“I-I’ve got something to tell you. Something I’ve been trying to say for over six months, but I haven’t had the balls to do it.”
Starsky felt sick, and sour bile rose in his throat. “You wanna quit and you haven’t had the guts to tell me. Right?” God, what would it be like without Hutch?
Only slightly relieved when he saw Hutch shake his head, he thought back to six months ago. Since his partner always had reasons for what he did, maybe remembering would help.
With a sudden chill, he recalled an event that had changed his life; and he somehow knew what was coming. He closed his eyes, waiting for Hutch’s speech.
Story Notes:
This story first appeared in the zine “Code 7 #4”. All the Code 7 zines are still in print and available from Agent with Style, Mysti Frank: www.agentwithstyle.com.
Special thanks to Solo for getting it ready for the web. Special thanks to Sagittas for creating the ebooks for the new archive.
Episode Related “Death in a Different Place.”
“Would you believe they blew it? A four-run lead and they blew the goddamn game!” In disgust, Dave Starsky turned off the little transistor radio that was never far from his side during the Dodger playoffs, and glared out the car window into the night. He knew that part of his frustration was the ten bucks he’d had riding on the outcome — to Hutch, at that — but coupled with a no-nothing stake-out, tonight was really the pits. Annoyed by his partner’s silence, he turned, ready to do battle. “Well, aren’t you gonna make some smart-ass remark about winning? You always do.”
Ken Hutchinson rubbed his chin, making an unsuccessful attempt to hide his delight. “Hell, you’re already miserable. Why should I stop your guilt trip, just because you want me to?” He took out his wallet, counting the bills. “Hmm. I won the check pool yesterday . . .” His grin flashed in the dim interior of the car. “. . . and Monday Restivo paid me the fifteen bucks he borrowed. I can make change for any bill you’ve got.”
Smiling in spite of his disgust, Starsky shook his head. “Sorry, pal, all you’re gonna get from me is an IOU payable in the year 1990.” He tapped Hutch on the knee. “I’m good for it, if I live that long.”
“You’ll live,” came back the sardonic reply. “It’s only winners who die, just before they get to spend their dough. Losers live forever.” He sighed, then shoved his wallet deep into his back pocket.
“God, I don’t think I can take another night of this waiting,” Starsky complained. “Sitting in this heap you call a car, and living on rotgut coffee . . . you sure losers never die?”
“Positive. But we may — of boredom. You wanna take a break? I sure could use the potty, as my auntie used to say.” Without waiting for Starsky’s answer, Hutch leaned forward to lift the mike.
“Wait! Look who’s leaving Jake’s,” Starsky hissed. “Hot damn!” He pulled Hutch’s hand away from the radio and switched on the ignition. Driving the LTD was hell, but at least it gave him something to do, and he had to admit it didn’t attract attention the way the Torino would in a location like this. The engine coughed, then growled when he changed gears. “Isn’t that Snake? And — he’s carryin’, Hutch, he’s carrying!” His tone was jubilant.
They watched the shadowy figure, distinctive in its tight pants and shirt, skirt the glaring neon lights and enter the alley behind Jake’s Bar and Grille A large, dark sedan pulled up, and their quarry got in, shouting something in Spanish to the driver.
“You get that?” Starsky asked, edging the car away from the curb. Sometimes Hutch’s knowledge of Spanish saved them a lot of guesswork. It also threw a lot of people off guard.
“Yeah. Wants to go to a place called Rosario’s — on Pico and Mariposa — and pronto, hombre!” quoted Hutch, grinning. “Driver must be deaf for him to yell like that.” The grin vanished. “Unless he spotted us and wants to throw us off his tail. Wouldn’t put it past that sneaky little bastard. For Christ’s sake, don’t lose him!”
The sedan — a sleek Continental — slid out into traffic, making a careful move into the left lane before picking up speed. Starsky immediately made the same move, watching in the rear view mirror to see if they’d picked up a tail. God knew they’d been sitting in front of Jake’s long enough for someone to get suspicious. “Nada, so far. Maybe that driver really is deaf.”
“I dunno, but you’d better get behind him, now. There’s no way you can jump the divider if he makes a sudden turn at the light.”
Without comment Starsky moved over, making certain he kept two cars between him and the Continental. He just hoped the driver didn’t decide to open up with all four hundred horses at once. He could still turn, but this way had the option to go straight ahead if those were the driver’s instructions.
Hutch reached for the mike again. “This is Zebra Three. We are in pursuit of a late model Lincoln Continental — dark blue or black — license. . . ah. . . special plates F*L*A*S*H. Run a make for wants and warrants. Do not intercept vehicle. This is merely a ten-twenty-eight.”
“Roger, Zebra Three, message received. Vehicle is registered to a Daniel E as in Edward Mayhew. Four Fifteen Bella Vista Way, Los Angeles. No outstandings.”
Hutch winked at his partner. “Thank you. Code Four . . . and Zebra Three out.” He sat back, eyeing Starsky thoughtfully. “Y’know, this doesn’t make sense. Think Mayhew’s a front?”
Grimacing, Starsky said emphatically, “No bets with you. Hell, that car’s got to be a red herring. I’ll bet Mayhew supplies the contacts, and Snake’s just a lousy runner.” He shook his head. “Odd are we’re gonna come up empty-handed, just like last time.” He hunched down over the wheel, watching the careful progress of the other car. “Guy’s not bad, ya know?”
“Huh? Oh, he’s okay. No, I think you’re wrong. We both saw Snake carrying. He’s on his way to a buy, buddy. At least we’ll catch one fish, maybe a couple.” Hutch leaned forward, fingers tapping the dash. “Mariposa’s just a couple of blocks further, and FLASH there hasn’t put on his turn indicator . . . maybe it’s a legit address.”
Starsky moved the old car neatly behind a battered VW. “If he turns we nab him for a traffic violation. Bigger crooks than him have been pulled in for a dumb trick like that.” He fell silent as he maneuvered through an intersection, noting there was only the bug between them and the limo now.
His partner frowned. “No traffic bust. We’re gonna stick like gum on a shoe until Snake gets to wherever he’s going.” He smiled at his partner. “I just happen to know that the little fink has a shack on the outskirts of Redondo Beach . . . and if we lose him, we’ll send a unit over there . . . just in case.”
Starsky glared, voice rising in indignation. “What d’ya mean, lose him? Fat chance!” He settled down, closing the gap between the LTD and the little VW. Then, as a van tried to squeeze in front of them, the driver of the Limo turned left on an amber.
“Hey!” yelled Hutch. “He’s making a U-turn! Damn! Snake must’ve made us. Lemme at that radio!” He slapped the Mars light on the car roof.
“Hang on!” chortled Starsky. “I’m gonna show that, sleezo driver a thing or two about getting out of a real squeeze.” He whipped the car to the right, barely missing a pick-up, then, tires screeching, drove the LTD right over the divider. There was a sickening crunch when the undercarriage hit the concrete, but outside of Hutch’s pained expression nothing else seemed damaged.
“Go get ‘im, Lone Ranger,” Hutch commanded, grinning in fierce appreciation of his partner’s driving skill. He made another grab for the mike, nodding as cars began pulling over in response to the siren, giving them a clear view of their quarry. “This is Zebra Three. We’re in pursuit of a dark Continental, license F’*L*A*S*H, registered to a Daniel Mayhew. Owner is suspected of a one-one-three-seven-seven-a. This is a Code Four, I repeat . . . a Code Four. Zebra Three out.”
Starsky shot a sideways glance at the blond. “You forgot to tell them where we are,” he said. “Careless, Hutch, that’s what Dobey’d say.”
“Nope. Sloppy. That’s what he’d say.” He began checking his gun.
“Ass. You just don’t want anybody else in on the bust, do you?” Starsky’s satisfaction as he gunned the engine made his own opinion known.
“Can’t see you risking our necks with your crazy driving and not making the collar. I’ll never hear the end of it, ’cause you’ll blame my car.”
“Look at that jerk!” exclaimed Starsky. “He’s tryin’ to hide behind the truck. Sheesh!” He swerved just in time to miss a slow-moving van. Shaking his head, he made a face at Hutch. “This heap’s got about as much power as a snail in heat,” he grumbled.
“Never mind my car,” retorted Hutch. “FLASH’s pulling over, and we’re still not that far from Rosario’s.” His eyes narrowed. “Think we should shake ’em up a bit, then let them go — and see what they do next?”
Starsky pulled over, several yards behind the sedan, watching it intently to see what the occupants’ next move might be. When nothing happened, he stared at his partner. “Let them go? Hell, no. They’re not going to make any meet, now. We’ll bust Snake for carrying, and maybe pin something on this Mayhew.” He checked his gun before opening the door. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah. Let me get the flashlight before we get too close. Can’t see a damn thing through those tinted windows.” Hutch closed the door firmly, then strode toward the waiting limo, watching as the window was slowly rolled down. With Starsky close behind him, he ducked his head to flash the light at the driver. He could make out two men in the back seat.
“Were we exceeding the speed limit, Officer?” came the inquiry in a decidedly affected drawl. “I mean, it looked to me like you were the ones breaking the law.” This last was said with a lisp that brought quick color to Hutch’s cheeks, and an outright stare from Starsky.
“Will you step out of the car, please?” Hutch asked politely. “I’ll need to see both your ID and your chauffeur’s license.” He took a pace or two backwards, hair silver-white in the streetlight’s glow.
“For you, anything,” came the immediate response. The driver got out of the car, and fished in the pocket of his uniform jacket for his wallet. Handing it to Hutch, he smiled, but said nothing more.
The rear window rolled down and Snake Moreno stuck his pockmarked face out, glaring at the two cops. “What’s the matter? You got nothin’ better to do than bust people on their way to a business meeting?”
“Shut up. Just let the man give me a ticket and we’ll be on our way!” The disembodied voice was low and even, revealing nothing about its owner.
Keeping a careful eye on Hutch and the driver, Starsky strolled around to the far side of the car and tapped on the window. “I’d like to see some identification, please. And Snake, you can get outta the car and spread ’em. You know the routine.” Sensing resistance to his order, he added, “One of you’d better be the owner of this vehicle or show good reason why you’re in it. And what kinda business meetings take place this time of night — even in this end of town?”
Slowly, the window rolled down, allowing Starsky to peer into the dim interior. A pair of dark, hostile eyes met his. A hand with a huge diamond pinky ring on it reached inside the jacket.
“Just the ID,” warned Starsky, leaving little doubt as to his meaning. He shot a glance over at Hutch who had already checked the young chauffeur’s license, and was now busily frisking Snake, who was submitting with poor grace. Hutch turned angrily when the driver made a lewd remark, then giggled.
“Remove your driver’s license and hand it to me, please,” Starsky repeated, waiting until the fat wallet was withdrawn. He smiled to himself. Could have had the stupid bastard on charges of attempting to bribe an officer, but a narcotics bust was always better. The license was shoved at him and he scanned it closely. There wasn’t any doubt; the man was Daniel Mayhew, age fifty-six, living at the address the DMV had given. “Mister Mayhew, would you please open the brief case beside you?” he asked casually, noting that Snake instantly drew away, only to have Hutch’s big hand push him back against the car.
Mayhew’s reaction was expected. “You can’t do this. Can’t make me open that case without a search warrant. I know my rights.” His voice carried a lot of conviction.
Starsky smiled, eyes cold. “You may know your rights, sir, but Snake there doesn’t enjoy any. You see, he’s on parole, and a known drug dealer and worse. We’ve had him under surveillance for several months now. Since you don’t want to open it, we’ll let Snake do it.” His tone changed, suddenly hard. “Or are you claiming ownership, sir?”
He looked over the top of the car, exchanging grins with Hutch. Worked every time. They had the guy over a barrel, and in a moment or two he’d hang Snake out to dry. Then, because the runner was a squealer, Snake would probably rat on Mayhew.
“You’re not narcs, are you? Lord, how I hate narcs!” The chauffeur, soft face twisted into a grimace, shook his head, his long dark hair floating around his cheeks. “You can’t be narcs — he smells too good.” A pouty smile was aimed at Hutch.
With a quick lunge, Hutch had the younger man by the collar, hefting him into the air until his booted feet dangled six inches above the ground. “Now, you listen to me, punk! One more wise-ass remark from you and you’re gonna get hauled in for soliciting! You keep your mouth shut until we question you, you got that?”
“Easy, Hutch,” Starsky cautioned. “He’s just being stupid. Ease off, partner.” Afraid that their simple bust might go down with a charge of police brutality, he handed Mayhew back his ID and walked over to stand beside Snake.
Hutch let go of the chauffeur’s collar, staring long and hard at his partner. “Want to bet he’s more than a chauffeur to Mayhew?” He jerked his thumb toward the man in the back seat. “Hell, this is turning into a case for Vice, isn’t it?” Then he moved away, leaning into the car. “Would you like to get out and place the briefcase on the trunk?” He glanced at his watch. “And make it snappy, we don’t have all night.”
Sullenly, Mayhew got out of the car, and thunked the case hard on the trunk. He was heavier and taller than they’d expected, and Starsky suddenly drew his gun, waving it toward the tense figure of Snake. “You, get back in the car, and take Sweet Lips with you. I don’t wanna see either one of you move so much as an eyelash for the next few minutes.” He saw the driver arch an eyebrow and anger got the better of him. “You open your trap one more time and I’m gonna let my partner rearrange your face. Now, get behind that wheel!”
In two strides Hutch was at the door, reaching in to yank the keys from the ignition. He smiled. “Just in case you get any ideas, sonny.” He slid them into his pocket then rejoined Starsky. Turning on the flashlight, he faced Mayhew. “Now, open up.”
Silently, Mayhew produced a key ring, selecting a small key that fit into the lock. He gave it a twist, then lifted the lid, stepping back. His expression was one of contempt. “My lawyers will have me out before morning, you’ll see. I’ve no idea what this case contains . . .”
Starsky lifted out a plastic bag containing a white, powdery substance, weighing it expertly in the palm of his hand. “About half a kilo, I d say. How many bags we got here, Hutch?”
His partner began counting, then whistled as he took the bag Starsky held. “Counting this one, there’s twenty-four . . . that’s a lot of snort. Jesus!” He stared at Mayhew, then Snake. “Who do you know with that kind of cash? Starsk, this lot’s worth about two mil on the street.” He frowned, looking back toward Rosario’s.
“I know that look,” muttered Starsky, pulling Hutch away from the car. “What in hell have you got in mind?”
A large finger jabbed his shoulder and Hutch put his face right against his partner’s. “These turkeys aren’t gonna give us a thing, pal. But, if their meet is with somebody who doesn’t know them . . . maybe we can pull a switch on them. Go in and actually make the deal. What d’ya say?”
“I don’t like it,” Starsky said instantly. “We’d have to wait for a black and white to take these three away, and Snake’s about as trustworthy as his name. How do we know he wasn’t settin’ Mayhew up? Nah, too risky.” He grinned. “How’s about this? We go in with them. We hold the case, act as Mayhew’s muscle . . . and if the going gets rough . . .”
“We end up getting blown away. I like it!” Hutch made a face, then went back to talk to Mayhew. “This is your lucky night,” he began, “because my partner and I want the fish you’re dangling for. Here’s what we want you to do . . .”
***
The station was quiet, except for the sound of papers shuffling and the occasional ring of the telephone. Starsky, yawning at the hour, looked over at their prisoners with satisfaction. The bust had been a solid one, and outside of Snake, who was spilling his guts in the presence of a court stenographer, and the wide-eyed chauffeur, the rest of the prisoners sat solidly, all familiar with the booking process and their chances of going to jail. The young driver was obviously taken with all the uniforms that came and went. Most of the time, however, his glance returned to Hutch, then flicked away if the detective happened to intercept the look.
Amused, yet irritated by the boy’s blatant interest, Starsky got up and leaned over him. “You can save that stuff for your boss. My partner ain’t your type.”
If Hutch heard him he gave no sign, merely kept filling in the lines on the arrest sheet. Finally looking up, he smiled wearily. “You call the narc boys? Bet we saved them some leg work tonight. Can you imagine nabbing Antonio Rosario Luca y Ibarra? They’ve been after that bastard for years.” He yawned, then grinned. “Dobey’ll probably give us a couple of days off, so we can have a few sessions with the press. Gotta keep the TV boys happy.”
Starsky perked up at that. “Yeah? You think so? Hell, tomorrow I better wear something a little more . . .” He glanced down at his grubby jeans. “. . . elegant.”
“Hmm. And just to show you my heart’s in the right place, I’m going to let you answer all the questions and grant all the interviews.”
Instantly suspicious, Starsky stared at Hutch, seeing nothing but the guileless look which usually meant he was up to something. “Why? How come you’re all of a sudden so damn shy? How come I get to be the hero?”
The blond head shook. “Don’t want to take away any credit. It was your idea and it worked. Let’s just leave it at that. Okay?” The smile was gone, and there was a look in the blue eyes that was disconcerting. When Hutch wore it, there were very few people who challenged his word. Starsky was one of the few, however, he had the good sense to know when to pry. With the number of interested onlookers around, he decided to wait until later.
“You about ready to split? You can drive me home in that jalopy, and spend the night if you want.”
Was there the slightest hesitation before Hutch nodded? Starsky wasn’t sure, but if so, then it meant Hutch had other plans . . . and he wanted to know what they were. “Come on, we can grab a bite to eat if you like. How does El Gordito’s sound?”
“At this time of night? Christ, you’re unbelievable.” But the smile was back, and together they sauntered out of the squadroom, avoiding the Watch Commander, who was surrounded by shouting members of the press.
“If ya don’t want Mexican; how’s about a piece of pie and a glass of milk? That’s not gonna kill you.” Starsky wasn’t sure why he didn’t feel like leaving Hutch to his own devices yet, but he knew something was bothering his partner, and that always bothered him.
“True. Maybe that little place on Sixth. Great apple pie there.”
“Apple? I was sort of thinking about Hawaiian Custard Supreme, the one with the coconut and strawberries and . . . ”
“Spare me the ingredients, pal. I was raised in plain pie territory. Apple, peach, and cherry. Berry, pumpkin and mince.” He looked thoughtfully at his partner. “You’ve always been more the strudel and coffee cake sort — cheese Danish for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Why the switch?”
Starsky shrugged, wondering if he should tell Hutch the real reason he was trying so hard to develop a taste for exotic pies was the counter girl at the Hula Hut. He’d spent more bucks than he could count buying the damn things, but so far she refused to go out with him.
“Yeah, well, I got tired of them, that’s all.” He smiled at Hutch’s goofy expression. It was nice to know that your best friend really didn’t give a damn what you ate or wore or said; well, almost didn’t give a damn. It made everything they did very, very special. He got into the LTD and sat back, sliding a glance over at the classic profile, the fair hair. Hutch was a class act all the way, and that made things very special, too.
The pies were flaky and fresh, the atmosphere relaxed at this time of night, and the two men sat and talked far beyond midnight. When Starsky finally glanced at his watch, he said unbelievingly, “Where’n the hell did the time go? It’s almost two!”
Standing up, Hutch tossed down some silver for the tip, then picked up the check. “My treat, but you still owe me ten for the ball game. Don’t forget.” There was a faraway look in his eyes as if he were already contemplating spending the money, and he smiled at his partner. “Don’t look so forlorn. Maybe you’ll get lucky tomorrow. Besides, you’re going to be on TV. That’ll make up for the shitty day, won’t it?”
When they were back in the car Starsky turned in the seat to stare at Hutch. “I still wanna know why you’re pullin’ this shrinkin’ violet routine. So, tell me. Come to think about it, lately you’ve been acting really weird whenever the department’s come in for any publicity. Why?”
Hutch didn’t respond, merely pulled away, heading for Starsky’s at too fast a speed. “Just drop it, nothing’s wrong,” he said curtly.
“Don’t give me that shit!” Starsky retorted angrily. “Hell, you’n me always used to stick our faces in front of the cameras. Or at least try to grab some of the credit for our busts.” He heard the worry creep into his voice, and noticed that Hutch was biting his lip in frustration. “Since when have we held out on each other, partner?” he asked softly. “If something’s bugging ya, tell me what it is. Did I do something outta line?”
He watched the long fingers wrap themselves tighter around the steering wheel, gripping it as if it were a life preserver thrown out to a drowning man.
“Hutch? Can’t you tell me?”
He wasn’t prepared for the sudden turn, nor the bump when the car came to an abrupt halt by the side of the road. High on the hill just above his apartment, the traffic was almost nil. It was as good a place to talk as any. He waited quietly while Hutch sat staring out into the night. When he did face Starsky all life seemed to have drained from his features. “I-I’ve got something to tell you. Something I’ve been trying to say for over six months, but I haven’t had the balls to do it.”
Starsky felt sick, and sour bile rose in his throat. “You wanna quit and you haven’t had the guts to tell me. Right?” God, what would it be like without Hutch?
Only slightly relieved when he saw Hutch shake his head, he thought back to six months ago. Since his partner always had reasons for what he did, maybe remembering would help.
With a sudden chill, he recalled an event that had changed his life; and he somehow knew what was coming. He closed his eyes, waiting for Hutch’s speech.
Hutch, obviously searching desperately for the right way to say what he had to say, cleared his throat, but the words weren’t forthcoming. He bit his lip, finally turning toward his partner.
Starsky, wanting to help, found he was tongue-tied, so simply sat quietly, hoping against hope that this wasn’t going to change everything in his life.
“I don’t want to quit,” Hutch blurted out. “Oh, not that I haven’t wanted to before. Hell, you know me. Always ready to run away and hide.” The blue eyes, colorless in the darkened interior of the car, were wide and very frightened. “I don’t know how to say this, Starsk. God knows I tried to tell you when John . . . was murdered. I wanted to then . . . I wanted to . . . ”
The pain in the halting voice came close to making Starsky cry. Nobody should hurt this much, least of all Hutch. But he knew if he spoke, this confession would come to a complete halt. He was acutely aware of his partner; the familiar odors of sweat and aftershave mingling with that out-of-doors smell he always associated with him. For a moment, Starsky wanted nothing more than to get out of the LTD and say goodnight, just as if everything was all right. But Hutch had to unburden himself. Maybe then they’d be able to straighten things out. “Tell me, pal. I’m not gonna bite you. What the hell’s the matter?” He made himself sound merely curious, forcing a lightness into his voice that was totally alien to the way he really felt.
The head lifted, fear replaced by grim determination, and then Hutch said, “I’m gay. Didn’t think it would ever matter, but it does, doesn’t it? I saw that when you found out about John. Knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret forever. Sorry. I never meant to deceive you.”
They sat listening as the whisper of tires announced someone was driving by, then, face still composed, Hutch looked over at his partner. “‘That bad? You can’t think of anything to say to me?”
Say what? Tell his partner, his best friend, that his confession didn’t amount to a hill of beans in the scheme of things? That nothing would ever change their friendship? He stared long and hard at the handsome face. “I know,” was all he could say.
There was total silence in the car as Hutch digested the admission. Outside, lights glaring, a car sped by, intent on laying as much rubber as it could on the long stretch to the top of the hill. Then, after a few more minutes, he spoke. “What the hell do you mean, ‘you know’? What’re you saying?”
Inhaling, suddenly starving for air, Starsky shrugged. “I know you’re gay. Known for a long time, but it never mattered much . . .” He stopped when he saw the look on Hutch’s face and knew he’d said the wrong thing.
“Oh? Never mattered? That’s goddamn generous of you, buddy.” Hutch’s tone changed, became hard, demanding. “Just when did you decide that I was queer?” Suspicion sat in chill hauteur on Hutch’s features. “Or have you been following me? Tell me!”
“Never followed you. Never thought of you as queer,” said Starsky honestly. “Just sort of guessed it after we were partnered. Hell, I dunno why or how, Hutch. Honest!” He felt his own anger rising and recognized how dangerous this situation was for both of them. “Let’s drop the whole subject, huh? I wanna get home. I’m bushed.” He wondered where all the little speeches he’d rehearsed early in their partnership — on the off chance Hutch might admit anything — had gone. Rotten timing, that was the whole problem.
However, Hutch was making no move to start the car. With a sinking heart Starsky knew the subject wasn’t about to be dropped.
“So, if you knew, why didn’t you say something to me? Why didn’t you ask me about it?” Hutch looked out the window, lowering his voice. “I wish I could believe you, but I think you’re just saying you knew so I won’t feel so bad.” He laughed, a bitter sound. “Nobody’s that understanding, not even you.” He turned to face his friend. “Either you ask me whatever you want to ask me, now, or we’re never going to discuss the subject again. Is that clear?”
The car windows were steaming up with their body heat, and the lights from the occasionally passing cars inscribed bright circles of white on the windshield. Both men, squinting against the brilliance, averted their glances, then once again looked back at one another.
Realizing that Hutch would be willing to sit out here all night just to make his point, Starsky sighed deeply. “All right. I gave you every opportunity in the whole goddamn world to tell me about it when we were workin’ on Blaine’s murder. Think back . . . ” His voice rose as he relived those days once again. “In fact, I made an ass of myself tryin’ to get you to talk to me. All you did was go around makin’ self-righteous speeches about how goddamned prejudiced everyone was.” He curled back his lip. “Mister Holier-than-thou, right? You’re real good at that game, Hutch. I was almost ready to believe I was wrong about you. Just like now. For some reason, I’m feelin guilty as hell because I didn’t tell you I thought you were gay.” He shook his head in bewilderment.
Again the car was filled with silence. Hutch, expression now one of anguish, bent his head, fingers working on the steering wheel. “Forgive me,” he murmured, “because I can’t forgive myself. God knows I’ve wanted to tell you, Starsk, but why should I dump this shit on you? When I saw how upset you were — about John — I swore I’d get it off my chest. But I figured another shock like that and you’d get the feeling your whole world was collapsing. I figured it wasn’t fair . . .”
Starsky clenched his fist. “Knock off the self-pity, damnit! You didn’t give a fat fuck about my feelings then, and you know it! All you were tryin’ to do was crawl so far back into that goddamn closet of yours that nobody’d ever dig you out.” He smiled ruefully, suddenly aware of how stupid this whole argument was. “Hutch, I wasn’t lyin’ when I said it didn’t make any difference to me. You’re still my best friend, my partner. Nothing’s changed.” He saw Hutch lift his head to stare at him, and slowly his smile faded. The man didn’t believe him . . . what the hell was he supposed to do now? Stubbornly, he repeated the words. “Nothin’s changed.”
“So, that’s how it’s going to be? Gee, I can’t imagine why I was scared out of my fucking mind. Okay, buddy, if that’s how you want to play your hand, fine.” The voice dropped, tempered as steel. “Only get this straight. I am in the closet. I intend staying in the closet. I like my closet! And at no time are we to refer to this again. No questions, no making dumb remarks about guys for me, no special help when they’re telling gay jokes down at the station. To all intents and purposes, Starsky, this conversation never took place.”
It was all Starsky needed to see red. Whatever force of nature had helped him control his tongue vanished at the bitter words. Reaching out, he jerked Hutch’s hand roughly away from the ignition key. “Just a goddamn minute! I’ll decide when this conversation is over. You think you can trot back into that so-called closet and nobody’s gonna be any wiser? Hutch, you’re the stupidest asshole I know!”
Working up to a real fury, Starsky increased the pressure on Hutch’s wrist. “You think I’m the only one who knows about you? Shit, Huggy knew before me . . . and we both know he’s as bi as they come . . . don’t deny it, partner. Why in hell did that faggy chauffeur swoon all over you? Huh? I’ll tell you why . . . because he KNEW! It’s why whenever we’ve gone into any gay bar, or anywhere there’s a bunch of gays, they look us both over and head for you. It isn’t just because you’re blond, and better-lookin’ than anybody’s got a right to be . . . they know. Just like you know about them.”
He permitted himself a sideways glance at Hutch’s profile, then zeroed in again. “You can sit there and deny every word I’m sayin’, but I’m right and you know it. So don’t tell me what we can or can’t talk about, ’cause I intend talking to you about whatever I want — just like always! You get my drift?” Starsky released Hutch’s wrist, taking no satisfaction from the fact that Hutch immediately began rubbing it. What did register was that his partner hadn’t tried to pull away. He was suddenly aghast at what he’d said about all the men coming on to his partner. “Dunno why I said all that stuff about the qu . . . gays and you. Sorry.”
Hutch didn’t answer, merely turned the key in the ignition and started the car. He rolled down the window and after a minute or two the moisture on the windows began evaporating, running down the glass in great drops. Turning onto the curving street leading to Starsky’s apartment, he sped up, obviously anxious to drop off his partner.
