Cost of Love

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Hutch was sleeping — finally — in the middle of the bed. A first. Usually when Hutch crashed here, he took the sofa. But when your best friend’s marriage breaks up, you give him your bed. Ha! Don’t you just wish? Starsky watched the man for a few minutes, then lightly touched the deep scratches on the pale face. Hutch rolled away.

 

This is the original note written by the author that was posted with the story in 1996. Cost of Love was originally published in the zine Code 7 #2 in 1982.

WARNING: The fiction of Alexis Rogers is homoerotic in nature and theme, and often contains explicit descriptions of sexual acts between two or more men. If this adult content offends you, please go play some place else. If you are under the age of consent where you live, please go away. If you don’t like the laws where you live, change them. Remember, one person can make a difference.  RATING: This story carries the slash rating of “NC-17” because it contains explicit descriptions of sexual acts between two men.

This story contains two time lines: the present and a series of flashbacks. In print, the two timeline were separated by the use of different fonts. Here I use calendar headings at the top of each section to indicate the story lines. This story first appeared in “Code 7” and won a Huggy Award. Currently, it is available in print form in reprints of the Code 7 zines available at http://www.agentwithstyle.com

SPECIAL THANKS: A lot of people made this story happen, even though they did it over a decade ago. Jeanie brought life to Nathan in a portrait that still holds a place of honor on my bedroom wall. Elaine did the typing and some of the editing, while Karen used an entire bottle of red ink on the first manuscript. (Any mistakes still in the text are my fault.) A special thank you to the Major who wears the “JACK OFF” dog tag for all the help with military stuff. I never drink a White Russian without thinking about him and those wonderful/terrible days in Athens.

DISCLAIMERS: This story exists solely for the enjoyment of those of us who care, and is not intended to infringe on any copyright or other legality of “Starsky and Hutch”, Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg, David Soul, Paul Michael Glaser, William Blinn, Michael Fisher or anydamnbody else that I might have overlooked. No money has been made from the story nor is there likely to be.

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“I don’t want to see you
Till you know the cost of love
Please don’t make me need you
Till you know the cost of love”
                            –Mark Goldenberg

Los Angeles, California
Monday 13 August 1973

Covering his eyes with his arm, David Starsky shifted restlessly on the sofa as a dull ache throbbed in his lower back. Outside, a chorus of dogs howled, and a siren wailed in the distance. Groaning, he stood, stretched, then glanced toward the bedroom before opening the window and staring into the darkness. A mercury lamp threw a circle of yellow light onto the deserted street, creating elusive shapes and shadows along a line of parked cars. The air glued his nylon briefs to his damp skin.

He took the small brown pharmacy bottle from its place in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Shaking two red capsules into his hand, he studied them before shoving them back. Seconal would not solve this problem. Staring into the mirror, he sighed and wished the world would go away.

Hutch was sleeping — finally — in the middle of the bed. A first. Usually when Hutch crashed here, he took the sofa. But when your best friend’s marriage breaks up, you give him your bed. Ha! Don’t you just wish? Starsky watched the man for a few minutes, then lightly touched the deep scratches on the pale face. Hutch rolled away.

Picking up a glass from the bedside table, Starsky swirled the bourbon, then drank it. He shuddered at the taste and wondered why he bothered. The fire in the pit of his stomach was his answer.

In the kitchen he surveyed the contents of the whiskey bottle that sat on the cabinet. He downed the last swallow. One more dead soldier. A few hours ago the bottle had been full. He trashed the empty and settled into his rocking chair, the creaking steady and hypnotic.

* * * * * *

Los Angeles, California
Sunday 12 August 1973

Long day.

Night shift.

Liquor store holdup and shooting.

“Hi.” The car door shut and a cigarette lighter clicked.

“Yeah.” Starsky eased the Torino into afternoon traffic without looking at his partner. “Log us in. We’re late.”

“My fault. Sorry.” Hutch reached for the radio. “Hutchinson and Starsky, Zebra Three. Please log us in.” Three deep furrows marred his left cheek, the unmistakable trail of long, sharp fingernails. Dark circles ringed ice blue eyes.

At the first red light Starsky touched the injured face; Hutch flinched and pulled away. “Not your usual love marks, my friend.” The vision was in his mind before he could stop it: Hutch under the shower, his beautiful body covered with the bites and bruises of passion.

Hutch shrugged and concentrated on his cigarette.

The light turned green.

“Another fight?”

Silent nod.

“You gotta stop this. Hutch, straighten out your life before you really screw things up.”

Hutch crushed out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “If I was sure Vanessa was wrong, I’d pack up and leave. But she does have a point. I’m never there to be with her.” He turned in the seat and looked at Starsky for a moment. “Do you know that I spend so much time with you that Van actually asked me if you were better in bed than she was?” He chuckled sadly. “Maybe she’s got a right to complain, especially since I hate going home these days.”

* * * * * *

Los Angeles, California 
Monday 13 August 1973

The glass was empty and so was the cigarette carton. Starsky sighed. If he was going to be awake the rest of the night, he might as well support his habits. Struggling into his jeans, he slipped out the door and into the car. He pulled out fast. It’s only three blocks to the Seven-Eleven. Maybe it’d be better if I walked. The car still echoed their last fight.

* * * * * *

Twelve hour shifts.

Pressure.

Fear.

Starsky kept quiet, his anger brewing inside, until they stopped outside of Hutch’s apartment building. Turning off the engine, he faced his partner. “I don’t want another day like today.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“The hell it wasn’t! You damn near got us both killed!” His fear intensified at the memory-image of Hutch lying face down in that alley.

“We’re cops. These things happen.”

“No, Hutchinson, they don’t just happen. They happen when a cop gets sloppy. No sleep, and too many personal problems make a cop sloppy.”

“I–”

“Don’t make excuses.” Anger flared, replacing the cold fear that knifed his stomach. “You fucked up.”

“What do you want me to say?” Hutch spread his hands, stared at them, then lifted his eyes to Starsky’s.

“That you’re gonna get your life in order. That….” The anger faded. He wanted it back because he hated the fear; it scared him to death. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “Come home with me tonight. Get some sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“You know I can’t. Vanessa’s waiting. And I’m late–again.”

“So you have to go explain to her that you have a job to do.” The anger was back, so he fed it.

“Stay out of my life. I’ve got all I can handle right now.”

“Yeah, I guess you do. Work all day and fight all night so you can fuck up again tomorrow?”

“That’s enough.” Cold, hard words. “Don’t push me.” Hutch opened the door. Starsky grabbed the man’s arm, forcing himself to meet the blue eyes. He swallowed his bitterness. “Call in sick tomorrow. I don’t want a repeat performance of today.”

Hutch yanked his arm free. “Go to hell!” He slammed the car door and walked away, head down, proud body slouched in exhaustion and defeat.

The sight blurred to an image of Kenneth Hutchinson, face down in the alley — still — dead still. Dark shadows ebbed and swirled, turning the pavement to jungle slime and the blond hair brown.

Nathan.

Shaking his head and blanking his memory, Starsky started the car, squealing the tires as he sped away from the California plastic building and its plastic residents. He took the first freeway entrance, moved to the fast lane and jammed the accelerator to the floor. It required all of his skill and strength to control the Torino as the speedometer climbed to eighty — ninety — one hundred. The rhythm of the machine matched the pounding of his blood, shutting out all memories of lost friends and lost lovers.

When the adrenaline flash subsided, he pulled the car to the right shoulder and stopped. Slumping over the steering wheel, he reached for a cigarette and watched the traffic go by. The world continued — always. Nathan was gone, yet the world continued. Nothing could change that. But Hutch was still here. Starsky held the smoke in his lungs until it burned, then let it out slowly. Hutch is still here unless I do something really stupid — like push too hard.

Taking the first exit, he swung over the freeway, and headed back the way he had come, driving just as fast, a different demon pursuing him this time. He had to make things right with Hutch. Now. Tonight.

He leaned hard on the buzzer marked Hutchinson. No answer. He pushed it again. Still nothing.

Manager.

He pressed the button.

“Yeah?” Memory of dark eyes and suspicious glances.

“Sergeant Starsky, sir. LAPD. Sorry to bother you, but Sergeant Hutchinson doesn’t answer. It’s important that I see him immediately.”

“You sure he’s here?” The tone was a challenge.

“He was a few minutes ago.”

The door buzzed and Starsky grabbed it. “Thanks.”

Hutch’s door was ajar so Starsky pushed it open. The room was empty — except for Hutch, who sat very still against the wall, burning cigarette in one hand, and a crumpled piece of paper clutched in the other. The blue eyes were blank.

Making a quick survey of the apartment, Starsky saw that it contained only a pile of clothes and a few small items from the bedroom that Hutch had shared with his wife.. Kneeling beside the clothes, he folded a red sweater, a pair of jeans, a black plaid shirt — the one he had given Hutch last Christmas.

Hutch hadn’t moved. Starsky took the piece of paper, acknowledged Vanessa’s handwriting before stuffing it in his pocket. “This the way you found it?” Water dripped from the kitchen faucet; a hollow, lonely sound.

“Yeah.” Hutch wadded up an empty cigarette package with his right hand and tossed it into the middle of the room.

“I’ve got plenty.” He pulled the man to his feet. “C’mon, we’re going home.”

* * * * * *

The small store was an oasis. Beer, wine, candy, cigarettes. Everything he needed, plus no one cared if he was barefoot and shirtless. The clerk took his money, returned some change, and mumbled something about a good day.

Hutch was still sleeping when he returned, so Starsky opened a Bud and put the rest of the six-pack in the refrigerator. He lit a cigarette and remembered Vanessa’s note. It was still in his pocket. Smoothing out the piece of heavy ivory parchment, he stared at the elegant script.

Your partner wants you. 
He can have you.

After a moment, he flicked his lighter, held it to the corner of the paper and watched it burn. He washed the ashes down the sink, wishing he could be rid of Vanessa as easily. He had tried to like Vanessa, but there was always a subtle hostility. Other cops got along with their partner’s wives, but Vanessa always acted as if he wasn’t good enough. Maybe she hated Jews. Maybe she hated fag Jews. Maybe she was just afraid of losing her husband to something she couldn’t fight. But he had buried that love for Hutch a long time ago, in another world. It had stayed buried, too, except for those occasional times when the images of Hutch as a lover taunted him. He lived with that. And usually handled it.

Hutch cried out in his sleep. Starsky stood watch at the foot of the bed and waited until the man quieted, then returned to his rocking chair, beer can in one hand, cigarette in the other. Vanessa wanted to hurt Hutch and Starsky wasn’t about to let her get away with it. Not anymore.

A plane roared across the sky, the noise covering him like a tidal wave of sound. A cat howled, then all was quiet until a car backfired, the sound echoing in the night like a rifle shot in the jungle.

Like Vietnam.

Captain Nathan David Wise, United States Army, Special Forces. A man Starsky had loved — and hated — all bundled up in a few words. If only the memories could be bundled up as easily.

 

Vietnam
Tuesday 25 January 1966

A twig snapped.

Starsky dropped to his knees, rifle ready.

Silence.

He held his breath waiting for the soft call of a bird, then repeated it, listening for the echo. Air rushed out of his lungs as he readjusted his field pack and moved forward.

Six weeks after being permanently assigned, his team had gone out on assignment: Starsky’s first behind enemy lines. There were five of them: Nathan, himself, and three Laotians whose names he could not pronounce. He had christened them Sam, Joe, and Harry. His inability to master the language had cost Starsky several rounds of beer, but he just couldn’t make the proper sounds. The men hadn’t minded, and Nathan had rewarded him with a rare smile when Starsky had finally conceded defeat.

Now they marched silently through the dripping jungle in a staggered pattern approximately six feet apart. Starsky could see Nathan in front of him, sense Sam behind him. It was a simple mission: locate a platoon of VC and eliminate its leader. Piece of cake, Nathan had said. But Starsky had his doubts as he followed the jungle trail.

He thought about Nathan so he didn’t have to think about how wet his feet were. Nothing kept out the damn water. Everything was soggy, even the little dried fish that were served in the local bars.

Nathan stepped out from behind a tree just a few feet ahead of Starsky. A jungle green helmet covered his straight dark hair, and his camouflage uniform blended with the surroundings. The man moved with liquid grace through the twisted vegetation and Starsky wondered if it was natural ability or something one learned by spending an eternity in this Godforsaken place.

He stopped. Ahead, the foliage seemed rearranged, unnatural. He signaled, waiting for the sound to be repeated four times, then repeated it himself. Everyone was stationary and ready. He took a deep breath before using his knife to probe the damp ground. There was a sound like a giant rubber band; then the thud of a spear ramming into a tree. Primitive. Effective.

He explored further but found nothing, and signaled all clear before moving again. Tension made his head pound. He could smell the stink of his own fear. One wrong move and he could die, or worse, kill any one of his companions. He hated the responsibility.

Wisps of smoke rose from a clearing several yards to his right. A village — or what was left of it. And another odor: burning flesh. Bitterness exploded in the back of his throat while brightly colored spots danced in front of his eyes. He closed them.

“Don’t.”

Starsky jumped.

Nathan was next to him. “Don’t let that happen again. You could get us all killed.”

“What?”

“You weren’t paying attention. I made enough noise to wake the dead.” Dark brown eyes glared.

“I can’t do this!” Starsky cried in panic.

“Yes, you can. Your choice is death.” Nathan’s eyes never wavered. “By my hand, or the VC.”

“Please,” Starsky pleaded.

“This is not a church picnic. You will do as you are told, when you are told, or you will die.”

Not closing his eyes, Starsky tried to slow his heart and organize his thoughts. Nathan had already moved forward. Starsky took one step, then another. He thought about his wet feet.

Inches, feet, miles. Seconds, minutes, hours. All were the same. There was no way to tell. There was no existence outside the jungle.

A twig? No…louder, like air rushing out of a balloon. Dropping to one knee, rifle ready, he scanned the area. His gun slipped from his fingers, landed in mud with a soft thud. Directly ahead, the Laotian was impaled on a bamboo cross, deadly spikes piercing his body. Blood seeped from a dozen wounds, dripping slowly onto the ground.

No!

Shifting his line of sight, Starsky caught Nathan’s eyes; something flickered in the brown depths — pain? Then it was gone and the hard glint returned.

Nathan’s hand rested on Starsky’s shoulder, the fingers gripping hard. The whispered order was cold. “Put the bullet between his eyes, Davy.”

“I can’t. That’s Sam!” Starsky’s stomach cramped, turned upside down.

“That was an order, Sergeant.”

Starsky tried to pick up his rifle, but his arms had no strength. He could not lift it.

Nathan stepped directly behind him, one hand on each shoulder, the fingers clamping like vises. “You have no choice. I know, you know — and most importantly — Sam knows what has to be done. We can’t save him and we can’t leave him here. Now, you pull that trigger, or I’ll shoot you both.”

Starsky raised the M-16, tears blurring his vision.

“Now, Davy.”

His finger pressed the trigger; the sound sliced through the thick air. He slumped over, the weapon falling from his hands as air rushed out of his lungs. His field pack angled wrong against the damp earth and he fell. He knew Sam was dead because he never missed. But this wasn’t a target — it was a man he’d dared call friend. He rolled over and vomited on Nathan’s boots.

Nathan slipped the field pack from Starsky’s back, then hauled him to his feet and propelled him toward a large tree. Behind the tree was a cave, its interior dark and cool. Starsky sank to the ground, curling his arms around his stomach. Nathan’s voice, soft Laotian words, drifted in behind him.

“It doesn’t get any worse than this,” Nathan said in English.

“Fuck you, fuck the army, fuck this place. I want out.”

Nathan’s hands caressed Starsky’s face. “No, Davy. You stay.” Fingertips outlined his mouth. “You have to stay.”

The canteen was held to Starsky’s lips. “Here. Don’t swallow. Rinse your mouth, then spit it out.” Nathan’s hands trailed down Starsky’s arms. “Good. Again.”

Starsky did as he was told, aware of only two things: The image of Sam impaled on that tree and the feel of Nathan’s hands. He wanted to fall into Nathan’s arms and cry, but when he saw Nathan’s eyes, the thought vanished. For one instant, one lifetime, he was in Nathan’s arms, his mouth pressed against Nathan’s.

“No!” Starsky pulled away. “No, I can’t. I’m not…I….” The taste of Nathan lingered.

Nathan’s hand clamped around Starsky’s chin. “Not what, Davy?” Fire burned in the brown eyes.

“I’m not…ah…I can’t…I’m not like that.” Starsky jerked free and rubbed his hand across his face. “I just killed a man! Not the enemy, goddamnit, but a friend…mine and yours. And you ordered it.” He found the strength to stand. “And now you want me to…to….”

Nathan rose, standing between Starsky and the cave entrance. “I want you to what, Davy? Just who started what?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, didn’t you?” Nathan closed the gap between them. “Just what did you want when you–”

Starsky raised his hand, clenching it into a fist. Nathan grabbed the wrist in mid-swing, held on tightly and backed Starsky against the cave wall. “You fuckin’ son of a bitch!” Starsky yelled.

Nathan’s mouth covered his. Starsky fought, pushed, clawed…accepted. Nathan’s thigh edged between his legs.

“We can’t. Not here, we….”

“We need each other. Here. And now. See?” Starsky’s hand was placed on the front of Nathan’s pants. “I need–“.

Breaking away, he stumbled toward the entrance. “I don’t give a flying fuck what you need. I want out of here!”

Nathan tackled him from behind, then jerked him face up. “Don’t you ever run from me again. Don’t tease me or flaunt yourself in front of me — and then tell me no.” Emotions — anger, hatred, or something else — boiled in those brown eyes. This was not the cold-blooded soldier Starsky knew; this was a wild, raving maniac.

Nathan yanked at Starsky’s zipper. “I’ll show you what you want. Then I’ll show you what I want.”

Starsky struggled, but he was overpowered. His pants and shorts were pulled down around his knees, the debris on the ground irritating his bare skin. Writhing desperately, he tried to escape, but Nathan threw his leg over Starsky’s and movement was hindered. Starsky grabbed for Nathan’s head, pulled the helmet off.

Nathan looked up. “You’re just a baby,” he said softly, “…a beautiful boy. You shouldn’t be here, but you are. I shouldn’t want you, but I do.” His voice hardened. “And I want you now.”

“Don’t. Please don’t,” Starsky pleaded. Nathan’s tongue flicked across soft flesh just as Starsky’s hand reached thick, smooth hair. The touch was exciting and repelling at the same time. “No!”

“No?” Nathan didn’t raise his head. “Your body tells me different.”

He tried not to respond, but it had been a long time and Nathan’s mouth felt so good. He tried to think about anything else — the last girl he had been with, the first girl he had been with — but none of them had done what Nathan was doing. If he closed his eyes, he saw Sam; if he opened his eyes, he saw Nathan. He didn’t want to see Sam.

He didn’t want this either, but it was too late. He couldn’t stop it. Cramming his fist into his mouth, he reached for Nathan’s head with his other hand and shoved hard. His hips lifted off the ground and he bit his fingers to stop the scream.

For one glorious moment there was nothing — no pain, no thought, no war.

“You are beautiful.” Nathan murmured, hands roaming Starsky’s body. “I am what you need; you are all I need.” The hands cupped Starsky’s ass, squeezing the flesh. “Roll over, Davy.”

“What?” The moment was shattered. Starsky struggled, freeing his legs. “No!”

Nathan’s hands clamped tightly. “Don’t fight me. I don’t want to hurt you. But you’re mine, and I’m going to take you.”

“No!” Starsky got up on one knee, but Nathan pulled him back down, twisted his arms behind his back, and secured his hands with the canteen strap.

“Don’t make me hurt you.” Nathan’s voice was cold. Starsky lay face down on the damp leaves, his head angled sideways. Nathan held the bound hands with one of his own. “You’re all I need, Davy.” His hips were gently lifted. “Don’t make me hurt you.” A tentative finger explored, forcing its way inside.

“No, please, no.” Starsky tried unsuccessfully to relax and the finger was withdrawn. “No,” he pleaded again.

The pain was red hot, radiating in circles. Starsky tasted his own sweat as it beaded around his mouth and glued decaying leaves to his face. The weight across his body pushed him into the soggy floor. He couldn’t breathe. As Nathan moved, the pain increased. Starsky sobbed, closing his eyes and his heart.

“Oh Christ, Davy, this isn’t how I planned it. I wanted it to be special. But there’s no time…never any time…I need….oh, Davy, please…I need you.”

He couldn’t stop himself and the pain eased as he lifted his hips up and into the thrusting flesh.

“Ah, Davy, that’s the way. Oh God, move with me!”

Hot, sticky fluid invaded him, infecting him, defiling him. He hurt inside and out. His anger coalesced into hatred.

“I wanted to make it good for you, but we’ve been here too long.” Nathan’s breath was soft and warm against his neck. He sighed and withdrew from Starsky’s body.

Starsky struggled to his feet, his pants bunched around his ankles, his hands still bound. His fists doubled and un-doubled until the strap broke. “You goddamn motherfucking….” He smashed his fist into Nathan’s face. “I’ll kill you!”

Splayed fingers branded Starsky’s face. Nathan’s eyes were hard, his voice level. “You’ll do as I say, when I say, or I’ll leave you here, like this.” Nathan gestured with his hand.

Blushing, Starsky fumbled with his pants.

“And I can leave you here dead…or alive. Of course you might not be alive long….”

A cricket chirped in the sudden stillness.

Starsky wanted to crawl under a rock, but there was no place to go.

“Davy.” Seduction turned the captain’s voice to velvet. “I want you. We could be very important to each other.” The brown eyes softened for a moment. “I’ll have you, or no one will. You walk out of here with me or you don’t walk out at all.” Nathan buckled his belt and walked to the cave entrance.

Fear gripped Starsky to be replaced immediately by the will to survive. “Nathan.” Calm and controlled, Starsky surprised himself. The man turned to face him. “At least give me time to zip my pants.”

“I own you. Understand?”

“Sure.” There was confidence in having made a decision. Promise ’em anything. But one day, you lousy son-of-a-bitch, I’ll get even.

* * * * * *

Los Angeles, California 
Monday 13 August 1973

Starsky rocked in the chair, finishing off the last of his beer. The time had come when Nathan was vulnerable, but by then it had been too late. Hutch cried out, breaking the reverie. Starsky walked into the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed once more. Hutch lay on his side, clutching a wadded ball of sheet and blanket to his stomach. Perspiration lined his forehead and upper lip. “Starsk?” Thready whisper, softer than his own muffled heartbeat.

“I’m here.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not. I’m right here.”

Hutch’s eyes were closed. “Please, here with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

Do you know what you’re asking? No, I don’t suppose you do. “Okay, but just until you go to sleep.”

Hutch slid over. Starsky sat down, pulling the man into his arms, and hoped his jeans would insulate his feelings. Hutch snuggled close — too close — his head on Starsky’s chest.

“Feels good.” Blue eyes opened, intense and innocent. “Always so good.” Hutch’s arms tightened, his head tilted upward, open mouth an invitation.

No! Please, no! You don’t know what you’re asking. Hutch’s mouth attracted him like a magnet, greeted him like a welcome guest. He was lost in the taste of Hutch, the feel of Hutch, the love of Hutch.

“Easy. Shhhh.” Starsky rolled them over. “Calm down. It’s all right.” What needed calming was his own body.

“Hold me. Don’t let me go.”

“I’m here. I won’t let you go, but you need to sleep.” Please go to sleep.

“Don’t wanna sleep. The dreams….” Hutch clung to him desperately.

Might be better than the nightmare of staying awake. “Shhhh. Close your eyes. I won’t let anything hurt you.” Especially me.

Hutch settled, was still for a few minutes. “David.” The voice trembled. “I need you…please, I need you.”

“No–” But it was too late. Hutch’s fingers tangled in his curls, pulling their mouths together. Hutch was frantic, his body twisting and turning, heat radiating from the tiny nylon briefs.

The smell of a man. That sweet, earthy aroma that was so uniquely male. Always before this scent had been accompanied by the stench of the jungle. But here and now, it was just the sunlight of Hutch — Hutch wanting him, needing him.

Starsky ran his hands down Hutch’s body, feeling the strength, the flat planes, the slick material. With one swift movement the briefs were gone. Hutch was his — aroused and ready — his. All Starsky had to do was lean forward and take him.

Hutch moaned, lifting his hips, and pushed himself into Starsky’s mouth. Maleness: Familiar, yet strange. A fantasy? No — reality! Hard, warm, salty…there was nothing but Hutch.

Starsky shifted, wrapping himself around Hutch’s legs, caressing bare flesh. Wanting more, needing more, he thrust his denim-covered groin against Hutch’s thigh. The sensations made his head spin. His fingers gained entrance to the man’s body, found it smooth, tight, inviting.

“Ahhhh, Starsk.” Hutch tensed, moaned, exploded. The hot fluid slid down Starsky’s throat as he pressed himself against the man, swallowing greedily.

Starsky lay quietly, the soft cock securely in his mouth, his arms around Hutch’s waist while he listened to the quiet snoring. He never wanted to move, never wanted to leave this place.

He shifted slightly, ignoring the discomfort of his sticky-wet jeans and smiled to himself, reliving this moment of his life. Then Vanessa floated through his mind, draped in witch’s garb, laughing. “Correspondent!” she howled. “I’ll crucify him, and use you to nail him to the cross.” Starsky bolted from the bed, stopping only long enough to change clothes before running from his apartment.

 

Los Angeles, California 
Tuesday 14 August 1973

Starsky sat in the early morning solitude of Captain Harold Dobey’s office, his feet resting on the captain’s desk, a cup of coffee in his hand. He stirred the tepid contents with his finger, then flipped a paper clip. It landed on the desk calendar. The page had already been turned: Tuesday, 14 August, 1973. The last day of the rest of his life. He downed the coffee, then crushed the Styrofoam cup.

When he faced Hutch — and he would have to face him — it would be the end of a friendship, the end of a dream. When Hutch woke up and remembered what had happened, it would be over. Starsky had taken advantage of his best friend, acting on his own desires when the man had asked for comfort. And worse, he’d given Vanessa all the grounds she needed for the divorce. Hutch would hate him.

Starsky uncurled another paper clip, staring at it for a long time before dropping it on the desk top with the others. He wondered if the sun was up yet, then decided he didn’t want to know. It was going to be a lousy day.

“Starsky?” Fluorescent light flooded his dark cave. “What the hell are you doing in my office?” A massive black man filled the doorway, his head almost touching the top.

He shrugged. “Waitin’ for you.”

“At seven-thirty in the morning?” Dobey knocked Starsky’s feet to the floor. “You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks, Cap’n.”

“Get out of my chair. Go clean up and change your clothes. Then get some breakfast from the commissary.” Dobey dropped into the vacated chair. “And be back here with your partner by eight-fifteen.”

“Can’t.” Starsky went to the door.

“Can’t what?”

“Be back with my partner.”

Dobey drummed his fingers on his desk. “Why?”

“‘Cause Hutch’s sleeping.”

“So wake him up.”

Starsky walked back to the desk, placed his palms out flat and leaned over so that he stared into dark brown eyes. Liquid brown, like Nathan’s. “I’m not gonna wake Hutch up ’cause he needs his sleep.” And I’m not ready to face him. “His wife walked out on him last night and he’s not takin’ it so good.”

Starsky sank into a chair, rubbing his burning eyes, and tried not to think about Vanessa — or Hutch. Or how good Hutch had felt in his arms, or in his mouth.

Dobey sighed loudly. “Let me see if I have this straight. Hutchinson’s wife left him, he’s sleeping at your place and you spent the night in my office?”

“Yeah, Hutch’s at my place. I didn’t want to disturb him. And I needed to be alone. Figured this was as good a place as any.”

“Well, this is my office and I have work to do. And I want you back in here with Hutchinson, ready for work in–” he checked his watch, “–forty minutes.”

“Hutch’s in pretty bad shape. Can’t you give him a couple of days off to get his head together?”

“No, I can’t, Starsky, we’re short-handed. Bill Anderson wants help on a Narco stake-out. You’ve got a briefing at one.”

“Captain–”

“Look, Starsky, I’m sorry about Hutchinson’s marriage. But it’s happened before and it’ll happen again. A cop’s life isn’t easy. But I need you two and I need you today. We’ll skip this morning, but I want the two of you here by noon. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir.” There didn’t seem to be any point in arguing.

Starsky went to the locker room, took a long hot shower, shaved and changed clothes, but felt no better. First thing I gotta do is get you out of my apartment. Find you someplace to live. I can’t face another night with you. I don’t want to want you like this.

He checked the “FOR RENT” cards on the bulletin board outside the commissary. A couple of them sounded promising. He pulled the three-by-five cards off and tucked them into his pocket before entering the cafeteria.

The coffee was bitter and the cigarette stale. As he ground out the third one in half an hour, he promised himself yet again that he would quit. He lit a fourth.

I gotta go home. But you’re gonna hate me and I can’t handle that. Oh, Christ, Hutch, I’m sorry.

The sun was shining brightly as he nosed the Torino into morning traffic. Stake-out. Long night hours alone with Hutch. It had never been a problem before, but now he didn’t think he could spend five minutes alone with Hutch. And how are you going to feel?

His partner, dressed only in jeans, sat in a pool of sunlight, coffee and newspaper in front of him. His head was bent over the paper. Starsky stared, drinking in the sight. No one person should be allowed as much beauty as Hutch had. It wasn’t fair. It was too easy to love him.

