The Magic Ingredient

It’s nice out, so Starsky goes for a walk. Just an ordinary day, really. That’s what’s so extraordinary about it.

“You know what the secret is, don’t you?” Nate looks around before leaning towards me and lowering his voice to impart the classified information. “Heart.”

“Absolutely,” I say, matching his conspiratorial whisper. “Gotta have heart.”

“Right? Most of the people around here, they don’t got no idea.” He gives a sideways glance at the people walking by before adding, “You get what I’m saying.” Nate looks and sounds exactly like he’s from my old neighborhood. He would’ve fit right in with my Pop’s crowd.

“Well, sure,” I say. “If you don’t got heart—”

“—you don’t got a genuine Coney Dog.” Nate nods as he loads up my hot dog with the magic ingredient. “Period, end of story. If it ain’t beef heart, it ain’t nothing but your run-of-the-mill average chili dog.”

I’ve heard this speech dozens of times, and I’m sure Nate spins it for every New Yorker that stops at his cart—hell, anyone who hails from East of the Rockies, probably. Me being a fellow Brooklynite, I get the whole spiel.

I found Nate hawking his wares on Venice Beach a bunch of years ago. His cart is one of many along that strip of park, but the “Genuine Coney Island Hot Dogs, created by Nate (not Nathan)” sign made me stop and take a second look and a good long whiff. That, as Bogey would say, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

“Quality meat, ground fine and seasoned just right.”

Early on, I asked him what kind of spices he used. He might tell me, us being practically family and all, he said, but then he’d have to kill me. I never brought it up again.

“Pay attention to the rest of the dog, too. You want Kosher, with natural casings. Fresh baked buns. Fresh everything, no shortcuts.”

“What about beans?” I ask, picking up my cue. Nate shudders in mostly-faked disgust.

“Are you kidding me? Geez, for God’s sake, no fucking beans.”

He piles on shredded cheddar and chopped onion, then squirts a complicated swirl of mustard along the top. I swear he’s signing his name, although he refuses to confirm or deny it. Finally with a flourish, he presents it to me: a culinary masterpiece on a cheap paper plate.

“It’s a thing of beauty.” I say it every time, and mean it.

“Enjoy,” he says, with a proud grin. “Always a pleasure to serve a patron of the arts.”

Then today, he goes off-script.

“Nah, this one’s on the house,” he says, waving off the cash I’d pulled from my wallet. “It’s sure nice to see you again, Sarge.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he just gives me a look that dares me to start something. I know when I’m beat.

“Thanks, Nate.”

He clears his throat and nods, hands me a root beer, then turns to help the next customer.

Food in hand, I walk carefully to a bench that looks out over the ocean. The sun is high in the sky and the bright light glitters on the water’s surface. A gentle breeze keeps it nice and relaxing. There aren’t many people close by, so it’s quiet enough to hear the waves and the sea birds.

I set the dog and root beer down next to me and stretch my arms out along the top of the bench. It’s an easy stretch, no pull or hitch, and I take a deep breath and relax with a sigh.

It feels amazing. Not to jinx it or anything, but I really believe I’ve turned a corner. No more stopping every ten steps to rest. Ditched the cane two weeks ago, good riddance. I’m done with the pain pills and the antibiotics. I still tire easily and I won’t be running sprints anytime soon. This, though—

I close my eyes, lean back, and turn my face up for the sun’s kiss, breathe in the salty tang of the Pacific.

I didn’t think I’d ever have this again.

I’m lucky to be alive at all, and believe me, I know it. I can’t ever thank my medical team enough. But when time passes and pulling up your own pants continues to be a monumental undertaking and tying your shoes yourself is a pipe dream, sometimes you lose sight of your miracle. It gets hard to imagine—to hope—that you can make it back. For a while there, I was in that dark place.

Not anymore though, and I owe most of that mental shift to my partner. He never gave up on me, and wouldn’t let me give up on myself.

