Murder on San Carmelitas

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Murder on San Carmelitas by Lynna Bright was originally published as a stand-alone paper zine in 1986 by April Valentine’s Amapola Press. It was one of the most popular and enduring works of fiction available to the fandom in the pre-internet print zine era, and reflects the time in which it was created. Written prior to 1986, the story takes place in 1982, 36 months after Gunther’s assassination attempt on Starsky. MoSC creates a fictional island off the coast of California called San Carmelitas owned and populated primarily by gay men. Starsky and Hutch have to go undercover as a gay couple on this island to catch a serial killer.

However, the crime plot wasn’t what made MoSC such a significant fannish work. What made this story so important to fans of its era was the way the writer portrayed the depth of the emotional conflict between Starsky and Hutch as their assignment forces these two straight men to have to deal with their conflicting feelings about gays, their role in the undercover, and the change in their relationship since Starsky’s shooting.

 

Author’s Notes

Murder on San Carmelitas by Lynna Bright, with over 20 hand-drawn illustrations by Suzan Lovett, was originally published as a stand-alone paper zine in 1986 by April Valentine’s Amapola Press. Due to technological and economic limitations of the day, the zine was initially produced with black and white representations of Suzan Lovett’s original color art. When color reproduction became easier to obtain and more affordable, the editor republished the zine in 1996 to honor its 10-year anniversary with full color art and a new color cover by Suzan Lovett.

This digital version includes all the art produced for the zine. Some of the images have been directly scanned from original illos. Two images were originally produced in black and white. Links to printable versions of the art can be found under each illo.

Archivist’s introduction

Murder on San Carmelitas by Lynna Bright was originally published as a stand-alone paper zine in 1986 by April Valentine’s Amapola Press. Due to technological and economic limitations of the day, the zine was initially produced with black and white representations of Suzan Lovett’s original color art. When color reproduction became easier to obtain and more affordable, the editor republished the zine in 1996 to honor its 10-year anniversary with full color art and a new color cover by Suzan Lovett.

MoSC was one of the most popular and enduring works of fiction available to the fandom in the pre-internet print zine era, and reflects the time in which it was created. Written prior to 1986, the story takes place in 1982, 36 months after Gunther’s assassination attempt on Starsky. It was also prior to the general public’s knowledge of the AIDS epidemic, which would soon become a dominating factor in the gay community. The novel reflects some of the attitudes prevalent in the late 70’s and early 80’s regarding gay culture, lifestyles, and relationships, as well as common attitudes found in straight male-dominated work environments at that time. (In fact, the first print shop that agreed to produce the novel threatened to destroy all the art once they had it in hand because it was “pornographic”.)

The novel uses what was already a stock slash plotline: ostensibly straight detective partners go undercover in a gay bar, and in the course of the case must confront their unresolved feelings toward each other. But MoSC ramps up this story line by drawing on gay gathering places like Fire Island to create a fictional island off the coast of California called San Carmelitas owned and populated primarily by gay men. Starsky and Hutch have to go undercover as a gay couple on this island to catch a serial killer who uses snuff films to murder his victims.

However, the crime plot wasn’t what made MoSC such a significant fannish work. What made this story so important to fans of its era was the way the writer portrayed the depth of the emotional conflict between Starsky and Hutch as their assignment forces these two straight men to have to deal with their conflicting feelings about gays, their role in the undercover, and the change in their relationship since Starsky’s shooting.

MoSC had a profound impact on me when I first read it in the 90’s. As a woman who fell in love with another woman for the first time in my 30’s, the novel so well represented the conflict I experienced regarding my own self-identity and how this new relationship might affect my life that I couldn’t put it down. The novel inspired me to write my own version of this revelatory experience in Total Eclipse of the Heart. If I hadn’t experienced MoSC as personally as I did, I doubt I ever would have attempted Total Eclipse.

Today, in 2013, I live in a state where I was finally able to legally marry the woman I fell in love with 31 years ago and invite all our friends, family, and work mates–something unthinkable in 1986. But when I read MoSC today (in the home I share with my wife) I can still vividly recall those profoundly complex feelings I first had during the three years of our active courtship before we were finally able to become partners. For some, this novel may only be an interesting historical slash romance, but for some of us, it was so much more: a mirror of our own intensely personal relationships.

I would like to give special thanks to the author and artist, Lynna and Suzan, for allowing their work to be produced on the web. Thanks also go to April Valentine for overcoming obstacles and publishing it in the first place, and for keeping this important work in print for so long. Special thanks go to Keri for proofreading, and for keeping me on track and focused–which considering my scattered lifestyle has to be the hardest job in the world!

—Flamingo

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Art in This Zine

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Original 1986 monochrome cover

 

1996 color cover by Suzan Lovett

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Editorial from the 1986 Edition

“Just as the television series ‘Starsky and Hutch’ was described as a love story, so is Murder on San Carmelitas. The tenderness and passion that fills these pages is a representation of that love at its best, the kind of Starsky and Hutch we can all appreciate–two strong men whose caring and partnership has grown into the most powerful force in their lives. A partnership is a kind of marriage, and within these pages, a true partnership of word and picture has evolved. Artist Suzan Lovett has taken the ambiance and beauty of Lynna’s world and presented it in all its lush detail. San Carmelitas is a world apart, and in that way it resembles our world of fandom. Both are microcosms of a larger society with their concepts of loyalty and love, their own ideals of perfection. Starsky and Hutch leave the island changed forever. We shared the time spent there with them and emerge richer for the experience.”—April Valentine

 

Additional Editorial Material from the 1996 Edition

“It was with the above sentiments that I introduced MURDER ON SAN CARMELITAS ten years ago. I can hardly believe that so much time has passed already. Fandom has changed in many ways and yet it still remains the same. Some still debate the veracity of a sexual relationship between Starsky and Hutch, some still think ‘plot’ means who-dun-it. But thanks to cable television, a whole new legion of fans has emerged who appreciate the very special relationship of these two timeless characters. It is with great joy therefore that I re-introduce this story… It would have been impossible to reproduce the art in color 10 years ago, or at least impossibly costly. Other than those most closely associated with the production of the zine, the only people who saw the original color renditions of the art were at ZebraCon in ’86, or those who visited those who purchased individual pieces. However, color photographs were taken while the art was all together and it is those photos that were used to print the art here. Any differences or exactness that do not emerge are due to those photos and the limitations of current Xerox equipment. I was blessed this time with a careful, professional printer who did everything possible to retain the beauty of Suzan’s illos so as to marry them once again with the beautiful words written by Lynna. And Suzan graciously agreed to create an all-new color cover to go with this special edition. Please take note, two of the illos were originally done in black and white and of course remain that way in this new production of the zine.” —April Valentine

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MURDER ON SAN CARMELITAS

by Lynna Bright

…Let us bring to each other
The gifts brought once west through deserts–
The precious metal of our mingled hair,
The frankincense of enraptured arms and legs,
The myrrh of desperate, invincible kisses–

–Kenneth Rexroth

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to the inexplicable legions of us, who, in a misunderstanding world, love homo-eroticism. We don’t know why. We just do.

And to Starsky and Hutch…

Acknowledgements

Suzan Lovett and April Valentine for all their help.

We made it, guys!

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ILLO 1: Hutch at the Window

Chapter 1: Daniel Corliz

“It’s eight-fuckin’-thirty, and I-have-had-it!” Hutch growled, dropping the rest of the files into the wastepaper basket beside his desk.

“That’s it. As of this second, I’m out of here.” He grabbed his jacket as he swept past his partner, face a stormcloud. “And you can tell Dobey for me.”

“You’re the one who got us ‘volunteered’ to work a double, slugging Nicholson,” Starsky said mildly, smiling. Without much fanfare, he took the files out of the wastebasket, straightened them, and put them into Hutch’s IN tray. “You’re too old for that stuff.”

Hutch pulled up like an arrow in mid-flight and gave him a glare. “Screw you and Nicholson, partner. If I don’t get some sleep, and I mean right now, I’m gonna start chewing my own leg. You coming?”

“Yeah, I’m beat.”‘ Starsky slipped leisurely into his jacket. “All that running around last night… I’m starting to feel it. Think I’m going to go home, have a long hot bath, and go straight to bed.”

“Me, too,” Hutch said. “And I’d like to get to both. C’mon, Starsky! If you want a ride, that is. Otherwise, I’m leaving. Alone!”

Starsky drained his coffee-cup. “I was trying to wait for the mail to come in. I was expecting some information from that place that customized my gun? Some more modification specs–if I’m interested. Guess I should be.” He yawned. “I mean, if it’ll help, I’m all for it.”

“Fine. Wait around,” Hutch snapped. “Catch you later.” He was already out of the squadroom door.

“Happiness is a warm gun, Hutch!” Starsky followed his partner out.

***

At three that afternoon Hutch was awakened by someone who obviously didn’t know cops very well. You never call a cop at home during the day. He either isn’t there, or he’s asleep.

He decided to let it ring. What were the likelihoods? Carpet salesman? Old girlfriend? Dobey. Lifting his head with groggy certainty, he picked up the phone. “Hutchinson. Yeah, Cap’n.”

“I won’t waste time with idle pleasantries, either,” Dobey rumbled. “Get yourself down here, pronto. I’ve called Starsky, too.”

“How’d you get him up?” Hutch wondered.

“A, uh–a young lady answered the phone,” Dobey clarified. “But never mind that. Just get your hindquarters down here. It’s important.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, wondering who the girl was. “Yessir.” He fumbled the phone into its cradle, swung his legs off the bed, thinking about Starsky. He smiled, wryly. Hot bath and bed, huh? Who was it this week again? Hard to keep track, so Hutch didn’t even bother anymore. Starsky deserved his independence, demanded it, in fact. He had spent eighteen months recuperating from traumatic gunshot injuries, and the following eighteen making up for lost time.

It seemed as if now, given a second chance at life, he didn’t want to waste a single moment; trying to squeeze in a lifetime of loving–and almost any other mild indulgence his health would allow–before his number came up again. Hutch sighed, harshly. Please, God —whoever—don’t let it… Couldn’t go through that again. The painful reality was as new as yesterday to him. And while Starsky had healed, Hutch’s own wounds hadn’t.

His own life was still affected by the stresses of that ordeal, and many others besides. He couldn’t seem to find his center anymore, had lost–or thrown away–still more of the idealism he’d once had. Somewhere in there he’d also given up some of his closeness with Starsky. He couldn’t afford the risk anymore. The memory of what they’d once been was too clear; the memory of loss was too sharp. Besides, Starsky had seemed to want it that way, his freedom like a drug he needed to recover. But there was no time to dwell on all this. Dobey had sounded like serious business.

***

Dobey sat, staring at the blank wall of his office. He’d lost his lunch–like he always did when he came across one of these goddamned, sick… He could never get used to seeing–what he’d just seen. Hope I never do get used to it. I’m human, and I want to stay that way.

A bad taste remained in Dobey’s mouth. He sat there frowning, feeling like a man who’d been forced to take a refresher course in hell, forced to look at his knowledge of the hells some people created for each other right here on earth. He’d stopped trying to understand. Better not to.

A brief knock and his door opened a notch. Which head? Light or dark? Rarely both these days. Starsky, juggling five and six women at once, was like a blind man who’d suddenly regained his sight. Hutch was for all intents and purposes living like a monk, always with a book in hand, most of the time alone. Voluntarily or not, Dobey had no way of knowing.

The shining hair was unmistakable, the clear color a brand that marked Hutch out. He’d stopped to address somebody in the squadroom and now turned into the room. The unexpected crowd in Dobey’s office brought him up short.

“Hi, Cap,” he said, looking and sounding like a man who’d gotten out of bed after too little sleep. He smiled pleasantly enough, though, eyes finding the gray suits seated on either side of the desk. “Starsky not here yet?”

“In a few.”

“What’s up?”

“First, I’d like you to meet Special Agents Ynez and Kloss of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Gentlemen, Detective Sgt. Kenneth Hutchinson.”

Kloss, a handsome Teutonic blond, said, “Happy to know you, Detective Hutchinson,” as he shook Hutch’s hand. Ynez, a brown-skinned intense man with a disconcertingly vivid blond streak in his smooth brown hair, said nothing. They all reseated themselves.

“Watching a movie?” Hutch asked, disingenuously, indicating the projector on the desk. His crystal blue eyes searched Dobey’s face with an acuity that was a little bit frightening. Over the years Dobey had watched the man grow…formidable. Yeah, formidable was the only word to describe Hutch, now. The slender, angel-faced boy had become a powerful presence, a man who seemed to take command of all the space around him wherever he was. The grave eyes had seen it all and missed not a damned thing. Yet there was a gentleness deep in them that was as scary in its way as their perceptiveness. “Bad, huh?” he asked.

“Lousy,” Dobey muttered. “I’d rather watch it again only one more time, if you don’t mind, so we’ll wait ’til Starsky gets here.”

Hutch rubbed at his brows and sighed heavily. “Yeah. Starsky.” He shook his head. “He hates these things.”

“Any sane person should,” Ynez said, perhaps unnecessarily. Hutch just looked at him.

The door was flung open in inimitable fashion. “What is so f’cryin’-out-loud important?” Starsky demanded to know, looming over Dobey’s desk. He belatedly noticed Ynez and Kloss, but that didn’t cool his indignation.

“Sit your curly butt down,” Dobey ordered. “I’m only explaining this once, so calm down and listen! Ask questions afterward.”

Starsky sat obediently, slouching. Hutch glanced at him and he glanced back. Neither spoke, but it meant nothing. They never needed to. Starsky settled back, chin on fist.

Dobey looked at Kloss. “Go ahead.”

Kloss held up a fat, opened packet and a slip of paper. “This could be the key to the biggest cocaine operation in the country. One of the big boys left a nasty little murder lying around, and all the untidy loose ends were not cleaned up. This is one of them.” He handed Starsky the slip of paper. Hutch leaned close to read it with him.

Dobey already knew what it said and watched their faces.

Dear Someone,

What happened to Daniel Corliz? Robert Erba knows. Squatting on San Carmelitas like a wet toad, he does his death-for-fun number, but Daniel is not laughing anymore. Like snuff films? This one was made last July, but it didn’t make Daniel a star. I am not a saint, but I don’t think Erba ought to get away with cold-blooded murder.

My sending this to you means I may be history. So be it. The film is my witness and Daniel’s.

Peace,

D. C. ‘s friend

“San Carmelitas,” Hutch mused. “That’s–uh, off the coast somewhere, near Mexico, I think, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dobey said. “I just found that out myself. Agent Kloss can show you on the map. Robert Erba owns it, if you can believe that.”

“It’s the West Coast Fire Island,” Kloss added. “But more exclusive. No public transport to the island.”

“Who’s Daniel Corliz?” Starsky asked curiously, looking to Dobey. “Someone we should know?”

“There’s every reason to believe this is him.” Dobey flipped the switch on the projector and gestured for Hutch to turn off the lights.

The quality of the film was poor. It seemed hastily pasted together, from a longer film perhaps, by someone not concerned with the finer points of editing. The camera work was good, though, steady and unblinking. What was occurring was very plain.

The scene was an anonymous hotel room, a young man sitting like a refugee on the rumpled queen-sized bed. He had a mass of hair the color of crow’s wings and his naked body was slim as a dancer’s: tough, well-defined. The muscles of his chest and arms were bunched against the strain of tight, leather thongs. He was trussed, hands tied behind his back. He might have been good-looking–hard to tell because he’d been blindfolded and gagged, and once fine features were blurred and sloppy from the beating he’d taken before the camera had been turned on. Daniel had two attendants, two leather-masked executioners to bring him a slow, agonizing death. The blank room was indifferent to his suffering.

In the next ten short minutes, the young man was fist-fucked by one man as he was strangled by the other. They let him orgasm, which was nearly compassionate of them, then finished him, slowly, matter-of-factly. That he was dead was obvious even on the poor-quality film.

“God,” Starsky said when the few horrific minutes of film had run out. He lay his head down on folded arms. Hutch said nothing, just got up and turned on the lights. A second or two of silence reigned.

Starsky lifted his head and sighed. “Whoever this is from, they’ve given us a suspect by name,” he pointed out. “Robert Erba. Who is he?”

Ynez sat forward. This was evidently his subject. “A multi-millionaire. A big-league player. He comes from money and he’s made another fortune producing gay porno flicks. The island’s his base of operations. It also plays host to a thriving drug trade, to which we cannot–as yet–connect Robert Erba. We never have. He’s too smart. Let me back up and explain something. The guy you just saw being snuffed was the Number Three coke man on the West Coast. He was PR, the party-giver who orchestrated the big deals, the best-placed cog in the machine. We believe his murder, which you have just seen take place, was drug-related, not just a bizarre sex-crime. We think he was killed by the top man, whose identity we do not yet know, and that his death was a brutal act of revenge. A vendetta. When Corliz’ safety deposit box was opened, it contained 15 million dollars in cash, securities, diamonds. That suggests to us that he was skimming off the very top. Now, we’re not rock-hard certain that Erba’s the man– We don’t even have enough to take him to a grand jury.”

“What do you have on him?”

“Virtually everything. And yet, nothing. Known associates? A who’s-who of the California underworld. But he’s almost as clean as a hound’s tooth, himself. Almost. One vice conviction, fifteen years ago: manufacture and distribution of pornographic materials. He spent a year in jail. He’s got a history of violence against friends and associates. He was married once; knocked his wife’s front teeth out the day he left her. She called the cops but didn’t press charges. Now, these scraps give us already a glimpse of a man who might well be capable of having Corliz killed in the manner we’ve seen, and, by his associations, is perfectly capable of being the head of the Columbia-to-West Coast cocaine connection.”

“So,” Hutch said. “What we have here is a murder that’s just incidental to a drug case?”

“Corliz’ murderer is the man with the 15-million-dollar motive. If we get one, we get the other. In my judgment.”

“When’d this package first show up?” Starsky wanted to know.

“It was first received at our office in Los Angeles nine months ago. It was clean. No real prints, no postmark, no return address. We immediately put people on it.” Here, Ynez looked uncomfortable for the first time. “And haven’t made much progress since.”

“You sent anybody under?”

“Yes, we have. Naturally. We managed to get some good grounding work done. We were able to make up this list of the islands’ residents.” He handed over a folder. “It’s complete, up-to-date…”

“But?”

“But useless.” Ynez’ eyes were frank, angry. “Unless we get somebody on the island who can stay the course. We seem to be having a little trouble in that area. It’s not an easy assignment in spite of all the fringe benefits.”

“Which brings us all to why you’re here,” Starsky said. He looked at Dobey. “Cap’n?”

“Seems your fame has spread far and wide. They want to use you two. Or maybe ‘borrow’ is a better word.”

“Why us?” Starsky demanded.

“Simple,” Ynez said. “You fit the bill.”

Starsky and Hutch glanced at each other, then Starsky turned his attention back to Ynez. “Excuse me?”

“It was decided that a–uh, a couple would be the perfect cover. All the advantages of the street partnership, etc. So we’ve stuck to using ready-made teams like you and Hutchinson, three of them in eight months. They simply haven’t worked out.”

“Why?”

“Is it necessary that I explain to you what seems to me self-evident, Sergeant? For some men it’s impossible to behave like a gay. Just that. The shortcomings have always been in the individual, not in the plan.”

“Oh, I see. And it will be easy for me and Hutch?”

“Your admirable record is known. And your ability to work together under difficult conditions. That’s why we’re here. There were no other reasons or considerations.”

Hutch spoke up before Starsky could. “Do you mind if we talk it over first?”

“Not at all. Kloss and I can go have a cup of coffee, or something.”

***

“Do we go in?”

Starsky glared. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you think?” Hutch’s eyes searched past the intimidating look.

“What do you think I think? I got a lotta questions.”

They stared at each other, and Dobey felt himself forgotten.

“Like?”

“Like how far we have to go to convince the gay world we’re gay.”

“You heard what the man said.” Hutch sat down. “Three teams bailed out. The going was probably pretty rough. We might have to do a little hand-holding, a little lip-wrestling– Who knows?” There was derision in his voice.

“I can handle it if you can,” Starsky said. “I want to work.” It’d be the first really big case for him since the shooting. “But it’s gotta be ours. We gotta work our way, not the Fed’s way.”

Hutch turned to Dobey. “We need a contact on the island.”

“I’ve–uh, I’ve checked out this list of names,” Dobey said, holding it up. “Some old friends on it.”

“Anybody potentially useful?”

Dobey shifted in his seat. “If it was up to me? Tim Marx. Remember him?”

The two detectives looked at each other again. Obviously they did remember Marx. Starsky was incredulous. “He’s gay?”

“As they come,” Dobey grunted. “He owns a house on the island. Associate of Erba’s, too.”

Chapter 2: Tim

Tim Marx looked exactly like a man who’d once bought and sold over 35 million dollars’ worth of cocaine on the West Coast within a three-year period. By I977 he’d amassed a personal fortune comparable to a Rockefeller’s. To Starsky he looked less like a man who was as queer as a three-dollar bill.

He was 36, gigolo-handsome, urbane, sly and dark, eyes hidden behind dark shades. He wore one huge–though simple–gold ring on his left pinky and a magnificent Cartier watch. Tim Marx was a first-class survivor. His smile was magic against his tan. A lot of his former associates were either dead or doing time, while he, having turned state’s evidence and agreeing to assist the Drug Enforcement Agency in its famous Redfern operation, had served only 13 months for possession in the San Rafael Minimum Security country club. He was now living like a sultan in Santa Barbara, just another successful businessman entrepreneur.

He lived on San Carmelitas two or three months out of the year.

***

“I have a house there, sure,” he told Starsky, Hutch, and Dobey. “So do…” He rattled off a list of Hollywood and crime notables who had houses there, too.

“Okay, okay,” Hutch said. “The point is the island’s isolated and you can only get there by private boat or plane. I’m just warning you in advance that you’re going to have two unexpected guests with you when you land over there a couple of days from now.”

“Was I going?” Marx wanted to know.

Hutch–and Starsky–nodded, smiling.

“By boat, or plane, or wings, or what?” Marx smirked, taking off his dark glasses, revealing cunning eyes, fox-brown. “Do I swim over with you two on my back?”

“Better make it by plane,” Starsky said, mock-earnestly. “I get awful seasick.”

Tim jabbed a finger at them suddenly. “If I’d known I was gonna have you local monkeys and the federal monkeys on my ass forever amen, I’d’ve never–”

“What, stoolpigeon?” Hutch asked, softly, defusing Marx’ fury. “Never dropped dimes on all your best friends to get yourself in the clear?”

“If you wanna put it like that,” Marx said, smoothly. “Yeah. I call it survival.”

“Well, believe me,” Dobey cut in. “If we didn’t have to use you, and those like you, we wouldn’t. You can help us, and you’re going to. I don’t see how you have much choice, being that you’re nothing more than a well-dressed snitch.”

Marx held out his hands as if to accept handcuffs. “How can I refuse to help, huh? A gracious compliment like that?” He smiled frostily.

***

“Tell us about the island,” Hutch ordered.

“It’s a body of land surrounded on all sides by water,” Marx said, snidely. He took a dark Sherman’s from a silvery cigarette case and lit it with a tiny matching lighter. “What’s there to tell? It’s laid-back, private, quiet. No tension, no locks, no cops. There’s maybe 150 year-round residents, including the locals. We’re all decent to each other. We live and let live. Gets too crowded–by my standards–when the season starts. Hollywood kids camping out on the beaches… But there’s not much there for tourists, thank Christ. There’s an old Spanish monastery that’s been turned into the only hotel on the island, and a funky cantina called Vic’s. It’s run by a close friend of mine, Vic Goetz, and he serves the best seafood on the West Coast. The local people catch fish, shrimp, lobster to sell; they make blankets, baskets, stuff like that. That’s it for the economy. Uh, what else can I tell you? Most people don’t even dress at home, most of the time. The weather’s perfect year-round and only poor folks have tan-lines, right?” Marx grinned, wickedly. “Ah, lessee… Lotsa drugs, lotsa parties, lotsa sex-wall-to-wall men. It’s a fun place. You ought to come visit sometime.”

Hutch smiled privately. “Well, it’s funny you should mention that.”

“What’s the deal?” Marx’ eyes searched all their faces, suspiciously.

“Later,” Hutch said. “First, tell us what you know about Robert Erba.”

“Bobby Erba!?” Marx was clearly dumbfounded. “Bobby Erba. Is this about him?”

“You know him well, I take it.”

“Bobby and me came up the ladder together, I guess you could say.”

“Were you ever lovers?” Starsky asked bluntly.

“Yeah.” Marx flicked the ash off his cigarette, looking down. “Yes. But that was a zillion years ago.”

“How do you stand with him, now?”

“Bobby and I do not get along. At all.” Marx was scowling. “We never have, really, but a few years ago we had it out, haven’t spoken to each other since. Look, what’s this whole thing really about?”

Marx was left alone to watch the film.

“Why didn’t the Feds approach Marx, I wonder.” Starsky sat on the edge of his desk, looking down at the floor.

“Well, he’s not one of the most possibles on that list. And I guess they didn’t know about the big break-up. They probably thought Tim’d be a friendly witness on Erba’s behalf.”

“And useless to ’em.” Starsky still hadn’t looked up.

“You okay?” Hutch asked.

Starsky straightened then. “Yeah, sure. What’s wrong?”

Hutch shrugged, sitting down with his coffee cup and a report.

Marx was looking a good deal more serious when they re-entered Dobey’s office. He was standing at the window, bright sun backlighting him.

“What do you know about that, Marx?” Starsky asked harshly.

“Nothing! Nothing.” Marx stuck his hand into his pocket. “God. That ain’t my scene.”

“You recognized the guy gettin’ the send-off?”

“Yeah… Yeah, I did. Danny Corliz. I knew he’d dropped out of sight, last few months, but… I hadn’t heard of anything like this. You’re saying that’s Bobby’s work?”

“Are you saying it’s not?” Hutch probed.

Marx turned away, raking his fingers through his black hair. He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He shrugged. “He’s changed. He used to play with the S&M thing. Just games. You know.” A wry smile. “Or maybe you don’t. Anyway, I thought it was a game.” He turned finally. “You want me to give you Bobby?”

“Something like that. Can you get us in to him? If you do that much for us, we can do the rest.”

“I don’t think so.” Marx shook his head. “I know so. There’s nothing but bad, stinkin’ blood between us now. So don’t expect me to take you to the island and introduce you to him. Let me tell you something. If I caught on fire just outside the gate of Micasa, Bobby’d watch me burn to ashes and never open up the gate. And I’d do the same to him. Micasa? That’s his estate. I’ll go further than that. If I did know that Bobby had something to do with this murder, I’d give him to you on a platter.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, impatiently. “But you do know the same people Erba knows.”

Marx nodded. “Okay. I can probably get you to him like that, point you to the right people. But it won’t be easy. Like I said, he’s changed. He’s–reclusive…”

“One question,” Starsky spoke up, eyes flicking to Hutch’s for the briefest of seconds. “Can me and Hutch fit in there, straight?”

“No.” Marx shook his head with definiteness. “How? A man has to go quite a bit out of his way to get to the place. There are very few reasons for going there rather than Cancun or Acapulco, and the gay life is one of them. What were you planning on doing about that?”

“It’s the FBI’s setup. Me and Hutch go in as a couple.”

Marx smirked, just a little, rubbing at his nose. “Oh, yeah?”

Hutch gave him a withering look. “The point is, would that help us or hinder us in our investigation?” He was all business, despite the faint blush of color now across cheeks and nose. “Being together.”

Marx gave a laugh. “You two are allegedly straight. That’s not only boring, it’s tricky. If you go in single, things could get complicated. Your lives could get cluttered fast. And I mean cluttered. If you can handle it, fine. If not–better protect each other’s backs. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, laconically. “It’ll keep the fairies out of our hair if we’re perceived as a happy couple. Gotcha.”

***

They spent some time bouncing things around with Marx, defining his role and theirs, getting more of his inimitable input.

“You’ll be accepted as my houseguests,” he told them. “As business associates. No questions asked. No problem. I have people in and out all the time. Last summer–” He named several people, among them a movie star and a famous football player, who’d stayed at his house the summer before.

Starsky was nonplussed at some of the names. “He’s gay? You’re kiddin’ me! Of all the–”

Marx smiled facetiously over his paper cup of coffee. “You want proof or something? Where are you from, baby? The absolute sticks? You still believe in Santa Claus?”

“Let’s get on with this,” Hutch interjected. “Please?”

Marx sat back, crossing his legs. “I’ll bet you’re the life of every party you’re invited to, aren’t you, Hutchinson? Goddamned barrel of laughs.”

Starsky snorted, hiding his face in the crook of his arm. He sat up, smiling. “Okay, okay. We’ve got a lot to do. Let’s get on it.”

***

Marx made a phone-call and arranged to have his cabin cruiser fueled and ready to go. “When?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Hutch told him.

***

Tim met them at the marina Friday morning wearing shades and a shapeless hat, a pair of black swimming briefs, and a fashionably tattered T-shirt. The Cartier had been exchanged for a waterproof tank-watch, the Italian slippers for a friendly pair of decks. He was surprisingly all business, except for the bottle of beer in his hand.

“Stow your gear below,” he said, when they were on board. “Sgt. Starsky, you’ll find the Dramamine in the state room.”

“Thanks,” Starsky smiled, already turning a little green.

***

The trip, a distance of over 46 miles, was uneventful. Hutch and Marx talked sailing sporadically, while Starsky held onto the railing, refusing to throw up.

Marx glanced back at Starsky, turned back grinning. “Sick as he is, he’s beautiful.”

“What?” Hutch’s head came around.

“Sexy, alive… He’s a beautiful guy.” Marx shook his head, looking out to sea. The dark glasses turned toward Hutch. “I like him, okay?” He shrugged, slightly. “No big deal.”

“He’s not your type, Marx,” Hutch said. “Besides, if you like him, why don’t you tell him about it, not me.”

Marx’ look was searching, even behind his shades. “You two are pretty close, huh?”

“Hey, come on. Don’t lay your hang-ups on us. What’s it to you anyway?”

“I noticed. Hell, man, love is love, that’s all I’m saying. It’s beautiful no matter how you express it. He’s easy to like, even if he is a cop; it follows he must be easy to get close to. I’m not talking gay, Hutchinson, so don’t get defensive.”

Hutch just looked at him, not knowing quite how to respond.

“You want some advice?”

“I can’t stop you from giving it,” Hutch said to him grimly.

Starsky interrupted them. “I think I’m gettin’ my sea legs,” he said, coming into the cabin. He did look better, color returning. The yellow windbreaker made his wind-tossed curls look black, his droopy eyes, a genuine deep turquoise. He tried to smile and it worked, on one side at least.

Hutch shook his head affectionately. “The Dramamine must’ve helped.”

“Somethin’ did.” Starsky approached him. “Are we almost there yet?”

“Twenty minutes or so,” Hutch said. “If we can believe Tim.”

“I thought I saw a whale’s hump back there,” Starsky said, coming to stand close to him, “between heaves. The spout, too.”

“It’s possible. They migrate north in the summer, right along the coast.” The two of them scanned the horizon together, and for the first time that day, Hutch smelled the fresh, stinging salt of the sea, noticed how bright and blue the sky was, how polished the waves.

“I see something,” Starsky said, pointing. Hutch saw it, too, the long, faint outline of an island.

“That’s it,” Tim said. “Best-kept secret in the western hemisphere.”

ILLO 2: The Boat Trip

***

The coastline was rocky; burnt umbers, ochres, and siennas in the cliffs above white sand beaches and cobalt water, gulls and pelicans fishing. As they rounded a point, Hutch could see scrubby pine and oak trees, yucca, agave, and saguaro standing out in the dun landscape.

“That’s the monastery I told you about,” Tim said, pointing. “Now called the Hotel Abrigar.” On a cliff overlooking the sweeping boat-crowded inlet sat the enormous, white, fortress-like structure. “That building is over 300-years-old.”

“Pretty neat,” Starsky said, looking, eyes taking in everything. Hutch knew his partner would be able later to recall nearly every detail of the scene before them, and everything everybody had said. “What happened to the monks?”

“Last one died in 1910, somebody once told me.” Marx smiled and looked at Starsky. “Struck by lightning, believe it or not.”

“Why don’t you two tourists knock it off?” Hutch suggested. “Where’s Erba’s place?”

“Christ,” Marx said. “I’ll take her the long way around the island, show you his place at the north end. Then we’ll anchor off my place. Okay with you, Mr. Laid-Back?”

***

“There it is.” The house was perched on a clifftop, barely glimpsed behind its redwood and stone enclosure, encompassing enough land for a small town.

“It’s a fort!” Starsky exclaimed.

“What’d I tell you?” Tim shouted. “And you two ain’t Indians.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Starsky shrugged. He didn’t look at Hutch. “Always do.”

Hutch had to wonder at his partner’s confidence. When he looked back at the clifftop, he didn’t like the vague sense of unease he felt.

Chapter 3: Vespers

Hutch tried not to be impressed by Tim Marx’ seaside aerie, but it was hard work. The place was luxurious, lovely in its simplicity, yet with every possible amenity. Outside, soft pastel adobe; inside, spacious and restful with tiled floors and the sea omnipresent by design.

Marx had a guest already. He was a surprise, and the two detectives would have to talk to Tim about him. Had it been simple oversight that Tim hadn’t mentioned him? Actually Tim seemed surprised, too.

“Tito, you weren’t due ’til on the 30th!”

Tito Hermiez was a bronzed, extremely handsome Latin of about 40, whose soft, deep umber eyes seemed to hold no illusions. He came forward, a big man, the picture of suave ease in light blue shirt and white trousers. “The season’s starting early this year,” he commented, smiling whitely, taking in Starsky and Hutch with a glance. “You weren’t due ’til on your birthday.”

“Hey, I’m impulsive,” Marx said. “You know that. Listen, I want you to meet my guests. This is Leif Dearson and Ira Snow, some new business associates of mine from San Francisco.” Hands were shaken, a touch of wariness on all sides. “Tito Hermiez, my guiding light.”

“I welcome the company.” Tito’s English was piquantly accented. “Al’s the only visitor I’ve had in the last couple of days.”

“He’s here?” Marx asked with what seemed, to Hutch, a forced casualness. “My gosh, the season is starting early.”

Tito folded his arms. “Yes, he’s staying with David Perkins.”

“Is Bobby on the island?” Tim, relaxed again.

“As I understand it, he’s supposed to come over in a few days. Why do you think Al is here?” Tito’s voice was not neutral. The relationship he and Tim shared wasn’t completely clear.

“Come on,” Tim urged the two detectives. “I’ll give you a personal tour and even let you pick your own room.” He led them across the foyer with its potted trees and pale yellow walls, up a glassed-in stairwell. “How about our honeymoon suite?”

“Funny,” Starsky said.

They both knew the room when they saw it: a vista of cream, ivory, dove-gray, and chocolate brown. The bed, with its simply carved ebony headboard, was a welcoming expanse, its patchwork lamb’s-wool coverlet like looking down on clouds.

Starsky walked around, looking, touching. Everything about the room–the low, wide windows all around, the eclectic and eccentric furniture, the gleaming hurricane lamps, white ceramic bowl and pitcher, and a sleepy-eyed cat lounging on the gleaming old dresser–said “Home” somehow.

Starsky sat on the bed and sighed, looking around. “I like this room,” he stated, sounding surprised.

Hutch was making inspection. “Plenty of closet space–you should pardon the expression.”

“Alright,” Marx said. “Great. You guys move in, make yourselves at home. I’ve–uh, got a little business to take care of. Let’s have dinner around seven, okay? And if you want anything, press Line 1 for Cochilar. She’ll help you–”

“Wait,” Hutch said, holding up a warning hand. “How much does Tito know about us? How close are you two?”

“How close is anybody? You don’t want him to know anything, he won’t.”

“We don’t. Not yet. As far as he’s concerned, we’re friends and business associates of yours, and we’re lovers.”

“Okay, okay.” Marx slipped out of the room. The cat stared drowsily after him.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” Starsky said to the empty doorway.

Hutch looked at him and wiggled his eyebrows. “I think the business is Tito.”

“Doesn’t take much deductin’,” Starsky muttered. He rubbed his hand across the coverlet. “Bed’s big enough for the two of us anyway. And about six other people.”

“How is it?” Hutch asked, opening a dresser drawer. “Comfortable?”

“It’ll be okay for your back. Firm.” Starsky bounced gently. “Some set-up, huh? The house, the satellite dish, tennis court, swimming pool…”

“I thought you knew, Starsky,” Hutch said, beginning his unpacking. “Crime pays.”

“Hmmph,” Starsky commented. He rubbed his knees. “Well, here we are. Time to start bein’ gay.” He threw up his hands, stood up and walked deliberately toward Hutch. The blond waited, his face at first bemused, then abruptly surprised when Starsky grabbed him bodily and performed a consummately fierce dip. “Hello there, I’m Ramon Starsky,” he growled. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Starsky!” Hutch spluttered. “Lemme up!” He got his feet under him and stood up, flapping his hands at Starsky’s attempts to help. “You trying to give me the bends?!”

Starsky’s face fell a mile. “I thought you’d laugh about it!” Hutch proceeded with his unpacking, saying nothing. “Hutch? You thought it was funny when I did it before. After awhile, you did…”

Hutch turned, smiling gently. “It could be worse, I guess. You could have a thing for springing Burmese tiger traps on me.” He turned back to his suitcase. “Without the spikes, I hope.”

“You’d’ve thought it was funny,” Starsky protested, “if we were back in the city where we belong, not on this–this island ‘a’ lost boys.”

Hutch shook his head. “Don’t be absurd, Starsky. It was funny. But I was startled, okay? You took me by surprise.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Starsky said, with exaggerated courtesy. “I promise never to startle you.”

“You just do that,” Hutch said. “If we’re gonna be sleeping together, I sure don’t need any surprises.”

Starsky glared at him.

***

The four men ate dinner sitting on pillows around a low stone table on the lower terrace that overlooked the long, empty beach and the ocean. Some of the best Mexican food Hutch had ever tasted accompanied what had to be the most resplendent sunset of all time. Wine flowed; conversation. Even Starsky was able to relax and enjoy himself. His soft chuckle mingled with the ocean sounds, and–for Hutch, anyway–lent the evening its mood.

The sun had gone down when Desmon, the slim, dark older man who’d served the meal, cleared the dishes away. His wife, Cochilar, was the cook. Tim lit lanterns and set them around the terrace. “See those lights over there?” He pointed to a jut of land about two or three miles down the beach. “That’s my nearest neighbor.”

“Long way to borrow a cup of sugar,” Hutch said.

“And a long way for unwelcome guests,” Tito said, mildly. “Let’s have some music, eh?” He got up and went inside. Soft, Spanish guitar and a gentle, lilting beat followed him out. He was carrying a tray, setting it down on the table as he reseated himself.

The detectives watched him empty the contents of an opaque white packet onto the mirrored tray, chop the pile of white rocks and coarse powder fine with a razor blade.

Marx looked at them quickly. He–apparently–had forgotten this particular aspect of his island life-in-the-fast-lane, or hadn’t known what to tell.

Hutch smiled wryly. Don’t worry about us. Tim, he thought. We’re cops, not plaster saints. He took a little when the tray came around, and Starsky did the same when it was his turn. And again. He refused the next. “I don’t really care for it that much,” he said, smiling, by way of explanation. “I prefer a bottle of wine.” Starsky suggested a walk on the beach, and they left the table.

“All inna line of duty,” Starsky snorted with vast amusement.

“Yeah,” Hutch said, and sneezed. “Stuff just puts me on edge.”

“S’what it’s supposed to do.” A crescent moon hung above them as they strolled past the tennis court. “Wanna play? Early tomorrow?” Starsky batted at some imaginary balls.

“Sure, I guess.” Hutch looked askance at Starsky. “You turning over a new leaf? Coca leaf?”

“What?”

“Getting up early? You? For strenuous exercise?”

Starsky shrugged. “I figure I’ll take advantage. And it’ll be too hot later. Anyway, I wanna beat you at tennis. We haven’t played in forever.”

“No,” Hutch said, sourly. “Unless you count mind games.”

“Ha-ha.” They followed the stone pathway.

“What do you think about Tito?” Starsky asked when they’d reached water’s edge, the night ocean rushing at them, its vastness lost in darkness.

“I think he deals cocaine, for starters,” Hutch said. “One of the big boys. When we check in with Dobey, we’ll run him through the computer.”

“Stuffs good. 99. 99% pure.”

“Enjoying it?”

“What’s to enjoy?” Starsky replied. “Case of the sniffles? I’d rather have an ice-cold beer.”

“Or a good stiff belt of whiskey.” Hutch lifted his face in the soft salt breeze, looking up at the stars just beginning to sprinkle the deep blue well of sky. There’d be millions on a moonless night. He was very much aware that they were on an island, miles from anywhere. Another whole world. He felt the solidity, the permanence of the ground he was standing on and shook his head. “Do you realize that Erba owns this fucker?! Jesus, Starsk, while we’re still trying to climb out of the goddamned toilet!”

“Our toilet’s okay,” Starsky said with defensive pride. “It’s home. And at least we didn’t get it using people. Hey, speaking of swimming–”

Hutch did a take. “Huh?”

“Wanna take a dip?”

Hutch sighed, then smiled softly in the dark. “Sure. Take you where?”

Starsky shoved him toward the waves, but he whirled around, grabbing his partner around the waist. The water was surprisingly warm, after the first shock, fizzing around their calves. Underwater, the sand was dense, cool, packed, offering firm footing. They wrestled, fell.

Starsky sat up for air, shouting his feigned outrage. “Lemme up, Hutchinson! You–!”

“Didn’t you want me to take a dip somewhere?” Hutch asked, not letting him get up, rolling over with him into a breaking wave.

“Oh, yeah, this is just great!” Starsky sputtered, coming up gasping. Out of sheer desperation he flung himself out of the water–away from Hutch, thin gauze shirt clinging, hair in his eyes. When he’d caught his breath, he started to snicker. “Damn you, I’m wet! I hate bein’ wet!”

Chuckling with satisfaction, Hutch lay back in the water, letting his hair float, kicking his feet. “I shouldn’t be enjoying myself,” he muttered.

“Well, maybe a crab’ll bite you on the ass.”

Hutch laughed, rolled over and got up, dripping in his clothes. “We haven’t had a vacation together in almost three years, you know that?”

“I sure hope this ain’t it,” Starsky said, emphatically. “Come on, I’m freezin’.”

ILLO3: Hutch Lay Back in the Water…

***

They showered in the bathhouse to get rid of the sand, left their wet clothes, and went upstairs wrapped in towels. A huge bowl of fresh fruit was sitting on the dressing table in their room, along with a tray of cheese and crackers and a bottle of white wine.

“Great!” Starsky attacked the cheese and the mountain of white grapes. “Mmm. Hey, Leif, try this.” He spread some cheese on a paper-thin cracker.

‘Leif’ opened the wine easily, took the proffered cracker. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he scolded. “Mm, that is good. Camembert.” He poured wine for Starsky and himself. “Tim’s a considerate host.”

“Very. Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Starsky held out his glass and clinked it with Hutch’s. He gulped the wine thirstily, catching Hutch’s mild disapproval through his lashes. He laughed and held out the glass for more. “S’good.”

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Hutch said.

Tim stuck his head and shoulder into their room. “I’m taking one of the Jeeps down to Vic’s,” he announced briskly, eyes hidden as usual behind dark glasses. “Want to come? Check it out?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, sipping his wine. “Why not?”

“Meet me out front.” Tim hesitated. “Hey, uh, listen, about the coke–” He shrugged. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again, okay?”

Hutch looked at him. “Sure. It’s okay. We’re all adults. Right, ‘Ira’?”

“Right.”

***

Vic’s was a real cantina in the busy hotel square, a slightly disreputable pink adobe building adorned with fishing nets; red neon sign over a wide-open arched doorway; lamplight pouring out onto the tables outdoors; a wooden walkway down to the beach. The pump of rock music gave an edge to the gentle night.

Men. Just men. Sitting, eating, standing, strolling, laughing… The sea added its flavor, too; made it okay for gold-skinned boys to be lining the bar inside in swim briefs and nothing else. The crowd was young for the most part–teens, twenties, thirties–and California-pretty, the cream of the West Coast.

“Crowded,” Tim observed. “Hi, Paul.” He waved to someone, then someone else. A friend stopped him, kissed him on the mouth. “Hiya, Jeff. How’s it going, man? Hey, I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

Starsky just took it all in, saw that he and Hutch were attracting attention from every side, being appraised. Catalogued. Gay was there in the eyes, in that forbidden connection that was not forbidden here. It was in all these men’s eyes, holding their secrets, playing those games, aimed at Starsky. Suddenly he felt the threat as real and looked to Hutch.

The glances fell at his partner’s feet, of course, bouncing off his confidence and his good looks. Sometimes, Hutchinson… I’d like to get inside you for five minutes, and find out what it’s like to be such a goddamned impenetrable WASP… It wasn’t the first time he’d had the thought.

“There’s a table,” Tim said. The three of them made their way over to it as a funky tune, reggae in feel, played on the jukebox.

“Goddamn!” Tim leaned back expansively. “The boys. The boys!”

“Nothin’ else in sight,” Starsky commented.

“Yeah, and it’s wonderful, sweetheart.” Tim grinned. He hooked a beefy, unprotesting waiter around the waist. “Hey, babycakes, set me up. Bottle of Cuervo. What’ll you guys have? It’s on my tab.”

“Same,” Starsky said, leaning on an elbow, finger rubbing his chin.

Hutch leaned forward into his line of sight, smiling. “What do you want me to do with the body afterward?”

Starsky felt grumpy. “Nothin’ weird, that’s for sure.”

“You’re supposed to be my lover,” Hutch chided, with a mindful brow. “So start being a little more loving.”

