“My god, he’s a junkie.” Glassman was holding Starsky’s left arm. He turned it so Hutch could see. There were dark spots like malignant freckles all along it. Track marks. Clear as day.
Part 1
Won the 2009 Torino Award, 3rd place, for Starsky H/C Story.
Most updated version here: http://community.livejournal.com/meandthee_wish/6894.html
The Torino screeched shrilly as Hutch brought it inexpertly to a stop at the mouth of the alley. Goddamn stupid tomato. But it was fast. It’d gotten him here in less than a minute, and that was all he cared about.
He could see a uniformed officer about ten yards down the alley, crouched next to a slumped form. He was running towards them before he’d even registered getting out of the car.
“Oh, god, Starsky?”
It was.
“Starsk!” Jesus, he looked worked over. His grungy shirt was open, and bruises showed underneath, old and new — several days’ worth of them. His wrists were swollen and abraded. His normally perky hair was grimy and nearly flat on one side. His face was a mass of cuts, one black eye staring hollowly at Hutch in incomprehension. “I’m here, partner. I’ve got you.”
He put his hand to Starsky’s chin, finding only with difficulty a spot where he wasn’t hurt. Hutch realized that his hand was shaking. Starsky groaned.
“Hu…?”
Hutch frowned. He firmed his comforting touch to an assessing grip. He turned Starsky’s face toward him. Something was… off.
He’d seen that look before. Not on his partner, but on guys on the street — on deadbeats and hookers and snitches. Almost fearfully, Hutch picked up Starsky’s right arm. He pushed back the sleeve and examined the inside of the elbow. It was clean. He let out a breath.
Hutch felt immediately ashamed at the relief he felt. Of course Starsky couldn’t have been shooting drugs. What was he thinking?
“My god, he’s a junkie.”
Hutch’s attention snapped up. He’d completely forgotten the man next to him. Automatically, he tried to match the face to a name. Ben, Barnie, Bernie — that was it, Bernie Glassman. They’d run into each other a few times. Bernie was a good guy.
Glassman was holding Starsky’s left arm. He turned it so Hutch could see. There were dark spots like malignant freckles all along it. Track marks. Clear as day.
“I gotta report this.” Glassman sounded reluctant but duty-bound. Starsky was a popular cop.
“No, he didn’t do this,” Hutch replied softly, mind already spinning elsewhere, thinking, planning. He rubbed Starsky’s shoulder, trying to soothe him as he starting moaning again.
“What?”
“He’s left-handed. This wasn’t him.” And because Starsky was popular and most people knew him (even if some of the higher-ups didn’t exactly approve of them) Hutch added, “He wouldn’t. You know that.”
“Well, I guess not…”
His temper flared, and he dropped his hands from his partner to grab a handful of Officer Glassman’s shirt instead. He glared as he said, “He didn’t do this, all right? You put this in some report– You put this in writing, and what do you think’s going to happen, huh? What do you think’s going to happen to him?”
None of this was Starsky’s fault. It was obvious he’d been tortured. Unfortunately, IA might not see it that way. Without any idea who’d taken Starsky and why, the evidence of the addiction being forced was flimsy. Considering their history as hotshots who bent the rules, IA might decide to come down hard.
Even if that went down all right, Starsky’s reputation within the department would still be compromised. A man who’d once shot up — even against his will — might not be trusted. And without trust from his brothers, what was a cop to do?
Hutch watched Glassman gulp. His slightly watery gray eyes shifted nervously between Hutch’s own. Hutch knew he was coming on strong, but they didn’t have the time for this, dammit. “Look, whoever did this to him is still out there. He got away from them somehow, but he’s not safe yet. I have to get him out of here, okay? It could mean his life, man!”
“But–“
“Just get out of here, all right? As far as you’re concerned this didn’t happen.” Feeling a stab of duty himself, he added, “I’ll square it with the Captain.”
Glassman looked relieved at that. “O- Okay. Sergeant,” he said in a stronger voice.
Belatedly realizing he still had the officer’s shirt tangled in his fingers, Hutch loosened up and changed it to a pat on his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said.
He barely noticed as the other man hurried away, casting worried glances back as he went.
“Wha’s i’…” Starsky’s gaze was wandering again. He lifted a hand and flinched when Hutch took hold of it. “Don’…”
Hutch swallowed hard, only now noticing the stench coming off of his partner. He ran a hand through his own hair, wanting to tear or punch or somehow destroy something. What the hell had they done to Starsky? Why?
