In Living Everyday

162

Captain Dobey pairs Starsky with a new partner but Starsky has doubts that a partnership with this Hutchinson character will ever work out.

 

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch gen zine, L.A. Vespers 1, which was published in December 1979.

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Captain Harold Dobey sat behind his desk, idly turning the pages of a personnel folder and smiling to himself. This meeting was going to be interesting, if nothing else. Maybe a disaster, he admitted reluctantly, a frown replacing the smile.

The door of his office flew inward, followed by a whirlwind of energy in the form of a dark-haired young man.

“Hiya, Cap’n.” Blue eyes took in the otherwise unoccupied office. “Well? Where is he?”

“Don’t you ever knock?” Dobey rumbled, knowing the protest would go unheeded as it had for three years. “He’ll be here. I want to talk to you first.”

The man sprawled in a chair and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. “Shoot.”

“Get your feet off my desk, Starsky. Maybe you’ll learn a few manners from your new partner.”

A grimace marred the young face, but his feet found their way to the floor. David Starsky was one of Dobey’s best detectives and a constant headache. He was a hot head, always at odds with the traditional method of doing things. Only his extraordinary knack for being correct in his assessment of any given situation had saved him from being canned years ago. But that didn’t make him particularly popular with the other officers in the squad. Most of them flatly refused to work with him or only did so under protest. Being a cop brought enough danger by the very nature of the job. They didn’t need to be tied up with someone who actively sought trouble.

Starsky was never content to sit back and let things happen. He believed a cop’s place was on the street, in the thick of things. Not that there was anything wrong with the philosophy, it was just that most of his fellow officers weren’t too thrilled about being reminded of this volubly and in no uncertain terms when they were a little slow on the uptake.

In the three years Starsky had been in Dobey’s department, he’d gone through seven partners—some kind of record surely. For the last two months he’d worked alone, but that wasn’t good either. In fact, it was downright suicidal. Many times, an immediate back-up was crucial. So far Starsky had been lucky, but luck was a fickle partner, and Dobey had finally, in desperation, looked outside his own department for a solution, He’d found what he considered to be the right person—Kenneth Hutchinson—another young cop, just qualified as sergeant, highly recommended by his uniformed department’s lieutenant. He’d managed to survive the stringent behavior code of the uniformed division while still maintaining his individuality. Reading his record with a practiced eye, Dobey spotted a spirit as unorthodox as Starsky’s, but with a flair for maneuvering his way through the hassles his actions created instead of butting head-on with the powers-that-be as Starsky was wont to do. In short, Dobey hoped that Hutchinson would understand Starsky’s methods while being able to tone down some of the more volatile aspects of his personality.

Dobey sighed quietly and mentally crossed his fingers. A lot was riding on his judgment—Starsky’s career to be exact. The Chief had flatly told him that this was the last chance. Starsky either made it with Hutchinson or he was through with the LAPD. There was no room for temperament when it interfered with the job. Dobey’s arguments that Starsky handled the job itself excellently cut no ice. A cop had to have a partner. The department wouldn’t bear the responsibility for a man’s death because he couldn’t get along with a fellow officer. And what the hell was the matter with Sergeant Starsky anyway?

“You had somethin’ to tell me, Cap’n?”

Dobey looked up and met the curious eyes. He’d intended to give Starsky a pep talk about cooperation and not expecting too much too soon from Hutchinson.

But now he realized with a stab of mingled affection and irritation that it wouldn’t do any good. The problem wasn’t Starsky’s attitude so much as the reactions of others to him. He wasn’t uncooperative in the sense of deliberately causing trouble. He just didn’t understand why other people couldn’t take in a situation at a glance and deal with it in a direct and effective manner. And he couldn’t seem to learn that telling those other persons what they’d done wrong could be couched in some form besides the blunt and often loud truth. He always gave the best of himself and simply expected everyone else to do the same. Unfortunately, most people’s best wasn’t as good as his.

The captain sighed again. “I just wanted to fill you in on a little of Hutchinson’s background. He’s been with the LAPD four years, black-and-white ’til five months ago, one undercover job with Vice….”

* * * *

Ken Hutchinson finished strapping on the still unfamiliar shoulder holster and slid the Magnum into place. The large weapon lay heavily against his side, reminding him with every breath of its deadly presence. In the five months since he’d made plainclothes, he hadn’t drawn the gun once in the line of duty. But today he was starting a new era in his career. If the stories he’d heard about his new partner were true, the quiet times were over. Starsky evidently didn’t believe in the routine or the usual. He opted for the more dramatic approach, seeking out the criminals where they lived.

When he’d first found out about this assignment, several men in Vice had offered him a few words of friendly warning—Starsky was trouble. If he had a choice, they’d say, turn down the job. When asked for specifics, most of the men admitted that they’d never actually worked with Starsky, but they had heard this and that. The three officers who had been detailed with him reluctantly admitted that he was a good cop but didn’t know when to quit. The guy thought he was a one-man Justice League of America, took unnecessary risks, and was a general pain in the ass. Hutch didn’t miss the nuances—these seasoned cops were just a bit jealous of Starsky. He was years younger than most of them and still had an enthusiasm for the job that they’d lost a long time ago. Hutch tried to dismiss their misgivings as so much idle talk, but he couldn’t help wondering.

A queasy feeling of dread settled in his stomach. This job was something outside his experience, combining aspects of both detective and beat work. Dobey had told him that they would sometimes be assigned to special cases—primarily homicide— but were also responsible for anything major that went down in their area of patrol. Like the black-and-whites, a good deal of their time would be spent cruising the streets, but at other times they’d be working undercover. Frankly, Hutch thought the whole thing sounded vague and dangerous.

It wasn’t that he was afraid—in fact, he’d missed the action of the streets—but there was a certain trepidation involved in teaming up with an unknown quantity in an unknown setting. He’d worked most of his four years on the beach, breaking up rowdy parties, arresting dopers, apprehending burglars and robbers, and rarely making the initial report on a dead body. He’d never shot anyone or been shot at. Oh, sure, he’d busted a few heads, made a few contacts, gotten the “feel” of his beat. But now he was going to be placed in a situation that dealt with a different element—the inner city—in a different frame of reference.

There was a measure of anonymity in the barrier placed between the uniformed cop and the public that plain clothes work didn’t provide. A uniformed cop took care of the immediate, arrested the obvious criminal, filed his report, and went on to the next job. He wasn’t responsible for follow-up or questioning or involvement. Sometimes it was frustrating not knowing what happened later, but it was also fairly easy to be just a guy doing a day’s work. The danger was there, of course. Pinning on a badge carried the chance of being killed at any time, but the odds were definitely in favor of survival.

“Hutch.”

His wife’s voice cut across his thoughts.

“Don’t forget the Langsdon’s party tonight. We’ll have to leave by six-thirty to get there in time. And Bob Ailton’s going to be there. If he likes you, I’m sure he’d find a place for you in the business. Marion says he’s looking for a man to take over the Burlingame Complex. You’d be perfect for the position, don’t you think?”

He shrugged into the blue sports jacket and pulled down the cuffs of his shirt. Vanessa was at it again. Four years, and she still insisted that his chosen career as a policeman was just a way to mark time until the big break came along. Lately, it had become an obsession with her. She had renewed her contacts with every important person she had known in college. In the last three weeks they’d been to five society bashes, and each time they had returned home to fight for the rest of the evening. He hadn’t even tried to be nice to the important people they met. How did he ever expect to get ahead if all he did was stand in the corner and talk about the Viet Nam War with some two-bit real estate salesman? Didn’t he care that they had nothing? Absolutely nothing! Did he expect her to go out and work? Was that it? She hadn’t known when she’d married him that he meant to spend the rest of his life—and hers, she might remind him—playing cops and robbers like some ten-year-old kid. Couldn’t he see that there were all kinds of opportunities just waiting for a man with enough guts to take a chance?

And tonight would be no different, except maybe worse. The arguments had become progressively more violent and hurtful. Their relationship had never been quiet, but now there seemed to be a constant tension that had no relief. Her extravagances kept them in continual debt, and he felt vaguely guilty because he couldn’t provide her with the things she wanted.