Starsky shut the door. “Any coffee left?”

“Yeah.” Hutch didn’t look up.

Coffee sloshed over his hand, onto the drainboard, and into the cup. “Damn.” Without cleaning up the mess, he took his cup and sat down across from Hutch. “How’dya feel?”

Hutch raised dull blue eyes. “Better, thanks. And you?”

Ah, Christ, Hutch, don’t, not like this. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“What’re you gonna do?” Please, don’t hate me.

Pushing his chair back, Hutch walked to stare out the front window. “Don’t know. I’ve got a call in to my lawyer.”

“Lawyer?”

“Yeah, I gotta see where I stand. There are some things I won’t give her.”

“Her?”

Hutch turned to face Starsky. “Who else, Starsk? Jesus! Don’t you remember?”

I remember. And I remember last night. Don’t you? “Did she call?”

“Not hardly. She planned this very well. Set herself up nicely. And I thought she loved me — hah! There ain’t no such thing, buddy.”

The coffee soured in Starsky’s stomach. No such thing. Yeah, I guess you’re right. The pain in his heart was excruciating.

Starsky pulled the crumpled index cards from his pocket. “Thought you might be interested.”

Hutch picked up the cards. “Apartment for rent. Cottage — what’s this? You throwing me out?”

“No.” Don’t you want out? “I saw them on the bulletin board this morning.”

“Maybe we could look at some this afternoon.” Hutch glanced up, but Starsky couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Sorry. We have to go to work. Dobey wants us in by noon.”

“I can’t. Not today. Call him, tell him.”

“Already did. Bought you four hours. Got a song and dance about short-handed, and a stake-out.”

“Shit! I need some time.”

“I know. Can’t be helped.”

“The hell it can’t!” Anger flared in the room like a mushroom cloud. Hutch reached for the phone and dialed three numbers before slamming down the receiver. “Damn it all to hell!” He took a deep breath. “I’ll handle this one step at a time.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Starsky picked up the coffee cups and ashtray and carried them to the sink. He was numb, maybe dead. Maybe last night hadn’t happened. Maybe he was losing his mind.

One step at a time. Maybe he’d even survive.

* * * * *

“You awake?”

Starsky stretched his legs in the confined space of the back seat and covered his eyes with his arm. “Yeah. This car’s no place to sleep.” And you’re so close that I can’t stop the fantasies. If I sleep, they turn into dreams.

“Don’t remember it ever bothering you before and we’ve spent a lot of time on deserted streets just like this one. See, the same street light is burned out.”

“Just can’t get comfortable.” He sat up, staring past Hutch who was hunched over the steering wheel.

“Wanna talk?” Hutch sounded preoccupied.

No. Starsky reached for his cigarettes, then shoved them back in his pocket. The light might attract unwanted attention. “Sure.” Please, not about last night. I think I could handle your accusations in the sunlight, but in the dark, with you so close, I don’t know that I can control myself. My body wants to love you and my mind won’t let me. “What’s up?” Oh, good start, Davy. Let’s talk about the first thing that comes up. A block of ice settled in the pit of his stomach and he shivered in the August heat.

“I talked to my attorney this afternoon.” Hutch pivoted in the front seat, stretching his legs until they touched the passenger door. He looked at Starsky. “He wants three grand up front.”

“Jesus Christ! What’re you gonna do?”

“Pay it.”

“Three thousand dollars? I could buy a new car with that kind of money. Well, almost. Saw this really flashy–” Starsky shrugged. “Do you really need a lawyer?”

“Afraid I do. I have to protect myself. Vanessa has my — well, some things I want back. And she wants Hutchinson money.”

“Ah, yes, Hutchinson money.”

“It buys things — people and power.”

“So which does the beautiful Mrs. Hutchinson want?”

If Hutch noticed the sarcasm, he ignored it. “She wants it all. The money and what it buys. She’d make a damn fine Hutchinson. Too bad I can’t give her my place.” The bitterness mixed with stale smoke and coated the inside of the car.

“I’ve never understood, Hutch. What’s wrong with the money?”

Hutch turned away, mumbling, “It’s dirty. I hate it. It ruins everything it touches. I thought Vanessa loved me, but all she loved was the money and when I refused to give it to her — Christ, I want a cigarette.”

“Yeah, me too. Soon.”

Hutch was silent for a while, his shoulders slumped. “Hey, look, I’m sorry to dump all this on you. It’s just that I’ve got a lot of things on my mind right now and I can only handle one problem at a time.”

Yeah, your wife walks out on you and your best friend takes advantage of you and if anyone ever finds out, Vanessa will take it right to the newspaper and we’ll lose everything — even each other. “I’m here, for what it’s worth.”

“I know.”

Hutch didn’t speak for several minutes. Starsky watched the back of the blond head and wondered what thoughts were chasing each other around in there. “You going to file for divorce?”

“No.” Hutch turned, facing Starsky once more.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s to my advantage to stay married.”

“Even if you don’t love her?”

“If we’re divorced, she’s entitled to half of everything. This is California.” He shrugged. “And she wants everything.”

“But you’ve only been married a few years.”

“Doesn’t matter. Not here.” Hutch’s laugh was ugly. “She’s gonna be in for a hell of a surprise when she tries to sue for Hutchinson money. It’s not mine, not in my name, so it can never be hers. But — oh shit!”

“What?”

“Venice Place.”

“Venice Place?” Starsky pulled his knees to his chest, then spread out as much as the cramped quarters allowed. He could almost see Hutch’s face in the darkness.

“Property I own in Venice. A couple of apartments over commercial space. Bought it when I worked the territory. It was a mattress warehouse that didn’t make it.”

“Sounds nifty.” Even in buildings you pick the underdogs.

“It’s not bad now. I picked it up cheap. Maybe the building wasn’t so good, but the neighborhood’s stable. Thought maybe I’d live there someday.”

“Always the savior of the downtrodden,” Starsky smiled.

“Well, it’s close to the beach. Besides, a nice couple was interested in the area. They helped me get the place fixed up. Now the guys live upstairs and they have a Country French restaurant downstairs with European style garden dining nicely secluded behind the building. Some of L.A.’s most interesting couples eat there.”

“French, huh? Can we eat there sometime?”

“Sure, Starsk, sometime.” Hutch’s voice trailed off and he stared out into the night for a while. “Vanessa doesn’t know about Venice Place, but it’s recorded in my name. Even a dumb lawyer could find it. Not one of my brighter moves.”

“So?”

“It’s community property. She gets half.”

“Doesn’t sound fair to me.”

“Starsky, haven’t you learned there’s no such thing as fair?” The words were sharp with anger. Hutch paused, took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to yell at you.” His hand rested on Starsky’s arm.

Oh God, don’t. Starsky steeled himself, knowing he couldn’t pull away from the touch that burned his skin and twisted his heart. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even breath. No, there’s nothing fair in this world.

Hutch finally moved his hand and rubbed it across his face. “Guess I better get my act together. Find a place to live. Pick up the pieces.” He twisted in the seat and lifted his head. “What’d you do with those cards you brought home?”

“I guess they’re still on the table.” Starsky combed his fingers through his thick, curly hair. “Why?”

“Any of them furnished?”

“Don’t remember.”

“I think one of them was in Venice. Will you go with me tomorrow and help me look?” There was a note of pleading in Hutch’s voice.

“Venice and the beach? You’re really hooked on the place, aren’t you?”

“Guess so.”

Starsky hesitated, then reached up and touched his partner’s arm. “Of course I’ll go with you.” Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?

“Zebra Three, move into position.” Anderson’s whispered command over the radio.

“Roger.” Hutch opened his door and eased out, holding the seat as Starsky climbed out of the back.

A single shot sliced through the night.

Jungle dark.

A scream echoed in the stillness.

Rapid automatic fire left a trail of holes in the side of a deserted building.

“Zebra Three, advance from the south.” Words and static from the radio.

They moved. Hutch right, Starsky left, as always. Anderson directed the placement of each man on the team. Hutch crept forward. Starsky watched the blond head held high, shining in the blackness. Goddamn fool.

His sneakered feet thudded against the pavement, blood pounded in his ears. He stopped beside Hutch and whispered, “Keep your fuckin’ head down before it gets blown off!” Then he dashed through an open sector, hugged a dirty brick wall.

Another blast of automatic fire toppled the empty boxes in front of him. He tumbled, rolled and slid behind a battered, graffitied garbage bin. “I’m here,” he threw over his shoulder.

When Hutch was next to him, they approached the side door of the warehouse. Hutch nodded, taking the right side of the entrance, while Starsky took the left.

Anderson’s voice on the receiver: “On the count of three –one.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“Two.”

Deep breath.

“Three.”

Starsky went in and under, rolling through the door Hutch had kicked open. On his feet, gun level.

“Don’t move, gentlemen,” Anderson said. “It might prove hazardous to your health.”

Anderson’s team encircled the group and the net was pulled in.

The captain slapped Starsky on the back. “Nice work, guys. We’ll wrap up here. However, I want a report first thing in the morning.”

“Yes sir.” Hutch led the way back to the car.

“You drive. I’m bushed.” Starsky slumped on the passenger side, his head in his hands. “Home, James.”

 

Los Angeles, California 
Wednesday 15 August 1973

Hutch headed for the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. Through the foam he said, “I’ll take the couch tonight. You look beat.”

You don’t know the half of it, partner of mine. “Sounds good. I’m gonna hit the shower.”

The radio crackled to life and the concluding strains of “The Unknown Soldier” followed him through the bathroom door. Morrison’s music’s always personified depression.

“This is KRLA. The time is two fifty-eight on this beautiful Wednesday morning. In the news, top level officials said that despite President Nixon’s concern with Watergate, he plans to meet with Soviet officials to discuss arms control. The White House hopes to set the meeting sometime before Christmas.

“In Southeast Asia a halt has been called to the bombing in Cambodia. Fighting in the area of Phnom Phen is expected to continue until the end of the month. No attack on the city is predicted.

“Yesterday’s attempt to overthrow Laotian Premier Prince Souvana Phouma has failed. Official sources said the incident may have given the Communists reason to demand further concessions in the peace talks.

“The volunteer army….”

Flushing the toilet, Starsky tried to shut out the announcer. He did not want to hear about the army, Vietnam, or any of it.

“On a final note, Henri Charriere, Papillon, is dead at the age of sixty-seven, of throat cancer in Madrid. Best known….”

Starsky turned on the shower. Water pounded against the porcelain, drowning the offensive noises of death, destruction, violence. Tomorrow he could hear about tonight’s bust, with whatever embellishment the news media gave it. His body sagged under the weight of exhaustion, of hated memories, and Hutch’s presence on the other side of the door. He fumbled in the medicine cabinet, located the little red capsules and dropped two into his hand. Hoped I’d never need you again. He swallowed the pills and stepped under the warm spray. Work your magic, pretty little dolls. I have to make it through the night. His body responded to unbidden erotic images of the blond man sprawled on blue sheets, ready and eager.

Twisting the knob violently, he swallowed a scream as cold water punished him. No more, ever! Not Hutch!

Towel around his waist, Starsky opened the bathroom door. The seconal slid through his veins, promising sleep, escape into Never-never Land.

In the living room, Hutch had made his bed, kicked off his shoes and turned off the radio. “Even the music is depressing.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t suppress the yawn. Beautiful dolls. “‘Night.”

Hutch turned off the lights as Starsky dropped his towel and slid between fresh, cool sheets. He wondered who had made the bed, but it did not matter as black velvet surrounded him, took him, cradled him.

He can not move. 
Bound to a bed of solid blue fire
by arcing bonds of matching blue electricity.
Flame blazes all around him
over him
through him.
He shivers.
Above him rises a golden god
hair of flame
eyes of fire.
They burn him
sear him
mesmerize him.
Touch him.
Long, tapered fingers reach out
branding his flesh
demanding response.
Fire leaps within him.
White-hot. Kindling, burning….
Incandescent.
The blazing eyes touch him.
The god speaks:
“You must pay….”
The golden fingers possess him.
Fire/pain envelopes him,
surrounds him
inside and out.
“You must pay!”
He looks upon the face of his golden god and screams:
“Hutch!”

Starsky landed on the floor, the sweat-soaked sheets crumpled around him. His body throbbed with unreleased sexual tension and ached from lack of sleep. He took a deep breath, and wrapped the sheet around him. “Hutch.” It was a whispered prayer.

Nothing.

You couldn’t possibly sleep through that. He pushed himself up from the floor and tip-toed to the sofa. No Hutch. Fear gripped his heart. “Hutch?” No response.

He wasn’t in the bathroom or the kitchen. Starsky flipped on a lamp and dropped his sheet. The bed on the couch was undisturbed. An ashtray overflowed onto the table. Three crushed red Marlboro boxes lay nearby. Starsky breathed a sigh of relief. Hutch had gone for cigarettes.

Christ, he could walk in any minute. Starsky wrapped himself in a terry robe and stuffed the sweat-damp sheets in the hamper, then removed the last clean set from the linen closet. White sheets. He needed new ones. Blue maybe. The color of Hutch’s eyes. Stop it!

Forcing himself to remember army procedure for making a bed, he completed perfect hospital corners, tight enough to bounce a quarter.

Still no Hutch.

Starsky took a long shower, then made coffee, listening for the door to open all the while. He wanted a cigarette, but knew without looking that there weren’t any. It was too early for the paper, so he took a cup of coffee to the bedroom, turned out the light and waited for the sun.

* * * * * *

“You’re late!” Dobey bellowed as Starsky followed Hutch into the captain’s office.

“Two-eleven on our way in.” Hutch dropped into a chair. “Didn’t you get our message?”

“No, and Anderson’s been on me since eight.” He dialed four digits. “They’re here.” After replacing the receiver, he picked up his coffee cup and emptied it.

Starsky jumped to his feet. “I’ll get more coffee.” He needed to put some space between himself and Hutch. The closeness made breathing difficult.

“Better get four, Captain Anderson’ll want some,” Hutch suggested.

Taking as much time as possible, he poured coffee, then added sugar and cream. When he returned, Anderson was in mid-sentence.

“…Cleaned up a warehouse — thank you — last night, but we missed Kraft, Randolf Kraft,” Anderson waved his arm. “Sit down, Starsky. The lab is still operating and we’ve got a fairly solid lead on the location — an abandoned storefront on Fifth Street. We think the operator is a juvenile, kid by the name of — ” he pulled a notebook from his pocket of his dark blue polyester jacket, flipping through several pages, “John McGuire. A California Corp owns the building. A James McGuire is listed on the Board of Directors. Possible connection.”

Starsky propped his ankle on his knee. “Any priors?”

“None.” Anderson checked his notes. “As far as we can tell, the kid’s clean. He comes from an upper middle class family. His school reports that he’s a model student, above average in intelligence and has a knack for chemistry.”

“Terrific.” Starsky retied his shoe laces.

“So, what’s the set up?” Hutch walked to the window, his back to the room.

Anderson looked in Hutch’s direction. “We can’t find Kraft, we can’t approach the kid and we can’t search without probable cause, which we don’t have.”

Moving away from the window, Hutch picked up his cup and perched on the edge of Dobey’s desk. “Stake-out?”

“Afraid so. And it could be a long one. Ray has assigned you to my department for the time being.”

Hutch sipped his coffee. “What’s the plan?”

“Two teams. You and Starsky, Joe Hix and Alan Baker. They’re already on location, setting up. You’ll relieve them at six-thirty this evening. Official schedule will be seven to seven.”

“Captain, that’s twelve hours!” Starsky dropped his foot to the floor and surveyed the faces of the men in the room. “We’ve,” he indicated Hutch, “been putting in some long hours lately, we’re tired — ”

“Look, Starsky…” Anderson lit a cigarette. “The department’s short-handed.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling. “We never seem to have enough trained personnel. We’re all tired; it’s terminal in this business. But we’re too close to Kraft to back off now.”

Starsky slumped back into his chair and stole a glance at his partner, who seemed to be sharing a private joke with Dobey. “Sorry, Captain.”

“Starsky’s always bitchy when he’s tired.” Hutch smiled. “We’ll be there.”

“Good.” Anderson picked up a file from the corner of Dobey’s desk and handed it to Hutchinson. “Here’s everything we’ve got, including layouts of the buildings. Good luck.” He left through the corridor door.

“Well?” Starsky crumpled his empty Styrofoam cup.

Dobey folded his hands over a stack of file folders. “Hutchinson, I’m sorry about your situation. I wish I could give you some time off — but there’s nothing I can do.”

“It’s all right, Captain.” Hutch slid off the desk. “Getting Kraft is more important than my broken marriage.” He placed his hand on Starsky’s knee. “Besides, I think Starsk’s taking it harder than I am.”

Starsky felt the blood rise in his face and hoped no one noticed. The hand moved away.

“C’mon, partner, I’ll buy you an early lunch.” Hutch opened the door.

“Keep me posted.” Dobey’s words didn’t include the silent be careful that showed in his eyes. Brown eyes, somber now.

“Yes sir.” In unison.

Hutch rested his hand on Starsky’s shoulder as they stopped to check their IN basket and phone messages. Starsky fought it, but had to press himself into the desk to hide his reaction to the touch.

* * * * * *

Traffic was moderate on the San Diego freeway as Starsky checked his mirrors, then moved right. Fingertips touched the back of his neck and he tingled all over. He wanted to lean back into the caress. He couldn’t. He changed lanes again. “Which exit?”

“Let’s take Venice. The place is near the Eastern Canal.”

“Hope it’s better than the last two places.”

“Has to be. It’s close to the ocean. Besides, it’s only temporary.” Hutch flipped the three by five cards. “If it’s livable, I’ll take it. House hunting’s for the birds.”

“Yeah–”

“Next exit. Turn right on Venice Boulevard. We’ll take a left at the first canal.”

Starsky parked his car beside a short, white picket fence. Slamming the door, he stretched like a cat in the afternoon sun. He shook the fence and found it wasn’t very stable. “Kinda dumpy. Maybe this is a waste of time.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge. It looks kind of cozy.” Sunlight sparkled on the water in the canal that ran in front of the fence. A single duck quacked, then quickly paddled away to rejoin a group. “It’s certainly different from the others we’ve looked at. Let’s go inside.”

The air was musty and cobwebs festooned the walls. A large spider swung in front of Starsky as he walked through the doorway. “Yuk!” He batted the thing away.

“Starsk, it’s just a bug. C’mon.” Hutch opened a closet door, glanced at the bathroom.

“This place is a dump,” Starsky mumbled.

Hutch raked his fingertip across the dusty mirror. “It feels good.” There was an excited note in his voice.

“Huh?” Starsky stared at his partner, then at the room. It contained a sagging bed, a battered bureau and one dilapidated chair. Nothing to deserve anyone’s interest.

“This room. It feels right.”

“The furniture’s falling apart.”

“It’ll do until I can replace it. Van took everything, remember?” Pain glinted in the blue eyes.

“Yeah, but….”

Hutch explored the room, then bounced on the bare mattress, sending dust to dance in pale sunlight. The springs squeaked. “This will do. I might even get some of our stuff back, but I don’t want that bed. I like this one.” He bounced again.

The kitchen was small, with a tiny stove and refrigerator. In the only other room was a battered sofa. “Hutch, you can’t live here, it’s–” It’s not good enough for someone like you.

“What’s wrong with it?” Sudden flash of anger. “You sound just like Vanessa.”

“Don’t you compare me with her!” He turned, staring out at the canal through a grimy window, tears stinging his eyes.

A presence behind him. Hutch’s hand on his neck, then his short curls were ruffled. “I’m sorry. I let it get to me sometimes.”

“S’okay.” He pressed himself against the wall. He couldn’t control his body, and he didn’t dare let Hutch see.

The door opened. “C’mon. I want to find a phone booth, then we gotta relieve Hix and Baker. Too bad we don’t have time for a nice French dinner.”

“Yeah.” Starsky sighed and followed his partner out the door. “Hey, this fence could use a coat of paint.”

“Sure could. Wanna play Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn?”

“Can we float a raft down your canal?” The light laughter that followed soothed his jangled nerves.

* * * * * *

Starsky circled the block; the street was deserted. The area had the look and feel of a ghost town, but underneath, out of sight, was a culture of slime. It made him wary.

“I spotted a place to leave the car — down that alley.” Hutch didn’t turn his face from the window. “Classy neighborhood.”

“Yeah. Gives me the creeps.” The car shimmied as it took a tight corner. “I want a new car.” He gripped the wheel.

“Me too. Van took the Jag. She can have the goddamn thing and all the bills that go with it.”

“You think this is okay? No one can see the car from the street?”

“Let me check.” Hutch eased out of the car, keeping close to the old brown building that looked as if a heavy wind would blow it away. After a few minutes, he signaled. Starsky locked the door and followed Hutch inside, brushing at the cobwebs that attacked his face and watching the roaches scurry out of his way. The dusty air made him sneeze, the whole place made his skin crawl. He whispered. “You bring that map?”

“Yeah. Room’s on the second floor. Stairs oughta be at the end of this hall.”

Doorways gaped like blackened eye sockets as Starsky followed his partner down a dim hallway. Rickety stairs led to the second floor. Hutch tapped lightly on the third door before pushing it open. “You guys ready to call it a day?”

Joe Hix, a tall black man in his mid-forties, turned from his position beside a boarded up window. “You bet. The Academy should teach a class in how to handle boredom.”

A rat raced across the room, adding to the heat and pressure that grated on Starsky’s raw nerves. “Is this the best you people can do?” He touched the dilapidated card table which held an old black telephone.

“Can it, man,” Alan Baker hissed. “We’ve been here since seven this morning and it’s been a long, hot, miserable day. At least you two get the night shift, when it’s cooler. You got any complaints, you can just stuff ’em.”

“Easy, buddy.” Hix stood beside his partner, a young white man with sandy blond hair.

“Where did you guys dig up this place?” Hutch wrote his initials in the layer of dust on the canvas cot, army green, that was set up in one corner of the tiny room. The only other piece of furniture was a folding chair that might have once matched the table.

“We’re not any happier about it than you are.” Baker stared at Hutchinson. “But the lab’s across the street, in that first floor storefront.”

“Somebody oughta condemn this place,” Starsky grumbled.

Hix’s hand was on the door knob. “Complaint department’s on the sixteenth floor.”

“Yeah? Where’s the john?”

“Wherever you feel like lettin’ it hang out.”

Starsky’s stomach tightened with anger. Hutch’s hand brushed his shoulder. “Calm down, we’ve got a job to do. Baker?”

“No action yet. The kid showed up about three, been down there ever since. No word on Kraft. No one’s seen him.”

Hutch took the field glasses. “Okay, see you in the morning.”

* * * * * *

Dust resettled as the door clicked shut. After a few minutes of silence, Hutch put the glasses down. “Shit, the kid could be making chicken soup for all I know.”

Suddenly the room was too small, too crowded, too hot. Starsky had to get out of it. “You keep an eye on the kid while I check out this piece of urban blight.”

“You’re in rare form tonight.”

“Heat’s gettin’ to me.” Yeah, in more ways than one. He had to find something to keep his mind off his partner’s body. Maybe he’d get lucky and the bust would go down tonight. With his luck, they’d be here forever.

The corridors were shadowed and spooky despite the heat and light of the late evening sun. “Christ!” He pulled frantically at the strands of cobwebs that clung to him, tickled his face. I don’t wanna meet the mother that built this thing.

Five floors of rotting walls, pungent with decay, were inhabited by monstrous spiders, man-eating rats and other creatures he refused to name. Outside, the air was hot and smoggy; he could taste the stuff. He wiped gritty sweat off his face.

Across the street the buildings were no better: a block of storefronts with connecting walls that were partially decayed. Starsky surveyed the littered alley and the storage area or living quarters above the stores. There was no apparent way to get to the second floor from outside. He worked his way around the remaining stores, locating possible entrances to the ground floor. He didn’t go inside where he could possibly alert the kid — and he didn’t want to go back upstairs. Slowly he rounded the corner, checking the street. It was empty except for the trash in the filthy gutters. He stayed out of sight of the lab front and returned to the apartment building. It was hot outside, but inside, without any air flow, it was stifling. He retreated to the open air, leaned against a grimy wall, and lit a cigarette.

Ah, Hutch. I wish I knew how to handle the way I feel about you. I wish we could talk about the other night, but like you said, one problem at a time. And I guess Vanessa and the money and everything are more important than us. Us! That’s a laugh. There’s never been an ‘us’, never will be. I’ve known that from the beginning. What is it they say about another time, another place? How about another gender? What’s the old saying? Never fall in love with a straight man…?

He ground out his cigarette, then shredded it to look like the other debris. Old habits died hard. He felt guilty about taking so much time, about leaving Hutch alone. But then, maybe it was better if he left Hutch alone. Better for Hutch anyway, he decided, as he climbed the obstacle-course stairway.

“Well?” Blues eyes pierced him. Blond lashes drifted down to lie briefly on tanned cheeks.

“Nothing.” Starsky gulped. Dear God in Heaven, I’m losing my mind. “Checked for back entrances, found bugs and rats.”

“Starsk? Are you all right? You’re flushed.” Hutch stepped closer. “Starsk?” Concern shone in his glance.

“Just hot.” Please, don’t touch me. I won’t be responsible. “I could use some water.” He was guided to the dusty cot.

“You better lie down. I’ll get some from the water can.”

The cot creaked, but supported Starsky’s weight.

“Here.”

The water was cool. Hutch’s hand wasn’t. Starsky relaxed when his partner moved back to the window.

“Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Closing his eyes, Starsky tried to get comfortable.

“Dobey called while you were out, wanted to know how we were doing. He said he’d send food over later. I thought you’d like pizza.”

“Yeah.” He yawned.

“Why don’t you grab some sleep? I’ll yell if I need you.”

“Okay.” Maybe this time he wouldn’t dream.

“I’ll call you when the pizza gets here.”

** * * * *

“Ummmm.”

“Starsk.” Warm breath on his face. “David.” Fingertips sliding down his arm, leaving cold chills in their wake. “Starsk.”

His name was a love chant, the song of a siren. Come to me. Take me. His body tensed. No!

Hutch was kneeling beside the cot. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Food’s here.”

Starsky opened his eyes. Closed them fast. Even in the dim light he could see that Hutch’s mouth was too near, the lips slightly parted; he could feel warm breath on his face. Starsky’s stomach knotted. He was not going to survive this night.

“C’mon, pizza’s here.” Hutch didn’t move.

“Pizza?”

“Yeah. Pepperoni and mushroom.”

Trapped. If he moved, Starsky knew he could never get by that mouth. “We’d better eat it while it’s hot.”

“Yeah.” Still not moving.

“Well, are you gonna let me up?”

The blue eyes didn’t waver.

Hutch, don’t. Pushing the man away gently, he fled to the opposite corner, but the room was too small and Hutch filled it too full.

Unable to stand still, Starsky grabbed the field glasses and stared through the small hole in the large piece of plywood. “So what’s our suspect been up to?” He refocused the glasses and watched the kid pour blue liquid from one test tube into another.

“Not much. Could be distilling gin.”

Starsky chuckled. It helped to laugh. “No, too blasé for today’s kids.” He turned to face his partner. “Remember when we had to sneak cigarettes?”

Hutch laughed, and the world was right side up again. “Yeah. Does that make us old?”

“Guess it does.” Starsky opened the pizza box. “Too bad we can’t have beer.”

“Yeah, but Dobey did send you a gallon of root beer.” Hutch produced a Styrofoam container. The cold, sweet stuff washed down the hot pizza and the hot night. Somehow, it helped to know there were people in this world who cared about him. He stationed himself in the chair so he could see the lab, then propped his feet on the rickety table and sipped his root beer. “I’ll watch for a while. You get some sleep. Maybe Kraft’ll show before morning.”

Hutch’s hand rested on Starsky’s shoulder. Lingered. “Yeah, okay.” There was something else, something in Hutch’s eyes, but there wasn’t enough light to see clearly. It flickered, then was gone.

* * * * * *

Ten forty-five. The only sound in the room was Hutch’s quiet breathing. Across the street the lights went out. Starsky watched as the kid locked the door and walked south. He rounded the corner and was lost from sight. Starsky called in, reported his observation and lit a cigarette. Inhaling, he settled back for a long night.

Vietnam 
Tuesday 3 October 1967

Jungle darkness.

Unnatural quiet.

Early morning chill.

Starsky burrowed deeper into his pillow as a gentle hand caressed his ass while he chased an illusive dream. A sharp slap dissolved the images completely. He bolted upright on the cot when a hand fondled his cock, darkness covering the action and his response. Nathan. Starsky smiled.

“Time to get up, Davy. We gotta rescue a fuckin’ desk-bound general and his joy-riding staff.”

“I am up.” Starsky thrust into the hand that rested in the junction of his thighs.

“Not now, lover boy, we have work to do. And a long way to walk.”

The thought of persuading Nathan otherwise crossed Starsky’s mind, but when the man said there was work to do, he meant it. He swung his feet to the floor. Christ, I hate this place. “What time is it?”

“Four-thirty. I want to be on the trail by first light.” Nathan lit a cigarette, the orange glow bright in the pre-dawn blackness.

Starsky reached for his pants and pulled them on. They smelled of mold. He longed for the smell of coffee. Freshly ground and served in a ceramic mug. And the morning paper. L.A. Times. In L.A. “So, who’s this general? Worth saving?”

“Probably not. The stupid jackass managed to crash his plane twenty miles behind enemy lines. He and his aides crashed — not shot down, mind you, but crashed — behind enemy lines.”