Ignoring the smell, he let his head fall forward until his forehead touched his partner’s. Alive. His partner was here and he was alive. That was one thing, wasn’t it? That was it all.
“All right, Starsky,” he murmured. “We’ve got some work ahead of us.”
***
Salted liquids. Sugared decaf. Lots of hot water and soap.
Hutch listed the things he would need in his head as he drove towards his place. He hadn’t called Dobey yet, couldn’t spare the time. He needed to get off the streets.
He suddenly realized that Starsky hadn’t made a peep the last five blocks. He’d been out like the dead since Hutch had wrestled him into the back seat.
Hutch checked the back, suddenly terrified that the last fifteen minutes had all been a hallucination. But no, there was his partner, disheveled and beaten to hell, but present and accounted for. His eyes were open, and he was fidgeting, but he seemed otherwise okay.
Hutch faced front again.
Towels. Bed sheets. Fresh clothes.
He made the turn towards Venice Place and suddenly swerved, cursing.
He was an idiot.
If they knew enough to snatch Starsky from his place, they would certainly have lookouts at Hutch’s apartment.
He made a hasty turn at the next light.
Huggy. He’d know a place, a good one.
First aid kit. Somewhere to lock his weapon. A telephone.
***
“You tell me how they did this to our man, Hutch. You tell me who!”
Hutch ignored Huggy’s exclamations. If he paid any attention, he’d only give in to his own maelstrom of emotions. He had to concentrate on his partner right now, get him well again.
Starsky had started shivering. “Hu…?” he slurred, his hands fluttering. Hutch grabbed them and held them to his own chest. Starsky’s hands were cold.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “C’mon, Starsky, you’re gonna be fine.”
“I need… hel’ me. Please? Ah, god.”
Hutch had to hold Starsky’s body tight as he spasmed. He felt guilty at the wave of disgust that went through him. How could Starsky be like this?
Logically, he knew it was the drug. It was the goons who had done this to his partner who were responsible. But it still hurt, like a betrayal.
Starsky was always so strong, so untouchable. How could he let them…?
He didn’t let them do anything, you bastard. Get a grip.
Huggy had already removed Starsky’s shoes and was now busy tucking a blanket tight around his shivering body.
C’mon, genius. Don’t just sit here. Help him.
Hutch cast around for some way to make his partner feel better. He picked up the mug of coffee that Huggy had brought up. He tasted it first, to gauge the temperature, and to make sure there was additional sugar in it as he had asked. Then he held it to Starsky’s lips. “Have some coffee,” he said. “It’s sweet, just the way you like it. C’mon.”
Starsky pushed it away. “No! Gi’ me– Help me or leave me the ‘ell alone! Le’ me go. Le’ me go!”
He started to struggle, and the mug of coffee went flying, leaving an arc of brown that splattered violently onto the beige of the thin carpet.
Hutch held on to his suddenly volatile partner. “Whoa, boy! Hey, it’s me. It’s okay.”
“Le’ me… Don’t…” Without warning, he lunged to the side and threw up all over the floor.
Hutch grabbed a napkin and cleaned off his partner’s face. Starsky, apparently exhausted, subsided into twitches and jumps. Hutch raised worried eyes to Huggy, shaken.
It’d all seemed so easy when he’d brought Starsky here. Clinical. Reasonable. It’d all been lists and procedures then. This, this was real. There were stains on the carpet that would have to be cleaned up before this was through.
Could he handle this?
“Forty-eight hours,” Huggy said.
“What?” Oh, of course. The minimum amount of time for detox. Right now, with Starsky whimpering like a baby in his arms, the number seemed to hove far away in the future.
“Forty-eight hours of sweat and pain. It’s going to be rough, Hutch.”
“I know.”
“Uhn…?” Starsky shivered in his grasp. He turned into Hutch’s stomach and rubbed his head there compulsively. “‘utch.”
“Yeah, Starsk. I’m here. Right here.” Hutch pulled Starsky closer, his resolve firmed by that helpless voice.
What a dumb question. Of course he would take care of his partner. Whatever it took.
***
Hutch winced as he heard Starsky once again in the bathroom. Hutch hadn’t allowed him anything but sugared coffee and warm water since he’d found him, but even that had been too much for his partner’s currently delicate body.
The worst of it was over, thank god. He’d probably seen way more of his friend than Starsky would be comfortable with. They would just have to deal with that later. It wasn’t over yet. Hutch wasn’t going to kid himself about that.
