Rusted Hearts

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“I first learned that I was capable of true deceit when I was eight years old. That very afternoon on the same day, I learned the true meaning of guilt. Thirty years later I learned something else. I was just as capable of abusing the trust of a friend as when I was a guileless eight-year-old. Not just my best friend this time, but the most precious person in my life.”

 

Please be aware that this is a slash story and one that also may contain content that is disturbing to those who have experienced personal exposure to the stressors impacting on the main characters.

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Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.

Robert South:  1634 – 1716

 

I ask you to pass through life at my side-to be my second self, and best earthly companion.

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

 

He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

 

Chapter One 

February 14, 1980

“You know what today is don’t ya?” Starsky suddenly rolled from his back to his side, his deep blue eyes dazzling me with a fervor of excitement I had not seen shining in them since forever – or so it seemed.

Sleepy and sated from our sex, I remember I had drawn a blank at the question, managing only to smile indulgently at him as I reached again for his warm body. “Umm…a long hard day at work followed by a long hard session in bed with my new lover?”

“No – not that dummy. Yeah – well that too, of course.” A rare flash of coyness crossed his face.  “Our first time.”

“Our first time,” I echoed his sentiment, as throaty with emotion as he was.

“But what I meant was – today Hutch. It’s February fourteenth. Today – it’s the fourteenth!”

“Umm….and so?” I was intent on nuzzling his neck, still damp from our lovemaking, and was only half following him.

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t ya see? We just happened to consummate our relationship on Valentine’s Day. Jeez – can you imagine that? Like – well sorta like magic don’t ya think?”

The pure joy and fresh happiness in his voice had been sparking awake again. I pulled my body upward and rolled to gently center over the top of him. Catching his dark head in my hands I framed his face, drinking in its familiar contours, my love for him almost bubbling over.  “It is Starsk. I think it is magic. You babe – you’re my very own Cupid.”

“Nah – I can’t be Cupid,” he answered, watching me just as intently as I was watching him.  “Cupid’s the little guy with the bow and arrows. Not the one who ya’ get to fall in love with.” He’d said it with such solemnity I wanted to laugh with affection but knew the moment called for more than him thinking I was making light of his romance.

“Then, Cupid’s hit us both dead center in our hearts.” I sealed my declaration with another long kiss.

But I’d been right in what I’d said.  It was true. Starsky had been piercing my heart with arrows since the day I met him. I’d just been too stupid to realize that it was Cupid who I had wanted all along and not all the other lovers who came my way.

 

Duluth Minnesota , 1951

I first learned that I was capable of true deceit when I was eight years old. That very afternoon on the same day I then learned the true meaning of guilt.

I’d found myself alone in my classroom, the first one back from lunch break when my gaze was drawn to my best friend, Billy Henderson’s desk and what was on it. It was the pocket watch handed to him after his father had died, shining like a beacon from his desktop, enticing me toward it. I recall feeling almost mesmerized by the glint of it, this small object I had coveted since I had first seen it some weeks earlier. Whether or not I ever gave thought to my actions, I cannot remember for sure. I walked quickly to his desk, picked up the heavy gold timepiece, and slipped it seamlessly into my jacket pocket.

I felt the weight of it in my clothes for the duration of the school day, acutely aware of it pressing against my too thin, boyish frame, while I sat and endured Billy’s initial confusion, then distress when he realized his prized watch was missing. By the time the school bell rang I was well on the way to feeling sick, mortified that I had been capable of such treachery.

Like some creeping cancer the guilt was already consuming me when my grandfather found me crouched and shivering in his barn house, on that bleak Minnesota winter’s afternoon. I’ve never forgotten how it felt to have that terrible feeling inside of me, slowly eat away at my guts, tearing at my soul. Grandfather, finding me in such a miserable state, crying softly and clutching the old pocket watch in my small hands, crouched down beside me, eyed the watch speculatively and waited. Without him asking, I told him what I had done – the story coming out in a stuttered, tearful voice.

It was always easy for me to tell my grandfather all the things that I held inside from everyone else in my life. His gentle, calm ways freed me up to share everything – my sadness and my happiness, my fears and hopes. Never though had I had to tell him something that had made me feel so shameful. It took some courage for me to tell him and he listened without any sign of rapprochement.

It was his belief, he said, that my self-remorse, though hard to suffer, only proved my inherent worthiness as a person. My deep inner pain was a sign that I would grow to be a man of moral standing and noble character. How he knew that I couldn’t fathom, nor really believe, so overwrought was I with self-shame and guilt.  I wanted to think he was right – as he always was about all the lessons I needed to learn about life, and I held fast to his reassurance, hoping that the terrible feelings would soon pass. I felt marginally better, comforted by having confessed my sin to him, the most beloved person in my life. That was, until he smiled gently and told me what I had to do.  I needed to return the pocket watch to Billy the very next morning.

When I heard what I should do to purge myself of the aching guilt, I felt that his instruction was not within my capability.

“I can’t grandfather – I just can’t. Everyone will know – and, even if Billy never tells anyone else, he’ll know. He’ll know what I really am.” The idea of having to face up to my best friend and admit my crime filled me with mortification.

“Then do you want to go on feeling like you are now? It doesn’t feel very nice does it, Kenneth?” he asked me.

“No. It feels so bad,” I admitted to him. “Why do I feel so bad inside Grandfather?”

“It’s because guilt can cause us a lot of pain and you are old enough now to feel guilt.” He pointed up to the barn wall behind my head. “Look over there at those old horse shoes hanging up? Can you see what has happened to them?”

I twisted my head and looked, confused with why he had suddenly changed the subject. “Well, they’re old and ….and they’re all rusted over I guess. Is that what you mean?” I asked, looking up at my grandfather, wondering what on earth this was all about.

“Exactly. Rust has eaten into them and made their weak and ugly. There’s an old saying Kenneth. That guilt, which is what you are feeling now, is like rust on iron. It eats away and eats away at us, until it slowly destroys us. Just like those rusted out horse shoes.”

“Oh? I guess I sort of understand,” I’d said, thinking about how much my tummy was hurting inside and imagining a couple of rusty old horse shoes rattling around inside of me.

“So if you want to stop the guilt from hurting, you have to put a stop to what is causing it before it can cause you anymore pain inside.”

“And? If I tell Billy what I’ve done, like you said, I’ll feel better?”

“I think you will, Kenneth. By admitting to him what you did, you should start to feel better very soon.”

I didn’t like the solution he was offering me much at all. “Billy will be hurt then – hurt that I have taken his pocket watch and been such a bad friend to him.”

Grandfather nodded. “Yes, I’m sure that he will be angry and upset with you, but he will also know you have been strong enough to make amends for your wrongdoing.”

“But what if he never wants me as his friend anymore?” I’d asked plaintively.

“Real friends can trust each other, Kenneth. Right now Billy’s trust in you is misplaced. Do you know what I mean by that?”

I thought about it for a little while. “Yes – it means he really shouldn’t trust me because I’m such a bad person and a bad friend.”

“No – you’re not a bad person Kenneth. But you have made a bad mistake. When you admit to Billy what you did you will be trying to win back his trust. If you never tell him, then you let yourself down and you really don’t deserve his trust anymore.”

His words cut me to the core. For me to be seen by grandfather, as anything but being worthy of his love and affection left me stricken. I knew then what was causing me to feel so bad inside. I didn’t like myself at all since I had done what I had done and even worse, how could I go on with my grandfather loving me less than he did if I couldn’t make things right?

Still I was unsure of placing myself at risk of being rejected by my friends and peers.

“But it is such a small thing, Grandfather. It’s just an old pocket watch. I only wanted it for a little while, to hold it in my hands and believe it was mine just for a day or two. I never meant to keep it, to steal it away from him. ” I rolled the smooth disc in my fingers. “This small thing, it can’t really matter that much can it?”

“Ah but it does matter. It matters very much to you because you are suffering from the guilt. I can see that pain in you, Kenneth.” He said in his soothing, sage voice as he stood up uneasily from his crouched position, wincing from the winter ache deep his bones. “It is your decision whether you want to fix that.”

“But couldn’t I just put it back where he’ll find it? He doesn’t need to know and he gets his watch back safe and sound,” I asked desperately, already knowing in my heart that it sounded like deceit piled on deceit.

“You could do that I’m sure – but this is not about Billy, nor his pocket watch Kenneth. This is about you. You must decide what parts of yourself you can live with and still be happy.” His blue eyes, the same color exactly as my own and still bright despite his advancing years were regarding me with concerned understanding.

I nodded silently, feeling my face stiff with the solemnity of my heavy emotional burden and what I knew I must do.

Grandfather gave my small shoulder a firm squeeze and then left me alone with my guilt.

It was far from easy, but the next morning I did my grandfather proud by confessing to Billy what I had done to him and returned the watch to his possession. Our friendship weathered the small storm as young friendships do. I never told my grandfather that I did what he suggested. Even in my immature eight-year-old mind I knew that it wasn’t necessary to tell him at all. In his wise way, he would know anyway.

For years after I recalled that day in the barn and what my grandfather taught me about the destructive force of guilt. I always remembered his story about the rusted iron horse-shoes.

I would have liked to think that I had learned a life lesson that would protect me from ever repeating such a painful process again.

I would have also liked to believe my grandfather now long passed away, was right in his belief that I would one day grow to be a good man. Grandfather was right about most things in life. In this one thing however, in his judgment of me, he missed the mark.

Thirty years later I learned another lesson in life. I learned that I was just as capable of abusing the trust of a friend as when I was a guileless eight-year old. And, just as it had been then, my act of deceit was directed against my best friend. Not just my best friend, but also the most precious person I’d ever had or would want to have in my life.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

There are so many ways that relationships can die. I’d been thinking a lot about this of late. In fact, I’d thought of very little else over the last three days.

What are the ways that love can end? Love, commitment, emotional symbiosis or whatever label we want to call the incredible connection that can form so strongly with another human that is not of our own blood? Like what is between Starsky and me – and which began no doubt from the very day we first met. It is an almost indescribable bond. Seemingly indestructible. Seemingly, but not quite.

All bonds can break. Relationships – even the most enmeshed and strongly forged, get broken.

I guess love can probably just get used up, like any other finite substance. Maybe one person simply wears out or exhausts the limits of the other’s capacity for love by asking too much of them for too long. Maybe like taking another person for granted.

The end of love can happen slowly in the form of steady but persistent erosion, a rotting away of the foundations of commitment, emotional structures that have stood the test of time and outside stressors. God knows I’d seen that happen enough time in my job as a cop where marriages gradually disintegrate and blow away in the wind.

Then, there is the other way – the swift and brutal way, where the edifice of a relationship is destroyed in minutes, ripped apart by the bomb blast of truth. The walls of the relationship implode, the shattered bricks of trust and emotional investment shattered into a million particles by one clear moment of devastating realization. Fragments of what was once love and caring get jettisoned into a darkened sky to rain down again as brittle shards of hate and resentment.

Is this how Starsky’s love for me would die when I told him the truth? Blasted away by one huge storm of truth. I had to tell him of course – not so much to unload my own burden of guilt but to try and protect him from the consequences of my actions. My pain I could live with, but I knew with absolute certainty, I could not live without his love.

Starsky had taken it from me once already. Never could I survive the loss a second time.

 

February 13 1982.

Los Angeles.

Valentine’s Day had never been a particularly momentous occasion for me – to say the very least. Anyone who knows me well knows that I have little time for festive dates on a calendar and the hype surrounding this one had to be up there with the worst of them.  In my younger adult years I purposely spurned the rampant commercialism that surround such holidays. However things change, and in the past two years the fourteenth of February had come to mean something to me, and this year especially, the date would have marked a time of great personal sentimentality. Would have, because I knew that this Valentine’s Day would be the anti-thesis of anything related to romance or love.

It would be the day that Starsky would learn the truth. Of course I should have done it sooner. I suppose I had the chance, if not the courage, in the last few days when I learned about the ramifications of my deceit – but every time I thought that I could do it, I pulled back. I would never have chosen for it to happen this way – on our special day of all days, in the same way that one would hate to lose a loved one on Christmas Day or find out they are dying on their birthday. But fate is a fickle thing and doesn’t always play nice. It would have to be tomorrow now. Yet again I had let the moments skitter by where I might have braved the declaration.  Now however, there were no more chances left for me to put it off. No more stalling, no more hiding my head in the sand.

The night had worn on and it was too late in the evening to do what I should have done earlier that day, or even better, the day before – but had been too weak to do.

When is it ever the right time to hurt the person you love? To hurt them in the way that you know will hurt them the deepest?

Starsky was asleep, worn out by an incredibly long day. He’d put in six hours at the Child Abuse Foundation where he’d been working as a police consultant for more than a year now then a few hours in the afternoon researching for his Master’s Thesis in Criminal Psychology. He topped all of this off by a couple of hours preparing the special culinary delights he was planning for tomorrow evening. Although I knew he was exhausted, he refused to let me anywhere near the kitchen, claiming that this was his surprise to me and that like all of his new endeavors, he enjoyed trying out his newfound skills in the kitchen. He claimed that it helped him to wind down and relax.

I was banished to our small study to supposedly catch up on outstanding paperwork. At least that was what Starsky had assumed I was doing. In reality, my in-box went untouched while I spent more than an hour inside my head, warring with myself. Later when Starsky looked in on me to call it a night, I could barely stand to look him in the face so certain that he could read the guilt in my eyes. So I kept my face turned from him, pretending to focus on the papers spread out on the desk in front of me.

“You still at this?” Starsky asked as he popped his head into the office.

I rubbed at my eyes, still hiding my face from him. “Can’t seem to concentrate. Maybe it’s all those great smells wafting in from the kitchen. I thought it was just meant to be the two of us for dinner? You sound like you’re making enough for ten in there.” I laughed softly, pretending to highlight a couple of lines on my working document.

“Hey, you think I’ve been in there throwing meat patties together? This is high-end stuff I’m making for us, not just our usual everyday chow. Swanky food takes time and care to produce Hutch. I want it to be special for you – for us,” he said, coming up closer to me and touching my neck.

Oh don’t say that Starsky…Please don’t.

“Anyway, my work is done. The meat is marinating, drinks are chilling, vegetables are prepped and the desserts are in the spare fridge. Make sure not to open it and look or they might sink or somethin’.”

“Okay I promise, no fridge opening. Though I think it is when you open the oven that things sink – not the fridge,” I said, not able to keep the affectionate teasing out of my voice.

God, but he was so loveable.

He leaned over from behind me and wrapped his hands around my chest as I sat at the desk. “All that work for just the two of us. Jeez! I hope you’re worth it, Blondie!” he laughed as he rubbed his hard chin into the top of my head.

I nearly snapped the pencil I held in my hand in half when he said that. His lighthearted jibe sliced straight into my heart. He couldn’t have framed a more painful statement had he tried. Worth it? I was worth nothing. At least nothing more than a worthless piece of shit.

I squeezed his forearms, pulling them even tighter about my chest, not trusting my voice, but reluctant to let him go. I could have stayed like that forever, with his arms encircling me, his warm breath on my head, his beating heart pressed against my back. I closed my eyes, to intensify the sense of his touch, his smell, the sound of his easy breathing. I opened my eyes again and feasted on the visual beauty of his forearms, olive skin, dark with hair and solid with muscle again, after so many months of wasting and weakness, they were beautiful to me, as every part of him was. It was so natural to bend my head down and touch my lips to the skin, the taste of him, salty and spicy tingling my mouth.

“Mmmm – You wanna do that some more – only when I’m horizontal. Like in bed? I’m beat.” He snuggled his lips closer to my temple.

Of course I wanted nothing more, but I couldn’t, I wouldn’t.

I feigned the need to spend some more time on an outstanding departmental proposal. Such an easy lie and it fell effortlessly from my mouth. I was so good at it. I felt him, rather than saw him because I could not turn around to meet his eyes, nod a little hesitantly against my head, accepting the gentle rejection, even if it must have confused him. These days, he tired more easily than me but even so, rarely did we close down the night separately. “These days.” How I hated that fucking expression. It represented everything that had changed in his life because of the day that came before “these days” – the day of the shooting.

“Sure – just make sure you get the damn thing out of the way because tomorrow night – this office is outta bounds you hear me?”

He must have wondered….

He yawned but stayed with his arms about me like he was reluctant to let go, until I realized I was the one still holding onto him, having wrapped my own arms firmly over his.

“Go to bed, Starsk,” I patted his arm. “You’ve had a big day and tomorrow you’ve got your lecturing at the Academy early in the morning.”

“God – don’t remind me…” he groaned tiredly. Personally I thought he was stretching himself too far with work and new endeavors. His physical rehabilitation had had only be completed finally a year ago and even now he still needed maintenance sessions with his physical therapist and check ups with the medical specialists. I worried endlessly for him as I had done since that fateful day in the police precinct’s garage. I never would stop worrying – I knew that.

This time I did turn in the desk chair to lay my head quickly against his stomach in a familiar gesture of affection. Still I kept my eyes averted from his.

“Bed now. I’ll lock up and kill the lights. I just need a little longer here to get this wording right.”

When he clutched my shoulders tightly once more and dropped a gentle kiss goodnight on my temple, I swallowed against the rush of longing that his touch evoked in me. A longing so deep and powerful that I thought in that moment I could die from never deserving of it again. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to shut off the lights and go to bed with him, to stretch out with him in the cool, dark room and fold him in my arms, secure in our love for each other.

But my unworthiness prevented me from going with him. I had no right for him to feel secure with me. No right to hold him and have him press his scarred back – all the more precious to me because of what those scars represented, his strength, his resilience – into my chest as we lulled each other to sleep with soft kisses and gentle caresses. All of my rights had been forfeited.

Tomorrow was to be our special day, our celebratory evening. For me however the thought of the next evening conjured up the same level of dread that I had felt that afternoon in the cold barn thirty years ago. It brought to mind the same deep panic I had felt when my grandfather had told me what I needed to do to free myself from my own torment.

And after tomorrow? What would our special day become then? It would mark an occasion for sure, but not the one for which Starsky had so joyously prepared.

After tomorrow he would always remember it as the day that I had destroyed everything we had built together. The day I had taken his heart, his love, his trust, and crushed them beneath the heel of my deceit.

 

Valentine’s Day, February 14, 1982.

“You know – I think I’ve been to morgues with more life in ‘em than this evening’s had so far.”  Starsky put down his empty champagne flute, the third one he’d thrown back since we’d been sitting here on the couch. I knew he was drinking quickly as a way to deal with the unease he had picked up in me as soon as I had come in the door. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to sense it.  I knew it was radiating from me as brightly as some tacky neon light in a mall strip.

“Hey? Somethin’ wrong? ” he leaned in closer, all flippant Starsky humor gone from his voice.  “Have you suddenly decided this,” he waved his arm about the room, “is all too much?”

His hand waving and “this” was meant to denote the supposed night of celebration he had waiting for me when I’d dragged myself and my mood home from work and through the front door half an hour earlier. At least I hoped that’s what he meant and was not referring to our relationship in broader terms.

I shook my head, a pitiful show of trying to convince him that he was wrong about his assessment, because as usual Starsky’s assessment of me was right of course. We had known each other too long and too well to hide anything from each other, especially severe moods. It was all too much, but I didn’t even have the courage or the strength to answer him. I sighed deeply, rubbed a hand over my upper chest like I always did when I was thinking.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was coming across like that.” Of course I did. I fumbled to think of something to add.  “Just been a bad day.” Like every day had been in the past few days. Day and night – one long nightmare – since I’d found out. Since I’d received the news from out of nowhere and felt thunderstruck by it.

“Just today? Because I thought you were acting a bit strange last night as well,” Starsky pressed.

“It’s just work babe,” I prevaricated, running a hand over my face. If I could, I would have covered my face completely with my two hands so he couldn’t see the parts of me he could see so easily. “I thought our days on the street were tough, but some days I feel that dealing with my squad is a hell of a lot tougher. Maybe I’m not cut out for the bureaucracy of being a Lieutenant.” The evasion wasn’t a total lie. It was hard juggling the whims and testosterone rushes of young headstrong officers alongside the political and procedural underpinnings of the police department.

Still, my weak ruse didn’t convince him one bit. Of course it didn’t. This was Starsky and he knew me better than anyone on this planet. Those deep blue eyes narrowed with the intensity of that knowledge, seeing right through my soul, cutting through my crap as easy as a hot knife through butter. I don’t even know why I tried.

“Come on, Hutch – that’s bullshit. You were born to be a leader. You know full well that you’ll make Captain within a year if you keep up the quality of work you push yourself to achieve.”

“Still,” I tried again, “the challenge to make everyone happy in the department seems to be getting old really fast and -”

“Challenge is what you thrive on,” Starsky threw back, not even letting me finish my poor performance.  “That’s not the issue and you know it, Hutch.” He prodded my leg, the beginning of concern on his face warring with underlying anger at my denial. “Try again. What’s got you lookin’ like you are, acting like you are?”

“Starsk – cut it out. I told you nothing is wrong.” I picked up my champagne glass determined to get with the party. I experimented with a shallow swallow of the bubbly wine but its acidic bite caught in my throat and refused to go down.

“No?” he insisted, not missing my desperate attempts to gag down the drink. “Are you sure? Because, I know how you get about this sort of – about my – enthusiasm for this sort of thing. Somehow though, I thought this occasion was different. You know – special to both of us.  You seemed as buzzed as I was about celebrating the occasion. At least you were a couple of weeks ago, when we first talked about marking the date with somethin’ memorable.”

His disappointment – his wretched sadness – was unmistakable and for the hundredth time that day I felt like every kind of bastard I knew I was.

I didn’t have to hear Starsky’s lament to know that he’d already picked up on the darkness of my mood. Hell, even a deaf, blind person could sense it. I was radiating dejection and gloom. Not to mention cowardice and avoidance.

It was all I could do to even be there in the same room with him, to watch his face, as the realization that the long awaited celebration was all going rapidly to shit. The worst part was watching him struggle with the reason why and the utter helplessness I felt in relieving him of his disappointment. There would be none of that. No matter what I said or what I did, there would be no relief for him – or me.  There would only be greater, far greater pain and anguish.

It was Valentine’s Day night – a hallmark occasion for us in the truest sense of the word. It marked the first time we ever admitted what we felt for each other physically and emotionally – back in 1980, not quite ten months after Starsky had cheated death from Gunther’s men.  The day we tipped over from being best friends and closer than brother partners to testing the waters with what we felt for each other intimately – sexually. The day we became lovers – albeit tentative and hesitant lovers – but still a major step, an irrevocable step for both of us. It wasn’t exactly all wine and roses after that however, we went through a long journey together and apart until we arrived at the place where we were solid and committed as not just partners but lifetime partners. Still Starsky held fast to that Valentine’s Day back in 1980 as being the date that marked the “beginning” of us. Thus the special evening he had laid out before us, prepared with love and care as a way of underscoring the evolution of our relationship as lovers.

I knew that in the kitchen he had prepared a veritable feast, with no small effort and more than one trial to perfect the menu: a roasted medium rare leg of lamb with all the trimmings, an expensive Beaujolais uncorked to breathe, and crème bruleè, so perfectly formed that I couldn’t believe he hadn’t bought them from some upscale restaurant.  He had carefully chosen two vintage bottle of champagne, which we now sat with in hand (mine barely touched) and that behind me on the sideboard he had placed a few, beautifully wrapped gifts shimmering in the candlelight – candlelight that Starsky had strategically arranged around the room. All of it was a credit to him and testimony to the value he placed on this special day.

And so this evening had to be on the top of the David Starsky hit parade of anticipated events probably since God knows how long. It had been years since I’d seen him so excited about a social occasion. The “old Starsky,” the Starsky I had known before May of 1979 had approached celebrations with all the restraint of a hotwired three year old, but since the Gunther shooting, where against all odds he’d lived only to have his entire existence re-aligned, Starsky’s whole personality had become more tempered, more subdued. He had become more constrained in most things. Skating between life and death for over a month might have started the process, but surviving more than a year of grueling rehabilitation really finished the job.

Just as Starsky had spent all his days, maybe weeks in the planning of this night, I had spent days and then excruciating hours as the clock ticked down, in the dreading of it. Now it was upon us – or rather it was upon me, and Starsky’s bright-eyed fervent glee, that goddamn beautiful, unsuppressed, unbridled joy of his was killing me. Almost paralyzed with rising panic, I worked on drawing breath, not helped by the forced down champagne, which burned like liquid acid slipping down my throat.  It felt like I had some great gaping hole in my middle chest where my stomach should have been but was now like a tangle of barbed wire.  Every time I sucked in air it hurt.

I felt like hell. I was in hell.

And Christ, did I ever deserve it. Starsky however, didn’t. He deserved so much more than I had done to him. He deserved so much more than me.

I really thought that I could pull the night off and he’d be none the wiser as to what was happening inside my head. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt him on this night of nights, this sacred day that he had so looked forward to – but –  it turned out I just didn’t have it in me. Not only could he read me like a well-worn book, but any hope I had of disguising my anguish was quickly lost. I never could keep anything from him, and anyway what was the point in delaying it? I might as well let him know what I was, what I was capable of – and most certainly – what I deserved to receive because of it.  Starsky’s absolute condemnation of me as a man and a life partner.

“What’s goin’ on, Hutch?” he asked in such an insightful way I could have sworn he had been walking through my head, watching me thrash about feverishly as self contempt consumed me.

And yet I still could not face him. “Why don’t we have dinner? It smells fantastic and you’ve gone to so much trouble.” I tried to stall again, coward that I was.

“Why? You goin to tell me you’re hungry?” he said, the first sharp edges of his anger evident.

“I haven’t eaten a thing all day,” I told him. Wasn’t that the truth? The thought of eating made me want to gag.

“I don’t doubt that. I haven’t seen you eat a solid amount of food in days,” he said, all pretenses of being upbeat about the evening sliding away rapidly. He was getting too close to my discomfort for me to keep hiding it.

“Maybe I’ve been saving myself for the feast I know you’ve prepared tonight.” The words came out strained, catching in my dry throat.

“Bullshit again!” His tone ratcheted up. He was really getting angry now. “You look ‘bout as interested in food as you are in drinkin’ that champagne – the real deal champagne I might add. I got it especially for you because you hate the cheap shit you call sugared fizz – but it’s as though you can’t even see it in your hand.”

I looked down at my almost full glass of champagne, mortified that I was so transparent to him. “I’m sorry babe – it’s good, really good. I’ve just got to wind down a little from work…”

“That’s the last avoidance line I’m goin’ to accept from you tonight Hutch. Somethin’s got your guts in a twist and I’m not moving from here till you tell me what.” Starsky’s voice had risen. “Forget the damn food will ya? You think I’m gonna enjoy dinner when there’s something I know you’re holding back from me?”

How well did this man of mine know me? How tuned in was he to my every fiber?

I stood up, dropping more than placing my champagne glass down on the coffee table, the hiss of bubbles splattering on the hard surface. “God –  I need a real drink.” I walked to the cabinet where we kept our strong liquor and proceeded to pour myself a healthy dose of amber colored liquid courage. Starsky’s eyes never left me the whole time. His lips tightened, his eyes darkened and his whole body seemed to tense up with apprehension. Worried as well as angry now.

“Whatever it takes babe. Just talk to me,” he said, more softly than the challenging tone of earlier. When I sat back down again I could see the flare of fear in his eyes, taking precedence over his anger.

“Hutch?” he said, his voice a little tremulous. He was frightened. “What the hell is it?”

Oh God.

That did it. The one thing that I cannot cope with is a frightened Starsky. It just breaks me down, brings out every need in me to make it okay for him, to protect and nurture. I’d do anything to not have him frightened. Anything in my power. I’d seen enough fear in those dark blue eyes when he was battling to stay alive in the hospital to last me a lifetime. His fear became my fear -magnified ten fold, because I couldn’t deal with the thought of him being in that state. Not since he was nearly taken from me.

I cupped my hand around his cheek, tried to smooth out the frown lines around his worried eyes with my thumb. The small lines only deepened as he regarded me solemnly. I let my hand drop and sat back a little. What was the point in trying to erase something that I was only going to put back?

“You’re starting to scare me babe…” he said, meaning of course that he was reading the pain on my face, sensing the mounting anxiety in my body.

“I’m scared myself, Starsky, really I am.” How scared he would never know. I had to do it now. Destroy the evening, ruin everything he had prepared for and planned out for us. I had to get it out and into the open…. The swift and brutal way, …. ripped apart by the bomb blast of truth…fragments of what was once love get jettisoned into a dark sky to rain down again as brittle shards of hate and resentment.

When I saw the look in his eyes I almost couldn’t do it. He knew I was about to pull us both into a place he didn’t want to be taken.

Don’t hate me Starsky. Please don’t hate me. Losing your love is going to be hard enough, but for you to hate me is too much to bear… I don’t think I could go on living if you did….

“I have to tell you something Starsk. It shouldn’t be today of all days that I do this, but I can’t let it go another moment longer.”

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Starsky’s special attachment to Valentine’s Day was less to do with the sentimentality of cupid’s arrow through the heart than the simple fact that the date represented a significant milestone in both of our lives.  A turning point for the two of us and one that we had both been travelling toward probably since well before that fateful day in 1979.

1979. It had been a hell of a year, and that was putting it mildly. It had been the most fucked up year I could remember, and it goes without saying for Starsky, the most fucked up year in his life. Fortunately (or unfortunately for him whichever way you wanted to view it), it was only in retrospect that he saw it that way. That was because for the most part he had been either too sick to know or too bombed out on painkillers to comprehend the dismal reality of what he was going through. From May onwards the greater part of 1979 had been a wipe out in his mind. Even before May things had not been so good. Sure, Starsky was well and functioning – but the two of us as partners and friends were often out of synch for the first time in our professional and personal partnership.

We were killing each other slowly with something neither of us really understood until much later. Unable to be together, unable to come together as we probably needed and wanted to, we drew apart, pulling in opposite directions, starving each other of what we both could not live without – our devotion and loyalty to one another. I was the biggest mess of the two of us. Burned out by the job, the dirty grit of a homicide cop’s life and the jaded awareness that comes with maturity and age, I was in self-destruct mode – full throttle. Drinking too much, smoking again, whoring my body to any woman who would open her legs to me – you name it. But by far my greatest vice was the way I treated Starsky. Belittling him, distancing myself from him, cheating on him with women he showed the remotest interest in – hell – anything and everything was fair game to me to try if it meant I could chip away at him. Unconsciously, I understand now, my divisive behavior was all in effort to make Starsky move away from me a little more, love me a little less, even begin to hate me a little if he could. And – I think I had accomplished my goal. Starsky was confused, wary and resentful of my behavior and actions and consequently there was a discernible divide forming between us.

As time went on, Starsky quickly learned to play the game with me by falling in line with my aberrant behavior. He wasn’t there for me like he used to be, didn’t seem to react or care when I was hurt or threatened like he always had, and he even began pulling out his own disparaging slights toward me. And why not? He could hurt me as much as I could hurt him and we both excelled at it for at least six months. Why? We’ve talked about this a lot over the past couple of years. We think maybe it was just our way, maybe the masculine way, all puffed out chests and bravado – to deflect ourselves from where we knew we were heading if we didn’t do something drastic to take a detour. If we hadn’t taken ourselves off the road we were on we would have had to face honestly that we wanted each other beyond a brotherly, platonic level.

If Kira hadn’t entered our lives, and after her Gunther, we might have gone on for a lot longer like this. Taking little cuts out of each other’s souls, bleeding out the lifeblood of our friendship until the bond was so weakened it would wither and die… who knows? In some sick distorted way maybe Gunther came to save us – even if Starsky had to be all but nailed to a cross and rise again in order for us to come through the fire together. I don’t know. I sure as hell don’t. Starsky might. Some things – no matter how close we are, he probably never tells me.

If Gunther’s men didn’t nearly succeed in taking him from me that day they pumped his body full of bullets, would he and I be what we are now? Did it take all of that pain and suffering, all that blood, sweat and tears he had to endure and all those months and months of agonizing hell that I had to see him like that, for us to be as we are now? For a while Starsky thought that way and it would upset me when he would say it in his lowest days when he couldn’t bear for me to keep seeing him so wretched and weak. He got into his head that I wouldn’t be with him if it weren’t for what those bullets had done to his body and his psyche and that it was this traumatic event had pulled me back to him and kept me at his side. He used to half joke in his drug-hazed state that he got the easy part to play – to just lie there and play three quarters dead. It was me, he said who scored the bum deal – trying to live my life while watching him languish in the dead zone. Of course, he likes to leave out the bit about the agony his body endured, the fear and the isolation of living in his own world of never knowing when the pain and the aloneness would end. But in typical Starsky fashion, he played that stuff down. Huh! CCU and ventilators, surgery and rehabilitation, pain and fevers and tortured breaths – he likes to pretend it meant nothing and that I was the one who had the battle on my hands. Of course in truth it was a terrible battle for me – having to watch him cling to a thread of life for hours, days and then weeks. The battle to keep Starsky in the land of the living seemed eternal in those first few weeks.

From May on till at least till September, he had spent it out of the mainstream of life, flat on his back in hospital or folded over in clenching pain in a wheelchair when he finally managed to get semi-upright. Then September through to December time was a blur of Physical Therapy trying to regain the ability to walk. Me? I was along for the whole heart wrenching, soul destroying ride – beside him every painstaking step of the way. It wasn’t nearly enough by far. Not by far. Because if I could have changed places with him, I would have done so in a flash. That is in all and total seriousness. I would have been in his shoes, not beside him, feeling futile and impotent while all I could do was to be a spectator of his agony and sense of loss. Still I was there – and I had no intention of going anywhere else. More to the point I wanted to be there. The trouble was Starsky could not seem to accept that I really did. At first he needed and wanted me beside him, but as his inner determination returned and his outer body continued to fail him he began to doubt everything and everyone around him. Even me.

That day in the police garage when his chest was blown apart with bullets, so too was his sense of himself and what he had come to know as who and what he was. By extension I guess that meant me too – as I had been, and continued to be, an extension of him and him of me. It was around February, when the cold chill of the winter days seized up his stiff chest muscles, the dragging pain of the pull of the contracted scars was like hot ice in his lungs, Starsky began to push against me in earnest. Hurtful, belligerent, scathing of me – he pulled out all stops to put distance between him and me. As the days got colder so did he and so did our relationship which was as flailing as his erratic and precarious lung function. Still I held on.  Still he pushed and kicked out at me to go. I clung harder; he peeled my clingy hold away from him with even greater force. He was one determined bastard, but I was even more determined not to let him shake me off, or push me away with his hurtful actions and words. I knew after all that it was only a fraction of the hurt that was festering deep inside of him.

He said he felt like a wounded dog that just wanted to be left alone to die in solitude with as much dignity as he could dredge up. Oh God how that picture of him in my mind broke my heart.

Then one day, nearly nine months after the day I watched Starsky fall to the ground in a spray of bullets, we somehow seemed to find a place where he stopped pushing me and I stopped holding on. We reached out at the same time, opened our arms and took – no – finally accepted what we had for so long had to offer each other. In the end it was just that easy. Almost effortless. After all that walking around each other, all that pompous show of hard edged masculinity back in the early part of ’79 – posturing like two proud male beasts, we simply let go and fell toward each other.

It was a blustery, cold day, mid-February day in 1980, cold by LA standards anyway, dreary with damp rain and a late afternoon fog. The sort of day where an afternoon in bed with a good book was your best bet. Except bed wasn’t an option for me. I was stuck on the day shift with some smart mouthed freshly qualified detective I was meant to be training, frustrated as all hell to be landed with yet another attempt by Captain Dobey’s “lets find Hutchinson a replacement partner, take six.” And for Starsky on that same day? Well bed wasn’t anything but an option for him as by mid afternoon he still didn’t have the stamina to keep going and needed to put his aching body down for a long rest before supper.

I had come home that day – earlier than normal, as things had gone to shit for me during a bust.  I’d staggered wearily up the stairs to Venice Place where Starsky continued to stay with me (under duress for sure – but I refused to entertain the idea of his returning to his own place just yet). I’d limped through the door, and I mean that literally as I had wrenched and bloodied up my knee on an alley pursuit. I fell in a bedraggled heap on the couch – wet and cold, sore and indignant and so very tired I could have rolled over and slept for a week if I didn’t need to get something for my throbbing knee first. The fatigue had been part of me since the day Starsky had been shot. Even if I could have found the time to sleep between my job shifts and my caring of Starsky, I was unable to find the place where sleep would come and claim me. Sleep meant nightmares and waking with fear that Starsky had not in fact lived after all, or that he still might die. In a word, I was a mess. One big fucked up psychological, physical mess.

And while I sat there that afternoon, shaking, cringing with pain and wallowing in my messed up self, I suddenly became aware that Starsky was beside me and that for the first time in so very long his dark blue eyes looked at me with something I had not seen in them forever – or so it felt. He sat down close to me, opened his arms and folded them around my shaking shoulders. “I’m here and you’re hurting. Let me take care of you, Hutch.” His words and his touch and most importantly his return to something closer to the Starsky before the shooting, the caring, brave, vigilant Starsky, just tore away the last vestige of my control.

I cried that afternoon. Cried for so many reasons, for so many things. For relief at being cared and nurtured again, for the gratitude of the friend Starsky really was and had always been, even when he acted hatefully toward me. But most of all I cried at the realization that something momentous was waiting for us. I could feel it in the heated touch of our fingers, and hear it in our rapid breathing. We were going somewhere together that afternoon. Somewhere we had been too frightened to go, probably because we knew with our work, our lives, it could not be sustainable. We had been too afraid for too long and the thing about fear for Starsky and me is that is makes us both angry. Starsky and I had been angry for a long while, well before he nearly died.

That afternoon we both put our anger and our fears aside and took what we had always had waiting for us. Each other. We cast aside the heavy layers of negative emotions to finally expose what they had been hiding for a long time. A deep, mutual sexual attraction.

It was only much later in the evening, wrapped in each others arms, coming down from our high of those first hours of almost desperate feverish sexual exploration that Starsky pulled away from me, his eyes lighting up with his classic signature spark of mischief.

It was then that he had enlightened me that we had actually “come together” as it was, for the first time, on Valentine’s Day. The discovery seemed to knock him sideways with delightful shock.

In truth, I had not even been aware it was Valentine’s Day, so immersed in the darkness of my day’s work, I must have missed all the usual commercial signs that it was in fact a special day for romance and love.

Starsky was in love with the idea that we had uncovered our love for each other on such a symbolic day. He said it was a sign, portentous of so much to come for the two of us and vowed that we would forever claim it as our own anniversary date, marking the start of our union as a couple in the real sense.

Sadly, we never did celebrate our first anniversary the next year in 1981. Something got in the way of it. In life we all know that shit happens. I can accept that euphemism as much as the next guy, but God there has to be a limit surely to just how much shit any one person should be expected to have thrown at him in the course of a very short time frame.

For Starsky however, the shit just kept coming.

 

Early April 1980

“But….. how? I don’t…..I just can’t…. get it.” Starsky’s attempt to articulate words was almost too painful for me to hear. He pushed away his oxygen mask and drew in mouthfuls of air, his breath torn and raspy as he tried to talk. “How ….how can I have fuckin’ pneumonia? ” he rasped and coughed. “It ain’t even – – winter – for God’s sake!”

“Starsk, please put your mask back on.” I begged him.

“Don’t want the —- take the — fuckin’ thing away!”

“You need the oxygen. Don’t talk, just breathe,” I pleaded yet again as his belligerence mounted.

“I – I – can breathe by – myself.”

But of course, he couldn’t. Could barely manage to suck in a fraction of the oxygen that his deprived body needed, and when he did, his battered lungs could do little with it when he did. He was sick. Very sick. Again. Nearly a whole year after the shooting and the surgery, Starsky’s poor traumatized body was being yet again ravaged with pain and discomfort. This time it was his lungs. Severe chest infection, pneumonia in a set of lungs that were already way under par in functioning. He had been so bad that he had collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor right in front of me when I was trying to prepare him a light supper for his congested chest and fevered body. Once again I felt the terror as I held him in my arms waiting for the ambulance to arrive, glued to his side as the paramedics battled to get an airway in place.

It was then that I realized how severely down Starsky really was and how much he had managed to hide from me.  His already highly compromised immune system had been put to the test. It dawned on me then that his recent returned fervor for life since we had found happiness and fulfillment as lovers had strapped what little reserves he had in his system. How in hell hadn’t I seen it coming?

I should have brought him into hospital earlier. Of course I should have. I knew that, the doctors knew that, and I suspect that Starsky knew it before all of us. However, Starsky knew I would give him his way until I was convinced he needed more than I could provide for him. I had conceded to him for over a week as his “cold” progressed into heavy congestion and then into episodes of severe breathlessness. He stayed away from the doctors despite my concern, and of course his health deteriorated. The worst of it he hid from me until he could no longer hide the agonizing pull of each labored breath. By then it was too late. By then the fever had gripped him, his lungs were severely congested and his body had simply given out.

So here we were. Back to hospital, back to the nightmarish setting I had grown to hate and fear, back to putting Starsky in the hands of others to care for and heal. Back to feeling helpless and terrified that I might yet lose him – even after everything we had been through, after his valiant fight to live, after we had finally found each other on a new level. The worst of it of course was the guilt I carried for not having overrun Starsky’s ploys in the first place. He always had a way to talk me out of things that I knew I should never let him talk me out of doing.