“Army or Air Force?” He took Nathan’s cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“Army general, Army aides, Air Force plane and flight crew.”

“So why us?” He buttoned his shirt, then reached for his boots.

“Colonel Greene said HQ told him that General Williams would look impressive to the VC. They would not know the SOB was just sight-seeing and they’d probably hang onto him for trading. I understand we’ve got something of theirs that’s worth at least a general. That should give us time to get him out. After all, we’re the best team in the whole fuckin’ army.”

“He important enough to bring out alive?” Starsky had visions of dragging a fat-assed general through the jungle, and he didn’t like the idea. Non-combat personnel were dangerous.

“The colonel says Williams has important friends. He’s only got one star, but that still makes him a general. And brown-nosing in D.C. makes interesting bedfellows.” Nathan dropped an arm around Starsky’s shoulder and kissed his ear. “Speaking of which, it’s gonna be a while.”

“Yeah.” They stepped into the early morning chill. Starsky wondered what he’d ever done to deserve being sentenced to this place. The camp was silent and dark, not even any sign of life from the mess tent. That meant breakfast on the trail and no coffee. Goddamn cold crap out of a can, not fit for human consumption — but he’d gotten used to it. “What’s this General Williams doing here anyway?”

“Inspection tour. You know, these paper pushers use the tax payers’ money for a wild excursion to the Orient, then go home and tell the press what a fucked-up war this is.”

The rest of the team, all Laotian, was waiting at the north gate. Not a gate, really, just an exit in the barbed wire fence that separated this piece of local real estate from the rest of the local real estate. Starsky said a proper good morning to the three men, then checked his field pack. Since Sam, he had refused to know these men other than professionally. He learned the proper pronunciation of their names and used formal address when speaking to them. In eighteen long months here, he’d picked up enough Laotian to survive, become familiar with the strange customs of this country, and, most importantly, learned how not to care about anyone. Except Nathan.

Nathan completed his check of supplies, field packs, and weapons. “Ready?” he asked in Laotian. From this point they’d speak only when necessary, and never in English. Alien sounds could give them away. And that meant death — or worse. Starsky shuddered, shouldering his equipment and supplies.

He watched the others disappear into the thick vegetation, then followed in his turn, spacing himself approximately six feet from the man in front of him. They crept through the forest like Indians tracking Red Coats, each covering their own sector. The jungle: underbrush, booby traps, bugs, filth and slime. And over all, like onions on liver, the stench of death. He’d never gotten used to it and he knew he never would.

In one section of his mind he carried his dreams — his key to sanity. And those dreams included Nathan. He smiled. Nathan had become the center of his universe, his reason to live. Starsky sighed and double checked his area. He wanted a future with Nathan, not just dreams, but he didn’t quite know how such a future would work. When he tried to crystallize his fantasies, they dissolved into smoke.

“Nathan, will we ever go home?” The afterglow of loving had the same jungle stench as everything else here. “Will we ever have just one night to spend as lovers? You know, satin sheets — hell, I’d take just clean sheets on a real bed — and champagne?” 
But Nathan never talked about tomorrow:
“Love me, Davy, now.”
“Move your ass, boy. Now.”
“Put the bullet between his eyes, Davy. Now!”

Maybe Nathan had no past, no future — only the present. Starsky sighed again, shifted the weight of his backpack, then checked his rifle. He watched the eastern sky layer pink on blue. If the present was all Nathan could offer, then Starsky would accept it. Cherish it. But his heart ached a little at the thought. He still wanted a future.

* * * * * *

Vietnam 
Wednesday 4 October 1967

Damp stinking clothes encased Starsky’s body and mold sealed his feet to his shoes as he made his way through thick vegetation. To be alone in this wet hell was worse than any death.

To his left, a village — or what was left of a village — smoldered. If he looked, he knew he would see contorted, mutilated bodies. Death. It lurked in every tree, in every rat hole. He did not look, just like he refused to see a dead cat on the road. If he did not acknowledge the death, he did not have to think about it.

He had long since given up remembering the village names. He had tried once, but before he could learn what was where, the people were gone. Or dead. This was a way of life he had not known existed before he had flown in from Okinawa and landed at Cam Ranh Bay. God, what an experience. The horrible smells — and that had been the food. Palm oil and spices he had never seen. It smelled like fried dog shit. At least the beer in the NCO club had been American. It had sustained him for several days. Da Nang had been worse — and by then he had learned to handle the odors.

Still, nothing had prepared him for the inland jungle. To reach Hell, turn left at Da Nang, South Vietnam.

The jungle was forever; it had no end, no beginning. There was no way out. He put one foot in front of the other and watched the ground, the air, and the trees because his life depended on it.

Lunch out of a can, a leak behind a tree, a sip of tepid water from his canteen. He sat against a tree and reached for a pleasant memory. McDonald’s. Those beautiful golden arches. Cheeseburger, fries, chocolate shake.

* * * * * *

Vietnam 
Friday 6 October 1967

It took two days of walking before they found the plane, or what was left of it. It had been dismantled; all that remained was scrap metal and two bodies with no identification heaped in a pile like garbage. Scorched blue uniforms indicated they were probably the pilot and the co-pilot. There were no signs of torture. The crash had killed them. Lucky bastards.

The odor of decay filled his nostrils and coated his mouth as he helped bury two more casualties. Somewhere along the line he’d lost count of how many people he’d buried. A body rots fast in this stinking heat.

With a light tap on his shoulder, Nathan pointed to a tree and took the collapsible shovel. Starsky sank onto the damp ground, grateful for the reprieve. He drank more stale water from his canteen and lit a cigarette.

How many more dead bodies do I have to find? He watched Nathan bend and straighten, digging the shallow grave. The lean, hard muscles rippled as he worked, perspiration streaking the back of the jungle camouflage shirt and running into the pants. How many more holes in the ground before one of them is for you? Or me? Or both of us? Is that our future?

He finished his cigarette and went back to work. An eternity in Nathan’s arms. Would that be so bad?

There were still more bodies to find — or maybe, just maybe, living, breathing men. Five of them: A general, two colonels, a major and a goddamn green second lieutenant. Probably a ninety-day wonder. All a man needed to be an officer in this army was a college degree. No wonder it was a fucked up war.

Searching his area, Starsky pushed a large vine out of his way. He hoped he would not be the one to find the others. Heat and humidity did terrible things to a body. Arms and legs came off at the slightest touch. Please, not today. Let someone else find the poor bastards.

Ahead, a clump of trees bordered a small clearing. Crouching low behind it, he slipped his pack off, then aimed his rifle. An enemy soldier emerged from a cave and walked into the clearing. He tracked the man’s movements through his gun sight. Three more soldiers joined the first. Their conversation was too low and too fast for him to follow. A fifth man came from the far side of the clearing, dragging a man in U.S. Army uniform. The American’s eyes were closed, and blood trickled from his mouth. An oak leaf dangled from his shirt collar. It was impossible to tell if he was alive or dead.

Not daring to move, Starsky waited several minutes before signaling his team. An answering whistle told him Nathan was near. Within minutes, answering signals announced that the team had surrounded the area. Starsky aimed his gun at the nearest enemy soldier.

At the sound of a two-toned whistle, five rifles fired. He watched the five V.C. drop to the ground, then he waited.

Quiet.

Jungle stench of death.

A heartbeat. A lifetime.

Nathan moved first. Once in the clearing he raised his arm. Starsky joined him. Together they examined the American major. He was alive. Barely.

“Put the bullet between his eyes, Davy.”

More graves to dig.

The other members of the team started to work. Starsky and Nathan headed for the cave entrance, Starsky on the left. He held his breath for a silent count of three. In, down, rifle level and steady.

A ridiculous picture as a scared young blond sat against the moldy wall holding an older man’s head in his lap. The silver head rose, locked eyes with Nathan. Two voices spoke in unison: “Who took the series in ’61?”

Bitter laughter from both men.

“General Williams? The Yankees, sir.”

“They were unbeatable that year.”

…Hot dogs and soda pop…Roger Maris…sixtieth home run…an autographed ball….

“I’m Captain Wise, sir. This is Sergeant Starsky.”

“I am truly glad to meet you gentlemen. This is my aide, Lieutenant Hutchinson.”

Hutchinson was blond, blue eyed, pretty — and scared shitless. Obviously nobody had prepared him for the realities of Hell.

The general’s voice was weak and strained. “Report, Captain.”

“Five V.C. dead, sir. And an army major, dead.”

“Colonel Boucher and Colonel Stevens are also dead. I don’t know where the bodies are.” Williams closed his eyes. “The pilot and co-pilot are also dead.”

“I know, sir. We found the plane. We’ll find your other officers and verify. Your condition, General?”

Starsky didn’t want to hear the answer. There was enough blood on his hands.

The general took a deep breath and looked directly at Nathan. “Both knee caps shattered. Some internal injuries….” He choked, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The rattle of death. Hutchinson cradled the man, rocking him. After a moment, Williams could talk again. “Standard procedure, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Somebody get the lieutenant out of here.”

“Starsky.”

Where? Out of the cave, out of the jungle, or out of the war? It didn’t matter. Starsky shouldered his rifle, took four steps, helped the general into an upright position. Getting Hutchinson to his feet was a problem. The man was a zombie.

“Sergeant, I can’t walk.” General Williams paused for breath. “You can’t carry me out. Please have Lieutenant Hutchinson file my recommendations for your unit.”

Nathan stood very still. “General, you have to give the order, sir.”

Starsky had Hutchinson on his feet.

“Goddamnit man, can’t I die in peace?”

“Yes, sir. Starsky never misses, sir.”

Nathan took Hutchinson’s arm and shoved the man out the cave. A whisper brushed Starsky’s face. “Put the bullet between his eyes, Davy.”

Starsky raised his rifle. The general closed his eyes, resigned, his pain obvious. “I’m sorry, sir. God, I’m sorry for all of us”. He closed his mind. Pulled the trigger. One more dead cat in the street.

He let the quiet hold him for a moment then reached for the General’s identification. Along with the military issued tags was a small silver disk engraved with the words JACK OFF. It was worn and smooth, as if the General had carried it a long time. Overpowered by the stench of death, he ran from the cave, dropping to his knees in the mud. It never got any easier.

Nathan’s hand rested on his shoulder. No words were necessary. They’d all been said.

The metal cut into his hand and the stickiness of blood mixed with stale sweat. His stomach tightened. “I hate this fuckin’ place.” Plain English. He didn’t care who heard him.

“Of course you do. We all do.” Quiet Laotian words whispered in his ear. “I need his dog tags, Davy.”

Starsky broke free and threw the general’s identification to the ground. Shiny metal dulled with blood and jungle mud.

Hutchinson’s mouth hung open. His fair skin was blotchy, his eyes wide and unfocused. Nathan pushed him back inside the cave.

“You…you…you just killed…a United States General!” Hutchinson stumbled, fell to his knees.

The Laotians had removed the bodies from the immediate area and were searching for the missing Americans. Starsky surveyed the activity, then followed Nathan inside the cave.

“Yes, Lieutenant, we did.” Nathan’s voice was soft. “That’s standard procedure here.”

“No one can order that.” The voice was too calm.

“Lieutenant, in the normal world that might be true, but here in this place and time, the rules are different.”

“Now just a minute–” the young voice was rising with fear.

“No, you just a minute. We’re behind enemy lines, remember? Shut up before you bring the entire North Vietnamese army down on us.”

“I want to speak to your commanding officer,” Hutchinson stated loudly.

The sound echoed like a rifle shot; the print of Nathan’s fingers glowed red on Hutchinson’s face. The man’s eyes registered shock, then anger. “Striking a fellow officer is a court-martial offense.”

Nathan shoved Hutchinson to the ground and placed his foot on the man’s back. “Shoot him, Davy.”

“No.”

“Davy?”

“No. There’s been enough killing for one day.”

Nathan whirled to face him. “Now.”

Hutchinson rolled over, sitting up with a leaf clinging to his left ear, in the grimy mud, terrified. The blond hair hung limp around the pale face. The wide blue eyes were the color of a clear lake on a spring morning. The mouth…no, he wouldn’t…he couldn’t. Blondie shouldn’t even be here. And he shouldn’t have to die here.

“He’ll get us all killed.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your responsibility, Davy. Trouble from him and I’ll shoot you both.” Nathan glared at Starsky, then stalked out of the cave.

Defiance. It was a first. Starsky froze for a moment, shaken by his own actions, then turned to the young lieutenant. Taking the man’s hand, he studied it. The long, beautiful fingers were stained with blood, probably the General’s. These hands should never deal with death. They weren’t designed for taking life. His flesh tingled at the idea of what pleasure these hands could bring, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

All the filth of the jungle seemed to have settled on Hutchinson. He didn’t wear it well. You shouldn’t be stained like this. Starsky removed his own shirt, found a tiny clean spot and dampened it with precious water from his canteen. He washed the beautiful face, careful of the cheek that would be bruised. Their eyes met, and Starsky knew then there could be something very special between them, knew also the other man knew. In another time, another place, another lifetime he could love this man.

Hutchinson tried to speak, then reached for Starsky’s canteen. “Just a swallow.” We’ll have to share. Nathan won’t give me anything now.

“He can’t,” Hutchinson sputtered.

“Nathan? Can’t what? Kill us? He makes the rules here.” Starsky capped the canteen, then looked directly into the blue eyes. “Do you want to stay alive? Do you want to get out of here? I mean, really want to?”

Hutchinson nodded slowly.

“Okay. Two rules. No sound, no noise, no nothing after we leave this cave. And you do exactly what I say, when I say or we could all end up dead.” He paused and looked outside. “I won’t sacrifice those men to save you. Do you understand?”

“No. I don’t understand anything.”

“Will you do exactly as I tell you?”

“Do I have a choice?” The glance was suddenly wary, assessing.

“No.”

Nathan reappeared and glared at the two of them. “All right, let’s move it. We gotta walk twenty miles, most of it behind enemy lines. Do you think you can handle that, Lieutenant?” Cold brown eyes glared at Starsky. “He makes one mistake and it’s your ass.”

Starsky wondered what it would take to appease his lover. He looked at Hutchinson and wondered if Nathan mattered. But when Hutchinson was gone — and the man would leave — and the nights were long and empty, and there was no place to go, Starsky knew he’d return to Nathan’s arms.

* * * * * *

Hutchinson walked in front of Starsky, stumbling over his own feet at every irregular rise in the terrain. If there were any booby traps, he would find them — the hard way. Nathan had a right to worry. This greenhorn could get them all killed.

The sun set and Nathan didn’t stop. Night in the jungle could be deadly; it was impossible to see trip wires or pits or large tree roots.

Hutchinson tripped, sprawling, and didn’t get up. End of the line? Starsky shrugged, pulled the man off the trail and propped him against a tree. The lieutenant leaned back, limp, his hands folded in his lap, the blond hair bright even in the darkness. A beacon. A target. Christ, I should have thought of that before.

Dropping to his knees, Starsky touched Hutchinson’s hands. No response. Slipping his hands through layers of decaying vegetation, he found damp soil and mud — slimy, stinking jungle mud: Two parts blood, one part sweat, terrific fertilizer. It glued his fingers together and nauseated him. This place would be a fucking rose garden a hundred years from now.

A single rifle shot sounded in the distance. Reality.

“Lieutenant?” Cautious whisper. Nothing.

Mud dripping from his fingers, Starsky reached again for Hutchinson’s hands. They were ice cold. He took a deep breath, then found a pulse. It was weak and thready. The dog tag chain rolled through his fingers. He pulled the tags up and read: Lieutenant Kenneth Hutchinson, E87936755, Catholic, Blood type B-. Not much to know about a person.

Dropping the tags, he grabbed fresh handfuls of mud and spread the jungle filth over the blond strands. Sacrilege. What are you doing here?

A cricket chirped, the sound louder than the rifle shot.

Starsky hated the grime that defiled this man. He envisioned the two of them bathing in a clear mountain stream, the sun haloing that shiny hair, a fish splashing water over the golden skin. His body responded to the thoughts. He shoved them away. No time for fantasies.

He trailed his fingers over Hutchinson’s face and throat, spreading mud. The pulse fluttered under his touch, matching his own.

“What the hell are you doing?” The voice was choked.

Blood rose in his cheeks as Starsky leaned forward, placed his mouth close to Hutchinson’s ear and whispered, “Trying to keep you alive. You have to get up — we can’t stay here.”

Soft coo of a night bird.

After answering the signal, he pulled Hutchinson to his feet, and placed a muddy finger across the man’s lips. The lieutenant nodded.

A sharp whistle.

Taking Hutchinson’s hand, as much to support the man as to comfort himself, Starsky led on the trail, all of his senses working overtime. The jungle was like any other place, once it had been explored. Vine-covered trails were the same as small, winding streets, and caves like deserted warehouses. Knowledge alleviated some of the fear, but Starsky was relieved when he realized Nathan had pushed forward so they could have the protection of this cave.

Nathan waited just inside the entrance, glanced at Starsky briefly, then left. First watch? Not your usual procedure. But then neither is moving after dark.

Guiding Hutchinson to the rear of the cave, Starsky settled the lieutenant against a rock wall. He slipped off his field pack and rubbed his stiff shoulder, then dropped to the dirt floor. Weariness washed over him. Three days on the trail felt like three weeks. He wanted a shower, hot food…and Nathan. Starsky stretched his arms and sighed. He might as well wish for the moon.

At least he could be thankful for the cave and the protection it offered. It could be a death trap if the man out there was careless, but Nathan was on guard so Starsky relaxed and accepted the opportunity for rest.

He wondered how much sleep Hutchinson had had in the last three days. Starsky covered his face with his hands. In this place dreams were worse than reality. Decaying, stinking bodies with blackened holes for eyes stalked him. They kept coming and coming by the thousands…there was no end to those dreams. He would wake up, drenched in sweat and jungle dampness. Then he would search out Nathan, to find strength and comfort in the man’s arms. Starsky let his breath out in a sigh. Nathan. Always Nathan.

Would Nathan always be there?

“Can I please have some water?” Opening the canteen, Starsky helped the lieutenant hold it. “Easy. That’s all we have.” It was a strange feeling to be in the role of protector. “Think you can eat something?”

The man shook his head.

“You should try.” Starsky rummaged in his pack, but didn’t find anything appealing. “Will you tell me what a greenhorn, desk-bound paper pusher is doing behind enemy lines?”

“Can we talk? I mean, is it safe?”

“I’ve broken more rules of the jungle today than in all the months I’ve been here. Guess one more won’t hurt. Might even help.” Both of us. “But we have to talk quietly.”

“I can’t believe this is really happening.” A shaky hand touched Starsky’s face, his hair. “Please tell me that you didn’t kill the General.” Hutchinson’s voice cracked on the last word and his eyes filled with wild panic.

Starsky extracted an aluminum packet which contained a crumpled joint and matches. Another rule, but who the hell is counting? He turned and faced the cave wall. Leaning his head almost to the ground and covering the brief flare with his hands, he lit the cigarette and inhaled the pungent smoke.

“We’ll talk about the general in the sunlight. Not now.” Cupping the cigarette in his hands, he passed it to Hutchinson. “Here. Like this so it can’t be seen.”

“No. I don’t like that stuff. It makes me sick.”

“If I had booze, I’d give you that, but here we gotta be practical. Booze’s heavy, grass isn’t. You need this now.” Hutchinson took the joint. “So do I.”

Starsky watched him, then looked at the entrance. “No, no. Hold the smoke longer. It’ll help you relax.” He took another drag and prayed the stuff would work its magic.

They shared the silence and the company. Starsky exhaled into his cupped hands, then breathed the spicy smoke. He relaxed and remembered those times when he had shared the pain and anger and horror with Nathan. And then they would make love. For Hutchinson, there would be no such relief — at least not in this place and time.

Eyes closed, Starsky reviewed his favorite fantasy: the honeymoon suite of the Waikiki-Hilton…a fountain of champagne…white satin sheets…and Hutchinson. No! He shook his head. Not Hutchinson. Nathan. Always and only Nathan.

The last of the joint — best part. Hutchinson’s fingers touched his as they exchanged the butt the final time. For a moment Starsky couldn’t speak. He shredded the remaining fragment of ash. “How long since you’ve had any sleep?”

“Don’t know. Maybe forever.”

“Well, Lieutenant, tomorrow’s gonna be one hell of a long day. Close your eyes and don’t think — about anything. If you don’t sleep, you’ll drop from exhaustion and I can’t carry you.”

“Would he really shoot me?”

“Yes.” Both of us.

Hutchinson leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, shivering. Starsky hoped the man would try to accept reality, but maybe he would be better off if he did not.

Nathan came in and settled at the opposite side of the cave as one of the Laotians went out. Starsky checked the time, assuming he would pull last watch. Nathan was as silent as the jungle. Jungle quiet was different from city quiet. Here the noises that should have been natural were overpowered by man’s war. But with the help of a little weed, the right company and some good hard fucking, even the turmoil was muted. Don’t think about anything…bad advice, Starsky old man. Think about Nathan…tall, lean, hard…fuckin’ beautiful. And ready. Christ, he’s always ready, always good. Long, probing fingers that knew his body inside and out. Strong sensuous mouth that drove him crazy. Hard cock jutting proudly from dark curls, darker than his own. If only Nathan would let me fuck him. Just once.

Starsky’s pants were tight across his groin. He was trying to ease the constriction when Hutchinson stirred, crying out. Starsky covered the man’s mouth with his hand, pulling the blond head into his lap. The lieutenant whimpered, his body tense and sweaty, then he tightened his arms around Starsky’s thigh. Starsky moved his hand away from the trembling mouth and stroked Hutchinson’s back. Nightmares. In this goddamn place, they were a part of life.

“Sshh. It’s all right. Relax. Sleep. That’s good.” A practiced litany. Starsky had decided it was part of basic training: How to save your sanity with lies.

But it worked.

This time was no exception. Hutchinson’s body relaxed, his breathing slowed. He rested his head on Starsky’s leg; the grip on Starsky’s thigh remained an iron band.

Trapped. Starsky settled back against the wall. He was trapped by the young — ha! he’s no younger than me; it just seems that way — lieutenant whose hand should have been anywhere else, trapped by his love for Nathan and by the forces that had condemned him to this war.

Flare of a match across the cave. Nathan? Another jungle rule broken. But Nathan never broke the rules. Starsky stared at the orange glow, then touched the face of the man sleeping in his lap. A lot of things have happened that have kept you alive. I hope you’re worth it.

The point of light disappeared and darkness reigned. Closing his eyes, he knew he should sleep, but knew he couldn’t. He tried to see his lover, but the man had been swallowed by the night. Only the blond remained. Both men tormented his thoughts.

 

Los Angeles, California 
Wednesday 15 October 1973

Starsky stood by the window and stretched, staring out into the deserted street. “Hutch?”

No response.

He glanced at his sleeping partner, then went in search of a suitable john. A cat shrieked its displeasure at his choice and fled into the night. Stupid cat. How the hell was I supposed to know this spot was occupied?

Leaning against the door frame, he lingered over a cigarette. At least he wasn’t cooped up in the car with Hutch. This little room was confining enough, he didn’t think he could handle anything closer.

He poured the last of the root beer into his Styrofoam cup, wishing it was coffee. Long, dull nights needed coffee. It went well with the memories that drifted to the surface.

* * * * * *

Vietnam 
Sunday 8 October 1967

Home?

No.

Never that.

But the camp was a familiar place, somewhere Starsky could rest without fear of the enemy, the jungle, or the awesome responsibility he, and every member of his team, carried each time they went out together. This trip had been worse with the added burden of Hutchinson. But now it was over. He felt the weight lift from his shoulders as he pointed the lieutenant in the direction of the officers’ quarters, hoping the man had sense enough to find the shower and a bed, and he headed to the shower himself.

Hot water pounded his body, removing the surface mud and slime. But jungle water couldn’t wash away jungle stench. And nothing washed away the blood. “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood from my hands?”

The water turned cold and he grabbed his towel. He stared at his hands, imagining the blood, remembering the friends and the enemies dead by his hand. His reflection stared accusingly at him from the cracked, mildewed mirror. How many dead, Starsky? How many more? He closed his eyes and saw a vision of Lieutenant Hutchinson. At least your blood won’t be on my hands.

Nathan appeared behind him, image swimming in the distorted glass. He took Starsky’s hand, and laid two red capsules on the palm. “Take them, Davy. I need you functioning, not dead on your feet.”

Throwing the pills across the room, he yelled, “Fuck off, you lousy sonuvabitch. All you need me for is the dirty work. ‘Put the bullet between his eyes, Davy,’ and then to make it better you roll me over and fuck me through the floor.”

“Guilt’s a little strong this time, isn’t it?” The sarcasm was obvious.

He whirled to face Nathan. “Don’t patronize me you goddamn cocksucker. What would you know about guilt? I do the killing. All of it.”

“Don’t raise your voice to me, soldier. This is still the army.”

“Terrific. Pull rank. Your bars over my stripes. Well, Captain Wise, you can have my fuckin’ stripes. I don’t give a shit if you have stars on your shoulders. I’ve had it up to here,” Starsky waved his hand over his head, “with you and your fuckin’ orders and this fucked up place….”

“He really got to you, didn’t he?”

He hated the sneer on the handsome face. “Who?”

“Don’t play coy. It doesn’t become you.”

“Fuck off!”

“You broke a lot of rules for that lieutenant. You could have gotten us all killed.”

“I’m not stupid — or careless. And Hutchinson didn’t deserve to die. He followed orders — he kept his mouth shut and did as he was told. Goddamnit! He walked out of the fucking jungle, I didn’t carry him. I only did what I had to do. If you think I endangered the team, then you transfer my ass out of here. I can be packed in five minutes.”

“The colonel’s gonna want to know why I let Hutchinson walk out. He’s a risk.”

“Why don’t you tell him the truth: that you don’t have the guts to do your own killing.” Starsky jerked his pants over damp skin. Then caution ignored, he jeered, “Or you got another reason he should die?”

* * * * * *

Starsky’s eyes were dry, and his mouth felt like cotton. His body screamed for rest, but his mind refused. He wandered around the camp like a zombie, unable to sleep, unable to eat. Mike Saunders had provided a flip-top box of Marlboro’s still sealed in cellophane. He clutched the treasure in his hand. Maybe he could smoke them before the jungle dampness contaminated them.

On the west side of the camp was a secluded area where a huge, dead tree had fallen in front of a living one. It was his favorite spot because it was a place where he could be comfortable and alone. He perched on the dead tree with his back against the live one. Slowly, he pulled the little gold tab that undid the cellophane, ran his thumb across the slit in the red box and pushed the lid open. Under the foil stood twenty round white filters. The mark of civilization.

The cigarette had the rich taste its bouquet had promised. Starsky leaned into the tree, closed his eyes to think about the Marlboro man, wild and free and in control of his destiny. Maybe the good fairy would go through the camp and change all the Camels to….

“Colonel Greene, I want to file a formal protest. Sir, do you know what happened out there?” Hutchinson’s voice cut through the evening air like an ice storm.

“Yes, Lieutenant. I know exactly what happened.”

“Aren’t you going to do anything about it, sir?” Hutchinson shouted.

“If it were possible, I’d recommend the team for a medal. It isn’t.”

“A medal? But Colonel–”

“Lieutenant Hutchinson, I assume you didn’t make this much noise on the trail. Captain Wise would have shot you on the spot. I’m still not sure why he brought you back.”

“Wasn’t Wise, sir. It was Sergeant Starsky.”

“Then if I were you, Lieutenant, I’d get down on my knees and thank the man for saving your life. I know Dave Starsky and he took one hell of a chance. Navigating enemy territory is tricky business. We don’t usually waste time on useless personnel.”

“Colonel, I resent–”

“Let me explain some facts of life, Lieutenant. Wise and his team were assigned to rescue a general — you know, a guy with stars where you have that shiny little bar — if possible. If not, Wise was to follow the general’s orders. You were there, Lieutenant. What were General Williams’ final orders?”

“Are you telling me that he actually ordered his own execution?”

“What shape was the general in?”

“He couldn’t stand. They shattered his knee caps. It was awful, sir. He was bleeding inside….”

“What choice did he have?”

“Jesus Christ!” A door slammed.

“Welcome to Vietnam, Lieutenant.”

In the jungle silence Starsky lit another cigarette. He watched the smoke curl upwards to mingle with the dust in the rays of the setting sun. The jungle didn’t have real sunsets, where a man could sit and watch the sky change color as the sun grew into a large orange ball, then slipped into the ocean. No, here the sunsets were obscured by the trees. The light came at lower and lower angles until it just disappeared.

Starsky missed the sunsets. He’d never really enjoyed this particular splendor of nature until his first summer in L.A. He’d sat on the beach, complaining that the water was on the wrong side of the land. The west was all backwards — but then Californians did a lot of things differently. He liked California and he liked sunsets, especially September sunsets.

A twig snapped. Automatically he rolled off the log, using it for cover, and ground out his cigarette.

Hutchinson stopped and stared with empty blue eyes.

“Lieutenant?”

Deep gasping breath. “Am I going crazy?”

Settling back on his log bench, Starsky lit two cigarettes, “No, you’re not going crazy.” Hutchinson stepped forward and extended his hand. But maybe I am. Starsky’s fingers burned as they touched Hutchinson’s. The man was clean, his blond hair shining in the soft light. The full mouth quivered and Starsky wondered how sweet the lips would taste. He watched the lieutenant’s cigarette and sighed. The light shifted, the effect of the sun on gold lessening.

