Machismo

First published in 2008 in Venice Place Chronicles volume VIII.

Hutch woke up thinking about Starsky.

One minute he was asleep and dreaming about something so insignificant he couldn’t remember it on waking, and the next he was yawning and blinking his way to alertness and wishing he had Starsky beside him for some morning bed gymnastics.

Wait. Was it even morning? Scooting back on his elbows, he sat up and scrutinized the play of sunlight in his messy living room. Afternoon?! His brain kicked into gear, reminding him that he’d stumbled in the door at close to eight a.m. after a killer night shift. His tense shoulder muscles gave corroborating evidence.

This was nuts. Night shift last night, second shift today, and he and Starsky were on the roster for day shift tomorrow–it gave new and painful meaning to the term “swing shift.” Two weeks, they’d been playing musical schedule. He and Starsky had either done something phenomenally stupid or phenomenally “clever” that still rankled, or the captain had given his cooperation to secret government research into the psychological breaking points of plainclothes detectives.

Starsky’s take on the situation: don’t get mad, get even.

Hutch agreed. So far they had come up with half-formed ideas of rigging the candy machine nearest Dobey’s office with an alarm, aided by their contact in the bomb/Demo squad, but they had to get the timing and logistics just right.

Oh, well. Nothing he could do about it now but haul his ass out of bed and to the shower. Behind the glass door, wreathed in steam, he needed a hard jerk-off to shake the burn. If that didn’t clue him in to his readiness for some personal time with his partner, his clothing choices made it clearer than expensive crystal. Without much thought, he stepped into fitted khakis that always got him his fair share of ass-ogling, sifted through a pile of not-so-dirty-they-smelled t-shirts on the couch for a green one, and turned down his letter jacket in favor of a soft suede shirt. Starsky couldn’t resist getting in a few extra back pats or shoulder squeezes when Hutch had on the camel suede.

On his way to the kitchen for a nutritious lunch in a glass, he frowned again at the cluttered living space. Even for him this was sloppy. Swing shifts and Fifi on vacation didn’t make for a clean house. He finger-combed dampness from the tendrils of hair dripping on his collar, shaking his head at the clothes strewn here and there; guitar case on the couch; table covered in papers, books, plates, cups and empty beer cans. Starsky’s vintage bike stood there propped on its kickstand by the piano, part clotheshorse, part shelf and hat rack for Hutch’s things. Hutch smiled, getting a warm feeling from the sight.

In the kitchen, his warmth intensified when he spotted the bottles of root beer sharing shelf space with his goat milk. He dumped ingredients into the blender on autopilot, his mind busy with all the times Starsky had parked his fine ass on that counter in front of the kitchen window to breakfast on root beer and cold pizza.

Funny, how they staked their claim on each other’s places. Here, Starsky kept his old bike, root beer, and a box of weird chocolate-flavored puffed corn cereal, and at Starsky’s apartment, Hutch had put up a couple of his amateur paintings, commandeered a shelf above the stove for an extra supply of vitamins, lecithin, and sea kelp, and left a few other odds and ends lying around.

Most of the time, he didn’t even think about his possessions sharing living space with Starsky, and vice versa. When he did, he knew he had the urge. He could usually go a week or so, maybe two, before the urge got intense. When urge escalated to burn, as it had this afternoon, he wanted Starsky, and no one on the planet could stand in for him.

Getting that personal time was the tricky part. More often than not, Starsky’s urge peaked around the same time as his, but not always, and forget talking about it. Not an option. They didn’t talk about what they did in bed, or when, or where. Neither of them had any hang-ups about the sex they had together, but every man knew you just didn’t risk jinxing some things with words. That went double for a superstitious man like Starsky, who never took off his pinky rings before hitting the showers at the station because he swore every time he did, they got called back in on a homicide after logging out.

Hutch could live with silence on the subject. Actions got him off faster than words, and always got him where he needed to go with Starsky. Teamwork, that was the key. One of them made a subtle move, then waited for the other to make a slightly more blatant move, and so on and so forth until they’d moved all the way to a mattress. And once they landed on the mattress, they followed certain patterns, just as they did on the street. The tried-and-true kept things neat, casual. Change, improvisation, spontaneity? Not for him and Starsky: those dangerous concepts might lead to messy misunderstandings that would in turn need words to clear up.

They’d played the game one way, and one way only, since the first time they shared a bed, a month into their plainclothes partnership. It worked. Besides, their ritual appealed to his fondness for the complicated. Yes, it would be convenient and quicker if he could just slide into the Torino, put his arm around Starsky’s shoulders, and say, “Stay with me tonight and let me fuck you senseless.”

But when were convenience and speed ever synonymous with quality?

Fine wine, fine art, fine china, were they conveniently, quickly made? No.

Ready to do the sexual equivalent of wetting his finger and sticking it up in the air to test wind direction, Hutch carried his glass of strength-and-vigor elixir into the living room and looked around for the phone, unearthing it from a dozen things on the table by the door.

Starsky answered on the fourth ring. “Y’ello?”

Hutch grinned at the hybrid of yeah and hello. “Y’ello, yourself. Just making sure you’d joined the rest of us wide-awake, hardworking mortals.” Woke up wanting you.

That netted him a snort in his ear that would’ve been a flip of the middle finger in person. “I was on my way out the door when you called.”

He almost swallowed his gulp of nutrient shake wrong. “What? You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. I had one foot out the door when the phone rang.”

“But that means you’ll be over here on time.”

“You don’t say?” Teasing laughter. “Maybe I want you in a good mood.”

His cock would have applauded if it had hands. If Starsky wanted him in a particularly good mood, that could only mean one of two things: Starsky’s Hutch-urge was talking louder than his stomach after a ten-hour stretch with no food, or….

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me there’s some dive on the Health Department danger list you want to try for dinner tonight.”

This time he got an exasperated Starsky sigh in his ear. “Hutch, honest t’God, that little voice, you know the one that tells a guy what not to say to his partner? You didn’t get one the day they issued ’em at the Academy, hm?”

“Some curly-headed troublemaker talked me into playing hooky with him that day.” Let’s play an even better game soon. My place, our next free night, bring a six-pack and a hard-on.

Starsky laughed. “Meanin’ I didn’t get one, either? Yeah, I’ll give ya that. Who needs tact in a partnership like ours?”

“Damn right.”

“See you in a few, Hutch.”

“Yeah, see you.” Can’t wait.

Traffic obviously cooperated with his impatience. Half past two brought with it the rumble of Torino engine. Sending a silent plea to the gods of gastrointestinal harmony that back-alley burritos or potsticker dumplings with mystery meat weren’t on the dinner menu, Hutch opened the door to a reason for both his stomach and dick to rejoice.

Starsky had on those faded jeans that stretched nearly threadbare over the nicest places, he’d left his shirt open to the third button, showing plenty of hairy chest, and he wore a smile hotter than asphalt in July. He was a study in blues, and not the musical genre. Blue eyes, navy windbreaker, light blue shirt, blue-white jeans, and that funny Adidas blue never seen in nature. Yes, sir, Starsky wanted his partner in a good mood, and it had nothing to do with walking on the wild side of Bay City dining.

The next move was up to Hutch.

Giving Starsky a fond pat-and-rub just above the belt buckle on his way out the door, Hutch considered his options for subtly showing Starsky he was in that special mood. The way to a man’s heart might be through his stomach, but Hutch had found a quicker way into Starsky’s pants through his pastimes. Parked outside facing the canal was Starsky’s two-ton, red-and-white favorite pastime that didn’t involve nudity. Paying that rolling coke can some “overdue” attention would put Hutch on the road to a hot and sweaty night with Starsky, but he had to do it convincingly, obliquely, or he might tip his hand too soon.

Technique, it was all about technique.

He gladly followed Starsky down the front steps, getting an eyeful of jeans stretched taut over the two finest butt-cheeks ever to top a pair of legs. As they neared the car, Hutch let out a timely, “Ouch.”

Starsky spun faster than a whirlwind, windbreaker flapping. “What’s it? What’s wrong?”

“Forgot the old protective eyewear.” Hutch slid on his shades.

Starsky nodded, glancing skyward at the sun. “Yeah, it’s bright out here.”

“No, Starsk. That’s bright.” He pointed at the Torino. “The sun comes in second.”

Brandishing his keychain in a loosely clenched fist, Starsky growled, “Don’t start on my car. Not today, not after the shift we had last night.”

Hutch eased around to the passenger side. “You know, there’s another way to play this, Starsky. You love this car so much, defend its honor. Put me behind the wheel and show me what’s so damned special about it besides the blinding paint job.”

“You wanna drive my car?”

He remembered Starsky asking him that same question outside Ben Forest’s mansion, that mild humor of his partner’s only the rich topsoil overlying an endlessly deep well of support. The flash of memory only made his current burn for Starsky hotter. Too soon to show it that blatantly, he hurriedly assumed his arched-eyebrow, skeptical expression.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Hutch hedged. “But I’ll sit in the driver’s seat and let you show off all the bells and whistles. I doubt it’ll do any good. Let’s face it, this isn’t in my line when it comes to cars, and–”

“Get in!” Starsky snapped. “Your line! A car’s not in your line until it has three wheels in the junkyard and it’s scheduled for crushing. Geesh. Okay, hotshot, you want the fifty-cent tour of the Torino, you’ll get it. When we stop to eat, I’ll put you behind the wheel.”

~*~*~

“Buena Vista,” Hutch mocked, staring up at the cracked and stained rear wall of the furnished rooming house. “Buena Vista, hell. I don’t see anything buena about this vista. Doesn’t look any better from the front.”

No, but Starsky had the market cornered on pleasant views. Hands in his jacket pockets, he tapped out a rat-a-tat-tat rhythm on his legs. If he stood there two seconds longer, he’d be undressing his partner with his eyes in the safety of the empty alley. Hutch had on those khakis that hugged his ass exactly where Starsky liked to see that hot ass hugged. To make matters better, Hutch had worn green. Hell, Starsky didn’t know why his switch got flipped by that color on Hutch. Maybe he got off on the rugged male vibe; maybe it made Hutch look even blonder than usual, and that really did it for him.

Who the hell cared, it made his dick happy.

And that velvety suede shirt was a Touch Me, Starsk sign visible only to him.

Couldn’t hurt to slide his hand up Hutch’s back and feel that suede softness over that hard body underneath and squeeze the shoulder real quick, a perfectly appropriate guy-to-guy touch. Um, nice. Starsky quickly thrust his hand back in his pocket and started up the safer rat-a-tat-tat tapping on his thighs. One more touch like that, he’d have his hand up in Hutch’s hair, and that would give the game away ahead of time.

Hutch had caught him off-guard with that sudden interest in getting behind the Torino’s wheel, until he remembered a similar shocking occurrence two months ago, when Hutch came over on a night he knew Starsky planned to order in pizza and sprawl out on the couch to watch Bride of the Monster. Never failed, when Hutch got an itch to share one of Starsky’s interests that he normally turned up his nose at, they landed in the sack soon after. This time, Starsky gave them twenty-four hours tops, unless the candy-store robbery case bogged them down.

He’d gotten Hutch back good for the Torino-move, though. Instead of that new taco stand he’d wanted to try, they stopped for an early meal at that fresh foods deli Hutch liked where he could get one of those turkey sandwiches with avocado-pineapple relish. Blecch! At least Starsky could get a halfway decent chicken salad sandwich there and a bag of chips from the convenience store next door.

And faster than he could munch those chips, Starsky had thrown one innuendo after another at Hutch: Rev it up, get the feel of it. Like you’re gonna get the feel of me all revved up next chance we get. The next move in the game was Hutch’s, but nothing said Starsky couldn’t prod him in the right direction.

“I still say this is a waste of time,” Hutch said.

“What do you know?” Starsky mock-growled. “You think that trick motor in the Torino is just an engine. I’ve seen condemned buildings with more goin’ on upstairs than you got.”

“Oh really, genius? Marty Stout is a juvenile delinquent who never grew up. He’s been lifting candy bars from small groceries and quick stops since he was thirteen, and never needed a piece to do it. Only reason he got sent up for serious time was that old lady clerk at the Mom-and-Pop mart fainting and hitting her head and landing in the ICU. How do you explain that bullet hole in Roy Jones’s shoulder, or Stout’s parole officer swearing he’s on the straight and narrow, like he’s trying out for a citizenship medal?”

“How many times we heard that from a PO who’s behind on paperwork and don’t wanna admit it? Maybe Stout’s grown up one way, huh? Maybe he’s learned he can’t fool people by poking his finger out in a raincoat pocket these days. Maybe he toughened up in the joint. We see it all the time, guys graduating to harder stuff when they come out of the joint.”

“I’ll buy that,” Hutch agreed. “Anyway, waste of time or not, I guess this all we can do right now. We have an APB out on a light green ’73 Ford with a dented fender, and now we’re down to ruling out possibles. Let’s go.”

“I’ll go,” Starsky said, headed for the back door. A front-door visit gave the front desk switchboard attendant time to notify all the ex-cons in the building that cops were on the premises. “You stay here and make sure no misguided fool molests my car.”

Hutch beat him to the door. “You’ve had a brain freeze. There’s no way I’m letting you go up there alone to question a potentially armed ex-con.”

“Thought you didn’t believe he was armed.”

“You’re nuts if you think I’m taking that kind of chance just to prove my point!”

Starsky had to give in and shine a grin on Hutch for that one. They might play macho games with their sex life, but their partnership was all business–the business of keeping each other alive. Holding the door open, he gestured Hutch in. “After you.”

“No, that’s okay, you first.” Hutch sneezed. “Place smells like a mildewed jail cell.”

Like pulling off a band-aid it was best to do it super fast; Starsky dashed from the bright, smelly alley into the dimly lit, ranker hallway. He’d smelled worse…in Delano’s packing plant meat locker. “Well, don’t worry: I’m the one with the sensitive gag what’sit.”

“Gag reflex?” Hutch smirked. “I know how you can cure that.”

O-o-oh. That was uncalled for. He let Hutch pass by and gave him a little back-shove. “Go on, smart mouth. You need to be in front. Stout shakes in his shoes from just one of your no-bullshit looks. Put up your finger, and there’ll be a messy puddle on the floor of his crummy one-room.”

“It’s saying something when this is a step up from Stout’s old digs.”

Starsky laughed. “Hey, even rats choose a sinkin’ ship over that dump on Farrington.”

They made it up the cracked-paint-over-concrete rear stairway with Dinky Wilks at the front desk none the wiser, and hung a left at the second floor landing. Thirty seconds later Starsky wished to hell he’d taken the lead, because Stout’s door flew open just as Hutch put out his fist to knock. Hutch got the knock instead of the door, the force slapping his upraised arm, which he grabbed with his left hand, grimacing in pain. A prematurely gray haired blur in ratty blue boxers blew past them down the stairs.

Instincts warred within Starsky: check on Hutch versus chase the weasel.

One instinct always won out over the other. “Hutch?”

Still rubbing his arm, Hutch solved the dilemma. “Fine, Starsk; door caught my elbow, that’s all. Get the little worm, I’m right behind you.”

Off to the races, Starsky barely touched the stairs on his way down after Stout, who’d just hit the bad karma jackpot by causing Hutch a millisecond of pain. Stout knew it, too: the weasel didn’t even slow down after he reached the alley’s rough pavement. Had to be hell on those bare feet. Good, Starsky thought, served the loser right.

The universe was apparently big on poetic justice that day. Stout raced past the Torino but didn’t get much farther. One of the rear doors across the alley flew open in his path, giving him no time to slow down before he slammed into it and went down in a moaning heap. Flashing his badge, Starsky waved away the concerned citizen who came out of the business and gawked at the half-naked man writhing on the asphalt.

“All right, up and at ’em!” Grabbing Stout by the arms, Starsky yanked him to his feet. Stout would have a bruised cheekbone and nasty scrapes on his knees, but he’d live. “How’d you know we were comin’?”

If looks could kill, Starsky would’ve dropped dead.

“I got a new dog that can sniff cops through a closed door.”

Starsky shook the guy until he heard the rattle of teeth. “You just knocked all hell outta my partner’s gun arm, asshole; you think this is the time to be crackin’ wise with me?”

“No, man, no,” Stout whimpered. “Look, Dinky saw that Torino pull into the alley and he dropped a line on all the guys in the building who might wanna know, that’s all. But, man, I swear, I ain’t done nothin’!”

“Except lift a few candy bars from Roy Jones down at the corner of Fourth and Hayes?”

Looking convincingly astonished, Stout gave a nervous giggle. “Aw, man, you’re kidding, right? I’m no schoolbook or nothing, but I’m smarter’n that!”

“Why, what’s so special about that small-time candy store?”

“N-Nothin’, man. I’m just sayin’ is all. ‘Sides, I gone straight, man, honest.”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“I was on my job down at Darcy’s Department Store from nine this morning until five-thirty. Didn’t clock out ’til five-forty-five. My boss can vouch, man. Had to wait for the six o’clock bus. Bus driver knows me, too. Lady bus driver. Real cute. You know, for a lady bus driver, I mean, not that lady bus drivers ain’t supposed to be foxes, but, she’s a real beauty. I hung up front with her and talked all the way here.”

“You got such a prize-winning alibi, why’d you run from us, hm? Running so fast I’m surprised you didn’t leave streaks of blood on the pavement back there.”

Stout’s expression changed at the same instant Starsky got his sixth-sense zinger that meant Hutch was close by. Looking over Starsky’s shoulder, Stout shook, his arms trembling in Starsky’s rough grasp. “Him, man. I ran from him! I just got home from a long day at work, ready to hop in the shower when I got Dinky’s call. Last thing I wanted was him lookin’ at me like I’m just a little bug he could stomp on.”

Yeah, Starsky knew that look. He hid a smile. Most sane men were scared of that look on Hutch, but it turned Starsky on like Hutch had his finger on Starsky’s personal light switch.

Stout was still running off at the mouth. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I’m not dumb enough to hurt him on purpose, not with you around, so let me go, willya? How am I supposed to stock merchandise with arms that ain’t got no feeling in ’em?”

Starsky let go of one arm and dragged Stout by the other past Hutch to the waiting Torino. Hutch shot Stout a quick nasty smile that made the little guy cringe and try to hide behind Starsky. Oh for crying out loud! Opening the driver’s door, pulling the seat forward, Starsky pushed Stout into the backseat.

“You sit tight. We’ll make some calls, check your story, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get that shower. God knows you need it. You leave one smear on my upholstery, you’ll be begging your PO to send you back to the slammer, got it?”

Stout nodded, and Starsky slammed the door. Giving Hutch a quick once-over for any hurts that needed immediate attention, Starsky saw him rub his right elbow, but he appeared otherwise good to go. So the door had caught him right in the funny bone. Starsky felt sympathy tingles in his own elbow. Yowch! If he commented on such an embarrassing injury, he’d get a Hutchinson look that would make Stout dirty his boxers, so he didn’t show any outward concern.

“Took your sweet time.” Starsky pretended to be miffed.

“On the way out I bumped into Dinky. Literally. I think he was trying some accidentally-on-purpose obstruction of justice.”

“Yeah? How’d you handle it?”

Hutch flashed the same nasty smile that had sent Stout scurrying. “I told him if he didn’t get his sad excuse for a carcass out of my way, I’d staple the obstruction charge to his forehead. That moved him.”

“And after all your big talk ’bout not leaving me alone with a potentially armed ex-con.”

Hutch rolled his eyes skyward. “Anybody could see Stout wasn’t armed, Starsky, unless body odor is a registered lethal weapon. I knew you could handle him.”

Starsky shuddered. “Not what I wanna handle, thanks.”

~*~*~

“Knew it was a waste of time, running down Stout,” Starsky grumped, turning down a side street to cut over to Marshall for a patrol of the warehouse district. “To hear that bus driver talk, the guy’s down here on a visit from Heaven’s bell choir.”

Hutch yawned. “Sure you did. Just like you knew it was a waste of time tracking down all the other possibles with similar MOs. Well, partner, until that dented Ford turns up, we’re at a standstill on the robbery case.”

“Hey, it’s been hours since that sandwich. I know this place–”

“Control to Zebra Three. Come in, Zebra Three.”

Resigned to a taco-free night, Starsky pounded his fist on the upper curve of steering wheel while Hutch answered the call. “Zebra Three, control.”

“Disturbance reported at the Panama Club. See the man named Manny.”

“Control, is this a code-three?”

“Negative, Zebra Three.”

“Roger, we’re on it.” Hutch re-cradled the receiver.

Starsky groaned. “What’s got Manny’s shorts in a wad this time?”

“Give the guy the benefit of the doubt, Starsk. Last time we thought it was just a case of Manny with his shorts in a wad, his girls were getting knocked off one by one.”

“I hear ya, but since then, he’s called us over there for everything but the roach problem in the john, and I wanna know how he keeps better track of when we’re on than Dobey.”

Hutch’s yawning chuckle made Starsky smile through his frustration. “It’s probably time to have another talk with Manny about hiring a bouncer.”

“I’ll let you do those honors, Blondie. I just piss him off when I bring it up. Everybody melts when you make soft-voice suggestions.” From the corner of his eye Starsky spotted a dangerous glare that told him maybe he’d prodded too hard. “Hey, forget it. He’s probably just callin’ us over there to help Arnold find his brain.”

That leveled the seesaw. Unfortunately, whatever had prompted the call, Arnold’s brain probably had nothing to do with it or the crowd of patrons gathered in front of the club’s entrance and showcase window.

“I got a bad feeling,” Starsky said, guiding the Torino into the last curb space.

“I’ve got one to match.” Hutch reached under his suede shirt for a weapons check.

With the engine off and tinking its way toward cool, Starsky did the same pre-battle ritual, fingering the handle of his Beretta and making sure he could pull it faster than shit could hit the fan. In the usual slacks and sweater, rumpled checkered shirt and eye-popping tie, Manny met them at the door, damn near wringing his hands–a pitiful sight in a big six-five guy like Birnbaum. They heard behind him the crashing, crunching death of furniture.

“Hope to holy hell those ain’t the roaches from the john,” Starsky joked to Hutch.

Manny was in no mood for humor. “It’s Francine’s boyfriend, date, whatever. He came busting in here ten minutes ago in a rage over her doing her number on stage. Arnold and me, we got everybody out of the guy’s way, and called it in. This way, guys.”

Starsky eyed Hutch, whose furrowed-brow frown likely mirrored his own. In what amounted to a “domestic” on public property, the responding officers were often next to go crunch-and-crash. They collided in the narrow archway, each vying for the lead to keep the other back out of danger at least a second or two longer.

“You went first at Stout’s,” Starsky pointed out. “This one’s all mine.”

Hutch raised his hands in an only-fair gesture and let him take the point. Meeting up with Manny in the open doorway to the large room facing the stage, Starsky gaped as a table whizzed through the air. “Jesus flippin’–!”

“That’s a big guy,” Hutch said at his side.

“Big guy? You kidding?!” Starsky pointed, wishing his finger could shoot out some kind of sci-fi stun ray. “That’s a mountain with arms and feet!”

