For the Good of the Order

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Starsky and Hutch are selected to represent their profession in a very public display and an unusual way. Starsky is thrilled, Hutch is horrified, Captain Dobey is unrelenting. But at least they have each other. Pure gen. No sex, no blood, no whompage, no crime to solve. Just the boys, facing a new frontier side by side.

 

Author’s Notes: Our creative safe zones are our lifeboats. Every now and then, however, it’s a good idea fall over the side and into the unfamiliar waters. For me, humor and silliness are like countries where I understand the languages, but cannot speak the words. Then, at SHareCon 2012, some writers discussed the thrill and challenge of stepping away from our safety nets and trying to turn our writing on its head. This story represents my own attempt at such an action. I considered it part of my SHareCon 2012 homework.

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Bay City, California–Summer 1977

Metro Center, Monday Morning

“Starsk, how many times do I have to tell you—when you just start talking and keep talking, and don’t give me any hints, we always end up in the same place.” Hutch bumped his locker closed with his shoulder and leaned back, arms crossed.

“What place is that?”

“The place of total confusion.”

Starsky faced his partner across the barrier of the locker room bench. “I’m talking about being the loser team in this precinct. I’m talking about not winning. Not ever.”

Hutch waggled his white sock in Starsky’s face. “It isn’t whether you win or lose—”

“Typical!” Starsky dropped down onto the bench. “We’re the laughing stock of the department. Again. We’re dead last in door-to-door Police Auxiliary Fundraiser ticket sales.” He shoved Hutch’s sock away from his nose. “Quit that. Listen to me. Did you hear me? We’re nothing but losers.”

“Buddy. Some perspective. Please. We aren’t dead last where it counts.” Hutch extracted his badge from his inner jacket pocket and held it up.

“Uh huh. You’re a dummy.”

Hutch poked his tongue between his lips, absorbing the insult without a shrug.

Starsky stubbornly focused on tying his sneakers. “We got the big fat goose egg in ticket sales, partner.”

Hutch groaned. “Will anything make you stop? Just…stop.”

“I can’t stop. They’re laughing at us. We’re gonna sit there at the banquet, watching our brethren get the certificates, while we face facts—we ain’t got what it takes to get the job done.” Starsky ran his hands through his curls, agitated and forlorn.

That look—Starsky’s deflated blue boy impression—plucked at Hutch’s heartstrings. He placed a supportive hand on his partner’s slumped shoulder. “Hey,” he said.

Starsky looked up, despair dimming the light of his dark blue eyes.

“Listen to yourself, buddy. This is ridiculous.” Hutch dropped onto the bench, still gripping Starsky’s arm. “Y’know…I think you’re channeling some deep seated trauma here. Something got stuck in your memory banks way back when, and now that leftover feeling hijacked your better brain.”

“You mean I’m still feeling the humiliation from losing the big footrace to Obie Hurtzbanger when I was ten?”

Hutch kept his face perfectly neutral, which was difficult. “Yes.”

“I just wanna win the prize for top ticket sales some year.”

“I know.” Hutch gently tipped Starsky’s head up. “Because being top dog in busting the bad guys isn’t enough.”

“Not when I’m in this mood, it’s not. Nu-uh.” Hutch tapped him under the chin, but Starsky stubbornly refused any comfort.

Glancing at his watch, Hutch swore and hauled Starsky to his feet. “We’re gonna win a kick in the ass from Dobey if we don’t get moving. We’ve got an eight o’clock meeting, and we’re late. And Starsk?”

“What?” Starsky adjusted his holster and slid into his windbreaker.

“You’re a Nobel Prize winner in my eyes. Don’t forget it.”

O-O-O-O-O

With a simultaneous door tap and twist of the knob, Starsky poked his head into Captain Dobey’s office. His superior officer’s attention was hostage to the powdery sugar donut he held to his lips. In one enormous bite, a quarter of the treat disappeared.

Starsky’s mouth watered. He could taste the exquisite blend of yeast and sweetness. Of course, Dobey wouldn’t be sharing his feast, that much was certain.

Hutch wedged his head into the door crack, next to Starsky’s.

“G’morning, Capt’n.” Starsky saluted, while Hutch cleared his throat.

Dobey swallowed hard, the mouthful gone, leaving behind a faint brush of white sugar on his lips. He gulped down coffee and looked up, gesturing the detective pair into the office. “Get in here.”

Side by side, they fell into position in front of Dobey’s desk and waited.

“Congratulations are in order,” Dobey said. “Starsky, tuck in your shirt. And Hutchinson, fix your collar.”

Bewildered by the command, Starsky obeyed.

Next to him, Hutch shifted and straightened his shirt collar. “Congratulations, sir?” He glanced sideways and Starsky caught his confused gaze.

“You boys know the Public Relations team in External Affairs is in high gear, trying to improve the image of this department and the police force overall. You know the theme—”

“To humanize is to legitimize,” Starsky said, parroting the words hammered into their heads at those agonizing mandatory training sessions.

Hutch snorted. At Dobey’s warning look, he covered his mouth, morphing the sound into a light cough.

“Very good, Detective Starsky.” Dobey gave him a supportive nod. “The PR team lead had a novel idea. They want to build positive public image by showing some of our cops off their beats and in some unconventional settings. To show their human side, humorous side—their regular people and not cop side.”

Hutch stiffened, as though expecting a blow.

Starsky fought the urge to pat his partner’s head.

“Anyway, our PR folks pitched the idea of some cops going on that popular cooking show, the Gulping Gourmand. They thought it would be a winner, and humanizing, to have some of our officers there in the kitchen, cooking alongside the host.”

Hutch choked.

Starsky swatted his back.

“The Gulping Gourmand host and his producer loved the idea,” Dobey continued. “They got right on the search, requesting photographs of every police pair in the city. They debated for days.” He smiled. “And guess who they picked?”

Bouncing forward, hands spread wide, Starsky broke into a little dance. “Me and Hutch?”

“Yes.” Dobey took another bite of donut.

“Me and Hutch on TV? On the Gulping Gourmand? That’s terrific!” Starsky’s grin almost hurt his face. He couldn’t stop beaming. “Outta all the partners in the city, they picked us?”

Dobey chuckled. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Wow! We got picked, Hutch!” Starsky elbowed his partner. “They liked us! It’s our lucky day.”

Hutch remained still, rigid as a stone pillar.