Hutchinson sat down on the other end of the log. “What are we doing here?”

“Not going to Canada.”

“Huh?” Hutchinson studied his hands, then looked up. “Why didn’t you go to Canada?”

“I guess I wasn’t bright enough to understand what this place’s all about.”

“Would you run if you could choose again?”

“I guess that would depend on if I knew how rotten this place really is. I thought the guys who went to Canada were cowards. Afraid to fight. Maybe they were just smarter ‘an me.” The cigarette burned too fast. “You?”

“I got bored with school. Philosophy’s a crock of shit. Law’s the same thing — they’re both designed for the rich. Nothing was interesting or challenging, so I quit going to class. Can I have another one of these?” He ground out the butt. “What I really wanted to do was bum around Europe for a while and get my act together. There was this …ah…girl….” He stared off into the jungle and was silent.

Starsky lit two more Marlboro’s and waited. “So what happened?” Hutchinson took the cigarette, letting his hand linger. But when Starsky searched the beautiful blue eyes, there was no sign of interest or intent.

“Dad bought me a place in O.T.S. James Robert Hutchinson, attorney-at-law. Power behind the throne in New Mexico politics, or at least he will be when he finishes building the Republican party in his own image.”

Starsky winced at the hostility.

“Oh, I had to promise to finish school — sometime.” He waved the cigarette. “I’ve decided to pursue a career in basket weaving. Could be a real asset in a place like this.” The laughter was bitter. “This place. I wasn’t supposed to be touched by this war. My mother fucked half the staff on Capitol Hill to secure me a safe job in D.C. ‘Course I was supposed to make something of myself.” He shredded the white filter, sprinkling it over the ground. “Politics suck!”

“Why did the army send you over here? We’re not supposed to get untrained personnel.”

“I volunteered.”

“You what?”

“The way General Williams described it, it sounded like a pleasure trip. Honolulu, Tokyo, Saigon, Bangkok, Manila…we were supposed to fly over the fighting, make a report. No big deal. There was no mention of crashing in this fucking jungle.”

“Don’t suppose he planned it that way.”

“No, I guess not. He’s dead and….” Hutchinson concentrated on a dry leaf, then he crushed it. He watched a spider crawl over the log. “How could you? I mean…you just….”

Starsky opened the flip-top box. Closed it. He fumbled in his shirt pocket, pulled out a small bundle of aluminum foil and unrolled it. The joint was damp, but he was able to light it. He handed it to Hutchinson.

“Your answer to everything?”

“Maybe. Lieutenant, have you ever killed a man?”

“Of course not.”

“Then don’t pass judgment on something you don’t understand.”

“Do you understand it? The killing, I mean. Do you…?” Hutchinson looked at the ground. “Do you…get off on it?”

“No, Lieutenant, I don’t understand. I only know that here, in this place, I have to take lives — of friends, of enemies, of people like General Williams. I hate it. I hate the killing — I hate this whole fuckin’ place.” The sweet smoke tickled his nose, burning deep in his lungs, finally blurring his pain.

“Why do you do it?”

“Because it has to be done.” He thought about an endless highway littered with dead cats. He shook his head and took the joint, greedy for its solace.

“You could stop. Run away.”

“Yeah. And spend the rest of my life running. I can’t live like that — I want a future, and that means staying here for a while longer.”

“Do you think you can handle the ghosts?”

“Don’t know. I might even be one of ’em.” Starsky laid his hand over Hutchinson’s, ignoring the resulting sensations. He forced himself to look directly at the lieutenant. “Get out. Get out of this place before it destroys you.”

Rustle of leaves. “Davy?”

“Here.”

A hand settled on his shoulder, a kiss touched his ear. “Thought I’d find you here. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Can’t.”

“I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have been so rough on you.” Nathan took the joint from Starsky’s fingers, inhaled deeply.

“What’s with you two?” The startled gasp was only a whisper.

“Thought you’d be gone by now, pretty boy.” Nathan’s voice was full of contempt.

“Nathan, please.” Starsky took the man’s hand, squeezing his fingers.

Hutchinson stood and glared at Starsky. “Now I know why you don’t run. I thought you were a man — you’re just a lousy cocksucker!”

Nathan’s hand cracked across the lieutenant’s face, knocking him to the ground. Nathan’s voice was quiet, laced with anger. Deadly. “How many of those pretty little girls did you fuck while you were in Saigon, Lieutenant? I’ll just bet they fell all over themselves trying to please you. They’re fascinated by pretty blond German gods–”

“I’m not German–”

“Are you a real blond?” He reached for Hutchinson’s pants. “One way to find out–”

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me!” Hutchinson was on his feet, hands balled into fists. “You goddamn, fucking queer.” He swung wide; Nathan threw a punch to the abdomen. Hutchinson dropped to his knees.

“Every time you fuck one of those pretty little girls–” Nathan stood over the lieutenant, finger punctuating each word, “–you leave a pretty blond baby behind. Do you know what happens to blonde blue-eyed Oriental girls, Lieutenant? They’re half-breeds, outcasts. By age thirteen they’re out on the streets fucking soldiers, trying to stay alive.”

Nathan stepped away, draping an arm around Starsky’s shoulders. Hutchinson was still. “If Davy and I wanna fool around, what business is it of yours? If I fuck him seven times a week, what difference does it make? We don’t hurt anyone. We don’t leave a trail of babies. Think about it, Lieutenant. How many fourteen year olds have you fucked?”

Hutchinson struggled to his feet.

“Get out of here, Lieutenant. Stay away from me and stay away from Davy. Just get the hell out of here before you fuck up anything else.”

Stumbling toward the camp, Hutchinson tripped over a tree root. A sharp pain sliced into Starsky’s heart. “Why’d you have to do that?”

“I don’t like him.” Nathan’s fingers caressed Starsky’s shoulder. “He’s been nothing but trouble since I first laid eyes on him. His type always are. Goddamn Aryan superiority.”

“I don’t think that’s–”

The rest of it was lost as his head was tipped back, his neck stroked, his mouth captured. Slipping his arms around Nathan, Starsky dissolved into the heady sensations. Time stood still. Reality faded.

Pulling Starsky up, Nathan undid the shirt buttons and ran his fingers through the dark chest hair. He traced lightly over an exposed nipple and it hardened under the touch.

“C’mon lover, I’ll take you to bed. Make you forget all about Blondie, the war, everything. Everything ‘cept me. Don’t ever want you to forget me.”

“I love you.” Starsky pulled himself up and swayed into the strong arms, accepting another kiss. “Love me.”

* * * * * *

Vietnam 
Tuesday 10 October 1967

Starsky woke, opened his eyes a tiny slit, and stretched his body. It was the wrong thing to do. The pain intensified, traveling down his legs, up his spine, wrapping around his heart and bringing tears to his eyes. He reached out, wanting the comfort of Nathan’s arms.

He was alone. It was a privilege he rated for being so good at his job.

The room inside the canvas walls was a barren cell, green on drab olive green. It offered little protection and no comfort. The cot was small and confining. He closed his eyes, longing for a real bed and Nathan’s arms. He needed a little love now because he hurt, inside and out.

Nathan could be so gentle at times, his fingers and mouth knowing exactly how to please. It had been that way last night–in the beginning. Nathan’s mouth had worked its magic, pulling the soul from Starsky’s body.

And then….

And then something had changed. Nathan changed — into a brutalizing beast. Starsky hated his lover in that mood. Punishment and possession at the same time. He moved again, trying to relax into the pain. There was a terrible emptiness in him now. If only Nathan was here, it would be all right. A few soft words, an I love you, maybe, would make all the pain bearable.

But the words had not been spoken.

The hard cock had rammed into his body again and again until Starsky had lost count, and the pain had ruled supreme. For those endless hours he had hated his tormentor. And now, alone, that hatred mingled with agony.

He pushed himself off the cot, sweat stinging the long welts across his back and down his legs. Rummaging through the contents of his battered foot-locker, he found the bottle of pills, and swallowed two red capsules with a gulp of tepid water. He curled into a ball on the tiny cot, and closed his eyes and his heart.

It was late afternoon when he woke again. The pain had not eased. Forcing his feet to the floor, he made himself stand. It hurt.

In the shower he stood motionless under a stream of tepid water, hoping it would have the power to soothe the aches. It didn’t work today. As he toweled his hair, sunlight seeped through a crack in the wall and touched a puddle of water, creating a rainbow. Hutchinson. Starsky wanted to see the man who somehow managed to carry sunlight in his smile.

* * * * * *

“Gone? Gone where, Colonel?”

“Airlifted out early this morning. Medic’s report listed high fever, delirium, numerous mosquito bites. Probable diagnosis: dengue fever.”

Starsky wasn’t sure if the Colonel had said anything else. He fled from the office, refusing to think, refusing to acknowledge the pain in his heart. He stumbled over to his log, sat down, and began to strip leaves from a twig.

The sun slipped between the trees, lower and lower, the muted light softening the jungle. He wanted to cry; he prayed to be able to cry. He hoped it would take away the dull pain in his chest. The light shifted, reflected off something…the Marlboro box from last night. Twenty four hours. An entire lifetime.

The package had been trampled and buried, covered with mud. Inside, among the crushed remains, were two cigarettes nestled together — stained and wet, but undamaged. The paper was white where they had been touching.

Starsky laid the cigarettes on the log, staring at them until the sunlight was gone.

 

Vietnam 
Thursday 12 October 1967

“Davy.”

“Here.” His depression deepened. Nathan was his only hope, his only reason for living — and right now he didn’t like Nathan very much.

“You haven’t eaten in two days.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t want you to get sick.” The gentle touch on his arm made Starsky shiver.

“Please, just leave me alone.”

“But the cook made this especially for you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Sergeant, I’ll make it an order if I have to.”

Anger boiled inside of Starsky. He hadn’t hated Nathan this much since the first time, when Nathan had violated him. “You always fall back on that, don’t you? If you can’t seduce me, then you order me.” Starsky twisted away, his back to the man. “Now’s not the time for either.”

“What do you want from me, David?”

He turn to faced his lover, unable to see clearly in the deepening gloom. “To hear you say ‘I love you’….” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe just to wake up in your arms. I wanna sleep with you, Nathan, not just get fucked by you.” The weight of the world descended on his shoulders. He had no energy left to stand.

Strong arms caught him as he fell, easing him onto the log, supporting his back against the tree. “You could have made your point without the dramatics,” Nathan whispered softly.

“Sorry. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

“You’ll be all right after you’ve eaten. Here, open your mouth.” Tiny bits of cheeseburger were poked into Starsky’s mouth.

“Did you cook this?”

“Who, me? You know I don’t know one end of the kitchen from another.” Another morsel. “I just supervised.”

“It’s good.” And so was the service — pieces of food lovingly placed in his mouth. When it was gone, he licked all traces from Nathan’s fingers.

“Better?”

“Yeah.” Starsky smiled.

“Good. C’mere.” Nathan settled himself onto the log and spread his legs, inviting Starsky to sit. He straddled the log, leaning back until his head rested against the broad chest and Nathan’s arms encircled his waist.

“Ummmm.” Teeth nibbled at Starsky’s ear. Together, they sat in silence, Starsky enjoying the quiet. The war went away for a little while.

Nathan’s arms tightened and Starsky stirred. He barely heard the soft question. “What’d you see in him?”

“Him who?” He snuggled deeper into Nathan’s embrace.

“That blond lieutenant.”

Starsky closed his eyes, fighting the memory of Nathan’s abuse. “Nothing really.” Please, let it go.

“I know you better than that, Davy. You were aching for him to fuck you.”

“He’s beautiful. Okay, so I turn on to beautiful blonds.” Starsky sighed, attempting to pacify his lover but the mood was shattered, his dream gone. “He’s straight.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Bright golden fantasy eclipsed by dark reality. He patted Nathan’s hand. “Besides, he’s gone. Neither of us will ever see him again.”

The silence was no longer peaceful, and Starsky could feel another storm brewing. He didn’t think he could handle another emotional scene, physically or mentally. He turned his head so that his mouth was just inches from Nathan’s. “I love you. Just you. No one else.” He sealed his pledge with a kiss.

Starsky squirmed as his lover’s hands roamed his body, then covered his crotch. He pushed into the contact, drowning in the images: Nathan holding him, rocking him, loving him, fucking him. It wasn’t enough. “No!” Starsky pulled free of the embrace and stood up, clinging to a tree trunk. “I can’t.”

Nathan was beside him again, hands running down his back, across his ass. Starsky flinched at the memory and its pain. “What’s happening to us, Davy?”

“I’m not sure there is an us. Is there?”

“You have to ask?”

“After last night I have to ask a lot of things. You could have stayed with me. I think I could handle the pain if you’d sleep with me.”

Arms encircled Starsky, pulling him away from the safety of the tree. “Does it mean that much to you?”

“Yes.”

They stood silent, bodies pressed together. Starsky felt the fire kindle in the pit of his stomach, spreading to his fingers and toes. He hated it, and Nathan, and the jungle. He hated the spasm of pain that shot through his body as Nathan lowered him to the damp ground. Nathan’s mouth touched his lips and ears, and neck, Nathan’s fingers undid shirt buttons and stroked his chest.

“Nathan, don’t,” he pleaded. “I can’t. Don’t you know what you did to me last night?”

“I won’t hurt you. Davy, please trust me. Let me make it better.” Nathan’s hand tugged at his zipper. “Relax. You want me. You always want me.”

Nathan pulled the cock free, stroked the shaft, ran a fingertip across the head. “Yes.” Starsky arched into the caress. I always want you. I always will. He gasped as Nathan’s mouth took him, the clever tongue outlining ridges and valleys. Trembling, Starsky tangled his fingers in Nathan’s dark hair. Gentle fingers massaged his balls, but strayed no further.

Afterwards, Nathan stretched beside him, licking his lips. “Good?”

Starsky raised his hand, stroked the man’s face. “Always.” He drifted, happy, as he settled into Nathan’s warm arms and let sleep overrule the problems that lurked in the back of his mind.

Damp. He tried to roll away but the wetness surrounded him. Warmth. “Ummm.” He snuggled into it. His hair was stroked.

“You awake?”

“Ummmm.” Don’t wanna be.

Fingers tugged at his short curls. “C’mon, lover boy, I better get you home. Can’t let you sleep on the damp ground when you’ve got a bed.”

Twining his arms around Nathan, Starsky buried his face in the man’s chest. “Rather stay here with you. Forever.”

“I know.” Starsky’s chin was lifted and he tried to see clearly in the jungle gloom. “But there’s a war on.”

“Fuck the war,” Starsky muttered.

“I’d rather fuck you.” Starsky cringed and Nathan hugged him tightly.

“Why won’t you let me make love to you?” The question escaped before he could stop it.

The silence was deadly.

“I could make it so good for you,” Starsky purred. “I could start with my tongue, eat you alive…touch you, explore you, make you fly….” He leaned over to nibble at the cock that bulged against the khaki.

“No!” Jumping to his feet, Nathan left Starsky sprawled on the ground. “I can’t, goddamnit! Leave me alone.”

Standing, he faced Nathan, making no attempt to contain his bitterness. “What’s the matter big man, you think my fuckin’ you makes you queer? Your ass ain’t no different than anyone el–” An open hand branded his face. “That make you feel more like a man? Can’t you get off unless you hurt me? I hate you, you lousy son of a bitch.” Trouble is, I love you too. He took a step towards the main part of the camp; Nathan gripped his arm. Without breaking stride, Starsky tore himself free. “Go to hell!”

Restless in the sticky jungle night, Starsky cuddled a pillow to his chest and indulged in fantasy. Beautiful blond man, gold and blue and white, pinioned on the bed, begging to be loved.

He hugged the pillow tighter. Right now an impossible fantasy was better than his bitter reality.

* * * * * *

Los Angeles, California 
Wednesday 15 August 1973

Impossible fantasy. Starsky watched his partner sleep. The man was sprawled across the small cot, one arm covering his eyes, the other resting on faded denim. Beautiful man. From the first moment I saw you I knew you were special. I wanted you so badly I hurt. I still do. But I couldn’t have you then and I can’t have you now. Our friendship and partnership is more than I ever dreamed we could have when you disappeared from my life as fast as you appeared….

* * * * * *

Vietnam 
Saturday 14 October 1967

One fifteen.

One sixteen.

One seventeen.

The time crawled and staring at his watch didn’t help. He moved the cot around the small tent, then put it back. This war was either hot or cold. He was either running himself to death or doing nothing. The long stretches of boring nothingness were the hardest to handle because there was so much time to think. These days he had too many things he didn’t want to think about. Like Nathan.

Starsky had not seen the man for three days. If anyone, including the colonel, knew where Nathan was, they were not talking. He shrugged his shoulders. Maybe it was just as well. Maybe he and Nathan did not have any reason to see each other anymore.

The unmistakable sound of a helicopter interrupted his misery and he brightened. Mail. Maybe a box of cookies from his mother. He wondered if she knew how much those cookies meant. Probably. She was a very perceptive lady. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, sugar… Maybe a box of sugar cookies cut in his favorite shapes and decorated with colored frosting. He smiled in anticipation.

The chopper was full; four men returning from various points and assignments. A young Negro grabbed his arm. “Hey man, good to see you again.”

“Yeah, Reed. Nice to see you back. How’s the arm?”

“Good as new.” Allen Reed moved his left arm in a large circle. “Wasn’t as bad as I thought. The MASH unit fixed me right up.”

“Too bad it didn’t get you outta here.”

“Yeah,” Reed sighed. “But dead’d get me out, too. I’d just as soon walk out of this stinkin’ place.” He draped his arm around Starsky’s shoulders. “How about some coffee?”

“Sounds good. Let me check the mail, maybe Ma sent cookies.”

While he waited for the mail to be sorted, he thought about his home in the middle of noisy New York. The smell of food cooking was constant: Italian, French, Jewish in a wild mixture. Holiday smells were the best. Added to that were the family sounds of people he loved. His father carving the roast or making a toast. His mother in her cotton dresses and bright aprons. Those sounds and smells and feelings had carried him through some rough times, but none as rough as now.

* * * * * *

In the mess tent, Starsky spooned more sugar into his cup. It helped make up for no cookies.

“Do you know a guy named Hutchinson?” Reed asked.

“A lieutenant?”

Reed nodded.

“Yeah. He was here for a few days. Why?”

“He came to the hospital while I was there. He was feverish, kept screaming your name.”

“What happened?”

Reed lit a cigarette and studied if for a moment. “I’m not sure. The doctors didn’t seem to be able to handle him. He fought the IVs, broke the restraints and screamed your name over and over. Some time during the night they carried him out of the ward.”

“Where’d they take him?”

“Don’t know. Nobody seemed to know anything. This morning I asked a couple of the nurses and they acted like they didn’t even know what I was talkin’ about. Strange, you know?”

The cup fell from his hand, dripping coffee over the table and onto his pants.

“Hey man, you know what’s goin’ on?”

“No.” Of course I do. So that’s where you’ve been. He bolted from the room.

The log and tree retreat was both heaven and hell: Shared moments with a blond god; last fight with Nathan. Shredding a Camel, he spilled the tobacco onto the damp ground, then buried his face in his hands. Oh, God, why did I think I could save you? I should have killed you when I killed General Williams. Would have saved us all a lot of grief. And no matter who did the job, your blood stains my hands. He raised his head. Why, Nathan? To punish me or clean up after me?

He stared into the thick ceiling of leaves and watched the light filter through the branches. There was a piece of the sun he would never see again. Of course Reed couldn’t find Hutchinson. The man was dead. The U. S. Army couldn’t afford to let Hutchinson live, a brash young lieutenant who knew too much about too many things. If he breathed one word of the Williams incident–

“Davy?” The sound was as warm as the hand that stroked his neck.

Jumping from his seat, he faced his lover. “You goddamned son of a bitch. Why you? Couldn’t they find anyone else — or did you volunteer?”

“Volunteer for what?”

“Don’t give me that shit. Where have you been for the past three days?”

“Da Nang. Davy, what’s wrong?” Nathan held out his arms.

“Go to hell! That’s where you sent Hutchinson.”

“Are you telling me he’s dead?”

“As if you didn’t know. What do you do with a man suffering from high fever and delirium? A little potassium chloride, maybe? Quick, effective and damn hard to trace. Or do you just dump the body in the jungle and lie to the family–”

The blow knocked him to the ground. “You’re hysterical, Sergeant. Now shut up and listen to me.”

Nathan extended his hand. Starsky looked at it, then pulled himself up. “You…didn’t do it?”

“No, Davy. I didn’t do it. I didn’t even know he was dead. I was in Da Nang — I had to give a complete report, including Hutchinson, to General Peterson about the Williams incident. Davy, oh Davy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to find out.” He tipped Starsky’s head back and caressed his chin and neck.

“Why did he have to die?”

“You know the answer to that.” Fingers combed Starsky’s curls.

“You don’t think there’s a chance he’s still alive?”

“Davy, don’t. Please don’t do this to yourself, don’t tear yourself apart. Hutchinson was a casualty. You tried to defy Fate and you lost. You can’t save the world.” Strong arms wrapped around Starsky and breath fluttered against his ear. “What made him so special?”

Starsky shrugged, then pulled Nathan closer. “Don’t really know. Except he was so beautiful. One man shouldn’t have that much beauty.”

“Maybe that’s why he had to die.”

“It’s just not fair.”

“There’s no such thing as fair.” Nathan rested his chin on Starsky’s head. “I’m sorry, Davy. Sorry about the whole mess.”

“Yeah.”

Silence settled between them, comforting and companionable, an atmosphere they had not shared since Hutchinson and General Williams. Starsky sighed. Had Nathan known what the outcome would be? Of course he had. Starsky, you stupid fool. You knew, too. You just refused to admit it. He pulled back and studied Nathan’s face. What about you? How much of what you did on the trail and right here in this spot was to protect me? And how much was jealousy? He would never know. He would never understand — not Nathan nor the war nor his part in it nor why Hutchinson had to die.

All he knew was the warmth of Nathan’s arms as they held him and the soft breath against his neck. He closed his eyes and allowed the false euphoria to weave its web around him. Maybe the love he felt for Nathan would ease the pain of guilt and loss. Maybe Hutchinson’s kind of beauty was always destined to die young. He tried to forget, to let it go but the few memories and the golden fantasies remained.

“Davy.”

Starsky looked up and accepted the invitation of Nathan’s parted lips. “Ummmm.” He floated in the blissfulness. “Love me. Please.” Make me forget.

“Not here.” Nathan tugged at his arms. “Let’s go.”

“What’s wrong with here?”

“Nothing. But I’ve got a better place.” Nathan kissed him again, then led the way back to camp.

Your tent? Not usual procedure, but then usual procedure seemed to vanish when Hutchinson appeared. He followed Nathan to his quarters, a small green canvas enclosure with no personality. There was nothing in this room that made it Nathan’s. It was stark, bare, almost cold.

“Gotta surprise for you, Davy.”

Starsky turned his mouth for a kiss. Nathan’s lips brushed his lightly. He closed his eyes, hungry for more.

“Look at me.”

Paper rustled, tickling his nose. He opened his eyes. “What?”

“A three day pass. Three days in Da Nang. Just the two of us.”

“A three day pass?! How? Why?”

“We earned it, Davy-boy. There won’t be any medals for us — General Williams isn’t something we can ever talk about.” Warm arms surrounded Starsky, pulled him close. “So I asked the colonel for a pass. I kinda hoped it would help you forget this mess.”

Starsky shivered and Nathan’s embrace tightened.

“Death is a part of life, Davy,” he said softly. “You’ve learned that, but I don’t think you’ll ever accept it.”

* * * * * *

Vietnam 
Friday 20 October 1967

The evening air was jungle damp and tasted of sea spray and spicy Oriental food. Starsky pinched fried mee from the warm banana leaf in his hands and stuffed it into his mouth. He wondered why he’d ever shunned this terrific stuff. He looked around the market place, watching people go about their lives in the midst of chaos. He decided that when the war was over, he’d come back and see Asia as a tourist.

A light tap on his shoulder. Nathan snagged the last of the mee and tossed the leaf to the ground. “Here. Local beer.”

The bottle was cold in Starsky’s hand, the liquid soothing to his throat. “This is good.”

“And powerful. It’s not Colorado kool-aid.”

Happiness bubbled through Starsky. I love you. He lifted his head, lowering his eyelashes. “Why, soldier, are you trying to get me drunk?” He giggled and drained the bottle.

Nathan tousled his short curls. “Of course not, beautiful.”

Blushing, he looked up. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?”

“You are the most beautiful man in the whole world. C’mon, I want to show you something.”

The Da Nang Holiday Inn. Three floors of rooms that housed more lice and rats than people. Most of the glass was gone from the windows and the walls held only the memory of paint.

In the middle of the room stood a double bed, its tall bamboo headboard splintered and cracked. The faded batik spread had a large hole on one side. Curtains, stirring in the humid breeze, might once have matched the spread. Paper was peeling behind the rickety bureau. It was the most beautiful room Starsky had ever seen.

He eased onto the edge of the bed, expecting the mirage to fade. When the surface proved solid underneath him, he smiled. He lifted the spread and found clean sheets. He felt warm all over.

A champagne cork popped.

“Where’d you get that?”

The wine sang as it touched crystal. “I’ve got friends.”

Fondling the wine glass, he watched the tiny bubbles rise to the surface. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

Nathan’s finger outlined his lips. “Making you happy.” The finger moved to his ear. “Am I succeeding?”

His heart skipped a beat. “Yes, but….”

“But what?”

Starsky rose and moved to the window, peered out into the night. “It’s too perfect and I feel–” A flush stained his cheeks. “Nathan, I feel like a virgin.”

Nathan rarely laughed, but when he did it was like a shaft of sunlight in a storm. He laughed now. “Davy, oh my Davy — you were a virgin. C’mon. Sit with me on the bed. Our bed.”

Glass in hand, Starsky relaxed on the faded spread, the texture like fine silk. The champagne tickled his nose. He looked up at his lover. “It’s good.”

“Only the best for you.” Nathan dropped to his knees. Nathan. Their eyes met and held, then he took Starsky’s glass and sipped the golden liquid. “I’ve wanted this since I first saw you. I wanted to seduce you and make love to you. You deserve more than the floor of a cave or a second class hotel.” He pushed Starsky gently down onto the bed.

A real bed. It squeaked, and he giggled. His body trembled with indefinable happiness until Nathan turned the laughter into passion.

* * * * * *

In the darkness, their bodies still joined, Nathan’s rapid breathing was hot on Starsky’s shoulder. When the panting slowed, it was replaced by hesitant words. “This…this should have been our first time, Davy. I wanted everything to be perfect for us. I should never have raped you.” Shaky breath. “You did not deserve to be treated like a whore. But…I thought it was the only way. I hand-picked Sam, you know, trained him, taught him English — knowing I’d lose him to this fuckin war.”

Starsky drew a shaky breathe and waited.

The confession continued. “I used you and I’m sorry. I wanted you, needed you, so I took you. All I ever wanted was to love you.”

Stroking the strong hands, Starsky let the words wash over him, erasing the pain of their first coupling. He knew and understood so much more now — about himself and about the man he loved. He accepted what Nathan offered: these words, this bed, this night. Our wedding night.

Vietnam
Saturday 21 October 1967

The first rays of sun touched his eyelids, the life giving force warming his blood. Starsky snuggled deeper into the bed, and Nathan’s arms. He smiled. The world had taken on new color, new life, new hope. The arms tightened and a hard cock pressed against Starsky’s thigh. He wiggled. He could still feel Nathan’s presence inside his body. Soon I will make love to you. Show you the pleasure of being loved, being possessed. I want you screaming for me the way you make me scream for you.

Nathan’s eyes opened. Beautiful eyes, chocolate brown, heavy with sleep. The sunlight added specks of gold. “Morning, lover.”

“Morning. Welcome to the first day of the rest of our lives.”

“Happy?” Lips grazed Starsky’s.

“Happier than I’ve ever been. I can handle anything as long as I start each day like this.”

A sharp rap at the door interrupted the idyll. “Captain Wise?”

Nathan sighed and pulled away from Starsky. “Yes.”

“Message for you.”

“Just a minute.” Nathan pulled on his pants and went to the door.

Starsky could see a Marine uniform through the slightly opened door. He realized the soldier must be able to see everything, know what he and Nathan — he pulled the covers up around his neck and felt color climb in his face.

The door shut quietly; Nathan turned to face the bed. He laughed — the same soft intimate laugh from last night. “You’re incredibly beautiful when you blush.”

Starsky looked at his hands, then held out his arms to Nathan. “Doesn’t it bother you when people see us, know….”

“Davy, there are a lot of things in this world that bother me, but loving you isn’t one of them. And I do love you.”

“I love you, too. So what’s the bad news?” Starsky asked as Nathan opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper.

“Shit! Honeymoon’s over. We gotta be back in camp by tonight. New assignment tomorrow.”

“It’s not fair,” Starsky protested.

“I know.” Nathan reached for him, then stopped. His face grew dark, his eyes unfocused.

“Nathan?”

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”

Starsky pulled him close. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I guess the war’s finally catching up with me.”

Hutchinson’s face floated across Starsky’s mind. Truly the most beautiful man in the world. Or he had been. “Yeah.” His heart twisted. “Do we have to leave right now?”

Pants dropped to the floor. “No.”

* * * * * *

Los Angeles, California 
Thursday 16 August 1973

“Starsk?”