“It’s nothin’, Hutch. Forget it. Just a spring cold. Just been pushin’ it a bit too much with my new studies and well … we’ve been havin’ some pretty wild nights together….” he attempted a half saucy wink in my direction but failed to pull it off. I remained cautiously unconvinced in the face of his blatant cheeky humor and yet still gave in to him. Until he had simply turned a dusky shade of blue and sank to the kitchen floor, barely missing the sharp corner of the kitchen table as I caught him in my arms.

This time he didn’t get to argue. Not when he was unconscious and strapped to a gurney in the back of an ambulance and I clutched at his cold hand, the pulse thready and fast at his wrist.

Not this time. This time things were looking grim. I hadn’t seen him this weak since well before he’d been discharged from the hospital in last year.

Two hours later he was awake, lying in a hospital bed and rigged up to oxygen and an IV running antibiotics and fluids into his trembling body. And he was still denying the inevitable, and flailing against the medical system.

“Well I’m sure ….as ….” more wheezes punctuated his staggered answer, ” as…hell…ain’t lettin’ them put me back ….in here. No more – no more hospital…you said to me …the other night…you agreed…”

“That was the other night,” I tried to be terse with him, not easy in his state. “This is now.”

“You can take care of me at home. You’ve done it before. Stick me in bed and ply me with fluids. I’ll even let ya’ do that pummeling torture stuff on my back…” He was all but wheedling. He was all but crying. And me? I was bleeding inside for him for I knew better than any one what hospital meant to him. How it sucked the very essence of him away.

“No. I can’t care for you at home.” I had to be sharp and final no matter how much I wanted to pull him from the bed and make him better. “Not this time. This time you’re too sick.” I was doing my own form of begging, searching his eyes, trying to make him see that he needed to believe me.

“Oh God, Hutch. Don’t do this to me…”

It was almost too much to take, but I shook my head, stood my ground.

“Three hours ago you blacked out on the floor in front of me. Your lungs are a mess. You can’t get your breath. You need medical intervention.”

“You know how much I hate this…this place. You know how much I hate being like this,” he choked.

“Starsk, babe – listen to me,” I was right up against him then, holding the oxygen mask to his face just as stubbornly as he was pushing it away. “You scared me tonight. I don’t want to see you like that again.” The blue tinge on his lips and beneath his eyes still scared me. “You’re staying. This is no quick visit. You’ve got to be re-admitted and stay until this infection is under control. I don’t want this anymore than you do but – if it helps you, takes away your pain and discomfort – I’ll do it.”

“Don’t wanna scare ya’, Hutch…but…but I don’t want this. I just wanna be at home…. with you.”

Tough. I had to be tough and I had to be resistant to that neediness that pulled at me so deeply.

“It’s not up for argument, Starsk,” I told him softly but decisively, “no matter what you say to try and change my mind. I won’t.”

“Yeah?” I could read in his tone that he could see that I meant it.

“I’ll make you stay here if I have to, Starsky.  You know that. You know I can do that.” Even as I said it I didn’t like how it came out. Somehow it sounded wrong.

Starsky made one last defiant move to pull the mask to the side of his face as he fixed me with a look that told me he didn’t like the way it sounded any better than I did.

“Tough man, hey? Tough Hutch?” There was a certain coldness in his eyes, the pleading all but gone.

“Yes. Tough because I love you and selfishly I want you to get better.”

Starsky gave me a slow, considered nod, as though processing something carefully. He settled back on his pillows. “Then next time you come in, can you bring me a bag of stuff – clothes and toiletries and things? I’m gonna need them I guess.” There was something final as well as resigned in the way he said it and I noticed how he couldn’t even look at when he did.

“Of course I will. When I go home I’ll pack it all up for tomorrow morning.”

“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep. It’s gotta be late.” He said it in such a way that spoke more about him wanting me gone than wanting me to get sleep.

“I was hoping to talk to the doctor again when he came back in,” I told him, looking back toward the door, hoping he’d actually walk in and break the awkward moment between us.

“Why wait? You already know the score. He wants me in here and so do you apparently.”

“Starsky I had no -”

“Just go home Hutch okay? I’ll be fine now I’m here attached to all this crap. You don’t need to worry ‘bout me anymore. I don’t need it.” He pressed his head even further back into the pillow and closed his eyes after he said it. I think if he had the strength he would have even turned over in the bed away from me.

I knew then I’d been dismissed. That time I’d walked out of the hospital room was probably the first real taste of just how serious Starsky was about not needing me.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

The stint in hospital after his pneumonia had taken its grip on him lasted two solid weeks. Starsky got sicker and weaker before he turned the corner and his body was able to mount its own attack on the infection that was gripping his body and strangling his lungs.

However as Starsky got weaker physically, his resolve to put a wall up between the two of us just got stronger. Never in all the time he was in hospital and rehab the previous year, had I seen him this hardened in a resolve to get control of his body. His attitude toward me had changed dramatically also. New lovers before the pneumonia had cut him down, I felt that my status with him changed suddenly. During visits he had begun to act like someone I didn’t know. Sometimes cutting in his remarks, disparaging of everyone and everything around him – almost offensive toward me at times. His weakened body took on an outer shell of defiance, shutting me out, barring me from his fight to get well again. It was as though this was his fight, and his alone. I was not to be part of it at all.

Although I understood where this was all coming from intellectually, I was not doing too well emotionally. He was effectively cutting me off from him on all levels except that of some generic support figure. The times I spent with him up at the hospital and then again later beside him in rehab were strained and uncomfortable. He had reassigned my role and relationship to him as something completely alien to what I had been used to over the years – even before we’d become lovers. I didn’t even feel like a friend to him anymore. In fact I was no longer sure how to act, how to respond to him and every visit felt like some strained orchestration between us.

No amount of gentle exploration of his attitude toward me could shift him and by the end of his time in hospital he had pulled back so far from me that I hardly knew who he was anymore. The coolness toward me became hostility, the indifference toward me became hostile resentment and in the end, he was full out rejecting of my very presence.

Of course Starsky had his own rationale for this change of behavior and he wore it in front of him like a shield. In his mind I was only keeping him in my life out of pity and responsibility. Surely, he said, I could not honestly “want” this one sided relationship where I had become his designated carer and he the helpless patient.

Obviously “I love you” just wasn’t enough for him, no matter how many times I declared it, no matter how many times I insisted it was love that I felt for him and not pity or sympathy.

It all reached a head a couple of days before Starsky was given the news that his discharge was imminent. Instead of being buoyed by the news and optimistic to get back on with our lives I soon found out that he was even more determined to redefine our relationship.

He informed me that upon discharge he was intending to spend more time at his own place. Claiming that he needed headspace to work on shaping up his new professional future. I tried hard to accept the firm declaration as positive – at least the bit about the future, but I was not happy to hear that he still felt distant enough from me to want to move back home completely. He’d been spending so much time at my apartment in Venice the past months, it was as though we were moving toward living together permanently. In fact, in my mind at least, I’d probably already considered that we were.

“You think that’s a good idea bab – Starsky?” I had stalled on using our more intimate endearment.  “To move out just yet? I’d prefer to have you close to me until you’re completely recovered.”

“I know you would, and that’s the problem,” he’d said curtly.

“Why is it a problem? Me loving you and wanting to be with you, take care of you…”

“No Hutch – this -” he jabbed a finger toward the wheelchair at the side of his bed, “this, is not loving me.”

“What? You think you needing the use of a wheelchair for a little while longer is any big deal to me?” I flared up, tired of him finding ways to question my every statement.

“It’s not the freakin’ wheelchair, Hutch! But we both know I’ve slipped back more than a few squares on the board game of recovery. You love being able to help me. You love being able to care for me and to make me feel loved. Those things aren’t the same as loving me. Not the same for me anyway and not enough for me anymore.”

“What do you mean anymore? You’re being in here again, this sickness – pneumonia – it’s just a setback, a temporary setback. No different than any other times we’ve each been down with an injury or an illness.”

“That’s total bullshit and you know it, Hutch. This is no more temporary than these fuckin’ filthy scars on my chest and back,” he slung back at me, stabbing his thumb almost savagely into his chest. “This is me for the rest of my life. The new and lesser version of David Starsky. I’m never gonna be what I was. I’m never gonna be a whole man, healthy and strong.”

“Even if that’s the case, which I can’t agree is the case, what difference do you think it makes to me? I love you, Starsky. I love every part of you and even if you’re left with some residual problems after the shooting, does it matter? You’re alive, and you’ll be well again and we’re together – something we’ve only just found…”

He shook his head so hard his extra long curls flew about his face. In hospital he’d let his hair grown in abandon and his face was almost bearded – his choice despite my offers to shave him. It made him look lean and hard and seemed to accentuate the deep flashing blue of his eyes. “But I don’t want that! None of that can’t you see? I don’t want to be with you if it’s like this. I need you, sure – but I need you to love me on the same footing as I love you. Whole and well, strong and intact. None of this in sickness and in health shit! If I can’t be whole for you, then you don’t get to love the broken up bits of me. How about that?” he’d challenged.

“How about that?” I’d scoffed. “I’ll tell you about that. I’m the one who chooses what I want to love and -”

“Not in this case, Hutch. It’s my decision. Not yours.”

His words had smashed into my chest, impaling me with their jagged shards. “You mean you can’t be with me because you’re not the same Starsky as you were before May? But we became lovers while you were still recovering…”

“That was before I was forced to accept that I ain’t never gonna be a hundred percent – hell maybe not even seventy five. Look at me now! I’ve lost a good twelve pounds since this damn pneumonia hit me, twelve pounds that took me four months to put back on – and I’m still way under weight -”

“Oh come on Starsky! I don’t care what you weigh! Why the hell are you throwing that into the argument?”

He looked at me then, with fire in his eyes. “Don’t you dare play dumb on this, Hutch. Don’t make out you can’t understand where I’m comin’ from here.”

I sunk down on the chair beside his bed then. Half of me felt defeated, the other half was panicked.  “You’re saying that you want to end this – end us? Even though you know how very much I love you and need you in my life, no matter what parts of you I get to have?”

His eyes mellowed a little then and I remember it just made me feel even more alarmed about where he was heading with this huge unloading of emotional truths.

“Parts aren’t enough. I want you to see me as whole or not at all. I thought I was gettin’ there – or at least closer to being that whole person again. Then – out of the blue my fuckin’ body let me down again. It doesn’t seem that it’s ever going to get there.”

“Of course you’re going to get there -” I’d begun to launch into my usual stock issued speech about his recovery.

“You know it ain’t ever gonna happen, don’t you, Hutch? This grand plan you have to make me back into something that even resembles what I was like before.” He was damn angry then. “As if you think you can get help re-build me!”

He’d used that term before but never in such a lashing sound. In the past he’d used the expression almost half jokingly – like he was likening himself to some broken superhero character that could be put back into functioning order. Now he threw the idea at me with utter vehemence. “Time you faced facts like I have, Blondie. It ain’t gonna happen.”

“Why won’t it happen? Don’t you think you’ve got what it takes, Starsky? Because I think you do.”

“Maybe you just hope I’ve got what it takes, ‘cause that’s what you’re waiting for, isn’t it? That is what this big push to get me well again is all about. If you can’t rebuild me to be the old Starsky – what will you do then do you think?”

“This isn’t just for me, Starsk. It’s what I know you want to achieve too. Don’t you think you deserve to aim for the highest?”

“Me? I’m not so sure anymore. I’m just so fuckin’ fed up I don’t think I give a care what I am or what I’ll be. But you? You’re the one who wants me rebuilt. You’re the one who seems to have problems seeing me like this.”

What he’d said was so far from the truth I wanted to laugh out loud. It wasn’t me who was having the problems accepting the damage done to Starsky – except of course on the level that it hurt me to see him suffer so much. But, he never let me prove to him that he was so very wrong.

I never got the chance to defend myself in any way. Even when I attempted to argue, feeling my face pulled into a mask of shocked devastation; he ignored it all and turned away.

Clearly Starsky wanted me gone and he had already made up his mind on that score.

He’d wanted me out of his life so that I could no longer remind him of all the things he once was and thought that he could never be again. I was a constant reminder to him of a man that was no more, and of a now unbalanced relationship where he was the weaker and I the stronger. The worst of it was when he told me that he no longer wanted my love.

“If you call this love – the way you are with me now, then I don’t want that from you. It’s a sick sort of love, Hutch.”

“Sick?” I was stung. I’d reeled back from him at the point. “You’re calling what we have sick?” I was horrified.

“Yeah – yeah I am. Sick and distorted and totally one-sided,” he thrown back, unconcerned by my distress. “Sick – just like I am.”

“And…. What….what about how you feel for me then?” I had been almost too frightened to ask it. “Are you saying you no longer love me? ”

“Don’t you see Hutch?  I’m so far away from even knowing how to feel or express love right now I wouldn’t know it if I did. The longer we go on with me feelin’ like this and you trying to make it all come together, the more I’ll resent you and lose my love for you in amongst this great pile of shitty anger that I feel for everything. I just need to be by myself until I work this out?”

“By yourself? How on earth will that make anything easier for you?” I demanded, knowing it was a useless exercise to demand any answers from him.

“Because then, I’ll be able to concentrate on what it is that I want and need to do – and not what I need to do to make it work between us.”

“And how will you work ‘it’ out? You don’t even know what the fuck “it” is!”

“Just shut up now, Hutch. Shut up and stop. You’re not going to talk me down from this one, no matter how hard you try,” Starsky was full of defiance. “I’ve made up on my mind on this. I’ve had nothin’ to do in the past two weeks but lie in bed and think about it. No point in arguing anymore.”

Something in the way he was winding down had me thinking that he was about to deliver some punch line.

He did just that.

“When this week is out Hutch – ” he had paused only fractionally, his mind obviously made up,  “I want you and me to be living our own lives.”

“What?” I’d cried out. “What the hell is this about? Where is it coming from? You can’t be serious about this…”

“You know it’s been coming for a while now Hutch…and yes I’m very serious.”

“And how long will be this for?” I could not hide my desperation at the finality of it all, at how he had already moved away from me. “How long before ….?”

“I can’t ask you to wait for me Hutch. I won’t do that. But I can’t give you an answer on time either. All I want now is the space.”

“And what about our friendship?” I could only barely manage to drag the question out of my whirling brain.

“Friendship we can still have. We’ll always have that. But nothing else, Hutch. I want this finished. I want you to know that when I get out of here in a day or two – you and me – well…” he hesitated fractionally, “you’ve got your work. You’re working toward your Lieutenancy. I’ve got my study and maybe there’s a chance for me to get back into some form of work that at least uses my police skills -”

“I’m not talking about how we fill our days and our professional life, Starsky. I’m asking about how we make our personal life fulfilled? Us,” I stressed the word, “Not work! You and me as partners.”

“That’s my point, Hutch. From now on, we don’t have a personal life – except as friends. Either we have that or we have nothin’, cause I’m not going to have it like this anymore. If I ever come back to you, and if you ever decide you want me back, it will be as the man I want to be for you – or nothing at all.”

I didn’t wait to the end of the week. That very night I had gone to his place and begun packing up everything that was mine and then returned home to Venice Place to do the same with Starsky’s things. We each had a lot of stuff straddling the two apartments and it took a while. In the end I realized I couldn’t hope to accomplish the task in just one evening. I gave up and ended up leaving a lot of things of mine in his and purposely kept a lot of his things at mine.

Sorting through possessions was hard enough, but still manageable. The untethering of our bond that was going to be the hardest part. Separating two lives that had been raveled together as tightly and as intricately as a chromosome was going to be near impossible for me to do.

 

June 1980

By June, Starsky was once more on the road to recovery after his relapse. His lungs and chest were clear, he had regained his weight and his strength was improving every week as he punished himself with a strict regime at the gym. Immersing himself in his undergraduate Psychology degree he seemed to be taking to university study like he’d always planned to go that route in life. That combined with his ongoing physical therapy kept him more than busy. Busy and pre-occupied and very much removed from my life and me.

Still, he seemed happy enough or at least willing enough to have me in his sphere as friend and confidante and on occasions I was permitted into the inner sanctum he had set up for occasional shared dinners after work or late afternoon beers on the sofa as he took in a game on television.  Despite his attempt to still include me on this level I felt lost and dislocated. As time went by these social occasions started to decrease in frequency and intensity. Even if we were together, it was if we were waiting for someone off stage to give us our prompts as to how to act. Neither of us seemed to have the heart for trying to carry them off. Nothing was the same so there was little point in pretending. No matter how hard I pushed at the door to be allowed back into the center of Starsky’s life, I couldn’t shift it one bit.

I could no longer stand the stress that these snatched opportunities with him afforded me, the experiences left me wrung out and sad and more and more perplexed by his adamant stance on closing me out. At the end of June when my sadness was at an all time low, I did a quick mental tally of the time I had been spending with Starsky and quickly realized why. By my calculation I had only seen him three times since the beginning of the month and only a few times more over what remained of the long hot summer. Of course that wasn’t counting our casual bumping into each other meetings when he’d popped down to the station to sort out some paperwork on his disability leave or to catch up with the captain and some of other officers in his rare social visits. Those opportunities to see him were unexpected bonuses – which when they happened made us both look and feel awkward and stilted with each other. Although this might still seem a reasonable amount of time to spend with a friend given we both had demanding lives, for Starsky and me it was a dramatic change. We had been used to seeing each other every day – sometimes all day. Work, rest and play.

Our estrangement had every officer in the Ninth Precinct perplexed and confused, and the gossip of our severed partnership was rife. No one however, except Dobey, seemed prepared to broach the subject with me. No doubt it had something to do with my countenance. Although empathic at first, and then patient, Dobey too began to lose tolerance with my perpetually bad mood. More than once he hauled me into his office and read me the riot act about breathing fire in the squad room. “It’s not the other officers fault you and your partner are going through some sort of rough patch. I’m tired of fielding complaints about you biting people’s heads off. Sort yourself out Hutch. I can’t have you like this. Leave your personal and domestic concerns at home in the morning.”

I wanted to tell him that my personal and domestic concern had already got up and left my home, a lot of weeks earlier – that’s what the problem was. However, for Dobey’s sanity, I put in an effort to compartmentalize my grief from my work persona.

At the close of summer I was burning up with the relentless heat on the outside and icing up on the inside from Starsky’s cold rejection of me. From a psychological point of view I knew why he was acting like this but on a personal level, I just wasn’t able to cope with it. Yeah – I got it. Of course I did. He felt weak. He felt less of a man than he once was. The injury to his body and the continual drain of chronic illness made him feel unworthy of being able to sustain a mutually fulfilling relationship with a significant other – especially another strong male.  Yet, no matter how much I tried to convince him that I was in there for the long haul and loved him as much, if not even more – he insisted he didn’t want me.

By July I could take no more of having nothing or very little except black desperation. It was July 1980, when for the first time in a long while I put Starsky and his private agony in second place to my own emotionally starved needs.

From a dark and lonely place, I found a small pinpoint of light and moved toward it. In retrospect I can’t blame myself for what I did or why…but I can regret it.

 

July 1980

I hadn’t seen her in probably ten months, maybe more. At least not since before the May of the previous year.  For various reasons she had slipped off our radar. I suppose since Starsky’s shooting of course I would have had little cause to cross paths with her. My work had been centered down mainly on cold cases and fleshing out leads by way of telephone, deskwork and interviews. It lessened the need for me to take on another partner, a situation that I had given our Captain no small amount of grief about once Starsky had been ripped away from my side. I’d told him emphatically that “I don’t need a partner, I’ve already got one,” even as Starsky lay waiting to die in ICU and I had never backed down on my resolve to refuse his attempts to partner me up once Starsky had pulled through.

So Dobey had given up on pushing me on it and found ways to keep me busy and from tearing off the heads of any poor schmuck who was stupid enough to try to work take Starsky’s place. “You’re a pain in the butt Hutchinson, and by rights I should do as I’ve been told from above and override you on this partner issue. But you’re my pain in the butt and so I guess I’ll just have to deal with you until you see the way to accepting that you need a new partner. In the meantime, I’ll keep you busy and solo and you’ll just have to take what I dish out for you to do,” Dobey had grumbled at me with a mixture of empathy and frustration and I knew he got where I was coming from. He knew what Starsky and I were together and he knew that without him by my side I would be more of a liability on the streets than an asset.

Like he promised, he found me work – lots of it. Case after case, which the department had shelved over the past two to three years. Cold cases leading no where. The grunt work kept me off the streets and out of the sorts of places where I might have occasion to run into many of Starsky’s and my usual snitches or links to the shady corners of the neighborhoods we had always patrolled and worked in. That included the likes of drugs pushes, petty criminals and prostitutes. The circle of people she moved in.

So, when I did see her, across the floor of the darkened smoke filled bar she looked much the same as I remember her looking – at least I thought so from a distance. Up closer I noticed my first assessment was not quite right. Sweet Alice had lost the disposition of anything “sweet” and in its place, despite the long honey colored hair and the big innocent eyes; there was guardedness about her.  It could be missed if you weren’t looking closely enough. Maybe if I had looked harder and longer in those early days of knowing her I might have seen it even way back then. Maybe I saw her, as I wanted to see her – true to her name, sweet and too good for the cesspits she made her living from.

Now, however, in the past months, maybe also because I had changed, I looked at her with different eyes. Eyes that were far more discerning, eyes that saw far more carefully than I might have ever done before, whenever she and I had come across each other. It had become my new habit. Make no quick assessments – of people or situations. I was looking not just at Sweet Alice, but at the whole damn world through glasses that were anything but rose colored or short sighted.  Since what had happened to Starsky I could never quite view anyone without a degree of sharpened awareness. Everything I saw was often tainted with a sort of brittle vigilance. Watching your best friend get taken down in a hail of gunfire in your own police garage by fake cops in a fake cop car can do that to you.

I had crossed the bar to her side, having seen her before she saw me. It meant that I had the advantage of being able to reflect on all of this as she was still taking in the fact I had materialized by her side. My stop at this particular bar had been a snap decision. I’d made it while driving by on my way back from a fruitless afternoon of interviews about an old murder case. I’d been to the bar before but it was not my normal stomping ground and Starsky and I had only entered it a few times while on the job. That night I wanted to be somewhere where no one would know me. The last thing I wanted was to have to socialize – so close was I nearing to complete psychological melt down that one more well meaning inquiry about Starsky would do me in. Somehow though, the immediate recognition of Sweet Alice drew me in and I moved toward her without even understanding why I did.

When I touched her lightly on the arm and she turned to me she was a little slow to react at first. Then suddenly her face lit with pleasure and she lifted her small hand to squeeze my arm as I settled onto the stool beside her.

“Handsome Hutch. It’s been too long since I’ve seen those beautiful eyes of yours.” she smiled fondly, her voice almost the same silky southern purr I remembered, but not quite. Just not quite as silky – a little roughened as though tainted by too many nights and days spent passively sucking in thick smoke in bars just like the one we were in. Maybe sucking in smoke directly from her own cigarettes too as I couldn’t help but notice the ash tray beside her, the dead butts tainted with lipstick and the slightly roughened skin on her right hand’s fingers. “Where have you been this past year?”

I smiled back but it took effort. I already doubted why I had walked over to her. “Things have changed for me. My work has changed. I’m no longer out on the streets.”

“But you’re still a cop.” It wasn’t a question. I realized she would have known what had happened to Starsky. Of course she would have known. News on the streets travels as fast as lightening and besides the tragic event attracted its own share of media attention. Everyone loves a gritty story, especially involving cops.

“Yes.”

“You’re working alone now aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He – he’s okay though isn’t he?”  Her question had an apologetic tone as though she knew by my face that I didn’t want to hear her ask it, didn’t want to talk about it.

“Starsky’s doing okay. Just not well enough to work on the force yet.” I was surprised that I was able to say it so calmly and so politely. Usually by now I would have been glowering at the person who posed the question. In fact the person would not have even got to pose the question in the first place. My outward demeanor would have pre-warned them not to probe with idle curiosity. Still, it cost me to say it to her and I felt a little shaky after having said it.

Alice looked away from me and then back again as though she was giving me a moment to compose myself. She had read my reaction.

After a moment’s silence she touched my hand, the lightest of brushes, tentative and unsure perhaps of how I would accept it. “Your eyes have lost their light, Hutch.”

Shocked by her astute observation it was my turn to look away. Could this woman know me that well? Or worse, was it so damn obvious? I summoned the bartender and a fresh glass of whatever Alice had in front of her and a double scotch for me. Over the past month it had become almost customary for me to ease into the lonely night ahead with a quick injection of liquid anesthetic. Without looking at Alice I tossed the double shot down and indicated for another. She had the discretion not raise an eyebrow at my behavior. In Alice’s line of work, very little was worth raising an eyebrow about. The second shot went down a little more steadily and gave me the fortitude to turn back and face her. She was watching me with her big luminous eyes, insight and wisdom in their depths beyond her years. I’m sure she’d seen it all before, so many times.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked me, swirling her finger around the surface of her own mixed drink.

“No.” I didn’t have to even think about it.

“You want me to go and leave you, Hutch?” Her question was feathery soft and I couldn’t help but respond to the empathy in her voice.

“No,” I replied for the second time. Suddenly I was sure that I didn’t want to be alone…or at least for her to leave me alone. Inexplicably her quiet presence gave me a small measure of comfort.

We each drank from our glasses, sitting quietly side by side on our stools, the noisy bar receding into the background, my awareness of her body and feminine smell blotting out the underlying stench of stale bar smells. She smelled like flowers and smoke and something almost homely that made me think of warmth. Her quiet stillness beside me felt somehow familiar. Which made no real sense because in reality, she was not any better known to me than any other of the many other characters that punctuated Starsky’s and my working lives as cops. This confused and yet intrigued me, but more than anything else it made me feel more calmed than I had in days.

She lifted her hand then, up to my face. I stayed still as she ran her finger across the top of my upper lip. “Your moustache is gone. Now you look like you did years ago when I first met you. Except sadder.” Did her voice take on a different timbre, or was it my imagination? Was this the voice she used with her customers? Her hooker voice?  I realized that it didn’t matter even if it was.

“I got tired of it.” That was true. I had gotten tired of so many things in the past six months. Tired of everything in fact. Exhausted from feeling just like I was feeling at that moment sitting beside her. Weary from having my old life with Starsky taken away from me.

“I don’t recall ever seeing you so…. hurt. Are you hurting, Handsome Hutch?”

“Don’t – don’t call me that anymore, Alice. I’m sorry but it makes me a little uncomfortable. Just Hutch. Just call me Hutch.”

“If that’s what you want, then alright. But to me you’ll always be Handsome Hutch,” she said softly. “So? Are you hurting, Hutch?”

“Yes. Yes Alice. I’m hurting.” God was I hurting.

“Can I help you not to hurt?”

This was something I didn’t even need to contemplate. “I don’t think you can do that Alice. I don’t think I can stop hurting unless – not until -”

No, I told myself. I was not going to pour it out to her. I stopped short, more than a little mortified that I had come so close to telling her about my innermost pain. How being bereft of the person I loved was slowly killing me.

When her small slim arm went around the back of my shoulders and tightened, I almost wanted to lean into her, to take all that she had to offer in that moment.

“I know real hurt runs deep. Goes on and on. But perhaps I can help you forget it just for a short while,” her Southern accent a soft twang, her voice almost lyrical with its promise of comfort. “I would so like to do that for you Hutch. Take some of that lost hurt from your eyes. Would you like me to do that for you?”

Her offer, in the context that I was a cop and she was a prostitute sitting in a far from salubrious bar could have come across as tawdry and illicit. It didn’t. It came across, as a warm and sincere invitation. She was offering to me some genuine relief from what she could clearly see was an inner torment. It was heartfelt and caring. Given my vulnerable state and my long association with this woman, who, for whatever reason had always seemed to connect with me on some unexplored deeper level, I felt defenseless to refuse. Alice’s southernly tender charms were drawing me in to the haven she was offering me.

“You think you can?” I asked quietly. Could she? And of course, how would she? And was it what I wanted?

“Yes…yes I do. At least – I’d like to try. You know I’ve always liked you Hutch, “You know I’ve always loved you, just a little.” Her smile was a little shy. “Maybe more than a little.”

I nodded. Yes. Alice’s affection for me had always been a little embarrassing for me, even if endearing.  For Starsky, Alice’s interest in me provided frequent sources of ribbing and teasing.

“Sweet Alice is sure sweet for you buddy. You’re breakin’ that poor girl’s heart…” Starsky had said on more than one occasion after we had met with Alice for information on some case. Of course I had made light of it and flicked off his taunts and jokes, but I still felt a little responsible for the fact that she carried some sort of torch for me.

I sometimes worried if I had in anyway led her on to believe that I actually was attracted to her. “Nah – don’t be stupid,” Starsky had grinned, alleviating my self-doubt. “You can’t help it if you draw ‘em all in. You’ve got that sort a look about you. All golden and gentlemanly like. Alice – well she’s got that southern blood in her. Probably thinks you’re her Rhett Butler or somethin’….”

“Ashley you mean, not Rhett,” I’d responded absently, thinking about Starsky’s theory.

“You don’t think I know my classic movies? Jeez…Rhett. Rhett was the hero.”

“Yes but he had dark hair, Ashley was blond like – ” I remember stopping midsentence. “For Pete’s sake forget the damn movie. I just hope that I haven’t said anything or acted in anyway to make her think that I am interested in her -”

“Hutch? Just shut up and enjoy the fact that a lady finds you attractive will ya? Who cares why she does? It’s nice to be wanted…”

The memory of that conversation was running through my mind when I became aware that Alice had her face close to mine, looking at me as though she was having trouble getting through to me. “Hutch?”

“Sorry – I zoned out there for a little while,” I came back to the present and tried to focus on her again.

“I asked you if you’d like to come with me, Hutch? Get out of here, away from here?”

I didn’t respond to her question straight away.

Fate had brought me to this bar on this night and thrown me into some sort of emotional vortex with Alice. Then, when she had offered me some solace, I had to question my professional position in relation to her.

Remember Hutchinson, I had told myself, pushing my empty glass away and preparing to stand up. You’re a cop. You’re still a cop, even if you haven’t felt like much of anything for weeks and weeks now.

I should have kissed her on the cheek then and there, bade her a fond goodnight and walked away. Walked away like I had done all the other times I had met her. Gone into the night and left her heart cracked just a little more.

But I didn’t. That night, my own heart was cracked and bleeding and I couldn’t find the strength to leave her behind.

I threw a pile of notes on the bar, turned to Alice and took her arm.

“I’d like that very much, Alice.” I answered her simply. I wanted to believe more than anything that she could do what she’d said – that she’d take some of the aching hurt away from me and make me feel just for a little while just a little less alone in the world.

I kept telling myself that all the while it took me to drive the two of us to her tiny little apartment. Then, I kept telling myself the same thing for the rest of the night and all the others that I spent with her over the course of the next couple of months.

 

 July 1980

I woke the next morning in her bed with the warmth of the bright summer light playing across my face and naked chest. It would be the first and last time I allowed this to happen; that I would allow myself to be there in the daylight with her. After that, I always made sure that I left when it was still dark outside. Behavior that I suppose might be construed as furtive. Almost clandestine. In truth I never saw it like that, at least at the time. Still, I never saw a lot of what I said or did during those bleak days. So much of it was automatic.

I imagine however that Alice might well have had a different perspective on my habits. Ashamedly now I realize that she probably thought I was treating her like so many of her clientele would do. As though she was a commodity, an experience to be taken in the small, desperate hours and then abandoned with not so much as a thought. In my defense – it was never like that for me. In simple terms I couldn’t cope with seeing myself in the mirror or even a window reflection after I had succumbed again to my weakness. My weakness at being unable to endure being alone. Likewise, the brightness of the morning light made it all too real – almost graphically so, and that was all it took for me to slip from the bed, dress quietly and leave.

Nonetheless, we had this first morning, our only morning together and once my eyes adjusted to the sparkling summer morning light, I sat up squinting to find her poised, cross legged on the end of the bed. She was appraising me as I came to consciousness. Dressed in a loose flowing cotton dress, her hair was tousled and matted, her pale face only highlighted smudged eye make-up and lips devoid of the shimmery gloss she wore the previous night. The unforgiving morning light depicted her as she truly seemed – like some leached out watercolor of a pretty, but fading woman. I saw the signs of aging on her fair skin, etched into the grooves around her mouth and fanning out from her eyes. Not just age – but an early weariness of the world that a lifestyle such as hers must have surely put there prematurely.

As she studied me, a big mug of something aromatic and steaming held in her hands, I wondered if she was seeing similar things in my own face, for I knew for sure they were there just the same. I brought my hands up to rub hard at my eyes and dry mouth, feeling the lines of tension I knew were there.

Without speaking she held out the mug to me. “Tea. Here, that’s it – take it and be careful. It is still a little hot. Ginger and lemon zest, with just a hint of honey.  It’ll clear your head and refresh you. I think you’ll like it.”

A little unsure of where we were at after the previous night I pulled myself to a sit and accepted the hot mug from her hands. I drank in the first warm mouthful without saying anything. Another sip and I ran my warm tongue over my lips and drank again. It tasted wonderful. Hot, sweet and soothing. Not like the buzz of coffee that Starsky and I always shared in the mornings, but more to my liking than she probably realized. I was surprised at how she had guessed I might like it. She was an intuitive woman. Interesting and well grounded. Seasoned without being hardheaded and just worldly enough not to be overpoweringly threatening to a male.

In any other life, where Alice wasn’t a hooker and I wasn’t a cop, we might have stood a chance of going further with each other. Still it was more than the politics of our professions that got in the way of compatibility. It was the feeling that I was forever lost to finding anyone else I could possibly love as much as Starsky. I should have said right then, at that moment, when the aching hope was still in her eyes – that she stood no chance with me. I could only ever serve to disappoint and hurt her.

Instead I drank some more of her elixir and told myself that there was no danger in what I had already embarked upon with her, the moment I agreed to leave the bar with her by my side.

“It’s good Alice, very good. Thank you.”

Her smile was frank. “No – it should be me thanking you Hutch….for finally letting me get a little closer to you,” she said – her face nothing but earnest.

“Alice – I’m,” Jesus it was hard being there, so very close to her, on a bed, the morning after we had spent the night together. Even though I was still a little dazed from waking I could see what it had meant to her. She couldn’t hide it if she tried and already I was feeling sorry that I had led her to feel like that. “I – ahh – last night – I -”

“Ssshhh, don’t. Please don’t say it.” She leaned over and stilled my mouth with her fingers. “I’m not asking you for anything more and I won’t. I promise you that.”

“I shouldn’t even be here now,” I rubbed at my chest, the tightness of uneasiness inside of me as I tried to look her in the eyes. “It was wrong of me.”

“Not wrong Hutch. How can it be wrong when you’ve made me so happy?” This time a small sweet smile lit her face.

“I can’t offer you what you might want Alice.”

“I know that, Hutch. I’ve always known that,” she tried to smile but I could tell that it hurt for her to say it.

“It’s not you, Alice, nor us even – it’s just -”

“You don’t have to explain, Hutch. Really. I know that I’ll never be what you want – who you want.”

I couldn’t believe the insight, reflected in her eyes.

“I’m sorry – so sorry, Alice,” and I knew that by not denying her words, I was driving the knife into her heart.

“It’s enough…enough for me, to have had just this. It’s so much more than I ever usually have …” This time she looked like she might cry and I felt sick that I had put the pooling tears in her eyes. What sort of bastard was I? Sleeping with her and then discarding her so quickly? Treating her as though she really was just a working girl to me?

“Yes but,” I pulled myself up on the bed, fumbling in my haste to find the way to express to her how badly I felt. The sheet dragged away from my bare hips and I pulled at it quickly, drawing it back over my pelvis, almost self-consciously.

Alice ducked her head down, almost coquettishly and then slid from the bed.

“Go shower while there’s still hot water. The system kicks out before nine.”

“Have you had yours yet?” I asked her, but her smudged up make-up suggested she hadn’t.

She gave a little laugh. “I don’t need to clean up just yet. My working hours are a little later than yours, remember?”

When I came out of the shower, the water already running cold as I finished up, Alice was standing at the window, a cigarette in her mouth. She turned to me, waving the cigarette a little guiltily in front of her face. “I held out as long as I could. Bad habit I know but…I just can’t seem to give it up. I’ve tried so many times but… it’s just too hard to let go of something that gives me so much pleasure. I just – miss it too much when I don’t have it.”

“Don’t worry. I know the feeling.” I tried to smile at her, but the sad truth of it wiped any smile from my lips. Missing Starsky was as bad as any chemical withdrawal – worse in my estimation.

I strapped on my holster, again a little self conscious under her steady gaze, and the way her eyes followed each movement of my hands as I snapped it into place around my chest. Tentative, a little unsure of how to take my leave, I picked up my keys then walked over to her, dropping a chaste kiss on her temple. “I have to go.”

I pulled back from her noticing how attentively she was looking at my face in the bright morning light. “It’s still there,” she said, looking at me as the morning sun shone through the window, catching up both in its brightness. “It hasn’t gone away. Not even a little bit.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, bringing my hand up to my face as though I might feel with my own touch what she was referring to.

“I noticed it when you first said hello last night. It was there with you all night and even now. It’s the look that I always imagine some tragic character in a Bronte novel might have – like you’re out wandering about, aimless and sad on a cold and barren moor.”

Momentarily dumbfounded by her allusion to something literary and how closely her painted imagery really did fit how I had been feeling, I was at a loss to say anything.

She blew out the last puff of her smoke before leaning over to grind the butt into a small plate on the window ledge. “I love the classics,” she said simply as by way of some explanation.

If I was surprised I hoped that I hadn’t shown it.

“Something, isn’t it?” She seemed to be daring me to comment. “A hooker who claims to enjoy exploring nineteenth century literature.”

I shook my head in disagreement. “No. Why should it be?” I said gently.

“Do you know Hutch, that to me you’ve always been like one of Emily’s or Charlotte’s characters – strong and genteel? A true gentleman.”

I laughed lightly, more than a little embarrassed by her lofty assessment of me and thinking back to Starsky’s theory that I was Alice’s southern gentlemanly hero. Shame I couldn’t share with him. Hey buddy – you were out by a long way. Wrong country, wrong classic, wrong character.

She watched me laugh. “You think that’s amusing?”

“No – no,” Again I pushed Starsky from my mind. “I’d like to think I could be a gentleman – in your eyes, but I don’t feel particularly strong – not at the moment anyway.”

“I can see that. You’re bending under some terrible sadness, Hutch. I hate to see you like this. I wished I knew a way to take some of it away from you.”

I swept my hand briefly across her unkempt hair. I didn’t want to have to tell her that in no way could she take my pain away. This was not the time nor did I have the energy to open up to her anymore than I had. “I’ve got to go,” I smiled. “Unlike Bronte’s gentlemanly characters, the daily grind of work calls me.”

I was at the door when she called out to me, a quavering emotion in her voice for the first time since I’d been with her, something needy in it. “The bar last night? You can find me there most nights, in the later hours. I usually work till ‘round eleven.”

My only response to her was a small nod and that in itself was more than I was prepared to commit to her. As I trotted down the stairs to the street, I had already convinced myself that I would not be seeing her again – at least in a personal context.

Nonetheless not even fourteen hours later, without even realizing I had decided to do so, I was back at her door.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Alice knew about Starsky segregating himself from me. I had told her enough of what I was prepared to share with her so that she knew the score on that one. If she was curious about our status as lovers she never came out and voiced the question in so many words, but I guessed she had figured it out quickly. She spoke about the two of us in such a way that it was almost redundant of me to tell her what Starsky and I had become to each other.

It was on that second night when I had gone back to her, that I relieved myself of some of the burden of the deep morose that was gripping me. I felt weak and sick with it, trembling under its grip as I knocked softly on the door of her small apartment at 2am, desperate for another dose of whatever she had given me the previous night. She’d let me in quietly without questions and led me again to the bed. I lay down with her, fully clothed, and let her kiss me softly and sooth my bunched up brow with her small hand. “There is so much pain inside of you,” she had said, the crooning lull already relaxing me, “it’s almost like a raging fever.”

God was she right. I felt the grief of losing Starsky like a ravaging virus that had taken over my immune system. “I never knew I could hurt this much, Alice.”

“You’ve always loved him, haven’t you?” she’d said, rather than asked, and I had closed my eyes and opened them underneath her soft hand as it lay across my creased up forehead, in some silent communication that she was correct.

“I remember the first day I met you,” she went on. “In winter ’74, in that horrible back room at Cisco’s Bar on Main Street.” She paused, and I was hoping that she didn’t ask if I remembered her because I didn’t, though I remembered the bar and what happened there very well. Her thumb and finger worked at my deep frown line, smiling with the memory. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember me,” she nudged softly with her leg. It seemed that Alice could read me well. “You wouldn’t have even seen me. I don’t think you saw anyone really, you were so angry. I was just one of the girls cowering in the corner when you came storming in, all hell bent with cold fury in your eyes, breaking up the poker game, tossing the good ol’ boys against the wall and getting’ in their faces. Some other cop – not Starsky I figured out later, tried to pull you off them.”

I was thinking back to it as she spoke. One of the many terrifying times in my career when I thought Starsky was a goner.  He’d gone missing earlier that same night when he’d gone to the bar by himself to question some of the patrons. Damn fool had gone off half-cocked, tearing out of the station after we’d had an argument about the case we were working on. He’d snapped at me that he’d see me the next morning and left in a mood. An hour or more later he radioed me in my car to tell me he had a new lead for the case. He was still speaking when the call just dropped out. He never called back and I couldn’t get him to answer. When I’d got to his car I found the radio unit hanging.

