Brothers: Part II

Continued.

The ride to Hutch’s apartment was made in all-too familiar silence. Starsky, however, was determined to raise the mood in the car. He hummed along with the radio, singing when he knew a line or chorus, making up suggestive verses when he didn’t. None of it seemed to make any kind of impression on Hutch, so he amused himself.

Starsky pulled up to Hutch’s curb just as his own particularly naughty version of an old Carpenters tune was dissolving into a commercial. They both exited the car, their doors shutting in unison. Starsky laughed at the coincidence, but Hutch took no notice. Starsky followed him up to the apartment, still singing.

Hutch pulled a key from his pocket as they reached the landing, and attempted to insert it into the lock. As he did, the door swung open. Hutch stood in the doorway, unmoving.

“Robert?” he called out. There was no answer.

Starsky walked forward. Hutch cut him off and stepped into the apartment first. “Robert!” he called sharply.

The apartment was as dark as it was empty. Starsky flipped on a light and came up behind Hutch. “Looks like nobody’s home.”

Hutch continued to stand where he was, scanning the apartment. Starsky stood next to him, hands in pockets, waiting for Hutch to finished his visual sweep.

An arm snaked around Starsky’s waist and lifted him off the ground. Starsky grabbed at the arms that held and swung him around, almost knocking Hutch over as his feet kicked out. Hutch stumbled back and reached into his jacket, then froze in his half-crouch.

“Damn, man,” a voice spoke in Starsky’s ear. “When did you get so lax? Have you forgotten how to use your ears?” The arms gave Starsky a squeeze.

Starsky relaxed and loosened his own grip. “Damn yourself, Bobby.” He looked at Hutch. Hutch was sliding his gun back into its holster, eyes averted, a sheen of sweat on his face.

“Give,” Starsky patted Robert’s arms and tried to part them. The arms only squeezed tighter. “C’mon, Bobby,” Starsky repeated. “Uncle, all right?”

“‘Uncle’?” Robert jerked inward and Starsky gasped. “‘Uncle’?”

“Let him go,” Hutch suddenly demanded. His eyes glittered at Robert.

“‘Uncle’?” Robert whispered in Starsky’s ear.

Starsky tried to find his breath. “Chu hoi,” he whispered back.

Robert released him and Starsky took an unsteady step forward. He rubbed at his ribs and took several deep breaths.

Robert ambled over to the couch and flopped down. He smiled up at Starsky.

Starsky’s pulse slowed and he found his voice. “Where’ve you been?” He walked over and sat down next to Robert.

“Out,” he answered. “Around.” He leaned back and stretched his arms out.

Hutch slipped out of his jacket and hung it up. “You left my apartment unlocked,” he accused softly.

“What was that?” Robert retorted. “Did you say something?”

Hutch spun and glared at Robert. “You left my door unlocked.”

Robert pulled a pillow to his chest and hugged it tightly. “Is that a homecoming, or is that a homecoming.” He winked at Starsky. “How do you feel about homecomings?”

Starsky didn’t answer.

The phone rang.

Hutch stepped over to the table and picked up the receiver. As he spoke, he picked up the phone and carried it back into the bedroom. The divider muffled the conversation. Robert turned to Starsky and grabbed at his thigh playfully.

“Bad day at the office, dear?” he asked sarcastically.

Starsky glanced down at him, then over to the divider which shielded Hutch. “Yeah,” he replied. “Pretty rough.”

“Must’ve been for him to pull his Mr. Righteous routine.” Robert threw the pillow to the end of the couch. ”Well, don’t let him bother you. A nice hot dinner and a nice hot shower will make you feel all better.” He grinned at Starsky.

Starsky shook his head, but returned the grin shyly. Hutch came back into the room.

“Who was it?” Robert asked.

Hutch ignored him.

“Must’ve been a girl,” Robert mused. “You could always tell when a girl called him at home because he’d never talk to you after he’d hung up.”

The grin was growing on Starsky’s face. Hutch’s face reddened.

“How about some dinner?” Starsky slapped his knees. “I have a taste for corned beef ala Michael’s.”

“Corned beef ala Michael’s,” Robert chimed in. “Who’s Michael?”

Hutch picked up his jacket and put it back on. “Can’t,” he said. “I have to go out.”

“Where?” Starsky was on his feet. “Another dinner date?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Hutch replied. He started for the door.

Starsky stood in his way. “With this same, anonymous person you’ve been seeing for the past month?”

Robert sat forward. “Kenny really does have a girl?” A salacious grin spread across his face. “Why, I’m shocked and bemused!”

A disgusted look from Hutch was Robert’s answer. “Lock the door if you go out.” He gave a hard stare to Starsky, then walked around him and left the apartment. Starsky stared after him as the door slammed shut.

”Forget him,” Robert came around and stood in front of Starsky. “It’s his loss, not ours.”

Starsky continued to stare past Robert. Robert took Starsky’s chin in his hand and forced him to meet his eyes. His grip was painful and Starsky tried twisting out of it. Robert held fast.

“What gives?” Bobby asked. His eyes narrowed. “Is he messing with you?”

Starsky shook his head.

“Tell me,” Robert commanded. “Is he messing with you?”

Starsky squared his shoulders. “No,” he said. But he wasn’t so sure.

Robert released him.

“The evening’s mine, then.” It was almost an order. “To Michael’s.”

“To Michael’s,” Starsky agreed quietly.

vvv

“Oh, babe,” Robert leaned against the porch railing. He rubbed his stomach. “Your eating habits are worse than I remembered. I may never recover from those monsters.”

Starsky unlocked his front door and ushered Robert in. He shut the door behind them and switched on a lamp, casting fuzzy gray shadows on the wall. Robert stood in the middle of the room, examining the surroundings. Starsky walked around him to the refrigerator and opened the door.

“Want a beer?” he called from inside.

“Do I want a beer?” Robert repeated. “Do I want a beer?”

“The man wants a beer!” Starsky stood up with four cans in his hands. He slued a hip to shove the door shut and returned to the living room.

“Here you go,” Starsky handed Robert two of the cans. Robert fumbled with the pop top on one of them.

