Table of Contents
Starsky and Hutch are framed for crimes they didn’t commit and sent to prison. Starsky vows to do whatever he needs to do to keep him and Hutch safe.
Originally published in the zine, Hidden Secrets, Broken Hearts, published by Lucy in 2004.
Three p.m., Wednesday, December 10, 1980
In the back of his mind, Starsky realized he’d been in this spot before: waking up in a hospital bed with scant memory of how he got there, and not seeing his partner.
The reaction was immediate, and loud. “Hutch! Hutch!”
A few more repetitions of that prompted a guard to hustle in, dressed in the gray on gray uniform of the California Men’s Colony. He rested his hand on the ever-present billy club. “Knock it off!”
“Where’s Hutch?” Starsky demanded, trying to sit up. Only then did he notice the chains, running from the handcuffs securing his hands in front of him to the sturdy rails on either side of the bed. Instantly his concern about Hutch transformed into fury at being bound. “What the fuck! Get these off me!”
“Not a chance, asshole,” the guard responded. “Shut up and lie there like a good boy.”
“I’m not your boy!” Starsky shot back. “Where’s my partner? Hutchinson. Kenneth Hutchinson.” The guard turned to go.
“Hutch!” Starsky bellowed. “Hutch!”
The guard whirled back around, his dark features angry. “I told you, you’d better not be doing that.”
Starsky didn’t care, even when the angry man pulled his club out slightly. He was pretty sure that the guard wouldn’t beat him, tied to a bed in the hospital ward as he was.
“Hutch!”
There was only one other person in the ward, and Starsky craned his neck to ensure that that man wasn’t his partner. He wasn’t. In the dim light of the ward, darkened for the night, he could still see the other man’s white hair and emaciated features. The man was elderly and clearly close to losing his battle with cancer or some other wasting disease. No way was he Hutch.
The guard looked disgusted but Starsky had guessed correctly. The man shoved his club back into its scabbard, stalked out of the sparsely appointed ward and returned in a matter of moments with a stocky, bored looking nurse.
“Give him something,” the guard demanded. “Shut him up.”
“Where’s Hutch!” Starsky turned his attention to the nurse, every fiber of his being intent on getting to his partner. “Kenneth Hutchinson.”
She shrugged, broadcasting her complete disinterest in helping Starsky out. She wandered over to the desk near the heavy-duty steel door, a solid metal barrier with a small window reinforced with steel meshing, and picked up a chart.
“Yeah,” she said to the guard, flipping through the pages. She moved to the head of Starsky’s bed and pulled on the light switch.
There was no warning, and Starsky blinked against the glare from the light, directly over his head.
“Dr. Kovalsky authorized a tranq for him if he got out of hand. I can dose him and in a few minutes, he’ll be out.”
“Do it,” the guard ordered.
Starsky was done yelling after hearing this. “Please,” he implored the woman. “Please tell me where my partner is. I’ll be quiet, promise. Just tell me?”
She ignored him, casting a professional eye down to the IV port. With his wrists shackled, Starsky realized there was no way for him to disrupt the needle or prevent the medicine from being administered. Panic, quite aside from his overwhelming need to know where Hutch, was flooded him.
“No!” Starsky exclaimed. “No drugs. I’ll do what you say. Please!”
The woman was drawing the drug from a vial by then, holding the needle and glass up against the bed’s overhead light. She tapped the cylinder with the back of her fingernail, eliminating the bubbles of air.
“Ma’am,” Starsky begged, distinctly hearing, and hating, the yearning and fear in his voice. He thrashed about on the bed. “Don’t! Don’t.”
“Hold him,” she directed, and the guard leaned on Starsky’s thighs with considerable force. His body sank into the mattress.
“Hold him,” she directed, and the guard leaned on Starsky’s thighs with considerable force. His body sank into the mattress.
“No!” Starsky screamed. “No! Damn you!”
She inserted the needle into the port and pushed the plunger home. “That should do it. Watch him for a few minutes and he should hit dreamland.”
“No,” Starsky moaned. “No. No, no, no.” Just a few heartbeats later he felt the effects of the drug working in his body. “No.”
“Okay. That should take care of him.” The nurse left without a backward glance.
“Tol’ you, you should’ve shut up,” the guard mentioned, in a conversational tone of voice.
“Where’s Hutch?” Starsky fought to say. His speech was slurring and he hated to hear it. Force of will was not enough to stop the march of the drug’s effects over his body. “You tell me.”
“Or what?” The guard was amused. He patted Starsky’s close shaven curls, matted even as short as his hair was now. “You’ll tell on me?” He turned to go. “Sweet dreams.”
Hutch, Starsky thought as he drifted to sleep, his body and mind feeling strangely disconnected. Oh, Hutch.
It was very nearly a prayer.
Four months earlier: Thursday, September 4th
“I would’ve thought someone with as much money as you wouldn’t have gone bad,” the lieutenant opined in a confident tone, striding up and down the length of Dobey’s office. “Quite a surprise.”
“I haven’t gone bad,” Hutch growled back at him. “How many times do I have to say it?”
“Until I believe it.”
Hutch exchanged glances with his partner, but for once, Starsky was unable to offer much comfort. During the past four weeks of Internal Affairs’ investigation of them on several charges, including bribery and accessory to murder, the news had been uniformly bad. Starsky hadn’t been worried when the accusations were first made. He was verging on terrified by now and he knew Hutch was right behind him.
He turned his gaze to Dobey. He was their last friend in the Department. Their very last.
“You know, you’re gonna lose most of that to the State. For your fine.” Dryden’s voice was airy and unconcerned.
“It’s not really mine,” Hutch stated. “So I don’t really care.”
“I wish Simonetti had stayed in, now,” Dryden continued, loading his voice with feigned regret. “Just so he could see this.”
Dobey cleared his throat at that. “This isn’t serving any purpose,” he said. “You want to gloat, go find a TV guy and give him a scoop. Save the rest of this trash for the trial.”
“Yeah the trial,” Dryden repeated. “It’ll be the shortest one on record.”
Starsky had to stand up at that, but Dobey moved very quickly, standing between him and the IA officer.
“Get lost,” Dobey warned. “We’ll see you in court.”
“With pleasure,” Dryden said. “With the utmost pleasure.”
“Don’t let the door hit your skinny ass on the way out,” Starsky taunted, with a vestige of the bravado he’d always had.
Dryden refused to rise to the bait. “Thanks for the advice, Starsky. See you and your partner next week—I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me, too,” Starsky vowed. The door slammed shut.
“I’m not looking forward to it,” Dobey admitted wearily, settling back down in his office chair. The late afternoon sun played on his round face. He looked old, tired, and depressed. The truth was, Starsky acknowledged to himself, that neither Hutch nor he was looking forward to it, either.
“What’d you mean?” Dobey asked after a moment of silence. “It’s not really your money?”
Hutch shrugged, looking over at his partner. The New Yorker picked up the story. “It’s that trust fund,” Starsky explained. “His dad set it up for him but he’s never touched it.”
Starsky glanced back at Hutch as if to confirm that fact, but he was right. The blond nodded.
“So he doesn’t consider it his.”
“It’s in your social security number,” Dobey reminded him.
“Yeah, Cap’n,” Hutch snapped. “I know that. I have to pay the tax on it every year. But I’ve never taken any distributions from it.”
“You ought to drop that attitude,” Dobey advised, frankly. “It’s not gonna help your case. If Remmie can say that you’d never take a bribe because you were already wealthy…”
“He’s already going to try that,” Starsky supplied, sounding depressed. Starsky and Hutch had had long, long discussions with their attorney about every aspect of their case. “It doesn’t help me and it’s only about $50K.”
“Only,” Dobey repeated, in an amused voice.
“Yeah,” Hutch shot back. “Only. The payoff was supposed to be $70,000 in cash and that much again in heroin. And IA already found out about Forrest. I look dirty as Hell.”
“And I do too,” Starsky said, candidly. “We’re not in good shape here.”
“It’ll never come to that!” Dobey protested weakly. “I’m going to testify—”
“You’re the only one,” Hutch reminded him. He ran his hand over his face and looked at the dark haired man sitting next to him. “One character witness, against what IA has and the DA has dreamed up… that’s not much.”
“I know, but—”
“That’s why,” Starsky continued, his statement almost a command, “we wanna talk to you.”
Hutch and Starsky had met with their attorney, a young, bright guy with the unlikely name of Rommel Fitzgerald, one final time yesterday evening. After that meeting, reality had finally, and completely, sunk in for both men. Much later that night, the two partners had had a long discussion at Venice Place. It had featured Hutch cradling his guitar, almost as if it were his child, and Starsky knocking down several beers in rapid succession.
“Talk to me about what?” The older man’s voice was wary. He seemed to sense the mood had shifted.
“About cutting your losses,” Hutch stated plainly.
Dobey looked distressed. “No,” he started.
“Yes,” Hutch contradicted him. “We can’t have you doin’ this, Cap’n.” He paused. “Harold.”
“You got too much to lose,” Starsky chimed in. “Edith, Rose, Cal. Your career.”
“You think I care about my career in all this?”
“You should,” Hutch told him bluntly. He looked Dobey in the eye. “Please. For us. Give it up.”
“I can’t.” Dobey stirred in his seat, looking very uncomfortable. “Not and call myself a man.”
“We don’t care what ya call yourself,” Starsky returned, his tone harsh. “As long as you still have a job and can provide for your family. That’s what’s important to us. That’s about all that’s still important to us.”
“You guys’ll beat this,” Dobey pledged.
Hutch shook his head. “We don’t think so. But we’re not going to take you down with us.”
“It’ll be okay,” Dobey argued.
“No.” Hutch looked over at Starsky again and then stood up.
Starsky did, too. “We’ll be okay. We have the partnership still, and that’s going to continue no matter what happens.”
Starsky echoed the sentiment in his mind. Nothing’ll hurt the partnership. Nothing and nobody.
Dobey looked unconvinced.
“Hey,” Starsky said, his tone full of forced lightness. “Remmie thinks he can get us a suspended sentence, maybe.”
Dobey still looked unconvinced, and as it turned out he was absolutely right.
Three months earlier: Tuesday, October 21st
“What can I do?” Dobey asked. He looked across the scarred table at the two men sitting there in matching jumpsuits, mournfully contemplating their future.
“A lot,” Hutch stated, honestly. They really needed help, now.
“Maybe ya better take notes.” Starsky’s voice was doleful.
“We didn’t expect this,” Hutch started, but Dobey interrupted him.
“You didn’t?” Dobey was surprised. “You were the ones telling me it was going to be bad.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t expect them to lock us up right after the jury came back with the verdict. Revoking our bail.” Starsky amended. “We thought we’d have time to take care of some things ourselves.”
Dobey shook his head, his face a study in utter sorrow. “I can’t believe it. Still.” He had testified as he’d vowed to do, Remmie doing a consummate job at drawing out Harold’s natural eloquence. Dobey had gambled everything on his opinion of his two best detectives. That hadn’t been enough to contradict the overwhelming evidence the DA presented, though, and they had never been able to produce the necessary witnesses to prove otherwise.
The two men had been found guilty on three of the four felony counts preferred against them. Sentencing had followed the convictions swiftly: about two hours earlier that afternoon, they’d learned that they would be remanded to the custody of the California State prison system for five years. They were still in LA now, awaiting transport upstate to the California Men’s Colony on the central coast.
“This is a five minute visit,” Hutch reminded him, rather curtly. “Let’s cut to the chase.”
“Name it,” Dobey said, looking at each partner in turn. He was utterly sincere. “Name it and it’s yours.”
“First, go down to First California. That’s where we both bank.”
“Yeah?”
“Get with Remmie, he’s got our checkbooks,” Starsky directed. “He’s got powers of attorney on us. He can make some checks out to you so you can yank all the money out of there that you can before the DA gets it for the fine. That should give you the money you need to hire someone to pack out our apartments and break our leases. Then you can ship our stuff.”
“To where?”
Hutch shrugged. “Doesn’t matter with me. My parents don’t want my stuff. I guess you can send it with Starsky’s.”
“My mom, I guess. I don’t know. Hell, she probably doesn’t have enough room. Maybe you could get us a storage unit or something?” Starsky studied his hands. The truth was, he couldn’t care less about his personal things. He couldn’t seem to get his head around anything right now. This had happened to him before—when his dad died, and once when he’d been in country during Viet Nam—it was from the shock of it all, he knew that, but it was inconvenient to be this out of it when he needed his wits about him.
“When are you going to tell her, Dave?” Dobey’s voice was even but compassionate.
“You can,” Starsky told him. He simply couldn’t imagine what his mother’s reaction would be.
“No way,” Dobey argued. “She’ll never believe me!”
“Yeah, I can relate. I can’t believe it either.”
“Anyway,” Hutch interjected, getting the conversation back on track. “Please do this. There’s enough, between his checking account and mine, should be, to get the apartments cleaned out. If not, I have a savings account, it’s got about a thousand in it.”
The trust fund Dryden had been so interested in was long gone. After they realized they were definitely going to lose the case, he’d gifted it to the Sierra Club. The local head, a real go-getter wholly devoted to the Ecology cause, had been thrilled. Hutch almost pitied the DA when he tried to reverse the transaction and get the money back from that guy.
Dobey was shaking his head. “I’ll take care of everything,” he vowed. “And I’ll keep those accounts for you until you get out.”
“God knows when that will be.”
“We only got five years,” Starsky reminded him. “We didn’t get the murder one, only the accessory to murder. And Federal time is one-third the sentence if we don’t get into trouble or anything.”
“So it might be only a couple of years,” Dobey offered.
“Only.” Hutch’s one word response was the definition of bitter.
“Yeah.” Starsky matched his partner’s tone of voice.
“We’re counting on you,” Hutch stated, flatly, returning his attention to their former boss. “You’re the only one left. You and Huggy.”
“Huggy would be a good person to call,” Starsky mused. “He might know people who can get our stuff taken care of, cheap.”
Dobey rolled his eyes.
“I know you guys don’t always get along,” Hutch acknowledged. “But he’s a good man.”
Dobey had to agree with that. He nodded. “I’m so sorry about this, guys,” he said, gruffly. “So sorry.”
Their five minutes was about up and even though no one had come into the city jail’s small visitation room to end the visit yet, the two ex-police officers stood up.
“Kiss Rosie for us, and our love to Edie and Cal, okay?”
Dobey stood as well, and he nodded firmly. “We’re here for you guys, now and when you get out.” It was a vow.
“Yeah.” Hutch’s face would be enough to break anyone’s heart and Starsky was staring off somewhere in the middle distance, his face entirely blank.
Dobey could barely keep it together as he rapped on the door to secure his exit.
Noon, December 10th
“You wanna move, Hernandez?”
“Not really,” the short, stolidly built Latin man said, looking up from his seat at the long bench at the East Wing, “D” quadrangle’s cafeteria at the California Men’s Colony. The prison was located in San Luis Obispo County, but the beauty of the California coast was lost on most of the inmates. “Why don’t you go screw yourself?”
“Or let us do it,” the man sitting next to him offered, guffawing.
“That’s okay, girlie,” Starsky snapped. “You’re not my type.”
“How would you know?”
“Move it!” Starsky demanded.
Quite the opposite happened. Hernandez scooted his rear a bit on the bench and instead of there being just enough room for the two partners to sit together, there was now room only for one man to sit between Ralph and Hernandez on the one side, and the second man between Ralph and Mole on the other side. Starsky and Hutch were separated.
“Room here,” Ralph leered at Hutch with pale gray eyes, patting the metal bench invitingly.
Hutch gripped his food tray a bit tighter, and looked over to Starsky. Drop it, his expression broadcast to Starsky. After all these years, Starsky could read his partner like the proverbial book. It’s not worth it.
Silently both men stepped over the bench, placed their battered food trays down, and sat to eat. But Starsky had hardly gotten two bites in his mouth of the greasy casserole when he saw Hutch stiffen and look down at his leg.
He craned his neck over, looked, and saw a hand was running over Hutch’s thigh. His upper thigh.
Hutch coughed a little. Apparently the brazenness of the action had nearly robbed him of the ability to react.
“You move that hand or I’ll give you a new opening some of your pals can fuck,” Starsky hissed. He was incensed.
The handle end of Starsky’s spoon was digging into Ralph’s side. The utensils were necessarily blunt—in a Level III prison, extra precautions had to be taken and the spoons could not be easily transformed into weapons without some work—but Starsky knew he could still do damage with it. So did everyone at the table.
Hutch had to know. Hernandez had to know. And Ralph had to know. His face was whitening under his stringy, reddish hair.
“Hey,” Ralph protested. Everyone was being very quiet.
Marbles and Leanna, two of the guards, had just started canvassing their section of the large, noisy cafeteria. They wouldn’t pay attention to anything that wasn’t ominous of an impending riot, but it wouldn’t serve any good purpose for them to hear this.
“Get. Your. Hand. Off. Him.”
Ralph hesitated.
“Now.” Starsky’s voice held a promise of death. Ralph’s arm moved as if his hand had closed, briefly, squeezing Hutch’s inner thigh in a mockery of what an affectionate gesture from a lover would be.
“Just gonna take time,” Ralph vowed, as Starsky pulled the spoon away from his side. “Just time.”
Hernandez didn’t say anything but his eyes were dark with rage.
“Never,” Starsky vowed. He pushed his tray to the center of the table and moved it closer to Hutch’s. “Now move, Ralph. I’m sitting there.”
Ralph glared at him, but moved and Starsky quickly took his place. Now he was next to Hutch and that was infinitely better. It was easier to watch each other’s back when they were together.
Watching each other’s back. That’s all they’d been capable of doing since last week, when they’d been moved out of the temporary holding area they’d initially been assigned to. That had been bad enough but it had only been Level I over in the west wing. Things were far different there, far easier.
It was going to be bad here, to be out in the common prison population and Level III to boot. They’d been sure that by being two ex-cops with impressive records, they’d be assigned to some minimum-security prison with non-violent criminals. That hadn’t happened, for some reason they weren’t in any position to figure out.
They were in the decaying CMC’s east wing, a medium to maximum security prison two hundred miles up the coast from LA. They didn’t have anyone nearby; no advocate to help them, and they weren’t exactly rubbing shoulders with the highest elements of society.
They were all alone and all they could do was try to stay alive… and whole.
Absorbed in each other and that mission, neither Starsky nor Hutch ever noticed Hernandez aiming an empty metal tray at the back of Starsky’s head.
Six p.m . December 10th
“Please, doc,” Starsky begged, still feeling oddly disconnected from the narcotic he’d gotten. “You gotta help me.”
Dr. Kovalsky was a young, slender man. He’d just finished checking Starsky out for the residual effects of the concussion he’d suffered when everything at the cafeteria with Hernandez and Ralph had exploded.
Starsky thought the doctor looked about 16. Wisps of hair decorated his upper lip as he attempted to grow his mustache. He was young, inexperienced, and tentative in all his decisions. He did have one overwhelming advantage, though. He cared.
Starsky could tell. He cared.
