A Tip of the Hat

129

Even when saddled with play-it-safe partners, rookies Starsky and Hutch are already attuned to each other’s moves.

 

Originally published in the zine, Boys in Blue, in 2008, edited by Enednoviel.

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The interior of the patrol car smelled like stale cigarette smoke and rancid coffee.

And sweat, Hutch silently amended, sighing as he dragged a hand through his short, damp hair. Not the clean sweat of a well-conditioned body doing the job it was getting paid for, but the sour tang of someone who did little, and cared less.

He shot his gaze over to take in the rounded profile of his temporary partner, Mike Finney, and sighed again, silently. The man was thirty-nine, looked sixty, and was living for the day he could retire on his full pension and spend the rest of his life achieving a symbiotic relationship with his sofa.

Hutch missed his old partner, Luke Huntley, who taught his young protégé everything he knew about being a cop, and several other equally valuable lessons besides. But Luke was now breathing the rarified air of the plainclothes detective, and since Hutch ached to breathe that same air, he couldn’t find it in his heart to feel anything but happy for his former partner’s good fortune.

So now he found himself trapped for endless days and nights in a foul-smelling patrol car with a man who was turning ennui into an art form, and he prayed that the very second he saw such cynicism threatening to take root within himself, he’d do the right thing and leave. Fast.

“What are we doing here?” Hutch asked when he noticed that they’d left their own beat and entered another Division entirely.

Finney tried out a smirk that fit poorly on his homely face. “Met up with a pretty little thing at O’Flannery’s last night. Just checking to see if the address she gave me is on the up and up.” The cop turned flat, muddy eyes toward him, trying, Hutch supposed, to be intimidating. “You got a problem with that, Rook?”

Hutch kept himself from rolling his eyes. Barely. He hadn’t been a rookie in over two years, but that didn’t stop idiots like Finney from continuing to pin the tag on him. “No problem, Mike,” he replied casually. “No problem at all.”

Grunting, Finney stepped on the gas and Hutch settled back into the uncomfortable seat, his eyes taking in their increasingly seedy surroundings with a sense of genuine pleasure. His seeming adoration of this part of town was another point of sometimes less-than-good-natured teasing by the cops who shared his beat. None of them could understand his fondness for what they termed “the cesspit of modern civilization.”

For Kenneth Hutchinson, this place, this very spot, was his idea of Heaven; sex shops, winos lying in the gutter, urban decay, and all. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life rousting gays on the beach, or rescuing pampered poodles from the clutches of equally pampered Dobermans. No, he wanted to make a difference, and here, in this place, among these people and this squalor, he felt he could do just that.

It didn’t hurt, of course, that his best friend was here already, and beginning to do that very thing. That he was starting to make a name for himself and, if rumors were to be believed, was being quietly groomed to take up one of the first positions in the new Zebra squads that the maverick young Captain of Metro Division, Harold Dobey, was getting ready to institute.

And Hutch planned to be there with his friend when the move happened, the second half of a dynamic duo who would prowl the streets in a regular car, wearing regular clothes, and blending in seamlessly with the pushers and the hypes, the pimps and the hustlers, doing their level best to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

Making a difference.

All he had to do was plow through the rest of the bullshit, and he’d be where he needed to be. Well, that and pass the Detective’s exam, but he didn’t foresee a problem in that. He figured his college education was good for something, and Luke had given him some pretty sound building blocks with which to work.

As if thinking about his friend had summoned him, Hutch blinked, startled, as a black and white pulled out in front of them, turned left, and raced off, lights flashing and siren blaring. As he watched the rocketing car swerve to miss a sideswipe, then swerve again to miss a head-on, he found himself grinning like a fool. “Hey! I know that car!”

Still grumbling at being so rudely cut off, Finney shot him a look. “It’s a cop car, Rook.”

