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Oblivious to the stares of other cops, he lathered and
rinsed, his voice reverberating enthusiastically around the tiled
walls.
"I'm la-a-a-ughin' at clouds,
"so dark up above.
"The
sun's in my heart,
"and
I'm re-e-e-ady for love!"
As he rinsed the day's sweat away, he added dance steps to
his number. Using a stationary pole as a stand-in for Kelly's
street lamp, he swung around, sliding his feet wetly along the
tiles, splashing his fellow police officers.
"Let the stormy clouds chase,
"everyone from the place--"
They took the cue and abandoned the shower
as Starsky's choreography became more complicated. Oblivious
to the critical walk-outs, he danced on, singing his heart out.
"Come on
with the rain,
"I've a smi-i-i-le on my face."
He swung an imaginary umbrella as he exited the shower and
headed for his locker. Never missing a step, he slapped his soles
noisily along the wet tiles to make up for his lack of dance
taps. Leaping smartly unto a bench, he balanced precariously
along its length just to add a little Astaire style to the
number.
Stepping gracefully back onto the floor, Starsky did a
sloppy soft-shoe—or rather, wet foot—dance step all the way
to the lockers.
"I'll wa-a-a-lk
down the lane,
"with a ha-a-appy refrain—"
Leaving a puddled trail in his wake, he was sure he
had out-Kelly-ed Kelly, as he knotted a towel around his hips
while sashaying drippingly.
"I'm singin', yeah,
"singin' in the ra-a-a-ain!"
His high-spirited dance eventually brought him abreast
of his partner, Ken Hutchinson. Hutch was drying himself by the
lockers when Starsky spun and, without warning, grabbed his
wrist, propelling Hutch into his wet embrace, then dropping him
into a dramatic dance dip.
Staring down into his startled friend's handsome face,
Starsky announced, "After six months of convalescence and
three months of down and dirty cop work, I feel like I finally washed the remnants of Gunther's slime off me!"
Hutch scrambled to keep from losing his own towel and
his footing on the damp floor, while his awkward attempts to
regain both nearly brought them down on the tiles in a heap. By
the time they regained their equilibrium they were convulsed in
helpless laughter.
"Yeah," Starsky said, releasing Hutch. "What
a glorious feeling. I'm ha-a-a-ppy again!"
Hutch readjusted his towel, then pulled fresh clothes out
of his locker. "I think the entire precinct's figured that
out, Starsk. What the hell were you singin' in there, anyway? Aida?"
"Nah! Didn't you recognize Gene Kelly's Singin'
in the Rain?"
"No, and neither did anyone else you drove out of the
shower with soap in their hair. Your fur coat's dripping
everywhere! Where's your other towel?"
Starsky peered into his nearly empty locker, across from
Hutch's. "Gone. Maybe Gunther got that, too, along with the
tip of my liver, a piece a rib, and a half year of my life. I'll
add it to the charges we'll be droppin' on his Vice-President,
the chump we busted today. The last of the bad guys! Hah!"
Starsky beamed.
Hutch grinned back as he pulled a towel from his own
supply and draped it over Starsky's dripping hair. With a deft
move, Hutch turned the towel into a tight nun's veil, trapping
all the weeping, dark tendrils. "Will you dry off, already,
Sister Mary Starsky, before we have to build a dam around you to
control erosion?"
Starsky would not be distracted. "We did it, Hutch.
We really did it. We got every last one of 'em. The entire Board
of Directors. Each Vice-President who had The Knowledge. Right on
down to the inside traders who knew the score. Got 'em. Nailed.
Tight. Threw away the key." Absently, he fingered the rigid
keloid scars that cut across his chest—Gunther's mementos.
Hutch glanced at the gesture, then looked away.
"Don't I always keep my promises?"