“I thought the stupid fool had gotten himself killed…” I told Alice only that much of the story, keeping the details of the memory to myself.

“You were crazy with worry, smashing up that room, hollerin’ at those guys to tell you what they knew…the other cop couldn’t get you to calm down, nor could those two uniformed cops that came in behind you.  I thought you were going to kill Ricky, the bar owner – until -”

“Starsky hobbled in behind me and grabbed my arm,” I recalled out loud, finishing her sentence.  “Idiot moron! I should have clocked him instead of the barmen. Fool! He could have been knifed while he was lying in that alley in that part of town…going off like that without me just because we’d argued…” He’d been lying in a damp alley a block away barely conscious for the last hour, concussed and woozy. Some thug had cracked him over the back of the head with a piece of three by two. It turns out he’d taken off when he’d sighted the suspect while he was on the radio to me. When he’d come to, he somehow made his way back to his car and seen mine next to it when he’d heard the commotion inside.

As I recalled the incident I became aware I was smiling affectionately at the memory of my relief at realizing Starsky was alive and – just about, in one piece. Alice had moved her hand down from my forehead to trace the small smile on my lips.

“Do you know that you have the same look in your beautiful eyes now as you remember it, as you did that night when you turned to find him behind you?”

“Yeah?” I said, a little surprised that she was again reading me so well.

“Yes,” she nodded.  “When you saw him there behind you, a bit bent out of shape and bleeding, but standing up, your eyes just lit up like they are now. I was in the corner of the room watching you both, the way you took care of him, the way you forgot everyone else in that squalid little room. I knew then that what I was seeing was love. Pure and simple.”

I squeezed her hand a little in acknowledgment. She had a way of leaving me choking with her gentle intuitiveness.

“It’s still there – though it’s far more intense isn’t it?” She stroked my face again.

“Yes,” I breathed out against her hand. “It’s big and it’s bright and it’s fucking burning me alive because it’s got no where to go but to stay inside of me.” The choking feeling became a rising sob in my throat.

I think I might have let go then, on that second night that I went to see Alice. I think I finally let go and cried while she held me, giving me everything she had.

 

End of August 1980

Over the next month or more or until the sticky days of heat started to finally ease off, I spent a lot of the small hours of the night with Alice. At first our conversations were careful and impersonal. She seemed more than content to simply wile away a snatched hour chatting softly. She might smoke a cigarette or two and drink some of her herbal tea, or maybe a late nightcap, while I nursed a scotch while propped up on her bed or on her couch.

Mostly we kept to neutral topics, safely distanced from real feelings. We discussed books we’d both read or our opinions on current world events. A little lofty in our repartee, we probably did it to keep away from looking too closely at the truth; why I was seeking out her company in the first place. In all honesty I couldn’t say what I was trying to find with her, or what function she was playing in my life at that point. All I knew is that she made me feel cared for and wanted. It was something, and so much better than the nothingness I had felt since Starsky had pushed me out of his life.

We didn’t have sex – or at least not in the true sense of the word – at least not after that first night we had left the bar together. That night she had taken me directly to her bed and undressed me with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes. Our coupling had been gentle – almost lazy on my behalf. In fact afterwards I was surprised that I had even managed to perform for her. I was more enthralled with her tender ministrations and touch. Already drowsy and a little clumsy by liquor on an empty stomach, I felt myself falling into a half dream state, lulled by her soft crooning and feather light kisses. I lay back and allowed her small body to envelop me in some sort of cocoon of protectiveness. It had been sex, but a muted, slow motion sort of coupling, a transfer of tender touches and actions. The act had been more like the final burning down of a fire, rather than the initial pop and flare of heated ignition.

Then after just that first night, sex was not really part of our communication process. At least not in the way of two people enjoying sensual fulfillment through each other’s bodies.  Certainly we each sought physical comfort and her ministrations were so damned sensual that I couldn’t help but be brought to the edge of arousal, and at times I tipped over into climax. Of course it didn’t help that I was starved of sexual gratification and even her most maternal attention to my body, was more than enough to ignite me.

But a sexual relationship is not really what we shared during those times together. If there was any sexual gratification involved, I was the only one who was getting to enjoy it. Mostly I did the taking and very little in the way of giving.  Alice was more than prepared to be the active one and rarely sought anything for herself. I think we both realized early on that it wasn’t what I wanted from her or with her. If that was a disappointment, she never said so or showed me that it mattered. Quite literally I was a comfort junkie, lapping up whatever she had to offer me without any attempt to reciprocate beyond being kind and attentive toward her.

In many ways, my turnabout role was a dramatic change from my endless months of being the caregiver to Starsky. In my mind I perceived that he had pushed me away from him because my over protectiveness and over nurturing. I had begun to tell myself that I had lost him because I had smothered him with my acute need to care for him.  So, I was almost scared to let this part of me take over again. It became my way to lock those nurturing elements in me away, safely out of my reach. In particular I had to be careful with someone like Alice – whose soft and almost guileless innocence could easily bring out the paternal side in me. And so I worked hard on being the taker and soon developed the tendency to enjoy being the recipient of tender care.

Of course I knew she couldn’t take away my sense of loss of Starsky, just as she couldn’t   replace what I had with him. Still, she had never said she could and we both knew very quickly that our mismatched union somehow provided me with something that I’m sure nobody else could have given me during that troubled time. Alice was like some safe haven for me, just anonymous enough for me to hide away with, just caring enough to tend to me, just selfless enough to give me what I needed with out asking for very much at all in return.

God knows I couldn’t have given her very much during that dark month or more that we spent together.

We hid in the shadows like two ethereal souls, meeting late in the night hours and parting in the early hours of the morning – no questions asked, no demands, no expectations beyond what we had in the moments we were with each other. As crass and bigoted of me to think it ironic that sex did not feature in our sessions together (Alice being a prostitute and me being the epitome of the needy, desperate man) I have to admit it did cross my mind. But truly, getting it on together was the least of what we ever shared.

If she wondered about my lack of hunger for sexual exploration, I wouldn’t know because like so many things, Alice kept a lot to herself. She seemed to want to give to me as much as I wanted to take from her. I wondered of course if she resented my lack of sexual interest in her, but then quickly rationalized that I had never promised her anything at the start.

Then after about two months, as August moved into September, I noticed that things were changing between us. The tone of what we had set for our meetings took on a different sort of feel. We still caught up, but less often than we had been at first and our meetings were more social and light, our conversations and our actions around each other less emotionally intense. We would share a take-away meal and some wine; maybe listen to some music together while we talked about generic things. I stopped falling asleep with her or waking up on her couch, my visits condensed into one, maybe two hours at the most and their frequency dropped to not more than a couple of times a week. Often I would help her out with some odd jobs about her home that needed some muscle power or some DIY knowledge – a plumbing problem or some small carpentry repairs. We touched less and less and I reached out for her less often than I had in my first throes of acute neediness.

If I was being honest with myself, which I wasn’t being with Alice, the changes had begun around the exact time that I had first began to rekindle hope that Starsky might be starting to come out the other side of his dark period. My need for Alice declined in direct proportion to the positive signs I was just starting to see in Starsky. Selfish and unbelievably unfair to Alice, I know, as I knew at the time it was happening – but I could not stop it. There was a tiny flame wavering for me again in Starsky’s life and all my energy was directed toward fanning it into life.

When I am feeling kinder toward myself, I remind myself that I can’t take all the responsibility for the changes that occurred with my strange friendship with Sweet Alice. As I began to see her on a more friend-to-friend basis, the quality of our relationship changed again. It went from being all about my needs, to me beginning to notice things about her and her life.

Alice was changing. Not toward me – no. She was forever loving and kind to me. But in herself and toward the world, there was a definite hardening. Like she had timed out of being “sweet.” As though the ugly world she existed in as a prostitute had finally managed to rear up and smack her in the face.

Little things that had most likely been present from the start but which I hadn’t paid importance to in my own emotionally befuddled state, began to jump out at me more clearly. Patterns and behaviors that I might not have noticed earlier on became more pronounced as the weeks with Alice wore on and turned to months. The detective in me came to the fore.  I began to see the evidence as it was laid out before me. Things were far from right in Alice’s world. Her world that was always far from right, was changing for the worst.

The unkempt hair, and stale make-up was not a one off as I had seen it that first morning. It persisted and worsened day after day. Her regard for her personal appearance, dietary habits and hygiene had begun to border on neglect. The smoking increased – the bad habit as she said, worsening rather than being kicked. Always slim and petite, as the weeks went by she would have been better described as thin – almost painfully so. She became less communicative, less able to convey feelings and on the rare occasions, even withdrawn and cyclic in her moods.

An almost wild restlessness overtook her – a restlessness that wasn’t there that first night I had seen her again. There was a slightly wild eyed look about her that made me worry that she might be using pills or coke – some form of uppers. But I didn’t push her to find out. I was a cop after all, and I had to keep our boundaries distinct enough to allow each of us to be what we needed to be when in the company of each other. Our friendship existed because we respected each other’s side of the fence. She wouldn’t ask me too much of the truth about my life with Starsky (and being a cop) and I wouldn’t question her habits or her chosen lifestyle. No judgment was the motto for us. For Alice though I might have helped her a lot more had I been prepared to say more than I had.

I knew she wanted to kick being a hooker. I knew she had her dreams like every one did and some of them were attainable. Like studying literature and getting a modest job. Perhaps even becoming a teacher somewhere outside the city. Still, she was caught in the cycle of working for the money that she needed to do these things. Prostitution paid well enough; better than she would have earned for example sweating it out behind the bar as an employee, serving the likes of men that she serviced as a private consultant while sitting on the other side of it.  The work and the income had become impossibly hard to break away from when she had no other credits or work experience in her life to fall back on.

There was the part of me that wanted to make it all right for Alice. There probably always had been since I had first become aware of her on the streets. Starsky knew it. He recognized my savior complex for what it was and although over time he came to accept it without comment sometimes, probably when I anguished a little too much over needy people he would say something. When I began making it a habit to press money into the hands of a bedraggled informant he would arch his eyebrow and shake his head at me.

“Look at you – I bet that’s the last dollar you had in your pocket till pay day. What am I gonna do with you, huh? Under that steely Viking exterior you’re just a big blond teddy bear.

You think you earn enough as a cop to donate to every single needy cause in this shitty city?”

“No – but a little bit here and there – a few words of encouragement -” I had countered.

“You’ll never have enough money, enough words, enough of yourself to make it better for these people Hutch. Take it from me – I’ve been living amongst this life a lot longer than you. Hell, I grew up with it all ‘round me on the streets. There just ain’t no way you can save everyone. It’s up to them to save themselves.”

But who will save me, Starsk? Who will make it better for me now that you have gone away?

So no. I couldn’t save Alice. I couldn’t set her on her feet and put her on the pathway to her dreams. I couldn’t be her Bronte archetypal hero and I couldn’t be her salvation even though I think she secretly hoped I would one day proclaim I would be. Already my intrusion into life had given her false hope of something that I could never give her.  I had no right to let her think I was something I was not. She was never going to be the center of my personal universe. To allow her to believe that would have been far more cruel than to leave her alone to live her own dysfunctional life, to sort out her own priorities.

And so it happened that by the beginning of September Alice and I had begun the process of disengagement from each other. Certainly I was aware of stepping backwards little by little from the unconventional but somehow functional bond we had formed over the past couple of months. On Alice’s behalf of course I can’t be so sure. Maybe I only imagined that she pulled back in line with my withdrawal. Maybe in reality she simply just let me go, knowing full well she had no power to hold onto me. Starsky was coming back in my life, little by little. For me of course that was more than enough to occupy my full focus. Alice knew it.

Later on I would ask myself if I was so completely buoyed up by renewed hope for getting back to Starsky that I completely missed the tragic truth.

That death was already stalking Alice.

 

September 1980

Over the time that Starsky and I were leading essentially separate lives, Huggy was the mainstay for both of us. Over the years he had grown to be our confidante – someone that we went to individually as well as together when we might have been at low ebb.

Huggy was a reliable link to all the parts of Starsky I no longer was privy to since he’d kicked me out on my butt. It was through Huggy that I kept abreast of what Starsky was doing and how he was managing since we’d been parted. Although I never asked, I’m almost certain that Starsky got the same lowdown from Huggy about me. It wasn’t that Huggy was being two-faced or breaking confidences. Everything he did or said in relation to the two of us was done from a place deep in his heart, from the deep well of fondness he harbored for both of us as individuals and as a twosome. No one wanted the best for us as partners like Huggy did. He was one of the few people (I am almost certain Captain Dobey knew about us, and maybe one or two of the other officers we were close to at the Ninth) that knew what Starsky and I were to each other since the shooting. To my recollection we had never actually told Huggy, just as we had never told anyone else. It wasn’t exactly something that in the early cops in the early ‘80s went around sprouting about to their pals. Homosexual relationships were still kept private and secretive, sequestered away from mainstream society – especially for cops. It was changing for sure – but at such a painfully slow rate.

So during those troubled times, apart from Alice, Huggy was my support and the one major constant that represented Starsky’s and my friendship. He more than anyone understood the magnitude of the loss I had suffered when Starsky had spurned me. Strangely, and I don’t why, I never discussed with Huggy about my unique relationship with Sweet Alice. For some reason I kept that part of my life all to myself. Maybe out of respect for Alice as much as my own confusion to put a label on what exactly it was we had together.

As far as I know Huggy was not aware of any of it from gossip on the street either, which might have let him know about the two of us. Alice was as private a person as I like to be and I think we both had an unspoken pact to keep our special friendship to ourselves. Of course Huggy knew of Alice and her lifestyle and I think that he would find it hard to believe that Alice and I were carrying on what was primarily a platonic relationship. Not because of Huggy’s viewpoint of women like Alice. God no. Huggy was more then used to every shade and walk of life given the colorful and diverse career he had carved out over the years while he was cleaning up his act.  No, I think that more than anything, had I disclosed to him our two-way dependence he would have been surprised that I hadn’t turned to her physically, like some port in the storm. After all, in the earlier days Starsky and I had never made a secret of partaking in sex for sex sake.

So I kept quiet about Alice and used my time with Huggy to keep my ears open to anything he might have to tell me about Starsky.

It would have been the first week of September that Huggy gave me the news. I’d stopped in to visit with him and to try my usual ploy of milking him for information on Starsky. For years our street informant, before he became more of a friend, he was again back in the saddle so to speak. Only this time he was giving me the low down on my own partner. I’m not entirely sure, but I liked to think that Starsky might have gone to Huggy to tap him about my life as well. I just wasn’t so confident that Starsky still cared enough to ask about what I’d been up to.

On this particular visit Huggy let it ‘slip’ – like so much of what he inadvertently/on purpose told me, that Starsky had finally acted on Captain Dobey’s persistent recommendation that he return to his therapy/counseling sessions. Despite Huggy’s upbeat delivery of this piece of information, I accepted the news with a guarded attitude, with good reason.

The words, ‘Starsky’ and ‘Therapy’ did not sit well together at all. In fact it would correct to say that it was not a safe, nor wise idea to allow Starsky to be put behind closed doors in the same room with a Therapist. Starsky has always kicked up a God Almighty fuss whenever he had to undergo mandatory counseling or de-briefing sessions on the job – even when he was in good health. But after the shooting, when his health and temperament were both precarious, encouraging him to attend therapy with the psychologist, let alone persevere with the sessions, was just about impossible. My God, the arguments we had over it. I could write a damn book on it – like so many things that we labored through during those grueling months of intensive physical and psychological therapy. The arguments about Starsky’s psychological therapy were all still fresh and raw in my head. Even Huggy’s positive news that Starsky had begun to make a new start on it couldn’t take away the disturbing memory of perhaps the worst argument we had back then………….

……………………”No way Hutch! No way. You’re not getting me back in his office unless you take me there in a straightjacket – and one more freakin’ session with him lookin’ at me over the top of those frameless glasses and I swear I’ll be fit for one anyway.”

“Starsky, do we have to argue about this every damn time your appointment with him comes around?” I was so very weary of this game.

“No we don’t because there won’t be any more appointments. I’ve told ya’ before, Hutch – I’ve had it with that fuckhead!”

“Starsky, that expression is getting real tiresome, you know? Every one who tries to help you these days ends up being a ‘fuckhead’ in your estimation.”

“Not everyone – just the majority of fuckheads who try to tell me how to live what is left to of new lifestyle of mine called being an invalid.”

I had wondered then if perhaps on our worst days with each other Starsky counted me amongst the majority.

“Don’t – don’t call yourself that please,” I always cringed at the way he had begun describing himself as an invalid.

“Why not? It’s what you call people like me who can’t walk or think properly isn’t it?”

“Your mobility is a temporary problem, and there is nothing wrong with your head or your thinking!” I remember shouting that out at him.

“Then if that is the case, why the hell should I have to go and spend time being tortured by that fuckhead Psychologist?” he’d shouted back, proving to me that he was still an expert at confounding me with his repartee.

I had let out a loud exasperated breath and tried to calm myself.

“Your Psychologist is not a fuckhead, Starsky. He’s a highly regarded professional, and his specialty is in patients suffering after traumatic events.”

“Yeah, well he oughta’ be a specialist at it ‘cause like I said, an hour with him is like a stint in jungle warfare in Vietnam I can tell you. No wonder he specialty is in trauma – he’s probably the cause of 90 percent of his patients’ problems!” he bellowed. “And – for the last time, stop calling him ‘my psychologist.’ I want nothin’ to do with the moron!”

“Starsky – grow up and take this seriously.” I had said again, reasoning as I had so many times. “If you bail on this, not only will it set you back in recovery but it’ll go against you getting back into duty eventually.

“Grow up?” Starsky had said, his voice low and angry. “Be serious? Jesus, that’s rich! You think this isn’t serious shit for me?” He’s motioned to his weak arm and leg, before wrenching open his shirt to slap his hand over the still purpled puckered scars that stood out on his chest. You think this is something I’m laughing at?”

“I’m sorry Starsk  – I didn’t mean it to sound like -”

It was just one of many similar yelling matches we had during that time – one of probably dozens that became like scripts for the two of us to act out. Invariably our lines would be thrown back and forth, parrying our angry frustration with each other before coming to an abrupt end. Most often I never got to finish saying or explaining what I had meant before Starsky slammed out of the room and I’d be left me with my mouth still open, trying to find the right things to say that wouldn’t enrage him more than he already was.

So Huggy telling me that Starsky had gone back to therapy after a long hiatus didn’t fill me with optimism.

“That’s good, Hug, but I don’t imagine it’ll be long before he gets pissed off with him again,” I said, accepting the mug of beer he pushed across the bar to me.

“She,” Huggy had said. “He’s seeing someone new – a woman therapist. Says he really likes her – or at least, doesn’t hate going to see her.”

“A woman? Hmnn….yeah I could see that would be different for him. Maybe not as confronting. The gentler sex and all” I sipped at the beer. “So he’s positive about her – about going to see her?”

“Seems to be.” Huggy mused. “He also seems different since he started – yeah different.”

“How different? In what way?” He really had my attention now.

“Can’t really explain it you know…just sorta’ less uptight, less of that famous Starsky temper and some signs of his old self shining through. It’s been like havin’ the old Starsky sittin’ across from me at this bar…good you know?”

For a moment Huggy’s voice receded as the picture of the “old Starsky” came to the forefront. God …if only.

I must have looked doubtful because when I looked up, Huggy was appraising me with a tilt of his head. “You should catch up with him, see for yourself.”

“Catch up?” I’d echoed him. “Yeah sure. Starsky would welcome me dropping by…”

Huggy shook his head in what looked like mild disgust. “Was a time when each of you treated the other one’s homes as your own.”

“Those times are gone Hug and you well know it. Starsky doesn’t want to see me.”

“Don’t see why not? He’s been asking after you a lot- ‘specially in the past coupla’ weeks.”

This was news to me. Was Huggy doing his best to make me feel better?

“Why don’t you come in tonight – round nine?” he said, fixing me with a direct look.

“Tonight? Why?”

“‘Cause Starsky’ll be here. I know for a fact that he’s meeting someone here a little earlier than that and you’ll run into him.”

Seeing someone? Did Huggy mean as in “seeing someone” as a date? Why then would I want to be there to witness that? Not having the courage to ask him any more details, I pushed away from the bar. “Huggy – just stop it will you. Forget it.”

“Stop what? Looking out for the two of you pig headed idiots who both don’t know your head from your asses with the way you’re treating each other?” I was surprised to hear the frank bristle in his voice.

“Look – all I mean is, just stop worrying and trying to fix things. I know you mean well, but you’re wasting your time.”

Huggy sighed, picked up my empty glass and swiped a cloth across the bar top. “You’re a stubborn ass, you know that?”

“Yeah – I guess I do,” I stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

“Tonight?” he called after me as I walked off.

“Perhaps.”

But I had no intention of showing up and had already resolved to minimize my visits to Huggy as well. Friend or not, he was getting far too close to the core of my pain.

 

 September 1980

My resolve to stay away from Huggy’s bar didn’t last long. No longer than it took that very evening to roll around in fact.

At nine fifteen I was pulling my car up outside the back entrance – the old parking spot that Starsky and I had always claimed ownership of. I had gotten used to slotting the adjective “old” into phrases about Starsky and my habits to replace “usual”, though it still ached to think about things like that.

There was no Torino now – the bullet-riddled car was still in storage at Merle’s, Starsky having no heart to give him the go ahead for attempted repairs. He still wasn’t cleared to drive yet anyway, though I knew he would be close to it by now with all the progress I had heard he had been making on his physical therapy.

I took a huge breath and walked in the back door of the bar prepared to be assaulted by a scene of Starsky lounging in a booth draped all over some pretty woman in a slinky dress. Telling myself I was ready for it, the sight of something very close to my fantasy dealt me a blow I was barely able to withstand. Obviously I wasn’t anywhere near ready to handle it.

Starsky was there – not in a booth, but at a central table, and he was with a pretty woman – one not in a slinky dress, but a well cut business suit, the skirt slim and short on her curvy body. And, although he wasn’t exactly draped over her, he was giving her the full force of his patented Starsky charm. Those navy blue eyes were on full wattage and fixed on her face, his lopsided smile tugged on that mouth I had known so intimately, and his body language – from a body I knew just as intimately, was leaning into her. He was telling her with all of his senses that she had his full attention.

Caught between wanting to make a beeline straight back out the back door and the instinctive pull to walk straight over to the man I was aching to touch, I stood planted to the floor with frozen indecision. Suddenly Huggy appeared at my side to rescue me from total embarrassment. He swept his long thin arm across my back and propelled me toward what was Starsky’s and my “old” booth, where he none too gently pushed me down onto the seat.

“Sit down my man,” he kept his hand on my arm as though I might jump up and try to run off.  With his other hand he waved over one of his waitresses and ordered a couple of beers.

I was sitting, with straight-backed rigidity, feeling that at any moment I might be sick all over the table. Huggy inspected me, rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Jeez – Blondie, you sure are a mess.”

I dared a quick glance over to the table where Starsky and the woman sat. It didn’t appear as though he had seen my helpless little performance or me. I don’t know whether I was pleased or disappointed. Then I settled on disappointed.  Of course he hadn’t seen me. He was so fixated on his female companion that he probably wouldn’t have noticed the ceiling falling in around him.

I turned on Huggy.

“You told me to come in here tonight?  What for? Why? To set me up to see this?” My distress was quickly turning to anger at having been manipulated by Huggy.

The waitress, brought the beers, put them down and then quickly left without saying anything to me. Obviously she had picked up on my mood.

“Relax will you?” Huggy laughed lightly.  “She’s not what you think,” Huggy darted his own eyes over to the couple and quirked an eyebrow at what he saw. “Well at least I don’t think she is – but Starsky does seem to be in top form so maybe – ”

“What do you mean? Not what I think?” I wasn’t happy being a source of entertainment for Huggy.

“She’s married and -” Huggy went to say.

“So? Just because she might be married doesn’t stop her from -” I shot back.

“No – but It’s a business meeting as far as I know. A casual interview over a meal and drinks. Starsky told me about it yesterday. Apparently his new Psychologist set it up for him. The woman’s her good friend.”

I gave Huggy a hard look. “Well aren’t you suddenly the font of all information?” I said, a touch scathingly.

“When was ever not the font of all information, I ask you? Isn’t that why you and Starsky didn’t pay me the big bucks over all the years I’ve kept you both in the loop street-wise? Why prey tell wouldn’t I keep you informed about each other?”

Regardless of my unease over Starsky and the woman, Huggy made me feel just enough of a heel to feel bad.

Despite my comment however, I felt better now that Huggy had reframed the scenario between Starsky and the smartly dressed woman. On closer inspection she did look like a businesswoman, and her own l behavior appeared politely professional rather than flirtatious. I looked back at Huggy, openly curious now. “Well what’s the story?”

But Huggy was standing up to go, the beer that had been put before him untouched. “That is as far as my information runs. For anything more you have to go to the source itself.”

“Hey! Where are you going? You haven’t even touched your drink -”

“It wasn’t meant for me,” he said simply and moved off, his impossibly wide mouth angled up in a cryptic smile.

Confused by his actions I went to go to follow him but never made it to standing. “Feels a bit stupid askin’ I know, but you mind if I sit down?” Completely startled I turned to find Starsky standing beside me at the booth, a semi- shy grin on his face.

I nodded, too displaced to answer him.

What the hell was going on here? He was standing there as though it was a normal thing to do. He must have known I was here after all.

Starsky slid almost effortlessly into the opposite side of the booth, his actions more fluid then I had seen since the surgery. “Great – my beer,” he said as though he had known the drink would be there for him. He sent a quick wave of acknowledgement to Huggy who was watching us both from the behind the bar. So that was it. Huggy had actually ordered the beer for Starsky.

Dumbfounded by his sudden materialization I couldn’t formulate an intelligent response. Starsky picked up the beer and held it up to me by way of a toast. I didn’t pick my own drink up at all, but continued to sit and look at him. He shrugged and looked down into his drink and took a quick first taste, his lips pressing together in satisfaction. “Ah, that’s what I needed. I thought I’d better put on a good example and stick to soda during the interview.” He tipped the glass up and this time he took a long drink of the beer. I was powerless to wrench my eyes away from where the glass met his lips and the way his bared neck muscles contracted as he swallowed the cold liquid down. I felt trapped by every small move by him seemed to mesmerize me. Things were bad when I was feeling voyeuristic of a man drinking beer. I looked away, then, unable to stop myself I looked back.

I felt like I was gaping at him.

I knew I was gaping at him. Starsky put the glass down and looked at me in turn. He knew I was gaping at him. I bet that the whole damn room knew I was gaping at him.

Oh God….

Slapping myself on the face internally I struggled to pull my act together. “Sorry I’m – I’m a bit -”

“That’s okay.  I can see that you didn’t expect me to come over to you.”

“No – no I didn’t.”

“But then, you did turn up here.”

“Huh?” I heard how stupid I sounded.

Starsky smiled patiently. “Here, tonight. I wasn’t sure you’d show up. I asked Huggy to see if you would.”

“You did?” More dumb surprise from me. I couldn’t seem to think of one thing to say that didn’t come out klutzy.

“Yeah, I did,” Starsky smiled again. Obviously I was giving him some amusement. “Well, I was hoping you’d consider coming. Have to be honest – I wasn’t confident you would.”

“But – you were with a – that woman? So why…”

“Was. Was with that woman. Finished now. Went well I think. I felt pleased about it anyway,” Starsky said, his tone relaxed, his body relaxed, every thing about him damn relaxed, while I in contrast felt like I’d been tied up in knots and been injected with something that rendered me dyslexic.

“I don’t understand. You said an interview? You were having an interview with – ah with her? You mean like a real interview?”

“Yep. As interviews go – it was cool. In a bar, with a lovely smart lady…”

“Starsky,” I was having problems following anything he was saying, too overwhelmed by his unexpected proximity and his light mood. It was so long since I’d seen him like this. “You’ve lost me completely.”

He picked up his beer and sat back, slouching further down into the padded booth seat. “Have a drink and I’ll fill you in – ” he broke off for a second. “That is, if you haven’t got anywhere you need to be….”

“No,” I said quickly, something gradually loosening inside of me at his friendly overture. “I’d like to hear it. I’ve got time.”

I didn’t tell him that, when it came to him, I had all the time in the world.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

We talked for a good two hours, taking our time over a few beers and some shared food – before moving onto some coffees and more talk. After the first difficult minutes when I’d been taken off guard and felt like a bumbling idiot, Starsky, obviously sensing my acute discomfort, took the lead and opened up the conversation. He kept talking, unfolding the story behind the meeting with the woman, not asking me any questions or putting me on the spot until I think he sensed that I had begun to relax completely.

It turned out that the woman had been a director from the biggest and newest charity foundation in the California for the prevention of child abuse and neglect. The foundation had just opened a big center in LA. She was, as Huggy had mentioned a very close friend of Starsky’s new therapist who I quickly learned was called Mina – a name that peppered much of Starsky’s conversation with me for the rest of that night. Mina, “the only therapist who spoke any real sense”, was very obviously from the pragmatic school of psychology, working with her patients of real life goals and more improved cognitive and behavioral functioning,  (Starsky threw the psychological lingo around like he was an old hand at it). Over their time together she had explored with Starsky realistic options for future work while he was continuing his study in Psychology. It seemed that the foundation was keen to employ a police consultant who would be an advisor on and a source of knowledge on the role of the police in cases of child protection. Mina had facilitated the casual interview for Starsky by one of the female directors of the foundation and apparently both Starsky and the director were more than interested in pursuing his engagement on a casual consultancy basis.

As he unraveled his latest news, I was totally captivated by his energy and zeal. I had not seen Starsky talk with such verve about anything since long before that fateful day in May last year. There was a fresh vitality about him. A new glow of optimism and energy and a hunger to be involved with something that both interested and concerned him. Both of us had always been touched deeply by child protection issues whenever our cases uncovered this increasingly ugly and worsening social problem. Not of course that there was anything new about child abuse, but what was new was that in the course of police work we were finding ourselves more involved in the complex processes of its sad reality. I could well remember several cases where the two of us had to support each other emotionally as we sank deeper into the mire of abuse cases.

This was something Starsky was more than ready to sink his teeth into and he saw it as a good way to make practical use of his Psychology Degree and even help direct him in future career choices.

After he had exhausted the subject of his new job I was feeling more like myself, feeling more like we were our “old” selves – starting to mesh in conversation and banter more easily. When Starsky encouraged me to bring him up to speed on my own work direction I spoke freely about my casework and some tentative plans to begin preparing for my Lieutenancy. I kept only to the areas of discussing work and some of the new developments within the department that would be of interest to Starsky. I never ventured onto anything to do with how I’d been coping, or not coping. Never touched on the subjects of how I’d been grieving so badly that I’d shackled myself into a cold tight emotional prison where my only refuge was to take up a strange sort of relationship with Sweet Alice as a means of surviving that grief.

He asked about my running, about my plants, my music – all areas that he knew were special corners in my private life. Still, as I joked about my two new favorite ferns and lamented about one of my favorites that had died through the summer I suddenly felt inexplicably sad – and foolish. Sitting here, telling him the little minutia of my daily life suddenly sounded ridiculously stupid and in the middle of my discourse I stopped dead.

In the past we had never needed to do this. Every day we lived through the smallest as well as the biggest things of each other’s life. Starsky knew about my quiet anguish over a wilting fern, I knew about his frustration that he couldn’t get just the right part for his faulty carburetor – and we’d get to hear every new detail of those sagas at least once, twice every day till they were surpassed by the next mini-drama. It was ‘us’ – how we worked as partners and friends, the natural ebb and flow of the days of two very close, bachelor cops. Now my recount of daily life anecdotes just sounded inane. What the fuck was I going on about? A dying plant and problems making my five-mile run before work? How pathetic did I sound? It must have shown in my face because Starsky stopped, and put his coffee cup down, his lips tight with concern. “What’s wrong, Hutch?”

“You know what’s wrong,” I said bleakly. “This – this shit I’m telling you about -” I couldn’t even think of how to phrase it.

“What? That your Boston Fern died from heatstroke?”

I gave him a look far more withering than my poor sun damaged dead fern had ever suffered.

That look got me a taunting smile in return. It was such a typical Starsky tactic. To rile me up in order to get me to open up. “Ignore that,” he apologized, “I was being a smartass. Go on – you were saying?”

“It’s ….it’s – well it feels sort of……..” I simply couldn’t put words to such a powerfully direct and honest admission.

“Strange?” Starsky suggested by way of query.

I didn’t hesitate to admit he was right.

“Yes – strange and – and – ” I croaked hoarsely and looked down at my clenched hands.

“It’ll get better.” He sounded so sure of it, but also so gentle in the way he said it. “This. Us.”

Embedded in those few words was so much emotion that I took heart for the first time that maybe we did have a chance. At least Starsky’s seemed to be suggesting it.

“You think so?” I faltered. He was being the strong one here, so commanding, and I was only too happy to let him make me feel safer, surer about whatever it was we were talking about – even if it was as simple as getting back to a better friendship.

“Yeah – I do. ” He gave me a small hopeful smile. “And – I don’t just mean your fern.”

After that Starsky veered us both back to firmer ground. He asked about my family and I enquired about his mother and brother.

Somehow we both knew, Starsky in particular I think, that this casual meeting in the familiar context of Huggy’s, our old social hangout, was some form of milestone. Our first step forward from where we had been. All these months we had been sliding backwards, further and further away from what we had attained together over the years. By the end of our impromptu evening together, I know we both felt like something had changed.

Most importantly and necessarily, Starsky had initiated this first step of progress.

Of all the things that stayed with me about the evening, it was the moment when we’d gone to part outside the bar. My self-consciousness from earlier on came to the fore again. Awkwardly, I went to lift my hand up to give him a shoulder pat. Starsky looked at my raised arm and frowned. Unsure all over again I dropped my arm and stood still, stiff as a rod. I felt totally at a loss with what to do, stricken with embarrassment that I had pushed too hard. Then Starsky stepped toward me. His arms were opened wide, and he took me into an encompassing embrace.  Although I knew I felt stiff he easily pulled my head to his shoulder. I was so close I that could smell his hair for the first time since what seemed like forever.

The strength of Starsky’s grip around my back was as unexpected as the embrace he’d offered up. Finally when we pulled back, I saw regret in his dark eyes. He lifted his hand and touched my face in such a light caress I wondered later if I hadn’t imagined it. “How much have I hurt you Hutch?” I didn’t answer him. Couldn’t answer him for fear that if I even attempted to speak, the tears would start. My head dropped, scared that he would read me far too easily. I heard him sigh and then he walked away.

 

March 1981

That night at Huggy’s had been the turning point. After that Starsky and I began slowly closing the yawning gap between us. I don’t why or how it started to change for the better – not really. Two things definitely contributed to it. Time – the old healer of just about everything, and the benefits that Starsky was obviously getting out of his new stint with his therapist, Mina.

He dropped her name into just about every conversation we had in those days from late September through to November as we were gradually seeing more and more of each other on a social basis. I was eternally grateful for this Mina, and would have quite happily kissed her feet if I ever had the occasion to meet her. She had certainly been some sort of catalyst for Starsky. His anger and self-degradation had abated, along with his agitated intolerance of his physical limitations and anyone who might have made the humble mistake of reminding him of them. In its place, there were definite signs of so many of the features of the “old” Starsky coming back to the fore.

Nonetheless, we took it slowly; carefully navigating our paths back toward the center of us. After that first stumbling night in the bar this was in fact a lot easier to do than I might have imagined. I had thought that if I ever got the sign from Starsky, I’d be back at his side in seconds flat. But when it actually began to happen, I was seriously respectful that we both needed to measure our pace. A little bit like childbirth, this process was going on for us. Slow and steady, breathing through each step and not pushing too hard too early. In a way we, the partnership, the friendship, was being reborn. I told myself at the time, that even if we could never get back to having what we’d begun to have before our breakup, I was still happy to be given the chance to try.

The weeks rolled into months, Christmas and New Year came and went and although we were still not partners again in the true sense of the word, we were back as solid friends. I had begun preparing in earnest for my Lieutenant’s exams and Starsky was doing well in his undergraduate degree, fast tracking it by undertaking extra subjects while he had the free time. He’d also begun consulting at the child abuse center and had quickly immersed himself in his new role, earning respect and admiration for his contributions.

By late January, apart from two occasions which I recalled when I had met briefly with Alice for a drink or a light meal in the early hours of the evening – both in public places and not her home – the time spent with her had decreased dramatically. Without either of us acknowledging it in so many words, I think we both knew whatever we had had was over. I made no secret of how happy I was to have Starsky in my life again, and it would have been impossible for me to hide the truth from her anyway, so overflowing was I with the proof of my contentment. As my own life was getting back on track, I cannot pretend that I didn’t know she was becoming increasingly unhappy and secretive about her life.

I pressed her a few times to share with me what was the problem, worried that she was upset because she finally faced the truth that she and I could ever have a future. In truth, I know I did not press her too much, almost relieved to have her deny that it had anything to do with me.  My efforts and energy were concentrated once more on Starsky (although now in a more balanced way where I no longer needed to take on the role of his carer and protector) and I didn’t think I could ever turn my back on that in order to help Alice. Still, she never sought to unburden herself to me in any way. We had a nice time together when we met and then we parted until the next time.

I wasn’t sure but somehow, I think we both suspected that when I kissed her lightly goodnight on a cold evening in very late January, that it might well be the final time we met in this sort of situation. She asked me that night, had I disclosed to Starsky about her – about “us”? Maybe I should have lied, told her that I had told him all about her and how we’d forged a special friendship during the hiatus of his and my relationship. But I didn’t. It would have been wrong to mislead her, but when I told her the truth she looked even more stricken than ever. Did she feel that I was trying to hide what she was to me from the world and from Starsky in particular? Did she interpret that I was embarrassed by what we had shared those couple of months?

I tried to put the worry about her out of my head and let her get on with her life and me with mine.

Valentine’s Day drew closer and I knew Starsky and I both felt a little unsure of how to deal with its significance. February fourteenth, 1981 would have been the anniversary of one year together as lovers. For me it was particularly difficult to face the day as it only highlighted my ongoing fear that this whole reconciliation deal could still go bust. For sure Starsky seemed settled in life for the first real time since he’d been gunned down, but where did that leave me? We were getting on great, our friendship was as strong as ever and we were largely back in synch. Everyone around us also thought all was back to “normal” with the two of us. All except Starsky and me, who knew we hadn’t yet moved back toward intimacy. I have to admit it left me worried that we might never do so. Would having my best friend back be enough for me? What would happen to me if he started to look further afield for his sexual fulfillment be it either male or female?

The night before Valentine’s Starsky made a point of telling me that he had plans for the next evening. It left me rocked by new fears and self doubts. At work the next day I swallowed down the agony of giggling female staff opening Valentine’s cards, sharing around chocolates and clamoring over each other to view the latest bouquet of flowers to hit the squad room. With that as the backdrop, my head was full of Starsky and how he might be celebrating this lover’s day – without me in the picture. In one scene I had him lying back in another man’s arms, the next, whispering romanticisms to one of the many female staff at the foundation where he consulted. The images tortured me all day.

By late afternoon I’d had all I could stomach and packed up some case files and my study notes to head for home.

Entering my apartment I all but tripped over a brightly wrapped Valentine gift basket on the floor just inside the door. I picked it up with a small groan of frustration and carried it over to the coffee table where I placed it down on top of where I threw down my study folders. I eyed the tastefully presented basket with unease. The gift could only mean that things were getting worse with Lisa, my latest cleaning lady. No doubt she had come by to drop it off for me, using the key she had to my place.  Lisa was a lonely divorcee with a rapidly deepening crush on me that was becoming not only embarrassing but a little difficult to manage. The last time she had been to clean and I had the misfortune of still being there when she arrived (far earlier than I expected her) she had caught me in a state of half undress. Trying to extricate myself from her smothering attention, I vowed to do something about letting her go very soon. Now with the Secret Valentine gift I was convinced I had to do it. My track record with cleaning ladies was not good. No matter how impersonal I tried to remain, I seemed to bring out the nurturer – or the voracious female lover in all of them.

Starsky had always joked that it was my mild, Midwestern, gentlemanly ways that attracted the women to me. “Face it Blondie, they all go nuts over you. It’s those dimples and the soft melodic voice – gets ‘em in every time.” I didn’t really have a clue as to what I was doing to entice these women – I just wanted a nice friendly lady to keeping my apartment clean and tidy. I realized then that I might have to concede to cleaning my own apartment. I changed into my sweats and grabbed a coffee before settling down on the couch, determined to put in a good two hours study. The gift basket was in the way of my files and I pushed it aside to get to them. A little curious, I pulled back the outer wrapping to find the gift was in fact chocolates. I took a closer look. Not just the usual heart shaped chocolate confectionary that was widely distributed on Valentines, and the sort I would have expected from Lisa, but surprisingly a generous assortment of the only real chocolate I actually liked. A Belgian brand. Dark and rich, with a hint of chili. It had a unique flavor and one that went beautifully with a strong coffee after dinner. Tempted despite my resolution to keep Lisa at arm’s length and not encourage her anymore by consuming her gift, I lapsed and slid a chocolate into my mouth. The incredible richness of the chocolate melted in my mouth as I opened up my work folder. I took a sip of coffee, and couldn’t help but savor the taste of the pairing of good quality chocolate and strong coffee.

