CODA

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TAG: A short scene which comes after the climax and wraps up the teleplay.

CODA: Section added to the form proper of a composition as a conclusion.

DAVID SOUL: What the show really is, is a love story between two men who happen to be cops.

The following tags are not necessarily meant to replace the originals. Most often, they are intended to supplement what was on the screen. Of course, in those cases where the on-air tags are totally without redeeming virtue, they are better off ignored.

To me, the most important part of STARSKY AND HUTCH was watching the relationship evolve from the pilot movie through the fourth season. This zine is an attempt to show one way that evolvement might have come about.

 

Teri White was one of the first of S&H’s fandom’s classic zine writers to give us permission to post all her fanfiction to the Archive. Her only caveat was that we include the art as well. With permission of those artists, we have done that. Coda was the first of Teri’s zines we presented on the original archive, and eventually all her stories and novels were posted. And what a treasure trove it is. It is with great respect and appreciation that we present the zine, Coda. In an attempt to maintain the flavor of the zine, we have presented the first few pages as they appeared in the zine.

As usual, there are many people to thank when a zine has been translated for the net. Starsky & Hutch fiction, in particular, starts on paper, has to be scanned or typed, proof-read and corrected, turned into html, proof-read again, then set up on the archive. Many people are involved in this labor of love. I want to thank, in particular, Cindy L. who is forever helpful, Lisa Fringe who took on the formidable task of correcting and proofing, and my partner, Anne, for providing unlimited technical expertise and for having to live with the havoc Starsky & Hutch has caused in our lives. I especially want to thank Ruth Kurz for granting us approval to post her art, and for contacting Teri for me. And of course, many thanks to Teri for graciously allowing us to bring her work to a whole new audience.

You can find most of Teri’s stories on this archive.

Flamingo

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INTRODUCTION

It’s been quite a decade, hasn’t it, folks? And although no one but another Fan could probably understand, all of us within S&H fandom would have to admit that our lives have been shaped in part by our attachment to a couple of TV cops. Crazy, yes; fun, definitely.

This seems to be a good time and place for one fan–me–to express my deep gratitude to all of the people I have come to know and care about through S&H. You have enriched my life and I owe you a great deal. This zine is an effort to help repay at least part of that debt.

None of us is the same person we were back in 1975. If I am further along my chosen path than I ever had any right to expect, a large measure of the reason rests with the people of fandom. I think that most of us could say the same thing. And if I might get on my soapbox for a moment: Television takes a lot of knocks and many of them are probably deserved. However, I think that note should be taken of the good that can come from a simple ‘cops-and-robbers’ show. Friendships are made, solitary people find that they are not alone, and creative energies find a place where they can be explored and appreciated.

Enough. I hope that you enjoy reading this zine as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The following tags are not necessarily meant to replace the originals. Most often, they are intended to supplement what was on the screen. Of course, in those cases where the on-air tags are totally without redeeming virtue, they are better off ignored.

To me, the most important part of STARSKY AND HUTCH was watching the relationship evolve from the pilot movie through the fourth season. This zine is an attempt to show one way that evolvement might have come about.

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C O D A by Teri White

COVER ART: RUTH KURZ

POETRY: ELLEN K.

COPYRIGHT:© SEPTEMBER, 1985 by Teri White. This is an amateur publication, produced at cost, and intended solely for the entertainment of its readers. It is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights held by Spelling/Goldberg, ABC Television or any others.

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OVERTURE

Here in this land of green and gold
Are two explorers, brave and bold.
They seek not glory, fortune, fame,
But their adventures are not tame.
These knights unarmored every day
Go gallantly into the fray.
They walk the byways which belong
To those who would do others wrong.
Through friendly days and hostile nights,
They strive to change the wrongs to rights.

These two who o’er the scene preside
Have, more than virtue on their side.
Their hearts are filled with confidence
As simple justice they dispense.
By friendship loving and profound,
E’er to each other they are bound,
And such a friendship must inspire
The hearts of those who would admire.

These are the stories, twice-told tales,
Of how, o’er sorrow, love prevails,
And in each tale’s revisioned end,
Learn what it means to have a friend.

Ellen L. K.

______________________________________________________

1975-1976

All the time I thought there’s only me,
Crazy in a way that no one else could be.
I would have given everything I owned,
If someone would have said:
“You’re not alone.”
I can’t believe that you were somewhere, too,
Thinking all the time there was only you.

Manilow

______________________________________________________

 

“STARSKY AND HUTCH: THE PILOT MOVIE”

“H – – u – – t – – c – – h!”

Hutchinson grinned to himself as the echo of his partner’s anguished yell faded away. God, sometimes it was so easy to dump on poor Starsky that it wasn’t even much fun. The guy was a sucker; P.T. Barnum would have loved him. How the devil did a tough street cop manage to stay so naive? So childishly trusting? Trusting?

The grin faded a little. Yeah, Starsky still trusted him, despite the fact that he cheerfully pulled the rug out from under him on every possible occasion. And while it was true that every once in a while Starsky played tit for tat and got revenge, usually he just took it and grinned easy forgiveness.

Hutch was starting to feel a little guilty by now. It was an emotion he didn’t much like. In the world of his past, one-up-manship was an honored tradition.

The little games that passed for civilized behavior.

Of course, he’d always hated it, and that kind of thing was one reason why he’d left Minnesota in the first place. So why did he find himself, even all these years later, doing the same damned thing?

It occurred to him that for someone like Starsky these mind games might not be any fun at all.

By the time he arrived at the squat little house on the bank of the canal, Hutch had talked himself into feeling like a complete bastard. He got out of the car and walked as far as the front door. Then, abruptly, he spun around and stalked back to the LTD.

Damn. Sometimes it seemed that life had been a whole lot easier before. When ‘friend’ was only a word and not a living, breathing, vulnerable–so damned vulnerable–being sitting next to him in the car.

Traffic was light, so he made good time to Starsky’s place. There was no sign of the striped tomato on the street, but Hutch parked anyway. He went inside and sat on the floor by Starsky’s door. So now he’d wait. Drawing both knees to his chest, he rested his head there. God, he thought, I’m tired. All that had happened in the last few days was catching up to him. His mind felt fuzzy around the edges.

After only a moment, his eyes closed.

“Hey? Buddy? You okay?”

He woke slowly, blinking away the fog, and peered up into a familiar face that looked a little worried.

One strong hand gripped his shoulder. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine, Starsk. Just fell asleep, I guess.”

Starsky sat back on his heels. “What the devil are you doing in my hallway?”

Hutch felt sheepish now, which wasn’t much better than feeling guilty. He cleared his throat. “I was just wondering if you still wanted to go get some dinner. Unless you already ate?”

After a hesitation, Starsky grinned. “I only had a pizza. I could go for some more. If you want.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said. “I want.”

Starsky stood, held out a hand.

Hutch took a grip and was pulled to his feet. Someday Starsky was going to get truly pissed at him over one of his dumbass stunts. But not tonight.

For tonight he was still safe.

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“SAVAGE SUNDAY”

“Oh, shit!”

Starsky grimaced as the stinging antiseptic touched his scraped knee. Every part of his body hurt, especially the raw knees, hands, and elbows that hit the ground after he bailed out of the dynamite-laden car just seconds before it exploded. He gritted his teeth and moved on to the other knee with the medicine. “You know something, Hutch,” he said tightly.

Across the kitchen table, Hutch didn’t even bother to look up from the Sunday comics. “Hmmm?” he said absently.

“We hafta re-define this partnership.”

Now two bright blue eyes peered at him over the edge of the paper. “What’s that?”

“I said, this partnership has a few problems.”

“What kind of problems, buddy?”

“Yeah, now it’s buddy. Where were you when I was jumping into that damned car?”

“I was there. And, boy, you were terrific, Starsk.”

“Terrific? Dumb is more like it. I coulda been blown into real tiny little pieces. Why did I have to be the one to drive the car away?”

“You didn’t have to be. That’s just the way it worked out.”

“I must have a bad karma,” Starsky muttered.

“A bad what? Jews don’t have karmas, Starsk.”

“Lot you know. We invented it.” He finally finished tending his wounds and reached for the discarded jeans. “So about this working relationship.”

“Yeah?” Hutch went so far as to lower the funnies and look at him. “What’d you have in mind, buddy?”

“I think we should make a deal.” Starsky’s voice was solemn.

“A deal?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. And the deal is, we should take turns.”
“Take turns?”

“Right.”

Hutch folded the newspaper and set it aside. just what the hell are you talking about?”

Starsky pulled his jeans on, making a slightly pained sound as the denim slid over his knees. “Today I was the hero, right?”

“You could say so, I guess.” Hutch’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile, but didn’t quite dare.

“Well, next time it’s your turn.” Now there was a note of triumph in his voice.

“Okay, Starsk. The next time somebody needs to drive a car full of dynamite over a cliff, I’ll do it.”

Starsky frowned. “That’s not exactly what I meant. I mean, how often does a car like that turn up?”

“Maybe only once, if my good karma holds.”

“Right. So next time it might be something else.”

“Such as?”

“How the heck do I know? Just, whatever it is, you get to be the hero.”

“Oh, now I understand what you’re getting at.”

“Don’t you think that sounds fair?”

Now Hutch grinned broadly. “I think it sounds terrific. Part time heroism suits me.”

Starsky was satisfied. He picked up the comics and opened them with a flourish.

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“TEXAS LONGHORN”

Every year on his birthday, his grandfather sent him a bottle of very good whiskey. Excellent whiskey. The old bastard thought that no real man’s life was complete until he had learned an appreciation for the fine art of distillery.

Tonight his grandson Kenneth Hutchinson was appreciative.

He was halfway through the most recent bottle. This was fifteen-year old stuff. Good. Great, in fact, for the man wanting to get tastefully drunk.

Except that nobody had yet managed to brew up anything strong enough to keep this Hutchinson from thinking. And he was thinking now that he had no business sitting here at–Christ, almost four AM–getting drunk, tastefully or otherwise.

Not that he’d never been drunk before. God knows, he’d spent his share of nights kneeling before the porcelain altar. But this was different. It wasn’t fun anymore. This was no mindless celebration over having gotten through another final exam alive; it wasn’t an attempt to work up some liquid courage before putting the make on some good-looking broad. None of that.

Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson was sitting in his kitchen at this hour, drinking and thinking, because he had a pain deep inside his gut. A pain that came from the killing of the Taylor woman. Cases had bothered him before, sure. Lots of times. But tonight he couldn’t get over the look of infinite sadness he’d seen in Zack Taylor’s eyes just before he died. Hell, sadness didn’t even begin to cover it. The dreadful, hollow emptiness.

Hutch’s hand shook slightly as he reached for the bottle again. Maybe he’d felt Zack’s pain so strongly because he had tasted just a little of that same void so often, had felt alone so much of his life.

He sipped the whiskey, savoring it like Grandpa had taught. You didn’t gulp fine liquor; you absorbed it, noticing the color, the aroma, the unending variety of subtle flavors.

After the divorce he’d spent a few nights here swilling down cans of beer, but that was mostly because it seemed like the proper thing to do when a wife walked out. But it was hard to truly mourn something that had been dead for such a long time already. And that pain was different from what he was feeling now.

I’m scared.

The thought came from nowhere, startling him so that he set the glass down hard onto the counter.

I’m scared.

God, he never wanted to be that empty, that lost. But standing here like this seemed to be a bad omen.

The shrill ringing of the telephone made him jump. He picked it up quickly, before it could ring again.

“‘Lo?”

“Hutch?”

Why the hell was Starsky calling him at this hour?

“Hey, Hutch, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. What’s wrong?”

“Nuthin’.”

“So?

He could hear the other man take a deep breath. “You wanna go have some breakfast?”

“Now?”

“Well, I can’t sleep. Don’t wanna sleep.”

“Me either,” he admitted.

“Yeah, so I thought maybe we’d go have some breakfast. There’s a place I know opens at five. Great food, I promise.”

Hutch picked up the glass of expensive whiskey and poured the rest of it down the drain. “Pick me up, okay? I gotta shave and take a shower.” And sober up.

“No hurry. We’ve got a lot of time, partner.” Starsky hung up.

Hutch thought about Starsky’s words for a moment, then decided not to think about them anymore right now. Whistling tunelessly, he headed for the bathroom.

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“DEATH RIDE”

Starsky was still pouting over the damned watch. Actually, he was doing more than just pouting; he was complaining long and loudly and making a general pain in the ass of himself. Acting like he was the only mark ever to get stuck with a hot watch.

It didn’t even seem to make him feel any better that Huggy had refunded all of his cash.

By the time the morning was–finally–nearing an end, Hutch was barely resisting the urge to reach down the length of the front seat and throttle his bitching partner. Instead, he viciously slapped the dashboard.

“Starsky,” he said very quietly.

“Huh?” Starsky was staring at the traffic light.

“If you say one more word about that damned watch, I’m gonna do something desperate.”

“Such as?”

The light changed and the Torino squealed away.

“Such as throwing one of us out of this moving vehicle. Not much caring which one, by the way.”

“You just don’t understand,” Starsky said. Most of the whine was gone from his voice.

Hutch held on as the car negotiated a sharp left.

“If you mean that I don’t understand your obsession with ridiculous timepieces, that’s very true.”

They came to a sudden stop in front of the Taco Shack. But Starsky made no move to get out. Instead, he leaned forward onto the steering wheel.

Without even knowing why, Hutch was suddenly sorry that he’d started this whole thing. “Hey, come on, lunch is on me,” he said with cheery heartiness.

“First watch I ever had,” Starsky said softly, “my father gave it to me when I was ten. Big old clunky thing he’d had since high school. I never took the damned thing off. Except one day when it stopped running. Just stopped. So my dad said he’d take it to be fixed. He put the thing into his pocket and left.”

Hutch was staring out the window, watching a couple of kids duke it out over a football.

“When the bullets hit him, one went right through the watch. Smashed it all to bits. So much for that.”

“Damn, I’m sorry,” Hutch said.

Absurdly, Starsky was smiling as he looked over. “It’s okay, man. I was only trying to explain why I go crazy over watches. Guess I’m just trying to find one I love as much as that one. But you’re right. It’s pretty dumb.”

Hutch reached over and mock-punched him on the shoulder. “Not dumb at all. Just one of your sort of lovable little quirks.”

“One of my what?” Starsky said suspiciously.

But Hutch was already out of the car, heading for the taco stand. After a moment, he heard Starsky scrambling after him. “Hey, Hutch, you mean that? About springing for lunch?”

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“SNOW STORM”

“Hutch?”

“What?”

“He’s still following me.

“Make like you don’t know he’s there.”

“How can I do that? I can feel those eyes on my back.”

“I thought you liked him in Huggy’s.”

“Well, I did. Sort of. But he wasn’t following me with blood in his eyes.”

“So turn around and confront him.”

“I don’t want to be mean.”

“Mean? If he’s got blood in his eyes, like you said, he’ll rip your throat out.”

“You think so?”

“Starsk, the dog is harmless.”

“You say.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like dogs?”

“I like ’em fine. When they ain’t following me.”

“Probably he’s following me, anyway.”

“So who the hell are you? Doctor Doolittle?”

“No, but at least I like dogs. Always had one when I was a kid.”

“Real All-American boy, weren’t you, Hutchinson?”

“You never had a dog?”

“In the city? The only ones I ever saw were strays. Mean as sin. Or else those little pansy dogs with pink bows.”

“Well, you’d be a different man today if you had owned a dog.”

“I’m sure. Hutch, why don’t you turn around and tell the dog to go home?”

“I don’t want to hurt his feelings. After all, he saved my life. You tell him. It would hurt less coming from you.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t have any expectations about you. Me, he likes.”

“Please, Hutch.”

“Okay…. Hey, doggie, go on home. Go home, pup.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Looking at you, Starsk. Looking funny at you.”

“Funny? Funny how?”

“Sort of like he knows you put me up to chasing him off.”

“Damn.”

“Starsk, you just keep walking. Don’t look back, whatever happens. I’m going to lure him off.”

“Be careful.”

“Well, he probably won’t rip my throat out. Go on, buddy.”

Starsky didn’t stop until he was safely inside the Torino. Then he looked out the window to see if maybe his partner was bleeding all over the place.

Hutch was sitting on a fire hydrant, arms crossed, watching him. And grinning. There was no dog anywhere in sight. Starsky realized suddenly that there never had been.

He stuck one hand out the window, a single finger raised, and then he drove off, leaving Hutch on the hydrant. Maybe a real dog would come along.

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“THE FIX”

It came in with the night.

Nameless at first, nothing he could grab onto, nothing concrete to fight. For five nights now. He had given up even trying to go to bed. Instead, he huddled–no other word said it right–on the sofa and stared unseeingly at the television.

Finally, after enough nights, he knew what it was that visited him in the dark.

Fear.

Unfortunately, putting a name to it didn’t help. Nothing helped and he couldn’t even tell anyone about the endless black night he was living. Not even Starsky.

The truth? He was ashamed. Ashamed that, when push came to shove, Kenneth Hutchinson, the best and the brightest, was no better than any junkie creep on the streets. Any other junkie creep. He crawled and groveled and fell from grace right along with the best of them.

So during working hours he played games–let’s pretend that nothing is different, that good old Hutch is still a white knight. Maybe nobody else would notice that the knight’s armor was definitely rusted.

It was just before midnight when the doorbell rang. Hutch got up and went to answer it. His partner stood there, a large paper bag under one arm.

“Starsk, what the hell are you doing here?”

Starsky shoved past him and into the room, collapsing on the floor before answering. “Well, I figured that if you got something bugging you and keepin’ you awake nights, and I can’t sleep worth a damn for wondering what’s botherin’ you, well, I figured that we might as well stay awake together.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hutch, you look like death warmed over.”

He sighed. “Thought I was hiding it.”

“From me?” Starsky sounded mildly amazed.

“Well, I tried.”

“I think maybe we shouldn’t have secrets from each other, Hutch.”

That was a remark too loaded with meaning for the middle of this night. So Hutch ignored it, instead looking at the sack. “What’s that?”

“This is a…a whattchamacallit? A panacea for sleepless nights.”

“What?”

He pulled out a box. “When was the last time you played Monopoly?”

“Monopoly? God, not in years.”

Starsky grinned. “Well, prepare to be massacred, partner of mine.”

Hutch gazed at him in disbelief. “You mean we’re going to sit here in the middle of the night and play Monopoly?”

Two blue eyes that managed to be innocent and all-knowing at the same time stared at him. “You got something better to do?”

After a moment, Hutch shook his head. “No. No, definitely not.”

Starsky nodded smugly and started counting out play money.

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“DEATH NOTICE”

Starsky was sleepy, and maybe a little drunk, but pleasantly so. He was stretched out on the couch, wondering vaguely why the room seemed so dark. It must be late, he decided, managing to focus on the flickering candles that were providing the only illumination in the room.

Il-lu-min-a-tion. Starsky giggled softly. Nice word, even if he couldn’t exactly remember at the moment what it meant. “Hey, Hutch,” he said.

“Hmmm?”

“Everybody gone?”

“All gone.”

“‘Cept me.”

“Except you and me, right.”

“Me ‘n thee.”

“Right.”

“Do something for me.”

“What?”

“Sing another song.”

“What song?”

“You pick one.”

Hutch sat still for a moment, then bent and picked up the guitar again. Soft notes floated across the room.

“Standing beside the evening tide
I hear the children play down at the shore.
They listen for the things the dolphins say.
I wander the coast like a shipwrecked ghost,
Feel the wind blow free,
Watching the stars at night,
Like diamonds in the sea.”

Starsky opened his eyes again and watched his partner, wondering a little at the faint echo of sadness in the words.

“Dreamers believe in magic,
They see moonlight in cloudy skies.
Dreamers will chase a rainbow
Until they find it in another dreamer’s eyes.”

Hutch smiled faintly at him as he sang the chorus, then bent his head over the guitar again.

“Drinking with friends when the workday ends,
They tell me I’m wasting time.
I oughtta be smart, get ahold of my heart,
But their reasons never rhyme.
Schemers thrive, the strong survive,
The rest all wait their time.
Wise men know that children grow,
And dreamers never learn.”

