Triple XXX-Tremity

963

“Hutch suspected that the management, being aware of their presence, was not above poking a little fun by repeatedly running the police-oriented porno flick.”

 

This first appeared in the zine, “Blue Eyes and Blue Jeans 2“.

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At one time, the theater must have been a jewel — a place of plush, cushioned seats and rich, velvet curtains — but now the seats were worn threadbare, the acoustic ceiling tiles blotched with brown water stains, and the curtains heavy with age and dust. The only light came from the spotlight beam of the projector lancing through the darkness. The air was close and musty, smelling of dampness, stale popcorn, cigarette smoke and a vaguely putrid underlying mixture of unidentifiable scents that seemed to permeate the very fabric of the place — not that the patrons minded in the slightest. Generally, the customers of the Silver Lady’s Adult Movie House had other things on their minds besides aesthetics.

As deep, throaty groans, the creak of leather on leather and the soft whisper of silk brushing skin and skin sliding against skin reverberated through the darkness, Detective Ken Hutchinson winced and sank deeper into his worn seat. Perhaps if he slid far enough, he calculated, he could just disappear through the floor.

The sounds might not have proved quite so disturbing if Hutch hadn’t known that the stereo effect was due less to the movie’s audio track and placement of the speakers than to the fact that much of the noise was coming from the audience itself. Not that the place was crowded. Only half a dozen people were scattered throughout, all of them sitting further towards the front than Hutch. He had taken a seat to the rear in order to keep the audience under surveillance. And from the sounds the rest of the patrons were generating, it was a fairly good guess that most of them were not munching on popcorn.

Hutch shut his eyes and very deliberately tried to ignore the panting moans of the fat man three rows ahead.

For this he and Starsky were the envy of the homicide squad?

Certainly, it had seemed like a real sweet assignment — being asked to spend hour after hour slouched in the worn, velvet seats of seedy downtown porno theaters watching a seemingly endless series of triple X-rated features — all in the line of duty. Over the past month, three customers at various adult theaters along porno row had been strangled in their seats. Sometime between dusk and dawn, the life had been mercilessly choked out of them by a garroting cord. Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson were the Metro team chosen to work the case, acting as decoys to try and draw out the killer. They’d both taken plenty of ribbing over the job, all of which they returned with interest. For Starsky, it was all in fun — a chance to hold court in the locker room, reciting, in technicolor detail, choice scenes from the day’s film selections. Hutch’s complaints over this “boys will be boys” behavior had been countered with the carefully considered rationalization that the more convinced their fellow officers were of Starsky and Hutch’s playboy image, the less likely they would be to start suspecting the truth — that the partners had recently taken the step from friends to lovers. As this was one of Hutch’s greatest apprehensions concerning their shifting relationship, he couldn’t very well argue the point. However, he also didn’t find their current assignment as diverting as Starsky.

In fact, after a week of watching every possible aberrant sexual fantasy played out before him, Hutch found that the sight of writhing naked bodies on the screen left him at best indifferent and at worst, nauseated. Any initial reaction he might have had was now buried beneath layers of remote lovers and anonymous, naked flesh.

And he knew from experience that the bleak, sullied feeling that clung to him after watching hours of cheap, sexual thrills did not wash away under a hot shower; the taint went deeper than that. He just hoped it was not a permanent condition. At the moment, he would gladly have traded this “plum” assignment for anything else, including traffic duty.

“Psst!” Somebody hissed in his ear, their warm breath tickling the fine hairs of his neck, and Hutch nearly leaped into the next row.

“Jesus Christ!” he exploded, swiveling to face his partner. Draped over the back of Hutch’s seat, Dave Starsky was grinning like a maniac.

“Are you crazy?” Hutch whispered sharply. “What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

Starsky’s eyebrows danced in the dim light. Obviously, he wasn’t the least bit mollified. “That’s what you get f’sleepin’ on the job.”

Hutch straightened in his seat. “I wasn’t asleep,” he replied in a lofty tone, striving for some semblance of dignity, though how one projected dignity while watching an on-screen orgy was beyond him.

Starsky snapped his fingers under Hutch’s nose. “Better snap to, blondie. I coulda been the bad guy.”

