"Starsk, how come you're always calling me in the middle of the night?"
    "Because. That's when things come into my mind."
    "Do you know, do you have any idea, how frightening that is? I get this image in my mind of you there in the dark, thinking. That's scary."
    "You always got a smartass remark to make, don't you, Hutch?"
    "Was there some reason for this call, or were you just dying to hear the sound of my voice?"
    "You remember when I tried to kill you on the island?"
    "I remember."
    "You don't hold it against me?"
    "I already told you a dozen times, no. It wasn't your fault. You did what you did because of a drug."
    "Or the voodoo."
    "Whatever. The important thing is, David Michael Starsky wasn't trying to push me off that cliff. Something else was."
    "Well, I know that. I mean, I know it in my head. But sometimes, especially in the middle of the fucking night, stuff comes into my mind. I mean, God. I could've hurt you bad. Or even killed you. No matter what made me do it, if I'da killed you...well, damn, that's scary. I don't think I could have lived with that, Hutch."
    "I know."
    A pause.
    "You really do know, don't you?"
    "Sure. I know, man."
    "Yeah. Well, good night, Hutch."
    "Sleep tight. And, Starsk--"
    "What?"
    "No more thinking, okay?"

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    Starsky planted his best, cheeriest "hospital" smile on his face. It was an expression that seemed to be getting easier as the years went by. Or maybe not easier, maybe just more familiar. He pushed open the door and went into the room.
    Hutch was sitting up in the bed, bandaged and pale, but wearing his best, cheeriest "I'm okay" smile.
    So they exchanged smiles for a moment. Two grinning hypocrites.
    Starsky pulled a chair closer to the bed and straddled it. "So how's it going, buddy?"
    "Going," Hutch replied. "Going."
    "We gotta stop meeting in this place. People are gonna start to talk."
    "Hell, let 'em talk."
    That brief exchange seemed to exhaust their store of jolly repartee. The smiles lingered a moment longer, then slowly faded away.
    Hutch sighed. "It's so fucking stupid."
    "Yeah? What exactly?"
    "Ego. I mean, that's what's behind this whole thing, right? A good-looking broad falls all over me, and I don't even take the time to question it. I just jump in and go for it. Christ."
    "Maybe you're being a little hard on yourself."
    Hutch glanced at him. "What does that mean?"
    Starsky frowned thoughtfully. "It might not be just ego, you know. Probably we let ourselves get into messes like this because...well, because it's lonely out here. And everybody wants to be loved."
    "Yeah, maybe there's something to that. But my God…."
    "Right. There should be a limit, I guess."
    They were quiet for several moments.
    Finally, Starsky smiled again, a real smile this time. "Well, you've still got me."
    "I seem to collect screwballs, don't I?"
    "Takes one to know one, sweetheart."
    "You might be right, Starsk, you might be right."

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    The park was empty now.
    Empty, that was, except for the lone figure perched on the merry-go-round. Hutch shook his head. "Damn," he whispered. Then he stalked across the grassy lawn toward the figure. "You're late," he said.
    Starsky looked up in surprise. "What?"
    "For dinner. You're late. Three hours ago we stood right here and made plans for dinner. We were gonna go home, shower, dress, you know, all that shit, and then we were gonna go eat Chinese. Remember?"
    "Oh, damn." Starsky glanced toward the night sky. "I was just sitting here and...."
    Hutch sat next to him. "Snap out of it, Starsk. Time to face real life again."
    "Real life sucks."
    "Sometimes. But mostly that's all we have."
    Starsky snorted. "This is it, huh?"
    "'Fraid so, babe. So you might as well accept that."
    "Words of wisdom from Kenneth Hutchinson, staunch realist?"
    "Hey, I'm just doing what I can to get along."
    "Right. So are we all."
    Hutch patted Starsky's bare leg. "If you ask me, she made the wrong choice."
    "Thanks. Of course, maybe she knew something you don't."
    "About you? I doubt it." Hutch stood. "Come on, Romeo. I want dinner."
    It took another moment, then Starsky smiled. "Okay. If this is what we got, then we might as well enjoy it."
    "Right."
    Starsky jumped to his feet and they left the dark park together.

