A Great Ending

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Ken got up, and walked to the door in stocking-feet. Opening the door revealed Dave Starsky, loaded down with what looked like everything he owned.

Ken took the picture in with a terrible suspicion. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. The irony would be tragic.

Starsky smiled and elbowed past him. “It’s your lucky day, Choirboy…  I happen t’be your new roomie…” Starsky announced. Wearing a white T-shirt blazoned with the Academy seal and navy-blue sweats, he stood there, surprisingly blue eyes just beaming.

“No,” Ken said, blankly. Then, with dawning disbelief, and half an octave lower, he repeated himself. “No.”

 

This story was originally published in the mixed gen and slash SH zine, “The Lucky and the Strong,” published by Idiot Triplets Press in 1993.

Major thanks to Keri T for scanning and proofing this zine-published story. Special thanks also to Keri for keeping me focused and on track in all things SH, but most especially the archive. Thanks must also go to Lynna Bright for giving us permission to post her previously published stories.

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Of the thirty fresh-faced recruits who made up Blue Squad (one of twelve squads composing the current student body of the Los Angeles County Police Academy) a solid core remained. By the seventh week, Shelton, Lorenzo, MacLachlan, Bertolt, and Earle were gone, washed out for one reason or another. The ratio was lower, however, than for any other group of cadets.

They were broken down into squads, though the young men freely intermingled in classes and housing. Their training would stretch out over twenty intensive weeks.

In his own somewhat biased opinion, Kenneth Hutchinson had done well in these first weeks. The physical and mental training challenged him. Surprisingly, never dreaming he had a gift for police work, he found he was good at it. It had a side benefit; it honed the discipline he’d too often been told he lacked.

He was certainly sorry to see Douglas MacLachlan lose out, even if it had been a voluntary decision. They’d struck up a good friendship; both Midwesterners putting down new roots and taking their chances out among the pagans of California. If Ken had had to lay odds on anybody to bomb out, Dave Starsky, not Doug, would have been the favorite.

John Colby, who seemed to be everybody’s best pal, had introduced him to Starsky, but Ken didn’t think much of him. The man was in no obvious way cut out to be a cop. Impulsive, soft on the rules… What rules? David Starsky had his own rules. He was his own law.

Naturally, nearly everybody else seemed to think he was a total riot: always the complete animal at parties, a clown, a wise-ass–worst of all, a practical joker. Ken thought practical jokers were the lowest life form on the planet.

Given their divergent personalities, it was inevitable that Ken had become a target for Starsky’s pranks. They made him angry despite himself, and he couldn’t accept them with good grace. These were the most juvenile kind of practical joke; blockheaded kid stuff, like starching the towels in the locker room stiff, or exchanging the clothes in his gym bag for women’s undergarments, or–like last week–throwing him a sloppy meatball sub in lieu of the pigskin in the middle of a “friendly” game of football.

Grudgingly, he admitted that Starsky was capable of really pulling it out when necessary. From what Ken had heard, and seen for himself, the man passed all his tests with high marks, and he hadn’t washed out. He was a hell of a marksman already, a Vietnam vet. Ken respected that, willingly. And, besides his other abilities, it had to be granted that what Dave Starsky couldn’t do behind the wheel of a police cruiser could not be done by any normal human being. Maybe that was the whole problem… he wasn’t normal.

Personally he was hard to take, the kind of a guy who had no respect for personal space or barriers–in your face, clapping you on the back, taking food off your plate–all of which Kenneth’s fastidious nature found nothing short of appalling. Okay, I’m aloof, reserved sometimes, but that’s nothing to apologize for. I can loosen up as much as the next guy. I happen to think there’s a time and a place. Is that wrong?

He looked around the room he shared, or had until two days ago, with MacLachlan. Bare, dove-gray walls, darker gray-metal wardrobe, dresser, desk, olive-drab blankets on the beds. At this time of day, the last of the sun entered the building. The room looked almost livable, but he missed his own home, his guitar, the opportunity to be more himself. The other bed was neatly made, the forlorn spotless white pillow giving no sign that Doug MacLachlan had been there.

Ken would miss their private bull sessions and the camaraderie possible with a roommate. Promises were made to keep in touch, but MacLachlan intended moving back East, Chicago. Fat chance of survival for a long-distance friendship with a man he’d only known well for six weeks. If he had to have a roommate, something that hadn’t exactly set well with him back at the beginning, he couldn’t’ve asked for better than MacLachlan; an adult, with both feet firmly on the ground.

