After Gunther’s assassination attempt, Starsky suffers a seizure. And that changes everything.
This story was inspired by the 2004 movie 50 First Dates—screenplay written by George Wing.
Author’s Note: Special thanks to Mvernet for her assistance.
Originally published in the SHareCon 2019 zine.
… sky blue, just like his eyes, they held a promise…
—Melanie Sargsian
Prologue
All I want is black bean soup
And you to make it with me
Honey won’t you
Be my love while love will stay…
Starsky sang in the kitchen and Hutch smiled at the sound as he lay in bed. He stretched languorously and breathed in the aroma that remained in the sheets from their recent love-making. Soap, aftershave, and sweat, along with a few other things, had blended together as if by a bartender’s muddle to create a singularly sensual fragrance. Earthy, yet pleasant. Each individual scent was now indistinguishable, unable to be separated like Starsky and Hutch themselves.
The thought gave Hutch another reason to smile, despite the fact that conventional society wasn’t ready for their kind of love. Hell, it had taken them a long enough time to figure it out. To accept it. They’d made plenty of catastrophic stumbles along the way. After Kira had driven a wedge between them, they were only now fumbling their way back to each other like blind mice in a maze. Discovering one another’s bodies the way they’d opened their hearts, one touch at a time.
Society might not be ready for them, but now that they’d embraced their new relationship, they’d decided that no one else mattered. Starsky was Hutch’s world. And Hutch, Starsky’s.
Even now, despite having only just begun to explore their new identities, they’d talked about their future. They considered going somewhere, doing something that would be more accommodating of their unconventional lifestyle. They both loved police work, but they were realistic enough to know it wouldn’t love them back. The police force wasn’t known for its acceptance of alternative lifestyles. If Starsky and Hutch’s relationship was exposed, they accepted they’d most likely be dismissed.
Hutch had admitted to Starsky earlier that evening that he’d once toyed with the idea of a music career. In fact, he’d written the song Starsky was singing just now in the kitchen. He’d taught it to Starsky years ago and Starsky had picked it up quickly. They’d sometimes sung it to each other like an inside joke. That was when the words held little meaning. But now, “Be my love while love will stay” seemed singularly appropriate to their current circumstances.
These days, the idea of a career in the music industry no longer seemed like such a joke. In fact, Starsky had been all for it. “I think you should go for it, Hutch,” he’d said with characteristic enthusiasm. “You never know unless you try.”
Starsky had been Hutch’s biggest fan any time an occasion called for Hutch to perform—helping him to forget his stage fright with wise cracks and energetic applause as he’d mouth along the lyrics. “In fact, I think you should give Sue Ann Granger a call,” Starsky had asserted. “She’d listen to your songs, I know she would.”
Hutch blushed as he remembered the few minutes he’d shared on stage years earlier with the rising country star whose life they’d saved. He and Sue Ann had sung Loving Arms at the Saddle Bar Club. If you could see me now / the one who said that he’d rather roam / the one who said he’d rather be alone…. Hutch had fumbled the words while Starsky cheer-led from the sidelines. Hutch was certain he’d never go anywhere in life without Starsky by his side.
A few minutes later Starsky appeared in the bedroom doorway, a freshly made sandwich in his hand. He was wearing red boxer shorts—nothing about Starsky was dull—and leaned a hip casually against the door frame. The sight made Hutch’s pulse beat faster.
Starsky stopped his cheerful rendition in order to take a generous bite of sandwich, then waved the thick layers of bread, cheese, and salami in front of Hutch.
“Want a bite?” he offered.
Hutch screwed up his face. “How can you eat like that… now?”
“I can’t help it. Sex makes me hungry.”
“It’s after midnight and we have a full day tomorrow. Come back to bed.”
“I need my energy for an invitation like that.” He took another bite of the sandwich and waggled his eyebrows provocatively at Hutch.
Leave it to Starsky. Even when he was irritating, he was arousing. Or maybe he was arousing because he was irritating—so easily able to get under Hutch’s skin. His partner ruffled his feathers, his hair, his emotions. Starsky had a way of keeping him unbalanced and breathless, while deeply rooted at the same time. But they had to sleep sometime.
“Don’t worry. Dobey said the painters will be working in our office tomorrow,” Starsky reminded Hutch. “We won’t be able to get to our files. We may just as well use our desks for ping pong tables.”
Starsky finished the sandwich off in a few hearty bites, then resumed his singing. “One big soft tomato /Just a handful of sorrel, well / Cut up your chilly pepper,” he crooned as he climbed across the bed panther-like to Hutch. “Squeeze that garlic smell, one mouthful of drippings….”
Starsky planted a kiss on Hutch’s neck and Hutch made as if to shoo him away.
“What? Doesn’t the smell of salami turn you on?” asked Starsky, teasingly.
“What do you think?”
“I got something else that might turn you on.” Starsky palmed Hutch’s groin and began to caress him as sang, “A granddaddy onion and well, well, well…..“
Hutch hardened in pleasure. Everything about the moment felt right. The afterglow, the teasing, the togetherness. Hutch wished the night could go on forever. But it couldn’t. In a few hours’ time, the sun would rise.
Chapter One
The same moment the high-powered bullets had torn into Starsky’s flesh, their percussive sound had ripped through Hutch’s soul. He and Starsky had been fired on from a speeding car as they’d walked through the police parking garage, still ribbing each other about the ping pong game they’d just finished.
Only Hutch had seen the car coming. Only Hutch had had the chance to duck down behind the Torino’s side panel as he’d screamed his partner’s name. Time froze the instant Starsky’s bullet-ridden body hit the ground.
Fellow officers immediately rushed over and Hutch had watched in a surreal, dream-like state as they administered first aid to his partner. Within minutes an ambulance arrived on the scene and Starsky was strapped onto a gurney by grimly efficient EMTs. As the vehicle raced away, taking Starsky with it, Hutch hadn’t known whether it was him or the siren wailing.
Hutch couldn’t recall how he, himself, had gotten to the hospital. Maybe Captain Dobey had driven him. Maybe it was their friend, Huggy Bear, who had always seemed to have a sixth sense. Hutch had watched numbly from behind a wall of glass as Starsky was poked and prodded by an array of white-coated strangers. They hooked him up to grotesque machines and dripped fluid into his veins.
Through it all, Starsky had lain still as death.
Wake up wake up wake up, Hutch had pleaded wordlessly from behind the glass. When an electric current was sent jolting through Starsky’s chest, causing his body to arch off the bed, Hutch felt his own heart constrict in unison. For days afterwards no one knew if Starsky would live or die as Hutch focused on vengeance.
Then one day Starsky’s eyes fluttered open. Hutch had literally danced with relief, grabbing a nurse and twirling her around the small hospital room. Starsky just watched and smiled. He was going to live.
~~~
Later, Hutch thought it as much from his own need to assuage his conscience as to treat Starsky that he’d sneaked a veal dinner into Starsky’s hospital room late at night for their own personal celebration of life. He’d invited Dobey and Huggy Bear, too. And drank far too much.
Hutch had ended up climbing into the narrow hospital bed beside his partner, regardless of how it must have looked. Good thing both Dobey and Huggy shrugged off his antics. Life had become far too short.
Starsky’s recovery hadn’t been seamless, however. His heart and lungs had been compromised. There was ongoing danger of infection. For every two steps forward, there’d been one step back. Starsky’s doctors warned it was to be expected. His body had sustained massive damage and his recovery was nothing short of miraculous, they’d said, looking pointedly at Hutch. It made him wonder if they were assigning him credit or blame and he cursed himself again for not doing more to save Starsky.
~~~
It was nearly mid-morning by the time Hutch stopped to see Starsky the next day on his way to work, as had become his habit. Hutch had gotten up later than usual, nursing a mild hangover from drinking champagne. But he figured Captain Dobey would understand.
Hutch expected to see Starsky wide awake and feisty, but a floor nurse with whom he’d become familiar over the past few weeks—Mary or was it Molly?—stopped him in the hallway outside Starsky’s room.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come back later,” the nurse said. Her carefully modulated words put Hutch immediately on alert. It was the tone of someone about to share bad news.
“What’s going on?” Hutch asked, a cold feeling growing in the pit of his stomach and he focused on her name tag. Mary.
“David took a turn for the worse last night. I’m sorry,” Mary added sympathetically. “His vitals became dangerously erratic. He’s heavily sedated now.”
“Wha…what’s that supposed to mean?” Hutch tamped down his panic. He knew this could mean nothing, or everything. The doctors had been continually warning him that Starsky wasn’t out of the woods. Hutch, meanwhile, had convinced himself they were being overly cautious. They didn’t know Starsky the way he did. A born fighter. Someone who defied the odds. Besides, Starsky had been so full of life the night before. Hutch had sensed his heartbeat strong and sure, felt the reassuring warmth of his body as they’d lain side by side in the narrow bed.
“You’ll have to speak with Dr. Fletcher,” Mary advised, not unkindly. “He’ll be in this afternoon.”
Hutch recognized the name of Starsky’s neurologist—one of the bevy of specialists who’d been brought in to examine the miracle patient. Dr. Fletcher had been assessing the effect of Starsky’s cardiac arrest on his brain function, among other things. Like a typical science-based realist, he’d cautioned Hutch that people who’d been deprived of oxygen due to a cardiac event the way Starsky had often suffered temporary and even permanent brain injury. Up until now, however, Starsky had seemed fine. Another miracle.
Hutch laid his hand briefly on the door to Starsky’s room, fighting the urge to push his way inside. He took several deep breaths to calm his racing thoughts. It’ll be okay. It’ll be fine. The worst is over, he told himself as the nurse waited patiently. After a few seconds, Hutch straightened. “Please have the doctor call me as soon as he can at my number at police headquarters. Dispatch will get a hold of me even if I’m on the road.”
“Of course, Hutch,” the nurse assured him. “I’ll try to make sure you’ll be his first call.”
~~~
A few days later Hutch sat in the small room on Starsky’s floor set aside for consultations with hospital staff. Dr. Fletcher had ordered that Starsky not have any visitors in the meantime. “Since when am I just a visitor?” Hutch had wanted to yell at the hospital staff. But he also wanted to do whatever was best for Starsky. He thrummed his fingers impatiently on his thighs as he waited for Dr. Fletcher to finish with his explanation.
“David’s condition has stabilized,” Dr. Fletcher was saying. He was a grizzled older man with thick, dark-rimmed glasses whose thoughtful demeanor inspired trust. Which was a good thing, since at this point, Hutch needed all the inspiration he could get.
Earlier that morning, Captain Dobey had fairly shouted at him to settle down in his fatherly, brook-no-nonsense way and later Huggy had given him a good luck doll made by his old Rastafarian aunt. Both had made Hutch grateful for supportive friends, no matter how offbeat their gestures.
Last night had been especially difficult, and Hutch had wandered into Huggy’s bar long after midnight, terrified at being alone with his thoughts. He didn’t know if it was the beer or the fear of losing Starsky again that made him spill his guts to Huggy. Hutch somehow found himself telling Huggy about wanting to leave the force, about pursuing the dream of a career in music he’d long set aside. He stopped short of saying it was so that he and Starsky could be together in a way police officers were not permitted to be. But maybe saying it out loud wasn’t necessary for Huggy to know the truth. Huggy Bear Brown was an extremely perceptive man.
“I think you should follow your heart.” Huggy had sounded characteristically simple yet profound as he wiped down the counter with a rag.
Hutch pushed aside his reflections and refocused on Dr. Fletcher. “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” Hutch asked, trying to keep irritation—the kind bred from anxiety—from leaching into his voice.
“We’ve determined that David suffered some type of seizure the other night, although we can’t determine its exact cause. Medicine is not as exact a science as forensics, I’m afraid.” Dr. Fletcher gave a small, self-deprecating smile that Hutch appreciated if only for his ability to show his humanity. “Everything is back to normal, for the most part.”