The young man was taking Starsky’s blood pressure. It was a nurse’s job but Starsky had heard the exchanges between the doctor and the ward nurses. The women did as little as possible, glued to the small black and white TV in the office on which he could hear, faintly, General Hospital wind its never-ending plotline. If Kovalsky wanted a blood pressure, then by God, he could take it himself. So he did.
“Where’re you from?” Starsky asked conversationally. His instincts were screaming at him that this guy was his best bet.
“Chicago,” the man replied politely. “But I can’t tell you anything else.”
He’d been warned to not talk to the prisoners any more than he had to, Starsky knew.
“Polish?”
Kovalsky looked up, startled. He didn’t say anything. Starsky pressed. “And Jewish, maybe?”
Now the man looked rattled.
“Takes one to know one,” Starsky said, lightly. He tried his best to interact with the man as he would have before, when he was still out in the World. He tried to not dwell on the fact that he was a felon now, handcuffed and chained to a bed in a prison hospital ward, just about out of luck and options.
But he had to find Hutch. Nothing else mattered.
“I’m not Jewish,” Kovalsky admitted, rolling the BP cuff up and stuffing it in his pocket. “But my dad was. And you’re right, we’re Polish.”
“Me too,” Starsky told him. “And we have to stick together.”
Kovalsky was already shaking his head, picking up the chart and backing away.
Starsky stared at him. “Doc. Listen to me. I’m not askin’ you for anything. Just listen.”
“Mr. Starsky, I’m sorry, but—”
“Please.” Starsky’s voice was firm and even. “Only a minute of your time and I’m not going to ask you to do anything illegal.”
The young man looked around. The dying inmate was asleep and the nurse was, of course, nowhere to be seen. Starsky knew that there should have been a guard in here with him, but the prison seemed to be shorthanded due to the upcoming holidays and apparently there hadn’t been one to spare.
Starsky could almost read the man’s mind: What can one prisoner do, restrained as he is? Maybe it would be okay…
Kovalsky met Starsky’s gaze. He didn’t say anything but he was listening.
“My partner. You know I was a cop?”
Startled again, Kovalsky shook his head, his eyes wide.
“You can look at my records” —which as his prison physician, Starsky knew Kovalsky could—”and you’ll see. I was twelve years an LAPD cop.”
“What are you in for?” The question was breathed, quietly.
It was another no-no, probably professionally and certainly socially. One never asked that question here. Even Kovalsky had to know that.
“Bribery,” Starsky told him, easily skipping over the accessory and obstruction of justice convictions. “Nonviolent. And I’ll say it, just for the record, we’re not guilty.”
A faint smile there.
“That’s not the point,” Starsky continued, peevishly. “My partner. I have to find out if he’s okay. No one will tell me.”
“I don’t know your partner!” Kovalsky protested. He made to leave.
“He’s here, too. In ‘D’,” Starsky pleaded, desperately. “You’re a doctor. You could ask. You have that power. Please.”
Kovalsky was shaking his head again.
“Come on,” Starsky pleaded. “What would it hurt? I hafta know. Please!”
The doctor flipped Starsky’s chart shut. There was a flash of white on the top of the steel gray folder and Starsky realized the man was holding a prescription pad there.
“Write this down,” Starsky begged. “Please.”
The young man didn’t say anything but, slowly, he pulled out and snapped the end of his pen. It hovered over the tablet.
“Kenneth Richard Hutchinson. His number is 198057716.” The pen moved, slightly.
Starsky implored him, with every ounce of his ability to persuade people brought to bear. “Will you!? Please!”
The man took a deep breath, glancing down at the ground then back up at him. When he spoke, his voice was very soft and his eyes compassionate. “I’ll see what I can do, to get this filled for you.”
Starsky sank back on the grayish sheets. That was more than he had dared to hope for. “Thanks.”
The man nodded, turning to go.
“I mean it. Thanks.” Starsky was talking to Kovalsky’s hastily retreating back.
Then the ward was deserted and quiet except for the whoosh of the other inmate’s oxygen machine and the low sound of the nurses’ soap opera in the other room. Starsky willed his heart and breathing back to normal. All he could do now was hope.
Hope and reassure himself.
He’s gonna be okay, Starsky told himself. Just gotta connect with him again. He can take care of himself. He’s fine. Just got to find out if he’s okay, and then get out of here and see him again. Be’s fine.
The next day: December 11th
“Hi,” Hutch said, softly, coming up to the side of Starsky’s bed. “How’re ya doing, Starsk?”
Starsky felt waves of relief flow through him, wash over him, subsume him. Finally! He could breathe again. He was still handcuffed and chained, but he was fine. It had to be today that Kovalsky was going to spring him. But nothing mattered to him at all except Hutch. He reached as far as his cuffed hands would allow, trying to touch him.
“Fine,” Starsky exclaimed, his heart racing with sheer joy at the sight of his partner. “I’m fine!”
He could tell Hutch wasn’t fine, though, and as quick as that, his heart sank. All his fears, the evil imaginings that had consumed his waking hours and haunted his dreams in sleep were true.
Hutch’s cheek was bruised and his eyes inexpressibly sad. He looked like someone had stolen his soul, knocking him around in the process.
“They got you, didn’t they?” It was barely a question that Starsky whispered.
Hutch nodded, his expression guarded. After just three months inside, his skin was already ghostly white, his hair overly long and lifeless.
“Oh, shit.”
Hutch seemed to come to himself at that, and reached, almost blindly, for his partner’s hand. “Wasn’t bad, really. And we knew it was going to happen.”
Starsky didn’t say anything, staring up at the ceiling tile, trying to get control over himself. He felt like exploding with rage, but the one thing he knew was he wasn’t going to give into the feeling. He had to be strong.
“Really,” Hutch repeated, but in the same, deadish tone. “I’m okay.”
“Oh, babe,” Starsky said. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”
“We knew it was going to happen eventually,” Hutch repeated. It was almost his mantra, apparently. “We knew it. It’s okay.”
It didn’t make it any easier to deal with. At least not for Starsky and obviously not for this straw image of Hutch. Starsky arched his shoulders, so frustrated at still being held in the hospital ward. He had to get out of there. He had to try to get a hold of Dobey. He had to do something. Anything.
They needed help. Hutch needed help.
Hutch held onto his hand, tightly, even as Starsky moved restlessly on the bed, straining against the restraints.
Kovalsky walked into the room then, alone, but Starsky caught sight of a guard lounging in the doorway, watching the TV in the nurses’ area.
“Doc,” Starsky blurted out. “You gotta get me out of here. I’m going nuts.”
The doctor looked startled at Starsky’s vehemence.
Belatedly, Starsky realized that he probably expected to be thanked, not berated. And he was right.
“Sorry,” Starsky said at once. He gestured with his head, his chin pointing towards the blond huddled near him on the side of the bed. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Kovalsky shrugged. “It was nothing.” He walked over and did an extremely brief neurological exam on the dark-haired man.
“You should be okay to go back to the Quad,” Kovalsky pronounced. “If you get any unexplained headaches, dizziness, or nausea, you need to report it ASAP so I can take a look at you.”
Starsky nodded impatiently as the physician moved to unlock the handcuffs.
“Are you sure he’s okay?” Hutch asked, moving only slightly to let the young man insert and turn the key.
The doctor regarded Hutch soberly, pausing in his task. He seemed to give the question due consideration, showing no impatience for Hutch who was, basically, second guessing him. “Yes,” he said carefully. “I believe so. But you should keep an eye on him, for the next few days.”
Hutch nodded, almost pathetically eager to agree. “I will!”
Kovalsky moved then to finish releasing Starsky. He continued talking to the blond but didn’t look at Hutch again.
“As long as I’m here, and you’re here, is there anything I need to do for you?”
Starsky watched Hutch pull back into himself. “No.”
Starsky hopped out of the bed, dizzy despite himself with the sudden movement. Kovalsky watched him, and Hutch steadied him. But Starsky knew it was only from time spent on his back; his head felt fine.
“Are you sure, Hutch?” Starsky asked, his voice low. “It might…”
“No.”
Starsky opened his mouth to argue.
“No, Starsky.” Hutch’s face was stone-like.
“All right,” Kovalsky asked, quietly. “How long ago was it?”
It had been right after the melee in the cafeteria, Starsky knew. Half of the purpose of that was to give the coterie loyal to Leo—the king of the Quad and the de facto boss in their entire quarter of the wing—unfettered access to Hutch. He didn’t need to hear the details from Hutch to know that that was when it happened.
Hutch didn’t answer Kovalsky so Starsky contributed the response. “It was Wednesday afternoon,” he answered, and by the slight shift in Hutch’s posture next to him he knew he was right.
“Yesterday,” Kovalsky determined, and Hutch nodded. The doctor favored him with a serious look. “Everything okay? You aren’t experiencing—”
“I know the symptoms of peritonitis,” Hutch informed him, shortly. “I’m fine.”
A long silence fell. Starsky held his peace, watching Hutch’s eyes as the blond studied the floor tile. He could understand Hutch’s reactions but he was also very worried about him. And absolutely and overwhelmingly furious at himself for not being able to stop this. Flat on my back, being no damn good to anyone!
“Well, you know how to get in touch with me if you need to,” Kovalsky said at last.
“Yeah.”
The guard came in then, handcuffing the two men together. Starsky felt his cheeks burn as the doctor soberly watched them shackled like cattle for the trip back to “D” quad. As he was being prodded in the back to move, he caught Kovalsky’s eye.
Thanks, he sent silently.
It was shift time when Starsky and Hutch were escorted back to the quadrangle. To their intense regret, the two men had not been assigned to work together. They worked, Hutch in the glove factory and Starsky cleaning latrines. Following that afternoon of mindless drudgery, there was dinner and then mandatory “self-improvement” courses. Hutch had placed out of all the courses so he was detailed to tutor other inmates. Starsky was studying Spanish with absolutely zero interest. It was 8:30 pm before they were alone again, in their cell.
Their cell was measured in mere feet; a cell designed for two men that usually contained three to four. But their other cellmate had been released a week ago and so it was just Hutch and Starsky. When lights-out came, Starsky didn’t hesitate. He climbed up into the top bunk and pulled Hutch into his arms, just as he had done every night when Clements had still been there.
He cradled the blond head to his. “I’m sorry,” Starsky murmured, his voice impossibly soft.
He felt Hutch shrug. “We knew it was going to happen,” he said, for what had to have been the dozenth time just that day.
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Starsky stated, still quiet.
“It is okay,” Hutch insisted, his voice hollow. “I’m not going to let them win. We knew it was going to happen. It’s okay.”
Starsky didn’t say anything, contenting himself with gently stroking Hutch’s long, blond hair. He held him and he waited. And when at last Hutch began to cry, silent tears and shoulders shaking with buried anger and sorrow, Starsky just held on.
He anchored himself to the other man, letting Hutch weep out his rage, his loss, his violated soul. “Hang in there,” Starsky whispered in his ear. “You’re gonna be okay, babe. You’re going to make it. We’re back together, and this ain’t never happening again. You’re gonna be okay.”
Starsky knew it wasn’t going to happen again. He’d get a hold of Dobey and get Hutch transferred out of here. He felt a strange sense of peace as Hutch wept in his arms.
I’m going to take care of you, Hutch, Starsky thought. And this is never going to happen again. I just have to get to a phone tomorrow and have Dobey pull some strings. All I have to do until then is keep you away from Leo and his gang. And I can do that.
That same evening, December 11th
“Thanks, Huggy,” Dobey said, pushing the empty plate away. “I appreciate it.”
“Da nada,” Huggy answered, but his face was serious and his tone somber. His clothing was anything but flamboyant, his frame thinner now than Dobey could ever remember. Briefly, Dobey reflected on the fact that Huggy seemed to have never recovered from Hutch and Starsky being convicted. He’d permanently lost some of his joie de vivre that day.
“What’s the damage?”
“Little enough,” Huggy said, his voice quiet. “It’s on the house.”
“Don’t need to do that.”
“I know.” Huggy shrugged, an odd rolling motion of his thin shoulders.
“Well, thanks.”
The cottage cheese and fruit Huggy had served him wouldn’t fill him up for long, Dobey knew, but when people tried to control his eating he never got upset. But Edith understood. Food like this just never filled him up.
“So where are we?” Huggy asked, hitting on the purpose of the meeting.
“We’re in good shape.” Dobey pulled out his notebook and focused his attention back on the Case. “I have Lyons ready to sign an affidavit that he saw Bennings in that alley that night, and Lauren—our brand new D.A.—ready to subpoena Bennings’ bank statements.”
“That’s assuming he was that dumb and put it in his bank account.”
“Why wouldn’t he? He didn’t think anyone was looking at him. They were too busy trying to nail Starsky and Hutch.”
“And they did.”
“But not for long. I just need the last piece of the puzzle, and I can take this to the DA, signed, sealed and delivered.”
“If you’d been wrong,” Huggy reminded him, not for the first time since they’d joined forces to find out who really arranged for the hit on Elmsford’s son, “there went your career.”
“I don’t need a career,” Dobey declared. “I need to save my soul and that’s not done by watching two good men be put away for something they didn’t do. Never thought of doing.”
Huggy nodded. He clearly agreed one hundred percent. “What d’ya need from me now?”
It was a familiar question. Every couple of evenings, after Dobey went off shift and before The Pits saw much action, the two men could be found together, comparing notes and theories as they plotted their next move. Huggy seemed to have no purpose in life now other than keeping The Pits solvent enough to finance helping to free his two friends.
For his part, Dobey found the case absorbing his efforts even more than Isaac Douglas’ murder had. It was all he could think about.
“Okay. Head down to some of your contacts on the docks and see if you can get something—anything—tying Bennings to Elmsford, or at least someone who’ll testify to him being on the dock that night. That will give Lauren enough for probable cause, and she can get an arrest warrant. Once I get him into interrogation, he’s not gonna last.”
Huggy appeared to be skeptical.
“You don’t know me,” Dobey informed him, calmly. “I’ve yet to find the man that I couldn’t break in questioning. I don’t do it much anymore, as a captain, but I’ll make an exception this time.”
Huggy looked amazed and dumbfounded, simultaneously. “Really?”
“Count on it, brother.”
Dobey dug a five from his pocket and tossed it on the table as he got to his feet. “I need that link soon, Huggy,” he warned. “It’s probably not going too well for them in there.”
Huggy glanced up, somberly. “Amen to that. Brother.” “Amen.”
Ten a.m. the next morning, December 12th
“Dobey here.” Starsky could picture in his mind the heavy man lumbering into his office and standing by the edge of his desk to answer the phone.
What he wouldn’t give to be there, back on the job with his partner, working for Dobey. He swallowed hard and launched into what he had to admit was a cry for help.
“Cap’n!”
“Starsky? Is that you?”
“Yeah!” Starsky tried to calm down. He was shaking and had the receiver of the phone held in a death grip. Leo and the boys had been sending covert signals all morning about Hutch, and Starsky had serious doubts now about his ability to single-handedly ward off another rape.
Starsky couldn’t believe he’d not been placed in solitary for the fight in the mess hall. All he could do about that was thank whatever god might still be watching over them. It was against every rule in the book for him to be placing a call now, and he had desperately cobbled together all the change he could for the long distance call. The man on the other end of the phone was his only hope.
Dobey must have instantly picked up on his ex-detective’s agitation. “Dave. Calm down. What’s wrong?”
His words rushed out in a torrent of fear. “Cap’n, you have to get Hutch out of here. He’s in trouble. Big trouble. Please!”
Starsky heard Dobey sink into his office chair, the furniture protesting the captain’s weight. “Now you know I can’t do that. He’s—”
“I’m not talkin’ about getting him released. Just get him transferred. It’s—”
“Transferred? Why?”
“Because! He’s gonna get hurt if he stays here.”
Dobey paused. “What happened?”
“Don’t make me spell it out,” Starsky asked, his voice unsteady. He wasn’t even at the point where he could think about Hutch’s rape calmly. He sure wasn’t ready to talk about it. “But you’ve got to get him moved out of here. Or it’ll happen again.”
And again and again, Starsky knew Dobey well enough to know his Captain followed Starsky’s fear to the same conclusion.
Starsky could hear Dobey rooting around in his desk for something, even as his friend tried to reassure him.
“I was afraid this was gonna happen, with you out in the general population! You should’ve never been assigned that way.”
There was a pause, then Dobey said: “Okay. Let me see—”
“Please, Captain,” Starsky begged, hearing the change dropping through the telephone as he ran out of time. “They messed him up, and it’s only going to get worse.”
Dobey was the definition of unsurprised by this phone call. He’d been worried about this from the moment he realized his two detectives were going to be sent away. Thank God, he’d found the direct number for the warden squirreled in his desk. He had to do something, and it had to start with the warden.
He sighed as he listened to Starsky babble on, saying a lot by saying nothing all that coherent.
To be honest, he hadn’t wasted much time worrying about Starsky. The man was the definition of streetwise and had always been able to take care of himself. Between the rough streets of his Brooklyn birthplace, the equally challenging neighborhood in L.A. where he’d spent his teenage years, and the all-expense-paid trip to Viet Nam President Johnson had sent him on, Dobey knew that Starsky would be able to handle any situation.
But the idealistic blond from Minnesota had been an entirely different story. Even after years as an LAPD cop, there was a core of innocence and trust running through his soul that Dobey was afraid was going to be eaten away and permanently ruined by five years in a medium to maximum security prison. Plus, the man was just too damn good-looking for his own good.
“Calm down, son,” Dobey said, his voice soothing as his mind raced over the realities of what had happened.
I’m not scheduled to do anything at Rotary this week, he thought. And the deacons’ meeting isn’t until Sunday night. If I miss Cal’s basketball game and Rosie will let me move my presentation at her troop until next week, I could go up today. Henry can look after the division for a couple of days. Neither of us has any big cases going to trial any time soon.
“Dave.” Dobey’s voice was firm and he waited a moment for Starsky to stop talking. “Dave, I promise. I’ll see what I can do.”
He listened a moment longer. “I know. I know. Keep the faith, son.” We’ll get you out of there, and make it bearable until we do.
He didn’t hang up when Starsky did. He merely tapped the disconnect button on the top of the phone and dialed his home number.
“Edith, honey?” Dobey paused, listening. “No, nothing’s wrong. Could you perhaps pack my overnight bag and bring it to the office?”
He had to smile a little as Edith guessed his destination instantly. “Yeah. It’s the guys. I… I need to get up there.”
He nodded as his wife responded. “Thanks, sweetheart. I really appreciate it. Around noon at the latest? It’s a good four hours to get up there.”
Another brief pause. “Yeah, I’ll tell them. Thanks.”
He hung up and sat for a moment in the silence. Then he bowed his head and folded his hands to pray.
Late that afternoon, December 12th
“Thank you for seeing me, Warden,” Captain Dobey said, politely, accepting the seat that the warden of California Men’s Colony, Bill Mccready, waved him to.
“Not a problem, Captain.” The short, squat bulldog of a man, with only fringes of hair left on his head, reseated himself on the other side of a large desk. “What can I do for you?”
Dobey cleared his throat. He wasn’t the type to ask for favors and he was literally hundreds of miles out of his element here. But he didn’t hesitate long, confident that he could sway the warden to his way of thinking.
“I’m here about two of your men,” he started.