“We’re gonna be TV stars!” Starsky continued his sideways jig. “Ticket sales ain’t in the same league as going on television!”

Hutch wiped a hand over his mouth and all but whimpered.

Starsky and Dobey stared at him and waited.

“Do you want to join the conversation, Hutchinson?” Dobey treated the blond detective to a glowering look.

“Captain. You can’t be serious.” Hutch’s protest wasn’t diminished one bit by the softness of his voice.

“Look at my face, Hutchinson! Do I look serious to you?”

“But—”

Starsky stepped closer to his partner. “Capt’n, what Hutch means is— ”

Hutch thumped him hard on the ribs. “What Hutch means is ‘No!’”

“Hutch,” Starsky said, reaching out.

Giving a firm head shake, Hutch stepped away from Starsky’s questing fingers.

Starsky pursued his partner, backing him into a corner. “Remember when we talked about how you were gonna add more new things to your life? Remember that, Hutch? Now’s your chance! Embrace the gifts of the universe.”

“Not now, Starsk.” Hutch tilted forward, bracing himself on Dobey’s desk, head hanging down.

Starsky didn’t want to look at his partner, knowing what he’d see and how it would affect him. He looked anyway. And there was Hutch, bathed in the unforgiving light, the tough cop losing ground to the vulnerable and lost boy. That expression on Hutch’s face—a blend of shyness and apprehension—always left him hopeless and determined to fix whatever was wrong. Knock it off. Hutch is a big boy. He’ll get over himself. He brushed a steadying hand over Dobey’s phone to keep from sweeping the same hand through Hutch’s hair.

“Get your hand off of my phone!” Dobey yanked the cumbersome black box with its blinking lights away.

“Sorry, Capt’n,” Starsky said. He turned to his partner. “C’mon Hutch. Buck up. What do you mean, ‘not now’? Now’s all we got! Live in the moment!” Sliding over to the water cooler, he poured and offered Hutch a paper cup full.

One long swallow emptied the cup. Hutch never took his eyes off of his best friend.

Starsky was relived to recognize reluctant surrender in those expressive blue eyes.

Dobey rapped his knuckles on the desk. “At ease, detectives! Dino DiLento, the Gulping Gourmand himself, is on his way over. He wants to meet you two for the first time in your natural environment.”

Hutch’s expression migrated back over to hostile.

Starsky gently pried the crumpled paper cup from his partner’s clasped fist. I can read every word in your mind like they’re written on paper. And you’re thinking, ‘Since when is this grubby precinct my natural environment’?

Hutch did the slow-head-turn-eyebrows-up move.

“This is settled.” With a fist slam on his desk, Dobey sealed the deal. “You’ll accept this assignment. Consider it other duties as assigned. You’ll do it for the pride of this unit, and for the good of the order. Is that clear?”

Both heads, one dark and one blond, nodded. The contrast between them was almost humorous—one oozing the confidence of a born show boater, the other looking for all the world like he’d been sentenced to die before a firing squad.

O-O-O-O-O

Dino DiLento, host of the Gulping Gourmand, tumbled into Dobey’s office like a rambunctious cyclone, his arms flung wide, his mouth split in a mammoth grin.

Starsky and Hutch traded looks.

The man was a bowling ball on legs, rotund and smooth from curving belly to butt. His arms and legs seemed like add-ons, hurriedly placed at the last minute, and too scrawny for the heft of his torso. His oversized head rotated on a thick neck, the shine of his bald pate brilliant under the florescent lights. Whirling, sparking in his own energy field, he pinched each detective on the cheek. “Here you are,” he enthused, his smile as bright as a ray gun.

Starsky’s heart thumped as he concealed his excitement beneath a careful smile.

Behind him, Hutch muttered, “Can’t we just arrest him?”

“Shhhhh!” Starsky waved a warning hand that somehow ended up as a handshake with Dino.

Hutch extended a reluctant hand.

“You are more perfect than your photographs!” Dino bobbed and gushed, circumnavigating around them. His accented voice carried the promise of music, and his breath the complex tangle of red wine, garlic and herbs.

Hutch squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“You will cook like no police before you—like no police in the history of cooking and police!” Dino frolicked and smiled again.

“Cops ain’t known as much for cooking as for coffee and donuts,” Starsky said, gesturing to Dobey’s desktop littered with crumbs and the stained coffee mug.

“Together, we change this sad stereotype! On my show, I teach you to cook like from the old country!” Dino bapped Starsky’s head.

Hutch snickered.

“You have watched my television show, yes?” Dino asked, stepping back and looking at each man in turn.

“No,” Hutch said.

“Been meaning to,” Starsky responded.

“Yes!” Dobey boomed. He patted his generous belly.

“We have so many beautiful times on my show. Everything is state-of-the-art in my kitchen, on my magnificent set in front of our studio audience. We have many, many cameras for close up views of our cooks and our technique. And of our deliziosa dishes.” Dino all but rolled on the floor for the sheer joy of it.

Starsky’s toes all but buzzed as he rocked back and forth. “What are we gonna cook?”

Dino rubbed his pink hands together. “We make the splendid dishes of Italia feast days. We make antipasto with calamari salad. We make sensual ravioli with sauce from heaven itself., His round cheeks curved up, a billboard for pleasure. “Recipes from my mama.”

“Italian’s my favorite.” Starsky looked happy.

“His grandmother lived over an Italian restaurant when he was a kid,” Hutch added helpfully.

Dino resumed his backslapping of each detective, one after the other, over and over. “I see you and I like you!” He treated them to another cavernous smile. “We meet again on Wednesday, when you come to cook on my television show.” Pausing, his eyes flitted back and forth, up and down. “I must request one more thing,” he said. “When you come to my set, please wear, as your attire, your blue jeans and white shirts. This is a requirement.”

Hutch opened his mouth, but Starsky elbowed him, nudging the forming words back down the hatch. “Easy enough, Dino,” he said. “Huh, Hutch?”

Lifting his eyebrows, Hutch acquiesced.

Dobey cleared his throat.

“You say something, Captain?” Hutch was resigned, but not mollified.

“I think you said I would be in the audience?” Dobey asked, turning to Dino.

Dino bobbed his head. “Of course.”

“Good. I need to keep a close eye on my men.”

Starsky swallowed a chuckle. You mean keep an eye on the feast, Capt’n.

