It’s All in the Details

Starsky and Hutch pursue their hobbies on a quiet afternoon.

“Hutch, is viceroy spelled like v-i-c-e or with an S in the middle?” Starsky asked, nibbling on his pencil. Said pencil was poised above a stack of papers on the kitchen table.

“What?” Hutch looked up from his guitar. He’d been trying to figure out the chords for Elton John’s song “The Bitch is Back” for the last half hour and was having trouble with the fingering. He was going to enter the Song Cover Contest at the community center if it killed him. “Vice–like the department at Metro.”

“Great.” Starsky scribbled a few more words, mumbling to himself. “Brocade…satin pantaloons…”

“Starsky, what the heck are you doing?” Hutch put down the guitar, craning his head to see exactly what he was writing.

“Ever since Sweet Alice–”

“Alice Sweetwater,” Hutch corrected.

“Yeah.” Starsky nodded vigorously, writing down another word or two on his foolscap.

“Ever since Sweet Alice, I mean, Alice, did what?” Hutch coaxed, feeling a bit like he’d fallen down a rabbit hole himself. Talking to Starsky could be like that.

“Oh!” Starsky looked up, bright blue eyes merry. “She’s such a popular romance writer now. Did you know her fourth book, Reined In is actually on the New York Times best seller list?”

“I did.” Hutch grinned. “You told me yesterday–and the day before. Until last year, I never knew you for a closet romance reader.”

“I’ll read anything,” Starsky said, gnawing on his pencil, and abruptly must have realized how that sounded. “I mean, I’ll read any good novel.”

Hutch had finally managed to see over Starsky’s arm curled protectively around his papers. “You’re writing a romance novel, too?”

“It can’t be that hard!” Starsky exclaimed. “Or at least, it shouldn’t be. One woman, one man, an improbable situation where they meet. Kismet and whammo–they have sex.”

“I can tell you, Harlequin will never buy that,” Hutch said dryly, humming Elton John’s song under his breath and practicing the fingering against the wooden table.

“Why not?” Starsky demanded, jotting down another phrase.

“Sex,” Hutch said bluntly.

Starsky stared at him. “It’s in all the novels!”

“Bodice rippers, yes. Not chaste Harlequin or a Regency romance,” Hutch explained.

“How the hell do you know?” Starsky sat back, shoving the pencil behind his ear.

“I–uh.” Hutch was trapped. Time for a full reveal. “I worked in a book store when I was in college. To pay for the ill-fated wedding to Van.”

“Go on–” Starsky prompted.

“Well–I wanted to stay current, help out the customers.” Hutch frowned, picking up the guitar and tuning the G string. “I read. A lot.”

“Of romances…” Starsky chortled. “You read romances!”

“Sure. Never liked Barbara Cortland but Chrissy Chrysler was fantastic and Sue DeVoto was an excellent plotter.”

“Read mine.” Starsky thrust the pile of papers toward him.

“Uh, Starsk–I don’t know. You’re not finished, are you?”

“Won’t be until I figure out how to get the Viceroy to consummate–”

Hutch snatched up the manuscript. “Viceroy LeRoy bent the Duchess Angelika over the end of the brocade spread bed and slid his hand into her satin pantaloons, running a finger over her smooth, silky folds–” His heart sank. Starsky would never make the best seller list with this. “Run-on sentence.”

“What?” Starsky gaped.

“You need an editor.” Hutch strummed his guitar, breaking into song. “And the bitch, the bitch ain’t back. Not an editor, as a matter of fact!”