I stopped still, and put down the coffee cup. Next I put down the file and I thought about the chocolate in my mouth.

There was no way my new cleaning lady could know about my fondness for these chocolates and the odds on her buying them out of sheer random luck was beyond possible. I knew for a fact they were hard to source, even in LA. I also knew for a fact that Starsky had at least on two occasions over the past few years gone out of his way to secure me a box of them as a special treat when I had been at my most grumpy, sulky self with the flu. Starsky had unveiled them to me while I lay coughing and weak, resting on the couch. I had been touched by his special efforts.

“I finally managed to find them for you – must have been the fourth place I tried in that trendy strip of shops where I was told they stock weird things like this.”

“Just because they’re different to what you eat doesn’t make them weird Starsky,” I had told him chomping through two in quick succession.

“Take it from me, Hutch – they even look weird. A chocolate shouldn’t be that color to start with. Yuck. Why are they so dark?”

“Because they’re dark chocolate Starsky,” I tried for infinite patience, my earlier gratitude for his generous actions fast disappearing.

“Why is it Hutch that you have to like odd things, bizarre things as your favorite treats? Why can’t you just like normal stuff like me? Like chocolate ice-cream and – well – yeah, vending machine chocolate bars?” He’d held up one of the dark sweets and surveyed it with a dubious eye before popping one in his mouth.

A second later he made a face, gagged a little and spat it out into his hand, a gooey mush of chewed chocolate. “Oh God! They’re terrible. Tastes like a cross between a hot pepper and a piece of dog turd.”

“Well,” I’d said, laughing and coughing at his reaction. “I guess I don’t have to worry about you eating the whole box on me.”

The look on Starsky’s face was as clear to me now as it had been then.

I pulled the Valentine’s basket back toward me in a rush. There was definitely no card. I hurriedly pushed aside the first layer of sweets, with the beat of excitement mounting in my chest. Nothing. I dug deeper and felt about on the bottom of the basket. There it was. The card along with the memory of the first time he and I had the conversation about Starsky and gift cards.

I had just opened my birthday present from him when we were still in the Academy together. Genuinely touched to have received a present from him, I’d told him that I hadn’t expected it. He looked dumbfounded at my statement.

“But why wouldn’t you expect a present? Of course I’d give you a present dumb head! It’s your birthday.”

Of course it was and for Starsky any festive occasion warranted present sharing and surprises.

I’d laughed and opened the wrapping paper, immediately taken by the soft collegial style jacket he’d chosen for me. I held it up in frank admiration. It was then that I’d seen the envelope underneath, lying on the gift paper inside. I snatched it up and opened it to read the wonderful wishes he’d scribed for me.

“Starsky, why is the card inside the gift and underneath it?” I asked after reading the message.

He looked amused at my confusion. “Because that is where I always put it.”

“The card is meant to go on top of the present, you know that.”

“Nah…the present is what we’re all waiting for, not the card, so I always put the card under the gift inside so you don’t have to delay your excitement by havin’ to stop and read it out of politeness.”

It was, as I learned over the years just one of so many rules of life according to David Starsky. I didn’t even bother to argue with his logic and forever after would patiently wait to read the card once I opened any presents from him.

I pulled the card from beneath the chocolates, my hand shaking like a leaf. He had written quite a lot and my eyes scrabbled over it, almost afraid to center down to read it properly. Already I was concerned by the fact that Starsky hadn’t wanted to spend Valentine’s evening together and had instead dropped a gift inside my door. It could well be bad news.

Hutch,

I’m hoping that you found this card early and it wasn’t left under a small pile of melted chocolates. See? I’m still doing the card thing. I haven’t changed. Not really. Not in the way that matters anyway – matters between you and me. I’m still Starsky. Still the same man who’s always been your friend, but I hope a better one than you made love to last Valentine’s Day.

It was our special day wasn’t it? Sloppy and soapy I know, but hey that’s how fate fell for us, so go figure…. The memory of that day last year will always be our gift to one another on Valentine’s Day Hutch. Better than any amount of roses or fine wine or special chocolates from Belgian (that still taste like shit by the way – I’m sorry – but they really do.).

I got the feeling you would have liked us to be together tonight and I also got the feeling that you’re still worrying about how I feel about us. It’s not fair that I keep you waiting to find out, but since we’ve been back doing just fine as friends, I haven’t found the right time or place to get into it with you.

Last Valentine’s Day we made a memory together – an incredibly special memory.  I want to make many others with you each Valentine’s Day and every other day of the year too. New ones, different ones, lots of ones – with you.

That’s what I want Hutch, and I’m sure of that.

I am not with you tonight because Valentine’s Day came just a little too soon for me. Sadly we have to skip this one and chalk it up to the importance of being patient about things. I’m not quite ready yet. To be with each other tonight would be a mistake. I don’t want to make any more big mistakes in my life – not when it comes to you Hutch. I just can’t take the chance of hurting you any more than I already have. It’s too early for me to risk getting things wrong again. I’m getting there, but not quite yet. When I get there, there will be no going back every again to being without you. I want to make sure that I have done all I need to do to be ready for that time. I’ve still got some work ahead of me.

This – not being ready thing, has nothing to do with you. Please be sure of that. As far as I’m concerned Hutch, you’re the only person I want to be in my life.  You are perfect as you are, please don’t change. All I ask is that you wait a little longer for me to get to the point where I can be the man I want to be with you. The man, best friend and lover that you deserve. I don’t mean, like I know you might be thinking – in a physical sense. I’ve gotten over that stupid shit about trying to get back to just what I was like before. Time and work has helped me realize that was never the real problem. The problem was with my acceptance of change and adjustment.  I am all but there, accepting everything about me and my life that has had to change because of what happened to me.  More importantly, not only accepting it, but also celebrating the change and the new strength it has given me.

I hope you can wait. I hope like me, you want this to be the last Valentine’s Day that we spend apart.

 

My love and my loyalty,

Forever your Valentine,

P.S.   Seeing as I’ve already well and truly blown this Secret Valentine’s thing – I would not be unhappy if you wanted to give me a phone call – just to let me know you have in fact seen this card. If not – I might just have to come over there and eat those damn awful chocolates myself till you find it!

P.P.S   I’ll be home all night (and yes, alone).

 

I put down the card and took the longest, sweetest, deepest lungful of air I had taken since the first moment I realized Starsky had put me out of his life all those terrible months ago.

I could breathe again.

 

Chapter Two

February 1981

I didn’t call Starsky straight away that Valentine’s Night. Oh, I wanted to of course. God, how I wanted to. But I forced myself to re-group, to settle and to wait – long enough to be able to talk to him without letting all my needs bleed out through my voice, and down the phone where he would hear them. I made another coffee, and settled myself on the couch before I got the courage to ring him. In the end we might not have spent Valentine’s Day night together, at least not physically, but we spent it together anyway, over the phone, talking for hours. I held the phone, draping the extension lead over my shoulder as walked into the kitchen, and traded my empty coffee cup for a beer. A little later I waited while Starsky went to collect his own, and then we talked some more, paused our conversation to get more beers for ourselves, and picked up the talk again. It was only much later, when Starsky complained that unless he ate, he would perish. By the time we finished the call there was a definite sense humming along the phone line, that we had closed the last of the divide that had formed between us all those months ago.

February – June 1981

For the remainder of February onwards our lives had begun to once more resemble what we had been together in the past. By that I mean we were once more back to being trusted friends to each other – buddies and partners in the strongest sense of the term. Not that we were back as the lovers we’d become the previous Valentine’s Day in 1980, nor were we like we were at any time during Starsky’s convalescence, or even for that matter how we were in those strained times leading up to that fateful day in May 1979 when our worlds exploded in a clatter of semi automatic gunfire. In fact, I think we were most like the two friends we had been in our earlier days as partners in the Ninth Precinct. More like the times when we were younger, more idealistic, more energetic, more excited about our lives, and where we were heading. A lot – but not all – of the dark cynicism and world-weariness that had crept into my personality by ’79 had begun to steadily fall away. I didn’t need Starsky to tell me (though he did repeatedly over the next couple of months much to my chagrin,) that I was more like the Hutch that I had been when he was more like the Starsky that he had been. If that made sense he’d told me. In fact in ‘Starsky speak’, it did – at least to me. That dirty grittiness caused by the harsh realities of cop life which had abraded my soul in that last year before Starsky was shot, was being replaced by a renewed vigor for life and the possibilities of what might lie ahead. We both had something to live for, to strive for, to work toward together. We each had a new project in life – us.

In March through April it was all about our brotherhood, rebuilding a trust that could hopefully withstand any further attacks upon it from our own stupid intrinsic behavior. For, in the past, it was are own mistakes and weaknesses that had threatened to destroy what we had built together – we couldn’t blame anyone else but ourselves for our screw-ups. We were sure of one thing now. We didn’t want to fail each other and ourselves ever again.

By then we were back to spending the majority of our free time together, mostly at either one of our apartments and rarely, apart from frequenting our usual haunts such as Huggy’s, did we tend to go out. Our days of going out on the prowl for women stayed in the past, and even though we still weren’t back to sharing a bed, nor did we show any interest in getting sex from anywhere else. Now that we weren’t working in the same job, there was less need for us to have to appear to be having personal lives outside of each other. As we were no longer being seen by others as being joined at the hip through our work day as well as in our private social hours, it became easier not to have field questions and deal with slanted observations from those around us.

Of everyone we knew, Huggy was especially happy with what had transpired since that night he had lured me to his bar to meet Starsky back in September. Secretly I think he took pride in what he saw was partly down to his own efforts to help us find our way back to one another. I’d been in at his bar one day for a quick lunch with some of the other officers from my squad. While the other guys were finishing up their meals and drinks, I wandered over to the bar to have a few private words with him, preferring not to talk about Starsky in front of them. I still liked to keep Starsky and my private life out of conversations with other cops.

We chatted for a while and then to my surprise, Huggy asked me if I had seen Alice in a while. The question had come from seemingly nowhere and I was taken off guard, not sure what he was really asking me. Did he think that I was still carrying on some sort of secret liaison with her? I told him the truth – that no – I hadn’t seen her in months and months. He merely nodded, his face suddenly full of a thoughtful frown as though he was trying to decide whether to say more to me. I was about to probe him more on the matter when we were interrupted by one of his staff, needing help with one of the bar orders. He raised his hand as though to say he’d be back, but then he got caught up longer than I could wait given that the other officers were all standing to leave – I decided to leave the matter alone.

I never bothered to follow it up with him and when I was next in his bar, Starsky was with me so I left it completely.

Starsky was still seeing Mina his therapist, but far less frequently, as the need for the sessions was no longer as imperative as it had been. We were turning back to each other as sounding boards and confidantes – opening up to one another on far deeper levels than we ever had before our hiatus.

Things were good and getting better every day. Even the looming of the dreaded anniversary in May couldn’t dampen our spirits for our renewed chance at being best friends and hopefully, back to being lovers.

By unspoken agreement we had continued to keep intimacy off the agenda. Even into May we hadn’t re-consummated out relationship. It wasn’t easy – for either of us, particularly for me. Still it didn’t harm our internal fortitude and it was damn thrilling to keep the anticipation of it in the background as a reward for when we both felt ready to take that final step in our recovery.

Several times when spending evenings together on the couch or even in the car as we were driving we had all too easily transitioned from fraternal body touches to caresses and suggestive rubbing and stimulation which was had more in common with heated foreplay than overtures of mate ship. Up to that point anyway, we had managed to pull ourselves up before going further. Well to be more correct, I stopped myself. I wanted it to be Starsky that made the final move to take us from foreplay to sex. He had to be totally comfortable with it like he’d said in that letter to me and I was damned if I was going to mess up his internal psychological roadmap. It was become increasingly hard for me to resist, but from somewhere deep in me I called up the fortitude. I can’t count however, how many times I had to slip off to the bathroom and relieve myself of what I wanted so badly to share with him and not my hand. Later, I would slide back into the bed beside his warm body and he would pull me close to him, but would say nothing. I could wait for him – he was worth it – but I couldn’t pretend to him that the waiting was starting to kill me.

The second anniversary of Starsky’s shooting was suddenly upon us. Incredibly however it turned out that “the” day in May was when the final piece of the whole of us slotted into place. It had been a weekend day and so we’d spent it together, filling the hours with anything that kept my mind off the motion picture relay of the horrors that had unfolded that day two years ago. It was natural for us to agree to spend the night together also. Starsky stayed at my place and we’d tumbled into my bed after consuming a few mind numbing drinks to ward off the ghosts of the date. I wanted him in bed with me that night, needed him to be close enough that I could wrap my whole body around him, reaffirming myself physically and emotionally that he was safe and whole and with me.

Despite my ongoing sexual urges toward him, that night I was simply happy enough to have him with me to hold, just that and no more. So, after we’d lain together and talked quietly for a while, it was a joyful surprise when it was Starsky who initiated the kissing and the exploratory touches. Not that he hadn’t done so on other occasions of course – but this time there was a definite sense of deliberateness about the way he was moving his hands over my body and how he was looking at the parts of me he was stroking. The tempo and pressure of his touch had changed from gentle and caring to something far more erotic. My skin and nerve endings knew it, and my groin definitely knew it. I had begun to tremble beneath him, my breaths coming too fast and too shallow, causing lightheadedness even before he began unbuttoning my shirt, one button at a time with slow motion speed. He kept his eyes on my face the whole time he worked his way down my buttons, trailing his fingertips over my damp skin as each opened button exposed more of my flesh to the hot night air.

I lay still and quiet; almost too afraid to do anything that might halt his seductive moves as he slowly unbuttoned my shirt and pushed the fabric aside before lowering his head to first lap and then nip at my nipples. Clenching my jaw at the buzz of sensual tension I was thrilled that this was Starsky, not me, boldly taking the act of seduction into his own hands. It was Starsky too, who moved his hand beneath the waistband of my pants, undoing the fastening and sliding down the zip slowly. His hand dipped beneath my briefs to barely glide the tips of his fingers teasingly over the head of my already throbbing penis. It was Starsky too, who rolled me to my back and straddled me suddenly with unexpected force, holding his muscled thighs to the bared sides of my chest. I lifted a little wantonly against him, but he stopped my movements quickly by increasing the pressure of his legs, gripping my flanks like I was a nervous stallion to be controlled – and he, the skilled and strong horseman. He pulled my hands down to the sides of my shoulders and pressed them hard into the pillow. With forceful deftness he had my whole body covered and pinned down, effectively preventing me from making any willful movements beneath him. All of it, all of this overpowering sexual domination was coming from Starsky, and his whole face was alight with an almost animalistic urge to take control over me.

He was exciting the hell of me, but amongst my percolating excitement I remember seeing what really stirred me to fever pitch. There was a look of pure sexual hunger and lust shining in his eyes. It was there so vividly when he looked down at me from his position of dominance above. Held captive, not only by his hands but also from his penetrating gaze, I’d looked up into those intense navy eyes and wanted to cry out in relief. There it was, in all its dark blue, sparkling glory. What I had been waiting for all these last few months. Hot desire – frantic and just short of uncontrollable. Although close to agony with physical desire, I needed to be sure before I made any further move or said the wrong thing.

“Starsk?” My voice had quavered.

“Yes,” he didn’t hesitate to answer me. His voice was raspy with need but the simple answer seemed filled with certainty. He knew of course what my question was about.

“Are you sure…really? I don’t want you to feel that -”

He’d looked down at the juncture of where his splayed thighs pressed against my now bared stomach. Even jean clad his rock hard erection could not be more evident as it pulsed through the incredibly tight folds of the soft denim. “Does it look like I’m sure?” he croaked, the smile tipping up the corners of his mouth in a way I could never resist. Then he dipped his head lower to nuzzle at my ear, his voice hot and seductive. “Does it feel like I’m ready, Hutch?” he reinforced with a firm grind of his heated crotch against mine.

I was going insane with the need to touch him, but when I went to lift my hands he re-doubled his hold on them and frowned. “This is going to be my show babe, all mine.” I felt the nip of his teeth on my ear and then the graze of his stubble as he began to move himself lower over my pinned down body. “I’ve been wanting this now for weeks. Ya’ see I had a plan.”

“A – a plan?” I could barely think let alone understand him.

“Yeah – I wanted to make us both wait. Hold out till this fucking terrible day we both hate so much and then kick it out of our minds by finally getting what we’ve both been holding off for now for weeks and weeks.” He stopped moving down my chest for a moment, and turned his head on the side, laying his cheek flat against my chest, his soft curls tickling my underarm. As he spoke, his moving lips making small tingles of vibration across my skin. “Tonight I want to reclaim this date for you Hutch, replace your bad memories with hot sexual ones. I know how much this date freaks you out – far more than it does me, because I can’t really remember much of the day at all.”

Freak me out? The anniversary of seeing my partner all but bleed out while I could do nothing but scream his name and call for help? Freaking out didn’t come close to what it did to me. There wasn’t a word gut wrenching enough to describe how it made me feel then and still made me feel whenever I let myself visit the memory of that day.

“So I decided to make us both wait,” Starsky was saying, “to do this, to make love to you like I’ve been aching to do and to make you think of nothing else for the rest of tonight then what I’m about to do to you. If its as good as I think its gonna be between us, then this is what’ll you remember about this date from now on – not – not the,” I noticed he baulked a little on the word too, despite his denial that the day conjured up less pain for him then me, “the shooting.”

I needed to touch him then, touch his soft hair as it lay across my chest, touch the lips that caressed my chest – but he still wouldn’t relinquish his hold on me.

“I’m goin’ to do you real good Hutch – so fuckin’ good. You want that – you want me to do that babe?”

“So much – I – I want you so much Starsky.” Could I ever express to him how very much?

“I thought so,” I felt his lips curl in a smile against my beating chest. “I’m goin’ to love you so damn hard, fuck your beautiful body so damn senseless that you’ll know for sure, that I never died that day Hutch. I’m alive and I’m here – and I’m never goin’ to leave you again…”

He began moving his whole body down mine, all the while, slinking backward and lower down the length of the bed. As his head neared my crotch he began making almost wild animal sounds deep in his throat like some predatory beast, his arms and back muscles stretching out fully as he kept the pressure on my hands above my shoulders. I felt his hot breath near my briefs and heard him groaning softly as he moved away my open pants with his chin and pressing his nose hard against the thin fabric of my briefs. Christ he was smelling me, smelling my cock, snuffling in the heady odor that even I could smell myself, the smell of pre-sex filling the room as I clenched up my buttocks, lifting my tight balls and cock closer to his face. He snuffled and sucked in the musky odors like he was some wild dog on the scent.

“Oh man, I forgotten how you get this smell about you when you’re hot for me, when you’re hungry for me. Its just another thing I’ve missed about us…” Starsky moaned in delight as he darted out his tongue to lick up some of my milky droplets from the head of my turgid column of flesh. “Tastes so good – tastes like my Hutch – honey and sweet as well as salty and creamy.”

“Oh God…. Starsk….Starsky,” I choked, feeling my cock well and truly oozing now with the need to have him touch and suck me, my cock’s slit dripping pre-cum like a salivating mouth.

By the end of our long night of raunchy, hot sex, my tired body replete, I looked down at the already sleeping Starsky who lay in tangled in my arms, his own body pliant and limp after his marathon performance of fierce lovemaking. Before I slipped into total post sex oblivion I kissed his head, and fingered his curls, thinking as I surrendered to sleep, I had never felt so fulfilled as I did in that moment.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Just after May I sat my Lieutenancy exams. In the next month not only did I find out that I had passed with flying colors but Starsky attained a second job to add to his already busy schedule of part time study and consultancy at the Child Abuse Prevention Foundation – this one being back within his familiar territory of direct police work. He had been granted a post as part time lecturer at the Police Academy within his chosen areas of expertise, weapon handling. I think he would have really preferred driving tactics, but after having finally completed his physical therapy, the possibility of having an accident behind the wheel while training cadets was just too risky. I was glad he arrived at that decision himself without me having to voice my own concerns. I was determined to never again make him feel cornered or pressured by my need to protect him and to keep him safe.

After our steamy sexual reunion we had to use even more restraint not to rush headlong into a full-blown heady overdose of sex and passion. I felt like I was some spinning top toy around Starsky. Even the lightest brush of his skin against mine threw me wildly out of orbit it was almost dangerous to be around him in public. Despite the fact that we felt like two adolescent boys just discovering the potency of our libidos we still treated each and every intimacy as a special gift and awarded each opportunity to make love with the respect that having been granted this second chance deserved. We found that our sexual attraction for each other, far from having faded in our time apart, had actually magnified in intensity. In those first few weeks leading into June and the onset of LA’s baking hot days, sometimes we came close to spontaneous combustion ourselves, so hot were we for each other and so voracious were our appetites for one another’s bodies.

On working days, when Starsky was not with me for hours on end, the time without him could seem as arduous on my body, as a twenty-mile run. Starsky had his own comparison to how it felt for him to spend up to ten hours without me. It was like being he said, starved of all food for forty-eight hours – which, in Starsky terms, meant he had a pretty damn tough time of it. Our working hours apart although an interminable agony to get through had the duel effect of providing us with an excruciatingly exciting build up of sexual tension. It made me wonder how the hell the two of us ever managed to work side by side all those years without mauling each other bodies from across the desk, or going for it like rabbits when we were closeted together in the cramped interior of the Torino. Days were only survived by little bites of each other in the form of intermittent phone calls. These snatched moments, whenever our busy schedules allowed, had to suffice for the hours apart. Just to hear Starsky’s voice had me surging with heat and likewise he told me that when I would call to remind him of what I planned for us later that night (in the bedroom) he had to be sure he wasn’t standing when he took the call. Truly, as Starsky so aptly crooned, we had “it sooo bad for each” other.

June began to merge toward the hotter days of summer and the haze of heat that hovered over smog laden LA added an extra layer to the sizzling crackle and spark between us whenever we spent time together.

“Was it ever this good for us …I mean …ever as fucking intoxicatin’ as this for us, before do ya’ think?” Starsky had wondered as we rolled off each other, sweat slicked and panting after another frantic coupling on a late June night.

I turned to him, unable to resist licking at a small rivulet of salty sweat as it trickled from his brow.

“It was always good babe, but it just keeps getting better – we just keep getting better – and better.”

“We get any better than this Hutch, then I think you’ll have ta’ find yourself a new lover. Don’t think my body could keep up this pace without me completely blowin’ a gasket.” Starsky said, rubbing his fingers over his lips, swollen and tender looking from a particularly wild kissing session.

“Well then we’d better learn to pace ourselves, because no other lover will do but you babe,” I told him, serious despite the joking context. “I couldn’t settle with anyone else but the perfection I have with you.”

And it was true. We had come to a point of near perfection in our love and respect for each other.

So then, I asked myself the question, why would I go and fuck all that beautiful perfection sky high just one week later?

 

 July 1981

“Maybe I should throw in a sweater to take?” Starsky had his head buried in his wardrobe. It might have been a question, but I didn’t answer.

“Gets damn chilly up in San Francisco at night doesn’t it?” he threw into the silence.

I sat on his bed, looking at the open suitcase, thinking about what it represented. Starsky was going away from me again.

He turned around from the wardrobe and walked over to the bed. “Ever get the feelin’ you’re havin’ a one way conversation?”

I roused my self from my morose thoughts. “Sorry. Yes take a sweater, always a good idea up there. Take the blue one I bought you for your birthday, it’s light enough for summer evenings.”

Not looking convinced with me he walked over to his chest of drawers. He rummaged around and found the sweater in question, then walked back and put it on top of his other clothes. The dark blue color of it was a contrast to his white business shirts beneath. I reached over and pulled its folded softness straight back out of the case and held it, feeling unaccountably possessive of it.

“On second thoughts don’t take that one, you look too damn sexy in it for your own good.”

Of course he did. I’d chosen it for that express reason hadn’t I? It brought out the dark navy in his eyes and the dark in his hair.

“Ah come on Hutch – you think I’m goin’ to be out cruisin’ bars? It’s a training seminar remember? Work, remember? Not play.”

“Starsky. Work, play – it doesn’t matter. You know as well as I do that conferences and seminars are hotspots for opportunities to meet people.”

He looked surprised at my petty behavior. “Meetin’ people is not the same as havin’ affairs Hutch – and anyway – what is this all about?”

I knew I was being churlish, selfish – possessive; all the things that I had never wanted to be with him ever again.

“I’m just being …” I held up my hands in defeat of my own stupid behavior, “being an idiot. An idiot who’s already wondering how I’ll cope without you while you’re gone.”

“It’s only goin’ to be four days for God’s sake – and for two of those you’ll be busy with getting that task force set up so you won’t even have a chance to miss me.” Starsky was tossing the last of his clothes into a small open suitcase on the bed, while I sat and watched him with what I knew was a forlorn face. I had known about Starsky’s training seminar for the Academy for weeks now. But, until the morning of his departure, I wasn’t prepared for how bereft I would feel about him going.

“I’ll miss you even if I work every day while you’re gone. You know we haven’t been apart since -” I reflected.

Starsky dropped the last pair of socks and a belt on top of the packed clothes and finished the sentence for me. “Since we’ve been back together… I know. But, when you think about it maybe we need to do this, Hutch. We can’t afford to get so dependent on each other again that we…” he hesitated, looked back at his suitcase and sighed.

I felt a prick of alarm.

Maybe I had already done some damage by admitting my fears of something separating me from him again. Would I ever learn to quit with this insatiable need since he nearly died to have Starsky within two feet of me?

“You mean you’re feeling hemmed in?” I asked him anxiously. “That we’re smothering each other – that – that I’m smothering you? Crowding you?”

He blew out an exasperated breath, shut his suitcase, pushed it to the side and sat down beside me. “God no Hutch! No,” he took my hand in his and shook it hard as though to reinforce what he was refuting. “I’m trying to say something but not doin’ a good job of explaining it. It’s just that we’re goin’ to have to learn how to feel secure again with each other. That’s goin’ to be harder for you, because I’m the one who screwed us up last time.”

“It’s a hell of a lot easier to say than do, Starsky.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I feel the same way? You think I haven’t been thinking about how it’ll be without you beside me tonight, lying in a hotel bed by myself? Still, if we don’t start to do these things, like me going to this seminar and leavin’ you, well it won’t make for a long-term healthy relationship will it? Spending time alone is necessary to keep any relationship strong.”

This was the new Starsky. Sprouting philosophy and psychology theories with abandon – and the sense that he had a firm conviction in adapting and applying them to his own life. I suppose I should have been grateful he was taking our relationship so seriously, but I couldn’t help but feel a little peeved with how he was being so academic about us. “Is that so, Dr. Starsky?”

He tried not to look put down by my cheap slant. “Yes, individual time and personal space is crucial. I’m pretty certain that normal couples do it plenty of times in life.” He stopped and smiled a little at his double meaning. “I mean – normal couples have time alone. I guess they do it a lot too but -”

I pulled a face at his choice of words, ignoring completely his diversion into humor. “‘Normal’ couples? And what, we’re not? ‘Normal’ you mean?”

“Hutch,” a cheeky smile pulled his mouth up, “what you and me got together babe – it sure ain’t normal. You think for one moment that anyone else could be lucky enough to have what we’ve got?”

No I didn’t. I had to agree with him there, but it still didn’t make me feel any easier about him going away.

“What I’m sayin’,” Starsky went on, “is that we can’t keep being as close as we are twenty four seven, without something havin’ to give. And I don’t want to have any part of us give out, ever again.”

“I suppose,” I accepted his rationale and wisdom with a grudging smirk. “You know, some days I wish you’d never had all that therapy with Mina,” I was only half joking when I said it. “You’re too damn psychologically sophisticated for your own good these days,” I complained.

“Aww – don’t pout like that baby. You’re just jealous of my new found intellectual insight.”

“Yeah? Well don’t forget – baby, ” I mimicked his coddling tone, “I can remember a Starsky who used to think that ‘insight’ was something to do with needing glasses,” I jibed.

That one earned me a pair of socks in my face. “Yeah? At least I know my old Hutch is alive and well. And here I was beginning to fear that Thesaurus Nazi, was gone forever.”

I threw the socks back at him. Starsky took no time in upping the ante by throwing his shaving kit into my chest. I threw it back with even harder force than I intended, clipping him on the jaw. “Ow!” he rubbed at the red mark on his chin. “That damn hurt, Hutch!”

“Then don’t call me a Nazi, dumb head!”

Narrowing his eyes, he lifted the lid of his suitcase and pulled out the rolled up belt he’d placed on top of his clothes a little earlier. “Now you’ve asked for it.”

“A belt?” I raised my eyebrows and pulled back a little from him, feigning fear. “What are you planning to do with that? Whip my ass for being smarter than you?” I goaded him, already hoping he was going to take this where I wanted him to take it.

“Now if I told you that, it’d take all the fun out of it wouldn’t it?” he folded the smooth leather and snapped the belt with a loud, suggestive crack before climbing up onto his knees on the bed beside me. With a shove he used his thigh to push the unlocked suitcase crashing to the floor. He looked over the edge at the strewn clothes with mock severity, his lips drawing into a severe line. “Look at what you made me do, Hutch. You made me make a mess. It seems that I’ll need to teach you that you can’t mess up like that with me. I need to show you a lesson.”

Already deep into the game, my cock was throbbing, my face and neck were feeling hot and my heart rate was picking up. More than half way to blasting off and he hadn’t even laid a hand on me yet. Christ, this man could turn me on so fast it was unbelievable. “I – I don’t understand,” I pretended naïve innocence, my voice shaking more from sexual longing than fake fear. He looked so menacing, so powerful – so goddamn beautiful and strong.

“Lie back and put your arms above your head – now!” he commanded.

I tried to pace my mounting excitement by slowing us down with some verbal combat. If I didn’t, I’d be coming before he even got the role-play to base one.

“You know, Starsk, you’ve asked me to do this a few times lately – ”

“I didn’t ask you. I told you…”

“I might start to think you’ve got control issues you’re trying to work out with me,” I told him anyway, as I lay stretched out long on the bed, lifting my arms up, as he’d demanded. The thrill of his biting authority had gone straight to my belly.

“Shut up or I’ll do more with this belt than tie it around your wrists. There’s only one thing I want from your mouth right now and it’s got nothing to do with you speaking,” he fixed me with a look so provocative that my cock was already weeping for what was to come.

“But – your plane – it’s getting late.” I didn’t care about his flight of course. I’d happily spring the extra money for what it cost to catch the later one if it meant he could continue on doing what he was doing to me…driving me into a frenzy of expectation.

“Fuck my flight, I’d rather fuck you so hard that you’ll learn an important lesson,” he growled, cinching the belt firmly on my wrists and securing them to the bedhead railing. “Besides,” he said, already unzipping his fly and pushing down his briefs in one rough movement which allowed his rigid cock to spring free of its confines, “I don’t even need to take off my clothes – or yours, to give you what you deserve. I only need your mouth.”

The image of Starsky ramming his cock into my mouth had me bucking upwards on the bed. He used his own mouth first, sucking hard at my tongue and lips, circling my mouth with his darting tongue. Then he sat back a little and licked his own lips, tasting my saliva, staring at my mouth.

“I want to touch you so much right now, babe,” I pushed up against his grip, and pulled at the belt, surprised by the power with which he continued to hold me down.

“No – I’ve already told you that you need to learn a lesson, so you either stay still,” he said, looking down at my clenching hands, “or bloody up your wrists.”

I gave him a nod and stopped pulling at the belt.

“Good, because I don’t want to see that beautiful skin of yours damaged in any way.”

He lifted his hand to my mouth, putting in one, two, then three fingers, rutting them in and out of my orifice, but not deeply enough to make me gag. I suckled on them like a greedy pup. Then when his fingers were wet with my saliva, he reached down to smear the moistness over his freed cock. Desperate to watch him jerk himself into readiness, I strained upwards, my neck rigid with the effort to hold up my head to see it all. He stretched out a hand and cupped it under my head, smiling at my need to be part of it . I could tell he was turned on by evident hunger for the semi turgid column of dark flesh he held in his other hand. He pulled his hand back and forth to bring himself to full erection, moaning a little with the results of his self-stimulation and my voyeurism. “I love it when you watch me like that babe, when I see how much you want this. Wanna be rock hard for you babe. Want it to slide in and out like a piston. Oiled and smooth. Hot metal in your mouth.”

I was dying with need, my own cock already at full erection. He was killing me with his dirty promises.

“Open that beautiful mouth wide now, Hutch. Wider. This is all yours and I’m goin’ to feed it to you,” he rose above me, the glistening head of his cock hovering over my open mouth, the smell of his sex filling the room and igniting me to fever pitch. “Your lesson today is to some insight of your own Hutch. Insight into how crazy you make me want to have you, how crazy you make me need you like this.”

I was more than a willing student, more than ready to take what he wanted to demonstrate to me and my keenness to learn had me bucking high off the bed, reaching my own orgasm before the lesson was already over.

I don’t know how we made it on time to the airport in the end. Despite what Starsky had said, I did have to take my clothes off, and change into fresh pants while he scurried to re-pack his recklessly tossed suitcase. Somehow we got ourselves both out the door and into my car, our heart rates still high from our sexual efforts. I got him to the airport only minutes before the final call for his scheduled flight to San Francisco. It was just as well, for despite our earlier bravado in the bedroom, Starsky couldn’t afford to miss that flight. He was first up as presenter for the training sessions.

While most of the passengers began boarding, the two of us hovered back with the last stragglers. No one seemed to be paying attention to us as we put our arms about each other’s shoulders like any other close buddies saying goodbye. The difference for us of course was what was passing between us on a silent level. His loving look captivated me. It was as lovingly soft as his earlier bedroom looks had been wickedly hot and hard. There were so many sides to my lover. “I never told you Hutch, how I felt that first night we really talked again – when you came into Huggy’s and I saw you standing like a lost boy in the middle of the bar.”

Hearing this come out of seemingly nowhere surprised me. “I didn’t even realize you’d seen me. You seemed so intent on talking to that woman from the Foundation.”

“Not see you? Jesus Hutch – you’re damn hard to miss, babe,” his grin bordered on cheeky. Then his eyes zeroed in to my lips. A little self-consciously I touched my finger to my top lip. What was wrong? Did I have a bruise from his teeth. Shit….that was not going to look good when I went into work.

He laughed lightly, reading my thoughts. “Don’t worry, you look beautiful. No one could ever tell what you’ve been doin’ with those lips.”

“Then?” I was a little lost. He was still looking at my upper lip.

“You know the first thing I wanted to do when I saw you again that night?” he asked.

The loudspeaker crackled with the final boarding call for his flight and the air stewardess at the check in gate gave us both a pointed look. Starsky went on as though he hadn’t heard the call or seen her look.

“I wanted to stand up from the table, walk up to you and touch your smooth upper lip – just like this,” and he touched it just once, with lightness before dropping his hand again. “It’d been so long since I’d seen you with out the ‘stache that I got a shock – you were like the Hutch that I’d lost to all that bitterness you were carryin’ around – coming back to me.”

“I didn’t realize you didn’t like it.” But then I hadn’t realized so many things that were wrong between us in those months where all we seemed to do was damage one another.

“The moustache? It never mattered to me one way or the other. You were still as sexy as all hell, with or without it. Only – well it was just that in my mind I came to associate it with the new version of you. A different Hutch to what you were. It showed up on your face around the same time that you started lookin’ at everything in that hardened way you came to do all the time. Including us.”

I thought back and nodded. “I guess you’re right.”

“And after that , when you were all moody and distant – and hurting, because I know now you were, we started screwin’ up our relationship – both of us.”

I knew only too well what he was thinking about, what he was remembering. A series of mistakes and bad decisions. Meredith for him, Marianne for me, and Kira – for us both. So many mistakes. So much hurt and disregard for each other.

He picked up his carry on bag and gave the now bristling stewardess a winning smile, one that never seemed to fail to win women over. It had served Starsky well so many times in his life I’m sure. “I’d better go or she might just refuse to let me on the plane.”

I’d watched him walk away through the gate and wished that he hadn’t said what he just had. It would have been easier if we’d parted with me still on a sexual high and thinking of him in that almost indecent way I liked to think of him when I was turned on. Now, instead he had left me with the warm imprint of his finger on my upper lip. The soft and caring Starsky.

It brought me an unexpected sadness and I didn’t even understand why.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

I drove home from the airport, my mind already planning how to fill out the rest of the day. In the end it wasn’t hard to lose myself for a solid six or more hours in at the precinct. A couple of meetings and a backlog of paperwork took care of that. The afternoon passed painlessly enough, my new position as Lieutenant a whole new level of demand from the way I had been used to working as a cop.

The next day was more of the same, if not even busier for me. By the end of it I was so exhausted and frazzled by the intricacies of manning a special joint task force, that I hadn’t even had time to make a phone call to Starsky at lunchtime as we’d planned.

Arriving home late, I took a cold beer into a cold shower and tried to wash away the heat and stresses of the day. I got no answer when I called Starsky in his hotel room, which didn’t surprise me. No doubt he was at one of the conference dinners. He’d left me a voice mail earlier saying he’d catch me when he could.

After a quick dinner, I tackled even more paperwork, pleased with my productivity and the fact that I’d coped with another evening without Starsky. Maybe there was something to his theory of us learning to have these times apart. Maybe it was healthy. After all, hadn’t I spent agonizing months and months without him and still managed – though barely – to live?

Surely I would survive four days, knowing that we were back and totally committed to one another again.

I was cleaning up in the kitchen, debating on taking a book to bed to wait until Starsky called again, when I stopped still at the noise. It was so soft I thought I must have imagined it. Then I heard it again. A soft knocking at my door. Confused at who it would be calling on me at this time of night, I put down the plates I was stacking away and walked to the door. Never without my gun these days, my cop wariness having increased over the years, I picked it up, asking who it was.

When I heard the voice, distress and urgency in the wavering softness of the answer, I remembered that my first instinct was to step back away from the door and close my eyes against a rush of indecision. I didn’t feel in any way prepared for this unexpected visit, and the intrusion went against the rules of what I considered was my privacy as a person and boundaries as a cop. But when the small voice on the other side of my door became a plea, I succumbed. I couldn’t ignore the desperate sound in her voice and was a little disgusted at myself for my initial reaction.

My first sight of her when I opened the door shocked me to the core. She was not so much leaning as clinging onto the wall, for without it I knew she would surely topple over. “Oh my God, Alice…”

I caught the flimsy weight of her bird-like body as she began to slide downwards and toward me. The shakes coursing through her tiny frame were forceful enough that I felt them reverberate through my chest when I scooped her up and held her against me. A matt of greasy hair veiled her face as her head lolled in the crook of my arm. She tried to focus on me but her eyelids fluttered as her eyeballs started to roll upward in her gaunt face.

I carried her inside and stood in the middle of own living room unsure of what exactly I should do next. I wasn’t sure about anything. Not sure where to put her, not sure how to handle her so I didn’t cause her further pain, but mostly, not sure about the disturbing flashes of memory that were flooding my mind.

I tried to settle her on the couch but she seemed not to want me to let her go. She clawed at my sleeve, mewing like a sick kitten. I stroked her face, to distract her enough to unlock the grip of her thin fingers, noting as I did the skin around her eyes, throat and upper chest. Not only was it pulled taut across her body, pinched by dehydration, but it was covered in a myriad of bruises in various stages of healing. A mottled mess of yellow, green and blue, was patch-worked over her parched skin.

“Jesus – Jesus – Alice.” I was almost sick to the stomach at the sight of her. “What the hell has happened to you?”

It was a rhetorical question of course, and a stupid one. I had known immediately when I’d first opened the door, as to what had happened to her to create this almost garish transformation in her once delicately pretty face and lovely body. I’d seen it all before so many times.

In my job, and on the streets. In so many snitches, perps and dead victims of all ages and from different levels of social status, their bodies only just cooling when they turned up behind dumpsters or in stinking alleyways.

But of course, none of those times could ever, would ever, compare to when I had seen its most graphic depiction. That prize went to a gut clenching moment six years ago when Starsky was holding me in his arms in much the same way as I was now holding Alice. Holding me like I was a broken thing, close to shattering, or disintegrating in his hands. Out of my brain with agony and confusion, I never knew a lot of what was happening. But there is one thing that I will never forget and it will always be clear in my head. It was when I looked up at him and saw all the unguarded terror and pain – for me – reflected in his eyes. I saw in Starsky’s face what I must have looked like, after days of being forced to live on the end of a hot needle. Starsky’s eyes never lied to me, even when he might have tried to for any number of reasons. It was as clear an image as looking in a mirror.

Those snatches of memories were already crashing in upon me. More like nightmares than memories. Starsky’s and mine both.

“Oh God, please help me Hutch – I need you – to help me.” Alice’s cries pulled me back from losing myself in that dark hole of long ago. She wouldn’t settle on the couch, thrashing her arms about, trying to sit up, pulling at my arms as though she wanted me to do something with them, to them. I knew what that was and what she wanted. I well remember the same searing pain of insatiable need to have that next touch of metal to the arm. I leaned down to try and subdue her, save her from crashing from the couch to the floor, and a pungent mix of odors hit me full on. She reeked of staleness – stale cigarette smoke, stale perfume, stale rancid vomit, and unwashed skin. Her clothes had been soiled with food and smelled like booze and the unmistakable rankness of dried urine.

“Come on Alice – I need to get you clean. You’ll feel better.”