“I need a drink first.” Starsky made a face, aware that he was being an asshole but unable for the moment to put on a front. Hutch touched his knee, almost incidentally, under the table.

“I could use one myself, actually,” he said, lightly.

Starsky saw then, as he should have before, Hutch’s discomfort. It was slight–Hutch was good undercover–and well-hidden, but it was there for him alone to see. He reproached himself, his own insecurity, lack of professionalism. I’m such a stupid bastard, sometimes. I don’t deserve you. Hutch had never said all this would be easy for him. The poise was hard-won. Two bottles of Cuervo Gold Label arrived with a bowl of lemons and limes sliced in quarters and a salt-shaker.

They drank more than they probably should have while Marx held court. Friends of his kept dropping in at the table and “Leif” and “Ira” got introduced around until it seemed like one big, happy family. Two names stuck out–Zachary Grezzi, a big Italian with a mustache, and Vic Goetz, the nervous, sun-streaked blond owner of the cantina. “Zach’s the caretaker at Micasa,” Tim remarked in an aside.

***

Whoever or whatever they were, at the moment Starsky was more aware of the fact that Zach Grezzi was looking at him like he was a piping-hot, 21-inch pizza with anchovies, black olives, and three kinds of cheese. Uncomfortable–and determined not to show it–he shrank a fraction closer to Hutch’s shoulder, needing that psychological protection, crutch, small as it was, a reminder of their purpose. Upbringing and temperament were both telling him to get mad, to challenge the patent insult the man was offering him. He glanced at his partner.

Cheekbones burnished with heat, profile stern, Hutch was looking straight at Grezzi, the message he was sending unmistakable, inarguable. Starsky was a little startled at the blatant possessiveness, put-on or not. The back of his neck seemed to heat up like it always did when he drank tequila.

Grezzi smiled and leaned back in his seat, bottle of beer clenched in hand. He wore a leather thong around one bunchy, olive-skinned bicep, and his muscle strained against it, belying the relaxed pose. He didn’t rise to the challenge, but he didn’t back away.

Wouldn’t want you to, sweetheart, Starsky thought at him with bitter cheer. You might be the twinkie who hands us Erba. He tossed back another shot and the lanterns flared brighter.

***

The sociology of the place was fascinating, Hutch had to hand it that: the exclusivity, the wealth. The behavior…

Here men could hold, kiss, and love in relaxed abandon. Dance together… He smiled to himself. It’d be like landing a crazed marlin, getting Starsky to dance with him.

He took careful note of Grezzi. Possible lead; one of Erba’s crowd according to Tim. He saw, with some surprise, the interest Zach took in Starsky, the hazel eyes unsubtly plundering. Interest? Hell, lust. He sensed Starsky’s anger and embarrassment, the fact that he wasn’t on his feet here yet, and met Grezzi’s next glance with his own. Enough frost on it to make Zachary aware, though deliberately not enough to drive him away. This was luck of a sort, and it was possible that Grezzi could be used. Tim had gotten them onto the island; Zachary Grezzi or somebody like him–friends of Robert Erba’s–could take them to the island’s heart.

***

Hutch didn’t want to remember the ride home from Vic’s. Couldn’t, really, except for the vague impression of imminent vehicular danger.

Tim had weaved all over the long, empty asphalt road in the Jeep, drunkenly serenading the moon with–what was that damned song?–“Dead Flowers,” an old Rolling Stones… And he and Starsky had been sprawled together in the back seat, drunk as two goldfish in a bowl of tequila, trying to drown Tim out with their version of “Cucaracha.”

Ah, it was stupid to get that pissed. We’re on a case… And why were we in back? Somebody else up front. He couldn’t remember who, and trying to, hurt his head. Tim must have picked up some guy. Wonder if Tito approves? He chided himself. Best not to get involved in the relationships. Too complicated. Even after all his years in LA, on the streets, there was still a lot about gays he didn’t understand. And a lot he did; monogamy wasn’t the average gay’s strong suit.

The last thing he remembered with any clarity was himself and Starsky, giggling, dragging their clothes off, falling into the vast bed. Starsky?

Hutch opened an eye carefully. His partner was laying face down, a comfortable distance away, snoring. The dark hair did indeed look like the fairies had been at it, working all their mischief. Hutch snickered and relaxed, looking up at the sunny ceiling. The sound of ocean came to him, booming in the early morning. Don’t think he’ll want to play any tennis this morning. Couldn’t hurt to ask. He leaned over, smiling wickedly.

“Starsky? Starsk?”

A sharp grunt of acknowledgement and one of Starsky’s hands flung out limply, a triaplegic octopus.

“Starsky. Hey, we were gonna play a couple of sets of tennis this morning, weren’t we?”

Starsky rolled violently away from him. “You kiddin’ Hutchinson?” he slurred. “G’way!” He struck out with one arm and Hutch jerked back to avoid it, laughing.

“Go back to sleep, idiot.” He got up and stretched, bending over to place his hands flat on the floor. “Holy shit.” Holding his lower back, he stood. “I feel 40-years-old.” The groan escaped. Only three years shy of the mark… The slight hangover from the previous night didn’t help matters, he was sure of that fact.

Combing his fingers through his hair, he went out onto the small terrace outside their room, bare feet wincing at the cold, inlaid brick. A blood-red sun was rising in the warm haze of early morning sky. The day promised heat and lots of it. It was quiet except for a half dozen or so raucous gulls dangling off shore.

Their room looked over the inner courtyard, its imported palms and the deep blue swimming pool, the golden light just beginning to creep along the tiles. He smiled. An early morning swim? Fantastic. Why not? He’d come back after, crawl in next to Starsky, and sleep ’til afternoon.

He did twenty hard laps before hauling himself out onto the pool’s edge, flinging his hair back and mopping his face with a towel. Coming up for air, he discovered a younger man observing him from the opposite side of the pool. The guy was sprawled nude on one of the poolside chaises, smiling lazily, rough-cut, chestnut hair falling into his eyes. Twenty-five–maybe–deep dimples, furry lashes, cleft chin… Beautiful, but maybe too knowledgeable of the fact, sure of his powers.

And oddly familiar. A frown touched Hutch’s forehead as he tried to place the face. Not from the job, or the street–not an old case. Nothing like that, fortunately. Wait. Of all things… Totie’s Novelty Store, not far from the station. They passed it every day. Totie sold posters, among other things, including the silly beefcake kind. Starsky heaped scorn on them: “Pretty boy actors, paradin’ in their undies. They arrest hookers for doin’ the same thing!”

There’d been several of those posters fading in the window for the last couple of months, and of all people and all places, this was a guy from one of them. What was his name? He’d been in a nationally-released movie, a teen horror flick that’d made a fortune. Starsky had talked him into seeing it to his infinite regret. Well, here was another one for Starsky’s ‘He-couldn’t-be’ list.

“How was the swim?” the young man asked, glass in hand. There was a pitcher and tumblers on the low table beside the chair and a bottle of tequila that made Hutch swallow convulsively.

“Marvelous,” he managed. “Beautiful pool.”

“Great. You’re Leif, right?”

“Leif Dearson. You?”

“Al Gill. I met you last night, only you were a little past it.”

“I sure was,” Hutch agreed. “You came back with us, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, that was me.” Al chuckled, lifting his hair off his forehead, letting it fall. “I wasn’t feeling any pain, either, to be honest with you. You want a Tequila Sunrise? Right time of day?”

‘Leif’ grimaced. “Hell, no. I’ll take some of that orange juice, though.”

Al grinned. “Come on over.”

Hutch strolled around the pool, towel draped around his neck. He took the heavy glass Al held out to him, feeling a little scorched by the man’s obvious appeal. The young actor was, frankly, dazzling. The sun appeared over the house-top just in time to pour sparkle into the deep emerald eyes.

Hutch drained the glass. “Ah, that’s good. Thanks.” He set the glass down. “Here for the summer?”

Al stretched, superbly tanned, utterly indolent, smooth muscles of chest and belly in complete harmony. “Just a few days. I’m supposed to be in Colorado, then. Couple of weeks work in a film.”

“Now I know why you look so familiar,” Hutch probed. “You were in–”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Al exclaimed. “Don’t remind me!” But he shrugged philosophically. “What can I say? It was my big break, and I’m grateful.” He gazed up into the blue sky like a prophet–“Hear me up there, anybody?”–and then laughed. “Probably wouldn’t answer me even if I were religious.” Green eyes direct on Hatch, he patted the chaise beside him. “Have a seat, tall man. My neck’s breaking, looking up at you.”

“Well…” Hutch hemmed. “I’ve got a nice warm spot waiting for me upstairs.”

“Ah, I see. Your honey.”

Hutch winced inside. “My honey. There’s nobody else.”

Al nodded. “I could see it. Even blind drunk and stoned I could see it. Love, huh?”

“Yes. Love.” Hutch intended the word like Hutch, but he felt like Leif anyway.

“I think I can understand love better now maybe than I ever have,” was Al’s comment. He was obviously willing to talk about it. “I think I’ve found somebody who can handle me. And keep me. You know what I’m saying?” The slender palm made a sweeping gesture. “The man owns this entire fucking island! He’s got it all, and he knows how to get more.”

“Robert Erba?” Hutch was mildly surprised. Al had come home with Tim. Oh…

Al folded his arms above his head with supreme satisfaction. “Nobody else. And it’s the weirdest thing… I’ve known him for over two years, okay? And nothing much ever happened. Couple of weeks ago I met him at a party in Beverly Hills, and ‘click’. We went back to his suite at the Chateau Marmont and he had me climbing the walls. I mean, the best–ever.” The soft, generous mouth was bemused. “He’s nuts. He wants to fucking possess me! And I can’t handle it.” A shake of the head. “But I can’t stay away. He’s loaded, he’s got connections, and he’s a great lay. What fucking more is there?”

“And Tim?” Hutch asked. “You’re not–? I’m assuming here, but you came home with him last night, so–”

“What can I say? I am no saint, man. And Tim’s one of my very best friends. We have had some great times together.” A reminiscent smile. “In bed, mostly, now that I think about it.”

“And Tito?”

“He left last night, went back to his boat. They’ve got their famous understanding.”

“Just what is their relationship? I can’t figure it out.”

Al poured more orange juice into his tequila. “Tito is Tim’s partner–in everything. The first real love, you know? I’m surprised you don’t know any of this inside stuff.”

Hutch lifted a shoulder. “Tim seems sensitive about it, frankly.”

Al’s eyes agreed. “He’s an itchy guy where Tito is concerned.”

Hutch wondered why, but decided not to press further. “Tim’s got to learn to trust,” he said, ending the interview by standing. “Business partners ought not to keep secrets from each other.” He drank the rest of the juice in his glass and set it down. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. Game of tennis, sometime? Before you leave.” It was only a functional offer.

“I’d like to,” Al nodded, eagerly. “How’s your backhand?”

“Oh, it’s awesome. Naturally.” Hutch paused before turning away. Al would certainly know when Erba’d be coming back to the island. “How long you got to wait?”

Al made a long-suffering gesture. “Four days, man, and I’m trying not to think about it.”

***

Starsky was fast asleep, flat on his stomach under the covers. “Looks good,” Hutch muttered, eyeing his own half of the huge bed.

He took a shower, thinking, speculating. Four days, huh? He’ll be here, then what? Al could be the in we’re looking for, if we work it right. As friends of Tim, we wouldn’t exactly be guests of honor at Micasa. I’d bet any amount of money Al doesn’t mention his little visit here. He toweled off, feeling relaxed and intent on sleep. He was going to tear off great gray hunks of the stuff and swallow them whole.

No sooner had his head hit the pillow then Starsky stirred, groaning, wiggling his bottom as if fastening himself more firmly to the bed.

“You awake?” Hutch asked, warily.

“Mn.” Firm ‘No.’

Hutch sank gratefully into sleep.

***

He woke to a damp breeze that cooled his sleep-sweat and smelled poignantly sweet: sea, dried blossom, and rain. Must’ve had the only rain of the season this afternoon, he thought. And we missed it. One of Starsky’s feet was tangled with his, warm and bony, comforting. He looked across the white pillows to find blue eyes opening and a sleepy smile.

“How long’ve–” Starsky swallowed abruptly “–I been asleep?”

“All day, almost,” Hutch said, feeling blurred, yawning. “Me, too.”

“Hey, I feel good; no hangover or anything.”

“You slept it off.”

“M’hungry, though. Thirsty, too.”

“Yeah, me too.” Hutch sat up, scratched his tangled hair with both hands. “Starved.”

“Gotta go!” Starsky’s vault off the bed past him was worthy of a double-take.

Hutch followed him into the bathroom.

“Hutch?!” Starsky whined in outrage, sleepy face pinched, brows in a knot. “I’m in here!”

“So’m I.” He stepped up to the mirror above the sink. “I’m not looking at you, dummy.”

“You’re startin’ t’take this lover-boy stuff too far.”

Hutch snorted. “That what love is, Starsk? Watching your lover take his piss in the mornin’?”

“Ever think about this, Hutchinson? Love is also smellin’ your lover’s–”

“Starsky, you wouldn’t!”

“No,” Starsky said, chuckling. ” ‘Course not.” The chuckle continued, richly, after a moment or two. “I don’t do that in fronta people. Do you?”

“Not polite,” Hutch said. “Of course, I’ve followed your opening act on occasion–”

“And I yours, Lone Ranger,” Starsky declaimed. “Toss me a towel. I wanna shower.”

Hutch handed Starsky the desired towel, and turned back to the sink. He whistled contentedly while he shaved, absently accompanying Starsky’s mangled, “La Vie en Rose.”

He had dressed in the loose cotton comfort of black Chinese trousers and black T-shirt when Starsky entered. “Guess who I met outside earlier?” he asked the towel-wrapped figure.

“Who?” Starsky dug for and found a pale blue shirt. He looked up curiously.

“Erba’s newest boyfriend. Little cutie named Al Gill. Movie fans will remember him as that incredibly stupid farmboy in ‘The Mist.'”

“The one who went back to the farmhouse? He’s gay? For cryin’ out loud.”

“Not just gay. Picture a young bitch starlet who’s landed the juiciest millionaire producer in Hollywood.” He filled Starsky in on the rest as he dressed.

“No,” Starsky said, afterward. “He can’t get us into Erba. Be too awkward for him. He’s taking a chance, probably, bein’ here.” He sighed. “Well, we knew Tim’s association with us wouldn’t help us much with Erba.”

“Who’ll be here in a few days,” Hutch said. “Four days to be exact.”

“Okay.” Starsky was decisive. “Why don’t we go out tonight, take a look around?”

***

They knew Erba’s house was on the northernmost tip of the island on a long peninsula that assured his privacy. That night they borrowed Tim’s Jeep and headed out that way.

San Carmelitas was 21 miles long with several different kinds of terrain. Erba’s domain was hilly, concealed by scrub pine and oak.

They parked the Jeep and walked a half-mile or so in the steamy, pitch-darkness, aware of every night sound, until they came to the ornate, wrought-iron gates of Micasa. They were closed, locked but not guarded. There was no need; a heavy-duty security system guaranteed that no trespasser larger than a moth could enter without being detected.

Starsky put his hands on his hips. “No locks, huh?”

“Infrared cameras, electronic beams, the whole shebang,” Hutch whispered, inspecting the fence. “Must be some muscle around, though, to back all this up. Think?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said. “Huge drag queens.”

They heard the sound of barking dogs. Big dogs. Tim had told them about the six Rottweilers; just pets, according to him. Starsky didn’t believe that and had no intention of finding out for sure. “Ain’t no way for us to sneak in there,” he concluded with finality, hoping Hutch would agree.

“Yeah, guess you’re right. And the seaward side is way too steep and rocky, even for us to climb. What’d you say?”

“Nothin’.”

“I heard you. You said ‘good.'”

“Look, we almost broke our necks the last time–”

Hutch poked a finger at him. “Cause you had to fall under some weird voodoo curse! Tried to kill me.”

“Ah, come on,” Starsky said, changing the subject. “Let’s get outta here.”

***

In the next days, with the cast of characters–the friends, the enemies, the losers, the lovers, and ex-lovers–beginning to stand out in higher relief, they did the rounds: parties and more parties; dinner at so-and-so’s; poolside cocktail soirees; all-out all-night beach bashes. It was like being on some weird anthropological expedition.

“On this island,” Starsky declared, “they burn heterosexuals at the stake.” He’d found a picture of a girl in some magazine that morning and had cut it out to keep in his suitcase. He’d promised to sneak it out that night to look at and smooch. He was doing that now as Hutch settled into bed beside him. “Oh, God, when I get back to town…” he moaned.

“Starsky, it’s really embarrassing watching you fondle that picture.” They were keeping their voices low. “Grow up.”

“Hutch, I’m beginning to forget what women look like!” His voice was an anguished whisper. “That’s not embarrassing or juvenile; that, my friend, is traumatic!”

“Cochilar’s the most beautiful woman on the island. Isn’t that why you latched onto her?”

“She’s a lovely lady, and she makes the best enchiladas and refritos I ever ate, but she’s 60 if she’s a day. And I’m sorry to Joan Collins and the rest of ’em–I just ain’t that liberated. I’m talkin’ about tender, young–”

“Get a hold of yourself,” Hutch said. He chuckled richly, then, feeling Starsky’s glare. “What if you had to do a stretch in prison?”

“Hutch, I’m a cop. It sure isn’t likely, is it?”

“You’ve been under for longer without a piece of ass.” Hutch glanced over.

“I haven’t done it with massive, hardcore sex goin’ on around me, all the time, especially when I can’t have any–don’t want any! That party on the beach the other night… Last night in the john at Vic’s, some guy sucking some other guy off right there. Right there!”

Hutch was curious. “Did you watch?”

“It was the floor show! It’s like–they got no sense of privacy, or–or intimacy. They get off showing each other their naughty little secret.” He sat up and pounded his pillow, then fell back.

“Starsky, listen. They like cock. Okay? That’s all of it. These men love dick, simple as that. And the point of a place like this, or any backroom joint for that matter, is to have the absolute freedom to see, feel, smell and taste all the cock you want! Society’s been telling them that a man is absolutely not supposed to look at another man’s prick, much less want to put his mouth on it. But that’s the thing a gay wants most. So he gets to this island and he lets it all hang out.” He wondered if Starsky was even listening to him. Not his favorite subject… “It’s a way of life, with its own rules.”

There was a silence, brimming with Starsky’s thought.

“What’re you thinking,” Hutch asked him. “Tell?”

Starsky turned toward him slightly. “Nothin’. Just– They should have more… self-respect.”

“There’s more than one side to it. I’m sure there are good, strong relationships; men who keep their private lives to themselves.”

“It isn’t that… I don’t–” He plunged ahead. “Two men shouldn’t be that way about each other, that’s all. The love that two men can have for each other-you know what I mean. It’s somethin’ special. Gay is taking something honest and clean, makin’ it greedy and furtive, and dirty, Hutch. You know what I’m talking about?”

Hutch sighed. “At times in history, Starsky, ‘gay’ has been open and aboveboard. We’re the ones calling it dirty and furtive.” He swallowed dryly. “Imagine having to hide one of your most basic needs–the way you are. Maybe you’d be greedy, too.”

“I can imagine,” Starsky said. “I’m livin’ it.” He tossed, restlessly.

“Ah, partner.” Hutch laughed gently, taking pity. “Take it easy on yourself. C’mon.” He reached out to tweak a dark forelock and continued quietly. “Go, uh, grab a shower. Might help.” Starsky did not need a shower. What he needed was the privacy behind a closed door.

Starsky sighed. “Think I will.”

“Take your time.”

Starsky slipped out of bed.

Oh, what the hell? Hutch masturbated quickly, aware that Starsky was doing the same in the shower on the other side of the bathroom door. It didn’t take much time to finish off. God, it’s crazy. We’d’ve done just as well lying here side by side. He came in his hand and, panting with relief, eyes closed, rubbed his semen across his belly. Damn, Starsky, I know what you mean. Like going undercover at an orgy. What are we gonna do?

Starsky returned in 20 minutes or so, slid in between the sheets. Hutch could sense his dampness, wet curls, the thrumming of his heart. He said nothing, just sighed lightly, and turned over.

“G’night, Hutch.”

“G’night, Starsk.”

After a moment. “Hutch.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you–?”

“Yeah. Figured I might as well.” There was a teasing spell of silence before Starsky burst into a fit of giggles.

“Shame on you,” he chuckled. “Gonna go blind.”

Hutch shared the laughter with him, felt him snuggle down into the bed, ready for sleep. They both were. He put his worries aside for one more night. If he was lucky, he might never have to share them with Starsky.

Chapter 4: Hell Week

Along with every other man in the area with half an eye in his head, Hutch watched Starsky walk around the pool in those tiny gray brief swimming trunks. There it was, the whole male smorgasbord: ripple of washboard belly, perfect runner’s girdle, two lush handfuls of muscled ass, and strong, bowed legs. Between them was the barely contained secret of his sex. Starsky moved confidently, like he knew damned well he could drive a man to distraction.

Not a bad performance, Hutch thought, smirking inwardly. He’s not bad at it. He tilted his head ever so slightly, trying to be objective, but it was impossible. He couldn’t respond aesthetically to a man he’d known for nearly 12 years. Emotionally, yes. He could see his partner’s vulnerability, not the desirability. He knew about the scars hidden under the skimpy T-shirt. Hard to remember a time when I could look at Starsky objectively, like a stranger would.

ILLO 4: Hutch watched Starsky walk around the pool…

He knew he was envied. Starsky had had a dozen or more covert proposals since they’d been here. Like the most faithful of lovers, Starsky told him about every one of them in full detail. He’d even learned to laugh–a little–at being sought after like a woman.

Hutch had deflected several proposals and passes, too. But he hadn’t, for some reason, been forthcoming with Starsky about them. And his own laughter had been mostly on the surface.

The first incident was still the most disturbing.

***

He strolled back along the pathway, retracing his earlier steps. The tree shade soothed after the pouring intensity of sun. He slowed, stopped, and closed his eyes for a moment, throwing his head back to catch the breeze, wondering if Starsky had gone back to bed as he’d promised. Too much sun. Hope he didn’t get burned, on top of the headache.

“Un leon, hermoso y oro.”

Hutch looked around, startled. Tito Hermiez was coming on the sun-dappled path from the opposite direction, smiling, white teeth against deep-copper skin. An elegant man, but pretty much a cipher so far–like a figure on a travel brochure.

Hutch half-smiled. “Lion?”

“A lion, maybe.” Tito approached under the palmettos, hands deep in the pockets of his crisp white shorts. His dark eyes glistened like melted chocolate, on a level with Hutch’s own as he came closer.”Or an angel. I don’t know. Something golden and proud. A man worth putting up on a pedestal.” Speculative, he paused. “It’s what fascinates me most, I think, that by God, you might be worth it. So few are.” He reached out with the confidence of a man to whom others did not say no.

Hutch didn’t pull away at once. He relaxed, allowing the gentle touch. Tito’s hand was a connoisseur’s, sure of what it wanted to know of his hair, jawline, and shoulder, the man looking the whole time, appreciation unconcealed. Hutch examined the features in front of him more dispassionately; the skin was well cared for, the bones obviously fine.

“Window shopping?” he asked, dryly.

“I’d like to do more than that.” Tito took the next-to-last possible step before actual contact closer to him. “A little bit more.”

“I’m not on the market, Tito. I–” Hutch’s voice shook slightly, surprising him into silence.

Tito sought his eyes, smiling. “I wouldn’t be at all interested in you if you were. No man can buy you. There isn’t enough money in the whole world to buy what you’ve got.” He sighed, the hot breeze lifting his dark hair, arraying it across his forehead. “Though I’d eagerly give you anything you asked of me.”

“Anything?” Hutch looked back into the suave, lustrous eyes. “You hardly know me. Why should you give me anything?”

“Why do you think?” Tito asked. “Because I’m rich, and I like to give people things they much desire. Besides that, you’ve stricken me with your beauty, and when that happens, I’m helpless.”

“I’m a married man, Tito,” Hutch scolded, almost amused. Here comes the shovel… from both sides. “I love my lover, and I’m faithful to him.”

“Oh, I envy both of you no end,” Tito said, laughing a little. He grasped Hutch’s waist with a sudden and terrifying tenderness. “But I don’t want to marry you.”

Hutch felt the man’s hands holding his waist. The sense of gentle persuasion was like an odor, a wafting pheromone. “Look, uh–what exactly do you want me to say?” he asked, taking a stance. “I don’t know how else to tell you no.”

“With that beautiful mouth, what good would it do?” Tito interjected. And took Hutch’s mouth with his.

Even as he was being kissed, some part of Hutch was forced to admire the man’s smoothness. Christ… He’d figured this would have had to happen to him eventually on the island, so he steeled himself to witness the event, experience it. He tried to be scientific about it. It certainly wasn’t a turn-on. When the other man’s tongue sought between his lips, he had to draw away. It was such an invasion of every learned barrier–he couldn’t bear it. Yet, he’d caught the taste, the touch of wetness, and beard. Scalding with embarrassment, heart thumping, he stared helplessly at the ground. I let that happen. Maybe I wanted it to.

“Do I frighten you?” his companion asked, considerately.

Hutch swallowed, still feeling that touch, the strange, demanding sensuousness of a man’s mouth. Shaken, he knew that Tito had too easily crossed that line he’d drawn between “Leif” and himself. “No.” He looked up, more vulnerable than Tito would probably ever realize. “You don’t scare me… Much.” His voice was cool, a mild revelation to him.

“But you–scare yourself?” Tito’s brows were knit, his lips parted, dry.

“Yeah,” Hutch answered with only the truth. “Sometimes I do.” He moved out of Tito’s grip, mustering the gentleness from somewhere. “See you around, huh?”

“Keep it in your mind,” Tito said. “If there’s ever anything you need, Leif–”

“Everybody needs something,” Hutch responded. “Right?” He turned and walked away, aware of being watched. But more acutely than that, more discomfiting, was his awareness of being seen.

***

“Felt funny out there, tonight.” Starsky was ruminative, drowsing with head on folded arms.

“Like what?”

“Like–holding hands that way. Screwy, y’know?”

“Oh.”

Tim had taken them to a party on Tito’s boat, Arrecifé, a mouth-wateringly beautiful yacht that had looked capable of sleeping 20 people.

***

They shared the launch with several other men besides Tim, all in good spirits under the full, warm-orchid moon. Somebody shouted, “The night is young!”

Bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, Tim whooped. “But I’m not!” He turned and winked at Starsky. “Live fast, die old, and who gives a shit about the corpse.”

There was quite a party on board. An elaborate buffet was the centerpiece, a bounty of shrimp, smoked salmon, and oysters; black caviar and poached sea-trout; pastries, melon, and strawberries–and the marinated peppers Starsky was going crazy over. The gathering was lamp lit, intimate; no more than two dozen couples.

It was true, Hutch noticed. “Strictly boy-boy, boy-boy,” he muttered dryly to Starsky as they leaned against the railing toward the bow of the boat.

Starsky grunted a reply. “I’d love a beer, right about now,” he said, chin on palm.

“What? To wash down all those damned peppers you’ve been putting away?”

“You said it. Not to mention those tough little pieces of fish.”

“That wasn’t fish, ‘Ira’. That was octopus.”

Starsky’s face fell. He swallowed, visibly. “Oh, God… Now you tell me.”

Hutch glanced around. It had gotten quite late and the party had mellowed some. There was less dancing and more talk; soft samba music accompanied the recreational drug use and the casual lovemaking. The inevitable lovemaking… Nothing heavier than the kind of petting that went on at a heterosexual party. Hutch had gotten used to the sight of two men kissing one another. Tonight it seemed nakedly obvious to him, however, that he and Starsky were not being physically demonstrative with each other, and that’s what bothered him.

There’d been no pressing need for it yet. All along both of them–consciously or not–had downplayed the physical show. They hadn’t even held hands. Starsky was of the strong opinion that they shouldn’t feel compelled to put on physical displays. He had a valid point, but wasn’t part of being undercover proving you were what you said you were?

He’d grown aware of a barrier between the two of them. He’d never noticed its existence before and was a little bemused by it, frankly. He and Starsky had always shared each other’s space freely–more than freely. What he’d found though was a subliminal abyss separating Starsky and himself, a demilitarized zone that existed between all straight men probably, no matter what the quality of their closeness. That unconscious space wasn’t there between the men here tonight. The pair nearest them, two slim, dark Hispanics, leaned to each other with a brand of intimacy he and Starsky had never had. They could tell the world they were lovers and pretend, but tonight in this intimate setting, it seemed plain that they were not. This was undercover work as Hutch had never known it, cutting close to the bone.

He decided he’d been doing too damned much thinking on the subject, and not enough relying on his instincts. This wasn’t a case for rationality; he couldn’t think the part or depend on the accessories. Trying for a familiar casualness, he reached out and took one of Starsky’s hands into his own.

He felt Starsky looking–no, staring–at him. So much for casualness. “Well, don’t yell and jump overboard.”

Starsky’s hand was warm and dry, steady in his, but his friend took a soft, unsteady breath. “You gotta admit, it’s gonna take a little gettin’ used to,” he whispered. Tentatively, he plaited his fingers with Hutch’s and their palms met.

They’d held hands before, Hutch reflected, but not like this. He had to smile.

“All I wanna do is giggle.” Starsky echoed Hutch’s impulse, though probably not for the same reasons. “Uncontrollably.”

“Don’t,” Hutch ordered. “You’ll embarrass me.”

“Embarrass you?”

With unredeemable wickedness, Hutch lifted his partner’s left hand and kissed the back of it, looking at him dead-on.

Starsky stared, color flooding. “I’ll get my revenge,” he murmured, eyes becoming deceptively mild. “I swear.”

“C’mon,” Hutch coaxed. “It’s not that bad, is it?” Warm fingers squeezed his, hard. “Ouch! Now, is it?”

Starsky shrugged, relenting. “Nah… But now what do we do?”

“Want to try switching over to the right?” Hutch suggested.

“I don’t switch anywhere, boy.”

***

They’d held hands like kids on a first date, looking down into the moon-bright water. “So how’d it feel ‘funny’?” Hutch asked, mimicking Starsky’s use of the word. “Beyond the obvious reasons.”

“Ahh, it all feels funny, Hutch. Guess I know I’m not prepared, and that makes me feel vulnerable, like I don’t have any clothes on. I don’t like to add to that stumblin’ around here, steppin’ on my own prick.”

Hutch was wryly thoughtful. “If you’re gonna hide in a herd of zebra, get yourself a suit of stripes.”

“Huh?” Starsky’s exhalation brushed Hutch’s ear.

“Zebras,” he said.

“Yeah.” Starsky sounded doubtful. “Somethin’ like that–I think… Anyway, I’m glad you took the initiative.”

Hutch chuckled. “That what I took?” He turned to Starsky, needing to be open. “I was kind of worried about our camouflage, too. I just–”

“You made it easier is what you did,” Starsky interjected. “An’ you know what? I promise not to squawk so much next time, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll be able t’handle it.”

“You sure about that?” Hutch asked him.

Starsky ducked into his pillow, sending up a waft of warm, body-scented air. “Well, we’ll see.” He wriggled for a moment, getting comfortable. “It helps that you’ve got your head together about it. Helps to keep mine above water.”

Hutch shook his head. “Starsky, I haven’t got my head completely together on this by any means. I–I’m gonna need you, too.”

“It’s a deal,” Starsky agreed. “Hey…” he chided. “No sweat, huh? Piece ‘a cake. Just think, ‘Mind Over Matter.'” His voice added the capitals.

“I never claimed to be able to do magic,” Hutch said into the darkness.

“Better start.”

Map Of San Carmelitas

***

Hutch dipped a morsel of lobster in butter sauce and ate it with relish, managing–like a very large and finicky, blue-eyed cat–to keep his whiskers immaculately clean.

Eating had left his lips moist, the same color pink as the inside of a seashell. Starsky watched them clandestinely.

He’d been doing some thinking since the night of the party on the Arrecifé, weighing the pros and cons of Hutch’s one-sided impulse to show the gay world they were “lovers.” At the beginning of this, he’d decided on a policy of “why not?” The problem had been sticking to that decision in the face of some sorely trying circumstances. It wasn’t easy letting people like Zachary Grezzi treat him like a sex object. It was impossible to grin and say “why not?” when a blond, blue-eyed kid of 20 kneels in front of you and offers you a blowjob. That was too close for comfort. The relative neutrality between him and Hutch was like an oasis.

What he really needed, he’d begun to realize, was a new perspective, a new slant. Hutch was supposed to be his lover, not Grezzi, not Tim, or some other geek. Hutch. Belatedly, the dawn arrived. My God, he’d thought. Do I have to pretend affection for him? They’d had ups and downs–in their emotional bond—but physically it was still and always easy to reach out. They both understood that. This situation was no different–or shouldn’t be.

So he had reconciled his decision with his more cowardly instincts. He would let go–a little–and get “into” the part. A little hand-holding was okay with him. A little lip-wrestling? Well, it wouldn’t be so terribly hard to kiss a mouth like Hutch’s. Not exactly a bruiser, is it?

Looking at the object of his thoughts, he was struck by its essential shape. Like a bow. He’d never noticed, or maybe he’d long forgotten, since the moustache.

“What’s the matter? Do I have lobster on my lip?” Hutch picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth, eyes searching Starsky’s, squinting slightly in the sun.

“Uh, no.” Starsky attended to his own neglected food. “I was just thinkin’.”

“Trying to start something new?” Hutch grinned smugly, reached for his wineglass.

“Very funny.” Starsky looked deliberately at the mocking, mobile face in front of him. “Don’t you wanna know what I was thinkin’ about? I think you’d be very interested.”

Hutch gave him a wary look. “Never mind.”

Starsky looked down, smiling to himself.

“I don’t know if I trust that smirk on your face,” Hutch said, preparing another lump of lobster for neat disposal. “Let me guess,” he went on, momentarily, voice lowered. “You’re thinking about… a certain long-stemmed, Chinese-Chicana lovely named Nina. The one you met at that Hall & Oates concert almost a month ago.”

“Not even close.”

“Oh?”

“Eat up, big boy, and go for a walk with me. Have I got a surprise for you.” He couldn’t wait to check out Hutch’s expression when the “surprise” was sprung.

He bought Hutch a bag of mangoes from a fruit-seller on the old stone quay. Hutch bought a wide straw hat and plopped it onto his head, apparently tired of watching him frown against the sun. The wind was warm and spirited off the sea, and almost took the hat, sending Hutch bounding a few giant steps to retrieve it. He pushed it down firmly on Starsky’s head, taking back the bag of mangoes he’d handed over in order to fetch the hat. “Next time, you chase it,” he ordered.

“Deal. The way you’re breathin’–”

“What’s the surprise, anyway?”

“Huh?” Starsky stared at him for a second. “Oh– uh–” He looked around–they weren’t alone by any means, but that was the point–then down, rubbing his mouth. “Just–” Taking hold of Hutch’s arm, he reached up to plant his surprise on those bow-shaped lips. “This….”

Hutch drew back, minutely.

Starsky tilted his head, asking. “Hey. Gimme a break. I finally worked up the courage?”

Hutch moved no further away. He closed his eyes, lifting his hands helplessly as Starsky came near him.

Even as their mouths met, even through the sharp, brief shock of that, Starsky felt those hands come to rest at his waist like big butterflies, barely there.

The “kiss” was a gentle peck, something two brothers might share–almost. Hutch’s mouth was warm, soft, and palpably skittish. Smiling with surprise, Starsky looked up at him. “You’re more scared than I was.”

“Not your normal, everyday thing.” Hutch shrugged. His eyes looked like blue saucers. His hands found his pockets as he laughed nervously. “Well, uh–what’d you think?”

“Better than a swift kick in the shins,” Starsky decided. “Sorta like kissing my Uncle Lem when I was a kid. Okay for you?”

“Oh, fine.” Hutch half-turned. “Just fine. Now I understand the mystery of life.”

At his elbow, Starsky grinned, despite himself. “You wanna try it again or something? I can put more on it this time, I swear–”

“Forget it! You couldn’t keep a straight face, anyway. Looks like I was right before.”

“What’s that?”

“You are one lousy kisser.”

Starsky stared after him. “One a these days you’re gonna insult me one time too many about that.”

“Did it ever occur to you that this is not supposed to look like you’re out here, kissing your Uncle Lem?”

“Guess it didn’t.”

“I noticed.”

“You want it to look more like the real thing?”

“This is dumb, you know?” Hutch shook his head. “Standing out here, endlessly discussing this.”

“No more discussion. Because you’re right, y’know? You’re right.”

“About what?”

“That kiss wouldn’t convince anybody,” Starsky said.

“So?”

“So you deserve one of my specials, at least.”

The ‘special’?” Hutch seemed all shaky skepticism overlaid with apprehension. Hard to say what he was really thinking or feeling.

“A real kiss,” Starsky promised.

Hutch held up a finger in warning, as Starsky made for him. “Not too real.” He’d heard from Starsky’s own lips about the industrial-strength throat-swabbings he’d given over the years.

Starsky smiled. “One Starsky Special. Hold the tongue.” He took hold of his partner. “That’s the secret ingredient, but I agree.”

In front of a blasé half-dozen passersby, under a blue sky without a cloud in it, David M. Starsky and his dazed companion shared a much longer than brotherly kiss.

Might as well make this look perfect, Starsky thought, taking Hutch’s hard, flat waist lightly in his hands. Hutch did the same, with that lightness of touch that seemed his trademark in these matters. He tasted like… Hutch. Essence of Hutch: sea and salt and fresh fruit.

ILLO 5: A Kiss at the Market

They touched each other’s lips awkwardly to end the kiss.

“Ahem–well.” Starsky took a step back. “How was that? Better?”

Hutch cleared his throat. “Convincing.”

“Good. Wasn’t so bad, huh?” Satisfied, he turned to continue their walk. “We should start back, pretty soon.”

“Where?” Hutch asked, behind him now.

“We’ve got a party to go to tonight, remember?”

Chapter 5: The Mysteries

“Hey, didja know we’re considered a hot couple?” Starsky nearly shouted. He was swaying chest-to-chest, belly-to-belly, against Hutch, dancing with an absent kind of fervor. It didn’t feel so unusual after two weeks on Carmelitas to be dancing with a guy–as long as that guy was Hutch, of course. He’d only dance with Hutch, ever. And he still preferred to lead. No way was he going to follow Hutch’s lead around a dance floor.

“What do you mean?” Hutch shouted back, one of his arms high around Starsky’s torso, the other wiping sweat off his own forehead. The decibel level was visibly destroying his patience, beat by throbbing mindless beat. “Don’t you despise this music?!”

“Means people get off seeing us together!” Starsky yelled in his ear, answering the former not the latter question. “That guy Benton? The weird one with the chicken-plucked hair? He wants to photograph me. Us. He asked me just now.” He leaned back for a second and looked teasingly up into Hutch’s eyes. “He really wants to take our picture. In the raw, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Hutch said, acerbically. “I know one thing. Tim was right. I’m glad we’re here as a couple! As it is, I’ve come close to decking a couple of guys in here tonight. Think if I was single. They’d be on me like flies! It’s uncivilized.” His sensibilities were definitely offended.

“Hey, has somebody been messin’ with you behind my back, babe?” Starsky demanded to know, tightening his grip on his partner with fierce mock-jealousy. “Just point to the creep, an’ I’ll straighten him out. Some a these honchos got no respect for the sanctity of a relationship!”

“You’re kidding, I hope,” Hutch said in his ear.

Starsky twirled him, knowing how he hated it. The rustic beach house was packed ass to knee. It was inevitable that Hutch would collide with somebody. Starsky pulled him back, grinning.

The music changed, something several notches softer coming on. Starsky took a different hold on Hutch, and their bodies fit snugly together again. “Besides,” he said, voice lower now. “You oughta realize you’re hard to ignore, Leif, all blond and breathtaking like that. Gotta expect the boys to go a little crazy over you, huh?”

“Yeah, well you’d better watch your own step,” Hutch chuckled. He seemed glad that Starsky was a little easier in their surroundings. “I overheard a very interesting conversation, tonight. I tell you, Ira, honey, my ears were burning, and yours should have been.”

“Just dance, Blondie. You want I should twirl you, again?”

“No, thanks.”

Starsky chuckled. “Listen, it’s good about Benton, you know. It’s a break. Could be… He works for Erba, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, thoughtfully.

Starsky wrapped his wrists lightly around the blond’s long neck and pretended to nuzzle closer. Like whisperin’ sweet lil’ nothins’ in my partner’s ear… he smiled wryly, in secret. It was a game. Maybe being a cop was the biggest game of all, only seeming important to him because he was still doggedly playing it. “Been hearin’ more about Erba,” he said, shaking off the cynicism. “Zach’s been tryin’ t’impress me, filling me in on all the local gossip.” The big Italian had been hounding him all night.

“Well, you’ll have to be even friendlier to him the next time,” Hutch said, sarcastically.

“No way. He wants my ass.”

“That’s been pretty obvious tonight,” Hutch whispered. “He’s a persistent son-of-a-bitch, I’ll give him that.”

“I didn’t count on being so irresistible to him.” Starsky squirmed as Hutch nudged his curls aside with a firm nose, the better to get at his ear. “God, not the ear, Hutch! Not the ear!” He squeezed the taller man involuntarily. “Oh, God…”

“What’s with you?” Hutch hissed in his ear, tickling him excruciatingly.

Trying–pretty valiantly, he thought–to stay near his tormentor, Starsky just held on. He’d become terrifically sensitive, it seemed, in the last couple of weeks; more so than usual, and in places he’d never really been sensitive–like his ear, and his ribs–and specifically with Hutch. When they were at close quarters like this, he more often than not ended up in an inconvenient fit of giggles. The whole thing was just so damned embarrassing, all of it.

“What?” Hutch drew back quizzically, not letting him go, but smiling down with that older-brotherly indulgence of his. “Asshole.”

“M’sorry, Hutch,” Starsky apologized, misty with incipient laughter. “I’m straight, now, honest.” The line hung there, waiting.

“Forget it,” Hutch said, mildly fed-up. “Let’s get out of here; go for a walk on the beach.” He grabbed Starsky’s hand and guided him out of the dense, overheated male crowd.

They trudged away from the beach house, through the stray couples on the deck outside, down to the water’s edge. “Hot as hell in there,” Hutch complained, striding along.

“I know–” Starsky managed, skipping one or two steps to keep up with him. “These leather pants are sticking to my ass somethin’ awful. Hey…” Hutch retained his implacable handhold. “Hey! Hutch–wait up… Whoa, boy!” He dug in finally with his heels.

Hutch stopped, apparently just realizing he was still holding Starsky’s hand, and let it go. “Guess the role’s getting to me at last. Got me holding hands with my partner without even thinking about it.”

“I don’t mind,” Starsky said, mildly. “Long as you don’t try it on a double-date.”

“I’ll restrain myself,” Hutch said to him dryly. He proceeded at a walk, looking out to sea.

Starsky fell in beside him, having no trouble now, keeping up. “What’d you want t’ tell me?”

“Oh, yeah.” Hutch lifted his damp hair off his neck for a moment, then dropped it. “Just that, uh–I think we can cross Joshua Crainey off the list of suspects.”

“We just put him on.” Joshua Crainey had been Corliz’ last lover, and after hearing him mentioned in an extremely unfavorable light by several people, they’d done a little checking.

“He’s got an airtight alibi for the entire month of July.”

“What is it? Dance card all booked up?”

“For 26 days of the month, he was in the Santa Barbara County Hospital being treated for narcotics overdose.”

“A suicide attempt?” Starsky asked, curious.

“A gesture,” Hutch qualified. “It wasn’t his first time in a hospital for that reason. And anyway, the last time he’d seen Corliz was a month before that.”

“That’s definite, huh?”

Hutch nodded.

“Erba’s still our best shot, then.”

“Did you find out anything else about him from Zach? Anything we might remotely be able to get a handle on? The man’s like a bunch of puzzle pieces that don’t fit. Charles Foster Kane.”

“All I have is more puzzle pieces,” Starsky apologized. “What do you want? Bobby drinks Dora Perignon for breakfast; Bobby snorts his cocaine through rolled-up thousand-dollar bills; Bobby’s an expert marksman, tennis player, sailor–you name it. Bobby flies his own plane, a Lear Executive, of course. He has phenomenal sexual habits if even half of what Grezzi says about him is true.” He smirked in the darkness as he paused. “Bobby likes to watch. Probably more important for our purposes is the fact that he’s heavy into domination. Not S&M exactly: games, intimidation, strategy–that type of thing. And according to our town crier, Zachary, Bobby eats, sleeps, and breathes movies. Always making ’em, even in the sack. I get the impression that he’s got more video hardware in his bedroom than a TV studio.”

“And he raises gardenias on the side,” Hutch muttered sourly, mind obviously occupied.

“What’re you thinkin’?”

“That that’s our man, Starsky,” Hutch said, with decision. “I’d bet anything.”

“Easy to believe. There’s so much crud on him. Solid gold crud. An’ he’s a corporation, babe, a multi-multi-millionaire.”

Hutch looked at him, strangely–as if something he’d said had confused him or surprised him.

“What?” Starsky wanted to know.

Hutch shook his head. “Nothing.” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “I was just thinking that it all ties in. The filmmaking, the violence… exactly like Kloss said. Bobby might be capable of having a hand in what we saw on film in Dobey’s office: of ordering, filming it–conceiving it.”

Starsky shuddered beside him. “So what are you sayinI? We go to Micasa–if we’re invited–corner Erba and ask him straight out if we can see his home movies? What do we say? ‘You know, Bobby, the snuff stuff?'”

“If we could attract his attention, that is. We have to get close, fall into his orbit…”

“Any suggestions, John Glenn?”

“I’ve got a couple,” Hutch said, coolly.