I’m not going to lie, there are still days that kick my ass. But I have more good days than bad ones now, and I’m not going to take them for granted.

And speaking of things I’m not going to take for granted…

“Hey, Hutch.” I open my eyes and smile up at Hutch’s upside-down face hovering over mine. “I see you got my message.”

“Anybody could’ve snuck up behind you, Starsk. You’re lucky it’s just me.”

“I am lucky,” I say and leave it at that. Hutch just grunts in reply and comes around the bench to sit beside me. “So how did it go?”

“Why did you want me to meet you here instead of the apartment?” Hutch asks. He looks at me in that searching way he has, his spidey-sense on high alert.

“It’s a nice day for a walk, so I walked. Plus, I wanted to celebrate, and I wanted to do it with my first Coney dog in I don’t know how long. How’d it go?”

He relaxes, a sure sign that I pass muster. I resist the urge to pump my fist in triumph.

“Celebrate, huh?” Hutch’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is this a one-person party or what?”

“Definitely a two-person affair. Look, Nate fixed me up before I could tell him you were coming, but I haven’t had so much as a nibble yet. I waited for you, see?” I hold up the still-intact dog, Nate’s autograph scrawled across its top as good as an unbroken seal. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

Hutch stares at my plate in mock horror. I hope it’s mock, anyway.

“You are not seriously going to eat that whole thing, are you?” he says.

“Hell yeah, of course I am.”

“Well, don’t come crying to me when your stomach rebels. There’s isn’t enough Pepto-Bismol in all of Bay City to—”

“Hutch.” I wait until he meets my gaze. “C’mon, babe. Cut the crap.”

He shrugs. The casual lift of his shoulders is noncommittal. The furrow between his eyes isn’t. I sigh.

“Another delay, huh?”

“Fucking lawyers.” Hutch mutters something about ‘professional ethics,’ and I glance down to make sure he hasn’t blistered the paint off the bench slats.

In a perfect world, the justice system protects the innocent. However, our world is far from perfect, and crooked lawyers will do whatever it takes to undermine the process and corrupt the system to work in their favor. And when it’s the crooked lawyers themselves whose asses are on the line, it’s even worse.

“Jonathan Wells is up to his silk necktie in dirty laundry, in so deep he will never get the stink out of his fancy-ass three-piece suit, but the son of a bitch is smart. He knows how to tie up the courts.”

“Smart and desperate. He’s pulling out every single stop, the wily fucker.” I pat Hutch’s knee in commiseration. The months of frustration weren’t going to be over anytime soon, apparently.

Hutch’s hand comes down over mine and gives it a quick squeeze.

“I do have something interesting,” he says. “We may have a line on where Jenny Brown is.”

That made me sit up straight. “No shit?”

“We turned up another high-rise residential complex held by Gunther Properties, this one in Miami. One of the condominiums is leased to a Geoffrey Winston.”

“Who is…?”

“Jenny’s stepfather.”

This was a new angle. “I thought her parents were dead.”

“Yeah, that’s the story she’s been telling since she broke into the modeling scene, so no one bothered to check it out at first. Her father is deceased, but mom Eunice is alive and well. She’s been married twice since Jenny’s father died, so it took a little digging.”

“That’s some buried treasure you uncovered. Nice work.”

“It’s the best lead we’ve had on her since her disappearance. Even if she isn’t at that Florida condo, maybe we can find her through her mother. It’d really help the case if we can get her. I have a hunch Ms. Jenny Brown is the key that unlocks the whole criminal enterprise.”

“She’s been in hiding for quite a while, from us as well as from Gunther. Is it weird that I feel a little sorry for her?” Hutch raises an eyebrow and gives me a look.

“She doesn’t deserve your sympathy, Starsky.”