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    "Upsy-daisy."
    "Huh?"
    Starsky tried to get a better grip on his spaced-out partner. "Let's get up, buddy."
    Hutch giggled. "Why? S'nice here on the floor."
    "Yeah, sure, and we could just set up housekeeping here, except that we've got things to do. We gotta bust some people and call in the back-up. You know, cop things."
    That seemed to strike the blond as funny. He laughed again as he threw both arms around Starsky's neck, almost pulling the smaller man down again. "Cop things, yeah." Then, in an abrupt change of mood, he frowned drunkenly. "I get tired sometimes, babe."
    Starsky struggled to brace him against the wall. "Sure, sure. Pretty soon you can go to bed."
    But Hutch shook his head. "No, no, not that kinda tired." Seemingly impatient with Starsky's lack of attention, Hutch raised both hands and took the other man's face between his palms. He forced their gazes to meet. "I get tired of the cop things. Tired, tired, so fucking tired."
    Something in the drug-glazed blue eyes scared Starsky. "Hey, it's okay, partner. It's all right."
    "No, it is not okay," Hutch said deliberately. "It's a terrible way to live."
    "You remember what you told me not so long ago, Hutch? It might not be so great, but it's what we got. This is our life, partner."
    After a moment, Hutch released his grip on Starsky. He nodded sadly. "Yeah, that's true. That's true."
    "Come on now. We've got things to do."
    Hutch grunted in apparent agreement and they started down the hall, leaning heavily against each other.

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    Hutch parked in the lot that held only one other car, a red-and-white Torino. It was not a night to be down on the beach and Hutch didn't know what the hell he was doing here. Except that a call from a partner required action. No questions, just action.
    He made his way down to the sand, where a lone figure stood, staring out at the water. "Hi."
    There wasn't any response.
    "You called me," Hutch finally said.
    "Yeah, I did." Starsky bent to pick up a pebble and then threw it into the water. "I can't stop thinking about Blaine."
    Hutch sighed. "John was gay, Starsk. You may not want to believe it. You might hate it. But none of that is going to change the truth."
    Starsky flinched. "I know that." He dug one heel into the sand. "Does everybody have dirty little secrets?"
    "Everybody has secrets. Whether they're dirty or not depends on how you look at it, I guess."
    "Maybe so." Starsky scattered sand with a kick. "What about you, Hutch?"
    "Me?"
    "Do you have secrets?"
    "I just said everybody does. Ken Hutchinson is no different."
    "You keep secrets from me?"
    "Oh, Starsk, I don't know. Probably."
    Starsky turned to look at him.
    Hutch shook his head. "Come on, buddy. You must have parts of yourself that you don't share. Even with me."
    "I don't know. Maybe."
    "Sure you do." Hutch looked far down the beach and saw a dog running along the shore, followed by a dark figure in jogging clothes. "I haven't been secretly jumping into bed with boys all these years, if that's what you want to know."
    Surprisingly, Starsky blushed a little. "I know that."
    "Once when I was twelve, though, Danny Ryan and I jerked each other off. Does that count?"
    Starsky shook his head.
    "If you want a real secret, how about this: Sometimes I hate the job we do. I hate myself. And sometimes I drink too much because of all that hate." He hadn't meant to sound as harsh as he did. He lifted a hand in resignation. "No more tonight, okay, partner? It's late."
    "Okay." Starsky led the way back toward the parking lot and they made the journey silently. At their cars, they stopped. "See you in the morning," Starsky said.
    "Right." Hutch got into the Ford and drove off. In the mirror, he could see Starsky still standing in the lot.