“We could spread the word that we’ll do it together on film. We could show it at Vic’s, sell tickets!” Starsky tasted the sarcasm going weirdly bitter before he’d finished his sentence. It was as if he weren’t inflecting the words himself, but he couldn’t stop. “That’d attract attention for sure.”

Hutch wasn’t looking at him now. The wind off the sea lifted his hair in a sudden, silvery plume. “You’re being sarcastic,” he said. “Or trying to be. But I’m serious. We’d be a little more subtle than that.”

“Huh?” Starsky stared at him, almost peering in the dark to try and sharpen the details of his face.

Hutch did sound serious. “We’d let word-of-mouth do our advertising for us,” he went on. “Benton to Erba.”

It sounded like “Who’s On First?” “Hutch–”

“The ‘chicken-man’ might be a weirded-out punk, Starsk, but he’s on a direct line to Erba, which we’re not. He’s a well-known photographer, not some fly-by-night sleaze artist. His stuffs pretty explicit, but it’s considered art.”

There’d been some of Benton Levine’s photographs on the walls of the beach house they’d been in tonight. “Hutch?!” Starsky felt his eyes stretch wide with incredulity.

“What’s wrong?” Hutch asked him guilelessly.

“Have you gone off your blond noggin, Hutchinson?” Starsky felt–absurdly–betrayed. His voice cracked, hitting falsetto. “Are you serious? Us, posin’ nude and doin’ God-knows-what-all-else in front of some strange camera? You are nuts, buddy-boy, you’re havin’ a whack-attack! C’mere, lemme feel your forehead.” He did so. “Yeah, it’s hot.”

“Posing.” Hutch seemed to think the restatement of the word clarified and simplified everything. “Just posing. Nobody’s talking about hard core.”

“I’m not hearing this right, am I?” Starsky felt dazed. He really couldn’t believe the evidence of his ears. “You’re really talkin’ about two other guys on some other case. A different you and a different me. I get it.”

“Come on, Starsk,” Hutch scolded. “We might not even have to take our pants off.”

“How the hell do you know so much about it? Willya tell me that? We’re talkin’ about making contact with Robert Erba, remember? A possible murderer who likes to take pictures of men engaging in sexual activity! Screwing, Hutch, not shaving together. Does that sink in?”

“You don’t much care for the idea, obviously. I trust you’ve got a better one.”

Starsky was a blank. And sorry about it.

“What we want is to get into that inner circle, Starsk!” Hutch went on. “Don’t we? This is back-room stuff. Private stock. They’re not gonna let two yokels in off the street, are they? If we don’t get through the front door of Micasa, we might as well go home. We’ve got to have a ticket to get inside. And Benton’s it.”

There was a spell of silence while Starsky stood there, trying to think of some other way.

“Let’s go up there,” Hutch said.

He looked where Hutch pointed. A rocky, grass-covered ridge had evidently beckoned to his partner’s sense of adventure. The two of them started up, picking a path through the rocks. It took a few minutes to reach the top.

“Great landing spot for a helicopter,” Hutch commented.

Starsky looked around the flat grassy area, feeling slightly spooked. “Yeah. Good place for a signal fire if we were stranded here.” At this vantage, the ocean seemed far below in the dark-blue night, surrounding them. In daylight, they’d have been able to see for miles. “So we, uh–we pose for Benton.” He wanted to logic it out in his own mind. “And, maybe, pump him a little bit about Erba… Drop a couple of hints about wantin’ to break into the movies?” It was one long question.

“Through him, we might just get one foot inside.”

Starsky frowned and a sigh escaped. “It’s an idea,” he admitted, reluctantly. “But, Hutch, I’m just wonderin’–what if we get stuck in a–a certain situation, see, and we end up having to do more, maybe, than just– Well, you’ve seen those movies. You know how those guys act. They do everything men and women do. No holds barred! I’m not backin’ out, now. What I said about going along still applies. But–”

“But?”

“How far?”

“It’s not the safest avenue we could take,” Hutch said, quietly. “On any level. This whole case is just one long–” He trailed off.

“The kiss is easy.” Starsky found he couldn’t look at Hutch as those words were said. He found himself rubbing his knuckles together, mapping out his own personal parameters of behavior and feeling inexplicably–well, shy. “That we know. The other stuff… I’m not sure yet. That’s straight-up honest, okay?” Suddenly his eyes were caught by a glance from his partner. They gazed speculatively at one another for a moment. “What about you?” Starsky asked.

“We’re under,” Hutch said, noncommittally, Starsky thought. “That’s how I see it. I think we’re men enough to handle ourselves in the clinches without both suffering an identity crisis. The magnitude of the case makes it worth a little…” Hutch searched for a euphemism. “…personal embarrassment, if we can knock Erba over. We’ve both performed our share of embarrassing stunts undercover.”

“Plenty of ’em,” Starsky agreed. “All inna line of duty, I guess.”

“Within reason,” Hutch reminded him. “It may never come to that, even, Starsky. Y’know? Like you said, I really have no idea what’s in store for us.”

Starsky felt the conflict of pride, to which there could only be one answer–for either of them. To stick by his partner under any circumstances or to preserve his own sense of manhood. “Just hope I don’t ever let you down. This ain’t my side of the street.”

“Mine either,” Hutch half-laughed, looking at him. He reached out with one hand, took Starsky’s jaw in a gentle grasp. “Starsk? Don’t sweat it.” He shook Starsky a little. “One day we’ll look back at all this–”

“–and cringe with embarrassment,” Starsky interjected.

They started back down the rocky hillside. Hutch led the way. Starsky grasped his nape or shoulders from time to time, for balance and guidance in the overcast dark. “Are we lost?”

“It’s this way, I think,” Hutch said, not answering the question directly.

They moved between two wide shoulders of rock and into a kind of clearing, a little circular bowl of sand and dried grass. Its windy whisper filled the silence.

Hutch started forward, then stopped abruptly. Starsky bumped him from behind, feeling like he’d hit a wall.

“Uhh…” Hutch was turning. “Let’s go back.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Hackles raised automatically in fear and the urge to protect, Starsky pushed past him to see.

“Starsky–!” Hutch hissed.

In the gloom, maybe because of it, the pale smoothness of flesh was tangible. Not 20 feet away, two men were coupling, making furiously intent love on a blanket in the dry, wind-blown grass. They were joined, and that was something Starsky had not yet seen with his naked eye.

Holy…

The act seemed enjoyable for both, though he’d never been able to imagine how that was possible. Starsky could hear the soft orders now and the urgent replies, see the dark, bearded head bent over the bright one. Then, like a harsh chord, two mingled groans pierced the quiet.

Starsky backed up then, taking Hutch with him.

Hutch’s hand touched his shoulder lightly, turning him. “Back this way.”

When they reached the road, Starsky let out the startled expletive he’d been holding back. “D’you feel like somebody just jabbed their thumb in your eye?” he asked a curiously quiet Hutch.

“I feel like I just walked into the wrong hotel room.” Hutch was digging out the keys to the borrowed Jeep. “Like I would with anybody else, I guess.”

Starsky mulled over that for a few seconds. “I never saw that before,” he admitted. “In real life, I mean.”

“I didn’t pay too close attention, to tell you the truth,” Hutch said.

“No, well, me neither, but–” Too late he realized Hutch was teasing him. He glared at the fair profile. “You merciless clown.” They’d reached the car. “Get in,” Starsky ordered. “I’m driving.” His partner was still chuckling silently. He could see those shoulders shaking even in the darkness inside the vehicle. “You’re a hell of an understanding guy, you know that?”

The chuckle was audible now.

“What’s so funny?”

Hutch’s laughter burst forth. “We were worrying about holding hands.” He caught another well-placed glare and grinned. “Come on, Starsk. It’s funny, now, isn’t it? Honestly.”

“Seeing some kid gettin’ a greased pole up the kazoo is funny to you?”

“That’s not fair,” Hutch said, finger pointing. “And you know it.” He sighed with exasperation. “Couldn’t you tell they were making love? That wasn’t rape, by any means. You talk as if you never ass-fucked a woman!”

Starsky hated the confusion he felt. Seemed as if he had blindspots on his blindspots. I’m not like this. Why can’t I get my head together? “Okay.” He took a deep breath and started the car. “Okay.”

The house was quiet when they arrived. Inside, Tim was sprawled on the couch in the front room, watching a basketball game on the big screen. He wore a pair of yellow, raw-silk pajamas, and he was alone.

There was a PC on the low table in front of the couch, piles of papers, some leather-backed folders, a couple of sharpened pencils, and a phone. The ceramic ashtray held a dozen half- smoked cigarettes. Beside it a bottle of white wine had been half-emptied.

“All play and no work make even Tim a dull boy, huh?” Hutch commented.

“I’m a man guiding five, soon to be six, thriving enterprises.” Tim grinned. “I couldn’t do it without getting a little honest sweat on my brow, now could I?”

“Who’s playing?” Starsky asked, glad of the homey diversion of sports on TV.

Tim looked at the screen. “DePaul and St. John. Fast game. Want to watch? I’m through here with this stuff… Grab a chair. ”

“Where’s Tito?” Hutch asked.

“He’s not here,” Tim answered. His foxy eyes held Hutch’s. “We’re not exclusive, Blondie.”

Starsky watched the brief byplay, wondering at it, feeling like he’d missed something.

Hutch turned. “I’m going to bed.” He hesitated, looking at Starsky. The moment was awkward for Starsky. He almost laughed at the notion of Hutch saying, “Are you coming?” It was uncomfortable realizing that Hutch had been about to say that very thing. The only way to have passed it off would have been as a joke. But Hutch didn’t look amused–or amusing. Starsky could see his startled discomfort with the realization that there was no compelling reason for Starsky to accompany him to bed. He exited without another word.

Starsky watched him disappear up the darkened stairwell, hair like a pale comet trail behind him. Better give him a few minutes…

***

Hutch was lying in bed with his back to the door.

Starsky entered quietly. “You asleep?”

“No.” Hutch twisted around to look at him, eyebrow raised. “How was the game?”

“Went into overtime. Kenny Patterson nailed a 30-foot jumpshot with three seconds remaining.” He pulled off his shirt as he spoke, glancing at his supine partner. “Incredible.”

Hutch had turned over again.

Starsky heard a yawn. “Oh, well.” He took off the rest of his clothes and went to brush his teeth. “Think I’ll shower in the morning if you don’t mind,” he muttered, as he returned.

“Why should I mind?”

“If you don’t care, I don’t care.” Starsky shrugged. He slipped on his pajama bottoms and eased into bed. Pillow in arms, he looked at Hutch’s back, the shiny hair and bare shoulders. What to say that wouldn’t open up some can of worms?

Hutch’s voice startled him, almost. “Tim make a pass at you?”

“Huh?” Starsky couldn’t make the connection. “Not that I noticed,” he said. “Why’d you ask that?”

“He likes you, didn’t you know?”

“What?”

“He thinks you’re beautiful,” Hutch said. “Told me so himself.”

“Didn’t let on,” Starsky mused. “He’s just like a regular guy. Lost a bundle on the game. What’s the problem?” He asked what seemed a valid question. “You mind?”

“Do I mind–?”

“Tim likin’ me?”

Hutch made a scoffing sound, like a laugh. “Don’t be idiotic, Starsky. Go to sleep. ”

“But really–” Starsky pressed. It was a real question for him because Hutch didn’t seem to approve. “Do you mind? I mean, I do–sorta–like him in a way. Maybe a little better than I should, considerin’ that he’s one of the bad guys. And for all I know, you might not think that’s such a great idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? ‘For all I know’?” Hutch was looking at him now, with the pupils of his eyes dilated in the lamplight.

“It means I don’t necessarily know what’s eatin’ you ’til you tell me.”

“Now who’s taking the lover-boy stuff too far?” Hutch was scornful. “You want me to approve the people you associate with?”

“Hutch?!” Starsky felt his simmering annoyance come to a semi-boil. “What’s with you all of a sudden? I can’t say the right thing no matter what I say.” Not just tonight, either, he mused bitterly. That had been a running thread in their relationship for some time now; one of the myriad of reasons for their slight estrangement back home. “I’m not talkin’ about you approving the dates I bring home!”

“What, then?” Hutch was angry, too, impatient.

“What I’m talkin’ about is how tight we may wanna get with certain parties.” Trying for gentleness, he waited patiently, then, “Whaddya think?”

Hutch turned over onto his back and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” He looked at Starsky. “Right now, I don’t think it’s such a great idea. Simply because we don’t know enough about Tim, or the relationships. But Starsk, who you–you decide to relate to, outside the bounds of the case, that’s up to you. Use your judgment. I trust it.”

Starsky punched his pillow down and made himself comfortable. “After all, I wasn’t about to confide in the man. You oughta be proud of me, the way I decided to stop walkin’ around with a chip on my shoulder about gays.”

Hutch was apparently finished with the subject. He sighed. “Yeah, Starsk, right. Now get some sleep, will you please?”

“Glad to. Turn out the light.”

Hutch did so and muttered, “Goodnight.”

Starsky lay in the dark beside him, sleepy, but not completely at ease. It was like hearing a subtle miss in the engine of a car, something almost not there, but crucial just the same.

***

It had been a long fruitless day. Discovering that Benton Levine had left the island for parts unknown had been only the last of a series of dead ends, nobody-homes, and gone-fishings. Even Tim had left for the day, leaving them alone in the house, but for Cochilar and Desmon.

They came in late in the afternoon, dogged by the heat. “Toss you for first chance at the shower,” Starsky said, as the door to their room closed behind them.

Hutch fell backward across the bed, uncaring. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” Starsky pulled off his shirt, threw it carelessly onto the floor.

From the pillow, Hutch watched his friend play the incorrigible slob, as always, consummately. “On the chair, clown,” he ordered, playing his side of the game.

“What d’you care?” Standing in the middle of the floor, Starsky half-turned toward him. “I happen t’be a grown man, and if I wanna–” he unsnapped his jeans, pointedly, turning away, “–be a slob, so be it.” The faded jeans were then shucked down, defiantly, half revealing a bare bloom of ass. “Besides,” Starsky continued. “It takes one to know one.” He stripped the pants to his ankles and off, kicking them backward before marching into the bathroom. Hutch threw a sneaker after him, but the door closed in time.

Hutch’s smile faded. Levering off his other shoe, he lay back, letting his head sink like lead into the pillow. He glanced toward the bathroom door, hearing the water come on, listening to it rush for a minute, mind dwelling on the man behind the sound. Like a brother… As if we’d grown up in the same house. That’s how it is. That’s how it’s always been… He sat up quickly and sighed. I love him like a brother. So why am I—

For an indeterminate time he sat there, castigating himself, going down the list of flaws that had brought him to this point: his admittedly liberal (and in recent months, jaded) attitudes about sex, his lapsed discipline and lack of direction, his idealism and hope, which still beat so strong no matter what life and love had done to him; all seemed to have combined with circumstances to make him a candidate for a sudden sexual conversion. Pretending to be Starsky’s lover these weeks had enabled him to experience his partner in some–to say the least–novel ways. He had rediscovered, by way of some crazy back door, what it meant to be somebody’s lover. Problem was that somewhere along the line the feelings he’d been pretending to feel had become… possible, had become pleasures. The farce he and Starsky had to perform daily was becoming the one real thing in his life.

The desire that had shaken him at Starsky’s playful display of… assets… had been a reality, too. The after-effects lingered in all his muscles, in the prickling sweat at his groin. He didn’t pretend to fully understand the root of what was happening to him and why it was happening. A substantial amount of what he felt was simple shame, but he was almost glad of it. That emotion, at least, could provide him with some sorely-needed perspective.

The remaining 90% of him that was complete confusion offered no hope at all. Tonight of all nights he wanted–needed–to make rude, passionate love to a willing lady. But was his reaction to Starsky only that? Needing in a purely physical way and making Starsky the object of it? Why? Because they’d been close for so long? Because his friend and partner was a magnetic and sensual man? That was all true.

Or was it because Starsky was so damned special that there could be no substitute, male or female, for what he had to offer? He’d been wonderful these past weeks: playful, winning, cleaving to Hutch, not running away.

Starsky came out of the bathroom, one dark-blue towel wrapped around his waist, using another to dry his torso and hair.

Hutch couldn’t take his eyes off the front plane of the towel at Starsky’s waist, the way the heavy angle of the man’s sex lifted the velvety material slightly. In a moment, Starsky was going to drop both the towels. Then, unconsciously, he’d fold them in slow, neat squares while talking about the weather, or what he had in mind for dinner. And Hutch would be a captive audience for a performance he couldn’t afford to see. He got up, and moved past his partner, in a real hurry to reach the solitude of the bathroom.

“Where’s the fire?” Starsky’s voice followed him.

“It’s my turn isn’t it?” Hutch shot over his shoulder, reaching the door and closing it firmly on Starsky’s next comment.

He groaned as the hard-on he’d been hiding sprang out of his shorts. He loosened them more to ease the strain, then sighed tiredly, both hands resting on the chilly marble sink. Starsky, what’ve you done to me? And what’ll I do to us if I keep going like this? He was pushing 40, and he wasn’t supposed to be getting hard at the sight of his best friend’s body. Not Starsky’s fault.

“Mine,” he grated, aloud, angry with himself. “Better get hold of it, Hutchinson. Before it gets hold of you.” He eased the stinging ache roughly before turning to the shower. Cool water would wash all of it away and leave no trace.

***

The sun had gone down, shading about 30 degrees off the thermometer, leaving the sky a cooler, relieved red. They sat on the terrace outside their room, bottle of brandy on the little table between the rattan chairs, cooperating in getting quietly plastered. Hutch had set the pace, and Starsky had kept up in a business-like way. He wore a bathrobe, and had conformed totally to the contours of his chair.

“What kinda girl you looking for, Hutch?”

“Kinda girl? Dunno.” Hutch realized that he hadn’t even considered the question lately. It was a strange one, actually, for Starsky to ask. Starsky knew his type, what he looked for in a woman. “Somebody special,” he said, feeling the liquor, mind distanced from the words. “Really special. You know.” His thoughts focused. “Someone who–who’ll want me to protect and provide, but who’ll also be my equal. Somebody I can’t push around, but who won’t try to run my life; who won’t want to own me. Somebody beautiful outside and in.” He took a sip of the sweet, fierce brandy. “Not much. What about you?”

“What I want is a girl who is–” He looked at Hutch through his lashes and smiled crookedly. “Also special. But more than that. I want her to be–just a woman. All woman. Just herself; no tricks, no games, no deceptions… simple and strong and beautiful–like a flower in the desert. You know what I’m talkin’ about?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said. “I know. They’re kind of hard to find, aren’t they, those flowers in the desert?”

“They have to be,” Starsky said, with surety. “Otherwise, what’s the point of looking?”

“The point is that there’s probably no such thing as the ‘right woman’.” Hutch felt annoyed by the conversation suddenly. “Basically I think people just find somebody they can tolerate–who can tolerate them–and that’s that.”

“What, you don’t believe in love anymore?” Starsky asked like some drunken, starry-eyed 18-year-old.

“Starsk, love is just not what you think it is.”

“Or maybe love’s not what you think it is,” Starsky parried. “You been hurt a lot, Hutch.”

“So’s everybody. So’ve you.”

“I try not to let it color what’s happening to me today, though,” Starsky insisted. “Tomorrow I could fall madly in love–”

Hutch looked up at the tinted sky. How can you be so innocent after Rosey? “Here?” he commented. “You’d better not.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, the whole point is that I haven’t given up hope of lovin’ somebody. I want to fall in love. Don’t you?”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Hutch suggested, reaching for the bottle.

“No fair. Answer me.” Starsky, grinning, crocked, wouldn’t let go, leaning over to peer into Hutch’s eyes, homing in on his averted face. “Hutch…”

“Okay! I want to fall in love with somebody. Satisfied?” He glared into Starsky’s broad smile. “You can be the most annoying–”

“Aw, I know,” Starsky admitted, relenting. “Sorry, didn’t mean t’ put you on the spot.”

“Sorry?” Hutch scoffed, smiling ruefully. “You get off on it.”

***

They’d passed out; Starsky couldn’t remember exactly when. Hutch had dropped off first, it seemed to him. Yeah; I was telling knock-knock jokes, and he stopped answering.

Propped on an elbow, he surveyed the nights’ aftermath. Hutch, bathrobe long since discarded, was tangled in the yellow sheets, long legs sprawled. He had a hell of a tan. Goin’ native on me… Hutch’s brow was knit in sleep. What’s wrong? What’s eatin’ at you? Is it me? He examined the sad, unearthly beautiful face, trying to decipher it.

His own bathrobe was twisted around him, all of it above his waist. He got up, shrugging out of it, and headed for the shower. His head was throbbing a bit. To be expected; they’d killed a fifth of Remy-Martin last night. Okay, last drunk on the case. He smiled, grabbing up the soap and loofah. Bet those are the first words outta him when he wakes up.

He really liked the black-tiled shower, the brass dolphin fittings, the exotically-scented soap and shampoo. The towel he wrapped himself in was six-and-a-half feet of plush, thirsty snow. When he stepped out of the shower, a shaft of early sun, slanting in from the window, struck his face and chest. Pure gold. He sighed. 24 caret… What a life. He mistrusted the ease he felt in these surroundings with this luxury. “Guy could sure get used to livin’ like this,” he murmured, fantasizing as he dried himself. But only if I earned it honestly, he mused. Lot of pain bought this place; pain for somebody, somewhere. When cocaine’s there, hurt’s there, too. And all this, it ain’t worth it.

He went back into the bedroom. The muted blush of morning sun filled every corner of it. Hutch had turned over onto his stomach, hair a jumble of straw catching the light. The bed was a continent to Starsky, totally out of scale, but the man in it now made it look just the right size. There was a good feeling about waking up in it every morning to find Hutch close, inches away. Never spent so many nights sleeping with him. All in all, he’s an okay sleeping partner. He’s warm. He’s pretty quiet; doesn’t snore as loud as I do, and he stops right away if I ask him. Sometimes he threw an arm over Starsky, or scratched his nose in Starsky’s hair. I don’t mind. It’s okay.

And he talked to Starsky. He’d mumble, “Starsk! Wait,” or “Will you please put that down?” I guess I must drive him crazy. Looking at Hutch idly, Starsky dressed in a plain white T-shirt, and white drawstrings. You drive me crazy too, y’know. Can’t stand to be with you, and can’t stand to be without you… He missed his friend, suddenly, unaccountably; missed the person he himself had helped push from his life in the preceding two years.

“Come on, wake up willya?” he muttered, a little angry with himself. Let’s forget the case for a few hours. Find something for ourselves.

An impulse later he was on the bed, on hands and knees, deciding how to most safely and effectively wake his best friend. Hutch was dreaming, eyelids moving rapidly, breathing shallow and rushed. He’d be awake soon, anyway. Starsky blew in his partner’s ear.

ILLO 6: “Come on, wake up willya?”

“Huh!” Hutch’s head flew up. Eyes squinted shut, he recognized Starsky only after an extended moment of staring, accompanied by an intense frown. “Starsk–” he croaked. “What th’–?”

Starsky hoped his own enthusiasm would block Hutch’s possible fury. “First some breakfast,” he suggested. “And then a beach somewhere. Huh?”

To his surprise, Hutch didn’t yell at him. Instead a slow smile crept across the sleepy face, and one hand reached out to pull a loop of his hair, gently. “Okay,” Hutch said, mildly. “Let me get myself together, huh?” The droopy eyes closed.

Starsky was wary. “Hutch? Are you–awake or asleep?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m awake,” Hutch yawned, eyes blinking. “I’m awake.” He stretched and flung his arms across the bed. “That’s the last time I get drunk on the case,” he groaned. “You, too, if I have anything to say about it.” He looked at Starsky, amusement and contentment in his morning-soft eyes. “Actually, I’m feeling better than I probably should.”

“So let’s play today,” Starsky coaxed. “Good idea?”

“Okay, Junior, good idea. What d’you want to do?”

“Picnic at the beach?”

A smiling Cochilar had made sure they wouldn’t starve. Big chunks of avocado, endive, tomato, and green chilies marinated in an icy bowl; crisp, home-made burritos and nachos; a cold smoked chicken, red grapes, and apples strained the seams of the fancy, flexible fiberglass cooler. In another cooler, twelve cold bottles of beer were getting colder by the minute.

They found a remote inlet, completely unoccupied until they arrived. The blue-checked blanket was spread within the arms of a cool, sandy grotto. Ocean lapped the beach gently and deep here in broad, roiling sweeps, the water clear as green glass and warm as bath water.

Rich sun poured down as they swam and played, burnishing skins to deeper bronze. When they came out, they baked side by side in its penetrating warmth, Hutch’s hair drying out to the color of old silver. The hair on his own arms was reddening, Starsky noticed.

It got too hot, and they swam again briefly, grabbing their towels when they exited the water, running back to the blanket, cool shade, and food.

“Cochilar, I wanna marry you!” Starsky enthused, digging in.

Hutch opened two bottles of beer, handed one to him, about to say something. Starsky stuck a wedge of tomato into his mouth, and watched with satisfaction Hutch chewing and swallowing the juicy mouthful while trying to speak. “What’d you say?” he asked, innocently.

“I said, I’m glad you woke me.”

“Me, too. I thought you’d be mad.”

“And did it anyway.” Hutch looked up at him from his food.

Starsky grinned. “Right. But why didn’t you yell at me? Not one little ‘Go to hell’ even.”

“I’d just been dreaming about you.” Hutch had returned to his chicken.

“Dreamin’ about me? Oh yeah? What about?”

“Nice dream. It was us, up at the lake. We were fishing… Having such a great time…” He made a small dismissive gesture with his head. “I was glad you were there with me when I woke up.” He smiled. “How could I yell at you?”

“How about that? I softened ya up before you were even awake.” Starsky reached out to him, grabbed the hand with the chicken leg in it, brought it to his mouth and took a bite. Hutch was still smiling, but wryly, grave eyes looking right into Starsky’s when he glanced up.

“Yours tastes better,” Starsky explained. As he watched, his partner’s cheeks seared faintly red under the deep tan. Starsky kept back the hand he was touching. “What–”

“Nothing.” Hutch took back his hand–not angrily. He lay back on the blanket and sighed. “Everything! The game… I think I’m losing my sense of humor about all this.”

Starsky didn’t know how to reply. He decided on a safe, “Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Oh, no?” Hutch rolled onto his elbow.

“I’m the one with the problem.”

Hutch laughed softly, as if to himself. He looked out to sea, then back at Starsky. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

He seemed alright after that, more himself. But later that night, he came up with a suggestion that really scared Starsky.

***

“I think Leif and Ira should break up for a while. Split up.”

“What did you say?”

“We’re not getting anywhere like this, Starsk,” Hutch protested. “Look, if we split up, you could get closer to Grezzi, or to Benton…”

“Hold it. What–?”

“We both agree they might be useful. But not to a couple.”

“But Hutch, I don’t think–”

“I think it’s the best solution.”

“Wait a minute, here!” Starsky exploded, throwing his towel across the room. “Where do you get off? We haven’t discussed this, or planned, or talked it out! And out of the blue, you decide we break up? Uh-uh, Hutch. As far as I know, this partnership is still 50-50!”

“Dammit, of course it is! Starsky don’t you see? I’m thinking of the case, and you’re thinking about protecting your ass. It’s the hole in the FBI’s set-up. You’re hiding with me. You’re not out there hustling to heat things up, or–”

Starsky was incredulous. “Are you tellin’ me I’m not doin’ my job?”

“No! Starsky, no. Will you let me finish? Stop misunderstanding me!”

“Is that what I’m doin’? Okay, I’m scared to be alone here. Damned right. I don’t want to be alone with Zachary Grezzi, or Benton, or any man who wants my ass! But I’m not hiding! From the beginning I told you I gotta go slow here. Now you’re changin’ the game-plan on me!” He paused, at loose ends, and picked up the bath towel he’d thrown. “Hutch, it’s simpler with you as my lover, okay? The whole thing was planned that way! I can pretend to–to love you like this, because I love you. I can’t pretend to come-on to some other guy. If Zach tries to put the moves on me, what in God’s name do you think I’m gonna do? Sit there? I’m gonna knock his teeth down his throat! I can’t let another man–”

“What?” Hutch asked, temper shortening. “Suck your cock? What’s that supposed to be? A fate worse than death or something?”

“It is for me, maybe,” Starsky said. He looked at Hutch with eyes stretched wide. “You’re sayin’ it’s not for you?”

“Damned straight!” Hutch said with street-harshness. “I’m saying it. And you’re bullshitting me and yourself if you’re saying otherwise!”

“Hutch?” At the bathroom door, Starsky was stiff with shock. “Have you–? Are you telling me that you–” They hadn’t been together every minute, it was true. Hutch had gone to shop once or twice alone. Couldn’t be.

“No,” Hutch said, scornfully. “But I sure as hell am not gonna throw away an important case over a meaningless blow-job.”

“Ha!” Starsky laughed disbelievingly. “Hutch. You’re tryin’ to make me feel guilty for bein’ straight. Now there’s one for the books.” He’d finished scrubbing his hair dry, put the towel on its rack and approached the bed. “Move over, Big Daddy.” One knee on the mattress, he leaned over and slapped the blond’s thigh. Hutch moved, and Starsky settled into the bed. “We don’t split up.”

“We’re gonna have to sooner or later,” Hutch pointed out.

“Let it be later,” Starsky said. “When I understand this place better.”

“I have a” feeling Dobey’ll pull us off this rock before then.”

***

The next morning Starsky, standing beside Hutch at the mirror and looking into his face, asked him again. “Where would you draw the line?”

“Starsky, I don’t know.” Hutch sighed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really want to know. Do you?”

Starsky nodded. “Yes.”

Hutch studied himself critically in the lighted mirror, focusing on the way the tan he’d acquired and the sun had frosted his eyebrows. “Damn!” he snapped. “I’m getting old. And no better.”

“Nonsense,” Starsky said unsympathetically, moving away. “You’re 37.” He switched the shower on. “What are you worried about? Losin’ your looks?” Then, with a no-more-than-implied sneer, he went on. “Sure as hell couldn’t be your purity and virtue.” The statement had the crushing inevitability of a last straw. “I’m sorry,” Starsky amended.

It wasn’t enough. Hutch turned away from the mirror, repelled by what he saw. Yeah, I’m losing whatever purity I had left after 10 years on the force, the stuff at the core. And I’m losing something better in the process. You… Where are you? He moved toward Starsky’s broad, brown back as if it were the safest safe-house in the world. Panic had made him desperate. He touched and held Starsky’s shoulders as if his friend were trying to run away. “Christ, Starsk!” he choked out. “You have every right to hate me–” He needed to say more, to ask for the truth, whatever it was, speak his own.

But Starsky whirled around, all face. “Hate you– God, babe, what–?” His hands came up to cup Hutch’s own face. The callused feel was like a blessing. “What brought this on? Hutch, did I do this to you?”

“I don’t know!” Hutch said, crossly. “I’m–” He looked into the blue eyes in front of him, felt the pull of their beauty. Yes, you can allow it to yourself, can’t you? “Losing touch with myself. And you.”

Starsky came to him. “Ah, hell no,” he said as he embraced Hutch kindly. His curls dusted the side of Hutch’s face, and he was willingly, determinedly close as only he knew how to be. “Hutch, I’m on your side; do I have t’tell ya that?”

Hutch felt his soul touched in a way it had only ever been by Starsky, and not for such a long time. Starsky was taking his pain away, trying as best he could, better than anybody else’s best, giving a tiny piece of his sweet self, all that was needed for a cure.

Or was it the cause?

“Why don’t we just–get out from under, Hutch?” he asked. “Accept the fact… It’s gettin’ way too heavy for both of, us. Not just you.”

“I’d like nothing better,” Hutch whispered. “But I don’t think I can.”

“I don’t understand. Look at us… You’re gettin’ crazy; I’m gettin’ crazy. What are we stayin’ here for, hm? To finish the job?! Hutch, see reason–”

“There is a reason! Not just the case! There’s something here I’ve got to deal with! Me! I don’t wanna bail-out because there’s something important I have to face, something about myself–” He sighed. “Though I’m damned if I know exactly what it is. And for some absurd reason, I think it’s here, on this stupid, corrupt hothouse of an island.” He let go of Starsky.

“If you don’t know what it is, how do you know it’s here?” his partner asked.

“It’s impossible to put into words. A lot of things point to here for me, I– Ah, Starsk, I just can’t tell you! I can’t explain. ”

“You sound like you’re gonna be deciding your destiny,” Starsky said heavily. “Mine, too. An’ you’re not even gonna tell me what the choices are?”

“This I have to face first! Me. You want to stand on your own two feet. So do I.”

“I’m facing it now,” Starsky disagreed. “All along. With you. I can’t help it. Isn’t that what we’re about, for God’s sake? If it’s not, let me know, Hutch. I can get the hell away from this place, and you, and never look back. ”

“Go ahead.” Hutch was coldly depressed. “That’s what you’ve been wanting to do. So go ahead; I’m through.”

He had apparently called Starsky’s bluff, and his partner stared at him resentfully, helplessly.

“Stay with me, Starsk,” he said, sorry. “I’m asking you to stay with me while I work it out, that’s all.”

Starsky shook his head. “You want to tell me. So bad you can feel it on the tip of your tongue. So why doncha, Hutch? Tell me you’re gay, Hutch.”

Hutch shuddered. Not at the question or the revelation, but at the lack of surprise on both sides. “Tell you? What? That I’m heavy into S&M? That I think I want your ass? Except it’s not that clear cut! I don’t know what the hell I want from you, Starsky! Or anybody else.”

“Think you can find out here?” Starsky indicated the whole island with one thumb, eyes like lamps on Hutch.

“It’s the perfect opportunity, isn’t it?” Are we both talking about the same thing?

“Yeah,” Starsky muttered, begrudgingly. He lifted his hands suddenly, importuning. “Hutch… Why didn’t you ever sit down and explain it to me?” His voice shook. “To me?”

“When have we had a chance to sit down and talk about our relationship? And especially since you were shot… What was I supposed to do? Wheel a psychiatrist’s couch into the hospital room, park it beside your bed? Starsk, I could have confronted you with anything else, but not– Not my personal problems.”

“And that still goes?”

“For now, please, yes. Don’t press me.”

“But Hutch, tell me where do I stand in all this? Where?”

“Jesus Christ.” Hutch rubbed at his brow. “At times, I think it’s all about you, Starsk.” He met Starsky’s aching gaze with his own, and went on wearily. “Other times… I know I’m just crazy.” He shook his head. “But the partnership is inviolate, Starsky. There, I’d like us always to be the same. No matter what. Think we can?”

Starsky nodded, response slow. “I know we can.” He turned away. “But the rest is complete chaos. It scares me.”

“Me, too. It’s not something I’m looking to share. I’m just–confused; and I’d rather be with you than without you.” I’m tired of standing on my own two feet.

“So, what if I get in your way?”

“What?”

“Leif and Ira should split, you said. Was that why? So you could take the opportunity–?”

Hutch couldn’t be anything but gentle toward him. He could hear the upset, the sternly repressed sorrow. “No, not at all. You were–making it that much harder for me to think clearly about it, that’s all. That’s what I was reacting to.”

“I see.”

“You do?”

Starsky nodded, head down. ”Maybe some time alone is what you need, Hutch. Maybe this is the kinda shot in the arm I’ve needed to convince me to take a risk. Maybe I was hiding--am hiding, I mean. I know it won’t kill me to hang out with Zachary a few hours and play rope-a-dope. I’ve done it to hookers with acne.”

“Is this just a reaction to–to what we’ve been talking about?” Hutch asked with a mix of fear and tact.

“Yes and no.” Starsky looked at him warningly. “Not how you think. I just think you really do need to be alone–for a day or two, anyway, and I could put the time to good use. Everybody makes sacrifices.” He turned to confront Hutch. “We split, you agree?”

Hutch sighed. What could he say? “I agree.”

***

Starsky laid awake, face to the ceiling, staring at the bright, watery reflections from the pool. He’d been thinking hard and deep and for what seemed like hours.

He checked his watch. It had only been an hour since they’d gotten into bed. Hutch had dropped off in minutes. Starsky had sensed him trying to shut down, to deliberately blank out his mind.

He couldn’t blame the man. There’d been enough thinking today. Looking across at the shadowed face, he envied Hutch his sleep. Hutch had suggested he go out on his own, and that he would do–his way. Now was as good a time as any.

He had a poignant urge to slide to Hutch’s side, to ask to be allowed to stay here, to ask for things to always stay the same. But that was a child’s desire. And there was just a chance, too, he realized, that Hutch would interpret his move the wrong way. That was new.

He rose, threw some things into a bag, and picked up the keys to the Jeep. Here goes nothin’…

***

He woke at full alert, aware that something was not as it should be. The usual morning quiet was more profound than it should be; it was what had awakened him. For the first time in three weeks he found himself alone. He’d grown more than used to waking beside Starsky, or hearing him moving around, and the absence was more disturbing than he might have imagined. Lifting his head, he looked around the sunny, perfectly empty room. “Starsky?” He sat up, uneasy, then rose.

Searching their space, he found no Starsky, then noticed the gleaming, bare dresser-top where the keys had been laying. They were gone, and he realized at once where. “Damn. Damn!” Anger seized him. “Starsky! Now who’s forgetting the 50-50 part of this thing?” He strode to the terrace, looked down toward the courtyard. Not a soul in sight. There was just the blue pool and the sun. His sixth sense told him two things: that Starsky was nowhere in the house, and that he’d probably left sometime during the night.

Hutch walked back to bed, paced beside it. Starsky was ignoring procedure completely. They needed to establish rendezvous points, call-in times. A phone could be a life-line, undercover.

He almost laughed then at the absurdity of his response. Why act like Mother Hen now? After all, he’d virtually ordered his partner out there. He’d call me ten kinds of asshole if I went running around after him. And I couldn’t argue it…

Sighing with frustration, he sat down and looked at the empty pillow where Starsky’s head had lain until some private point of decision the previous night. He had to face the fact that he had no idea where Starsky was, or where he would be later. “What do I do now?” he asked the silent pillow.

***

He found nothing of any more value to do all day then sit in their shared room and stare out blankly at sea and sand and sky. He put away a bottle of wine and thought about Starsky. Easy, since his best buddy was more than conspicuous by his absence. The unforeseen circumstances made Hutch restless, at the same time paralyzing him into inaction. The day was ending and there was still no word, no reassurance.

ILLO 7: He…stared out…at sea and sand and sky

Earlier, he’d slipped on a pair, of swimming trunks. He’d decided against the swim, but still wore the red brief trunks and nothing else as he sprawled in a low lounge chair near the doors of the terrace. The sun was setting, painting his limbs and everything else in the world with bloody warmth, as the sea took it under into a dark embrace. With the light in his eyes, he sipped wine and brooded with magnificent concentration.

A movie of Starsky played non-stop in his head. “Let me count the ways,” he muttered cynically, preferring the cynicism to self-pity or to a desire that was growing like a fission reaction in his gut. His cock had its own thoughts; that part of him knew what it wanted, even if he couldn’t acknowledge it. What does Starsky want? What’s he thinking, feeling?

He knew Starsky better than anyone did. But there’d always been mysteries deep in his friend and partner that Hutch could never fathom, to which Starsky had never offered all the answers. Was the surface man always a true reflection of the inner? Hardly. Starsky was hyper-sensitive. He hid his feelings as readily as he revealed them. He’d always been an irresistible paradox. He could be a fierce clown, a tender brute, a child and a satyr, ugly and beautiful, funny and sad–sometimes all at the same time.

That’s always fascinated me, Hutch thought. Kept me intrigued from the beginning. I spent weeks just deciding if I liked his face. That mask off a Persian frieze… But what he is inside, his complexity, that’s held me, made me accept him and finally need him, despite myself. Most of his puzzle pieces matched mine. And I guess now I want us to fit them all together, every part of us. Maybe find out what the puzzle’s about, finally. He sat forward, rubbed at his forehead. Could he accept me, given some time? Could he hate gay and gays, and everything about them so much, and still love a man? Love me, physically?

***

Starsky had spent the day on the balcony of the room he’d taken at the Abrigar, reading Princess Daisy and slathering himself with suntan oil, collecting his courage in beautiful surroundings, white walls, potted trees, and ceiling fans. When evening drew on, he ordered a light meal–seafood salad and a beer–before preparing to go out. He showered, shaved, slapped on some aftershave, then slipped a sleeveless black T-shirt on over his jeans.

He’d tried all day not to think about Hutch. Hadn’t worked; the man’s presence seemed all the stronger. “Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain,” he muttered as he stepped out of the door.

***

It was the first time he’d been here alone, and he wasn’t liking it much. Standing momentarily in the doorway to Vic’s, Starsky watched the press of men inside. A big guy brushed by him. The electric-satin feel of arm-hair against arm-hair made him jump slightly.

The guy stopped, turned. “Ira.”

Of all the luck. Starsky looked up at Zachary Grezzi. “Hi there, Zach.”

There was surprise and pleasure in the man’s eyes. Starsky saw the question there before it was asked.

“Where’s–?”

“If you’re gonna say ‘Leif,'” Starsky cut in, “I don’t wanna talk about him tonight, okay?”

“Great– I think. So, uh, you don’t want to be alone or anything stupid like that, do you?”

Starsky lifted his chin decisively. “No, not really. I’m open to suggestions, I guess. ”

Zachary reached for him immediately, all smiles.

Starsky shook a finger at him. “Within reason, that is.”

Zachary pulled an expression. “Within reason?” he demanded. “Are you kidding me?! There are no reasons for what I want to do.”

“I mean it, Zach.”

“Holy shit, you really don’t ask for much.”

Starsky smiled now, playing the game. “Oh, maybe sometimes I do.”

Zach groaned. “Where have you been half my life, pretty eyes?”

“I’ve been right here,” Starsky grinned–he hoped, disarmingly. “Every day.”

“And you’ve been sexy as hell, haven’t you?”

Starsky didn’t want to argue that. “Long as. I can remember.”

Looking Starsky over slowly, Zachary shook his head. “You’re really something. Jewish American Prince here. How’d you know that I hate modesty?”

“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.”

Zachary tugged at one of his belt-loops. “Love to. Come on.” They bellied up to the bar. Zachary ordered them both a beer, then proceeded to make like a poker game. Suddenly he had five hands. He squeezed the tip of Starsky’s nose, caressed his cheek, his hair, held his waist, rubbed his thigh. The big man then tried for a kiss, but got no farther than the palm on the end of Starsky’s straight-arm.

The muscles Starsky felt under the thin gauze shirt brought two things home to him: how dangerous it could be for two men to be playing at this, and how completely different physically Grezzi was from Hutch. The sexual heat, the knowledge that this big Italian joker wanted him that way, was stifling. Teeth grit behind his smile, he played the man like a freshwater trout.

***

The two of them drank several beers apiece. Zachary tossed back a couple of shots along with the ice-cold beer, but the whiskey didn’t seem to affect him badly. He was high, buoyed. He paid Starsky the usual compliments, making the detective blush with private misery. As usual, he began to boast about himself. “I’m topman, you know? Always have been. And I don’t just mean in bed; I mean, in life, I am top. I’m on top, in control.”

Starsky looked at him. “You need that? The label?”

“It’s not a label. It’s a fact. I’ve got money in the bank, blue-chip stocks, cars, a sailboat; everything the best. And I just happen to be a great lover. Ten inches of heaven.”

“If you’re tryin’ t’impress me,” Starsky said, “it ain’t working. I’m not some wide-eyed man-crazy kid, Zach.”

“Hey, I know that,” Zach insisted. “I know that about you. But why don’t you tell me what will work, huh? Don’t just stand there with that face and that body, watching me suffer.” He grinned, showing his bright, white teeth. “Ira…” When Starsky just smiled in return, he sighed deeply but good-naturedly. “Okay, okay.” He put away the last of his fourth whiskey, glanced at Starsky as he wiped his mustache. “Blondie, huh?”

“Guess so,” Starsky muttered. “Yeah. It’s rough right now, but…”

“Worth patching up.”

Starsky sipped his beer. “Not tonight, maybe. But tomorrow, definitely.”

“Toy with me. I love it.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Tell that to my pulse-rate.”

Starsky had to laugh at the line of manure Zach was laying down. “Buy me another drink,” he suggested. “Night’s not over yet.”

“Well, shit, would you like to go to a party? That’s what you need.”

“Party? Where?”

Zachary smiled with a true lounge-lizard’s hopefulness. “At Vic’s place. He’s having a few people over after hours. Come on. You’d be welcome.”

Not a bad night’s work. “Sure,” Starsky said. “Why not?”

***

He was close to not being able to see straight enough to piss. Hutch would be mad as a hornet. He took a deep breath. “Man, am I ever plastered.” There were 20 people in the main room of Vic Goetz’ adobe cottage in the same condition.

“You need any help in there?” Zachary was just outside the bathroom door.

“I’d never admit it!” Starsky yelled back. The music was loud, corrosive.

“You’ve been gone 20 minutes!”

Starsky zipped up, blindly washed his hands. “What are you, my nursemaid all of a sudden?” He opened the door, swayed into Zachary as if pulled. “Whoa!” He felt the need to explain for some reason. “I’m perfectly alright. S’just my knees are stoned out of their cotton-picking minds.”

High himself on about eight different substances, Zachary snickered, taking firm hold of him. “You’ve got beautiful knees, sweetheart. I’ve seen ’em.” In the act of holding Starsky up, he pulled him close. “I’d love to look at ’em again sometime. Like just before I place your legs delicately over my shoulders.”

Being held, Starsky was for the moment just glad of the support. “Any night they’re free,” he murmured.

“Ever had your toes sucked?” Zachary whispered.

Starsky looked up, appalled, and levered himself away. “F’cryin’ out loud, Zach.” He headed for the buffet, needing something to eat. Zachary caught at his arm, halting his headlong trajectory.

“You’re telling me Blondie never did that to you?” Grezzi’s hair had fallen free of its usual sleek arrangement. The long-lashed hazel eyes were half-closed.