“No – no – just want you to help me Hutch – you can help me – I came to you – you always help me. Just need – some money. Please – some money – and a drink to pick me up first,” she wriggled in my arms, unleashing another rush of determination to get what she wanted. She made a grab at my face as though it would impress upon me the urgency of what she wanted. Her broken nails, scraped hard against my skin, and caught in my fine hair. I disentangled her again and held her small hand in my closed fist.

“No Alice. No booze, no money. I’m going to help you – but not that way,” I said. “I’ll get you showered and into some fresh clothes, then something warm to drink. Some soup…” I was thinking ahead of what I could make that she might keep down, and how I would do it while she was this restless and agitated. It was not going to be an easy feat by myself.

I thought of Starsky immediately. Wished that he were here with me. He could do it. He had done it. But Starsky wasn’t here – and – maybe that was just as well. It would make everything all too complicated, all too much for me to deal with. Alice and I. Alice and I together, when there was no Starsky. Alice like this – half destroyed, now that I was no longer with her. Was she like this because I had left her alone? When she needed me? I had come back to Starsky and we were so happy now. Alice – Alice was alone. She had no one. I had a flash of Huggy’s face and query about whether I had seen Alice of late. Did he know about Alice and her addiction? Did he think I was to blame? Maybe I was to blame. Maybe I was no different to Forrest and Monk and the other thugs who had tied the tubing around my arm and sunk the needle into my bruised forearm. Fed me with the heroin that I came to crave. Had I sent Alice to the place in her mind where heroin was her only salvation? Had she been trying to tell me she needed me to stop her from doing it?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I needed to sort it all out, but not now. Now I had to wash Alice and feed her. Put her to bed and hold her tight. I could work it all out later when I had time to think. Better that I was here by myself to work through them all. Better that Starsky didn’t know any of this mess that I was now caught in the middle of – a mess of my own doing?

I jumped back into awareness with a painful jolt when Alice’s finger nails, gouged into the back of my wrist. “Shit!” I almost lost my hold on her as I wrenched my arm back from her sharp nails. I winced, saw the dots of blood already beading on my flayed skin. “Alice, stop it! Stop fighting me.”

My raised voice had no impact on her fight to get free of me. Her puny efforts only served to spiral her desperation to hysteria as she wailed and sobbed, pushing and kicking out weakly at me when I stood up and took a firmer hold on her body. The task of getting her to the bathroom was not an easy one. As featherweight as she was, she was fighting me with everything she had and I struggled to keep hold of her without causing her any further physical damage. She was already too bruised and sore. I had to stop and adjust my hold on her two times so that I didn’t drop her to the floor.

“Alice, it’s alright. Just lie still and let me help you. You’re only hurting yourself more.”

“But why won’t you just help me Hutch? I thought you’d help me….”

“I am helping you, Alice,” I crooned as I felt her finally giving in to my careful hold on her, so mindful of her weakened body.

She was fading, having expended her limited strength in her struggles. Finally spent, she closed her eyes and sagged like a limp doll. I carried her the rest of the way to the bathroom and still holding her, turned the water on to get it warmed up. I’d need lots of hot water and soap for this job. I knelt on the floor, supporting her bony back with one arm while I tackled the task of undressing her. I was doing fine, or so I thought, pushing my own pathos to the furthest part of my mind and busying myself with the preparations of showering her. I pulled her top up and over her head, and tugged hard at her hipster jeans, freeing her legs and tossing the smelly pile of fabric behind me. I was still doing fine, even when she opened her eyes again and looked up at me with total trust, while I unfastened her bra and pulled away her skimpy knickers. But doing fine didn’t last much longer. Not when I went to lift her again to move us both into the shower and her thin arm flopped like a broken wing against the tiles, the pale underside of it upturned toward me. I didn’t want to look at it, and if I’d been smarter, I would have made sure I hadn’t. But I was stupid enough to not only look, but stare at it, long and hard.

The evidence of her abuse, the harsh physical proof of her slide toward a slow but certain death, was right before my eyes. The delicate, almost translucent skin of her inner forearm was purple with track marks and pocked by multiple needle insertions. Some were fresh and new, some inflamed, some older and scabbed over, and the oldest, healed and scarred. It was all there, etched out in fine print – the story of Alice’s life since I had last seen her.

My stomach lurched, the small steamy bathroom closing in on me, the air too thick to breathe. I stumbled onto my knees, my immediate instinct to crawl away into a corner. Far away from the skeletal, train tracked arm, away from Alice’s beseeching eyes, away from my own inner demons. I began to think I could not possibly cope with all of this.

But then I remembered the other time, much darker and more frightening than this one, when it was another man, not me looking down at eyes as wild and beseeching as Alice’s. When another man had carried a body as broken as Alice’s, upstairs to a small private room. There, he had placed it with infinite care on a small bed and held it through the long, long night. Wrapped his arms around the body and held on tight, like it was something, someone, unbelievably precious.

He had made me feel precious. He had made me feel cared for and loved. Starsky, my best friend, had never given up hope for me.

Ashamed at my weakness to display even a fraction of the same humanity for this woman before me, I gathered the shivering nakedness of her once more into my arms, cupping her small head and drawing it to my chest. “Alice, my poor little Alice, everything is going to be alright. I promise you.”

Some people could survive even this. Some people could be pulled back from the edge of self-destruction by grim determination, unwavering support and strong love. I knew that better than many.

But Alice was not me and nor could I ever hope to be to her what Starsky had been to me. I could try, but it would never come close and I knew in my heart it would not be enough for her.

I sat for a long time, rocking her, stroking her hair, until the shower water began to run cold behind us, as cold as the truth settling on my aching shoulders. Nothing was every going to be alright for poor sweet Alice again.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

So, as it turned out, and without any planning on my own behalf, I had little trouble filling my second evening without Starsky. Alice had become my sole focus. My attention to her needs did not in anyway mean that I wasn’t missing or needing him. On the contrary, I had never felt lonelier as I did, sitting on that cold tiled bathroom floor trying to find some inner strength while the phone rang out in the living room, knowing of course it was Starsky on the line. The phone switched into messages and the sound of Starsky’s voice, a little concerned, a little confused – nearly undid me. I couldn’t let go of Alice and so I simply sat, huddled over her, listening to him make some light hearted joke about why I wasn’t there to take the call.

“Hey…and you were the one worried about me hittin’ the circuit? I thought I was meant to be mouse that went away to play. Maybe it’s the cat that stayed home that is out on the prowl,” Starsky chuckled softly. “Give me a call back when you can, you big blond cat.”

I needed to call him back before the Alice began the phase of cold hard withdrawal – otherwise I couldn’t hope to keep her presence in my apartment a secret from Starsky.

I knew full well what lay ahead for us both and it scared the shit out of me, putting it lightly. I had no way of knowing if I was up for the job of taking on the viper-tongued withdrawal from heroin in someone so close to me emotionally.

So far, the preview of what lay in store for me had been far from pretty. Admittedly, I had felt like I’d regained the upper hand after my near meltdown on the bathroom floor. After a long time of quiet but forceful restraint Alice was more compliant. She had also become a little more cognizant of me and alert enough to understand my reasoning and what I wanted to do to help her. With the night’s supply of hot water gone while I’d sat contemplating my own past, I had no option but to make do with boiling the kettle and sponging her down with warm fragrant water. It wasn’t a great success of getting her clean, but until the shower ran hot again, it was the best I could do.

Her hair was too disgusting to leave as dirty as it was. I think Alice would have been mortified to realize that her self-care had deteriorated to such a degree. Getting her clean hair would make her feel a little better at least. I wet it down thoroughly with cool water, suspending her head over the bathroom basin, rinsing and shampooing while I held her with one arm and washed with the other. It was worth the effort to see how much it calmed her down. She moaned softly with pleasure as I massaged her scalp and ran cool water over the top of her shoulders and neck. Once clean, at least her blonde hair was something light and untainted by the ravages of the drug and I told her how pretty it looked as I toweled it dry and combed out the knots.

I eased her body into one of my soft shirts – long sleeved despite it being a typical hot summer evening. I wasn’t up to looking at her arms any more that night. Using some confused and disjointed phrases she asked me to let her lie down again on the couch to rest.

Somewhere along the line I got her to drink some sweet tea, sip some water – she shoved away the thin soup. It was a more than I had hoped to get into her so I was happy. After that, she really did seem to haze out. For the rest of the evening, she spent a lot of her time alternating long staring sessions at her hands and then at me. Every five minutes or so she would jerk her head up, turn this way and that, her eyes darting about as though she needed to piece together where she was and how she had gotten there.

I had no way of course of knowing how far down the track she might be with since her last hit. Asking her would have been futile for she would be a poor self-witness or an untruthful one and so I kept my questions to myself. There was little point in me trying to communicate with her at all once she had become so sluggish that meaningful language was beyond her. She was edgy enough to be awake, but too distracted by her internal craving to concentrate on a two-way conversation, so I restricted my own speech to simple directions and caring phrases. Getting us both to sleep, even just for a short while became my priority.

Something in the way she had quieted since her earlier agitation made me suspect that she was in the dip before the rise, the low before the screaming high. Her body was cycling down while her chemically attuned system was processing that her blood levels of her favorite food were dipping dangerously low. When the system read zero, we were both in for big trouble. I had no illusions that we were in the eye of the storm – at least I was. Maybe she’d come down hard like this before. I couldn’t know that just like I couldn’t know how long since she’d shot up.

Mentally I was preparing for the showdown – Alice versus no fix, with myself as the arbitrator. I needed to get some sleep before it began.

After her small intake of food she had begun to drowse. I took the opportunity to move her to my bed, while I prepared the room for the likely war ahead. I was well equipped for requisitions. My skills on this particular battlefield honed by personal experience. I brought in a fresh set of sheets, a pile of hand towels and a small basin, a flask of water and some sugar to stir into it, a bucket and some disinfectant and room deodorizer.

Then I grabbed the phone and took it far enough away from the bed that my voice would not disturb Alice and yet I was still close enough to keep her in visual range.

When Starsky answered he seemed relieved to hear from me but a little sleepy too. “Hi there,” he said, “I was startin’ to think I might need to crash without hearing from you tonight,” I heard the rustle of the sheet as he rolled over to get himself relaxed. The image of his dark curls squashed into big soft hotel pillows was easy to conjure and I was tempted to share it with him. Then a slight movement from Alice’s arm caught my attention and I left it alone. Not now.

“Sorry – did I wake you? I know it’s late but…” I was gearing up to deliver my first lie of the evening to him when he reassured me.

“Nah – just drowsing in bed watching tv – and anyway – I wouldn’t have minded gettin’ woken. You know I wanted to say goodnight,” he let out a jaw-cracking yawn. “Been a big day, and there’s another big one tomorrow. Least my part of it is over though so I can relax a bit now and just take in the rest of it. There’s some interestin’ stuff being presented.” I heard him move, pulling himself up the bed a little more? “Anyway, I’ll tell you all that when I get home. How are things with you? Did you get my message tonight? I rang – but -”

Here was my cue to come in with my pre-planned spiel.

“I know, I saw the message when I got home. Sorry I missed your call babe, but I put in more hours than I usually do today – stayed back to square up the preparations for this task force.” I said it before I realized he might have tried to get me at the station as well. I got in first in case he had.

“I hope you didn’t try me at work as well? I was holed up in one of the interview rooms with a couple of the guys from narcotics going through some details -”

It was hard to tell what Starsky was thinking on the end of the line. He seemed to be rather quiet. Maybe he was just tired like he said. “It doesn’t matter – got you now.”

“Hey – you sound like you need to be asleep. I shouldn’t have rung you so damn late. We’ll talk again tomorrow…” I said.

There was a discernable pause and more shuffling sounds as though he was getting himself horizontal again. “You’ve got that right. Information overload is more tiring than the grunt work of being on the streets. I feel like I’ve chased down ten perps today – who all knew the shortcuts through the back blocks that I didn’t.”

Somewhere in what he’d just said was a hint of wistfulness and even though I might be pushing my luck to get through this call without Alice calling out, I couldn’t let it go.

“So how does it feel to be on the other end – the one training the cops that will run down the perps and not being the one doing it?” I asked carefully.

There was more ruffling, and then the distinctive rasping sound that I knew was Starsky rubbing at his late night shadow. His “contemplative scratch” had been a habit of many years and often showed itself whenever Starsky needed some “figuring it out” time as he had coined it.

“You know Hutch, for the first time it feels okay. More than okay. I guess, I’m startin’ to feel good about my new job and what I might be able to achieve. So many of these young guys seemed tuned in to learning and interacting with the speakers and lecturers. It makes all that hard preparation work on the papers worthwhile.”

I was genuinely thrilled at his admission and told him so. I always knew that Starsky would be a natural teacher – especially in the field of police work. Hard-nosed and streetwise but with just the right balance of humor and down to earth honesty. Rookies would relate well to his style and characteristics and probably be in awe of his tough coated experience.

“Get some sleep then Starsk….I …well, you know I miss you babe.”

I could almost hear him smile into the mouthpiece. “I know you do. Now go get some sleep yourself. Maybe you’re not aware of it Blintz but you sound a bit uptight.” He paused. “Not everything is your soul responsibility Hutch.”

“I know, but…” The phone line flicked across the tender area my wrist, where Alice’s nails had left their mark. The raised whorls of inflamed skin, brought me back to the reality in my bedroom and what I had come to consider as very much my responsibility.

“No Hutch. I know,” Starsky interjected. “My partner. The perfectionist. Just don’t burn yourself out with your high standards. It’s the weekend now so take some time to chill out, okay?”

“Sure. Sounds like a good idea,” I said, distracted by Alice’s soft moans coming from the bedroom alcove. I didn’t think there would be a lot of opportunity for any chilling out for me this weekend.

We said our goodnights and hung up. I stayed with my hand on the phone after he’d gone, wondering if it wouldn’t have just been easier to come out and tell Starsky about Alice laying in my bed in such poor shape. It’s not that he would have been judgmental about her – at least I didn’t think so. Though since what had happened to me with Forrest, Starsky had become a lot less tolerant of drug pushers and the whole seedy world of drug abuse. But that wasn’t what was stopping me from telling him. It was that there was a whole other chapter between Alice showing up at my door in the state she was in and when Starsky had last had anything to do with her. I’d never shared it with him and I’d had plenty of opportunities to do so since we’d been back together, so obviously I was worried about telling him. The secrecy of keeping it from him was starting to feel wrong and I didn’t want it between us.

I’d get Alice through this weekend as best as I could and then when he returned I’d tell him everything. I didn’t want to get him all worried, and he would worry about me having to deal with her, while he was at the seminar. Monday would be time enough to fill him in. Maybe both of us together could work on getting her into some sort of rehab program, or at least off the streets until she could wean off the heroin.

It felt better to have made a plan that included Starsky.

I locked and bolted the front door, placed my gun and holster out of sight, and set up the couch for what I knew would be a disturbed night.

Though bone tired by the last couple of hour’s mental stress, I was also too tense to let my guard down enough let sleep claim me. Partly it was due to my concerns that I couldn’t cope with how Alice would be when she woke up, but more than that, I wasn’t sure I could cope with what my own unconscious would do with me when I let it take me under.

I feared that Alice was about to take me on a ride I’d already been on and was frankly terrified of experiencing again.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

When the meltdown came I saw a side of Alice I’d never seen.

I woke to an enraged cry and a sound of a drawer crashing closed. I reached the bedroom alcove with a few big strides. She was attacking my set of bedroom drawers, ripping and rifling through the contents, throwing everything out and cursing with each jerky movement. When I reached her side she was even wilder eyed than earlier, her face in the lamplight contorted in anguish, her clean hair, once more in disarray. I could smell the sick on her again.

“Where the fuck is it? I know you must have some – I need it – I have to have it!” she cried out.

A framed photo of Starsky and me smashed to the floor, the glass shattering and I winced when I realized there were other broken objects on the floor at her bare feet. Even in the half-light I could see the blood spatter on her bare ankle and foot where she must have pierced her skin with the sharp glass.

I lunged to contain her and stop her actions. She hit out at me. Despite her chaotic behavior I think she knew who I was. I pulled into an iron grip and she fought back like a cornered animal. I ducked to avoid another lashing of her nails, but her hand slapped out to clip me on the side of the eye. She was a hellcat with those small hands.

“Alice – calm, calm…”

She only fought more.

“You’ve got to get me some. I need help…just a little bit. One more hit – just one more I promise.”

I shook my head. “No more hits. I’ve got nothing here to help you Alice so don’t keep asking me. We can try another shower, some more sweet coffee – listen to some music…”

“A drink then for pity sake. A shot of bourbon – anything. Just to take the edge off. Come on Hutch,” she wheedled pathetically. Oh yes she knew me for sure and how I was a sucker for her begging. So, she can’t have been that out of it – just desperate. “Let’s have a drink like we used to -”

“Later maybe – after I clean you up again. You’re foot is cut and…”

“Now dammit! Now!” she screeched.

“You calm down first and then I’ll give you a small drink.” Probably not the best promise to make but I had to have some bargaining power. “First – a proper shower and clean clothes.”

The abuse started then, intermingled with crackling spurts of harsh laughter. “Shower! You think a fucking shower and a fresh shirt is going to help me here?”

“Yes it will. I’ll get you cleaned up again and then we’ll listen to some music -”

“I know you’ve got some,” she pushed her head around my body to look at the set of drawers, “You cops always have some, don’t you?”

“Alice – come on be real here. I wouldn’t keep hard drugs in my apartment even if I wanted to – I’m a cop. Cops don’t keep drugs in their homes. No – I don’t have any heroin.”

She hissed out a cursed and stretched out her neck. “Then at least give me some money and I’ll go score a hit. Just give me some money, for God’s sake. I’ll pay you back. I’ll score a John again soon and –”

“NO! I told you before. No drugs, no money.” I shook her thin shoulders and forced her to face me. Thin scales of vomit were crusted on her cheek and chin. “Damn..” she could have inhaled her own vomit. I shouldn’t have left her alone. I thought I’d hear her puking and wake up to help her. I dragged her with me to the bed and switched the room light on to have a better look. Luckily the bedclothes had been spared. I could see the murky mess of the bile and vomit in the corner of the room. Poor thing must have crawled there like a sick dog.

“Why are you refusing to do this for me?” she demanded. “Why did I think that you’d help me? Why won’t you fucking help me?”

“There is no point in fighting me Alice. You’re not going to win.”

She twisted and arched her back against my chest and arms and I doubled my hold on her. Maybe she read my eyes, maybe she felt my determination, but suddenly she sagged a little, despair in her posture more than fight. “Then how will I get through this Hutch? How? I’m dying right now.”

God, how I knew how she felt.

“You’ll get through it with me helping you. I’m here and I’m not giving up or letting you go. No easy way out of this Alice. Not while you’re here with me. You came to me – now you can damn well let me try to help you.”

“I won’t be able to get through this – not without just one more small -”

“No bargaining, no half way measures. Either my way or the hospital.”

“Please!” her eyes looked terrified. “No hospital. Please.”

“The hospital might help you get through this withdrawal – maybe give you something to help your pain and distress.” More than likely though it would be a futile exercise, even if she managed to get through the Emergency Room triage before she had gone through the worst of the withdrawals.

“No, I don’t want the hospital. They’ll just put me onto the cops – or send me of to the drug center – I can’t do that again,” she said through small sobs.

Obviously this was not the first big come down she’d gone through. She was right. Hospital might help her in the short term but then she’d either be back out on the street tomorrow or the next day to fend by herself again. The Emergency staff might involve the police and she could end up with charges brought against her – if she hadn’t already been down that route. I knew of course that it was my role and duty as a cop to take her to hospital or some drug center – but then, I had been negligent of my duty in regards to Alice’s lifestyle for a long time now.

She was sobbing heavily, groaning and holding her stomach, bending over herself while I still held her, but more loosely.

“Then you have to co-operate with me. You have to do this the hard way. By tomorrow the worst of this will be over…” I knew it wouldn’t be over by a long way and as Alice shook her head and closed her eyes against my words, it was clear that she knew it too.

“It’ll never be over. It never ends Hutch. It just goes on and on – ”

Her fated look angered me. I snatched up her arm and pulled back the sleeve, revealing in all its glory the scars of her addiction. “It will end when you make it end Alice. It ends when you stop sticking fucking filthy needles in your arm and juicing yourself up with shit that rots your soul and breaks your spirit. It only goes on if you allow it to go on, and will continue to go on unless you fight it.”

She snatched her arm away from my hands and gave me a sardonic look. “You don’t know, Hutch. You’ve got no idea.”

“I do, Alice,” I said sadly, watching her rub harshly at her tender forearm and remembering my own obsession with needle mark scars. How I’d wanted to rub the ugliness and the signs of abuse away with the friction of my fingers.

“You don’t!” she screamed at me, “You’ve got no fucking idea what you’re talking about, or what this is like. You’re just an idealistic cop who really doesn’t understand how the real world works. You want to know how this feels? Then you have to be inside my skin right now,” she gave me a small shove and smacked her hands against her chest, “and inside here, in here – I am fucking dying!”

I was tempted for one moment to dispute her judgment of me. Then I pulled myself back, realizing that this whole thing was too dangerously close to me already. This was no time to spew out my own history. I wasn’t going to stoop to using my own experience to convince her that there was hope of salvation for her. There was nothing to be gained by spilling my guts. Alice had her own journey to make and I couldn’t superimpose mine on hers and expect it to predict her outcome. Still she had hit a nerve and I wasn’t about to let her get away without understanding where she was wrong.

“Why can’t I know what you’re feeling – or at least understand what it’s doing to you? You think I need to bleed before I can help someone else who is bleeding? You think a doctor has to suffer an illness in order to treat his patient with what his patient is dying from?”

“No – but -” she shook her head, pulled at her straggly damp hair.

“Yes – I get it. You’re in pain and you’re hurting. So right now, your pain is coming off H. You want a medal for that?” I knew I was venting and the strange, confused look on Alice’s face told me that she was not sure of what was happening for me.

“What?” she looked bewildered at my sudden counterattack.

I was wound up now and if I didn’t rein myself in I might just lose the point of this whole thing. Alice was watching me with wary eyes.

This is not about me. Not about me. This is about Alice.

I forced myself to relax a little. “Every one of us has had pain in our lives, Alice. We all suffer in different ways. Don’t try to make out that I can’t help you because your pain is different to what mine might have been.”

I stopped myself from saying any thing further and stepped back a few paces from her.

“You’re here. You’re in need of my help. As your friend and because I care about you I want to do what I can for you. That does not include helping you to hurt yourself any further than you’ve already done. Are we clear? If not, I’ll take you downstairs right now and drive you to the hospital. Either way, I won’t let you walk out of here like this. So you might as well give up arguing with me about it.”

Maybe I finally got through to her, because her head dropped down and her shoulders slumped. She pushed a hand through her sticky hair and touched her cheek, crackled with dried stomach contents.

“I’ll take that shower and then I would really appreciate a drink,” she said, exhaustion in her voice, dejection in her posture.

Relieved that we’d met some sort of truce, I ran the shower, but this time I left her with what she might need and said that I’d be just outside if she decide she couldn’t manage on her own. Although she was still agitated and brimming with new reserves of hostile anger, she seemed steadier on her feet and more aware of herself and her environment than she had been earlier in the evening. “You think you’ll be okay to do this by yourself or do you want me to help you?”

“Yes – leave me. I want to do this.”

“I’ll be outside, call out if you are in any trouble. When you’ve showered I’ll take a look at your foot. Don’t lock the door, Alice.”

She closed the door and I heard her getting into the shower. I waited outside for a minute to make sure she didn’t call out and then went and quickly cleaned up the mess in the bedroom as best I could till there was daylight. In the kitchen I poured her a small scotch.

When she emerged from the bathroom, I was pleased to see the improvement that a hot shower could achieve. Not only was she clean and fresh, but some of the anger had been washed away too.

She walked over to me and I moved across the couch for her to sit at my side. “Do I get that drink now?” there was a ghost of a smile on her lips.

I handed her the glass with no more than a single nip of scotch and a dash of water, as I knew she preferred it. “Sip it slowly and make it last. It’s all you’ll get.” I went to stand up and her hand shot out to clutch at my hand. “Where are you going?”

“Just to the bathroom to get something to clean your foot with – does it hurt to walk?” I hadn’t noticed her hobbling but then it was doubtful amongst everything else that Alice would feel glass in her foot.

When I returned I lifted her foot to my lap and turned the lamp onto it. “Not too bad really. No glass that I can see,” I said and then went about dabbing it with some disinfectant before applying a couple of plasters. Alice sat meekly while I tended to it, sipping on her drink and watching me with big luminous eyes.

“Do you want anything else to eat?” I asked her as I patted her foot and put it gently down from my lap.

“No – I’ll just throw it up anyway,” she said. “This is helping a little,” she indicated the drink, “but I’ve never felt so ….its like …” she looked away, tears in her eyes, the anger gone for now and the sad desperation back in its place, “it’s like nothing I can explain and I’m terrified I won’t get through it.”

“You’re doing well, Alice. You’re being strong and you’re fighting this.”

“I’m not strong Hutch and you know it. I’m pathetic and I’m weak and I want so much to run out of here and do anything – anything – just to take away this feeling inside of my head.”

How well I remembered it.

“How about I put on some music like I said, and you come and lie down again on the bed and relax. You’ve had little sleep. After the scotch and the hot shower you might be able to doze off.”

She put her glass aside and gave me a wistful look. “Would you lay with me Hutch? I might be able to relax if you were beside me.”

I had expected that she might want this from me. It was no tall order but still I had some reservations about the request with her mood being so cyclic.

She picked up on my thoughts. She tried to make light of it, obviously embarrassed by my hesitation. “I promise I won’t puke on you – at least I’ll do my best not to.”

I laughed softly and ruffled her clean hair. “I’ve had worse than that Alice so don’t worry.”

God but hadn’t I?

…..waking to find myself drenched in Starsky’s sweat and vomit as he lay curled against me shaking and moaning with pain ….how many times did he go through it? All through those long nights of his recovery? How many times did I despair over not being able to make him feel better or pain free?

“Then will you? Come lay beside me?” she was asking as I pulled my head away from the past.

“Yes – yes I’ll lay beside you, Alice,” I touched her face and helped her to her feet. I couldn’t deny her this simple thing.

As I turned out the lights yet once more and walked her to the bedroom I wondered again how far down the track she was in her withdrawal? How long might her coherence and rationale behavior last? How close were we to the end? I had no idea.

In the bed I could barely realize she was beside me, so diminished had she become in size and weight. No longer Alice, no longer a vibrant woman but a frail, wasted human receptacle for intravenous drugs. By the measure of Alice’s physical appearance and emotional functioning, it seemed that her small body was no longer capable of doing the job it was designed to do for her, let alone do it efficiently.

Before I’d barely settled her beneath the sheet her hand came out and reached for mine. She tugged at it, clearly letting indicating for me to move closer. I didn’t resist and gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead and smoothed her hair back from thin face.

The music I’d put on was playing softly in the background and I was already feeling drawn toward sleep. Exhausted and achy, I burrowed my head deeper into the pillow, feeling all the weight of the night lifting away as drowsiness took over.

“Won’t you hold me Hutch?”

I came alert again as I felt her burrowing into my side, her head nudging under my armpit, her hand stroking my chest. I closed my eyes against the fresh wave of tension.

It was inevitable that it would come to this. She wanted my tactile closeness, skin to skin with her so that she could lose herself in something other than her own intense suffering. I had the same physical drives to seek out Starsky’s touch when I was withdrawing. I could well recall a few times when I’d beg him to touch me or stroke me in different ways depending on my crazy, shifting moods. One minute I felt as though I was a frightened child needy of his parent, the next like I was a horny lover with an overblown libido. During those times Starsky was instant nourishment to my every physical or psychological emptiness and it wasn’t beneath me to ask him to turn himself inside out for me. Starsky never held back giving me what I wanted, never stopped touching, caressing and stroking me -even though back then we hadn’t shared a sexual relationship of course, my demands of him bordered on being almost sexual. Maybe they even had been and I can’t remember. All I know is Starsky would have taken care of me – in whatever way it took.

But I couldn’t extend the same to Alice. Not now. Things weren’t the same as they were when I’d been with her last year.

“I want to ….” She lifted her head and looked at me, her request written on her face so clearly she didn’t have to say it.

She began kissing my neck, her hand reaching lower on my chest toward my stomach, lower still.

“I covered her hand and stopped its downward journey and pulled my face back from hers.”

“No, I’m sorry, but no Alice.”

“Hutch, I let you go when you wanted to. I never had a right to hold you back, or ask anymore of you than you’d already shared with me.”

“I know that Alice, and I’m grateful for it.”

“God, could you ever know how much I wanted to keep you with me? Keep me as part of your life?”

I looked at the ceiling, finding it hard to face her. The truth was I had never really given her the consideration I should have after I faded away from her life and back into Starsky’s. “I guess I can’t appreciate how you must have been feeling.”

“You must remember how it felt for you when you came to me? How much you hurt for wanting him?” She asked softly. “Like an Emily Bronte tragedy come to life.”

“Ah yes – a tragic figure sweeping the moors in search of what he’d lost…” I smiled at the memory of our conversation and the link it had for me to Starsky’s own ideas on Alice. That I was like her Heathcliff.”

“Well that is how I feel for you Hutch. How I’ve always felt about you.”

“Oh Alice, don’t -” I was starting to bleed inside for her, so humbly honest she was being.

“I could have asked more of you but I didn’t. I could have made it harder for you but I didn’t. I’m asking now Hutch. I’m asking now and I might never have the chance to ask you again. Just this one time, please do it for me? Make me forget this agony inside of me – just for a little while. Love me for just a little while. Make me remember the lovely things we shared and not the terrible night we’ve just had.”

“Alice I can’t, I can’t,” I insisted.

“But you’ve done it before,” her voice wavered, close to breaking down.

“That was then and it wasn’t right that I did it.”

“You think I cared? I loved every moment of it Hutch and I want to feel it with you again. I want you to give me one more time to feel that.”

“I’m afraid it’s more than I can give you.”

She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Funny isn’t it? Ironic? Normally men pay me for my services and I can’t even give it to you for free….”

“Don’t say those things about yourself, Alice -”

“Why not? It’s the truth. I used to believe it was because I was a hooker and that was the reason you never wanted me. But I learned differently soon enough. I’d never be what you want would I? Not when Starsky is in your life.”

I could only give her a sympathetic look.

“But even when you were apart from him you barely touched me. I waited for you, wanted you to do it, ached for you to want to touch me. But all you ever thought about was him.”

“You know why, Alice. I love him.”

“Don’t you think I KNOW THAT by now?” she cried. “Of course you love him. But…Hutch, I love you as dearly and as deeply and – and -”

She rolled away then, huddled against the edge of the bed, her thin shoulders and back shaking with the sobs that tore at her, but I wouldn’t allow myself to pacify her and kept the hand that wanted to touch her shoulders firmly in place by my side. I had never felt so cruel and rejecting of another human. Like Alice had said, had she really asked that much of me?

But I couldn’t – not after how far Starsky and I had come. I couldn’t jeopardize losing Starsky again even if it meant denying this poor sad, lovely woman something that she wanted so badly. Even if it would help ease her suffering, which I genuinely believed it would be because Alice was a woman who felt very deeply and responded so strongly to love – I just couldn’t.

So what sort of man did that make me? A better man for keeping my loyalty to Starsky intact, or scum because I denied a friend an act of kindness in the midst of her desperation?

I lay still in the half dark and listened to her crying go on and on and I felt pulled both ways. One, by my unerring love and loyalty to Starsky and the other, by my soft weakness for Alice, until sleep came and obliterated any sound or thought.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Jesus Christ what had hit me?

There didn’t seem to be a part of my body that was not stretched tight or vibrating in pain. I had a terrifying recollection of a room, dark and airless, where I was locked away and bound to a chair and blindfolded. I felt the panic beginning to rise. Then the soft voice pushed the door shut on it.

Such a calming voice. Meltingly soft.

Starsky?

Something wasn’t right about it. I needed to see him, to see his face, but I couldn’t see for the blindfold. It was still on me. It must be. They’d tied it there when they’d first taken me and kept it on while they beat me with their fists and slapped me with the backs of their hands. But that was another room, a room of fear and pain and wanting and craving.

This was a different room. A room with Starsky in it. It wasn’t his bedroom or mine I was sure. Sparsely furnished and basic, but vaguely familiar. I remember now, Starsky carrying me up the stairs, kicking open the door with one foot and elbowing his way in. I don’t know how he managed to hold me, but he did.

“So thin Hutch – you’re so thin. What the fuck have they done to you?”

So much Starsky…they had done so much to me. Given me so much and then in the end they had taken it away from me – all of it. They all went and left me and took away their sharp hot needles and the smooth liquid that slid into my veins and set my mind on fire. Then there was no more of it and I was left crying and begging them to come back and give me one last taste of it.

“I wanted more Starsky and I am so ashamed of it.”

“Not your fault, Hutch. Not your fault.”

“It is though. You’ll see. You’ll find out in the end that it is,” I argued back but couldn’t see his face. I couldn’t see him but he must be there.

I could feel him and sometimes I could hear his voice, mixed in with others.

I turned a little more toward the source of the sound, aching and throbbing but calmer inside, now that gentle hands were on me.

A feather soft touch traced over my face and pushed away a strand of my hair from my forehead. So good, so gentle. It made me forget a little of the burn deep within me. My need for another fix. The stoking hand across my damp forehead was so soothing and I turned toward the comfort.

“Babe? Do you know where you are? You’re here with me. No one can hurt you anymore.”

“But I feel like it’s still going on, Starsky. Why does it still hurt so much?”

“It’s going to take a while but you’re goin’ to be okay, we’re goin’ to get through this.”

Yes of course it was going to be all right because Starsky was with me. The men and their needles and their violence were all gone.

“Fuckin’ hurts like shit, Starsk.”

“I know buddy. I know.”

“When will it stop?”

“I’ll find him, Hutch. If he’s out there I’ll find him, and I’ll bring him back and the Doc will make the serum and you’ll be fine. I won’t let this take you, Hutch. We’ll get him in time and you’ll beat this virus….”

I felt lost in his words. Confused and scrambled. Virus? No needles Starsky. Who? Who will you find that can save me?

Was that this time he said that or another? It was getting all jumbled up in my head. The drugs had made my brain into mush. The drugs … they poisoned my life.

“Oh Hutch – I thought you were dead,” Starsky was shaking and falling on his knees toward me.

“I’m fine Starsky – I had a vest on remember…”

But God did it still burn like the devil deep in my chest. Or was that from another time? Was it from a bullet to my shoulder? “She was just a kid Starsky, just a girl.”

“The vest didn’t stop that bullet from smacking into your muscles and your chest bone. You’re going to be black and blue with a lovely greenish yellow going on in the background. It sure ain’t goin’ to look pretty for a while, Hutch.”

Was he teasing me? Surely he knew that it wasn’t a bullet that had done this.

“No Starsky – it wasn’t a bullet, it was a needle. A needle that did this…and it wasn’t into my chest but my arm. Over and over, Starsky. The needle hit me over and over. It’s left me like this. Worse than any bullet Starsky. Makes me feel like I want to rip my own heart out just to get rid of this thing clawing inside of me. Help me, Starsky…”

So messed up. My head was all fucked up. All the times and all the hurt and pain tossed around together in my head. Which one was I hurting from now? The needles and the heroin or other times? None of it made sense and Starsky didn’t seem to be making any sense either.

“Is this real, Starsky? It feels so unreal,” I asked him. “I keep remembering the other times but there are no other times yet are there? How can there be when I’m in this room with you and you’re rocking my body and wiping away my sweat, and my arm is raw and tender and lined with needle marks? The virus? The bullet – how can they be in my head when they haven’t happened yet, Starsky?

“Dreams are like that, Hutch. Everything gets jumbled and crazy. ”

“I hate it. I want the dream to stop Starsky. Make it stop.”

“But feel this dream babe. Feel how right this is? This feels like a dream that we’re living here. Me finally getting to do this to you and you loving me back like this.”

Another time again. No hurt, only exquisite sensations. Loving him, kissing him, pushing deep into him. I ached with the need to melt right into him.

“Yes, a wonderful dream, Starsky.”

“See it’s good. I can make it good for you. Stop fighting it Hutch. Just go with it. Accept it. Let me turn you on, make you want me as much as I want you.”

Starsky?

“Please lift this pressure off me! Starsky! Where are you? I’m down here. Can you hear me? See me? Under my car. Can’t last much longer in this heat and with …I think my leg is gone Starsk…Oh Christ, my leg.”

His hands are there …on my face, in my hair. Cradling my head like I’m a newborn baby, terrified of hurting me because my life is so fragile in his hands.

I needed him so urgently and he came. I lifted my hand to slide it through the pellet of dark chest hair. So warm and strong I had to have him. But he wasn’t there anymore.

Something was different.

His hand was on my face and then suddenly I pushed it away. It didn’t feel like the hand I knew so well.

“Stop it… I don’t want you to do that…”

Why was I fighting him? It felt so good – so unbelievably electric, every time I felt the brush of fingertips against my lower belly – my thigh. Why was I trying to stop it?

“I’d do anything I could to make you feel better, babe. You know I hate seeing you like this – hate seeing you suffer.” Starsky’s voice was back and it was filled with sadness and the soft words were heavy with feeling as he traced his thumb down the line of my hipbone.

The caress kept travelling, tracing a line further down from my hip to once more glide over my thigh, then the outer side of my leg, before moving back into toward my groin. I couldn’t stop the moans of pleasure, the lower half of my body rocking back and forth to meet the pleasurable touch.

I could feel my cock lengthening with each finger stroke…. Jesus, this was incredible.

“Where are we going here, partner?” Starsky asked me as he watched me moving beneath him with urgent want.

I don’t why he’d asked me when he knew as well as I did that we were both heading exactly to where he had wanted to be for al long time.

“I can’t tell you exactly, I’ve never been this way before, but I think we can find the way by instinct.” I was careful with my words. I still couldn’t be entirely sure of Starsky’s feelings. “Depends if we want to go there together or not.”

“We’ve been getting close to this for such a long time, haven’t we?” Starsky was asking me as he wrapped his hand around my straining cock.

Of course we had.

Oh God so good Starsky. That feels so damn good.

But it’s not right. Not right. All wrong.

But why? How can this be wrong when it feels so right?

So close – it was so close I could feel the warm moist breath and the parted mouth as it played across the top of my cockhead.

“Lie still, Hutch. Just lie there and let me love you.”

Not Starsky. Not Starsky’s voice, nor his touch.

“But – no – stop – I can’t do this -”

“Don’t fight it. Don’t fight me. Let me do this for you. Let me love you like this. It’s all I’ve wanted to do for such a long time.”

My writhing and twisting away and my weak resistance only further heightened the discomfort in my needy cock and taut balls. I needed to get to the surface to stop this. I had to – wake up.

I lay panting with sexual excitement and an early morning hard on that was begging for more of what it was getting. The darkness of the night was gone and the blindfold of my dreams pulled away.

Mornings….my favorite time for sex.

But not Starsky’s. No. Starsky liked to sleep in and be woken slowly.

Not Starsky.

Starsky wasn’t here with me at all.

“Alice, you’ve got to stop this now.” I came out of my half awakened state and looked her directly in the eyes as she watched my eyes clearing of sleep.

I was breathing with difficulty, each pant measured to ward off an imminent climax that had been building steadily while I luxuriated under the workings of her agile hands and mouth.

Such a skilled set of hands. Such a capable mouth. Well versed in the art of seduction. Alice knew the way to work a man, any man…but more she knew the way to work my head and my heart.

And for me that was where her danger lay.

She’d freed my aroused cock from my loose pants and was astride me, and although she still had on my shirt it was agape so that her small round breasts and tiny waist were directly in my line of vision. I could feel the heat and moisture where her bare bottom and pussy were rubbing up and back across the top of my thighs.

I clamped my hands down hard on hers, stopping her rhythmic motions. She pulled her hands back like I’d burned them with a cigarette.

“Why are you doing this, Alice when I’ve made it clear to you that I don’t want it?”

“What about me? I feel like I might not live to even see you again Hutch, so fucked up is my life by this habit. You know what the heroin has done to me. I’m washed up and through with everything. All used up. Just let me have this with you, this last time.

“You know I can’t do it. I won’t do it – not to him – not to us-”

“You can, you just won’t,” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Will it mean you love him any less because you touch me or let me touch you again? Will it mean he will stop loving you? He doesn’t ever have to know.”

“It’s not how I want it to be between Starsky and me, Alice.”

“Hutch, for pity sake, I want so very little from you. It’s just a fuck, for Christ sake! A simple fuck. Like I said before, you’ve fucked me before haven’t you?”

“Stop it, Alice!” I was taken aback by her bitter crudity. It was not in her character to belittle what we had ever shared.

She bit her bottom lip hard, shook her head as though to shake away thoughts that she couldn’t control from being expressed.

“I forget sometimes, Hutch, how romantic you are about the big things in life. Maybe I was like that once too, but not any more,” her voice shook with tears. “Is it really so much to ask? This last act of love between us?”

I hesitated, a profound sadness in me brimming over. I could have cried right along with her. Wired sexually and emotionally, I was close to losing control of something.

This woman looking down at me was my friend, my rock of support during a time in my life when I had never needed it more. Sweet Alice. Sweet by name and sweet by nature, but she lived in a life of ugly bitterness with nothing and no one to live for.

I know what Alice wanted from me. She wanted love. Despite her hard edge words, that is what she dreamed of having. Not just a simple fuck. God she had that several times a night, every night she was on the job.

