It wasn't exactly a gay bar, just of such patronage, a mix of
all types, that
it had that tough leather-man feel to it. Actually, it was the lowest point in
the gutter, the thin line where all the silt collects, sometimes so thick it was
hard to breathe. Hutch had begun to think it was sifting into his pores.
But though it wasn't the worst thing in the world to sit there
and make eye
contact, drink beer and turn into a regular, Hutch didn't like it much. Couldn't
make himself like it. It was close quarters, the air was thick with smoke and
voices, the click of pool balls, and someone was even jamming him in the ribs.
"Watch it, man," he snapped.
The offender shrugged and moved off.
This was the type of place Hutch did not prefer. More to his
liking was a
place where the sun could come into the windows, were it daytime, and the
counter he was leaning on would have seen a cleaning rag more often than once a
week.
Starsky, on the other hand, leaning backwards on the bar with
both elbows,
was so much a part of the street, and the streets of him, that he seemed at
home. The atmosphere of the seediest of places, Hutch had discovered, rolled
right off him. Which was why Hutch was surprised to see him fidgeting.
"What's up, partner?" he asked in a whisper, leaning
close.
"He's staring at me again."
Hutch looked at Starsky, craned to see that Joshua Bright, an
attractive
red-haired man and the focus of their little undercover operation, was indeed
staring at them and smiling, and then looked at Starsky again. His friend wasn't
incapable of handling himself, but Hutch felt he might need a little assistance.
"If he comes over and talks to you," he said slowly,
"tell him
you're with me and he'll leave you alone." Hutch took a sip of his beer.
"With you?"
There was a touch of seriousness in Starsky's voice as Hutch
hid his own
twinge of having approached some unknown boundary.
"With me," he asserted anyway.
Their solemnity broke as Starsky turned towards Hutch to
snicker into his
beer. "With you, my ass."
Hutch nodded, letting his smile show through his glass.
"Yup. Yer mah
date."
Of course if Bright did decide he was so attracted to Starsky
that he did
come over, they would have to play along for awhile. It would fit into their
plans to offer to buy or sell drugs, depending on the gentleman's attitude, and
fortify their cover with a little interaction. And their cover as two small
neighborhood dealers with their eyes on the rung above theirs meant that they
had to be into whatever the big boys were.
"Mike's" was a major clearing house for all kinds of
drugs,
prostitution, porno, and with elections coming up, the governor had decided on a
major crackdown on everything. "Just say no" or some dumb thing. How
could a person say no to something that was his only pleasure? Homicide, for
once, was slow, and drugs needed their help, otherwise they'd have been very far
from this type of action.
Anyway, the only other undercover in the bar was a lone cop
whose sole job
was the buying and selling of child pornography. Sam had told Hutch at one point
that for the first couple of days he'd gone home and had nightmares about
short-eyed individuals. Sam was a 15-year veteran, but this was the hard stuff.
At least Hutch and Starsky only had to worry about the drug deals, something
they were used to. Hutch was sure that if he had been the one to work on the
child pornography, he'd have blown his cover inside an hour by killing one of
his customers.
In the course of a month, he and Starsky had purchased several
thousand
dollars' worth of cocaine, pot, Ecstasy, and a plastic baggie of assorted
colored pills that the lab had not been able to identify. During that same time
they'd both tested, or pretended to test, various amounts of their purchases,
discovering that neither one of them liked cocaine or Ecstasy, though Hutch
thought secretly that Starsky had been viewing the pot with new eyes after
getting the severe munchies one night. The pills had gone unswallowed, however,
both of them spitting them back out at the same time into their beers.
He reached across Starsky's body to check his watch. 2:30 a.m.
Bright had
left the bar and all their ready money had been spent. Several baggies of
something were tucked securely into Starsky's pockets for checking into the lab
later. Another half hour would see them well established as regulars, their few
collective past experiences showing them that someone who left right after a
deal was definitely going to be pegged as a cop.
When Hutch grabbed his wrist to look at his watch, Starsky
looked at it too.
It seemed kind of funny sometimes that Hutch, who seldom carried his pocket
watch, was always checking the time on Starsky's wristwatch, while Starsky who
wore the watch seldom checked it. He looked up in time to see Hutch smiling and
looking away. Hutch tended not to look at people when he smiled. If he did, it
was usually fake. He looked away when he did a lot of things, turning away
sometimes, as if sheltering himself with his body.
He was doing it now, or at least as well as he could without
completely
moving off the barstool. Starsky watched him draw his large-palmed hand down his
face and wondered why Hutch was suddenly pulling away.
"Is it cold in here, darlin', or is it just you?"
Hutch looked at him as if he'd grown two heads. "What are
you going on
about now?"
"Just wonderin' what's up. This bar gettin' to ya, or
somethin'?"
Starsky, staring right at his friend, could not help but see
the sad little
tilt to Hutch's eyes, or the downward flex to his mouth. Looking down at the
surface of the bar, Hutch said, "It is a little smoky in here."
It wasn't that smoky anymore, but there was no way he was going
to start
poking now, not when they were both undercover. They were both on their last
nerves, though it was easier for him, he figured, to act like a criminal. Or was
it? Certainly hanging out in a joint like this, playing pool and guzzling watery
beer, was more comfortable for him. Hutch, on the other hand, Starsky had always
thought, would look better and fit in better as one of those bad guys who wore
three-piece suits and traveled on folding money. Had a goon or two to back him
up. Like those bad guys in the James Bond movies. He snickered to himself.