“It’s none of your business,” Starsky announced. “What d’you think about that?”

“You’re forcing me to pry, bambino. I want to find out that he’s treating you right, that’s all.”

“Zach, you’re standin’ in front of the olives.”

Grezzi shook his head, thoroughly exasperated. “What am I wastin’ my time with you for? Huh? Tell me that. Marrone!“ He looked away then back. For the first time Starsky saw a person inside him. “Goddamn it. I like you.”

“You also know the story with me.”

“I know I wanted to fuck you the first instant I laid eyes on you, Ira. Jesus Christ!”

“Zach, it’s not like I don’t know that. You’ve made it plain. More than plain. But you’re puttin’ me in an awkward position. Now, you know that. I came out for diversion tonight, not a distraction. You see the difference?” It was more profitable to keep the man agreeable than to sever the relationship completely, here and now.

Zachary sighed. “Okay.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “You win.” The hands came down and he picked up an olive. “Here.” He put it in Starsky’s mouth, seeming to shake off his intensity. “Let’s party.”

Starsky smiled, turning with Zach to the food. Someone familiar caught his eye. “What’s Al Gill doin’ here?”

The pinup had made an entrance, dressed in white shorts and shirt. He was kissing friends, accepting a glass, offering his profile under the track-lights. Two brief meetings at Tim’s had been enough for Starsky; he disliked Gill very much.

“Robert likes to work,” Zachary explained. “And Al likes to party. That’s the difference between them.” He set his plate down. “I’m gonna go over, talk to him for a second.”

“Be my guest.” Starsky watched Zach cross the room toward Al, watched the two talk for a moment. Al glanced over to give him a fake smile and a wave. “I know a star,” he muttered, waving back with a coy little trill of the fingers.

***

Zach sounded furious. Starsky could hear that clearly. The charge of the anger had roused him, but he couldn’t make the words deliver sense. Zach was repeating a question, finally asked it enough times to enable Starsky to decipher it.

“What did you do, asshole?!”

Not talking to me… he’s talking to someone else in the room… Much later, he latched onto a statement in Zach’s voice, physically nearer to him now.

“He’s wasted. Look at him. ”

“Take advantage of it,” someone else said; some other voice, and a boyish laugh. “He just needed to loosen up a little. He wanted to. Look, it’s not like you’ve never done this.”

“I do not want him this way. You understand?”

“Bullshit! He’ll straighten out in a minute. It’s all that booze he downed. I gave him a feel-good, that’s all. I dropped it in his beer.”

“What are you, stunadz?”

“Listen, you’ve been wearing out my ear and everybody else’s ear about this sweet-assed Jew. I just thought I’d make it easier for both of you. Some guys need an excuse, you know? Tomorrow he can tell himself it was the ‘Ludes.”

“You’re an asshole,” Zachary growled. “What does Bobby see in you?”

Another shard of laughter. “He calls me ‘Gilda.’ Jealous?”

***

He was gelatin, streaks of cloud, streaks of clear. And parts of him moved, had consciousness. He was coming around a little more. He could see. He knew he was in a bed, that he had nothing on, and that it was Zachary who was leaning on an elbow beside him. He was looking at a hairy expanse of chest, muscled waist, white sheet concealing hip and thigh.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he croaked for want of a better opening, embarrassed.

“I always sleep this way.” Zach smiled. “And I thought there was a good chance you did, too.” The smile faded after a moment. “I had to see you…” His expression said it had been worth doing.

Starsky looked down at himself, his bare chest.

“How’d you get those?” Zach asked, quietly.

The scars were pretty much covered with hair now, no longer looked so very immediate. “‘Nam,” he muttered, hoping to get by with it.

“Man with a past.” Zachary made a move, for the first time, to touch him, to grasp his jawline. “You’re beautiful.”

“That why you slipped me a mickey?”

“I didn’t!”

“Who did?”

Zach looked sheepish and unhappy. “Al. I guess the little jerk thought it was all in the party spirit. You weren’t the only one he did it to.”

Starsky wondered if that were true. “Guy’s warped.”

“That’ll never happen again while I’m around.”

“Can you guarantee it?”

Zach was very serious. “Yeah, I can.”

Starsky was still more out of it than in. He decided not to pursue the avenue of questions Zach’s statement had opened up, the first one being, “Yeah, like how?”

“Whose bed is this,” he asked instead. “Where are we, and what time is it?”

“Vic’s spare room. It’s 5:00 in the morning, and the party’s still going on out there.”

Starsky stirred. “I gotta go.”

“No! I’ve slept with you an hour. Give me one more, huh? You’re in no condition to go anyplace.”

“You’re right,” Starsky said. He wouldn’t get anywhere by going home. Besides that, standing up seemed as out of the question as running the Boston Marathon. “It’s just strange, sleeping with a man who’s not–” He almost said, “Hutch.”

“What,” Zachary asked, wryly. “Blond, blue-eyed, and arrogant?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said. “Right. Among other things.”

“He’s a lucky bastard. You’re enough to last him a lifetime.”

Starsky had to smile at that. “I think he’d agree with you there.” He raked his hair off his forehead, for a moment closing his aching eyes. “I don’t know if I can do it to him.”

Zach sighed longingly. “Ira, I want to suck your cock.” He forestalled any immediate protest. “That’s all. I’m not trying to cut Leif out. All I’m asking for is one time. A one-time thing, just between you and me. Please. Listen to me, begging here! I never do that.”

Woozy in the head, Starsky laughed limply. “I’m in no condition for this, Zachary.”

“I know, and I’m on the verge of taking advantage of that.”

Starsky tried to sit up and his head floated straight to the ceiling like a released balloon. Not a pleasant feeling. “Holy shit–” Before he could recover, he became aware of Zach kissing him hard on the mouth, Zach’s fingers digging into his upper arms. Stricken with nausea as he was, he really just wanted to sink back onto the bed. Zach obliged by pushing him back, leaving his mouth, kissing down his chest and belly, holding his wrists. He was as weak as a puppy, and was going to get his cock sucked right now if he didn’t do something to prevent it. The big, hot, scratchy mouth descended on him, and the result was undeniable; his cock was wide awake and grateful for the action, not particular about the mouth paying it attention. Still he couldn’t. “Zach, don’t… C’mon…” He didn’t want to struggle like some scared little bride on her honeymoon, but Zach was bringing him up so expertly, and he’d never had the experience of being held, helpless, during sex. He was getting desperate.

Zach’s tongue bored deep, finding the drops of eagerness he couldn’t help after weeks without real sex, pulling them out, then swallowing Starsky whole, effortlessly. In the act of struggle, Starsky thrust deeper despite himself.

***

Hutch wasted three minutes outside the window-doors at the rear of Vic’s house; one minute of total disbelief in what he was seeing, and then one minute determining Starsky’s willingness in the matter. If it seemed Starsky’s choice, he felt he could take it–almost–and he’d leave. He spent one minute reconciling himself with that decision.

When it became obvious that Starsky was not willing, the matter was already decided for Hutch. The warm, spurting flood of jealousy propelled him. With no hesitation, he broke out a pane of glass in the door with his knuckles, reaching inside to open it.

Zachary leaped away from Starsky, tensing like a tiger on all fours.

Starsky rolled onto his side, shaking, concealing his arousal with the disordered sheet.

Zachary’s face twisted at Hutch. “You–” He gathered himself to spring.

“Stay where you are,” Hutch warned, pointing a finger. “Unless you want your lights punched out.” He held the man’s glare, daring him to move. The threat evidently worked. Zachary remained absolutely motionless.

“Starsk?” It slipped out, but no one seemed to notice.

The blue eyes, bleary, red, and guilt-ridden, turned to him. “I was sleepin’ off somebody’s idea of a pick-me-up.”

“His idea?”

“No,” Starsky said, wearily. “No.” He sat up, wavering.

“You alright?” Hutch asked, alarmed by his appearance. “Can you get dressed?”

Starsky nodded. “Let’s just get out of here. Zach, where’re my clothes?”

Zach sat down, pulled a corner of the sheet over his lap. “Over there. Dresser drawer.”

Hutch got them, placed them in Starsky’s slack hands.

“This was a private party,” Zachary went on with contained fury. “Nobody invited you here.”

“That’s right,” Hutch said, coldly. “Nobody had to. Listen, I’d shut up, if I were you. You haven’t got much of a leg to stand on.”

“I can’t find my shoes,” Starsky said, fastening his jeans.

“Forget them. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Starsky touched his arm and turned, staggering some, for the door Hutch had broken. Hutch followed him out.

The sky was lightening as they came around the cottage, a veil of dove-gray in the east.

“Ouch, shit!” In front of him, Starsky yelped, stepping gingerly and swaying with the effort to maintain equilibrium.

“What is it?”

“I’m cuttin’ my friggin’ feet on this gravel.”

“Wait.” Without wasted effort and without tenderness, Hutch picked him up and carried him to the car, helped him in. He got in himself.

Starsky was obviously exhausted. He’d put his head back and sat very still, breathing heavily.

“What was it?” Hutch asked. “Some kind of downer?”

“Quaalude, probably,” Starsky mumbled. “I dunno.”

Best to breach this now. “Guess that explains what happened with Grezzi.”

“Let’s just say I was not in control of the situation, Hutch. An’ neither were you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you said my name.”

Hutch had no defense. “I know I did. It was stupid. I didn’t realize until it was out of my mouth.”

“Coming after me was stupid,” Starsky said quietly. “But I’m glad you came in when you did.”

“I debated it,” Hutch said. “‘Til I saw you get mad.”

“You saw everything.” There was a strained silence.

Hutch nodded. “When I got there, you were still asleep. I waited for a few minutes. I didn’t want to just–burst in there. I told myself I wouldn’t, if it–if it seemed as if you were perfectly willing.” He took a breath. “I knew you’d hate like hell getting a good lead like that messed up; that you’d be pissed at me for following you.”

“Woulda hated gettin’ fucked, too,” Starsky pointed out evenly.

“You okay?” Hutch asked, beginning to shake now with reaction as the adrenalin wore off.

“Just tired as hell.” He laid his head back again. “Feel like I’ve been beaten all over with a lead pipe.” He sighed. “I don’t think there’s any harm done, Hutch, with the name. Zach wasn’t paying attention. All he knows is you were a jealous lover who coulda decided to kill him. You played the part perfectly.”

What part? Hutch wanted to ask him. “Yeah,” he said out loud. “In any case, the ‘break-up’ is officially over. I want you where I can see you.”

“Yessir. I agree. We kiss and make up.”

There was quiet in the car, the whisper of sea and wind outside. A car started further up the driveway, then drove away. “Hutch…”

“Yeah?”

“I was enjoyin’ it–a little–what he was doin’.”

Hutch felt his body temperature rise sharply. “Oh, God, Starsk–”

“I mean, I hated it, but I couldn’t help but respond. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

“Starsky,” Hutch sighed. “What do you expect? The bastard was doing everything to your cock but lighting a match under it.”

“He was a man, Hutch. After all I said I wouldn’t do, I just laid there.”

“Would you have chosen to be with him voluntarily?” Hutch argued.

“No.” Starsky was adamant. “Hell, no.”

“Then don’t make a big thing of it. You were stoned, and you didn’t have a lot of choices.”

Starsky’s complaint was bitter. “I’m beginning to think I don’t have any.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hutch wanted to know.

“Nothin’. Just–take us back to Tim’s.” Eyes closed, it was then he reached out, slim hand splayed on the car seat. “Please?”

***

He was fast asleep, slumped sideways against the door and frowning, by the time they arrived back at Tim’s. Hutch parked the Jeep and simply looked for a while. He took a deep breath. Jealous, my God… I was irrational with it. That creep handling Starsky, touching a part of him I can’t even let myself think about because I’m too damned scared of wanting it. Damn right, I’m jealous. If Starsky’s going to be with any man, I want it to be me, simple as that. Complicated as that…

Realization numbed his skin like dry ice, burned like hot coals. Oh, Starsky… When did it happen to me? Was it one single moment that I should remember, but don’t? Or a month or a year of moments? I want to love you with my body. I want intimacy with you…

He looked across at the dark, loveable face. How much could he ask of them both, after all these years? He thought back to their meeting, the first weeks after, smiled helplessly.

I thought you were some crazy New York nut. I’d never met anybody like you. You yipped at my heels until I had to pay attention. You knew what you wanted; you were persistent. But what were we really getting ourselves into? I didn’t plan on becoming one with you, Starsk. Or falling in love…

He touched Starsky’s shoulder, shook him gently, watched the dark eyes open, focus on his, searching. “We’re home,” he said, softly.

Starsky yawned. “Wish you’d carry me again,” he sighed, voice foggy, eyes drifting shut. “I’m so damned beat.”

“Want me to?” I’d like to.

“You serious?” Starsky’s eyes blinked open slowly, then closed.

“‘Course I am.” Hutch got out, went around the Jeep and gathered Starsky up. Lifting him wasn’t easy, but no hardship. Never that. With unalloyed tenderness this time, he carried his sleeping partner inside.

ILLO 8: With unalloyed tenderness, he carried his sleeping partner inside.

***

Something had to be said, Hutch knew now; at long last, and in the way it should be said. He’d watched Starsky undress–the slow, leaden movements as his exhausted partner put on a pair of pajamas–and had dared not help. Not in this vulnerable, gray dawn.

They were sharply aware of each other. Hutch couldn’t take his eyes off the dark-haired figure. He could sense Starsky’s awareness of his attention, the great need to escape it.

“Starsky, I think I’m in love with you,” he whispered without compassion. “And I feel like such a damned fool for letting it happen.” There was no reply. “It doesn’t have to be some traumatic, earth-shaking event. I just had to say it; tell you. You can lock it in your heart… I don’t expect anything from you. You don’t even have to say anything.” He sighed. “I don’t want you to have to say anything.”

“All the ladies?” Starsky asked, softly. The unasked question– Had it all been a front?

“I’m not gay.” Hutch was soul-weary, resigned to playing out the hand before sleep. “I’ve never touched another man in my life. This is not about ‘gay.’ This is about–being obsessed with somebody. Wanting to spend all my time with that person–not needing anybody else… I’m not even sure if all that adds up to love. If it does, it’s a kind I’ve never been in before. I’m lost, trying to find my way in the face of something that’s–so damned powerful, so damned beautiful, I can’t leave it alone. I think I knew–deep-down, not consciously–when we kissed. I–maybe that’s when it happened–”

“Hutch, don’t. I can’t now. I just wanna sleep.”

“Me, too,” Hutch said. “But I couldn’t have, not without telling you–what I just told you. I know you’re beat. Go sack out.”

“I’m not–makin’ light of what you’re telling me, Hutch.”

“It’s okay… Sleep, now.”

Starsky slept.

Hutch watched him for an indeterminate spell of time.

***

Starsky was shambling around in his red kimono when Hutch woke. The night came back in a burst, like gunfire. “What time–?” he asked.

“Two in the afternoon.” Starsky’s voice was a croak. He looked terribly hungover, like his skin hurt him.

He must have noticed Hutch’s expression. “Still in love with me? This puss?”

Hutch had to smile. “Guess so.” He noticed how tightly the robe was cinched. “Wanna talk?”

“Do I have to?”

“No.” For Hutch it was as if the doors leading to his perception of Starsky had been, not just cleansed, but thrown open. All the pent-up pain, anger, and responsibility he’d felt for–toward–Starsky over the past two years was transformed. Deep inside him was even a kind of peace. He knew what ailed him, even if there was no possible cure.

“Most times,” Starsky began, “we see things differently in the light of day.”

“Are you asking me, or trying to tell me?”

“I’m saying it’s out there now. It’s on the table. Let’s let it lie.” Starsky’s body had tensed, hip angled out. “Leave it for a different time and place.”

There was no chance, Hutch knew that. He had to concede to Starsky’s wish, on the surface at least. What he felt inside would take some time to conquer. “I have no objections. It’s a fair demand.”

They said nothing for a moment.

“One, uh, one thing I would like to–to ask you, Hutch.” Starsky had something to say that embarrassed him, and would probably embarrass Hutch, too.

“What?”

“It’s only fair–to you–if I ask…” His eyes opened wide. “Is it–is this gonna be hard on you? I mean–”

“I know what you mean.” Hutch shrugged to forestall a deep blush. “Yes, it probably will. But it’ll be okay.” He sat up. “Come on, don’t looked so pained, Starsky. You’re not doing me any favors by feeling sorry for me. It’s not that serious. I can’t have every woman I want, either.” He pulled on his own robe.

“It’s not exactly a good feelin’,” Starsky said. “Knowing I can’t–always be what you need me to be.” His hand covered his middle as if it hurt, flat against the flat belly. “You’ve been there for me.”

Hutch’s heart, too, felt the tug of their old need to comfort each other, to be everything good for each other, strong for each other at need. “Could you use a hug, maybe?” he asked. “I sure could.” Not without hesitation, he took the three steps that would bring him to Starsky. He paused, then offered his arms. Please don’t let me have to ask for it.

To his relief, Starsky embraced him wholeheartedly. Hutch couldn’t help the strange feeling that washed over him that he’d never touched this familiar man before. There was warm skin under the breathy silk of the kimono, vibrant seasoned muscle, and a beating heart. Starsky… Their chests and bellies pressed tight, both pairs of hands finding and soothing the right places–the subtle meeting of their sexes across age-old boundaries… It all felt new and eerie, and he wanted to cry with regret because he didn’t think he’d be able to hold Starsky in just the old way ever again. He didn’t want to let go, but knew he had to.

He pulled back, took in the hopeful face turned up to his. “You look like hell.” He smiled, and let his partner go. “Go back to bed. I’m gonna go into town. Call Dobey. We owe him a report.”

“What are you gonna tell him?”

“As little as possible.”

“You comin’ back right away?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Hutch said no more, and Starsky watched him wordlessly as he went.

***

He made the call on one of the bank of phones in the Abrigar lobby, mumbled equivocations and generalities over the line to a Captain Dobey who was stunningly patient. Dobey seemed more impressed that they’d stuck with it for so long, than frustrated by their appalling lack of progress. Before hanging up, he simply told Hutch to continue the good work.

Putting the receiver back in its cradle, Hutch sighed. The lobby before him was wide and dark-hued. Several men strolled through, coming and going. Hutch felt bereft, off his center, and decided he needed a drink, maybe two.

The Abrigar had a tiny bar-lounge off the lobby. He walked across the echoing tiles, through wrought-iron partitioning, and down six steps into the bar. It must once have been a scullery or the monastery kitchen. Nearly empty in the sleepy afternoon, its main feature was an enormous floor-to-ceiling window that let in so much sun, it seemed to drench the oddly-shaped, vaulted room, to fill it up.

Hutch ordered a Dos Equis at the long oak bar, sat down at a table near the window. The minutes crept by, and he was content to let them. Happening to glance up from the beer he was crying into, Hutch barely noticed the newest entrant in the bar. Then, caught involuntarily by the boy’s beauty, he looked again.

Dressed in casual, rather rumpled, clothes, the kid was about twenty, a sleek California beauty, dazzling with health. He had a clean, square jaw, skin that saw a lot of sun, crisp, gray eyes, and a heavy shock of ash-bronze hair.

He walked over to the bar, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. The moment he was seated, his eyes met Hutch’s and held. He turned away to order something, then looked back. Hutch felt himself tauten with nervousness and–with his freshly-acknowledged feelings toward Starsky–a sexual curiosity that was almost desire.

The younger man affected a tough-boy slouch, but his eyes came to Hutch again and again like a child’s drawn to the presents under a Christmas tree. He nodded finally in greeting, made a little James Dean gesture with his right hand. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Hutch said. A second passed, disproportionately full of hesitations, decisions. He tried a confident and not terribly easy smile, distantly aware that his knees were trembling slightly under the table. “Buy you a beer?”

The young man nodded, smiled in a friendly way. “Sure.” He approached. Nothing was really concealed by the white sailor’s trousers, soft and worn as they were, and the half-unbuttoned blue cotton shirt was an open invitation to the boy’s slim, strong body. He sat down with exaggerated cool, raking back his hair. “How’s it going?”

“Could be better,” Hutch said, offering his hand. “My name’s Leif. What’s your–?”

“Don.” The boy responded readily, surprisingly hard palm and fingers meeting Hutch’s. “I saw you before,” he said, slightly raspy voice salted with a regional accent, Arizona or New Mexico. “I’ve definitely seen you a few times.”

Hutch looked the question.

“Oh, around. Usually with a dark, curly-haired guy,” Don said. “I saw you a couple of days ago with him.” He twirled his perspiring bottle, then glanced up curiously, slight smile touching full lips, revealing white teeth. The two in front were slightly larger than the rest. “You seem to be pretty much alone today, though,” he commented.

Hutch was self-mocking. “It’s not for want of trying.”

“I find that really difficult to believe.” Don was amused, looking at Hutch from under his hair.

“Well,” Hutch said. “You seem to be all alone, too. What’s your excuse?” He found he could respond in a “normal” way to Don, too, as he would to any likeable kid.

Don chuckled. “Before I came in here, I had some kind of idea that I wanted to be alone, you know? Tryin’ to grab a little space for myself.” He glanced out the window for a moment, hair and eyes and fine cheekbones catching bright sun, then at Hutch. “But I must be weak. I saw you and I–just didn’t want to be alone anymore.” He grinned, and they looked at each other for another prolonged moment.

“Same here,” Hutch said.

Don smiled appealingly. “A friend of mine’s letting me use his room here at the hotel.” His frank gray eyes held Hutch’s, hope and promise deep in them. And sweetness. There was nothing base or crude in him.

Hutch swallowed, wondering if Don could tell he was scared to death. “What do you have in mind?”

“Just one thing,” Don said, holding up a finger. “Making love with the most beautiful man on the island.”

“Oh yeah?” Hutch asked. “Who’s that?”

Don laughed, lines around his eyes crinkling into place. He apparently laughed often. “You’re almost serious, aren’t you, sitting over there, sun shining down on your hair–sad eyes looking at me like that. Maybe you’re too beautiful to even care, Leif, but you’re just my type. I looked at you the first night I sailed in here. I never wished for anything harder than I wished for that curly-headed honey beside you to just disappear.”

The remark was like a tiny razor nick on the cheek, but Hutch spoke deliberately past the split-second of near-pain. “You’re not all that difficult to look at, yourself.”

The boy was attractive, no point in denying it. And his come-on was working on a very vulnerable man. Hutch was inwardly dazed. What am I doing here? How can a 37-year-old man who’s loved women all his life be so ridiculously ready for this?! The feverish homosexual impulses he’d been tamping down for days–months, years–were slipping from his control. His need was for one man, he knew that, not necessarily for the handsome kid in front of him. But knowing that didn’t take away its existence or the power of what it really meant–that he could want a man.

He studied Don’s face as it studied him back. Never having complemented a male on his looks, he had no idea what to say or how to say it. In the end he said what he felt. “Your eyes aren’t sad. They’re honest, intelligent… Set wide apart, like a colt’s. And right now, they’re very, very naughty.” He reached out and touched the tanned space between them with a finger. Heat from Don seemed to envelop him. It was a familiar feeling; he knew that he was very ready to make love to someone. This proves something, doesn’t it? I am capable of this…

Don gave a breathy exhalation that sounded very young and purely masculine. He grasped Hutch’s hand with disconcerting strength, seemed about to come across the table at him. “I sure want to be with you, Leif.” Heated eyes probed Hutch’s. “Don’t waste any time thinking about it.” It was more than a suggestion. “I’m clean. Never did screw around indiscriminately, you know?” An unselfconscious grin. “I’m gentle. I’m–uh, let’s see–I’m reasonable. You want me on the bottom, I’d love it. You want me to stand on my head? It’s my specialty.” He saw Hutch’s hesitation and evidently misinterpreted it, looking down the neck of his bottle, growing serious. “I–uh, I can see how you could have some problems with this. I know you’re involved pretty heavy with somebody.”

Hutch did not want to be reminded right now. “I don’t think we need to waste time talking about it, either, do we? Accept whatever happens and just leave it at that.”

“Hey, anyway you want it.” Don’s voice was understanding. “What the hell? We’ve both got some free time. Let’s spend it together, and fill it up with something nice.”

Hutch threw a couple of dollars onto the table and stood, questioning the charming upturned face. “You coming?”

***

The small room had cream-yellow walls and dark cherry-stained shutters, which Don closed upon entering. He turned from his task and stood poised, looking across the room at Hutch. “Tell me what you want to do.”

The backs of Hutch’s thighs prickled painfully, and he couldn’t respond to Don’s simple request. He’d known as soon as the door shut behind him that he might not be able to go through with this. It was obvious that Don expected a stormy passionate tumble, but Hutch found it tougher than he’d expected to let himself go, to reach out–irrevocably–for this stranger. It was Starsky he wanted. In his marriage, he’d found it as hard to be unfaithful as he’d found it to be faithful. This felt weirdly like the same torment.

Don took off his shirt, revealing a nicely compact body, which he was obviously very comfortable with. His chest was a smooth expanse of copper skin, with nipples like brand-new pennies. His torso tapered to a waist so tender, muscled, and slim, Hutch’s hands twitched to take hold of it. Don’s long, square-ended fingers went to the snap of his white trousers while Hutch unconsciously held his breath, waiting.

The pants slid down past tan loins; a startlingly heavy cock sprang out, half-hardened. Don tossed his pants onto the nearest chair and walked toward Hutch.

Hutch remembered to breathe. The air stung his nostrils as Don came closer, and he could hear Don’s breathing, too. He watched as practiced fingers reached out to undo him, unbuttoning his shirt. As Don bent to his right breast, he touched the bronze hair. It was spun metal, silky yet heavy; rich. Mingled strands of premature white gave it its frosty look. Hutch sighed as a warm wet tongue probed and pulled at his nipple. His shirt was slipped off, his other nipple found, tantalized. Warm lips brushed him, a cool cheek swept across his chest as he was embraced by strong arms. “You even smell good,” Don whispered.

Hutch stroked the lightly dewed back as Don began divesting him of his pants. A brief exclamation greeted his cock, and an eager hand welcomed it. He let his own hands swoop down freely over his companion. For the first time in his life, Ken Hutchinson touched another man’s ass. He caressed the handfuls of flesh, their mixture of baby-softness and musculature making some deep-seated part of him want to cry. His heart pounded at the thought of Starsky’s–the only word he could think of was “riches”–and he squeezed Don’s ass almost absently, pressing him closer, trying to bring him into focus, feel him move.

Their two burgeoning cocks parried for a moment, then meshed. They both sighed their content. Hutch wouldn’t have believed he was capable of feeling such clear relief at having a hard male body and a hard male cock tight against his own. He tried not to wish so intensely that it could be Starsky he held. Don was good in his own right, spicy and natural; he smelled like sun and sea and boy.

He wasn’t tall; no more than 5’9″, and he had to stretch tiptoe to reach Hutch’s mouth with his own. Hutch tasted the open flower, dizzied by its nectar, the male essence that now, definably, called to his blood. His young lover moaned, and the hungry, yielding sound he made prompted Hutch to take more definite command of his mouth. The kiss was both a thorough building of mutual pleasure, and a chance for Hutch to explore, to linger, to find himself. Another planet away from the kind of kiss he’d shared with Starsky, this was a different experience: not just for the obvious reasons, not because Don was more accomplished, or because his mouth was physically different than Starsky’s. Don was wetter, satiny, with less scratch of beard. Starsky had been like a seckel pear.

The cutting difference was in how Hutch remembered feeling when he’d kissed Starsky. Familiar and known as a favorite book, Starsky had, in the kiss they’d shared, seemed to suddenly stretch out before him like a new continent full of unnamed, unclassified beauties. Don was a stranger to him. Yet, standing there, wrapped in an embrace with his eyes closed and mind weirdly far away, the boy he was holding didn’t seem to Hutch that dissimilar from anyone else he’d ever wanted or been intimate with.

It was nice with Don, nicer than he deserved, but–surprisingly–ordinary. There was nothing wrong with Don; this had nothing to do with the kid’s attractiveness. It had simply never come home so clearly to Hutch that sex was always just sex unless two people shared it with love. And deep down, where he should have been on fire, Hutch all at once found himself thoughtful.

Don’s tongue traced his lips, trailed down his throat, then returned to his mouth, eagerly seeking inside. Implacable male hands urged Hutch on, and, trying to show a passion he could not feel, he lay down with the boy, covered him with his body, kissed him.

Looking up at him, Don’s eyes were hot. “Jesus, you’re beautiful.” His hand slid under Hutch’s hair. “You scare me… I’d let you do anything to me.”

Hutch felt painfully inadequate. “I’d like to satisfy you–”

“That’s not hard to do.”

Hutch began making love with a wry sense of hopelessness.

***

Don was a warm, comforting presence, close at Hutch’s side. His voice held nothing but sympathy, but nothing maudlin. “I guess you love him a little bit too much.” The room was dark, full of their secrets.

“Yeah,” Hutch sighed. “I guess I do. I’m s–”

“Uh-uh.” Don interrupted his apology. “It was nice. The end-all doesn’t have to be somebody getting fucked, Leif. God knows, I’d have loved doing that with you.” His hand soothed Hutch’s side. “But you satisfied me, like you said you would. You’re so goddamned beautiful, I feel lucky just being able to lie here beside you and look at you. I only wish I could’ve satisfied you… Wish you’d have let me.”

Hutch rubbed at his brow. He’d known he was far from ready to be fucked by a 20-year-old kid. Swallowing semen for the first time had been enough of an experience. And though he’d pretended that it wasn’t completely new to him, some natural reactions he hadn’t been able to help. He remembered the two long, three short, sharp bursts of the stuff… the silky texture, slightly salty taste… Don shivering, using his mouth; his own fundamental need to please had overcome any distaste. And he had accomplished it. But there’d been nothing for himself, nothing to give; nothing Don could give him that would take the place of Starsky. “I guess it’s just impossible for me,” he breathed. “Without him.”

“What’s he like?” Don’s voice was gentle. But the question he’d asked took Hutch by surprise, and he uttered the first amorphous thought that came to him.

“Magical. He’s magical. He’s like–something to believe in.” It was the plain truth; his truth.

“Hey,” Don said. “That’s about a million’ times better than gettin’ laid.”

Hutch thought about that. “Maybe you’re right.” He leaned up on an elbow and smiled gently at his first male lover. “Why don’t we get dressed? I’ll treat you to dinner.”

Don nodded, then sat up quickly and kissed him.

***

Starsky parked on the beach side of the plaza, sat behind the wheel like a stalled hurricane. It was evening now, hot, with stars jewelling the roof of an azure sky. Hard to make out the figures walking the shoreline; hard to understand why the hell he was here. Some kind of rescue mission? And what if Hutch didn’t want to be rescued?

His previous night’s experience was fresh in his mind. He told himself that that was why he’d come down here, why he felt such urgency. Hutch had gone out to make a phone call, and five hours later, he was still unaccounted for. Starsky didn’t like it, and the passive way he’d let his partner go nagged at him. As if he accepted… As the hours ticked by, he’d realized that he did not–and probably could not–accept his best friend, his partner on and off the job, going to “find himself” in a gay world. He knew what Hutch was going through, part of him even understood, but the rest of him just would not lie down and welcome it. What if he’s gone and found somebody? What if he actually falls in love with some—some guy? What the hell do I do? Be there at his side like always with an understanding smile on my face?

Considering how to start his search for Hutch, he wondered for the first time how Hutch had been able to find him the night before. Have to ask him, one day, when I stop bein’ terrified of him. Which begs the question, why am I busy searching for a man who, for the last couple of days, has been scaring the hell out of me?

Where to look? Something told him he’d be wasting his time at Vic’s–beside the fact that he really did not want to go in there. But he did it anyway, because it was necessary, looking in long enough to establish No Hutch. He breathed a sigh of relief at not seeing Zach’s face in the place either.

He strolled over to the rustic boardwalk that led down to the beach. A couple of hundred or so yards away, he noted two figures, close enough to each other to make one silhouette against the last of the light from the west. But Starsky knew Hutch at once, by every signal that existed, by 12 years of partnership and danger on countless dark streets.

***

“Ever hear of ‘The Last Waltz’? Well, this is ‘The Last Kiss’.” Don’s voice was smiling, and his hands held onto Hutch’s arms with light ease. There was nothing but good feeling between them.

“I think we could be friends…” Hutch offered, honestly.

“Not a chance.” Don shook his head. “I’m too hot for your body, big man. Besides, I’m only staying a couple more days here. Then, I thought I’d sail down the coast, look for some adventure in Mexico.” He tilted his head. “Come here. I’ll give you a kiss to remember me by.”

They kissed, more than once, then held each other tight, two souls meeting.

Hutch put all his caring into the embrace. Why hadn’t Don’s loneliness been apparent before? It seemed so very obvious, now.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Hutch’s head turned abruptly. Don stepped out of his loosened embrace.

Starsky stood in the twilight a half-dozen yards away, eyes as dark as onyx. “What do I have to do?” he began, gratingly. “Ask you in front of this kid to come home?”

Hutch stared, unprepared, with no idea how he was supposed to play this. The last he’d heard, Starsky was uninterested in confronting the issue squarely. Why hadn’t he just left well enough alone? He was sounding damned affronted too, as if he were the one being put on the spot. Who was he supposed to be? Starsky or “Ira”? Where was he coming from?

“You could have trusted me enough to give me this much room,” Hutch said unsurely, confusion turning then to annoyance. “Why’d you come here? Why’d you do this?” This was a dangerous game to play in front of Don.

“Same reason you came after me,” Starsky answered.

“It’s not the same,” Hutch protested. “And you damned well know it.”

Starsky’s intent eyes slipped to Don for just a moment. “I’d like to talk to Leif. Privately.”

“Hey.” Don drew further away from Hutch, removing himself from the tableau. He seemed slightly amused by the scene. “It’s cool, partner,” he addressed Starsky. “Look at me. I’m already gone.”

Hutch moved to hold his shoulder. “We can talk, Don. Sometime…” The faint breeze echoed the emptiness of the words, but he had to offer them.

Don nodded, glancing at him, then at Starsky, before taking off up the beach. “Yeah, sure,” he tossed over his shoulder.

***

“You have crummy timing,” Hutch said, coldly.

“I’m stumped.” Starsky’s own breathing rushed in his ears. He could barely see Hutch at the distance he was standing. The pale hair drifted around an indistinct face. “I’ve known you for 15 years,” he said. “And you’re not makin’ sense to me. You tell me you’re not sure what you want, then you tell me you’re–you’re in love with me… Then, you sneak down here to find some cheap–”

Hutch approached him, fast. “Don’t lecture me!” he exploded, finger poking into Starsky’s breastbone, voice a harsh whisper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! If I want to take that man up to his hotel room and, by mutual consent, screw him senseless, it’s my right. You got that? Partner?” He walked away again, stopped without turning. “Don’t you know he’s a substitute for you? Don’t you know that?”

“You want me?” Starsky asked the unyielding back, ready to burst into fury or tears; he couldn’t make up his mind. “Then take me! You’re gonna have to take me, Hutch. ‘Cause I’m too scared to ever come to you.”

Hutch, turning, was a vision of controlled intensity. He was like a cloud in a bright night sky. “Are you inviting me to rape you?” he asked. “No, thanks.”

“I can’t stand seein’ you goin’ this way,” Starsky said, not making much sense to himself. “With somebody like that kid. I don’t want to maybe–lose you to that kind of a life.”

Hutch shook his head. “He was a good person.” He’d come no closer to Starsky. “I needed to– I wanted to get it out of my system. I thought I could find out about myself.”

“What you wanted to do, you mean,” Starsky specified, for them both, probably.

“Yeah.”

“Did you? Find out?”

Hutch shifted imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he said, flatly. “I found out.”

Starsky could see that talking to Hutch about this was not going to be simple, but he was weirdly determined to continue. “Is this–? The boy,” he clarified. “Is it gonna be a habit?”

“What possible difference could it make to you?” Hutch asked.

“A big difference! I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Hutch. And unless you give me a good reason to get out of your life, whatever you go through, we go through.” His voice steadied. “I copped out earlier, ’cause I couldn’t deal. I didn’t wanna know. But just because I don’t feel like hearing something, doesn’t mean you don’t need to tell it. I’d like you to tell me what’s going down.”

Hutch sighed. “Censored version?”

“Truth.”

“Okay. It’s just as well,” Hutch said. “I went into the hotel bar for a beer after I phoned Dobey. This kid came in. I’ll admit I was attracted to him. That was a major discovery–my ‘type’ comes in both sexes. He’s 22, by the way, not jailbait. Not a hustler, either. He didn’t come there looking for a pickup any more than I did. But he made it easy for me. How could I refuse? He had a room at the hotel; he was willing. More than willing… he virtually begged me to fuck him.” Hutch’s voice was like a set jaw. “Want to know something? I couldn’t do it. Ready as I thought I was, I couldn’t–” A silence reigned and he let it, taking in a long, slow breath. “Psychologically, I was a mess because–all through it, all I did was think about you–what it might be like with you. And there wasn’t much left for Don… But he did help me, in an ironic way, by giving me a chance to help him, to please somebody.” A pause, hesitant, careful. “I sucked him; made one of us happy.”

Starsky started at the statement. He wanted, illogically, to sit down. How’m I supposed t’handle that choice bit of news? He felt weird: betrayed, jealous despite himself, silly, blank. Don…

“Starsky?”

“And what exactly do you think about, Hutch?” Starsky asked without prelude, “when you think about me like that?” He couldn’t help his brusqueness. He needed it after being thrown so many curves. And he wanted the answer.

Hutch shook his head.

“Tell me.” It was a harsh command, but how could he soften it? “What do you want from me? Exactly.”

“Is this multiple-choice?” Hutch asked. He threw his head back, showing his face to the sky. “Let me count the ways.” He sounded angry, words deliberately short and crude. “I want everything. I want to suck you, and fuck you–” He cut himself off, apparently softening, then began again. “Kiss you… Who knows? I-I want to give you so much love, you cry. I want us to spend one night in each other’s arms. Too much to ask?” He looked directly at Starsky. The gaze carried a jolt, had a physical presence. “I’d like to show you how I feel.”

Starsky smiled sadly. “I’m beginning to get the idea.”

“Don’t!” Hutch snapped. “Don’t try and humor your way around this. Or does watching me spill my guts over this make you feel smug?”

Starsky couldn’t accept that accusation. It just wasn’t true. Was Hutch trying to misunderstand? “Listen, Hutch, I’m not–” The protest trailed away as he watched Hutch taking the three long strides necessary to close the distance between them. Only when Hutch was inches away from him did he think, He’s gonna shake me. His shoulders were seized by ungentle hands, and, reflexively, he grabbed Hutch’s arms to push him off.

Astonishingly, a soft, mustached kiss came down, sealing his mouth… and maybe his fate. A series of them followed, each as tender as its predecessor, and standing quiet–stunned–against his partner, Starsky let them come. Hutch surrounded him, more sheltering than passionate, and white wings beat behind his closed eyelids. That had never happened with his Uncle Lem.

“Your mouth’s… so damned perfect–” Heated breath and words brushed Starsky’s face before Hutch hurried back to his lips; another kiss, searching deeper this time, then abruptly, possessively, deeper. Those pristine angel’s wings plummeted down into Starsky’s center, opened, and spread, and flew in his loins.

ILLO 9: …A soft, mustached kiss came down, sealing his mouth… and his fate.

He couldn’t define Hutch’s taste; his brain was spinning way too fast. But that silky tongue… Starsky withdrew, shaking, his confusion all of him now. Am I just weak? “Oh, yeah?” he managed, unraveled.

“Yeah,” Hutch answered. “It’s like you. Complicated… Tender…” His parted lips pressed, soft and moist.

Starsky accepted them for just a moment, before lowering his head, wishing he were miles away. “I-I like yours, too.” It was an admission, his turn now, made painfully and with a total honesty that had more to do with honor than anything else. He was asking for help when he looked up. “Damn you. Whattya tryin’ to prove to me? That I ain’t made of straw? Well, you’re right.” He initiated a kiss, hard and not very brave, against the corner of Hutch’s mouth, hand reaching up to tangle in cool silk.

“Starsky?” A kiss was a kiss, it seemed, to the man in love with him. Hutch was disbelieving, grateful–unleashed. His deep groan vibrated between them as he took Starsky’s mouth. They squeezed each other tight. This kiss was fully shared, a tasting and testing of their true closeness, their partnership. Hutch pulled back first, face luminous with wonder. “That was real,” he whispered. “A real kiss.”

It had been. And their relationship was changed forever. Starsky was scared, of himself now, too. Where were they heading together? “I need some time,” he pleaded. “You gotta give me that.”

“Love, you’ve got it. Anything.” Hutch was all assurance, holding him, lending his warmth in the cooling air. “All you need.” It was obvious that he felt some hope now, and that however slight, it was enough for him.

Starsky didn’t want to raise slim hopes further than his ability to deliver. He was in no way sure. “I can’t promise you– I don’t want to promise anything, ’til I–”

“You don’t have to,” Hutch said. “And I won’t ask you to–ever.” He let Starsky go as if to bear witness to his resolve. “Starsky, nothing’s lost if we don’t let it be lost. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I understand.” He nodded, feeling embarrassed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. “Let’s go, huh? Before the ocean’s lappin’ at our feet. ”

***

The fledgling desire was like a child born of both their bodies tonight, fragilely premature, trembling in bed between them; hard to ignore. But–as he’d promised–Hutch couldn’t pressure for any acknowledgment. And Starsky just wasn’t ready. Maybe it was too soon for them both.

Starsky lay unmoving in bed beside him, keeping, Hutch thought, a careful distance between their bodies. He was disconcertingly quiet, demonstrating none of his usual scratchings, yawnings, and turnings.

“You can relax,” Hutch said finally, annoyed. “I’m not about to try and turn you over.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Starsky muttered. “You’re paranoid.”

Hutch reached over and turned on the lamp, rolling onto his elbow then to look at Starsky. “Can you blame me? You’re so quiet, it’s weird. Lighten up. I feel awkward enough about this, as it is.”

“I feel awkward, too.” Starsky wore the sulky, distant face of a juvenile delinquent. Hutch had seen that look before, and knew from experience that right now, Starsky was afraid. Of him–of their new relationship–of himself too, maybe. Hutch didn’t dare ask. The compressed line of mouth quivered, an emotional show he knew Starsky particularly hated in himself.

Sighing, Hutch felt horribly at fault. Right now, even the little things seemed out of reach. He would have liked the reluctant, darkened eyes to turn toward him, not away; missed seeing them shine like no others, full of good humor and affection. Those gifts, taken for granted once, might be a long time returning. “Let’s–both–try not to behave differently to each other,” was all he could say with any sincerity. “I’ll try if you will.”

Starsky looked at him, a dozen emotions coursing in the deep blue water of his eyes. “I am trying, Hutch,” he said. “I’m tryin’ harder than you can imagine.”

“Me, too,” Hutch breathed. His problem wasn’t fear; it was his new response to Starsky rapidly becoming conditioned. Lying beside each other like this was not going to be easy. On one level he’d known that, but the reality…

He shut off the lamp he’d turned on, wishing it was as easy to shut out the sight of Starsky’s burnished skin against a pure-white pillow, of dark curly hair that had gone wild and tawny from the sun, or of the mouth he’d passionately kissed that looked as if it needed kissing again, just to take some of the sadness away.

Of course it was no better in the dark. Other senses came into play. Sound, scent… Hutch hadn’t bargained on their power to affect him, undo him. He suppressed a groan, feeling like a lovesick fool. That soap, that shampoo Starsky used… When he moved, he left his clean, piercing fragrance on the body-warmed sheets and pillowcase. As the minutes dragged, Hutch found himself fighting a desire to fold Starsky into his arms, to sink his nose deep in his friend’s curls and just–inhale.

Starsky turned again and the bed whispered, softly.

Hutch sat up, got up, and stood there in the dark, with no idea where to turn with this dilemma.

“What the hell is it?” Starsky wanted to know. He switched on the lamp, propped an elbow on his pillow and looked at Hutch, solemnly.

“Starsky, I can’t sleep with you,” Hutch said, feeling like a monumental jerk, his own voice mocking him. Let’s try not to behave differently to each other… “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“Where you gonna sleep?” Starsky asked, matter-of-factly.

“On the floor–I don’t know. Anywhere!”

“Hutch–” Starsky’s voice trailed off into exasperation.

“You’re way too accessible this way.” Hutch caught himself pacing. He couldn’t very well say, “The smell of you is driving me wild.” He’d known this man 12 years. “You’re too near. I can’t stick to our agreement at that distance.”

Starsky had reddened. “Do what you want to do,” he said. “But you’ll be more comfortable up here.” He sighed profoundly. “I haven’t changed into somebody else, Hutch. I’m just Starsky, not some angel fallen from the sky.”

Hutch stared at him, then wordlessly pulled the blanket off the bed.

Starsky was looking at him as if wondering what he was. Then to Hutch’s surprise, his countenance softened. He shook his head.

“I know I’m being an ass,” Hutch said to him. “Don’t rub it in.”

“No. You’re just bein’ Hutch. And I still–I love you for it. But you’ve got it all wrong. Like I was saying before, I’m still Starsky. Look at me. I’d never admit this to anybody but you, a’ course, but when you’ve got me, what’ve you got? I’m not the world’s prize catch, exactly.”

“I’d like to think I could want you because I’m in love with you,” Hutch said, stiffly. “Not for your pretty face.” He looked someplace else. “Cut the bull, anyway. You’re vain as a peacock.”

“I’ve had to develop some defense against bein’ partnered with Mr. All-American-Boy all these years.” Starsky was accusatory and annoyed. “C’mon. Cut the clowning, Hutch, and get in bed.”

Hutch glared. “I’ve got some news for you. All-American boys don’t sleep with their best friends.” Fully aware of the essential ludicrousness of what he was doing, he spread the blanket on the soft carpeting, threw his pillow down, then himself. At Starsky’s cajoling, “Hutch!” he summarily put the pillow over his head.