“Can’t get used to these new tops,” he laughed self-consciously. He finally got the can opened and he took a sip. “Nice place,” he observed.

Starsky set his beers down and removed his jacket. “It’s home.”

“Nice piece,” Robert added.

Starsky touched his gun before slipping the holster from his shoulders. “It does its job, I guess. Does it bother you?”

“Why should it bother me?” Robert cocked his head.

Starsky wrapped the leather around the gun and tossed it on top of a pile of magazines on the table. The gun hit the magazines and slid off, bringing the pile down on top of it. Starsky moved to pick it up, hesitated, then shrugged and picked up a beer. “Who cares, huh?”

Robert lifted his can in a toast. “Who cares!” He began a circuit of the apartment. “I don’t know. It’s hard to picture you civilized.” He drank from the can. “Looks as if you have all the necessary equipment for basic civilian life. Air conditioning, TV, clean clothes. I’ll bet you’ve even got TP with little designs on it.” Robert disappeared into the bathroom. “You do!” he roared. He came back to the living room, laughing.

Starsky slid down onto the couch with an air of embarrassment.

Robert lowered himself onto the floor by Starsky’s feet and sat cross-legged. He concentrated on another beer for the next few minutes, finishing his second and reaching for Starsky’s other can as his third.

“Davey, Davey,” he twisted his neck and eyed Starsky. “Lord, you look like a vision.”

“Me?” Starsky asked, incredulous. “You aren’t looking hard enough.” Starsky tipped his can and took a mouthful of beer. “A vision of what?”

“I don’t know,” Robert’s eyes finally released Starsky. “You just look so damn good. Different, but good.”

Starsky shifted to a more comfortable position. “Different?”

Robert leaned back against the couch. “Yeah. You know, longer hair, older…cleaner.”

Starsky laughed. “Yeah, well….” He let the thought trail off.

Robert stood up. “How about another beer?” He headed for the refrigerator.

“I’m not finished with this one.” Starsky held up his can as proof.

“You will be.” Robert rummaged through the refrigerator and came out with two more cans in one hand and a six-pack clutched to his chest. He brought his cache back to his spot on the floor and arranged the beers around himself.

“Down here,” Robert pounded the floor. Starsky slid off the sofa and leaned against it, legs outstretched. Robert handed him a can.

“Question: ” Robert popped another top. “What was the first thing you did when you got back?”

Starsky rolled the can between his hands. He skirted the edges of memory, gathered his courage, and plunged in. “Back, or out?”

“Out.”

Starsky let his head roll back against the sofa. “I stayed in the bathroom for a week.” He paused. “Then I stayed in the bedroom for two weeks, and then I gradually worked my way downstairs and out onto the stoop.”

“You went home to New York, then.”

“Had to see Ma. And Nick,” Starsky added. His head lifted as he opened the beer. “And I needed to see how many of the old gang were still around. There weren’t many.”

Robert was playing with the cans around him, lining them up in different formations. “How soon before you got back to L.A.?” he concentrated on the cans.

Starsky thought a moment. “A couple or six months, I guess. Time went kind of funny back then.”

“Time will do that to you,” Robert said softly.

Starsky looked over at him. “What was the first thing you did?”

“Un uh,” Robert knocked over an empty can with a full one, sending it rolling under the end table. “I’m asking the questions tonight.”

Starsky sipped his beer. “After I got home to L.A., I found myself this dump of a place to live in and decided I’d better find some way to pay for it. So, I got this job cleaning out a beer joint from two in the morning ‘til six. Hey!” he snapped his fingers. “I’ll have to introduce you to this dude I met there. He used to hustle cards in the back room. Now he owns his own place and—“

“What about Kenny?” Robert interrupted.

“Hutch?” Starsky set his beer down. “I don’t know. I guess Hutch came in a couple of months after that. One day I was walking around Venice, and I remembered you’d said that’s where he lived. So I found a phone booth with a book still in it and looked him up.”

Robert stopped playing with the cans and folded his arms across his chest. He stared straight ahead, his face a mask. “You just went up to his front door and knocked?”

“Yeah,” Starsky grinned. “You should’ve seen the look on his face when he opened the door. He thought I was either begging, high, or crazy.”

Robert didn’t move. “He let you in?”

“Yeah,” Starsky was lost in thought. “He let me in, and we talked all afternoon. I don’t know why, but he did.” He lifted the beer and took a long drink.

“Did you talk about me?” Robert turned his head to watch Starsky.

Starsky rested the can on his thigh. “A little, I think.” His brows knitted in concentration. “I don’t really remember. Guess we’ll have to ask Hutch about that.”

“Maybe we can also ask him why he told people he didn’t have a brother.”

Starsky shifted. “You were kia, not mia,” Starsky said. “And he never told people he never had a brother, he told people he didn’t have a brother.”

“Yeah, sure.” Robert unfolded his body until he, too, was leaning against the sofa with his legs out in front of him. A sound caught in his throat, and then he spoke. “Vanessa was around?”

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky sighed. He twisted the can into his thigh, feeling the circular mark it was branding onto his skin. “She did not like me at all. I always got the feeling she thought of me as something a little lower than a cockroach. So I pretty much stayed away from her.” An image of Vanessa came to him: long, dark hair straight and shiny, one of Hutch’s white cotton shirts knotted at her midriff, cutoffs that had to have come from jeans a size too small, and lithe, brown legs that took forever to reach the ground. He raised an eyebrow and smiled slyly. “I really used to get under her skin, you know. When she was around and Hutch wasn’t looking, I’d get as close to her as I could, until she could smell me. I’d get her so hot she had to either bite or run. She was a real bi—“ Another image suddenly presented itself, that of a much-fingered photo of Vanessa, carried through mud and rain and other things he didn’t care to name. “I’m sorry,” Starsky said softly.

Robert had wrapped his arms around himself and his eyes were tightly closed.

“Bobby?” Starsky ventured.

Robert took a deep breath. “S’okay,” he murmured. He opened his eyes. “I lost her because I wasn’t around, he got her because he was. All’s fair, as they say.”

“Some fair,” Starsky was going to put things into perspective. “All she ever wanted was the Hutchinson name and fortune, and she didn’t care who gave it to her.”

