Maskerade

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This story is the sequel to The Week, 1980.

Originally published by Venice Place Press in Venice Place Chronicles, Volume VI, October 2006.

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October 29, 1981

When Starsky gets tired, bone-deep tired, the room lights dim, the music flattens halfway through the second verse, and I get this ache just behind my ears that spreads down the back of my neck and up around to my temples.

Physical exhaustion is never responsible for that kind of Starsky tiredness. On our former job, it took a case that wrung us out emotionally and ended with loose ties and bureaucratic horseshit too deep to wade through without getting a fair amount on ourselves.

Our second career might be a fantasy for half the teenagers in America–two rockers on a European mini-tour–and we’ve done all right by ourselves with two single releases that went to No. 2 and 3 on the charts and an album nominated for a Grammy. Okay, so we lost out to Christopher Cross, and Starsky still shakes his head and laughs over that one. Mackie, our producer, manager, and paternal deity, doesn’t laugh. His spout of expletives blisters the ears of everyone in the room whenever “Sailing” comes on the radio, and then he reassures us that we’ll make it next year. But the rock life isn’t all glitz and glamour, and sometimes lately I’ve wondered if we’ll still be doing this next year. For two guys trying to balance fame, music, and the world on the shoulders of their own love affair, it’s nearly as emotionally wringing as those unshakeable police cases, and twice as tiring.

This morning, when we left our extravagant adjoining suites for a local radio station interview, Mallory, our hospitality representative and almost constant–thank God for the almost!–companion on tour, flicked his fingers at me as I walked by him.

“What?” I asked.

“Your journal,” Mallory simpered, still flicking those fingers, palm up.

Oh. I dutifully let myself back into “my” suite and retrieved my newest leather-bound locked journal, which Mallory keeps in his ever-present security briefcase while we’re away from the hotel. I keep the journal key on my person, to prevent Mallory from collecting fantasies to add to his hand-job repertoire. The cloak-and-dagger won’t provide much security if Mallory’s briefcase is ever stolen, but there is safety in that Mallory is the only person besides us who knows where he keeps the journal, and he has a paralytic fear of Mackie and an equally healthy appreciation for his own balls.

When I handed over my little book this morning, Starsky gave Mallory his coldest, scornful this-is-ridiculous glare, which Mallory took in stride, as always, to give the man credit for an iron backbone. “Now, Detective,” Mallory said, using the former title that always bristles Starsky’s neck hairs. “You know all about incriminating evidence. Any tabloid you could name would write someone a blank check for even one of these pages, and quite a few legitimate publications would as well.”

I wonder. As a result of our decision to play things our way, a global Are They or Aren’t They mystery has sprung up around our duo, Phoenix 79, that seems to intrigue people at least as much as our music. Mackie loves it, and the effect on our profits, but as so often happens when we get our way, irony booted us in the ass for it. Mackie is more feverishly protective of that mystery than he was of his first intention to portray us as straight playboys complete with living supermodel accessories, hence Mallory walking around with my journal locked away in his briefcase as if the book contains the formula for a prototype nuclear weapon. But I think Mallory and Mackie are misreading the situation. From what I’ve seen, the music media doesn’t want the mystery solved, either, because debating the possibilities generates articles, sells magazines, and tempts viewers, meaning more gold in their coffers. How easy would it be for a bold reporter to pop any one of the right questions: “Are you gay?” “Do you guys sleep together?” “Are you more than collaborative partners?” But no one has. I have a feeling the day someone does, Mackie will have a massive stroke, because Starsky will likely pull me into his lap (if we’re seated at a press conference) and put his tongue down my throat in front of the room full of scribbling journalists and stunned press photographers.

I won’t deny I fantasize about that sometimes.

Until then, though, I play the game. But after playing the game in London, Paris, Berlin, Brussels, and now Salzburg, Starsky’s getting that bone-deep tiredness, and by the time our chauffeured luxury sedan arrived at the private rear entrance to the radio station, I felt the ache start up behind my ears.

I relieve my stress in the pages of my journal, and Starsky loves to watch me at the hotel room writing desk. He loves it so much that more often than not, I end up with him between my legs in front of the chair–I’ve learned to have fairly decent penmanship while my balls are being sucked empty by way of my cock–but after Starsky’s one foray into a third-person memoir last year, he won’t take up the pen again. And he hasn’t found a stress reliever of his own. I didn’t return to journal keeping until late last year, but it has been a sanity-saver, and I’m going to keep encouraging Starsky to do the same.

He needs some kind of outlet.

The radio station interview will have Mackie creating new cuss words. Normally flirtatious and more vibrant than a Fourth of July parade, Starsky was barely civil to the hosting deejays, and the language barrier had nothing to do with his snarling disdain for the usual music, bio, and future plans questions. The interviewers’ English drew circles around my amateur Hochdeutsch, but they might as well have been speaking ancient Sumerian where Starsky was concerned.

Back in the sedan, grateful for the tinted windows and privacy wall separating the passenger seating from the driver’s compartment, I took Starsky’s face in my hands and turned his squared jaw my way for a long kiss that I broke just before it escalated from soothing to stimulating. Starsky had a smile for me, but it lacked half the usual wattage, and the ache reached my neck.

By tonight after a chilly, silent dinner and an ear-burning phone call from Mackie, I knew I had to enlist reinforcements. While Starsky stormed into the bathroom in our suite for a solo shower, I got on the phone and dialed San Diego.

“He-l-lo.” There was a slight hitch in Philip’s voice.

“My luck is turning. Didn’t think I’d get you this time of day.”

“Hutch! Mark and I came home for a quick lunch. You guys looking forward to rocking Salzburg?”

I frowned. “Don’t know how much rocking we’ll do. Starsky’s hit that skid again. We both have, really, but it’s hitting him hardest, and I’m worried about him.”

“Fed up with the game, is he?”

“To the point of chucking it, I think.”

Philip made a clucking tongue noise that told me he was shaking his head. “He’d never do that, Hutch. He knows what the music means to you, and it means a lot to him, too. Has from the start.”

I rubbed my forehead and then my temples, where the ache now resided. “The music doesn’t mean half as much to me as he does. I believe he knows that, but, well, if things don’t look up soon, I’ll have to sit him down and talk about the future of Phoenix 79. I won’t stand for anything that starts draining his spirit.”

“Before you get that drastic, what’s the immediate concern? Something you can focus on right now?”

“The concert Saturday night. If I don’t find a way to pull him out of this, it’ll be flatter than a pancake. He’s a professional, Philip, he’ll play his best and won’t miss a single rift, but he won’t have that fire. That fire is what makes us work. Far as I’m concerned, he’s the real, live phoenix in Phoenix 79, and what’s a phoenix without its fire?”

“I know. Hm.”

“You’ve been to Salzburg, right?”

“Yeah, back in ’78.”

“Got any suggestions for a distraction?”

“I know a great one this time of year, but I don’t see how you’ll pull it off.”

“Well, come on, what is it?”