***

He woke up to the morning, feeling stiff and exhausted. His relative warmth surprised him. Wondering at it, he shifted, poking his head out of the blanket.

Starsky was beside him. His back to Hutch, he was snoring, pillow clutched under one arm, nose and mouth turned into it. A sheet and extra blanket had been tucked around the two of them. The culprit was obvious; he had not stopped caring for Hutch. And he’s not intentionally trying to twist the knife. He can’t help the way he is. Loving…

ILLO 10: A sheet and extra blanket had been tucked around the two of them.

Hutch moved closer, sank his nose for a moment into the curls that graced Starsky’s neck. Ah, partner… Under the covers, his hand stole around the firm waist. He caught his breath, helplessly overwhelmed by the simple pleasures of scent and touch.

He drew back after a moment to regroup. It could be enough, maybe, being just slightly more than friends. A friendly hug and kiss from time to time, a bond with a soupcon of sex in it. If only Starsky would allow it.

Starsky stirred, lifting his face out of the pillow, turning over toward Hutch. His sleeping face was tender, open, revealing. The moments passed. Eventually, probably sensing Hutch’s scrutiny, he opened his eyes sleepily.

“You won’t leave me alone,” Hutch observed.

“Bed’s too big without company,” Starsky mumbled.

“Is this your way of saying we’re still together?”

“Probably.” Starsky moved slightly, adjusting his pillow. “I didn’t analyze it.” He looked at Hutch honestly, then. “Yeah.”

“What do we do?” Hutch wanted to know.

“Hutch? I can love you, can’t I? Just the way I always have. All my heart, nothin’ held back.” His eyes held Hutch’s. “Except…”

Hutch sighed his defeat–and his acceptance. “Okay. I-I didn’t want to lose your love completely.” How would he live with it, though?

Starsky reached for him with one hand; either an extraordinary act of faith, or a display of unbelievable callousness. Hutch didn’t want to think about it. He knew only one thing–that right now Starsky was the last person he wanted to be touched by.

The hand was unsure as it found the curve of his shoulder. This was not callousness. Starsky needed the contact, the comfort; needed to reassure Hutch. Hutch didn’t have the kind of fortitude it would have taken to refuse it. He accepted the touch, after a second or two even welcomed it. Then it was gone.

Entr’acte

Starsky sat listening to the plaintive song floating from the speakers, hearing his own mixed feelings–and Hutch’s–uncannily echoed in Neil Young’s lyrics and poignant voice.

…Now that you find yourself losing your mind,
Are you here, again?
Findin’ that what you once thought was real
Is gone, and changin’.
Now that you’ve made yourself love me,
Do you think I can change it in a day?
How can I place you above me?
Am I lying to you when I say that I believe in you?
Oh, I believe in you…

And then, almost mockingly:

…Coming to you at night I see my questions,
I feel my doubts.
Wishin’ that maybe in a year or two,
We could laugh, and let it all out…

He wished he could laugh right now about this situation he’d–they’d–found themselves in; about Hutch not just loving him, but wanting him. Yeah, I believe in you. What I can’t believe in is how you make me feel. It scares me, because I want to give myself to somebody, Hutch. And I know I could give it all to you if I let us happen. If I let you in…

Chapter 6: Une Semaine de Bonté (A Week of Kindness)

Tim decided to have “a few people” in on Sunday night. The place was SRO, dozens of revelers in and around the pool and house. The main living area was a crowd scene, and trying to get into any of the downstairs bathrooms was like undergoing some college initiation rite. How many people could be squeezed into any given limited space? How many came out knowing each other a lot better?

The climate between the two detectives had warmed over the weekend. There had been a light moment or two for them to share, and the ice was broken soon. Two moments had become three, then five, in a process that wasn’t effortless or without pain, but was steady and sure. There was a great deal of willingness on both sides to patch things over.

Now more or less at ease with one another, they sat at the bar, watching the floor show. They hadn’t danced together tonight, hadn’t dared push their edgy rapprochement that far. Hutch, asked by somebody else, had obliged. The man had been attractive–the irony of his dark, wavy hair and bright blue eyes did not get past Hutch–and he’d been good to hold, an undemanding dance partner with a nice cologne. A slow ballad played and Hutch allowed himself to close his eyes and hold the man as if he meant it. He took the cheap, vicarious thrill, and worse, was grateful.

After the dance he thanked his smiling companion, and rejoined Starsky, who was looking down into his glass as if a cigarette butt had fallen into it, and seemed totally absorbed in doing just that. Hutch sat down, glancing over at the profile softened by pink lantern light, and then into the half-empty glass Starsky was holding. “What’s in there? You look as if you’d lost something.”

Starsky looked up, shrugged, and gave him a distant smile. “Nah, just thinkin’.”

Unsure about what Starsky’s thoughts might be, Hutch made no comment. Starsky sighed inaudibly and shook his head. He sipped his drink–really no more than a splash of soda on the rocks–and put it down. “I was just looking at Tim over there.”

Hutch followed the dark glance. Five men were grouped on a buff-colored modular sofa facing the bar: Tim and Tito and three others he’d never seen. The composition was lopsided, asymmetrical, the three unknowns wreathed around Tito, while Tim seemed to hang on the edges, looking vaguely ill-at-ease whenever he glanced their way.

“That’s some kinda deal goin’ down over there,” Starsky murmured. “I can smell it. For one thing, those dudes don’t look like they’re in the right frame of mind for a party. And Tim, he’s like a fox looking out while his buddies raid the hen-house.”

Hutch observed the group of men for a moment more. “They look like high-rollers here to pay their respects,” he suggested. “Maybe to conduct a little business with Tito.”

Starsky nodded. “Same as I thought. But if it’s a business deal, what kinda business are we talkin’ about exactly?” He’d leaned his head close to Hutch’s in confidence, a pleasant sensation for a man sorely in need of his partner’s company. Starsky went on. “I get the feelin’ it ain’t coffee beans.”

“Tito was clean as a hound’s tooth,” Hutch reminded him quietly. The computer check they’d made had revealed Tito Hermiez to be pretty much what he seemed, an extraordinarily successful Brazilian businessman with a penchant for beautiful things… yachts, horses, and men. He’d inherited the bulk of his fortune, made the rest in textiles, coffee, and shrewd investments in the U.S., and was worth–conservatively–30 million dollars. As far back as the record went, he’d been a law-abiding citizen, not even a whisper of any involvement in Tim’s drug-related endeavors, close as the two of them had supposedly been. Despite the assurance of all that, suddenly the hairs on the backs of Hutch’s thighs were pricking up. Something had been jostled in his skull, something set in motion deep in his mind like distant tumblers operating just beyond his reach. A process had begun that he was more than familiar with. It had made him a good cop; left him a live one. “I think it may be time for us to have a serious talk with Tim,” he said.

“Think it’ll do any good?”

“Can’t hurt. We need to know more about what Hermiez does to keep his yacht stocked with smoked salmon, and we need to know it from the man who knows.”

Starsky scoffed a little. “Tim loves the guy as far as I can see. Tito’s probably the only person in this world Tim would think about before himself. He’s gonna protect him at any cost.”

Considering that, Hutch found himself thoughtful, small observations coming together for the first time. “I wonder.”

“You got something?” Starsky asked.

Hutch held his partner’s eye, inviting Starsky into his thought processes. “Think about it. Does Tim love Tito? Even as an old flame? Or is it something else?”

“Fr’instance?”

Hutch shook his head. “I’m not sure.” As he spoke, he listened to the sound of those tumblers, louder now, clicking. “Think about a man who wants to keep a tiger in his house. Except it’s not a tame cat. It’s wild, and to keep it the man has to appease it.” Mentally tracing the line of his analogy, he paused. “Let’s say it’s a status symbol. The man values the tiger. But he’s walking on eggs the whole time, trying to keep that animal satisfied. Afraid of losing it, and even more afraid of being its dinner.”

Starsky was gazing at him intensely. “There’s a possibility we coulda been too trusting from the start about Tito,” he said after a moment. “Or maybe Tim was. ‘Cause if what you’re thinkin’ is the same as what I’m thinkin’, it puts Tim in a hell of a position. ”

“You guys still interested in getting your pictures taken by yours truly?”

It was Benton Levine, wearing round spectacles with impenetrable black lenses. He had placed a hand on both their shoulders, and looked from one of them to the other like a smiling blind man.

“Nice to see you back on Fantasy Island,” Hutch said smoothly. “Where’d you disappear to?”

“I was on an assignment for Playboy magazine, believe it or not, as a last-minute replacement for a guy who fell ill suddenly. Which I took for the money, and for a chance to photograph William Burroughs.” The bartender came over and Benton indicated that he wanted a refill for his martini. “You know, he’s weirdly ordinary, Burroughs, like an accountant or something. Doesn’t hand out any bullshit, just sticks it in his books and gets paid handsomely for it. My kind of guy.” He popped a couple of olives into his full-lipped mouth. “So… Do you still want to do the session? ‘Cause I do. Really. I think it’d be a lot of fun for all concerned, and maybe even productive for you in a financial sense. Besides, you’ll be immortal, one of the Chosen. You can’t pass it up.”

Had they ever really decided on it? Laconically, Starsky answered for both of them before Hutch had a chance to. “Say when.”

“Far out,” Benton chortled. “Tomorrow after breakfast? Whenever that is–let’s say two-thirty, three o’clock. ”

“Let’s,” Starsky said, unreadable smile a yard wide.

Benton’s specs seemed to twinkle with amusement. “Good deal, blue-eyes, ’cause tomorrow you’re mine.” He picked up his fresh martini and saluted Starsky with it. “See you then.” A squeeze for Hutch’s shoulder. “See you both.” Glass held high, Benton ploughed back into the party.

“Well, that’s that.” Starsky was looking straight ahead.

Hutch sighed. “Yeah, guess so.”

“No big deal.” Starsky was firm. Then he peeked sidelong at Hutch.

“You sure?” Hutch asked him. “Because I’m not.”

“As long as we can lay down some ground rules,” Starsky said.

“By all means.” Hutch found his temper a little short. “Like?”

“I’m not gonna simulate making love to you.” The statement was a jolt for Hutch, even more so because of the terse way it was said. “It’ll be the way we want it to be,” Starsky went on. “Or we might as well call it quits.”

With a nod, Hutch agreed. Starsky had cut and dried the situation for himself, and there was no will in Hutch for discussion. He decided that whatever he did say had better be light. We had both better take this in our stride. Or it is all over. “Keep our powder dry, in other words?” he asked softly, smiling.

Starsky smirked in return. “Something like that.” He sat for a moment, then set his glass down decisively. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

Hutch stared, unable to modify his reaction.

“I feel like dancing,” Starsky explained with reluctance, brows knit. “Okay? I do like to, remember? Even under normal circumstances.” He lifted one shoulder, looking into Hutch’s eyes candidly. “And you’re still fun to dance with…” He took hold of Hutch’s hand. “Oh, c’mon, willya? Can’t we forget about all the other stuff for one damned minute?”

***

Levine’s place was a mile or two down the road from Robert Erba’s, and shared its sense of privacy–if not to the same level of paranoia. There were no obvious surveillance systems here, but the house was tree-shrouded, blending in beautifully with its surroundings.

The sun-dappled door opened after their knock, revealing a striking Japanese lady in her early-forties. Dressed in T-shirt, tights, and slippers, she resembled a grim child, her almond-white skin like fine paper on which she had painted violet eyelids and a frosted pink mouth. She held a dark cigarette, a Sherman’s, elegantly, and clicked her fingernails. “Night and day, is that it?” she asked. The detectives were observed dispassionately.

“I beg your pardon?” Hutch asked politely, confused.

“Or maybe Yin and Yang,” she went on in the same enigmatic way.

Starsky looked at Hutch (who glanced back with raised eyebrows), then at their inquisitrix. “No, darlin’, I’m Ira and he’s Leif, and we’re “here to see Benton Levine.”

“Of course you are,” she said, stepping aside in the wide doorway to let them in. “What else? I’m Olivia Fukuda, Benton’s assistant. Follow me.”

The house was dark and cool, full of mirrors. The two detectives followed Olivia’s blue tights through the entryway and up a flight of stairs. They came into a high-ceilinged studio, all shiny, blondwood floor and vast window. Equipment was everywhere: lights, vast, stark drops of red, black, white, clouds on blue sky. It was Hollywood, a fantasy factory with the Eagles playing loud. There were sets and props: Starsky noted with concern a zebra-skinned couch, a Western saddle, a high brass bed with tumbled white-satin sheets. Christ…

A half-dozen people were moving about, busy with various tasks: adjusting lights, setting up reflectors and fans. Everyone seemed to have a job to do; there were no idle onlookers. Olivia was the only woman, and she assigned the tasks. Benton was ringmaster at the center of the activity, his rough-cut shock of tow hair standing on end. He motioned them over, pulling them into a conversational circle.

“Here’s my standard spiel: I can make you two offers. First, a flat $1500 each for this session. With a possibility held out for more sessions, but no iron-clad obligations on either side. The negatives from this kind of shoot will never be for sale, which means that the photographs probably won’t end up in any commercial skin magazines. Instead we’re talking private consumption by my own clientele; gallery showings, maybe; private sales of prints to ‘fine art lovers.’ However, if you want something firmer–so to speak–I can give you a contract entitling you to $1500 for each of five sessions, plus 2% of any profits from sales and/or syndication. The money’s potentially a lot more, but there is a chance you could end up in next month’s Honcho.”

“We’re not looking to get famous at this,” Starsky said.

“You could do that without even half-trying in this business,” Benton tossed off, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt-pocket. “But, message received. We’ll keep it just between friends. Now–let’s’ rock and roll.”

“Benton,” Hutch interrupted. “There’s one thing… Before coming in, we–we both–decided against doing any nude stuff. I don’t know if that’s what you had in mind–”

Benton looked at them with great seriousness. “There’s one thing you need to know about me, fellas,” he said. “I always want to do the nude stuff.” He inspected them, beginning to chuckle. “But, listen, I’m a stylist, not a Nazi. I cooperate with my models; I don’t force my fetishes on them. By all means, take time to prepare, to get comfortable with it, get in the mood. Have a glass of wine, some herbal tea, even a couple of Valium, if necessary. The point is to enjoy what we’re doing, okay? Do what feels right.” He motioned to a small bearded man across the room. “Leslie, let’s have some refreshments up here, some peppermint tea, maybe? Thanks, lover.” By the time his voice died, Benton was already someplace else.

The two detectives were left looking at each other.

***

It seemed to Starsky the single most dangerous moment of their entire lives together. It would have been better if they’d never met at all and were preparing to do this as total strangers to each other. Only, they both knew–intimately–what they were really dealing with here and now. Under different circumstances, they might have laughed and larked through the whole thing, even this: fake accents, limp wrists, and all. But his fear–of his changing love for his best friend, of the physical attraction he had learned in himself for Hutch–made that kind of nonchalance impossible. They could not afford to touch as lovers, yet, standing here, lovers to the world, how could they avoid it?

Starsky sighed the dilemma heavily, and his eyes strayed toward his partner. He’d insisted on doing this, so now it was time to cut the ice. “How much do we need to take off?” he asked. “Before it’s considered erotica?”

Hutch’s eyes were wide and wary, the lines in his forehead etched deep. An array of bright key lights touched his gold hair, like always making it beam like a child’s, seeming to illuminate his vulnerability. His hands came up, meeting at the top of the ridiculous, oversized Hawaiian shirt he wore. Starsky watched the large fingers move inhibitedly down, undoing each button with deliberation, garish yellow pineapples on a white background giving way by stages to smooth, polished-gold skin. Their eyes met. After unbuttoning the shirt, Hutch had stopped and made no further effort to remove it. “It’s up to you,” he said gently in answer to Starsky’s question.

Starsky looked down. Hutch wanted him to take the responsibility, and he couldn’t pretend not to understand perfectly well how his friend felt. He pulled his own shirt out of his trousers, admittedly hiding behind it a little as he drew it over his head. When it was gone, he had no armor. He didn’t much care what Benton or anybody else made of the scars on his chest. He was far more worried about what was going on inside him. Hutch’s eyes touched his chest and that was almost his undoing. Since the shooting, he had never felt–known, been convinced beyond any shadow of doubt–that his body was good to look at. Not until now, and Hutch.

***

Hutch looked somewhere else, intentionally. He removed his shirt, threw it on the nearby couch, then stood with his mind in a knot.

“You guys comfortable with that?” Benton called from his position. He was looking over his selection of cameras, being handed them one by one by Olivia.

Hutch looked up guiltily. “Uh, yeah.”

Benton came over, cradling an old Hasselblad. “First times are the hardest, kids,” he soothed. “I do understand. But are we just about ready? I’d like you in front of the white drop, and I need to get a light reading.”

They moved where they were told to, stood there and had light meters poked at them, a little pancake applied for the shine. A bead of sweat rolled down Hutch’s side, maybe the only outward sign that he was panicked. Not about getting the pictures taken–that part of it seemed almost inconsequential now, compressed into the distance like a rolling backdrop on a carousel. What dismayed him was the continuing prospect of being compelled to touch Starsky in the way a lover should, after pledging never to be the lover he wanted to be. How was he supposed to bring it off? He had not embraced Starsky since that night on the beach, but he knew that if he touched his partner as he had then, holding the solid body close to his own, it would be like dropping a chunk of pure sodium into a glass of water. His reaction would be simply helpless chemistry, involuntary, nothing to do with weakness or will. That out-of-control sensation scared him, always had. He waited, wondering if Starsky understood why he just couldn’t make the first move. He had no idea what he might do.

Starsky moved to him as if he’d picked up all the signals and did understand. It was clear that he was agreeing to take the lead. Maybe he could take out some of the heat, too. Hutch was certainly willing to let him try.

Starsky approached until it was possible for Hutch to trace every tangled hair in the dark brows, to see the glint of silver at the end of each long eyelash, to count tiny beads of moisture forming on a softly-molded upper lip… Incredibly, he was able to apprehend dozens of details of the beloved face, while both Starsky’s arms slowly surrounded him. He stood passive in the embrace, too terrified of his response to move.

“Just hold onto me,” Starsky ordered, mouth against his neck.

The words were meant for him alone, and Hutch found he could obey them. He let his arms encircle the man who held him, and then, tentatively, let the circle tighten; his body fit Starsky’s.

They held onto each other for life, the camera click-purring away, its sound sealing them within an isolated world that had room only for the two of them. There was a kind of sanctuary in the embrace, which Hutch hadn’t expected. It turned out to be short-lived.

What followed began with Starsky, though Hutch doubted his partner had really articulated what happened next in his own mind. With a spare, sure movement, he secured Hutch’s arms and leaned into him, intentionally or not, forcing Hutch’s upper body back in a straining arch. Starsky was looking with terrible intensity into his eyes, the emotion in the gaze indefinable. Resentment?

Hutch felt it, then. An insistent arousal. Starsky’s… A pulse leaped in his own body, and he lost control. “Ah, Christ, love…” With that bit of incoherence, he sought Starsky’s mouth, dying for the taste, sure his feelings were reciprocated.

Starsky checked him, whole body saying “No.”

Hutch couldn’t accept it. They were acting out their private drama in front of a camera, and he didn’t give a damn. With ease, he reversed the grip Starsky had on him, and took a firmer hold.

Was this what it was? No poetry–no words at all; just the primitive honesty of a struggle for dominance, old as man, the choice between battle to the death, and inevitable surrender?

Hutch found he was squeezing Starsky too tightly, pressing down on him. Fresh sweat had broken out on both their bodies. He was faced, he slowly realized, with Starsky’s surrender. The smooth forehead was knit, and a soft, angry sigh escaped parted lips. Indigo eyes searched his for a raw moment, then Starsky just relaxed against him, head falling forward to meet his chest.

ILLO 11: “CAPITULATION”: He was faced with Starsky’s surrender.

He sank his chin and mouth and nose into the moist, fragrant curls, and just held Starsky tight.

“Jesus,” somebody said; Benton, shooting film furiously, then stopping short. The place was deeply quiet suddenly, except for the pounding of Starsky’s heart and Hutch’s own.

Then, without a word or a look, Starsky pulled away from him and strode over to where he’d left his shirt. Once there, he put it on hastily and left the studio, heading down the stairs without waiting for Hutch.

He had gone before Hutch even thought of following suit. With dull fingers, he put on his own shirt and buttoned it, in a hurry to follow and find his partner.

Benton came over to him, hindering his progress. “That was amazing,” the goggle-eyed man said, seriously.

“It–it just happened,” Hutch stuttered, unsure of what else to say. “Look, I gotta go, Benton.”

“Sure,” Benton said. “I understand. But drop by tomorrow–early–and I can give you the contact sheets from today.” He held onto Hutch. “I’d like to arrange something? Some more work for you two. If not for me, then for Robert. I’m absolutely sure he’ll be interested in you when he sees what comes out of this shoot. As it happens, he’s starting a new film in about three weeks, and he hasn’t cast it yet.” Benton was hopeful. “If you’re at all interested.”

Taken aback by his and Starsky’s unwitting success, Hutch looked at Benton blankly for several seconds. “Uh, let’s talk tomorrow,” he said, recovering. Benton let him go.

Outside, he found Starsky slouched in the driver’s seat of the Jeep. He got in, but his friend shunned eye contact with him. “Starsk…”

“Let’s get outta here before I say. somethin’ I shouldn’t.” Starsky sat forward and turned the key in the ignition, starting the car.

Hutch reached across and turned it off, watched Starsky recoil fractionally from his touch. “Say what you feel,” he ordered. “What happened inside is something we have to talk about. Something we should have talked about before.”

“Yeah, I know,” Starsky growled, still not looking at him. There was nothing more forthcoming.

“We’re still okay,” Hutch said.

“Yeah.” Starsky turned to him finally, eyes flat with anger. “We’re okay.” The voice was flat, too. “Except we can’t count on each other, anymore.”

Hutch cut through the anger with his own helpless pain. “You think I could find out you want me, and not react?”

“I’m thinkin’ I can’t trust you. That you could’ve blown our covers with your ‘reaction’.”

“That is not the issue,” Hutch hissed. “The issue is that hard-on you presented me with back there.” He gestured toward Benton’s house with his head.

Leaning over the steering wheel, Starsky murmured something into his folded arms.

“What’d you say?” Hutch demanded.

Starsky glanced at him, countenance smoldering. “I said, it’s old news. Goes back years. I’m quick on the trigger, always have been.”

Hutch gazed at his partner for a slow-ticking minute before he sat back, subdued. After a time, he managed, “So you want me to believe it didn’t mean a thing. Is that your way of punishing me for what I made you feel? Make you feel?”

“I feel like I’m taking the last turn in a long illness. I feel threatened. I can’t help it. Deep down… Some part of me was being laid on the line back there.”

“I felt that,” Hutch said, at once gratified that Starsky was beginning to talk to him about it, and determined to press for the answers he knew were there inside Starsky. “And I felt you make a decision. Was I wrong, Starsky? Please, tell me the truth. I did feel you–give–at least a part of yourself, didn’t I? You showed me at least a part of what you felt–”

“I got tired of fighting.” Starsky started the car, again. “Is that how you want it?”

“All I want is honesty.”

Starsky glared at him. “I’m a pushover f’you, and you know it. You count on it.” He sighed harshly, turning off the car himself this time. “You want honesty? OK. My balls ache.”

Hutch had never–not ever–been more frustrated by Starsky. It was a no-win situation. How is it I can’t face that? “This is insane. Why am I putting myself through this? Putting you through it–”

“If you’re about to say, ‘Call Dobey,'” Starsky cut in, “forget it. We’re not gonna bail out over this, Hutch. We’re better cops than that.”

Hutch was dumbfounded. What did the case have to do with anything anymore?

“I refuse to let us run cryin’ to Dobey or the Feds because we can’t keep our minds on the business at hand.” Starsky’s voice had thickened, and there was a slight tremor in it. “Not finally, when something’s about to break. No way, Hutch. You wanted to stay.”

Hutch tried to read the angry profile. It seemed to define all of Starsky right now. But as he watched, a paradoxical peace came over him, like twilight at noon. He’s right. I wouldn’t want him just because he got tired of fighting. He has to come freely, or not at all. “Can’t argue the truth,” he said aloud without bitterness. “Let’s go.”

They drove off, unaware that this was where and how they were overheard.

***

The next day was cool, blustery, heavy clouds chasing each other across the sky. Feeling miserable, Starsky sat in Benton’s tiny, sky-lit office, waiting for Hutch to hand over the slim sheaf of contact sheets. Hutch’s face was neutral, careful.

Starsky took the sheets of photographic paper and looked at them slowly. Somehow, Levine had caught the purest essence of the contrasts between Hutch and himself, and had created–with or without their help–a kind of war of dark and light. The light was seen here winning… pale silk and gold skin shining above his own dark submission. Was that what had happened? He knew damned well it was.

He returned the proofs to their plastic folder and handed them back to Hutch, catching his eye involuntarily. “They’re really something,” he said, mostly for Benton’s benefit. “You’ve always been more photogenic than me.”

“Nonsense,” Hutch smiled. “You look fabulous, lover.”

“You both do,” Benton offered, glancing back and forth. “And that brings me to my news. Robert saw these last night. He wants me to do a test-shoot on 16 mm–which I’d like to do as soon as possible, if you don’t object–and he’d like very much to meet and talk with you about possibly doing a film with him.”

Stroke of luck, like a rock in the pathway that could send a person tumbling. Starsky didn’t look at his partner.

“There’s a fair amount of money in it,” Levine assured them. “Robert guarantees you $10,000 each and a share of the profits.”

“We’re not actors,” Hutch said, playing it earnest. “Benton–”

“The hell you’re not,” Levine grinned. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thin, stapled booklet. “Here’s the, uh–script. There’ll be revisions for sure, but look it over, huh? Postpone any other plans. I’ll get back to you later in the week.”

***

“Not much dialogue,” Hutch observed dryly. He dropped the script onto the car-seat between them after flipping through it briefly.

“Let me guess.” Starsky didn’t dilute his sarcasm. “It’s a Western.”

“No,” Hutch said. “Actually, it’s about two sailors shipwrecked on an island.”

Starsky groaned. “And we end up–?”

Hutch looked like he was enjoying the conversation. “Yeah, among other things.” He smiled bleakly. “But it’s not gonna get that far, is it? We either get something on Erba before this all gets rolling, or we get the hell off this rock.” He looked at Starsky. “For sure, this time.”

Starsky held himself silent for a couple of miles. “What’d you really think?” he asked, finally.

“Of what?”

Starsky nodded toward the plastic folder that held the contact sheets. It, like the script, lay between them. “The pictures. Technically, what do you think of ’em?” He looked toward Hutch quickly, then back at the road.

Hutch’s eyes had widened. “Uh, they’re good photographs.”

“Be honest.”

“Honest?” Hutch asked. He paused, glancing briefly through the window on his side of the Jeep, then back at Starsky. “They turn me on.”

Starsky swallowed, the sound loud even over the noise of the engine and the silence inside the car. “Why? Because you came out the winner?”

Hutch stared. “Winner? No.” He seemed surprised. “Because I’m–holding you.” His voice wavered infinitesimally on the last words, and he coughed lightly to cover it.

Glancing over at Hutch, Starsky saw that his color had risen. Can’t keep it a secret, can you? And how long can I?

***

Tim was having brunch when they entered, seated at the long, glass-topped dining table. He threw his cloth napkin down and stood.

“Haven’t seen much of you, lately,” Hutch observed.

“And vice versa,” Tim replied. Hands in pockets, he walked purposely toward them. “It’s, uh, harder getting through to Bobby than any of us expected, I guess,” he said. “I gave you Zachary and he was supposed to get you to Robert–”

“It didn’t work out that way,” Hutch said. “It didn’t work out with Zachary.”

“Well, what went wrong?”

“Let’s just say the man had no respect for the sanctity of a relationship.” Hutch’s eyes were cool. “Among other things.”

“The reason I ask,” Tim continued. “The reason I feel we need to talk, is that I think this thing is going on too long. Longer than I ever expected.”

“I think we’ll have t’be the judges of that,” Starsky said. He sat down, slowly, deliberately, watching Tim play out his game, knowing Hutch was doing the same. “What’re you gettin’ nervous about?”

“Nervous!?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said. “Like a cat on a hot griddle.”

“Let’s face it, shall we?” Tim asked, sharply. “You’re not gettin’ anywhere, are you? This entire charade is goin’ nowhere fast! Meanwhile, my life is on hold.”

“You said there’d be no problem. What’s changed?”

“Nothing’s changed.” There was tightness around Tim’s mouth, lines etched.

“Know what I think?” Hutch asked. “I think it all changed as soon as we got to the island, and you found Tito here ahead of you. I think that if he knew your part in all this, it’d bother him. A lot.”

Tim looked at him, eyes charred with suppressed anger.

“That puts you in kind of a bind, doesn’t it?” Hutch went on. “You can’t tell him about us, and you can’t tell us about him, either.”

Tim held up a warning hand. “Look, Detective Hutchinson, don’t try and push me into any corners.”

“You’re already in a corner.”

“Why’re you so scared of Hermiez, Tim?” Starsky pressed. “We thought he was your bosom buddy.”

“I agreed to help you,” Tim said, turning to him. “No strings attached on either side. But I don’t have to bare my soul to you.”

“I think you’d be better off letting us help you,” Hutch disagreed. “And if you helped us a little bit more than you’re doing.”

Tim’s expression closed down. “No. I don’t think so.”

“If you know anything else about Danny Corliz’ murder, and you don’t tell us,” Hutch said, “you’re gonna take a fall for sure this time, Tim. As an accessory.”

“Tito had nothing to do with any murder.”

Starsky lifted a shoulder. “True or not, we’d expect you to say that. You’re loyal to him.” His eyes fixed on Tim. “And you’re takin’ a big risk.”

“I got one thing to say. If you don’t trust me, bust me. That’s all. If you’ve got something on my friend–my lover–or me, do something about it.” Tim walked out.

“Time to pack our bags,” Starsky said.

“If they’re not already packed.” Hutch turned to him. “He’s pinned. He can’t do a thing. Nowhere to jump but sideways.”

“Can we trust him not to blow our covers for us?”

“If he hasn’t done it already, chances are he won’t. He’s testing the water. Hoping we’ll do his work for him and get out.”

“Tito,” Starsky posited. “You think he’s Mr. Big, after all? That he’s the one who had Corliz put down?”

Hutch rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t know. Erba’s our main suspect. We haven’t got one speck of evidence linking Hermiez to Corliz or to cocaine. If we busted everybody on the West Coast who snorted a few lines after dinner, we’d have to turn California into a correctional facility.”

“What about pinning down his source?”

“He’s too smart for that.”

“How about this? We run a make on those three barracudas at the party, and see what comes up–granted we can get the names from Tim without spookin’ him.”

“Might do us some good,” Hutch said. He looked at Starsky. “You know I’d forgotten all about them, ’til you said something.” He shook his head. “Guess my mind’s been on other things.”

“Mine, too.”

The words hung in the air for an attenuated moment.

“Guess we better, uh, have something to eat,” Hutch suggested. “Find a quiet place to talk all this over. Plot out our strategy for dealing with Erba, while we wait for Benton’s call.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, rising. “I’ll ask Cochilar to send up a plate of sandwiches and a pot of coffee.”

Hutch nodded.

***

When Starsky came in, Hutch was changing his shirt. In the process of yanking off the blue pullover he wore, a fleeting expression of pain crossed his face.

Starsky saw it and recognized it. “Your back acting up?”

Hutch shrugged, obviously not much wanting to talk about it. Discussing his back problems–result of a skiing accident–seemed to Hutch like thinking about his own mortality, maybe reminded him of his inevitable limits. “It’s not bad.” The words were short, blank. “I’ll sit in a hot tub for a couple of minutes.”

“Good idea,” Starsky said neutrally, not wanting to push it. Hutch disapproved of his worrying. As if only the big blond had the right to worry about people.

Hutch disappeared into the bathroom.

Cochilar brought the food–chicken and shrimp salad sandwiches, neatly sliced, a pot of steaming black coffee, and a bowl of big, fresh strawberries–patting Starsky’s shoulder in a motherly way before she left. He sat down and had a sandwich, then another, finishing just as Hutch came out of the bathroom. His hair was wet, slicked back, and he’d wrapped a towel around his waist.

“Sit,” Starsky invited. “Eat.”

Hutch came over. “Just a cup of coffee.” He poured it, then picked up the cup and saucer, walking across to the windows to look out. “I can’t wait to meet this Erba freak,” he grumbled. His body, bronze against the white towel, was still water-beaded from the tub. “The evil genius behind all this. One of them, I should say.”

“Bound to be an anticlimax.” Starsky remained seated, watching his partner. “He’s probably four-foot ten with curly red hair.” The comment was absent, idle.

“You call that an anticlimax?” Hutch asked. He actually chuckled, a real smile sparkling in the blue eyes that glanced over at Starsky. “You’ve got a weird imagination,” he said.

“Guess I do,” Starsky said, surprised at Hutch’s mood. He was more surprised at how good that brief, bright smile of his partner’s had made him feel inside, despite their trouble. The light limned Hutch’s body, making the Golden Boy look as though nothing and no one could ever tarnish him or make him less than he was… a beautiful man–Starsky couldn’t deny that–in every way it was possible to be beautiful, in the prime of his life and strength and health, picture-perfect. The only thing wrong with the picture was the profound loneliness emanating from its subject.

I guess that’s the ultimate—what, tragedy?—of our friendship, that this thing he thinks he needs from me in order to end his loneliness is the one thing I can’t give him. Did we come all this way together, just to find out that I’ve failed him and he’s failed me? That I’ve disappointed him and he’s disappointed me? That I’ve betrayed his ideas of friendship. And he’s betrayed mine? I’d’ve done anything. I’d do anything for him but—

A sigh escaped him, and he glanced at Hutch again, secretly. Why can’t he concede that becoming lovers would be the worst possible thing we could do to each other at this point in our lives? It’d make us more dependent on each other than ever. Because it wouldn’t be just a one-time experiment for us, a get-vour-rocks-off roll in the hay. The way we are–the both of us–there could never be anybody else for him or me. Ever.

It’d make us liars all these years when we said that people could think what they wanted about us, but that we knew the truth. Make our whole friendship a lie. A lie far worse than the one I told him yesterday. I told him his touch didn’t move me.

You knew that was bullshit, didn’t you, Hutch? You know damned well what you do to me. Hutch did things to his mind and body like no one ever. His hardest job these last days and nights had been not giving in to a need he’d been desperately trying to fill since he’d been shot and had almost died–his aching hunger to love and be loved before it was too late again.

But his denial was for a good reason, a good cause, to keep the good that belonged to him and his partner from being changed irrevocably. The partnership was still precious to him, still the bedrock of his life. Someday Hutch might thank him for doing what he’d had to do to preserve it. Even if I have to hurt him… He sighed once more heavily, wanting to think about something else. “Your back feelin’ any better?”

“A little,” Hutch answered. “I’ll arrange for some heat treatments when we get back, with McPhillips.”.

“That quack? Uh-uh. My treatment’s always better for you.” Starsky held up his hands. “Dr. Magic-Fingers to the rescue. Lie down over there.”

“Starsky–”

“Go on, you big ape. You know I’m the only one who does you any good. So let me. I’ll get some baby oil out of the medicine cabinet.” His only thought was to help.

***

Hutch lay down without argument, settling chin on hands. Starsky spoke the truth. His friend had a positive gift for therapeutic massage, and could always make him feel like new. Granted, Starsky had caused the flare-up, but that didn’t stop Hutch from wanting his help.

He listened to Starsky’s approach, heard him open the baby oil, rub moistened hands together to warm it to body temperature.

“How long’s it been kickin’ up?” Starsky asked, beginning. “You haven’t said a word.”

“It’s not bad,” Hutch answered. “Or wasn’t until–today. Just tired.”

The deft hands worked on his back muscles as if performing the most significant task in the world. There was never any hint of impatience or boredom in Starsky’s touch.

“You’re the best,” Hutch stated, lost in the advancing relief.

“Thanks. S’the best kind of helpin’.”

The moments passed as strong hands soothed, like friends intimately knowing of Hutch. His sense, that he was being healed by them, was so powerful he didn’t even consider the innate sensuality of what was happening until Starsky’s warm palms stroked as one unit down the center of his back, stopped, then circled around his waist. A note like music echoed between the two of them, alerting Hutch that something was–not wrong. Very right. And then he felt it; Starsky bending over him, then a kiss, planted like a seed on his shoulder blade. A moment passed, then with a breath of sigh, the quiet lips left him.

ILLO 11: Starsky bending over him, then a kiss… on his shoulder blade.

He turned over, looked up into a pair of arrestingly beautiful eyes, enormous, reflecting his own bewilderment. “Starsky? You–”

“Don’t say anything. Just… don’t.”

Hutch held himself very still, not daring to scare this startled fawn away. What had happened?

Starsky looked at him, almost disappointedly. But the disappointment was in himself. “I lied t’you,” he said, with straightforward simplicity. “Back at Benton’s. About what I felt. You were right. I was excited because of you; I was punishing you for it. And I did give in.” A soft groan. “Guess I’m givin’ in now, too…”

“It’s okay,” Hutch soothed as best he could with a shaky voice. “Nobody’s a winner or a loser. If that’s what’s worrying you… We love each other–” He reached out, cupped the side of the anxious face, brushing the mole with his thumb.

“I know,” Starsky breathed, accepting the caress, turning his head into it. “Maybe we can’t help it, maybe it’s out of our hands–my hands.” He shook his head. “Just a few minutes ago, I was making myself alla these promises, y’know? How I was gonna keep us the way we were, the way we oughta be–even if I had to hurt you to do it. Next minute, I was rubbin’ your back, makin’ you feel good. Thinkin’–” He flushed, face to face with his desire, and how it had defeated his promises. “Lotsa things… I wanted to do more for you than just hurt you for a change. I wanted you, babe. And I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t think I had the right. An’ why should I? I turned you away every time.”

The blood was pounding in Hutch’s body. He sat up a little on an elbow. “You have the right. You always will. You’ve gotta know that.” Come here. It’s safe…

Starsky leaned into him, gratefully, touching his forehead to Hutch’s. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “You are the most vulnerable man in this world,” he said. “So damned gentle, it tears me up. And all I’ve been doin’ is-is–yanking you back and forth–”

“No–” Hutch refused to hold back any more. He’d waited long enough. He lifted his head to reach Starsky’s lips. But a hot mouth came down abruptly to take his. Starsky was through with restraint, too, by the evidence. The kiss he gave Hutch was starved, unvarnished, his locked arms trapping Hutch with all their strength, body bearing down hard. That much power combined with real passion was new to Hutch, but felt so right; suited him, soul-deep.

He plunged his fingers into the warm, soft curls on his friend’s head, held Starsky in place, making sure of him. Totally engrossed in their mutual hunger, they devoured each other’s mouths. Starsky groaned, losing an already tenuous control, breathing like a train, nostrils hissing; exchanging with Hutch like a drowning man the little air there was. Hutch inhaled his lover’s fire, gave his own. Starsky was willing; no limits, no stop-signs. He tasted like love.

The phone rang, effectively severing their tie. But in a fog of desire, still clinging to Starsky’s hair, Hutch couldn’t see or move. Starsky left his mouth with a sigh, then kissed him again, softly, before letting him up. Hutch accepted and returned the gentle promise, gathering himself to pick up the phone. He licked his lips, and tasted the essence of his lover.

“H’lo.” His voice was a rasp.

“Leif? This is Benton Levine.”

Hutch sighed, looking at Starsky. “Yeah, Benton.”

“You’re invited for drinks at Bobby’s tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up around nine tomorrow, and we’ll go out there together. We’ll talk a little business, eat a little sushi.”

“Sushi?” Hutch looked at the phone.

“Bobby likes his protein raw,” Benton chuckled. “So, it’s a date. Go back to sleep, or whatever–”

“Wait,” Hutch said. “Benton, uh, we don’t plan on participating in any impromptu auditioning, is that clear?”

“Understood. Nothing like that was planned for tomorrow night, no need to worry. It’s a business meeting, and a chance to meet Bobby. And that’s all. Worry gives you ulcers.”

“Sure, yeah,” Hutch muttered. “See you tomorrow night.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” The connection was broken, and Hutch hung up. He couldn’t take his eyes off Starsky’s; didn’t want to, particularly.

“That was–”

“I heard,” Starsky said. “His timing leaves a lot to be desired.” He reached out, twined his fingers with Hutch’s. “Guess I made it pretty plain,” he said quietly, after a moment. “I–”

Hutch touched his mouth. “Yeah. You made it plain. Are you sorry?” Please don’t be.

Starsky looked up. “I’ve still got some doubts. Part of me doesn’t know for sure it’s the right thing for us. But my heart must know something I don’t,” he said. “Got the best of me.”

“Just tell me what you want to do.” Anything his partner wanted, Hutch would try to provide. If anything was still wrong, Hutch wanted to make it right.

“Askin’ this time,” Starsky said. “Not tellin’. Business before pleasure? ‘Til we’re outta this.”

Hutch nodded. “I’ve waited this long, I can wait until we get the case out of our way.” His heart filled with joy–more than that–exaltation. The sweet, strong man looking so unguardedly into his eyes was his lover now: willing, free, and very passionate about him. For the first time, he said it as a lover would. “I love you, Starsky.” He wanted to carve it on a boulder by a clear stream or on a big elm in the park. “So much.”

“I love you,” Starsky answered solemnly. He colored. “Never said it to you like that before, did I?” His finely made hand covered Hutch’s now, as if seeking–or trying to give–some reassurance. “I mean it, Hutch. Nothin’ held back, anymore. ‘Specially the truth.”

Lying there in a familiar daze of love, Hutch rejoiced inside. “Come here, then,” he commanded gently, and Starsky obeyed. He folded his friend into his arms, then cradled him like a baby, kissed his face from brow to chin all over, rubbed his cheek against Starsky’s, glorying in the rough catch of beard. Their mouths met again. This kiss was different than any of the others they’d shared, intended only to provide mutual pleasure, not proof.

And it was pleasure, a singing in Hutch’s blood, stinging ache in his groin. It was mutual, too. With a soft sound smothered in their kiss, Starsky thrust a leg between his, pressed tighter to him, offering his body, seeking Hutch’s. It was as if they’d been meant to be together, sexually, since their bodies were made. Completion, the way it was intended. Hutch’s hands found Starsky’s ass, supple inside loose trousers, cherishingly followed its shape, urged his lover even closer. Neither of them had had any real sex in over three weeks. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself making love to this delicious man, if they continued.

Starsky’s free hand, stroking his back in possessive circles, swept down his side, trailing heat, then caressed the towel over his flank–the only thing separating Hutch from nudity. Slender fingers made their way up, touched the edge of the towel with delicacy, and then hesitantly slipped just under and tugged.

With a sigh, Hutch stopped them, kissing his partner’s mouth, then ear. “Business before pleasure, remember?” he breathed. Pulling away was hard.

Starsky nodded agreement. “Seems like three years for me,” he murmured, taking a deep breath. “Instead of three weeks.” His eyes, marine blue, claimed Hutch’s. “You’re good, you know that?”

“Not so bad yourself,” Hutch understated, profoundly.

Starsky gave him a whisper of smile, at last. “So I’ve been told.” He reached out with his free hand, traced Hutch’s lips briefly, as if he wanted to be certain they had shared what they had shared. “Not by you, a’course.” The moment stretched out. “It’s like I’m gettin’ to know you all over again,” he said.

Hutch closed his eyes at the feel of those fingers brushing his mouth. “It really is. Second chance, clear sailing…” He looked up, found Starsky searching his face, looking to share his confidence. He sighed. “I guess it’s really not all clear. I know the gay part still bothers you.”

“No,” Starsky denied. There was more than a simple negative behind the word; there was courage and commitment. “Know what bothers me more? That we might get to be too dependent on each other. Especially if we’re lovers. That’s what had me spooked.” He took a reluctant breath. “I’ve been worrying about it for a long time, Hutch. Not just since this started… you an’ me. Since I was shot.”

“That’s what you were running away from?” Hutch realized it for the first time. “From the dependency?”

Starsky looked at him, then away. “I thought if I didn’t, you’d be holding my hand for the rest of my life. Your life.”

“I understood that,” Hutch said in explanation. “I tried to give you the space–”

“I know.” Starsky visibly sought the words. “Only, I couldn’t let myself–let up. It wasn’t just the dependency I’m talkin’ about.” He swallowed a couple of times, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I thought I–might as well–prepare you… You know, for the time I might not be around. One day it’s gotta come; one way or another–”

Comprehending, finally, Hutch stroked Starsky’s curls back off his forehead. “I know.” There wasn’t much more to say in the face of inevitability. “I know. But it’s not for you to decide, is it, Starsk? Not by yourself. There never were any guarantees, were there? But I always hoped for one thing. And we had it. Whatever happened to either of us, mattered to the both of us.”

“But–”

“Listen to me. I don’t want to keep you in some kind of plastic case with me. You’re free. I don’t want your dependency. I never did. But I would like you to depend on me, to know I’m always there for you. That’s where I want to be, Starsk. ”

In the same instant he was being kissed again, softly, and he welcomed it. Starsky prolonged their meeting, and he didn’t protest. Couldn’t. His lover drew away suddenly, the dark head burrowing into his neck. Starsky’s arms surrounded him, telling him without words he was precious. He returned the embrace with equal strength, with the same feeling.

Finally, Starsky straightened. “We better talk about what we’re gonna say when we get face to face with Erba.” He moved completely away from Hutch, and sat there on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, rubbing his knuckles together. “Get some clothes on, willya?” His whole body seemed to be saying, “Help!”

“Good idea,” Hutch agreed. With a last look at Starsky’s anxious face, he rose and took his clothes into the bathroom with him to dress.