“Stop it!” Robert hissed, grabbing Starsky’s leg, then releasing it with a vicious jerk. “You will not talk about her that way!”

Starsky lowered his head and refrained from rubbing his leg.

“He should have taken better care of her,” Robert’s face was stony. “She needed to be loved and protected, wrapped in furs and silk. She should have had better.” Robert took a long draw on his beer. “I wouldn’t have deserted her.”

Starsky frowned at Robert. “She left him, man. I don’t know what you heard, but she found herself someone she could make better use of and fucking walked!”

Robert stared icily at Starsky. “He drove her away.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Starsky defended. “Hutch was—“

Robert cut him off with a wave of his hand.

Starsky looked away, a flush searing his body.

Robert drank from his can. “When are Americans going to learn to make beer like Germans? Damn tasteless stuff.” He took another swallow.

Starsky watched him drain the can. Robert belched and dropped the can into his pile of empties. “I want to hear about life as a cop.”

Starsky sat quietly, fists pressed into the floor, arms stiff at his sides. “Not much to tell,” he said steadily. “Really, not much to tell.”

Robert opened another can and tipped it toward Starsky. “Well, babe, it sounds as if you’ve had a wonderful post-war life.” He reached over and tapped both of Starsky’s shoulders. “I dub thee well-adjusted, whole and normal.”

A bitter laugh escaped from Starsky. He shook his head, but said nothing. He kept seeing rolls of gaily colored toilet paper marching in front of him. Minutes passed before he spoke.

“Bobby?” he voice was barely audible. “What was it—was it bad?”

Robert thought a moment. “That depends,” he said evenly. Too evenly. “What is your definition of bad? If you like shit for food, food that’s worth shit, or if you get your kicks out of being bent into different shapes, then it was the Left Bank.” He scrounged among the cans until he found a full one. “Want another beer?”

Starsky looked at him in amazement. “No, I don’t want another beer. I want to know.” A tremor ran through his left arm.

“I want another beer,” Robert said matter-of-factly.

“Bobby,” Starsky pleaded. “It helps to talk. It does.”

Robert set his beer down carefully. He looked at Starsky. “What do you want, Davey? To compare my story to the others we heard? Relieve your conscience that it wasn’t as bad as you imagined? Assuage your own guilt?”

Starsky let his head drop to his chest. Another tremor ran up his arm. “We were always able to talk,” he said softly. “About anything. I just wanted–”

“I know what you wanted,” Robert still spoke in controlled, measured tones. “Don’t you know yet you don’t always get what you want?”

Starsky didn’t answer. A third tremor took him, and he finally unstiffened his arms. As he shifted positions, he suddenly grunted and clutched at his shoulder. Robert jumped from among his cans and crouched at Starsky’s side.

“What’s the matter, babe?” Robert’s voice had suddenly turned young and concerned. He rubbed at the knuckles Starsky was using to grip his aching shoulder.

“Nothing,” Starsky said through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath, released it, and relaxed back into the sofa. His hand remained under Robert’s. “It’s okay now.”

“Don’t tell me nothing, boy.” Robert dislodged Starsky’s hand and felt the shoulder. Starsky winced under the pressure.

“It’s just a cramp. Happens when I keep my arm in one position too long. All it needs is a good massage.” Robert rubbed the area and Starsky relaxed into it. “Hutch usually takes care of it.” Starsky was immediately sorry he’d imparted this bit of information.

“But he’s not as good as I am.” Robert began methodically massaging the flesh. “Turn around,” he directed. Starsky slid around, and Robert kneaded the affected area. “Better?”

“A little,” Starsky answered. “Damn arm hasn’t worked right in years. Ouch!” he winced.

“This would be easier if you took off your shirt. And if I had some oil.”

“There’s a bottle in the medicine cabinet,” Starsky began unbuttoning his shirt.

“This happen often?” Robert rose and walked into the bathroom.

“Too often,” Starsky muttered. He slid gingerly out of his shirt and waited for Robert.

“All right.” Robert returned with the bottle. He sat down behind Starsky, his legs spread, Starsky sitting between them. Robert poured some liquid into his hand. “Let’s see if we can’t work out some of the kinks. Or at least the bad ones.” He slid his slippery hands around Starsky’s shoulder, encircling Starsky’s upper arm and squeezing gently, sliding the circle of his hands down Starsky’s arm and up again, then bringing sure fingers up to knead Starsky’s nape. Robert replicated his routine down Starsky’s other shoulder and arm, this time taking his hands up Starsky’s sides, thumbs pressing into hard Starsky’s back. Starsky groaned.

Robert flattened his palms against Starsky’s back, painting it with oil. Robert worked his way down slowly, stopping midway as he felt the ridges of scar tissue.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded. Robert’s fingers traced the ridges of scar tissue. “I don’t remember these. You didn’t get these over there, not even when they shot the radio off your back.”

Starsky arched his back as Robert hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Souvenirs of a different war,” he answered quietly.

Robert let his hand drop from Starsky’s back. He snaked an arm over Starsky’s right shoulder and across his chest and pulled him back into a protective embrace.

“How?” he whispered in Starsky’s ear.

Starsky patted the hand that held him just under his left rib cage. “It’s all right,” he forced a laugh. “Somebody just wanted me and Hutch out of the way.”

The arm around him tightened. “Really.” Starsky brought both hands up, one atop Robert’s hand, the other gripping his forearm. “It’s past. It’s all over and everything’s fine.”

Robert’s other hand began to read Starsky’s chest. He touched a vertical scar, then withdrew his hand. “Someone did this to you?”

Starsky misinterpreted the question. He squeezed Robert’s arm comfortingly. “No, just me. Hutch is fine. We were caught off guard, ambushed. But they didn’t touch him, thank God.” He felt the need to diminish the severity of the incident. “Bobby, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about what seeing these scars might bring up.” He lifted a hand to reach back and touch Robert’s cheek.

Robert suddenly pushed him away. Robert was in a low crouch, balancing on his toes. Starsky shifted to a cross-legged position, facing Robert.

