knew nothing was going to happen. So far, he’d met no one at the new high school whom he wanted to call ‘friend.’

“Hey, David, wait up!”

He whirled around, watching with half-shut eyes as three figures approached him. As if on cue, the hair on his neck prickled, and his body shook with the jolt of adrenalin that hit him. Instinctively, his hand snaked into his pocket, fingers searching for his knife. His uncle had confiscated his switchblade the first week he’d arrived, but allowed him a snap blade. If these three were unfriendly, he’d show them what he could do. He’d make sure they remembered where he was from. He felt the heavy handle of his knife with satisfaction. He could afford to take a better look at the three of them.

They were laughing now, hands moving as they punched one another on the shoulder. He wondered just what was so damn funny, hoping that all they wanted to do was give him a verbal going-over. A great sense of isolation welled up in him, leaving a taste in his mouth like sour milk. He longed to hear Eddie’s chuckle, that excited catch in his breath when a rumble was inevitable. Wished also for the touch of a rough hand on his shoulder, for that special comfort that Eddie had always given him. He hadn’t been able to find even one kid out here who matched up to that standard of friendship.

As he made out the features of the three boys, he knew friendship wasn’t on their minds either. Chico Herrera, Mike Short, and a tall skinny guy he didn’t recognize. Shit, this might mean more trouble than he could handle. He shot a quick glance down the street and saw a bus lumbering around the corner. His heart leaped in his throat, and he permitted himself a small grin. With a little luck, he could scare them and still get away on the RTD special.

The knife was suddenly in his palm, his fingers searching blindly for the little groove so he could open it at a moment’s notice. He brought his hand out and down to his side, still watching their approach.

“Hey! Whatcha doin’ on my turf, Jew-boy?” Chico’s reedy voice was edged with hostility.

“Your turf? I don’t see no signs, greaser.” He let the insult slur, watching as black eyes widened, then narrowed like a door opening and closing.

“You watch your mouth. I’m gonna cut out your tongue! Puta!” A giggle followed the insult.

David swept his hand around, this time the blade in plain sight. “Oh, yeah? Well, come here and taste this! I’ll make a Jew outta you yet!” He made an arc and the blade’s path left no doubt as to where he would cut first.

Chico muttered a curse and jumped back, allowing Mike to step in front of him. The stockier boy grinned nervously, and David challenged him. “You interested? Hell, there probably ain’t much between your legs either.”

The round face paled, and Mike clenched his fists. “There’s three of us, turd. Or don’t they teach you to count in Nooo Yawk?”

He drawled the words, and David flushed. Always there was someone to laugh at the way he talked, the way he phrased a sentence. He’d wipe the smiles off their faces… God, if only Eddie were here!

He remembered the third boy suddenly, the quiet one who hadn’t said a word, and he shifted his weight so the stranger came into his line of vision. Cool blue eyes stared at him, and he felt a tingle of apprehension. This one was real trouble—he sensed it. And still he knew he couldn’t run from it; had to show them he was as good as they were.

In the back of his mind he heard the bus’s hissing gasp as it halted about twenty feet away. He had miscalculated. Hadn’t noticed the small yellow sign that indicated the bus stop. Shit. Then, as the white letters rolled up, he saw something else. Another mistake—this one worse. It wasn’t the bus he wanted. The driver stuck his head out of the window, watched them for a minute, then pulled away, leaving them to choke in the oily exhaust.

David swallowed, his stomach twisting as he looked at the three boys. Once again, he tried to gauge the quiet kid’s involvement. He saw a flicker of something in his eyes—was it understanding? Or was he only grabbing at straws? Slowly, he dropped his hand to one side, once more concealing the knife. Maybe if they didn’t feel threatened, they’d go away. Of course, if he had done this in New York, he would be jumped at once, then beaten within an inch of his life. But this wasn’t his home town, and these weren’t kids he knew. If there was a way out, he wanted it. He thought of his mother for a moment, and what she would think if he died on a street out here. She’d be alone again, and it would be his fault. He discovered to his surprise that he didn’t want to fight after all.

A surreptitious move by Mike froze his thoughts, and he spun around, knife blade glittering in the sunshine. He saw Chico slowly circling around behind him, slender brown fingers curled around the handle of a ten-inch switchblade. So that was how it was going to be. Mike and the other guy in the front, and Chico slashing away from behind.

Eddie! He sent a message three thousand miles distant, knowing that no miracle was going to happen. To run was unthinkable—he’d have to stay and fight. He doubled over again, trying to protect his gut, but by doing so he exposed his back. There wasn’t much choice—he had to stay and fight; it wasn’t in him to run.

The sound of running feet registered dully on his consciousness, and he felt his heart sink in response. It was going to be even worse than he’d thought. More of Chico’s friends, so there was no chance for a fair fight now. He braced himself for Mike’s first blow, then stared at him in surprise. Mike’s face had turned sullen, and he was stepping back. He jerked his head up to see what was happening, hope screaming through his veins—cops?

Soft laughter echoed behind him, and he was immediately dizzy with relief as he recognized its owner. Boots—none other than Boots Franklin. Pivoting slowly so as not to show his delight, he stared at a pair of fancy red and white cowboy boots. He was beautiful to see. The other boy was shorter, but solidly built. David barely gave him a second look.

“Hi,” was all he could say. But he flashed a sideways glance at Chico and grinned as the boy put away his knife. No one messed with this tall black boy—no one.

“So hi yourself. What’s goin’ on, ah mean with you?” A lazy drawl. Boots was from Oklahoma and as homesick as he. He felt very close to him all of a sudden.

“Not much, just a difference of opinion.” He felt generous because the danger was over, and his eyes held the Mexican’s again. An unspoken truce—no need to start something on this bright morning. He folded the blade on his own knife and jammed it into his pocket, fear melting like winter snow. “Chico and Mike were just leaving and taking their friend with them,” he said pointedly, no smile accompanying his words. He slitted his eyes and watched something like fear leap into Mike’s. He hadn’t figured out what changed in his expression that scared the other kids, but he was willing to take advantage of it. “Weren’t you, Mike?” He dropped his voice to a whisper.

Mike grabbed the silent kid’s arm, nodding, and smiled nervously at Boots. “Just goin’, Boots. No trouble, okay? See ya around, David.” He pulled at Chico’s sleeve with his free hand. “Let’s split!” he hissed.

Chico gave each of them a long look, then turned away. He said nothing.

The breath whistled out of David, and he felt his arms and legs going all rubbery. “You saved my ass, Boots. I owe ya.” He leaned forward to include the other boy and gave him a closer scrutiny now that there was time. “Who’s he?” He jerked his thumb in the kid’s direction.

A dazzling grin nearly blinded him, and he blinked. “David, this here’s Perry. He lives down at the beach. He’s visitin’ his mama’s folks this week.”

David sniffed as he took in the blond hair bleached by the summer sun. The kid was a surfer from the word go. That was another one of the things he’d had to learn real quick out here. There were several classes of kids, and the surfers were the dumbest. They went to the beach summer and winter, listened to horrible music, and polished their surfboards. They knew every tide and would sit for hours just watching for the right wave, whatever the hell that meant. They all looked alike, talked alike, and came from the same kind of homes… mostly where they didn’t have to work. This Perry looked as if sand would fall out of his hair if you shook him. It was January, and all he had on was a loose shirt, cut-offs, and a scroungy pair of tennis shoes. He didn’t think he liked Perry.

“Boots says you’re from New York. I used to live there—over on Ogilvie Circle.” There was a note of wistfulness that David didn’t miss.

He stared at him for a full minute. Holy Shit! He knew what the homes looked like there. Real townhouses… he’d seen them, ridden with his dad in the squad car once on the way to a parade. Only the rich lived in them—rich as in Rockefeller or Morgan. He tried not to be impressed. “Yeah? Your old man got money?” He flushed. His mother would kill him if she knew he was being that rude.

Perry laughed, and his fair hair fell in scraggly clusters about his face. “My dad does—but my mom and I don’t. She left him—” He stopped, his face scarlet. “I live out here now. My mom remarried and said she wanted me here…. Boots can tell you about it,” he added lamely.

The black boy’s face became agitated, and he stared briefly at the two boys. “Seems Perry’s new stepdaddy beats his mama, and Perry don’t like it one damn bit. He means to do something about it, but his mama keeps on tellin’ him it’s none of his business. Sooo,” a long, drawn-out breath, “sooo, he’s thinkin’ about hittin’ the trail.” Boots grinned slyly as the phrase left his lips. “Couldn’t resist it, man. Got to keep in character for the Califohnians.” Then curiosity flickered across his dark face. “What’re you doin’ standin’ here anyway? Where’re you headed?”

David found himself explaining all about Johnny Blaine and the boxing lessons down at the Olympic, and how he was really learning to defend himself in all kinds of situations. He thought of the encounter he’d just had and knew that boxing skills weren’t something he needed to survive, but they helped him get rid of a lot of his anger. The cop had told him that that was important—that anger was one of the biggest problems kids his age had to deal with. Punching the leather bag did help—he could pretend it was anyone he wanted to hit. Maybe today he’d make like it was Chico. All at once he realized how badly he needed to talk to Blaine again, tell him about the near fight, and his hatred of this big phony town, but most of all, about how much he missed Eddie.

“Hey, man, so when’re you comin’ over to my place?” Boots was watching him closely, eyes crinkling at the corners, laughter twitching his mouth. “Mama’s gonna make some of those little spare ribs I was tellin’ you about.” He punched the blond boy with his forefinger. “Perry here wants to try ’em. He’d nevah had them either.” And this time the laughter spilled out, his dark eyes bright as he rubbed his hands together with anticipation. “Sure are good eating, David.”

“Well, maybe after I box.” He smiled at the two faces, so different from his old friends. “Hey! I’ve gotta idea. Why don’t ya come down to the Olympic with me? Maybe Johnny’ll show you how to go a few rounds.” This to the blond kid. “You’ll need some tricks to get by if you’re gonna live around here.” Then he remembered that Perry lived at the beach.

A light sparked in the blue eyes. “Think he could teach me how to take on my step-dad?”

“More likely he’ll try to talk you out of it,” David said grimly, now doubly anxious to see the cop. It was a matter of not wanting this kid with the calm, sad eyes to do something stupid that he’d pay for the rest of his life. Taking out a parent was dumb, and for some reason, he wanted to see Perry again.

“Perry your real name? I mean it’s kinda… uh… different.” He kicked at some loose curbing and watched a pink color stain the tan cheeks.

“It’s not that bad,” Perry protested. “It’s a hell of a lot better than a name like Boots.” His wide smile contained no malice, and he elbowed the lanky black boy. “That right?”

Boots chuckled. “Says you. Anyway, let’s go see the next Sugar Ray get his brains beat out. Got any change for the bus, white boy?” He held out his hand, thrusting the pale palm under Perry’s chin. “Come on, pay up. Mah folks is stahvin’ cause of you rich boys.” His eyes danced.

Another bus came around the corner and all three of them ambled over to the sign, David in the forefront. Perry whipped out a twenty, and they all laughed as they pictured the bus driver’s fury when it was offered to him.

David did a quick goose step around a palm tree and grinned over his shoulder at them. “Who’s gonna get his brains beat out? Not me, man. Johnny says I’m really good. Maybe I’ll join the Golden Gloves.” He sparred with a shadow, then as the bus pulled up, they boarded it. Sure enough, the bus driver glared at them while he made change, and they all tried not to laugh out loud.

Perry slid the money into his pocket, and they half-ran to the back of the bus, falling into the very last seat. David found himself talking about his mother and Nicky, and finally about his father—and how he’d died. As he observed their solemn faces, he realized he hadn’t spoken about it except to Blaine. A small, hard knot of anger slowly let go of his chest, and he leaned back in the uncomfortable seat. The feathery palms caught his attention, and for some reason, they no longer looked quite so weird.

He took in a deep breath and listened as Boots and Perry talked softly to one another. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad after all. Maybe, with a couple of friends, he would be able to tolerate El Lay until he was out of school. Of course, as soon as he graduated, he would go home. New York was the only place to live, but for now…

“Hey!” he said sharply, pointing out the window. “What’re burritos? I see signs all over the place. And tacos? What’re they like?”

Boots stared at him, disbelief written all over his features. “Man, you mean you ain’t never had no Mexican food?” Obviously stunned, he struggled to describe them with exaggerated gestures, then gave up. “I’d rather have me a plate of that stuff than almost anything else. Even Perry here likes it.”

Perry’s gaze met David’s. “After your lesson, let’s go to the Tia Maria. I’ll buy you the biggest burrito she makes. Oh, and nopalitos and jalapenas…” A grin split his face, and he slid a look toward the black boy. “He’ll love them, right?”

David nodded, sure he would like anything Boots and Perry had in mind. Jesus, he felt wonderful! Happiness washed oyer him in great waves, and he quietly laid his thoughts of Eddie to rest.

***

SUMMER: Hutch

“Did you say something?” Hutch raised his head and looked over at his friend.

“Hmmm? Nope,” and Jack’s head, with its crown of tousled curls, dropped back onto his arms.

The gentle swell of a wave rocked their raft, and Hutch smiled. He loved the huge lake with its shimmering expanse of blue water, loved the long, lazy days of summer with their endless hours spent in the sun. This was turning out to be the best vacation he’d ever had. He rolled over on his side and tried to make out the two figures slowly swimming toward them. From the amount of splashing, he knew instinctively that the one swimmer was tiring fast.

“Hey, Jack, looks like we’re going to have company.” He poked the sun-warmed body of his companion. “Wake up, see if you think that joker needs help.” He pointed off to their right, eyes narrowing as another wave washed over the swimmer’s head. He got to his knees, ready to dive in when a hand grabbed him by the waistband of his bathing suit.

“Don’t be a fool. That’s Chip out there. And he swims as well as you do.” There was a strange note in Jack’s voice that made him stare, puzzled, into the deep-set eyes.

“That’s Chip? Then he’s in trouble,” he declared. He scrambled over to the edge of the raft, holding onto the lifeguard flag standard. Another wave rocked them. He saw the swimmer disappear with a wild flurry of arms and dived into the chilly water. Dimly, he heard Jack’s shout, then a splash as another body split the lake’s surface.

He tried to spot the two figures through the murky water, and finally, lungs bursting, made out two pairs of legs. Immediately he shot to the surface and gulped down air. As the sweet sensation of lungs expanding hit him, he began swimming again. “Hang on! We’re coming!” He raced through the water, bobbing like a cork when he was washed in the wake of a boat. “Hang on!” he yelled again.

In moments he was reaching for a mop of red hair, pulling it up with all his strength, shifting the dead weight so he could cup his hand around the chin. With long, easy strokes, he cut back through the water heading for their raft. Beside him, keeping pace, swam Jack and the yet-unidentified swimmer. Together, they heaved and shoved until Chip’s lax body rested on the raft.

With almost mechanical precision. Hutch began to apply artificial respiration, his eyes never leaving his friend’s pale face. Finally, just when Jack’s hands were pushing him out of the way, he heard a gurgle, and a gush of water spilled from Chip’s mouth. Another gurgle and a rush of air filled the starving lungs. Immediately, a faint tinge of pink returned to the mouth, and Hutch sat back on his heels.

He glanced over at Jack, smiled when their eyes met, and shook the water out of his hair. “Sort of close,” was all he could think to say.

“Thanks, man.”

The youth who had been Chip’s companion clasped his hand. He shivered as the breeze grew chilly, coming now from the north shore instead of the west.

“Yeah, just glad we were here. Have any idea what happened to him?” Hutch pointed down at the sprawling Chip who was trying to drag himself up on his elbows. “I mean, he’s as good a swimmer as Jack here.”

