Talkin’ Dirty Pool

This story is part of a group of stories known loosely as the “Talk Dirty” series. Begun by Glow with the sexy, funny Talk Dirty to Me, and continued in Flamingo’s sequel, Talk Dirty to Me Some More (both in the zine The Fix #17), the tradition continues with this collaboration, “Talkin’ Dirty Pool” which was originally published in the terrific zine Cold Pizza and Butterfly Bones. We are lucky enough to be able to present this story just as it appeared in the zine, complete with its great graphics!

Glow
&
Flamingo

Stroke another one down, right behind my back…
Shootin’ dirty pool, spewin’ dirty lies…
Get your money on the table. Get your head out of your ass…
I ain’t a notch on nobody’s belt…
Shooting Dirty Pool — The Replacements

The game was bein’ better
Wiser than you
Half an inch taller
A deeper shade of blue
Or thinkin’ that I loved you
More than you loved me
Games — Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young

“You told Huggy we’d do what?” Hutch asked after nearly choking on his beer.

Starsky held up his hands placatingly. “It’s no big deal, Hutch. Don’t go makin’ a federal case out of it. Huggy’s got an emergency. He’s gotta leave in five minutes. I figured we still owed him one since–”

Hutch nodded quickly, the wildly erotic image still fresh in his mind even after two weeks. He felt the warmth color his fair cheeks as he hastily agreed. “Sure, we owe him. But Starsk–”

“Huggy says it’s not hard. He knows we can handle it. So I told him ‘no problem.’ You’re not gonna make a liar outta me, are ya?” Starsky punctuated his sentence with one of his patented how-could-you-say-no-to-eyes-this-blue looks.

“But we don’t know anything about running a bar!” Hutch hissed, deliberately ignoring the appeal of the expression that got him into more hot water than any police radio ever did.

“We don’t hafta run the place,” Starsky corrected in a patronizing tone that was obviously intended to pacify him. “We just hafta close it up! How hard can that be?” He held up his hands in a questioning gesture, just as Huggy came up behind him and plunked a set of keys in one of his upturned palms.

“I really appreciate this, fellas,” Huggy said, slipping one arm into a chartreuse jacket that seared Hutch’s eyeballs. “If I don’t get over to Wilshire, my beer distributor’s gonna sell my next delivery right out from under me. I don’t even want to think about this mob bein’ beerless, even for just one night.”

“Hug, we–” Hutch barely began the appeal before his words were drowned out by Huggy’s long stream of muttering as he checked his pockets for car keys and wallet.

“Just ’cause that lame excuse for a businessman had a shipment go bad on him, he thinks he can stiff the smaller merchants, particularly yours truly. Oh sure, I understand he’s still bitter about the fact that his old lady dumped him for one of his customers, but hey, is that my fault? I mean sure, I made a few passes at the lady—ah man, she was fine—but that’s as far as I went. I don’t go playin’ in another guy’s playground—well, at least not when that other guy is my chief supplier of beer–”

“Huggy!” Hutch tried, more emphatically. This time, he actually managed to cut off the rambling story—not that it did him any good.

“Oh jeez, Hutch, you’re right. I need to stop running my mouth and get my tail out of here.”

Hutch took a deep breath, wanting to make one last attempt to voice his protest, but Huggy’s mouth was already back in gear.

“Just make sure all the dishes get done and the kitchen gets cleaned before the staff leaves. You leave that mess in there overnight, and the only customers I’ll have tomorrow is the entire roach population of Los Angeles.” Huggy took two steps toward the door as he continued his instructions. “And make sure all the chairs are set up on the tables so’s my cousin can clean in the morning. Count up the receipts, put ’em in the bankbag, then put the bag in the safe. I’ll deposit it in the morning. Lock up the register, the back door and the front door, and then you can go home. It only takes about an hour to do everything. I really appreciate this, guys.”

“You’re just lucky we’re off tomorrow,” Starsky said, smiling.

“You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” Huggy told Hutch, then turned in his partner’s direction. “But try not to eat me outta house and business will ya, Starsky?”

Hutch’s lover tried the innocent look on Huggy, but it went nowhere. Hutch wished he could be so blithely immune to that look, but he knew that battle had been lost years ago. In one last- ditch attempt to get out of this, Hutch tried another tack.

“You know, Huggy, you might want to rethink this. I mean, I’d hate to see you regret this decision.”