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    This wasn't the good stuff. Now that his grandfather was dead, Hutch was having to make do with a lesser grade of whiskey. But, as time went on, he was getting less fussy.
    He was also drinking much too much. And that meant he wasn't eating right or exercising like he should have been.
    And he didn't give a damn about any of it.
    Alcohol made a great anesthetic.
    Maybe that was why he had such a hard time caring much about anything these days. Even that poor kid, Guy. Innocent victim of his own mother's sickness. Hell, the world was full of innocent victims and how many of them could Kenneth Hutchinson save?
    Hutch poured himself another drink.
    Oh, he'd said all the right things, expressed all the right emotions. The only thing was, he hadn't really felt any of it. Sometimes it seemed as if his soul had been cauterized and all the capacity for feeling had been burned right out.
    Things just weren't falling into place so much any more. He couldn't connect with people. With anybody except Starsky, anyway. And that scared him. It was as if a wall were going up around the two of them, excluding the rest of the world. Just Starsky and him inside the wall, shut off from everybody else.
    What terrified him was the possibility that one day Starsky would figure out how to scale that wall and escape, leaving him alone forever.
    Hutch wanted to cry out, to let the world know how scared he was.
    But he couldn't do that. It wasn't allowed.
    So he drank.

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    Hutch sat on the upturned crate, one hand still rubbing the small of his back. Starsky came back into the room, carrying two beers, one of which he handed to Hutch. "You okay?" he asked anxiously.
    "I'm in shock." Hutch glanced around the room. "You really spent our money on this?" he asked hollowly.
    Starsky crouched next to him. "You really hate it, huh?"
    "What's not to hate?"
    "I thought maybe it had possibilities."
    Hutch just shook his head and then sipped some beer.
    Starsky's face bore an expression of complete despair. "Well," he said, "I guess you're mad at me."
    "Of course I am."
    "I'm sorry."
    Hutch sighed. "That's okay."
    They drank silently for several minutes, listening to the house creak around them. "The thing is," Starsky said finally, "I thought that maybe this was our chance, you know? Maybe the start of a real estate empire. Make us some real money, the kind I've never had. Enough money to be rich."
    "I've been rich, Starsk. It ain't all it's cracked up to be."
    "Easy for you to say." Starsky smiled fleetingly, then sobered. "You want to know what I really thought?"
    "What, babe?"
    He took a deep breath. "I thought that maybe we'd have something to fall back on. In case we ever get fed up with the job." He gurgled down some beer. "Now I guess we'll always be poor."
    "But we'll be heroes," Hutch reminded him.
    After a moment, they began to laugh. The sound echoed round and round in the room.

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    Dobey glanced down the long corridor and saw the slender figure leaning against the window, staring into the dimly lit hospital room. The black man walked heavily up the hall and joined him. "How's he doing?"
    "Okay," Starsky said in a muffled voice. He didn't look around. "They say he's gonna be okay."
    Dobey heard the usually firm young voice falter and then crack. He stood in awkward silence, wanting to pat the shaking shoulders, but not knowing if the gesture would have been appreciated or resented.
    Starsky cried silently, still leaning against the window. After several minutes, he sniffled loudly and raised his head. "He came real close to dying."
    "Yes."
    "That's so damned scary."
    "Life is scary, David."
    "Yeah," Starsky said bitterly. "And getting worse. Worse and worse every day. He shook his head. "This would have been such a fucking stupid way to die. A death should have some purpose. Especially for somebody like Hutch."
    Dobey shrugged. "Fate doesn't love anyone. It strikes creeps like Callander and fair-haired heroes like Hutch all the same."
    "We gotta get our lives together," Starsky said, seemingly to himself. "We gotta shape up and cut out the shit."
    The nurse by the bed turned and gestured.
    Starsky straightened. "'Scuse me, Cap'n. I'm going inside to see my partner."
    Dobey watched as Starsky entered the room and approached the bed. Hutch's eyes opened and he said something. Whatever his words had been, they brought a smile to Starsky's face. The two men clasped hands.
    Dobey shook his head. Sometimes he regretted ever pairing those two off. Oh, his cop instincts had been right: they were the best damned team he'd ever seen. But there was something else at work there, something he should have recognized as dangerous. They needed one another too much.
    He feared for them.
    Dobey said a prayer and then left them alone.