"Something funny?" Hutch asked as if Starsky had been
laughing at
him.
Instantly, Starsky sobered. "Naw, just thinking about you
in a tuxedo,
that's all."
"Huh," Hutch replied as if he did not believe it,
which he did.
"Is it time to go, yet?" Starsky demanded, putting
the edge of a
whine in his voice that he knew Hutch hated.
"Fifteen minutes."
"Aw, c'mon, there's nobody here and I want some real
food."
Starsky waved his hand to demonstrate and indeed the bar had
cleared out, but
Hutch would be determined to remain until the designated time to leave. And so
they waited. Tipped back empty beer glasses. Finished off the pretzels. Didn't
speak.
Until 3 a.m. At Hutch's signal, they got up and left the bar,
strolled slowly
to Starsky's car.
"Hutch, I'm STARVING. I think I'm gonna faint."
Starsky patted his
tummy as if to emphasize the hollowness there.
Before going around to his side of the car, Hutch paused to pat
Starsky's
tummy too. "Unless you live in third world county, I don't think you have
anything to worry about." He smiled wickedly as he got into the passenger
seat.
"Hutch, I'm serious!"
"You were serious last night too, but you lasted an
additional hour, as
I recall."
Starsky started the car, shaking his head. "Don't make me
go through
that again," he insisted.
"You're the one who wanted pizza at 4 a.m."
"Who was I to know that the L.A. pizza industry isn't open
all
night?"
They drove down the street and Starsky knew that as Hutch
looked out the
window, he was laughing to himself.
"I've got some eggs I could whip you up," suggested
Hutch, and
Starsky heard him swallow a snicker.
"EGGS!"
"Or maybe," said Hutch quietly, turning to face him,
"maybe I
remembered to set out some steaks to thaw, with salad and garlic bread and wine
and all of that."
Starsky felt the surprise through his whole body. Trust Hutch
to plan a full
course meal for 4 a.m. in the morning for a partner who loved to eat.
"Then again," the voice came slowly now, teasing, as
Hutch turned
away, "maybe I forgot."
As he pretended to play with the rearview as they stopped at a
red, Starsky
smiled. It sounded like Hutch had made dessert too.
*
Hutch piled the dirty dishes in the sink and went around
pulling the shades
down over the mild winter sunrise. When the splashes of yellow hit his face, he
was energized for a moment and seriously considered staying up to finish various
and assorted things that had gone undone during their recent stakeout. But if he
didn't sleep now, he would be one of the walking dead come sunset.
He closed the door on the greenhouse and tiptoed past the couch
where all he
could see of his partner were the fingertips of one outstretched hand and a tuft
of dark hair. Starsky had dropped off to sleep like a heavy rock will sink to
the bottom of a still pond. And he would remain that way till Hutch woke him. Of
course, it wouldn't take more than his name, but until then, he was out.
Hutch stood there at the end of the couch, looking at the lump
of covers that
was Starsky. Crossed his arms and wondered at the vague feeling of disquiet that
began to grip at him again. Going over to the door, he checked both locks;
lifted the shade on each window and checked the locks there, and wandered over
to the sink to wonder if he shouldn't do the dishes anyway.
If Starsky were awake he would see that Hutch was pacing and
ask him, what's
up? To which Hutch would hem and haw and finally come up with something that
would satisfy them both. He stared at the sink, debating if he shouldn't go
ahead and fill it with hot water, then decided he was really too tired, after
all.
Was it their projected target, one Joshua Bright, that made him
wish he had
an extra pair of eyes and ears? Not to mention a full time assistant, made up of
half him and half Starsky, to cover their tracks? Bright was well on his way to
easing out creeping vines of power which reached into all facets of street
culture, counter culture, sub culture, mainstream, and could provide just about
anything illegal, immoral or unethical that anyone could think of. Compared to
some, he was still small time stuff, but he was growing everywhere, like a bad
weed or those traveling vines in the deep south.
Yeah, he realized as he wandered into the bathroom to brush his
teeth, Joshua
Bright made him nervous, and had done since Dobey had handed them the file on
the man. Bright was going to be very hard to pin down. But Hutch had known that
all along, so that couldn't be what was making him uneasy.
As he brushed his teeth, he stared at his tired refection in
the mirror and
wondered if the bad feelings came from being under so long without a break. He
smiled through a mouthful of toothpaste, realizing that being under was just
about his favorite part of being a cop. It was only their third or fourth time
under, but he found himself enjoying it more each time. Especially when he could
play the part of someone he absolutely was not. Someone who was so far away from
who he was, that he could be as flamboyant and goofy as he wished, although this
time they were under at a pretty low key, almost as themselves. So it wasn't
that.
Hutch discovered the next night that it was the joke itself
that he hated. At
first it had been funny: Starsky would saunter across the bar, inviting looks
and comments, and he would fend off all approaches with a toss of his head.
"I'm with him," he would say then, his eyes
sparkling, throwing in
a little hip toss.
Hutch nearly fell off his barstool the first time he saw that
one, spilling
beer over his jeans as he tried to swallow the laughter. Then a swell of
possessiveness expanded in his chest, because, of course, it was true. Starsky
really knew how to throw himself into the part, the tight jeans, skimpy t-shirt,
and that worn leather jacket that somehow skimmed across the line of his hips at
just the right place. And the way he moved, as Hutch began watching him with
"gay" eyes, was something else.