The mountain had picked up another wooden chair and snapped it in two in mid air. Hutch whistled. “You remember the wrestler who put Fat Rolly in Memorial with scrambled brains? This guy makes Little Lillian’s wrestler look like Little Lillian.”

Starsky couldn’t believe the world had enough cows to produce the leather that went into the guy’s head-to-toe biker gear. The bruiser had to stand six-ten in his socks, topping seven feet in his heeled biker boots, and if he spread his arms his wingspan would stretch wider than Manny was tall.

Manny sounded on the verge of panicky already. “You guys gonna just stand around and talk about him or, or, you–you gonna do something about him?”

“Aw, Manny, he’s harmless, I tell ya,” said a brassy feminine voice as red-headed Francine joined them. She’d wrapped herself in an oversized robe, not one of her flimsy see-through numbers. Damn. Starsky glimpsed a flash of disappointment in Hutch’s eyes that, again, probably mirrored his own.

“Harmless?” Starsky gawked at her.

Francine ignored him, which she had a way of doing, when she wasn’t telling him to class up. “Go out with the guy a few times, and he thinks he owns me, poor pet. Heartbreak every step of the way, I tell ya. Hey, Bert, just ’cause I strip down for the guys in here doesn’t mean I don’t respect ya. Girl’s gotta make a living. Hey, Bert?”

Bert answered by throwing another four-topper across the room. Its wooden tabletop splintered against the mural on the far wall. Manny flinched, and Starsky noticed the club owner had grabbed Hutch’s upper arm with both hands, holding tight.

“We don’t wanna pull our guns,” Hutch said in his problem-solving tone. “We pull them on a guy like this; we’ll have to use them. They won’t faze him otherwise.”

“You can’t shoot him!” Francine yelled. “He’s done nothing but bust up some lousy furniture, hey, Manny? Nothing you can’t replace, right?”

“Stay out of this, Francine,” Hutch ordered gently. “We won’t hurt him unless we have no choice. All right, Starsky. Here’s how we do this. One of us has to go out there and get in front of him. Get his attention, distract him.”

“With what?!” Starsky wanted to know. “The fully-loaded bazooka we’re not packin’ right this second? Or a Groucho Marx impersonation?”

“Whichever works! I’ll go.”

“Hell, you will. Anybody goes out there it’s me.”

“Flip you for it.” Suddenly jerked forward as Manny, still clutching his arm, started toward the battleground, Hutch planted his feet to resist the forward momentum, and tugged Manny back. “Get back here. Where do you think you’re going?”

“I thought if I go out there and distract him that leaves two of you to tackle him.”

“Nice thought, Manny,” Starsky told him, impressed, “but you’re not even in the runnin’ for this.” He dug a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it in the air. “Heads or tails.”

“Tails,” Hutch said quickly.

Starsky grinned. That was Hutch, an ass man, for sure. His insides did a little jello jiggling when he lifted his hand from the coin he’d slapped down on his palm to reveal Washington’s cut profile, but he kept grinning for Hutch’s benefit. “You lose.”

“Damn it. All right, Starsky. Hit him with some of your fast talk. Keep his mind off smashing things long enough for me to figure something out.”

“Yeah, well, strap a jet-engine to that brain’a yours, partner, ’cause I got maybe ten or fifteen seconds with Gargantuan before he’s throwing me against a wall.”

“I won’t let that happen and you know it,” Hutch said firmly.

Armed with that certainty, better than any shield or full body armor, Starsky put on his best nonchalant attitude and strolled out into the giant’s line of sight. “Hey, Bert?”

Bert had a wicked scar running from forehead to chin on the right side of his face. A knife-scar if Starsky had ever seen one. Great. Terrific. The guy could take a knife to the face and walk away from it. What could he talk about with an enraged knife-fight veteran who had nearly a foot on him in height and fifty pounds or more in weight?

“Hey, Manny?” he called. “Just outta curiosity, what’s this guy do when he’s not here wreckin’ your furniture?”

“You mean, for a job? He’s, what, Francy? In trucking?”

“Yeah, he hauls trailers around one place to another. You know, mobile homes?”

“All he’d have to do is hitch a trailer park to his belt and walk away,” Hutch said.

“Bert, listen to me.” Starsky waved his hands up in the air directly in front of the human flight tower. “Busting up all this furniture ain’t the way to go, pal. It won’t get you any brownie points with Francine, y’know? She doesn’t wanna see Manny’s business all torn up.” Bert snarled ominously, and Starsky reconsidered his words. “Ah, shit, I’m not sayin’ she’s got a soft spot for the guy or anything–”

“Starsky, that’s not what I had in mind when I said fast talk!”

“You get out here and see if you can do better! Uh-whoa-hoh!”

Roaring like a wounded lion, Bert had slapped his dinner-plate hands around Starsky’s middle and lifted him up in the air. Trying to karate chop the sides of the guy’s tree-trunk neck, Starsky felt the squeeze around his lower ribs tighten to painful.

“You gotta, Hutch, you gotta do something!” Manny yelled. “That dingo’s gonna break Starsky in two!”

“Manny, I need you to let go. Manny, let go of my arm.”

Starsky gave up on karate chops and tried a vicious uppercut with his knee to the guy’s sensitive area. Apparently the guy had on a tempered steel cup or he didn’t have any sensitive areas. Jesus! Starsky managed to weasel his left hand under his windbreaker for his gun, and used a two-hand grip, aiming the barrel right between Bert’s eyes. He had no intention of firing, but he was sure as shit hoping for a deterrent. Bert just stared at him.

“A-All right, Gargantuan. This ain’t a toy. This goes bang, it’ll be the last sound you ever hear. I don’t wanna make it go bang, so put me down, huh?”

Bert’s hands just tightened around him and then froze, probably out of that weird paralysis that came with not knowing what to do. Okay, enough macho bullshit. Starsky couldn’t watch Hutch’s back, or bed him, in two ragged pieces Hutch would never get back together with superglue.

“H-U-U-U-TCH!”

Hutch was across the room in a streak. Before Starsky could guess what he had in mind, Hutch had grabbed Gargantuan’s ears, tugging hard. “Put him down right now or you’ll have nothing left to pierce, and I mean nothing, do you understand me?”

Bert’s pained cry nearly deafening, he set Starsky jarringly hard on the floor.

“Hey, you’re a coupla assholes, you know that?” Francine yelled. “I’m tellin’ ya, he’s harmless. Big ole teddy bear’s even scared of the dark.”

“Scared of the dark?” Hutch mouthed. “Starsky. Chairs. Tablecloth.”

Holstering his gun, Starsky glanced to the side at one of the tables that had escaped violent death. In the aftermath of the stripper murders, Manny had gotten rid of white tablecloths that encouraged scrawled messages, choosing instead a deep, solid burgundy. In a flash of image across his mind’s eye, Starsky tripped on what Hutch planned to do.

“Gotcha.” He pulled out one chair and sent it skidding across the floor to Hutch, then jerked out one for himself. Grabbing one corner of tablecloth, flinging the other in the air for Hutch to catch, Starsky stepped up on the seat of the chair in perfect synch with him.

“One, two–” Hutch counted.

“Three,” Starsky finished.

They dropped the tablecloth down over Bert’s head, pulling on the ends and twisting their arms to draw the cloth tight. Good as the full-headed mask of a prisoner on the way to execution, the tablecloth had to darken the world for Gargantuan.

Bert changed from roaring lion to bleating sheep in three seconds flat. “Hey! Hey, who turned out the lights? Hey it’s dark in here all of a sudden. Francy?!”

Hutch’s eyes widened at the sound of real fear in the giant’s voice. “I…God, I didn’t really think it’d work. Gargantuan doesn’t have much up top.”

Starsky gave him a wink that was more relief than flirt. “Unlike Little Lillian’s wrestler who knew his way around a wine list.”

“Bert,” Hutch barked. “You want the lights back on, then you get down on your knees and put your hands behind your back and keep them there. Do you hear me? Slowly!”

“Francy?!”

“It’s okay, Bert, hey, do what the guys tell you, and they’ll turn the lights back on, promise. Come on, would I lie to you, Bert?”

Slowly the human mountain knelt down into a hill. Hutch reached back under his suede shirt for the cuffs stashed below his waistband. Starsky watched him adjust the cuffs to their largest and still have one hell of a time getting them around Bert’s meaty wrists. When Hutch gave him the go-ahead nod Starsky untwisted the tablecloth and let the light shine in.

“One wrong move outta you, Bert, and I’ll turn off the lights again, hear me?” Bert nodded. “You gonna walk outside nice and quiet with my partner?” Again Bert nodded.

“Hey, what’s with the cuffs?” Francine asked. “You’re not charging him, are you? Hey, Manny?! You gonna press charges? He didn’t hurt anybody.”

Starsky heroically restrained the smallest flinch of discomfort left over from the brute’s vise grip, but he knew Hutch had seen it. There’d be no denying it later.

“Public disturbance, public endangerment, destruction of property,” Hutch quoted. “Plus, he tried to give Starsky a permanent girdle. Sorry, Francine, we can’t just let him go his merry way. Even for you.”

“Then I’m coming to the station, too. Make sure you guys don’t give him a harder time than he asked for.” She looked at Starsky, her face softening in concern. “You okay?”

“Sure, Francine. No sweat.”

Hutch glanced over at Manny then at Starsky. “Birnbaum?”

Starsky stretched to work out what felt like permanent kinks. “I’ll handle it.”

Hutch took Bert by the arm. “Come on, big guy. On your feet. We’re gonna take a walk.”

Manny watched Francine trail Hutch and Bert through the exit. God, even Birnbaum’s sleeves aren’t long enough for all the emotion he’s wearing on them. With a twist in his gut that had nothing to do with Bert, Starsky walked over to confront their old friend.

Manny was all smiles, full of praise. “You guys were something. Man, I didn’t think you’d get him out of here without bloodshed. Francine’s right, you know. Some busted furniture, what’s that? I can replace it. Stuff’s older than Methuselah anyway–”

“Manny–”

“–and I can understand the guy wanting Francine to himself. You find somebody special; you want them to yourself, right?” Manny shot another longing glance at the exit.

Aw, Manny. You’d be a helluva lot better for her than Bert.

“Manny, we don’t mind swinging by here, helping out when it’s a police matter and, yeah, by the time we got here tonight, it was. But if you had a couple of bouncers around the place, you mighta gotten this taken care of before it became a police matter, understand?”

Manny blinked and slowly turned his gaze from the exit. “Come on, Starsky. I don’t need bouncers. I run a clean joint. And, hey, I’ve got Arnold.”

Starsky couldn’t hold in a laugh. “Arnold who’s where? Hiding backstage with the rest of your girls? Yeah, Arnold could maybe poke a troublemaker’s eye out with that pointed head’a his. Listen, Manny–”

“I tried interviewing bouncers,” Manny interrupted. “Really. The guys who answered the ad were sissies compared to you and Hutch, and the ones that weren’t I got the feeling might harass my girls. Not gonna have anybody here harassing my girls, but they don’t ever mind seeing you guys come around.”

“Thanks, but that’s beside the point.”

Manny’s gaze had wandered to the exit again, hopeful this time, then disappointed when Francine came in only to head backstage, probably to change into decent apparel for a police station.

Starsky clasped his shoulder. “Me and Hutch, we got a lot of respect for you, Manny. You do run a clean place, as strip joints go. More’n that, you don’t treat your girls like greenbacks in thongs or pieces of meat. That’s why I’m tellin’ you nice as I can, hire a couple of guys who’ll respect the girls and look after the place. Okay? But if it’s something they can’t handle, you know where to find us.”

“Sure, sure, thanks.” Still wide-eyed and shaken, Manny patted Starsky’s hand on his shoulder. “You guys, both of you, you’re super guys.”

“You okay for me to head out? Don’t wanna leave Hutch out there with Gargantuan any longer’n I have to.”

“Oh, hey, yeah, I’m fine. Yeah. Go. Go on, get out there.”

Starsky slapped him on the back. “Take care of yourself, Manny.”

Outside he found Hutch doing a little crowd control with the patrons eager to get back in for another show. “The Panama Club is closed for the rest of the night,” Hutch told the grumbling men. “Go on, get out of here. Nothing else to see here, folks.”

Still cuffed–Starsky had gotten a nasty vision of Bert breaking the cuffs, flattening Hutch with one punch to the head, and taking off–Bert stood propped against the Torino’s rear fender. Silent, down at the mouth, the huge man stared down at his black boots.

“What gives?” Starsky asked.

Hutch shrugged. “Had to call for a wagon. Look at him, Starsky. It’d be police brutality trying to get him into the Torino’s backseat. Besides, I think Francine’s right. Now that we have him calmed down, he’s pretty harmless. He’s been standing over there quiet as a mouse since we got out here.”

“Hey, you ever think maybe our tough-as-nails image is backfiring on us?”

Hutch gave Starsky a funny look, like maybe he smelled dog shit on the bottom of Starsky’s shoe. “How do you mean?”

“Well, lookit, first you nearly get your elbow knocked off your arm ’cause Stout doesn’t wanna even face you, and then we get called here to deal with…” Starsky flipped his hand at their sullen prisoner “…him ’cause Manny swears he can’t find guys tough as us who won’t bother the girls. Like I said, backfiring.”

“We’ll just take that chance.” Hutch exaggerated a flex of his arm muscles. “Machismo, Starsky, it’s the key to survival on these streets.”

“No kidding? Then next time you be the distraction.”

“What? You did great in there, Starsk. If I’d insisted on playing the diversion, you know your healthy masculine ego would’ve balked at the implication you couldn’t handle it.”

“Masculine ego, my ass! When I’m up against a guy the size of a small Latin American country, my ego means exactly shit to me, pally.”

Hutch shook his head. “Starsky, don’t tell me you’re losing your grip on your pride?”

“Hey, I got plenty of pride, but I didn’t get shafted when they handed out common sense. I know when to get out of the rain. What good’s my pride if I’m in a body cast?”

“See, now this is what I’ve been telling you. It’s that godawful junk food you call breakfast. Your physical stamina tank is running low, and consequently your confidence has taken a hit. Now me, I’ve got a full tank. Stamina, agility, confidence, I’ve got plenty of all three. You know what you need, Starsky?”

Starsky prepared for him to go into amateur professor mode. Actually, he got off on Hutch’s professor shtick, but he’d go ten rounds in a ring with a Bert in a jealous rage before he’d admit it. “No, what do I need?”

“You need some pure protein.”

Zap! Electricity shot through all Starsky’s nerves; he patted the top of his head just to make sure his hair wasn’t standing on end. Were they back to the game? Was Hutch about to make the next move? Starsky eased a little closer to him, not so they were touching, but he let their sleeves brush. “Yeah? Got any idea where I can get some?”

Hutch looked up at the sky, over at Bert, back at the Panama’s neon palm tree, anywhere but directly at Starsky. “We’re nearing the end of our shift, barring the unforeseen. Want me to scramble up some eggs?”

Bingo!

Scramble up some eggs didn’t have the same ring as suck me off and drink me down but in their code had virtually the same meaning, and the added benefit of not getting them beat within an inch of their lives if overheard. Hutch only offered when he wanted Starsky to stick close long after they logged off.

Starsky did his you-could-talk-me-into-it shrug. “Yeah, sure. Sounds good.” God, yeah, woo-hoo, humma humma! Aware that Bert waited five or six feet away, he lowered his voice, kept his tone natural. “Your place?” Like it matters, long as I’m with you.

“Ye–no, wait. Better make it yours.”

Uh-oh. Privacy issues at Starsky’s apartment really put a crimp on what they could do at his place. That sounded like Hutch’s typically subtle way of saying he just wanted eggs, nothing on the side. “Why?”

“Fifi’s off this week and with the schedule we’ve been pulling–” He left the rest to Starsky’s imagination.

Relieved, Starsky chuckled. “Your place looks like a rummage sale exploded in it? Okay. My place then.” God, he knows me, knows I wouldn’t be able to unwind in that kind of clutter. Aw, Hutch, what a guy. You are special.

“You get Manny to see the light about hiring a bouncer?”

“Think so.”

Meanwhile, that new sound Starsky heard? That was the sound of the ball bouncing back into his court. He was already considering his next move when the BCPD van drove up.

~*~*~

Hutch should’ve figured it. Soon as the words “barring the unforeseen” left his mouth in conversation with Starsky, he should’ve known the unforeseen would rear its head and bite them both in the ass.

Not a full two minutes after they finished processing Bert the Biker, and talked Francine out of causing a scene the Ninth Precinct would never live down, word came in that a patrol unit had located a dented ’73 Ford, light green.

Parked in Huggy’s alley.

Noticing Starsky’s attempt to conceal the occasional flinch and side rubs, Hutch had insisted on getting behind the Torino’s wheel one more time before he “made his final judgment” on Starsky’s favorite machine. Starsky had agreed quickly, too quickly, shooting Hutch’s partner-worry from two to five on a scale of one to ten. Had Bert done more damage than Hutch estimated?

His worry settled back down to three when Starsky greeted pinball-wizard Huggy with that naughty fake frisking, the perfect follow-up to “sparring” with Hutch over the Torino’s merits. Not only did Starsky’s flinch-free movements ease Hutch’s mind, but the mild flirtation stoked his happily crackling fire. Better yet, Starsky knew his friendly sexual teasing with Huggy put thoughts in Hutch’s head that would shock ninety-nine percent of the citizens in Duluth, Minnesota into heart failure.

Then the unforeseen got ugly.

Leaving Huggy’s bar, still amazed that the Bear had turned into a clam right in front of their eyes, Hutch could sense Starsky’s potent mixture of worry and disappointment, a bookend to his own. Knowing Starsky could use some automotive therapy, Hutch aborted his move to get back in the driver’s seat.

Before they logged off duty, they got the radio report from the DMV with the address for the registered owner of the Ford, one Sarah Kingston. A quick cross-check with Records pulled up no expected stolen-vehicle report, and Starsky looked more uncomfortable than he had in the two-handed grip of Bert.

“Probably a case of paperwork that hasn’t caught up to the speed of the investigation,” Hutch tried to reassure him, reading Starsky’s thoughts as clearly as if they’d shot out of his ear on a ticker tape.

“Too late now to swing by there and ask her. Dobey would bust us down to meter maids if we woke up a female civilian with no priors this time of night on nothing more’n we got to go on. No matter how bad he wants to beat out the gambling squad.”

“Right. Log us out, Starsk. We’ll be at Miss Kingston’s first thing in the morning.”

“Never heard Huggy mention a Sarah Kingston? Huh? Have we?”

Hutch’s partner-worry zoomed all the way to six. He half-turned in the passenger seat and openly stared at Starsky’s stern, tight-jawed profile. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Thinking Huggy might cut himself a slice of the take by stonewalling us was one thing. Jesus Christ, Starsky, you’re suggesting he’d be capable of armed robbery, shooting a man, and involving a woman he knows by using her car to do the job?!”

Visibly ill at ease, Starsky shook his head. “Nah, you’re right. God, that human sequoia tree must’a cut off some of the blood to my brain tonight or something.” Hutch saw him grip the steering until his knuckles showed the strain. “I hope we’re right. A fucking mob numbers drop?! Christ, no wonder Stout all but laughed in my face when I mentioned what store got hit. He wouldn’t have the stones to pull that kind of job if you and me gave him ours for the day.”

“Well, Huggy isn’t known to go looking for that kind of trouble, either.”

“No, but trouble has a way of finding him.”

Hutch had no quick comeback to that. He could only nod at the truth. And he wished he didn’t keep hearing a replay of Huggy’s recent rant about the troubles of bar ownership, because on rewind it sounded scarily close to a motive, with potentially a hundred grand at stake. The proprietor Huggy Bear was getting restless, and who could blame him? Cooks or waitresses that didn’t show, problems with racist health inspectors, unreliable linen service, any or all of that could convince a man to change his profession, and nothing made a career change easier than a cool hundred thousand big ones.

With Huggy’s loyalty, and possibly his safety, on the line, this was no time to continue their personal game, but that didn’t mean Starsky had no need for his partner, or vice versa. “Your place, Starsky, and step on it.” Starsky flashed him a quick look, silently questioning whether he planned on physical recreation. Hutch added, “We need food and sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow’s gonna leave us sorer than Bert left you tonight.”

Starsky’s attempt at a grin didn’t quite make it. “Hey, it’s not everyday I go head to head with some boa constrictor mutant from a Japanese horror flick.”

Hutch nodded to himself. Yeah, Starsky was hurting, and needed his partner. Added to those remarks outside the Panama Club, that made three veiled complaints. Two in the last five minutes. Starsky could accuse him of subtlety all he wanted, but Starsky had a passing familiarity with the art himself at times like these. This was subtle Starsky-ese for I won’t give you shit if you want to take care of me tonight.

Good. Hutch had already planned to take care of him either way, but not having to battle a Starsky stubborn streak would make it easier. On both of them.

~*~*~

The first thing Hutch noticed on entering Starsky’s cubbyhole apartment with its view of the marina was the stack of empty liquor boxes in what passed for a foyer. “Uh, buddy? Have you been throwing some wild parties without me?”

Starsky went around flipping on every light switch in sight. “Yeah, right. Had all of Hefner’s Bunnies over here last night. No, I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about it, but the rat race we’ve been on the last week or so–” he shrugged. “I’m thinking about moving.”

“Any particular reason?” Hanging suede shirt and holster over the back of a slatted-wood dining chair, Hutch waved Starsky down on the old lumpy brown sofa and headed for the port-o-john sized bathroom that surprisingly had a tiny linen closet. He located several washcloths, grabbed the terry sash out of Starsky’s robe hanging on the back of the door, and made a beeline for the freezer.

“Several,” Starsky answered, already out of his windbreaker and shedding his holster. “My lease is up next month, and I’m hearing the rent on this place might go up. Plus we got a new super who’s a lazy ass and won’t take care of jack. Then there’s how easy Stryker and that country-hick henchman found this place.”

Hutch couldn’t help shivering inside at the reminder of that parking garage confrontation under blinding headlights. Easy as Stryker got the drop on them, they were lucky to be alive. Chalk up a save to a coke dealer’s greed. Stryker’s lost merchandise had meant more to him at first than retaliation. But as a reason for moving….

“Come on, Starsky, you don’t spook that easy.” In the cabinet under the sink, Hutch found the box of sandwich bags. Disposable plastic anything never met with his approval, but the baggies were just what he needed right then. He filled a few with ice cubes from the freezer and wrapped them in the washcloths. “Hate to sound like the grim reaper here, but the heavy-duty businessmen thugs we go up against, with their connections? If they want to find us, they’ll find us, even if we had a street address on Jupiter.”

“I know. Like I said, I got several reasons.”

“You already found a place or still looking?”

“I got my eye on a place on Ridgeway. It’s bigger’n this oversized closet and the rent’ll actually come out cheaper if this place does go up by fifty bucks a month.”

“Really?” Hutch brought his makeshift first aid over to the sofa and gestured for Starsky to lose his shirt. “Ridgeway. That’s closer to my place, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I’ll have to clock it some time.”