Starsky, more lucid now, was both easier and harder to handle. He was aware of what was happening to him, enough to be angry about it. He’d adamantly ordered Hutch away from supervising him, and Hutch, finally feeling it safe to do so, was trying to give him the space he needed. It was hard, though.
“Hutch.”
Especially when Starsky started talking to him. Hutch rubbed his eyes with his hand. He put on an encouraging face before levering himself out of the armchair and going to his partner.
Starsky was leaning against the bathroom doorway.
“Hutch, you’re my best friend, right?”
Oh god, not this again.
“Ain’tcha?”
“Yes, Starsky. You know I am. Now let’s get some sleep, okay?”
“Hutch!” Starsky took hold of his arm, and he didn’t have the heart to shake him off, even though he knew he shouldn’t let Starsky get so close — shouldn’t give him any chances to knock him out or threaten him. He checked the door with a quick glance. Still locked. And Huggy was at the foot of the stairs keeping a lookout.
“You know where to get it. C’mon, I’m hurtin’ here. I’m– I’m really hurtin’, Hutch. Help me.”
Starsky sounded terrible. Everything in Hutch wanted to reach out and try and make the hurt go away.
Their first year out of the academy, Starsky had worked his tail off and stressed out his body. He’d come down with the flu and been laid up for nearly a month. He hadn’t wanted Hutch to visit, but Hutch had called his friend almost every day, sometimes just to check in, sometimes for long conversations to distract Starsky from his misery.
The first week had been the worst — shakes and fever and chills all at once. Starsky had barely been able to keep any food down, and he reported to Hutch that he ached everywhere imaginable. He’d been furious, too, at his own body for letting him down, his mood on the edge all the time.
Starsky had toughed it out in the end, but Hutch always remembered that time of vulnerability.
This. This was worse. Starsky had no control. He was broken in a way that he’d never been, and Hutch could read the lines of desperate pain as if he were feeling it himself. The insidious knowledge was always there — that all it would take to make it better was a little bit of white powder.
And Hutch knew where to get it.
But he also knew that his partner knew how to play him. That tremble and the bloodshot eyes were not faked, of course, but it wasn’t all real either. Starsky wasn’t above manipulating a perp or occasionally a girl. He’d never do that to his partner normally, but he wasn’t in his right mind.
Hutch had to jerk away before he said or did something he’d regret. Starsky grabbed him again. “Hutch. Buddy.”
Hutch reminded himself that he was good at saying no to Starsky. He was always stealing his women, taking his food, dragging him away from carnival games and puppies and never giving him what he wanted for Christmas.
It should be easy to deny him something that would kill him.
So why did Hutch want to say, Yes, okay, I’ll help. Stop looking at me like that.
“You never let me down, Hutch.” Starsky was talking to him soft and low, intense. “Not when it really counted, right? You’re the best partner in the whole world.”
“Starsky, I can’t. You know that.” He yanked his arm away again, irritated at Starsky and at himself.
“Hutch, please.”
That desperate tone finally snapped Hutch out of it. Starsky never begged. He wheedled and teased and badgered and whined. He hinted and hedged and cajoled and expounded. But he never begged.
He took hold of Starsky’s shoulders and looked his partner straight in the eyes. “Starsky. I said, no.”
The effect was immediate.
“You asshole!” Starsky knocked his hands away. “Who do you think you are?!” He leaped at Hutch with a ferocity that knocked them both to the ground before Hutch could react.
His head cracked against a chair leg and he was stunned for a moment, but instinctively, he pitched out of the way, and he felt Starsky’s follow-up punch smash into the floor where his head had been. He was glad it was the hour when the bar was starting to hop downstairs, or else someone might have been tempted to investigate.
Scrambling to his feet, Hutch held up his hands, palms out. God, he was getting tired of this. “Starsky, I’m on your side.”
Starsky was practically vibrating with nervous energy. “You’re supposed to be my partner!” he screamed. “You back me up! What kind of a rat bastard traitor are ya?”
“I’m the rat bastard who’s helping you through this, all right?” he snapped, his temper getting the better of him. “You think we’re here on vacation?”
Hutch felt bad as soon as the words left his mouth.
Why do you always have to make things worse, Hutchinson?
Starsky stared at him in fury. He pivoted to slam his fist into the wall. He seized a chair and hurled it with berserker strength across the room. Plates, a radio, and a clock went flying as he swept the top of the dresser clean with one arm.
