Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

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Starsky and Hutch play one of their little games. Who will be the victor?

 

The story is based loosely on an episode of Here Come The Brides, where the book cover picture was taken from. Season 1, episode 21, was called ‘The Crimpers.’ There is no intent that the story is factual in any way, except to the aforementioned episode.

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Because of a busy week, Hutch had turned down an evening at The Pits in favor of a beer and delivery at his place. Starsky had happily gone along with Hutch’s wishes, even offering to pick up the food on his way over. Waiting for his partner, Hutch gathered together plates, cutlery and napkins and deposited them on the coffee table.

Starsky bounced into Hutch’s apartment, pizza in hand. “Dinner is served.” He grinned, plunking the box next to the tableware.

“And a good evening to you,” Hutch said, smirking at his partner’s lack of social manners. He fished two bottles of beer out of the fridge. By the time he reached the living room, Starsky had pulled open the box lid. Hutch stopped in horror. The pizza looked like it had been dropped and all the topping had slipped to one side. “What happened to the pizza?”

Starsky blinked in surprise. “Nothing. Why?”

Hutch pointed at the mess in front of him. “Most of the topping is missing from this half.”
Starsky laughed. “No, it’s a Starsky special. This is your side.” He indicated the emptier half. “Ham, mushroom and peppers for the health nut. And this,” he gestured at the other half, “Is mine. Ham, mushroom, peppers, chili beef, spicy chirizos, anchovies, triple cheese and green olives.”

“That’s disgusting.” Hutch glared at Starsky. “Do you try hard to nauseate me or does it come naturally?”

“Naturally,” Starsky quipped. He reached over and flicked on the TV that he had persuaded Hutch to buy a few months earlier. “Anything good on tonight?”

Hutch looked at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. “There’s a documentary on at nine that I wanted to see.”

“A documentary,” Starsky said slowly, looking at Hutch as if he had suddenly grown two heads.

“What?” Hutch asked a little too quickly. He knew that Starsky hated documentaries and had deliberately not told him why he wanted to stay home tonight.

“I’ve watched your documentaries before,” accused Starsky. He sat down on the couch. “Okay. Which channel?”

Hutch pushed the required button. “It’s just starting.” He settled beside Starsky and gingerly plucked a slice of pizza from the healthy side, as Starsky had called it. He tried not to look at the pile of greasy food loaded onto Starsky’s half.

“What’s it about?” Starsky asked, chewing.

“It’s about old maritime ways and laws from the 1850s to the 1950s.” Hutch could hear Starsky groaning into his beer. He fought back a laugh.

“Stop smirking, Hutchinson,” Starsky said, his voice rising an octave. “You know I’m not into all this stuff.”

“You build model ships. How can you not be into this?” Hutch gestured towards the program unfolding on the screen before them.

“That’s different. It’s the satisfaction of starting with lots of little pieces and ending up with a complete model that I like, not the rules of the sea.” Starsky snagged another piece of culinary hell.

“So why ships and not planes or cars?” Hutch asked. He was as interested in Starsky’s reasoning as he was in the documentary. He kept one ear on the TV and turned to Starsky.

Starsky pulled a ‘do you really need to ask face’. “Simple. More bits. Far more intricate riggings on a sail ship. I like making order out of chaos.”

Hutch nodded. He understood where Starsky was coming from. That’s what made Starsky the great detective he was. His amazing eye for detail. He found things at crime scenes that others missed.

“In the 1800s, not all sea captains were scrupulous. Some preferred more underhanded methods to man their ships.”

The sentence caught Hutch’s attention. He shifted around so that he could see the screen properly.

“These captains employed people called Crimpers, who kidnapped unsuspecting men to press into service aboard their vessels.”

Hutch pointed at the TV. “Did you hear that?” He turned up the sound. “Can you believe what he just said?”

“Sshush,” Starsky said leaning forward. “This is interesting. Wonder if it still happens today?”

Hutch laughed. “Oh, yes. I can just see half the freights docked here being manned by kidnapped sailors.”

“The following short film made by a maritime group shows a re-enactment of the crimpers’ methods.”

Hutch watched the clip that showed how the crimpers would spike their chosen victims’ drink and then follow the poor man when he left the saloon for some air. A quick rap to the back of the head and he was thrown into an open back wagon. Hutch rubbed the back of his head in sympathy. He had been the victim of a knock on the noggin more times than he would have liked. He glanced sideways at Starsky.

Starsky watched the drama quietly, apparently enthralled by the whole thing. “He looks a little bit like you did when we meet,” Starsky whispered.