“Inmates.” The other man’s voice was flat, his eyes cold. Dobey instantly regrouped. “Yes, of course. Inmates.” “That would be Starsky and Hutchinson, no doubt,” Mccready said. He tapped some folders lying on his desk.
“Yes. I… ”
“I figured as much when you called,” Mccready continued. “I have to tell you, I’ve had trouble with one of them.”
“Starsky,” Dobey surmised.
“Yes. He’s been hospitalized once from a fight in the dining facility, and has been written up three times on top of that. And I’ll assure you, sir, my guards can overlook almost anything. For him to have three instances documented… it’s not good.”
“I’m sorry,” Dobey offered, sincerely. “He tends to speak his mind. But in this case… ”
“In this case, I have two ex-police officers who have thoroughly and inexcusably disgraced their profession. I’m not inclined to do a damn thing for either one of them.”
Dobey was startled. “Yes, they were convicted of bribery, I know, but I assure you, sir, they are innocent.” He didn’t mention the accessory and obstruction convictions.
Mccready threw back his head and laughed aloud. Dobey was fascinated by the sheer compactness of the man. He had no neck.
“I have cellblocks full to bursting with innocent felons! It’s a common ailment here.”
“Surely you would accept the fact that some of them must be.”
“No, I don’t! I have faith in our American justice system that the guilty are punished. The inmates here are, without exception, guilty as charged.”
Dobey restrained himself from shaking his head. He profoundly disagreed with that statement. He’d seen too many court cases where the skill of an attorney, the inattention of a judge, the stupidity of a jury—and the color of the suspect’s skin—had spelled success or failure in a defense. There was no way that this prison, or any other, held only guilty men. Quite aside from the miscarriages of justice he’d witnessed over the years, he knew deep in his soul that there was no way Hutch and Starsky were guilty of anything. Anything at all.
“Well…”
“I’ll tell you something else, Captain. I hate police officers who go bad. There’s a special place in Hell for officers like that. Those who that were entrusted with the highest confidence and trust of the public, who abused every aspect of it, who disgraced every person who ever wore the uniform. It’s inexcusable. It’s the worst face of betrayal.”
Dobey nodded slowly, regarding the warden in a new light. Maybe this man, the person he was sitting in front of, was the one and only reason why Hutch and Starsky hadn’t been sequestered, as they most surely should have been.
He’d not heard anything about the warden before today, but the man seemed just slightly off balance emotionally. Dobey looked around him for a moment, seeing the high guard towers outside the window, the omnipresent gray steel used for the walls, the floor, the furniture. Everything was gray. Everything was depressing. Everything spelled the end of hope.
Maybe one had to be a little off to work here, or one quickly got that way.
Dearest Jesus, Dobey thought, realization for the first time flooding his soul. What it must be like to be locked up here.
“It’s obvious… ”
“I tried, you know? Three times. Three times! I was rejected each time. But I don’t hold any grudge. But if they weren’t going to let me in, then the ones who were allowed to become officers of the law, they have to be totally above reproach. Straight as an arrow, no questions, no doubt.”
“You tried for the Academy?”
What did it say that Mccready couldn’t get into whatever Podunk police academy served this small-town corner of California?
“Yes. I didn’t make it. But that’s okay. Just don’t ask me to look the other way with these two. They’re not worthy of it.”
“I’m not asking that,” Dobey corrected him. “All I was suggesting was that you consider leaving them in some special holding area, where the general population would not have access to them.”
“No.”
“Warden,” Dobey said, warningly. “That is the standard penal procedure.”
“Don’t tell me about procedure! The minute I got their folders I decided they were going to have to skip the country club routine. They want special treatment because they’re cops? They should’ve thought of that before they put their hands in the cookie jar!”
Dobey hardened his voice. “One of them has already been assaulted by the other prisoners.”
Mccready nodded. “I know that happens sometimes. Nothing I can do about it. My guards have instructions to eliminate that type of behavior, of course, but they can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Which is exactly why you should move Starsky and Hutch to a less exposed area of the prison. Sir.”
“I know you’re a police officer yourself, a captain. But don’t come in here and tell me how to do my job.” McCready’s gaze was not friendly.
“That was not my intention. I merely thought… ”
“Listen. I really don’t care what happens to those two. They are inmates of this institution and the State of California has remanded them to me for the next four years and ten months. And they’re gonna have to limp along in the main population, just like everyone else. No special favors.”
Mccready smiled then, insincerely. “Besides, we’re so overcrowded I don’t have any special place to put them. I can barely house the inmates I have.”
“Please reconsider, Warden—”
“No special favors.”
Dobey took a deep breath. He knew the warden was lying. But the longer he talked the more obstinate the warden became. With an acutely sour taste in his mouth he let it ride for now. He was already thinking of what other strings he could pull to fix this. Scenes of Hutch’s rape, even though he’d heard of it only third hand, were destined to fill his dreams and preoccupy his days. He’d never lost the sense that he’d let them down, somehow.
“I’d like to see them, please.”
“Visiting hours are over for the day.”
“I’m sure they are,” Dobey returned smoothly. “As it happens, I need to interview them on some investigations they were involved in prior to their trial.” Dobey was lying himself, something he could be pretty good at when it was necessary. This was a flat out, bald-faced lie. He didn’t need one word from either of the partners about any case at any time. But there was no way he was going to leave this hell hole without seeing with his own eyes that they—especially Hutch—were okay.
Mccready stared at him. Long and hard. But Dobey had been the target of intimidation from better men than this weasel. He simply stared back.
The warden capitulated first. “All right. I’ll arrange it.” He looked at his watch. “They’re both in Quad D. They are finishing their evening meal now. I’ll have them sent to the visiting area.”
Dobey was calm. He wasn’t going to give up on this. He had dozens of favors he could call in, and this warden was not going to play God here. He pulled himself to his feet, straightening his tie. “Thank you.”
He’d taken his leave of the warden then, easily hiding his disgust at the man from years of practice, learned the hard way as a police officer.
A trustee escorted him to a private visiting area. He was only there a few minutes when the heavy steel door re-opened to admit Starsky, being ushered into the room with a bit more vigor from the guard than Dobey felt was warranted.
He was on his feet instantly, but the guard was gone. Dobey craned his head to look behind him, but Starsky was alone, his wrists cuffed in front of him.
“Where’s Hutch?”
Starsky sat down across from his old boss, wearily resting his manacled hands on the tabletop. His tone was flat. “He won’t see anyone.”
Dobey didn’t like the sound of that. But what could he say? “Oh.”
A brief silence ensued as Starsky stared at the black man in waning hope. He’d never considered Dobey anything other than an excellent boss and a good, good friend – he hadn’t needed a father figure in his life after Johnny, unlike Hutch, who was still looking for a dad after all these years—but right now, he wanted Dobey to be the father and make all this go away.
But he could look at Dobey and realize that his friend didn’t have good news.
“Let me guess,” he said, dourly. “You didn’t get anywhere with the warden.”
Dobey shook his head. “But I’m not giving up. Let me get back down to L.A, and…”
“And what?” Starsky snapped. “There’s nothin’ you’ll be able to do down there. This guy’s king of his own little world here. What’ya gonna do? Complain to the governor?”
“No, I’ll…”
“Everyone thinks we got what we deserve! They’d love it if we rotted up here. If Hutch is used every Thursday and Sunday as nine different guy’s special friend, nobody gives a shit!”
Dobey closed his eyes momentarily, and Starsky was perversely satisfied to see the heavy man physically absorb and clearly be sickened by his choice of words.
“Dave,” Dobey said, quietly. “I haven’t given up. No, it didn’t go well with Warden Mccready but I’m going to talk to Ryan when I get home, and…”
“Chief Ryan hates us. Hates. Us.”
Dobey shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He held up his hand as Starsky was about to protest. “You have to trust me, Dave. I’m not giving up. I don’t have any answers right now, but I’m not gonna stop until I do.”
He fixed the younger man with a stare. “Until then, until I figure this out, is there anything else I can do? Me or Edith? Anything?”
Starsky took a deep breath. The only thing he needed, Dobey couldn’t provide, and that was a way to keep Hutch safe.
He shook his head. “No.” Clearing his throat, he continued. “I know you’re tryin’. It’s just so hard. So hard here. And after they got him…”
Starsky’s voice trailed off. He hadn’t been able to get Hutch to open up to him since the rape, except for that one time in their cell, when Hutch had held on to him and cried, gasping, silent agonizing sobs. His best friend, the other half of his soul, the man he’d been proud to call his partner, was going through life now on autopilot, getting paler and thinner by the day and never talking to anyone. Including Starsky.
“I know,” Dobey consoled him. “It’s sick. It’s sick that anyone would do that. And I am going to make sure it stops. Just give me some time.”
Starsky looked at his ex-boss with bleak eyes. His first, best and only hope was not going to be able to do what he was promising, despite every intention of the police captain.
Starsky knew that. He knew then what he had to do; what he’d always feared, in the back of his mind, he’d have to do.
He stood up, reaching over to shake Dobey’s hand, even with his left wrist chained to his right. “Thanks, Cap’n,” Starsky said. “I know ya tried.” And I love you for it, but I gotta save Hutch. He’ll never survive another go round with these animals.
He allowed Dobey to guide him to the door, where the black man rapped on the steel portal for his release. The door opened at once, and Dobey stepped out into the hall as Malcolm reached for Starsky’s elbow.
“Bye, Dave,” Dobey offered, hesitantly. He stood at the end of the corridor that led to the reception area, the foyer, and the visitors’ entrance to the prison. That way was the way to freedom and he walked it slowly.
Starsky was ushered down the other hallway, angling off back towards the Quadrangle, the depths of the prison and the one 6′ x 8′ enclosure that was his and Hutch’s home now.
Dobey had briefly watched as Starsky was led away; Starsky had felt Dobey’s eyes on his back. He didn’t care. He had a plan now and after all, Malcolm was leading him back to the man, who despite everything that had gone down, was still his partner. Waiting for him, there in their cell.
Noon the next day, December 13th
Marge waited her turn patiently, then joined the stream of passengers deplaning at LAX. She wasn’t used to flying coach, but she had to conserve every penny now. Richard hadn’t sanctioned her trip and she had to save everything she had put away, for whatever expenses she encountered here in California. She wouldn’t put it past him to put a hold on her credit cards.
Also unusual for her, she hadn’t checked any luggage, and as she moved down the ramp into the terminal, her eyes sought out the signs for ground transportation. She struggled a bit with her carry-on, unaccustomed to handling her own bag, whatever the size.
Eyeing a taxi just outside the main terminal, she got in and handed the cabbie a scrap of paper where she’d neatly noted the address she needed.
“Ma’am?” The taxi driver was young and of an indeterminate race, but he was very polite. “This is the Metro police station. It’s…”
“It’s what?” Her voice was cool.
It’s not in the best section of the city,” the man explained. “Are you sure…?”
“Yes. Very.” Her voice stayed calm and she was sure that he couldn’t hear the slight quaver it had. She’d never been this far from home, this alone, and this upset.
“Okay,” he capitulated. “Metro it is.”
Marge settled back as the vehicle accelerated. She stared out the indifferently cleaned window of the cab as he barreled out of the airport proper, looking all around her.
So, this is Los Angeles. The city her son had adopted and served, the city her son had apparently disgraced by attempting to orchestrate a bribe of almost $150,000 to arrange the release of a contract killer accused by the Los Angeles district attorney of murdering the son of a city councilman.
She’d barely paid attention to the details. She’d accepted long ago that Kenneth now was not the boy she’d raised. She didn’t understand the desire he had to be a policeman, the plants, the guitar, the hair that was too long, or the friends—the partner—who wasn’t of Kenneth’s caliber. But there was one thing she knew, even after all these years, and that was that Kenneth would never condone the murder of a teenage boy. He’d never allow it, profit from it, or tolerate it.
It’d taken weeks to get the money squirreled away out of the household budget without Richard getting too suspicious, but she had it now, and she was here. She was going to clear her son’s name, no matter what it took.
It hadn’t been a long trip to the police station, and she paid the man, including only a ten percent tip. She had the lowest opinion of people who stiffed the lower classes out of their tips, but in this case, she hadn’t had a choice. Every penny was precious.
“May I help you?” The receptionist just inside the door was young and courteous.
“Yes. I’m here to see Captain Harold Dobey.” She didn’t need to look in her purse to refresh her memory as to the name. She’d been more than ready to confront this man for weeks.
“And you are?”
“Mrs. Richard Hutchinson. I’m Kenneth Hutchinson’s mother. Tell him that.”
Her eyes widened slightly and the young woman didn’t break her gaze as she picked up the phone.
Marge ignored her as she fingered the letter in her purse, the letter that had brought her here. It was dog-eared from frequent rereading. As with Harold Dobey’s name, she’d read it so often she didn’t need to pull it from the envelope to recall each word exactly.
September 18, 1980
Mother—
Things are are not going well here. Starsky and I were set up and have been convicted of several felonies. We will be spending the next five years in a state penitentiary. I wanted you to know so you would not worry if you tried to contact me.
If you have any questions, contact our captain at Metro, Harold Dobey. He will help you out if your need anything.
Sorry,
Ken
The letter was maddeningly short and Marge had immediately tried to contact her son after she received it. His phone had been disconnected. The three letters she’d written had come back with no forwarding address. She picked up the phone several times to call this Captain Dobey but she’d never been able to see it through.
But, now she was here in person. She knew Kenneth needed her. By the time Richard realized she was gone, she would already be in Los Angeles. There would be nothing he could do. Well, nothing right away.
I didn’t want to keep it from Richard, Marge fretted yet again. But I can’t talk to him about Kenneth without it turning into World War III. Her husband and her son had never gotten along well, but after the divorce from Vanessa, Richard hadn’t had a good word to say about his only son. It was better this way. At least, she hoped it so.
She shoved down her unease and forced a determined look back on her face. She wanted to meet this infamous “Captain Dobey.”
Later that afternoon, December 13th
Of course, the chapel was billed as non-denominational. Nevertheless, it prominently featured a plain, gold-plated cross riveted to the concrete wall. Cheap bookcases with a variety of inspirational material was scattered on the shelves. Narrow, scuffed pews, and a thin layer of stained, brown carpeting completed the decor.
It was cool and rainy outside and the chapel was damp.
Starsky walked in and stepped down the aisle to the first pew. The arbiter of all that went on in their Quad—and the man who’d raped Hutch—was there: Leo Dixon. He was a lifer convicted in 1974 of three murders in San Francisco. He’d converted to Islam while in prison, taking the name of Muhammad. True to his adopted faith, he was prostrate in prayer.
“Need to talk to you.”
Muhammad looked up, appearing neither surprised nor upset to see Starsky there.
“I’m saying my prayers.”
Say them later.” Starsky’s voice was deadly calm.
Inclining his head slightly, the big man got up and picked up his prayer rug.
“Very well. I’ve heard you wanted to discuss something with me.”
“Yeah. Not here.”
Muhammad gestured at the cross with a small smile. “Surely you have no allegiance to this.”
Starsky stared at him. “Not here.”
Muhammad turned and led the way out of the small room. “Perhaps this would suit?”
They were in an even smaller room that looked like it’d once been used for storage. Starsky didn’t bother to question how Leo knew it was there, or how he had access to it.
“Yeah.” Starsky looked up at the huge man, with his shaved head and full beard. The knot of sick nausea he’d lived with for days now blossomed into full-blown panic. He shoved it down and thought of the alternatives.
There weren’t any.
“I want you to leave Hutch alone.”
Muhammad nodded. “Of course you do. Unfortunately, he’s mine. As you well know.”
“He ain’t yours. And I’m telling you to keep your hands off him.”
Muhammad took a deep breath. “I realize that when you were a free man and a fellow citizen of this country, you were a police officer and were able to dictate what others did. I’m sure you miss that a great deal.” He straightened up, and Starsky didn’t miss the menace. “But you’re in my house now, and I’m in charge. And I take what I want. And I want him. And I’ll have him.”
Starsky tried to stare him down, but Leo was unmoved. “If there’s nothing else?”
“What do you want?”
Muhammad arched his eyebrows. “Want? Nothing. I’m quite content here, as a prisoner of my beliefs and the racist society in which I live. Makes it all the more fine to have your partner. Compensation for all he’s done to me.”
“Hutch’s done nothing to you, Leo. Not a damn thing.”
“His kind has. And now he pays. And pays dearly, I would think. But I guess you would know more about that than I.”
“You have to leave him alone.” Starsky’s tone was less truculent now. “He can’t take it.”
“Probably not. But I can find others after I’m done with him.”
Starsky was silent for almost a minute. Leo merely looked at him, a faint smirk on his dark face.
“You gotta want something. Something I can give you in place of him.” Starsky hadn’t wanted to come out and say it, but Leo clearly wasn’t going to mention it first.
So there it was.
“What would you suggest?”
Starsky swallowed. “What about…” He steeled himself, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. “What about me.”
“You?” Muhammad looked amused, his brown eyes bright in his mocha skin. “You think I want some Jewish ass?”
Starsky had no idea and the images he was running through his mind were making him positively ill. He resolutely blanked his mind to any thought other than Hutch’s well being. “I’ll give you some. All you want.”
“If I leave your boyfriend alone.”
That wasn’t the right word, but Starsky let it pass. “Yes.”
The other man looked pensive. “There’s something to that. I’d love to see you offered up for my pleasure, willingly. Might even be worth it, losing my golden toy.”
“He’s not your toy, Leo. He’s my partner. He’s my best friend. And I won’t let you do this to him.”
Muhammad shook his head, almost in admiration. “Must be some friend for you to make this move.”
Starsky didn’t respond.
“Well, I suppose we could reach some kind of agreement.”
“It’s gonna be that, Leo. I have to have your word.”
“My word? You’re going to take my word for anything? After the warm way your people have treated mine?”
“Don’t start with that shit again! I never did nothing to you, and you’re about as Muslim as I am the tooth fairy. This is some shtick you’re running against the State, that’s fine, but don’t run it on me. I’m not buyin’ it!”
Muhammad nodded calmly, not disputing Starsky’s statements. “You sure you want this?”
Starsky gathered his emotional strength, forcing the word to be clear, his voice not to shake. “Yes.”
“Okay. Then…”
“Remember what I said. Hutch is left alone. All alone. Not you or any of your little boys in training lays one hand on him. Not one finger. Your word.”
“I promise. I realize Hernandez is very interested in him—so is Ralph.”
Leo looked very pleased with himself and Starsky couldn’t stand it any longer. “Okay, then,” Starsky said, turning to leave, to flee.
“Just a moment.”
Starsky looked back and the man’s dark brown eyes were looking him over. He felt physically ill.
“We need to set a date.”
“The sooner the better.”
“Eager, aren’t you?” Leo appeared on the verge of laughing.
Starsky stared at him, hate radiating out of every pore in his body, as he waited for Leo to decide when it would happen.
“Tomorrow afternoon, during exercise.”
Ever a realistic man, Starsky hadn’t expected anything else. That was when Leo had raped Hutch. It was the most confused, chaotic time the cellblock experienced in any given week and with just a minimal amount of planning, anything from a drug transaction to murder could pass unnoticed by the guards, at least temporarily. In any case, Starsky knew Leo had bought off the majority of them. It was the way of life inside.