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    Hutch walked into the airport bar. He saw his mother immediately, sitting at a small table near the back. She looked the same as always: every blonde hair in place, dressed in a chic beige suit, complete calm radiating from her face. When she saw him, one hand raised in an elegant wave.
    "Mother," he said, sitting opposite her.
    "Kenneth, how wonderful to see you. I was beginning to think that you weren't going to make it before my connecting flight." The reprimand was phrased so sweetly that it could hardly be called that by one who didn't know better.
    Hutch knew better. "I was working."
    "Of course."
    She was drinking white wine. Hutch ordered a beer, then there was the usual awkward pause. She waited for him to light her cigarette. "Are you seeing anyone these days?"
    "I have been." He swallowed a gulp of the cold brew.
    "Oh, how nice. Tell me about her."
    "Waste of time. We just broke up."
    "Kenneth?"
    He sighed. "If you must. Her name is Molly. Her father runs a deli. And we broke up. She's eighteen. Which, I think, we'll all agree is too damned young. So that's the sad saga of Molly and me."
    His mother was frowning. Elegantly, of course. "You seem to have a knack for choosing inappropriate women."
    "I do seem to do that, yeah. Maybe I should just give up the hunt."
    "Maybe what you should do is grow up and start behaving like an adult."
    Hutch glanced at his watch. "Six minutes, Mother. A new record."
    Her smile was tolerant. "This is a very short visit, dear. Let's not waste time on the same old petty arguments. I think that by now we each know where the other stands."
    "God, yes."
    There was a pause.
    "Your father sends his best."
    "Tell him hello."
    "He'd like to see you."
    "Well, Mother, he knows where I am."
    "You won't give an inch, will you Kenneth?"
    "Has he? Have you?"
    "We always wanted the best for you."
    "Then we should all be happy, right? Because I'm doing just what I want to do. I'm a good cop."
    She studied him. "You don't look very happy."
    "Mother, I am ecstatic. Why shouldn't I be?"
    "Are you still working with that boy from New York? The Jew?"
    Hutch played with the cocktail napkin. "His name is David Michael Starsky. After all these years you must be able to remember that. Or should I write it down for you? And, yes, we're still together."
    Her mouth twitched. "That is a remarkably sustained relationship, given your track record. Maybe you should marry him."
    Hutch lowered the beer carefully, setting it on the table. "Very good, Mother," he said hoarsely. "Nice to see that you haven't lost your touch."
    "I just find it amusing that you and this David Starsky seem so compatible. He's hardly the sort of person you can have much in common with."
    "We have the job. And...we have our friendship."
    "Is that enough for you, Kenneth? The job and that friendship?"
    "It's enough."
    She sighed and stood. "I must run or I'll miss the flight. I only hope...Kenneth, I only hope that one day you don't regret the path you've chosen."
    "I hope so, too, Mother. But it is my path. So there isn't much I can do about it."
    "You could come home."
    "I am home."
    She bent to kiss him on the cheek and then hurried out of the bar.
    Hutch signaled the waitress and ordered another beer. He was shaking a little and needed time and space to calm down before going to pick up Starsky.
    What his parents thought didn't matter.
    And maybe he'd lied to her, but only about part of it. The job wasn't enough. He wasn't happy with being a cop anymore. That part was the lie. But having Starsky made up for the rest of it.
    I am home. Yes, because his home was being with Starsky.
    What else did he need?

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    The funeral was short. Which, if you ask me, is the way all funerals should be. If they have to be at all. Which I'm not so sure of.
    Junior made it through the thing okay. It couldn't have been easy for him; hell, I remember the day they buried my old man like it was yesterday. I handled it pretty much the way this kid did--all stiff upper-lip and bravado.
    Not much else about the services was the same--what common ground could be found between a Jewish cop in New York and a black Baptist in Los Angeles? I guess the only real connection was in the fact that each man left behind people who cared.
    Maybe there were things I should have said to Junior. Some words of wisdom to make it easier on the kid.
    "It ain't easy."
    "You're gonna feel mad at the whole world for a long time."
    "It's not fair."
    "It hurts."
    But what good would it have done for me to say any of those things? He knew all of them already. Junior would just have to learn to cope. Like everybody else. Like I did.
    Maybe the streets aren't the best place to learn about life, but maybe they're not the worst, either. I made it okay. And that life makes you tough.
    Sometimes...once in a while, I think maybe that's Hutch's biggest problem. He's not tough enough.
    But that's okay. I can be tough for both of us.