The table was next. It crashed over sideways, and Starsky gave it a kick for good measure. He was sweating and heaving with the effort now.
It was only when Starsky reached for the lamp that Hutch stepped forward to stop him. Broken glass wasn’t worth the venting of energy and emotions that Starsky was getting. “Hey, c’mon, Starsk.”
“Don’t touch me,” Starsky snarled.
Hutch jerked back, trying not to feel hurt. Starsky was one of the few men he knew who was comfortable with Hutch’s need to connect physically with the people around him. Hutch had always admired that about him. He’d always relied on it.
Let’s talk about your own insecurities later, bozo.
Right.
Steeling himself, he reached out again. “Starsky.”
“Get away from me!”
“I’m sorry, Starsk. I’m really sorry.”
“I’ll bet you are! Sorry you’re saddled with a sorry excuse for a partner. Is that it? Is that what you’re trying to say, pal?”
“No! I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re no prize yourself, blondie.”
“Starsky, c’mon–“
“You’re a goddamn fink is what you are. Won’t even help me. Won’t do me the teeniest, tiniest favor when I need you most. That the kind of partner you are, huh?”
“I can’t help you. I’m sorry. I know you’re hurting.” Automatically, he tried to soothe, reaching out to stroke Starsky’s hair.
“I told ya not ta touch me, Hutchinson!”
And suddenly they were going at it again, grappling as they stumbled around the overturned furniture in the room.
Starsky was a hell of a fighter normally, but his injuries and the withdrawal both were sapping his energy. Hutch soon had Starsky in a submissive hold.
Starsky roared and lunged in Hutch’s grasp like the stupidest pinhead criminal. Having no other choice, Hutch twisted Starsky’s arm around until he cried out in pain. “Settle down,” he said, knowing it probably wouldn’t do any good. He imagined new bruises on his partner’s already battered body, and he winced.
When Starsky continued to struggle, Hutch grit his teeth and swung his partner hard against the wall. While he was momentarily stunned, Hutch kicked his legs open, and twisted his arm higher. That elicited first a growl, then a yelp. Hell, all he needed now was to cuff him and they’d be done with it, wouldn’t they? Booking another junkie.
“I said, stop!”
He shouldn’t be fighting his partner like this. He was supposed to be helping him. What am I doing?
Slowly, slowly, he let Starsky go. “Okay?” he asked, feeling Starsky calm. He had no idea whether Starsky would choose to go another round again or not. He could only hope that this would at least wear Starsky out enough that he could finally get some rest.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Without even looking at him, Starsky shook him off and headed for the bed on his own. He threw himself across it face-down. Hutch watched him for a moment, wary of another outburst. This cycle of frenetic energy and preternatural stillness was as alarming as it was discomfiting.
“You want some water?”
“Why?” came Starsky’s surly reply. “Can’t keep it down anyway.” He moaned, and Hutch saw his hands clench white in the bedcovers. “It hurts, Hutch. It hurts so bad. Why the fuck does it hurt so bad, huh?”
Hutch felt his heart break a little as he approached his partner carefully. He sat on the bed and rubbed Starsky’s back with a firm rhythm, trying to dispel the itches and shakes he knew were driving his partner crazy.
“I guess so’s you know you’re alive,” was the only answer he had to give.
***
Hutch glanced up from the checker board at his partner, trying not to be obvious about it. Starsky was fidgeting again.
His friend’s eyes were still shadowed and his face too thin, but he was cleaned up and he’d managed to keep some juice down. He looked much more like his old self.
“I want some candy,” he announced, in that twitchy, abrupt manner that pained Hutch to see.
Hutch shook his head. “How about some more gum, huh?”
“That’d be great. If I wanted gum. I want candy.”
Hutch tried to pitch his voice gently as he joked, “Naw, that stuff’ll kill you. Nothing but empty calories.”
Starsky snapped from vaguely distressed lassitude to sharp, brittle anger in a second. “What do you know?”
Hutch held up a placating hand. “How about some more vegetable juice, huh? You need vitamins, Starsky, not that junk.”
“What I need is some candy. And I want you to get it for me. Partner.”
Hutch returned Starsky’s glare with a level look. “Are you sure that’s all you’re asking for, partner?” he challenged.
Starsky’s left hand opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and closed. Suddenly, he twisted away and jumped to his feet.
