900

The zine, One More River, was published in 1983. It’s the second novel in the “Red Light Trilogy” by Beckett and Power. The first novel in the series, One More Mountain, is gen, and is posted on this archive. The third novel in the series, No Easy Answers, is also slash, as is the Epilogue, The Last Full Measure.  We present the novel as it appeared in the zine, including the dedication, acknowledgements, and other introductory material.

One More River was originally produced on a typewriter, and had to be re-typed into an electronic format, then proofed. Special thanks and a bouquet of roses to Morag for her magic fingers typing skills, and for Elaine for proofing it. 

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ONE MORE RIVER

by

Terri Beckett & Chris Power

An Adult S/H Novella

© 1983 by Terri Beckett and Chris Power. All rights revert to the authors and artists. ONE MORE RIVER is an amateur publication, produced at cost, and intended solely for the entertainment of the readers. No attempt is made to infringe on copyrights held by Spelling-Goldberg, BBC, or any other organization or individual holding copyrights on STARSKY & HUTCH.

 

Dedication

This story is dedicated to the two actors who gave us four seasons of their work–and also to the many people who after May 15^th, 1979, didn’t want to ‘say goodbye to S&H’ …

Acknowledgements

Our grateful thanks are due to more people than we can rightly name, for their help, encouragement, patience, and support. To all of you–and you know who you are – our thanks.

And there are others whose help was even more concrete, and without whom this wouldn’t be the story it is–Paul, and Jan, and Bel, for editorial assistance and suggestions we didn’t always take…

Louise Davis and Nimue, for their glorious artwork…

Freda, for spending three whole days proofreading, and who only had hysterics once…

Terence, for understanding above and beyond the call of duty…

You’re beautiful. Really.

Credits

For reasons we needn’t go into here, most of the hard labour involved in this beast ended up with one person–me. After the writing, the creative fun, was finished, I got the joy of transcribing, rewriting, cutting the stencils and collating. Proofreading–I did it twice, Freda did it once, and if any typos slipped through after that, I think they deserve to be in there. Printing was a mammoth enterprise involving much cursing and ink under fingernails. Chris shared that chore. Freda got the binding facilities for us. The cover art is from a design by Nimue.  –TB–

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… There’s always one more mountain to climb,
And one more river to cross…

Chapter I

“Goddamn it to hell, Starsky!” The bellow came from the bathroom. Starsky’s left eyebrow twitched upwards, but he didn’t pause in buttering his toast.

“What now?” he asked, as a furious Hutch emerged from the bathroom, hopping on one leg. “Hey, Hutch, did you know you’ve got toothpaste on your foot?”

“You don’t say.” The sarcasm was icy. “It happens that way when you step on an uncapped toothpaste tube.”

“I didn’t leave it lying on the floor,” Starsky pointed out reasonably. “You better haul ass, babe, if you’re not gonna be late.”

Hutch shot him a venomous glare and hobbled to his wardrobe, leaving a trail of smeared toothpaste gobs in his wake, and began to dress. Starsky unfolded the morning paper and munched leisurely on his toast.

“Starsk, have you seen my blue–” Hutch didn’t finish the query. He was staring at the blue shirt Starsky was wearing.

“Hmmm?” Starsky mumbled with his mouth full, cocking a questioning eye at him.

“Never mind.” Hutch hauled on a sweater instead, and swiped a slice of toast from Starsky’s plate in passing.

“Hey–fix your own breakfast,” Starsky objected.

“No time. See you for lunch if we’re in the area, okay?”

“Sure. Have a good day.” Hutch’s snarled reply didn’t reach his ears, Hutch being halfway out of the door at the time. Starsky smiled, shrugged, and returned to his unhurried breakfast.

*****

Five minutes late, the blond man stalked into the Homicide squadroom looking distinctly peeved.

“Hi, Hutch,” Dave Duplessis called casually, and got a harassed glance and a grunt in reply. S.O.P. It was two months now since he’d been teamed with this half of the legendary Starsky-and-Hutchinson duo–a year since he’d finally made the transfer from Sierra County to Los Angeles–and the last two months had been the toughest. “You’ll be working with Hutchinson for a while,” Captain Dobey had told him when he’d started in Metro. “He’ll break you in to street-life, the way it really comes down out there. Take it easy.” That last instruction had not been for him, but for the man beside him.

The first few weeks had not been easy, but Duplessis had kept his cool, put up with the hostility and sarcasm, and absorbed all the street-wisdom sparingly tossed his way–and bitched like hell about it all to his wife when he got home at night. He stuck it out, though, aware that he was merely the latest in a string of rookies to be teamed with Hutchinson. His stamina and stubbornness served him well. Once through the first month, Hutch had eased up on him a little, even accepting him in a kind of way. Duplessis no longer bitched to his wife–when he did talk about his partner, it was to voice concern for a tired and lonely man.

He had expected Hutch’s recent two-week vacation with Starsky to New York to improve the situation, maybe bring back the man of the legend. Only it hadn’t worked out like that. The first week of Hutch’s return had been hell on wheels. Back again was the cool-eyed anger, the savage resentment. The only thing missing was the moustache.

Hutch volunteered no explanations. He was making an obvious effort not to take it out on the people around him, but did not always succeed. Through the Department grapevine, Duplessis heard enough to piece together what Hutch wasn’t telling him: while they were gone, Starsky’s apartment had been broken into and wrecked, the Lab boys hadn’t come up with any clues on who or why, and Starsky had suffered some kind of relapse that put him back in the hospital for forty-eight hours. In all, more than enough reason for the anger and tension that made Hutch an oddly menacing figure prowling through the days.

Thankfully, that had been short-lived. Hutch had a house-guest now, while he and Starsky were redoing the devastated apartment, and the one-time partner was now apparently an all-time pain in the neck. No one in the squadroom appeared to find anything extraordinary in this. As Minnie put it, “Starsk is a great guy, a real sweet fella. But hell to live with.”

Duplessis wondered how she knew.

“Got a call from Huggy just before you came in,” Duplessis said as Hutch sat down at his desk. “Wants to see you. He’s got something on the rig hijacking.”

“Okay. Fix me some coffee, will you?”

“Sure.”

As Duplessis poured him a cup and set it by his elbow, Hutch sorted the paperwork on his desk into urgent, important, and catch-me-later, piled them all together again, and shoved them back into his in-basket. “Thanks. Has traffic come up with the owner of that car the Marquetta kids totaled?”

“No. Still working on it.”

Hutch grunted something about paraplegic snails and drained his coffee down to the dark sludge. “Okay.” He got to his feet. “Let’s go see Huggy. Car’s out front.”

The Torino caught and held Duplessis’ gaze the moment they left the building. “Starsky’s car?” he ventured.

“Yeah.” There was a note of disgust in Hutch’s voice. “He wants the Dodge to shift ladders and paint and stuff. Here, you can drive the damned thing.” He held out the keys, and Duplessis took them solemnly.

“Thanks,” he said, cool and casual as he could manage.

“Just take it easy on the gas-pedal. It takes off like a spooked jack-rabbit.” They got in. Duplessis started the car. It was the first time Hutch had used the Torino for work–if they didn’t use his Dodge, Duplessis’ own Datsun had to do. Consequently, although he tried to take it easy, the Torino took off with a squeal. “Christ, you want me to book you for speeding?” Hutch snarled. “Get your fucking foot off the gas!”

Sheepishly, Duplessis obliged. “Sorry,” he said. “Sure responds, doesn’t she?” He collected a look that prompted him to keep all further observations to himself. Silently, they drove downtown.

The Pits when they got there was not crowded, as it was only mid-morning. Hutch leaned on the bar, glanced down the empty length, and ordered a couple of cokes. “What you got for us, Hug?”

“This ‘n’ that, good buddy.” Huggy slid the glasses across the bartop, nodding a friendly greeting to Duplessis. “I hear tell that Marco over on Seventh has taken delivery of a couple of cases of clock-radios, the quartz kind. Could be off that rig. Brand name’s right.”

“We’ll look into it. Anything on the rest of the shipment?”

“Stereos, TVs, VTRs–nope. Just the small stuff. How’s the trucker doin’?”

“Still unconscious, last we heard. Going down.” Hutch looked at his drink. “They don’t hold out much hope.”

“Tough break,” Huggy said quietly. “How’s Starsk?”

“Him? He’s fine,” Hutch snorted. “Gonna catch him later and bring him some free lunch. He’s got no problems. Regular Playboy of the Western World.”

*****

The Playboy of the Western World, bellowing along with Neil Diamond, was flat on his back on a couple of planks balanced between ladders, a tray of white paint on his stomach and a laden roller describing beautiful sweeps over the ceiling some eighteen inches above his nose. A bright bandanna was tied over his hair, another covered his face from nose to chin, since he had discovered the hard way that singing and painting while flat on one’s back are not advisable as a combination. Globules of white paint were splattered like bird droppings over floor, walls, and his person with an indiscriminate abandon. A small but steady stream of white paint was trickling from the roller down the length of his arm, unheeded. Starsky was enjoying himself.

The radio, with Starsky’s enthusiastic support, was pumping out enough decibels to drown out the landing of a Marina assault force, so the arrival of Hutch and Duplessis went unheard. The two men were frozen immobile, poised on the edge of the Starsky-created chaos, until Hutch moaned aloud.

“OhmiGod. Will you look at this mess? I don’t believe it. How can one man cause this in just a couple of hours–Starsky!” Eyes squinted against the intermittent fall of paint-rain, ears deadened to all but Diamond, Starsky neither saw nor heard. “… the ceiling–he hasn’t even cleaned off the old stuff! What the hell does he think–STARSKY!” Hutch strode forward, blond doom personified, snapped off the radio and roared Starsky’s name again at the top of his lungs.

“Wha‘ –?” The Home Decoration expert squawked, body convulsing with shock, almost falling from his perch. Paint arced from the flailing roller, and Duplessis ducked just in time. Hutch did not.

“Starsky!” he yelled, as his victim flopped limply on the planks, arms and legs hanging, chest heaving. The paint-tray was upside down on the floor.

“Hutch.” It was a pained whimper. “You tryin’ to give me a cardiac arrest, sneakin’ up on me like that?” He tugged his mask down, slid unsteadily from the planks, and stumbled on the inverted paint-tray. “Look what you made me do! You’re a menace, Hutchinson. A health hazard.”

“Hazard? You’re the hazard!” Forefinger stabbing at Starsky’s paint-specked chest. “Look at this place! Last night it was all ready for you to come in and start stripping the ceiling. So why the hell didn’t you?”

“Don’t need to, that’s why!” Starsky bit back. “The guy in the store said this stuff goes on top. Don’t have to go through all that rigmarole–”

“Bullshit! It’ll be peeling off in a matter of weeks! And what’s with the planks? This isn’t the Sistine Chapel!”

“What’s good enough for Michelangelo,” Starsky said with dignity, “is good enough for me. Whatcha got for lunch?”

“Colonel Sanders’,” Hutch said shortly. “French fries and a coleslaw. And a six-pack. Oh, yeah–Dave Duplessis, Dave Starsky.”

“Hi.” Starsky offered his sunniest smile, sticking out his hand. Hutch’s young partner grinned back and shook it, getting paint on his palm. “Oh, sorry.” Starsky groped for the turpentine-soaked rag, and both cleaned off sticky hands while Hutch raided the kitchen for cutlery and a stack of paper plates. Duplessis glanced around the large room, empty except for ladders, planks, cans of paint and assorted debris, evidently looking for a chair. “Pull up a piece of floor an’ siddown,” Starsky invited, doing so himself.

“Yeah,” said Hutch, following suit. “You’re making the place look tidy.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” Starsky claimed a chicken leg. “How the hell d’you get along with this sorehead, Dave?”

“Oh, I manage.” Duplessis folded himself to the floor and accepted his plate of food and can of beer. “Hey, that’s quite a car you’ve got.”

“Yeah, ain’t she.” Starsky beamed at him.

“Souped-up coke can,” Hutch grunted. “Starsky, you can’t go on with that.”

“Huh?”

“The ceiling. It’s got to be stripped before you put the fresh paint on. I told you that. The old stuff is too flaky and loose, it’ll make the new layers crack and lift. It’ll be like a Minnesota snowstorm in here.”

“The guy in the store said–”

“Who cares what the guy in the store said!” Hutch exploded. “You insisted on doing this job yourself, so it’s gotta be done properly. That way it stands a chance of lasting more than a few months. And that means proper preparation and no short cuts!”

“Do you believe him?” Starsky said to Duplessis. “Thinks he knows more than the guy who sells the stuff.”

Duplessis apparently decided it would be politic not to comment. “How much more you got left to do?” he asked politely.

Starsky looked around at the whole apartment. “Too much. Wanna get it done before the Review Board puts me back on the street.”

“If you don’t finish it sooner than that, you could be out on the street a whole lot faster than you think,” Hutch snapped. “Mainly, sitting on your ass outside Venice Place. How come that’s one of my shirts you’re wearing? For painting in?”

“Don’t want to get one of mine messed up. Right now I don’t have any to spare,” Starsky said reasonably, but a quick glance at the angry blond face suggested a change of subject. “So what are you guys workin’ on this morning?”

When Hutch didn’t answer right away, Duplessis spoke up. “A rig loaded with high-priced hardware. TVs, VTRs, like that. Stolen.”

“Finally found the truck in a parking lot last night, one trucker dead, the other with a cracked skull.” Hutch took over. “The trailer was stripped. Marco on Sepulveda was caught with some of the little stuff stashed in his back room, but he claims a gang of kids brought it to him. That checks out. They said they found the stuff dumped near Hollenbeck.”

“Huh?” Starsky stared at him. “Dumped? That’s crazy.”

“Yeah. Looks like the killers hijacked the truck, threw out the small stuff, met their contact in that parking lot, loaded up the expensive goodies, and killed their hostages there. Unless the survivor recovers, we’ve got nothing to work on.”

“Well, did you–” Starsky broke off, a knife of pure frustration twisting in him. Hutch was out on the street, alive and doing, while he sat and vegetated and waited for the Review Board to give him his life back. Scowling, he bit fiercely into a chunk of chicken. “Spare me the day-in-the-life-of-a-cop bit, okay?” he muttered. “I got better things to do. Like scrape my fuckin’ ceiling.”

Duplessis looked at him, startled, but Hutch, under his anger, showed a gleam of understanding. “Yeah, you do that,” he said. “Get it cleaned off, and we’ll paint it this evening. Just no more of your ‘short cuts’.”

“Nag, nag, nag. Leave the beer, willya?”

“Sure.” Hutch got to his feet. “Lunchbreak’s over, Dave.”

Duplessis bolted the remainder of his French fries and followed on Hutch’s heels. Starsky watched them go, then planted hands on hips and glared up at his abortive attempt at interior decoration.

*****

It was past four when Starsky let himself into the Venice Place apartment, dropping his jacket on the already littered couch and collecting a beer from the icebox before strolling out to the deck. Sprawled out on the bench, he tilted his head back against the padding. He felt tired, but it was a healthy tiredness, not the dragging, drained exhaustion that had seemed to dog him for months. Plainly both Vinnie and the physical therapist were right, and not in collusion in some plot to ruin him for life, because the workout sessions were finally having their desired effect.

He smiled dreamily at the dangling philodendron, thinking of Kim and her physical therapy. Just being in the same room with her raised a guy’s heart rate. No doubt she was used to her patients getting kind of involved with her–but he fancied that the interest was mutual. After all, how many of them regularly had lunch with her after each session?

He swung his feet up and lay back, hands behind his head. Not so long ago, that would have been impossible, or achieved with a maximum of sweating effort. Now there was little he couldn’t do, and it was more a case of retraining his body, recovering as near as possible the level of fitness and stamina he’d had before the shooting. As near as possible. He knew, in himself, that he’d lost more than he could hope to regain. But he’d be ready when the Review Board met. Had to be.

A couple more visits to Kim, and he’d be discharged from Therapy. Almost be sorry to say goodbye. Vinnie, of course, was another matter, being a hard-handed sadist who enjoyed watching his clients sweat. However, between them he and Kim had worked a small miracle, putting the pieces of David Starsky back into shape and reasonable running order. Urged on by them, he retrained. He swam, he lifted weights, he ran. The damage to his lungs was plainly healed, because he could, when he wanted to, pull out sixty-five-second quarters, and that was good in anyone’s book. And after months of enforced inactivity, when even turning over in bed was a pain, he had discovered a fresh enjoyment in the way his body answered the demands he made on it.

Of course, there was no way he was going to admit that to Hutch. Shit, if the Blintz once thought he was enjoying it, he’d be a worse taskmaster than Vinnie. Bitching about his punishing schedule usually snagged Hutch’s sympathy, got his partner to coddle him and tell him to take things easy, take a shower, relax. That was kinda nice. He was also becoming addicted to his daily massage, especially since Hutch was the best masseur in three counties. Magic Fingers Hutchinson…

Like the plant shadows on the floor, his days were falling into a pattern. P.T. two mornings a week, followed by lunch with Kim, the other three mornings spent working on the apartment, and grabbing a fast lunch if and when Hutch turned up. Afternoon meant a workout at the gym, and after that he was usually ready to crash for a few hours, which left him refreshed for his evening plans. And now he was back in circulation, he usually had plans.

Make the most of it, Davey-boy. Another few weeks, and you’ll be back on the street.

Or at least, if he wasn’t, he’d know about it–no more uncertainty.

The sun through the glass made the air heavy, tropical. He lay relaxed, eyes closed, letting the warmth soak into him. Sleep was not far away–his thoughts began to drift as the restriction of consciousness slackened.

Uncertainties… The Review Board, his ability to cope if he did make it through. The problem of his future if he didn’t. The few talks he’d had with Hutch on that possibility had been highly unconstructive. Hutch seemed unable to accept the idea that Starsky might not be passed fit. Or didn’t want to accept it, more likely. Burying that blond head in the sand, convincing himself that if he didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t happen. Hutch had been badly shaken by the relapse after Vegas, though he’d tried not to show it.

Only I can see right through you, babe. I was scared, but you acted like I was going to go into cardiac arrest any minute.

Well, with the Review Board looming, any setback reduced his chances. Understandable that Hutch had been worried.

Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

And suddenly Nicky was back in his mind. He shifted uneasily, frowning. Hadn’t heard from Nick. Hadn’t wanted to, but–in spite of everything, Nick was still his brother. Hutch hadn’t said anything about the confrontation he’d had with Nick before putting him on the plane east, but the evidence of skinned knuckles proved it hadn’t been friendly. No word from Nick since, not even through Mom. But he was okay. Starsky was sure of that. Nicholas Marvin Starsky was a survivor, and was no doubt making hell hotter somewhere, screwing up the lives of anyone unlucky enough to cross him…

The door slammed, jolting him out of his doze. The sun was low, the air cooler, and his skin felt slightly sticky with drying sweat. He yawned, stretching. “Hutch?”

“Jesus Christ, Starsky, this place looks like a bomb hit it!”

Hutch was standing in the middle of the room, glaring at the chaos. Starsky, still yawning, padded in from the deck. He hadn’t registered it before, but the apartment did look like it could use some cleaning up. “Hi,” he said casually. “Hard day?”

“What the hell have you been doing?” Hutch demanded sharply.

“Sleeping,” Starsky said innocently, picking up the scattered sections of newspaper from the floor and folding them more or less together. “Vinnie had me jumping through hoops. I was wiped out.”

“Sleeping,” Hutch repeated. He walked heavily to the couch, shoved its cargo of debris to the floor, and sat down. His knuckles were cut, there was a graze and a darkening bruise on his left cheekbone, and a drawn weariness circled his mouth. “You really break me up, you know that?”

“You’re the one who’s always telling me to take it easy, pace myself.” Starsky was on the defensive before he could realize it. “Hey, what –”

“Sure. Pace yourself. The way you did this morning? Hauling ladders and god-knows-what-else up the steps of your place?”

“C’mon. Compared to the weight-liftin’ Vinnie has me doing –”

“Pressing weights in the gym is not the same as carting ladders up steps,” Hutch snapped. “Did you get the ceiling cleaned off?”

“Yeah. We can tackle painting it tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with tonight?”

“Well, you look bushed, for starters. And I–uh, well, Tracy called after you left. I’m taking her bowling.”

“Fantastic,” Hutch said snidely. “Don’t suppose you’ve had time to fix any dinner?”

“No, not yet –”

“Then why don’t you do it while I take a shower? Or is that asking too much?”

Pushed by his unreasonableness, Starsky snarled, “I’m not your friggin’ slave, dammit!”

Flushing slightly, Hutch got up and headed for the bathroom. “Maybe not. But a little more cooperation around here would be nice.”

“Cooperation? Oh, terrific! Get off my case, willya? You think it’s been a bed of roses for me since we got back from Vegas an’ I had to move in here?”

The bathroom door shut, full period to their conversation. “Wonderful, pal,” Starsky muttered. “Ignore it and maybe it’ll go away.” He snatched up his jacket. “Ignore me, and maybe I should go away, too.”

 

Chapter II

The click of the closing door woke Hutch up–he sat up, groggily wondering why he’d fallen asleep over the table, and Starsky’s voice said, “Hey, you didn’t have to wait up, y’know.”

“What time is it?” Hutch knuckled at his eyes.

“Quarter after two.”

“Christ…”

“Thought you’d be in bed. I didn’t mean to wake you–I mean, I was real quiet comin’ in.”

It occurred to Hutch that Starsky was not quite sober. This irritated him somewhat. “Yeah,” he said shortly, wincing as stiffened muscles twinged in his back and shoulders. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t waiting up for you. I figure you’re a big boy now.”

“Thanks, Momma.” He collected a slightly intoxicated grin from Starsky. “Hey. You cleaned up.”

“Let’s see if we can keep it that way?” he suggested, unable to keep the bite out of his voice.

“Listen, it wasn’t my stuff spread around –”

“No, it was mostly mine,” Hutch agreed. “But you’ve been wearing it, and I’m sick of clearing it up behind you.”

“You’re sick of it?” Starsky hooted. “That’s rich! Since I moved in here, you’ve been acting like you got a live-in housekeeper, and boy are you mistaken!”

“I don’t expect –”

“So what do you expect, tell me that? God Almighty–and you wonder why I’m in a hurry to get my place finished!”

Hutch took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. Starsky seemed determined to get right under his skin, and he was tired and short on patience.

“I don’t expect anything. I would appreciate a little consideration. Some thought. I’m working a ten-hour day –”

“Oh, I get it! I’m not working, so –”

“So nothing! Damn you, Starsky, will you shut up and listen to me for a minute?”

“What for? To have you lecture me on what I should or shouldn’t do? The things I’ve done or not done? Forget it! I’ll pack up in the morning, get out of your hair –”

“That place isn’t livable yet.”

“So I’ll check into a hotel for a few days.”

“No.” Hutch stood up. “You’re staying here.”

“Give me one good reason why.” It was the bristling challenge of the street-fighter, but Hutch didn’t rise to it.

“Because I’d worry about you,” he said simply, too weary to wrap the truth in any more complicated reasoning. Starsky didn’t say anything. “Someone has to ride herd on you. You push too hard and you’ll end up in the hospital again, and that’s the Review Board out the window.”

“The Review Board, huh?” The words were soft-spoken suddenly. “Is that the whole story?”

“Go to bed, Starsk.” Any minute now he was going to fall on his face, and he certainly wasn’t making much sense, not even to himself. “Please.”

“Answer me, Hutch.” Quiet, implacable.

“Oh, damn you… No, it isn’t the whole story. It’s just Chapter One. I want you fit to face the board–and pass it. I want you back working with me. I need a partner, Starsk. Okay? That clear enough?”

“You’ve got a partner. Duplessis. He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah. You said it. He’s a kid. And he’s not my partner. I’ve got only one partner, and you’re it. No one else.”

“Uh-huh.” Starsky’s eyes never left him. “Guess that answers the other question. The one I didn’t ask yet.” He crossed the room in four strides, laid his hands on Hutch’s shoulders. “I want t’pass that Board too, y’know. It’s Chapter One, like you said. Until then, I’m–marking time. Drifting. It bugs the hell outta me, knowing you’re out there on the street and I’m not. Guess that’s why I’m a little touchy. I’m sorry.”

Hutch let himself relax into the embrace. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I’m gonna make it, Hutch.”

“I know.” You better. Or it’s the end of me…

“‘Kay. Just remember it.” He let go, stepped back. “Who gets the bed tonight?”

“I do,” Hutch said firmly. Starsky raised an eyebrow, but didn’t protest.

They got themselves settled, and Hutch was just beginning to drowse when the voice out of the darkness said, “Hutch? You awake?”

Hutch contemplated playing possum. But if Starsk was in a talkative mood, that wouldn’t work. “I guess.”

“I figured out why we’ve been at each other’s throats so much recently.” A pause, as he waited for a reply. He didn’t get one. “Well, before we went to Vegas, we had more time. You know, just to–socialize. Since we got back, even though we share the same living space, we never get time to talk to each other. You know?”

Out of the past, another voice, strident, female. “You never talk to me any more, Ken. You use this place like some cheap hotel…”

One relationship down the drain. And this one means far more than that ever did. Sounds crazy, but it’s true. Don’t bomb out on this one, Hutchinson.

“I know. Just doesn’t seem to be the time, somehow.”

“Right. Besides, I’m trespassing on your territorial imperative.”

“What?” Hutch wasn’t sure he’d heard that right.

“Really. I read it in a book. Some animals stake out their own piece of territory. You know, foxes, dogs, cats–even birds. And if another male trespasses on that territory, there’s a fight.”

“You mean–I’m subconsciously resenting your presence? Defending my space?”

“Like any other alpha male.”

Silence.

“Starsk.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re really weird.”

A chuckle. “Yeah. An’ if it makes you feel any better, I’ll buy a frilly pink apron…”

Hutch snorted into his pillow at the ridiculous image that conjured up. “Whatever feels natural to you, Starsk.” He managed not to laugh.

“Who said I was gonna be the one wearing it?” Starsky countered, and let out a yelp of shock as Hutch’s accurately thrown pillow landed on him.

“Go to sleep!” Hutch commanded, choking on laughter, and heard the answering snicker. “‘Night, Starsk.”

“G’night, babe.”

*****

It was a March Tuesday morning like any other, except that ten months ago this particular Tuesday had seemed to belong in the realms of fantasy. For so many weeks Hutch hadn’t dared even to think of it, and planning for it seemed totally futile, even tempting fate. But that phase had passed, and Starsky’s thirty-seventh birthday had become a goal, a target to aim for. Yet he hadn’t finalized any plans for it–in fact, he’d bought the present only yesterday. Ever since he’d seen one months ago in a lapidary shop, he’d thought of it for Starsk: a greyish-brown globe of stone, featureless, vaguely ovoid, rough to the touch… with a secret hidden at its heart.

Hutch tucked the gift behind the boxes of bran flakes and granola on the table, and poured the coffee. “Breakfast!” he bellowed. “C’mon, haul ass. You don’t get room service.”

“Standards sure are slipping,” came the drowsy complaint. “What happened to old-fashioned courtesy? An’ you’re forgettin’ something.”

“No I’m not.” Setting the table with haphazard speed, Hutch hid a grin. “C’mon, I only got fifteen minutes.”

“So? I got all friggin’ morning.” Unshaven, blinking like a grounded owl, Starsky shambled out to join him, scratching absently at his ribs, a yawn nearly dislocating his lower jaw. Hutch gave him a long, thoughtful look, then sighed and shook his head.

“Over the hill. Definitely over the hill. Here, siddown and eat your breakfast.”

Starsky flopped into a chair, squinting into the brightness of the morning and of Hutch’s groomed, ready-for-court appearance. He grunted. “You’re a sight.”

“What?”

“For sore eyes. Or something. What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing special. Pettersen’s pre-trial hearing.” Casually, he lifted the bran-flakes aside to reach for the milk, revealing the birthday present, and was arrested by Starsky’s “Hey!”

“What now?”

“You didn’t forget!”

“Forget what?”

“I figured you’d forget. I didn’t remind you or anything. You always forget if I don’t remind you.”

“That’s a contradiction in terms. What are you rambling about, Starsk?”

A wide, beaming grin greeted him. “You can’t fool me, partner. Thanks.” And the colorful wrapping was shredded by eager fingers. “Geez, it’s heavy. What is it, huh?”

“Open it. Find out,” Hutch suggested, finishing his cereal. There was much rustling and ripping as scotch tape yielded to brute force and the butter knife, and tissue was evicted. Then came silence.

“Hutch.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a rock.”

“Right.” Hutch grinned. “You’ll make a detective yet, Starsky. Keep working at it. Gotta run.” And bolted.

He wasn’t in the car ten minutes before Control called him for a patch-through.

“Roger,” Hutch acknowledged. “Yeah, Hutchinson.”

“You rat,” said an immediately identifiable voice.

“You like it,” said Hutch, grinning inanely.

“Like it? It’s the dumbest present I ever got!”

“Well, I figured no one else would give you your very own rock, Starsk.”

“Guess not.” The chuckle surfaced for an instant. “Hey.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Happy Birthday, buddy,” Hutch said with complete contentment.

“Yeah. It is. You crazy bastard.” And the line went dead.

*****

When he arrived home that evening, it was to find the geode prominently displayed in pride of place on the coffee table, which had been cleared for the purpose. The rock sat in solitary splendor, the cut halves angled to catch the light in the glistening crystals that lined the hollow interior.

Starsky was on the phone, a wad of opened envelopes and cards in his free hand. “–yeah, sure, Mom. I will. Thanks for callin’. Sure, I’ll let you know as soon as it arrives. Take care, Mom. I’ll call you Friday.”

“Not from here, you won’t,” Hutch announced, as Starsky put the phone down. “Had a good day?”

“Not bad.” Starsky gave him a cocky grin as he began to arrange the cards around the geode, hunkering down to check the effect. “Had lunch with Kim. She gave me a present too. Aramis Devin.”

“Terrific. So now maybe you’ll stop swiping mine.”

“Don’t hold your breath. How was your day, huh? Court go okay?”

“So-so.” Hutch headed for the bedroom, shedding jacket, shoulder-holster and tie. “He got bail. Trial set for next month. You fixing dinner?”

“I got it planned, yeah.”

“Pizza?” Suspiciously.

“Nope. Lasagna.”

“Oh.” Hutch turned the corner into the bathroom and started the shower.

“Don’t get so enthusiastic!” he heard Starsky yell after him. “It’s my birthday, for chrissakes! You should be fixing my dinner!”

“What?”

“Never mind. Hey, your lady called.”

“Jaqi?” He cut the shower off, and peered round the shower curtain.

“Unless you’re two-timing her, she’s the current passion, right? Yeah, she’s somewhere in Oregon. Apologized for tonight–said she can’t make it. Said to tell you sorry.”

“Shit.” Hutch ducked back into the shower and rinsed off.

“Heavy date, huh?” Starsky said sympathetically.

“Something like that. I thought we’d take you out to dinner–it’s about time you got to meet her.” Wrapping a towel around his waist and stropping another briskly over his hair, Hutch re-emerged. “Guess it’ll have to wait.”

“Out to dinner?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Sorry, hell. So we’ll make it company instead of a crowd. Where’re you taking me?”

“Nowhere, looking like that,” Hutch said firmly.

He watched Starsky eye with open amusement the blue suit and toning blue shirt he selected from his closet. “Tell me, did some dumb broad once tell you that blue matched your eyes?” Starsky said mildly.

“Probably.” Dressed, Hutch checked the time on his pocket-watch and slipped it back into his vest-pocket. “Get changed and we’ll go downtown to Huggy’s. I’ll buy you a drink while I decide where we’re eating.”

“Well, I drink more than beer on my birthday,” Starsky warned.

“No kidding? Getting all grown up, huh? Okay–I buy you one drink of your choice, then the next round is yours. Deal?”

“Deal!” Starsky agreed, and once Hutch had pronounced him sartorially fit to face the world, spent the trip to the Pits listing recipes for cocktails of lethal content, as if thinking aloud. He had just detailed the ingredients for a concoction he dubbed Montezuma’s Revenge, which included tequila, lime juice, Tia Maria, and white rum, when Hutch pulled into a parking space.

“One more like that and I may have thrown up,” Hutch told him, checking his watch again. “Settle for something civilized, willya? Or do you want to give Huggy a brain-seizure?”

“‘Kay. How about a Slow Screw?”

Hutch did a classic doubletake before he saw the wicked grin and the bubbling laughter, and knew he’d been suckered again. “Out, clown,” he ordered, smothering his own grin. “Before I Slow Screw you–to the nearest wall!”

Starsky, still chuckling, bounced down the steps and pushed open the door of the bar. Hutch followed close behind. “Hey, Hug, whatcha –” In the utter darkness that faced them Starsky broke off, backed up, reaching for him, saying uneasily, “Hutch –”

“Happy Birthday, Starsk,” Hutch said, and suddenly the lights came up in a dazzling flood. Someone yelled, “Surprise!” and the place was full of people–the Dobeys, Minnie, Dave Duplessis with a tiny blonde, Huggy with his arm around Diane, Sweet Alice, Molly, Kiko, Jackson…

“Oh, shit…” said Starsky feebly, at a loss for words. Then Hutch laid an arm across his shoulders, steering him into the welcoming crowd, sharing him with their many friends.

*****

Huggy had promised the Birthday Party To End All Birthday Parties, and when Huggy promised, he delivered. The spread of food alone would have delighted the average eight-year-old, for imagination had run riot, and there was nothing left out. The enormous cake sported thirty-seven candles, and was frosted in white with ‘Top of the Cops’ curlicued elegantly in blue, and beside it was a strawberry-jello-mold Torino, the white stripe piped in cream. A masterpiece of culinary confection, and to what end? Folks was just goin’ to eat it…

Present-opening took a time, as no-one had come empty-handed–there was a Pentax from the Dobeys, to replace his lost treasured camera, three Fats Domino albums from Kiko and Molly, and a rainbow-striped silk kimono from Sweet Alice that bugged Hutch’s eyes. “Hey, that has to be one of your old ones, Alice.”–

“Hutch honey, don’t you know I got better taste than that?”

The diminutive blonde with Duplessis turned out to be Sally, his wife, who confided that she hadn’t believed a word Dave had told her about his partner–Ken Hutchinson was charming.

Starsky solemnly agreed that Ken Hutchinson certainly was, and kissed her thank-you for the velour shirt she and Dave had given him, meanwhile observing Hutch’s blush with pleasure.

It was his turn to blush when Huggy escorted a blonde forward, a slinky female in a red halterneck that looked as if it had been sprayed on to a figure that rivaled Bo Derek’s, introduced her as Annette, and placed her hand in his. “Kinda run out of original ideas for presents, Starsky my man,” he announced. “So I settled on somethin’ that wouldn’t need no gift-wrappin’. Bless you, my children.”

“Why don’t I get birthday presents like that?” Dave Duplessis wondered, and collected an elbow in the ribs from his wife.

Restrictions on diet and alcoholic intake being lifted for the occasion, it wasn’t long before Starsky was flying high, in love with the world. “It’s my party,” he informed Hutch, “I’m allowed to be happy.”

Hutch wasn’t arguing–he was having too much of a good time himself to shorten his convalescent partner’s leash. So Minnie achieved the ambition of years–a tango with Starsky, complete with final dip, which left her breathless and giggling and ready for a repeat performance with Hutch. Maybe it was the drink, but for once his feet went where they were meant to, and they got a round of applause at the end of it.

Dave Duplessis swept a protesting Sally into an energetic exhibition of Saturday Night Fever that for sheer athleticism made Hutch feel his age. Starsky draped an arm around his shoulders, eyes glittering.

“Let’s show these kids some real fancy footwork, babe,” he invited.

“Uh-uh. I’m not dancing with you, Starsk. Go smooch with Annette.”

“Can’t, Dobey’s dancing with her. He pulled rank. ‘Sides, we can’t do a siti–cirkat–sirtik–hell, Zorba with girls, Hutch. Has to be stag. You know that.”

“What does?” Dave Duplessis, flushed with his exertion, overheard.

“A sirtaki.” Hutch explained about the Greek Wedding, and Dave was keen to learn, and the three of them began an unsteady version of the dance, to their own accompaniment until Huggy caught on and switched the music to fit. They got on a lot better after that, except that Starsky’s feet were somehow working to a different rhythm to the rest of him, and his snickering fits of the giggles finally forced him to drop out and watch from the floor, where he sat cross-legged and called out encouragement as Hutch and Duplessis attempted to perform a zebekikos. He thought they did very well, too–so well that they deserved applause, and in true Greek spirit smashed three of Huggy’s plates before anyone could stop him.

“But it’s a Greek custom!” he protested. “Like applause!”

“You stick to handclapping, Starsky,” Huggy ordered, quite unimpressed.

*****

“‘S been a beaut’ful party…” Starsky said dreamily, still sitting on the floor at three in the morning, as the last guests began to make their farewells and leave and Huggy and Diane cleared away the debris.

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, smiling at the disheveled and completely legless figure that blinked moistly up at him. “Blow your nose. And say goodnight to whatsername. It’s time to go home, Birthday Boy.”

Starsky tightened an arm possessively around Annette’s waist, and she purred and kissed his ear. “S’ my present,” he announced. “Fr’m Hug.”

“Sure, babe, but –”

“It’s okay, Hutch,” Annette smiled. “You’re gonna need help to get him home anyway.”

She was right. Starsky wouldn’t acknowledge that he was incapable of walking to begin with, and found their attempts to get him first to his feet, then up the stairs, then to the car, hysterically funny. Once in the car, he seemed to fall into a sudden stupor, his head on Annette’s shoulder, so Hutch got into the driver’s seat, started the car, and headed for Venice. He could drive Annette home later, or get her a cab…

“Hutch.” Her voice was soft, her free hand on his shoulder.

“Mmm.” His thoughts had been elsewhere. It had been a night to remember, and no mistake.

“Wasn’t altogether Huggy’s idea, you know.”

“What?”

“Me.” She smiled, and began to play with the hair at his nape. He could smell her perfume–light, flowery. Diorissimo. “Confession-time. I suggested it. Huggy told me about you two and Kira.”

“Huggy–told you about Kira?”

“Sure. She must have had rocks in her head.” Her fingers found his earlobe. “Knew how I’d handle it if I ever got the chance.”

“Yeah?” This was slightly unexpected, but it didn’t stop his grin from forming.

“Uh-huh. So how ’bout it, lover? You game for a threesome?”

“Uh…” He wasn’t quite sure what to say. After all, she was Starsky’s birthday present.

“Hutch.” The solemn inebriated voice of his partner cut in on his thoughts. “You’re my bes’ frien’. Ev’ryone got a piece a’ my cake, di’n’t they? Y’re my bes’ friend–you get to share my present…” Having spoken, Starsky slid across the seat, coming to rest with his nose in Annette’s cleavage, apparently asleep.

A troy was no new thing for them–there had been times before when they had shared a girl. Not often; it wasn’t always easy finding a girl both were interested in who would go for the idea. Kira hadn’t, and that had been their last opportunity. Moreover, since Jaqi had come into his life four months ago, Hutch had had all he could ask for in her. Mostly. There had been a couple of one-night stands, but it wasn’t as if he were committed to anything with her. No strings. That was how they both wanted it.

Annette’s red dress was slit to the hip, and the smooth length of creamy thigh exposed tempted his touch. Beside her, Starsky snored. Hutch sighed. “I wouldn’t count on it being a threesome, honey. Lover-boy there may not be capable of much by the time we get him home.”

Her tongue flicked across her lips, and she smiled. “We’ll see…” she murmured.

*****

Getting Starsky up the stairs at Venice Place was a problem Hutch could have done without, but leaving his partner in the car to sleep it off would have been a rotten thing to do.

Besides, Starsky had been marginally conscious and might have objected to Hutch walking off with his birthday present.

It took Annette barely five seconds to get down to skin, since she was wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy red lace panties under her dress. Then she went to help Starsky, who had decided to be ticklish. By himself, he had tried to take his pants off without removing his shoes first, and had hobbled himself so thoroughly that he had fallen over. Fortunately, onto the bed. Between them, Annette and Hutch got him stripped.

Sitting next to the furry naked torso, Hutch reached out and pulled Annette toward him, caressing the sleek perfection of her body, the heavy silken warmth of her as he took her mouth in a kiss.

“Hey!” came a mumble from beneath them. “‘S my birthday, …’n my present. Lemme up…”

Starsky was struggling to sit, and they helped him, a twining triple embrace indiscriminate of gender. The press of two bodies at once excited Hutch, and the small illicitness of the situation aroused him still further. But Annette soon took command of the loving, letting them know just what she wanted, and getting it. Probably she had done this kind of thing before, Hutch surmised. Just as well. He was no way as smashed as Starsky, but he wasn’t exactly rowing with both oars either.

Hutch had always gotten a special charge out of a troy, though he had never tried to analyze why–if he had learned anything from his marriage to Van, it was not to question his own motives too deeply. But this particular coupling was something else. Maybe it was his alcohol haze. Maybe it was her sheer erotic expertise. Or maybe it was being able to watch Starsky’s face as she brought them both to a simultaneous shattering climax.

“Hey,” she said, when she could speak. “Does that happen every time? You two getting off together?”

Starsky, whose expression had mellowed from transcendence to a tomcat smirk, cracked one eye. “Oh, sure. Every time. The Bobbsey Twins.” And with a glance at Hutch, “Did we?”

Hutch, laboring for breath, took his time answering. “I think we did.”

“Oh.” Shifting position to wrap an arm around Annette, Starsky made himself comfortable. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?” He didn’t bother to open his eyes again.

“Nex’ time, you get heads, I get tails.”

“Deal…” Hutch agreed.

*****

The alarm shocked him out of sleep. Hutch cursed, reached for it, shut it off, and slumped back with a groan. His skull was a solid ache, ear to ear. On the other pillow, two heads nestled side by side still deep in slumber, one tawny blonde, one dark. Starsky was holding on to Annette like a child clutches a teddy-bear. Hutch hated him. Of course, right then, Hutch hated anyone who didn’t have to get up and go to work.

A shower helped wake him up, but his hopes that the noise of his getting dressed would disturb the Sleeping Beauties went unrealized. He didn’t feel quite vicious enough to try more drastic measures, and besides, he was going to be late enough as it was. “Goodbye, my children,” he muttered. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

He was not the only sufferer, as he discovered when he got to the squadroom. Those who had attended the party were all in states similar to his own. Minnie was in a poisonous mood. Dobey restricted himself to bass grunts. Dave Duplessis was very pale under his freckles, and moved as if he hurt. There was a run on the coffee.

He and Duplessis staggered through the day. By evening, as Hutch pulled up alone outside Venice Place, he considered it had been the sort of day one was glad to see the end of. One feisty old lady who had had to be talked into an appointment to pick out the man who had mugged her, and another dead-end clue on the truck hijacking. Thank God he had time-off coming. Ostensibly a pre-Review Board break to get Starsky into the peak of condition, it would also give them time to relax, to rediscover the old empathy, the intimate sense of partners communicating without words. Not having that these past ten months had been what galled the most. Over the years it had become part of his life, and being without it was like trying to function with only one eye, or one hand.

You’ve got to make it through, Starsk. You’ve got to.

The other half of the Bobbsey Twins was not at home. A note on the kitchen table read, “Gone to pick up a few things for the apartment. See you there. Starsk.” After three weeks of that cocky grin greeting him every time he walked through the door, Hutch felt oddly lonely in the empty room.

My God, Hutchinson, you’re really in need of that vacation.

He fixed himself a quick sandwich. Any food at Starsky’s would be indigestible even if it were edible, since lately Starsky grabbed every conceivable opportunity to break his diet. He took it with him as he drove over, and was just finishing it as he pulled up behind the Dodge.

“Hi, Hutch,” floated cheerfully from the bedroom as he entered the apartment. “I was hoping you’d get here soon.”

There was a large flat package wrapped in brown paper propped against the living-room wall beside the bedroom door, marked ‘FRAGILE–GLASS–HANDLE WITH CARE.’ Hutch spared it a curious glance as he passed it. “Got a problem?” he wanted to know. Starsky, on his knees beside the window, was putting the final touches to the paintwork of the sill.

“Not yet.” He looked up, grinning, and gestured at the room. “See? All done.”

Hutch looked around. “So we get the kitchen fixed up next. How was your day?”

“Well, I didn’t come round ’til noon, but after that–terrific. Annette sent you her love.”

“You were both dead to the world when I left,” Hutch said, examining the door-jamb for shoddy brushwork. “I did check to see you were still breathing. But I figured they’d never let you into heaven with a smirk like that on your face.”

“Who needs heaven?” Starsky asked rhetorically. “Give me a hand, willya?”

He was manhandling the large mystery-object through the doorway–Hutch gave him the required aid. “Hey, it’s heavy. What the hell is it? We fixed the glass first off.”

Starsky was stripping away the protective wrapping. “I thought I’d get some style in my life,” he said proudly.

Hutch stared at his reflection in the revealed mirror. He didn’t need to ask where Starsky intended to put it. “Starsk. There’s only one name for that kind of style–West Coast Sleazy. I thought you’d grown out of tacky ideas like that.”

“Listen, smart-ass–don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. You gonna help or not?”

“I guess I got no choice…” Hutch sighed, and took off his jacket.

“Right. Oh yeah, Hug called. He sounded kinda mean. But he said he’d got the keys for Shangri-la.”

“Where?” Hutch was trying to figure out the best way of getting the mirror up and keeping it there. “Are you sure the ceiling’s strong enough to hold this mother?”

“Yeah, I checked. Shangri-la. The cabin he found us. Our vacation away-from-it-all, dummy.”

“Oh. Did he say when to pick them up?”

“I told him you’d call round tomorrow. Look, if you can steady it–like that –”

Feeling like Atlas with the world on his shoulders, Hutch finally voiced the question that had been puzzling him ever since the mirror had made its appearance. “Starsk. This may sound stupid, but–how the hell do you fix one of these things up?”

Starsky grinned at him wickedly around the screwdriver clenched pirate-fashion between his teeth.

“Very long screws,” he said succinctly. “Schweetheart.”

 

Chapter III

Hutch had a free weekend, and the two of them spent Saturday in a concentrated effort to get as much of the decorating done as they could.

It made for a long day. When they finally called a halt and returned to Venice, Starsky dropped onto the couch with a groan. “God, I ache,” he complained. “I swear, I ache in more places than I knew I had places. D’you think I overdid it?”

“No,” said Hutch concisely, grinning. “A little hard work never hurt anyone. You’re not used to it is all. Once you’re back in shape, you won’t even notice. Anyhow, we broke the back of it.”

“Yeah, and mine, too, feels like. Downhill all the way from now on, I hope.” He stretched like a cat, eyes shut tight, and wrinkled his nose. “I stink of paint. And turpentine.”

“I didn’t want to mention it,” Hutch said. “Well, you know where the bathroom is. I’ll fix us some supper.”

Starsky opened one eye, tried for a pale-and-interesting look, and didn’t quite make it. Hutch was regarding him tolerantly. “You’re not makin’ me stick to that diet, are you, buddy?” he asked, expression soulful. “Couldn’t we send out for a pizza or three? Or some chili –”

“Your digestion wouldn’t take it,” Hutch told him dismissively. “That cast-iron gut of yours is a thing of the past, remember. You want to pass the Review Board, don’t you? Well, you won’t if your stomach falls out.”

Starsky snarled voicelessly. He was getting sick of Hutch holding the fuckin’ Review Board over his head like the Sword of Damocles every time he wanted to do something Hutch disapproved of. Muttering to himself, he climbed to his feet and made for the bathroom–emerging half-an-hour later, water droplets glistening in the dark curls, hitching the belt of the blue terry-cloth robe tighter around his middle. The smells from the kitchen were making his mouth water.

“Hutch? The Paul Muni Special?”

“Thought you deserved a treat after all that hard work,” Hutch said. “There’s a bottle of wine in the cupboard. Be careful you don’t cork it when you’re getting it open.”

“Would I?” Starsky demanded rhetorically, finding the wine and the corkscrew and wrestling to divorce cork from bottle. “Hey, you really spoil me, you know?”

“I know,” Hutch agreed. “Make the most of it while it lasts.” He finished laying the table. “C’mon, sit down.” Starsky sat, poured the wine, and lifted his glass in a salute.

“The Review Board,” he said. “And afterwards–me’n’ thee again.”

“I’ll drink to that. Eat your spinach.”

They both enjoyed the meal–the day’s work had given them good appetites, and conversation was non-existent, restricted to a mumbled request to pass the salt, until the edge was off their hunger. By that time the Paul Muni Special was down to scrapings, which Starsky disposed of.

“You’ll make someone a wonderful mother,” he announced, sitting back replete.

Hutch shook his head. “Uh-uh. Too narrow in the pelvis. Toss for who does the dishes?”

“Heads,” said Starsky, not caring either way.

“Right. You get to do the dishes.”

“Oh, terrific.” He grouched for the sake of it, but didn’t really object that much. When he was through, he carried the bottle and glasses over to the couch. There was about an inch left in the bottle. He considered this, then tipped it into his glass, downed it, and called, “Hutch? This bottle’s empty.”

“There’s another one. Same place,” was shouted above the sound of the shower. Starsky grinned to himself and collected it. Sebastiani Zinfandel–better than merely palatable…

He leafed through the TV Guide, but there was nothing to catch his interest, at least not until the Late Late Show. He considered the stereo, but his taste in music wasn’t quite in synch with his partner’s. Hell, who needs it, anyway? It was a luxury just to sit back, close the eyes and relax, secure in the knowledge of hard work done well.

His thoughts drifted, as they often did, to that ‘what if’ question that hung over his career–both their careers. Hutch had made that perfectly clear over the months.

“We’re a team, a partnership.”

“On the force or off it, doesn’t make any difference.”

“It’s gonna be together, Starsk. Whatever comes down.”

He knew the arguments so well, he could do them to music. And in the really hard weeks, before Christmas, he had needed that reassurance. But now it was different. Sure, he felt okay–A-1 fit, no problems–but that wasn’t going to snow the Board. Nor did he honestly want it to. If he wasn’t fit to go back on the street, then that was it. Finis. Wouldn’t want Hutch to take the risk, the chance that he might be too slow, too cautious, once too often. Well, in four weeks he’d know, one way or the other.

And if it was the other, he had two problems on his hands. What could he do apart from police work; and how could he convince Hutch to stay on the force…

“Contemplating Armageddon?” Hutch’s voice broke in on his thoughts. He opened his eyes, smiled up at him.

“Something like that.”

“Lighten up. It may never happen.” Hutch, barefoot and clad in his bathrobe, joined him on the couch, picking up his glass. “Nothing on TV?”

“Not unless you can face the Waltons.”

“Not when I’ve just eaten, no.”

The level in the bottle dropped steadily, and the silence was without stress, companionable. The daylight dimmed, darkened swiftly into twilight–gold turning to rose, to purple, to cobweb grey. Hutch reached up and clicked the lamp onto its lowest setting, suddenly realizing that Starsky was not just being quiet but had fallen asleep.

Why wake him? It had been a long day, and a tiring one, for Starsky in particular. Hutch looked at him, carefully. Weeks of hospitalization, months of convalescence, had left their inevitable mark, and not only in the too easily-tired muscles. The sleeping face was still thin, almost gaunt, though thanks to days spent swimming and lazing in the sun, he was no longer invalid-pale.

Hutch leaned closer, searching for signs of strain, shadows of pain, but there were none. Starsky slept with a tranquility that was childlike in its trust. Despite the pain and grief of the last few weeks, Nick, it seemed, had no power to trouble him here.

Satisfied, Hutch relaxed back against the cushions, unable to shift his position too much without disturbing the sleeper–not wanting to move, anyway. He was comfortable, and though not tired, he found the dimness of the room peaceful. There had been little enough opportunity to unwind recently. To sit quietly and just–be.

Be together. Be where he was needed, too. Starsky needed him near, needed their closeness, the companionship born of shared respect, shared dangers. It had been there from their first meeting–how many years ago now?–and had been forged by time into something so strong, so integral to their lives, that to be deprived of it was unthinkable.

But he had thought of it. Infrequently in the past, more often since that burst of automatic fire had stitched death across Starsky’s body. The terrible barren agony of having half of his being torn away.

Frowning, he gave himself a mental shake. That was sheer melodrama. Besides, he’d come to terms with the fear months ago, when Starsky had announced his intention to get back to active duty as fast as possible. Part of him wanted to object, to insist that the life more precious than his own be sheltered, protected–but he’d squashed that impulse and set about giving Starsky all the help and encouragement and support he needed. It was a purely selfish reaction; it was because he didn’t want to suffer that emotional holocaust again. Because, once they got back on the streets, it would come. Inevitable as night following day. And he would lose Starsky for good. It was a choice not easily made, nor easily held, but one he remade every time.

Whatever comes down. They were a team, and that was the way it was going to stay.

There was no doubt in his mind that Starsky would pass the Medical Review Board. He’d make it, no sweat. Of course, he wouldn’t be back to the peak of last year, and they’d both have to cut out the risks they were used to taking, but a little more caution wouldn’t be amiss anyhow. Somehow, though, he couldn’t see Starsky changing that much. And he would hate to see him forced to change.

He felt a smile creep over his face, beginning rueful, becoming infinitely tender. Hate it or not, Starsky had already changed. A man cannot walk into the Valley of the Shadow and return without some token of the experience. Starsky hadn’t talked much about it, but those one hundred and seventy-four seconds of cardiac arrest, and the countless days of long and painful convalescence, had brought about a subtle transmutation–no, he corrected himself, transmutation is base metal to gold. What had happened to Starsky was different. The gold was always there, under the cocky, abrasive veneer, and few people had been let close enough to see it. Now it was closer to the surface, more easily glimpsed. He’d always known that rich vibrant vein of personality, but its more frequent emergence now was no less a delight. The brashness had mellowed, and the result was a quieter Starsky, his basic depth and strength more obvious to the casual eye. Fine, true metal.

Without conscious thought he reached out and traced the line of cheekbone and brow with a feather touch. If he were a sculptor, this would be the kind of face he’d–no, wrong again. If he were a sculptor, this one face, in all its many moods, would prove an endless challenge, a recurring inspiration. He knew it so well, better than his own, but the man’s essential image had evaded his every attempt to get it onto canvas, let alone bring it out of the clay. Oh, he’d managed a fair likeness on occasion–the portrait Anna Starsky was so proud to display, the half-finished sketches abandoned and laid away years ago. But he’d never been able to satisfy himself that he’d caught that quicksilver spirit. Would he ever be able to? That was his partner–difficult. Enigmatic. Infuriating. And indispensable. How do you put that down in paint?

Even the structure of his face was a problem. All those mismatched features: no one in their right mind, he decided with clinical detachment, could call David Michael Starsky classically handsome. The eyebrows were too thick, nearly meeting over the strong nose. The jaw line was too heavy, to the point of being Neanderthal when belligerence and stubbornness added to its jut. But the eyes–closed now, hidden behind thick dark lashes–were that rare deep blue, and the mouth–

His fingers on Starsky’s lips, Hutch froze, suddenly aware of his own quickened breathing, the warm, pulsing ache growing in his loins. Confused, he jerked his hand away, then held his breath in case the abrupt movement had awakened him. But Starsky didn’t stir, and slowly he let the air out of his lungs, relief submerging arousal. You’re imagining it. You’re not feeling that.

But he hadn’t imagined it. Honesty forced him to examine what he had felt in that instant of time. Which was a mistake, he discovered, because it returned, and he could find no excuse for it, unless it was the wine they’d drunk.

And he didn’t think it had anything to do with the wine.

Swallowing, he reached up, switched off the lamp. This man, lying asleep beside him, his partner, his brother in all but birth, had suddenly become the focus of a desire so great it was choking him, blinding his eyes to all but the shadowed, sleeping face.

The hand he’d stretched out to touch Starsky’s mouth again drew back as his mind struggled to retain some kind of sanity. Unbidden came the memory of John Blaine, of his death, and Starsky’s shock and disbelief that his mentor had been homosexual. That was one label that didn’t fit him, he was sure of that, regardless of the havoc his gonads were wreaking on his self-control, but —

He knew Starsky loved him. More than he had ever loved John Blaine, the father figure he had looked up to and respected. It had never been said, but Hutch had not needed the words to confirm what he knew was there. It was, though, a love that could be summed up in one word. Brother.

‘The heart whose love is innocent…’ Who said that? Byron?

What he was feeling was far from innocent. He wanted to kiss Starsky, feel that mouth open under his, the powerful body responding, lifting to his hands, until in the cataclysm of sexual climax he could give and receive a commitment that was far more than the act of love. Love…

He’d said it enough times, in one way or another, but always with a qualification; “Starsk, I love you, but your taste in cars/women is awful.” And “I love you, and I love your caring, but –” Now he had another one. I love you. But I’m in love with you. What would you make of that?

His mouth lifted in a wry, one-sided smile. How about that, Starsk? And I’m drunk. I think. And if not on wine, then on this crazy, painful, incredible thing I’ve got inside me. Y’know something? I’m glad. Wouldn’t be without it. Not that you’ll ever know, because you won’t. You felt betrayed by Blaine–I won’t lay that on you. It won’t matter; you not knowing. The giving’s still there, and nothing can change that. Whatever you want, or need…

Gently he touched a fingertip to Starsky’s mouth, then, with conscious and self-mocking indulgence, stroked a light caress through the dark tangled hair. He’d forgotten how silk-soft the untidy curls were, and the rediscovery was a sensual pleasure. But his touch remained light as a breath of air–he had no intention of waking Starsky up.

********

The transition from dream to waking was so indefinite that he wasn’t sure he was awake–except that his dreams weren’t usually quite this vivid. Someone was stroking his hair, the touch so light as to be insubstantial, so it couldn’t be that that had woken him. Couldn’t think what it was.

He opened his eyes. The dim shapes of the room, ghostly shadows of themselves, lit by the streetlights from outside, told him where he was. Hey, I must have been whipped. Crashed out on Hutch’s couch. Don’t even remember–

He became aware of other things. Like it was late. Or maybe early. Didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. He lifted his wrist to check his watch, and a quiet voice said, “I didn’t know you were awake.”

The touch on his hair was gone. Maybe he’d imagined it. Left over from the dream. What had he been dreaming about anyway? Couldn’t remember.

“What time is it?”

“Late. Why? You going somewhere?” The thread of laughter in the voice made him grin in answer.

“Don’t think so.” He tried to sound doubtful, and stretched himself from his curled-up position, discovering that Hutch was still sitting beside him, as he had been when he’d gone to sleep. He could make out the faint images of bottle and glasses on the side table. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to cut out on you. You should have gone to bed.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “I was thinking. Guess I didn’t notice the time either.”

“Thinking, huh?” Starsky contemplated checking whether they’d killed the bottle, but was too comfortable to move. “What were you thinking about?”

“Things.”

He felt rather than saw the shrug, sensed the movement as Hutch turned towards him, heard him draw breath. “A lot of things. Us.” The words came slowly, reluctantly.

Well, that explained why he’d woken up. Empathy. Picking up on the vibes. He put his head back against the couch and relaxed. “Want to talk it out?” he offered. Wasn’t the first rap-session they’d had in the middle of the night. There was a hesitation.

“I don’t know.”

“Heavy, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“In that case–maybe you should talk about it.” Another pause, lengthening into a silence that was somehow different to any other silence they had shared. Empathy picked up impressions of pain, uncertainty. That hurt. “Hey, c’mon,” he said gently, reaching out in the darkness for Hutch’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. We’re buddies, aren’t we?”

“No.”

“Huh?” The denial jolted him. He turned his head, trying to make out his partner’s face. Impressions of shadowed eyes, pale glinting hair, but no expression. Only the guarded set of his mouth that could be covering–anything. “No we’re not buddies, or what?”

“Oh, Christ.” A small, flinching expletive. “I didn’t mean that.”

Starsky frowned, pushing up onto his elbow. “Okay. Whatever’s bugging you, it’s not healthy locking it up inside yourself, right? Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?” He tried to put a smile in his voice, and tightened his grip on Hutch’s shoulder. “Well… Anytime you’re ready, I’m here, don’t forget that.”

He heard a half-swallowed mumble from Hutch, asked, “What did you say?”

“I said, I guess I’m a little uptight these days, is all.”

“About what?” Starsky prompted. “About us?”

A slight nod from Hutch.