Jack frowned, combing his hair out of his eyes with his fingers. A half-smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Wrong. I know better than to swim when I’ve just eaten. So do you. Hutch. Judging by the amount of distention in that belly, I’d say our friend there has been feeding his face quite recently.” He raised an eyebrow, looking over at the other boy for confirmation.

He extended his hand. “Sorry, sort of forgot the niceties. I’m Jack Mitchell, and the hero here is Ken Hutchinson. I call him Hutch.”

“Name’s Gordy, Gordy Granger… and thanks.”

As he stood up to shake hands. Hutch noted the powerful shoulders and well-developed neck. “You wrestle?” he asked suddenly, surprising even himself. Strong fingers gripped his, and he knew he liked this young man with the no-bullshit air about him.

Gordy flashed him a sharp look, then nodded. “As a matter of fact, yes. You interested in the sport?”

Hutch found himself drawn to the sturdy youth. He saw the interested glance, knew he was taking in his height and strength and flushed. “I’ve always wanted to join my high school team, but never found the time for it. Are you a letter man?”

Jack interrupted, his expression clearly impatient. “Hutch, shut up. I want to know if Chip was eating any time before he went swimming. Was he?”

Gordy nodded, the sun playing off his thick head of hair. “You got it. Old Chip had a corned beef sandwich, two hard-boiled eggs…” He grinned. “…and two beers.”

Hutch found himself grinning back. He got to his feet, stretched to get the blood flowing in his cramped legs and saw Jack watching him. “That was a pretty sharp observation. Dr. Mitchell. Go to the head of the hospital.”

They exchanged a long look, and a pleased smile softened Jack’s rough features. He shrugged, then glanced down at Chip, rubbing the swimmer’s shoulder with large, supple fingers. Hutch looked from them to his own hands and felt a small glow of satisfaction. Soon the two of them would be able to use their hands to do truly useful work. He was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and Jack had already had his eighteenth birthday in February. This was their last summer before they went away to college… and pre-med. A tingle of anticipation spread through him, the sensation starting in his fingertips.

“Hutch, I owe you one.” Chip’s voice sounded slightly hoarse, and as he sat up, Hutch noticed he was still slightly pale around his mouth. “I think I can make the swim back now.”

Hutch shook his head and reached for his parka, pulling it on as he talked. “No need. Our reliefs will be here in about ten minutes. We’ll all ride back together.” He reached for Jack’s parka and slipped it over Chip’s head, motioning for him to zip it up. “We’ll get you checked out at the first aid station.” He saw panic flicker and fade in the hazel eyes and hastened to reassure his friend. “Routine, pal. You were unconscious for a little bit, so we can’t take any chances.” He met Jack’s eyes and saw agreement there. “Take our advice. Five or six years from now, it’s going to cost you a bundle.”

They all laughed, even Chip, and by the time their reliefs showed up, an almost festive air hung over the raft.

Later that evening while Hutch sat enjoying the music that drifted out across the lakeshore, he sensed that this day had been somehow different, somehow important to him. It wasn’t just saving a life… it was deeper, had altered the way he thought about things. He glanced obliquely at his best friend and wondered just how tough college was going to be. He was good in science and languages and sports. Jack had always been a whiz in history and fairly good in math. Was that enough to get them through the grind of med school? How did he feel about the human body when it didn’t function perfectly?

He sighed, for the last couple of years his grandfather had seemed to understand his need for doing what everyone else was doing. He knew, of course, that he could never fit into the role that the old man had been preparing him for, had spent years hoping he would come into the firm. He flushed, seeing that Jack didn’t seem to notice his preoccupation, but memories rose strong on this warm evening, and indelible scenes that had been seared into his child’s brain crowded here tonight.

He recalled overhearing his parents calmly discussing just who among their acquaintances’ daughters had the ‘right’ qualifications to be acceptable when he was old enough. He had accused them of wanting to use him as breeding stock, had ended up in a shouting match that he’d never forgotten. It had almost ruined his ability to relate to girls, and there had been long periods of time when he simply involved himself in studies and sports, leaving his parents to watch him with their thin-lipped reserve.

“Hutch? What’re you thinking about?” Jack’s lazy drawl swept clean all the musty memories, and he leaned across the table, laughing at his seriousness.

“All the girls I’ve never laid,” he lied. Yet, for some odd reason, he knew it was also a truth, and for a long and aching moment, he wondered if there would eyer be a girl who would really love him. He jumped to his feet, tossing a challenge over his shoulder as he ran down to the lake’s edge. “Bet I can beat you out to the raft!”

Jack’s outraged roar gave him wings and, fully clothed, he plunged into the cold water. He could hear his friend’s echoing splash and swift passage beside him. The music sounded far away, terribly unreal, and soon the sounds of their arms cleaving the lake’s surface and the far-off cry of a loon was more real, more seductive to him. His last summer as a kid. It promised to be a glorious one.

***

DEATH OF A DREAM: Starsky

“Shhh! Starsky, shut the hell up! Charlie can tell an American’s voice seven miles away.” Olive-black eyes set in a brown face blinked to emphasize the point. Sergeant Tate’s expression was anything but friendly, so Starsky nodded to show he’d gotten the message.

He stared cautiously out across the clearing where he and the other members of the patrol were taking a break. Up and down the red dirt trail he glanced, cursing the heavy jungle greenery of vines and bushes that hid the movement of anything smaller than a troop transport. He’d read the phrase “swallowed up by the jungle”, but had always watched Tarzan flitting through the trees making it all look so easy. Even though this area was scheduled for defoliation next week, it wasn’t going to help him one damn bit. They were moving out in a few days, and by then he expected to be either shot or dead.

He shivered, trying not to inhale the heavy stink of dead water buffalo. Tate had warned them against filling their canteens in any of the muddy brown streams that wandered back and forth alongside the path they were patrolling. As if anyone would drink that shit! He swallowed, and the taste of the rotting animal was heavy in his throat.

The sweatband he wore was already stiff with salt, and the corners of his eyes stung where he’d dug at the tiny flies that followed every living thing in this hell hole. He had yet to figure out how the natives stood the insects that crawled over them. Here, the dead didn’t seem to attract any more flies than the living, and the sight of a tiny Vietnamese mother carrying a dying baby, both of them already covered with buzzing insects, still made him gag.

A branch snapped to his right. He gripped his rifle in sweaty fingers. He’d been here just under three weeks now, and the thought that his tour of duty still had another eleven months, one week to go had sent him to the latrine time and again to crap away his fear. That, and smoke endless cigarettes.

Funny, how fast he’d picked up the habit in boot camp. He’d toked a few joints as a kid, even puffed a few Camels just to show he knew how—could take it or leave it—but hadn’t liked the taste. In the Army they practically shoved the goddam things down your throat. Even as he thought about them, he found himself reaching for the crumpled pack that was always with him now. When he got home, he’d have to quit. His aunt would see to that.

A wry grin creased his face, and he felt his muscles tighten, so unfamiliar was the expression anymore. Setting down his rifle, he got out a cigarette and tamped the tobacco, realizing that was what he needed, the busyness of the thing. Tonight would bring rest and a couple of really good jays, courtesy Sergeant Tate himself.

He slid a sideways glance at the man who could lop off jungle vines or somebody’s arm with equal ease. Yeah, he was learning a lot from the big black man. The guy was sure quick to whip his men into shape. In order to survive, you killed; in order to kill, you substituted anger for fatigue until pulling the trigger was easier than drawing in breaths of the wet air. This place was hell as he’d never imagined it—but what he hated the most—what made it nearly unbearable—was the waiting. Always waiting for something to happen, something that would invariably cost someone his life.

Yet here he was, David Michael Starsky, making the world safe for all men—except the people who lived here didn’t think so. Some police action. He put the cigarette to his lips, his mind flitting back to Johnny Blaine, and he wondered what the cop would think of this. Another smile softened his mouth, and a warm feeling settled in his gut. He tried dragging in a lungful of smoke, realized he hadn’t lit the cigarette. The paper stuck to his lips. Disgusted, he pulled it off, then shoved the thing back in the pack. He giggled, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid. Yep, keeping the world safe, a guy who didn’t have the brains to know when his own cigarette was lit! He giggled again, this time deep in his throat.

Something rustled behind him, and he saw the sergeant’s face contorting with anger. He bit his lip, knowing that Tate took the responsibility for his men staying alive very seriously. In fact, Tate would practically kill a guy just to make sure he did stay alive. Christ! Now that was funny! He snickered, picking up his rifle again.

“Starsky, what the shit’s so funny? You wanna meet your Maker real soon?” A hoarse whisper accompanied Tate’s resting his hand on his pistol butt.

Starsky promptly stopped laughing; a cracked head wasn’t what he needed right now. “Sorry,” he croaked. “Must be the stink of that cow.”

Tate glared at him, then nodded and moved away.

Starsky sighed and peered off into the dense undergrowth again. If they got lucky, and if Charlie didn’t decide to attack, in about one hour and half a mile he’d be through for a seventy-two. He already knew what he was going to do—find some booze, maybe some really good hash, and stay stoned the whole time. Only way to fight this stinkin’ war Tate had assured him, and he was beginning to think the sergeant was right.

He shot a quick glance to his left where Corporal Boland squatted, scratching the scraggly growth on his chin. He knew what Boland would do with his time off. Head for that unpronounceable city and shack up with one of the local whores. It was all the man talked about. Himself, there was no way he was going to try that until he met someone he trusted to show him the ropes. He’d heard all the horror stories about the little ladies and their razor blades. He felt a tightening in his groin, but shoved the awareness to the back of his mind. There hadn’t been anyone special to say goodbye to, so what the hell was so urgent now? He’d wait, just as he’d waited at home. Someone would come along—always did. But for now, no razor blades for Davey. He’d stick to booze and pot and plenty of sleep. That, and a clean bed. Jesus! Now that was a turn-on.

He sucked in a deep breath, his lungs protesting the heavy air. All water. And wouldn’t it be shit to drown crouched in the middle of a clearing, jungle all around, fifty yards from the nearest water? He decided it was entirely possible.

“Hey! Someone’s haulin’ ass up the trail!”

He heard Boland’s falsetto and half rose from his crouch to stare at the tiny patch of visible trail. His fingers tightened convulsively around the trigger as he listened to the coughing whine of meshing gears, and he smelled exhaust. Was the wind really stirring enough to carry that odor to him? Imagination—one of the things he was rapidly developing in this green hole. When common sense told him he couldn’t see anything, he saw something. When he wasn’t supposed to hear anything, of course he heard it. It had saved his neck a few times, so he was willing to thank whatever power was helping him survive. All he wanted to do was go home.

The grinding noise got louder, and he pivoted on his heel, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder, sighting it in. All they needed was an enemy patrol to attack them. His plans to go home would be screwed up good if that happened. He slid a round into the breech and waited.

“Shit!” Tate made a disgusted sound deep in his throat, spitting into the dust. “It’s that crazy Noo Yorkuh!” He leaped to his feet, hailing the dust-streaked Land Rover as it rounded the bend. A bareheaded driver was barely visible through the swirling dust.

“Eddie! Get your ass outta that car and over here!” A fierce smile slashed the dark face, and Tate muttered, “You’re crazy… don’t you know there’s a nest of them bastards about a hundred yards down the trail?”

As Starsky blinked at that news, the Rover ground to a halt, sending small puffs of red dust into the air. The motes hung there, caught in the afternoon sun, then settled slowly to the ground. A slim, khaki-clad man of about twenty-four swung easily out of the vehicle, long legs carrying him across the clearing and into the little knot of men. A broad grin creased his dirty face, and Starsky noted that over the olive-green undershirt he wore a gaudy Hawaiian sport shirt. His dog tags clanked against tanned skin. He was carrying a slim leather case, its shine dulled by the clinging dust. Starsky saw the gun in the stranger’s right hand, forefinger resting lightly on the trigger.

A small crumb of fear wedged in his throat. Who was the guy? There was something about the way he nodded at the other men, something about the easy, swaggering walk that nicked at his memory. Just then he glanced at the sergeant, noticing his expression, and he forgot everything else.

Tate’s eyes flickered over each of his men, lingering longest on Starsky, then moved back to the stranger. “Over here,” was all he said, indicating an area away from Starsky and the corporal. “Cover us,” he said curtly, striding away, the stranger falling in behind him.

Once again, Starsky felt memory nudge him, but when he heard Boland swearing under his breath, he stared at him, surprised.

Boland, face carefully neutral, wiped at his shaved scalp, then jammed his handkerchief back into his pocket. He set his helmet firmly back on his head, adjusted the strap and brought his rifle up, chest high. As he met Starsky’s eyes, he snarled, “What’s the matter with you?”

Starsky shrugged, his own face blank. “Just wonderin’ what the hell’s goin’ on. Who’s the messenger?”

“Stay away from them, kid. Mind your own business.”

He met the warning glance with faked surprise, scrutinizing the slim stranger for a moment. “Hell, all I want to know is if that creep’s bringing us new orders.” He made a show of lowering his rifle, getting out a cigarette and lighting it. Blowing out a great cloud of smoke, he grinned. “If I’m going home, I want to be the first one to pack.” His eyes never left Boland’s face.

He heard snorts and chuckles from the men behind him, and then Boland smiled, shaking his head. “Kid, I keep forgettin’ how green you are.” He swung his rifle butt out toward the jungle. “You got to grow some mold between your toes before Uncle’ll even remember your name.”

Bitterness crept into his voice, and Starsky suddenly recalled a creased picture of a woman and three kids. Jesus, what must this place be like to a family man? He scratched his chin, taking a deep drag of the already too-damp cigarette. But after attempting to suck in the smoke, he simply gave up, pinching the ember off to save it for another try. Wouldn’t do to waste the goddam thing.

He watched the two men while they talked earnestly just out of earshot. As he did, the overpowering stench of the dead animal seemed to cling to him, and he felt himself slowly folding inward, somewhat like a squeezed accordion. All life was being forced out of him by his surroundings. Behind him a couple of men squatted, talking softly while they checked their ammo and loaded their carbines. Didn’t they smell it? Would it be easier to breathe when he’d been here a while? He supposed he should be doing what they were; Tate would expect it. The unit would be marching soon—had to while the light held. He was still paranoid about night fighting, and Tate knew it. He dreaded the time the sergeant would announce he was ready for night patrol.

Laughter, infectious and never forgotten shocked his senses, sending ricochets of alarm and surprise through his system. He must be going nuts. Whirling, his eyes fixed on the man standing next to his sergeant. He was in time to catch a glimpse of green as it slid into the leather case, then saw the transparent sparkle of plastic, and he knew. Part of him went cold. The guy was a drug courier, and Tate was a buyer. No wonder there was always such a good supply of weed, no big mystery after all.

Laughter rang out again, and this time he caught a clear view of the soldier’s face. Dirt could no longer hide the wide cheekbones or the generous mouth. Nor could all the intervening years, or a GI haircut change that glint of red in the cowlicked brown hair. While he stared, open-mouthed, tip-tilted green eyes met his and darkened, grey lights. flickering in their depths. Starsky felt his heart threaten to burst in his chest. It couldn’t be. Dear God in heaven, it couldn’t be!

“Eddie?” he whispered, footsteps lead-weighted as he came closer. “Eddie Mahoney?” He halted as the eyes swept over him, their glance as precise and cutting as a surgeon’s knife.

“So who wants to know?” All the laughter disappeared, and the man’s glance was suddenly menacing. His gun was very much in evidence as he closed the case.

“It’s me. Dave Starsky. Remember?” All his yesterdays kaleidescoped with all his tomorrows, and he trembled with suppressed excitement. “I used to live across the street from you.”