Hutch was at the door a split second before he made it. “Hey!”
Starsky struggled against him. “I just… I just want some candy,” he whined, unconvincingly.
A knock at the door distracted them both. Hutch felt Starsky tense, and he shoved him backward. “Oh no, you don’t.”
Starsky gave him a flinty-eyed look. Growling under his breath, he broke away and stalked to the bathroom.
When he was sure Starsky was far enough away, Hutch opened the door. It was Huggy, of course, and he looked concerned. “How’s my patient?” he asked.
Too tired to go into any lengthy descriptions, Hutch simply gestured towards Starsky’s back.
“Hutch,” Huggy said low, losing much of the jive in his voice. “There’s some cat down there asking about Jeanie and Starsky. He’s brought the bank for it, too. He’s waving fifties around like a flag. And another dude’s outside in a LTD sedan. I got the license plate for ya.”
Hutch took the proffered memo pad. Were the bad guys on their trail, or were they simply casting the net wide? He hated being blind like this. He didn’t even know who ‘they’ were yet. He looked quickly at Starsky, who was tearing open a new pack of chewing gum. He was obviously having trouble from his hands shaking.
Starsky wasn’t in any shape, but they needed information.
“All right, Hug. Um, look, could you call Captain Dobey and ask him to run that plate? And let him know what’s happening here.”
“Sure.”
Huggy went for the telephone in the corner, and Hutch started slowly towards his partner. “Starsky.”
Starsky hurled a gum wrapper to the floor, his jaws working on the gum. “What?” He sounded wrung out. Hutch hated to do this to him.
“C’mere. Have a seat.”
“I don’t wanta.”
“All right. Let’s talk here.”
“No.” Starsky turned away again. He picked up the gum package and dumped out the remaining sticks. Hutch frowned, watching him start to shred the paper package.
“Starsky. Starsky!”
Starsky flinched. Then he turned to face Hutch with wide, wild eyes. He let the shreds of paper drift to the floor. “Hutch, I gotta get out of here.”
“Not yet. Almost, all right?”
“You don’t understand! I’m going nuts in here! I gotta get out.”
Hutch grabbed Starsky’s flailing wrists. “I need you to tell me who did this to you.”
Starsky shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What did they want?” he asked softly, using his distraught witness voice.
“I don’t know.”
“You have to remember something. C’mon, think a bit.”
“I don’t fuckin’ know!” Starsky yelled, ripping his hands free. “Get away from me!”
“What. Did. They. Want?” Hutch said again, this time using his interrogation voice.
Starsky turned and stalked away, pacing around the room like a caged beast. “I…” He growled something that wasn’t words. Then he stopped and stared at the floor. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“Jeanie. They wanted Jeanie.” Starsky looked up, his expression horrified. “I gave her to them, told them where to find her. Damn it.” He lashed out at the coffee table, knocking it back several feet. An ashtray tipped off the side and rolled across the floor.
Hutch stepped close and ran soothing hands up and down Starsky’s arms. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.” Before Starsky could wallow in any more guilt, he quickly asked, “Do you remember anything about who they were?”
Again, Starsky shook his head.
“Nothing? Voices? Names?”
Something flickered across Starsky’s face, but he shuddered and turned away. Hutch clutched his arms tighter.
“How many were there?”
“I don’t… Three? Four? Hutch, I don’t know. Stop it, I need–“
“How about names?”
Starsky hesitated, turning inwards. He stared in the direction the ashtray had gone, probably under the bed. Hutch wasn’t sure. He was watching his partner’s face.
“Names,” he said again, softly, exhorting Starsky to focus.
“Uh, Monk. There was a guy named Monk. That’s all.” Starsky looked scared. “That’s all I know. Hutch, why can’t I remember?”
“You did great, buddy. Real great.” He pulled Starsky into a hug.
He heard a cleared throat. Huggy was looking at him, somewhat apologetically. “Yeah, Huggy?”
“Captain Dobey’s out with the missus. I told him you’d call him back.”
“Okay. That’s fine.”
“You just let the Bear know if you need anything, you dig?” Huggy patted Starsky on the arm.
“Hey, Hug,” Hutch said.
“Yeah?”
“Could you bring me some, uh, some candy?”
Huggy looked surprised, but he shrugged. “Sure thing.”
He was back just a few minutes later, hands filled with chocolate bars. Hutch took them gratefully. “What would we do without you?”