Starsky, for his part, was relieved not to have to respond to any more cutting sarcasm. When the LTD came to a halt in front of his place, he got out, nodded, then went up his front steps without looking back. He knew a pair of eyes were watching to see he got in safely, it was routine. He also knew if he turned around, made one gesture of conciliation, he was lost. And, from the conversation they’d just had, he knew he wasn’t going to give his partner an inch. They’d come this far; he wasn’t about to let Hutch scurry back into his padded closet even if it was safer than being out in the sunlight. As he opened the door and switched on the hall light, he heard Hutch driving away.
It was only then he allowed himself to falter, knees unable to hold his weight. Shaking, he locked and bolted the door, then headed for the cupboard where he kept his bottle of brandy. Two very generous slugs later, he managed to calm down. But when he walked into the bedroom, doubts began to surface, and he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, suddenly very alone in the darkness. What if his angry words had driven Hutch away? What if his partner decided to ask for a transfer — to a place where he wouldn’t be reminded of his confession — or his partner? He felt defeated, betrayed. He’d told Hutch nothing but their friendship mattered, why hadn’t Hutch believed him?
Because, of course, it really did matter. Quickly, he stripped off his clothing and slid under the covers. Time enough in the morning for a shower; all he wanted now was to fall asleep and not wake up before noon. “Hutch,” he whispered into the room’s chill, “ya gotta believe me. I’ll prove it to you, honest I will.” But in the back of his mind was still the question Hutch hadn’t answered. Why the sudden reluctance to be interviewed — his partner had never been the shrinking violet type before. He winced at his imagery. Jesus, he’d have to watch that kinda stuff from now on. Deciding it was too fucking late for worrying, he closed his eyes, waiting for fatigue to bring him mind-numbing rest.
It was so quiet he could hear the tiny motor in his clock radio. Sighing, he finally sat up to stare at the illuminated clock dial, growing angry because sleep was evading him. He punched his pillow. “Goddamn you, why’d you have to act like that? We coulda talked . . .” he turned over, facing the wall, vowing that each day he’d try to draw Hutch out a little more, force him to discuss things. Just talking would eventually clear up all their problems. Wouldn’t it? Throwing back the pillow so he could lie flat and stare up at the ceiling, he prayed the answer was ‘yes.’
***
It was after eight the next morning when Hutch breezed into the station. Cheeks flushed from the warm winds, fair hair ruffled, his eyes bright, he immediately caught the attention of the clerks who were hurrying to place the day sheets in each squadroom. Smiling, dropping a flirtatious word here and there, he strode to the elevator, head high.
Once the doors slid shut, however, Hutch lost the smile, his expression becoming distant and aloof. When he stepped out of the elevator and walked toward the squadroom, there was no one who even dared bid him good morning. Meeting one of his fellow detectives, he nodded, then pushed open the squadroom doors and went straight to his desk, to all intents and purposed unaware that his partner was already sitting across from him.
“Hi,” said Starsky, studying the high color, the windblown hair.
“Hi,” said a cool voice. “You got the papers on that bust last night?” Hutch held out his hand expectantly, eyes meeting Starsky’s briefly.
“Nope. Not in yet. Seems some lawyer got Mister Daniel Edward Mayhew out on bail in the wee hours this morning. You wanna guess why?” Gaze narrowed, Starsky waited, knowing that nothing made Hutch madder than to learn one of their busts had sprung a leak. He suppressed a smile, for sure enough, the blond head raised, the cool gaze warming to curiosity.
“How’d that happen? We had him tight! Shit!”
Managing a rueful grin, Starsky explained. “Well, he swore on a stack of Bibles that all he was doin’ was giving Snake a lift. That he’d never been down into the Tenderloin district before — which I believe — and that all that coke belonged to our friend, Snake Ibarra.” He shrugged. “Trouble is, he’s clean. Remember, no priors, no outstandings?”
Hutch scratched his head, then sighed. “I don’t buy that for one minute. Remember, he was carrying the key to that friggin’ case.” He leaned forward, eyes snapping with familiar determination. “All we have to do is dig, Starsk. We’ll find something on him. I know it.” He got to his feet and headed for the coffeemaker. “You want a cup?” He held out Starsky’s favorite blue one.
Feeling the tension ease in his gut, Starsky nodded. He’d been right. Outside of a little understandable nervousness, Hutch was fine. Hell, by the end of the day they’d be laughing and cutting up same as always. They were too good a team to have problems. Who in the hell cared if Hutch was straight or gay? He accepted the coffee, warming his hands on the rough pottery, discovering with surprise that his palms were clammy. “Thanks,” he said, returning Hutch’s smile.
His partner was walking back to his seat when they heard a commotion in the hall. Two patrolmen were having a hard time with a man dressed all in black, and for a second it looked as though he might break away. Then, hands still cuffed behind him, all resistance suddenly collapsed and they literally had to drag the prisoner into the squadroom. He was young and very pretty; obviously a hustler. Starsky risked a glance at Hutch, recalling their conversation of last night. Shit!
With ill-concealed distaste the older cop shoved the youth into a chair, smirking when the cuffs rubbed cruelly into his flesh. “Just pretend you’re in for some rough trade, loverboy, and you’ll enjoy every minute of this.” Pitassi leered at his partner, then smiled over at the watchful detectives. “Gives me such joy to arrest criminals of this magnitude,” he said sarcastically. “Can you imagine this punk bein’ stupid enough to trick right around the corner from the station? Christ! The world’s full of Adam Henrys, ain’t it?”
“Have you read him his rights?” asked Starsky coldly, hating the casual reference to assholes, deliberately used to embarrass the boy. He stared hard at the young face, obviously already used to such treatment. The prisoner, dark eyes insolent, returned the look, almost daring anyone to help him — for a price. The tight black shirt had been ripped from shoulder to wrist, exposing warm, brown skin. A bruise was growing on his cheek.
“Book him and get him the hell outta here!” snapped Hutch, getting to his feet. “You expect us to throw pennies? Jesus!” He stalked into Dobey’s office, slamming the door behind him.
There was a moment’s silence before Pitassi’s partner began the interrogation, typing in the responses the hustler gave him.
Harry Crofts was a tall, thin cop with hair the color of carrots. There was a standing bet that no one could accurately count the number of freckles on his long face, let alone his body. Pale blue eyes peered out of the speckled flesh, and he was usually grinning. Today was the exception.
“Something wrong, Harry? You look like your shoes hurt.” Starsky saw the hustler turn to stare at him, then felt color stain his cheeks. The scrutiny was one of interest.
Pitassi shook his head, speaking in a deep, sorrowful tone. “He’s trying to give up smoking again. That’s why we busted the whore, here. I wanted to cheer him up. It’s hell working with a man of convictions.” The little eyes peered at Starsky. “But you know all about that, don’t you?” There was amusement in the cop’s voice.
“Leave Hutch outta this,” warned Starsky, adding, “and watch your mouth. If Dobey hears you callin’ names, you’ll be on the carpet before you can sneeze.” He went back to his report, still keenly aware that the hustler was watching him. When the cuffs were removed, he heard the involuntary groan of relief and wondered how long they’d been on. Wondered also what Hutch was doing in the captain’s office. Hiding out, probably, ashamed to face the world and this pitiful kid who was at least honest about his preferences. He met the brazen stare, deliberately raking his own glance over the slender body before turning away. It gave him no pleasure to see the kid’s eyes narrow in speculation.
“I’ll bet you’re hard trade, Curly. Look me up when these apes are at the banana stand . . .” The boy stood up, laughing, ready to be led away.
“What’s that in your back pocket?” asked Pitassi suddenly. “You were told to empty them downstairs. Gimme that!” He yanked a folded paper out of the hip-hugging jeans.
“Read it. Give you a lot of laughs.” But his sarcastic tone held a trace of wistfulness, as if the kid knew what was ahead.
Pitassi opened the paper to the front page, hooting as he did. “The Advocate! Hey, that’s heavy reading for a piece of fluff like you.” Casually, he tossed it over to Starsky. “Here, get Hutch to explain the big words. We gotta get this little lady safe in a holding cell . . . make the boys real happy to have a woman spend some time with ’em. Come on, darling, hope you brought your Crisco.” He grinned over at his partner, and led the boy away. Crofts tore off the arrest sheet and followed, shaking his head.
The hustler looked back over his shoulder at Starsky. “Read it. I gotta ad in the pink section — name’s Scooter.” He looked terribly young right then, and vulnerable, but he pulled away from Pitassi’s grip and said, “Hey! Get your sweaty hands off me!” His voice, raised with long practice, floated back down the corridor.
The squadroom was empty now, and Starsky got to his feet, furious without knowing why. He rapped loudly on Dobey’s door. “You can come out now, Hutch. The dangerous criminal’s been taken to the dungeon.” He drained his cup and refilled it, adding too much sugar and not caring. This situation was ridiculous. Before, Hutch had at least sat through these sessions, sometimes even adding his own caustic comments.
Last night’s conversation came to mind, including his accusations that every gay knew about Hutch. Was that what his partner was afraid of? That the little hustler would say or do something to prove his point? Then, another thought hit him, so that when Hutch did open the door, he was staring thoughtfully into space. Did his partner and the hustler know one another?
He felt slightly sick at the implications. Looking up at the honest, if troubled, expression, he knew he was wrong. “Well, come all the way out, will ya? We’ve got to follow up on last night’s bust. Let’s go talk to the narcs.”
Hutch wasn’t listening, wasn’t even looking at him. Following the line of his partner’s gaze, Starsky glanced down at the table and saw the gay newspaper in full sight. “Kid left it,” he explained awkwardly. “Said it might prove interesting.” he forced a grin. “Pitassi said you’d explain the big words—”
Without warning, Hutch snatched up the paper, yanking it open to the pink pages. “Yeah? What word did he want me to explain to you, pal? Nellie? Fats, femmes, bondage?” The light eyes scanned the printing, then looked deep into Starsky’s. “Piece of information, partner. I don’t read this garbage. I don’t buy the goddamn magazines, and I don’t need this shit!” The strong fingers ripped out the ad section, tearing it into shreds. “Come on. I’ve been on the phone to Masterson. He thinks he can tie Mayhew to the Ibarra bunch in a couple of days.” Head high, Hutch tossed the paper scraps into the trash basket. Starsky, features carefully neutral, picked up the discarded white section, folded it into a small square and shoved it deep into his jacket pocket.
Hutch was holding open the door. “C’mon, Starsk! You know those damn narcs, they’re likely to be gone by the time we get to the elevator . . . hurry up.”
“Nah. Not a chance. Masterson never leaves his office until after he’s held a briefing.” Starsky checked his watch. “Ten minutes, then we can worry.” Deliberately slow, he sauntered through the doorway, grinning at his tense partner.
It worked. Hutch smiled, his whole expression softening as he watched the exaggerated slow pace his partner was affecting. “Jerk,” he muttered. “Move your ass before I — uh — kick it!”
They looked at one another, pink mantling Hutch’s cheekbones. Starsky bit back the retort he normally would make about Hutch wanting to pat his ass, and wondered if they’d ever kid around like that again. So, to make up for the uncomfortable moment, he snaked out his foot and tripped Hutch. The blond man, eyes lit for battle, wrestled him out into the hallway. “Get going. Jesus, you’re impossible!” A wide grin changed his entire expression.
***
Starsky lay on Cathy’s couch, eyes focused moodily on the glowing embers from the huge log that had been burning since dinner time last night. Near dawn, he’d kissed the pretty stewardess goodbye, promised to feed the cat, then settled down to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before leaving.
But sleep hadn’t come, nor had peace of mind. The dinner had been great, the sex had been good — not great, but good — and Cathy had been as sweet and loving as ever. He closed his eyes, going over their time together. What had gone wrong? No phone calls for either of them; no visitors or roommates to bring their lovemaking to an abrupt end. Just a real nice time . . . so what was wrong?
He sighed, twisting his torso so he could study the sparks that still rose from the log. He’d gotten up from the table, taken the dishes into the small kitchenette, then drawn her into his arms in front of the fireplace. Romantic, and he’d been in the mood, watching Cathy let down her hair, its dark gold catching the firelight. She’d responded eagerly to his kisses.
And Hutch’s hair always catches more light than anyone’s, even hers.
Grimly, he sat up, trying to deny it had been the memory of his partner’s hair in the firelight that had somehow made him lose the urgent need for sex . . . why? Hell, he’d always known Hutch’s looks were classic, and the head of blond hair held its own attraction for people. He ran a finger over the woven flowers on the back of the couch, tracing their outline for as far as he could reach. So, why had the image of his partner popped up at that particular moment?
Disgusted, he got to his feet and went over to the raised fireplace, removing the ornate brass screen so he could scatter the embers and extinguish the last coals. He didn’t like what he was thinking, nor did he even want to admit the thought. The fact remained, nevertheless, and he was too honest to deny it. That brief recollection of Hutch had somewhat dimmed his ardor for the luscious Cathy.
Carefully, he cleaned off the hearth, then set the screen back in front of the grate. Ambling out to the kitchen, he found a small, open can of cat food and dumped it into the cat’s dish. Next, he filled a little bowl with fresh water, and called the cat. When she didn’t appear, he sighed in exasperation, heading for the bedroom to pick up his clothes. They were, of course, the place where she lay sleeping, her long, white fur generously spread over his navy cords and shirt.
“Bitch,” he murmured resignedly, lifting the animal onto the bed. “Your breakfast’s in the kitchen, so why don’t you go eat?” The cat ignored him and went right on with her nap.
Feeling lonely and at loose ends, Starsky dressed, deciding a shave could wait until he got home. He let himself out, locking the door behind him. Cathy wasn’t due home for a couple of days, and there wasn’t any reason to hang around an empty apartment.
Maybe he’d call Hutch and see if he wanted to do something. Starsky went down the apartment steps, blinking at the brilliant sunshine. It was still cool, and for that he was grateful; later on the temperature would climb, and the smog level would be deadly. He stood for another minute or two, undecided, his expression growing solemn. There wasn’t much use in calling Hutch because he probably wasn’t home yet. Hadn’t been at seven-thirty this morning.
Starsky unlocked the Torino, absently wiping at a sticky spot on the door handle. He’d stopped by Hutch’s place last night on the way to Cathy’s. The street had been packed with cars from the restaurant patrons, so he’d swung around the corner to park. The LTD sat across the street, engine cold, the damp beach air beginning to condense on the metal. He’d left his hand-print on the hood.
The car interior was warm, and Starsky sat for a moment, letting his body absorb the heat. He flexed his shoulders, easing a bit of the ache out of them; making love had been easier when he was twenty, he thought wryly. He started the car, sitting while the engine purred, thinking again about last night.
He’d run up Hutch’s steps, stopping to fix the loose tile on the fifth riser for the umpteenth time, and knocked loud enough to wake the dead. What had he hoped for? Hutch to go with him over to Cathy’s? Starsky smiled even now at the thought. No, just the need to see how his partner was — that was all. So why hadn’t he let himself in? He always had in the past . . . had he been afraid of what he might find? Whatever the reason, he’d waited a few seconds more then gone around to Chez Helene’s patio, quizzing the waiters; Hutch hadn’t eaten there, but he had picked up a bottle of wine about six p.m.
So someone must’ve picked him up.
Who?
***
Starsky slammed on the brakes at a stop sign, suddenly realizing that he’d been driving on instinct alone and was only about half a mile from Hutch’s. Glimpsing his reflection in the rear view mirror, he decided he didn’t like what he saw. Lower jaw dark with stubble, eyes bleary — Christ, he looked like a drunk. A drunk in a lousy mood, at that.
He drove on, watching the ever-present joggers along Washington doing their number, but there was no gleam of bright hair in the lot. Besides, Hutch never ran this far from home, so the chances of seeing him over here were pretty slim.
A blaring horn behind him brought him out of his reverie, and he floored the accelerator to keep from being rear-ended by the heavy-handed idiot.
Looking back, he grinned. There was a suitably dense cloud of exhaust to choke the wise-ass . . . and no Hutch to glare reprovingly at him for acting that way. Starsky glanced at his watch; it was nearly eight-thirty, maybe his partner was home. It was worth a try, and he really did want to see the big jerk. Mood lifting, he turned onto Ocean and sped along the narrow street, taking note of the wary expressions that marked his passage. The Torino was a familiar sight on this street and he took a certain satisfaction in being recognized, even if he didn’t know why.
There was plenty of parking at Venice Place, and he got out of the car and eagerly climbed the steps to the landing, this time taking the key above the door to let himself in. On the chance that Hutch was sleeping he closed the door quietly behind himself, and stood surveying the large, sunlit living room. He arched his eyebrow — the place was all picked up, neat as a pin, with not even a discarded beer bottle in sight. First time for everything, he supposed.
Cocking his head, Starsky listened, almost certain he’d hear the deep, slow breathing that would tell him Hutch was asleep. He grinned, hearing a faint noise out on the porch. Hell, that explained it; his partner had gone to bed out there, and probably hadn’t even heard the phone ring. Quietly, he made his way toward the sound, ready to rouse Hutch from sleep.
Sunshine was filtering through the blinds, painting all the greenery with gold, and the rich smell of growing things rose in the warm air. To Starsky’s disappointment, however, the noise proved to be a blind brushing against a large plant, rustling the leaves just enough to be heard. He noted the bed was made, and obviously hadn’t been slept in.
So, his partner had spent the night with someone, all right. The question was who? Insofar as Starsky knew, there weren’t any new ladies in the blond’s life. And why, he wondered, didn’t he ever think about Hutch dating guys? Christ, he’d already told the man he didn’t care — was it because bisexuality didn’t fit his own ideas of what sex was all about? Or because the shadowy world of ac/dc raised too many uncomfortable memories of Rampart Division and the vice raids?
He wandered into the little kitchen, sitting down on one of the old-fashioned chairs. He knew Hutch had loved Gillian, had gone around pale and quiet for weeks after her death. His partner just wasn’t that good an actor! Had he ever felt that way about a man?
Wearily, Starsky closed his eyes, suddenly too tired to leave and drive all the way home. At the same time, a niggling fear told him that Hutch might not be too pleased if he came home and found his partner here. He got to his feet, eyes narrowed. If the blond got mad, tough shit. They’d always dropped in on one another; if he wanted to prove nothing had changed, what better way?
Feeling justified, Starsky rummaged around in the refrigerator, grinning when he found a half-full bottle of root beer at the back. There was no snack to his liking, but the soda would at least quench his thirst so he guzzled it down, setting the bottle in the sink. That way Hutch would know immediately he was here. He scratched his chin, then ambled sleepily back to the porch, flopping full length on the bed. Within a few minutes he was sound asleep, hand trailing on the cool floor.
***
An hour later, a car door slammed outside Venice Place, and Hutch waved goodbye as the vehicle pulled away. He ran lightly up the first four steps, then paused, coming slowly back down to stare out at the curb. There, parked in front of the art gallery, sat the Torino. Quickly, he glanced up at his front window, but saw no one. Then he strode rapidly down to where the car was parked and put his hand on the hood. The metal was warm, and not just from the sun . . . Starsky hadn’t been here too long. Quietly, he climbed the stairs, letting himself in without a sound. Looking around, he saw the bottle in the sink and smiled. Starsky’s unsubtle way of letting him know he’d been by.
Not that he had any doubt. The deep rumble of his partner’s snores led Hutch straight out to the porch where he stood staring down at the flushed face and flattened hair. He studied the long, irregular features with real affection, making a careful distinction between that emotion and another one. “So, you knew all along, you bastard, and let me sweat my balls off before I told you,” he murmured. He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t miss a thing, do you, pal? And I bet your curiosity’s killing you about now.” The smile faded, replaced by a grimace. There was no way he was going to let his partner into that part of his life. They shared enough now, and for what it was worth, he owed someone else a degree of privacy. Sighing, he moved away, wishing life wasn’t so damn complicated. Maybe when Starsk woke up they’d talk, but right now he was bushed; it’d been quite a night. The smile returned, and as Hutch headed for the shower, he began whistling.
It was the sound of water that woke Starsky up. Hutch, finally home, was now busy washing off whatever memories he had of the night. Starsky lay, eyes closed tight, trying not to think about anything. When the sounds from the bathroom ceased, he rolled over, peering into the living room.
Hutch came out of the bathroom, rubbing his skin vigorously with a big white towel. The sun, still low enough to filter through the front windows, gilded the lean body until it shone, glistening with droplets which rolled off the satiny flesh. Hutch never glanced toward the porch, merely continued to blot his body, finally tossing the towel back into the bathroom. He padded into the bedroom area, returning with a pale blue terry robe that he quickly donned, running his hands over the thick fabric. He tied the belt, smiling as he made his way into the kitchen, humming softly to himself. Drops of water trickled slowly down his neck from his wet hair. He looked relaxed — almost smug — until he saw Starsky watching him.
Instantly, his expression became guarded, closed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” His smile was forced. “Didn’t think I could, not the way you were snoring.”
“Hell, nobody could sleep with you big-footing around like that,” complained Starsky. He wanted to sound cranky, wanted his partner to believe he’d wakened only moments before. Not watching the man dry himself.
Caution disappeared as Hutch grinned broadly. “Hey, I may not be cat-footed like you, but I’m not so bad. Campbell, now there’s a man with lead feet.” He came out on the porch, sitting easily on the edge of the bed, shaking his wet head. “I thought you were spending a couple of days with Cathy. What happened?”
Starsky shrugged. “She was on standby and got called. I’m going back tonight to feed that cat of hers.” He was suddenly aware of water dripping onto his warm arm. “Jesus! Will ya quit with the shower? I can get my own, ya know!” He began tossing off the covers, then held them in place, remembering the damn French briefs he was wearing.
Hutch didn’t miss the hesitation, and rose immediately, going back into the other room. “You’re safe now,” he said cuttingly. “I’m too damn tired to be turned on by you.”
“That’s not why I did it, and you know it,” said Starsky quietly. “Don’t be such a shit, Hutch.” He threw the covers aside and grabbed for his pants. “Who’s turnin’ who on? You’re the one naked under the robe. So, maybe I was gettin’ off on you!” he stared hard at his astonished friend, holding Hutch’s gaze by sheer will power. As he sauntered closer, he saw something bright flash in the light eyes, and recognized the danger signal. Hastily, he dropped his aggressive stance and held out his hand. “Is this how we’re gonna be? You running scared, and me saying things to hurt you — or make you mad?”
Shaking his head, he turned abruptly on his heel, angry because his eyes stung with unshed tears. “Why’d you have to tell me if this is what it’s gonna be like? God damn you! Everything was great until you hadda go noble on me.” He felt his fury building, but felt the loss of Hutch’s trust even more, and lashed out as he spun around. “Who gives a damn about your love life? I sure don’t!”
His tirade was cut short by a swiftly moving body. Strong arms enveloped him and he held onto Hutch for dear life.
“Don’t!” begged Hutch. “You know how much I care about you. Jesus, Starsk, you’re my best friend. It tears me up to see you hurting so much . . . because of me.” A shaky laugh as he rubbed the curly head. “Never knew anyone to get under my skin like you do . . . or care like you do, either.” The blond head bowed, and Hutch hugged his partner hard before breaking the embrace. Just as he did, Starsky wiped his nose surreptitiously on the terry robe.
“Hey! Cut that out!” But there was laughter behind the complaint, and Hutch shook his partner until a rueful smile lit the long features. “Ass. If you wanted a Kleenex all you had to do was say so.” He led Starsky to the couch, and, pushing the unresisting figure down, sat as close to him as he could, making certain that his robe covered his lap. “If you thought you were mad before, this’ll probably really frost you.” He took in a huge breath before continuing. “I’ve got a lover. Have had for over a year.” He stared down at the floor, finally raising his eyes to meet Starsky’s shocked glance. “Yeah,” he said doggedly, determined to answer any and all questions, and then take the consequences. “. . . a lover . . . just one guy, and we’re really good together, Starsk.”
“You mean, you two really love each other?” Starsky asked, disbelievingly. “Like Gillian?” He grimaced, but didn’t apologize. “You know what I mean, ‘for keeps’ stuff?”
Hutch drew back momentarily, frowning a bit. His hair was drying, but curls still clung to the strong neck. “Like in ‘fairy’ tales?” He shook his head in denial. “I learned a long time ago they don’t really come true,” he replied softly. “So we have to settle for the closest thing. For a gay relationship, I suppose this is it.”
Starsky sat back, scrutinizing the familiar features, knowing deep inside that the man next to him was trying desperately to convince himself about his feelings. “Don’t say any more, Hutch, it’s okay. I think I understand,” he said. Carefully, he placed his hand on the hard thigh, absorbing the living warmth beneath the robe. He felt the muscles quiver for an instant, and experienced a quickly-denied, momentary triumph. “Maybe some day you’ll meet the right one, huh?”
Hutch’s soft smile grew hard, matched by a cool glance as his gaze flickered swiftly over Starsky. “I hope you’re not offering yourself, partner. I’m not worth the sacrifice.”
The sarcasm broke the mood and Hutch rose to his feet, heading for the kitchen. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your offer — if you were making one — but we’d end up killing each other and you know it.”
Stung, Starsky leaped up, following the other man into the warmth and sunlight. “I wasn’t tryin’ to turn you on! And I sure as hell wasn’t offering anything! I got more ‘n I can handle right now.” He felt stupid; seeing the sudden grin that flashed across Hutch’s face, but knew he’d said the right thing. Besides, he hadn’t really been trying to give Hutch dibs on his body . . . hadn’t even given it any thought.
“You can say that again. I’m not about to have a bunch of irate females on my ass because you’ve got the hots for me.” This was said wryly, accompanied by the clatter of a frying pan and several dishes being dumped on the counter. “Eggs? Cheese or onions or both? Fries?”
The subject was effectively changed and while Starsky showered, Hutch fixed his partner a huge breakfast, watching the food disappear with apparent satisfaction. When the last bit of egg had been wiped up with a piece of toast, and the last sip of coffee drunk, he sat back, smiling at his friend.
Starsky leaned back in his chair, and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “That was good — as usual.” He stared thoughtfully at the blond, finally asking, “Where’d you learn to cook, anyway?”
Hutch chuckled. “You’re weird. I’ve cooked God knows how many great dinners for you, and it took eggs and fries to get you to ask where I learned. Well, believe it or not, when I was a kid I was pretty talented in my grandma’s kitchen. She believed that every boy would die of starvation if he couldn’t fend for himself.” He smiled, eyes soft with memories. “The funny part is my Grandpa couldn’t boil water. Grandma got up and cooked three squares for him every day until he died. Guess that’s why she made sure all the boys knew their way around her kitchen.”
“Did you cook at home much?” Starsky asked, remembering a few of his own disasters in his mother’s kitchen.
The lean frame stretched as Hutch got to his feet, expression now neutral. “No, we had a cook. Oh, I made the odd sandwich and raided the pantry, but that was all. My mom felt that meals were an event, for the most part.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Of course, when I got married, Van was a virgin in the kitchen . . .” He laughed aloud. “Starsk, we ate some of the damnedest messes in the world, but it was kind of fun at first. She was sharp, you understand, and could whip up a meal in a minute. But we did eat some godawful combinations.”
“What’s his name, Hutch?”
Hutch showed no surprise, merely shook his head. “Sorry, pal, that’s none of your business. Let it go, or I’ll regret having told you anything. Just be glad there’s someone who cares for me, huh?” There was a note of pleading in Hutch’s voice, and he began removing the dishes hurriedly from the table.
But the gadfly of curiosity was biting at Starsky, and he persisted. “What’s the matter? You afraid I’ll publish his name on some hit list? Hell, I’m just curious, that’s all.” He didn’t say he felt he had the right to feel that way, since he obviously didn’t.
He was surveyed by clear, blue eyes. “I know you’re curious, but I’m not going to tell you, so quit pushing. I’m gonna go change, so why don’t you do the dishes, okay?”
Eyes narrowed, Starsky nodded, making up his mind to ferret out the name of this lover who apparently meant enough to Hutch that he felt the jerk needed protecting. Alarms raced up and down his spine . . . and he called out after the retreating figure. “Do I know him? Is that why you’re bein’ so damn close-mouthed about it?”