This time, Starsky sat up and joined in softly on the chorus.

“Dreamers believe in magic,
They see moonlight in cloudy skies.
Dreamers will chase a rainbow
Until they find it in another dreamer’s eyes.”

Two pairs of blue eyes, one light and the other dark, met and held as the last notes of the song died away.

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“PARIAH”

She looked surprised to see him standing on the front porch. “Detective Starsky?”

“Hope I’m not bothering you, ma’am,” he said uneasily, wondering if maybe this was such a good idea after all.

“No, you’re not bothering me.” They stood in silence for an awkward moment, then Mrs. Craig stepped aside. “Come in.”

“Well, okay.” He didn’t really want to, but it would have been pretty stupid to come all this way and then not finish what he’d started. They walked through the living room, where the worn furniture gleamed and smelled of lemon polish, and went into the kitchen.

“Best place for folks to talk,” she said.

“You sound just like my mother,” Starsky said with a smile.

She returned the smile faintly, then gestured toward a chair. “She must be a very smart woman.”

“Yeah, I guess she is,” he replied, sitting.

The table was covered with a bright yellow oilcloth.

“I didn’t want to bother you, but, uh…I just wanted to see if you’re okay. I mean, if you’re….”

She helped him. “I’m fine.” Her soft eyes studied him. “The good Lord never give us more than we can bear.”

“I guess not,” Starsky mumbled.

Her gaze turned shrewd. “You’re not a religious man, Detective Starsky?”

“Not very, I guess. On Holy Days sometimes.”

“That’s a shame. All of us need something to believe in. Especially a policeman, I imagine.”

“Oh, I’ve got things to believe in.”

She was busy suddenly, taking things from the refrigerator. “And what might those things be?”

He thought before answering. “The law. Myself. My partner. Us together.”

“Mighty big universe out there, for just you and the blond boy to be facing all by your lonesomes.”

“Well, sometimes, yeah. But we get along.”

“That’s good.” She reached for a blender. “You just sit right there, Mr. Independent Policeman, and let me fix up one of my special treats.”

“Hey, don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

“Ain’t on your account. It’s on account of I’d like a little company.”

Starsky relaxed again, tentatively.

She grinned at him. “And don’t worry, boy. We won’t talk no more about the good Lord.”

He grinned back. “Okay. What is this special treat of yours?”

But she just winked conspiratorially and began to peel a banana.

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“KILL HUGGY BEAR”

Actually, it sort of slipped my mind until later on. Crazy, yeah, nearly buying it like that, and then just forgetting about the whole thing. Crazy, that is, if you ain’t never been a cop. Being a cop makes a guy just a little looney tunes.

But it came back to me.

In the middle of the dumb night, of course. That ever happen to you? There ya’ are, sleepin’ the sleep of the innocent, like they say, and all of a freaking sudden it hits you: Today we almost died. That wakes a guy up, you can believe.

So there I am: three o’clock in the morning, lying wide awake in bed, and thinking about dying. Thinking about being in a speeding car that suddenly has no brakes, heading down a twisty, turny road, moving like a bat outta hell. Well, take my word for it, thoughts like that don’t make it easy to get back to sleep.

Makes no sense to stay in bed and not sleep, (at least when you’re alone, ha-ha) so I got up and headed for some comfort. The fridge, of course. Very few problems in life can’t be helped by scarfing down a couple slices of cold pepperoni pizza and a quart of root beer.

Study the facts. Which are that a creep named Harry Martin cut the brake lines on my car. A real creep he was, killing people and inflicting damage on innocent Torinos. With nothing to stop her, my car is turned into some kind of damned torpedo. And Hutch and I nearly cash in our chips.

The pizza and root beer were settling down nicely in my gut, but I wasn’t ready to sleep yet. I was thinking about the way Hutch kept joking around while we hurried toward eternity. Me too, I guess. All that garbage about jumping out. Certain death that would have been. And in some strange way, unless both of us jumped at exactly the same second, it would also have been an act of…well, abandonment. Except that through the rest of the pizza, I couldn’t figure out who would have been doing the abandoning–the one who jumped or the one who stayed behind.

My blond partner, maybe he gets off on philosophizing about things like that, but it gives me a headache.

Anyway, nobody jumped. We both stayed put, willing to ride it out and trusting in my driving skill to pull us through, but also willing to take the consequences if I couldn’t bring it off.

What the hell. Worse ways to die than going out together in a bright blaze of glory. I gulped down the rest of the root beer, belched satisfactorily, and headed for the bedroom. In only a couple of hours, it would be time to start all over again. Maybe each and every shift we worked brought us closer to that final blaze, but that was okay. Hutch and I, we can handle it.

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“THE BAIT”

“One…two…three….” Hutch gritted out each number through clenched teeth. He was determined to do twenty chin-ups today if it killed him.

Glumly he reflected that it just might.

No pain, no gain.

And no more of Starsky’s ridiculous meals. No more Chinese-Cuban or Jewish-Italian or whatever the hell kind of cuisine they’d eaten last night because the place was owned by some friends of the human garbage disposal. Hutch would refuse to dine in places that looked like they’d be banned in the third world and served food that tasted like it belonged in some other universe altogether. Let that other idiot ruin his body and get fat; it wasn’t going to happen to Kenneth Hutchinson.

“…Five….”

“Looking good, Blondie.”

Hutch ignored the disgustingly cheerful sound of his partner’s voice.

“Great pecs. Broads must go crazy for your bod. Not to mention the boys of Venice.”

“Six…what the hell are you doing here? Sev…ven.”

“Lookin’ for you.”

“Day off.”

“Yeah, I know.” Starsky moved around so that Hutch could see him. He was eating a chili dog. At eight-thirty AM.

“So? Uh…nine….”

“I didn’t have anything to do, so I thought maybe we could do something.”

“Busy. Elev…en.”

“Ahh, come on, Hutch.”

It occurred to him that Davey Starsky must have been a very irritating child. That whine would have taken years to perfect. “Busy,” he said again. “Thir…teen.”

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna spend the whole day here sweating are you? We could do something fun.”

“Laun…dry. Seven…teen.”

“Laundry? You must be kidding. On a perfect day like this? There’s even some clean air out there, buddy boy. Come on.”

Hutch was halfway through chin-up number nineteen when Starsky poked him in the ribs. It wasn’t a hard poke, more like a playful jab, that under normal circumstances, would have done no more than tickle him. But in his present state, it was enough. He lost his grip on the bar and fell to the floor.

“Damn you, Starsky,” he said in weary anger.

Starsky bent over him. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yes, damnit, except that you just screwed it all up. I bust my ass to do something and you come charging in with chilidog breath at the frigging crack of dawn and fuck everything up.” He tried to relax his throbbing muscles. God, he was out of shape, mostly thanks to his beloved partner here.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I am, really. Lemme make it up to ya’.”

“How?”

Starsky donned his thoughtful face. “How about I buy you lunch? I know a great place–”

“Starsk,” Hutch interrupted softly. “Would you please go now? Just turn around and walk out and pretend like you were never here.”

“But–”

“Would you do that for me? Please?”

Starsky shrugged. “Well, okay. Sure, if you want.” Looking puzzled, he turned and left.

After a few moments, Hutch stood and reached for the bar again. “One…Two…Three…”

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“LADY BLUE”

The loud ringing jolted Starsky out of a deep sleep. He rolled over with a groan. Damn. Eight o’clock. Who the hell would be calling him at this hour on his day off?

“‘Lo?”

“Davey?”

“Oh, hi, Ma.” Wouldn’t she ever get it straight about the time difference between New York and Los Angeles?

“You sound terrible. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Ma. I just woke up, is all.”

“The middle of the afternoon and you just woke up?”

“Eight o’clock, Ma. It’s only eight here, and I was up late last night.”

There was a pause. “Oh. I’m sorry. You want I should hang up?”

“No, I’m awake now.” He struggled to sit up, punching the pillow. “What’s the matter?”

“Something has to be the matter for me to call my son?”

“No, but something usually is.”

“Well, Mr. Smartmouth, it just so happens nothing is the matter this time. I just wanted to find out how the dinner went.”

“The what?” His foggy brain clicked into gear. “Oh, the Paul Muni Special. It went fine, Ma. Hutch did a pretty good job.”

“I was surprised when he called like that. A stranger.”

The word surprised Starsky, when used about Hutch. “A stranger, Ma? I’ve been telling you about him for years.”

“But I never talked to him before. He seemed very nice.”

“Yeah. Nice guy.”

“Davey, he said you lost someone. A girl. She was killed.” His mother’s voice was softer.

“Uh-hmmm.”

“She was special to you, this girl?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess. We had some…nice times.”

“Maybe it was going to be serious?”

“No, I don’t think so, Ma.”

“Well, anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. But I’m okay.”

“I worry. You should find someone nice. Settle down.”

He wondered if they would ever have a conversation wherein she didn’t say the same thing. “I’m a cop, Ma. It’s not easy.”

“Your Papa was a policeman.”

“Yes, I know.” And he left a widow and two kids. Starsky didn’t say the words out loud, but they seemed to hover over the phone line anyway.

“I don’t want you should be lonely, is all.”

“No chance, Ma. Too busy. Besides, I’ve got you. And Hutch.”

“And Nicky. But Nicky and me and Hutch is not a family. And we’re three thousand miles away.”

“Sure, that’s a nice family. And you’re there, but Hutch is here. He’s special, Ma, my partner.”

He thought that there was more she wanted to say, but all that came over the line was, “Go back to sleep, Davey, and take care.”

“I will. Bye.”

They hung up. Starsky settled back down. The Paul Muni Special. Hell, Ma should understand that with a crazy man like Hutch around, he wasn’t going to be lonely. But mothers liked to worry. Sort of like partners.

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“CAPTAIN DOBEY, YOU’RE DEAD”

Starsky didn’t like cemeteries. Never had and probably never would. What was to like? He slumped over the steering wheel, reflecting on the subject. “Funny,” he said.

Hutch was working on a crossword puzzle. In ink, the show-off. “What’s funny?”

“That the Cap’n wanted us to bring him out here.”

“I guess he just didn’t want to come alone,” Hutch said sensibly, writing down a word.

Starsky glanced across the green vastness to where a stout black man stood before a grave. “But why us?”

“Starsk, I don’t know. But he asked, so here we are.”

Starsky wondered if Dobey was praying or what. “Hey, by the way,” he said.

“What?”

“I checked with Records. About Maxy Malone.”

Hutch apparently forgot the puzzle. “What?”

“You said your Mom never told you why he was arrested. I found out.”

“Well, don’t tell me.”

Starsky straightened. “Huh? Don’t tell you?”

“Partner, can’t I hold on to at least a few of my childhood illusions?”

“I thought you wanted to know. That’s why I went to all the trouble.”

“I appreciate the thought, really, Starsk, but I just don’t want to get cynical.”

“Okay. So forget it. I won’t ever tell you.”

“Thanks.”

Dobey was walking back toward them. Hutch jumped out of the car and climbed into the back seat. Everyone was quiet briefly as the Torino headed for the front gate.

“Thanks for bringing me,” Dobey said gruffly.

“Sure, no problem,” Starsky said.

“There were some things I needed to tell Isaac. Things that should have been said before.” Dobey glanced fiercely at them each in turn. “Don’t wait too long to say what should be said. One day it might be too late.”

There was no more conversation as they drove to Dobey’s house and dropped him off. Starsky headed the car toward Venice.

Hutch, sitting beside him again, cleared his throat. “Dobey was right.”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes people don’t say things and then it’s too late.”

“I guess.” The conversation, which seemed to belong back in the cemetery, was making Starsky uneasy.

“I’m glad you’re my partner, Starsky. Though maybe I don’t show it sometimes.”

“I’m glad, too. And you show it plenty.” Starsky flashed a grin at him. “Wanna know about old Maxy Malone? Before it’s too late?”

“No,” Hutch said flatly.

Starsky shrugged. “Okay. But someday you’ll want to know and it’ll be too late, ’cause I won’t be here to tell you.”

“I’ll never want to know. But if I do, you’ll be here.”

Golden boys always thought that they could control the whole damned universe. But since Starsky didn’t want to be accused of destroying any more illusions, he just shut up and drove.

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“TERROR ON THE DOCKS”

“You think he’s safe in there?”

Hutch laughed softly, glancing back inside. “Starsky can take care of himself.”

“Greater men than he have toppled before my mother. She wanted a wedding, damnit.” Nancy looked at him. “I don’t suppose you’d like to marry me, Hutch?”

“Me?”

“I was in love with you once. When we were kids.”

“You were? I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t. That was the year you were into basketball, I think.”

“Too bad.”

“Anyway, you never answered my question.”

Hutch leaned against the wall. “Ahh, you wouldn’t want a cop for a husband, Nancy.”

“I guess that’s a no.”

“Helluva life. Already I had one wife who couldn’t take it. Crazy hours. Never knowing if the man is gonna come home at all. Crazy way to live.”

“So why do you live that way?”

His smile was sheepish. “Guess I like it.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be a lawyer?”

“That was somebody else’s dream, not mine.”

“So what’s your dream?”

He shrugged. “Now mostly to just keep on keeping on.”

“You and David.”

“Right.”

“Two of a kind.”

The thought amused him a little, but he admitted, “In all the ways that count, yeah.”

Nancy was smiling at him, but there was a trace of sadness in the expression. “No place for a wife in that picture, I guess.”

“Not at the moment.”

“I doubt if there ever will be.”

That notion bothered Hutch a little, made him wonder about his future. “We better go back in and rescue Starsk,” he said finally.

Nancy only nodded.

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“DEADLY IMPOSTER”

He hadn’t taken the old shoebox out of the closet in a very long time; there had been no need. And it wasn’t even clear to him now why he’d suddenly dug past all the crap on the shelf to get at this particular collection of memories.

Of course, he knew that it had something to do with seeing John Colby again, with finding out what John Colby had become.

What a nightmare.

Hutch shook his head and lifted the lid from the carton. Right on top: his service discharge papers. God, how glad he’d been to finally get those into his hands. It seemed to prove that the horror of Vietnam was really behind him and now his real life could begin.

Real life.

Ha. That was supposed to have been so easy. Law school. Marriage to Van. A prestigious, high-paying job. Probably a couple of kids. The whole white fucking picket fence routine.

Well, so much for crystal balls.

He lifted out a thin packet of letters. Van managed to write him seven times while he was in Nam. Maybe that should have told him something. The pale blue airmail envelopes still held the memory of a provocative perfume.

So he came back from Nam and nothing worked out the way it was supposed to. But he hadn’t come back and turned into a cold-hearted bastard of a killer like Colby. Why? Why John and not him?

Hutch shuffled through some more papers, until he uncovered a fading black and white photograph. Maybe the answer, if there was one, could be found here. Three young soldiers. Hutchinson, Starsky, Colby. The snapshot had been taken the very day that Starsky left to go back to the World. Hutchinson still had two months to go, Colby one. Colby would be back, of course, but that was still in the future, after his tenure at the Academy.

Hutch studied the three faces–all so young–carefully, sort of mourning that lost youth. What the hell was he looking for anyway? It did seem that the three figures were posed rather oddly. Colby was almost alone, standing to one side, a strange half-smile on his face. Starsky, a little tipsy, was hanging onto Hutch with both arms, grinning like an idiot.

Maybe they’d been called the Three Musketeers, but suddenly Hutch knew for a certainty that the title hadn’t been right. It had been Starsky-and-Hutch, and also John Colby. Even then.

He dropped the picture as a crazy thought struck him. Was it as simple as that? Surely not. Couldn’t be. There had to be more to it than the fact that David Michael Starsky had picked him to be his best friend and not Colby.

There had to be more to it than that, didn’t there?

Didn’t there?

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“SHOOTOUT”

Hutch tiptoed into the room. The officious nurse had told him to go on home, that Starsky was fine, but groggy, and that he could see the ‘patient’ in the morning. But no way. It would take more than one cold-fish broad in a white uniform to keep him from checking up on his partner. She finally relented, but she wasn’t happy about it. Hutch didn’t give a flying damn.

The room was dark, except for the pale glow of the nightlight. He walked to the side of the bed and stared down at the man resting there. Starsky looked pale and there was a needle taped to his arm. But his chest moved slowly up and down as he breathed. He was alive.

Hutch moved even closer to the bed and touched Starsky lightly on the cheek. “Hey, partner,” he whispered. “You asleep?”

“Yes,” came the soft answer. “Asleep and dreaming about linguini.”

Hutch blinked away a sudden and unexpected dampness in his eyes. “You’re crazy,” he said.

Starsky opened his eyes. “Maybe. You look whipped, babe.”

“I feel whipped.”

“Hell, it’s all in a day’s work.”

“Not this. Definitely not this.”

Surprisingly, Starsky nearly managed a smile.

Hutch didn’t want him to just brush this off with some kind of macho act. “You could’ve died, Starsk.”

“That’s always been the bottom line, right?”

Hutch shook his head, then shrugged. “I guess. But I never felt it so close. This sort of changes things.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Hell, maybe it only changes me.”

Starsky lifted his free arm slowly and patted Hutch on the hand. “Don’t change much. Love ya’ the way you are.”

Hutch swallowed hard. “Next time I’ll be more careful.”

“What?”

“The first rule is that a man is supposed to take care of his partner. I blew it. I fucked up, and you almost died because of it.”

Starsky looked at him for a long moment. “Hey, blue-eyed WASPS aren’t any good at guilt. Save that for those of us who do it best.”

Hutch met his gaze. Then he smiled just a little. “I better go before that monster of a nurse comes after me. See you tomorrow, huh?”

“Sure.” Starsky sounded half-asleep. “Bye, Blondie.”

“Bye.”

Hutch left the hospital and walked out into the dawn. Hell, it was ‘tomorrow’ already. He was tired and hungry and most of all, scared. Not the first time for that, of course. But what for a long time had been a small and chilly pinprick was now an icy lump in the center of his gut.

He found the car in the lot where the uniforms had left it and got in. “Starsky almost died last night,” he said aloud to the hazy morning.

The act of speaking gave the reality of what had happened a hard, cutting edge. It was a knife blade that Ken Hutchinson knew could someday wound him beyond help.

But then he shook his head. No more. No more, damnit. Next time, he’d do something. Nobody would get the drop on his partner again. Whoever tried would have to go through him first.

He started the car and drove away from the hospital.

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“HOSTAGES”

David Starsky was a happy man.

Not unlike some ancient potentate surveying his kingdom, the cop in the railroad engineer’s cap gazed at the sight spread before him. After saving his pennies for a long time–a very long time, because he was unwilling to settle for less than the best–he had become the proud owner and operator of the greatest railroad west of the Rockies. It covered the entire living room floor, going under, over, and between the furniture. He beamed upon what he had created.

He popped open a beer and sat Indian style on the floor. Best equipment that money could buy. And nobody but him even knew about it. Not even Hutch, despite his poking and probing to discover what had been keeping his partner on a high for the past couple of weeks.

Starsky swallowed some beer. It had taken him the whole weekend to set this all up and now, at ten o’clock on Sunday night, he was ready to hit the button that would set the whole thing into glorious motion. This had been his salvation; a man needed something to think about besides crooks and kidnappers and people in trouble. A man needed something good in his life to take away the taint of what he had to deal with on the job.

He reached for the switch, then hesitated. A great moment like this one deserved some ceremony. Something special. He jumped up and headed for the kitchen. Instead of beer, he would toast this moment with some champagne. He rummaged through the cupboard for the dusty bottle and popped it into the freezer. What else? He peered into the fridge and spied some left-over pizza that was relatively fresh. That went into the oven. Perfect.

He took a plate and glass out and set them on the counter.

Well, almost perfect. Something was still missing. Starsky frowned. What?

What else?

He grinned and reached for the telephone. Every railroad tycoon needed a partner. He could share the two-dollar champagne and slightly burned pizza.

The phone on the other end of the line was answered.

“Hey, Hutch, whattcha doin’?”

“Reading. Why?”

“Come over, huh?”

“Starsk, it’s late. And we have to be in court first thing tomorrow on the armored car case.”