“It’s the annual masquerade party at a club called Phantasie. Rocks, Hutch, absolutely rocks. I’d give anything to take Mark there one year.” Philip gasped and sighed, “Ooh….”

I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, Philip, what’s–?”

There was a soft giggle followed by another gasp. “Well, you notice Mark hasn’t said hi.”

I now had a flush to go with my raised eyebrows. “Surprised you answered the phone.”

“You kidding? Ooh, OH!… Even more erotic this way. Anyway, Starsky would love that party, Hutch. There are no doldrums deep enough to keep a man down during Maskerade at Phantasie. We’re talking good music, good dancing, even better food and drinks, and hot guys in costumes. Starsky won’t be all into the hot guys in costumes, but–”

“Phantasie’s a gay club, I take it?”

“Yep. The most fun to be had in Salzburg, in my humble opinion.”

“Damn.”

“You have to buy tickets, too. It’s usually the last Friday in October before All Saints and All Souls days. They don’t really celebrate Halloween in Austria, you know, but those two days are a big deal. November first and second.”

“So if that holds true, Maskerade would be tomorrow night. All right, Philip; thanks for the tip. I’ll see what I can work out.”

“No…problem…oh, oh Godohgodoh….”

“Think I’ll just leave you guys to it.” I hung up the phone just as Philip’s moans became an outright wail.

God knows that’s the closest I’d come to sexual screaming since setting foot on European soil. For obvious reasons, Starsky and I can’t scream the hotel roof off when we go at it. We’ve invented our own ways to convey the same level of passion more quietly. Certain touches, facial expressions, and other silent signals equate to groans and shouts. If Starsky ever pulled one of those special faces on me in public, I’d strangle in my pants and then need to change them. Meanwhile, I had to smile at Philip’s effect on his lover. Long way for Mr. Discreet and Reserved Mark Preston to go from closeted physical therapist to blowing his lover in the middle of a transatlantic telephone call.

I went in search of Mallory.

The look on his face when he opened his door nearly turned me around again. If he weren’t so damned good at his job, I’d demand that Mackie replace him. Before he could look any more hopeful, I pushed by him and sat down at his suite’s dining table.

“Drink?” Mallory offered, indicating the sideboard with its antique liquor service.

“No, this is a business conversation. If you want Mackie to double your Christmas bonus this year because our profit margin keeps shooting through the roof, then you need to help me make something happen tomorrow night.”

Mallory poured himself a scotch, neat, and sat down across from me. “What?”

“Get Starsky and me tickets to a party at Phantasie tomorrow night.”

Mallory half-choked on his swallow of scotch. “Out of the question. That’s a gay club, Hutch. Once you cross the threshold, you’ll be telling the whole world where you and Starsky stand on the Are They or Aren’t They question.”

“It’s a masquerade party, Mallory. We’ll be in disguise along with everyone else.”

“Still, Mackie would never give the approval for–”

“Listen, Mallory, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.” I leaned over the table and tugged on his tie the way Starsky has been known to do when he’s fed up with our hospitality rep. “Starsky needs some time out from the game. The closet’s been getting real tight lately, and he’s claustrophobic. When he’s miserable, I’m miserable, and with a concert two days away, shouldn’t you be concerned about protecting Mackie’s investment? If that’s no incentive, you should know that my bark is nowhere near as sweet as Starsky likes to say my singing voice is.” I tugged on the tie again. “I’m very close to barking.”

“But the tickets may be sold out. And costumes, and–”

“Don’t even try that one, Mallory. You could teach Huggy Bear Brown ten or twenty things about procurement, so go forth and procure. We’ll need comfortable costumes that provide covering for our hair as well as our faces.” I loosened my grip on his tie and stood. “I’ll expect them delivered to the suite by tomorrow afternoon.”

When I got back to the room, Starsky was nowhere to be seen. I found him in “his” adjoining suite, parked in front of the TV and gawking at the nudity in the television program. I casually stepped in his line of sight and thrust my pelvis forward. “You want to stare at Austrian boobs or American cock?”

Starsky’s grin almost reached his eyes. “I dunno, Hutch. I can see American cock any old time, but Austrian boobs–” I pretended to huff and turn away, and Starsky grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me to him until I straddled his lap, pressing my knees into the soft give of the sofa on either side of his thighs. “Never let it be said I’m unpatriotic. Show me that grade-A, all-American meat, cowboy.”

One of our codes we’ve recently established. When Starsky calls me cowboy, he wants me to ride his cock. Having him inside me is something I never take for granted. After the rough go I put us through in accepting the receiving end of intercourse, I’m always thrilled when I can take that beautiful cut cock to its hilt without a twinge of underlying psychosexual rejection. That beautiful cock had pushed its way through the folds of Starsky’s terry robe, and when I pressed my denim-covered erection up against the sensitive ridge, Starsky closed his eyes and shivered.

“We get down and dirty and soaked with sweat this way, Starsk. You’ll need another shower afterward.”

He winked at me. “There a water ration in Salzburg nobody told me about? ‘Sides, taking one by myself, I missed out on washing your hair. I’ll go rumple up ‘my’ bed and then meet you in ‘yours’.”

Oh, man. With him pulling out the “cowboy” and hair washing, he might not need a night out at Phantasie to climb out of the celebrity doldrums. And I knew then my journal entry for the night would be brief at best because I’d have a loved-out, warm, clean, sleepy Starsky to snuggle up with-less incentive to fill page after page when he won’t be crawling under the desk to give me journal-writing head.

October 30, 1981

On tour, we try our best to start every morning with a kiss. A love you, glad you’re here, glad we’re together in (whatever city we’re in) kiss. This morning, I didn’t wake to a stubbly, morning breath kiss. I woke to Starsky scowling at several newspapers spread across his side of the bed.

I yawned. “What?”

“Translate,” he barked, thrusting one of the front page sections at me.

We’d made the front page of the Salzburger Nachrichten, courtesy of the radio station interview that had the Austrian press questioning whether Phoenix 79 was on the verge of going up in smoke. Great. I strained the limits of my high school German to read the gist of the article aloud.

Starsky’s scowl only deepened. “Figured as much from the few words I could make out. Damn it, where do they get off, huh? That snit of mine yesterday had nothin’ to do with us. I mean, not us, us. Hell, far as we’re allowed to show the world, there is no us, us.”

“I know. Brace yourself, Starsky. When Mackie gets his hands on these, and you can bet he will, we’ll get our ears cleaned.”

“He better damn well not call in the next half-hour, or he won’t have ears afterward,” Starsky growled, pushing the newspapers off the bed in one sweep of his arm.

Starsky is usually able to shrug off what the papers print. My optimism from last night went the way of the papers and landed on the floor. If Mallory didn’t come through with those party tickets and costumes, he wouldn’t have balls left for Mackie to threaten.