“No! You don’t know him! Have never met him! And aren’t likely to if I have anything to say about the matter. Just back off —”
“Or what? You’ll blow my head off? Slap my hand? Wash my mouth out with soap?” Starsky grunted his disgust. “Is he famous?” An idea struck him and he could barely get the words out fast enough. “Are you makin’ it with Harry Markham? I knew he had the hots for you, but . . .” Starsky poured liquid soap into the sink, swearing as it ran down the drain. Hastily, he plugged the drain with the stopper, then added more soap. He’d noticed the director’s interest in Hutch, but at the time it’d seemed as natural as sunshine. Everyone gravitated toward Hutch, and Markham’s interest had been slight at first, only becoming more obvious as their assignment wore on. Still, he had to admit he had never really given any thought to them being involved. “Hutch? Did ya hear me? Is it Markham?” he added the dishes to the soapy water, careful to place the cups on top of the plates.
“Nope. Nor anyone else I’ve met on duty.” Hutch was standing behind Starsky, speaking almost directly into the still-damp curls.
Starsky jumped a foot. “Damn you! I almost broke a cup.”
“Aw, poor lamb. You can buy me a new one.” Hutch grinned, then stood back for his partner’s appraisal. “New sweater, what do ya think?”
What did he think? The color was a sort of blue/green with a fleck here and there of brown. It was just right for Hutch’s coloring and hugged the broad shoulders perfectly. Starsky hated it, knowing instinctively who must have bought it. “Goes real good with those cords,” he said truthfully, “but isn’t it a little warm for September? You’re gonna bake.”
Hutch’s expression was thoughtful and he let his gaze travel over his partner with slow interest. “Gee, if my eyes aren’t deceiving me, you’re wearing navy cords and a matching shirt . . . or don’t you feel the heat?”
“That’s different!” Starsky snapped, wiping his hands across his butt. “It was cool last night. I just haven’t been home to change, yet.”
Hutch was already removing the sweater, folding it, then placing it on top of the dresser. “True. And since Cathy’s place from here is only about thirty miles out of your way, it was natural to stop by and check out your partner, right?” The cords were removed next, exposing the long, tanned legs. “Then, when I wasn’t home, you decided to wait around, just in case I needed a little hand holding.” Hutch padded into the living room, leaning over to snag a pair of wrinkled jeans from behind the couch. Meeting Starsky’s gaze, he slid easily into them, buttoning them up with great deliberation. Face grave, he once more joined his partner in the kitchen. “I’m a big boy, Starsk. A night out is just that — a night out. I’m not about to elope with some fairy prince,” he said dryly, “so let me go, pal, and I swear I’ll try to keep from shutting you out. But don’t ask me to tell, because I’m not going to.”
Starsky was silent, watching the play of light that dappled Hutch’s body as he began moving restlessly about the apartment. Just what was there about this other guy that made Hutch so protective? Looks wouldn’t do it — hell, he was willing to bet Hutch was better-looking than any lover. Money? Hutch had that, too. Not that you could tell, but it was there. He followed his partner out onto the porch, helping to make up the bed, but not speaking. Together they spruced up the room, then strolled back into the still-cool living area. He knew more about Hutch than anybody; why, suddenly, wasn’t it enough? He’d memorized the features, the moves, the crazy habits Hutch had, and knew most of his past history. Why in the ever lovin’ hell wasn’t it enough?
Preoccupied, he was surprised when Hutch flopped down on the couch, smiling broadly up at him. “What’re your plans for today?”
Starsky sat on the other end of the couch, shaking the cobwebs out of his head. “Gotta feed Cathy’s cat, take the Torino in for a lube job. Nothin’ much. Why?”
“Well, first I have to catch a few z’s. Do some shopping. You want to come back and watch the Dodger game with me? Then we could drop by Huggy’s for a few beers, shoot a little pool. That sound all right?”
A huge weight was lifted from Starsky’s chest, one he realized had been there for quite a while. He felt slightly giddy with relief. “Deal. I’ll grab some junk food, be here about seven.” He got to his feet, fingers snapping. “You’re gonna be sorry you ever won that ten ’cause tonight my luck’s gonna change. And pool’s my game.”
Yawning, Hutch nodded. “Sure it is, just like ballet’s mine. Now, get outta here and let me get some sleep before I start charging you rent.” He got to his feet and began pushing Starsky toward the door, his big hands exerting pressure on the powerful back. Suddenly, he let them drop to his sides and stepped back. “I’ll be waiting,” he said softly. “Don’t stand me up.”
“Only if I get a better offer from Cathy’s cat!” came the quick retort.
There was the clatter of Adidas on the stairs, the door slammed, and as Hutch walked over to the window, he heard the ever-familiar growl of the Torino. He pulled the curtain aside to watch his partner take off in a swirl of sand and dust. “Some things never change, do they?” he mused as he pulled down the blind, effectively closing away the morning heat and sunshine.
By the time he tumbled into bed, his body was shaking with fatigue. It had been a hell of a night, and if he wanted to match wits with Starsky, he had to get at least six solid hours of sleep. Still, maybe it would be like old times again. He’d missed that a lot. He crawled between the cool sheets, expressing his pleasure with a deep sigh. He had no further recollection of the day.
***
“Shit, it must be a hundred outside,” complained Starsky to the uncomprehending feline who lay in regal splendor close to the air conditioner. Her long, white fur lifted and fell as she groomed herself. The dark man grinned wickedly, then decided not to risk her needle-sharp claws. “Cathy told me you liked the back yard, Vanilla. For two cents I’d make you sit out there and bake like the landlord’s poor mutt is. You’re one spoiled animal.”
Never missing a stroke, the cat merely cast a baleful amber eye in his direction, then ignored him completely. Starsky, miffed, nevertheless made certain she had enough food and water for the night. There was a message on the answering machine from Cathy letting him know she wouldn’t be getting in until around two the next day. Too late for a date, unless he wanted to spend the night. He shook his head at the hopeful note in her voice. “Sorry, schweetheart,” he drawled, “but I’ve got some choice action with Goldilocks tonight. Him ‘n me are gonna do some pub crawlin’ after the game.”
It was only after he got home that he began wondering about the euphoria he was experiencing. Why was he so damn happy? He was acting as though he and Hutch hadn’t seen each other for weeks, which was stupid. He ran up the front steps and let himself in, staring for a moment around his apartment as if he’d never seen it before.
At least it was cooler here, the outside greenery absorbing some of the punishing September heat. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had about seven hours to kill. Six, really, if he left early and drove slowly down to Venice, stopping to grab something to nosh on. Maybe pick up a couple of falafel’s. Hutch liked them.
Quickly, he stripped off his clothing, padding around in the nude just because it felt so good. He flashed back on a golden body and scowled, well aware of what he’d been thinking at the time. Not about him and Hutch, but about his partner and some other guy. It was too early for a beer, but he took one anyway, wiping the condensate from the bottle across his forehead and sighing aloud at the relief it brought. Maybe a quick nap might make him feel better. He hadn’t slept all that well last night — or the night before.
He lay across his bed, listening to the chkk, chkk, chkk of a rainbird sprinkler. The sound of water pattering on the plants outside was restful, and the sprinkler’s chucking hiss was regular enough to become monotonous. As his eyelids closed, he thought about his partner. Poor Hutch, he’d actually shivered when he’d been touched on the leg. Jesus, him and Hutch? Not until pigs flew.
***
Daniel F. Mayhew sat behind his desk staring at the chrome and glass station where his secretary tried to run his office. She was pretty enough, but a lousy lay, and not worth the money he paid her. Also, he suspected she and Snake were having it off, although he was just as certain that Snake had been in his chauffeur’s pants as well. He hated the little sleezo, but who else could bring him the business Snake did? He smiled. The only classy people he knew were just as crooked as he was, and just as afraid of being caught.
When the phone rang, he glared at Angela until she picked it up, then rang him. Dumb broad, she knew he was waiting for this call. Time was money. He grabbed the receiver, nodding as the voice on other end harked at him. “Yeah?” he snarled back. “You wanna hear my side or not?”
Ten minutes later, he set the phone back with a sigh. Goddamn fucking brokers, they made loan sharks look like Mother Teresa. For a moment or two he sat drumming his fingertips on the desk, then once again reached for the phone. It was almost lunch time, maybe he could get away for a massage and a little session with Sully. He needed to teach that little faggot just who was boss, and discourage him from eyeing every cop as if he was Trick of the Month. That big blond had been ready to kill the stupid little ass. His eyes narrowed. Maybe the quiet, dark one was more dangerous, come to think about it. What the hell were their names? His broker had asked him and he hadn’t remembered.
“I’m leaving for lunch, Angela. Be back around two. Hold my calls.”
“Sure thing, Mister Mayhew. You gonna be at home — or the club?” Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth shaped like Betty Boop’s, but her tone of voice was cheerfully sarcastic.
“Both. Don’t try to reach me — I don’t give a damn what happens. You got that?” He was being unnecessarily gruff, but the bitch deserved it.
“What if the cops call? Just tell them to call back?” This time all innocence was gone, and there was malicious amusement in her glance.
“Fuck the cops! They can wait, like everybody else.” With that, Mayhew stormed out of the office, dreading the few steps he’d have to make in the sweltering heat before he got into the air-conditioned limo. Sully’d better be there, and not screwing Snake or he’d have both their asses for lunch. God, how he hated September!
But Sully was there, waiting, his uniform tight in all the right places, his gaze hungry and impudent. Mayhew looked him over as he sank into the upholstered comfort of the car, deciding Sully looked better than the steak at Musso’s and Frank’s. To hell with the massage. “Okay, Sully, let’s go home.” He leaned forward as the car started. “And for the record, cocksucker, you make another play for a cop and I’ll see to it you spend the rest of your life pissing in the sitting position!”
“I was just having fun, boss. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” The pretty-boy pout was back, followed by a wide grin. “You notice how mad he got? Betcha he’s a closet case. Just like you.”
Mayhew stared hard at his driver, forgetting the angry retort he’d been going to make. Food for thought; the kid had a regular radar when it came to such matters. And, if true, it might prove to be a highly valuable piece of information. He removed a toothpick from his jacket pocket and began worrying at his teeth. “Can you prove it?” he asked calmly.
“Nah. But if he is, somebody’ll know. Maybe his partner. Just say the word and I’ll make it my life’s work to find out.”
Sully camped it up until Mayhew laughed aloud, then settled in to break all speed limits to the house. When his boss was in a good mood, the sex was fantastic. A few drinks, a couple of joints, and the old guy’d be begging for it. There was a gold watch he wanted; tonight it’d be his. He began singing a very dirty song.
***
“I don’t know how you do it,” Starsky complained. “They were tied going into the bottom of the tenth. There was no way they shoulda won and you know it!” He was cleaning up the remains of their dinner while Hutch gathered up the beer bottles. His partner said nothing, merely grinned and shrugged, which made Starsky even angrier. “It ain’t gonna be safe for you to set foot down at HQ tomorrow, ya know. How much did Phillips blow on this one?”
Hutch scratched his forehead. “Hmm, this’ll make an even hundred he owes me. And Brown bet me double or nothing that the game wouldn’t go into extra innings.” He shook his head. “Dumb luck, Starsk, that’s all it is. Just like Vegas that time.” The bottles clanked into a bag, which he set out on the back step. When he returned, he beckoned to his partner. “Come here, I want you to see something.” Starsky joined him at the top of the wrought-iron stairway that led down into the empty courtyard of Chez Helene’s. The only sound came from the small fountain that trickled in the little patio. To the east the orange-pink glow of neon skies lit the horizon, shot through with lights from incoming planes. He could see the cars on the freeway as they moved toward the huge city that pulsed with so much life, and a thrill ran through him. He’d always thought New York was more exciting until his last visit home, when he’d been struck by its look of age, its rather pathetic attempts to hide the hideous ‘dead-zones.’ Walking down the street where his mother now lived, he’d actually been afraid, so much so he’d tried unsuccessfully to get her to move to L.A.
“You move too fast there, Davey,” she’d said. “Too far between friends.”
He slid his glance away, watching Hutch as he stood drinking in the view. Like himself, the man had adopted this area as his home, and now they were both sworn to serve and protect its citizens. For them, it was like a marriage. He smiled at the thought, feeling foolish.
Hutch met his gaze and lifted an eyebrow. “Something wrong? You look like you swallowed a bug.” But he put an arm around Starsky and hugged him close. “Now, turn around and look out there.” He pointed toward the sea.
“Can’t see much,” Starsky said, not breaking the hold Hutch had on him, but trying to shift so could see what the tall blond was pointing at. He stepped back, abruptly freezing when the clank of bottles told him a disaster was about to occur.
“Oh, shit!” yelled Hutch, releasing Starsky and racing down the spiral stairs. “Armand’ll kill me!” He stopped when the bag and its contents crashed onto the flagstones, narrowly missing a table. “Jesus! Imagine if there’d been people here!” He looked up at his partner. “Bring down the flashlight, you fathead! It’s all your fault!”
Laughing, Starsky thumbed his nose, but went in to find the flashlight. Taking his sweet time, he finally joined Hutch who was now frantically searching for a broom. “What’re you gonna do in the dark, Dumbo?” he asked, eyeing the shattered glass warily, he focused the light on the bag and its contents, then on the glass shards which had rocketed all over the patio. “You’re right, Armand’s gonna eat you for breakfast, pal,” he grunted, flashing the light under a nearby table. “Probably sue you if anybody gets cut, too. I would.” Chuckling, he bent down to pick up a large hunk of glass, tossing it into the trash receptacle that stood under the stairwell. “Damn bag hadda miss by six inches.” He watched Hutch scrabbling here and there, the fair hair catching the light as he ducked in and out of the shadows. “I think your luck’s about to change, pal. Be bad until the next full moon. Betcha don’t win another cent.”
“Fuck you, big mouth. I never said I’d keep on winning, did I?” Hutch’s expression was firm and he smelled of beer. “All I wanted to do was show you the view out over the goddamn ocean. Venus is hanging up there like a — “
“Pearl in an Ethiop’s ear, right?” mocked Starsky, flashing the light into Hutch’s face. “Corny, but thanks for the thought. I’ll look later.” His smile faded as their eyes met and Hutch turned away. “Hey! I’m just joking. I know how you feel about all this nature stuff.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the sky. “I like it, too.”
But Hutch was back down on his knees, seeking more pieces of glass, his face hidden. “Sure you do, only not as much as your faggy partner, right?”
Starsky winced, for what he’d heard in the question was pain and an incredible isolation. Quietly, he came up behind his friend, not knowing what to say. “If you believe that, you’re a bigger asshole than I thought.” What the hell was he going to do? He hurt inside almost as much as Hutch did, but how was he going to convince his best friend of that?
Hutch got to his feet, and stood very still, looking down. “That was a lousy thing for me to say. I’m sorry. Guess I wanted to make you feel bad — because now I can’t hide anymore.”
“Let’s forget it,” Starsky responded curtly, not liking the direction the conversation was heading — Hutch off on one of his guilt trips. “Besides, if we’re going to Huggy’s we better leave soon. I’m gonna beat your butt off in pool, so don’t keep me waiting.”
He was terribly aware of Hutch, and the magic quality of being in a garden when no one else was around. There was the smell of flowers drifting on the slight breeze, yet when he turned away from Hutch it faded. He scowled, whirling back, sniffing the air. “That a new cologne you got on?” he asked roughly. He’d sampled each and every one of Hutch’s huge supply of aftershave colognes, and this wasn’t one he knew. But the scent was coming from his direction — had it been a gift from that unknown bastard?
Hutch laughed out loud. “As a matter of fact, Sherlock, it’s a sample of fabric softener that came in the mail, so you’d better get used to it until I wash clothes again.” He made a face, sniffing at his shirt front. “God, it’s awful.”
Starsky grinned. “Well, lemme tell you something, sweet pea. Don’t ever wear it into work, ’cause they’ll all be asking you for dates. Even Dobey!” He giggled at the mortified look on his partner’s face. Grabbing Hutch by the offending shirt, he pulled him over to the bottom step. “Look, we can come back and clean this mess up in the morning before they open. I wanna go to The Pits, dammit!”
Looking around, Hutch murmured, “What the hell,” and followed Starsky up the steps. Within ten minutes they were on their way to Huggy’s.
****
When autumn winds and moisture-bearing clouds announced the end of the blistering summer heat, the entire Metro precinct breathed easier. Now was the time most of this year’s horde of sun-loving, and in some cases lawless, loonies would head back to their home states, leaving L.A.’s beaches and night-spots far easier to patrol. While few vacationers sought the rough and run-down area around Metro, the criminal element there was at its busiest: drugs, stolen cars, fancy ladies — all items wanted by the visitors to the sun-drenched Big Orange, and all eagerly provided by the street entrepreneurs. Also, fueled by the Dodger win in the play-offs, the big-time gamblers were rolling into town, and Series fever was rampant.
At headquarters, reason prevailed — except in the matter of the Dodgers. Hutch, wisely deciding discretion was the better part of raking in more winnings, steadfastly refused to place so much as a single bet, to the vast relief of all concerned.
Starsky, balancing two cups of coffee and a Danish, winked at him. “Feel better now that all the guys are speakin’ to you again?”
Rescuing an endangered cup, Hutch nodded. “Sure, but guess who came up and asked me if I was going to join the football pool? You got it! I told Phillips there was no way in hell I was going to risk life and limb for a few bucks.”
Starsky chuckled. “God, you must’ve made everyone’s day with that news.” He bit into the fresh pastry, silently offering to share with his partner. When the offer was smilingly refused, he took another bite. “So, how’re things going?”
Immediately, Hutch’s demeanor changed, and he eyed his partner like he would a stranger. “Are you referring to my car, the job, or my private life?” He tossed a manila folder across their desk, as though it was the reason for the query. “Read it and weep, pal. Guess who’s gonna be back on the streets today?”
Abashed, Starsky allowed himself to be diverted. He picked up the folder and scowled when he saw its contents. “Can’t be! He was sent up for at least six to ten!” He glanced at the calendar. “Four stinkin’ years, man.” He took a huge gulp of coffee, not caring if he spilled any on the papers. “Don’t tell me. Goddamn good behavior, right?”
“You got it,” affirmed Hutch, retrieving the folder before it came to grief. “Julius Adolfo Penneman, extortionist extraordinaire. This creep would squeeze his own mother dry.”
“Yeah, and he sure as hell loved to squeeze the Santa Monica boys, too!” Starsky froze, horrified at what he’d just said. Penneman was as queer as a three-dollar bill, and had made many a gay’s life miserable as a result. At the time, Starsky had been certain that Hutch’s delight in arresting the man had been purely for professional reasons, but now . . .
However, Hutch merely nodded, apparently taking the comment at face value. “Right. I think he’ll find the neighborhood’s changed a bit, though. Don’t you?” He arched a blond eyebrow.
Starsky didn’t try to hold back his grin. The little beach city was heavily populated with young gays who openly paraded their sexuality for others to see, so that anyone attempting to harass that sector of the community usually ended up getting their asses kicked out of town. He had the feeling if and when Penneman tried to rough somebody up this time around, he might find his pretty face on the other side of his head. “So, are we gonna do our usual number and pay the jerk a visit as soon as he’s out? Is there an address where we can reach him?”
Hutch laughed. “That’s a hell of a nice way to ask where he’s going to be shacked up. You know as well as I do that cat’s never paid a day’s rent in his life. Nope, until his parole officer’s got something for us, we’re playing it by the book. Besides,” the blue eyes still held a glimmer of amusement, “why tip him off we’re even interested? The creep might move to another part of the country — if we’re lucky.”
Getting to his feet, Starsky shook his head. “Not in a zillion years. Penneman’s got too many contacts out here to change venues on us. We’re stuck with him, and that’s the name of that tune.” He took another long, hard look at the photograph, then re-filed the folder into the ‘active’ section. When he turned back he caught Hutch’s eyes resting on his rump, then darting away to stare at the clock on the wall. Carefully veiling his expression, he moved until he was standing behind his partner. “Well? You ready to hit the streets? I’ve got a feelin’ today’s gonna be a busy one.” He placed his fingers on the wide shoulders, something he hadn’t done for many days. The action gave him great pleasure, especially when Hutch didn’t pull away. “Come on,” he said easily. “Let’s get outta here.”
They left the squadroom, Hutch’s expression strangely guarded. But he flung his arm around Starsky’s shoulders for a single moment just before they reached the stairs. “Beers on me after work, all right?”
“Hmm. Just so long as we don’t stay late. I gotta date with Mitzi, and we’re going to the movies.”
Hutch nodded. “Maybe we’d better make it another time, then.” He avoided Starsky’s surprised stare, and was out in the warm sunshine before his partner could protest. “You driving? Why do I ask?” he muttered, for Starsky was already unlocking the Torino and sliding in. “Okay, let’s hit Huggy’s and see what he’s heard about our old friend Juli.”
***
The car waiting outside the state prison was dark and sleek, polished to within an inch of its metal hide. Not a single speck of dust marred its beauty, and the chrome shone like burnished silver in the late sunshine. When a tall figure with a worn suitcase strode through the gates, the limo moved forward, one rear window slowly rolling down. “Hey! Juli, wanna ride?”
Grey eyes widened as the man recognized his old friend. “Mayhew! You old ass-grabber! Did you actually come down here for me?” Then he saw the young chauffeur and broke into a huge grin. “Jesus, baby, you always did get the best . . . Tell me he’s queer, please.”
“Get in,” Mayhew ordered, frowning. He pressed a button, and the glass partition slid into place, providing the two men with a degree of privacy. “I got more to talk to you about than that.” He opened the door, waiting while Penneman slid in beside him and shoved the suitcase in at his feet, then slammed the door shut.
Tapping on the partition, he motioned for Sully to drive, then resumed his conversation. “Remember the two cops who sent you up? I’ve got news that’s gonna make you dance on my bed.”
Penneman smiled, and leaned back against the upholstery. “The first thing I want is a long shower, then an even longer drink. After that . . .” Dark lashes swept over the shining eyes. “I’m all yours — and all attention.”
Mayhew’s hand rested on the younger man’s leg. “Just think about this while you’re taking that shower, friend. Pretty Boy there swears that the blond cop is queer — think you can find out for me? I’d like to see his ass kicked off the force — and that goes double for his partner. Screw me around, will they!”
“Hutchinson queer?” Penneman whistled, then shook his head. “I dunno, baby. God knows he’s got the looks, but hell, I’d hate to find out he wasn’t . . . he’d blow my balls off with that cannon of his.” He glanced curiously at Mayhew. “What’d he do, anyway?”
Ignoring the question, the older man sneered. “Fuck that cannon! If we can get something on him, and make it stick, he won’t even be able to shoot what’s between his legs. Myself, I think maybe him and his partner have a thing going.”
Penneman laughed harshly. “That kike? Hell, no way. I think your driver’s just wishful thinking, and I’ll be glad to show him some action to make him forget.” He looked meaningfully at Mayhew, rubbing his chin. “You into his ass? Or can anybody play?”
Mayhew shrugged, not bothered by the man’s crudity. “Ask him. God knows he lets everybody else screw around. Tell you what, you arrange for a tail on Blondie, and I’ll see your date book’s filled every night for a week. After that, you can damn well find your own tricks. Deal?” He extended his hand.
The smile the ex-con gave him was deadly. “Deal. And if I find out that Blondie, as you call him, swings, I may just decide to show him a thing or two.”
Mayhew’s grip tightened perceptibly. “That’s out. All I want is to get him kicked off the force teach the arrogant son of a bitch to watch his mouth.” He held his companion’s gaze, his own expression somber. “Think about it, Juli. You know what those two cops are like, hell, Starsky’d probably kill you without thinking about it if you so much as ruffle a hair on that blond head. The first time I saw Starsky I knew he was meaner than cat piss. So don’t go getting any ideas. I want to keep this low profile.”
Penneman looked away. “Fine. You got a deal. Won’t touch him. But promise I can be there when you spring the trap.”
Smiling, Mayhew nodded. “Okay, that’s fine with me. And I want pictures, Juli, lots of pictures. Maybe even movies.” He pushed the button that rolled down the window separating Sully from the passengers. “Straight home. Our guest will be staying with us for a few days — maybe longer.” He lightly stroked the warm skin on Sully’s neck. “Mister Penneman is looking forward to becoming better acquainted with you, isn’t that democratic of him?” He looked over at Penneman, winked, then settled back into the plush seat.
***
There was a light breeze blowing when Hutch locked his door and ran down the steps. He smiled as he remembered the look on Huggy’s face when he’d announced to one and all that he was going home — after only two beers. His friend had been skeptical at first, then openly curious . . . to no avail.
Fishing in his jacket pocket for his keys, he felt something unfamiliar and pulled it out. A matchbook, silver and black, with the silhouette of a gull in red embossed on the front. He grinned, then tucked the little book back in his pocket.
He hurried to the LTD, his mood one of anticipation, and by the time he was four miles down the highway, the cop was gone, replaced by an expensively-clad stranger. When he pulled into the Beach Motors Rental and greeted the manager, his transformation was complete.
He found what he wanted, a black Corvette with cream leather upholstery and paid the deposit in cash. Christ! Starsky would drop dead if he saw this buggy. For a second he toyed with the idea of keeping it overnight, but reason prevailed and he reluctantly shelved the plan. No matter how desperately he wanted to share his feelings about Harper Talmadge with his partner, he’d sworn to keep their relationship a secret, and so far he had.
The ‘vette was a dream, and he took his time driving to the country club where they were to meet. At the first red light, he fidgeted with the mirror, annoyed because the fool behind him had on his high beams and they were blinding him. When he stuck his head out the window and shouted, the unseen driver quickly switched back to low, and Hutch shot into the intersection before he realized there was something familiar about the other car. He veered sharply into a driveway, waiting for the other car to pass. It was a red Duster, very like his partner’s, but without that damn stripe. Feeling ashamed for what he’d been thinking, Hutch left the driveway and resumed his trip, paying no further attention to the cars behind him.
When he got to the club, the gate attendant gazed momentarily at his guest pass, then waved him on, swinging back the barrier that kept out the working-class folk. It was weird, Hutch thought, that Harper never asked questions about his lover’s occupation, satisfied — so he said — with Hutch’s fidelity and companionship. He flashed back on Starsky, wondering what his partner’s demands were in that department. Impatiently, he dismissed the thought as too dangerous, and drove around, finding a parking spot beneath a slender oleander tree. He got out of the ‘vette, locked it and straightened his jacket, combing his hair. What in hell would Harper do if he ever learned Hutch was a cop? That was the man’s biggest phobia: cops, any cop, any sheriff, an agent of any kind. Harper claimed his dislike wasn’t for the law, but for the men who enforced it. To him, cops were only one step above the people they arrested. At times, Hutch had found himself fighting to keep from shaking his lover until his teeth rattled, despising the condescension in Harper’s tone. Still, it was a world where Hutch could pretend — and he was very good at pretending, he admitted to himself. Was always the one who went undercover in the godawful clothes, never caring how he looked. Starsky always said it was because he knew what was under the disguise was great, so why should he care what a slob the makeup guys made of him? He smiled, smoothing down the silk tie he wore, knowing when he entered the large foyer all eyes would be centered on him. Might as well make the best of both worlds, he rationalized. The good Lord knew he didn’t belong totally in either one. It was only when he was with his partner that all the pieces seemed to fit, yet that dream was never going to come true. Not now, not ever. So this one would have to do.
Gull’s Nest was, he had to admit, a very impressive, very discreet place where rich, closeted gays and their friends could wine and dine without the prying eyes of the general public. He crossed the cobblestone courtyard, nodding at the lot boy who greeted him with a big smile. The building’s architecture was California-Orient, which meant the obligatory hanging lanterns and bronze storks in lily-pad pools. The entrance was made through two huge slabs of redwood set with antique Japanese hinges. Without comment he handed his guest card to the hawk-eyed doorman, and was rewarded with a slightly less hostile look. As usual, he crossed the thickly carpeted lobby, to stand near the bar. As he passed a mirror he took stock.
The blond man who stared back at him was looking fairly elegant tonight, he thought. Black jacket, cream slacks, silk shirt and tie, hair as blow dried as he could make it. He fussed for a moment with the handkerchief in his jacket pocket, then turned to look for Harper. He would already be at the bar; the man would find a stool and perch on it for hours, seldom downing more than two drinks all evening. Gull’s Nest was more than a social club, it also saw a lot of business transacted. There was a hell of a lot of money in the gay community.
“Hi. Buy you a drink, handsome?”
Surprised, Hutch slowly pivoted until he faced the owner of the baritone voice. No one he knew, but the guy certainly was built. He smiled, shaking his head. “Sorry, haven’t had anything to eat. Thanks, anyway.”
“Then why don’t I just buy you dinner, too? I could use the company.” The man held out a well-shaped hand, the highly-buffed fingernails gleaming in the amber lighting. Also gleaming were the dark blue eyes.
“Sorry about that. I’m waiting for my, ah, dinner companion. He should be along any minute.”