Hutch looked back just as the young boy was tied to a stone column in a dark cell until the time of the ship’s departure. He fought against his bonds, but not very effectively. Hutch shook his head. “Why didn’t they try harder to get free?”

“Too scared, I suppose,” Starsky said. “How would you like to be kidnapped, tied up and then find yourself stuck on a ship for months and months?”

“Are you serious?” Hutch took a long swig of his beer. “Have you lost your memory? Don’t you remember all the times we have been kidnapped and tied up?” He banged the bottle down on the table. “I never just sat there and waited for the inevitable. Escape and survival is instinctive.”

Starsky grinned. “For us, yeah. We’re cops. These,” he gestured to the TV, “Are kids from a different time. They were young, green and not used to defending themselves, except in a simple fist fight. They probably wondered what the hell was happening.”

“Even at their age, I wouldn’t have just given up,” argued Hutch. “That kid in that show was tied to a stone pillar. He could easily have gotten free. No problem. I…” The expression on Starsky’s face halted Hutch’s tirade. That look meant trouble, usually for him.

“Want to put your money where your mouth is, hard man?” Starsky dug into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out his wallet. He extracted a bill. “A Lincoln says that you can’t get untied in one hour.”

“That’s hardly an incentive,” Hutch scoffed. “Make it a Jackson and you’re on.” Hutch thought for a second. “Do you have a place in mind?” He recalled their last game and how wrong it had gone. He had contracted botulism from a can of cold chowder. What could possibly happen in one hour?

“Huggy’s storeroom. We can use the concrete pillar in the back.” Starsky put the bill back in his wallet and pulled out a different one. “A Jackson it is.” He placed it on the couch between them.

Hutch covered it with a twenty of his own. “Hug holds the pot. Tomorrow afternoon, two p.m,” he said, knowing that Starsky had a dentist appointment in the morning.

“You got rope, or should I bring my own?” Starsky jiggled his eyebrows.

Hutch walked into the greenhouse and opened the middle drawer of his potting bench. The deep drawer was full of different lengths and thicknesses of cord and twine. “Take your pick.” He used most of it for tying various plants to bamboo canes.

Starsky rummaged through the selection that Hutch had presented to him. “I’ll bring the rope,” he finally decided. “This stuff is too thin. I’ll swing by the Chandlers in the morning.”

Hutch swallowed. Starsky was taking this more seriously than Hutch realized. He was expecting some light-hearted distraction on their day off. “Okay.” When he sat back down on the couch, the documentary had moved onto another period in the history of sailing vessels.

Starsky walked into the living room and snagged his leather jacket from the chair where he had thrown it earlier. “Huggy’s. Two o’clock,” he confirmed. “Almost forgot this,” he grabbed his bill from the couch and was gone before Hutch had a chance to even say goodnight.

Hutch popped the leftover pizza in the oven and settled down to watch the rest of the program.

******************************************

Hutch walked into The Pits just before one thirty.

Starsky was already seated at the bar, a carryall at his feet.

“Hey, my man,” Huggy greeted Hutch. “Curly filled me in on your latest little bet,” he said, shaking a twenty.

Hutch handed Huggy his stake money.

“Does the host get a cut? Like maybe one of you guys paying your bar tab?” Huggy teased, grabbing a bottle of beer. “Usual?”

“Orange juice, please, Hug,” Hutch corrected him. If Starsky was taking this as seriously as Hutch thought he was, then Hutch wanted all his wits about him. “How’s the mouth?” he asked Starsky.

“Fine. It was only a check up.” Starsky rubbed his jaw absentmindedly, before downing the last of his beer.

Hutch swallowed his drink in two gulps. That was the problem with fruit juice. Didn’t last long enough. “Got everything you need?”

Starsky kicked the bag on the floor. “Got it on the way over here. You ready now?” he asked checking his latest state-of-the-art watch.

“Good a time as any,” Hutch answered. His belly fluttered. If truth be known, he was feeling a little apprehensive. Why, he didn’t know. It was hardly dangerous compared to some of their games. But he had sworn after the botulism incident that he would never again rise to any challenge Starsky laid down, because too many things went snafu. However, here they were, and he wasn’t going to be the one to back out. Starsky would never let him live it down.

“You’ll need these, Starsky,” Huggy said, tossing the store room keys to him. “I keep it locked these days.” He looked around the bar and said quietly, “Clientele ain’t the same as it used to be.”

Starsky caught the keys. “Know what you mean,” he agreed. “Our job doesn’t get any easier either.”