Hutch felt he did the role well, too. And it was almost fun to
pretend, if
the situation about the drugs weren't so dark. He would, in front of the mirror
at home, practice tying a bright scarf around his neck, copying the way he saw
real gay men do it. As a signal, I am here. I am one of you. It seemed to work
too, most of the clientele in the bar had come up and talked to him a time or
two. They were regulars by this time.
Hutch sipped at his beer, and wondered when Starsky was going
to show up.
He'd said he'd had an errand; Hutch figured he'd forgotten to pay his rent or
something.
"There he is," he heard someone say. Several heads,
including his
own, turned to watch Starsky enter the bar.
He did it in the way he always did, dressed in jeans and his
leather jacket;
nothing special. But Hutch noted that almost all eyes were upon his partner.
Looking at Starsky in a way that Hutch had reserved doing from behind his
sunglasses, when wondering what it was that all those women saw. What they
thought when they were looking at him like they wanted to eat him alive.
That's when it stopped being funny. That's when he figured out
what had been
troubling him. They'd been under too long, and something that had long been
precious and dear to him was being sullied and trampled under uncaring feet.
Nobody looked at Starsky that way, like he was something that could be owned.
Starsky was his own person and what had been unimportant the first time or even
the second, to deepen their cover, was no longer the joke when someone else,
some stranger, began looking at Starsky like he was a thing instead of a person.
His friendship with Starsky was something like the Rock of Gibraltar to him; he
couldn't bear to see anyone mess with it. Not even, not especially, in the line
of duty. Some things weren't worth it. And nothing was worth messing with what
he felt for Starsky. He couldn't even begin to acknowledge the uncomfortable
realization that he himself had looked at many a female that way.
But Starsky continued to use it, that maleness, that sexual
draw, continued
to pull the clientele of the bar in. Practically the only person not to come and
chat Starsky up was the real child pornographer. Even Joshua Bright began to
make noises about being interested in doing business with them. Hutch felt that
Bright thought any deal might include some private time with Starsky.
When Starsky reached his side, he grabbed him by the elbow.
"Would you
tone it down a little?"
Starsky pulled the elbow away and jabbed Hutch in the stomach
with it.
"Why should I worry, you'll be here ta protect me; defend my honor."
"You're no virgin princess, sweetheart," said Hutch,
dryly.
"An' you're no knight, either."
Hutch tried to relax his chest by letting out a lungful of air
and turned
away on his barstool.
"Don't do that!" exclaimed Starsky. "You been
doin' that for
more than a week now. Two weeks, even. Watsamatta, somthin' bugging you?"
Bugging me, thought Hutch. The voice in his head sounded
more mild than
he felt, but if he sounded calm there, maybe his voice would be the same.
"Not sure," he said, taking a swig of his beer. There
had been
quite a lot of beer swilled over the past month and this had to be the most
watered down slop ever. Even Coors was better. "Maybe it's taking too long
to get to Bright. He's our man."
Ever predictable, Starsky's face brightened. "Hey, I know.
I'll come on
to him, subtle like, an' then you come over, all angry. Then, we'll make like
the only thing that'll mollify you will be a deal. Then, we bust him!"
Hutch stared his partner straight in the face. He knew his
expression was
telling Starsky exactly what he thought of that idea; he only hoped it wasn't
conveying the fact that he thought Starsky was behaving like a moron.
*
Starsky knew, that evening and the next, that what was
bothering his partner
had very little to do with Bright, if anything. It had been that tell-tale
release of air, like a runner catching his breath. Hutch did that only when
agitated and even though his friend's answer had seemed logical enough at the
time, Starsky had caught him doing it several times. But he couldn't ask him
again and again. Hutch would either give him the same answer each time, or a
totally different one each time, none of which would be the real issue. Besides
which, poking at him like that would only cause Hutch to explode. Starsky had
seen the demise of several girlfriends who had caught on to that bit of
information way too late.
He swiveled on his barstool to lean back, resting his elbows on
the counter.
His beer, his second beer, remained untouched. Even he had to admit that too
much of a good thing was bad. He wondered if he'd ever, of his own free will,
order another beer ever again. Or if the stale beer nuts, once a wonderful
accompaniment, would ever—
Starsky looked up to see Joshua Bright walking over towards
him, a perfectly
straight line as bar patrons moved briskly out of his way. He made himself look
casually around and located Hutch over by the pinball machine, pumping away at
the buttons like a madman.
"Hey?" asked Bright as he came to a stop at Starsky's
side.
"'lo," replied Starsky.
"'lo," said Bright, nodding, and for a second,
Starsky got the
impression that Bright was really quite shy and unused to making conversation
with a stranger. He had to remind himself that this was the man he and Hutch
were after. This was the man who had masterminded the sale of underage
prostitutes imported from Asia, this was the man—
"May I . . ." Bright was indicating Starsky's drink,
and his raised
eyebrow seemed the most courteous of questions.
"Naw," said Starsky, hoping he could feel as casual
as he sounded.
"I'm all right."
"Perhaps some nachos from the grill?"
Of its own accord, Starsky's mouth began to water. Of course,
even for as
simple a gift as nachos, Bright would want repayment of some kind. Even if he
would soon be behind bars and the debt null and void anyway.