The sound of Hutch’s voice brought him back to the present. “Yeah?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Huh?” Dropping his feet to the floor, he straightened in the chair and lit a cigarette.

“I just asked where you’d been.”

“Right here. Hutch? Are you awake?”

Shoes thumped on the floor. “Have been for quite a while.”

“Why didn’t you get up?” I’m glad you didn’t. When you’re asleep, I can look at you, dream about you, and you never know. But when you’re awake — I just don’t know how much longer I can control myself.

“Didn’t seem to be any reason to. Besides, it was so quiet and peaceful — I hated to disturb you.” Hutch moved to stand beside the chair. “What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” Trapped. Hutch was too close. The window was a reasonable escape. Starsky stood and stared through the hole at the pink tinged sky.

He felt the heat from Hutch’s body as the words were a soft breath on the back of his neck. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He pushed himself against the wall, trying to quiet his screaming body. For one moment he thought he felt Hutch’s arousal — but, no, it couldn’t be.

“Gotta take a leak.” And Hutch was gone.

Starsky leaned his forehead to the wall. Pain tightened around his heart. Hutch couldn’t possibly want him as a lover. And he was so afraid of loving Hutch as much as he did. There was just no way he could stand to watch Hutch die in his arms — and there was no way he could stand having Hutch so close and not having him. One night, the kisses, the — No, I won’t think about it.

* * * * * *

The early morning heat promised a miserable day. Baker and Hix were late, which probably meant the traffic was backed up all the way to San Diego. He glanced at his watch; Hutch had been gone forty-five minutes. Staring at his overflowing ashtray, he refused to count the butts. They were both smoking too much. They had to quit. Soon.

Peering out the window, he wondered if the man was consciously aware of teasing him — the closeness, the looks, the caresses — but he decided it was just a reaction on Hutch’s part to the strain of Vanessa’s actions. And his own sensitivity to his partner.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

Turning, Starsky saw eyes the color of a clear mountain lake. He swallowed, refusing to think. “S’okay. Find anything?”

“Not really. I circled the block — saw Hix and Baker.” Hutch stared at the ashtray and shrugged. “I’ll buy your breakfast. How about IHOP? Maybe some chocolate chip pancakes.”

Stubbing out a half-finished Marlboro, Starsky managed a smile. “What’re we celebrating?”

“Oh, I dunno. How about the first Friday this week?”

Starsky relaxed. “Okay. You drive.”

“Sure. Would you mind if I use the car today? I’ve got to see my lawyer.”

“Okay.”

“And then sign the lease on the cottage. I know you don’t approve–”

“Hutch–”

“No, it’s okay. That place just feels right to me and I have to go with that.” He paused and looked down. “Will you help me move when we’re through with this stake-out?”

“Of course I will.”

“I’ll drop you at your place. You look like you could use some rest. Why’d you let me sleep all night anyway?”

“Wasn’t tired. Am now though.” He yawned and stretched. “Wish Hix and Baker would get up here.”

“Take it easy, they’ll be here in a minute.”

* * * * * *

He had waited nervously while Hutch showered and changed, then left for his appointment. Having the man here was driving him crazy, but he could not bear the thought of Hutch any place else. Finally, he had collapsed on the bed, finding the sheets cool and inviting as he slid between them. Dear God, please let me sleep.

Darkness.
Thick, complete, total.
Surrounding him
covering him
concealing him.
Smooth rock beneath bare skin.
He cannot move.
Links of gold chain around his wrists
arms pulled over his head.
Links of gold chain around his ankles
legs spread wide.
Open.
Exposed.
He waits.
Firelight gleams
glitters
glows.
Approaches .
They surround him.
Tall, beautiful, golden.
Goddesses. 
      Hutch. 
He is here.
Tall, beautiful, golden.
Perfect.
      Hutch.
Blue fire burns at His throat, in His eyes.
Those eyes look at him, touch him, caress him.
The god smiles.
He is engorged, blood-filled, bursting.
A mouth touches him, then another, and another.
They feed upon him, the goddesses.
The god watches.
      Hutch.
He cannot tear his eyes away from the burning ones.
He looks upon the face of his god and screams.
The life-force flows from him.
Essence of being taken from him.
He closes his eyes.
Hutch.
The altar is cold beneath him.
Sudden warmth touches his skin, his legs freed, his knees spread wide.
Open.
Exposed.
The god kneels between, golden hairskincock burning, burning.
He is touched, prepared, explored.
        Hutch.
No, god, no you can’t I can’t let you do this–
He twists away, knocking his god to the floor, rough cold stone cutting into his back.
He falls.

The pain intensified as his feet touched the floor — carpeted floor. The sheet was twisted around his ankle and his hands still gripped the headboard. The room reeked of sex.

* * * * * *

He huddled against the passenger door of his Chrysler. He had not even offered to drive. His hands were unsteady and his eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he was afraid to close them. Christ, love was a miserable disease. He hoped someone discovered a cure before it became terminal.

“You look lousy.” Hutch maneuvered the car through the evening rush hour traffic. “You’re not comin’ down with the flu, are you?”

“No, heat’s gettin’ to me. Hope it breaks soon.”  Something’s gonna break soon and I think it’s gonna be me. Starsky lit a cigarette and handed it to his partner.

“Do you know how much I hate these things?”

Pushing in the lighter again, he watched the cigarette in Hutch’s mouth. It was torture and he could not look away. “Apparently not enough to quit.”

“Yeah.” Hutch stared at the traffic. “Shit. I thought we’d have time for a decent dinner tonight, but I guess we’ll have to grab something on the run.” Hutch waved his burning cigarette, “If these don’t kill us, our eating habits will.”

“Yeah, if our job doesn’t do it first.”

Traffic crawled. Hutch glanced sideways. “You really do look lousy.” He dropped his hand to Starsky’s knee. “Didn’t you get any sleep today?”

“Couldn’t.” Starsky breathed again when Hutch removed his hand.

“Need some help?”

“Huh?”

“Sleeping? Do you need some help to sleep?”

“No. Sometimes I get like this. Happened in Nam. When Seconal doesn’t work, nothing does. It’ll pass.” Yeah, it’ll pass when I can put five thousand miles between us.

The freeway looked like a parking lot. “Lack of sleep makes a cop sloppy. I don’t need a partner who makes careless mistakes.”

Starsky looked up. Hutch’s eyes were twinkling with mischief. “Yeah, well….”

“Your words. Tuesday night, remember?”

Was it only Tuesday? “It’s not the same thing.”

“Oh.” The van in front of them stopped suddenly and Hutch slammed on the brakes, throwing them both forward. “Shit!”

“What’s holding up this traffic?” Starsky grabbed the mike. “Zebra Three to Control. Traffic report please. Westbound on the Santa Monica near La Cienega.”

“Checking.” A neutral female voice.

Starsky drummed his fingers on the dashboard, watching Hutch rub his neck.

“Traffic control reports an over-turned produce truck two miles west of La Cienega Exit on the Santa Monica. Do you wish alternate routing?”

“No thanks. We’ll exit at La Cienega. Please notify Captain Anderson’s office of the delay.”

“Roger, Zebra Three.”

“Shit.” Starsky placed the Mars light on the car roof. “We’d better move over now or we’ll never get out of this circus.”

“Yeah.”

Starsky sank back into the seat. “I need a vacation.”

“That sounds good. Where should we go?”

“We?” That’s all I need, to be more alone with you.

“Yes, we. As in us. Fishing maybe.” Hutch moved one lane right.

“Yeah, maybe.” Starsky slumped lower. “Sounds terrific.”

“We’ll go just as soon as my divorce is settled. Okay?”

“And Dobey gives us the time off.”

“Yeah.” Hutch eased onto the right shoulder, driving slowly.

“What did your lawyer say?”

“Not much. Nothing can happen until I’ve been served. He suggested I make myself scarce for a while, make Vanessa work a little harder.” They reached the exit and merged with the other traffic. “Good thing we’re not in a hurry.”

* * * * * *

Hix and Baker had the audio equipment set up, large reels which sat stationary on the machine that covered the card table. Hutch picked up the headset. “When did we get the court order?”

“This morning — for all the good it will do.”

Hix flipped a button and Hutch listened through the earphones. “Nothing.”

“You got it, man. A big fat nothing. All day long. No sign of the kid, Kraft, or the Easter Bunny.” Joe Hix paced the floor.

Putting the headset on the card table, Hutch turned off the machine. “Okay, we’ve got it.”

“Do us all a big favor and wrap it up tonight.” Baker opened the door.

“You’ll have to forgive my partner,” Hix snickered. “He’s afraid of spiders.”

Hutch looked at Starsky. “Mine, too. Great big men afraid of itty bitty bugs.” Starsky couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“C’mon, Al. I wanna beer.”

“Better make it two,” Starsky suggested. “The freeway’s a zoo.”

“Isn’t it always?” Hix shut the door.

Weariness took its toll and Starsky sank heavily onto the chair. “Christ, I’m tired.”

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Hutch gripped his shoulder; the sudden flash of electricity was painful. “Maybe it’ll be a quiet night.”

No. Bad idea. Jumping to his feet, he headed toward the door. “I’m gonna check out that building while it’s empty.”

“How?”

“Should be some way in from the alley. I didn’t wanna try yesterday because the kid was there. Besides I can check out the operation and see if this thing’s working,” he pointed to the audio equipment.

“Illegal search, and besides, it’s already been done.”

“But at least we’ll know what the kid’s doing. I’d hate to think we’re wasting our time.”

“And if anyone shows up?”

“There’re plenty of places to hide.” Starsky thought about spiders and shuddered.

“Remember how kind and gentle Charlotte was,” Hutch teased.

“Never liked Charlotte much. Templeton’s more my speed.”

“You’ll probably run into him, too.” Hutch became serious. “Give me a signal when you get inside.”

“Use the field glasses. I’ll try to move where you can see me.” Starsky opened the door.

“Wish you had a receiver.”

“It’s not that important.” He was lost in the blueness of Hutch’s eyes.

“Starsk….”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“Yeah.”

There was no air moving as Starsky made his way around the building, across the street and behind the storefront housing the lab. He found a loose board over a doorway several shops down which put him inside the block of buildings. Slowly, he worked his way toward the lab wishing he had that receiver. After all, having Hutch’s voice in his ear made these assignments easier.

“Shit!” Starsky jumped as a crate toppled from a stack. He stood still for five minutes, waiting. Nothing. He walked cautiously, careful of each step. That kid could show up at any time.

The wall crumbled in his hand as he eased through a large hole. Bingo.

“Okay, partner, let’s see how good that equipment is. I’ll give you a running commentary on the layout in several voice tones.

“Looks like an old dry cleaners or something. Back part’s piled full of empty crates, cardboard boxes, junk. Looks like no one’s been in here in a while. No obvious access to the second floor.

“Across the middle of the store is a fence, you know, like in a pawn shop. Can’t find an entrance from this side. Looks like the only way in is the front door. It seems that Mr. Kraft would be smarter than that.

“Elaborate chemical set-up like the one in the coroner’s office. You know, bottles and tubes and curled glass. That kinda stuff. A fridge and some animal cages. Looks like a lab.”

A noise outside: Footsteps, whistling.

“Oops, company.” Starsky dropped behind an empty crate.

A key scraped in the lock. The door opened and closed. Cages rattled. “Sorry I’m late guys.” A young voice. “Had to stop by the library and the store.” The refrigerator opened, then closed. “I brought you a treat. Here. Now be good, I’ve got work to do.”

Peeking around the crate, Starsky watched the kid light a Bunsen burner and open a brown bottle. The sudden odor of rotten eggs brought tears to his eyes.

Starsky returned the way he had come, careful not to disturb anything. He stopped in the alley to catch his breath before returning to the small room.

“I’m glad you made it back.” Relief was written all over Hutch’s face.

“Me, too.” Starsky plopped down on the cot, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Christ, it’s hot. You get any of that?”

“Most of it. Couldn’t see you though.”

“Couldn’t get close to the set-up. It’s a strange arrangement for a drug factory. There’s no back entrance.”

“You’re sure?” Hutch picked up the field glasses and looked through the peep hole.

“Not an obvious one anyway. Maybe Kraft goes in for secret passageways.” Starsky wiped his face again. “We got anything to drink? I’m thirsty.”

“Just water.” Hutch picked up the phone. “I’ll call for room service. What’d you want for dinner?”

Starsky yawned. “Don’t care. It’s too hot to think about food. A six-pack’d be nice but I’ll settle for root beer.” He lit a cigarette and watched a roach crawl across the floor while Hutch talked on the phone.

“I ordered Chinese. Somebody’ll bring it by later. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll hold down the fort.” Hutch adjusted the headset and draped the field glasses around his neck.

Grinding out his cigarette, Starsky stretched out on the cot and covered his eyes with one arm. It shut out the light, but not the heat or — the memories. He squirmed, trying to get comfortable. He couldn’t afford to sleep, not with Hutch this close and another dream could be disastrous. Find something to think about.

 

Mendocino, California 
Monday 9 September 1968

Not Nathan.

Or San Francisco.

Mendocino.

Maggie Bradshaw refilled thin china cups with rich cinnamon coffee, then settled on the sofa next to her husband. Starsky sipped the hot liquid. It reminded him of Asia. He studied the room and the people in it — they were the most important people in his life right now. They knew his past and his present, all the secrets, and they didn’t condemn him. He tried to smile at Maggie but couldn’t. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

“David…” Roy cleared his throat, “David, we have to talk.”

“‘Bout what?”

“You. Your future.”

“I’m not sure I have a future.”

“We think it’s time you decided.” Metal clinked. “David, look at me.”

It was an effort, but he managed.

“Here, catch.” Keys landed in his lap. “One to the cabin in Mendocino and one to the Mustang.”

“Why?” Starsky touched the keys.

“David.” He paused, studied his hands. “David, you have to get your head together.” He dropped onto the sofa and took Maggie’s hand, “We’ve done all we can for you. Your doctors have done all they can. The rest is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re not living, you’re vegetating, floating around in a cloud of cigarette smoke and memories. You’ve got to decide what you want to do. I can get you into the police academy, but I can’t keep you there. In your present condition, they’d bounce you out on your ass at the first roll call.”

“I don’t know what I want.” Starsky watched the end of his cigarette.

“David, we only want what’s best for you.” She reminded him of his mother. “Use the cabin, spend some time alone, make your decisions. You can’t stay like this forever.” He was on his feet. Angry.

“You throwing me out?!”

Roy stared at him, eyes unreadable. “Yes.”

“David, we know what Nathan meant to you. It’s hard to lose someone you love.”

“But I….” Even now he couldn’t admit it.

“You did what you had to do. Now you have to live with it, or,” Roy was silent for a moment, “or maybe you should try to find Nathan.”

“Nathan’s dead.” And I…I….

“I know.”

“Are you telling me to kill myself?”

“Roy!”

“Hush, Maggie. David, look at me. What I’m saying is that right now you’re not living, you’re like some kind of zombie. Maybe you’d be better off completely dead.”

He used the stub of his cigarette to light another. “I’ve never thought about suicide.” I wonder if it would help.

“Maybe you should. And maybe you’d better think about living. A job, a future — someone else to fill the empty place in your heart.”

“No one can ever replace Nathan.” He was so cold and empty inside.

“So maybe you should think about a wife and kids.”

“Kids?”

Maggie was standing next to him now. “Think about a little boy with dark, silky curls and bright blue eyes. It would make your mother very happy.”

“I hadn’t thought about that either. All I wanted was to be with Nathan forever. To wake up each day….” He shoved the memory away. It hurt too much.

She took his hand and tugged at it. “C’mon, sit beside me.” He moved, but it was an effort, like walking through wet sand. Maggie grasped both hands and held on tightly. “We know how much you loved Nathan; we know how much it hurt to lose him. But now you have to think about you. Would Nathan want you to go on like this?”

Starsky blinked. “I don’t know what Nathan would want. Isn’t that weird?”

“No, David, it’s not weird.”

“Kids, huh? I never really thought about kids. Do you think my mom really wants grandchildren?” He turned to look at Roy, then back at Maggie. “Does she know about Nathan and me? Does she know what I did?” He tried to picture his mother, but the image was distorted: a pile of discarded cookie boxes, his untidy room at home, and a stern look on gentle features.

“No, David, she doesn’t know. We haven’t told her.” Roy settled beside Starsky. “She’s a very special lady and she loves you very much. But you must decide how much of this, if any, to share with her. Another decision you have to make.”

“I guess.” Starsky pushed himself off the sofa and walked to the fireplace. “You really think I should go away?”

“Maggie and I both think you should be alone for a while. Drive up the coast, see what’s happening in the world, spend some time with the ocean.” Roy slid an arm around his wife. “Decide whether you want to end your life or get on with it, whether you want another lover or maybe a wife and kids. David, a lot of gay men have found women who can love and support them.”

“Funny. I never really thought of myself as gay.”

Maggie’s eyes were loving. “How do you think of yourself?”

Starsky played with an ivy vine. “I’m not sure.”

“Some time alone might help you decide.”

“Yeah. When should I go?”

Maggie served herself more coffee while Roy poured brandy and handed one to Starsky. “First thing in the morning.”

* * * * * *

Los Angeles, California 
Thursday 16 August 1973

Maggie Bradshaw. Starsky shifted on the cot, then sat up.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“Gotta take a leak.” He stood. “Anything happening over there?”

“Kid’s playing with his toys. Talks to his animals occasionally. Nothing else.”

“Be back in a minute.”

Maggie. Of course. He should have thought of her before. If anyone could help him, understand him, it was Maggie. He’d never been able to tell his mother — could never find the words — but Maggie had known and accepted. He’d call her, maybe take her to lunch. They could talk and she could help him sort out his feelings.

Relieved, he went back to the room. Maybe now he could sleep for a while, if Hutch didn’t mind.

“Food’s here,” Hutch announced. “You hungry?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am. Did you get chopsticks?” Starsky rummaged through the white boxes.

“No. Use your fingers. I got tea. Don’t suppose you want any.”

“It’s too hot for tea. Did you get me any root beer?”

“Only you would drink root beer with Chinese food. Here. Why so cheery all of a sudden?”

“Just decided to take an old friend to lunch.” The chicken and almond melted in his mouth.

“Anyone I know?” Hutch licked his fingers.

“Maggie Bradshaw.”

“There’s the phone.”

“Okay, I’ll call her when we finish eating.”

* * * * * *

The phone rang seven times.

“Yeah?” Breathless male voice.

“Roy?”

“Yeah.”

“This is David…David Starsky.”

“David! Hello. It’s been a long time.”

“Well, you know, twelve hour shifts, keeps ya kinda busy, but I thought I’d give myself a break and take Maggie to lunch tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry David. Maggie’s in New York. She went to see her sister, planned on seeing your mother, too.”

Starsky’s heart dropped. “When will she be back?”

“Next week, Friday, I think. We haven’t seen you in much too long. Let’s do dinner as soon as Maggie gets back.”

“Sure. Next week.”

“David, I have to run. Next week for sure.”

A dial tone buzzed in his ear and he replaced the receiver slowly.

“Hey, buddy,” Hutch’s hand settled on his knee, “you look like you just lost your best friend.”

“Maggie’s in New York.” The fingers seared his skin through his jeans. He peered out the window, the light in the storefront the only sign of civilization. “I really wanted to see her.”

Hutch stacked up the empty white boxes. “Didn’t I hear you say next week? That’s not all that long.”

“Yeah.” Starsky’s mood was shattered. “Look, why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll watch for a while.”

“Okay. Sitting around a lawyer’s office isn’t the greatest way to spend the day, but don’t let me sleep all night.”

* * * * * *

Starsky watched the kid through the glasses. John McGuire. Male, Caucasian, sixteen. Five foot seven, one hundred forty pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. Didn’t say much about a person, too much like Army dog tags, but too often it was all a cop had to go on.

The lights went out. Ten forty-five. Starsky logged his report and settled back to watch the darkness. He wished Maggie was here. He needed someone who understood and could help him be strong. But Maggie wasn’t here and he’d have to do it alone. He could ask Roy for advice, but it wasn’t the same. He needed comforting and cuddling and mothering. Roy couldn’t give that.

Another cigarette. How many in the past week? How many in the past year? Too many. His thoughts drifted with the smoke. From Maggie to Miranda. Miranda Hutton. Female Caucasian, age twenty seven, five foot two, one hundred and twenty pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes. Or she had been in nineteen sixty-eight. A nice succinct description — an entire personality reduced to an IBM data card. He wondered if he drove up the coast right this minute, would he still find her on that point?

* * * * * *

Mendocino, California 
Sunday 22 September 1966

Casper Beach.

Sand and sea and silence.

Shangri La.

It wasn’t much of a cabin, just four walls and a ceiling. Well, the west wall was all glass and it was perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. The place was small and very clean. It contained a closet sized toilet, fireplace, hot plate and a ratty sofa that unfolded into a bed.

Popping the top on a beer can, he dropped the aluminum ring into a bright green pottery ashtray and watched the sun slip below the horizon. Pink, yellow, gold, orange. September sunset. It had been a long time since he’d watched a sunset.

San Francisco had been a bust. Hippies, hustlers and hash. Pretty little boys strung out on acid peddling ass; pretty little girls strung out on acid peddling pussy. Love beads and free speech. All bullshit. No, worse — plastic bullshit from plastic people who did not know the first thing about love. It did not come in fancy brass pipes or multi-colored pills. Love was a part of reality, like war, and life came with both. He had laughed at the war protesters who waved signs and spouted Marxist revolutionary speeches. How could they hate something they couldn’t begin to understand? They did not understand life or love or death. Most of all, they did not understand death.

Make up your mind, Roy had said. Well, he had eliminated one choice: Street walking in Haight-Ashbury was not for him. He would rather face Nam again.

There were more decisions he had to make, but he had no energy to do so now. It was dark, his beer can was empty and so was the cigarette box. It was an effort to pull the mattress from its place in the sofa. In the distance a fog horn sounded while a streak of light from the lighthouse crossed his face every twenty seconds — all night.

 

Mendocino, California 
Monday 23 September 1968

Nine o’clock. The Mendocino morning was thick, damp, gray fog. He shut his eyes but the chill surrounded him, seeping into his pores. The bare floor was cold under his feet, the stained porcelain even colder.

The rich smell of brewing coffee filled the small room as Starsky worked the fire, but the redwood log refused to burn. He reached for the stack of old newspapers, crumpled several sheets and tossed them onto tiny flames. The paper exploded into a ball of heat and light. As he reached for another, he stopped to look at a picture of Robert Kennedy, smiling, hands raised above his head. Underneath was the front page story.

“There was an atmosphere of victory as Robert Francis Kennedy made some short remarks to an enthusiastic crowd, consisting mainly of campaign workers, in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. Kennedy captured one hundred seventy-four delegates’ votes for the Democratic nomination. Everyone in the room was convinced that Bobby Kennedy would be the next President of the United States.”

Starsky blinked as he stared at the date. Only three months ago. It had not even meant anything to him then, but now it hit him full force. He wadded the paper and dropped it in the fire. Blue flames lept higher and higher, a corpse dancing in each: Hutchinson, Williams, Sam, Nathan, Bobby Kennedy.

He stood and shook his head, trying to exorcise the ghosts. Over a cup of steaming coffee, watching the fog evaporate, he saw a four point buck. They stared at each other, aliens from different worlds, alone. The deer returned to his breakfast as a lonely bell rang and a wave broke high over the rocks, sending white spray across the window. The quiet remained, grew louder until the crackle and pop of the fire echoed like rifle shots, driving him outside.

He stopped beside the red Mustang, then walked past it and up the incline to the paved road. Left led around Casper Beach, back to the main highway, and into Fort Bragg. Right led to the state park and into Mendocino. He headed right, wanting the seclusion and the beauty of the beach under the bridge where the highway crossed Russian Gulch. But when he reached the intersection leading to the inlet and Highway One, his stomach dictated the way. He could not remember his last meal and sea air always made him hungry. Mendocino was only two miles south. It would not hurt him to run part of the way.

* * * * * *

Clam chowder, thick and creamy white. The steam and aroma swirled up from the heavy pottery bowl and fogged the window. He looked around the small cloud on the pane and watched the waves break over the rocks and spray white foam in all directions. A gull cried and landed on the sign in the front yard. It read, in Old English script, The Soup House.

“More?” Quiet question from a young blond waiter dressed in faded jeans and a ragged beige sweater.

Starsky looked up, saw blue eyes, the color of a mountain lake, and smiled. “Please. It’s very good.”

In the kitchen an older man with a full, dark beard whispered something to the blond, who smiled a lover’s smile and blushed. Starsky looked away, out to the empty sea.

“Enjoy.”

“Thank you.”

The man hesitated. “Haven’t seen you before.”

“Drove up last night. From Frisco.”

“Going to be here long?”

Starsky toyed with his soup. Lover or wife: Was he looking for one or the other? Both? Neither? “Don’t know.”

“Mark.” Commanding voice from the kitchen.

Laying his hand on Starsky’s arm, Mark whispered, “I’ll see ya around. Maybe we could….”

The chowder lost its appeal. Starsky dropped bills on the table and ran out the door. He roamed the few populated blocks of the town in search of a market. There was only coffee and beer in the cabin and he needed cigarettes.

He took his time on the walk back, balancing his sack of groceries and enjoying the nippy sea air that was pungent with dead fish and rotting kelp. Autumn had left her mark on the oak tree where a squirrel was busily stashing nuts for the winter. Starsky kicked a stone down the road and whistled tunelessly. It made it easier not to think.

* * * * * *

The main attraction of the Northern California coast was the sunsets and a thin layer of clouds promised brilliant colors this evening. Starsky added a log to his fire and secured the screen; it would be chilly after the sun went down. He took his jacket from a large nail on the wall that served as a closet and went in search of a front row seat for tonight’s performance.

Easing himself over a ledge, he discovered a trail through the thick carpet of purple blossomed succulents to a point jutting out into the foaming sea. He scrambled around the rocks and found himself face to face with pale blue eyes surrounded by soft blonde hair.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.” He turned to go.

“It’s okay. Plenty of room for two.” She spread her arms to indicate the flat space at the end of the rock, where centuries of wind and water had created powder fine garnet sand.

“You don’t mind the company?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Who the company is.” The woman smiled, her eyes sparkling.

Starsky dropped to his knees beside her. “What are you doing?” He pointed to the array of pastels and paper.

“Sketching the sunset. I use the bands of color in my pottery.” She wiped her hands on her faded jeans. Her short nails were stained with clay.

“You do your own work?” Interest flared, and it surprised him. “Kiln and everything?”

“Yeah. Then sell it in a shop in Mendo.” She shrugged. “Don’t make much, but no one ever appreciates an artist ’til she’s dead.” There was a note of amusement in her voice as she picked out colors matching the oranges and pinks that streaked the sky.

“Did you do the stuff at The Soup House?” He remembered the heavy bowl full of steaming chowder. And Mark.

“They buy my stuff, yeah. Sell a few pieces to customers.”

“It’s nice. I like it.”

Waves crashed against the rocks below and the salt spray misted Starsky’s face. Large clumps of sea weed made eerie dark shapes in the surging water, one looked like a submarine about to surface. A lonely seal barked and the sun sank into the distant blue. Magenta and gold remained until the night painted them with black. Artificial light revolved over the point every twenty seconds.

Starsky lit a cigarette and offered her one, but she shook her head, the straight short hair catching the light in a halo. He pulled himself up and held out his hand to her. Warmth radiated from the contact. “Do you have a name?”

“Randi.” He could hear the smile in her words. She picked up her things and put them in a canvas bag. “You?”

“Dav…Mike.” Never be Davy again. “How about some coffee? The place isn’t much, but it’s close and I left the fire burning.”

“Sounds good.” They climbed around the rocks and when they reached the trail, he carried her bag and took her hand, smiling in the dark as her fingers curled around his.

* * * * * *

“You make good coffee.” She watched him across the rim of a chipped brown mug.

“Thanks.” He placed her sweater on the nail beside his jacket, touching the stains and removing several pieces of dried grass.

“I haven’t seen you around before.” The sofa creaked as Randi curled up on it, cradling a faded pillow.

“Just drove up last night. How long have you been here?” He stood by the fire.

“Couple of years I guess. Time doesn’t seem to flow here the way it does in the rest of the world. People here just live one day at a time and don’t worry much about anything.”

“Maybe that’s why Roy likes it so much.”

“Who’s Roy?”

“Roy Bradshaw. Guy who owns this place.”

“Oh, I think I’ve seen him. Usually comes up with another man.”

“Probably a fishin’ buddy. Roy loves to fish, but Maggie hates it.”

“Who’s Maggie?”

“His wife.”

“Oh.”

Starsky squatted down by the fire, watching the flames dance. Then he turned back to her. “Where were you before here?”

Randi was quiet, her face set, giving him the impression that she was about to tell him to fuck off. Then her features softened and she said quietly, “Mendo’s a great place to drop out. The last place I guess. I dropped out of college, dropped out of marriage, dropped out of being a drop-out. Frisco was a bore, so I wandered up here one day looking for something. Myself I guess. Found it.” She pushed her hair out of her face and finished her coffee.

“More?” Starsky picked up the battered aluminum pot and refilled his own cup.

She shook her head. “Not really sure what brought me up here, but there’s a peacefulness that makes me stay.” She played with her empty cup. “What about you? Why are you here?”

He lit a cigarette. “Tryin’ to get my head together.”

“The war?”