Hutch followed Starsky down the narrow hallway behind the kitchen.

Starsky unlocked the sturdy wooden door. The hinges made a grating sound as he pushed it open. The sound added atmosphere to their endeavor, just like the real thing.

Hutch watched Starsky’s jaunty step. He wouldn’t be so chirpy when Hutch took his money.

Starsky lead the way towards the back of the room, wending his way around crates of spirits and beer. “I think this will do nicely,” he said stopping next to the thick support.

Hutch examined the column closely. Damn, the corners were smoother than he expected.

Starsky dumped the bag on the floor and pulled the zipper. “Lie down, prisoner,” he said.

“Huh?” Hutch looked from Starsky to the open bag. Coils of thickish rope spewed from inside. “How much rope you got there? That must have cost a few bucks.”

“Enough. Told the Chandler I was re-enacting the legendary Crimpers kidnappings, and being a sailing history buff, he knew exactly what I needed. Handy, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Hutch replied, not really meaning it. The butterflies in his stomach launched into full flight. His mouth dried up. Past imprisonments flooded into his head.

“Hutch, you okay?” Starsky asked. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want.” He grinned mischievously. “Although, I win if you forfeit.”

Hutch shook his head. What was his problem? This was Starsky, not some crazed felon. “No way. Bring it on,” he challenged, the adrenaline kicking in. He never understood their need to keep testing each other. It had been the same ever since the academy. He, Starsky and Colby were always trying to be the best of the trio. Starsky and Colby beat Hutch on the physical courses, just, but Hutch was top of the class academically, followed closely by Starsky and then Colby.

“Lie down,” Starsky ordered again.

This time Hutch obeyed, lying on his stomach. He was thankful that Huggy kept a pristine storeroom, the floor was spotless. Hutch was wearing black jogging pants and a black turtleneck. He’d figured that he would need comfortable clothing that was thin enough for Starsky to tie the rope over.

Starsky knelt down and lashed Hutch’s feet together tightly. “Relax,” he told Hutch. “You are supposed to be unconscious. No flexing your muscles or resisting.”

Hutch hadn’t realized that he had stiffened his body until he consciously released the tension using a meditation technique he practiced regularly.

“That’s better,” Starsky said finishing off the tie on Hutch’s ankles. He pulled Hutch’s hands behind his back, twisting the rough hemp around both wrists, and trapping the material of Hutch’s sleeves between the rope and skin, before cinching it in the middle.

Hutch recognized the tie from his sea scout days. “Where’d you learn knots, Starsk?” he asked.

“Army, Bozo,” Starsky answered. He secured the rope with a tug. “How’s that feel?” He shuffled back a little.

Hutch tested his bonds. He tried to reach the knot with his fingers. Starsky was good, he couldn’t even feel the knot. Getting free that way didn’t seem possible. He wiggled his arms and legs. There was no give in either binding. “Like I’m not going anywhere soon,” he admitted.

“Not too tight, is it?” Starsky asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

Hutch twisted his wrists and ankles. “No. I can move a little, but not enough to get out.”

“Good,” Starsky said triumphantly. “Let’s get you against the pillar.”

He helped Hutch sit up and wriggle until he had his back against the cold surface. Hutch could feel the cold seeping into his body already. One thing was certain, he wasn’t staying on the floor any longer than he had to.

Starsky yanked a long piece of rope from the bag and threaded an end under Hutch’s right arm, the other end went under Hutch’s left arm. Circling the post, Starsky tightened the rope around Hutch’s chest and tied it off, thus completing an exact replica of the documentary kidnapping.

Hutch’s back was snug against the concrete behind him. There was little room for movement.

“You got one hour,” Starsky said, setting the alarm on his watch. “I’ll be right outside. Shout when you give up.”

“Never,” Hutch retorted as Starsky slammed the door. Hutch’s fervent struggling confirmed what he already suspected, that he wasn’t going to shed the ropes in the normal way. While he could twist his bound limbs, there was no way he could get either his hands or feet through the loops of cord. He would have to cut the rope on the corner of the pillar. That had been his backup plan anyway.

He tucked his knees up to his chest, slowly pushing up with his feet. His trapped ankles made it harder to stand, and the chest rope kept snagging on the post when he tried to move too quickly. Inch by inch, he managed a crouched stand. His knees were bent, but he could rest his arms flat against the smooth surface.

“Twenty minutes gone,” Starsky shouted from outside the door. “Give up yet?”

Damn. How did time always manage to go quickly when you didn’t want it to? “No,” Hutch shouted through gritted teeth. He wiggled his torso towards the corner and started the laborious friction of rope against concrete.