Starsky's face started to hurt from smiling. He remembered
Hutch's voice through the fog of his coma as he promised: We'll
get 'em, Starsk. They're not gonna win this one. We'll get 'em,
buddy, if it's the last thing we do. The miracle was that
they had lived to do it.
They'd had to fight the effects of multiple slugs in
Starsky's body. He'd actually died at one point, and had been
brought back, the doctors said, on sheer will power—but whether
it had been Starsky's or Hutch's, they didn't know.
They'd had to fight the resistance of Starsky's
thirty-five-year-old body to recovering. Hutch had assumed that
responsibility with a vengeance. He'd driven Starsky like a drill
sergeant, sought out the latest nutritional advice, consulted the
best physical therapists, sports doctors, and health gurus who'd
helped him design the ultimate exercise regimen, the perfect
diet, with martial arts training and yoga just to round things
out. He'd put all the energy he'd formerly devoted to police work
into curing Starsky and had joined him every step of the way. The
result was two cops nearing middle age who were in far better
shape than men ten years younger. Starsky had never been this
fit, not even in the Academy, and neither had Hutch.
And lastly, they'd had to fight administrators who
would've been far more comfortable with Starsky's retirement on
medical disability than returning him, a wounded cop-hero, to the
streets. Only when they'd fought—and beaten—those
adversaries, had they been able to tackle the octopus-like
operation that was Gunther's dynasty. A dynasty they knew Gunther
was still able to control from his cell. But not anymore.
Now it was finished. They'd broken the back of that
complex crime organization with the same brash techniques they'd
been using since the Academy. Me
and thee. They relied on no one, trusted no one, but each
other.
Works every time, Starsky thought smugly as he dried
himself and started donning clean clothes. Even
the paper work is done!
"I talked to Huggy," Hutch said, his voice
muffled as he pulled on a fresh knit shirt over his damp hair.
The dark red color brought out the gold tones in his skin. Damp
blond strands stuck out every which way when his head popped
through. Even his mustache was skewed.
Starsky was struck for the moment with his friend's open
vulnerability. Good thing
he's got me for a partner. He'd
be so easy to take advantage of, with all that heart.
"Huggy says he saved these special steaks just for
us. Prime rib. This thick." Hutch held out his fingers
impossibly far.
"Y'mean, you're gonna let me eat red
meat?" Starsky asked in mock wonder. "After all
these months of rabbit food and bean sprouts? Tofu and bee
pollen? Spring water and organic mushrooms? Enough rice and
barley to feed the Third World? Ain't'cha afraid I'll go into
shock?"
Hutch smacked the hard mass of muscle that was Starsky's
chest with the back of his hand. "You're never gonna quit
arguin' with success, are you? You can have beef. Tonight. But
you're back on program tomorrow. I'm not gonna have all that work
go down the drain so you can raise your cholesterol to its
previous astronomical figures. Stick with me and you'll live
forever."
"Or at least, it'll feel that way." Starsky
groaned and hid his grin.
Putting Hutch in charge of his health had kept his friend
sane, and helped him work out a lot of the useless guilt and
grief he'd carried over Starsky's near-death. Giving up beef was
a small price to pay to help Hutch recover from that terrible
experience. Starsky had merely been shot. Hutch had had to deal
with witnessing it, seeing him die, then watch him turn into an
invalid inching toward old age. Giving up that kind of personal
control to another man would've once been difficult for Starsky,
but he'd watched his
partner nearly die once and understood the frustrated
helplessness Hutch had had to endure. Once Hutch became his
partner in recovery, the big klutzy blond had shrugged off his
over-protectiveness and his agonizing guilt. They were solid now.
The perfect team. Mentally. Physically. Defensively. Me
and thee.
And the remains of Gunther's organization had been crushed
under their coordinated skills.
Starsky slid on a slim pair of briefs and reached for his
black tee shirt. Moving closer to Hutch he lowered his voice as
he became aware of others entering the facility. "This is
gonna be the best, Hutch. Just you, me, and Huggy celebratin' the
end of this. It's gonna be like a new start, y'know?"