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    A couple of aces in a world full of jokers.
    Easy to say when a guy is feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. But later, when the case was wrapped and he was alone and tired, the witty cracks came a little reluctantly.
    Especially on a night like this.
    Starsky picked up the phone wearily and held it to his ear. The dial tone was almost comforting: a modern lullaby for a tired cop.
    After a moment, he pulled himself back from the edge of sleep and dialed. It took five rings before anyone answered.
    "You know what time it is?" were the first words he heard.
    Starsky rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Nick, I know."
    "So?"
    "So, I'm just checking up. Seeing how you're doing."
    "Transcontinental babysitting."
    "I guess you could call it that. If you want."
    "I'd rather not call it anything. Don't they keep you busy enough taking care of the city of Los Angeles? You trying to cover New York, too?"
    "Not hardly. Believe me, I'd rather be asleep. But Ma wanted me to call."
    "Surprise, surprise. Sometimes Ma takes the whole Jewish mother bit too seriously."
    "You have a smart mouth, boy," Starsky said sharply.
    "One of my better qualities. Look, David, you're my brother, not my keeper. Maybe you don't like that fact much, and maybe I'm not crazy about the relationship either, but that's the way the dice came up."
    Abruptly, Starsky needed to end the conversation. Nick had a way of irritating him beyond belief. "Tell Ma I called," he said flatly and then he slammed the phone down. He rested his head on his arms, sighing. He didn't know his own brother at all. Even sadder, he didn't seem to care very much.
    Maybe, like Nick had said, that was just the way the dice came up.

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    "Mmmph."
    "Yeah, Starsk, right," Hutch muttered, guiding the Torino through the dark, nearly empty streets. Too much recent nightlife, combined with the rigors of the Jimmy Spencer case, had finally caught up with his partner. Not to mention all the beer he'd downed. What with all of those things, Starsky had reluctantly abdicated his place behind the wheel.
    "Snnglwhump.
    "Uh-huh. You got it, sweetheart."
    Poor Starsk. Dumped by another stew. You'd think the guy would get discouraged after a while, but he just kept on bouncing back. Like a rubber ball.
    Hutch had never been able to figure out the depth of Starsky's feelings for any of the females who paraded through his life. Not since Terry. Or, maybe, Rosie. Beyond those two, none of the relationships seemed to do more than scratch the surface of Starsky's emotions.
    "Dngleswot."
    It was a damned shame, too. If ever anybody had a lot of love to give, it was David Starsky. Whoever was on the receiving end of so much caring would be very lucky. Damned lucky. And if all these women were too stupid to appreciate that fact, to hell with them.
    "Mo ompha."
    "Yeah, partner," Hutch said. "I agree. We don't need 'em anyway, right?"
    "Mozzle."

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    "You feeling bad about what's-her-face?"
    "Anna Akhanatova."
    "Yeah, Anna. You feeling bad about it?"
    Hutch shrugged. "Helluva commute for a date."
    "Well. She coulda defected."
    "I guess so."
    "So, say she had defected. What then?"
    "God, I don't know."
    "But she didn't, so I guess it doesn't matter."
    "You're right. It doesn't matter."
    "So cheer up, okay?"
    "I'm cheerful, Starsk, I'm cheerful."
    "You don't look so cheerful." Starsky was quiet for a moment, then he grinned. "Wanna arm-wrestle?"
    "No."
    "You sure?"
    Hutch leaned forward. "Starsky, go home. My heart is not broken. I am not suffering. Anna and I had a few laughs, that's all. In case you hadn't noticed, that's about as far as the romance in my life goes. But that's okay. It's all I want. I'm okay. You're okay. Good night."
    Starsky got as far as the door, then stopped. "Well, my love life is no big deal either," he said. "In case you hadn't noticed."
    "Does it matter?"
    Starsky looked at him quizzically. Then he shook his head slowly. "Not under the circumstances."
    "Which are?"
    "Bizarre, to say the least, buddy."
    With that, he was gone.
    Hutch waited a moment, then went to the window and threw it open. "Tomorrow," he shouted down toward the street. "Tomorrow I'll arm-wrestle you into the ground."
    Starsky waved and grinned. Then he got into the Torino and drove away.