Starsky nodded, once, and made to leave.
“Starsky.” Starsky stopped but didn’t turn back around.
Muhammad moved closer, and there was almost admiration in his voice. “You must really have a thing for him.”
Starsky almost ran out of the room.
That evening. December 13th
“Mrs. Hutchinson.” Huggy was courtly, treating Hutch’s mother like a true lady, pulling out manners that Dobey had always suspected someone in his past had taken pains to instill in him. “It’s a true honor to meet you.”
Dobey saw the blonde woman looking Huggy over carefully. If she was shocked that Hutch’s “good friend” was also black, as was his ex-captain, she hid it far better than she had upon meeting him.
“What’s your pleasure?”
Dobey watched her, as Marge looked around. It had to be sinking in that she was in a bar, a dump the likes of which she’d probably never seen before. And she’d probably never been alone, anywhere, with two Negro men. He could see that her hands were shaking; just a little, but they were shaking.
Dobey could almost hear her thoughts: Was this where Kenneth spent his time? What had he become?
Marge finally spoke. “Do you have any wine? White wine?”
Huggy nodded immediately, pulling down a bottle that hadn’t been opened yet. He showed her the label while Dobey discreetly rolled his eyes at him, from behind her. Huggy ignored him.
“This is a nice Chardonnay,” Huggy offered. “Can I interest you in a glass of this?”
Marge nodded gratefully, awkwardly hoisting herself up on the barstool.
There was a brief silence as Huggy poured a glass of wine for Hutch’s mother, following that up with a Coke for Dobey and yet another cup of coffee for himself.
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance,” Huggy said, setting down the coffeepot. “I’m sorry for the circumstances, though.”
“Captain Dobey told me what happened,” Marge stated. She looked at up the thin black man. “I assume you don’t think Kenneth is guilty, either.”
“They’re not,” Huggy assured her. “I know that.”
Marge took another sip of her wine. “They?”
“Yeah,” Huggy said. “Hutch and Starsky.”
Marge took a deep breath, then helped herself to another sip of the wine. She was making good progress on it and Huggy reached for the bottle to top off her glass.
“You know,” Marge said conversationally. She was a very slender woman and Dobey guessed that she’d probably had a long day with very little food. The wine would hit her hard, burning a path of relaxation through her body. “The few times Kenneth deigned to write or call home, it was always we.”
Dobey was puzzled.
“We. Starsky and me. Me and Starsky. We made this ‘bust’; we went to see this movie. We drove up the coast. We drove down to Mexico. We were undercover at a movie studio, we double dated last night. We were late to work, we arrested this drug kingpin, we did a sting at a dance studio.” She paused to take another swallow.
“We, we, we.”
“Me and thee,” Huggy said, obviously without thinking.
Dobey shot a sharp glance towards him. “Me and thee?”
Huggy shrugged, clearly trying to downplay it now. “That’s just their saying, about being partners. They’re very good at what they do and they trust each other to cover the other one’s back. That’s all it is.”
Marge frowned. “What’s this man like?” she asked. “Really like.”
“Starsky?” Dobey was startled. “You’ve never met him?”
Marge shook her head. “Never even seen a picture of him.” She laughed, a bit off from the wine. “For all I know, he’s Kenneth’s imaginary friend, like he had when he was a little boy.”
It was an inappropriate thing to say, and Dobey noted that she’d finished her second glass of wine. Huggy looked at him and Dobey nodded.
Huggy filled her glass again.
“Not much to say,” Dobey responded, smoothly. “Dave Starsky’s just a good cop and, partnered with Hutch, they’re the best in the business.”
“Which leads us to the question of why Kenneth is now in prison.” She turned to Dobey. “Tell me what happened. Everything. And don’t bother to sugarcoat it. I think I still know my son well enough to know he never did anything wrong.”
Dobey nodded gravely. “You’re right, Mrs. Hutchinson. Hutch never dishonored his badge.”
“Starsky neither,” Huggy piped up. “They were set up. We have the deal just about figured out. Just need a couple peoples’ cooperation and…”
“And they can get a new trial,” Dobey finished.
“It’s like this,” Huggy began.
Dobey watched as Marge sipped her wine, and listened.
Sunday, December 14th, during exercise
Starsky walked into the latrine, pacing with steady feet to the back of the dark room. It smelled faintly of urine and some sort of cleaning solution. It smelled exactly like every latrine at the prison smelled like. The set up of the latrine was like all the others, too: no doors, just a minor concession to nicety by half walls between each toilet.
Leo was there, in the back stall, waiting, and he wasn’t alone.
Starsky forced his feet to move. They felt, each individual leg, as if they weighed several hundred pounds. He wondered if he’d ever lose this nauseated feeling. He wondered how bad it would be.
Please get me through it. Please. Please.
Starsky forced his breathing to steady. “You can lose the peanut gallery, Leo,” he snapped, gesturing at the other men there. “I ain’t gonna fight you.”
Leo stared at him, looking him over from head to toe. “Take a picture, it lasts longer.”
The other man still was silent. The five other inmates were equally quiet. They were clearly under Leo’s control, standing as motionless as their boss. Starsky was rapidly losing what little nerve he’d had. He was tensing to fight when finally Leo let out his breath. “You are a brave man. I’ve never had any man walk in here on his own. They fight every inch of the way.”
Starsky nodded to himself, forcing down his fight or flight reaction. This is for Hutch. Hutch. That was going to be the only thing that could get him through this; the thought that Hutch would never have to submit to this again.
“Your partner did. It took six men to get him in here, get his pants down and make him ready for me.”
Starsky didn’t move a muscle, staring at Leo with hatred. He wouldn’t let his mind form that horrific picture. This was a head-game and he wasn’t going to play.
“Come here.”
Starsky sucked in a deep breath, swallowing his panic. He took one step forward and closed his eyes.
I don’t understand, Hutch. All this mental stuff you do.
The blond looked over at his partner, absolute peace on his face, the perfect skin and shining clean blond hair outlined by the array of foliage in his greenhouse. “Sit like this.” He gestured at his legs, cross-legged in comfortable, loose pants that Starsky had always thought looked more like pajamas than normal pants. “Open your mind.”
Starsky couldn’t begin to copy his friend’s posture, wearing jeans as tight as his were. But he shrugged off his holster and crouched down next to Hutch anyway. “Open my mind? To what? For what?”
He was really going to try this time, with this new hobby. He was really going to try to make Hutch happy and the best way to do that was to attempt to immerse himself in whatever Hutch’s latest passion was. The last one had been the bonsai trees.
Starsky’d never figured out how something so small could properly be called a tree, but he’d tried.
Now it was meditation, some Far Eastern mumbo-jumbo that he was too polite to tell Hutch gave him the creeps. He’d gotten all the Eastern influences in his life that he’d ever wanted during the year he’d been in-country in Viet Nam. He never wanted to go east of Brooklyn or west of L.A. again in his life. But he didn’t tell Hutch that.
“Find your center. The focus. The essence of your being.”
The essence of Starsky’s being had always been survival. That didn’t take much reflection, just an animal cunning he’d always been blessed with. But he closed his eyes obediently and listened to his partner chant a low, quiet mantra. He didn’t begin to find his center, or any essence of his being, but he enjoyed hearing Hutch’s voice, melodious and rhythmic. It soothed him in some way and he soaked it in.
He really enjoyed the experience; right up until the time Hutch bopped him on the back of his head for dozing off.
That had been funny. This was deadly serious. Starsky firmly kept his eyes shut, desperately looking for the centering place in his mind that Hutch always assured him was there.
Hands were grabbing him. His shirt was already off and, distantly, he registered the cool of the air and the heat of the hands that were fondling him, touching him, reaching for him.
He tried humming Hutch’s mantra to himself but he couldn’t remember the syllables. He settled for murmuring Hutch’s name. His pants were bunched up around his ankles now, and several sets of hands were tugging at his boxers. They ripped.
He was pushed down, down by the toilet, and he would have slipped but the hands held him in place.
He tried to picture Hutch as he’d looked that day, the day of the meditation lesson. Tanned, blond, and relaxed, the man had been simply beautiful to regard. Starsky loved him. He knew that.
And that was why this was happening now. His legs seemed to be moving of their own volition. Spread wide and off balance, again he would have fallen had not so many hands held him in place.
There it was, the softness over the hard, the heat and the dryness. His ass cheeks were pulled apart roughly. Quite by accident, the steady, calming mantra of his partner’s name that he’d tried to maintain slid into a scream. It lasted merely a moment before a wad of his torn boxers was shoved in his mouth and his screams were entirely muffled. He could hardly breathe.
That sent him over the edge and he started to struggle. Now he was fighting them, fighting for his life. But there was only one of him. There were six of them.
Fumbling hands, wet with something, were ushering the soft hardness into him. The first push was the definition of agony. Not quite wet, not at all prepared, Starsky’s virginity disappeared in a blossom of pure pain. He’d never felt pain like this. It went to his very core.
The second thrust was worse. Deep and insistent, it went all the way to the hilt. The hands were still holding him which was very good, as the pain was making him want to pass out. His knees weren’t working anymore, and his head was almost level with the cold, sweating pipes clustered near the toilet.
“No, no,” he begged, but his tongue was jammed against the gag. The screaming had dried his throat terribly and he tried to swallow, but the gag was everywhere. The hands were everywhere. The pain was everywhere.
But the third time wasn’t quite as bad, and the hardness was wetter now, his opening not so tight. He heard the joyous sound of his attacker. “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
His body was moving in concert with the fucking. By the fourth and fifth strokes, he was able to coordinate his movements with his rapist’s, so that it didn’t hurt with the white-hot agony it had. It was the pressure now. Such terrible pressure, a part of him filled more fully than God had ever intended.
“Help me out, boy.” Leo was talking to him. What did he want?
There was a fairly severe blow to his face, even hung over the toilet bowl as he was. “Do it, boy!”
Do what? Starsky was truly puzzled, his mind fuzzy and fractured. He was still looking for that center where he could hide.
“This is your last chance!”
It was clearly a warning but Starsky was utterly lost. What else could he do? They were doing it all.
It had to be about over. He’d lost count of the thrusts into his ass and he could sense the gathering storm behind him. The hands that were so firmly holding his waist were becoming sweaty and hot.
Someone punched him again, this time in the ribs. He rocked to the side.
“Give it to me!”
Starsky didn’t know what else to do. He pushed back hard, once and then again, meeting the invader with abandon and every bit of enthusiasm he could fake. Then he did it a third time, and a fourth.
“Yeah, that’s it! God, this one’s good!”
Starsky had never opened his eyes during the entire rape and as Leo climaxed inside him, he squeezed them even more tightly shut. If he didn’t see, maybe it didn’t really happen.
It hurt even when Leo pulled out. All of a sudden, all those helpful hands were no longer there, and Starsky almost collapsed on the white ring of the toilet seat. Someone pushed him slightly, though, so that when he landed, he was beside the toilet, his arms loose on the base, his face against the back of it.
Smells awful, he thought irrelevantly. Needs to be cleaned.
He felt like he had defecated on himself. His mind told him to get up and find out, but his body wasn’t cooperating. His jeans were flung on him and then there was an immense silence in direct contrast to the echoing scream of pain inside him.
They were gone. Starsky registered that in his mind. He had to get up and try to make it back to the exercise yard so he could be taken, with everyone else, back to the cells.
He couldn’t get up. He registered that in his mind as well.
“Gotta get up.” He managed to say that, as the hands no longer held the gag in his mouth. Maybe saying it was the first step to doing it. He tried to move. “Maybe not.”
“What’s this?”
Starsky recognized the voice. It was Drury, one of the few guards that Leo didn’t have in his back pocket. Starsky forced himself to his feet, pulling his jeans up in an ineffectual manner.
“Nothing. It’s nothin’.”
Drury grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Nothing?” “Nothing.”
You’re going to the infirm ”
“No way.”
“Come on.” The other man was clearly concerned and clearly intent on getting him some help. Starsky felt him touch his shoulder.
“I said – No!” With a violent move, Starsky shook the man’s hands off him, feeling waves of panic rush through his gut.
“No!”
Sunday night, December 14th
They had to keep their voices below even a whisper. That was causing this to be the oddest argument they’d ever had, overlaid with a cold anger from Hutch that Starsky wasn’t really sure he could handle.
He wasn’t at his best. He’d had to spend much of the afternoon battling the ache and threatening nausea and diarrhea that seemed to consume his innards, and he kept remembering how concerned Dr. Kovalsky had been about Hutch, after this had happened to him.
“Jesus Christ,” Hutch hissed at him, and it was almost an invocation. “What did you do?”
“I told you,” Starsky whispered back, pulling closer to Hutch on the bottom bunk at the same time he fought off a wave of cramping. God, make it stop! “I did what I had to do, to keep us safe.”
Starsky knew Hutch and he knew without a doubt that Hutch was angrier now than the man had ever been, in all the years they’d known each other. But what had Hutch expected him to do? To look the other way? To pretend Hutch hadn’t been attacked?
“Hutch,” Starsky murmured at him. “It’s not a big deal.” Can’t you drop it? Starsky still couldn’t absorb the fact that he’d been raped. Dealing with Hutch’s unreasoning rage as well was something he hadn’t bargained on.
“You walked in there and basically said, ‘have at me’? Enjoy yourself?”
“No,” Starsky snapped at him, quietly. “I did what I had to do, to keep you safe.”
“Me?”
Starsky paused. “Us.”
“I’ve got news for you, partner,” Hutch bit out each word, his face not two inches from Starsky’s. “I don’t need that kind of help.”
Starsky didn’t respond. He merely stared back at Hutch’s face in the near darkness.
“Did you hear me?”
“Of course I heard you, Hutch,” Starsky said, quietly. If he stayed very still, it wasn’t as bad as when he moved around. “What d’ya want me to say? I’m sorry?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not for one moment,” Starsky sighed. “Not for one minute, if I kept you safe.” And that was the truth.
“I’m not worth that kind of sacrifice!”
“Says you. Not me.”
Hutch jumped up to his feet. Technically they weren’t supposed to be out of their bunks after lights out at nine thirty, unless they were using the small steel toilet in the center of the back wall—clearly visible to anyone on the walkway or across the quad. The rule was rarely enforced if one was quiet and Hutch, who appeared to be enraged beyond description, was still impossibly silent in his fury.
Despite his physical symptoms, Starsky got up and followed him, moving gingerly as Hutch paced furiously across the narrow cell.
“Hutch,” Starsky whispered. “Come on, man. It’s too late to cry over spilled milk, now. It’s done.”
“Spilled milk! What the hell are you talking about?! This is a hell of a lot more than spilled milk!”
“Okay,” Starsky raged, his whisper infuriated. “I was raped, you happy now? You got me to say it! Raped. And I’d let it happen again, to keep it from happening to you! Again and again!”
“Why?” Hutch hissed back, thoroughly incensed. “You want to tell me why?”
“Because we’re partners, Hutch,” Starsky said, pulling Hutch to a standstill. “That’s why. I can’t let this happen to you again. You understand? I can’t let this happen to you again!”
Hutch stopped trying to move, stopped speaking. Starsky was motionless, letting Hutch regain control of himself.
“Starsky,” Hutch whispered after a moment, and oddly enough, all Starsky could think about was how… empty… Hutch looked. “You can’t. You didn’t. Tell me…” his voice drifted off.
“Tell you what, Hutch?” Starsky murmured back. “That I love you, and I can’t let anything bad happen to you? Not if I can help it—not here, not out in the World, not ever?”
Hutch was reaching for him now. “I’m not worth…”
Starsky stopped him with a pat on Hutch’s arm. He hurt too much to be touched. “Yeah, Hutch. You are. You are to me.”
In the dim nighttime lighting of the prison, Hutch’s expression was just barely discernable. He looked bereft.
Starsky was just the far side of caring. As another pulse of nausea twisted his stomach, he went over to the small toilet, dropped to his knees and vomited into it.
Through the pain and sorrow, he felt a feather light, warm hand on his shoulder.
Next Sunday afternoon, December 21st
Starsky waited in the line, shuffling every five minutes, ever closer to one of the pay telephones in the recreation room. This was a call he couldn’t put off any longer.
He looked up. Two more men and then it’d be his turn.
Last Sunday he’d been able to skip the call—his mother understood now that he couldn’t exactly call whenever the mood struck him—but this Sunday he had to do it.
It had been a week and a half, almost, since the rape and he was trying his best to convince himself that it was nothing. Fortunately, after a day or so, the physical manifestations of the assault had waned. He’d pretty much decided he wasn’t going to die, but mentally… somehow he had to persuade his mother he was fine.
Yeah, I can do that, Starsky thought to himself.
He’d been in California since he was 14 and one of the first things he’d learned how to do was lie, quite convincingly, to his mom. She had wanted, still, to be involved in every aspect of his life. She’d made her choices, though, and one thing she’d given up when she’d given him up was the ability to run every detail of his adolescence.
One more man. The line shuffled one step closer to the phone.
“Hi, Ma!” The teenager, resplendent in black leather and jeans, his curls only partially controlled by the liberal application of Vaseline, was quiet as he listened.
“Yeah, my grades aren’t great but I’ll pass. I promise.”
“I know. But Ma—
“Okay. No, nothing’s wrong. Just don’t like the class.”
“Yeah, I promise. Okay! I’ll ask Mrs. Lyons for some extra credit work. I promise. Tomorrow. I’ll do it— ”
He nodded. “Before class.”
He listened for a few minutes. “Oh, Ma, don’t start about Shabbat services again. Aunt Rose isn’t Jewish and Uncle Al doesn’t ever go.”
A few more minutes of the one-sided conversation ensued. Davey sighed. “No, Ma, not even for the High Holy Days.” The only thing about his Uncle Al that was still Jewish was his surname.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do… Yes, I promise!”
The line moved again and now it was his turn. He yanked himself out of his memories and stepped up the phone.
“I’d like to make a collect call, operator.”
He listened for the expected query and rattled off the number. “212-555-2310.”
After the next question he said, “Dave.”
He listened then for the series of familiar clicks. The phone was being picked up at that other end.
His mother’s voice was so familiar and yet so distant. “Yes, I’ll accept the charges.” Barely a pause. “Davey? Oh Davey, when I didn’t hear last week, I was so worried.”
Starsky gritted his teeth and tried to think about anything but the rape.
“Hi, Ma. Yeah, I’m sorry but you know how it is.” He had to distract her, not let her ask any questions. Searching in his mind for a topic, he settled swiftly on the perils of a distant cousin. “How’s Ruth, Ma? How was her operation?”
That was enough. His mother would give him every detail of his cousin’s life from 1965 to yesterday evening. By the time she was done, the time he was allocated would be up. Listening to the comforting sound of his mother’s chatter, he let his mind drift.
It was the right thing to do, Starsky reminded himself, firmly. As long as Hutch is safe. It was the right thing to do.
Monday morning, December 22nd
Marge willed her hands to stop shaking as she sat by the telephone.