“I know that,” Hutch replied, too involved in watching the pursuit to get angry at his partner. “I mean I know the driver! That’s—”

“Better you than me,” Finney drawled. “Idiot’s gonna get hisself squashed like a bug hotdogging like that.”

“Never,” Hutch shot back, pride filling his voice. “He can make anything with wheels walk and talk.” He looked on as the driver in question took a right on two wheels and rocket away, tires smoking. “C’mon, let’s follow them.”

“Are you nuts?” Finney demanded, swiping Hutch’s hand away from the lights-and-siren switch. “This ain’t our beat, in case you forgot, ya damn rookie.”

“Who cares? The way they’re going, they’ve got to be on the tail of something hot, and they’re going to need backup.”

“You got no way of knowin’ that.”

Hutch groaned. “Come on, if I’m right, and I know I am, the guy riding shotgun is Booker, and you know they’d be driving like my grandmother on Sunday if it wasn’t something big.”

Finney grunted, conceding the point. By-The-Booker was what the other cops called the man, and his Academy buddy and future partner, whose definition of ‘police manual’ involved feeling up a foxy lady while wearing only his cap—the ladies really dig that, Hutch! You should try it with the Ice Queen, sometime—got along with him like oil gets along with water.

Reaching out again, Hutch twisted the radio dial over to Metro’s frequency.

“…six requesting backup. We are in pursuit of a yellow Camaro going southbound on Market, tag number Ocean-X-ray-Victor Niner Seven Niner. Driver is suspected in a one eight seven at United Federal. Believed to be armed and dangerous. This is Baker six requesting backup.”

Without waiting for permission, Hutch flipped the switch to bring the siren and lights to life. “Let’s go, Finney. Make tracks!” Picking up the mic, Hutch keyed in. “This is Henry Twelve, providing backup to Baker Six. We are joining pursuit southbound on Market.”

“Roger, Henry Twelve.”

Heaving a sigh, Finney stomped on the accelerator and handled the fishtail as the big car began to pick up speed.

Since Finney’s driving was as uninspired as the rest of him, the best they could hope to do was play Tail-End Charlie and follow the twist and turns of the pursuit by listening to Booker’s stone-voiced directions coming from the radio.

Five minutes and a red light later, Hutch got one of those inspirational flashes for which he was quickly becoming famous—or infamous, depending on who you talked to.

“Turn right up ahead,” he ordered, for the moment forgetting that the man seated next to him had fifteen years on him.

Finney, however, wasn’t about to forget. “You’re crazy. Rook.” The word had acid that bubbled and fumed in the dead air between them.

“No, I’m not! Just turn up ahead, Mike! Come on!”

“Not happening. We’ll stay behind ’em like we been doin’.”

“They could both be dead by the time you got us there!” Hutch insisted. “Turn right! They’re headed toward the docks! If we take the side streets, we’ll get there ahead of them. Then we just might be able to help!”

“You’re—”

“Crazy, yeah, I know. Look, just do it, will you? He jumps ship in there and there are a million and one abandoned warehouses he could hole up in. We’ll lose him for sure. Just… go, damnit!”

Startled by the command voice, Finney abruptly jerked the wheel, nearly rolling them in his haste to obey the order.

“Thank you,” Hutch replied, calmer now. He was bent so far forward in his seat, any stop would put his nose through the windshield. For a brief moment, Finney considered doing just that. Thankfully, common sense prevailed. Besides, he’d probably get dunned for a replacement windshield anyway.

“This better pan out, Rook, or Ferguson will have you walking a beat down in Homoville.”

Hutch shot him a scathing glance before returning to the windshield. “Make a right up ahead, and then your first left.”

“How come you know so damned much about this shithole, anyway?”

“Are you kidding?” Hutch asked, his smile bright and his color high. “I visit this place in my dreams.”

“You are some loony tunes.” Shaking his head, Finney nevertheless followed the junior officer’s directions to the letter, and soon he could see the weathered pylons that announced they’d arrived at their destination. “Now what?”