***

Starsky waited, engine idling high. He knew the feeling. Kissing–and everything else–with Hutch had left him irrefutably hot under the collar. But he was also beset with insecurities. What if he’d let me pull that towel off of him? What would I have done, face to face with that huge cock of his? And him, lookin’ at me like he thinks I’m gonna disappear. Will I be able to satisfy him… do the things he wants—?

The door to the bathroom opened and there was Hutch again. Starsky gulped with his reaction to his partner’s return, at the look that passed at that moment between them.

Hutch hesitated a barely noticeable second before coming in. He did not return to the bed. “Let’s eat,” he suggested, heading for the table where the food had been placed earlier.

“I had a couple of sandwiches while you were soaking before,” Starsky mentioned, feeling his gut shaking. Though he did desire–very much–the reality was hard to deal with.

Seating himself, Hutch’s expression was shy but open. “Feel like coming to sit with me?” he asked neutrally.

Guess I could do that. He joined Hutch, feeling somewhat sheepish. He picked up a big strawberry, toyed with it, pulling off the stem. When he looked up, he was startled to find Hutch watching him intently. “What’s the matter?”

“You’re beautiful,” Hutch responded. “That’s the matter.” He turned his attention back to the food, biting into a sandwich.

“You make it seem easy,” Starsky said diffidently.

“Eating a sandwich? Or telling a man he’s beautiful?”

“Y-yeah. Telling a man…”

“It is easy,” Hutch said. “Probably because in this case, it’s true.” He inspected Starsky for a moment. “You don’t have to say it to me, if it makes you uncomfortable.” He paused, pouring a cup of coffee. “Maybe the mustache makes a difference.”

“No, I like it.”

“You’re just saying that. I’ll shave it off.”

“No!” Indignant at first, Starsky found himself grinning at the teasing light in Hutch’s eyes. “Not unless you want to.”

“I know you never did like it. I knew that from the first day I started growing the thing.”

“Hold on a second,” Starsky differed. “I never said one way or the other, did I? What I did say was it made you look a lot different. That’s all.”

“You didn’t want to stick your neck out, you mean.”

“Well, okay, I will,” Starsky said. “I like the furry caterpillar.” He appraised the strong, clean-lined countenance in front of him. “Can’t help it, if it’s any part of your ugly mug.” They shared a smile. “Besides, I’ve gotten kind of attached to it, last hour or so.”

Starsky waited until Hutch sat back, replete, wiping his mouth with a napkin, before thinking of speaking again. He would have been content to watch him all day. In that sense, he’d just started to realize this wasn’t a lot different than other loves in his life. He was a man who fell in love through his eyes first. It was just taking him a little longer to learn how with another male, observing with a fresh eye, the fineness of skin, the line of jaw, the remarkable texture–the slightest breeze could lift it–of Hutch’s spun-gold hair; the way his friend used a napkin, or sipped his coffee, those big hands careful with the fragile, porcelain cup.

“How do we play it?”

Without any idea that he’d been way out in left field, Starsky focused in suddenly on the fact that Hutch was speaking to him. “M’sorry,” he said. “I was daydreamin’.”

“I said, ‘How do we go in?’ Erba, remember?”

“‘Course I remember.” He was abashed to be caught virtually mooning over his lover. “Let a guy think, willya?”

“Anytime,” Hutch said with a smile. “If you promise me you’re gonna look at me like that when you do it.”

“Alright, alright.” Starsky was impatient to get on with other business before things could get out of hand. “About Erba…”

“We’re gonna need to be pretty careful,” Hutch said. His eyes held meaning, along with the secret they shared.

“Yeah,” Starsky replied, comprehending. Their relationship was at an extraordinarily delicate stage; couldn’t stand too much poking and prying. Leif and Ira might be old-time lovers; he and Hutch hadn’t even had a first time yet. He shifted his mind back to the matter at hand. “If we go into this thing like a coupla eager beavers, Erba could have us hittin’ the sheets the first day. No, we’re gonna have to play him as long as we can, give him a lot of line, not the idea we’re dyin’ to appear in that crummy porno flick of his.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to convey that,” Hutch said.

“Got that right. Best if he thinks we’re reluctant–which we unequivably are.”

“Unequivocally,” Hutch corrected absently, rubbing at his chin with folded hands. “Except we can’t play too cagey, either, can we? If we seem wary, that might tip him off that it’s all a setup, or even make him change his mind about using us in the first place. ”

“You’ve got a point.” Starsky agreed. “So… Looks like we’ll be walkin’ the line one more time.”

“Guess we will. But it’s either that or I make love with you for the first time in front of a camera and film crew.”

Starsky felt his face heat up, and looked away in a vain attempt to conceal it.

“Don’t do that, Starsky.” Hutch’s voice, gentle. “Look at me, huh?”

Starsky did so. His partner said nothing, just returned his look steadily, expression full of patience and love. “Okay, yeah,” Starsky said to him. “It embarrassed me a little, hearing you say it like that. It’s dumb, ’cause I do want to love you. I dunno, maybe I’m not as ready for all this as I’d like to think.”

“Me, neither,” Hutch said. “But, if you’re embarrassed about something, don’t feel you’ve got to hide it from me.” He paused, moving the fork on his plate. “You know, it embarrasses me, too, when I think about–how I hounded you about it.” He looked up, so vulnerably.

“Nah, you didn’t hound me,” Starsky said. “You’re just too persuasive for your own good.”

Hutch gave him a wry smile. “S’that what I did? Persuade you?”

“Well, not exactly. It was more like… matches and gasoline.” He basked in Hutch’s expression and high-colored cheeks. “What happens when they come together, huh? I think I was waitin’ for you to touch me, and when you did…”

Now that he’d said it, he realized that it was true. Maybe that’s what I was down-deep scared of. Not just of finally being dependent on you, Hutch, but of finally falling too much in love with you. And once you acknowledged it in yourself, I could acknowledge it in me. Matches and gasoline… Bound to make a fire.

For a while, sure, he’d run like crazy from it. But with his private admission that he would do anything for Hutch, he’d found he’d painted himself into a corner. There’s no such thing as “I’d do anything for you Hutch, but–” It’s all or nothing. Always has been, and always will. I love him.

“What’re you thinking about?” Hutch asked.

“Nothing specific,” Starsky said. “Us. You an’ me.”

“Want to know what I’m thinking about?” Hutch wore an inviting smile.

“What’s that?”

“A lazy afternoon of swimming and sunning by the pool. You up for it?”

“That’s gettin’ kind of off the track, isn’t it?” Starsky couldn’t really care with Hutch looking the way he did now; shining, golden. Like with Gillian, only about ten times more so.

“We’ll get back on track after we swim,” Hutch answered. “I need the exercise.”

“Business before pleasure?” Starsky queried pointedly.

“Business’ll keep. You want to change here? I can go downstairs, and–”

Starsky glanced up in the middle of rising. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Hutch asked, already on his feet. “Having that bathroom door between us is no guarantee.”

Starsky realized belatedly what he meant. “Oh. Yeah.” He sighed. “Look, this is gonna be a problem, y’know? After all, we’ll be sleepin’ together, won’t we?”

Hutch stared as if he’d forgotten that.

“So what do we do?” Starsky wanted to know. “Ask for separate bedrooms?”

Hutch looked shocked. “Never.” After a moment, he shrugged. “We’ll work something out. After all, we’re both adults.”

“If you say so.”

Hutch gave him a glance. “Meet you at the pool.”

***

Starsky had his swim and got out, wrapping a towel around his shoulders as he sat on the edge of the pool.

“You swim like a cat,” Hutch accused, swimming up to him, grasping his ankles. “Only if you have to.” Though they were a little shy with each other, it felt good to be able to play and tease with no shadows over their relationship.

Starsky looked down at him, wet hair hanging in pre-Raphaelite tendrils that made him look like a Jewish angel. “I can outswim you in a pinch,” he said. “That’s for sure.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hutch asked. “In a pinch or a tickle?” He reached for the dangling feet.

Starsky’s body contracted, ready for flight. “Hutch, I swear if you try to tickle me, I’m gonna jump in there and drown you.”

“Whoa, fella.” Hutch slid his hands up Starsky’s calves, eyes traveling up the water-slick, muscled body to his best friend’s face. You’re happy. Aren’t you?

Starsky grinned down at him, saying nothing, but giving him a look of affection there weren’t any words for, anyway. “Hey, schweetheart,” he said eventually, doing his terrible Humphrey Bogart. “What’s new wit’ you?”

“You.” Hutch returned the look and the grin before looking down again. He stroked the well-defined ankles, traced with a wet finger the prominent veins of the brown instep, the fine, strong line of the arch, the long, articulate toes. “I thought you were ticklish,” he said.

“Not at the moment.” Starsky’s voice above him was slightly rushed, the heartbeat in it.

Impulsively, Hutch bent his head and kissed both insteps of the feet he lifted in turn, tasting the skin. It was a moment of simple bliss, the gesture very ancient, somehow. We’re a couple of hopeless romantics, he thought. He loves the offer of this as much as I love making it.

“Ah, God, babe,” Starsky breathed. “Whatcha tryin’ t’ do? Steal my heart?”

Hutch raised his head to the ardent face. “I promise to take good care of it,” he whispered. “Do you trust me?”

“Nobody else. Come on outta there.”

Hutch obeyed, hauling himself out with one motion. He stood up, dripping, looking down at Starsky. The smooth brow had knit. It was evident that his dark-haired partner had expected–wanted very badly–to share a kiss and embrace. No more than Hutch did. But something was telling him to wait, to honor the resolution they’d made. Not that it was going to be any picnic. He offered his partner a hand up. “How about a beer?”

Starsky’s look penetrated him. “Love one.”

***

“Feels good,” Starsky murmured. Hutch had buttered him royally with suntan oil, front and back. “Better than good.” It seemed they were both enjoying the massage to an equal degree. Starsky blinked sleepily, taking pleasure in the total relaxation of his body in the sun, Hutch’s strength and love flowing through those hands into him, working unintentional magic. “Do you have any idea what you’re doin’ t’me?” he asked, tell-tale quaver in his voice.

Hutch’s voice had a smile in it. “How about a hint?”

“If a certain part of my anatomy had a razor on it, it’d be slicin’ through these swim trunks, right now.”

There was a note of silence and tension. “Same here,” Hutch said then.

Starsky rolled over. Hutch’s look was unmistakable. “This isn’t workin’, Hutch. Let’s go upstairs; put ourselves out of this misery.”

“Starsk– Is this really the right time to start out a relationship?”

“Okay! Okay.” Starsky sulked. “I’d just–like to lie down with you.”

“You’re reading my mind,” Hutch sighed, relenting. “I was thinking, I can’t wait for tonight, ’til we can get to bed finally, hold each other, at least. But–”

“I could use a nap,” Starsky said hopefully. “The sun’s makin’ me awful sleepy.” The sun was low in the sky, but who was going to quibble? He yawned widely. “I’m goin’ up. Wanna come?” When he got up to go, he didn’t look back. Hutch would follow, or he didn’t know his partner.

He went straight into the bathroom, hurrying to shower off the suntan oil and the chlorine from the pool. He came out wrapped in a towel. No Hutch yet. He pulled back the bedcovers, then moved around the room, closing blinds to mute the late sunlight. His hands were clumsy, a clear indication that he was nervous. But looking back at the darkened room, he was soothed by the peace it held. He took a deep, steadying breath.

Hutch entered, swathed in towels, and carrying–wonder of wonders–a bottle of champagne in one hand, two long-stemmed glasses in the other. “Present from Cochilar,” he smiled. “Bottle of Tim’s best.” He noted Starsky’s attire. “Did you shower already?”

“Had to,” Starsky said, watching his lover from, it seemed, a country-mile away. He had a shaky feeling of watching himself, too, from outside his body. “I was a grease-ball after you got done with me.” Not that he cared; he’d practically begged for the rubdown.

“Open the bubbly,” Hutch ordered. I’ll take these trunks off.”

Starsky smiled despite himself. It felt a lot like a leer. “Yeah, do us both the favor, huh?”

Hutch located a pair of pajama bottoms and exited. “Be back in a second.”

Pajamas? Starsky thought. Oh, well… Hutch was resolved to doing–or trying to do–this just as Starsky had asked. Can’t fault him for tryin’ to please me, make it work. I’m the one who said, ‘Business before pleasure.’ Only I can’t go through with it. I’m startin’ to know right where it counts that I do want to be more than friends with him. A whole lot more. It was tough making considerations for some crazy case at the same time he happened to be getting a little crazy for Hutch. He must be havin’ a tough time, too. Back at the pool, he was as hard as me.

He took off the towel and dutifully pulled on a pair of pajamas, tops and bottoms. It was 4:00 in the afternoon, and here they were, going to bed. Hopefully not to sleep… least not right away. I want him to hold and kiss me, just a little…

He opened the champagne, still quietly proud of the expert way he’d learned to do it. Hutch had taught him a lot, the big things and the small. “1966,” he muttered, inspecting the label. “Good year. For some things.” He’d been on his way to ‘Nam; had enlisted that next spring. He hadn’t met Hutch yet. Hard to imagine a time like that, long before ‘me and thee.’ Hard to remember how it was, facin’ the whole world, alone. Back then, he’d wanted it that way. Then he’d met Hutch, and–

A pair of arms came around him from behind. His shoulder and neck were kissed gently, and he was squeezed tight. His legs turned to licorice whips. Seemed as if he was growing more and more sensitive to Hutch’s touch as the minutes went by. Hutch’s lips brushed his ear, drawing a sigh out of him. He stroked the forearms across his middle, feeling the heat build between them. He waited, not daring to tempt more. Don’t rush it. “Want some champagne?” he asked, breathlessness betraying him.

“Love some,” Hutch said, moving to stand at his side.

Starsky poured, acutely aware of Hutch’s proximity. Eyes touching reticently, they toasted each other in silence. There was too much to say, too much to hope for. The taste of the sparkling wine reminded Starsky of Hutch’s mouth, clean, brut, full of natural poetry; a taste that called to his heart, and blood, and soul now; that he knew in this moment he would never want to live without. He knew what he wanted and needed. Was it the same thing Hutch wanted? “Are we forever, Hutch?” he asked, looking down.

The line in Hutch’s forehead furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?” the soft voice asked curiously. “There’s nothing I want more.”

“It’s like–” Starsky didn’t know how to analogize his feelings. “It’s like, before, I could never understand how two guys could wanna–marry.” He shook his head. That was all wrong. “Not that we’re gonna get married–”

“I don’t know,” Hutch said, with a smile. “Sounded like a firm offer, to me.”

“The thing is, I feel it,” Starsky explained. “That’s what I’m tryin’ t’say. Like the first time you fall in love for real, Hutch. It’s all new. Then, love starts turnin’ into some kind of impossible dream. You start to think, ‘Is it me? Have I changed?’ Only–only once in a blue moon you meet somebody. And that somebody makes it all new again for you. Understand what I’m sayin’? I-I wouldn’t want to give it up this time.”

Hutch’s eyes said he did understand. “I know what you’re saying. You’re saying it for me, too. I’ve been so high this whole time, I haven’t even tried to tell you what’s going on with me inside. But it’s exactly the same, Starsky. I want it to be forever, too.”

Just like him to find himself negligent in some way. “You’re doin’ alright,” Starsky said.

He picked up the bottle. “More to drink?”

“Bring it,” Hutch said. “Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable?” The blue eyes were sweetly engaging, impossible to say no to.

Getting in on opposite sides of the bed as usual, they helped prop each other on pillows. For the first time, they nestled together like lovers. There was contentment in it and the freshness of spring. They’d never lain together like this. Everything was new.

His friend’s sigh echoed Starsky’s. “This was always the best part,” he whispered. “Lyin’ here with you. Even before…” He felt Hutch’s nose sink into his hair, his companion making an appreciative sound.

“Did I ever tell you what your smell does to me?” Hutch asked.

“Not lately.” Starsky smiled to himself. “If ever.” A moment or two passed. Hesitantly, he stroked down Hutch’s bare chest and stomach, eyes following his hand. It was the first time he’d touched Hutch like this, first for a lot of things. “Soft skin…” He stroked back up to Hutch’s chest, squeezed the hard, polished plates of muscle. “Sure different.” Looking into Hutch’s eyes, he found them echoing his own impressions of discovery, the lines and planes of his face and body being carefully traced. He sighed under the gentle gaze. “S’gonna be a little hard,” he began slowly. “Layin’ here beside each other, both thinkin’ about what we’re not supposed t’be thinkin’ about, but we’re thinkin’ about it anyway. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it will,” Hutch said, trembling. “It will– Oh, God, Starsk–”

“So…” Starsky paused. “Whaddya say?” He waited, already knowing the answer.

Hutch’s hand slid across his abdomen, the touch going all through him. “I can’t say no,” he breathed, blue eyes hungry on Starsky, his desire stripped of any pretensions. The champagne, standing on the night table along with their two empty glasses, was forgotten. They began to explore the territory of each other with hurried care, able at last to take all they both wanted and needed, of each other, tasting each other, caressing, reveling in their intimacy. The spinning joy of lovemaking overwhelmed Starsky, and he folded his lover to himself, mouthing Hutch’s hair, tall forehead, proud nose; kissing his mouth with all the tenderness and skill he had, being kissed. His heart surged, wanted to burst. Ah, Hutch.

Hutch’s fingers moved down his shirt, unbuttoning him with clumsy haste, pulling the shirt off his shoulder and arm and impatiently aside. The blond head bent to his chest, fine mouth grazing across the fur there, creating heat with friction. The bright hair was like silk, a sensual luxury. Soft lips brushed down the center line of his stomach, then back, taking his nipple. “Hutch!” he sighed brokenly, on fire, watching Hutch move from one of his nipples to the other. “I like that…” His hand sought and covered Hutch’s sex, delineating the shape of it under the whispery, raw silk material, feeling the moist heat.

Hutch wasted no time. His own hand thrust eagerly inside Starsky’s pajama bottoms, weighed and circled and cupped. Starsky moved restlessly, wanting the contact as he hadn’t known he would ’til now. He caught Hutch’s eye. They both approved, it seemed. Their mouths met again, expertly, roughly, tongues touching and sparring. They parted and Hutch sighed his name. The tumid flesh under Starsky’s hand surged even more. He stroked the length of it, knew the urgency Hutch was feeling. He pulled away reluctantly from the fragrant mouth. It was hard to breathe. “Be back in a minute.”

Hair slightly mussed, looking like a tumbled piece of sunshine. Hutch nodded and let him go with a caress.

Starsky rose, his new lover’s touch lingering like embers on his lips and cock, his ass. He knew he was wanted, and he wanted to give. Glancing at the impossible-to-ignore tent of Hutch’s pajamas, he began to undress. With shaky lingers, he slipped off the shirt he was only half-wearing, loosening the drawstring on his trousers, bending at the waist to take them down. Freed, his cock stood away from his body. He handled it out of habit, soothing the deep ache.

When he looked up Hutch was looking at him in the way Starsky had seen at the photo session; letting it show. The narrow hips raised just enough to allow Hutch to slip his own pale-blue trousers down those long legs and off. Freed, his cock was the most awe-inspiring sight Starsky had ever laid eyes on, falling heavily across one gold-skinned thigh; the impressive centerpiece of a cloud of ash-colored hair and a pair of tight, blushing balls. It was beautiful, uncut, begging for attention. He took hold of it almost modestly.

“When you were with Don,” Starsky asked, hoarsely. “Did he–”

“No. It was all one-sided.” Hutch’s eyes traveled over him. “That what you want to do?”

“You have a lot more experience than I do,” Starsky said, keenly aware of his ignorance. “I just want to make you feel good, Hutch.”

Hutch stroked the sheet beside him. “We’ll make each other feel good. Over here.”

Starsky returned to bed, shared Hutch’s welcoming kiss before taking that 10 inches of man in his hand. Never before, babe… and never with anybody else. He pulled and squeezed several times, gauging Hutch’s reaction, and his own. Gotta make him wet; let his foreskin slip back and forth. He proceeded to do just that with only his instinct for loving to guide him. Never been with a man, but I know what he likes.

He bent over to cover Hutch’s hard belly with his mouth, his kisses, moving attentively down to the damp groin, tasting the sweat. He caught the clean, faint odor of male, of Hutch. The combination of enigmatic scent, and the sight and feel of the big cock so close to him, was sure-fire. His body echoed to Hutch’s, galvanizing helplessly for action. Nothing about the experience was the turn-off he’d expected back in those running-scared days; completely the opposite. He went further without fear, nuzzled the downy balls, feeling their weight and tension, brushing his lips across them, lifting them to lick under, rolling and pulling.

Hutch sighed, stirring. Starsky lifted his head to watch him enjoy, rubbed the head of the cock with his palm. There was moisture there, a lot of it. Curious about his ability to put the penis in his mouth, he touched his tongue to the rosy tip. It was clean as linen, tasted salty and sweet. He exposed the head, sucked it experimentally.

For the first time, Hutch’s response was plainly audible, echoing each light contact of Starsky’s lips and tongue. Finally, he thrust deeper, seeking more sensation and forcing Starsky to take that much more of his cock. Starsky uttered a helpless sound when it touched the back of his throat. Crazy… Insane. Like I’m doing myself. Hutch…

***

Hutch’s eyes blinked open, his mind blank with ecstasy. The day had been like a dream, and he thought he might be dreaming right now, looking at, feeling, Starsky. Mistaking the desperate sound Starsky made for discomfort, he pulled out. But his partner took him back instantly, and tried to take him all. Starsky’s need to love had obviously overtaken his naiveté. Unschooled, and not afraid to show it, he’d been too gentle at first, touching and toying with a cat’s lightness. Now he was more involved, more determined, brow deep in concentration, eyes hidden under lashes, his hand busy with his own cock.

They’d both lost the few inhibitions they’d had. Hutch sought distractedly between his lover’s thighs, eager to find Starsky’s cock. Except it found him, his friend blindly filling his hand with a need that matched his own. “Lie down,” Hutch whispered. “This way. I can get at you better if I–” The pleasure was white-hot, needed to be shared to be cooled.

His lover was all man; all Hutch had so guiltily dreamed about. Starsky had the most beautiful cock in the world, bending like rain-heavy wheat over a dark forest of hair and a bronze, ridged belly. He offered it, eyes asking, telling, needing, doubting. Hutch wanted to tell him “We’re in this together,” but showed him instead, with all the love he could never show before.

***

He emerged from a senseless void into a room that held the beauty of twilight. The world came back, slowly, more full of peace than he could remember knowing for such a long time. His heart swelled quietly, with pride, and the sharp memory of loving Starsky.

He looked down his body, found his companion’s close beside him. Starsky appeared to be asleep, breathing even now, his face still brushed with pleasure, absent. The sounds of their tumultuous completion still hung in Hutch’s ears. It had been the most fulfilling sexual experience he’d ever had. His whole body echoed with it. We came like one person.

He didn’t know whether to wake Starsky or not, badly as he wanted to hold him face to face and talk to him. He put his hand over his lover’s waist and just held it there, comforted by the slow give and take of breath. Can we still be friends? After that?

Starsky stirred. A hand sought and covered his. “You here?”

Hutch leaned up on an elbow. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Starsky looked at him, eyes soft and blue as a kitten’s. “You were beautiful,” he said.

“So were you.”

“Was it as good as you expected? With me?”

Hutch swallowed, trembling. “I have to tell you? Yes. What about you?”

“Nothing like I expected.” Starsky’s voice was dry, smoky; he was still drifting. “Never felt anything like that. Like we were one man, insteada two.” He sat up, face falling into shadow. “Like on the street. There for each other.” He squeezed Hutch’s hand. “Want me up there with you?”

“Thought you never would,” Hutch whispered. “Please…”

Starsky came to him, and they twined awkwardly, fitting arms and legs together. Hutch’s body still resonated with afterglow and a thirst that had been met but not slaked. He wondered if Starsky felt the same. Moments passed.

“You always come like that?” Starsky asked softly. “I mean–how many times do you?”

“Depends,” Hutch said, speaking against the cool tanned cheek. “Nine, ten.” They both chuckled infectiously.

“C’mon. Tell the truth,” Starsky ordered, still snickering some time later.

“Twice, usually. Three at the most when I’m rested. Morning after.”

“Yeah, same here.”

“You seem surprised,” Hutch noted. “I can still hold my own, you know.”

“No, it’s not that I’m surprised. S’just kinda difficult to imagine you doin’ that twice a night. If I hadn’t been there to stop it, Tim woulda had t’ hose down the walls.”

“Special case.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Starsky said. “Old Faithful.” He smiled into Hutch’s eyes, and just that was enough to evoke a not-very-deep-seated desire in Hutch.

“Uhh… Any objection to me–lying on top of you?” He hadn’t known how to ask.

Starsky looked surprised for an instant, but he said, “No objection,” and gave Hutch a lopsided grin. There was a great deal of understanding behind it. “After all,” he said, “I’m yours, right?” His arms–his whole body–opened wide. “Get down here, Blintz.”

They both gave a sigh of satisfaction when Hutch was settled.

“Am I too heavy?” he asked gingerly.

“No,” Starsky answered. “It’s okay. I like it.”

“Starsky. How can you be so… easy about all of this?” Hutch was unable to believe his friend’s relaxed willingness. “I thought you’d be more–reluctant. Especially when–”

Starsky knew what he meant. “Were you?” he asked, to the point.

“No. Hell, no. I couldn’t get enough of you.”

“Well, me neither, of you. It was love. Tastin’ each other, that’s part of lovemakin’. With a lady, too. And I certainly do that without complainin’. You, too, I might add.”

“About that.” Hutch had sworn it, to himself, long before now. “You can be with a woman any time you want.” Now he swore it to Starsky. Jealousy would never enter into this, spoil this gift. “I’ll never ask you to give up that part of your life.”

“One lover at a time,” Starsky said. “And for the next five or ten years, you’re It.”

Hutch was amazed. A part of him wouldn’t let him believe. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Think I’d say it if I didn’t?” Starsky asked, moving under him like an undertow. He was simply making himself more comfortable, but that wasn’t the only result; Hutch felt lightly dampened fires in his body coming to life, renewing passion and doubt.

“I know what’s going on in that blond head of yours,” Starsky whispered, his fingers rubbing soothingly at Hutch’s neck under the hair. “Don’t you know you’re worth loving?” he asked gently. “After today? What we gave each other just now?”

“Starsky, I’d resigned myself to never loving you. And I’m scared to let myself hope.”

“I came to you, didn’t I? That has to tell you somethin’.”

“Oh, God, Starsky,” Hutch breathed, looking over the piquant face, loving it. “It tells me everything.”

Gentle lips brushed against his. “Believe in me, babe,” Starsky urged. “Don’t ask me to play ‘prove you love me’ over and over. I’m here. I’m your lover. Believe it.”

Hutch took the mouth seeking his. Their kisses were turning out to be a joy renewed each time, a magnetic contact that seemed to bring their true selves together.

Starsky was eager to love him, hips lifting, poised expectantly for Hutch’s answer. Hutch gave the answer, then reinforced it. They began an intensely erotic give and take, bodies coming together slow and hard, synchronizing. There was fire in Hutch’s breast. So many ways, he thought fragmentally. We’ll delight each other.

ILLO 11: So many ways, he thought. We’ll delight each other.

They quickened, in the process proving that neither of them was a stranger to the oldest rhythm on earth. They both knew how to move to ensure, heighten each other’s pleasure. Starsky’s thighs gripped Hutch as if designed for just that purpose, maddeningly silky and muscled. Hutch felt his own busy ass being kneaded by strong, knowing fingers, Starsky pulling at him, uninhibitedly guiding his desires. His orgasm pulsed like summer lightning. He had no time to acknowledge its approach before it was there, jolting his body from head to foot. His helpless, tom-cat cry caught in his throat, but Starsky’s seemed to complete it.

The sound of his name drew out, harsh, prolonged, Starsky’s fulfillment obviously piercing, total. Hutch stayed with him until the shuddering stopped, watching with pride and awe, feeling his lover’s orgasm like his own, still echoing. “Was it that good for you?” he asked.

Burying his face in Hutch’s neck, Starsky nodded. His arms circled Hutch, loosely. Panting, they clung to each other, rolled onto their sides. “Ah, Hutch–” Starsky’s exclamation was shaky. “Better than before. We’re gonna break the record if we keep goin’.” It seemed that he, like Hutch, was just beginning to find out how overwhelming their desire for each other would be.

“It’s alright, isn’t it?” Hutch soothed. “Take it easy. Take it easy…”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Starsky sighed, eyes closed. His hand caught up Hutch’s hair, brought him close until their cheeks met. “It’s nice.”

***

Starsky woke to lamplight, the sound of surf, and Hutch, looking right at him. Supported on one arm, his lover was relaxed, glowing, hair more platinum than gold to sleep-hazed eyes. Angel watchin’ over me… Maybe you’re lettin’ me finally see your real self.

“You gonna sleep the night away?” Hutch asked, gently. “I’m missing you somethin’ awful, David. Really…” He leaned over and took a quiet, undemanding kiss.

Starsky couldn’t let him go at that. He continued the kiss, deepened it. Hutch was agreeable. His arms came around Starsky with smooth, warm strength. Incredible sweetness; Starsky knew himself welcomed, missed. He had never been held by a real angel, but Hutch was as close as he was ever liable to come. A small duel of tongues ended the kiss.

“Okay,” Starsky commented. “Think I’m wide awake now.” He blinked, trying to make it an actuality, bringing Hutch more into focus. “I must have gone out like a light. Did you sleep?”

“Maybe a half-hour. I was too excited to sleep. It was easier to stay awake watching you.”

Starsky peered over at the clock. A little after nine. “For two hours, Hutch? That gorgeous I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t take any heavy bets on that if I were you,” Hutch said.

Starsky looked at him, reading his expression. “Nice to be appreciated.” He cleared the gruffness out of his throat. “I’m dying of thirst.”

“And I’ve got to go the can,” Hutch announced. He started up. “There’s warm champagne, Starsk, and strawberries.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Hutch rose, and Starsky watched the big body move purposefully toward the bathroom, Hutch raking back his rumpled aureole of hair, the sun-tanned play of muscle in his back. Ahh, Starsky thought, heart quickening, his cock stirring instinctively in reaction to the sight. What three weeks ago would have been improbable now seemed a very natural thing for him. But why not? Hutch’s body was superb, in the kind of condition anyone–woman or man–could admire. His lover also had a grace, a beauty, that was very rare, and which Starsky had loved in him from the start of their friendship.

Besides, three weeks ago he’d been living another life. Tonight, he was a man who’d shown his most private self to another man. They’d shared their bodies with an intensity he’d rarely known in his life. Was it any wonder he found Hutch’s body intensely arousing? I’m getting hard just thinkin’ about you. The way you were doubting, you oughta see me now.

He sat up, poured himself a brimming glass of champagne. It was fizzy, volatile with warming, and tickled his nose. It was also, maybe because of his thirst, the most delicious thing he’d ever drunk, reminding him of today, of this room and Hutch.

In need of sustenance, he got up and went to the table. It was set with memories, the remains of their meal like a statement on how far they’d come since they’d eaten it. Starsky picked up a few strawberries. Pretty long way, he mused. He looked toward the bathroom door. For the first time in days, it wasn’t closed tight against him, but Hutch seemed far away. He’d been gone, what, four or five minutes? Wanna know how bad you’ve got it, Starsky? You miss him.

Then Hutch was there, coming out, turning off the light behind him. Frozen in place, 12 feet apart, they looked at each other. The full reality of what had changed came home just then to Starsky. Here they were, naked as children, and there was nothing to keep them apart: not job, not family, no rule in the book. It was like they were the first men this had happened to, their love for each other all they had to go by.

“Look at you,” Hutch said, trying a smile.

Starsky started breathing again. “Look at you.” No rules, nothing outside this room, no reason for them not to embrace. A few steps and they gathered each other in, fitting like a lock and key. Starsky noticed distantly that he was standing on the balls of his feet.

This kiss was as hungry as the first they’d shared that afternoon. Hutch’s skin was cool, heating under Starsky’s touch, responsive as silk. The large, spread-eagled hands were needful, all over him. Going behind…

Felt good. Not many women had ever touched and stroked him there. But he’d never been one to turn aside a new delight offered him by a lover. What Hutch was doing to him was definitely delicious, a stepping-stone in their hours-old sexual relationship. But did it mean that Hutch wanted to be inside him? He wasn’t penetrated, but he was gently probed. “I said nothin’ held back,” he whispered, restive, lips brushing Hutch’s ear. “Dunno if I’m ready.”

“We’ll go slow,” Hutch was quick to promise. “We’ll go as slow as we need to. Doesn’t have to happen right away.”

“But sometime,” Starsky sought. “You do want to?”

Hutch’s hands moved subtly to his waist. “Truth?” he asked, pulling back to look into Starsky’s face. “Yes. But not now. I’d like to make it part of us–part of what we give each other. I can’t deny I’ve been thinking about it…” Starsky could see the desire in his eyes, hear it in the way he was stumbling through his thoughts. “You don’t want to?” came the question.

“I didn’t say that,” Starsky said quietly, his slight apprehension easing in the face of another emotion. It was funny; he’d never had a chance to find out what it was like to be newly wed. But this, how he felt right now, had all the marks. Here he was, a virgin, suddenly. “I love you too much to say I never want to,” he admitted, rubbing his cheek against Hutch’s shoulder. Wouldn’t be true, anyway.”

Hutch was anxious, voice completely open and tender. “I know I can make it okay for you. I’m a good lover, Starsk–”

“D’you think you need to tell me?” Starsky couldn’t bear it, this proud man’s supplication. “You don’t need to say it–” His mouth–too rough, maybe–punctuated the words. Their bodies and their hearts, too, were touching, catching fire. Hutch’s fervent, searching lips and tongue seemed to be saying all he couldn’t put into words, and Starsky answered him in kind, trying to make it clear. I love you. And there don’t have to be any words.

Hutch was hard between them, tender skin over steel. When Starsky took hold of him, remembering what Hutch had liked before, he got carried to bed. No argument on his side.

They found the already familiar positions at opposite ends of each other, but there was a gift Starsky wanted to give first of all. He moved his own body out of Hutch’s reach, taking his friend’s cock in his hand, loving it, at ease with it now. He could sense Hutch’s gaze on him, heard clearly the soft expression of pleasure. Does your mother know you use language like that? He probed deeply with the tip of his tongue, deliberately setting out to make Hutch crazy, to love this seasoned man-flesh like it had never been loved.

A surprisingly gentle hand caressed him, paced him, taught him how best to please. The rest was pure inspiration on his part. He fluttered his lashes up and down the heavy column, used the glistening head of it to trace his own features, the shape of his mouth; a delicate nibble sent a shock-wave through his lover. He took it slow, noting each new peak of pleasure. The blond was making his feelings known. Having wonderful time, wish you were here. Starsky wanted to short-circuit him, push him to overload. As he bore down on the cock with his open mouth, his hand swept up Hutch’s lean body, found and teased and pulled the man’s hard nipples. The response was not unexpected, but still surprising. Hutch, already shuddering with pleasure, was both poignant and a little scary as he came, shouting with each wrenching ejaculation. Starsky took all of it he wanted, then used his hand, letting the rest spill over his fingers. He watched his lover shake, that beautiful blush suffuse Hutch’s tense face and heaving, sweat-sheened chest.

His head was cradled like some kind of treasure as he bent to finish his lover, pulling out all the ecstasy. “That’s good,” Hutch breathed, dazedly. “Christ, Starsky, where’d you learn to do that? Ah, God, take it all…” He groaned with sheer animal enjoyment.

Starsky had never heard his partner make any sound like it. When he drew off at last, the blue eyes opened, lost for an instant, then resting in his, satisfied and more open than Starsky had ever seen them.

Starsky’s heart warmed with the look. He found he loved giving pleasure to this pleasure-loving man, as much as he loved taking it for himself. He didn’t need to fish for compliments, but he did, after a few moments of quiet, to hear the words. “Reckon I’m ever gonna be any good at this?”

ILLO 12: Reckon I’m ever gonna be any good at this?

Relaxed, loose-limbed, and inelegantly sprawled, Hutch laughed. The sound was like a stream of bubbles. “Who knows,” he said, drowsily. “With a little more practice…” His expression was tender as he looked Starsky over. “You need me. Come here, beautiful.”

Starsky was directed every inch of the way until he straddled Hutch’s burnished shoulders. Awkward, maybe–both he and Hutch still were with this kind of lovemaking–but he was in a place he knew from past research he was going to like being. That the two of them would enjoy different positions had somehow not occurred to him, but he liked the idea. He was taken charge of, handled, brought to that exquisite mouth. Hands gripping the headboard, white-knuckled, he looked down, finding it hard to think or even breathe as Hutch toyed with him. His hips lurched forward helplessly in anticipation of better things. “Hey… I better warn you; I have a tendency to get carried away in this position.”

Eyes wanton and hot as a summer sky, Hutch blew a cool jet of air over his cock. “Plan on it,” he promised.

ILLO 13: I have a tendency to get carried away in this position.

***

“Ah, Hutch…” Starsky whispered. “Just hold me…” Dismounting, he snuggled down against Hutch’s body, asking to be accommodated. “Just hold me. Like that… Hold me.”

Hutch wrapped his arms around the moist, over-heated body, redistributing its weight as Starsky purred, totally satisfied, and spent. You love your loving, don’t you? he thought dreamily. God, you were made for it. Up to then still somewhat hesitant, unsure of himself, Starsky had given in to abandon. He had never seemed more himself than in the act of taking his pleasure. Plaintive, tender, earthy… Like any man, he loved having his cock sucked, but he had let Hutch know that it was special for him this time, better. It was apparent to Hutch that Starsky intended to enjoy sex with him just as he always had with women; whole heart, all his body and soul given to it. Decision made, he was able to indulge now without guilt. He behaved in bed like a man who’d always loved men, as if he’d never wanted anybody but Hutch.

“Tighter.”

Hutch obeyed. “Don’t go to sleep,” he whispered. “Take a shower with me, huh?”

“In a minute.” Starsky kissed his mouth sloppily, then his neck, then his ear, both hands insinuating themselves into Hutch’s hair. “Gimme just one second.”

Throbbing with love, Hutch would’ve held him all week if he’d asked for it. “Okay, hotshot.” He nosed his partner’s curls, catching remnants of fragrance. “I’m easy.”

“So’m I.” Starsky’s breathing evened out, slowed very gradually into sleep. After a brief catnap, he stirred a little, pelvic bones jutting against Hutch’s, then yawned. “A shower sounds like a great idea,” he murmured. “Never took one with you outsida work. Well, back at the Academy. But not as lovers.” The dark head lifted, Starsky’s look soft and warm, confiding. I’m havin’ a good time with you,” he declared. “Beside the fact that I’m crazy in love with you, and gettin’ more so by the minute…” His glance traveled over Hutch’s face, lashes sweeping down. “More every minute,” he murmured. “Believe me?”

Hutch’s heart had skipped at Starsky’s look, now pounded like a kid’s. “‘Til you tell me different,” he said.

“Wanna know the truth?” Starsky asked. “I’m already forgetting how to love anybody else.” He was sincere, serious. “It’s never felt so…” A pause, his thinking tangible. “Pure.” The word was spoken with wonder. “180 proof, Hutch, I never had it so strong, not even with–” He didn’t say her name. “Not with anybody. Did you? Goes straight to my head.”

Hutch would never press him about his feelings for Terry. “Ah, Starsk,” he breathed. “It goes to my head, too.” He sought a kiss. It was for closeness, not necessarily passion, and lasted several long, slow minutes.

“Better,” Starsky commented as the kiss ended. “Just think,” he muttered. “All the places we haven’t been to yet as lovers. Your apartment, my apartment. The drive-in… Late-night stakeouts.”

Hutch, finding all of it a terribly exciting prospect, began another kiss. Or maybe Starsky began it. He couldn’t be sure; only glad they’d come together again. The simple passage of time had never been so sweet. Minutes passed quietly, and they kissed non-stop. What was the hurry? Everything was here and now. They rested, and came back to each other.

His friend was giving; much more so than Hutch would ever have asked or expected. He’d exhibited no compulsion to underscore his masculinity–which had never been questioned anyway–or prove dominance. In the kiss, he followed Hutch’s lead at every turn. His style was dizzyingly inventive; scatter-shot, but one-hundred percent accurate. Contrary to legend (a legend Hutch had started himself), he was a very, very good kisser.

With a new rush of ardor, Hutch searched deeper into the yielding mouth. Starsky moaned, the sound touchingly defenseless. Hutch put two inches between them, to see. Starsky’s eyes were slits of tropical heat, desire caught unaware.

“Let’s go take that shower, Hutch,” he breathed.

Reluctantly, Hutch let him go and sat up. They helped each other out of bed, stood there stroking each other. Hutch was–not too surprisingly–just about erect. He noticed that Starsky noticed, the dark glance flickering over him.

“Okay, you win,” the soft voice commented. “Nine, ten times it is.”

Hutch laughed, secretly pleased. “I haven’t really been with anybody since way before we got to the island, Starsky,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I even worked up a sweat. Are you complaining?”

“You’re crazy. It’s just–not easy thinkin’ about anything as mundane as a shower when I see you like that.”

“Same here.” Hutch touched and traced one of the dark eyebrows. “We could shower separately?” He folded his arms.

“No way,” Starsky said. “Who said I wanted to think about anything else?” he demanded to know.

Hutch smiled at him, happy. Starsky’s eyes twinkled back at him, a blush across his cheeks. “Get in the bathroom,” he ordered. Then under his breath, “You conceited bastard.”

“What was that?” Hutch had heard perfectly well.

“Nothin’. You coming, B. D. ?”

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Hutch asked, following on Starsky’s heels–though they weren’t what he was looking at.

“Whaddya think?” Starsky parried.

***

Starsky used the head. Holding him from behind, Hutch didn’t move away, just kissed the fawn-colored nape. They were closer somehow, at this moment, than they’d ever been. Hutch understood it, the innocence of it, how incredibly new it all was; he knew Starsky did, too. All rules were broken. His partner, not inhibited at all, accepted his presence matter-of-factly, with not one complaint about invasion of his privacy.

Hutch switched on and adjusted the shower. Starsky came up. Hutch could feel his friend’s radiating warmth. He couldn’t resist the pull. With a sigh, he turned and wrapped his lover in his arms. “I can’t leave you alone.” He half-laughed at his predicament.

Starsky’s arms came up, around him, silk-furred. “If you need to hold me,” he said, “I’m here.” One hand stroked his hair. “Take my word for it, I know how it is. And it’s alright. Nothin’ to apologize for.”

“I love you. And I just realized I’m no candidate for a closet.”

“I think people make their own closets t’hide in, babe,” Starsky said. “Maybe.”

Hutch sighed. “And maybe sometimes they find them ready and waiting.”

“What’re you saying? Why should we stop touchin’ each other now? We had that before we ever thought of bein’ lovers.”

“As soon as we set foot on the mainland, Starsky, the fantasy’ll be over. Can’t nothin’ change that fact.”

“I got news f’you.” Starsky scanned his face seriously. “This is no fantasy. Why don’t you wait ’til the war’s declared before you start fightin’ the battles?” He gave Hutch a quick, meaningful kiss. “Cmon, already. Let’s stop thinkin’ about the what-ifs.” He pulled back the translucent curtain. “Get in. I wanna shower you.”

Hutch obliged, taking Starsky’s waist once he was in to steady his partner. The water fresheted over them both, silver spray washing away the physical results of their lovemaking.

Starsky eschewed the washcloth, sluicing Hutch down with his hands. Business-like at first, his touch became a series of appreciative caresses. Hard to prevent that from happening, Hutch found, as he soaped Starsky’s chest, belly, and sides.

“You’re like some kind of big, golden animal,” Starsky decided absently, sliding a soapy-wet hand across his chest. “Never thought that much about you being bigger than me.” He was looking up from under his sopping black hair, head tilted slightly to one side. “Actually I think you like being taller,” he said. “Easier t’hand down the Hutchinson wisdom from up there.”

Hutch laughed. “Wrong, gordo. S’got nothing to do with it.” Feigning a move for the soap, he caught Starsky in a kiss and embrace, forcing his lover’s head and neck back, checking his strength, but rendering Starsky a quiet captive. After a moment, Hutch released him from the clinch. “Another hint?” he asked, feeling the effects of the kiss himself.

Starsky caught his breath, loosening his grip on Hutch’s sides. “Hell, no.” He brushed his wet mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wide on Hutch. “Wish I were taller. I could do that to you.” His expression said that he wasn’t going to let what he lacked in height stop him from paying Hutch back. Like being measured by a sexy imp. “Two lousy inches.”

“I don’t want you any taller,” Hutch said. “I like your size, Starsky. And your shape. And your coloring. I even like these.” He fingered both of Starsky’s ears, chuckling. “I can’t imagine you looking any other way, so don’t ask me to. You’re just right.”

Starsky’s crescent grin was teasing. “But didja ever wonder? How things might’ve been totally different if I’d been taller than you? I mean, what if–?”

“Let’s not start that. Turn, around. Let me do your back.”

“That’s not all I want you to do, big boy,” Starsky rejoined, turning around.

Hutch admired the broad, tanned shoulders and back, the clean lines and curves; the heart-shaped bottom he found so fascinating that when Starsky walked away from him, he couldn’t take his eyes off of it. His cock always seemed to want to follow. He stroked the water-slick ass with both hands, paying homage to fine skin and dense, lively muscle. His desire stood, insistent and distracting, between his own body and his friend’s. His heart pounded, and he closed his eyes. Ah, Starsk… I want to be inside you. We don’t know how much time we have. He pressed close, letting his sex find and nestle in the deep dividing line that separated Starsky’s tight-knit cheeks, his whole self concentrated on the sweet, burning contact. An incredible, runaway fire–Call it lust, Hutchinson, because that’s what it is–built in him. He could force the issue. Right now, he wanted to. Starsky, eager to please him thus far, would go along. But, thinking of his tender lover, of Starsky’s relative innocence, he knew it would be wrong to rush things. No matter how he felt inside, a gentle, timeless learning was right for them.