Not two minutes later, there was a knock on his door.

“Yeah?” No sense in getting up if it was just somebody like Zebecki out to borrow his shaving cream.

“Yo, it’s Dave Starsky.”

“Is there anything I could possibly want to do for you, Starsky?” Ken yelled. He reluctantly put his book aside, got up, and walked to the door in stocking-feet. Opening the door revealed Dave Starsky, loaded down with what looked like everything he owned.

Ken took the picture in with a terrible suspicion. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. The irony would be tragic.

Starsky smiled and elbowed past him. “It’s your lucky day, Choirboy.”

Ken sighed, bristling. That nickname, harmless enough, really got to him; raised the hair on his nape. It brought up old, old defenses; stuff he thought he’d long forgotten.

“I happen t’be your new roomie,” Starsky announced. In the center of the room he turned and let his stuff drop. Wearing a white T-shirt blazoned with the Academy seal and navy-blue sweats, he stood there, surprisingly blue eyes just beaming.

“No,” Ken said, blankly. Then, with dawning disbelief, and half an octave lower, he repeated himself. “No.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, blithely. “There was one free space left. This one. And Ross was supposed to come in here. But he wanted to room with Gibson, who happens t’be my roommate. So naturally I agreed to move out in order t’ let Ross move in there with Gibson, and alla that makes me–”

Kenneth finished the sentence, “–my new roommate.” The realization fell like a lead piano with iron keys.

“Yeah.”

“Ohmigod. You’re serious.” Ken could feel his eyes stretching at the corners. “You are serious.”

“Listen,” Starsky said, reasonably. “I know how you feel. But it’ll be over before you know it. I promise, I’ll layoff, okay? No more stunts at your expense.”

Ken felt stunned by this whole occurrence. “Thanks.” Then he thought, What am I thanking him for? “Thanks for nothing.”

“For real, Hutchinson. I realize I’ve been makin’ your life–a little more complicated than it had to be.”

“A masterpiece of understatement.”

“But I promise to stop. Honest. I was going to, anyway. After the first few times, it stopped bein’ fun. Besides, you weren’t taking it well.”

“After the first ten times, you mean.” Ken paused. “Why me, while we’re at it?”

“Perfect mark,” Starsky explained. “You’re classic. The Rolls-Royce of victims.” He went to MacLachlan’s cot, and plopped down. “Besides, I thought maybe I could get you to unclench the old–to put it delicately–butt cheeks.”

“Under the right circumstances, my butt cheeks are as unclenched as anybody else’s,” Ken said, indignantly–and rather foolishly.

“You shouldn’t oughta point,” his “roommate” accused, mocking eyes on his pointing finger. “Didn’t your mommy ever tell you not to point?”

“No!” Riled, Ken moved back to his own bed, almost tripping, somehow, over Starsky’s bags. “And move this junk, if you don’t mind.”

“I will in a minute.” Starsky laid back, hands clasped behind his head. “Lemme settle in.”

Ken sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, wondering if he had any recourse at all.

“You know,” Starsky said. “MacLachlan was a good guy. I was sorry to see him go. Thought he was doin’ pretty well.”

“He was.”

“Then why–?” Starsky made a whishing sound, fingers of a freed hand executing a tiny field-goal kick.

Ken looked at Starsky, wondering if he should share MacLachlan’s private struggles with this mere acquaintance. But Starsky looked earnest, rolling onto an elbow to listen better. “After our first day on the shooting range, he said–he said he realized that he just didn’t have what it takes.” MacLachlan’s doubt had been unsettling; it had made Kenneth reflect…hard. “He said he knew he couldn’t kill anybody if it ever came down to that.”

“Funny thing to find out after you enroll in a police academy.”

Ken was scornful. “What’s funny about it? He’d never been face-to-face with it. How many people have you killed?”

Eyes soft, Starsky smiled at him as if he were a child. “I prefer t’ think of it as serving my country.” He half-laughed. “I thought it was. Guess the joke’s kinda on me, huh?”

Ken felt like a jerk. He’d forgotten for a moment that the man he was talking to was a veteran of the Vietnam War. Starsky’s words, and his own acute embarrassment, subdued him for a time, but he had to ask. “What was it like? The war.”