Yeah, he
thought, the sun's in my
heart all right, and I'm ready for—
He paused.
Before the shooting, they would've included a pair of
nubile secretaries, or maybe a couple of stewardesses in the
party. They would've ended the night trying to prove which one
was the better man in bed so they could brag about their prowess
the next day. But, to Starsky, none of that seemed important
anymore. Maybe some of it was the discipline of yoga, or the
martial arts they'd been practicing. Starsky had simply been too
determined to recover and to exact his revenge to even care about
getting laid. And it still seemed inconsequential now. Maybe they
were both getting older—but who cared? He'd worry about women
tomorrow. Now that Hutch had helped give him the tomorrows to
use.
Hutch's sapphire eyes were soft, full of the same concern
and caring Starsky had always seen in them. But there were new
worry lines around his eyes, and Starsky's wounding had put them
there. He was determined that there would never be another one on
that handsome face—at least not one he'd be responsible for.
"You got that right, partner," Hutch said
quietly. "Just us. And a new day."
"Oh, did we catch you guys in the clinches
again?" a sarcastic baritone intruded.
Starsky tensed. It was Max Russo, whose caustic humor
always bit too deep. But he wouldn't let the guy get to him
today. Not today. He eased away from Hutch and donned his shirt.
He felt Hutch watching him. Hutch knew how much Russo got under
Starsky's skin.
It's okay, babe, Starsky thought. I'm
doin' my yoga chant to keep cool, like you taught me.
A group of detectives came in and went to their
lockers as the shift ended.
Russo opened his own locker, the one next to Starsky's,
with a noisy invasive clatter. The guy was the ultimate macho
red-necked cop, a stereotype Starsky hated. A beefy
weight-lifter, Russo towered over Starsky and loved invading his
personal space just to force him to back off. Russo swiveled his
crew-cut, bullet-shaped head to peer down at him now. "Heard
you guys made the papers again."
Russo's jealousy was well known. He was a mediocre worker
and, Starsky suspected, supplemented his income with graft. His
partner, Jim Wilson, was a decent cop and Starsky had always felt
sorry for him, saddled with this festering boil. It certainly
hadn't helped Wilson's career. The contrast between Russo and
Hutch couldn't have been greater if they were different life
forms. Then again, maybe they were.
"Yeah," Wilson said good-naturedly from the
other bank of lockers, "heard about the bust. Tight work,
you guys."
"Thanks," Hutch replied to the smaller, graying
cop as he finished dressing. Both partners spied the rookie, a
young, tall black kid named Tomas Diega, who was riding with the
two older men. Wilson made the introductions.
"Yeah, these are Metro's official glory hounds,"
Russo said snidely.
Oooommmm,
Starsky repeated mentally, drawing out the syllable in his mind,
focusing on the space between his eyebrows. He could hear Hutch
saying, Focus on that place
between your brows, and try to see with your inner eye. At
first, he had nearly collapsed in laughter over that
silliness—until he found that the mental concentration really
did help his healing. He had been dead, and was now alive. More
than alive. He was young again, strong, renewed. He would not
argue with success.
"If there's a reporter within ten miles," Russo
went on as Starsky slipped on red socks, then his favorite faded
jeans, "these guys'll find him. They make more headlines
than Liz Taylor."
Hutch finished combing his hair, then stood behind
Starsky. Watching his back. As always.
"Y'know, Russo," Hutch said, the humor clear in
his voice, "if you spent as much time hitting the bricks as
you did griping about the workload, maybe you'd make the papers,
too."
"Yeah," Starsky added, shifting his genitals in
his tight pants until they were comfortable, then zipping his
fly. "The funny papers."
Hutch and Russo's partner Wilson both chuckled, as Hutch
casually laid both hands on Starsky's shoulders and squeezed.