“Please, I’ve got something to show you. Free food and booze,” he offered enticingly.

“Okay,” Hutch said with a sigh. “I’ll be there in a litle while.”

Starsky hung up.

   Now it was going to be perfect.

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“LOSING STREAK”

Hutch searched through the pile of old records. A lot of them were from his high school days. Like the Vic Rankin albums. Yeah. He pulled them from the bottom of the heap.

He was almost glad that the airline-stewardess-of-the-week had come down with a sudden flight to Chicago. All he really wanted tonight was a snifter of pretty good brandy, the time and space in which to kick back, and some good sounds to listen to.

Sometimes Hutch thought he was getting a little too old to play the role of swinging single. Especially if he was also expected to be a hero cop during working hours.

He fiddled with the knob on the stereo, working to get the best possible sounds out of the old records. When that was done, he picked up his drink and sat down on the floor, resting his back against the couch. Mellow out, Hutchinson, mellow out.

The music brought a wave of nostalgia. High school.

God. Pants at the high-water mark. White socks. Braces on his teeth and dinner at the country club. Rich kid Hutchinson, who only wanted to be one of the guys. Oh, yeah.

Hutch paused long enough in his reminiscing to admire Rankin’s skill with the piano. Man, that guy could make a keyboard do all of the right things. Hutch flexed his fingers, remembering hours of scales.

The old songs made him remember what it had been like to be young. The nights spent in dark, smoke-filled rooms listening to jazz and pretending to be a man. Ahh, those were the days. Everybody had it made back then–him, Vic Rankin, the whole fucking country. Hutch wondered when it had all started to go wrong. Somewhere, sometime.

Maybe it was when Kennedy was killed.

Yeah, probably it was that afternoon in Dallas that was the start of the whole downward spiral. Vic Rankin went down, the country went down, and Ken Hutchinson started down, too. The biggest freaking losing streak in history.

The music was turning sad now, melancholy and scratchy on the ancient vinyl. Hutch stuck it out anyway, listening all the way through both albums as he sipped the brandy. How come somebody like Rankin could screw up so completely? How come somebody like Kenneth Hutchinson could wind up a tired cop feeling old before his time?

He couldn’t figure out the reasons. But, he told himself, nobody had ever been able to explain why Kennedy had been killed, either.

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“THE SILENCE”

All the feline visitors were gone from the squad room, leaving only a certain damp redolence in their wake. Hutch was beginning to mull pleasantly on thoughts of going home.

Starsky leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. The expression on his face forewarned of trouble. There was no way of knowing just what horrors lurked beneath that mop of unruly curls.

Hutch sighed. Maybe, with luck, he might have been able to get away before Starsky suggested anything. Like a Tibetan bar-b-que place, or a triple feature horror movie festival. Except that the LTD was in the shop again and he was counting on a ride home.

Suddenly there was a crash as Starsky’s feet hit the floor. “Shit,” he said.

“What’s wrong?”

“The date. What’s the date?”

“Today? The twenty-second. Why?”

“Damn. You sure?”

“Has been all day.

“God, I forgot. First time.”

“Forgot what?”

But instead of answering, Starsky stood, absently searching his pockets for car keys. “Come on, we gotta go.”

“Where?”

“Just a stop to make.”

Starsky didn’t say any more until they were headed up Wilshire. “Today is Yahrzeit. The anniversary of my father’s death. I have to stop at the temple.”

Hutch glanced at him in surprise. “I didn’t think you went in for that kind of thing.”

“Only once a year.” Starsky shrugged. “Light a candle. Say a prayer. No big deal.”

Hutch wondered if he’d ever peel away all the layers of this man. What was it somebody said about China? An enigma wrapped in a puzzle? Something like that anyway.

They parked in front of a small brick temple that Hutch didn’t remember ever noticing before. “Won’t be long,” Starsky said, fumbling through the glove compartment. He pulled out a black skullcap, surprising Hutch yet again. A grin flashed across his face as he slapped the cap onto his curls and looked at Hutch.

The blond nodded and settled back to wait.

It wasn’t long before the blue-jeaned figure reappeared, jumping lightly down the steps and getting into the car again. “I know a great new place to eat,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“Uh, fine,” Hutch said absently. “Hey, Starsk.”

“What?”

“This Yahrzeit thing. Can you do that for somebody who isn’t family?”

“Like who?”

“Well, like a partner, for example.”

Starsky was quiet for so long that Hutch was afraid he’d pulled a real goof. Then he sighed, watching the traffic. “For a partner, babe, you don’t light a candle. For a partner you burn down the whole fucking town.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said. “That sounds about right.”

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“OMAHA TIGER”

“So you still think that wrestling is a crock?”

Hutch just grunted.

“Well, I’ve been practicing my moves. Nelson. Half-nelson. Shoulder lock. All of ’em.”

“That’s nice. A man should always try to improve himself.”

“So whaddaya say?”

“About what?”

“About me showing you a little bit of what I’ve learned.”

Hutch closed the book he’d been trying to finish for three days now, noticing for the first time that Starsky had cleared the middle of the living room. He was barefooted and shirtless, clad now only in the frayed cut-offs. “This is a joke, right?”

“Chicken?” Starsky asked, a particularly nasty grin on his face.

Hutch just looked at him. “Do you really think that I’m dumb enough to do something that I don’t want to do just because you call me names?”

“‘Course not. But why not let me show you? Unless you’re a sissy?”

Hutch smiled and shook his head. “Just can’t help yourself sometimes, can you?”

“What does that mean?”

“Just that once a street fighter, always a street fighter.”

“Saved your bacon a couple of times, college boy.”

“True,” Hutch agreed. They were both smiling now, albeit warily, Hutch kicked off one shoe and then the other, standing barefooted. He pulled the tee-shirt over his head. He was still wearing the shorts from his morning run. “Insurance all paid up, sweetheart?”

“Worry about your own ass, blondie.”

They moved in a small, tight circle. Starsky charged. Hutch stepped lightly to one side. Starsky just managed to stop before he collided with the couch. “That one of your famous moves, Starsk?”

“Okay,” Starsky muttered. “Okay.”

He attacked again and this time Hutch met him. For the next few minutes, the two of them played muscle games, more an exercise in aerobics than anything else. At last, Hutch stuck one foot out and with a grunt of satisfaction, sent Starsky crashing to the floor. He dropped like a stone on top of the smaller man.

The only sound in the room was that of two men panting. Then Starsky grinned again. “So you got me. What are you gonna do now?”

Hutch shook his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes. “Have my way with you, I guess.”

Starsky giggled.

Abruptly, Hutch rolled off of him. He landed on his back, staring at the ceiling. “Dumb game,” he said finally.

“Yeah. Dumb.”

They both sat up, looking sheepish. Hutch shook his head. “That’s the kind of thing you do when you’re thirteen.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hutch wiped his sweaty palms on the front of the couch. “Gonna take a shower.”

“Good idea.

They looked at one another and then he headed for the bathroom.

When he emerged a few minutes later, the room was back in order and Starsky was gone.

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“JOJO”

“Have you ever thought about maybe seeing somebody about this problem of yours?”

Hutch picked a slice of pepperoni off the pizza and ate it sullenly. “What problem, dirtball?”

“Well, I was reading this article the other day. In Psychology Today. Or maybe it was the Enquirer. Anyway, the doctor who wrote it was an expert on fetishes.”

“Fetishes?” Hutch glared at him.

Starsky nodded, apparently oblivious to the long thread of greasy cheese that dangled from his chin.

“I’m thinking about you and the cars you like. It’s definitely a little weird.”

“I do not have a fetish about cars.”

“Well,” Starsky said darkly. “It’s strange.”

“You can be an awful jackass sometimes, Starsky.”

He got offended. “Well, I was only trying to help. You’d be a better human being if you could rise above your idiosyncrasies.” That was obviously a quote.

Hutch leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Maybe you’re right. And do you know which fucking idiosyncrasy I should start with?”

“What?”

“My peculiar fondness for you. My persistence in keeping you for a partner. My tolerance for your stupid notions.”

Starsky finally picked up a paper napkin and wiped his greasy face. “Well, I guess there are some people who just don’t want to be helped,” he said with dignity.

“But that’s okay, partner. I’m gonna stick with you. We can work on your hostility.” He smiled sweetly.

Hutch wondered how long it would be before he lost his mind completely. He was starting to look forward to it.

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“RUNNING”

“Did I say thanks?”

Hutch looked up from the typewriter. “What?”

Starsky, holding a can of Dr Pepper in one hand and a Mounds bar in the other, was leaning against the desk. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome. What for?”

“Hey, buddy, you really came through. The way you covered for me.”

Hutch shrugged. “Put it on the tab.”

“The what?”

“You say you owe me one. Of course, I owed you one for the way you pulled me out of the gutter after Forrest’s fun and games.”

“Yeah, but you saved my ass when those punks in the restaurant shot me.”

“True,” Hutch agreed dryly.

After a minute, Starsky grinned. “Kind of dumb, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Keeping score like that.”

“Well, it could get ridiculous, after twenty or thirty years.”

“Yeah.” Starsky took a long gulp of soda. “Twenty or thirty years of this? Can we make it?”

Hutch bent over the typewriter again. “I don’t know, Starsk,” he said. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

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“A COFFIN FOR STARSKY”

Even in the shadows of the hospital room he could see the dark figure slumped in the chair by the bed. Why was Hutch still here? The poor slob looked wiped and no wonder. How long could anybody run on an edge and not have it do some damage? Especially a guy like Hutch.

If this was a cowboy movie, I’d give you my boots.

The memory of his words made Starsky smile. Games. They just kept playing word games with each other. But it probably didn’t matter. Was it really important how love was expressed, as long as it was?

If this was a cowboy movie, I’d give you my boots.

Translate to read: I love you, man.

You kept joking because it was the only way to stay sane.

It’s always hardest on the one left behind.

Meaning: I love you, partner, and I don’t want you to die, and I don’t know what will happen to me if you do.

“You awake, Starsk?” The voice from the shadows was soft.

“Sort of. You should be home in bed.”

“That’s what everybody keeps telling me.”

“Maybe you should take the advice.”

“I guess.” Hutch got up from the chair and came to stand next to the bed. “You okay?”

“A little fuzzy around the edges, but okay, yeah.”

“Well, I just wanted to be sure.”

Starsky smiled. “Go home. Sleep. And come back later.”

“Later.”

“Don’t come alone.”

“No?”

“Bring a jumbo pizza with the works.”

“Fat chance.

“Hey, don’t I deserve a little special treatment?”

“You get broth for dinner. Maybe a little Jell-O.”

“I want pizza.”

Hutch started for the door. “Forget it. You’re an idiot. You’re gonna drive me crazy, Starsky.”

Translate to read: I love you.

Alone, Starsky closed his eyes again. Hutch would bring a pizza. Maybe not the jumbo with the works, but at least a small cheese. Eight inches of dough and tomato sauce. You could call it pizza, if you wanted to.

He called it love.

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“BOUNTY HUNTER”

He was hungry.

Starsky sat in his car, staring glumly up at the lights in Hutch’s apartment. What kind of dinner was that to serve a man? Funny green stuff? Weird, that’s what it was. No wonder Hutch was acting stranger every day. Pretty soon he’d start wearing beads and chanting.

Starsky sighed. It wasn’t easy sometimes.

He stayed there, not really knowing why, until the lights upstairs went out. So much for this evening. Well, who said he needed that idiot partner of his around to have a good time?

The first step in this fun evening was to get some food. Real food.

He went directly to Bomber Burger. Neat place to eat, because he didn’t even have to get out of the car. A sweet young thing in tight shorts came to take his order. “Double chiliburger with cheese, onions, and pickles,” he told her cheerfully. “Fries, onion rings, jumbo Dr Pepper. And a chocolate shake.”

She grimaced, then shrugged and disappeared.

Starsky settled back to think.

Hutch and this broad seemed to be getting pretty serious about each other. Maybe real serious. Maybe they’d end up getting married. Well, if that was what Hutch wanted.

But it worried him a little.

Starsky, for one, didn’t have such great memories of Hutch’s first spin on the marriage-go-round. He’d been a front row spectator at far too many battles. Somewhere buried under his curls there was still a small scar from the time he didn’t duck fast enough after Mrs. Hutchinson tossed a coffeepot at her hubby.

And besides, marriage changed people.

The girl delivered his food. Starsky picked up the burger and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Still, he wanted whatever made Hutch happy. He’d adjust. After all, girlfriends and even wives came and went, but a partner just hung in there.

Unless, he reflected glumly, they kept feeding him that rabbit food. If Hutch hadda get heavy with a broad, why not one who knew how to toss a T-bone under the broiler?

Oh, well, no sense borrowing trouble. Wait and see what happened. Maybe it wouldn’t work out.

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I remember well the solitude
Before there was a me and you,
My friendships ended up misunderstood.
Sometimes I would wake up scared,
The sound of silence in the air,
And morning never came around too soon.
Nobody heard the song when I was singing,
Nobody felt the words that I was saying,
Until now,
Until now.
I went on wondering
Until now
Where my life would lead,
And I reached out for someone to believe,
But no one heard my song until now.

Arvon

_______________________________________________________________________________________

 

1976-1977

You don’t need to ask if I’ll be
your friend.
I am, I am.
You don’t have to ask me if I’m sure,
my friend.
I am.
I am your friend…
If you need a reason to begin again,
I am, I am.
You will find an answer at your journey’s
end:
I am,
I am waiting there, my friend.

Hayward/Lodge

______________________________________________________

 

“LAS VEGAS STRANGLER”

Death is never convenient.

As if life itself wasn’t all the trouble we need, dying makes more. I think there was a French philosopher who had something to say about that, but my existentialism is getting a little rusty.

Anyway, it took nearly three hours to get all the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered so that Jack’s body would be shipped home. A final act of friendship, I suppose. Or of what had once been a friendship.

A question that undoubtedly some deep thinker in history has pondered: Does everything good turn bad eventually?

Finally I was done proving to the city and the state and various other civil functionaries what a good friend Kenneth Hutchinson was. The next item on the agenda was to track down my missing partner, who’d disappeared much earlier, a bagful of nickels in hand. And a scowl on his face. Something told me that there was some pacifying to be done on the home front.

Face it: I had sort of treated Starsky like the proverbial fifth wheel once Jack turned up. And then when the whole deal turned so hinky, I behaved, in my own inimitable fashion, really crappy.

So I embarked on the Great Las Vegas Starsky Hunt.

Three casinos, two coffee shops, and a taco stand later, I finally located my wandering boy. He was bent over a nickel slot machine in a joint named Hank’s Gambling Emporium and Pizza Palace. Not one of the brightest lights on the Strip.

I wandered over. Sitting on the counter beside him were the remains of a sausage pizza and a can of Dr Pepper. The cache of nickels was considerably diminished. “We can head home whenever you’re ready,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” he replied, dropping another coin in.

It wasn’t a winner either.

I sat down, figuring that the last slice of pizza would only go to waste unless I ate it. “Can I ask you a question, Starsk?”

“Uh-huh.”

My partner the pouter. Bringing up a spoiled Jewish Prince ain’t easy.

“How come nothing good ever lasts?”

He looked up. At last. “What?”

“At least a person should be able to hold onto his memories, don’t you think?”

“I guess, yeah. If he wants to.” He smiled a little. “Some good things last, you know.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he said firmly, dropping in the last nickel into the slot.

It was a big winner.

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“MURDER AT SEA”

It seemed as if the sun could bake away all the troubles and the pain and the fear. Before long, the ship would arrive back in Los Angeles and this moment would be gone. But for now, he could smear on more of the coconut-scented oil, sip the icy tequila, and relax. Really relax. Let the tight coils of his muscles go.

They were alone on this part of the deck, by luck and design, and he was enjoying the time. He rolled over to look at his partner, who seemed to be sleeping. Courting sunburn, for sure.

He reached out with one hand and wiped at a trickle of sweat that ran down the other man’s chest. Beneath his fingers the skin felt hot enough to burn him and the structure underneath trembled with sudden violence.

Instead of pulling his hand away, as he knew he should do, he let the fingers move again. Ostensibly it was only to wipe away more sweat.

Abruptly, he was overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. It was part tenderness, part love, and part curiosity. Did his fingers cause the trembling? Was the heat really in the flesh or in his own fingers?

But it was too scary to think about. Too dangerous.

He rolled away quickly and then jumped into the pool, killing whatever it was that had fluttered inside so briefly.

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“GILLIAN”

Unbelievably, the endless night finally came to an end. Starsky drove to the Venice apartment building and parked. Neither man spoke for a long moment.

“Come up,” Hutch said finally. It wasn’t an invitation so much as an order.

“Maybe I shouldn’t.”

Hutch just looked at him, pale eyes glinting dangerously. Then he got out, slamming the car door twice as hard as was necessary.

“Okay,” Starsky muttered to the empty space. “I’ll come up.”

By the time he’d climbed the stairs and entered the apartment, Hutch was sitting on the sofa, two open beers on the table in front of him. Starsky sat, too. He didn’t really want the beer, but it seemed like a good idea to keep Hutch happy, so he picked it up and drank a little.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch said, the words so soft that Starsky could barely hear them, although they were sitting side-by-side.

“Sorry?”

Hutch cleared his throat and spoke in a normal tone. “I’m sorry I slugged you.”

“Oh, that.” Starsky shrugged.

“Don’t dismiss it like that.” Hutch shook his head. “What kind of a bastard hits his partner?”

“A bastard who’s hurting bad. What’s a partner for?”

“Yeah.” Hutch set the beer can down. “I want to know something.”

Starsky was afraid he knew what was coming, and he didn’t want to hear the question. But some things just had to be gotten through. “What do you want to know, Hutch?” he said quietly.

“You saw Gillian. Spoke to her. Before Grossman got to her.”

“Yes. I went to her place and talked to her.”

“Why?”

“Why.” Starsky thought, chewing on his lower lip. “Because I saw that my partner, my friend, was in a runaway car, doing about a hundred miles an hour, and headed straight for a stone wall. I thought I should do something.”

“Like throw yourself in front of the damned car?” There was a bare hint of the wry Hutchinson humor in the words.

Starsky allowed himself a small smile in response. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You say that a lot, buddy.”

“Words for my tombstone, probably.”

“Really.” Hutch seemed to choose his next words carefully. “Tell me what happened. When you saw her.”

“I tried to bribe her into leaving town.” The words were flat, unyielding, sparing neither man. “Figured maybe if she was already gone, it would hurt less for you to find out the truth.” He picked up his beer again. “She wouldn’t take the dough. But she agreed to level with you.” He paused. “Or I was going to. I gave her no choice.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It wasn’t easy, Hutch. For her or me.”

“I can imagine.”

Starsky closed his eyes, seeing it all again. “As I was leaving, Hutch, she said that you were really lucky.”

A short, harsh laugh came from the end of the couch. “Lucky?”

“Yes. In one lifetime, to have two people love you so much.” He opened his eyes and looked at Hutch.

“I guess she was right.”

“You don’t hate me for what I did?” Starsky asked softly. “I was afraid you would.”

“But you did it anyway?”

“Oh, yes.” Simple truth, revealing almost unbearable emotion.

Hutch leaned back suddenly, as if overcome by weariness all at once.

“You need to sleep, Blondie.”

“Yeah, I know.” He pushed himself up and stood there, looking like a sleepy, bewildered little boy. Starsky felt like crying. Instead, he said, “I’m gonna finish my beer. I’ll let myself out.”

“Okay.” Hutch started for the bedroom.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“You never answered my question.”

Hutch turned and looked at him for a long time. He smiled. “Of course I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

Starsky nodded.

He stayed where he was for a while, although he had no intention of drinking any more of the warm, flat beer. Finally, he got up and went to the bedroom door. All he could make out was a huddled lump in the middle of the bed, but the breathing pattern he heard was soft and even. The pattern of sleep.

He went back through the living room, turning out the lamp as he passed, and left the apartment.

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“BUST AMBOY”

When you were making a stab at the good life, atmosphere was important. Hutch dug out a couple of slender white candles, polished the silver holders, and set them in the middle of the table. Terrific.