With a hand on either side of the corner, Hutch adopted a steady up and down rhythm, stopping every once in a while to relieve the pressure of the ropes on his arms. The sleeves of his sweater worked their way up his arms and left his skin bare. This meant that he had to rest more because the hemp chafed at his flesh.

“Thirty minutes,” Starsky’s disembodied voice informed him. The jangling of keys accompanied his falsetto clock watching.

“Nearly there,” Hutch lied. Shit, his wrists were really getting sore. The corner was far too smooth to make much difference to the ropes. Hutch yanked his arms in opposite directions in the hope that he had made some headway into weakening his bindings. Nothing, no give at all.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why couldn’t he learn to keep his big mouth shut? Starsky would shout it from the rooftops if Hutch lost the bet.

Starsky opened the door slightly. “You okay in there? Need any help?”

“Get out, Starsky.” Hutch would have thrown something at the door if his hands had been free. “You gave me one hour, I’m sure that’s not up yet!” Half of him wanted Starsky to say yes and end this stupid foray. The over-riding half wasn’t about to give up without a fight.

“Fine,” Starsky said pulling the door closed again. “You got twenty minutes left.”

Hutch put more effort into the seemingly pointless attempt at fraying the fibers of the rope. He rubbed harder, pushing his hands further around the sides of the pillar. The hemp scratched at his skin. He was sure he could feel liquid running down to his fingertips. He hoped it was sweat, but concluded that it was probably blood.

“Ten minutes,” came Starsky’s muffled voice through the closed door.

It’s now or never, Hutchinson. In a final frenzy, Hutch doubled his activity. He pumped his arms faster and faster. He could feel heat generating from the friction. He could even detect a weak smell of burning rope.

The rope gave a little. Boosted by the slight loosening around his wrists, Hutch struggled with all his strength. Without warning, some of the bindings snapped. Hutch managed to pry his right hand through the frayed loops. With one hand free, he could untangle his left hand from the ravel of cord left around his wrist.

Hutch shimmied his way down the column and out of the chest rope without bothering to untie it. He bent down and tugged away at the knot securing his ankles.

Starsky opened the door just as Hutch was stepping out of the coils of rope. “Coming ready or not, Blondie.”

Hutch pushed away from the column, stomping his tingling feet. “Oh, I’m ready, free and willing,” he crowed.

Starsky stared, his expression one of sheer disbelief. “What? How?” he sputtered.

Hutch grinned at Starsky’s obvious shock. “Told you it was easy.” He held up his right hand, making a thumbs up.

Starsky grabbed Hutch’s hand. “You’re bleeding.” He pulled Hutch’s sleeve up. “Jeez, Hutch. What the hell? Why didn’t you stop?”

Hutch looked at both wrists. His left had some rope burn, nothing major. But his right hand, which he favored, had taken the brunt of the friction. “Didn’t really notice,” he said, not wanting Starsky to know that he had continued at the cost to his skin. Suddenly, awareness of the wound permeated into his brain and he felt pain stabbing in the raw flesh. “I’ve just rubbed the skin off, that’s all. It’s nothing,” he said, pulling his hand out of Starsky’s grip.

“Bar, now,” Starsky said taking control. He propelled Hutch up the hallway in front of him.

Hutch reached the bar first. “Beer please, Hug,” he said, keeping his hand down by his side.

“First aid kit first,” Starsky said to Huggy, grabbing Hutch’s hidden hand and bringing it up so that Huggy could see the damage.

Huggy nodded. “Hey, my man. That looks nasty.” He reached under the bar and dropped a white box with a red cross in front of Starsky.

“Thanks, Hug,” Starsky said. He opened the box, fishing out a bandage and a white tube.

Huggy put a cold wet cloth on Hutch’s wrist. “This might help.”

“A beer would help more.” Hutch grinned. He wiped the drying blood off with the cloth. Starsky and Huggy were making far too much fuss about a little graze.

“Coming right up.” Huggy popped the top off of a bottle and placed it in Hutch’s left.

“Thanks.” Hutch took a long swig of the cold liquid. He drained the bottle in one go.

Huggy hovered as Starsky smeared antibiotic cream on the inside of Hutch’s wrist and wrapped a bandage around a few turns before finishing off with a strip of tape.

Hutch bit his bottom lip. The cream stung mercilessly. He would rather have left the wound unwrapped and let the air get to it. He didn’t think it was bad enough to be dressed, but

Starsky hadn’t given him much choice. And seeing that Hutch had won the bet, he let Starsky play the job of Nurse Nancy.