Puzzled, Starsky looked at him, straining to see clearly through the gloom. “Yeah, me too, sometimes. Lately–hell, you know all that. Listen, can we talk about it? Would it help?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.” The soft voice paused, and the silence stretched again. “I want to tell you something, but I’m not sure about it myself–and I don’t want to hurt you or get you mad at me.”

“Yeah?” Warmth flooded through Starsky, and he moved his hand up from Hutch’s shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in the pale hair. “Hey, you’re my partner. My best friend. So tell it.” Hutch remained silent. Somehow the silence hurt. “C’mon, babe,” Starsky pleaded. “Don’t lock me out. Please.”

Hutch’s hand touched his cheek, palm hard with calluses but so gentle it took his breath away, then his head was tilting back, and he was being kissed–and suddenly nothing was the way it had been and a lot of things made sense that hadn’t made sense before. Light, uncertain, the mouth on his told the secret without words, asked a soundless question–and, almost laughing with his own sudden delight, Starsky found that he could answer. A fierce joy welled up inside him, and he let his lips part, accepting the kiss, deepening it, slipping both hands around Hutch and drawing him closer.

Breathing ragged, Hutch lifted his head slightly, breaking the kiss. But he did not move away, and his cheek where it brushed against Starsky’s was wet.

“I love you,” said the mouth against Starsky’s skin. Words said before, but now taking on a new meaning and a new intensity.

“I know,” Starsky murmured. And it came to him that, in a way, he had always known it. So now what? Who cares? This–whatever happens is how it has to be. Natural progression. Is that my heart beating so fast? Or yours? I love you, babe, so much–can’t tell you how much —

He pulled Hutch down on top of him, tugging aside the bathrobe, pressed by the lean, powerful body into the cushions, into the silken pleasure of flesh on flesh, and surrendered to the upsurge of needing, wanting, until all thought was drowned in pure sensation.

*****

The leaves of the spider-plant hanging in the window cast jungle-shadows over Hutch’s face as he woke to warm golden brightness splashed over the bed, its rucked yellow blanket and tangled sheets, the pillows all awry. He blinked sleepily, aware of some change but not yet awake enough to be sure what it was. Except that he felt completed, without knowing what had been missing. A movement beside him, a slight give in the mattress, and it came back to him then, with a sense of startled wonder.

“Starsk…” he whispered, rolling over. But Starsky was sitting up, knees drawn up, his arms folded across them, head bent, turned away. The strong curve of his back showed the clear definition of muscle and bone beneath the tanned skin.

“Anything I say is gonna sound like shit,” Starsky said, his voice controlled, almost toneless. Hutch leaned on one elbow and looked at him seeing the tension.

“Why?” he asked quietly. Something was very wrong, and a knot of apprehension twisted his stomach.

“Because I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you have to say anything?” Hutch asked with a casualness he was far from feeling. Keep it light, he hasn’t adjusted to this yet. Have I?

Starsky gave a small, one-shoulder shrug, inarticulate, and did not turn. The room was silent; Hutch could hear his own heartbeat. Starsky’s unease was tangible, but he had to wait, couldn’t move to touch him. Not yet.

“I’m not gay!” It was blurted out, harsh with pain, and went into Hutch like a saw-edged knife.

“Do you think I am?” he countered, keeping the edge out of his own voice. Starsky’s head was bent on his arms, his face hidden, his breathing disordered. “Starsk? Is that what you think?” No answer. “Starsk?”

“I know you’re not. Weren’t. You’d have told me if it was like that.” He lifted his head at last, and turned to look at Hutch. “So what happened?”

It was a question Hutch wasn’t sure he could answer, but he had to say something to the look of–what? Guilt? Oh God–accusation–in the dark blue eyes. Off-balance, he grabbed for the last thing. “Does there have to be an explanation?”

“Yes, dammit!” The savagery startled them both, but Starsky’s control was back. “If we’re neither of us gay, then what the hell is all this? And how the hell did it happen? Huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I sure as shit don’t!”

Hutch sat up, pushed one hand through his hair. It shouldn’t be like this, he thought, dazed and miserable. What can I say? I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but I have and let’s make the best of it? Oh, Christ —

“What do you want me to tell you?” he demanded. “That I was drunk last night? That we were both smashed out of our skulls? I wasn’t that drunk, Starsk. You want me to pretend I can’t remember what happened? Sorry, but my memory isn’t that bad.” He tried to hold down his own anger and disappointment and the insidious fear.

It shouldn’t be like this. It should have been a gentle waking, together, peaceful and slow–cherishing, beginning to explore this new and tender aspect of their relationship, coming to understand the meanings, to discover the many different pathways of shared pleasure. The last thing he felt like doing was having his morals dissected. But he held both temper and desire in check. “Okay. It took me by surprise, too. You were asleep, and I was sitting there watching you–and it hit so sudden I was knocked for a loop.” Put like that, it sounded lame to his own ears. “I–I didn’t know what to do–didn’t intend to do anything. I sat there and worked it all out. Knew I couldn’t tell you the way I felt. Wouldn’t be fair to you. So I wasn’t going to tell you. Not knowing wouldn’t have hurt you. But you woke up…”

He said no more for a moment, recalling the memory. It had seemed so right, and Starsky’s response had been immediate, meeting his hesitation with a joyous acceptance–“Starsky, you know how it’s been for us, ever since we met in Academy. We’ve been friends, partners, closer than most brothers. We loved each other before this. So what’s changed?”

“What’s changed?” Starsky repeated. “Everything!”

“No. One thing’s added. We’re lovers.” And he smiled, liking the sound of the word. “But everything else is the same.”

“No. It can’t be. We had something great going, the way we were. We’ve lost that–can’t go back to it. And I don’t know yet what we’ve got instead. If anything. It can’t be worth the price. I’m scared, Hutch.” His voice shook on the name. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. I’m scared.”

So was Hutch, but he had to move then, couldn’t stop himself from responding to the distress in his friend’s voice. He put an arm across the bowed shoulders, and Starsky didn’t pull away as he had half-expected, but accepted the gesture in the spirit in which it was made.

“It’s new to me, too,” he said quietly. “But we can take it as it comes, babe. The way we always have.” Dear God, just being near to you–holding you– His arm tightened a fraction, his hand moving to caress the taut shoulder. “I never realized before how much you mean to me. That I loved you like this, I mean. That I–wanted you–”

In a sudden flare of movement, Starsky was off the bed, standing there, indecisive, the hurt confusion in his face making Hutch flinch.

“Starsky. I didn’t seduce you.” The words were out before he could reconsider.

“What the hell do you call it, then?” Starsky snarled, and Hutch bit back the answering anger. If they started tearing at each other this way, there’d be nothing left. Kilkenny cats.

“Listen. You want to talk this out, we’ll do it over breakfast. Go get dressed, okay?” Because if you don’t, looking the way you do, I’m gonna haul you right back in here with me and show you exactly how I didn’t have to seduce you.

Starsky paused, caught off-balance by the mundaneness of breakfast at such a crisis-point. Then clutched at the refuge of normality.

“Okay,” he said, and disappeared into the bathroom, gathering up the scattered trail of his clothing. Hutch heard the latch click, let out a long, shaken sigh and climbed slowly out of bed, reaching for his cords and pulling them on, easing the zipper carefully over the swollen flesh of his erection. Thank God he didn’t see that. His smile was bitter, self-mocking.

Breakfast. Do something. Occupy the mind. He heard the hiss of the shower, the buzz of his electric razor, busied himself making coffee and slicing bread for toast. He poured a glass of orange-juice and drank it down, the tartness cutting through the morning-stale taste in his mouth.

“Hey.”

He turned, to see Starsky standing sheepishly on the threshold. “Hutch, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sounded off at you like that. I –well–I’m sorry, okay?”

“No big deal,” Hutch heard himself say, and turned to the sink to rinse out his glass. “Sit down. Help yourself to coffee.” A conversation between two strangers.

“No. Really. I am sorry. It’s just that I didn’t expect–I never expected anything like this to happen.”

“And you’d rather it hadn’t happened at all.” There was an edge of bitterness he couldn’t quite keep out of his voice. You enjoyed it, damn you. Don’t pretend you didn’t, to me or to yourself. I didn’t rape you, David Starsky. You were as crazy for me as I was for you.

“I didn’t say that.” It was almost inaudible. “Hutch, I don’t know how to put this–you’re the best friend I’ve got. Ever had. That means a lot to me. I don’t want it to end.”

“It won’t. Unless you end it.”

Starsky shook his head mutely, eyes on the slice of toast that lay on his plate. “I don’t know,” he said softly, and that knot started twisting again in Hutch’s belly. “I just–don’t know…”

Hutch sat down opposite him, automatically taking a piece of toast and buttering it. He wasn’t hungry; if he had to take a bite of it, he’d probably choke, but his hands needed something to do. “Be honest with me, Starsk,” he said, keeping the even tones with an effort. “Haven’t you ever thought about it? How it might be–me and you? Haven’t you ever had that kind of dream?”

“No! Well, once, maybe. Or twice,” Starsky added reluctantly, still not looking at him.

“And you wondered, sometimes, what it would be like? You and me, together?”

“What is this? Some fuckin’–I mean, some kinda third degree? Okay! Sure, I’ve thought about it, dreamed about it, maybe once or twice. Doesn’t mean I ever expected it to happen–or wanted it to happen!” Again the accusation, and Hutch gritted his teeth.

“David,” he said deliberately. “Do you love me?”

The use of his given name startled Starsky into looking up, the same as last night, when Hutch had called him “David” during their loving. Starsky’s eyes were caught, and he couldn’t turn away.

“Yes,” he said, voice shaking. “Yes, I do, but–like that? Oh, Jesus, Hutch, I can’t get used to the idea! I need to think–to figure it out –”

“Sure.” Hutch put all his compassion into his words. “Take all the time you need, Starsk. But whatever you decide, I’m going to be there. You know that.”

Starsky got to his feet precipitously, catching the chair as it tipped and putting it straight. “I gotta go,” he said desperately, and headed for the door, snatching up his jacket and keys in passing.

Hutch didn’t move to stop him. “Starsk.”

He halted by the door. “Yeah?”

“Careful how you go, huh?”

“Yeah.” And, “I’ll call you. Okay?”

Then the door slammed and Hutch was alone. He sat for a few minutes, eyes closed, before getting up and tipping the untasted coffee down the sink, taking out a bottle of J&B, and pouring a shot. It tasted raw and sour, but he swallowed it and went to stand by the window. The sunlit tangle of plants blurred into a green mass. You blew it, Hutchinson. You had your chance and you blew it. Bombed out. Again.

Looking back, he could see every one of his mistakes, catalogue them. What happened to self-control? Deciding not to tell him, then as soon as he makes a normal friendly move, you throw caution to the winds and– Oh, Christ. Strike One.

You could have played it cool, talked a bit about it, how you felt–tried to find out if he felt the same way. But you can’t wait. Knowing him so well, you know all the right buttons to push, and you push ’em. Strike Two.

You knew how he felt this morning. Guilt, shame, fear–mixed up as a kid. You could have helped him, talked with him. Playing it cool. Instead you lose your temper, let your own hurt show, and your need. And him with Nick’s Vegas set-up churning round in his head. Strike Three.

It was so right, so good. Like nothing I’ve ever had before. It was good for him, too, he couldn’t fake that. Correction. It was fantastic. For both of us.

What if he never comes back?

The question caught at his throat and made his eyes burn.

What if I’ve blown the whole thing, our friendship and the team as well as this? If I’ve lost that as well–what have I got left?

He realized he was shaking. The deepest agony was that the missing part of him that had been filled in to make him so blessedly whole, had been torn out again. He slumped over the sill, head in hands. Dear God, what have I done to us?

 

Chapter IV

Starsky didn’t allow himself to think until he was in the car and heading away from Venice. The direction didn’t matter–he just needed the distance between him and–oh dear God Hutch…

He pulled off the road, cut the engine, leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath. Gotta keep control. Come on. Get it together, Starsky. His hands were shaking. He gripped the wheel tighter to steady them, and watched his knuckles whiten with the pressure.

Face it. The one person you trusted absolutely–life, liberty and sacred honor–the one you thought would never, could never betray you–

Betray? That’s kinda heavy.

Call it any way you see it. You trusted him. The one person in the whole friggin’ world you felt completely safe with–he used your trust and love and confidence and–

No! Goddammit, no! It’s Hutch I’m thinking about. Hutch.

Isn’t that worse? Hutch being what he is to you? Hutch doing what he did last night?

“No!” He spoke the denial aloud, vehemently. “It wasn’t like that!”

So how was it? Think about it. What he did–

What we did.

I’ve had dreams like that, sure–doesn’t everyone? Subconscious stuff. Had a real beaut while I was still in the hospital–the nurse woke me up early one morning and I’d had a real diamond-cutter of a hard-on. Embarrassed the hell out of me, but all she did was smile and say I must be feeling better. But it wasn’t her I’d been dreaming about. Forgot all about it, until just now…

I was dreaming last night, too, there on the couch. Can’t remember what it was about, except that it felt so–good. Warm and comfortable and safe. And then waking up. What did we say to each other? I can’t remember. Just knew somehow that he was uptight, hurting, and I wanted to help. ‘Any time you’re ready, I’m here.’

Well, that was laying it on the line, okay. Though God knows I didn’t mean it like that. But when he kissed me–

I could have pulled away. Asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. I didn’t. I–enjoyed it. I wanted him to kiss me. And the rest, too. I could have called a halt any time I wanted, but I didn’t.

So what am I laying all the blame on him for? I sure as hell wasn’t fighting him off.

His mind, traitorous, supplied the memories. Hutch’s weight, the strength of the arms around him. Bodies straining together as mouths clung. The unreality–no, not unreal, surreal, and not dreamlike, either. He was more intensely aware than at any time during his life, flying high on sweet sensation, so that the climax when it came was shattering in more ways than one. Cradled then, held close in loving arms, Hutch’s voice murmuring…

What he did–what we did…God, how can anything so right be wrong? I’ve known since I was a kid what fruits do with each other. It’s never turned me on. When I found out about Nicky, I felt sick to my stomach. And then Johnny Blaine. ‘It doesn’t change any of the other things he was.’ But I still felt shocked. Only, with Hutch…

He didn’t remember how he’d gotten to the bed. The only clear memory was Hutch. His hands caressing, stroking, exploring. Voice telling him over and over how beautiful he was, how much he was loved. And like a cat, he had lain there in a kind of languorous trance, surrounded by love, basking in it, accepting it as his due, relishing the intoxication of it. Hutch loved him, and that was all there was in the world–Hutch, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his voice and the adoration like velvet in it, the touch of the sensitive fingers that conjured him erect again, and the brush of silken hair on his thighs as Hutch’s mouth enclosed him. The shock–it was an electric jolt–his own voice crying out–the quicksilver that had replaced his blood shimmering through him with every crest of pleasure–tension building to a pitch of white fire, destroying, and a riptide of orgasm sweeping him away, life was being washed out of him–

Oh, Hutch how did you learn to make it so good? Because it was good. Terrific. Didn’t want it to end.

Gentle hands bringing him back, gentle lips touching his, gentle embrace enfolding his shaking body.

“I love you, David.”

“Ahhh, Hutch…”

Sated, content, utterly weary, falling asleep, holding and being held…

“Hey, fella. You okay?”

He snapped back to the present, jerked out of his reverie by a suspicious-faced CHiP.

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” he managed, the words hollow, without meaning. He was coming apart at the seams, and he was fine. Oh, God…

The patrolman gave him another searching glance before taking to the road again. Starsky decided not to risk another confrontation, and turned the Torino for home, resolutely corralling his thoughts until he was inside the half-finished apartment. There was food in the fridge, and some cans of beer, and the bedroom at least was habitable. He popped a can, kicked off his shoes, and stretched out on the bed, wedging a pillow behind his shoulders so that he didn’t have to look at his reflection in the mirror.

Okay. So it was great. Maybe the best ever. So what spooked me?

He tried to analyze his feelings, remembering how he had awakened–head pillowed on Hutch’s shoulder, one arm thrown across the broad chest, one leg over his, thigh to thigh, exactly as they’d fallen asleep. The feel of his own body, warm and pliant and relaxed–the scent of morning and sunlight and Hutch’s clean smell of soap and that expensive shampoo he uses, and the faint tang of musk and sweat from their bodies. The look on Hutch’s face as he slept–not quite a smile. Peaceful, and years younger somehow, the vertical furrow between his brows smoothed almost completely away. And the leaf-shadows tracing a pattern over his skin, and the way his hair gleamed where the sun touched it…

“David. Do you love me?”

Oh, Christ, if I didn’t, none of it would have happened. I love you, Hutch. So much that it hurts. So much that I’m breaking up inside from loving you. But I can’t take this. It’s too much.

Yeah, so what did I do? I could have talked to him–explained–but instead I lay into him with the blame. ‘You Always Hurt The One You Love.’ Terrific. What kind of perversion is that? Whatever, it’s the pits.

The train of thought, once started, refused to be halted. Echoes from the past, whispering:

–Don’t cry down my back, baby, you’ll rust my spurs–

–Four painkillers, feel no pain–

–Happy New Year, Hutch–You don’t know how happy, babe–

–It takes a very special kind of strength and friendship to let him do what he’s doing. I don’t know that I could do it for him again.–

Hutch. Hurt. Feeling the pain empathetically, a phenomenon he no longer wondered at, because they were part of each other and if you share the good you have to share the bad.

We never thought of it from this angle. The question has always been can I cut it again, out on the street. He’s backed me all the way, whatever it cost him–and it cost plenty. He’s always been there. Always ready to give just a little bit more. And when there’s something I can do for him in return–strike out.

I’m not making sense. Enough. This isn’t getting us anywhere.

He rolled over and reached for the phone, thought for a minute, and punched out a number. A sleepy voice answered, brightening considerably when he said, “Hi, Toni. It’s Dave.”

“Dave! Hey, it’s been weeks! How are you?”

“Wanta come around and find out?” he suggested. “I’m–uh–redecorating, but–”

“Oh, I see! Had to be an ulterior motive. You need someone to hold the ladder.” A chuckle, and he grinned in spite of himself.

“That, too, maybe.”

“You talked me into it,” she said. “Half an hour?”

“Great. See you.”

She was auburn and petite and vivacious, fun to be with. She was willing to pitch in and help with the last of the repainting. She could also cook, and worked a miracle with Starsky’s barren refrigerator. They drank a bottle of wine and got slightly giggly over dessert and went to bed. She was talented there, too. But for once he couldn’t hold himself back. Something fiercer, harder, almost violent in him raged out of his control.

“Dave, darling–take it easy–” She dug fingernails into his shoulders and he gasped, shuddering on the brink, eyes blind. “You tryin’ to knock a hole in me or what?” Skillfully, she shifted her hips, tilting her pelvis, and checked his movements by locking her legs around him. “Take it slow, love…please? Slower?”

But he gasped only seconds later and collapsed across her, trembling, his face buried in her hair. “God, Toni–I’m sorry…”

She stroked his sweat-slick back and shoulders. “Shh. Everything’s fine…”

At least for a while he could forget another loving embrace, another voice murmuring his name, another body thrusting against him, and his own response.

******

Monday dawned cold, bleak and empty. He woke alone in the apartment, and the dream of a warm, caring presence became ashes as illogical hope died. Because dreams do not become reality, even when they are based on what once had been.

Hutch squinted at the bedside clock, and laboriously climbed out of the rumpled bed. Sunlight and leaf-shade across the linen twisted the pain a little deeper into his gut. Yesterday at this time he’d been asleep, Starsky beside him, the companion of his dreaming, and, for a brief space of hours, his lover. Until they’d woken up.

He had tried to erase Starsky from his memory after he’d left, but failed. He didn’t know how much he’d drunk, and didn’t care, because eventually it had had the effect of numbing mind and body and dropping him into oblivion.

But today was Monday, and he had to face the world as if nothing had happened, nothing was wrong, with a hangover of monstrous proportions rooted in his skull, and a desolation in heart and mind.

No matter how he tried, he could not shut out Sunday morning: Starsky’s face and voice, bewildered, hurting, accusing; Starsky stepping back, walking away, opening up a gulf between them that mere words could not bridge.

He stumbled to the shower, turned it on, and stood there cringing as the spray beat down on his aching head.

Why?

Why, when he had gotten over the shock of discovering the new direction his love for Starsky had taken, had accepted it, and had decided to keep it to himself, why had he let it out?

More to the point, instead of saying, “Hey, Starsk, I love you, you turn me on, how d’you feel about me?” why had he resorted to actions rather than words? Touching him, gentle slide of fingers across cheek and into dark, thick hair, the incandescent shock of his mouth on Starsky’s–

“I wasn’t going to tell you–” He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until he heard his own voice. Wasn’t going to show you, either. But I couldn’t help it, Starsk. You sat there, so damned close, your hand on the back of my neck, your face wide open with concern, caring, and your eyes locked on mine. It was as if I was drowning. I couldn’t get my breath, all I could see was your eyes, and your mouth, hearing your voice, quiet and warm and–and–I needed you so much. Oh, God, I wish I could tell you how precious you are to me, but there just aren’t words enough in any language. If I’d been able to, maybe you’d understand, and not feel hurt, betrayed, by what I did.

Wishful thinking.

You blew it, Hutchinson. Bombed out. Now you’ve got to live with it, so pull yourself together, and start thinking with your head, not your gonads.

He turned off the shower, and with self-punishing briskness toweled himself dry, resolutely herding his maverick thoughts back to the day’s work. They would have to interview the old lady, Mrs. Ferengo, again, bring her in for the ID parade. Young Duplessis had handled her quite well last week. The kid obviously had a knack with frightened elderly women.

A small grin twisted his mouth, and he began to shave. Duplessis was more promising than the rookies Dobey had put in his charge since the hit on Starsky. Of course, Duplessis was not quite as wet-eared as they had been. Or maybe, he acknowledged wryly, Duplessis was the only one he’d given half a chance. Hutch assumed he was taking it all in. At least his questions never stopped coming, and they were usually to the point. Moreover, he could cope with words longer than two syllables. And could charm little old ladies.

Hutch snorted and reached for his aftershave. The bottle, new-bought last week, held only a dribble of liquid. The culprit was obvious.

“Stars–” But Starsky was gone. For a while, maybe for good. Pain cut into him again.

Starsky was not there, but the signs of his late presence were scattered around the apartment. Even the clothes he had been wearing when he left had been Hutch’s, all except the jeans and sneakers. All his belongings were still here, as if he’d just snuck out to buy a pizza from the delicatessen down the street–Hutch gave himself a savage mental kick, and fixed his mind on getting dressed.

He headed for the closet, spent five minutes looking for a particular shirt and pair of socks before remembering with a second jolt of pain that they had walked out with Starsky.

Momentarily disoriented, off-balance, he stood by the bed, trying to get to a safe mental topic. Duplessis. Good kid. Someday a good city cop. He’d shown a lot of patience and compassion with the old girl; useful attributes, both of them. He finished dressing and headed for the kitchen, concentrating on food and breakfast. He was brought up short by the untouched remnants of Sunday’s abortive breakfast-for-two.

How can you be haunted by someone who isn’t there? By an aching absence, by a hole in your life which something–someone–had suddenly filled completely and you never realized how completely until he was gone?

He seized the bread knife and started slicing at the rye loaf. “Damn!” The knife and his carelessness together did a good job of slicing his index finger to the bone. He sucked on the cut, fumbled in the cupboard for a Band-Aid. He was ham-fisted sticking it in place, but there was no one there to do it for him. No tolerant, affectionate, chuckling voice chiding his clumsiness– “Damn you, Starsky.”

No, not Starsky. Damn his own stupidity, his own haste. Oh, Christ, I’ve been through this already, yesterday and this morning. And I’ll probably go through it again in the next few days. Or however long it takes Starsky to make up his mind.

Which way would it go? A coldness slid into his stomach, remembering how Starsky had fled from him.

Gritting his teeth, Hutch carried on the breakfast preparations. What was the point of letting it get to him? If he kept this up, he’d be a wreck by the weekend. Please, God, don’t let it take that long. One day, and it seemed like he was already going out of his skull.

One single day. A day that had dragged by leaden-footed, and yet when he looked back, it was nothing more than a handful of hours separating the zenith of his life from the nadir.

The coffee was ready, and he stared at the two cups he’d poured as if they were twin vipers. Amazing how quickly a habit is formed, how you get used to having someone around, sharing your space–invading it, getting under your feet, in your hair, on your back–filling your life to the brim. Uncapped toothpaste tubes. Never a dry towel. Aftershave, his, spilled or swiped. Nothing back in its proper place. Litter of living, his presence spread around warm and vital.

One day. How much more of this can I take?

Question unanswerable.

Other questions: Where is he? Where did he go? Can’t call his apartment to see if he’s okay, not under the circumstances–he’d think I was hounding him. Is he okay? I could call. He doesn’t have to know it’s me.

The phone answered on the third buzz, and a sleepy voice mumbled “H’llo?”

Hutch replaced the receiver. He’s there. And he’s all right. That’s all I wanted to know.

Sure it was. Except that the sound of his voice, just the one word, had revived the longing. He wanted to hear him say “Hutch” again, whisper it the way he did that night, just before he fell asleep, with wonder and drowsy delight and love. He wanted the weight of that head on his shoulder, curls tickling his neck, the supple strength of him sated and slack with loving. Ah God, the way he held on to me…

He had never felt like this about a woman. And there had been enough of them, all sizes, colors. But they were all the same in the night, even Jaqi. They came back for more, so he guessed he did something right. But with Starsky he didn’t need to guess. He’d known. Known what Starsky needed and liked with the same certainty of his own needs and likes, a mirror-image of each other–completing–

He didn’t have time to reflect further, because there was a knock on the door, pounding into his hangover and startling him out of his reverie. He opened the door on Dave Duplessis’ well-scrubbed early-morning face, and stood back. The young cop came in with a bouncy swagger, clearly relishing his unexpected arrival.

“Hi, Hutch.”

“Hi, yourself,” he grunted. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

Duplessis stared at him in slack-jawed amazement. “Hey, ESP? You knew I was gonna drop by?”

“Call it a hunch,” Hutch said shortly.

“That’s weird.” Duplessis gazed around the untidy apartment. “I heard you and Starsky were tuned in on a wavelength, but I never figured it’d work with me–”

“Hunches are indiscriminate,” Hutch cut in. “How come you’re in this neck of the woods?”

“Sally’s parents live in Santa Monica, and she’s spending a few days with them. Just dropped her and Marie off there, and, well, I figured I could stop by and save us taking two cars in.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Want some breakfast?”

“Sure.” If Duplessis deduced anything from the bloodstained countertop, bread knife, and bandaged finger, he didn’t mention it. “Want a hand?” he offered, and didn’t wait for an answer. He sliced bread with speed and efficiency, dropped slices into the toaster, and spooned extra sugar into his coffee. “Starsky working on his place already?”

“Yes,” Hutch said flatly.

Duplessis struggled to hide a grin. Something told him that Hutch had finally reached breaking point and evicted his houseguest, and was now feeling extremely lousy about it. Like the guy who kept banging his head against the wall–it felt real good when he stopped, but he missed the pretty colored lights.

Hutch’s temper continued to smolder as they walked Mrs. Ferengo through a successful identification of her attacker, but once out on patrol he seemed to make a conscious effort to lighten up. Probably the black coffee and aspirin finally cracking the hangover, Duplessis thought.

“Hey,” Hutch asked suddenly, “didn’t you have a moustache before I went on vacation?”

Duplessis started, and felt his color rise. He had grown one but had shaved it off when Hutch came back from New York without his. He’d thought it had escaped notice. Luckily any answer he might have made was interrupted by the radio. “All units in the vicinity, a 1-87 at 7^th Street Bridge, west side of the river.”

“That’s for us,” Hutch said crisply. “We can be there in two minutes.”

“Zebra Three responding,” Duplessis said into the mike, reaching up with his free hand to slap the mars light on the roof.

When they got there, they saw the body behind one pillar of the bridge, a huddle of blood-stained clothing half-covered by black plastic sheeting. Two youngsters, their faces greenly pale, were talking both at once to a Highway Patrol officer, their backs resolutely turned to the bridge. “Coroner’s wagon on the way,” Hutch said as they passed, and got a nod of acknowledgement from the patrolman.

“Did he jump or was he pushed?” Duplessis said lightly, to disguise the uneasy feeling in his gut. So far in his police career, dead bodies had been few, excluding the one obligatory autopsy during training. Sierra County had seen very few homicides.

“Neither, if he hasn’t been moved,” Hutch pointed out. “If he’d fallen or been pushed, he’d’ve landed some way this side of the bridge support. He was put there. Someone’s also made an attempt to cover him up.”

“Maybe the kids?”

“Maybe.”

But they hadn’t. Closer inspection showed that the sheet was a garbage bag, and most of the body was inside it. The kids couldn’t have done that without getting plenty of blood on them, and they looked clean. The body was a young man in his early twenties, sun-streaked brown hair, dime-a-dozen beach-boy good looks. He was wearing an open-necked T-shirt and levis, and most of the fabric was soaked with drying blood. The stink of it was heavy in the still air under the bridge, and Duplessis swallowed back a knot of nausea.

The source of the blood was obvious. Across the boy’s face were two open welts, angling left and right, as if he’d been lashed with a whip, splitting flesh to the bone. More welts were visible, disappearing under the shirt, but there were no tears in the cloth.

“Killed somewhere else and dumped,” Hutch said, standing up and dusting off his knees. “Careful, Dave, you don’t want to louse things up for Forensic. Seen him before?”

“No, I’m pretty sure not.”

“Me neither. The motive wasn’t robbery, looks like a gold chain around his neck, under the blood. Don’t like the way his face has been marked–too damn deliberate.” He reached down and tried to lift the flexed elbow. “Still stiff, and by the way he’s curled, he wasn’t when he was sacked up. Come on, you go hear what the kids have to say, I’ll go talk to the cop.” He walked a little way off with the patrolman as Duplessis gulped again and turned to the two boys.

“You guys live around here?” he said, taking out his notebook.

“Aw, man, we just got through talkin’ to the chippie there,” the red-headed one said, protestingly. “You gonna let us go, huh? We sure didn’t kill him.”

“Just give me your names and addresses, right?”

“G’wan, Phil,” muttered the other.

“Yeah, okay. I’m Phil Sernick, and this is Gordo Geleah.” He gave an address in Long Beach that Duplessis recognized as a coffee shop. Sernick backpedaled when he pointed this out. “We hang out there a lot. You can find us there, honest.”

“I’ll bet,” said Duplessis, but he motioned them away, and they sprinted off.

Forensic and the Coroner’s wagon arrived as Duplessis rejoined Hutch, putting away his own notebook. “Do you think we’ll get this case?” he asked, feeling hopeful and reluctant at the same time. It was a particularly nasty murder.

Hutch smiled wryly. “Maybe. If we do, I hope to God we can get it wrapped up by this Friday, before I leave for our–my break. Back to the street, Dave. We can’t do anything until the reports come through from the lab, anyway.”

Duplessis got his wish. At four-thirty Zebra Three was called in to Metro with orders to see Captain Dobey, and they found him leafing grimly through the autopsy report. “This John Doe of yours isn’t going to be the cleanest of cases,” he said without preamble. “Sit down.”

“Ours?” Hutch said, perching on a corner of the desk. Duplessis parked himself in the chair by the door.

“As of now, yes. You can read the report later, but I’ll give you the highlights now. The kid had a $200 gold chain around his neck and an expensive digital watch on his wrist. The watch has a serial number inside the casing, and we’re checking on that. He’d been beaten up with fists, feet, and a metal whip, sexually assaulted by more than one man, and there were traces of drugs in his blood–sedative and some hallucinogens. He died of loss of blood from multiple injuries between about nine o’clock and midnight last night. He was dressed but had no underwear on–probably dressed after he was dead.”

“Gay rape?” Duplessis asked.

“It’s a possibility,” Dobey conceded, and pushed two copies of a photograph at them, a mug shot supplied by the morgue. John Doe’s face had been cleaned up, the gashes closed and almost invisible under cosmetic camouflage. “Babcock and Simmons are checking gay bars, so are Hendricks, Lewis, and Tuchman. You two take the porn studios, the ones who cater to the S-M trade. I want an ID, and I want it fast. It could take forever for the dental records or the watch’s serial number to come up with it.”

“There might be more like him?” Hutch put in quietly.

“It’s a possibility,” Dobey said again. “Out. Oh, yeah, Hutchinson. How’s Starsky getting on?”

“Okay,” Hutch said, voice noncommittal. “He’s moved back in to his place.”

“He has? Didn’t know it was ready yet.”

“It is. Near enough to live in, anyhow. Come on, Dave. Let’s go, huh?”

*****

Investigating the porn studios was not a job that could be done in an afternoon, and the list was not dented much by the time they logged off. Hutch was not sorry. Duplessis dropped him off at Venice Place, and Hutch barely noticed him drive off with a fanfare on the horn as he hurried up his stairs. It was six o’clock. Starsky could phone any time.

Starsky hadn’t contacted him during work–that was okay, of course he knew Hutch would be busy, and something like this would take time to sort out over the phone. Starsky would undoubtedly be calling him this evening, with his mind made up. Eight, nine years of close friendship, empathetic teamwork, would not be thrown away, Hutch was sure. Even if Starsky did not want the new aspect of their relationship, it would not affect their old camaraderie. He was making a mountain out of a molehill with his worrying, and when Starsky finally called, he’d see just how much he’d twisted the perspective. Everything would come out right. It had to. Of course it would. A few hours from now he’d be wondering what all the mental anguish was about.

But Starsky didn’t call, and by midnight Hutch knew he wasn’t going to. By then he’d lowered the level in the whisky bottle considerably, sitting where he was, sprawled on the couch, staring at the silent telephone waiting for a call he knew would not be coming.

He fell asleep there, and woke at the usual time, roused by the strident alarm clock across the room. It was not going to be a good day.

Nor was it. His headache would not go away, settling firmly between his eyes, hindering concentration and shortening temper. A dinner invitation passed on from Duplessis’ wife was refused with a curtness that surprised the young officer and shamed Hutch into a clumsy apology that left Duplessis seething between exasperation and anger. The tension in the car was not lessened by their lack of success in finding leads on their John Doe.

By the end of that Tuesday, Hutch’s apartment seemed like Arcadia to him. He shut the door on the clamoring world, took a shower, and climbed into clean clothes. Then switched on the radio, because the place was too quiet.

His headache was still there, and instead of aspirin he took a shot of whisky. It didn’t help, but he had another one anyway. The alcohol burned down his throat and into his empty stomach, reminding him of other mornings and evenings, months ago, when the other half of him was shut away in a soul-less private room in the hospital. Then, as now, he hadn’t known if he would be getting his partner back.

“Dumb bastard,” he said to the drawn-faced reflection in the grimy window-pane. “You gonna walk that road again?” At least he knew this time that Starsky was in no danger of dying, would almost certainly be found fit for active duty. But–he slammed the bottle back in its place, and pressed his hands over his aching eyes.

My God, what a day. Face the world as if nothing had happened, huh? Big deal. Hutchinson, you’re a lousy actor, and you better make sure you get it right pretty damn fast. God knows what Dave thought–and why the shit did he have to have that name?

Every time, it twisted the knife a little deeper.

Suppose he guessed I was hungover. I was, all right. How the hell did I get through yesterday? And today? Hutchinson, Man of Steel. He laughed, bitterly.

“You’re not going to call, are you babe?” he said to the phone. “S’okay, you know. You don’t want it, I can live without it. If you don’t want the team either, I guess I can live without that, as well. Can’t say I blame you.”

He fixed himself coffee, threw together a meal of sorts, and put his mind to work on the John Doe. He was, after all, still a cop, and it was about time he started thinking like one, instead of a one-man Greek tragedy. He got out a pad of paper, and started listing down random possibilities. The meal sat on its plate at his elbow, congealing and untouched.

At eight o’clock the phone rang. After the initial lurch of his heart, he knew it wasn’t Starsky. He scooped it up. “Yes?” pushing the word past the tightness in his throat.

“Ken? Remember me?” demanded a gentle, ironic voice. “More to the point, you forgot my phone number?”

“Jaqi, I’m sorry,” he said guiltily. “I–guess I had too much on my mind–uh–I mean–”

“Don’t bother with the excuses, Hotshot,” she chuckled. “If I’m crazy enough to date an overworked detective, I’m crazy enough to accept his faulty memory. Bad case, honey?”

“Yeah. A John Doe. Right now we need all the–sorry, shouldn’t be talking shop.”

“You go ahead and talk all you need to, lover,” she said. “Ken, you sound really down. Where’s that partner of yours? Can’t you hammer the angles out between you? I know he’s not back on duty yet, but–”

“Starsk’s back in his pad,” he interrupted.

“Oh. Ken, have you two had a difference of opinion?”

“No, not exactly,” he muttered.

“Okay, I won’t tease. On your own tonight, honey?”

“Yes.”

“So am I,” she said demurely. “At the risk of being thought a fast broad, what do you suggest we do about it?”

A sudden need for the warmth and comfort of her company grew in him.

“Where’s Emma?” he asked.

“With doting grandparents. Mom has her for a few days. So–?”

“So why don’t you come up and see me?” he drawled. “I’d come over, but I might get a phone call.” Unlikely, but–

“I’m on my way.”

“Jaqi?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks, sweetness. I don’t think I’m going to be very good company, though.”

“I’ve had off-days, too, lover.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “See you soon.”

Jaqi brought a casserole with her, guessing correctly that Hutch’s cupboards and freezer would be under stocked. It was a good move on her part, she discovered, taking one look at his face and another at the mess on the plate beside the paper littering the table.

“Okay, lover,” she said cheerfully. “You can go down the block and get some French bread, I’ll get this started.”

“Little Red Riding Hood,” he smiled, taking the covered basket from her and folding her into his arms.

“Not with hair like mine,” she chuckled, lifting her face for his kiss. “That’s one color I can’t wear. Mmm, that’s nice. Emma sends her love, by the way.”

“You can take mine back to her.”

“I already told her that. You two have got quite a mutual admiration society going, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, and kissed her again. “Thanks for coming over.”

“It’s Be Kind To A Cop Week. Bread, honey. And wine, if you haven’t any.”

“Okay.” He let her go, reached for his jacket, and started for the door.

“What about your phone call? Shall I take a message, or get the number for you to call back?”

“Uh–tell ’em I’ll call back, but it’s only a chance it might come.” Before she could ask more, he was gone.

Jaqi put the casserole in the oven, and turned her attention to the rest of the apartment. The place was a mess, from the kitchen to the bedroom alcove. Though the bed had been stripped of its linen, the clean sheets were left folded on the back of a chair, waiting. She made up the bed, whisked the clothes away, then returned to the kitchen and the several days of washing-up left in and around the sink.

Even over a few days, one man can’t make too much dirty crockery, and by the time Hutch returned, she had found and was reading through the notes on the table, knives and forks and placemats forgotten at her side.

“Poor boy,” she said softly. “What kind of animal would do that?” She picked up the photograph. “He’s a handsome kid.”

“Was,” he said shortly. “You’ve read the autopsy?”

“Yes.” She grimaced. “Guess I shouldn’t pry–but I always did have too much curiosity. Did I tell you I thought about becoming a cop, once, when I was in high school?”

“Yes,” he smiled. “Because you fell for the poor devil on Traffic near the school crossing.”

“That’s it. There’s something about a man in uniform…”

“You think? Remind me never to show you any shots of me before I made the plainclothes squad.”

“Why not?” she protested. “You’d have looked gorgeous! Good enough to eat. In fact, if it had been you on Traffic near that crossing, you wouldn’t have got away with your life–it was an all-girl High School, and we were carnivorous.”

“Huh,” he grunted, color rising. “That isn’t funny.”

“Cuts near the mark, does it, Hotshot?” she laughed, and hugged him. “You never have told me much about your early career, y’know.”

“Nothing to tell.” He rested his cheek on her hair.

“Ken,” she whispered. “What’s wrong? It’s not just this poor child, is it? Has Starsky damaged himself doing his home-decorating? Has he had some kind of a relapse?”

“No. He’s fine. It’s just–young John here could be the start of a series, maybe there were others before him we haven’t found yet. His injuries, the lash-marks, are too deliberate. Almost precisely placed–like they were measured with a slide-rule. We don’t need a psychotic killer running loose.” He moved away from her, all-too-visibly tired. “But it could be that’s what we’ve got.”

“A hunch, love?”

“Yeah. I’ve got an awfully bad feeling about it. Oh, hell, this is no subject for conversation when there’s a gourmet meal in the oven,” he said suddenly. “Come here and tell me how the real estate business is going, and what Emma’s done to your neighbor’s ornamental pond since I saw you last.”

“Oh, it’s fine, and she’s fine, and he’s fine,” Jaqi said and chuckled, leaning closer and sliding her hand between the buttons on his shirt. “And this is fine, and we’re fine, and you are definitely fine…”

*****

When Duplessis arrived at Hutch’s apartment the next morning, his wary reserve disappeared at lightning speed when he discovered a pleasant, smiling Hutchinson, and the probable cause of this sea-change, the very foxy redhead he was sharing breakfast with. “Wow. Good morning, sunshine.”

Hutch did a fast introduction while shrugging into his jacket, and kissed Jaqi. “I’ll call you at the office, at lunchtime,” he promised.

“See you tonight?” she asked.

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” he smiled, kissed her again, and ushered Duplessis through the door.

Once out on the street, the young man was somewhat surprised to watch the cheerfulness go out as if a switch had been pulled, and in its place flickered a strange bleak kind of loneliness. Then that too was switched off, replaced by brisk efficiency.

“Log us in and make for the morgue,” he said. “I want to take a look at the kid.”

“Huh? Okay, sure…but why?”

“Because sometimes the autopsy details are too factual. They concentrate on little details, sometimes hide the whole picture.”

“Oh.”

“Could be we’re wasting our time checking the S-M studios,” Hutch went on as they entered the morgue room. He pulled out the drawer to its full extent. “Look at him. Good face, good body, all-over tan. He wouldn’t risk all that for a few lousy bucks, letting a couple of flakes get their rocks off beating up on him. Not when he was wearing over four hundred bucks in jewelry. What kind of area would he work, if he was a hustler?”

“Not downtown,” Duplessis said immediately. He had been doing some heavy thinking on the case as well. “He looks to have been pretty high-priced merchandise. I’d put my money on the better bars or discos.”

“Or the beaches. If he was a hustler. There’s no mention of old scar tissue in the report, externally or internally, and no evidence of VD. Could be he wasn’t a working boy. He may not even have been gay.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow down our hunting field,” Duplessis said, exasperated.

“Maybe not. But it could make it more likely that he’ll be reported missing.” He pushed the drawer shut, and it glided silently in on its runners. “Let’s get out of here. You take the car, start checking the beaches–all the beaches, not just the gay ones. Then start on the campuses. I’ll make a start on the discos and health-clubs.”

“Right. What do I check when I’ve run out of beaches and campuses?” Duplessis asked sourly. Hutch grinned at him.

“The baths, partner. The saunas and pools. Then there are the nightclubs and–”

“I get the message,” Duplessis grinned back. “Yes, sir, Sergeant Hutchinson, sir.”

By ten o’clock that evening, Hutch’s eyes ached from strobe lights, his eardrums felt deadened by excess decibels, and he had only two vague leads. Huggy, when he called to check, had nothing more to tell him.

Back at Venice Place, he took aspirin for the headache, and went through the notes he’d made the previous evening. Some he discarded, others he could add to. Only half his mind was on it, though. Part of him still waited for the phone to ring, and the tentative date with Jaqi had dropped completely out of his head.

Come Thursday, and he no longer waited, knowing without a doubt what Starsky would have to say. The intuition born on Tuesday had become a certainty.

 

Chapter V

Toni was the first of the harem–the Starsky seraglio, Hutch had once joked–to help out with the decorating, to cook him a meal, to share his bed. Toni, and Kathy, and Linda, and Susie–they were willing, good-natured, and if they noticed that he was not quite himself, they never mentioned it. For a while he could hide his fears behind the old macho stud image, losing himself in their softness and sweetness, turning his mind from the knowledge that although this had once been enough, now it was not.

But the strategy worked until Thursday. He drove Linda to her job in the morning, and returned home to work straight through the day until evening and on into the night.

Total exhaustion set in at about eleven o’clock. He took a sketchy shower and crawled into bed still damp, convinced he’d zonk out as soon as his head hit the pillow. He didn’t. And midnight came and went.

Starsky shifted restlessly in the darkness, feeling the ache of tiredness in his muscles. He still got tired too easily, even after all this time. Guess I’m never going to get it all back. The Doc said I was lucky to pull through, but–I don’t know. If it means I’m slowed up, if I can’t take the pace– What am I bitching about? I’m alive. From what they tell me, and the bits I remember, it was a pretty close thing. I nearly didn’t make it. Christ, I died. I was dead. And that’s really weird, but I can remember that suddenly I didn’t hurt, and it was so easy just to drift…If that’s death, it’s not so bad, I guess. They brought me back, and it hurt again, but seeing his face when I woke up–that was worth it. He looks at me sometimes, when he thinks I don’t notice, like I was a walkin’-around miracle.

It’s been a week. I’ll have to call him tomorrow.

The smell of fresh paint still lingered in the air, as if to remind him how much there was still to be done. The place was at least livable now. Just. He got up, crossed to open the window. The night air washed in cool on his skin, and he slipped back under the single sheet, determinedly closing his eyes. The expanse of the bed was all his. Like a desert, a barren wasteland. I should have called Linda. We had fun last night–it was great. She’s one foxy chick. Made it clear she was available tonight, too, so why didn’t I?

In the darkness there were no distractions for the path his thoughts were taking. It was what he’d wanted, a time to himself, to get things straight in his head. “Take all the time you need, Starsk.” Hutch, understanding.

He always understands me, better than I do myself. “Take all the time you need–whatever you decide, I’m going to be there.” And he would be, no doubt of that. Always had been. Solid and dependable. My rock, my anchor, my shield–my lover.

Well, that isn’t the point in question. He loves me. There’s nothin’ new in that. I love him. What happened was–great. No denyin’ it. Fantastic. So what’s the sweat? It was unexpected, sure, for both of us, and at the time it felt–right. It was never there before, I know that. Hit us both like a freight-train–no, like an avalanche, a tidal wave. It could happen again. All I’ve got to do is say ‘yes’.

I want to.

That discovery brought a small jolt of mingled shock and pleasure, a response to the memory of that night, a flicker of desire waking in his groin. He tried to ignore it.

Sure, I want to say ‘yes’ to him. To give him that, knowing that he’ll never abuse the gift or reject it or waste it, but cherish and honor gift and giver both. It wouldn’t even be difficult–God, it’d be the easiest thing in the world!

So what’s your problem, Starsky? You can make him–and yourself–happy.

Except for one thing. The price-tag. The price of our friendship is high enough. The price of being lovers–I don’t think I’ve got it in me to pay that price. Not ever.

It’s not the first time I’ve loved anyone this much. I loved Helen. And Kira, too. And Terry. Ah, God, I loved Terry…

It still hurt, remembering that lost love. Just getting through the days, after her death, had been almost more than he had strength to handle. Without Hutch he wouldn’t have made it. Hutch had been there all along, ready to shelter or support. A shoulder to cry on, comfort to cling to in the dark grieving nights. Holding him together until the worst was over, and he could stand on his own.

It was hell for a while, Terry, just living, without you. I wouldn’t have come through, but for Hutch.

He could remember her voice, weak, not quite steady, as he sat beside her bed and watched helpless as she slipped out of his life. “I’ll always be there,” she had said. “Always be there when you need me–when you’re scared, or the world looks like it’s falling apart–some dark night when you’re all alone–I’ll be there….”

I guess you believed it, too. At the time, so did I, because I needed to believe it. But it wasn’t true, honey. I can close my eyes and try to remember you–I can see your face, hear your laughter, taste your tears. But it’s only memory. You’re not there. You’re dead, Terry.

I can’t pay that price again.

Besides, it would be worse, so much worse. He’s more than a friend, more than a partner. He’s the brother I never had, the brother I wanted, the brother Nicky should have been–he’s the other half of my soul. We’ve risked the loss of that often enough–once or twice it’s almost come to an end. We’ve come through, sure, but I’ve felt a kind of echo from a future when he isn’t there, and I didn’t like it. Don’t like it. Can’t take it.

I guess that’s the bottom line. It’s gonna be hard enough as it is, without added complications. I love you, Hutch–more than I’ve ever loved anyone–and in every way, though until the other night I didn’t know it. And there isn’t going to be anyone else as special to me as you are, not ever. But I can’t take the risk.

So–sorry, babe. I don’t want to hurt you, but let’s go back to the way we were, huh? It was great, but it was just one of those things.

Christ. Now I’m thinking in song titles!

His eyes were stinging. A tear escaped the thick lashes, ran down to lose itself in the hair over his ears. He bit his lip to stop a sob, and rolled belly-down to bury his face in the pillow, hugging it to him fiercely.

It isn’t fair, he thought childishly. I’ve got to tell him, and how can I tell him that?

I love you, Hutch, and I want you–but never again.

Never again that indescribable wonder of empathy linking minds as well as bodies, a consuming flame enveloping both, a total sharing: mutual love and desire and pleasure. Never again.

Memories, pouring in as if a floodgate had been opened. The taste, feel, scent, sounds. Hutch’s voice saying his name, David.

But he’s never called me David before, it’s always been Starsky, or Starsk. When he said it, spoke my name, it was like I never heard it before. Never again.

The taste of his mouth, the warmth and strength of him–never again.

He could hear his own pulse-beat in his ears, his breathing strained, his throat thick. He was hard and erect, enfolded by the softness of the pillow as he thrust into it.

Oh God I’m too old for this game–I should stop now but I can’t–can’t–oh Hutch oh shit I can’t —

He lay spent and gasping, shaking a little, the sheet clammy with his sweat, feeling empty and slightly sick. But the tension was gone out of him. He pushed the pillow away, turned on his side.

Tomorrow I’ll call him. We’ll have a few drinks, and I’ll tell him. Can’t leave it any longer.

The decision was made, and he did feel better for it. The hard part was yet to come, but that would be all right too. Wouldn’t it?

G’night, Hutch.

He slept at last, and tears dried salt on his lashes.

*****

Hutch and Duplessis had just logged off when a phone call was patched through to the car.

“See you at seven, Hug’s place,” Starsky said. His voice sounded flat, reluctant, as if he would rather not speak at all.

“Okay,” Hutch said quietly. And the line went dead. Slowly he replaced the mike on its hook, momentarily anchorless even though he had known what was coming. What he hadn’t expected was the surge of love and pain that voice had started. He saw Duplessis watching him, and pulled himself together grimly. He could live with it. No matter what Starsky had decided, he could live with it. Already the previous Saturday night had taken on an aura of unreality, a mirage cut off from the mundane world.

The Pits. Neutral territory, Hutch realized as he walked in, saw Starsky at one of the tables and went over to join him. “Hi. Been waiting long?” he asked casually, pulling out a chair and sitting down, and at the same time trying to keep the shock out of his face and voice. Starsky was hollow-eyed and unshaven, slumped over the table.

Christ, what have you been doing to yourself? You look worse than you have for months.

“Oh, a little while.” Starsky made a vague gesture, refusing to meet his eyes. Quite plainly he was far from sober. “H’v’a drink. Hug, bring m’buddy a drink.”

“I’ll have a beer,” Hutch said, as Huggy looked his way.

“Same again here, Hug,” Starsky said.

Huggy wandered across, his angular face bemused, carrying beer and a shot-glass. “You reckon you ought to be drinkin’ this stuff?” he asked, as Starsky took the glass from him.

“Turnin’ away payin’ customers, Hug? Shame on you. Never get rich like that, man.”

“Never get rich anyway,” Huggy snorted. “How y’doin’, Hutch?”

“Okay,” he said, accepting his beer and handing over coins. “Any word?”

“Nary a thing–but don’t let it get you down, my man. Huggerino always comes through.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” The beer was frosty with condensation, deliciously cold. He didn’t taste it, his eyes on the gaunt face across the table. Starsky emptied the shot-glass. “Starsk? What is that stuff?”

“Stolichnaya,” Starsky said, enunciating clearly and carefully. “Vodka.”

“That’s not your usual.”

“No.”

Stop doing this to yourself, Hutch wanted to say. You don’t need to. You have to tell me, I know. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and concentrated on keeping his voice light and even. “You haven’t eaten yet?”

“Waitin’ f’you.”

“Thoughtful of you.” Better get some food into him and fast. Vodka on an empty stomach–no wonder he’s flying high. “You want to order now?”

“Sure. Hug!”

“You,” said Huggy, caroling it. “An’ what can I get for you now, Starsky? I mean, I ain’t got nothin’ better to do than run around after you, right?”

As sarcasm, it was lost on Starsky. “That’s nice,” he said. “Coupla steaks, Hug, an’ salad. An’ french fries.”

“You got it.” Huggy relayed the order, returned to serving behind the bar.

“So what have you been doing with yourself?” Hutch asked casually into the silence. He got a shrug.

“Not much. I jus ’bout got the place straight. Stinks of paint, though.” Starsky wrinkled his nose as if the insidious aroma still hung around, and gave a shadow of his lop-sided grin. “Got th’ TV back today. S’funny, I hardly noticed it wasn’t there, y’know?”

“Guess you were too busy to notice,” Hutch said. There was a pain under his ribs, constricting his lungs, and he knew without being told that Starsky was hurting the same way. You don’t need to. It doesn’t matter–I can make it easier for you, maybe. 

“You’ve got things back the way they were?” How’s that for a double-edged meaning?

“Yeah, I guess.” Dark blue eyes, not completely focused, finally gazed up at him. “You’re a good friend, Hutch,” he said abruptly. “Puttin’ up with me an’ all, the way you did.”

“Any time,” Hutch said quietly. “You know that.”

“What are partners for?” Starsky tried for the grin again and didn’t make it, his eyes sliding away from Hutch’s face. He reached for his glass, finding it empty. “Oh, shit–Hug?”

“It’s on its way, man! Have a little patience, willya?”

“I wan’nother –”

“No, you don’t,” Hutch said, making the decision for him. “You’ve had enough, Starsk.”

He expected some objection, some argument. He got none. In fact, he got very little more out of Starsky at all, in the way of conversation, either then or over the meal. It was easy to fall into the pattern of the past months–those day-in-the-life-of-a-cop chats that Starsky hated and needed and bitched about even while he was demanding them. So he talked about the wind-up of Mrs. Ferengo’s case, about the John Doe, about Duplessis’ reactions to an afternoon spent checking out porn and SM studios, went on to what Dobey said to Babcock, Minnie’s latest complaint, and the new girl in Communications. He got monosyllables in response.

The food was good, as Huggy’s usually was, but Starsky only picked at it. Hutch hadn’t much appetite to begin with, and Starsky’s deepening depression killed it altogether. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested.

“Okay.” Starsky made an elaborate shrug.

“You want to come back to my place, pick up the rest of your things? Or shall I drop them by tomorrow?” How clearly do I have to put it, for Christ’s sake?

“Okay.”

“Okay which?”

“–uh, I’ll pick ’em up,” he muttered, fumbling out a handful of dollar bills to settle the check. Hutch added his own share before leading the way out.

The Torino was parked a little way down from the Dodge, and Starsky headed for it automatically. “Uh-uh,” said Hutch, catching hold of his arm. “I think I better drive.” The muscles under his hand were tensed, but Starsky let himself be steered to the other car. He was none too steady on his feet, and in the early evening light, was distinctly pale. Hutch wondered how much Starsky had managed to put away before he’d turned up. Too much, that was for sure.

Starsky subsided into the passenger-seat, put his head back, and closed his eyes. If he felt the way he looked, Hutch reflected, he must be feeling lousy. Like a six-weeks corpse, revived.

He made the ride a fast one, and didn’t bother his passenger with talk. When they reached Venice Place, he just sat him down on the couch, and made coffee. “Here,” he said, putting the mug into Starsky’s hands. “Get that into you. You’ll feel better.”

Starsky sipped it obediently. Hutch knew it was stronger than he liked, and blacker, but he drank it anyway. It seemed to do very little for him, physically or mentally. He didn’t seem to be altogether there, as if his mind was switched off, or on some other track entirely, a thousand miles away. Hutch let him be, and moved quietly around the open apartment, putting together the bits and pieces that belonged to Starsky, stowing them away in Starsky’s battered carry-all. Each article was like another blade in his flesh, another brick in the wall between them.

He zipped the bag shut and came back to the couch. Starsky looked worse, if anything. His skin had a sallow, yellowish tinge to it, and he looked not so much drunk as ill. And hurting, both in mind and body.

“You better not go home tonight,” Hutch said gently, without thinking. He cursed himself–how would that sound to Starsky? If he took it in. “You can crash out on the couch, okay?” And walked away, leaving him there, because Starsky’s misery was tangible and seeing it brought a deep pain. He did not dare offer comfort, not even the passionless touch of friendship that once he would have given without thought, knowing it would not be accepted as such tonight.

Come on, Starsk. Why won’t you say it? It can’t be that hard, can it? Or why else are you this drunk–it’s supposed to make it easier, isn’t it? Unless–and the thought chilled to the bone–the choice Starsky had made wasn’t just the rejection of intimacy, but also of the team. Hutch wanted to ask, to plead, to demand a clear statement on where he stood, but could not speak. He wanted to reach out, to soothe away the pain and stress, to comfort, cherish–love–and couldn’t move nearer, did not dare. But if he stayed in the same room with Starsky, resolution and fear would be overborne and he would compound his original error.

So he retreated, made much of rinsing out the coffee mugs, then ran a shower, wanting to lose some of the wound-up tension and worries of the day in the hot water, hoping to sluice away more than just the sweat and city grime. He took his time. There was no need to hurry, and Starsky might well be glad of an unobserved exit. A note or phone call could pass on the same message.

When he came out, the couch was empty.

“Starsk?” he said quietly, not expecting a reply. Nor did he get one. But neither did he expect to find him sprawled across the bed, sound asleep. Oh, God, Starsk. That’s not playing fair. “Hey,” he said through the tight agony in his chest. “Guests crash out on the couch, buddy.”

Again, no answer. Well, why wake him? He could easily have carried the sleeping man to the couch, but there didn’t seem any point. Starsky looked like he needed all the rest he could get.

Moving quietly, Hutch finished up his chores, saw to the plants, and finally cut all the lights but the lamp by the couch. He returned to the bed, touched his fingers to the tangled hair, to the sleeping, unhappy mouth.

“Good night, David,” he murmured. The idiot’s so deep asleep, an earthquake wouldn’t wake him. Didn’t you get any sleep last night? No, you didn’t. Lay there all night trying to find the kindest way to tell me. But it doesn’t matter. I already guessed. No matter what you decided, I’ll always be there for you, if you need me.

Good night, babe. Sleep tight.

He went back to the couch, collecting blankets on the way. And he was more than half asleep when Starsky muttered something incomprehensible, stirring out of the heavy stupor. Hutch heard his own name in the jumble of incoherent words, and the distress was painful. It jolted him out of his drowse, bringing him to his feet, and he couldn’t help responding to it.

He didn’t bother with lights, but felt his way through the familiar darkness to the bed. Starsky was huddled in the middle of it, a shadowy form that shuddered and twitched like a dreaming animal. Hutch hesitated, torn by instinct and wariness, and the sleeper turned, flinging out an arm, and choked out his name again. If you need me–

“I’m here.” He eased himself onto the bed, drew his friend into his arms. “‘S okay, babe. I’m here.”

Starsky didn’t wake. He gave a long sigh and relaxed, his head turning to nestle blindly into Hutch’s shoulder. Whatever the dream-crisis, it was past.

*****

Left alone, Starsky had sat and stared at the blank screen of the TV, finally getting unsteadily to his feet and switching it on. The sounds drowned out those from the bathroom, and he could almost convince himself that he was alone.

Almost.

Restless but uncoordinated, he wandered around the large room, avoiding most of the furniture and resolutely keeping away from the couch. He still hadn’t told Hutch his decision. Still had to say the words, had to watch the blue eyes darken with pain and loss, the mobile mouth set determinedly into a smile of understanding and acceptance. His partner, his friend. Nothing more, and thank God, nothing less. But nothing more.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered. “Hutch, c’mon outta there–I gotta talk t’ya. Please? Gotta tell ya –” The room dipped sharply to starboard and he lurched with the tilt, arms flailing to maintain a precarious balance. Something soft caught him behind the knees and he sprawled on his back across it, eyes squeezed shut so that he wouldn’t have to watch the way the ceiling whirled. Then discovered that he was comfortable.