When they had married, he had been a young man with prospects—a college degree in business, a job in an up-and-coming investment corporation. But he’d always been fascinated by police work, and when the investment firm folded with the recession of ’68, he immediately took the opportunity to apply for a job with the LAPD. And from that day he had found his true niche in life. Maybe it was some kind of missionary complex on his part, but police work satisfied a desire to make things better. He felt needed and necessary.

“Hutch!”

Her voice from the doorway startled him, and he swung around quickly.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you. I’ll be home by six. Where do these people live?” She’d told him last night, but he hadn’t been listening. Today’s meeting had been absorbing his mind. Meeting…. Oh, Lord! He was going to be late.

“San Marino. Real money, not like—”

“Yeah, okay,” he interrupted. “Hey, I’m gonna be late. Gotta go.” He kissed her lightly in passing and made a dash for the door.

“Is your brown suit at the cleaners?” she called after him.

“I don’t know.” He turned at the door, frowning. “Look, Van, I’m in a hurry. Captain Dobey won’t like it if I’m late the first day. You take care of things.”

“You don’t give a damn about this party, do you?” Her voice was strangely quiet, catching his attention more than if she had yelled. “You’re not ever going to be anything but a cop, are you?”

“Van—”

“It’s okay,” she broke in, her tone still calm. “Go on. You’ll be late.”

He looked at her in puzzlement for a moment. This was the first time in months she had brought up the topic without a tirade of protests and complaints. Maybe if he could talk to her now, they could get things settled. But he had fifteen minutes to reach Metro for his nine o’clock appointment.

“We’ll talk about it tonight. I’ll be home early.”

“Sure. Goodbye, Hutch. Take care.” A fleeting smile crossed her face before she turned and walked slowly back into the bedroom.

He stood uncertainly by the open door, tempted to call Dobey and tell him that he’d have to make the meeting later that day. But no… He couldn’t start off this new assignment asking for special favors. He shut the door and hurried down the stairs, his thoughts shifting to his, as yet, unmet partner. Maybe he was married and could tell him a few things.

* * * *

Starsky regarded his captain through half-closed eyes. If Dobey was to be believed, this Hutchinson was God’s gift to law enforcement. A real paragon. Trouble was that he didn’t trust paragons. Too rigid and too interested in their own images.

He glanced at his watch and stifled a groan of impatience. 9:10. The paragon was late, but he’d have a quite logical reason—paragons always did. Unfortunately, even a brilliant excuse wasn’t going to fix things with George Ellerd. Starsky had worked for three months to gain the man’s trust. Now, the whole set-up was going to be shot to hell ’cause this wonder boy couldn’t get to work on time. Besides, even if he did manage to make the meet, he’d have to dump Hutchinson. He’d promised George that no one else would be in on the deal. Not that it made any difference at this point, George was already nervous. If Starsky didn’t show at precisely 10:00, he wouldn’t hang around long enough to find out why.

“So, how’s Hutchinson sound?” Dobey asked as he closed the personnel folder.

“Terrific,” Starsky muttered sarcastically.

“Give the man a chance. Just because—”

“Ah, come on!” he interrupted, jumping to his feet and leaning over the desk. “What am I supposed to do? Clap my hands and offer up praises for the greatest thing to hit the LAPD since Dick Tracy? I haven’t even met the man, much less seen how he reacts on the streets. A bunch of petty theft arrests and one porno ring bust doesn’t exactly make a super cop, you know. I’m gonna need a lot more than some desk jockey’s recommendation to roll over and play hero worshipper.”

“That’s enough,” Dobey growled.

Starsky pushed away from the desk in disgust and paced restlessly over to a window. The L.A. air was clear for once, the Hollywood Hills visible to the north. But Starsky wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the view. He didn’t want a new partner, and especially he didn’t want this wet-behind-the-ears patrolman. Things were rough on the streets. A cop needed every sense alert to do his job, not the necessity of looking out for someone who didn’t know his way around. Sure, he knew everyone had to start somewhere, but his beat wasn’t the place.

“I don’t know why I need a partner anyway. I work better on my own. You could just—”

“I said, that’s enough!” Dobey snapped. “You know the regs as well as I do. Now, if you want to stay on the force, you’d damned well better make an effort to get along with Hutchinson.”

Starsky turned to eye the captain closely. What did he mean, “If you want to stay on the force”? He was just about to ask him exactly that when a knock sounded on the door. He stared in mild shock as the Brooks Brothers’ West Coast edition entered the room in response to Dobey’s barked “Come in!” The urge to whistle in mock appreciation was hard to suppress, but he managed, settling instead for a lop-sided grin and a raised eyebrow. He looked down at his own scruffy jeans and beat up sneakers, anticipating the double-takes they were going to get when they left the office.

Dobey walked around the desk to shake hands with Hutchinson and turned to frown warningly at Starsky who was leaning nonchalantly against the window frame.

“Officer Hutchinson, this is your partner, David Starsky. Starsky, Ken Hutchinson.”

Blue eyes, a lighter shade than his own, met his candidly, curiosity and a measure of caution evident. It wasn’t quite the expression Starsky had expected, and in some way, it disappointed him.

“Officer Starsky, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Hutchinson crossed the small office to extend a hand in greeting. Starsky shrugged and stood up. If he was going to be stuck with this guy, he might as well make the best of it—as long as it lasted, that was.

“Cap’n Dobey tells me you’re pretty great yourself.” It was difficult keeping the sarcasm from his voice, but he tried.

A puzzled look crossed the blond cop’s face, and then he smiled. “I never pay attention to anyone else’s opinions of my fellow officers, do you?”

For a minute, the words just sat there on the surface of Starsky’s mind. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Then with a shock of mixed humor and chagrin, meaning suddenly penetrated. Score one for the new kid. At least he wasn’t slow on the comeback. Could be he was a little too fast for comfort. Starsky caught Dobey’s quickly suppressed grin and glanced back at the now quite innocent look on Hutchinson’s face.

“Sit down,” Dobey directed, easing himself into his own chair. “Now, Hutchinson, I filled you in generally on the job you’ll be doing with Starsky. I’ll let him give you the details. Just lay back for the first few days and let him show you the ropes. But this is a team effort.” He shot a meaning look at Starsky. “While each man is expected to pull his own weight, make contacts, keep close tabs on what’s going down out there, when it comes to the crunch, you go in together. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir.”‘

“Okay, any questions before you get started?”

Well, of course. This kind always had questions—proved he was really interested and made the boss feel good.

“No, Sir,” Hutchinson answered quietly.

Starsky glanced at him sharply.

“Then get going,” Dobey went on. “Starsky, I want you in here by three. You’re almost a week behind with reports.”

“Right.” Goddamned paperwork!

“And, Hutchinson, be on time tomorrow.”

Here it came, the great excuse. But Starsky waited in vain. All Hutchinson did was nod acquiescence and walk out ahead of him. Cool. Very cool. In fact, that word described the new guy’s whole approach so far. But whether that was good or bad was still up for grabs. It was better than the golly-gee-whiz-isn’t-this-great enthusiasm he’d anticipated, but it could be that Hutchinson was one of those blase types who never entered into anything wholeheartedly. If so, they wouldn’t deal too long together. Being a cop was Starsky’s whole life, and he didn’t want some wishy-washy clod around who was afraid to get his hands dirty… or his clothes.

Blue eyes intercepted his doubtful look and crinkled in a smile.

“Not the neighborhood fashion, I take it.”

Starsky found himself smiling back. “Well, not exactly, although you’ll sure give ’em somethin’ to talk about.” Suddenly he felt his spirits rise. Maybe this guy wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

* * * *

Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful…. The phrases ran through Hutch’s mind as he hung onto the doorframe of the red car and resisted the urge to close his eyes. If Starsky drove this way when they weren’t on a call, what in heaven’s name would he be like with the siren to help clear a path? It occurred to him that Starsky’s other partners had probably died of heart failure. The Torino abruptly swerved into an empty curb space and came to a tire-destroying halt. Hutch threw out both hands, barely warding off a head-on collision with the windshield. He sat still for a long moment, breathing relaxation back into his muscles. Finally, he sagged against the seat and turned to stare disbelievingly at the unconcerned face of his partner.