The soldier shook his head in disbelief, but stepped closer even so. “Davey? Holy Mother…! Davey Starsky from New York?” And the slim figure bridged the distance between them, shoving the gun into his belt as he came. The leather case still dangled from his fingers, but there was no caution evident now. Strong arms lifted him, forcing out his breath. Delight sped him away from the heat and stink, while rough fingers patted his neck.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Starsky whispered. “And I’m going to bawl like a baby if you don’t let me go.” Tears mixed with hiccupy laughter, and he drank in the familiar features, wondering why he hadn’t known them. “You look even worse than I do in a brush cut. Know any good barbers?” He fought to swallow the huge lump in his throat, finally giving up when he saw Eddie’s own tears.

“Never mind that,” Eddie said finally, a faint smile surfacing. “What I want to know is what’re you doin’ over here? I thought you’d be smart, go to Canada—maybe even college.”

Before Starsky could answer, Tate’s gruff voice’ interrupted. He had forgotten the sergeant and the rest of the squad.

“All right you two. Knock it off. Mahoney, my men’ve got a ways to go yet, so let’s finish our business. You can spill your guts to each other later.” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on either man.

Starsky backed off as Eddie nodded casually. “Sure thing. Sergeant. The rest of the stuff’s in the case. Oh, I want twenties this time around—no more of those friggin’ fifties. Nearly got busted last visit. Ol’ Eddie’s got to protect his ass, especially when he’s the only operator around.” He cast a long, sideways glance at Starsky and winked. “‘Sides, I’m so damn happy about seeing my best friend again, I might have a celebration with some of that good Pink to sell. I’ll give you a hell of a deal.” But the smile never quite reached his eyes, and Starsky could see that Tate wasn’t impressed.

If anything, the man was openly hostile, so he stepped further away, moving to rejoin Boland. Only the corporal’s finger on the trigger betrayed his annoyance. It didn’t take any genius to realize that Eddie wasn’t liked at all. He felt a twinge of doubt, but crushed it immediately. This was Eddie Mahoney, for Christ’s sake! A member of the Challengers… and hadn’t Eddie himself just called him his best friend? Satisfied, he laid his doubts to rest; Tate was a sorehead anyway. So was Boland.

He hunkered down, dragging off his ammo belt, carefully checking and filling the empty loops. Might as well get his gear ready before they hit the last of their patrol. He could hear Eddie’s accented speech, and a tingle spread through his entire body, ending in a lump in his throat. When would they find the time to get reacquainted? Eddie was probably due out on patrol soon himself… unless he was attached to someone’s staff.

He wondered just where he was stationed, and how he’d gotten into the drug business. It sure as hell was a dangerous game he was playing, he thought as he glanced anxiously over at Tate and his friend. Tate was a dangerous man; there wasn’t any doubt of that. Did Eddie know that? He noticed the slant of the shadows as they crept across the little clearing, saw their length and knew there wasn’t much daylight left. He hurried to get the rest of the bullets into their canvas loops, his fingers clumsy in his haste. He wanted to get back to camp—alive.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder. When he looked up, it was held out, palm up, to help him to his feet. The familiar rough fingers reached out and rubbed the growth on his cheeks, and he heard a snort. “Would you look at them bristles? When did you start shavin’? At fifteen?” The hand settled on his shoulder, and he was gently put back a pace. “Lemme look at you. All grown up, ain’tcha, Davey?”

All he could do was nod, feeling older and stronger, safer and surer of himself than he had at any time since he’d landed over here. He felt certain that nothing was going to happen to him, at least if it did, he would survive. He and Eddie hadn’t met like this for nothing. No. There had to be a reason. They would be buddies, just like the old days.

He remembered something, and he stepped out of the embrace, eyes narrowed. “How come you never answered my last letters? Did you move?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tate speak quietly to Connors and Hite, and as they nodded, he knew the break was over—that it was time to go. “How come?” he persisted, searching the face before him.

The tilted eyes gleamed brightly, then Eddie shrugged. “Dunno. You started to write funny… all about the football team, and the kids at that school. I was on the streets by then, pal, and you sounded like a Californian with all that jazz about spic food.”

“Mexican—and don’t knock it. When we get home, I’ll take you to this little place that makes the best enchiladas and… and…”

“Is that home now, Davey?” Eddie asked quietly, locking glances. “I remember when you swore as soon as you got old enough you’d be comin’ back to New York.” The green eyes were slowly changing again, while shadows surfaced and settled over the round face. “Maybe you can’t make it on the streets anymore.”

Starsky knew why the words were thrown at him, a challenge he should accept. Instead, he shrugged and shouldered his rifle. “Time enough to talk about that later—but you’re wrong. The Sarge up there is ready to move out and there ain’t no way I want to be left here by my lonesome.”

Eddie laughed loudly, throwing his arm around Starsky’s shoulders. “You’re right! We can talk about that when you’re on leave! Man, I can bet you’re ready for a piece of…”

“For Christ’s sake, will you get outta here, Mahoney?” Tate roared, indicating he wanted him to move the Rover down the trail in the opposite direction. “You can hold hands later. I need to teach that dogface how to keep his can from gettin’ shot off!”

Starsky wondered where the package was, and what was in it, but let nothing show on his face. Tate was already hot under the collar, so he stepped away, moving up with Boland, waiting for the sergeant to continue.

“Good for you, Private Starsky. You follow Boland; Hite’ll bring up the rear. Now, get MOVING!!”

He grinned, hitched up his ammo belt and headed for the edge of the clearing. He could hear the Land Rover’s engine as it whirred and caught, turning over with a lot of noise. He wondered why they weren’t worried about the Viet Cong attacking his friend. What was to save him when they marched off in the opposite direction?

He turned back to Tate, watching as Eddie sped away. “Sarge, aren’t we leaving him unprotected out here? I mean…”

Tate stared, disbelief etched on his face. “Are you nuts? Hell, he’s safer than we are. He buys from them. Ain’t nowhere your buddy can’t go.” The dark eyes slitted. “Unless he makes a mistake and gyps somebody. He ain’t too smart, that friend of yours. You better warn him not to short me.” He moved away, mumbling something about dumb kids, then the jungle closed in around them, and all the stink was back.

Starsky shivered. Only a few more minutes of daylight left to cover a mile. He quickened his pace, forgetting everything else. He no longer smelled the death around him. His own stink was so much worse.

***

The barracks was empty except for two men who sprawled on a couple of bunks at the far end of the room. The slightly sweet odor of smoke and incense rose, then caught in a tiny draft, dissipating its fragrance out the window. The only light came from the irregular flaring of their cigarettes, blinking like erratic, incandescent insects. Their voices, slurred and soft, were barely audible, and anyone passing the building would have thought it deserted.

Starsky snickered and called over to his companion. “So tell me again how you got here.” He felt wonderful, his body light as a feather. No war for three whole days… Jesus, it was great!

Eddie levered himself up on his elbows. “Hell, all I did was say that a relative of mine was being sent to the front, and I wanted to say goodbye. I had my sarge practically in tears! Imagine, you and me related.”

Starsky retorted, “My brother might’ve married your sister if it hadn’t been for the age difference.” He burst into laughter. It had been a neighborhood joke that Eddie had a sister fifteen years older than he.

He sobered after that, though, his last memories of Eddie’s family hadn’t been happy ones. A murdered father, three helpless people barely scraping together enough to eat. “Tell me about what happened after I moved.” He listened dreamily as Eddie began talking, his attention straying from the darkened room to the dark outside. Resting his eyes, he put the cigarette to his lips, drifting, easy… so nice with Eddie here… safe.

“So’s I look in the mirror and ask myself, ‘Eddie, my boy, are you gonna be worth more than fifteen bucks when you die or not? Is your family gonna have to eat slop, or are they gonna have steak on the table? And are your friends gonna speak of you with respect when you check out?’ I wanted the answers to be ‘yes’ to all that, so I started right then makin’ plans. I was seventeen. Did all right too. So when I enlisted—”

“You enlisted? You weren’t drafted?” Through heavy eyelids, Starsky tried to peer over at his friend. The smoke from his jay wafted up in a pungent plume, and he regretted having missed that hit. “Why’d ya go in anyway? And what happened to the rest of the Challengers?” He felt as though the world was moving in slow motion, and as he stared up at the barrack’s ceiling, he imagined he could touch the room with one hand, maybe push it off so he could see the stars. Reality returned slowly, and he shivered, carefully trying to shape his words so Eddie would understand. “Tell me all about them, please.”

Silence hung heavy between them, and it was only after Eddie heaved a very large sigh that he began to talk. His accent, once again sounding strange, flattened and broke off on certain words, but even through slightly numbed senses, Starsky was able to sense the importance of them.

“The old gang, huh? Well, lessee… Remember Sheik? Shit, you’d pass him on the street now and never recognize him. He weighs about two-seventy-five and works at a newsstand over on Parkway and Sixth. Oh yeah, he’s got three kids…”

“Who’d he marry?” Starsky asked, trying to picture his old friend. He failed and took another drag off the joint. “He did get married?” Eddie’s chuckle filtered in on him so he smiled too. “Bet it was Eileen Moyer, right?”

Again the laughter welled around him, making the room warmer. “Can’t fool you, Davey. It was Eileen, all right.”

“Good. Now, what about Manny? Bet he’s runnin’ some big operation for Vince, huh? Who’s his connection these days?”

The laughter shattered into short breaths. Starsky craned his neck until he could see Eddie. He was staring up at the ceiling. “Manny’s in stir, Davey. Has been for years.”

“What happened?” Starsky asked hoarsely.

Outside, lit by a pale moon, he could see the black silhouettes of buildings, and beyond that, the even blacker jungle. To the west, an occasional red/orange fireflower bloomed to the faint accompaniment of thunder. He lay there, knowing that some poor slob was getting shelled again, that somebody was running, dodging, maybe screaming for help. But all he cared about right now was Manny. He sucked in some of the sweet-scented Pleiku Pink, welcoming its accompanying high. Everything was great here in the barracks. He didn’t have to worry about anything if he didn’t want to. His mother was safe and well, far away, as were the others he cared for. Funny, they’d all been so real a few weeks ago. Now; Eddie was real and they were the dream.

Yeah, this was okay. He was clean, his skin didn’t reek of sweat and fear. Eddie had brought enough of his past with him to blanket them both, to make this rotten war go away for a little while. He listened absently to the sound of Eddie’s voice, smiling a little as he drifted in and out of his dreamlike state. He’d asked him about Manny, hadn’t he? And… he’d already forgotten!

“…and they caught him with the gun, blood all over his shirt.”

Guiltily, he realized his companion had been explaining what had happened. He shut his eyes against the urge to watch the seductive fire-blossoms that kept luring his attention away from what was being said. It was the war that was unreal—not Manny. Why couldn’t he remember that?

“Did the guy die?” he finally asked, hoping he had heard right. He opened one eye just in time to catch a glimpse of a spectacular explosion that flung gold/purple into the night. Part of his mind raced… ammo dump? No, too little noise for that. He stared speculatively at a curling plume of smoke, watching with interest its grey tip as it disappeared from view. Ah, yes, Manny. That was real… had to… remember. He snapped his fingers, suddenly back in this hole again. “A village. They just hit a village!” He smiled, pleased he had identified the clues… Manny! Something about Manny…

Eddie gave an impatient snort. “Will you forget that shit! You asked about ol’ Manny, and I’m trying to tell you. Lissen!”

So Starsky listened, learning how Manny had been framed for a murder he hadn’t committed. Heard how the system had said he was a menace… but Jesus, Davey, you remember what a lot of fun old Manny was! While he tried to recollect all the good times the Challengers had had, another flower brightened the sky. Farther away, smaller, fading now as it fell to earth… so much like the Fourth… No! He started to think about all the fun he’d had as a kid, and for a moment, he did ache for the hours he’d spent laughing over the tricks they’d played on other gangs. The smell of spring-wet asphalt came back to him, those odors mixing with the smoke he held in his lungs.

“Remember when the Fire Department used to open the fire hydrants in the summer on 84th Street?” Tears stung his eyelids, and he knew Eddie wouldn’t understand. Why couldn’t he get his mind back.to Manny? Why did he keep struggling to get out of the past? The only place he could run was here… the last place on earth he wanted to be. Deep inside he knew, knew why he was running… he had to know, so he quietly asked. “Tell me the truth, Eddie. Did he really burn the guy or not?”

There was a long moment of stillness, of silence so heavy it pushed down on Starsky’s chest like the lid of a coffin. He could actually feel Eddie’s struggle with himself, so he extended his hand, fingers seeking the strong arm. “I need to know the truth, please.”

Always find out the truths, Dave. Don’t let emotions blind you to the truth. Blaine’s face appeared in the back of his mind, the blue eyes solemn and unblinking. The truth—the truth—the truth.

He heard a bitter laugh, then Eddie replied, his rough fingers gripping Starsky’s hand. “Well, between me and you, and this wall, Manny did it. Oh, he says he didn’t, but I know someone who claims he saw him pull the trigger… and I believe him.” The voice lowered, a tremor of fear in it now. “He ain’t doing too well in the slammer, Davey! Jesus, nobody’s ever gonna put me behind bars. Nobody!” Eddie lay back, hands behind his head as he stared up into the gloom.

“Hasn’t he got a chance for parole?” Starsky asked, puzzled by Eddie’s outburst. Another shell-burst made him jump, and he knew that one had been nearer. The rapid pom-pum-pom of anti-aircraft registered, and he listened intently. Sound came from one of the Navy patrol boats, maybe a mile away, maybe not.

“Hey, pal, didn’t you hear me?” Starsky stared over at Eddie’s silent form. “I asked if Manny had any chance for parole.” Still there was no reply. Worried, he slipped off his bunk and settled quietly beside his friend. In the dusk he couldn’t see clearly, but he thought he saw a tear glistening on one cheek.

“Eddie, what’s the matter?” He placed his hand gently on one shoulder. Feeling it start to heave, he pressed insistently. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Eddie had shrugged him off; instead, he was shocked when his friend turned a grief-stricken face to him. The war was forgotten; he wanted only to comfort his companion. He remembered Eddie’s help when his own dad had died, how the skinny young arms had held him steady, soothing him as he cried. Was this so different? No, it was time for Davey to pay his debts. He tried brushing the stubborn cowlick, wiping away the tears. “It’ll be okay,” he said awkwardly. “You wait and see. Manny’ll be back on the streets in no time.” He heard his voice quiver and wondered why… was he as scared as Eddie?

Hands gripped his arms, fingers digging into his muscles until he winced. A muffled whisper floated up to him; anguished eyes met his. “You don’t understand. Don’t know what they’ve done to him in there! He’s little…”

He knew suddenly what Eddie was trying to tell him. Knew because of tales overheard when he listened at home, knew because everyone knew what went on in prison—or anywhere else the young were preyed upon. Knew, and felt himself weeping for all the Mannys of this world, weeping for himself and Eddie, too. He stroked the coarse hair. “It’s gonna be all right, pal. I don’t know how, but it’ll be all right.”

A strange contentment stirred within him Through his slightly muddled senses he knew that no one could help Manny… but there was time for Eddie, and time for himself. They were back together, would make it through this stupid war, go home.

He tried a watery smile. “Say, got any plans when you get out? Maybe you ‘n me can go into business together.” The sobs quieted down, and he rubbed the tense shoulders absently, staring out the window where a whole garden of fire-blossoms filled the sky.

***

“Count it! Go ahead. Bet you never held a wad that big in your life. I tell you, Davey, the future’s just beggin’ for you and me to shake it a little. I’ll cut you in for a fifth now, and maybe later, if you can show me some bread, I’ll make you a partner. You wanted to be my partner, didn’t you?”