Wherever it was, it wasn’t the couch where he and Hutch had–he blanked off the thought and let go of awareness, sliding into sleep like a seal into deep water. Later. He’d tell him later…

Some nightmares are worse than others. Simon Marcos had dreamed this nightmare for him, open-eyed, and it haunted him still: the twenty-four hours of terror, helpless in the hands of Marcos’s crazy followers. He knew they were going to kill him eventually, and there was nothing he could do about it, because every way he turned, his executioners were waiting, their eyes hungry in their hate-twisted faces, the whispered chant ‘si-mon si-mon si-mon’ rising in a fevered crescendo.

“No–please –”

He knew it was a dream, even while he relived those last horrific moments.

“Simon dreamed you would be weak.”

“Gail–don’t listen to them–don’t do it–please –”

“si-mon si-MON SI-MON SI-MON –”

— HUTCH —

He was being held, the strong arms wrapping him now as then in an embrace that was reassurance and haven, all fear driven back. Now as then he burrowed closer, and was held safe and secure and no dream had the power to reach him.

It was hardly a full wakening. Starsky knew the feeling of peace and security folding him round in the warm dark, the steady even breathing of his companion, the blissful sense of ease when thoughts and problems are nonexistent. Under his cheek, he could feel the slow rhythm of Hutch’s pulse. He turned his head a little to touch his lips to the beating life beneath the smooth skin, a mindless gesture prompted by impulse–and then he was fully awake and aware as the kiss was answered in the changed rhythm of Hutch’s heartbeat and breathing.

— I didn’t mean —

He couldn’t move, couldn’t pull away, but couldn’t respond either. His stillness seemed to unnerve the gentle man who held him. He felt Hutch move away, felt the warmth where they had touched leach away from him.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch’s voice, a shaken whisper. The mattress gave as he shifted away from Starsky.

He’s leaving me. No–I need you, Hutch. The hell with fear. Problems are for tomorrow. Love is now.

“I’m afraid,” he said simply, and reached out to discover the beloved face, invisible in the darkness, his tactile sense making sight unnecessary. Can’t fight it. Don’t want to fight it. It scares hell outta me but I love you.

His fingers traced the contours of brow and cheek and mouth and his lips followed his touch. I can’t give you up. I love you. Love is now.

A hesitation, a sharp intake of breath, and still Hutch had not moved to return his caresses. Are you sure? he asked by his posture, his wary holding-back.

Starsky answered that question in the best way he knew.

It is another country, and they had glimpsed it before, when they had been carried unprepared across the threshold to find the light too dazzling to be borne, the air too rarefied to breathe, a country where they were the aliens, uncertain and afraid. Now they stepped across of their own free will, consenting–and the brightness did not blind, nor the air sear the throat, and they had come where they belonged at last.

Oh my America, my new-found land.

 

Chapter VI

It might have been that first awakening–the setting was the same, the sunlight and leaf-shadows and tumbled bed. But this time the world was brighter and full of lazy laughter and all things made new. Hutch lay on his right side, head propped on hand, and looked at his lover with wonder and affection and delight. Mine. All this–beauty–mine…

“Hey,” he said, the smug grin still on his face–he couldn’t seem to get rid of it. “You gonna tell me what you decided?”

The indolent sprawl of tanned limbs beside him didn’t stir, but a languid voice, muffled by the pillow, said, “Sure. Soon as I come down off the ceiling.”

“The ceiling?” Hutch queried.

“Yeah. I’m on my way down from Cloud Nine.” And he gave a chuckle. “Hope you don’t have shockable neighbors. That last time, they musta heard me clear down to the beach.”

“Around here, they’re used to shocks.” Hutch paused and considered. “Anyone asks, we’re practicing psychotherapy, and what they heard was the Primal Scream.”

The chuckles continued. You could grow mushrooms in that chuckle, Hutch decided, and reached over to draw one finger down the curve of Starsky’s spine in a lazy caress.

“Tickles,” Starsky informed the pillow, with a squirm. The dark knotted indentation under Hutch’s finger was a bullet scar. Another puckered the skin here, and here too. There was an older, silver line of scar-tissue over his left shoulder blade. “What are you doin’? Huh?”

Counting the scars, Starsk. Oh, terrific.

“Checking you out for erogenous zones,” he said lightly.

“Oh.” A pause. “Let me know when you find ’em.”

“When I find ’em, I won’t need to let you know.” Hutch smiled, and self-indulgent let his hands follow the contours of the lean, muscular body, perfectly relaxed under his touch. To think I’ve known him for nine years, and never realized before just how beautiful he is. And I came so close to losing —

“Hutch.”

“Yeah.”

“Nothin’. Just wanted to say it.” Starsky rolled onto his back and stretched like a cat under Hutch’s gaze. There was no uncertainty, or shame, or self-conscious shyness in him now, only a brimming content, the awareness of loving and being loved in return. “Hey. You wanna kick me outta bed?”

“No. Why should I?”

“For behaving like a prize dip.”

“A dip, huh?”

“All along the line.” He smiled, and Hutch felt the flicker of kindling desire.

“Oh. Well,” he said, studiedly casual. “Yeah. Maybe you do owe me for making me go through all that.”

“So?” Deliberate provocation.

“So I’m thinking how I can collect on the debt. With interest,” he whispered, and watched the blue eyes darken with anticipation as he closed the little distance between them and kissed the waiting lips.

“You told me once I wasn’t a good kisser.”

“So I was wrong,” Hutch murmured. “So sue me,” and he kissed the quiet mouth again, gently. This time I’m not gonna rush things, babe. This time I’ll let you set the pace–take it as it comes. There’s so much I want from you, so much I want to give, but you’re calling the tune from now on. I can wait.

He let the kiss deepen, tasting the sweetness of his lover’s mouth, hearing the stifled moan of pleasure as Starsky turned in his arms so that they lay locked mouth to mouth, breast to breast, thigh to thigh. Hutch pulled back just enough to see Starsky’s face: features softened with arousal, eyes dark and unfocused. And he knew that anything he wanted, he could take now. But taking wasn’t part of it–giving and receiving were the key words.

“Starsk,” he said softly. “David. Do you want this? Are you sure?”

“S’a helluva time for Twenty Questions…” Starsky’s voice was blurred with desire, and his hand came up, fingers splayed, to fasten in the blond hair and hold Hutch immobile while he sought and found the anxious mouth, tongue probing, demanding. “That answer enough for you?”

Desire fed and grew with the feeding, insatiable. Hands and lips explored and discovered a brave new world of pleasure. Minds and bodies as one, pleasure amplified by empathy.

“– tell me what you want me to do–”

“– oh god I–”

“This? You like this? Is this what you want? Tell me –”

Starsky’s hand lay over Hutch’s heart, feeling the racing beat, knowing it was matched by his own. He could feel himself shaking still with reaction, or maybe it was Hutch who was trembling. He wasn’t sure of anything right then, except his love for the man beside him.

“I love you,” he murmured, and touched his lips to the hollow of the tanned throat, tasting the salt of Hutch’s sweat. Arms tightened around him.

“Say it again.”

“What? That I love you? Why?”

“Because I still can’t believe it.”

“Thought I’d just proved it to you.”

“Hearing you say it is something else.”

“Yeah? Then I’ll never stop saying it.” But the solemnity was spoiled by a sudden chuckle. “Geez, Hutch, this is getting awful soapy.”

“Isn’t it,” Hutch agreed, smiling. “Do you care?”

“Nope.” He settled his head on the smooth curve of tanned shoulder. “Never felt like this before. About anyone.”

“Me neither.”

A warm, drowsily companionable silence enfolded them both. Then, “Hutch.”

“Mmmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Cutting out on you. Leaving–I just wasn’t sure–I didn’t know –”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hutch murmured. “You’re here now. Besides,” he added brightly, as if he’d just thought of it, “love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Starsky snorted. “Now that is soapy.”

“So? Lovers are allowed to be. It’s in the Bill of Rights. Or if it isn’t, it ought to be.” Hutch was interrupted by a noise. “Starsk? Is that your gut rumbling?”

“‘Fraid so,” Starsky confessed, apologetic. “Didn’t have much of an appetite yesterday. And now I guess I’m hungry.”

Hutch gave a groan. “You would be. I can see that romantic moments with you are going to be few and far between.”

“Not if you feed me first,” Starsky pointed out. “Hey. Do I get breakfast in bed?”

“No, you don’t. You can get up and–ohmigod!! Is that the time?” He sat bolt upright, dislodging Starsky.

“Hutch. It’s Saturday,” Starsky protested, puzzled. “You don’t haveta work today –”

“You’ve forgotten where we’re supposed to be right now?”

His mind a blank, Starsky nodded. “Wherever, it can’t be that important, can it?”

“It is if you want to get there before dark.” Hutch swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up, hunting for his clothes. “Come on, Starsk. Haul ass. This is Day One of our vacation–and we’re already four hours behind schedule!”

*****

When the date for the Review Board had been announced, six weeks ago, they had finalized plans for the vacation, and settled on a nine a.m. starting time. The eventful evening and morning had driven all thought of vacations or departure times from their minds, but once recalled, it was not long before the Torino was heading south down the Pacific Coast Freeway, its occupants gradually recovering from their burst of frenzied packing.

“What a dumb thing to do,” Hutch muttered, scowling over the wheel at the car in front. They’d flipped a coin for the first driving spell, and he’d lost.

“He ain’t done nothin’.” Starsky, sprawled relaxed in the passenger seat, grinned at him. “Marginally over the speed-limit, maybe, but –”

“Not him. Us.”

“Huh?”

“Forgetting a vacation. Christ.”

“Perhaps,” Starsky said demurely, “you had other things on your mind? Schweetheart?” And when Hutch shot him a sideways glance, he pursed his lips and fluttered his eyelashes.

“Cut it out, clown.” Hutch chuckled. “That doesn’t work.”

“Maybe not. But I know what does.” The smug tone of voice won another grin from Hutch.

“Not while I’m driving, Starsk…”

Starsky laughed, and laid one arm along the back of the seat, fingers resting lightly on Hutch’s collar. “Hey,” he said suddenly. “You gonna stick to your plans for this vacation?”

“After last night? Are you kid– Oh. Yes,” said Hutch, picking up on the wariness in Starsky’s tone. “The physical therapy. Yup, every bit of it. Early morning swim, hill-walking, maybe tennis or racquet-ball to sharpen up your reflexes, and swimming again in the evening. Steady light exercise to get you thoroughly in condition.”

“Light exercise! That what you call it? Marathons and mountaineering? Hutch, I always figured you had a sadistic streak in you somewhere, but I sure as hell don’t want to find out about it now!”

“I said hill-walking. Trails in the woods and foothills.”

“Crap. I’ve changed my mind. I want out. Right now, Acapulco’d do me a whole lot more good than your idea of relaxation. Man, I had kinder drill-sergeants in boot-camp!”

“Sure you did. Listen, one week in Acapulco and the Board would take one look at you and sign you into a Home for the Geriatric Confused. No, you stick to my program and you’ll stroll through.”

“So give me a written guarantee, then I can sue.”

“Take my word on it, Starsk. Trust me, buddy.”

Starsky gave a howl. “Oh, yeah! An’ if I do, what does that prove? Only that I’m as nutty as you! Any guy who pays good money to get the kind of cars you do has to be a total flake–an’ I don’t take a flake’s word on the time of day.”

Hutch sighed. “Are you about through? Or do you want to hitch rides the rest of the way?”

“Think you’re tough, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Gonna throw me out of my own car, huh?”

“Right.”

“I get it.” It was Starsky’s turn to sigh, dolefully. “Discarded –”

“Abandoned is the word you’re looking for, babe,” Hutch supplied, and memory brought the smile to his mouth. Starsky’s answering smile softened as he shifted across the seat closer to Hutch, and unspoken content filled them both.

*****

Finding the cabin, in spite of the detailed map Huggy had provided, was not easy. Ten miles of narrow, unsurfaced road seemed to be leading nowhere, but suddenly the stand of trees opened out into a clearing on a cliff top, and there it was. Shingle roof, wooden siding, a wide porch, and panoramic windows opening onto a sun-deck.

“Hey, terrific!” Starsky scrambled out of the car, tried the screen door. It was, as he should have expected, locked. “You got the key? You better have, because if it’s in LA, I’ll divorce you.”

“I’ve got it.” Hutch grinned and tossed it over. “It’s quite a place. Huggy’s done us proud.”

“Yeah.” With the enthusiasm of an otter questing new territory, Starsky checked out the place. “Fantastic. TV. Stereo. And a freezer! All mod. cons. Except–no pool. No pool, Hutch.”

“Who needs one? There’s the Pacific over there. Private beach.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Now quit goofing off and help me unload.”

Transferring their belongings, bag and baggage, from car to cabin and stashing it took some time, since Hutch had inevitably brought along enough fresh, dried, canned and packaged food to feed the Third World for a month, most of it high-protein and concentrates. Starsky, after the third carton had been dumped in his arms, rebelled. “Thought you’d kicked that health-food habit,” he grumbled. “Don’t get any ideas about givin’ me that glop to drink. I’ll just throw it right back up–”

“Quit bitching,” Hutch said peaceably. “Look at that view. Isn’t it something?”

“Sure. Terrific. Trees, cliffs, ocean. What’s on TV tonight?”

“Nothing. A place like this, you don’t watch TV.”

“Oh? So what do you watch?”

“The sunset,” Hutch said, striding past with both arms full of groceries. Starsky gave him a look of amused, affectionate tolerance as he followed, depositing his burden on the pine worktop.

“Different down here, are they?”

“What?”

“Sunsets,” Starsky repeated patiently. “Are they different?”

Hutch smiled and reached out to cup his face. “Different as can be, Starsk,” he said softly, and kissed him.

“C’n hardly wait,” Starsky murmured. But he left Hutch to sort out the jumble of foodstuffs, and wandered back into the spacious living room. The windows slid smoothly back to give access to the deck, which, facing westwards, was flooded by the late sun, but he turned his back on it and surveyed the room with satisfaction. Besides this and the kitchen there were two bedrooms and a bathroom, all to the same luxurious standard. “Hey. Can we afford this place for two weeks?”

“C’mon, Starsk. It’s not the Hilton.”

“Yeah, but…”

“It’s owned by a friend of Huggy’s. Who never uses it. So Hug got us reduced rates.”

“Guy must be crazy. A place like this and he never uses it?”

The furnishings offered comfort, if not style: a wide couch, its deep cushions upholstered in bulrush-brown velvet, fronted the flagstone hearth that took up almost the whole of one wall. A bookcase held a collection of paperbacks, and drew Starsky to investigate. It was an eclectic assortment, with something for every taste, from hearts-and-flowers romance, through blood-and-guts thrillers and westerns, to old science fiction classics by Heinlein and Asimov. A stolen Gideon Bible stood next to the Satyricon, while Jonathan Livingston Seagull propped up Plato’s Symposium.

“You won’t have any time for reading,” Hutch said. “Anymore than TV.”

“Try and stop me,” Starsky said absently, leafing through a broken-backed Starship Trooper. “I’m hungry. What are we eating?”

“Omelet,” Hutch told him, and earned a groan.

“Again? Christ, Hutch.”

“Unless you want to wait an hour. Or fix yourself something.”

“I’ll take the omelet.” Book in hand, he went out onto the deck and positioned the lawn chair to catch the direct sun. Shedding his jacket, he settled down to immerse himself in the Heinlein, and the adventures of Rico held him until a shadow fell across the page, and a voice that failed to be acerbic said, “You want to eat, hedonist?”

“Mmm.” Starsky deliberately made a production out of considering. “Yeah, guess so. Bring it out here, huh?”

“Bring it out?”

“Yeah. Don’t want to waste all this great sun. ‘Sides, you can watch the sunset from here.”

Hutch’s response was a sound that defied translation, but he obeyed, bringing everything out to the stripped-pine barbeque table.

“Not bad,” Starsky said, halfway through his play-safe-plain omelet.

“What?” Hutch said absently.

“Food’s pretty good. A little plain, is all.”

“The spice comes later,” Hutch said mildly, with a small gleam in his eye, and Starsky grinned.

“I can get behind that,” he agreed, and turned back to wolf the remainder of his dinner.

*****

The breeze off the sea chilled with the onset of night as the sun sank, and though Starsky was reluctant to leave the deck, the room behind was more comfortable. Sprawled on the couch, however, he found the saga of Heinlein’s hero increasingly difficult to follow as his concentration was undermined by the simple fact of Hutch’s presence. It was crazy. It was ridiculous. It was even farcical–but he still didn’t know what to say.

Nine years of knowing you, working, waking, eating, sleeping, and suddenly I don’t know you at all. Hell, if you were a girl I’d just walk over and kiss you and say let’s go to bed. But you’re not a girl. You’re Hutch…my beautiful, loving, vulnerable Hutch. I want you, and my God, I should be able to tell you, but–make it easy for me, babe? Read my mind.

It had to be telepathy, or maybe Starsky’s intent gaze finally triggered something in Hutch’s subconscious. He looked up, and the rapport was instant…

Neither needed to say anything. Hutch got to his feet, crossed to close the windows. Starsky, hand on the light switch, waited until he was done before cutting the lights, and Hutch came to him in the darkness.

“Let’s go to bed?” The whispered entreaty was answered by Hutch’s hands reaching to cup his face, an aching tenderness in his touch. It drew him close until their lips met, and he caught his breath at the dark, blinding joy of that meeting.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for the last two hours,” Hutch said huskily, as the kiss ended.

“So why didn’t you?” Starsky asked, mildly curious. He was in no hurry to move, now–Hutch’s arms were around him, and it was going to happen again, nothing in the world could prevent it. Anticipation was running arpeggios up and down his spine.

“Don’t know,” Hutch admitted.

“Can’t afford to waste opportunities like that, y’know. Carpe diem?”

“What?”

“Come to bed.”

It had been different, before–that first time, and last night. He’d been pitched into situations over which he had little or no control. Now, consciously and of his own will, he accepted what was happening. Aware of the slow, building pulse of his own desire, he leaned into Hutch’s embrace, relishing the feel of strength holding and enfolding him.

“I love you,” Hutch said softly. “Turned my world upside down and inside out. And I love you.”

“Sshh…don’ have t’say it.” Starsky brushed the wide mouth with his fingertips. “Know what they say–show, don’t tell.”

Stripped, stretched out on the bed, the covers turned invitingly back, he lay and watched Hutch. The power and grace of the lean body, big-boned without heaviness, the smooth ripple of muscle.

Seen him naked often enough. But never like this. God, he’s beautiful. Do you know what you do to me, babe? I guess you can’t help but know, it’s kinda obvious. You don’t have to hold back any more, lover. I know you are, you’re as new to this as I am, we’re both in the dark, neither of us sure where we’re going–except that we love each other. For now, that’s enough. Don’t be afraid.

But there was a curious hesitancy in Hutch’s movements, almost a reluctance. Starsky propped himself on one elbow, extended a hand. “Whatcha waiting for?” he asked softly, and was rewarded by Hutch smiling, taking his hand, his lips caressing the palm. Then Hutch moved closer, reaching for him.

“Should really have taken a shower,” he murmured guiltily into Starsky’s hair.

Starsky chuckled. “‘S too late to be thinkin’ of that. Anyhow, you taste better with seasoning.”

“Gross.”

“You bet,” he agreed cheerfully. “Hey. Just a thought. I didn’t get dessert.”

“You want me to tell you what you can do about it?”

“Think I can guess.”

He shifted around on the bed to face Hutch’s hips, and the urgent flesh under his hand pulsed like something with an independent life of its own, leaping to the first tentative touch of lips and tongue as if avid for the sensations he could provide. A part of him had the childlike desire to examine and explore minutely, but the immediate need, his own and Hutch’s was too great.

First time for everything. Hope I can make it as good for you as–ohgod, Hutch, what are you…

Electric thrill as Hutch’s mouth fastened on him, erotic sensation multiplied, magnified, each action of his echoed and complemented until he wasn’t sure if he was making love to Hutch or to himself. Before he could decide, the surge of Hutch’s orgasm was filling his mouth and his own body exploded helplessly into the eager throat…

Wipeout.

“Starsk.”

“Mmm.”

“You can’t go to sleep down there.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to hold you.”

The best of reasons. Sleepily, he uncurled himself, slid up to the waiting arms, settled there, nuzzling a drowsy kiss into the hollow of the long throat.

“Not bad for a beginner, huh?”

“Oh, go to sleep, Starsk…”

*****

Starsky was woken by the butterfly touch of sunlight on his eyelids. He moved his head and it was gone, and still half asleep he rolled over to snuggle back into Hutch’s embrace. Except that he didn’t, because it wasn’t there. He groped out a hand–touched cool linen. No Hutch.

“Hutch?” he mumbled, still not wanting to have to wake up quite yet. But there was no answer. He opened reluctant eyes, squinting at the brightness; the big window faced east, and the drapes were pulled back, letting the early light flood the bedroom in long golden streams. He was alone with the sunshine.

“Hutch?” He raised his voice a little, in case Hutch was in the bathroom or kitchen. “Hey –”

Silence was the only reply. Starsky sat up, hugged his knees. Oh, terrific. The first morning of the vacation, and I’m abandoned. He grinned to himself, considering how he’d make Hutch pay for that. Have to find him first, though.

Okay. So you’re the detective…

It didn’t take much detective work. A note rested on the kitchen table, anchored by a carton of orange juice. “Gone for a swim. When you wake up, come down to the beach. I’ll introduce you to the mermaids.”

“Mermaids–?” Starsky’s left eyebrow climbed. “Mermaids are no fun, babe, unless you’re a fish.” Then, “Okay. The beach it is.”

He rooted out his cut-offs, pulled them on, slipped his feet into sneakers, and headed out, taking the rough path to the cliff top. Below, on the curve of pale sand, a red towel lay in an untidy heap a little way from the white scalloping of the waves. He couldn’t see Hutch, but he began the climb down, taking his time about it. Private beach was all very well, but a guy could break his neck getting to it.

The sun was just clearing the cliff top when at last he reached the sand and the scarlet smear of the towel. He shaded his eyes, looking out to sea. Out there in the calm flat blue, a swimmer’s head, sleek as a seal’s, broke the surface, an arm upraised in greeting.

“Yeah,” said Starsky. “Come on in, the water’s fine.” He dropped his cut-offs, kicked off his shoes, and walked down to the water’s edge to wait. There were no words spoken as Hutch waded towards him, the new sun gilding the smooth tan skin webbed with water, and Starsky went to meet him.

Hutch’s mouth tasted of salt, his lips cool. After a long moment Starsky broke the kiss, still without speaking, and slipped to his knees. His palms touched the wet body lightly, with a caress as gentle as the sun’s on his back. Sensations crowded him–cool trickles of water down his shoulders from Hutch’s fingers, the hot, hardening flesh in his mouth, his own physical excitement. Fingers and lips and tongue teasing, exploring, he brought Hutch to a pitch of yearning. Hutch’s fingers tangled in his hair, digging into his scalp, and the mounting tension now was almost pain, aching for release. He changed rhythm subtly, and Hutch moaned aloud, unable to control the reflexive thrusting of his hips as the climax overtook him.

Starsky released him reluctantly, but couldn’t support the weight as Hutch’s knees buckled and the shallow water received them both with a splash.

“That’ll teach you to run out on me,” he whispered huskily, his cheek crushed against the wet blond hair. “C’mere–now–aahhh, Hutch…” The racking shudder of orgasm, the hot jetting lost the next moment in the silken surge of the sea. “Christ. Fastest gun in the West.”

“Shut up, Starsk,” Hutch murmured. The peace of the afterglow wrapped them both; the receding tide tugged imperceptibly at their entwined bodies, the sun dried their exposed skin.

After a while, “We better move. I don’t wanna get sunburn on my ass,” Starsky said into Hutch’s neck, and felt the silent chuckle in the broad chest.

“You’re gross, Starsk.”

“Yeah.” He felt revoltingly complacent. “‘N I’m hungry, too.”

 

Chapter VII

Babcock was a different species of animal from Hutch, Duplessis discovered. His approach to his work was far more orthodox–no less effective, but his painstaking attention to detail, convention and the Rule Book demanded that hunches be backed by solid evidence. There was little that Duplessis could do save sit on the hunches and carry on the program of systematic checks, waiting for the dental records to come up with a name. In his off-duty time, he combed the out-of-state records for other John Does who had died in similar fashion.

The idea was a good one, but maybe he had spread the net too wide. He did find two deaths with marked similarities, one from Topanga, one from Marina del Rey. Both in the L.A. area. This was more promising. In both cases, decomposition had been advanced, but the Topanga DB still had evidence of whiplash marks and sexual assault, while the boy’s age and general appearance paralleled their own John Doe. The Topanga body also had a name–Chris Villiers, a student at Berkeley, working at several jobs part-time to pay his way through college. The Marina del Rey corpse, fished out of the water eighteen months ago, had no ID and had been long enough immersed to have lost most evidence of injury. But the M.E. had detected the same lash-marks and sexual assault.

Duplessis took his findings to Babcock, and collected a sour, cynical stare, but it was Babcock who argued Villiers’ full file out of County. Coincidentally, on the same day the dental records produced a name for their body–Andrew Connery, originally from Phoenix, Arizona.

Connery’s address was one room rented in the ground-floor of an old apartment block on the edge of Pasadena, and the interior reminded Duplessis of the place he’d rented in his own college days, before he had met and married Sally Warner–cluttered and untidy without being squalid, garish with poster art but comfortable. Math and physics reference books were stacked along shelves, sharing space with a collection of underground comics and Playboys. Babcock seemed more impressed by the pennants and swimming trophies from USC, all recent.

“Clean-living, all-American boy,” he grunted, his voice loud in the closed-in quiet of the room. “Check the desk. I’ll take the closets.”

“Okay.” Duplessis sat at the desk and opened the drawers. Files and project notes, a catalogue of scuba gear and diving equipment, a stack of bills and bank statements, and a heap of letters. “Paydirt.”

Most of them were from Phoenix, written by Conner’s mother, his sister, a few old school friends, and a girl called Katie who signed herself ‘yours for always’. there were cards and notes from college buddies on vacation, some from boys, some from girls. There was nothing in any of the correspondence to suggest that Connery was anything other than heterosexual, but Duplessis knew better than to count on that.

The bills were all paid up, none outstanding, and were mainly for reference and text books. There were a few for clothes and diving gear, and the clothes that tied in with the bills were hung in the closet: a tuxedo, a brown velvet suit, silk shirts, lightweight casuals, leather shoes and boots. None of them, from their quality, the sort of thing to be found in an average student’s wardrobe.

“And Hutch figures he wasn’t a working boy, huh?” Babcock grinned.

“That’s right,” Duplessis said stubbornly. “There’s nothing here to suggest different, either.”

“Sure of that?”

“Well, look. No literature, letters, photographs, or gay magazines, no baby oil, KY, not even Crisco. Unless you count the suntan lotion. Or the margarine in the fridge.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” Babcock conceded. “For the time being. Maybe his campus pals will have something different to say. Did you find any bills to account for the watch and the chain he was wearing?”

“No. They could have been presents–family gifts.”

“Yeah, sure. His father’ll be along for the ID tomorrow, we’ll check ’em out with him. Along with his lifestyle. Threads like these don’t go with a one-room pad. The kid was a high-priced hustler, sure enough.”

“Maybe.” Duplessis shrugged, refusing to be drawn. He’d already discovered that Babcock liked to debate, and could make the most feasible theories look like comic-book fantasies. He also tended to get fixated on ideas of his own, and refused to be distracted from them. Bad temper or not, halfway through Hutch’s first week of leave, Duplessis would have forfeited a year’s pay to have his former partner back on the case.

*****

Going on the cards and notes, Duplessis and Babcock found half a dozen of Connery’s friends who had spent the Sunday morning before his death with him, training in the pool on campus. They had had lunch together, and then Connery had split, saying he had a date lined up for the afternoon and evening. No one knew who the date was, but it wasn’t anyone from the university, they were sure of that. “Sometimes I saw Drew on the Strip with some very classy ladies,” one of the boys volunteered. “He never talked about them, though.”

“What kind of job did he have to pay his way through college?” Duplessis asked.

“Dunno. He never said. But it must’ve brought in the bucks, ’cause he was never broke.”

Casually, Babcock said, “Maybe he was hustling.”

That got hoots of ribald amusement. “Drew gay? Shit, he didn’t even swing both ways!” one snorted.

“Yeah, and Tim here oughta know, he asked him enough times,” the first boy said, nudging him in the ribs.

“Are you sure?” Babcock persisted.

“Sure we’re sure.” This from one of the girls. “What’s this all about?”

Duplessis cleared his throat. “Connery’s dead. He was murdered.” As the young faces went pale with shock, he went on. “That’s why we have to know about anyone who might have harbored a grudge against him. Maybe some gay put the moves on him, got turned down, and was mad enough to kill?”

Out of the collegiates’ sickened horror the reactions were unanimous–no one would have done that to Drew.

But someone had.

By the end of the day, the two policemen had talked to Connery’s teachers and swimming coach as well as friends and fellow-students. They were no wiser than before. There was no hint of evasion, but there were more than a few missing answers. What was Connery’s part-time job that raked in the cash? Where were his driving license and apartment key? Who was the girl he was supposed to be dating the evening he died? And not only who, but where. It could be that she too was a victim.

No one knew.

*****

Mr. Connery was a clerk in a meat-packing factory, a paunchy, florid-faced man in his late forties, brown hair receding as if in retreat from ferociously bristling eyebrows. His daughter was with him, a tall, slender girl of twenty-three, with long mouse-blonde hair and straight grey eyes, attractive rather than beautiful. Her brother had got the lion’s share of the good looks.

Strained, distraught, Mr. Connery sat hunched forward in the easy chair in Dobey’s office. The photograph supplied by the morgue had not been enough for him. He’d admitted the likeness, but couldn’t–wouldn’t–give a positive ID. Almost triumphantly he had denied knowledge of the chain and the watch. His boy had neither owned nor wished to own such expensive gaudiness. But it was clear that he was dreading the moment when he would have to go into the morgue and see the cadaver.

Duplessis cleared his throat, a swift glance at Dobey’s impassive black face winning him an infinitesimal nod. “Drew wrote home frequently?” he asked, voice quiet and sympathetic. The girl’s eyes turned to him, dark and grieving. For her, at least, the photograph was proof enough, though she had known nothing of the jewelry either.

“Yes,” she said. “Long letters. He was always good about that. And phone calls.”

“Did he mention his friends? Talk about them?”

“Oh, yes. Many times.”

“How about a boy called Chris Villiers?”

She frowned, thinking hard, then shook her head. “I don’t remember the name.”

“Did you keep Drew’s letters?”

“Mom has. I think I’ve got most he wrote to me. And Katie will have all hers, I know.” For a moment her voice wavered and she closed her eyes.

“We’d appreciate seeing those letters, Miss Connery,” Dobey said gruffly. “All of them. Do you remember him saying anything about a job that would help him through college?”

“Uh–no…well, he wouldn’t need to,” she said. “He sold the car soon after he started at USC–he wrote home asking for Dad’s permission. It had been kind of a family gift, you see, for his eighteenth birthday.”

Babcock leaned forward, eyes on the girl’s face. “Miss Connery,” he said gently, “we have to ask you this, and we need your considered, truthful answer. To your knowledge, was your brother involved in any kind of homosexual liaison?”

The girl stared at him, wide-eyed and shocked, and it was her father who responded. “What the hell are you saying?” he blared, surging to his feet. “Drew ain’t like that! My boy’s ramrod straight! He’s no sick pervert! Goddamn it, you take that back, I’ll bust your–”

“Take it easy, Mr. Connery,” Dobey said. “These questions have to be asked. My officer did not say your son was homosexual, merely asked if he might be. Miss Connery, we would like your answer.”

“Drew wasn’t gay, Captain,” she said. “If he did have those kind of feelings, I think he’d have told me. We were pretty close. He didn’t have any hang-ups about it. You have to have a reason to ask –”

“We’re trying to trace his last movements–who he was with, where he’d been. Your brother had been sexually assaulted, Miss Connery, prior to his death. It would help us if–”

“What?” A groan of horror from the father. “God, no …!”

“He wasn’t gay,” the girl repeated steadily, her hand on the older man’s arm as he slumped back in his seat.

“Proves it wasn’t Drew,” he rallied enough to interrupt. “It’s one of your Californian drop-outs peddling his ass, asking for trouble–”

“I’m afraid not,” Dobey put in heavily. “Mr. Connery, will you come to the morgue and make a formal ID, please?”

“It isn’t Drew,” he insisted.

“We’ll make the identification,” his daughter said, the grey eyes, liquid with pain, lifted to Duplessis’ face.

*****

“Hutch.”

“Yeah.”

“How do ‘droids do it?” Starsky lay belly-down on the goatskin rug in front of the hearth, chin propped on hands, staring at the dog-eared paperback in front of him.

After apparently giving it some thought, Hutch said, “Mechanically, I should think. Are you still reading that Star Wars thing?”

“The Empire Strikes Back,” Starsky declaimed dramatically. He sat up and clasped his arms around his knees. “Will you take me to see the movie?”

“We’ve seen it twice already,” Hutch snorted, trying to get back into Norman Mailer’s American Dream.

“Yeah, but not since–not for a while. Will you? Huh?”

“I’m not necking with you, Starsk. Not in the theatre.”

“Who asked you to?” Starsky chuckled. Hutch shot him an exasperated look. Reclining on one elbow now, gazing up at him, Starsky smiled slowly. Hutch might not show it on the surface, but Starsky knew what buttons to push, and loved deliberately pushing them. Hutch returned him a rather confused, blushing smile, and suddenly Starsky found himself equally ambushed by the mood he had awakened in his lover. Lover… The word alone started frissons of erotic pleasure up and down his spine.

My Hutch. My lover…oh babe, when you smile at me like that …

Fingers playing absently with a tuft of the goat hair, Starsky gazed at the man sitting at ease in the chair. Plaid shirt and jeans, not shining armor, for this White Knight. And as he watched, Hutch stretched and pushed his firelit blond hair back, still smiling. They were both intensely aware of the small sounds that somehow deepened the silence: the soft silken rustle of the flames, the occasional snap as a piece of driftwood burned, the gusting wind driving the rain against the windows with a subdued rattle. The overcast morning had promised rain, after several days of sun, and the afternoon had delivered it.

“No twenty-mile hikes today,” Starsky had announced with satisfaction, hoping for a day of relaxation, not to say downright idleness. He felt he deserved it–Hutch had been keeping him to his fitness program doggedly–but he had been disappointed. Even if they couldn’t go outside to run, Hutch had made him work out with weights indoors, and they did go out to swim anyway. Finally, as evening came on, Hutch had let up. They had eaten, pulled the drapes across to shut out the deepening greys of the sodden view, and they settled down in companionable silence to read.

Do you know what you’re doing to me, you bastard? Of course you do.

“It ought to be a tiger-skin,” Hutch said, his voice sounding remarkably impersonal. “Or a bear. Polar bear.”

“What?” Bemused, Starsky continued to stare at him, one eyebrow climbing.

“The rug. Did I ever tell you about this fantasy I have?” He put the book aside, slid down to kneel beside Starsky.

“No.” Starsky heard his own voice take on a husky tone, but he didn’t move. “Which one?”

“The one with the tiger-skin rug. Or the polar bear rug. I’m not sure which I really prefer.”

“For what?” Starsky murmured, knowing perfectly well but wanting to be told, wanting to have Hutch say the words. He could feel his jeans constricting him already, and Hutch hadn’t even touched him yet.

“For making love,” Hutch said softly, and bent to cover the waiting mouth with his own. Starsky tasted the urgency of his warm lips and thrusting tongue, as Hutch took his time about it. At last Starsky made a small helpless sound in his throat and pulled away.

“Will you settle for goatskin?” he whispered breathlessly. “Ohgod, it isn’t fair…”

“What isn’t?” Soft flutter of laughter accompanied the delicate butterfly kisses over the taut arch of his throat. “Tell me, babe. Say the words. Tell me.”

“…please….” Carry on like this and I’m gonna cream in my jeans, an’ then I’ll kill you…

“Easy, lover, easy…we’ve got all the time in the world…” Fingers unbuttoning his shirt, the touch of the coarse fur of the rug on his naked skin unbelievably erotic. Hands slipped under him to cup his buttocks, pulling him roughly closer, hips ground against his, teeth in his shoulder, in his throat, Hutch’s weight pinning him, holding him down. “Tell me, babe. Tell me. Now.”

“Hutch, please…” He wasn’t going to last another ten seconds, couldn’t hold back, couldn’t even think…

“Like it this way? Is this how you want it? Tell me?”

“…ohyoubastard…”

Beyond speech now, beyond any reasoned thought, drowning in the rip-tide of sensation, Starsky gasped with pleasure as the mouth fastened on his rigid, straining flesh, drawing him in, tongue circling–reality slipping away from him, his consciousness clouding, the whole fucking universe rocking on its hinges–Hutch oh Hutch–shuddering thrusting upwards too soon too fast too late dissolving…Hutch hold me…

He was cradled, loving arms around him, supporting, gentle. Hutch’s heartbeat was synchronizing with his own.

Starsky didn’t want to move, but his pubic hair was glued stickily to the long fur of the rucked-up rug and it was rather uncomfortable. He slipped a hand down and freed himself, let his hand rest in a languid caress on the warm thigh pressed to his, and let himself drift.

“Hutch?”

“Mmmm?”

“You awake?”

“Mmm.” A kiss was dropped into his hair. “Yeah. Think we’d better move to the bed.”

A good idea. Untangling themselves, they made for the bedroom, and Hutch detoured to the bathroom. Starsky hauled back the quilt and top sheet and subsided full-length, burying his face in the pillow with a sigh of content. By the time Hutch returned, toweling himself dry, he was three-quarters asleep.

“Aren’t you going to take a shower?”

“Mmm. Sure. In th’morning…” he muttered drowsily. A damp towel cracked against his bare rump and he yelped.

Hutch chuckled. “Slob.”

“Sadist.”

“Move over.”

Settling himself in the curve of Hutch’s arm, head on his shoulder, Starsky sighed again. Memories, sweetly sensual, drifted through his sleepy mind. The goatskin rug, tickling…

“Hutch.”

“What now?” Hutch groaned.

“You reckon Han Solo ever gets his rocks off with Chewie?”

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Starsk…”

*****

For some while, Starsky wasn’t altogether sure he was awake. For a start, the darkness was the same, whether his eyes were open or closed, which was a novel if slightly unnerving experience. He literally couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. If he squeezed his eyes shut, he did get some pretty colored patterns, but when he opened his eyes–nothing.

You can go blind, you know. The memory of that old myth made him snicker. I got twenty-twenty vision. At least, when the drapes aren’t closed.

The chill of the rainy night was shut out, and the room was drowned in a blackness that was positively Stygian. He congratulated himself on the metaphor. Without sight, his other senses became hyper acute. The feel of linen against his skin, the warmth of Hutch’s body, close enough to touch if he reached out. The steady even breathing of his partner. His scent, too. The faint aura of musk, of sex, mingling with the more socially acceptable aromas of soap and male cologne. It wasn’t cold, just cool enough to make body-contact more than indulgent pleasure. He slipped one arm around Hutch, molding himself to the long lean back, and kissed the nape of his neck where the blond hair feathered into soft tendrils.

“Hey…” he said, breathing it, whispering the name like a mantra. “Hutch.” And stroked his free hand down from waist to thigh, across the jut of pelvic bones, smooth skin under his fingertips, sensitive flesh stirring to life before Hutch had even begun to wake properly, and still half asleep, he tried to turn over. Starsky laughed and kissed him, loving hands rediscovering and playing on his body, exploring the deceptive flat plates of athlete’s muscle, caressing the hairless chest, finding the invisible growth of down that flowed from a ridge at the navel to the blond curls at his groin; down like peach fuzz, visible only when the light caught it, but plain to his stroking hands.

“You know you’re always sayin’ you can read me like a book?”

“Mmmm…”

“Would you believe Braille?”

His mouth on Hutch’s was unhurried, leisured, savoring his responses. Tongue-tip teased, playing games.

“Starsk…oh, David…” Hutch writhed, panting, pressing himself back, arching for closer contact with his tormentor. Starsky treated every inch of his spine to an exquisite, excruciating attention with fingers, lips and tongue.

“Shhh…let me…” Starsky was almost on the edge of control himself. He knew now what he wanted to do, but– “Hutch?”

“Oh, God, yes –” voice blurred and breathless with desire. “All of it, babe. Everything.”

Gently, almost fearfully, Starsky let his hands explore the perfect curves of back and buttocks and thighs, the hard muscle trembling under his touch. He found the cleft, probing, gauging the depth of pleasure by the soft helpless moans, the increasingly-desperate movements.

Supposed to use something, some kind of–oh, god, I can’t stop now!

“Wait, lover –”

“No. Now. Please…I can’t…”

He heard Hutch gasp aloud at the shock of penetration–pleasegodIhaven’thurthim?–but the body under his was not passive or rigid with pain but moving, responding instinctively and adjusting, sharing their delight, the sharing itself an intoxication. The tension mounted, built to a peak. “Now, Hutch, now come with me now Hutch –”

Coming down. Shattered scattered senses returning to where he floated mindless in the dark. His arms were locked still around his lover’s body, feeling the shaken breathing and pounding heart, his own chest heaving in ragged, broken gasps.

“Hutch…” It was almost a sob, a snatched breath of pain. “Oh god Hutch I didn’t mean–did I hurt you?”

“Hurt?” A sated whisper. “Babe, that was the best ever.” Fingers touched his face, questing; as they traced the line of his lips, he kissed them. “David, I love you.” Hutch turned in his embrace and found his mouth in the darkness without any difficulty, drawn to it as if to a lodestone. It stilled the quivering fear in him. “Your first time, huh? Like that?”

“With girls, once or twice. If it turned them on.” He was gently stroking, soothing.

“Guess that means I got your cherry, Starsk.”

“Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way,” Starsky mumbled. He snuggled closer, wrapping himself over and around as much of Hutch as he could, like an affectionate octopus.

“Me neither,” Hutch whispered. The darkness enfolded them both in a timeless womb, closer than brothers, purged of passion.

“Hold me.”

“I am holding you.”

And sleep washing in like a black tide, submerging thought, feeling, all emotion.

 

Chapter VIII

“What’s today?”

It was an odd question, and caused Hutch to arrest his pencil in mid-line. He looked thoughtfully at his subject, then shrugged, giving up on the effort. “Wondered what you were looking so serious about.”

“Well?”

“Wednesday. Thursday. Somewhere around then. Does it matter?”

“Guess not.”

“So lie still. I’m almost through.”

He worked on for another ten minutes, while Starsky obediently lay still. “Hey. It’s not another of your Dying Gladiators, is it?” he wanted to know.

“What if it is?”

“Just that you’ve about done that idea to death, is all.”

“Michelangelo did dozens.”

“Yeah, well, we all know about Michelangelo,” Starsky snorted. “Hurry it up, willya? I’m getting a cramp.”

“All through,” Hutch announced. “And before you ask — here.”

The completed sketch put into his hands, Starsky studied it for a long moment. “Aside from I don’t look like that, it’s not bad.”

“You expect a photograph?”

“Your way is more fun.” Starsky rolled over and sat up, grinning wickedly. “Your way I get to lie around and do nothing for a couple of hours, except look gorgeous. So what are you calling that one?”

“L’Apres-midi d’un Slob,” Hutch told him concisely. “C’mon, off your ass. We’ll go for a swim.”

“Okay.” Starsky got lithely to his feet and padded in from the deck. The faint residue of tanning lotion remaining on his skin lent a polished sheen to the cleanly defined structures of his body. He moved lazily to collect a can of beer from the icebox, indulging in a cat-like stretch and a wide yawn.

“You can’t be tired,” Hutch said, catching that. “You’ve done nothing but sleep all afternoon.”

“So I’m catching up.” Starsky grinned at him, sidelong. “Y’really know how to wear a guy out, lover-boy.”

Hutch chuckled, and laid his hands on the warm shoulders. “Hope you didn’t get too much sun,” he said absently, nuzzling into the soft disordered curls, breathing deep of the scents that were Starsky, overlaid with sun and air. “Maybe you should go lie down in a darkened room or something.”

He felt the chuckle begin down in Starsky’s midriff. “So what about the swim?”

“The swim can wait.”

“Oh, you got a better idea?”

“Always knew I was the brains of this partnership.” Hutch licked delicately at Starsky’s ear, smiling as the man shivered and leaned into the embrace.

“Surprise me?”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Better believe it.”

“You smell good enough to eat, babe.”

“Ah. Now that’s what I call an idea.”

The windows of the second bedroom faced west, and the room was full of a hazy golden glow as the light filtered through the loose-weave yellow drapes. Slim bronzed body languid on the primrose percale, dark curls backlit by a stray sunbeam, the shadows making his face an archaic mask. Pan, enigmatic. Eyes hooded and heavy with desire, darkened to indigo. Hutch touched him, the deep probing kiss leaving them both breathless: tongue flicking over tongue, slick hardness of teeth, taste of honey-sweet spice. He traced patterns on the glistening, oil-sleeked body-hair, from the flat copper coins of nipples to the indentation of navel on the erratically quivering plane of his satyr’s belly. Sweat beaded in droplets, trickling down the pelvic hollows.

Hutch laid his cheek on the curve of thigh, caressing the sensitive skin of the heavy sac, fingers drifting featherlight up the straining shaft, the vein pulsing blue under the skin. Lips and tongue followed, delicately touching, until Starsky moaned aloud, hips bucking. “Please…”

Hutch, however, was determined not to be hurried.

“Do it, you bastard… don’t tease…”

Taking his time, Hutch gave the matter in hand due care and attention.

“Yeah… like that… oh God babe… ” Voice shaking now, dark head rolling, hands clenching in the sheet. Hutch laid one arm across the thrashing hips, pressing Starsky down, then slipped his free hand between the parted thighs, stroking the cleft of the buttocks, touching the tight entrance. Starsky gave a shudder, a whimper of need, pushing himself against the questing fingers, gasping as they entered him. “God… Hutch… now oh Hutch please now…” Words lost in a sharp cry, the slender body arching against Hutch’s restraint, the sudden flood pulsing into the willing mouth that drank him avidly, greedy for all he could give.

When Hutch raised his head to look at the beloved face, the unfocused eyes and swollen mouth told their own story. The fine-boned hands, slack and half-open now, showed dull red crescents imprinted into the palms.

“All right?” Hutch whispered, touching his lips to Starsky’s.

“Mmm…” A murmur of satiation. “‘m wasted…”

“No stamina,” Hutch said softly.

“Whaddyamean? That was a compliment.”

“Really.” Hutch knelt up, delivered an affectionate pat to the flat belly. “Over easy, boy.”

“Wha’for?” Starsky mumbled, but obediently heaved himself over, burying his face in the pillow.

“Can tell you never went to college,” Hutch chuckled, and reached for the bottle of baby-oil on the night-table. “A touch of the Magic Fingers, what else?’

“Oh…” A small, sensual wriggle. “Okay.”

The flesh under his hands, warming to the oil-slicked palms and fingers, was firm and pliant, totally unresisting, muscles loose as cotton. Kneading and stroking, Hutch worked on the wide shoulders and down the brown back, pausing at the narrow waist, his hands splayed, thumbs touching in the spinal groove.

“How y’doing?”

“Terrific…”

The soft downy vee just below the waist and above the cleft of the lean ass tempted his lips. He allowed himself the luxury, the answering sleepy squirm of pleasure making him smile. He knelt between the strong legs, tipped a few more drops of oil into his hand, and spread it over the neat buttocks, paler than the rest of Starsky’s body, rotating his palms in a slow, expert rhythm. Completely relaxed, in a love-induced trance, Starsky was utterly at his mercy, and Hutch began to massage down the crease between the cheeks.

“David…” He made the name into a one-word love-song. “I want you, babe…”

“Y’got me…” came the drowsy mutter. “Don’t stop… ‘s good…”

“Gonna be better.” Hutch heard his own voice thicken with wanting, the ache in his groin urgent now, catching his breath at the sensations his own touch produced as he slicked himself, stretched himself carefully over his lover, and guided himself to his target. The first resistance yielded sweetly to his thrust before Starsky made a small sound in his throat and tensed. “Easy…” Hutch breathed. “Relax, love. Let me –”

*****

Roused out of his near-sleep by the sharp stab of pain, the more shocking because it was unexpected, Starsky forced himself to lie still, to accept what was happening, and sank his teeth into his lower lip again, though not in the transport of rapture this time. Face buried in the pillow, hands tight-clenched, he tried to suppress all feeling, wanting it just to be over.

I did this to you. And I wasn’t as careful as you’re being. Dear God — Hutch — I can’t —

Pain flared, and in spite of himself he moaned. Above him Hutch gasped an endearment, and he was filled, possessed totally, held immobile by Hutch’s weight.

Can’t take it, Hutch… I can’t … you’re killing me…

He bit down on the scream, tasted blood, the plunging pressure-pain tearing him, devouring him from inside like fire. But then there was something else, too, spreading through him. Joy, reinforced with each thrust. Wildfire pleasure blazed up to cancel out the pain, making him buck backwards for more, piercing him, engorging him, stopping his breath and his heart and his life….

*****

A soft voice, calling his name.

“David? C’mon, babe, please. C’mon back…”

Tender kisses on face and throat. His body was his own again, heavy-limbed, familiar stickiness wet at his groin. Hutch’s arms were around him, voice gentle in his ear.

Right into orbit. God. Wonder how many times my heart can stand that? What a way to go…

He summoned the strength to turn his head, open his eyes — his lashes were wet. Hutch was looking down into his face, concern and love and fear in his eyes. “Starsk…”

He got a hand up, fastened on Hutch’s nape, pulled him down. “You can kill me like that anytime…”

“Christ, babe…” Anguished remorse filled the voice.

“Hey — what’s with the guilt-trip? You’re the expert, right? Supposed to know what you were doing…”

“I wanted it to be good for you, too.”

“Well, you got that right.” He closed his eyes again, his head resting against the broad smooth chest. “I can hear your heart beating.”

“So I should hope. If you couldn’t, either you’d be deaf or I’d be dead.” A thread of laughter lightened the mood, and Starsky gave a relieved chuckle, kissed the satiny skin, and wrapped both arms around Hutch.

“Love you…”

*****

It was evening when he woke, and they were pressed together still. Even in sleep, separation was unbearable.

So much for the swim.

Starsky craned up on one elbow, careful not to disturb his lover, and leaned over to study the quiet, shuttered face. Was he asleep? Borderline, he decided, and grinned to himself. Fair game. Should he wake Hutch up fast and sudden or slow and easy? The grin became a chuckle.

“That has to be the dirtiest snigger I’ve heard in my life,” Hutch murmured, not opening his eyes or moving.

“Go back to sleep, Briar Rose,” which won a snort of outrage from him. But when Hutch’s eyes blinked open and he started to get up, Starsky’s hands on his shoulders pushed him down. “No. Stay there.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask damn-fool questions.”

“Being masterful, huh?”

“You better believe it.”

Hutch awarded him a Bronx cheer, but relaxed under his pressure. His gaze, shadowed and heavy with sleep and loving, rested on Starsky’s face. “What yuh gonna do now, Butch?” he drawled.

Starsky leered down at him. “Gonna fix myself some supper. G’night, schweetheart.” And he sauntered off to the kitchen. Hutch laughed and cursed him, sent a pillow flying after him, which Starsky fielded and returned accurately. “You want somethin’ to eat?”

“No, thanks.” The words were lost in a yawn, and when Starsky padded back to the bedroom, half an hour later, Hutch was asleep again, starfished in the middle of the big bed.

“That’s a habit I’m going to have to break you of,” Starsky told him. “Shift it.” But there was no imperative in his tone, and the golden body did not move. So he slid under the single sheet and propped himself on one elbow, lying on his side within the angle of Hutch’s outflung arm. This was no borderline drowse, but the real thing. Hutch’s face was relaxed, a slight smile lifting the wide mouth. He looked at peace, utterly content, the light perspiration of sleep highlighting bone and muscle in the glow of the bedside lamp.

Starsky got rid of the sheet, letting it slide to the floor, and gazed down the length of their two bodies. His own, dark-furred on deep tan; Hutch’s a dusting of fine down on lighter brown, the blond hair darkening to gold at his groin. Michelangelo could have done him justice, or Praxiteles — one of those guys who really knew what beauty was about. Or Rodin, maybe.

“You look like a beached alligator,” he said to the sleeping face, and gently stroked a fingertip over his lips. Hutch stirred, murmured his name, and Starsky acknowledged the tingle that coursed through him with a wry delight. But he did not move, because Hutch did not wake up. He could wait. They had time enough in this their own country.

An age of the world away, Hutch had looked down on his sleeping face, he remembered, though their resting-place then had been a couch, not a bed. And had seen something — what? — in him that had opened up a whole new dimension in their relationship. Could he, with hindsight and empathy, find the same key?

“Hell,” he whispered, half to himself. “I don’t know. What’s inside you is beautiful, and the outside’s not bad, but that’s not it, or this would have happened years ago. So what is it, lover?” There was no answer to be read in the face turned towards him, not even the flicker of an eyelid. “Not tellin’, huh? Maybe you don’t know either. Hutch, listen, everything I am is yours. Everything, nothing held back. I’ll tell you again when you wake up, if I remember.” He touched the soft mouth again, knowing that Hutch’s heart and mind were as open to him as his body, offered in total trust — and that was it, he abruptly realized. The key. Complete commitment, given and received, all along the line. Hutch had seen that, or discovered his own need for it. “Eureka,” Starsky murmured, and kissed him, not on the mouth, but the hollow of his throat.

The skin under his lips was smooth, tasting faintly of salt. He felt the quiver of indrawn breath, Hutch’s mouth in his hair, whispering his name. Didn’t have to tell him anything — Hutch knew it already, without words passing between them, and that was so right it was almost a physical pain. He gasped on the tightness of his lungs, and Hutch’s grip on him loosened.

“You okay?” Gentle concern. “Easy, love, it’s all right.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and pushed himself back onto his elbow. “It’s better than all right.” Leisurely he stroked his left hand down the length of Hutch’s body, cupping the wakening erection, watching Hutch’s face as his eyes closed on a small wordless sound of pleasure and his head pressed back into the pillow, his hips moving involuntarily. Starsky smiled and kissed his throat where the pulse was bounding just beneath the surface, traced an invisible line with lips and tongue over Hutch’s chest. The rediscovery, newly made every time, of the contrast between the cushioned hardness of muscle and silk-smooth skin was an erotic shock that quickened his heartbeat and conjured a sexual magic. He lifted his head, caught a brief glimpse of his lover’s expression, eyes closed, lips parted, a man drowning in pure sensation. It was all there, nothing withheld, offered up for him to claim — but he wanted to give.

“Hutch.” Excitement, desire, made his voice shaky. “Babe… do you want me?”

Hutch’s eyes opened, met his, read there what he was trying to say. “Are you sure?”

“Only this time I want to be with you right from the start. No sneaky tactics.”

“You got a deal.” Hutch’s arms closed around him, and he yielded to the strength and tenderness of the man who was companion, friend, brother and lover. Lover…

“Love me, Hutch.”

*****

“It’s indecent,” Starsky said accusingly, from the bedroom door. Hutch paused in the middle of wrapping sandwiches and looked at him. Naked, tousled, and sleepy, the man managed to look devastatingly sexy and thoroughly unsavory at the same time.

“What is?” he asked, returning to his wrapping.

“You. Up with the lark, showered, shaved, dressed, packing lunch — it’s the crack of dawn, for God’s sake. Why are you packing lunch?”

“Because you’ll bitch like hell if I don’t. Go grab a shower while I finish this, why don’t you?”

“You’ve got something planned,” Starsky said suspiciously. “Something I’m not gonna enjoy. I can tell.”

“Nonsense.” Hutch took a six-pack from the icebox. “You are going to love it. It’s not far.”

“What isn’t?” Starsky asked warily.

“The lake.”

“Lake,” Starsky repeated. “How far is ‘not far’?”

“Maybe ten miles. We can make it by midday if we take the cliff trail.”

The anticipated groans of protest didn’t come, and Hutch glanced up to see why not. Starsky hadn’t moved, but the pose was suddenly all languorous invitation, hooded eyes, jutting hip, and Hutch was almost ambushed. But he managed to get a hold of his libido just in time. He left the lunch, walked across, and took his lover in his arms, accepting the offered mouth in a long deep kiss before pulling away and gazing into the flushed face.

“Hutch…”

“Shower, Starsk,” Hutch whispered, grinning.

“You bastard.”

“Right,” Hutch agreed. “Shower.”

With a martyred sigh, Starsky headed for the bathroom. He wasn’t long; Hutch was just putting the finishing touches to the packing when he came out of the bedroom clad in denim cut-offs and t-shirt, hauling on his track-suit top.

“All set, Coach,” he announced.

“Great. Sit down. This won’t take a minute.”

Mildly puzzled, Starsky perched himself on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. He looked inquisitively down at the top of the blond head as Hutch knelt and took Starsky’s feet in his hands, checking the fit of the cushioned training shoes. “This isn’t the marathon, y’know.”

“I know. But I don’t want you getting blisters. Are they comfortable?”

“Fine. Really.”

“Okay. The track Coach at college used to check, every time. Paid off, too.” Before he got up, he dropped a kiss on Starsky’s inner thigh.

“I’m sure. And did your track coach do that, too?”

“Not that I know if,” Hutch said, picking up the pack and settling it on his own shoulders. “But then, I never was a track star.”

*****

Hutch made sure there was little breath to spare for bitching by setting a fast pace to begin with, but Starsky seemed to take enjoyment from the sheer ability to run free. He had no trouble keeping the pace with Hutch, running shoulder to shoulder the first two miles. But when the trail opened up along the cliff, he stopped suddenly.

“Hey,” he called, hands on knees, breathing deeply. Hutch pulled up ten paces on, walked back.

“You’re goofing off.”

“Am not. I want t’look at the view.”

“Like I said. Goofing off.” But he dropped beside him onto the grassy bank beside the track, and they sat there in silence gazing out over the sea. The horizon and the sky met in a hazy melting line, blue on blue in endless reflection. The coast was red rock and white sand, vegetation overflowing like frosting on a cake, spilling down the sides.

“My God. That’s so goddamn beautiful.” It was said quietly, with reverence. Hutch looked at the intent profile of the man sitting arms around knees, the wind off the sea stirring through the sweat-crisped dark curls, sun striking auburn highlights in the tangle.

“Beautiful,” he agreed softly.

Starsky took a deep breath, closing his eyes, head back. “Want to know something?”

“Talk to me.”

“I’m happy. I can’t remember ever being so completely happy. It can’t last, but I don’t care.”

“Live for the moment.”

“Right.”

“It’s the only way, babe.” It had been a mistake to halt; his body was relaxing, surrendering to inertia. But what the hell — there weren’t going to be many days like this. His mind shied away from the inexorable passing of time that would bring them, too soon, back to the reality that still existed outside this private world. He sat and watched the motionless enamel blue of the sea, listened to the murmur of wind in the trees. Starsky was silent beside him. When he did glance around eventually, it was to find Starsky stretched out full-length in the grass, right knee flexed slightly, hands behind his head, eyes half closed as he followed the dizzying glide and swoop of a gull riding the shining air above him.

I should be used to this by now — what the sight of him does to me. But I still get taken by the sheer beauty of him. “We’d better move if we want to get to the lake by noon,” he said, trying to get the huskiness out of his voice by clearing his throat.

“What’s wrong with right here?”

That grin — damn you, David Michael Starsky. You know, don’t you? “On your feet, slacker,” he said briskly, getting up.

“Sure. Give me a hand, huh?”

But the extended hand was a ruse, as Hutch found as he braced himself to pull Starsky up. There was less resistance than he expected, and the result was that he found himself with both arms full of laughing Starsky, both of them teetering on the edge of balance.

“Don’t tempt me,” he gasped, as the contact thrilled through him, undermining all resolution.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Starsky assured him, sliding free and bounding a little way off along the trail. “C’mon, Blintz — you wanna make it to the lake by lunchtime?”

“There’s a word for bastards like you,” Hutch yelled, recovering his equilibrium and pounding in pursuit of the light, loping stride.

“Yeah? What’s that?” floated back from the maniac ahead.