A hint of fond amusement tugged at the corner of Hutch’s wide mouth as he reached backwards and gave Starsky a shove. “Stop breathing down my neck, clown.”

Obediently, Starsky flopped into the seat just behind Hutch, still close enough that the two could carry on a low level conversation.

With a sigh, Hutch ran a large hand over his face, momentarily hiding from the crude sexual imagery being projected onto the large movie screen. “God, I hate this assignment.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The sympathy in Starsky’s voice wouldn’t have warmed a flea. “I heard it a hundred times.”

“Yeah? Well, I meant it. Every time.”

“C’mon, it ain’t that bad.” The curly head bobbed nearer in the darkness. “Think of it as a learning opportunity. Maybe you can even pick up a few new moves.” He leaned close, his voice a suggestive purr in Hutch’s ear. “Maybe somethin’ you can teach me?”

The seductive tone sent an answering shiver down Hutch’s spine, momentary scrambling his thoughts.

Damn you, Starsky!

His partner delighted in tripping up his equilibrium, and their recent shift to lovers had given Starsky more than enough ammunition to keep Hutch in a permanent state of distraction.

Struggling to keep his voice carefully neutral, Hutch replied with a snort, “Only if I wanna dislocate something.”

Snickering, Starsky flopped back in his seat and gave the rear of Hutch’s chair a swift kick. “You know what your problem is, Hutch?”

“No,” Hutch risked a glance over a shoulder. “But I’ve no doubt you’re about to tell me.”

“You got no sense of adventure.”

Hutch’s eyes widened just slightly. Oh, really?

Laughing eyes gleamed at him from the darkness. Starsky was teasing him, and he knew it. That didn’t stop him from being tempted to recite some of their more adventurous exploits of late. However, to do so would only render his smug partner even more insufferable. Instead, he scowled. “Buddy, if you think sitting around in a dark theater watching third-rate actors get it up for a camera requires a sense of adventure, then you are worse off than I thought.”

A knowing smile played around Starsky’s mouth, rendering it impossible for him to quite pull off the wounded pout. “Well, I dunno. I thought the bit with the horses was pretty adventurous.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. He’d spent much of Buffalo Gals counting acoustic ceiling tiles. “Déclassé, Starsk.”

“What?”

“Commonplace.” He waved a hand to illuminate his point. “Now if they’d used porcupines…that would have been adventurous.”

Starsky paused for a moment, then passed judgment. “You’re weird.”

“So you keep telling me.”

With the sigh of the long-suffering, Starsky leaned over the seat and dropped a large cardboard bucket into Hutch’s lap. “Here. Just hold on to this for me, would ya?”

Hutch stared at the half empty carton. “What’s this?”

“It’s popcorn, dummy.”

Hutch’s mouth flattened in derision. “I know it’s popcorn, gordo. I mean what are you doing with it?”
“I’m eating it. What’cha think?”

“Starsky,” Hutch’s voice rose in dismay. “How can you eat popcorn? In a place like this?”

Starsky shrugged, unperturbed. “It’s a movie, ain’t it?”

“It’s a skin flick!”

“So? That mean I gotta sit here an’ listen to my stomach growl?”

For a moment, Hutch merely gaped at him, at a loss for words, then he slowly shook his head. “You are really…” His gaze dropped to the bucket in his lap and he froze. Bending cautiously over the carton, he flicked a finger through the contents, straining to see through the gloom. With a sudden hiss, he straightened and gingerly lifted the bucket from his lap. “Starsk…” he choked, eyeing the dark objects scattered among the white kernels of popped corn. “There’s something… you have bugs in your popcorn.” Not, he acknowledged, that he should be surprised in a dive like this.

“Bugs?” Starsky peered over Hutch’s shoulder. “Yeah. I see what you mean. They do kinda look like cockroaches.” Reaching past his partner, he plucked one of the small, dark nuggets out of the popcorn and held it up in front of Hutch’s nose. “You mean these?”

Hutch flattened himself back in his seat and Starsky chuckled. “”This ain’t a bug, Hutch. It’s candy.”

“Candy?”