“Do you always drive like that?” he asked carefully.

Eyebrows rose over innocent eyes. “Unless I’m in a hurry.”

“Oh.” Nothing else to say to that, except a fervent prayer that he’d never have to ride with Starsky when he was in a hurry.

“Come on, I want you to meet someone.”

“Yeah? Who?” This effectively got his mind off the harrowing drive. A contact, his first on the beat. He climbed out of the car and followed the quick moving man who had jerked open the door of a restaurant and was now indicating for him to enter.

Hutch blinked as he stepped into the dark interior, momentarily blinded by the change of light. When his eyes adjusted, he could make out several tables and booths, plus a long bar. At first, he thought the room deserted, then spied a lone figure at the last stool.

“How’s business, Huggy?” Starsky called as he sauntered over to lean on the bar.

“Gettin’ worse by the minute.”

“Wrong, Hug. I’ve brought you someone who’s gonna class up the joint.”

“Since when do you know someone with class?”

Hutch smiled and shrugged as the black man swung around on the stool to face him, then walked over and extended his hand.

“Huggy Bear, meet Ken Hutchinson, my new partner.”

The man stood up and shook hands casually, eyeing him carefully. “A real pleasure, Officer Hutchinson.” He looked over at Starsky and then back at Hutch.

“What’s a man of refinement such as yourself doing teamed up with a no-class dude like Starsky?”

“Well, I—”

“Ah, come on, Hug,” Starsky interrupted, glancing quickly at his watch. “You know ya love me. And just to show how much I trust you, I’m gonna leave you to tell him all my good qualities.” He jerked his head toward the back of the restaurant and raised inquiring brows. Huggy Bear nodded unhappily and walked around behind the bar.

“What can I get for you, Officer Hutchinson?”

“Huh? Oh….” Hutch drew his attention away from the swinging door through which Starsky had just disappeared. “A Coke, I guess.” What the hell was going on?

“Here you are.” Huggy set the glass in front of him.

“Thank you, Mr… .Mr….”

“Just make it Huggy.”

“Thanks, Huggy. How much?”

“This one’s on the house, a get-acquainted drink. So, how long you known Starsky?”

Hutch looked at his watch. “Forty-five minutes.” His eyes were drawn to the swinging door again. Where had Starsky gone? Not the John, that was on the other side of the room.

Huggy followed the direction of his glance and shrugged. “This a permanent assignment, or just temporary punishment?”

“What?” Hutch looked at him sharply.

Huggy shrugged again. “No offence, but you’re not exactly his type.”

Hutch smiled. “And what would you say his type is?”

“Now that’s a good question.” Huggy leaned his elbows on the bar and stared off into space as if thinking very hard. Finally, he said, “Maybe another suicidal maniac, which I’d say you’re not.”

“No? Why not?” It suddenly dawned on Hutch that this man had probably known Starsky for a long time and evidently was a friend rather than a street contact.

It was possible he could give him a few clues as to how to deal with his new partner. “Well, for one thing, you’re sitting here like a sane person instead of across the alley.”

“What’s across the alley?” So, that’s where he’d gone.

“Your crazy partner and George. I told him he couldn’t trust that dude, but he’s onto a lead to Mariat and thinks George is gonna cooperate. Could be, but George is a hype, and hypes get scared real easy.”

“You saying he might not show?” Great teamwork this was turning out to be. Starsky hadn’t even mentioned a meet, let alone told him what it was about.

“Oh, he’ll show, all right. It’s who he might show with that’s the problem. But—”

Hutch stood up abruptly, a tightening along his shoulders matching the suddenly constricted muscles of his stomach. He’d learned years ago never to ignore these early warnings of danger.

“Show me,” he interrupted.

“I can’t do that,” Huggy protested. “Starsky’d have my hide.”

Hutch leaned across the bar and grabbed the lapels of the man’s blazer. “You won’t have to worry about him; I’m closer. Now, where’d he go?”

“Okay, okay! You’re damaging the threads.” Huggy smoothed the jacket carefully.

“Hurry up!” Hutch demanded from the doorway through which Starsky had exited earlier.

Huggy walked past him, across the dingy hall, and slowly eased open another door. He stuck his head out and looked cautiously up and down the alley. “It’s the white door about thirty feet to the left,” he said in a low voice. “Looks okay. But, man, you go bustin’ in there you’ll queer the deal if it’s goin’ down clean.”

Hutch didn’t bother to answer. The nagging feeling of something wrong was pulling his nerves tighter by the second. He eased the Magnum from its holster and checked the load. Snapping it shut again, he moved slowly into the alley, taking his bearings.

“Hey, you can’t—”

“Shut up!” he hissed. “And get back inside.”

The alley was relatively clean, as such places go—a paved secondary street, wide enough for delivery and garbage trucks to maneuver without much difficulty.

He could see traffic moving on the cross streets at both ends of the block, but nothing stirred here. He edged his way along, keeping low and close against the buildings until he was opposite the door Huggy had indicated. There were no windows, so he’d be going in blind. If he was wrong, he knew he could kiss this job goodbye. Starsky didn’t seem the type to excuse a moment of over enthusiasm if it bungled a case. But he had to risk it. His sixth sense for trouble—cop sense, he’d been told—was working on all systems.

He moved quickly across the pavement, placed an ear against the door, and felt the cold of metal. He’d hear nothing through that. The knob turned noiselessly beneath his fingers as he held his breath and pushed gently. The door swung inward a few inches. Absolute silence. He pushed the door wide enough to slip inside and then closed it again. He remained pressed against the wall for several moments, listening in the dark for anything which would indicate a course of action. When he continued to hear nothing, he felt along the wall next to the door and found a switch. Sickly yellow light filled a long-abandoned storeroom full of trash and empty packing crates. A clear trail led through the thick layer of dirt to another closed door directly in front of him. He turned out the light, intending to make his way across the room by memory.

Maybe it was because he was listening so intently, or perhaps the metal door wasn’t quite as soundproof as he’d thought, but, whatever the reason, he clearly heard the sound of car doors closing outside. Of course, the occupants of the car could be destined for anyone of a half-dozen businesses that backed on the alley. The game was still caution, however, so he moved quickly to a position which would place him behind the door if it were opened.

The wait was short. With much less care than he had used, the door was shoved open, spilling sunlight across the floor. Two men entered, and the door was closed quietly. Darkness descended again, but they evidently knew their way, because they didn’t bother with the light.

The soft footsteps halted on the other side of the room. Hutch waited. There was nothing else to do. The temptation to turn on the light and take them now was great, but so far, they had done nothing to constitute an arrestable offence. Their being here might not even have anything to do with Starsky’s meet, although that possibility was rather remote. What other purpose could they have in this particular building at this precise moment?

After a couple of minutes, a rectangle of dim light appeared in the opposite wall. The men were silhouetted briefly, and then the light was gone. While the door had been open, he had distinctly heard the sound of voices from somewhere close by. One had been his partner’s raised in anger or impatience—he couldn’t tell which.

Hutch moved slowly and silently across the room, slightly disoriented in the dark. A flicker of anger at Starsky’s secretiveness sprang to life. Damnit! They were supposed to be partners, weren’t they? Maybe these two were part of the deal. How the hell was he supposed to know? As it was, he’d have to try to find out what was going on before his own presence was discovered. It would all depend, of course, on the layout of the room beyond. Could be when he opened the door, he’d be in plain sight of the occupants, but somehow he doubted that—there had been no reaction when the other two had gone in. Although, if they had been expected, there wouldn’t necessarily have been any.

Most police work was very straight forward, decidedly lacking in the cloak-and-dagger aspects so dear to the hearts of writers. Hutch had never been in a situation like the one confronting him now. All he had to go on were his instincts. He offered up a quick prayer that they weren’t leading him wrong and quietly pulled the door open.