“Cocktease!”

There was a squawk of outrage, a howl of laughter. “Cocktease!? You’ll pay for that, Blondie!”

*****

The lake was a pure reflecting mirror of turquoise, cupped in the cradling valley, touched into shivering ripples by the breeze that rustled the aspens and bent the grass.

“Christ on a kayak…”

“Told you it was worth the trek, didn’t I?” Hutch said, smiling. “Real unspoiled natural beauty. You can’t get here except on foot, and the nearest road is four miles back, so not many people bother.”

“Just flakes like you, huh?” Starsky grinned. “Okay to take a swim?”

“Sure. Watch out for alligators. And piranhas.”

The white teeth flashed. “Up yours, Blue Eyes.”

Starsky was down to skin with indecent haste, and heading for the water. Hutch stood and watched him, savoring the unconscious grace of movement as he sprinted out onto a rocky promontory to perform a racing dive into the clear water. Seconds later, with a strangled spluttering yell, he shot to the surface.

“It’s like ice!”

“Tones up the system,” Hutch told him, more leisurely in his undressing, knowing what to expect as he waded into the cold water. Starsky ducked him, and the retaliatory fight ended with them both drenched and out of breath. Hutch escaped finally to stretch out in the sun of a flat rock, as Starsky discovered the warmer waters of the shallows. It wasn’t that the hike had tired him, he was sure of that; it had to be the soporific effect of sun and silence that lulled him into a doze. He was woken by a splatter of wetness, blinked his eyes open to see a grinning satyr, devilish glint of mischief in dark blue eyes, about to shake his wet curls again like a friendly dog.

“Creep,” Hutch grumbled. “Go be a nuisance someplace else.” This got him another shower, and he rolled over, cursing.

“You were asleep.” Starsky made it sound like a capital crime as he reached for the towel and sprawled beside him on the rock. “You didn’t hike all the way up here just to sleep did you?”

“No.” Hutch squinted at him. “But then, I didn’t hike up here for any particular purpose, except to get you off your ass and exercising. How do you feel?”

“Me? Terrific. This place is really something else.” He gave a sigh of content, the towel draped over bare shoulders, and sat gazing over the lake. Hutch grunted and closed his eyes again, resting his head on his folded arms. The sun caressed his back, the gentle breeze brushing over his skin. “You’re gonna burn,” came a murmur, and a hand was smoothing oil onto his back, then two hands, long firm strokes from shoulders to hips, massaging warm oil into sun-warmed skin. Hutch moved slightly with drowsy pleasure in this little intimacy. “You’re like a cat,” affectionate, half-laughing, “a big, golden cat. You gonna purr for me, pussycat? Huh?”

Hutch growled. “You’re weird, Starsk.”

“C’mon, puss,” coaxing, “purr for me.” And strong fingers dug into his ass unexpectedly, making Hutch gasp, fully awake now, as the touch of his lover’s hands burned on his body, nerve ends thrilling.

“Starsk…”

“We gonna play games, puss?” Starsky’s voice had dropped to a whisper, and he bent his head to nibble on Hutch’s ear, smiling as Hutch relaxed, languid and accepting — then yelped involuntarily as the situation was abruptly reversed and Hutch was holding him pinned to the rock, laughing down at him.

“Fooled you, didn’t I?”

“You don’t play fair…”

“So who ever promised you fair? There aren’t any rules, babe. You start games like that, you have to learn to take the consequences.”

“Hutch –” Starsky squirmed, but Hutch’s grip was implacable. “Hey, let me up-”

“I don’t think I want to,” Hutch said softly, and he let a note into his voice that made Starsky shiver. “I think I like holding you like this. You can’t do a damn thing about it, can you?”

“I’m not trying, am I?” Starsky countered. “You want to play Mr. Machismo, okay, whatever turns you on –”

“You do that,” Hutch said. “Without even trying, love.”

Starsky’s mouth opened under his, and one arm hooked around his neck, pulling him closer. Starsky’s hips rocked to meet his, the slickness of oil and sweat exciting them both, Starsky’s head arching back, pressing moisture from his wet hair onto the rock, his body writhing, voice sobbing aloud as Hutch possessed him, tasting the essence of power and rejoicing in it. “Come on,” Hutch ordered breathlessly. “I want to hear you, babe –” And bore down hard, demanding, relentless, until Starsky bucked under him, crying out:

“Hutch…ohgodHutch…”

*****

Birdsong returned, gradually, to fill the silence. Hutch lay gazing into the depth of the blue sky, mindless, at peace. The stickiness on his belly was drying, puckering at the skin — he’d have to go swim, but didn’t want to move just yet. Starsky, lying at his side, seemed to be asleep: eyes closed, breathing deep and even. Hutch turned his head to look at him and smiled. A butterfly had settled on the dark curls, fanning its wings slowly, bright jewel colors, saffron and copper and peacock blue, a living ornament for what needed no adornment.

There was a magic in the moment that he didn’t want to lose. He wanted to hold it like the butterfly, a delicate thing that might bruise or break with ungentle handling. But moments don’t last. Unaware of the weightless presence on his hair, Starsky opened his eyes and turned his head and the butterfly was gone.

“You’re no pussycat.” His voice was blurred with sleep and the afterglow of passion. “You’re a cougar. Mountain lion…”

“You trying to make me blush?”

“Succeeding. Unless that’s sunburn.”

Hutch leaned over to kiss him, cherishing the purr deep in Starsky’s throat, the lazy response in the sated body. “You scared the birds away, you know that? You’re the noisiest screw in the county, schweetheart. And now who’s blushing?”

 

Chapter IX

Huggy Bear was not, by nature or inclination, an early riser. He was most at home with the night-people for whom daylight is a necessary evil to be endured between sunrise and sunset. He knew them and they knew him and it was from these twilight sources that he gathered much of his store of off-beat information. Huggy had skated the thin line between the criminal world and the law for more years than he cared to remember, but if he had enemies, he also had friends on both sides of the fence. Word came to him on a variety of subjects from a variety of sources, and he knew who would make best use of those words.

A particular set of words on a particular theme had him heading south down the freeway on a bright Thursday morning. He had tried to phone Starsky and Hutch, but there had been no answer. The phone company, when he complained, said the receiver was off the hook, and even their emergency attention-getting howler had won no response. Irritated and a little worried, Huggy had given himself the day off, and driven down the coast to see them face to face. Okay, Hutch was on vacation for another day or so yet, but some things didn’t keep too good.

It was just before noon when he pulled up outside the cabin and it dawned on him to wonder what he would do if they weren’t there — but the Torino was parked on the gravel driveway out back.

So they should be around, Huggy thought, obscurely reassured. So why hadn’t they bothered to call him? Not even a postcard. “Some people,” he told himself, “have no sensitivity for the feelings of others.”

The screen door was open, the inner door ajar, and he could hear the foxy beat of the Moody Blues. Starsky’s choice. He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and was arrested by the tableau before him.

Starsky was standing at the seaward window, and Hutch was beside him, one arm around him. As Huggy watched, Hutch said something in a murmur. Starsky’s beautiful smile flashed as he turned, Hutch’s hands on his shoulders, his own left hand reaching up to caress the blond nape in a gesture that was unmistakable. The bond between them was like a static electric charge; it crackled in the air, a power almost intense enough to be felt.

“Just open your eyes / and realize / the way it’s always been,” sang the lyrics.

But no. Huggy recollected his thoughts. This is new. God, this is so new they’re both still high on it.

The wind caught the open door, and it slammed closed. Huggy jumped as if he’d been shot, and two pairs of blue eyes swung to him as he stood there, feeling uncomfortably like an interloper — a Peeping Tom —

“Hiya, Hug.” Starsky, unconcerned, grinned at him as they came towards him, Hutch’s arm still around his shoulders in the most natural fashion possible. “How they hangin’, man?”

“We weren’t expecting anyone to come calling,” Hutch said.

Starsky, with a wider grin, cut in, “Or we’d have baked a cake.”

“You didn’t call or nothin’.” Huggy, embarrassed and unable to figure out why the hell he should be, was at a loss for words. “I tried to phone, but –”

“The phone’s out,” Hutch explained. “We wanted it that way.” And the glance that flashed between him and Starsky was shared, silent communion. “Siddown, I’ll get you a beer.”

“Make that two,” Starsky instructed, sprawling on the couch as Huggy took one of the chairs, still trying to adjust to this unforeseen situation. “So how’s L.A., Hug? Still there?”

“Nothin’ much changes,” Huggy shrugged. “Uh — you’re looking good, Starsk.”

Clad in nothing but the faded denim cut-offs, he was looking more than good. Huggy hadn’t seen him looking so fit in almost a year. The scars that marred his upper body were almost completely hidden by the dark pelt that furred his chest and midriff. He was deeply tanned, relaxed, bright-eyed and looked happy. Or maybe the word was “radiant”. Hutch came back with three cans of beer, and the awkward moment passed in the small ceremonies of drinking.

“Hug says I’m lookin’ good,” Starsky said casually, smiling at his partner. Hutch, sitting beside him, smiled back.

“Fresh air and exercise, babe. Mens sana in corpore sano.”

“Sickening, isn’t it?” Starsky grimaced, turning to Huggy for agreement. “Get him away from all that healthy smog an’ air pollution, and he goes all John Denver on you…”

“I don’t recall you complaining up at the lake.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. A ten-mile hike there, and another ten miles back — he classes that as an afternoon stroll, y’know?”

But the banter was very much a surface thing, and Huggy was intensely aware of the charged undercurrent that flowed between them. They weren’t touching, physically, yet… It came to him that they didn’t need to. This, for all its newness, was a complete and fulfilling thing. Huggy was suddenly grateful that he was too black to blush. After all, interrupting a honeymoon for whatever reason was pretty crass.

“So what brought you down this way?” Hutch asked quietly. “You were hardly ‘just passing’.”

Huggy thought fast. Telling Hutch what little information that had come his way would almost certainly result in Hutch cutting short this vacation. He didn’t want to be responsible for that. Duplessis didn’t have rocks in his head — he’d know what to do, how to handle it. These two needed their time together.

But he didn’t need to say anything.

“Give the guy a break, Hutch,” Starsky said. “I guess we kinda knocked him for a loop. S’okay, Hug — take no notice of the Blintz. If the Archangel Gabriel dropped by for a chat, Hutch’d want to check his ID.”

Huggy gave an elaborate shrug. “An’ I left the wings’n’halo back in L.A….”

The last time he had seen Starsky, it had been the evening before the beginning of this vacation. Starsky had been maudlin drunk, desperately unhappy, and unwilling to talk about it. Hutch had arrived, spoken to Starsky in a one-sided conversation that was painful to watch. They had left together.

And this happened between then and now.

“You gonna stay for lunch, Hug?” Starsky offered. “What we got, Hutch? Make it something edible, huh? We got a guest.”

“Up yours,” said Hutch concisely, grinning. “I can throw a salad together –”

“And he means just that,” Starsky groaned. “Hutch doesn’t just toss a salad –”

“You’ll go hungry if you’re not careful,” Hutch threatened mock-sternly.

Some things, however, never change.

“You’re a sorehead,” Starsky complained. “An’ I’m up to here with salad. Go get us some people-food, huh? You said we were gonna shop today. Now you got even more reason. G’wan, let’s pig out on something special, huh? Beef Stroganoff? Duck à l’orange?” he suggested hopefully. In an aside to Huggy, “He’s good at fancy dishes. You should taste his Coq au Vin.”

Huggy, caught in the middle of a swallow, choked, spluttering. From Starsky’s puzzled look, he realized that the man hadn’t intended the double entendre. Hutch started snickering and Starsky gazed affronted from one to the other, which made Hutch laugh harder. Belated, Starsky began to grin.

“You’re gross,” he said. “Both of you.”

But the accidental pun had removed the embarrassment and awkwardness for Huggy. Once he really thought about it, he wasn’t surprised — hell, this had been in the cards for years, the need just hadn’t been there before. They’d have more of the problems than most, perhaps, living and working the way they did. But if anyone could make it work, these two could. He was sure of that. However…

“The Real World’s still out there, fellas,” he said quietly. Starsky’s hand took Hutch’s as if in a clasp of mutual reassurance. Me and thee, the gesture said.

“We know that, Hug,” Hutch said, but the look in his eyes was for his partner.

Do you, Blondie? Do either of you know? Guess not — you’re still flyin’ high and wide, and from up there everythin’ mus’ be pure and clean and clear. But I’m not gonna be the one to remind you of the crud down here. You’ll come back to it soon enough.

“So you gonna stay and eat?” Starsky asked again. His hand still lay in Hutch’s. “Do me the favor, huh? Maybe he’ll fix something decent.”

“Nag, nag, nag.” Hutch got to his feet. “Okay, I’ll go pick up some provisions while Hug keeps you company. Give him the guided tour.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Starsky snorted. “He’s been here before, y’know. I heard about the four-day weekend with the foxy lady, Hug.”

Huggy gave his best lecherous leer. “You could say this little love-nest has seen some lovin’ moments, yeah.”

“Oh,” said Hutch. “Well, reminisce, then. I’ll be gone about an hour.”

“Be good,” Starsky ordered, and Hutch flipped him the finger. When he’d gone, Starsky looked at Huggy. “Okay,” he said, serious now. “What’s comin’ down?”

“Nothin’ heavy,” Huggy said. “It can wait. Listen, I better be gettin’ back.”

“No lunch?”

“Raincheck.” He got to his feet. “And you take care, you hear? Both of you. You don’t have to come back yet. Make the most of it.”

Dark blue eyes fixed him, understanding. “Thanks, Hug. We will.”

A long time ago, Huggy had sensed the vulnerability hidden behind the street-wise facade. He had never been so aware of it as now. Guess you found what most of us are lookin’ for, Starsky. You got lucky, man. Hang on to it.

*****

When Hutch returned, five minutes inside the promised hour, it was to find Huggy’s car gone, and Starsky stretched on the lounger on the deck, dozing with Jonathan Livingston Seagull on his chest.

“Where’s Huggy?” Hutch demanded. “Thought he was going to stay for lunch.”

One blue eye opened, regarded him, and closed again. “He remembered an urgent appointment.”

“That was — discreet of him,” Hutch acknowledged, taking the paper sacks of groceries through to the kitchen. Starsky, lured by the prospect of food, followed him, leaning on the doorjamb to watch him unpack.

“Yeah. Told you, we knocked him for a loop. What did y’get?”

“The basics and a few extras.” Hutch opened a store-cupboard. “See for yourself.”

Starsky wandered over, began sorting through the stacked goods.

“Tomatoes. Lettuce. Cheese. Scallions. Green peppers. More cheese,” he recited, his voice becoming acid with displeasure. “Yogurt. Apples. Grapefruit. Bananas. Even more cheese. Eggs. My God, a pack of steak! Orange juice. Potatoes — still in their skins, yet. Hutchinson, you’re a louse. Not one pizza, corndog, or chili sauce. Terrific.”

“They’re no good for your stomach,” Hutch said from the depths of the cupboard. “Put them away in the icebox, willya? Except the steak. We can have that now, if you want.”

“Nothin’ wrong with my stomach,” Starsky spat. “Nothin’ at all. How can I eat steak without chili sauce? Huh?”

“I suppose the slugs that went through you improved the function of your digestive system? Quit bitching. You’ve managed so far without the chili.”

“So now I’m into withdrawal. Gotta have some junk food. Hutch?”

“No.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Sure. You’ll have steak and salad, apples for dessert. With cheese, if you like.”

“I don’t like. When I get through with that fuckin’ Review Board, I’m gonna visit every taco stand and dog stall I can track down. Betcha didn’t even buy any Coke. Or root-beer. Or even Bud.”

“There’s a six-pack in the trunk.”

“Just one? That’s all? Gee, you’re all heart.”

“And don’t think you’re gonna drink them all yourself,” Hutch said. “You want to start peeling those potatoes–?”

“Nope. Skin ’em yourself.”

“Starsk…”

“No way. Think I’ve just fallen out of love with you.”

“Fickle,” Hutch grinned.

Starsky shot him a pained glare. “Yeah, well, I’m not peelin’ your lousy potatoes.” And he stalked out of the kitchen.

“You’ll eat them, though,” floated after him.

“Don’t make book on it.” He grinned. He’d eat what was put in front of him, and he knew that Hutch knew it. Besides, he had to admit a partiality to small potatoes tossed in melted butter with black pepper and chopped parsley. “You’re a lousy cook as well.”

“As well as what?”

“You figure it out.” He switched on the TV and flopped onto the couch with a sigh of contentment as the screen glowed into life. But he didn’t watch it. Instead his gaze was fixed out of the window, on the path that led down to the beach, and a small serene smile curved his mouth. The sun was warm in the cloudless sky; there was virtually no wind. Tonight the moon would be almost at the full, and it would be a fine, clear night. A midnight, moonlight swim? He considered the idea, knowing Hutch would need little in the way of persuasion, and the smile grew. He got up and wandered over to prop himself against the window, thumbs hooked into his belt. If Huggy hadn’t turned up, they would probably have spent the day on the beach. Why had Huggy turned up? Nothin’ heavy. It can wait. But that didn’t fit with Huggy taking the time to travel down here to see them.

The TV clicked off.

“I was watching that.”

“Sure you were.” Hutch stood close behind him, and Starsky leaned back until their bodies met, Hutch’s arms closing around him.

“You sure you didn’t buy any chili?”

“Positive.”

“How ’bout mole?”

“Uh-uh.”

“They don’t come any lousier than you, Hutchinson.”

“Guess not. Cryin’ shame, isn’t it?”

“Mmmm,” said Starsky, closing his eyes as lips brushed the side of his neck. “What’re you tryin’ to do to me? Turn me into a withered husk? Man, you better quit takin’ them monkey-gland tablets.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah. You gotta remember I’m not that long out of the hospital. I can’t keep up the pace too well.”

There was a slight pause. “Starsky, are you telling me you have a headache?”

“I’m not as fit as I used to be,” he admitted soulfully, and the arms around him fell away so suddenly he caught his balance back with a yelp.

“Starsk, I’m — I’m sorry.” Hutch’s voice was anguished. “I guess I did forget — I’m sorry — it won’t happen again, I promise, not if you –” He broke off abruptly, and walked quickly away, shutting the kitchen door behind him. Jaw dropping, Starsky stared after him, astonished.

“Hey?!” he yelled, aggrieved. “You don’t play fair!”

“No rules, babe,” Hutch bellowed back, laughter unmistakable in his voice.

“Smartass.”

“Go fetch the beer. There are a few bottles of vino as well.”

“Now you’re talkin’.” Starsky brightened considerably. “It might even make up for the lack of chili, but don’t count on it.” And he co-operated cheerfully with setting the table, uncorking the wine, and finally demolishing his meal with only token gripes about the missing relishes.

The dirty crockery cleared away, they returned to the living room. Starsky went to the window, Hutch to the tape-deck. Quiet guitar music drifted into the room.

“Time for your nap, lover,” Hutch said quietly, coming up behind him, resting his hands on the lean hips.

“Nap? Chrissakes, Hutch, you make it sound like I’m about three-years-old!”

“Siesta, then. Whatever you want to call it. In the bedroom, or out on the deck?”

Starsky leaned back, but the expected caress did not come, save in the almost asexual delicacy of Hutch’s fingers touching across his shoulders and nape.

“Bedroom?” he suggested.

“Want a massage?” The gentle skill was finding knots of tension he had not been aware of. “Hey, what the hell went on while I was away? You’re wired.”

“No I’m not.” It came out as a snapped denial, which he had not intended. “Sorry. Tired, I guess.”

“And Hug turning up like that gave us both a jolt we weren’t ready for.”

Starsky pulled away and turned to look at him, his eyes fixing on the beloved contours of Hutch’s face. “Hutch. I’m not ashamed of us.”

Hutch did not speak for a moment. His hands alone moved, thumbs tracing the line of Starsky’s cheekbones, fingers light on his hair. “Me neither,” he said at last.

*****

Instinct and his own sure knowledge of Starsky guided Hutch after that. He made no attempt to initiate love-making, but concentrated on the massage that would relax his partner to the point of sleep, covering him finally with the light quilt and leaving him to drowse. The sun was full on the deck; he sat down on the lounger, discarding Starsky’s abandoned book. But his thoughts were less easily dismissed.

The Real World, Huggy had called it. Contradiction in terms — a world of shams and cover-up and hypocrisy. But the world that they lived in, none the less. Had to live in.

I’m not ashamed of us, Starsky had said, and Hutch knew it to be the truth. But the world wasn’t going to see it that way. The majority of the world, at least, still stuck labels on people. Rich man, poor man, cop or criminal — heterosexual, homosexual. Even if the labels didn’t fit, they were there, a problem they would need to understand, face up to, maybe even contend with.

I’m not ashamed either. But I’m scared, a little. Not of what people think, but of what they do. I don’t want you hurt, my love.

I have a dream… but I’m not a dreamer, not really. If I ever was. Dreamers don’t last very long.

So what am I?

Helluva time to be having an identity crisis, Hutchinson!

I’m a cop. A good cop, I do the job I’m paid to do to the best of my ability. I do what I can with what I’ve got.

I’m also a man with a wrecked marriage behind him, a string of casual ladies and one special lady — and I’m in love with the man who’s been my partner for seven years, my best friend for as long as I’ve known him, and my lover for a space of weeks.

Find a label to stick on that, World.

*****

Starsky woke to the muted gold of late afternoon and the good smell of cooking. Yawning, he rolled onto his back, stretched and sat up. His watch told him it was past five. He felt as he usually did after a protracted daytime sleep, a little heavy-headed. If it came to it, this was a habit he could do without now — he no longer needed the extra rest. At least, provided he got a good night’s sleep, he didn’t need it. He grinned to himself.

There are things better than a good night’s sleep.

He wandered from the bedroom to the kitchen, where Hutch was engrossed in watching some savory-smelling mess simmering, and slid his arms around the blond man’s waist from behind.

“Hey, Blondie. What’s cookin'”?

“What’s it smell like?” Hutch turned to complete the embrace.

“That’s why I’m asking — I don’t believe my nose.”

“Believe it,” Hutch said simply. “When has your nose been mistaken?”

“There has to be a first time for everything. Is that really chili con carne?”

“Near as makes no difference.”

“Hey,” Starsky said reverently. “You really do love me.”

“You haven’t tasted it yet.”

“True. But it’s the thought that counts,” Starsky pointed out, giving Hutch a quick hug and then hooking the spoon from the pan to taste the spicy mixture.

“Well?”

Starsky made a considering face. “On a scale of one to ten — maybe a seven. I like it hot. This is kinda mild.”

“I was thinking of your digestion. And that I have to sleep with you at night.”

“My digestion can handle anything I want to throw at it. And there’re two bedrooms.”

“Bastard.” Hutch pulled him close, taking a high-calorie kiss. “You still got that headache?”

“Comes from not being fed properly,” Starsky told him earnestly.

“Sure, you’re wasting away to a shadow. I can take the hint. This’ll be ready by the time you are.”

“Like now?”

“Like when you’ve showered.”

“You’re a clean-freak,” Starsky grumbled, and headed in the direction of the bathroom.

“Maybe,” Hutch’s voice called after him. “But do you know what the incidence of hepatitis is among gay males on the West Coast?”

“That’s gross!” He flipped on the spray. “Besides, it don’t fit. A: we’re not gay. B: neither of us has hepatitis. And C: I bet you don’t know either.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

They ate as soon as Starsky had dried and dressed, and the dishwashing was carried out in companionable quiet, neither one quite managing to get in the other’s way. As Hutch stacked the last pan, he said, “We’re taking the day off tomorrow.”

“Really?” Starsky stared at him. “Is it Sunday or something? You mean no hike, no work-out, no nothing?”

“It’s Friday, and we’ll go down to the beach. A lazy day won’t hurt either of us.” As Starsky grinned at this, Hutch smirked. “Pity I’m such a lousy cook. It really crippled me, watching you force yourself to eat that chili. Only a seven?”

“Didn’t want to hurt your feelings, good buddy,” Starsky drawled. “Maybe an eight.”

“Better. How’s the headache?”

“Headac– oh, uh, still there. I guess.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“So persuade me.”

Hutch laughed and kissed Starsky’s neck, lifting aside the shirt collar to trail his lips over the tan skin, biting gently. Starsky gasped, cursed — but his own hands were in Hutch’s hair, making sure he did not pull away.

“Well?” Hutch whispered.

“I think it’s getting better,” he managed, and felt lips, teeth and tongue again, starting a sensual frisson tingling over his body. “Ah, damn you –”

“Shouldn’t try to play hard to get,” came the breathless chuckle, and Hutch freed himself, reaching up and unbuttoning Starsky’s shirt, easing it from him and unfastening belt and waistband. “How’s the headache?” he asked again, lips against Starsky’s ear, hand pushing down jeans.

“Uh, still there –”

“Really.” He was now kissing the sensitive skin of Starsky’s nape, nosing through his curls. “Maybe you better do something about it.” And Starsky felt the delicate nip of teeth again.

“Oh, God…” Starsky moaned. “Will you quit it with the vampire act?” His knees gave out on him, Hutch supported his full weight, and then the rug was under his shoulders and Hutch was leaning over him, smiling.

“Still got that headache?”

“Guess what?” Starsky reached up and pulled the blond down beside him. “I think it’s just gone.”

“Sure?” Hutch was resisting the arm around his neck.

“Sure I’m sure. Will you get your clothes off and come here?”

“What’s wrong with the bed? Or the couch?”

“Nothin’, but I’m on the floor and I don’t feel like traveling,” Starsky snapped. “You keep me waiting much longer an’ that headache’ll come back.”

And when Hutch stretched out beside him, weight on one elbow, Starsky relaxed with a sigh, moving his hand up to caress the blond nape, playing with the fine pale hair.

Neither spoke or moved for a while, eyes locked, faces calm, intent. Unvoiced, the same thought was in both minds — Los Angeles was drawing very near. Unintentionally, Huggy had brought reality with him, and the knowledge that not many days like this were left to them. Or nights. Slowly the golden head bent to his. The kiss was almost passionless, the sealing of a covenant, and they drew apart a little way, unwilling to break the sudden solemnity of the moment.

My beloved is mine, and I am his.

“David…” Whispered reverence, fingertips drifting over his face. Starsky closed his eyes.

“You really know which buttons to push, doncha?” he said huskily.

“I’m finding out,” Hutch admitted, one of his fingers tracing the line of Starsky’s mouth. “Know something? You’re beautiful.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” A little silence, as the urgency of a few minutes ago was suspended, mellowed into a deeper need and answering fulfillment. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Where do we go from here?”

The face above him, softened by twilight shadows, was serious. “I don’t know,” came the quiet answer. “We can’t go back, babe. Can’t forget this has happened.”

“Don’t want to.” The memory of this time out of time in this their private world was one thing he could store away, to cherish golden and untarnished for as long as he lived. Even if they never found this wonder again, it had been theirs, almost tangible between his two hands, like a precious jewel, or his lover’s face. It was reality, it had been his, and it always would be, because nothing now could take it away from him.

Set me as a seal upon thy heart —

“You’d drive me crazy if we had to live together,” he said, and ran his fingers through silken blond hair, loving the feel of it, light and soft, tangling and meshing under his touch. He let his hand slip down to cup the angle of jaw and cheek, aware of the strength of bone beneath. Blue eyes, pupils enlarged in the dimness, gazed down at him, and he could see himself doubly reflected in their depths.

“I was going to say that,” Hutch told him, a smile quirking the wide mouth. There was no need to put their thoughts into words; they knew each other’s minds, in this moment, without speech. Hutch touched his lips to Starsky’s, and laid his head on his lover’s shoulder. “Starsk? Do you believe in predestination?”

“Not sure.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not sure what it is, college-boy,” Starsky mumbled, not willing to think just now.

“Of course you know. Do you believe this was meant to happen? That’s it’s all planned out for us, right from the moment we’re born?”

“Hutch, this is one helluva time to be having a discussion on philosophy,” he chuckled sleepily.

“But do you?” Gently insistent.

“All this? You’n’me? I don’t know — makes it seem like we didn’t have any choice. Think I’d prefer to believe I’m lyin’ here like Mae West because I made the decision.”

“Mae West was a blonde.”

“Okay, you can be Mae West. The way I see it, your predestination brought us so far, free will took us the rest of the way. For better or for worse. C’mere.”

“Uh-uh. You’re half-asleep.”

“So what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, except where and when you’re choosing to do it.” Hutch got to his feet, extended a hand. Starsky took it and let himself be pulled up, complaining all the way.

“I was okay down there.”

“The floor was hard.” Hutch got him on his feet, an arm around his waist, and kissed him. “If I’m going to make love to you, it’s going to be in bed.”

“Didn’t know you were so conventional, schweetheart.”

“This is conventional?” Hutch said, one eyebrow slanting, and Starsky grinned.

“There’s conventional and conventional, I guess,” he allowed. “C’mon, Blintz. Bedtime.”

 

Chapter X

Afternoon sun on his back was tempered by a light breeze. The friendly rough texture of the Indian blanket under him, the soporific hush-hush-hush of the waves, helped to provide the perfect time to drift in and out of a doze of vegetable tranquility, unthinking. Except for the creeping persistence of his thoughts.

Hutch rolled over, sat up and reached for the beer can half-buried in the sand to stay cool. But it had been open too long, and the contents were flat. He tipped it out, watching the thirsty sand absorb the liquid.

The Real World, Huggy had said. Well, damn it, this was real, too. This incredible extension of friend and brother into lover, as vitally necessary as the air he breathed. But they did not live in a vacuum, and there were friends, more-than-friends, family, and acquaintances all out there. Waiting to find out. To accept. Or condemn.

Jaqi. She was part of the real world, and important to him. And he owed her. How would she react? Everyone had a different view of things. How would they — she — see him now? Dobey. Duplessis. Minnie. Friends and colleagues, people they knew and respected. What would their attitude be when they realized the change, recognized the nature of it? IA. When — if — they picked up on it, that would be both their badges down the tubes. No reprieve. Not for gay cops, not in the LAPD. The Blaine case had nixed any chance of that.

Suddenly he was cold, shivers rippling across his skin. So much at stake… An old Spanish proverb slipped unwanted into his head: Take what you want, God says. Take it and pay. He wanted — needed — all the facets of their friendship, from the quiet companionship to the newly-discovered wild eroticism, and all the many ways of sharing in between. It was a mutual need. Maybe they’d find out the full price before long.

Back in the real world. Is anything more real than love?

Okay, if the price was their jobs — no, wait, he couldn’t decide for them both.

How about it, Starsk? Is our loving worth your career?

He didn’t need to ask. He could see it in his memory, the smog-hazed sunlight on the beach, the glitter of the ocean. Starsky’s eyes narrowed against the glare, not looking at him, turning the gleaming metal of his badge between his fingers.

“Mind if I join you?”

So simple. And if you’d do that for me as a friend…

If the price was their jobs, they’d pay it. The respect of their friends was a tougher proposition, but — yeah, they’d face that, too. It wouldn’t be bright to advertise, but there was a part of him that was filled with an improbable mixture of humility and pride, wanting to stand up and tell the world ‘this is my lover and my friend.’ That was called ‘coming out of the closet’, wasn’t it. Somehow he didn’t think the LAPD was quite ready for that.

“It’s going to change things,” he broke the silence a little guiltily. Starsky rolled his head on his forearm, and a glitter of blue showed through lowered lashes.

“What’s gonna change what?” he mumbled.

“When we get back to L.A. Tomorrow.”

“So what’s to change?” Starsky yawned and closed the eye. “You’re the one said ‘nothing’s changed’.”

“Not between us, it hasn’t,” Hutch said. “But — Starsk, we have to talk.”

“Do we have to? I’m wiped.” He snickered. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, if you remember.” As Hutch reddened at the memory, the snicker became an evil chuckle. “God, Blondie, I love it when you blush.”

“Starsky!” Face hot, Hutch hadn’t intended to snap a rebuke, but it was effective. “I’m serious.”

“Okay.” Starsky relented, propping chin on wrists. “Talk. I’m listening.”

And Hutch could not find the words, stammering at first as he searched for them. “It isn’t going to be easy,” he managed finally. “For us, nothing’s changed, it’s — grown. But we can’t let anybody know. Or even suspect.”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed, voice quiet. “It’d mean our jobs, for sure. Okay, so we don’t make any public announcements. No sweat. We’ll be careful. And IA investigated us years ago.”

“There was nothing to find, then,” Hutch murmured. A lean brown hand closed over his.

“Hey, you get ulcers from worry, Hutch.” The drawled words were warm and loving as the touch of the palm and the long fingers. “It’s not gonna happen, babe. They’ll have no reason to suspect we’re anything but real good buddies. Hell, we’re not crazy empty-headed kids, for God’s sake. How often have we gone undercover? Huh?”

“It’s not the same.”

“No. But do you honestly think I’m gonna be walkin’ around with my hand in your crotch?”

Hutch snorted, color rising again. “Gross,” he growled, but his mouth twitched into a smile.

“You better believe it. Lighten up, lover. All we gotta do is live our lives the way we always did. On the surface, at least. It’ll work out.” But his voice trailed away into an uncomfortable silence, and the pain grew in Hutch.

“It shouldn’t have to be like that.” The whisper of protest was forced from him even as he acknowledged its futility.

“I know. But that’s the way things are. In a perfect world, it’d be out in the open, and we wouldn’t have to hide anything. But the world’s not perfect, and neither are we.”

“What we have here is something damn near it.” To his own ears, he sounded like a child crying against the dark.

“And that’s not gonna change just because we’re back in L.A.” Starsky’s voice held confidence and certainty. “It’s us, what we are, not where we are.” That was a truth, Hutch acknowledged, but hearing Starsky put it into words gave it an added potency that closed his throat.

Please God, don’t let that change, ever. Whatever else comes down.

“How come you always see things so clearly?”

“Not always. Sometimes I need to have my nose rubbed in it.” Starsky paused. “I know what’s buggin’ you. But we don’t know yet what we’re going to be up against when we get back. Not until we do get back. Shadows on the wall, babe. In the immortal words of my grandmother, ‘Nothing’s as bad as you thought it would be, except when it’s worse.'”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Starsky’s wry grin answered his own. “Sure,” he said. “Homily from the Home Country. Sounds different in Polish.”

“Maybe it loses something in the translation,” Hutch suggested. But – dammit, Starsk, we have to think about it. About the future.”

“Do we?” Starsky asked softly, not looking at him. “The future takes care of itself, Hutch. We don’t make plans. Not in our line of work.”

It was knowledge that had always been there, but rarely brought out into the open before. Hutch had never shied away from the fact of their mortality, and Gunther’s hit-squad had brought it home to him even more strongly. No plans, no hopeful forecasting. Merely the gift of another dawn, another day. Some things are more precious than plans.

Starsky was watching him patiently, eyes steady, quiet and understanding.

“Okay,” Hutch said, “but what about those dreams of yours? The roses-around-the-door cottage and the four curly-haired kids?”

Starsky pushed up on one elbow. “What do you want me to say, love?” The endearment brought Hutch’s gaze to his face. “Right now, you’re all I want. When that changes, I’ll let you know. Sure I would have liked a good marriage — kids, maybe — but I know the odds against it, in our careers. And I only ever met lady I could really have made it work with.”

“So maybe you’ll meet another like Terry.”

“No way. They broke the mold, Hutch. Anyhow, why’re we talking about me? What about you?”

“What about me?” he echoed. He hadn’t been thinking along that particular line.

“One day you could meet the lady you’ve been looking for. The one who’ll love you for what you are and who you are, not try to change you, who’ll take your job as well because it’s a part of you –”

“Maybe not.” He dropped his gaze to the sand, brushed absently at the encroaching trickles on the blanket. “Don’t think she exists, Starsk. Not outside my head.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I’m as sure as I can be.” There isn’t any room for anyone else in my life. Don’t want to try and make room. All the days and nights — you fill them, my love. And each day is a bonus. But he couldn’t push the words past the ache in him. Starsky leaned forward, and spoke against his mouth, each movement of his lips a separate caress.

“Then be sure of yourself. Of me. Of what we have. No one is gonna take that away, lover. No matter what comes down. Let it ride, Hutch. Sufficient unto the day, an’ like that.”

So wise. So sure. Give me a tenth of your faith, beloved, and let the world do what it will.

*****

The long-legged sprawl on the couch had been silent for some time, Starsky realized belatedly. Since supper, in fact. He glanced up from the page to catch the expression on the beloved face — a vague kind of despondency, unspecific unhappiness. And that didn’t belong here and now.

“Hey,” he said, closing the book as he got to his feet, and perched himself on the back of the couch sidewise, his thigh beside the blond head. “Penny for ’em?”

Hutch’s smile was almost a success. “What about inflation?”

“A quarter, then, but I better get value for money.” He dropped his hand to the crown of Hutch’s head, stroked the shining strands that caught in the pile of the bulrush-brown velvet upholstery. “Come on. Talk it out, huh? A trouble shared?”

“S’nothing,” Hutch said. Starsky felt like telling him that was bullshit, but restrained himself.

“Really.” He continued stroking, sensing as if through his fingertips the troubled mind — and the source of that trouble. He didn’t really need to ask, but an oblique approach seemed called for. Hutch doesn’t have the monopoly on subtle. “Guess we ought to map out a plan of campaign.”

“What?”

“Well, if we’re gonna pull a snow-job, we better work out something won’t thaw too fast.”

“About us, you mean?”

“What else?”

“Sounds awful clinical.”

You could at least listen first, before you start in with the criticism.

“No, it’s not. Look at it this way — we carry on the way we did before. That lifestyle doesn’t have to change. How long do you think you could manage without me?”

Hutch’s expression was nonplussed. “Five minutes. If you push it.”

“Get serious.”

“I am.”

“You’re not being exactly constructive, Hutch.”

“So what’s constructive? I need you around. As simple as that. Hell, I just plain need you.” He reached up, enfolded Starsky’s hand in his own.

“So you got me. Gonna be around, once I get past the board, just the way we were. 16 hours a day, 7 days a week. 75% of the time.”

“How’d you like to try for 100%?”

“Fine by me. But let’s be realistic. People are gonna start to notice if we hold hands in the john.”

Hutch gave him the long-suffering look he had aimed for. “What have you got in mind?”

“We live our lives the way we always did. Date the ladies an’ all. You’ve got Jaqi. I’ve got — well enough — and when we’re back to playing Departmental Lotharios, no one’s gonna suspect.”

“I don’t think I want to use anyone to — camouflage what we have.” Hutch stumbled over his words, not responding to the gentle note of fun Starsky had put into his voice. “Here and now, in this place, there’s only you. I can’t imagine anyone else in my life. Back there it may be different. But I don’t know. And I don’t want to lose what we have now.”

“We won’t.” Starsky spoke the words with complete and utter certainty. “It’ll always be like this for us. All we have to do is — reach out.”

“But that’s just it. We couldn’t just reach out. Always having to look over our shoulders, check if we’re being watched — Starsk, even thinking about it leaves a bad taste.”

“Hey, it’s okay, lover…” Starsky slipped his hands down to cup Hutch’s face. “Everything is gonna work out. Things will be different when we’re back in L.A. — haveta be. but we won’t be changed. We’ll have more facets of living to handle. We’re kinda tunnel-visioned here, because we can afford to be.” Hutch didn’t answer. “I know how you feel. All I want and need is you.” The blue eyes locked with his seemed to take on a glow, and he smiled tenderly. “Maybe when we get back to the Real World, we won’t need this –” Hutch made an inarticulate sound of protest. “No, listen. Here, the whole of our existence is bound up in one another. There, there’ll be — well, distractions. Like Jaqi. Like that redhead in Traffic, if she’s still available. Anyhow, add to that pressure of work. You remember how it can be sometimes. Thirty-six hours straight duty, and all you want to do is hit the sack. But none of that is going to alter what we feel, is it?” He had felt a small twinge of — was it nostalgia? — for hours like those. I must be going crazy! It had been almost a year.

“No,” Hutch agreed.

“We could make it with half the female population of L.A. and that wouldn’t change us either. Right?”

“Right. But not for camouflage.”

I don’t have your scruples, babe. To protect what we have, I’ll use anyone and anything.

“It’s a deal. So we can’t spend all our time together, that’d start IA’s nose twitching like a jackrabbit’s. But weekends — weekends we can take off somewhere, if you want. Or stay home. Or — whatever.”

“Fine. Just tell me how I get through the week.”

“Haven’t you been listening to me? Jaqi’s gonna need some of your time, too, y’know,” he said softly. Hutch’s hair slipped through his fingers, silk-light, silvery. You think I’ll like it, giving up even minutes of time I could spend with you? Giving you to her? Hutch’s eyes were saying all that he couldn’t find the words to express. “Hey, I’m not gonna be missing out, lover. There’s the Starsky Seraglio, all ready’n’waiting.”

“That what you want, Starsk?” Hutch whispered. “Thought we didn’t like the idea of camouflage.”

“Who’s talking camouflage? We’re what we are. No different. Right? But now — I’m always going to be here for you, my Hutch. First, last, and always.”

“David…” Hutch’s hand caught the back of his neck, pulling his head down. And in a kind of free-form slow somersault, Starsky felt himself falling exquisitely into Hutch’s arms, his mouth never leaving Hutch’s until he lay cradled across Hutch’s lap, one leg still hooked over the back of the couch.

Lover. Love me.

*****

Griffith Park, night, the silence of the dark deserted landscape broken only by leaf-rustle and the wind stirring in the dry grasses. The city was bright with neon and street-lighting, but the busy, noisy hum was only a faint whisper, carried up by the vagary of the breeze.

He stirred out of unconsciousness, and woke to pain. Couldn’t isolate it — his whole body hurt. Even lying still, he hurt. It filled him, body and mind, with an all-consuming intensity.

He tried to straighten his cramped limbs, then cried out, sobbing, as broken bones made their presence known. Breathing was broken glass; he coughed, choked on a thick salty mouthful, and spat it out, seeing it dark on the dusty ground. His tongue found broken surfaces, missing teeth. They were the least of his injuries.

Help. He had to get help. He’d die up here alone. He didn’t want to die. His left arm was functional, and his right leg moved when he tried it. He could crawl.

Movement woke a whole catalogue of new pain. from shoulders to hips, his back felt raw. There was a deep agony chewing, gnawing, at his middle. He was hurt bad.

But he wasn’t dead. Not yet. Not yet….

 

Chapter XI

Accuracy and speed in typing were not among Dave Duplessis’ many talents — besides, typewriters didn’t like him. And the much-abused machines in Squadroom 519 liked him least of all. He was involved in his usual battle with the surly IBM late that Friday afternoon when the phone rang at his elbow. “Yeah — Duplessis.” He wedged the receiver between jaw and shoulder, wrestling with the recalcitrant carriage return.

“Huggy,” said a familiar voice. “Thought you might be interested in some words I heard, m’man. Since Hutch an’ you been workin’ the case of the dead pretty-boys, an’ Hutch bein’ away an’ all–”

“Uh, yeah.” He felt pleased that Huggy had felt able to trust him in lieu of the absent Hutch. “What you got, Huggy?”

“Some detail might interest you. Can we meet?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Come on down to the Pits this evenin’?”

“Will do. Around six?” He’d have to call Sal, tell her to hold dinner for him.

“See you then.”

The typewriter carriage came abruptly free. Duplessis grinned.

*****

The evening rush hadn’t started when he arrived, but the place was busy. Dave shouldered his way to the bar, leaned there until able to catch Huggy’s eye, and the Bear ambled over. “What it is,” he drawled, with a grin. “You on time, anyways. What you drinkin’?”

“Beer, Hug, thanks. You said on the phone –”

“Hey, ease up. You gotta observe the proprieties, y’know?” Huggy put the glass in front of him, accepted the bill he passed over. “Make y’self at home, an’ I’ll be right with you, dig?” He indicated one of the tables.

“Okay.” Duplessis took his beer to the more dimly-lit area, and sat down to wait. As promised, within a few minutes Huggy was sliding into the seat opposite.

“Joint’s startin’ to jump,” he said, “so I’ll make this fast. You got two kids dead, an’ Hutch was talkin’ Murder One, last I heard. You got names — Connery and Villiers?”

“Right. What have you turned up?”

“Maybe somethin’. Connery I couldn’t get nothing on — Mr. Squeaky Clean, so far as the street knows. But Chris Villiers was one busy boy before he got mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

“Busy,” Duplessis repeated, taking a drink. Huggy might be the L.A. Oracle, but the more Delphic utterances took time to untangle.

“Busy. Y’know.” Huggy glanced over his shoulder, a swift check of the clientele. “Swung both ways. AC/DC.”

“So what did you find out?”

“Got a name for you. Friend of Villiers — Francis Ellis. Here’s the address.”

“You’re sure he’ll talk to us?”

“That’s the word I got, m’man. ‘Cept he don’t know Villiers by that name. We’re talkin’ about Robin Parrish with this dude.”

Duplessis noted the alias on the scrap of paper bearing Ellis’s address. “Anything else I should know?”

“Only that Ellis and the kid were more than good friends.” Huggy got to his feet. “If you know what I mean. So — go easy on him. He’s kinda cut up.”

“Gotcha,” Duplessis said, pocketing the note. “Thanks, Huggy.”

“De nada, compadre.” Huggy tossed him a casual salute, sauntering back to the trade. Duplessis downed the rest of his beer and headed out.

The address was in Trousdale, a condo of plush singles apartments, the mortgage payment on any one of which could have swallowed Duplessis’ whole salary without leaving more than pocket-change. But he wasn’t going to be intimidated by that. He squared his shoulders, located Ellis’s apartment, and after seeing his ID, the security guard buzzed the intercom. The voice that answered was male, cultured, crisp, with the hint of a British accent.

“Officer Duplessis, Metro Division, Mr. Ellis,” the guard said briskly.

“Yes, thank you, I was expecting him. Ask him to come up, please.”

Duplessis stepped across the threshold into luxury. Thick long-pile cream carpet, the kind that showed every footprint, stretched in a seemingly endless prairie throughout the whole open-plan apartment. Ellis stood to greet him. He was shorter than Duplessis by perhaps a couple of inches, with dark short hair, expensively styled, a good tan, and looked generally in good shape. “Officer Duplessis?”

“Good of you to see me, sir,” Duplessis said. Ellis’s age was maybe late thirties, but he might have been older. The casual shirt looked like silk.

“Yes. Well, how can I help you?”

“A friend of yours,” Duplessis said carefully. “Known to you as Robin Parrish. We’re checking all his known contacts. We were told you might be able to help us.”

“I see.” Ellis avoided his eyes for a moment. “Can I get you a drink? Or coffee, perhaps.”

Information, for starters, Duplessis thought, but said merely: “Coffee, thanks.” At Ellis’s gesture, he found himself a seat on the couch; its texture and his nose agreed that it was natural hide, cream in color, deep-buttoned. “Mr. Ellis — did you know that Parrish wasn’t his real name?”

“I knew.” Ellis brought the coffee through from the kitchen, poured a cup and handed it to the detective. “Cream? Sugar? Yes, he trusted me with that. But we agreed that Robin suited him so much better. So that was what I called him. From when we first met, six months ago.”

Duplessis filed that. “How did you meet him, Mr. Ellis?”

Ellis was concentrating on his coffee cup. “He never cruised. Too dangerous. You never know, you see… And I can’t afford to, of course. The risk. It was through Hidalgo.”

“Hidalgo,” Duplessis repeated. “What is that? A gay — a club? Bar?”

“It’s an Escort Service,” Ellis corrected, appearing not to notice Duplessis’ slip. “All perfectly respectable. I was hosting a dinner party. The numbers were wrong, so I contacted the agency, asked them to send someone.”

“Robin Parrish.”

“Yes. After we — got to know each other, I tried to persuade him to quit. He was very popular. Very much in demand.”

“The job paid well?”

“It wasn’t the money,” Ellis said sharply. “Robin didn’t need that. I’d have taken care of everything. He liked the variety. The excitement. He wasn’t ready to settle down.”

Duplessis cleared his throat. “Did he ever talk to you about his work? The other clients?”

“Not to me.” Ellis got up, moving jerkily, and crossed to the window. “I didn’t want to know what he did when he wasn’t with me.”

“So you wouldn’t know if he had any enemies.”

“No. No one who’d want to kill him.”

“Did he ever mention a Drew Connery?” It was a long shot, but worth trying.

“No. Should he have?”

“No reason, sir. Connery was found dead in much the same circumstances as Villiers. We’re trying to establish whether or not there’s a link.”

“We didn’t talk about his work,” Ellis repeated. Then he swung to look at Duplessis. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you going to get whoever did this? I mean, are the police really going to try?”

“Have you got any reason for thinking we’re not trying, Mr. Ellis?”

“I know the attitude you have towards us. One less on the street — oh, I know. Why bother to find out who did it? He was doing society a favor, wasn’t he?”

The bitterness in the man’s voice didn’t surprise Dave Duplessis. What did was the note of grief. As if he really cared — as if Robin Parrish had been something more than a paid stud.

“Mr. Ellis,” he said quietly, using all the authority he could command, “I don’t care what Villiers’ lifestyle was. But I do care that he’s dead. Murdered. And I want to catch who did it.”

“Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.” Ellis said quietly, the momentary outburst over. Duplessis waited for a moment before going on, but now he had an angle he intended to check out.

“That’s okay, sir. Uh — I’m sure you’re anxious to help us as much as you can. Would you answer a few questions?”

“If I can. Certainly.”

“Okay. When was the last time you saw Robin Parrish?”

“The last time I saw him — that would be at the Greek Theatre, on the 30th of last month. He was with a friend. We had a date set up for the week after, but he never turned up. A few days after that, I heard he was dead.”

“Yes. It’s been established that he died sometime between April 2nd and 5th. Can you give me an account of your own movements during that period?”

“2nd and 5th–” Ellis came to an abrupt realization. “Just what are you implying, Officer?”

“Nothing, sir.” Duplessis matched the icy resentment with his own calm confidence. “We are simply establishing facts. I’m sure you appreciate that a successful investigation is conducted along certain lines. Your movements during that time?”

“I was out of state. I flew to Detroit on April 1st. On business. I didn’t return until the 9th.”

“I see.” Duplessis made notes.

“And I have evidence of that trip. If you’re interested.”

“Not at present.” Duplessis took the chill off with a smile. “Thank you. Will you be available for any further questions, should we need to go further?”

“I imagine so. You can contact me at my office. Or they will be able to tell you where I am.” Not much of a thaw.

“Yes. Oh, one last thing — when you last contacted Robin, did he give you any indication of his itinerary? Who he’d be seeing, what he’d be doing?”

“No. As I told you, we didn’t discuss things like that.”

Duplessis closed the notebook, replaced it in his pocket, and smiled again, apologetically. “Of course. I won’t intrude any further. But if you can think of anything else that might help us, would you call me at this number?”

Ellis accepted Duplessis’ card coolly and a few minutes later, the detective walked out of the air-conditioned luxury into the arid L.A. evening. He had something to think about now.

Looks like we scratch Suspect Number One. Ellis was out of state, with any number of alibis. And didn’t talk about ‘work’ with Parrish. Jealous, yeah. Hadn’t heard of Connery — wait a minute, there’s something there.

Duplessis ran the conversation again in his head.

Maybe Connery worked for Hidalgo as well? An Escort Service, after all, was like ‘massage parlor’, the label often hiding a multitude of state violations. It would be worth checking with Vice, see if they had anything on this particular one.

Duplessis headed back towards Metro, but Babcock called him over the radio. “Dave, Griffith Park. Could be we got another like Connery. Only this is a live one.”

“On my way.” He slapped the Mars light on the roof. This could be the break they needed. Another like Drew Connery, but still alive. Poor bastard.

There was a small crowd, an ambulance, and half a dozen uniforms clustered around a blanketed form on a gurney. The paramedics were just fixing an IV as Duplessis pushed through the spectators.

Blood was the first thing he saw, dark on the grey blanket. The victim’s breathing was short, harsh and gasping — and from what Duplessis could see of him, he carried the same appallingly familiar bruises and lash marks.

“Same M.O.,” said Babcock, appearing at his side. “But this time we could get lucky.”

“Who found him?”

“The guy over there, sitting in my car,” Babcock gestured at the track-suited figure hunched in the front passenger seat. “Or rather, his dog did. Crime Lab is on the way. Thing is, the kid wasn’t dumped where he was found. He’d crawled there. There’s a pretty clear trail. Come on.”

For a quarter of a mile, Duplessis scrambled through scrub and over rough ground, following the line of smears and stained scuff-marks that traced the injured man’s progress. Babcock filled him in on the medic’s brief diagnosis, a horror story that would not stay neatly to one side of his mind. The man had been beaten, lashed, raped and drugged — yet this meandering Via Dolorosa was a tribute to his blind stubbornness and refusal to let go of life.

“Poor bastard,” Duplessis said aloud.

“Amen,” Babcock growled. “Ah-hah, looks like this was where he started from.” Tire marks on grass and mud, some broken undergrowth, and a dark area where blood had pooled on dust and stone. “There’s a track up here, about half a mile away. By the look of it, the car could have come from that direction.” Disappointment was in his voice, and Duplessis could guess why. If the victim had been assaulted here, they might have had a chance of picking up some clues. Still, casts of tire prints, even soil samples, were better than nothing.

“Any ID on him?” Duplessis asked.

“Nope. All he was wearing was levis and sneakers. There could be something around here, though — maybe they dumped the rest of his clothes with him.” He was looking around as he spoke, and they saw the crumple of dark fabric at the same time, caught on the branches of a thorn some yards from the small clearing where the body had been left. Carefully, Babcock lifted it down. “Keep your fingers crossed, kid,” he muttered. “At least it’s his, that’s for sure.” Little doubt of that. It was a reversible windbreaker, black and white, and the once white nylon was stained with dried blood. But there was no name tag, and the pockets were empty. “Shit,” Babcock muttered — then his face changed, tightening into a grin. “Pocket lining’s torn,” he announced, and from between the fabric layers produced a few small coins, some gum wrappers, and a laminated plastic rectangle. A library card. “Our luck just turned. Richard Sandoval.”

They had an address, too, within the hour, but as it turned out, it gave them little help. Sandoval had lived alone — a young unattached male in an anonymous apartment block, like Connery and Villiers. No family, no close friends, the neighbors around him unaware of him, no letters in his rooms, no evident links with any agency or a gay lifestyle. He didn’t seem to have a steady job, but his rent was always paid on time, and he didn’t seem to be short on cash.

Another blank.

But it filled Saturday morning. Duplessis didn’t need to put in those hours on his checking, but he’d never been a nine-to-five cop, anyway. He logged off at three with the beginning of a tension headache and the need to sit and talk about the case — bounce some ideas around. Babcock was unlikely to take kindly to interference with his weekend. But Hutch was due back from vacation sometime today, he recalled, and was driving towards Venice Place before he’d consciously made the decision.

*****

Like Damocles’ Sword, the inescapable fact of their imminent return to L.A. hung over them, and deepened Hutch’s mood of depression. By mid-afternoon, he was all but mute; and worse, could not have talked about it if he’d wanted to. Reason told him that Starsky was right, nothing could really separate them, but his reason and his fears were at odds with each other. And he couldn’t hide it from his lover. Their increased rapport meant they were each aware of every subtle change of mood, and this time, Starsky wasn’t trying to talk him out of it. Instead he simply stayed close, giving Hutch the security of his nearness and his love in silent companionship.

The last night. Tomorrow, Los Angeles and another kind of reality. The light of common day, hard and uncompromising. But nothing lasts forever.

Neither man had much appetite for the special meal they’d planned. Hutch was just not hungry, and knew that the sight of himself picking at the food was probably killing what was left of Starsky’s appetite.

“Hutch?” The quiet voice slid into his thoughts like balm, and he looked up into dark blue eyes. Starsky raised a wine glass. “To us?”

Hutch managed a smile, and lifted his own glass. “To us,” he echoed.

“It’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Wanting to believe, but unable to shrug off the shadows.

“I mean it, babe,” Starsky insisted. “So lighten up. It’s going to be okay. Me’n’thee. Like it’s always been.”

“Yeah. Hey, I’m sorry. This was going to be a special evening, something to remember, and I’ve spoiled it.”

“No, you haven’t.” A quiet assurance. “I know how you feel, Hutch. I feel the same way. Leaving here — it’s been out of this world, hasn’t it? But sooner or later the real world would have caught up with us. This way we meet it on our terms.”

Hutch’s eyes were locked on the beloved face, and he did not answer. Our terms. Hiding what should not have to be hidden.

Abruptly he remembered his feelings an age of the world away, when Starsky had walked out on him after that first night of loving. He had clung to the memory of that sweetness, a talisman against the pain of loss, a jewel untarnishable by any dross. How much more so, then, was the reality of their freely acknowledged love and need for each other? It would be tarnished only if they let it. Try to remember that, Hutchinson. But he also knew that although they were stronger now, paradoxically they were — he was — more vulnerable than ever before.

“Hutch?” Starsky murmured. “To hell with this. Let’s go to bed?”

The room was in deep shadow, the half-seen expanse of bed and dark fur cover, the subtle scents of their living and loving, a haven from the world. Starsky did not put on the light. Instead he moved to the window, opened the drapes and let in the moonlight.

It touched his dark head with eldritch fingers, silver on the heavy curls, a pearl gloss on planes of face and throat, deepening the contrast shadows. The sight filled Hutch’s eyes and heart, and the beauty of him stopped the breath in his lover’s throat.

“Babe?” Soft-breathed endearment as Starsky came to him, eyes sapphire-dark, looking into his face. “What’s wrong?”

Hutch caught him into a convulsive embrace, burying his face in the silken hair, holding him tightly, unable to speak. Starsky was supple and yielding in his arms, the strong body melting against him, long fingers drifting over the tautness of his back and shoulders and nape, every gentle touch telling of understanding and love. Nor did he try to pull away. It was Hutch who moved back at last, though not letting go. He tried to master his emotions, the flood that threatened to drown him, eyes screwed shut. And fingertips brushed his face.

“Hutch? It’ll be all right. Come on, babe. Come to bed.”

The feel of Starsky, the taste of his mouth, the lightest touch burned him. He wanted more, though of what he didn’t know, could not have said; only that he was dying of thirst in a desert, and here was his oasis. Adrift on a raging sea, and here was his harbor. Lost in endless night, here was his beacon star.

Mine. Always and forever, mine. No one can take this away from me. No one.

I won’t let it happen.

*****

It had been a silent drive home — mainly because Hutch had dropped asleep soon after they left the cabin, leaving Starsky the pleasure of driving. And it wasn’t until he swung the car into the curving uphill street to his apartment that Hutch surfaced enough to recognize his surroundings. “Thought we were going back to Venice Place,” he objected drowsily.

“Sure. Later. I want to pick up a few things.” Starsky braked to a neat halt. “You want to come on up an’ wait?”

“Uh-huh. Why not?” Hutch’s jaw cracked on a yawn as he levered himself out of the seat and followed on Starsky’s heels. “You got any beer in?”

Starsky’s small secret smile widened as he fitted the key in the lock, swung the door wide and gestured Hutch to precede him. “Probably.”

“Terrific, because I — Starsk?”

The table was set for two, with crisp pale green linen, gleaming crystal and silver. Starsky chuckled, sidled past the stunned Hutch into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. As per instruction, the salad was prepared in its bowl, platters of sliced chicken, ham and pastrami beside it, and a carafe of Pinot Noir Blanc, nicely chilled, on the lower shelf. The note folded around it read simply, ‘Enjoy the chow,’ and was signed ‘Huggy’.

“Welcome home, lover,” Starsky said.

“When — how — I mean –”

“Arranged it with Huggy, when you were shopping that day,” Starsky said with satisfaction. “Guessed you’d be on a downer, coming back. Thought this might cheer you up. And I wanted to get back at you for that surprise party.”

“You idiot –” Hutch managed. “You crazy –”

“Yeah, I know.” The grin was pure self-congratulation. “Besides,” and his voice deepened to a throaty purr, “want t’ see what you look like on blue sheets, lover –” And watched Hutch’s eyes widen and darken to a smoky azure.

“Bastard…” It was a husky whisper.

“Better believe it,” Starsky agreed complacently before Hutch’s mouth stifled his next words. When he was allowed to speak, “What about the salad?”

“We’ll have it for breakfast,” Hutch said absently, unwilling to be sidetracked from the matter in hand.