“Having the two most honest cops in L.A. close up my shop?” Huggy laughed. “Not only are you both the poster boys for true-blue-ism and fair play among your kith and kin, but,” he narrowed his eyes and smiled slyly, his voice dropping to a more discrete tone, “ever since you two became well and truly partners in every sense of the word, I don’t even hafta worry about you annoying my female employees!”

The bartender stared pointedly at Starsky, who appeared to have discovered a potentially disastrous flaw in one of his shirt sleeves.

Huggy’s voice reverted to normal as he concluded, “Nope! There isn’t anyone else I could trust with my business and my bucks but you two. Besides,” brown eyes narrowed, “you owe me.” His gaze returned pointedly to Starsky. “After contaminating my phone by performing lewd and lascivious sexual acts upon it, and trying to give my place a bad name like some kind of–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Starsky waved his hand, trying hard to dismiss the topic that Huggy always enjoyed taunting him with.

“Just reminding you. This is a family establishment, Detective Starsky. I’ll trust that with your erstwhile partner safely back at home and in your bed every night, your rampaging libido is now under control.”

“Just barely,” Hutch quipped in a voice only Starsky and Huggy could hear.

His flustered partner turned a brilliant shade of red, while the bartender smiled and nodded knowingly.

“Don’t know how you manage to live with him, Hutchinson,” Huggy empathized as he turned towards the door.

“I wonder that myself at times,” Hutch said, smiling into Starsky’s eyes. His annoyed partner shot him a nasty look, which only made Hutch chuckle.

Huggy headed towards the door. “Well, I better get moving, fellas. Thanks again for your help.” He pulled the door open with a determined yank. He was halfway through it when he turned back and called out, “Hey, Starsky!”

“Yeah,” the cop responded without enthusiasm.

A long, dark, pointed finger poked emphatically in his direction. “Stay off my phone!” With that, Huggy left.

The curly-haired detective shot a warning glance at Hutch, anticipating the reaction the blond was trying futilely to suppress. Hutch managed to turn his head around before the smirk grew into full-fledged laughter.

“I’m glad you and Huggy continue to be so amused by this,” Starsky said, gritting his teeth irritably. “I mean, you would think it woulda gotten old by now, but no. You both find just as much entertainment value today as you did two weeks ago. I am soooo glad I’m able to keep you both so jolly.”

Starsky slammed Huggy’s keys down on the bar and brushed passed his partner, pushing off Hutch’s hand as the cop reached out to try to snag his arm.

“Come on, Starsk, lighten up,” Hutch called out to the retreating back, but Starsky marched towards the back room without pausing. Hutch shook his head as he tried to get his laughter under control. He knew Starsky was still very touchy about this subject—the macho detective chagrined by the fact that he’d creamed his jeans in a public place just from talking dirty to Hutch on the phone—yet Hutch couldn’t help but smile whenever he thought about it. It was by far one of his most pleasant memories.

Hutch reached down and picked up the huge wad of keys. His memories of that wonderful night with his partner had distracted him temporarily from the reality that they were still stuck closing up this bar. He should be the one mad and storming off. After all, this wasn’t exactly what he had planned for tonight—a nice, long evening before a day off.

Hutch shoved the keys into his pocket and moved behind the bar to pour himself a beer. No sense grousing about it. Thanks to Starsky, they were stuck with this tedious task. Hutch shrugged as he took a sip of the cold brew. Maybe it was for the best. Starsky was too ticked off for Hutch to have much hope for a better finish to the evening, anyway.

Hutch looked up from the Space Invaders game that he had been playing for the past hour. The bar was nearly empty, only two drunken patrons remaining. Glancing at his watch, he wondered how upset Huggy would be if they closed the place an hour early. After all, it was costing more in electricity than Huggy was making off the two winos who should have been cut off hours ago.

Hutch stood up, eyes scanning for Starsky. Besides the winos, the only other people in the room were Hilda, the barmaid, and Rhonda, the waitress, both of whom were sitting on stools at the end of the bar cracking gum and talking to each other.

Hutch walked into the kitchen and was surprised to find it empty. Two large sinks were filled to capacity with a mountainous assortment of greasy, food-encrusted dishes. The grill was off, but the amount of grease and grit on it was staggering. With a sinking feeling, Hutch moved determinedly towards the back room, shoving open the door. Starsky sat lounging behind Huggy’s desk, chair leaning back on two legs, Adidas-clad feet propped up on scattered papers strewn across the desk. In his hand was a dog-eared, yellowed comic book. Clearly surprised by his lover’s abrupt entrance, Starsky peered wide-eyed over the well-worn pages.

“Where the hell is the kitchen staff?” Hutch asked worriedly.