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    Dear Ma,
    Just wanted to let you know that I'm up and around again--no permanent damage done. Hutch says he told you that I was going to be fine when he called from the hospital, but I figured you'd want it in writing.
    Hutch probably didn't tell you that he was the hero of the day. Saved my ass again (excuse the language). Not that there was any real danger, of course. Don't pay too much attention to all that stuff in the newspaper--I only sent it because I figured that Aunt Rose would give a really exaggerated version. Yeah, I took a slug in the leg, but it wasn't all that bad. Just a flesh wound, mostly.
    And, yeah, the barn was burning, but we got out in plenty of time, really. Never even got singed.
    All in all, just another day in the life....
    You know, someday I hope you get to meet Hutch in person. You'd love him a lot. He is...well, he's the best partner a man could hope for. Without Hutch, I'd probably pitch it in.
    I don't even blame him for ruining a really great watch.
    Talk to you soon.
    Love,
    Davey.

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    "If the devil worshippers or the grizzlies don't get us," Hutch complained, "the food in this place will."
    "I'm hungry, and it's still hours until we get home," Starsky said stubbornly.
    "A couple hours. And we've got fresh trout to eat."
    "Fresh trout to clean, you mean. I'll be dead by then."
    They parked in front of the shabby truck stop. The sign said, simply, EATS. There was only one other car in the lot.
    Hutch sighed in resignation. Maybe the coffee wouldn't be lethal. But even that fragile hope more or less vanished in the wake of the smells that greeted them as they walked in.
    Starsky plopped down at the counter and picked up the greasy menu. "Wonder what's good," he mused aloud.
    "Place about twenty miles down the road." The comment came from the only other customer, a dark-haired, rumpled man sitting at the other end of the counter.
    Hutch grimaced. "We're practicing masochists," he said.
    "Then you're in the right place."
    A fat man in a filthy apron appeared from the kitchen. "What'll it be, gents?" he said in a gravelly voice.
    "Bottle of beer," Hutch said, figuring that would be safe. "Got my own opener, so just set it down."
    Starsky considered the offerings for another moment. "Hot roast beef sandwich," he said finally. "Side of mashed. Extra gravy."
    The stranger shook his head. "You must be either a cop or a crook," he offered.
    Hutch glanced at him. "Why?"
    "Because only an ex-con used to prison food, or a cop with a cast iron stomach from too many bad fast meals over the years would take such pleasure in that menu."
    "We're cops, as a matter of fact." Hutch used a napkin to wipe the wet surface of the beer bottle, then popped it open. "You've heard of the old good cop/bad cop game?" He indicated Starsky. "We have our own version. Smart cop/dumb cop."
    The man laughed.
    "What about you? If you know how bad the place is, why are you here?"
    "Because I have to be. On a job."
    "Cop?"
    "Private. Rockford's my name."
    "Hutchinson. The human garbage disposal is my partner, Starsky."
    Rockford nodded. "I've heard of you. Dennis Becker is a good friend of mine."
    Hutch knew the cop.
    Starsky was manfully chewing on the meat. "So you're a private eye, huh?"
    "Right.
    "Like it?"
    "Beats working for a living." Rockford took in the surroundings ruefully. "Sometimes. I just wish the kid I'm waiting for would show up. My stomach can't hold out much longer."
    Starsky grabbed a napkin and used it to catch the gravy dripping from his chin. "I'd like to be a P.I."
    Hutch smirked. "You'd like to be Sam Spade."
    Rockford was talking easily to them, but his eyes never left the parking lot. "Life ain't a Bogart movie," he said. "Oh, damn!" He tossed a bill onto the counter and took off.
    They watched him sprint across the lot toward a dusty gold car. He was apparently in pursuit of a battered VW van that had swerved away and was barreling down the highway.
    "Wild," Starsky said.
    Then he dug with renewed enthusiasm into the food.