“Go straight and slow. We’ll scan the spaces between these warehouses, see if—there!”

In the near distance, both men could see a yellow vehicle headed toward them at speed. The pursuing black and white was right behind it and gaining, sticking to its bumper like a burr to a saddle blanket.

“Cut over!” Hutch ordered. “See if you can slow him down, maybe cut him off!”

“You’re nuts!”

“Just do it!”

Once again, Finney found himself obeying, much against his better—and more self-serving—judgment. At the last second, the driver saw them and swerved around, angling for one of the long piers that branched off from the land like fingers on an outstretched hand, its pursuit still doggedly behind.

“He’s gonna dump her right in the drink!” Finney yelled, jamming on the brakes with both feet.

“What are you doing?! He’s still running!”

“No shit, rook. I ain’t goin’ over the side. You want to, have at it.”

Instead, Hutch opened the door and jumped out of the still rolling patrol car, running as soon as his feet hit the cracked and crumbling pavement. Pulling his piece, he watched as the black and white in front of him came to a flashy, smoking stop, sliding sideways and snuggling up to the bumper of the now stopped Camaro. As he looked on, he saw the driver’s side door open and a dark-headed blur come sprinting out, gaining on the fleeing fugitive with every step.

Hutch turned on the afterburners, watching with dismay as the perp jigged left, then right, and headed down the pier. Seeing the felon’s desperate grabs for something at his waistband, Hutch experienced another flash of intuition. “Starsky!” he screamed. “Gun!”

The sprinter dropped and rolled at the same time Hutch heard the distinctive crack of the perp’s pistol go off. His heart was in his throat until he saw his best friend regain his feet and take up pursuit once again.

Hutch kicked it up yet another gear, his longer legs finally coming to his advantage as he closed the distance between himself and Starsky.

It was with a distinct sense of foreboding that he realized he was going to be too late. Up ahead, still impossibly far away, the perp pinwheeled his arms as he reached the end of the pier. Starsky, still running full-tilt-boogie, tackled the man around the waist and drove both of them off the pier and down into the swirling, steel-colored water below.

“Starsky!” Hutch shouted again. “Shit!”

His friend was a decent swimmer, but hated the water, and Hutch knew that he’d have trouble handling the large man in there with him. Without even stopping to shuck his utility belt, Hutch hollered out and took his own jump into the drink.

He surfaced, sputtering, and then cut cleanly through the water toward Starsky, who was struggling with the perp who had a death grip around his neck. The man wasn’t trying to get away, Hutch saw. On the contrary, if the panicked look in his bulging eyes was any indication, the idiot didn’t know how to swim and was hanging onto his pursuer for dear life, coming very close to drowning them both in the process.

“Starsky!” Hutch shouted for the third time, finally reaching the struggling men. He was never as thankful for his lifeguard training as he was right then, grabbing the perp’s thumb and forcing his grasping arm away from Starsky’s windpipe. “Let go, damnit! Starsk… you okay?”

“‘m fine,” Starsky rasped, his Brooklyn roots showing clearly in his voice. “Get ‘im outta here! Go!”

Obeying that commanding voice like Finney had obeyed his just moments ago, Hutch wrapped the perp in a secure hold and sidestroked his way toward the pier’s boarding ramp, listening with a concerned ear to his best friend’s choking and spluttering, and the feeble splashing that indicated Starsky was following along as best he could.

Finney and Booker were there to meet him, and Hutch looked resentfully at their dry clothes and disbelieving expressions. With a mighty heave, he divested himself of his troublesome burden and turned back to help Starsky the last few feet toward the ramp.

“Let me guess,” Hutch said dryly, using humor to try and dispel the tension of the moment, “the action was getting a little too hot for you, so you decided to take a refreshing dip in the pool.”

“You know me,” Starsky replied, his voice still gravelly with the water he’d inhaled. “Anything to impress the ladies.”

“There are ladies around here?”