“Yeah.” Starsky crouched close. “Raisinets. Milk Duds. And this here…” he rolled the candy between his thumb and finger. “Is a Goober.” With a flourish he shoved the chocolate covered peanut between Hutch’s lips, giggling as his partner tongued the underside of his palm. He cuffed Hutch lightly on the back of the head. “Goober.”

Hutch bit down on the sweet morsel and glared at his partner. “How was I supposed to know you’d have candy in your popcorn? Normal people don’t mix them all together like that.”

“It’s more fun that way,” Starsky declared in his own defense. “You never know for sure what you’re gonna get. Keeps things interesting.” Rising, he leaned over Hutch, flirting with his voice. “After all, variety is the spice of life…”

Hutch watched his partner start to swagger away down the row.

“Hey!” He reached out and snagged Starsky by the arm. “Where are you going?”

Turning once again, Starsky hunkered down low. “Gotta use the john. Just keep an eye on my popcorn, okay?”

Hutch was appalled. “You’re going to use the bathroom? In this place?”

Starsky tone was acid. “What do you expect me to do? When a man’s gotta go, a man’s gotta go.”

“Starsky,” his partner protested. “It’s probably filthy. Not to mention the kind of creeps you might run into.”

Eyebrows waggled. “So? You wanna come along and hold my hand?”

Hutch felt the blush creep up his cheeks, and breathed a sigh of thanks for the concealing darkness.

Damn!

Were they ever going to be able to carry on a normal conversation again without tripping over innuendo?

“No. I… uh… Just watch yourself.”

“Yes, mother.” Starsky smirked and patted his partner lightly on the top of his head, then paused, brows drawing together speculatively as his attention was captured by the events unfolding on the screen. “Hey,” he leaned close and waved a hand towards the action. “You think people can really do that?”

Hutch turned his attention back to the movie, forehead puckering in thought as he studied the on-screen acrobatics. Sitting back with an air of self-assured superiority, he nodded. “Yep.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Starsky cocked a speculative eye. “How do you know?”

Smiling sweetly, Hutch waggled his eyebrows and dropped a Raisinet into his mouth. “Go use the john.”

“Yeah, right.” Starsky shot him a look of disgust. “I’m supposed to believe that? You can’t even tie your own shoelaces.” A heartbeat pause, then a voice in the dark, playfully soft and cajoling. “Will you teach me?”

Smiling, Hutch reached back to ruffle Starsky’s curls. “Maybe. If you are very, very good.”

“Never known you to complain,” came the flirtatious rejoinder.

Hutch chuckled. “Ass.”

“Don’t get personal.” Once again Starsky rose to move down the aisle, but hesitated long enough to warn, “And don’t eat all the popcorn. I wanna save some for the next feature.”

“Which is?” Hutch’s flat voice made it clear he didn’t share his partner’s anticipation.

The grin Starsky flashed was one of his most wicked. “Didn’t you read the marquee?”

Hutch shook his head, eyebrows rising in a wary question. He knew better than to trust the gleeful expression his partner was sporting.

“One of your favorites,” Starsky assured, sounding anything but truthful. “Sorry, Officer…”

“Oh, no.” Hutch closed his eyes with a grimace that was almost painful to watch. “Not that one.”

Starsky laughed. “‘Fraid so, partner. One hundred and one kinky uses for handcuffs an’ billy clubs.”

Hutch let his head drop back till he was left staring at the ceiling. “God,” he groaned. “I hate this assignment.”

With a snicker, Starsky sauntered down the aisle into darkness.

“Wash your hands,” Hutch hissed after him. Even in the dim light, he could see the answering flash of Starsky’s third finger.

Hutch blew out his breath in disgust and flopped back in his seat. Risking a quick glance at the screen he noted that Side Saddle Sal and her “girls” were just riding off into the sunset. That meant a few minutes to thread the new movie and then, if Starsky was right, he would have to sit through the most ludicrous depiction of a “Day in the Life” of a vice cop that he had ever had the bad fortune to encounter.

Seeing Sorry, Officer once had been punishment enough, but the movie had been shown nearly every night he and Starsky had worked the Silver Lady. Hutch suspected that the management, being aware of their presence, was not above poking a little fun by repeatedly running the police-oriented porno flick.