Hug gave him a crooked grin but didn’t answer. “Get better, Starsky,” he said to the other man, before ducking back out.
Hutch held out a candy bar. “Starsky, look.”
Starsky stared for a moment. He took the candy and opened it methodically, as if on auto pilot. He took a bite. Then another. Then he made a horrible noise, like he’d been punched in the gut with a shovel, and he threw that candy bar against the far wall with a roar of sheer rage. It broke in half and left a chocolate stain on the whitewash.
“Starsk!” Like a light switch, the energy seemed to go out of him, and Starsky collapsed to the floor. Hutch grabbed hold and went down with him. “What’s the matter?”
Starsky leaned forward and drove the top of his head into Hutch’s chest. He said, brokenly, “Oh god, Hutch. I just want some candy.”
Hutch patted the shuddering shoulders, then, when Starsky seemed to relax a little, he pulled his partner into a hug. He squeezed his own eyes shut as he rocked the both of them back and forth.
“As soon as this is done, I’ll buy you a truckload of the stuff, all right? I promise. Snickers raining from the sky. Enough M&M’s to swim in. Okay? So many lemon drops they’ll turn your face inside out. Licorice. Whatever you want. Mars Bars. Milky Ways. When it’s all over, okay? Okay, Starsk?”
Starsky didn’t answer.
***
Hutch jerked awake for the dozenth time. The morning couldn’t come soon enough as far as he was concerned. The armchair was killer on his back, and although he was reasonably sure Starsky wasn’t liable to make a break for it, he still wasn’t comfortable dozing off for too long at a stretch.
Starsky was beating it. Slowly but surely, he was clawing his way out of that cesspool that the smack had dragged him into. He was even getting some real sleep.
Hutch didn’t think there was anything more beautiful at this moment than the sight of his partner curled up snoring on the bed. His clothes were crumpled and his red stocking feet were bright against the peach-colored bedspread. He let himself relax a little at the sight.
They were going to make it.
A sound at the door roused him, and he looked up as Huggy sauntered in with a tray of what looked like breakfast. “Good mornin’, sunshine,” the jauntily dressed man crowed. Hutch smiled as Huggy set the tray down on a chair by the bed. Starsky didn’t even wake up.
“Good morning, Huggy.” He yawned and untangled himself from the blanket he’d wrapped around himself last night. “You got any granola there?”
Huggy snorted. “As the man ordered. I can’t believe you eat this curious creation every day.” He eyed the bowl of granola suspiciously. “I also went and picked up some clothes for you two.”
“You’re a life-saver, Huggy.” He glanced at Starsky. “Probably just juice for our patient here. I think he’ll appreciate a shower and a change, though.”
Huggy made a show of fanning the air. “He wouldn’t be the only one. The both of you look and smell downright awful.”
“Thanks, Hug. You look like a million bucks.”
Huggy laughed. “All right, tell Starsky I said hi. I got a bee-zee-ness to run.”
Starsky stirred at his name, but Huggy was already out the door by the time he groaned a question: “Hutch?”
“Hey buddy. Welcome back.”
“Oh god, somebody shoot me.”
“Feeling that great, huh? C’mon, Huggy brought you some clothes. I’ll bet you’d like to get washed up.”
“Sure…” Starsky didn’t look too enthusiastic, but he rolled slowly to a seated position. His eyes were still bloodshot, the blackened one almost swollen shut and dark smudges on his face. “Hey, coffee,” he slurred, staring at the breakfast tray directly in front of him.
“And some juice. You should have some. It’ll help.”
Starsky grimaced but changed the aim of his hand and picked up a glass of orange juice. He sniffed it before drinking it. Hutch rolled his eyes.
“Huggy brought it,” he said. “No seaweed or liver in it. Don’t worry.”
Starsky snorted in a good imitation of his usual expression of scorn. “A guy has to make sure of these things, you know?”
He gulped down three-quarters of the glass — more than Hutch had hoped for, actually — before announcing he was hitting the showers.
The phone rang just after he got in. Hutch slogged toward it, massaging his forehead to try and dispel some of his own exhaustion. “Hello?”
“Hutchinson?”
He smiled at the familiar voice. “Captain. Good morning.”
“How’s Starsky doing?”
“He’ll live. Still weak as a kitten, but another day or two of rest should help. Oh, can you get a license plate checked out for me?” He fished in his pocket for the memo Huggy had given him yesterday. “Somebody who was looking for Starsky.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Read it to me.”