“Yeah.” He was surprised at the understanding he found in her blue eyes.

“Bad?”

“There aren’t enough words to describe it.” Starsky gazed out the window. The light returned precisely on twenty.

“Why didn’t you go to Canada?”

He turned and stared at her. Hutchinson had asked the same question. “Don’t know. Maybe I should have.” He picked up a redwood log and set it in the fireplace, mesmerized by the tiny blue flames that marched across the wood, like tiny soldiers.

Randi joined him, her hand touching his shoulder. “Are all the memories painful?”

He sat on the floor, his back to the heat. She took his cigarette and tossed it into the fire. He studied his hands. “Right now they are.”

The silence was broken by a lonely fog horn.

“Was she pretty?”

“Who?”

“The lady who broke your heart.”

Starsky forced himself to look at this stranger. It would be so simple not to say anything, and yet, he was compelled to explain. “Wasn’t a lady.”

“Oh.” She held his eyes. “I understand.”

Anger surged and he jumped to his feet. “Don’t patronize me! How the fuck can you understand?”

“Michael.” Her voice was calm. “I spent two years on the streets in Haight-Ashbury. I’ve seen it all.”

He sneered at her. “That bunch of hippie freaks — they don’t know the first thing about real problems.” He paced the small room, then returned to the window and watched the moonlight sparkle on the dark water.

“I suppose your fuckin’ war’s a real problem.”

“It’s not my fuckin’ war. I didn’t start it and I sure as hell can’t stop it.” The anger was gone, replaced by cold, depression. He played tic-tac-toe with himself in the condensation on the glass and lost.

“You could have run.” She was quiet for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose you could.”

Dropping to the floor next to Randi, Starsky studied her face in the firelight. “If you understand so fucking much, explain it to me.”

“I can’t explain you to you — only you can do that. You have to think about who you are and what you want…to begin with, the man who broke your heart — what happened?”

“He died,” Starsky said shortly. He did not want to talk about it.

“Oh.”

Just ‘oh’, like when she had mentioned Roy. That was all she said. Her face remained neutral, there was no indication of disgust or condemnation or even curiosity, but her eyes were soft. Maybe she really had seen it all and understood. Maggie accepted without understanding. Maybe, just maybe….

“We were on patrol forty miles from Da Nang. A lousy jungle storm. Nathan fell, tripped a booby trap.” Starsky stopped the images and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Nathan,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Did you love him?”

“Yes.”

Her hands were touching his face, his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Michael. Love comes so seldom to so few.”

Her lips were soft, her mouth as delicate and clean as the ocean air. “Will you stay with me tonight?” he asked.

“Why?”

“I’m afraid to be alone.”

“Is that all? Wouldn’t you rather have a teddy bear?” She tried to pull away.

“No, wait, please. It’s more. I felt it when I first saw you. Didn’t you feel it?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Then will you stay?”

“Yes.” He held her tightly, but she slipped out of his embrace and disappeared into the bathroom.

* * * * * *

Her body was delicate and firm. Tracing her features with his fingers, he watched the light play over her as it turned the blonde hair to silver. The bed was lumpy and sagged in the middle like the one he had shared with Nathan so long ago. He could not remember the last woman with whom he had shared a bed. He wondered if he had ever made love to a woman or if his mind had been captured by fantasy.

He cupped Randi’s small breast in his hand, kneading the tender flesh and teasing the nipple. She moaned and pressed against him. He caressed her flat stomach, then tangled his fingers in her tiny blonde curls. It felt so empty. He could not suppress the sigh.

“Michael,” Randi held his face in her hands, made him look at her. “I’m a woman. I can’t change that. Wouldn’t if I could.” She pushed him down on the bed. “But there are many things I can do for you.”

She explored his neck and chest with her mouth and when she bit his nipples, he cried out. Fire he had not felt in months coursed through his veins as she kissed the head of his cock and slid her tongue over the smooth skin.

“Oh God,” Starsky moaned as her fingers slipped into his body. He closed his eyes and saw Nathan. Straining frantically, he pushed upward as the mouth worked its magic. Nathan smiling, licking his lips, teasing with his eyes…Nathan, oh Nathan.

Climbing higher and higher, Starsky relished the pressure of the fingers and mouth. His heart pounding and blood roaring in his ears, he gasped for breath, then relaxed in Randi’s arms. She stroked his face and throat while his body calmed and the jungle memories faded. There was no room for death here — only life.

Randi’s tickling fingers worked their way around his ribs and he squirmed. “Pretty good for a girl, huh?”

“Not bad. What else do you do?”

She licked at his nipples like she was eating an ice cream cone. “No way, lover boy. Your turn. How good are you?” Dear God, she knew all the right places to touch and he responded to all of them. He could see the desire in her eyes as the lighthouse kept its appointed rounds.

She rolled onto her back, pulling him on top of her. She laughed and ran her fingertips down his arms, then teased his eager cock. “Do you know how to do this?”

He watched her for two streaks of light, then kissed her mouth. “Oh, I think I can figure it out. Let’s see, insert tab A into slot B, right?”

“There’s always slot C.” Wickedly seductive, Randi wrapped her legs around him.

Starsky pushed into the yielding femininity, the sensations assaulting him. He was still, enjoying the unfamiliar dominant role, until she squirmed. Christ, it felt good–

Her nails raked down his back. “Fuck me, goddamn it. Use this beautiful body of yours.”

Eyes closed, he thrust and her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. He remembered that last time with Nathan, when he had been on the bottom and had tightened his legs around Nathan’s powerful body. Oh, God, it’s not fair! He rammed into Randi. We should have had this. I should have made love to you, if I had to tie you to the bed to do it. Goddamn you….

“Michael.”

Her voice jolted him back to the present and he paced himself to her, aware of her needs because they had been his needs. He paced his rhythm with her until she dug her nails into his hips and screamed. He leaned forward, captured her mouth and shared the pleasure with her.

Their breathing quieted as the light circled again and again. He traced abstract patterns across her stomach with his fingertip. “Randi?”

“Ummmmmm?”

“Are you going to work with clay tomorrow?”

“Ummm-hmmm.” She nestled her head against his shoulder.

“Can I watch?”

“Sure.” The light circled. “Michael?”

“Yeah?” He wanted a cigarette but didn’t want to get up.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

“What?” Starsky wrapped a strand of blonde hair around his fingers.

“Whatever. How to make pottery.”

“Yes.” He sighed, relaxing into the shared warmth. It was different holding a person rather than a pillow — frightening in a way, but also reassuring. He wasn’t alone now.

 

Mendocino, California 
Wednesday 30 October 1968

“It looks like shit.” Starsky rotated the malformed cup in his hand, then looked out the window that was the west wall of Randi’s cottage. The sun was burning off the fog early today. “The colors are wrong. Everything is wrong.”

Gentle touch on his arm. “Patience, Michael, patience. You can’t learn everything in five weeks. It takes time and practice. You’ll see.”

He twisted the cup in his hands, studying its flaws. “I wanted everything to be perfect.” He smashed the offensive object against the base of the rickety staircase that led to the sleeping loft where they shared their nights. “I want so much.”

Randi went back to her potter’s wheel. He watched as she placed fresh clay on the work surface and molded it. “It will come to you — in time. But first you have to find yourself, live with yourself. You still have those decisions to make.” She looked up at him. “Michael, what are you going to do?” What do I want to do with the rest of my life? He watched her hands as they worked the clay, skilled and sure. He sighed, remembering just how skillful those hands were. But it was not the joyous abandonment he had known with Nathan. He wanted to love her, to be in love with her, but he could not. Maybe he would never be able to love again. Maybe he did not want to. “I — I think I’d like to stay here…with you.”

Her eyes hardened. “And if I don’t want you to stay?”

Anger flared, brief and hot, at Miranda, at Roy Bradshaw, at Nathan, at the whole fucking world. “Are you throwing me out, too?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

She stopped the wheel and faced him. “On just what you plan to do with yourself. I have no intention of supporting you, or any man, emotionally or financially. If I’d wanted that, I’d still be married to Frank.”

“I really don’t know what I want to do.”

“Then I suggest you decide.” Randi went back to her clay.

Starsky waited for a minute, but she had dismissed him. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. Maybe she had dismissed him permanently. He opened the door quietly and slipped out into the tattered remains of the morning fog.

He walked the trails along the cliffs that over looked the ocean. Two hundred feet straight down, water surged and roared against the rocks. The furious pounding suited his mood. He found a hidden cove that was sheltered by a towering bluff from the wind and the world. He perched on a rock, lit a cigarette and watched the clouds and the powerful waves. The unanswered question hung in the air, tormenting him: What do I do with the rest of my life?

New York–childhood home. Bright lights, city noise, Jewish holidays, his mother’s sugar cookies. Wonderful memories complicated by horrible memories. But it was another part of his life, a part where he did not belong anymore. Where do I belong? Not here. He loved the serenity, the beauty–but it was not his home; it was Randi’s. He was just a parasite, had been for a long time. Nathan, Roy and Maggie, Randi…could David Michael Starsky survive on his own?

Another unanswerable question. Starsky leaned back, basking in the sunshine, watching the ocean pound the rocks in unceasing, ancient rhythm — in and out, in and out — hammering the base of the cliff again and again and again. Eventually his blood pulsed in sync with the waves, the sound as regular as a metronome.

lielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalie 
I am just a poor boy
I, DAVID MICHAEL STARSKY
Though my story’s seldom told.  
DO SOLEMNLY SWEAR AND AFFIRM
I have squandered my resistance 
THAT I WILL SUPPORT AND DEFEND
For a pocketful of mumbles, 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES
Such are promises. 
AGAINST ALL ENEMIES
All lies and jest, 
FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC
Still a man hears what he wants to hear, 
THAT I WILL BEAR
And disregards the rest. 
TRUE FAITH AND ALLEGIANCE
When I left my home 
TO THE SAME
And my family, 
THAT I WILL OBEY
I was no more than a boy 
THE ORDERS OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
In the company of strangers 
AND ORDERS OF OFFICERS
In the quiet of the railway station  
APPOINTED OVER ME
Running scared, 
TO THE REGULATIONS
Laying low  
IN THE UNIFORM CODE
Seeking out the poorer quarters 
OF MILITARY
Where the ragged people go,  
JUSTICE
Looking for the places  
SO HELP ME GOD
Only they would know. 
lielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalie
Asking only workman’s wages
I do affirm and swear
I come looking for a job. 
I can get you into the police academy
But I get no offers. 
The hell you don’t
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue.  
Randi?
I do declare.  
No!
There were times when I was so lonesome  
“I’m afraid to be alone.”
I took some comfort there. 
Yes
lielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalie 
Now the years are rolling by me
They are rocking evenly
I am older than I once was
Younger than I’ll be
But that’s not unusual
No, it isn’t strange
After changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same.
lielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalie
Then I’m laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone,
Going home
A green canvas room, a flag-covered coffin
Where the New York City winters 
Where the ocean is on the wrong side of the land
Aren’t bleeding me, 
Nathan, Dad, Hutchinson
Leading me 
Leading me,
To protect and serve
Going home.  
Fidelis ad Mortem — Faithful unto death
In the clearing stands a boxer,  
Officer Joseph Malachi Starsky
And a fighter by his trade,  
Put the bullet between his eyes, Davy
And he carries the reminders 
Sam
Of ev’ry glove that laid him down  
General Williams
Or cut him till he cried out  
Lieutenant Kenneth Hutchinson
In his anger and his shame, 
Sergeant Nathan David Wise, U.S. Army
I am leaving, I am leaving. 
“Are you telling me to kill myself?”
But the fighter still remains. 
lielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalielalie

Wonder if LA blue will match my eyes the way NYC blue matched Dad’s?

Paul Simon and his music — so appropriate to my life. My life….

Perched on the rock shelf two hundred feet above the water, Starsky watched as the foam rose higher and higher with each crash. He leaned forward, staring into the blue depths. If he just let himself fall, everything would be over. It would take about three seconds, then all the pain in his life would be gone. He was so tired, tired of hurting, of thinking, of remembering. All he had to do was nothing.

A seal barked sharply. The sound echoed like a rifle shot.

He looked for the source of the noise and saw a large seal slapping a rock. For a moment, Starsky thought the animal was trying to get his attention, but then another seal popped up on the rocks and the two of them yipped at each other.

They chased each other around the rocks, then disappeared in the foam of the pounding waves. The sunlight sparkled through droplets of water, creating misty images. Nathan waded across the water, his rifle on his shoulder.

Shaking his head, the image cleared then returned. “Are you asking me to join you? Nathan! Say something.” But the image disappeared and the seals pounced back up on the rock. “Goddamnit, I love you. Can’t you at least tell me where you are and how I can get there?” The seals nuzzled each other.

Images of green tents and green jungle meshed with images of flag covered coffins. People he loved were dead and all he had to do to join them was lean forward. But the granite edge of the cliff cut into his fingers and he hung on. I can’t stay on this tightrope any more. Please, someone, show me the way out.

A butterfly hovered just beyond the tip of his nose, green and gold and black bright in the sunlight. It fluttered to a nearby flower, then disappeared with the wind. The seals below splashed in the water and a cloud drifted across the sun. Live or die.

Why can’t I just let go? Maybe because I really don’t want to, maybe there is still something here for me.

Joseph Starsky. Nathan Wise. Kenneth Hutchinson. Roy Bradshaw. Rebecca Starsky. Maggie Bradshaw. Miranda Hutton. People. Important people in the life of one David Michael Starsky. Maybe it’s time I started being worth what they all think I am.

* * * * * *

Starsky ran the three quarters of a mile to the phone booth at the Wigwam Motel. Panting, he dropped a dime into the slot and dialed the operator. “I’d like to make a collect call please. Mr. Roy Bradshaw. Two, one, three, five, five, five, seven, three, one, one.” The coin clinked through the machine.

“Yes, operator, I’ll accept the charges. David? David, are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Are you coming home?”

“Yes. Can you really get me in the Police Academy?” Starsky pressed his forehead against the cool glass, feeling the weight lift from his shoulders.

“You’ll have to take the test.”

“When?”

“I’ll have to see when it’s scheduled. I don’t think you’ll have any problem passing it. Should be able to get you in the academy by, oh say, January.”

“Terrific. I’d like to see Ma, too.”

“David, I think that’s a marvelous idea. Come take the test first, then go see your mother.”

“Soon.” Starsky depressed the metal bar, retrieved his dime and redeposited it. “Operator, I’d like to make a collect call please. Mrs. Rebecca Starsky. Two, one, two, five, five, five, forty eight hundred.”

“Yes, operator.” Breathless excitement. “David? David, where are you? Are you all right?”

“Yes, Ma, I’m fine. Honest, I’m okay. Just give me a minute and I’ll answer all your questions. I’m in Mendocino — Roy and Maggie’s place. I’m fine, Mom. The pain was in my head,” and my heart, “and the doctors helped me sort it out. Mom — please Mom — let me finish. Mom,” deep breath, “Mother, I’m going to be a cop.”

Silence.

“Mom, please Mom, say something.”

Muffled sob — unseen tears.

“Mom, please.”

“I’m sorry, David, but…it’s so much all of a sudden. I haven’t talked to you in so long — since you were in the hospital. I didn’t know….”

“Mom, I’m sorry. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I didn’t mean…Mom…Mom…look, Mom, I want to come to New York. Mom, I want to come home. I want to see you. Is it — is it okay? Mom, please don’t cry.”

“When?” She sounded calmer and maybe a little happier. At least he hoped so.

“Soon. I still have a couple of things to do here. Ma, I love you.” He replaced the receiver and pressed his nose into the corner of the booth. Tears slid down his face, his mother’s features swimming in and out of focus. He’d taken her for granted, put her through all kinds of hell, and she still loved him. Soon, Ma, I promise. The road back to the cabin took on new life. He lit a cigarette, watching a squirrel struggle with a large acorn and a gull soar over an oak tree. The sun sent slanting rays through the leaves. Sunset. He crushed out his cigarette and ran. He wanted to share this sunset with Randi.

* * * * * *

“It was spectacular! Did you see those colors?” Starsky danced across the room while Randi put away her pastels and sketches.

“What’s with you tonight?” she smiled at him. “Some strange new disease? Or have you just finally flipped out?”

He laughed at her, with her, and swung her around.

“Michael, enough already, put me down!” He complied, still grinning. She touched his face. “Have you eaten? I saved you some soup. I’ll warm it.”

Placing a log on the fire, he gave it his full attention until the flames danced. As he stood, he saw the pieces of his cup where he had thrown it earlier. He knelt beside the fragments and picked up the largest one. “Randi?” He waited until she looked at him. “Can I stay long enough to learn to do it right?”

“Does that mean you’re leaving?”

“We both know I have to.”

“Yes, we do, and yes, you can stay.” She poured his soup into a bowl and set it on the small battered table. “Where are you going?”

He sat down opposite her. “Back to L.A., to do what I think I’ve always wanted to do.” He tasted the clam chowder. It was too hot to eat. “My dad was a cop. He wore a uniform and walked a beat until the day he died.” His face twisted at the memory. More pain. It never ends. But there must be more to life than pain!

“What happened?” Clear blue eyes watched him.

“He was on his way home one night. There was a robbery in the market on the corner. It was a family business and — they shot him. They were just kids — not much older than me — and they shot him. He died in my arms.” He choked, unable to go on. Tears filled his eyes, trailed hot and salty down his face. Miranda led him to the sofa and cradled him in her arms.

After a moment, he continued, his face buried in Miranda’s neck. “Dad didn’t have any last words or — or any final advice, he just looked at me with those blue eyes of his until…until he was gone. I sat there for a long time, holding him. Just holding him. Then another policeman came over. He…stooped down beside me and he closed Dad’s eyes. That’s when I knew — I knew he was really dead. The policeman made me get up, made me let go of Dad. I think I would have died right then, but Ma was there and I couldn’t let her see Dad. I had to stop her. She hung on to me and cried.”

Starsky hung on to Randi and cried. She stroked his long, wild curls. “I know it hurts, Michael, but at least you’re feeling something. I didn’t think you’d ever feel anything again.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled as he went to the bathroom to wash his face. Yes, he was feeling again. There had been tears of joy and tears of sadness. He smiled at himself in the mirror. The good and the bad — they always go together.

She was waiting with brandy. It warmed him. “I think I’ve always wanted to be a cop, to be just like my dad.”

“You’ll have to cut this gorgeous hair.” Randi tangled her fingers in the curls and kissed his mouth. “And that’s a crime.”

He laughed. It felt good. “Has gotten a little long, hasn’t it? Guess it’s just rebellion against the army and the jungle.”

“Well, I like it. And I’ll bet Nathan would have too.”

His stomach tied in a knot.

“Michael, you’ve got to let it go. Since we’ve been living together, you’ve been more dead than alive — even when you make love to me. I think you’re just going through the motions.”

“I can’t help it. There’s so much pain in my life.”

“How old were you when your father died?”

“Fourteen.”

“And is this the first time you’ve cried over him?”

Starsky nodded, remembering the times he had tried to cry and couldn’t.

“Are you going to carry the pain of Nathan’s death that long?”

“I can’t help it.”

“You have to find a way. Nathan’s dead. You’re alive. The pain will fade, and you’ll have good memories to make you smile. Smile for me now?”

He tried, a little shakily. “Nathan did like my hair. And there were plenty of good times….” The smile was easier now.

“Good.” She went into her tiny kitchen, rummaged in a cabinet and returned with a small, tissue wrapped bundle. “I want you to have this.”

“What?” He pulled at the tissue layers, dropping them to the floor until a large mug sat in the palm of his hand.

“From our first sunset,” she offered hesitantly.

He caressed the finished surface, ran his finger over the bands of color. “It’s beautiful.” He had difficulty speaking, his damned emotions threatening to flood once again. “Thank you.” It seemed inadequate.

“You’re welcome.” She took the cup, set it in the center of the table, then opened her arms to him. “You’re a very special person, Michael.”

So are you. He went to her.

 

Los Angeles, California 
Friday 17 August 1973

Miranda, beautiful lady Miranda. I still have that cup and I think of you every time I look at it. I wonder where you are and what you’re doing and if you ever think of me.

Starsky stood and stretched his tired, aching body. A hot shower and eight hours sleep would be nice. Stubbing out his cigarette, he watched Hutch sleep. No sleep for me while you’re around. I can’t trust myself. And I can’t afford to love you. I’ve already got more invested in you than I should have. If I had to hold you in my arms and watch you die….

He shoved the image away and thought about spiders.

The sky slowly brightened and Starsky yawned. Another day to get through. One day at a time. Maybe he could sleep today. Maybe Hutch would not dominate every thought. Maybe he would not have any more dreams. Yeah, and maybe the sun will come up in the north.

He walked to the foot of the cot and looked at Hutch. He wished he could just stand here forever. Well, Sleeping Beauty, it’s time to get up. “Hutch.”

No response. “Hutch.” I wish I could kiss you awake. He tugged Hutch’s ankle. “Move your ass, partner.”

Golden lashes fluttered on smooth tanned cheeks, blue eyes were drowsy and innocent. They held him immobile. Hutch’s mouth was relaxed and soft — inviting. Shit, this isn’t fair. Starsky marched to the window and stared out.

The quiet lasted long minutes. When he could bear it no longer, he looked around. His partner, still draped over the cot, yawned and stretched, his hips jutting upward. Don’t do that. “Why’d you let me sleep all night?” Hutch sat up and dropped his feet to the floor. “I asked you not to.”

“I know.” He returned his attention to the street. “But I figured you had things to do today.” He could feel Hutch moving closer.

Warm fingers touched the back of his neck. “This has to stop, you know.”

Goddamn right it has to stop. You’re driving me crazy. “It’s okay. If Maggie’d been home, I’d have slept last night, but since I don’t have any plans for today and you do….”

“All right, I give up. But if you don’t get some sleep today I’m gonna tie you to the bed.” Hutch walked quickly to the door. “I’m gonna check out the plumbing.”

What gods have I angered to deserve this? In his mind he was spread-eagled on a bed of fire, his hands tied and Hutch, golden god Hutch, just like in the dream. Oh God….

A light tap sounded at the door. “Morning Starsky.” Hix and Baker strolled in carrying pink donut boxes and fresh, steaming coffee. Starsky did a quick pivot to face the window, hoping the men had not noticed his aroused condition. He was in no mood to be razzed, even about women. “Your captain’s very generous. He said he’d buy if we’d deliver.” Baker smiled at the older man. “My partner’s got a sweet tooth.”

Hix looked for a place to set the donut box, but the table was covered with equipment so he decided on the cot. “Where’s Hutch?”

“Making use of the facilities.” Starsky poured coffee from the thermos into a styrofoam cup and took a long drink. “God, that tastes good.” He selected a chocolate glazed. “Hey, these are still warm.”

“Doesn’t take much to make you happy.” Baker took a cinnamon roll and perched on the edge of the cot.

“After a night in this place, anything would make me happy.” Starsky swallowed the last of his donut and reached for another.

“Save some for Hutch.” Hix took the chair. “Anything after the kid left last night?”

“Not a thing,” Starsky answered. “Have either of you been inside over there?”

“Both of us. And the guys who installed the bugs,” Baker replied.

“I couldn’t find an exit through that grating.” Starsky lit a cigarette, checked the street below. “Is there one?”

“We couldn’t find one either.” Baker and Hix exchanged a look, then Baker said, “It’s a strange set-up.”

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Reasonably sure.” Hix poured more coffee. “We met with Anderson and Dobey this morning. No one’s seen Kraft since Wednesday night. He has not surfaced anywhere.”

“I found it.” Hutch stood in the doorway, patches of dirt dotting his face and staining his pants. Dusty cobwebs clung to his hair.

“What?” Starsky walked over to his partner and wiped dirt off, then stopped himself, and went back to the window. “The largest spider metropolis in North America?”

“Nope. Didn’t even run into Charlotte.” Hutch smiled smugly and tossed a bottle of pills to Starsky. “That’s what I found, upstairs, at the north end of the block. Had to pull a concealed ladder down.”

Starsky dumped the green and white dotted capsules into his palm. “How many?”

“Millions.”

Hix whistled.

Millions of amphetamines. “Illegal search.” Starsky looked at his partner. “What else?”

“Boxes and boxes, all marked Smith, Kline, French.”

“Stateside or Mexican?”

“I couldn’t tell. Probably both. Stuff’s got a long shelf life. No way to tell how long it’s been there.” Hutch caught the bottle as Starsky threw it back.

“Anything else?” Baker was on his feet, alert.

“Coupla hundred cases of Carnation powdered milk. And,” Hutch held up a small empty plastic bag, “boxes of these.”

Hix looked out the window. “Now we know what we’re doing here.”

“Anderson say anything about a major import?” Starsky shifted his gaze from Baker to Hix.

“No,” Baker answered.

“Okay,” Starsky felt alive now that he had something to think about, besides Hutch. “Looks like you two sit it out here while Hutch and I hit the streets and rattle a few cages.”

“Wrong, partner of mine.” Hutch looked ridiculous trying to be stern with a tiny spider swinging from his ear. “You sleep. I work the streets.”

“Not on your life. Dobey’ll have a fit.”

“Look, it isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. You were up all night, dummy, your own damn fault. It only takes one of us to talk to people. Besides, when this operation goes down, it’ll go down fast. We have to be ready.”

“Okay, okay. But at least take a shower first. You’re a mess and that goddamn spider’s trying to build a web in your hair.”

Hix waved his arm. “Will you two take your domestic quarrel and go home?”

Starsky, feeling the color rise in his face, hurried past Hutch and out the door.

“As soon as I get something, I’ll let you and Anderson know,” Hutch said as he joined Starsky in the hallway. “I’ll drop you at home.”

“And you’ll come up with me, take a shower, and eat a proper breakfast.”

“Yes, mother. What do good little Jewish boys eat for breakfast?” Hutch’s laughter lifted the gloom of the old building and Starsky’s heart.

* * * * * *

When Hutch left for his ten o’clock appointment, it seemed he took the sunshine and laughter with him, leaving Starsky with cold dread. He washed the breakfast dishes, dried them, and put them away. He wanted sleep, but was afraid to close his eyes, afraid of the dreams. He felt close to the breaking point and hoped he wouldn’t fail on the job. If Hutch died or if he was responsible for anything happening to Hutch…. Stopping the thought, he swept the kitchen floor, mopped and waxed it, then pulled out the vacuum. Ma always cleans when she’s uptight. Maybe it doesn’t help, but it doesn’t hurt.

Skipping the coffee, he took the Times to the bedroom, and read the entire paper before falling asleep.

Heat.  
Sweltering, steaming, tropical heat.
His own sweat blisters as it pours off his body,
burns behind his eyes.
He cannot move.
Fiery green vines twine around him, searing his flesh, confining him.
He struggles, writhes under the merciless sun.
Gray smoke chokes him, stench of sulfur thick in his nostrils.
He awaits his god.
Sacrifice.
He appears.
Glowing golden skin, shining golden hair, blazing eyes of blue flame.
Cool knife of polished obsidian in the god’s hands.
It touches him,
his throat
his chest
his cock
Vines holding his left leg part under the icy touch.
He shivers, freezinghot.
The knife touches his balls,
circling
caressing
teasing him
It is time–
The god’s hands touch him, inflame him, brand him.
The god’s fingers explore, red hot pressure inside him.
He is opened
prepared
entered
Pulsing heat in his body, filling him to bursting.
Throbbing warmth above him, around him.
He is taken
consumed
inflamed
sacrificed
The god releases him, lifts him, carries him.
Up through the heat and flames and sulfur, spiraling ever upwards, to the top.
They stand on the brink of a volcano, lava boils and bubbles at their feet.
He is lifted, high higher in the billowing smoke.
Sacrifice
Falling,
down
down through the heat and smoke and sulfur
down into the boiling melting lava flow–
He screams for his god.

Starsky landed on his bedroom floor.

“Starsky?” Hutch’s voice called from the front room. “Starsk?” He appeared at the door. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“You — you just threw me into a volcano.” Dazed, Starsky scrambled to his feet and grabbed his robe.

“I what?”

“I guess I was dreaming. You threw me into an erupting volcano.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. Guess you were pissed at me.” You sure would be if you knew what I wanted from you.

“I promise not to boil you in lava if you get your ass in gear. I want a decent dinner tonight.” He looked at the bed, then at Starsky. “God, it’s hot. I want a shower.”

“Me first.” Starsky escaped to the solitude of the bathroom, needing the time to wash the images from his mind and the desire from his body. But he couldn’t until he’d pumped his cock harder and harder over the vision of his beautiful blond god. He slumped against the tiled wall. Dear God, when is this going to stop?

Strains of Simon and Garfunkel floated in as Starsky turned off the water and toweled his hair. “Silent Night, Holy night, President Johnson today ordered a ban….”

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Starsky walked into the living room. “Why’d you put that on?”

“You had it laying out and I always thought this was one of Simon’s more brilliant ideas.” The song ended and the arm returned automatically to its resting place.

“If you want dinner, you better move it.” He waited until he heard the shower running, then went back into his bedroom. He wanted to be dressed when Hutch came out of the bathroom.

He lit a cigarette and sat on the sofa, listening to “Mrs. Robinson” and thinking about the seduction of Dustin Hoffman. The water stopped and Hutch walked out into the living room, drying his hair. He was nude, droplets of water glistening on the smooth golden skin. Starsky tore his eyes away. What are you trying to do to me?