Hutch kept quiet, but with Starsky’s back to him, slipping out of the shirt, he smiled. He didn’t buy that feigned ignorance for a second. Not when he knew Starsky had mapped out more routes and shortcuts than a fire rescue squad. “All right, lean forward.”

“What you got in mind?” Starsky teased, winking over his shoulder.

“Not what you think, clown. I want to feel where Gargantuan left his paw prints.”

With the sash and washcloth icepacks waiting on his lap, Hutch applied his hands to Starsky’s back and sides, starting with brush strokes of his palms that firmed to squeezes, watching where each harder touch caused a wince or tightening of Starsky’s closed lips. On those spots, he pressed an “icepack,” enlisting Starsky’s aid in holding them in place until he could double loop the terry sash around him and tie it tight enough to hold the “packs” in place without causing more pain.

Twisting a little from side to side, Starsky gave him the first genuine smile Hutch had seen since they left Huggy’s. “Hey, this is nicer’n the packs and wraps they dole out at the ER.”

“Thought it might be. Ought to keep the bruising down some. Don’t know how good it’ll hold so stay put while I fix us some eggs. You still got cornstarch?”

“‘Course I got cornstarch, dummy. I got the same box you brought over the first time you scrambled eggs here. Why would I use cornstarch?”

“Well, let’s see. I did show you how to do my kind of scrambled eggs.” Hutch secretly loved that he knew exactly where to find the frying pan and cornstarch and oil. He got out the milk, sniffed it for any hint of new life forms growing in there, and flipped open the carton of eggs to make sure Starsky had the half dozen needed for the recipe.

“You got your way of doing eggs, I got mine, and mine doesn’t call for fancy ingredients. When it’s just me, mine’s fine, but when we’re at your place, or you’re here, I want yours.”

Cornstarch a fancy ingredient? Hutch chuckled while he cracked open six eggs into a bowl, discarded their shells, and beat them with a fork until the yolks and whites blended. Then he pulled out the utensil drawer by the stove. Here he had to make do without measuring spoons. He found a tablespoon equivalent, and two of those full of oil went into the pan over medium heat. Eyeball measuring out half a teaspoon of cornstarch, he stirred it into half a cup of milk, added salt and pepper, and dumped that into the pan, stirring.

Watching the oil and starchy milk make friends, looking for the first hint of boiling, Hutch didn’t pick up on Starsky’s approach until he felt warmth behind him from head to ass along with the bulge of makeshift ice pack. Starsky leaned against him, back to back, giving him the nice tickle of hair against the back of his neck.

“Thought I told you to stay put.”

“Ice can work its magic just as good here,” Starsky said. “Just don’t move too much.”

“You got it.” As if he’d risk dislodging that priceless warmth and pressure from his back. Whoops, that bubbling meant it was time for the eggs to hit the pan. Hutch poured them in and turned the heat down to low. “You need a couple aspirin?”

“Not hurting that bad. What makes your eggs taste so good? Can’t be just the cornstarch.”

“What can I say? I have a way with eggs.” And I’m making them for us. They always taste better that way. “It’s not exactly duck-liver paté with truffle sauce.”

“Ugh! You tryin’ to kill my appetite? You want all the eggs to yourself, just say so.”

“Get serious, turkey. I saw those lustful glances at every taco place we passed. I could describe to you the making of paté in detail and you’d still gobble down half these eggs.” He felt the rumble of Starsky’s laughter through his thin t-shirt. They stood in shared silence after that until he had the eggs fluffed just the way Starsky liked. “One plate, two forks, one glass of milk?”

“Perfect.”

They settled on the sofa in their usual position for sharing a plate of eggs. In charge of keeping the plate level, Hutch sat in a traditional position with his back against the worn cushion, his legs stretched out, ankles crossed, resting on the coffee table. In charge of the milk glass, Starsky sat sideways beside him, those muscular legs draped over Hutch’s thighs, that fine ass snug against Hutch’s hip. Starsky eyed Hutch’s shoe-clad feet on the coffee table but as usual said nothing.

He had pegged Starsky’s appetite right. The mound of eggs disappeared rapidly with two forks competing. They split the last two swallows of milk, and Hutch leaned forward to deposit the empty dinnerware on the table. Straightening, he found Starsky had leaned in a little, their faces now three inches apart at most.

Hutch caught his breath, going absolutely still, for once unsure what move to make. They didn’t just kiss on a night they weren’t going to play, and he had given Starsky the “stand-down” signal on the way over here, and had gotten one in return.

Starsky’s eyes flickered closed then open again; his lips moved, letting out a breath, but in that breath was Hutch’s name….

That same whisper could bring Hutch to Starsky’s side from a thousand miles away. This three-inch distance meant nothing. In the face of that truth, Hutch slid his hand around the nape of Starsky’s neck and tugged him into a harsh, wet kiss, his mouth open from the get-go, reaching for Starsky’s tongue before their lips even made contact. Starsky gave him tongue and then some, pushing him against the sofa back and trying to pet Hutch’s face, hair, chest, crotch, all at the same time. The contortions required to accomplish that with only two hands made him grunt in what Hutch’s acute partner-hearing could discern as discomfort, not arousal.

That small grunt yanked Hutch out of testosterone madness. His brain jumped in, further sabotaging the moment. This was crazy. They didn’t do this…this spontaneous exchange of passion, and certainly not when one of them had taken lumps out on the street. Or in a strip club, wherever. They had precise moves, reliable signals, they never veered from.

Spontaneity was for…lovers.

And Hutch had never dared think of them as….

He only realized he’d scrambled off the sofa when he felt strong hands latch on to his hips and heard a deep, husky voice tell him to stand still. Looking down, Hutch saw that Starsky had scrambled off the sofa after him, and now knelt on the floor in front of him.

Oh, holy God.

Sucking cock wasn’t Starsky’s favorite thing to do in bed, but if he did it at all, it was always in a bed. Hutch had fantasized about Starsky on his knees for him like this but he’d never imagined him still in his jeans with homemade ice packs strapped to his sides by a robe sash. Damned if that didn’t make this even hotter!

“Starsk…”

Starsky didn’t look up at Hutch, intent on getting Hutch’s khakis and underwear down to his thighs. “Don’t. Say. A. Word.”

The seductive command caused an involuntary jerk of Hutch’s hips in spite of its practical intent. They rarely indulged their urges for each other in this apartment where the walls had less substance than potato chips. In a fire-proof corner of his mind, Hutch wondered if Starsky was looking for a place with thicker walls, better soundproofing, so they would have two safe havens for nights like this.

Hutch felt his cock jerk and twitch toward freedom and then hot wetness descended, his ass feeling the squeeze from all ten of Starsky’s fingers. God, that was risky, with the potential high for masculine fingerprints on his bruise-easy skin, but Hutch couldn’t make himself care. His knees threatening to buckle, he held on to Starsky’s shoulder. Starsky was taking him deep, dancing right to the edge of that sensitive gag reflex, the way he danced close to the edge of danger on the street. Then Starsky ripped Hutch’s control to shreds, pulling free of Hutch’s cock, waiting for Hutch to look down at his upturned face, and mouthing, distinctly, three words.

Fuck my mouth.

Hutch couldn’t bite off a whimper, starting a loose and easy undulation of his hips, just flirting with the paradise inside Starsky’s mouth. Five or six of those light thrusts would get him off, no doubt about it, but Starsky obviously wanted more.

Pulling off again, he mouthed, Harder.

Starsky had lost his mind. That was the only explanation. He had to be crazy to think Hutch could take what he wanted from that sexy inferno of a mouth without screaming the place down. He wasn’t surprised to see a knowing glint in Starsky’s eyes, or the sudden offering of Starsky’s right hand, those nimble fingers stroking Hutch’s left hand, the meaning clear. Instead of Hutch yelling his lungs out, Starsky wanted him to grip his hand hard as he needed. That privilege beat plain old yelling. Always better, riding this sky-bound train together.

Clasping Starsky’s hand, still holding tight to his shoulder for balance, Hutch tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and gave in, snapping his hips, lunging, driving into Starsky’s mouth. Starsky didn’t just kneel there taking it. He moved his circle of lips, tightened, loosened them in counterpoint to Hutch’s thrusts. All the while Hutch clutched Starsky’s hand, that lifeline he would always trust, tighter and tighter and tighter…and then….

Oh, Starsky, OH, Starsk, only you, nobody…nobody does me…like…fuck YES!

Hutch didn’t get a chance to ask if he’d forgotten their surroundings and screamed those incoherent thoughts out loud. Off his knees, swiping at his mouth with his forearm, Starsky pulled him over to the table and chairs. Without a word, Starsky wrapped Hutch’s arms around one of the high-backed chairs, tapping Hutch’s insteps with the toe of his sneaker, much the same way he’d silently order a suspect bent over the Torino’s hood to spread his legs for a pat down.

Hutch parted his stance as best he could with his pants only halfway down, and bent over a little more for good measure. His flare of panic that Starsky meant to take him dry lasted less than a second. This was Starsky, not some stranger with only cock on his mind. The word “dry,” in this context, didn’t exist in Starsky’s vocabulary. That trust was only one of the ties that bound them in exclusivity with this kind of sex.

When he felt the first spit-slick glide of Starsky’s cock between his cheeks, Hutch knew what the desperately horny man behind him wanted. No penetration, just warm friction and, as Starsky called it jokingly, “the squeeze of buns around his sausage.”

Sated well beyond a second go from the best head he’d gotten in his life, Hutch braced himself with the chair and enjoyed the powerful motion, the slide of that thick wet-tipped cock against his skin, the grip Starsky had on his hips. He heard Starsky panting, little chuffs of air, then realized, like earlier, he was hearing his name, that breathy huh-huh-huh really Hutch-Hutch-Hutch. The room fell totally silent, the grip on his hips suddenly tightening to the point of leaving definite marks, and he whispered, “Starsk,” as silken fluid splattered against his tailbone, some no doubt catching his shirt tail.

Hutch looked over his shoulder. Starsky had practically splayed himself across Hutch’s back and somewhere along the way he’d stripped off the icepacks. Hutch smiled with almost painful fondness at his totaled partner and closest friend. Then Starsky raised his head, the light in his eyes so bright it mesmerized, a fixed stare that could charm a finch out of a tree. Hutch didn’t need wings and tail-feathers to get the full effect.

Under that floodlight stare he let Starsky twist him around into a grappling kiss. Holding on loosely to Starsky’s waist, Hutch slid his other hand around to grab that ass hot enough to set ice on fire, and went diving down Starsky’s throat, certain he would strangle both of them. Starsky’s hands were everywhere, pulling, kneading, petting, squeezing, and Hutch didn’t care about his wet tailbone, didn’t worry about remaining upright with his khakis tangled around his legs. He could taste himself in Starsky’s mouth, but that wasn’t all.

Tonight, their kiss tasted different. Tasted new.

Hutch thought he might now know the taste of forever.

By the time they showered separately, careful of the bathroom vents that conducted sound too well, they had five hours until daylight. They didn’t talk about what had just happened. They didn’t crawl into bed. Starsky put on pajama bottoms, found a pair of sweat pants that fit Hutch well enough for comfort, and they crashed together on the sofa, this time with Starsky sitting upright at one end, his legs propped on the coffee table, and Hutch stretched out long-ways. He rested his feet on the opposite arm of the sofa, and nestled his head in Starsky’s lap. Nothing beat Starsky’s lap as a pillow.

Hutch sucked in a breath at Starsky’s soft clasp of his hand. No idea what to think, he didn’t think. For once in his life. He pulled their clasped hands to the center of his chest, and let the touch of Starsky’s other hand feathering through his hair soothe him into shutting his eyes.

“Your hand?” Hutch asked, meaning earlier when he had nearly squeezed it in two.

“Fine.”

“I slip and get loud anyway?”

“Nah. Me?”

“No. You worried about Huggy?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Um-hm. Got to be a sensible explanation, even if it only makes sense in Huggy’s world.”

“Yeah, Hutch.”

~*~*~

Hutch woke with his cheek pressed to solid heat under scratchy cotton-blend, morning wood so hard a fossil had nothing on it. He had the obscene urge to turn his face and plant a kiss on that hard bulge in his lap “pillow.” Yawning, he decided no cock ever had an objection to a pair of friendly lips saying “good morning.” His certainly didn’t mind. In fact, it was shifting, hardening in his sweats, nodding its agreement with the plan.

Unfortunately for Starsky’s morning erection, Hutch snapped out of the sleep fog, reminded in a kaleidoscope of sultry images what had happened mere hours ago. One minute sharing a plate of eggs, the next making out on the couch; Starsky going on his knees to give the blow job of the century; the feel of Starsky behind him; falling asleep holding Starsky’s hand; waking up holding his hand.

Happiness coursed through Hutch, riveting him; he couldn’t so much as twitch his jaw, much less turn his head. The pulse in both his heart and cock thumped out a rhythm that sounded like oh hell yes, oh hell yes. Then a sudden case of the nerves struck, his synapses firing little bursts of energy in oh hell no, oh hell no rhythm.

They’d done it. They had jumped off into the deep end of the pool. They’d veered off the trail into the deep, dark woods. They had left the safety of patterns and certainty in favor of chaos and change. Starsky! How was Starsky handling it?!

Tired of hiding behind feigned sleep, Hutch forced his eyes open and looked up into a rapidly blinking dark blue gaze in a morning-stubbled face. That face had on the most blatant Omigod expression since the screaming guy in Edvard Munch artwork. This was no moment of existential angst, though. This was Starsky looking like the whole world, including his partner, had taken a huge step to the left without him.

Oh, shit.

Wide awake now, Hutch relied on instinct: in times of doubt, do what’s best for their partnership. In this case, he had to get the hell off Starsky’s lap, give him some space, and glue his own lips together with molasses if necessary to prevent awkward conversations while they worked a case that had Dobey’s special attention.

Putting his plan in action, Hutch rolled off the sofa but misjudged the clearance from the coffee table. He caught the table with his hip, jarring both, and landed on his hands and knees; the egg plate and forks sliding off the table on to his back, the glass rolling off to the floor. He thought he might just stay there for a week, pondering what break in the laws of physics had allowed such an idiotic, humiliating thing to happen. Then he felt the plate’s cool weight lift from his back, and the brush of Starsky’s fingertips. Yeah, that was what he needed at this moment: Starsky plucking dried egg crumbs off his back.

After a minute of face-burning embarrassment, Hutch sat back on his heels and tried a laugh. Starsky tried to match it. Nervous, strained, their laughter didn’t fit right. They fell silent.

“Uh, first dibs on the bathroom?” Starsky offered.

“No, thanks, you go ahead.” Hutch jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the kitchen. “I’ll–uh–whip up some of my–you know–”

“Yeah. Hey, listen, I got some cold pizza in there in tinfoil. Get it out for me?”

“Sure.”

~*~*~

Starsky pulled the Torino into his usual spot beside the house and left the engine running. “I’ll just stay here. Make it quick, huh? We don’t need Dobey on a rampage, and traffic’s a bitch this mornin’ so we’re gonna be late as it is.”

Hutch tried to bite his tongue. He did. He must have missed it, because he heard his mouth flap open and his tongue wag, “No, Starsky, I’m going in there to hand-stitch an outfit and cobble a new pair of boots.”

He didn’t wait to see how the comment went over. With t-shirt and khakis stuffed in a bundle under his arm, he slammed out of the car and stalked over to the house and up the front steps in the ridiculous combination of Starsky’s sweat pants and his own suede shirt.

Inside, front door safely shut behind him, Hutch dumped the dirty clothes on the floor and let out a few choice words for the asshole parked outside. He had known he was in trouble when Starsky came out of his bedroom wearing a blue jersey pullover under that windbreaker, showing no chest whatsoever. Just to drive his point home, Starsky had pulled out the ripped-knee jeans he thought Hutch hated.

Hah! Showed how much Starsky knew.

Hutch loved those scruffy jeans on his partner.

Well, if Starsky wanted to play that way, it was his lookout. Hutch didn’t have to be so juvenile. He had no desire to re-visit fourth grade. Better for him to nearly snap the closet door off its hinges than take it out on Starsky. Took two of them to do all that naked tangoing–no need to punish Starsky for it.

Hutch rifled through his shirts in search of the two greenest he could find. Good, he had a green plaid and a green pullover clean. And if Starsky got uncomfortable riding around all day with his partner in the color Starsky liked best on him…too fucking bad.

~*~*~

“Starsky, down here. I found 4-E.” Hutch stopped in front of the apartment door and waited. “How you want to do it?” he asked in a whisper when Starsky joined him.

“Prowl-and-growl?” Starsky suggested.

Keeping his expression bland, Hutch let out a yell of protest on the inside. Torture! That’s what it would be, watching Starsky slink around all silent and intense–sexy as hell, in other words. On a prowl, Starsky “hunted” for clues that either corroborated or contradicted a story, his constant movement distracting the person Hutch questioned. More than once, Starsky had rattled someone into a slip on one of his prowls. Today, of all days, Starsky was more likely to rattle him than Sarah Kingston.

“Modified,” Hutch said. “You prowl, but I won’t start with the growl. The car was reported stolen. Told you it might take until this morning for the paperwork to catch up.”

Starsky braced his hand against the jamb. “I still say Charlie’s taken too many hits of file-dust up the nose down in Records, and he’s got the time wrong, or there’s something screwy about that time on the stolen vehicle report.”

“That’s where I’ll start then.” Hutch lifted his hand. “Ready?”

At Starsky’s nod, Hutch knocked. Good for you, Starsk. I’m not.

~*~*~

Come on, come on, Starsky urged the elevator, impatient for the sluggish car to heave its way up from the ground floor. Sarah Kingston’s apartment building didn’t make it on to the dump list, but the super needed to put more money into elevator maintenance than he spent on frou-frou touches like end tables and framed pictures in the hallways.

Hutch stood in one of his deep-thinking poses, tapping the knuckle of his index finger against his pursed lips. Starsky almost went lightheaded as the majority of his blood jumped down a chute straight to his dick. Jesus! He’d gotten down and dirty with Hutch for several years and hadn’t gone iron in his jeans on duty over something that simple.

What the hell was happening to him?

Wincing from the discomfort, he caught Hutch’s eye and got a glare in return. Uh-oh. Right. He didn’t have the go-ahead to stare at Hutch today. Starsky quickly fixed his gaze on the green-lit number two above the elevator and watched it change to three and then four.

“Okay,” Hutch said. “We’ve got a discrepancy in the time the car was reported stolen. Here’s another one: you notice the shoes? Men’s shoes, size twelve if they’re an inch?”

“Yeah. None that Huggy’d be caught dead in, thank Christ.”

Ding!

Out of patience, Starsky kept his hands in his pockets to avoid trying to claw the elevator door open before its time. Hutch strolled light and breezy into the elevator ahead of him. Starsky followed, shaking his head at the plaid shirt-tail blocking his scenery.

He’d known he was in trouble that morning when he dropped Hutch by the canal house for a change of clothing, and Hutch picked out a crummy long-tailed plaid shirt. Perfectly good, tight-in-the-seat brown cords, ruined by damned plaid that hung down far enough Hutch would have to bend over and flip the hem up and down for Starsky to do any real ass ogling. That green-on-green above the waist made all of Hutch’s blondness just pop, but it didn’t make Starsky feel better.

He felt like a stupid kid with his first crush, wearing his ripped-knee jeans just because he knew that pair was Hutch’s favorite. Hutch tried to hide it, called them Starsky’s up-yours-Chief-Ryan jeans, and rolled his eyes, but that just meant he liked them more than he wanted to admit. Hell of a lot of good that did Starsky now, after the way he’d screwed up last night.

“Someone was in the apartment with her,” Hutch was saying.

“In the bedroom, I think. I got close enough to the door I could smell sweat. Fresh. And those incense sticks she’d been burning didn’t get rid of all the sweet. Five’ll get you ten she and mister wonderful were smoking a little grass. So what? We bust everybody who mellows out with weed in the privacy of their home, we’d have to pull 150-hour work weeks, and Dobey’d bury us alive under the arrest reports.”

“Never mind the grass,” Hutch said in his you’re-not-getting-it tone. “What kind of guy stays out of sight while two cops come in and ask his girl questions? If you spent the night at a girl’s house, and cops showed up in the morning, would you hide out in the bedroom while they questioned her, or come out and show some solidarity, some support? A male presence, if nothing else.”

Forget grass! Starsky thought maybe the mushrooms on his cold pizza breakfast had changed overnight in the fridge into the funny kind that played bongo drums on a guy’s brain. It was a reasonable hypothetical question, but Starsky didn’t want to talk about spending the night with a girl, or worse, think about Hutch spending the night with a girl.

Christ, he was getting the green monster disease over a damned hypothetical chick? If he didn’t get control of himself, he would end up on some shrink’s couch bullshitting about that dream he kept having where he was dressed in a T-bone steak costume and thrown into a den of hungry lionesses wearing tutus and lipstick.

“You mean, me-the-cop, or me if I was a civilian?”

Hutch gave him a long look. “What’s it matter? Answer’s the same, right?”

“Right, yeah, I’d make an appearance. Look, Hutch–”

Ding!

They’d reached the second floor in the time it took most elevators to travel ten. The car stopped for a little old lady holding a mop-haired lapdog that had a red bow tied around a tuft of fur between its ears. Only two things to do with a third wheel like that: stare at the scratches in the elevator car’s metallic door…and try not to listen to Hutch’s breathing.

What the hell did Starsky think he could say to square things anyway?

Out in the October sunshine, Hutch crossed the street ahead of him, and this time, radio interference nixed Starsky’s chance to square things, Control squawking at them before they even reached the car.

Hutch got there first and grabbed the receiver. “Control, Zebra Three.”

“Disturbance reported at 250 Hanlon Road. Units Zebra Three and Baker Four.”

“Hanlon Road?!” Hutch’s wide-eyes met Starsky’s. “Zebra Three responding.”

Starsky heartily agreed with Hutch’s wide-eyed surprise. That Hanlon Road address was Huggy’s little-known bachelor pad where he crashed when he wanted privacy from the bar. He mainly used the upstairs living space above Huggy Bear’s when he did his late-night bookkeeping after last call. Someone getting to him at Hanlon Road was like a super-nemesis getting to Batman in the Bat Cave.

Green monsters, funny mushrooms, and hypothetical chicks forgotten, Starsky took all of five seconds to get on the road, Hutch working the Mars light and siren at matching speed. Let the city repair the strip they tore off the asphalt. Whoever had the rank stupidity to go after Huggy had better be prepared for angry, heat-packing company.

~*~*~

They found nothing but a trashed apartment at 250 Hanlon: pull-out bed torn apart, records and books flung everywhere, cabinets emptied in the kitchen, stuff piled on the floor, cracked furniture. Starsky told Hutch the place looked like an army of Bert-the-Bikers had invaded. Hutch stood in the middle of the living room’s shambles, shaking his head. Starsky lightly touched Hutch’s back, scratching to be felt through the thick plaid shirt. Hutch had a protective streak when it came to Huggy. He didn’t talk about it much, but Starsky knew it was there.