“A nightmare you wished you could wake up from. Only you couldn’t, ’cause it was more real than anything in this world oughta be.” Starsky paused, thoughtfully. “Not somethin’ you’d wanna talk about, either, even if you could. Even if anybody really wanted to hear.” He shrugged. “Which they don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for? You didn’t start any of it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe in a way I’m sorry I didn’t go.” He gauged Starsky’s possible reactions to the news that he’d been exempt. A lot of soul-searching had gone into his decision not to go to Vietnam in 1968, and he’d experienced a lot of guilt since then.

“I didn’t believe in it. I was–I still am–totally against the war. But I blew up when I found out my father was pulling strings behind my back to get me into the Minnesota National Guard. He wanted me to serve, sure, but only where it was safe.”

“What’d you do?”

“I enrolled in pre-med at the University… that was my escape. Long enough to find out I was being a hypocrite. I didn’t want to be a doctor. Two years later, everything was starting to wind down over there. But it’s possible I could’ve done some good.” He wanted to know that for himself.

“Uh-uh,” Starsky said, straightforwardly, without resentment. “It wasn’t that kind of a deal. The South Vietnamese didn’t want to fight and the Viet Cong did. And we had no idea how.” He rubbed at his nose–a structure hard to ignore. “What was your old man, rich or somethin’?”

“Rich enough, I guess.”

Starsky gestured around. “So, what’re you doin’ this for?”

“It’s his money, not mine. Like I said, maybe there’s something I can contribute here, really do something to make–” Maybe he was saying too much. “–Some kind of difference.”

“Because you didn’t go over?”

Ken was silenced for a moment by the bluntness of the question, being probed in such a direct way. “No, because I want to make a difference. You think it’s a lost cause?” he asked.

“No. ‘Course not. Or else I wouldn’t be here.”

“You still believe in something?”

“Sure I do. Know why? ‘Cause it’s better than not believing.”

“That’s not exactly a positive attitude, is it?” The question was scolding, chock-full of rectitude. With a slight shock, Kenneth heard the echo of his father’s tone in his own voice.

Starsky was studying him, saying nothing.

“You’ve got something to say?” Ken wanted to know.

“Are you for real?”

Ken looked back, confused and struggling not to show it. His confusion got the best of him, though. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re too good to be true, is all.”

“You don’t even know me.” The reply had a sharper edge than he’d intended it to have.

Rebuffed, Starsky sat up. “The way we’re goin’, that might be hard to do,” he muttered.

Conversation abruptly at an end, Ken went back to his psychology text. He ended up watching instead as Starsky moved to stow his gear. He was methodical, very tidy–traits weirdly at odds with his public personality.

Silence reigned, until in the final stages of stowing his toiletries, Starsky turned. The blue eyes were direct, unflinching. “Look, we’ve gotta live together, so… I’m sorry if I said or did anything to–”

Ken was mildly surprised, but he’d been waiting for an opportunity. “I didn’t mean what I said to come off sounding–” The apology was stiff, but he couldn’t make it come off any smoother. Being a smoothie was one thing he’d never been accused of.

” ‘S okay.”

They went back to their separate concerns, on the surface at least.

It’s no bullshit, Starsky mused. Jesus Christ, that’s really what he’s like. That’s him. “Mr. Perfect.”

From past experience, Starsky knew he shouldn’t care for this nonsense; but even with all the stunts he’d pulled on the man, he’d found himself cultivating a real soft spot for this Hutchinson character. Everything aside, there was strength there, real strength, not the macho grandstanding most of these hotshots depended on for personality, a brand of character built in from the ground up–or from the soul out. From the time he’d first noticed Hutchinson, before he knew him, Starsky had kind of liked the way the guy carried himself.

But if he were honest, he had to also admit his resentment of the Minnesota snowboy. Tall, cool, blond, everything Starsky wasn’t, Hutchinson never even seemed to sweat. When John first introduced them, Starsky had been glad just to find out the guy breathed air like everybody else.

Hutchinson didn’t seem to take to him in any big way, either. Just the opposite. Starsky’d never forget the once-over those chilly blue eyes had given him.

The razzing had stemmed in part from that. Okay. Petty resentment–and, Starsky’d had to face it, a drop of envy–(as much as his own sense of fun) had fueled those practical jokes. He’d figured Hutchinson for a class snob and therefore a natural enemy.

