Heart

It was the third time Starsky had detailed his car since the incident. Each time done with silent, meticulous attention, inside and out, as though he could scrub away the memories of that day if he got it a little cleaner.

Hutch watched from the steps, but he didn’t try to help. He’d tried the first time and it had resulted in a fistfight in the yard that only stopped when someone had threatened to call the cops. It was ridiculous, but nobody laughed.

The Torino had never looked better, but Starsky wasn’t done. He emptied the bucket and filled it with clean, soapy water, then opened the back door and hesitated. The back seat was where the worst of it had happened, but nothing showed. It was just black leather, shiny clean. He took a deep breath and leaned in to wash it even cleaner.

He worked with care, paying scrupulous attention to the spots where blood had pooled on the seat, washing them over and over with water that stayed clean because there was nothing there now.

Hutch hugged himself against the pain he shared, waiting for Starsky to finish. Thinking about that day and wishing it had never happened, or had happened to someone—anyone—else.

They’d stopped for ice cream that afternoon. It had been hot and there was a group of kids gathered on the sidewalk eating cones. Starsky parked the Torino and got out, teasing him about always getting Rocky Road and asking how many scoops he wanted. They were paying for the cones when there was a screech of tires, a sickening thud and screaming kids. They’d dropped the ice cream and ran outside in time to see a filthy blue Malibu weave down the street and turn the corner at high speed.

In front of them, the kids were huddled, screaming and pointing to one of their own who’d been hit by the Malibu and knocked 50 feet. He lay in a pool of blood on the sidewalk, what was left of his cone still clutched in one hand. They ran to check him out.

He was maybe 5 years old, the right side of his body smashed from the impact, bleeding from everywhere, struggling to draw a breath.

‘We can’t wait for an ambulance, Hutch! We have to go NOW!” Starsky threw him keys, carefully picked up the child and hurried to the Torino. “Open the door, quick!”

Hutch opened the door and Starsky slid into the back seat cradling the boy.

“Anyone know his name? Where he lives?” Hutch barked questions at the screaming kids as he helped Starsky get settled.

“Stevie. He’s my brother. Mom’s at work.” One of the older kids, maybe 9, stared at the blood smeared on Hutch’s shirt as her hands went to her mouth.

“Call her. Have her meet us at the hospital on Third Street. Got it? Third Street. Go now! Call her!” Hutch raced around to the driver’s side and pointed to the adults in the doorways. “Somebody call the cops. Tell ‘em Starsky and Hutch took Stevie to the hospital. We’ll be back here as soon as we can.” He got in, set a flasher, started the car and sped away.

* * * *

“Can you go any faster, Hutch? I can’t stop the bleeding!” There was genuine panic in Starsky’s voice.

“We’re almost there, babe. One more block.” Hutch checked the rear view and pulled into the curb lane.

“God, he stopped breathing!” Starsky bent over the boy, trying to force a breath into his mouth as Hutch pulled up to the ER doors.

“We’re here, Starsk. Get him inside.”

A gurney was waiting when they opened the door and Starsky reluctantly let go of the boy.

Stevie died before his mother arrived, 15 minutes later. She identified the body and slipped into shock as Hutch guided her to a seat in a corner of the ER. A nurse’s aide stayed with her while he called her sister to pick her up and went to check on Starsky.

He found Starsky still in the cubicle with Stevie, waiting for an orderly to take the body to the morgue. He was covered in blood and angry that the child had died. Hutch waited with him, saying nothing until the orderly came and went. Then gently, “C’mon, Starsk. Time to go. We need to go back to the scene and find out what’s going on.” Starsky said nothing, but he let Hutch pull him to the sink long enough the wash the blood off his hands and arms before they left the cubicle.

* * * *

The kids were gone. Most of the crowd had dissipated, but there was still a cop car at the scene, taking the last of the witness statements. One of the store owners had hooked up a hose and was busy washing blood and melted ice cream off the sidewalk.

“You’re Detective Hutchinson?” One of the officers walked up to Hutch as he got out of the car. Starsky stayed in the passenger’s seat, ignoring everything going on.

“Yeah. Any word on the Malibu?”