“What’s happening, Starsky?” Hutch sounded miles away. Starsky had a split-second of irrationality when he thought Hutch meant more than someone tossing Huggy’s apartment.

“I dunno, but I don’t like seeing this right after he played The Riddler with us last night.”

They learned from the uniforms outside that Huggy’s closest neighbor had reported the disturbance. He and Hutch took deep breaths, at the same time, both of them choosing to believe that meant Huggy wasn’t home when the human tornado hit. They got no answer when they had Control patch them through on a land-line to Huggy’s bar. That didn’t surprise them. Huggy didn’t usually show until mid-morning or later, when he had to oversee the bar’s readiness for opening trade to the late-lunch crowd. An hour later they decided Huggy’s apartment had told them all it could. Basically, zip.

Hips propped against the Torino’s passenger door, Hutch slid on his shades and looked at Starsky with a thin-line set to his lips that meant quiet, deep worry under hot anger. “If this, whatever this is, has anything to do with that ’73 Ford in his alley, that means it’s connected to big trouble, Starsky. Big syndicate trouble. We need a line on that candy-store robbery, and we need it yesterday.”

Nodding agreement, Starsky got on the horn to Dobey. “Control, this is 9W21. Get me a Tac-2 with Captain Dobey. Yeah, thanks.” Seconds later, Dobey barked a greeting in his ear. “Cap’n, look, has anything come across the wire on yesterday’s numbers drop thing?”

Dobey grunted. “Not much, and I don’t know what good this’ll do you, but I got the gambling squad to fill me on last night’s surveillance. Something funny, they said. Around two a.m., they observed two hefty guys enter the store through the rear service door. They identified the two guys as Malinda associates. My contact on the gambling squad said they looked like bodybuilder twins. They stayed in the store for a little over an hour and then left. Surveillance reported no other traffic.”

“Huh. What, were they waiting for someone? Someone who didn’t show, maybe?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Starsky.”

“All right, Captain. You hear anything else–”

“From my ears to yours or Hutch’s,” Dobey said. “And that’s a two-way street, Starsky.”

“Right, I hear ya.” Starsky hung up and gave Hutch the rundown, watching him tense from jaw to shoulders. “Huggy’s closes at two.”

Hutch gave him a warning look. “Starsky–”

“Just listen, willya? What if somehow Huggy got his hands on the robbery take and made contact with Malinda to get it back to him–”

“Damn it, Starsky!” Hutch exploded. “Now do you hear what you’re implying? You’re suggesting Huggy is on Lou Malinda’s payroll, for God’s sake.”

“Nah, man, I don’t wanna believe it either, but look, we gotta be honest with this. Have we ever got a line on Malinda from him?”

“I’m not hearing this!” Hutch got in the car and slammed his door so hard Starsky thought the window would shatter. “Maybe he’s never had a line to give us, did you think of that? And what are you seeing in your little scenario? You’re seeing Huggy as a rip-off artist who got his hands on the cash and decided to play finders-keepers with it, so now he’s got Malinda muscle breathing down his neck? Come on Starsky, Huggy’s not that stupid.”

Starsky shut his door gently in apology to the Torino for Hutch’s lack of consideration, and sat there stroking the inside curve of steering wheel with his thumbs. “No, he’s not. If he wanted to keep the cash, he never would’ve made contact with Malinda, and there wouldn’t have been bodybuilders waiting at the store. But my gut tells me that the stolen cash, and Huggy, and Malinda are all mixed up in this thing somehow.”

“I know. My gut’s telling me the same thing. I don’t believe all the coincidences that are piling up. You know what this means. We need to pay a visit to Roger.”

Roger was their best contact in the underground culture of numbers running, but to get to Roger, they had to go through Luther. Starsky was not in the mood for Luther after tangling with Bert the night before, but Hutch was right. Huggy’s life might depend on the insider info Roger could give them

“Yeah. We swing by Roger’s.”

~*~*~

Hutch swallowed every complaint while Starsky broke eight traffic laws getting to Bay City’s skid row where Roger conducted his day-to-day business in a ratty fourth-floor walk-up efficiency. On the cracked sidewalk fronting the decrepit building, he lightly elbowed Starsky’s arm. “Can you believe this dump is called Cityscape Towers? First building I’ve ever seen with delusions of grandeur.”

“Word is, Luther’s got a penthouse apartment in the swankiest part of the city. Wonder what that building goes by?”

“Probably something humble. The ritziest places don’t need high-class names. Let me handle Luther, Starsk.”

Starsky’s glare burned Hutch through his sunshades. “I got this, Hutch.”

“Starsky, your idea of ‘got this’ is tricking Luther into taking a swing at you, and while you’re grappling with him, I bust my way into Roger’s.”

“You saying I can’t use brains on Luther instead’a brawn?”

Hutch thought he heard genuine hurt in Starsky’s tone. What the hell? “No, I’m saying you’ve never chosen diplomacy in the past, and I thought after last–last night, you might want a break from playing the designated punching bag.”

He meant the fracas with Bert, but Starsky apparently misunderstood, looking away at the stumbling reference to the previous night. “You’ll see,” Starsky said. “I’ll twist Luther’s puny brain in knots. You just remember to duck when you open Roger’s door.”

“Oh, you mean all that antique bric-a-brac he keeps around just to hurl it at anyone who disturbs his inner sanctum? Yeah. I don’t want a porcelain vase or marble bookend upside the head this morning.”

Starsky took a long look at Roger’s ostentatious burgundy, white-leather-roofed Lincoln Continental before they headed inside. Hutch could hear the wheels inside his head spin into overdrive. Oh, no. Starsky throwing some brain at Luther instead of brawn might be even more hazardous to their health.

Both of them gagging, they reached the fourth floor landing without losing their breakfast from the stench of unwashed bodies, urine, and alcoholic stomach upset, but it was a near thing. And, there, two feet from the landing, dead center in front of Roger’s door, loomed Luther. Luther was a sight to behold. Destiny couldn’t decide whether he was meant to play in the NBA or go into professional wrestling, so it prepared him for both with a six-seven height, made six-nine by his Afro, a big-boned frame, and enough muscle tissue per square inch to cover a mastodon. Actually a nice guy, sweet-tempered even, Luther took his job guarding Roger’s gate very seriously.

What made this all even more interesting? Luther had carrot-red hair, green eyes, a sea of freckles, and a complexion that made snowballs look tan.

“Hiya, Luther,” Starsky said in greeting.

Luther blinked down at him. “Ain’t doin’ it, man. Ain’t playin’ wit’ you. No matter what you say to me, I ain’t playin’. Roger said if I don’t make no mistakes this week, he’ll set me up with his cousin Keshena, and she makes Miss Treasure Chest look like a dog, know what I’m sayin’? No warrant, no Roger, know what I’m sayin’?”

“Aw, Luther, that hurts. Maybe we just wanted to stop by, say hello to you.”

“Uh-huh, and I’m Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.”

“Now that you mention it,” Starsky pretended to look closely up at Luther’s face, “I think I kinda spot a resemblance.”

Luther grinned. “Ah, hey, man, thanks.”

Hutch quoted multiplication tables in his head to keep from laughing.

Starsky’s grin could’ve melted the arctic. “Don’t mention it. Nah, Luther, we’re really here to do a good deed today. We were passing by, and we saw a few neighborhood kids lookin’ to do a number on Roger’s Continental with a couple cans of spray-paint. You know the JDs in this hood don’t pay much attention to the fuzz, but you go down there, they’ll scatter like bugs when the light comes on.”

Luther scratched his chin. “You…you jivin’ me, man. Just a what-you-call it. Bluff.”

Multiplication tables having failed him, Hutch had to bite down on his tongue to silence a laugh. If he caught Starsky’s eye, he’d be on the floor, rolling.

“Could be, could be,” Starsky said, tone serious. “But, man, I’d hate to be the one to deal with Roger if he finds out we weren’t, and you stood up here and just let it happen. Hm?”

Scratching his carrot-fro, Luther started to nod. He glanced over his shoulder at the door to Roger’s little corner of the kingdom. “Yeah. You cats don’t move ’til I get back.”

“Sure thing, Luther,” Starsky promised, fingers crossed behind his back. “We’ll just wait right here.” Luther skedaddled down the stairs, and Starsky laughed into his clenched fist. “I think Luther got his brain from the same street corner knock-off merchant that sold Bert his. All right, we got maybe three minutes.”

Hutch wanted to applaud, but he knocked on the door instead. One shout of “Police!” and they busted in, snapping the lock, ducking in tandem to go in low. A crystal clock and what looked like a glass spittoon from the thirties sailed over their heads into the hallway and smashed into bits on the floor.

“God damn it, Luther!” Roger shouted from behind his enormous cluttered desk.

“Don’t blame Luther,” Hutch told the suave businessman whose silk shirt and dinner jacket with velvet lapels probably cost more than a house payment. Skinny, with close-cropped hair, a narrow but lively face, and standing no taller than five-seven in platform shoes, Roger could pass for Huggy’s shorter identical twin. “He thinks he’s out there saving your car from the artistic endeavors of some neighborhood street urchins.”

“I know you didn’t talk that shit to him or he’d still be out there counting on his fingers, trying to make out the words. That’s what I get for being nice. If I only had the heart to tell the fool he ain’t black, but no, I can’t do it. His daddy saved my old man’s life once, and my mama would bust a hole up in my head if I treated him bad. And when Mama’s mad at me, my wife’s mad, and that means I don’t get none for a week–”

“Roger!” Once Roger started talking, he could go for days if he wasn’t stopped and smoothly directed back on course. “We appreciate your problem, but we have problems, too.”

Closing his ledger, Roger leaned back in his executive’s chair. “I hear you, Hutchinson, and it’s a safe bet it’s got to do with that candy-store robbery. Just so happens I might have something for you. Of course, I think that entitles me to a little quid pro quo. I help you out on this; I can count on not seeing your shining faces for at least a few months?”

“You know we can’t make promises like that, Roger,” Starsky said. “We don’t make deals, Hutch and me. Right now we’re doing you a favor by not peeking at that ledger–”

“Hey, man, this is the ledger for my car wash. You wanna look, you look.”

Starsky declined the invitation with a smile. “That’s okay; we’ll take your word for it. What I’m saying is, you get big enough to get noticed, we’ll have to notice you. We’re clean, and you know it. What we can do, if you get noticed, is make sure the right people hear from us how helpful you were on important cases from time to time. Might make, oh, a two or three year difference in your sentence.”

“Guess that’ll have to be enough for me. Here’s the lowdown. My wife’s best friend is Roy Jones’s woman. What I’m hearing is, Jones thought he knew the guy who held him up. Punk had on a stocking mask, but his voice sounded familiar. Jones thought maybe he’d run into the brother a few times, couple of years ago at that chicken spot over on Deacon Street. Dude worked there. Only other thing I’m hearing is that Lou Malinda’s declared open season on Bear, and I ain’t talkin’ ’bout the kind that shits in the woods.”

Hutch slapped his shades against his palm, over and over, keeping a blank face, but he felt some of his blood vessels icing over. Huggy had managed that chicken spot on Deacon Street a couple of years ago, his last gig before opening his own bar-restaurant.

Starsky closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, more than long enough for Hutch to see that the news gutted him too. “And that’s all we’ll get?”

“That’s all you’ll get, and I’d get lost if I was you, before Luther gets back up here.” Roger gave them a grin full of pearly teeth. “You two a coupla bad-ass, mo-fo white dudes, but Luther thinks he’s bad, bad LeRoy Brown.”

“Always a pleasure, Roger,” Hutch said as they turned to leave.

“Yeah, yeah. One of these days you gonna come up in here and not duck quick enough.”

Starsky’s deadly clenched-jaw stare had sent bigger men than Roger running. “Yeah? Then you better be able to fly out that grubby window behind you, ’cause if you hit just one’a us, a whole basketball squad of Luthers won’t save you.”

“And you can take that to the bank,” Hutch added.

Out in the hall, Hutch let out a sigh of relief, glad to get out of there. He’d gotten harder than reinforced concrete from Starsky’s parting threat, and he didn’t need Roger getting an eyeful and putting that quick mind to work on the whys and wherefores. Hutch had never been more grateful for long-tailed plaid shirts.

Now if he could just figure why he’d thrown a hard-on for the first time ever from something he’d heard, in various renditions, out of Starsky numerous times…and after a night when they worked out the urges, even if unexpectedly. This was bad, bad news. If the urge had made its re-appearance Hutch was out of luck. He and Starsky didn’t get naked together two nights in a row. Two nights in a row would suggest a regular thing, and they didn’t have a regular thing.

A regular thing could get messy, dangerous, and downright deadly.

On the way down they ran into Luther, whose whole-face frown implied he was disappointed in them. It was effective: Hutch felt a twinge of guilt. “You was bluffing me,” Luther accused.

Starsky reached up to pat his shoulder. “It’s okay, Luther. Roger’s not mad.”

“He ain’t?”

“Not at all,” Hutch said. “He was just telling us how he can’t run his business without you. I think your date with Keshena is in the bag, Luther. You just remind Roger how happy his mama will be if you’re happy.” A smile splitting his freckled cheeks, Luther floated past them up the stairs. Hutch shook his head. “I think we just created a monster.”

“Roger has it coming. I think he got a kick out of pointing a finger at Huggy.”

“Starsky–”

“I know, Hutch.” Starsky paused on the stair and turned around. “You don’t believe it, I don’t believe it. He’s my friend too, you know. But friend or no, right now he’s got a neon target flashing on his back, we don’t know where he is, or what he’s mixed up in, and–”

“And things look bad,” Hutch finished. “Right. I guess we’ll know just how bad things are if he doesn’t show up at the bar by the usual time.”

“Speakin’ of that, let’s get a bite? You know I think better on a full stomach, and I’ll be nicer if I show up at Huggy’s after I’ve had something decent to eat. What you in the mood for, huh? You name it, I’m buying.”

Hutch pretended to lean in closer. “What’s that? I’m not sure I heard right.”

Starsky swatted Hutch’s ear. “You heard me, Mr. Comedian, and God, I never thought I’d be calling you that. What you wanna eat?”

Hutch gave the question serious consideration. “A veggie pita with Tzatziki.”

“A what?” Starsky stuck out his tongue. “Hutch, I said something decent to eat.”

“It is decent. It’s pita bread stuffed with roasted peppers and mushrooms and topped with Tzatziki, a yogurt-based sauce. Tastes a little like cucumber and sour cream.”

Starsky made gagging faces. “I swear to God, you eat like you’re from another planet.”

“It’s Greek, Starsky. Mediterranean, not Martian. And don’t worry: the place I get it is right next door to that greasy spoon where you order that triple-decker chiliburger.”

“You mean Papa Alexopoulos, next to Chili Castle? Hutch, that place closed down.” He started down the stairs again. “Never mind. You want a pita with tzat-whatever, you’ll get one. Gotta be another Greek joint in the city.”

“Starsky, I can always get something else. I’m not dead set on–”

“Nope. You want that pita, I’ll find you a pita. They got anything at one’a those places I might actually call food?”

“I think you’d enjoy Greek potatoes.”

“Potatoes. There you go. Hard to screw up potatoes.”

~*~*~

“I done done it now!” Huggy squinted his way into the open sunshine, bringing storm drain stench with him.

They had just finished their Greek lunch-on-the-go when the radio call came through, a code-three disturbance reported at Huggy Bear’s, the establishment itself. Again Hutch had broken the sound barrier getting the Mars light up and flashing, and Starsky nearly caused three wrecks in busy afternoon traffic, but they still got to the bar a day late and a dollar short. Nothing to see but one big mess and no Huggy.

Starsky clambered down the concrete embankment and waved his hand in front of his nose. Hutch appeared next. Starsky caught his eye. “Anything?” Meaning a stash of cash.

“Nothing.”

The closest he’d ever seen to outright panic twisted Huggy’s expressive features. “Man, you guys go’n listen to my side of things or am I guilty ’til proven innocent?”

Sunshades off, Hutch looked Huggy up and down, wrinkling his nose at the filthy stains on his clothes, but the hard-ass street cop expression softened around his eyes. He pulled the plaid shirt together over his holster and buttoned it. “Come on, Huggy, that’s not our bag. We don’t convict the average stranger on the street without a trial. You think we’d hang you out to dry? Give us some credit. We’ll at least let you shower the crud off first.”

With a loud sigh, Huggy went boneless. Starsky was surprised he didn’t ooze into a puddle. That was Hutch for you: the man knew what to say and when and how to say it. Starsky wasn’t a walking thesaurus, but he had his own way of putting Huggy at ease. He reared his leg and gave Huggy’s ass a barely-there kick with the side of his sneaker.

“Go on,” he urged Huggy with another play kick to the rear seat. “Car’s thatta way.”

Huggy lifted his chin, shooting Starsky a challenge with those dark eyes. “After dodging Malinda muscle and doin’ the storm drain hustle, I do not need you playin’ fast and loose with my skinny caboose, Starsky.”

With a pointed look at the skinny butt in question, Starsky winked. “Your caboose can take it.”

It worked. Huggy tried to look put out, but his lips insisted on smiling, and he loped off toward the Torino. Starsky got a revival of Hutch’s hard-ass expression, and Hutch stopped him in his tracks with a hand on Starsky’s chest. Not the feel-him-up kind, either.

“Lay off the teasing, Starsky. He looks like he’s been through hell, and he’s scared.”

“Yeah, which is why I’m teasing him, dummy.”

Starsky got a stern headshake, and stood there in disbelief while Hutch caught up to their friend-in-need. Either he woke up on the couch that morning with the anti-Hutch, or he’d gotten trapped in a weird mirror-image universe where everything that went over well yesterday landed him in deep shit today.

God, Hutch knows why I tease Huggy, knows it’s my way of showing Huggy he’s okay; he’s more to us than a mouth with an ear to the street. He knows. Doesn’t he?

And, yeah, as a bonus, Starsky knew for a damned fact Hutch got jazzed when he put on the flirt with Huggy, just like it jazzed him when Hutch tweaked Huggy’s collar or smoothed his lapels. His favorite Midwesterner got a naughty kick out of tiptoeing that close to a threesome, and Starsky got a kick out of Hutch’s naughty kicks, but he’d never get Hutch to go through with it. Besides, an all-dick three-way? Starsky would be fighting zombies until doomsday after every one of Hutch’s Puritan ancestors rose up out of the ground and came after their descendent. It’d be Night of the Living Blond Pilgrim Dead. Hutch swore his ancestors weren’t Puritans. Starsky didn’t believe it for a minute.

Good thing he wasn’t interested in pursuing it. Huggy was a great guy; he had flair and that jive-cat sex appeal. He swung like an oiled fence gate and didn’t hesitate to tell you, anything worth doing in bed, he’d done it. He was probably aces in the sack.

But Hutch was the full deck of cards, in bed and out, and all Starsky wanted.

Hold up. All I want? Yeah, when it comes to bedding down with a guy, but… Retire my ladies man jersey? Me? Nah.

Suddenly nervous again, like that morning, like someone had just called and told him he had a dental appointment in ten minutes, Starsky tried to shake the jitters by whistling a nonchalant tune. Good enough. He strolled over to the car, twirling his keychain around his finger. Hutch had gotten Huggy settled in the backseat.

Starsky leaned in the open driver’s door and said, “How bad is it, Hug?”

Huggy had that sour-faced fearful look. “You tell me. On a scale of bad to terrible, how would you rate bein’ out fifty grand of Lou Malinda’s money?”

“Fifty grand? You still have the other fifty?” Hutch asked.

“What other fifty?” Huggy shook his head. “No, the take was only fifty. Look, I didn’t knock over the candy store, you guys know that, and I wouldn’t shoot nobody. I wouldn’t wanna touch a gun if it hopped into my hot little hands. Honest to Jesus, I was only tryin’ to do the right thing. Not accordin’ to the police department rule book, maybe, but the universe’s. If a guy saves your life, you don’t turn your back when you get a chance to save his. Ain’t it the Chinese religion that has that jive about being responsible for someone after you’ve saved their life? Well, this is like that, only backwards. Dig?”

“You’re the one digging, Huggy,” Starsky told him. “You just dug a rabbit hole Hutch and me ain’t got a prayer of following you down. Just level with us. Who knocked over the store, and how’d you get involved?”

Huggy leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes. “Dewey. You know. Dewey Hughes. Him and me go way, way back. Back to the ‘hood when I was working with J.T.”

Aha. Starsky could hear the missing pieces of this case’s puzzle click into place. “Same Dewey Hughes you hired on at that chicken place you managed, until he left you answering to the owner after he made off with a hundred or more dollars from the cash register?”

Huggy let his head hang down. “Yeah, one’n’the same.”

Hutch looked exasperated. “Huggy, how many times have we told you, Dewey’s bad news? He’s dangerous company to keep because he knows how to manipulate you.”

Huggy could slice a guy open with a look if properly motivated. Hutch had just motivated the hell out of him. “Hutchinson, I don’t know if you heard, but word’s been out on the street a long time that you and Curly are dangerous to know. You dudes piss off folks meaner and nastier than Lou Malinda every other day of the week. If I ain’t walked away from you two, you expect me to close my door on a guy I’ve known since I could shave? And while we’re on the subject, Dewey ain’t the only one of my close acquaintances who knows his way around manipulation, catch my drift?”

“All right.” Hutch raised both hands, a silent apology. “We’re not getting anywhere with the blame game. Let’s get you off the street. You can give us the rundown on the way.”

“You guys been by my place?” Huggy asked.

“What’s left of it,” Starsky muttered.

Huggy flinched like Starsky had slapped him, and Hutch’s expression was the equivalent of a smack to the back of Starsky’s head. “Aw, man,” Huggy whined. “Those gorillas stayed after I split and wrecked the joint?”

“You mean the bar, or your apartment?”

Huggy did look knocked for a loop then. “They trashed my pad, too?”

“Yeah.” Starsky reached back and patted Huggy’s knee. “But neither place is a total loss, okay? At the bar it’s just some broken furniture, turned-over pinball machines, nothing that can’t be fixed. Main thing is to keep you in one piece.”

“I hear ya on that, brother. I hear you on that.”

~*~*~

When they left Huggy at Hutch’s place, the afternoon was officially underway, the sky a bright hot blue with some clouds here and there that weren’t just for decoration. Looks like a chance for rain later. Starsky’s thoughts jumped right back to the canal house. Damn, if he could get things back on track with Hutch, he’d clean the whole house just to be able to crash there with him that night. They really got the sound effects of rain at Hutch’s place, and good sex got even better with rain pattering overhead on that colored-glass skylight. God, nothing could top it except lying there with Hutch afterward, half-asleep, half-awake, talking through yawns.

Then Starsky remembered…they didn’t do that. They had sex, they got off, then lights out, and they didn’t rinse, wash, and repeat the next night. He’d be lucky to get another night with Hutch before Thanksgiving. Damn. One shot every couple of weeks or so just didn’t seem to hold him anymore. The burn was getting stronger, or he was getting weaker.