“For the most part?” Hutch had a ridiculous wish that he’d brought his Magnum—or even Huggy’s good luck doll—along with him just to have something to hold on to. Something solid and satisfying to grasp, not these strange, almost mystical concepts he didn’t understand. Arrhythmia, cerebral hypoxia, diminished neurologic function….
Dr. Fletcher cleared his throat. “David appears to be experiencing a type of amnesia. The closest definition I can come up with is anterograde amnesia. He knows who he is, but he doesn’t seem to retain any new information each day except for a few details. He only vaguely recalls the shooting….”
Hutch felt his breath leave his chest in a whirlwind. Relief left him dizzy. What was a little memory loss after all they’d been through? “That’s a blessing then. Isn’t it, doc?”
Dr. Fletcher gave him a strange look. “Yes, I suppose in a way it is. But on the other hand, David’s mind becomes practically a clean slate each day. It’s most unusual. Medically, there’s no reason he can’t leave the hospital. But emotionally … well, I’m not so sure how well he’ll be able to function. Hold a job, handle day-to-day tasks.”
A new worry began to gnaw at Hutch. Now that Starsky had started on his journey toward physical recovery, he’d suddenly gotten side-tracked by an entirely unforeseen obstacle. An utterly baffling challenge for them to climb over. But they would get over it, Hutch told himself. Hutch would help Starsky fill in the blanks of his life. Besides, once Starsky saw Hutch, Hutch felt certain all the important things would come rushing back.
“You don’t have to worry about that, Doc. Starsky and I have always taken care of each other,” Hutch told Dr. Fletcher, as much to convince the doctor as to reassure himself. “When can I see him?”
“You can go in now, if you’d like. But I want to caution you—don’t push him to remember things he isn’t able to process yet. David doesn’t understand the full impact of his memory loss and it might be best to keep it that way for now until we get a chance to observe him more. He may even be repressing memories unconsciously. The mind has a way of protecting itself from traumatic events.”
Dr. Fletcher’s words brought to mind the vacant looks in the eyes of some rape victims Hutch had seen— the survivors of horrific abuse. So many times these tortured souls wouldn’t even press charges against their attackers because they couldn’t bear to face them in court. It sometimes took years of counseling for them to come to terms with what had happened. To stop jumping at shadows, go out alone at night, or even face their reflections in the mirror. Hutch swore he would never let that happen to Starsky. He’d do anything to protect him from further trauma.
~~~
“Hi,” Starsky straightened up in his bed and greeted Hutch politely when he knocked on the door of the hospital room. “Hutch, right?” Starsky asked carefully.
Hutch nodded, overcome with relief that Starsky looked much the same as he had three days ago. He was pale and needed a haircut—his dark curls had become more disheveled by the day—but at least he hadn’t spouted three heads, or even worse, appear unresponsive and deathly grey against the white, institutional sheets the way he did in Hutch’s nightmares.
“Sure, buddy.” Hutch came in and sat down in the chair next to bed but something made him stop before reaching for Starsky’s hand. There was a veiled expression on Starsky’s face, like a cloud that obscured the sun. The light was still there, just dimmer and more diffuse. “I…I’m sorry I haven’t been here for a few days. The docs thought it would be better if you just got your rest. And I guess they’ve been running a bunch of tests. But I’ve been thinking about you every second. You know that, right?”
“I appreciate that. I guess I’m having a little trouble remembering things. We’re partners, right?” Starsky asked, a bit sheepishly.
“Yeah, partners.” Hutch bit his lip to keep himself from saying anything further. Starsky had to know they were so much more than that, didn’t he? Was it possible that he’d forgotten the electricity that had passed between them—was just a few short weeks ago? How their deep friendship had grown into a physical relationship that was both frightening and exhilarating in its intimacy? They were no longer just partners by day but also lovers by night.
Hutch wouldn’t push Starsky, though. He had to let the memories come on their own time. They would of course, he told himself. Anything less was unthinkable.
Hutch’s gaze darted around the room, unable now to meet Starsky’s. He took in the numerous get well cards that overflowed nearly every level surface. Greetings from their co-workers at the precinct, Sadie the lunchroom lady, Mario who owned the local pizzeria. Drawings by kids from the local special needs school where Starsky and Hutch volunteered had been stuck to the bulletin board.
Empty dishes from Starsky’s lunch sat on the little bedside table along with a selection of gossip magazines and crossword books. Hutch focused on a small, spiral bound book he’d never seen before. “What’s that?” he asked, indicating the notebook. He was dismayed to fumble at making conversation, something that had never happened between them before.
“This?” Starsky reached over and picked up the book. “It’s my journal. Doc Fletcher gave it to me. He said I should try to write in it a little bit every day. Anything that comes into my head. He thought it would help to unscramble my memory.”
“Obviously, the good doctor has never seen your writing. Your daily reports are legendary.”
Starsky grinned. “It’ll break up the monotony of the things he normally reads.”
Hutch grinned back. At least Starsky remembered how his reports had been the bane of Captain Dobey’s existence. Perhaps things weren’t so bleak after all. Or maybe Hutch was just telling himself want he wanted—needed—to hear.
Chapter Two
Starsky’s Journal
The Torino sped down the street, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. That’s how I see it, anyway. Damn, it’ll sure feel good to get behind the wheel of my car again. Being in the Torino will help make me feel like myself again. But it’ll take weeks to get my driving privileges back. I tried to tell the guys in PT that I was practically born with a steering wheel in my hands. I swear I could maneuver the old tomato blindfolded. But I’ll have to wait. Besides, Hutch says Merle is still finishing up the body work. I guess those gun-happy goons weren’t satisfied to just mess with me. They did a real number on my Torino’s side panel, too. Or so I’m told. And that hurts just as much.
I remembered that Hutch calls my car the “striped tomato.” Weird how happy he seemed about that. But I don’t like that much. It’s not all that funny a joke. I know Hutch is a great partner and all, and we go way back, but he comes off a little smug sometimes. Maybe that’s just his way.
I can’t wait to get cleared to get back on the streets. This desk duty is for the birds. Dobey has assigned me a cold case file to review. I know it’s important work, but I’m getting tired of the kid gloves treatment. Everyone thinks I’m going to break or something. I swear I can feel them looking at me behind my back. Haven’t they ever seen anyone come back from the dead before? Haha.
Hutch is the worst one of all. I keep catching him watching me out of the corner of those big baby blues like he lost his best friend —or something worse. He keeps offering to come over after work and cook me dinner or something. But I don’t need a babysitter and I don’t want to put him out any more than he has been all these weeks. They told me he’s been to the hospital almost every day and taking care of things at the job while I’ve been gone, even though I don’t exactly remember. I guess that’s what this journal is supposed to help with.
Maybe once I get back on the streets again, I’ll quit feeling like a fish swimming in a goldfish bowl and Hutch and me will click like we used to, the way people say we do—did.
~~~
It was surreal to have Starsky back at their shared desk. So much had changed and not just the color of the walls. Starsky could remember the broad brush strokes of their life, the work they did, the people they knew, but the details had been wiped away. Starsky remembered that Hutch was his partner and friend, and had been for years. That they had gone through the academy together. He was the same goofy Starsky who scattered papers across his desk like confetti, flirted with the meter maids, and stole a bite of Captain Dobey’s donut. But he didn’t touch Hutch’s knee beneath the desk or grab a hungry kiss in the stairwell. Starsky didn’t lock eyes with Hutch over a cup of coffee or pat his ass as he followed him out the door. In response, Hutch gave Starsky the distance he believed Starsky needed, curling his fingers into his palms until they bled with the effort.
Starsky remembered the cases he and Hutch had worked on, but wasn’t able to retain any new information of significance from day by day. Hutch tried to cover for him as best he could. Only Hutch and Dobey knew the exact nature of Starsky’s mental limitations. Even Starsky didn’t fully understand. His doctors had decided that if they explained to him the full extent of his condition and its repercussions, they risked having Starsky become overwrought, only to forget it all the very next day. The less disruption of Starsky’s life, such as it was, the better.
To accommodate Starsky’s situation and as a special favor to Hutch, Captain Dobey had assigned Starsky to work one particularly bewildering cold case—the twelve-year-old murder of a young girl, Amy Patterson, whose body had been found in the pond of a local park. She had been dead over a month before she was found. Amy had run away from a troubled family who was apparently too dysfunctional to even report her missing. By the time her body had been recovered and identified, any forensic evidence that might have proven helpful had deteriorated. The police weren’t even positive that the park where Amy had been found was the actual location of her murder.
It was Hutch and Dobey’s hope that the obscure task would keep Starsky busy while preventing him from interfering in any current investigations. They both knew that the department would have to eventually let Starsky go if his memory didn’t improve, but that blow might do more damage to Starsky than anyone was willing to chance at the moment. They’d only just gotten him back in one piece, Hutch had reminded Dobey as they’d worked out their plan. Damned if Hutch wasn’t going to keep him that way.
~~~
“What a day,” Starsky groaned as he stretched in the passenger seat of Hutch’s Galaxie as they drove back to Starsky’s place.
Hutch wondered if the reversal of their customary positions felt as awkward to Starsky as it did to Hutch, but it paled in comparison to the bizarre change in their partnership. He dreaded the thought of Starsky being cleared to drive, taking away his reason to chauffer Starsky around. He wasn’t ready to give up the intimacy of a shared the front seat just yet and sent Starsky a veiled, worried look. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Starsky’s response held a tinge of annoyance that Hutch tried not to take personally. “You can stop acting like a mother hen, ya know,” Starsky told him. “It’s just that sitting all day starin’ at files ain’t natural.”
Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been nearly impossible for the bundle of energy that was Starsky to stay still for hours at a stretch. Stakeouts had been contests in endurance. But Hutch wasn’t fooled. Starsky was still a long way from complete physical recuperation, although he’d be the last one to admit it. Even with a desk job, Starsky’s color was off and there were fine lines around his mouth.
Hutch watched with dismay as Starsky climbed out of the car in slow motion. He heard Starsky’s grunt as he closed the heavy passenger door. “Wait, Starsk,” Hutch called. “I, uh, I wanted to go over something with you.”
“What is it?” Starsky paused.
“I wanted your opinion about the case I’m working on—the liquor store shooting.” Hutch searched for a reason to linger. Something that wouldn’t make Starsky feel uncomfortable. He knew asking for Starsky’s help on a case was just the trick to overcome any pain or fatigue Starsky was feeling.
“You’re asking me that now? Why didn’t you say something the whole drive home?”
“Because, I, uh, I wanted to show you something I couldn’t while I was driving.” Brilliant, Hutchinson. You’re not going to get by Starsky so easily.
Starsky looked at Hutch quizzically. There was a time not so long ago that Starsky would have seen right through him. He would have given Hutch a twisted grin or wriggled his eyebrows and shot back a smart remark. “Are you wanting to come in and see my etchings, Blondie?”
Yes, exactly that.
Starsky shrugged and Hutch took that for as much of an invitation he would get to follow him. Once inside, Starsky fell into the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table with a noise that sounded too much like pain for Hutch’s liking. “So what have you got?”
Hutch made a show of patting his pockets. “They came up with a composite drawing of the perp. I thought it looked like that hood that hangs out on Fifty-Third Street. I wanted to know what you thought.” Coming up empty, he looked down at Starsky awkwardly. “I guess I left it in my other jacket.”
Starsky narrowed his eyes at him. “Is that so?”
“I need to make a pit stop,” Hutch hastily changed the subject and retreated into Starsky’s bathroom. Starsky was right, he admonished himself. I’m not that good of a liar.
Hutch let the water run noisily in the sink as he did a quick search of the medicine cabinet. Inside were several medications with names he didn’t recognize. But he wasn’t surprised to find that the bottle of pain pills was practically full. Starsky must hardly be taking any at all. Hutch set the container out on the sink next to Starsky’s toothbrush so he’d be sure to see it.
Starsky was resting his head against the back of the couch with his eyes closed when Hutch came out of the bathroom. “How about a drink, huh?” Hutch asked and headed for Starsky’s refrigerator without waiting for a response. The refrigerator was almost empty. Before, Hutch would have made sure Starsky’s shelves were stocked when he was out of commission from a wrenched ankle, a bullet graze or even a bad cold from a heroic— albeit completely unnecessary—leap into the pounding surf.