Next, music. Nothing loud or intrusive. He finally decided on some old Mathis. He would have liked to go with something classical, but that might have scared away the guest due soon.

Just as he was finishing, Starsky walked in, without knocking, of course. “What’s going on?” he asked, peering at the gleaming crystal and silver on the table. Hutch turned down the volume on the music. “I decided that it wasn’t fair for only the creeps like Amboy to enjoy the finer things. The man with the gold might make the rules, but even a couple of hard cases like us should get within touching distance of quality once in a while. Sit down, Starsky.”

Starsky, looking amused, dragged a chair over and straddled it.

Hutch sat across from him. “This,” he said gesturing toward the crystal dish nestled in the bed of crushed ice, “is caviar.”

“Like Amboy had?”

“The best. If you knew anything about caviar, Starsky, you’d know that the only kind worthy of the name comes from one variety of sturgeon that lives only in the Caspian Sea.”

“Yeah?”

“Indisputably. This is beluga.”

“Expensive?”

“People with class don’t discuss price, Starsk. But if you must know, thirty dollars an ounce.”

“Jesus.”

“And to wash it down, champagne. To be precise, Bollinger’s curvée spéciale.”

“Good shit?”

“Yes.”

Starsky rubbed his hands together. “Terrific.” Then he looked up. “Hutch, you’re crazy. Terrific, but soooo crazy.”

“Yeah, well, pass the bubbly, huh?”

Hutch was pleased with the way his plan had worked out. He was broke now, with payday over a week away, but that was okay. A man could live a while on golden-edged memories.

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“VAMPIRE”

There was a dangerous look on Starsky’s face. Meaning a thoughtful one, and a thinking Starsky was unpredictable. Not to say unstable.

Hutch concentrated on the burger.

“You know,” Starsky said softly, “there was something came to me a little while ago.”

Oh-oh.

Hutch picked up his beer. Maybe if he didn’t say anything to encourage whatever little bit of insanity his partner was hatching, it would go away.

“It came to me a little while ago that maybe there are real vampires. Except that they’re not what everyone thinks.”

“So what are they?” Hutch asked before he could stop himself.

Starsky leaned across the table. “Different things for different people. And I don’t know about anybody else, but I know what our vampire is.”

He was hooked. “What’s that, Starsk?”

“The job.”

“What?”

Frowning, Starsky sat back. “Think about it. What is a vampire supposed to do? He drinks your blood, right? Sucks your life force away. Right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“So isn’t that what this job does to us? It sucks the life right out of us.”

Hutch stared at him. “Good Lord, Starsk.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I mean, that’s beautiful, what you said. This job is a vampire. God, yes.”

Starsky nodded. “You know what’s the scary part about that?”

“What?”

“So what happens in the end? When we’re all sucked dry. When we’re just shells, with nothing left inside?”

Hutch shrugged. “Then the system tosses us on the trash heap.

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed glumly. “That’s what I figured.”

They looked at one another for a moment, then raised their beer cans in a mutual, mocking toast.

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“THE SPECIALIST”

What if?

What if we just quit? Tossed in the fucking towel. Gave up the fight and walked away. Admitted to them and to ourselves that the world sucked, would always suck and that nothing we had done or could do would make it suck one iota less. Throw one creep inside and two more popped up to take his place.

So what if the dynamic duo said ‘enough’?

Who would care? Not the System, whatever that might be. Face it: If the bad guys don’t get us, the System will. What a choice. Would you rather be iced by a coked-up punk with a Saturday night special, or a Fed with a phony smile and God on his side? Would it really matter?

What if.

You become a cop, corny as it sounds, to help. Help. And before long, the garbage begins to gather, a small flow around your feet at first, easy enough to kick away, you think. But slowly slowly slowly it begins to grow, that garbage heap, and then it’s at your ankles, and then the knees and it’s not so easy to kick away anymore.

By now, with us, I figure it’s about waist high.

We’re fucking drowning.

What if we just walked away?

Or maybe it’s too late already. Would it be like trying to swim against the tide while fighting an undertow?

We could try. I could pick up the phone and call Starsk and say, “What if we quit?”

And what would he say?

What if.

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“TAP DANCING THEIR WAY RIGHT BACK INTO YOUR HEART”

How do I get myself into things like this?

Or, more important right now, what do I do next? What would Ramon do?

Except that Ramon isn’t real. He’s a made-up thing, part of the job. But if he was real, and if he found himself standing here like this, what would he do?

Okay. Ramon is a sort-of-devil-may-care kind of guy. Not worried about his macho image or anything like that, ’cause he knows who he is.

No one can dip, like Ramon.

So I’ve dipped. Now what?

I could drop him. Lot of laughs there.

Or maybe I could plant a sloppy kiss right onto his ugly mug. That would shake him up. And me, too.

He’s looking kinda funny at me. What does he expect?

Okay, Ramon, you bastard. I’ve dipped and now what?

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“THE MONSTER”

Starsky left to call for back-up.

Hutch knew that he should move, get up, do something official and policeman-like. His mind ordered him to action, but his body felt heavy as a boulder and his spirit even heavier. Maybe he wouldn’t ever move again. Tommy Malone and he would grow old together in this dirty, stinking room.

“You mad?” Tommy’s voice was a whisper.

“No, I’m not mad,” Hutch replied automatically.

“You’re not Artie, are you?”

“No. Artie is gone. He won’t be back anymore.”

“But Artie, he took care of me. Who’s gonna do that now?”

“Don’t worry about it, Tommy.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ken. My name is Ken.”

“Things get so mixed up, Kenny. You know what I mean?”

Hutch sighed and wiped the sweat from his face. “I know.”

Tommy slid from the cot and crawled across the floor to where Hutch was. “I can’t see. Everything is gone.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“I’m scared, Kenny.”

Hutch leaned forward and wrapped both arms around the younger man’s shoulders. “Don’t be scared, kiddo,” he said. “It’s just shadows. All the monsters are only shadows.”

It was true. Chasing shadows. He was spending his life chasing after shadows. Monsters prowling the city streets who turned out to be sick, scared children. His job was to kill the monsters. Or, at least, to hurt them so they would go away. The rest of the world didn’t want to look at the monsters, didn’t want to know the causes. They only wanted the monsters gone.

Ken Hutchinson, dragon-slayer.

At that moment, he hated himself more than he had ever hated the crying, scared boy in his arms.

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“NIGHTMARE”

They were quiet for a time after leaving Lisa and her mother. It was Starsky who finally broke the silence.

“Having a kid must be a scary thing,” he said. “Not knowing how it’s gonna turn out.”

“It would probably be scarier if you did know,” Hutch pointed out. “Or, at least, less wonderful. Doesn’t every child turn out to be less than the parent would have wanted, in one way or another?”

Starsky thought about that, then shook his head, “Nah, not always. Okay, my idiot brother is no prize, but I think my mom is sort of proud of me.”

“Oh, sure. She’s proud of what you do, the kind of man you are. But wouldn’t she be happier if you were married and had a couple of kids?”

“That’s for sure. What about your folks?”

Hutch gave a short laugh. “Oh, well. I’m an all around disappointment. Wrong career. Living in the wrong city. Had the right wife, but lost her. And no offense to anyone in this car, but I hang around with the wrong kind of people. If Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson had known how little Kenneth was going to turn out they probably would have sold him to the gypsies.”

Starsky grinned a little at that, then he sobered. “You know, I’m not sure that it matters much. I mean, what parents think. Even if we love them. We have to live our lives, not theirs.”

“True.”

“Besides, Hutchinson, not everybody in your family disapproves of you.”

“Oh, really? Who’s the exception?”

“Me,” Starsky said.

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“IRON MIKE”

So Iron Mike turned out to be not so great after all. What else is new? Davy Crockett, they say, was a drunk who abandoned his family. F.D.R. cheated on Eleanor. And Kennedy sneaked women into the White House. Heroes are a fragile commodity in the best of times.

Somebody said: A hero ain’t nothing but a sandwich these days.

So pour yourself another drink and play mind games with yourself. Tell yourself that you won’t ever get cynical and so tired that nothing matters.

Well, just how cynical is that? How tired?

Can a man get more tired than I am?

And when it comes to the other, to being cynical, well, it doesn’t say much for my idealism to face the fact that another evening is being spent in the bitter company of demon rum.

Actually, it’s not rum, it’s vodka, but who’s counting?

As we used to say, whatever gets you through the night.

***

Too bad about Ferguson.

Some guys just can’t hack it. Being a cop is tough work and it can wear you down fast. Even me, I gotta admit. Nowadays I don’t have so much of that old gung-ho attitude. But even so, I couldn’t ever do what Iron Mike did. I wouldn’t ever get that tired. That–what’s the word–cynical about things. A cop goes that way and he either ends up a lush or eating the barrel of his gun.

I couldn’t ever get that desperate.

Hutch I sometimes worry about.

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“LITTLE GIRL LOST”

The loud pounding on the door broke into his dream, shattering the pleasant, albeit unmemorable, images. Starsky rolled over and peered at the clock. Eight A.M. Day off and somebody was pounding on the damned door at eight o’clock.

Shit.

He slid from the bed and into his robe in almost one movement. “Awright, awright, I’m coming.” He sidestepped a chair and yanked the door open. “What?”

“Morning, sunshine,” Hutch sang out, pushing past him into the room.

Starsky rubbed his eyes with one hand and slammed the door closed with the other. “What the hell do you want?”

“Boy, you’re grouchy. That old Christmas spirit doesn’t last long, does it?”

Starsky dropped into a chair, noticing for the first time the green foil-wrapped box in Hutch’s hands.

“What’s that?”

“A present, of course.”

“For who?”

“For you.”

“Me?” Starsky swung his bare foot back and forth. “You already gave me a present. Yesterday was Christmas, remember? You gave me that great tree. How could you forget that? I never will.”

“Well, this present is also for you.”

“Why?” Starsky asked suspiciously.

“Do I need to have a reason to give my best friend a present? Take it.”

Starsky took the box and began to unwrap it, still not sure about this. But when he lifted the lid, he gave a soft whistle. “Hey, it’s the caboose. The one I wanted. It’s a beauty, Hutch.”

“Glad you like it.”

He quit admiring the railroad car long enough to look up at Hutch. “How come? You bitch for days about Christmas and presents, and then you give me a crummy tree. And now, the day after Christmas you show up with this. Why?”

Hutch shrugged. “I just don’t like being obligated to give a gift. Hey, time to run out and buy, buy, buy. Give, give, give. When I give somebody a present, it’s because I want to. That’s all.”

Starsky shook his head, grinning. “You’re one crazy bastard, Hutchinson.”

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“BLOODBATH”

“This is ridiculous,” Starsky snapped.

“Be that as it may.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that no matter how ridiculous it is, that’s the way it’s gonna be.”

“I’m not six years old, for chrissake.”

“Then don’t act like you are.”

“Everybody’s laughing,” Starsky whined.

“Too bad.” Hutch pushed the door open and waved Starsky through.

“How long are you gonna keep doing this?”

Hutch shrugged and leaned against the tiled wall.

Starsky scowled at him and stepped to the stall. “Coming to the can with me,” he complained. “Like I was a kid.”

“Take your leak, Starsk, and let’s get back into the courtroom.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.” He zipped his jeans with a disgusted jerk and went to wash his hands.

Hutch pushed the door open and waited until Starsky was finished. Then, side by side, they walked into the corridor and headed for the courtroom.

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“THE PSYCHIC”

The man was not sleeping. He sat in the dark, watching the play of light and shadow on the wall. Restless spirits seemed to fill the room, calling to him, urging him to some kind of action.

It was a call he did not want to heed, felt he could not heed, at the risk of his own sanity. Or perhaps his mortal soul.

The tapping at the door was so soft that at first he thought perhaps it was part of the spirit world. Then it came again, more strongly. “Come in,” he said.

When the door opened, he wasn’t surprised at the identity of his visitor. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

The tall blond man looked surprised. “You have?”

“Without knowing that I was,” Collandra admitted. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t evade the issue, Sergeant Hutchinson,” Collandra said sharply. There was no time to waste with fools. “You’ve come to see me because you want to know what’s in the future. You’re no different than anyone else.”

Hutchinson dropped into a chair. “Okay. You’re right, of course. Sometimes I get so…scared. Not knowing.”

Collandra switched on a lamp so he could see better. “And you think that knowledge will make you less afraid?”

Hutchinson clenched his fists. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe knowing the moment and circumstances of your death will make the dying more…acceptable?”

“Damnit, I don’t know!” The burst of anger passed quickly and Hutchinson slumped back against the chair. “I don’t care so much about my own death,” he said dully.

Collandra studied him, a little stunned by the intensity of the vibes, for want of a better word.

“Your partner. That’s the one you want to know about.”

“Yeah.”

“Let me ask you one question, Detective.”

“What?”

“Suppose it works. Suppose I get a look into the future. And suppose that I can then tell you when and how Starsky will die. What then?”

“I don’t understand.”

Collandra sighed. “So tomorrow morning you go into work and you look into his eyes. There, you will see his death looking back at you. Will you tell him? Or will you greet him as usual and go about the day? Knowing what you know? Having seen his death?”

Hutch shuddered. “Oh god. No. No, I don’t want to know. Forget it. Forget I was ever here.” He nearly ran from the room in his desperation to escape the truth.

Collandra went to the window and watched Hutchinson get into his car. It was several minutes before the battered Ford drove off. When it was gone, Collandra pulled down the shade and went to bed.

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“THE SET-UP”

Hutch was struck by a certain irony in the situation. Just two days before, they had parted company with that poor bastard who called himself Terry Nash, but who really had no idea at all who the hell he was. A man in search of his identity.

The irony was that Detective Sergeant Hutchinson, who had said some encouraging things to Nash, now felt just as lost. Another man wondering who he was.

Nobody had brainwashed him, of course. Unless you were prepared to call the first eighteen years of his life one long session in mind alteration. Which might not be as crazy as it sounded.

Hutch knew that there was something mildly hypocritical about this whole trip. He had not visited Duluth in a very long time, had not wanted to. But coming death did things to people and he was no different. His grandfather was dying and the prodigal son came flying back to Minnesota.

Frankly, he’d rather have been on an all-night stakeout with Starsky–bad jokes, cold pizza, stale potato chips and all. But duty, damnit, had to be done.

The Fasten Seatbelt sign blinked on. Duluth was getting close. Hutch, who had never undone his seatbelt, pushed the tray back up, and settled in with a sigh. Time to stop being ‘Hutch,’ cop and partner and fair-haired good guy. Time to turn back into Kenneth. Only son who was supposed to go from law school into the state legislature and from there…who could say?

Kenneth who was supposed to be the brightest star of the Hutchinson dynasty. He was the best and smartest and the charmer who would go all the way.

Instead, he was a cop in Los Angeles.

The wheels touched the ground and Hutch felt his gut tighten in an old familiar way. Just another man wondering who he really was. A poor fool in search of himself.

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“SURVIVAL”

It wasn’t exactly the way Starsky wanted to spend his afternoon off. Traipsing from one used car lot to another was bad enough. Worse was the way the salesmen looked at him when he described to them what it was he wanted to buy.

“What’re you, crazy?” was one of the nicest remarks that had been hurled at him in the past several hours.

Crazy just about said it. Totally, completely, irreversibly bonkers.

He parked in front of the last place on the list, Honest Fred’s Reliable Automobile Emporium. Terrific. Fred didn’t move much merchandise, apparently, because the cars in the lot all seemed to be covered by a fine layer of dirt.

A fat little man in a shiny green and red plaid sport jacket bounced toward him. “Howdy, howdy,” he said beamingly, rubbing his hands together. “In the market for a top-notch pre-owned vehicle, are we?”

Starsky nodded and began his speech. “I want a 1973 Ford LTD,” he said. “A sort of dirty brown-grey color. With a lot of dents and an engine that works about half the time. Oh, and the passenger door should stick.”

Give old Fred credit: his cheerful, round little face only wavered a little. “A what?”

Starsky wearily repeated his request.

“That’s what I thought you said. This way.”

Fred took off at a sort of trot, with Starsky in pursuit. They went about halfway through the lot, then worked their way through a flock of old vans. And there it was: the car. If Starsky hadn’t of known better, he would have sworn that this was the same Ford Hutch had driven off the mountain road.

The next step was convincing Fred that it was really the car he wanted. Still, as they headed for the office to consummate the unholy deal, Fred said, “You won’t be happy with that car.”

“It’s not for me,” Starsky replied. “It’s a gift.”

Fred eyed him for signs of insanity. “A gift?”

“Yeah. And believe me, the guy it’s for is going to love it.” Starsky shook his head and repeated glumly. “The guy is gonna love it.”

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“STARSKY’S LADY”

Dawn was funny. On the one hand, it could be filled with a pink-tinged promise of the new day. It could be a moment of breathless anticipation.

But there was another kind of dawn. The one that was a poignant reminder of what might have been. A moment of sharp grief.

Starsky was sitting at the window, waiting for this dawn and dreading it. The first full day of life without Terry. A very tall mountain to be gotten over.

He had been sitting at the same window all night, trying to work his way through the jungle of emotion. And now it was almost morning and he still didn’t understand why.

A fact of life: the body doesn’t know from sadness. Starsky had to piss. He went into the can. He did what had to be done, then washed his hands, splashed some cold water in his face, and gargled with a healthy dose of Listerine. He thought about shaving, but then dismissed the notion with a shrug.

He decided on some breakfast instead.

The figure on the couch came as something of a surprise. When the hell had Hutch arrived? And why just crash in here instead of letting somebody know that he was around?

Starsky detoured and perched on the back of the couch, gazing down at his sleeping partner. The rest of the fucking world could turn to dust in his hands and there would still be one person he could count on.

He let his fingertips touch soft blond hair. A thought struck him that was so…troubling in its implications that he tried to avoid facing the truth of it. Prudholm could just as easily have shot Hutch. He might be mourning his partner now. Starsky poked and probed his grief carefully. It hurt, God yes, hurt like hell and there would always be an empty space in his heart, a space where Terry had been. But this pain could be survived.

What if it had been Hutch? How would he be feeling now? Would Terry’s love have been enough to sustain him?

The answer to that question was so terrifying that David Starsky couldn’t accept it.

He pulled his fingers back from the gold softness where they had been resting. Breakfast. He’d whip up one of his famous Mexican omelets and surprise Hutch. Thinking only of that, he headed for the kitchen.

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“HUGGY BEAR AND THE TURKEY”

“I never want to hear another word about Huggy Bear’s stupid-ass private eye business,” Starsky said.

“Suits me,” Hutch agreed absently. He folded the newspaper. “When the hell is this guy gonna show up?”

“When he shows up, I guess. We can’t do a damned thing without the warrant, so we wait for the judge.” Hutch grunted, peering through the windshield.

“You know, Starsk, I think that we’re working the wrong end of this law enforcement gig. I didn’t know that judges did this good.”

Starsky looked at the mansion, which was surrounded by a lush green yard about the size of Forest Lawn. There was even a fountain. “Really. You think he’s bent?”

“Hardcase Hardcastle? You must be kidding. That guy is so straight, I wonder how he gets his shoes tied.”

“With this much money, he probably hires somebody to do it.”

Hutch laughed softly.

“Anyway,” Starsky continued suspiciously. “I saw him one day reading a Lone Ranger comic book. A judge. Personally, I think maybe he’s a little senile. Ever see the shirts he wears?”

Hutch saw a dark Corvette roaring up the driveway. “Well, at least he’s on the bench and we’re on the streets. So don’t worry about him. Let’s just get the warrant and split.”

Starsky snorted agreement and opened the door. “Judge Hardcastle?”

The burly, white-haired man in the parrot Hawaiian shirt turned around. He wore a holster and gun under one arm.

What the hell?

“Yes?” Hardcastle said.

Starsky took the warrant out of his pocket. Lone Ranger comic books, jeez. If this guy was so keen on silver-bulleting his way into the crime fighters hall of fame, he better find himself a Tonto. It was a hard life on the streets and nobody, even Super Judge, could take it on by himself.