* * * *

This whole damned thing was turning out to be a waste of time. Starsky glared at the dirty little man and tuned out the whining voice. Goddamned snitch! George had probably never intended to give him any useful information. All he wanted was enough money to make a buy. That was the problem in dealing with junkies, but sometimes it was the only way to make a bigger fish. Where would the street cop be without his desperate snitches?

“Shut up, George,” he interrupted tiredly. “I don’t wanna hear any more of your excuses.”

“But Starsky, I told you I might not be able to get what you wanted by today. Dink don’t exactly trust me, y’know. He’s not just gonna fill me in on Mariat’s plans. It takes time and money.” The high voice took on a wheedling note, one that grated harshly on Starsky’s ears. “I mean, if I was able to make a few more buys, I could sorta talk him around, get him to open up more. You know how it is, don’t ya, Starsky? A man’s gotta have the cash to deal and all.”

“George, I got the bad feeling you been stringing me. I want the information you promised—now—or I’m gonna arrange for you to dry out real quick like. Got it?”

A muscle twitched in the man’s cheek as he threw a hasty glance over his shoulder toward the door. “S-s-sure, all r-right. The b-buy’s goin’ down to-tomorrow.” He took a small step backward.

“Where?” Starsky reached out to collar him, preventing further retreat. Maybe he was going to get something after all.

The flaccid mouth flapped up and down, but no words came forth. Ellerd craned his head around to look toward the open door again, struggling feebly to break free.

Starsky suddenly realized the little man wasn’t just nervous about snitching on Mariat; he was scared senseless. The ability to react immediately to hunches had saved his life more than once in the past. He didn’t hesitate now. Letting go of Ellerd, he flattened himself against the wall by the door, drew his gun, and snapped off the safety.

“Not a sound,” he whispered fiercely to the shaking man. “And don’t move.” An eerie stillness fell, broken only by the quavering gasps of Ellerd, who probably couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. The room in which they waited had once been some kind of office. A battered desk and a few rickety chairs were piled in a corner; one bar in a bank of fluorescent lights flickered nervously. The thought crossed Starsky’s mind that he might have been smart to let Hutchinson know what he was up to. But it was too late to think of precautions now.

Positioned as he was, he would have the drop on anyone who came through the door. But would they be stupid enough to do that? Maybe, if they thought he was unprepared. The silence had been a mistake.

“Come on, George,” he called loudly, hearing his words echo hollowly in the near-empty room, “Quit stalling. Truth time.”

Ellerd stared at him, bug-eyed and dumb.

“What’s the matter?” Starsky went on, his eyes fixed on the doorway. “You forget what you had to tell me?”

And two men, guns ready, stepped into the room. Suddenly the stillness of this deserted place was filled with the noise of death. Before a word could be said, the older of the two shoved the other sideways into Starsky, who went down under the attack, his gun firing harmlessly at the ceiling. Another shot exploded, and the man on top of him screamed in agony, hit by his own partner’s bullet. As Starsky struggled wildly to dislodge the dead weight that pinned him to the floor, a cool voice, easy with authority, spoke. “Police. Freeze.”

The uninjured gunman whirled to face the doorway and stopped, immobile. Very few people were inclined to argue while staring down the bore of a Magnum; this man was no exception.

Starsky finally pushed aside the wounded man, gained his feet, and picked up the man’s gun.

“Are you all right?” Hutchinson asked without taking his eyes from the other man.

“Nothin’ but a bruised ego. How’d you know I could use a little help?”

“Didn’t Dobey tell you?”

“Tell me what?” He plucked the gun from the other hood’s fingers.

“I read minds.” Hutchinson put away his own gun and hustled the man against a wall.

“Oh, yeah? Must come in handy.” He checked the wounded man and found him unconscious.

“Sometimes.” Hutchinson cuffed the prisoner and went through the ritual of reading him his rights. “He dead?” He nodded at the man on the floor.

“Nah, but he’ll need an ambulance.” He slipped his own gun into its holster and pocketed the two he’d confiscated. “I’ll go make the call and bring the car around. Come on, George, we’re gonna take a little walk.”

The snitch looked half-heartedly at the open door, obviously trying to decide if he could make a run for it and realizing he didn’t have a chance. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with this, Starsky. Swear to God. I never seen them two before in my life.”

“Sure, George. Let’s go. Be back in a minute,” he said to Hutchinson and left with Ellerd in tow.

Hot damn! The guy was good—smooth, efficient, no fuss. Just like that and everything was under control. Now, that’s what a cop should be. But how the hell had he known things were going sour? Starsky frowned in puzzlement as he pulled George Ellerd through the back door of Huggy’s restaurant. Maybe Hutchinson did read minds.

* * * *

God, he was tired. Not since his first days as a rookie had he felt this total exhaustion. He knew it was caused by being in a new situation and the need to be constantly alert. But it was a good tiredness, a feeling of accomplishment.

The unwelcome thought of the party he had to attend intruded on his musings. It would be so nice just to go home and relax, but instead he had to get dressed up and spend the whole evening with a bunch of strangers, people he neither liked nor found interesting. Sometimes he brought up his occupation, elaborating on the more sordid aspects, just to see the looks of ill-concealed disgust on their faces. Cops were like garbage men—necessary, but hardly acceptable dinner companions. Of course, Van got furious when he did such things. She’d be furious tonight anyway— he was late after promising to get home early.

A familiar cloud of depression settled over him. He parked the car and climbed out. The satisfaction today’s work had brought slipped away as he stared up at the facade of the modern apartment building. He hated this place—hated its stark elegance, hated the shimmering blue pool and pristine flowerbeds. It was a tediously constructed showplace, lacking warmth or individuality.

He climbed the fake marble stairs, unlocked the door, and stopped. It was the same caution he practiced on the streets, a moment in which to gather himself before facing danger. The comparison didn’t bear examination.

“Van,” he called quickly to exorcise the thought. “I’m home. Sorry I’m late.”

Silence greeted him.

“Van?”

He crossed to the bedroom, noting the unmade bed and pulled-out drawers. The closet doors were pushed open, as was the one to the bathroom. Clothes lay scattered about the room, thrown haphazardly on any available surface. Coming home to a less than neat apartment wasn’t unusual—Van wasn’t the best housekeeper—but this mess was more than ordinary. And where was she?

From force of habit he began straightening the cluttered room, shoving in drawers, jerking the bed covers into some kind of order, piling the discarded clothes on a chair. He’d wondered off and on over the years what Van found to occupy her time while he was at work, but she’d never seemed bored, and he’d learned that questioning her about it only led to quarrels. As he plucked one of his shirts from the top of the chest-of-drawers, a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up, glancing at the scrawled words, and grew still.

The mind when confronted with the unthinkable, fastens upon the trivial. His first thought as his eyes scanned the paper was that he wouldn’t have to attend the party he’d been dreading. The second was that Van still wrote like a child. The letters were rounded and embellished with curlicues—little circles in place of dots on the i’s; large, fancy capitals.

Carrying the note in one hand and the forgotten shirt in the other, he walked into the kitchen and sat at the table.

“Dear Ken,” she’d written—proper form. “I can’t take any more. This isn’t the kind of life I want, and I’ve finally realized you aren’t going to change. Marion’s husband is willing to handle the divorce. He’ll contact you about the settlement and papers. Take care. Van.”

Numbness loosened his grip on the crumpled shirt, which fell to the floor in a silent heap. Some obscure demon prompted him to count the words—forty-two. Please tell us in fifty words or less how to end a marriage.

* * * *

Midnight breakers rolled in with a thundering crash, filling the air with damp coldness that seeped right down to bone. A fine mist leaden with the taste of tears blurred images, blending sand and sea into one unending whole.

He shivered violently and pulled up the collar of his jacket in a futile attempt to stave off the numbing wind. He should go home. This duel with pneumonia was solving nothing. But he couldn’t face returning to that closed-in place of memories—not yet. Nothing seemed as important out here, mere wisps of fog in the night.

The backs of his legs ached with the effort of walking through sand. He found a large outcrop of rock and sat.

What funny creatures human beings were—unhappy with the status quo, fearful of any changes. His marriage had been slowly crumbling around him for years, the balance gradually shifting from pleasure to pain. And yet, now that it was over, he found himself wanting it back.