"No thanks," he said. "Thanks though."
"Maybe you'll change your mind," said Bright ordering
them anyway.
Starsky got the impression that the guy at the counter was
going to
practically run back to the kitchen and make them himself, he seemed so
agitated. He had seldom seen such a burly guy snap to attention that way. The
nachos arrived in due time, and Starsky looked at them, his stomach growling.
Nachos and beer, unlike any stakeout he'd ever been on. And it looked as if
nobody had skimped on the cheese either. However, he and Hutch never went on the
take.
And of course, Hutch was away from the pinball game like a
shot. Walking over
towards them, shoulders forward like a predator staking out his territory. Face
glowering, so jealous, for real, that for a moment Starsky had to hide his
smile.
"Yes?" Hutch said to Bright, as if Bright had asked
him a question.
He did not help himself to the treats either, Starsky noticed, and something
dangerous sparked in the blond's eyes. Instead he pushed the dish away as if
out of Starsky's reach, though they both knew full well and good that Starsky
had never had any intention of eating them. "None for you," he said
softly, glancing at Starsky briefly. "You'll spoil your appetite."
Bright smiled at this, and appeared not to take it as an
insult. "Hear
you fellows got some business for me," he said instead. "White
business."
Way obvious, Starsky noted.
"Five bigs per kilo." Hutch's voice was bald and
bare, his distaste
showing, at least to Starsky. God, they'd been under so long.
Bright drew them back to "his" table, a sign that
they'd made it
inside the ring if the local big boss was dealing with them personally, and he
brought out a sample. Hutch motioned for Starsky to test it, and though there
was a baggie of it in plain sight, no one paid any attention to it or them. For
a moment, Starsky had the feeling that the drug problem was going to simply
escalate, and no amount of undercover work was ever going to eradicate it
completely. Then he shrugged and said, "It's all right," and fell
against Hutch, his job over.
Hutch's arm fell across his chest and they both looked at
Bright evenly.
"If you can promise us this quality in the future,"
rumbled Hutch's
voice through Starsky's ribs, "we can plan on doing some business."
"My quality is always superior," said Bright.
Yeah, yeah, thought Starsky. As will be your
accommodations in San
Quentin. But it was only his ego talking. They had a long way to go before
the LAPD would have enough to book this idiot.
He found Bright's eyes on him, "gay" eyes, appraising
him, asking
him with one of those raised eyebrows. The question itself was unspecific, but
what mattered were his intentions. Starsky jolted as he suddenly wondered how
far the department would expect him to go with this. And Bright was not
unattractive, simply so overpowering that Starsky wasn't sure what he thought of
the idea.
Could I do it with a man? All that red hair. What does a guy
have to get
around here to get a commendation?
Which of course was not why he was in police work.
He was about to fend Bright off with a yawn or some other
previous
engagement, when Hutch's arm tightened around him. A warm band across his ribs,
large hand curved around the bone of his hip. He looked down at the silk-clad
arm, black silk, Hutch's flesh pale beneath the cuff. Then Starsky did something
he'd done a thousand times before: laid his head down in the warm hollow of
Hutch's neck. A movement as natural as breathing, as right as an orange sunset
on a dusky sea. But never before with an audience, never before with the
intention of a message: do not touch, I am taken. A sly look to Bright, and the
scene was over, relationship established. He pulled away, smiling to himself.
Oscar time, he told himself.
"Later, babe," said Hutch as a codicil. "Let me
finish
business with Mr. Bright here."
"So," said Bright, leaning back, "is he your
boy, or are you
his?"
Before he could even tense, the back of Hutch's hand began
stroking his
collarbone, and the body beneath him seemed deceptively calm. But one move, one
twitch, Starsky knew, and Hutch's arm would clamp down on him like a shot. He
looked down to see the veins start to stand up in Hutch's wrist.
"Nobody's anybody's boy," replied Hutch softly.
"What you see
is true love."
"Yeah," added Starsky, more to let his partner know
he understood
than to donate his two cents worth, "true love."
"Ah," said Bright, smiling and nodding, "I
see."
The matter was dropped, promises of money were exchanged, dates
set,
schedules for future deliveries. Hutch reached out a free hand to Bright.
"We'll be seeing you."
By the time they arrived at Hutch's, Starsky was yawning so
hard, he thought
his eyeballs were going to pop out. He followed his partner up the stairs,
hitting the couch the only thought in his head. In the door he went without a
word, heading for the closet where the extra blanket and pillow were kept.
"Don't you ever go home?" asked Hutch from behind
him.
Starsky stopped and turned. Hutch hadn't moved from the door,
only folded his
arms across his chest, glowering.
"What's the matter with you?" demanded Starsky. He
was tired too,
damnit, and really in no shape to deal with some bizarre mood.
Hutch unfolded his arms, his hands moving soundlessly in front
of his face,
head slightly bowed.
Starsky moved closer. "Hutch?"
"Man." It was a whisper. "I'm so tired, you
know?"
Starsky nodded in return. "Yeah."
"Touching you was no big deal, you know, but with an
audience . . .
"
Those dark eyes were closed as Hutch trailed off. It was a lot
to deal with.
"We won't have to do that again," assured Starsky,
"not with
an audience, anyway."
Hutch nodded, silent.