Meanwhile, something kept plaguing him, something to do with Huggy, something he’d seen that was important. He couldn’t get a clear picture of it. Same thing with Hutch. Starsky had missed something important, and he was in the doghouse with Hutch for it, even after finding him a veggie whatsit with Tzatziki. Times like this, he wished they could just open their mouths and talk about this thing they had between them, but maybe that was the point. It wasn’t supposed to be a thing, and last night Starsky made it a thing, and now Hutch was pissed.

Hearing Hutch’s voice, Starsky tuned in again. “Huh?”

“Starsky, this tomato-on-wheels doesn’t have a little robot that can shoot out of the glove compartment and take over the wheel while you’re out in la-la-land. You’re on autopilot over there, and we’re lucky we’re not wrapped around a telephone pole. What’s cooking?”

Terrific. An insult to my car and my driving? Starsky wasn’t just in the doghouse; Hutch had started thinking seriously about hiding his favorite chew toy. Now wasn’t the time to come out with something personal like Can’t we just be together every chance we get? Starsky thought fast. His other worry took center stage–Huggy, who’d helped him pull Hutch off that enforced ride on the White Horse, who’d helped them nail Stryker.

“Huggy’s right about sticking by us,” Starsky said. “Plenty of times in the last year alone we could’a been in matching shelves at the slab factory if he hadn’t come through for us with info, or connections, or just someplace to hide.”

“I know.” Hutch’s voice had gotten real, real tight.

Starsky felt lousy. “Hey.” One thing he loved about the Torino. She responded to his left hand better than some cars maneuvered with a two-hand clutch on the wheel. He lightly thumped Hutch’s knee. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to remind you. Just saying we owe him, and if we have to take a few chances, we take them.”

“It’s okay.” Hutch squeezed his hand, then let go. Too quickly. “And you’re right about Huggy. You’re building up to something. Just lay it out.”

“We need to take a crack at Sarah Kingston about Dewey before we make an appearance at Malinda’s gym. It’d be nice to go into that funhouse with something concrete to convince him Huggy hasn’t developed a sudden taste for stolen candy.”

Hutch was scrutinizing him behind those shades. “You think she knows where Dewey is. You think Dewey was with her in the apartment this morning.”

“Yeah, don’t you?”

“I think it’s possible. Dewey has big feet, and I’ll lay odds he’s never turned down a hit or two of weed if it’s on offer. I also think even if we find Dewey and arrest him, we won’t get Huggy off the hook with Malinda. That syndicate reject isn’t out for justice; he’s out for his money. That’s why he sent Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum after Huggy this morning. Twice. Until we’ve got the money in an evidence locker downtown, Malinda’s more likely to think we went in with Huggy to pocket the fifty grand between us.”

Starsky didn’t buy that one. “Nah, Malinda’s no godfather, but he didn’t get high on the food chain as he is by bein’ dumb. He knows we’re no dirty badges. You got any better ideas where to go from here?”

Hutch frowned, flipping through his little notebook. “No, I’m with you on Sarah Kingston. Huggy had his shot and got nowhere, but we have information we can use to push her a little harder. Maybe it’ll shake her loose if we show up where she works.”

“Usually does. Where’s she work, again? Vine Street Automotive?”

“Yeah. We’re headed in the wrong direction.”

“I can take care of that.” One quick assessment of traffic, and Starsky hung a U-turn at the next intersection, happier than twins when Hutch voiced no complaint.

“Starsky, you know if we question Sarah Kingston under these circumstances, we’ll need a female officer present.”

“Yeah.”

“And if we have to use Huggy’s info, it’ll go on the record. In front of that female officer. There’ll be no creative writing project when it comes to the official report.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to rely on Dobey’s good will to keep Huggy out of prison.”

“Hutch, we got no choice. Huggy might not live to face obstructing-and-impeding or aiding-and-abetting charges unless we get to Dewey Hughes.”

“Right, and find that money.”

“I’ve been thinking about that too. You think maybe somebody in the bar last night overheard Huggy and Dewey and got ideas?”

“Long shot, but yeah, we’ll have to play it. If it was a patron, we’re out of luck.”

“What about Angie the cook, hm? Huggy told us he wasn’t there when Malinda’s muscle showed up, but he usually is by the time Huggy gets there. Conveniently absent?”

“Maybe. Worth checking out, although I’d bet it’s hard to overhear anything in that kitchen flipping Huggy Specials all night long. Then there’s Dianne and Jennie. Were they the only waitresses on last night?”

“Ah, Hutch? Dianne and Jennie?”

“What?” Hutch sounded defensive. “How hard is it to knock a guy over the head, Starsky, and walk away with a brown bag of money? A healthy woman could do it without breaking a sweat, and Dianne and Jennie are healthy women.”

Starsky flashed him a grin. “I’ll give you that. Okay, here’s the plan: Sarah Kingston, then a few other leads, and if we get nowhere, we hit Malinda’s and try to buy Huggy some time.”

“Sounds right to me.”

Worried as he was about Huggy, Starsky got a surge of relief that he and Hutch were still in synch on the investigation. Focus on that, he told himself; shelve the personal shit until later. And maybe, if he tried real, real hard, he could stop hearing that strained, hoarse whisper of Hutch’s that had wanted so badly to be a scream: Oh, Starsky, OH, Starsk, only you, nobody…nobody does me…like…fuck YES!

But he wouldn’t give up hope that it meant more than a good orgasm.

~*~*~

Hutch paced the tiny break room at Vine Street Automotive while Starsky hummed and jiggled the coins in his pocket and studied the snack machine offerings. He didn’t have much room to pace. One long table bisected the room, half a dozen folding chairs placed haphazardly around it; one wall had a bulletin board, the others housed the sink and fridge, a row of trash cans, and a selection of vending machines. The ceiling, far too low, seemed to press down on him inch by inch, and if that damned fluorescent light didn’t stop blinking and making those annoying z-z-zit noises, he would reach up and pound the thing into dust.

Something didn’t feel right, but then, nothing had felt right since that morning, when he woke on the sofa with his head in Starsky’s lap, his hand still in Starsky’s. Deep in his fucking soul, he had stood right there knocking on Heaven’s door, just to get booted back down to Earth because somehow he had shown up without Starsky, and even the big shots up there had them down on the books as a package deal.

Hutch thought they were back to normal when he heard Starsky’s radio banter with Dobey, but then he started playing the joke over in his head and had to wonder. I’m cute, but he’s careful? What the hell did that mean? With most things, Starsky wouldn’t know careful if it goosed him. Careful about jumping into something more serious with me? Was that a meaningless joke for Dobey but a pointed message for Hutch? After all, Starsky had a feel for where Hutch was at all times. Hutch knew better than to think Starsky didn’t realize he was in earshot. Passive-aggressive wasn’t Starsky’s style, and maybe Hutch was over-analyzing, but that was what he did when painted into a corner. He analyzed. Measured. Picked something apart until he grasped the inner workings. So far, in this situation with Starsky, he had grasped jack-shit.

Finding Huggy dirty, scared, but in one whole piece had lifted their spirits, even if they owed him a verbal ass-kicking for holding out, but then Hutch had done a Jekyll-and-Hyde number on Starsky for a little harmless flirting with the guy.

He didn’t get it. He’d never been jealous of Starsky’s teasing relationship with Huggy. Last night he’d seen Starsky put hands on Huggy, and he’d gotten hot and bothered, not green-eyed. Today Starsky tried in his own imitable way to put Huggy at ease, when Huggy needed it most, and Hutch wanted to grind his teeth.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

“Willya, for the love’a God, sit down for half a second?!”

Hutch stopped so abruptly he went up on his toes, and blinked in disbelief at his partner.

Starsky sighed. “Hutch, you’ve circled that table ten times.”

“You can’t circle a rectangle, not in a room this small.”

“Don’t give me a geometry lesson, smart ass. You know what I mean. You got me dizzy.”

Hutch stood defiant, fingers curled around his hips, which along with his ass proudly wore Starsky’s fingerprints. The break room door opened, admitting a female uniformed officer. Officer Branson. Emily, Hutch thought. She had the look of a young Mary Poppins, complete with dark bun she wore neatly under her cap, and the vernacular of a teamster.

Walking all the way in the room, Branson stared at them, glancing around. “You put the call out for a female officer? Thought I’d get in here and find a sobbing victim to comfort.” She headed for the nearest vending machine. “Mind if I grab a snack? At least this gets me away from Croft for a while.”

“You don’t like Sergeant Croft?” Hutch asked. Far as he knew, nobody did.

“Ah, he’s okay for an ass. He’d rather stick his thumb up his hole than work with a woman, but he’s my training ride-along, so I’ve got to give him his due for a few months more. Why am I here?”

Hutch gave her a sympathetic smile. “We’re here to interview a lady who’s withholding information crucial to an ongoing investigation. Might have to play hard ball with her.”

Branson nodded, punching buttons on the machine. “So, you need me here to witness that you guys don’t threaten her in a way unbecoming of officers of the law? Can do, sir. I’ll just sit here and munch my peanuts, provided this friggin’ machine gives them to me!”

Starsky joined her at the uncooperative machine and thumped hard on the knob governing the snack she wanted. Unlike most snack machines, this one gave him no fight. He winked at Branson’s grateful smile and cracked some joke about having “the right touch.” Again, Hutch felt a strange tooth-grinding urge come over him.

Okay, enough! Angry at himself and the world, Hutch grabbed a chair and smacked his ass down in it. He’d gone cuckoo or something, if he could get proprietary and possessive over a little classic Starsky charm. The guy had never met a “damsel in distress” he could resist, even one like Branson, who probably had the gumption to turn the damned snack machine over her knee and spank it. A smile like that on Branson was the equivalent of some women clasping their hands, batting their lashes, and gushing, “My hero!”

Catnip, hell. That was Starsky-nip, and Hutch expected him to just stroll away from it?

Maybe he did.

Maybe he wanted him to.

Maybe he–

On the verge of an important discovery, Hutch wanted to burst across the room and slam the door shut when it started to open. No such luck, and not while on duty. The case, and plucking Huggy’s ass out of Lou Malinda’s fire, came first.

This time Sarah Kingston entered the room. She had the flitting glance of nervousness, but she stood her ground from the start. “My supervisor said you wanted to see me, but she made me wait for my coffee break. I have to tell you, I don’t appreciate you coming by my workplace. You already made me late this morning, and I can’t tell you anything more than I–”

“Sit down, Miss Kingston,” Hutch said coldly, sounding scratchier than a pissed-off tomcat. He got let me raised eyebrows from Starsky and nodded. Okay, they would do the reverse prowl-and-growl, only he would sit, not prowl, while Starsky did the growling.

“We’ve got a prime suspect in the robbery your car was used for–” Starsky began.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she interrupted, “but you didn’t have to come here and–”

“Dewey Hughes. We’re familiar with Dewey. He’s mostly a five-and-dimer, or he was, until yesterday, when he drove your car to a candy store at Fourth and Hayes, left a bullet in the manager’s shoulder, and made off with fifty grand. Fifty grand that belongs to someone very powerful and very mean. Am I gettin’ through to you, Miss Kingston?”

Her big-eyed, open-mouthed surprise didn’t fool Hutch this time. He wasn’t sure how much she knew, but she knew something.

“You need to think hard before you deny anything, Miss Kingston,” Starsky advised. “How ’bout I tell you what we know? Hm? Would that help? Okay. One, we know you’re more’n a little familiar with Dewey Hughes yourself.” At her headshake, he raised his hand in a stop gesture. “Uh-uh-uh, Miss Kingston. Detective Hutchinson and me, we were right there with Huggy Bear when he called you earlier to ask about Dewey. We couldn’t hear everything on your end, but enough to know you didn’t exactly call him a nutcase and tell him you didn’t know who he was talking about. Where was I, Hutch?”

“What we know,” Hutch said, holding in a smile.

“Right. What. We. Know.” Starsky tapped the knuckles of his left hand on the table after each word. “Two, we know you had someone with you in the apartment this morning. A male someone who was real shy about showing his face with two cops sniffing around.”

“What?!” She sat up straighter in her chair, patted her hair, and pulled her pink knit top down by the hem. “What makes you think I had a man in my apartment this morning?”

Starsky clucked his tongue. “You wear size twelve men’s shoes, Miss Kingston?”

Hutch thought he saw her relax. She toyed with her right gold hoop earring. “Oh, those. Those are Dewey’s, you’re right, but he wasn’t there this morning. I told Huggy, I fixed supper for Dewey two nights ago. He left those shoes with me then. The heel’s loose on one, and I have a friend who repairs shoes. I told Dewey I’d drop them off when I had a chance. There’s no law against that, is there, officers?”

Starsky gave her the fakest smile in his repertoire. “See there, Hutch. I told you Miss Kingston would be helpful. She’s very helpful, isn’t she, Hutch?”

Hutch nodded with the somber expression of a black-robed judge. “Very.”

Leaning across the table, hands splayed on its crumb-stained, soda-can ringed surface, Starsky got right in her face. “Miss Kingston, if you have any idea where Dewey is, best thing you could do for him, and yourself, is tell us. ‘Cause if you don’t, Dewey’s not the only one who might end up on the wrong side of terra firma. Dewey gave that money to Huggy for a quick return to its original owner, but Huggy was mugged last night, and the money’s gone, so his life’s in danger now, too. If something happens to him, or Dewey, any knowledge you got that you don’t share with us could come back to haunt you in a big, big way. Jail time way, hear me?”

She adjusted her scarf, smoothed the plackets of her thin sweater, and bit her lip. Finally, she blinked her eyes and voila, tears brimmed. “How do you think I feel?” she whined. “I’m sorry about Huggy Bear, but I don’t really know him. He’s just a name to me. But Dewey! Dewey’s not perfect, but he’s my man, I’m in love with him, and worried sick. Gangsters are out there looking for him, while I’m here answering phones!”

A loud knock on the door made her jump.

“Come in!” Starsky shouted. Hutch seconded his frustration with the terrible timing.

The door opened, and a tall beanpole with a beard and an Afro to match Luther’s peeked in. On seeing Sarah Kingston, he stepped into the room, rubbing his hands on the front of his grease-stained mechanic’s work shirt. “Mrs. Baxter sent me to find you, Miss Kingston. Got a customer with questions about his service bill, wants to talk to you.”

She turned back around, half-rising from her chair. “Well?”

Starsky gestured at her with a questioning look at Hutch, who gave him a curt nod and shrugged. Starsky backed away from the table. “We’re done here, Miss Kingston. If Dewey gets in touch with you, do the both’a you a favor? Tell him to contact us. He knows how. We’ll play it straight with him, and he’d be safer with us than on the loose with Lou Malinda all bent out of shape. Got it?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him if I–I hear from him. I feel so bad. Here I’ve reported my car stolen and now I find out he borrowed it to do something dumb. If I’d known he’d be such an idiot, I never would’ve given him one of my keys!” She walked out with the tall mechanic, the door slapping shut behind her.

“What you think?” Starsky asked.

Hutch made a steeple of his fingers, propping his chin on the point. “Plausible.”

“Too plausible?”

“That friend who does shoe repair was a nice touch.”

Starsky winked at him, and every bit of teeth-grinding in Hutch faded away. “I thought I saw the old Hutchinson skepticism pop out. If she thinks we’re gullible enough to swallow that one, I’m surprised she didn’t try to sell us cheap oceanfront real estate in Kansas.”

“What I can’t get past, though, is that ring of truth when she said Dewey wasn’t there this morning. She might be lying about not hearing from Dewey in two days. She might even know where Dewey is. But maybe Huggy’s right: she’s too scared for Dewey to trust that a couple of cops won’t do worse by him than Lou Malinda.”

“Don’t tell me you guys are actually taken in by all that,” Officer Branson said.

Startled, Hutch swung around to stare at her. He’d forgotten she was there. Busily popping peanuts in her mouth one by one, she stared right back at him. “What part?” Hutch asked.

“Worried sick?” she mimicked, rolling her big dark eyes, then popped another nut, crunching. “Please. I get more worried than that when my goldfish isn’t eating well.”

“People show their worry in different ways,” Hutch argued. “Some try not to show it at all.”

Branson thumped her shiny new badge. “I’m a rookie cop. I’m not a rookie woman.”

“What’s that mean?” Starsky asked her.

“Meaning, I can read another woman. I’ve had to learn almost all I know about men from watching Wild Kingdom. Amazing, what you learn about men from that show. You done with me, too?”

“Yeah, thanks, Emily,” Starsky said.

“Okay, then I’m headed back outside to Cranky Ass Croft in the squad car.”

“Hang in there with Croft, Emily,” Hutch told her. “We’ll put in a good word for you.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Detective, but I know I’m likely to end up in R&I anyway.”

Too distracted to ponder gender inequality, Hutch sat there in the rickety folding chair, staring into space. He knew he had just heard something important to both the case and the mystery of this…break in his connection with Starsky, but he couldn’t zero in on it.

“You look steamed,” Starsky said, snapping Hutch out of his funk. “And I doubt it’s ’cause Officer Emily Branson basically just called men a bunch of animals.”

“I am steamed, aren’t you? Someone’s jerking us around, Starsky, and I hate being jerked around. I just don’t believe Dewey Sty-y-ylin’ Hughes has the guts or brainpower for the job. Huggy was adamant that Dewey didn’t want the first thing to do with that mob money, and I for one believe him.”

“Me too. You thinking maybe Sarah Kingston talked Dewey into a change of heart?”

“I don’t know. That doesn’t feel right, either. Sarah Kingston’s a cooler customer than Branson gives her credit for, but she’s the kind of customer who’s only cool when she has someone stronger than she is backing her.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, and Dewey’s never been much stronger’n a newborn kitten when it comes to stuff like this. He’s good for a quick spurt of physical courage in a street rumble, but he’s not cunning and he’s got no backbone. Where does that leave us?”

Hutch shot to his feet, shoving the chair under the table. “Those leads we talked about, and then Lou Malinda.”

~*~*~

“Hey.” Starsky tapped Hutch on the shoulder, nodding at the side exit halfway through the gauntlet of Malinda’s beautiful bodies. “Let’s go out this way?”

Hutch shook his head. “We’ll just have to go around. Car’s out front.”

“So? Good ole pavement beats a sweaty gym.” Starsky had to swallow a bitter taste in his mouth. “Unless you wanna stop back by that reception desk and ask for her number?”

“What’s your problem with her, Starsky?” Hutch demanded. “It’s not like you to get your testosterone in a twist at a little teasing from a beautiful girl.”

“My–?! Oh, for–!” Too outraged to do more than sputter, Starsky slapped his fist against the exit door and pushed into the sunshine of the side lot, relieved when he didn’t hear Hutch’s footsteps behind him. He needed a second to himself.

His problem? His problem was more serious than some skirt at the reception desk.

All right, things had gotten intense last night, and they’d taken a detour from their usual road. Starsky was nobody’s fool. He knew what pushed him into overdrive. Fitted like a jigsaw puzzle with Hutch on the sofa, he felt an overwhelming rush of good fortune. He saw, in a way he never had before, how damned lucky he was to have times like that with Hutch, when a guy like Manny could only worship his special someone from afar, and from there it was just a hop-skip to hornier than fuck.

Starsky had to admit come morning he blinked his eyes open, squenched the sleep crud out of them, and got real nervous all of a sudden. The kind of nervous where his heart did backflips and his stomach somersaults, and they bounced into each other in the middle. But he thought maybe he was ready for something…different. He liked what he saw on their detour. He wanted more. He could handle intense.

Apparently, Hutch couldn’t.

All day Starsky had tried to show Hutch nothing much had changed. But then he screwed up when he blew off the flirtatious blonde at Malinda’s reception desk. He couldn’t have shown less enthusiasm by throwing a wet blanket over her head. Not his usual MO with the ladies, and Hutch picked up on it. Who the hell was she to criticize his posture anyway? Hutch could do it, fine, but not some little window dressing for a mobster. Miss Stick-it-Out-and-Tuck-it-In just didn’t hold any appeal for Starsky so soon after a glimpse of what life could be like if he started coloring outside the lines with Hutch, and he couldn’t fake interest.

Apparently, Hutch could.

Or maybe Hutch hadn’t flirted with her just because he got off on spinning a woman’s head around. Maybe Hutch would offer her a chance to check out his size. She got one look at what he tucked into those brown cords, and it would spin more than her head.

Starsky nearly walked smack into the side of a Buick.

Maybe it wasn’t a real good idea to be thinking about that right then.

~*~*~

Starsky gunned the Torino down the alley of choice, slowing near the outlet for the strategic position to pull out right behind that green-and-black two-door. “We’re gonna tangle with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.”

Hutch nodded. “Only way to know what’s up Malinda’s sleeve.”

“Yeah. Which one you wanna tackle?”

Hutch shrugged. “Why don’t we do our usual? My turn to get the passenger, so you take the driver. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Intently watching traffic for their “tail,” Starsky cringed at the phrasing, probably one of those Freudian things. Maybe they didn’t need to fix anything, but what was so wrong with trying to improve on perfection? Wasn’t that what life was about, the better mousetrap, and all that?

“At the risk of quoting Dobey,” he told Hutch, cutting off an oncoming Jeep to get in behind the green-and-black goon squad. “If you need help, holler.”

When he glanced to the side, Hutch’s nail-biting expression took him back several years to the earliest days of their partnership. “If you need help, you holler.”

“Hey, I hollered last night, didn’t I? My masculinity can stand up to sending out an SOS every now and again.”

“What are you saying, Starsky? Are you saying mine can’t?”

“No. No! I’m just saying these goons probably bench press more’n our body weight for a warm up, that’s all. No shame in double-teaming them if we have to.”

“Come on, Starsky, these guys are just musclemen. Nothing to worry about, I told you. Just remember: shadow box, jab, wait them out, and then–”

“Bap! Yeah. Uh-huh.”

~*~*~

“‘Throw some agility on him, Hutch.'”

Starsky wrinkled his nose at the mimicry from his passenger.

Hutch could do voices. He could do more accents than you’d hear on any given day at the United Nations. Ask him to do a wooly-camel herder from Mongolia, and he could do it better than a Mongolian. Naturally, Hutch could imitate Starsky, and he’d been known to put one over on Dobey with a Starsky impersonation, but when he pulled out the snotty version, he was furious.

All because Starsky stood by and watched him handle one of Lou Malinda’s carrot-juice-guzzling pets, confident in Hutch’s wiry strength, lean muscles, and solid fists. Never mind the agility. Starsky had damn good reason to know Hutch had plenty of that.

He tried out a winning, you-gotta-love-your-partner smile. “Heard that, huh?”

“Yes, I heard it,” Hutch snapped, unfazed by the smile. “I might’ve been wrestling King Kong in a man suit at the time but, oh, yeah, I heard it.”

“Heh heh. Thought maybe you needed a cheering section.”

“Bullshit. Sell that one the same place you sell that malarkey about machismo and pride.”