But no matter how much she dreamed of it, she hadn’t asked me for it, and she’d never expected it because she knew I couldn’t give it to her. Why then couldn’t I just give her the smallest piece of something close? Not love, for that was reserved only for Starsky. But I could make love to her – not just coldly fuck her – and I could enjoy it and ensure that she enjoyed it. After all, I was as skilled at doing that with any woman as she was with men.

For the time that I had Alice here with me in my care I could make her feel wanted and cherished.

I took her hand and held it while I spoke. In it I could still feel the stiffness that was seizing her body as she fought the withdrawal.

“We can have this, Alice. What you’re asking of me. But only this and only for the time we’re together here this weekend while I’m helping you stay clean. I want to do this for you – for both of us. I want to do it because I care for you deeply and I want you better. I need to know that you won’t try to leave to get drugs.”

She nodded solemnly hope flaring in her eyes. “I won’t. I won’t, Hutch.”

“Alice, you have to understand this. I only have till Monday morning. By then I’ll have found you some place else that is safe and where you can continue to be watched and cared for. But – but you cannot stay with me after that. After that -”

“I know, Hutch. You don’t have to say anymore. I know. I went away before and I can do it again.”

“I’m not asking you to go away, Alice,” I said gently.

“Then, after this time, ” she began to say.

“After this time Alice, there are no other times. You understand? Not with me,” I looked down at our bared bodies, “not like this. I can always be your friend, but never ever again, can I promise you this.”

“Don’t try and explain something I already know Hutch. It’s fine. It really is.”

“I just need to be sure that -”

I never finished what I was going to say. She leaned over my chest and kissed me at the same time as her small hands went back to resume working their magic on my aching cock. In no time she’d lifted her narrow hips and settled them over my rigidness, guiding my length inside of her in a tantalizingly slow descent.

She slid all the way down until her soft warm center totally engulfed my shaft. Staying perfectly still, she closed her eyes as though savoring the sensation of my fullness inside of her. Then she let out a long peaceful sigh, opened her eyes and smiled down at me with a burst of radiance I hadn’t seen on her face in all the years I’d known her.

I’d done something right.

Hadn’t I?

 

 October 1981

“On your lonesome tonight?” Huggy raised his eyebrow inquisitively when he slid my order onto the table with precision before sliding his lanky form into the seat opposite me with the same economic movements.

“Thanks Hug. Looks great.” I eyed the tastefully presented plate of steak and salad and baked potato. “This new cook of yours is really impressive.” My appreciation of the meal was genuine. Huggy had really picked up his game with the food in his bar over the past few years.

He eyed me critically and let out an exaggerated cough. “That’s no cook in my back of house. The man is a bona fide chef and I got the pay slip copies to prove it. You know how much these chef dudes demand these days?”

“Oh?” I said, digging into the meal. “Is this your way of breaking it to me that Starsky and I’ll be paying more for our meals here from now on?”

He rolled his eyes, pursed his lips. “Don’t see how it’ll affect you two – given that you haven’t caught up on your tab since middle of ’79.” It was said as a joke of course – he wasn’t thinking. Yet, both of us looked away from each other at the reference to that nightmarish time in ’79.

I could see Huggy squirming under the gaffe and so moved the conversation on quickly. It was a track too worn out to keep going over and over – these days it was best to just move forward.

“Starsky’s at some fundraiser benefit dinner for the Foundation tonight,” I told him.

Huggy relaxed again, no doubt grateful to me for stepping forward. “Quite the socialite is he these days. Guest lecturer, board meetings, benefit dinners – what’s next? Think our curly haired friend might run for Governor?”

I snorted at the mental picture. “Starsky in politics? Now there’s a dangerous concept,” I smiled. Secretly however the reference had me already pocketing away a small lust filled fantasy for another time. Starsky in a three-piece Italian suit in the back of some dark windowed limo, the driver partition up so that we were in total privacy. My dark haired politician was straddling me, pinning me beneath him in an act of dominance, pushing my face down into the buttery leather of the full-length seat as he pulled my battered jeans down and over my ass….

I snapped out of the reverie, and gave a small choked laugh, “I really can’t see that ever happening. Champagne, canapés and bullshit platitudes are hardly Starsky’s bag – but – he goes to these things because in his own way he wants to support the causes behind them. Actually, to be honest, he endures them – and only barely.”

“I can see that,” Huggy nodded. “He really believes in what he’s doing – what the Foundation is doing. I’ve picked that up whenever he talks about his work.”

“He does. And the same goes with the Academy job. He’s carving out some new frontiers with the trainee rookies – and,” I smiled contentedly at the realization that it was really true,” I think for the first time in such a damn long time he’s really found himself again. Happy in his new professional skin.”

“I’ve heard on the grapevine that he is Mr. Popularity with the young bloods – especially those from the wrong side of the tracks who’ve scored a break being accepted by the Academy.”

“Absolutely,” I nodded, feeling proud for my partner. “You know Starsky. He more than anyone knows what it’s like to have to fight through adversity.”

“Yeah. I know,” Huggy said, “Looking out for the underdogs in this shit society.” He gave me a knowing look. “A little like his partner.”

“Me?” I gave a self-derisive laugh. “I hardly feel virtuous these days. Pushing paper and riding bureaucratic broncos isn’t the same as being out there, hands on, with the people. Some days – just some days – I miss the ground root stuff.”

“Anyone who knows you knows that virtuosity runs in your veins, Blondie. It’s doesn’t matter what work you do, or how senior you are in your job. It’s just in you.” He leaned forward a little closer. “It’s that part of you that I noticed a long time ago. You care about people – individuals. Real people.”

How was it that I already knew where he was heading with this conversation? I felt uncomfortable, a little under the spotlight.

“Cut it out Hug – I only did what anyone would do for a friend in need. And she,” I caught myself for not using her name, “Alice was certainly in need.”

Huggy looked at me as though waiting for something more. I looked to either side of me and to the entrance and knew instantly what I was doing. It was as though I needed to make sure that Starsky wasn’t going to suddenly materialize and spring us talking about how Huggy had helped me with Alice. Still, I kept my voice low. “Have you – have you heard from her? Heard how she’s doing?”

There it was. The subject I think Huggy had been waiting to bring up but knew how touchy I was about the whole thing with Alice.

“When she first went in to that half way house she was a mess and stayed a mess from what I learned – for quite a time,” Huggy said. “But seems things might be different now. Yesterday, one of the residents from the house came in here. By what he had to say Alice might be on the upward track.”

“A resident? You mean another addict?” I sounded dubious.

“….Know what you’re thinking, but this dude is pretty cleaned up. Still in the place only because he’s got no place else to be.”

“Sounds reliable,” I said almost sarcastically, but in fact I felt relieved. I’d been worried that Huggy was going to be giving me even more bad news about her.

Huggy shrugged. “Either take my word or don’t…it doesn’t matter either way to me.” He was affronted I knew, despite how casually he wanted to act.

“It was only a few weeks ago you told me that she was still relapsing, still managing to get a hit here and there…” I reasoned with him.

“True. But, people can change can’t they?” he chewed on his inner cheek, looking frustrated with me.

“Yes – yes they can,” I said. “Go on. What else did this – ah – resident, have to say about Alice?”

“Seems that Alice has met some man who’s been helping to turn her around,” Huggy answered.

“You mean like a counselor?”

“No – an ex addict – or recovering addict – whatever the correct term is these days,” As he said it, another flash of acute discomfit flitting across his dark face. Certain subjects, like my up close and personal heroin encounter and Starsky’s near death, taxed Huggy heavily. I respected that. I understood that. Memories, nightmares taxed me too.

“Huggy,” I sighed, ” if you’re going to censor every reference to drug addiction for the rest of the time we are friends on this earth, then you’re going to keep getting tripped up. It’s past tense okay? Still I know that you don’t want to offend me intentionally.”

“Okay,” he nodded, his expression relaxing again.

“So you were saying about this guy and Alice?”

“Yeah, seems he’s some educated dude. What would you call him? An academic of sorts, I s’pose. Maybe he was, I don’t know – a teacher or a professor? I’m not sure what he did before he got on the heavy stuff, but anyway – since he’s been clean, he’s been going around the half way drug shelters spinning his word and helping others. Alice has taken a liking to him so it seems. According to my source,” he paused and gave me a half grin, “reliable source or not – Alice is getting into some study program. This guy is helping her to put the plan in action. He’s like a – mentor sort of thing. It’s giving her something to aim for. Some hope, I guess.”

Something for Alice to aim for…

Alice, who had always dreamed of being something else. A teacher, a writer, or at the very least a college student. Something that defined her more than being a hooker defined her. And what of this stranger? This “educated” man was helping her to achieve this? Was he another one of Alice’s Heathcliff’s? Maybe he would be the one to save her, as I hadn’t been able to.

I would like to think so.

“Well for her sake I hope it lasts. God knows Alice needs all the hope she can get. Have you got any more detail than that?” I asked, half caught up in my own complex weave of thoughts.

Huggy put on his contemplative face, looking as though he wanted to discuss a point I might not be prepared to talk about. “No, that’s as much as I know. General stuff I guess. But I was thinking that it’s good that she’s got someone else, other than you Hutch, to focus on,” he said, sounding like the sage Huggy that cropped up more often than not in our conversations.

I could have denied what he had left veiled beneath his overt statement. However, what would have been the point? “No sense in denying it. Alice was very attached to me,” I agreed. “Or, rather to the idea she had of me in her head,” I extended.

“Was?”

“Yes – was. And that’s because – because I’ve told her that we need some distance for a while.” I’d skirted around the truth. There was nowhere on the cards that I would ever see Alice again.

“I would say attached is an understatement,” Huggy rolled his eyes as he made reference to Alice’s push and pull toward me.

“I know that for sure,” I sighed deeply. “I was worried I’d never get her to agree to go with the whole plan you helped work out with me for her.”

“Well she stuck it out, but it wasn’t easy for the support workers and other residents to get her to stay. I know she asked about you a lot in the first few weeks. I know for sure that in those first days in the home she did nothing but ask about you.”

I put down my fork and pushed my plate away. My appetite had left the room at the first mention of Alice. “It’s natural that she would talk about me.”

“It was a bit more than just talk about you. A bit more than just ask after you Hutch,” Huggy looked down at my abandoned meal, the statement hanging in the air.

I could tell that he was walking around something that he wanted to say, picking out his path carefully, fully aware that the whole area was still a minefield for me.

“Meaning what, Huggy? What’s this about? You know I appreciate what you did for me. Helping me find a slot for Alice in that community house, so quickly and at such short notice. I also know that you gave her a lot of your time when she first went in there – after – after I had to leave her there and get back to my real life.” Because Starsky was coming home and I had to be there, waiting for him, longing to see him.

Leave so I could get back to my apartment and clean up the mess, the damage – all the little signs that Alice had been staying with me. A cop knows how to wipe all the evidence away, and I did a good job of leaving no trace of my embattled weekend with a heroin junkie.

“You ever been to the home to see her since you got her admitted?” Huggy cut me off, a challenging tilt to his head as he posed the question out of nowhere.

“You don’t have to say anymore, Hutch…. I went away before and I can do it again.” The memory of Alice’s soft voice came back to me.

“I’m not asking you to go away, Alice.” Hadn’t I said that when she’d wanted me to be with her?

“I can always be your friend, Alice…” I’d told her that too hadn’t I?

False sentiment and an unspoken promise that I’d failed to keep, because she had gone away hadn’t she? I’d made sure of that. I’d found a place for her to go to with Huggy’s help, a place to hide her away on that very Monday afternoon before the Monday night when Starsky came back from San Francisco.

How could I stay being her friend when the continuation of that friendship could so easily risk my relationship with Starsky? How could I continue to see her while she was so emotionally brittle, so self-destructive? I’d wanted her well, wanted her to get clean and stop destroying herself, of course I had. Still, I couldn’t be part of that continuing process of recovery once Starsky had come home that weekend from San Francisco With Huggy’s help and contacts I’d placed her in a refuge so that she was at least safe and cared for. After that I’d turned and walked away from her and left her alone.

“No,” I finally answered Huggy’s question. “But I think you know that already.”

“You planning on seeing her anytime in the future?” he pushed.

“I don’t know,” I said, because I really didn’t. All I know is that I hadn’t. Huggy didn’t seem satisfied with my answer.

“You don’t think Starsky would understand?” Huggy probed.

It was my turn to give him a contemplative look.

Was Huggy asking me would Starsky understand the fact that I’d hidden from him that I’d helped Alice out in a time of need? Or was he asking would Starsky understand that I’d betrayed him by sleeping with another person while we were in a committed relationship? How much did Huggy really know about Alice and me? Had she told him about us? Confided in him in those early desperate hours when he might have sat with her, settling her into her new home after I had walked away and left alone?

If Huggy did know more than I’d told him, I realized I didn’t want to have deal with it, so I avoided the actual question. “I don’t want to have to expose him to all that shit again. Putting up with me after Forrest was more than enough for him.”

After that I decided it was time to take my leave. Huggy’s personal inspection of me was becoming too close and personal. If Huggy picked up on my abrupt closure of conversation and sudden decision to head home, he never let on. Still I could almost hear the cogs turning in his head as his eyes followed me to the back door of his bar where I made my exit. On the drive home I kept hearing his question – “You don’t think Starsky would understand?”

Would he?

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t an issue because at that moment back in July, when I’d lain with Alice in my bed and let her move me toward a slow, warm orgasm, I’d made up my mind that it was something that Starsky would never know about.

 

December 1981

“Yo! You home yet?” Starsky’s voice sailed through the front door.

“Yeah – in here,” I called out, busy examining every shelf of the fridge in hope of turning up something remotely edible that I could throw together to make a simple meal for us. It was late; I was late home and Starsky even later. It was cold and I was tired and hungry and becoming irritable very fast.

“There’s shit all to eat in this place. Wasn’t it your turn to do the shopping yesterday?” I threw out at the body I could now sense behind me, still intent on bending forward to peer into the recesses of the bottom shelf.

“Sounds like someone is a little hot under the collar.” Typical Starsky. Dodged the question by focusing on me. I felt a cold hand snake down the back of my collar and let out a yelp, jumping away from the fridge. “Starsky! Your hand is freakin’ freezing!”

“I know that – it’s cold out. That’s why I need your hot body to warm it up.”

“Get out of it,” I pushed his hand away from my neck, determined to stay in my funk and not be amused by his play on words, though in all honesty he was already soothing my frayed mood.

“Who’s a grumpy bear then?”

I tried hard not to smile at cajoling. That baby tone he used to diffuse me always seemed to pull at my strings, not to mention some crucial parts of my anatomy. “I’m hungry and cold and…” I began to complain.

“My poor baby….”

“Oh shut up,” I warned, but there was no bite in it. “That play is not going to work tonight. It’s God damn nearly nine o’clock, I’ve had a God damn shit of a day and have come home to find there’s not a God damn semi -decent thing in this place to eat.”

“Well, God damn it!” the smart ass parodied me. “It’s the same place you left this morning, so unless someone came to kindly restock our cupboards with food while we were both at work….”

“Which brings me back to the point that it was your turn to do the shopping yesterday,” I humphed.

“I’ll make it up to you by doing a super big buy up tomorrow. How about that?” Starsky beamed hopefully.

“Tomorrow is not now Starsky. One of us has to go back out in the cold and get some provisions – because I can tell you, I am not eating take -out one more time this month.”

“Don’t pout Blondie, it’s not all that bad…”

“I’m not POUTING,” I all but stamped my foot. Hell, maybe I was…

Starsky was trying hard to keep a straight face. That only riled me even more.

“So what’s got you in such a good mood?” I asked him. “You’re usually the one whining about no dinner and dying of starvation.”

He had the decency to look sheepish.

“You’ve already eaten haven’t you?” I demanded. “What? Another freebie work dinner out at some fine dining restaurant?”

“Well it wasn’t that fine – but it was damn good,” he said guiltily. “Sorry babe, I thought you might have already eaten too.”

“And you didn’t think to ring and tell me?”

“I did, but like you said, you were late home and I couldn’t catch you anywhere,” he mollified.

“Jesus – this job of yours has got more perks and frills than some corporate high flyer position. If I knew that police consultancy had such benefits I might have thought twice about getting my Lieutenancy.” I knew that I sounded sulky and petulant.

“You want me to order you some take-out after all?” Starsky asked, indulging my sulk or maybe trying to get even more of a rise out of me than I was already displaying.

“No way! I’m sick of pizza and Chinese and every other fast food package crap. My body needs something fresh and natural – and hot.”

“Fresh? Natural? And hot?” Starsky repeated – the words oozing out of his seductively pulled mouth. “Then why the hell didn’t you say so? There’s no reason for take-out. I’ve got all three ready to serve up to you right now – or just as long as it takes me to get that gorgeous body of yours naked.” He was closing in on me rapidly as he said it.

I backed up against the fridge, sensual excitement flooding my loins, my earlier flash of moodiness slammed out of me in a wild rush as Starsky’s ramming body shoved me hard against the door of the appliance. He had his hands around the back of me, padding my back and protecting it from the hard metal of the fridge, his deft fingers kneading my vertebral spaces, loosening up every part of me and making me weak in the knees. I thrust my hands inside his warm sports jacket to find the sharp edges of his hips and pulled them roughly against me a rutting jerk. It took him no time to settle his already hard cock against the protuberance of my own, moving his hardness up and down in a rhythmical grind.

“Someone’s not so grumpy anymore. Not grumpy but, perhaps a little horny?” he purred against my ear. I felt his hand come down between our crotches to cup my blood filled fullness. “Hmnn…a lot more than a little horny,” he said, before lifting my hand and running it along his own rigid length, so taut that his black dress pants were showing off every line of his swollen cock.

“Christ Starsk,” I sucked through my teeth, trying to dampen down my surge of sexual heat, “let’s get this between the sheets now. I don’t want another quick kitchen fuck – we’ve already had enough of those this week. I need a slow burn tonight when I take you.”

“But I thought you were impatient with hunger?” he teased me, running his finger around my mouth suggestively as he thrust against me. “I was going to give you a quick feed right now, ” he grunted, already pressing down on my shoulders to push me to my knees and unzipping his pants, his pelvic tilting increasing. “I’ve got your starter all ready,” he teased out the words as my mouth was already salivating, opening wide for his glistening cock, “and later – oh shit…later, you can have your main meal.”

My ravenous need for him took over as I leaned in to cram my mouth with the full salty flavor of him, tasting everything I’d been craving – fresh, natural and hot – searing hot Starsky. I fed for a long moment, sucking and licking, gorging on the feast of him.

I shuddered as I took a moment to pull back and look up at him. “”You know what you are don’t you?”

“Tell me,” he demanded, pulling on my hair roughly, his lips pressed tight with the effort of suppressing his sexual pleasure.

“You’re pure sex on a stick,” I growled deeply as I took him in whole.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

It was much later in the night that the magical mood of our sexual marathon was broken – at least for me anyway. Starsky was lying sideways on my stomach, his head skewed as he watched the late news on TV, while I lay back on the pillows, licking my fingers of the last morsel of a thoroughly decadent pile of buttery toast. “You know Starsk,” I slurped a little on a buttery dollop, “you’re amazing with what you can whip up in the kitchen. You make great butter with toast on it,” I joked.

“Toast’s gotta’ be warm, and it’s gotta’ be oozing with butter,” he drawled, his attention half on the flickering screen, half on me.

“Well it was definitely the latter,” I said. “I just hope I don’t have a coronary tomorrow from all that cholesterol blocking my arteries.”

“Nah – ” Starsky turned his head to look up at me, “you dislodged any blockages that might have been in your arteries during that last maneuver you pulled on me.” His hand shot up sneakily to snatch at my sticky fingers and almost absently he took them into his own mouth, sucking and licking at the last of the creamy butter.

“Hey!” I laughed as he slobbered noisily on my ring finger and I tried to pull it back.

“These are my fingers,” he insisted, holding onto them possessively. “The only one who gets to suck at any of your appendages is me, you get it?” he grinned up at me, his dark curls tangled, fanning out on the pale skin of my belly. “So did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked me, yawning a little as he tucked my damp hand beneath his chin, holding it there in place against his warm neck.

“Which part of it? My starter or my main – or my dessert of butter with some toast on it?” I said dreamily, sated in every fiber of my body.

“See? You got a three course dinner after all your bitchin’ – more than I got to eat in fact. I only had a starter and an entrée.”

“Not like the man I know and love to go without his sweets,” I said.

“Knew I had to leave some room for my desserts for later on when I got home.”

“Of course…” I jabbed him playfully in the back of his calf with my big toe. “So where did you go anyway? You never said.” I ran my finger along his still naked chest, still warm from our vigorous sex romp.

“Some new bistro downtown. Sorta’ casual but artsy. Your type of place in fact. Think they even served organic meal choices. Maybe we can try it out some time.”

“You’d go back some where with organic food on the menu?” I pretended shock.

“For you babe, you know I’d sacrifice myself.”

I gave a soft grunt and began to ease myself up. “Let me up you big oaf, I need to clean up, in more places than just between my sticky fingers.”

In the bathroom I heard him re-arranging the bedclothes, plumping up the pillows and switching off the TV. Halfway through brushing my teeth he called out.

“Hey, nearly forgot to tell you,” I heard him say over the noise of him pounding a pillow into submission.

“Tell me what?” I rinsed and brushed and only half paid attention, already feeling sleepy.

“I saw someone we haven’t seen in ages tonight. Outside the bistro place. She was getting into a car with some guy and I spotted her the same time she saw me.”

“Oh?” I was walking back into the bedroom, my mind and body already dreaming of the freshened up bed and some deep sleep. I was distracted and a little zonked from too much Starsky inside and outside of my body and my mind.

“Yeah,” Starsky was walking toward the bathroom now himself and brushed his hand across my naked butt as he glided past me, “Sweet Alice.”

I stopped in my tracks, literally stopped, as I was about to pull back the sheet. I turned toward him but he had sauntered into the bathroom and I couldn’t see him.

No way? He saw Alice? How in hell? What were the odds of him running into her?

I strived for calm. Walked over to the bathroom door. Tried to discern what he wasn’t telling me with his words or his tone by looking at his body. I could read his body almost as well as the undercurrent of his words.

He looked – normal. There wasn’t much to read or see but his usual relaxed pre-bed ritual.

“Sweet Alice? You saw her?”

“Yeah – been a while hasn’t it?” It was his turn to brush his teeth and I was frustrated by not getting his full attention.

“You talked?” It came out casual I hope, but my heart was accelerating with every beat. I felt that I might need to sit down. Instead I leaned against the doorjamb, trying to look like it was holding me up because I was so tired. It was holding me up all right, but not because I was tired.

“Uh -huh,” he gurgled through the toothpaste froth. Surely he didn’t have any agenda with me on this or he wouldn’t be brushing his teeth like he was. As though this was any other mundane conversation we could have been having.

“And?” Such a small word that held a thousand questions. “You said she was with a man? A john?”

“No – not a john,” he shook his head, “not from the way they were acting together. Seems to me that she might have got herself into some sort of real relationship. Friends – close friends. He was pretty much doting all over her – like she was – like she was special to him you know?”

“That’s nice.”

Christ, how inane did I sound?

“She sure doesn’t look the same though. You should see her Hutch. You might not recognize her. She’s so damn thin – like she’s been on some starvation diet if you ask me. But still pretty, in that way that she was always pretty – sweetly so I guess, like her name.”

“Yes,” I said weakly. It was all I could get out.

Starsky had finished at the sink and stood up to flick the light off.

“You comin’ to bed or goin’ to keep yourself propped in the doorway all night?”

“Oh yeah – yeah…” I followed him woodenly back into the bedroom.

“So – what did you talk about?” I asked as though it didn’t matter one way or the other if he didn’t answer me.

“Huh?” Starsky, already in bed had lost the trail of the conversation as he did whenever his head was nearing a pillow.

“You said that -that you talked – with Alice?” Now I sounded a little panicky. I was certain of it. But Starsky didn’t seem to notice. Either that or he was a damn good actor.

“Oh,” he said, collapsing onto the bed and groaning with pleasure at the comfort of the familiar mattress. “Not much. She had to go – with the guy. But she said that she was doing well. Got a part time job in a bookshop or something like that.”

She had a job? Huggy’s informant was right. She must have cleaned up her act.

“Then she tells me – and get this,” Starsky said, “she’s hoping to start some English Literature course in a few weeks time. A proper course – one that she can use to get her grades up for college. Seemed excited – real excited at doing that. Who’d have thought hey?”

“Thought what?” I asked.

“That Alice would turn out to be a bookworm type – for that sort of stuff? Literature studies?” Starsky sounded incredulous.

I could hear Alice in my head…. “Something isn’t it? A hooker who claims to enjoy exploring nineteenth century literature.”

“Why because she’s a hooker?” I jumped at him unintentionally, defending the ghost of the woman who still lingered in this very bed.

Starsky, wide awake again, rolled toward me, raised himself on his elbow and flicked me with his finger indignantly. I could feel the small jolt of surprised shock in his body.

“Come on, you know that’s not what I meant. I like Alice. But be practical Hutch, she is a hooker – or was… and not just a girl who makes some money on the side as one. So, it surprises me – the serious study thing.”

“Sorry,” I shouldn’t have over-reacted like that. “I just felt a little defensive for her that’s all.”

Starsky relaxed back down again and stared up at the ceiling. “I mean, study for sure. But why not study something practical which would help her break free of being a hooker. English Literature? How’s that goin’ to get her off the streets? Man, that surprised me. Doesn’t it surprise you?” He rolled over again and looked at me in question.

What could I say to that? The truth?

No – not really. That’s Alice. Alice with her Bronte’s and her Heathcliff’s. Alice and her quest for love and acceptance. The Alice who I know and the one that you don’t Starsk, because it’s a secret part of my life that I’ve never shared with you and I can’t. Because in getting to know Alice like this, I’ve let you down, I’ve deceived you and what we have.

But of course I couldn’t say any of that. I just wasn’t prepared to hurt him like I was hurting, because of the guilt induced turmoil inside of me since July.

“You’re right,” is what I said instead. “I wouldn’t have pegged Alice as being into that sort of thing.” And having said it, I felt as though I’d somehow betrayed her by making such a false claim. Minimized her, made her less of a person than she really was and who most people, including Starsky, would ever know, or be interested in knowing.

“Anyway, it was interesting to see her out and about like that, in a different way.” Starsky stretched across the bed to turn off the one lamp still shining my bedside table. As he leaned over me to reach the light he grazed my jaw with his lips. “Besides the fact she looked so – thin and sickly – she looked happier than I can remember ever seeing her.”

“Probably because she’d found a man she could be with – not just another customer,” I suggested, though I sensed it was not the real reason.

“I don’t think so. He seemed nice and all, but they were just friends. It was something else,” he said his voice sounding thoughtful in the dark.

“Who knows? I always thought Alice was quite a complicated lady.” Which I had come to realize was certainly the truth.

Starsky stretched and yawned again, already on the way to sleep. I was relieved that his sleep would put an end to the subject.

Just when I thought that he was out to it, he spoke again.

“Oh yeah – and she asked after you,” he said, his voice definitely sleep laden. “Said to give you her love. Alice always did have – she had – she’s got,” – ” he was mumbling, searching for the right tense – present or past or ongoing? Sadly for Alice, all of them were correct, “this thing for you.”

I was never so glad for the dark and Starsky’s propensity to crash into sleep on the last syllable of a spoken word. My face would have shown everything I was feeling and he would have seen it so clearly otherwise.

Starsky pressed his length up against me, as he drifted deeper into steady breathing.

A little desperately I gathered his familiar body and crushed him hard to my own, hard and long enough to have him grunt lightly in his sleep. I held on fast all the same and he quieted. I needed the imprint of his virile, strong body against mine. Needed to reassure myself that I still had him, but even more so at that moment, despite my shame at the truth of it – I needed to try to rid myself of the memory of Alice’s frail body moving against mine.

 

Chapter Three

Friday, First week February 1982

It was late on a Friday afternoon when I got the call. I’d packed away my files and checked my schedule for the Monday, already mentally leaving the station and gearing up for the days off ahead. It had been weeks since Starsky and I had both had a free weekend that actually coincided. If it wasn’t work shifts or actual casework for either of us, it was endless paperwork and policy briefings for me and research papers for Starsky.

We’d put the weekend aside for us. Just us. No socializing, no outings, no work calls (unless urgent) – just home, reading, meals, conversation – and of course – some long-awaited skin on skin time. I can recall the buzz I had in me, actually smiling at my own little inner glow of anticipation as I snapped closed my briefcase. I was pulling my jacket from the back of the chair, when my desk phone rang.

“Damn!” Why did front desk always have a knack of putting through a call when I was about to walk out of my office bay? It was nearly five o’clock. I’d planned to be on the road by now. Any delay was going to put me right in the middle of rush hour.

I walked four or five paces away, determined to ignore it, before cursing and dropping my briefcase. “Hutchinson!” I wanted to bite the head off the caller as I swung back to the desk and snatched up the phone. The way the person on the other end of the phone responded, I had succeeded.

“Ah – excuse me. Is this Lieutenant Hutchinson? Kenneth Hutchinson?” a strange man’s voice was tentative, almost apologetic.

“Yes, it is,” I smoothed out the barbs in my voice with effort but couldn’t hide the impatience.

“I was wondering if I might have a few moments of your time, Lieutenant. My name is Robert Morgan.”

The name meant nothing to me.

“I’m just leaving the office, perhaps the matter can -” I looked ruefully at the door.

“Really this won’t take very long,” he said insistently.

I sighed at the inevitability of things, especially phone calls that always came at the exact wrong moment, and levered my hip back onto the desk.

“How can I help you?” I tried not to sigh.

“I apologize for calling you at your work, but I had no other way of contacting you privately,” the man said. “I know your home address, but I did not want to risk intruding on your life in case….”

My home? If this was a damn cold caller salesman ……

“Privately?” I repeated. “So this is not a work matter?  And how do you know where I live?” My tone was growing fresh barbs again.

“Please – let me explain. If possible I’d like the opportunity to meet with you – even briefly. I’m free this evening and I could meet you wherever it best suited you -”

“Look, Mr. – err – Morgan. I’m a Lieutenant. If this is a police matter than you need to go through the proper channels and not ring me directly -”

“This is not a police matter,” Now he sounded frustrated. “As I mentioned it concerns you personally.”

“I don’t believe I know you,” I told him.

“No you wouldn’t but we have a mutual – ah – friend.”

The conversation was starting to piss me off.

“Listen, Morgan, cut to the chase. What is it you want? Tell me now and quickly, because I have no intention of meeting with you tonight,” I said brusquely.

“Alright. But at least hear me out. I’m a friend of Alice Peters and -”

“Alice Peters? You mean -” I was taken off guard by hearing the Christian name combined with a surname I don’t believe I ever even knew – or at least recollected. I should have known her full name shouldn’t I? Damn. It was bad that I hadn’t.

“Yes, Alice. The friend you helped place in the Half -Way house.”

“I know Alice, of course,” I know I sounded terse but I had to cover my embarrassment at not knowing Alice’s full name.

“We’ve struck up a friendship, she and I. I’ve been helping her re-establish some life goals, get her into a small job – prepare for some future study -”

“I know who you are,” I interjected abruptly. At least I thought that I did. This must be the man Huggy made mention of and the same one Starsky saw Alice getting into the car with a couple of months ago. “So what do want from me?” I suppose I sounded rude, but something about this call was unnerving me rapidly.

“I don’t want anything from you, Lieutenant Hutchinson,” Morgan replied coolly, and it was then that I caught the inflection of his voice, slightly pompous, elite – educated? Isn’t that what Huggy had told me? An academic junkie? No, ex-junkie, I corrected myself. Did all his knowledge; all his years of intellectual pursuit take their toll on him, wearing him down so that eventually he turned to the needle, to cocaine or whatever was his preferred vice?

“I’m merely calling you on behalf of Alice,” he said.

“Why? Why isn’t Alice calling me?” I demanded, a little more harshly than I had intended.

“She didn’t want to come to your home although I offered to go with her – she said that you wouldn’t appreciate an unexpected visit -”

“She’s right. My home is private. I wouldn’t appreciate it if you had come there with her,” I gave him another cool slight. “What does Alice want that she couldn’t call me about herself? I don’t follow this. What’s with this third person stand in? I don’t even know you, so why call me?”

“Alice didn’t think you would be receptive to the call. I know that you haven’t seen her since you organized her place in the community house.”

Did I detect criticism there? Like I detected criticism from Huggy for the same thing?

So was that what this was about? Was Alice wanting me to come back into her life and enlisting her friends to guilt me into it?

“Our -” what word should I give our relationship, Alice’s and mine? “Our friendship -is a complex one. I thought she understood that I couldn’t continue to see her – at least for the time being.” But I knew I had never told her that, not in so many words. I’d only told her that I couldn’t continue to have an intimate relationship with her.

“She would really benefit from a chance to see you again. She only wants some time with you to talk. That’s all. Nothing else. Just talk. Please, surely you could do that much for her,” Morgan said bluntly. “I think you owe her that much, don’t you?” he added, an obvious undercurrent of disapproval in his words.

Since when did this stranger know or understand what I might owe Alice or what was between us? What business was it of his anyway, my relationship with Alice?

“What? What did you say?” I demanded, total disbelief at such a judgmental statement. “Jesus, who do you think you are to call me up like this and lay this guilt crap on me?”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Morgan replied quickly. “Really – I take that back. It’s just that I care about Alice and I think, the way she talks about you, that you once cared about her too -”

“Did?” I said, still affronted. “I still do. Alice is my friend and I’ve known her a lot longer and a lot more deeply than you might think you know her. We don’t need you to push your face into our personal lives, so back down will you?” I meant every word of it and I think it came across in the low threat of my voice.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry okay?” he sounded less confronting.

“Anyway, do you really think Alice would like you going behind her back like this?” I challenged him.

“I’m sure, more than anything Lieutenant – that she would be grateful for the chance to see you and talk. She’s strived hard in the last months. Coming off the drugs, applying herself to her job – planning for bigger goals. She should be proud; she’s got a right to be. Maybe she’d like to tell you all about it. I’m sure you believes that you were instrumental in getting her to this positive point.”

“I….” I what? Was I going to refuse to see her? Was I going to tell this man to go away, get out of my life and stop dragging Alice and all the inherent problems connected to her to my doorstep? Hardly. Whether I or not I liked to admit that this guy was right, I owed Alice this small favor.

“Alright. I’ll meet with her. I’d appreciate if I could do this in private. Are you – you two -?”

“No. We’re not involved, not like that anyway if that’s what you mean. Alice still lives where she did. I helped her move back in, and to back pay the rent,” he said. “When? When do you think you’ll come? I’d do my best to make sure she’d be there if I knew – and she has her job.”

I rubbed at my neck, flipping open my desktop calendar, trying to think. “Not on the weekend. I have a full schedule.” With my partner.

“Monday evening. I have an early afternoon,” I told him, slamming my appointment book closed.  “I could aim to be there by five, but of course I can’t promise it. Things can crop up in this business,” I added, just a touch sarcastically.

“She’ll be home, I’ll see to it,” Morgan sounded so sure that he could make it happen that I wondered at the significance of the role he played in Alice’s life. “Thank you, Lieutenant -”

“Ken – call me Ken,” I blew out a breath, capitulating enough to physically feel him relax on the other end of the phone.

“Thanks Ken, I know she’ll really appreciate it,” Morgan said, and he sounded genuinely grateful. Truly buoyed up.

God, did I ever feel like a hard ass. I was being thanked profusely by a stranger to pay an old friend one small social visit.

As long as it was just that, I thought as I headed toward the elevator’s doors. Just one small social visit and nothing more as Morgan had promised. I pushed the nagging worry out of my head. It was the weekend and between now and Monday, any emotional headspace would be devoted solely to Starsky. Time enough to sweat it later.

Monday Evening, Second Week February 1982

The door to Alice’s had been painted a striking white. It was the first thing I noticed when I walked down the narrow hall toward her apartment. I did a quick double take at the glossy veneer and had to check the new shiny brass number plate to be sure. A quick scan along the hall showed that no other doors had been restored, still just as scuffed, chipped and painted some indeterminate color, their worn facades reflected the years of wear and the era of the building. So the new look door was not part of general building maintenance – but of Alice’s doing.

Fresh and new. A new front door for a new beginning? The symbolism wasn’t lost on me and although I was uneasy about the meeting I felt a small smile on my lips at this small but powerful statement. It was a typical “Alice sort of thing” to do.

As though she was expecting my knock the door opened almost immediately and then she was there, her expression part joy, part …what…fear? How much she had changed – even since July.  Her heart-shaped face was now acutely angular; her eyes too big in her head, and her body thin beyond belief. I had to hold my reaction in check. Starsky had not been wrong in his depiction of her. However, despite her emaciation, there was a strong vibrancy about her, incongruent to her fragility.

Dressed in a tailored pantsuit, she looked like a completely different Alice to the one who had inhabited the night hours for her livelihood. Her seemingly huge eyes were sparkling; her hair was smooth and billowing around her face and her make-up was subtle and fresh. There was no sign of the tortured, drug frenzied woman who had railed against the world that night last year.

“Hello Alice,” I said softly, stepping inside the door. She smiled and stepped back to accommodate my presence, but as I leaned in for a light welcoming kiss, she stepped back further and averted her face, completely avoiding my lips. Pulling back, I tried to read her expression. Was she resentful that I had taken so long to show back up in her life? Or was she setting the boundaries for my sake straight up? Before I could think on it further she tucked her light hair behind her ear and brushed my arm with her hand.

“Hello Hutch, I’ve missed you so,” she brushed at a tear already springing to her eye and I thought I must have been mistaken about why she had jerked away from me. There was nothing but warmth in her words “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen your handsome face and heard that honey soft voice of yours.”

I sighed inwardly. Why did I have to hurt her straight up by setting her straight about why I was at her doorstep again? Still, she deserved the truth.

“I might as well tell you now Alice, that I didn’t come here tonight spontaneously,” I admitted. “Your friend phoned me. He told me you were back home and asked if I’d pay you a visit.”

“Robert,” she said simply.  I had no way of telling what she thought of it.

There was a brief awkward silence and I had to step across it.

“I’m sorry, Alice.”  For so many things. For making you go. For leaving you alone.. For not being there as a friend…

“Don’t be sorry, Hutch, you’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

“No – I know I should have come to see you sooner but -”

“But you’re here now and that’s enough,” she said, indicating the sofa. “Now – a drink?”

About to refuse I realized how offensive that would seem, as though I was looking to keep the visit to its absolute minimum.

“Sure. Thanks – a beer?”

“Of course.” As she walked into the kitchen to get the beer I settled on the sofa and took stock of the small apartment. It, like the front door and Alice herself, seemed brighter than I remembered. Newer, though there was nothing new about it, cleaner. Like Alice. Clean Alice, purged of all the dirty drugs flowing in her veins – with only needle track scars to hint at her grim habit. Would she stay that way? Clean and bright – or would she succumb again as so many did?

She came back, handed me a beer and holding her own mixed drink, took a seat opposite me. I tried not to look away as she took inventory of me just as I had done of her and her apartment. She held my gaze as she let her eyes travel over me from head to foot and back again in almost clinical appraisal. When she’d taken her full, she picked up her drink and took a sip. With her eyes no longer measuring me up, I sat back a little and relaxed marginally.

“Did you mind that your friend, ah Robert, phoned me? That he asked me if I would come to see you?” I wanted to know.

She didn’t hesitate.

“No – in fact, I asked him to do it. I told him where to call you.”

That took me my surprise. “What? But he said he was doing it for you because you wouldn’t…”

“Not entirely a lie. I just didn’t think you’d come if it was me on the phone asking you to.”

“That makes me feel like a bastard,” I said a little too defensively.   “Of course, I would have come if you’d called me.” I’d said that with an absolute certainty that I didn’t really have.

Obviously Alice didn’t have the certainty either. “Would you? ” she asked.

“You’re thinking that because I never visited you in the community house that -”

“I’m not thinking that,” she interrupted me. ” I know that when we parted ways last year, I’d given you my word to not ask you for anything else, and you had made it clear that you couldn’t offer me any more either,” she said. “I didn’t have any expectations that things would be any different than they’ve turned out to be.”

Damn, it, she made me feel even worse by letting me off the hook. “It had to be like that, Alice.”

“You don’t need to defend yourself in any way, Hutch. Please.”

I drank some beer, tried to move the conversation forward. “Robert and Huggy have told me that you have a job and plan to study.”

“Huggy?” she smiled fondly. “Then if you heard it from Huggy it must be true,” she gave a tinkling laugh. “Yes – Robert helped me get a job in a bookstore and I love it.”

“All those crisp, new books,” I joked, knowing how much she loved to lose herself in the pages of a novel. “You must be in heaven.”

“I am! Most of the time it doesn’t feel like work at all. It’s only part time because I had planned to study soon. I’d wanted to learn more about my favorite subject…”

“English Literature,” I smiled. “I know.”

“So Starsky told you? I saw him one night back near Christmas,” she said, “My God Hutch, he looks wonderful. So – so strong and well, and so incredibly happy.”

I couldn’t help beam at her compliments, as proud of them as though they were directed personally at me.  “He does – and I hope he is,” I hesitated a beat. “We both are – very happy.”

“I’m so pleased for you, Hutch. You’ve both waited too many years to find happiness together.”