But it wasn’t Starsky’s problem. Leave the crazy judge for somebody else to deal with.

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“THE COMMITTEE”

“Didja’ ever stop to think about how much life is like a movie?”

“No, Starsk, I never thought about that.”

“Well, it is.”

Hutch really wanted to watch the news. He kept his gaze on the screen. Maybe it would work.

“Don’t you want to know why life is like a movie?”

“Not especially.”

“Well, I’m going to tell you.”

He sighed. “I figured you would.”

Starsky settled back and crossed his arms, donning his thoughtful look. “Okay. Now take this whole thing with Fargo and his vigilante cops.”

“You take it. I don’t want it.”

“Don’t you remember that movie? ‘Magnum Force’? The one with Dirty Harry and the crooked cops?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Sure, you do. We saw it together.”

Hutch shook his head. “I fell asleep.”

“Probably. You always fall asleep during the good movies. But anyway, my point is, life sort of imitated that story.”

“Except that Clint Eastwood wasn’t around.”

“True.” Starsky grinned. “But I had you.”

Hutch nodded. “But one thing, Starsk.”

“What?”

“If life is a movie, I want better lighting.”

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“VELVET JUNGLE”

“Let me get this straight,” Hutch said, buttering his toast. “You woke me up on our day off so I could go shopping for clothes with you?”

“Yeah.” Starsky went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk. “I’ve been thinking that maybe my image could use some improvement.”

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with what a certain lovely lady had to say about your wardrobe, would it?”

“No, of course not,” Starsky denied, seemingly oblivious to the white moustache decorating his upper lip. “I just decided it’s time for a change.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that. But why drag me into it?”

“For years you’ve been knocking the way I dress. I figured you might have some good ideas.”

“I might?”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe I might. You really know how to flatter a guy, don’t you?”

“It’s possible.”

Hutch chewed and swallowed toast. “How could I refuse an offer like that? It would be like turning my back on a hurt puppy. You need me.” Grinning, he started for the bathroom to shower and shave. “Besides, it’s my chance to do ‘Pygmalion’.”

“Do what?”

But Hutch only chuckled and left the kitchen.

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“LONG WALK ON A SHORT DIRT ROAD”

MEMO
TO: Captain H. Dobey
FROM: Captain B. Mackey
RE: Police Picnic

Hal–Help, old pal! I’ve been snagged to head up the entertainment committee for our annual blow-out. We’re all a little tired of the MacKenzie twins and their accordion duets, righto? So what I need from you, old buddy, is some word about talent. You got any in that ragtag squad of yours? Maybe some cute little gal who can dance or something? Give it some brain time and get back to me ASAP.

MEMO
TO: Captain B. Mackey
FROM: Captain H. Dobey
RE: Police Picnic

Bill–Thought you were too smart to get put in charge of anything! Talent, you want? Well. I’ve got one guy, Starsky, who does cards tricks that sometimes work, and also does a pretty good Paul Muni imitation. Come to think of it, he does a fair tango and dip, too. Also, I got a guy, Hutchinson, who plays the guitar and sings. Maybe you remember him from last year? He came on just before the Vice guy with the trained cat. I understand he’s had some pro experience since then, singing with Sue Ann Grainger, so maybe he wouldn’t choke up like last time. I’ll tell both my boys you’re looking for talent.

MEMO
TO: Dobey
FROM: Mackey
RE: Police Picnic

Old pal, I auditioned your boys- Hutchinson with the card tricks and Starsky singing, right? Anyway, tell them thanks, but no thanks. Actually the MacKenzie twins have learned a couple of new tunes, so it looks like the program will be pretty full. Thanks anyway.

MEMO
TO: Mackey
FROM: Dobey
RE: Police Picnic

Bill, my boys got a little bit upset when they heard that you didn’t want them in the show. But they’ll get over it.

By the way, have you heard about the MacKenzie twins’ mumps?

MEMO
TO: Dobey
FROM: Mackey
RE: Goddamned Police Picnic

It looks like we have a little room on the show after all. Tell Starsky he can sing a couple of songs. But as for Hutchinson, forget the card tricks. And who the hell is Paul Muni anyway?

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“MURDER ON STAGE 17”

Of course it was Starsky’s idea. “Let’s pick up a pizza, some beer, maybe some ice cream, and watch the All-Night Comedy Film Festival on the television.”

Hutch agreed, because it was Saturday night, they had a rare Sunday off, it had been a helluva week, and he didn’t much feel like playing Goodtime Charlie on a date. With Starsky, he could take off his shoes, put on his robe, and relax.

So here they were.

Or rather, here he was.

Starsky lasted through the pizza, one six-pack, half a gallon of fudge ripple, and two movies (ROAD TO RIO and WITH SIX YOU GET EGGROLL) before caving in. So far now, he’d snored his way through THE PARENT TRAP, and half of TRICK OR TREAT, starring Wally Stone.

It was a pretty funny movie, and he thought about waking Starsky so he could enjoy it, too. But then he took a closer look at his sleeping partner. Funny, some people looked younger and more vulnerable asleep, as if all pretense and defenses were gone. But it was different with Starsky. Asleep now, he seemed older. Without the smile and the dancing eyes to brighten his face, the lines seemed deeper, the years more evident.

Hutch felt inexplicably sad looking at him. Starsky was tired. How much effort did it cost him to keep showing the face the rest of the world saw every day? How long could he keep up the facade?

After a moment, Hutch got up and went to the bedroom for an extra blanket. He covered the barefooted man, tucking a soft cushion beneath his head.

When his partner was well tucked-in, Hutch returned to the couch, lowering the volume on the TV as he passed. He settled down to watch the movie again. Maybe Wally Stone could make him laugh.

Maybe.

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“STARSKY AND HUTCH ARE GUILTY”

Happy birthday to me.

Another year older and deeper in debt.

Deeper in the shit, too. Maybe if the pay was better for what they did, the debt wouldn’t be so bad. The shit would probably still be the same, though.

Sometimes it got worse than usual. Like when half the department thought he and Hutch were running around town like Bonnie and Clyde, beating up on people and shit like that. Nice that people had faith.

Happy birthday to me.

Card from Ma. With the usual ten spot tucked inside. Every year since he was twelve, she had given him ten dollars. Used to be he could go out and buy something really neat with it. Now he usually just sprang for a couple of drinks for Hutch and him. That took care of ten bucks nowadays.

Happy birthday, dear Davey.

Yeah, many happy returns of the day.

Not this day, thank you very much.

Or, for that matter, most of this year. Helluva year. Loss. Of love. Of hope. Of something he couldn’t seem to put a name to, but which sometimes seemed like innocence. And that was probably just as well. A cop couldn’t afford to be innocent.

One more year like this one and he’d be in fine shape. Time, maybe, to stop counting the years as they slid by. Count the days instead. One more day gone by and they were still hanging on. Getting old, yeah, but still kicking.

Happy birthday to me.

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I was alone on my cold and windy shore
Trying to spread a little light around,
Then came the storm that left you there
At my door,
Now my light is stronger since the day
You ran aground.
Let my lighthouse be our house,
Together we’ll shine our light on
The troubled sea, and our love bright
Gleaming through the night will shine
A beacon endlessly.

Taylor

______________________________________________________

 

1977-1978

There have been times when it’s been raining
When, Lord, I swear, I’ve never been touched.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining,
It’s just that I always seem to miss so much.
There have been times when I’ve been searching,
Searching in the darkness for someone to touch.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hurting,
It’s just that I always seem to miss so much.
There will come a time when it’s all over,
When my good-byes become a must.
No, I won’t cry because I’m sorry.
It’s just that I always seem to miss so much.

Kirby/Fox

______________________________________________________

“STARSKY & HUTCH ON PLAYBOY ISLAND”

“Starsk, how come you’re always calling me in the middle of the night?”

“Because. That’s when things come into my mind.”

“Do you know, do you have any idea, how frightening that is? I get this image in my mind of you there in the dark, thinking. That’s scary.”

“You always got a smartass remark to make, don’t you, Hutch?”

“Was there some reason for this call, or were you just dying to hear the sound of my voice?”

“You remember when I tried to kill you on the island?”

“I remember.”

“You don’t hold it against me?”

“I already told you a dozen times, no. It wasn’t your fault. You did what you did because of a drug.”

“Or the voodoo.”

“Whatever. The important thing is, David Michael Starsky wasn’t trying to push me off that cliff. Something else was.”

“Well, I know that. I mean, I know it in my head. But sometimes, especially in the middle of the fucking night, stuff comes into my mind. I mean, God. I could’ve hurt you bad. Or even killed you. No matter what made me do it, if I’da killed you…well, damn, that’s scary. I don’t think I could have lived with that, Hutch.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“You really do know, don’t you?”

“Sure. I know, man.”

“Yeah. Well, good night, Hutch.”

“Sleep tight. And, Starsk–”

“What?”

“No more thinking, okay?”

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“FATAL CHARM”

Starsky planted his best, cheeriest “hospital” smile on his face. It was an expression that seemed to be getting easier as the years went by. Or maybe not easier, maybe just more familiar. He pushed open the door and went into the room.

Hutch was sitting up in the bed, bandaged and pale, but wearing his best, cheeriest “I’m okay” smile.

So they exchanged smiles for a moment. Two grinning hypocrites.

Starsky pulled a chair closer to the bed and straddled it. “So how’s it going, buddy?”

“Going,” Hutch replied. “Going.”

“We gotta stop meeting in this place. People are gonna start to talk.”

“Hell, let ’em talk.”

That brief exchange seemed to exhaust their store of jolly repartee. The smiles lingered a moment longer, then slowly faded away.

Hutch sighed. “It’s so fucking stupid.”

“Yeah? What exactly?”

“Ego. I mean, that’s what’s behind this whole thing, right? A good-looking broad falls all over me, and I don’t even take the time to question it. I just jump in and go for it. Christ.”

“Maybe you’re being a little hard on yourself.”

Hutch glanced at him. “What does that mean?”

Starsky frowned thoughtfully. “It might not be just ego, you know. Probably we let ourselves get into messes like this because…well, because it’s lonely out here. And everybody wants to be loved.”

“Yeah, maybe there’s something to that. But my God….”

“Right. There should be a limit, I guess.”

They were quiet for several moments.

Finally, Starsky smiled again, a real smile this time. “Well, you’ve still got me.”

“I seem to collect screwballs, don’t I?”

“Takes one to know one, sweetheart.”

“You might be right, Starsk, you might be right.”

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“I LOVE YOU, ROSIE MALONE”

The park was empty now.

Empty, that was, except for the lone figure perched on the merry-go-round. Hutch shook his head. “Damn,” he whispered. Then he stalked across the grassy lawn toward the figure. “You’re late,” he said.

Starsky looked up in surprise. “What?”

“For dinner. You’re late. Three hours ago we stood right here and made plans for dinner. We were gonna go home, shower, dress, you know, all that shit, and then we were gonna go eat Chinese. Remember?”

“Oh, damn.” Starsky glanced toward the night sky. “I was just sitting here and….”

Hutch sat next to him. “Snap out of it, Starsk. Time to face real life again.”

“Real life sucks.”

“Sometimes. But mostly that’s all we have.”

Starsky snorted. “This is it, huh?”

“‘Fraid so, babe. So you might as well accept that.”

“Words of wisdom from Kenneth Hutchinson, staunch realist?”

“Hey, I’m just doing what I can to get along.”

“Right. So are we all.”

Hutch patted Starsky’s bare leg. “If you ask me, she made the wrong choice.”

“Thanks. Of course, maybe she knew something you don’t.”

“About you? I doubt it.” Hutch stood. “Come on, Romeo. I want dinner.”

It took another moment, then Starsky smiled. “Okay. If this is what we got, then we might as well enjoy it.”

“Right.”

Starsky jumped to his feet and they left the dark park together.

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“MURDER WARD”

“Upsy-daisy.”

“Huh?”

Starsky tried to get a better grip on his spaced-out partner. “Let’s get up, buddy.”

Hutch giggled. “Why? S’nice here on the floor.”

“Yeah, sure, and we could just set up housekeeping here, except that we’ve got things to do. We gotta bust some people and call in the back-up. You know, cop things.”

That seemed to strike the blond as funny. He laughed again as he threw both arms around Starsky’s neck, almost pulling the smaller man down again. “Cop things, yeah.” Then, in an abrupt change of mood, he frowned drunkenly. “I get tired sometimes, babe.”

Starsky struggled to brace him against the wall. “Sure, sure. Pretty soon you can go to bed.”

But Hutch shook his head. “No, no, not that kinda tired.” Seemingly impatient with Starsky’s lack of attention, Hutch raised both hands and took the other man’s face between his palms. He forced their gazes to meet. “I get tired of the cop things. Tired, tired, so fucking tired.”

Something in the drug-glazed blue eyes scared Starsky. “Hey, it’s okay, partner. It’s all right.”

“No, it is not okay,” Hutch said deliberately. “It’s a terrible way to live.”

“You remember what you told me not so long ago, Hutch? It might not be so great, but it’s what we got. This is our life, partner.”

After a moment, Hutch released his grip on Starsky. He nodded sadly. “Yeah, that’s true. That’s true.”

“Come on now. We’ve got things to do.”

Hutch grunted in apparent agreement and they started down the hall, leaning heavily against each other.

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“DEATH IN A DIFFERENT PLACE”

Hutch parked in the lot that held only one other car, a red-and-white Torino. It was not a night to be down on the beach and Hutch didn’t know what the hell he was doing here. Except that a call from a partner required action. No questions, just action.

He made his way down to the sand, where a lone figure stood, staring out at the water. “Hi.”

There wasn’t any response.

“You called me,” Hutch finally said.

“Yeah, I did.” Starsky bent to pick up a pebble and then threw it into the water. “I can’t stop thinking about Blaine.”

Hutch sighed. “John was gay, Starsk. You may not want to believe it. You might hate it. But none of that is going to change the truth.”

Starsky flinched. “I know that.” He dug one heel into the sand. “Does everybody have dirty little secrets?”

“Everybody has secrets. Whether they’re dirty or not depends on how you look at it, I guess.”

“Maybe so.” Starsky scattered sand with a kick. “What about you, Hutch?”

“Me?”

“Do you have secrets?”

“I just said everybody does. Ken Hutchinson is no different.”

“You keep secrets from me?”

“Oh, Starsk, I don’t know. Probably.”

Starsky turned to look at him.

Hutch shook his head. “Come on, buddy. You must have parts of yourself that you don’t share. Even with me.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Sure you do.” Hutch looked far down the beach and saw a dog running along the shore, followed by a dark figure in jogging clothes. “I haven’t been secretly jumping into bed with boys all these years, if that’s what you want to know.”

Surprisingly, Starsky blushed a little. “I know that.”

“Once when I was twelve, though, Danny Ryan and I jerked each other off. Does that count?”

Starsky shook his head.

“If you want a real secret, how about this: Sometimes I hate the job we do. I hate myself. And sometimes I drink too much because of all that hate.” He hadn’t meant to sound as harsh as he did. He lifted a hand in resignation. “No more tonight, okay, partner? It’s late.”

“Okay.” Starsky led the way back toward the parking lot and they made the journey silently. At their cars, they stopped. “See you in the morning,” Starsky said.

“Right.” Hutch got into the Ford and drove off. In the mirror, he could see Starsky still standing in the lot.

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“THE CRYING CHILD”

This wasn’t the good stuff. Now that his grandfather was dead, Hutch was having to make do with a lesser grade of whiskey. But, as time went on, he was getting less fussy.

He was also drinking much too much. And that meant he wasn’t eating right or exercising like he should have been.

And he didn’t give a damn about any of it.

Alcohol made a great anesthetic.

Maybe that was why he had such a hard time caring much about anything these days. Even that poor kid, Guy. Innocent victim of his own mother’s sickness. Hell, the world was full of innocent victims and how many of them could Kenneth Hutchinson save?

Hutch poured himself another drink.

Oh, he’d said all the right things, expressed all the right emotions. The only thing was, he hadn’t really felt any of it. Sometimes it seemed as if his soul had been cauterized and all the capacity for feeling had been burned right out.

Things just weren’t falling into place so much any more. He couldn’t connect with people. With anybody except Starsky, anyway. And that scared him. It was as if a wall were going up around the two of them, excluding the rest of the world. Just Starsky and him inside the wall, shut off from everybody else.

What terrified him was the possibility that one day Starsky would figure out how to scale that wall and escape, leaving him alone forever.

Hutch wanted to cry out, to let the world know how scared he was.

But he couldn’t do that. It wasn’t allowed.

So he drank.

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“THE HEROES”

Hutch sat on the upturned crate, one hand still rubbing the small of his back. Starsky came back into the room, carrying two beers, one of which he handed to Hutch. “You okay?” he asked anxiously.

“I’m in shock.” Hutch glanced around the room. “You really spent our money on this?” he asked hollowly.

Starsky crouched next to him. “You really hate it, huh?”

“What’s not to hate?”

“I thought maybe it had possibilities.”

Hutch just shook his head and then sipped some beer.

Starsky’s face bore an expression of complete despair. “Well,” he said, “I guess you’re mad at me.”

“Of course I am.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hutch sighed. “That’s okay.”

They drank silently for several minutes, listening to the house creak around them. “The thing is,” Starsky said finally, “I thought that maybe this was our chance, you know? Maybe the start of a real estate empire. Make us some real money, the kind I’ve never had. Enough money to be rich.”

“I’ve been rich, Starsk. It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Easy for you to say.” Starsky smiled fleetingly, then sobered. “You want to know what I really thought?”

“What, babe?”

He took a deep breath. “I thought that maybe we’d have something to fall back on. In case we ever get fed up with the job.” He gurgled down some beer. “Now I guess we’ll always be poor.”

“But we’ll be heroes,” Hutch reminded him.

After a moment, they began to laugh. The sound echoed round and round in the room.

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“THE PLAGUE”

Dobey glanced down the long corridor and saw the slender figure leaning against the window, staring into the dimly lit hospital room. The black man walked heavily up the hall and joined him. “How’s he doing?”

“Okay,” Starsky said in a muffled voice. He didn’t look around. “They say he’s gonna be okay.”

Dobey heard the usually firm young voice falter and then crack. He stood in awkward silence, wanting to pat the shaking shoulders, but not knowing if the gesture would have been appreciated or resented.

Starsky cried silently, still leaning against the window. After several minutes, he sniffled loudly and raised his head. “He came real close to dying.”

“Yes.”

“That’s so damned scary.”

“Life is scary, David.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said bitterly. “And getting worse. Worse and worse every day. He shook his head. “This would have been such a fucking stupid way to die. A death should have some purpose. Especially for somebody like Hutch.”

Dobey shrugged. “Fate doesn’t love anyone. It strikes creeps like Callander and fair-haired heroes like Hutch all the same.”

“We gotta get our lives together,” Starsky said, seemingly to himself. “We gotta shape up and cut out the shit.”

The nurse by the bed turned and gestured.

Starsky straightened. “‘Scuse me, Cap’n. I’m going inside to see my partner.”

Dobey watched as Starsky entered the room and approached the bed. Hutch’s eyes opened and he said something. Whatever his words had been, they brought a smile to Starsky’s face. The two men clasped hands.

Dobey shook his head. Sometimes he regretted ever pairing those two off. Oh, his cop instincts had been right: they were the best damned team he’d ever seen. But there was something else at work there, something he should have recognized as dangerous. They needed one another too much.

He feared for them.

Dobey said a prayer and then left them alone.

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“THE COLLECTOR”

Hutch walked into the airport bar. He saw his mother immediately, sitting at a small table near the back. She looked the same as always: every blonde hair in place, dressed in a chic beige suit, complete calm radiating from her face. When she saw him, one hand raised in an elegant wave.

“Mother,” he said, sitting opposite her.

“Kenneth, how wonderful to see you. I was beginning to think that you weren’t going to make it before my connecting flight.” The reprimand was phrased so sweetly that it could hardly be called that by one who didn’t know better.

Hutch knew better. “I was working.”

“Of course.”

She was drinking white wine. Hutch ordered a beer, then there was the usual awkward pause. She waited for him to light her cigarette. “Are you seeing anyone these days?”