God, I want a drink. It was a litany that had been flitting through her mind for hours but she knew that she couldn’t have anything until this was done. This was the one thing Harold and Huggy had needed but couldn’t provide, to free her son. This was one thing she could give. But it was risky.
Sooner you do it, the sooner you’ll be done, she thought, promising herself: Then you can have a drink.
She thought back to last night; she’d been at The Pits yet again. The more she ended up there, the more she felt at home. She’d even stopped computing the ratio of blacks to whites in the establishment each evening. For the first few days, she’d hung rather close to Harold, but now she felt fine getting her own drinks when Diane was too busy to wait on her.
“What’s new, Cap’n?” Huggy had greeted them the moment they’d come through the door. He’d nodded to Marge, and absurdly she had grinned back. Huggy was quite the charmer.
Harold had indicated the back of the room, in a booth Marge had come to think of as “their” booth, and he hadn’t wasted any time once he sat down.
“We need money.”
That conversation had led to this phone call. Harold and Huggy needed money for a payoff, for the last link in the chain, and money was what she was going to get them.
Marge picked up the receiver and carefully dialed the long distance number.
Please have Klaus pick up, she prayed silently. Please. Klaus or Marie, but not Sharon.
She listened as the phone rang more than half way across the country, at her husband’s office. It was just before noon Central Time and she was gambling that Richard had already left for his weekly Rotary luncheon.
“Richard Hutchinson’s office,” a young voice answered. “Klaus Vanderleer speaking. How may I help you?”
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Marge exulted. But it wouldn’t do to be too cocky. Klaus was young but he wasn’t dumb.
“Hi, Klaus,” Marge said, steadying her voice. “How are you? And your mother?”
“Hi, Mrs. Hutchinson,” the man answered, pleasure evident in his voice. “Mamma’s fine, thanks for asking. Looking forward to the Christmas pageant at St. Stephen’s. She loves that.”
“Yes, I know,” Marge said. “I wish I were going to be back in town in time to see it this year.”
She had to cut this off; politely, yes, but she had to cut it off. Given an opportunity, Klaus could talk all day about his mother. She knew that from first hand experience.
“I need a favor,” Marge said, dropping her voice so that she sounded conspiratorial. “I’m here in L.A. and I’ve found the most perfect Palomino. His coat is just gorgeous, the most unusual shade of henna. Richard would— ”
“Los Angeles,” Klaus repeated, in the same tone he would have used to say ‘Heaven.’ “Wow!”
“Yes, and I need—”
“And you’ve found the horse Mr. Hutchinson was looking for? Good deal!”
“Yes, but I’ve come away without the cashier’s check Richard gave me. I need—”
“Oh,” and Klaus, bless his heart, was obviously buying every word of it. “Do you want me to have Mr. Hutchinson mail it to you?”
Since there was no cashier’s check outside Marge’s desperate imagination, no, she did not.
“No time,” Marge replied, taking a deep breath. Outright lies weren’t her forte. “But there’s $30,000 at least in the money market account… if you could get that wired out here, I’ll use that for the down payment and send the balance when I get home.”
That must have given Klaus pause. A brief silence ensued.
Her heart racing, Marge forced herself to be quiet. The transcontinental telephone wires buzzed, faintly, in her ear.
“Really, I should check with Mr. Hutchinson. That’s over the limit I’m allowed to approve.”
“Yes, I know,” Marge soothed. “Just the other day, Richard was telling me what a good job you were doing, and I know he should be informed on all wires out above the $10,000 limit. But, Klaus, this is a great opportunity and to be honest, I’d love to surprise him. I can’t do that if you give him too many details.”
Yes, ma’am, but… ” Klaus’ voice trailed off. Trained from birth by his mother to make everyone happy, he was obviously having a hard time reconciling Richard’s edict with Marge’s request.
“How about I call him at home tonight and explain. That will be after I get Lady Samantha and then I can let him know. It will make his night!”
Klaus was quiet for a moment.
“I’ll be sure to tell him what a great help you were, once I’ve signed for her and made the deal. I just need the down payment, and… ”
Klaus was just ambitious enough to fall for that last line.
Marge heard him take a deep breath. “Okay, Mrs. Hutchinson. Where do you want the funds wired?”
Marge was ready for that. She rattled off the routing and account number of Harold’s bank. “The seller’s name is Harold Dobey,” Marge said. “I’ll be here for an hour or so if you need anything else.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Klaus answered, obediently. “And I won’t say a word to Mr. Hutchinson.”
“Perfect,” Marge replied, smoothly, her breath suddenly a little easier in her chest. “I’ll be sure to tell Richard you were instrumental in this… mission.”
Even as Klaus was making his good-byes, Marge was eyeing the room service menu. Surely in free and easy California, ten a.m. wasn’t too early to ask room service to serve wine?
Later that afternoon, December 22nd
“Kneel down!” The man repeated his order, louder and meaner than the first time, but Hutch did the same thing he’d done before: nothing.
“Forget it,” he snarled, clamping down on his fear. Panic was welling up in him. I thought I was okay, now, he thought, uselessly.
Louie was moving closer to him now, with the makeshift knife in his hand. Obviously handmade, it nevertheless looked extremely functional to Hutch.
You promised! he felt like raging at Leo. The huge black man stood there, silently, waiting for Hutch to lose the battle. You promised Starsky … he let you … I thought …
“Last chance, pretty boy. Get down there.”
“No—”
Hutch felt two simultaneous blows to the back of each of his knees and he fell down in a heap. Louie and Hernandez were there, though, on either side of him, yanking him back to his knees, forcing him to kneel there. Leo was coming up to him and Louie rested the knife on Hutch’s exposed neck, just over the carotid artery.
Hutch understood then, with a stunning realization. He wasn’t going to be raped again, but this was equally bad.
“Open your mouth.”
“Fuck you,” Hutch growled, tensing for a fight and heedless of the knife.
Leo laughed a little. “Would that I could, but I promised your boyfriend I wouldn’t.”
“What do ya call this?” Hutch spat back at him. He craned his head back to look up at Leo.
“It’s called cocksucking,” Leo said, calmly. “And I’m gonna train you to do it good, boy.”
Hutch clamped his jaw shut, struggling against the men I holding him.
At Leo’s nod, Louie nicked him slightly.
“Feel that?” Leo asked, rhetorically. “You have a choice. We can do this easy, or we can do this hard, and you’ll get that pretty face messed up again.”
“Leo,” Hutch gasped out after a moment. “Don’t make me do this.”
Leo unzipped his jeans. “Don’t even think about biting me, pretty boy!” He closed the few steps to be directly in front of Hutch. “Open your mouth, Nellie. Last chance.”
Hutch waited a moment, feeling the heat of his blood trickle down his neck. Hernandez and Louie tightened their grips on his arms and he sensed two or three more inmates behind him, ready to beat him into compliance or unconsciousness.
The futility of his position presented itself to him strongly. There was more than an hour left to end of shift and Starsky was all the way over in the mess facilities by this time. There was no way Starsky would be able to help him and Hutch realized that Starsky himself might be in peril if Hutch resisted any longer.
“You’re going to burn in Hell, Leo,” Hutch vowed, venom in every syllable.
“Don’t count on it.” Leo opened his fly, pulled out his penis, and thrust it towards Hutch. Hutch didn’t make a move and yet there was someone, digging his fingers into the side of Hutch’s jaw.
The captive man was forced to open his mouth, trying to not smell, to not taste the firm, brownish organ presented to him.
Hutch was learning so much here at CMC. He was learning so much about rape. As Leo urged his erection into Hutch’s mouth and Hutch felt the blade skim along his trachea, he kept learning. When he finally started to suck on Leo’s stiffening penis, he learned even more.
It never was about sex. It was the power, the control, the punishment, the hate. He was learning all about it, now.
Thursday, January 1st, 1981, just before the dinner meal
Starsky jogged alongside his partner. Hutch was doing what he did each exercise period now. He was circling the small, dusty jogging track over and over. Around and around, like a robot on autopilot. Hutch rarely heeded the guards’ warnings that their time was over. He’d run and run and run until someone physically restrained him.
“Hutch. Come on now. We gotta go in.”
Sweat was streaking down Hutch’s face. Even though he didn’t wipe it away, Starsky knew it had to be in his eyes, and it had to burn. But the tall blond, thinner and paler each week he was in prison, just ran on. It was the most steady, detached pace Starsky had ever seen anyone run, and he did it no matter the weather, the heat, the rain, even in the infrequent flakes of snow they encountered this far north in the state.
“Hutch, babe, come on. Stop this.”
Hutch rounded the circle and continued on. Starsky kept up with him. Most of the other men were lined up by now, and the dark haired man knew it wouldn’t be long until one of the guards accosted them.
He touched his partner’s arm. It was rock hard, held stiffly rigid in what Starsky realized had to be emotional agony, so firmly suppressed.
“We’ll run again on Saturday,” Starsky promised. “You have to stop this now, please.”
Hutch didn’t look at him. He ran on. As he rounded the oval of the track near the cluster of men waiting to be led back into the prison building, one of the men put his foot out. Hutch didn’t see it but Starsky did. He jerked at his friend’s arm, pulling him towards the interior lane of the track and thus avoiding the potential fall.
“Get your rocks off some other way, Myers,” Starsky growled.
He steadied the sweating Hutch, holding his waist. The blond looked confused and Starsky figured Hutch must have had really zoned out during his run.
“Let’s go, girls,” one of the guards barked. “Move it!”
Still holding onto his partner, Starsky maneuvered them to the back of the line and they shuffled back inside, a mass of men in light blue CMC prison shirts and cheap blue jeans.
Saturday afternoon, January 3rd
Starsky was beyond surprised when Malcolm, one of the guards, started toward him.
Shit, what’d I do? Survival was the mantra now, and the best way to survive was not to draw attention to oneself. To that end, he spoke to almost no one. If it weren’t for Hutch, he wouldn’t talk to anyone, and Hutch wasn’t much for talking any longer.
But clearly the guard was pointing at him. “Somebody here to see you. She’s in number six,” Malcolm informed him. “Wanted to see Hutchinson, not you, but I know that’s a waste of time, tellin’ him he has a visitor.”
She? Starsky had been expecting Dobey to come up for visiting hours this week. It had been almost a month since he’d made the trip.
But if Hutch’s visitor was a she, it had to be Edith, although she’d never come up here before without her husband. His heart skipped a beat. With everything gone to Hell, he couldn’t even imagine anything happening to Dobey.
He rushed into the visitors’ area, Malcolm having waved him on to go ahead with a guard. Once he was there, he submitted impatiently to the quick pat-down the guard on duty there gave him, then rushed into the main visiting area and moved quickly towards cubicle number six.
He landed in the chair without slowing down, sitting down hard on the battered wooden furniture even as he was reaching for the phone’s handset. His hand stopped in mid-reach, staring dumbfounded at the visitor.
Plainly, the visitor was equally startled.
Starsky was looking through the Plexiglas at a tall, pale, exceedingly well-groomed blonde woman, who looked to be about sixty years of age, although her makeup was perfect and her hair dyed back to the bright blonde it had probably been when she was younger. Bright blue eyes stared at him.
Starsky’s darker blue eyes stared back. His policeman’s memory for faces and places instantly saved him, as he remembered photos in an album that Hutch had never looked at. “Hutch,” he blurted out. “You’re Hutch’s mom!”
* * * *
Marge blinked a couple of times, looking face to face through the clear divider at the person she’d heard so much about over the years. She saw a man who looked to be about her son’s age, a little shorter and perhaps a little more wiry. Short curls of brunet hair framed a face that clearly proclaimed him a Jew, with a largish nose and close set dark eyes.
“Mr. Starsky,” she said, after putting the phone to her ear. “I had asked to see Kenneth?”
Fascinated, she watched the man pull himself together. “I’m sorry,” he told her, carefully. “Hutch doesn’t see visitors. I thought you were our captain’s wife, so I came instead. I’ll, well, I’ll go now.”
“No!” Marge responded. “You’re allowed visitors, too, right? I don’t mind talking to you for a while.”
Starsky looked wary. “Okay.”
That engendered several long seconds of silence.
“You came all the way out here from Duluth?” Starsky finally asked, his tone wondering. “To see Hutch?”
“I’m here to help Kenneth,” she amended. “I’ve been in L.A. for a few days, talking to Captain Dobey and Mr. Bear, seeing if there is anything I can do for him.”
“What d’ya mean, ‘do for him’?”
Marge was taken aback. “To secure his release, of course.”
“To get him sprung from here?”
She nodded. What else would she be here for?
The dark-haired man looked surprised at that. “I didn’t even know you knew we were in here,” he admitted.
“Kenneth wrote me a letter,” she explained, not mentioning that that letter had been brief in the extreme. “He didn’t ask for any kind of help, but I can’t let my son face this alone.”
Marge watched dozens of questions—legitimate ones, no doubt—present themselves to the Jew. To his credit, he didn’t press her.
“He’s not alone,” he stated, at last. “I know he’ll be glad you came but he’s not alone in here.”
She gazed at her son’s friend for a few moments, then smiled, a small fraction of the icy fist that had gripped her heart, thawing. “Yes. I can see that.”
Almost two minutes passed as they stared at each other.
Marge was disappointed. It was perversely interesting to finally lay eyes on the famed “partner” Hutch had raved about after making detective and before severing contact with his family, but she’d really wanted to see her son—not Starsky.
She stirred in her seat. The chair was hard and she’d been sitting so long already. It’d taken her over four hours just to drive up here and now she had to find a hotel, or resign herself to driving back to L.A. tonight.
She was inclined to try to make it back down the coast though. It was peculiar—she never would have thought she’d yearn for the company of Negroes—but she was eager to get back to Captain Dobey’s home. It was a warm, loving place that she wasn’t yet ready to admit made her regret the cold propriety of her house in Duluth.
Thank goodness—thank God—that they’d offered their home to her when it became abundantly clear to everyone she was on a limited budget. She was so very glad to be staying with them. She adored Cal and Rosie, and the Dobey’s were perfect hosts.
“Will you tell Kenneth I was here to see him, please?”
The man nodded immediately. “Of course. I’ll try to have him call ya.” He paused. “Which hotel are you at?”
She was positive that she was going to drive back down there tonight. She wanted to go “home.”
“I’m staying at Captain Dobey’s home,” Marge said. “The phone number is 213-”
“I have the number.” Starsky sounded amazed. “You’re stayin’ with them? How long are you going to be there?”
Marge shrugged, a small, refined movement of her shoulders. Harold had sworn her to the utmost secrecy concerning their plans to get Kenneth, and Starsky, a new trial. She settled for a polite evasion. “Oh, dear, I’m really not sure. I have an open return on my ticket.”
The truth was that she was going to stay as long as it took to get Kenneth out of jail. Looking at the man sitting across from her, with his Semitic features and strong New York accent, she knew—somehow—that her efforts would be best concentrated on getting Kenneth and his friend released.
“I need to get back on the road,” Marge said, candidly. “Ask Kenneth to call me?”
“I’ll tell him, but…” Starsky said, honest with her now. “Things aren’t going too good for us here.”
A shadow crossed his face. Marge watched his expression, fascinated, and completely misunderstood him. Of course they weren’t going well; they were in prison, after all.
“I understand.” She stood up. “Nice to meet you.”
They looked odd, both standing, looking at each other through scratched Plexiglas with phones clutched in their hands.
“Thanks. You too.”
Marge nodded at him, somewhat disconcerted by the intense look in the man’s eyes, and she hung up the phone. She looked at her watch as she grabbed her purse and hurried out of the room. It was five p.m., which meant that she could be home by ten p.m. if she hurried.
She fled the prison, noticing the aura of oppression seemed to lift as the miles flowed by, heading for Harold and Edith and the kids.
Sunday morning. January 4th
The chapel was the same one where Starsky had confronted Leo, but the brunet did his level best to try to forget that whenever he was here. He invariably stayed away from the side of the room where he’d met with Leo that fateful day.
Hunched in a back pew, Starsky stared at the small collection of men that the choir director—a fellow from some local church who’d made it his ministry to organize the singing for the Quad’s bi-weekly Protestant service – had cobbled together.
Hutch was the uncontested star of this motley group of inmates. Starsky congratulated himself again on getting Hutch into this. He’d seen a notice about the choir one evening during an indoor recreation period. He knew that Hutch loved to sing and he knew that this would be good therapy for the aftermath of the rape, and the other… assaults.
Hutch was getting ready for his solo during communion, and Starsky sat up to pay better attention. The robes the members wore were probably castoffs from some church or chorus in the San Luis Obispo community. They were a decidedly faded navy blue, and Hutch’s had to be six inches shorter than it was supposed to be.
He didn’t really notice that any more, or care when he did.
The point was to let Hutch sing. Starsky focused all his attention on the blond as he opened his mouth.
As Hutch’s clear tenor notes rang out in the tiny chapel, Starsky relaxed. He’d always found Hutch’s voice so relaxing, so perfect. He just sat there and enjoyed it, drinking it in.
You’re so good, babe, Starsky thought. Hutch had never pursued his music professionally and it was too late now, too late for everything, but Starsky’s partner still had a fine, fine voice.
This was undoubtedly the high point of his week. He didn’t subscribe to the faith, and it was nothing like the masses he’d gone to with his aunt, but the sermons were short and to the point and usually had a good idea for dealing with life there. More importantly, it was an opportunity for Hutch to sing. That had to help him, letting him sing.
Right?
Starsky looked down at his hands, suddenly despondent. If it would have done any good, he would have prayed, but after many months of trying that, he’d given up.
Tomorrow was Monday and the week would start over again. The drudgery and boredom would start over again. And the abuse would start over again. He closed his eyes in desperation. He’d run out of ideas to keep Hutch protected.
Starsky sensed Hutch looking at him, and he instantly glanced up to the front, in order to meet Hutch’s eyes.
We still have each other, Starsky thought to himself, forcing a smile to his lips for his partner. That’s gotta count for something.
As long as we’re together, I’ll think of something. Something.
Wednesday, January 7th
Oddly enough, they each had a letter from L.A. Usually Edith put her weekly letters for both of them in one envelope, to save on the postage.
These letters weren’t from Edith, though. They bore the return address of the Los Angeles District Attorney. Just seeing the name and address on the business size white envelope was enough to make Starsky’s stomach churn; remembering the allegations, the investigation, and the convictions. Especially the convictions.
The guilty verdicts had been read concurrently as both men had elected to be tried together, despite their attorney’s recommendation to the contrary. The first verdict had come on the bribery charge, and then the second on the accessory after the fact murder charge. Then the obstruction of justice. Only on the accessory before the fact had any good news been heard.
“Shit,” Starsky said, turning to his partner. “What d’ya think they want to stick on us now?”
Of course, Hutch didn’t say anything, but he was already opening his letter. He read it swiftly.
“Starsky,” Hutch said, wonderingly. “Look at this!”
Starsky immediately complied, pulling Hutch’s letter out of his hands. “A retrial?”
* * * *
The next few days passed in a blur for the two men. Dobey had called the next day and left a message for them that, yes, they were really going to be retried on all the charges.