"Why don't you go to bed. We can talk about it
later."
"Okay."
It was odd, sometimes, how Hutch would just give into him, do
what Starsky
told him. Usually when he was tired, or had been sick, or through some heavy
street crap. He was especially malleable then, and Starsky suddenly realized
that that had been when Van had gotten to him. After a day on the streets, when
he got home. It was a wonder Hutch had lasted as long as he did.
"It's gonna be okay, Hutch," he told the retreating
back as the
other headed towards the bathroom. "Everything's gonna be okay."
*
Starsky eyed the article that he had located on page ten after
the furniture
warehouse ads.
"A local drug cartel was brought down
at a place
known as Mike's Bar, authorities said. Undercover work of a
month by Sgt. Hutchinson and his team of investigators
collected enough evidence to arrest drug dealers and a
pornography ring, reporters were told. Warrants were
prepared with the full authority of the District Attorney's
office and defendants will be appearing there to testify
before going before a jury court. Approximately 1 million in
drugs has gone through Mike's Bar in the past year . . .
"
Its placement in the paper, the dry details, the length of the
thing, only
two more paragraphs and the fact that his name wasn't even mentioned in
conjunction with Hutch's, told Starsky how important their last case had been.
Not very. Not sensational or lengthy enough, he supposed. He wondered if Hutch
had seen it yet.
"Bail! BAIL!"
Starsky paused halfway to a bite of a jelly donut as Hutch came
barreling
from Dobey's office. Dobey barreled after him. Hutch had seen it alright.
"It was a million dollar bail bond, Hutchinson!"
Dobey yelled back
helplessly.
Both Starsky and Dobey watched open mouthed as Hutch flung open
the door to
the hallway.
"Didn't you see that article? How 'bout our report? One
million in drugs
through Mike's Bar ALONE! It's a drop in the bucket to him!" Hutch howled.
"Who knows how much he's gotten from all his other dives; he'll never show
up in court now!" He slammed the door behind him; the window vibrated.
Starsky and Dobey looked at each other, knowing that Hutch was
right. And he
was. Joshua Bright, owner of Mike's and a dozen other "dives" and out
on bail did not show up for court.
Starsky stood up and gave Dobey the rest of his donut.
"Here ya go,
Cap'n. Don't forget to chew."
He headed out the door after his partner, catching sight of the
blond head
just as it went out the front doors of the station.
He lost him on the elevators and went to sit in his car in the
parking lot,
not starting the engine. What was he thinking? Treasure hunts were his best
thing! Besides which, Hutch needed to be found, but good. He thought about
driving up to Pine Lake anyway, or to that resort where Hutch liked to pick up
ski bunnies. But it was too late for trout, too early for snow.
"I am Hutch," he said, half aloud. "Now, where
would I
go?"
The thing was to realize that the whole situation with Joshua
Bright had been
weird and to connect that with what Hutch would do about it.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, realizing he
looked like he was
napping. Picturing Hutch at his most relaxed was very soothing . . . Hutch
playing his guitar, long fingers moving over the strings; Hutch fishing at
Mirror Lake or cooking over that ancient camp stove, humming under his breath;
Hutch in his greenhouse, talking to his plants. The two of them in the
greenhouse, Hutch pulling off dead leaves from his Boston fern, spraying it with
water and Starsky reading a true article about a boy who had found a blue pig.
Hutch had suddenly gone off on a tangent about car payments. Car payments and
interest rates which had nothing to do with something as fascinating as blue
pigs, as far as Starsky could see.
But it brought to mind Hutch's face when he babbled
passionately about
something. His eyes would light up, cheeks flushed, and he would point and
gesture, his face losing that eternal guarded silence. Starsky wished he knew
the absolute secret of breaking through that remoteness, but he usually found
that it happened without his realizing it. Only later would he remember the
phrase or the question that had unlocked Hutch's vocal cords, something key to
that one time only, something that set Hutch to talking a blue streak. Hutch in
his greenhouse.
Greenhouse?
Starsky leaned forward to start the car, then paused.
That's too easy.
Yeah, but that's what he'd want you to think.
If Hutch was going to hide and sulk and feel somehow pissed off
at everything
in the world, the one place he'd go would be his very own jungle, his private
Eden, his lair.
His greenhouse.
Starsky started the engine and shrieked out of the parking lot.
He parked his
car some blocks away, knowing that if Hutch was home he would recognize the
sound of the engine, and walked casually down the sidewalk.
He stood beneath Hutch's window, the seafair wind of the early
evening
sliding past his ears. A movement through the fronds caught his eye.
Bingo.
Starsky mounted the stairs, took down the key and let himself
in.
He found Hutch reclined on the chaise lounge, though he didn't
look like he
was relaxing at all. The second he saw Starsky, he shot to his feet, back to the
wall, eyes glaring.
"What are you doing here?"
"Hutch," said Starsky calmly, "what is going
on?"
"Nothing, go home."
"You call leaving without telling me where you're going
nothing?"
"I needed to be alone."
"Alone? Without me?"
Hutch shuddered.
"Why aren't ya talkin' to me?"
"There's nothing to talk about." As if to prove his
words, Hutch
brushed past him rudely, as if the greenhouse were suddenly on fire. Starsky
followed him.
"Fine," said Hutch, whirling to face him, as if
Starsky had
demanded yet again that Hutch tell him what was wrong. "This whole thing
stank from the beginning." A broad forearm came out to underline his words.