They looked after each other. It’s just what they did. Starsky had done the same for Hutch plenty. Helping to get him clean in an upstairs room or scrambling down a mountainside to cradle him and tell him they’d made it.
Hutch wanted to ask if he remembered those times. The times when their chemistry was so strong they could feel it from across the room. When their connection was the only thing that kept them alive.
Do you remember, Starsk?
“Looks like your pickings are a little light,” Hutch said instead, as he came back into the living room.
“Are they?” Starsky asked, a trace of confusion in his voice.
“How about I make a grocery run.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t. But what are partners for?”
Starsky was sleeping soundly in the same position on the couch as when Hutch had left. Hutch sighed. He’d been gone barely an hour, picking up a few of Starsky’s favorites from the nearby market. Hutch quietly put away the groceries and then came back to Starsky. He looked pale but his breathing was deep and even. A miracle Hutch wouldn’t take lightly.
Hutch got a blanket and pillow from the bedroom and tried to adjust Starsky’s position on the couch to something a bit more comfortable without waking him. Starsky had recovered little of the significant weight loss he’d experienced during his stint in the hospital. Hutch knew that the same could be said for himself. He gently pulled the blanket over Starsky’s still form, allowing his fingers to stray through Starsky’s soft, recently trimmed curls.
Starsky moved unexpectedly and Hutch found himself looking straight into Starsky’s sleep-filled eyes as he wavered between dreams and wakefulness. “Hutch,” Starsky murmured with a longing in his tone Hutch knew he hadn’t imagined.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I put away the groceries. You should probably eat. Do you want me to make you something?”
Starsky’s eyes cleared and he moved to sit up. Hutch pulled his hand away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Thanks,” Starsky said, clearing his throat. “But I don’t want to hold you up any more. Sorry about the falling asleep thing. I don’t know why I’m so beat.”
“Give yourself time to get your strength back. And don’t forget to take your pain meds.” Hutch said as he turned reluctantly toward the door.
“Hutch?” Starsky called.
Hutch froze in his tracks. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for…everything. I’ll settle up with you tomorrow.”
As Hutch left, he wondered how he’d be able to handle what tomorrow would bring.
Chapter Three
Starsky’s Journal
Boy, am I beat. Who knew sitting at a desk all day could wear me out so much? Maybe I won’t go so hard on Dobey from now on.
Dobey gave me this cold case to look into about a young girl found in Echo Park. She drowned in the lake there. But no one came to claim the body and her killer was never found. Pretty sad stuff. I don’t have much to go on—just the autopsy report and the statement from the guy who found her. But it’s twelve years old. The perp is long gone—maybe even dead by now.
Hutch gave me a lift to headquarters today since the Torino is getting worked on at Merle’s. I guess I should appreciate how my partner’s been looking after me since I got out of the hospital. Other guys have their wives or other family members to come home to. Hutch and me got each other. Not that we don’t have other friends. We do. But I think Hutch and me must have something special.
I wonder why Hutch never got married. I know why I didn’t. Or at least I think I do. I’ve never found the right lady. It’s not that I’ve never fallen in love. There was Helen, and then Terry. They’re both gone now. I wish I could remember more about them instead of blurry images in my head. I don’t know about Hutch. Or maybe I do, but I just don’t remember. Or is it because I don’t want to? With those gorgeous eyes of his—and that sunshiney smile. I mean, what lady could resist? He’s…beautiful. That’s the only word for it. Even I can see that.
After Hutch dropped me off he went out and picked up some groceries for me. Old Mother Hutchinson said my cupboards were bare. Talk about going the extra mile. I guess I’ve just been too busy to buy things for myself. Or maybe I just haven’t thought about it. Funny how Hutch ended up getting all my favorite stuff. Salami and that hard cheese I like, a couple cans of soup, and corn flakes for breakfast. Even root beer. How did he know? It gave me a soft feeling inside that someone would pay attention to details like that.
If Hutch must know me that well, what must I be missing about him? There’s got to be something. I fell asleep when Hutch went out for groceries and I dreamed I felt his hand in my hair. And damn if it didn’t feel good. Not just like a friend patting me on the head. It felt sexual. If I hadn’t woken up I might even have had a wet dream, like when I was a kid. I woke up when he was putting a blanket over me. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Hutch’s face. That beautiful golden face. There was something in his eyes and I felt…. I don’t know how to explain it. I would say it was like butterflies were flying around in my gut, but it was more solid. Substantial.
I remember seeing a weeping willow tree on a field trip to the park when I was a kid and thinking how pretty its leaves looked waving in the breeze. The teacher said that tree’s roots spread out beneath the ground in all directions, reaching out further even than the tree was tall. Wouldn’t you know the rest of the day I kept picturing those roots stretching in the ground just below my feet wherever I went. That’s how I felt when Hutch looked at me—all fluttery, yet grounded, too.
Anyway, I got up to make myself something to eat after Hutch left. I wanted him to go, but I wanted him to stay, too. Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy when he’s around me. My skin gets to feeling all itchy. So maybe it’s a good thing he left after all.
~~~
Hutch picked up Starsky the next morning on his way to work, just as he planned to do the day after that and the day after that. He’d made an agreement with Merle the Earl, Starsky’s go-to man when he needed work done on the Torino. Whenever Starsky called to check on his car, Merle would simply tell him it was still being worked on. Starsky wouldn’t recall that Merle always gave him the same response and Merle was too wily to turn down the weekly twenty dollar bill Hutch slipped him for not working on a car.
Starsky slid in the passenger seat next to Hutch and grumbled about having to ride in a “pathetic squash of a cahr,” just as he had the previous morning and the morning before that. Hutch’s only consolation to the routine was that Starsky was looking a little better each day. Stronger. More upbeat. More the man Hutch had fallen in love with. The man he missed having in his bed.
At police headquarters, Starsky and Hutch helped themselves to their requisite cups of stale coffee and took their places at their respective desks. “Hey, Babcock,” Starsky called out to one of the other detectives seated across the room. “What do you call a clairvoyant midget who escaped from prison?”
A small medium at large, Hutch recited the punch line in his head.
“I don’t know. What?” Babcock gamely followed along.
“A small medium at large,” Starsky supplied brightly. Everyone in the room laughed, but it was with a studied politeness.
“Gee, Starsk, did you come up with that one all by yourself?” Simmons jabbed back and Starsky shrugged.
“At least I still got a sense a humor.”
Dobey approached Starsky with a handful of manila folders, all the while studiously avoiding Hutch’s gaze. “I have a cold case I’d like you to work on, Starsky. An unsolved, twelve-year-old murder. Amy Patterson. I want you to go over this file with a fine tooth comb.”
Starsky groaned overdramatically. “Are you trying to kill me? I already died once, ya know.”
Hutch winced at the sarcasm, still amazed that vague recollections of the shooting still remained in Starsky’s head, yet he retained nothing from his previous day’s review of the Patterson case. Or at least nothing that Starsky spoke of. If only Hutch could find the key to unlocking the secrets Starsky was hiding.
Dobey turned on his gruffest manner, the one Hutch had grown to see as meager cover for their captain’s emotions. “You know you haven’t been cleared for the street, yet. Besides, this case is important. The killer could still be out there.”
Starsky sighed as he accepted the file from Dobey. Meanwhile, Hutch buried his head in his own list of assignments for the day. It included stops at a series of pawn shops to check on items missing from a crime scene, a follow up call to the coroner’s office about a recent murder victim, and hunting down a local junkie turned small-time dealer who might have a lead. He reviewed the tasks with dismay. There were too many things that would take him out of the office for the day. Away from Starsky.
“Can’t Babcock or Simmons follow up on the pawn shops?” Hutch asked as Dobey headed back into his office.
“They have their own work to do,” Dobey snapped. “This department is spread thin enough as it is,” he finished brusquely and closed his door firmly behind him.
“What’s up with him?” Starsky asked.
Hutch sagged in his chair. He knew Dobey was doing the best he could to keep the hounds at bay. They were both trying to save Starsky’s position—and probably his sanity—for as long as they could. But the strain was beginning to show. Heading out to the street and leaving Starsky behind was becoming more intolerable by the day. It was like working with one arm tied behind his back. And Hutch’s worry that someone might say the wrong thing to Starsky while he was gone was even worse.
Even so, Hutch hit the road solo a short while later. He did his best to focus on his job while calling in to check on Starsky more often than he should. He prayed that his concern wouldn’t distract him from missing an important detail that might lead him to a violent criminal or worse. Hutch had taken an oath to serve and protect the public, but what about his bond to Starsky? His loyalties were carving him in half.
By noon, Hutch was back at the station to have his regular lunch with Starsky. As Starsky munched on a tuna sandwich (Sadie had whispered to Hutch that she would make sure it was always on the menu) he ran down the mismatched pieces of the cold case. The length of time young Amy Patterson had been in the water, the lack of forensic clues. It was much the same information Hutch heard every day, yet he listened and nodded as if he was hearing it for the first time. Meanwhile, Starsky seemed oblivious.
On the way back to the homicide department, Starsky made a beeline for the men’s room. As Hutch waited for him in the hall outside, he was approached by Tom Mackey, a cop who was relatively new in the precinct. Hutch hadn’t had a chance to work with Tom much although Tom had made his presence known with his confident, some would say arrogant, manner. Physically, he was a big man, with a voice to match. Although Hutch had heard Tom was good at his job, he held his own opinions of him in reserve.
“Hey, Hutch.” Tom stopped directly in front of him.
“Hi, Tom,” Hutch responded with a lukewarm nod. “How’s it going?”
Tom shrugged. “I hear your partner Starsky’s stuck in a rough patch.” There was no sympathy in his tone. Tom Mackey, unlike others who had known Starsky and Hutch much longer, didn’t hesitate to address the elephant in the room.
Hutch’s gaze darted to the men’s room. “Starsky’s doing fine. He’s getting better every day.” He wished he could make the words sound more reassuring, not necessarily for Tom’s benefit, but for his own.
“I don’t see why you can stick it out the way you do,” Tom continued, disregarding Hutch’s unease. “I know you guys have been partners for a long time and all, but isn’t Starsky just holding you back? Word is, you’re one of the best detectives Homicide’s got and Starsky may be on the disabled list permanently.”
Hutch’s better judgment told him to ignore the insensitive jibe. He would have walked away except for one simple fact—he cared more about watching out for Starsky than he did about Mackey’s big mouth. Hutch felt his color rise and his jaw tighten. It was the same look low life thugs and mob kingpins alike had learned to be wary of. But not Tom Mackey. Instead, he just pressed on obliviously, as if he thought Hutch would be open to hearing him out.
“I was thinkin’ about askin’ Dobey to give me a shot at workin’ with you. How about it? I’m a pretty damn good cop if I do say so myself. And I hear you practically have to tie Starsky’s shoes for him these days.”
At the taunt, Hutch’s vision tunneled. The next instant, Hutch had Tom Mackey up against the wall, his fists white-knuckled on Tom’s uniform collar. “Shut the hell up, Mackey,” Hutch growled, his eyes burning like coals.
Tom looked as terrified as if he been overtaken by an out-of-control freight train, but Hutch didn’t care. He’d ceased to think straight. But then he heard a soft voice in his ear, the only sound that could cut through his rage.
“Hey, Hutch,” Starsky laid a hand on Hutch’s shoulder.
Christ. How long had his partner been standing there? Hutch willed himself to relax and he took a step back from Mackey. He closed his eyes and concentrated on bringing his breathing back down to normal.
“What’s this all about?” Starsky asked.
Hutch shook his head. “Just a friendly disagreement, that’s all.” He sent Mackey a menacing look and prayed that Starsky hadn’t heard their ugly exchange. And if Starsky had, for the first time Hutch found himself grateful that Starsky’s memories of it would most likely be wiped away by the morning, the way so many other of his short-term memories seemed to be.