He swiped half-heartedly at the damp strands of hair that had fallen in his eyes.

Whose fault? His? Hers? Both? Neither? Did it even matter? Maybe he was just looking for an easy way out, a justification for his hurt, a bolster for his ego.

He tried to focus his mind, find what he was really feeling, and all he discovered was an enormous relief, which brought its own guilt. The decision had been made, but he hadn’t had to make it. Did that leave his conscience clear? Make him the injured party? Give him the right to indignation? Absolve him of responsibility? So easy. Her fault—demanding, possessive, avaricious. Avarice, a deadly sin. He gave, and she took and took and….

Gone. The finality hit him full strength, settling down into heart as well as mind. Alone. Again? Still? And who was there to care?

The night washed over him, dark and desolate as only a deserted beach can make night. Few ventured forth here—the lonely and the desperate.

* * * *

Dawn light filtered through the uncurtained kitchen window, seeking him out, invading his solitude. Time to put away night’s sorrows for night’s darkness. They would wait with the patience of those who know their place.

He rose to his feet slowly, physically shrugging off the leaden thoughts, and headed for the bathroom. Routine prompted his actions—shower, shave, brush teeth, put on clothes, strap on holster and gun, dead-bolt door, back car from garage, drive to station….

An hour early. Now what?

He was too new at this job to have accumulated a backlog of paperwork to occupy his time. He knew none of the tired faces that glanced at him indifferently when he entered the squadroom. The smells of stale smoke and scorched coffee wrinkled his nose. Funny how every squadroom he’d ever known smelled the same—like hospitals, police stations had their own identifying odor.

“Need something, mister?”

One of the strangers uncoiled his length from a desk chair and stood up, stubbing out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

“Not really. Just a little early. I’m Ken Hutchinson, Sgt. Starsky’s partner.” Some of the boredom left the man’s face, and six more pairs of eyes turned in his direction.

“Mike Olsen.” He extended a hand, then introduced the others. “Have a seat. Move your feet, Baker.”

Baker groaned with the effort but shifted his feet to the floor and shoved the empty chair toward Hutch.

“Want some coffee?” Olsen asked, sitting down and lighting another cigarette.

“No, thanks.”

“So, they’ve got you teamed with our resident madman, huh?” Olsen’s mouth stretched in a parody of a smile. “How’s Starsky doin’, anyway? Haven’t seen him around in a while. Still burnin’ up the streets?”

Hutch wondered again at the animosity his partner seemed to draw from other cops. A slight edge of hostility entered his voice. “He’s still doing his job, if that’s what you mean.”

The older cop eyed him curiously. “How long have you two worked together?”

“One day.”

Unexpected anger rose in Hutch as Olsen exchanged knowing grins with Baker. He stood up and crossed to the coffee machine, needing to get away from these cynical men before he said something he shouldn’t. He filled a Styrofoam cup with the foul-smelling brew and walked out into the corridor.

Why was he getting so worked up, anyway? Everyone kept telling him that Starsky was bad news. They’d known him a hell of a lot longer than he had—maybe they knew what they were talking about. Maybe Starsky was just an egotistical hot shot, out for the glory at whatever cost. That little episode yesterday hadn’t been exactly reassuring, and, yet… in some way it had settled something between them, established a basis of—his mind balked at friendship—trust? confidence? understanding? Those things were necessary in a partnership, necessary in any relationship….

A beautiful mocking face flashed through his thoughts, twisting his stomach with vicious force. He gulped a mouthful of hot coffee and almost gagged on its bitterness.

He ditched the nearly full cup in a convenient trash can and returned to the squadroom, ignoring the curious eyes that followed him. The file cabinet yielded up a copy of yesterday’s arrest report, and he spent the next fifteen minutes re-reading the information it contained.

One by one the night watch crew drifted out—another shift safely behind them. A shadow fell across his desk, and he glanced up to see Olsen’s lanky frame.

“Sorry if we got off to a bad start, Hutchinson. No hard feelings?”

“Sure.”

“Most of us have worked with Starsky at one time or another, you know. And we just…. Well, just be careful. Heroes die young in this game.”

Hutch watched in silence as Olsen walked out the door, the older cop’s words conjuring up other times and places. Every instructor and superior officer he’d worked under had said much the same thing—a litany endlessly repeated, as if the very act of speaking the words would create some kind of holy protection. Always know as much as possible about any situation before making a move. Never go into a life-threatening situation without proper back-up. Approach all unknown situations as though they were life threatening. Always assume any situation may become life threatening.

And still cops died, all the precautions made futile by the luck of the toss. Maybe that’s the way it was with everything in life. No matter how careful or how well-planned a person thought he was, there was always that element of chance waiting to throw its unexpected curve.

“Makin’ up for yesterday?”

He jumped as the cheerful voice interrupted his thoughts. Starsky propped one hip on the corner of the desk and grinned at him.

Hutch smiled at the reference to his lateness of the day before and shrugged. “Just anxious to get started, I guess. Worms, you know.”

Starsky reached over and picked up the report Hutch had been reading. “Worms are right.” He glanced through the typed pages and then tossed the folder back onto the desk. “Well, let’s go. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find out where Mariat’s buy is goin’ down, if it’s goin’ down.”

* * * *

The streets flowed past the car window in a blur of cluttered shop fronts and faceless people. One block blended into the next until he lost track of where they were and had to orient himself by street signs. Several times he realized long moments had passed with no awareness on his part. Twenty-eight hours of no sleep were catching up to him, making his head ache dully and his stomach twist at unexpected moments. Worse still, his exhausted mind was losing its battle with the encroaching thoughts of things best forgotten.

“You hungry?”

He turned his head to look at Starsky. “Huh?”

“Are you hungry?” Starsky repeated. “They’ve got great tacos here.”

Hutch glanced out the window again and realized with a small start that they were stopped on the parking lot of a walk-up food place. His stomach turned over at the thought of eating.

“Oh… no, no thanks.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Maybe later.”

Starsky shrugged and slid out of the car, sauntering over to the screened service window. Hutch watched him for a minute, then leaned back against the head rest, closing his eyes. Be nice to have no worries, to be so certain of what he wanted. He wondered what it felt like, if he’d ever known or ever would. So tired….

He knew it was the right place, but the station had been subtly altered since yesterday. The glass doors leading into the squadroom were gone. In their place stood a heavy wooden door, firmly locked against intruders. Somehow, he had to gain admittance to the room beyond—his life depended on it—but a frantic search of his pockets failed to produce a key that would fit the lock. Time was running out.

“Looking for something, Kenneth dear?”

He turned to find Van’s laughing face. In her hand she held a shining key.

“Go on. Take it.” She grasped his wrist and slipped the cold metal into his hand.

“No!” Starsky was there, pushing Van’s arm aside and holding out another key. “That’s the wrong one. Take mine.”

Indecision claimed him as he looked from one to the other. Which key? There would be no second chance, the right key the first time. But which? Choose… no time to choose… no time… no time… choose….

“Hey!”

Sudden white light blinded him as he reached out and snatched a key. The door swung open, and he stepped across the threshold.

“Hey, Hutchinson, wake up.”

The floor rocked beneath his feet, the world falling, falling….

His eyes flew open in confusion, staring wildly. The smell of hot sauce filled the car.

“You really sacked out there. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” He sat up, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Lowering his hands, he met his partner’s puzzled gaze. “Sorry about that. Late night.”

“Umm… had a few of those myself. Brought you a Coke. Here.”

The red and white paper cup appeared in front of him. An unexpected tremor raced through him, making his hand shake slightly as he reached for the proffered drink. “Thanks.” He rested the cup on one knee and stared out at the passing traffic, blanking his mind of all thought.

* * * *

Sleep. His body demanded it; his mind craved it. The last three hours of duty had passed in hazy unreality. Thank God they’d been uneventful, but even so he’d made a mess of the day. By the end of watch Starsky had been ready to explode. And somewhere in the cloudy recesses of his brain, he felt sorry about that—he liked Starsky and wanted their partnership to work—but he was too tired to expend much energy on the feeling. He’d apologize Monday….