“I love you,” he whispered, using the words to tame his need.

Starsky’s hands reached back to rub his flanks soothingly. “I can tell.” There was a silence behind the quiet words and after. “You can fuck me if you want to.” The familiar voice made the offer a tone poem of anxious love.

Hutch couldn’t speak at first. And Starsky correctly interpreted his silence.

“Don’t worry about–about hurtin’ me. Or thinkin’ I can’t handle it. Just do what you wanna do. It’s gotta happen. We’re lovers.”

Hutch grit his teeth. “Not now.” It was too soon.

Starsky turned as Hutch had been half afraid he would. The nearly-violet eyes grilled him. “You think I don’t want to? You’re wrong. I do. I want to find out what you feel like. Everything… Good or bad.” He held Hutch’s upper arms in a firm grip. “I’m not a scared little rabbit. Give me credit for knowin’ what I want. And when.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, eyes locked in Starsky’s, letting go the breath that had been trapped in his lungs. He nodded. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

Without exchanging a word, they took the time to dry one another carefully, blotting each drop of water. Starsky moved around Hutch to dry his back, his ass and thighs. “There’s K-Y in the medicine cabinet,” he said behind Hutch, finishing. Early in their stay, Hutch had had to tell him what it was there for.

Every muscle in Hutch’s body was tensed. “I’ll get it. You go on in.”

Starsky took a towel and slipped through the door into the outer room. Hutch watched him go, then went to the sink and opened the cabinet above, fumbling the tube out. He dropped it twice, feeling incompetent. “You should’ve asked me if I was ready, Starsk,” he muttered, catching a glimpse of the anxious man in the mirror before heading into the bedroom.

Starsky was stripping the bed of its sheets. “I knew you wouldn’t mind,” he said, when Hutch entered. “I mean, we might want to save ’em, put ’em in our scrapbook.” He smiled crookedly, briefly. “Or somethin’.” His expression waned into a seriousness that Hutch figured must match his own.

“Clean sheets are–nice,” he offered, touched by the consideration behind changing them, but awkward with the situation. “I wouldn’t have thought of it.” He stopped, lamely.

“Here, help me with this,” Starsky said, examining him. “Darlin’.” The word was soft.

They re-made the bed with sheets the color of maize. The last flap had hardly been smoothed before Hutch was tenderly ambushed and urged in. In what was probably an attempt to relax the atmosphere–and his lover–Starsky rolled back and forth across the bed with him, ending up contentedly in Hutch’s arms, lying warm and heavy over his belly, sharing the addictive taste of that seckel tongue. The toe of one foot, establishing a sweet habit, delineated the outside bone of Hutch’s ankle.

“Hutch, it’s really alright,” he murmured when they pulled apart, looking down into Hutch’s face, causing shivers with his voice. His lips touched Hutch’s ear then, and he spoke.

Hutch thrilled at the words, Starsky’s whispered proposition. Hunger stabbed his heart, and he groaned a disjointed reply. “Ah, yes… Please– Come here… You want it?” He engulfed Starsky’s mouth in earnest, pushing him back, climbing roughly over him. He couldn’t find his gentleness now, hands skimming Starsky’s thighs, then brusquely managing restless hips. His tongue scorched Starsky’s neck and chest and belly, and he handled the heavy cock and balls peremptorily, forcing arousal, getting it.

Starsky gave passion for passion, always capable of sharing, his hand exciting Hutch in return. But Hutch had the sensation, from what was doubtlessly fact, of overwhelming his love with his onslaught, of not being really fair to him. Sighing with remorse, he stroked Starsky’s furry chest and stomach, took a nipple gently with his mouth, switching his focus to providing pure pleasure. He had given Starsky this delight before, and continued patiently until his honey-skinned companion was purring shamelessly, upper body arched toward him.

He raised his head at Starsky’s rough caress of his hair, kissed the fingertips that strayed over his face. “I hear you,” he whispered. He looked down Starsky’s body. The club of sex in his hand glistened in the dim light from the bathroom. He went to it, knowing how his lover would taste and smell, how he would react to the lightest touch.

Leaning on an elbow, Starsky raised a dark, downy thigh to allow him access. “Give the caterpillar a feel,” he murmured, but questioningly, as if reticent to suggest something so frivolous in light of the situation. He was still carefully gauging Hutch’s attitude.

Realizing this, Hutch didn’t hesitate, brushing the sleek sex with his mustache all the way down, feeling the response, blood vessels knotting under his lips, the slight breath taken in. He put his mouth on Starsky, the essence there making him a little dizzy. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered against the subtly answering flesh, stroking it with his fingers, grasping it at its base. He breathed along the slick surface, then slowly took it all. “Jesus…” Starsky hissed above him, thrusting deep and hard, pulling out slow.

Hutch let him set their pace, but drew the line at Starsky’s hurried finish. There, he took back control, wouldn’t allow the conclusion.

Starsky’s eyes opened. “Didja hear me complainin’?” he sighed, set adrift.

“No,” Hutch said. “That’s what I want.” He fondled his partner’s velvety testicles, tugged at the pliant skin with his teeth.

Starsky lifted his hips, caught up in pleasure, his rough expletive definitely to be deleted. Hutch’s tongue traced the shape of the balls, the length of the underside of Starsky’s thick penis, teased the head. He returned to the gathered balls, lifted them, sucking them one after the other into his mouth to Starsky’s delight, swooping below to lick the clenched join of his lover’s ass.

Starsky grew attentively still as if experiencing a brand-new feeling, basking in it. He opened wider for Hutch, who, after touching the tight opening with his middle finger, sank it slowly into Starsky’s mystery. The ring of muscle surged, as Starsky, already breathing hard, uttered a short, wondering sound.

Progress in and out seemed easy, effortless, despite Starsky’s pristine snugness. I‘m his first. And only. Hutch took incredulous joy in being inside him even to this small degree. Starsky was presenting no obstacles, totally absorbed in him, in being given yet another new pleasure. “Go ahead,” he commanded. “Ah, darlin’… There ain’t nothin’ t’be afraid of…”

Hutch complied with more assurance, penetrating Starsky until his hand was flush against his lover’s bottom. He concentrated on the top of Starsky’s straining cock with his mouth, keeping the pressure on sensitive nerves constant in the moments that followed, neither building the pleasure to a climax, nor letting it die.

Starsky bucked, trying to escape the torture but obviously loving the struggle. His broken sighs tore at Hutch, leaving wounds of desire down inside him that burned, weren’t to be denied.

Except he did, letting the seconds pass relentlessly, without releasing his lover–or himself–to orgasm. He wanted to take a long time to do this, to guarantee his partner satisfaction. As if there was a doubt of it. Look at you… You move so good. Dance with me… Take what I offer… His free hand brushed sweat from Starsky’s steamy pubic area, swept across the flat, hard belly, feeling it tremble. He slipped a second finger into Starsky, his mouth sculpting tight circles around the head of his lover’s sex. He drew out the fluid Starsky was providing and applied it to the whole cock, working downward until bushy fur prickled his lips.

Starsky shouted once in naked ecstasy, hips taut, fingers digging into Hutch’s skull. “I’m gonna come–” he growled, his grip on Hutch forcing the friction he needed. Hutch retreated, aware of what he was doing. A soft groan of disappointment escaped from his friend, and the hot eyes found him. “Hutch…?” A slender hand reached for the cock Hutch had left alone, but Hutch took it away, kissed the sweaty palm.

“What’re you doin’ t’me?” Starsky asked without much voice.

“Shh.” Hutch trailed his lips down one of the muscled thighs.

“Then it’s your turn.” Starsky was concentrating on him when he looked up, gaze burning in Hutch’s, the man deep in the intensity of their lovemaking. “Bring it here.”

There was a gentle threat in Starsky’s directive. Hutch was surprised at the shiver of desire it caused in him.

Starsky treated his cock to sweet torment for what seemed like hours, until Hutch, knowing his limits, pushed the dark head away. He changed position, kneeling by his lover, one hand on Starsky, reaching for the tube of lubricating jelly with the other.

Starsky took it from him, opened it, dribbled some of the fluid across his fingers, rubbing them together to feel the texture. “Nice.” He spread it on Hutch, leaving a thin gloss. “How’s that? More?”

“No,” Hutch breathed. “Better not.” He would have liked nothing more, but he needed a moment, just a moment, to regroup.

“All the more reason,” Starsky said, hand busy. “This night-stick a’yours.” He spread his thighs instinctively, inviting Hutch closer, using Hutch’s engorged cock as a rudder to steer.

Hutch lifted the slim hips, settled them–and most of Starsky’s weight–on his thighs. “This way?” he asked, heart churning out butterflies.

Starsky’s body curved feverishly, drops of sweat meandering down his heaving belly. He was obviously beyond making any judgment calls. “Anyway you want–” he offered.

Hutch picked up the K-Y, squeezed a liberal amount onto Starsky, whose breath caught at the cool sensation. Hutch pushed it inside him, feeling the trembling readiness, the moist heat. He centered his lover, preparing and positioning him carefully. The moment was precious, once in a lifetime, and he didn’t want to hurry it. As he paused, he handled his lover’s cock, bringing it to hardness. Starsky sighed, stroked his forearm with acceptance.

He was waiting; watching Hutch, breath hurried. The expression in his eyes was lovely–scared a little, but curious, intrigued, fascinated with the process. Hutch leaned over him and began to penetrate with painstaking slowness. The eyes he was looking into closed tightly. His own eyes drifted shut at the impact, the reality of his physical joining with Starsky. Me inside you. It was the answer to a question he would never have conceived of asking. All this time, it was you.

He was hesitant at first, considering his partner’s virginity, but there was too much need in both of them to wait. No room for fear or pain; his lover, pulling at him, impaled himself to the hilt of Hutch’s waiting cock, as if unable to bear another second apart. One cry… and it reached Hutch’s heart from the inside. Their eyes opened at the same moment, held.

ILLO 14: Their eyes opened at the same moment, held.

Hutch breathed; sheathed, received. “Starsk… My David…” Overwhelming, this first taste of real man-love. Propped on his arms, his whole self was intent on the one point in the universe where he and Starsky were undeniably together. Hard to tear his eyes away from the place… He bent to kiss his friend’s gasping, parted mouth, and was held, clung to.

Given permission, he moved. Starsky exclaimed at the stepped-up intrusion, wordless protest flung at the ceiling. Hutch could hear the mingled pain-pleasure in his friend’s voice, wanted to believe the pleasure was more. “Want me to stop?” he asked shakily, aware that he was unprepared to take “No” for an answer. Plunging deep into this never-tasted sweetness, he knew he was incapable of stopping now. “Tell me, if–” But not now, love, please! Fingers raked up his back, dug forcefully into his shoulders. He was held captive, intimately aware of Starsky’s acceptance.

Starsky tried to catch his breath under the insistent demand of Hutch’s body. “Don’t stop– Ah, God, Hutch… Not yet–” His voice had altered with the threat of tears. He was so beautiful, thighs spread wide and vulnerable, Hutch lost control of his frayed emotions, of the restraint he had tried to bring to his lover. He pounded without mercy, and Starsky asked for none. For the first time, he moaned with unmixed joy, a single masculine sound, like the plucked bass-string of a guitar. Somewhere inside him, the impending storm broke and the rain was there in his eyes. He raised his head, brows knit, eyes wet, just to look, hands keeping Hutch firmly with him.

“Fuck me…” The words slipped out with a breath, unsolicited, involuntary. He didn’t have to say them. His desire was plain in the unflinching way he moved, the way he accommodated Hutch.

Starsky’s appetite was a kind of coercion. Hutch was as much being taken as he was taking. He groaned, suddenly freed of doubt, the person he was with asking for what he most needed to give. His body quickened, mind hazed with fire. You feel like—everything you are.

The pleasure was an undoing like nothing he’d ever known before, or dreamed he could know. It was strong wine; thick, honeyed, so dizzying he couldn’t think, only helplessly, lovingly act. What he and Starsky were sharing had nothing to do with what happened between a man and a woman. This was deeper, a mystery unfolding some of its answer with each eager transition of his flesh into Starsky’s. The solution–that was what they’d been moving toward all along, and it was in them, in this coupling of their separate bodies. They worked to achieve it, joined by their sweat, reaching into each other, almost there.

Starsky exclaimed, and Hutch raised his head worriedly. But his lover was being satisfied by him, Starsky expressing his feelings without shame. Touched, Hutch replied, his voice and Starsky’s mingling in a way that was their own. They shared one mind, one heartbeat, one goal, the pleasure dictating what it required, where they were headed.

Delirious, Hutch reared back on his heels, pulling Starsky to him, legs over his shoulders, kissing the insides of both knees. He took hold of his dark lover’s impatient sex, introducing a practiced counter-rhythm made to order for Starsky. He played his lover like an instrument, making Starsky his, striving for both their satisfactions. So close… Only human, he couldn’t delay the outcome for another second.

Starsky stiffened and time waited–an eternity, an instant–for this perfect man to orgasm. At last he shot, haphazardly, spattering his own chest and belly and Hutch’s. His violent shout was indescribable. There was bright water in his eyes and confusion, as if he were perplexed himself about what was going on inside him. He was nature, coming from his center, from ground zero, shock waves spreading, reaching out for Hutch, blowing him away.

He was washed in white light, the beauty and force of it channeled through him into Starsky. The light didn’t scorch or sear. Neutralizing every shadow of their past and their future, it revealed the depth of their love. So simple, the solution. Me and thee. The sublime moment held–so long, Hutch assumed he was dying. It had never happened to him before exactly like this, and he cried out Starsky’s name, desperate, awed. Experiencing his orgasm on a million levels, each with its own shading of joy, he knelt transfixed as the flood of light dissolved into precious fluid. Unable to contain it or even understand it, he let it free.

He fell with Starsky, an unrepentant Lucifer. They lay still for a very long time in a kind of sudden extinction. Beyond a soothing murmur against his lover’s mouth, Hutch couldn’t express what he felt. The man beneath him was sobbing, silently, quivering. He kissed tears away, tasting them. “Why’re you crying?” he whispered.

Starsky caught a breath. “You don’t know?” he asked. “That was– It–”

“Hush.” Keeping him close. Hutch rolled them onto their sides. He was spent, the most satisfied man on earth. I must be… I’ve got you. His hands found and stroked Starsky’s vulnerable back and ass. “My love…”

One blue eye opened, the other obscured by the pillow. Starsky had never–not ever–looked at Hutch in the way he did now. “If that’s what gay love is all about,” he breathed, “then I’m gay.” A deep sigh. “An’ happy to be.”

Hutch kissed him. It was a soft, sweet contact, like kissing a child. “This isn’t about ‘gay,'” he said. “This is about you and me.” He felt like crying, too. “What you give me–”

Starsky kissed him back, mouth loving, giving. He brushed his nose across Hutch’s mustache. “I loved you inside me,” he admitted. “I love you, Hutch.”

***

Starsky remembered a case, few years back. Him and Hutch being reeled in for a stone set-up-only they hadn’t known it at the time. They’d been after a couple of creative hit-men, part-time fishermen who specialized in chartered death rides. He and his partner had gone down to the marina to snoop around on the suspect boat. It had blown up in their faces.

They’d hit the deck together, Hutch covering him. Starsky remembered squinting out through a curtain of shining hair, threads of it tickling his nose. He remembered like today the smell of Hutch’s faded cologne, the sweaty leather of his jacket, exchanging rushed breaths with him.

This moment was like that one, resurrection after some heavy action. Still together, still alive. He lay amazed in Hutch’s arms, sheltered and protected, knowing how much he was loved.

***

The ceiling above the bed had blushed salmon-pink with dawn; the chill salt breath of morning freshened the room with its smells of sex and sweat. They lay side by side, watching each other, regaining separate identities after sharing another orgasm that had shaken the boundaries between their souls. I like it that way, Starsky mused. Him in my mouth, me in his. A last, sleepy effort to show their love and need for each other. An’ I lost track of myself, like before; but it’s so damned good with him and me. Too good to ever give up.

It had been some time since he’d made love the whole night through. He noticed that Hutch, pulling the covers over them, had faint blue lines under his eyes. He’s exhausted, and so am I… “Over here, sweetheart,” he whispered, using a real endearment for the first time. “You’re not sleepin’ alone.” They wrapped each other up tightly under the sheet, plaiting arms and knees. There was complete safety and peace in the embrace, in Hutch’s sleepy presence. You’re home, Blintz. This is where you belong. With me.

The satiation Starsky felt was singular in his life. Emotionally and sexually, he was filled, at one with the man holding him, and with the whole universe, every want and need satisfied. “You’re mine,” he sighed, unreservedly cherishing, unreservedly cherished.

Chapter 7: The Minotaur

Starsky awakened to sunset. The day had rolled around without them. A bird was singing, like an invitation to come share the evening, and, at the moment, food had preempted sex as a necessity. But he was too comfortable, for now, to rise. Stirring made him realize how sore he was–indisputable proof that he hadn’t dreamed everything about yesterday and this morning–but he felt at ease beside Hutch and deeply happy.

Remembering brought a brief, ironic smile to his face. He reached for his lover’s cock, not wanting to wake Hutch, but needing to reaffirm his right to this intimacy. He took gentle hold. Hutch was responsive even in sleep.

You fucked my ass, and I loved it. I loved it, Hutch. I could never tell you or anybody else how it was for me. Like finding out what makin’ love is all about. Man, woman, gay, straight—bein’ together only really makes sense when’ it’s with somebody you love.

He sighed, looking over his partner’s introspective face. Okay. I’m part of you like I never was before. It felt good. Hutch. I ain’t ashamed you loved me like that, or that I enjoyed it so much. Seemed right. We were meant for each other. The idea had a renewed clarity for him and a piercing sweetness. We’re lovers, Hutch an’ me. This one man I love—have loved—with every part of me. And he loves me the same… He’s said it and showed it. Everything tells me… His look, his touch, his loving… The thought brought heat to his cheeks, his groin.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Wake up and talk to me.”

“Mn-mn.” The sleeping face turned toward him, lips smacking gently as Hutch licked them, thirsty in his sleep. Starsky’s mouth drifted near the warm invitation.

“If I brought you a big, frosty-cold glass of papaya-orange juice, would you wake up?” He touched his own lips to his partner’s. “Hm?”

“I’m parched,” Hutch said. “Anything–” The long-lashed eyes blinked open, sleepy, but already smiling to their depths.

“I wanted to hear your voice,” Starsky said. He paused for a moment, suddenly shy. “We slept all day.”

“You’re something to wake up to,” Hutch murmured, reaching for him with both those big hands, cupping his face, thumbs delving into his hair.

“Tell me more,” Starsky urged him, feeling as tender as a Sunday morning. “I wanna hear.”

Hutch was all smiles, a sun shining in the dim twilight they shared. “Last night…” he said. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Starsky swallowed, involuntarily. “So were you, for me.”

“Was I?”

Smiling, Starsky nodded. “Stop fishin’ for compliments, Blondie.” Sweet contact, Hutch finding his lips for a wake-up kiss.

“Are you okay?” When they’d parted, gently concerned eyes searched Starsky’s face. “Physically, I mean.”

Starsky laid his head against a welcoming shoulder. “Well, I’m not a virgin, anymore, that’s for certain. But I don’t feel any different. I thought–”

“What? That you’d wake up wearing a tutu and toe-shoes?”

Starsky snorted. “No. Actually I thought I’d be pregnant.”

They laughed, and Starsky snuggled into the warmth. Possessive hands caressed his back, a finger tracing his spine up then down.

“What time is it?” Hutch asked, yawning.

“I dunno. Uh… Eight-ten, by the clock over there.”

“Benton was supposed to be picking us up at nine. Maybe he forgot.”

“He doesn’t strike me as the kinda guy who makes a point of bein’ punctual,” Starsky commented.

“I sure hope not. But I’d better give him a call.”

“Not yet, hm? Let’s have breakfast in bed. A big one. I’m starved.”

“More like dinner in bed,” Hutch replied, long thigh rising under the sheet, arm stretched out expansively.

“We’ll have that, too,” Starsky said. He brushed his knuckles absently across Hutch’s jaw. “Do you realize we haven’t either: of us shaved since day before yesterday?” Raising his head, he observed the faint peach-fuzz of stubble on Hutch’s chin. “You gonna grow a beard, too?”

“Anything you want,” Hutch said, amiably. “Grow my beard down to here, cut my hair…”

Starsky stroked the cool, heavy strands. “Don’t dare. Besides, seems to me nature’s takin’ it outta your hands. ”

“Oh, I’ve got a few years left,” Hutch said. He took up a handful of Starsky’s curls. “You, on the other hand–” Starsky had noticed that his partner seemed to like the difference in texture and color of his hair. The fingers stayed, tender, appraising. “My lover’s hair is a thicket of black roses,” he said, dreamily.

It was like something out of the Song of Solomon. Starsky would remember the moment, Hutch’s poetry, for the rest of his life. “You an’ your words,” he whispered. “Charm the birds right outta the branches.”

“It helps having a love in my life who deserves the words,” Hutch said, solemnly.

Starsky basked in the emotion, looking over the patrician face. “You deserve ’em, too,” he said. “Only– Only I’m not so good at–”

Hutch touched him. “I can see it in your eyes, Starsk,” he said. “Whatever you feel…”

Their kiss was soft, pleasingly familiar. And too short.

“There’re some things I gotta do,” Starsky said when they’d separated. “We’ll pick this up in a little bit.”

“Deal.”

Starsky rolled over, turned on a lamp. As he headed for the bathroom, he heard Hutch pick up the phone and begin dialing.

He came out some minutes later feeling better, clean and fresh-shaven, wrapping a towel around his waist. “I’m hungry,” he announced. Hutch was hanging up the phone, a slight frown touching his forehead. “What’s the matter?”

Hutch’s face cleared. “Uhh, nothing. Benton says it’s still on for tonight. He can’t pick us up, though. They’ll be expecting us around 9:30.”

“Okay,” Starsky said. “Y’know, here we’ve been, up here alone for hours, but I don’t wanna see anybody.” He found Hutch’s eyes on him and stopped, feeling slightly awkward. “Anybody but you,” he added, before smiling. “And maybe a medium-rare steak.”

Hutch was leaning on an elbow, sheet around his middle. “I can survive a while longer on just love.” He sprawled there like a lazy lion, golden-skinned, blue eyes deep, luminous. “Man doesn’t live by bread alone, Starsky.”

“Absolutely,” Starsky said, splashing on some cologne. “But man also knows when it’s time to chow down.” He turned to look at Hutch. “I’m starvin’, babe.”

“Oh, I see,” Hutch said, teasing. “You want something to eat.”

“S’right. Meat and potatoes. Gotta build my strength.” He glanced slyly around at Hutch.

“Uh-huh.” his partner agreed, watching him. Hutch smiled seductively, face glowing in the soft light. “Speaking of meat–”

“Hutch?” Starsky warned, feigning sternness. Only they both began to laugh, spoiling the effect.

A silence fell, and Hutch grew serious. “I’m hungry, too,” he said. The desire was like being gut-shot, its impact felt across the room. Starsky knew his partner wasn’t talking about food. “Come over here,” the one-of-a-kind voice ordered, sensual music in it.

You’re dangerous, Starsky thought. Impossible to resist, even if I wanted to. He approached the bed, loosening and tossing aside his towel as he did so, and Hutch took firm hold of him. His lover began to suck him as he stood there. He watched for a few moments, then closed his eyes, throwing his head back. It wasn’t possible; this shouldn’t feel twice as good as the day before. He’d assumed that when the newness began to wear off a little, sex with Hutch would seem–if never routine–at least, prepared for.

It wasn’t to be. He’d never gotten this hard, this fast, or felt this good getting there. Hutch knew where and how to touch him, the insistent variations he liked. “You’re good to me,” he whispered, eyes blinking open, giving off the heat that was building to pressure point inside him. “So good, Hutch.” He hissed as a tongue-tip skewered him. “S’yours…”

Lust raged in his mind, and he began fucking Hutch’s mouth crudely. He hadn’t treated Hutch this way before. Their sex had been–the only word to describe it was lyrical–so far, tender and passionate, not rough; not done apart from any sentiment. But this primal darkness was a part of them, too. They could show each other everything, the bright and dark and all the colors in between. Strong fingers pulled at his ass, and he almost fell over.

Hutch stopped him and looked up. His eyes said what he wanted. He made room, and Starsky got into bed with him. They hugged and kissed, got lost in each other. It was easy. When Hutch pulled away a little, Starsky followed, too involved to distinguish one move from another, eager to continue. Hutch stroked his thighs, asking his permission, already permitted.

“Need me?”

Starsky breathed out carefully. “That’s an understatement.” Blood turning to steam, he watched Hutch prepare for the act of love. It was still new, even knowing how it would be. And it was strange; he had no desire yet to take Hutch. The kind of love they made seemed correct, ordained. The truth of that, the reality of what Hutch was coming to mean to him, overwhelmed him. “Still can’t believe it,” he whispered in Hutch’s ear. “I was scared of this, scared to death.” He tried to catch his breath. “Think I’m unusual, liking to be fucked from the first time?” He’d heard that some gay men didn’t enjoy it at all, even after many times.

“I think you like being fucked by me,” Hutch said, looking at him, clear eyes full of love.

“You know I do.” Starsky sought a kiss, desperate for the taste of Hutch’s sweet mouth, tightening his arms around his lover. The phone rang suddenly, knifing through the mood.

***

Hutch looked at his lover. Tousled, achingly vulnerable and needful, Starsky was disappointed. Hutch sighed, grasping the beautiful, exotic face. You really want me. You want what only I can give you. So damned honest in your desire. He was disappointed, too.

The phone rang again intrusively, and Starsky sighed. “We were just gettin’ started,” he complained. “You gonna answer that?” He didn’t wait for a reply; they both knew the necessity. He reached over and picked up the phone with one hand, rubbing Hutch’s shoulder with the other. “Yeah.” His expression changed, shadowing, brow furrowing. “Who is this?”

Hutch’s body went instantly on alert. “What’s up?” he asked.

Starsky beckoned him up to share the phone. He listened in. It was a woman’s voice, and it was unmistakably Oriental in flavor. Olivia Fukuda? Benton’s Japanese assistant?

“…the two of you should know this. Benton is aware that you’re detectives. It wasn’t too hard for him to figure out why you’re here. I’m warning you, you’re walking into what could become a very unpleasant situation.”

“Knows why we’re here?” Starsky asked, very still, eyes finding Hutch’s.

“About Danny Corliz.”

“Benton killed Daniel Corliz?”

“Benton does what Robert tells him to do. He doesn’t object to murder. He views it as an artistic exercise. Robert indicated that he wanted to make an example of someone, and Benton took it from there. He hired some men to dispose of Danny, and he filmed it all.”

Now they knew who’d sent the letter and film to the FBI. “What’s in this for you, Olivia? Is this a warning or a set-up?”

“A warning. Danny was a friend of mine, and there was nothing I could do. This time, there is.”

“It doesn’t fit, Olivia,” Starsky said. “You’re working for the man who killed Corliz. Why the hell should we believe what you’re tellin’ us?”

“Isn’t it enough that your covers have been blown? You have no choices. And my reasons are really none of your business, are they?”

It was indeed enough that their cover had been blown. Starsky caught Hutch’s eye. “Tell us the whole story.”

She told them. For the first time it was possible to grasp the whole picture–the titanic drug war going on between Tito Hermiez and Robert Erba; Daniel Corliz, who’d tried to play both sides against the middle and had lost, a victim of war and not the first. Benton’s was, according to Olivia, the chillingly objective eye behind the film of Corliz’ murder and several more. She knew the location of the original prints and negatives; she knew names and places directly related to both Hermiez’ and Erba’s operations.

“Would you be willing to testify to all this in court?” Starsky asked.

“Ask me again, tomorrow,” she said, the implication being that they might not make it to tomorrow. “I would probably say yes.”

“What’ve they got planned for us?”

“I’m not certain. Watch out for Zachary Grezzi. He’s Robert’s strong-arm.”

That was food for thought. “Olivia, we need specifics.”

“This isn’t a birthday party with paper hats and a clown. I’m trying to tell you that you won’t leave Micasa alive tonight if you’re not careful.”

“Are you in any danger?”

“No.”

“One more thing. How involved is Tim Marx in all this?”

“Tim is harmless. His only fault is that he allows Tito to dominate him. It’s the whole basis of their relationship.”

“Does she want off the island?” Hutch asked.

“I heard,” Olivia said in response. “And I’m going to take a wait and see attitude.” There was a slight exhalation on her end of the line. “Take care, gentlemen.” The connection was broken.

Hutch drew away as Starsky hung up the phone. They stared at each other for a very long time.

Starsky swallowed dryly. “Damn,” he grated at last, succinctly.

The word and the heavy sigh that followed it expressed everything Hutch was feeling right now: the pain, the sense of duty–of being reminded of that duty–the fear of losing.

But he felt more. The crazy-quilt of emotions coalesced into a sudden, overwhelming desire. He was shamelessly hard, needed to make love to Starsky now.

Starsky whimpered as if Hutch’s thoughts had been transmitted instantly, with all their impact, to him. “Come on,” he urged, presenting his body to Hutch. There wasn’t any time for gentleness or care. Hutch fumbled for the lubricant, could barely spare the time to apply it to himself before he penetrated his lover.

Starsky accepted him, as hungry as he was, plainly needing him in the same way. “Hutch…” It was an exhortation of love.

Their union was hard and frantic, hurried. It had to be. A few short, jarring strokes and it was over, too soon. Hutch lay there, shuddering, without peace. He panted, miserable at having–he felt–used Starsky. “I’m sorry… I came so fast– I’m so sorry, Starsk.”

“You’re beautiful anyway,” Starsky murmured. “You know that?” He mouthed Hutch’s hair. “I’m here for you, babe. I’m always gonna be here for you. I need you.”

Hutch raised his head just enough to find Starsky’s eyes. He’d been married and divorced, known countless women, but he’d never felt for anyone what he felt for this man. It seemed banal to say it. “What’d I do to deserve you?” he asked, floundering in his feelings.

“I could ask you the same question,” Starsky replied simply. He tugged at Hutch’s hair. “We got work to do. Kiss me, then go get ready. ‘Member what Tim said about havin’ a good-lookin’ corpse.”

Hutch sighed. “He said who gives a shit about the corpse.” But he did as he was told.

When he returned, Starsky was up, still naked. He’d pulled out one of their suitcases and was rummaging through it. He turned to greet Hutch with their guns and shoulder-holsters in his hands. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he said by way of explanation.

“Yeah,” Hutch said. The explanation was redundant. He dressed in white T-shirt and slacks, deep in thought. What if? That’s his question. What if everything doesn’t come out right? God, what if I lose him? Now, so soon after finding him? He eyed Starsky, knowing somehow his thoughts were shared. I won’t lose you. You’re the love of my life… I—

“Hey,” Starsky said, looking him over. The admiration in his eyes was honest and devastating. He smiled softly, the child inside him peeking out. “You’re just as sexy when you’ve got clothes on.” He approached Hutch, took gentle hold of him. “How’m I gonna work with you every day, huh?” Looking toward the future, he was, in his own way, letting Hutch know he intended to have that future. “I hadn’t thought about it, ’til now.”

Okay, Hutch thought. “Nothing to it,” he answered. “We’ll just wear blindfolds all day.”

***

Starsky washed away the traces of Hutch’s lovemaking with a warm wet cloth. He was thoughtful. When this is over, there’ll be time. Plenty of time, babe. We’ll be together all day, every day. And at night… Every night, we’ll go to sleep in each other’s arms. Not a care in the world, Hutch. You’ll see. It’s gonna be alright.

Hutch was on the phone in the bedroom, pencil and note-pad in hand. “That Dobey?” Starsky asked, dressing. He received a nod.

He studied his lover and friend while Hutch talked, thinking about what the two of them were walking into. His partner had buckled his shoulder-holster on over a T-shirt, and slipped a loose, white cotton shirt over that. Hutch in white… a knight in shining armor, pure of heart. I love you. Nothin’ held back. Wish I had more time to prove it to you.

“Okay, Cap. Will do.” Hutch hung up the phone, sat there as if totally alone, brow creased in thought.

“What’d Dobey have to say?” Starsky asked. “As if I didn’t know.”

“He’s asking the Coast Guard for some help, and he’s contacted the FBI,” Hutch muttered. “But he won’t have much time to mount an operation. He’s working as fast as he can.”

“In other words, we’re on our own,” Starsky said. He shrugged a little, and attempted a smile. From the way it sat on his lips, he could tell it hadn’t come off successfully. “Me and thee, huh?”

Hutch regarded him, gravely. “There was never anybody else.” He threw the pencil he’d been using forcefully across the room. “We should’ve left this stinkin’ playground days ago.”

Of course, it was all his fault. “Sure,” Starsky said. “And let Robert Erba and Tito Hermiez slip right through the cracks, like they’ve been doin’ f’years. This is our case, Hutch. We still got a good shot at makin’ it come out.”

“Starsky, a year and a half ago, you were shot. You almost died. You did die, sweetheart, and now…”

“Nobody’s dead yet,” Starsky said, more sharply than he’d really intended to. “And I, for one, don’t intend to go down without kickin’.”

Hutch sighed harshly. “I didn’t say you were going to.” He lifted his hand, trying to make the point clear. “I want to protect you, Starsk, that’s all.”

He was suffering inside. Starsky let up on him, knowing how he felt. “You have protected me, Hutch–as much as I’d let you, and more. I don’t need to be reminded. I wanta protect you, too, y’know. That ain’t a one-way street you’re on…” He paused. “I’ve watched you dyin’, too.” He wanted to touch Hutch, to fold himself against the long, sun-browned body, but dared not. If he did, there wouldn’t be will enough to do what had to be done. “Let’s get going,” he muttered, steeling his throat against the emotional quaver in his voice.  

The bright head lowered, no less bright for that. Then, Hutch’s voice, out of shadow, “Okay.” He stood and walked toward the door, but stopped as he passed close to Starsky. His eyes had become quiet, resolute. He leaned close to Starsky, and they kissed.

The kiss supplied the barest taste and warmth of each other. “That’ll have to keep us goin’,” Starsky muttered, feeling it.

Hutch looked into his eyes. “Hold the thought.”

The house seemed very empty as they moved downstairs. They met Cochilar under the atrium at the center of the house. Starsky asked her about Tim. If Erba knew the two of them were cops, then Tim was in as much trouble as they were–not least for bringing them to the island.

“He’s seeing Senor Hermiez, Ira,” Cochilar explained. “On the boat. I have not spoken with him since yesterday morning. The house has been very lonely.”

Her statement embarrassed Starsky a little. She must have known what was happening between him and Hutch, locked in their bedroom for two days. He kissed one plump cheek. “Take care of yourself, y’hear? Save some of those corn-meal muffins for me. Lots of butter.”

“Si,” she smiled. “Lots of butter. And the blackened fish you loved before.”

“It’s a date. An’ I’ll wait on you hand and foot, darlin’.”

Her laughter followed them, but not far enough.

***

Night swallowed the road ahead. The black sky above the open Jeep was heavy with stars, cold looking. Neither of them said much at first. Starsky offered his hand across the front seat, and Hutch, who was driving, took hold, glad of it. They drove on that way, lost on some kind of limbo road between life and death; riding the oblivion express toward a single vanishing point.

Hutch shook away the dark thoughts and concentrated on the slim, strong fingers twined with his. They were his life-line.

“Our one advantage is they don’t know we know they know,” Starsky said, out of nowhere.

“Yeah,” Hutch grumbled. “We were expected to come waltzing in there like a couple of queens on holiday. They were just going to wait and spring the joker on us. Except now, we’re in on the joke, too.”

“You got a plan?”

“We wait and see,” Hutch said, looking over. “That’s it for my plan. What’s yours?”

“Mine had something to do with the cavalry comin’ in the nick of time.”

***

They pulled up in front of the tree-shaded gate at Micasa. “Dig the muscle,” Starsky observed under his breath.

The husky type behind the barred gate had roan hair and mustache, a soldier’s detachment, packed a not-too-discreet .44 in a shoulder-holster.

“Dearson and Snow,” Hutch informed the man laconically. The guard spoke into a speaker-phone just to the right of the gate, nodded. He made no move, but the bolt shifted audibly in the gate-lock. The soldier swung it wide, beckoned them through.

“Controlled from the main house,” Starsky noted. “Not the gate. Neat.”

The driveway curved for a while, then straightened into a broader avenue. Palms lined it, bowing artfully over the pink gravel-bed. They could see the house now, an immense aggregation of wood and glass that looked as light as gossamer, like a box-kite touching down. It was all brightly lit, as if the host was throwing a big party.

An inviting trap, Hutch thought. Let’s hope Olivia wasn’t just winding her watch about all this. As they approached the house, they caught a glimpse of the pool, lit by bright torches.

“It’s as big as a friggin’ football field,” Starsky exclaimed. There were quite a few figures, some obviously nude, lounging around the pool, swimming. “Get the feeling we’re the entertainment for the evening?”

“And I forgot my sheet-music,” Hutch commented. The drive took them under the house, below ground-level. There were a half-dozen cars parked already, room for at least a dozen more. The entrance was at the rear: an open wrought-iron gate and foyer, softly lamp-lit. There was no one to greet them, just a TV monitor perched above in which their own images looked back at them.

They entered cautiously. A spiral stair led to the ground level. They could see the bone-white of the ceiling, hear voices and soft music.

Starsky took the stairs first, and Hutch followed. They came out into a vast, open living space, all creamy, sculptured furniture and carpet, one wall an unlimited view of the pool, and beyond it, the ocean.

There was a circular glass bar in the middle of the room. Benton was sitting on one of the tubular chrome stools around it with Olivia–who sat like a tiny barn owl dressed all in white–on the stool next to him. Benton saw them and made a gesture of greeting, rising to meet them.

“Hi there, guys. Bobby’ll be inside in a minute or two.” He checked his watch. “Uh, have a drink or something? A toot?” He indicated the snowy tray he’d been leaning over.

“Nothing, thanks,” Hutch said. He was looking at Olivia, who sat very still, showing no awareness that they were even in the same room. He walked over to the window, looked out at the activity around the pool. Pretty boys–and the men who lived for them. He turned to look at Benton. “Party?”

“No, no,” Benton said, smiling. But Hutch could discern his eyes straying under the dark lenses of his shades. “Usual Saturday night. The vibes stay the same, see, just the people and faces change.” He joined Hutch at the window. “Bobby likes having the bodies around. I don’t mind it either, actually.”

“Benton.” It was Starsky, standing at the near wall under an enormous black-and-white photograph. “Who’s this?” He stared at the picture, then at Hutch, and Hutch joined him.

The subject was a little boy, naked, standing pensively on a beach, a shell cupped in his hand. His blond hair was back-lit, gray eyes straightforward. Hutch understood Starsky’s question; there was something familiar about the slender, beautiful child.

“Guess you didn’t know Bobby was married, once upon a time,” Benton said. “He took that photograph of his son, Don, when Don was, I guess, eleven or so.” While Hutch dealt with the shock of that–of realizing he had made love to Robert Erba’s son–Benton went on. “Bobby was a ‘serious’ photographer. Far more serious than I’ve ever been.” He laughed sharply. “I just wanna make money at it. I stopped thinking of myself as an artist when I was about thirteen.”

Hutch could tell he wanted to be contradicted, but said nothing. Nor did Starsky.

“You’re a rich artist,” Olivia said suddenly, tapping her Sherman’s against a huge brass ashtray on the bar. “So am I. We don’t need to wear hair-shirts about having a lot of money.”

“I can hold my head up as long as I’ve got style.” Benton sipped his white wine. “That’s two things David Hockney and I have in common.” He looked then beyond Hutch. “Oh, Bobby. Your guests are here.”

Hutch turned. There was nothing anticlimactic about the man who’d entered the room. If Robert Erba was a monster, he was–to be honest–a magnificent one. No, Hutch revised, feeling the shock of coming face o face with an almost mythic figure, the force of the man’s powerful presence. No, Robert Erba was a beast who wore the guise of a handsome, superbly conditioned and vital human being. He was a bull of a man, attired in blue cotton-knit shirt and khaki shorts. Mid-forties, Hutch would guess, square-jawed, mahogany-skinned, shock of blond hair graying. He wore a heavy platinum Rolex on his wrist.

Zachary Grezzi stood at Erba’s shoulder. The Italian’s eyes went first to Starsky, then to Hutch, shards of gray-green ice. Hutch stared back, still vastly unimpressed by the man.

Erba smiled as he came forward, overwhelming, an actor, Paul Newman-eyed, exquisitely pampered without looking soft. One of his eyebrows–the one on the right side–was scarred, nicked by a blade, or a bullet, maybe, once. The scar seemed to indicate an underlying capacity for danger in the man. And deep inside, a waiting stillness that was death.

His handshake was unrelenting. He held Hutch’s hand in his paw all through their introductions, and Starsky’s, when his turn came. His voice was big, rocky in texture.

“I’m glad to meet both of you,” he said, lines creasing the weathered skin of his cheeks. He looked from one of them to the other. “You two are everything Benton said you were.” The statement was double-edged, intentionally or not, uttered with a smile. His blue eyes inspected them with unbelievable candor, unblinking.

He’s a camera, Hutch thought. Lenses for eyes. He’s seen it all, but he wants more; he wants to see the whole damned universe, drain the life out of it with his eyes, so he can project it on a screen.

“Come on,” Erba invited. “Sit, down. Sure you won’t have a drink? I’ll open a bottle of Fermier de Guiz, my own label. You’ll want to sample that, I am absolutely sure.” He glanced at Zachary. “See to it, Zach. Then come back and join us.”

ILLO15: (B&W) Erba and Grezzi

They all reseated themselves in the conversation pit, near the wall of glass. Olivia sat down beside Starsky, Benton to the right of his employer. Erba spent a few more moments examining Hutch and Starsky as if they were paintings. “Are you sure you two have never done any acting?” he asked with great curiosity. “No acting experience? Modeling?”

“No,” Hutch answered, feeling a little as if he’d been plunked down onto a TV talk-show panel–against his will. “Never considered it.”

“I notice how you move, Leif,” Erba said. “More like a soldier than a businessman. There’s a controlled quality there that I like. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a purer, cleaner blond.” He directed his attention at Starsky. “And you… I could look at you for a solid year, I think, and never get bored. Coming from me, that’s high praise.”

It was obvious to Hutch, and no doubt to Starsky, too, that the man intended to toy with them for as long as he cared to. He’d probably dined with Daniel Corliz the night before Corliz was murdered, joked and laughed and flattered. The man spoke as if thinking aloud, sharing his thoughts with no apparent inhibition. And all the time he knew they were after him.

“And the two of you together,” he went on. “You’re a walking dialectic, fascinating visually, psychologically… Too much.” Lighting a cigarette, Erba sat back and played with his lighter. “I guess I have Tim to, uh, thank for bringing you here,” he said.

Benton nodded, tapping his chair-arm, rhythmically. “I told them how impressed you’d be.”

“I am impressed,” Erba said. “More than impressed.”

Hutch had stiffened inside at the remark about Tim, but didn’t let anything show, or try to catch Starsky’s eye. No need to; he could feel Starsky in perfect tune with him. The way it used to be. This was dark-alley time, and they were one mind in the middle of danger.

A slim, dark boy of perhaps seventeen, dressed like a house-boy, appeared in the high, arcing doorway to their right. “Dinner is ready to be served, Mr. Erba,” he said, softly. “Mr. Grezzi says to tell you the wine is chilling now.”

“Thank you, Teo.” Erba beamed around at his guests. “Shall we?”

They all moved through the archway into a lovely dining room open to the night sky. There was a tropical garden and a shallow pool, two brilliantly colored parrots content on their perches. The rustic table was beautifully–and simply–laid; flowers and plain white porcelain at each place. Zachary reappeared and joined them.

Everyone was seated by Robert, Hutch at his left-hand, Starsky across the table at Erba’s right. He was the kind of man who liked to hold court at his table, dominating it, larger-than-life. As he told them about his island–how he’d acquired it, built on it–there was pride in his face and voice. Pride, in fact, seemed to be his watch-word. He was proud of his films, and spoke at some length on the subject.

“I don’t produce sleaze,” he said. “I categorically refuse to do anything second-rate–though even that’s hard work, and I’ll grant you there’s a place for it, somewhere. But don’t lump my films in with Higgins’s or Weinstein’s. Compared to those guys, my films are practically cerebral. But I contend that my movies are more erotic because of that, not less.” He attacked his meal with grace and gusto, explaining it all in detail as he went: the paper-thin slices of fresh-caught fish, chunks of deep-red tuna and snow-white octopus meat, strips of seaweed called nori, pickled ginger, cucumbers, carrots, and white radishes. All was accompanied by various sauces, among them a fire-hot concoction called wasabi.

Hutch sampled one or two of the ingredients, but Starsky didn’t, eyeing all the trays of raw seafood with faint distaste. For him, it was going to be a long, hungry evening.

“Try the octopus,” Erba suggested. “Ambrosia of the sea.” He rolled a small portion of rice into a ball and smeared it with a dab of wasabi, topped it with a cube of octopus, then wrapped it all in a strip of nori. He offered the sushi to Starsky, who was already refusing.

“Thanks, no,” he said. “I’ve had all the octopus I ever care to.” He contented himself with the vegetables and rice.