I nod. He’s right. She was directly involved in the attempt to kill us, and Hutch’s ongoing investigation has turned up evidence that she played a major role in other shady dealings as well. She’s no innocent bystander, that’s for sure. And yet, I can’t help wondering how she’d gotten involved with Gunther in the first place.

“If she turns state’s evidence, she’ll be in protective custody,” Hutch points out.

“I don’t think she finds that reassuring, considering.”

Hutch shakes his head, although his expression is sympathetic.

“Now that he’s behind bars and his assets are frozen, Gunther’s reach has been severely curtailed. His butler and some of his board members are already under witness protection in exchange for their testimonies. The tide is turning, and she needs to get on the right side of this.”

“You get no argument from me. I hope she sees it that way, too.”

“Yeah.” Hutch rubs his face, then lets his hand drop. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? For what?”

“Wells. I wanted to bring you his head on a platter today. You know, figuratively speaking.”

“Figuratively speaking, sure. What about him?”

“Isn’t that what you meant when you said you wanted to celebrate?”

“Ahh,” I say. Hutch frowns.

“What’s so funny?”

“Go get your food.”

“Starsky—”

“Seriously Hutch, if you don’t hurry up and get your own, I am gonna get started without you.”

He rolls his eyes, but he goes over to the cart.

I lean back again and soak up the peace of the moment. If this isn’t actually nirvana, it’s probably the closest I’ll ever get.

“Your friend is kind of an asshole.”

I’d almost forgotten this part was coming. I take a quick glance at Hutch’s plate as he sits down, even though I already know what I’m going to see.

“Well, if you insist on putting ketchup and relish on a Coney dog, how can you blame him?” I mean, I don’t disapprove of a fully loaded dog myself, but Hutch is gilding the lily, here.

“I’m the one eating it, why should he care?”

“It hurts his feelings. It’s like…” I search for a simile I haven’t used a hundred times before, give up, and go with an old favorite. “It’s like telling da Vinci that the Mona Lisa would look better with lipstick and falsies.”

Hutch just snorts. I raise my root beer and we tap bottles: ritual achieved.

I look down at my hot dog. They seem a lot smaller, these days. When I was a kid, Pop used to take Nicky and me to the Coney Island Boardwalk, and I remember those dogs—from the real Nathan’s—were huge. Too big for Nicky, but he’d insist on having whatever I was having, and I was having whatever Pop was, so it was Coney dogs all around.

We’d have them sitting on the pier with our feet dangling over the edge, bottles of ice-cold Cokes sweating at our sides. Nicky would scrape off the onions when he thought no one was looking, but not me. I’d eat it exactly the way Pop ordered it, the way he liked it himself. They were messy, greasy, and delicious.

When we got home, Ma would throw up her hands and complain about our ruined shirts. Pop would just laugh, put his arms around our shoulders, and tell her, “Can’t eat hot dogs with a knife and fork, sweetheart. You just have to dig in.”

I try to remember how those hot dogs tasted, but I can’t. The exact flavor is gone. Too much time has passed, I guess.

The feelings those boardwalk memories evoke remain with me, though: holding Pop’s hand, hearing his laughter. Running with Nicky, eating cotton candy until we were sick. Riding the Wonder Wheel and feeling like I was standing on top of the world.

I never knew how great I had it until I didn’t have it anymore, until that sense of carefree innocence was stolen away.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

I look up. Hutch nods toward my plate, still untouched.

“Oh, yeah.” I give him a reassuring smile and dig in.

It reminds me of New York, naturally, but it also reminds me of Hutch, of the countless times we came here to grab a quick lunch, or to unwind after shift. Even when he was on one of his ‘my body is a temple’ kicks, he rarely said no when I said I wanted cart food.

Sure, we don’t always agree on stuff. Life would be kind of boring if we did, and I can tell you, I don’t do boring.

Life with Hutch? Not boring at all. It’s the opposite, in fact. The best.

At the moment, he’s trying to watch me without being obvious that he’s watching me. Look at him. If he’s not careful, he’s going to need a new shirt.