*****

Starsky came awake with a distinctly odd feeling that bits of him were coated with glue. Or library paste. He wasn’t sure he felt equal to finding out what the tacky stuff was until he got his eyes open and saw that Hutch’s hair, a soft glistening tangle against the dark blue of the pillow, was also adorned by a sprig of parsley. There was a coagulated blotch of coleslaw not an inch from his ear, and an icky stain that might have had a close relationship with a slice of tomato.

He remembered then the midnight feast which had taken place last night, direct contradiction of the belief that anyone can live on love. They had gotten slightly rowdy — there are many ways of drinking chilled white wine, many of them not involving glasses — and they must have fallen asleep very quickly in the middle of the debris afterwards.

“Trashy…” Starsky said to himself, realizing that the greasy residue was nothing more reprehensible than spilled mayonnaise. He started to untangle himself from Hutch’s arms and legs, but Hutch woke up, his grip tightening instinctively, and Starsky didn’t fight it. “Hi,” he said softly.

“Mmm. H’llo, babe.” Hutch, eyes still closed, nuzzled into his chest, but the difference in texture between silky pelt and the patches matted by salad dressing must have registered enough to rouse his curiosity. “What the hell–” he got his eyes open and focused. “Starsk –?” And chuckled, licking at the spill. “Hors d’oeuvres?” he whispered. “That was kinda wild, huh? You taste terrific.”

“Even covered with rancid mayonnaise?” Starsky grinned. “Guess you really do love me. We both need a shower, Hutch.”

“Later,” Hutch said huskily against his neck. “S’not rancid, either.”

Starsky’s only answer was a soft moan as tongue and lips and fingers worked a shivering magic on his skin and Hutch reversed their roles of the previous night.

“… and now we definitely do need a shower,” Starsky murmured contentedly. “Y’want to come wash my back?”

“Sure thing,” Hutch kissed him. “And — thanks, babe.”

“No more downer?”

“Nope.”

“S’good.”

 

Chapter XII

Sunday. One day to bridge that gap between shared vacation and Hutch’s 8.00 Monday morning. They had made no plans, content to drift through the hours until routine had to be taken up, but after a leisurely breakfast, they headed for Venice Place. There were still some of Starsky’s things to be returned to his now fully-restored apartment.

But the key wasn’t above the door, and the door was unlocked. Hutch halted in mid-stride, and Starsky barely stopped himself from colliding with him. A rather crumpled Duplessis, blinking, uncurled itself from a dormouse huddle on the couch, plainly disoriented.

“Christ,” Hutch said. “Deja vu. Dave, what are you doing here?”

“What time is it?” Duplessis mumbled, knuckling his eyes.

“Ten o’clock,” Starsky supplied. “Sally lock you out, or what?”

“Uh — I thought you guys were due back yesterday, and so I dropped by to fill you in on the latest developments. Except you weren’t here. And I thought I’d wait around –”

“Lucky we weren’t delayed any longer,” Hutch commented, and Starsky grinned.

“Yeah. Weekend traffic’s hell. You been here all night?”

“Uh-huh.” Duplessis stood up to stretch the kinks out of his muscles.

“Guess I owe you breakfast at the least, then,” Hutch began.

“Hell, no. Coffee’ll be fine.” Duplessis raked his fingers through his hair, with a sheepish smile. “After I use the john, anyhow.”

“Make yourself at home,” Hutch said, heading for the kitchen, and Duplessis disappeared into the bathroom, to emerge a few minutes later less mussed and more alert. Starsky straddled one of the chairs at the table as Hutch juggled the mugs.

“Forgot the spoons again, Hutch,” he commented over his shoulder. “Okay, Dave, what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait for Hutch to get back to work?”

“There may be a link between those kids — Connery and Villiers. And there’s a boy in County General Trauma Unit now, with multiple injuries, who could be another victim.” Duplessis joined him at the table, taking the coffee set out for him. “Huggy gave me some info on Villiers. Swung both ways — I talked to one of his ex-boyfriends. Villiers used an alias and worked for an agency called Hidalgo.”

“Agency?” Hutch queried, his attention now totally on Duplessis. Starsky watched them, the blond head and the darker one, deep in concentration, and just for a moment felt a chill of — exclusion. Of loneliness. But before it could start to hurt, Duplessis was speaking.

“You know. Escorts. Starsky, didn’t you bust one of those joints a few years back?”

“Yeah, but it was a front for prostitution. They were into a helluva lot of side enterprise.” He glanced at Hutch, remembering Grossman. “Massage parlors, porno and movies. And kiddies’ novelties, just to make it look legal for the IRS.”

“You checked Hidalgo out?” Hutch asked quietly.

“Not completely. Not yet. Dobey thinks we may put someone undercover, but it’s too early to know.”

“And the kid in the hospital?”

“In a coma.” Duplessis glanced at his coffee. “I’ve seen him. He’s a mess. The doctors aren’t sure he’ll come out of it.”

“You got an ID on him?” Starsky asked.

“Yeah. Richard Sandoval. White male, aged 27, single. Nothing on file.”

“And the M.O.?” Hutch said.

“Almost identical with Connery and Villiers. Except Sandoval is still alive.”

“I’m not with you,” Starsky cut in, reaching absently for the cookie-jar. “I wasn’t in on this, remember.”

“Oh. Yeah, well, in all these cases there’s evidence of sexual assault, either before or after the working over. Lash marks on face and body. Drugs in the bloodstream — barbiturate and hallucinogen as well as alcohol.”

“Terrific,” Starsky muttered, changing his mind about the cookies. “Looks like you got a real sicko loose.”

“Bunch of sickos,” Hutch corrected. “Dave, you said Hug got word on Villiers’ ex?”

“Francis Ellis. Right.” Duplessis gave a headshake of disbelief. “Mr. West Coast Executive.”

Starsky risked a glance at his partner, but Hutch’s gaze was on Duplessis.

“You get anything from him?”

“Not a lot, but–” Duplessis caught a glimpse of his wristwatch. “Christ, Sally’s gonna skin me! I said I’d be home before eleven. Listen, why not come over for brunch, both of you? We have a kind of barbeque on Sundays — there’ll be more than enough. And I can fill you in on anything else.”

“Starsk?” Hutch said, deferring to Starsky’s decision.

He shrugged, grinned. “Sure — I could use some real home cookin’. Thanks.”

“Listen to him. Been feeding him rabbit-food these past two weeks, haven’t I?”

Starsky gave him a straight look. “Not a chili pepper in sight,” he announced. “My taste-buds have atrophied from lack of use.”

Duplessis’ grin widened. “Yeah, but you’re lookin’ good on it. Sally’ll take one look and put me on the same diet.”

“Vitamins,” Starsky advised seriously, and the twinkle in his eyes aimed at Hutch reached its target as he saw a slight flush rise. “Unique mixture.”

“Yeah?” Duplessis shook his head. “You’re beginning to sound like a health-food freak, Starsky.”

“A man could get addicted,” he agreed. “But Sunday brunch barbeques are also high on my list. We get ribs?”

“Of course ribs. Let’s go, huh?” Duplessis got up and made for the door.

“Uh, Dave,” Hutch said, not moving, “you heading for a fast divorce?”

“Wha–? No way! Why?”

“Call her, for god’s sake. You don’t just turn up with a couple of extra mouths without giving her fair warning.”

“Oh.” Duplessis hesitated. “Hey, Sal won’t mind. We always got plenty –”

“Call her.”

Whatever Hutch’s concern, the Duplessis household seemed to have no problem with unexpected guests. But then, he already knew that Sally was quite a remarkable girl — someone who could cope with the odd hours of a cop, and the attendant anxieties, was a rare creature in his experience. Sally coped. She could cook, too. The meal was all Starsky could have hoped for, and afterward the men stayed on the patio to talk shop over a six-pack and keep an eye on the wanderings of the clumsy-footed Labrador pup and the Duplessis toddler, who were diligently pursuing each other in circles.

Duplessis brought Hutch and Starsky up to date on Connery, explained Villiers and the unidentified body and the links between the three. Then he passed on all he knew of Ellis and the Hidalgo agency. There were a lot of gaps.

“Sounds a real lulu,” Starsky muttered, reaching for a second beer. “Does Connery have any connections with Hidalgo?”

“Don’t know yet. Huggy’s checking it out. Captain Dobey doesn’t want any official questions asked in case they start getting antsy; it wouldn’t make it any easier for whoever he sends in. If he sends someone in.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said thoughtfully. “Looks like we better pay the Bear a visit tomorrow, partner.” But his eyes were on Starsky, not Duplessis. Starsky gave a small lop-sided smile and shook his head.

“Not me, babe,” he said softly. “I haven’t got past the Board yet, remember? You’n’ the kid check it out. Of course, I might well be in the neighborhood, having a drink and rappin’ with my old friend Huggy, know what I mean? But,” he went on, “I’m not in on this case, yet.”

“Sure.” Hutch shared an embarrassed grin with Duplessis. “Sorry, Dave. Old habits die hard.”

“S’okay.” He pushed a beer can into Hutch’s hand. “You don’t have to apologize, not to me. You told me right at the start you already got a partner, an’ I guess I know the score. I’ve been taking real good care of him, Starsky.”

“Yeah, I can see that. ‘Preciate it, Dave. These older models take some lookin’ after.”

“Quit it, the pair of you,” Hutch grinned. They were talking as if the Board was a mere formality, and right then that was exactly how it seemed to him. His confidence was firm, unshakeable. It was only a matter of time, and the dream of so many months would be reality. A few short days. He had the feeling those days were going to drag by.

“Hey, listen,” said Starsky, “Dave, I hate to eat and run, but my place still needs some work, and I’m running short on days.”

“No sweat,” Duplessis smiled. “You can eat here anytime, both of you. Do you want me to pick you up in Venice tomorrow, Hutch?”

“No, it’s okay.” Hutch didn’t look at Starsky. “I’ll see you in the squadroom.”

Farewells made, they headed back for Venice. Neither spoke during the drive, but neither needed to. The silence was a sharing. And a glance at the man beside him as he cut the ignition showed Hutch a smiling face, eyes half-closed.

“Nice kids,” Starsky said quietly. “Love’s Young Dream. Hey, how come you managed not to blush when he offered to pick you up, huh? And when he said he knew the score?”

“Starsky, you’re a louse,” Hutch growled, his color now all Starsky could have wished.

“Yeah. C’mon, lover, let’s go home.”

Home. Venice Place, where their love had first taken its new shape. The place where they had gained a second chance. Sunlight lay across the bed, jungle-striped with shadows, patterns of precious memory threaded with dimly-recalled grief.

Yet so was that other apartment home, and their two weeks in the cabin away from the city. Any place, Hutch acknowledged, was his home if his lover shared it. No, rephrase that. Starsky was his home. He touched the tanned cheek, fingers sliding through the dark curls, and the few inches difference in their heights tilted Starsky’s head back as their eyes met.

“Stay here tonight?” Hutch whispered. The day was behind them, the night awaited, and tomorrow. All the tomorrows.

“Dumb thing to say. Where else should I be? We’ll have to get us a cat.”

“What?”

“So’s we can put it out nights. And an open fire’n’ slippers. Just for weekends.”

“I’m in love with a flake.”

“So what else is new? Let’s go to bed, huh?”

*****

Two weeks couldn’t have made that much difference, could it? Hutch collected a strung-out chorus of greetings from entrance lobby to squadroom, and Minnie was not to be outdone. She caught his arm and pulled him into a swift hug. “You’re looking good enough to eat, Blondie! Boy that vacation musta done you a world of good. How’s that trashy partner of yours?”

“Still trashy,” he smiled, unexpectedly touched by her caring.

“He looking good?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Tuesday,” she confided. “Fingers, toes, legs, eyes…”

“He’ll get through okay.”

“Sure he will. But will I survive the strain?”

“You’d better, Minnie. You’re all he’s comin’ back for.”

“Hoo! She wishes!” And she swatted his rear with a sheaf of files before dumping them on his desk. “You got a lot of catching up to do, Blondie.”

Connery, Villiers, Sandoval. Case notes, photographs, and in the first two files, postmortem reports and statements from family, friends, and contacts. Hutch picked Francis Ellis out of Villiers’ file and began to read.

Duplessis came in, tendering a cheerful greeting on his way to the coffee-station. Dobey’s door jerked open, and the Captain leaned on the jamb.

“Morning, Hutch. Good vacation?”

“Yeah, fine, thanks.”

“Ah-huh. Starsky all primed for the board?”

“Rarin’ to go.”

“Ah-huh. You and Duplessis get over to County, see if we can get a statement from Sandoval yet. Then you go and talk to Mrs. Bettina Miller.” He handed over a sheet of paper. As well as an address in Trousdale, it had the make, serial number and price of a watch, date of purchase, and the name of the store that had sold it. “Came in this morning. Connery’s watch.”

“Took them long enough,” Hutch said. “Okay, Captain. You ready, kid?”

“When you are.” Duplessis drained the last of his coffee, peering over Hutch’s shoulder to scan the paper. “My car or yours?”

“Yours.”

“Wonder if this Mrs. Miller gave him the gold chain as well?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Hutch said dampeningly.

“So what’s the difference between jumping to a conclusion and getting a hunch?” Duplessis demanded.

“Hunches,” Hutch grinned, “pay off. Sometimes.”

“Ah, I get it. I jump to conclusions, you get hunches. Right?”

“Right.”

Perhaps wisely, Duplessis refrained from further comment, and they left for the hospital.

Sandoval’s condition was unchanged, but the doctor was less pessimistic about his chances. The longer his condition remained stable, the better the odds, it seemed.

Twenty-seven years old. He looked a lot younger. Framed by the mane of black curling hair, his face had once been more than handsome. Now it was lash-scored and battered.

“Same M.O. as Connery,” Duplessis murmured.

“I read the autopsy report.” Hutch was unable to keep the snap out of his voice. Death was something he would never get used to — nor this knife-edge balance when Trauma teams fought to keep a life from slipping away. As they fought for Starsky’s, last May. And there was nothing I could do but wait. And watch. “Come on, Trousdale’s next on the list.”

“Yeah, okay. Hey, listen, I didn’t mean –”

“I know. One of the first things they taught us in the Academy was ‘don’t get involved’. It was one of the first rules I broke. Keep right on breaking it, too.” Sandoval was just a couple of years younger than Duplessis. All the bright might-have-beens of his life cancelled by a few hours’ savagery. Hutch shook his head, clearing aside the useless thought. “I’ll drive.”

The Trousdale address was an expensive condo, part of a fancy landscaped complex around a large oval pool. They walked past hedges of bright hibiscus and mimosa, and Duplessis hit the doorbell. It was a long wait. He was about to lean on the bellpush again when the door opened.

“Mrs. Bettina Miller?” The young cop switched on his best public-servant smile, and the woman smiled back.

“Yes.” She must have been in her mid-fifties, but figure and skin tone showed evidence of all the care that money could provide. Her hair was sunlit gold, her bikini a riot of tropic color, and her weight about twenty pounds too much for the brevity of the garment.

“Officer Duplessis and Detective Sergeant Hutchinson, ma’am. LAPD.” Hutch showed his ID. “Can we have a little of your time?”

“Police?” China-blue eyes widened, flew to Hutch’s face. “OhmyGod, Harvey — my husband — what’s happened to him?”

“Nothing as far as we know, Mrs. Miller,” Hutch assured. “May we come in?”

“Yes, of course. Then what –” She broke off, some of her poise returning. “I guess you won’t drink alcohol on duty, but I can offer you coffee — tea?”

“Nothing, thank you.” They followed her into a spacious and elegant room that opened out onto the patio and pool.

“You had me scared for a minute,” she confessed, gesturing them to the couch. “I thought that stupid man had walked under a bus or something. He’s always got his head in lecture notes, never seems to look where he’s going. Sure you won’t have a drink? It won’t take a minute.”

“Well,” Hutch’s hesitation was slight and deliberate. “If it’s no trouble. Thank you. Coffee?” She smiled, the perfect hostess, confident in her ability to seduce even unwanted guests into obedience. He hoped she would retain that poise when he started asking about Drew Connery.

She came back wearing a muumuu that matched her bikini, and carrying a tray. Real silver and English bone china. Hutch waited until she had poured the coffee, offered cream and sugar, then said, “Mrs. Miller, did you purchase a wristwatch four months ago? A man’s watch, gold with a gold band, from Kantor’s on Rodeo Drive?”

She put down her cup. It did not rattle on the saucer. “I may have done,” she said carefully. “Though I might choose to deny it. Certainly I have neither lost a watch, nor had one stolen. Neither has Harvey. More than that I’m not prepared to say.”

“Do you know a young man called Drew Connery?” Hutch persisted, and Duplessis produced a photograph. It was one of several Alison Connery had given them — her brother in a swim-suit, mugging for the camera on a California beach.

“Why?” She leaned back on the cushions and crossed her legs. “I’ve already said I haven’t had a watch stolen or lost, so I really fail to see why this should go any further.”

“Mrs. Miller. Andrew Connery is dead, and we are trying –”

“Dead?” Her hand went to her throat. Diamond rings glittered in the sunlight. “Dead? How? He –”

“He was murdered.” No easy way to say it. “We’re hoping you can help us.”

“Why me? I — I don’t know the boy.” Her voice was shaking, and tears were spilling unnoticed down her cheeks.

“When he was found,” Duplessis said, “he was wearing a gold watch. We checked the serial number, and traced it to you.”

“At that time, we didn’t have a name for him. He wasn’t carrying any form of ID,” Hutch went on. “So we checked it out as a matter of routine.”

“I — I gave it to him,” she whispered. Duplessis dug out a clean, folded handkerchief from his pocket, put it into her hands. “He was a sweet, kind boy… Who’d want to murder him?”

“That’s what we want to find out, Mrs. Miller.”

“You don’t think that I — that I –”

“We don’t think anything yet.” He held her gaze with his own. “We need to build up a picture of him, his friends, his lifestyle, the people he spent time with. Will you tell us what you know about him?”

She drew in a shuddering breath, held Duplessis’ handkerchief over her eyes for a moment, then straightened. “Okay,” she said, voice steady now. “I met him about six months ago. Harvey was touring the South. Our friends hold a lot of social functions. Dinner parties, tennis afternoons. I’m expected to attend. Harvey suggested I go to an escort agency — some of my girlfriends use them regularly, to make up numbers at a dinner, or for a safe escort to the theatre if their husbands can’t go. It’s all very above board,” she added, her chin tilted defiantly.

“And what’s the name of your agency, Mrs. Miller?”

“Benedic’s,” she said. “Rachel recommended them. They sent Drew.” Her glance slid away. “I know what you’re thinking. Middle-aged lady, buying expensive gifts for a pretty boy. But it wasn’t like that. I — I could have been his mother.” Her voice broke, and she buried her face in Duplessis’ hanky again.

“Mrs. Miller.” Hutch put all the sympathy he felt into his voice and his gentle touch on her arm. “Is there someone you’d like me to call for you? To stay with you for a while, until you’re over the shock?”

“Would you? R-Rachel Rycoff — she’s in the notebook by the phone.”

“I’ll see to it.” Duplessis went to make the call.

“Did Drew talk about his other customers?” Hutch asked.

“Oh, no. Well, very seldom. He was so — courteous, you know? It was really sweet to see old-fashioned manners like that in a young man. His family raised him right.”

“Did he mention any names? People he worked with, people who hired him?”

“No. He didn’t know any of the other escorts. Told me his name was Andrew Benedic. So maybe they all use Benedic as a surname? He never spoke of the others. Sometimes he’d say he’d been to a premiere, or the opera, or the races. Things like that. But no names, and I never asked. He’d have to be discreet, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes. When was the last time you saw him?”

“About a month ago, just before Harvey came back from South Carolina. We went to Rachel’s silver wedding dinner. It was the fourteenth? A Friday?”

And Drew Connery had died a few days later, on the Sunday evening.

“Did he mention any plans for the next few days?”

“No. He was happy, though. Not worried or subdued. Just — happy, you know? Full of energy. Alive.”

“Had you made any arrangements to meet him again?”

“Yes, This Wednesday. Dolores is holding a yacht party. Harvey hates them. Drew put it in his diary so the agency would know. Oh, my poor baby…” And she sobbed into the handkerchief.

Hutch let her cry it out, made sympathetic noises, while Duplessis hovered anxiously. “Mrs. Rycoff’s on her way,” he reported, and glanced around the room. “Maybe I should make some more coffee?”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed. “Mrs. Miller, your friend –”

She made an effort to gain control, and wiped her eyes. Her make-up was smeared, but it didn’t take away her dignity. “Sorry. I’m all right now. Was there anything else?”

“Did you ever use any other agency, ma’am? Like Hidalgo?”

“No, only Benedic’s. Rachel says Hidalgo doesn’t have the same class. I mean, Benedic’s are very careful. It’s all quite respectable. Nothing in the least bit questionable. And their escorts are so very — safe. You understand?”

“And Drew was the only one Benedic’s sent you?”

“Yes. I saw no reason to change. He was a dear boy.”

“Did he ever mention, or did you meet Richard Sandoval?”

“No, I don’t think so. Is he the one who killed –”

“No. He might be another victim. How about Chris Villiers or Robin Parrish?”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Are they dead as well?” Hutch nodded. “Sergeant Hutchinson, how did Andrew die?”

“He didn’t know much about it, Mrs. Miller,” Hutch said quietly. She started to speak, but stopped with a visible shudder.

“My poor baby,” she whispered again.

Hurried footsteps heralded Rachel Rycoff’s arrival. The two detectives stayed long enough to question her about Villiers and Sandoval, but drew another blank. They were relieved to be able to leave after that. Grief, be it your own or a total stranger’s, is not easy to deal with.

Huggy was next on the list, and he did not seem surprised to see them when they walked into the Pits. Hutch felt the keenness in the swift dark glance that probed his expression, felt also the caring and concern in that glance. His color rose, and he was glad of the dimness.

Huggy grinned, spreading his hands wide. “Welcome to the Lair of the Bear, my friends. After two weeks roughin’ it out in the tall timber, I’m surprised you can remember the way here, Hutch.”

“That’s why I tagged along with the kid,” he said lightly, winning a snort of half-serious indignation from Duplessis.

“Always did figure you needed a keeper.” Huggy smiled like an ebony sphinx. “Beers are on the house, just this once.”

“Thanks. We’d also like some information, Hug.”

“Naturally. Didn’t think you came here just for the beer, m’man. Why don’t we sit down and be sociable about it, huh?”

They seated themselves in the corner away from the pinball machine and the Space Invaders, three pairs of elbows on the table.

“Our little Cock Robin had about half-a-dozen regulars,” Huggy said without preamble. “An’ I don’t mean escorting ladies to the Opera. Hidalgo’s got a second string to its bow. Some of the merchandise sell sex as well as the simple pleasure of their company, an’ it’s part of the agency’s service. A high-class cat-house, even. For lonely ladies and choosy gays.”

“Villiers was a part of that?”

“Yeah. Why’d you think he called himself Robin? He knew what he had, and how much he could sell it for. Or rather, how much Hidalgo could sell it for. He got a tidy percentage of the fee, as well as the protection of the agency. Cock Robin was quite a survivor.”

“You sound like you knew him,” Duplessis said, and Huggy cackled with amusement.

“Not me, boy. He was way outta this league. But I’ve been hearing a lot about him from someone who did.”

“Can we talk to them, Hug?” Hutch put in.

“Maybe, after I’ve worked on ’em a little. He ain’t too keen on the fuzz, an’ I gotta convince him you’re a for-real faded soul-brother, you dig? But he’s scared. ‘Specially after Richie Sandoval. Yeah,” he nodded to Duplessis, “Richie’s out of Hidalgo’s stable, worked the legit and the bedroom circuit. Only he was straight.”

“Like Connery,” the young detective said. “But I guess it didn’t matter a damn to whoever killed them whether they were straight or gay. Connery was with Benedic’s, Huggy. Has anything come up on them?”

“Nope. Not so far. I’ll drop the name around, though. Ver-ee careful-ee. There ain’t much goin’ around the street, ‘cept some real wild speculation, an’ I do mean wild.”

“Nothing in the gay bars?”

“Nothin’. Except the way-out theories. Had a long talk with my old friend, Sugar. Remember her, Hutch? She remembers you. And Starsk. If anyone’d know anything, it’d be Sugar. But she says she don’t.”

“Uh-huh. Can you find out how many other agencies run the same kind of double service?”

“Easier to find the ones who don’t. I’ll give it my best shot, anyhow. An’ I’ll be in touch, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. An’ tell that partner of yours to knock their eyes out tomorrow, willya?”

“I’ll do that.”

“How ’bout a toast?” Duplessis cut in, grinning. “To Starsky. And — whatsisname, the other one.”

“Hey, you got it! Huggy laughed, and the glasses clinked together. “I’ll drink to that!”

Hutch followed suit, raising his glass.

To Starsky, for sure. To the other half of me. My love and my lover.

 

Chapter XIII

Where had the afternoon gone? Hutch smiled, autopsy reports, morgue photographs, sheets of witness-statements, all retreating to the back of his mind. To him, there was only one person in the busy gymnasium: Starsky, pummeling several kinds of brick dust out of the punching bag. No science, but plenty of enthusiasm. And stamina. The lean form moved with vigorous precision, layered with smooth-working muscle, sweat-glossed skin gleaming in the lights. He looked fit and hard and ready for anything the street could throw at him. The Review Board was going to be a pushover. The real — and only — test would be out there patrolling their turf. But Starsky was confident, and therefore so was he.

It was difficult to keep his assessment impersonal: easier to let imagination and memory strip away shorts and shirt, reveal the body beneath. Play of muscle and tendon under the tanned, dark-furred skin; quick aggressive grace uncluttered by clothing, expression fiercely intent. Last night that face had shown another aspect. The degree of intensity was the same, but then it had been the blaze of love and the transcendent peak of climax that had been mirrored in flesh and bone and burning blue eyes.

Starsky abandoned the punching bag and sauntered towards him, the smile matching his own.

“Ready for the Big Fight, Champ?” Hutch wanted to know.

“You bet your ass,” Starsky chuckled. Then, “And how’s your day been, honey?” with a demure curve to his lips.

Hutch grimaced. “Tell you later,” he said. “You finished here?”

“Just about. Gimme time to grab a shower, an’ I’ll be right with you.”

“How’d it go at the Range?” Hutch followed him into the locker room.

“Okay.” Starsky stripped off quickly, stepped into the shower-stall. “Scored pretty good, if I say so myself. And ‘specially on the Practical.”

“But of course. Dave ‘We-Never-Miss’ Starsky, huh?” Yet that was an unspoken worry for them both, still, and until the situation arose for real, there was no way of knowing if Starsky would have some kind of kickback against firearms. It hadn’t shown on the Range, anyway. That was as well.

“Right on, babe!” came an exuberant crow above the rush of water, and Hutch grinned and shook his head. He picked up the discarded garments, folded them away in Starsky’s Adidas gym bag; then, to take his mind off memories of shared showers, laid out Starsky’s street-clothes. One sneaker had to be located and retrieved from under the opposite bench, and by the time he’d put it with the other of the pair, Starsky was out of the shower and toweling himself dry.

The locker-room was empty but for them: instinct and training told him that even as his hands were reaching out for Starsky’s shoulders.

Stupid to take chances — shouldn’t do it — after all, we only need to get caught out once — Warm and hungry, Starsky’s mouth opened under his, and the damp body arched against him, hips moving in a slow, sensual thrust.

“What y’tryin’ to do, lover? Send me back for a cold shower?” Starsky whispered.

“No. Sorry. I just –”

“Couldn’t wait, huh?”

“Guess not.”

“Nice to be appreciated,” his lover drawled, and with reluctance Hutch let him go. Starsky didn’t draw back, though. They stayed together, bodies fitted close, until voices sounded outside the door.

Starsky gave a guilty grin and dived for his clothes, and Hutch cursed himself for a fool. He wasn’t a love-sick adolescent, and he sure as hell didn’t get a kick out of taking chances, but the sweet poignant taste of Starsky’s mouth still lingered, spreading its sorcery through his blood.

Side by side they left the gym, pausing for a moment on the steps leading down to the parking lot. “So where are we going?”

“Back to my place,” Hutch glanced at him, smiling. “Thought I’d give you dinner. Maybe breakfast, too.”

“Why not?” He stretched luxuriously, grinning back. “Sure. I got a heavy date tomorrow. Don’t want to get over-tired cooking for myself, an’ stuff like that.”

“Right.”

Their eyes met, and both cracked up.

Dinner was a surprise — trout in almond sauce, with a garnish of salad and petits pois. Starsky’s eyes widened as Hutch put the plate in front of him with something of a proud flourish.

“Trout?” The word ended half an octave higher than it had begun.

“Fish is good for the brain,” Hutch told him.

“This isn’t fish.” Starsky prodded the delicate morsel on his plate with tentative reverence.

“Trust me, it’s fish. And before you ask, the whole mess came out of cans. It’s amazing what you can pick up at the supermarket these days.”

“Amazing,” Starsky echoed, dissecting a flake of fish and tasting. “Not bad.”

“Compliments to the chef?”

“Mmm.” He nodded. “S’terrific. Really.”

Hutch poured the wine, raised his glass in salute. “To us. Tomorrow,” he said softly. And Starsky touched glasses with him, in silent agreement.

Dishwashing never takes long when shared. Neither do the other chores of keeping house. Not that there was a lot to do since Starsky had spent the morning tidying up and just being generally domestic. They finished in the greenhouse for the plant-tending session, with Starsky sprawled on the bench while Hutch misted and fed and watered the philodendron, the spider plants, the African violet, and the assorted succulents. Starsky watched him move from one to another, the large hands and long fingers skilled and careful, and listened to the idiotic one-sided conversation.

Knew plants were supposed to like being talked to — but getting off on Donna Summer?

“What’s that one called?”

“This one?” Hutch broke off the soliloquy. “It’s an asparagus fern, Starsk.”

“No, I mean its name. What you call it.” Hutch’s clear eyes regarded him, half amused exasperation, half questioning embarrassment. But Starsky held the gaze, no mockery in his expression.

“Colette,” Hutch said at last. Starsky grinned.

“No kidding?”

“Would I lie to you?”

Starsky reached over and took the pot from him, turning it to inspect the feathery specimen from all angles. “You’re a classy broad, Colette,” he said seriously. “Bet you don’t get off on Donna Summer. Charles Aznavour, maybe?”

“Charles Aznavour?”

“Well, Colette sounds French,” Starsky said, logically. “Certainly looks French.”

“You,” said Hutch with conviction, “are weird, Starsk.”

Their evenings together had developed a set pattern, almost a ritual. So much was still unknown and new, they needed the retreat into the security of familiar things, the subtle change fitting smoothly into the patterning. When a word or gesture can suddenly take on a whole new erotic meaning, it was almost relief to slip back into the easy and undemanding ways of their old relationship. For a little while.

Starsky, still enjoying guest status, was allowed to commandeer the bathroom while Hutch finished up the chores, and was sprawled back against the pillows, a book in his hands, by the time Hutch padded out, wrapped in the orange robe, hair a damp fluffy corona. Under cover of reading, Starsky watched through his lashes.

So beautiful… There just aren’t words…

“What’s the book?” Hutch folded back his side of the covers.

“Mmm?”

“The book, Starsk.” Starsky tilted it to show him the jacket. “Oh. You want to keep on reading?”

“No.”

“Lights out, then.” And the room was abruptly dark. It took him a little by surprise. There was a hesitant mothlike flutter in his middle waiting to become wings of fire in Hutch’s embrace. But the expected first touch didn’t come, and he didn’t know why not — until the ridiculousness of it hit him.

What am I waiting for? Him to ravish me?

The mental image that conjured up was farcical, and he chuckled. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Gonna ravish me?”

Hutch made a snorting sound and rolled to face him. Starsky couldn’t make out the expression, only the chiaroscuro light and dark. But the voice was quivering with amusement. “You got a heavy day tomorrow, Starsk. You should get some sleep.”

Starsky growled and grabbed. “Yeah. Later. C’mere, Blintz.” Firm flesh, hard muscle, and the heat of desire pressed against his thigh. “Thought you’d hold out on me, huh? Huh?”

“Starsk — David — you don’t want to wear yourself out — not with the Board tomorrow…”

“So I won’t exert myself,” Starsky promised, pulling Hutch on top of him. “Want you, lover. Now.”

*****

The Review Board was convened in what was colloquially known as the Parker Penthouse, but comfortable chairs and deep pile carpet did not make the waiting any easier. For Hutch, it was tedious; for his Captain, it seemed to be a lot worse. Dobey was mopping sweat from his face with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. Hutch had to smile.

“Take it easy, Cap,” he said. “Starsk’ll make it through, no problem.”

Dobey glared at him, a scowl of resentment corrugating his forehead. “You’re too damn confident,” he snapped. “Damn it, you know how long he’s been on the sick-list!”

A shadow crossed the calm blond features, and Hutch looked down at his fingernails. “Yes, I know. To the last decimal place. But they’ll pass him.”

“How much longer, for God’s sake?” It was a muted rumble. Clearly Dobey wasn’t listening to him. Hutch smiled again. The number of people who cared about Starsky gave him a good feeling. He glanced at his watch — 4:36. Starsk had been in there nearly two hours. Couldn’t be much longer, could it?

As if in reward for his patience, the door opened and Starsky came out. He was smiling and relaxed. “They said I should wait in the squadroom,” he announced. “They wanna see you now, Cap.”

Dobey nodded, and shouldered into the room as if he intended to browbeat the whole Board into agreement that Starsky should be reassigned to full active duty. The two men watched the door close behind their Captain’s bulk, then turned to each other.

“Boy, could I use a cup of coffee,” Starsky said. “They had me talkin’ solid all afternoon, seems like. Hope your coffee dues are all paid up.”

“You think Minnie would let me get away without paying? She came round collecting before the vacation. We’re safe until the end of the month.”

“Great. The way my throat feels, I’m gonna drink up our quota right now.”

Hutch paused at the door, aching to know the outcome, and unable to wait any longer. “Well?” he asked quietly.

“They didn’t give anything away,” Starsky said. “Like Mount Rushmore — a set of stone faces. I couldn’t read ’em.”

*****

Minnie was hovering. She moved papers from desk to desk, opened and closed filing cabinets, rearranged the bulletin board, and was finally reduced to emptying empty ashtrays. Starsky perched on the desk that used to be his, and tried not to notice that Duplessis already had his own bits and pieces collected into a box ready for transfer to another desk. Hutch fetched coffee for all four of them, and the vigil continued.

“When they said they’d let you know,” Minnie said finally, “did they give you any idea as to when? Like next year? Next week? Tomorrow?”

“No.” Starsky shook his head. “Maybe the Cap’ll know more.”

Phones rang, interrupting him. Hutch took one, Duplessis the other. Both conversations were short. “You first,” Hutch said to Duplessis.

“Okay. That was Ellis. I arranged a meeting with him. To ask him more about Sandoval.”

“Who might make it,” Hutch added his information. “That was the hospital. Sandoval’s beginning to respond. Still on the critical list, but he could pull through. When are you meeting Ellis?”

“Tomorrow, five o’clock at his place.”

“Sounds like a date, honey,” Minnie chuckled. “Keep your back to the wall, y’hear?”

“Yes, Momma.”

“He’s safe, Minnie,” Hutch said without thinking. “What gay in his right mind would make a pass at a cop?”

“None that I know of,” Starsky drawled wickedly, a broad grin spreading over his face.

To his horror, Hutch felt his color begin to rise, but the indignant retort on his lips was postponed by Dobey’s entrance. The black face was set in a peculiar expression, and for a moment Hutch could not read it. Then he realized it was relief, delight, and general emotional backlash, all held rigidly under control.

“Starsky, you’re back on duty as of tomorrow morning.”

Hutch grabbed his partner into a rib-bruising hug, Starsky’s arms locking around him at the same time. Duplessis whooped and caught them both in an exuberant embrace, while Minnie wrapped herself around as much of all three as she could.

“Damn glad, Starsky, Hutchinson,” Dobey said gruffly, patting whichever shoulder was nearest. “Damn glad…”

I told you so, said the dancing light in Starsky’s eyes.

I never doubted you, Hutch answered mentally.

“When you’re through waltzing, Starsky –”

“Yes, Cap?”

“In my office. Won’t take a minute.”

“Sure.”

*****

Dobey didn’t prevaricate. Don’t try to snow me, his attitude said. “Sit down, Starsky. How do you feel about this?”

“Getting back on the force? It’s what I’ve been aiming for since I got out of the hospital. When they said there was a chance.”

“Remember what else they said?” Dobey asked somberly.

Starsky met his gaze squarely. “I know I can’t take another bullet,” he said quietly. “If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“And you still want back on the street?”

“That’s where we do our job, Cap. I want back with Hutch. I don’t particularly care where.”

“That’s what I thought. Well, there’s a suggestion for you to think about. The Lieutenant’s exam will be coming up in a month or so. You’ve got a good chance, Starsky. Your street experience and arrest-record could compensate for the lack of a degree.”

“I’ll talk it over with Hutch.”

Dobey didn’t say that it was Starsky’s life, and not Hutch’s. Instead, he nodded. “You do that. And let me know what you decide, either way. Tell me something — you sold the Board good on getting back on the street. What exactly did you say?”

“I guess,” Starsky said seriously, “that I clinched it when they asked what I thought. How fit I considered I was to go back on the street. And I told them that if I had any doubts about whether or not I could cut it, I wouldn’t be there. Because I’m not risking anyone’s life on a macho-trip. Not mine, not Hutch’s. Particularly not Hutch’s.”

Dobey nodded. “That’s what I figured.” He cleared his throat. “Good to have you back, Starsky.”

“Thanks, Cap. It’s good to be back.”

*****

The phone rang, evilly, just before eight the next morning, but Starsky was already up, showered, shaved and dressed. He hooked the receiver from under Hutch’s groping hand, sat down on the bed beside the moaning hump. “Yeah. Starsky.”

A pleasant feminine voice greeted him. “Well, hello, you sound chipper. How are things?”

“Hi, Jaqi.” He smiled as he recognized the voice. “I’m fine. You?”

“Overworked and underpaid. Is Ken there? I tried calling his apartment, but there was no answer.”

“Get your head together, Hotshot, it’s your lady,” Starsky hissed at what little was visible of Hutch. “Yeah, Jaqi, he’s here. Kinda worse for wear — we were celebratin’ last night.”

“Celebr– You made it? You got through the Board! That’s wonderful!” She sounded genuinely delighted. “You must be over the moon — Ken too, of course. But he never doubted you could do it. When do you start work again?”

“In about an hour, if I can resurrect the dead. Hutch, willya please –”

She laughed. “Hey, don’t trouble him on my account. Just tell him I’m home this weekend, and I’ll bring Emma along. Maybe we’ll finally get to meet each other, Starsky.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” he agreed.

“It’s about time. I was beginning to wonder just what was the reason he was keeping us apart. Look, I know you’re busy — just give him a kiss from me, huh?” And she laughed again as she hung up.

Starsky peeled back a corner of quilt, touched his lips to the warm cheek, feeling the invisible blond stubble. “You hear any of that, Rip Van Winkle?”

“What was that about raising the dead?” Hutch whispered against his mouth, eyes closed, as Starsky cupped his face between his hands. “Magician…”

“Nothin’ magical about it.” He smiled and kissed Hutch again. “That’s from your lady. Bet she didn’t think I’d deliver.”

“Jaqi?”

“Of course Jaqi. She’s home this weekend, said she’d be over with Emma.”

“Oh.” Simple acknowledgement, no more — Hutch’s mind obviously wasn’t registering Starsky’s words, only his voice, his touch.

“And it’s time you were up an’ about, love.”

“I’m up,” Hutch offered hopefully, and Starsky laughed.

“You want me to be late on my first morning back? Because you’re going the right way about it.”

“First morning back, you gotta be on time,” Hutch agreed reluctantly, letting go and heaving himself out of bed, wincing. “Christ. Why haven’t you got a hangover?”

“No justice in the world, is there? Besides, I don’t get hangovers after two beers. Which is all I had.”

“Two?”

“Virtue,” said Starsky, “is its own reward.”

*****

Starsky might have been on time arriving at Metro, but the assorted greetings and congratulations made him thoroughly late getting to Room 519. This once, there were no recriminations. He was back, and the miracle of his recovery had been confirmed, his return accomplished. The old team was back in business.

Minnie came in with an armful of files, which she deposited in front of Hutch as she turned to hug Starsky. “Hasn’t been the same around here without you, honey-lamb,” she declared. “Now tell me what Blondie and the Kid were drinking last night?”

“Same as me, only more of it and I hold it better. Where is Dave?”

“In the men’s room again, I guess.” She looked sympathetic. “Poor baby. Y’want coffee, fellas?”

“Black,” said Hutch, “and put him down, Minnie, you don’t know where he’s been.”

“I don’t care where he’s been,” she claimed firmly. “He’s one sweet armful, and it does this girl good just to see that trashy grin again.”

Starsky kissed her. “Missed you, too, Min,” he said fondly.

“Mutual admiration society,” Hutch grunted. “Here, partner, take your share of these.”

Duplessis came in, looking wan and heavy-eyed. He accepted the stack of files Hutch passed him in silence, and sat down at his new desk, to Hutch’s left now instead of opposite. Dobey walked through the squadroom en route to his office. It being impossible for him to look pale, the only clue to his physical condition was the frown on his face. That and the basso profundo growl with which he responded to Starsky’s cheerful greeting.

“Nothin’ much changes,” Starsky commented happily.

The phone call changed everyone’s mood. Hutch got to it first, and Starsky saw his face change as he said, “Yeah — when was this? I see. Yeah. Thanks.” He put the receiver down. “Sandoval’s dead. Early this morning. Embolism.”

“But — they said he was going to make it!” Duplessis was frankly disbelieving.

“Said he had a chance. Guess his luck ran out.” Hutch rubbed both hands over his face. “Autopsy report’ll be ready when we are. Damn.”

*****

Sunlight glowed on polished mahogany, giving the wood a liquid depth, the grain of it translucent rippled amber. Corey shuffled papers together, set them just so on the gloss, a stark rectangle of white. “The last item on the agenda, gentlemen,” he said, “is Garbage Disposal.” His voice was cold, matter-of-fact, but the tension in the long hands that rested light and still on the table spoke of his displeasure. “There is a procedure laid down for such matters.” Granite-hard eyes raked slowly around the table, pausing briefly at each face, watching for the small changes of expression, for pupils that shifted, eyelids that twitched, mouths that hardened into a defensive line.

“This procedure has been decided upon for its efficiency, simplicity, and cost-effectiveness. It has worked satisfactorily for a number of years. So why, may I ask, has this procedure been bypassed of late? And on more than one occasion.”

No one spoke. Some faces frowned, some remained studiously blank. Corey hadn’t finished, and no one was going to presume to interrupt him. It wasn’t wise to interrupt Felix Corey at any time.

“Carelessly dumped garbage, gentlemen, is both an eyesore and an embarrassment. It is a hazard, as in the last incident, and expensive to rectify. In short, there has been a fuck-up.” He smiled, without mirth. “And I will not tolerate fuck-ups in this organization.” His voice had not risen above conversation level, but each clearly-enunciated word cut like a separate blade. “Sandoval is now dead. If the set procedure had been adhered to, the inconvenience and extra cost would have been avoided. So,” and his eyes made one more circuit of the table, “will someone please explain why that particular item of garbage did not end up in Tadleigh’s furnace, but was left in Griffith Park? Not only left there, but left there alive? Well, Mr. Caldwell? This is your province.”

“Yes, sir.” Caldwell knotted sweating fists in his lap, wanting to blot the wetness from his face as well, but unwilling to display his nervousness publicly. “I don’t know yet what went wrong, but I sure as hell intend to find out.”

“Good. Who was the driver on that run?”

“Uh, Borrows, sir.”

“Borrows. Five-ten, late thirties, dark hair?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See to it he doesn’t make the run again. Reprimand him, but not severely. The next party Mr. Hart books, Borrows can be part of the entertainment. Jules should appreciate him. He will, of course, be sent to Tadleigh along with the chicken, and will be disposed of as per the set procedure. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Corey.”

“I’m reappointing Jomo to your staff, he’ll take over the transportation as of now. There will be no further errors of this nature.”

“No, Mr. Corey.” A quiet chorus.

Corey stood up, immaculate in his light grey suit, features cool, distinguished: the picture of the successful business man. “That is all. Good day, gentlemen.”

*****

The trio of detectives met to discuss developments with their Captain two days later, on Friday evening, when there seemed to be something to go on.

“Ellis knew Sandoval,” Duplessis reported. “Hired him a couple of times for dinner parties. But according to him, that was all, he never made it with the kid. I asked him if he knew that Hidalgo ran a sex-service as well as their advertised stuff. Said yes, he did, had used it himself a couple of times. But his affair with Villiers wasn’t anything to do with them. He says. He also seemed pretty sick at the idea that Villiers was part of that second stable. But,” and he paused, “he said he wants to help. Anything within reason he can do, he will.”

“Like making a cover look good?” Dobey asked.

“Yeah.”

“That could be useful. Hutch, did you get any more from Mrs. Miller and Mrs. Rycoff?”

“Some. Benedic’s appears to employ an age-range of twenty-one to fifty. Main criteria are good looks, good manners, good health, intelligence, poise, and education. And trustworthiness. Anyone who can’t control the baser instincts is out.”

“That’s on the surface,” Starsky went on. “If there’s more to it underneath, Huggy hasn’t unearthed it yet. Hidalgo want much the same type, but they do recruit for the bedroom. They cater mainly for ladies, but they’re quite happy to supply for gays. His contact is being very difficult about talking to cops, but he’s told Hug there are rumors in the Hidalgo stable about a real heavy S&M scene.”

“We need to talk to him.”

Starsky spread his hands. “We’re working on it, Cap.”

“Do you at least know who he is?”

“Some kind of relation of Huggy’s,” Hutch said.

“Sometimes I think half of L.A. is a relation of his,” the captain growled. “Duplessis, I want you to try for Hidalgo. Looks like the only way we’re gonna crack this fast is by putting a man undercover, and you fit the bill. Find yourself an apartment, work out your cover ID, and see if they’ll bite. I think Vice will help us out with a couple of their boys, but I want you in on it, too. While he’s getting established, Hutch, you go in on Benedic’s. Starsky, if they turn Hutch or the Vice boys or Duplessis down, we’ll try you. Second string.”

“Gee, thanks, Cap.”

“Well, we’ll get at least one of you in somewhere, and hopefully we’ll be able to wrap up both places. Don’t spend more than you have to, okay?” He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. We’ll call it a night. Keep chasing that relative of Huggy’s — we’re going to need him now that Sandoval’s dead. I want to see first-draft plans on my desk for approval on Monday morning.”

“Yessir.” Starsky saluted.

“Don’t presume too much on the delight of this Department to have you back, Starsky.”

“No sir. C’mon, kid.”

“But isn’t Hutch –?”

“Hutch’s got a date. So’ve we, with Huggy.”

Duplessis followed him out obediently. “Give me a couple of minutes, okay? I better call Sal.”

*****

Starsky led the way down into the Pits, bought two beers, and joined Duplessis at a table. “Okay,” he said. “Thought about what name you want to use?”

“Not yet. Thought I’d use the telephone book. Like they teach us, y’know?”

Starsky grinned, remembering. Knight and Day, Hack and Zack, Rafferty and O’Brien; the many aliases he and Hutch had adopted over the years. “Good idea,” he said. “So go get it.” Duplessis obeyed, and Starsky opened it at the ‘D’s. He flicked the pages at random, stabbed with a finger, and looked to see what chance had offered. “We got lucky. DuCann?” His grin widened.

Duplessis chuckled. “Sounds appropriate. First name?”

“Not so easy. D. Daniel. Douglas. Donald –”

“Christ, not Donald!”

“Why not? Good solid all-American name –”

“– and belongs to a duck. I had an Uncle Dennis.”

“Dennis DuCann.” Thoughtful. “Denny?”

“Sounds swishy.”

“Right. You’re Denny DuCann. Huggy, c’mere.”

Huggy ambled across. “How’s it goin’?”

“Meet Denny DuCann, Boy-About-Town,” Starsky said, smile brilliant. Duplessis endured Huggy’s stare of appraisal.

“Right name, wrong image,” was the verdict. “You want to visit Cousin Carmine.”

“Cousin Carmen?” Duplessis echoed.

“Carmine,” Huggy corrected. “My cousin the hairdresser. He’ll fix you up.”

“He?” Duplessis’ eyebrows and voice both went up. “Judas Priest! Where do you get these names, Huggy?”

“Where do we find this cousin?” Starsky wanted to know. Huggy scribbled an address for them.

“Be sure to tell him Hug sent you,” he instructed.

“Why?” Duplessis snapped. “Do you get a cut?”

*****

Chez Carmine was closed, but Starsky leaned on the bell until the blind was jerked up, and a lean-featured dark face peered out. “Yeah?”

“Huggy sent us,” Starsky pronounced like a password, and Duplessis’ sense of humor woke and he had to swallow a snort of amusement. “You Carmine?”

“You got it, man.” A keen black stare checked them over. “Guess you gotta be the guys he called about. C’mon in.”

He opened the door for them, and preceded them into the salon. Lithe and lightly made, he moved like a dancer. The face had some of Huggy’s elfin look, framed by a mane of processed black hair, sculptured like ebony. He flicked switches, gestured to a chair in front of a mirror, and Dave Duplessis seated himself gingerly. Starsky sat nearby, one ankle hooked over the other knee, a small smile playing around his mouth, preparing to be entertained. Carmine walked slowly around Duplessis, studying him, frowning. “New image, huh?”

“Right.”

“Ah-huh. What sign are you, lover?”

Duplessis started at the casual endearment, but managed not to glare. “Capricorn.”

“Ah-huh…” Another prowling inspection. “Lessee. Maybe sunstreaks. Yeah. Restyle. That’ll be a start.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“How long’s this going to be?” Starsky asked, as Carmine zeroed in on Duplessis’ nondescript light-brown mop, hooking comb and scissors from breast-pocket.

“An hour. Two. You want t’wait?”

 

Chapter XIV

“Hi, Hotshot,” Jaqi said as Hutch opened the apartment door, and stepped into his embrace. He kissed the offered mouth.

“Hi,” he said. “How did the trip go?”

She pulled an expressive face. “It’s going to take a lot more work, and I’ve already been working on Delgado for two months. Dammit, I’ve seen more of him and his tribe than I have of Emma. Or you.”

“What’s the hold-up now?” He led her into the room. “Hey, you want coffee?”

“Prefer tea, honey.” Jaqi collapsed onto the couch and stretched long, slender legs. She was wearing a tailored pantsuit in mint-green, her hair twisted up on top of her head, and she looked like a million dollars. “Same old problems. The mañana syndrome, and Senor Delgado’s inability to take a woman businessman seriously. He’s a charmer, a real old-fashioned gentleman, but …”

“A woman business-man, huh?” he grinned. She threw a cushion at him.

“You know what I mean. The hell with it — what about you? That vacation has done you a world of good, Ken. You look a lot better. Pretty terrific, in fact.”

“Thank you, fans.”

“No kidding. I was getting worried about you. Again. But I guess I don’t have to anymore, not now that Starsky’s back to work.” She bounced to her feet, and joined him in the kitchen, sliding her arms around his waist. “Mmm. Let’s not go out tonight. We can send for a pizza or something… I’m so glad he made it through,” she went on against his shoulder blade. “For both your sakes.”

“Amen to that.” Hutch turned and held her close, his cheek resting on scented hair, and knew he had to tell her. Now. Today.

Jaqi was special. He loved her without actually being in love with her. Maybe, given time, that would have happened, bringing with it its own heartaches, because right from the start she had made it clear that she didn’t want marriage or any kind of permanent commitment. And he needed the oneness, the sense of completion that only Starsky could give him, a completion he knew instinctively he would never find with anyone else. So, because he loved her, and owed her, she had to know.

“That vacation certainly did something for you,” Jaqi said, leaning back in the circle of his arms, hands on his shoulders. “You look — like something lit up a sun inside you.”

“That obvious?”

“Has to be love. Knew I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. Okay, who is she? And have you told her she’ll have to share?” She was relaxed, smiling, teasing, no tension or sign of any jealousy.

“There’s no other woman, Jaqi.”

“Glad to hear it. Emma’s very attached to her big blond uncle, and she’s a little young to change horses in midstream. But if you tell me you’ve found yourself a pretty little beach-boy, I give you fair warning, I won’t believe you.” He didn’t answer. “Ken?” She lifted her hand to his face. “What’s happened? What the hell have you gotten into?”

“Nothing that hasn’t been waiting for nine years.”

“Nine –? Are you telling me you’ve been in the closet for nine years? Who is this man?”

“The other half of me,” he said simply.

Her eyes widened. “Starsky,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

She didn’t pull away, just searched his face with anxious eyes. Alongside the concern now was a hint of pain and anger. “Are you sure?” she demanded at last. “Ken, have you thought about this with your head? I know how much you care about him — while he was in that hospital, he was just about all you talked about. You called him your brother, once.”

“He still is.” Partner, best friend, brother. Lover.

Gently she freed herself and walked away, stood at the window looking down on the street. Hutch concentrated on the mundane, making the tea, pouring it into the cups. Jaqi twice started to speak, but stopped abruptly, and the increasingly uncomfortable silence stretched out.

Then she spoke. “Since it’s Starsky, that kind of puts a different light on it,” she said at last. There was an odd note in her voice. He didn’t answer, and she turned around, came to him slowly. “I’m not going to lie to you or pretend I’m not mad or shaken up. You gave me the truth, as you see it, so I’m going to do the same. You’re making a mistake, Ken. You both are. Oh, I can see why it happened — I think — death coming that close, and all those weeks of waiting you went through. It’s no wonder your head got turned around and you need to hold on with everything you’ve got. But it’s a mistake, honey, and you’re going to end up with more pain than you thought possible.” He started to interrupt, but she put her fingers over his mouth. “I’m not going to play Dear Abby, or offer you a load of advice you don’t want. All I’m saying is — I’m your friend. And I’ll be around, if you need someone to listen. Or to pick up the pieces.” She reached up, touched her lips to his. “He’s a lucky guy, that partner of yours. I wouldn’t share you with a girl, you know.”

“Jaqi, it isn’t any kind of emotional backlash from the shooting –”

“Not from where you’re standing, maybe. But we’re not going to argue about it. And I still want to meet him.”

“So how about tomorrow? We had a date to take Emma to the zoo.”

“Whatever you can work out.” She looked around for her purse. “Can I take a raincheck on dinner tonight? You’ve thrown me a curve, and I think I need time to work it out.”

When it came down to it, he realized he’d expected something of the kind. Once she’d gone, he picked up the phone. After three rings, it was answered. “Busy?”

“Nope. Just got in. But I thought you were.”

“I’m not. Come on over?”

Soft chuckle. “You bet. I’m on my way.”

*****

Since Hutch hadn’t mentioned anything about Jaqi’s intentions for the weekend, she’d hardly figured in Starsky’s mind. He hadn’t asked what had happened to the date the previous night, and Hutch hadn’t volunteered an explanation for it. But he should not have been surprised to see the bright green Porsche Carrera parked outside Venice Place when he returned from his shopping expedition to drop Hutch’s supplies off before taking his own back home.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. But the jolt was not a pleasant one. A few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have felt this way — would have been able to meet the lady in Hutch’s life with a healthy interest and enjoyment and gratitude, because he knew Hutch owed her. Now — he realized he was viewing her as a threat. And that was wrong. He was frowning as he climbed the stairs, and straightened his face with a conscious effort before rapping at the door.

“It’s open.” Hutch’s voice. Starsky took a breath like a man about to dive into dark water, and walked in.

She wasn’t one of Hutch’s usual ladies. He supposed he’d known that from the beginning, when Hutch had first told him about her. She had none of Van’s tiger-lily poise, or Abby’s prettiness. She was strong-featured, as he knew from the photos Hutch carried, and the long glossy red hair was beautiful. She knew how to wear it. Her eyes, too, were lovely, green and clear as glass. They crinkled when she smiled — as she was smiling now, mouth curving — one hand held out. “Hello, David. I’ve heard so much about you.”

And Hutch, dammit, was standing there grinning, the kid in his arms, blond heads on a level.

She could be his daughter.

“Hi,” he said, returning her smile with the full-voltage lady-killer version, and took her hand. “Hutch has told me quite a bit about you, too.”

How much does she know? Has he told her? What has he told her?

“Say hello to Uncle Davey,” Hutch was saying to the child, who was staring distrustfully at the stranger, one hand firmly hooked onto his collar, the other clutching a doll. Uncle Davey? Jeez! “S’okay, honey, he doesn’t bite.”

Jaqi lifted the little girl down laughing, smoothing back the Alice-fall of blonde. “Say hello, Emma –”

Starsky hunkered down to the child’s level. “Hi, Emma. Hutch says you’re going to the park.”

She smiled suddenly, got dimples, and held out the doll for his inspection. “Her name’s Lucy,” she confided. “Mommy brought her all the way fr’m San Diego.”

“She’s real pretty,” he approved solemnly. “Just like you.”

Dimples again. She forgot her wariness. “We’re going to the park and the zoo. You can come too if you like.”

Hutch’s eyes on him. And Jaqi’s. Both unreadable. He grinned at Emma and stood up. “Some other time, sweetheart. I’d love it, but — got things to do.” The formalities now. “Nice meeting you, Jaqi.”

“Sure you can’t make it, Starsk?” Hutch wanted to know.

“Sorry, pal.” He shrugged. “Got a date.” He didn’t miss the flash of surprise in the blue eyes. “See you around.”

“Yeah — sure…”

*****

Damn you Hutch! Starsky slammed the door behind him, stood in the middle of his living room, eyes closed, trying to switch off his feelings and failing. Why did you do that to me? Four — five months. Hutch had known her since — when? Before Thanksgiving? When it hadn’t seemed they had much to be thankful about. A rough time for them both, his own enforced inactivity chafing him into irritability. Hutch, saddled with one of the rookies — a glory-hound, as he remembered, and a prize pain-in-the-ass — had let Starsky take his discontent and bad temper out on him and hadn’t complained. He had taken to drinking, though, and Starsky did know that. Then, suddenly, Jaqi.

She’d done what he couldn’t. Hadn’t the ability or the energy to do right then. She’d straightened Hutch out, put a halt to the downward slide. Hutch had been the better for her love and caring. Starsky, although he hadn’t met her, had been grateful to her, had liked her for being what Hutch needed.

So what’s changed?

He recognized the emotion, the hurt. It had felt like this with Kira. Jealousy. Only now, it was Hutch. He was jealous because Jaqi was intruding on what he and Hutch had.

Maybe that’s how it was with Kira, too. Only I was too dumb to see it. We were both too dumb — only knew that what we had was worth too much to be flushed down the tubes because of a woman.

What we had then — what we have now…

Hutch?

*****

His shoulder had ached badly, as it hadn’t done for weeks, and he’d taken a couple of the prescription codeine to ease it. Possibly that was why he slept so heavily, but the touch of a hand, and his name spoken, roused him from the formless and uncomfortable dreams.

“Starsk?”

The light from the living room haloed the pale hair. “Hutch? Wha’ –?”

“Wouldn’t have woken you, babe, but you were dreaming.”

“Was I? Oh, yeah –” He tried to sort out thought and action from a sleep-fogged brain. The clock’s digital readout was a fuzzy 11:45, and it was dark. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Tried to call you earlier, but there was no answer. And when I dropped Jaqi off, thought I’d come over. You okay?”

“Sure. I went down to the Pits.” Awake now, but too comfortable to move, he was content just to have Hutch there. “Was she upset?”

“Because you cut out?” Hutch was unbuttoning his shirt, kicking off his shoes. “Hell, no. She did say you ought to come over when she’s cooking dinner. Thinks you need fattening up.”

“God, another one?”

“It’s the strange effect you have on women, Starsk.”

“And she didn’t expect you to stay?” He hated saying it, but had to. Hutch, standing up to free himself of his pants, paused with one leg out.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Does it matter?”

Not so long as you’re here, lover.

“No. Just wondered.” He shifted to make room, and Hutch slid in beside him, the embrace as natural as the night. “Glad you came over.”

“Where else should I be?” Hutch murmured against his mouth as gentle fingers traced familiar paths of pleasure and Starsky’s breath caught in his throat, transmuting his answer into a sigh.

And then, no words at all.