“My loss. If he doesn’t show in fifteen seconds dump him and spend the evening with me.” This time the man smiled, shaking his head in disgust at his bad luck.
Hutch laughed and held out his hand. “Name’s Ken. Thanks for the offer. Believe me, I’ve had worse.”
His hand was held in a firm grip for just a moment too long. “I’ll just bet you have, beautiful man. And you can call me George. You sure you won’t marry me and settle down to raise plants?” Again the wry grin.
Hutch decided he liked George. “Plants? Well, only if I get the African violets when we split up.”
“Take them, they always liked you best anyway. But I get custody of the Barbara Streisand albums.”
Laughing, Hutch retorted, “Better yet, that means I can keep Donna Summer all to myself.”
George grinned, eyes warm. “See? Look at all the fun we could have breaking up. Let’s elope right now”
“My friend . . .”
George leaned close, whispering in Hutch’s ear. “Fuck your friend. Or, if that’s impossible, let’s go out to my car.”
The game was over. Hutch stepped away, his smile chill, his head high. “Naughty. I’m not for sale, George, and don’t expect to be, either.” Looking away, he spotted a familiar figure walking swiftly toward him. “Excuse me, here’s my friend.” He glanced at George, who was standing to one side watching as Harper greeted him.
“Ken! Have you been waiting long? I left word you were to join me as soon as you arrived. Let me look at you.”
Out of the corner of his eyes Hutch saw George slip away, then he gave all his attention to the man who was looking at him with such hungry eyes. Smiling, feeling his heartbeat race, he warned, “Careful, Harper, or folks will talk.”
“Then come on,” the taller man said brusquely, “or I’ll give them plenty to talk about.”
As they headed for the dining room, Hutch noted wryly that the club’s ambiance was just what the tasteful gay loved. Low lighting, plants galore, and more trim, well-dressed men than anyone could handle. He smiled, yet deep inside he felt that unnamed shame begin: he was different, and it was a difference he wasn’t happy with. Still, Harper, walking here beside him, dark head high, didn’t feel as if being gay was a drag, so why did he? Was it because of the double life he was leading as a straight cop and a closet playboy? How would he ever explain to his partner just why publicity of any sort would mark the end of his relationship with this handsome, very sexy man? As they were seated across from one another, he gazed at his lover fondly. Tall, well-built, with even features and wonderful, pale green eyes, the man could have been an egotistical ass, but he wasn’t. He was a lot of fun, possessing a finely-honed brand of humor that was in direct contrast to Hutch’s own cynical one, He tried to throw off his depression. After all, wasn’t this better than another night watching Starsky’s bowling team sweat its way to a loss? He smiled to himself, knowing that part of him would honestly debate the question, while the other half would sneer at his pretending to be so damn straight. This was where he belonged, surrounded by his own kind, playing the dating game and always pretending there was nothing better.
“I ordered you a bourbon and seven,” Harper said quietly. “Do you know that fellow you were talking to?”
Hutch smiled at the serious tone. “No, but we were considering an elopement. Price was too high, though.” He watched Harper’s mouth twitch, revealing a dimple in his right cheek.
“Thank goodness. I’m not the type to fight a duel.”
“That makes two of us,” Hutch responded glibly. He and Harper had a good thing going, and he genuinely cared for the man . . . so why not enjoy tonight? And all the other lonely nights ahead?
The drinks arrived and Hutch raised his glass. “Bottoms up,” he said, looking into the pale green eyes.
***
“So? Where d’ya want to go?” Starsky asked. Mitzi was always amenable to any of his plans . . . it was only fair to give her a shot at the night’s entertainment. He’d hoped to persuade Hutch to tag along, but the way his partner had fled Huggy’s had left him with no chance to ask. He ran his fingers over the girl’s tip-tilted nose, smiling down into lustrous, deep brown eyes. “Hungry?”
She smiled up at him through impossibly-tangled sooty lashes. Her Greek ancestry accounted for the dark skin and jet black hair, but she owed her long-legged body to another ancestral branch. She was nearly as tall as he was, and every bit as agile in bed. Whenever she was in town she called, and unless he had other plans they always at least grabbed a bite to eat and went to the movies.
“Don’t care, really. Maybe some Colonel Sanders? What’s on TV?”
There was no doubt what Mitzi had on her blessedly frank mind. She snaked her arm around Starsky’s middle, blowing her warm breath into his shirtfront until he began squirming.
“Mmm. You smell good, David.”
“Colonel Sanders it is,” he replied. “And maybe there’s a good movie on. A bottle of wine. Hey!” Her nails had dug into his back, just enough to hurt, and instead of exciting him the discomfort was annoying for some reason. “God, you could slice bread with those claws.”
Making a face, Mitzi kissed his chin, but didn’t apologize. “Wine’s okay, but none of that cheapo stuff your partner buys. I’d rather drink Pepsi.”
Once again he felt annoyed. Hutch’s taste for the grape was casual to say the least, but it wasn’t because he was cheap. He smiled, remembering the many bottles of vino the two of them had consumed over the years. “Hutch just prefers beer most of the time — unless he’s eating in some expensive joint, then he wants the best.”
Her tone changed as she smiled archly back at him. “David, why do you always take his side? Hutch is a big boy — a very big boy — you don’t need to defend him. He’s not perfect, you know.”
For a long, long second he stared back at her, trying to hold on to his temper. “He’s my partner. Defending him both physically and figuratively comes naturally.” He repressed a smile, knowing he was repeating one of Hutch’s phrases verbatim.
Her own attitude hardened. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! He’s no saint! Why do we always end up talking about him?” She pressed against him and kissed his mouth, her eyes dancing when she pulled away. “Let’s not talk about your partner any more. Let’s pretend you don’t even have a partner, hmm?”
He caught her hands, trying to recapture the light-hearted mood of a few moments ago. “You’re right. Who needs him? You can be my partner tonight.”
“Only don’t get called away when we’re in the middle of something . . .” she giggled, “. . . you know . . . physical.”
Starsky felt his spirits rise. What reason did he have to be mad at her? This time he gathered her close. “Right, you got it. We’re goin’ to the moon, so no calls.”
Mitzi’s small hands pushed him away. “Not without dinner, big spender! Come on.”
They laughed together, and in a rush of happiness Starsky felt his libido take over. She was right; Hutch was a big boy and if he wanted to sleep with somebody and keep it a secret, so what? It hadn’t damaged their friendship — not so far — so by all rights he should just forget it.
He felt Mitzi’s hand on his shoulder, and his mind sent him a picture of Hutch’s hand, hard fingers resting there, just touching his collar. He clenched his jaw, then started the Torino, asking. “You want to go to Tiny Naylor’s . . . getcha a Star Burger?”
Mitzi looked at him with shining eyes. “You mean the one with ham and cheese between buns? Sure. I adore tender buns — you know that.” In what was meant to be a seductive gesture, she ran her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Love your hair when it’s long,” she murmured.
Starsky shook his head. “Not when I’m driving!” he snapped. Then, seeing her astonished expression, he explained. “Too distracting, that’s all.”
She managed to look properly mollified, but the gleam in her dark eyes held a world of questions. “Never bothered you before,” she said tentatively, fishing in her purse, bringing out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward him. “Sorry if I upset you.”
He felt guilty as hell, then. “Hey, it’s not your fault you’ve got sexy fingers. Wait until we’re back at my place . . .” He shrugged. “Then you can use ’em wherever you want.” He made a grab for her fingers and kissed their tips, feeling that somehow this was all Hutch’s fault. “Damn! I’m so hungry I could eat —” His grin as he gazed at her said it all and she tossed back her mane of black hair and laughed with him. “— a couple of Star Burgers and fries,” he finished. The Torino streaked through traffic, heading for the glitter of Hollywood.
Luckily, it was nearly midnight when the call came, and Starsky struggled to disentangle himself from Mitzi’s warm embrace. She lay sprawled on him in a maze of honey-colored limbs, her hair in wild disarray.
His own body was made of lead — their lovemaking had seemed a bit desperate. He made a grab for the phone and missed, cursing when he grazed his knuckles on the bedside table. Another ring and he had it. “Yeah,” he slurred, finding his lips swollen and tender where they met the chilled elastic. “Starsky.”
“It’s me. Snake’s been iced, pal. Throw on a pair of jeans and haul ass. Meet you at Tenth and Waterman in half an hour.”
Starsky did some lightning calculations. “No way you can get there from Venice in thirty minutes. Not in that heap of yours.”
The soft voice took on an edge. “Just get going and I’ll meet you there! Shake it, Starsk!” The line went dead.
Wide awake now, Starsky crawled the rest of the way out of bed and tossed the covers over Mitzi’s unmoving form. She’d be mad as hell when she woke up, but at least they’d had some fun last night. He grinned as he headed for a quick shower; only twelve-thirty and already he was counting it as a new day. Well, in a cop’s book that was how things went.
The small jolts of adrenalin began working, allowing him to concentrate on the possible reasons for the little snitch’s demise without being distracted by the chores of washing and shaving. He felt some of the old sense of anticipation return . . . was it because Hutch had sounded so like his old self? All business — one of the best cops around. He dressed automatically, then let himself out of his apartment without making a sound.
He shivered when his warm flesh made contact with the chilly upholstery, but all sense of discomfort was forgotten when he started the Torino and coasted down the hill, keeping the low beams on until he was away from his place entirely.
He concentrated on the business at hand; just who stood to profit by Snake’s death? What had the little creep known — or done — to get him iced? He turned onto Sunset, speeding past the maze of neon and glass which gradually lost its uptown glitter for the seedier, drearier, section that marked the growing underbelly of El Lay.
When he pulled into the parking lot behind a dingy store on Waterman, he saw Hutch’s car was already there. The lone street lamp made it easy to spot his partner — as always, the blond head caught the light. He took the time, hidden as he was in shadow, to study Hutch for a couple of minutes. Then, all business, he came forward to greet him. “Hi. You usin’ some new kind of fuel additive?” he asked curiously. “Ain’t no way that heap should get you here before me.”
Hutch smiled a lazy, knowing smile and shrugged. “No, just a dose of megavitamins. Works every time.”
“Sure it does. Now, what the hell happened here?”
For the next half hour they sifted through the facts: A wino had stumbled over Snake’s body in the parking lot and had spotted a patrol car within a couple of minutes of his find. The body had been lying face down, a bullet hole in the middle of the back. All Snake’s ID and cash was still in his pockets, a flashy gold chain and ring still on his person. The coroner had told Hutch it was fairly obvious he’d been murdered somewhere else and dumped in the lot a short time later.
“That’s it, huh? Any chance Mayhew had him iced for singing? Surely he knows he becomes our Numero Uno suspect.” Starsky got to his feet, uncomfortably aware that his cock was rubbing against the inseam of his jeans. In his hurry he’d skipped his underwear, now he was going to pay for it. It was at that moment he noticed what Hutch was wearing. “Where in the hell were you when you got the call?” he demanded. “You look like one of those ads in After Dark!”
Hutch met his partner’s eyes. “Was just coming home from a date when I got the call. Wasn’t far away, that’s why I got here first.”
“Christ! Musta been some date,” Starsky said admiringly. “Can I borrow that jacket sometime?”
Hutch’s chuckle was genuine and relaxed. “Sure. Want the pants, too? My tailor’ll shorten them for you . . .” He glanced down at Starsky’s attire. “Was Mitzi pissed when you dumped her?”
It was Starsky’s turn to grin. “She still doesn’t know it. Sleeping like a baby.” He saw a flicker of something in Hutch’s eyes, then the fair lashes hid whatever it was. There was an awkward moment, then Hutch sighed. Starsky forgot about Mitzi. “You okay? Nothin’s wrong?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, everything’s all right. Maybe we can talk after we get this prelim stuff attended to. Let’s get going. I’ll meet you back at Headquarters.” He strode toward the LTD, looking elegant and out of place in the bleak surroundings.
Starsky watched his partner pull away, then headed back to his car. He sat wondering what Hutch wanted to talk about. Deciding he was wasting time, he switched on the ignition, swearing when he saw he was nearly out of gas. “Damn!” The last black and white had left the scene only minutes before Hutch, and in this section of town there wasn’t a single station open this time of night — the chance of being robbed was too great. He didn’t dare leave the Torino for the same reason, there wouldn’t be enough of the car left to put in a shoebox if he did. When an inspiration hit him he grinned; Hutch was going to be as furious as he was. He reached for the mike. “This is Zebra Three. Will ya patch me through to Hutchinson? He’s on his way back to the station.” He switched off the engine and waited.
Moments later he had the return call, and when he explained his plight heard Hutch’s exclamation of disbelief with something akin to wicked pleasure. “C’mon, just pick up a couple of gallons. I know you’ve got a can in your trunk. Zebra Three out.”
He sat back, rubbing the back of his neck, watching the various forensic teams at work. The big van housing their equipment was filled with everything from baggies to special vacuum cleaners. Once again he marveled at the way the Law worked its miracles. The average citizen never realized what it cost them when somebody was murdered. Anybody who died under suspicious circumstances was given the full treatment, no matter who they’d been. He felt a decided satisfaction in knowing that.
It was while he was sitting there that be saw a car pulling out from behind another building, heading toward the roped-off area. It was dark and gleaming, and he was willing to bet it sported customized license plates. When it cruised slowly by he got a good look at the driver. It was the kid who worked for Mayhew, but he couldn’t be certain he was alone. He ducked down, not wanting to be spotted, thinking it was lucky they d been in the LTD when that bust had gone down. Maybe he owed a debt to the old crate at long last. When the limo was past the site, he radioed, asking for a tail. Sitting back, he smiled grimly, wondering what Hutch would make of this news.
He didn’t have to wait long; Hutch pulled up and hopped out of the car, grimacing as he lifted the gas can out of his trunk. “You’re paying if I get grease on these pants,” was his greeting.
Quickly, Starsky poured the gas into his tank, relating the incident of Mayhew’s car, and his own actions. “I dunno if he was in the back or not — someone was — but you know those damn dark windows, can’t see a thing.”
“That was good work, Starsk,” said Hutch thoughtfully. “Why don’t we take a run over to Mayhew’s? Maybe we can beat FLASH home.” He glanced at the Torino, then at his own car, sighing. “I’ll leave my car here and we’ll take yours.”
Starsky hid a smile. “Yeah. Hop in, buddy, because I still have to fill my tank. We’ll use the siren if we get hung up.” He started the car while Hutch locked up the LTD, commenting evilly, “Don’t know why you wasted the effort. Even down here that thing’s a hunka junk.”
The look his partner threw him said volumes, but a slow grin made up for it. “I’ll have you know that tonight I was behind the wheel of a brand new Corvette. Black, cream leather interior . . .” His voice trailed away as he looked out the window.
Starsky drove silently, digesting the information and trying not to ask the wrong question. “Bet it cost a bundle. How much they soak you for it?”
Hutch shrugged. “For only one night — ah — wait . . .” He fished in his jacket. “Sixty-five bucks plus insurance.”
“Wow! Musta been some date. Hope she — uh — he appreciated it.” He didn’t look at his partner. Didn’t dare.
There was a quiet chuckle, then a moment’s silence as Hutch checked the radio to make certain the channel wasn’t open. “Oh, he knew it was a rental. I’ve had three different cars since we started seeing one another.” He paused. “He’s a nice guy, Starsk.”
Starsky trod hard on the accelerator, sending them careening around a corner. “Forgot I have to gas up. Sorry,” he said crisply as he pulled into an all-night Arco station. “Won’t be a sec.” He hopped out of the car, not wanting to examine his feelings now that Hutch had finally opened up a bit.
Filling the tank in record time, he paid the bill without a whimper, still puzzling over Hutch’s sudden frankness. Talk about lousy timing; between Snake’s murder, and the almost-too obvious appearance of Mayhew’s chauffeur at the scene. He leaned in his window, struck once more by how different Hutch looked when he wore such expensive clothes. Worlds apart. “Ya thirsty? There’s a milk machine over there.”
“No, thanks anyway, I’ll have coffee back at the station.”
“Your loss. I was gonna treat.” He grinned as Hutch shook his head, getting back in the car and turning the key. As he sped up Sunset heading for the Hollywood Freeway and points north, he hoped they could make up for lost time.
He was suddenly aware that Hutch was staring at him. Smiling, he turned his head so he could stare back. “All right, what’re you lookin’ at? My ears on crooked or something?”
When warm fingers brushed back his curls so Hutch could gravely inspect his right ear, Starsky fought down a sudden sense of panic. There was such tenderness in the gesture that it caught him off guard. For a wild moment he wanted the hand to remain there, tangled in his hair, bringing all the caring with it. He concentrated instead on his driving. “Well, what’d you find?”
“Oh, two things,” came Hutch’s very soft reply. “The realization I don’t see your ears more than once a year, and the fact I can see right through your head.” His eyes were as wide and innocent as a child’s.
‘That’s ’cause my thoughts are so pure they’re like air. It ain’t empty space up there, just because you can’t see anything.”
He cautiously allowed his glance to slide across his partner’s face, studying the strong features, so perfectly even they looked unreal at times. He knew every hair, every line on that face and loved them all. Just as Hutch must know my crazy face.
That was an idea. “If you had to describe me, how would you do it? Seriously, Hutch, no stupid answer, huh?”
What he wasn’t prepared for was the immediate response. Plus the knowledge that his partner was no longer looking at him.
“Easy. Dark curly hair, good forehead with dark curly eyebrows . . .” There was a twitch of the full mouth. “Next we move on to very dark blue eyes, and dark curly eyelashes. There’s a mole on your left cheek halfway between your mouth and nose, and another, smaller one to the right of your right eye. The mole on the left sometimes gets a dark curly hair in it — Ouch!” Hutch yelped as Starsky punched him, but went right on. “Lessee, now, you have dark curly hair that crawls in or out of your ears — haven’t made my mind up about that. And, if you don’t shave you get a face full of dark curly hair. Your whole damn body is just one mass of more dark and curly . . . getting darker and curlier as we go.”
Hutch turned to look at Starsky, eyes grave, revealing nothing. “Need I say more? I do? Well, to sum it all up, if I were asked to describe DMS in a few words . . . very good looking, with a great bod, besides.” He flashed a grin, openly teasing. “You’re so goddamned transparent, pal. I admit you’re a hunk, and both of us know it.” Then his tone altered, becoming uncertain. “But that doesn’t change the way I feel, you know. I don’t want anything to change what we have now.”
Starsky was at a loss for words. At first Hutch’s description had been light, his voice barely containing his amusement. But there’d been a note of . . . loneliness . . . of longing? No! Hutch had just said he didn’t feel that way, thank God, and he knew if he looked over at his partner the clear eyes would reveal nothing more. End of subject. Thin ice ahead — and they both knew it.
Traffic had thinned out gradually, until now — at the turn-off to Canyon Road — they were almost alone. Here, in the exclusive and reclusive abodes of the very rich, the Torino’s headlights picked up massed of flowering shrubs, some covering the small address signs discreetly posted as required by law. Bella Vista Way began at the top of a hill; it terminated at the home of Daniel Mayhew.
Starsky braked, pulling off onto the shoulder and parking behind a stand of young eucalyptus. He saw Hutch quietly slip a hand inside his jacket, heard the snap of the fastener on his holster, and repeated the action himself. Back to the business of being cops. He slouched down in the seat, reaching for the mike. “Zebra Three, requesting a ten-twenty-seven on a 1977 Lincoln Continental, license FLASH. I called for a tail about thirty minutes ago. Possible connection to a one-eighty-seven. Over.”
The response was immediate. “Patch through to Adam Six, Zebra Three. Over.”
Hutch leaned forward to hear the dispatch, one hand braced against the dash. His expression was intent as he spoke. “This is Zebra Three switching to private channel. Do you read?”
“Adam Six responding. We are 10-35. Hey, Starsky, where are you?”
“Just past the turn-off on Canyon Road. Whatcha got?”
“We picked up vehicle on Sunset heading west. Suspect stopped at a Thai beanery and was there for twenty minutes. Brought something out and handed it to someone in the back. Car is now heading north on the 101, probably in your direction. You want us to stick with them?”
It was Hutch who answered. “Only as far as Canyon, Peters. We want to know who’s in the back of that car real bad.”
“You planning anything? Need another unit?”
Starsky shook his head. “Nope. Maybe take a look around the grounds. Just wait until we contact you again — this channel.”
“Ten-four, Zebra Three. Will do. Adam Six out. Oh, one other thing . . .” Static broke up the transmission for a minute.
They waited, exchanging puzzled glances. Hutch opened his door, and took in a deep breath of the cool air.
“Are you receiving? The SI team said that some guy was real interested in Hutch’s LTD. Asked if it was a classic.” There was an audible snicker. “Adam Six out.”
Starsky smothered the urge to laugh at Hutch’s expression as he got out of the car. “Those goddamn slacks of yours can be seen a mile away. Stay in the darkness, will ya?”
Hutch glanced down, then ducked as headlights shone up on the main road. A car sped by, leaving the side road dark once again. As soon as it disappeared, he was off, streaking down the hillside, pale slacks the only part of him that was visible.
Just as Starsky opened his door, he saw another car, this one turning onto Bella Vista. “Shit,” he muttered, crouching down until the vehicle zoomed by. He hoped Hutch was out of sight. He was about to radio the black and white when he spotted it turning off Canyon, lights out. If Hutch had found a place to hide maybe they d get lucky and see who else was in Mayhew’s limo besides the chauffeur. He was joined by the two patrolmen, and the three of them waited in silence for Hutch to reappear. It was then he heard the dogs begin to bark.
***
Julius Penneman was met by Mayhew himself, and was led into what passed for a library. The few shelves held only business and law books, while scattered in an untidy heap across the desk were several well-thumbed hard-core porn magazines. Mayhew poured them each a stiff drink of bourbon, neat, before sitting down in a wine-colored suede chair. “Well, what happened? Sit down.”
Penneman allowed himself time to savor the booze, then met the piercing gaze. “Like a charm — just like you said. As soon as they found Snake’s body, Starsky and Hutch were called in.” He snorted his contempt. “Ya shoulda seen the yid tryin’ to hide in that damn red car of his. Hell, they’re both such clowns, it’s pathetic. Will ya listen to those damn dogs?”
“Shut up, Juli!” snapped Mayhew. “They put you behind bars, wise-ass, so don’t try to convince me how stupid they are. I want hard evidence that cop’s queer, and I want it soon! You got that? Leading them here gives you the chance to tail ’em when they get sick of prowling around. We’ve all got airtight alibis, so nobody can link us to Snake if we keep our heads. You were careful, weren’t you?”
Mayhew got to his feet, walked over to the window and pulled aside the drapes, flicking a switch to turn on the floodlights. “Dogs barking like that, I have to look as if everything’s normal.”
Sullenly, Penneman replied, “Why don’t you let Fury loose?”
“No. That dog’s not meant to be running around.” Mayhew frowned. “Sully was awfully quiet when you got here, he upset about Snake?” He poured himself another drink, expression thoughtful. “We may have to keep an eye on him, especially if he’s pissed because they . . . .” he smiled unpleasantly.
Penneman shrugged. “He’s makin’ it with half the town, Dan, so I don’t think he’s in mourning. Kid’s good — very, very good. Where’d you pick him up?”
The look Mayhew gave him was deadly. “He came legit. He’s one hell of a good driver. Has a real feel for cars.” He tossed off the rest of his drink. “Maybe he’s just frightened — by the murder itself. Not that Snake didn’t ask for it.”
“Yeah. Hell, he never even knew what hit him. You shoulda seen his body . . . looked like a pile-driver punched him.” The ex-con stared into his glass, not noticing the change on the other man’s face. “Yep. What’s more, they’ll never find the gun, not where I stashed it,” he boasted.
“What in hell’re you saying? I gave you five thou to get a hit-man! If you’re saying you pulled the trigger I’m gonna break your goddamn stupid head!”
For the first time Penneman looked uneasy. “Take it easy, Dan, there’s no way they can pin this on me.” He laughed, a short bark of a sound. “Like I said, they’ll never find the weapon.” He crossed his legs. “I needed the bread, that’s all. Sully won’t talk. He’s afraid to open that pretty mouth of his.” He snickered. “Unless there’s a cock around.” He looked slyly over at the still-furious Mayhew. “Relax. Just don’t ask me where the gun is. That way, if anyone pushes you to wall, demand a polygraph test. Whammo, you’re off the hook.” The man got to his feet, immeasurably pleased with himself. “Gonna have a little ‘chat’ with Sully. Perhaps he needs to be consoled in his grief.” Penneman nodded at his host and left the room, chuckling to himself.
Making certain Penneman was out of earshot, Mayhew began swearing, then reached over his desk, almost yanking the phone out of the wall. He punched numbers viciously, growing angrier when there was no answer. “Sully!” he shouted. “Sully! Get your ass in here!” Stupid cops still nosing around outside, and that idiot wanted to bed his chauffeur! What was the jerk thinking with? He waited a few more seconds, then set off to find the youth. He wanted the two cops, wanted them bad enough to pay plenty. If Juli became a problem, then he’d have to go the same way Snake had. This time he’d make his own arrangements. “Sully!”
***
Hutch crouched in the dense undergrowth bordering Mayhew’s property, wishing the dogs would shut up. It was impossible to move silently through the tinder-dry area, but from this vantage point he could see anyone entering or leaving the large, white house. Malibu lights marked the drive, and the ghostly figure of a rampant nymph rose from a tiny pool. He grimaced; the place was a monument to one man’s bad taste.
A twig snapped behind him, but he didn’t turn, he knew it was Starsky. “What took you so long?” he whispered, experiencing again a sense of completion which occurred only when his partner was near.
“Was talkin’ to Peters. Learned something real interesting, too. Remember when he said some bozo was askin’ about your car? Well, apparently the guy left in a big limo — guess whose?”
“How’d you find that out?” asked Hutch, impressed. He turned, acutely aware of his partner, and met a pair of gleaming, dark eyes. “When I asked for a tail Peters had the bright idea of radioing the forensics team and asking if they’d seen a car matching that description in the area where Snake was found.” He scratched his ankle, bracing himself against Hutch’s shoulder. “Damn! These stickers are killers!”
“That’s good police work,” Hutch said appreciatively, watching Starsky’s gyrations. “Anything else?”
“After Peters’ call, the SI decided to check out your car. Didn’t find anything. . . Lousy things are all over my socks,” he grumbled.
“Shhh!” Hutch hissed. “Listen — somebody’s yelling.” He edged forward, putting out his hand to keep his partner back, accidentally brushing against Starsky’s crotch. Snatching his hand away, he muttered, “Sorry. Hell of a time to cop a feel.” He froze when an outside light flooded the entire area. “What—?”
Moving quietly, Starsky drew his automatic, slipping off the safety. “Dunno, pal, but by my count there’s two, maybe three suspects in there. And, if they put Snake away, they’ve got nothin’ to lose.”
Hutch nodded. “Look . . . someone’s heading for the garage. I’ll try to see who it is. You keep an eye on the house.” He slipped out of sight, edging toward the back of the property, leaving Starsky crouched in the undergrowth.
Shut up, Fury! Here—” Moments later, Mayhew, followed by his young chauffeur, came into sight. They were arguing. “So what if you have tomorrow off? When I want to go out, you change your plans! You got that?”
The older man headed for the Continental which was still parked in the space behind the house. “Quit your sulking. We’ll be back in an hour, then you can watch your movie.”
Before Starsky could signal, Hutch was back. Together they raced for the Torino, reaching it just as the big car roared by. “Hurry, pal. The way that sucker’s traveling we’re gonna have to do seventy to catch him.” Starsky started the ignition and swung the heavy car around, sending dust and pebbles in all directions. “He’s on Canyon headin’ south . . . what’s over there?”
Hutch frowned. “This stinks, you know that? What do you want to bet we’re being suckered, my friend? Heh, these streets all lead absolutely nowhere!” He leaned forward, fist clenched, eyes slitted. “He’s up to something, Starsky. I can smell it — I just wish I knew what’s out of synch!”
Starsky nodded, speeding up when he spotted the limo. “Well, for what it’s worth, I agree. I can’t figure out where he’s goin’ this time of night . . . or why.” He drove skillfully, never letting the other vehicle out of his sight. “Talk about a wild goose chase,” he finally remarked. “We could die of old age on these back roads.”
“There’s no law saying you can’t drive around your neighborhood, nor is it illegal to sucker the cops — and we’re being suckered, pal, we’re being suckered,” Hutch said very quietly.