The realization of something wrong filtered through his exhaustion. The door. He was sure he’d thrown the deadbolt before leaving, and now it was unlocked. He withdrew the key and tried the knob. It turned silently, the door swinging open at his touch. Noises came from the kitchen, pans being moved, a woman’s voice humming “Lady Madonna”—Van’s favorite song.

He followed the sounds and stood in the kitchen doorway watching her remove a casserole from the oven. She placed the hot dish on a trivet and turned around, smiling at him.

“Hi. You look tired. Want a drink?”

“Van….”

“Go take a shower. Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes.” She crossed to the refrigerator, taking a tray of ice from the freezer and a bottle of vermouth from the door shelf. “Martini okay?”

“I… no… I don’t want a drink. Van, what are you doing here?”

“Fixing dinner. What else?” She began measuring gin and vermouth into a pitcher.

He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, shaking his head to clear the fog of confusion. “But the note… you left… you just can’t….”

“Oh, that. I was just mad. It’s all over now.”

The awful hours of the previous evening rushed back in on him, carried on a tidal wave of anger.

“Look at me, damnit!” He reached out and pulled her around to face him, biting into her arm with hurtful fingers. She winced at the pain but made no effort to draw away. Her eyes met his for a moment and then dropped as she moved closer, reaching up to place her free arm around his neck, rubbing her face against his cheek.

“You’re not going to stay angry, are you? Huh? I’m sorry.”

Her perfume rose, subtle spicy seduction. Sorry… sorry…. How many times had he heard that word and said it? Easy way out. I’m sorry and all is right with the world. Start again. Take a breather. Rebuild defenses. Make a new plan. This time, next time, on and on as far as the mind can see, forever and ever ’til death do us part….

He pushed her away, holding her firmly at arm’s length. “Why? Just tell me why.”

“I already told you. I was just mad. I knew you didn’t want to go to the Langsdon’s party, and that you’d turn down Bob Ailton’s job offer without even considering it. And it’s such a great job, too. But I did a lot of thinking last night and had a long talk with Marion and Jim. They… they convinced me I was being unfair. It’s not so bad being married to a… a policeman. At least the work is steady.” She laughed up at him, but the forced quality cut across his frayed nerves.

What had her “friends” said to her? That there was no place in their social set for a divorcee with no money? That the courts had become unsympathetic to young women with no children? That there was nothing they could do to help her?

“So, you’ve decided you can stand a second-class life after all. Is that it?”

Something flickered in her eyes, but she masked it with a quick smile. “Now, Ken, I didn’t mean that. We—”

“What exactly did you mean?”

“You’re hurting me. Let go.”

He released her arms, leaning against the counter as exhaustion claimed him once more. She turned away to busy herself with the martini pitcher. The stirrer clinked loudly in the silence.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Defiance lurked in the words.

“Why did you come back?” Say it’s because you love me, please… make me believe… make it okay….

“Oh, for God’s sake! I just told you. Why do you have to make such a big deal out of everything? I’m here, aren’t I? Isn’t that enough?” The glass stirrer crashed into the sink, shattering into a thousand sharp edges. “Now look what you made me do! Ken, don’t be like this, please. I’m sorry, really. Let’s just forget it, okay?”

He watched her mouth tremble as the tears started and could find no place of sympathy or forgiveness in his heart.

“It won’t work, Van. You should’ve stayed gone.”

“What do you mean?” The tears stopped.

“It’s too late. You made me face a few things last night. None of them were very pleasant, and I can’t forget, or maybe I don’t want to. You were right when you said I wouldn’t change, and I’m too tired to fight with you anymore.”

“But I said—”

“It doesn’t matter what you said. You may even believe it, at least right now. But you’re not going to change either, and I guess I don’t care enough to even want you to.”

“Ken, don’t! I promise I’ll never complain about your job again. We’ll start all over. I’ll get a job or… we could have a baby. I know you—”

He closed his eyes in pain and shut out the memories threatening to drag him into their quagmire. “Shut up! Just shut up.”

The door was a thousand long miles away, each step an act of will.

“Where are you going?”

He shook off her importuning hands and continued the endless journey.

“Ken! If you leave I swear I’ll… I’ll really get a divorce. I’ll take everything. Do you hear me? Everything! Ken. Ken!”

He pulled the door closed and gasped a lungful of cold air. Adrenalin pumped into his bloodstream, setting off a chain reaction of shudders, sending his feet in a frantic race to the car. The engine roared to life, and he sped off into the sanctuary of the night.

* * * *

Some days were pure shit, and this one had been stirred with a stick. Not only hadn’t they turned word one on Mariat, but Hutchinson had wandered through the entire watch like some spaced-out zombie. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d said he wasn’t sick, just tired, but a couple of times he’d looked so bad that Starsky had been tempted to call them out and drive him home. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep from telling him exactly what he thought of a cop who came on duty in an unfit condition. He should’ve known Hutchinson was too good to be true, but yesterday he’d have sworn that Dobey had found a real winner… finally.

Starsky balanced the hot pizza box in one hand and fished over the doorjamb for the key with the other. Snaring it at last, he unlocked the door, shoving inward with his foot and making a well-timed grab for the sliding carton. He kicked the door shut and dumped the pizza on the nearest flat surface, stripping off his jacket and shoulder harness, which landed in a tangled heap on the couch.

“Home sweet home,” he muttered savagely as he retrieved a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and twisted off the lid. At least the beer was cold.

Maybe Hutchinson was a drunk. Alcoholic cops weren’t that rare, and they weren’t all the tired, old men waiting for retirement. He thought about that possibility as he extracted a wedge of cheese-dripping pizza from the box and bit into it. Could be. He remembered the drawn face and shaking hands. God! That’s all he needed. And what the hell was he going to do about it? Unless Hutchinson did something blatantly stupid, Dobey wouldn’t believe it was anything but Starsky’s unwillingness to give the new man a chance. And if he did pull something out of line? What then?

“Probably get himself killed, and it’d end being my fault,” he grumbled. At least there’d be a lot of people who would be willing to think so.

He knew his reputation around the station; it didn’t bother him… not really. He did his job in the only way he knew. It wasn’t in his nature to hang back when something needed doing or to keep quiet when something needed saying. If that cost him points on the popularity poll, so be it. He wasn’t after a congeniality award. Only, sometimes he wished….

A too-large bite of pizza burned his mouth, requiring some effort and considerable pain to swallow. He gulped beer and tossed the unfinished slab of gooey food back into the box.

Damnit, anyway! Why was he thinking such crummy thoughts? It was Hutchinson’s fault—yesterday had been like… like fourteen years ago, like with Jerry. The same feeling of familiarity, the good feeling of belonging, of being able to depend on someone—Hutchinson had brought it all back, all the good times and….

Lies, all lies. No one could depend on anyone but himself. If he believed differently, he was a fool. Hadn’t he learned that the hard way a long time ago? So why had he let Hutchinson get behind the defenses? It didn’t make sense. He hardly knew the guy, and after today he didn’t want to. Even if Hutchinson wasn’t a drunk, he was some kind of flake, and Starsky had no intention of playing keeper to anyone.

Frustration triggered the anger he’d been holding in all day, slamming the lid on the uneaten pizza, cramming the box into the refrigerator, quickening his steps as he headed for the bathroom and a shower.

* * * *

Somewhere, someone was going crazy with a hammer, pounding and pounding and…. He came awake with a start. Bright light shone in his eyes and his ears were filled with muted laughter and off-key music. Blinking in confusion, he sat up and realized he’d fallen asleep in front of the T.V. which was playing away to itself. The pounding came again—the door, someone was knocking on the door.

He glanced at his watch. Who in the world would be here at 1:20 in the morning?

“Just a minute.” He turned off the T.V. and stumbled to the door. “Who is it?”

“Ken Hutchinson,” sounded faintly from the other side.

He jerked open the door. “Hutchinson! What are you doing here?” Surprise made the words loud in the early morning hour.

The blond man jumped slightly, as though slapped. Starsky noted the gray pallor of his face and the bloodshot eyes. Death mask images flashed through his mind.