Only, the snob theory didn’t cover all the bases. Given some time to observe how Hutchinson dealt with their fellow cadets, he’d put a high percentage of the blond’s standoffish nature down to plain shyness, being in a new situation. The jokes had stopped as, over time, Starsky began to develop a grudging admiration, even a kind of distant affection, for Hutchinson. He’d misjudged.

After the conversation they’d just had, he couldn’t decide how he felt. Nothing wrong with high ideals, but not to respect other people for theirs–that could make for a very large pain in the neck. There had to be give and take. Hutchinson showed strong evidence of being too inflexible for Starsky’s taste.

Yet… Yet he still–God only knew why–he still wanted to know Hutchinson better. He wanted to be friends. Hutchinson had apologized to him. The moment had meant something.

Maybe it was a flaw in his personality, but he felt drawn irresistibly to problem people. Once his impulse to rescue had been awakened, he found it impossible to let go. Hutchinson, with all his qualities, good and bad, had taken hold of Starsky’s heart. There might be gold under all the armor.

Maybe he needs somebody like me around, if only to teach him to give a little.

They’d gone down together to dinner, and to Hutchinson’s–unvoiced but clear–surprise, Starsky had opted to sit with him. Colby joined them, but there was an insulation of silence between and around his jests and jibes, silence put there by Ken’s circumspect observations of Starsky and Starsky’s of him. They were carefully weighing each other, aware of each other. Are you a friend or an adversary? A little of both?

“How’s that gorgeous honey of yours, Hutch?” John asked, with a grin. Starsky wondered how he got away with calling Hutchinson, the man who bridled at nicknames, “Hutch.” Then again, John was the kind of guy who performed surgery on everybody’s names. The question really seemed to be what had drawn him to two such disparate people as David Starsky and Kenneth Hutchinson? In some deep-seated way, John had to be a chameleon.

“I wish I knew,” Ken said, in answer to John’s question. He hadn’t talked to his girl in a day or two. “I miss her.” He’d met Vanessa Markovich eight months ago at an Italian restaurant, and from the first sight he’d had of her, knew he’d found not just the most beautiful woman in the world, but the only woman there could ever be for him.

John turned to Starsky. “Ahh, you ought to see this lady, Starsk. Her name’s Vanessa. The kind of woman even I’d willingly die for. Class, all the way.”

Starsky looked at Ken. For some reason, the eye contact seemed to startle them both. “Got a picture?” he asked.

Ken hesitated. Then he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He flipped it open to Vanessa’s picture and handed the wallet over.

Starsky took it and studied the photograph, eyes widening like a kid’s. He whistled and looked up. “She really is beautiful, Hutchinson. She could be in the movies.”

“I concur,” Colby said. “What’d you do to deserve a goddess like that?”

Ken smiled, returning the wallet to his back pocket. “Just being me. What can I say?”

“How long’ve you two been goin’ together?” Starsky asked.

“Almost a year. We plan to be married the day I graduate from the Academy.”

“Day?” John asked. “The minute.”

“It’s all right with her,” Starsky asked, taking a healthy bite of his cheeseburger. “You bein’ a cop?”

Ken looked at him. Why are your questions always so knife-sharp? “I’m sure it is. We’ve talked about it a few times, and she thinks she can deal with it. I think she can, too.”

“A cop’s wife has it pretty rough,” Starsky observed, seriously.

“Do you have a girl?” Ken asked him.

“Nah. Not at the moment. I could never stop at just one, anyway.”

“How about we go over to Mooney’s for a few beers tonight?” John suggested, terminating the conversation. “I think we should all be better friends. And to further the cause, you can both buy me a beer.”

Ken couldn’t say no. If he didn’t agree, John would cajole until he gave in. But he was also realizing that he might like more of Starsky’s company. “Do you plan on getting back here before curfew?” he asked.

“Oh, I do, I do.”

“Sure,” Starsky weighed in, skeptically.

A satisfying night of pool and icy pitchers of draft, spiked with a generous sampling of John’s hijinks, ensured that they’d barely make curfew. He and Starsky got back to their room only just in time.

Ken had to laugh. “I think you guys are a bad influence on me.”

“Hope so,” Starsky said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Never woulda figured you to play pool.” There was approval in his voice.