“Don’t suppose we can justify a stake-out, can we?” Starsky growled, turning down yet another isolated road. He let out a loud sigh when he came upon a wrought-iron gate and sign that said the rest of the property was private. The Continental was nowhere in sight. “Sonuvabitch!” He reached over to grab the mike, but Hutch stopped him.
“Don’t waste your breath. As of now, we don’t have enough to haul him in. Plus, he’d probably scream harassment, and be right.” Hutch settled back, folding his arms, digging his fingers into the soft cashmere folds of his jacket, mind whirling. “If you’re right, and there are three people at Mayhew’s — and two of them are Mayhew and his driver — who’s the third one? The guy who was so damn curious about my car? Or somebody else?”
He glanced over at Starsky and suddenly said, “Let’s go. I’ll call Metro and report us out.” He stretched, then rubbed his shoulder. “Your place is closer, can I bunk there for the night? I’m really beat.”
Starsky was silent. So quiet in fact that Hutch finally shot him a puzzled look. “Well, yes or no?” Then, hazarding a guess, he said haughtily, “Forget it. Just take me back to my car. I’ll head for the beach.”
“Keep your shirt on, I’m just tryin’ to work out the sleeping arrangements,” Starsky said as calmly as if Hutch hadn’t spoken. “Mitzi’s there, and if you think I’m gonna let you sleep with her, you’re crazy.” He waited until Hutch had signed them off before continuing. “I know you won’t attack my bod, Hutch, so don’t get snotty with me. And you’ll hafta wait outside until I make sure she’s covered up.” Starsky backed up, turning the Torino around as quietly as he could. “Probably gonna take us an hour to get outta this rat maze. Can you imagine bein’ drunk and tryin’ to find your house?”
Hutch grunted. “No. Can you imagine being sober and trying to drive down those ninety degree driveways? Gives me the creeps.” He shuddered and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Wake me up when we get to your place. After you get Mitzi decent, that is.” A smile curved his mouth.
How many times had they done this? How many nights had he been the one trying to steal a few minutes of precious sleep? Starsky gazed at his partner. The faint hint of Hutch’s aftershave drifted toward him and he drew the scent into his lungs. Like all the other odors, it was one he knew well, and one that Hutch wore better than anyone else.
When he finally found the far end of Coldwater Canyon Road, he sighed with relief. Speeding up, he wove in and out of the late night traffic without incident. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside his place and parked without disturbing Hutch. He left the lights on and ran up the steps, quickly letting himself in, striding silently into the bedroom where Mitzi lay curled into a neat, fetal ball. He tucked the covers solidly around her, kissed her cheek, and took blankets and pillow out of the closet. Closing the door, he tossed the bedding onto the couch, then went back outside.
He heard something scurry away, but couldn’t see anything. Hutch was sitting up, rubbing at his eyes, blond hair fluffed around his head. “God! What kind of spotlight was that?” he asked crossly.
Starsky stared at him. “What’re ya talking about? It’s only my car headlights. Oh, maybe a Land Rover with top spots went by. Come on, let’s get inside.” He locked the car, and, half-leading his sleepy partner up the steps, pushed the bigger man in with a word of warning. “She’s asleep, so don’t wake her up.”
“Was more like a flashbulb, come to think of it,” Hutch said thoughtfully. “Hell, I must’ve been dreaming.” He began removing his clothes, stripping down to his shorts, barely taking time to arrange blankets and pillow. “Night”, he murmured, “and thanks.”
“De nada,” Starsky replied absently, aware he hadn’t had a hell of a lot of sleep, either. He switched off the lights and tiptoed into the bedroom, sliding out of his clothing as he went. Mitzi barely moved as he crawled under the covers, trying to claim a bit of her warmth. He yawned twice, then fell asleep, hand not quite touching her back.
***
Long nails digging into his shoulder woke Starsky, and he saw Mitzi’s eyes, wide and full of fear, staring back at him. “What’sa matter?” he slurred, hoping to God she didn’t want anything physical this time of the morning. Glancing toward his window, he could barely make out the shapes of the trees.
Her body pressed harder against his as she shook his arm. “Davey, I smell smoke! Wake up . . . I think the hill’s on fire! ` She clambered over him, grabbing at her clothes, dressing with a swiftness that always amazed him. “Hurry! You know how fast these brush fires burn!”
Reason warred with his natural fear. “Don’t smell anything,” he replied. “Besides, this whole area’s watered nearly every night.” Just the same, he tossed the covers aside, getting to his feet with those automatic moves he used when his brain didn’t want to engage. He went to the window, opening it wide, staring out into the morning haze. It was already warm, but not from brushfires. Still, it didn’t pay to ignore Mitzi; she wasn’t the panicky kind. Afraid as she was, she was carefully packing her toiletries. He hid a smile; one thing about her, she was always ready to travel.
It was then he caught the faint, acrid odor of smoke, and snapped wide awake. It was coming from the front of the house — where Hutch slept. “Jesus!” he muttered. “You’re right, I can smell it now.” In three steps he was in the front room, staring as a thin plume of smoke filtered under the door. Hutch lay asleep, long limbs tangled in the blanket, hair drifting across the dark wool.
Swiftly, Starsky was at his side, shaking him awake. “Hey! We gotta little trouble, pal. Maybe a brushfire in the hills.” He saw Mitzi flinch and shut up.
Hutch, wasting no time, leaped off the couch clad only in his briefs. “Smells more like paper than brushfire,” he commented. “You got any trash out there?” Tentatively, he reached for the doorknob. “Well, at least it’s not hot.” He unlocked, then opened the front door. “What . . . ? Starsk, look at this!” He waved his hands to dispel the billowing smoke.
Starsky crowded beside him, staring down at a smoldering heap of newspapers, weighted down with several half-consumed charcoal briquettes. “Another five minutes and we’d’ve had a real fire,” he said grimly. “Who’s screwin’ around?” Angry, Starsky ran down his steps, checking the shrubbery. Hutch went inside, returning with a pan of water. He poured it on the coals, creating still more smoke. “Phew! What a mess!” he exclaimed. Kneeling, he lifted a charred section of paper by one damp edge. “Starsk?” he called. “You take the Valley News? Or did you forget to pay your paperboy?”
Starsky came back, shaking his head. “Nope, don’t read it, except at the check-out stand.” he stared at his partner. “What’s this all about, anyway?” He knelt down, examining the sodden papers. “Why’d someone try to start a fire here, when there’s all that underbrush around? Doesn’t look like the work of a firebug.” As he got to his feet, he noticed the smudges on Hutch’s shorts and grinned. “You got soot on ’em. Gonna file a claim for a new pair?” He poked Hutch in the chest, laughing when the blond grabbed his arm to keep from falling.
“Let’s go in before the neighbors talk,” Hutch said seriously. “Maybe one of them tried to incinerate you.” There was a note of concern in his voice that said he wasn’t going to be put off by any horseplay. Hand still on Starsky’s arm, he pushed him toward the door.
“Damn, I forgot about Mitzi,” Starsky said, leading the way back into the living room. “I’d like to get my hands on the jerk who did that.” He closed the door behind Hutch, shoving the bolt home.
Less than a minute later, the shrubs across the street parted and a tall figure stepped out, holding a camera equipped with a long range lens, He headed down the sloping street until he cane to a car parked at the curb. Ducking inside, in a matter of minutes he was coasting down the hill, switching on the ignition only after he was on the main street. “Your ass is in a sling, Hutchinson, and before long you’ll be checking the want ads.” He reached over and patted the camera. “But first, candy ass, I’m gonna bleed you of all your hard-earned money!”
***
The charred papers had revealed nothing. Outside of a few circled ads, the pages had proved useless in providing clues to the firebug’s identity. None of the neighbors had seen or heard anything, and in disgust Starsky gave up, devoting his time to Snake’s murder. It was connected in some way to Mayhew. He felt that in his gut.
While checking the files on the little sleazo, Starsky suddenly got another feeling — one that usually signified trouble. Looking up, he saw Hutch standing out in the hall, expressionless, but with eyes like narrowed daggers. A chill ran down his spine, and he got to his feet, hastily slipping the worksheets into their folder. When his partner looked like that something was horribly wrong, and Starsky knew he was needed. Pushing open the squadroom door, he silently joined Hutch, offering his unspoken support. Glancing down, he saw Hutch was holding a large mailing envelope.
“What’s up?” he asked finally, actually feeling the tension radiating off Hutch. “What’s in the envelope?”
“Nothing we can discuss here.” The blue eyes looked deep into Starsky’s. “I’m going to Huggy’s. In five minutes you follow. See if I’m being tailed.” Then he was off, striding down the corridor, head high, leaving Starsky to stare after him.
It was only a matter of minutes before Starsky spotted a green sports car pulling away from the curb. As he ran toward the Torino, he caught a glimpse of the driver, and frowned. Something familiar about the man. That fact was enough to occupy his mind while he tailed him. His partner was very deliberately drawing the man out and it was working like a charm. Whoever was in the car was so busy keeping an eye on Hutch’s erratic driving, he didn’t have time to see if anyone was following him. He slipped the snap off his holster, his amusement vanishing as he tried to figure out why Hutch was being followed. Until they found out, all he had to do was keep the car in sight.
The parking lot behind Huggy’s was full, and there was no sign of the LTD or the sports car when Starsky pulled in. He sat for a few moments, waiting for some unexpected movement. When he saw Hutch’s blond head bob up then down, he grinned wolfishly. “Gotcha, sucker,” he muttered, parking the Torino by the back door of The Pits. His elation was short-lived; Hutch joined him before he was even out of the car.
“He’s gone,” he said grimly. “Must’ve spotted you as he drove into the lot. Did you get a chance to call in his license?”
Starsky shook his head. “No. Where’d he go? What the fuck’s going on, Hutch?”
“First the registration, then we talk.” Hutch led the way to where the nondescript vehicle was parked, cautiously checking the cars on either side while Starsky jotted down the license. He looked up when Starsky swore. “What’s the matter?”
“This is a rental . . . a goddamn rental!” He aimed a kick at a tire. “Real fly-by-night outfit on Pico.” Then curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, “How’d ya know you were being followed?”
Hutch’s glance slid away. “Let’s get inside Huggy’s before I answer that.” He led the way to the back entrance. “Upstairs,” he murmured. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
“Just as long it’s lemonade, I’ll take anything,” said Starsky as he took the stairs two at a time. He entered the smaller of the two rooms Huggy used as a flop and office combo, settling into the most comfortable chair with a huge sigh. His comfort, however, was short-lived. He was certain he should know the driver of that car.
Hutch, after depositing two glasses of lemonade on the table, tossed the mailing envelope next to them. “Take a good, long look at these and tell me why I thought I was being followed.”
Starsky dumped the contents on the table, turning puzzled eyes toward Hutch when he saw the two pictures. “What the hell are these?” he asked, studying the two eight by ten glossies of him and Hutch on his front porch, totally naked, seemingly fooling around.
Hutch sipped at his side, glance unreadable. “Clever, aren’t they? Taken when we were out there looking at that goddamn little fire . . .”
“But we had skivvies on! We —” Starsky scanned the photos with a critical eye. “Hey! This ain’t my ass!’ He frowned at the implications.
“That’s not all. Read it and weep.” Hutch unfolded a sheet of paper that had been under the pictures.
“We know all about you, Hutchinson, and your cock-sucking lover. Your days as a cop are over.”
Starsky stared in disbelief at Hutch, who stood beside him studying the photos. “These are retouched. Nobody’s gonna believe this kinda shit. Besides, Mitzi will swear that nothing —” His protest died away when Hutch shook his head, looking at him with helpless fury.
“No. Can’t risk it. I’m not going to see you flushed down the john because of me.” There was no self-pity in the statement. “Hell, I always knew it was too good to last.” A faint smile appeared. “Not that your ass isn’t a lot better than that one. But before I hand in my badge I want this bastard! Besides, I think I know who’s behind this.” He took the note from Starsky, crushing it. Then he ripped the first picture into small pieces. “No use taking these around to any studio. It’s obvious they were done in somebody’s home.”
“And you suspect Mayhew, don’t you?” Starsky said suddenly, looking down at the remaining photo with renewed interest. “Lemme keep this . . . maybe the paper’s from a pack at his place.” He folded it and stuck it in his pocket before Hutch could protest. It was then that a new idea struck him. “If this guy’s been followin’ you, why didn’t he take shots of you and, oh, your friend?”
“That’s why I think it’s Mayhew,” Hutch snapped. “Because the pictures are of us. Obviously whoever this guy is, he doesn’t know about Harper —” He paused, then stammered, “Well, you-you know what I mean.”
But for Starsky the slip meant more than just a word. Harper? He tried to pay attention to what Hutch said neither but it was useless. Finally, he said brusquely, “Let’s get outta here and try to nail that mother.” Action was his only refuge, and as they left the bar he felt the return of an old pain. Heading for his car, he merely waved at his partner, worried that Hutch might see through his facade of anger, and glimpse the hurt . . . the betrayal. Harper. He hated the name. It sounded like money and position and expensive tastes. He drove on, awash in emotions, when another thought struck him. What if this unknown photographer really did know about Hutch and his lover and was saving other, more incriminating pictures if these didn’t work? Starsky wondered what his own reaction would be if confronted with shots of the two men locked in some goddamn passionate clinch. He found he hated this unknown Harper with a vengeance. “We’ll get him, Hutch, so help me, we’ll nail him.” In the rear-view mirror he saw the old LTD rounding the corner; Hutch following him back to the station. Trusting him to do what was right, willing to give up his career to protect his friend. “No way, partner,” Starsky muttered. “I ain’t lettin’ go that easy.” Not to a blackmailer, and not to some fuckin’ stranger named Harper.
***
“Can’t you imagine the looks on their faces?” Penneman slapped his leg. “Hell, by the time I get through with that blond bitch, he’ll be running for the hills.” He took a long swallow of beer, and sighed, looking around the expensively furnished sundeck. “Yet, sure got it nice here, baby.” He smiled at Mayhew.
Mayhew didn’t look convinced. “Fake pictures won’t convict anyone. So far I’m not really sure he’s even a closet gay. Hell, you said they didn’t sleep together when they went to Starsky’s place. If his partner isn’t his lover . . . well, somebody else is . . . and I want to know who.”
Getting to his feet, he leaned over the rail of the sundeck, studying the view. Then, turning, he said smoothly, “Don’t try shafting me, baby, for a few lousy bucks — like you did with Snake. You do whatever it takes to get this Hutchinson off the force.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Maybe we’ll have to find someone to come on to him. Or is he the faithful type?” He watched the light reflect off his pinky ring. “Well, what do you think?”
Penneman shrugged. “How should I know? I don’t think he’s like Sully, though — the more the merrier.” He shook his head. “Too bad the cop didn’t take a shine to him. He’d fuck Hutchinson at the drop of a hat.” He finished his beer, a calculating look in his eyes. “I’ve had it in for him and his partner ever since they arrested me, Danny, but I still wouldn’t mind a piece of that —“
Eyes glittering, Mayhew said sharply, “No way! Want to nail him for the real thing . . . not because a couple of cunts want to play games!” His voice dropped to a low and dangerous level. “Yet, find some lady who can tail that cop and not get caught, you understand? I’ve got a gut feeling he plays around on his days off.” Picking up his drink, he sucked noisily on the ice cubes. “If he’s as clever as I suspect, he may have another life entirely . . . and this cop stuff is only for working hours.” He looked at his companion. “I want him out of my hair, Juli, and soon.”
“Yeah, sooner than that, baby, you’ll see.” Penneman began massaging his groin. “God, I’m horny as hell! I got more action in the slammer. What say you and I take a break?” Juli pressed his hands around his genitals, outlining a rapidly hardening area. “Come on, Danny,” he coaxed. “Here’s eight inches just dying to lay you wide open.” He got to his feet, going over to stroke the older man’s hair. “Come on . . .”
The dark eyes looked Penneman over. “For old times sake, baby, then you get out of here and bring me that cop’s head.”
Laughing, Penneman ran his fingers through the wavy hair. “Hell, I’ll bring you his whole cock if that’s what you want. Bet it’s as gold as his hair. But now I’m gonna make you forget him, and we’re going to shoot for the moon.”
***
Starsky was bored. Usually on the weekend, he enjoyed his time off, but today was different for some reason. He’d cleaned his apartment, gone to the Laundromat, and had read the last chapter of LITTLE KNOWN FACTS ABOUT AUSTRALIAN FAUNA. Now, late in the afternoon with no ballgames to watch and no ladies to squire around town, he lay on his stomach, chin on his arm and eyed the telephone. What he wanted to do was call his partner and ask what he was doing. What he was going to do was lie here and stare at the phone until Hutch had had time to go out — if he was going out — and then call.
Sighing, he rolled over onto his back, feeling like he’d lost some part of his life he didn’t want to lose. He thought about the pictures and the note and scowled. Was Mayhew really behind some weird plot to blackmail Hutch? And if so, why? The cop in him chewed away at the question for a while, then, eyes flying open, he sat bolt upright, forgetting his boredom. Fact One: Mayhew wanted to force Hutch to resign so he was looking for a chink in his armor. Fact Two: He seemed certain that Hutch was a closet gay — but why? The night they’d forced Mayhew to help them with the drug bust nobody but that faggy little chauffeur so much as made a face at his partner. Fact Three: What’s-his-name must have convinced his boss that Hutch really was gay, and probably sleeping with his partner. In fact, it was probably Sully who’d set the fire and then taken the original pictures!
Eyes narrowing, Starsky got slowly to his feet. Maybe he should roust the little bastard from his digs and make him confess. Then he might be able to persuade Hutch not to resign.
It was hard to put into words what he felt for his friend. Love, trust, admiration — not to mention exasperation. Sometimes it seemed Hutch was just a big, gentle farm kid, and at other times he was amazed at how truly hard-nosed his partner could be. He scratched at his chin, ambling into the bathroom to shave off the day’s beard. As he lathered up his cheeks, he stared at his reflection. Not a bad face as faces go, he decided, but that was only because the sum of its parts added up pretty well. The ladies went for his hair and eyes, and he wasn’t stupid enough to deny they liked his body. He smiled, almost nicking his mole. How many times had he caught Hutch watching his ass and then shaking that blond head of his? He’d hated his looks as a kid, but between the Army and the demands of the department, he’d built himself a pretty good physique.
The razor glided down his cheek and he paused long enough to wonder what Harper looked like. Older? No, Hutch wasn’t likely to go for a father figure — not the way he occasionally talked about his old man, anyway. Younger? He carefully navigated past the mole on his cheek, flicking the cream into the sink. Yeah, that was a possibility but he couldn’t be certain. No, his partner was probably sleeping with someone his own age, someone who needed that sense of security Hutch gave off. His hand trembled, and hard steel nicked his lip. Actually, he always felt he had to protect Hutch. The man was so inclined to go off half-cocked when there was a cause to be found. He dabbed at the tiny spot of blood, then washed the rest of the shaving cream off his face and neck, feeling much better. A little aftershave and he was ready to hit the road; ready to find out about Mayhew’s chauffeur.
He was halfway down the front steps when the phone rang, and as he raced back he hoped it was his partner. “Yeah? Starsky here.”
“Well, that’s good, ’cause that’s the number I’m calling.” It was Huggy, chuckling softly. “And speaking of numbers, you’ll be glad to know that an old acquaintance of yours just hit The Pits.”
“Who?” responded Starsky abruptly, not in the mood for games. “Anyone I’d care to see?”
“That depends on who you got in mind. He was asking about your better half, if you get my drift.”
“Just the name, Huggy, come on!” But alarm bells were already sounding in Starsky’s head.
“One Julius Penneman, my friend. The sleezo who loves to squeezo the boys where it hurts the most.” His tone became querulous. “And just why is he so anxious to find out about Hutch? He know something we don’t?”
“Shit! I’ll be there in half an hour. Let you in on the latest. Hutch is in deep trouble.” Hanging up before Huggy could bombard him with more questions, Starsky looked up. He mused over what he was going to tell Huggy, deciding since he already knew about Hutch, the smartest thing to do was fill him in on what had happened in the last week.
He thought about calling Hutch, but knew he wasn’t going to. He wanted to talk to Juli privately — without his partner around. Maybe he’d stop by Venice Place later on . . . bring a pizza and some beer. Hutch’d like that.
***
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Lazily, Hutch rolled over, tearing his gaze from the vast expanse of ocean he could see from the window. Smiling up at the man who stood watching him, he answered. “Was just wondering why I don’t chuck everything and move in with you.”
Pale green eyes widened, then narrowed as Harper joined him on the couch. A hand ran over his shoulder, fingers splaying to grip his deltoid in a tight hold. “Any time you’re ready, just say the word.”
“Not that easy. There are . . . certain friends . . . who’d question my moving away . . . career-wise.” Hutch sat up, pulling off the towel which lay draped across his lap. “Besides, Laguna’s too damn far for me to commute.” He grinned, fending off ten very roving fingers.
Harper dropped a kiss on Hutch’s head. “So why don’t you relocate in Irvine? That’s twenty minutes away by freeway. I like to think about you being here every night instead of once a month — or whenever you can spare a day. Hell, Ken, I always feel like we’re sneaking around . . . you know, school kid stuff.” he moved down to sample the skin on his lover’s throat.
“Hmm, too much hassle to transfer everything to Orange County. Besides, I’m not crazy about this area.” Fighting to keep his mind on what he was saying, Hutch closed his eyes, only to have them kissed by that hot mouth. “What I’d honestly like is a place in Pasadena — the older section — big yard with lots of trees . . .”
“Jesus! You sound just like every lovesick faggot in the world!” Harper grabbed Hutch by the shoulders and shook him. “We can’t have that kind of life and you goddamn well know it! Quit dreaming, Ken, and accept what we can have.” He let go, making a sweeping gesture that encompassed the spacious room. “Why isn’t this enough?”
“Because I don’t want to move in as part of a business deal,” Hutch said softly. “N’that’s one of your big problems, Harper, you can’t see past your checkbook.” He got to his feet, ignoring his nakedness. “Sure I have a dream about a home, why shouldn’t I? And for the record I also entertain the thought of someone to love for the rest of my life. I don’t want a merger, I want —“
“A marriage?” interrupted Harper, lips drawn back in a snarl. “Look at you. You could sleep with half this state if you wanted to, work wherever you want . . . I wouldn’t care! All I need to know is that you care enough to spend a little time with me. Why isn’t it enough for you? We’re good, Ken, and you know it.” He threaded his fingers through Hutch’s hair. “Why do you wear your hair this long? Don’t your business partners say anything?”
The nonsequitor took Hutch so much by surprise he simply stared for a moment then began to laugh. “My partner happens to like my hair, any length I want to wear it. Just like I don’t give a damn how long his gets.” He moved closer to this complex man he liked so well, and touched the soft, brown curls. “What’s the matter? You seem awfully edgy these days.”
They embraced, Harper’s taller frame almost completely enveloping Hutch. “God, I am sorry, babe, I didn’t mean a word about hating story-book homes. Dream away.” Then, gently, Harper tried to maneuver his lover back onto the couch. “What you need is some good head and I’m just the person to give it to you.” He pressed his fingers into the hard muscles. “Don’t fight me, Ken, please.”
Giving in, Hutch lay back, watching as the brown head bent and the mouth began delivering everything it had promised. Yet, even as he cried out his fulfillment, a small part of his mind wandered. He did want a home and someone who loved him — someone who would hate it if he slept with half the state. As he smoothed back Harper’s curls, he imagined another face, and trembled at such dangerous thoughts.
***
It was six by the time Starsky found a parking place and entered The Pits. The crowd was composed mostly of regulars and he waved to several couples who occupied back booths. However, he was looking for a certain face, and not finding it, hurried to the bar. “Where’s Penneman?”
Huggy slid him a mug of beer before he replied. “He left about five minutes ago after makin’ two very interesting calls.” The tilted eyes met Starsky’s, and he shrugged. “Your blond brother must have made old Juli awfully angry.” He glanced around the room, then spoke rapidly. “He was talking to somebody about a tail, but got mad and slammed the receiver down. I heard him mention Hutch.” Looking straight at Starsky he asked, “So, you said he’s got trouble. What can the Bear do?”
Briefly, Starsky told him of Hutch’s admission, then the business with the fire and the photos. Huggy nodded, but said nothing, his slender fingers playing with the bar rag until finally he tossed it into the sink. “Damn! I’m as jumpy as a dude with a royal flush and the cops at the door.” He came out from behind the bar, beckoning for Starsky to follow him. “Now it makes some sense. The second call he made? He was asking someone to set Hutch up. Must’ve called one of the boys who gets paid for gettin’ laid.” Light ran in tawny color over his features, accenting the nose and high cheekbones. His eyes were unreadable.
“Someone’s tryin’ to bust him, Hug,” Starsky said wearily. “And I don’t think Penneman’s smart enough to plan this sort of operation. He’s more the ‘bust-your-balls’ type. We’re beginning to suspect Mayhew — that guy we collared a week ago? But we got no proof.” He looked around the room, and took a long swallow of beer. “Anything else? Names? Places?”
“The name Polidor mean anything to you?”
Starsky stared. “The female impersonator?” He fished in his pocket, tossing a couple of bills on the end of the bar. “Hell, he always means trouble . . .” He got out his car keys. “Thanks, Hug.”
“You know where he hangs out?”
Starsky was already halfway out the door. “I’ll find it. Oh, if Hutch drops by tell him about Penneman . . . nothin’ else. Ya got that?” As soon as he got into the car, he radioed the station. “This is Zebra Three going Code Nine. I need an address on Spyros Polidor, female impersonator. Past record on a Three-Fourteen . . .”
“Zebra Three, is this the guy who looks like Liz? Over.”
Starsky grinned. “Yeah, both Liz and Dick . . . Over.” He jotted down the address, shaking his head at the dispatcher’s warning about double dates, then headed toward Santa Monica.
A block behind him, a small gray truck eased slowly away from the curb, the driver following the Torino. Beside him lay a camera with a long-distance lens, and several rolls of film.
***
Dawn was a pale slash of apricot against a gray sky by the time Hutch and Talmadge reached the outskirts of Venice. While the forecast was for cooler weather, the announcer sounded doubtful. Still, with the ocean the color of silver, and the city lights flickering in the distance, it was a magic time. Hutch looked over at his companion. “I know what you’re thinking,” he half-accused.
Harper smiled. “Do you? Or are you simply being the egotistical bastard you usually are after we make love?”
“You can talk. You made your point, getting me to promise to spend my vacation with you.” Hutch changed the angle of the seat, almost reclining in the velvet upholstery of the Mercedes.
“If I truly have my way, you’ll move in with me, Ken. Then we’ll save all this driving back and forth.” He waited but there was no response. “You thirsty? Let’s stop for coffee.”
Sleepily, Hutch demurred. “No gutrot this early, please.”
The big car sped on, neither man speaking. Suddenly, swerving off the highway, Harper came to an abrupt stop directly in front of a small coffee shop. Despite the early hour the parking lot was crowded with campers and cars. Reaching over, he nudged Hutch. “Wake up, sleepyhead, breakfast’s on me.” He lightly brushed back the fair hair.
Hutch started, then paled when he realized where they were. “I-I don’t want anything, and besides, it looks as though we’ll have quite a wait.”
“So what? It’s Sunday, all day. Come on, Ken, I’m starved.” Green eyes pleaded eloquently. “Come on. At least you can keep me company.”
Hutch relented, trying to smother his apprehensions. “All right, I guess I’ll survive.” He got out of the car, hoping to high heaven the waitress who usually served Starsky and him was off. Deliberately, he headed for the rear of the dining room. He could feel the eyes of every single patron boring into his back, knowing who he was and ready to shout out his identity to his cop-hating lover. Mercifully, it only took a few minutes to get served.
Digging in with gusto, Harper demolished a stack of pancakes, sausage, and eggs, washing them down with three cups of coffee.
Hutch, busy with huevos rancheros, glanced out the window, and saw a black and white pull into a slot directly outside. He shot a quick look at Harper, who was busy eating. He watched the patrolmen enter the cafe, grateful when they took seats at the counter. Maybe all they wanted was coffee, and they’d be gone before he and Harper were done. His heart sank when he saw his lover’s annoyed look.
“That gripes the hell out of me,” commented Harper curtly, watching them. “These so-called public servants getting paid by us, taking time from their duties to sit around and drink endless cups of coffee — no doubt at public expense.” His right hand formed a fist, and Hutch’s hand shot out, grabbing the wrist.