They had always been comfortable touching, but since the
shooting, Hutch had seemed to need that even more, as if he had
to keep feeling Starsky's living warmth.
"Oh, Christ," Russo grumbled, "you're not
gonna kiss him in front of the kid, are you?" He indicated
the rookie. "We're used to your fuck-buddy routine, but he's
still an innocent."
Hutch's hands tightened on Starsky's shoulders as he
tensed. No, he would not respond to Russo's constant
homo-baiting. Not today. Russo knew it got a rise out of him,
that was why he did it. Starsky focused on his inner eye, and
repeated his mantra. Oooommmm.
But he couldn't unclench his jaw.
"You gotta excuse his bad manners," Hutch said
to the embarrassed Diega, indicating Russo. "He had a lack
of support at home. His mother tried to drown him when he was a
puppy."
"Don't worry about it, Max," Starsky said,
pouting as the other cops chuckled. "Hutch says I'm a lousy
kisser. So, I'm goin' celibate."
The rookie hid a smile as the cops laughed.
"We try not to be in here when they take their
shower," Russo shot back. "They spend more time in
there on their knees than nuns."
That's it! Starsky
swore, the yoga, the martial discipline, everything forgotten in
a flush of heat from a comment that crossed an invisible line in
his mind. But Hutch was in front of him, hands on his arms,
gently restraining.
"Not today, Starsk," he said softly. "Don't
let him get to you today. Dinner's waiting."
Starsky struggled with his rage, found his center, and
felt the anger slip away. Hutch felt it, too, because he released
Starsky. No one in the locker room made a sound.
"Not today," Starsky agreed, his eyes burning
into Russo's big frame. He did not fear the man's size. It
might've given him a moment's pause once, but no longer. The
martial arts training had seen to that. He shrugged off the anger
and made his body go slack. He had to save it for the bad guys.
"Not today, Russo."
The big cop cupped his own genitals, grasping his dick in
a gesture of masculine contempt. "But someday, Starsky. You
and me. One on one. Keep your knee pads ready."
The threat was clear. Russo's partner hissed,
"Max!" The rest of the room went still.
Hutch's eyes were on Starsky, worried. But Starsky had
released his anger. "Need only one hand for that, Max?"
he drawled, grinning crookedly. "Takes me two hands to hang onto mine." He gripped his well-endowed
phallus through his tight jeans with both fists. Every cop in the
room burst into laughter as Russo's posturing proved his undoing.
Brazenly, Starsky donned the brown leather jacket studded
with Gunther's bullet holes across the back, holes stained dark
with his blood. He wore the jacket proudly, even though it made
other cops uncomfortable. It was his taunt to death and all the
forces that had tried to destroy him and Hutch—and failed.
Then, together, the partners sauntered out of the locker room,
arms around each other's shoulders.
Once out of ear-shot, Hutch had to cover his mouth to hold
in his laughter. "Starsky! You should be ashamed!"
"Of being hung?" Starsky asked, laughing just as
hard.
"No! Of flaunting it in the face of those less
privileged." Hutch nearly dissolved as, no doubt, he
recalled Russo's shocked expression.
"Hey, what can I say?" Starsky replied, still
giggling, as they made their way to the parking lot. "We are
the Chosen People!"
Laughing and leaning against each other, they staggered to
the repaired Torino. Starsky tried to remember when they'd last
felt this good. When things were so right. It had been a long
time. Years maybe. Before women had come between them. Before
Hutch had started feeling burned out. Before Hutch had gotten
sick once from an enforced addiction, then later from a plague.
Before Starsky had been poisoned. Before he'd been shot. It had
been awhile.
But now they were both healed, body and soul. Healthy,
strong, together. Me and
thee against the world.
Today and always, Starsky vowed. Always.
I can feel it coming in the air tonight,
Oh Lord
I've been waiting for this moment, all my life,
Oh Lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight?
In the Air
Tonight—Phil
Collins
 
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