Yes, God yes. Starsky stared down at the roll of bills, peeling them off in stacks of fives, laughter and disbelief warring for supremacy. There were only a few hours left of his seventy-two; what a way to spend them! “Christ! That makes a couple of thousand and sixty bucks! Two grand!” He looked over at his friend, not missing the pride or confidence there. “That’s more bread than I make in a year working for my uncle.”

Eddie slapped him on the shoulder, nodding agreement. “Don’t I know how that is! Relatives pay awful. I used to work for a cousin, running a deli counter. Got fifty cents an hour and lunch.” He chuckled, his eyes resembling hard green marbles. “You just wait until I go home. I’m going to buy that goddam place and make him work for me! Me, Eddie Mahoney. I’m going to be somebody when I go home. Not a nobody like my dad!” Bitterness crept into his usually soft voice, and Starsky noticed the slender hands were clenched into fists. Had the money made him like that?

“Here’s the dough,” he said, handing it back. “You’d better be careful, though. Some of the guys were sayin’ you shorted them on grass last time. You didn’t, did you?” He cocked his head, but he couldn’t read the bland expression.

“I always give what’s paid for. No more, no less, if one of the boys has a complaint, tell him to drop over to my barracks after ten.” A wide grin stretched his mouth, but the eyes were still hard. “Of course, he’ll have to talk to my C.O. first if he does come by. I don’t receive company that late.” He pranced around in a little circle, flinging an imaginary cape over his shoulder. “I’m called the Prince of Pleiku Pink, ya know.”

Starsky struggled to keep from laughing, but failed. Eddie looked so dumb, and, of course, the reference to the marijuana that was his specialty was obvious. It was the best damn grass you could buy, and he knew Tate was forking out plenty for it. Eddie never worried about competition, had the only pipeline open their area… and Starsky wondered how he’d gotten it. His friend’s connections had to be placed fairly high. Someone who could sign an order for Eddie to come and go as he pleased. It gave Starsky an uncomfortable feeling when Eddie shut out the war, made it seem like a game. His own fear told him it wasn’t. That these cats were playing for real. He decided it was time for him to ask some questions.

“Who sells this stuff to you, Eddie?” he asked as casually as he dared. “I mean, all this talk about partnerships is great, but I wanna know what I’m gettin’ into. You don’t deal in the hard stuff, do you?” He met the green eyes with a level gaze, watching as their color changed. Eddie was watching him like a cat watches a mouse, He had the right to know—especially since he wanted to make some of that bread for himself. Hell, he’d buy his mother a house next to Aunt Rosie’s. Maybe he’d send Nicky to college. That was what one of the Starsky’s ought to do—get an education. Hell, maybe he’d go himself.

“Davey, I love you like my brother, but keep your nose clean. You don’t have to know where or when a buy goes down. Not yet anyway. All I want you to do is sell to some of the guys that Tate can’t get to. I want to reach some of the younger officers. There’s a lot of looeys who go for grass with their dates. If you could manage to get close to just one of them…”

Starsky flashed on Molino, the young lieutenant who had just joined his unit. He looked to be about twenty-two, and he came from a family of eleven. Two of his brothers were priests, one sister a nun. He smiled wryly. Not too much chance there. For some reason he was glad.

Eddie spoke again, his voice dangerously soft. “So, don’t get too nosy, okay?”

Starsky frowned, weighing his answer carefully. He wanted in, wanted some of those easy bucks, but not without full knowledge. “A friend of mine once told me that ignorance was no excuse to break the law. I figure that not knowin’ who’s makin’ a buy, or who’s your contact might make me very careless. I won’t be a partner until I have all the facts.” He shrugged, Blaine’s voice sounding in his ear. He wished it would go away, wanted desperately to ignore it.

“I wanna be your partner, pal, more than anything. But you take chances, and I’m a very cautious guy.” He smiled, needing to take the sting out of his words. “You remember, having a cop for a father always did make me different.”

There was a slight, but noticeable, withdrawing at that, Eddie’s eyes meeting his, all warmth gone. But he nodded. “Yeah, I remember all about your dad and how he was gunned down for no reason at all. So why do you care about anything?” Eddie’s fingers drummed nervously on his holster.

“Oh, there was a reason that my dad died, and someday I’ll figure it out. There’s always a reason somebody dies. It may not make any sense at the time, but there’s always a reason.” He shot a glance over toward the PX where the jeeps were collecting the men from his unit. “Give me more time, pal, and in the meantime, don’t short any of the guys!”

He hurried across the compound, anxious for the first time to get back to the other men. He needed time to think, and couldn’t do it with a pair of green eyes following him everywhere. He banged his shin against the metal step as he climbed into the jeep. Several grim and angry faces stared at him. He wondered why.

“You have to hang around with that bastard?” Hite griped, indicating the figure hurrying across the compound to enter the quonset hut that served as a communications center.

“Watch your mouth!” Starsky growled. “What’s your gripe?” He glanced around the jeep, hoping to find a sympathetic face. “You, Glover, you smoke the stuff. You buy it from the Sarge? Or from Eddie?” Maybe that was the problem, maybe Tate was shorting the guys, and Eddie was getting the blame. Hell, maybe Tate was even mixing the high-grade stuff with cheap weed to make more profit. Tate bought and sold; but absolutely no soldier in his unit went into battle, or on patrol for that matter, if they were stoned. Tate was adamant about that, claiming he didn’t want no ‘high-boys’ shooting when he was around.

“Tate or Mahoney?” he repeated.

Glover, a young, pink-faced boy with bright yellow hair, flushed. “I buy from the sergeant, Starsky. He checks to make sure it’s good grass.” The broad shoulders shrugged. “I’ve got no gripes with your friend though.”

“Well, that’s just dandy for you, kid,” Hite sneered, shifting his gear so he could put his feet on it.

The jeep pulled away in a cloud of dust, and they all covered their mouths and noses with their sleeves. As they left the barbed wire fencing behind, they took the time to scan the path ahead and behind, each man searching a different section of the terrain.

Hite’s mouth was still pulled down, and he glared at Starsky once more. “That shithead has reneged on at least three buys, always tellin’ me he’s waiting for a big shipment in a couple of days. Then I catch him sellin’ to someone else. I don’t like it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t trust you. I wouldn’t,” Starsky said bluntly. He slitted his eyes, staring coldly at the older man. “You watch what you say about Eddie Mahoney. He happens to be my best friend. We go back a long way.” He took his pistol out of its holster, ran his finger along the barrel, then checked the bore. Satisfied, he slipped it back. “Like I said, maybe your money ain’t clean enough for him.”

He knew he’d hit a nerve. Hite turned dark red. It was well known that the private cheated at craps, maybe even at poker. “You’ll give us a bad name if you’re not careful,” Starsky added. “They used to shoot a man who fixed the odds in the west.”

Hite seized him by the collar and threw him against their equipment, his powerful fingers working their way into his short hair, finding enough purchase to draw tears. “You stupid ass kid! Don’t you know what else your cutesy friend sells? Do you think any of us gives a damn about the grass? He deals, baby. Sells horse… ‘H’… and some of it isn’t cut too careful. There are a couple of soldiers lying dead near Wo Bat that don’t deserve to be dead. They bought Mahoney’s stuff. Goddamn you anyway! Wise up!”

He was released and sat up, rubbing his scalp gingerly. When he felt the blood settling back where it belonged, he glanced around, seeing nothing but confirmation on the other faces. Glover’s schoolboy face was pale now, his eyes wide and frightened. Starsky felt pity for the kid; he’d only been with them ten days… and was trying to grow up in a hell of a hurry.

“Horse?” he finally managed to say. “Jesus, I didn’t know! So help me, Hite, I—I didn’t know!” Here was something he’d never given a thought to. Dealing in heroin would explain Eddie’s affluence, his ability to move around so freely without fear of being caught. He must be supplying a higher-up with junk and that changed everything, explained Eddie’s terror of prison… what if he’d dealt at home? Maybe someone back in the States had OD’d too. Jesus.

No. Stubbornly, he clung to his dream, his wish that they could be partners someday. Hell, all he had was Hite’s word for this! He had to admit, Hite sounded as if he was telling the truth, but then, looking back, so did Eddie. His scalp stung where Hite had hung onto him, and he stared over at the older man with ill-concealed hostility. Why should he believe him?

The ride back to their compound was silent after that; each man apparently deep in his own thoughts. This was to be a big push, and Tate hadn’t wanted them to even leave the camp so soon before a battle. Didn’t like any of his men to have the chance to get into trouble. Still, he’d been fair, and with much grumbling, had approved their passes. Looking back, Starsky wished he hadn’t been able to get one. He was afraid—it promised to be his first real test.

Bitterly he wondered who Eddie dealt with when the whole damned Army was out fighting. Apparently, his best friend didn’t have to acknowledge this war. Had Eddie ever seen any more action than his dally excursions to his buyers? Biting his lip, he tried not to think about tomorrow—or for that matter, anything at all.

***

“He’s hit! Medic! Get the medic over here!” Frantically Starsky scrambled across a blasted tree stump, rifle cradled in his arms. A bullet whistled past his ear and he ducked, running in a half-crouch to where young Glover lay still. Without hesitation, he dragged the unconscious boy to safety. “MEDIC!!” he yelled before rolling the soldier over. Vacant blue eyes met his, and he shuddered.

A scarlet ribbon of blood trickled down Glover’s right cheek, coming from under his helmet. With shaking hands Starsky undid the chin strap and then drew off the helmet. A shock of bright yellow hair gleamed as the light struck it, but when he turned the boy’s head, he knew there was nothing to be done. The bullet had caught him under one ear and gone through his brain. He stared at his hands, mute testimony to what had happened. A whimper escaped him, and he hastily wiped his fingers on the boy’s shirt. Something he’d seen before Glover’s death shimmered in the back of his mind. What was it?

A dull thunk next to him sent him sprawling across the boy’s body, his face burled in his arms. For a moment he wondered if a bullet in the ass rated a Purple Heart, then decided it wasn’t worth the risk to find out. He slithered around, listening as another slug thwacked into a tree, sending showers of bark and leaves all over him. Thank God the sniper was a bad shot, or he’d be in the same boat his dead companion was. He took quick aim, fired, and settled back to wait for some of his company to move up. He patted Glover’s body tenderly. “Thanks, kid. I know you don’t mind.”

His eyes fell on Glover’s firm, sunburned arm. The kid was so fair he sported a permanent burn. Was it his imagination or was the color fading as Death sat with them? He looked away, still wondering what was bothering him. Something he’d noticed just before Glover’s death. Then he saw them… tiny pin pricks in the bend of the boy’s arm. He eased himself closer, remembering the sniper had been lucky once today. Anger, hot and sick, churned his guts. Several very distinct and fresh puncture wounds told a story. Jesus, God, no! Quickly he examined Glover’s other arm, finding the same marks there. The kid had been a junkie. But when? Where had he gotten the stuff? And he recalled Glover’s last minutes again.

The shooting had been intense, the Viet Cong falling back slowly, relying on their well-placed snipers to stay behind the American lines and pick off some of the most isolated soldiers one by one. It always worked. But Glover had been with the main body of men. He’d leaped to his feet, grabbed his chest and fallen forward, flopping like a fish out of water.

Starsky remembered thinking the boy had been shot in the chest; he hadn’t made any movement to his head at all. He stared down at the tranquil face, frowning…. what was wrong? Reluctantly, he lifted up the cooling arm, examining each of the puncture wounds again. If one of them was very, very fresh, he’d know what killed him. He found what he’d dreaded. One of the needle marks was still slightly open, its edges pink where he’d apparently had trouble getting the needle in. He thought about one of the kids he’d known in high school so hooked on smack that he’d shoot up in front of the other kids just so they could watch—as long as they paid for it. Nausea washed over him, and he almost wished the sniper would try again to get his mind off his discovery.

As if on cue, a bullet zipped past him, and he whispered, “Gotcha, sucker.” He fired with extreme care this time. When he lowered his rifle, he was almost sure there’d be no more fire from that hiding place. He’d check when reinforcements arrived, not before. He was learning fast.

His thoughts settled back on the dead boy beside him. Just when had he been able to shoot up? They’d been on the march since dawn, hadn’t so much as stopped for breath. When? Christ, he practically had to have been holding when they went into….

Cursing his own stupidity, he rolled Glover over, making a rapid search of his backpack. There, shoved carelessly down inside a roll of toilet paper was a small case. He lifted the leather case out, opened it, and found what he knew would be there. Syringe, needle, cap, and spoon… and a rubber strip to be used as a tourniquet, Jesus! This was a fancy kit—where’d the kid get it? He jammed it into his own pack, then rolled the boy onto his back. The blue eyes stared up at him, faintly accusing for all their vacant expression.

He sighed, hoping all Glover’s parents would learn was that their boy had been killed in battle. Let them think he died a hero. Two medics ran toward him, and he immediately got to his feet. “He’s dead. Gotta catch up to my unit.”

He took off on the run, feeling those eyes were following him. What if Glover’d bought some of Eddie’s badly cut heroin? At dawn, before the big push, their whole battalion was due to join forces with Eddie’s division. Before that, he wanted to ask his friend some important questions.

He ran faster, but the memory of Glover’s young face was indelibly printed on his mind. There wasn’t going to be any escape.

***

Starsky searched the face of every GI who passed him on the trail. It was nearly noon, and platoon after platoon of marching men was arriving at the staging point. The air filled with choking dust, and the sounds of screeching tires, shouting men, and lumbering weapons carriers made his head throb horribly. In the distance, he could hear sporadic, dull explosions as helicopters bombed enemy villages. He thought absently how ugly the exploding shells were in the daytime as compared to the exotic blossoms he saw at night. Was death prettier in the dark?

He swigged a bit of brackish water from his canteen. He’d been waiting for Eddie since dawn, positioned so it was impossible for the other man to get past him. From a passing soldier he’d learned that Eddie was driving a jeep. His unit was expected around noon, so he gave each vehicle that passed a sharp glance, inspecting every face. If a helmet was jammed down, hiding the driver’s features, he called for him to halt while he made a desultory check of the equipment. For some reason, no one thought to question his authority.

He wiped the inside of his helmet for the third time before settling it securely on his head. Fastening the chinstrap with a vicious tug, he tried to recall what he’d done after Glover’s death. He remembered running, catching up with Hite and Nichols, telling them about Glover. They had merely nodded, eyes hard and bleak, mouths forming thin slashes in their narrow faces. The three of them had continued their foray, finding a sniper’s nest and wiping it out with a vengeance. The shattered bodies they’d left behind hadn’t made them feel any better, but they hadn’t had time to care. He had been careful not to mention his suspicions about how the boy had died. That was between him and Eddie.

A jeep sped past him, and he stared at the driver, attention riveted on the dress uniform, sharply creased, the well-polished holster of a hand gun the man’s only visible sign of a weapon. No battle dress here. Eddie, but with a load of civilians. One of them was an older woman, her short grey hair gleaming like silver against a backdrop of green and khaki. He realized with a start that mostly everyone here was young. He’d only seen a few officers old enough to have grey hair.

He watched while the jeep halted, parking a few yards from the main group of marching soldiers. As he approached them, one of the men placed a portable television camera on his shoulder and began shooting. It appeared that every available inch of extra space in the jeep was crammed with camera gear. Eddie was leaning on the steering wheel, merely an interested spectator. Obviously the battle wasn’t for him, just the money he was going to lose.

Starsky bit back his anger and walked briskly toward the jeep. Eddie noticed him, the shrewd glance appraising the full pack, carbine with two extra ammo belts, and something flickered in his eyes.

“Hi, Davey? I see you’re movin’ out.” The words sounded forced.