“Look, I know how you feel about cops, but they have as much right to be here as us. Do me a favor and behave. Let’s not call attention to ourselves.” He grew angrier when he felt his lover’s resistance. “Don’t buck me on this!” he warned. “I’m in no mood for a confrontation this morning.” His tone must have been sharper than he thought, for the men turned to watch him, turning back to speak to one another after a moment. Quickly, he let go of Harper and began stirring his coffee, hoping all they would do was nod. Yet, deep inside, he wondered if the pretense was worth the effort. He was a cop and not ashamed of it — or so he’d always said in the past. What had he become? “I’m going to the john,” he said tiredly. “Meet you at the car.” He knew his lover was furious, but it didn’t seem to matter much. What did matter was leaving the cafe quietly with a minimum of fuss.
To his vast relief the men’s room was unoccupied, and he splashed water on his face, then combed his hair. He stared at his reflection; taking note of the expensive slacks and pale silk shirt so very different from his everyday gear. Shit! The law of averages had just caught up with him.
He couldn’t stall any longer, so he made his way back to the table, tossing down a couple of bills for the tip. The patrolmen were gone, but he could see their unit still parked outside, and he knew what was going to happen. There was no avoiding it — fatalistically he put on his sunglasses and headed for the Mercedes, and Harper.
“Hey! Hutchinson, wait a minute.”
Darting a quick glance to where his lover sat, eyes wide, Hutch slowly made his way to the police car. “Yeah? How’s it going?” he asked quietly.
“Not too bad. We heard about that bust you and Starsky made a week ago. Nice job. Say, where is your partner?”
He forced a knowing smile. “Weekend off. What do you think we do . . . live together?” Careful, Hutchinson, don’t say another word.
They laughed at the sarcasm, and as they pulled away, the driver leaned out the window, saying loudly, “You tell that partner of yours to get rid of the Torino. We’ve got a couple of car heisters over here who are lusting for that model. So long.” Nodding goodbye, they sped back to work, leaving behind one of their own.
Hutch said nothing as he slid into the seat next to Harper, but he felt the tension in the air. Still, he was unprepared for the sheer hatred in the look his lover gave him.
“You’re a cop! A stinking, lying, undercover spy! I ought to throttle you with my bare hands!” The features bore no resemblance to the charming, sophisticated man he really was.
“Please, let me explain,” Hutch began. “It’s not what you —“
The blow caught him off guard, splitting his lip and nearly causing him to hit his head against the window.
“Don’t say another word!” Harper shouted, turning on the ignition. “It’ll be more lies, won’t it? Christ, man, how could you?” Tires squealing, he shot out into the street, luckily still not too congested with traffic. Wiping the blood that stained his knuckles on his slacks, he ignored Hutch’s efforts to staunch the flow of blood from his lip. “I heard the cops were infiltrating just about everywhere, but I didn’t realize how far they were prepared to go to find out about gays.” The green eyes were slits of fire. “Do they know what we do? How do you write that up?”
“I’m not undercover,” Hutch said softly. “They don’t know about me. They think I’m straight.” He stared off into the distance, hating what was happening, yet finding a curious sort of relief it was finally over. Only one more job to do, then he would be free of all entanglements. Free. Except for Starsky.
Harper, still fuming, wasn’t listening. He drove like a madman, even running a red light. “Well, why don’t you give me a ticket, Officer? I just broke the law!” The brown curls were damp in the morning sun.
“Sergeant. I’m a Detective Sergeant, first class,” Hutch retorted. “And if you do that again, I’ll cite you so fucking fast your head’ll spin!” It was good to feel some emotion again. “And slow down, for Christ’s sake!”
Perhaps it was Hutch’s tone, perhaps it was the dangerous light in his eyes, but Talmadge did slow down and obey the traffic signs. Mouth set in a grim line, he refused to say anything more to the man he felt had betrayed him. “If I find out you’ve been using me to uncover information about others,” he said, “I’ll sue you, the LAPD, and anyone else who’s mixed up in this. And I’ll claim entrapment!” Pain put a cutting edge on his voice. “Christ! To think I actually asked you to live with me!”
“Don’t,” Hutch whispered, lip now swollen to twice its normal size, he rested his hand for an instant on Harper’s arm, but withdrew it when the other man flinched. “Sorry. Pull over here, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
There was a slight pause before Harper nodded, pulling immediately to the curb. He watched Hutch get out, then tromped heavily on the accelerator, defying the speed limit. In less than a minute the Mercedes was out of sight, leaving the blond man standing alone, staring after it.
***
Starsky glanced impatiently at the kitchen clock, wondering if Hutch was ever coming home, silently cursing his own assumption that his partner wouldn’t be spending the entire weekend with someone. He sat morosely on the battered old kitchen chair, surveying the remains of an avocado/bacon sandwich, a lukewarm can of Pepsi, and sighed. What did he want from Hutch, anyway?
He drained the last few drops of soda, then squeezed the can until it crumpled. It joined two others in the bag for the reclamation center. He didn’t know what he wanted any more, but lately all his denials about not caring who Hutch slept with were beginning to have an awfully hollow ring.
So, back to square one — what did he want from Hutch? There was nobody here to lie to, nobody who even gave a damn — except himself.
He got to his feet, carrying plate and utensils over to the sink, rinsing them off out of habit. As he dried them he tried to imagine how Hutch must feel with so much pressure coming from all sides. Deep down, he knew his partner loved him; maybe not sexually, but with a love far greater than anything he felt for anyone else.
He wiped his hands, and wandered into the living room, flopping down on the couch. So, the next question was, how did he feel about Hutch?
The resultant overwhelming surge of possessiveness startled him, but he was too honest to deny it. Hutch belonged to him. Plain, unvarnished truth, and he knew it. Knew also that he loved the tall blond with all his heart. He stretched out on his stomach, chin propped up on the padded arm, fingers idly stroking the satiny wood of the end table. This place was his second home, and Hutch was his other half — wasn’t that enough? Closing his eyes, he admitted that it wasn’t.
So, David Michael Starsky, what do you want from your best friend?
Something forbidden whispered softly in the back of his brain. No! Angrily, he pounded on the table top, sending the lamp dangerously close to the table’s edge. With a desperate lunge he caught it and set it upright, his fingers wrapped around the brass base . . . He felt a small, unfamiliar projection and turned the lamp around, inspecting it. He recognized it immediately: an inconspicuous microphone — a bug!
He stared in disbelief for a few seconds, then carefully removed it and went over to the sink, dropping it in a pan of water. Replacing the lamp, he began a thorough search of the apartment, coming across two more of the devices. The one in the bathroom had been planted on the side of the medicine cabinet so the noise of running water wouldn’t drown out whatever was said. The one in Hutch’s bedroom alcove had been predictably placed under the bed. They joined the first. Whoever had placed them was an amateur, of that he was certain, but who in hell was going to these extremes to learn about his partner’s personal life? He suddenly remembered he’d forgotten to search the little porch, so he went out there, getting down on his hands and knees to look under the daybed.
Starsky didn’t hear the door open and nearly jumped out of his skin when Hutch suddenly said, “What in hell are you doing?”
“Jesus! Why didn’t you say somethin’ before you came breathin’ down my neck!” Starsky exclaimed, getting to his feet. He took a good, long look at his partner, then said bluntly, “Who worked you over? Why?” But before Hutch replied, he gestured for silence, and headed for the kitchen, his partner on his heels.
Hutch sucked in his breath when he saw the listening devices in the sink. Pale with fury, he lifted each one out and crushed it under his heel. “So much for privacy,” he gritted.
“Yeah. The question being, who’s behind this crap?” Starsky eyed the swollen lip. “I hope he’s in worse shape than you are,” was all he allowed himself to say. “Siddown and let me do something about that lip.” He moved out a kitchen chair and pointed to it.
Hutch sat unflinching while Starsky wiped away some of the dried blood. “Way you’re dressed I figure you’ve been out with Harper. That right?” There was a savage anger in his gut, and he unexpectedly lifted Hutch’s right hand, examining the knuckles. They were unmarked. So Hutch hadn’t hit back — if Harper had done the hitting. “Gonna tell me what happened?”
“Nothing I didn’t deserve, so let’s forget it,” Hutch said evenly. “What’re you doing here, and how did those goddamn bugs get in my apartment?” He shook his head wearily, then pushed Starsky away with shaking fingers. “Lemme get out of these clothes. I feel like hell.”
He went into the bathroom, and Starsky could hear the water running in the sink. When Hutch emerged a few minutes later, he was dressed in old jeans and a tee shirt, his face scrubbed clean. Outside of the split lip, he looked like the person Starsky knew best.
He grinned. “Want some coffee? You look like you could use a cup.”
The blond head shook. “Not really. What I do want is to know what in hell’s been going on here! Fill me in, will ya?” He sat down on the couch and stretched his legs in front of him, fingers probing his lip carefully. When he looked up at Starsky his gaze was wary. “So?” he prompted.
Starsky perched on the arm of the big chair. “Well, while you were out, I got a call from Huggy. Seems our mutual friend, Julius Penneman, was slumming last night, an’ made a couple of phone calls from The Pits in which your name was mentioned prominently.” Hutch sat up, eyes flashing. “Rather more than a coincidence he chose Huggy’s to make the calls, wasn’t it?”
“There’s more. Huggy said that Penneman called Polidor, to see if any of the street, uh, trade was available for hire. So, I got outta Hug’s like a bat outta hell.” He smiled grimly. “This time I was followed.”
“No shit! What for?” Hutch looked surprised. “I mean I’m the one who’s wide open for blackmail, so why tail you?”
Starsky paused, shrugged, then said, “‘Cause sooner or later I always end up here, with you. Maybe that’s why.” He didn’t take time to interpret Hutch’s stare, but plunged ahead. “Anyway, I let the jerko think I hadn’t spotted him and went bookin’ for Polidor. He was real helpful . . . didn’t know a damn thing except he hates ol’ Juli s balls more than most. Wouldn’t help him with either a trick — or get this — with some muscle men.” His tone changed. “Hutch, Penneman’s workin’ for someone else. He hasn’t got the kind of money he was waving under Polidor’s nose.”
“How much?” Hutch asked abruptly.
“Ten thou, pal. And we both know Juli’s so tightfisted he squeezes pennies. When did he ever even see ten thousand bucks?” Starsky got to his feet, pacing the room, eyes flashing. “There’s money talking, and the only new money we’ve crossed lately belongs to Daniel Edward Mayhew.” He saw Hutch’s expression change, harden. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Remember when we checked Penneman out — when we found out he was paroled? His P.O. mentioned that Juli had become really proficient with a camera. That sure would explain those faked pictures, wouldn’t it?” He leaped to his feet and went over to Starsky, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What we have to do is find out if there’s any connection between Penneman and Mayhew, because if there is . . .” He grinned, then winced when his swollen lip cracked open. “Shit!” He let Starsky blot the blood once more, then muttered, “You said you were tailed, what happened to him?”
The dark blue eyes were hard. “I ditched him — but that might be why they bugged your place. I dunno.” He averted his glance. “Does Harper ever come here? I mean, do you . . . ?”
The look Hutch gave his partner was both withering and amused. “He’s been here to pick me up — but not to stay. And I don’t have to worry about him any more.” He turned abruptly. “So what do we do now?”
Very quietly, Starsky said, “First, I want to know what happened to you last night.” He sat down in the easy chair, crossing his legs. “And I’m not gonna budge until you tell me.”
“Yeah. Guess I owe you for finding those damn mikes. To put it simply, Harper found out I’m a cop.” Hutch made a chopping gesture. “The man hates cops, voila, no more relationship.”
“So why’d he hit you?’
“Because he thought I was undercover and might be a plant.”
“You shoulda told him, Hutch. That sucks.”
The blood nodded, but his eyes were cold. “It was none of his business what my occupation was. That part of my life is separate.” He smiled ruefully. “He packs a mean punch for a broker, I have to say that.”
Starsky shifted position, considering his next question carefully. “You gonna make things up with him?”
The blond head lifted, eyes meeting Starsky’s with cool disdain. “I hardly think either of us will relent.”
“What if you quit the force?” Starsky asked, watching for some sign of indecision. “Would you go back then?” He ran his glance over the lean figure, and felt like a man walking a very high wire.
“Starsky! The man hates all law enforcement officers! He’s paranoid on the subject . . . and no, I won’t go back.” He hesitated, then admitted, “I did give it some thought, but . . .”
Their eyes met and Starsky saw what he wanted to see; for the time being it was enough. He got to his feet, smiling. “Okay, enough questions for now. What say we make some plans so we can catch us a couple of skunks.”
Hutch grinned. “You ever get close to a trapped skunk, pal? Let me tell you the smell stays around a long time.”
“Maybe so, but I’ve got a hunch this all ties in with that slimy Mayhew, and Snake’s murder’s the tip of the iceberg,” Starsky said, noticing the fatigue settling on Hutch’s features, the line deepening between his brows. He knew he was pushing, but there was no way he was going to leave Hutch on his own today — and not because he was worried about what his friend might do. He stifled a very tiny flicker of jealousy.
The way he saw it, right about now Harper was sitting somewhere nursing a drink, looking at his buffed nails and wondering how in the hell he was going to get Hutch back. And, insofar as this curly-haired cop was concerned, that time was never going to come. The man had had his chance to make Hutch fall in love with him, and had blown it.
Which only proved what Starsky had known all along; nobody else understood how complex Hutch really was . . . what be liked, what he hated. Or what he wanted. So how could some stranger — someone his partner didn’t trust enough to tell he was a cop — expect Hutch to fall for him?
Starsky looked at the drooping lids with their fair lashes, and took a deep breath. “Tell you what,” he said casually, “why don’t you grab a little shut-eye while I make some phone calls? Maybe I can roust a snitch with a grudge against Penneman. Then, this afternoon we can do some skunk-hunting.” He raised an eyebrow, made like Groucho, and was rewarded with a dazzling smile.
Hutch came closer, reaching out with warm, strong fingers which curled around the nape of Starsky’s neck, the slid between his shoulder blades. “Don’t know about you sometimes, compadre, but thanks for caring so damn much,” he murmured, brushing his mouth against the dark curls. Finally, the fingers were withdrawn; he sighed very softly, and headed for the bedroom.
Starsky stood motionless, left with an aching need he hadn’t dreamed existed, still feeling the tender press of Hutch’s lips on his hair. Hutch had mentioned his caring as if he didn’t deserve all the love and support his partner could give. Well, he cared all right, and maybe when things settled down a bit he’d take the time to examine his own needs — right now there was work to be done.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hutch shedding his jeans. Tee shirt — flash of white briefs — gleam of gold skin; it was a scene being replayed for the thousandth time, never before as fascinating.
He went over to the front window and drew the shades, immediately cutting the glare. The large room looked far more inviting, restful, the shadows of hanging plants casting lace-patterns on the far wall. He could see Hutch sprawled across the bed, long legs tangled in the sheet, arm wrapped around a pillow. Starsky tore his gaze away, fished out his black notebook and began searching for the numbers he needed.
Thirty minutes later he wondered why life was so complicated. “Shit,” he said softly for the fifth time. “Where’n hell do stoolies go on Sunday?” He’d struck out with several of his most reliable snitches, plus, he was so damn tired he was falling asleep. From the other room came the muffled sounds of snoring and he formed a mental image of the sleeper. If Hutch would hang on a little bit longer they’d find out who was blackmailing him. And then take time for ourselves.
With renewed determination he dialed the last number on his list — and struck gold. After a few minutes of intensive questioning he was satisfied, and quietly replaced the receiver. He tossed his notebook onto the coffee table and curled up on the couch, asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
“Starsk? Wake up. It’s getting late . . .”
Starsky heard the words, but couldn’t struggle up from sleep. He knew he was dreaming, but he was so comfortable resting on Hutch’s chest he didn’t want to move.
Hutch’s chest? “Wha—?” He sat upright, rubbing his eyes, trying to deny the dream, especially since the man he’d been dreaming about knelt in front of him. “—time is it?” he finished, trying to sound reasonably alert.
Hutch looked into Starsky’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Almost four, can you believe it? I must’ve died.”
Taking refuge in a yawn, Starsky tried to cover his confusion. “Yeah.” But the dream was too fresh, and Hutch was too close. With a feeling of relief he spotted the little notebook and snatched at the chance to bring things back to normal. Reaching over to tap Hutch’s knee, he said quietly, “We got lucky, pal, and I found out who’s puttin’ Penneman up — or did when he was paroled.” Somehow, his fingers slid up the denim-covered thigh, seeking the warmth of the skin beneath the cloth. He stared down at his hand, hypnotized, his train of thought lost.
The mood was broken by Hutch shifting his weight, his thigh muscles flexing under Starsky’s hand, which was immediately withdrawn. “Where is he?” Hutch demanded, getting to his feet, fingers tugging at the dark curls, threading through them for a minute before drifting down to snag Starsky’s hand. “First we find him, then Sherlock, I’ll take you out to dinner. Or, we can always stay home and I’ll make a tuna casserole.” He stood still, looking expectantly at Starsky.
But Starsky was caught up in his partner’s appearance. Hutch had changed into new jeans and a clean shirt of pale blue plaid. He was all gold and blue, and the detective thought he was the handsomest man he’d ever seen. The Magnum’s holster, snug against Hutch’s side, lent him a dangerous air which was very compelling. He felt the hair rising on his neck and forearms, and it was suddenly very warm.
“Hey! Starsk! I asked you where he was . . . you paying attention? And do you want to stay here or eat out?” Hutch’s fingers tightened around Starsky’s.
Mentally shaking the cobwebs away, Starsky answered the last question first. “You gotta be kidding. Any time you spring for the check is the time I order steak!” He pulled himself up, nearly toppling the bigger man.
Hutch shook his head. “Well, that’s one question answered, now, where in hell do we find Penneman?”
He let go Starsky’s hand, and picked up the revolver, checking the chamber before pushing the weapon down into the holster. “Who fingered him, anyway?”
“I got lucky. I remembered that Annie’s kid brother used to have the hots for Juli long before he got his nuts cracked. So I took a chance, called her up . . . and she talked!” Starsky’s tone changed, growing serious. “He’s staying with Mayhew, Hutch.”
“Jesus Christ!” came the whispered response. “When did they meet? What’s going on?” Hutch followed Starsky into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded.
“Obvious, ain’t it?” Staring at Hutch’s reflection in the mirror Starsky saw the return of the vulnerability that made his heart ache. “We arrest Mayhew, he gets mad as hell. Snake sees the writing on the wall and spills his guts. Now, Mayhew’s gotta find a way to make the bust come apart, and we both know the only way to do that — especially now that Snake’s squealed — is to make it a bad bust.” He faltered, seeing the flare of quick anger in Hutch’s eyes. “I don’t think the idea to blackmail you came until after his chauffeur made some comment about you bein’ so sexy.”
He wanted to smile; Hutch was glaring at him, daring him to say what he really meant. “Relax, babe, I’m your best friend, so trust me.” Starsky washed the sleep from his face, borrowed Hutch’s razor to shave the stubble off his cheeks, then ran a brush through his curls, acutely aware of Hutch’s interested gaze. Pulse quickening, he teased the blond. “Dinner, huh? Is this a date?”
Hutch shook his head, but there was a gleam in his eyes. “Call it whatever you like . . . but don’t try your charms on me, handsome, I’m not that kind of boy.”
Rinsing out the sink, Starsky made a face. “The hell you ain’t! I saw the play you made for that little clerk in IA. No holds barred, she didn’t know what hit her.”
Hutch came up behind Starsky, their glances meeting in the mirror. “If ever the time comes when I make a play for you, I want you to know what hit you,” he said very softly. “That’s part of the fun.” He stepped back, all business again. “Right now I want to shake a tree or two and see what falls out. Let’s go find the connection between Penneman and one Daniel Mayhew. Maybe there’s something in Records we’ve overlooked about Mister Mayhew.”
“Yeah, well maybe old FLASH ain’t as respectable as he wants us to believe,” remarked Starsky, gratified by the startled glance Hutch threw him. “I’m always suspicious of anybody wearing a ring as big as his who doesn’t have some kinda record.” He reached out and ruffled the head of blond silk, grinning wickedly. “Come on, Lone Ranger, let’s ride into town and get the bad guys. Just remember you promised me a steak!”
They left in the Torino, checking for a tail, the memory of the listening devices still very fresh. Seeing nothing suspicious, they headed for Los Angeles, intent on obtaining something concrete against the elusive businessman.
A little grey truck several cars ahead didn’t even rate a glance, something the driver of that vehicle was counting on. He adjusted the volume on his recorder and waited. Dumb cops; never thinking about anyone bugging their precious cars.
***
The strident ringing of the telephone was irritating, but Mayhew surged to his feet and grabbed the receiver like a lifeline. “Juli? What the hell’s goin’ on?”
The voice on the other end of the line sounded a trifle too smug. “Don’t sweat it, Danny. I ran into a little trouble last night, but things are workin’ out now.”
“You’ve got five minutes to convince me, so talk fast,” was Mayhew’s only response as he propped the phone up on his shoulder. Sully lay asleep in bed, totally fucked out, and the older man grinned. Old Juli had laid his chauffeur for the last time. Even since Snake’s death, the boy’s fascination for Penneman had been on the rocks. He’d seen the expression on the young face and kept his peace . . . Juli was his own worst enemy. He’d decided to get rid of the ex-con as soon as he brought proof about Hutchinson; there was no way he was going to hang around after that. He listened as Penneman brought him up to date, swearing under his breath when he heard about the unsuccessful attempt to bug Hutchinson’s apartment. He was only slightly mollified when he learned that Juli had planted a mike in the Torino, and was waiting for them to come out of the station. He frowned when Penneman admitted all the cops had talked about was their suspicions concerning Juli and him. Damn! He’d worked too long and too hard to lose it all now. He knew some cops never gave up once they were on a trail, and he couldn’t afford to have them digging too far into his past.
He came to a sudden decision. “Listen. I’ve got a hunch they’re getting too close. You don’t let them out of your sight — not for a minute! And if they get ready to move . . . well, you know what to do.” He waited a beat, then added, “Remember, your ass is in a sling, too, so don’t cross me. I know too damn much, baby.”
Sully turned over, his slim body curling around the pillow. Mayhew waited until he was still, then said, “If they head out here, let them come. I’ll let Fury loose this time.” He hung up without saying goodbye, forgetting about the sleeping Sully. Over ten years since he’d killed anybody . . . and now those two clowns threatened his whole operation. Damn!
***
The air in the Records and Information room was always musty, and Hutch sneezed for the fourth time in as many minutes. Whenever Starsky brought out a new batch of files he sneezed. Still, being alone with his partner did have its advantages. For one thing, no one was likely to disturb them on a Sunday afternoon. For another, it gave him a chance to observe Starsky at his best, without being on guard all the time. Right now, kneeling on the floor, that enticing rear end angled just right for a private viewing, that long sweep of back arched to show off the broad shoulders, the narrow waist . . . what more could he ask for? A small voice told him in no uncertain terms, but since he was used to ignoring the little bastard it was all right.
Hutch wished he was a chameleon; one turret eyeball could read the files, the other would be permanently watching his partner. He smiled to himself, and went back to enjoying the view.
“Find anything?” Starsky asked in disgust, he struggled to his feet, knees cracking, and moaned. “God, why’re all the files we want in the bottom drawers? I’m too old for this shit.”
Hutch nodded his agreement, thus earning a dirty look. “Just be glad what we want isn’t on microfilm, we d be here until next winter.” He turned back to reading the files. “Here’s where we have to start: Penneman’s first conviction was in the fifties. What we need is any reference connecting Mayhew to him.”
Starsky grunted. “One good thing, Penneman’s been in jail so much his file’s up to date. And, he’s one of the good ol’ boys . . . likes to keep in touch with all his old buddies.”
“Be nice if we could connect them to Snake, too, but I’ve got the feeling Mayhew was as slippery then as he is now.” he tossed aside the folder, reaching for another. “What we need is more than a casual connection, so let’s keep digging.”
Except for an occasional sigh, there was no further conversation. File after file was scanned then discarded, the pile shrinking ominously as the afternoon wore on. At seven o’clock Starsky looked worriedly at Hutch.
“What if we don’t find something? You still gonna quit?”
“I don’t know,” Hutch said honestly, “because I don’t know what kind of evidence this person has. If I can save my ass I will. If I can’t, well, it’s been the best of times, hasn’t it?” He heard his voice falter, and grow steady again. “I don’t want to leave, pal, but there’s no way —“
“There’s always a way!” Sapphire blue eyes flashed a message of courage and love across the table, more eloquent than words.
Hutch smiled. “Keep looking, partner. I’m not giving in yet.”
At precisely seven forty-eight p.m. Starsky let out a triumphant yell. “Sonuvabitch! Hutch, we got him!” He leaped to his feet and did a war dance around the long table, coming to a halt beside Hutch.
“All right, you gonna let me in on the good news or do I sweat it out? What’s the connection?”
His partner, beaming from ear to ear, shoved a dog-eared file toward Hutch. “Gaze at that sheet . . . and read the names out loud.”
Hutch sucked in his breath, scanned the rap sheet quickly and found himself racked with fine tremors. Nearly eleven years ago, a much younger Julius Penneman and two companions had been picked up for questioning about a murder. Witnesses had placed them near the location, but there hadn’t been enough to hold them. The other suspects’ names were: Angel “Snake” Moreno, and Edwin N. Daniels.
“Get me Daniels’ file!” Hutch snapped. “Maybe there’s more on the bastard . . . and we better make absolutely sure the IDs match.” He looked into Starsky’s shining eyes. “Now we’ve got a motive for Snake’s murder, don’t we? He sang once, and they couldn’t afford another aria. Damn!”
By eight o’clock, Captain Dobey’s desk was piled high with files. Clipped to each one was a note in Starsky’s or Hutch’s handwriting. On the very top folder, Starsky had drawn a huge happy face.
***
The sky was as blue as only an October sky can be. And, for the first time since summer there was a new crispness in the air. Hutch sat back, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. The sun had just crested the hills but in this affluent spot the only signs of life were those of workers; the wealthy, for the most part, slept in.
“Don’t know why you wanted to wait until morning to pay a visit to Mayhew,” Starsky remarked as he turned down Bella Vista. “And I sure as hell don’t like the idea of you seeing that clown without me along.” He cast a jaundiced eye at his partner, noting the nervous tension which fairly radiated off Hutch even with his eyes closed.
“Morning’s better because we can see what in hell we’re doing!” came the answer, “and Dobey agreed we could try the ‘desperate cop’ routine, Starsk. So give me a few minutes alone with Mayhew. I’ll offer him some dough, then go so far as to suggest I pass on tips of raids, you know. If he tries anything, you can save my ass.”
The words were brave, but Starsky paid little attention to them. The idea of Hutch going in alone bothered him more than he cared to admit. Setting up the businessman was one thing, Julius Penneman another. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” he said seriously. “And give me time to get down the hill and into position, will ya?”
He managed to pull the Torino far enough off the road to be certain no one could see it from either direction. As soon as he switched the engine off, Hutch sat up, face set in tense lines. He checked the Magnum, slipping the extra bullets into his pockets. As usual, he spun the barrel, making sure there was one bullet in the chamber.
“Don’t drop it, you’ll shoot off your foot,” commented Starsky. He d been trying for years to get Hutch to switch to an automatic, but his friend preferred the bigger gun.
Hutch just smiled, then opened the car door, easing himself out into the sunlight. A faint breeze caught at his hair, and as he bent down Starsky leaned over. “Thanks for dinner,” he said, watching the clear eyes widen in surprise, and laughter curve the full mouth. “And when this is over, we’re gonna have a long talk.”
Hutch reached in, placing his hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “We’ll see. Wish me luck.”
“Wait!” Starsky said urgently, covering the strong fingers before they could escape. “I mean it, Hutch. I-I need to talk to you.”
“I know,” came the soft response. “Tonight, okay? Listen, you radio the back-up as soon as I’m out of sight. Give me at least five minutes.” The hand was withdrawn, and with a nod of the blond head, Hutch was gone, racing down the footpath that curved behind the hill.
As soon as he could no longer see him, Starsky lifted the mike, grumbling when the cord tangled on itself. “Zebra Three,” he stated, fiddling with the wire, “Officer is on his way to suspect’s house. Requesting you move into position in five minutes. Go in on Code Three, no sirens — I repeat, no sirens! Zebra Three out.” He slid down across the seat, trying to untwist the cord, reaching up to pull it out. He frowned, focusing on an inconspicuous button of metal that looked vaguely familiar. His blood ran cold when he recognized it, and realized its implications. Stunned, he stared for a moment longer then ripped it off the radio. Twisting around in the seat, he heard the sound of a car approaching at tremendous speed, and knew instinctively it wasn’t a police unit. There was no time to warn Hutch, so his best bet was to try to stop whoever was racing down the road. He heard the squeal of tires as the vehicle tried to take the curve, and he yanked his gun from its holster, releasing the safety just as the car came into view. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed upon recognizing the grey Datsun that had followed him before.