“Huh?” Blue orbs blinked in confusion, Starsky’s keen investigator’s mind obviously still caught up by the profound complexities of the Kryptonite handcuffs that were featured on the cover imprisoning Superman’s Arms Of Steel.

“The kitchen is empty,” Hutch said emphatically. “Where is everybody?”

“Oh, that,” Starsky responded, shrugging with a total lack of concern. “They’ll be back.”

“Back!? Back from where?” The blond felt his temperature rising.

“Well, Raoul got a phone call. There was some kind of emergency at his house. He needed to go home and straighten it out, only he didn’t have a car. So Mike was gonna drive him. They’re gonna come right back.”

“Really?” Hutch sputtered, incredulous. “And just when are they coming back?”

“Well, they should be back by–” Starsky glanced at his watch, did a double take, then began to pale. His mouth made a few ineffectual movements before he remembered, “They, um—they said it would only take 15 minutes. I guess it’s taking a bit longer.”

“And this surprises you? And where the hell are Louie and Pedro? Did they need to go along too, in case Mike got lost?”

“No,” Starsky replied as though insulted that Hutch thought him to be that stupid. But as he reviewed the situation, his color became more waxen, and his self-righteous glare soon faded. He mumbled almost incoherently, “They, um, they had to go to the store. Said we were out of burger buns.”

“Buns? Starsk, it’s nearly one a.m. Where the hell did you think they were going? The all-night bun factory?”

The comic book fell out of Starsky’s grasp as he raised his hands up in a placating gesture. “Calm down, Hutch. This is nothing to pop a blood vessel over.”

“You don’t think so, huh? Well, maybe you should get off your ass and go take a good, long look in that kitchen.” Hutch grabbed Starsky by the ankle and pushed both legs roughly off the desk. The motion threw off Starsky’s balance and his chair fell forward with a thud. “Just who the hell do you think is going to clean up that mess in there? You can bet it’s not going to be me!”

Starsky fumbled to stand, still a bit wobbly from the abrupt jarring of his body. “Listen, Hutch, take it easy. They’re gonna be back. They know they have to clean up the kitchen. They do it every night. Why would this night be any different?” He was talking fast—a sure sign that they were in trouble.

Hutch took a long, slow breath. He moved up right beside his partner, his hard glare burning straight into blue eyes that were trying desperately to look anywhere else. When he spoke, it was with a deliberate, measured tone that dripped with condescension and sarcasm.

“Starsk, let me ask you something. When you were in school, did you ever have a day when your teacher wasn’t there and they had to call in a substitute?”

“Sure,” Starsky answered, unconsciously taking a step back.

“And on those days,” Hutch continued, moving forward into Starsky’s personal space, “did you do everything exactly the way you always did when the regular teacher was there, or was there a little…deviance from the norm? You know, maybe taking a little advantage of the fact that the substitute was never as astute as your regular teacher?”

Hutch could see the Adam’s apple bob in Starsky’s throat as he swallowed hard. Hutch took another step toward him, which brought them nose to nose. Hutch wondered what would happen if he finally strangled his exasperating lover after all these years. Would he go to prison or would the jury consider it justified?

“Okay, okay, you may have a point,” Starsky admitted as he placed the flat of his palms on Hutch’s chest, easing him back. “But I can fix this. No problem. I’ll just go through Huggy’s records here—find their phone numbers—find where they are—and get them the hell back here. Just stay calm, Hutch. This is no big deal.”

Starsky ducked around him and headed back towards the desk before Hutch could respond. He rummaged through a pile of papers as words continued to fall from his mouth in a ceaseless stream of mollifying optimism.

“No need to get upset. I’ll just find those phone numbers in a jiffy and everything will be fine. Those guys just probably wanted to have a little fun with me, but I’m on to them now. I’m gonna chew them all new buttholes when I find them, that’s for sure. But there’s no reason for you to worry about this, Hutch. As a matter of fact, why don’t you go back to the bar, relax, and have a beer. I’ll have this straightened out in no time. Okay?”

Hutch just glared at his partner, knowing the look on his face needed no words to be understood. Maybe Starsky was right. He had better get out of here before he did something he would regret—at least he thought he might regret it. At the moment, he wasn’t sure.

Silently, he returned to the bar, leaving his partner frantically leafing through the chaotic pile of papers. For once, Starsky’s right. This is his problem. And that’s what I’m going to do, relax, drink a beer, and let him solve it. But when he returned to the front, he noticed immediately that the two winos had gone, leaving the bar empty—except for the two serving women who were shrugging into their jackets.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Hutch asked suspiciously, fearing he already knew the answer.