“I have been.” He swallowed a gulp of the cold brew.

“Oh, how nice. Tell me about her.”

“Waste of time. We just broke up.”

“Kenneth?”

He sighed. “If you must. Her name is Molly. Her father runs a deli. And we broke up. She’s eighteen. Which, I think, we’ll all agree is too damned young. So that’s the sad saga of Molly and me.”

His mother was frowning. Elegantly, of course. “You seem to have a knack for choosing inappropriate women.”

“I do seem to do that, yeah. Maybe I should just give up the hunt.”

“Maybe what you should do is grow up and start behaving like an adult.”

Hutch glanced at his watch. “Six minutes, Mother. A new record.”

Her smile was tolerant. “This is a very short visit, dear. Let’s not waste time on the same old petty arguments. I think that by now we each know where the other stands.”

“God, yes.”

There was a pause.

“Your father sends his best.”

“Tell him hello.”

“He’d like to see you.”

“Well, Mother, he knows where I am.”

“You won’t give an inch, will you Kenneth?”

“Has he? Have you?”

“We always wanted the best for you.”

“Then we should all be happy, right? Because I’m doing just what I want to do. I’m a good cop.”

She studied him. “You don’t look very happy.”

“Mother, I am ecstatic. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Are you still working with that boy from New York? The Jew?”

Hutch played with the cocktail napkin. “His name is David Michael Starsky. After all these years you must be able to remember that. Or should I write it down for you? And, yes, we’re still together.”

Her mouth twitched. “That is a remarkably sustained relationship, given your track record. Maybe you should marry him.”

Hutch lowered the beer carefully, setting it on the table. “Very good, Mother,” he said hoarsely. “Nice to see that you haven’t lost your touch.”

“I just find it amusing that you and this David Starsky seem so compatible. He’s hardly the sort of person you can have much in common with.”

“We have the job. And…we have our friendship.”

“Is that enough for you, Kenneth? The job and that friendship?”

“It’s enough.”

She sighed and stood. “I must run or I’ll miss the flight. I only hope…Kenneth, I only hope that one day you don’t regret the path you’ve chosen.”

“I hope so, too, Mother. But it is my path. So there isn’t much I can do about it.”

“You could come home.”

“I am home.”

She bent to kiss him on the cheek and then hurried out of the bar.

Hutch signaled the waitress and ordered another beer. He was shaking a little and needed time and space to calm down before going to pick up Starsky.

What his parents thought didn’t matter.

And maybe he’d lied to her, but only about part of it. The job wasn’t enough. He wasn’t happy with being a cop anymore. That part was the lie. But having Starsky made up for the rest of it.

I am home. Yes, because his home was being with Starsky.

What else did he need?

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“MANCHILD IN THE STREETS”

The funeral was short. Which, if you ask me, is the way all funerals should be. If they have to be at all. Which I’m not so sure of.

Junior made it through the thing okay. It couldn’t have been easy for him; hell, I remember the day they buried my old man like it was yesterday. I handled it pretty much the way this kid did–all stiff upper-lip and bravado.

Not much else about the services was the same–what common ground could be found between a Jewish cop in New York and a black Baptist in Los Angeles? I guess the only real connection was in the fact that each man left behind people who cared.

Maybe there were things I should have said to Junior. Some words of wisdom to make it easier on the kid.

“It ain’t easy.”

“You’re gonna feel mad at the whole world for a long time.”

“It’s not fair.”

“It hurts.”

But what good would it have done for me to say any of those things? He knew all of them already. Junior would just have to learn to cope. Like everybody else. Like I did.

Maybe the streets aren’t the best place to learn about life, but maybe they’re not the worst, either. I made it okay. And that life makes you tough.

Sometimes…once in a while, I think maybe that’s Hutch’s biggest problem. He’s not tough enough.

But that’s okay. I can be tough for both of us.

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“THE ACTION”

A couple of aces in a world full of jokers.

Easy to say when a guy is feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. But later, when the case was wrapped and he was alone and tired, the witty cracks came a little reluctantly.

Especially on a night like this.

Starsky picked up the phone wearily and held it to his ear. The dial tone was almost comforting: a modern lullaby for a tired cop.

After a moment, he pulled himself back from the edge of sleep and dialed. It took five rings before anyone answered.

“You know what time it is?” were the first words he heard.

Starsky rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Nick, I know.”

“So?”

“So, I’m just checking up. Seeing how you’re doing.”

“Transcontinental babysitting.”

“I guess you could call it that. If you want.”

“I’d rather not call it anything. Don’t they keep you busy enough taking care of the city of Los Angeles? You trying to cover New York, too?”

“Not hardly. Believe me, I’d rather be asleep. But Ma wanted me to call.”

“Surprise, surprise. Sometimes Ma takes the whole Jewish mother bit too seriously.”

“You have a smart mouth, boy,” Starsky said sharply.

“One of my better qualities. Look, David, you’re my brother, not my keeper. Maybe you don’t like that fact much, and maybe I’m not crazy about the relationship either, but that’s the way the dice came up.”

Abruptly, Starsky needed to end the conversation. Nick had a way of irritating him beyond belief. “Tell Ma I called,” he said flatly and then he slammed the phone down. He rested his head on his arms, sighing. He didn’t know his own brother at all. Even sadder, he didn’t seem to care very much.

Maybe, like Nick had said, that was just the way the dice came up.

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“THE HEAVYWEIGHT”

“Mmmph.”

“Yeah, Starsk, right,” Hutch muttered, guiding the Torino through the dark, nearly empty streets. Too much recent nightlife, combined with the rigors of the Jimmy Spencer case, had finally caught up with his partner. Not to mention all the beer he’d downed. What with all of those things, Starsky had reluctantly abdicated his place behind the wheel.

“Snnglwhump.

“Uh-huh. You got it, sweetheart.”

Poor Starsk. Dumped by another stew. You’d think the guy would get discouraged after a while, but he just kept on bouncing back. Like a rubber ball.

Hutch had never been able to figure out the depth of Starsky’s feelings for any of the females who paraded through his life. Not since Terry. Or, maybe, Rosie. Beyond those two, none of the relationships seemed to do more than scratch the surface of Starsky’s emotions.

“Dngleswot.”

It was a damned shame, too. If ever anybody had a lot of love to give, it was David Starsky. Whoever was on the receiving end of so much caring would be very lucky. Damned lucky. And if all these women were too stupid to appreciate that fact, to hell with them.

“Mo ompha.”

“Yeah, partner,” Hutch said. “I agree. We don’t need ’em anyway, right?”

“Mozzle.”

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“A BODY WORTH GUARDING”

“You feeling bad about what’s-her-face?”

“Anna Akhanatova.”

“Yeah, Anna. You feeling bad about it?”

Hutch shrugged. “Helluva commute for a date.”

“Well. She coulda defected.”

“I guess so.”

“So, say she had defected. What then?”

“God, I don’t know.”

“But she didn’t, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter.”

“So cheer up, okay?”

“I’m cheerful, Starsk, I’m cheerful.”

“You don’t look so cheerful.” Starsky was quiet for a moment, then he grinned. “Wanna arm-wrestle?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Hutch leaned forward. “Starsky, go home. My heart is not broken. I am not suffering. Anna and I had a few laughs, that’s all. In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s about as far as the romance in my life goes. But that’s okay. It’s all I want. I’m okay. You’re okay. Good night.”

Starsky got as far as the door, then stopped. “Well, my love life is no big deal either,” he said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Does it matter?”

Starsky looked at him quizzically. Then he shook his head slowly. “Not under the circumstances.”

“Which are?”

“Bizarre, to say the least, buddy.”

With that, he was gone.

Hutch waited a moment, then went to the window and threw it open. “Tomorrow,” he shouted down toward the street. “Tomorrow I’ll arm-wrestle you into the ground.”

Starsky waved and grinned. Then he got into the Torino and drove away.

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“THE TRAP”

Dear Ma,

Just wanted to let you know that I’m up and around again–no permanent damage done. Hutch says he told you that I was going to be fine when he called from the hospital, but I figured you’d want it in writing.

Hutch probably didn’t tell you that he was the hero of the day. Saved my ass again (excuse the language). Not that there was any real danger, of course. Don’t pay too much attention to all that stuff in the newspaper–I only sent it because I figured that Aunt Rose would give a really exaggerated version. Yeah, I took a slug in the leg, but it wasn’t all that bad. Just a flesh wound, mostly.

And, yeah, the barn was burning, but we got out in plenty of time, really. Never even got singed.

All in all, just another day in the life….

You know, someday I hope you get to meet Hutch in person. You’d love him a lot. He is…well, he’s the best partner a man could hope for. Without Hutch, I’d probably pitch it in.

I don’t even blame him for ruining a really great watch.

Talk to you soon.

Love,

Davey.

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“SATAN’S WITCHES”

“If the devil worshippers or the grizzlies don’t get us,” Hutch complained, “the food in this place will.”

“I’m hungry, and it’s still hours until we get home,” Starsky said stubbornly.

“A couple hours. And we’ve got fresh trout to eat.”

“Fresh trout to clean, you mean. I’ll be dead by then.”

They parked in front of the shabby truck stop. The sign said, simply, EATS. There was only one other car in the lot.

Hutch sighed in resignation. Maybe the coffee wouldn’t be lethal. But even that fragile hope more or less vanished in the wake of the smells that greeted them as they walked in.

Starsky plopped down at the counter and picked up the greasy menu. “Wonder what’s good,” he mused aloud.

“Place about twenty miles down the road.” The comment came from the only other customer, a dark-haired, rumpled man sitting at the other end of the counter.

Hutch grimaced. “We’re practicing masochists,” he said.

“Then you’re in the right place.”

A fat man in a filthy apron appeared from the kitchen. “What’ll it be, gents?” he said in a gravelly voice.

“Bottle of beer,” Hutch said, figuring that would be safe. “Got my own opener, so just set it down.”

Starsky considered the offerings for another moment. “Hot roast beef sandwich,” he said finally. “Side of mashed. Extra gravy.”

The stranger shook his head. “You must be either a cop or a crook,” he offered.

Hutch glanced at him. “Why?”

“Because only an ex-con used to prison food, or a cop with a cast iron stomach from too many bad fast meals over the years would take such pleasure in that menu.”

“We’re cops, as a matter of fact.” Hutch used a napkin to wipe the wet surface of the beer bottle, then popped it open. “You’ve heard of the old good cop/bad cop game?” He indicated Starsky. “We have our own version. Smart cop/dumb cop.”

The man laughed.

“What about you? If you know how bad the place is, why are you here?”

“Because I have to be. On a job.”

“Cop?”

“Private. Rockford’s my name.”

“Hutchinson. The human garbage disposal is my partner, Starsky.”

Rockford nodded. “I’ve heard of you. Dennis Becker is a good friend of mine.”

Hutch knew the cop.

Starsky was manfully chewing on the meat. “So you’re a private eye, huh?”

“Right.

“Like it?”

“Beats working for a living.” Rockford took in the surroundings ruefully. “Sometimes. I just wish the kid I’m waiting for would show up. My stomach can’t hold out much longer.”

Starsky grabbed a napkin and used it to catch the gravy dripping from his chin. “I’d like to be a P.I.”

Hutch smirked. “You’d like to be Sam Spade.”

Rockford was talking easily to them, but his eyes never left the parking lot. “Life ain’t a Bogart movie,” he said. “Oh, damn!” He tossed a bill onto the counter and took off.

They watched him sprint across the lot toward a dusty gold car. He was apparently in pursuit of a battered VW van that had swerved away and was barreling down the highway.

“Wild,” Starsky said.

Then he dug with renewed enthusiasm into the food.

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“CLASS IN CRIME”

Murder as an intellectual exercise.

Is it just me, or are people getting crazier every day? I mean, I’ve killed a couple people in my life, and believe it when I say that it was anything but an exercise, intellectual or otherwise.

What was interesting about this case, though, was my brief excursion back into the academic world. Hutchinson, college student. It was a weird experience. Actually, I sort of enjoyed it. I think.

Maybe it was just nice to sit and bullshit about crime, about right vs. wrong, instead of confronting the issues on the street. Those people in school can afford the luxury of debating morality. It’s…cleaner.

Back in the stone ages, when I spent my time working for good old Uncle Sam, there was a drill sergeant who got his jollies raking PFC Kenneth Hutchinson over the coals. “Too many brains and not enough common sense,” was his favorite charge. Old Sarge probably had a point.

Murder as a…a hobby.

So the inept intellectual ends up a cop and morality moves from the detached debates of pre-law classes to real life. Real death.

Sometimes, on the bad days (which come along more often now, it seems) it sounds like a good idea-going back to school, finding some kind of normal nine-to-five kind of life.

But, being honest with myself (for a change) this little taste of life among the regular people, while it was sort of interesting, didn’t exactly set my heart on fire. Face it: note-taking and cramming for exams can hardly compare to a gut-level shoot-out with the bad guys.

The excitement is like a drug. I hate it sometimes and part of me would like to kick the habit. But I love it, too. Need it. Maybe I’ve grown to need it so much that I’m permanently hooked.

And it scares me: I’ve been on the streets long enough and seen enough addicts to know how they end up.

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“HUTCHINSON FOR MURDER ONE”

The bored waitress refilled both of the white mugs and then retreated to her perch behind the counter. Two AM was not exactly the busy time in the Coffee Cup Cafe on La Cienaga. Other than Starsky and Hutch, the only customers were a couple of hookers taking a break and a junkie dozing in the corner.

Starsky picked up his coffee and took a sip. It was end-of-the-pot strong. “So are you gonna be okay about this?”

Hutch was slouched in the booth, staring at the tabletop. “About my ex-wife being killed? Or about the whole world thinking I did it?”

“Either. Or both. Or whatever else comes to mind.”

Hutch shook his head, smiling faintly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did you ever think, even for a second, that I might have done it?”

“Are you serious?”

Hutch twisted his fingers around the handle of the mug, but didn’t lift it. “Hey. The woman was a stone cold bitch. Back when we were married, I felt like killing her a dozen times.”

“Yeah. Well, you didn’t.”

“Sure. But I was a lot more…together back then. If you hadn’t noticed, buddy boy, I’ve sort of been walking on a thin edge lately. Maybe I could have finally snapped. Didn’t you ever think of that?”

Starsky frowned. “It was never in my mind at all, I swear to God, Hutch.”

“Well, thank you for that.”

“You’re a…a good person, Hutch.”

He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “If I am, Starsk, it’s mostly because you’re my friend.”

Starsky shrugged. “Maybe we just bring out the best in each other.”

“Or the worst.”

They smiled across the table.

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“FOXY LADY”

“Didja’?”

“What?”

“You know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Starsk.”

He sighed. “I was wondering whether or not you made it with Liza.”

Hutch kept typing. “Is that any of your business?”

“Sure. We’re partners, ain’t we?”

“Yes. But I’m not convinced that that fact necessitates a squad room discussion of my sex life.”

Starsky slammed a desk drawer closed. “Okay, okay. If you’re gonna get all bent outta shape, forget it.”

Blissful silence reigned briefly.

“All right,” Starsky said finally. “If you really wanna know, I didn’t. Do it. With Liza.”

“Did I ask?”

“But you were dying to know. So I told you. So?”

“So?”

Starsky sighed. “I told you. Don’t you think you should tell me?”

Hutch looked at him. “You ever stop to think that games like that one could get dangerous?”

The familiar face angled into a strange smile. “Games are your hobby, babe, not mine.”

“You knew what was going on with Liza. I knew. It’s happened often enough before.”

“Yeah, it has. So?”

“So maybe it could get dangerous, is all.”

Starsky looked thoughtful. “Maybe we should grow up, Hutch.”

“I agree. We should grow up.” He yanked the paper from the typewriter. “Before it’s too late,” he said, wishing he had a beer.

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“PARTNERS”

Outside in the hall, a nurse hurried by. That was the only sound at this hour. Hutch was staring at the wall, wanting to sleep, but not able to do so. He sighed heavily.

“You awake?” Starsky’s whisper was unexpected.

“Yes. Thought you were sleeping, though.”

“Nah.”

Hutch punched his pillow into a lump and propped himself up. “That was a really stupid thing I did,” he said. “You should be plenty pissed at me.”

“I am,” Starsky replied mildly.

“You don’t act like it.”

“Well, I am.”

“I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

“It wasn’t the first time. You can be pretty much of a bastard sometimes, partner.”

“Tell me about it.”

“How come? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t seem to treat anybody else that way. Only me.”

“Only you, yeah, I guess.”

“Maybe you don’t like me much.”

“That’s stupid. I love you.”

“Which doesn’t explain why you play all these stupid games. Okay, sometimes I play, too, but you, Kenny Hutchinson, are the freaking champion. And sometimes I get tired of it.”

“I don’t blame you.

“But you keep doing it.”

“I keep doing it.”

“Someday….” Starsky didn’t finish the sentence.

Hutch wanted to ask him what he meant. Someday what? But he didn’t ask, because he was afraid of the answer. “Well, sleep tight,” he said instead.

“You, too,” was the reply.

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“QUADROMANIA”

Sound and fury….

Signifying nothing.

Boy, old Willy sure knew what he was talking about. That was Willy, wasn’t it? Maybe not. But anyway it made a lot of sense.

The whole damned thing was nothing more than a tale told by an idiot. Signifying nothing.

Hutch shook his head and poured himself another drink. A toast to the man who practically forced a killer into his partner’s car. That took brains. He swallowed a healthy gulp of the booze.

Maybe he should make a toast to poor Lionel Fitzgerald III. Jesus, what a…pathetic beast. It was hard to forget the look of complete fear in his eyes. A man so deep inside his own madness that he’d probably never come out of it.

And Hutch thought that maybe Lionel was the lucky one. Madness must be a safe haven. Surely safer than the reality of the streets.

Hutch was tired.

He honestly didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up. Keep this act going. God, talk about the world being a stage. Lionel should have tried playing the role of Detective Kenneth Hutchinson. Brave cop, itinerant lover, loyal partner, happy man.

A man drowning.

There was a speech he kept rehearsing. A nice little talk about how he’d had enough: “Starsk, buddy, we’ve had a good run. But I can’t hack it any more. One of these days I’m gonna fuck up royally and get killed. Or get you killed. Which would be so much worse. So I gotta get out, buddy.”

He kept practicing the speech and trying to get up the courage to deliver it.

Maybe one more drink would make him brave enough.

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“DECKWATCH”

This vacation was coming just in time.

So much had happened lately, topped off by the Salidas case, that Starsky really needed to get away. He glanced at the man sitting next to him. “Why don’t you change your mind and come along? Ma would love to meet you. Always room for one more.”

Hutch shook his head. “Thanks anyway.”

“So what’re you gonna do?”

“Don’t know. Maybe just sit around home. Goof off. Don’t shave. Watch game shows.”

Starsky glanced at his watch. Time to head for the gate for his flight. But he hesitated. “Hutch, are you okay?”

“Sure.

“I worry about you sometimes.”

“Thanks. Nice to know somebody cares.”

“I care.” Starsky stood, picking up his suitcase. “Don’t you ever forget that I care. A whole lot.”

“Yeah.” Hutch stood as well. “Have a good time.”

Starsky tried to think of something else to say, then he just dropped the suitcase and gave Hutch a tight hug. “See you in a week.”

Hutch was holding on just as tightly. “Yeah.” The blond broke the embrace first and stalked away.

Starsky watched him go.

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Love, look at us now,
Acting like strangers.
Just look at us now,
Ignoring the dangers.
I know you want me to stay,
So why are you acting this way?
I no longer know what to say
When I come around you.
Love, look at us now,
Acting like children,
So lost in ourselves
That nobody will win.
I know you want me to stay,
So why am I acting this way?
You no longer know what to say,
When you come around me.

Newbury

 

______________________________________________________

 

1978-1979

I can feel it coming in the air tonight,
Oh, Lord.
I’ve been waiting for this moment all of
my life, oh, Lord.
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight,
Oh, Lord, oh, Lord.
Well, if you told me you were drowning,
I would not lend a hand.
I’ve seen your face before, my friend,
But I don’t know if you know who I am.
I was there and I saw what you did,
Saw it with my own two eyes.
Wipe off that grin–I know where you’ve been.
It’s all been a pack of lies.