“There.” A jerk of the chin pointed Hutch in the direction of a cruise ship whose passengers—many bikinied and quite lovely—were staring at them from safe perches behind the rails. Some were waving handkerchiefs. Others were throwing bright red and yellow streamers out over the water.

“We gotta get you a new hobby, buddy,” Hutch said, hauling first himself and then his friend out of the water and onto the relatively dry boards of the ramp.

Starsky slumped beside him, still spluttering.

“You okay?”

“Swallowed half the ocean,” Starsky griped before leaning forward and vomiting between his own legs. “God, that’s awful.”

Slinging an arm around his friend’s broad shoulders, Hutch gathered him in to his larger, slightly warmer body and stroked up and down one soaked arm.

“How’d you get here, anyway?” Starsky asked.

“We were in the neighborhood. Thought we’d stop by for tea.”

Starsky snorted, then coughed again. “Seriously,” he said when he could speak again.

“Seriously? You damn near t-boned us when you started pursuit. We were right there when you turned onto Market.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It took some doing, but I was finally able to persuade Finney that providing backup was a good career move.”

“You driving?”

“Finney.”

Starsky’s eyebrows tried to hide beneath his hairline and Hutch laughed. “I… uh… guessed where you were headed and convinced him to take a couple of shortcuts. We’d still be driving, otherwise.”

“Break any bones in the process?”

“Not a one.”

Starsky gave him a crooked grin. “That’s my partner.”

“You’d better believe it.”

The heavy stomping of feet announced Finney and Booker’s return. Hands on his ample hips, Finney shouted down at them, “You two are a couple of certified wackos, ya know that? Where do you get off dumpin’ that asshole over the side, and you, jumpin’ in after ’em like some fuckin’ trout tryin’ ta get back home, huh?”

Starsky and Hutch exchanged glances, and shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Starsky replied, offhand.

“Suspect secure?” Hutch asked.

“No thanks to you,” Finney returned, his face the color of old brick.

“Hey!” Starsky yelled, jumping immediately to his friend’s defense. “Lay off! If it hadn’t a been for Hutch, here, both of us woulda drowned!”

“And whose fault would that have been?” Booker demanded, his voice surprisingly mild.

“Look,” Hutch interjected, “did either of you think to call an ambulance? Starsky inhaled a lot of water, and I think—”

“For God’s sake, Hutch! Quit babyin’, will ya? I’m all right.”

“—that he could use a look over,” Hutch continued, unperturbed, “before you finish reading us the riot act, okay?”

Grumbling, Booker turned back toward the steps, only to be brought up short by the sudden appearance of two suited detectives. The taller and thinner of the two looked past him and grinned as he saw the two drowned rats sitting side by side on the ramp.

“Well, well, well! If it isn’t Butch and Sundance! Stopped off for a little swim, did you?”

“Johnny!” Starsky cried out happily, trying to stand and failing when his heavy clothes and trembling legs pulled him back down into Hutch’s orbit. “What are you doin’ all the way down here?”

Finney, who didn’t know of Starsky’s long-standing relationship with the most decorated cop on the force, looked on open-mouthed as John Blaine, the John Blaine, stepped neatly past him and bent to ruffle Starsky’s wet hair. “Slate and I were just down the street when we heard you two were involved in a little dustup. Figured we’d come down and check out the action.”

“Yeah, and to grab yourselves all the glory after we did all the work,” Starsky grumped good naturedly.

“Nah,” Blaine replied, chuckling. “This one’s all yours, Davey.” He looked over at Hutch, still grinning. “You have to go in after him?”

“As usual,” Hutch agreed, hugging his buddy tighter against him. “Still can’t swim worth a damn. You should have taught him that while you were showing him how to dodge right hooks.”

“Not my fault,” Blaine replied, raising his hands. “I tried, God knows. Maggie tried. Hell, we all tried. I can’t help it if he’s like a housecat in a rainstorm.”

“He’d like it,” Starsky muttered, “if you talked about him like he wasn’t here if he really wasn’t here.”