A trembling hand rose to push back limp hair. “I know it’s late, but I… wanted to… to apologize for today… uh… yesterday. You must have thought….” The voice trailed off into silence, and Hutchinson stared at him blankly. “I guess… I… well, it’s late. Sorry.”

“Hey!” Starsky reached to snag an arm as the man turned away. “You don’t look so good. Why don’t you come in for a few minutes?”

Hutchinson looked down at the hand on his arm as if mesmerized by the sight, then slowly raised his eyes to Starsky’s face. “Do you have the key?”

“Huh?” What was he talking about? Key? “Yeah, yeah, but the door’s open.” He tugged at Hutchinson’s arm, drawing him into the apartment and over to the couch. “Sit down.”

Starsky searched the ravaged face, looking for signs. He didn’t really act like he’d been drinking, but sometimes it was hard to tell. And why was he here, of all places? That apology thing didn’t hold much water. “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“No… thanks. I’d better go.” But he made no effort to stand, remaining slumped on the couch.

“S’okay. No hurry.”

Several minutes passed in silence. Starsky noticed that the disheveled clothes were the same ones he’d been wearing all day. Hadn’t he even been home? He was married, wasn’t he? His wife must be having nervous fits about now. Or maybe she was used to this. For all the talking they’d done that first day, he really knew very little about Hutchinson. Personnel folder information was never very enlightening, being restricted to cold facts, preferably numerical in nature. And he didn’t even know those.

Hutchinson’s eyes closed for a second, then started open. He shook his head and glanced around the room, as if trying to remember where he was. He met Starsky’s gaze and frowned. “I really shouldn’t have bothered you. I’m sorry.” He made an attempt to rise but lost his balance and fell back against the cushions, all the little remaining color draining from his face.

Starsky jumped to his feet and went to stand in front of him. “I don’t think you oughta drive. I’ll take you home.”

“No!” The word exploded with loud harshness. “No, I’m fine.”

“Well, you don’t look fine. Hang on while I get my jacket.” The crazies came out of the woodwork nowadays, and he had to get this one for a partner.

A quick search of the closet failed to turn up the old leather jacket he wore in cold weather, and then he remembered he’d thrown it behind the couch earlier. Returning to the living room, he scooped it off the floor and unwound the elastic harness from its hold on one sleeve. 1:45 on a Saturday night, and what was he doing? Playing taxi driver, for God’s sake. Jesus! And this one was supposed to be a cop? The memory of a deserted office building and a calm voice taking charge surfaced, making him hesitate with the jacket halfway on. He shrugged, trying to dismiss the doubt—a fluke, or a first-day-make-a-good-impression tactic, that was all.

He pulled up the jacket collar and opened the door. “Come on,” he called. When Hutchinson didn’t answer or make any sign of movement, he grimaced in disgust and walked back to the couch. He reached down, grabbed an arm to haul the man to his feet, and stopped. “Oh, for…. Hutchinson! Wake up!” He shook the arm he held, getting no response. A light slap on the face made no impression, either.

Starsky straightened and stood looking down at the sleeping man. Irritation welled up. Of all the…. With less than gentle hands, he shoved the limp body into a horizontal position, not bothering to make it particularly comfortable. Serve him right if he woke up with a stiff neck.

So what was he supposed to do now? Probably ought to call the idiot’s wife. Maybe she knew some magic formula for getting him on his feet. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about where he was. Telephone number. He didn’t know it, and most cops weren’t stupid enough to be listed. But with this guy…. Unfair.

He picked up the receiver and dialed the station, getting the information he needed after a few minutes of flack.

Hutchinson’s phone was answered on the sixth ring—the little woman wasn’t too worried.

“Hello?” Sleep filled the voice.

“Mrs. Hutchinson?”

“Yes. Who’s this?” A slight note of irritation sharpened the words.

“David Starsky, ma’am, your husband’s partner.”

“He’s not here.”

He hesitated for a second, expecting the quick question of concern most cops’ wives always asked. Nothing. “I know. He’s here, at my place. I thought you—”

“Did he ask you to call?” Her voice softened fractionally.

“No. Actually, he’s passed out on my sofa, and I’m not sure what to do.”

“Why ask me?” Cracked glass seeped through the wire.

“Well, he is your husband, and I just assumed you would want—”

“That’s a doubtful assumption, Mr. …uh….”

“Starsky.”

“Whatever. I have a lot to do tomorrow, so while it’s been a real pleasure talking with you—”

The sarcasm in her voice cut abrasively at his already unsteady temper.

“Hey, lady, I don’t know what kind of problems you and Hutchinson are having, and I really don’t care. Just tell me what to do with him if I can get him sobered up.”

Harsh laughter sounded in his ear. “Drunk? Ken? You’ve got to be joking or drunk yourself. That saint’s been sober for five years—the honor of the force and all that.” The amusement left her voice as she continued, “Look, I don’t care what you do with him. Keep him. He’d probably like that.”

The connection broke with a ringing crash. He frowned at the receiver in his hand and slowly cradled it, turning to stare abstractedly at the unconscious man sprawled on his couch. A fight with his wife? Was that what all this was about?

Cops and marital problems were nothing new to Starsky. The job didn’t make for domestic peace—too much pressure, too much overtime, too much emotion expended on the case at hand so there was nothing left for a wife or family. Oh, some of them made it—about half—but it was never easy. It took a special kind of woman to cope with knowing she might be kissing her husband goodbye for the last time, every time. Or to understand when he was called away in the middle of dinner or making love. Or to put up with the nights he just sat and stared at nothing, thinking about a case that was giving problems. No, there weren’t too many of those women around, and from the few words on the phone he’d bet money Mrs. Hutchinson wasn’t one of them. Cold hearted bitch.

He went into the bedroom and snatched up the extra blanket folded across the foot. No need to let the poor bastard freeze.

* * * *

It was well past six o’clock when Starsky started up the stairs to his apartment. He only got Sunday off once a month or so, and this week he’d planned a relaxing day of absolutely nothing. But his nothing tended to loud stereo music or old movies on T.V. With Hutchinson dead to the world on his sofa, he’d been forced to think of something else to do. He’d finally settled on an afternoon at the decrepit theatre on Lancaster that showed revivals of classic films. He’d have enjoyed himself more if he had been able to keep Hutchinson off his mind. But after the second Bogart film ended, he’d given up and returned home, stopping by the Alpha Beta for steaks and salad fixings. Sleeping beauty would probably be starving by now… if he was still here.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open carefully, peering through the near darkness at the sofa. A bare foot hung over the arm, declaring the make-shift bed still occupied. He quietly closed the door and made his way toward the kitchen on soundless sneakered feet.

“Hello.”

He swung around, feeling absurdly like a cat burglar caught with the goods. Hutchinson was sitting up on the couch, massaging one shoulder.

“Decided to join the world of the living, huh?” He set the bag of groceries by the phone and flipped on the kitchen light. Its brightness spilled out into the living room.

“Yeah.”

Their eyes met for a second, but Hutchinson glanced away quickly. He looked lost and bewildered sitting there in his rumpled clothes.

“What time is it?” He stood up and stretched.

“Almost seven. I was just getting ready to cook some steaks. Why don’t you go shower, and I’ll…”

He stopped as the man’s face blanched dead white and took a couple of steps toward him. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“No. Nothing. Just a little dizzy—slept too long. I think I’d better go.”

“Where?” The question was out before Starsky quite realized what he was saying. “I talked to your… wife last night,” he explained quietly.

A flicker of pain lanced across the pale face before Hutchinson turned away. Jerry’s smile flashed through Starsky’s mind, setting off warning signals. Words about a hotel reached him, and he tuned back into the present. “That’s not necessary. You can stay here tonight.”

For a minute, he didn’t think Hutchinson was going to acknowledge his offer, but after a long pause he turned toward Starsky, frowning.

“I don’t want to drag you into this. I’m sorry about last night, but—”

“Look, why don’t you clean up first and have somethin’ to eat? No self-respecting hotel’s gonna let you in like that anyway, and you’ll feel better after some food.”

Hutchinson glanced down at his wrinkled state and smiled ruefully. “Yeah, guess you’re right. But I don’t have any other clothes.”