“Kenny let this happen to you?” Robert’s eyes became slits. He let them put scars like that on you? He let them kill—“ Robert was on his feet. “You want to see some scars? He pulled his shirt over his head. Lines criss-crossed his chest. Robert ran his fingers around the pale flesh in an obviously ritualistic way.

Starsky froze for a moment, overwhelmed by sheer number of wounds. Then he looked down at his chest. Suddenly, his past adversities seemed very small and inconsequential. He touched his own scars. “Some history, huh?”

Robert’s hand dropped limply to his side. “I need to sleep,” he said flatly. The shirt dropped from his fingers.

Starsky stood up. “I’ll get you some towels and show you where everything is.” He started to walk past Robert, but Robert grabbed his arm. They looked at each other.

“I love you,” Starsky said simply. He blinked to hold back the tears suddenly blurring his gaze.

Robert dropped Starsky’s arm. He turned and walked toward the bathroom.

Chapter Four

Starsky grabbed the first shirt that presented itself and wriggled into it. He buttoned the front, skipped the cuffs, but tucked in the tail as he made his way from the closet to the living room. The shower was running.

“Rough night?” a voice inquired.

Starsky started and bumped into the bookcase. “Damn! You scared the beejeezus out of me!”

Hutch was sitting in the wicker chair. Strewn around the floor were magazines, clothes, sheets, and towels. A pyramid of beer cans graced the center of the room. Hutch kicked at the edge of the mess with a foot. “I wouldn’t have startled you if your door had been chained.”

Starsky regained his composure and finished tucking in his shirt. “Did you ever hear of knocking?” He picked his way to the kitchen and filled the teakettle with water.

Hutch waited until he’d set the kettle on the burner. “You don’t have time for that this morning.” He stood up. “We’re late as it is.”

Starsky lifted the kettle off the stove and set it on the counter with a loud bang. “I tried to call you and let you know I was running late. You must have already left.”

“I must have.” Hutch picked up a jacket lying at the foot of the couch and tossed it to Starsky. Starsky caught it with one hand and went to fish out his holster from under the magazines.

“Where’s the coffee?” Robert stumbled out of the bedroom, a robe wrapped around him. He focused on Hutch, and sat down in the chair Hutch had just vacated. “Did you miss me last night, baby brother?” He pointed a finger at Hutch. “We locked the door when we left your place.”

Hutch looked at Robert, then at Starsky. Starsky shouldered into his holster, his eyes locked to Hutch’s.

“You’re an adult,” Hutch said. “You can sleep wherever you want to.” He paused for effect. “Or wherever they’ll have you.”

“Oh ho!” Robert opened his eyes wide in feigned amazement. “Is that a hint?”

“Cut it out,” Starsky warned. He finally turned from Hutch. “I thought we were late.”

Hutch pulled keys from his pocket, walked to the door, and opened it. Starsky put on his jacket and started to follow.

“What about my coffee?” Robert asked

Starsky stopped and looked back at the kitchen. He thought a second, then turned back. “I’ll put the water on for you and leave the jar out.”

“Not instant,” Robert scowled. “That stuff tastes like watery manure.”

“That’s all I’ve got,” Starsky stopped, exasperated.

“We’re late,” Hutch interrupted. He was standing just outside the door.

Starsky sighed. “Okay, we’re late.” He pivoted and started for the door.

“If instant is all you’ve got, then I guess it’ll have to do.” Robert leaned into the fanback and closed his eyes. “But get some fresh-ground.”

Starsky glared at Robert, then at Hutch, and swore under his breath. He felt as if here were the flag tied to the middle of the tug-o-war rope. He tromped to the kitchen, set the kettle back on the burner, and pulled a jar of coffee from the cabinet. He slammed it on the counter, whirled, and stomped out of the apartment. His footsteps resounded on the stairs. Behind him he heard Hutch slam the front door.

Starsky threw himself into the car and waited for Hutch, elbow on the window frame, fingers tapping hard against the car door. Hutch jerked his door open with such force it rebounded and shut only a second after Hutch had jumped in. Hutch forced the key into the ignition and switched on the engine. He started to shift gears when Starsky suddenly reached out and stopped him.

“I want to take care of this now,” he demanded.

Hutch didn’t move. “Forget it.”

Starsky kept his hand tightly wrapped around Hutch’s. It felt angular, bony, hard. “What you mean is, you want to stew over it and nurse it to a good, healthy grudge.”

Hutch jerked down on the gear shift, dumping Starsky’s hand and sending the car into a lurch.

“Starsky drew back his hand. It tingled as if it burned. “Is today going to be like yesterday? Because if it is, I’d like to know.”

“I don’t know,” Hutch answered with an irritating calm. He was doing his best to appear preoccupied with the traffic. “How was yesterday?”

“Yesterday was lousy.” Starsky’s words were clipped and harsh. “And it was lousy because of your lousy attitude.” He crossed his arms and slid down into the seat, glaring at the traffic ahead.

“I don’t know why my attitude should affect you,” Hutch persisted with the same annoying tone of voice. He never looked at Starsky, but continued to examine every car, pedestrian, and sign they drove past. “I wasn’t around you for more than an hour. And you got to spend an exciting evening with your old army buddy. I would think that alone would have made the day worthwhile.”

“Okay,” Starsky slid around to face Hutch. “So that’s what’s bugging you! I’m sorry we didn’t call and let you know Bobby was going to spend the night with me. We just got to talking about things, time got away from us, and it was easier for Bobby to crash at my place than to drive him back to yours.”

“’Things’,” Hutch pounced on the word. “You mean, war things. Things I wouldn’t understand.”

“What did you expect we’d talk about?” Starsky asked indignantly. “Dammit, Hutch! I spent my time over there attached to him as if there was an umbilical cord between us. We were tight! We had to be! Yeah, we talked about ‘Nam! There are things we shared—“

“That I wouldn’t understand!” Hutch exploded.

“Yes! No!” Starsky threw up his hands and fell back against the seat. “Sometimes you can talk about things with one person that you can’t with another! We shared things, Hutch! We talked about them! So what?” Starsky shouted.

“So how come you never talk about it with me?” Hutch yelled back.