He’d also pulled some strings, Starsky realized, although of course Dobey hadn’t said that. Their trial date was set for the beginning of February, only four weeks away. With the backlog of cases in the system, it was beyond believability that they’d been given a date so soon.
The last few weeks before the trial went very smoothly for both men. The grapevine had supplied the word of the retrial to the general prison population, probably even faster than they’d been told of it. Suddenly, even Leo and his cohorts didn’t want to take a chance that the two men might be released, that they might be cops again before too long.
For himself, Starsky could hardly believe it. What new evidence could have possibly surfaced that would clear them? He would have loved to discuss it with Hutch, but Hutch was still not talking. Oddly enough, Starsky didn’t mind that. He still felt linked to his partner, and they slept together every night, Starsky for his part enjoying a sense of peace being wrapped in his partner’s arms, that he’d never felt before, not even in the World.
The days dwindled down to a couple of weeks, then ten days, then a week, then just a day or so. On February 8th, he was sitting in the back of a sheriff’s patrol car, handcuffed to his partner and dressed in the blue denim CMC garb. The words: “Prisoner California Men’s Colony” was neatly stenciled in black on the back of the light blue shirt.
Starsky stared at the cars whizzing past them on the coastal highway. It was a warm, almost spring, day with not a cloud in the sky. The entire panorama outside the reinforced windows and black grating of the police car spoke of easy, free Southern California life. The laid-back, fun loving California that he’d learned to love and Hutch had embraced wholeheartedly after his arrival.
It was all gone.
“This is a farce,” he opined to the man shackled to him. Hutch nodded, quiet and still as he always was now. “We’re just wasting the taxpayer’s money with this.” Hutch nodded again.
Several moments passed by. Should’ve know better, he thought. Why would Hutch start talking now, after all these months of silence?
“It’s a beautiful day, though,” Hutch said suddenly, turning and looking, really looking, at his partner. “That’s something.”
Starsky nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He scooted a bit closer on the bench seat. “Look at that sunshine. You miss that, bein’ where we were. I’m sorry now I took it for granted.”
Hutch nodded.
“That sun, Hutch,” Starsky started, and Hutch looked at him, his eyes soft. “It’s shining for you. ‘Cause we’re out of there, at least for a while, and the whole world is celebrating. This perfect day is just for you.”
Hutch smiled a little, the links of the handcuffs rattling a bit as he grasped his partner’s hand.
The miles rolled by.
Once they got to LA, they were escorted, still handcuffed, into the main LA jail, downtown near the Parker Center. It had been humiliating that first time, after their initial arrest, to be paraded as prisoners in a place where they’d paraded their own busts. It felt just as bad, all over again.
Dispiritedly—but obediently, as they were well trained in that by now—they allowed themselves to be led through Processing, searched, and locked in a holding cell. There was no sunshine there, and the cell was even smaller than the one they’d been living in since last year.
Ten a.m. the next morning, Monday, February 9th
They entered the courtroom escorted in front of the bailiff. Remmie had been denied on his preliminary motion to let them wear suits or civilian clothes: anything but their prison uniforms.
But since they’d already been convicted, they couldn’t claim prejudice. So they wore their CMC garb.
Their attorney’s request to let them out on bail until the trial (in other words, last night) had also been dismissed.
Things weren’t off to an auspicious start, but thankfully the last thing the bailiff had done upon their arrival in the courtroom was unlock and remove their handcuffs.
Despite that small victory, Starsky was not optimistic.
This isn’t going to go any better than last time, Starsky thought morosely. His only hope now was to try to get Hutch assigned to a different prison, one where he wouldn’t have to be…
Starsky closed his eyes and blocked out the thought. But then you’d be alone, his heart supplied and he swallowed the bitter taste of that prospect.
“Hutch?” The small voice from behind the railing was soft and tentative but carried easily to the two men.
As one, they turned. “Rosie!” Starsky exclaimed.
They hadn’t seen Captain Dobey’s daughter for almost a year. In that time, the girl had turned ten years old and started fourth grade. She was still very pretty but she was growing up. Looking at her preteen years soon, she was just an echo of the little five year old who had been terrified of Leo Moon back when the ex-police officer had tried to kill her father.
Understandably, Harold and Edith didn’t bring her up to CMC on their visits. As much as they might have wanted to, there were places little girls didn’t go.
“Hi,” she said shyly, obviously looking them both over.
Then Hutch did something that Starsky hadn’t expected but reveled in nonetheless. Hutch reached across the railing for the young girl’s hand. “Rosie, darling. What are you doing here?”
Starsky looked up and saw Edith a few rows back. She nodded at him, smiling.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Starsky asked, hearing in a detached way how flat his voice sounded.
Rosie nodded. “I’m excused today. But I gotta do a special report on this.” She gestured at the courtroom.
Starsky shook his head imperceptibly. Rosie was the perfect little girl, a girl like he’d always wanted to have. And he remembered the report Hutch had helped her write just a few years ago. She’d had to do a paper on any state in the US and to no one’s surprise, except maybe Hutch’s, she’d picked Minnesota.
Starsky still remembered evenings at the Dobey’s house, where the tall Norwegian-American had tried to explain to a girl, born and raised in Southern California, the snowbound days with four p.m. sunsets that had been a staple of his childhood.
She’d done the assignment with painstaking care, earning a “B” on it.
There was a slight stir at the back of the courtroom and Starsky looked up to see Hutch’s mother come in. She’s still here? he thought, thoroughly amazed. She nodded to him, looking for Hutch with worry clear in her expression. She made to come up to the railing but the judge was walking in and the Bailiff called the room to order.
So it starts, Starsky thought, gloomily. Well, it can’t go worse than it did last time.
The retrial turned out to be nerve-wracking, especially once they’d discovered how rock solid the evidence was that Dobey and Huggy had put together. After less than five minutes of listening to Dobey testify on the stand, Hutch had turned startled eyes to his partner.
I know, babe, Starsky had thought, as the two men in identical prison garb stared at each other. It’s good. But…
Even Starsky’s thoughts had trailed off then, not wanting the blond to sense, as he did so easily, what Starsky was thinking. He just didn’t want Hutch to get his hopes up too high. The man was teetering on the edge of something and it was all Starsky could do to keep him on this side of functioning sanity.
So much had happened since they’d been convicted that this seemed almost superfluous. Even if they were acquitted on all four charges—and what were the odds of that?—he worried that Hutch would never really recover.
Or would he, for that matter.
Wednesday, February 25th
There was a roar overhead, clearly audible even through the terminal walls and ceiling. Both of them waited until the sound had died away.
“Mother,” Hutch said carefully. “Thank you so much.”
Marge just shook her head. “Are you sure you wouldn’t reconsider?”
Hutch shook his head in turn, a small smile on his face. “No. But thank you.”
The thank you was heartfelt and honest. Initially, Hutch had been surprised that she’d come out here at all. He’d been moved when he realized how determined she’d been to get him out of prison, amazed at how well she’d handled everything, from the prison to Dobey to Starsky and the rest of it, and flabbergasted that she’d defied—basically, stolen—from her husband.
All for me, Hutch thought, amazed still when he thought about it.
“I love you, Kenneth,” his mother vowed, reaching for him.
Hutch accepted the hug. “I love you too, Mom.”
She pulled back slightly. “I’ll miss you, too.”
Hutch nodded. “My home’s here now,” he said, cutting to the point. “For better or for worse.”
“Because Dave’s here.” It wasn’t a question.
Hutch nodded again. “Yeah. Because he’s here.” Of one accord, they turned towards the far side of the waiting area, where a man with dark, curly hair sat patiently waiting.
“Is he always going to be with you?” Marge asked. “Even though you aren’t able to rejoin the police department?” She seemed to already know the answer.
“Yes,” Hutch said, without anger or any attempt to justify it.
“He must be something special,” Marge commented quietly, “to inspire this amount of loyalty.”
“I’ve always been loyal to my friends,” Hutch argued truthfully.
Hutch watched Marge nod. “But it’s never been like this, never with such extreme circumstances. What you’ve both gone through…” Hutch could see the emotion on her face and knew what she suspected had happened to them. He pulled her into a hug, as much to comfort her as to get her to stop talking.
Starsky will be here for me, Mom. You don’t need to worry, he thought.
As he embraced his mother, he thought about what she’d told him last night, that all she could do now was to take Harold at his word that Starsky would be the one, if anyone could, to get Hutch through this.
Hutch was pleased about one thing: instead of focusing on the differences he and Starsky shared—an economic and religious background she’d always spurned—she’d learned during her time in L.A. that what really mattered was what was inside a person. It was a lesson he felt was long overdue for his mother.
The other thing she’d had to have learned was that David Starsky was a rock solid person. An ideal partner for him.
It was still at least a half-hour until they called her flight, but Hutch sensed it was time to make their good-byes. Marge must have too, as she straightened up and offered, “I’ll give your best to your father.”
Hutch tugged at his shirt. “Please do,” Hutch returned, matching her formal tone.
Marge turned towards the waiting area for Gate 23. At the last moment she turned back around slightly. “This is a hard road you’ve chosen, Kenneth.”
“Not for the first time,” he answered instantly.
“No,” she agreed, her voice sad. “But this is something, even for you.”
Hutch inclined his head in agreement.
“I am still your mother, though,” Marge stated, firmly. “And I still love you. And… you have my love and my blessing. Always.”
Hutch sucked in a surprised breath. Those were strong words from a woman more likely to take the easy way out.
“Mom—”
“And give my love to David. Tell him… “Marge seemed to be trying to hold back the tears. “Tell him he doesn’t know how lucky he is.”
“I’m the lucky one,” Hutch said, his voice serious but his expression joyful. He smiled down at his mother. “But I’ll tell him.”
She nodded, and without another word headed toward the gate. “Bye, Mom,” Hutch said to himself, very softly. He knew that this had really been goodbye. He knew he’d never go to Minnesota again—his father was there—and his mother was not going to come back here. Too much had happened.
“I love you.” He stood quietly for several moments, not hearing or seeing Starsky coming up behind him, but having a premonition he was there.
“You ready?” Starsky asked. Hutch turned. “Yeah.”
“Some lady.” The darker man’s voice was serious and the use of the word ‘lady’ didn’t seem to be accidental.
“I never used to think so,” Hutch said, watching his mother walk away. “I loved her, but…”
“Yeah.’
“But now…”
“She’s a lady.”
“Yeah, she is.”
Hutch didn’t tell Starsky about the envelope his mother had given him last night, when they’d gone over to spend a final evening with her at the Dobeys. She had asked him not to look at it until they’d gotten home, and he hadn’t, even though he’d known what was in there.
It’d been money, of course. That had always been Marge and Richard’s answer to everything, money and the resolve to “do the right thing.” Hutch hadn’t taken a dime of their money since he’d left med school.
He knew he’d keep this, though. It turned out to be $710, which Hutch suspected was the last of his mother’s money. He knew he shouldn’t take it, but it was money he simply couldn’t afford not to take. They hadn’t been acquitted on the obstruction of justice charge, although they were now cleared on the murder and bribery convictions.
They still had felony convictions therefore, and Hutch knew they’d never see the money they’d paid the State of California for their fines again, not even if God himself exonerated them.
The first thing they needed to do was find jobs.
Tuesday, March 31st
“Come back to bed, babe,” Hutch entreated again, coming up next to Starsky as the dark haired man stood at the window, staring down at the dark parking lot.
Starsky didn’t acknowledge him in the least. He’d learned a lot of things in these past few weeks of freedom. One, he didn’t like working for Federal Express. Two, he was tired all the time, physically from the job and mentally from all the demons spinning around in his head. Three, they weren’t dealing with the aftermath of prison the way they’d always dealt with problems before. Starsky knew that each of them had to deal with his problems in his own way and at his own pace.
So if Hutch needed to take twice daily showers that lasted indefinitely, he himself was equally at liberty to stand here at two in the morning and reflect on the mess his life was.
Obstinate, like a child, he made a flat statement. “Don’t wanna.”
“Why not?” Hutch’s voice sounded patient, the darkness masking the aging features and the bloodshot eyes.
“Because I don’t want to,” Starsky repeated. Didn’t you hear me the first time?
Hutch merely looked at him, and after a long moment, Starsky trailed him back to the old double bed the furnished apartment they were renting offered. Like everything else in the apartment, including its two tenants, the bed had seen much better days. Starsky missed his old bed from the apartment, his old life, but as almost everything else they’d owned it had been sold for the cash it was worth, to pay down their attorney’s bill.
Throwing himself on the mattress, Starsky made a decision.
He turned over, on his stomach. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You sleepy?”
Hutch shook his head from his side of the bed. He’d just been reaching for the ancient lamp on the nightstand to turn off the light. “No.”
“Then do me a favor?”
“Sure. What?” That was Hutch. Always willing to do anything for him.
“Would you rub my back?”
Hutch looked at Starsky, naked except for his boxers. He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
“There’s some lotion in the bathroom. In the medicine cabinet.”
“Okay, give me a minute.”
Hutch retrieved the little pink bottle, baby lotion, and warmed some in his hand as he walked back to the bed.
He started stroking the tanned skin, dusted with more than a little dark body hair. Hutch’s hands felt soft and comforting to Starsky. Up and down the back he massaged, and Starsky merely laid there quietly.
“Feel good?”
“Yeah.” But Starsky knew he didn’t sound convincing.
“What’s the matter?” Hutch asked, sitting up on his knees.
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” Hutch’s voice was mild and non-threatening.
“Yeah, well.”
“Yeah, well, what?”
Starsky sucked in a deep breath. “Nothing.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Hutch said calmly. “We have to get up in a few hours. Tell me what you want.”
Starsky was quiet but Hutch waited, apparently okay with giving him some time.
“Will you do me a favor?”
“Already am.”
“That’s true.”
“But what’s one more,” Hutch teased. “Go ahead.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, well… will you…” Starsky struggled to keep his voice from trembling. “Will you, you know, go lower?”
“Of course,” Hutch’s response was too quick, sounding startled. He was already rubbing down to the base of Starsky’s spine.
He pulled the boxers down just a few inches.
“Here?”
“Lower.”
“Lower?”
“Lower.”
“Okay.” He went lower. Now, Starsky could feel Hutch urging his underwear down to the top of Starsky’s thighs.
“Like this?”
“Yeah, kind’a.”
“Yeah, kind of, what?”
“Do my ass.”
“I am,” Hutch remarked, very quietly. His hands slowed but did not still completely.
“Not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do my ass, like between them.”
Hutch stopped then. “You sure?”
“Yeah”
“Why, babe?”
“Because, I have to know.”
“Know what?”
“I have to know if I’ll ever be able to have someone touch me there again. And I have to find out.”
“Okay.” Starsky felt Hutch gently going lower, moving his hands towards the crevice in Starsky’s rear. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t okay. Starsky could barely handle it and he was shaking violently the closer Hutch moved his hands, in a slow and careful stroking, to the area Starsky had indicated.
Abruptly, Hutch stopped. “Come here,” he ordered, lying down next to Starsky.
Without a word, Starsky turned towards his partner, a swift, desperate motion. He clung to Hutch’s arms.
“Sshh,” Hutch soothed. Starsky knew he was so tense, there was no way Hutch couldn’t feel it, sense it. “This was a start. That’s all we can ask for. A start.”
Starsky clung to Hutch, knowing that Hutch could feel the wild beating of his heart. “It was a start, Starsk. Be proud of that.”
Starsky had every right to be proud of letting Hutch get as close as he did. And of all the people in the world, Hutch, to his everlasting regret, knew that first hand.
“Go to sleep, Starsk,” Hutch soothed. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you. Get some sleep.” He repeated variations of that until at last, Starsky’s breath evened out and slowed. Ever so softly, he stroked Starsky’s hair. There wasn’t going to be any more sleep for him tonight, but Hutch was going to make sure Starsky rested peacefully.
A few weeks later, Saturday, April 24th
Hutch was drunk.
What else is new? Starsky thought wearily, watching the tall blond carefully pouring himself another one, his wine bottle and glass arrayed on the scarred coffee table.
It was 9:15 at night and Hutch was already deep into his second bottle of wine. It had been first understandable, then tiresome and now worrisome that Hutch couldn’t make it through an evening without the booze. He’d always had a good tolerance for it, but now he drank every night with the steady, determined purpose of a man intent on getting drunk.
Well, it was time to get him to bed. That would give Starsky an hour or so alone in their tiny living room to just relax and reflect on his life. He was doing that a lot lately; especially since that night a few weeks ago.
He turned towards Hutch. “You ready’ta call it a night, babe?” he asked tenderly. Drunk or not, Hutch was still his partner and the only person in his life he really trusted.
Hutch shrugged. “No.”
“Come on, kid. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
And tomorrow was Saturday, the day they had off this week.
That was good. It would give Hutch a nice slow morning to recover from his hangover.
Hutch didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he grabbed his glass and upended it.
Starsky winced to himself. That was number seven for the night. He stood up, extending his hand to his partner. “Here ya go, Hutch. Off to bed.”
Hutch made to get up, moving slowly but not too tipsy. As he got to his feet, though, he did lose his balance a little. Graceful he wasn’t, even when sober.
“Whoa,” Starsky said, moving to steady the other man.
Unfortunately, Hutch’s feet didn’t cooperate and he fell into Starsky’s grasp, his right hand ending up firmly on Starsky’s hip. His eyes were wide and guileless. He leaned over a bit further and before Starsky could really register what was happening, the blond had kissed him on the cheek.
“Hey,” Starsky said softly, still holding onto his friend. “What was that for?”
Hutch straightened up but didn’t move back much. His hand was still on Starsky’s hip.
“I don’t know.” He looked confused but then his expression cleared. “I just wanted… just wanted to do that.”
“Okay,” Starsky agreed cautiously. Drunk Hutch might be, but this was still new ground. They still slept together, both while they were in prison and since being released, and neither man seemed in a hurry to change that. They woke up, inevitably, each morning with the two men clinging to each other. But Starsky had always attributed that to the aftermath of prison and the rapes. Even drunk, Hutch had never put the moves on him. Even when he’d asked for the back rub, Hutch had never done anything like this.
“You’re not quite in the right mind set to do anything here,” Starsky reminded Hutch.
Hutch nodded at once. “I know.”
“You wanna talk?”
Hutch nodded again. “Yes. When I’m sober.”
“Yeah.” Starsky looked at his partner. His eyes were still that clear blue Starsky had always loved, and he’d gotten back much of his tan since starting to work outdoors some with FedEx. He was older, sadder, and just a bit heavier than his prime, but he was still a handsome man.
Years ago, Starsky had sometimes wondered how he ended up friends with someone who was just so darn gorgeous as Hutch, inside and out. Why had it been him? Hutch—at least earlier in his life—could have picked anyone, man or woman, to befriend. Why Starsky?
He’d learned quickly, though, even before they’d finished at the Academy. Underneath the beautiful blondness was a man who was not happy with himself, or his background, or his life. At Starsky’s side, at least until prison, he’d gotten more and more comfortable with himself. Why was everything so demarcated … before California … after Viet Nam … before Prison … ?
Now, two months after their release from CMC, Hutch was a wreck. But he still loved Starsky, of that Starsky was absolutely sure. It was going to be dicey to see where they were going with this, though. Was it the very thing still missing? That thing they both needed to heal and be whole, or was it the death knell?