Hutch slung the towel over his shoulder and leaned casually against the bookcase. “So where do you wanna go for dinner?”

“I don’t know, steak maybe.” Starsky watched his cigarette smoke curl up to the ceiling. “But it’s kinda early for all the good places.”

Hutch was still standing there, a half-smile on his face. “We could do Happy Steak or something.”

“No. Not in the mood for chain stuff.” He risked a quick glance at his partner. “You find out anything today?” he asked the Boston fern on the top shelf.

“Yeah. I’ll fill you in over dinner.” Hutch finally disappeared into the bedroom. “Hey,” he called, “I know a great place over on Washington — we should be able to get in.” He returned, dressed only in a new pair of jeans — and they appeared to be two sizes too small. He moved to the window, standing in a patch of sunlight. It haloed his hair.

You’re destroying me. And you don’t even know it. Starsky turned off the stereo. “Sounds good. Whenever you’re ready.”

“You’ll need a tie. You got one — or shall I lend you one of mine?” The blue eyes sparkled as Hutch grinned.

Tossing a pillow in Hutch’s direction, Starsky mumbled, “Yeah, I gotta tie. Don’t know why I have to dress up to eat….”

* * * * * *

Pierre’s, a small elegant place, had just opened when they arrived. A tall, thin man with dark features greeted them at the door. He smiled when he spotted Hutch. “Monsieur Hutchinson, it has been too long.”

The two men embraced. “Yes, Pierre, far too long.” He indicated Starsky. “This is my partner, David Starsky. Pierre Andre.”

Starsky extended his hand.

“Pierre, I know it’s early but Starsky and I have to work all night.”

“No problem, my friend. Take any table you like. I’ll have the chef prepare anything you wish.”

“We can’t do anything fancy tonight. But I’d like to bring David back for one of your seven course dinners.” There was a wistfulness in Hutchinson’s voice that wiped out the bitterness for a moment.

“Would you like to begin with the house salad?” Pierre draped a napkin across his left arm.

“That would be just fine,” Hutchinson said as he sat down.

Starsky noted the dark, quiet surrounds that whispered class and money. Fresh orchids in thin undecorated crystal adorned the linen tablecloths. The salad, sliced tomatoes on the right side, sliced avocados on the left of several types of fresh lettuce in the center, was served on thin white china with a simple black ring on the edge of the dish. As he sampled the food, finding it lightly zestful, he asked, “How’d you find this place?”

“After we left the academy and I worked down here — well, Luke and I ate here. It was our special place. We’d come here after a good bust or something.”

Picturing the older handsome man, Starsky said, “I haven’t seen him lately, have you?”

“Not since he made captain. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, but first partners are always special.”

“Luke is definitely one of LA’s finest. Maybe I should give him a call. Bring him here for dinner.” Hutchinson smiled briefly, then slumped. “Vanessa hated the fact that this was one place I would never bring her. I just couldn’t and I couldn’t make her understand why.”

Starsky bit his lip to stop his angry words. He didn’t want to discuss Vanessa, so he played with his salad and watched his partner eat, contemplating the most sensuous mouth in the world. His fiery dreams haunted him. Oh, God, I want you. I want you over me, under me, in me. I want.… “Oh, shit!” A tomato fell from his fork, splattering Roquefort dressing onto his tie.

Hutch smiled, his fork poised in front of his mouth. “You should pay attention to what you’re doing.”

You bastard. “I was thinking about Kraft and the drug operation.” He dabbed at the spot with his napkin. “What’d you find out today?”

“Not a lot. And I tapped every source on our circuit. Rumor of a big shipment, but nothing solid and a big shipment is the only thing that makes sense, Starsk. I can’t see Kraft wasting the sweet set-up he’s got on penny-ante stuff.”

The first course arrived. Pierre supplied Cabernet Sauvignon ’69. “I know you have to work, but it’s criminal to eat my food without the wine.”

Hutch laughed and shook his head. “Okay, one glass.” They watched as Pierre opened the bottle expertly and poured the ruby liquid into Hutch’s glass. Hutch lifted it to the light and sampled the bouquet before tasting the wine. “Excellent, of course.” Pierre filled both glasses. Hutch raised his in a salute, “Merci.”

The owner acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow and departed.

“It’s really hard to think about Kraft and dope and all that slime when we’re sitting here.”

“Yeah.” Starsky sipped the rich wine. We could be playing footsies under the table or I could reach over and run my hand up your leg or we could hold hands in the candlelight. If wishes were horses…. Why can’t you be fat and bald and– He looked at Hutch and smiled. I’d love you if you were two foot three and had warts on your nose.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s just nice to be here with you like this. Like we had a little hide-away no one else knew about.”

“That’s what Luke used to say. It was like the world had to wait outside for us. Here, you wanna bite of my escargot?” Hutch waved his fork.

Starsky stared at the plate containing three artichokes littered with snails and covered in an emerald green sauce.

Hutchinson speared a morsel, studied it carefully, then slipped it into his mouth, holding Starsky’s attention during the procedure. Chewing slowly, his expression radiated pure pleasure.

“No, I do not want a bite of your snails. Hutch, those things look like something out of a horror film. They’re green!”

Toying with another bite, Hutchinson lectured, “The green is from fresh parsley, finely chopped and sautéed in butter with just a hint of garlic. That’s the secret, just a hint of garlic. Pierre created this dish for Luke and me because we were tired of only tasting garlic when we really wanted to taste something else.” Smiling, Hutch studied Starsky’s plate. “Something wrong with your food?”

“No, just have a little trouble with yours. I think you’re trying to ruin my appetite.”

Stealing a forkful of the pasta on Starsky’s plate, Hutch pronounced it wonderful. Starsky wanted to fall into those blue eyes that seemed to be teasing him, to accept the gentle banter over their food. It soothed his taut nerves because it was ordinary and they did it all the time. It set the mood for the rest of the meal and, he hoped, for the rest of the evening.

* * * * * *

“More coffee, gentlemen?”

“Pierre, as much as I’d love to spend the rest of the evening right here, drinking coffee and that special brandy of yours, duty calls.” Hutch picked up the check. “My treat. Call it rent for shackin’ up at your place.”

“Where else would you go?” And why can’t you? And would I let you?

“Ramada Inn. Motel 6. That’s what they’re for.”

“Oh that’s a terrific idea. Motels are lousy and you know it. However, I’ll let you buy. It’s suitable payment for making me watch you eat those horrid slimy little things.” Starsky headed toward the men’s room, enjoying Hutch’s quiet laughter behind him.

As Starsky returned to their table, he heard a man’s voice ask, “Kenneth Hutchinson?”

Hutch turned. “I beg your pardon.”

Two men — one short and blond, the other tall and dark, both strangers — were standing beside Hutch. The blond said quietly, “I’m sorry, sir. I just asked if you are Kenneth Hutchinson?”

Starsky stepped forward. “He’s Starsky. I’m Hutchinson.”

“Won’t work, Starsk. These guys are only doing their job. I’m Kenneth Hutchinson. Give me the bad news.”

The blond pulled a folded document from his jacket pocket and handed it to Hutch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hutchinson, but like you said, it’s our job. And it was so much easier than we had been advised it would be. For detectives, you are easy to trail. You have now been served.” They left as silently as they had arrived.

“I’m sorry.” Starsky laid his hand on Hutch’s shoulder and squeezed lightly.

“It’s okay. Had to happen.” Hutch sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Let me make a call, then I’ll meet you at the car, okay?”

He lit a cigarette and watched the cars and the pedestrians through his smoke. Damn her. Why does she always have to intrude? She had him, could have had him for life — his body and his heart — but she threw him away. Stupid broad. And then she had to spoil my evening with Hutch, a few quiet minutes when I almost managed to weave a dream.

He drummed his fingers on the dash and checked his watch for the third time in fifteen minutes. They were going to be late. Then he spotted Hutch hurrying down the sidewalk. “Sorry, I got stuck on hold.” He slid into the car and Starsky pulled away from the curb.

“Well?”

“I see my lawyer in the morning. Nothing else I can do once the papers have been served. She won’t stop until she’s sucked every drop of blood I’ve got.”

Hutch sounded tired — worse, defeated. Starsky gripped the steering wheel, holding in his anger and hatred of Vanessa. Oh babe, if I say anything, you’ll still defend her, won’t you? Aloud, he said, “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“For the kind of money I’m paying him, he can work on Christmas.”

Traffic was heavy on the freeway. Starsky drove automatically, stealing glances at Hutch. The proud head drooped, the beautiful eyes were closed. What are you thinking, babe? Are you giving up? Don’t let her do this to you! Clutching the wheel, he thought of a dozen ways to murder Vanessa — all of them slow and painful.

* * * * * *

Hix and Baker looked like wilted vegetables. Baker wiped his face on his sleeve. “Christ, I’m glad you’re here. I didn’t think this day would ever end.”

Hanging up the phone, Hix said, “Anderson said movement in certain circles indicates a big buy. If it’s gonna go down, should be soon.”

“I hope so. I’m tired of this place.” Starsky sat on the cot and unbuttoned his shirt. He was glad they had left their dress coats and ties in the car. He wished he could shed his gun as well.

“Any signs of activity today?” Hutch asked.

“Kid’s been here since three doing whatever it is he does. Nothing else.” Baker flipped through his notebook. “We did manage a count of that stuff over there. Two million five hundred thousand pills — give or take. SKF can’t even account for the loss. There are two hundred thirty-five cases of powdered milk, all Carnation. No way to trace it. And I don’t even wanna think about how much shit that’ll cut.”

Hutch was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to think about it either. I couldn’t turn a thing on the street today. Not one word. And where does this kid fit in?”

“Don’t know.” Baker stretched and rubbed his shoulder. “And right now, I don’t much care. I want a beer, three hours in the pool and a good night’s sleep.”

“Not tonight, my bachelor friend, Sally’s cooked a special meal just for you.” Hix turned to Hutch. “Sally’s my daughter–just learning to cook. You know, the joys of partnerhood.”

“Yeah,” Hutch acknowledged.

“See you in the morning.” Starsky waved his cigarette. “Now we wait.”

“That’s the name of the game.” Hutch slumped into the chair.

“Did your lawyer say anything?”

“No, he couldn’t really. He hadn’t gone over the papers or Vanessa’s demands. He should know by tomorrow.”

“Hutch, I’m sorry.” He felt the need to touch, to share the pain. He walked over to his partner. “I wish there was something….”

Hutch took Starsky’s hand, gripped the fingers tightly. The blue eyes looked up at him and he fell in love all over again. “You have helped, just by being here for me.” Blond lashes lowered briefly over the golden skin. “I know I’ve got to work this out myself, but I need you here for me. I…I couldn’t make it without you.”

Starsky squeezed Hutch’s hand, then tried to pull away from the vulnerable blue eyes, the mouth that was an open invitation. But Hutch’s fingers clung to his; Hutch’s pain and love held him, controlled him. I’m either gonna kiss you or run screaming from this room.

Engine noise from the street below.

They took positions at the window — Hutch left, Starsky right–and peered out. Hutch said, “Brown Chevrolet, nineteen seventy-one….”

“…seventy-two….”

“…Impala. License number four, seven, three — shit, I can’t see!”

Starsky grabbed the glasses. “Four, seven, three, David, Atlas, Charles. They’re cruisin’ the area — drivin’ too slow for this neighborhood.”

“Occupants?” Hutchinson was dialing the phone.

“Two. Male. Both Caucasian, early thirties. Wearing sunglasses. Driver’s wearin’ a plaid jacket with elbow patches. Passenger has on a coat and vest. Gray. Don’t look like local slime.”

“Lost?”

“Don’t think so. No maps or anything. Probably know exactly where they are.”

Hutch murmured something into the phone, then hung up. “They’ll give us a call as soon as they’ve got a name.” Hutch returned to the window. “Where’d they go?”

“West on Fifth. Picked up speed in the middle of the next block and disappeared.” Starsky put the glasses back on their hook. “I think they’re casing the place.”

“Me too. I want to check out our roof and the alley behind the lab. Why don’t you call Anderson, see if he can scrape up someone to watch that alley?”

“Okay. But you be damn careful, huh?”

“Only be gone a couple of minutes. Then I want you to get some sleep. If anything goes down tonight, it won’t be until late.” Hutch’s fingers ruffled his tight curls. “If I throw you in anymore volcanoes, I wanna be here to rescue you.”

The light on the black telephone blinked and Starsky grabbed it, motioning Hutch to wait. “Starsky,” he answered, then listened, nodding.

After hanging up, he said, “Car was rented. John Smith from Houston.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised.” Hutch closed the door as he left. Starsky stationed himself at the window. Can’t sleep. Not with you this close. The dreams are too vivid and I don’t wanna explain them to you or complicate our lives any further. He pressed his forehead to the scratchy wood and allowed his mind to wander.

 

Los Angeles, California 
Monday 20 January 1969

Obstacle course.

U. S. Army.

Police Academy.

Doubled-over and panting, he held his left side and tried to slow his breathing. Soft. Too much of nothing to do and too many cigarettes. Miranda had helped him put his head back together, but it was up to Starsky and the police academy to get his body back in shape. Months of inactivity had made mush out of his muscles. It was time to fix that. And he intended to.

Watching his classmates of three days, Starsky found it was surprisingly easy to pick out those men with military training; even easier to distinguish between those who had known the jungle and those who had guarded gates. The experiences were etched in movement, expression, tilt of the head.

Head. Hair, blond and shining with captured sunlight. The brilliance made him blink. Starsky dug his fingers into his palms, remembered slimy mud. His heart pounded and his lungs burned. Brightly colored spots danced in front of his eyes and he dropped to the ground. Beautiful angel…no. You’re dead. A steel band of pain circled his rib cage and he lowered his head. Breathe, you stupid fool, breathe. The world is full of beautiful blonds.

The potter’s wheel spins faster and faster, demanding all the attention. Never time to think of anything but the clay…clay…clay…. Starsky took a deep breath, then another. The racehorse in his veins slowed, the roar in his head quieted to a steady ache.

A hand rested on his shoulder. “Starsky?” Hesitant question. “Dave Starsky?”

He jumped up quickly. Too quickly. His eyes met eyes of cornflower blue framed by golden blond silk. The world slipped sideways as pain jabbed under his left lung. “Hut-Hutchinson?” Can’t be. He slid off the edge of the world into darkness.

“Starsky.” Fingers touched his face. “Starsky, wake up.”

Slowly he opened heavy lids. The same angel stood over him. “Are you Gabriel?”

“What?”

English, not Hebrew. Ma will be so disappointed.

Warm hands, strong hands pulled at him. “Here, try to sit up.” The blue eyes were twin suns, the center of his universe. Starsky reached out to touch the shining hair. “How come you don’t have wings?”

Fingers stroked his neck, tangled in his hair. “How hard did you hit your head?”

“Doesn’t matter. Nothin’ matters. You’re dead. I must be too. Is Nathan here?”

Hands clamped hard on his shoulders, shaking him. “C’mon, soldier, pull yourself together.”

“Hutchinson? Lieutenant Hutchinson?” Starsky rubbed his eyes with balled fists.

“Hutch.”

“But you’re dead.”

“Funny, I don’t feel dead.”

“But….”

Starsky was hauled to his feet as a group crowded around. A uniform approached and a harsh voice demanded. “What’s the problem here?”

Words smooth as sun-warmed honey. “Probably the pollution, it hits them hard if they aren’t used to it. Mind if I take him to the locker room — just in case?”

No one talked to a D.I. like that. Starsky was stunned as the crowd parted and he was led away, Hutchinson’s arm around his shoulders.

The locker room was deserted. Starsky straddled a bench, his body limp, drained of emotion. “Why aren’t you dead?”

“Why should I be?” Hutch sat astride the same bench, facing Starsky.

“Because you knew too much, because you could not be trusted to keep your mouth shut, because you were a liability the army couldn’t afford.” Starsky studied his hands. “Disposal’s simple, routine.”

“You mean the General Williams thing?”

Starsky flinched and turned white, fighting panic.

A hand touched his shoulder. “It’s all right. You see,” Hutchinson spread his hands, “I don’t remember anything. They told me I picked up dengue fever in the jungle and was shipped to a MASH unit. By that time Dad knew what was going on and he hot-footed it to Saigon.” Hutchinson rose, paced the floor. Restless. Angry. Silent. The long legs moved powerfully, the perfect ass taunted and the blond hair fascinated. Starsky’s heart constricted in pain. All his dreams merged into one golden god, dissolved into a puff of cigarette smoke.

When the blond man finally spoke, his voice was bitter. “Between my old man’s power and the fact that I couldn’t remember anything….”

“Nothing?”

“At the time, no. The doctors told me I kept screaming your name, but they didn’t tell me why and I couldn’t remember. Still don’t. They finally decided it was hysterical amnesia and that maybe the memory would come back and maybe it wouldn’t.”

“Has any of it come back?” Starsky watched the man move and stifled his desire.

“Flashes. The Army told me certain things, trying to trigger the memories. Names, dates, places. I remembered your name and your face. They told me you saved my life, but I don’t remember.” Hutchinson opened a locker and removed a flip-top box of Marlboro’s. “You want one?”

Starsky’s hands trembled as he took the cigarette. “I wasn’t sure that I had done you a favor. Saving your life, I mean. I thought Nathan had killed you.” He held the smoke in his lungs until it burned.

“Nathan?” Hutchinson returned to the bench.

“Captain Wise. We…worked together. Do you remember him?”

Hutchinson held his head in his hands for a moment, then looked up. “Vaguely. I think he wanted to kill me, but I don’t know why.”

I do. “Part of his job.”

“What kind of job?” The blue eyes were wide.

“You don’t wanna know. Probably why you can’t remember. It’s not pleasant.” Starsky’s turn to pace.

The warm hands touched him again, stroking down his arms. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

He shook loose from the grip. “Yeah. I’m just out of condition. Need some exercise.”

“Starsky?” A hesitant question. “What happened to Wise?”

The knife in his heart twisted, pain slicing through his body. Oh God, will it ever stop hurting? He rested his forehead against a cold metal locker and whispered, “Nathan’s dead.” Nathan. Beautiful Nathan covered in mud and slime and blood. Dead.

Hands moved down his back, soft words tickled his ear. “I’m sorry, David. I’m sorry.” Starsky was turned, held firmly. “The war fucked up everybody who touched it.”

It would be so easy to fall into those arms, to capture that vulnerable mouth, to lose himself in this beautiful man. Starsky took a deep breath, steeling his heart. It could never be. This fantasy must always remain a fantasy.

Suddenly the room exploded into the noise and the musky odor of male sweat. He and Hutchinson separated as the group approached them. “Hey, Hutch. That was quite a performance.” A handsome, dark-haired man draped an arm over Hutchinson’s shoulder. “You got some kinda style, man.”

The blond shrugged. “Yeah. John Colby meet Dave Starsky.”

Firm handshake. “You okay now?”

“Yeah. Hospital time saps the life out of you.”

“Nam?”

Starsky nodded.

Colby eyed him critically. “Nothing serious?”

“Nothing that shows.”

The golden smile was like a sunrise. The slap on his ass was just playful fun. “Okay, guys, let’s hit the showers.” Starsky swallowed. Dozens of beautiful nude male bodies hadn’t aroused him. One just might destroy him.

* * * * * *

Los Angeles, California 
Friday 17 August 1973

Hutch returned and Starsky gasped as memory collided with reality. Oh, babe, you could still destroy me. Just one word, just one look.

“Starsk, you all right?”

He shook his head to clear the images. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You’re pale and shaky.” Hutch pushed him gently but firmly over to the cot. “You rest, or I really will toss you in that volcano.”

Starsky settled on the uncomfortable bed, watching Hutch move around the room. Not a good idea. Better to be lost in yesterday.

* * * * * *

Los Angeles, California 
Friday 7 March 1969

Smoky room.

Pepperoni pizza.

“And here’s to you Mrs. Robinson….”

Cold beer slid down Starsky’s throat, the perfect end to a good meal. Hutchinson lit two cigarettes and handed one to Starsky. “John?”

“No thanks, Hutch. Hey, there’s a gorgeous blonde at the bar just begging to be picked up. If either of you two is interested, we could flip a coin.” Colby looked from one man to the other.

“No thanks,” Hutch answered, smiling “She’s all yours.”

“Last chance. Okay, suckers, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Colby winked and sauntered over to the bar.

“You know, Hutch–” Hutch. Starsky liked it better than Ken. It suited the man. Hutch. Blond, beautiful, untouchable.

“What?”

“I was just going to say that if you really wanted that girl, Colby wouldn’t have a chance.” He’s not even in your league.

“I know.” There was no arrogance in the simple statement. Hutch crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray and signaled for more beer. “I get tired of the games. After a while the girls are all the same — just bodies to use and discard. I want more than that.”

“Yeah, but finding it’s not so easy.” The fresh glass of beer tasted better than the last. “Hutch?”

Foam lined the man’s upper lip like a pale mustache. “Yeah?”

“What’re we doing here? I mean how’d our lives cross like this?”

“Fate.” Hutch shrugged and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oh, c’mon.” Starsky lit another cigarette. “Why are you here?”

“Don’t know. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t face what money and power do to people. I hate what my father does.” Cold fire burned in ice blue eyes.

“But why a cop?”

Hutch slammed his mug onto the table, spilling foam and beer. “Because he hates it so much!”

Starsky recoiled from the overwhelming fury, but he still wanted to know. He needed to know everything about this man — good and bad. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?”

Silence. Hutch lit another cigarette, watched it burn. “I guess not. I thought about a lot of things. Dad’s money would have bought me anything I wanted. Med school. Law school. My own business. A piece of his.”

“But?”

“There’s always a ‘but’ isn’t there? Would’ve been easy. If I didn’t hate him so much maybe I could’ve taken it. But things get screwed up, like my cushy job in D.C.” Hutch shrugged. “I decided that if my life was going to be fucked up, then I should be the one fucking it up, not my old man.”

“That’s all?” Starsky sipped his beer, watching Hutch over the rim of the glass.

“Nothing’s ever that simple. Dad had a screaming fit when I told him I was gonna be a cop. He threatened to disinherit me.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Shit, I wish he would, but Grandfather Hutchinson would never allow it. You see, not only am I the fair-haired beauty, I’m the only son. Somebody has to carry on the family name.” The sarcasm was as bad as the anger.

“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

“How do you know so fucking much?”

Starsky knew the fury wasn’t directed at him. “Well?”

“Yeah, there’s more.” Hutch shredded a paper napkin. “I’ve never put it into words before. It’s kinda scary.”

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I think maybe I do. Maybe I ought to understand exactly where I’m coming from before I take a badge and gun.”

“Only if you want to.”

“Yeah.” He arranged the bits of napkin into a small pile, then ripped a cigarette filter into tiny strips. “I hate my father. Not just what he is, but who he is. Oh, he’s not a common criminal. There’s nothing common about a Hutchinson.” The bitter note was back in his voice. “He doesn’t peddle dope or run guns or rob banks, but he’s just as guilty when it comes to screwing the little people.”

“The little people?”

“Yeah, you know. Joe Blow. John Q. Citizen. The guy who just barely makes it through life, the guy who wants to have dinner with his family every night and take a vacation in the summer and pay off the mortgage on his house. I wanna do something to help those people.”

Starsky tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, Superman only lives in comic books. Didn’t your mother ever tell you, you can’t save the world?” An icy stare stopped him.

“Nora Covington Hutchinson never took the time to tell me anything.” Contempt outweighed the bitterness.

“I’m sorry, Hutch. I didn’t mean….”

“‘S okay.” Hutchinson drained his glass. “Okay, your turn. Why are you here?”

“My father.” Starsky smiled at the startled glance. “He was a cop. A damn good one and he died for it. Guess I wanna be as good as him — maybe get even with the guys who killed him.”

“And you call me Superman.”

“Maybe. But I’d like to see justice done once in a while.” He frowned. “Not the killing though. It makes me sick.”

“But you do it so well.”

Put the bullet between his eyes, Davy. Starsky knocked over the chair as he ran from the restaurant. The foggy night air chilled him, but he didn’t stop until his lungs were screaming for air. Somehow, Hutchinson was there, beside him. They gasped and wheezed until Starsky could finally speak. “I thought…you said…you didn’t…remember anything?”

“I don’t — at least not on a conscious level. The doctors said the memories are all there, buried somewhere.” He shrugged. “I know what I said, but I don’t know why. I’m sorry–”

“What do you remember about General Williams?”

“Let’s find the car, it’s cold out here.” Hutch headed back towards the parking lot. “I don’t remember anything about the general. All I know is what the Army told me, that he died when the plane crashed.”

“You don’t remember the crash?”

Hutch shook his head. The blond silk, tipped in silver moonlight, floated in the darkness. “Don’t remember anything after Hawaii.”

I wish I didn’t.

Over the roof of the silver Corvette Hutch smiled. “C’mon, let’s go back to the dorm. I’m sorry about what I said.”

“It’s okay.” Starsky slid into the passenger seat.

After putting the key in the ignition, Hutch turned to face Starsky, laying a hand on his knee. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Can’t. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Hutch moved his hand, started the car.

“Look, I appreciate the offer. It…it would probably do me good to dump some of this shit. Maybe if you remembered…but I can’t tell you the stuff I saw–” And did! And did! his mind screamed at him. “–and did, Christ! Nobody should ever….”

“‘S okay.” Hutch drove down the empty street. “Remember, I’m here.”

 

Los Angeles, California 
Friday 17 August 1973

Yeah, you’re here all right and I wish to God you were any place else. And I know I wouldn’t let you go. Starsky got up from the cot abruptly. “Anything?”

“Thought you were sleeping.”

“Hafta check out the plumbing. Thought you were watching the lab.”

“Kid left at his usual time. Nothing else going on.”

“Be back in a minute.” Any convenient spot. Just like the jungle.

When he returned Hutch was settled in the chair, his feet on the corner of the card table. He blew smoke in Starsky’s direction. “Get some sleep, huh? Looks like a quiet night and I got a lot of things to think about.”

Vanessa. “Yeah.” Starsky stretched out on the cot. “Wake me when you get tired.”

“I seem to remember telling you the same thing last night.” Hutch chuckled.

“But I slept all day….”

“And ended up in a volcano.”

“Was only a dream.”

“You won’t dream sleeping on that damn thing, you’ll be too busy bein’ uncomfortable.”

Starsky wiggled, but Hutch was right. He watched the orange glow of his partner’s cigarette and drifted.

Fire.  
And darkness.
A bonfire blazing high in a black and moonless night.
He watches.
Orange flames encircle the white draped altar.
Red-robed hierophants revolve
march
chant
He is one of them, with them, part of them
He waits.
Sacrifice
A dark figure leaves the circle,  
Colby
Mounts the steps
Pulls away the white cloth
Feeds it to the flames.  
Sacrifice
Hutch. Nude, golden, bound to cold, dark stone.
Helpless.
Terrified.
The dark man touches
fondles
caresses
The red-robed adepts circle and chant, circle and chant.
He is one of them.
He watches the dark man prepare to take the sacrifice.  
No
    He tears off his robe  
He’s mine
Runs through the fire  
You can’t have him
             Shoves the dark man away  
You can’t touch him
Kneels between spread thighs  
You’re mine
Blue eyes gaze up at him, begging
pleading
asking to be rescued
He struggles with his lust
his desire
his love.
The fire burns hot within him
around him
through him.
He is lost.
Oh beautiful man you’re mine   YOU’RE MINE  
YOU’RE MINE–

“Starsk? Starsk, wake up.” He was being shaken, hands gripping his shoulders.

“Hmmmp.” He tried to focus his eyes. “Wha’?”

“Another volcano?” Hutch leaned over the cot, his mouth dangerously close.

“Huh?” Starsky tried to think, but he couldn’t block out the image of that mouth.

“You were dreaming again. Moaning and thrashing around.” Hutch’s eyes traveled the length of Starsky’s body. “Must have been some dream.”

“Don’t remember.” He tried to roll sideways but Hutch held him securely.

“Just as I woke you, you said ‘Oh beautiful man, you’re mine.’ Man, Starsky? What man? What man is so beautiful that he can do this to you?” Hutch’s hand covered the bulge in Starsky’s jeans.

Groaning, he tried to escape the touch that held him trapped. “Please.”

Voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Please what, beautiful man?”

He couldn’t answer, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Hutch held him bound to the altar, ready for sacrifice, ready to be thrown into the raging inferno. He couldn’t stop it. He had to stop it. Hutch’s mouth descended.

The sudden noise of a car engine from the street below was as devastating as being thrown in a volcano. Hutch pulled back, something indefinable flickering in his blue eyes. Starsky followed him to the window. Below, three men had entered the storefront lab and turned on the light. Hutch grabbed the field glasses. “Kraft.” He flipped the switch on the tape recorder and reached for the phone. “Zebra Three, priority patch through to Captain Anderson.” He turned to Starsky. “Anything?”

“Not sure.”

“Hutchinson here. Kraft is in the lab. Equipment is running. Get somebody to watch the front so Starsky and I can cover the back.”

“They’ll probably head upstairs. Hutch, you should–”

“Go. You cover the south end. I’ll take the upstairs as soon as the back up arrives.” Waving his hand, Hutch went back to the phone.

Starsky checked the street between the buildings. One man stood by the front door; Kraft and another man were inside. Radios. Let’s do this one by the book. Quick dash to his car and back — seven seconds. Hutch was just coming out. Starsky tossed his partner a walkie-talkie. “Catch.”

“Yeah. Good.”