Starsky hopped back on the edge of the seat, glowering at Hutch. “Because you never want to talk about me! All you want to talk about is history and strategies and generalities! You‘d rather talk about whether the body counts were right instead of what it was like to have the guy standing next to you suddenly become one!” Starsky slammed back into the seat, then just as suddenly jumped back to the edge. “When you’re capable of talking about it, we’ll talk! When you can handle it, we’ll talk! If Bobby wants to talk to you about it, he will! But first you have to be home!” Starsky spat out the last sentence, intending to wound. Satisfied he’d done so, he settled into the seat.

Hutch’s jaw jutted out with the force of his clenched teeth. Knuckles whitened as he squeezed the steering wheel. Starsky noted the posture he’d produced, and slid closer to the door to catch the breeze from the window. He tilted his head to let it cool his face, shutting his eyes. He didn’t feel well. He had an idea that their fight had been more smoke screen than truth, and the root cause of their friction had yet to be uncovered. Starsky didn’t know what that root cause was, but whatever it was it felt like a black lump in the pit of his stomach. He sucked in the air through his nostrils and held it, letting it out slowly.

The remainder of the ride to work was made in silence.

And the rest of the work day was spent in silence.

Starsky’s car was parked a block away from the bar. Hutch cruised by it, pulling up in front of the entrance. He shifted into neutral, keeping his foot on the brake. A car paused behind him, then slowly pulled around and drove on.

“You can come, you know.”

“Dammit!” Hutch slammed a palm into the steering wheel. “Stop asking me already!”

Starsky pulled on the door handle, but kept the door from swinging open. “Are you going home?”

Hutch ran his hands up and down the wheel. “No. I’ve made other plans.”

Starsky looked over at the bar, then back at Hutch. “With the same anonymous person you saw last night?”

Hutch made a point of looking Starsky directly in the eye. There was a cruel glint in Hutch’s gaze that made Starsky shiver. “Yes, as a matter of fact. We made another date. We have things to discuss. Important things.”

Starsky felt hot and constricted under the gaze. He momentarily debated whether or not to demand to know the identity of they mystery person, then concluded he was in no mood for another car fight. He opened the door and stepped out.

“You two old army buddies have a good time tonight,” Hutch called out before the door swung shut.

Starsky wished he’d slammed the door. The car shifted into gear and headed up the street, leaving Starsky standing on the pavement.

Starsky stood there as traffic whisked past him, watching after Hutch until his car had long since passed from view. He turned and walked slowly into The Pits.

It was dark, crowded, musky, noisy; everything a bar should be. The recently installed video games kept up a constant chatter. The tell-tale hum of a PA system droned just under the games. A band was setting up on a stage that had been excavated from some newly acquired space. The clack of billiard balls punctuated the entire cacophony. Starsky stepped down into the mélange and threaded his way among the sounds to a small table across from the stage.

Starsky sat down next to a man staring at an untouched beer. Starsky held onto the silence.

“Well, if it ain’t my two favorite mothers.” A hand landed on Starsky’s shoulder, and he twisted around to greet the speaker.

“Hi, Hug.”

Huggy sat down at the table and Robert looked up to see who had joined them.

Huggy repressed a double-take, but it was clear the resemblance to Hutch had taken him by surprise.

“My apologies,” he bowed in Robert’s direction. “I mistook you for the other half of this keeper of the public’s welfare, which you are most obviously not.” He leaned forward to look more closely at Robert in the dim light, then looked curiously at Starsky. “However, unless my eyes deceive me, I believe I perceive a—dare I say blond?—resemblance.”

Starsky smiled and sat up a bit in his chair. “Huggy, I’d like you to meet an friend of mine, Robert Hutchinson. Bobby, this is the dude I was telling you about, Huggy Bear.”

Robert nodded once in greeting. Huggy looked him up and down carefully. Again, he looked at Starsky curiously.

“Hutchinson,” Huggy mused. “As in Kenneth?”

Robert seemed to take no notice of the remark and resumed staring into his beer.

Starsky leaned forward on his elbows and grinned at Robert. “This is Hutch’s older brother.”

This time Huggy did the double-take. “No fooling’?” Huggy was fascinated by Robert. “I didn’t know Hutch had a brother. How’s it hangin’, bro?”

Robert looked up from his beer wearing a blank expression. He blinked at Huggy, then looked at Starsky and relaxed back into his chair. An enigmatic smile played upon his lips. “Things are too slow, too quiet, and too flat.” He pushed his beer toward Huggy, but looked at Starsky. “Give me some head.”

Huggy looked from Robert to Starsky. “Done.” He picked up the glass and rose. “And you?” he inquired of Starsky, the faintest of smiles playing across his lips.

“The same,” Starsky answered evenly. Huggy nodded and disappeared into the crowd toward the bar.

The conversation dropped back to nothing. Starsky shifted so he could watch the band set up. He recognized the group only as having never played here before.

Huggy reappeared and deposited two beers on the table. He sat back down next to Starsky.

“New band?” Starsky asked. He picked up his beer and sipped.

“Yeah, but they’re hot.” Huggy watched the members rig their equipment. “I’m gonna give ‘m their start, so they can make my place famous.” He turned his attention to Robert. “So, another of the Hutchinson dynasty has come to grace our fair city. Profit, or pleasure?” Huggy smiled.

Robert took the head off his beer. “A little of both, if the action’s right.” Starsky sent Robert a sidelong glance. Robert continued to direct his remarks to Huggy. “What’s your action, Huggy Bear?”

“Whatever I can get away with.” Huggy leaned back and appraised the two men. “I can’t get over it. Another blond Hutch. Where’d you dig this one up, Starsky?”

“I dug him up.” It was Robert who answered. There was a note of indignation in his voice, and Starsky had the impression it was very important Huggy understand who had begun the relationship. Starsky frowned.

“Yep, I found you, didn’t I, babe?” Robert said.

Starsky turned to Huggy. “Yeah. We met in ’Nam, Hug. A long time ago.” He looked at Robert quizzically.

“A long, long time ago,” Robert repeated. He took another swallow of beer. “I was your louie, wasn’t I, babe? And you were my RTO.”

“Translation?” Huggy requested.