Predictably, Starsky found the whole thing hilarious, taking perverse pleasure in the fact that he could now rattle off entire passages of the somewhat limited dialogue, a practice he insisted on engaging in at the most inopportune moments, despite Hutch’s continual protests. In Hutch’s opinion, it was obvious that this case was having a negative impact on his partner. He slunk even lower in the seat, angrily stuffing a handful of overly salty popcorn into his mouth. Hopefully they would nab this creep soon, before Starsky’s behavior became even more intolerable.

Someone entered the row directly behind Hutch, and he shifted in his seat, turning slightly to let his gaze flicker over the newcomer as he absently made note of pertinent details. Race. Height. Weight. Possible age. Hair type and color. All noted and categorized without really thinking. Second nature for an observant cop.

Early in the week, the fact that the newcomer was a woman might have elicited some surprise, but experience had taught him that the skin trade appealed to all types, from dirty old men to giggling school girls. He and Starsky had even spotted a pair of nuns one evening, or at least a pair dressed as nuns. Starsky refused to believe they were anything but impostors.

From the hesitant manner in which the woman was inching cautiously between the seats, it was probable she had just entered the theater and her eyes were not yet accustomed to the dim lighting.

As she drew abreast of the detective she stumbled over something in the dark. Losing her balance, she fell against the seats and her purse dropped out of her hands, falling onto the seat beside Hutch and then rolling to the floor with a soft thud.

Hutch reached back to steady the woman with a firm grip on her elbow, then leaned forward to retrieve the wayward handbag.

“Are you okay?” he inquired, handing her the purse.

“Oh, yes.” A low, throaty voice in the dark. “Thank you kindly.” Holding her purse tightly to her chest she lowered herself into the seat directly behind Hutch. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

“No. Not at all,” Hutch hastened to assure her, offering her a charming smile which was most probably lost in the darkness. Just as well, he reasoned, as he wasn’t certain he wanted to strike up an acquaintance with the type of woman who would frequent cheap adult movie theaters.

“You are so kind,” the low, rich voice remarked from the shadows. “You don’t often meet a real gentleman in a place like this.”

“Oh.” Hutch gave a light laugh. “Well… I… wouldn’t go that far, but thanks.”

In the limited light, he could see she was a tall, strong-boned woman in a polyester pant suit. From the way the her mass of shoulder length curls shimmered under the dim lighting, he guessed her to be a blonde.

“No. I really mean it. You’re a nice guy. I can tell. Are you married?”

“Uh… No. Not married.”

“Seeing someone?”

“Ahh…” The conversation was heading into territory Hutch found too personal for comfort. “Well, sort of.”

Yeah, lady. I’m screwing my partner. Partners on the streets and now between the sheets, and don’t ask me what the hell it means, ’cause I haven’t got an answer for you or myself.

“Sort of?” There seemed a slight hint of disapproval in the low tone. “Does she see it that way?”

Hutch had no desire to explain the intricacies of his current relationship with Starsky, and doubted he could have found words suitable even if he had felt the need. He stumbled about looking for a reply that would both satisfy and dissuade further inquiry. “Well… I don’t think that she…”

The musical theme to Sorry, Officer suddenly blared from the crackling wall-speakers, and Hutch breathed a silent prayer of thanks. The irony did not escape him. He had never imagined there could be any circumstances under which he would be happy to hear that brash, unmistakable opening fanfare. However, Hutch had been hit upon enough times to recognize the signals, and an intimate relationship with this woman was the last thing he wished at the moment.

“Um… Movie’s starting,” he pointed out, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. Perhaps if he just ignored her… “Gotta go.” Waggling a few fingers by way of good-bye, he swiveled in his seat, disengaging himself from the situation and hopefully from the woman’s attentions.

One thing you had to say for Sorry Officer, it started out with a bang: a high speed car chase through the streets of San Francisco. It was about the only portion of the flick that Hutch found enjoyable to watch, and as he settled back in his seat, he wondered what it would be like to be a cop in the Frisco. How would Starsky handle the Torino on those steep, winding streets? The police cruiser on the screen crested a hill and was airborne, landing with a sickening crunch. The muffler rattled loose and one hubcap rolled out of the frame. Imagining his partner’s reaction should his precious “striped tomato” suffer a similar fate, Hutch chuckled with villainous pleasure. Yes. Driving with Starsky in San Francisco might be an interesting experience.