"Us against Joshua Bright; it was impossible from the start."
Starsky shook his head. "What are you talkin'
about?"
"Don't you know?"
It was almost a snarl that Starsky saw on Hutch's lips,
nostrils flaring as
he inhaled, and his jaw dropping as he exhaled. He waited.
"They used us," said Hutch finally. "They used
us, who we
were, how we work . . . "
"The fact that we're friends?" prompted Starsky.
"More than that." Hutch was shaking his head now, as
if he'd
already explained everything and Starsky was now disagreeing with him. "We
have a bond, a special bond, I.A. knows it, Dobey knows it, Special
Investigations knows it. A bond that looks like love."
"It is love," said Starsky, his head going down, eyes
still on
Hutch. "We do care for each other."
Hutch lifted his head to look him straight in the eye.
"It's more than
that. So much more; man, sometimes it's the only thing that keeps me sane."
Starsky decided in a split second that he wasn't uncomfortable
with the
ground that his partner was now treading, only somewhat surprised. Surprised
that a conversation that had been about the case was now about something more
personal. Theirs was a friendship so carefully built, so unconsciously
protected, that it hardly needed speaking of aloud. "Me too," he said
softly in reply. "You keep me sane, too."
A soft little light flickered in Hutch's eyes, softened the
edges of his jaw.
Almost like he was grateful Starsky considered him a friend.
"But what I don't understand," said Starsky now,
slowly, "is
how our relationship relates to Bright, he—"
"It relates in every way, every possible way."
Now he was baffled and threw up his hands.
"Damnit, Starsky, listen to me. They sent us undercover in
a gay bar,
knowing that we would pass, that the way we are with each other would be the
only cover we needed." Hutch blew out a huge lungful of air again and
pulled his hand over his face.
"I kinda knew that goin' in, Hutch; I thought you
knew."
"I DID know, but then you started with that 'gay'
crap—"
An interruption was merited at this point, and Starsky
struggled to keep his
temper. He felt his voice deep in his chest. "Begging your pardon, but you
were the one who said I was your date."
"Yes, I started it, I'm the one who said it first, but it
was meant as a
joke. A joke between you and me, something only we would know, like so many
things between us. Something no one else would ever find out about. And then you
used it, oh, so cleverly, to make our cover rocktight. You're with me."
Hutch added with a snort. "Like you're ever not."
"It WORKED didn't it?" Starsky told himself he wasn't
shouting.
Hutch shook his head, the tone of his voice making Starsky
cringe. "Oh,
only too well, my friend. You bandied yourself around that bar night after
night, being mine, using our relationship so that we could buy drugs and pin
Bright down. And it worked, we arrested him. Threw him in jail."
Starsky was afraid of what would come next. But he went ahead
anyway.
"And then he walked."
Hutch brought a tight fist to his own face, pushing it against
his forehead.
Then the fist dropped, and Hutch was completely pale. "Yes." His voice
was soft. "He walked. And everything that we were, everything that we had,
we allowed to be trampled on and used up was wasted."
Starsky found he was shaking. He'd had no idea that Hutch was
feeling this
way, and that bothered him even more than the fact that he'd not been able to
pick up on it. "It didn't get wasted, Hutch."
His partner started to shake his head.
"It didn't. Listen to me—"
"The goddam, fucking LAPD can just forget me ever doing
that again, do
you hear me?"
"What?"
"I will never, I repeat, NEVER, use you, or me, or US to
pull an
undercover mission again. We will never go in as ourselves. Are you listening?
NEVER! They wasted everything that we were, they USED us and it didn't even
work. We paraded our relationship in front of everyone in town and Joshua Bright
isn't even in jail. Can you beat that?"
Hutch started laughing quietly in a way that Starsky did not
like, then his
words bubbled over themselves as if he suddenly found the whole thing
uproarious. "He's not even in jail, and I held you out on a tether for
people to gawk and gape and have them say, yup, they're lovers. It's
priceless."
The blond threw up his hands and began to walk away. Starsky
grabbed him by
the elbow, not to turn him around, simply to stop him. He looked at Hutch's
profile, that mutinous scowl of downturned mouth, the hooded eyes.
"I want you to listen to me, just for a second,"
began Starsky
quietly. "I'm only gonna say this once. No matter what we did, no matter
who we seemed to be," he sliced the air with his free hand and caught
Hutch's eye following its mark, "all of that was just our cover. Ya got
me?"
The response was a mere relaxing of the scowl, and Hutch lifted
his face to
stare at the far wall. "They used us up," said Hutch.
"They didn't touch nothin' of who we are, they'll never
get at how we
really feel about each other."
The blond shrugged, moving his arm out of Starsky's grasp.
"Yeah, but
you were in my lap, and Bright probably thought you belonged there, and that
'boy' thing, it just . . . "
"Maybe I do belong in your lap," replied Starsky
easily, now that
the main storm seemed to have passed, "who knows? I can think of worse
places to be."
He smiled as he caught Hutch's mouth twitch. "My point is,
it don't
matter what Bright thought, what anybody thinks for that matter. We are how we
are, and if they don't like it . . . "
" . . . they can shove it," filled in Hutch.
"Right. And as far as using me up, I'm the motherlode,
here. It can't be
done."