“Robert was my lieutenant, and I was his radio officer,” Starsky decoded.

Robert leaned over and rubbed Starsky’s back. “I can’t tell you the number of times he almost got the shit shot off his back. This kid was so green he didn’t know enough not to wear aftershave in the jungle. Nearly got himself sucked dry the first time he set foot in the field.” Robert grinned at Huggy. “Tough street kid, this guy,” he jerked his thumb at Starsky, “got lost the first time he had to pee.”

“I did not!” Starsky objected hotly. His face flushed.

Robert continued to grin, ignoring Starsky’s discomfort. “And you should have seen this guy the first time he came back from Sin City. How many hypos of penicillin did it take? But I took you in hand, so to speak, and showed you how to navigate your way through those jungles.”

Huggy started to speak, but the band had finished its preparations and a few experimental chords sliced through the room. The drummer gave a downbeat and the electric guitar let loose with an opening riff reminiscent of John Lee Hooker. Huggy nodded time approvingly.

Robert stood up. “On your feet, babe.”

Starsky had taken refuge in the music, and hadn’t heard Robert. Robert grabbed him by the arm. “On your feet!”

Starsky frowned up at Robert. This band promised to be good. Robert pulled on his arm, and he rose reluctantly. He reached into his pocket for a couple of bills, but Huggy waved them back. Robert pushed Starsky in front of him and they left the bar.

vvv

Starsky and Robert walked silently to the Torino. For a moment they both appeared to be heading for the driver’s side, but Starsky made a deft maneuver and ended up on the passenger side, tossing the keys over the top. He and Robert got into the car, with Starsky just barely getting his door closed before Robert peeled away from the curb. Starsky settled in for the ride, not knowing where they were going. It took a few street signs before he realized they were headed for Venice, and it dawned on him that Robert had made no wrong turns. It was as if Hutch were next to him instead of Robert. And it was natural. Starsky looked hard at the man next to him, examining him, comparing him to Hutch.

Bobby, at his physical peak in ’Nam, had been leaner than Hutch. Same structural foundation, just not as large. Thinner arms and legs, skinnier butt, lankier overall build. Well, except for one physical trait he’d been told the male side of the Hutchinson clan all shared.

The physical differences would have been slight in the dark were it not for Robert’s withdrawn look. The facial planes were sharper and more angular, as was his whole body. With a shock Starsky realized what the difference was—Robert had the look of a man recovering from a serious illness. A look Starsky had tried again and again to ignore in himself. He shivered at the comparison.

Robert drove around the block looking for a place to park and finally landed one across from Hutch’s apartment. The two walked across the street and to the building without a word. Starsky followed Robert up the stairs and stood on the landing as Robert made a great show of pulling a key from his pocket an inserting it into the lock. It failed to produce any results, and Robert yanked it out. Starsky fished for the right key from his pocket, and stepped forward to use it. Robert grabbed the key from his hand, and unlocked the door himself.

Once inside, Robert locked and chained the door. Starsky flicked on a light. “No. Turn it off,” Robert commanded harshly. Starsky quickly doused it.

A pink-tinged light filtered in from the slatted windows. Robert walked across the room and threw himself on Hutch’s bed. He lay face down.

Starsky walked over to the end of the bed and stood staring at Robert’s form. “Bobby?” he asked tentatively. “Do you want me to leave?”

There was no reply.

“Do you want me to stay?”

The shape on the bed didn’t move. Starsky rounded the end of the bed and sat down on the edge. He laid his hand on Robert’s neck and squeezed.

“Are you all right?” Starsky asked quietly.

Robert rolled out from under Starsky’s hand and sat up on the opposite side of the bed. “You know what I need?” He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. ”A little relaxer.” The bag dangled between his fingers.

Starsky reached over and took the bag. Even in the dark he could tell what it was.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked softly.

“Questions, questions, always questions,” Robert sighed. He snatched the bag back. He pulled out a joint. “One,” he offered it to Starsky. “That’s your ration.”

Starsky turned away from him. “No, thanks.”

A small giggle erupted from Robert. “Don’t tell me you quit?” He leaned toward Starsky. “Afraid of tarnishing the image?”

Starsky picked at the bedspread. “No. I just gave it up. That’s all.”

Robert leaned even closer. “You quit,” he whispered, “because he never started.”

Starsky got up and walked over to the green house door. “You shouldn’t be messing out on the streets.” He rested his forehead against the glass. “It isn’t like it was.”

Robert got up and walked around him, planting his back against the glass, crossing his arms across his chest. “Why, babe?” His voice was low and dangerous. “Because it’s risky? Perilous? More perilous than ARVNs? More perilous than Bouncing Bettys? Or could it be that you don’t want me to cause any trouble for baby brother.”

For a second Nick’s face flashed in Starsky’s head. The image fled, and Starsky turned away. Robert grabbed Starsky’s arm and pulled Starsky to him, face to face.

“You got an answer for me, boy?”

Starsky set his mouth in a grim line. He kept his face turned away from Robert’s. Robert held onto Starsky’s upper arms and squeezed harder. “Well?”

“Let me go,” Starsky said.

Robert raised an eyebrow. “And just who do you think is in charge here, grunt? You? Baby Brother maybe? I don’t think so.”

Starsky flexed his biceps. Robert responded by spinning them around so Starsky was backed up against the glass, his head thudding dully against the pane.

“I give the orders here.” Robert’s face was an inch from Starsky’s. His breath was hot on Starsky’s face. “I am in command here. You do exactly as I say, whenever I say it, without thinking. Got that, boy?” Robert leaned in closer, his lips almost on Starsky’s lips—

The lock clicked on the other side of the room. It opened only so far, restrained by the door chain. A string of swear words resounded from the other side of the door.

“Cut out the crap and open this goddamned door!” Hutch yelled. He shoved against the door, but the chain held.

Robert glared at Starsky, then abruptly released him. He took a step back, then turned and strode to the door. He shoved it shut, eliciting more swear words, then undid the chain and stepped back. Hutch pushed through, slamming the door behind him.

“What’s with the chain?” Hutch asked angrily. “And what are you doing in the dark?” He switched on a light and found himself facing a flushed Starsky.