Starsky rounded the corner and tested, “Hutch?”

“I can hear you just fine. I’m moving. Let me know when you’re inside.”

“Right.” Starsky worked his way across the street. A black and white waited in the silent shadows. Fishing for his badge, Starsky tapped on the window of the car. “Starsky.”

“Miller,” the uniform officer inside said. “And Andrews. Hix and Baker are on the way. Anderson wants to run the show.”

“It’s his party.” He held up the radio. “They can reach Hutchinson ‘n me, if they need to.”

“Gotcha.”

Starsky ran silently towards the hole he had discovered earlier, cursing and blessing the darkness at the same time. Slow. Don’t bump into anything. He stopped to catch his breath behind a stack of empty crates, then he pushed the button on the radio one short beep. Jungle signals echoed in his mind.

“I’m here,” Hutch whispered. “You set?”

“Not quite. Where are you?”

“Where I can see the crates of milk. We can get ’em for the uppers, but I want the whole ball game.”

“Yeah. Be careful, huh?”

“You too.”

Starsky attached the radio to his belt and peered around the crates. A rat squealed and scurried across his foot. Shit. He moved quietly, working his way forward until he could see through the grating.

Kraft paced the floor. “Well?”

“Mr. Kraft, it takes time. Please be patient or I’ll mess this up.” The other man stood with his back to Starsky.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Kraft said, “All right, Al, it’s been fifteen minutes. How much longer’s it gonna take?”

“Finished.” Al held up a beaker of white powder. “Good stuff. It’s ready to be cut.”

Rubbing his hands together, Kraft said, “‘Bout time. I’ll bring the stuff from upstairs.”

“You don’t think that kid found anything?”

“Nah, he’s too busy doing whatever it is he does in here. He’s not too bright.” Kraft laughed nastily and went out the front door.

Backing away into the shadows, Starsky pushed the transmit button on his radio.

“Yeah?”

“Paydirt.”

“The real thing?”

“You got it. And Kraft. He’s comin’ your way.”

“Right.”

Starsky pushed the button once, twice. “Hix, Baker, Anderson, anyone? But keep it quiet.”

The radio emitted a loud burst of static. Starsky hit the transmit button and checked the lab. Nothing. He whispered harshly, “I said quiet. You wanna get us killed?”

“Sorry. Couldn’t be helped.” Captain Anderson spoke softly. “Report, please.”

“Looks like they’re gonna cut and package a shipment of heroin.”

“Good.”

“And the kid, McGuire — looks like he might not be involved after all.”

“I’ve sent a unit to pick him up. You can ask him.”

Returning the radio to his belt, Starsky found a spot where he could see the lab clearly. He settled back to wait, trying not to think about Hutch or Hutch’s hand or Hutch’s mouth or…. “Give me a hand, Al.” Kraft returned, balancing two boxes, one marked ‘Carnation.’ This enough milk or do you need more?”

“Won’t know till I get started. It’ll go faster if you bag as I measure.”

Sparkling white crystals in tiny plastic bags. One, two, three, four, five, man, woman, birth, death, infinity. Starsky lost count. The bags became screwed up kids, pretty little hookers, strung-out GIs roaming Southeast Asia. The same God that created green grass, daffodils, Pacific sunsets and Hutch also created bright orange poppies. C’mon, Anderson, move it.

One beep. Hutch. “Yeah?”

“Anything?”

“Lots of smack.”

“Anderson?”

“Not yet. Should be soon.” Starsky stared at the radio, willed it to speak. He hated this silent waiting. He didn’t want time to think.

Two beeps. “Yeah?” he whispered.

“Baker here. We’re upstairs. Captain should be here in five minutes. How do you wanna take it?”

“Hutch?”

“Here.”

“Five minutes?” Baker asked

“Make it ten. Starsky, meet me in the alley.”

“Right. Baker?”

“Ten four and good luck.”

Starsky pocketed the radio and inched back through the dark room. It was eight long minutes before Hutch arrived, then they returned inside to await the others. Two minutes later Baker appeared from the shadows and pointed his gun at the lookout. Starsky glanced at Hutch and they stepped forward, guns level, aimed through the wire mesh. Anderson strolled through the front door, Hix close behind, his gun drawn.

Anderson addressed the man formally, “Randolf Kraft, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent….”

Hix pulled out his handcuffs, started for Al. Baker’s prisoner broke free, rammed into Baker, whose gun went off. The wild bullet shattered a bottle, then ripped through Anderson’s arm.

Anderson screamed.

Al stepped forward.

Starsky aimed at Baker’s prisoner. “Don’t move.”

Hutch aimed his gun at Al. “That goes for you, too.”

“That’s hydrofluoric in that bottle. Ask your man here how bad his arm hurts. If the acid isn’t washed out properly — and damn fast — he could lose that arm.”

“Captain?” Hutch asked.

“Burns. Not just a bullet wound…hurts like hell.” He dropped to his knees, cradling his arm.

“Kraft.” Hutch’s voice was cold. “Over here, hands behind your back. I don’t want to have to shoot you and spend the whole weekend doing the paperwork, so if you please….” Kraft stepped quickly up to the grating. “Cuff him to the fence, Starsk.” Hutch turned his attention to Anderson. “Okay….”

“Al,” Starsky supplied, snapping on the handcuffs.

“Okay, Al, tell me about the acid.”

“You’ll need to wash it with sodium hydroxide. Here.” He lifted a plastic squeeze bottle. “But he needs a hospital. ”

“Hix, give the man a hand. Baker, call us an ambulance and get those uniforms in here.”

As the ambulance squealed away, Baker and Hix took Kraft and company, leaving Starsky and Hutch with the clean up squad. A very bewildered John McGuire and his irate father were ushered into the lab by a uniformed officer.

“Sergeant Hutchinson, it’s four-thirty in the morning. Just what is going on?” Mr. McGuire asked.

“See this stuff?” Hutch pointed to the white powder. “It’s heroin. High grade. Upstairs, in factory boxes, are millions of amphetamines. And in the middle of this whole mess, in a building you own, is your son, the chemist.”

“But I didn’t….” the young man stammered.

Starsky touched him on the arm. “For your own best interests, don’t say anything.” The boy nodded.

Hutch continued. “Mr. McGuire, we have reason to believe that your son was not involved in the drug operation, but this is his lab and your building. We need a complete statement from both of you as soon as possible. And for your protection, I’d recommend your attorney be present.”

“Am I under arrest?” John was ghostly pale.

Starsky smiled reassuringly. “No. Not yet. But we do have to know what you were doing here.”

“Hey, I need a hand with this stuff.” A voice said from behind a box labeled Smith, Klein, French.

“Can you handle this, partner?” Starsky looked at Hutch, then at both McGuires.

“Yeah. Give the guy a hand. I’ll wait here until the heroin’s been inventoried. It’ll complete my testimony when Kraft goes to trial.”

It was five hours later when Starsky folded his arms across his typewriter, and pillowed his head on his arms. He was so tired he could sleep for a week and not even have time to dream. A hand caressed his shoulder. Hutch’s hand. “Here, I got you some fresh coffee. And a Danish I snitched from Dobey’s desk.”

“Thanks. How’s Anderson?” Starsky stretched, leaning back in his chair.

“Looks like he’s gonna be fine. Some of that acid splashed into the wound, but Al knew what he was doing. Probably saved his arm.”

Starsky drank some coffee. “Will Al testify against Kraft?”

“To save his own skin? You bet. He’s already singing like a bird.” Hutch glanced at his watch. “Oh shit, it’s nine-thirty. How much more do you have to do? I gotta meet my lawyer.”

“Paper work, McGuire’s statement. Nothing I can’t handle. The D.A. has your statement. Go.”

“Okay.” Hutch leaned over, whispered in Starsky’s ear, “I’ll see you later. We’ve got some unfinished business, beautiful man.”

Before Starsky could reply, Hutch was gone.

* * * * * *

His apartment had become a dark cave and he was never going to leave it. Starsky squinted at the clock, but it was too dark to see it. He didn’t really care what time it was. He didn’t care about anything. Hutch had promised to come, but that had been hours ago — or maybe it had been a lifetime ago.

He twisted his glass, watching the ice swirl in the amber liquid. It created ghostly patterns of volcanoes and altars and sacrifices and Hutch. Beautiful Hutch. Impossible Hutch. Or are you? The memory of Hutch’s hand started a fire in Starsky’s groin, spreading tingling fingers of need throughout his body. He sipped the bourbon, hoping it would quench the flames.

There was a knock at the door.

Go away. Starsky settled on the floor, his back against the sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him. I don’t wanna see nobody but Hutch and he’s not comin’.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Soft light glowed from the table lamp. Hutch’s hand touched his neck and Starsky trembled, hating the ice that settled in his stomach. “Starsk…babe…” The voice was feather soft. “You okay?”

“Yes. No. Didn’ think ya’d come.” Looking up, Starsky wondered why his partner was so fuzzy. He shook his head, but that only made things worse. He drained his glass.

“Told you I’d be here.” The glass was taken from him. The refrigerator opened, shut. Ice cubes clinked. “Any reason for drinking this shit?”

“‘As a high alcoh’lic content.”

“That sounds logical.” Liquor splashed over the ice, then the glass bottle dropped on other bottles. “How much of this stuff have you had?”

Starsky stared at the ceiling. “Not enough.”

The glass was returned to him as Hutch sat down on the sofa. “Anything to eat in this place?”

“Nope.” Starsky drank the bourbon, wishing it would numb the pain in his heart, and drown the fire in his loins. “Not hungry.”

“Are we celebrating or commiserating?”

“What’s to celebrate?”

“We made a good, clean bust last night. We could celebrate that. Or,” Hutch scooted closer to Starsky, “we could celebrate my divorce.” He was silent for a while. “I saw Vanessa this afternoon.”

“What? Why? Oh, Hutch.” Starsky wanted to stand, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate.

Hutch lit a cigarette. “I spent the morning with my lawyer and the rest of the day with Vanessa. Even took her to dinner.”

“What’d you’ lawyer say?”

“Vanessa wants everything and she’s got a sharp lawyer. If I’m not careful, she could get it all.”

“Don’ ya e’en get half? I thought community property meant community property.” Starsky changed positions so he could watch the soft light play on the blond hair.

“Don’t kid yourself. She’ll use whatever she can to take me to the cleaners, not just now, but for the rest of my life.” Hutch drained his glass, then stood. Lines creased his face, made him look ten years older. “She wants everything.” He walked to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. “Got anything else to drink?”

Starsky struggled to his feet and staggered to the kitchen. “Over the fridge.”

“Christ, how much have you had to drink?” Hutch counted the bottles in the trash can. “There’re four empties in here.”

“None of ’em ‘re full,” he protested, then reached for the cabinet above the refrigerator.

“Here. Let me.” Hutch grabbed the bottle. “Hey, this is the Southern Comfort Colby bought us before he left the Academy and rejoined the Air Force. I thought we were saving it for a special occasion.”

Starsky leaned against the refrigerator. “Oh, I think Hutchinson versus Hutchinson’s a prett’ special ‘casion.” He opened the freezer. “Wan’ more ice?”

“Yeah.” Hutch carried the bottle back to the sofa.

“Can you get back any of your things?” Starsky took his place on the floor and let Hutch fill his glass. “You said there were some things you wouldn’t let her have, like Venice Place.” Then he mumbled into his glass, “Bet it doesn’t even have a tower or a moat or nothin’.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“My piano. It was a gift from my grandmother. She was the only person who ever cared about me when I was a kid. And there’s a brooch — ugliest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. But it was hers, too, and she loved it. It’s an heirloom, it belongs to my daughter, if I ever have one, not Vanessa.”

“How ya gonna get it back?”

There was a sudden feral gleam in Hutch’s eyes. “Van wants Hutchinson money.”

“But you said….”

“That I didn’t have any.” Hutch settled back and drew on his cigarette. “There’s a whole different set of rules for the rich, Starsk. Tax evasion and loopholes and hidden money.” His laugh was bitter. “Only this time the old man got caught.”

“Huh?”

“Van’s lawyer found forty acres of rich New Mexico oil land in my name. That’s Hutchinson land. Has been for a long time.”

“I don’ understand.” Starsky tried vainly to clear his head.

“For some reason my father deeded those acres to me. Only his timing’s bad. This time he gets screwed. I told my lawyer to sell the land and use the money to buy off Vanessa.” Hutch ground out his cigarette savagely. “At least I’m not the only loser this round.”

Starsky could feel the anger building in his partner. “Why did you see her today?”

“My lawyer suggested a meeting so we could discuss a reconciliation.” He snorted. “Fat chance, but it looks good on the record.” He swallowed the liquor remaining in his glass, then refilled it.

“Hutch?” Starsky hesitated. He wanted to know, but he was afraid to ask, “Hutch…would you…could you…go back to her?”

“No.”

Starsky waited for Hutch to continue. There was so much he needed to know. “Why did you marry her?”

“I loved her. Or thought I did. She told me she loved me and I believed her.”

And she was terrific in bed. Let’s be honest, Hutch. Starsky remembered the marks on the blond body. Turning, he knelt in front of the sofa, gripping the fabric for support. “Maybe she did.”

“No.” Hutch twisted the glass in his hands. “She only loved the money. Maybe that’s the only kind of love there is in this world.” Bitterness and anger distorted the beauty of the man.

You’re wrong, beautiful man. There’s another kind of love, a love between two men that’s so powerful it destroys what it can’t own. The price of that kind of love is too high….

Hutch pressed his leg against Starsky’s arm. For a long moment Starsky relished the touch, wanting it to last forever. But Hutch didn’t want love; he only wanted comfort.

Starsky pulled away and wobbled to the window, staring out at the nighttime city. Lights, cars, planes, and smog. People hurrying to get nowhere. Love’s just a dream. And dreams could torment a man — awake or asleep. Nathan. Loving Nathan. Losing Nathan. Those long, endless nights in the Army hospital, afraid to sleep, terrified of the dreams. Pacing his room like a caged tiger for hours, days — fighting sleep until he had to be restrained and sedated. But the medication was never strong enough. The demons always returned. Old memories knotted his stomach, and his skin was suddenly clammy with cold sweat. The glass slipped from his hand, shattering as it hit the floor.

There was warmth and life in the arms that held him, strength in the quiet words. “Starsk, c’mon, this way. Here — sit on the bed.” His shoes were removed, then his shirt. His belt was unbuckled and Hutch tugged at the jeans. “C’mon, babe, help me get these off. You’re drunk. You need some sleep.”

“No!” Not sleep. He couldn’t. He shoved at Hutch and staggered away from the bed, tripping over the pants that bunched around his ankles.

“Starsky.” Strong arms forced him back to the bed. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Words, shapes, shadows, fears. Sergeant, you’re going to hurt yourself. You must get some sleep.

The walls were closing in, spinning wildly. Lights flashed and thunder clapped and then he could see Nathan hanging on that tree. Then it was Hutch. “NO!” Struggling, Starsky tried to run, tried to escape. “Don’t make me sleep. Dear God, please don’t make me sleep.” Then he was clinging to Hutch desperately. “The dreams, oh Christ, the dreams. Please don’t make me sleep.”

The strong arms closed around him, rocking him. Warm words touched his ear. “It’s all right, babe, I won’t let you sleep. I won’t let the dreams hurt you. I won’t throw you in any volcanoes. Just close your eyes. I’ll keep you safe.”

He floated in the peacefulness, lulled by Hutch’s promises. But the jungle memories leapt from hidden ambush. He could hear gun fire echo in his mind and feel the shelling rock the ground. He could not see. There was only cold wet blackness and the stench of death.

“Nathan!”

“Shhh. Starsk. It’s me, Hutch. I’m here. It’s okay.”

Starsky opened his eyes, trying to see. The images were blurred and distorted. “Hutch? Oh, Lieutenant? Where’s Captain Wise? I have to find him.”

“Starsky — oh, babe, please….”

“Where’s Nathan? Nathan! NATHAN!”

Thunder exploded inside his brain as the man slapped him, swinging his head to one side with the force of the blow. His cheek burned. Hutchinson gripped his shoulders, shaking him until he could focus his eyes.

“Starsky. Talk to me.”

“H — Hutch?”

“Starsky, Nathan’s dead. Do you remember that Nathan is dead?”

“YES!” And the picture was vivid in his mind, blood red on death black.

Hutch’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Then the mouth came closer and closer until Starsky could smell the rich liquor and taste the tobacco. He swam in the sensation as his mouth was invaded by Hutch’s tongue. But the image of Nathan remained, grew brighter, and exploded. Then it was his beautiful golden Hutch covered in blood, dying in the bug-infested, mud-caked jungle.

Terror seized him and he pushed Hutch away, desperately trying to escape from the nightmare. Inside his head the screaming wouldn’t stop.

Hutch held him tighter and Starsky realized his face was resting against bare skin rather than the soft knit of Hutch’s shirt. He snuggled closer, hiding from the ghosts.

“Tell me what happened.”

He buried his face in Hutch’s shoulder. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“No, I don’t know. And I think you’d better tell me before it destroys you. I know some of it, babe. I know you belong to the Army for life. I know General Williams died in a plane crash and that you thought I died too. And I know Nathan Wise died and that concerns you.” Hutch eased them down onto the bed, and threw his leg over Starsky’s.

He forced himself to meet Hutch’s eyes. “It isn’t pretty Hutch. I don’t want you to know, to be contaminated with my…ugliness.”

A soft kiss on his forehead. “I promise not to be contaminated.”

“I don’t think you have any idea how horrible Vietnam was and I don’t think you wanna know.”

“How bad could it be?”

“Worse than anything you’ve ever seen or imagined. So bad that you blocked it completely out of your memory.”

“I had dengue fever.”

“Okay.” Starsky shrugged. “Okay. What do you know about Nathan?”

“You worked with him and…and I think he was very special to you.”

“Hutch, look at me. Hutch, Nathan was my lover.”

Silence. No expression in the blue eyes. Say something, goddamnit!

“Hutch? Did you hear me?”

“Yes. I…I was trying to remember. There was a log against a tree and….”

“And what?”

“Don’t know. More feeling than memory really. No, it’s gone. Did you love him?”

“Yes.” And he loved me too.

“Why?” Hutch shifted, pulled Starsky closer.

“Why did I love him? Don’t know. Didn’t at first, but then it just sorta happened. The last night we spent together was so perfect, the beginning of something.” A tattered bedspread, a squeaky bed, champagne, laughter and love.

Starsky pressed his face into Hutch’s chest. “Nathan’s dead.”

“I know, babe, I know. Tell me.” Lips were cool against his forehead.

He closed his eyes. The memory was there — it always had been, waiting deep in his mind, though he had denied its existence. Hutch, don’t hate me. I couldn’t stand it if you hated me. “We were on patrol. About forty miles from Da Nang. The fighting was heavy in our sector. It was the worse night I ever remember. Ching was dead. Nathan always made sure and I always but the bullet between their eyes. I can’t! I can’t tell you these things. Please don’t make me.”

Hutch touched his eyes. “I need to know. I need to know what you’re thinking in here.” He stroked the springy curls and waited.

Starsky swallowed his fear. “It was pitch black and raining like hell. Shells were dropping all around us. I couldn’t see or hear. And then there was an explosion right in front of us. Nathan just sorta flew up in the air, then hit the ground, rolled, tried to run and lost his balance.” The images unrolled behind his closed eyelids, a vivid motion picture he could not stop. Tears burned as they slid down his face.

“Shhhh. It’s okay.” Hutch’s arms were strong.

“Nathan tripped a wire, a booby trap. It threw him against a tree and impaled him…oh, Hutch, they dip those stakes in shit. Even if you can get a guy off without ripping him to shreds, you can’t fight the infection. Not in the jungle, it sets in too fast. Nathan…Nathan was there on that goddamn thing and there wasn’t anything I could do!”

Hutch rocked him gently. “Easy, babe, easy.”

“But he wasn’t dead, not Nathan. Never easy. His face was all twisted in pain but his voice was strong as ever. ‘Put the bullet between my eyes, Davy.’ Just like that — not good-bye or I love you; just one last order, just like the first time. S-Sam was a friend and I had to…oh God Hutch…General Williams. He didn’t die in a plane crash, Hutch, I shot him, I’m the one who put the bullet between his eyes. I had to, just like I had to with Nathan. Hutch, I killed him–”

Starsky ran for the bathroom. The walls were spinning and he couldn’t remember where he was. Cool hands steadied his head as he vomited. The smell of sour whiskey and bile blended with the odor of jungle death.

Weak and shaking, he was led back to bed. A soft wet cloth mopped his face. “It’s okay now. I’ve got you.” The touches were feather-light. “Then what happened?”

“I don’t know. All I remember is holding him. Sitting in the slimy, filthy mud and holding him.” Starsky opened one eye cautiously, Hutch was there, and the room wasn’t spinning anymore. “Next thing I remember is a hospital. Guam I think. Don’t know. And the nightmares.” He shivered and Hutch pulled the blanket up. “They made me sleep and every time I did, I had to kill Nathan over and over again.”

“You really loved him?”

“Yes.”

“How does it feel to love somebody like that?” Hutch settled back on the bed, drew Starsky close.

“It hurts. When Nathan died it was like a part of me was ripped away.”

The room was quiet for several minutes. The bedside clock ticked louder and louder until Starsky thought it would explode.

“If you shot General Williams, why didn’t you shoot me?”

“There’s no if, Hutch, I did shoot the general. It was part of my job.”

“Why didn’t you kill me? Christ, I wish I could remember!”

“No you don’t. I wish I could forget.” Starsky closed his eyes and buried his head in a pillow. Then Hutch was gone and he was alone. Frantic, he screamed, “Hutch!”

“I’m right here.” The sound of running water distorted the voice. When Hutch returned, he was carrying a pan of steaming water.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m gonna wash you, babe, wash away the mud and the sweat, the pain and the fear. I’m gonna take it all away.” Hutch sat on the bed. “But first I want to know why you didn’t kill me.”

“I couldn’t. I broke every rule in the book, disobeyed a direct order, but I just couldn’t.”

“Do you love me?”

Starsky rolled to the far side of the bed, curling his knees to his chest. “No,” he whispered. “Please no. I don’t wanna love you. It hurts too much.”

A finger trailed down Starsky’s spine. “Did you want to love Nathan?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Am I the only man since Nathan?” Hutch pulled him back to the center of the bed.

Starsky nodded. “Girls were easier. It’s not the same.”

Hutch washed him with water scented with mountain herbs. “Monday night, when you made love to me….”

“You remember? But you didn’t….”

“I had a lot on my mind, a lot of decisions to make.”

“And I shouldn’t have….”

“Maybe not, but you did. And it cost you, didn’t it? It brought back all the old memories, all the old hurt?”

“I loved him, Hutch. He was my whole life and I killed him!”

It was no longer a washcloth stroking his body, but Hutch’s hand caressing the flesh. “David, do you love me?”

“Yes. I don’t want to, but I do.”

“Then let me love you.”

Fire curled in his belly as Hutch’s hand closed over his cock. He found Hutch’s mouth, then clung to the man, savoring the taste of bourbon and tobacco, craving the male strength.

And Hutch gave. Starsky was pinned under his weight as the man explored his body, covering it with kisses. He moaned, a cry of mingled pain and pleasure, as Hutch’s mouth engulfed his rigid cock. The sensations triggered sweet fantasies that dissolved into reality. Hutch. My beautiful, golden Hutch.

The tingle started in his toes, moved up his legs, exploded into Hutch’s mouth. Starsky sagged, his energy drained, his defenses shattered. He hovered on the edge of sleep. Hutch’s arms cradled him, soft words comforting him. “Love you, beautiful man.”

Starsky drifted in velvet darkness.

Distant gunfire reached him, pulling him back to awareness. And a man’s arms. “Nathan?”

“No, babe. I’m not Nathan. I’m here and everything’s gonna be fine.” Strong knowing fingers entered Starsky’s body. Desire flared.

Starsky opened his eyes to meet the crystal blue ones of his partner. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“Why?”

“Because Vanessa will destroy us — you — when she finds out.”

“I’m not going to tell her. Are you?”

Starsky pushed against the invading fingers. “No, but she’ll find out–” And I want you so bad right now, I don’t even care.

“No, she won’t. But that’s not all, is it?” Hutch nuzzled kisses in the springy curls.

“No…when I lose you, it’ll kill me.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“Be realistic, Hutch. We’re cops. We work the streets. That’s just about as safe as the jungle. Somebody’ll take you from me one day. Or worse. It’ll be like Nathan.”

“No, babe, never like that. I promise. Never. That’s over. You have to let it go.”

“Help me.” Love me, Hutch, make all the hurt go away.

The fingers were withdrawn and he wanted to cry. Then the blond body covered his, solid, hard muscles tensed against him. Hutch’s mouth took his, demanding everything he had, everything he was. Hips and cock pressed into him, thrusting rhythmically. There were no thoughts of pain and death, just the warm love this man could give.

“Fuck me, Hutch.” Fill my body and my heart.

“No.”

“Please, Hutch, I need you.”

“No. I won’t be Nathan for you. I’m me and you have to love me.”

Starsky laughed, letting the joy wash through him. He turned the man onto his back. “You stupid goddamn fool. I never wanted you to be Nathan. I’ve loved you, you beautiful golden dream, since I saw you at the academy and knew you weren’t dead. I thought Nathan had killed you. Even when he denied it, I didn’t really believe him.” He stroked the inside of Hutch’s thigh and watched the cock respond, feeling the matching fire in his own body.

Hutch wiggled his hips, flaunting himself. Desire, longing, need forced Starsky to take the man, to flip him over onto his belly and enter him brutally, ignoring the muffled cry of pain. Ownership of this fleeting dream consumed Starsky, dominated his mind until he was alone and Hutch was just another convenient body.

No. Not Hutch. Starsky slowed his raging emotions, he stopped his frenzied movements. He wrapped his arms around Hutch’s waist and pushed gently and Hutch did the rest as tight muscles pulled the life from Starsky. Arms around his new lover, Starsky clung tightly, never wanting to break the delicate connection. I love you I love you I love you.

But it was not enough. He wanted more, needed more. He wanted to feel Hutch inside him, to revel in the man’s power and strength. He slipped a hand down to grasp Hutch’s cock. “Fuck me.”

“No.” The word was soft and final.

Swallowing a sob, Starsky rolled away and covered his eyes with his arm.

Something warm and wet touched him. “What’re you doing?”

“Washing you.” Hutch ran the cloth across Starsky’s belly, between his thighs, around his balls, over his cock. The cloth was put aside and Hutch took a bottle of baby oil from the bedside table. “Watch me now. I’m going to make love to you.” He poured oil into his hands, then slowly, deliberately, stroked the length of his cock until it glistened in the soft light of the bedside lamp.

Starsky shifted his gaze from Hutch’s hands to the clear eyes. The pure carnal lust that blazed in those blue depths told him what words could not. Hutch wanted him, David Michael Starsky. Sexually. Passionately. Hutch’s hands, slick with oil, caressed his legs, his balls, his cock. A long finger entered, explored. Starsky closed his eyes, drifting on the ecstasy.

The hands stopped. “I want you to watch me love you. I need you with me.”

Forcing his eyes open, Starsky locked glances with his lover and nodded. The fingers slipped away, leaving a sharp pang of emptiness. His legs were lifted and placed on Hutch’s shoulders.

The blue eyes burned with wildfire and it was an effort to look away, but he had to see. He raised his head and watched as Hutch eased the hard column of flesh into his body until they were fully joined.

Sagging under the weight, Starsky dropped his head to the pillow. Hutch smiled as Starsky squirmed, pulling him deeper inside, relishing the power and the strength.

Their eyes held until Hutch’s glazed and dilated. Hot fluid streamed into Starsky, filling him with love and a tiny portion of Hutch that no one else would ever have. Starsky slipped his legs down to encircle Hutch’s waist, held him inside and pulled the man to lie across him. The weight of his lover and the exquisite pressure triggered a final release. The stickiness bonded them together and they lay in sated darkness.

 

Los Angeles, California 
Sunday 19 August 1973

Morning light was peeking through the curtains when Hutch groaned and rolled onto his back. The musk of sex mingled with early morning smog and stale cigarette smoke. The essence of life — the symbol of what they had become — adorned Hutch’s chest and belly. Starsky watched his lover, seeing the contentment in his relaxed face and closed eyes.

The warm skin tasted of salty sweat and bitter semen. Starsky’s tongue licked in lazy patterns over the flat abdomen.

Hutch stayed his movements and a slurred, drowsy voice asked, “What’re you doin’?”

“Washing you.”

“You’re like a great dark cat lapping cream.” The words and the intimate laughter caused Starsky to look up. There was love written there — and understanding. Starsky consumed the lingering traces of himself on Hutch, then stretched and reached for the box of Marlboro’s. He pulled out the last two cigarettes.

“Hand me the lighter, huh?”

“No.” Hutch took Starsky’s empty hand. “I hate these damn things. Let’s quit.”

Turning Hutch’s right hand over, Starsky kissed the yellow stains on the fingers. “Think you can?”

“I think I want to.” Hutch took the cigarettes, laid them on the table and turned out the light. A shaft of sunlight streaked through the curtain, touched the corner of the table. The cigarettes rolled together, gleaming in the fresh morning light.

Starsky watched the brightness shift and change, then pulled Hutch into his arms, pressing their bodies together.

“I love you, David Michael Starsky. Totally and completely. Everything you are. I love you forever.”

Dear God, please let forever be a long time.

The End