“My dad had a billiard room.”

“You had a pool table right in your own house?” Starsky asked.

Ken nodded. Starsky whistled in admiration.

“John got pretty looped,” Ken commented, neutrally. Colby’s behavior worried him–the man seemed to operate too close to the edge for comfort. He wasn’t like Starsky, with him there were secret smiles, a weird kind of containment, and then the eruption.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Starsky replied. “I don’t think it’s a problem, though. Do you?”

Ken shrugged, noncommittal.

They’d prepared for bed, gone to sleep relatively soon; Starsky first. And Ken lay awake, listening to the modulations of the stranger’s breathing. To his relief, Starsky didn’t snore as raunchily as he had expected. Then again, Starsky was turning out to be not at all the kind of person he had assumed.

Sleep slowly overcame him, too.

***

Neither of them had mentioned making it a point to meet the next day. Breakfast was a given, but that was usually a businesslike stoking of furnaces. By lunch they’d lost track of each other in the bustle. They did have one class together, later in the day–Statutes, Ordinances, and Regulations, a designation everybody had shortened to “SnORE.” Even Kenneth could just about manage to keep his eyes open in there. He was a million miles away, but by God his eyes were open.

When he arrived, he looked around for Starsky again; didn’t see him. Sitting in his usual place, he flipped his notebook to the copious notes taken down in last week’s class.

“Do what I do,” Starsky said, sitting down next to him with a brisk rush of air. “Write down every fifth word and fill in the rest with wherefores and whereins.”

“Except you might really need to know these ordinances someday.” Ken couldn’t credit how–was relieved the right word?–he was to see Starsky. “How about that?”

The man in question pulled a sour face. “If I thought this was all there was to police work–”

“It’s part of it.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get on a soapbox. Here comes Sergeant Dull.” The instructor’s name was Charles Dahl. “Wanna borrow a couple of toothpicks?”

“For what?”

“To keep your eyes open. Or do you have the willpower to actually stay awake in here? Never mind. I forgot who I was talkin’ to.”

“Nice to see you’re learning all the important stuff,” Ken remarked easily.

During the lecture, he kept intermittent tabs on Starsky, watching the eyes, at first somewhat alert, begin to droop lazily in the midafternoon sunshine. The battle to stay awake was hard-fought, and probably for his benefit. When the eyes actually closed down, he unobtrusively nudged his classmate.

Starsky’s lids flew up like window-shades and the disoriented gaze met his. A sheepish silent, “Thanks,” filled them.

Study was quiet between them, a wordless communion that somehow solidified their budding friendship.

Starsky would steal glances at Ken–Hutch–sitting at the desk, turning a page, writing diligently, combing big fingers through his hair as he thought something through. He was that rarity, a study-partner who actually studied. Next to the lamp, his hair seemed to acquire more light of its own, stealing it from the artificial illumination, changing it into something fine.

Starsky put his own book down for the moment. He hadn’t been concentrating on it, anyway. “Wanna take in a movie or somethin’ this weekend?” he asked. “Or did you have plans, maybe?” It was the first time he’d asked to spend some time with Hutchinson on a Sunday. He felt a little weird doing it; couldn’t have said why–mostly because Hutch had not yet invited him anywhere; spending his one free day, usually, with his fiancée.

Hutch turned in his seat. Smiling, he stretched to get out the kinks. “I wish I did. Van’s hanging out with her best friend from college. What’d you have in mind? A tasteful little foreign film?” He was teasing.

“Are you kiddin’? I’m talkin’ about maybe seein’ that movie with Robert Redford and Paul Newman. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

“Okay, sure. That sounds almost tolerable.”

“I hear it’s got a great ending.”

“How about the beginning and the middle?” Hutch asked.

“Well, the ending’s usually tacked on to something, ain’t it?”

They’d talked, of course, shared the usual life histories, the record of before they met. Now they shared a present that had begun to be very good; better than anything in either of their pasts. No fireworks had announced their relationship. One day, soon after they’d really gotten to know each other, it had flowered, like a rose, at night when they weren’t looking. Starsky thought maybe it had already been there. He suspected that it had been intact–immature, but with all its parts–the day Hutch opened the door to him.