It comes down to this: Coney Island is my past. Hutch is my present, my here and now. We’re neither of us innocents, of course. But being with him, I’m on top of the world again.

“So what’s the verdict?”

“Hmm.” I chew slowly, swallow, and take another bite, savoring the moment.

Hutch watches me, waiting patiently for my answer. We’ve both learned patience in the past several months. Patience, and a few other things.

“Nate never disappoints, it’s a great dog,” I say.

“As good as you remember?”

“It’s better,” I say, because it’s true.

And, “I love you, Hutch.” Which is also true.

Hutch’s smile lights up his face. It makes me realize that: one, he’d been so mired in the Gunther case that he hasn’t had a lot to smile about lately, and two…

Damn, I need to say it more often.

“You’re as mushy as that hot dog of yours is getting,” is what he says, the smartass.

“How’s yours?” I ask.

“S’alright.” Which is Hutch-speak for ‘it’s actually delicious but I’m not going to admit it.’

“Yeah, the man is a wiener savant,” I say. Nate happens to be looking our way, so I wave and throw him a chef’s kiss. He winks and doffs his cap.

We return to chowing down for a couple of minutes. Then Hutch asks, “So, are you going to answer my question?”

“Huh? I thought I did.”

“Not that one. The other one.”

It takes me a second. All the digesting I’m doing must be slowing down my brain.

“I mean, it’s a little premature to celebrate, don’t you think? I told you—”

Oh, that. I’m surprised he hasn’t caught on yet.

“What? Last night wasn’t worth celebrating? When I, uh—” I lower my voice, “—gave you my hot dog?”

“Starsky!” He says it softly but his eyes are super loud. His face flames red, right up to the tips of his ears. I wonder how far down the blush goes.

At last, the corner of his mouth twitches. God, that mouth.

“Yeah okay, last night. You’re right, that was definitely worth celebrating.”

“Thought so.”

That draws a snort out of him. “Smug bastard.”

“Takes one to know one.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“So,” I say, “I’m thinking about tonight. Maybe this time you give me your hot dog?”

Hutch’s eyes go incandescent.

“I’m not up for anything too acrobatic yet, you know that,” I admit.

“That doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re ready for. We’ll figure the mechanics out.”

“Yeah, no trapeze for now. But my hands work, my mouth works, and I know my way around your heavy machinery. I’m ready to make love to my big, blond blintz again.” I chance a glance down and amend, “Make that ‘my big, blond bazooka.'”

He barks out a laugh that somehow turns into the sexiest damn smile. “Yeah, I’m yours, alright. Love you, too.”

God, we’ve come a long way to get to this point, the two of us. It’s not a place I’d ever have dreamed of, back when I was a snot-nosed kid riding the Cyclone and stuffing my face with Cracker Jacks. Even as rookies, when we knew our partnership was something special, we couldn’t have known then how that bond was going to be tested, stretched to its limit.

But we’re still standing. We made it. To hell with everything else, this is for keeps.

“C’mon,” he says, “Tonight starts now.”

I’m completely on board with this plan of action, but,

“Don’t you have to go back to Metro?”

“No, Dobey said I could take the afternoon off after the hearing. And since tomorrow’s my day off anyway, we can get a head start on the celebrating.”

“Well, you don’t need to tell me twice. Let’s go.” Like I said, I’m not taking any good days for granted. I want ’em all.

As we head towards home, I fix the moment in my mind: the sun, the ocean breeze, the lingering taste of mysterious spices on my tongue, Hutch’s arm brushing mine as we walk in step. His declaration settles warm in my heart, where it belongs.

Like Nate always says, you gotta have heart.

Chapter End Notes:

First published in the SHareCon 2022 e-zine. My heartfelt appreciation to Flamingo, editor par excellence ❤️ ?❤️

And as always, grateful thanks to you, dear reader! Hope you enjoyed the fic ?