Mallory came through. But I was tempted to hand his ass to him, for a new reason. He’d chosen two famous swordsmen for our “cover.” The box and suit bag labeled “Starsky” contained a stunningly authentic Zorro costume, complete with the black cowl mask for covering Starsky’s trademark curls under the black flat-brimmed hat. Starsky would crush hearts all over Phantasie in the sexy get-up. I, on the other hand, had the dubious honor of going as The Scarlet Pimpernel, or Sir Percival Blakeney, in all his foppish glory. That meant a scarlet frock coat, white waistcoat and breeches, lace wrist frills, and white silk stockings, along with a felt black hat that would hardly cover my blond hair, and a faux sword to be attached at my side with scarlet silk ribbon.

Starsky snickered over the gold-buckled eighteenth-century black pumps. I shot him a drop-dead glare and planned violent revenge on Mallory. This was just his passive aggressive style–to punish me for sending him on this errand by saddling me with the costume from Hell. The clothes were beautiful, and I have nothing against eighteenth-century English fashion, but I’d be roasting within two seconds under club lighting in a crowd of partygoers.

Slashing his own fake rapier in the famous Z motion, Starsky had one smile after another crinkling the laughter lines around his eyes. “Are we really goin’ to a party? Just us? No entourage, no hassles, kinda like a date?”

I kissed him for that. “We sure are. Tonight we’re not Phoenix 79, Starsk. We’re just us. Starsky and Hutch–or Zorro and that ‘damned Pimpernel’–out on the town.”

Witnessing the joy and resurgence of youth in Starsky’s strut, I would even forgive Mallory the nut-roasting costume from Hell.

Since Phoenix 79 has become an international enterprise, we get security whether we like it or not. That’s one of the hardest aspects of stardom for us to handle. It’s tough for two guys who used to do the occasional celebrity protection gig for the BCPD to have the tables turned on them and submit to a security agency’s detail of ex-law enforcement bodyguards. Harder still, because Starsky and I believe we’re the ultimate experts in protecting each other, and no one else need apply. But to preserve Mackie’s coronary function, we’ve learned to play nice with the guys who get paid to see us safely between engagements. For the Phantasie party, I wasn’t playing nice, though. If I couldn’t watch out for Starsky, and vice versa, in a masquerade party at a local club, then we were both ready for the old folks’ home.

Mallory, of course, threatened to break out in hives at the mere suggestion of leaving the security detail at the hotel. “Absolutely not! I’ve already rented costumes for Dennis and Martin. Mackie would just die if they didn’t accompany you.”

I rolled my eyes at the thought of our two hung-up-on-their-own-testosterone macho bodyguards spending the evening at Phantasie. For a second, I considered the intrusion of privacy worthwhile to watch them squirm. They do their job, and they respect Starsky and me, because they know our past and they know we’re capable of putting them in a combination half-and-whole Nelson with each other and leaving them that way for a few hours if they don’t behave, but they also don’t mind skewering us from time to time with anti-gay barbs and the usual bone-headed straight guy bullshit.

But, no, not even for a night of poetic justice would I risk the realities of our new life crowding Starsky at Maskerade.

“Well, Mallory, Dennis and Martin can just dress up and play in their suite, and Mackie can take a Valium. Starsky and I will take a taxi just like any other party-going tourists would. How long will we maintain our cover if we show up at Phantasie in a luxury sedan with an armed entourage? And I’m warning you, Mallory, you better not get the bright notion of sending them later to spy on us. If I smell so much as one drop of bone-head bodyguard sweat tonight, you’ll have to reenact your favorite musical and escape over the Alps to get away from me. Got that?”

Mallory quailed beautifully and spent the rest of the afternoon in a sulky pout. The man is at least ten times tougher than he likes to portray, or he would never have survived in this business, but he is past master at the diva pout. So with time to spare, after flirting our way through dressing for the party–who knew Zorro could get that hard for a dandified British aristocrat?–we used the hotel’s rear exit and walked around to the front to wait for our taxi, secure in our costumes and masks.

The taxi was clean with only the faint remnant of cigarette smoke wafting from the driver’s seat, and Starsky slid in behind me and said, “Klub Phantasie, bitte.”

Pride in my gorgeous spouse had me fondling his inner thigh in the back of the taxi. His breath hitched, hot puffs of air against my neck as he blew whispery air kisses on my skin above the collar ruffle. I wanted to scream in the best way.

Walking into Phantasie, holding tight to Starsky’s hand, I saw what Philip meant about the hot guys in costumes. Starsky derives so much pleasure in teasing me about my appreciation for male attractiveness. “Hey, hold up,” he said in his fake jealous caveman voice, “am I gonna have to put a leash on you, Sir Percy?”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “I’m looking to get into Zorro’s pants tonight and no one else’s, Don Diego.”

“Damn right.” Then Starsky stopped cold, staring, and I saw he’d spotted two beautiful, masked young women who were dancing close enough to fuse their pelvic bones.

“Down, boy,” I snarled. “Sir Percy does carry a sword!”

There in the middle of the crowded entranceway, Starsky grabbed me by the hips and jerked me up against him for a kiss that sent my head spinning. Catcalls and whistles intervened, and I pulled away, my mouth hurting more from my smile than the assertive kiss. Starsky’s eyes were shining like stars through the mask holes.

“I love you,” he told me in all seriousness.

“In that case, feel free to file that hot Austrian lesbian fantasy away for a jerk-off session when I’m out at voice coaching. Or better yet, you can tell it to me one night when I’m sucking you off.”

He grinned at me. “You got a deal.”

Austria might not celebrate Halloween American-style, but for Phantasie, a masquerade party in honor of All Saints and All Souls came with Old European Goth trappings, and it was hard to get a feel for what the place is like on a regular night of trade. Instead of the usual dance club lighting, black-and-white strobe effect added to the dry ice mist coiling around the dancers’ ankles. We decided to stick to the main dance room at first, until we got our bearings. Starsky’s nose for munchies led us over to one of the catered tables.

The music was typical dance fare, and the bump-grind rhythm made me want to feel Starsky’s pelvis fusing into mine, but I let him pile a plate high with finger foods and contented myself with a glass of black swirl punch that tasted remarkably better than it looked. We hadn’t moved out of the food line when the music changed, and I nearly dropped my plastic goblet of punch.

They were playing Phoenix 79, one of the songs from our new album. Starsky let crumbles of sausage and cheese fall from his open mouth. I handed him a napkin.

The young man ahead of me, looking very much like Batman’s Robin and giving me a good idea that the caped crusader himself was somewhere to be found in the bar, started dancing in place and yelled, “Das ist mein Lieblingslied. Toll!”

Favorite song? I felt a rush of warmth inside that I couldn’t suppress. Waving my goblet at the boy to get his attention, I asked, “Sprechen Sie English?”

He stared at me, then chuckled. “Hier bei Phantasie duzen wir uns alle. Yes, I speak English, na klar!” He pointed at me. “Amer-ee-can?”

“Yes. So you like this music?”

Starsky nudged me, his eyes wide and surprised at my daring, but the boy didn’t notice.

“Mensch! Phoenix 79 finde ich einfach Spitze! Tey rock, ja?”

As a rock ballad, the song wasn’t exactly dance club material, though. Starsky had obviously decided if I could push the envelope, he might as well push with me. Balancing his plate with one hand, his other arm encircling my waist, he asked the kid, “Do they play this group often, or is it because they’re in town for a concert?”