“Last night outside the Panama Club you said machismo and pride–”

“That was last night, Starsky!” Hutch shot him a look that would’ve dropped Marty Stout to the ground in a dead faint. “Last night some silicone-inflated goon wasn’t trying to strangle me up against a chain-link fence!”

Starsky gave himself a mental smack upside the head. Last night he’d been the one in danger of getting his lungs squeezed out through his nostrils, and Hutch hadn’t stayed over there with Manny delivering a pep talk.

Then again, he could remember times in the past when Hutch had ripped him a new one for jumping in on a fight before absolutely necessary. Whatever Hutch might say, pride and machismo weren’t just malarkey to him. He didn’t go around pounding on his chest or grabbing his crotch, but he was proud of his hard-nosed street warrior side.

“You know what? Your method for taking down musclemen worked with the guy I was up against. Shadow box, dodge, jab, and then I went for his shins. No problem. Why didn’t you follow your own advice?”

“I don’t know, Starsky. Maybe I enjoy being slammed up against the side of a car.”

~*~*~

Storming ahead of Starsky into the house, Hutch headed straight for the bathroom. Christ, his neck and throat were sore. The Big D had no diminishing effect on grip strength–Malinda’s pet gym rat proved it. At least he’d hidden those hurts behind a convenient ass-chewing. He could chew Starsky out, but he didn’t want Starsky chewing himself out because that gym rat left Hutch with more than a passing ache.

Besides, he could blame Starsky all he wanted, but that was bunk. However Hutch spun the scenario in his head, the bottle ended up pointing back at him. No one made him rush the muscle-bound oaf like he’d turned into a star tackle for the Turbos with a contract bonus up for grabs. Certainly not Starsky. And why? Hard-nosed was one thing. Hutch didn’t go in for useless macho man displays.

Where was that nice soft orange towel?

He found it hanging off the corner of the white wicker chest where he kept his razor and shaving cream. A flicker of movement caught his attention and he turned his head….

…and met Starsky’s gaze head on.

Hutch hadn’t hidden anything from those sharp eyes, and all that macho man nonsense didn’t keep Starsky from looking in on him to make sure he was okay. Just the briefest glance, before Starsky went on into the living room with Huggy, but it reminded Hutch of everything about their partnership that he took as a given, and had given so little thought.

Marty Stout was afraid of them, Manny held them up as the standard of tough, Roger called them bad-ass, and they sent Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum running back to Malinda with their muscled tails between their bulky legs. They had a jagged-edge on the streets, but get them alone together, and they covered that jagged-edge in velvet.

Hutch knew if they were alone, no Huggy out in the next room in a full-fledged panic and wanting answers, Starsky would’ve followed him into the john, and he’d have Starsky’s hands kneading, massaging the ache and strain from his neck and throat. The man who sometimes marked him during sex, who held him hard enough to leave bruises in passion, could also soothe him with one touch, quieting everything in him from physical pain to emotional hurt to the beast inside him that occasionally reared and lashed out.

Wrapping the towel around his neck, Hutch leaned in the bathroom doorway, propped against the jamb, and joined the conversation with Starsky and Huggy, but half his mind went in search of another truth. He wandered through a maze of images from the last two days, his ears full of Sarah Kingston and Officer Emily Branson. Something they had said, if he could narrow down the pertinent remarks, would change his whole life.

Forever.

Those pertinent remarks had to do with Dewey and Wild Kingdom, he knew that much.

He’d have to think about it later. First, he and Starsky had to clean up this mess Huggy had stumbled into on the road paved with good intentions. He went and sat down on his antique swivel stool and gave them his undivided attention. Then the phone rang, and he got the runaway-elevator sensation in his gut that preceded bad news.

~*~*~

Settling into the most comfortable position he could find in the Torino’s unforgiving seat, Hutch rubbed at his throat, digging down into his shirt to reach his collarbone. When he didn’t hear the turn of keys in the ignition, he looked over at Starsky, who reached for his own throat, fingering its hollow lightly, with a wince of sympathy.

Before Hutch could tell him to get a move on, Starsky opened his door and bounded out. “Need to get something. Be right back.”

“Starsky! If Jerry is the ME on duty at the body’s dump site, we won’t get shit from him if we keep him waiting.”

“We’ll only get off-the-cuff opinions from him anyway. This’ll just take a second. Sit tight.” Leaving the door open, Starsky dashed back over to the house.

Hutch huffed and stared out at the canal. What else could he do but sit tight? Well, that, and plan where to ship Huggy that Malinda wouldn’t find him. The Falklands, maybe?

Starsky returned with the soft orange towel folded into a lumpy bundle. He slid in beside Hutch, leaving the car door open. “Lean forward.”

Hutch eyed his suspicious handful. “What’s that?”

“Ice. You know, frozen water?”

“Starsky, when that melts, you’ll have a sopping wet towel in your car.”

“So? Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t actually tuck my car in and kiss her goodnight. Lean forward already.”

No use arguing with Starsky when he got that you-stubborn-turkey tone. Hutch leaned forward, exposing the back of his neck, soon the recipient of a heavenly cool sensation right where he needed it. Damn, Starsky had to have watched closely to know where Tweedle-Dee had pressed hardest. Hutch smothered a moan of pure relief as the chill overcame the towel’s cloth barrier. Now, just a little around his throat….

He was fairly sure he hadn’t said that out loud, but he couldn’t prove it by Starsky’s actions. Gently tilting Hutch’s chin, Starsky applied his homemade ice pack to the precise spots on Hutch’s throat where he’d felt the pressure of Tweedle-Dee’s sausage-like thumbs. The ice felt great, but it wasn’t what Hutch really wanted. If he hadn’t solved the whole mystery, he’d put enough pieces together to realize he wanted to take full advantage of the softness in their partnership.

“Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh, not to knock your street-cop first aid, but, um, your hands do more good than ice in a towel, any damn day of the week.”

Starsky made quick work of the ice problem, shaking the cubes out on the ground and tossing the towel into the backseat. Hutch leaned back a little, wanting to see Starsky’s eyes while he massaged away the last hint of neck strain. At first Starsky’s gaze concentrated on his hands at work, but then his eyes flickered upward, and Hutch felt their heat on his lips.

“Right now you’d taste like mushrooms and that Tzatziki stuff and lemonade,” Starsky said, his voice still husky, an inflection of uncertainty telling Hutch he’d pay top dollar to have the words back in his mouth.

No self-respecting guy could ever leave his partner out on that limb alone. “Right now you’d taste like potatoes and garlic and Greek spices and Dr. Pepper.”

Starsky grimaced. “Wouldn’t go together too good, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know. About as good as nachos and salsa.”

Neither one of them had the stupidity to do a taste test out in the open in broad daylight, but God, it was tempting. Hutch knew he was tempted, and Starsky looked ready to damn the torpedoes and any onlookers, too.

“Malinda,” Starsky said.

“Dewey,” Hutch said.

“Right,” they said together.

Starsky slid back over behind the wheel, reaching for his door, cranking the engine. Hutch adjusted his shirt and then decided, hell with it, and shrugged out of it, sweltering all of a sudden and not from the mild autumn sunshine beaming through the windshield.

~*~*~

Hutch took a deep breath, wishing his heart would stop doing its impression of a Mexican jumping bean. Beside him, Starsky sat loose-limbed, visibly stunned, his breathing still reminiscent of an overworked air-pump. For miles, trapped in the Torino, they had rushed headlong, no brakes, toward a rendezvous with Death. The fatal possibilities had seemed endless and unavoidable: head-on collision, busting through the guard-rail on a rollover down the cliff, kissing a tree, skid-and-roll. You name it, Hutch saw it happening, and soon. Not if his partner could help it! With steering wheel artistry second to none, Starsky dodged every obstacle in Death’s course.

In deadly situations, some people saw their lives flash before their eyes–a fast-forward of all their dids and didn’ts and won’t-evers. Hutch got something a little different. He got a flash of enlightenment.

He saw clearly for the first time in his life what Love was.

Love was seeing Death zooming to meet him, and knowing within himself that he would let the Ferryman punch his ticket for the Ninth Level of Hades in exchange for one more second on earth with one person.

Love meant knowing beyond doubt who that one person was.

Hutch knew who that one person was.

He knew the smell of that person’s sweat, the feel of his fingertips. He knew how that one person ripped the knee of his jeans. He knew that special person thought his feet smelled better after a shift if he wore red socks.

He would have to tell him. Regardless whether it would make them or break them, he’d have to tell Starsky in his own way and his own time, this wasn’t casual and neat, what he was feeling. This might get complicated and messy. This might spawn all kinds of misunderstandings. They might have to…talk. As in, with their mouths, their vocal chords, not their dicks.

Why was he so worried?

Perched on the side of that dusty hill while Starsky dug around in the brush where Dewey’s killer had dumped the body, Hutch had let his brain divide the labor, half the brainpower to the case, half to what was happening between him and Starsky. He didn’t make much headway on the case–Starsky didn’t either, unearthing a torn wetsuit instead of some vital clue–but he did put two and two together about them.

All the things they shied from in their sexual adventure, those dangerous concepts like spontaneity, intensity, softness to balance the hard, change, misunderstandings, words, they had in abundance in their partnership. Throw them into any situation on the street, and he and Starsky could improvise, talk, teamwork, and finesse their way out of it.

Together.

Why couldn’t they do the same thing in a personal relationship?

Yes, there would be danger. Drawbacks. Never mind their gender. Leaving aside the fact that they would have to fight like hell to keep their badges if the wrong rumors reached the right ears, they would have to keep their mouths shut to keep their partnership. That wouldn’t change if he or Starsky, one of them, suddenly required C-cup support up top.

So, they would have to be careful. Discreet. Small price to pay, right? Yes, it would be fantastic if he could shout out loud that he was in love with the sexy, infuriating stunt driver beside him, but words couldn’t make him love Starsky more. Only one person deserved to hear those words from him, only one was entitled to them.

As for strangers, what did they matter? Too many people who didn’t have to think about what they said, or when and where they said it, tossed those words around everywhere, without really meaning them. He’d seen a prime example of the phenomenon today….

A little breathless, he reached out his open window, grasping for the Mars light. He held it in front of his face, its metallic clinking in his ear, the red light blinking in his eyes, until he turned it off, his mind still whirling a mile a minute.

Wait!

That was it!

One of the pertinent remarks.

Officer Branson was right. Hearing Sarah’s profession of love and concern for Dewey through the filter of newfound understanding, Hutch had to give it two out of ten for sincerity. She’d thrown those words at him and Starsky, strangers to her, like the rehearsed lines in a play. And that prudish concern for her reputation when they suggested she had a man in her apartment this morning? Fake, fake, fake. She relaxed when she thought they meant Dewey. She didn’t want them to think she had another man in the apartment, and why should she care if they thought she was two-timing Dewey Hughes unless…unless….

“Sarah Kingston!”

Starsky’s voice twisted Hutch’s heart with its wounded disbelief, “We were just nearly killed, and you’re thinking girls?”

~*~*~

Starsky couldn’t believe it. He’d brought the Torino to a standstill on her wheels instead of her roof, draining dry every ounce of his knack for driving, and the first name out of Hutch’s lips wasn’t Starsky, or even better, Starsk, but Sarah Kingston?!

He sat there, both hands numb from gripping the wheel. He kept thinking, I’m alive, Hutch is alive, this thing we got is the Real Deal, he’s the Real Deal, and I have to open my mouth and tell him, even if I have to get on my knees and beg him not to run off to Kathmandu afterward, and the first thing out of Hutch’s mouth was Sarah Kingston?!

The green disease shot its poison through every vein in his damned body. Starsky couldn’t understand why he didn’t sprout green hair, bust out of his clothes, and go green all over, resembling Tweedle-Dum after a few hits of that Big D shit. He had the urge to hulk down to Vine Street Automotive, dragging his overlong green arms beside him, and bellow at Miss Kingston to get the hell out of town before he threw her out.

Then he remembered where they’d come from–up on High Ridge, near Crestline, watching the meat wagon drive away with Sarah Kingston’s guy in a zip-up bag.

God, he felt like a schmuck of the first order.

Through the green haze around his head, Starsky heard Hutch say, “No, no, no. She said she was in love with Dewey.”

Yeah, yeah, go on and remind me, Hutch.

Angry at himself for being a jealous schmuck, angry at Hutch for…he didn’t know… something, Starsky yanked open his door, slammed it shut behind him, and stomped around the car. He popped the hood and bent over to see if he could spot the gremlin in the works that had turned the Torino into a deathtrap.

Hutch got out too. “And at nine o’clock in the morning, there was somebody else in the apartment. Now if Dewey was already dead, that somebody had to be another guy.”

Uh-huh, the guy with the size twelve shoes. Starsky couldn’t see a wire or line out of place. No telltale leaks. No hissing. Damn it! Wait, was Hutch saying Sarah was lying about being in love with Dewey just because she had another man in her apartment this morning? Something about that itched him up and down his spine in the wrong way.

Angrier than ever, he slammed the hood down, pretending his rage had everything to do with automotive breakdown. “Nothing!” He got down on the asphalt and ducked under the car to have a look at the undercarriage.

“Also,” Hutch persisted, following him around the car, “Starsk, also–”

Well, there it was. The Starsk he’d wanted to hear. A little late, buddy!

“Also, if Sarah hadn’t seen Dewey or heard from him, how was she to know when to have reported her car stolen?” That got Starsky’s attention. He pulled out of his useless search for damage to the chassis and looked Hutch in the eye. On a roll with his theory, Hutch pointed at him, and Starsky was still mad enough to want to snap at his finger like a bad-tempered mutt. “Dewey told her. That’s how she knew!”

Meaning the five-thirty p.m. she told us instead of the twelve-something a.m. on the police report, the five-thirty p.m. that was real close to the actual time of the robbery? Hm. Yeah, might be something to that. Starsky still had the feeling a piece of the puzzle was missing. He got down on the ground again for a look behind the rear tire.

“Hey, watch it, Starsk, this thing doesn’t have any brakes.”

Oh, he was full of Starsks now. And calling the Torino a thing? Not the way onto Starsky’s good side. “It’s in gear, dummy.” Brakes. Maybe– Shit, that was the answer. Outraged, he ran his fingers along the severed brake line nearest him. “They cut the brake lines!”

He had to hold out his hand for Hutch to see the damning evidence for himself.

Hold on, why did I say they?

Starsky scooted on his ass out from under the car and propped up against the rear fender, Hutch on his knees beside him and surfing the same brainwave, because he said, “That’s it. Starsky, all that Sarah, and whoever the guy was that cut these brake lines, had to do, was to knock off Dewey, get rid of Huggy for a while, and they’d be sitting pretty on fifty thousand dollars, and nobody would know.”

Part of Starsky noticed that Hutch’s mouth was inches from his, a reminder of last night when he really didn’t need it, and Hutch kept gesturing with his hand so close to Starsky’s face, as if any second he might stop pointing and touch Starsky’s cheek instead. But most of Starsky had tuned back in to the investigation, the cop in him sniffing a case about to close. “And they got the perfect guy to take the fall. Huggy.”

Hutch pointed again, and this time Starsky wanted to lick his finger instead of bite it. “Yeah.”

Yeah. “Let’s fix these brake lines and go visit Sarah.”

~*~*~

Starsky didn’t have what he needed on hand to do a road-safe patch job on the brake lines, so they had to call for Metro to send out a mechanic. Hutch also put a call through to Dobey, who didn’t exactly lavish praise on them for their Sarah-Kingston-mystery-guy theory. The captain told them to bring her in for questioning, but he thought they would need something less flimsy before he could get a warrant issued. Starsky made faces at the radio through the open car window, and Hutch looked ready to cross swords. In all honesty, though, Starsky kind of agreed with Dobey.

Hutch’s hunch was right on target, Starsky knew it cop’s gut deep, but something still didn’t add up, and without it, their case felt as sturdy as a house of cards missing half the deck. That missing something nagged Hutch, too, or he would’ve pressed Dobey harder.

Deciding he’d do a better job with memory recall if he didn’t concentrate too hard, Starsky paced around in front of the curb, trying to come up with a few important phrases that would get Hutch in his bed more often instead of keeping him out of it altogether.

Whole thing would be a hell of a lot easier if he just understood where Hutch was coming from. All day he’d left Starsky second guessing himself, and Starsky wasn’t used to thinking twice about where he stood with Hutch. Besides, Hutch was no girl with those foreign hormones and that strange female wiring.

He’s a man, I’m a man. Emily Branson had a point. I’m no rookie at being a man. I’ve been a guy for a little over thirty years. Hutch, too. Maybe I need to put myself in his shoes, and think, what would make me act the way he’s been acting since this morning?

At least they still had good weather for kicking around loose pavement and twiddling their thumbs. The rain hadn’t made up its mind, and Starsky didn’t much care whether it poured down or not if he couldn’t spend the night with Hutch. They had this particular patch of ritzy neighborhood to themselves, all the young professionals still on the way home from their city jobs, everyone else busy indoors with dinner. Starsky could actually hear the breeze in the trees.

Then he heard a noise he could definitely live without. Hutch had turned on the Torino’s radio in accessory mode, car radio not police band, and instead of finding good music, he’d tuned in to that evening talk program on KBEX that Starsky couldn’t stand.

He whirled around. “Come on, Hutch, can’t you find something better’n that? We’d probably get good KROQ reception up here.”

Hutch gave him a superior look over the Torino’s roof. “Starsky, I’m the last person to knock music, but sometimes it pays to be informed about world events.”

“Hey, I got information running out my ears, Blondie, but that guy gives me the creeps.”

“KBEX’s Michael Jackson is known for his incisive commentary, Starsky.”

“Yeah? Well, the only Michael Jackson I listen to on the radio is a bubble-gum-rock singing black kid with more brothers than Huggy’s got cousins.”

For that, Hutch turned up the volume on the other Michael Jackson. Starsky wanted to cover his ears. The guy talked like he’d swallowed some antique manservant from Buckingham Palace. Today he was going on and on about the five Australian journalists killed in the field recently in Timor. Christ! That situation was tragic enough without this windbag’s rant from the safety of a radio station about what could’ve prevented it.

“In conclusion, dear listeners, until the world is a safer place….”

Go on and hold your breath, Mr. Jackson, Starsky urged him. KBEX can always find another voice box.

“…we owe our privilege of living in an informative age, our opportunity to walk in the light of knowledge far from the days of information blackout, to the brave men and women who go into war zones and strife-ridden countries in search of truth.”

Okay, he wouldn’t say it all flowery like that, but he couldn’t fault the sentiment. He’d seen some topnotch correspondents in ‘Nam, guys who thought their pen made them more powerful than a platoon of Marines.

“Tomorrow, tune in for special programming. For the show entitled The Male Animal, I will host a guest speaker, renowned zoologist Dr. Ian Seton–“

“Maybe a renowned zoologist can figure out which bird of prey snatched your brain one night when you were asleep,” Starsky muttered.

“In particular, our female listeners might find especial interest in Dr. Seton’s discussion of how the human male displays similar behavioral patterns to that of his animal brethren when attracting or claiming a prospective mate. Shall I whet your appetite, ladies of the radio audience?”

“Any woman crazy enough to turn to you and a zoologist for relationship advice needs to look for a dodo bird to pair up with,” Starsky told him.

“Consider the behavior of your male companions in relation to certain species of exotic birds that depend on their brilliant plumage to win a mate. In some mammalian species, males show excessive displays of strength or physical courage, while others win their female of choice through cleverness or providing for their mate’s nutritional needs. Still others attract a mate with impressive vocalizations, and many males in the animal kingdom become territorial, discouraging rivals for their mate’s attention. For a thorough discussion of this fascinating subject, join me tomorrow in welcoming Dr. Ian Seton. Thank you for your company. This is Michael Jackson with KBEX.”

All that jazz had given Starsky was a weird image of a silver-backed gorilla in a loincloth of toucan feathers, swinging through the jungle on a vine doing the Tarzan yell and knocking all the other male gorillas off.

Then it hit him.

Right between the eyes.

He looked down at his ripped-knee jeans, worn special for Hutch. He heard himself at the Panama Club last night, raring to take on Bert the Biker in front of Hutch: Anyone goes out there it’s me. Or today, in front of Roger’s. You think I can’t use brains on Luther instead’a brawn? And afterward: You want a pita with tzat-whatever, you’ll get one. Gotta be another Greek joint in the city. You want that pita, I’ll find you one. He saw himself nearly kiss the side of a Buick because Hutch had paid some attention to a blonde in a tight dress. Then there was his over-the-top anger about the Sarah Kingston thing.

Jesus, he didn’t just want more mattress time with Hutch. He wanted a mate! He wanted Hutch for his mate, and even if he didn’t have a clue until now, his subconscious did, and eons of natural conditioning had popped out all over the place the last two days.

Wait a second!

Some of that stuff applied to Hutch, too.

Starsky thought of Hutch’s suede shirt yesterday, his layers of green today. His beaming happiness throwing together a plate of eggs for them last night; his weird behavior at the storm drain after they found Huggy. His take-down musclemen lecture. That I can-do-it-I-can-handle-it-I-can-prove-it look he’d given Starsky before they pulled the bodybuilder twins out of their car. Starsky saw him rushing Tweedle-Dee like he had something to prove, and remembered the feeling he got at the time that Hutch wanted him to watch, no matter what he said later.

Sensing that a hole might appear in his back if someone stared at him a little harder, Starsky turned from scuffing the sole of his sneaker against the curb, and locked eyes with Hutch.

Hutch’s eyes and mouth made three big Os. Then he shouted, “Wild Kingdom!”

Oh, terrific.

Starsky heard that radio jive and decided he’d found his mate for life, and Hutch was probably over there making plans to spend a few weeks in the jungle studying silver-backed gorillas.

Ten seconds later they were face to face between the Torino and the curb, stabbing fingers into each other’s chests and shooting whispers back and forth like silenced bullets.

“I want a regular thing with you, Starsky!”

“I’m tired of this every now and then shit, Hutch!”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“What gave you the big idea I don’t want a regular thing?”

“The look on your face this morning–”

“You looked like I’d thrown you naked into the squadroom–”

“I was nervous, moron!”

“I was nervous, ya big dolt!”

“And then you wore those jeans you think I hate–”

“To top it off, you had to wear that damned long-tailed shirt–”

“I wore it because it’s green!”

“I know you got a thing for these jeans on me!”

They both took deep breaths and looked around, suddenly clear-headed and thinking about who might overhear. No one in sight, and Hutch had left the radio on, providing good cover noise. Better safe than sorry, Starsky kept his voice low. “I don’t wanna lose what we got, Hutch. I want more of what we got.”

Hutch nodded, whispering too, “Same here, Starsk.”

“You were jealous of me teasing Huggy today.”

“And you weren’t jealous of me flirting with Malinda’s receptionist?”

“Nah, you got me there.” Starsky thrust his hands in his windbreaker pockets to keep from touching Hutch’s face. “We gotta get a handle on the green monster. If we want our partnership and…” he punched out his fist inside the pocket, waving his jacket hem at Hutch, “this thing between us, we’ll have to–”

“I know,” Hutch cut him off. “We’ll get a handle on it, Starsky.”