Hutch's face and body relaxed all at once, though Starsky found
that his own
shoulders were still bunched up tight. He took in a deep breath. "Listen,
why don't we—"
Hutch held up his hand. "We can't. I went out of the
station like a bat
out of hell, and you probably came after me like a shot out of a cannon. We've
been off the streets for over four months and Dobey needs us. We have to go back
to work sometime."
"But—"
"We can pick up something on the way in, okay?"
It wasn't okay. There seemed more there that Hutch had wanted
to say, more
about their relationship. More about who was whose boy here, and, on the heavier
side, why Hutch felt it had been wasted. But the walls had come down and Hutch
was in one of his "I'll say anything you want, but I'm still not saying
anything" moods that came and went with surprising regularity.
And Starsky began to wonder exactly what it was that Hutch felt
had been
wasted. Later, he promised himself. Later.
Later turned out to be the drive home. Hutch, behind the wheel,
had not
spoken a single unnecessary word all day, except for the inscrutable command of
"coffee?" when Starsky had gotten up to get himself some. And Starsky
felt he could not let it go on any longer.
"So you gonna tell me what's buggin' ya?"
The question was followed by silence, then a sigh.
"You know, we've grown close . . . " started
Hutch.
"Yeah."
"And I never thought of myself as gay, not like those guys
down at
Mike's anyway."
"Or Blaine."
"Or Blaine, right. That's a lifestyle—"
"Or a podium."
Hutch nodded again. Starsky could see he was having some
difficulty getting
all of this out; unlike Starsky, Hutch had to pull out honest feelings with
king-sized meathooks, and yank real hard. At least it seemed that way to
Starsky. He decided to lend a hand.
"Ya know, Hutch, none of this is news to me."
A blue-eyed look was spared him. "It's not news to me
either, Starsk,
but I wasn't planning to bring it up like this."
"Consider it brought up."
Hutch took one of those deep breaths of his where it still
seemed as if he
hadn't pulled in enough air. Then he let it out all in a rush, and followed it
by an earnest moment of leaning over the steering wheel, looking for the
non-existent oncoming traffic. Muscles twitched in the broad forearms as his
partner gripped the wheel and twisted his fists forward and back.
"Hutch."
"Damnit, Starsky, give me a minute."
"Ya want me to go first?"
"There's nothing to go first on, for pete's sake, we both
know how we
feel." The blond's voice was hot.
"So what's the problem?"
"It all got ruined, some dumbshit remark by
me," he seemed
extra mortified on this point, Starsky noted, but he kept his silence.
"That date thing, you know . . . "
"I know."
"I was going to get comfortable with the thought in my
head, work on it,
work it slow, but doing it, ya know?"
He turned to Starsky, and all at once let go of the steering
wheel and turned
to face his partner across the bench seat. It wouldn't take a stranger to see
how much Hutch had worked himself up over this, the skin beneath the blond's
eyes was tense and tight.
"I know," said Starsky again, although he didn't
really. Didn't
understand why Hutch seemed to think it was a problem. What Hutch felt for him
was never a problem, at least not to Starsky.
"Then we became some damn spectacle, and anything I had
wanted to do was
suddenly on some stupid stage, all for the fucking LAPD—"
Hutch broke off suddenly, and if nothing else had clued him in
as to how
agitated Hutch was, the swearing would have done it right then. His partner, of
the superior education fame, used long words, big sentences and eschewed
profanity except when undercover.
"Hutch, I'm telling you, and listen to me for a minute.
The undercover
thing is all over; it's just us now. Me and thee. Whatever we are, however we
wanna be, that's just between us. Ya got me?"
"Got ya," replied Hutch, but he still seemed
unhappy.
*
Hurt-comfort-hurt-comfort-hurt-comfort . . . the litany echoed
in Hutch's
head as he struggled to catch his breath as the onslaught suddenly halted. The
hurt came with each blow of leather to his head, his back, his legs. Curling up
into a ball hadn't helped, wedging himself into a corner, hadn't either. They
simply pulled him out, held him down and started all over again. From the
beginning.
Of comfort, though, none existed. If Starsky had been there,
hands would have
patted his face, rubbed his shoulders, held him tightly. A voice would have
asked him if he was okay, and then taken care of him when told the answer was
no.
Everything was not okay; Starsky was no-where to be seen. Hutch
couldn't
figure out if that was good or bad.
"You'll die anyway, pig," said a voice, not
Starsky's. "Might
as well tell us something."
They strung his arms over his head, leaving the blindfold on.
He shivered in
the heat, realizing his chest was heaving and knowing he couldn't do anything
about it. In his utter darkness, he could taste cement dust, blood from his
mouth, and smell his own sweat refusing to dry. Part of his pants leg was in
tatters and the belt that once held them up was long gone. It was just him, his
jeans and his bare feet.
There was suddenly a pair of lips against his ear.
"While you can still hear me, I'll tell you something you
might want to
know."
It was a different voice, Hutch was sure, than that which had
been
questioning him for the past . . . days? He felt something tingle up his neck.
"You're going to die here. It's only a matter of time.
Alone, like an
animal in the dark."
Alone?
He grit his teeth together and pulled his head back. Firm hands
clamped
themselves on his skull and around his jaw.
"Why?" Hutch ground out, "why if I'm going to
die anyway,
should I tell you anything at all?"