Robin led us off to the side so the hungry bar patrons behind us could access the food, and he gestured wildly around. I didn’t know whether he meant the dancers, the bar itself, or the elevated deejay’s stage, but he gibbered for a moment in fluid German before he shook his head at his lapse. “What I have said…tey belong here, ja? Tis Phoenix 79? Tey cannot…sich küssen…cannot go around kissing temselves? Sowieso, we know!”

At least two of Starsky’s sausage rolls verged on sliding to the floor as he let the plate droop. I lightly pushed his hand level, and Starsky looked down briefly at his forgotten food before giving Robin another astonished stare. “You’re saying you think these Phoenix 79 guys are together?” Robin tilted his head, looking confused, and before I could lightly kick Starsky’s instep and distract him from not just pushing the envelope but ripping it to shreds, my partner said, “Lovers? Together like that?”

Robin gave us both another tilt of the head. “You…do not tink tis?” From the guy’s expression, demonstrative in spite of his mask, he thought we were alien beings, if not straight party crashers. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. A few feet away, Superman danced cheek to cheek with another young man whose bald “wig” identified him as Lex Luthor. The dancing couple turned, and Robin spouted a paragraph of dialect at them. I could pick out the words “Phoenix 79,” “lovers,” and a phrase that probably translated neatly as “fuck like animals,” enough to know roughly what Robin had asked them.

“Great,” I whispered behind my hand to Starsky. “This twenty-year-old kid is asking his friends if they think Phoenix 79 do the nasty with each other. Thanks, buddy.”

For an answer, Superman giggled and pulled Lex’s rear end back into his groin. Lex bent over dramatically, and they gave a convincing impression of two guys enjoying some doggy-style nookie. My cheeks had to be flaming brighter scarlet than my frock coat, and I thought for sure I’d feel a breeze as Starsky raced pell-mell from the club. But instead, my life partner and best friend had a grin on his face that I had to wipe off quickly because it was now recognizable in at least thirty different countries. I stepped down hard on his toes, knowing I couldn’t injure him through the Zorro boots, and he yelped, giving me his best what’d-you-do-that-for frown.

“Flash another one of those tooth-showers, and we’ll be attending Mackie’s funeral.”

“Wha’?”

“After he suffers apoplexy reading about our grand unveiling in a Salzburg gay club.”

“Oh.” Starsky dimmed his grin, and I immediately mourned the brightness.

Batman showed up and towed Robin away. Superman and Lex returned to their romantic dance. Starsky disposed of his plate and my goblet and we found a corner where we could observe the dance floor for the last minute of our song. “Well, we know now where the young people in Phantasie stand on the Are They or Aren’t They debate.”

Starsky chuckled and nuzzled my ear. “Philip warned me last year. Told me we’d never hide it from the gay community.”

I smiled at him. “You sound happy.”

“About that, or happy in general?”

“Both.”

“Yeah, I am. At least some people out there get the truth behind the smoke and mirrors. Christ on a–!” Starsky grabbed my arm and wagged it up and down, using my poor limb as a pointer.

I followed his gaze and sucked in my breath. Phoenix 79 had made an appearance at Phantasie, after all. Two guys who looked to be in their mid-twenties had tracked down replica clothing to match one of our publicity photos, down to the blazer and black turtleneck on the “Hutch” and the brown leather jacket and blue Adidas on the “Starsky.” The one guy was clearly a natural blond, though a shade or two darker than my own, but his dance partner had a riotous dark curly wig that had me laughing out loud.

“We’ve been imitated before.” Starsky wrapped his arms around my chest from behind.

I nodded, bending my arms to clasp his. “I like this reason better, though.”

“That’s gotta be a fake mustache.”

Startled, I looked again, and then remembered that the photo used for their modeling purposes dated back to ’80. Six weeks ago, I shaved off my whiskers, over Mackie’s howls of protest. I had grown tired of the mustache and wanted a change, but to listen to Mackie, I’d done the equivalent of piercing both eyebrows and dying my hair fuchsia. I told him pointedly that my facial hair was my business, and had nothing to do with Phoenix 79’s music. The only person whose opinion counted, namely the guy who spends as much time as humanly possible with his lips glued to mine, had voiced no complaints.

“Umm, missing mine, lover?”

He slurped a kiss onto my neck. “Nope. Like you both ways. ‘Course there was that one thing you learned to do with it that put me right up there in orbit, Blondie. Zowie!”

And just like that I was straining the capacity of my rental breeches. Of course, that wasn’t the hilt of Zorro’s rapier pressing into my backside either. Our song gave way to a new wave tune more appropriate for dance floor grinding, and I pulled out of Starsky’s light embrace. “Maybe we should go dance off some of our…um…energy, before we shock the good citizens of Salzburg?”

“I don’t think you can shock the citizens of Salzburg. Wasn’t this Mozart’s home turf? He was seducing girls in church when he was barely old enough to shave, right?”

“You have a point, besides the one nudging my ass. Come on, Zorro, show me those disco contest moves of yours.”

“You mean you want us to get out there and bump swords?”

“Nice try, but we’ll have to wait until we get back to the hotel for that.”

“Not if I can help it,” Starsky said with a leer that made me pulse a bit in my breeches.

I don’t know how gentlemen survived those grand eighteenth-century balls in these clothes. Granted, the lords and ladies weren’t dancing to synthesizer-driven punk, but those intricate dances had to generate a fair share of perspiration. After two dances, I tugged Starsky back over to the refreshment table for more punch. While I knocked back the liquid, hating with a passion the European custom of drinking everything lukewarm as if ice had never been invented, Starsky scanned the crowd. He found what he was looking for and grabbed my hand, lifting our twined fingers to gesture at the floor. Oh, our look-alikes were taking advantage of the funky rhythm to get frisky on the dance floor. Their moves resembled a Brazilian mating dance, and they had to be commended for keeping rhythm and choreography intact while sucking on each other’s tongues.

Starsky made a noise deep in his throat. “Watching them is turning me on, babe. Turning me right on.”

If I even glanced down at the front of his pants, I’d be a lost man. But then I was lost anyway, because Starsky speared me through the balls with one of his special looks. His take-me-anywhere-and-fuck-me-unconscious-just-do-it-now look. Oh, Christ. I’ve had him in the back of one our tinted-window sedans on the way to a concert after one of those looks, and that was unforgettable, but in the middle of a Salzburg dance club?!

The music died, and the deejay’s voice boomed over the crowd. I couldn’t follow more than a third of what he said, but I saw one possible source of distraction. “Costume contest, partner. Final call for sign-up, I think. Sounds like they have categories: most creative, best costumed couple, that sort of thing.”

Starsky hadn’t lost his do-me-or-else look. He shook his head. “Can’t afford the attention, and who’s to say this club doesn’t have some tradition of unmasking the winners?”