Tom Mackey didn’t say anything more to either of them. He just straightened his shirt and glowered. Hutch hoped he’d learned his lesson and from now on would keep any criticism of Starsky to himself.
“Then we’ll keep this little incident between us,” Starsky addressed Mackey and stepped to the side, indicating by his body language that Mackey best move along. Clearly, Starsky didn’t need to know anything further about their ‘discussion,’ he had already chosen sides and it was two against one.
Hutch breathed a sigh of relief.
Starsky’s Journal
Something’s off. I don’t know what it is, but it has something to do with me. Me and Hutch, to be exact. Hutch is a good cop and I can see that a lot of people respect him. But he gets grumpy when Dobey sends him out on assignments. I’m tied to a desk for now. So what? It’s annoying as hell for me, but why does it matter so much to Hutch? He still has a job to do. I’m just his partner. Hell, there’s other cops out there. He can be assigned with anyone else until I’m a hundred percent.
On the other hand, I don’t want him to be assigned with someone else. And I don’t like it when he leaves me behind at the office, either. It’s like I’m missing a piece of myself when he’s gone. It sounds crazy even to me.
Something happened in the hall outside the men’s room today. Hutch was waiting for me like he always does. He doesn’t go on ahead without me. He always waits for me. Anyway, when I came out of the john, he and Tom Mackey were standing there talking. I don’t think they noticed me. They were pretty caught up in their conversation. I didn’t get the whole gist of it, but I figured they were talking about me. From the looks on their faces, it wasn’t anything flattering. So I just stayed quiet.
Hutch looked like he’d just swallowed a lemon and Tom’s chest was puffed out like a peacock.
Then Tom must have said something that really set Hutch off. I mean, Hutch exploded like a firecracker. He shoved Tom Mackey up against the wall in the blink of an eye. And Mackey’s no small fry. He’s as tall as Hutch and has thirty pounds on him, at least. But none of that mattered. Hutch had him but good.
And Hutch’s face—I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. He’d gone from being a golden-haired angel to some kind of raging demon. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to cross anybody like that. Funny, it didn’t really surprise me. It was like I understood everything he was feeling. I knew just what to do to calm him down. Not like they taught us at the academy about negotiating with kidnappers, or talking someone off a ledge. I knew I just could say his name, touch him real gentle. And he’d back off. But just for me.
It’s like I have some kind of special power over him. The same kind of power he has over me when I miss him for leaving me behind. It’s almost a physical pain knowing he’s out on the street without me having his back.
There’s something else, too. Now this is really going to make me sound crazy. So I sure hope no one reads this journal. But when Hutch moved on Tom Mackey like that, turned to fire the way he did, it was glorious. He was fucking beautiful. And it was all for me.
To be honest with myself, it turned me on. I actually got a hard on thinking about Hutch. I’m a pretty combustible guy myself. There are so many sides to this partner of mine. Did I always know that? For a second I wondered what it would be like to feel all that passion, all that heat, skin to skin. And then I thought I knew. I remembered what his lips tasted like…
That’s all for now. I think I’ll go take a cold shower.
Chapter Four
Hutch glanced at the calendar hanging on the office wall, even though it wasn’t necessary. He’d painstakingly counted every day, hour, minute, since Starsky had been released from the hospital. In all that time, his short-term recall hadn’t appreciatively improved. Starsky still only vaguely recalled the shooting, his agonizing recuperation in the hospital, and the celebratory dinner. Hutch never pressed him for more.
For the time being, Starsky appeared content to relive his daily pattern over and over. Few memories of the previous day seemed to take hold. It was the same drive to work, the same old jokes, the same lunchtime routine. Starsky worked the Amy Patterson case file, reviewing the details over and over, while Hutch did his best to be in two places at once, working the Bay City streets and checking up on Starsky. Hutch would drop Starsky off at the end of each day, then pick up him the next morning with Starsky’s memories of the preceding twenty-four hours hopelessly scrambled.
Starsky was in good spirits, however. He was the same warm, fun-loving, caring person he had been before the shooting. He had the same crooked grin, the same devilish eyes. He was Hutch’s partner, his friend. But nothing more. Any memories of their previous intimacy seemed to have been wiped clean, like footprints on sand when the tide rolls in.
On the other hand, the closeness they’d lost was all Hutch could think about. The images of their bodies tangled together as they gasped for air in unison haunted him. His hands shook and his jaw ache at the erotic thoughts.
How could Starsky not remember the most important thing of all? The thing that made life worth living?
Hutch shut his eyes tightly. He didn’t know how much more he could take. The urge to tell Starsky the truth was an endless battle. Either that or just push him into the backseat of the Galaxie and show him. Entangle their tongues and grind their hips, then cocks, together. But he knew he didn’t dare make a move. The shock might only do further damage, Dr. Fletcher had told him as much.
Hutch looked over at Starsky studying the cold case files with such earnestness and knew he’d go on as long as Starsky needed him to. He had pushed idea of leaving police work, of making a living songwriting and singing, back into the furthest drawer of his mind. His dream of a life living freely with his lover had dissolved like a chalk drawing in the rain.
By Friday night of that week, Hutch felt close to his wit’s end. Desperation soaked through him like cold rain and he made an impulsive turn with the wheel of his car. He had to do something–any small deviation–so long as it wouldn’t hurt Starsky.
“Where we goin’, Hutch?”
“I thought we’d drop by Huggy’s for a beer. I could use one. How about you?”
Hutch hadn’t taken Starsky to Huggy’s place despite Huggy’s frequent calls to check up on him. That hadn’t been fair to any of them. Huggy had been a good friend. He’d been a great support the whole time Starsky had been in the hospital. He’d even been instrumental in helping Hutch bring down the mob boss who’d put the hit on Starsky.
“I guess so.” Starsky sounded unsure. The change in routine obviously unsettled him.
“Besides, Huggy’s been asking after you.” Hutch hoped the familiar name would ease his discomfort. Maybe it would even help.
More than anyone–even Captain Dobey–Huggy Bear Brown would know something was seriously wrong with Starsky. With Hutch, too, for that matter. Hutch dreaded to have the truth so exposed. A grotesque, gaping chasm between what was and what could have been. He felt his sanity was slipping away and the only person who might have saved him was lost to him.
Hutch parked in the alley next to the Pits, the cozy bar where he and Starsky had spent so many hours playing pool and scarfing down greasy burgers. When they walked in they were greeted with an exuberant, “It’s about time you decided to drop in on your old pal!” Huggy caught Starsky up in a bear hug and half-spun him around. “I thought maybe the blond boy wonder here had decided to keep you all to himself.”
Starsky took the ebullient reception in stride. “Hi, Hug,” he responded, giving Huggy a light pat on the back.
“Hi, Hug?” Huggy chuffed. He dropped his arms and glanced at Hutch who stood by apprehensively. “Is that all I get after what you put me through?”
“What did I do?”
“Need I remind you? You had me worried I might have to give all this up and go join the other side,” Huggy said, gesturing around him. “Not that I don’t make a pretty good detective, but I wasn’t cut out to be your permanent replacement, ya dig? I had to do enough hand-holding with this bleeding heart as it was.” He jabbed an elbow at Hutch.
When Starsky looked at Huggy blankly, Hutch quickly interjected, “Better stick to bartending, Hug,” and laughed to cover up the awkwardness. Then he made a beeline for one of the few empty tables that remained on a Friday night.
Starsky followed Hutch, with Huggy a step behind. When they’d settled at a table, Huggy asked, “What’ll it be gents? The usual?”
At Starsky’s pause, Hutch jumped in to answer for them both. “Sure, Hug.”
Huggy shot a look from one to the other. “You got it, Hutch. One Hutch Double Decker and a Starsky Special, coming up.”
A few minutes later Huggy set two plates in front of them with a flourish. A burger with cheese dripping over the edges for Starsky and a multi-layer BLT for Hutch. Huggy looked expectantly at Starsky as Starsky bit into the over-sized burger.
“It’s good, Huggy,” Starsky pronounced.
“Tell me something I don’t know. It also just so happens to be your favorite meal of all time. A cheeseburger and big glass of cold, chocolate milk as a chaser. Which, I might add, is coming right up.”
“Yeah,” Starsky smiled broadly at Huggy, then turned to Hutch. “Yeah, it is isn’t it?” He repeated, looking as if he’d aced a pop quiz.
“Except for maybe a Paul Muni special,” Hutch mumbled, looking down at his own sandwich.
“What did you say? Starsky asked.
“Nothing,” Hutch replied, chiding himself for not appreciating this smallest of victories.
Gradually, the good food and friendly environment did help to relax them both, as Hutch had hoped. They exchanged milk for beers as the evening progressed. Hutch hesitated to have Starsky drink so much in his present condition, but the alcohol loosened him up pleasantly. His eyes glowed and his smile widened. Hutch had missed his giddiness.
What the hell, Hutch thought. He went up to the bar to order another for himself.
“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you two,” Huggy said as he opened a tall-necked bottle with a flick of his wrist. “But there’s something missing.”
Huggy handed Hutch the bottle and Hutch covered the cold feeling in his stomach that the comment had produced with a deep swig. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… Curly over there may look like Starsky but he sure don’t act like Starsky. Not the Starsky I know. Like that movie, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Are you sure they didn’t switch him with someone else at that hospital?”
“No, he’s fine. It’s just….”
Huggy leaned in a little closer over the bar, his brown eyes luminous with concern.
“He’s been having a little trouble with his memory after that last seizure he had.” Hutch licked his lips, not knowing exactly how to explain.
“What do you mean… trouble?”
“I mean,” Hutch glanced over at Starsky, not wanting him to look over and think they were talking about him. Starsky sat contentedly at the table looking around and taking in the boisterous crowd. Maybe Hutch had done Starsky a disservice in keeping him cooped up. Starsky had always been a people person at heart. Just because their special connection was gone didn’t mean Starsky had lost his connection with the rest of the world. “Starsky isn’t able to remember what goes on from day to day,” Hutch continued. “He remembers his past, he remembers generalities, he just doesn’t remember…” Hutch’s words drifted off painfully.
Huggy sighed and shook his head. “Say no more. Ain’t that a damn shame. People go round their whole lives lookin’ for what you two have… had. And there Starsky goes losin’ it because of some freak jolt to the noggin.”
Hutch leaned heavily against the bar. He didn’t know if he felt better or worse.
“So when are you going to tell him?” Huggy asked.
“Tell him what?” Hutch drew each word out carefully and narrowed his gaze at Huggy.
Huggy rolled his eyes. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Starsky has a good reason for being dense. What’s yours?”
A twenty-something redhead, attractive despite her worn jeans and battered cowgirl boots, entered the bar. She was carrying a guitar case and went about arranging space for a small stage-like area. Hutch turned his attention toward her, anything to keep from responding to Huggy.
Dr. Fletcher had told Hutch that any major change in the status quo might make things worse for Starsky. But doctors didn’t have all the answers. Some things were still a mystery– like how Starsky had died but came back to life. Maybe the problem was more with Hutch than Starsky. It had taken them years to face their feelings for each other. Hutch didn’t think he could stand any more rejection and heartache. Was he really protecting Starsky… or himself?
Hutch downed the bottle in one long gulp and slammed it down on the counter harder than he’d meant to.
“Hold on there, Hutch,” Huggy cautioned. “No need to get all worked up.”
The redhead lifted her guitar from the case and left it open on the floor at her feet. Huggy nodded towards her as she strummed a few chords. “That’s Evelyn. She dropped in a couple nights ago lookin’ for a gig. This ain’t exactly the place for her type of music, but she looked a little down and out. Besides, she kinda reminded me of K.C. McBride. I told her she could play a few tunes for tips. People seemed to like her, so I let her come back.”
Huggy’s patrons quieted only slightly as the impromptu floor show began. Evelyn strummed her guitar and looked around hesitantly. Laughter and the clink of balls from the pool tables in the back cut through the chatter. Starsky put his fingers to his lips and sent out an encouraging whistle. “What you got, honey?” He yelled.