The question was ignored as Starsky gestured toward the passengers. “Think they can spare you for a couple of minutes?” He marveled at his own calm.

Eddie nodded. “Sure. Something come up? They’ll be busy for a little while yet. I’m gonna take them over to that village we destroyed yesterday so they can get some pictures.”

“‘We’?” Starsky gave him a long look, raising his voice a shade, “I don’t remember you being there, pal. I thought you were too busy to let a little thing like a war mess up your plans.” He reached out, taking hold of Eddie’s elbow, half-pulling him out of the jeep. He felt the muscles tighten, but Eddie didn’t resist. The woman shot him a sharp glance.

“Come on, friend. We’ve got to talk—about our partnership.”

Together, they walked toward an area where supplies were stockpiled. A cock-sure smile appeared on the round face, and Eddie seemed to get back his confidence. “Hell! Is that all? I’m still going to cut you in for twenty per cent. I wouldn’t go back on my offer. You’re my best friend.”

Starsky winced and let go of Eddie’s arm, shoving him behind a small pyramid of mortar shells. No one gave them so much as a passing glance. “Was Manny your partner before me?” Jesus, when had he figured it all out? Under his helmet his head threatened to burst, so loud was the throbbing in his brain. The truth… the truth… always learn the truth.

His companion’s smile wavered, then disappeared entirely as Eddie eyed him suspiciously. “You want more than twenty per cent? You want Manny’s share? I dunno about that.” It was obvious to Starsky that he was weighing his answer.

“Why’d you enlist?” he asked suddenly, “It’s been buggin’ me ever since that night you told me about it.” The truth. Jesus, God, the truth!

Eddie’s mouth dropped open, and he looked away. “I—uh—well, hell, the Army needed men, so I thought I might as—well…”

Starsky watched him with growing resentment. “But you haven’t spent any time fighting, pal, so you haven’t been much good so far. When did join up?” Leave me alone, Johnny Blaine… let me be, Father… help me, God!

“Hey! Where do you get off?” Eddie snarled, glancing from side to side much like a caged animal. “You sound like the goddam cops did when they…” He clamped down on his own words, almost visibly biting them off.

Bingo! Something exploded in Starsky, something bright/black, filled with poison. If it had a name, he didn’t know it. “Go ahead, finish what you were sayin’. You goddam liar. Who really shot the guy that Manny went to prison for? It was you, wasn’t it? And the reason you enlisted was so the cops couldn’t touch you if they did ever get suspicious. Hell, you’d be out of the country… and that’s why you’re scared to go back. That’s why you’re scared to go to prison. Poor Manny… you bastard!”

Starsky took a shaky step forward, watching in fascinated horror as his hands wrapped themselves around Eddie’s throat. He began squeezing his fingers tighter and tighter against the warm flesh, noticing the skin begin to mottle, the lips stretch into a grimace. Eddie’s own fingers dug desperately at his, but he kept on pressing… it was wonderful. He was going to kill his best friend—and enjoy it!

For a fraction of a second longer the slim fingers clawed at him, then they dropped away. The green eyes mocked him, then the hard steel of a pistol buried itself in Starsky’s gut. He let go, welcoming the end.

“Glover’s dead,” he muttered thickly. “So’re the two guys at Wo Bat. You’re more of a threat than the commies.” But he could put no emotion into his accusation. It didn’t matter anymore. He listened to Eddie’s rasping breath and smiled savagely. “I’ll kill you, you know, if you don’t shoot me now. But first, it was you who shot that creep wasn’t it? You owe me that much. Tell me…” For the last time, the truth.

Eddie’s grin was unpleasant, and he leaned back a little against the metal casings. “Damn you. Yes, I did. Oh, it was an accident, but I didn’t like the idea of goin’ to prison, so…” He leaned closer, the gun steady against Starsky’s uniform. “It was easy,” he whispered. “Manny’s so gone on heroin most of the time he don’t know what’s going on. It was easy to convince him he did it.” There was no triumph in the soft voice, only an incredible weariness. “I wanted to tell the cops, but was too scared. Jesus, I was only a kid! You can understand that, can’t you?”

Starsky heard the note of appeal in the broken voice, but ignored it. It was too late now, and he allowed himself a moment of self-pity. He glanced up at the sky, letting the sun’s heat wash over him, feeling the sweat sheening his face and throat… never again. What a shame.

Loud voices from several feet away intruded, their harsh urgency startling both men. Eddie hastily lowered his gun, jamming it back in the holster. “Give me your word! Promise you won’t say anything!” He forced a laugh, slapping Starsky on the shoulder as the men eyed them curiously.

“That’s a good one! Now, get the hell outta here and win the war!”

The two soldiers moved away, but not before they commented on Eddie’s uniform. “Goddam, freakin’ coward. Bet he ain’t never shot that gun!”

As they became lost to sight, Eddie’s hand snaked toward his holster again, but this time Starsky grabbed his wrist, holding tight. “Uh-uh, you had your chance. I’m not dumb enough to give you another. Since you didn’t kill me, I got another question. What’re you gonna do when I tell Tate what I know?”

“Aw, what do you know?” Eddie jeered. “For Christ’s sake, will you wise up? Who’s gonna prove that I sold that stuff to Glover or those guys in Wo Bat? You got any witness, kid?” He struggled out of Starsky’s relaxing grip. “I’m clean as a priest, Davey-boy. And too smart to get trapped by amateur detectives. You keep your mouth shut, and we’ll forget all about this.” He glanced over to where the correspondents sat waiting for him and dropped his voice. “I’ll find you if you talk though. So don’t count on our friendship to protect you.”

Behind them, someone was whistling an unrecognizable tune, the notes rising and falling, adding to the already deafening din of impending battle. War was so goddamned noisy. Starsky took his eyes off Eddie just in time to see Tate ride past in a weapons carrier. The sergeant was probably looking for him right now. He’d have to go, but not before he had his say.

“Eddie, I have to go now. Tate’s over there. We’re moving out in about an hour.” He backed slowly away from the other man, hands resting lightly on his belt. “Sorry it has to end this way, but I am going to spill my guts to Tate and whoever else will listen to me. Not about Manny. Hell, that’s not goin’ to mean shit to these guys. But Glover was just a kid, and I got a feeling that one of these days, some joe will probably blow you sky high. I haven’t got the guts, and frankly, I’m sorry I don’t.”

He pushed his face into Eddie’s, his blood pounding through his veins, and he felt a mocking smile stretch his cheeks. “Eddie, ever since I met you something’s been bugging me, and I didn’t know what it was. I do know now. You just called me a kid, and up until a few hours ago, I was. But when Glover died—I grew up. War isn’t a game, buddy, and I’m not some fake soldier who’s usin’ the war to make a buck! I hate this stinkin’ hole, but there are men here—get that word, Eddie—MEN!—and today they’re gonna need me. Me, the kid from 84th Street. You know something else. I just realized that those guys mean a lot more to me than you do. You can keep running around… selling death to those poor slobs, and maybe I can’t stop you. But I’m going to be in the real world, lousy as it is, and quit dreamin’ about the things I can’t have.” He drew in a long breath, watching Eddie’s face pale, then flush with anger.

“I guess I’m not meant to have someone I can count on,” he said slowly, regretfully. “Someone I can trust with my life. I thought you were that person. Always have. And look what happened, look how wrong I was.” He bit his lip to keep from crying with the loss of so much.

“I bawled when we first met, didn’t I? Well, I’m not going to do that here! I suppose I can thank you for that. Little Davey’s all grown up.” He looked contemptuously at Eddie, noticing his pallor. “You never will be.” Pointing toward the jeep with its waiting correspondents, he added, “Go on! Go back to your ass-kissin’ job as taxi-driver. You’re the kid now. I don’t want to pal around with anyone willing to sell people’s lives for a few lousy bucks! As a matter of fact, I don’t need anybody.”

“Please, Davey! If it’s just the money—maybe we can work something out. After we take Loc Du…”

Starsky lashed out. “There you go with that ‘we’ business again. What the hell gives you the right to even call yourself a soldier? You make me sick! Get the hell outta my way.” He pushed past the taller man, hot tears scalding his cheeks. He heard his name, turned for a moment to stare into the tilted green eyes, then broke into an awkward run, his backpack joggling against his kidneys.

As he ran, he noticed that the incredible pandemonium had settled into long lines of organized men and machines. It actually resembled an army. Where was his unit though? The thought of fighting with men he knew nothing about struck terror into him, and he began searching for a familiar face. As he trotted by a camouflaged weapons carrier, he heard a deep roar. A dark face glared at him.

“Starsky! Where the hell have you been?”

He skidded to an abrupt halt, brushing away the last traces of drying tears. Smiling, he saluted. “Private Starsky reporting for duty.”

Tate laughed, returned the salute, then extended his hand. He nearly yanked Starsky’s arm out of its socket as he hauled him into the transport. He started to say something, but it was lost in the revving of a hundred engines.

It was beginning! Starsky felt his heartbeat quicken as men and machines moved slowly up the road. For the first and last time he was to think that perhaps there was some awful beauty in fighting this kind of battle. He became aware of Tate’s eyes searching his face, and he met the piercing eyes without embarrassment. “Always hate good-byes,” he said by way of an explanation.

The sergeant’s expression remained noncommittal, but there was a flash of understanding between them. Tate glanced across the road to where Eddie paced the convoy while his passengers took more pictures. “Yeah,” Tate said calmly, “some goodbyes are harder than others.” He twisted around to speak to the driver.

Starsky stared over at Eddie, who never took his eyes off the road. Something brief and bright flared, then died away to ashes. He sighed and braced himself against his pack. Nothing ever stays the way I want it, he thought bitterly.

The carrier lurched again, increasing speed. His pulse raced too, responding to the sights and sounds around him. He was going to get his part of the war over with… then go home. Up ahead, Hite and Nichols rode in a jeep, their faces grim in the bright shadows.

“Sarge,” he said firmly. “The next time the squad goes to town, I want to go too.”

Tate narrowed his eyes, then nodded. “Yeah, time enough for that later.”

And then what? Starsky felt a wave of loneliness threaten to crush him. Sure, he’d get back home… but what in the hell waited for him there? He carefully avoided looking at the man driving the jeep. That dream was dead. When the vehicle veered to take a side road, he never turned his head. Absently, he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. Yeah, that was what he needed—the busyness of the goddamn thing!

***

VANESSA: Hutch

He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, savoring the faint odor of burning wood. From one of the many residences that surrounded the campus, he imagined a scene Dickens would have been proud of. Blazing, leaping flames, crackling merriment from a large, robust papa, rosy-faced children all listening with fascination to an ancient grandmother as she told them of her childhood. Yes, those were the kind of memories he wished he had. Instead….

“Damn!” Frustrated anger coming from across the darkened parking lot.

“Damn, damn, damn!” This time a note of anxiety creeping into the woman’s voice.

He stopped in his tracks, waiting to hear what else was said. Was the lady in question in trouble? Or did she just break a nail? He smiled to himself, recalling his sister’s dramatic declarations when such a tragedy occurred. Or, something that totally mystified him still, a run appeared in her panty hose. For a moment he forgot the woman as he reached back in time to envision his sister, a bride now, and as such, full of worldly advice for her bachelor brother. He shook his head in helpless amusement. Be a long time before I fall into that trap, Chris, so don’t play matchmaker for me.

As he stood there, the faint sounds of metal scraping metal reached him and he frowned. Jesus, why was he just hanging around? He’d only need to take a few steps into the area to see what was going on. Maybe the lady had been attacked—there’d been a couple of rapes this term already. He started to run, coming to an abrupt halt when he realized he wasn’t sure which direction had produced the sound. Waiting, he was rewarded with the metallic scraping again.

“Oh! Oh!” A wail that was part irritation this time.

He lengthened his stride, thankful that an orange harvest moon lent light for his search. Even as he walked, he was glad for his height; it made looking over car roofs easy. The clanking noise was louder now, and as he skirted a very large Caddy, he saw her.

His first impression was one of shock. She was younger than he’d supposed, and one of the most enchanting women he’d ever seen.

Moonlight shimmered on the cascade of dark hair, lined her slender shoulders and broad brow. Her eyes, as she saw him, were huge, her features as sculptured and pure as anything in a museum. She was beautiful, and he responded to that gift with a curious stirring in the pit of his stomach.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She merely stared at him, her dark eyes flicking from head to toe. Silently, she pointed to the rear tire of a little sports car. It was very flat.

“I can’t get the jack out of the trunk!” was the first thing she said.

He nodded and removed his jacket. For a second he saw fear in her eyes, then as he slid off his tie, it died.

“My name’s Ken. Ken Hutchinson,” he said, extending his hand. He watched as doubt vanished completely, and she smiled. Her face, already lit by moonlight, became something ethereal. He felt the queasiness again—surely, not at this stage in his life.

“So pleased to meet you. I’m Vanessa Fitzsimmons.” She smiled ruefully and tapped the fender of the car with one long nail. “My brother will be so grateful. I borrowed his car for a lecture and promised to have it back by eight.” She wrinkled her nose and ran her hand under the shining mass of hair. “Otherwise he has to take the family station wagon—not too prestigious in his circles.”

He understood her meaning at once, knowing then they had similar points of reference. For some reason that delighted him. He thought of his own car parked three blocks away and hid his smile. Maybe the lady needed wheels later on. He’d be delighted to play chauffeur any time.

“You a full-time student?” he asked casually, his heartbeat threatening to set off alarms. He looked up as he rolled back his shirt cuffs and saw her assessing gaze. He wondered if he met her standards of date eligibility… then hurried to get the jack out of the trunk. Bending down to release the jack from the other paraphernalia that was packed in the small space, he shot a glance at the girl again. Her legs, shapely and elegant as a race horse’s, gleamed in nylons, and he trembled when he pictured the silky flesh beneath them.

“Is there a flashlight?” he asked when he tried to see if the spare was all right.

She glanced at him, then nodded, opening the door to the passenger side and getting one out of the glove compartment. Handing it to him, their fingers touched, and she jerked back as if stung. “Sorry,” she murmured, glancing around the lot. “Guess it’s just the dark… kind of scary.”

Hutch, slid the tire out of its well, and dropped it on the ground. “That’s okay. My sister says parking lots are scarier than cemeteries because more happens in them.” He didn’t elaborate, but she nodded in agreement.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help,” she began.

He cut her short and fit the jack under the low-slung bumper. It was going to be an easy job, and he wished it was something he could stall. He wanted to talk to her, to watch the light come and go in those incredible eyes. He wanted to take her to bed. His hands shook.

“Are you a student here? Or were you just in the neighborhood?”

There was a distinct note of curiosity in her voice that he welcomed, and as he stretched out on the pavement, disregarding the smudges he knew must be staining his pants, he caught her eyes travelling up the line of his legs. He swallowed; was he going to get lucky? Jesus!

Twenty minutes later, tire lugs fastened, he tossed the flat into the trunk, slammed it down and grinned. “Not too fast, but damn, I’m thorough!”

She handed him a towel, one of the disposable kind that took grease off as if by magic. “And I’m a Girl Scout, always prepared.” Her giggle was delightfully childish, and she made a graceful curtsy, spreading her skirt in dark wings, revealing a little more of the exquisite legs.

He swept her his best bow, then began fixing his clothes, finally shrugging into his jacket. He tried to ignore the grease on his pants cuff. Small price to pay for the pleasure of the lady’s company.

“Well, all good things must come to an end… why no one seems to know.” He extended his hand again. “Awfully nice meeting you, Vanessa. Sorry I have to go.” Trite dialogue, but he didn’t want to look like her charms had overwhelmed him. He held her fingers, pressing the delicate bones without imparting any overt meaning to the gesture. Just a casual farewell, so why was he still here? And why hadn’t she pulled her hand away like last time?