“And you will, as our guest of honor, join us at table.” Dino bowed respectfully in Dobey’s direction.

Dobey’s smile showed all of his teeth.

“Until Wednesday!” With another round of handshakes, Dino tangoed out the door.

“We’re gonna be famous!” Starsky threw back his head, grinning madly at Hutch.

Hutch checked his holster. “I don’t want to think about it. And it’s time to hit the streets.”

“You’re gonna love it, partner.” Starsky gave Hutch’s neck a reassuring pat.

“Ummm hmmmm.”

“You trust me, don’tcha?”

“Ummmmm.”

“Do you think I’m gonna let those big bad TV people do anything to hurt my partner?”

“Ummmmm.”

“Huuutch. Do you know the only way to overcome shyness is to face it?”

“Not shy,” Hutch said. Liar. I’m sickeningly, obnoxiously, permanently shy.

“Whatever you say,” Starsky said. “You’re gonna get out there, in front of all those people, under all those lights, and you’re gonna be just fine.”

“Ugh.”

Starsky stroked his chin. “I know you’re gonna be fine, buddy boy. Wanna know why? I’ll tell you why. ‘Cause you’re gonna be with me.”

O-O-O-O-O

“Starsk, I don’t want to prove I’m a normal guy by going on television to cook.” Hutch shook his head, his golden bangs flying in the breeze. He braced his right arm on the Torino’s passenger door. “Cooking’s the least normal thing I’d ever do.”

Starsky cut down a side alley and ended up on the main drag, pulling out with a squeal of rubber. “Cooking shows your softer, gentler guy side, babe. C’mon. Get yourself into the spirit. We got picked to represent our department. You should be proud. Or don’t you wanna be seen on television with me?”

“What if I screw up? Get stage fright?”

“I’ll cover for you.” Sneaking sideways glances, Starsky assessed his partner. “You’re scared.”

Nodding, Hutch braced both hands on the dashboard.

“You ain’t afraid to stare down the barrel of a gun, but TV cameras give you cold feet? Get your priorities straight, buddy.”

Silent for once, Hutch rotated his neck, his eyes closing.

 “Why are you so nervous, anyway?” Starsky prodded his partner.

“Beats me. Just am.”

“You were valedictorian in high school. You had to make a speech up in front of the whole school.”

Cars whizzed by, and nearby a jackhammer pounded, all part of the city’s jittery wavelength. Hutch raked a hand through his hair. “That was different. I knew every single person there. Besides—” He stared down at the floorboards. “I’m not sure I like this whole set up of being pawns for the department’s reputation. We’re cops. We keep order and bust bad guys. That’s what we do. Not…not…you know—not make jackasses of ourselves on television.”

Starsky rested a comforting hand on Hutch’s bicep. “Remember what Dobey said. Other duties as assigned. And we might get famous.” He winked. “If we do, you’ll be singing a whole nother tune.”

“Turn here.” Hutch pointed.

“What’s down there?”

“Library.” The stubborn edge wormed its way back into the timbre of Hutch’s voice.

“You got overdue books?” Starsky’s words blended with the constant drone of the dispatcher’s voice, directing and announcing incidents all over the city.

Wagging his head, Hutch turned from profile. “No. But between now and Wednesday, I intend to become an expert on Italian cooking.”

Starsky pulled the steering wheel tight to the right, sliding into an empty parking spot. “You think studying is gonna save you?”

“Partner.” Hutch sighed, a pathetic admittance of gloom. “Nothing’s gonna save me.”

 

O-O-O-O-O

Bay City Studios, Set of the Gulping Gourmand

Wednesday afternoon

Hutch left the makeup room behind, taking a hard left toward the sound stage. People scurried around him front and aft, intent on their jobs—whatever that might be. Hutch had no idea. Against his will, he’d landed in a hostile, alien, and artificial world.

Dino’s television set rattled his senses. On one hand, it was a fully equipped and high end culinary work space, bristling with stainless steel, accented with cheery and homey colors—red and blue and yellow. But beyond the cozy kitchen table, already tastefully set with pottery plates and rustic tumblers, lurked the domain of the enemy. There, hiding in plain sight, was row after row of empty chairs. Hutch calculated—ten chairs per row and 12 rows total.

His heart chugged like a locomotive. Oh God. One hundred and twenty strangers, not counting the untold more out there in TV land, would witness his live debut. Butterflies tickled his belly, flitting up to his ribcage. He pulled at the sleeves of his crisp white button down, smoothing the fabric instead of his nerves.

The only buttresses he had, between the upcoming ordeal and its specter of profound humiliation, were his own determination and his partner. And his hope was melting fast, if it ever really existed, like ice cream under a heat lamp.

Why can’t I shed this damn stage fright? Why can’t I just roll with it?

He needed salvation. He needed Starsky. His partner gobbled down the thrill of every new adventure with delight, unhampered by the cardinal sin of over-thinking. Starsky’s confidence sometimes bordered on arrogance, but it wasn’t, not really. With his enviable blend of self-assurance and raw sexuality, Starsky was a natural born showman.

Hutch cursed his shyness, the unconquerable shyness, embossed on his DNA, always limiting and always interfering. Why can’t I be like Starsky, a natural ham, at home in front of an audience? Dammit. Starsky, where the hell are you?

The spotlights up in the rigging flashed in test mode, colors blipping on and off. Hutch looked up wistfully, wishing he could climb up above the ground and hide. When a stagehand brushed by, laden with a tray of tomatoes and garlic, Hutch attempted to clear a path and tripped over his shoelace.

Seeking safer ground, he wandered over to the counter, with its collection of cutting boards and knives. He was astonished to see index cards with stage directions taped to everything—the Italian tile of the back splash, the counter, even the floor.  He picked up a cue card. “Turn to camera 2 when chopping onions,’” he read aloud. Oh brother…Starsk…help me.

“Partner!” Starsky called out a greeting and ambled over.

Hutch treated him to a relived smile, distracted from his misery by the sight of his best friend, clad in clean but faded jeans and a collared white shirt, open to reveal a generous amount hairy chest.

A beanpole of a man, bespectacled and twitchy, ambushed them. “Dee-tectives Starsky and Hutchinson?” he asked in a squeaky and nasal voice.

“You got it,” Starsky said, flashing his most welcoming grin.