For all their differences they blended, they meshed, in some crazy, prickly way. Like… Hutch was one note of music and he was another, and when they were together, this–this weird chord played. Not a sound a baby could fall asleep by, maybe, but it made Starsky’s engine purr like a kitten. When he was with Hutch, he felt good about himself.

It was definitely a love affair. They were together so much that one of the drill instructors had already said as much. To Starsky it just seemed kind of wonderful, feeling for a person he’d known a month as deeply as he was beginning to feel for Hutch.

It wasn’t like he wanted the man in his bed. Nothing like it. He didn’t go that way and neither did Hutch. He felt he was on the threshold of loving someone in the best possible way, the way you loved your very best friend when you were a kid, unconditionally, and somehow–long before you knew what sex was about–passionately. You wanted to see that friend first thing in the morning, hang out with them all day, sleep over on weekends… That he’d get to “sleep over” with this particular friend every night for the next several months seemed magical.

All this added up to quite a turnaround from his first opinion of Hutch. I’m glad I got a chance to know him. Sure, he’s lofty, head up in the clouds. He can be a pain in the ass, stiff-necked, icy. But that’s surface stuff. He’s hot inside, down in his heart, where it counts.

He needs a better reason than I do to let his hair down, is all. And that’s his right; he doesn’t show himself to just anybody. He’s a big, walking secret that I’m finding out. But the secret’s worth knowing. I’d rather be in on it than shut outside.

To his friends he was Hutch and by now he thought of himself that way, too.

There was one special friend…

Starsky was changing him. Inside himself he knew it. He was not the same man he’d been before he got to know a certain New York wise guy. Even to the one responsible, he couldn’t have explained the process. For the first time in his life he’d begun to question some of the rules he lived by, his values–not to discard them–to examine the verities, ask the hard questions, take a risk once in a while. Lately it seemed he could always hear Starsky’s voice saying, “Why?” or “Why not?”

Hutch didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried about the change. At certain junctures he was both. The world Starsky came from was alien to him, not part of his experience at all. Knowing him was like going backstage, suddenly being able to see another side of everything.

Funny part was, he wasn’t trying to stop any of it. Afraid or not, he wanted to see that other side, and make it a part of himself.

He’d had no perspective on how sheltered he’d really been as a child, as a teenager, a young adult, how locked in he’d been emotionally–despite all his petty rebellions–by his upbringing, his parents’ influence. Now he’d found someone able to influence him as much, if not more, than his father and mother, any teacher or any friend, ever had.

He respected Starsky in a different way, Starsky demanded more of him. Here was a guy who’d been out in the real world, who’d been born poor, lived the street life, who had calluses on his hands, who had fought in a war, killed, suffered. Hutch was alarmed to realize that he had never known any more of suffering in his life than worrying whether a certain girl he liked would ever go out with him, or having the paint on his parked car scratched.

What really amazed him was the Starsky who had survived all that. Warm, outgoing, full of nonsensical fun, Starsky behaved as if the whole world loved him–or would once it got to know him. He had endeared Hutch to him, too, with a little effort. How could he be like that, having seen what he’d seen, done what he’d done; knowing what he knew about the world?

Was it possible the horror of war had made Starsky the kind of man he was? That he didn’t despair, but instead laughed, loved, lived his life even more fully–in defense against the darkness he’d seen? If that was true, he was even more remarkable than Hutch already knew he was.

Starsky had special qualities. Hutch now understood that Starsky passed tests because he was almost freakishly bright, and retained almost everything he heard in class. He never needed to study as hard as Hutch had to. He had an ability unique in Hutch’s experience–to be able to call up every bit of his strength on demand. So that, though he wasn’t a side of beef by any means, he could lift weights with the best of them. He could run like the wind, and he seemed to have no fear at all.

They’d suffered a few rough, even painful, moments at the start, shoving each other like runners at the sound of the gun. Starsky was a sweet guy, but also difficult, loud, quick to anger, too eager to make his opinions known. But those qualities were just the summer storms in him; without a few rainy days, you couldn’t appreciate the sunny ones. Besides, Starsky’s emotional bad weather always passed over quickly.

The sailing was clear now. The two of them could talk about anything, everything; and did. Starsky was intelligent, yes, but more importantly, curious and open. There were still many, many things, even within himself, that he wanted to explore. Hutch was the same. Every day he felt incredibly lucky at finding a friend, an equal, in a person he wouldn’t have let himself get to know. If Starsky hadn’t become his roommate… It would have been my loss.