Evelyn looked up at Starsky and smiled. She started an upbeat country song and following Starsky’s lead, the audience was soon clapping along.
Huggy gave a nod to Hutch that said, ‘see, she’s good.’
“I see this is a rowdy crowd,” Evelyn acknowledged good-naturedly when she’d finished. “How about I sing ya’ll a favorite that you can join in on.” Next, she burst into Rocky Top and a good number of people joined in. A few even got up to dance, albeit unsteadily.
Hutch pushed away from bar and walked across the room to join Starsky at their table, drawn by the glow on Starsky’s face. Seeing Hutch, Starsky called out and pointed to Evelyn, “My friend here can sing, too.”
Hutch stopped cold in the middle of the floor. He remembered. He actually remembered!
Evelyn focused on Hutch not two feet away from her. “He does, does he? Does he sing as good as he looks?” She tilted her pink hat back and winked in a show of overt admiration. The crowd guffawed their pleasure.
“The voice of an angel,” Starsky declared as he lifted a beer bottle in salute.
“That I gotta hear,” Evelyn had her audience in her hand. “Come on over here, Blondie and sing me something.”
Hutch’s natural inclination was to blush and brush away her request. But there was Starsky beaming at him the way he had in another lifetime. The lifetime they had once shared. If he sang for him, what else might Starsky remember?
Hutch took a step toward Evelyn making it plain that he’d accept her offer and the crowd cheered their encouragement, gesturing with whatever drink they had in their hands. He took the guitar from her and held it in his arms, admiring the instrument’s smooth wood and almost sensual curves. He hadn’t played in weeks. Not since the shooting. But it felt nature and right. Hutch pressed the pads of his left hand fingers against the guitar’s neck and brushed his right hand gently over the strings. He was almost dizzy with the pleasure of it.
”All I want is black bean soup and you to make it with me,‘ Hutch sang. Next to him Evelyn smiled. She turned to the crowd and nodded her approval.
‘Honey won’t you be my love while love will stay and wear your ribbons for me…
Hutch looked around the room as he sang, forcing a smile on his face to match the bouncy tune, then found his eyes locked with Starsky’s. Starsky was singing along with him. Suddenly it was if the crowd disappeared and they were all alone in the room. Their attention became laser-focused on each other and time fell away.
Boil those black beans, honey
Mash them up real well
One big soft tomato
Just a handful of sorrel, well
Cut up your chilly pepper
Squeeze that garlic smell
One mouthful of drippings
A granddaddy onion and well, well, well.
Hutch brought the song to an end and the audience clapped raucously. When Hutch came back to the table there was a new light on Starsky’s face. “I remember that song, Hutch. Word for word. We used to sing it together all the time.”
Hutch nodded. “Yes, we did.”
“We used to do other things, too,” Starsky added quietly.
Hutch felt Starsky’s hand on his knee under the table and he jerked in surprise.
Starsky frowned. “Did I get it wrong?”
“No… no Starsk.” Hutch reached for Starsky’s hand and held it. “You got it just about right.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
Hutch couldn’t get back to Starsky’s fast enough, terrified that the same miracle that had cleared the fog from Starsky’s brain would close back in again. He fought the urge to slap the Mars light on the hood of the Galaxie. In the twenty minutes it took them to get back to Starsky’s place, Hutch tried to fill Starsky in as much as he dared. Their sexual relationship was still new and a bit experimental, having only begun right before Starsky’s shooting. He loved Starsky and Starsky loved him, Hutch insisted. The rest of the world be damned.
“How could I have forgotten something as important as that?” Starsky asked in wonder. “How could I be so dense?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. The brain is a mysterious organ– especially yours.” It felt so fucking good to tease Starsky again. It was as if the world had put back on the axis it had gotten knocked off of. The sun could set and rise as it should. “How about you be hard on me instead?”
“I got no problem with that,” Starsky grinned from the passenger seat. “We got some catching up to do.”
Once in Starsky’s bed, however, Hutch found himself pausing before going any further. He anticipated a long and pleasurable night. He took Starsky’s face between his hands.
“I just want to look at you,” he said. “I want to remember this look in your eyes. I don’t ever want to lose this.”
Starsky smile back at him as he placed his hands over Hutch’s. “You won’t, Hutch. I’m here and I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He leaned in to mold his lips to Hutch’s, warm and seductive. He pressed his tongue into Hutch’s mouth, the exquisite feeling making up for all the lost time.
Hutch pulled Starsky down into the bed and ran his hands over the body that had become so dear to him over the years– the well-muscled arms and back, the firm stomach dusted with dark hair and lean hips. Hutch couldn’t miss the recently healed yet unmistakable scars that marked Starsky’s midsection, vivid reminders of how close he’d come to losing him. Hutch trailed his fingers over the scars again and felt as much as heard Starsky’s intake of breath, as if in acknowledgement.
Hutch’s cock hardened with urgency. It had been too long. It had been torturous to be so close to Starsky all these weeks and having to hide his passions. Hutch inched down Starsky’s body and took his cock in his mouth, feeling it twitch and stiffen. Starsky moaned deeply and expressively, never one to hold back. Then the tenderness they had shared moments before morphed into a raging fire.
After Hutch fell into an exhausted yet contented sleep, Starsky reached for the pen and notebook on his nightstand. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was sitting next to his alarm clock, he probably would have forgotten it by now. He didn’t know why he’d kept up the nightly ritual of writing in it ever since he’d gotten home for the hospital but his doctors had seemed to think it was important to his progress. He had no desire to look back at what he’d written. It was enough to take one day at a time.
Starsky’s Journal
I finally figured out why everyone’s been acting so strangely toward me ever since I came back to work. The why of Dobey treating me with kid gloves and Hutch looking over his shoulder at me every ten seconds and keeping such close tabs on me. It’s because I haven’t been myself. Tonight it finally came to me who I was. I’m the guy who’s madly in love with his partner.
We went to Huggy’s place tonight and I was having a good time. The place was jumping and the beer running. Then this girl came in to sing for tips because Huggy felt sorry for her. I swear sometimes his heart is softer than Hutch’s. Anyway, she must have taken a shine to Hutch (and who could blame her?) because she invited him to come up and sing, too.
There he was in front of everybody, all blushes and beauty with those baby blues boring a hole into my chest. When he started to sing this goofy song about black bean soup, I realized I knew all the words. I felt like I got knocked over by one of those giant waves the surfers like so much. All I want is black bean soup. I realized Hutch has sung that for me a hundred times, and I’ve sung it a hundred times back. I don’t know how to explain it other than us being two halves of a whole.
Suddenly there it was– like my favorite sweater that got shoved in the back of my closet and lost, then found again while I was looking for my shoes. So many memories of him and me. Feelings that somehow got lost in the jumble of my head. Hutch touching me and me touching Hutch. Such a beautiful thing. Not that I’m any kind of porn writer, but man it sure got hot in there, so we left Huggy’s pretty quick. I hope Huggy didn’t take offense.
I once read about a guy, a ballplayer for the Astros, I think, who got clonked on the head by a baseball and couldn’t talk anymore. The funny thing was, he could sing. They’d ask him how he was doing and he’d answer with, Oh! What A Beautiful Morning, or some other musical ditty. The doctors said it was because music is stored in another part of the brain than memories. The guy did okay with communicating after that. Made people smile too. All those romantic show tunes about love and happiness answering their questions. Maybe I should ask Dr. Fletcher if something like that might have happened to me.
Chapter Five
“What the hell, Hutch!”
Hutch woke the next morning to see Starsky staring over him in wide-eyed confusion and– was that actual alarm? Starsky’s sheets were tangled around Hutch’s naked body and Hutch instinctively pulled them over him more securely. Something was terribly wrong.
“Starsk… I… uh,” Hutch stammered.
“How did you end up in my bed?” Starsky pulled on the briefs that he’d discarded on the floor the night before then dragged a hand through his wild hair.
Hutch sat up, carefully holding onto a sheet. “You don’t remember…anything?
Starsky turned and paced in growing agitation. “No… I…”
“You don’t remember going to Huggy’s?” Hutch asked delicately, worry beginning to churn in the pit of his stomach.
“Huggy’s? I…. ah… can’t think. I have this terrific headache.” Starsky sat on the side of the bed and leaned over, cradling his head in his hands. Hutch fought his desire to reach out for him. This couldn’t be good. It was very, very bad. What had he done?
“Sure. We went to Huggy’s and we were drinking. I guess we both had a little too much. You offered to let me flop here.” The lie came out as painfully as a razor blade drawn across Hutch’s tongue, but Starsky was clearly in pain, too. He’d grown terribly pale.
“I guess that’s it. I must be hungover but I don’t ever remember a hangover like this one. It sure is a beaut.” Starsky groaned.
“I’ll get you some juice or something.” Hutch quickly climbed out on the other side of the bed and got dressed. When he returned to the bedroom with a glass, Starsky hadn’t moved from his position on the edge of the mattress. He was rocking silently with his head in his hands. Hutch sagged against the doorframe as he watched him. Is this what came from Starsky confronting his memories of the two of them? Is this what Dr. Fletcher had warned him about?
“Here, Starsk,” Hutch offered him the glass and when Starsky looked up to take it, his eyes were glazed with pain. He looked shattered.
Hutch looked away quickly. This was his fault. He’d pushed Starsky too quickly. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. There was no question that Starsky’s health and well-being was worth any sacrifice on Hutch’s part. Hutch turned back and watched Starsky take a few sips of juice. “Get back in bed and rest,” he told him. “Good thing we don’t have to go into work today.”
Starsky handed Hutch the glass and turned with agonizing slowness to lift his legs back on the bed. “We don’t?” he asked weakly. Hutch’s heart caught in his throat at the feeble question. “No, buddy, we don’t. It’s our day off.” He arranged the covers over Starsky and set the glass aside. That’s when Hutch noticed the notebook on the nightstand. He ran his fingers over it but couldn’t bear to pick it up and see only the empty pages of Starsky’s life. Their life.
Starsky’s Journal
I feel like such a dope. I went out last night to Huggy’s bar and really tied one on. That’s what Hutch said, anyway. I don’t exactly remember. But I woke up this morning with a screaming headache and spent the rest of the day in bed. I’m really losing my touch.
Hutch said I shouldn’t worry about it, though. I just need to build up my stamina, seeing as how I was dead only a few weeks ago. Or has it been a few months? I’m not sure anymore.
Funny thing. When I woke up, Hutch was lying next to me. Right there in my bed. For those first few seconds before I was fully awake, it felt nice. Hutch was snoring all tucked in beside me. I think he even had his arm over me. But when I realized what it looked like, I flipped out a little.
There was a simple explanation though. Hutch said he had drank too much, too. So that’s why he was sleeping there.
I hope I didn’t embarrass him for acting like I did. Maybe he should have just slept on the couch. And that boner I had was only a piss hard-on.
~~~
“Wanna hear something funny?”
“What’s that?” Hutch braced himself to hear the same jokes Starsky told nearly every day as if he’d just come across them. He’d come back to the precinct for lunch with Starsky– a tunafish sandwich. He couldn’t get over the feeling that their whole lives had become a worn out punch line.
Starsky thumbed through the papers scattered on his desk. “The boyfriend in the Robertson case was seventeen at the time. But he has almost no record of actually existing beyond high school.”
“What do you mean by that?” Hutch asked, pleasantly surprised that this seemed to be new territory for Starsky.
“Derek Tewes. He was Amy’s boyfriend at the time she was murdered.” Starsky read from the notes. “He was questioned about the murder but said he didn’t know anything. Seventeen years old.” Starsky mused aloud. “That would make him twenty-nine today.”
“So?”
“So you’d think he would have some kind of trail by now. He’d had a driver’s license at the time but it’s never been renewed. He doesn’t own a car or any real estate. Never been married. Never served in the military.”
“You checked into all that?”
Starsky grimaced. “It’s not like I have a lot else to keep me busy here today. I’ve been looking at this file so much my eyes have crossed. I have it practically memorized. I feel like I’ve been studying this thing for weeks instead of….” Starsky face clouded over and he looked up at Hutch. Hutch’s heart twisted at the bewildered look in his eyes.