“Not really. Even if we find it, there’s no way to prove who was driving. All anybody saw was the car jumping the curb, hitting the boy and his body flying through the air.” The officer looked discouraged. “I don’t suppose he made it?”

“No. They tried working on him, but he was DOA. What happened to the kids?”

“One of the other cars took them home. They all live about 2 blocks from here. The mother and aunt showed up while they were there.” The officer nodded at Starsky. “Your partner okay?”

“No. Stevie died in his arms. He’s angry. Leave him be. If you need a statement, he’ll write one out at the station and turn it in.”

“Okay. Sorry we couldn’t do more.” The young officer touched his cap in a quick salute and pocketed his notebook. “You look almost as shredded as he does. We’ll skip your statement, too. Just write it out and turn it in with his.”

“Thanks.” Hutch got back in the car and called in on the radio, then drove home.

He wanted them to clean up and hold each other when they got there, but Starsky hooked up the hose, then went inside for a bucket, soap, sponges and clean rags. He came out and started detailing his car, ignoring Hutch entirely.

Hutch sighed. He was hurting, but Starsky was devastated. He watched a moment, saying nothing, then picked up a sponge to help wash the Torino.

“Drop it, Hutch. If I’d wanted your help, I’d’ve asked for it. Just go inside and leave me alone.”

“What’s the problem? It’s just a little soap and water. You aren’t the only one hurting, Starsk.”

“Son of a bitch!” Starsky yelled. “Why can’t you just do what I tell you to do?” In his anger, Starsky punched him. Hutch punched him back and the fight was on.

It stopped when the next door neighbour came out, threatening to call the cops. Hutch looked at him sheepishly and waived him off, then retreated to the porch steps. “All right, Starsk. I’ll leave you alone.”

Starsky went back to detailing his car. Hutch watched for a few minutes, then went inside to make some calls.

* * * *

They attended the funeral a week later, saying nothing. They didn’t stay.

Afterwards, they went home and Starsky detailed the Torino again.

Hutch followed the investigation, such as it was, but the young officer he’d spoken to at the scene was right. The Malibu was abandoned in an alley four blocks away, blood and hair on the bumper, but the steering wheel and door wiped clean. Nobody had seen who left it there.

Neighbours said it belonged to a guy who had moved in recently. He wasn’t liked. He drank and screamed at the kids who lived nearby, but he claimed the car had been stolen—and he had an alibi. The car was towed to the impound lot and stayed unclaimed.

The case went cold with a footnote. The drunk who owned the car was found beaten half to death in the yard of the house where he lived. No one saw anything. When he was released from the hospital, he didn’t go back. He left everything behind and found another place to live.

Starsky detailed the Torino again, but this time, when he was finished, he put everything away and joined Hutch on the porch.

“Are you hungry?” Hutch asked quietly, looking at the Torino sparkling in the sunset.

“Not really. I’d rather go to bed and hold you. Would you mind?” Starsky reached out for Hutch’s arm and held on tight.

Hutch sighed in relief. “Let’s go.”

It was warm and comfortable in Starsky’s arms. Hutch settled in and waited, knowing his lover had something to say. Starsky nuzzled him, kissing his hair and holding him close. Finally—

“Thanks, Hutch.”

“Babe?” He didn’t expect a thank you. Wasn’t sure what it was for.

“For being you. For being patient with me. For teaching me what to do to get through something like this.” Starsky kissed his hair again, gave him another hug. “I was floundering, going out of my mind. Then I found myself asking ‘WWHD’ and I did it.”

“Huh?”

“’What Would Hutch Do’. Don’t laugh. Hutch would help the family. Pay for the funeral because they couldn’t. Arrange for someone to talk to the kids. Keep track of a floundering investigation, while watching over his partner while he detailed his Torino over and over, trying to get his head straight again.”

“Would he beat the drunk who owned the car when his alibi turned shaky?” Hutch had to know for sure.

Starsky took one of his hands and kissed undamaged knuckles. “No, he wouldn’t. His partner might, but didn’t. Rumours say the neighbourhood did it, but nobody saw a thing.” He sighed. “I need to let it go and move on. How do I do that, Hutch?”

“I’m still learning. But we can learn together. Kiss me again, please?”

Their lips met and they made gentle love.