“I’m chilly,” she said, her eyes meeting Hutch’s. “Know any place to have a cup of coffee?”

He jumped at the opening, joy surging through him. He felt like a bird soaring over the ocean. “There’s a coffee house over on Burgess. Know the place?” Would she go for something as déclassé as that? Maybe he should have suggested some place nicer.

“Oh, Java Now? I love it there! The peanuts are always fresh!” And she giggled again.

He felt the heat creeping over his neck and cheeks, aware she was making gentle fun of him. “Would you like to name someplace more your style?” he asked stiffly. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from her perfect features.

She made a small face, her eyes lowered. “I wasn’t making fun of you. Ken. I really do like the place. I even know how to get there from here. Will you come with me?” She hesitated, then asked again. “Will you? A cup of coffee is small enough payment for a changed tire.”

Gladness overwhelmed him, and he nodded. “In that case, I will, and thanks.” He settled in the small seat, awkwardly turning his long legs sideways to fit up under the dash. “That’s why I don’t own one of these things,” he explained as she watched his maneuvering. “Legs are too long!”

Her answer was to start the car and pull out of the lot with a screech of tires that left him wincing. Her brother must need new tires every week. God spare him from mad drivers! “You might want to take that short cut through…” He never got the rest of the sentence out of his mouth. She whipped the little car around, nodding her understanding, and he closed his eyes except to her stunning profile. Christ, she was beautiful, and he still wanted her.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she began, “about whether you were a student here or not. How did you happen to be in the neighborhood?”

He shrugged. “A late class. I have to work part-time, and so I take some of my lab classes in the evening.” Work—lovely word, signifying freedom from domineering, overprotective parents. He tipped a mental hat to his employer.

The coffee house, a former forties pseudo-Spanish bungalow, featured more than coffee. Its front porch had become a small stage, and twice a week, featured campus singers, musicians, or speakers. On Fridays and Saturdays the place was packed, and he had often stood at the door, waiting for someone to leave. On a week night such as this, there were perhaps twenty customers.

He skirted the scraggly potted palms, trying to repress the urge to kidnap the poor things and take care of them. Too little light and too much smoke—fatal to most living creatures. The heavy odor of various kinds of coffee was inviting though and always made him glad he’d come. Tonight, with a lovely woman on his arm, he was doubly delighted.

He met the gazes of several classmates, and one fraternity brother, saw the surprise registered there and barely managed to suppress a smile of satisfaction. They were always commenting on his so-called celibacy, not willing to understand he wasn’t the kind to make love and then promptly tell half the college about it. That wasn’t his way, and he hoped to God it never would be. He liked nothing better than the sweet loving he’d received from a couple of the coeds. But memories of home flashed through his mind like a chill wind—no commitment—he wasn’t ready.

“So what’s your pleasure tonight?”

He looked up to see Freddy ogling Vanessa unashamedly. Resentment flared hard and bright, and he moved to rest his hand possessively on her arm. “Have you tried the Kona Cup?” he asked. Was he reading more in her eyes than he had a right to? “That’s what I’m having.”

The waiter nodded, then looked expectantly at her.

“I’ll have the same,” she replied, never taking her eyes off Hutch.

Fred, rebuffed, jotted down their order and hurried off, not giving Vanessa another glance. They could see him as he got the cups and filled them from a steaming coffeemaker.

“You’re very lovely, do you know that?” He smiled at his own foolishness. To his surprise, she blushed, a clear rose color staining the pale skin. “Didn’t mean to be so forward…” he began.

She lifted her mass of hair off her neck, a gesture he was becoming familiar with. “Please don’t apologize. Do you know how many men would have asked me to go to bed by now? I’d forgotten how nice it can be to observe the courtesies.”

“Oh, I’m just full of the courtesies. My mother made sure of that.”

She stared thoughtfully at him. “You sound sorry that she did. Why? It’s a special treat for a girl to feel cared for, protected.” Her hands moved slowly, graceful as birds in flight, and she lightly laid her right hand on his. “I like gentlemen. I think I like you.”

Oh lady, beautiful girl, don’t look at me like that. You can’t know the dark thoughts you stir in me. He glanced over at the clock on the wall, then started, “Van, it’s almost eight o’clock. Your brother…”

Her fingers tightened for the space of a heartbeat. “Oh, that! I lied. I wasn’t sure of your intentions so I figured an impatient brother was a good excuse—if I needed one.” She smiled, her marvelous eyes bright. “It’s my car, and I’ve got all the time in the world.”

He captured her fingers, bringing them to his lips for a quick kiss. “Me too,” he whispered. And suddenly he was caught up in the sheer joy of the evening, in the promise she was making. He laughed low in his throat, searching her face. “Let’s get out of here. How’s about instant Maxwell House?”

“My favorite—drink it all the time.” But her giggle told him she was lying.

“Good, I also feature baloney sandwiches under the stars. Oh, and wait until I tell you about my huevos rancheros…”

“Mmmm, what time are they served?” She got to her feet, sweeping past the waiter without a glance.

He tossed Fred a couple of dollars and hurried to catch up with her. “Any time after three a.m. Interested?” He held his breath.

Her slim figure turned toward him just enough so he could see her face, and once again, he was struck by her beauty. Even the harsh light of the coffee house porch couldn’t mar the delicate line of her throat, the arch of her eyebrow. He knew without any doubt that he was falling in love… maybe already had.

“Definitely, Ken,” she replied.

His name sounded like a caress, and he shut out the rest of the world.

***

“Over here! We need at least six more sandbags under that sundeck!” Wind-whipped waves hurled themselves against the Malibu coastline, and sullen skies continued to pour cold rain down on the long line of volunteers who struggled to shore up the homes threatened by the thundering surf.

Hutch staggered under the weight of the wet sand, but made it to the tangled pile of splintered lumber that once held up a magnificent porch. Tossing the sack down, he gulped in a huge lungful of air before making his way back to where the bags were being filled. His muscles cramped painfully when he tried to pick up another sack, and he groaned aloud. Raking his hair out of his eyes, he abruptly sat down, not caring if he lived or died, or if every home on the beach was swept away. He wanted to crawl away and sleep. Jesus, he was a walking corpse.

“Hey, Hutchinson! Which one of you is Hutchinson?”

He opened his eyes wearily and got to his feet. “Over here. What’s up?”

An older man in a bright yellow slicker grabbed his arm, nearly pulling him off balance.

He wrested his arm out of the man’s grasp. “What the hell’s wrong with you? I only sat down for a couple of minutes!”

“That’s not it, son. It’s your wife—she’s sick or something. Better get her to a doctor.”

Van! Sweet heaven! He’d forgotten that she was up at the emergency shelter passing out coffee and blankets.

He plucked at the man’s wet arm. “My wife…” His voice caught and broke. “It’s not… the baby…?” Please, God, not that! Van’s been so patient, so happy… please Lord. He pushed past the man, seeing only silent pity in their grey depths. No. She was young. and strong, and the doctor had said she had a healthy fetus. They had just gotten the crib for Christ’s sake… didn’t that mean anything? Wind tore her name from his lips and tossed it to the rain. He ran, slipping on the rocky slope, gashing his knee but not feeling anything at all.

As he reached the top of the rise, he saw red lights blinking in front of the school where his wife was working. “Van? Oh, Jesus, God!” He raced on, lungs and heart straining to provide him with oxygen.

“Let me through!”, he shouted as several people swarmed toward a cot in the far corner of the cafeteria. “Van, baby? Please! I’m her husband!” He pushed his way past the ambulance attendants, falling to his knees to hold her hand. Sand dropped in wet splotches on the floor as he leaned over her. “Van? It’s me, honey. I’m here.”

The eyes that opened to him were so dark he couldn’t see her pupils. All the blue had fled, leaving only sorrow, black and immeasurable. Her lips moved slowly, and she tried to raise herself, moving into his arms. Gently, he pushed her back down, caressing her hair with his chilly hands.

“Ken? I’m so sorry. So sorry…” Her hands curled protectively over her stomach, but a wave of pain sent her back flat on the cot, eyes wide with fear. “Am I going to die?” Faint whisper, terror carved deep lines around her mouth.

He glanced wildly up at the ambulance drivers. “Did you call her doctor? What’re you waiting for? She’s…” He didn’t dare expose his feelings to the curious faces around them. He’d always assumed death was a private thing, something to be dealt with neatly. How could one be expected to observe all the amenities at a time like this? He stood up, backing away only far enough for the men to slide her onto a stretcher. She looked so tiny, so fragile… so alone. “Van? It’ll be all right, darling. Everything’ll be all right. It’s my fault…”

From far away came the sound of a siren. It was more than twenty minutes before he realized it was the ambulance he was in that wailed its news to the whole world. He held her hand, turning it over and over in his fingers, tracing again and again the life line and heart line. Both long, both a soft pink. Sign of health when the palm lines were pink, no anemia—at least not severe. Her pallor was to be expected if she had already miscarried, and as he checked her pulse, finding it fast and thready, he knew she had. This child was not to be.

Semper idem, Hutchinson. Deo gratia! Jubilate Deo! Slow tears were his only offering.

***

“Darling, let us take her back to Duluth with us. We would adore having her a little while.”

Hutch stared at his mother, seeing in the soft blue of her eyes the first stirrings of interest she’d allowed. Van had spent weeks before their wedding patching up the rift between him and his family, and they had flown out for the ceremony, falling immediately in love with his bride. Since then, and especially since she’d lost the baby, they had telephoned, sent expensive gifts, suggesting she visit them to recuperate.

Van had steadfastly refused at first, maintaining she had to put away all the baby things, and she’d done it all herself, working while he was at school, making sure his dinner was ready before he went to work. But something was wrong, they both felt it. At night, holding her close, wanting to make her forget their loss, he would try to make love… she would gently draw away, claiming fatigue.

“Van? Do you want to go? Might be good for you, darling.” Not good for me… but neither is your drifting from day to day like some sad little ghost. “Dad, are you certain it’s all right?” He walked over to the window, watching as the rain clouds scudded across a dark sky. Grey upon grey. That’s what was happening to this marriage. Little by little, all the color was being washed out of it, and he desperately wanted it back. Wanted the lovely girl who used to snuggle in his arms, whispering, promising, planning… life and love radiating from her like sunbursts. Jesus, how he missed her love for him!

“Kenny, everything will be fine. Your father and I will see to it that Van has everything she needs. We’ll give her Chris’s old room. No, Vanessa, dear, how would you like to help me redecorate a room especially for you?” His mother’s voice was as soft as silk, and as he listened to her cajole, he saw Van’s head lift, her eyes become lighter as she listened.

“Decorate? You mean I can pick out the paint and fabrics?” Her mouth formed a half-smile. “What kind of window does it have?”

“Windows, dear,” came the reply. “One floor to ceiling and a delightful corner one. Oh, we’ll fly to Chicago, and I know a charming little place that makes the most delightful pillows. You know the kind with tucks and corner frills…” She turned a guileless face to Hutch and smiled. “You won’t mind, darling. You’ll be able to study and work without worrying about this dear girl.”

He stared helplessly at the two women, not able to deny the logic of his mother’s words. Not missing the sarcasm beneath her voiced concern. As usual, his dad sat reading his newspaper. Not that it made any difference anyway. He couldn’t recall the last time his father had disagreed with his mother. Maybe someday, maybe he’d live to see that day.

Van got to her feet, her dress clinging to her slim figure in graceful lines. Since the baby’s death—that was what she always said—she’d changed. There was a certain brittleness to her that was new, a calculating brightness in her eyes.

“Your mother thinks it would be for the best, darling.” She slid her hands up under Hutch’s sweater and smiled “If I do go, will you miss me?” A smile teased her mouth.

He responded as automatically as breathing, pulling her close to smother her face and throat with kisses. As he breathed in her perfume, he felt a wild kind of exhilaration. She was telling him in her own way that everything was going to be all right when she returned. Memories of their lovemaking swept over him, and he fought to keep from simply carrying her into their bedroom to make love. He choked back laughter as he pictured his mother’s face. And she had worried about his lack of interest in girls!

“I think it’s wonderful, sweetheart! Go ahead, and when you come home, I’ll probably know something about my application for the Police Academy.”

As suddenly as if a candle had been snuffed out, Van’s expression changed. “I don’t see why you want to become a—cop.” She turned to Hutch’s mother, gesturing, her face pleading for understanding. “It’s dangerous. And people hate them so much. Why don’t you try for the D.A.’s staff instead?”

He took her hands in his, kissing them, making sure she didn’t pull away. “Can’t do that. Have to make the team first. I’m not a lawyer and don’t want to be. I-I’d like to try to—well—to…”

“Don’t stutter, Ken. Speak slowly and think first.” His mother rose to her feet, sweeping across the small room like a queen. “Besides, the girl is right. The police force is no place for you. Why you want to spend your time associating with criminals is beyond understanding. Come, Vanessa dear, let’s see to your packing. Father and I have a thousand things to do before flight time.”

Vanessa drew away from him again, this time following his mother like a well-trained child. A feeling of incredible loss filled Hutch, and he nearly ran after her. It was only to be for a couple of months. What could happen in that time, for Christ’s sake? He was being unfair. Sighing, he went into the kitchen to get a drink. Maybe Luke Huntley could explain it to him again. The part about cop benefits… maybe there was some way to reach his wife… maybe.

From their bedroom he heard Van’s laugh, and after it, his mother’s.

God help us all, he thought as he sank into a chair.

His father merely glanced up, saw the beer, and frowned.

He flushed, but drank it anyway. All he wanted suddenly was to be rid of them. Van? He refused to think of the days ahead without her.

***

ACADEMY: Hutch

He stood outside the Police Academy in the grey dawn, trying to gather enough courage to enter the gates. It was what he wanted, what he had studied for—had been selected for—so why the last-minute hesitation? He was certain he wanted to be a cop, to make the world a little better by bridging the gap between civilian and law enforcer. What was he afraid of? A small voice told him—not that he didn’t already know—killing. Not exactly in line with his original choice of careers. What had made him change his mind? When had medicine become sterile? Stupid choice of words that, but essentially the truth.

He glanced up and down the street. Was he the first one here? Of course. Wouldn’t do to be late. He picked up his suitcase, finding comfort in its solid weight, but in the back of his mind, he was still answering his question, admitting the truth.

He and Jack Mitchell had parted company: Jack to finish his studies in Minnesota; he, to come to Los Angeles to finish college. The break with his family had been complete until his marriage. He grimaced, swallowing the bitterness that threatened to choke off his breath. True, Van had accomplished more than he’d expected; she’d succeeded in mending the rift with his parents and grandfather. They had really been enchanted with her.

Who wouldn’t be? he thought wistfully, but that had been a dream too, just like his desire to be a doctor. Marriage and career… he failed at both. How did he dare trust this latest decision? How did he know this was right for him?

His fingers curled tighter around the handle as he recalled their goodbye. Only a month ago? She had blinked back her disbelief, then laughed, her hair swirling around her shoulders like night itself. He’d tried to explain the honor of being selected—there were only seventy-five men out of six thousand… finest force in the nation… finest training. Nothing had helped; she hated the idea of him becoming a common cop.

He wavered for a moment, then straightened up, eyes focused on the imposing building in front of him. No more looking back, no more dwelling on a career that suited only a few, a lifestyle he’d come to hate. He was here for better or for worse. He grinned wryly. That wasn’t the best choice of words either. He’d had a lot of worses, or so it seemed.

A car door slammed behind him and he jumped, nearly tripping over his own feet. He regained his balance and smiled at the newcomer, a young man of about his own age with dark curly hair. He could see the hesitation there, so like his own, and for some reason, he felt comforted.