“I’m Vincento Labruggia, chief wardrobe assistant.” The man sidled over. “It’s time for your apron fitting.” Draped over his arms were two bibbed aprons, freshly starched and ironed.

Hutch gawked. The aprons were awash in paisley, festooned with little pastel curly cues. Each one resembled a paramecium swimming in a pale blue sea. “We’re g-gonna wear those? On television?” His mind refused to comprehend his rotten luck.

Vincento sniffed and nodded. “Of course. Everyone on the Gulping Gourmand wears our signature aprons.” His tone was that of the perpetually pompous, and he flexed his nostrils, parading his offence at Hutch’s ignorance.

“Then let’s do it!” Starsky stepped forward. “Apron me, Vinnie.” After a few quick tugs and ties, and a lecture from Vincento about the evils of nicknames, and he was swathed in the colorful apron, the ties dangling down behind his ass.

Even Hutch had to admit, Starsky did the apron proud.

“Your turn.” Vincento gestured impatiently, juggling the apron and trying to read his watch at the same time.

Hutch gritted his teeth as Vincento adjusted the apron and cinched it tight at his waist.

“Where’s Dino?” Starsky asked.

The flustered assistant blinked at him. “Mr. DiLento does not appear on the set until we begin,” he said, as though explaining to a wayward child. “He knows you’re here. He’ll summon you when the time comes.” After a last satisfied look, he retreated. “Don’t get dirty!” he called over his shoulder.

“Ain’t you cute!” Affection and appreciation radiated, undisguised, from Starsky’s eyes to Hutch’s.

Stirred from his stupor and suddenly skittish, Hutch jumped backward.

“What’s the matter now?” Starsky seemed genuinely interested. Few things caused Hutch to hop like a rabbit. “Are you paisley phallic, partner?”

Hutch frowned. “Please don’t make me ask for a translation.”

“Y’know—phallic. When you’re scared of something.”

“Phobic! The word is ‘phobic’!” Hutch’s words bled acid.

“That’s what I said.” Starsky wiggled his apron ties at Hutch’s nose.

Despite himself, Hutch smiled. His nervousness eased back a notch as he pondered the idea of his erection spackled with paisley. The vision was both amusing and supremely disturbing. Before he could hit Starsky with a comeback, rustling noises and the chatter of voices flowed toward them from the back of the room, interrupting his concentration.

The studio audience was arriving—the witnesses to his execution. Groaning, Hutch ducked, crouching low behind the counter. He jerked Starsky down next to him. “Starsk…”

Taking on a machine gun wielding madman was preferable. Confronting an armed gang while hung over would be a promotion. Anything, anything, but…this.

“Starsk,” Hutch whispered. “They’ve got us pinned down, but it’s not hopeless. We can still run—escape out the back. But we gotta go now. Before it’s too late!”

“Pal.” Starsky balanced on the balls of his feet, lowered his voice to a reassuring whisper. “This ain’t the time to act difficult. We’re here, and we’re staying here. Think of the honor of the department. Think of Dobey. We’re the chose ambassadors of our profession, and—”

“I’m not acting!” When Starsky tried to pry his partner’s fingers from the wooden cabinet door, Hutch only clung harder.

“I hear you. Yeah, you’re the poster boy for ‘difficult’ on a normal day. But right now, you’re difficult on rocket fuel.”

Hutch moaned. “I’m terrified out of my wits. I can’t…do…this.”

“Hey. Hey.” Starsky forced eye contact and winked. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Hutch swallowed.

“Trust me, buddy.”

Hutch nodded.

“Okay. Let’s stand up and get ready. Dino’s gonna be looking for us. Slow and steady. Let’s go.”

They stood up in unison. And there, front and center, wearing his blue checkered suit and wide orange tie, sat Captain Dobey. To his right was Police Chief Ryan, looking parade ready in his dress blues. To the left sat three uniformed officers.

Hutch gawked and back peddled, stumbled over Starsky, and slammed to the floor. Out of options, he crawled toward the stage wings on his hands and knees. When he reached safety and stopped to brush the sweat out of his eyes, he looked back.

And there was Starsky, standing his full height behind the work island, grinning at the assembling audience.

O-O-O-O-O

The lights flickered on, brighter than a thousand search lamps, bathing the set in a luminous glow. The Gulping Gourmand  theme song, a vibrant Tarantella spiced with the music of violins and tambourines, poured out of the speakers like wine.  Signs flashed on, instructing the studio audience to prepare for live programming.

Across the sound stage, the Voice of God boomed out the welcome. “Ladies and gentlemen—live from beautiful Bay City Studios—it’s time to get cooking with Dino DiLento—America’s very own Gulping Gourmand!”

Applause rippled and crested as Dino bounded out, bowing and blowing kisses. The buoyant music bounced along, the dancing rhythm in time to Dino’s choreographed movements. He pulled on a blue and green paisley apron and it fluttered down, stretching over his ponderous tummy. Standing in the spotlight’s circle, he lifted his arms in greeting. “Today,” he trumpeted, “we return to the old country and to my mama’s kitchen. We make antipasto and calamari. And we make mama’s secret recipe for family happiness—ravioli!”

The audience clapped its approval.

Dino stepped behind the prep island. “Here today, to help me to prepare this feast, we have two fine police officers from Bay City’s Metro Precinct. Every day, these young detectives devote their lives to public good. But today, here with me, they dedicate themselves to preparation of delicious food. Please—help me to welcome Detective Sergeants David Starsky and Kenneth Hutchinson!”

Starsky strolled out, all but strutting in his colorful paisley apron. He slapped palms with Dino and favored the audience with a full bow.

A stagehand all but crow barred Hutch’s hands from a support strut and punted him from his safe mooring. Hutch reeled onto the set, catching hold of Starsky’s waist, accidentally fingering his backside and untying his apron strings in the process.

Starsky caught Hutch and rotated him to face front. “Me and thee,” he mouthed.

The furrow of doom appeared between Hutch’s eyebrows. He panted, open-jawed, and his efforts to marshal his willpower were both heart-wrenching and obvious to his partner. There was no time for more strokes of comfort, as Dino snared the both of them and pulled them into position at the kitchen island.

“We begin now,” Dino announced, taking in both detectives and the audience with his darting eyes. “We make mama’s antipasto.”

Starsky pressed close, alongside their over-sized host. Hutch clung to Starsky’s shoulder.

In rapid speed, Dino assembled ingredients before them, and piled up measuring cups and bowls. “You are police partners?” he asked, chatty and casual.