Again, he had a point. “I know what you need, but–”

The look changed. He needed it, all right, and not just for hormonal reasons. He needed his partner. Not the other half of Phoenix 79. Not even, right down to it, his lover. He needed the man who walked the back alleys of the inner city with him. After two years off the force, I still can’t deny that need. With his hand in mine, I started us through the undulating dancers in search of somewhere I could give Starsky what he wanted without landing us both in an Austrian prison and out in more ways than one.

I had nothing on my mind but finding a hiding place large enough for the most intimate kind of dancing, but Starsky obviously had his own ass in mind, because he stopped us in front of the weirdest kiosk I’d ever seen, where a 6’4″ drag queen, decked out in a sequined evening gown that had various sex toys sewn on, including miniature dildos, offered various sexual aids and devices for sale. She made a joke about our swords and tweaked Starsky’s cheek. Flustered, almost blushing, Starsky tried pointing at one of the little rectangular boxes that I could only hope contained a tube of K-Y or its equivalent. I got out my little change pouch and handed over the requested currency, declining a small plastic Klub Phantasie bag in favor of pocketing the box. Our urgency generated another lewd joke that would probably have set my face on fire had I understood all of it. Starsky pulled me away quickly as if he had a fear of the saucy lady corrupting my virginal soul.

“You know, this place probably has one of those so-called back rooms.”

Starsky turned a look of horror on me. “Call me crazy, but I don’t wanna do this in a room full of guys doing the same thing all around us. Not there yet, don’t think I ever will be.”

“Me, neither. It’s not for everyone. I don’t exactly want a men’s room quickie, either.”

“No. We’ll find somewhere.”

We found somewhere. You can’t nail down the beauty of Old World architecture in a few sentences, but two aspects I’ll always remember with heated appreciation are the high dormer window and the mysterious cellar. We discovered the second floor had lounge rooms where groups of costumed people had gathered to talk, drink, and make out. The third floor–or the second storey by European nomenclature–housed the club owner/ manager’s offices, which we stayed well clear of, and a smaller dimly lit dance floor. The music from downstairs played through an impressive speaker setup, but the room was empty, its dancers apparently more interested in the costume contest about to begin in the main dance floor/bar area. On one side of the room, gothic tapestries hung three in a row, each separated by five feet of wall. Starsky ducked behind one of the heavy tapestries and I heard him clap his hands. His head peeked out again and he beckoned me with a crooked finger that pulled me forward with the force of a super magnet.

Behind the tapestry, which hid a tall window, I found room for one person to stand, and the window had a dusty wooden seat. I considered the possibilities, but Starsky had made up his mind. He knelt on the window seat, facing the window, and hiked his ass, bracing his hands on the wall to either side of the glass. Just inches from Starsky’s nose lay Salzburg under a bright October moon, but I had no eyes for the romantic old city.

“Starsk, this is dangerous. If you forget yourself and lunge toward that glass–”

“Hold me, partner. With my strong man pullin’ me back on his cock, I won’t be goin’ in the wrong direction.”

“And if people down on the street look up at the right angle, they’ll get an eyeful. My intention is to get us off, not get us arrested.”

“Think we’re the first people to heat up this little nook and cranny? Come on, Hutch, God, I need this right now in the worst way.”

I should have backpedaled right then, gone to the nearest phone and called for a taxi to take us back to the hotel where we could do what we wanted without threatening our livelihood and with it our professional partnership. Instead, I was so hot for it, my balls hurt. Starsky’s desperation strengthened my resolve to find a safe haven for us in Klub Phantasie. “Starsk, not here. I’ll find us a place. I’m not taking you in front of a window with a twenty- or thirty-foot drop to the cobblestones below.”

Thankfully, he took my hand and left the window seat with only mild grumbling. “Problem with Europe is there aren’t any closets.”

I laughed. “Not the literal kind we need right now, anyway.”

We searched the upper floors in a weird parody of a scavenger hunt but came up empty. Back downstairs, we avoided the main dance room and investigated the rear hallways, hoping we didn’t encounter the “back room” by mistake. I was about to lose hope, worried that Starsky would march me back to that gorgeous dormer window, when I spotted a sign on a narrow door that made my balls tingle with anticipation. “Kellar. Lagerraum. Starsky, this is the door to the cellar the club uses for storage.” The traffic of people putting things in and taking things out of storage reassured me that the air had circulated at least a few times in the last three centuries of the cellar’s existence.

Starsky didn’t instantly proclaim me the hero of the hour. “A cellar? Hutch, it’ll be dusty, dark, probably full of crawly thingies.”

“Just think about it, Starsk, how perfect for our costuming. We really could be the Scarlet Pimpernel and a sexy Parisian aristocrat meeting for a clandestine tryst in the cellar of a French chateau.”

He brandished his rapier at me. “I’m Don Diego, remember? Wrong nationality, wrong time period.”

“Okay, fine. Consider it a merging of literary genres. You have a vivid imagination, Starsky, use it.”

His need for sexual release overcame his distaste for “crawly thingies.” Fearing that my discovery would fail in the face of a locked door, and prepared to pick an Austrian lock for Starsky but wanting to avoid it if possible, I toggled the old knob. The knob cooperated, and the door’s opening scrape and screech set my teeth on edge, probably sounding louder to me in my fear of attracting attention than it did in reality.

Starsky peered into the darkness. “Lights, anyone?” he asked hopefully.

I knew there had to be. I doubted the club’s staff carried items up and down the stone stairs by candlestick or even flashlight. Just inside the doorway, I located a switch of sorts that turned on a single dim bulb on the cellar ceiling. I wanted to whoop my satisfaction. We would have light to avoid breaking either our necks or our dicks trying to do weird things in unfamiliar pitch-dark surroundings, but courtesy of the stairs, the amount of light likely wouldn’t show under the cellar door to alert someone to our presence down there. That made up for the fact that the old knob had cooperated due to a broken lock, which we couldn’t use to protect our privacy.

“After you,” I said.

Starsky nudged me toward the dimly lit stairs. “This was your idea, Sir Percy. By all means, after you.”

I led the way down the stairs, Starsky closing the door behind us. At the base of the stairs, the room opened up and angled around, providing a corner to turn. If we heard that scrape-screech of the door opening, we’d have a chance to pull ourselves together before someone found us. I liked the thought of not being caught with our pants completely down, in more ways than one. Picking our way through discarded club props, broken furniture, and boxes that probably contained excess glassware and whatnot, we zeroed in on a sturdy-looking wooden chair with a nice round seat. Of solid, well-crafted wood, the chair looked only a hundred years younger than the building itself. So far, we hadn’t stumbled across any crawly thingies on the stone floor, and Starsky now seemed in the spirit of the adventure. Unconcerned with padding for his knees, he climbed on to the chair much as he had the window seat and presented his ass for me with a blazing look over his shoulder that proved our lengthy search hadn’t cooled his need. Mine burned just as bright. While he fumbled with the side buttons on his black pants, I pushed the long dark cape to one side and draped it over his shoulder. Finished with the buttons, the pants pushed down to his thighs, he gathered up the folds of cape to conceal his front from the waist down and protect the antique chair. So that we didn’t do each other damage at an inopportune moment, I detached my sword from its ribbon and pulled Starsky’s rapier from its sheath, propping them both against the wall.