“And that reminds me. Is that what you think that big four-letter word is all about? Monogamy? ‘Cause I’ll jump on that train with you, partner, but we better ride it all the way to Bolivia if we wanna stay off IA’s Most Wanted list.”

“We don’t have to work that out right now, Starsky. Anyway, what makes you think I can’t see things in shades of gray? This is the seventies. People have open marriages, open relationships–”

“What you said about Sarah Kingston not really being in love with Dewey.”

Hutch scratched his brow, looking all vacant for a second, when he was never vacant. “Oh! You mean, about her having another guy in the apartment? I didn’t mean–Starsky, she fed us that sentimental line about Dewey to give herself an alibi, don’t you see? She wanted us to think Dewey’s her one and only, because she needed to throw us off track about the person who was in her apartment this morning.”

“‘Cause the guy wasn’t Dewey, but her accomplice,” Starsky said, feeling a whole lot better.

Hutch smiled. “Right.”

Starsky shook his head. “You know what she’ll hit us with, Hutch. She’ll change her story and say Dewey called her…” He yanked his hands out of his pockets and shot them toward the sky. “Called–! I knew I’d seen something screwy this afternoon. Hutch, how the hell did Huggy know how to reach her like that?”

“What?”

“Today, when he asked us to let him call her up. He just grabbed the phone and dialed. Her work number. Off the top of his head. And before you jump down my throat, I’m not suggesting he and Sarah are in this together.”

“Okay, then what are you suggesting, because I thought we’d decided Huggy is firmly on the side of the angels–with a slightly crooked halo–in this whole mess.”

“I’m not sayin’ he’s not, but can you give me an explanation?”

“It’s a little…irregular, but he and Dewey are–were friends, Starsky.”

“How many of the girls I’ve dated did you know how to reach where they worked?”

“You mean besides Helen or the girls we both dated? Okay, okay.” Hutch raised both hands. “We’ll just get Control to patch us through to my house, and ask him ourselves.”

Starsky stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’ll ask him.”

Hutch gave him that stubborn thin-lipped glare. “Why?”

“I know you’d rather not be the one asking him tough questions.”

Hutch’s glare softened instantly. “Thanks, partner.”

“Don’t mention it.” Starsky opened the door and leaned in for the radio receiver. He felt Hutch’s fingers scratch along his waistline. They must have transmitted his thoughts. Starsky looked over his shoulder, and they said together, “He won’t answer.” Huggy was in hiding. Outgoing calls were one thing, but answering an incoming call gave away his location. Starsky shrugged. “Can’t hurt to try. Maybe he’s feeling unusually brave.”

“I doubt it and, no, I don’t have a better idea, so go ahead.”

Huggy answered on the fifth ring. “Amjad’s Fine Rug Emporium.”

“Huggy, that’s the worst Indian accent I ever heard.”

“Good. S’posed to be Persian. What’s the word, Starsky? Am I off the hook yet?”

“No. Listen, Hug, maybe you can help us out. What’s Sarah Kingston’s work number?”

“Um, 555-2657.”

“Uh-huh. Wanna tell me how you know that without even thinking hard?”

“I crashed at Dewey’s pad last night, Starsky, after I picked my halfway concussed self off the pavement in my alley. He wasn’t there. I’d told him–”

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s arm. Right. He had to stop Huggy from incriminating himself on the police band. Huggy hadn’t just withheld information about the heist; he had told Dewey to have Sarah Kingston file a false stolen vehicle report. The nasty word accessory floated in front of Starsky’s eyes.

“You knew he planned to call his girl after he left the bar.”

Huggy made a strange sound. “Starsky, I–”

“Huggy! Sarah Kingston’s number?”

“Dewey wasn’t at his place. I thought he’d gone on over to his girl’s instead of trusting Ma Bell. He don’t exactly keep a Rolodex, but he’d scribbled Sarah’s name and two phone numbers on that piece of crap nightstand of his. After I got tired of waiting on him, I dialed one and got an operator in my ear telling me there was a problem with the line. Dialed the second one and got ring after ring. Nothing. Kept trying the first number but never got through. Same message about a problem with the line. I memorized ’em both, meant to try ’em this morning, see if I could get hold of her, find out if she’d seen him.”

“But you didn’t try to call her again until this afternoon, with us.”

“Man, when Dewey didn’t show by morning, I got a real case of the oh-shits. Knew something was off in a major way, and I got the hell outta his place. I went by my apartment real quick for a change of clothes and then beat feet around the streets until I thought it’d be safe to hit the bar. You and Hutch know what the rest of my day’s been like. Just a whole lotta sweatin’ it out and no help from nobody but you guys.”

“You could’ve told us all this earlier, Huggy.”

“You didn’t ask, Starsky.” Huggy’s tone sharpened. “When did you and the other half of your brain trust ask me one damn question about what I done after I got my skull good and thumped last night? I don’t know what’s got you guys walking around oh-bliv-ee-ous to most of the real world right now, but don’t blame me for leavin’ out something I didn’t even know was important. This afternoon, I got lucky. Dialed one of the numbers and got Vine Street Automotive, and Sarah Kingston answered.”

“It is important, Huggy, and it might get your tail off Malinda’s hit list. The Vine Street number, was it the one that had line problems last night, or the one nobody answered?”

“The one that just rang and rang.”

“Thanks, Huggy.”

“Starsky, tell me. Was–was it Dewey?”

This wasn’t how Starsky wanted to give him the official word that his old friend was dead, but if he didn’t say anything, Huggy would know anyway. “Yeah, Hug. I’m sorry.”

“Me too…and not just ’cause I’m left out in the cold.”

“We’re trying to do something about that. If you answer the phone again before you see us, come up with something that might actually fool a five-year old?”

Huggy made a rude noise, and the line went dead.

“Damn,” Starsky said.

“He’s in it up to his neck and sinking fast,” Hutch added.

“If we don’t pull our heads out of our asses, and get this case to bed, he’s gonna end up answering to either Malinda or Dobey.”

Hutch stretched, rubbing his neck again. “Of the two, Huggy would prefer Malinda.”

Before they could work on head-from-ass extraction, the recognizable grunt-roar of a BCPD vehicle maintenance tow-rig distracted them. When Starsky got a look at the driver, he knew they were okay. Bailey Jones was one of the few grease monkeys good enough to make a mint as a shade-tree mechanic, but he chose to work for the city.

Bailey descended from the truck cab, tool box in hand, and looked at him and Hutch, the Torino, and back at the final lap of their downhill “race course.” He whistled. “That’s hella tricky road. I heard you guys had brake troubles. Where’d they give out on you?”

“When we hit the first decline from High Ridge,” Hutch answered.

Bailey wiped his brow with his coverall sleeve. “You made it down here all the way from up near Crestline with no brakes? Jesús Maria, how’d you keep from bustin’ a rail and careening off into the blue?”

Starsky opened his mouth to praise the Torino’s tuned suspension and handling, but didn’t get a word out. Hutch pointed his thumb at Starsky and said, “He was driving.”

Bailey had no way to know it, but he’d just witnessed the closest thing to a public declaration of l-o-v-e that Hutch could safely give his partner. Starsky’s cock sure as hell knew it! He could barely manage a nod for Bailey’s salute, and had to wheel and stiff-leg his way over to the curb, where he stared at a clump of dried grass on the otherwise manicured lawn. If he counted every blade of dry-brown grass he might have himself under control by the time Bailey finished patching the brake lines and replacing the fluid.

~*~*~

Bailey had stretched out on the pavement, half of his upper body under the Torino. Hutch went over to Starsky, who still had his back to the Torino. When Hutch got close, Starsky glanced sideways at him, frowned, and made a shoo motion with his hand. Hutch edged closer. Starsky’s shoulders tightened down, and he hunched.

What the hell?

“What’s wrong?” Hutch whispered. “Thought you’d be over there eagle-eying every move Bailey makes with the Tomato.”

With a look over his shoulder at Bailey, who happily whistled while he tinkered, Starsky then scowled at Hutch, but not with anger, and let out one long whisper-mumble only Hutch had a prayer of deciphering, “Yougotmebustingouttamyjeansoverwhatyoujustsaidandwillyagoawayovertheresomewheredammit!”

Oh.

Some demon Hutch didn’t know he had in him made him wink at Starsky. Starsky’s eyes bulged, he made a choked noise in his throat; then his eyes narrowed and brightened, the sparks promising erotic retribution that would bring a strong man to his knees. Hutch was in for it later, and he’d be lucky to survive. Duly warned, Hutch hurried back to the Torino and gave Starsky the space he needed.

Now if he could find some control himself!

Bailey said from under the car, “Damn so-and-so who cut these knew what he was doing.”

“What do you mean?” Hutch asked. “How hard is it to snip brake lines?”

“Well, there’s snipping and there’s cutting. Whoever did this wanted all the brake fluid out faster’n you could pour out a glass of water, and knew how to do it.”

“You mean, like a mechanic?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, nope.”

That got him under control. Hutch swung around. “Starsky!”

Already on his way over, Starsky said, “The guy who interrupted us in the break room with Sarah! He was a mechanic.”

“Absolutely! Huggy couldn’t get through to her last night on the phone, if we assume that faulty line was her home number. What if Dewey tried and couldn’t either? He goes over to her place and finds her with the other guy–”

“Or maybe mystery guy did his bedroom hiding number–”

“Right, because Dewey probably wouldn’t talk to Sarah about the robbery or the money with some other man around. Then the guy makes an appearance at the right time–”

“And bap!” Starsky smacked his fist into his palm. “One less Dewey Hughes in the world. They dump the body, mug Huggy, and then they lay low at her place. She probably thought they were home free when we left her apartment this morning.”

“But her mechanic friend talked her in to going to work as usual. You remember what I said, Starsk? About Sarah needing someone stronger than she is, backing her?”

“Yeah, and she works up front in that service cashier office next to the garage. He’d be right there front and center when she got word that we’d come by to talk to her. Bet you a dozen donuts to a Huggy Special, he got the wind up and came looking for her with a phony excuse, hoping we’d let her go before she had a chance to slip and say something.”

“But she did slip.”

“Wha’?”

Hutch nodded so hard he felt it in his touchy neck. “Yes!” He tapped his temple. “I can almost hear it. Something about…gangsters. Starsky, think back. You didn’t mention Lou Malinda by name until after she’d whined about having to work while ‘gangsters’ were after Dewey. We never said anything about gangsters. Huggy didn’t say anything on the phone to her about gangsters. She had to get that from Dewey–”

“And if her line was out all night, she had to get it from him in person, like we thought earlier. So, how do we get from there to her mechanic friend up on High Ridge? He had to be there, Hutch. Bailey’s right. Fast as those brakes went, that’s where they got cut.”

“Identification! Starsky, if Dewey had Sarah listed as his emergency contact, and they couldn’t reach his family, she’d get the call to identify his body at the County Morgue.”

“So, she gets the call and they decide he’ll nose around the site where they dumped Dewey just to see if that’s really where the action is–”

“Which it is, so he sees us, and figures he and Sarah will be off the hot seat if we’re out of the picture for good. Lots of cars up there, Starsky, but he knew to go after the Torino.”

“He’d seen us get in it,” Starsky said. “Sarah’s living room window faces the street. He probably watched us leave this morning. Might’a seen us leave the dealership later too.”

“That’s it, Starsky, that’s it. It fits! It all ties together.”

“Let’s put another call in to Dobey. What we got might be circumstantial, but it’s sturdy enough now he could lay in it like a hammock.”

Bailey hadn’t wasted time during the discussion. When they turned to the Torino for the radio, he was bent over under the raised hood. Backing out, he slapped the hood down and yanked the oil rag out of his back pocket, wiping his hands.

“Got your lines patched and fluid in. It’ll hold rest of the day, but you need to bring her by my garage at the station, let me jack her up and replace the lines.”

“You’re about done for the day?” Starsky asked.

“Nope. I’ll be hanging around the garage a few more hours. Finishing up some stuff.”

Starsky held out his hand for shaking. “We’ll see you down at the station a little later then. Thanks, Bailey.”

“You welcome.” Bailey gave them a crooked-toothed grin. “Hey, I never got to see you guys doin’ your thing before. You sound like Dick Tracy and Ellery Queen.”

Hutch smiled, but he just knew Starsky couldn’t let that go. Any second….

“Hey, which of us–”

“Thanks again, Bailey.” Clasping Starsky’s shoulder, Hutch urged him toward the driver’s seat. “Radio,” he told Starsky. “Dobey.”

Starsky glared at him. “You really know how to spoil a guy’s fun, you know that?”

“It’s a talent, Starsky.”

~*~*~

Starsky pocketed the keys and wilted against his seat. Hutch understood the feeling. An eight-hour shift had turned into a fourteen-hour stretch. By the time he and Starsky reached canal-sniffing distance of his house, eleven o’clock was a memory. The Torino got new brake lines, Sarah Kingston and Harry Martin got new orange jumpsuits, and he and Starsky got new teeth marks on their hides that would match Dobey’s dental records in a forensic comparison, but they had closed the case and won Huggy’s freedom.

Rain droplets spattered against the windshield. Hutch looked over at Starsky’s profile in darkness the nearest street lamp barely touched. “Do we tell Huggy just how close he came to an arrest warrant?”

Starsky let out an explosive sigh that had a yawn in it. “I don’t see any way around it. He’s gotta know we can’t just wave magic wands and make shit like this go away, or next time he tries to play things the street way, he might get in so deep we can’t pull him out.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Hutch–”

“No, it’s okay. Maybe it’ll sink in deeper coming from me for a change.” Hutch thought hard about what he wanted to say. Not to Huggy, but to the guy behind the wheel. What he had thought would be convenient was really a fantasy he’d never given that name. He cleared his throat, getting ready to roll the dice. Sure, they’d talked–if you could call that whispery “shouting” match talking–about wanting a regular thing, but theory and practice didn’t always line up. Staring out the windshield, Hutch said, “Stay with me tonight? Let me–”

Starsky kissed him. Just turned and grabbed Hutch’s jaw, hard, twisting his face, crushing warm, dry lips against his, sucking his tongue into that warm, wet mouth. Hutch grabbed a clump of Starsky’s hair and held tight. The harder Starsky squeezed his jaw, the harder Hutch pulled on his hair, the softer their mouths moved together. The kiss didn’t last: some risks were still risks under cover of rain and darkness. But that brief moment told Hutch anything he wanted from Starsky later that night he could have, no questions asked.

They looked at each other, both panting, and then said, “Huggy.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Hutch assured him. “Even if we can’t do anything, I just–”

“I know. I wanna be here much as you want me here.”

Huggy answered the door with a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in hand. Hutch stared in surprise. With my schedule like it’s been, he was lucky to find peanut butter and edible bread in my kitchen. Huggy waved the sandwich. “Raided your–”

“It’s okay,” Hutch cut in. “When we called from the station, I told you to make yourself at home. I’m just surprised you found something to make yourself at home with.” Then he got a look around just as Starsky let out a whistle. Huggy had made himself at home. He’d pretended this was his home and cleaned it! Hutch stood just inside his front door and turned around and around, taking in every inch of clean, organized space. My God, Fifi on a cleaning rampage never leaves the place so spic-and-span!

“Had to do something to keep from climbing the walls.” Huggy sounded apologetic. “And it’s the least I could–ooph!”

Hutch had grabbed him in a quick, hard hug. He felt Huggy’s sandwich flap against his back but didn’t care about bread crumbs or peanut butter stains on his plaid. Huggy had cleaned his house! Huggy’s place and the bar were in a shambles, but he’d turned Hutch’s home into a showplace.

He let Huggy go when he felt Starsky’s finger tapping his shoulder. “Uh, Hutch? Maybe I better play bad cop here?”

“No, I said I’d do it, and I will.” Hutch steeled himself and his expression. “Sit down, Huggy.”

Munching his sandwich, Huggy dropped down on the sofa, and Starsky perched on its arm beside him. Hutch stood and shrugged out of his over-shirt. Huggy winced at the show of gun and holster. That was their Huggy Bear: no dummy and more perceptive than a psychic with x-ray vision.

“Is it over?” Huggy asked at half volume, popping the last bite of sandwich in his mouth.

“Not quite. Before I tell you what you’ll have to do to make it over, let me ask you something. Do you have any idea what kind of charges you were looking at when Starsky and I sat down with Dobey over our case reports tonight?”

Smacking his lips, probably to rid his mouth of peanut butter stickiness, Huggy held up a fist, flicking one finger up for each charge, “Aiding and abetting. Withholding. Obstruction. Possession of stolen property. Accessory. That about right?”

“Give or take a couple, and with slightly different official wording, yes. That adds up to serious time, Huggy. Hard time. You had two things going for you. One: Dobey knows we couldn’t have built a case against Stryker without you, and Stryker killed Dobey’s partner and best friend. There’s damn near nothing a man isn’t willing to do for the guy who helps him get justice for–” At a tug on his hand Hutch looked down. Starsky had taken his hand in his and squeezed. Hutch looked up into Starsky’s faint smile, brighter in his eyes than on his lips. Huggy glanced at them and then looked away.

“Two: Dobey knows how much you helped Starsky with me a while back. But even with all that–Huggy, look at me–even with all that going for you, it still took us nearly an hour of pleading your case to get him to wave the charges.”

“I hear ya,” Huggy said, looking down at his lap and the khaki slacks Hutch had lent him.

“Do you, Huggy?”

He flashed a dangerous glare up at Hutch. “Yes, Dee-teck-tive Sergeant! What you want from me, man? Thank you won’t even cover it. I got no words that will. I know what I owe you guys and all I can hand you in return is the same loyalty I gave Dewey, and if that ain’t good enough–”

“That’s the problem!” Hutch yelled. “Your damned blind loyalty to Dewey almost got you killed or sent up for ten to fifteen! I don’t want to sound Biblical and throw ‘you’re either for us or against us’ bullshit at you, but–”

“Don’t!” Huggy reared to his feet and pulled the plackets of his borrowed white shirt together, buttoning with hands that visibly shook…and not from fear. “Don’t make me see you guys as cops first, people second! I ain’t no snitch or street stoolie! I do what I do for you guys ’cause we’re tight, and ’cause I trust you to do some good with the info I pass your way. I trust you not to see the streets and the people on it as a chance to go ’round flogging folks with the Police Academy procedures book. Believe me, you the last dudes on earth who want me walkin’ that straight and narrow you talkin’ ’bout.”

“Huggy–” Hutch started.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Starsky asked him sharply.

Huggy looked down at him with a strange twist to his expression. “I hear things, brother! I told you, the two of you have a habit of pissing in the wrong people’s cornflakes. You think that means just the nasties on the street? Hey-ull no. Man, you guys ain’t popular in your own precinct! There’s some suits on the high floors in your building would love to put your backs to the wall. You just don’t give ’em enough material to work with. But you wait, you guys don’t play by all their rules yourselves, and one of these days when your so-called brother cops are lookin’ to put you on ice, who you wanna come to? A guy like me who went out on a limb for Dewey, or the guy you talkin’ ’bout me being, who’d tell you, yeah, I’ll put you up, and then go drop a dime on the fuzz behind your backs?”

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a long look.

Hutch waved his hand and let it drop to his side. “Then we know where we stand, Huggy. You keep doing what you have to, we’ll keep doing what we have to, and I hope to God we don’t end up on opposite sides of a viewing glass one day.”

The ugly set to Huggy’s features softened into a wry smile. “Nobody said life is easy, blond blood. If we end up with glass between us, I’ll know it wasn’t ’cause you and Starsky didn’t do all you could to stop it.” He started toward the door.

“Where you think you’re goin’?” Starsky asked.

Huggy stopped but didn’t turn around and look at them. “I got a feelin’ this is one of those nights for you guys, and under the circumstances it’d be crass, me askin’ to join in.”

The air in the room crackled like someone had let a live wire hop around spitting sparks. They had never admitted anything to Huggy, but they’d assumed he probably knew. A cynical person would’ve raised eyebrows at his timing for dropping the words, but his friends knew better. It was a night for honesty, and Huggy was being honest. Time for us to return the favor. I just don’t know what the hell to say.

Starsky cleared his throat. “Hug, it’s not that you’re not, that we’re not, uh… Damn.” He pleaded silently with Hutch to loan him a few words, but Hutch still hadn’t unglued his tongue from the top of his mouth.

Huggy slowly turned. He’d reclaimed his hip, confident street persona. “Lemme make it easy on you. Never gonna get the invite, am I? I missed my chance. Something’s changed. It ain’t just for kicks no more, what you two got. Never was, but you white boys finally got your heads screwed on right about it now.”

Starsky looked hard at Hutch, seeking, Hutch knew, any sign that his partner would turn from friendly Dr. Jekyll into jealous Hyde if he tried a little fence mending with Huggy. Hutch wasn’t sure he wouldn’t, but he needed to know. He gave Starsky a slight nod.

Starsky left the sofa arm and grabbed Huggy by the hand. “We can’t play you like that. Can’t play you like a trick we let in to spice things up.” He pulled Huggy close and kissed him over the left eyebrow. “Hear me? You’re more’n that.”

Huggy looked at Hutch. Surprisingly, Hyde hadn’t even twitched under the cover of Jekyll. Hutch smiled at him. “But you’re right. What Starsky and I, what we’re trying to do, it’s between the two of us. Three’s a crowd. I know we’ve been known to tease you–”

“Flirt,” Starsky said.

“What?”

“Call it like it is.”

“All right, Starsky! Huggy, we’ve been known to flirt with you. Is that a problem?”

“Now I know for sure it ain’t going nowhere?” Huggy grinned. “You two of the finest honky cats ever to pound the pavement. You can flirt ’til you hurt, tease all you please!”

Starsky had returned to his perch on the sofa arm. “There’s still the problem of Lou Malinda. It’s not safe yet for you to be on the loose out there, Huggy.”

“Don’t you worry ’bout that. By now it’s all over the street that you pulled in the two no-goods who knocked off Dewey and tried to leave me holding the bag with Lou. He’s got nothing to gain comin’ after me now, and he knows it’d get him into hotter water with you two than his fragile skin can take.”

“Be that as it may,” Hutch said, “we have to deal with him. We told Dobey we had a plan to rid the city of Lou’s little operation for good, and you’re part of it.”

“That’s what I gotta do to make this all go away?” Huggy’s shoulders slumped.

“It’s nothing that’ll keep you awake tonight. You’re going to pay Lou a visit at the gym tomorrow, and we’ll tag along. That fifty grand in the evidence lock-up downtown is our leverage to convince Malinda to look elsewhere for bodies to shape out of blubber.”

“In the meantime…” Starsky dug in his pockets and pulled out his keychain, twisting the keys around until he’d freed one. “You can crash at my place tonight.” He tossed the key to Huggy. “We’re on second shift tomorrow but maybe we can pick you up in the morning and swing by your place, help out with some of the clean-up.”

Huggy lifted the key in a salute. “Thanks, Starsky. Mind if I invite a friend over? I need to work out some of the crimps in my style, dig? Keshena’s a little fireball, but she ain’t loud. We won’t get you into trouble with the neighbors.”