“Yep,” Starsk said. “We’ve been partners for more than six years now.”

“And you are known as Detective Sergeants Hutchinson and Starsky?”

“We’re Starsky and Hutch,” Starsky answered, crunching on Hutch’s toe.

“And which is which?” Dino asked.

Starsky caught Hutch’s eye and beamed one thought straight to the brain inside of that blond head. Speak up, you dope.

Hutch blushed and fidgeted, conspicuously silent.

“Does he talk, this partner of yours?” Dino deftly peeled cloves of garlic with one hand.

Starsky shook his head. “Seems not.”

Hutch tried to bat the camera away with the back of his hand. “I’m Hutch. He’s S-Starsky,” he stuttered. He turned and glared at his partner. There. I said something.

The audience shared a collective smile and ripple of encouragement.

Starsky winked. Keep it up, partner. At least the ladies find you adorable. And so do I.

Delectable tidbits festooned the counter top, artistically placed—the produce crackling fresh and the cured meats and cheeses color coordinated on a large red platter. Crammed into the camera frame, flanking the frenetic Dino with his rapid fire commands, Starsky and Hutch tossed ingredients into the handmade wooden salad bowl.

Starsky snuck a sliver of Animaletti di Provola into his mouth. Hutch imitated him, crunching down on a pilfered artichoke heart.

“Ahhh—you cannot resist my food already!” Dino revealed their cloak and dagger munching with an indulgent smile, inviting the audience to join his laughter. He picked up a long knife sharpener and clutched it in his fist.

The salad assembled, Dino waggled his arms around—gesturing to the rows of fresh herbs in their quaint jars. “Now—the oregano, the basil, the rosemary, the chervil, the dill.” He tapped Starsky’s cheek with an aromatically scented hand. “Per favore, Detective Starsky?”

Starsky examined the jars. More than two dozen of them marched down the counter in rows like obedient little foot soldiers. There was only one problem. None of the jars were labeled. He whistled to cover his uncertainty.

Over his shoulder, Hutch watched intently, his breath warm under Starsky’s collar.

Guessing, Starsky picked up two jars, upended them, and sprinkled generous heaps of shredded herbs into the bowl.

“No! No! Wrong!” Dino’s mouth rounded in consternation. He steered the sword-like knife sharpener toward Starsky’s eyes. “Did I say parsley? Did I say tarragon?” He all but pushed Starsky out of the way to peer into salad, now flecked with unwelcome herbs.

Aiming for nonchalance, Starsky picked up the pepper grinder. With a few turns, black granules dusted the bowl and its contents.

“Aaaaeeeee!” Dino slapped his hands to his cheeks. “No pepper!”

The audience gasped.

With one giant step, Hutch inserted himself between the flustered chef and his partner. He poked a finger at Dino’s nose. “Back off! How’s Starsky supposed to know what’s what? You’ve got labels all over everything on this set, except those jars.” He gestured here and there, ripping one cue card off the cupboard door and holding it up to the camera.

“Hey.” Starsky patted Hutch’s belly. “Down, buddy—he ain’t gonna hurt me.”

Hutch dropped a hand onto the back of Starsky’s neck. “He’s waving that pointy whatever it is right in your face.” He turned to Dino. “I’m watching you.” Stage whisper or no, the terse words echoed over the speakers, straight from Hutch’s microphone to the audience’s ears.

Dino caught Starsky’s eye and gave a head shake.

Like the owner of an obstinate golden retriever, Starsky offered a helpless smile. But his heart swelled with gratitude for Hutch’s unrehearsed show of protective force.  Only the possibility of disrespect or a threat to his partner gave Hutch his voice and summoned his splintered courage. Starsky had never felt so loved, and the glow helped him to ignore the pressure of one hundred and twenty strangers, zinging him with their eyeballs.

At a snap of Dino’s fingers, the stage crew hustled the ruined antipasto from the counter and restocked ingredients for the next dish.

Retying his apron, Starsky resolutely avoided the weight of Dobey’s glowering frown.

O-O-O-O-O

The Italian chef bounced back with optimism—Starsky had to give him that. He appeared nothing but jolly as he surveyed the bounty across the counter, all destined for little ravioli envelopes.

Playing with the water, eggs and flour, and skimming his fingers through the resulting goo, Starsky was reminded of his introduction to Silly Putty. He hummed as he assisted in rolling the dough into long rectangles on the chilled granite prep stone. We’re back on track here—we’re gonna make the Capt’n and the precinct proud.

Even Hutch found some modicum of ease in dragging a pronged fork through the cheesy, fragrant filling.

Behind them, keeping a literal tight hold to their apron strings, Dino clucked and encouraged like a proud Italian papa. Under his instruction, Starsky and Hutch dropped dollops of filling on the dough. Dino took over to expertly cut the ravioli into separate, fragile pockets.

When the camera zoomed in for a close up, the audience oohed and ahhed. Dino hammed it up with a flourish. “These little pillows—these cuscino di ravioli—tenderly filled with cheese and herbs, drench your mouth with love,” he said. He wiped his floury hands on his apron. “Now into the water they go,” he instructed, pulling Hutch up to the stove. “So gentle, soft and sweet, like words of lover’s promise. Please, Hutch—the honor is yours.”

Puffs of steam rose from the copper pot filled with bubbling water, and Starsky took quiet delight in the resulting curl of blond hair at the nape of Hutch’s neck.

Hefting the platter, Hutch heaved the raviolis into the boiling water with one swift motion. Droplets of water splashed up, dotting the stove top, as the delicate morsels sank like lead to the bottom of the pot.

Dino’s scream nearly straightened Starsky’s hair. “Cretino!” he howled, splattering Hutch’s startled face with spit. “No! I instruct you—I say put each into the pot like tucking the baby into the crib. What do you do? You bash the innocents senseless!”

“S-s-sorry. I-I…” Hutch stared into the pot and then back up at Dino and Starsky, his cheeks aflame, his blue eyes round with horror.

Starsky leapt into the fray, knocking Hutch aside and grabbing a slotted spoon. Leaning over the pot, he went fishing in the churning water.

The chef plastered a hand on his forehead, his mouth flopping open. “Stop! The damage is done!” He grabbed for the uncorked bottle of red wine and poured the bright liquid into a measuring cup, draining it down in one swallow.