No. Their lives weren’t punch lines. They were living hell.
“Maybe he’s moved out of the country,” Hutch reasoned.
“No, he’s still here. As of six months ago, anyway.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Tewes’ neighbors have called the cops on him and his mother a coupla times over the years. Disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct. That sort of thing. They’ve been at the same address all this time.”
“Sounds lovely. Remind me never to buy a house in that part of town.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird?” asked Starsky.
Weird? Considering what he’d been through the past six months, it didn’t even reach his top ten. But Starsky had latched onto this small detail as if desperate to tap into his long-rusted detective skills.
“Gee, I don’t know Starsk… “
“Maybe we could just stop in on them,” Starsky offered.
“Under what pretext?”
“I don’t know. Just to see what Tewes is up to now. We could say we’re following up some new leads and are checking to see if Tewes remembers anything new.”
At Hutch’s hesitated Starsky pressed on. “Come on, Hutch. Let me feel like I’m earning my pay for once.”
Hutch didn’t like the plaintive note he heard in Starsky’s voice. Perhaps he’d heard Tom Mackey’s comments in the hallway after all. Even worse, maybe he’d somehow remembered them and taken them to heart. Maybe despite all Hutch’s efforts, Starsky had become aware of how damaged he was. It had become hard to tell who was protecting whom.
“I guess it couldn’t hurt,” Hutch found himself relenting.
The Tewes house was in a section of town that had a seen better days. Its porch sagged and the screen of the door had a large rip. An old, rusty Nova sat in the narrow driveway on bald tires.
After about ten minutes, an unkempt woman with graying hair answered their knock. She could have been anywhere from forty to well-past sixty in age. She looked like someone who’d been gradually worn down by life, like stones continually grinding against each other until they’re nothing but dust. It was a look not unfamiliar to Starsky and Hutch.
“Mrs. Tewes?” Starsky asked her. When they showed her their badges, she paled.
“No need to be concerned, ma’am. We’re just following up on an old case. May we come in and talk to your son, Derek?” said Starsky.
“You don’t mean about that Patterson girl, do you?” Mrs. Tewes asked. Her quick response told them that the murder was still at the forefront of her mind even after all these years.
“Yes,” Hutch confirmed as he stood at Starsky’s shoulder. Hutch was suddenly glad he’d agreed to go on this goose choose. It felt good to be working together with his partner again, such as it was. If he could only keep from being turned on by Starsky’s body heat, he might be able to pretend that nothing had ever changed between them.
“Derek is, uh,” Mrs. Tewes’ eyes darted around her. “Sick. In bed. He’s too sick to talk.”
“That’s too bad,” Starsky said. “Is it the flu? I heard that’s been going around.”
They heard a man’s voice yelling belligerently from somewhere inside the house.” Get away from the fucking door!” Mrs. Tewes winced at the sound.
“Is that Derek?” Starsky asked.
“Maybe he’s feeling better,” Hutch commented to Starsky.
“I, uh…” Mrs. Tewes stammered, but Starsky didn’t wait for her to finish.
“It’s the police,” he called back through the door firmly. “We just want to talk to you a minute about Amy Patterson.”
Derek Tewes, now twelve years older than when the murder took place, came to leer over the shoulder of his mother. He looked gaunt in a dirty t-shirt and jeans. Though the lighting was poor, his eyes glowed unnaturally bright in his unshaven face. “I got nothin’ to say. That was a long time ago. Why are you botherin’ me again?”
“We’re just following up. It’s a new police policy,” Hutch said. “Can we come in?”
“He’s polite, I’m persistent,” Starsky told them with a toothy smile.
Mrs. Tewes reluctantly widened the opening of the door and Starsky and Hutch took it as their opportunity to enter the house. Mrs. Tewes stepped back and silently twisted her fingers.
“What is it you want?” Derek asked and began to pace briskly back and forth on the worn living room carpet, rubbing his hands on his pants.
Starsky and Hutch traded glances.
“You were Amy’s boyfriend, right?” Starsky asked. “I’ve been reviewing the records and they indicate you may have even been the last one to see Amy alive.”
“That don’t mean nothin,'” Derek growled. “I told the cops back then. They didn’t have nothin’ on me then, so don’t think you can pin anything on me now.”
“We didn’t say we were trying to,” Hutch said smoothly, his years of dealing with high-strung people kicking in. “We just want to know what you remember about Amy. Who she hung around with. Maybe someone she was upset with or afraid of?”
“I don’t know nothin!” Derek repeated, whirling around. Only this time he didn’t just growl. He glared at them threateningly, a feral glint in his eyes. The air around them felt brittle, as if something were about to crack. Still, Starsky and Hutch stood their ground.
“Why can’t you just leave us alone,” Mrs. Tewes interjected nervously. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting Derek? I told you he was sick.”
“Looks like Derek’s been sick for a long time. Like about twelve years?” Starsky observed, staring straight at Derek.
Mrs. Tewes didn’t deny it.
“You cops have only make it worse with all your badgering.” Derek went back to pacing like a caged animal, scratching at the skin of his stick-thin arms.
“Mrs. Tewes,” Hutch addressed the woman gently. “Isn’t it time Derek got some help?”
At that, Derek gave a wild laugh.
“We don’t need any help,” Mrs. Tewes snapped. “We manage fine by ourselves. Just leave us alone.”
Starsky looked at Hutch and gave a small nod. They doubted Mrs. Tewes would be able to give any other answer in her son’s presence. There was nothing else they could accomplish here. It was apparent that with Amy’s death, more than one life had been destroyed and they were no closer to getting any answers.
~~~
Starsky asked Hutch to drop him off at his apartment after they left the Tewes “Tell Dobey I’m feeling a little punk,” he said. The rare admission had Hutch silently deriding himself for letting Starsky talk him into taking him out of the office. The streets of Bay City were unforgiving of any weakness, no matter how small.
Hutch sat for a minute longer than necessary at the curb outside Starsky’s building. He circled the block then stopped in the corner deli for a sandwich, dreading going back to work alone. Was it only drugs that fueled Derek’s mania, or was there something else? In twelve years would Hutch be a howling madman like Derek Tewes, unable to handle the ghosts of the past? Hutch had kicked a drug addiction once and it nearly killed him, but Starsky was a far more powerful obsession.
As Hutch passed Starsky’s building one more time on his way back to the office, he saw something that made his stomach lurch. A rusty, orange Nova now sat in the spot at the curb his Galaxie had occupied just a short while ago. It was the same kind of car that had been parked in the Tewes’ driveway.
Hutch called for backup as he pulled the Galaxie over, directing any responders to keep their lights and sirens off. He dreaded making a potentially combustible situation any more explosive. Hutch approached Starsky’s apartment cautiously and paused to listen outside the door, his pulse throbbing in his ears.
“I’m done with this, all of it.” Hutch recognized the voice of Derek Tewes, unnaturally high-pitched and agitated, coming from inside. “I just want to be left alone.”
“We’ll leave you alone, Derek. But you have to put down the gun.” Starsky sounded calm but Hutch could hear the strain that stretched his words thin. He knew his partner had enough tenacity to spit in the face of Death, even if he was about to take his last breath.
Hutch ached to have x-ray vision so that he could see what was happening behind the solid door. Hutch pictured the layout of Starsky’s apartment in his mind, the placement of the furniture, doorways, and windows. What were Starsky and Derek’s positions? How close to Starsky was Derek? Would Starsky be able to calm the unhinged gunman or strong enough to take him down?
Hutch’s heart was in his throat as he calculated the odds. They were too high for him to gamble on. He and Starsky both knew a man as unstable as Derek Tewes was nearly impossible to be reasoned with. And that people like that often had surprising strength fueled by desperation and rage. Hutch turned the knob and inched the door open as quietly as humanly possible. His fingers went to his Magnum, heavy in its holster.
Starsky was half-sitting on the couch where he had apparently been resting. The position put him at a disadvantage. Derek was standing over Starsky, his back to the door. He held a dull, old style Smith and Wesson in his hand. The gun looked like it might not have been used in years. Who even knew where Derek had gotten it from? Perhaps Derek’s mother had kept it hidden away in a drawer the way she’d been trying to keep Derek’s secrets hidden from the world.
Derek waived the gun erratically in the air then began to pace as he had back in his living room, like a wild animal in a cage. Like a man possessed by a demon. Hutch recalled the long ago urge to crawl out of his skin when he’d needed a fix. The disembodied voices that had pounded in his brain and the only thing that had held them at bay was the comforting touch of his partner.
“You brought it back,” Derek raged. “Her face, her face, her face,” he droned on, and dragged his hands over his own face, the gun dangling. Then he spun back to Starsky. Derek pointed the gun at his own temple, then straight at Starsky’s. His hand shook and he turned the gun on himself again.
From his position behind the door, Hutch watched Derek unravel, praying desperately that Starsky would be able to talk Derek down the way he had others. He lifted the Magnum from the holster, feeling the reassurance of the cold metal in his hands and the sweat that beaded on his face.
“Who’s face? Amy’s?” Starsky said gently. “What happened to Amy?”
“Don’t!” Derek roared. He pointed the gun back again at Starsky and Hutch heard the click of the trigger.
“Derek!” Hutch yelled as he burst through the door. As Derek turned at the sound, the gun fired wildly, catching Hutch in the shoulder. Hutch spun back hard but not before he got off his own shot. Derek fell to the floor, blood pooling.
Hutch sunk to his knees, his head spinning. He heard the sound of approaching sirens, but more importantly, he felt Starsky’s arms encircling him.
~~~
Starsky’s Journal
Hutch is in the hospital and it’s all my fault. I talked him into following up my hunch on the Amy Patterson case and looking up Amy’s old boyfriend. I’ve been an idiot while Hutch has been trying to protect me from myself. Even though we found some answers, it doesn’t make up for what happened – what could have happened – to Hutch because of me thinking I was ready to get back in the big leagues. And what did happen to Derek Tewes.
It was Derek, the boyfriend, who killed Amy. Mrs. Tewes finally admitted to it when she came for his body. Hutch shot him dead. Otherwise, he would have killed me. Derek had been messed up for years – mentally, emotionally, the whole bag. He strangled Amy and dumped her body in the pond. Mrs. Tewes covered up for him. Instead of getting him help, his mother just kept him strung out. I don’t really know whether she was ashamed of him or just loved him all wrong. Now she’s in jail, too. Who knows why people do the things they do.
Anyway, Derek ended up shooting Hutch instead of me. Thank god Hutch had already called for backup because they showed up right on time. I rode with Hutch to the hospital in the ambulance. The doctors say he’ll be okay, but right now he’s pretty out of it. They had to get the bullet out and stitch him up. Now they’re going to keep him overnight.
Dobey called Huggy to come pick me up. I told Huggy that Hutch could have died trying to save me. And you know what he said? He said that’s the way Hutch would have wanted it.
Huggy told me Hutch is willing to die for me because that’s how much he loves me. That kind of love is hard for me to wrap my head around. Huggy said I don’t remember, but me and Hutch are a couple. He said Hutch would do anything for me. Hutch even gave up a shot at a music career because ever since the shooting he thinks he needs to stay with me because my brain isn’t working right.
The minute Huggy explained it, everything made sense. Like some kind of dam burst in my brain. Huggy said Hutch loved me and I knew it was true. I’d been feeling pretty intense about Hutch, too. I just haven’t said anything. I see his blue eyes in my dreams, hear that sweet voice singing something about black bean soup. I’ve been salivating imagining what his body heat would feel like and I’ve had to pinch myself to keep from reaching out to touch him.
I’ve even been scooting my chair extra far under my desk at work. I didn’t want Hutch to think I’m off my rocker any more than he already does.
Anyway, when I got home and saw all the blood still on the floor, I really lost it. Now my head hurts so much I’m seeing stars. I don’t know how long I can take it. My gut hurts, too. I left a message with Dr. Fletcher’s answering service that I needed to see him tomorrow. Huggy stuck around to help me clean up. He said he’ll make sure I get to the doctor tomorrow, too. He told me just to go lay down, but I wanted to write in my notebook first. I’m not sure why, but it feels very important.