“Well I suppose we were always happy being partners and friends – this – what we have now, is just the whole package,” I said. “It’s not easy of course – even today, we have to make sure we keep our relationship hidden from mostly everyone we know. But one day -”

“Things will change, Hutch.” Alice said.  “Of course they will. The world just has to catch up about all the many different ways people choose to find their personal happiness.”

I liked her attitude; Alice was always so good at getting to the heart of matters. “And – talking of happiness,” I went on, “Starsky said you looked the happiest he had ever seen you too. He said that you looked like you’d found what you’d wanted.”

I was startled at how quickly her expression changed. Her face now showed anything but happiness. What had I said?

“Are you?” I asked, looking at her more closely.  “Are you happy, Alice?”

She twisted her glass, put it down, before shutting her eyes for such a long moment that I feared that she was either going to cry or had gone into some sort of trance.

“Alice – are you okay?” I put my drink to the side and leaned forward to touch her lightly on the knee.

Her eyes opened again and she looked at me with such an intense gaze I felt like she was pulling me inside of her head. “Happiness,” she considered the word. “It’s such a strange box of tricks? All those parts of us that go to make up the whole of feeling happy; many connections that have to be put together to feel that experience,” she looked like she was grappling with the concept as she tried to express herself to me. “What if some of the bits are missing, or broken, or don’t fit with the other pieces?”

I thought about what she was trying to convey.  “Not every part of you has to be happy though Alice,” I said, “just the general sense deep in your soul.”

“Hmm, ” she said, running her fingers over the fabric of the sofa edge as she did. “Then yes. Yes, I’m happy. This moment, right now, sitting with you, I’m happy. All day today at work at the bookshop, that was happiness, last night when I went to my first tutorial on Keats and planned how to write my first paper for submission – yes – all of that was happiness.”

“Then you see?” I said, pleased that she had been able to get in touch with her feelings. “You’re getting there, putting the pieces together like you said. You’re finding what makes you happy and grabbing on to it with both hands,” I said.

“Yes but,” her eyes came back to mine again, “you know Hutch, if there was a stash of heroin hidden in this apartment right now, I would only be waiting for you to leave so I could shoot the whole lot into my veins. That’s a type of happiness too. Sick isn’t it? And so, none of it fits together correctly. None of the pieces makes a proper whole.”

Was she trying to shock me? Maybe I should have told her that it’s hard to shock someone who knows exactly what it’s like to still crave the rushing high of a fresh warm fix.

“You’ll work through the wanting of another hit Alice, believe me…”

“It’s so unbelievably hard, Hutch.” And I could see just how hard it was – in her thin body, in her gaunt face, in her shaking double-handed grip that wrapped around her glass as though it might drop away and shatter if she took her mind off the tenacious hold..

“You’re doing so well Alice. With your job and your study. ” I recalled what Robert Morgan had said about being proud of her. “You’ve achieved so much, moving out of the Half-Way house, carving out a new life for yourself just like you’ve always planned on doing -”

“You sound like Robert,” she said with a knowing smile and I felt myself blush at being caught out for all but re-delivering his line.

“Well then, we’re both right.” I leaned over and patted her knee again, this time more forcefully. “You’re strong, Alice. Strong and determined.”

“Maybe I am, but strong and determined just won’t cut it this time ‘round, I’m afraid.” Her strange little laugh was almost too loud in the quiet room.

“Determination always cuts it,” I argued, not liking the change in her mood, “especially when it’s combined with support. And you’ve got both going for you Alice. You’ve got people who care about you and you’ve got inner strength.”

“Even if I did, it won’t help me,” she said flatly.

“Oh come on,” I urged, “you don’t usually give up like this. You’re too much of a survivor.”

Seeming suddenly restless, she stood and walked over to the window, before turning around again and pacing back to me. I waited for her to answer me.

“I’m glad you think I’m a strong person. Thank you for believing in me, Hutch – you’ve always believed in me, even last year when I came to you in such a mess…”

“And look. You’ve proved me right. You’re on track Alice. Be proud of what you’ve done for yourself.”

“I am  – or at least I was starting to feel proud. But what’s the point? It’s all too late.” There was more than self-pity and dejection behind what she had said. Something nearing on being inexorable. The brightness that had been around her when I’d entered was receding and flickering like a dying power source the longer I spent with her. It was like she only had so much bright energy stored up to put on show for me and now it was all but spent.

“Is this why your friend wanted me to come and see you, Alice? Because he’s worried about this – this depression?” I asked carefully, really looking at her, into her eyes where the small residual brightness was turning into overwhelming sadness.

“No – though he is worried about me of course. But Robert called you because he knows how essential it is that I talk to you about something.”

Her body was beginning to shake. It had started in her fingers, had spread up her arms, to her shoulders and now her chest and her back.

I could feel that she was descending emotionally. I went to her and put my hand on her shoulder, feeling the tremors rolling through her body. “Wait here.”

I went to the kitchen bench and poured her a fresh drink. Returning quickly to her side I helped wrap her hands about the glass, my big hands over her small ones.  She felt cold. I snagged a light blanket from the end of the sofa and threw it over her thin shuddering shoulders, tucking it carefully about her form as I settled beside her, meaning only to offer her some of my own body heat. She seemed to recoil. For the second time since I’d been there my physical proximity seemed to cause an almost knee-jerk reaction in her to avoid me. She shifted quickly along the sofa, putting distance between us.

“Please, Hutch, don’t – don’t touch me now. Let me get this out. I can’t do it why you’re … while you’re close to me like that,” she sounded distraught and I realized that my touch really was distressing to her.

“Okay. It’s alright,” I soothed, more than confused as to why she seemed so uncomfortable with me near her.  “I’ll go back over to my seat, but tell me what’s going on. What’s got you so upset?”

She took a swallow of the spirit and then lifted the heel of her hand to press it hard, almost too hard, into her eye. “All those years – all those times I dreamed of having a chance with you. Me, the cheap hooker and you the brave, handsome cop. Stupid, stupid dreams. I only ever wanted to have you love me and want me – even for just a little while, even for just a little bit.”

“I know. I know that, Alice,” I said gently. I’d always known it.

“And then – when you came to me that night, when Starsky had sent you away because of his own suffering, I was selfishly pleased. Do you know that?” her voice rose, almost challenging me.  “I was secretly pleased that I might finally get the chance for something, anything – with you, even if it was because Starsky was mixed up and hurting so badly that he hurt you just as much.”

I’d known that too. I nodded quietly.

“But what did I do with that chance? What did I fucking do with it?” she let out a low wail. ” All I did was bring you misery and pain. I’m so sorry for that, Hutch. More than you’ll ever know.”

“You brought me a lot more – you gave me a lot more than that, Alice. You were there for me. Don’t underestimate how much I needed what you gave me.”

“Oh God, what I gave you….” She echoed my words. She moaned and rocked a little, her arms over her concave belly as though I’d said something to make her want to vomit.

“Alice?”

“I’m sick, Hutch. Really sick. The sort of sick that only has one end to it.” She said it as though she was trying on the expression for the first time. Trying it on for fit, hearing the truth herself as she said it out loud.

I didn’t react too much at what she’d said. Not at first anyway. I told myself that I wasn’t shocked, wasn’t even surprised. I mean – one look at her could have told anyone that she was sick, and had been for some time, even before the heroin abuse. I’d seen the sickness, the deep malaise, long before the heroin hadn’t I? I’d seen it in her eyes, in her face, in the way she had begun not to care for herself? Back when we were spending lost nights together and she feared that I was pulling away from her. I’d recognized the melancholy, the depression – the deep sadness in her then.

Maybe her descent into drug abuse was her way of beating the encroaching illness off with a stick.

The heroin had been more like an incendiary device. Combusting her internal pain into flames so that the illness tore like a raging fire through her whole body. Then after the heroin, she was worn down, hollowed out, her whole system ravaged.

“Alice, it’ll take time, a long while, to get your strength and health back. Maybe now is the time for you to find out why you turned to the drugs in the first place. You can get some professional treatment, some therapy. These days the medications for depression are  -” but she was already shaking her head before I got half way through.

“No, Hutch. Not that sort of sick. I’ve gotten over the drug abuse as best as I can and yes – you’re right. I’ve already been seeing a Psychiatrist. If I’d done that fifteen years ago maybe… ” She sighed wistfully. “But none of that is what I’m talking about. I’m sick from something else and now you have to say nothing and let me tell you what, because it’s so very hard for me to say it.” She drew a shaky breath. “When I have, you’re going to be angry and hurt and – I think also, very frightened.”

And then she told me.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

In her small apartment, while she sat huddled under a blanket, Alice told me. As she did, her hands fluttered about her, like some panic-stricken bird trapped in a net and I found it difficult to watch her. She seemed so – so distressed, almost as though she really was caught, pinned captive inside of something.  Each word she spoke caused her mouth to contort as though the very act of forming the syllables caused her agony.

While she talked, I sat rock still. On the inside I was anything but rock steady. Her recount of the past months was like a verbal roadmap. A chaotic and disjointed roadmap that was drawing us closer to a terrifying endpoint. As she closed in on the heart of the matter, I was mentally running in the opposite direction.

She told me that she had been seen by three specialists, numerous general practitioners before them, had been subjected to literally dozens of invasive medical tests, trialed with numerous drugs and treatment regimes – and then – at the end of it all – just that very week – she was given the same opinion, by three of the doctors.  It was their consensus that Alice had a terminal illness.

“It’s a new disease – though maybe it’s been around longer than we think because it’s only recently that doctors have been able to see the patterns. They’ve given it different names since they started finding more and more cases here in the US. It’s an immune disease. It takes away the body’s power to fight off disease and infection.”

I was reeling. I knew what she was going to say and where she was taking me with this horror replay of what she had endured.  I knew in the darkest, deepest part of me where she was going and I didn’t want her to take me there.

I delayed, I denied, trying to keep at bay what she was going to say for as long as I could. God knew, once she said it, my world was going to explode.

“A new disease? Something that you’ve caught or developed? How? When? Alice you said – ‘terminal’… for God’s sake?”

But I already knew.

“Hutch, there’s been a few stories in the papers about it. Maybe as a cop you’ve heard about it. The news is only starting to get out there now and people are scared. It’s called GRID, but the doctors have told me -”

There! She’d said it. Punched me in the gut with the cold reality of it.

I sprang to my feet, the label she had just given her ailment like a siren in my head. “I know about this disease. I know about it!” I shouted.

More than know about it, I had been quietly afraid of it, despite Starsky’s continued reassurance that it would not affect us.

People everywhere seem to be talking about it, even in the squad room. Each time the subject came up I automatically cringed at the crude commentary and gay bashing that the newsworthy subject invited. I absorbed the hatred of every word bantered about the squad room like it was a personal affront on my lifestyle, paranoid that my peers and the officers under me were taking slants at me when they belabored the topic, even though I knew my fears had no real basis.

Starsky and I had kept our relationship under heavy wraps to the best of our ability, but I suspected there were some who were not totally ignorant of the true nature of what we shared. For years in fact we had fielded the rumors. However, since the trauma of the shooting and the face that he was no longer working with me as a partner, the gossip had diminished almost to the point of disappearing. Starsky’s terrible ordeal had made even the worst of the rumormongers shut their mouths.

I would go home to Starsky after those days, sickened and upset by people’s reaction to the disease and the opinion of so many, that the male victims who contracted it, only got what they deserved.  Some nights it would take Starsky hours to calm me down, he himself so much more robust to the cruel and senseless prejudice that same-sex relationships attracted. His philosophy was that let them all be; the ignorant ones who would never understand our sort of love. It was just another thing I admired and loved about him, his ability to insulate himself from needless pain.

So, it was I, more than Starsky who followed the ruthless progress of the disease as it rose to increasing prominence in the media. I noticed that the snippets in newspaper columns were becoming larger and more frequent story pieces. This terrible new immune disease was striking down young men in their prime, specifically, homosexuals. I recalled the graphic images I’d seen on the wall in the men’s locker room at the gym (posted there anonymously, I suspect, by a concerned relative or friend of a victim who was wanting to raise awareness) of a body riddled in strange, raised purplish sores. I knew about the other symptoms too – respiratory distress, terrible chest infections, thinning hair, loss of weight, and wastage of muscle, body weakness….

I studied Alice still sitting across from me, with closer inspection, the catalogue of symptoms running through my head. Alice had this? As weak as she looked it seemed too difficult to believe.

How was it possible? It was found amongst homosexuals wasn’t it? So how could Alice…?

And then it came to me.

I pulled her to her feet far more roughly than I intended, indignant anger driving my actions. “Alice?” I shook her a little. “Do you think you’ve gotten this – this disease from me? That I infected you? Are you saying that because Starsky and I are  – ” I couldn’t seem to finish the sentence. I needed to hold onto something other than her for support. She was far too weak to hold me up. I stumbled a little to the side and put my hand on the back of the sofa, lightheaded and detached.  “But how? I’m not sick,” I said, although I felt that I might be violently so at any moment. Nausea rose up in my throat, the shock of what she was telling me, making my stomach convulse. “Is that why you didn’t want me anywhere near you tonight because you think I’m contaminated?”

The change in her expression was dramatic. She shook off my grip and groaned in despair. “Oh God no! Hutch no. You’ve got it all wrong!” she cried out. “Of course that must be what you’re thinking  – how stupid of me. I should have thought about it better before I blurted it all out. I’m such an idiot!”

“I don’t understand. Then what the hell are you saying? This thing – this GRID – it’s a disease of homosexual men isn’t it?” I was still shouting. “What else am I supposed to fucking think when you got your friend to get me here -”

It was Alice’s turn to take control of me and my shock induced state. “Hutch – just sit down will you? You look like you’re going to pass out. Sit down and let me explain a few things.” I fell backwards into the seat, my heart still pumping wildly. All of this was beyond my comprehension.

“Firstly,” Alice went on, “I’m not telling you any of this because I or the doctors, think that you might have given me this disease.”

“Then what are -?”

“Please, Hutch,” she said. “Let me explain. I can’t be sure of course, but the fact that you haven’t been at all sick over the course of the last year and a half or more would seem to suggest that you weren’t the person who gave it to me.”

“But you don’t know, and I don’t know that for certain – do we?”

Her shoulders sagged a little with the question. She knew I was correct. “No – you’re right. Nothing is certain of course. But – well it just doesn’t seem likely. Look at you. If you had this GRID back when we were intimate with each other, you wouldn’t be looking as healthy as you do right now.”

“People can carry diseases without getting the disease itself, like so many other diseases – right?” I was building myself up to a full meltdown. I could feel it in my pounding head and hear it in my strained voice.

“Look Hutch. There is more to this disease than it being frequently connected or spread by homosexuals. I’m an example of that.” She took a breath, watching me.

“What do you mean?” I asked a little sharply. “What you’re saying doesn’t fit the description of the disease -” I began. “Like the name says, its gay related. The ones dying are young men…”

“Yes, but it seems that it might not be just restricted to that group, not so specific. Sure gay men are the majority of cases showing up. But now there are new ideas coming out about how the virus or the disease works. That’s because there’s new information coming out about it every single day, with every new case that turns up. It seems that it affects other groups of people too. Not just homosexuals, not just young men. Others can get it too. Women. People like me. Drug addicts and – and prostitutes,” she laughed coarsely. “Seems I get double dibs on getting it.”

I tried to concentrate on what she was saying; to digest the information.

She could see my total bewilderment.

“Then have they been able to tell you how you got it exactly?” I was getting a little lost.

“No they haven’t. I’ll never know I don’t suppose. The doctors seem to think that I’ve most likely contracted this disease through having multiple sex partners – in unprotected sexual relations – or possibly from using contaminated needles when I was doing heroin.”

“Needles?”

“Yes. Blood in the cannula of the needle, maybe in the unclean syringe,” she looked down, shame and regret hidden from me as she lowered her face, but I knew it was there. I’d been there too. I didn’t have the regret like she did. Forrest had forced the heroin upon me of course. But I had the shame just the same. For a long time after I escaped from Forrest and Starsky got through the worst of the withdrawals. Shame that I still wanted the drug after it had been taken away from me.

“When – when I needed a fix so badly,” she said,  “I took whatever I could get, from wherever I could get it. Some of the time that meant sharing needles and drug paraphernalia with other users.”

A flashback image flickered across the screen of my mind. A dark, airless room with four men around me, one drawing up the juice, one keeping a grip on the tourniquet, one holding me in the chair, another laughing, smoking, getting off in his own sick way by watching my private torture/ecstasy. But there was only one person taking the needle, having it plunged repeatedly into the veins in my festering forearm. Me. No one else had been waiting in line for the needle. I’d been lucky then. Hadn’t I? Not like Alice. No one else but me got that needle. The party was all for me. Forrest had made sure of that.

Where was this disease eight years ago when I cried and begged for more of those needles that delivered the euphoric elixir? Those same metallic instruments of destruction that could well be the instigator of Alice’s demise

“Jesus Alice – if that’s the case then, how many people…” I was sideswiped by the implication of what she’d told me.

“I know. Bad enough that this disease affects young men in the gay community but at least if it really was restricted to just that one group then there might have been a way to contain it or stop the spread. But if it can be spread like this, like other viruses and illnesses – in more ways than we even know yet…” She shook her head, before brushing her hand across the air. “Hutch. You don’t have to understand this disease and everything about it tonight. And anyway, like I said, every day, the theories and the ideas change. If you want, you can take everything I have on it and read it over. I can even give you some contacts of people who know a lot more about it than I do.”

Dumbstruck by trying to align what I knew about GRID from the media coverage so far, with its personification by Alice, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear anymore horror facts about it.

“With all the new information there must be medical advancement, new treatment. A vaccine? A drug?” I said. I knew about the bad news, I wanted to know if there was any hope of some good news.

“No – there’s nothing. Not yet anyway,” she shook her head at me. It’s all so new and only now is there any money and attention going toward treatment options and research. These things take years to develop and trial they tell me. I don’t think it will be in time to help me even if they find something soon.”

“How – how bad is it?” I floundered. “I mean – you look and sound well enough. I know you’re too thin and very pale, but Alice, you really don’t look like some of the photos I’ve seen of some of the victims.”

“Well I guess I should be heartened by that,” she gave a small flash of a smile. “But what you see tonight as you look at me – that’s not all Hutch. It might be all that I’ll let or anyone else see, but I’ve got many other symptoms and all of them are bad news for me,” she said.

I thought about Alice’s skin, tight and smooth on her abdomen, creamy white across the hollow of her back, almost translucent across her breasts. Did ugly sores, tumorous stigmata rising from her naked flesh, now mar that pure skin?

Oh God. Alice….

I could barely allow myself to think about it.

Perhaps she was able to read my imagination, because her hand reached up to clutch the jacket of her pantsuit, pulling the collar closer around her neck and upper chest, covering any exposed skin. Her other hand went lower to smooth the cloth of her pants over her hips as if to ensure that the fabric was concealing her body.

“Also,” she was saying, her voice seeming to come from a distance like some surrealistic dream, “the symptoms flare up and then subside for a while. Two weeks ago I could barely get through a day. I’m lucky I didn’t lose my job. This week, things are much better. Tonight, for example, I have the same level of energy as I did three months ago,” she said. “And on some days, like today I can just about fool myself that I’m not really sick at all. That’s it all some terrible mistake or some really bad joke that life has played on me because of my dirty past.” Her breath caught with a strangled sob and my heart broke for her.

“Don’t say that Alice, no part of you or your life is dirty.” I reached out again toward her, but she held up her hands to ward me off. The tips of her fingers brushed against my arm. I felt it. She was solid and real. This was no bad dream.

“It’s the truth and you know it, Hutch. Everything about my life, since I came to LA, has been dirty. What I’ve done to earn a living, all the men – and women – I’ve done it with, where I’ve been and gone to do it. Everything dirty and bad, everything except you. You are the only good and decent thing about my life since I’ve been here.”

She was crying in earnest, tears slipping down her thin cheeks.

“How can I help you, Alice? I mean, they say you’ve got this illness, but you don’t really know for sure -”

“I have got it, Hutch,” Alice stressed, needing me to understand at least this much I suppose. “I wouldn’t be putting you through this if the doctors weren’t certain that I have it. I even know in myself there is no doubt that I have it,” she said, her thumb kneading the back of her knuckles on the opposite hand. “I gave up hoping there was a leeway of doubt weeks ago.”

“What can I do for you?” I asked again, my sense of helplessness profound.

“There is only one way for you to help me. I know you’ve already worked out what I need you to do. That is why I wanted to talk to you tonight. I should have told you weeks ago, but I’ve been busy facing up to the truth myself – and I had to wait to be certain. Now, I have to prepare you for what you have to face, ” she bit down hard on her lower lip, more tears welling in her eyes. “I need you to get the tests for the disease. It’s my responsibility to make sure that you do.”

“But the time frame? How is it possible when I haven’t seen you let alone be intimate with you for such a long time?” I asked, my tone incredulous.

“I know that Hutch, but the problem is I’ve got no real way of knowing how long I’ve had it myself, ” she said. “The doctors say that my symptoms suggest I’ve been sick for a long time. The real worry is that” – she paused, dragging in a lungful of air, “I don’t know for how long I’ve been infectious and – spreading it to others.”

To others, like me is what she meant and we both knew it. What she hadn’t said was hanging in the still air between us, like some sort of death noose.

“You’re saying that I might have been healthy when we had our – our – ” what to call what we’d spent doing all those nights, “time together, but that you weren’t?”

She nodded.

“And,” I continued, “during our time together, you may have infected me?”

“Yes.” It was no more than a whisper.

So, although I didn’t seem to be the cause of her death sentence, she could well be the cause of mine. I felt as though my head had been shot with a nail gun.

Alice threw back the last of her drink before pushing the empty glass hard into her breast. “I’m so sorry Hutch. Really, I am so very sorry. I could have been infectious since – God knows – way back into last year, maybe even earlier than that. Even as far back as when we met up again in that bar, that night when you were so sad and you came home with me for the first time,” she said, her forehead creasing with the effort of casting her mind back.

“No. No Alice. That can’t be possible- ”

“I didn’t think I was sick,” she didn’t seem have heard me, ” but I can remember feeling tired a lot of the time back then. Who knows for sure whether that tiredness was actually the earliest symptoms – ”

“That can’t be right. I’m perfectly fine. You said it yourself. I’m healthy. If I weren’t, I’d know wouldn’t I? I’d have some definite signs of the disease if -”

“Yes, you seem well but, you have to understand Hutch, this disease isn’t like a cold or the flu. The symptoms mightn’t show for a long time – ” She stopped, her voice torn with anguish.

“Still, I’d know,” I maintained. “Surely, I’d have some obvious signs.”

“Hutch! Listen! ” Her sharp tone cut right through by barricaded emotional wall. “We have been sexual partners, you and I. Even worse  – we had unprotected sex.”

Why did it suddenly sound so tainted? The way she said it? What Alice and I had shared?

“I know,” I said quietly.

“I can’t remember how many times for sure….but a couple of times back in the very beginning when you were apart from Starsky. Then again in that weekend in July when I came to you so strung out. I wasn’t that out of it though that I can’t remember that I begged you not to use a condom,” she winced. “I’d wanted to experience sex just once with someone I cared about, without a damn rubber….”

“I remember,” I said bleakly, hearing how hollow and defeated my voice sounded in the small room.

“I’ve hated myself every day since I got the diagnosis for making you put aside the condoms. I’m so stupid for insisting,” she was full of remorse. “I remember you wanted to…”

“It – it’s too late now, Alice,” I said, feeling like it really was. “It’s done with. It’s over…”

“Hutch, apart from the sex, there was all the other stuff too. We kissed, and touched, we shared, cups and glasses and – you – oh God Hutch – you cleaned up my vomit and my -” she was crying in earnest by then, “I’m not even sure what the hell you cleaned up, or put your hands on, or breathed in -” she looked down at her hands, rubbing her fingers. “I think I even scratched you – made you bleed.”

She was right. The scratches and the blood, the vomit, soiled sheets, the cuts on her feet, the shared saliva, the cum and the sweat… I fought down a violent gag reflex. Heroin withdrawal and sex mixed together.  Bodily excretions everywhere in one big poisonous cocktail. Someone should have warned Alice and me that it’s never a good idea if we wanted to avoid catching something – like the latest deadly immune disease doing the rounds of the city.

“That’s why I couldn’t have you touch me or be too close tonight,” she explained. “If there’s hope that you don’t have the disease yet then I can’t afford to put you at any further risk.”

Hope that I don’t have the disease. Is that all I had? A thin slither of hope. Jesus…

I scrambled to put the facts into a linear timeline.

From somewhere, someone or something in her life, Alice had caught this killer disease. It was inside of her every cell, slowly destroying her body’s defence system, laying her organs and her skin bare for invasion by the slightest virus or bacteria. Insidious and relentless the disease was also quiet, almost silent as it took the opportunity to spread from her body to others around her. She and I had been closely associated, sexually and intimately exposed to one another when the disease was a mounting force. Although I felt and looked well, apparently it counted for little.

Just because I didn’t seem sick at present didn’t preclude me from having the disease too. I could be as fucked over as Alice was and just not showing the symptoms yet. And if I had it – then – like Alice, I could spread it.

If I had it….

If I had it, how the fuck long had it been inside of me?

My thoughts followed on, down into the darkest pits of where my most basic fears were tamped down by rational and logical thought. The foundations of my psychological self-preservation were crumbling from under me. I couldn’t seem to brace myself against the ferocious force of my worst fear.

No…No…

My mind ignited with one realization and one only. I could have it. I could have this disease. I could be a walking time bomb, housing this evil in my blood and tissues since – since back in July or earlier. Not only could I have been housing it, but spreading it. Contaminating and killing – slowly killing – those closest to me.

NO…please no…

In the background, Alice was crying and moaning. She was begging me not to hate her for turning out to be one of the country’s earliest statistics of such a horrifying disease. Not to hate her for unwittingly putting me in danger and by that, unwittingly putting others in danger….

NO….

Later I would condemn myself for leaving her like I did, but at the time I had no hope of staying. I just had to leave, that is all I knew.  Alice’s sobbing was a receding ricochet as I rushed away into the night. I barrelled down the stairs to the street where I fell to my knees in the gutter, spewing up anguish and terror and rancid bile. Over and over, I strained by insides but couldn’t purge myself of the evil pain. My stomach stayed in spasm till I cramped up, slumping against the side of my car.

“No, no, no,” I banged my forehead against the cold car door, but the one thought, the one logical conclusion would not go from my head, no matter how hard I hit it against the unforgiving surface of metal.

I’d lied to him, I’d broken his trust, I’d hidden the truth from him and now….

Now I might very well have sentenced him to death.

Oh God, Starsky, what have I done?

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Closing in on home, I was mentally ticking off how much time I might have to get rid of at least the superficial evidence that the shock of Alice’s news had already had upon me – my clothes, reeking of my own vomit. It shouldn’t be a problem.

It wasn’t even seven yet and being a Monday evening it was Starsky’s regular late night home from the Foundation. I would get inside, strip off, shower and throw my soiled clothes in the washing machine. Then, I would put away at least two to three stiff drinks to dull at least a little of the shrieking fear inside of me. Beyond that, I had no other plans. It would be hard enough for me to accomplish even those necessary tasks.

Negotiating the corner only one block from my place, I pulled into the inside lane as I approached my building and what I saw was almost too much to take. I let out an incredulous groan.  “Seriously? I mean – fucking seriously? ” By the sharp turn of a passerby’s head I guessed it was loud enough to be heard out on the sidewalk. Maybe I hadn’t groaned so much as bellowed. I waited until the startled woman had moved on before layering up my reaction with a cracking smack of my open palm against the steering wheel – before repeating it for good measure. None of it helped. My hand was on fire and still, Starsky’s car was outside the apartment block.

“Unbelievable! Just your dumb, fucking luck, Hutchinson.” I wrenched the handbrake on with a vicious jerk. Starsky? Home already? On a night he shouldn’t be home already. Would it have been too much to ask for this night of all nights to be one of so many nights when Starsky was regularly detained late or even out at some fundraising function for the Foundation? I thought of all the other evenings when I’d arrive home from work, jaded and tired, wanting nothing more than to find Starsky waiting for me.  All those times, and he was never there. Now, the one time I wanted him nowhere in my vicinity, he was home.

For a few moments, I considered driving off again – but what would I hope to gain from that? Only delaying the inevitable. Tonight sometime, I had to face him. No, heading off again into the cold winter night was pointless. Besides, I felt and looked like shit, flattened by the news Alice had delivered me. I didn’t need to look in the rear vision mirror to see a face that I knew would be showing the impact of the shock. On top of that, there was the issue of my clothes and skin sending off wafts of stale vomit. When I was staggering to right myself up from the gutter I had managed to get the cuff of my jacket and the knee of my pants in my mess.  Where would I go looking and feeling like this and to what purpose?

No, I would just have to deal with Starsky. God knows there would be far more difficult scenarios in the coming week than the one I was about to have to manage with him when I walked into the apartment. I mounted the stairs, the lies and concocted stories percolating in my aching head. I was becoming a master of deceit and fabrication. Maybe I was working for the wrong side of the law, my considerable talents at dishonesty wasted as a cop. Maybe I should have been a conman, a grifter or maybe even a hustler. My business card should have read something else under job title and position than Lieutenant Hutchinson.

Mounting the stairs and standing outside the apartment’s door I soon realized that the car outside was no red herring. Not only was Starsky at home, but I could tell my the smell of cooking as soon as I opened the door, that he had dinner well underway. How much worse could it get I asked myself. When I caught sight of the coffee table set up with two squat candles, a bottle of uncorked wine and glasses, I knew the answer to that one. Karma was invading my universe. I was being handed everything I most loved and looked forward to in life just as I was neither worthy nor able to do anything with it.

“Hey, is that my big blond lover arrived home?” Starsky called out called from the kitchen where I could tell he was busy pulling something from the oven, “Bet you’re surprised that I’ve beaten you home.”

I felt like sinking to the floor in a heap when I heard him yell out to me. Surprised? More like devastated. Now what the hell on earth was I going to do?

“How come you’re early?” I called back weakly, standing frozen with indecision in the doorway. Should I turn around and bolt, or make a dash and lock myself in the bathroom before Starsky came out of the kitchen. Paralyzed, I stayed rooted to the ground.

“Got an early mark from work for a change and thought I’d make up for all the dinners I owe you,” Starsky’s voice sailed through from the other room. The oven door was slammed shut loud enough to have the kitchen floor vibrating, a familiar occurrence whenever Starsky was cooking. He had the same habit with the oven door that he had with any doors –  hooking it with his foot and pushing it closed with one brisk backward kick.  There was a clatter and a bang as he dropped the roasting dish on the counter with a squawking curse, “Damn it! That’s freakin’ hot.”

Then, before I was ready to confront him, he was at the divide between the kitchen and the living room, dishtowel over one shoulder and a smile as big as the sun on his face. Easing his body against the doorway, he was ready and open to greet me with our customary “Missed you all day babe… So pleased to be back with you,” kiss. Possibly of all our many different kisses it was my favorite one of the day. Not however on this night. Tonight I dreaded the very thought of him coming close, let alone honing in for our evening kiss. Even the sight of him was almost too much for me to bear.

“You’re just in time. Your healthy meal is almost ready. I did that whole baked trout dish with that grated lemon zest thing you like so much. Even got a bottle of white wine to go with it. I’ve outdone myself tonight Blintz.”

Not only was he home, waiting for me, with dinner prepared and wine ready, but he was full of happy, exuberant Starsky energy. And, he was totally unsuspecting of the deception that was standing in front of him in the guise of his loving partner. Feeling like I might spew all over again, I turned away quickly to cover my reaction. He was beside me almost straight away. I knew that he would have picked up on something as soon as I hadn’t gone to him for our usual kiss.

Wanting to get my jacket off before he could see the results of my recent encounter with my vomit in a dirty gutter, I wrestled with the sleeves a little too frantically. Just when I most needed calm efficiency, my moves resembled a comedy skit in pure Klutz and clumsiness –  as I was so often prone to in my weaker moments. Starsky, knowing my foibles and what they indicated would be taking it all in. Finally with my arms free of my constricting, stinking jacket, I made busy with getting my holster off; the soiled jacket bundled out of sight under my armpit.

“Bad day?” he asked softly, but with a sharp acuity unmistakable in his assessing gaze. I tried not to look at him, his watchfulness already kicking up my panic levels.  He was way too close, way too scrutinizing, way too coolly calm and ordered against my sweating awkwardness.  I could feel perspiration beading on my brow despite the crispness of the February night still on my clothes.  I tried to step past him, my plan to make aim for the bathroom where I could retreat for a shower and clean up, feigning a bad headache. An unoriginal cover to account for my behavior, but I couldn’t come up with anything else now he had me on the spot.

With the incriminating jacket behind my back I thought I was doing okay with hiding that part of the story from him at least.  If I were lucky, he wouldn’t see the mucky mess and I could retreat to the bathroom and rinse out the worst of it.

As usual I should have known not to underestimate my partner. Starsky’s arm shot out and grabbed me under the armpit. He moved nearer. With his nose wrinkling only fractionally, his frown told me that whatever game I was playing, was up.  He looked down at the offending jacket behind my back before he moved his gaze lower again to where the damp patch on the knee of my pants was still noticeable.

“Hutch? You’ve been sick?” He stepped closer and made a reach for my jacket as though that he knew it held the physical evidence.

Surprisingly I managed to be quick with my reflexes. I pulled my arm back determinedly. I held the jacket aloft and behind me, like some prized basketball over which we each sought possession. He couldn’t have it; I would not let him touch it. My panic levels went into overdrive. Vomit, bodily fluids, contact – contamination, infection cross spread…. A whole unwanted list of terminology concerning infectious diseases pounded in my skull while anxiety pounded even harder in my chest.

“Hutch?” Starsky was all concern now, reaching out to try and take my arm that I duly refused to give him. “What’s wrong babe?” Was he referring to my rather bizarre behavior with the jacket or my appearance?

I was making a total cockup of the whole thing, drawing more attention to my internal chaos and me than if I’d just admitted outright that I’d been sick.

Maybe you’re not such a great pretender, after all Hutchinson.

I was feeling so damn needy and precarious it was hard to hold myself back from what I knew from experience that Starsky could so easily give me. Those dark blue eyes blazing with worry, and all of it for me drew me in like a flailing boat to a bright beacon. Starsky was always my port in the storm for when I felt messed up about things and needed to take shelter.  But not this time. This time, I couldn’t go to him no matter how much I longed to do so.

Stick to the plan Hutchinson. Don’t cave into those beautiful eyes and that loving look. Ride it out…

“I’m unwell that’s all. I’ve got some vomiting virus that I’ve just picked up at work – it’s going around the station. I just feel lousy and don’t want to give you anything.”  That much was true at least – if there were a chance I hadn’t already filled him with my poison, I would do everything to protect him now. “I thought I’d dodged getting it. Then tonight, on the way home, it hit me out of the blue. I had to pull over – chucked my guts up in the gutter and,” I looked down at my jacket and pants,  “- and well -”

“Aww Hutch – you never mentioned a virus at work. Why the hell didn’t you stay home and do some paperwork to try and avoid it?” Starsky managed to get a grip on my arm, despite my attempts to deflect him, and directed me toward the sofa. “Here, sit down, give me that jacket and I’ll put it out in the wash.”

“I just want to take a shower Starsk, get these stinking clothes off -”

“You sure you’re okay to do that? You’re not feeling too weak? You look terrible,” he asked, his voice solicitous, his grip on me a little too firm, his questions a little too discerning.

“I’ll feel better once I clean up. I’m sorry Starsk.”

How sorry, I couldn’t begin to tell him.

“Why ya’ sorry, dumb head?” he was all affection as he ruffled my hair very lightly, screwing up his nose. “You think I care that you smell like rancid milk mixed with ten day old tuna?”

Only Starsky could say that and make me want to smile. But, not tonight.

“No, I’m sure you don’t care, though, I’m sorry about that too. I meant I’m sorry about the dinner you’ve prepared. You’ve got home early to make it, and I’m like this.”

“The dinner? Jeez Blintz, that’s not important here. What’s important is that you’re ill, and you need some TLC. Let’s get you undressed and into the shower. Hopefully, we’ve got some soda I can let go flat – ” he paused, frowned at my sweating brow, held the back of his hand up against it, “and get you some aspirin. You could have a fever too.”

“I don’t have a fever.”

“You’re sweating, and it’s cool in here,” he said, “but you don’t feel hot.”

That’s because I’m frozen inside. Cold, desolate and terrified, and sweating buckets with fear.

“Once I shower I’ll be better. I just want to get clean.”

I’ll never be clean.

He herded me into the bathroom, and stood me by the bath, holding onto me like I might fall.  I tried to pull away, his proximity and touch once again alarming me.  He persisted in his actions. I gave his hand a definite shove. He looked at me sharply, the first sign of confusion on his face. “What? You’re gonna tell me that you’re fine to do this by yourself?”

“Of course I’m all right!” my voice rose, “I got home didn’t I? Just because I’ve thrown up hardly means I’m incapable of showering myself.”

“Who cares if you are,” he shrugged, unbuttoning my shirt, “I’m here to make sure of that.”

He could be so damn infuriating when he got like this. “Starsky, I meant it before. I don’t want you getting this thing off me.”

He looked like he only half bought what I said but said nothing to challenge me, only went on with his efforts. He pulled my shirttails out with one hand while he leaned across and turned on the water with the other. “I’ll get the shower nice and warm, have you freshened up in no time.”

He moved back to finish helping me unbutton my shirt before getting down on his knees, his fingers unbuckling my belt.  I couldn’t take looking down at him, seeing the top of his head. “I can undress myself. It’s just a simple virus.”

“So if it’s just a simple virus why the big deal about worrying if I get it. I want to do this, and I’m doing it, so just shut up will ya?”

He undid the waistband of my pants, pulled down the zipper, eased the legs of the pants down to pull them over my socked feet. The position he was in and what he was doing for me would have been almost comically suggestive if I hadn’t been feeling so goddamn wretched. His face was up against the rancid stain on my knees, but rather than pull back in distaste at the smell, he stayed where he was and moved his hands upwards. Wrapping both of his hands around my now bared hips, he held tight and looked up at me with nothing but genuine sympathy and not an ounce of sexual suggestion. “I hate to think of you out there in the cold in some dirty gutter, alone and sick while I was happy and warm in the kitchen at home…”

God, how this man got to me. Was there ever a limit to the times he could surprise me with the power of his unpretentious honesty? His unique capacity to endear me with his simple, off the cuff, entirely unaffected declarations could so often wring my heart out?

“I’m okay Starsky. Really. It’s just a passing thing. I’ll get over it.”

That was probably the biggest lie I told him that night.

The virus that had possessed Alice’s body and possibly mine too was not a passing thing to be gotten over.

Starsky directed me under the shower, waited to make sure I was stable in my footing and then bent down to gather up my dirty clothes.

“So how long is this virus supposed to last do you know?” He asked as watched me plunge my head into the steaming water.

Having already worked that part out I was able to answer without hesitation. “Some of the guys said that they felt off for up to forty-eight hours – maybe even longer. ” I’d figured that two days would give me time to see a doctor and get some of the medical tests Alice had mentioned. Hopefully, I could use the lingering symptoms of the virus as a deterrent to keep Starsky at bay, begging out of physical contact because I felt nauseated or run down. Knowing Starsky, the fear alone of contracting what he assumed was a simple vomiting virus might not be enough to have him keep his distance from me. He’d already proved that in the past half hour, as well as countless times over the years whenever I had been ill.

“Two days or more? If you are sick for that long, you’ll need to go in and get something for nausea and vomiting.”

Shower finished, I stepped out of the tub a little gingerly, genuinely lightheaded from nausea and the big throw up, no food since breakfast and the hot water. Starsky was on hand to help me to towel off. He helped me into my bathrobe and continued to stand watch while I moved to the hand basin to brush my teeth and towel dry my hair.

“Feeling a little better?”

“God yes.” I did feel at least a little better.

“You finish up here and I’ll go turn down the bed and get you out something to put on. It’s cold tonight. ” We normally slept naked and I was grateful that he had mentioned me wearing some PJs or tracksuit pants. I needed as much of a physical barrier between us as I could get.

I brushed my teeth and gargled, spitting the last of the rancid bile residue down the drain, half mesmerized by the swirling froth of water as it disappeared. I had gotten this far. All I had to do now was get to bed and turn out the light so that I wouldn’t have to keep looking at Starsky’s face or hear his voice. My ability to hold myself back from him was becoming less and less tenable with every moment he was near me. If I relented and went to him, I feared what my anxiety would force me to do. The more my panic mounted, the more risk I was at of unloading onto to him the dirty truth of my betrayal and the terrible consequences of my secret liaison with Alice.

He was moving about in the bedroom, busy making everything as comfortable for me as he possibly could. I didn’t deserve the smallest fraction of this man’s care and attentive loving. I wasn’t worthy of the tiniest piece of neither his kindness nor the trust he bestowed on me.

I leaned over the basin and gripped the edge of the cold porcelain with an effort to push away memories of another time. Thirty years ago when my fingers were gripping the cold metal of an old pocket watch as I sat huddled in the cold barn beside my grandfather.

Once again I remembered how it felt to be an untrustworthy eight-year-old who had stolen his best friend Billy’s pocket watch. Heartless. As guilty and heartless,  as I was now. Guilt piled on guilt, starting from when I’d first embarked on a strange sort of liaison with Alice after Starsky had turned me out till the weekend she spent with me while Starsky was in San Francisco. While she’d battled to come off the heroin she’d come on to me. And, I’d let her. I’d allowed her. I’d even fucking enjoyed it! Hadn’t I? Had I?