Slate chuckled and stepped up next to his partner. “You and me, Dave. We’ll school these bastards around a pool table, what do you say?”

“Sounds like my kinda schooling,” Starsky agreed before starting to cough again.

The smile dropping from his face, Blaine spun toward the two watching patrolmen. “Either of you idiots call an ambulance?”

“Getting on it right now, sir,” Booker muttered, continuing his aborted stomp back toward his patrol car.

“Come on,” Blaine said, reaching down and hauling Starsky up as his partner did the same for Hutch, “let’s get you somewhere dryer. You two look like shit.”

“I’ve felt better,” Hutch allowed.

“I’ll bet,” Blaine replied, shooting a glare at Finney as they were about to pass. “Make yourself useful. Go grab a couple blankets, will you?”

Nodding, Finney pivoted and hustled up the ramp.

“Never seen him move that fast,” Hutch remarked mildly.

“It’s the famous Blaine charisma,” Slate joked. “Get’s ’em every time.”

His hand still gripping Starsky’s elbow, Blaine gave Hutch a look. “You’re still dating way beneath your station, Ken. When are you going to come over to the dark side with the rest of us bozos, huh?”

“I wish it were that easy. Iron Mike’s got me locked to him tighter than a drum.”

“He’s a miser, all right,” Blaine agreed. “Still, there might be something we can do about that.” Looking back at Starsky, he grinned again. “Especially since wonder-boy here has caught a few eyes among the big brass. You two are still aiming to be partners, right?”

“Wouldn’t want anybody else,” Starsky replied, wiping his reddened nose.

“You sitting for the exam?” Slate asked Hutch.

Hutch shook his head. “Not this time. Ferguson won’t allow it until next year, minimum. And if I pass it, he’s got a position in Vice all lined up for me.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Blaine retorted. “I might not be able to get you into the exam any earlier, but if these Zebra squads do what Dobey says they’ll do, I’m pretty sure that between Starsky’s request and a couple good words put in by me, Slate, and a few others, we can get you shotgun in that old Mustang of his.”

“I make detective and that old Mustang’s gonna be history,” Starsky replied, his eyes lit from within from excitement. “I got my new wheels already picked out, Johnny. You should see her. One sweet short, lemme tell you. She’s cherry, chopped, channeled, and…”

“Here he goes again.” Hutch had already heard more about Starsky’s dream car than any man had a need to hear. The way he went on about her, one would think he was courting a lover rather than purchasing a vehicle.

“Ain’t my fault if you got no taste,” Starsky grumbled, earning himself an elbow in the ribs. “Oof! Quit bruisin’ the merchandise, ya big oaf!”

Fondly slapping his friend on the back of his head, Hutch pulled away from the others and made his way quickly up the stairs.

“He’s a good man,” Slate remarked, following.

“The best,” Starsky agreed. “We’re gonna set this town on its ear when we finally make partners.”

“The same way you did at the Academy?” Blaine teased.

“Wasn’t our fault. Besides, it’s been two years. I’m sure the Commander’s hair has grown back in by now.”

Laughing, the trio made its way back up to the pier and the blankets waiting for them.

***

“Tolja I was okay.” Jumping down from the stretcher, Starsky looked around for his clothes. “Feel like a fool comin’ all the way down here for no reason.”

“Forgive me for caring.” Hutch had heard the same lament four times in the past twenty minutes, and as far as he was concerned, that was five times too many. “After all, sounding like you’re breathing through a fishtank filter is just fine. For you.”

Middle finger flung majestically in Hutch’s direction, Starsky bent over to look beneath the stretcher. The back of his gown gaped open, giving Hutch a good view of some prime real estate. “Where the hell are my pants?!”

“Looking for these?” Walking around the curtain, Blaine held up a pair of Starsky’s ratty jeans and a bright red Henley. “Nice ass, Davey!”