Chapter Six
Hutch sat folded over in one of Dr. Fletcher’s office chairs, his head in his hands. His brain was trying to accept what the doctor was telling him, but his heart was unwilling.
When Starsky had come to Dr. Fletcher the day after the incident with Derek Tewes, Dr. Fletcher had been alarmed by his appearance. Starsky’s face was ashen, he was unsteady on his feet. He’d practically collapsed into the office couch. He was mumbling almost incoherently and Dr. Fletcher feared that a complete breakdown might be just around the corner.
Starsky had been fuzzy about the details of what had happened just the day before. Dr. Fletcher had only been able to gather that his partner had been hospitalized and Starsky was left adrift. The doctor then explained to Hutch that he had spoken with Huggy, who had accompanied him to his appointment, and placed a call to Captain Dobey. Both men told him about Derek Tewes’ attack and relayed their fears that, with Hutch incapacitated even for a short time, they weren’t sure how to deal with Starsky.
Dr. Fletcher didn’t try to go over the details of the shooting and the events that led up to it with his patient. Instead, he’d gone through the pages of Starsky’s journal with him. The secrets it revealed were extraordinary.
“This connection that you have,” Dr. Fletcher explained, “is beyond anything I’ve seen in my practice. During our session, David came to understand what you’d given up for him and that in his current condition he can’t be the partner… the lover,” Dr. Fletcher cleared his throat, “that you once had. But you must know this– the guilt David feels over not being able to give you what he believes you deserve will push his mind over the edge.”
Dr. Fletcher assured Hutch that Starsky alone had made the decision to tear out every entry concerning their relationship, one by one. So Starsky had remembered something after all. Hutch took comfort from the realization until he suddenly understood what destroying the journal pages meant. Starsky had effectively written Hutch out of his life. He didn’t need Dr. Fletcher to tell him it was Starsky’s way of protecting Hutch. If Starsky couldn’t remember him, Hutch wouldn’t be compelled to put his life on permanent hold.
Hutch said nothing. What could he say? He might argue that he’d take any kind of relationship he could get with Starsky rather than nothing at all. But Starsky had shown time and again through the years how much he was willing sacrifice for Hutch. Starsky was nothing if not selfless and brave. How could Hutch be any less? He’d rather disappear to the farthest ends of the earth than be the reason for Starsky’s suffering.
There was only one problem– while Starsky may forget him, he would never forget Starsky. Not in a million years.
“Believe me, Ken, this is for the best,” Dr. Fletcher continued after a long pause. “I’ve found a place for David at Cabrillo State where I have my research clinic. As of now, he’s in full agreement with the arrangement. He’s comfortable and he’s safe. David can be of great assistance to me in my neurological studies. As I’ve said, his case is quite unusual.”
The image of Starsky being a lab rat danced before Hutch’s eyes. It had never been Starsky’s style. “You really think there’s no chance that his memory will be restored?” His throat burned.
“I uh…I really can’t say. But I do know that as of today, now that his memories of you have again been cleared away, he is happy and healthy. And as long as the two of you stay apart, he can continue to be that way.”
That night, Hutch went to bed raging at darkness and praying for a miracle.
~~~
Starsky’s Journal
Here I am writing to you (make that me) from my own comfy quarters at Cabrillo State. It isn’t like my old apartment in Bay City, but it’s okay. Shelter from the elements and three squares a day. It kind of reminds me of being in the army. Yeah, I remember the army well enough. I remember plenty of things about my old life. My ma, Nicky. Being a police detective. I remember some friends, too. Captain Dobey, Huggy Bear. My partner–Hutch. Then I got shot and almost died. I remember being in the hospital, but that’s where my memory gets kind of foggy.
Dr. Fletcher says there’s a lot of others things I don’t remember, so that’s why he got me set up here. He said that even though I can remember things in my past, I don’t necessarily remember events short term. A lot of conditions can cause memory problems–traumatic brain injuries, tumors, drug and alcohol abuse, but none of those happen to relate to me. I did have a seizure in the hospital after I got shot, or so they tell me, and afterward I wasn’t the same. Dr. Fletcher said he’s trying to find out why.
The doc has me taking all kinds of tests– MRIs, EKGs, you name it. It’s a little like alphabet soup. He has me trying out a bunch of different medications, too. Pills to reduce anxiety, pills to prevent seizures. I can’t pronounce most of them. I’m a walking, talking guinea pig. We talk, and then Doc takes pages notes. I guess I’m contributing to science. Maybe he’ll even write a book about me. I like the thought of that. It’s good to know that even with a head as messed up as mine, I might eventually help someone else.
Doc says I do seem to be getting a little better, although it’s hard for me to tell. He says I’m remembering a few more details each day. Things like what I had for lunch or the plot of the latest made for TV movie. But, to be honest, I feel like I’m getting worse. My head hurts like a son of a bitch and sometimes I think I’m seeing ghosts, or maybe an angel because the image is all golden, and I’m hearing things,- a funny song about black bean soup. Those aren’t the things that bother me, though. They actually make me feel good. It’s the awful headaches that come after.
~~~
The days passed by for Hutch emptily, painfully. Each blended into the other with no definitive beginning or end. Hutch ate, slept, and in between, kept up with his duties to the Bay City police. But his heart wasn’t in his job. He lost weight; his hair grew shaggy. His only respite was when he poured his pain into words on a page, arranging them into notes on a scale. Some nights he’d write for hours on end, losing all track of time, catching only an hour or two of sleep. He strummed his guitar until his fingertips were raw.
Don’t give up on us baby…who were the words for? Starsky… or himself?
Out of frustration, sympathy, or both, Dobey gave Hutch a leave of absence with strict orders to “pull yourself together.” Hutch should have been grateful. Now he had more time to work on his music and in the back of his mind he knew he should use his leave productively. This was his opportunity to explore the change of career that he’d once only talked about. But what was the point? His motivation had disintegrated like dust in the wind.
In the quiet of Hutch’s apartment one afternoon, the jangle of the phone sounded amplified. Hutch wished he could ignore it, but he never knew when it might be Captain Dobey with a homicide matter that required urgent attention. Or even more chilling, a call from Dr. Fletcher.
Hutch’s stomach lurched but then settled when he recognized the voice on the other end of the line. “Isn’t it about time for you to dust off those cobwebs and get out of the house,” Huggy Bear scolded. “You need to come out tonight and visit your old pal Huggy.”
“I know you mean well, Hug, but I’m just not good company these days.”
“Then how about you bringing that wooden appendage with you, seein’ as how you’ve become so attached to it. Better a guitar than a gun, I’ve always said.”
Huggy’s gift for persuasion was uncanny. Or maybe he’d finally had his fill of staring at the same four walls. A few hours later Hutch found himself standing in the doorway to the Pits, guitar in hand. The touch of the instrument was soothing. It was better than the feel of a gun.
The last time Hutch had been to Huggy’s place was the night Evelyn– with Starsky’s encouragement– had talked him into singing with her for any coins that might be tossed into her open guitar case. When he walked in and saw a full blown broadcasting set-up, complete with silk-shirted DJ, Hutch instantly balked. He should have known Huggy’d have something up his sleeve.
“Don’t run out on me, my golden balladeer,” Huggy called out before Hutch had a chance to slink back out the door. “No need to be gun-shy– not that you ever were.”
Huggy took Hutch by the arm and guided him to where the DJ had set up. That’s when Hutch noticed Evelyn. She’d styled her auburn hair with soft curls and put on a flowered peasant blouse and skirt. It was a big improvement from the first time he’d seen her, when she’d looked a bit like a thrift store floozy despite her engaging smile.
“I got this big idea, ya see,” Huggy bubbled with enthusiasm as his wide-eyed gaze swung between Hutch and Evelyn.
Hutch grimaced. It wasn’t the first time he’d been taken in by Huggy’s half-cocked ventures. “Don’t tell me you’re getting back in the music promotion business.”
“Not exactly,” said Huggy. “I just was thinking how more people needed to hear Evelyn sing. She could be a real star! So I talked Clive Handley, here,” Huggy made a gesture toward the DJ, “into broadcasting a segment of his show from the Pits. A showcase of local talent, you could say. It’s the perfect angle.”
“Huggy’s been such a doll to help me like this,” Evelyn beamed. “And you, too, Hutch.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, well, I needed a few more ‘local talents’ to showcase, or else Clive wasn’t interested,” Huggy jumped in. “You wouldn’t mind singing a song or two to fill some air time, would you?”
Hutch groaned inwardly. He should have seen this coming. Huggy was a born operator. While Clive the DJ adjusted his equipment, looking like he’d rather be back in his glass-enclosed, high-tech studio than the middle of a common, working class bar, Evelyn watched Hutch expectantly. Hutch knew that her life up until this point hadn’t been easy, yet her face was bright with optimism.
Hutch felt like running out the door. He felt like punching a wall or throwing a chair. He felt going some place where no one would ever find him. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to look into faces filled with kindness, or eyes filled with hope. He didn’t deserve it. He couldn’t help anyone. And he didn’t want anyone to care. Not anymore.
Instead, right on cue, he picked up his guitar, pasted on a smile and sang.
All I want is black bean soup and you to make it with me….
Chapter Seven
Starsky stretched out on his bed, one arm beneath his head, the other dangling listlessly off the side. He stared up at the ceiling. It was as blank as his mood. He couldn’t help feeling there was somewhere else he should be. Something else he should be doing. He didn’t belong in this simple room with its narrow bed and institutional furniture. He felt as lifeless as the cheap, watercolor prints that hung on the grey walls. Something was very very wrong. If only he could figure out what.
That morning Starsky had eaten scrambled eggs-sans-ketchup, took his medication, and participated in a group therapy session. The leader was a compassionate, middle-aged woman; the participants were like him, fragile and confused. Still, Starsky felt like he couldn’t really relate to any of them. So he listened more than he talked. Later, he took a walk around the heavily supervised grounds. He even shot some baskets with a couple of the orderlies on break. He’d followed his doctor’s instructions to the letter but something was missing.
A memory squirmed around in his brain like a fly fighting to break through the spider’s web that held it captive. In a different life he hadn’t been much for following orders, had he? Maybe that was the problem. Too many orders to follow. Too many schedules. Too many rules. Starsky’s head began to pound.
If only he had a friend to talk to, Starsky thought. Not a doctor or counselor. Not one of the orderlies who didn’t mind if their friendly basketball game took a competitive turn. Not even the night nurse who brought him something to drink when his headaches threatened to overwhelm him. He needed someone who understood him. He needed…
Starsky was skirting the edges of a deep dark hole. One wrong step would push him over. In his mind he kept trying to reach for something that would ground him– keep him safe. Keep him sane.
A white-hot spike of pain shot through his brain.
Starsky fumbled for the radio that sat on the stand beside his bed, nearly knocking it over. He clicked it on and twisted the knob, trying to find something to distract him from the pain. Crackling static mixed with a series of animated announcers and even a Spanish language broadcast for a few seconds until Starsky tuned into Clive Handley’s show. Clive was a local DJ known for setting up impromptu broadcasts at various venues throughout the Bay City area. Starsky had caught his show once or twice before. That evening, a clear-voiced tenor was belting out an upbeat tune.
All I want is black bean soup and you to make it with me…
Starsky jerked up. The music instantly grabbed Starsky’s attention, cutting through the pain in his head. He knew that song! The rest of the lyrics came back to him in a rush.
Honey won’t you be my love while love will stay and wear your ribbons for me…
That was Hutch’s song. Make that Hutch and his song. Hutch, his partner. Hutch was the one singing on the radio. No, Hutch hadn’t just been his partner. There was something else Starsky needed to remember. Something that had to do with him and Hutch. Hutch was his….