His secret hope that they could be partnered one day was still only that, a diffuse, probably useless, desire; like a child’s twenty-page Christmas list.

***

They were walking away from the theater after the show.

“What if that was us?” Starsky postulated. “I’m Butch, you’re Sundance.”

“Good casting,” Hutch said. “Robert Redford playing me.”

Starsky laughed. “Yeah. And better.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Who, me?”

“Would you want to go out that way?” Hutch asked, after a moment or two. “In a blaze of glory?”

“As a cop, you mean? No way. I didn’t survive ‘Nam just to throw my life in the dump. Not that I don’t believe in sacrifice. I mean, there’s people I’d lay my life down for, gladly. But that’s not the same as doin’ it just because you ran out of better ideas. This ain’t the movies. Death’s permanent.” Thinking wasn’t a passive act with him; it showed in his face. He looked very serious, suddenly silent, and Hutch knew he was remembering something from his past. Then he said, “You never give it away, Hutch. Never.”

“I know.”

“You better if you’re ever gonna be partnered with me. I’m in this to survive.” They hadn’t talked about being partnered, but obviously shared the same wish. “Wanna go for pizza?” Starsky asked. “There’s a place right down the way, here. New York-style pizza; y’know, with the square crust, loaded down with cheese, pepperonis, anchovies–?”

“Does this place have salads?

“You really are hopeless, you know that?”

***

Starsky loped up to him. Mid-term grades had been posted and they hadn’t shared the news, yet.

“How’d you do?” Starsky asked. The concern was naked, unembarrassed; confident that it would be accepted. Innocent eyes searched Hutch’s.

Suddenly, Hutch thought this would be a good time for a little practical joking of his own. Opportunity presented itself, and it was irresistible. “Brace yourself,” he warned.

“What’s wrong? Hutch…”

“I washed out.”

“What?!”

“I didn’t make it. I’m out.”

“You’re out? No way! But, how?” The summer blue of Starsky’s eyes had become bleak. “How in the hell–? I don’t get it.”

“Something about my average, measured against the whole student body, taking my workload into consideration… I don’t know.” Starsky was buying all of it, probably only because he was upset and not listening very well. Hutch found he was enjoying this. He wouldn’t let it go on too much longer, of course. Starsky’d kill him; then revive him and kill him again.

He tried to look depressed, and hurt. It must have worked, because Starsky seemed to implode. They were standing under a young elm tree in the Quad, and Starsky kicked the tree so hard, it shook.

“Damn! Damn it!”

“Starsky–”

“Well, if you leave, I’m leavin’, too. Who needs it? A guy like you isn’t good enough, then I don’t want any part of being a cop!”

That was alarming. Hutch had to explain, and right now. “Starsky…”

“We were gonna be partners,” Starsky said, miserably. “What’re we gonna do, now?”

We. Maybe it wasn’t so funny anymore. “Starsky, I–I was just–”

“What?”

“I mean–it was just a joke. I–” When had he gone too far? “I didn’t think you’d react like this.” That reaction–indignant, caring–was even more alarming to him than Starsky’s burst of righteous anger.

Starsky’s brows were black thunderheads, rolling in fast. Hutch waited, watching, with edgy dread. First the implosion, then the explosion.

The moment held, for one beat, two beats…

And then Starsky’s mouth lifted, crookedly. The sun came out. There was no anger in him.

“You’re not pissed-off?” Hutch asked.

“No,” Starsky said. “I’m not.”

“Why, for crying out loud? If you’d done that to me, I’d want to tear your head off!”

“That’s why. Don’tcha see? Because I finally really corrupted you, Hutch. Four months ago, you never ever woulda done somethin’ like that t’ me. I’m proud of ya…” He snickered. “Couldn’t a done it better myself. Besides all that, I’m too relieved t’ be mad at ya.”

“Relieved?”

Starsky sighed, heavily. “That none of it was true.”

“It’s not, Starsk. We’re still going to be partners. I’m positive.” Hutch was relieved, himself. There was one question he felt he had to ask. “Would you really have left, too? If I had to leave?”

Starsky looked at him for a long time. He nodded. “Yeah.” Then he added, “Would’n’ta been any fun without you around.”

Hutch felt like he’d been given a medal.