Starsky got off one shot, trying to take out a tire, then realized the driver was slowing down. He saw Penneman’s leering face over the muzzle of a gun and fired again. As he ducked, there was a sharp bang!, a moment of searing pain, and his world suddenly turned red. He stared blindly out the window, then slowly slipped into darkness.
***
Mayhew paced restlessly back and forth in his bedroom, checking his luggage for the fourth time. Sully was off getting the Cougar serviced, but where the fuck was Juli?
After his urgent call of last night, informing him of Starsky and Hutch’s success in linking them to the old murder, he knew he had no choice but to cut his losses and run. Juli had convinced him of that. Cops were like leeches, and he had no desire to be sucked dry by the LAPD just because he wanted revenge on one of their own. Better to get out while he still had his freedom.
Their plan was to leave the country for the time being, set up new identities in Brazil, and live off some of the money he’d salted away in Swiss bank accounts. Penneman was supposed to be arranging their transportation out of the country, damn him, and should have been here an hour ago.
A faint sound made him whirl around and he found himself staring down the barrel of a very big gun. Shocked, he looked up into a pair of blazing blue eyes. It was Hutchinson. He stood stock still, fear leaving him speechless. “How the hell did you get past my dogs?” he finally blurted out. “You’re trespassing on private . . .”
A piece of paper was waved under his nose. “Search warrant, Mister Mayhew — or Daniels — and a warrant for your arrest as well.” The paper was folded, neatly tucked into Hutchinson’s pocket, and still the hand holding the cannon never wavered. “Now, let’s talk.”
Watching the younger man perch on the arm of the chair, Mayhew recalled something Penneman had said last night. The cops hadn’t discovered the bug and were unaware their plans were known. He smiled to himself; if his luck held he’d have his revenge and still get out of the country. “You can put the gun away, I never carry one.” He went over and sat down on the edge of the bed, curiosity getting the better of him. “How did you get past my dogs?”
The Magnum lowered, coming to rest across the cop’s thigh. “Some kind soul must’ve put them back in their pens.” He got to his feet, and with quick strides explored the room, making certain they were alone before he came back.
Mayhew was intrigued in spite of himself. The cop was beautiful; an uptight, menacing kind of beauty it was true, but still gorgeous. “So what do you want?” he asked conversationally, stalling for time. He fiddled with his pinky ring, but the cop never even looked at it, so he quit. The contempt in those blue eyes was disturbing.
“A little information, first of all. Did you take those pictures?”
Mayhew laughed, deciding he might as well play his part to the hilt. “Yes. What’d you think of them?”
“Are there any more?” came the steely response; the huge gun now aimed straight at the businessman’s heart.
The older man was suddenly afraid. “No,” he whispered. “Please don’t shoot.” He was afraid to take his eyes off the long fingers that held the Magnum.
“For your information, Mayhew,” said Hutchinson, “Starsky and I don’t sleep together, so you could have had us followed until Doomsday, and not gotten anything.” He smiled coldly. “Penneman always was a bungler, though — too bad you’ve stayed in touch all these years. Where is he, by the way?”
Hutchinson had stated his own sentiments so perfectly that all he could do was nod. “Mind if I get a drink?” he asked, waiting for a nod before he got to his feet. He walked over to the wet bar at the far end of the room, and poured himself a stiff three fingers of bourbon. Turning around to drink it, he raised his glass in a mocking salute. “Where’s your partner?” he asked after he emptied the glass. “Still parked up on the hill? He should be here with you, shouldn’t he? I mean, isn’t that what partners are for?” He raised his voice, approaching the cop with his big gun, and big blue eyes.
Before Hutchinson could answer there was the sound of a vehicle screeching to a halt in the driveway. Running feet pounded along the asphalt, and Mayhew heard his name shouted. “Danny! Hey, Danny!”
Immediately Mayhew spun around, looking to see what the cop was doing, but he was gone. “I’m in the bedroom!” he shouted, hurrying toward the hallway. “What’s wrong?” In some deep recess of his mind he wanted to watch the two men kill each other so he could walk away Scott free. But when he saw Penneman`s expression, the fear in his eyes, he knew something bad had happened.
“I just killed Starsky!” he gasped. “We gotta split. He called for back-up just before he found the mike! They’re waiting for Hutch’s signal!”
Cold fury swept over Mayhew, and he struck Penneman a hard blow to the side of his face. Now there would be cops swarming all over the place, led by the big blond. And where the fuck was Hutchinson? He yanked back the curtains, seeing only the open door leading to the sundeck. The cop was nowhere in sight.
When he turned back to face his friend, he had his temper under control. “Why’d you ice the cop, Juli? Where’ve you been? We could be out of the country by now, you stupid ass.” He shut up, warily watching the bigger man as he prowled around the bedroom. On his guard now, he wished Hutchinson was still behind that curtain.
“Where’s the cash, Danny?” came the almost gentle response. Penneman glanced toward the two suitcases and smiled. “All packed, and little candy-ass is getting the car filled for a quick getaway. Better and better.” The tone changed, hardened. “Open the safe, baby, and dump the money into this.” He held out a plastic bag. “Get a move on, Danny. You got exactly two minutes.”
It was like a bad dream, Mayhew decided; you want out, yet are somehow trapped by your inability to wake up. Like a sleepwalker he went over to the safe, sliding the picture covering it to one side, then spun the tumbler. The door opened easily, and he heard Penneman suck in his breath as the safe’s contents were exposed.
“The jewelry! Dump that in the bag, too. And a kilo of the white stuff!” He sounded like a kid at Christmas, but there was nothing childlike in the eyes. Mayhew complied, filling the bag in less than two minutes. “Anything else?” he asked sarcastically, holding out his hand. “Want my ring?” That was a joke; Penneman had lusted after the huge stone since he’d bought it almost ten years ago.
“Maybe,” said Penneman. “I thought Hutchinson would be here, where is he?”
Mayhew gambled. “Gone. Must’ve heard what you said about killing his partner and got the hell out of here. Speaking of which, we’d better go down and wait for Sully. He’ll be back in a minute”. He went over to pick up the suitcase.
“Sit down, baby,” Juli said, lifting the .45 automatic and pointing it at the other man. “You ain’t going nowhere.” He ran his fingers across the gun’s snout. “Beautiful weapon, this. Belongs to Sergeant Starsky. Very efficient.”
Gambled and lost, Mayhew thought calmly. He had never trusted the man; why should he be surprised? “Hutchinson said they weren’t lovers, but that doesn’t mean he won’t hunt you down.”
Penneman ignored him. “Look at this barrel, baby, shoots a bigger bullet than that Magnum Hutch totes around. Just imagine suckin’ this cock, eh? Come on, baby, a little head for the .45?” Obscene laughter gurgled up from Penneman’s throat as he forced the gun closer to Mayhew’s mouth.
If he had to die, it wasn’t going to be sucking a goddamn gun! Mayhew reached up and knocked the pistol away. “Kill me, Juli, but don’t act like a fag all the time! Just goddamn shoot me and get out! God, I hate you!”
Penneman leaped to his feet, face pale with fury. He aimed the gun at Mayhew’s head and squeezed the trigger, laughing when the body jerked as the skull was blown away. “Always thought you were smarter than me, didn’t you? Well, you ain’t any more, baby!” He emptied the entire clip before he stopped.
***
There were bells ringing somewhere, and a very large truck was driving back and forth over his head. Starsky groaned, rolling over in the front seat trying to get rid of the damn thing. Fingers, shaking but obedient, searched through his curls, finding at last a very tender groove where Penneman’s bullet had left its mark. “Shit!” Starsky exclaimed, struggling upright, only to discover the truck was gone and in its place was a huge drum. He’d been creased before, but never this severely. How long had he been out? He opened his eyes, astonished to see it was still early morning.
Hutch! Jesus, their plan called for Hutch to have five minutes alone with Mayhew, and that was all. Penneman had tried to kill him and no doubt had gone down there, gun blazing, and Hutch was all alone against both men. Fighting the vertigo that threatened to send him back into limbo, Starsky managed to unlock his door, ignoring the blood spattered on the dash and windshield. He leaned heavily against it, righting himself shakily. Reaching inside his jacket, he was horrified to find that his gun was gone. Penneman! Hutch didn’t have a chance in hell against the .45. Then he remembered the black and whites awaiting the word. Groaning when he changed position, he leaned across the seat and called in, summoning down the two units. Let them take the house, he was on his way to find his partner.
He staggered across the small ditch, then made his way up a low embankment, beginning a slow and painful climb to reach the crest of the hill. Juli thought he’d killed a cop, and that meant Hutch didn’t stand a chance because the ex-con would undoubtedly go into the house, eager to finish the job.
Starsky sank down to catch his breath, pressing his left hand to his eyelids. Hutch would be counting on him to be there, backing him up. He didn’t dare think about what was going down, or what he’d do if he was too late. It took all his willpower to stagger to his feet, ignoring the tumbleweeds with their thousands of stickers, cursing steadily when one shoe worked loose in the soft dirt around a gopher hole. Blood was seeping across his forehead, and impatiently he wiped it away. Hutch needed him and he couldn’t even find the strength to yell a warning, for Christ’s sake.
He sank to his knees, dizzy again, and heard what he dreaded most. One shot, coming from the house. It was followed by a volley — all from the same gun — his. There’d been no answering boom from the Magnum, and he knew then his friend was either dead or mortally wounded.
“Hutch . . . Jesus . . . ah, babe.” Slowly he lay down, head resting on his hand, the drum pounding again. There was no need to move, no need at all.
***
The words had no sooner left Penneman’s lips than Hutch was on his way, racing back to the Torino. Starsky couldn’t be dead, had to be alive. Let the bastards try to escape, if anything had happened to his partner, he’d hunt them down like dogs.
He vaulted the fence, then scrambled up the hillside, taking the shorter, steeper way. He grabbed handfuls of the dried grasses, ignoring the stiff blades that slashed his palms like razors. Penneman’s words rang in his ears as he clambered higher, scaling the face of a large boulder. God in heaven, why hadn’t he admitted how much he loved Starsky? Why hadn’t he told him the truth? Always hiding behind lies, always denying what everybody else saw.
Just as he came to the crest of the hill, he heard shots from below. A wave of nausea engulfed him; it sounded like Starsky’s .45, which meant Penneman must have taken it off his partner. He pulled himself together and climbed up over the crest, chest heaving from lack of oxygen. Kneeling, he scanned the gentle slope that led to the road, seeing no sign of life at first.
Cautiously, he got to his feet, spotting a dark blur of color partially hidden behind a mesquite bush. His heart began to pound furiously as he identified the blue and white shoe that lay almost directly in front of him. Eyes misting, he reached down and picked it up, holding it against his shirt. “No . . . ” he whispered brokenly, eyes fastened on the half-hidden shape. It wasn’t possible he was too late. “Please, not now.”
He ran the last few feet, glance devouring the sprawled figure. Tenderly, he touched the sock-covered foot, fitting the shoe back in place, “Never thought of you as Cinderella,” he murmured, gathering his partner to him. He examined the blood-streaked face, the matted curls, and rocked the limp body back and forth for a moment or two, dropping kisses on the dirt-stained brow. There was no response.
He stopped suddenly, arms clasped around the warm body — too warm, in fact, to be dead. “Jesus!” Hutch quickly settled Starsky back on the ground, running his fingers over the bleeding head wound. He bent down, pressing his ear to Starsky’s chest, and heard the strong, steady beat of the heart. Very carefully he examined his partner for other wounds, finding none.
With a fierce joy he once more drew Starsky into his arms, murmuring forbidden words into the dark curls. “I love you — always have. Never dared think about it. Oh, Starsk, it’s no use . . . no use . . .” Tears blurred his vision as he pressed his lips to Starsky’s forehead. “So damn beautiful . . . ” he said softly, touching the thick lashes with one finger. “Never wanted anybody the way I want you. Never loved anybody as much as I do you.” Lashes fluttered, signaling returning awareness, and Hutch struggled to become merely Starsky’s partner again. “Hey, you going to wake up?” he asked gently, lifting one limp hand and bringing it to his lips. “Come on, Starsky, time to join the living. Can you hear me?” He couldn’t bring himself to let go, not yet. “Starsk! It’s me —”
“Don’t yell. Just gimme a sec to find my head,” came the slow rejoinder. Starsky’s fingers closed over Hutch’s in a firm grip, preventing the blond from pulling away. “You did say the living, didn’t you?”
“Sure. Do I look like a ghost?” He smiled down at the head nestled in the curve of his shoulder.
Deep blue eyes opened; long lashes cast shadows on dirt-smeared cheeks. They surveyed Hutch gravely, naked hunger in their depths. “You look like something the cat dragged in,” he said hoarsely, struggling to sit up. “I thought he’d shot you. Thought I’d lost you.” The words were spoken from the very bottom of Starsky’s soul. “I wanted to die, Hutch.”
Remembering the pain and bleakness he’d just experienced himself, Hutch squeezed Starsky’s hand. “I heard Juli say he killed you, and . . . ” To his horror he felt tears running down his cheeks. “Shit!” he said angrily. “This is stupid!”
“No, it’s not. Not to me, anyway,” Starsky replied slowly. “Because I felt the same way before I passed out.”
Hutch put his finger to Starsky’s lips. “Shh. First things first. I take it our back-up is somewhere nearby?” He stood up, ignoring the burrs and stickers clinging to his jeans. “Look, I want to call them, let ’em get down there — I heard shots just a few minutes ago — “
“My .45,” Starsky said grimly.
“Yeah, and you need something done for that head wound.” His fingers smoothed back the curls, exposing the seeping furrow. “You be okay until I get back?”
Starsky closed his eyes, turning his face into Hutch’s shirt. “Yeah, but hurry back. I don’t feel all that good.”
Carefully, Hutch drew away, then raced back to the Torino to give the order to surround Mayhew’s property, wondering what they’d find when they got there.
***
Penneman hefted the bag with the safe’s contents over his shoulder. He’d gone through the house, grateful for Sully’s absence, leaving enough clues around about Danny’s murder to confuse Sherlock Holmes himself. Starsky’s gun lay hidden in the bottom of Sully’s laundry hamper, and Danny’s big diamond ring was buried in the sand in the fish tank. He’d showered in the chauffeur’s bathroom, washing away tiny parts of Danny that would collect in the trap. Now, grinning at himself in the mirror, he stopped long enough to pour himself a long drink.
The man grinning back wore a uniform, boots, and a cap. All he needed were Sully’s ever-present sunglasses, then he could make certain the neighbors saw him driving up Bella Vista and onto Canyon. Since today was the day the Cougar went to the carwash, he’d take that car. He chuckled; whoever found it could pay for its next shampoo — he wanted witnesses to swear pretty Sully had been in the neighborhood about the time Danny was iced.
If he was curious about anything, it was about the blond cop. Where in hell was he? Maybe crying fag tears for his partner, maybe waiting somewhere to ambush old Juli, but he doubted it. In fact, he was just too smart for them, from Snake on down.
He hurled the half-empty liquor glass against the wall and picked up the car keys, barely glancing at the rapidly stiffening corpse lying to his left. “So long, baby,” he said offhandedly. “Thanks for the bonus.” Like a deckhand he set the bag high on his shoulder and headed for the garage. The uniform was too small, but he’d soon be out of it.
The garage door was unlocked and as he opened it he saw the limo, sleek and silent. However, the sunglasses weren’t on the dashboard. Puzzled, he drew back, wondering where they were.
“Looking for something, Juli?”
He jerked up, whirling around to see who’d spoken.
“Kill, Fury!”
The last sight he saw was Sully’s laughing face.
***
“They’re on their way,” said Hutch as he rejoined Starsky. “How do you feel?”
His partner didn’t answer, merely shrugged and leaned over to put on his shoe. “Sock’s full of stickers,” he said finally, as if that explained everything. He looked up at Hutch.
The breeze was picking up, Hutch thought absently, bringing with it some cool ocean air. He heard mockers warbling their liquid song from somewhere in a thicket. Bees droned — everywhere was peace, except down in that house, and here in his heart.
“How much did you hear?” he asked abruptly, looking away. “I thought you were dead.”
“You gonna deny sayin’ anything if I tell you?” Starsky responded somewhat wistfully. He ran fingers through his curls, grimacing at their condition. “Gaah! That Penneman . . .” He shifted position, effectively closing the distance Hutch had put between them. “You were ready to tell me you loved me, just so long as I was dead . . . That doesn’t make much sense, Hutch.”
Closing his eyes, Hutch bowed his head. “I haven’t the right — ” He was seized with surprising force, then shaken until his teeth rattled. “Wha —!”
“Will you listen to what you just said? You — my best friend, my partner, the person I love the most in this whole crummy world, and you say you don’t have the right? Just who does then?” Real anger blazed in the blue eyes.
Who indeed? Hutch stared, thunderstruck by the implication of Starsky’s words. Who did have more right than he? Some woman who’d only known him a few days? Some stewardess in for a three-day weekend? Anyone — just so long as they were female.
“Every lady you ever knew,” he said sadly. “Every one you meet in the future.” Firmly he removed the gripping hands from his arms. “I do love you more than anything in the world, but it doesn’t matter.”
He stood there, feeling the breeze ruffle his hair, the sun warm the sudden chill in his bones. Looking at his friend, he smiled, holding out his hand. “Come on, partner. It’s time to be cops again. You need someone to look at that head of yours.”
He saw Starsky staring at him, squinting into the sun, and let his hand drop, turning away. He wished life wasn’t so damn complicated.
“Hutch?”
He turned back to face Starsky, carefully schooling his expression to one of concern — nothing else. “Yeah?”
“You know something? I always thought when a person fell in love — really fell in love, he’d hear bells, and see stars, that sort of thing. It’s not like that at all.” Starsky looked mystified for a moment, then got to his feet, reaching up to touch Hutch’s hair. It’s sorta like bein’ blinded, ya know? There’s all this light, then gradually you can make out things when your eyes get accustomed to the glare.” His hand moved down to rest on Hutch’s neck, fingers pulling his companion closer. “I think I’ve been blind long enough, babe.”
Firmly convinced his partner was suffering from a concussion, Hutch made no reply at first, but when he felt his head being cupped in Starsky’s hands, he jerked back. “Starsk, don’t play games, please,” he said huskily, very much aware of the heat and power of his friend’s body.
“You’re all gold this time of day,” came the bemused response. “All honey and amber.” With one final touch, Starsky moved back. “Let’s go, pal. I wanna get this case closed — or at least on the books before tonight. You ‘n me have a lot to talk about.” He sighed, wavering from side to side. “Damn. Think you can give me a hand until we reach level ground? I’m still not too sure which way is up.”
Hutch brushed dirt from Starsky’s jeans and jacket, then slipped his arm around his partner’s waist. Overhead the sun spun and wheeled in great golden circles, and he saw Starsky close his eyes against the brilliance. Was that the problem? Were they like two small suns — so hot and bright that they’d each backed away, ignoring the light and warmth for so long?
He wanted to believe Starsky, but was afraid to. Being shot in the head, then thinking you’d lost your partner was enough to give anyone second thoughts. He tightened his hold on his friend, offering the love and support he’d been offering for so many years.
“I mean it, Hutch. We gotta talk about what I said. There’s no way you’re gonna leave me for some jerk just so you don’t have to feel guilty. That’s dumb.”
Starsky might be babbling, but his voice was strong and assured. As Hutch looked up he saw the Torino just a few hundred feet away. Back to normal.
***
“Actually, looking back on it, I think we owe that Sully creep a vote of thanks,” reiterated Hutch for the tenth time in as many days. “Not that I’m inclined to believe he was acting out of any altruistic motive, no matter what he claimed. Still, Penneman got what could be called some sort of justice.” He grinned over at his partner who sat with his feet up on a hassock, bathrobe barely covering his freshly-showered body. “Sorry you had to miss the excitement, but under the circumstances it couldn’t be helped.”
“Tossing my cookies in my car didn’t do a lot for me, either,” came the disgruntled response. “Who’d think a simple crease would make me that sick?” he ran his fingers through his closely-cropped head of curls and sighed. “I look like a sheep, now. I look — “
Hutch closed the distance between them in a flash, kissing the top of Starsky’s head. “Like the sexpot you are, babe, so don’t mourn them. Be grateful the thickest part of your anatomy was under them.” he smiled again. “You’ll be back to work in less than a week, then you can see how you feel.”
The blue eyes were hooded, and Starsky didn’t seem inclined to lighten his mood, so Hutch knelt in front of him, horribly aware of the temptations his friend presented. “Hey, pal, think about it for a minute. Mayhew’s gone, Juli’s gone, Sully won’t say anything because he doesn’t give a damn what happens to me. We were spared all the business of a long court trial, and I gave you my word I wouldn’t quit. What more do you want?”
“You know what I want, damn you. I wanna talk about us — you and me!” Starsky got to his feet, then pulled his kneeling partner up so they were face to face. He gripped Hutch’s arms at the elbows, forcing him to stay as near as could be without actually embracing him.
“Starsk, th-there’s nothing to talk about,” was the barely-audible response. “I was so sure you were gone — that I’d lost you . . .”
“Yeah, so you made this great confession, telling the whole world that you loved me more’n anything else, but you can’t do anything about it! Well, that’s a crock and you know it.” He tried to hug the man, not caring if he got decked or not. Then Hutch’s arms encircled him, pulling against his shoulder blades so tightly he nearly lost his breath.
Hutch reached out to gather Starsky to him. “Damn your eyes,” was all he said before pulling him onto the bed and into a long, hard embrace.
Starsky found the scent and warmth irresistible, and began kissing Hutch, wondering what had changed his mind. He plundered the warm mouth, tasting it, marveling at the textures. When Hutch buried his face in his curls, he closed his eyes, unable to move,
“Beautiful . . . jus’ beautiful. Makes me want to eat you up, ” Hutch crooned, and Starsky felt his heart was ready to burst. So much love and he’d almost missed it! He opened his eyes; Hutch smiled down at him then rolled away, hands piously crossed on his chest. “Not to worry, babe, your virtue’s in safe hands.”
“I don’t want to be in safe hands, dammit!” Starsky growled. “I liked it better before!”
Hutch propped himself up on his elbow, expression severe. “What I really want to know, pal, is why we had to go to bed to have a long talk? Why can’t you be like everyone else and have us sit on the couch, fully dressed, and spill our guts?” Then, as if struck by something, he asked, “Remember that chess game? Starsky’s law? Well, this is the same kind of thing, isn’t it? You lie there looking like a Greek god, and I’m supposed to be so rattled I tell you about every day of my life. Right?” He grinned wickedly, and a long finger stroked down Starsky’s cheek. “I knew it! You’re a real cock tease.” Leaning over, he dropped a swift kiss on the tip of Starsky’s nose. “I forgive you, but now I’m going to go home and get some zzz’ s. I’m bushed.”
“You really think I look like a Greek god?” Starsky said the first thing that came into his head, stalling for time.
This time Hutch laughed. “You’re fishing, Starsk. But yes, I do . . .” He shook his head.
Starsky was delighted with the declaration. He reached over to caress Hutch’s face. “Always figured that was your part. Sort of like Apollo.” He continued the caress down Hutch’s throat, ending on his collarbone. “So smooth,” he whispered, shifting position so he was facing Hutch, their bodies touching at belly and thigh. “Not girl-smooth, but silky . . . Jesus, I dunno how to talk to you!” He broke away, frustrated.
Hutch lay quietly for a moment before answering the outburst. “You’re doing fine,” he said drily. “And if you don’t watch out, my hands-off speech won’t be worth a thing.” He lifted Starsky’s hand, examining it. “What do you want, Starsk? I mean, there’s only so much of this platonic love I can handle. On the job, after hours, fine. But to expect me to lie here next to you and wait while you sort out your feelings, hell, I’m not made of stone.”
Not stone, nothing so hard and cold, thought Starsky as he studied Hutch’s face. “I’m not tryin’ to play terrified virgin, Hutch,” he said carefully. “But when I think about you and somebody else I see red, and that scares me.” He placed his hand on the blond head. “I know what you do is your business, and I know I don’t feel the same way when you date girls.” His hand slid under the wayward neck curls, fingers curving around the proud head. His eyes searched Hutch’s, and he struggled to make the man understand. “Trouble is — well, my imagination gets to thinking about you falling in love with a guy — like Harper, maybe. Really falling in love . . .”
“In other words if I was going to fall in love with a man, why didn’t I pick you instead of some stranger?” Hutch’s smile was tender and wordlessly he pulled the naked body across his own, fitting them comfortably together, yet making no move that could be interpreted as wanting more than holding.
The gesture was so open, so filled with understanding, that Starsky felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Hutch was waiting for him to make the first move — any move — so he would know what to do next. He tried not to think about the implications of this dangerous game; they were both adults, they knew where it might lead. Starsky wasn’t about to stop. He kissed Hutch’s mouth tentatively, small pecks, really — then pulled away, suddenly unable to breathe.
“Starsk — uh, what’re you doing?” Hutch asked foolishly, smothering a grin.
“Kissin’ you, what else?” came the muffled rejoinder from Hutch’s chest. “Now hold still.” Starsky cursed, his fingers working away at Hutch’s stubborn belt buckle. “You could help,” he muttered sarcastically, grinning when Hutch dissolved into giggles when he brushed his chin with his curls.
“Jesus!” Hutch gasped. “Get off and I’ll do it myself. I can tell you had this scene worked out in advance.” He batted Starsky’s hand away, looking about eighteen, expectation bright on his face.
Starsky was caught up in the look, shaking with curiosity about unknown and forbidden sex. Whether or not he and Hutch went any further than just holding one another didn’t seem so important any more. Sharing this magic moment was everything.
He rolled out of the way, deciding to add a little light on the subject. He padded across the room, pulling down the shade so his neighbors couldn’t see in. When he turned back Hutch was stepping out of his briefs, kicking them aside to join the rest of his clothes. In the dim light all Starsky could make out was the top of Hutch’s head and a blur of white ass. He strode over to turn on the lamp, hungrily watching as Hutch stretched out, face down, hands over his head. A flash of desire raced through him and he shivered at its intensity. He slid into bed, hand lightly touching that rounded, snowy ass. Hutch had asked him why they couldn’t sit and talk like normal people and he hadn’t answered him. He stroked the smooth flesh again. “I was afraid you’d run away,” he confided. “If you had your clothes on, I mean. This way you’ve got to get up and get dressed before you leave. . . and I’m not gonna let you do that before we get some things settled.”
“You going to talk, or sit with your hand on my rear end all night?” But Hutch made no move to escape those fingers, nor to cover up.
Starsky, intent on examining the golden body, made no reply. He slid his hand up the long back, fingered the penny mole that rode Hutch’s shoulder blade, then rubbed at the knotted muscles of the wide shoulders.
Hutch lay with his eyes closed, obviously enjoying the intimacy too much to move. Against the dark blue sheets his hair was a pale drift of silk. Starsky edged closer, easily turning his companion onto his back. When Hutch lifted his hand to gently pull him down, so close that their mouths were only inches apart, he sighed. “You gonna be mad at me tomorrow, or are you gonna pretend this never happened?” He ran his hand along that impossibly smooth chest, watching as goosebumps followed its progress.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” breathed Hutch, eyes wide open now, face flushing with arousal. Starsky saw his cock, nestled in dark gold curls, begin to stir, and Hutch put his hand down to cover himself.
“Don’t!” said Starsky sharply. “I want to see you.” He was only too aware of what was happening between them, yet his need for the contact was overwhelming, threatening to put an end to any sort of restraint. Hutch might try to lie to him, but his body couldn’t — there was proof right under his hand. The impressive cock was swelling, silently seeking fulfillment. Starsky pulled Hutch’s hand away, resting it on his own belly, feeling its warmth penetrate his flesh.
“This isn’t fair,” murmured Hutch. “I want you so badly, but there’s no way in the world we can ever be more than . . . He turned his face away.
His own feelings racing in exactly the opposite direction, Starsky removed his hand slowly from Hutch’s groin. Was he being that cruel? How closely had he examined his own motives, anyway? Hutch had hinted that perhaps his feelings were more dog-in-the-manger than real love . . . was that true? Besides, what had he said to Hutch in the first place? Weren’t they supposed to be talking? Yet here he was, busily flaunting his body and sexuality — both of which he knew Hutch longed for. Suddenly ashamed of his behavior, he drew away, covering them with the sheet. He scrambled to sit up with his back against the headboard. “Sorry, babe, but you really get me going.”