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    Murder as an intellectual exercise.
    Is it just me, or are people getting crazier every day? I mean, I've killed a couple people in my life, and believe it when I say that it was anything but an exercise, intellectual or otherwise.
    What was interesting about this case, though, was my brief excursion back into the academic world. Hutchinson, college student. It was a weird experience. Actually, I sort of enjoyed it. I think.
    Maybe it was just nice to sit and bullshit about crime, about right vs. wrong, instead of confronting the issues on the street. Those people in school can afford the luxury of debating morality. It's...cleaner.
    Back in the stone ages, when I spent my time working for good old Uncle Sam, there was a drill sergeant who got his jollies raking PFC Kenneth Hutchinson over the coals. "Too many brains and not enough common sense," was his favorite charge. Old Sarge probably had a point.
    Murder as a...a hobby.
    So the inept intellectual ends up a cop and morality moves from the detached debates of pre-law classes to real life. Real death.
    Sometimes, on the bad days (which come along more often now, it seems) it sounds like a good idea-going back to school, finding some kind of normal nine-to-five kind of life.
    But, being honest with myself (for a change) this little taste of life among the regular people, while it was sort of interesting, didn't exactly set my heart on fire. Face it: note-taking and cramming for exams can hardly compare to a gut-level shoot-out with the bad guys.
    The excitement is like a drug. I hate it sometimes and part of me would like to kick the habit. But I love it, too. Need it. Maybe I've grown to need it so much that I'm permanently hooked.
    And it scares me: I've been on the streets long enough and seen enough addicts to know how they end up.

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    The bored waitress refilled both of the white mugs and then retreated to her perch behind the counter. Two AM was not exactly the busy time in the Coffee Cup Cafe on La Cienaga. Other than Starsky and Hutch, the only customers were a couple of hookers taking a break and a junkie dozing in the corner.
    Starsky picked up his coffee and took a sip. It was end-of-the-pot strong. "So are you gonna be okay about this?"
    Hutch was slouched in the booth, staring at the tabletop. "About my ex-wife being killed? Or about the whole world thinking I did it?"
    "Either. Or both. Or whatever else comes to mind."
    Hutch shook his head, smiling faintly. "Can I ask you something?"
    "Sure."
    "Did you ever think, even for a second, that I might have done it?"
    "Are you serious?"
    Hutch twisted his fingers around the handle of the mug, but didn't lift it. "Hey. The woman was a stone cold bitch. Back when we were married, I felt like killing her a dozen times."
    "Yeah. Well, you didn't."
    "Sure. But I was a lot more...together back then. If you hadn't noticed, buddy boy, I've sort of been walking on a thin edge lately. Maybe I could have finally snapped. Didn't you ever think of that?"
    Starsky frowned. "It was never in my mind at all, I swear to God, Hutch."
    "Well, thank you for that."
    "You're a...a good person, Hutch."
    He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "If I am, Starsk, it's mostly because you're my friend."
    Starsky shrugged. "Maybe we just bring out the best in each other."
    "Or the worst."
    They smiled across the table.

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    "Didja'?"
    "What?"
    "You know."
    "I don't know what you're talking about, Starsk."
    He sighed. "I was wondering whether or not you made it with Liza."
    Hutch kept typing. "Is that any of your business?"
    "Sure. We're partners, ain't we?"
    "Yes. But I'm not convinced that that fact necessitates a squad room discussion of my sex life."
    Starsky slammed a desk drawer closed. "Okay, okay. If you're gonna get all bent outta shape, forget it."
    Blissful silence reigned briefly.
    "All right," Starsky said finally. "If you really wanna know, I didn't. Do it. With Liza."
    "Did I ask?"
    "But you were dying to know. So I told you. So?"
    "So?"
    Starsky sighed. "I told you. Don't you think you should tell me?"
    Hutch looked at him. "You ever stop to think that games like that one could get dangerous?"
    The familiar face angled into a strange smile. "Games are your hobby, babe, not mine."
    "You knew what was going on with Liza. I knew. It's happened often enough before."
    "Yeah, it has. So?"
    "So maybe it could get dangerous, is all."
    Starsky looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should grow up, Hutch."
    "I agree. We should grow up." He yanked the paper from the typewriter. "Before it's too late," he said, wishing he had a beer.