The audience moaned in sympathy.

Dejected, Hutch resumed his post over the pot, peering down at the shredded pieces of dough and cheese.

Starsky dropped the spoon on the counter and reached around, giving Hutch a consoling pat on the butt. He added a shoulder squeeze.

Tossing back another healthy glug of wine, Dino fluffed his apron hem and pulled himself together. “Thank you, detectives, for how you demonstrate the wrong way to cook ravioli,” he said. But then he smiled, stepping out of the way as another crew of stagehands whisked the mess away. “Let’s see how much harm you can inflict on calamari and tomato sauce.”

“Bet’cha we’ll mess those up, too,” Starsky predicted.

Hutch bit his lip. “We’ll try harder…”

“To help, you mean,” Dino clarified.

They nodded in unison.

O-O-O-O-O

Dino clapped his hands again and Starsky shuddered. The constant slapping of those plump palms was getting on his nerves.

“Now we assemble our calamari salad! My mama, she never served her ravioli without her favorite dish.” Dino curled a finger to Starsky. “Come—you are my kitchen helper for this one, detective.”

Starsky flashed a theatrical smile, inviting the audience into the banter. He playfully pointed a finger at his own chest. “Me?”

“Si.”

Hutch encroached, clearly insecure at being marooned alone by the sink, but Dino shooed him back. “Not you,” Dino said, his tone a playful scolding. “You stand. You stir.”

Clanking the wooden spoon in his mixing bowl, Hutch protested, “There’s nothing in this bowl. I’m stirring air.”

Dino withered him with a pointed nod. “You stir and pamper the air. Stir it well, so you are busy, yes, but limited in the amount of damage you can inflict.”

Chastened, Hutch stared into his mixing bowl, missing the “Dino likes me best” look that Starsky tossed his way.

Eight cold octopus tentacles landed wetly on Starsky’s cutting board. He wrinkled his nose. “Uhhh—Dino? What do I…?”

“You slice each thinly and carefully,” Dino instructed. “You make nice little rings for me, yes?” He demonstrated.

Starsky wiped his knife on his apron and imitated. “Slimy,” he observed, wailing away at the narrow little tubes.

A camera zoomed in, hovering at Starsky’s chest, sticking its glass eyeball into his business like a curious cat. Startled, Starsky skewed his knife sideways, sending calamari bits flying like a game of ring toss.

Dino yelped, prodding an errant calamari circle with his toe.

Sliding into the prep space, Hutch knelt, gathering up the slippery rings. He dumped them on the cutting board. “Five second rule,” he whispered to Starsky, who stood dumbfounded, glued to his spot.

The audience laughed in unison.

Starsky smiled and parted with a courtly bow. Another mess. Terrific.

The lead cameraman swung around, focusing on Dino, who motioned the crew to clear the carnage and move onto the next dish.

O-O-O-O-O

Starsky knew tomato sauce didn’t always come from cans, but the colander, as big around as his waist, with its mountainous heap of tomatoes, made him feel like a midget playing with the tools of giants.

Wary, Hutch kept his distance, turning his face away every time the camera encroached, and nervously wiping his hands on the now stained paisley apron.

Dino, his good spirits replenished by natural endorphins and the cups of red wine, balanced three wicked slicing knives on their tips on a massive cutting board. “Starsky, Hutch,” he called out. “Time for alla puttanesca—the sauce of tomato with olives and capers.”

Anxious to redeem his last performance, Starsky accepted the blade and tested its edge on a stray stalk of celery. Bits of green went airborne as Dino and the audience applauded. Settling in at his station, he grabbed two tomatoes and commenced a rapid fire dice. “Nothing to it,” he said, offering his most dazzling smile. “You just gotta find the rhythm, like dancing with a pretty lady.”

From the front row, a suave redhead in a low cut peasant blouse and hoop earrings blew him a kiss. He responded with succulent pantomime, pretending to catch the kiss and pop it into his mouth. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw his nearly cowering partner. “Get over here, Hutch. You heard the man.”

Wan-faced, Hutch kicked himself into motion. Within a foot of the counter and colander, he slipped on a stray ring of calamari and skidded, hands out blind to regain his balance. Aiming for the counter, he caught the colander of tomatoes instead. The top heavy pile tilted and crashed to the floor. Suddenly freed, tomatoes rolled in all directions.

Hutch scrambled up, unable to hide a moan at the latest fiasco. Tomatoes landed with a splat and bobbled away. “Freeze!” Hutch issued the order in his most menacing cop voice. Nonplussed, the tomato escapees dispersed all over the sound stage floor.

Starsky threw back his head and howled.

Dino grabbed his bald head in both hands and released a spew of Italian. He took a step toward Hutch, squashing a tomato in the process.

The audience tittered.

Captain Dobey tried to sink down in his confining chair.

Hutch, mute with shock, crouched and retrieved two unharmed tomatoes. Humbly, he tried to offer them into Dino’s now flailing hands. The chameleon of a chef refused the gift with a curt head shake.

The audience laughed harder.

Seeking the only comfort he could find, Hutch’s silent gaze sought his partner. And seeing that hopeless plea for succor, Starsky flipped instantaneously into Me and Thee mode.

Escaping from behind the counter, he marched to the front edge of the stage, arms crossed, studying the gleeful audience. “Settle people!”

Dino flanked him, hissing his name, but Starsky shushed him with one no-nonsense glare. “Pay attention,” he said. “Let’s get something straight—right here, right now. Me and Hutch are cops. Not cooks. Not chefs. Cops. That man over there—”

Starsky swept his arm, embracing Hutch with his words and eyes, catching Dino’s attention for an instant. “That man, my partner, puts his life in danger, in the line of duty, more times than you’ll ever know. He’d step in front of a bullet to protect any last one of you.”

Dobey stared up and Starsky returned the favor, firing of a bold and unblinking gaze back to his superior officer. “We’re up here, Hutch and me, acting like performing monkeys, because we’re trying to show you our human side. And since we’re doing it, we’re also trying to have a little fun. Let’s have some fun, but while we’re at it, how about you keep a lid on the mockery?” He smiled. “I’m glad you’re all here. But I’m warning…no…I’m asking you—quit laughing at Hutch. Laugh at me if you gotta make fun of somebody. Me. Not him.” Me. Not Thee.