Clumsy in lust, my fingers seemed to have each swollen to the size of hams with the slipperiness of lard. I was groaning and cursing before I’d managed to get my breeches undone. Starsky turned his head to watch me out of one eye while I dug in my frock coat pocket for the lube. My difficulty in getting the tube out of the box and the cap off drew a filthy chuckle from Starsky, but his fumbling beneath the cape told the tale about his own aching balls. He didn’t give me a chance to stretch him all the way. Squirming, clenching on my lubed fingers, he barked at me to give him my dick already.

I never knew the merging of truest love and deepest desire until Starsky barked at me in the heat of passion for the first time. Even now, I’m not immune to it and probably never will be, kindest fate willing. He braced his hands on the chair back and raised his ass, so in tune to me that he knew the exact height to give me the best angle for pounding.

I either moaned or made some kind of animal-in-need sound, because Starsky turned his head again and blew a kiss at me. Then he gave me one of his special, got-to-be-quiet but oh, God, this is so good faces, and I had to clamp my hand around the base of my erection to keep the party from ending right there. Slicking myself quickly, still gripping my dick to hold off orgasm, I moved up behind him and instead of taking hold of his hips, I thrust my cock home through the tight ring of muscle and slid my arms around him and up his chest at the same time. Crisscrossing my arms in front of him, I plastered myself to him, and used the strength in my legs and hips to give us the motion we needed.

The friction caused by our bunched clothing, the naughtiness of half-clothed sex, hardened me to the point of painful excitement. Starsky felt tighter to me than ever before; heat seemed to radiate from him, making my arms and chest sweat in the silken shirt and frock coat. Where we were joined, I expected us to burst into flame. I tried to start slow, savoring every prick of sensation along my dick’s taut skin, searching for that one spot Starsky needed to feel me most. When I found that tiny gland, Starsky let out a harsh string of unintelligible words and pushed himself back onto me so hard I nearly bit my tongue off to hold the delirious scream inside. Inflamed by the way our back-and-forth motion registered in the Zorro hat that tilted with Starsky’s head movement, I tucked in my chin and watched myself move in and out of that perfect ass, watched the muscles in Starsky’s thighs quiver and his back ripple through the black silk shirt. I felt my shins brush against the chair, felt Starsky’s heart beat against my arm. Nothing in our lives–the music, wealth, fame, prestige, adventure–nothing meant more than the scent of our arousal and sweat mingling as perfectly as our bodies, our minds, our souls. Pressure and brain-numbing pleasure gathered in my balls. I brought my hand down to grip the hot throbbing base of Starsky’s cock so I could hold him in check while I panted his name, my love for him, my need, and filled him with everything I had to give.

Starsky’s muted sounds had become continuous pleas for me to finish him. I withdrew quickly while I was still hard and didn’t bother to cover myself before I helped him swivel and sit down on the seat. His face was scrunched into pleasured agony, too desperate for me to soothe him with a kiss, so I went down on my knees between his legs and took his cock in my mouth. He knocked my hat off and dug his fingers into my hair while I sucked him. By the time I found the bobbing rhythm he likes best, he clutched at my head and began gasping for breath. I felt the spurts of orgasm hit my tongue, the roof of my mouth, down my throat, and when my cock surprisingly pulsed again, I slapped my hand down over my sensitized cock head to catch the feeble jets.

When he came down from the high, he reached for my hand and licked my palm clean, then drew me forward and up into a kiss deep enough for him to find his own taste in my mouth. Afterward, I raised up to rest my forehead against his and tried to recapture a normal pattern of breathing. “Almost…two and a half years since I first realized I’d fallen for you, but…” I drew in another deep breath, “We do something like that, and I’m suddenly more in love with you than ever.”

“Hutch…” Starsky’s smile said more than “me, too.” The genuine, comfortable show of teeth and quirk of lips promised more times just like this one in our future, and told me he was a whole person again after the hassles we’d been through on tour.

I traced his smile with my fingertip. “One hot fine man, Starsk, that’s what you are.”

“Got nothin’ on you, beautiful. Why’d you keep me from coming with you inside?”

I flicked the hem of his cape. “I doubt the rental company would appreciate come all over their Zorro costume. Anyway, more fun to have you come in my mouth.”

His headshake was one of wonder. “You’re a higher life-form, with that kind of presence of mind during sex. Not to knock your efforts, but I plan on us buying these duds.”

“Really?” I found my favorite spot for raising hickeys on his neck and suckled.

“Whatever the cost. Wanna remember this night forever. Maybe down the line when we’re done with this ambiguity business, and we’re really ‘on the record’ as a couple, we’ll put the costumes up for some charity auction. Make tons of money for a good cause.”

For that gorgeous plan, I had to kiss him again. In the middle of the fiery, open-mouthed kiss, he slapped my hat down over my hair and adjusted it to a jaunty angle. Appropriately so, as naughty as Sir Percy had just been. We pulled ourselves and our swords–the sharper, thinner ones–together to make it back up the cellar stairs and to the nearest restroom for post-coital freshening up. When we emerged, we looked cool and collected on the outside, but the faint hint of sex and sweat clung to us, and I wanted to keep that scent, that satisfied Starsky scent, in my nostrils the rest of the night.

By the time we reached the main club rooms, the costume contest was in full swing. We found a place against the wall, slightly removed from the pressing crowd, and I propped against the solidity, opening my arms for Starsky to rest back against me. Enfolding him, I could nibble at his neck and jaw line while we watched the festivities. With the language barrier and ambient noise making it difficult to follow all the categories and winners, we soon lost ourselves in our own private whispered conversation and flirtation.

There’s nothing more jarring than hearing your names in a foreign accent, where you least expect to hear your names in the first place. Both of us looked around frantically, wondering what gave us away, until we realized that our look-alikes had pocketed the grand prize for the best couple’s costume. Starsky started whistling and clapping his hands, and I was disinclined to shush him. His euphoria meshed with the crowd’s applause and vocal cheering. I caught the guys’ real names, Dieter and Tomas.

“Starsk,” I murmured in his ear. “Let’s go congratulate them.”

“Really wanting to sow some wild oats tonight, baby blue?”

“Yep. This is our night. We’re among people who’ve already solved our mystery. I want to be walking ten feet off that incredible high when we go back to the hotel tonight.”

“Okay by me. More’n okay, in fact.”

We caught up to Dieter and Tomas at the bar. Starsky ordered two steins of locally brewed beer, and I struck up a conversation with our look-alikes. “Ich gratuliere…” I hesitated, always concerned I’ll offend someone if I don’t use the formal address, but Robin had obviously thought it overdone and silly, so I went with gut instinct. “…gratuliere Euch?”

The curly wig bounced as the Starsky look-alike, Dieter or Tomas, nodded and smiled. “Dank’ schön. Amer-eh-ken? Thank you.”

Starsky handed me my beer and lifted his in salute to the couple. “We like your costumes.”