Blue eyes, filled with shock, met his. He saw Hutch’s quick appraisal, and realization that he’d won — for better or worse. The lean body was very still, then Hutch moved over to settle his head on Starsky’s chest. It was a gesture of such trust that Starsky couldn’t speak. His hand lightly stroked down Hutch’s cheek until his fingers could outline that impossible mouth.
“Thanks,” came the heartfelt whisper. “There’s a lot to be talked about, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Although what we were doin’ seemed more important.” He smiled down at the up-turned face. “You know us hot-blooded types — we all got one-track minds. So, what do you want to talk about?”
“Us,” came the immediate reply. “Why you all of a sudden decided we should, ah, do this.” Hutch’s big hand slid up Starsky’s chest, one finger finding the strong collarbone. “Christ, never in my wildest dreams . . .” His voice trailed off, but his hand stayed where it was, the wrist gripped between Starsky’s fingers.
“Feels good. Leave it there.”
“Do you want to know about my background — being gay, I mean?” Hutch asked quietly.
“Only what you want to tell me, babe. It’s not important unless you feel it is.” Starsky knew his answer sounded indifferent, but deep inside he was scared to hear about past loves, past affairs. If he was already this jealous about that goddamn Harper, what was he going to do if he found out there were more? “Just tell me since we’ve been partners.” Like a flash of lightning, Starsky knew for him life had begun on that day. God, how blind could a man be?
Hutch cleared his throat and settled himself so he lay back against Starsky’s chest. “Rather be here than anywhere else,” he began, and was rewarded with a quick kiss on the top of his head. “Since we’ve been partners? Jesus, that covers a lot of ground, doesn’t it? Well, first of all I never bar-hopped . . . no pick-ups for me. Too many undercover cops working the gay bars to begin with, and I’m not into heavy action — never have been.”
“You love Harper?” asked Starsky bluntly.
“Love? What he wanted was a business merger with perks. Us living together would have saved time and energy insofar as travel went.” Hutch smiled as he remembered. “No, I didn’t love him, Starsk, but I did like him a lot. He was a good lover, and stayed away from discos and drugs . . . two qualities I appreciate.”
“I like discos,” stated Starsky rather defensively, hating to hear the word lover used about some jerko who’d hurt Hutch so badly. “You just can’t dance to that stuff.”
“Really? I’m a hell of a lot better dancer than you think I am,” said Hutch proudly. “I make like a klutz because I want to . . . keeps the crotch-grabbers at a distance. Anyway, he’s not important now — we are. I didn’t fall in love with you right away, did you know that?”
Starsky kept silent, not wanting to miss a word of this confession; instead, he let his hand steal around Hutch’s waist, enjoying the warm and satiny skin.
“I liked you, of course, felt you were the best cop — or had the potential to be — I’d ever met. It’s your honesty, I guess, ’cause you don’t really try to fool yourself.” There was a long pause. “I’m always lying to myself . . . tried to convince myself I loved you like a brother. That was true for a long time.”
“Mmmm. When did ya fall for me?” Starsky tried to tease, but heard the catch in his voice. He was on the verge of making an important discovery about himself.
“You want the day, the hour, or the minute?” murmured his companion. “Because I can give them to you.” His hand crept down, coming to rest on Starsky’s thigh. “Remember when I was in the hospital with that damn plague, and you wrote your name on the glass? Well, I read it and felt good, but still had just a platonic, uh, love for you. But the next time I woke up somebody’d erased your name, and I felt as though you’d left me. Not willingly, of course — but like you were the one who’d died.” Hutch shook his head, his voice husky. “I almost gave up fighting after that. I knew I loved you more than anything or anyone, and that it was totally hopeless. You are what you are in this life, and my loving you can’t change that.”
For a second longer, Hutch stroked the muscular thigh, then pulled his hand away. He faced Starsky, smiling ruefully. “But I didn’t die, did I? I’m a hell of a lot tougher than you give me credit for, pal. And if I live through tonight, well, I’ll be ready for my Superman cape!”
“Wanna hear my side of this?” asked Starsky. He tightened his grip around Hutch’s waist. “I’ve always loved you — maybe like a brother, maybe more — I’m beginning to wonder. But when we were on that hillside, and I thought Penneman had wasted you, I-I was never so lost in my life. Funny thing, until that day I was always jealous of your friendships, not the girls — but the other guys . . .”
“Except for Gillian,” Hutch interrupted, placing his hands over Starsky’s.
Starsky rubbed his cheek against the blond head, quiet for a moment. “Would you have married her?” he asked curtly.
“I don’t know, Starsk. I loved her, but I think she’d guessed that we were real tight, you know? Once, she asked me how much you loved me.”
Starsky remained silent, fighting back the guilt he still felt whenever he thought about the murdered woman. Try as he would, he knew his actions in trying to buy her off had been totally unprofessional, and Gillian had known it. He’d driven her to do a stupid and desperate thing, and she’d paid with her life. “She wasn’t right for you, babe. Maybe right for somebody else, but not you.” That knowledge didn’t help.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right, but for a while, I thought maybe . . .”
“No! I love you, damnit! Nobody else for either of us. No lookin’ back, understand!” Starsky loosened his hold on Hutch, reaching to cup the beautiful face between his palms. “I didn’t mean for us to lie here and torture ourselves about what happened before. This is us, Hutch, and we’ve got to make some decisions now. Nothin’ that happened then makes a damn bit of difference.”
“We are our past,” said Hutch, a trifle coolly, “and I have to remember that. Have to remember the women you loved and how you struggled to get over them.”
“They’re dead. We’re here and very much alive,” Starsky said evenly. How alive he was, was being brought home to him by the trip-hammer pulse in his groin. He kept his hold on Hutch while he got to his knees, bracing his feet against the headboard. “I love you. Maybe I did just find out about it, but I do love you!” He slowly drew the bigger man to him, placing a tentative kiss on Hutch’s mouth. When he felt his partner’s arms encircle him, he deepened the kiss, seeking both forgiveness and commitment. More than ever it was being hammered home that he and Hutch belonged together — really together. He sucked eagerly on the soft inner portion of Hutch’s lip, then ran his tongue over the hard teeth, pushing up against their barrier. “Let me in, damn you,” he growled, holding Hutch’s face even more tightly, caressing the fall of silky hair with his thumbs.
Hutch gasped, pulling away suddenly. “Be sure you know what you’re doing,” he said hoarsely, “because I’m getting to the point of no return.” He ran his tongue along his lip, dropping his gaze to Starsky’s hardening cock. “Keep waving that in front of me and I’m likely to take a bite out of it!” His eyes glittered.
“Yeah? I could say the same thing, couldn’t I?” challenged his partner, actually reaching for Hutch’s already-engorged sex. “And don’t sputter on about I’m no cocksucker, babe, because . . . because . . .” He faltered. “Well, I’ve done it once or twice. What’re you grinning for?” he demanded indignantly.
“I believe you. Let me guess when . . . drunk, fooling around. In the Army and drunk and fooling around, right?” A blond eyebrow arched, the fair head wagged slowly back and forth, and the light died in the blue eyes. “Dreams, Starsk, just wonderful dreams. Even if you do love me that much . . . I can’t expect — ” Hutch started to rise from the bed, his back to his silent partner.
“You’re not leaving me, Hutch. We’re gonna make love, and then you’n me are going to work out whatever comes along. You got that?” Starsky made no effort to touch his partner, merely knelt on the bed, sex thrusting against his belly. He saw Hutch turn, eye his cock, then swallow. “Yeah, you wanna make love to me so damn bad it’s killin’ you. And I want to know what it’s like to hold you and love you. Don’t make me beg,” he said humbly.
In a flash Hutch was back beside him, pulling Starsky into his arms, kissing his hair, eyes, throat, whatever was close. “Jesus! I’m the one who should be begging, don’t you understand? I’m the one who’s been trying to forget what you must be like to love.” With desperate hands he smoothed back the short hair. “I want you to take me and love me until I die. Want you to fuck me so hard . . . so long . . . that — ” He choked back a sob, then bent to nuzzle Starsky’s chest.
“Jesus!” Starsky hissed, pulling Hutch down on top of him. “You’re gonna make me pop off if you don’t shut up! Whatever you want, darlin’, that’s what I want, too. Now, will you stop lying to your heart — and to me?” For a second or two the dark head bent to press kiss after kiss on Hutch’s seeking mouth. Heated flesh, gripped in strong hands, became the center of desire for each of them.
Starsky’s tongue delicately and deftly bathed a nipple while his hands smoothed and kneaded Hutch’s ass. “Wanna love you, babe,” Starsky sighed, relinquishing the nipple so Hutch could reach down to kiss the tender flesh just inside his knee, fingers working up toward his heavy sex, his aching balls. He felt a fire flaring inside, racing along his nerves, finally gathering at the base of his cock. The wet wash of lips fed the fire, and he cried out, pulling Hutch across his scorching body. “No more! I’m gonna explode. I need to cool down for a couple of secs . . .”
He heard low laughter, and knew he’d never felt this kind of high just before fucking. Hutch stopped his assault for a moment, but Starsky knew if he didn’t make a move soon the blond would. “Ah, babe, you know what you do to me? Look at me. I’m damn near drunk just holding you this way.” He watched the light eyes darken with hunger and smiled, murmuring in Hutch’s ear, “Yeah, sweetheart, gonna take us to the moon. Gonna get so far inside you I’ll come in your mouth.”
The golden body shivered and Hutch quietly settled back. “Prove it, beautiful man,” he commanded. “Make love to me. God knows I never thought this would happen.” He wrapped his fingers around his swelling cock, and slid the other hand up Starsky’s arm. “Fill me up with love, David.”
Never allowing his glance to stray, Starsky nodded, easing Hutch into position. He wasn’t ignorant of the act; he and several of his dates had experimented with it. Wasn’t afraid of hurting his lover; if Hutch said to stop then he would. What amazed him the most was the fact that this seemed to be the most natural thing in the world . . . him making love with Hutch. He’d calmed down enough that when he ran his hands along the satiny backside he didn’t tremble, although he felt Hutch grow tense. “Easy, babe, just let me know what you want.”
He heard Hutch inhale and automatically paused, leaving his hands pressed against the powerful inner thighs.
“I want you to know that Harper and I — well, we never did this.”
“No? Jesus, why not?” But even as he framed the question, Starsky felt a rush of joy and triumph at the confession. He really didn’t give a damn why they hadn’t screwed each other through the floor, all he cared about was that Harper hadn’t invaded Hutch’s body like he was about to do. Hutch hadn’t loved the man! He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting his emotions. Taking one fast look around, he was amazed to see how bright the light was here, while the rest of the room appeared to be in deep shadows. That was the bottom line, wasn’t it? There was nothing so bright beyond these walls, nothing out there to lure him away from Hutch’s side. “Gimme the stuff,” he said in a stranger’s voice, holding out his hand.
There was a sigh, then Hutch struggled to reach the drawer in the bedside table. “Nothing like being prepared, huh?” He yanked it open, rummaging around inside until he pulled out a mashed, very much-used tube. “Starsk! What am I going to do with you?” His grin was both devilish and endearing.
Grabbing the tube, feeling the blood mount in his cheeks, Starsky growled, “Never mind what you’re gonna do, just pay attention to what I’m gonna do first!” He made short work of his own preparations.
In reply, Hutch lay back and slowly opened his thighs. Very deliberately, he lifted his buttocks while Starsky slid his hands beneath to pull him closer. The heat radiating from the smooth skin was incredible. Hutch’s bright hair spread on the blue pillowcase, each strand glimmering in the lamp’s glow. His skin was the color of new honey, and Starsky ran his tongue over lips that were suddenly dry while he stared at the waiting body. He heard Hutch say softly, “I love you, even if this is all we ever have.”
“Mmmm. Don’t close the book on us before we even get started. It gives me an inferiority complex.” With careful fingers he caressed the delicate skin.
“Inferior? Starsk, you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. Don’t have any doubts about how good the loving’s going to be!”
“Just tell me when to stop . . . okay? Lemme know what turns you on. Might as well get it right the first time.” What if he wasn’t able to satisfy Hutch? What if Harper had been more romantic? He stared down at his cock, suddenly afraid . . . what was love all about, anyway?
He raised his eyes and met a lazy-lidded gaze that restored all his ebbing confidence. Hutch — loving him enough to let him do this. His partner lay ready and waiting, sharing a glance so full of trust and desire that his own need flared deep in his belly. “Sorry, was just sort of . . .” He had to look away.
“I know,” Hutch said quietly, smiling that wonderful smile. “But just remember this — if you stop now, I’ll kill you!” He ran his hand along Starsky’s hip, then closed his eyes.
Funny how a room could become a place without walls, Starsky thought. A somewhere place where the colors were all red and gold and it was cold, then hot, and Hutch’s legs were wrapping around him. He felt their strength and weight, knew their pull . . . and he wanted no escape, no chance to turn back. He began rubbing his cock down toward the tiny, exposed opening, felt the first, slight giving of muscle and knew wonder. Delight, hunger, and overwhelming lust swept all his doubts away, threatening to overload his sensory system. Blood pounded at his temples, raced through his body at a frightening rate, all of it ending up in his mighty cock. He groaned aloud, sweat sheening his face and body. With one hand he guided his shaft against Hutch, pressing harder, sucking in his breath when he was suddenly admitted entrance. “Jesus! You’re hot!” he hissed, just before his tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth and he became speechless. All sensations were here, centered in this place, and in this person who now lay very, very still. Fighting for control Starsky slowly thrust deeper; Hutch was hotter, tighter, softer . . . and stronger than he’d imagined.
With a grunt he pushed harder, seeking even more heat, but when he heard a low moan he paused, pulling back, remembering suddenly Hutch had said Harper hadn’t fucked him. Was he hurting him?
Unable to speak, he ran his hands in soothing circles over the flat belly, then slid them under the smooth cheeks, spreading them further apart until Hutch relaxed. He pushed again, this time penetrating almost his entire length into that incredibly hot channel, hearing yet another moan — this time one of pure pleasure.
“That’s it. Tell me it’s good,” he crooned, filled with a fierce elation when muscles began squeezing, urging him on. He let instinct guide him, allowing himself the sheer thrill of trying to make this the best fucking he’d ever done.
Beneath him Hutch whispered his name, then gasped. “God! You’re all cock!” he cried, eyes hot with delight — and apprehension. He lay back, obviously trying to relax his arching body. “Starsk.. I don’t know how much more . . .” He bit his lip.
“Shh, it’s okay, babe, you’ll see.” Starsky paused, hefting Hutch’s thighs so he could have more freedom of movement, then, slowly and very deliberately he began thrusting again. For a moment he listened to the sounds of their lovemaking, feeling the slap of his balls against lush, moist flesh. He wanted to crawl inside Hutch, take all the heat and love . . . giving back his own.
But instead he pulled back, leaving only his cock-head buried, waiting until Hutch opened his eyes to stare at him, then very slowly pushed as far into Hutch’s body as he could, smiling when he heard a soft sigh of satisfaction. He repeated the action, now in total control and sure of his power. “Gonna fly, lover . . . hold on!” His pumping became harder, deeper, and his blood sang in his veins, lending him an unholy sense of being God, of taking this beloved man and doing what he would with him. “Yeah, you like this, don’t you? Like me this deep?” He rammed himself up to the hilt, allowing Hutch to close around him, shutting his eyes to savor the heat and musky male odors of their lovemaking, opening them only when he sensed Hutch was moving, wanting to watch him pleasure himself.
Hutch began stroking his own cock, wrapping long fingers around the pink/gold shaft, rubbing the engorged head, slowly pumping himself while his other hand cupped around his balls; twisted in the dark gold curls. He fingered Starsky’s cock as it slid in and out, moaning his pleasure, then thrust upward, legs tightening around Starsky’s hips, pulling him closer, giving him more leverage. “Love you . . . want more . . . more . . .” he whispered, lashes glistening with tears. “Don’t stop, lover . . . please . . .”
That one endearment brought Starsky up short, sending little shock waves through him. As he began thrusting again, he knew the truth. They were making love, real, forever love, not just sharing the best fucking around. He entered the hot ass with a new sense of joy, eager now to bring them to climax, to share everything, to shatter them into little pieces so they could re-form as one person. Sweat ran off his upper lip, his nose, as he fucked; there was too much heat, too much pressure. He strove to find that one spot he had to reach, had to rub against again and again . . . even if he could hear Hutch calling out his name like some sort of prayer. Starsky thrust wildly into that sweet, secret place, pounding against flesh-covered bone, taking pride in the fact that Hutch’s body rose so willingly to meet his, obeying his fierce commands, the beautiful face a study in ecstasy. They were both ruled by his cock; it was master and slave, blindly seeking what Hutch held inside . . . that last hiding place where he would find release. There was nothing in all the world but their sighs, their muffled curses, their desperate need for an end to the sweet pain, the throbbing, pulsing hunger.
“God, yes!” Hutch shuddered, his hands clamping down on his cock. His body arched against Starsky’s, melted there, only to fall back onto the bed, semen spattering over Starsky’s chest and groin.
Starsky’s eyes widened when he felt those first spasms. He glanced down, watching the creamy fluid mix with his sweat. The musky odor was overpowering, and as he felt the rectal muscles tighten, squeezing him relentlessly, he cried out, “No! Not yet!” he thrust harder, finding at last that place he sought, unable to resist the seductive, endless milking. He came, jolted into shuddering release, sending his seed deep into Hutch, melting down into honeyed warmth, somehow finding the strength to spill himself into that trembling body.
Dimly he heard Hutch murmur his name, but he couldn’t respond. Finally, when Hutch’s hands came to rest on his shoulders in a tender caress, he raised his head. “Gonna fuckin’ turn inside out,” he panted, feeling ridiculous for complaining about the greatest loving of his whole life. He leaned his pelvis hard against Hutch’s, not wanting to end the sensation, yet feeling his resolve ebbing as his limbs betrayed him. “So good . . . so sweet . . .” he said shakily, reaching up to twine his fingers in Hutch’s. “How come we couldn’t figure this out before?”
“Be quiet. Dead men can’t talk,” came the gentle reproof. “Starsk, are you for real?”
Despite his exhaustion, Starsky grinned foolishly at Hutch’s sappy remark. His partner sounded worn out, sated, and happier than he’d ever heard. Suddenly, he wanted to be held in those strong arms, be told how wonderful their loving had been, to be kissed . . .
“Sorry, Hutch, but I gotta lie down.” He withdrew from the hot flesh, eyeing his shrunken sex sadly, thankful at least it was still attached.
Hutch pulled Starsky down across his chest, dropping kisses into damp curls. “World class, lover, I’ll be standing for a month . . . and gladly.” He laughed, hugging the silent form. “Are you always that inspired — or was this something special for you, too?”
It took a great deal of effort for Starsky to raise his head, but he wanted to look into those clear eyes. “Never in my whole life has it been that good,” he said emphatically, trying to wrap Hutch’s arms around him. “Never knew it could be so . . .”
“Beautiful?” finished the blond, rubbing the still-quivering body. “I didn’t either, thought people just made it all up.” He drew Starsky to him, covering his mouth with a long and tender kiss. “Thanks . . . for everything.” His voice was a mere whisper, but the gentle tone conveyed love, and something else.
Starsky struggled in the embrace, searching Hutch’s features for a long moment. “I’ve got this crazy feelin’ you’re goin’ to tell me that was it . . . that we can’t do it again. That so?” He thought his heart would burst with pain at such an idea. Sighing; he decided not to get angry — yet. “Ain’t no way you’re gonna convince me we have to pretend it didn’t happen!” He slumped against the damp, satiny chest. “Staked my claim, partner, set my brand on you, too.” His eyes closed as a laughing Hutch pulled him into a warm embrace, lips nuzzled at his nape, pressed against his shoulder, nipped at his ears, whispered wonderful words of love, and fear.
“Ah, darlin’, don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll see.” If he had to do it himself, he would. Just him and Hutch, nobody else sharing what they’d just shared. “Go to sleep,” he ordered, “clean up later on.” He smiled, drowsily wondering if Hutch would be up to being fucked again when they woke up. It was nice to think about . . . damn nice.
***
Starsky woke up with the sun probing insistently at his eyelids. He stirred lazily, groaning when an elbow jabbed him in a tender spot. “God, get off me, will ya,” he muttered, wondering when he and Hutch had switched positions. One blue eye glared at him, then shut against the light. By pushing and coaxing, he managed to move his partner onto the bed, then lay back with a groan, hoping his usually wide-awake friend would remain still. Vain hope.
Hutch yawned, stretched his full length, then sat up on the edge of the bed. “Starsk, wake up. Time for those showers.”
Starsky merely glared at him. “Shut up. Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t,” Hutch said cheerily, scratching at his thigh. “Christ! Looks like a war zone.” He made a brief attempt to pull the covers even, dropping them when Starsky snarled at him. Patting the top of the dark head, he hurried into the bathroom.
Starsky heard the door close quietly, and grinned. There were a few things he’d have to make sure Hutch understood, like how much he despised happy faces before coffee. He lay back, listening to the shower, picturing Hutch as he scrubbed himself all clean. The sound of running water almost drowned out the shrill clamor of the phone.
“Bug off,” he growled, then groped blindly for the receiver, praying it wasn’t Dobey. “Yeah?” he finally managed to say.
“Hello?”
The voice was low, unaccented, and reserved. It woke Starsky immediately and he sat up, trying to place it. “Who’s calling?”
“Is Ken Hutchinson there? I’d like to speak to him.” If anything the voice was even more reserved.
Starsky glanced down at his sweaty, bruised body and grinned. “This Harper?” he asked softly. He looked over at the bathroom door, not certain what to say if he was wrong. Even less certain what he’d do if his guess was correct.
“May I ask who’s speaking?” came the cool rejoinder.
“Detective Sergeant David Starsky, Metro Division LAPD. That answer enough?” he asked abruptly.
“Ah, then you’re the officer who was shot. I trust you are out of danger now?” Very polite, very disinterested. “Is Ken there?” An impatient note had crept into the tone.
“Yes. But he’s in the shower. Want to leave your name and number?” Starsky dropped his voice down to a confidential level. “See, Hutch came over to see how I was doing, and well, one thing led to another . . . you know how it is.” Smoke that pipe, asshole, he thought angrily.
“I’m certain if Ken knew I was calling he’d want to speak to me,” came the calm retort. “We need to talk.”
“What for? You didn’t want him when you found out he was a cop. I saw his lip — ” He felt very lost talking to this man.
“Who’s on the phone?” came a soft inquiry. Hutch, a towel wrapped around his waist, was standing at the foot of the bed, eyes wide.
Starsky took a deep breath, trying to regain his equilibrium before telling Hutch who the caller was. “Didn’t hear ya, babe.” His glance raked possessively over his partner, and he reached out with his free hand to bring Hutch closer. “Some guy’s asking for you. Won’t give his name, but I think it’s . . .” He made a face.
The light blue eyes sparked with resentment, and Hutch took the receiver firmly, plunking himself down on the bed. “Hutchinson here.” He listened for a moment, then ran his hand through his wet hair. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. How’d you get my partner’s number?” His tone was chilling — and official.
That hadn’t even occurred to Starsky and he stared open-mouthed at the blond. “Hell, it’s not listed. That sonuvabitch!”
Shaking his head, Hutch put his hand on Starsky’s arm, squeezing it lovingly. “Listen, Harper, you didn’t make a mistake, so don’t — ” He stopped, mouth a thin line, eyes narrowed as he listened. “Not a chance, pal. Not the Red Gull or anyplace else.” There was only the slightest trace of regret in the quiet voice. “Maybe. In a few years, you’ll find another lover — “
Starsky leaned over suddenly, pulling the receiver out of Hutch’s hand, and kissing him before he could protest. Grinning, he handed the phone back.
Regaining his composure, Hutch smiled, cupping his palm around the receiver. “Let’s just say I’m not going to be looking any longer. I found what I wanted all along.”
Forgetting his manners, Starsky made a grab for the phone but Hutch wrestled it away, shaking his head. “Tell him to peddle his papers somewhere else, Hutch! I don’t want him callin’ here again!” He wanted to tell the bastard what he and Hutch had done last night, tell him what it had been like — and that now Hutch was his. He saw Hutch mouth goodbye, then hang up, a slight smile on his face.
“Guess he heard you,” he said ruefully, then tossed the receiver onto the bed, drawing Starsky into his arms. “He knew, partner, but he hates to lose, that’s all.”
Starsky allowed himself to be thoroughly kissed, shivering when the warm mouth sucked first at his throat, then at his nipple. Hutch smelled of soap and shampoo, yet here he was licking all sorts of stuff off his body. It must be love.
Hutch broke away, staring solemnly at Starsky. “It’s going to all change, you know. You can’t be so protective when I’m back in my closet.” he frowned, running his fingers over Starsky’s chest, playing with the matted hair. “Can you live with that, lover? My making it in the straight world? I know it’ll be a lie, but there isn’t much choice, not while we’re cops.” Hutch’s mouth trembled. “Last night was so damned wonderful, but — “
“No buts! No never again, either! Hutch, don’t you understand? I meant it when I said you ‘n me.” Starsky chewed at his lip, love and frustration warring in his heart. Standing before him, towel almost off, eyes huge and bewildered, Hutch was suddenly so vulnerable, so obviously afraid to take the chance of loving him back. “You know I love you, don’t you?” Starsky said quietly, reaching to stroke the cool skin. “If I had any doubts, last night took `em all away.” He rubbed his whiskery chin across Hutch’s freshly-shaven one, chuckling when his ticklish lover wriggled. “Now, I’m going to get cleaned up and then we’ll police this mess.” He indicated the soiled bed linens, grinning from ear to ear. “And, after a big breakfast, we’ll do it again . . . right?” His hands closed firmly around Hutch’s wrists, pulling his arms down to encircle his waist. “This time we can neck . . . didn’t really get the full benefit last night.”
“Jesus, what am I getting into?” Hutch murmured, hugging Starsky. “So much to learn about you. Do my best to make it work.” There was a note of tension in his voice.
Starsky pushed him away, saying firmly, “Your best is better than anyone else’s, pal. Just don’t get scared and shut me out.” He moved back into the comforting arms for another hug.
“My God, why would I want to do that now?” Hutch whispered.
He was backlit by the morning sun, hair almost luminous in its light, and it made Starsky shake his head. “Dunno, babe, but just lookin’ at you scares me. I never thought about wanting you like this before — ” He stepped back, away from Hutch, his voice deepening. “I’m the jealous type, Hutch, don’t want to share, especially now. But you’re the type everybody wants — don’t deny it.” He stood, proud, uncertain, head bent a bit. “Maybe you can tell me why you fell in love with me — make me believe you won’t tell me to get lost after a while . . .” He smiled suddenly, seeing the denial on Hutch’s lips. “Is there room in that goddamn closet for two? That’s the only way I’m going to make it — have to keep an eye on you day and night.”
Hutch stared at him, then nodded. “Just one question, Starsk, before I agree. You’ve already answered the question about my sleeping around, but how do you feel about Pasadena?” The blue eyes were full of anticipation.
“Pasadena?” Starsky looked doubtful, not knowing what to say. “Never gave it much thought.” He brightened. “Except I really like some of those old places they have — ” He was grabbed and hugged within an inch of his life by a crazy man. Who kissed him, then shoved him toward the bathroom.
“I accept! There’s room in the closet for two.” Hutch pointed his finger. “But not the Torino! The Striped Tomato stays at the curb. I’m not marrying it.”
Starsky turned to stare at him, then, deliberately flaunting his rear end, said, “Marriage, huh? Well, if we ever get to take a honeymoon, we go in my car! Oh, and you better put a new tube of stuff on the shopping list.” Making a face, he ducked into the bathroom, laughing at Hutch’s indignant glare. Closing the door, he turned to stare at the man in the mirror. His reflection wore an idiotic grin, was bruised and sweaty, yet there was something changed about it. He stared into the blue eyes. Yes, he’d been blind, all right, but so had Hutch. It was going to be tough, but they’d make it work because they wanted to make it work. Hutch loved him and that love was the best rock they could build on.
Nodding at his image, Starsky began humming as he turned on the water. How did the saying go? Today was the first day of the rest of his life? A cliché, but true. It was nice to think about sharing all those days with Hutch. He wondered why he’d asked about Pasadena. Well, maybe someday things would change and he and Hutch would be able to make those dreams come true. He began whistling The Wedding March.
-END-
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