“Do I keep this or is one of you going to tell me who won?” Huggy waved the bills under their noses.

“Let’s just say that my bar tab is clear,” Hutch said modestly, punching Starsky on the shoulder.

Huggy raised an eyebrow. “Not so quick, Mr. America.” Huggy hit a button on the till and shoved the money in a slot. “You owe me more’n forty bucks.”

“Since when?” Hutch glared at Huggy. “Last thing I heard, it was thirty-six and some change.”

“That was before you bought drinks for the whole place last Saturday night.” Huggy lowered his head, polishing a glass with a white cloth.

“But. I didn’t.” Hutch looked from Starsky to Huggy. “I was working last Saturday. I never even came in here.”

Huggy and Starsky burst out laughing. “Gotcha,” they said in unison.

“Bastards,” Hutch said, laughing with them.

******************************************

Hutch picked at the scab on his right wrist. It was three days since their bet and the wound was healing nicely. He had spent the last couple of hours reading a book about learning to be a mime that he’d found on Starsky’s book shelf. Now he was bored.

Starsky was engrossed in tying the rigging on his latest project, a model of the Bounty. “String.” Starsky held out his hand.

It was Hutch’s job to pass the stuff Starsky needed. This entailed more sitting around than actually helping, in Hutch’s opinion anyway. He handed over a ball of white string.

“Scissors.”

“I already gave you those, Starsk,” Hutch sighed.

“No, you didn’t. I want those small ones.” Starsky pointed to a pair of stub nose nail scissors that were just out of his reach.

Hutch nudged them towards Starsky’s outstretched fingers. “There you go.” He fidgeted for a while. “You want another beer?”

“How many we had?” Starsky asked.

“You’ve had two, I’ve had,” Hutch counted the bottles on the floor next to his right foot, “Five.” Had he really drank that much? He should cut down on the alcohol. Five bottles in two hours is not good by any standards.

Starsky frowned. “Then, no. That’s all I had.” He grimaced at Hutch. “How’d you manage to drink so many?”

Hutch shook his head. “Dunno. Didn’t notice that I had.” He held up the book. “I was reading this, and the bottles were there.” That wasn’t much of an excuse, but it was the best he had. Maybe he should leave the six pack in the fridge next time and just fetch one bottle at a time.

Starsky tied a length of string from the top of a mast to a spar end. “Do you think that Bligh employed crimpers to fulfill his crew quota or was the 1780s too early for that type of thing to be going on?”

Hutch shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess there might have been a few unhappy sailors on his ship, for whatever reason, or they wouldn’t have mutinied. They would have been loyal to their Captain, no matter how harsh he was.” He dropped the book to the floor.

Starsky looked at Hutch. “I wonder if we’d have lived in their time, if you would have gotten free after the crimpers tied you up like you did when I tied the knots.”

“Hey,” Hutch protested. “You tied me up good and proper.” He held up his wrist. “I’ve got the evidence to prove it.” He added sarcastically, “Officer,” and then grinned. “And I told Huggy to take a few bucks off of your bar tab.”

“Aw, buddy. You didn’t need to do that.” Starsky checked the cordage carefully. “I think this is finished. What you want to do now?”

Hutch checked his watch. “A game of chess?”

“No.” Starsky picked up a book from behind the model ship. “I was more thinking you might give me a few pointers on how to tie the perfect knot.”

Hutch stared at the book. “The Sea Scouts Handbook. Where did you get that?” he asked incredulously. Seeing it brought back so many happy memories of childhood innocence.

Starsky handed the book over to Hutch. “Thought you might like a trip down memory lane,” he said casually.

Hutch flipped through the well worn pages, starting at the back and finishing at the front. His heart skipped a beat. There on the inside of the cover was his name–KENNETH HUTCHINSON. “This is mine,” he said quietly. “How?”

“You are not the only one with a direct line to his partner’s mother.” Starsky took the book from Hutch and turned the pages. “Wanna help me with this project next?” He stopped partway through and passed it back to Hutch. “Page forty two.”

“Constructing a ship in a bottle.” Hutch smiled, remembering the pride he’d felt when his ship had actually fitted perfectly into it’s bottle. “I’d love to.”

Starsky beamed. The lopsided smile lit up his whole face. “I’ll get the stuff ready for our next day off.” He lifted the finished Bounty model onto the shelf alongside his other ships. “Oh, and Hutch.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s a six pack in the trunk of the car,” Starsky said, disappearing into the bathroom.