“Phoenix 79 fans? Toll! Mein name–my name is Dieter.” So Dieter was the blond. “Tis is my boyfriend, Tomas. We have tickets to the concert tomorrow night.”

Tomas put an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “Aber…it will be hard to go.”

“Hard?” Starsky asked. “Why?”

Dieter’s smile dimmed. “My little brother. Big fan. We had plan with us to take him, but he…er ist im Krankenhaus. In hospital?”

“We’re sorry to hear that,” I said.

Dieter nodded. “He has the…ehm…Muskeldystrophie.”

“Muscular dystrophy?” I guessed.

“Ja. Gewöhnlich, he is strong in his…er, veelchair? But his heart, tere is fluid…” Dieter’s face hardened. “Tut mir leid. Sorry, it is hard. He is only tirteen years.”

“That’s okay,” I said softly and put my hand on his shoulder. “We understand.”

“We go to concert anyway,” Tomas told us, “to get Lars Phoenix 79 t-shirt.”

I shared a moment’s silent consultation with Starsky, who smiled and turned back to the bar to ask for a pen and napkin. The bartender understood the hand gestures of Starsky using his fingers to scribble on his open palm, and handed over a small notepad and ballpoint pen. Starsky gave them to Dieter. “Do you have a telephone number where someone could reach you tomorrow?”

Dieter and Tomas looked at each other and then at us, and when Tomas made a circular motion with his finger that included all of us, I realized with a burning face that they thought we wanted to hook up for a foursome. I had a feeling they were about to turn us down, too, and were trying to find a nice way to do it. I shook my head vigorously. “Uh, no, not for–whew. Okay. Sorry for the confusion. See, we’re in town for the concert, too, and we–well, we know some people–”

“Who know some people–” Starsky interjected, grinning.

“Who happen to know Phoenix 79,” I finished. “There might just be a way your brother can get his concert after all.”

Dieter’s mouth fell open and hung open until Tomas gently lifted his chin, and I thought Dieter’s fake Hutchinson mustache might just fall off. Tomas glared at us. “You–you do not make joke with us?”

“No, no. We’re serious. We’ll do everything we can.”

Tomas looked dubious, but Dieter hurriedly scribbled on the notepad and thrust the pad and pen at Starsky, sputtering in the rich Austrian dialect. Starsky pocketed the first page of the notepad and returned the pad and pen to the bartender. We shook hands with the contest winners one more time and then left them to their own devices. I could feel Tomas’s stare burning a hole in my back as we walked away.

“Very protective of his lover’s feelings,” Starsky said, and I knew he meant Tomas.

I goosed him and turned the pinch into a caress. “He lives up to his costume, then. So, do we dance some more, drink the rest of these beers, or go and wreck the hotel bed?”

“Ah, babe, with choices like that, you know my favorite.” Starsky kissed my cheek. “‘Sides, we got a busy day tomorrow.”

 

October 31, 1981

This morning kept us hopping. Mackie had set up a vocal exercise session with a professor of music, and from there we went directly to another interview. I could already see signs that Maskerade had done wonders for Starsky. He sparkled and had the interviewer half in love with him by the end. No small feat, because I’d almost bet my vocal chords the guy was straight. When we returned to the hotel for our supposedly free afternoon to rest and unwind for the night’s concert, Starsky practically danced around the writing desk and its phone until I gave him a teasing sigh and dialed Dieter’s number.

A young man’s voice answered, but to be certain, I said, “Darf ich mit Dieter sprechen?” At his confirmation, I gave Starsky a huge grin and said, “This is Ken Hutchinson–” Starsky put his face next to mine and said, “And David Starsky.” Together we said, “Of Phoenix 79.”

We then had to hold the phone out at arm’s length because Dieter started screaming in high-pitched, excited German. I brought the phone nearer because I heard another voice. Doubting Tomas. “Hello, Tomas? This is Ken Hutchinson and David–”

“Yes, I heard my Dieter screaming. I…sorry, but I–”

Don’t believe it’s really Phoenix 79, I thought but didn’t say. “Listen, we got a call this morning from some friends of ours who met you guys at Maskerade last night. They told us about Dieter’s brother, and we’d like to plan a little surprise visit to his hospital room.”

Starsky took the phone. “Tomas, this isn’t a publicity stunt, do you understand? We have no intention of alerting the media. If they find out somehow we’re there, we can’t help that, but we won’t be advertising it. Okay?”

“Ja, ich verstehe–I understand. I put Dieter on the phone now.”

Dieter gasped and babbled through directions to the hospital, his brother’s room number, and hearty agreement for him and Tomas to be present as well. I thought Starsky might bust his gut from the happiness impossible to contain in his smile. I felt pretty close to bursting myself.

Surprisingly, Mallory didn’t put up a fuss and looked insulted when we reminded him that this wasn’t fodder for the press. He did insist on Dennis and Martin tagging along. After putting him through a few hours of stress last night, Starsky and I didn’t have the heart to argue. Mallory even personally gathered the Phoenix 79 merchandise we requested and asked politely to come along. On the way to the hospital, we kept the partition between the sedan compartments open, and Martin turned in his front passenger seat to tell us that we were good Joes to be visiting a sick kid we didn’t know from Adam. Dennis, doubling as our driver, grunted his agreement.

How could we explain to them that with this visit we were in our element, doing the kind of thing we enjoyed most when we were cops, as natural to us as loving each other? We couldn’t, and we didn’t try. We just accepted the praise with nods of gratitude and found ways to touch each other discreetly while Mallory smiled and for once refrained from informing us what Mackie would think of the impromptu visitation.

We aren’t naïve. Over a year’s time in this business has taught us the facts of life we never had to learn as cops. When we arrived at the prearranged rear entrance to the hospital, we followed Mallory to the administrator’s office, smiling at the stares we garnered, and taking an odd joy in the fact that there were people around who had obviously never seen us before, fame notwithstanding. The administrator, a handsome man in his early forties, spoke excellent English. Thank goodness, because we needed to make it imminently clear that we planned to donate a sizable amount of money to the hospital’s pediatric wing, and all we asked in return was that the identity of the patient we had come to visit remain anonymous, as ethically it should, because we didn’t want the family bothered by press, either during our visit or afterward. The administrator got on the phone immediately and spoke to someone on the pediatric unit.

When we arrived on the pediatric floor, a small crowd of medical staff had gathered. Starsky took one lovely lady aside and surprised me by trying out some German he’d picked up, to which she responded in blushing, faltering English. Together they worked out a plan for us to visit with some of the other children before we left. That’s my Starsky, a walking sponge. If we had a few weeks in Salzburg, instead of one, he’d absorb the Austrian dialect and accent the way he used to soak up detail for undercover work.

I’ll never forget the reception we got in Lars’s room. I thought Dieter would pass out. Tomas did have to brace him, and the look on Tomas’s face was the definition of sheepish. But young Lars, just thirteen and having already endured years of a crippling disease, had the sweetest smile I’d ever seen, hair like an angel’s, and very soft brown eyes. He rested in bed in his crunched, atrophic position, but he couldn’t stop grinning. The middle-aged couple in the room introduced themselves as Lars’s parents, Gerd and Rita, and their reaction alone would keep our egos inflated for years to come.