*****

Eyes closed, Hutch turned his head on the pillow until his cheek rested against silken curls. Starsky did not stir, and he listened to the unaltered breathing with a sense of deep content. This peace had little to do with sexual fulfillment, and it pervaded every part of him, the warm comfort of a hearth on a winter’s night. The week had gone more swiftly than he had dared to hope. Nights spent alone had dragged, and the solitary early-morning awakenings saddened him, but the sweet companionship of the days was as it had always been. Save only that the depth of their loving had added to it.

A prickle of unease grew slowly to disturb him. Jaqi. So sure he was wrong. She’d made that clear both Friday evening and yesterday when Emma was out of earshot. He’d told her as best he could the way it was, but knew she was not convinced. Not that she doubted his sincerity, of course not. She just knew he was making a mistake.

How do you tell a lady who is a friend and was a lover that you don’t need her any more?

And when he inspected his own motives objectively, he realized that when he had told her about Starsky he had half-hoped she’d walk out on him. But she hadn’t.

On the contrary, she obviously intended to remain in his life. As a friend: waiting to pick up the pieces, put them back together, and then what? ‘She didn’t expect you to stay?’ Starsky had said. No, she hadn’t. That had been something of a relief. But the way it had been done had galled more than a little. As if Jaqi was deciding he should go to his lover. He could almost hear her say it — go and lie with him, don’t worry about me. When you’ve got him out of your system, you’ll come back to my bed.

You’re the one who’s mistaken, Jaqi. You have nothing now I need or want. He is all and everything.

David.

Beloved.

He moved his hand from shoulder to furred chest, felt the slow steady beat of the heart under his palm slide the rhythm into his own, and slept.

*****

Backstage at the Green Parrot, Starsky rapped at the door with the glitter-star painted on. “Sugar? It’s Starsky and Hutch.”

“Just a minute.” A throaty voice, the three words declaimed to an audience.

“Wonder who she’ll be today,” Hutch muttered. “Want to place a bet?”

Starsky grinned, but before he could answer the door swung open and Carol Channing stood poised on the threshold. “Hello, boys. Come on in.” Sugar swayed aside, and with an expansive gesture ushered them into the dressing room.

“You’ve got some information for us?” Hutch said, and the entertainer nodded.

“Yes. Of course, it might not be any use, but it could tie in with one or two things.” He came back to the dressing table, sat down, watching them in the mirror. Behind the Channing facade, the man’s eyes were hard, assessing. “Boys are being killed. Pretty boys. A shocking waste, don’t you think?”

Hutch heard the anger under the cynicism. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “What do you know about it, Sugar?”

“Nothing. But I know someone who might.”

“Who’s your friend, then?” Starsky put in.

“No friend of mine!” Sugar hissed with sudden venom. “I’ve had to clean up behind him once too often!”

“You want to run that by me again?”

“He calls himself George Smith. He’s got a store a couple of blocks from here, sells radios, cassette recorders, VTR systems. And all the accessories. Oh, he’s legit. But he’s got a hobby.” He was putting the finishing touches to his make-up, hands working in small angry movements, but the mascara went on without flaw. “He makes his own video movies. With kids.” The Channing mask disappeared, and Sugar met Hutch’s reflected gaze. Despite the heavy cosmetics, the blonde wig and slinky gown, there was a kind of dignity in him, the strength of a survivor, and the bitter wisdom of someone who had seen everything and remained unbroken. “I didn’t have proof before,” he said. “I don’t have proof now, none that I’m going to give you, anyhow.”

“Sugar –” Hutch started.

“Don’t interrupt, it’s not polite.” Momentarily Channing emerged to slap his wrist. “As far as I know, George hasn’t killed anyone. Yet. But he’s hurt a lot of kids. Hurt them badly, and not just physically. He’s into S&M in a big way. With juvies. Maybe he can give you a lead.” He broke off to light a cigarette, drew in a deep lungful of smoke. “It’s men like that,” Carol proclaimed, “that give gay a bad name.”

“Sugar, when did you get all this? Who from?” Starsky demanded.

“Didn’t you hear what I said? Go ask Georgie about the pretty boys with their faces all slashed up. I simply must fly now — I never keep my public waiting. So long, boys.” And he swept out in a trail of scented cigarette smoke and Chanel No. 5.

“Hey!” Starsky grabbed for an arm but missed. “Sugar, the address!”

“But you’re the detective, darling. Try Yellow Pages.”

“Let your fingers do the walking,” Hutch muttered, a reluctant grin widening his mouth. “You gotta admit, she’s got a helluva line in parting shots.”

“Huh,” Starsky growled. “One of these days I’m gonna forget my manners and deck a lady. C’mon, Detective.”

*****

George Smith was a tall stooped man in his late forties. Lank black hair flopped over a high pale forehead, and hot brown eyes glittered as he approached the detectives. There was a febrile energy in him that they immediately saw and recognized. On uppers, hyper, and therefore unpredictable. Which could work for them as well as against them. “Poke a stick into the anthill and see which way the toad jumps,” Hutch whispered.

“Yeah — huh?”

“Forget it.”

“You guys interested in anything in particular?” Smith began.

“Yeah,” Starsky said. “Homemade video movies,” and put his badge under the man’s nose.

The toad took off like an Olympic sprinter, heading for the back of the store. Hutch lunged after him, and Starsky whirled, diving for the street door and the side alley. Knowing that the escape route would be cut off by his partner, Hutch crashed through the swinging doors in Smith’s wake, hounding him close, and as they erupted into the alley, threw himself forward in a sliding tackle, his weight slamming into Smith with crashing force.

Both men went down. Hutch rolled to his feet, reaching for his gun, but Smith was not about to give up. Flailing around on the garbage-strewn ground, his hand closed on broken glass. Blood ran red through his fingers as he gripped it, but he didn’t seem to feel the pain. On his back, he lashed out, and Hutch didn’t leap back fast or far enough. The jagged edge scalded like a thin line of acid down the side of his leg from knee to ankle, and he almost fell. At the same time, Starsky thrust past him, and a sneaker connected with Smith’s jaw, snapping his head back, putting him out.

“Hutch?” Starsky said as he slapped cuffs on the prisoner.

“S’okay. Just a cut,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Probably looks worse than it is.”

“Yeah, sure.” Starsky hauled off his belt, wrapped it above Hutch’s knee and pulled it tight. “But you don’t have to be kosher on my account, lover.”

Hutch didn’t answer. Denim and flesh had been opened up, and blood had soaked his leg even in the short time before Starsky’s first-aid. It hurt like hell, and he could not quite convince himself that it was not as bad as it looked.

“Siddown,” Starsky instructed. “Keep your weight off it, and don’t move. I’ll get the ambulance.”

*****

Within a couple of hours, Homicide and Vice had Smith’s merchandise.

“I think we’ve seen enough, Starsky,” Dobey said flatly. “With the other charges, there’s enough here to send him down the river for a good long time.”

Starsky hit the rewind button on the VTR and the TV screen went mercifully blank.

“Quite a collection,” Captain Schwartz murmured, looking at the stacked cassettes still in the carton. Starsky slid the ejected tape back into the protective sleeve, feeling an unprofessional yearning to rip the casing open and try to erase the recorded images by destroying them. He still felt slightly nauseous, even if he’d stopped actually watching the screen after the first couple of minutes. “Good job, Sergeant. Good clean bust.”

“Thank you, sir.” Starsky said neutrally. If Vice were on the ball, they’d have put a stop to Smith’s games sooner. He stomped on the unworthy thought. It wasn’t true, anyway. “You need me any more, Cap? I got reports to finish.”

“Get to it,” Dobey told him gruffly. “Oh — what did the hospital say?”

“I’m picking him up when I’m through here. But he won’t be back to work for a while.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds like we’ll have to rethink our side of the Benedic’s plan. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

*****

As it happened, the Summit Conference about Benedic’s had to be postponed still another day, since arraignment and pre-trial hearings required Starsky’s presence. With the usual paraplegic snail’s pace, the Wheels of Justice kept him kicking his heels until late even then; he didn’t make it back to Metro until almost eight. Duplessis and Dobey were already running through the DuCann scenario. Both glanced up as Starsky came in.

“How’s Hutch?” was Duplessis’ first question.

“Twenty-five stitches and griping about it like hell,” Starsky said. “No way is he gonna be fit to go undercover, Cap. He can’t even walk far for at least a week. Can’t have a gigolo with a limp.”

“A limp what?” Duplessis asked disingenuously. Both Starsky and the Captain ignored him.

“Well, you’re our second string, Starsky. Think you can handle it?”

Starsky leaned back in his chair. “Benedic’s is the easy side. Duplessis’ the one in the hot seat.”

“It is? I mean — I am?”

“Can it, you two. Starsky, I don’t know how much work you and Hutch have done on his cover, but if it’s possible to use some of it –”

“We got Huggy calling in a few favors, I’ll let him know the change, see what else he can come up with.”

“Right. Oh, by the way, you did a good job on Duplessis.”

Duplessis grinned under the casually-styled sun-streaked mane. ‘Our Alexandrian Look’ Carmine had called it. “Sal hates it,” he said. “But I think maybe I could get used to it.”

“She knows you’re going undercover?”

“Yessir. But I haven’t told her details. What she doesn’t know –”

“– she can’t fret about.” Starsky nodded. “Goes with the territory, Dave.”

*****

The next few days were so hectic that Starsky was unable even to visit with Hutch, a situation that was fast becoming intolerable. The phone calls snatched in the infrequent breaks of the days were not enough, and Hutch, denied outside distractions, was fast becoming terminally bored by his unwanted leisure.

Jaqi dropped by twice en route to or from work, picked up groceries for him and collected his laundry. He was grateful. When she suggested the Friday night dinner date, offering to fix dinner, he accepted. He was unlikely to be otherwise engaged, with things as they were.

Starsky, informed of the arrangement during a fast phone call, seemed to have no objection. None that he voiced openly, anyway. Until Friday evening, that is.

“I’m bored,” Hutch greeted his partner as he walked into the apartment. Starsky grinned.

“I was gonna ask how you were doin’. Guess that says it all. Here y’go — these were delivered downstairs.” He deposited a package and some assorted mail on the coffee-table, stood there with his hands wedged into his pockets. “When’s she arriving?”

“When she gets here.”

“I better not hang around, then. Listen, how about I come over tomorrow and fill you in? On the case?”

“Look forward to it,” Hutch said.

“‘Kay. Be good, huh?” A parting injunction, and the apartment was Hutch’s again, and empty without Starsky. Hutch picked up the package, opened it. The Book-of-the-Month Club finally struck lucky. Renaissance Art. He opened it at random. Glossy full-color illustrations tempted the eye, and he became engrossed.

Since Starsky had left only minutes before, Hutch did not expect to see him re-enter.

“Forget something?” he queried, glancing up from the Sistine Chapel frescoes.

“Uh-uh. You might say I remembered something,” Starsky said, crossing purposefully to the couch, kneeling beside it, and reaching for the zipper of Hutch’s fly. “Like it’s been five days, lover.” The smile was brilliant.

“Starsk — what are you — hey, I got a date tonight –” Hutch protested, but it was at best half-hearted. The clever hands, the mischievous grin, the sheer presence of Starsky, were doing things to his pulse-rate.

“You just stood her up,” Starsky said softly, unsnapping the waistband of Hutch’s jeans and easing them over his hips. “Better call her. S’only fair. Before I’m through with you, you won’t have nothin’ left for anyone else, babe.” He laughed up into Hutch’s bemused face. “Go on. Call her.” And as Hutch reached for the phone, punched out the number, Starsky bent his head to tease the growing erection with lips and tongue.

“Uh, Jaqi? Ken. Look, honey, I’m not gonna make it tonight. Something’s come up –”

“You’d better believe it,” Starsky chuckled. Hutch managed to cover the mouthpiece in time to stifle his own gasp of pleasure as the lapping tongue discovered sensitized flesh.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” he hissed. “Uh, yeah, Jaqi. Sure. Some other time. I’ll call you.”

He fumbled the receiver back onto the cradle and groaned as Starsky devoted his full attention to the matter in hand. “OhgodStarsk — don’t stop –” He felt the soundless chuckle, and his body arched in response. Five days. It’s been five days. Is that all? He was as desperate for this loving as if it had been five months. His hands tangled in the dark curls, guiding where no guidance was needed. “Starsk — I can’t wait.” He moaned the words. “Please, lover — c’mon now, ohgodIcan’twait –”

But Starsky plainly didn’t mean for it all to be over too soon. He changed his field of operations, staying in control of the situation. Hutch was his to control, hips bucking, twisting in the cushioned softness of the couch, shuddering, then crying out as the exquisite spasm of release shook him.

“Figure I know what you like now, lover mine,” Starsky whispered, and kissed him, stroking the sweat-dampened hair back from the wide brow. His mouth tasted salt. “Can you make it to the bed? The couch is kinda cramped for what I got in mind.”

“I’m not completely crippled, idiot,” Hutch said. “Give me a hand up, willya.” And with Starsky as a more than willing crutch, he managed the few short strides to the bed, sprawled there and enjoyed the luxury of having Starsky strip him.

Lying naked then on the cool sheets, he watched Starsky, lazily cherishing the sight of him, lean and tan and fully aroused. Contact came at last, skin sliding silken over skin, with Starsky’s hands on him, easing him into position, stroking.

“You got a tan line, babe.”

“Mmmm… Sorry ’bout that… ”

“You’re beautiful.” Starsky’s soft voice had a reverence as well as the throaty purr of desire. “So beautiful… Golden cougar… Are you ready for me yet?”

“You know what happened the last time you played games like this,” Hutch warned, gasping. Warm breath brushed his nape, and teeth nipped his shoulder.

“I remember. But if I’m the noisiest screw in L.A., you’re gonna run me a close second, boy.”

He closed his eyes, letting sensation take him flying, and rubbed himself against his lover like a cat. “Yeah?”

“You bet. I’m going to fuck you right into the ground.”

The first thrust was unendurable pleasure-pain and he sobbed aloud, surrendering to the torrent of feeling as Starsky took possession of him, body and soul. Floodtide swept him onward, strong hands gripped him, measured thrusts slid deep, impaling him on pinnacles of ecstasy, climbing high, higher, until every breath was a moan. His body was beyond his control, moving involuntarily to demand more, insatiable, writhing, his voice a breath-gone chant — ohdearGod, harder — harder, lover — lover NOW —

Dimly, half a world away, he heard himself scream.

*****

“Toldya…” Starsky whispered into his neck. “Y’re just as noisy as me.”

“Bastard,” Hutch mumbled. His eyes were closed, arms wrapped around his partner, a comfortable tangle of limbs on the dusk-shadowed bed, warm bronze and dull gold.

“The hell you say. You loved it.” The soft words fluttered against the skin of his throat. “You could still make your date with whatsername.” A hand trailed idly down his flank. “Or you could tell her forget the dinner, we’ll just play troy games.”

“That’s the kinkiest idea I ever heard. You don’t mean it.”

“No, I don’t. I’m not gonna share you. She’ll have to watch.”

“That’s even kinkier. I’m not having you corrupt my lady, Starsk.”

“She’s good, huh? But you don’t kiss’n’tell, do you, Hutch? Does she drive you out of your skull with the things she does to you?” Hutch felt the shudder run the length of Starsky’s body, the hand clenching on his thigh, heard the husky whisper change helplessly. “Hutch — ah, Hutch, I want you again…”

“Sshh. My turn.” Gently, Hutch moved against him, over him, hands caressing, his mouth capturing Starsky’s, tasting, drinking deep of his need, intoxicated by him. He held his lover a willing prisoner as he traced the patterns of seduction on the lean body, drawing away a little for the joy of having Starsky reach for him. “Beg for it…” Exulting in the power he had, hearing the breathless pleading urge him on, he pinned Starsky beneath him so that he could watch the transfiguration in the beloved face at the onrush of orgasm.

*****

Sometime afterwards, “Too heavy for you?” Hutch asked.

“No. Stay there.”

“Starsk?”

“Mmmm?”

“Why’d you come back? I mean, you knew I was supposed to be seeing Jaqi.”

“Guess I was jealous,” Starsky confessed. “Oh, yeah, I know, Hutch, but when we talked this all out, before we came back, it was different. Then was then, and now is now.”

“Theory is different from practice.”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. Hutch shifted sideways. “Starsk. Are you saying you want us to give up girls?”

“No! I mean — hell, Hutch, I don’t know –”

Propping himself on one elbow, Hutch looked down into Starsky’s face. Even in the darkness, he could see the frown-line that speared between the heavy brows. “David. Tell me what you do want.” A rush of tenderness swept him, and he kissed the furrow of tension. “I love you. You know that. If you want proof –”

“You just said the most important thing, Hutch.”

“No. Listen to me. I’ve been this route before. With Van, I didn’t know what it meant. Now I do. If you want it this way, I can say it for you, David, and mean it — ‘forsaking all others –‘”

Slender fingers sealed his lips. “Don’t, Hutch. Don’t make promises I can’t keep.” Starsky’s voice was shaking slightly, sure sign of emotional distress. “We don’t need that. It’s just that I’m a selfish bastard, and possessive as hell, and if you didn’t know that already, you do now.”

“Let’s say it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise.”

“Okay.” There was a short silence. Then, “Hutch. Does Jaqi know about us?”

He had been waiting for this question for a while now, but now when it came he was unprepared for it. “Yes. I told her.” No response. “I should have talked to you about it first, I know, found out how you felt about her knowing, but –”

“No big deal,” Starsky said quickly. “She’s not the first. Hug knows. There’ll be others, sooner or later.”

But that was surface reasoning, not the way he felt, and Hutch knew it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And Starsky’s breath caught on a sound like a sob, his arms tightening painfully around Hutch. “A selfish bastard. I told you.”

“But lovable,” Hutch murmured, and kissed him. “I take it you’re not going home tonight?”

“You throwin’ me out, schweetheart?” Laughter threaded the growl, to Hutch’s relief.

“Go to sleep,” Hutch commanded, mock-sternly. Starsky relaxed into his arms with a sigh of drowsy content. “I’ll throw you out in the morning. Schweetheart…”

 

Chapter XV

Dave Duplessis stood and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The difference brought about by the sun-streaks and the styling was amazing. The clothes helped, of course. He hadn’t worn some of this stuff for years, and some was brand new, but it wasn’t his style. No way. It was thankfully less obvious than a hustler’s outfit, but even so, he looked like the Great American Gigolo.

Goes with the badge, and like that. He gave his forelock a flick and turned from the mirror. Exit Dave Duplessis, cop. Enter Denny DuCann — job description? Escort. Neat euphemism. He tried to control the frisson of excitement that tingled in his gut. First real undercover assignment with the LAPD, and a milestone in his career. He hoped he could pull it off. He had the best back-up man there was, anyway. Didn’t need Dobey or Starsky to tell him that.

Right on cue, the doorbell of his new cover apartment chimed. Duplessis carefully adjusted the mask of his persona and opened the door, to let the facade slip instantly. “Oh, hi, Starsky. Thought you were one of the new neighbors dropping by to borrow a cup of sugar or something.”

Starsky pushed the door to behind him. “Didn’t they teach you Lesson One in Sierra County? Don’t let your cover slip in public. Yours or your team-mates’. You could just have blown it — if anyone had been around. Remember, the name is Stewart, not Starsky.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Okay.” Starsky, hands in pockets, was wandering around the little apartment. “Yeah. Neat place. You payin’ weekly or monthly?”

“Weekly. Dobey said –”

“I know.” Starsky opened the refrigerator, peered inside. “Christ. Yogurt?”

“I like it.”

“You’re as bad as Hutch. He breeds the stuff. When’s your interview?”

“Tomorrow at two.” He tried for a short laugh. “I’m kinda nervous about it.”

“Don’t be. It won’t hurt.”

“Yeah, but…” Duplessis trailed off. He had a lot of questions he wanted to ask, things he needed to talk out and discuss. Hutch wasn’t going undercover, and right now wasn’t available. “Starsky. Can we talk?”

“What about?” The aimless perambulation continued, Starsky tracing an idle finger along the piecrust carved edge of the dresser, picking up the glass hemisphere of the paperweight Duplessis had placed on display, squinting at the blown design trapped within.

“The job. The case. How we handle it. Just — talk, you know?”

“So talk.”

I wish you’d quit fidgeting, Duplessis thought, irritated, then realized that Starsky was probably just as nervous as he was himself, which made him feel better. “Look, I guess I just need…” He didn’t know what he did need. Or he didn’t know how to put it into words. “How do you handle it?”

Starsky turned the paperweight between his fingers, the smooth sphere catching the light. “‘Moondancer,'” he said, reading the base. “It’s beautiful.”

“Sally gave it to me. Our first anniversary.” He felt a twinge of homesickness. It wasn’t that Sal didn’t understand what he had to do, and it wasn’t the first time. But he’d miss her. “Starsky, how far do I have to go? I was thinking, last night –” Jeez, he sounded like a raw rookie in his own ears.

“Lie back and enjoy it.” The tone was distinctly hostile. “For God’s sake, kid, you’re not playing ‘Postman’ — if the agency takes you on, you’ll be escorting lonely ladies and sometimes screwin’ them. So they may not look like Bo Derek or Brooke Shields — close your eyes and pretend, if you can’t get it up any other way.”

Duplessis didn’t expect that much of a put-down. Okay, he could have phrased it better, but — “You’re not married,” he said shortly. Starsky stared at him, and Duplessis couldn’t read his expression. “I don’t like cheating on Sal, that’s all.” It wasn’t all, it wasn’t anything like it, but he suddenly knew he couldn’t tell the truth to this cold-eyed stranger. Couldn’t vocalize his fear of the unknown, the twilight world of homosexuality, of the false colors he would be flaunting.

“Then tell Dobey and get yourself off this case.” Starsky didn’t raise his voice, but his eyes blazed. “We don’t have time to fuck around with your adolescent scruples, Duplessis. You know the score. So either you do the job, or butt out.”

Well, he’d deserved that, Duplessis reflected. He began to wish he’d never started this.

“I want to stay on the case, and I’m gonna do whatever I damn-well have to.” He met the anger with his own brand of mulish stubbornness. “I just thought –”

“Yeah. Write to Dear Abby. Go to confession. Whatever.” He drew a deep breath. “No. I’m sorry. That was — I guess I’m kinda antsy, too.”

Duplessis shrugged. “You’re human.”

“Really. Listen, if you’ve got any doubts about whether or not you can follow through, now’s the time to tell ’em. Dobey won’t put you down for being honest about it. Better now than later. You talked to Hutch about this?”

“No.”

“Don’t.” Concise advice. “He’s your contact, not your wailing wall.”

“Hey. I’m not that dumb!”

Starsky grinned suddenly. “Right. I better go, anyhow. Just stopped by to say good luck.”

“You too,” Duplessis said, but Starsky was gone.

*****

So what’s biting your ass? It was a question Starsky was asking himself too often, and he wasn’t liking any of the answers. Suddenly he was ultra-sensitive, seeing difficulties out of proportion, jumping at shadows. Why? The case?

Granted, he’d been on the sick-list for too long. He was rusty, needed to get back into the swing. Oh, it wasn’t any kind of test, no one was keeping score. Only himself.

No need to bite the kid’s head off.

Duplessis had unknowingly touched a nerve. “You’re not married,” he’d said. Legally, that was true. ‘A bachelor gay.’ Well, they hadn’t meant it in that context. Emotionally, mentally, even physically, all the ways that counted, he was married. Had been for years, but hadn’t known it. Hutch was his mate, his life-companion, his partner and his lover.

If that isn’t a marriage, what is?

Not for us the chuppah, the canopy; the wineglass broken underfoot. “If I forget thee, o Jerusalem…”

But that dream of a wedding had never been truly his own. A transplant from his mother and aunts. A graft that hadn’t quite taken.

How many of those Jewish princesses did they parade out for me like fillies for a stallion? Until I got drafted, went away, and came back a different man. And still they tried. “When are you going to settle down, bubeleh? Find yourself a nice girl…”

I tried.

“I’m getting married, Momma. Her name’s Terry. She’s a lovely lady. You’ll like her.”

“A shiksa, Davey?”

But that didn’t happen for us. And they buried my shiksa with the bullet still in her brain.

His mind experimented with another scenario.

“I’ve fallen in love, Momma.”

“Ah, Davey, that’s wonderful! But not another little shiksa?”

“No, Momma. A shaygetz. A blintz. I’m in love with Hutch.”

His imagination supplied no answer to that, except an echo of his own voice, on the return from Vegas only months ago, after Nicky’s blow-up. “I knew it’d kill Momma if she found out.”

With me and Hutch, it’s different. No comparisons at all. But will she see it like that? Can she?

*****

Hutch was waiting in one of the back booths at the Pits. He looked up and smiled as Starsky slid into the seat opposite. “Hi, babe. How y’doin’?”

“Okay. I can’t stay long. How’s the leg?”

“Nearly functional. Still stiff, though.”

“Uh-huh.” Standard responses. His eyes were hungry for the look of his lover, the pale gleam of his hair in the dimness, the love shining from him like sunlight. Starsky could almost feel the lonely aching part of himself uncurling, opening up like a flower to absorb it. “Huggy, how about a couple of beers over here?”

“You’ve seen Duplessis?”

“Yeah. He’ll do.”

“Your place fixed up?”

“Sherwood Court. A condo down at the Marina.”

“Sounds fancy.” Hutch accepted the beer Huggy put in front of him. “How about the rest of the cover?”

“All set. Stuck more or less to the original ideas we worked out. I signed on for an extension course at UCLA this morning.” He paused, took a drink. “How does Classical Literature grab you?”

Hutch blinked. “I was going to try for ‘Human Relationships’. Can I ask why that?”

“Liked the sound of it. And the course syllabus looked pretty interesting.”

“Tell me about it.”

All we have to do is reach out. Did I say that? You were wiser. We sit here, only inches apart, making polite noises — and I can’t touch you, or say what I want to say.

Stifling a sigh, Starsky took out the folded paper, passed it over. “I skipped a lot of this stuff in high school. I thought I could find out what I missed.” Their fingers touched as Hutch took it, and the brief contact seemed to burn clean through him. Is it always going to be like this? he thought in stupefied wonder. A look, a touch — spark to tinder.

Hutch only glanced at the printed sheet. “Your interview is this evening.”

“Yeah. At seven. Hug’s been workin’ overtime on the new background.”

“I know. It’s pretty near watertight. How about after? You got anything planned?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“Where and when?” Starsky dropped his voice instinctively.

“I’ll meet you. At the Miramar, say?”

“What time?”

“I’ll be there from seven-thirty.” Just for a moment, his hand closed over Starsky’s. “See you then. Take care.”

*****

The interview for the escort service position was conducted from the start as if he were applying for an executive post in some multinational corporation. He presented his credentials at the front office, which was all glass and chrome and just one of several dozen companies leasing office-space, then was sent up to the eighth floor. The reception area there was spacious, plant-populated, and gave a tinted but splendid panoramic view over the Pacific.

They ran the organization like well oiled clockwork. His interview with the Director, O.F. Searls, was scheduled for seven. It was seven exactly when the receptionist ushered him into the office.

Starsky was not by nature a chauvinist. But in the LAPD, where women rarely rise above the rank of lieutenant, he was unused to seeing a female boss. The woman seated in the big leather chair behind the desk, however, looked as if she could be the match of any man.

Dragon Lady, he thought. There was that air of cool, diamond-hard efficiency about her. And a very considerable femininity. Sleek black hair was drawn back onto a loose knot, not a wisp out of place. It wouldn’t dare. Her eyes were dark, too, behind the tinted Dior lenses. The smile was professional, no warmth behind it. She wore tailored bottle-green silk in a Chanel jacket, a single gold-set diamond pin over the left breast. There were no rings on the narrow hands. O.F. Searls looked like a lady who was very much in charge.

And she’s not gonna buy a snowjob just because I got a pretty smile.

“Mr. Stewart.” She stood up, offered her hand. He took it, feeling perhaps he ought to bow over it and click his heels. “Please sit down. This is Mr. Munro, my Personal Assistant. Can we get you a drink?”

“Scotch, thank you. On the rocks.” Starsky took the chair she indicated, nodding at the man sitting a little way behind the Director. He seemed to have perfected the art of self-effacement to the extent that he might have been invisible. It was he who brought the drinks — Starsky’s Scotch and what looked like a tonic-water for his boss — before retiring to his spectator position again.

“You come to us very well recommended, Mr. Stewart — or may I call you David?” The smile was brilliant, calculated to make him feel not quite at ease. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you left Miami?”

Huggy’s Florida contacts must have gone overboard.

“Change of scene,” he shrugged. “To be honest, it’s all college-kids down there now. I thought I could do better for myself out here.”

“You don’t mind my saying you’re a little past the age for this kind of work?”

Starsky raised one eyebrow. “Maturity has to count for something.”

“Indeed.” She smiled again. “And with Benedic’s it does. Tell me a little about yourself, David.”

It had seemed the best idea to stick to the truth as far as was possible, so Stewart differed from Starsky only after the return from ‘Nam. He had had a variety of jobs, most of them borderline legal — but had no police record. He was taking a course at UCLA, and enjoyed a lifestyle that needed more money than he could earn from casual labor.

“Amateur playboy,” she commented.

“Looking to go pro.” He tried the smile, and thought she thawed slightly.

“I think we may be able to offer you a position, David,” she said, closing the file on her desk decisively. “Two weeks on a probationary basis. Would that suit you?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Very good. Mr. Munro will see to the details.” She stood up, the interview plainly over. “I hope you’ll enjoy working for Benedic’s, David.”

*****

It was past eight when the cab pulled up outside the Miramar — Hutch was waiting as promised, the blue Dodge parked where he could watch the movements of the clientele. Starsky walked across, slid into the passenger-seat.

“How’d it go?”

“Felt like I was auditioning for ‘Chorus Line’ or something.” He grinned. “Almost expected them to ask if I could tap-dance.”

“And can you?’

“Like Gene Kelly.”

“What else.” Hutch pulled out into traffic, apparently aiming for the Pacific Coast Highway. Starsky checked the following cars for several minutes, but it didn’t seem they were being tailed.

“We goin’ anywhere in particular?” he asked at last.

“Why? You in any hurry?”

“You could say that,” Starsky murmured. His fingers touched the back of Hutch’s neck above the collar, where the hair curled fine and soft. “Unless we find somewhere to park, and use the backseat.”

“That’s –”

“– gross? I know.”

*****

“Who was it said we’re not crazy, empty-headed kids?” Starsky wondered aloud. Hutch mumbled something against his neck. “What?”

“You did,” Hutch said, rolling onto his back. The room was growing dark now, the familiar shapes of Hutch’s apartment benevolent shadows. “On the beach, when we were talking about what it’d be like back in L.A.”

“And I was wrong.” The hunger sated, at least for the moment, he felt more relaxed than he had all day. Hell, all week. “I haven’t been like this since I was eighteen.”

“Me neither. And I didn’t like quickies any more then.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be dumb. I couldn’t hold out either.”

“I just –”

A rustle, and Hutch was leaning over him, hands cupping his face. Voice gentle. “Hey, it’s okay, lover. I know. I’m part of this too, remember?”

The need to hold and be held, unchanged, undimmed. He squeezed his eyes shut, the intensity of love painful. A touch, warm and soothing, traced the lineaments of his face, skin and tissue, cheekbones, jawline, throat, then rested on the pulse beating between his collarbones. Last time we can be like this until the case is over. However long that takes. Last time. Last time.

“I love you,” he whispered desperately. And still could not say what he wanted, give voice to his fear. How can I live without you? How did I ever live? Having known this glory, how can I exist on the light of common day?

Days. Weeks. Maybe more. Living apart. Can’t even see each other. No contact except possibly-tapped phone calls. Not enough. It never was, even before. You think I don’t know how it was for you when I was in the hospital? Dying. I know. Dope couldn’t kill that pain, because it wasn’t physical. Drinking didn’t make it go away, either, did it? But you found a — substitute — in Jaqi. Methadone.

Now — we’re mainlining. Hooked.

Terminal addiction.

Help me make it through the night.

“It’s going to be all right, babe,” Hutch said quietly. “You can handle it.”

“Mindreader.”

“Just one of my many talents. I guess it’s too much to hope you could stay here for the night?”

“I’m supposed to be back at Sherwood Court. Don’t tempt me.”

Easy enough, to smile now. Even to laugh. Hutch believes in me. Believes I can do what I have to. I can’t let him down. Won’t.

*****

It was easier than Starsky’s pessimism had allowed him to expect, mainly because he was able to keep busy, without spare time to think. The days were the most fun, something else that was a surprise, because he’d long since lost the discipline of study, and was prepared to have problems in that respect. It wasn’t so. After the first unsureness, he found he was looking forward to the coming days’ lectures more and more. He wasn’t out of place in the class; he wasn’t even the oldest there. And a new world was slowly unfolding itself to his eyes.

The professor, Morgan Lewis, was a man in love with his subject. It was infectious. He began at the beginning, with the Epic of Gilgamesh, and three days of that just about blew Starsky’s mind. It was all there, and he’d never known — a story as old as civilization itself. Two who had challenged even the gods in their bonds of friendship and love.

… the axe at my side,
My hand’s strength, the sword in my belt,
The shield before me,
A glorious robe, my fairest ornament…

A love-song, a lament echoing down four thousand years. Starsky had gone through the rest of that day in a trance. We’re not alone. He wanted to share his discovery with Hutch, but since he couldn’t, he wrote it down. There would be time, later. He didn’t want to forget it.

The theme of sacred friendship, running like a golden thread through the ancient epics of war and death and the gods, at times took on such a personal note that he felt the poets were speaking to him alone, that the message had been hidden then for him to find now. His and Hutch’s love was a Rosetta Stone, a cipher holding the key to understanding something so deep and fundamental that he could marvel that it had taken so long for him to see it.

We’re not the first, Hutch. Funny, it felt like that to us — but maybe it always does. And it doesn’t matter that the path we take others have walked before us. The best company, babe. Wait till I tell you. A Roll of Honor.

No one will ever make songs about us. But even so — we belong.

Somehow that made Hutch part of his days. He didn’t know how. But it helped.

The evenings, he was busy too. Benedic’s didn’t believe in breaking a guy in easy. In ten days, all but one of the evenings had been booked for him. Munro had made sure that he was correctly outfitted, advised him to have his hair trimmed, and concocted a fictitious ‘background’ for him that showed the man had a flair for creative writing, should he ever want out of the escort business. Starsky got a look at it when his photograph was required for the book, by which time he’d been given to understand that his probationary period had been satisfactory. David Stewart was on Benedic’s payroll.

It wasn’t hard work. Some of it was pretty tedious, some totally incomprehensible. Some of it might even have been enjoyable, once upon a time. The ladies were all of a kind, wealthy with time on their hands, and mostly in their later years. The oldest of Stewart’s ‘dates’ was the matriarch of a prominent political family, old enough to be his grandmother and almost completely deaf. He was less her escort for the evening than someone to help her in and out of cars, seats, up and down steps. She ordered him about unmercifully, as she did everyone, but tipped generously. She’d been pleased, and it seemed she wasn’t alone in that. And so far, it had been just what the public face of the agency offered — all look but no touch.

There was, as yet, little to report when he called Hutch. But the calls were a lifeline, and he found ways of saying the important things without putting them into words.

I love you. I miss you.

Then, a breakthrough. It didn’t come in the way he’d expected — if he’d expected any way. He was given no briefing for the booking, unusual in itself, no hint if she required an escort for the opera, or a party, or what. No clue — only a name, Marina Thorne, and an address in Malibu.

He knew why he was there as soon as she opened the door. She was younger than his previous customers, late thirties, maybe, and sleekly high-boned beautiful. She looked him over, from head to foot, impersonally, the way she might judge a horse or bloodstock, gave a short nod, and said, “Let’s not waste time, David. No talking, no pretty words. I bought myself a stud, not a poet.”

The customer is always right, he reminded himself, somewhat stunned.

And David Stewart had made it onto the bedroom circuit, too.

 

Chapter XVI

Two weeks as Denny DuCann were having their effect on Dave Duplessis. He could walk down Hyperion Avenue with confidence and without his spine prickling so bad he felt it must show through his shirt. He was walking a narrow line, however, and he knew it. His persona wasn’t a hustler, a cruiser. Or mustn’t look that way. Hidalgo didn’t like the hustler image. So far, they liked him. So far. He’d made a few contacts, but discovered nothing much of interest. More and more, he was coming to the realization that unless he was accepted by the gay side of the agency, he stood little chance of finding anything out. Though if he got on the list for one of the ‘party’ sessions, he was hardly likely to enjoy it, even if he survived.

He was due to meet with Hutch at the Coq d’Or, the latest and newest bar on Hyperion. He’d been there once already, with a boy from Hidalgo who seemed to know everything about everything, and who said the Coq d’Or was the place to be seen.

An awful lot of people wanted to be seen, by the looks of it, and Queen was playing loud enough to set up sympathetic vibrations in his teeth as he eased his way through the crowd to the back bar, which had the advantages of being a little quieter and a lot more intimate. The black-clad blond man looked up as Duplessis slid onto the stool beside him. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s okay. You’re here now.” He felt the swift glance of appraisal as Hutch checked him out. “Worth waiting for. Drink?”

“Thanks.”

Hutch got the barman’s attention. “Vodka on the rocks, with a twist. Twice. Okay, Denny?”

“Fine,” Duplessis agreed, glancing at the clientele without being too obvious about it. They fitted in well, he and Hutch. If it came to that, Hutch was possibly the best-looking guy there, he thought. The blond hair was silvery silk, contrasting with the gleaming black leather of his jacket.

“Your drink,” Hutch said again, patiently, and sotto voce, “Keep it up. You’re doin’ good.”

“Thanks, Hu — Ken.”

“Really.” Hutch was grinning at him. “You want to dance?”

“Do I — we — have to?” The crush out there was daunting.

“No. But we’ll fit in better with the customers if we do.”

“Raincheck,” Duplessis hedged, and took a gulp of the vodka. As he did so, a muscular individual straining the seams of a plaid shirt leaned confidentially close.

“Busy tonight? Maybe some other time, huh?” And a large hand stroked possessively over Duplessis’ denim-clad buttocks. Duplessis nearly choked. But before he could retaliate, Hutch’s hand closed on his arm like a vice, and a voice in his ear murmured: “Smile. He’s paying you a compliment.”

Duplessis swallowed hard, stitched on a beautiful smile, and turned it to his admirer. “Do that again, baby — and I’ll break your face,” he said sweetly. “I’m with someone, okay?”

The man’s doubletake was a classic, and Don Juan vacated the bar in a hurry, looking for easier targets. Hutch’s hand remained clamped to Duplessis’ arm, but the blue eyes were sparkling with amusement.

“You’re learning,” was all he said.

“Yeah, well, I have this crazy-jealous lover.”

“Right. I think we better dance. Looks like the best way of keeping you out of trouble.”

Dancing in the Coq d’Or didn’t differ much from dancing any place else, except that the dancers were entirely male, and the boogie a touch more explicit. Duplessis, in role, put everything he’d got into it. Besides, he enjoyed disco-dancing.

“Hey.” Hutch interrupted his train of thought. “You’re not supposed to be having a good time, remember?”

“Right.” He gave a rueful grin. “Better get on with it, I guess.”

“Whenever you’re ready, kid.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Duplessis gave an exaggerated sigh, and pouted, and Hutch swallowed his laughter. Obedient to instruction, ‘Denny’ started to cruise some of the other customers, and rather to his surprise, started getting cruised in return. He was getting noticed, which was what he was here for. This was Hutch’s cue to play the jealous lover, and they kept up the act for the duration of the time they were in the bar. The place to be: to see and be seen. And if word got back to Hidalgo, so much the better.

An hour later, Hutch slumped into a chair in Duplessis’ Silverlake apartment, massaging his temples. “You got any aspirin?”

“Sure. My ears are still ringing, too.”

“I thought it was just me gettin’ old.” Hutch took the pills, washed them down with the coffee Duplessis made. “One thing for sure, that place is no use for passing on any info. Anything new?”

“Not much. But I’m seeing Mr. Sutcliffe in the morning. According to Skip — he’s the one says the Coq d’Or is Hidalgo’s shop-window — Sutcliffe is the man who organizes the gay side.”

“Which could mean someone’s noticed you. Good. Maybe it’s a break for the good guys.”

Duplessis grinned, perching himself on the edge of the breakfast bar. “Right, I’ll call you as soon as I get away, set up a date.”

“Yeah. Somewhere quiet, huh?”

“You got it. Hey, I know this isn’t exactly relevant, but that Belle Vue is one hell of a place.”

“The conference center?”

“That’s what I thought. Tuesday night, I found out different.” He shook his head reminiscently. “Hutch, if Sal ever finds out about that side of the job, it will be a fast divorce.”

“I won’t tell her if you don’t,” Hutch said, and caught himself on a yawn. “Sorry. I’m whipped.”

“You want to stay over? I can crash on the couch.”

“No thanks, I — oh, hell, it’s a long drive back to Venice. And we might as well enhance your cover. You got yourself a roomie.”

*****

If there ever was a stereotyped gay, Duplessis thought, Sutcliffe was it. He looked, spoke, acted like the Queen of the West Coast. If it was a facade, it was a clever one. In fact, if it was a facade, the man deserved an Oscar for acting ability. The man didn’t walk, he minced.

“Denny — a pleasure. Truly.” Even the voice was an affectation. A limp paw curled weakly into Duplessis’ hand and let go again. “Do sit down. Drink? Oh, you have one already, that’s good. Now, suppose you tell me all about yourself.”

“I already did this scene,” Duplessis said, looking mildly bored. “When I got the job. Mr. Allison said you liked my record, wanted to discuss something with me.”

“Mmm. We are blunt and to the point, aren’t we?” He sounded arch, but irritated.

“Time is money. Y’know?” Duplessis almost successfully concealed a fake yawn, and saw Sutcliffe’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Oh. Quite. That’s the right attitude. You come very highly recommended, Denny. By one of our most respected clients. Mr. Ellis thinks very highly of you. But tell me — do you have anyone – special?” Delicately phrased.

“There’s one guy I see pretty much on a regular basis. Why?”

“Just ascertaining a few facts. You know we have a market for that kind of entertainment in Hidalgo.”

“Yeah. You recruiting? What’s my cut?” That was definitely score one to Duplessis — he saw the swift readjustment in Sutcliffe’s face as he said it, jumping the gun.

“Your usual fifty per cent. With a bonus for — special duties.”

“Uh-huh. The kinky stuff. I’m not into that scene.”

Sutcliffe steepled his fingers and smiled. “You know the motto of Hidalgo Inc., Denny. ‘The customer is always right.’ Well, on the swinging side, we have another. ‘There’s nothing you can’t buy.’ It costs, naturally. But the bonus is your affair.”

Duplessis let himself look avaricious and interested. “You mean I get the whole package? Besides my usual cut? Just how kinky do I have to be?”

“Oh, it varies, of course. But you understand that our kind of clientele can’t just — cruise.” He made it sound like a dirty word. “It wouldn’t be politic. Or safe. We provide a service. If there’s anything you really won’t go for — well, then, we’ll see that you don’t get asked to do it. How does that sound?”

“Interesting.” And it was, in more ways than Sutcliffe could guess. “Can I think about it?”

“Well, of course, Denny. Just don’t take too long, hmm? I just know you’re going to be enormously popular.”

“Yeah,” said Duplessis. Villiers and Connery and Sandoval had no doubt been ‘enormously popular’ as well. “I’ll, uh, let you know as soon as I decide.”

“Do that,” Sutcliffe smiled at him. “I’ll look forward to you joining us, Denny.”

And Duplessis was able to smile warmly as Sutcliffe shook his hand again, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to go through any ‘audition’, thanks to Ellis’s co-operation.

He played it to the hilt when he called Hutch, and heard laughter in Hutch’s voice over the phone. “He must really have sold them on you, Dave.”

“Yeah. Sexiest thing since Al Pacino. Remind me to thank him sometime.”

Hutch chuckled. “Sure.”

“You heard anything from Starsk?”

There was a short silence. “Not a lot. Don’t worry, he won’t be stealing your thunder. He turned Benedic’s gay recruiter down.”

“Sutcliffe?”

“No. Someone named Corey. Different species of animal. Like a mako shark, Starsky said.”

“Terrific.”

“He also said to keep your ears open — Benedic’s are expecting a lot of custom in the near future, he’s been put on stand-by like the others, with no explanation why. You may be able to pick something up from one of your contacts.”

“Gotcha. Hell, I gotta split. See you later — tomorrow?”

*****

“Book the Versailles and the Tiberian.” Corey made a checkmark in his books. “The Catullus — Nichols and his party are down for that. That leaves Xanadu and Gauguin free at present. Now, available staff –”

Munro passed the clip-files across the desk. “They’re all on stand-by.”

“Good. Mr. Hart is already catered for. I’ll have Caldwell notify Borrows that he’ll be needed. That should satisfy Jules. Alex, however…” He turned the pages slowly. “Alex is no chicken-hawk, unlike Hart. But unlike Jules, he likes quality. And can pay for it. For Alex, we need something a little more mature. None of your fauns, this time.” He smiled at Sutcliffe. “Let me see. This one is new.”

“Stewart. Didn’t you check him out?”

“Oh, yes. Straight. It’s a pity, as Alex might go for that macho-type.” He studied the photograph and the ‘biography’ typed below. “This is for real?”

“The usual ten per cent. The clients love it. Eat him up. He’s one of Benedic’s prime cuts. A stud. Marina graded him A.”

“Really?” Corey’s right eyebrow climbed. “I think we’ll have to keep a close eye on Mr. Stewart. He could be a valuable asset to Benedic’s. One way or another.” He continued leafing through the files. “We have seven days, gentlemen. Let’s hope we can come up with something really special for our out-of-state guests.”

Board meetings at this level were not often called, unless circumstances dictated. As now. For nearly a year, the Principal had had his activities somewhat curtailed, and the news of a sudden deterioration in his health now called for more extreme measures than the rigmarole of arrest-trial-appeal. James Marshall Gunther’s eventual conviction and imprisonment had created something of a tidal wave throughout the occasionally stormy seas of the Affiliation, but the confederation had held because it was a useful and profitable arrangement. It was not so much a merging of territories under one chief, as an alliance between city-states under an elected head. No dues were paid, no allegiances bought or coerced, at least on the surface. It was for the benefit of all concerned. But Gunther was now in prison, and had suffered a stroke. There would be an election.

The entertainment of delegates, candidates, and their entourages became the responsibility of the host-group. Corey turned his attention to the venue of the meeting. Belle Vue would be entirely unsuitable, and was in any case to be used for some of the entertainment. Tadleigh Hall, up in the mountains, was his immediate alternative. The Great Hall of that pseudo-Gothic mansion would provide all the amenities required, and security was as tight as the latest intruder-surveillance could make it. He would put preparations in hand.

The main contenders for the throne were a mixed bunch, but Corey was clear in his own mind who should get it. The Vegas candidate had a public persona as spotless as that of the Principal had been, perhaps more so. At the same time, he possessed the ice-cool intelligence and ruthlessness that would enable him to take control of and hold the Affiliation together. If not now, then sooner or later.

Corey intended to rise with the Vegas connection. He did not have a vote, of course, but he had influence, and Alex was not one to forget his supporters. And he rewarded loyalty.

Corey smiled.

Another Alexander come to weld together the city-states and fashion for himself a latter-day Empire.

“Make sure Alex has the pick of the Books,” he said, and Munro’s eyebrows climbed.

“All of them?” he wanted to know. “Including the legit stables?”

“All of them,” said Corey, and smiled again.

*****

“Okay, Hotshot,” Jaqi called from the kitchen. “Specialty of the house. Pears Helene.”

“Sounds good,” Hutch smiled. “But does it go with Chicken Marengo?”

“Don’t be picky. Clear some of those dishes out of the way, huh?”

He obeyed, then poured more wine. “I really appreciate this, Jaqi,” he said as she came in with the dessert.

“So I should think. But if the Mountain can’t come to Mahomet, what else can a girl do but come over, lock, stock, and cordon blue. How’s Starsky doing? And Dave?”

“Okay. Both well settled in. Too early to expect anything, though.”

“Yes, of course. It’s only on TV that crimes get solved in an hour, with time out for commercial-breaks.”

“We should get so lucky. Heard anything from Delgado yet?”

“Sure I have.” She pulled an expressive face. “Two dozen roses and an invitation to join him and his wife on their yacht for a short cruise off Baja California.”

“Going to accept?”

“Don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.”

The conversation was a little stilted, as it had been all evening, and the reserve was on both sides. It was the first time they’d been alone together since he’d told her. Somehow it had been easier when Emma was around. Hutch tried to analyze his own feeling, but failed. Other thoughts got in the way, constant questions that had no answer. How’s Starsk making out? Does he miss me as much as I miss him? The loneliness was bad. He hated waking up in an empty bed. There was no substitute now for his absent companion.

Jaqi’s fingers were a light caress on the back of his hand. “Hey, why the blue look?” She smiled. “And relax, honey. You’ve been waiting for that damn phone to ring all evening. You’re off-duty, for God’s sake.”

“Not while Dave and Starsk are undercover,” he corrected. “I told you, they could call in anytime.”

“Fine. But why so edgy? Why so worried about Starsky? He’s fit enough or they would never have passed him. Or are you just missing having him around?”

He moved his hand away. “Why did you come over?” he asked quietly.

“I’m beginning to wonder,” she snapped. “I’m trying to be a friend, Ken, but I’m not cut out to be a fag-hag!”

Hutch stood up, the chair-legs grating on the floor. “You’d better leave now,” he said, ice in his voice. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Ken… I’m sorry,” Jaqi didn’t move. “That was a bitchy thing to say, and it’s untrue. It’s just that I do care about you, and I don’t want you to get hurt. And it makes me so mad when you won’t open your eyes and –”

“– see it your way?” he finished.

She smiled, meeting his eyes with a proud lift of the head. “Stupid, isn’t it?” she said wryly. “After all I’ve said about not trying to change your mind, always being a friend, being there whenever you need to talk. But it still stands, honey.” She left the table, reached for her jacket. Hutch picked it up, draped it across her shoulders. “You’re going to be lonely without him,” she said. “I’ll be around; no strings, only a friend.” Unexpectedly, she leaned forward, kissed his mouth with gentleness and promise. “Take care, lover.”

Before he could make any answer, the phone rang. He reached it in two swift strides. “Yeah?” aware of Jaqi standing by the couch, a sudden anxiety in her eyes.

“Hutch, I got a relation who wants to meet a faded soul-brother,” said Huggy. “Can you come over?”

“Uh, no, Hug. I’m on standby for Duplessis. Can you get here?”

“That might be kinda tricky. Y’see, the kid is skipping. He don’t want to stay any longer in L.A. than he has to, and he don’t want to spend that time traveling around. If you get my drift.”

“Someone’s looking for him?”

“No, but,” Hutch could almost hear the shrug, “he’s real scared.”

“Do your best. If he won’t, I’ll arrange something.”

“‘Kay. Call you back if it’s no deal.”

“Thanks, Hug.”

“I see what you mean about not being off duty,” Jaqi said as he put the phone down. “Another reason to make myself scarce. ‘Night, lover.”

“G’night.” He found he could smile at her. After all, their friendship wasn’t that fragile. “And thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Forget the A1 Bitch, please? But remember the rest.”

“I’ll do that.”

He walked her to her car, watched the tail-lights out of sight, and returned to the apartment. The untouched dessert still sat on the table, chocolate sauce congealing. But he hadn’t the stomach for it anyway. Instead he filled the percolator, sat and drank the wine. Remembering another unfinished meal. And Pinot Noir Blanc.

He had half-expected another call from Huggy, but it didn’t come. The doorbell rang, and Huggy was over the threshold as soon as the door was open enough to admit his lean frame. And behind him he towed a slender figure muffled in a light tan raincoat, collar turned up, hat pulled down.

“We’re on our way to the airport,” Huggy said, dropping onto the couch. There was an air of harassed exasperation about him. “One way ticket for one to Honolulu.”

“How long have you got?” Hutch asked.

“Couple of hours. Hey, man, I could kill for coffee.”

“It’s all ready. Why don’t you go fix it while your friend and I have our talk?”

“Sure. C’mon, nephew, take your coat off an’ relax. We ain’t goin’ anywhere for a while.”

“Nephew?” Hutch queried.

“Yeah. Two or three times removed. Hutch — Cinnamon. Cinnamon — Hutch.” Recalling one Primrose MacGregor, the detective did not blink.

“Hi,” said Cinnamon, tossing his hat aside and shrugging out of the coat. And Hutch did blink then. The boy was wearing a cream suede suit, the pale color emphasizing the darkness of his skin, and eyes like a startled fawn’s gazed up at Hutch. His hair might have been processed, or the loose curls natural, inherited along with the thin straight nose. Multiracial genes had come together to provide Cinnamon with an androgynous beauty, and the boy knew it.

“Stock in trade,” Huggy drawled. “Here’s your coffee, Hutch.”

“Thanks. Okay, Cinnamon, what do you know?”

“About what?” he said guardedly.

“Don’t be cute,” Huggy snapped. “I told you — this guy’s okay.”

“About the killings. Why don’t you sit down?”

“Yeah, well –” He perched on the edge of a chair. “Not so much. What I do know is Hidalgo caters for all tastes, an’ man, do I mean all. There ain’t nothin’ you can’t buy if you got the bread.”

“Did that include Chris Villiers, Drew Connery, Richie Sandoval?” Hutch asked.

A fine sweat sheened Cinnamon’s features. “Maybe. Jules, Jeff, Hart, they’re all into S&M. They buy, Hidalgo sells.”

“Connery didn’t work for them,” Hutch said.

“That don’t matter a damn. There’s a consortium of some kind. They run a pack of agencies and clubs: Hidalgo, Principe, Benedic’s, Pacific Escorts, Apollon –”

“Who do you work for?”

“Did. Hidalgo. They don’t know it yet, but I quit. Wrote ’em a letter, said a family emergency, hadta go home. Only they don’t know where home is.”

“These guys who buy — do you know of any links with the dead boys?”

“Richie turned Jeff down, I know that. He was straight. Happy to screw the ladies, but wouldn’t touch the gay side. Especially the rough stuff. I don’t know about Robin — Chris — and I never met Connery. Benedic’s like their merchandise to stay home nights when they’re not working. Very choosy about their bedroom service, an’ very discreet. Airtight security on it, too, man. Hidalgo are a little easier on the rein.”

“Those names, Jeff and the rest. You know any more about them?”

Cinnamon hesitated, took a drink to cover the pause. “Names I don’t know. Think they come from outside, up-state, or out-of-state. Big men. Important men, and not on the side of the angels, know what I mean?”

“Street bosses?”

“And then some. Can’t say about the other agencies, but Hidalgo runs a special service for — well, organized crime, I guess. They come to L.A. for conferences, conventions, and their wives or ladyfriends get to see the sights. Escorted by selected studs. Escort only. If the men are into gay, then Hidalgo provides for that as well.”

“There’s nothing you can’t buy if you’ve got the bread,” Hutch echoed softly.

“That’s right.” Cinnamon shrugged, stood up, wandering about the room. Uneasy and restless though he was, he moved with a liquid grace. “Including snuff parties. Hell, there’s always been guys who disappear — make their stake and take off. But when they start turning up dead, and that kind of dead, it’s time for this boy to take off as well. Before those freaks decide they want to try dark meat.”

“How long have you been in this business?”

“Nearly four years. Right now, I figure I can earn as much and more in Honolulu. Maybe start up my own, uh, escort agency.”

“Maybe you’ve got the right idea. Okay, Cinnamon. Let’s go over it again, and in more detail.”

*****

Hidalgo did not have a staff cafeteria, but it did have a lounge for those members of the working personnel who were on standby. Duplessis chose a glossy leather armchair in a corner of the room, and sprawled in it, his head buried in the Sports section of the L.A. Times. His attention was not on the baseball scores. Bobby Lewison called a casual greeting on his way to the coffee percolator on the small bar, pausing on the way to talk briefly to Paul Trent. Trent was a six-foot-four, dark-haired All-American Football Hero, straight as a die, and he dwarfed Bobby’s elfin slenderness. He was also not happy around gays, especially swishy gays, and Bobby was somewhat in awe of the ex-College star. Duplessis did not like Trent much, so when that gentleman’s personal bete noir made its appearance, Duplessis was hard put to control his grin of anticipation.

Skip Rogers boogied into the room with a small transistor radio pressed to one ear, white shirt open to the waist, white jeans so tight they might have been sprayed on, his silver blond hair bouncing in wild disarray about his head. The beautiful child-face was grinning with an unchildlike maliciousness.

“Paulie!” he shrieked. “Hey, I’ve heard of a place that’ll give you a hundred bucks for every inch you got, wild-man! Care to earn yourself a fast four hundred, huh?”

“Can it, you little freak!”

“Sweetness and light, sugar, Momma Sutcliffe doesn’t like the macho-trips on her babies. Hi, Bobby, make with the coffee, will you? Black’n’sweet.” He blew Trent a kiss as he passed him, and executed a few fast dance steps. The usual febrile energy crackled around him, and Duplessis wondered again if it came from drugs or a natural hyper-activity. “Hi, Denny, how they hangin’?”

“Just as they should,” he smiled. Evidently the grapevine had been busy, and Skip was not as offhand as he had been.

“Terrific. Hey who’s that blond hunk I saw you with the other night? Lookin’ mean, moody, an’ magnificent in black leather at the Coq?”

“A friend.”

“Yeeaahh…” A long-drawn-out drawl. “Beautiful hands. Oh, man. Kinda broad and long fingered. You seen him, Bobby?”

“No,” cautiously, “should I?”

“You bet your ass, child. He’s just your type, I promise. Say, he could even be Paulie’s type,” he went on, raising volume and pitch for Trent’s benefit. “I’ll bet he has this secret thing about bein’ dominated by older guys in black leather.”

“He’s welcome to him,” Duplessis said. “Ken plays the macho game for real, and he’s just too damn jealous. D’you know, I can’t even –”

“Skip!’ Sutcliffe interrupted the wilder flights of fancy, descending on the small group like a maiden aunt on errant nephews. “Put that out of sight at once!” And he twitched a square of bright orange out of Skip’s right hip pocket. “How many times do I have to tell you? Hidalgo does not advertise.”

“I do,” Skip purred, and got his wrist slapped.

“No you don’t. Go and change, as well. This isn’t Castro Street.”

“If I don’t, will you spank me?” Skip breathed, and gave an outrageous pout when Sutcliffe shook his head.

“Go and change,” he repeated, and Skip obeyed, undulating away until he reached Trent, then ruffling his fingers through the immaculate hair and sprinting out of the door like an Olympic champion. “That child gets away with murder,” Sutcliffe sighed. “I really don’t know why I let him. Bobby, go and drink that somewhere else, I want to talk to Denny.”

Duplessis folded the paper, dropped it on the coffee-table. “Yes, sir?” he asked, wide-eyed. It was an expression he’d practiced assiduously in front of a mirror, and on test-runs he’d been told it was very effective.

“I’ve just been talking to Mr. Ellis on the phone. He told me you stayed over.”

“Yeah, well, you said it was okay if I did.”

“Quite. He’s very pleased with you, Denny, but of course you know that. Such a pleasant man, Mr. Ellis.”

“Yeah, he’s a pussycat.” Duplessis smiled. He’d spent the night in Ellis’s guest room, alone. It reinforced his cover, and lessened the problems.

“I hope your boyfriend won’t cause any trouble about it. Hidalgo doesn’t like trouble.” Was there a threat there?

“He won’t, sir. I told you yesterday, we’ve talked it out. He understands it’s just a job.”

“Good. The extra bonus will be with your check as we arranged. Oh, by the way, Mr. Ellis hinted that he’d like to purchase exclusive booking on your services for a couple of weeks. He’s an excellent customer, and we’ve made these kind of arrangements before. How do you feel?”

“That’d be fine by me. As long as Ken doesn’t get to know. It might sound kinda unbusinesslike to him, if you know what I mean.”

“Quite. Well, I won’t tell him if you don’t.” Sutcliffe gave an arch chuckle. “Back to the daily bread, my dear. Mrs. Hargreaves wants an escort to lunch at Chasen’s. Room 707, at the Beverly Hilton. She is expecting you.”

“Yes, sir.” He could feel Trent’s eyes gazing rather contemptuously at his back as he headed for the door. So he turned and blew him a kiss, just for the hell of it.

Skip’s bright head appeared briefly around a distant door.