Erba laughed, and offered the morsel to Olivia, who also refused. He asked her something in apparently fluent Japanese. She answered with a monosyllable. The smile left Erba’s face for a moment before he returned his attention to Starsky and Hutch. Then it came back, sardonically. He went on with the former topic of conversation. “I happen to be proud of my body of work, gentlemen. I’m a genius, not some slime working out of a sex shop down on the Strip. And if I haven’t produced the definitive gay masterpiece yet, I will. There’s no doubt of it in my mind.” There was a strangely chilling pause while he picked up the cloth napkin beside his plate and wiped his fingers with it. “I also think that you, Leif and Ira, could have given me that masterpiece.”

Could have? Hutch could feel Starsky’s imperceptibly increased tension from where he sat.

“What do you mean, ‘could have’?” his partner asked, exterior calm and blithe.

“If you agreed to work with me,” Erba said, by way of explanation. “Benton tells me you’re by no means certain.”

“No,” Hutch stated. “We’re not. There’s a lot to consider–”

“Of course. I know damned well you have reservations. Not many respectable guys are ready to drop their, uh, personal barriers with a camera and film crew looking on.”

“Amen,” Starsky commented seriously. Hutch had to wonder if his lover was thinking of Daniel Corliz, too.

Erba chuckled as if deeply pleased about something. “Wait. Let me tell you how I work. Zachary, why don’t you pour the wine for us now? It ought to be well-chilled.” Zachary rose to his task. Top man. Erba looked at Hutch once again, eyes penetrating. “You know what’s important to me? Respect. That’s what’s required when I work with someone. Mutual respect. It’s not a one-way street. There has to be a certain amount of respect between a director and the people he chooses to work with.” He paused for effect. “He chooses. Now that choice implies trust, gentlemen. I have to trust you, and you have to trust me. Implicitly.”

“I trust you, Dad.”

Everyone looked toward the doorway where the cool voice had come from. Don was standing there. He wore a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words “World War III.” “I’ve always trusted you,” the young man said to his father, smiling pleasantly, entering in his casual way. And then the thrust of a knife-blade. “About as far as I could throw you.”

“Don,” Erba said deliberately. “This is not the time or the place for a father-son discussion.” Obviously, there was already much tension between them.

“No place better than the dinner table,” Don said, sitting down at the foot of the table, directly opposite his father. “Anyway, I’m hungry. I came for the food, not the lecture.” The gray eyes found Hutch. “Hi,” he said, expression softening. “What’s new?” He glanced–only briefly–at Starsky, then back at Hutch. “Everything all right?”

ILLO 16: (B&W) Don with Starsky and Hutch

Hutch nodded, sensing a warning in Don’s obviously unexpected arrival. Was he actually trying to warn them? How much did the boy know? His appearance here could not have been accidental.

“You two know each other?” Erba asked tautly, his eyes glued to his son.

“Oh, in a manner of speaking,” Don said. “Not as well as I hoped. But I know him.”

Erba was no doubt wondering what–if anything–Don had revealed to Hutch about him. His face had changed. Several moments passed in a strange tense silence.

“Why don’t you just pick up and go, Don?” Zachary grumbled. “Your father is conducting business here.” He looked to Erba for guidance like a big hunting dog, but didn’t get it. He glared back at Don, barely able to contain himself. “You’re a spoiled brat.”

Don ignored him. “Got any complaints, Zachary, talk to my father, not me. He’s the man who made me what I am today.” He looked up, around the silent table, and laughed. “You know, this is pretty dull even for a business meeting. Why don’t you pour us some wine, Zach, make yourself useful.” He glanced at Hutch, revealing nothing. Yet somehow it was a warning.

Zachary’s eyes flicked again to Erba, who could not or would not acknowledge him. He reached for the opened bottle, breaching and chilling in its silver bucket, took a long-stemmed glass and filled it with golden liquid. But he didn’t offer it to Don. The glass sat there, catching points of light, everyone’s attention focused on it.

Hutch had begun to see. It’s the wine…

Don picked up the glass, looked at it. “It’s really beautiful.” His face was beautiful, too, graced with a sad smile. “What’d you always say, Dad? Tastes like the man you love on the tip of your tongue. “”

“Don’t drink that, Don,” Erba said flatly, with a threat in his voice.

Don gazed at him. The moment stretched out.

Hutch caught Starsky’s eye, found his own perceptions there.

“Why not?” Don asked. “I’m thirsty.” There was no answer from Erba.

“Why not, Dad?” Don pursued. “This wine is one of the few good things you can claim any responsibility for! You give it to your friends. Why shouldn’t I drink it?”

Erba’s words were clipped. “Because, I’m asking you not to.”

“You’ve got to be joking. You lost the right to ask me anything a long time ago.”

Erba was beginning to lose patience visibly. The cards he’d been holding were being taken out of his hands, the game plan changed. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Don–obviously, so maybe you’d better reevaluate. If this is just another one of your childish stunts to hit back at me–”

“It runs in our family,” Don interrupted, anger finally touching his mouth. “Not knowing what we’re doing. I don’t know what I’m doing right now; you didn’t know what you were doing that night in Puerto Vallarta when you raped me. Jesus Christ–” His eyes blazed startlingly with unleashed hurt. “You got on your knees and apologized. But I was fifteen! And I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

“Goddamnit, Don!” Erba exploded at last. “How dare you bring this up here and now?!” He seemed to rein himself in but only with tremendous effort. “Now, I’ve asked you to leave. Do you want the embarrassment of having yourself thrown out of here bodily?”

“Embarrassment?” Don asked with total disbelief. “You’re an incredible bastard. I don’t understand you!” He suddenly knocked the wine glass and the bottle off the table. “Let’s just cut to the action. You want me to reevaluate? Well, here it is. The crummy wine is loaded, isn’t it? Quaaludes or acid, maybe something worse.” His eyes were riveted on his father. “You found out who these two guys were, and you were going to turn their heads sideways and let Benton do a number on them while you sat back and pretended not to know what was happening. Just like with Danny!”

There it was, the whole case, pushed right into their faces.

Erba said, “Zach,” then, very quietly. That was all he said, and the big man’s hand made a lightning-quick move for what was inside his shirt. He wasn’t quick enough.

Starsky was already covering him–and Benton–while Hutch had gotten the drop on their “host.” They’d acted together; hadn’t even looked at each other.

“Put it out there on the table, Zach,” Starsky ordered, standing. “And don’t try anything without givin’ it some serious thought, first.”

Zachary sat frozen, his eyes on Starsky, possibilities leaping like rabbits in them. He’d never shown much intelligence, and he did exactly what Hutch expected him to do. He dropped and rolled and went for his piece.

He and Starsky fired at the same instant, but it was Grezzi who lay still. Starsky’s jaw worked, brows like a black cloud. The pain was always real.

Benton kicked back his chair, and was heading straight for the door.

“Hold it, weasel,” Hutch warned, one eye still on Erba. “Sit back down.”

Hands raised, Benton returned to the table and sat.

Hutch got up and patted Erba down, and Starsky did the same for Benton as a precaution. Both were unarmed.

“Mind telling me what is going on here?” Erba demanded to know.

“Betrayal,” Olivia said without emotion. She hadn’t moved the entire time and barely stirred now. “Or justice. Depends on how you look at it.”

“I don’t know what it is you think you’re accomplishing,” Erba said to the detectives. “I have five armed men in and around this house. They heard that shot, and they’re positioning themselves outside this room right now. You’re kidding yourselves.”

“I think the advantage is ours, Erba,” Starsky said. “We’ve got you, and they’re gonna have to come through you to get to us. Think they’d shoot the guy who’s payin’ their salary?”

“I hope you’ve been real nice to them,” Hutch added.

There were shouts outside, and activity. Hutch motioned Benton, Olivia, Erba, and Don, to the wall. “Keep out of the ‘way,” he ordered. “Bullets aren’t selective.”

Starsky dashed to the doorway so quickly it was hard for Hutch to follow his movement. Immediately, he was fired on. He returned fire, then slipped back behind the door-jamb.

“Like he said, Hutch. Two, maybe three out there, carrying semi-automatics. I think a couple more are coming around.” He pointed out the directions in the non-verbal shorthand they’d developed over the years.

Hutch moved outside to the guard-rail of the terrace, snuck a peek over the edge. Two figures–definitely armed–had just stolen around the corner of the house and were sidling along the foundation-wall in his direction. He tracked their progress as best he could, thoughts not far from Starsky behind him. The others are going to rush him as soon as they think I’m busy. Gotta get these two out of our way…

It was hard to see without exposing himself. Depending on his radar, he stuck his neck out and fired blind, ducking back in a hurry. There was a harsh yelp, unmistakable, but only one. A choppy burst of return fire pinned him down.

“Hutch!”

“I’m here! What’s going on? Can you see?”

“I think these turkeys’re waitin’ for the others to get into position.”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” Hutch promised. “Be right there.” He went down as one bullet then another struck the wall above his head. It was at that juncture that he heard Starsky’s gun firing rapidly. Erba’s other men were making their move. He had to dispose of this guy behind him and quickly. Right now, there was nothing outside of that thought. He existed only in the present; no before and no after, his world reduced to a series of simple actions. Reloading his gun, wiping sweat from his brow, rising to his knees in readiness…

There was a small potted plant beside him. He hefted it in one hand, then tossed it off the terrace to draw fire. He got it: a staccato ejaculation from the shrubbery that clarified his adversary’s position. This would probably be his only chance. He rose and fired. There was a harsh cry, but he wasted no time investigating it, running back to rejoin Starsky.

Starsky looked at him, relief in his eyes. “I got one of ’em, too,” he said, breathing fast. “Just now. Two more outside, gettin’ pretty impatient.”

“That’s three down,” Hutch said. “What about the people around the pool?”

“They all cleared out,” Starsky said, checking his gun. His body brushed Hutch’s, warm and hard, comforting. “This’d be a good time for Dobey to drop in, pay us a visit, huh?”

“Yeah,” Hutch nodded. “He wouldn’t even have to call first.”

“You two are already dead.” This from Erba, coldly furious from his safe corner. “Don’t you see that? It doesn’t end with me.”

“Shut up,” Hutch said, shortly, too busy to listen. He grasped Starsky’s shoulder. “You keep them occupied. Make them think there’s still two of us in here.”

“While you?”

“While I go around to try and pick them off. It’s the only way, right?”

“And why you, not me?” The blue eyes riveted him.

Hutch’s hand moved to caress the side of his lover’s face. “Because I thought of it first.” They looked at each other for an attenuated moment. Then Starsky agreed; not with words, but by turning his face into Hutch’s hand. A gentle pressure and he was all business again. “Be right back,” Hutch told him, going before he couldn’t.

He jumped off the terrace, stumbling a little before darting into the darkness. Behind him, Starsky was disguising his retreat with a pattern of gunfire.

He ran around the house. The pool area had emptied out, and there was no one else in sight. Entering the house again from the pool area, he found the spacious hallway unoccupied except for Teo, the houseboy. The kid’s eyes were wide with fright and a need to understand.

“It’s okay,” Hutch reassured the boy in Spanish. “Go take cover somewhere. Quick.”

Teo nodded, jerkily, then ran down the hall in the opposite direction.

Hutch continued carefully his own way, guided by the rapid reports of guns firing. The semi-autos surged frighteningly then into dominance; Starsky was reloading, Hutch knew at once, but that was no comfort. His partner was overmatched.

He came to the end of the hallway; stopped at the corner. Taking a large chance, he stole a brief look. Two men–the mustached muscle-man from the gate, and another swarthy Latin type–were taking turns firing into the rooms Starsky held. Hutch had a clear shot at them. But an eerie pause in the wall of noise brought a moment of profound silence. There was a shout that sounded like Erba’s, and then a shot from Starsky’s gun. Hutch hesitated, analyzing what he’d heard. The two guards looked at each other; like him, trying to figure out what had happened inside.

“You okay, Mr. Erba?” the gate-keeper shouted. There was no answer. He motioned to his partner. They were going in, crouching warily. But Hutch wasn’t going to give them the chance…

“Police! Freeze! Drop your weapons!” They turned his way, surprised into stillness. He’d exposed himself to give the warning, and had no delusions that he was safe. “You want to die for this job? Then drop ’em.”

“Your buddy’s probably dead, cop,” the Latin said. “You’re all alone.”

Hutch steeled himself. “I’m still a cop.” His heart pounded when he saw Starsky coming out behind the guards, stealthy as a cat. The efficient Beretta found its way to the Latin’s temple.

“You better listen to him,” Starsky suggested. “He’s smarter than you are. Put ’em down.” The guns went down, clattering harshly against the tiled floor. Starsky kicked them away. “Up against the wall, sweethearts,” he ordered. “Hands on top of your heads.” He assisted them without a shred of politeness.

Hutch approached, still wary, gun held stiff-armed in front of him. Bending, he picked up the guns, stood there, adrenalin surging. “Anymore of you assholes out there?” His voice was hoarse.

“No,” the mustache said. “Somebody’d be dealing with you right now, if there were.”

Hutch ignored him. He couldn’t believe the sweetness that being near Starsky again brought him. He took a moment to catch his breath. The reality of surviving wasn’t sinking in. “What happened with Erba?” he asked, finally, looking at Starsky with renewed sight.

“He jumped me,” Starsky said. “Pulled something out of a John Wayne movie. My gun went off, took a bite out of his side.” His hand brushed Hutch’s almost accidentally. “Find somethin’ t’tie these guys up with, huh?”

“Lay ’em down,” Hutch said, then complied with Starsky’s request, going into the dining room. Benton stood near the window, head in hands. Erba sat on the floor against the wall, wide awake and silent, blood soaking the right side of his shirt.

“I offered to help him,” Don said. He was sitting at the disordered dinner table. “Make some kind of gesture… He said he didn’t want any help.”

Hutch checked the wound, and Erba didn’t protest. “Just a nick,” he said. “Bullet passed clean through.”

“Lucky for me,” Erba said, looking at Hutch as if he wanted to decimate his face, glittering eyes like a hungry man’s. “Nobody else ever came close,” he went on, the words an intent growl. “Not even close.” Obviously the evening had ended far differently than he’d expected.

“Better get used to the idea,” Hutch said. “You’re about to take a heavy fall.”

Erba shook his head. “I’m a man who always has a course of action left to him. Always. Remember that about me.”

Hutch rose, beginning to feel exhausted. “It’s done,” he said. “Face it.” He looked over at Don, then went to him, stood beside the chair the boy was slumped in. Hutch reached out, only to comfort, stroked the heavy, burnished hair. “Are you alright?”

Don sighed, lifting his head. “Sure. Sure I am.”

“You did the right thing,” Hutch offered gently, wondering if the words meant anything. “You helped us…” He remembered Don’s terrible revelation, that his own father had violated him. “I think–Don, I think you helped yourself, too.” Freed yourself.

“Maybe so,” Don said. “I-I had to do that. For his own good, damn it. He always thought nobody could touch him, no matter what he did. I couldn’t let him kill you.”

Hutch listened sympathetically. “Can you tell me something?” he asked, squatting beside the chair. “How did you know? About my partner and I being set up, about us being detectives?”

Don leaned back in his chair, looking weary. “That night when we met–I think I knew in a way. Not that you were a cop. But there was something–I don’t know… I could tell it was all brand-new for you.” He paused, possibly like Hutch, remembering the night they’d shared at the Abrigar. “Anyway, earlier tonight, I met Olivia. She and I are like fellow travelers. We both have good reasons not to exactly adore my father. She told me you and your partner were invited out here, tonight. Then, when I said I knew you, she told me you were a cop.”

“Just like that?” Hutch asked.

“Guess she figured there was no point keeping it a secret from me. I know my father. And I knew what might happen…” He looked at Hutch. “With my bad habits, I never thought I’d want to save a policeman’s life. But I’m glad I did.”

“So am I,” Hutch said, smiling. He grasped the golden-skinned arm. “Thanks. From both of us.”

“Hutch.” The gray eyes dwelt on him, fitting the new name to the face. “That’s your real name?”

Hutch nodded.

“And him?” Don asked, meaning Starsky, with a gesture of his head in that direction.

“David,” Hutch supplied.

“And is he magical? Like you said?”

Hutch looked at him carefully, spoke carefully. “Don, I didn’t tell you any lies that night. It turns out.”

“Meaning you really do love the guy?”

“That. And that I’d like us to be friends.”

Don offered him a handclasp. “Deal.”

Hutch stood. “I need your help, again.”

Don stood, too. “Whatever. You’ve got it.”

“We’re gonna need something to tie up those guys in the hallway. Rope, twine… Anything.”

“Sure.”

Not that their two captives were going anywhere. When Hutch returned, Starsky was ensconced on a pedestal that had held a sculpture five minutes before, sitting guard over the prone gunmen. “We’re having ourselves a grand time,” he announced, at Hutch’s return. “They wanted me to tell ’em another bedtime story,” he said. “Y’know, I think they liked the one about Miranda, best.” He’d evidently read them their rights.

The throbbing sound of a helicopter was welcome; the steady hand of reality in the middle of a dream. It was time to wake up. For Levine and Erba, both taking their final steps on a long trail of perversity, the dream was over. Last stop, the end of the line… Levine had accepted; Erba probably never would.

Almost as proof, there was a disturbance inside, Don and his father, voices harsh, in some kind of argument.

“What’s the point, Dad?”

“Stop calling me that,” Erba said coldly. “Just get out of my way.”

Hutch put the finishing touches on the two thugs in the hallway, and started into the room.

Don appeared suddenly in front of him. “Hutch! Out here. My father–” His expression revealed his mixed feelings. There was the reddish mark of a blow across the side of his face. “He’s nuts.”

“What happened?” Hutch asked. He went to the terrace, accompanied by Starsky, who was keeping his eye–and his gun–on Benton. He need not have worried; Benton was totally uncaring, oblivious–withdrawn into his fear. Erba was nowhere in sight.

Don raked back his hair. “He went off the terrace, heading toward the pool. I didn’t know what to do, stop him or let him go. It doesn’t make any difference, does it?” he asked bitterly. “He’s got nowhere to run to.”

“He’s running scared,” Starsky said.

“You don’t know him.” Don shook his head. “He’s not scared. He keeps his guns in a room on this floor.” He gave the cogent piece of information with no excess emotion. The kid had a cool head, and Hutch liked him all the more for it.

Hutch also realized one other thing: despite the abuse Don had revealed tonight, received at Erba’s hands, the boy couldn’t help but love his own father. And he did, in perhaps the only way he could any longer. He had no real wish to see his father dead.

He said nothing, though, eyes catching and holding Hutch’s.

The stray beam of the helicopter they’d heard lanced the dark in front of them as it passed overhead, circling the house.

“Coast Guard chopper,” Starsky said. He grasped Hutch’s elbow. “No time t’toss for it. You follow Erba. I’ll take the house.” He looked at Don. “And you stay here. You’re not a cop… yet.” It was said in a solicitous way that didn’t surprise Hutch. Whomever he cared about, Starsky cared about, too. He took off, and Hutch slipped off the terrace into the darkness.

A low stone fence guarded the pool on this side of the house. There was blood on it, three or four drops glistening in the starlight. Hutch vaulted over the fence. The deserted pool area was in front of him, still brightly torch-lit.

And not quite deserted.

The Coast Guard helicopter sat overhead, grumbling, making day out of night. Washed in its searchlight, on the far side of the vast pool, was Robert Erba. Blood-soaked to the hip, he was gripping his side, too drained to go further, unalterably caught.

Hutch watched as Erba went down on one knee, then two, like a pole-axed bull. He put his gun in its holster and approached. The ‘copter swung flatulently away over the trees, probably to set down somewhere.

Erba gazed up at Hutch. There was pain in his opaque, blue eyes, and a terrible frustration. He took a labored breath. “I want to hurt you,” he said, gruffly. “The way I’m hurting now, that’s how I want you to hurt. Do you hear me?”

“You played the game,” Hutch said. “And you lost. It’s as simple as that.”

“That was a promise I just made, you bastard!” Erba shouted. “Not empty air.”

Hutch didn’t respond in kind. He was finished with the man kneeling in front of him, with Daniel Corliz’ murder. All he wanted was to find and be near Starsky. We’ve got the time, now. We’ve won… each other.

People had begun to gather again around the pool. A percentage of the party-goers who’d made themselves scarce when the first shots had been fired were returning now, by twos and threes. Hutch saw none of them. He barely perceived Dobey, with Kloss and several other uniformed men, coming toward him. The only individual he could see with clarity was the man walking beside Dobey, slim, cat-footed… You’re safe.

They found each other’s eyes first. There was an instant’s hesitation in Starsky, awkward and charming, then he came straight to Hutch and, in front of Dobey and Kloss, embraced him. Hutch could sense their slightly abashed audience standing there, but returned the embrace gladly without a single care.

Starsky pulled away and took him in, eyes reflecting Hutch’s relief and joy.

“Detectives Starsky, Hutchinson…” Dobey’s voice, business-like.

Hutch looked at him, helplessly happy. “Cap’n?”

“I take it things were touch and go for a while there,” Dobey said.

“Piece a’ cake,” Starsky said, irony heavy in his voice.

“What can you tell us?” Kloss asked.

“There’s a woman inside,” Hutch said. “Olivia Fukuda. She was Benton’s assistant, and she’s promised to give you the specifics of Erba’s operation. Among other things, she told us that Robert Erba ordered Corliz’ murder, and that Benton Levine executed the order. She’s got it all: homicides, smuggling… If there’s physical evidence, she’ll know where it is.”

“I’ll put her in protective custody,” Kloss said. He had plenty of work and set about doing it. “Erba first, though.”

“The boy,” Hutch said, delaying him. “Don, Erba’s son. He’s inside. This thing would have come out a lot differently if it weren’t for him. I want him safe.”

Kloss studied him. “Okay, Detective Hutchinson.” He turned to go, but stopped again. “And Hutchinson… Thanks to you and to Detective Starsky. If you ever want a favor–”

Hutch shook his head, wondering if they’d earned it. They’d done little but stumble somehow onto all the right people. Kloss departed, motioning a couple of his men to follow.

In the small silence, Dobey harrumphed. “Well, you two’ve done a damn fine job here, if I say so myself. Didn’t know you had it in you.” He was trying to conceal his pride in them, but couldn’t quite manage the reserve.

Starsky grinned suddenly, deliberately not looking at Hutch. “Neither did we, Cap’n.” He wasn’t talking about the case.

“You had us going for a few minutes,” Dobey said. “As we were making a recon of the island, we found evidence of a sizeable explosion at the southern end, few hundred yards offshore. Probably a boat, but there was nothing left but an oil-slick and some wreckage still on fire. Couldn’t have happened more than 30 minutes ago. ”

“The Arrecifé? Hutch whispered, and looked at Starsky. It must have happened sometime during their “dinner” at Erba’s. Twenty miles away, they’d heard nothing.

Erba had planned to clean the whole slate tonight, then: eliminating his rival in business, Tito Hermiez, as well as the man he’d probably assumed had given him over to the police, Tim Marx. “Southeastern tip of the island?” Hutch asked.

Dobey nodded, solemnly. “Marx?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, genuinely sorry about Tim. He and Starsky had had a warning, at least; Tim hadn’t been that lucky. “And probably Hermiez, too. Tim’s housekeeper said he went out to the boat Hermiez owned yesterday morning.”

“There, uh, wasn’t much left for any possible IDs,” Dobey speculated. “It may take some time…” He looked at the two of them. Hutch felt his glance. “You guys okay?” he asked.

Starsky sighed. “Yeah, Cap. It’s just–Tim didn’t deserve to go that way. He was always just on the edges of the whole horror movie.”

“We’re going to be busy here, quite some time,” Dobey began. “Why don’t you two take a breather, cool out? You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Cap’n,” Starsky said, glancing at Hutch as they turned away. “Tough break for Tim,” he commented, a moment or two later, the noise and activity behind them. More helicopters were arriving, more men. It was out of their hands, now.

“Yeah,” Hutch said.

They walked over the grounds together, silent with each other, sustaining the peace they’d earned. In some unspoken way, they seemed to be affirming now their decision to be together. It was the first real chance for evaluation they’d had.

“Wait,” Starsky said. Without much warning, he pulled Hutch into the shrubbery beside the pathway, out of sight. “Come here.”

Hutch was grabbed and swung around, but he knew full well what for. He cooperated in the ambush. They held each other hard and tight and their mouths met, warm in the dark. Hutch tasted Starsky’s nectar and his need. His lover’s kisses fluttered over his face, his neck, and shoulder.

ILLO 19: They held each other hard and tight…

“I thought we might never have a chance again,” Starsky admitted.

Hutch returned every kiss with interest, not caring especially where they landed. “I know,” he breathed. “I know.” He found Starsky’s lips once more, stumbling onto them this time like a kid.

Ignited by the contact, Starsky took charge of his mouth, fierce and sweet, demonstrating his love, proving it was real. He showed a confident–and persuasive–kind of mastery with his lips and body Hutch had not felt before. Resistance was never even considered. The man overwhelming him was a man, in every sense of the word, and knew how to take as well as give.

Starsky stopped short, taking a breath. One hand fell across Hutch’s jawline, dry fingertips outlining the shape. “I–” he stammered, looking over Hutch’s face, his whole being concentrated on one unspoken desire.

Hutch understood, shared it, the support his knees gave him wavering slightly. “Gunning for me, is that it?”

Starsky took a careful breath, “Among other things.” He held Hutch’s eye. “Do you want me that way? Be honest. It’s okay, if you don’t, but…”

“You hug and kiss me like that, and expect me to say ‘no’ to you?” Hutch laughed under his breath. “Since when did you start underestimating yourself?”

Starsky gave him a squeeze, touched soft lips to his temple. “I didn’t wanna take you ’til now. At all… After that first time with you, I didn’t think I could want anything more.”

Hutch comforted him. “You don’t have to explain, Starsk.” He felt the tense body relax, Starsky’s momentary worry dissipating. They held each other close, long minutes going by as the night whispered companionably.

“We better get back,” Starsky murmured against Hutch’s neck, not letting go. “Hm?”

“Okay.” Hutch didn’t move either.

Starsky began snickering and pulled away, eyes shining into Hutch’s. “Shall we?”

Hutch smiled, enchanted with him. “Guess we’d better.”

Their foreheads touched, just for a moment. After another brief embrace, they walked back, hands in their pockets.

Dobey was standing beside the pool with Agent Yniguez when they returned. The brown bear of a man walked toward them as briskly as he was able to.

“Erba’s been evacuated for medical attention,” he began. “His son went with him, and Yniguez assured me the boy’d be taken care of. The woman, too.”

Hutch nodded. “Thanks, Cap.”

“The FBI’s also arranged for immediate transportation for you,” Dobey went on. “If you want it. You’d be leaving on the next chopper out. Interested?”

“Ah, Cap’n,” Starsky said. “You don’t know.”

“Alright, then. About how long would it take you to collect your gear?”

“Give us thirty minutes,” Hutch said.

“Okay,” Dobey said. “Get going. Oh, and by the way, Starsky–and you, too, Hutch–you can have the weekend off.”

They both laughed, glad to be on an even keel, again. “Thanks a lot, Cap’n,” Starsky said for both, the sarcasm gentle.

“And I’ll see you both bright and early Monday morning,” Dobey finished sternly.

“Gotcha.” It was spoken in unison.

***

Tim’s house was desolate. Cochilar and Desmon had gone, although what they knew or how was anybody’s guess.

The two detectives packed their bags, saying good-bye to their alter-egos, Leif and Ira, in the process. The room where they’d found their love stood empty, already seemed like a memory. They stopped in the doorway for a gentle, reminiscent kiss, then closed the door.

The luggage was loaded quickly into Tim’s Jeep, the doors were slammed, and they drove away.

***

The helicopter lifted off, spiraling up and out. Looking down at the suddenly receding island, Starsky realized that they had made it. He reached for Hutch’s hand in the dark and didn’t let go the whole way home.

Chapter 8: Eleusis

It was after midnight when they arrived back in LA. The air was cold and still in the city, and all the lights looked too bright. Making good their escape from authority, they grabbed a taxi. In mid-trip, Hutch changed their destination, leaning forward to give the driver the name of a hotel.

Starsky knew the place. The Oettinger was a slightly less than elegant old hotel right in midtown. He looked at his partner. “Hutch? You sure–?” If they checked in there together, somebody might assume–well, the truth.

Hutch sat back, the corners of his mouth amused. “People make their own closets. Remember somebody saying that?” He lay his hand on Starsky’s knee, rubbed it. “And you were right, Starsk. I don’t want to start out hiding us, do you?”

Starsky shook his head, sat back, too. “Okay, it’s a deal. I’m tired of pretending to be somebody else, anyway.”

They arrived at the hotel, paid the cabdriver and went in. The lobby had the grandeur of other days, pure art deco. Hutch asked for the nicest room they had, then signed the register under his own name. Starsky did likewise. The bald clerk neither fainted, nor shouted for the police, nor pointed an accusing finger. In fact, he didn’t bat an eyelid. They went up in the brass-accented elevator together.

Starsky dropped his satchel just inside the door; Hutch placing his on the obligatory armchair.

“Real Americana,” Starsky commented.

The room was simple, homey, with blue birds on cream wallpaper, a big, soft-looking bed, and a view of the city. They called for room service, and managed, despite the late hour, to wangle a couple of steaks and a bottle of wine. When the food arrived, they sat and ate like famine victims, then, more leisurely, finished the bottle of wine.

Starsky lay down on the blue and cream coverlet on the bed. “I’m so tired, I could almost really go to sleep,” he muttered meaningfully.

Hutch looked at him. “Tell you the truth, Starsky, I don’t think I could stay awake long enough to get all my clothes off.”

“Me, neither,” Starsky said, yawning. “I was just testin’ the waters.” He sat up, pried at his shoes, then stood to yank off his T-shirt. Hutch was watching as he undressed, Starsky could tell. He felt the touch of the blue eyes, looked up to find Hutch intent on him. His breathing quickened, and he couldn’t take his own eyes away as his friend began to remove shirt then slacks. It seemed like forever since he’d seen Hutch naked, and his heart hammered exactly like the first time. Suddenly he wasn’t so sleepy.

He slipped the coverlet back, enjoying Hutch’s complete attention, his cheeks warming. “Get in, boy,” he ordered.

Hutch did, lying down on the bed, then grasping and pulling Starsky to him with a breathy moan that was longing and relief. “Come here,” he demanded, unnecessarily.

Starsky would have done anything he asked. “I’m here,” he assured. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He snuggled down into his partner’s heat, loving the familiar contact. His hand met Hutch’s hand on the way to the night table. They turned out the lamp together, fingers plaiting on the way back.

Hutch wrapped him up lovingly, sighing with a contentment that contented Starsky in his turn. He kissed his lover’s ear, traced the shape of it with his lips. “Feelin’ okay, huh?”

“Understatement of the decade,” Hutch whispered. “Closer, love…” He gathered Starsky in tighter–father, brother, lover all in one. “I feel… like Christmas Day. Like I’ve got everything in the world worth having right here.”

“Me, too,” Starsky said, unable to utter the height and depth and breadth of his contentment. It was dark, but he found the firm softness of Hutch’s lips easily enough. A kiss waited for him there, one that metamorphosed in its own time, deepening its colors, his lover touching his very soul before finally slipping away. Starsky lay his head down once more, practically seeing stars, heart singing. “Oh, God, babe–”

“I’ve been waiting to do that since we left the island,” Hutch sighed.

“Only a coupla hours,” Starsky teased gently, dipping his fingers into the cool water of Hutch’s hair. “How do you plan on spending a whole day without–”

“Willpower,” Hutch interrupted. A breeze was lifting the diaphanous curtains at the window. Hutch took a breath, nose against Starsky’s hair. “I love you,” came the whisper, syllables clear and caressing. The words were meant from Hutch’s heart.

“Love you,” Starsky answered, throat filling. “I love you, too, Hutch.” He tightened his embrace for a long moment. For always… For as long as we have.

Safe and secure, they couldn’t help but sleep.

***

Hutch woke to find Starsky already up and busy–with him. He exclaimed with the joy of being loved awake, surprised and delighted by the sight of his lover’s head bent over him, dark curls silvered with sunlight, Starsky’s mouth making music.

“Couldn’t you wait?” he chided softly, not meaning it. He stroked back his lover’s hair to see more of the absorbed faun’s face, the bulk of his cock disappearing and appearing. “Starsky…” One of his partner’s hands was stroking and pulling at the tight skin of his belly, the other doing its part to assist Starsky’s talented mouth.

Burning without being consumed, Hutch begged for more.

Starsky gave it; warm Aegean eyes lifting once to share in Hutch’s pleasure, something close to worship in them. He drew off, lifting the cock, looking, his familiarity with it beautiful. “I love you,” he murmured. “Doing this to you. Your taste… everything.” He made no move to prove his words, though he was trembling with desire.

Hutch prickled with excitement, thighs shaking. Leaning on one elbow, he reached out desperately for Starsky. “Put it in your mouth again–”

“Uh-uh.” Starsky changed position, Hutch catching a glimpse of his cock, high and hard. He climbed into Hutch’s waiting arms, his body tense, his need plain.

Between desire and fear, Hutch could barely speak. “Lover–? You want it now? Me?”

Starsky lifted his head, expression so vulnerable, those eyes delving into Hutch’s. “It’s yours to give,” he whispered, waiting.

Hutch cradled the lyrical, ancient-warrior visage. “Everything I am, Starsky,” he began, “belongs to you.” … is because of you, exists in you, is completed by you… It was fact. And for what felt like the first time in his life, Hutch was at peace with himself. “Take me,” he urged, feeling like a child and a man. “Please…”

Starsky moved carefully between his thighs, pulled him up, exposing him, pushing his thighs wide then wider to suit himself. Hutch had never been so profoundly vulnerable to another human being. He was defenseless.

But with Starsky he was safe. It was alright. This was where he wanted to be, and this was the one person in the world he wanted to be vulnerable to. Starsky touched him, brushing a slow, possessive finger across his opening down there, looking up, visibly gratified, at his sigh. The moment vibrated with sensuousness, like a line of erotic poetry.

Those eyes became dark beautiful slits, and Starsky seemed gentle but implacable, as if he would never take no for an answer. But there was no threat of violence in him, just a frankly exciting sense of resolve. This was the other side of a man who could be as infinitely yielding, infinitely assailable, as a child, who could be whatever Hutch needed him to be. Perfect lover…

Shaking, breathing fast, Hutch gazed up at his sun-burnished companion, feeling the man’s arousal directed at him like a tender weapon. Desire seemed to suffuse, to radiate from, every tense fiber in Starsky’s beautiful body. He was hard as an axe-handle, a faint sheen of sweat gracing the base of his throat, his chest, and flat belly. “I can’t hardly wait,” he whispered, excited, hungry, one hand chafing at Hutch’s thigh.

He moved closer, his warmth touching Hutch. His hand covered and squeezed Hutch’s cock as if he were claiming it. “Gonna suck you and fuck you,” he chanted, the words like a naughty song recalled from his childhood. “Make you cry…” He bent low and put his mouth on the cock he held, touched and lingered at the head with his tongue, then took it in slowly.

Hutch greeted him with a hushed, hoarse groan, his hands cupping his lover’s head, thumbs rubbing the soft hair at Starsky’s temples. Starsky sucked him, brought him to one peak of delight, then another and another, began searching him with curious fingers, penetrating–not far–but insistently.

He lifted his head. “Feels like there’s no room for me,” he whispered concernedly, lashes sweeping down then. He probed experimentally. “So tight… Like a little boy. Was I like that?”

“Uh-huh,” Hutch answered, trying to relax a little more, gather his speech. “Yeah, you were. Still are… But you just–took me inside you. I didn’t have much time to think about how I might hurt you. Besides,” he admitted. “I–once I started, I couldn’t stop.” He forestalled Starsky’s comment. “You probably won’t be able to either, so it doesn’t matter.” He stroked his lover’s curls back, ruffled them. “C’mon, don’t frown about it. What you’re doing feels so good… You make me want you.”

Starsky hesitated, kissed his cock, brow slightly gathered. But he began again fiercely, his desire for intercourse obviously overriding his concerns. He was past questioning soon, rising to his knees, taking the KY and desirously preparing Hutch. A slim finger teased, entered, slid carefully in and out.

The feeling was one of being owned by this loving man, totally possessed by him, of being loved, a treasured source of pleasure. Hutch wanted to give himself, to repay. With one hand he found the lubricant among the sheets where Starsky had discarded the open tube. Putting some in his palm, he applied it, sensually, to Starsky, who sighed, accepting the attention.

“Ah, God, Hutch…” Starsky’s body quivered, sought and found him, started in. He didn’t get far, though it was not for lack of trying.

The penetration hurt a lot. Hutch stifled a complaint, turning his face against the pillow. Starsky, who’d stopped, was panting above him, gripping him as if he might escape. A bead of sweat trickled down from Hutch’s temple, perspiration pooled between his brows, at his collarbone. The two of them didn’t fit. The strain had been incredible. Oh, Jesus…

Starsky was staring down at him, into him. Hutch could feel the power of that singular gaze like a physical touch, and looked up, exposed.

“Don’t hide it from me, Hutch,” Starsky said to him. “When you hurt, I wanna know. No more hiding.” His voice was soft, but not those words.

“I’m not hiding,” Hutch said honestly, reaching out, fingers digging into his lover’s firm flesh, loving the heat between them despite that first difficulty. “Just a little more, huh?” he managed breathlessly. “It’ll be better.” He hadn’t expected it to be effortless but certainly not impossible. He was scared. What if it wasn’t to be? Could he want something so much, and not be able to accept it when it was offered?

Starsky pressed forward with infinite slowness, hands braced unsteadily on either side of Hutch. He shook, wanting instinctively, Hutch could tell, to go deep and hard but controlling that instinct by main strength. After a moment, he tried to thrust a little, moaning with pleasure. “Hutch…”

The pain was sharp as a scythe, stood like a barbed-wire fence between him and Starsky. And it was mental as well as physical, as if somewhere in Hutch’s mind he was really resisting, an idea he rejected. He couldn’t keep silent anymore and that shamed him.

“Let me in, Hutch,” Starsky gasped suddenly. “Please, babe–” He moved shallowly, clumsily, then slipped out, exclaiming with frustration and his own pain. They held each other in silence, their sweat mingling, cooling, and Hutch stroked the wet curls under his hand.

“Another way, maybe–” he whispered, shaken, the water in his eyes spilling, barely noticed. “I can turn over…” I need you to be patient with me. Don’t stop loving me.

“I dunno,” Starsky groaned. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea.” He lifted his head from where it laid, heavily, on Hutch’s chest, his face torn. “I didn’t intend it to be lousy for you. And so far, it is.” He caressed Hutch’s face, wiped tears away, looking over his features for a long moment. “You’re so beautiful,” he said finally, softly. “Hutch, I never saw you lookin’ so beautiful. It makes me even crazier to have you. Too crazy to take care of you the right way.” He glanced away, stern profile presented to Hutch.

“It’s not your responsibility,” Hutch said angrily. He found himself looking at the blue birds flying in patterns on the wallpaper, feeling all wrong, body and mind wracked with guilt. You’re generous, open-hearted… Not your fault if I’m too uptight to just enjoy you.

“A man’s supposed to satisfy his sexual partner,” Starsky said as if it were a law of nature, laying his head down again on Hutch’s shoulder. He sighed, caressed Hutch soothingly.

Hutch nosed his friend’s fragrant curls. “I love you,” he said, the feeling piercing him as much as the forest-like fragrance did, taking away his anger. “I do love you, David…” I wouldn’t have done this for any other man. Suddenly he wanted desperately to kiss his lover, and he did, finding Starsky’s cooperative mouth, hand clenching in the soft, dark hair. The kiss was like every kiss they shared, a fire made out of their discovery of each other.

“I love you,” Starsky whispered, stealing a breath. “More than ever.” He brushed his lips and then his nose against Hutch’s. “Tell me what I’m doin’ wrong. Is there… is there something–?”

“Starsk, there’s nothing,” Hutch assured. “Nothing. I just–maybe I just wasn’t ready. Or maybe I want you too much… I don’t know.” He paused, eyes searching Starsky’s. “But I asked you to take me, and I meant it.” He leaned up and apprehended another kiss.

Starsky left his mouth too soon, trailing soft lips over his chin, down his throat. The lips searched his breast, laving and pulling the hard buds there as Hutch’s body arched and moved in feverish reaction. “Yes…” he whispered. “Yes…” The words were helpless.

The dark head continued slowly down his chest and stomach, the sharpness of teeth, random touches of moisture, leaving burning places on his skin. Starsky left no space for thinking of anything but where the next sensation might fall, driving him without let-up.

He was turned over with deft ease, the same wet kisses and gentle bites scattered over his shoulders and back and ass. “Starsky,” he whispered, lost in delirium. “Everywhere you touch me–” The loving was like deep-heating salve, bringing him to life, making him restless. He groaned with arousal, with wanting.

Starsky mounted him, probably for better leverage. He massaged Hutch for some time with powerful hands, riding him, the lush heat of inner thighs, cock and ass, melting Hutch down. He was excited by their positions, pushed by his lover’s weight against the mattress. Blood singing, he thrust into the bed, finding an irresistible point of pleasure. At first, Starsky just shared his movement, then dictated it, growing audibly more excited.

Hutch could feel the bulk of his lover’s penis lying heavy at the small of his back. He wanted it inside him. Starsky moved to rub it up and down in his cleft, and he lifted his hips in blind response, offering himself in the most natural way he was capable of.

“Hutch–?” Starsky asked, breath catching, ragged. It wasn’t a simple question.

Hutch had an answer. He reached back and stroked his friend’s downy thigh. “Yes,” he whispered.

***

Starsky had found that there was nothing simple about taking a man. Not his man…

It had been harder for Hutch to accept him than either of them had realized. Both of them had been stretched to their physical limits of endurance, of patience… But not to the limit of their love.

His golden lover had been so vulnerable, anxious not to disappoint or fail. Starsky had felt pressure, too. For reasons of his own, he’d wanted to be the consummate lover, to give Hutch the total joy he’d been given.

It had hurt him to hurt Hutch, to cause pain. And he had at the start. But when they were joined finally… Perfect fit, babe, like in everything else. Their hearts had beat together, and it was all okay.

Inside Hutch, beneath the skin, he had found a new, unexpected sensibility. Hutch must have found it, too, inside him; that place probably only two men in love with each other were capable of finding. Somehow, loving Hutch as only a man could, he’d never felt more like a man. Nothing was lost, everything gained.

That first startled sound of delight from Hutch had transported him, changed him for always. He’d never forget that victory if he lived a hundred years or a thousand. He had burned with the glory of it, of giving pleasure to his friend with such directness, winning response from the proud man he loved.

And he was beautiful: back wide and brown, hair lying like some kind of precious metal on his neck and his shoulders. Golden man… He shook like an earthquake when he came, like every muscle in his body was climaxing. He gave me my share, too; so much, so fast, I thought for sure I was dying. He reflected on that for a moment, stroking his lover’s arm. Maybe I did. Maybe the old me died back on the island when he first kissed me like he meant it. I can’t deny, my old relationship with him died there… Murdered by more love than it could withstand. Mine and his.

They’d ended up in a tangle of limbs on the disheveled bed. Easy to be tender then to his overwhelmed lover, to hold Hutch close and dizzily pour out his gratitude, his love, his joy.

And now… Hutch’s face and body were marked by passion, abandoned, absolutely sated. The pain was still there faintly around the closed eyes and mouth, but sanctified by the ecstasy that had followed. His breath caught softly, and Starsky continued to soothe him, fluttering kisses over moist brow and nose and cheek. He stroked the silky mustache and tender upper lip.

“You alright? Hutch–?”

Hutch kissed his fingers in answer. “More than alright,” he whispered, opening his eyes. “Was it like this for you?” he asked. “Like you finally found–?”

“Yeah.” There wasn’t a doubt of it in Starsky’s mind, that Hutch had felt the same things he’d felt. They’d been together, and Hutch had hidden nothing, held nothing back. “Like findin’ somethin’ you didn’t even know you were looking for.”

“Yes,” Hutch agreed, shifting, hand sliding around Starsky’s waist. “God, yes… And you were–” His grip tightened. “I never knew you like that, Starsky.”

“Maybe because I was never like that before,” Starsky confessed.

Hutch moved closer, brushed soft lips along the line of his jaw to his ear. “There’s no end to it,” he breathed. “We’re so right for each other, Starsky, there couldn’t be.”

Starsky found and held his partner’s gaze. “I won’t let it end. We won’t… Unless it has to. Every day of my life I wanna wake up with you, Hutch.”

Hutch looked back at him, eyes as blue as a rain-washed sky. He smiled–just a little–and the sun came out, the world full of its promise. “I’ll make sure of it,” he said.

ILLO 20: Sharing the Hammock

…Epilogue

It was peaceful sharing the hand-woven hammock, basking in the honeyed afternoon sun of LA. So peaceful, that Starsky found himself waking up on the other side of a serious cat-nap.

He yawned and glanced at his hammock-mate. Hutch was dozing too, deep enough to be snoring in a placid way. His arms cradled Starsky securely, though, with natural strength. Starsky watched him for a couple of moments, enjoying his sleeping face. Curious, he reached up to touch his lover’s naked upper lip with a gentle finger. Hutch’s pale lip twitched and he stopped snoring, but he didn’t wake, and Starsky let him be. They both could use the sleep.

His partner still looked strange to him without the mustache. Hutch had, after all, had the thing for three years. But his mouth was so beautiful, full and soft and vulnerable, Starsky couldn’t complain. He loved Hutch both ways; needed him in all ways.

He was needed, too, and beloved. Hutch never let him doubt it. His days were full, and the nights they shared were unadulterated ecstasy. Best of all were the mornings, waking up with an angel in his bed.

Hutch stirred, mouth brushing the softness of Starsky’s hair. “I better get up,” came the drowsy murmur. “My turn to cook.”

“Huh-uh,” Starsky said, holding him. “Not yet. M’too comfortable.” There was no answer. Hutch had already dozed off again. Sighing his content, Starsky lay his head down and let himself drift slowly back to sleep.

END