Hutch sensed movement behind him — some instinct honed by years of police work serving to warn him of danger. He managed to get a protective hand up just before the lasso of thin cord whipped over his head and yanked back hard across his throat, catching three fingers of his right hand between the lanyard and the soft flesh of his neck. The bucket of popcorn was knocked violently aside as his body arched in reaction, and a shower of white kernels cascaded to the floor. While his trapped fingers struggled to relieve the bruising pressure on his neck, Hutch’s free hand reached behind him, flailing in the darkness for a grip on his assailant.

In response, the lanyard pulled down sharply. Hutch’s head was jerked back even further, caught at a dangerous angle between the back of his seat and the downward force of the cord. If he tried to pull away his neck might well snap.

None of the theater’s few patrons seemed aware of Hutch’s peril. His desperate shout for help emerged as a wet gurgle that drew no attention.

His head felt as though it were going to explode; his pulse had become a sledge hammer in his ears.
An oddly detached voice assured him quite calmly that he had nothing to worry about. He would be able to handle this situation easily if he could just get one clear breath… if he could just have one breath…

God, I hate this assignment.

Inside his head, a symphony of drums and bells was reaching a musical crescendo and his vision was being swallowed by explosions of light and billowing blossoms of red darkness. His lungs were aflame, screaming for air and his mouth opened and closed helplessly — uselessly.

Dimly he reflected on the irony of being murdered by the very suspect they were supposed to be trying to catch, while watching a porno flick he absolutely despised. If God had a sense of humor, it was a perverse one.

Starsky. Starsky, help. I can’t breathe. Starsky, I can’t breathe!

He struggled to draw his magnum, but with his right hand trapped, what was usually an effortless motion became an awkward fumble with the badly positioned holster. He thought he eventually managed to free the gun, thought it possible he even fired it towards the ceiling, the only cry for help left at his disposal. But the world was becoming a very dim place, curtained in gray fog. His hands had no feeling. His world was shrinking, and he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

So, the curtain comes down…

His last coherent thought was that he wished he could see his partner one last time, just to tell him how sorry he was.

Sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to die on you.

The last thing he heard was the metallic clatter of his .357 as it slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.

* * * * *

Consciousness returned sluggishly, his awareness trickling back from the dark depths of unknowing.

He was lying on something hard, his cheek pressed against a surface that was flat, cool and slightly sticky, and there was a rasping in his ears which he gradually identified as his own breathing.

His eyes crept open on blurry confusion — an army of metal legs, black shadows and a flurry of snow. He tried to roll onto his back, floundering with the struggle to coordinate his limbs, but pain flared like napalm in his head and he collapsed back with a gasp. The snow scattered, the delicate kernels of popped corn caught in the wind of his breath.

Then someone was there. Another presence in his world of jumbled impressions. A body pressing against his in the soft confining shadows. He flinched at the tentative touch on his arm.

Danger! Danger!

His inner alarms screamed a warning, but he was unable to muster the strength to fight.
The grip shifted to his shoulder.

“Hutch? Hey, buddy? Can you hear me?” Strain in the voice, a tremble trying hard to hide behind words of gentle reassurance. “C’mon, sunshine. Time t’wake up.”

The hand brushed gently back through his hair. “C’mon, babe. C’mon back. Talk to me.”

Warm, fine-boned hands cupped his jaw, turned his head gently. “Hutch? Please?”

He blinked, trying to clear the tears from his vision and the fog from his mind.

His partner’s beloved face was bending over him, the eyes dark and pleading in the dim light, lower lip being worried between even teeth.

Seeing Hutch’s gaze finally focus, the tightly wound tension of Starsky’s frame relaxed a fraction. “Hutch? You with me, buddy?”

“Star…” The reply was a dry croak, and Hutch swallowed painfully. His features flexed in a grimace of agony as a sudden bout of coughing agitated his traumatized windpipe.

“Easy. Easy,” soothed Starsky. “Let’s get you off this floor, huh?” Straddling Hutch, he gently eased his partner into a sitting position, being careful to support his back and neck.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Hutch blinked away hovering shadows and struggled to get his feet under him.