“This place is dead,” Rhonda responded. “We figured you were gonna close up early. That’s what Huggy always does on nights like this.”

“Yeah,” Hilda agreed. “We just figured we’d take off.”

“Well you just figured wrong,” Hutch snapped. “You’ll stay until your shift is over. Is that clear?”

The women exchanged glances then shrugged. They were staring at Hutch with barely concealed amusement.

“Sure, whatever,” Hilda answered laconically.

With that, they both sat down on the bar stools nearest them and proceeded to stare at Hutch. Rhonda yawned.

“I didn’t mean just sit there,” Hutch fumed, his anger increasing by the second. “I meant work.”

“Work?” Rhonda laughed as she gestured with her hand at the empty room. “My job is to wait tables. You see anyone around here waiting for service?”

“And my job is to serve drinks,” Hilda chimed in with an annoying giggle. “Unless you’re thirsty, I don’t see that I have that much to do.”

“Well, instead of just sitting here collecting a salary for your witty powers of observation, ladies, perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping us clean up.” Hutch’s tone was stern, his demeanor indicating he was in no mood for foolishness—which was why he was completely thrown by the hysterical burst of laughter that was their response to his directive. Harshly, he asked, “What the hell is so funny?”

It took quite awhile for the women to compose themselves. It was Rhonda who finally answered, smile still on her lips as she waved her hand in front of him as though he was some kind of lunatic.

“Sorry, honey,” she said in a sarcastic drawl, “but we don’t clean.” She uttered the word as though bringing it up were as indelicate as discussing a social disease.

“It’s not part of our job description,” Hilda chimed in helpfully. Then they both erupted in laughter again.

Hutch was just about to inform them that they damned well needed to worry about their job description since they were about to be fired, but he caught himself. He had absolutely no authority to fire Huggy’s staff and the last thing he wanted was to have to listen to the bartender’s martyred litany about how Hutch had cost him the two best workers he’d had in a long time. Knowing Huggy, the cop figured that he’d end up being responsible for providing new replacements. Visions of this “little favor”—closing up the bar—turning into an eternal commitment flashed through his mind as he struggled to control his temper. Just then, he turned from the still hysterical women to see his partner slinking out from the back room, a sheepish look on his face.

“Well?” Hutch demanded.

Starsky approached cautiously, and he made sure to stop several feet away from his partner. “Well, um, there’s a kinda problem, Hutch.”

“What problem?” Hutch asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, I found some phone numbers all right, but it seems like– well, I don’t think these guys have what you’d call permanent residences. The places I called sounded more like flophouses and they weren’t real big on sharing any information. I’m not even sure they knew who I was talkin’ about, but they didn’t give a damn about helping me, anyway.”

The sound of high-pitched giggles grated on Hutch’s frayed nerves. He turned and eyed the women with contempt as he questioned icily, “I don’t suppose you have any idea where we could find Raoul, Mike, and the others?”

“You might try looking under the nearest rock,” Rhonda responded mirthfully.

“They’re not what you’d call homebodies,” Hilda added. “They kinda sleep wherever they can find a warm, willing body to invite them to share the other side of a bed.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” Hutch responded caustically. He brought his hand to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he continued. “You know what? I’ve changed my mind. I think it really is a good idea if you girls just take off early tonight. Why don’t you just run along.”

“Hey, Hutch, wait,” Starsky called. “Don’t be so hasty. I’m sure the girls here wouldn’t mind sticking around to help up clean up a bit, right girls?” Starsky shot them his most disarming smile, charm oozing from every membrane of his body.

The two women in the tight “Huggy Bear’s” tee shirts regarded him quietly for a moment—before bursting into convulsive laughter as they gathered their purses and headed towards the door.

“Good-night, ladies,” Hutch called, waving insincerely towards the retreating figures.

“Wait!” Starsky pleaded as he followed after them. “Can’t we talk this over? You can’t be so heartless as to just leave a guy in need like this, can ya?”

His response was the sound of a door closing on hysterical laughter, a sound that seemed to echo all the way up the street before finally fading into the silence that now permeated the bar. Starsky stood staring at the closed door, as if contemplating what his chances might be of escaping through it himself. Deciding to cut that option off before he wound up chasing his partner through the streets of Los Angeles, Hutch strode over, pulling the wad of keys from his pocket.

After three tries, Hutch located the correct key and locked the front door securely. He then quietly turned the “closed” sign around to face outward, and pulled down the long manila shade that covered the glass door. As he slowly walked beside the windows, drawing those shades down as well, he mumbled gruffly under his breath, echoing Starsky’s own words from earlier this evening.