Starsky pulled himself back. “You wanna go to bed?”
“You coming?”
Starsky paused. “Hutch?”
“Please. Just come to bed. I need you.” Hutch swallowed hard. “I need you.”
“You have me. We’re still partners, see?”
“I know. I just need to know you’ll always be my partner.”
“That’s my line, isn’t it?” Starsky knew he was the one who always expected those he loved to die on him, or leave him.
“Maybe it’s both our lines, now.”
“Yeah, I know.” Starsky started pushing him gently towards the shoebox-sized bedroom they shared.
“Starsk. I want…want another glass of wine.”
Starsky shook his head firmly. “You started this outside of the bed. We need to talk about it before we do anything else.”
“Yeah, so—”
“So I need you to be stone cold sober when we do. And all this drinking isn’t gettin’ you or us anywhere. Not to mention, we sure can’t afford it.” And it’s killing you.
“Okay.”
“Okay. So let’s get you to bed.” Starsky held up his hand. “And, yeah, I’ll come, too.”
As Hutch permitted himself to be led to the bedroom, Starsky wondered why he wasn’t more surprised…more concerned…about what Hutch appeared to be suggesting.
But it was easy. It was Hutch. Even before prison, it had always been Hutch.
As Starsky could have predicted, as soon as Hutch was even partially horizontal, he fell asleep; perhaps what a less charitable observer might have considered a blackout. But when Starsky awoke the next morning, Hutch was already up and dressed.
“Hey,” Starsky said, coming into the kitchen. He wore his hair longer than he had as a cop, and he was sure his curls were a wild tangle.
Hutch looked up from his newspaper. “Hey,” he answered, mildly.
Starsky dropped down into the kitchen chair next to his partner, unsure of how the topic he was going to bring up would go over. He’d dreamed this up last night, though, watching Hutch’s drunken slumber, and did want to see it through.
“I want to go home.”
“Home?”
“Yeah, home.”
Hutch shook his head. “We are home, Starsky.”
Wordlessly, Starsky looked around him at the dive they were renting. It was one step up from a hovel—only one. “No. Home as in, New York.”
* * * *
Hutch set his paper down, troubled. He instantly decided that Starsky’s request was understandable. It was just a few weeks since they’d—he’d—said good-bye to his mother and it was only natural that Starsky would be missing his mother.
But haven’t you learned yet, babe? That you can never go home again?
Hutch knew what Starsky really wanted was his old life back. He seemed to think he could find it “back home.” Who could say? Maybe he really could find it in New York. They certainly weren’t getting anywhere here. “Okay.”
Starsky looked startled, as if he’d been expecting a fight. “Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“How are we gonna get there?” the brunet asked, a guarded note of hope in his voice.
“We’ll have to fly,” Hutch said, practically. “We’ll never get enough time off work to drive.”
Their 1971 Chevy station wagon wasn’t nearly up to the trip, either, but neither of them mentioned that. The Torino was long gone, sold for the fine the court had imposed, and they didn’t seem to be any closer to getting any of that penalty refunded, even in light of their exoneration.
“We can’t afford it.”
“Yeah, we can,” Hutch countered. “We can use the money my mother gave us.”
Hutch watched Starsky’s face. It was their emergency money and shouldn’t be spent on last minute trips. But Starsky hadn’t said that. Also, it was from the Hutchinsons and they had vowed not to take any handouts from them. But Starsky hadn’t said that, either.
“I’ll get the tickets tomorrow at work,” Hutch stated, finally, watching the battle of emotions and thoughts subside from his friend’s expressive face.
It would be a short walk from the FedEx terminal over to the ticketing area for the airlines.
Starsky looked serious, but relieved at the same time. “Thanks.”
Hutch shook his head. “No problem. I’d like to see Rachel myself.” It wasn’t totally a lie. He wanted to see his partner’s face when Starsky saw Rachel.
“Okay,” was all Starsky said. But Hutch could see the relief in his eyes.
Maybe I’d better hit Dobey up for some money, too, Hutch thought ruefully, as Starsky wandered off towards the bathroom. New York is a long, long way from here.
Maybe they could get a better job there. Maybe they could get away with not mentioning they were still technically felons.
Maybe it would be a good move. Maybe it would be a good use of their emergency fund.
Maybe.
Saturday, May 9th
Hutch had been here once before. The only problem was, it had been a different lifetime ago. After saying good night to Rachel, after a long and uncomfortable evening, he stood in the doorway of the small bedroom Starsky’s mother indicated to them. It was the only other bedroom in the cramped apartment, other than Rachel’s, and it had been Starsky’s and his brother’s when they were young.
“Uh, I don’t know about this,” Hutch said uncertainly, as he stared at the bunk beds. “I wish we could’ve afforded a hotel room.”
Dumb comment. They couldn’t, and never would be able to at the rate they were going—FedEx didn’t begin to pay like the Department had, and they were still making payments to Rommie.
He’d been a good lawyer, but an expensive one.
“Yeah.” Starsky didn’t seem to need an explanation even though Hutch wasn’t sure how he was feeling, himself. “We’re gonna make this a double bed.”
“What?”
“Get in here.” Starsky pulled him into the room and shut the door. “We’re going to pull the mattresses down and put ’em on the floor. Make a double bed.”
That sounded great to Hutch. He been enduring nightmares on a distressingly regular basis and he needed Starsky there with him to be able to sleep at all.
But the room redo seemed a little much, especially with Rachel on the other side of the thin bedroom wall.
“Starsk,” he murmured. “What about your mom?”
“What she don’t know won’t hurt her. We’ll fix things up again in the morning before we open the door.”
Even Rachel, not known for standing on ceremony, wouldn’t walk in on two sleeping men, Hutch knew that. But she’d still hear all the commotion in pulling the beds apart and putting them back together.
“She’ll still hear—”
“Well, she’ll have to deal with it.” Starsky’s voice was quiet but fierce. “We’re doing this, and it’s not like we’re throwing anything in her face.”
There was nothing to throw, Hutch knew. Well, not really.
Not yet.
He also knew that their partnership was evolving into something new and that soon things might be very different. He was taking it slow. Starsky was taking it slow. But he knew he was never going to be separated from this man. How involved they got would be anyone’s guess, with the dual wild cards of the rapes and the basic sexual orientation they had had their entire lives.
But he wasn’t going to be separated from this man, ever, and he was going to give everything to this man that he wanted, everything he was able to give. He just couldn’t get past the fear of that… not yet.
“Let me help you with that,” he said softly, reaching up to ease the other end of the upper bed’s mattress off its frame and down to the floor.
When they got the two twin mattresses situated, there was going to be an uncomfortable ridge in the middle that they would have to work around, and there wouldn’t be room to walk in the room unless one skimmed the perimeter of the floor, hugging the faded wallpapered walls.
Hutch didn’t care. As the second mattress joined the first on the floor, he exchanged a triumphant glance with his partner. They’d been pretty quiet—one victory—and here was their bed, waiting for them, a second accomplishment.
“Go wash up,” Hutch urged Starsky. “I’ll try to get this set up so we can get some sleep.”
Starsky nodded. Toeing off his sneakers he walked across the mattresses until he was by the closed door, and Hutch.
“Be right back,” he said, giving Hutch a kiss on his cheek. Hutch squeezed his elbow. The kissing was nothing new. They’d kissed once or twice even before CMC, but it was much more frequent now and Hutch definitely felt something he’d never felt before with Starsky. So far it had never led to much—even when he tried, he had a hard time getting and maintaining an erection—but there was a certain thrill in him whenever they exchanged kisses. It was a tiny flame of hope.
“Hurry back, Starsk,” Hutch whispered, as Starsky slipped out the door, gracing Hutch with a smile as he left.
A few weeks later, Monday, June 15th
“Hey, Rachel,” Hutch greeted her wearily, as she came into the kitchen.
“Hello.” The woman stood there for a moment, minimally friendly while apparently not all that pleased to see him. “Where’s Davey?”
“Went down to the deli.”
“Wanted his bagels, did he?” She smiled, as she always did whenever Starsky showed any interest in permanently moving back to New York. Bagels were one of those factors she seized on.
“Well,” Hutch said. He’d figured her out the first night they’d been there. “I like ’em too.”
“What’s not to like?”
Hutch flipped the page of the newspaper, not bothering to answer her.
“Where’d you go last night?”
Hutch shrugged, studying the want ads. He didn’t know his way around Brooklyn. Didn’t want to know his way around Brooklyn.
He didn’t know where they had ended up, but late last night, after dinner and some mindless TV (Rachel liked her TV, so much so that Hutch thought he was going to lose his mind if they sat through just one more evening of sitcoms), Starsky had borrowed his mother’s car. They’d cruised around this corner of the borough.
It was middle class—barely—maybe heading down the socioeconomic scale a bit, but it wasn’t a bad area yet. Starsky had showed him his old PS and the concrete playground on which he’d learned to play basketball. They’d driven past Beth Israel, the temple where he’d made his Bar Mitzvah just before Rachel had sent him to California, and the restaurant Starsky’s grandmother had lived over when he’d been a kid.
Last but not least, they’d headed towards Sheepshead Bay and the 61st Precinct, where Joseph Starsky had worked.
There’d been an empty parking space across the street from the old stone building and Starsky had grabbed it, pulling in and shutting down the motor.
“Doesn’t look much different than the Parker Center,” Hutch finally tried saying after a long and pensive silence, although that wasn’t really true. The building Metro was housed in was probably decades newer and several floors taller than this dated structure.
“No,” Starsky had conceded, quietly. “I guess all police stations have that universal look.”
“Did you ever go here, to see him?”
Starsky had shaken his head in the darkness. “No. He worked nights, and it was a bit of a hike from 84th Street, especially as young as I was then. But he took me here once, when he was out on sick days for a while and had to pick up his paycheck.”
“Did you ever think you’d be a cop someday?”
Starsky’d laughed softly. “Nah. Cops were heroes to me… untouchable, perfect. I never thought I’d be good enough.”
Good enough to be a cop like Dad, Hutch had heard underneath Starsky’s off-handed words.
“But you did. You picked up where he left off.”
“Yeah, I did. For a while. At least, I thought I did. I never thought it would go down like it did.”
Hutch had let the comment lie for a few moments. When he did speak, he scooted closer to Starsky on the bench seat of the Ford Galaxy and lowered his voice even more. “Yeah. I bet he never thought it would go down like it did for him, either.”
Starsky had nodded, his eyes fixed on the building. “No, I don’t think he did. I mean, he knew he was chipping away at something way bigger than him, but I don’t think he expected them to …”
Starsky’s voice then trailed off and Hutch had the good sense not to say anything.
“I guess he didn’t expect them to assassinate him.”
“That’s one difference then,” Hutch had said. “We’re not dead yet.”
“No.”
“It was hard, what happened to us, and we’ll never be able to get back on the force, but we’re still alive. Still kicking.”
Starsky looked at him then and found Hutch’s hand with his. “Yeah.”
“It’s something, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Starsky had admitted, honestly. “For a while I wasn’t sure. But now, now I think so. That it’s good, that we’ll make it.”
Hutch had looked back at him, encouragingly.
“And of course, we have something Pop didn’t have.”
“Us,” Hutch completed immediately.
“Yeah, us.”
Rachel was talking again and that dragged Hutch’s attention back to the day now dawning.
“You gonna look for work today?”
“I don’t know,” Hutch told her. They needed to, but it depended on what Starsky wanted to do. Personally he didn’t really want to stay here but he was going to do anything Starsky wanted. Starsky had pulled him through the… assault—the assaults—and the whole thing, the Time Inside, and he was endlessly grateful. He’d even stay in this dirty, crowded, cold city if Starsky wanted them to.
But the mattresses on the floor had to go.
* * * *
All in all, Hutch decided that evening, New York wasn’t all that bad. Not that great, but not that bad. It wasn’t home, it wasn’t where he wanted to be, but it was okay. And he could stay here, if that’s what Starsky preferred, if that were what his partner felt he wanted. Hutch had learned the hard way that what he needed—all he needed—was Starsky. So he was more than willing to make sacrifices for his partner, even if it meant living here in New York.
They could find jobs, no problem. That’s what they’d spent all day doing. The only problem was those jobs’ legality. In the past two days, he’d met a bunch of Starsky’s old friends. He could now see why Nicky was the way he was.
“Hey,” Starsky said, walking up to a group of men about his age, standing outside the tiny convenience store down the street from his mom’s apartment.
There was a moment of group hesitation and wariness that Hutch recognized from the time they’d done Inside. Some of these guys—all of these guys?—were no strangers to the joint.
“Davey,” one of them said, after a beat. “Hey!”
Then it was backslapping and friendly punches, lots of male macho noises that always reminded Hutch of rutting pigs. In any case, this many men made him nervous now, after everything that had happened. He backed up a step or two.
They ignored him, focusing on Starsky. “What’re you doin’ back here?”
They moved down the street en masse, collars up against the damp, with Hutch following a few steps behind but close enough to hear. Starsky filled his old buddies in on the last year. No one mentioned he’d been a cop in LA but surely they’d had to have known. Hutch had learned that not much escaped the neighborhood grapevine in this corner of Bensonhurst.
“Yeah, well, great. If you need something, you call me?”
Starsky was nodding at the man, apparently the de facto leader of the group. His name was Jim, Hutch had heard in the rapid introductions, but they called him Jimbo. Starsky slapped a few palms and watched the group walk away. Hutch was totally ignored until Starsky turned and gave him a big smile.
As they started walking back to Rachel’s apartment, Hutch couldn’t stop thinking about their situation. It all seemed so hopeless and confusing. He and Starsky had talked of little else for weeks. Starsky had even speculated about getting in touch with some of his friends from the old days to see if they could help with better-paying jobs. But Hutch knew in his heart that was the illegal route and had tried to talk Starsky out of such a step.
“There’s no way, Starsk,” he’d told him, but Starsky had apparently already reached that conclusion—there was no way Hutch was going to risk either of them going back to prison.
To be fair, there was a legal route, too. Rachel knew this guy who knew someone else who knew a place over by Fort Hamilton that was hiring maintenance men for the apartment houses they managed. It was good work—union wages, believe it or not—but didn’t include housing, which was really the problem.
They had no place to live. Rachel clearly didn’t want them living with her long term. She wasn’t a dumb woman and some of the looks he’d seen her gift him with made it clear to Hutch that she hadn’t missed much of their relationship.
Just as Marge hadn’t ever really liked Starsky, Rachel seemed to dislike, even resent him, Hutch had discovered. Funny how that was.
And they needed their privacy. Just last night, in her I apartment, they had taken matters just a bit further than they ever had before.
“I’m cold,” Hutch had whispered to his bedmate. “Heat rises and we’re on the floor.”
Starsky had turned towards him. “Yeah. You wanna try to put the beds back together and—”
“No,” Hutch had announced, firmly. “I don’t.”
He’d fallen silent and Starsky simply looked at him, patiently. Finally he had said, “You gotta ask me, Hutch. I don’t want to mess up.”
Hutch had turned over on his stomach. “Get on top of me?”
“You know what’ll happen if I do that,” Starsky had warned, without moving.
“Yeah, I do.”
“You cool with it?”
Hutch had nodded, one eye looking over at his partner; the other, hidden by the pillow.
Starsky hadn’t needed much urging, which Hutch had read as meaning he wanted to go further, too. “Okay, buddy.”
Yes, they were buddies, Hutch remembered thinking as Starsky gently covered Hutch’s back with his body, Starsky’s head resting next to Hutch’s, his arms warm on Hutch’s shoulder, the soft dark hair of Starsky’s body against Hutch’s back, their legs tangled together. And it had been wonderful. The erection Starsky had warned of grew slightly, but never really became much. As the semi-hardness had rested on the edge of his buttocks, Hutch never became alarmed. He’d come a long way.
“You’re great,” Hutch had murmured.
“You too.” The answer had come, soft and immediate. “You warmer now?”
“Yeah.”
Starsky then eased off his back a little and Hutch turned slightly onto his other side. They ended up spooned as close as they could be and ready for sleep. Hutch had been warmer, inside and out. And they hadn’t really needed to move the mattresses last night. Yeah, one would have done. When he’d woken up the next morning, his back ached slightly but he noticed they were still sharing the same—twin—mattress.
Saturday, September 12th, three months later
Hutch heard the footsteps outside their apartment moments before he heard the hesitant rap of knuckles on the thin wooden door.
The sound was soft, as if the person out in the hall didn’t want to knock too loudly.
Hutch knew who it was.
“Hi, Mrs. Panagoria,” Hutch said as he opened the door. He forced his features into what he hoped approximated a pleasant expression. It’d been another long, worrying day. That seemed to be all Hutch did any more: worry. About their finances, their jobs, their future. But since Starsky had taken ill, all his worries had coalesced onto one man, a man Hutch knew he couldn’t live without.
“How is he tonight, Ken’?” the elderly woman asked quietly. She was slight in stature, and extreme age had dulled the olive luster of her complexion to a dull greenish-gray.
Hutch paused a moment, gathering his emotions to himself. “Still pretty sick.”
“The fever still? It still hasn’t broken’?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s just a shame.” The white haired woman paused a moment, and Hutch sensed it wasn’t good news. “Rachel called a few minutes ago.”
Hutch took a deep breath. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“She’s worried.”
No shit, Hutch thought. What does she think I’m doing? Dancing for joy? I’m worried, too. “I know that, but—”
“I just wanted to let you know she was coming over,” the woman continued carefully, her eyes on his face.
“Oh, damn,” Hutch said, allowing himself to sag a bit against the chipped paint of the doorjamb. His dismay was heartfelt. Ever since the blow-up in July when Rachel had more than suggested they move out of her apartment, he and Rachel hadn’t been able to tolerate each other.
“You can use the phone, if you want,” the woman offered.
Hutch was shaking his head. They didn’t have a phone here in their new place—not a lot of heat, either, just what they could coax from the two ancient radiators in the apartment—and Mrs. Panagoria was always gracious enough to let them use her telephone. “No, thanks. I think I’ll just check on him, and… ”
And wait for the onslaught.
Even as his helpful neighbor was murmuring her good-byes, Hutch was closing the door quietly and crossing back across the small, dark living room to their bedroom. He moved quickly but quietly. Starsky was so sick. And Hutch was beside himself with worry.
It’d started about five days ago. They’d finally found a way to make a minimal living, and were working as day laborers, taking the subway over to the docks and taking whatever job was offered them. It was hard work: back-breaking, long, and cold, and the pay—they weren’t in the union—low. They worked together, as there was no power on earth that could pry them apart, but even working together, spelling each other, the work was exhausting.
Starsky hadn’t been feeling well for perhaps a day, and that morning, he’d been slow getting up and getting dressed. Hutch hadn’t fussed at him, if for no other reason than he himself didn’t have any energy either. Hutch had had his customary breakfast, bread and a slice of cheese, but Starsky had ended up not having enough time even for coffee.
By lunch that day, drenched from the mist from the river and the temperature that hovered in the mid-fifties, just warm enough to sweat, just cool enough to thoroughly chill one deep down to his soul, Starsky was visibly ill. Hutch saw it about 10:30. By lunch, every stevedore they were working with saw it, too.