“Somethin’ of mine’ll probably fit you. Little short in the legs, but they’ll do.” Starsky walked into the bedroom and pulled open the closet. “These aren’t too bad.” He tossed a pair of dark cords on the bed. “And there’s a shirt.” A plaid flannel fell on top of the trousers. “Underwear’s in the top drawer; socks, too, I think. Yell if you need anything else.”

He left the room before Hutchinson could answer. Somehow it was important to keep everything on a light note for the time being. He felt the door opening on a long-closed chamber, and he shied away from what he’d find there.

* * * *

Placing the last plate on the shelf, Starsky hung the dishtowel on a convenient hook and turned to watch as Hutchinson gave the table a final swipe with a sponge. The borrowed cords ended well short of the taller man’s ankles, exposing several inches of white socks. The contrast to Hutchinson’s normally immaculate attire brought a smile to Starsky’s face. But he hadn’t seemed at all embarrassed when he’d appeared for dinner, just seated himself and eaten everything in sight. The only remnant of the wreck of last night was a tenseness about his mouth and dark circles under his eyes.

Hutchinson tossed the sponge into the sink and leaned against the counter next to Starsky. The easy atmosphere of the past hour thickened perceptibly as the silence stretched out. A band of tension tightened along Starsky’s back, creating the need for movement.

Pushing away from the counter, he opened the refrigerator and extracted a bottle of beer. “Want somethin’ to drink?” he called over his shoulder. “There’s beer and Coke and Dr. Pepper and—”

“Starsky.”

“—and milk, but I don’t know how fresh it is. There’s probably—”

“I think we should talk.”

He stared at the bottle in his hand for a second and then replaced it, unopened, on the shelf. Heavy scenes hadn’t figured in his repertoire for many years, but there didn’t seem much way out of this one. “Yeah.” He turned and met the serious gaze of the other man. “Yeah, but look, Hutchinson, you don’t owe me any explanations.”

“Hutch.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Hutch. And I think I do owe you an explanation. I’ve dumped some real trash on you in the last couple of days, and you’ve… well, you were here when I needed someone….”

Hey, Davey, you’re always here when I need you. We always got each other, right?

Yeah, Jer, you’n me.

* * * *

The lamplight reflected off the bowed head, forming another circle of illumination in the otherwise dark room. It was late—almost midnight. Hutch had talked for hours, his voice low and controlled. But Starsky had seen the shadows of old pain come and go across his face and knew that this was costing him. And yet, he also knew it was necessary. Somehow, in talking about it, he was coming to grips with the reality of what had happened, learning to deal with it, put it to rest.

For the last several minutes he’d just sat, lost in thought. Starsky wasn’t sure what to say, if anything. He’d decided the previous night that he didn’t like Hutch’s wife, and he’d heard nothing to change his mind. But people were strange. Even though Hutch sounded like the marriage was over, Starsky’d seen other cases where the anger evaporated after a few days and loneliness sent the warring couples back together. He’d like to tell this man that the best thing he could do would be to forget her and count himself lucky to be out from under. But if Hutch did go back to his wife, there would be no way to reclaim the words, and they would be remembered.

“Do you still love her?” That seemed safe enough.

The bowed shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything but the bad times, but there must have been something good, otherwise….” After a minute he shrugged again and leaned back in the chair, meeting Starsky’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Listening. Making it easier. Hasn’t been the most auspicious beginning for a partnership, I know, but I’ll try to make it up to you.”

Just you name it, Davey. Anything you need, any time. You can count on me.

“Starsky?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” Shut up, you bastard. Leave me alone.

“Did I say something wrong?”

He shook off the thoughts, groping for a way out of the past, a way to lighten the mood. “No. Just thinking….”

“What?”

“Your clothes.”

“My clothes?”

“Yeah. We gotta be at work in eight hours.”

“So?”

“So, I’m not sure the streets are ready for that.” He pointed to white socks bunched around Hutch’s ankles and the bare legs showing above.

“Oh, yeah?” Hutch lifted one foot, turning it this way and that to get a good look. “I think I’d fit right in.”

Starsky shook his head in mock despair. “Hopeless.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m trying.”

In more ways than one, buddy. “S’okay, I’m a good teacher.” He returned the smile Hutch gave him and jumped to his feet. “Hey, it’s late. Seven o’clock always seems to come about four hours too early. This thing’s supposed to make into a bed. Wanna give me a hand?”

“Uh… maybe I’d better—”

“Go to a hotel? Do you want to?” He tossed the cushion he held onto the floor and met the other man’s eyes.

“No… no, I guess I don’t.” Hutch’s voice sounded a little surprised.

Starsky grinned and pulled the remaining cushions off the couch, tugging at the fold-out section. “Come on, partner, heave to. Big day tomorrow, starting with a trip to Avery’s Emporium for you to get some street threads.”

Hutch paused in the process of lowering the extension to the floor. “Is that where you get yours?”

“Yeah, and you won’t believe the prices.”

“Probably not.”

They looked at one another for a second and then broke into helpless laughter, pushing from them, for a while, the painful memories of other times and people.

* * * *

“It’s a great place, Starsk. Small, a picket fence, and right on a canal. Really picturesque.”

“But it’s in Venice.”

“What’s wrong with Venice?”

“Nothin’. Fish die there all the time. Hutch, it smells like—”

“Starsky, Hutchinson, I want to see you both in my office.”

Dobey stood in the doorway to his office, looking from one to the other in irritated puzzlement. In some subtle fashion, both of them had changed over the last three weeks. It wasn’t anything he could put a finger on, and that bothered him. He liked to keep a firm hold on the personalities of his men. But these two had slipped away from him recently, moved in a direction he couldn’t follow.

“What’s up, Cap’n?” Starsky sidled past him into the office and flopped in his usual position—half-sitting, half-reclining in a chair with his feet crossed on one corner of the desk. Hutchinson followed and sat in a more traditional fashion in another chair.

Dobey shoved the door closed and walked around his desk. He picked up a folder, thumbing through the pages briefly before tossing it back on the blotter and sitting down.

“What’s going on?”

Two pairs of blue eyes stared at him in baffled innocence.

“With what, Cap’n?” Starsky asked, glancing at his partner and shrugging.

“Don’t give me that routine. Grant says you two are holding out information that would bag Mariat on a dealing charge.”

“Cap’n! We wouldn’t do anything like that. Would we do somethin’ like that, Hutch?”

“Of course not.” The blond man’s tone of hurt indignation exactly matched that of his partner.

Frustration rose in Dobey. He’d dealt with Starsky like this before—playing it close, not trusting anyone else to come through on a case he felt was important—but he’d been counting on Hutchinson to keep a more sensible approach.

He picked up the file once more, gesturing with it to emphasize his words. “Now listen, both of you. If I find out you’ve been interfering with Narco’s case, I’m gonna hang your butts out to dry. There’s no glory-hounding in this department. You understand?”

“Yessir, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He glared at them for a few seconds then growled, “Well?”

They looked at one another briefly.

“Well what, Captain?” Hutchinson asked politely.

Dobey fixed him with a penetrating stare, but the blond man’s face remained impassive. Damnit! What the hell was going on here? He sank back in his chair, waving a hand toward the door. He knew when he was beaten. “Go on, get out.”

“Nice talkin’ with you, Cap’n,” Starsky quipped as he held the door open for Hutchinson.

Dobey watched them in silence until the door was almost closed. “Hey!”

Starsky leaned back into the room, Hutchinson looking over his shoulder. Both smiled at him.

“You’d better make sure this bust sticks.”

Starsky raised a hand in half-salute and withdrew, pulling the door closed with a soft click.

Dobey sighed, fingering the file folder abstractly. What had he done in putting those two together? Somehow, it wasn’t working out exactly as planned. He shook his head and sighed again in weary resignation. Being a police captain was a nerve-wracking job. He’d gotten what he wanted—a working partnership for Starsky—but….

He pulled a waiting report onto the blotter and opened the cover. A vision of smiles united in defiance of the world floated before him. “God help us all,” he muttered, and began to read.