“It’s no big deal, Hutch—no problem—just a little favor for Huggy—how hard can it be?”

After the last shade had been drawn, completely cutting off the view of the outside world, Hutch turned to his partner.

Starsky smiled hesitantly at him, taking a step back. “Hey, look, Hutch. I know what you’re thinkin’.”

“Really?” Hutch kept his face impassive as he slowly advanced toward his lover.

“Yeah, I mean that’s one hell of a mess in there,” Starsky continued as he took two more steps backwards. “And technically, I guess you’re thinkin’ this is my fault.”

“Technically?” Hutch took two more steady steps forward, as Starsky continued to move away from him.

“Well, I was one who promised Huggy we would close up for him. And I guess it’s kinda my fault that the kitchen staff left.”

“Go on,” Hutch said, giving away no emotions with his face or his tone as he continued to close the distance between them.

“But when you think about it,” Starsky continued nervously, “it’s your fault in a way too.”

“My fault?”

“Think about it. You and Huggy kept getting on me about that little—indiscretion. I was really mad at you about that. You know how I feel about that. I don’t see how you can so easily keep throwing it in my face that way.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Hutch asked exasperatedly.

“If I wasn’t so angry with you, I wouldn’t have been so distracted and maybe I woulda been thinking more clearly and then maybe I woulda seen through that wild story and maybe–” Starsky stopped as his backward motion was abruptly halted by the edge of the pool table stabbing into his back.

Hutch continued to advance until he was right in front of him. The cop’s index finger poked hard into Starsky’s chest. “This is all your doing Starsk.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take most of the blame here. But it’s not really a big deal when you think about it. I mean if we work together, I’m sure we can get this mess cleaned up in no time.”

“We?! Who the hell is we?” Hutch demanded as he leaned forwarded, pinning Starsky against the pool table with both his body and the daggers in his eyes.

“Now, Hutch, come on. Be reasonable here.” Starsky tried to move to the side, but Hutch reached out to clutch the end of the table, trapping Starsky between his outstretched arms.

“This is your problem, Starsk.” The taller detective leaned his stony face closer for emphasis. “You promised Huggy, you let the kitchen staff leave before that disaster area in there was cleaned up, and now you need to go in there and deal with that mess yourself.”

“Ya mean you’re not gonna help me—not even just a little?” His voice was candy-sweet, his eyes beseeching with liquid blue softness.

Alarms went off in the back of Hutch’s mind—alarms that warned him he was about to fall into the quicksand that was his lover’s guile. A man who could sell refrigerators to penguins. A man who could make virgins sacrifice themselves. A man who could bring his normally reserved lover—and himself—to a breath-stealing, heart-pounding, toe-curling orgasm just by talking into a phone. Hutch already felt his body’s instinctive reaction to that look. He jerked his hands from the table, hoping to pull back before it was too late.

“No,” he answered, relieved that there was still some semblance of surety in his voice.

Starsky’s hands clutched the front of Hutch’s shirt, keeping him from making his escape. Long dark lashes blinked slowly over bottomless indigo eyes as Starsky peered up at him appealingly.

“Come on, Hutch. That’s not like you. Won’t’cha at least consider helpin’ me? You’re usually more fair-minded than that.”

“Starsky,” Hutch warned in a low growl. They both knew Starsky’s favorite weapon had a double edge. Yes, Hutch was a sucker for that pleading, vulnerable look, but being used that way also made him angrier than their Captain would get on those mornings when Starsky ate the last donut before Dobey’s arrival. Of course…that never stopped Starsky from eating it. Dobey’s only defense was to come in earlier and earlier and…The sinking feeling in Hutch’s gut intensified. No! he swore. Not this time!

Starsky must’ve realized now was not the time to push too far; he released his grasp on Hutch’s shirtfront. His eyes, however, remained potent. “Okay, how about this? How about we–” he paused, looking around until Hutch could almost see the little lightbulb going off in that devious mind. “I got it!” he smiled triumphantly. “Why don’t we play a nice friendly game of pool. If I lose, I’ll clean. If I win, you’ll–”

“Starsky!”

“Okay—amend that. If I lose, I’ll clean by myself and I won’t say another word to you about it. But if I win, you help me—just a little teeny bit, huh? What do you say? That’s fair. At least you’ll be givin’ me a chance instead of just saying no.”

“Not much of a chance, the way you play pool.”

Where the hell had that come from? He wasn’t actually considering this, was he?