“Take it slow,” cautioned Starsky, gripping the taller detective around the waist and helping lift him into a seat.

The world spun and for a moment blackness threatened to swallow Hutch again. A light slap on the side of his face called him back.

“Hey! Stay with me here, huh?”

The house lights had been turned up, and Hutch found his partner still bending over him, hands on either side of his head, holding him steady in the chair.

“Starsk…” Hutch tried again, managing to lift one leaden hand to his neck. His fingers fumbled against the damp skin, feeling the abrasions and swollen flesh. Other fingers tenderly enclosed his own, pulling his hand away from his abused throat.

Hutch hissed as previously unnoticed pain flared to brilliant life in his fingertips.

Starsky frowned and held the hand cradled in his own as he turned it to the light. Deep lacerations marked where the garroting cord had sliced into Hutch’s fingers. Starsky winced. “Hey buddy,” he said, voice struggling for lightness as he dug through Hutch’s pockets and pulled out a handkerchief. “You’re lucky you didn’t break any fingers.” Gently, he dabbed at the seeping cuts. A quick glance around assured him they were alone for the moment, and he bent to kiss the tips of the fingers before curling them closed around the handkerchief. “It’s okay, Hutch. You’re okay.” One hand lightly on the side of his partner’s face, he murmured words of reassurance, both for Hutch and himself. “An ambulance is on the way. They’ll take you by the hospital and check ya out.”

Hutch straightened suddenly, making a half-attempt to rise. “The woman… ” he rasped.

Starsky pushed him back in the chair, gently but with a firmness that made it clear Hutch wasn’t going anywhere.

“Don’t worry. We got her. She’s cooling her high heels in the back of a squad car right now, only she ain’t no woman.” Now that it seemed apparent Hutch was going to be okay, a twinkle of humor lit Starsky’s violet eyes. “She was a he, Hutch.”

As that penetrated, Hutch froze, his lips forming the interrogative.

A answering lop-sided grin, partly of relief partly of amusement. “She was a guy. Real bruiser, too. You sure can pick ’em, partner. Can’t leave you alone for a minute.”

Hutch grimaced, unanswered questions a jumble in his mind.

Starsky must have read some of the bewilderment in his gaze, for he lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug and elaborated. “I heard the shot and when I showed up, this broad was all over you.” For a moment, a flicker of pain darkened his expression — an old pain, and one far too familiar to both of them. “I hit her hard and her hair just flew off! Kinda freaked me out, y’know? For a second I thought I’d knocked her head clean off. Then I figured out it was a wig.” The expression that flashed over his ambiguous features was almost feral. “Didn’t feel so bad about bustin’ her in the chops then, seeing as she wasn’t a woman.”

A wail of sirens had been growing closer and now trailed into silence.

“Sergeant Starsky?”

Hutch heard footsteps and the whisper of cloth as someone approached. Starsky’s hands slipped from Hutch’s shoulders as he straightened to exchange a few words with a uniformed officer.

Hutch closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the seat, feeling the warmth of his partner’s touch slowly bleed away. He was unable to concentrate on the conversation going on above him, but took comfort in the familiar low mutter of his partner’s voice. It was okay. Starsky would handle everything. He would be protected. He was safe. He was loved. He could let go.

He must have come close to drifting to sleep, for the next thing he knew fingers were tenderly caressing his brow. A soft voice whispered in his ear. “Hutch?”

He smiled, savoring the sensation.

Then again, a bit more insistently. “Hutch?” Someone shook him gently by the shoulder.

He lifted heavy lids to find Starsky had settled in the seat beside him.

“The ambulance is here. Think you can make it, or do you want them to bring in a stretcher?”

Hutch had enough presence of mind to reject being carried out on his shield. He was going to have enough trouble living down the fact he’d been bested by a guy in falsies and high heels. With Starsky’s unobtrusive help, he managed to get to his feet and into the back of the ambulance without falling flat on his face. However, once safely hidden behind the closed ambulance doors, Hutch collapsed onto the cot without protest. After all, the living presence firmly attached to his side was only Starsky, and he wouldn’t be telling.

Warm fingers enfolded his own and Hutch smiled.

You wanna come along and hold my hand?

Yeah.

There were some things he wouldn’t be telling either.