“You a rookie too?”

Cool blue eyes swept over him, and a deep voice answered, “Yeah, you?”

He nodded, feeling foolish for attempting conversation. Gripping his Valpak tighter, he gestured toward the driveway with its grey stone entry and wrought-iron arch. “Shall we?” It sounded wrong, and one look at the other man told him it had, indeed, been the wrong thing to say.

“I can make it all by myself. Thanks anyway.” The sarcasm was obvious.

He nodded, biting back a sharp retort. Without another word he headed up the driveway toward the gym, head high, damning the color in his cheeks. He was joined almost immediately by several other men and lost sight of the dark-headed stranger.

The gymnasium served as his first glimpse into Academy life. It was just like any other gym, and he eyed the equipment eagerly, noting the pile of wrestling mats over in one corner. Did cops wrestle? Of course, dummy, he chided himself. He stood slightly off to one side, carefully scrutinizing the men who would.be his classmates. Like him, they either stood quietly or milled around the room, eyeing one another cautiously.

He knew one thing right away; his own suit fit better, cost more, and made him stand out. He’d already intercepted a couple of glances. He smiled inwardly, admitting he would have been disappointed if they hadn’t noticed him. After all, he was checking them out too; it was only natural. Still, being a Hutchinson wasn’t enough to get by here, and he knew it.

Cops were different, had different standards—as Van had been so quick to point out. How could he possibly want to spend the rest of his life with… cops! She had shrieked the word at him, making it an obscenity. She, who never swore except in extreme anger.

Why hadn’t he been able to make her understand that being someone in Duluth didn’t mean a hell of a lot in L.A.

A tall black officer walked past him, coming to stand with military erectness in center court. Everyone fell silent as he began speaking. “Put your junk on the tables over there! All I want is your bodies over here! I want a single file on the black line! Move! Move! Get moving.”

The words were barked, and so he moved, careful to slide his suitcase onto the table so it wouldn’t be crushed by the other luggage. He turned, heading for the black line, a faint undercurrent of resentment already perking inside him. The officer was using Army tactics on the men, surely not necessary. Even so. he had to admit, they worked. He shot a glance down the row, noting the sucked-in bellies, the thrown-back heads. While he watched, the cop spoke again.

“Whatever you did, whatever you were, is insignificant! You’re at the Police Academy now!” His eyes bored into each and every man, and they responded, “Yes, sir!” in unison.

“Louder! I can’t hear you!”

“Yes, SIR!!” came their answer.

One of the voices, close by, caught Hutch attention, and he craned his neck, trying to see if it belonged to the man he’d met outside.

“What’s so interesting, blondie? That’ll cost you ten push-ups. Down.”

He dropped to the floor and did them without thinking, thanking God he could do fifty in his sleep, and taking a certain grim satisfaction when he noted the officer’s sharp glance. He stood there, fixing his tie and jacket, not even sweating, and something fierce flamed bright and hard within him. He’d show them. He’d be what he always was—the best! He could do better, study harder, and make the top of the heap. Hell, maybe they had a Dean’s list. He fought back a grin, deciding he didn’t want another turn on the floor. Instead, he contented himself with simply paying attention to the only cop he’d seen so far.

“Count off in fours,” the voice demanded, and he waited his turn… at least he could count.

“Four,” he said loudly.

***

ACADEMY: Starsky

It was drizzling so Starsky shrugged into his jacket before he left the house. He ran a brush through his hair, remembered to stash the thing in his suitcase, and ran down the front steps, barely kissing his aunt goodbye.

“Call you tonight,” he yelled as the cab pulled away from the curb. He saw her wipe her eyes and immediately felt the estrangement. Shit. It was a hell of a lot easier to get out of, too. In a way, he felt as though he were going home. He ignored the early morning traffic, picturing only Blaine’s face, being glad he knew someone on the force. It gave him an ‘in’. Maybe Blaine would be able to help him if he got in trouble. No. He was going to keep his nose clean, going to be the best damn cop L.A. ever, saw.

He didn’t dare stop to think why he wasn’t joining the New York force, didn’t want to have to examine the deep-seated fear that still welled up when he thought of his father’s death. This was home now, here lived all his friends.

Eddie! No, mustn’t think about that… not today. He’d put that whole scene out of his mind long ago. Eddie was dead and buried; Boots had made him quit the booze, beating him senseless one afternoon down in old man Jackson’s yard. He’d gotten religion real quick, along with a cracked rib and two black eyes. No need to think about that either. He was going to make it now. He’d been selected along with seventy-five others… hell, they wanted him.

He settled back in the seat, seeing this time his mother’s face… and her unspoken fear. Seeing also her pride… pride that he wasn’t afraid. But their fears were different. Yeah, he nodded to himself in satisfaction. He’d make it with flying colors. Be the best. Yeah.

“Police Academy, sir.” A quizzical pair of eyes and six dollars in an open palm. He got out of the cab, slamming the door a little too hard. In front of him a tall blond man jumped, and he grinned to himself. But his grin faded when the man turned around. He struggled to keep disbelief out of his face, taking in the beautiful suit, the classic features. What the hell was a goddam college jock doing here?

“You a rookie, too?”

No, I’m from the Welcome Wagon, he thought, but he answered, “Yeah, you?”

Light blue eyes raked him, his clothes, his brain, with an unsettling in tensity, then dropped. Fair hair fell across a wide brow, and he was asked, “Shall we?” A casual wave of long fingers indicated the driveway.

It was too much. He knew there were guys like this who tried out for the force, taking their money and brains and doing a number on some sort of macho kick. Show the other half that they understood all about fair play and equality. But this guy was more than he could stomach. He answered curtly, seeing the tan cheeks flame with color. He took perverse satisfaction in making him lose his cool.

He didn’t miss the long stride of the stranger… probably a runner. He followed him, joined by several others. He felt the flow of his own muscles as they took him up the driveway, taking pleasure in their hardness.

He’d taken care of himself after the Army—and after he’d gotten Eddie out of his system—hadn’t let himself get soft. He’d heard about the physical requirements here, toughest in the world. Well, he’d make it. Show everybody just what a Starsky could do when he wanted to. He owed that much to his father.

“I’ll show them all,” he murmured as he entered the gym.

The sight of the tall blond standing off to one side, hair so goddam shiny it singled him out, galled him. Watch my dust, mister, he thought.

He noted the entry of the officer—had to be ex-Army, probably just like himself. He felt a certain kinship, and found himself wondering just how the big blond was going to relate to this guy.

Starsky listened to the barked commands and tossed his suitcase on the table, hurrying back to toe the black line, standing at attention as if inspection were imminent.

“What’s so interesting, blondie? That’ll cost you ten push-ups. Down!”

He was startled to see the man drop immediately to the floor. From his line of vision, he watched as the long body effortlessly did the required ten and did them so fast, he nearly lost count. Jesus. When he stood up there was no sign he’d done more than go to the John. So, he was in good shape. Well, that made it even better. He didn’t have to feel sorry for the guy because he was soft.

He smiled to himself. Having a rival was going to make training a hell of a lot more interesting. The best part was the fact that blondie wouldn’t even guess what was going on. He looked like he kept his head in the clouds most of the time anyway.

“So, what’s your problem, mister? Can’t you count? This upsets me, and I don’t like to be upset! I don’t want to hear two threes in a row!”

He came back to earth with a crash, staring open-mouthed at the training officer who now stood directly in front of him. In the back of his mind, he’d heard the count-off, but he’d been so damn busy daydreaming….

“So, let me hear it again!”

When it was his turn, he made sure his “Four!” was the loudest.

***

ACADEMY: Starsky and Hutch

His feet hit the roadway with satisfying regularity, and he lengthened his stride, passing the front-runners with ease. Up ahead, but slowing down, was the curly-haired guy… a sprinter who couldn’t he beaten in the short run. But this was his forte—the long run—the race where his mile-eating stride wore down the other runners. It had been his main form of relaxation in college although he’d never taken it up as a sport, had been too busy with wrestling and studies. This was one of the things he enjoyed doing for the sheer love of it.

He passed the rookie whose stenciled name on his sweatshirt identified him as COLBY. He had proved to be one of the really friendly persons he’d met in the two days he’d been here. Colby winked and grinned as he passed him, already eyeing the jersey of the front-runner. STARSKY. The guy was good, and Hutch bore down harder, a tiny flicker of something other than competition heating his gut. He had intercepted a couple of looks and knew Starsky didn’t like him. Why, he didn’t know, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to worry about it. Their unit was under such close supervision that he had not time for imagined ills. The man would simply have to work out his own problems.

He flashed by and saw the surprised expression on the other rookie’s face. There was a smattering of applause, and he shot a quick glance up to the finish line. He wondered who was worth applauding, surely not him… he hadn’t been trying that hard. A curious satisfaction was his, though, when he met the eyes of the training officer. He wanted Schwartz’s approval more than he cared to admit. Was it because he was a friend of Luke Huntley’s? He crossed the finish line, wishing the older cop could be here to see him.

Luke. He walked over to a spot where he could jog in place, making sure his cooling muscles didn’t spasm. Luke. He recalled the older man’s delight when he’d told him he was going into law enforcement, was going to try the life of a cop. Funny how Luke’s pleasure had been in direct contrast to Van’s anger. He had called the cop up more and more as his marriage fell apart, seeking consolation and affirmation he was doing the right thing. Luke had said he’d make one of the best cops the force had ever seen. He’d pooh-poohed the hyperbole but remembered it all the same.

Starsky trotted by, giving him a brief nod of recognition, the dark blue guarded, but he saw respect there even so. He smiled briefly, then waited for Colby to finish, walking over to the gasping man and slapping his shoulder. “Keep walking. Like Starsky’s doing. Got to keep working those muscles a bit longer.”

“Man, that was a mile and three-quarters! How come you’re not even panting? Hutchinson, I swear you’re a goddam robot!” Colby’s brown eyes gleamed as they met his, and they both grinned.

“Hey, Starsky’s just as good as I am,” he said, pointing over to where Starsky stood rubbing his thighs.

Colby stared at the other man. “Yeah, but at least he sweats!” And he laughed, yelling over at him, “Hey! Starsky! Get over here.”

For a minute the long face was unreadable, then a smile quirked the sides of his mouth. It was such a whimsical expression that Hutch found himself smiling back. He-reached out to shake the runner-up’s hand. Starsky’s grip was like steel, and he dropped his glance to their locked fingers, then pressed harder.

Starsky laughed out loud and pulled away. “Oh, no, you don’t!” He shook his fingers in mock agony. “You probably hold some kind of record for the most crushed fingers.”

Colby snorted, grabbed Hutch’s fingers and made a great show of squeezing them. “Naw. Hell, I didn’t hear one bone crack!” And they laughed, suddenly busy comparing notes as to when their legs had cramped up (Hutch’s hadn’t), and when they’d thought their arms would drop off at the bar (Starsky maintaining he’d had no trouble there). As they marched off to the showers, they found themselves side by side, and Hutch felt his whole body tingling with well-being. This hadn’t been the wrong decision. He belonged here, alongside men like Colby—and even Starsky. Hell, he felt great.

“Race you,” he whispered loudly and was soundly jeered by at least six of the other rookies. It was the teasing of acceptance, and it settled over him like a benediction. No one knew who he was or much cared; he was simply Hutchinson, K.—nobody else.

***

“Hutchinson, either keep your head down or pay up your life insurance!”

Starsky, crouched behind a stack of boxes, glanced up as the training officer singled Hutch out for another lecture. He would have thought it funny that wonder-boy had goofed again, but learning about street situations was too serious to be amusing. It was the same thing as last time. Hutch’s height, his fair hair that caught the light, even at night, and his ignorance of the streets were all working against him.

At first, it had been reassuring to know that here was where he was better than anyone else. He knew the streets, knew how to break and run, to check out darkened doorways, to flatten himself until he was a shadow on a wall. Even Colby, a maverick in some ways, had quickly adapted to the rules of stealth and caution, to the absolute necessity of keeping out of sight when you didn’t know where the suspects were. Yeah, he felt gratified, felt even now a surge of pride that he’d been singled out to show the other rookies just how to shoot during Target Discrimination. Their weapons instructor had been generous in his praise, and he liked this good feeling he was experiencing.

He heard Hutch’s breath as he sucked it in. Ahead, almost indistinguishable in the gloom, was the mock-up of a felon. Hutch, creeping to the right, couldn’t see the figure at all. He watched as though this was a real-life drama, then relaxed when the big blond dropped to his belly and zeroed in on the cardboard crook.

“Stop! Police!” And Hutch’s gun roared into the stillness. A fireblossom bloomed for a moment, then all was quiet.

EDDIE! Oh God, Eddie! Where am I? But the moment was gone, and he was crouching behind a stack of boxes peering into the darkened training lot, staring at the hole in a paper enemy. All gone. But where was Hutch? He shivered.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he whirled, near-panic washing over him. “Christ! You startled me.” He didn’t try to explain.

Colby grinned down at him, then pointed over to where Hutch lay, talking earnestly with his instructor. In the dim light, the only part of him that was visible was a splash of silver hair.

“Think he’s going to make it?”

“What’re you talking about? Of course he’s going to make it! Why shouldn’t he?” Still, something nibbled in the back of his mind, sending skittering messages up and down his spine. “Why’d you say that?” he hissed. His legs were starting to cramp, and he shifted position, keeping Hutch in his line of vision.

Colby shrugged, his expression thoughtful. “‘Cause if he can’t make it on the streets, Hutch is a dead man. Look at him. He’s so… so…” His voice trailed away.

And Starsky looked, knowing what Colby saw, what a lot of the men saw. There was a basic gentleness that set Hutch apart. He was too polite, too willing to let the other guy go first—except in sports… no one topped him there… but in a lot of ways. Hutch seemed too soft. The big question after two months of training was how many rookies would drop out, or worse, be considered unfit. Would Hutch be one of them? He had definite problems with this street training, and ahead of them was the dreaded psych sessions dealing with crowds and crowd control.

Starsky felt his gut cramp at the thought of them. His temper had already earned him a couple of enemies, and Hutch’s obvious resentment of the training tactics had earned him the dislike of several instructors. He sent up a little prayer for both of them, feeling astonishment that he had.

What did he care about Hutch? Hutch, who was so different with his breeding and money. Hutch, who swore he was poor, that his wife was taking him to the cleaners, but Starsky didn’t believe it. Shit. There was no way the guy didn’t have bread. He frowned, aching a little for the other man. Those things didn’t matter here… it was what you could do, how you learned to handle yourself.

So he listened and waited, vaguely aware that Colby had wandered off. Soon Hutch was gathering up his gear, and when he stood up, the blond walked over to him. They barely glanced at one another, yet Starsky could almost feel the tension.

“So, how’d it go?”

Hutch’s voice was light, brittle as new ice on a pan of water. “Oh, the usual—I was dead five minutes before I got here.” But the pain, the strain showed in the bigger man’s actions. Hutch was always restless, burning with energy while everyone else collapsed; now he fairly crackled with it. He stood snapping his fingers, impatiently glancing around as though ready to run at a moment’s notice.

For the life of him, Starsky would never be able to explain why he put his hand on Hutch’s arm just then. Maybe he merely understood Hutch’s frustration, maybe there was more. He didn’t know.

“Hey. It’s gonna be okay. Not to worry.” He grinned and shrugged, meeting the surprised look on his friend’s face.

Friend? Quickly, he withdrew his hand, his chest constricting in sudden pain. No! Never again… not after Eddie. He couldn’t afford that kind of emotional tie.