“You’re just jealous,” Starsky replied, snatching his clothes out of his friend’s hands and quickly yanking them on.

Chuckling, Blaine handed over a pair of his own BCPD sweats to Hutch. “Figured these’d fit you better than shorty over there.”

“Who you callin’ short, old man?” Starsky demanded, slapping his mentor’s belly with the back of his hand.

“Hey, if the shoe fits!”

“Can we get outta here?” Starsky asked. “Me and Hutch still gotta give our statements, and then I want to head home and crash for about twenty years or so.”

“I’ll drive you both home,” Blaine said. “Your statements can wait till tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?” Hutch asked, eyebrows raised. “How’d you manage to swing that?”

“Well, Shablansky’s crowing like a proud papa, and even though Ferguson’s fit to be tied about your involvement, Ken, Dobey’s soothing his feathers. You shouldn’t have any problems when you report back to him.”

“What’s Dobey’s line in all of this?”

“Are you kidding? The man’s ecstatic! The guy you apprehended is wanted for five more robberies and murders. We’ve been trying to catch him for the past six months, and you two young pups snapped him up, pretty as you please. What’s not to like?”

“Oh, boy,” Hutch sighed, not looking forward to Iron Mike’s version of the events.

“Don’t worry,” Blaine assured him. “Dobey’s already planting bees in the brasses’ bonnets to get you over here as soon as you pass the detective’s exam. Assuming Davey here passes it a few months from now—”

“He will,” Starsky replied.

“—there will only be six months’ difference between you two. He already knows you want to be partners, and after what he’s heard today, there shouldn’t be any problem if that’s what you’re still after.”

“More than anything, John.”

“That’s what I figured. So, quit worrying and let’s head on home, okay?”

“Take us back to Metro, Johnny,” Starsky said. “My car’s there, and I can drop Hutch off on my way back home. That way I can drive in tomorrow to give my statement.”

“Sounds good to me. Gentlemen, your chariot awaits.”

***

An hour later, the two men were sitting in Starsky’s car which was parked at the curb in front of the apartment Hutch shared with his wife, Vanessa. “Hey! You doin’ anything tomorrow night? We could go over to Huggy’s, shoot a few games, have a couple beers, whaddaya say?”

Hutch winced. “I can’t, Starsk. Van’s got a… thing.”

Silence.

Then, “A thing, huh?”

“A thing.”

“Is it catching?”

“God, I hope not.”

Smiling slightly, Starsky reached over and clasped his friend’s shoulder briefly. “Another time, huh?”

“Yeah.” Hutch looked over into the deep blue eyes surveying him with great affection. “Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m… glad everything turned out okay.”

“Me too. Hey, Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, buddy.”

Hutch smiled. “Anytime, Starsk. You know that.”

Starsky nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

The two friends sat quietly, absorbing the comfortable silence for long minutes, feeling their connection strengthen as it always did in times like this. Though Starsky was beyond exhausted and Hutch knew that another confrontation with Vanessa was in the works, neither man wanted to end the night.

There had been other occasions, other nights, infrequent and all the more precious for it, when they gave in to what was between them and ended up in Starsky’s apartment, on Starsky’s bed, entwined comfortably and simply absorbing one another.

This wasn’t one of those nights, but it was nice to think that it could be, if and when it was needed.

“So,” Hutch finally said, turning once again to his friend, “are you going to make me call you ‘sir’ when you finally get your shield?”

“Yup,” Starsky replied, teeth flashing in the darkness. “A little humility’ll do ya good. Maybe shrink that swelled head of yours some.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Starsky’s smile slowly faded as he grew serious. “Don’t sweat it, babe. You’ll be comin’ up right after me, and then we’ll be partners, like we always wanted.”

“Trolling the sewers…”

“Runnin’ down a few alleys…”

“Busting down a few doors…”

“Get a few snitches workin’.”

They grinned at one another. “They won’t stand a chance,” they said in unison.

And they didn’t.

FIN