Hutch did, and waited for Dobey’s reply as he was put on hold.
The bathroom door opened, and Starsky came out, freshly showered and looking much healthier. He still moved like it hurt to breathe, but his trademark grin was only a few watts shy of the usual. He tilted his head inquiringly at the phone.
‘Dobey’, Hutch mouthed at him. “I asked Huggy to call him last night about a lead,” he whispered, in answer to Starsky’s raised eyebrows.
“Hutchinson.” The sudden voice in his ear made him jump. Starsky’s mocking grin was great to see, even as Hutch scowled back at him.
“Yes, sir.”
“The car belongs to an Allen ‘Monk’ Philos.”
Monk. The guy Starsky had named last night. So there was a definite connection. Hutch felt a tingle of the high that a clue brought, breaking through his fatigue. Dobey reeled off the address, and Hutch copied it down.
“And Hutchinson.”
“Yeah?”
“Mickey called. Says he has information regarding Starsky. You know the guy?”
Mickey? Hutch had seen him just a couple of days ago. Had he ‘miraculously’ remembered some information, after Hutch threatened him?
“Yeah, he’s a snitch of ours. He’s usually reliable.”
“Well, you check it out. By the way… good work.”
Hutch smiled at the rare praise. He knew he’d stepped on a lot of toes while searching for his lost partner. He’d probably be feeling the effects of that both on the streets and at the station for weeks to come. But it was worth it.
“Thanks for the info, Captain.”
He’d no sooner hung up the phone when he heard Starsky say, “I’m going with you.”
Hutch stared at him, disbelieving. “You’re joking. You’re out on your feet.”
“I can walk, can’t I?”
“You’re not walking out there, you’re not.”
Starsky, with fresh jeans and socks (white) and a light blue shirt with the top three buttons undone, looked worlds better than he had last night. That didn’t change the fact that he was in no shape to go gallivanting about the streets of Bay City. Especially not with some unknown guys hot to kill him.
“Who says?” Starsky growled, crossing his arms angrily. That look only firmed Hutch’s resolve. It was way too close to the mindless rage Starsky had been under while suffering from the effects of the horse.
“I say.”
“Oh, yeah?” Starsky looked rebellious.
Hutch stepped forward and shoved him in the shoulder. Not too hard. The look on Starsky’s face was almost comical as he swayed backwards, windmilling his arms, and finally tumbled onto the bed.
“You’re not going out there. Now, promise me you’ll stay right here until I get back.”
Starsky scowled darkly at the ceiling. He seemed to lack the energy even to get back upright. His former chipperness must have been nothing but a front. Hutch was doubly glad he hadn’t entertained the notion of letting Starsky come with him.
“Starsky.”
“All right,” Starsky muttered. “Holy bejeezus. You’re worse than my mother.”
Hutch ignored that. He patted Starsky’s leg. “I’ll check with you later, all right, Tarzan?”
Starsky grunted in reply.
***
Hutch decided to check out Mickey first. He went to the usual bar. Mickey, an incurable alcoholic, was at a table nursing a drink. Hutch shuddered at the way Mickey hunched protectively over it, his hands quivering.
Putting away his emotions and donning his ‘cop face’, Hutch slid into the seat opposite the snitch. “What’ve you got, Mickey?” he asked, no-nonsense. He didn’t have the time (or the energy) for cop games today.
Mickey twitched and looked all around the establishment before settling back on Hutch. “Well, see, there’s this scam going down. It’s major. It’s huge. It’s really important.”
“You said you had info about Starsky,” Hutch interrupted. “Are you going to talk to me or not?”
“Hey, honest, I’m telling you all I know! There’s, uh, there’s this thing…”
Hutch frowned as the man prattled on about something or other. “Listen, you scum,” Hutch said, getting impatient, “What do you know about the guys who are after my partner?”
Mickey glanced nervously behind Hutch’s shoulder, and alarm bells went off in Hutch’s head. He leapt to his feet and whipped around, leading with his elbow — just in time to slam it into the man sneaking up behind him. He coughed and grimaced when he caught a whiff of chloroform from the handkerchief in the man’s hand.
He kicked the offensive cloth out of the other man’s hand, then followed that with a few more punches to more vulnerable parts of his anatomy. At least one of them connected.
Dimly, he heard the bartender protesting and threatening to call the cops.