In addition to autographed albums, we’d brought two sets of the Phoenix 79 teddy bears–one soft golden bear and one dark fuzzier bear, each wearing little Phoenix 79 t-shirts–and gave one set to Dieter and Tomas and the other to Lars, who, instead of turning up an adolescent male nose at stuffed animals, wanted the bears in bed with him. Starsky’s gentleness as he situated the bears on either side of Lars so they could rest against the boy’s arms made my eyes prick with tears. Mallory produced t-shirts for the assembled crowd. Then Starsky and I removed our guitars from their cases, and Mallory closed the door so we wouldn’t disturb the patients who needed their afternoon rest.

“Well, Lars,” I asked, “what’s your favorite Phoenix 79 song?”

Lars had studied English in school, but Dieter appointed himself translator. Picture me shocked, but the special request wasn’t “Into the Rising.” Somehow, though, it made sense to me that Lars would have a special place in his heart for “Unsung,” Starsky’s tribute song to Jackson Walters and Mr. Smythe and his son Gregory. Starsky had to turn away for a moment, covering the move in “tuning” his guitar, but I knew he was working hard to blink back moisture in his own eyes. I could tell by the quiver in his jaw. He would never let the boy see one single tear, but the emotion made me love him all the more. So we sang a bare-bones’ version of “Unsung,” the best we could manage without our back-up drum and bass musicians, and then played a few new songs that Lars would have heard had he been able to attend the concert.

Finally, concerned that we were tiring the boy, we encouraged his mother to take a picture of us with Lars. We flanked the bed and each reached an arm around behind Lars’s shoulders. She had a Polaroid-type camera that produced an instant picture with space at the bottom for us to write our best wishes to Lars for a speedy recovery. His life would never be what so many people call “normal,” but in just a few minutes, he’d taught us the true meaning of grace and dignity, and I knew this meeting would find its way into Starsky’s lyrics for a future song, carefully disguising the boy’s identity, of course. I already had a melody in my head.

Out in the hall, Mallory going ahead to smooth the way for us to visit with other patients, we said our good-byes to Dieter and Tomas. Starsky’s eyes flashed with mischief, and I knew I hadn’t seen the end of his envelope pushing. “So,” Starsky said, hiding a smile, “we heard you guys won a prize for the best couple’s costume at Maskerade.”

Oh, God. I could only thank the stars that Mallory wasn’t in earshot, or we’d be hauling him down to the emergency room for advanced cardiac care. Minus the Starsky wig, Tomas had brownish-red punk-spiked hair, and he blushed to the exact shade. Dieter opened his mouth several times before words emerged. “Is tis a problem for you?”

Starsky and I exchanged a smile, and Starsky had a wink for the stunned young men. “No, not a problem,” I said. “Hope you enjoy the concert tonight.”

We hadn’t said anything concrete, anything the media could sink its teeth into, but watching Tomas and Dieter closely, I could tell we’d said everything. They broke out in exuberant smiles, hugging each other, halfway dancing in the hall.

Just before we reached the medical staff’s station, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I touched Starsky’s elbow and we both turned around. Tomas looked around us at the hallway and then whispered, “I want to say I am sorry. I know I sounded that I did not believe when you called today. You must understand…I am a student in voice at the university, ja? I have an ear for voices. Today on the phone, you are saying you are Phoenix 79, but–”

“But we sounded like the guys you talked to last night?” I said gently.

Tomas nodded, biting his lip.

Starsky smiled at him. “You’re gonna go a long way in the field of music, kid.”

“I have even greater talent for keeping secrets,” Tomas said with a bright grin, and dashed back to Lars’s room.

In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I placed a call to San Diego.

“‘Lo?”

“You sound sleepy for nine o’clock at night.”

Philip chuckled through a yawn. “I’ve just had nine inches of Mark Preston cock up my ass, what do you expect me to sound like?”

“Thank you, Philip, that’s more than I ever needed to know, and I know Mark has to be the color of a squished tomato right now.”

“Nope, my man is zonked.”

“So’s mine. He tumbled into bed the minute we got back from the concert.”

“How was it?”

“God, Philip, he was on fire, to the point I was afraid he’d ignite the stage! No wonder he crashed when we got back here. It was…incredible. Yeah, incredible, no other way to phrase it. All day long he’s been…rejuvenated. I can’t even tell you how much good it does me to see him like this.”

“Ah, fabulous, Hutch. Sounds like you found a way to beat the game?”

“I think so. Might take some tweaking and we’ll have to adapt, but yeah, Maskerade didn’t just save this concert; it might have saved our careers. Starsky’s already making noises about us getting back to the studio and working on new material. He didn’t groan and put his head in his hands when Mackie called tonight and mentioned the possibility of an Asian tour in the spring.”

“Well, come on, dish already! I’m wide awake now! What happened at Maskerade?”

“There are some details you don’t need to know.” I flushed at the memory of our lovemaking in the cellar. “But when we get back to the cottage, remind us to tell you about Dieter and Tomas, and a sweet kid named Lars.”

“So where’s your next stop, again?”

“Amsterdam.”

Philip gave a low, evil laugh. “Oh, man, can I tell you some things to do in Amsterdam.”

The flush spread across the back of my neck. “Uh, that’s okay, Philip. I think we’ve been wild enough for one tour. Maybe the next go-round. Tell Mark we said hi, and we’ll see you when we’re back in good old Southern California.”

After hanging up the phone, I rushed through getting naked and slipped under the covers beside Starsky. Pulling him into my arms, I touched a kiss to the hair falling over his forehead. “I know what the secret is now, Starsk,” I whispered to my sleeping mate. “I know how to keep us sane in the middle of all this. Every now and then, we have to find a way to break the rules, get out there and be us, peek out from behind our masks. And we have to incorporate the happiness we brought to Lars into every stop we make on tour. You need to feel we’re still making a difference out there with more than just our music, and I feel it, too. That need to be real.”

Starsky began to lightly snore. I couldn’t drift off to sleep, though. The overwhelming urge to get this special day down on paper forced me away from Starsky’s arms and over to the writing desk in the sitting room, where I turned on the brass reading lamp and opened my journal. I had only gotten a few pages written when I heard soft footfalls, and a yawning Starsky crawled underneath the desk and up to his knees in front of my chair. He blinked at me and I laughed.

“Starsky, you should be in there sleeping. You put about half your life force into that concert tonight.”

“So I need to suck some of your life force back in to replace it,” he said, and bent his head to lick at the base of my cock. When I just sat there, reveling in the sensation of a blowjob about to take flight, he made shooing motions with his hand that meant I should put pen back to paper.

I’ve developed amazing suck-off penmanship, but there are a few sentences in this entry that run off the line, and my orgasm is marked by a big ink blot where I froze and couldn’t move the pen until every spasm had stilled.

Christ, I love my life.

The End…for now