Leave ‘Em Laughin’

681

An alternate wrap-up to “Shootout” because Vaudeville died for a REASON! Sticking to canon style for this, so it’s gen (horrors!), but with a little suggestive groping, just like the show!

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The place had changed hands, but apparently with no accompanying change in fortune. It looked about the same as on that nightmare of a night, except for garish mural wallpaper on one wall and gold-flecked mirror tiles on another. Even stronger than the odor of the new polyester industrial carpeting — in a color Hutch noted was no longer that of drying blood — the place smelled mostly of garlic and insecticide.

Starsky and Hutch sat at the same corner table where Lockly and his stooge had sat that night, and for the same reason. Most of the other tables were occupied by what appeared to be after-work regulars. Somebody went to the jukebox. Hutch’s gaze went with him for a moment, then returned to the last piece of veal on his plate. Connie Francis started to wail about her mama over the voices and clinkings of the other patrons.

“You said you played Camille in high school.”

He took a sip of his chianti. “Yep. Eleventh grade.” It was starting to taste less awful.

“You really did?”

“Absolutely. Would I lie, so close to maybe meetin’ my maker?”

Hutch’s smile was gentle, but didn’t get anywhere near his eyes. “But it was a regular public school, right? Co-ed.”

Starsky nodded vigorously and stabbed at an olive, examined it, and put it back uneaten.

“So why didn’t some girl play the part?”

“Are you kiddin’? The girls at my school might have been tough enough for maybe, say, Juliet, but Camille had to be somebody who could really defend himself!”

Hutch nearly choked on laughter and reached for his beer to wash it down.

“Hey Hutch, I gotta ask. You know, the thing with throwing the pitcher?”

Hutch had just pressed his napkin to his lips and now took his time lowering it. “Yeah. What about it?”

“Was that just to make me feel like I was helpin’, or did it really?”

Hutch put the napkin down on the table but held it crushed in his hand. Not for the first time over this strange, but necessary, dinner, the memory of his failed attempt to hijack the hit came back with troubling clarity. Over by the bar; that was where Theresa’s jackass boyfriend had sat talking to her just before fucking everything up. His heart started to pound, just as it had when he’d sweet-talked Lockly into letting him go check on Starsky afterward.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah.”

“Flashback?”

“Something like that.”

“Sorry, buddy.” He reached under the table with his free hand and patted Hutch’s thigh.

“No. No, it’s okay. It’s what we came here for, right?” He shifted his body to face Starsky more squarely, and leaned forward a little. “What you did could’ve brought the whole thing to an end if Mr. Muscles-for-Brains over there hadn’t tried to out-macho me at exactly the wrong moment.”

“Oh yeah. The boyfriend. That when that happened? Oh.”

“Starsk, I wouldn’t have asked you to do something that hurt you that badly if I didn’t think it would help get us out sooner, get you to a hospital before…well, you know, in time –”

“Hey. It’s okay –”

Hutch leaned back, finished off his beer, examined the glass for a moment, then set it down. He shot a sideways glance at Starsky and tilted his head back so he was forced to look down his nose at him.

“Anyway, don’t flatter yourself I’d take the time to stroke your ego with everything else I had going on, you know?”

Now Starsky grinned, and leaned abruptly sideways to bump his shoulder against Hutch’s. It was a familiar playful gesture, but this time, it turned his grin into a grimace as pain shot across his back directly to the site of the month-old wound.

Hutch was all over him in a second. “Starsk, you okay?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling for mild comic effect, while he also felt for Hutch’s hand. “What is it about this place makes me want to leave it so bad?”

Hutch signaled to the waitress for their check, then turned to brace Starsky while reaching for his wallet.

“Call it a night, buddy?”

“Fine with me.” He let go of Hutch’s hand.

“You wanna hit the head before we leave?”

Starsky stared at him, his brows drawing together over unblinking eyes. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Bad idea.”

“The worst.”

A female body pressed against the edge of the table and produced a sticky red vinyl folder. “Here you go, gentlemen. Sure I can’t interest you in some tiramisu? Or the Neopolitan ice cream is real good.”

Hutch ignored the folder and whipped out a twenty. “No thanks. Just…keep the change.”

The waitress plucked at the cash. “Hey cool! Come back, okay?”

Starsky mimicked the waitress as she left, his voice barely audible, and pitched girlishly. “Come back, okay?”

“Why Starsk, you really could do Camille!”

“Damn right,” he answered, dropping his voice a little lower than normal this time.

“You could be an undercover detective or something with that talent.”

With Hutch’s help, Starsky got up out of his chair and they headed for the front door.

On the way, Starsky muttered, “I bet Paul Muni’s mother never told him that.”

Hutch held the street door open and ushered him through. “Paul Muni’s mother probably should’ve.”

It felt damn good to leave the place, and this time, to leave it laughing.