“You’re certainly hard to please,” Robert answered. “Yesterday I left the apartment unlocked. Today it’s too locked. Perhaps there is a happy medium you might let me in on?”

Hutch unzipped his jacket. “I never use the chain.”

Robert folded his arms across his chest. “Then why have one?”

Hutch pulled his left arm out of the jacket. “It makes Starsky happy, that’s why.”

Robert lifted an eyebrow at Starsky. “Really?”

“Who says I wanted that chain?” Starsky moved into the center of the room, still flushed.

Hutch glanced at him, then slipped his right arm from the jacket. He draped it over the back of the couch and went to the refrigerator.

“And why did you want that chain?” Robert continued. “To keep people out? Or to keep people in?”

A pop top clicked in the kitchen.

“Excellent idea!” Robert clapped his hands together. “Beer for everyone! Let’s party!”

Starsky took a deep breath and leaned against one of the posts. A change of subject was needed. “Your date ended kind of early, didn’t it?”

Hutch ignored the question, as well as the request for beer for everyone. He finished his own beer in three swallows, then tossed the can into the trash. He began unbuttoning his shirt as he crossed to the couch, pulling the tail out of his pants before he sat down. He balanced on the edge of a cushion and removed one of his boots. “Braverman’s trial starts tomorrow. I want a good night’s sleep tonight.”

Robert glared at him. “I don’t think you heard me. I said, let’s party!” He threw the plastic bag at Hutch.

Hutch fumbled for it, dropping his boot as he clutched at the bag. He held it up and examined it. “What’s this?”

“Need more light?” Robert switched on a nearby lamp. The bag twirled between Hutch’s fingers. “Oh, come off it.” He walked up to Hutch and snatched the bag back. “Are you really a cop, or are you just passing?”

Hutch stood up and faced Robert. “I don’t want that in my home.”

Robert stared back, deftly tossing the back to Starsky. “Fine. Davey will keep it for me.”

Hutch turned his gaze to glare at Starsky. “Starsky?” It was half query, half warning.

“Hey!” Robert pointed his finger at Hutch. “ You do not tell him what to do. You don’t tell me, you don’t tell him.”

“In my home,” Hutch’s eyes glittered, “I say what goes. And I say the pot goes.”

Starsky moved between the two brothers. “Okay, okay,” he soothed. “Let’s just cool it, huh?” He tossed the bag from one hand to the other. “Hutch is right. We’d be better off getting rid of this.” He took a few steps toward the bathroom, only to be pulled up short by Robert. Robert was gripping Starsky’s elbow, but staring at Hutch.

“What gives you the right to dictate to us how we live our lives?” Robert released Starsky. “You don’t have any kind of rights when it comes to me and Davey.” He stepped up to Hutch and pushed him. “Who do you think you are? A grunt?” He stiff-armed Hutch back another step. “You think you’re a grunt, boy? Is that what you think you are? You think you’re on the same level as me and Davey?” He pushed Hutch a third time. “Let me tell you something, boy. People like you aren’t fit to be grunts. You aren’t even fit to be men. The only thing you’re good for is buttfucking.”

There was a second of absolute silence, and then Hutch was on Robert. Hutch grabbed Robert’s jacket and swung him down on the couch. Robert tried to roll out from under him, but Hutch used his weight to keep him pinned down. He pushed Robert deep into the cushions. Robert clutched at Hutch’s arms, trying to loosen his grip. Hutch bore down on Robert’s chest.

Starsky dropped the bag and leapt behind Hutch, grabbing him around the waist. He attempted to lift Hutch off Robert, but couldn’t find the leverage. He gripped Hutch tighter, sucked in his breath, and hauled Hutch backward. Hutch still clung to Robert’s jacket, who was pulled upright with them both. Starsky twisted savagely, his shoulder exploding in pain. Hutch went sideways, lost his grip, and tumbled to the floor with Starsky. Robert fell back on the couch. Hutch landed against the coffee table. Starsky took another roll and ended up on his knees, clutching his shoulder.

Panting and smells of sweat and anger filled the room. Hutch picked himself up first, keeping his back to the others. Robert lay with one arm across his chest, the other across his eyes, sucking in air. Starsky dropped to a sitting position, rubbing the pain from his shoulder, his face grimacing.

Robert suddenly swung his legs off the couch and sat up. He stared at the floor a moment, then rose and walked toward the door. Starsky watched him pause in the doorway, then leave without looking back.

Hutch turned around. He spotted the forgotten bag and scooped it up, holding it in his palm as if to gauge its weight.

“How much does he smoke?” Hutch demanded. “How much did he smoke over there?”

Starsky looked up at him. “What?”

“How much!” Hutch yelled. The light caught the flush in his cheeks.

“Damn, you have got a one-track mind!” Starsky shouted back. He continued to massage his shoulder, struggling for control. “Look: Everyone carried party packs. Those were little bags of—“

“I know what they are,” Hutch spat back. His arm dropped to his side and he turned away.

“Bobby took care of us,” Starsky pleaded. “He let us smoke, but not a lot. Just enough to keep us sane. That’s all. And he made sure we stayed away from 100s. So that’s how much we all smoked. Satisfied?”

“And apparently he still does,” the edge crept back into Hutch’s voice.

“So?” Starsky shot back. “It’s just grass. He can handle it. Bobby can take care of himself.” He was suddenly exhausted by this conversation.

“Surely his doctors can’t approve!” Hutch burst out. But this time his voice held more concern than anger.

“They probably don’t know,” Starsky replied. “Drop it, will you? Just forget it.”

They stared hard at each other, then Hutch looked away. He lifted the bag in his hand and hefted it once more. He resolutely walked toward the bathroom.

Starsky rotated his shoulder experimentally, and finding it nearly pain-free, stood up. He turned to look at Hutch, who had paused just inside the bathroom doorway. He was slumped against the door frame.

“Starsky?” A small voice called from the bathroom.

“Yeah?”

“Am I so different?” Hutch turned sideways and leaned back against the frame. “Am I so far from understanding?”