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    Outside in the hall, a nurse hurried by. That was the only sound at this hour. Hutch was staring at the wall, wanting to sleep, but not able to do so. He sighed heavily.
    "You awake?" Starsky's whisper was unexpected.
    "Yes. Thought you were sleeping, though."
    "Nah."
    Hutch punched his pillow into a lump and propped himself up. "That was a really stupid thing I did," he said. "You should be plenty pissed at me."
    "I am," Starsky replied mildly.
    "You don't act like it."
    "Well, I am."
    "I'm sorry. Really sorry."
    "It wasn't the first time. You can be pretty much of a bastard sometimes, partner."
    "Tell me about it."
    "How come? I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem to treat anybody else that way. Only me."
    "Only you, yeah, I guess."
    "Maybe you don't like me much."
    "That's stupid. I love you."
    "Which doesn't explain why you play all these stupid games. Okay, sometimes I play, too, but you, Kenny Hutchinson, are the freaking champion. And sometimes I get tired of it."
    "I don't blame you.
    "But you keep doing it."
    "I keep doing it."
    "Someday...." Starsky didn't finish the sentence.
    Hutch wanted to ask him what he meant. Someday what? But he didn't ask, because he was afraid of the answer. "Well, sleep tight," he said instead.
    "You, too," was the reply.

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    Sound and fury....
    Signifying nothing.
    Boy, old Willy sure knew what he was talking about. That was Willy, wasn't it? Maybe not. But anyway it made a lot of sense.
    The whole damned thing was nothing more than a tale told by an idiot. Signifying nothing.
    Hutch shook his head and poured himself another drink. A toast to the man who practically forced a killer into his partner's car. That took brains. He swallowed a healthy gulp of the booze.
    Maybe he should make a toast to poor Lionel Fitzgerald III. Jesus, what a...pathetic beast. It was hard to forget the look of complete fear in his eyes. A man so deep inside his own madness that he'd probably never come out of it.
    And Hutch thought that maybe Lionel was the lucky one. Madness must be a safe haven. Surely safer than the reality of the streets.
    Hutch was tired.
    He honestly didn't know how much longer he could keep it up. Keep this act going. God, talk about the world being a stage. Lionel should have tried playing the role of Detective Kenneth Hutchinson. Brave cop, itinerant lover, loyal partner, happy man.
    A man drowning.
    There was a speech he kept rehearsing. A nice little talk about how he'd had enough: "Starsk, buddy, we've had a good run. But I can't hack it any more. One of these days I'm gonna fuck up royally and get killed. Or get you killed. Which would be so much worse. So I gotta get out, buddy."
    He kept practicing the speech and trying to get up the courage to deliver it.
    Maybe one more drink would make him brave enough.

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    This vacation was coming just in time.
    So much had happened lately, topped off by the Salidas case, that Starsky really needed to get away. He glanced at the man sitting next to him. "Why don't you change your mind and come along? Ma would love to meet you. Always room for one more."
    Hutch shook his head. "Thanks anyway."
    "So what're you gonna do?"
    "Don't know. Maybe just sit around home. Goof off. Don't shave. Watch game shows."
    Starsky glanced at his watch. Time to head for the gate for his flight. But he hesitated. "Hutch, are you okay?"
    "Sure.
    "I worry about you sometimes."
    "Thanks. Nice to know somebody cares."
    "I care." Starsky stood, picking up his suitcase. "Don't you ever forget that I care. A whole lot."
    "Yeah." Hutch stood as well. "Have a good time."
    Starsky tried to think of something else to say, then he just dropped the suitcase and gave Hutch a tight hug. "See you in a week."
    Hutch was holding on just as tightly. "Yeah." The blond broke the embrace first and stalked away.
    Starsky watched him go.

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Love, look at us now,
Acting like strangers.
Just look at us now,
Ignoring the dangers.
I know you want me to stay,
So why are you acting this way?
I no longer know what to say
When I come around you.
Love, look at us now,
Acting like children,
So lost in ourselves
That nobody will win.
I know you want me to stay,
So why am I acting this way?
You no longer know what to say,
When you come around me.
                Newbury