“Let’s go for a beer,” he said, watching as the frown line between Hutch’s eyes deepened, filling with shadow. “Johnny’s promised to buy me a round if I bring you with me.” He tried to laugh, to keep it light. “Please?” The level gaze met his, and he added, “Well, otherwise he won’t treat. I owe him a few, but he says if you come, he’ll cancel them out.”

They began walking out of the black and eerily still area, Hutch glancing over his shoulder as though something was following him.

Once again, Starsky reached over and lightly touched him. “Deal? I’m thirsty.”

He saw the warmth as Hutch smiled, shaking his head. He tossed his gear over his shoulder as they started for the lockers. “Starsky, since when was I such an attraction? You know Johnny wants me to play darts.”

That was Hutch, right to the heart of the matter, no hedging. He was right; he and John Colby always played, and Hutch never lost, putting Johnny into a sullen mood for at least an hour. Hutch tried to avoid the games, but somehow Colby wormed his way around him; he was good at that. Still, he was making an impression on the instructors, and when they had time, the three of them had a lot of fun. He found himself wondering about the psych encounters, and all the verbal abuse handed out in Crowd Control sessions.

“Tomorrow, after driving, I’ll show you how to keep that blond head outta sight,” he murmured, even now thinking what an excellent target Hutch made. For a change, he was grateful for his mop of dark hair.

***

Hutch shivered, trying to ignore the drizzle that spotted his uniform, sheening his face. He’d been standing at attention in the middle of a cluster of other rookies for nearly fifteen minutes. At first, he’d found Instructor Nelson’s tactics amusing. But no longer. Nelson wasn’t known for his finesse, but he’d not been deliberately vicious, at least that was what the older rookies had said.

Starsky, over to his left was still smarting from the tongue-lashing he’d received. He’d allowed his control to be broken only once, and that had been at a direct reference to his mother. Outside of that, he’d maintained a surprising calm. As Starsky shifted his weight from one leg to the other, he understood how fatigue could shorten your temper and make you irritable before anyone opened their mouth. He was getting irritable.

***

Hutch made a concerted effort to memorize Nelson’s face, concentrating on the large pores that pitted his nose and chin. For a moment or two, the coarse hairs that sprouted out of a nevus on his neck held Hutch’s attention, but when Nelson began to speak, the nasal tones penetrated his control. Like a dull needle, he felt the words jab his flesh, prickling the hairs on his neck and scalp. Added to the chill rain, it threatened to be a disastrous afternoon.

“Yeah, men, look at that face! Tell me, could Hutchinson scare the hell out of any of you?”

Hutch glanced in disbelief at the man, seeing the contempt behind the shadowed eyes. He knew then he was in for a different kind of attack, one that sent cold chills racing up his spine. He swallowed, cursing his fair skin for the thousandth time, then held his head high. He had to keep control, couldn’t do what he felt like doing—didn’t dare!

“Do you know what happens to a cop who can’t strike fear of the law into an angry mob? I’m going to show you men just what Hutchinson, or some of you other men, face out there. Judge for yourselves.” And with that, Nelson turned up his jacket collar, slouched down, hands in pockets and approached Hutch. His lips curled back in a sneer.

“Hey, blondie, what’s a pretty boy like you doin’ in my end o’ town? Slummin’? Shit, man, ain’t nothing down here for the likes of you unless you’re into boys. Hey, is that it? Is that your trip, man? Yeah—a queer cop! Hey, fag, want me to do a number on you?”

Hutch closed his eyes, thinking about the cool waters of Lake Superior, thinking about snow in eight-foot drifts, thinking about picking cherries on his grandfather’s farm. Thinking about how he’d like to reach out and squash this insect who whined around him. He opened his eyes when a hand grabbed his arm.

“You fool! Do you think the world’s going to go away because you don’t like what I’m saying? Do you think that a cop can stand on duty with his eyes closed? You lissen, and you lissen good! Your looks are a handicap and always will be on the streets. You’ve got to be tougher than the guy who looks like he eats rocks for breakfast. Pretty boys never have it easy unless they’re in P.R. or traffic. There they can pick up on the ladies—or men.”

There was something Hutch wanted to say, hut it died in his throat, and all he could do was examine the little flecks of spittle that were forming at the corners of Nelson’s mouth. Maybe the guy had rabies, maybe that was his whole problem… a rabid cop. But his attempt at humor wasn’t going to work, and he fought back the tears of anger that burned his eyes. Please, God, he wasn’t going to cry. Not here in front of everyone. He’d leave first. Chuck it all in before he’d do that. He realized then that the cop was still talking.

“…you don’t act like a cop, Hutchinson. For one thing, your attitude’s all wrong. The force doesn’t need society hoys; we need men. Why don’t you try something else—say, modelling?”

Hutch’s fingers wrapped themselves around the cool, smooth wood of his nightstick, and he ached to smash the leering face that was tearing into him. Through a growing red haze, he wondered why he’d been selected for this type of hazing. That was what this was turning out to be. Even when Nelson had worked the blacks over, his abuse hadn’t been this personal. Or had they felt the same way he did now? Maybe it was instinct, but he hadn’t felt the same kind of hatred that filled the air now. He struggled to figure out why. He wasn’t that pretty, was he? No. He knew all about his looks, but he wasn’t a pretty-boy. It was only Nelson’s way of needling him. He couldn’t imagine any crowd saying those things and expecting a person not to react. Every cop he knew would swing the club and swing it hard. Would he—if the chances arose? What the hell would he do if some big bastard called him names like this?

“So? What’s your answer, pretty boy? You gonna show me you can take it? Or shall I call your mama to come pick you up in the lim-oh-zine?” Nelson’s sneer was obvious to everyone.

That nearly did it. He felt his control slipping, saw the scrawny neck as the cop pushed his face into Hutch’s. His fingers tingled with the wanting. He knew why he was holding on though, had found the answer just seconds ago. He met Starsky’s angry blue eyes, saw their laser glance as he stared at Nelson. Next to him, Colby’s eyes held the same expression. He looked ready to jump the officer. Hutch braved a glance at the other rookies and saw other faces mirroring a curious mixture of embarrassment and resentment. Thank God!

He squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath. What Nelson said didn’t matter after all, because his friends didn’t believe the insults. Friends? He searched Starsky’s face again, this time nodding imperceptibly. Almost immediately, he saw the anger fade from the blue eyes, while the taut body relaxed. Starsky’s mouth formed a crooked smile.

Deep inside, something stirred that Hutch had feared dead—an unbidden feeling of warmth that had lain dormant since long ago. It swelled, threatening to choke him. Staring down at Nelson, he wondered why he let the man’s jibes get to him.

“Do your worst, sir,” he whispered, low enough that no one else would hear him. “I’m all ears.” And then he smiled, unable to contain his joy anymore.

Starsky saw the smile and relaxed, his fingers loosening their death grip on the night stick he held. “Phew! I thought he was gonna blow it a couple of times,” he whispered. “I was gettin’ ready to go out there and bust Nelson’s head myself. What in the hell is he working Hutch over so hard for?”

Colby shook his head, eyes still on Hutch. “I’m not sure, but I think he’s still going to need us for a while.” His tone was thoughtful. “I think there’s more than Hutch’s looks behind Nelson’s attack.” His lips thinned into a grim line. “I’d sure like to take that guy on some dark night, teach him a thing or two. What say?” His tone was challenging.

Starsky shook his head. “No!” he said fiercely. “Use your head. All the guys would remember this and blame Hutch. Besides, Hutch wouldn’t want us to do that.” He felt strange, as though he were acting as go-between for Hutch. When had he felt that way before? Of course, the answer came roaring into his mind, blocking out all other events. In ‘Nam, defending Eddie to the other men. But what a difference between them. Hutch and Eddie. For one painful second, a laughing face with tip-tilted green eyes and a shock of brown hair supplanted the one he’d been staring at for the last twenty minutes. The face swam away in a blur of tears, and Hutch’s features were back. He rested his gaze on the tall blond, seeing the honesty in the light eyes, the gentleness that made his friend so different. Yes, friend! He was able to think that now… without fear. Friend.

Nelson wasn’t finished, now attacking Hutch’s performance in the field, questioning his courage. Hutch shot Starsky a quick glance, as though seeking reassurance, and he nodded, sending back a silent message of encouragement. He knew Hutch would never fit the stereotype of a cop; even if he got mean as hell, the big blond would always be stand-offish. Probably be a loner too. Still, there was something special they shared, and he was aware of this need for this man’s support, too.

He shivered in the damp chill, his hair heavy with fog and moisture. Did he actually believe that a kid from Minnesota and a kid from New York could be close friends? He only knew he wanted that, wanted to give it a try at least. Right now, all he was worrying about was Hutch’s getting through the brow-beating.

He met Colby’s puzzled stare and suddenly grinned. “Buddy, I’ve got a terrific idea. You and I are goin’ to play Good Samaritan for that Viking out there. We’ll save his ass… so just follow my lead.”

A devilish grin spread over Colby’s face, and he nodded, eyes bright. “Follow the leader it is. Only, what’re you going to do?” His whole body tensed, and he moved a step closer to Starsky.

“Watch me. Do what I do. Oh, see if Marshall will help us.”

Starsky coughed softly at first, then louder. He made a great show of getting out his handkerchief and wiping the rain from his face and hair. Next, he managed a colossal sneeze, and several rookies jumped hack, adding to the reality of his performance. He grimaced, eyes on the instructor. Starsky coughed again.

Colby sneezed just then, and made an incredibly gross effort to spit, then wiped his nose. Nelson’s frown deepened, but Starsky saw a tiny trace of doubt creep into his glance as he noticed the rookies’ wet uniforms. After a moment’s hesitation, he spun around, speaking softly to Hutch whose face flamed red in the gathering dusk. Just then, Marshall, a gangly redhead, sneezed, as did the man next to him. Around the other side of the circle came an echoing sneeze and two more coughs.

Starsky tried to hide his grin; that would only add fuel to Nelson’s ire. He saw Hutch gazing at him with his head cocked to one side in a gesture that Starsky already recognized. He winked, seeing Hutch’s mouth twitch, and he knew they’d won. Nelson, openly suspicious, was still apparently torn between the desire to break Hutch, and the recognition that the other men were siding with the big blond. After another inspection of the openly defiant circle of men, Nelson growled something more at Hutch, then yelled to the recruits, “Dismissed!”

They broke the circle on the run back to their quarters. As they skirted the puddles, Starsky heard his name called, and he stopped to see what Hutch wanted.

Hutch, hair plastered to his skull, was laughing, and the boyish face seemed lit from within. Starsky whistled as he was grabbed and swung around in a bear hug.

“Watch it, blondie. Wanna give Nelson something to talk about?” But he laughed too, running his hand affectionately across Hutch’s wet shoulders. “You sure looked stupid standing there. Why didn’t you just knee him and get it over with?” He turned to the watchful Colby, saying, “We woulda backed you up, wouldn’t we, Johnny?”

“Hell, yes!” Colby answered fervently. “Only I still think we could have done what I wanted—”

“Shut up, John,” Starsky warned, eyes on Hutch’s exhausted face. “Everything’s over now, so let’s get outta this damn rain. Come on!” And he was off and running, knowing no one could catch him, knowing his friends were right behind him. They passed the other rookies who gave them a rousing cheer, and Starsky threw himself into the sheer joy of the race. He listened as Hutch’s feet struck the pavement, heard the lengthening stride, and knew he’d have to run faster yet or the blond would catch up to him. A burst of adrenalin lent him wings, and he darted across the driveway and up the steps rather like someone who had the devil on his heels. Behind him, laughter vying with struggling breath, Hutch came. He took the steps three at a time.

“Damn you, Starsk. Wait up!”

He felt his own laughter bubbling up, until he felt rather giddy from the effects. He turned at the door, meeting Hutch’s exasperated expression. “What’s up? It’s your dime.”

“I wanted to thank you for your support down on the field. I—I nearly cracked.” The face was so open and honest that Starsky glanced around, noting that Colby was about twenty feet away.

“Yeah, well you looked like you needed a friend about then.” He swallowed, not able to say more.

“Nelson’s tactics are terrible, and he must drive half us rookies up the wall, but all the same… after a while, Starsky, I had to admit he was on the right track. I’m scared to death of being called pretty-boy or having people think I—I’m not like everybody else.”

Starsky examined the handsome face critically, listening to the half-hearted protests as Hutch tried to explain his weaknesses. He knew that the blond hated the titles, yet he also knew that Hutch had a vain streak in him that didn’t allow for much competition. It was the first time Starsky could remember seeing that a friend could have faults; the first time that he was able to see those faults and not feel disloyal. It gave him a strange feeling of freedom, and he put up a hand to stop Hutch’s confession.

“It’s okay. So you got shook. I was ready to kill the guy myself. All you have to remember is if someone hassles you, there’ll be a partner to help you out. One thing about bein’ a cop, you don’t have to go it alone.” He faltered as his mind raced back to a deserted trail in Vietnam and a man he had loved more than his own brother. He wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment again, didn’t think he ever would be, but at least Hutch was someone he could trust—trust with his life he guessed. At least the man standing here, smiling like a toothpaste commercial, was on the same side of the law.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colby climb the steps, and he grinned as the other man began griping.

“What’s so stinkin’ funny?” Colby snarled, mischief deep in his eyes. “You two planning a hit?”

Hutch looked strangely uncomfortable, so Starsky promptly steered the conversation to safer channels. “I was just asking Hutch to tell me why we were standing here, soaking wet, when we could be warm and dry inside.”

As if on cue, Hutch’s long arm reached past him to pull open the door. With a grand flourish he said, “After you, Officer Starsky. Any cop who can control a situation like I was in with such unusual tactics has my…” he grinned wryly,”…deepest admiration.”

Starsky felt Hutch’s hand rest on his shoulder, then shove him through the doorway. “Yeah? Well, seems that you’re the kind who gets himself in dumb predicaments and is gonna need my brains to save the day!”

Hutch exchanged amused glances with Colby before replying. “Brains? You? Don’t make me laugh. That was sheer luck on your part. Right, John? Starsk operates on instinct.”

Before Starsky could retort, he saw Hutch winking at Colby. “You’re probably right. Hutch, but I got a feeling that unless you cultivate some of that instinct, I’m going to be named the best rookie in the class. ‘Cause I’m smarter than you, and you know it!”

“Now, wait a minute,” Colby interjected. “I’ve listened to you two big mouths long enough. While you guys make speeches and compete with one another, little Johnny here is going to show you both up! Why the hell do you two think you’ve got the corner on everything?”

He never got another word out. As a unit, Starsky and Hutch made a flying leap for him, Hutch grabbing him around the shoulders, Starsky clamping steely fingers around his knees. Colby staggered, and they fell to the floor, a mad tangle of arms and legs.

“Big mouths’!” Starsky mumbled indignantly. “Maybe Golden Boy is, but I’m the shy, modest type myself.” He saw Hutch shake his head at this statement and added, “Do you ever see me spending an hour getting ready for inspection?”

They got slowly to their feet, apparently unaware that an audience was gathering. Hutch extended his hand, helping Colby to his feet. He ignored Starsky. “Did you hear that, John? He hasn’t figured out yet that even if he spent three hours getting ready for inspection, he’d still look like hell!” But his tone was light, and the smile took away all the sting.

“I still say I’m going to be top man,” Colby insisted. “You jerks are too busy competin’ with one another to realize it, that’s all.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe me and Hutch will team up, and then where’ll you be, smart ass?” He glanced over at Hutch, seeing him nod agreement. “Betcha as a team nobody could beat us!”

Colby snorted in disbelief. “The way you two fight? Don’t make me laugh.”

They argued happily all the way to the showers.

~end~