No, you don’t fool me.
The hurt doesn’t show, but the pain still grows;
It’s no stranger to you and me.
And I can feel it coming in the air tonight,
Oh, Lord.
Well, I’ve been waiting for this moment all of
my life.

Collins

______________________________________________________

 

“DISCOMANIA”

Starsky didn’t know why the hell he was here.

It wasn’t for the music (using that term loosely). During the Mariposa case he’d had his fill of the disco shit. They’d only been here an hour and already his head was throbbing to the beat.

And he hadn’t come for the watered-down, over-priced drinks. A cold beer from his own fridge would have been cheaper and also tasted a whole lot better.

That left the women.

Maybe he was here to pick up women.

But if that was the reason, why wasn’t he out there hustling chicks, instead of sitting in the corner, staring at his partner?

Aha. That was why he was here. Because his partner had wanted to come. A strange suggestion, coming from Hutch. Have an evening out, he’d said. We deserve some fun, he’d said.

Some fun.

And also: Hutch was drunk.

Not the first time for that, of course. But there seemed to be something different about it this time. Something nasty and sullen.

“Hey,” Starsky said loudly enough to be heard over the music.

Hutch raised his eyes.

“Let’s get outta here, huh?”

“‘Kay

They pushed their way through the mob, until, finally, they emerged into the cool night air. It felt good. Hutch leaned against the Torino, waiting for Starsky to unlock the door.

“Can I ask you something?” Starsky said over the top of the car.

“Sure.”

“How come you’ve still got that stupid thing above your upper lip?”

Hutch grinned at him. “Beats the hell out of me, lover.”

Starsky got into the car and reached across the seat to unlock the passenger door. He was feeling a vague sense of…unease. Something was askew here, but he couldn’t figure out what the hell it was.

Maybe it would blow over. He could wait it out.

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“THE GAME”

They didn’t want to let me ride in the ambulance. I quietly threatened to shatter a few kneecaps, which didn’t thrill Dobey, but fuck ’em. An accommodation was reached: I got in next to Hutch and everybody’s kneecaps survived intact.

Hutch was awake, staring at nothing. I tried to keep clear of the medics without letting go of his hand; the contact seemed important.

God, we were so stupid. So fucking stupid.

Maybe we had some kind of death wish. Otherwise, why would we keep carrying on like this? Hide-and-seek. Jesus.

Hutch’s lips moved and I bent closer so I could hear. My ear was practically in his mouth. “…Sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said.

“…Dumb…games.”

“No more, babe. From now on, we deal in honesty.”

His head moved a little, side to side. “…Scared…scared.”

Huh? Scared of the truth? Is that what he meant? I didn’t get a chance to ask him, though, ’cause we reached the hospital then and things got real busy.

They say he’s gonna be okay. Lucked out again. Not bad, for a couple of terminally stupid bastards.

Gotta remember to ask him what he meant. What’s he scared of?

How could anybody be scared of the truth?

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“BLINDFOLD”

Starsky was sitting on the sofa, looking complacent, when Hutch came back into the room. “I coulda been killed, you know,” the blond said.

“Nah. I’ve gone down those steps head over heels at least half a dozen times. I’m still here. Extra-cushioned mat at the bottom.”

“Uh-huh.” Hutch sat at the opposite end of the sofa. “Can I clear up something that’s been bugging me?”

“Sure.”

There was a pause, during which both men seemed to sober. “No more games,” Hutch said. “Isn’t that what we decided?”

Starsky looked stricken. “This? Hey, Hutch, this was just a joke. A stupid joke, yeah, but….”

“I’m not talking about my journey down the steps.”

“What, then?”

“This whole thing with Emily Harrison.”

“Hey, I was on a massive guilt trip, okay? You can understand that, right?”

“That, yes. But what I don’t understand, is why you shut me out. Starsk, you didn’t have to run so hard from me.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It was just that I felt so crummy.”

“So how do you think I felt?” Hutch was looking at the sofa, not his partner. “It made me feel like things were changing. Ending.” He took a deep breath. “I was scared, damnit.”

Starsky bit his lower lip. “Hutch…I’m sorry. I never thought….”

“You might try thinking next time, okay?”

“Okay.” Starsky held out a hand. “Friends?”

They shook.

“Friends,” Hutch said. “Who else would have either one of us?”

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“PHOTO FINISH”

Images to be sorted through.

Some were so old that they seemed to come from someone else’s life. The war. Soldiers, all so young, and some of them dead years now, and he still didn’t understand why. Snapshots of a country and a battle he would never understand.

The past.

Home again and then into the Academy. Graduation day. Real live cops now, but looking like a bunch of little boys playing dress-up. One picture of Hutch on that day, impossibly blond and young. They were both sure that the day marked an end. Different assignments. He had never let on how scared he was to be facing things on his own. But the time apart didn’t last long. Fate seemed to be with them.

Other pictures. Terry. Rosie. Some girls whose names he couldn’t even remember now. All of them. All of them ghosts now. Fading images on his heart.

One picture of his father: stiffly formal New York City cop. One of his mother, recent, holding a grandnephew on her lap and probably wondering when it would be her grandchild.

Los Angeles: his city, which he loved, though he never said so aloud–it would sound too 1950’s cop show. But these pictures were his own private tribute.

A lot of pictures of Hutch, who was always around and therefore an easy subject. The shining knight in all of his moods. In some ways an almost too-intimate study of another man’s life.

And now, inspired by Marcia Fletcher, the newest additions to the collection: And, of course, Hutch again. Not so young now. Not so golden. Shaggy-haired, with that damned moustache. Some extra pounds.

It made him sad to look at the pictures. This wasn’t his Hutch. This was a tired, out-of-shape, middle-aged man with bleak eyes.

Starsky closed the photo album.

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“MOONSHINE”

Starsky brooded into his beer. Some partner. Going off to a dumb dance contest and leaving him alone at Huggy’s. Sometimes life was crummy.

He swiveled on the barstool and surveyed the weeknight crowd glumly. No action here. Then his gaze fell onto a face that seemed vaguely familiar. He searched his memory quickly and came up with a name to go with the slender features and curly brown hair. As the recognition came, so did a mild sense of righteous indignation. Starsky slid from the stool and walked over to the table. “You cost me twenty bucks,” he said.

The young man looked up at him, the blue eyes puzzled. “What?”

Starsky dropped into the chair opposite him. “I said, you cost me twenty bucks.”

“Hey, pal, I don’t even know you.”

“But I know you. You’re Skidmark McCormick, right?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Well, I had twenty dollars riding on you in the Outlaw Championship race.”

McCormick sighed. “Oh, sorry about that.”

Starsky swallowed some beer. “Thought you had that sucker won.”

“I thought so, too. But the car had other ideas.” McCormick shrugged. “Some guys just don’t ever get a break,” he said. “Be smart and don’t bet on me next time.”

“You sound low, man,” Starsky said.

“I’m okay.”

Starsky looked at him for a moment. “You in town to race?”

“Nope. Up from Florida on a car repo.”

“Must be some car.”

“Yeah.” He smiled a little. “When they really want a car back, they send me.”

“Crummy way to make a living.”

“Well, I’ve got this habit. I like to eat once in a while.” McCormick glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, I better split and get to the job.”

“Lemme buy you a beer first.”

But McCormick shook his head. “Next time, man, I really better get moving.”

Starsky took out a card and slid it toward him.

“Gimme a call sometime.”

McCormick picked up the card. “You’re a cop?”

“Yeah.”.

A smile flickered across the face, then vanished. “Take care, Detective.” He got up and was gone.

Starsky sat still. Nice kid. But what the hell was he doing working repo? That was a dirty job and also a real easy way to get into trouble. Too bad; the kid was a helluva racer.

Starsky raised ·his beer in a silent toast to the driving skills of McCormick.

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“STRANGE JUSTICE”

It sounded like distant thunder.

Finally Starsky realized that somebody was pounding on his front door. He rolled over and peered at the lighted clock face. Why was somebody beating the hell out of his door at three A.M.?

God, his neighbors were going to be pissed at the noise. He slid from the bed and headed for the living room, pulling his robe on as he moved. “Awright, awright, I’m coming.” He reached the door and yanked it open. “What?”

Hutch grinned. “Hiya, partner.”

Starsky sighed. “You’re drunk.”

“Yep.”

“And you’re gonna get me evicted. Get in here, you dumb bastard.”

Hutch wobbled through the door and kept moving until he collided with the couch, where he dropped.

Starsky shut the door very carefully, then turned to survey his partner. “I like a party,” he said mildly. “If you were having one, why didn’t you invite me?”

Hutch was trying to prop his feet on the coffee table; in the process, he knocked several magazines, an ashtray, and an empty coffee cup to the floor. He didn’t seem to notice. “Wasn’t a party, you know.”

“So what was it?”

A genuinely bewildered look crossed Hutch’s face. “I’m…not sure.”

“You need some coffee,” Starsky said, going to put the kettle on. He spooned coffee into a mug, then returned and perched on the back of the sofa. “Talk to me, babe.”

“Started thinking about Slate. I don’t know…it just got all fucked up in my mind. I was wondering if we could ever go bad.”

“Nah. Not us. We’re the good guys, remember?”

Hutch shook his head. “But he had cause. Good cause…maybe if I had something like that. Like maybe somebody killed you….”

Starsky fought down a sudden tightness in his chest. “I’m too mean to die. ‘Sides, even if something like that did happen, you’d still do the right thing.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do,” Starsky said firmly.

The kettle began to whistle and he went to make the coffee. It was very strong. Just what was needed.

But when he brought it to the couch, Hutch was asleep. Or passed out. Starsky set the coffee down, smiling grimly. What kind of a system chewed up good cops and left them in such a mess? What kind of justice had Hutch hurting so?

He went to get the afghan to cover his partner.

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“THE AVENGER”

“You can be pretty scary when you’re mad.”

Hutch grimaced, but whether it was at Starsky’s remark or the taste of the hospital cafeteria coffee wasn’t clear. “Are you sure you ought to be leaving?”

“They said I’m fine. Quit fussing.”

“I’m not fussing. But that was a pretty close thing.”

“Ahh, I had faith. Knew you’d save me.” Starsky grinned, adding another packet of sugar to his coffee. “Man, what a beautiful sight when you came barreling in there. My heart went pitter-patter.”

“Funny.

“The blond Superman.”

“Are you enjoying this?”

“Yeah. After all, a man’s gotta take his fun where he can find it, sweetheart.”

Hutch drained the cup and clunked it down. “Well, you just sit here and yuck it up all you want. I’m going home.”

“You know I need a ride.”

“All done with the Henny Youngman routine?”

Starsky raised a hand. “Promise.”

“Okay.”

Neither man said anything as they left the hospital and walked across the lot to where Hutch had parked. Once behind the wheel, Hutch stuck the key into the ignition, but didn’t turn it over. “I thought you were dead in there,” he said hoarsely.

“I know.” All hint of joking was gone from Starsky’s voice.

“We’re getting too fucking old for this shit.”

“Maybe. But do you have a better idea of what we could do?”

“Nope. Maybe take slow poison.”

Starsky looked at him and smiled gently. “Isn’t that what this is?”

Hutch gave a snicker of agreement and then he started the car.

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“DANDRUFF”

“Maybe we should think about hairdressing as a steady gig,” Starsky said.

“Maybe. Except that I don’t like the way that permanent lotion makes my fingertips all wrinkly.”

“Ahh, well, every job has its risks.”

Hutch laughed and opened the door of his apartment. A man with a gun was sitting on the couch. The gun was casually aimed at them. They both froze, then Hutch automatically reached toward his holster.

“I wouldn’t, sunshine,” said a second voice. At the same time, a gun barrel was placed against the back of Starsky’s head.

“Don’t get into a bleeding panic,” the stranger on the couch said. “We’re good guys, too.” He had a tangled mass of brown curls and a face that seemed vaguely out of alignment.

“Good guys?” Hutch said doubtfully.

“Sure. We just want to have a little chitchat about a mutual acquaintance. Known rather whimsically as the Baron. We understand he managed to elude arrest.”

“Yeah?” Starsky said. “What about it?”

“We’ve been after this chap for some time.”

“‘We’ being?” Hutch asked.

“I’m Doyle,” the man on the couch said. “Other bloke is Bodie. We’re, well, let’s just say we’re sort of coppers, too. Civil servants, like you. From across the pond.”

“And you came all this way to catch a jewel thief?” Starsky asked skeptically.

Bodie took the gun away from Starsky’s head and walked around to sit on the back of the couch by Doyle. Bodie was lean and edgy, with short-cropped hair and a smile that looked dangerous. He smiled now. “Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a silly sod who called himself the Baron and who liked to make off with other people’s pretty stones. One day, unfortunately, he lifted a necklace that was more than it appeared to be.”

Hutch moved to a chair and when nobody shot him, he sat. “What the hell are you two talking about?”

They glanced at one another, exchanging a look that told Hutch something about them. He recognized in that moment the same wordless communication that he and Starsky had. He relaxed a little, although there was something in Bodie’s face that kept him on guard.

Doyle nodded slightly and Bodie spoke again. “You understand, we can’t say much. The necklace contained a microchip. Several of your more major governments are very interested in obtaining said microchip. We’re supposed to make sure the right side gets it.”

“Our side?”

“Right. And we hoped that maybe you chaps might be able to give us a line on where the Baron might be heading.”

Starsky grinned ruefully. “If we had any ideas about that,” he said, “don’t you think we’d be after him, instead of standing here looking dumb?”

Bodie sighed. “Right. Well, we thought it was worth a try.” He got to his feet. “Might as well push off, sunshine.”

Doyle nodded and stood. “By the way,” he said. “If you try to inquire after us, no one will have heard of the Baron or the microchip.

“Or Bodie and Doyle,” Hutch said.

“Right.”

“That makes sense. Starsky here never misses a James Bond movie.”

Both men laughed and then they slipped silently out of the room.

Starsky gave a low whistle. “Whaddaya think about that?”

“I think that maybe we should give some more thought to hairdressing as a career, Starsky.”

“Right. After all, I’ve already got the ladder.”

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“BLACK AND BLUE”

He stepped through the shabby curtain and into the darkened theatre. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust. There weren’t many people in the audience for the double bill of two obscure French films. Starsky shook his head. Trust his partner to pick a couple of losers to see.

He spotted the blond hair, a beacon even in the dim light, and moved toward it. His shoes stuck unpleasantly to the floor as he walked. Hutch was sitting alone in a row near the center of the place, apparently engrossed in the screen.

Starsky dropped into the seat next to him and held out the box. “Popcorn.”

“My mother always warned me about talking to strange men at the movies,” Hutch said, still watching the film. He reached for the popcorn and took a handful.

“She was right. But my intentions are honorable. Promise.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Aha.”

“Aha what?”

“Never mind,” Starsky said.

Somebody behind them shushed and they slumped into their seats, lowering their voices. “Thought you had a date with your other partner,” Hutch said.

“Yeah. It was a short date.”

“Problem?”

“Nope.”

“You’re not going to tell me why you’re here instead of out with Meredith?”

“Nope. Watch the movie, Blondie.”

Hutch looked at him for a moment, then reached for the popcorn again. “Too much salt,” he said.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Starsky replied.

They both settled back to read the subtitles.

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“THE GROUPIE”

Hutch spent some time mulling over the various implications of Starsky’s date with Melinda Rogers, and came to the conclusion that they were negligible. A cop groupie was definitely of the one-night stand breed.

That decided, he glanced around the Pits.

“Not everybody wants to wear suits and ties and punch a time clock,” the man next to him said suddenly.

“Right,” Hutch agreed tentatively.

The guy didn’t seem to be into any of those things. He wore faded khakis, a stretched-out Marine Corps tee shirt, and had a kerchief tied around his head. He was no kid. “Some of us just want to live.”

“Right.”

He apparently felt as if he’d discovered a kindred spirit–maybe because of the bowling shirt that Hutch was wearing–because he ordered up a couple of beers and held out a hand. “Rick,” he said.

“Ken.”

They each gulped beer and nodded approval; neither man was entirely sober.

“My problem, Ken, is that I’ve got this brother.”

“Yeah? I know what you mean. I got a partner.”

“Then you know. I mean, he’s a great kid. Love the kid. But A.J., that’s his name, he’s got this mentality.”

Hutch nodded knowingly, then asked, “What mentality?”

“Ties. Suits. Working. That. Chasing me all over the damned country.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is he chasing you all over the damned country?”

“‘Cause he wants me to work. He’s got this idea, keeps trying to get me to work with him. Do I need that?”

“Maybe not.”

“Damned straight.” Rick licked at his foam moustache. “Not saying he ain’t a good detective. He’s the best. So why’s he need me anyway?”

“You ever ask him?”

Rick shook his head. “Nah. Probably he’d feed me some line about us being brothers and all. I know that. But he’d probably go further without me.”

Hutch, feeling philosophical, nodded. “But it might be a real lonely trip.”

Rick looked at him through bleary eyes. “Yeah. Yeah. A lonely trip. Ain’t that the truth.” He struggled to his feet. “Better go. Kid’s waiting for me.”

Hutch grabbed his wrist. “You’re not driving, are you?”

“Nope. Nope, just walking. So long, Ken.”

“So long, Rick. Good luck.”

He watched the over-aged hippie weave toward the door. Everybody was trying to be happy and nobody knew how. That was the joke.

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“NO DEPOSIT, NO RETURN”

“A Starsky without a Hutch don’t look right,” Huggy said. “Looks unbalanced.”

Starsky smiled a little. “Yeah, well, tonight I feel a little unbalanced.”

Without waiting to be asked, Huggy set a beer in front of him. “Problems?”

“Just life.”

“Ahh, the eternal conflict.”

“You got it.”

Huggy leaned against the bar. “Usually it’s your better half who comes in to mope over a beer.”

“He’s bidding farewell to Kate.”

“Uh-huh. Another one bites the dust.”

“What?”

But Huggy wandered off to wait on some thirsty customers. It was several minutes before he returned. Starsky picked up a peanut from the basket on the bar, shelled it, and ate it thoughtfully. “You know, Hug, I’m sorta worried about Hutch lately.” He glanced up, perhaps hoping to see dismissal or even ridicule of his fears reflected on the black face. But Huggy only looked at him, revealing nothing, and for some reason, that scared Starsky. “Don’t you want to know why I’m worried?”

Huggy shrugged. “Your blond partner needs worrying about sometimes.”

“You think so?”

“We both know so.”

Starsky crushed another peanut. “You know how many cops end up wrecked? Boozers, maybe? Or even eating their weapon?”

“I’d guess a lot.”

“Right. A lot.”

Huggy grabbed a rag to wipe absently at a puddle on the counter. “You think Hutch is liable to do something like that?”

“Some days I wonder.” Starsky was quiet briefly. “He wouldn’t even be a cop, if it wasn’t for me. I talked him into it.”

“So now you’re responsible for his whole life? That what you’re saying?”

“Aren’t I?”

“Everybody’s gotta take control of their own fate, Starsk. Hutch ain’t no different. He chose. He’ll choose what happens next.”

Starsky’s glanced sharpened. “You think something’s gonna happen?”

“Absolutely. Don’t you?”

It was a long moment before he spoke. “Yeah. Yeah, I think something’s gonna happen, and it scares the shit outta me.”

Huggy leaned closer. “Maybe you should say something to him.”

“Like what? Don’t drink so damned much? Don’t put a bullet in your head?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe just let him know that you’ve got a whole lot invested in this partnership. You need him as much as he needs you.”

“He knows that.”

“Does he?” Huggy shrugged and moved off toward some new customers.

Starsky took a whole handful of peanuts, piled them in front of him and began to shell and eat them, one by one.

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“STARSKY’S BROTHER”

“I guess you’re feeling pretty clever about now.” Hutch leaned against the door, watching Nicholas Starsky pack for his return to New York. His brother had made a quick trip to the bank.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hutch shrugged. “You got out clean. Guys like you always think they lead charmed lives. Until you take a fall.”