“Hey, Denny!” A piercing yell. “Come on round to Marco’s tonight, if you’re free. I wanna hear more about your blond friend!”

Denny, Duplessis thought, you’re in, kid.

 

Chapter XVII

Yet another re-run of STAR TREK, sound muted, was providing counterpoint for Starsky’s reading. Book XII of the Iliad, and the Trojans winning. Knowing that they ultimately lost didn’t spoil his enjoyment. The names had taken on flesh and become real people. They talked a lot, and in the middle of battles, too, but given the convention of the epic narrative, that was understandable. Homer wasn’t writing for TV. The speeches didn’t hold up the action here.

James T. Kirk, looking noble, was worried. About the Enterprise, or Spock, or Yeoman Rand, or a Klingon invasion. Probably in that order. S.O.P. Starsky went back to his reading.

‘Ah, my friend, if after living through this war we could be sure of ageless immortality, I should neither take my place in the front line nor send you out to win honour in the field. But things are not like that. Death has a thousand pitfalls for our feet; and nobody can save himself and cheat him. So in we go, whether we yield the glory to some other man or win it for ourselves.’

The print was blurring. Starsky swallowed harshly, blinked, focused on the TV screen. The credits for TREK rolled over the familiar star-field, faded. He took a deep breath.

Got right to you, huh?

Time for a break. He closed the book, turned up the sound on the news bulletin, and collected a Coke and a package of cookies from the kitchen, before resuming his cross-legged seat on the couch. There were military rumblings in the Middle East. Cuts in Public Spending appeared inevitable. Cactus rustling was becoming a problem in the Southwest. Someone in Seattle had reported being kidnapped by a flying saucer, resulting in what had to be a close encounter of the fourth kind.

“… and now the local news. Police are appealing today for witnesses to the murder of an off-duty officer. The killing took place early this morning outside a drugstore near the officer’s home…” A video-clip showed medics loading a motionless form into an ambulance. A chill numbness invaded Starsky’s chest in the region of his heart. He couldn’t take his eyes from the screen. “… was married, with two young children. The Chief of Police, in an interview with our reporter, said…”

Death has a thousand pitfalls for our feet.

Hutch, a year ago, saying: “What makes us so smart?”

Starsky shivered. Thinking like this was counter-productive. He switched the set off, tried to concentrate on the book again. But the Iliad had lost him.

The weight of loneliness was suddenly crushing. He’d been carefully not thinking about it, but he was lonelier than he could remember being in his life. He had no one to talk to. To laugh with. No one he wanted to talk to, anyway. The one person he wanted to be with — just to be with? — was half a city away.

He could call. But talking over the phone wouldn’t ease the ache. Being with Hutch, able to see him, reach out and touch him in reality, not in dreams, was what he needed. The dream always ended too soon.

Crazy. A city of how many million, and I’m lonely.

There was company available. Even for David Stewart. No problem. Except he didn’t want any of them. He thought wryly of his own discussion with Hutch, before they came back to L.A. I’m not going to be missing out, he’d said. The whole of the Starsky Seraglio, he’d said.

And there and then, he’d meant it. Had truly believed he could handle the necessary deceptions.

Theory is different from practice.

Damn right. The past three weeks had taught him that. It wasn’t the sex. He’d had all the sex he could handle. Genital friction. Purely mechanical. It wasn’t enough. He was tired of being a paid stud, performing to order for women who were not of his choice, acting a passion he did not feel. Sure, it wasn’t exactly a hardship, but physical release didn’t bring emotional satisfaction. That was something he could find only with one man.

A junkie needs a fix. An alcoholic needs just one drink. The operative word is need. Starsky knew what was twisting his gut into knots, making his nerves jump, giving him the cold shivers. Need. Pure primeval need for the something that was lacking in his present life. Hutch, the source of his addiction.

He realized he was sitting half-hunched forward, arms wrapped over the cold hurting emptiness in his middle. It would take so little to warm the pain away — a touch, a smile. Having gained his notice, the craving grew more intense. Hutch. Oh, Hutch.

Temptation, in the shape of the phone, caught his eye. He wasn’t on call. The hell with Benedic’s for once — okay, he was supposed to be a good boy and stay home nights, but who did? He could buck the ‘standby’ order. Everyone did that, too.

The call tone was answered after three rings.

“Yeah.” Hutch’s voice. He sounded tired.

“Hi,” Starsky said. “Listen. Meet me at the Paradise Plaza, in thirty minutes. Okay?”

“Sure.” No questions, instant agreement. “See you there, babe.” The connection cut off with a click. Starsky let out his breath in a shaky sigh, put the receiver down, and headed for the bedroom to dress.

*****

Traffic was bad, and Hutch was twenty minutes late by the time he reached Paradise Plaza. No sooner had he cruised the Dodge to the roadside than a figure moved out of the cloaking shadows, crossed the sidewalk, and opened the passenger door to slide into the seat.

“Where to?” was all Hutch said, moving out into traffic again. Starsky had dressed the part, all right — the white suit, dark green shirt, tasteful gleam of gold at wrist and throat, all spoke of the profession as clearly as a placard. Very high priced, and no mistake.

“There’s a motel north of Malibu. The Conquistador.”

“I know it,” Hutch acknowledged, and glanced across at the shadowed face with a smile. He was curious, but waited for Starsky to explain in his own time. Not pushing it. But there was nothing. Which was odd. Did he or did he not have any new information to pass on? So, finally, he said, “You got anything new to tell me?”

“Not yet.” Plainly he didn’t want to talk in the car.

“Okay.” And, very quietly, “Missed you.”

Starsky drew breath raggedly. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”

Hutch felt it then, the sudden electric tension, strung taut, singing like a guitar string softly plucked. He took one hand from the wheel, laid it lightly over Starsky’s. No explanations needed.

Neither spoke again until Hutch pulled in under the bright-lit sign at motel-reception. “I’ll check us in.” The clerk was bored and sleepy, glancing out once at the car, but made no sign that he saw anything out of the ordinary. Hutch paid, collected the key. In minutes the car was parked, the door unlocked, and the world was shut out. And Starsky was in his arms.

“Christ, I’ve missed you,” Hutch whispered huskily, feeling the lean strength thrust against him, arms locking around him, the mouth under his hungry, desperate for the contact. Starsky’s only answer was a moan, hips grinding against Hutch’s, every muscle shuddering with tension. Hutch slipped his hands down over the shoulders and back to cup the tight curve of his lover’s ass, pulling him closer, the urgency in Starsky’s almost frenzied movements starting an echo fever in his blood.

“Hutch…”

“It’s okay, babe,” Hutch murmured. “Take it easy. We got all night.” But Starsky wasn’t listening, was driven by a need he could not seem to control. Hutch didn’t know what had triggered this strange feral mood in his lover, but his instincts told him what was needed. He deepened the kiss, forcing Starsky’s head back, arching the man’s spine and driving his own hips in a slow sensual rotation against the quivering thrust that exploded into a racking shudder, a stifled cry. Then Starsky’s full weight rested in his grasp.

“Ohgod…” A sob. “Hutch, I –”

“It’s okay.” Hutch held on to him, supporting him, the dark head at his shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”

“Can’t.” A shiver. “Don’t know…”

“Hey. Take it easy,” he soothed, rubbing his cheek against Starsky’s hair. The curls smelled of a very expensive male cologne, and a soft chuckle rippled in Hutch’s throat. “Doesn’t matter, babe. Come on, it’s all right.” But the tension was still there, twisting in every nerve and sinew, an all but imperceptible tremor in the body that still strained close. “Hey,” Hutch said again, gently turning him, half-leading, half-carrying him to the bed. “That was a pretty fantastic performance for a guy in your profession.” Starsky’s mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile, and Hutch kissed the bruised lips. “Don’t sweat, lover. I know what you need.”

“Do you?”

“Uh-huh.” He smiled and kissed him again with an infinite tenderness. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Prove it,” Starsky murmured, closing his eyes as the lips moved across the line of his jaw to the pulse at his throat.

“I aim to. Soon enough.” Hutch stroked slowly up the tensed arms, began a slow massage of the locked shoulder-muscles, fingers working with skilled care.

“Mmmm…” Starsky leaned into the massage. “Forgot how good you are at that.”

“I’m good at a lot of things,” Hutch promised, and paused long enough to slide Starsky’s jacket from shoulders and arms. In the subdued light from the bedside lamp, the shirt glowed like a fluid jewel. “What’s this?” Hutch fingered the darkly iridescent silk. “Gift wrap?” He stroked the fabric gently, warm from the flesh beneath it. “Know something?” he murmured into the nape of Starsky’s neck. “You don’t need it. Your hair is a finer silk, lover — did I ever tell you that?”

“No.” Starsky’s voice was equally soft, and he allowed himself to be drawn down to lie quiescent in Hutch’s embrace. “Tell me some more.”

You want me to seduce you? My pleasure.

Hutch’s fingers eased the buttons of the shirt loose, parting the shimmering stuff to move fingertips gently over the steadying rise and fall of the dark-pelted chest, mouth resting still on the throb of pulse above the twisted gold links. “You don’t need any fancy packaging,” he said against Starsky’s skin. “None at all. You’re exciting enough.”

“Yeah?”

“You bet.” The green silk followed the jacket, and Hutch leaned on one elbow, cupping the curve of jawline, fingers spread. “You’re beautiful.” He bent his head to the waiting mouth, drew back to look down into the half-closed eyes, blue drowned to black under the long lashes, and his breath caught in his throat. “My god, so very beautiful.” Wondering awe in his voice. “Do you know how much I love you? Have you any idea?”

“Tell me.”

“Can’t. Not all of it. There aren’t words enough.” He sat up long enough to remove shoes and socks, then lay back beside him, fingers tracing feather-light over the furred chest and midriff. “Silk,” he breathed, and followed the touch with lips and tongue. Starsky made a sound in his throat like the purr of a large cat, and Hutch laughed quietly, one hand gliding over chest and belly to the waistband of the white pants. The slim hips moved involuntarily, but he did not immediately unfasten hook or zipper, resting his palm over the growing hardness beneath the damp fabric. “You’re not going to be the Fastest Gun in the West this time. We’re going to make it last.” He eased down the zipper slowly, stripping the garment from the long lean limbs, leaving him naked but for the chain at his throat and the heavier links on his right wrist. Against the dark bronze of his tan and the sable sheen of body hair, the gold gave him a barbaric kind of beauty. Under Hutch’s regard he stretched languorously, holding out his arms, and Hutch came into his embrace, the two melting into one for a moment.

“Dear God,” Hutch said breathlessly, pulling away to look down at the indolent body consciously displayed to his gaze. “You’re vain,” he accused with a grin. “This how you turn your ladies on?”

“Better believe it.” Starsky moved slightly, flexing one knee, the ripple of muscle-play under sheened skin turning him into living sculpture.

“I do. God, I do…” And Starsky writhed suddenly under his worshipping hands, gasping his pleasure. “… Yeah, that’s it, babe. But slowly — we got all the time in the world. Move. I want to watch you.” Giving him no choice in the matter, kissing his throat, the side of his neck, sending quicksilver ripples through his lover’s body. He took the kiss Starsky offered, the intoxicating flutter of darting tongue overcoming for the moment all his control so that he bore down and heard Starsky moan under the savage strength of the embrace.

You don’t know what you do to me.

He drew back, breathing hard, stroking down the taut belly to cup the heavy-hung groin, the velvet hardness of the rigid shaft, moving between the thighs spreading for him, exploring, probing.

So sweet, beloved. So hungry.

Lifting the long legs into position, thrusting hard as Starsky arched, pushing against him for swift, deep penetration, Hutch knew neither of them was able to wait now. The dizzying ecstasy was mutual and unbearable. Ripples of contraction and relaxation gripped him, milking him. Starsky’s face contorted, head thrashing, hands clenched on the sheets, body arched like a drawn bow. A wordless exultant scream erupted as he convulsed, grinding himself onto his impalement, eyes blind, his release jetting from him as Hutch thrust more deeply and felt his own life-force stream from him in a violent orgasm that seemed to go on and on and on.

Starsky was completely limp, a deadweight, eyes closed. But as Hutch broke their contact he stirred, reaching out. “Stay with me…”

“Not going anywhere,” Hutch reassured, lying beside him, their bodies touching, turning towards each other to join mouth on mouth. Starsky sighed his content, one arm heavy across Hutch’s waist, Hutch’s name murmured like a thanksgiving. He was already more than half asleep, and Hutch relaxed, cheek against the silky, sweaty curls. With his free hand he located the light switch to drown the room in sudden darkness.

He didn’t sleep. He had thought he would be unable to keep his eyes open, he was so tired, but now although the weariness was no less, he felt that to sleep would be to waste time. Time that they had so little of, a time to be together like this, a time for love. It was so long since he had been able to lie with his lover at his side in the deep sweet sleep of sexual exhaustion. He wanted to lie and drift on the after-glow, enjoying their closeness, knowing that for a little while they were safe and together.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he found his gaze drawn to the window, which because it faced out from the garish neon of the forecourt, allowed the moon ascendancy. A clear night: there would be stars, the sky alive with pinpointed brightness, pulsing, living jewels. Uncountable, though he had sometimes tried, on nights spent in the open, to number the stars in one patch of sky. First star of the evening, burning in the west after the sun has gone — Venus, wasn’t it?

Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…

An old song drifted into his mind. “You are my lucky star.”

He turned his head to look at the sleeping man. Starsky. Star. My Lucky Star. Not that alone. Beacon star, giving me direction when I’m lost and don’t know where I’m heading. Guiding star, leading me forward. Polaris… An echo from the past made him frown. Marcos was wrong. No cold North Star, not you. ‘Morning Star, day’s harbinger.’ Milton, of course. Or Shakespeare. ‘–that I should love a bright particular star.’

What the hell have you done to me, babe? I could write a thousand songs for you, and never tell the whole of it. Is this what being in love does? Because if it is, then I’ve never been in love before.

Truth. I haven’t been in love before. Not like this. Pale ghosts of love, shadows of the reality. This — what we’ve got — is outside any of my experience until now. I’ve been waiting for this all of my life, except I didn’t know it. Now… I’m not ever gonna let you go, my David, my lover. To have and to hold. You wouldn’t let me say it, would you? Still scared of what it’ll mean, still not sure if you can make that final step. You don’t have to. And I don’t need to say it aloud.

To love and to cherish. As long as we both shall live. Longer. Yeah, I can even believe in that, now.

Starsky made a small sound in his sleep, and his face pressed into the hollow of Hutch’s neck before he subsided again into quiet. Smiling, Hutch drew him closer, and closed his eyes.

*****

The muted burr of the phone penetrated Hutch’s sleep — he stirred, groped for where it should be, failed to find it, and opened his eyes, remembering at the same time where he was. The motel.

Locating the instrument, he reached out an arm and hooked it towards him, mumbled an acknowledgement, replaced it, and turned to his partner. “Time to wake up, lover,” he whispered, following the words with a kiss. Under his lips the sleeping mouth responded with dreaming sweetness, and Starsky moved closer into his embrace. “Hey.” The response conjured in his own body made his voice husky. “You better quit that.”

“Why?” Without opening his eyes, Starsky burrowed against him. “Doncha like it?”

“S’ got nothing to do with it, damn you. Wouldn’t have thought you’d got anything left after last night.”

“Training, Blondie.” A chuckle. “Practice makes perfect. We got time for a quickie?”

“Don’t be crude,” Hutch admonished sternly. “Strictly speaking, no we haven’t. I asked the desk to call us at seven. It’s ten after, now.”

“We got time,” Starsky decided. “Doncha love me any more?”

“Don’t even think that.” Hutch gave up the unequal struggle and succumbed to temptation. It wasn’t a quickie, either, but slow and considered and gentle, without the urgency of the previous night.

“This is what I miss, y’know.”

“Hmm?” Hutch, with one ear pressed against Starsky’s shoulder and the other muffled by the pillow, hadn’t heard all of the sentence.

“I said this is what I really miss. Waking up with you,” Starsky repeated. “Going to sleep with you, waking up with you. I miss that.”

“Me too.” He remembered what it had been like during his marriage to Van — how lonely the bed had seemed in the months after the divorce. It was a very married feeling, sharing a bed. He smiled. “Best way to start the day, too.”

“You said it. Ought to do this more often.” With obvious reluctance Starsky disengaged himself and pushed back the sheet. “I’ll take a shower, then split. Call me a cab?”

Hutch stared after him. “Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“What about the information?”

“Huh?” Puzzlement.

“What you’ve found out. You called me out, babe, there has to be something –” But Starsky’s expression now was a dawning guilt, and he didn’t need the denial. “You didn’t have a reason, did you?”

“No,” Starsky said after a moment. Unspoken, the risk taken hung in the air between them. But there were no regrets, Hutch knew that. He reached for the phone again.

“I’ll call the cab.”

Starsky nodded, disappeared into the bathroom. The real world was pushing intrusively into their lives again, reminders of jobs to be done, covers to be maintained. Hutch raised his voice. “You’ll want to show a profit on the evening, in case they ask. What’s the going rate?”

Starsky’s face appeared at the bathroom door, drawn. “Don’t joke, babe.”

Hutch shook his head, serious. “For your cover. How much? Department’s money, anyway.”

“Two hundred.” He disappeared again. Hutch took four fifties from his billfold, added another one. Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. It felt sordid, even though it was no more than the maintenance of a very difficult cover. To hide his distaste, as Starsky came out of the bathroom toweling himself, Hutch said, “We could do something about that, you know.”

“My asking price?”

“No. Waking up together.”

Starsky was engaged in getting damply back into his shirt, so didn’t immediately answer. Hutch didn’t continue, however, and Starsky glanced at him quizzically. “So? Shoot.”

“When the job’s over, we move in together,” Hutch said, voice neutral. Starsky flashed him a smile.

“Great idea, babe. In theory. But we’ve been that route, remember? Nearly drove each other crazy.”

“That was before.”

“Yeah. But what else has changed? We just don’t have compatible lifestyles, love.”

The endearment, as always, sent a sweet tingle through Hutch. “I know that. All I’m saying is, you ever want to try it again, you only have to say.” This time he couldn’t keep the yearning out of his voice.

Starsky must have heard it, because he paused halfway through buttoning his shirt, coming to sit on the bed beside Hutch. “You want it, don’t you?” he said softly.

“Yes,” said Hutch equally quietly. “I miss you. Being apart like this –”

“You think I don’t know? But it can’t be for much longer.” His hand closed over Hutch’s. “Wait until it’s over. We’re neither of us thinkin’ clear right now.” A hesitation. “Right now, there’s nothing I want more. I want to be with you every minute, waking or sleeping, working or off-duty. I want you close enough to touch, sharing everything… But let’s wait until this is over, okay?”

“Okay.” Hutch took the hand in his, kissed the palm.

Whatever you want.

*****

Time spent apart, waking in an empty bed; it still ached, but now there was something more to look forward to. Okay, Starsky hadn’t come right out and said yes, let’s move in together, but — to share all of their lives, not just the working hours, the nights taken by stealth. The problems would be many, but their need would be strong enough to weather them, surely. The love certainly was.

Until that time, it would be easier to handle this, the enforced separation, knowing that someday there would be an end to it. In spite of circumstances, Hutch was more relaxed and cheerful than he’d been for days, and Duplessis got in some sly needling. He didn’t mind, even if the kid was assuming that Jaqi was at the root of it.

She herself was not there to see it, which was probably as well. He’d had a postcard from San Jose del Cabo, telling him to take care and to give her regards to both Daves. A second had said ‘Good news at last,’ so maybe Senor Delgado was finally talking turkey. Hutch didn’t think that particular fish would get off the hook. Jaqi was one hell of a fine businessman. Woman.

He chuckled, and Minnie paused by his desk.

“Laughin’ to yourself is a sure sign that you’re comin’ unglued, honey,” she commented. “What’s the joke?”

“Nothing much.” He smiled. “Can you spare a hard-working detective a cup of coffee, Officer Kaplan?”

“Oh, sure, Sergeant Hutchinson. As long as you pay your dues first. By the way, Dave called in, he’s off-duty and catching up on his beauty sleep. He says.”

“Who are we to argue.” He fished in his pocket for cash. “Y’know, if you ever gave up being a cop, Minnie, you’d be a wow in the I.R.S.”

“Sweet talk’ll get you nowhere, blue-eyes.” She removed the right amount in bills and coins from the pile he dumped on the desk. “Gonna pay for Dave’s and Starsky’s as well?”

“What do you think I am? They haven’t been in here for weeks; and no way would I be subsidizing them if they had!”

“They’re on duty, ain’t they?”

Hutch scooped the money back before she could take more. “The I.R.S. for certain. Or the Mafia.”

“Can’t blame a girl for tryin’.”

Hutch sighed and reached for the phone. He’d better check with Huggy before he started the day’s routine. But before he could pick it up to dial, it rang.

“Hutchinson,” he said, and Starsky’s voice completed his day.

“Hi, babe.”

The busy squadroom, Minnie bullying coffee-dues out of Simmons and being hazed by Babcock, and the other ringing phones all faded into a background as he listened to his lover’s voice.

“Listen,” Starsky continued. “I’m due at a high-level meeting to discuss my present status, future prospects, and possible fields of operation at Benedic’s.”

“A what?” Hutch said, frowning at the phone as if it had suddenly started transmitting in scrambled code.

“You heard me. I’m gonna be put in new fields.” Starsky’s voice was at once prim and ribaldly amused.

“You get to do it in fields?” Hutch wondered aloud, and his partner’s rich chuckle echoed in his ear, warm and intimate. Almost he could feel breath on his cheek.

“Anywhere you want it, lover,” came the predictable reply. But underneath the complacency was a raw ache of yearning that matched his own. “Could be I’m in line for promotion.”

“Or maybe they want to pair you with a dog so bad you gotta be bribed,” he countered.

“No sweat — I’ll lie back and think of you. Where’ll you be?”

“Here. Give me a call when you get back, huh?”

“Count on it.” The unsaid words passed between them, and Hutch slowly replaced the phone.

The address Starsky had given him was one they already knew to be linked with Benedic’s and several other agencies. It was a spacious mansion, set back in its own grounds behind a perimeter wall of high-security technology. It was used as a conference center, secluded luxury suites of offices where high-powered wheeling and dealing could be conducted smoothly, without any chance of annoying interruption. It also served on occasion as a weekend retreat for over-stressed business persons, and for extravagant partying. Duplessis had ‘escorted’ a Virginian widow to one of those parties, the first of a few, and his report had read like the outline script for a Fellini movie.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Duplessis was handling his assignment well, tackling the difficult role with calm good sense. For a while, at least, he did not have two people to worry about.

But undercover cops are never off-duty, and when the phone rang just after lunch, he was not altogether surprised to hear the familiar voice.

“Hi,” said Duplessis. “Miss me?” A code phrase to indicate he couldn’t speak freely. In the background, disco music was blaring, with muted gabble of conversation and clinking of glasses.

“You should be getting your beauty sleep. Something’s happened?”

“Of course. You don’t have to be jealous, I told you. Listen, I’ve got some free time, why don’t we spend it together?”

“Where and when?”

“I’m at Mario’s. Why don’t you pick me up here, buy me a drink or two, and we could drive up the coast?”

“Okay.”

“Hey, make it real soon, lover. I miss you, too.”

New developments. Something so hot it couldn’t wait? Hutch took a few minutes to report his movements, and headed across town to Mario’s bar.

One or two of the regulars nodded to him as he entered. He and Duplessis had become known to some, over the weeks, and had apparently managed to pass. The barman caught his attention, grinned, and rolled his eyes stage-left. Hutch followed the direction of his gaze, and saw Duplessis sitting at one of the small tables. With him was a dark-haired kid quite a few years younger. Bobby Lewison, he called himself. Real name, Samuel Blomenfeld. One of the Hidalgo stable, he’d attached himself to Duplessis with a kind of wide-eyed determination, and Duplessis had not given him the brush-off, since Bobby was a natural yenta, and gathered in gossip and general information with trawl-net capacity. Evidently he didn’t give Duplessis any problems he couldn’t handle.

They looked up as Hutch halted by their table, looming over them, a frown on his face. Duplessis grinned, and Bobby scrambled to his feet. “Hi, Ken,” he said quickly.

“Hi.” He kept his voice noncommittal. Duplessis chuckled.

“S’okay, Bobby, I told you, he don’t bite. Well, not in public, anyways. Hey, cool it, lover, we’ve only been rappin’. Girl talk,” he added.

Bobby giggled, and sidled past Hutch. “I gotta go,” he said. “Was just keepin’ Denny company, Ken. ‘Til you showed up.”

“Yeah, sure.” Hutch saw the glitter of amusement in Duplessis’s eye, and frowned. Behind that bright smile was tension. The powerful young frame was taut, despite the seemingly relaxed sprawl. Hutch took over Bobby’s chair, and leaned his elbows on the table. “What’s come down?” he asked quietly.

Duplessis’ hand closed over his, fingers cool and hard, rock-steady. “I think one of my contacts may have come up with the goods,” he murmured, the smile fixed on his face.

“Car’s out front. We’ll talk there. Come on.” Hutch stood up, pulling Duplessis with him, and towed him out, the picture of an impatient and jealous lover.

“Wait ’til he gets me home!” Duplessis grinned at the barman. “Seeya, Joey.”

“Cut out the clowning, willya?” Hutch growled. “You’re beginning to enjoy it, right?”

“Gotta keep in character until we’re in the car.”

“In character, hell.” But he was smiling in spite of himself. “Okay, so who’s got what, and how’d he get it?”

Duplessis didn’t answer until the car was in traffic. “Skip — you remember, the kid I told you about? Works exclusively on Hidalgo’s gay side? — well, he’ll take almost anything, sorta specializes in the kinky stuff. A little bit of S&M, B&D, and he’s hot. D’you know,” he added, temporarily sidetracked, “he actually boasts about the fists he can take? Fists! Anyhow, he’s got a couple of regular clients, and one of ’em is into chicken.”

“Ah-huh,” said Hutch. “And did Skip know Connery?”

“Nope, but he did know Sandoval. This chickenhawk is really into the heavy stuff, but for that he won’t use Skip. So Skip gets a call from him a couple of days back, telling him that if he got an invite to Belle Vue, he was to stand ’em up. There’s a special session laid on, and he didn’t want Skip to be involved. Like he could get hurt for real. Skip says he knew Sandoval disappeared after a ‘special session’, and he put two and two together, panicked, and started phoning around. Including Bobby and me.”

“When’s it due to happen?”

“Don’t know. Could be anytime today, from what Skip said. Uh, Belle Vue’s off Topanga Canyon. Way out of our territory.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said. “Well, at least we got a man on the inside.”

“We have?”

“Starsky. He’s got an interview there.”

“Oh.” A pause. Then, “Hutch — you don’t think –”

“No, I don’t! He’s overage for a chicken party!” Hutch snapped. “But if he gets wind there’s one going on, he could blow his cover and the case, trying to stop it. Just call it in, willya?”

*****

Delay was almost inevitable. Dobey’s instructions were to get there and sit tight, and backup would be with them as soon as possible. But sitting tight became harder as the time dragged on. They watched cars pull in at the gate, halt, be waved on by the guard, and still no word came that the Cavalry was on its way. A boy could be dying in there, slowly, and they were stuck outside, waiting. Doing nothing, except note license plates, putting names to faces.

Maybe it wasn’t a kid. Maybe it was Starsk.

Hutch shivered, and pushed down the growing fears. They had no reason to suppose Starsky’s cover had been blown, that he was in any kind of danger, let alone that he was likely to be the star attraction at a party of any kind.

This was part of the price. He’d be paying it in installments for the rest of his life; nameless fears born without real cause, triggered by imagination and ‘what if.’

“Take what you want,” says God. “Take it and pay.” Oh, Christ, David, I’ll be paying with every stand-off, every undercover job, every time we have to go in on a potentially dangerous situation. I guess — I know — that goes for you, too. If I loved you less, I don’t think I could handle it. Where are you, babe? Talking with Dragon Lady in her office, or — oh, God. You’re a cop, Hutchinson. For God’s sakes, think like one.

But the ‘what if’ would not stay squashed. It gnawed at the edges of his patience until it reached raw nerves, activated nightmarish imagining, urged him to get in there fast. He stayed where he was. To go in now, with no reason but his own fears, would be to blow the whole operation, and jeopardize lives that might not otherwise be at risk. Nor could the two of them take on the Belle Vue personnel on their own.

*****

Duplessis slouched lower in the seat and sighed. Hutch didn’t appear to be taking any notice. The slightly narrowed eyes were still riveted on the greenery that more than half concealed the house. As if, Duplessis thought, he could by sheer concentration penetrate that landscaped clutch of trees and the walls beyond to discover what was going on.

It was hard, waiting. After all, they knew that something bad was going down in there, or would shortly be. True, they didn’t know that Starsky was going to be involved in it, but they knew he was in there. That was what had Hutch so on edge. His partner was in a hairy situation, and he wasn’t there to back him up or bail him out. It was natural for him to feel like that. Duplessis himself would feel like that, if his partner — if he had a partner on a permanent basis — were in danger. Sure.

The atmosphere was tense enough to slice. Stakeouts with Hutch were not normally this electric. Usually, Hutch would be relaxed, alert, calm. They’d learned quite a lot about each other on stakeout. He’d never seen Hutch like this; it was weird. But he’d never been on stakeout where Starsky was concerned, so that had to be the difference. He wondered if Hutch would be so edgy if it was himself in there, incommunicado, and had no idea what was going on. For some reason, he didn’t think so. But then, he and Hutch hadn’t been partners as long as Starsky and Hutch had. Nine years, was it? Or ten? He’d been told, but couldn’t remember. That was a helluva long time. You get to be more than partners — more than friends, too. Someone, he couldn’t remember who, had once said a good partnership was like a marriage. Except you spend more time with your partner than you do at home with your wife and kids. You know him better, too. He shares more with you: the sorrows, the defeats, the anger. Closer than a marriage. Till death do us part.

Yeah, well, that was on the cards, too. And last year, Starsky had almost died. Duplessis remembered the call going out on the air, asking for blood-donors. And how Rogers had cursed and swung the radio car in a tight curve and headed for the hospital instead of back to Metro. He’d caught a glimpse of Hutch in the corridor, just a fleeting impression of the drawn pale features, the stunned expression. Because his partner was dying…

What did it feel like, he wondered morbidly. What did it feel like, to know that your best friend is going to die? And you can’t do a damn thing about it, except watch. And wait. And pray.

The way they were waiting now. He glanced at his watch again, and it was five minutes later than the last time. What was going on in there? Skip hadn’t been specific, except that it obviously scared him shitless. He’d picked up names sometimes — Alex, and Rich, and Jeff. Didn’t mean a thing to him until the names started matching up with certain gentlemen known to be visiting the city. Gentlemen, for the most part, whose reputation was hardly stainless. But what would they want with Starsk? He didn’t fit the bill. Too old. So maybe he wasn’t involved after all.

Hutch is worried. That’s enough for me.

If it wasn’t that sixth sense between these two telling Hutch that something was wrong, badly wrong, then Hutch was sweating blood out here because of nothing. And I don’t buy that.

It must be hard, to be as close as the two of them were. Maybe it wasn’t wise to get that close to someone after all. The drawbacks were pretty daunting. Or maybe the good parts outweighed the bad.

“Zebra Three,” Dobey’s voice crackled on the radio. “Backup and warrant on the way. We’ll be with you in twenty minutes.” Duplessis acknowledged.

“Twenty minutes,” Hutch muttered. Then he jerked open the glove compartment, pulled out Duplessis’ gun and police ID. “We’re going in. You got your Hidalgo card?”

“Never travel without it,” he said lightly, stowing weapon and wallet away.

“Let’s go to the party.”

 

Chapter XVIII

Starsky’s neck itched under his collar. He ran a finger surreptitiously around to ease it, and sneaked another look at his watch.

“Make sure you’re on time.” Terrific. I’ve been here nearly an hour.

The hospitality had been generous; a kid in a white jacket with a wide grin and a lot of gold bridgework had offered him a drink, which had helped to pass the time. The window looked out over the driveway, and he’d wandered over, curious, to see several cars arriving. He wasn’t sure he recognized any of the faces, but at this distance it wasn’t easy.

Now his glass was empty again, but the Chicano was nowhere in sight. Starsky stood up to take another look out of the window, but there was something wrong. He had no co-ordination, no control over his body. He thought instructions at his legs, but there was a short-circuit somewhere about knee-level; they just weren’t answering. Sensations crawled over his skin, distorted. A weird floaty feeling intensified in his head, made it difficult to think straight. His fingers felt like a bunch of bananas, boneless and non-functional.

What’s going on?

A hand passed in front of his eyes. He tried to focus on it, but it was blurry and he wasn’t sure how many hands there were.

“He’s ready,” said a hollow voice, echoing in his skull, meaningless.

Great. Ready for what? Hands lifted him to his feet. Oh, we’re goin’ somewhere?

The room tilted and rocked crazily. Feet grazing the floor numbly, he was being half-carried through a doorway, across a hall, through another door.

Loud noise. Music — if you could call it music. Puke rock. He giggled to himself inanely. Won’t dance — don’ ask me…

People. More people. Stuffed shirts ‘n’ penguin suits. Hey, we gonna have a party?

Things were swimming in front of his eyes, like being very drunk, except that he didn’t get this way on a lousy Scotch-and-water. Must have been very special Scotch? Or very special water…

His jacket was gone. He didn’t remember it going. His shirt was next, and they didn’t bother with the buttons, either. “Hey, take it easy,” he mumbled. “These threads cost money…”

But the words didn’t come out properly. Scintillating conversation wasn’t going to be his forte tonight.

“Very nice, Corey. Very nice.”

“We aim to please, Alex.”

No jacket. No shirt. What is this, strip-poker?

Annoyed that no one seemed inclined to tell him what the rules of the game were, he swung an uncoordinated fist at the helpful type unbuckling his belt, and connected. This was evidently not in the script. Someone grabbed his wrists and wrenched them back, and then he couldn’t move them any more. He began to feel a niggling worm of worry eating at the sense of ridiculous euphoria.

Bondage isn’t my scene, fellas — what goes on here? Huh?

The expensive beige slacks went the way of the jacket and shirt. This was no longer funny, this was getting scary. He wasn’t drunk, it had to be dope of some kind. Hands fumbled on his body. He tried to jerk free, but succeeded only in losing his balance completely as they pushed him down onto a couch. Musty scent from dusty velvet cushions, velvet prickling his ultra-sensitive skin.

He arched back, aware now that he wanted out, that whatever was coming down was going to be bad, and he didn’t want any part of it.

He wasn’t going to be given a choice. The music was louder, a half-dozen banshees getting gang-banged by a bunch of howling hyenas. Hands on his ankles spread him. Weight on his back pressed him down, flesh, hairy and sweating. Sudden, startling pain, a lancing thrust that made him scream in shock and outrage before his head was forced down and the sound stifled in the cushions.

Oh god no this can’t be happening can’t be not to me oh god no please no hutch

*****

Denny DuCann was a known face. He’d been through the checkpoint enough times with ladies for the casual flip of his Hidalgo ID and a warm smile to get him and Hutch a nod of recognition.

“Booked for the Catullus suite,” Duplessis drawled. “Brad Nichols’ party.”

“And him?” The guard peered through the window at Hutch.

“The other half of the double act. Know what I mean?” Wryly, Hutch watched Duplessis eye the man with heavy-lidded appreciation. “Hey, how’d you like to take his place sometime?”

“Forget it, kid.” The guard stepped back with more haste than was necessary. “You better get in there. Mr. Nichols arrived a while ago.”

They got as far as the lobby with its wide sweep of stairway before the alarms went off.

“I think he’s just found out Brad ain’t expectin’ us,” Duplessis panted, as the strident bells filled the air. “Second floor, east wing. The Tiberian suite, at a guess, from what Skip said.”

They sprinted up stairs and along corridors. Others were running as well, in various stages of undress, but no one seemed to connect Duplessis or Hutch with the Red Alert. With their guns out of sight, they were just another pair aiming to get out of sight as fast as possible. But the large suites, like the Tiberian, had their own emergency exits.

Duplessis had guessed wrong. The rooms were empty.

“What else is along this corridor?” Hutch demanded, aware all the time that he’d gone in way too soon. Apart from any other considerations, there were only the two of them against an unknown number of heavies.

What right do I have to risk Dave’s life for my lover? Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m screwing up all along the line. But — we’re committed now. No going back.

“The Versailles and the Xanadu.” Duplessis pointed out the doors.

“You take Xanadu.” And Hutch lunged for the Versailles, gun in hand. The first room was empty, but cigar-smoke hung in the air, and the wall-lights glowed. Tall double doors stood wide, showing the vast bedchamber similarly deserted. To the left of the canopied bed, another door stood ajar, and his straining ears caught a thread of movement under the racket of the alarm and the thunder of his own heartbeat. He flattened against the wall and froze, listening again. Nothing. He pushed the door wider with his heel, and it swung on silent hinges. Nothing, again.

Hutch went in fast and low, ending up crouched in the shadow beyond the door. The room was dark, shades drawn, no lights. His eyes took moments to adjust. He lifted his gun.

“Police. Come on out.”

No response. He could make out shapes now — chairs, a low backless couch. In one corner there was movement. He swung that way, gun leveled. Someone was there, hunched awkwardly in the angle of the walls as if trying to hide. The alarm cut off. In the stunning silence he could hear ragged breathing, almost a sob. Hutch moved a few paces nearer. Then, not wanting to believe the evidence of his own eyes: “Starsk?”

He was stark naked, wrists secured behind him with tape. Hutch holstered the gun, knelt beside him.

“Starsk — Christ, babe, what –” Nothing, no response. The dark blue eyes were open, but not recognizing, not even seeing him, fixed in a glazed stare on a point somewhere past Hutch’s left shoulder. There was blood on his face, and the darkening prints of bruises. Hutch flinched. “Hold on. I’ll get you loose…”

It took him a few minutes to peel the tape away. There were bruises there, too. He took hold of Starsky’s shoulders, felt the flesh under his hands slick with sweat, cold and tense, a continuous spastic shuddering shaking him.

Shock. He’s in shock. Why? Hurt? No obvious injury —

Hutch cursed the dimness, located the switch and snapped on the lights. The brightness showed clearly the sick, drained pallor of Starsky’s face, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his body, glistening with every shiver, every ragged breath. Hutch pulled off his jacket, wrapped it around the naked shoulders, automatically checking for injury. The blood on face and chest seemed to be the result of no worse than a split lip and nosebleed. But the thick clotted smear matting the dark downy hair on the back of his thighs was another matter.

“Oh, babe…” Hutch heard his own whisper distantly, his voice cracking with pain. “It’s all right. It’s over now. All over. You’re gonna be okay…” He got both arms around the unresisting body, held him close, his cheek against the tangled curls. He could feel the shallow racing pulse in counterpoint with the leaden thud of his own heart.

“Hutch?” Duplessis swung through the door, body crouching, gun poised. “Jesus Christ who — Starsky! Oh my God!” But he didn’t immediately drop his guard.

“They’re long gone,” Hutch said savagely. And I sat out there waiting in that car while they were — He cut off the thought, postponed the recriminations. Right now the most important thing was to get Starsky to the hospital.

“Here.” Duplessis hunkered beside him, holding out the crumpled light tan slacks. “Get these on him. I’ll find the rest of his things.”

Hutch didn’t speak. It wasn’t easy, but somehow he got the pants on Starsky. Starsky didn’t resist, but he didn’t co-operate, either. It was like trying to dress a large, stiff-jointed doll. And all the time the dilated eyes stared through him, seeing nothing but — what?

When he lifted Starsky upright, he had to take the whole of the man’s weight. Starsky seemed incapable of coordinating any muscle response. Drugs as well as shock? He gritted his teeth, supported the abused body as gently as he could, and with Duplessis on the other side, they started the trek for the car.

All Hutch’s attention was on Starsky, but peripheral awareness picked up distant sounds: sirens, staccato shouts, a few scattered shots. The seventh Cavalry. Anger gusted through him, as much against himself as them. He hadn’t acted on his hunch until too late.

Useless imaginings — worse, counter-productive. What had happened was bad enough, but it might have been a helluva lot worse. The fact that he’d fucked up the whole show paled to insignificance.

No one stopped them. The Topanga County Sheriff’s Department were about in full force, but Duplessis’ shield got them through the cordon with no holdup. Hutch thought he heard Dobey bellowing in the distance, but paid no attention.

He got Starsky into the back seat of the car, slid in beside him, gathered the shaking body into his arms. Acceleration slammed them back against the padding as Duplessis hit the gas, but Starsky didn’t react. Hutch stroked the sweat-damp hair back from his lover’s brow, eased the head into the hollow of his shoulder. He’d dealt with enough rape-victims in his career to know the nightmare of pain and disbelieving horror and shame that had to be endured, and not by the victim alone. He’d always felt singularly helpless, and now that was increased beyond measure. All he could do was hold on, sickeningly aware that nothing in his experience had prepared him for this reality.

If he’d gone in at once, none of it would have happened. He’d blown the case, anyhow, so what did it matter against the overwhelming weight of Starsky’s safety? He could have saved him from rape — and he had not. Bottom line.

A small sound, half-gasp, half-moan, came from the man in his arms. He tightened his hold, pressed his lips to Starsky’s forehead, buried his face in the dark curls. “Ssh, lover,” he murmured, keeping the shake out of his voice. “You’re safe. I got you. Not gonna let you go. Love you…” He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the bitter tears.

If only — God help us — if only …

*****

Duplessis sat down in the waiting area, feeling as if his knees were about to give. Reaction, he knew. Always hit after a piece of heavy action, and left him feeling drained and at a loss. He needed someone to talk to about it, the post mortem dissection of the case that would unwind his tension.

Starsk isn’t dead. We got there in time. He’s gonna be okay, of course he is.

His mind’s eye saw again the white fury and anguish on Hutch’s face, the limp and seemingly lifeless body of his partner cradled in his arms like a child. He hadn’t answered any of Duplessis’ questions about what had happened, but then he hadn’t really needed to. Duplessis had seen the bruises and could guess at the rest. And Hutch hadn’t needed to ask him to drive them to the hospital, either; he’d thrown the car through the mid-city maze, siren and wailer winning him a clear road, Hutch in the back seat holding the unconscious Starsky, cushioning him against the rough ride. Glimpses he’d caught in the rearview mirror had shown him no change in expression except when Starsky had made a sound — nothing coherent, a moan or a whimper — and Hutch had held him tighter, burying his face for a moment in the disheveled tangle of dark hair, his face contorted by grief.

It was only now that he had leisure to think about it. He knew what he’d seen. And abruptly two and two added up to four — a thousand unconnecting pieces fitting together to form a complete picture.

Hutch and Starsky. The changes he’d seen, and attributed to any reason but the right one. They weren’t just partners and best friends. They were lovers.

He took this revelation, pinned it up, and thought about it. Never considered the possibility that they were gay. Or maybe gay was the wrong word, if the promiscuous lifestyle he’d been a part of briefly was anything to go by. These two had a commitment, a depth of feeling, that he’d seen before only in some heterosexual relationships. Like his own marriage. Yes. Like that.

It was still a jolt, but who was he to judge? Hell, maybe for them it was right. Who else knew them as well? Who else could they trust, in the final analysis, but each other?

Lovers.

Oh Christ Jesus. And Hutch had waited and waited until he couldn’t wait any longer and they’d gone in and found — that. Not his partner and friend. His lover. And what had been done to him.

No wonder Hutch had been nearly out of his mind. It put a whole new light on the situation. And on a lot of other things.

A figure approached. Focusing quickly, Duplessis saw Hutch walking towards him. He looked the way he had nearly a year ago, waiting outside the Trauma Unit, pale, dazed, blank-eyed. Duplessis stood up.

“You better sit down,” he said. “You want some coffee or something?”

“What…?” Like a man struggling to awake from a bad dream, Hutch blinked at him. “Oh. Dave… What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d wait. Is he — I mean, how’s Starsky?”

“They’re taking tests. Won’t let me see him.” He did sit down then, dropping his head into his hands. “Damn. If I’d just –”

“Don’t say it.” Duplessis put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gonna be okay.” He got no response to that, so he went to the coffee-machine and got a cup. “Here.” Hutch took it from him absently, but didn’t drink. “Hutch — what happened — it’s not your fault.” It was trite, but he had to say something.

“No. It’s all my fault,” Hutch said softly, but he was talking to himself. “Right from the start, it’s all been my fault. I should never…” Then he seemed to collect himself, and saw the coffee. “Thanks,” he said, and took a drink.

There didn’t seem much else to say. Duplessis simply sat there, unsure what else he could do to help, not sure if Hutch even knew he was there. But he felt better, himself, for having even this silent company.

*****

“Sergeant Hutchinson? I’m Dr. Russell.”

Hutch looked up from his intensive study of the scuffs on the floor tiles. “Yeah. How is he?”

“At present, under sedation. But you can take him home tomorrow.” He smiled, and Hutch managed a shaky response. “However, I’d like a few words with you, if you don’t mind.”

Hutch never saw Duplessis make himself scarce. “There’s something wrong –”

“No.” The doctor took his arm, led him aside. “There was no serious damage done, I assure you. He’s going to be stiff and sore for a few days, but the internal damage was relatively slight. If he’d resisted, he might have been badly torn up.”

“If?” Hutch cut in incredulously. “What do you mean, if he’d resisted? You don’t think he invited that –” Words failed him.

“He was drugged. When the tests come back we can be sure, but at a guess it was a mixture of alcohol and methaqualone. Dangerous. Knocks you down without knocking you out. Goes right to the central nervous system and turns you to jelly.”

“Quaaludes.”

The doctor quirked an eyebrow at him. “It was fortunate. There’s a certain amount of tissue damage, but that should heal itself.”

“So what’s the problem?” Hutch forced the useless rage and hurt to the back of his mind.

“The physical damage can be repaired. It’s the mental and emotional trauma in these cases that can cause difficulties. He isn’t married?”

“No.”

“No steady girlfriend? Permanent domestic arrangement?”

“He lives alone,” Hutch said. “There are girls — nothing serious, though.”

“Uh-huh. That’s a pity.” The doctor took off his glasses, polished them absently on a corner of his white coat. “He could experience a certain amount of — difficulty — in sexual relations. I’m not saying it’s always that way, but it’s best to be prepared. An understanding wife or girlfriend could help him come to terms with what happened. Reassure him.” Hutch said nothing. “You’re his partner. I imagine you know him pretty well.”

“Uh — yeah.”

“He’s normally a stable personality? Well-adjusted?”

Hutch combed one hand through his blond forelock. “I — don’t know,” he said lamely. “In our line of work… hell, he’s managed to cope with every kind of shit life’s thrown at him so far.”

But can he cope with this?

“Then I don’t think there’ll be much to worry about.” The doctor smiled again. “If there are any problems, of course, we recommend psychiatric counseling. But that may be unnecessary. They pay us to be pessimistic.”

Psychiatric counseling? Let a shrink dig into his mind and find out he’s got a father-figure castration complex or some other crummy name for what goes on inside him?

“Yeah,” he said noncommittally. “Can I see him?”

“He’s not awake.”

“That’s okay. I just want –” he gave a slight one-shoulder shrug, “– to see him.”

“Room 15E. Down the hall.”

It wasn’t natural for Starsky to lie like that, flat on his back, arms neatly at his sides. He normally slept on his side, half curled up, like an animal in a nest. They had cleaned him up, washed off the blood. The bruises showed dark against his pallor.

Hutch pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed.

Take what you want, says God. Take it and pay.

He stayed there for almost fifteen minutes, until they came to make some more tests, and he was evicted. So he wandered back to the waiting room, and sat there, lost in thought.

“Hutch?” Duplessis’ voice penetrated his daze. “Hutch? You okay?”

“Huh? Oh — uh — yeah.” Hutch dredged a response from somewhere. “Yeah, sure. Guess I’m a little shook.”

The brown eyes were gentle, sympathetic.

“Hutch, you want to come home with me?”

“What?”

The direct gaze did not waver. “You’re welcome to stop over if you want.” A pause. “Hutch. We thought you shouldn’t be on your own.”

“We?”

“Captain Dobey’n’me.” But Dobey had not been there when they’d found Starsky, nor during the ride to the hospital. And Duplessis had.

He knows. The kid knows.

But all he could see in those candid eyes was a reflection of his own distress. Slowly, Hutch shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks. Got things to do. Reports. Got a lot of questions to answer back at Metro, I guess.”

“You’n’me both.”

Hutch didn’t answer.

Even knowing that Starsky was not likely to wake up for some hours, and that he wasn’t seriously injured, it was far from easy to leave the hospital. But he had to find out how much, if anything, had been salvaged from the wreck of the case. And when he did wake up, Starsky would have to be questioned. That was one task Hutch did not intend to relinquish to anyone, come what may.

 

Chapter XIX

All the interview rooms were full, the squadroom was crowded with officers uniformed and in plainclothes, and witnesses were being taken through their statements. It was a hive of vociferous activity.

“Hutch.” Minnie shoved a Vice officer out of her way. “Cap’n Dobey wants to see you in his office. Is Starsk okay?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically.

“He better be. I’m not having him roughed up on his first case in God knows how long. That’s plain careless. Dave, you gotta start on your report right away. Captain’s orders. And he wants to see it before anyone else, regardless.”

“Got it.” Duplessis said, gave Hutch’s shoulder a quick squeeze, and plowed towards his desk.

“Hutch, what’s wrong?” Minnie asked quietly. “You’re awful pale, honey. You sure my boy’s okay?”

“Yeah. It came a little close, is all.” He avoided her eyes and got into Dobey’s office fast.

“Sit down, Hutchinson,” Dobey greeted him. “I had the hospital on the phone a while back. As soon as Starsky’s conscious, I want you back there to get his report.” There was a gravel undertone of anger in his voice, and Hutch braced himself. “How the hell did they break Starsky’s cover?”

Hutch stared at him. “We don’t know that they did,” he said. “As far as we know there’s no reason why they should suspect him. His cover was as airtight as we could make it.” Except for one night —

“Yeah, well, we’ll deal with that later. Right now I’ve got Vice, the Sheriff’s Department and the Chief of Detectives on my back wanting to know why you didn’t wait for the warrant and the back-up.”

“If I had, my partner could well be dead. Or a hell of a lot more seriously injured than he is!”

“I know that, dammit! But that’s not what I’m asking, Hutchinson. For all you knew, Starsky was there for a bona fide interview in another part of the building, no connection with any kind of party. For God’s sake, it’s no thanks to you we hauled in the guys we did –”

“A hunch. I played a –”

“That’s no kind of answer! I want something I can give –”

Hutch came to his feet, the deep rage in him finding a temporary outlet. “Get off my case, Dobey!” he yelled. “We’ve played hunches before! Sometimes they paid off, sometimes we bombed out! What makes this one so special? Politics? Go play your fuckin’ power games in the Chief’s office, not here with me!”

“Hutchinson –”

“I’ll be at the hospital. Send someone over with the mugshots.”

“Hutchinson!” He shut the door on the outraged bellow and shouldered his way out, ignoring the turning heads and startled expressions.

*****

Unfair, unfair. And untrue.

Hutch gazed at the floor between his feet, the sick aftermath of his fury coiling through his stomach. He had had no cause to lash out at Dobey like that. The man was more than a superior officer — he was a friend, a good, loyal friend. Furthermore he would have been pretty shaken up over Starsky’s rape, and as Captain he was the one who had to answer to the higher authorities for the failings of his men. Pressures enough, without him shooting off at the mouth. He straightened up, looked around. There was a payphone by the nurses’ station, and he headed for it, digging change out of his pocket.

It took a little while to get through to Dobey, and when he did, the man sounded tired.

“Captain, I’m sorry,” Hutch said. “I had no call to sound off at you like that. I — guess I needed a target, and you got in the way.”

“Yeah, I know.” The Captain heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of the barrel chest. “S’okay, Hutch. I had Duplessis in here; he gave me a pretty good report of the circumstances. You can give me yours when you bring in your partner’s. The kid is on his way over with some photographs for ID.”

“That was fast. Is anybody talking?”

“Some of ’em. And we’re gettin’ names. Corey may not be the main man, but he’s big league. However, Corey isn’t one of the ones doing the talking. I have to go now; Duplessis will fill you in.”

“Okay. Thanks, Cap.”

On the way back to his seat, Hutch detoured to Starsky’s room, easing the door open. But he did not enter. Starsky was asleep. Time enough for him to wake up later.

*****

Hutch didn’t have to wait long for Duplessis. The kid arrived with a thick brown envelope in his hand, and a feral bounce to his stride that was oddly familiar. The same fierce triumph was glittering in the brown eyes.

“How’s Starsky doing?” was the first thing he said.

“Still out. I phoned Dobey; he said you were on your way.”

Duplessis grinned. “I’d sure hate to cross you when you get made Captain,” he said. “D’you want the good news or the bad?”

“I’ll take the spoonful of sugar afterwards. What’s the bad?”

“A lot of the out-of-town big-shots got away clean. Also it looks like the alarm circuit was not connected up to the legitimate business offices/conference center wing, and among the folk we rounded up were a couple of politicians, the Mayor’s Personal Assistant, and Stainer from the D.A.’s office.”

“Terrific. No wonder Dobey’s sweating.”

“Yep. There’s a helluva lot of self-righteous hot air being blasted around headquarters.”

“So what’s the good news?”

“We got Harry Munro — Ms. Searls’ right-hand-man? She may be a legit front, but he had a lot to do with the other side of the business, and not just for Benedic’s. He’s giving us bits and pieces. Spills it in one breath, denies it in the next, but off the record we’re building up quite a picture.”

“So what have we got?’

“The main man in L.A. is Corey. Felix Corey.”

“Dobey said that wasn’t for sure. Do we have him? It looks like you and I blew a lot of the set-up.”

“We do. Babcock ‘n Simmons picked him up, and it was a good bust. Corey says he’s got a cast-iron alibi for today, but whether he’s got one for Sandoval and Connery is another matter. So far he’s refusing to co-operate with a semen sample.”

“Any reason why he should?”

“According to the barman, Corey was the one who ordered the extra in Starsky’s drink. And Munro mentioned him in connection with Sandoval.”

“Ah-huh. Dave, do we know why they picked on Starsk?”

“A guy called Alex picked him out of the Book. No other reason. Alex is a big out-of-town hood, but we had him on file, so his picture’s in here, along with quite a few others. Names and descriptions given by the security guards, some of the other guests, and Munro.”

“Did we get this Alex?”

“Not yet. Munro’s the only one that connects him with Starsky. Apparently Starsky reminded Alex of somebody.”

“Alex and Corey — who else links in with Starsk?”

“Don’t know. That’s why the package is kinda thick. Maybe Starsky can tell us.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Hutch, I gotta go. Listen, if you — if there’s anything — just call me, huh? And you can crash out at our place any time you need to.”

“I’ll remember. Thanks, Dave.” And he meant it. Whatever Duplessis had surmised, clearly he wasn’t about to throw stones.

Once again he had the waiting room to himself, and he opened up the envelope.

Faces. Many of them were official mugshots, either taken from files or newly printed from the haul at Belle Vue. Some were less formally posed, surveillance shots with names, dates, and locations written on the back. And some he did know. One in particular sent a chill shock through him, and he did not need to read the name on the file-sheet.

Alex. Alexander Lazero from Las Vegas. Ohgod…

The bitter memories would not stay where he had hidden them; he saw again the movie-film that Nick Starsky had shot to blackmail Henderson and Lazero — bright chains and black leather, and the thin lash snaking over Nick’s nakedness. He said Starsky reminded him of somebody. And it was his lover’s body held in bondage for the vicious games. It was but a small step to see the violated and slashed bodies of Sandoval, Connery, Villiers. Alex Lazero. Ohgod.

How much would Starsky remember?

For one intense, painful moment, he prayed that Starsky would be unable to recall a thing. But they needed proof.

A nurse walked down the hallway, the sound of her footsteps a brisk efficient rhythm. She went into Starsky’s room, but stayed only a few minutes. Hutch was standing as she emerged, and she smiled at him.

“You can go in now, Sergeant Hutchinson. He’ll be waking up very soon.”

*****

Hutch eased the door shut behind him and crossed to the bed. Starsky was lying half turned away, he might still be asleep; but before Hutch could speak, Starsky was looking up at him out of drug-dulled eyes, and his lips moved in a whisper of greeting. Hutch managed a smile, pulled a chair to the bedside, and took the hand that was already reaching for him. The usual platitudes didn’t have much significance. He didn’t need to know how Starsky was feeling, he had too clear an idea already. So he tightened his clasp on the long fingers instead.

“You’ve been out for some time, babe,” he said quietly. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

“… sorry…”

“S’okay,” Hutch murmured. “Take it easy. You’re going to be a bit woozy for a while.”

“… a bit?” It was almost a smile. “… can’t think…” His head turned restlessly. “Can I have a drink?”

“Sure.” Hutch poured some ice-water from the covered pitcher, held it for him to drink. “Better not too much for a while.”

“Thanks…” He looked fractionally more aware, and Hutch knew he could put it off no longer.

“Listen, Starsk. Dobey needs some IDs, a report. S.O.P., right?”

It hurt, to see the realization and the memory penetrate the drug-haze, to see the pain dawn on the pale face. But Starsky was first, last and foremost a cop. He drew a deep breath. “Yeah.”

First hurdle over.

“Okay. Let’s get it done.” To occupy himself, he adjusted the backrest and pillows before taking the photographs out of their envelope and passing them to Starsky. “Anyone you remember, just say.”

“C’mon. I do know that much.” The first dozen shots got negative response, but the next one was different. “Yeah. This guy. Rick. He was at the house.”

“One of the guys who –”

“No,” Starsky cut in. “If he was, I don’t know about it. I wasn’t keeping score.”

“Steady,” Hutch said. “Starsk, this isn’t easy, I know, but –”

“I know, I know.” There was a tremor both in his voice and hands. “Yeah, this guy too. For certain. Alex.”

“Alex –”

“Before you ask, yeah, he was one of them.” The tremor became more noticeable, and Hutch took the photographs from him before they could spill over the blankets. “Hutch, I –”

“This one?”

“I don’t know.” He hadn’t looked. “Hutch, no more.”

“Come on, babe.” Hutch leaned forward, slipped an arm behind his shoulders. “It’s got to be done. We’ve got to nail these bastards. This one?”

“Yeah. I think so. Hutch, please –”

Hutch could have let no one else do this. “He was there, in the room? Did he rape you?”

“– Yes — no more –” His pallor had a green-gray tinge, and Hutch feel nausea rising in his own gut.

“How about this one?”

“I don’t know.” But he did not protest again, and went through the rest of the pile, concentrating on getting it done. He made two more positive IDs, three maybes, then leaned into Hutch’s shoulder and closed his eyes. His report was brief, a dull monotone that shed no new light on the case. Perhaps when his mind was clearer, he would remember more.

*****

“Michael Hagan,” said Hutch, placing the mugshot on Dobey’s desk. “Territory, Albuquerque. Accessory before and during Aggravated Assault. Richardo Salvacci; territory, Sacramento. Ditto. Peter Menzies, also Sacramento, along with Joseph Greer of Phoenix and Alan Atford of Catalina possibly present.” He paused, spreading the prints like a card game. “Felix Corey, Los Angeles, Aggravated Assault. Alexander Lazero, Las Vegas, Aggravated Assault. Erik Jurgens, San Francisco, Aggravated Assault. And from our other information, we can link Corey for sure into at least one count of Murder One.”

Dobey stared at the eight photographs, face grave. “Well, Jurgens we’ve got,” he said. “Forensic found blood on his clothes. Matches Starsky’s. Must have gotten dressed in a hell of a hurry. Munro and Lee have given us enough to convict Corey on other charges if not this one. The possibles are another matter. We’ve got evidence they were in the house, but only Starsky’s word they were involved in his assault. We couldn’t get them to a hearing on that, let alone a trial.”

“But –”

“Starsky was drugged, Hutch,” Dobey said quietly. “You know as well as I do that makes his evidence on what happened inadmissible.”

“And Lazero?”

“One guard thinks he passed him through the gate, but he’s not sure. Lee didn’t see him there, but knew he was due to arrive. Munro has retracted and denied every bit of information he’s given us, and no one has put the finger on Lazero for anything in this state, from a traffic violation up. He’s Mr. Squeaky-Clean. The Vegas P.D. confirms that.”

“Captain. He raped Starsky.”