The guilt was corroding my heart and eating away at my soul. Just as my grandfather had warned me it would. Whatever emotional integrity I still had, was cracking and crumbling.  Soon I would be, hell maybe I already was, as brittle and corroded as those old horseshoes that had hung in Grandfather’s barn. My heart was nothing more then a rusted out, lifeless vessel. My image wavered in the bathroom mirror and for a moment I thought I could sense a presence over my shoulder. But there was no one there. No Grandfather in the room with me to appease my pain or erase my self- damnation. No one to give me hope that in the end, I might be a worthwhile sort of person.

Doomed. I was doomed. I could, I should, walk into the bedroom right then and there and tell Starsky everything.

But I knew I couldn’t – knew I wouldn’t because not only was I rusted up inside from guilt and remorse, I was a coward. If I could be honest with myself, for even a moment, I had to admit what made me the most afraid. I was more frightened of missing a single moment with Starsky than I was of letting him down in my responsibilities and duties as a friend. I would lose him of course. Eventually, but not just yet. I was nowhere ready to cope with it.

Afterward, when Starsky had seen to tucking me in, water and aspirin by the bed and a long goodnight kiss pressed to my forehead, despite my protests, I lay awake listening to him. I could hear him moving about, trying to be quiet, sitting at the kitchen table with his solitary dinner, leafing through documents or papers as he ate. If I walked out, I knew I would find him picking gingerly at the fish dinner, braving a bite here and there. Poor Starsky. Fish was never his favorite meal, and he usually suffered it for me – now most of it would end up in the bin.  Later, still wide-awake, I heard him scraping off his plate of unfinished food into the trash, and rinsing out his wine glass. Laying there in the half dark those sounds and their representation of Starsky’s solitude and the distance between us filled me with incredible sadness.

Long after Starsky prepared his bed on the sofa, checked in on me as I feigned sleep, and turned out the lights, I still I kept thinking of him sitting at the kitchen table by himself.  I couldn’t get the image of Starsky at the table by himself trying to eat a meal he didn’t want while I lay in bed by myself attempting to fall into a sleep I didn’t want either. Sleep would only mean that when I woke up again I would have to face afresh the horrors of the truths I had learned that night. .

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

I went to work the next morning, refusing to listen to Starsky’s urges that I take it easy for the day and stay at home. I made it clear that although I still felt off color, my presence at the coalface was necessary. “Remember I told you about that taskforce I’ve been given the responsibility of shaping up? I have to go in Starsk. Just desk work and paper pushing so if I don’t feel too good, I can pack it in and head back home. I at least have to go in and get the ball rolling.”

I’d been up since five, giving up on fooling myself that I had a chance in hell of sleeping more than a few snatches of half hour dozes through the night. Exhausted and wrung out from a long night of catastrophic calculations and nightmare studded fits of sleep, I’d showered as quietly as I could and wrapped my self in a thick warm robe. Starsky was still deeply asleep on the sofa, curled into a fetal position with his face pressed into the back of the couch just as he liked to suffocate himself up against my bare back. The sight of him had made me instantly emotional, and I tore myself away from my close study of his sleeping form to go to the kitchen and prepare myself some coffee. Despite no dinner the night before I still had no appetite but needed the caffeine shot. I took the steaming mug cradled in my hands out onto the balcony and sucked in the briskly cold, post- dawn air.

It had been my intention to get dressed and prepared for work and be ready to leave before Starsky was even up. Tuesdays were commonly late starts for him after his usual late Monday nights, and I was determined not to be available for conversation or examination by him while he had a leisurely breakfast.

Not that I had a plan. I didn’t. My only idea for the moment was delay tactics and avoidance. To hide under a rock shivering and shaking and waiting for what was the next terrible thing to jump out and grab me by the neck. I knew I had to do something. I knew I had to find out whether and to what extent this sickness had invaded my system. That was the first half of the dreaded steps. Then there came the rest. The waiting, the wondering if I had it and if I did, had I passed it on to Starsky? In between all of that I had to find the courage to do the impossible. Tell Starsky.

I’d spent a half hour out on the balcony with my thoughts- black with dread and despair my body cycled through bouts of shaking with the cold fear and overheating with burning shame and self-hatred.

So, despite Starsky’s anger when he woke enough to realize I was actually at the point of snapping on my holster to leave for work, I managed to dodge all of his concerns and leave the apartment early. I’d made it to the work, not feeling sick from a vomiting virus as Starsky was still under the impression I had suffered from, but sick all the same and increasingly so, from panicky nerves.

All the way into the precinct I tried to push away the calamitous worry and focus on some action steps. What first? How? Who?

I realized how utterly wrong I had been to beat a cowardly retreat from Alice’s place the previous evening. One, it made me seem like a prize winning bastard who couldn’t stand to stay and deal with her what she had to tell me. That was bad enough. But two, it meant that I had left her without finding out what I needed to know about getting the necessary diagnostic and medical tests.

Alice in her infinite wisdom and sensible womanly way had no doubt worked all this out ahead of me. When I walked into the foyer of the precinct, the duty sergeant caught me as I pushed through the swinging doors from the parking garage. “Ah Lieutenant Hutchinson, good morning. Could you wait a moment please?” she called out to me in her almost sing-song voice just as my foot found the first stair. Damn! I was barely able to cope with myself let alone whatever it was she wanted of me. With my back against her, I closed my eyes, sorely tempted to keep on walking as though I hadn’t heard her.

Starsky was probably right. I should have rethought my decision to come into work – not because I was suffering from what he thought was a vomiting virus, but because, I was trying to cope with too much overload of stress and the unknown. I turned back around, my exasperation just below the surface. “What is it?” I sounded like I felt – moody and restless.

“Before you disappear up those stairs, there’s something here for you to collect, and you’ll need to sign it out.” She held up a standard sized envelope, my name written in bold print on the front. I turned around to face her, exasperated at having been stopped.  “Can’t you just have it delivered up to my inbox with my other mail?”

The duty sergeant drew her lips into a tight line and dropped the envelope back down onto the desk. “Sure, I can do that Lieutenant. Sorry to bother you – as you walked past,” she said, making no effort to hold back her feelings about my behavior.  “A man made an effort to get this here for you in person. He made it known that it was important for you to get it. Given that, I thought that I should inform you about it.” She said with less than subtle contempt. “I can easily toss it in with the rest of your dozen or more memos that are already waiting here for you to read.” She let the envelope drop to the desk with a slap.

I stepped back down the stairway and came over to her. “I’m sorry – ” I took a quick look at her name badge, prepared to pacify her with some behavior that was a little better than out rightly rude – if I could dredge it up. “Ah -,” I peered more closely at her tag. Damn, how could I forget her name? ” – Marie. You’re right of course. Who delivered it do you know?”

Hand delivered parcels or envelopes were always of some concern to cops, and even the distraction of my private hell didn’t make me immune exercising some caution.

My improved demeanor did the trick. She gave me the edge of a pleased smile. “He was only here about fifteen minutes ago. I’m always vigilant about these sorts of non-standard deliveries as we are trained to be… but it appears to be an ordinary letter of sorts. Left his name – ah wait.” She looked down at a pad, running her finger down the list. “Oh yes – a Mr. Robert Morgan – nice man. And, he did say that it was important and confidential.”

“Thanks, Marie,” I turned the envelope over with exaggerated casualness, trying to look less like I was holding a hot poker in my hands, which is what it felt like. So, another message from Alice via her friendly support man, Mr. Morgan? Could the message it be any worse than the last?

It was an effort to keep my pace measured and not rush up the stairs straight to the restrooms to where I was headed. I wanted no disturbances when I opened what was in my hands. Inside a stall, with the door locked, I ripped the flap open and found a covering note that I quickly scanned down and saw was from Alice.  Beneath it there was a single sheet of paper with what seemed like three names, with addresses and phone numbers alongside each one.

I blew out some pent up air and then thought how much I had over-reacted. What the hell else did I imagine would have been inside this normal sized, slim, envelope? Damning photos of Alice with me that she would against me to destroy Starsky? Close ups of her ravaged, emaciated naked body showcasing the potent destruction of this disease as a way of scaring me into action?

My paranoia was running rampant, fed by an abundant supply of remorseful shame and quiet terror.

Her letter was only short, and I read it quickly once and then again more slowly.

 

……..Hutch,

I know you left here last night upset and confused, and I am sure, very frightened. All of your reactions and feelings are perfectly normal and understandable. Honestly, I would have been surprised if you had not reacted so strongly to the terrible news I gave you. Maybe, hopefully, you will be able to see me again, and I can get the chance to talk to you more about it. For now though, you need some space and time to work through the initial shock.

Despite how you might be feeling, you need to consider the urgency in getting some of the tests done that I mentioned to you. Hutch, there is no time to be wasted, as I am sure you understand. I have enclosed three contacts for you – and where you can find each of them. The person listed first is well known to me, and I know that he will be willing to see you as a matter of priority. I hope Hutch that you will find the time to give him a call today. It is so important that you don’t just put this matter aside or hide away of what you have to do, not just for yourself Hutch – but for Starsky.

 

My hand jerked on the paper at the grim implication of Starsky’s name in Alice’s letter of advice to me. Why did she have to bring Starsky into this? Didn’t she think that I knew all of this? Yes she knew, just didn’t think that I would have faced up to yet.

I quickly read the rest of it.

 

….I know how very hard the next days are going to be for you. I’ve been there too remember, so please don’t think I’m patronizing you. I know you probably hate me right now for dropping this news at your feet. But – at least I am giving you a warning – something no one gave me. Perhaps you won’t get through the hate you feel for me, and I will have to accept that too. I’m getting good at learning to accept all sorts of things lately. Still, I had to tell you Hutch. I had to tell you – for you and for the man I know that you love with all your heart.

 

I clenched the paper hard for a second time, the spark of anger replaced by deep heartache.

 

……..You know you can call me if you need or want to talk – or you know where to find me. Each day between nine and one you can reach me at 509 -2987 which is the bookstore where I work most weekdays – unless I am not feeling well enough to go in.

All my Love,

Alice

 

Discreet and mindful, the note omitted any identification of the contacts she had provided as being doctors or health care professionals that I had no doubt they all were.  In fact, she had made no discernible reference to indicate that the subject concerned a medical situation. Feeling stupid and ashamed that I had even suspected that she would have sent me anything crass or incriminating to my workplace, I told myself to pull it together and to have more faith in Alice.

Now what? I’d come into work with no real organized plan in mind, just headed here more as a way of needing a place to think than with any intention to work. However, although I had fronted up at the precinct, there was no way I could be constructive with anything until I had begun to organize the chaos in my head.

I pocketed the envelope and headed to my office. Not a lot of people were around just yet. It was still shy of eight o’clock. Alice had evidently sent Robert Morgan out on an early delivery errand; no doubt anxious for me to get the information I should have taken with me the previous night. It was up to me not to waste Morgan’s time and Alice’s good intentions to walk me through the first part of this nightmare.

Before I could change my mind and lose the tiny sliver of courage I had, I picked up the phone to call the first number on Alice’s list.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

I got off the phone to the doctor’s secretary feeling surprised. Maybe there was something to be said about being a likely candidate for this controversial new disease. Or perhaps Alice had already primed the doctor about my possible call for a consultation. Whatever the reason, if any, I was offered a time slot that very day, just before midday.  With less than four hours to the appointment, I felt it was both way too soon for my liking and too damn long to bear the wait.

The lengthy interview with the specialist physician would have been enough to leave me shaken, but the physical examination with him after it was ten times worse. The probing questions and even more probing gloved hands left me feeling exposed, vulnerable and altogether powerless.

By the time I went downstairs for blood tests and x-rays, I had all but succumbed to feeling dehumanized. It wasn’t as if the medical personnel were treating me poorly or distastefully. They were only doing their job and following procedure. It was more the nature of the process. This illness was sordid in every way. From what it did to people, to how it found new hosts, and what was necessary in order to diagnosis it.

All of it was awful, and all of it made me feel like shit. Like the shit I was, I guess, because by this stage that was how I was viewing myself.

It was when I was getting dressed again after the chest x-rays that I gave myself a mental kick in the ass. I realized then that what I was enduring and feeling was probably only a fraction of what Alice had been going through the past months. How much worse must it be for her? Alice knew for sure that she had the disease. She was already living out her death.

I’d been requested to return to the doctor’s room back upstairs once I had finished with my tests – “for a final chat.”

As doctors went, this guy had been okay.  I’d figured that it wasn’t easy for him either. Consulting with patients about the possibility of them having a new killer virus put him at a distinct disadvantage in the popularity stakes with his patients. But, he did his best to make me feel comfortable and respected, in spite of the unfavorable context.

He had been matter of fact with me, and surprisingly liberal and pragmatic in his approach. From the opening of the consultation, he made it known that, notwithstanding patient confidentiality issues, he understood that Alice and I had been intimate. It surprised me how quickly he dealt with that issue and her background as a prostitute.  When he spoke, he had the manner of someone who could not be surprised or shocked easily.  I wondered if it was his profession in general that had made him like this or whether it was the more recent stress of dealing with this new disease? Whichever, his every move and expression seemed bridled by the weight of his demanding responsibilities.

In turn, I was honest with him about my lifestyle and sexual orientation. I told him about my committed (yeah sure – “committed.”  I could almost hear his thoughts even if he didn’t raise an eyebrow when I used the term) relationship to Starsky.  I talked about how Starsky went through a hellish recuperation that contributed to him wanting to separate from me and in my loneliness; I drifted into “something” with Alice. Did I need to tell him all of that? Would he really want to know or need to know why I did what I did? Either way I told him, and he listened without rushing me and I felt just a little bit better for having put it all out there.  If he had any thoughts on how paradoxical or ironic that an active homosexual had come to him because he’d thought he may have caught GRID from another woman, he never made mention of it. Maybe he’d seen too much to be even remotely fazed by my recount.

After the tests downstairs I made my way back to his office. The medical secretary gave me a smile when I returned, but like the doctor she radiated a somber, world-weariness. I guessed she too must feel the strain, being at the frontline so to speak of the practice. In the corner of the waiting room I located the staple pile of two-year-old National Geographic’s, and I picked up the top copy and settled in a chair. Trying not to look at my watch was as difficult as pretending to read the magazine.

There was only one other person in the waiting room besides me. He’d looked at me once briefly when I’d come in the door but since then he had kept his head bent down, staring at his hands. Every time I glimpsed up from my magazine to look at the doctor’s door or across at the secretary who smiled at me intermittently, I studied him a little more. Young – perhaps mid-twenties, he was dressed and groomed impeccably, and would be, when in better health, good looking. There was no mistaking that, even given his current haggard appearance.  Now, however, he was far from well. His face was gaunt, very pale and very frightened looking. Despite what I hoped were subtle techniques of quiet observation honed from years of professionally staking people out, I know he sensed me measuring him up. Apparently I had made him feel uncomfortable with – what? My morbid curiosity? Was that it? At one point he locked eyes with me and I offered him a courteous nod.

After that he made sure to keep his head down and fixed. I felt inexplicably sad for him. Where was he, partner? His family, friends? Anyone for God’s sake? This wasn’t just an average appointment at the doctors. This guy was not well. After my earlier words with the Doc I was starting to get the feeing that I was not so stupid to realize that he was seriously sick – and yet he was all by himself. Was he alone just like Alice?

He moved on his chair restlessly, as though pain was coursing through him. I was about to ask him if he was okay when he exploded into a hacking cough. He fought for air; his face contorted as he tried to co-ordinate a breath between a series of dry crackling inspirations. A memory sprang unbidden into my head. It was still all too vivid for me. All those long nights that I had sat with Starsky, his back against my supporting chest while he struggled and gasped against his weakened lungs and I kept my arms wrapped about him, not too tight but enough to let him know that I was there for him. Who was here for this young man? Who would offer him comfort and support in his darkest hour.

As I asked myself those silent questions, he pulled himself up higher in the waiting room chair before covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. I couldn’t turn my back on his exasperated moan just before another series of coughs rose up in his thin chest. He doubled over at the waist, rocking back and forth in effort to breathe. “Sorry – I’m sorry – can’t help it,” he gasped, lifting his head to look at me? Was he? Was it really me he was looking at between coughing jags? Even is such a terrible state; his self-consciousness was acute. I felt the punch of it in my lower gut and wanted to go to him to help him.

I stood up and walked maybe six big paces toward him. “Here, let me support your back -”

His reaction was instant. It was as though I had raised a hand to strike him, not help him. “NO! Please – just – just go back there. No – no help. I’m – nothing you can do. I can’t have you touch -” he was cut off by another round of savage respiratory distress. It was too much for me to take – to stand there knowing what he was feeling, knowing what it had been like for Starsky – I couldn’t just leave him alone like that. “Don’t be stupid, you need some water at least, or -” I kept walking toward him.

He eyed me like I was a rabid dog circling before an attack. When I advanced one more step and reached out my hand, it tipped him over. He jumped up, coughing and stumbling, and ran to the door. Dumbstruck, I watched him struggle with the doorknob before he pulling it open and rushed out.

I stood looking at the door for a few moments, unsettled by his dramatic response and his abrupt departure. Was he fleeing from me or trying to protect me? I looked over at the glass partitioning beyond which the secretary was sitting at her desk. She was looking at me with sympathetic understanding. “Don’t take it personally. Sometimes it is just too hard for him to face people.”

“But – he was struggling to get a breath – ” I began and then stopped.

She tipped her head a little to the side and drew her mouth back in a tight line, silently acknowledging my mild distress. He’s just another victim that can’t be helped even if you think you can. But, she said nothing before she went back to her work, effectively closing me out, closing down the subject.

Her actions reminded me of all the times I had to play usher to inquisitive onlookers at a murder scene in a public place. With my badge held up in front of me, I would ward off the milling crowds, using my body and widespread arms as the only barrier to cordon off the site until the forensic tape went up.

Nothing to be done or to be seen here folks. Move along.

Taking her cue, I returned to my seat.

I hated this. I hated being part of this. I hated all of it.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

I took my distressed feeling about the young man with me when the doctor called me back into the room. I think the doctor was astute enough to pick up on it.

“How did you fair with the tests?” he asked, me eyeing me over his glasses as I took a seat opposite him once more.

“The tests?” I asked vaguely. “They were fine. There was – in the waiting room out there. A young man. He looked so sick.  He seemed…” I hesitated, knowing  it was pointless to ask anything about him.

The doctor cast his eye down to his appointment book, skimming his gaze over the patient list. He looked back up.

“I see,” he said, pulling off his glasses to clean them with a cloth he pulled from his pocket.

“Is that how – is he one of the – ”

How to ask it? I changed tact.

“Could I be – would that be how it is -?”

I knew the doctor understood what I was trying to ask him.

“I can’t tell you that, Detective,” the doctor cut me off from whatever it was I was trying to get out.

“Can’t tell me what?” I asked, the strain in my mood making me sound a little desperate. “Tell me about him or tell me if that is how it will be for me?”

“I think that you are asking me both questions. I cannot talk about the young man outside, and I can’t tell you what might lie ahead for you either – at least not yet.”

“Then tell me something will you!” it came out like a shout. “I have to have something to make this torment of – of not knowing, end.

“Mr. – Detective, Hutchinson,” the doctor said, putting his glasses back on and   “let me be perfectly honest here.”  “I won’t do you any favors or help the larger community to get on top of this virus if I sit here and peddle you bullshit. You have to know the truth. Even if you don’t like to hear it.” He eyed me levelly over his glasses, the eyes behind them dull with fatigue. I can’t tell you if you have GRID – not until all the tests are back.”

“I understand that. But, look doctor; surely you must have a gut feeling? You’ve seen enough of these cases now I think. What was it you said before? This month alone you’ve had six new cases of GRID. Surely some of them came to you because they were already sick?  I’m perfectly well  -”

He shook his head. “Even without overt symptoms, you could have it in the early stage. I can’t even tell you for sure whether you are at risk of getting it because we still don’t know exactly how the disease gets spread from person to person.  This is how it is with any new virulent strain of a disease. Just when we think we have the answers, a new angle will prove us wrong.  There is also the factor that there are always individual resistances and immunities. What might have caused it to spread from one person to another, doesn’t necessarily mean you could contract it in the same way.”

He had talked at length to me about the theories of transmission from one affected person to another. Promiscuous and unprotected sex seemed to be the common factor topping the bill for increasing the risk of spread of the virus. What did he think of those people who came to him having developed the disease because of their personal lifestyle or habits? I thought about how Starsky and I had changed over the years in our career as cops. In the end both of us had become disillusioned with the whole subculture of criminals who enticed and lured others to a life of addiction and eventual death? Did the doctor feel a similar disillusionment with his patients? Nothing he had said or done so far had indicated that to me.

There was no certainty of anything. Not till my results were back in – and that would take a week – maybe more. A whole fucking week to wait to hear whether I was going to die or not? Whether I had sentenced Starsky to the same fate? I almost thought I would walk out of his office there and then. What damn good was he to me if I had to endure such an unfathomable timeframe? I knew my thoughts were unreasonable. Of course, I had to wait for test results. Still, I had fooled myself into thinking that I would leave the appointment with an answer either way. Then I could begin to digest the reality of my situation. But to wait for so long seemed such a hard ask.

“So no answers yet.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more definitive. I imagine it must be highly anxiety provoking for you to have to live like this not knowing.”

“Then can you at least, tell me something,” I leaned forward, wanting to see his expression as I asked the question. “It’s all I’ve thought about since – since Alice told me. Could – could I have,” it was difficult to voice it, “passed this on to Starsky?”

“Sergeant Hutchinson,” he said almost gently, “let me turn this around and ask you something instead.” He sounded as though he was being extraordinarily patient with me when he didn’t really have the energy. “I’ve spent only a brief time with you today, but it is not difficult for me to discern that you are an intelligent and insightful man. Your job is largely about deduction isn’t it? A homicide detective?”

I said nothing to that. He went on. “I think you know enough about this disease to put the scientific facts and the findings together. You’ve already told me that you and – Ah, Starsky,” he mentally searched for the name and found it.  I was inordinately grateful that he did. I don’t think I could stand to hear Starsky relegated to some nebulous term like “him” or “your friend” – not in this extreme situation,  “share a full and satisfactory sexual relationship. That is the case isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then, knowing that, are you truly going to sit there and ask me that question?”

His challenge hit me hard, the starkness of it so sharp it hurt and angered me at the same time. For a moment, I was torn between grabbing him by the throat and breaking down in tears. He had effectively thrown my guilt back in my face.

“If – if we’d used condoms, would he have been safe?”

“Did you? Do you,” he asked,  “use condoms each and every time you have penetrative sex with him?”

Myriads of snapshots of Starsky’s and my sexual activities sprang to mind. We loved so deeply, enjoyed each other so intensely – fucked so frequently…

All those slow and gentle times when making love to each other was our goal and not sex. Then? No, we never used condoms, just melted into the moment as passion took over. And what about the other times? Times when we both demanded roughness, raunchiness, hard, fast, bordering on brutal, overpowering sex. Had we ever stop or slowed down enough to roll on a rubber? Could we have even stopped the freight train of our full on lust, our need to fuck each other into tomorrow?

There in that quiet, clinical doctor’s office, I could almost hear my cries of exultation as my orgasm, and then Starsky’s, exploded within a small space of time from each other.  In my mind I saw the streams of my creamy cum as they arced over our chests and bellies – sometimes straight down Starsky’s throat, where he would swallow it all down, happy to take every drop of it.

Dear God. Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t I know sooner about Alice? Could she have told me any earlier? Could she?

The doctor was waiting for me to answer though I’m sure he knew it already.

“No,” I could barely whisper, a reluctant witness on the stand, relaying the sordid truth that damned me to hell.  “No – we rarely use condoms. We – because we are -”

“Committed? Yes, you said.” And this time he did give me a look over his glasses that told me what he thought of my self-denial.

“I never planned on – that weekend when she came to me when she was on the heroin …I never knew Alice and I would, they it would lead to – ” I stuttered, hearing how utterly inane and stupid I sounded. What was I trying to do? Justify my infidelity? Excuse it away as an act of compassion to Alice? Why not? I’d been doing that in my head for the past six months hadn’t I? Might as well keep up the puny self-defense.

“That’s the whole problem Detective. We never do tend to plan when it comes to sex or passion.  Unfortunately for all of us, that is what this virus thrives on.”

“What should I do until I get the results back?”

“In what way?” he asked me.

“I mean, with my partner – with Starsky? How will I keep him safe – if it’s not too late that is?” I wanted him to give me something to hang onto – a little bit of hope in my black pool of despair.

“Minimize all close contact that involves bodily fluids or secretion – skin to skin contact, touching each others blood, semen, saliva. Like I said – research is still not conclusive on all the ways or the only means that the virus is transmitted.”

“A whole week or more? Living with him and not -” I shook my head. “You don’t understand, Doctor.”

“Ah, but I do Detective,” he countered. “I understand that we know at least that sexual intercourse is definitely one of the most significant means by which this disease is spread.

“Starsky and I – we share a close relationship, very close – it would be impossible not to touch or be near him for that long without him knowing that I was hiding something from him.”

“My advice would be for you to tell him immediately, not wait for the results.”

“I can’t hurt him like that.”

“Would you rather that he die?”

“NO!” I had jumped up at that point, furious with how he’d said it so flippantly.

“Then tell him. It is his right to know what you might have passed to him. Without honest communication this disease has the potential to overtake so many people,” he said.

He was right, of course.

“Detective, I have to wind this consultation up I’m afraid. We can talk again when the results are back or you can call me if you have any concerns and I will get back to you.” He pushed his chair back, preparing to stand.

“There is one thing however I cannot help with you. Right now there are two difficult things happening for you – only one of which concerns me. The first and of course the most urgent is that you might have contracted GRID from a close liaison with a female carrying the disease.”

I nodded.

“The second is that you have engaged in an affair with this woman without your partner’s consent or knowledge.”

I nodded again. I couldn’t dispute any of that.

“Now you are faced with asking yourself a question.”

“What is that?” Though I had guessed where he was heading.

“If Alice had not told you that she was suffering from GRID, would you tell your partner about she and you? ”

When I didn’t answer him, he said more. “Let put the question another way, and you can think about it after you leave here,” he said, showing me to the door. “If it should turn out that you have not contracted the disease, and you continue to stay negative after re-testing in the upcoming months, will you tell your partner about what you shared with Alice?” He held up his hand as he opened the door. “Don’t answer it yet. You can think about it. I don’t need to know – the answer is none of my business.” We stood at the door his hand on my back in a supportive gesture. “I am not a therapist Detective – although I spend half my days lately counseling my patients,” he smiled sadly.  “In this job I’ve come to learn that poor emotional health can be just as destructive to the body as any long-term physical disease. You need to think about that very closely.”

I left his presence behind me, his parting words to be reviewed again and again in the days to come. We talked about so many things during that session the doctor and me; all the medical theories of the disease, its diagnostic signs, and the unrelenting negative prognosis. However, what would stay with me most, was not those things.  What remained deep inside of me were his parting words about emotional ill health. His advice to me was not so different to that of my grandfather when he had tried to explain to my eight-year-old self about the potential of guilt to destroy a person’s soul.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

On the street outside of the doctor’s office I stood trance-like on the steps to the medical facility. Two women were standing near me waiting for a taxi, chatting softly between themselves. They glanced at me a few times, one passing me a sympathetic look. Perhaps they thought I was a patient who had just been handed a poor prognosis. No – not yet anyway. But something as gruelingly hard to cope with – uncertainty of where my fate laid.

Feeling fragmented and strangely removed from everything, I wanted to do nothing but seclude myself from the world, but knew I had to get back to work regardless.  I had a responsibility to my job, and other officers were depending on me to pull my weight with setting up a task force for a large-scale operation soon to be undertaken by the department.

Besides I couldn’t face going home yet either, for ‘home’ represented Starsky and all the dread that lay ahead of me.  I didn’t have much in the way of personal space in my private life these days, and up until now, that is how I liked it. Starsky and I had carved out a co-habitat for the both of us in the past twelve months or so, which seemed to be working well. Although Starsky still kept his apartment he rarely if ever spent time there, and I think he kept it in the background more as a prop to sustain the image that we were independent bachelors.

It was late in the afternoon when I finally made it back to the precinct, complete with a blossoming headache. Every small shudder and jolt of the elevator rattled my throbbing brain, as I rode up from the car garage. By the time the doors opened on my floor all I could think of was finding a reprieve from the pulsing thump behind my eyes. I’d get to my desk, swallow down some pain pills and hide away in my darkened office until the pain receded. That might have been my intention, but one of my fellow cops had other ideas.

Sergeant O’Malley looked up when I shoved the squad room doors open with what I belatedly realized was an unnecessary brutal thrust. I could have done without drawing attention to myself. Still, O’Malley didn’t miss much, and even if I had made a quiet entrance, I’m sure he would have gauged my mood. A well-seasoned, older cop, he was one of the longest standing officers in the squad. He’d been at the Ninth Precinct a couple of years before Starsky and I were even teamed up as detective sergeants.

I felt him watching me as I made my way to my office nook where I promptly collapsed into a heap in my chair. Trying to ignore the fact that he had followed me in and was standing in front of me as I yanked open one desk drawer after the other in search of pills. At that point, I didn’t care whether he wanted to stay and watch me wallow in my internal wretchedness. Seizing the bottle of aspirin, I flipped off the cap and threw back a few tablets into my dry mouth. The chalky lumps caught in my throat, and I pounded my chest, coughing, and gagging.  A paper cup materialized beneath my nose, O’Malley’s holding it out to me.

“Goes down easier with water you know,” O’Malley grunted, thrusting the cup even closer. Everyone knew about O’Malley’s bluntness – his no bullshit, cutting style. A man of few words, he liked to get straight to the point, more often than not at the expense of another person’s sensibilities.

“Thanks.” What I wanted to say was more than that. Something along the lines of “Thanks, now piss off will you? You’ve known me a little too long and a little too well for me to let you stay around while I feel like I do.” But this was O’Malley, he was more likely to dig his heels in if I told him to go and besides, I was too damn constrained by professionalism and inbred manners to say it to him.  He hadn’t done anything to warrant such a barbed attack.

“You look like shit, Lieutenant,” he remarked drily.

I quirked an eyebrow in his direction. “Thanks – Sergeant, for noting that.”

“Worse than shit in fact.”

“I get the point, O’Malley.”

“Is this work shit or private shit?”

“None of your business – but if it will get you off my ass – this is private shit.” O’Malley’s no-nonsense approach to just about everything made him immune to interest in other people’s feelings. Given that, I expected my comment to scare him off.

“I suspected as much,” he said and I had no idea why. “Then if it’s not work related – you’re on your own.”

“Good – that’s where I want to be right now,” I said as I dropped my head into my hands. He was still there. I ignored him some more and got busy applying deep pressure to my temples with the heels of my hands. Maybe if I pressed hard enough I could squeeze out every ounce of pain and fear.

“You better know something Hutch – before you crush that skull of yours wide open.”

“Which is?” I mumbled, not looking up.

“Starsky’s liable to turn up here anytime soon.”

He got my attention then. I let go of my head and lifted it up to look at him. He was a stocky man, quite short and wide, with a square head and thick neck. Every time I looked at him I thought about a big cement block, solid and unyielding. His geometrical appearance was further accentuated by his close buzz cut of liberally salted, dark hair.

“Starsky?” I asked, confused.  “Coming here? Why?”

“He’s been calling your extension. When he got no answer, he started calling mine. To see if you had come back from wherever it is you had gone,” he said. “I think he’s just about done with the calling.”

“Done?” I was coming across like I felt – incapable of coherent thought.

“Fed up. Over it. Worried.” O’Malley spelled it out in his gruff voice. “He’s liable to get in his car and just show up. You know he’s done it before.”

“But why would he do that?” I asked, still sounding dumb.

O’Malley sent me a withering look. “Because  – he seems to think you’re at risk of dying from some vomiting virus that’s “going ’round the precinct,”” he mimicked Starsky’s twang.

“Oh…” I said. O’Malley had me there.

“Yes, and because he can’t get onto you, he’s painted a picture of you lying somewhere out on the street, sicker than all hell.”

“Damn,” I let out a groan.

“Yeah, damn,” he clipped, addressing me now like I was his junior rookie and not higher-ranking officer than him. In this instance my Lieutenancy meant fuck all to him. O’Malley wasn’t one to stand on ceremony when he wanted to say what he thought of someone. “Ring him will you? Put the poor guy out of his misery. I tried to hold him off.  I saw you go out, but seeing as you didn’t log out any details I couldn’t know for sure what you wanted me to say.”

I gave O’Malley some closer attention. Did he have some agenda here? He was one of the few cops that I had long suspected knew about Starsky and me. That fact didn’t worry me overly as I knew O’Malley wasn’t into one-upmanship or spiteful gossip. For the most part he kept his opinions and his value system to himself and rarely spilled his guts to others in that way. So what was this little commentary about? Was he referring to Starsky’s and my relationship? Or, was I picking up something else? That he was having a slant at me in particular?

“What I wanted you to say? Say about what exactly O’Malley?”

“Cut the crap Hutch will ya,” he growled. “I’m not interested in your home life. But, don’t forget I know Starsky just as well as I know you and I don’t like to see him get jerked around.”

Now I was getting angry. “You think I would ever jerk Starsky around?” I demanded.

He didn’t answer me, just stood with his arms folded, looking severe.

“Look, I went to see a doctor-”  I was about to add  “in fact,” but stopped it there. That would have only served to rub O’Malley’s nose in it.

“Really?” he raised one bushy eyebrow, nothing lost on him. “For the vomiting virus that we’ve all come down with in here?”

I was in a space where I didn’t care anymore. I could play the game as much as he could.

“Well you’ve already made the comment yourself O’Malley remember.” I threw my chin up a little, almost daring him to provoke me some more. “That I look like shit.” I threw back the last of the water in the cup and crumpled it in my fist.

He gave me a strange look, and I knew then that he had glimpsed a little of my real pain. “Thanks for the water O’Malley – and the advice,” I added. “I’ll phone Starsky now.” I picked up the phone and swiveled my chair away from him, hoping that he’d read it as a signal to go this time.

“You do that Hutch,” he said and strode off leaving me with more than a hammering headache. What had O’Malley heard? All those months while Starsky and I were apart, and I walked around life in a permanent semi-daze? Was I stupid in thinking that some of my fellow cops, at least the more astute ones like O’Malley, wouldn’t have worked a few things out about me? After all, we had all crawled around the same sewer pits of central LA for years in this job. Many of us knew a lot of the same snitches and street informants, plenty of whom would be only to happy to pass on a tidbit of information here and there about another cop. Why didn’t I think that some of them wouldn’t have got the wind of what I had going on with Alice?

If that were the case, then it could only be a matter of time before Starsky heard about Alice from someone other than me. The only thing worse than him hearing about it from me would be if he got it thrown in his face by some asshole who didn’t give a damn about how much it would hurt him. Especially if they wanted to hurt me as well.

The corner I was in was just getting tighter and tighter.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Starsky was in his office at the Academy, and I was instantly relieved when he answered. Part of me was sure that O’Malley was right and that he’d be on his way into the precinct  to see what the hell was going on with my missing person’s act.

When he answered, I picked up on his het up frustration straight away.

“Jesus Hutch!” he yelled down the phone, “Where the hell have you been?”

The truth was easier here than a lie or an omission. So I told him – the semi truth at least.

“I got an appointment at the doctors – there was um – a cancellation.” That sounded good. “What’s with all the worry, Starsk? I’m often not here when you phone up.”

“Yeah – but after a night of you being sick of course I’m gonna worry, you idiot. You didn’t say you were planning on going to the doctor for sure. Are you worse? Is the vomiting still going on?”

“No, no. I’m a lot better,” I pacified him. “I just thought I might as well check it out.”  In fact, going to a doctor for something like a vomiting virus would not normally have been my style, unless I were badly off, and Starsky would know that. So before he could doubt me, I hedged him off. “I needed another prescription for my allergy inhaler anyway – it’s been playing up again just lately – my allergies.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Starsky said but didn’t question me. “I’ve called you umpteen times, and no one seemed to know where you were.”

“I had to leave in a rush – sorry. O’Malley told me that you’d called him as well.”

Starsky gave a rough chuckle at the way I must have sounded when I mentioned O’Malley. “He hasn’t changed has he, ol’ O’Malley. It’s still like trying to get blood outta stone talking to that rough ol’ grouch.”

“Not really a grouch, just likes to make out he is,” I said, pleased to have diverted the attention from Starsky’s worry about my whereabouts. ” I didn’t log out my details because I thought I’d see the doctor and be back by the end of my lunch break. Turns out the doc had this massive waiting time – some emergency had held him up. I should have phoned back and let the duty sergeant know – but – well I was slack.”

“Some waiting time,” Starsky whistled.  “Better you than me. I would have walked out.”

“Don’t I know it Mr. Impatient Patient,” I tried to make a joke of it, but it sounded lame.  “It wasn’t just the waiting time though. I had to get some blood tests done too – ah, fresh ones for records. Thought I might as well while I was out doing the medical thing. But the doc said the vomiting thing was nothing serious.”

“Yeah, O’Malley told me the other guys all got over it quick enough and not to worry,” Starsky said, and I immediately felt bad for having been hard on O’Malley. In the end, he had covered for me. Whether he had done it to protect Starsky more than me, it didn’t matter. I was grateful nonetheless.

“So there, you see? You should have listened to me last night. I’m over it already.”

“Good, because with all the worry of you being sick last night I never got to talk to you about things,” Starsky said. “So maybe tonight we can do that.”

“What things?” I asked tentatively.  With the way I was at that moment, constantly on guard, I thought the worst immediately.

“It’s February babe – and it’s not too long till the fourteenth.”

“You mean Valentine’s Day?”

“Yes Hutch, Valentine’s Day,” Starsky said, slowly drawing out the word Valentine’s.

Then I knew. I remembered.  Of course.

“Our special day.” I couldn’t stop the gentleness that seeped into my voice.

“Our special day,” Starsky echoed and I could hear how pleased he was that I had remembered. “I want to do it proud. Our anniversary. A special dinner. Just for us babe.”

“Sure. Of course.” I was on automatic pilot, my mind grappling with how this was all going to pan out. Still, I couldn’t disappoint Starsky. “We can go out somewhere. Somewhere upmarket. What about that -”

“No. Not out.” He was adamant. “I want to do a special dinner at home. No one else around.”

Staying at home was always easier for us anyway.

“Whatever you want Starsk – it’s fine by me.”  Who even knew where our relationship would be next week?

“Well that’s what I’d prefer. And I’ll prepare it all. The dinner and everything.  I want to.”

“Starsky -”

“Look. I don’t need to bother you with all the details while you’re at work. Finish up your day and when you get home we’ll talk more,” he said. “I just want it to be special. Last year was a washout – so this year, we’ve got to make it big. We’ve got so much to celebrate, Hutch -”

Oh please don’t say that. Please don’t…

“Hutch?”

“Of course we do Starsk. So much to celebrate.” I had to get off the phone. “Tonight you can tell me all about your plans to cook up a storm for our – ” it was almost too hard to say, ” our anniversary night.”

“And check your schedule as soon as you get off the phone. Make sure you keep it clear on the fourteenth okay? I’ve already cleared my calendar, so you do the same.”

“I won’t forget Starsk.”  How could I? This anniversary was going to be forever etched in my mind – but not for any of the reasons I wanted it to be.

“You better not Blondie, ‘cause I can tell you, I’ve got more planned for the night than just dinner, ” Starsky added, laying on the suggestion with a sultry tone.

“Cut it out. I’m at my desk, and so are you.”

“Shame there’s just this phone line connecting me to you and not somethin’ else,” he teased, “I’d like to have you at your desk right this minute – Lieutenant Hutchinson,” he said roughly,  all suggestion now replaced by sexual candor.

“Now you REALLY had better cut it out,” I pretended to sound stern and reprimanding when in fact my mood lightened for a moment as my cock flickered in interest. How could I ever resist it? Starsky therapy. Only he could so easily ignite in me a searing, hot flame in a cold, bleak day.

“Okay, then I’ll see you tonight babe,” he said, knowing he had me well on the way to excited.   “And I’m glad you’re over that virus. I hate it when you’re sick babe,” he said, reverting to a more serious voice, “hate watching you suffer. Promise me you’ll stay well…. for ever and ever.”

It was just a figure of speech, of course. But it was too much for me to take. The momentary jolt in my groin subsided quickly.

“If only I could, I’d promise you, Starsk. If only I could.” I heard the tragic hitch in my words.

“Hey don’t sound so morbid, I was only jokin’ Blondie. None of us can control that stuff. But, think about the combined quota of our hospital stays over the past years. Figure we must have some good times ahead of us,” he said, his voice light with hopefulness, “Startin’ this anniversary date, next week.”

Oh damn.

He couldn’t have gotten any closer to the core of my nightmare if he had tried.

“Starsky,” I tried not to be sharp. “If you want me to get home tonight, then you’d better let me do some work.”

He ended the call then – in typical Starsky fashion. I heard him puckering up his lips, to form a noisy, wet kiss, which he sent hurtling down the phone line.  It landed with a smacking squelch right in my ear.

I accepted it hungrily like the loving gift that it was, storing it up for when there would be no more.