“You do that,” he muttered under his breath, as he sent his opponent crashing across a table, which then tipped over, sending him to the floor. Wouldn’t be a proper bar fight without that move, right?
The man recovered quickly and managed to sweep Hutch’s legs out. Hutch grabbed for purchase and instead swept a collection of glasses to the floor as he fell. Another bar fight staple, he observed disgustedly.
He rolled and blocked a blow with his forearm. He’d be feeling that for a week. This guy wasn’t particularly skilled but he had power. A brief tussle later, he finally had the other man knocked out, gaining a few more souvenirs for himself along the way.
Hutch picked himself up with a sense of satisfaction. The adrenaline rush and the physical action were helping to dispel the lethargy of this long, tense day.
A forceful tenor voice spoke up suddenly. “I think you should come with me, Hutchinson. And don’t try anything funny.”
Hutch turned slowly. A man with a square jaw and intelligent eyes looked back at him. He had on a brown suit and tie, and he was currently pointing a gun at Hutch’s chest with expert ease.
“Monk?” Hutch asked.
The man studied him. “We have something to discuss together, Detective. Why don’t you come on outside, just you and I.”
“Forget it.”
The man he presumed to be Monk smiled tightly. I think my friend here” — he indicated his weapon — “might have some convincing words to say on that topic.”
“Yeah, well, my friend says you’d better put your hands up where I can see ’em. Now!”
They both turned in disbelief to see Starsky, his Smith and Wesson trained only slightly shakily on Monk. How was he even mustering the strength to hold that gun aloft? And how the hell had he gotten his gun out of the Torino’s locked glove compartment?
Hutch took the moment of distraction to leap at Monk. He knocked the man’s weapon aside and had him slammed against a conveniently overturned table in no time.
Gotta love these bars, he thought.
He was surprised and relieved to hear the wail of approaching sirens. That bartender must have been serious. Good thing for them, because he was wiped out.
Cuffing Monk to the runner under the bar (another handy feature), he approached his partner. Starsky swayed a little on his feet, and Hutch had to support him in a controlled fall to a chair.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, trying for stern but failing miserably as a fond grin broke out across his face, well mixed with pride.
Starsky shrugged, laying his gun flat on the table with the careful movements of someone with a brutal hangover. “I had a feeling. Thought you might need backup, ya big lug. Boy, was I right, huh?”
“Yeah. You were right.”
Hutch looked around the wrecked barroom.
He wondered how much alcohol or cigarettes Mickey — now long gone, of course — could have bought with his fee for selling out Hutch and his partner.
“Hey,” he said, spotting a vending machine in the corner. “Didn’t I promise you a candy bar?”
Starsky started to shake his head, then winced. “Didn’t you know? That stuff’ll kill ya.”
***
Hutch mentally urged the Metro’s elevator to hurry. He didn’t like letting Starsky out of his sight, but Starsky had been antsy while they filled out the necessary reports. Hutch had given in and agreed to meet at the car.
Collaring Forest earlier, based on his stooges’ information, had been satisfying. Dealing with Jeanie, however, had put a load of emotional stress on Starsky. The man was barely standing unassisted. Who knew what state he was in now?
After Hutch got out of the building, finally, he almost had a heart attack when he didn’t see his partner. As he approached the red and white Torino, however, he noticed that the engine was humming and someone was inside.
Starsky was in the driver’s seat. He frowned as he revved the engine a couple of times.
“You’ve been driving my car,” he grumbled, not even looking up as Hutch came around to lean into his window.
“You shouldn’t be driving,” Hutch admonished.
“You’ve been driving my car!”
Hutch frowned at the belligerent tone. He was pretty exhausted himself, but he forced his voice level. “C’mon, Starsk, let me get us both home. It’s been a long day.”
“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”
“Starsky–“
“You had no right!” Starsky yelled.
“Why is this such a big deal!” Hutch yelled back, hitting his own flashpoint.
The question seemed to catch Starsky by surprise. His eyes went wide and he blinked a few times. His face fell. “It’s my car,” he answered.
Looking into that sad face, Hutch thought he might understand. “Hey,” he said, putting his hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “You can drive if you want. It’s your choice, buddy. Always.”
Starsky slumped down. He stared at the steering wheel. “Naw,” he said finally. “I think you’d better take it.” He looked up at Hutch, looking a little lost.
“Hey,” Hutch said, “you know what?”
“What?”
“You can drive my car anytime you want to.”
Starsky snorted and banged him in the shins with the car door.
END
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