Dumbstruck, in total quiet, the audience watched him. One by one, every person seated nodded his or her head. Starsky hiked up his paisley apron. The gratitude and respect in Hutch’s eyes thawed his rising pique better than a cup of hot chocolate in a blizzard.

Hutch dumped a few more battered tomatoes into the sink and slipped around the counter to stand by Starsky.

“Got anything to add, buddy?” Starsky play-punched his partner’s elbow.

To his surprise, Hutch nodded. He cleared his throat and looked directly into the floor camera. “Starsky’s right,” he said to the now quiet audience. “We’re cops. Sure, we know lots of c-cooks and we’ve been in kitchens all across town. Not ‘cause we cook there, but because we’ve foiled more robberies in restaurants than I can tell you. We’re trying to give you a good show here today, but this isn’t where you’ll catch us at our best. Thanks for putting up with me and my p-partner. And don’t judge how we s-serve and protect you—the good people of Bay City—by our buffoonery up here.”

Starsky offered up his proudest smile. “Well said, Hutch. Now, if there’s anything left to cook that we ain’t ruined, let’s get at it.”

Applause started, a smattering at first, then rising like a wave.

Dino’s tense frown relaxed into a boisterous laugh. Taking each detective by the shoulder, he steered them to the set kitchen table. He shouted out to Captain Dobey, inviting him to join.

Dobey cleared the stairs and eased into a chair, tucking a napkin at his collar on autopilot. Escorted by a young woman wearing a headset, Edith Dobey materialized from the crowd, fetching in her poplin print dress, reassuring in her warm smile.

Ever the gentleman, Hutch jumped up to hold her chair, returning her approval with a shy grin of his own.

It seemed a good time for a seat shimmy, so Starsky let loose, feet tapping and fingers snapping, riding the wave of audience approval.

Clapping his hands, Dino summoned more of his crew, who delivered perfectly prepared platters of antipasto, calamari, and ravioli to the table.

“How?” Starsky turned to Dino, interrupting the host’s precision wine pouring. “We turned your kitchen into a war zone, so where’d all this come from?”

“I always prepare an entire spare meal in advance,” Dino said, winking over the serving spoons. “As insurance and job security.” After heaping their plates with generous portions, he smiled to the audience. “And now, as we say in mama’s kitchen, ‘Il sapore del buon cibo è il sorriso dei buoni amici! Buon appetito!’” Hefting his brimming wine glass, he translated. “‘The spice of good food is the laughter of good friends! Good appetite!’”

They dug in. The taste of ravioli and tomatoes brought tears to Starsky’s eyes. He sighed with pleasure over the delectable food, created by a natural born cook who knew about subtleties and texture, who knew by instinct the exact number of turns to give the pepper grinder. Dino DiLento cooked the way Starsky shot his gun—flawlessly.

Starsky gazed over at his partner. Hutch was clearly transported to a safe zone by the buttery calamari melting on his tongue, oblivious to the smear of parsley on his chin. Reaching over, Starsky affectionately wiped the spot away, quietly enjoying the fact that Hutch obediently offered his face to Starsky’s fingers without interrupting his chewing.

Removing his microphone and gesturing for Starsky to do the same, Hutch leaned closer over his empty plate. “Do you think Dobey’s proud of us?” he asked.

Starsky shook his head. “Nah.” He glanced at the captain. Dobey look transformed, his chewing bordering on reverent. Clearly, the meal hit his sweet spot fair and square. “He’s probably just the opposite, and we’ll hear about it after he comes down from his food high.”

“We showed up, and they say showing up’s ninety percent of what counts,” Hutch said.

“Hey!” Starsky nudged Hutch’s elbow. “Huggy!”

“Huggy what?”

“Bet’cha Hug’s proud of us. Bet you’re proud of me. “‘Cause I know I’m proud of you.” Starsky lifted his wine glass.

“Oh.” Hutch pondered for a moment and clinked his glass to Starsky’s.

Under the gaze of cameramen, making their hungry vulture eyes at the food and wine, they lingered over the meal. Dino joked softly with Captain Dobey, refilling his glass and his plate yet again. Edith demonstrated her elegant table manners. Starsky scraped his fork across his plate and slid the last heavenly bite across his palate. Hutch nibbled on olives coated with lemon and finely shredded cheese. The violin strains of the Gulping Gourmand theme song signaled the end live programming.

O-O-O-O-O

Metro Center

One Week Later

Starsky sidestepped the mail cart, holding his steaming coffee cup over his head. He plunked down on his chair across from Hutch, who frowned and pecked away on the cantankerous typewriter. “Morning, sunshine!”

Hutch acknowledged with an absent finger wave, but didn’t look up.

“Don’t tell me you’re starting the day as Mister Frownie, Bay City’s tallest freak.” Starsky flashed a grin and stirred his coffee with a pencil.

“These forms are triplicate and if I make one mistake, I’m back to square one. A little quiet, Starsk—a little consideration’s all I ask to—”

“Hutchinson! Starsky! In here now!” Dobey’s command, issued from the door of his office, swamped Hutch’s retort. The two uniforms standing by the filing cabinets looked on in sympathy.

“Terrific.” Starsky grabbed at his jacket, falling in behind Hutch. They stood in the doorway. “Any idea what’s got him started so early?”

Hutch gave a head shake.

Starsky rubbed at his left eye, waiting for his summons. “Great. From the tone of it, woodshed here we come.”

Dobey sat at his desk, or so it seemed. Only the top of his head was visible over the stacks of full mailbags covering the full length of the desk top.

Starsky and Hutch peered over the barricade at their captain.

“Capt’n?” Starsky raised his eyebrows.

“Good morning, Captain.” Hutch took a chance and piled on. He poked a mail sack and letters streamed out, carpet bombing the floor.

Dobey propped his forearm on the tiny clear space remaining on his desk. “All I asked of you two was to go on that television show and represent the best of this department. Was it too much to ask?”

An answer was on the tip of Starsky’s tongue, but one look at Hutch reminded him to keep his silence.

Gesturing to the brimming mailbags, Dobey shook his head. “These letters arrived from the Gulping Gourmand show this morning. Hundreds of letters, addressed to the two of you.”

Starsky’s mouth went dry. No justice. We tried our best, and our reward is hundreds of people complaining about us? As much as he wanted to see Hutch’s reaction, he was too stunned to move.