“You’d be happier if I was in jail, right?”

“I think you’d be better off. It might force you to grow up.”

“Hey, pal, I’ve got one big brother on my case. I don’t need another one.”

“Believe me, I’ve got no desire to be your brother. I’ve seen how you treat Dave.”

Nick looked bored. “Is there some point to this conversation?”

Hutch moved into the room. “Yes, there’s a point.”

“So why the hell don’t you get to it?”

Without warning, Hutch reached out and grabbed Nick’s arm, gripping tightly. “Shape up, Nicky. Shape up or stay away from Dave. Is that clear enough?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the one you’ll have to answer to if you hurt my partner.”

“How touching. Mind if I cry?”

Hutch raised his free hand. “I’m going to get along with you for the next couple of hours. For Dave’s sake.”

“Does he know how much you care?”

He might have hit him then, but before the decision could be made, the front door opened. “I’m back,” Starsky called.

The two men in the bedroom moved apart, staring coldly at one another. Then, smiling, they both turned to greet Starsky.

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“THE GOLDEN ANGEL”

Dobey left them, without any hint of what was going on. Why the summons bringing them directly from the party to his office? Or why he was now leaving them here with the two men. Or even who the hell the strangers were.

Starsky surveyed them suspiciously. IA? But he knew all those jerks, most of them too well, and these two guys didn’t belong. Feds, maybe. Yeah, that could be it. At least the one now occupying Dobey’s desk looked like a government man. A little past middle age, but slick looking. Expensive suit, cufflinks, and a cool attitude.

The other one was a little harder to get a fix on. Maybe a little younger, with shaggy blond hair that looked like early Beatles, black turtleneck, and a tweed jacket. His air was one of vague amusement. He stood behind the desk, leaning against the wall.

Starsky glanced at Hutch, who shrugged, then they both sat.

“My name is Solo,” the fancy dresser said. “My associate is Mr. Kuryakin.”

“I’m Starsky. This is Hutchinson.”

“We know.”

Something in Solo’s arrogant manner annoyed Starsky. “Now that we all know who we are, maybe we should take the act on the road.”

Kuryakin almost smiled.

Solo seemed less amused. “Your Captain was kind enough to arrange this meeting. Although it was clear that he disapproved of our objective.”

“Which is?” Hutch said with matching coolness.

“Job recruitment,” Kuryakin said.

“Job recruitment?” Starsky echoed. “You want to hire us?”

“We are exploring the possibility.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Have you heard of an organization called UNCLE?” Solo asked.

After a moment, they both nodded.

“Spies and stuff, right?” Starsky said.

“In a manner of speaking,” Kuryakin replied.

“Why us?”

“Because, Sergeant Starsky, we are always on the look out for promising talent. Your careers have not gone unremarked upon.”

Hutch seemed to find something Solo had said funny. “In case nobody mentioned it, we’re not exactly your basic button-down team player types.”

Kuryakin and Solo glanced at one another, smiling at what must have been some private joke. “That would not be unprecedented within UNCLE,” Kuryakin said.

“So you want us to play James Bond, is that it, Solo?”

“We would like you to consider the option, Sergeant Starsky.” Solo took a card from a silver case and pushed it across the desk. “That is all we will say for now. If you are interested in pursuing this further, contact us here.”

Starsky picked up the card. It was embossed. “We work as a team, you know.”

“As you Americans say, it’s the only way to fly.” Kuryakin looked rather pleased with himself.

Solo, on the other hand, looked pained. “Perhaps we’ll be hearing from you?”

“Maybe,” Hutch said.

That seemed to end the meeting. Solo and Kuryakin took their leave with no fuss. Hutch, followed by Starsky, walked over to the window. They could see the two men in the parking lot below. They stood, talking, for a moment, then got into a small blue convertible, and disappeared.

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“BALLAD FOR A BLUE LADY”

How can I just let you walk away,
Just let you leave without a trace,
When I stand here taking every breath
With you?

“Hutch, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“You gonna ruin brunch, Starsk?”

“Probably. But I gotta say this.”

“What?”

“For the first time, I almost hated you. The night when you walked out of the office.”

“You hated me? Why? I was only doing what I thought was necessary.”

“Yeah. But it seemed like what I thought, what I was feeling, didn’t matter at all.”

You’re the only one who really knew
Me at all.
How can you just walk away from me,
When all I can do is watch you leave?

“That’s not fair, Starsk. It mattered.”

“Just not enough, huh?”

“It mattered.”

“Then why were you so goddamned willing to play hero and get killed?”

“I didn’t get killed, did I?”

“Damned near.”

Cause we’ve shared the laughter
And the pain,
We’ve even shared the tears.

“I didn’t want to die, Starsk.”

“Didn’t you? I wonder about that.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. Probably it doesn’t mean anything.”

“I thought I was doing what I had to for Marianne.”

“Marianne, yes.”

You’re the only one who really knew
Me at all,
So look at me now.
There’s just an empty space,
There’s nothing left here to remind me,
Just the memory of your face…

“She was a victim, Starsk. I had to try to save her.”

“I know. I know, damnit. Save the world.”

“Oh, babe, I gave up on the world a long time ago. But sometimes, I have to make an effort to do something. Maybe just for old times’ sake.”

“How about making an effort for me. Try to fucking stay alive.”

And you coming back to me
Is against the odds,
And that’s what I’ve got to face.

“I’m trying, I’m trying.”

“Are you? I’m still wondering about that.”

“You’re talking crazy.”

“Maybe. Oh, shit…maybe I am crazy. I just know that on that night, when you walked away, I thought you were gone for good. I really did. And what was worse, I thought you wanted it that way. So I hated you. That hurt, you bastard.”

I wish that I could just make you
Turn around, turn around and see
Me cry.
There’s so much I need to say to you,
So many reasons why…

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Starsk.”

“Me neither. Except that we matter. Maybe more than anything else.”

“You matter to me, damnit.”

“We matter.”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t do that to me again. There’s chances we take in this damned job and there’s craziness. That was craziness. Don’t do that again.”

“And if I do?”

“Then maybe I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

You’re the only one who really knew
Me at all, so look at me now.
There’s just an empty space,
There’s nothing left to remind me,
Just a memory of your face.
And you coming back to me is against
The odds.
But to wait for you is all I can do,
And that’s what I’ve got to face.

Collins

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“BIRDS OF A FEATHER”

The squadroom was quiet and, except for the pool of light cast by the lamp on Hutch’s desk, dark. A quiet night and the on-duty dicks were apparently all out by the coffee machine.

The only detective in the room wasn’t on duty. Hutch was leaning way back in the chair, his feet propped on the desk. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep.

Dobey came into the room, his heavy step unmistakable. “Why aren’t you out of here?” he asked gruffly.

Hutch shrugged, not opening his eyes.

Dobey dropped into Starsky’s chair. “Shame about Luke,” he said.

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed bitterly. “A real shame.”

“Guess the pressure got to him.”

“I guess.”

“I know it hurts, but you can’t let something like this get you down, Hutchinson.”

“Why not?” Hutch crashed forward, his feet colliding with the floor as his eyes opened. “A man that I trusted, admired, cared about turns bad and betrays everything I thought we stood for–things that he helped teach me–a man like that turns out to be just another bad guy. So why shouldn’t I let it get me down?”

Dobey shifted uncomfortably. “I only meant that you should keep it in perspective.”

Hutch smiled and shook his head. “You know, Cap’n, sometimes I think about chucking this job.”

“If you think about that a lot, maybe you ought to do it.”

“Is that advice?”

“That’s common sense. If you can’t do the job, don’t want to do the job, then you’re useless to the department. To me. To your partner.”

“Right. But my partner needs me.”

“Nobody is indispensable.”

“You don’t think so?” Hutch smiled again.

Dobey gestured impatiently. “Why don’t you just try shaping up instead? You’re a damned good cop, Hutchinson, when you’re not so damned busy contemplating your own navel. Shape up, man.” With that, Dobey got to his feet and stalked out.

Shape up. Yeah, good advice. Too bad it was already too late or he might do it. Maybe Dobey didn’t know it was too late. Maybe nobody knew but him.

Hutch picked up the phone and dialed slowly.

Starsky answered on the second ring. “Yeah?”

“Love your telephone manner, Starsk.”

“You oughtta see my bedside manner.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“What’s up?”

“Can I come over?”

“Sure. Something special?”

“No. Just didn’t want to be alone.”

“So come on over.”

Hutch hung up.

Maybe tonight he’d tell Starsk that he wanted to quit. Maybe.

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“90 POUNDS OF TROUBLE”

“I never thought about getting old, did you?” It was obvious that the encounter with Joey and her boyfriend had rankled Starsky. Even now, several hours later, he was still brooding over it.

Hutch shook his head. “No, I don’t think a whole lot about it.”

“Maybe we’ll be like Peter Pan. You know, stay the way we are forever.” Starsky’s tone turned wistful. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

“I guess,” Hutch said doubtfully.

“Sure it would. Rousting the snitches, turning over the garbage cans, busting the bad guys. You and me, cruising the city and playing the game.” Starsky looked at him, a small, uncertain smile flickering across his face. “I mean, it’s not all bad, is it, babe?”

Hutch stared at him for a long moment before answering. “No, godamnit, it’s not all bad.”

“But I guess since neither one of us is Peter Pan, it can’t last forever. What happens when we get old, Hutch?”

“Well, probably we’ll sit around and bore everybody to death talking about the good old days.”

“You think?”

He was like a kid asking for a gift and Hutch, out of love, gave it. “Sure. You bet.”

Starsky nodded. Then, as he pulled to a stop in front of Venice Place, he turned to look at Hutch. There was a sadness in the azure eyes. “It really could be that way, couldn’t it?”

Hutch sighed. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Starsky said.

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“HUGGY CAN’T GO BACK”

Thomas Wolfe wrote it. And I guess Huggy lived it. And, me, I’ve finally realized that it’s so damned true. I’m not sure exactly when the truth hit me–maybe I’m a slow learner. As I remember it, though, it was in the middle of the night.

You can’t go home again.

Wow. Profound, huh? Ken Hutchinson, deep thinker. But the important part of all this is that when I finally figured out that nugget of wisdom, something else became clear, too. This, as they used to say on that old television show, is my life. I can’t turn back the clock and have things work out differently. I can maybe change tomorrow, but only if I do something about it, instead of just boozing and bitching.

I really can’t go home again.

And, damnit, I don’t want to. I want to be happy here, meaning not just Los Angeles over Minnesota, but this Kenneth Hutchinson over what I was back there. So all I have to do is figure out how to make myself happy.

Then, when I’ve done that, when I know what it’s going to take to satisfy me, I have to have the guts to go after it.

If I can’t do that, then I don’t deserve to be happy.

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“STARSKY VS. HUTCH”

Starsky stood in the entrance of the small greenhouse. The only light came from the pale glow of the silvery moon, but he could easily see the figure of his partner in the shadows. The blond hair gleamed like burnished gold. “May I come in?” Starsky asked quietly.

“Yes,” was the soft reply. “Of course.”

Without speaking again, both men moved over to the small table and sat, facing one another. “I don’t know how to begin this,” Starsky said after a moment.

“Maybe I should start.”

Starsky nodded. “If you want.”

Hutch raised an impatient hand and swept blond strands from his face. “Can you…could you forgive me?”

“I already have.”

“Thank you.” Hutch studied the tabletop for a moment, as if it were a strange new place, then looked up. “I know why I behaved like such as ass, if you’re interested.”

“It doesn’t really matter to me. But if you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

“I was afraid,” Hutch said simply. “Don’t ask me why, but all of a sudden I got so damned scared. Maybe it has to do with this nightmare I have sometimes. I’m trapped inside this wall, shut off from everybody else in the world.”

“Except me,” Starsky said.

“Yeah, that’s right. Except you. And then, in this nightmare, you figure out how to escape and then you’re gone.” Hutch tried to smile. “Dumb.”

“Scared people do dumb things.” Starsky reached out and touched the waxy leaf of a plant hanging over him. “It was all just one more goddamned game. Except that this time I was playing and so was Kira. It was a sick game, Hutch.”

“Yeah.”

“So what are we gonna do now?” The blue gaze was painfully direct.

“I don’t know.” It was a whisper.

Starsky sighed. “I love you, Hutch.”

“I love you, too.”

“That sounds so simple. How can it get so fucking complicated?”

Hutch wiped at his eyes. “Because we’re so fucking stupid?” he suggested with a touch of humor in the tone.

“Could be,” Starsky agreed. “We keep saying that we’re gonna stop this. Cut out the shit. And then we go right on doing it. Christ, sometimes it makes me want to cry.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Starsky shook his head. “No. We can’t let that happen. So?”

“So I guess we have to make some promises. Right now.” Hutch stretched one hand, palm up, across the table.

Starsky reached out and grasped it.

Hutch seemed lost in thought for a moment. “We matter,” he said. “More than the job. More than anybody else.”

“Okay,” Starsky said. “Anything tries to come between us, we smash it. Anybody tries to screw us up, we deal with ’em. Including us. I’ll pound you into the frigging ground, Hutchinson, the next time you pull some of the shit you’ve gotten away with over the years. Okay?”

“Okay. Same goes for you, buddy.”

“Anything else that needs to be said?”

“I don’t think so, Starsk.”

Starsky nodded.

Neither man made a move to pull his hand away. Not yet.

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“THE SNITCH”

They waited in silence until the door to Dobey’s office opened and the black man waved them inside. He looked frazzled. “Everything’s falling apart today,” he complained, taking his place behind the desk. “Now what do you two want?”

Hutch sat, while Starsky remained standing by the water cooler. The blond, after a glance at his friend, spoke. “We just came from the beach,” he said.

“Working on your tans, were you?”

“We threw our shields into the Pacific,” Hutch said flatly

“I see.” Dobey looked from one to the other. “Both of you?”

“Of course.”

“Of course. You sure you’re not making a big mistake?”

“No, Captain, we’re not sure of anything at this point. Except that we’re fed up with the shit that we’ve been wallowing in for so long.”

“Not everybody wallows quite as much as you do, Hutchinson. Some of us try to clean it up.”

“Whatever.”

Dobey’s gaze fixed on Starsky. “I’m a little surprised, Dave. Is this what you want?”

“What I want is for Hutch and me to get our lives straightened out.”

“And for that you have to quit?”

“I guess so.”

“Because he does?”

“Or he’s going because I am. However you want to put it, sir.”

“All right,” Dobey said then. “I’ll put through the paperwork.”

They both nodded and headed for the door.

“Take care of yourselves,” Dobey said.

Hutch opened the door. “Guess we’ll have to,” he said. “We’re all we have.”

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“TARGETS WITHOUT A BADGE”

Starsky wheeled into the parking lot with his usual abandon and brought the Torino to a stop. However, neither man made a move to get out of the car immediately. Vacation was over and now it was time to face the job again.

“Well,” Hutch said at last. “Here we are. Ever get the feeling that we’re moving in circles, Starsk? Round and round the same old spot and never getting anywhere.”

“Really.” Starsky glanced at him. “This is the right thing to do, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. But it does seem to be all we can do right now.”

Starsky nodded absently at two uniforms passing by outside. “Do you feel trapped into coming back?”

“A little, maybe.” No more secrets.

Starsky frowned. “You’re not doing this just because you think it’s what I want, are you?”

Hutch shook his head. “No, I want it, too. We’re cops, Starsk. Maybe it’s the only way we can keep what we have. Until and unless something better comes along. I want us to work together more than I want to leave this job is what it boils down to. Does that make any sense at all?”

“Only to you and me, lover, but don’t worry about it, ’cause nobody else matters anyway, right?”

Hutch smiled at him. “Right.”

They got out of the car and Hutch waited while Starsky locked it up. “‘Fraid somebody’s gonna rip it off, Starsk? In the police parking lot?”

“Probably not.” Starsky glanced around, then grinned and shrugged. “No place is safe these days.”

“Cynic.”

Instead of answering, Starsky clamped a hand on Hutch’s shoulder and turned him toward the building. “Come on, Sherlock, let’s go see about saving the world.”

“Fuck the world, let’s just go see about doing the job and staying alive.”

“For sure.”

They moved in unison toward the door.

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“SWEET REVENGE”

Hutch lurked just outside the door until the bored and tired security guard went for coffee, then he slipped inside. He moved quickly through the lobby, avoiding the elevator and headed for the stairs.

When he reached the right floor, it got tricky again, but he kept his back pressed against the wall and slithered around the corner.

Luck was with him. The nurse on duty at the desk was busy recording medication orders. Hutch ducked, creeping along the length of the counter until he reached the room chart. He needed to know where they had moved Starsky after the unexpected dousing from the fire sprinkler. All visitors had been immediately expelled, of course.

But Hutch was determined. He’d dashed over to headquarters, salvaged some dry sweatpants and a tee shirt from his locker, changed, and returned. Damn the rules.

With one hand, he maneuvered the chart around to where he could see it. Room 314, just across the hall from the water-logged accommodations. Hutch clamped his teeth down on a triumphant chuckle and crawled away quickly.

Only when he was around another corner and safe from sight, did he straighten. The room was dark, except for a small nightlight over the desk. Starsky made a medium-sized lump in the middle of the bed. Hutch tiptoed over. “Hey,” he stage-whispered. “Hey, Starsk? You asleep?”

“Mostly,” came the answer. “What the hell are you doing back here? Thought they threw your ass out.”

“They did. Fuck ’em, is what I say. We’re partners.”

“Right.”

“Scoot over.

“Isn’t this how we got into trouble last time?” Starsky grumbled, but he scooted anyway.

“No food this time. No nothing, except me.” Hutch crawled into the bed and pulled the sheet up over both of them. It was a tight fit, but they curled together like two sleepy children and somehow got comfortable.

“Thank you,” Hutch said after a moment.

“What for?”

“For not dying.”

“Well, that’s okay. Don’t mention it. Just remember that you owe me one now.”

“One what?”

They were both whispering. “One not dying.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. I went a little crazy at first, didja know that?”

“I heard. But you came through and you did it right. That’s what counts.”

“No. What counts is we both made it. That and nothing else.”

Starsky laughed softly. “You got it, lover. Hutch–”

“What?”

“Can we go to sleep now?”

“Right.”

Hutch closed his eyes. There wouldn’t be any bad dreams tonight, he knew. Next to him, Starsky gave a small sigh that turned into a snore. Hutch pulled closer to his partner and promptly fell asleep, too.

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How can I convince you what you see is real,
Who am I to blame you for doubting what you feel?
I was always reaching, you were just a (guy) I knew,
I took for granted the friend I have in you.

I was living for a dream,
Loving for a moment,
Taking on the world, that was just my style.
Now I look into your eyes,
I can see forever.
The search is over,
You were with me all the while.

Can we last forever, will we fall apart?
At times it’s so confusing, these questions
Of the heart.
You followed me through changes,
And patiently you’d wait ’til I came to
My senses through some miracle of fate.
Now the miles stretch out behind me,
Loves that I have lost,
Broken hearts lie victims of the game.
The good luck, it finally struck, like
Lightning from the blue,
Every highway leading me back to you.
Now at last I hold you, now all is said and done.
The search has come full circle,
Our destinies are one.
So if you ever loved me, show me that
You give a damn.
You’ll know for certain the man I really am.

I was living for a dream,
Loving for the moment,
Taking on the world, that was just my style.
Then I touched your hand,
I could hear you whisper,
“The search is over.”
Love was right before my eyes.

Survivor

______________________________________________________

 

CURTAIN CALL

The concert now is done. So ends the song
That tells of mayhem’s victim, murder’s prey,
But also tells of life, and love so strong,
It conquers all that dares get in its way.

The love was born of hope, tempered by strife,
Nurtured by growing friendship, deep and true.
Along the often stormy path of life,
That love took root and slow but surely grew.

These melodies of love were not complete
Without their proper codas. So within
These pages are those measures bittersweet,
And now we know the way it should have been.

The stories boldly cast, with no pretext,
The last is reached, and who knows what is next?

Ellen L. K.