Suddenly Starsky felt as if someone had taken a sledge hammer and cracked it over his skull. White lights exploded like fireworks behind his eyes. Or supernovas. The pain was unbearable. He thought he heard himself cry out as he fell back to the mattress and was overtaken by darkness.
~~~
Something was trilling in his head. He tried to ignore the sound but it only grew louder and more demanding. A telephone. There was a telephone ringing somewhere. Awareness drifted through the fog of his brain. His telephone. Hutch rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. The illuminated dial read four a.m. He stumbled to the phone.
“Ken? This is Dr. Fletcher. I’m sorry to disturb you, but something’s happened that I’m sure you’d want to know about.”
The haze of sleep evaporated in an instant. “What is it? What’s happened?” Hutch knew there was only one reason the doctor would call him like this. Starsky.
“I’m afraid David has collapsed. One of our night shift nurses heard him call out and found him in his room.”
“What do you mean ‘collapsed’,” Hutch asked, fighting off waves of panic.
“We don’t know for sure. I can only assume that he’s had another seizure. The brain is a mysterious organ. There’s so much we don’t know about it. We’re monitoring David now. His vitals are stable but he’s completely unresponsive.”
“Un…unresponsive?”
“Yes. But as I said, his vitals are completely normal. David is in there somewhere. We just don’t know how to reach him.”
Funny how Dr. Fletcher spoke aloud the same thought Hutch had been having for weeks. Starsky–the real Starsky–was still there. He had to be. If only Hutch could reach him…
“I’m coming over there, Doc.”
“Under the circumstances, I don’t think it could hurt.”
Hurt, hell. Didn’t Dr. Fletcher know him by now? Hutch would never do anything to hurt Starsky. He’d sacrificed everything just to protect him. All he wanted right now was to help. If only just to sit by Starsky’s bed. Maybe hold his hand. Let Starsky know he wasn’t alone, wherever it was he’d gone to.
~~~
When Hutch entered the room where Starsky had been moved, he thought he’d been caught in a time warp. Starsky looked pale and still as death itself, covered by a thin cotton blanket and surrounded by medical devices and gauges. Fluid dripped through tubing down to a needle that was taped to his arm. Hutch’s knees threatened to buckle and bile burned the back his throat. Just like months before, Hutch was paralyzed by the sight of his partner so eerily quiet.
This can’t be happening, Hutch thought. Not again. After years of physical contact that had come so easily to them, Hutch hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch Starsky then. He’d been too afraid that it might be the last time he’d feel the pulse of life in Starsky’s veins, however weak. This time would be different, Hutch vowed. He swallowed and steeled himself. The doctors didn’t know what to do to help their patient. Maybe Hutch was the only one who could.
Hutch pulled a chair up to the bedside. He took hold of Starsky’s free hand and squeezed it lightly. There was no response.
“Starsk,” Hutch choked out. “I miss you so much. I know you’re here but I miss talking with you. Just hanging out together. I miss your stupid jokes. I miss riding shotgun in that striped tomato of a car. The way you swagger even when you’re scared to death. The way I am right now.”
Hutch sat and talked to Starsky for what might have been hours. No one disturbed them even into the bustle of the morning hours. Hutch rambled on about the adventures they’d had together, the good times and bad. He recounted all their plans and their dreams.
By mid-afternoon, Hutch leaned over and rested his forehead on Starsky’s hand in worry and exhaustion.
“Don’t give up on us, baby / don’t make the wrong seem right / the future isn’t just one night,” Hutch found himself softly singing, his throat tight. “It’s written in the moonlight / painted on the stars / we can’t change ours…”
Just then, Hutch felt Starsky’s hand twitch. Hutch lifted his head and studied Starsky’s face. Starsky seemed peaceful despite the sterile and foreign surroundings. It dawned on Hutch that the lines of Starsky’s face actually seemed to have softened. Feeling a frisson of encouragement, Hutch continued to sing anything he could think of. Folk songs, Spanish ballads. He even sang Loving Arms, the duet he’d once performed with Sue Ann Granger.
Throughout the intimate concert, Starsky’s hand continued to move. Hutch even noticed eye movement beneath Starsky’s lids.
“All I want,” Hutch sang, “is black bean soup and you to make it with me….” Almost as soon as Hutch had started in on the light-hearted song, however, Starsky’s motions stilled. The words caught in Hutch’s throat. Maybe he’d just been imagining it all.
Hutch stopped singing. He couldn’t go on. His memories were too livid and bittersweet– especially that last morning they’d spent in bed recovering after a night of enthusiastic sexual exploration. After so many years working side by side, their evolving relationship had promised to open up a whole new world. But then their world had imploded.
No, Hutch thought. He couldn’t let things end this way. It wasn’t what Starsky would have wanted. He would want Hutch to be happy. To go on living his life and being true to himself. Hutch closed his eyes, cleared his throat, and began again. “All I want….”
“is black bean soup,” a rusty voice sang back so softly it came out a barely a whisper.
Hutch opened his eyes. Starsky?
“Come on, Hutch,” Starsky coughed. “Finish it. ‘And you to bring it to me‘.”
“You’re awake!” Hutch squeezed the hand he’d been holding on to for hours, suddenly desperate to do so much more. “Do you know me?”
“Now that’s a dumb question. A better question is, what am I doin’ here?”
“You’ve been… sick. Don’t you remember?”
A cloud crossed Starsky’s face and Hutch felt a stab of fear. But then Starsky’s expression slowly brightened, like the early morning fog lifted by the warmth of the sun.
“I remember gettin’ shot but then I got better and came home,” Starsky began. “But instead of hitting the streets with you, Dobey tied me to a desk and gave me a cold case file to review. The Amy Patterson case. I remember Derek Tewes trying to kill me, but you came and stopped him. I remember you gettin’ shot when it could have been me. I remember staying at Cabrillo State and all of Dr. Fletcher’s tests. Poppin’ pills like candy. But most of all,” the intensity growing in Starsky’s words, the heated look in his eyes, nearly made Hutch’s heart burst. “I remember you. I remember us.“
Starsky did remember. But how much? And for how long?
Starsky’s eyes darkened then and he struggled to sit up in the bed. “Why did you go away? Why did you leave me here by myself?”
Anguish washed over Hutch. Starsky must have thought he’d deserted him.
“Dr. Fletcher thought it was for the best.” The explanation sounded lame. Since when had they let anyone else decide what was best for them? It had always only been me and thee.
“Dr. Fletcher? Why would he think that?”
“Your headaches. Your memory lapses…” Hutch’s words drifted off. “Dr. Fletcher read what you wrote in your notebook… about… us. But then the very next day you would forget. He thought forcing you to remember things you weren’t ready for would make things worse.” Hutch broke down, his shoulders sagging. “I almost lost you once, I just… couldn’t do it again.”
“Hutch,” Starsky reached for him. “I may not have been remembering everything that had gone on between us, but even when I was confused, you were always in the back of my mind. I kept seeing you, hearing you…”
“Dr. Fletcher said you might even lose your mind if you got pushed hard enough. He said you should stay at Cabrillo State where you’d be looked after.”
“I see you’re up and around, David.” Starsky looked up and Hutch turned to see Dr. Fletcher standing in the doorway. “You look much better.”
“Yeah, doc. Imagine that. And I remember everything,” Starsky said, with heavy emphasis on the word everything.
Hutch stayed with Starsky the rest of the day and all through the night. They laid together in the narrow bed, taking pleasure in the textures of each other’s skin, the rhythm of their beating hearts. Hutch couldn’t bear the thought of waking up to find that Starsky’s memories had been wiped away once more. But they weren’t finished with miracles. The next morning Hutch woke instead to see Starsky’s crooked smile. It had never looked more captivating.
A nurse knocked on the door of the room they had discretely shared. Her expression was schooled as she handed Starsky a container of pills.
“What’s that?” asked Hutch.
“Carbamazepine,” she stated simply. “Mr. Starsky’s anti-seizure medication.” Starsky took the container from the nurse and when the she looked down to write on her chart, he stuffed the pills in a tissue he’d later toss away.
“I haven’t been taking those things for the past week,” Starsky admitted to Hutch once the nurse was out of earshot. “If I’m remembering right, that is.”
“But aren’t they supposed to help you? What about your seizures?”
“Those pills just make me feel all foggy. At some point I must have figured my memory is more important than seizures. Who wants to live like a zombie? Besides, it wasn’t the remembering that was settin’ me off, it was the not remembering. You’re the part of me I was missing, Blondie. The most important part. My brain cells were just tryin’ to make the leap across the synapses to reconnect.” Starsky smirked– half devil, half angel. “That’s brain chemistry.”
“I guess all that time studying neuroscience wasn’t wasted,” Hutch said as planted a kiss on Starsky’s lips.
Starsky grew somber then. “But it was time not spent with you.”
“I’m sorry that I can’t tell you exactly what happened to you,” Dr. Fletcher had admitted to them a few days later. “As I said before, medical science doesn’t have all the answers.” And although the doctor spoke dispassionately, Hutch thought he heard a trace of disappointment that he was about to lose his prize guinea pig.
Epilogue
Starsky didn’t go back to Cabrillo State with Dr. Fletcher. After his last seizure episode, his memory had mostly returned and had yet to fade away. But he was no longer interested in an explanation. What could science tell them that love couldn’t? Starsky even stopped taking all his prescribed medication. He was done being poked and prodded. Besides, Starsky had said with glee, if he was going to be poked and prodded, he’d much rather Hutch be the one doing it.
The alarm clock sounded and Starsky rolled over languidly. Hutch’s side of the bed was empty, but still warm. He’d probably gone for an early morning run to help shake off his nerves, Starsky surmised. Today was going to be a big day.
Sue Ann Granger had arranged a meeting between Hutch and her agent. It was set for that afternoon. “Are you kidding?” she’d said to Starsky who had placed the call. “I’d be happy to help Hutch out. Not only did he help save my life, he’s an amazing musician, too. He deserves a shot at the big leagues.”
When Sue Ann had asked why they’d waited so long to contact her, Starsky felt a pang of guilt. Hutch had been ready all along, he’d just been waiting for him.
Starsky sat up and stretched. That’s when he noticed a tape recorder sitting on top of the dresser. There was a note propped next to it that read turn me on in Hutch’s distinctive handwriting. How could Starsky resist an invitation like that? He immediately went over to it and hit Play.
“Good morning,” Hutch’s velvety voice greeted him. “This is your wake up call. Just in case you forgot, I wanted to remind you how much I love you. And I’ll be happy to tell you each and every day for the rest of our lives any time your memory needs jogged. And now, a little music to start your day.” Then Hutch began to sing, “All I want is black bean soup and you to make it with me….”
Starsky grinned and felt tingling that went down to his toes. How could he want anything more?
Black Bean Soup
All I want is black bean soup
And you to make it with me
Honey won’t you
Be my love while love will stay
And wear your ribbons for me
Boil those black beans, honey
Mash them up real well
One big soft tomato
Just a handful of sorrel, well
Cut up your chilly pepper
Squeeze that garlic smell
One mouthful of drippings
A granddaddy onion and well, well, well
All I want is black bean soup
And you to make it with me
Honey won’t you
Be my love while love will stay
And wear your ribbons for me
Well I’ve been kicked in the head a few times
But that just made me high
I believe in the good things now
You know black bean soup don’t lie, lie, lie…
All I want is black bean soup
And you to make it with me
Honey won’t you
Be my love while love will stay
And wear your ribbons for me
–Lyrics by David Soul
Don’t Give Up on Us Baby
Don’t give up on us, baby
don’t make the wrong seem right
the future isn’t just one night
it’s written in the moonlight
painted on the stars
we can’t change ours
Don’t give up on us, baby
we’re still worth one more try
i know we put a last one by
just for a rainy evening
when maybe stars are few
don’t give up on us, i know
we can still come through
I really lost my head last night
you’ve got a right to start believin’
there’s still a little love left, even so
Don’t give up on us, baby
lord knows we’ve come this far
can’t we stay the way we are?
the angel and the dreamer
who sometimes plays a fool
don’t give up on us, i know
we can still come through
–Lyrics by David Soul
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