“He’s also back in Las Vegas right now, and within his rights to refuse us the time of day, let alone a semen sample. And without that, we’ve got nothing.”

“Captain –” Duplessis started, anger in his voice.

“That’s the law!” Dobey snarled. “Okay, the man’s guilty as hell! I know it, we all know it, but we have to prove it in a court of law before a judge and jury. We do not have that kind of hard evidence! We can’t touch him. Even if Munro swears he was there, we still have to prove it.”

“Okay.” Hutch held his feelings down. “So we can’t pin Starsky’s rape on him. We don’t know that he’s not involved in the murders. Munro is a weak stick, but the leads he’s given us so far haven’t all been followed up to the end. So there’s time enough to put him down.”

“I hope you’re right. The last thing I want to do is put Starsky on the witness stand. It’s lucky his undercover work didn’t turn much that was vital to the case, and nothing we didn’t find elsewhere. All his information only verified what we already knew. But Corey’s got the best lawyer money and clout can buy, and we all know what Brewster can do to a prosecution witness. Admissible evidence or not, it won’t stop him from slapping a subpoena on Starsky and bringing the whole thing out in open court. He’ll crucify Starsky without a second thought. And apart from what that could do to his mental state and his career, it could jeopardize our case all round. It wouldn’t take much to have Starsky — and you, Duplessis — accused of entrapment at the very least.

“And there’s something else I have to point out. I hate to say this, Hutch — I feel as sick about Starsky as you do — but we’re not investigating a case of Aggravated Assault or Rape, but three counts of Murder One. And those are the things we have to concentrate on.”

Neither Hutch nor Duplessis had an answer to that, and Dobey nodded at the door.

“Go get some rest,” he said. “You can start in on Munro in the morning.”

Hutch was half out of the door when Minnie called him back. “Hutch — for you. The hospital.”

He almost snatched the phone from her hand, irrational terror icy under his ribs. “Hutchinson.”

“One moment, please.” A calm, impersonal nurse’s voice. Then, “Hutch?”

Relief made his knees weak. “Yeah, Starsk. How’re you doing?”

“They say I can go home. I need a ride. Can you come get me?”

“Sure. I’ll be right over.” Thank you, God. Thank you. Every timbre and tone of the beloved voice sounded as it should.

“You could pick me up a change of clothes on the way.”

“Right. No problem. Be about, uh, an hour, okay?”

“See you.” The line went abruptly dead. Well, what else could either of them have said, given their lack of privacy? There would be time enough. Everything was going to be all right.

*****

He knew just how wrong everything was the moment he saw the brash aggressive attitude that extruded from his partner like the quills of a porcupine. Noli me tangere. The instinct was to reach out, to make reaffirmation by touch of their continuation, but Hutch held it down. It wouldn’t be for long. Starsky would see his need, would know without seeing. The bright, brittle facade was for the world, not for him. So what, see if I care, wanna make somethin’ of it?

He knew Starsky better than that. Knew him too well to be taken in by any playacting. Behind the mask, he was hurting. And afraid.

Drop the pretense. You don’t need it with me.

He couldn’t say it. Starsky needed that pretense, needed the distance it gave. The damage was deep, and needed time to heal. Questioning the facade, probing behind it, would strip the scab from the wound. He couldn’t — wouldn’t — do that, wouldn’t add to the pain.

“Hospitals,” said Starsky, managing to inject a world of contempt into the word as he slid into the driver’s seat of the Torino.

“Move over. I’ll drive.”

“Huh?”

“C’mon, shift your ass.” Christ, Freudian slip. Ignore it. “I said I’m driving. The doctor told me you’d be a bit woozy, with the sedation and all.”

“I’m feeling fine.” Argumentative.

“Maybe. I’m driving.”

For a moment it looked as if Starsky was going to make an issue of the point, then he shrugged, moved over into the passenger seat. Hutch got behind the wheel, started the engine. “My place or yours?” he asked casually. Another shrug.

“Mine, I guess. You can drop me off.”

Hutch said nothing. Arguments weren’t going to solve anything at the moment. He drove out of the city in a silence that lasted the whole journey. Pulling into the driveway, he switched off the engine, and without looking at him, Starsky got out. “Thanks,” he said absently, climbed the steps to the front door, fishing for his keys. Hutch followed on his heels, uninvited. That wasn’t questioned, either. But he could sense the tension in Starsky, like a silent scream. Whatever happened, he had to be there.

“You hungry?” Hutch headed for the kitchen, not giving his partner a chance to query his continued presence. He got a shake of the head in reply.

“Uh-uh.” A pause. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

There was damn near nothing in the refrigerator, since Starsky hadn’t been there for several weeks, but there was a motley collection of canned food in the cupboard. Hutch hunted through the stock, ignoring the more exotic items. Did Starsky ever intend to eat Calamari in su Tinto? On second thoughts, he didn’t want to know.

Chicken soup. The universal anodyne. You couldn’t go wrong with chicken soup.

Starsky was a long time in the shower. The soup was ready before he was. As a late snack it wasn’t exactly imaginative or tempting, but Hutch had done the best he could with the materials available, and it was at least edible. The sound of the water cut off at last. Barefoot, his blue robe belted tightly, Starsky appeared in the kitchen. The dark hair was curling in damp spiky tendrils over the collar, and he was clean-shaven. He looked somehow vulnerable, as if in trying to wash away the experience he had shed a skin, leaving nerve-ends too near the surface.

“You trying for webbed feet?” Hutch said, because anything was better than the silence. Starsky grunted and sat down at the table, taking up the spoon laid ready more from force of habit than anything else, reaching for one of the crackers on the plate between them. Childlike, he crumbled it, flecking the surface of the soup, and childlike, drowned them with the spoon. But he never tasted a drop. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?”

Starsky blinked at him, a little startled, as if he’d forgotten Hutch was there. Then he put the spoon down, got to his feet.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, and went to switch on the TV. Hutch heard the sudden inanity of an early-evening program, gazed at the soggy mess of soup and crackers, sighed, and put down his own spoon, his appetite deserting him. The complete impossibility of the situation swept over him again. He wanted to help, knew the help was needed, too, but didn’t know how, or what to do.

Problems, the doctor had said; and not just in sexual relationships. There was the day-to-day living as well, the damaged pride and self-respect, having to face the people who knew what had been done. Building the defensive wall was all very well, but he, Hutch, was on the wrong side of it.

Starsky was sprawled in a chair, eyes on the bright flicker of the screen. If he’d been on the couch, Hutch would have sat beside him. As it was…

“Hey,” he said, touching the still-damp curls. Starsky didn’t obviously flinch away, but the muscles in neck and shoulder tensed. “Care to give me a hand with the dishes?”

“Yeah. Sure.” But he didn’t move. Hutch stretched out a gentle hand to his shoulder, wanting to touch to show his love and caring. But Starsky abruptly leaned forward and picked up the TV Guide from the coffee-table, stayed there elbows on knees, while he leafed through it.

Hutch went in to the kitchen, washed, dried and put away the dishes. When he got back, and before he could speak, Starsky stood up and stretched. “See you in the morning,” he said, and made for the bathroom.

“Starsk –” Hutch started. The door shut, and he heard the snick of the bolt.

*****

This time Starsky didn’t seem to stay under the shower so long, and he passed Hutch without speaking as he collected the bottle of pills and returned to the bedroom. Hutch reached out to him, and he somehow avoided the contact without making it an obvious rejection.

“Starsk?” Hutch whispered. There was no reply.

Give him time.

He waited a few minutes, then went into the darkened room. “D’you mind if I crash out on the couch?” he asked casually. He could have said, “Do you want me to stay?” Except he wasn’t sure what he’d do if Starsky said no.

“Do what you like,” came the mutter.

Hutch closed his eyes momentarily, squashing the desire to grab him, shake him, force some kind of reaction from him, to break through the wall.

Time. He has to have time.

“Hey,” he said quietly to the dim shape on the bed, “If you need me, I’ll be here.” And walked back into the living room, to collect pillow and spare blanket from their storage place.

*****

Starsky lay there staring up into the darkness, hearing the tenderness and compassion and understanding in that brief sentence, but not letting himself even begin to respond to it. Reality was creeping back to him like the slow inexorable advance of the tide. Couldn’t ignore it. Had to face up to it, finally, without the cushioning of the sedation.

He hurt. He hurt in a lot of places and in several different ways. The surface bruising was a lot of nagging aches; they’d worked him over pretty thoroughly, but he’d had a lot worse. No concussion, but his head ached and it felt good to be horizontal. He was tired, still fuzzy from the shots they’d given him. He’d feel better when he’d slept. Everything’d look different in the morning.

Jesus, he was sore. They’d given him a tube of anesthetic gel at the hospital, but although it numbed the pain temporarily, the discomfort was always there. No real damage, they’d assured him. Bruising is all.

Who’re they trying to kid? Thought I’d been split like a melon.

He had a vague recollection of hearing Hutch’s voice through the foggy haze of shock as he lay on the treatment table in the Emergency Room, while careful impersonal hands worked to clean him up. But he’d been able to make no sense of it before the warm dark sea of oblivion swallowed him up. No dreams, too deep for that.

Just wanted to be on my own, that’s all. No big deal. I’ll get it together. Hell, how many rape-victims have I seen — interviewed? Hundreds. Men, too. They handled it. So can I. Tough macho cop, I should be able to. Sure I can, just give me time, okay? S’no big deal.

… Pain. The helplessness. Humiliation. Degradation. Just words. Can’t begin to tell it like it was… hurting…

The Seconal took hold, dragging him down into unconsciousness.

*****

Hands were on his shoulders, gripping hard. A voice, urgent, frightened, called his name. His throat raw from screaming, he gasped for air like a swimmer breaking water, clutching to reality as the nightmare left him shaking and nauseated.

“… Starsk? Are you awake now? Starsk –” Hutch was holding him, eyes dark with anxiety. Starsky felt the sour rush hit the back of his throat and wrenched free, rolling from the bed and diving for the bathroom, but the first spasm wasn’t over before Hutch was there, supporting him as he crouched beside the toilet, retching. Starsky had no defenses left. In extremity, he hung on to the steadying arms, let himself be lifted, half-carried back to the bed.

He couldn’t stop shaking. “‘S the s-shot they g-gave me.” His teeth were chattering. “Or the d-damn pills…”

Hutch had fetched a towel, was rubbing the cold sweat off him, wiping his face for him as if he were a sick child. “Take it easy, it’ll pass. You’ll be okay in a minute.”

Starsky didn’t look at him — couldn’t look at him. He kept his eyes tight closed, and felt the quilt settle over him, light and warm. The shaking didn’t let up. In the back of his mind, the nightmare horror lingered, waiting for sleep to release it again. “H-hutch…?”

“I’m here, babe. It’s all over.”

Not all over. Never can be. Christ how can it be when I can’t bear for you to touch me, when your hand on me makes me vomit?

He caught his breath on a sob, unsuccessfully stifled, and there were arms around him, holding him close. He froze, rigid, in the remorseless grip. “Sshh…” Hutch murmured into his hair. “Easy. It’s over. Just take it easy. Relax…”

A firm hand stroked his back, the taut muscles of his shoulders, strength and warmth and love enfolding him. Slowly, like ice melted by the sun, the tension began to leave him, the resistance draining away. Even the shaking eased into spasmodic tremors. And all the while Hutch held him, voice whispering reassurance. Against his cheek, Starsky could feel the steady pulse in Hutch’s throat, a soundless beat that lulled him towards sleep. And this time there were no dreams at all.

 

Chapter XX

Hutch looked in before he left for work. In spite of the unavoidable noises of his preparing for another day, Starsky had not woken. He was lying still as Hutch had left him, curled on his right side, face burrowed into the pillow, one hand outflung, palm up. The bruises around his wrists had darkened into sooty bracelets. Hutch knew that the bruises he couldn’t see would be the same. Bruises fade; flesh heals. The other damage he was not so sanguine about.

Nothing can change us. God, we were dumb. Everything changes. The whole of life is change, and thinking we were immune was pure fantasy. We’ve changed. Our relationship, ourselves, our situation. It’d be wrong to wish it otherwise. We can cope with the changes, Starsk. We can handle it. Just — don’t stop loving me.

“Have to go, babe,” he said quietly. And on impulse he crossed soft-footed to the bed, straightened the quilt, and bent to brush the unshaven cheek with a kiss. “Wish I didn’t have to leave you alone, but –”

Doesn’t matter, because you won’t wake up for hours, and even then you’ll be too woozy to move. I got work to do. I’ll be back.

*****

Because Munro was expecting to be questioned, they left him to stew a little, turning their attention to Sutcliffe instead. He had not been caught in the raid on Belle Vue, but in the swoop on Hidalgo and Benedic’s. The two detectives decided on the classic scenario, Hutch as bad cop, Duplessis as the friendly, but-helpless-in-the-face-of-his-partner’s-fury good cop. Hutch did not have to psych himself into the role for once. With Duplessis on his heels, he strode into the interview room, slapped the morgue shots down on the table in front of Sutcliffe, one by one.

“Chris Villiers, aka Robin Parrish,” he hissed. “Drew Connery. Richard Sandoval. Some of your little babies, Momma? Take a real good look.”

After that it hadn’t taken long. The main problem was making sense of the man’s incoherence, his expressions of horror and disbelief. It seemed that Mr. Sutcliffe had not known of the ultimate fate of his pretty babies. Unlikely though that sounded, the two detectives chose to accept his word on it for the present. Especially when he began to remember things. Connery he hadn’t known, but Sandoval had recently turned down Jeff with more brusqueness than was necessary. And Jules.

“– and Robin — he walked out on an assignment with Mr. Hart, said he didn’t play that kind of game. I thought it’d been a mistake. The files are clearly coded. He should never have been sent to Hart in the first place. Then when he disappeared, I thought he’d gotten disenchanted and gone home. Some do, you know. OhmyGod — Skip was scheduled for Mr. Hart this time –”

“What happens to them, Sutcliffe?” Duplessis interrupted.

“I — I don’t know. I think they’re taken out to Tadleigh. For R&R, I figured. Hart likes to play rough. Skip — ohmyGod…”

“So help us.” Hutch leaned forward. “Tell us what you know.” Sutcliffe hesitated, and Duplessis threw in another straw.

“Maybe we should check the morgue. I guess I could still recognize Skip, even with that done to his face.” He gestured at the photographs. “Or Sutcliffe could, for sure.”

“No! God, no, I couldn’t! Please…”

“Three counts of Murder One, Sutcliffe,” Hutch said stonily. “And you set ’em up. Supplied the pretty chickens. What does that make you, huh? That’s going to put you up there in front of the judge right along with –”

“No!”

“Of course,” said Duplessis quietly, “if you were to turn State’s Evidence, the D.A. could take that into account.”

Sutcliffe’s panic-stricken gaze fastened on his face as if he were a drowning man and Dave had thrown him a rope. He drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I’ll need protection,” he said, the words tumbling from his lips. “There’s big money and bigger connections behind this, and God knows what strings they can pull. You’ve got to protect me.”

“We will,” Hutch promised. “So what do you know?”

“I can do a deal with the D.A.?”

“Yeah, you can talk to him as soon as you like. He wants this case wrapped up fast and tight as we can make it. There won’t be any problems on that score.”

“Okay.” Sutcliffe pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his face and his sweating palms. “There’s another man you should talk to. He might be willing to deal as well. Name of William Borrows. He works for Mr. Corey, but he fouled up on something. I don’t know what. He got an official reprimand, and was suspended. He didn’t work for any of the agencies, but he was down for Hart’s party. And Skip — for God’s sake, Denny, what happened to Skip?”

“Skip didn’t go to the party,” Duplessis said gently.

“Thank Christ. Don’t tell me why, or who informed, I don’t want to know. It’s over…”

The session was far from over. Duplessis went and fetched coffee, gave Sutcliffe reassuring pats on the shoulder and offered him a cigarette, all of which seemed to steady the man, and he sat up from his sprawl across the table.

“Jules,” Hutch said, as Sutcliffe lit the cigarette. “What else?”

“Forenzi. Juliano Forenzi. He’s the editor of a string of yachting magazines.”

“Yachting?” Duplessis echoed.

“Yes. ‘Inshore Yachtsman’, ‘Sail and Rigging’, ‘Ocean Racers’. Stuff like that.”

“And Hart?”

“Managing Director of the Homestead food store chain. He’s based in San Francisco.”

“Jeff?”

“Jeff Wright. A realtor in San Diego.”

“Alex?” Hutch inserted the name without any trace of emotion in face or voice.

“Alex? He wasn’t in Hart’s party.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Quite sure. He rarely comes to L.A. When he does, Mr. Corey takes special care of him. But he’s never been involved with Hart.”

“How about Richie, Drew, and Robin?” Duplessis asked. “How involved with them was he?”

“He wasn’t. Not at all.” Sutcliffe was not going to be shaken on that. “If he was, I’d tell you, believe me.”

“How about Rick Salvacci, Jurgens, Hagan?” Hutch wanted to know.

“I swear to God, Forenzi, Hart, and Wright are the only ones I know who for sure buy the snuff parties.”

“Separately or together?”

“Together.”

“And to your knowledge they booked Villiers, Sandoval and Connery for those parties?”

“I thought it was faked, I told you, I swear I didn’t know that –”

“I believe you,” Duplessis murmured, “but I gotta be able to convince the D.A. — let alone Mr. Hutchinson here. You have to give us something we can check.”

“Whatever you want, I swear –”

“Why don’t we get all the details down on paper?” Hutch suggested. “Dave, get a stenographer in here. I’m gonna talk to Dobey.”

“The D.A.?” Sutcliffe clutched at his sleeve.

“Yeah, the D.A.,” Hutch reassured. He had to talk to Dobey about Tadleigh Hall, as well, get some black & whites down there. If the kids were taken there afterwards, for whatever reasons, maybe Borrows had been, too.

*****

The Sheriff’s Department closed in on Tadleigh Hall, expecting — and hoping for — a hornet’s nest. But there was hardly any resistance. And the round-up netted six heavies, and that was it. The house-staff were long gone, as were all the guests that had clearly been catered for in the kitchens and dining hall. But in the furnace-room, they found Borrows. He’d been drugged, bound with wire and bundled into a sack for disposal, but for some reason no one had gone through with it. When the deputies broke in, he was alive and kicking, half out of his head with terror, but otherwise unharmed.

And it turned out that he knew a lot of fascinating things about garbage disposal.

*****

At noon, Hutch put through a call to Starsky’s number. The phone rang a long time before it was answered.

“Yeah?” A guarded and borderline-hostile monosyllable.

“Hi,” said Hutch. “Did I get you out of bed? I’m sorry.”

“No. I was watching TV.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you shopped this morning?”

“No. Only just got up.”

“Listen, I’m going out to Sherwood Court to collect your stuff. I’ll do some shopping on the way back if you want.”

“Okay.” Flatly non-committal. Hutch could almost hear the shrug. “Whatever.”

“I’ll see you later, then.”

“Okay.” And the line went dead. Slowly Hutch replaced the receiver, and looked up to meet Duplessis’ steady gaze.

“Come on,” the kid said quietly. “It’s time we took us a lunch break. Don’t know about you, but I could sure use something to eat.”

Hutch wasn’t hungry, or at least didn’t think he was until they got to the Pits and scented the aromas seeping from the kitchen. It had been some time, he realized, since he’d sat down to a proper meal. Letting himself sink into a morass of depression wasn’t going to help himself, and it was the last thing Starsky needed. Over double burgers, coleslaw and fries, Duplessis suggested clearing out the DuCann apartment, followed by Sherwood Court, which seemed like a good idea to Hutch. He’d welcome Duplessis’ company.

The DuCann place didn’t take long to clear, with the two of them packing, and within a couple of hours, they were at Starsky’s temporary pied-a-terre. There was a slight problem here, with the number of books and papers acquired for the Literature course, but a cardboard carton discovered in the kitchen solved that. Hutch stacked the lecture notes and essays away neatly, eyes caught by the odd word and phrase, but he resisted the temptation to read. Time for that later, if Starsk was willing to share. He couldn’t yet reassume an automatic acceptance into his lover’s life. Not until Starsky recognized that he was not a threat and drew him in.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Duplessis’ voice, quiet and anxious, filtered through into his awareness.

“What?”

“Starsky. The rape. Is he gonna be able to handle it?”

“I don’t know. Yes. I hope so.”

“But how the hell do you help, huh?” Duplessis muttered, forcing the lid of a suitcase closed. “They never tell us that, do they? Any kind of grief or pain, they never teach us –” He broke off with a short, angry gesture. “And the ones who are closest are the ones who get kicked in the teeth, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said. “It goes with the territory.” For better, for worse.

Duplessis nodded, as if he’d heard the unspoken thought. “Guess it does,” he said. “Maybe that’s where the helping really begins. I’ll get the bags down to the car, if you wanna give the place a last check-over, see if there’s anything we missed.”

They hadn’t. The apartment was as empty and anonymous as the day Starsky had rented it. But there was a loneliness that ached in the shadowed corners, and it found an echo in Hutch’s heart.

Oh, babe, don’t shut me out.

He picked up the carton of books and files, went down to the street. Duplessis was grinning. “What’s so funny?”

“The sheriff’s finally turned Borrows over to Metro. Dobey says he’s mad clear through, and ready to put the finger on Corey.”

“What about Lazero?”

Duplessis shook his head. “Dobey didn’t mention him. But there’s no law says we can’t drop the name on Borrows, see if it rings any bells. Dobey wants us to do the interrogation. The sooner the better.”

Hutch sighed. “Okay. Let’s go in now.”

But although Borrows clinched the case on Corey, Hart, and the other two, he had never heard of Alex Lazero.

A chill feeling took root in Hutch’s chest. The man was sand, and was slipping through his fingers…

*****

It was late by the time he finished at Metro, and there was still the shopping to get in. Earlier in the evening he had tried to call Starsky to tell him he’d be late, but got a busy signal. He made another attempt to get through just before he left, and the line was still busy.

When he let himself into the dark apartment, he found out why. The phone was off the hook. Dumping the groceries beside the sink, he checked the bedroom. Starsky was asleep.

Hutch smiled, but didn’t touch him. Moving as silently as he could, he put away the foodstuff, brought the bags and the carton up from the car, and started to slot the books into gaps on the shelves. The files and loose papers were not so easily disciplined. He grabbed at a sliding sheaf of paper, and his own name leaped out at him from a page. His resolution not to read disappeared.

This was no essay. Or lecture notes. Nor was it exactly a letter or a journal. More a conversation — Starsky speaking to him from the paper, all the joy of his discoveries and his love shining beacon-clear. As it had been before the self-imposed isolation that was wounding them both. Hutch put the thought aside, let himself be caught up by the words.

He became so deeply engrossed in what he was reading that he didn’t notice the passage of time. Here indeed was the pure gold of his lover, and more beside. The gold he had always known to be there, but the lyricism and fluent, articulate passion were a revelation.

Thought I knew everything about you. But I never guessed at this. You even had me fooled.

Slowly, page on page, he read his way through, with total fascination, captivated.

“Hutch?”

The unexpected sound startled him, and he snapped the file shut, obscurely embarrassed, as if he’d been caught doing something illicit. “You should be asleep,” he said softly, glancing at the slender shadowy figure beyond the circle of light from the table-lamp.

“I… had a dream.” The voice sounded distant, uncertain. “I woke up.”

Hutch went to the kitchen, switching on the light there. “I’ll get you a drink. Maybe you better take a couple more of those pills.”

“Do I have to?”

Hutch turned to look at him. Starsky’s eyes didn’t seem quite focused, but wide and dark, oddly defenseless, confused. He stood there as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“No,” Hutch said carefully, aware now that something was coming down, and bracing himself to take it, whatever it was. “No, Starsk. You don’t have to. But they’ll help.”

Take it easy, Hutchinson. Don’t spook him.

He saw the shudder, the quick shake of the head. “Nothing helps.” A whisper of loss. Desolation made vocal. Then, “Hutch — oh god it hurt –” His voice broke on the final word, and the shakes hit him, and Hutch knew that this was what he had been waiting for since Starsky had been let out of the hospital. He grabbed hold, pulled Starsky close, and this time there was no twisting away, no flinching rejection. Starsky’s fists bunched in his shirt fabric as he clung, driving his face into Hutch’s shoulder, his body heaving as he fought for control.

“Let it out,” Hutch whispered. “Come on, lover. You need this. Let it out.”

It was bad, but better to be able to hold him like this and offer what comfort he could, than to be held back behind the walls, witness to the silent anguish that he could do nothing to assuage. And it felt so good to hold him. Hutch closed his eyes, resting his cheek on the soft curls, rubbing one hand rhythmically up and down the quaking back.

The release of pent-up tears was almost orgasmic in its violence, and the wrenching sobs tore their way past any shreds of self-control Starsky might have left. Hutch knew himself to be needed: storm-anchor, safe harbor, the circle of his arms a haven desperately sought. It seemed it had always been this way. He remembered other times of holding and being held. Gillian’s death. Terry’s. Snatching Starsky almost literally from the edge of death at the hands of Marcos’s disciples. He couldn’t remember who had held on to whom, those times. And they had both cried. The times when he’d wanted to grab hold, and couldn’t. Like seeing Starsky hooked up to all those frightening machines, after the shooting. Or, further back, after Bellamy’s poison had almost succeeded in killing him.

Wanted to hold you then. And couldn’t. Were there times like that for you, partner? I guess there were. When they had me in Isolation with that damned plague. I remember waking up to see your name written up across the observation window and I knew you’d been there. Wasn’t a lot, but it helped. As much as anything could.

Shared pain. Shared sorrow, shared despair. All those things made easier because we didn’t have to bear them alone.

Starsky was calming, the racking sobs slowing to the awkward hiccups of emotional exhaustion. Hutch loosened his grip, still keeping one arm around him, and guided him back to the bed, making him lie down and keeping the contact by lying beside him, cradling him. He began to talk to him, voice soft and even, a measured lulling monotone. What he said didn’t matter. The head on his shoulder grew heavy, breathing deepening. He continued the crooning monologue, voice dropping to a whisper, and had leisure now to take a little of what he needed, the simple pleasure of contact of touching, just being near him without any sense of Starsky flinching away. Continuing his litany of loving, not caring whether or not he was heard on any conscious level, Hutch let his words be absorbed subliminally. Lightly at first, then with increasing confidence, he caressed the dark hair, the features he loved, the strong line of the throat where the pulse beat slow and even and steady. He brought the long fingers to his lips, kissed the hard palm.

“I love you.” He folded the slender hand in his. It was enough to lie there and hold him, desire and yearning transmuted into answered need, only the love unaltered.

Only? Since when has loving been ‘only’? He smiled to himself. I have this. I have all I want in the world. Right now, ‘only’ is more than enough.

The fingers tightened on his, trembling slightly. Starsky shifted position in his arms, one knee pushing between his, and he felt the hardening flesh against his thigh, insistent, and his own response as his breath thickened and caught in his throat. He knew what Starsky wanted, knew that now it would be a healing as well as a release.

“Wait, lover –” He reached for the drawer of the night-table, found what he wanted, and prepared himself before opening to the impatient body. Starsky’s weight bore down on him, grip urgent, his movements almost frenzied. Hutch locked his legs around his lover’s waist in an attempt to gain a kind of control, succeeding in slowing the desperate thrusts to a rhythm he could match. It built to a swift and sharp-edged climax, Starsky stiffening, arching his back in a shuddering surge, and the pulsing flood triggered Hutch to orgasm seconds later, gazing up into wide open eyes that stared blankly through him.

Starsky sagged into his embrace, breathing ragged, turned his face into the pillow, and was still. He had not spoken nor made a sound, throughout.

*****

The early morning sun was an acid-sharp brightness that sliced even through closed eyelids. Hutch muttered in his sleep and rolled his head to escape the intrusive light, and in doing so surfaced enough to register where he was. Starsky’s bed. He smiled, aware of the warm body curled close along the length of him, shoulders to toes.

S’all right. Everything — finally — all right…

He sighed and let his eyes drift to the face half-buried in the dark-blue pillow. Never could figure how you can breathe like that, babe. The blue outlined the curve of brow and cheek, the delicate fan of long lashes in a crescent on the cheekbone, the sensual mouth.

“C’mon, Sleeping Beauty,” he whispered, one hand stroking firmly down the exposed line of shoulder and back. “Time to wake up.” And he captured the passive mouth beneath his.

There was one instant to enjoy it before rigidity froze his partner. Then the shaking started, a tsunami of tremors that had nothing to do with arousal or desire. Hutch’s morning-drowsy contentment vanished as abruptly as if he’d been drenched with ice-water. He pulled back, focusing on eyes blue-black with terror enormous in the drained face, unrecognizing.

“Oh God. Starsk?” He gripped, hard, his fingers biting into the shoulder-muscle. “Starsk. It’s all right. It’s me, lover.”

There was a convulsive shudder under his hands. “Hutch?” It was a strained whisper, a plea that reached inside Hutch and twisted his heart. “I can’t…”

Hutch blinked rapidly, eyes prickling, and his voice cracked as he altered his grip. sliding his hands from shoulders to nape to cradle the dark head against his chest. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “All right, David… It’s only love.”

The answer was barely audible. “I know.” And, “Hutch. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t ever have to say that.” He continued the gentle caress of fingers through the soft springing hair, and the tension slipped away as Starsky relaxed against him. “Listen. I love you, you know that.” His own reflection looked down at him from the mirrored ceiling, eyes haunted, as the reassuring murmur went on. “You don’t have to be afraid. Not any more. Not of me, David.” He’d been a fool to think it would be that simple, as if his love was a magical cure-all. Couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.

The alarm sounded, cutting into the carefully structured peace with buzz-saw urgency. He killed it, but knew it had to be obeyed. He kissed Starsky’s forehead, felt the swift pulse at the temple under his lips. “Have to get up,” he whispered. There was no answer. Briefly Starsky’s hands curled to hold on to him, and he did not move until the light grip slackened. “You stay put for a couple of hours. I’ll see you later. If I can, I’ll stop by at lunchtime. Okay?”

Still no answer. Starsky looked to be half-asleep. Hutch kissed him again, and with infinite care eased out of the bed.

A shave and a shower didn’t take long, and he was ready to go. Silently he came back to the bed. There was a vulnerability about the man lying there that hurt every time he saw it. “Take care, lover.” He touched the sleeping face with his fingertips. “Love you.”

But it was very hard to leave him.

*****

Floating free and effortless in a golden cloud, Starsky was summoned from sleep by the buzz of the phone. Half-asleep still, he reached for it. “H’lo?”

“Starsk?” Hutch’s voice. “How’re things?”

“Fine,” he said, and realized it was the truth. The drowsy thistledown haze was still around him, his body relaxed and rested. “How ’bout you?”

“Me? Oh — uh — okay.” He sounded surprised. “You just woke up?”

“Mmm. Sorry.” He glanced at the clock; the digital figures flickered to 12:45. “I just crashed out for another five hours.”

“Don’t knock it. Did you good.” Affectionate chuckle and, “The life of luxury, indolence and sloth,” Hutch said. “Make the most of it, partner. You could be back at work next week.”

“I can’t wait.”

“I’ll bet. Sorry I couldn’t make it over at noon. We’re kinda rushed. Tell you about it tonight –” There was a muted rumble, and Hutch’s voice, just a touch harassed, “Yeah, right away, Cap — Starsk? See you later.”

“Right.”

He put the phone down, lay back in the nest of pillows and quilt that had molded themselves to his body as he slept. He could almost have gone back to sleep again if it hadn’t been for the necessity of relieving his bladder. He splashed face and throat with tepid water, brushed the cottony taste from his teeth, and discovered he was fully awake.

The bedroom smelled stale. He propped the windows open, stripped the bed and remade it with fresh linen. In fact the whole place still had that shut-in atmosphere. Since it had been closed up for weeks, that wasn’t surprising. The routine chores were cathartic, and it seemed that as he worked, his mind cleared itself of the confusion that had clogged it, and events assumed their true proportion and perspective.

Bottom line: Hutch loved him. Whatever had happened, that was and would be a constant. Without that knowledge, the trauma would be immeasurably harder to bear. It wasn’t going to be easy to come to terms with the rape, it was going to take time. But Hutch would be there for him. However long it took. Hutch would wait until he was ready, the scars healed, and they could rebuild together. Until then, Hutch would give him all the time he needed.

The afternoon went before he was aware of it, and with the evening came Hutch. Seeing him with a new sharpness unblurred by self-centered misery, Starsky noticed the drawn look around the blue eyes, the overall expression of deep weariness. And he saw how the spark of love glowed into life and lit his partner from within when they came together.

“What’s different?” Hutch wanted to know, glancing around warily.

“Nothing. I cleaned up some, that’s all.”

“Looks a lot better.” Hutch shrugged out of his jacket. “And so do you,” he added quietly.

“Really.” Natural, to accept the tentative touch that became a caress and then an embrace. Good to be able to return a little of the love that Hutch had been offering unstintingly. The misunderstanding of the morning had been because he hadn’t been fully conscious. Now he was. This was Hutch, who loved and was in love with him. Partner, friend, and lover.

All I need to get by.

He could feel the catch in Hutch’s breathing, uneven, and the slight tremor in the arms around him. He could sense through his skin the weight of the man’s exhaustion. “You’re wiped out.”

“No, I’m not. Well, not that much.” A chuckle. “Yeah. I’m getting old, can’t take the pace the way the kids can.” But there was a sparkle in his eyes, and a contentment.

“Over the hill,” Starsky said, and found that he could grin. It felt strange, as if he’d forgotten how.

Hutch grinned back. “Hungry? I stopped by Safeway last night. You were fresh out of just about everything.”

Appetite was one thing that wasn’t returning to normal, but he made the effort. Meanwhile Hutch made up for him, and Starsky wondered if he was bothering to make time to eat during the day. It didn’t look like it.

Conversation was a disjointed account of the progress of the case so far, which Starsky stood for as long as he could before putting knife and fork down and saying, “Hutch.”

“… Dobey thinks that Sutcliffe’s testimon — yeah?”

“Less of the day-in-the-life-of, huh?”

Hutch looked at him steadily for a minute. “Sure,” he said at last. “Whatever you want, Starsk.”

I’m not ready for that, not yet. Aloud, he said, “S’okay. It’s just that a lot of it doesn’t make sense right now, and can’t until I’m back in the swim.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“No big deal.”

Some of the old easy companionship was back, the simple pleasure of being together just because they wanted to be. With nothing on TV to appeal to either of them, they played Monopoly for an hour, but Hutch was too tired to make much of a fight of it, and it seemed to be infectious. Tonight, Starsky decided, he wouldn’t need the Seconal.

Nor did he. His sleep was deep and untroubled, and he woke to sun and Hutch’s quiet breathing. No doubt about it, waking up together had a lot to recommend it.

The pale lashes fluttered, and the summer-blue of Hutch’s gaze locked with his own. “Morning,” Starsky said softly, and kissed him. Hutch tasted of sleep, his lips warm, and they let the moment pass in peaceful stillness, their empathy returning to guide them.

As Starsky moved to trace caresses on the golden skin, Hutch mirrored his touch: the rituals of love, familiar and new, until his flesh was shivering with pleasure. He turned so that Hutch was pressing against his back, curved close, breast to spine, breath hot on his nape, fingers demanding.

He wanted this. God, he needed it with a terrible desperation that was a physical ache. He wanted the reassurance of possession, of being covered, filled, owned, and the proof that he was still loved and desired, in spite of —

He froze against the probing fingers, tense, ice in his blood, a sickness coiling in his gut.

Oh no. No. Hutch, I can’t —

But Hutch either did not realize or misinterpreted the signals, his hand moving down to guide himself into the sheathing tightness, his voice breathless with tenderness, “Want you, my love –”

No.

Starsky twisted under the weight like an eel, wrenching free of Hutch’s grip, thrusting him blindly away with a harsh moan of sheer terror, rolling from the bed and stumbling for the bathroom before Hutch could realize what had gone wrong.

*****

He was shivering violently, uncontrollably, teeth chattering, eyes flooded blind by the acid tears of sickness. Kneeling beside the toilet bowl, clutching the cold porcelain for support, he fought for breath and coherence, stunned by his body’s rebellion.

What’s the matter with me?

The worst of the attack seemed to be over. He straightened and climbed shakily to his feet.

Gotta go out there, and see the hurt on his face. God, Hutch…

It wasn’t Hutch’s fault. Not really. He told himself that firmly. But it wasn’t altogether clear to him why the reaction had hit. He’d been ready, he wanted Hutch as much as Hutch had wanted him. At least, in his head he did. His body seemed to have different opinions on the matter. No question why.

So much I can’t remember. The dope, I guess. I do remember the first one, though. Alex. Dear God, it hurt. Never knew it could be that bad. And the next one. It didn’t get any easier. Then Alex got inventive and when I still wouldn’t play they started the rough stuff. After that — zilch. Don’t know what happened next. Don’t even remember Hutch finding me. But I wasn’t out, he said I was conscious. I just didn’t recognize him. Shock. Yeah, well… I don’t want to remember. What they did to me…

He closed his eyes, shivering.

The dreams. Nightmares. I can remember those. The same every time, all of them. Every — filthy — thing. And then when they were holding me down and I couldn’t stop it happening, somehow it was Hutch — his hands on me, not theirs, and the pain flaring —

He gulped down the nausea that rose in his throat.

It can’t always be like that. I love him. I do love him. He loves me. He’ll want me, want me again, want to —

There was nothing left in his stomach to come up, but he retched, choking on the bitter taste of bile, until the spasms eased. Flushing the toilet again, he sat on the edge of the bathtub, wiping the cold sweat from his face.

Can’t go on like this. Can’t even think about it without wanting to throw up. What am I going to do?

“Starsk. You okay?” And when he didn’t answer, the door opened and Hutch silently wrapped the blue robe around his chilled body. He was expecting reaction, but it didn’t happen, and he was glad of the gentle warmth of Hutch’s hands. Love he could handle, it seemed. But not sex. Hutch, I love you. He wanted to say it, but the words wouldn’t come.

Hutch took him back to bed, covered him with the quilt, and sat on the edge holding his hand. That was the impression he carried with him into sleep: the strength and warmth of Hutch’s hand closed around his. Hutch. Make it all go away?

When he woke, he was alone, and there was a note on the pillow beside his head. “Be back as soon as I can. I love you.”

I love you.

He’d lost count of the number of times Hutch had said it — but this was written down. Which made it more permanent. Real. He could look at it any time he wanted and renew the knowledge of that essential truth.

Soapy. But I can understand now why some people keep their old love-letters.

*****

When the phone rang around noon, he was expecting it to be Hutch, but Dobey’s gruff voice came over the line.

“Checkin’ up on me, Cap?” Starsky wanted to know, and heard the grunt.

“Hutch isn’t saying much. I wanted to know if you’re going to be fit for work sometime next week. We need every man we got at the moment.”

“Sure, I’ll be back. Would be right now, if the doctor hadn’t vetoed it.”

“Can’t afford to take chances,” Dobey said. “Hutch been keepin’ you up-to-date on the case? One big can of worms, Starsky, bigger than we ever suspected. But most of the main men we can trip for a long fall.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Corey, Hart, Forenzi and Wright are going to face charges for three counts of Murder One. I’m only sorry we can’t pull in some of the others. It does look as though Lazero’ll get clean away. No concrete evidence –”

“Lazero?” He wasn’t certain he’d actually managed to vocalize. Vegas. Nick. The blackmail. “Alexander Lazero?”

“Right. Big shot from out-of-state –”

Starsky wasn’t listening any more. Alex. Lazero. Dobey was still talking and Starsky presumed he’d made the right responses, but he wasn’t conscious of any of it. After a bit he found himself sitting with the dead phone in his hand, a sickness in his gut, and a tangle of wildly confused thoughts in his head. Lazero. Alex is Lazero. Nicky’s blackmail ‘victim.’ Or one of them. ‘So clean he squeaks.’ Gets off on rape. And he raped me. Alexander Lazero.

*****

“Starsky?”

He came to the realization that the westering sun had left the bedroom dim, and that he must have been sitting like this for hours. Hutch was home. Wondering where he was. Hutch.

“Starsk?”

“I’m in here.” He stood up as Hutch walked through.

“Hi. Sorry I couldn’t get back any earlier, but — what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. How was your day?”

“Lousy. Starsky, are you all right?” Concern dawned in the blue eyes that watched him. “David? What…?”

“Dobey called.”

“Yeah, he said he might.”

“Told me you’d got Corey and Hart for sure. But there’s no way you can get Lazero.”

“He wasn’t involved with the murders,” Hutch said. “Not that we know, anyway.”

“Lazero,” Starsky repeated. “From Vegas.”

A pause. Then, “I should have told you before this. I just didn’t think that it would –”

“– Make any difference?” Starsky shook his head. “I guess it doesn’t. Shouldn’t. I just never made the connection — Alex and Lazero — until Dobey said.”

“No reason why you should.”

“Hutch –” The question was burning in his brain. “Why me?”

“Picked you out of the book, so we’re told. Coincidence, babe.”

“Is it? Me’n’Nicky — we look kind of alike.”

“No you don’t. David, you’re not like Nick. I could pick you out a dozen guys on any street who look more like you than he does –”

“But they weren’t in Corey’s book.”

“It was coincidence, Starsky,” Hutch said again. “Look, don’t try to make this worse than it is. We’ll get something on Lazero. Maybe not this, but –” He faltered to a stop.

Starsky gave a half-shrug and turned away. He couldn’t put his fears into words, for they weren’t coherent enough, not even to himself. He didn’t know why Alex being identified as Lazero made a difference, only that it did. As if the man somehow knew his relationship to Nicky and had acted on it. “Won’t change anything, will it? Whatever you get him on. If you get him. Won’t make any difference.”

“Don’t let this get to you, huh?” He sensed Hutch moving closer, but didn’t want even to be touched. Without speaking, he shifted out of reach. And heard the pain in Hutch’s voice. “If we’d gone in sooner at Belle Vue –”

But that was too unthinkable even to consider. Stalemate. And out of the impasse, across the gap between the, came Hutch’s grieving plea.

“Don’t shut me out, Starsk.”

He didn’t answer.

 

Chapter XXI

Guffawing laughter faded into a dog food jingle, and Hutch groaned aloud. Oh, Christ, not again. He didn’t need to reach out to know he had the bed to himself. Starsky would be in the chair in front of the TV, using it not so much as chewing-gum for the eyes, as counter-irritant for the dreams. Why wouldn’t he just turn to Hutch, say, ‘I can’t sleep, I had this nightmare,’ and talk it out? Useless speculation. Hutch looked at the clock and groaned again. 5:36. His own sleep had been punctuated by unpleasant dreams as well as by his lover’s restlessness. It would have been good for both of them if they could have curled up together the way they used to, but that was something Starsky didn’t want. Classic rape-syndrome, to mistrust any body-contact — except that it hadn’t lasted long at first, had virtually disappeared, in fact. Then Alex became Alexander Lazero, and it was back to Square One.

Hutch didn’t get up to coerce Starsky back to bed. He’d tried that on Thursday, five mornings ago. Starsky had made it bitterly clear that he was where he wanted to be and had no intention of going back to bed. Instead, Hutch lay awake, listening to commercials, ScoobyDoo, the news, weather, traffic reports, all interspersed with more commercials, until the alarm sounded.

He showered and shaved and fixed breakfast, all to the background hype from the living room. But at least he didn’t have to sit down alone. Starsky joined him at the table, hunching over the steaming cup poured for him, and didn’t say a word.

Hutch rubbed his hand over his sore and aching eyes, sipped at the scalding liquid in his cup. The coffee was black and strong, but it did little to wake him up, restore much-needed energy. There’s a point in physical exhaustion where even caffeine doesn’t help. Hutch felt more as if he’d had a five-mile run in high humidity than a night’s sleep. Part of a night’s sleep.

Worry chewed at his nerves, centered on the morose, drawn face of the man sitting opposite him. Would it have made any difference if Starsky had known from the start who Alex was? Yes, it probably would. Like making it a helluva lot worse. Three steps forward and two back were still better than Lazero taking on a Machiavellian role in Starsky’s head. But maybe Starsky had a point.

Was it merely coincidence that Lazero had picked him out of the book? ‘Said he reminded him of someone.’ After they’d left Vegas, had Lazero started checking up?

Dammit, he was getting paranoid.

He poured more coffee, filling Starsky’s cup as well. “Listen,” he said. “If you can’t sleep, and won’t take the pills, go back to the hospital and see the –”

“No way! I don’t need it!”

“You need sleep,” Hutch pointed out. “And you’re sure as hell not getting any sitting in front of a TV twenty-four hours of the day. If you need something to take your mind off it, what’s wrong with your college work?”

“Get off my case!” Starsky hissed, pushing away from the table and stalking back to the living room. The TV clicked on, sound defiantly high.

Hutch gritted his teeth, pain beginning to throb behind his eyes.

Give him time, a little more time, and he’ll come to terms with it, the way he was before Dobey’s phone call.

*****

But instinct wasn’t happy with that, not now that Lazero had assumed the darker aspect. Time would work against them there, could distort and build up until it was all turned awry. God knows the dreams were bad enough already. No. Lazero had to be gotten into perspective, and soon. What was lined up for the morning? Sutcliffe and the D.A. Borrows and the D.A. Hutch’s presence wasn’t vital. He could afford to be a little late. He pulled over, double-parked, and ducked into a phone booth. The call only took a minute, and he was heading back the way he’d come.

He could hear the TV as he climbed the steps. He opened the door, let it swing closed behind him, walked through to the TV and switched it off.

“We have to talk,” he said firmly, facing Starsky’s wide, startled eyes. Anger — a defense mechanism — glittered in their depths. “Don’t argue. We should have talked before.”

“What about?” A barely audible growl, and after the first astonished resentment, he would not meet Hutch’s gaze.

“You and me. What’s important to us. Why you won’t sleep, won’t get help. And why you’re shutting me out again.” He went past Starsky to the kitchen. The coffee was still hot; he poured two cups and put one in front of Starsky. “Lover, we need to talk.”

“No we don’t. All I need is –”

“Stop running, hiding. Talk to me, David. Tell me what’s wrong. What you’re afraid of.” Silence. “You are afraid?” he suggested. A strong sense of protectiveness arose in him. I won’t let anything hurt you. Never again.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Unsure, almost hyper, Starsky got to his feet, avoiding Hutch’s questioning, headed for the kitchen. Hutch followed him.

“Scared of what?” he persisted, and when Starsky wouldn’t answer him, seized hold of his wrists, forcing him to stand still and face him. “Of what?”

“I don’t know!” Starsky wrenched free, turning away. Then, bracing himself against the sink, head down, he said, “Yeah, scared. Of standing up in court, telling the world what they did to me…” His voice was muffled.

“Is that all?”

“All?! Isn’t that enough?” Astonishment.

“You’ve got no reason to feel ashamed. Or afraid. None of what happened — no one’s about to lay any blame on you.”

Words. He knew what would happen in the courtroom. The counsel for the defense would shred Starsky’s testimony, offer veiled insinuation and accusation, twist evidence and statements. Crucifixion. There was even the chance that their own affair could get dragged out.

“Tell me about it,” Starsky said dully. The fight had gone out of him. He leaned against the sink, head drooping. Hutch risked touching him then, and wasn’t rebuffed.

“You’re the only witness against Lazero and his cronies. Corey and Hart and the others — we can get them without your testimony. But not Lazero.”

“I know.”

“There’s no other way, Starsk.”

“Yeah.” Toneless agreement. It tore at something inside Hutch’s chest.

“Believe me, if I could find a way to get you off the hook –”

“– you would,” Starsky said, and let his head rest for a moment on Hutch’s shoulder. Carefully, Hutch held him like that, cherishing the closeness.

“Yeah, well, what are partners for? It may not happen. Let’s wait and see what comes down, huh?”

“Sure.” Starsky lifted his head, tried for a smile and nearly made it. “Don’t know what I’d do without you. But right now, shouldn’t you be at work?”

Reluctantly, “Yeah.”

“Then haul your ass outta here. I’ll be okay. I promise. And we’ll talk some more when we’ve got more time.”

“Deal.” Hutch tentatively bent his head, and Starsky met the kiss with only a fractional hesitation.

*****

Hutch stared at the files lined up neatly on Dobey’s desk. Corey, Hart, Forenzi and Wright. Other charges on other people would follow, but those four would be facing trial for murder, thanks to Sutcliffe and Borrows.

It wasn’t enough, not for him. Nor was it for Duplessis.

“Captain,” the young officer said, “what about the guys who raped Starsky? Lazero, Hagan –”

“Nothing.” Dobey’s voice was flat.

“Nothing?” Hutch’s head came up. “Captain, do you know what kind of hell my partner went through? Is still going through?”

“Yes, dammit, I do know. I’m not an insensitive fool. But we’ve been over this before. And I’ve talked to the D.A. besides.”

“So?”

“He won’t jeopardize the case against Corey and the rest by involving Starsky in any way. And he won’t have Lazero and Hagan indicted on Aggravated Assault and Rape on one man’s evidence — drug-affected and therefore inadmissible in any event. The same goes for Salvacci and Jurgens.” Anger and frustration were harsh in Dobey’s voice, but there was a deep compassion as well. “Look at the bright side, Hutch,” he went on. “At least Starsky won’t be subjected to the ordeal of giving evidence in open court, and the kind of cross-examination he’d get from the defense counsel.”

Hutch did not answer. His eyes locked with Dobey’s until the dark brown gaze slid away. He felt cold, and the slow inexorable adrenaline surge grew in his blood but did not bring heat with it. He stood within the eye of a storm, in a cool, calm passionless stasis, waiting.

“Lazero is a top-level gang-boss,” Duplessis objected. “Surely the Vegas P.D. –”

“No,” Dobey said. “We can’t touch him. Hutch, I’m sorry. Believe me. But maybe it’s for the best.” On the edge of his vision, Hutch saw the jerk of the head that ordered Duplessis from the office, heard the door close behind both of them.

Dobey was being tactful, giving him a little time alone.

A voice in his head, from a couple of months back spoke; Lazero, tone confident, authoritative. “But he does have a brother, whose name is not Sinclair.” His men had dumped Starsky in the desert. Name and address on a driving license — if I were Lazero, would I leave it, or follow it up? And Nick had been traced to Starsky’s apartment, the place trashed, desecrated. There’d been photographs there. Starsky and Nick. Starsky and Terry. Starsky and himself. A face in a trick book, different surname, same initials.

And a neat, savage revenge on Sinclair’s brother.

‘We can’t touch him.’ No, change the intonation. ‘We can’t touch him.’

Slowly Hutch picked up the phone, got an outside line. In his mind, it was as inevitable as an avalanche in slow motion. Unstoppable. The Vegas number was clear in his memory, despite the months between, and it took surprisingly little time for Henderson’s gravelly voice to come over. “Yes?”

“The name is Brandt, Mr. Henderson. You may remember me. We had some business earlier in the year. You had an interest in the movie industry.”

A pause. “Brandt. Yes. I figured I’d be hearing from you again before long. Let’s see… the associate-director was Nick Sinclair. Right? Getting greedy, Brandt?”

“Mr. Sinclair is no longer in business,” Hutch said neutrally. “I won’t take up your valuable time, Mr. Henderson. I just thought you should know that Mr. Lazero is causing complications. And you know what that will mean if the matter isn’t dealt with.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Yes, indeed. I think you can safely leave that to me, Mr. Brandt. I’ll take care of it.”

The connection clicked off, and Hutch replaced the receiver, fumbling it. His hands were shaking now, and his palms were slick. He’d never passed sentence of death before — not like this.

He sat down hard, watched the fine tremor in his hands as if they belonged to somebody else.

The remarkable thing was, they looked quite clean.

*****

Alone again.

On balance, the days were marginally the worst, because he was alone. Nights, even with the dreams, weren’t so bad, because Hutch was there. And there were the Seconal to sink him deep beyond the reach of the horrors.

Days were bad.

He’d exhausted every distraction during the week. Now, on Friday morning, he had nothing left to do but think. The apartment was cleaner and tidier than it had been for months, he couldn’t find anything further to do there. Even the laundry was done. He could go shop again — but what for? And anyway, he didn’t like going out. Reason told him that it was ridiculous, sick imagination, but he felt people watching him. Felt they knew.

Better to stay here, in his own place.

The TV droned a background to his aimless wandering. There was nothing to watch, but it was better than silence. He tried to read again, but his attention skittered off after a few paragraphs. He dropped the book heedlessly beside the bed, lay back on the pillows, stared at the ceiling, at the reflection of himself. Not a good idea. The pillow beside his head still held a ghost fragrance of Hutch’s aftershave. Definitely not a good idea.

In a burst of false energy, he swung from the bed, made for the kitchen, found the fresh orange juice Hutch had fixed earlier, which he hadn’t wanted then, any more than the eggs or the granola or the toast and marmalade, and drank nearly the full half-pint, grimacing slightly at the bite of it. There was a bottle of Dr. Pepper. He opened it, took a pull, the bland sweetness soothing his palate. Carrying it with him, he went through to his living room, slumped into the chair and regarded the cartoon idiocy on the screen. Jerry was being chased across a pool-table by a line of balls while Tom watched, grinning fiendishly.

“When you’re ready, babe. I’m here.”

Irritated by the ghost voice in his head, he flicked through the channels, but there was nothing to hold his interest. In the end he gave up.

“Talk to me, lover. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He couldn’t talk about it. There weren’t the words. No, that was wrong. The words were there, but he couldn’t vocalize. Not now. Not to Hutch. Knowing how it would hurt him, an unnecessary, futile hurt, for there was nothing to be done about it, no way to put it right.

But once I could have told you. Once, there would have been nothing I couldn’t tell you, no hurt I couldn’t share. And I could cry in your arms, the way I cried after Terry, the way you wept for Gillian and Van. I could accept the comfort of your caring, your love, and not be afraid of what else it would mean.

But you’re not just my friend any more. You’re my lover. And in a weird kind of way, I don’t know you. Not now. Thought I knew all there was to know about you. But the truth is — we’re strangers.

Lovers and strangers.

It was the greatest grief of his life. But there were no tears to cry for it. Some things go too deep.

He sat and waited for the day to pass, for Hutch to come home to him, for the pain of not-sharing to begin again — because even that was better than the cold dry aching emptiness of being alone.

*****

Someone was being asked the name of the world’s longest river, and the expectant hush lengthened. “Uh-oh I’m not sure — is it the Amazon?” Tumultuous applause, an ovation befitting a Nobel Prize winner. “Congratulations, sir, you have won for yourself a –”

Hutch clicked the set onto another channel, and a manic Fred Flintstone tried to convince Barney Rubble they could become rock stars. PBS wasn’t much better; several intense women were into a serious discussion on some vitally important subject incomprehensible to anyone who hadn’t been tuned in from the beginning.

“If this is daytime TV, they can keep it,” Hutch said in disgust, switching off.

“There was a Trek episode earlier,” Starsky offered absently, wandering from the kitchen with an apple. “Did he win?”

“What?”

“The guy on ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ Did he win?”

“Oh — yeah, I guess. Is that all you’ve eaten today?” There were no signs of a meal, unwashed dishes or pans, or even crumbs.

“Wasn’t all that hungry.”

“Think you could maybe raise enough appetite to tackle a steak?”

“I guess maybe.” A fleeting smile. “Hey, you didn’t have to go to any trouble.”

“I didn’t,” Hutch said shortly. “Picked up at the market on the way over, after I dropped the kid off. That’s why I’m late.”

How long do you think it takes to stuff a veal? The ghost-whisper conjured memory of the illicit picnic-party that had celebrated his living. Gonna remember this night for a long time to come.

“Okay, how’d you want it?”

“What?” The reverie broken, he stared at Hutch’s questioning face.

“Your steak. How’d you want it?”

“You need to ask?”

So easy, the old familiar banter. As if nothing had changed or ever could. Lovers. Strangers.

“Just checking.” Hutch gave him the smile that was his alone, and he ached with the response it called up in him. He turned away, knowing his seeming indifference would hurt but unable to do otherwise.

The steak was unexpectedly enjoyable — unexpected because he hadn’t been hungry, or hadn’t known he was, until the meal was in front of him. He cleared the plate, to Hutch’s undisguised delight, before he quite realized he’d done it. It was the first food he’d really appreciated for days. Eating had been just another chore to get through. “That was terrific.”

Hutch looked as if he’d been given an accolade. Ridiculous, but somehow unbearably touching.

So easy to make you happy, babe.

“Thank you, Robert Carrier. You can help with the dishes.”

“Knew there’d be a catch.”

The evening had that touch of pinkish-gold radiance sometimes seen in Renaissance Art and often in Californian sunsets. Starsky leaned on the branch of the living tree that grew through and helped to support the sundeck, and tried very hard not to think. His thoughts never got anywhere — spun round and around in repeating circles, like a squirrel in a treadmill.

‘… takes all the running you can do, to stay in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that…’

I’m tired of running.

“Want a game?” Hutch said quietly. The chess-set was laid out on the slatted teak table, the pieces neatly ranked, and Hutch sat waiting. Hopeful.

Well, why not? Give us both something to occupy our minds.

“Sure. Care to make it interesting?”

“No way. You’re too damn good at it.”

“Natural talent.”

“Idiot savant, more like. Okay — loser buys dinner for the winner.”

“Restaurant of my choice?”

“Don’t be too sure you’re gonna win, babe.”

Mock-generously, Starsky turned the board to give Hutch white. “Any other advantages you might like?”

“That’s what I like to see. Confidence.”

Concentrating on the game, he didn’t need to talk. Except that he couldn’t concentrate on the game, so his moves were random, unconnected. If Hutch noticed, he probably thought it was part of some incredibly convoluted Master Plan, no doubt. But it soon became apparent that any victory of Starsky’s would be of the Pyrrhic variety. Bishop, pawn, knight were taken from the board under an inexorable attack, and his heart wasn’t in any spirited defense. Well, it was only a game. Even if losing smarted. He castled to avoid the pressure of the white rook, and now the White Knight came into play, stalking the battlefield.

“I love you,” Hutch said quietly, and waited. For answer or riposte. Starsky kept his eyes on the squares, unable to say anything, his throat closing, aching. Dirty pool, babe. “I’ve told you. Guess I could keep on telling you until I’m blue in the face. I love you, and nothing changes that. What happened — I know you can’t forget it. You asked for time. You got it. As long as it takes. I promise. But don’t ask me to back off. Don’t shut me out. Trust me? Please?”

“Don’t, Hutch.” He couldn’t keep the tremor, the hurt, out of his voice.

“I’ve got to, Starsk. I can’t carry on like this. I need you. I love you, and I need you. If I can’t have you — well, there’s no one else I want.” Starsky watched his own fingers tighten on the chess piece until the bloodless flesh showed white and translucent. He couldn’t look at Hutch. Dared not. “Look. If it was the other way around — if it’d been me — how’d you feel then?”

Shock brought his gaze to his partner’s face. “If — it had been you?”

“How would you feel about it? About me?”

“Hutch, I love you.” His voice wouldn’t work above a whisper. “Couldn’t change that.”

“That’s how I feel, too. Starsk — David — this can only affect us if we let it. If you let it.”

The white knight moved again, and the black king was cornered, all escape routes blocked, no way out. Checkmate. And, after an age of silence, Hutch said softly, “Make your move, babe.”

Starsky watched his own hand reach to touch the black king, the carved crown.

Checkmate.

Make your move.

His fingertips stroked the grain of the carving, and he could feel Hutch’s eyes on him. He didn’t need to look up — hardly needed to speak, because Hutch knew his thoughts. Always had. Always would.

With sudden decisiveness, Starsky tipped the ebony piece forward in surrender, conceding the game. And with a catch in his throat, unable to speak, raised his eyes to meet Hutch’s, which were fixed on him, gravely tender.

Silently, Hutch held out his hand.

I love you. Now and forever.

— My north, my south, my east, my west,
My working week, my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song…

Starsky reached out and took the offered hand, their fingers closing together in a grip that had no uncertainty in it any more, no doubts, trust given and received in equal measure.

Whatever came down, they could face it. Together.

We’ve walked both sides of every street,
Through all kinds of wind and weather,
But that was never our defeat,
As long as we could walk together…
So there’s no need for turning back,
’cause all roads lead to where we stand.
And I believe we’ll walk them all,
No matter what we may have planned…
‘Crossroads’ — Don McLean

THE END

---

Chapter End Notes:
The third novel in the Red Light Trilogy is No Easy Answers.