Starsky thought a second. “No,” he answered quietly. “Not really. A lot of what we’ve seen on the streets is just as horrible and empty as what we saw in ’Nam. But you’ve got to understand, Hutch. An alley fight isn’t the same as a fire fight.” Starsky gestured at the air, searching for words. “Seeing someone blown away by a Magnum isn’t the same as seeing someone wasted by a mine. You can’t know—“ he faltered. He remembered a night spent in a foxhole, rain so forceful he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, his only contact with reality an arm snaked around his waist, holding him tight. “You just had to be there,” he finished lamely.

“Is that why you never talk about it?”

Starsky scrapped a knuckle along his jawbone. He looked around the room as if he’d lost something. “I should go out and find Bobby.”

Hutch lifted his weight from the doorframe. “I thought you said he could take care of himself,” he said bitterly.

Starsky didn’t respond. Instead, he walked to the front door.

“Starsk.” Pleading has replaced the bitterness in Hutch’s voice. “I need to—we need to talk—“

Starsky turned his head, but didn’t look at Hutch. “Let me go.”

“Starsky, please—“

“Let me go.”

Hutch gave in. He turned, dumped the contents of the bag into the toilet, and flushed. Starsky left.

Starsky jogged down the stairs quickly and rhythmically, pausing at the bottom to glance back at the landing. For now it was easier to go forward than to go back. Starsky opened the building door and stepped out into the sidewalk. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, checked for oncoming traffic, then dashed across the street to his car. He pulled the door open hard enough to send it bouncing back against his hip. He fell into the car and settled painfully into the seat, feeling as if the left half of his body had totally betrayed him. Starsky squirmed to find the keys in his jeans pocket, inserted them in the ignition, and revved up the car. He pumped the gas pedal a few times, listening to the engine grind, when the passenger door opened. Starsky let up on the gas and watched as Robert flung himself into the car.

“Let’s roll,” Robert commanded.

Starsky just looked at him. He shut off the engine.

“No.”

“Dammit, I said let’s move!” Robert slammed a fist into the dash.

Starsky continued to stare at Robert under the pink street light. “I’m not moving this frigging car a frigging inch until you tell me what the hell is going on,” he said firmly. “One minute you’re silent as a corpse, the next you’re laying bait fit to catch a bear. I want to know what’s going on.” Starsky twisted in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, signaling to Robert that he had no intention of starting up the car.

Robert let his head fall back and laughed. “You never baited your brother?” What was his name, Nick?” Robert rolled his head sideways and looked at Starsky. There was a hint of scorn in his eyes that made Starsky look away. “You and me, we both know about baby brothers, eh, babe?”

“You see?” Starsky gestured at the street in front of them. “You’re doing it again. One minute you’re breathing fire, and the next you’re laughing like you’ve just found the funniest joke in the world.”

“Maybe I have,” Robert cocked an eyebrow. “Found a good joke, that is.” He reached over and chucked Starsky under the chin.

Starsky twisted away from the hand and slid until his back was against the door. Robert scooted toward him in response, one arm draped along the back of the seat, the other hung on the steering wheel. It was impossible not to feel trapped. Starsky took a deep breath. “Bobby,” he tried to keep his voice steady. “I want to help you.” He sat as straight as possible. “Don’t keep everything to yourself, man. We used to be able to talk about anything.”

Robert’s eyes became slits. “You don’t want to know, man.”

“I don’t want to know, or you don’t want to tell me?”

Robert licked his lips and lowered his head.

Starsky reached across and laid a hand on Robert’s arm. “I’m strong.”

Robert’s head snapped up. “You’re strong? You’re strong? Babe, you don’t know what strong is.” He inched closer to Starsky. “I was stronger over there than I have ever been in my entire life. Seven-foot square cells, babe. Solitary.” Robert’s voice was venomous. “Codes that began with a sneeze and ended with a cough, which taught you everything from French to Calculus. My mind was so strong I could remember the names of every kid in my second grade class and create a suspension bridge from the drafting of the blueprints to the painting of the white strip down the middle of the pavement! You and your bloody FUO that got you out of there, you don’t know what strong is!”

Starsky drew his hand back angrily. “I didn’t ask to get that fucking fever! I didn’t ask to be taken out of country!” he shouted defensively.

“What ask?” Robert glowered at him. There was open hatred on his face. “You were so feverish for so long we thought your brain was going to boil! You couldn’t even remember your own name!” He stabbed a finger at Starsky. “Doc didn’t know what you had, the doctors in Quy Nhon didn’t know what you had, so they had to ship you out!”

“I tried to get back to you!” Starsky countered.

“You were short!” Robert roared. “You had less than six weeks left to go! What did you think, did you think they’d send you back to me on a stretcher and we could lug you and that radio around in the jungle? Maybe have Ticher and Stevens carry you between them like some fallen warrior on his shield?” Derision filled his voice. “You don’t know strong because you’ve never been strong!”

Starsky’s eyes dulled with pain. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t fight, all he could do was swallow all his feelings. It was making him sick to his stomach, creating another lump to lie next to the one he was calling Hutch’s.

Robert was breathing heavily in front of Starsky. Suddenly, Robert lunged toward Starsky, taking Starsky’s head between his hands, kissing him. Hard. Hard and dry. Robert forced his lips against Starsky’s until their teeth ground together.

Then just as suddenly, Robert released Starsky. Robert shivered, then lost all rigidity in his body and collapsed back into the seat.

Starsky didn’t move.

After a moment Robert struggled to sit back up, then reached over, stroking a few of Starsky’s curls.

Starsky flinched involuntarily.

Robert continued to caress him. “It wasn’t your doing,” he whispered.

Starsky held steady under the touch, but refused to meet Robert’s gaze.

“Go home.” Robert gave Starsky a final pat, then turned and opened his door. He exited the car and shut the door behind him.

Starsky moved to watch him as he rounded the car and crossed the street. He glanced up at Hutch’s apartment in time to see a figure moving away from the window. Starsky looked back down at the street. A car pulled away from the curb—Hutch’s car. Robert slowly cruised by, heading in the direction of the beach.

Two lumps lay in Starsky’s stomach, two ulcers, two hells. He started his car and drove off.

The sequel to this story is Brothers: Part III.