Keshena. Where had Hutch heard that name recently? Uh-oh. He remembered telling Luther his date with Keshena was in the bag. “Huggy? This Keshena? Is she any relation to Roger who keeps what you might call his office over at Cityscape Towers?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Oh, no,” Starsky groaned. “No. Last thing we need is Luther after you. Huggy, don’t. Just don’t. Man, you’d be safer chasing Malinda’s receptionist.”

“Yeah? What’s she look like?”

“Him.” Starsky pointed at Hutch, then left his seat on the sofa arm and patted Hutch’s hair. “Just a lot more’a this.” He flattened his palm against Hutch’s chest. “Lot more up here.” That palm flattened over Hutch’s groin before he smacked it away. “And a lot less down here.”

Huggy backed into the table by the door. “Oh, ma-a-an.”

Starsky was laughing like he might split something. Hutch gave him a look that choked off the laughter. “You can be downright evil when you put your mind to it,” he snarled at Starsky. To Huggy, he said, “Forget it. Even you couldn’t get her over to Starsky’s place tonight.” He snapped his fingers. “Never mind that. How are you getting over to his place?” Huggy didn’t answer, just stared into space. Hutch snapped his fingers louder. “Huggy!”

Huggy blinked. “Yeah?”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Starsky, let him take the Torino. It’s about to pour out there.”

“You kidding? With all his brains filling the front of his pants right now? No way!”

“He can drive my car then.” Hutch fished out his own keychain and hunted down the right key. Joining Huggy at the table, Hutch took his hand and pressed the key into it. “Cheer up, Huggy. You’ll get to meet her tomorrow when we go to Lou’s. One piece of advice before you lock horns with her.” He brushed his hand over Huggy’s chest. “Stick it out.” He patted Huggy’s stomach. “And tuck it in.” Then he slid his arm around Huggy’s waist and pulled him close to kiss him over the right eyebrow.

Huggy stumbled away from Hutch, nearly tripped over his own feet, and blundered up against the door before he managed to open it and stagger outside.

Starsky shut the door and shook his head at Hutch. “You call me evil?! What’s the matter with you? You can’t just go around meltin’ people like that! It’d be your fault if he puts your rusted garbage can in the wrong gear and drives it right into the damn canal.”

Outside, Hutch’s car engine rumbled to life, the roar louder then quieter and finally too distant to hear. He chuckled, sounding nervous to his own ears. “No splash. Heh.”

Starsky’s eyes glittered as he stalked toward Hutch. “You don’t have the first fucking clue how dangerous you are.”

Oh, Christ. I’ve riled a tiger. “Now, Starsk–”

“Uh-uh. Won’t work, so don’t try it. Need to teach you a lesson. Show you what it’s like, gettin’ melted.” Hutch had backed nearly to the piano when Starsky caught up with him and took him by the shoulders, jerking him into a bruising kiss. Last thing Hutch noticed before his mind exploded was the solid ridge of hard-on pressed up next to his. “This regular thing,” Starsky said into his mouth, kissing him again, “does it mean I can kiss you whenever I want, when it’s safe?” Hutch opened his eyes, decided he liked it better with them closed, and went for Starsky’s mouth again. “Hutch? Hutch!” Starsky laughed at him. “See?”

~*~*~

Hutch had turned to warm putty in Starsky’s hands. God, that made Starsky feel more powerful than ten men, knowing he could do that to the guy who’d pinned Malinda’s strong-man over the hood of a car and left him needing an ice pack for his scalp.

Feeling ten-feet-tall and stronger than Goliath like that, Starsky wasn’t driven to mount and ride Hutch into the mattress. He wanted to stretch out under Hutch and let him fuck them both to the moon and back. Before last night, he never would’ve thought about asking Hutch for it. Now, just thinking about putting it into words had Starsky ready to get naked and work up a sweat.

Maybe this words-thing had something going for it.

“Hey, Hutch?”

Hutch had finally blinked his eyes open again. “Um?”

Starsky lightly bit his earlobe, letting him feel teeth, not hard enough to draw blood. “You want my ass tonight bad as I want you wantin’ my ass tonight?”

Okay, he never claimed to be eloquent.

Hutch didn’t answer in words. He grabbed Starsky’s face between his hands and devoured his mouth. Nipping at Starsky’s tongue, the threat of teeth meant to turn his cock into a hot iron poker, Hutch started walking them past the table, past the front door. Without looking behind him, Starsky knew they were headed for that nook with the brass bed. Smaller than Hutch’s other pull-out bed, it was safer, hidden by the bathroom wall from sight of the glass front door with that thin curtain.

“Shower first?” Starsky asked. He wanted them to do it like this, fresh off the job; he wanted his nose full of raw Hutch, but if Hutch wanted them to get soapy clean Starsky could go along.

“No,” Hutch said against Starsky’s neck, then bit down and licked the skin to soothe the tiny burn. Hutch wouldn’t mark him, not with what they had ahead of them tomorrow, but he knew how to take Starsky right to that edge. “Nothing wrong with honest sweat and grit. I want you like last night. Ripe. Raw.”

Raw! He’d used the same word Starsky had in mind.

Starsky snarled his name and attacked Hutch’s holster, wanting it off, gone, so he could get to Hutch’s soft green shirt. Hutch flailed his arms around trying to help, and Starsky knew how much Hutch wanted him when he let Starsky drop the holstered gun to the floor on the pile made by Starsky’s windbreaker and holster.

“Arms up!” Starsky grunted, yanking the shirt up and over Hutch’s head, leaving him with finger-in-electric-socket hair that made Starsky laugh through the need taking over.

Hutch growled deeper and gruffer than Starsky had ever heard and grabbed Starsky’s shirt in both hands, slamming his body against Starsky’s and bumping faces with him until their lips met. So far gone he tried to pull Starsky’s shirt up while they were kissing, Hutch whimpered when Starsky’s shirt kept butting up against their chins. Starsky pulled his mouth free of the lip-lock and stepped backward, past ready to be skin on skin.

Starsky didn’t get to his jeans. The second Starsky’s blue jersey came off and hit the floor, Hutch closed the distance and went halfway down to his knees. Holding Starsky by the sides, Hutch drew the bridge of his nose from Starsky’s waistband up the middle of his stomach, slower up his chest, and Starsky heard a snuffling noise.

Hutch was sniffing him, rubbing his face where sweat tended to stick on Starsky.

When Hutch reached Starsky’s throat, he sucked softly, tickling the skin in that little hollow. Starsky couldn’t take any more. He didn’t want to shoot off until he had Hutch hip-deep inside him. Holding Hutch off with a palm flat against that flushed, smooth chest, Starsky toed off his sneakers, one-handed his jeans and briefs, and hopped around tugging on his socks.

“Stuff. Slick.” Hutch did an about-face, rushing around the corner formed by the bathroom wall. Starsky stood naked by the bed for a few seconds before he had the brilliant idea of pulling the bedcovers down and getting a pillow right where he needed it.

The heavy rain had arrived. Great timing. Starsky looked up at the multicolored skylight and listened to the rhythmic pat-tap-pat-tap-pat. Rain overhead, bed right beside him, Hutch less than ten feet away, he couldn’t think of anything else on earth he wanted or needed. He sprawled on the bed, on his stomach, and hiked his hips so the first thing Hutch saw on his return would be Starsky’s ass up and ready.

“Oh my God.”

Man, Hutch sounded hoarse! Starsky lifted his head from the pillows and sent Hutch what he hoped was a come-hither look over his shoulder. Hutch was the only one Starsky had ever wanted to do a come-hither look for, so who knew? He might’ve looked cross-eyed. Thank fuck Hutch had shed his cords and shoes in the bathroom. If Starsky had needed to move off the bed and finish undressing him, he would’ve ended up on his knees sucking Hutch off like last night, and that wasn’t how he wanted this to go down. Go down?! He tried not to laugh–didn’t want to mess up his come-hither look.

Hutch stood proudly naked at the foot of the bed, and while Starsky watched Hutch watch him, he caught the flicker of movement below. Hutch’s cock bobbed. Small movement, huge impact. Starsky groaned, jerking his hips, trying to rub his dick on the pillow he’d shoved under him, wanting friction from the scratchy bargain-basement pillowcase.

Hutch pounced.

One second Starsky had nothing but cool air above him, and the next second, hot, horny man pressed him into the mattress. Starsky let him hump the cleft of his ass for second or two and then yelled, “In me, damn it, lube me up and get in!”

He got the fastest lube job outside of a stock car pit stop, and because Hutch would rather dip his stick in an acid bath than leave Starsky too dry, it was the most thorough, too. Not to mention, the guy had long fingers. The spot deep inside Starsky, the one that lit his balls up like Christmas tree ornaments if stroked just right, that spot usually had an aerobic workout before Hutch got his cock anywhere near Starsky’s ass.

Hutch braced over him, left-hand clasping Starsky’s shoulder, sliding his right hand, his roughened gun hand, between Starsky’s hips and the pillow until he’d given Starsky his palm to rub against. Starsky had the shakes so bad anybody would think he had a milkshake machine somewhere in his family tree. The weight of Hutch’s body on top of his, the brush of his chest against Starsky’s back, the scent of Hutch’s sweat and musky crotch, all that got top marks in Starsky’s book, but he needed more.

“What ya waiting for, my ass to put out a welcome mat?”

Hutch chuckled and groaned at the same time. “Trying to…get control…take it slow.”

“Slow? Fuck slow!”

“Don’t push me, Starsk! I can’t hold on to it! I know what it feels like from your end. You’re hung, man, hung like hell, and if you don’t watch it, you leave me trying not to walk like a stunt double on a B-Western who’s been in the saddle for two days.”

“Yeah? And every time we do it the other way ’round, you tell me not to watch it.”

“Didn’t say I was consistent.”

“Come on, Hutch!”

Instead of blunt heat and pressure against his asshole, Hutch’s left hand disappeared from Starsky’s shoulder, and he felt something smooth, silky rub against both of his butt cheeks. What the–? Starsky raised his head again, craning his neck to look back at the action. Hutch had crawled backward to strop his cheek–the one higher up–against Starsky’s butt.

“This ass,” Hutch murmured. “Been watching it, wanting it, the last two days.”

“Good. Quit with the watching and fuck it, willya?!”

That got him what he wanted. Hutch stretched back over him, reaching for his shoulder, and the nudging pressure gave Starsky the shakes again. He held on to control, fought to keep his hips still. Too much jabbing his cock up and down against the ridge of Hutch’s callused trigger finger, and he’d pop before Hutch got his first stroke in.

When the nudge didn’t turn into that good stretching burn, Starsky craned his neck again. Poor guy was struggling to hold himself to just a few inches inside. Hutch always did that, tried to save Starsky a reaming, when a reaming was exactly what Starsky wanted.

“What’s the big idea? All the way in.”

“Starsky, please…you think I’m superhuman? You keep pushing, I’m gonna let go.”

“Good! What the hell you think I’m trying to getcha to do? Where’s the fun in a partner who packs a long-range cannon if he don’t let me feel every inch of–oh-OH–Shit!”

Hutch made a harsh cry. “You want it, you got it.”

“Move, move, move!”

Hutch moved. And, oh, shit, he settled into that long stroke in, long stroke out rhythm followed by his imitation of a jackhammer. Smooth and deep, jackhammer, smooth and deep. None of that garden-variety in-out-in-out stuff for Hutch. When Hutch got like that, Starsky’s prostate just surrendered, sent up the white flag. Didn’t take Hutch long to find the right spot, either, and when he did, Starsky let him know.

“There, Hutch, there, right there, right there, right fucking there, oh, God!”

Hutch’s hand clamped down so hard on Starsky’s shoulder, Starsky bowed his back, working his hips. “Starsk-Star-Star-Starsky, ride my hand, ride it, man, ride!”

Starsky rode. He pushed his ass back into the cushion of Hutch’s balls, pushed his cock hard into the sweaty hardness of Hutch’s hand. They lost speech for a while, just grunted, shouted, and tried to give the rain a run for its money in noisemaking. Then Hutch started mangling Starsky’s name in hoarse cries, and Starsky knew Hutch couldn’t last.

“Sta-ungh-sky!”

Starsky was right there. One toe left on the edge, rest of him already gone. He needed just one more thing from Hutch to make him slip into freefall.

“Hutch-baby-shoot-babe-shoot….”

“Sta-ungh-sky?”

“Right behind you!”

Hutch shoved into him hard and mangled half a dozen words, pouring into him, and Starsky choked and couldn’t get a word out and poured himself all over Hutch’s hand. He lay there like a blob and Hutch collapsed like a blob on top of him. Fine with Starsky. He felt so safe under Hutch’s warmth. His ass throbbed, but his dick was happy and so was he.

Ten minutes later the rain still pattered against the skylight, but he and Hutch had managed to haul their asses apart and find a way to lie close together without one of them stuck in the wet spot. Starsky had turned over on his back so he could stare up at the streaks of rainwater running down the glass. Hutch lay on his side facing Starsky, already doing his pre-snore snuffling.

God, it hurt, how damned right Starsky felt. Only thing that could make it even better? Having Hutch all to himself. Jesus, but the guy was right: you find someone special, and you want them all for yourself.

“What guy?” Hutch asked sleepily.

Starsky would’ve sworn he cleared the bed by three inches. He’d said that out loud?!

“Huh?”

“What guy’s right?”

“Manny. Last night when you took Bert out in cuffs, Manny said he knew where the guy was coming from about Francine, y’know? You find someone special, you want them all to yourself, something like that.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me Manny’s got a thing for Francine? Bert would pulverize him.”

“Doubt Manny’ll ever act on it.”

Hutch snuffled again, then said drowsily, “You got me to yourself, Starsk, in every way that matters.”

“Yeah?”

“Um-hm. If you think a romp with a stewardess or some lady I meet in a club means anything close to what I have with you, you’ve had another brain freeze.”

Starsky wanted to drop the subject, because, hey, he couldn’t have what he really wanted, in a world that didn’t understand a male silver-backed gorilla wanting to pair up with another male silver-backed gorilla, but he realized they were doing what he thought they’d never do. Lying there after sex, talking. No lights out, wham-bam-thank-you-Sam. He didn’t even feel two-percent girly, either, go figure.

“Every way that matters, huh?”

“Starsky.” Whoa, Hutch sounded alert all of a sudden. “I’m your best friend, right?”

“Damn right.”

“I’m your only best friend. No one else. No one else will ever be your best friend.”

“No way. No one. Ever.” Starsky promised himself right then: any girl ever called him her best friend, he would just keep his damn mouth shut. She wouldn’t get it in return.

“And you’re mine, only one, ever. That’s what matters. Best friend to us means something a little different now, after today. It means lover. Partner. When we say best friend, we mean–”

“Mate,” Starsky said.

“Damn right.” Hutch laughed. “Although, I hear that word, and after that radio broadcast I feel like I should hop around like a baboon in front of you and make funny noises.”

“I’ll pass on that, thanks. So, what else is just between us, hm? I know. You don’t leave your stuff at a girl’s place, do ya?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“Good.” Hutch yawned. “That’s another one then.”

“Gimme something harder. You know, a sacrifice.”

“You mean ask you to give up something you do with girls?”

“Yep.”

“Uh… Can’t ask you not to kiss them. They’d sock you black and blue if you cut that out. Wait! Okay, you don’t go down on them.”

Starsky had to turn his head and look at him. “Say what?”

Hutch looked a really happy wicked. “From now on, you don’t cross the equator with your mouth unless it’s on me. And vice versa. Plenty of other ways to pleasure a woman.”

Feeling better and better, Starsky smirked. “Says something about the kind’a guys we are in the sack with the ladies that we think it’s a sacrifice to give that up. Okay, it’s a deal.” He took a turn yawning. “What’s this called?”

“What we’re doing right now? It’s talking, Starsk. Pillow talk. I know we’re new to it–”

“No, dummy. These decisions we’re making.”

“Oh. I think…hm…I think it’s a kind of selective monogamy.”

Starsky laughed. “Is that like selective machismo?”

Hutch reached over and shoved Starsky’s side. “Turkey.”

Starsky grabbed for Hutch’s hand and held it to his chest. “You got me too. Every way that matters.”

For the rest of his life, he would remember the look on Hutch’s face then.

~*~*~

Hutch woke up thinking about Starsky.

He heard a grunt beside him, then a faint snore.

He did have Starsky beside him.

His heart kicked up a medley of the Hallelujah Chorus and Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.

Hutch nudged him. “Starsk.”

“G’way.”

Sliding over in the bed, Hutch dropped kisses along the back of his neck. “Starsky.”

“G’way, asshole, sleeping.”

His happiness so bulletproof after last night that he could shrug off morning-person rejection, Hutch rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. He didn’t need instant gratification this morning. He wouldn’t have to wait weeks before he had Starsky in his bed again. No, they couldn’t safely spend every night together, but they could plan their nights now, anticipate those special nights, and if they wanted two in a row, or three in a week, they could work it out.

He hummed that corny wedding arrangement of Bach all the way to the bathroom.

A nice hot shower went by fast, and he didn’t need a jerk-off, didn’t need to cool the burn. He enjoyed the burn, knowing it stood for something now that it hadn’t before. Stepping out of the steamy shower stall, his favorite russet towel wrapped around his waist, Hutch carried his toiletries over to the white wicker chest. A knock on the door stopped him halfway. Starsky knocking? Okay, what was the troublemaker up to now?

“Come in.”

The bathroom door opened. Starsky lounged in the doorway, wearing Hutch’s plaid shirt from yesterday, unbuttoned all the way, and nothing else. He had that impish expression of suppressed laughter, and he batted his lashes at Hutch.

“Thought you might wanna know your partner’s here,” Starsky said in a mocking falsetto. “Raiding your fridge again. Honestly, I don’t know how you stand it.”

Hutch met him at the doorway, but didn’t give him the chaste good-morning peck he planted on stewardesses. He yanked Starsky by the shirttails into his arms and tore into his open mouth, getting everything back in the kiss that he gave. He used Starsky for a human towel, rubbing himself dry on him, until Starsky tried to push him away, laughing.

Hutch arched his eyebrow. “It’s scary how you know what to say to imitate one of the girls.”

Starsky shrugged. “Been here often enough when one of ’em was dressing for a run to the airport. You’ve heard some of mine, too.”

Yes, and they couldn’t sound as masculine as Starsky if they gargled gravel first. “For the record? My partner can raid anything of mine he wants, including my ass.”

Starsky’s teasing expression hardened into that stalking hunter-in-the-night look that tightened Hutch’s throat and brought his cock up to slap against his belly, fighting the restriction of the towel. Starsky turned him roughly and pushed him up against the wicker chest, stripping the towel from him. Hutch clutched the corners of the chest and hissed in anticipation at the press of Starsky’s morning hardness against his ass.

“Don’t give me ideas,” Starsky barked.

“Wanna do me, Starsk?”

“Wanna do you so deep those ducks in the canal will hear you yelling my name.”

Hutch took a tiny warning step backward so Starsky knew a turn was coming, then whirled. “Sounds great, but we have to pick up Huggy in an hour if we want to get anything done at his place, and then we’re on duty. Got to walk that gauntlet of Malinda’s again.” He reached down and fondled Starsky’s straining shaft. “And this makes its presence felt.”

“Tell me about it.” Starsky wiggled his ass, showing off a hitch in his wiggle.

“You okay?”

He gave Hutch his yes-Mommy eye-roll. “You know I am. But I know what you mean. I had all night to recover. Few hours ain’t enough. Gotta save fucking you ’til you can’t walk straight for some other time.” His eyes darkened, and not in the erotic way. “Can’t stay tonight, though. Guess we need to spend a couple nights apart.”

“Yeah.” Hutch lightly chucked him under the chin with his fist. “Some of the fly-girls are in town tonight, I think. Kathy and Sandra, maybe.”

Starsky’s grin lacked a little luster. “Hey, ain’t a damn thing shabby about sex with women. Song on the radio says it all: I ain’t ready for the altar, but I do agree there’s times, a woman sure can be a friend of mine.”

“What song’s that?”

“Group called America sings it.”

“I didn’t ask the group, idiot. The title. I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

Starsky’s grin reached full wattage, tipping Hutch off to a punch line. “It’s–” he snorted a laugh, “Sister Golden Hair.”

Hutch’s glare had to threaten grievous bodily harm. Starsky made an oh-shit face and started a quick back step. “Uh-oh. Like Huggy says, I done done it now.” Then he turned and ran.

Hutch didn’t bother with his towel. He pelted after Starsky and tackled him over the back of the sofa, rolling until he found leverage and could pin Starsky down, one arm behind his back. Starsky struggled briefly and then surrendered, cursing Hutch through laughter.

“Ooga,” Starsky grunted caveman-style. “Me got strong mate. Lemme up, willya?”

Machismo restored, Hutch rolled off him and swatted his ass. Starsky responded by tackling Hutch and pinning him under Starsky’s weight on the sofa. Rising up on his elbows, Starsky stared down at him, serious, dangerous in a beautiful way and beautiful in a dangerous way.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me something?”

“Name it.”

“One day, hell, even if it’s years from now, it’ll be just us?”

Starsky knew damn well Hutch would never make a promise he didn’t believe he could keep. Hutch knew damn well Starsky would respect him for taking a few seconds to lie there and think before he spoke.

“One day, Starsky, it’ll be just us.” Hutch smiled. “And a dog. I think I’d like a dog.”

Starsky’s bright smile turned into a groan. “Ah, man. Not a big one. You know I’m not big on big dogs.”

“A golden retriever?”

He looked horrified. “Christ, no. Damn things get big as ponies.”

“They do not, you jackass!” Hutch thwapped the back of Starsky’s head. “Okay. Smaller dog. Well, there’s the Newfoundland.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “How big?”

“Oh, come on. Little black ball of fur. Harmless.”

Making a grrr sound, Starsky rubbed his knuckles on Hutch’s crown. “Liar! You think I don’t know from a Newfoundland? Black ball of fur, you say. Yeah, when they’re a damned day old! I’ve driven cars smaller than those things get.”

Hutch lost the battle with laughter and snuck his hand between them in search of hard flesh. “Think of it this way, Starsk. It’s just more dog to love. Like this…” He started pumping Starsky’s dick. “Just more cock to love.”

Starsky’s eyes rolled back. “Oh, God that’s good. How much time we got?”

“Not much.”

“Lousy swing shift schedule Dobey’s got us on. I still say we need to rig an alarm to that candy machine he goes to.”

“Yeah, and we need to get off this sofa in full view of that front door. Beat me to the bathroom, and I’ll give you a blow job.”

Starsky sprang off him in a blur of plaid shirt-tails flapping.

Hutch lay there on the sofa, grinning.

A regular thing might get messy, complicated. Adding romance to their relationship, they now had fireworks, and fireworks get loud and dangerous. But Hutch wasn’t worried.

Add machismo to the word partner and they had all the letters needed to spell romance.

Chapter End Notes:

Author’s Note: For Keri, who first got me thinking about that moment in the canal house….