“I gotta get him home, Mikey,” Hutch had explained to the foreman, who’d been in his office drinking coffee. “Okay?”
The tall, sandy-haired man had looked Hutch over carefully. The whiskey all the dockworkers had informed him the Irishman whiled away his evenings with had left Mikey’s face with a telltale ruddiness that made him seem perpetually wind-burnt.
Mikey was doubtful, as he sat there by his portable space heater, his fingers· wrapped around a mug of coffee far warmer than Hutch ever got working mere feet from the Atlantic Ocean. “Okay. If he’s really that—”
“He is,” Hutch interrupted abruptly. “I’ll be back tomorrow. He’ll be back as soon as he’s better.”
Suspicion was still written on the man’s face, but Hutch didn’t care. There had to be other work available somewhere in New York City, and even more to the point, all he cared about right now was Starsky.
He rushed back to the rude enclosure the dockworkers were provided for some shelter in weather like this, and collected his partner. Starsky was huddled in the corner.
“Come on, Starsky,” he said, faking some heartiness to his voice. It wouldn’t do for any of the men to sense the panicked love that was rocketing through him. “Let’s get you back to your place.”
In contrast to Hutch, Starsky was quite popular among the men—only Hutch knew how different Starsky was now, how much prison had changed him. Only Hutch knew that this wasn’t the real Starsky, the man he’d been—so the well-wishes that followed them out of the area were sincere.
As it happened, Hutch hadn’t been able to leave Starsky long enough to go back to work since. They were down to their last ten dollars and the rent was due in a week and a half. Hutch was frantic at how ill Starsky was. And if he wasn’t worrying about that, he was worrying about how they would eat, where they would live.
I gotta call Mother, or Dobey, he had thought, not for the first time. I’ve got to get us some help here.
By that night, Starsky had developed a fever that was at least 101, and it stayed there, no matter how much water Hutch got into Starsky, the aspirin, the warm blankets, the hot soup. Nothing he did worked.
Rachel had started calling two nights ago, somehow having learned that Starsky was sick. Mrs. Panagoria had come down the hall more than once to tell Hutch he was wanted on the phone. He never consented to talk, though. He and Rachel had nothing left to say to each other.
Once he’s better, Hutch thought, as he entered the tiny bedroom and crouched down by the bed. We have to get back to L.A. We’re going to go back to L.A, even if we have to hitchhike the entire country.
Somehow they’d make it. Maybe he could find some social City that would let him make a long distance call to Minnesota. Or L.A. Anywhere, anyone, that could give them some help.
“Hey, babe,” Hutch said, running the back of his hand over Starsky’s cheek, his touch loving. “How’re ya feeling?”
Starsky swallowed hard, and Hutch was ready with the water.
Starsky waved it off. “Better. Maybe a little.”
It was a lie. And Hutch knew it was a lie. He let his head rock back a fraction. Oh, please, God. Help us. Help me.
Just then, Hutch heard the knock on the door. Shit! he screamed inside. Just what I need.
“Who’s that?” Starsky asked, his voice barely a whisper and the words imperfectly formed.
“I’ll go see, buddy,” Hutch said, stroking Starsky’s hair. “You just rest. I’ll be right back.”
It was a small apartment and it took only a few steps for Hutch to reach the unpainted front door.
“Rachel.”
The small woman stood on the other side of the threshold. “Ken. How is he?”
Hutch couldn’t leave Rachel there in the hallway as much as he might have liked to. It wasn’t the best of neighborhoods after dark. “Come in. He’s not feeling all that well.”
Rachel made to head to the one other door in the apartment, what she’d correctly divined was the door to the bedroom. Easily Hutch moved to block her.
‘I want to see him.”
“Yes, I know,” Hutch started. He had some ground rules first, because Starsky couldn’t afford to get upset. “But you can’t—”
They both heard it at once. A small, soft voice that reached into Hutch’s soul and triggered every panicked fear he’d ever had. Rachel was already moving around him.
“Hutch. Need you… ”
Hutch overtook Rachel and reached Starsky’s bedside first, but Rachel was right behind him. “I’m here, Starsk. I’m here.”
Starsky’s face was paler than Hutch had ever seen it, and he was sweaty, with an odd smell. His skin was cool to the touch.
“For God’s sake,” Rachel hissed at Hutch. “He’s very sick!”
“I know that,” Hutch snapped, at the same time reaching for Starsky’s grasping hand and holding it tight. “I know he’s very sick!”
If only I’d stayed in med school, I’d know what to do! But I didn’t, and I don’t!
“He has to get home now. I have to get the doctor in to see him.”
Hutch was shaking his head no even as Starsky’s eyes were meeting his and telling him what he already knew, that the answer was yes. They needed help and just didn’t have the resources or contacts to get it without outside assistance. Rachel was going to win—she was going to manage to separate them and keep Starsky at home with her, while Hutch would be left to fend for himself.
“Let me get him dressed,” Hutch told her, shortly. “We’ll be right out.”
Rachel looked as if she was going to argue the point, but with a curt nod, she left the room. Not before, however, touching her son on the cheek. “Once you’re back home, Davey, you’ll feel better. I’ll get Dr. Weinstein in to see you.”
And so it was that several hours later, Starsky was back in his old bedroom, in his old bed, with the quilts and blankets he’d used as a child piled on him. It would have been humiliating if Hutch had had any energy left to ponder it.
Rachel had lined everything up before she’d even gotten to their apartment, right up to having the taxi wait for her as she’d ventured up the three flights of stairs to see her boy.
Dr. Weinstein had been at her apartment within ten minutes of being called, and homemade chicken soup was bubbling on the stove while tins of crackers stood waiting.
The doctor had diagnosed Starsky’s malady as the flu, and was sufficiently concerned about his condition to make a promise to come back tomorrow to check on him. There was nothing he could do to cure the virus, but he did get the fever down and prescribed medicine to ameliorate the symptoms of the disease.
Starsky looked much, much more relaxed by the time Hutch had regained his side. Hutch could almost believe he looked better, even though only a few minutes had passed.
“You gave me a scare, babe,” Hutch murmured quietly.
Starsky was clean, relaxed, and obviously starting to feel human again. “I know,” he counseled, holding Hutch’s hand to his chest. “Sorry.”
“No need,” Hutch said, shaking his head. “Just don’t do it again.”
“Promise,” Starsky said, his voice still weak but his diction far more clear and understandable than it had been. “Never again.”
“Davey?” Rachel was at the door, looking at them. Hutch was sitting on the edge of the bunk bed, bent over just a bit so that his head didn’t hit the upper bunk. “How’re you feelin’?”
“Better,” Starsky said. “Much better.” He lifted his head just for a moment. “Thanks.”
Hutch paused a moment, but then spoke, his voice sincere. “Yes, Rachel. Thanks. We owe you one.”
Rachel came into the room then. “No, you don’t. He’s my son, and I’d do anything for him.” She looked directly at Hutch then. “And you’re his friend, and I’d do anything for you.”
There was only one thing the two men wanted from her, and Hutch knew she knew that.
“I hope you sleep well,” she said, not suggesting as she had forcefully—in July, that Hutch take up residence on the couch.
And that was the one thing.
“We will, Ma,” Starsky spoke up, immediately. “Thanks again. You probably saved my life.”
“Your life,” Rachel answered, quietly. “Yes, it’s your life.” She turned quickly. “Sweet dreams.”
Friday, October 30, 1981
Hutch was still dead asleep when Starsky nudged him. “Get up.”
He blinked a couple of times. “Up?” Why in the world did they need to get up? There was nothing to do here, nowhere to go, especially now that they’d lost their day laborer jobs. It’d only been just over a week now that Starsky could even faintly be considered fully recovered.
He’d finally stopped lying to himself. This trip to New York had been a disaster, in more ways than he had time to list. He missed California. He missed it a lot. There was nothing for them here.
“Yeah.” His partner was already handing him his pants.
Hutch yawned. He couldn’t help it. The more he woke up, the more he realized that it was early—too early. And it seemed to be an overcast morning.
“Come on, Hutch. Get up.”
Hutch didn’t argue with Starsky. “Okay, okay. Just give me a minute.”
It was a couple of minutes before he pulled the clothes from yesterday back on, and used the toilet. He stepped out into the main living area of Starsky’s mother’s tiny Brooklyn apartment. “What’s going on?” he asked, quietly. A quick look out the small window near the kitchen confirmed two things for the blond. It was very early and it was very foggy.
Starsky didn’t answer him. He handed Hutch his jacket and they headed for the door. Quietly they stole into the hall and down the narrow staircase. Once outside Starsky produced his mother’s car keys. In a matter of moments they were in the old Ford and heading down the Belt Parkway.
Hutch didn’t bother talking. It was clear Starsky didn’t feel like explaining himself, so Hutch contented himself with looking out the window at the wide expanse of the bay, coated with fog, separating Brooklyn and Staten Island.
They took the exit for the Rockaway beaches and after crossing the bridge, Starsky pulled the car up in the old, cracking asphalt expanse of Riis Park.
“Okay,” Hutch said, with the air of man who’d been patient just about as long as he wanted to be. “Why are we here?”
It was only about 6:00 on a Friday morning and the beach was completely empty. It was cool, verging on cold, with a damp, misty atmosphere settling all across the beach, the huge, old beach house, and the dark green Atlantic Ocean.
Starsky walked along the water’s edge, just this side of getting his sneakers wet.
“Careful,” Hutch warned. Don’t want him to get sick again, with wet feet. The recovery from the flu had been long and difficult.
Starsky seemed to ignore him, but then finally stopped at the end of the beach where it disappeared around a bend back towards Brooklyn proper. They seemed to be the last men alive on the planet. Mist rolled in off the water with the same regularity as the waves rushed the beach.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Starsky announced, staring at the foggy water.
Hutch nodded. He’d had an idea that this was coming. He moved towards the water’s edge and stood just behind his partner.
“Well, we gave it a try.”
Starsky glanced at him. “Yeah. We did.”
“So, it’s back to L.A.?”
Starsky nodded. “Yes. I don’t want to stay here. I want to go back to L.A. I want to force the court to refund at least part of our fine. I want to get a job, our own house, our own car. I want to be a man again.”
Instantly Hutch started to protest: “Be a man, again?”
Starsky stopped him, with a curt move of his hand. “We have to do this, Hutch,” he said, his voice deep and full of conviction. “We have to make someone pay.”
“Pay? Make someone pay? That’ll never happen.” Hutch knew he sounded defeated.
“Yes, it will.” Starsky was unwavering. “They ruined our lives. Financially, physically, emotionally… They took everything we’d worked for and flushed it down the toilet. I’m not taking it any more. I’m tired of scraping by, not having any money, not having our own place to live, not having careers. I want to get back home, to L.A., and then —”
“Heads are going to roll?”
“Yeah!”
“How?” Hutch’s voice was almost lifeless. “How you going to do that? All this time, and—”
“So what? So, it’s been a while. All this time, I had my head up my ass, and wasn’t fighting back. That’s not me. That’s not you. That’s not us.”
“So, we—”
“So we get back there, we get real jobs, and then we get to work. We were raped, Hutch, both of us, by Leo. We can press charges against him, and look into what the hell that warden has running there—”
“For what? Leo’s already locked up! And what do you think we can do to Mccready?” Hutch was beyond incredulous.
“Leo’s in for attempted murder one. That’s not life. Let’s make sure he stays there forever. For the rest of his unnatural existence. And I bet we can rattle Warden McCready’s cage. Shake it and see what drops out. It might not be all that admirable—revenge—but I’m ready to do it. I want it. And I want it now!”
Hutch was feeling a bit more hopeful. “Yeah. They’re both king of the hill there, but it’s a small hill.”
“And one we ain’t never gonna live on, again. And we’re going to get our old lives back. You wait and see.”
“You sound like you’re promising something here,” Hutch noted, his voice quieter.
“I am. I’m promising you, and I’m promising me, and I’m promising us.”
“Us.”
“Yeah. Us.”
Hutch smiled despite himself, seeming to revel in the sound of Starsky’s determination. “You’re convincing me, Starsk,” he said.
“Good! I want to get back to the way I used to be. I want to live where I want to live.” He paused. “I want to be with the person I want to be with. You know?” Starsky looked back, his dark eyes questioning.
Starsky hardly looked happy but Hutch instinctively knew his partner’s mood had nothing to do with him and everything to do with their time in prison. But he was sure there was a glimmer of the old Starsky shining in those beautiful blue eyes.
Hutch looked at him squarely. “You want to give up on everyone else? Settle on me?”
“Yeah. You?”
Hutch nodded, slowly. If they formalized their relationship now, admitted they’d fallen in love, it was nothing more than the destination they’d been heading in since… since God knew when. “Yes. But—”
“I know. I don’t think I can, either.” Starsky turned around at that, only inches from his partner. “But there’re other ways we can do it.”
“There are other ways we can love each other,” Hutch clarified.
“Yeah. Other than… doing it to each other. I know one thing, though.”
Hutch merely looked at him in response.
“I’m never going to ask you to go down on me. Ever.”
Hutch shrugged. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“That’s not important,” Hutch maintained quietly. “What I had to do to those guys, it has nothing to do with what I’d like to do for you.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
Hutch shook his head. “Hard to joke about all that. I just want you to know, I want to make you happy. I got pretty good at that, and I’d—”
Starsky sank down to the cold, wet sand, looking visibly upset. “I don’t believe you.”
“What?” Hutch crouched next to him. “Leo and the guys took everything they could from me. Everything I wish I could share with you now, everything I want to give you, they stole. They got there first, they used me. But I’m not going to put a total halt on my life, my love, because of them.”
Hutch sat next to Starsky, resting on his haunches in the cool sand. “Starsky, making love to you, doing things for you, that’s the best therapy either of us could ask for. Me, I can’t wait. I can’t wait to make you happy.”
“New memories for old.” Starsky clarified. “Ways to be close, that will make us both happy.”
Hutch turned away then, getting back on his feet. “But I’m not sure we’ll ever be happy again.”
“I’m happy,” Starsky protested, standing up as well.
“No, you’re not!” Hutch laughed bitterly. “How can either of us be happy, Starsk? How often do ya smile now, and how often did you have to sober me up so we could make our shift at FedEx, or down at the docks.” He held up his hand. “I’m not blaming you. I mean, how can you be happy? With all that’s happened?”
“Easy. I have you.”
Hutch was expecting that. “That’s not enough, Starsk. Not nearly enough. And you don’t seem happy to me.”
“Are you really that unhappy?”
Hutch was nodding but Starsky was still talking. “Or are you happy in a different way?”
Hutch had opened his mouth to answer without taking the time to hear everything Starsky was saying. But that brought him up short.
“Well?”
“Maybe.” Hutch paused for a long moment. “Maybe I am okay. Maybe it’s just different.”
“Yeah. That’s how I am. I mean, after all that’s happened, I can’t ever be the same guy I was before, but I think I can still make it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. If I have you.”
“You’ve always had me.”
“Yes. I know.”
Hutch took a deep breath. “I know, too. God, Starsk, when I think about— ”
“Then don’t think about it.”
“Kind of hard, you know?”
“Yep. It’s gonna take a lifetime of not thinking about it, to not think about it.”
“So are you sure—”
“Yes.” The darker man paused for a moment. “I’m still not going to ask you to—”
Hutch nodded, then turned his head to look out to sea. “You can. You should. In fact… “Hutch took a deep breath. “I want you to. I want to.”
“No damn way,” Starsky breathed.
“It was you that got me through all that’s happened, Starsk,” Hutch told him, still looking out over the water. “I just hid, in the back of my mind, in a place where we were alone, where we were doing things like that for each other, to each other, because we loved each other. As long as I could stay back there, it didn’t matter what was happening to me everywhere else. What I was being forced to do… it was like it wasn’t real, you know?”
Hutch heard Starsky expel a long breath. “Hutch, I do know. I did the same thing.”
“Actually,” and now Hutch turned to look at him, “I’m looking forward to it. I’m looking forward to getting on my knees in front of you, helping you, making you happy… feeling good.”
Starsky’s eyes met Hutch’s but he didn’t say anything. The concept seemed to be overwhelming his ability to respond.
Hutch smiled slightly. “I want to do this for you, babe. I want to make that dream place in my mind come true. The more I can handle with you, the more we can do together, the less the memories will be able to continue living in my mind. I want to replace those bad memories with wonderful memories of you.”
“You really do.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. I do. I think, longer than I really realized it.”
Starsky shook his head.
Hutch touched him gently. “I can make it good for you, Starsk,” he promised, a bit pathetically. “I’m good at it.”
“Hutch,” Starsky started, and then swallowed. “Stop that. You’re not auditioning for me.”
“I know! It’s just, you seemed—”
“I don’t want you to have to relive that,” Starsky told him, urgently. “I want you to be happy. I want our lives to be like all that shit never happened.”
Hutch shook his head. “Come on. You know that’s not gonna work. We have to take the hand we were dealt and play those cards. If all this was just torture, and we let it ruin us, then they’ve beaten us, and we may as well pack it in.”
Starsky nodded. “Yeah. But I’m not sure about the sex, Hutch. I’m really not sure about you going down on me, on your knees, the way you—”
Hutch nodded. “I know. But I’m okay with it, and I want to. But we’ll take it slow. We have time.”
“We do, at that,” Starsky agreed, looking a little better.
Starsky looked up and down the beach. It was still cold. It was still foggy—more so, if that was possible. The morning light was fighting a losing battle with the lingering gloom of the night. And there was still not a soul in sight other than the two ex-police officers. He stepped closer until he was just a hairsbreadth from his partner.
Hutch made the first move, though.
“I love you, David Starsky.”
Starsky didn’t smile, but his expression did soften. He nodded. “I love you too, Hutch.”
There on the deserted New York beach, the two men grasped forearms, then hugged, and then kissed. Hutch opened his mouth, and let Starsky gently kiss him, as lovers do, as they had become wont to do, and as Hutch knew they would always do from that time on.
“Ready?” Hutch whispered to his partner. It was a simple question with many layers of meaning.
“Yes.”
Holding hands, they made their way through the damp sand back up to the parking lot. There was a lot to do and a lot of decisions to make.
But, finally, after all they’d endured, they’d survived—they’d persevered—and together they’d made the most important decision they could make.
It was funny, Hutch thought as they crested the top of the beach and he espied Rachel’s car parked alone, forlorn in the heavy mist. They had no money, no things they valued, no home they treasured, and no friends who could really relate to what they’d been through. Marge wasn’t comfortable around Starsky and Rachel disliked him, so there was no love lost between the two families. Their careers were over as surely as Carter’s political future, and they didn’t have jobs. And they had no way of getting back home to L.A.
But Hutch couldn’t ever remember being this content, this sure of himself and what he was supposed to be. Squeezing and then releasing Starsky’s hand, he turned towards gleam in his eye. “I’ll race you to the car?”
Starsky took off in a dead out sprint, kicking up sand as he ran. With the abandon of a child, Hutch chased after him, away from the water and towards their future, wherever or however it might unfold.
THE END
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