Hutch snagged a paper cup and filled it from the water station, silently handing it to his partner. Starsky swallowed the lukewarm water in one glug and handed the conical cup back to Hutch, who upended it and twirled it on his fingers.

“Captain,” Hutch said, “just try to remember, no matter what, Starsky and I did our best.”

“Your best to what? To make this precinct a laughing stock?”

Extracting a letter from the closest sack, Starsky ripped the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. He scanned, his eyes wide. He read again and whooped.

Dobey and Hutch turned to investigate.

“Do you have something to add, Starsky?” Dobey glowered at both of them.

“This ain’t a complaint, Capt’n. It’s a fan letter.”

Hutch coughed and gulped. “Get out.”

“No, I’m serious. Listen to this…” Starsky smoothed the letter over the back of his hand and read.

“‘Dear Starsky and Hutch,

I saw you last week on the Gulping Gourmand. Wowie! You’re both so cute! Super duper cute! I loved watching both of you destroy that kitchen! And you kept patting each other’s backs and butts! Oooohhhhh! Please go back on the show soon, so I can stare at you some more!

Love,

Mary Sue’”

Hutch tipped his head with a relieved grin. “Okay. At least one person isn’t calling for our heads or our shields.”

“More than one,” Starsky said, looking down at three more letters. “These folks love us, too.”

And so it went—letter after letter containing accolade after accolade. Dobey canceled his morning meeting to examine the evidence for himself. A quick sampling proved the point—the tote board confirming that his boys had hit a home run.

“Read the one where I’m the handsomest thing on two long legs again, Starsk,” Hutch implored.

“Later. I’m busy reading about how my technique and backside restored this lady’s faith in Bay City’s finest.”

Dobey read a dozen letters in succession, becoming more relieved by the moment. Letter after letter also thanked his detectives and the Bay City Police Department for their selfless service. He picked up the phone and dialed Public Relations with an update on this unexpected development. Leaning into his telephone conversation, he turned away to face the window.

“Hey Hutch, did you know you’ve got dewy periwinkle eyes and your lips broadcast ‘kiss me’ like a neon sign?” Starsky snickered.

“And your ass belongs in a beefcake glossy, and your curls are like chocolate ribbons of delight,” Hutch retaliated.

Starsky reached for his coffee cup, still grinning. “My teachers were right. Reading’s fun,” he said.

“As fun as writing?” Hutch checked the wall clock and deposited another letter in the stack on the floor.

“Writing?”

“Somebody’s gotta answer these,” Hutch said, an undercurrent of panic creeping into his voice.

Starsky swallowed. He scanned the overflowing mail sacks, his heart notching up to a rapid pitter pat. “How?”

“One at a time.” Hutch grabbed a scrap of paper and began calculating. “Let’s see, each mail sack holds about…let’s say 250 letters. And we’ve got 15 mail sacks. So that’s 3,750 letters. Say it’s roughly even, half for you and half for me. That’s 1,875 letters each. And so, let’s say it takes 10 minutes per letter…” He carried his figures over to the reverse side of the paper. “That means 18,750 minutes for you and same for me. And there’s 60 minutes in an hour, so divide 18,750 by 60 and we get 312 hours. And 312 hours times two is 624 hours total. Now, suppose we spend a total of eight hours a day answering…we’ll be done in 78 days.”

Still listening intently to the voice on the other end of the line, Dobey tried to shush them with a harsh look.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Starsky took the paper from Hutch’s hand and balled it up. “You’re crazy.”

“You can’t argue with the facts.” Hutch took the paper back and tucked it in his pocket.

“A lot of bad guys are gonna go their merry way while we’re sitting up here writing letters,” Starsky said. The consequences of fame weren’t all bright and rosy.

Dobey placed the phone receiver back in the cradle and hailed them closer. “Our PR team solved your problem,” he said. “They’ll draft a form letter and send it out to each person, along with a professional photograph of the both of you.”

“Good solution.” Relieved, Hutch leaned back against the wall.

“They’ll pick you up in twenty minutes for the photo shoot,” Dobey said. “And after that, you get out there and start your shift.”

“With pleasure, Captain,” Hutch said. “It all worked out, then. Huh, Starsk?”

Starsky ignored him. He dropped to the floor to read, letters scattered around him, the light shining like a beacon off of his thick curls.

O-O-O-O-O

“Come on, Starsky,” Hutch said. “Quit scowling.”

Starsky rubbed his jacketed elbow over the Torino’s shining red paint. “Show some respect. Look what we did to my car—climbing all over it, getting up on the roof for that photograph.” He buffed at an imaginary scratch.

“You’ll sing a different tune after you see the picture. Trust me, you’ll be happy that we posed standing on this striped tomato.”

Stretching up on his toes, Starsk smoothed away scuff marks just above the windshield. He dodged Hutch’s lunge just in time, leaping gracefully onto the Torino’s wide hood.

“Let’s get rolling.” Hutch slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door a bit harder than necessary.

Starsky slid down and into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, and he gave the steering wheel a fond pat. He reached out and did the same to his partner. As he pulled onto the busy boulevard, a tantalizing idea formed in his mind. “Hey Hutch, do you think ladies all over the city—no all over the country—will have our picture up on their walls?”

Hutch threw back his head and laughed. “Starsk, that’s your craziest thought ever.”

“I could see it happening.” Starsky knew he looked hotter than a New York August day in his tight jeans. Add the assets of his casual jacket, best smile, and wind tossed curls, and who knew? Plus, the photograph included his favorite prop—his tall blond partner. They had posed with arms mutually slung around each other’s shoulders. Girls drooling over our picture ain’t outside of the scope of reality, buddy.

As though reading his mind, Hutch winked and chuckled, a quiet and familiar sound. The dispatcher’s voice broke in, bringing in the outside world. “Attention all units—211 in progress, McCarthy Sporting Goods, corner of Sunset and Chester.”

Hutch grabbed the mic. “This is Zebra-Three. We are responding.”

“Copy, Zebra-Three. Watch for two suspects, armed and on foot, traveling down Sunset toward the warehouse.”

Hutch lifted the Mars Light into position on the Torino’s hood, and its siren wail pierced the afternoon air. As Starsky accelerated and maneuvered, he checked his gun and flipped on his sunglasses.

It was time to get to work—to protect their city and its inhabitants. To watch each other’s backs. Their work was the heart of the matter, and the daily pursuit of justice their true contribution to the good of the order.

~finis~