They were large hands and strong, calloused. Hot. They shook
him gently as if
to chide him. "You will go with less pain; you will go quickly."
The hands released him. The voice and several pairs of feet
disappeared
behind the sound of a closing door.
Hutch jerked on the tether that bound his hands over his head,
growling.
Sartre didn't know shit. Hell wasn't other people, like Hutch had previously
always found true, hell was dying alone like an animal in the dark.
Alone, alone, always alone.
Except for Starsky.
He'd lived this way all of his life, did he have to die this
way too?
The feeling was gone from his arms completely now, though he
could feel every
inch of the rest of his body. It was as if he was on fire except for his hands,
which, tied, were raised in grotesque supplication. Sweat traced its way behind
an ear, and he longed to push back his hair that was tangled in the band over
his eyes and itched.
He wasn't really sure what they wanted from him anymore. The
first day he had
know with crystal clarity that they had been involved in the Mike's Bar drug
ring and that they wanted names. With equal clarity he had been determined they
weren't going to get it. At least not from him.
He had been clean then, unstreaked with blood and sweat, his
throat not raw
from screaming, his skin unflecked with bruises and cuts. He hadn't been thirsty
or hungry or tired or floating above his body from too many blows to the head.
Nobody but nobody was going to coerce a member of the LAPD with pain and threats
of death to give them any kind of information.
But that had been days ago. Now he wasn't so sure.
When they came back, a long, dark time later, years it seemed,
he suddenly
felt every strand of hair on his body that had enough energy stand straight up.
His body shook as a single pair of footsteps approached. The sweat had finally
dried on his chest and the hand placed there felt almost cool. He felt a motion
over his head and found that his arms could fall forward, the rope that had
supported them snaking around his wrists in a friendly way. But there was
nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could do as two hands clamped
themselves around his upper arms. Nothing as he felt those lips at his ear.
"Can you tell me now, Officer Hutchinson? Can you? Who
worked with you,
who helped you?"
He tried to pull away but the hands held him firm.
"C'mon, just one name and it will all be over."
It occurred to him suddenly that if they knew his name, which
they did from
its frequent and polite usage over the past days, then they would know all the
official information about him, about the case. Why did they have to know from
him?
A hand was stroking his cheek and Hutch ducked his head. There
was only one
person whose name he could remember, anyway, one face that floated in the
blackness. The name rose in his throat though he swallowed against it.
"What was that, officer?"
Such a gentle question.
Something moved forward from him of its own volition, its own
free will. He
was screaming when he told them what he thought they wanted to know.
A hand reached up to pat his face. "Thank you Officer
Hutchinson, thank
you."
*
"Hutch? C'n you hear me, Hutch?"
It was a voice from long ago and far away. A voice of the deep
city, and it
came with hands that cradled him in a lap he'd known once in a dream.
"You all right?" Warm, gentle hands on his face.
"Hell, I know
you're not, but could you tell me you are?"
There was a chest against which his head rested and it lifted
him and laid
him down with each breath. The hardness of a leg was underneath him and an arm
was flung across his middle. He caught the scent of someone else's sweat and
underneath that, Ivory soap. An elusive tingle brought his mind screaming to
life.
He opened his eyes. The blindfold was gone. Starsky's tentative
smile was the
first thing he saw. A circle of dark hair going everywhichway. A bruise
alongside his temple.
"Looks like we're in this together, buddy. At least we're
together."
Hutch rolled away, his definition of hell changing once
again.
Starsky tried to hold onto Hutch as he shakily got to his feet
but it was
more than he could do to add to the bruises already there. It wasn't like either
one of them could go very far.
Hutch placed his palms along the cement as he pushed himself
up, leaving damp
marks. He bowed his head between his upraised arms.
"What have I done?" came the whisper. It was ragged,
catching in
Hutch's throat.
Starsky moved forward, but the instant his hands touched one
arm, Hutch was
knocking him away, whirling away to stand with his back in a corner. He tilted
his head, half closed eyes staring at Starsky before turning away.
"Hey," said Starsky, his voice squeaking, "at
least we're
together."
There was no answer.
"Whatsamatta Hutch?"
It was no good. His partner continued to lean into the wall,
pressing against
the cement as if to move somehow into its pocked surface. When Starsky moved in
closer, Hutch jerked away, half of him coated with cement dust and grit. Waves
of shuddering rolled over his taunt form, reminding Starsky of someone in heroin
withdraw. Pangs of alarm lifted his arms, a glare from Hutch lowered them to his
sides.
Four days of searching had brought him to this. At least Hutch
wasn't dead,
but he'd never expected this turning away. Four days after finding spilled
groceries outside of his apartment, four days of round the clock attentiveness.
He'd never expected to be rebuffed.
"Hutch, please!"
"Please what?" snapped Hutch, looking at Starsky at
last, nostrils
curling. "Please Hutch, I'd rather not be here, please Hutch, old man, I'd
rather not die?"
"Whadja mean die? What do these turkeys want
anyway?"
A sigh. A sigh that ended in a sob and Hutch raised his hands
to his face
covering his eyes. Bare arms and Starsky's eyes were riveted to the ladders of
bruises there. He longed to move forward, move in close and lean into Hutch's
shadow, but felt that Hutch, at this point, would simply move to the other side
of the room.
"Talk to me," he said, hoping his voice was calmer
than he suddenly
felt. "What's going on."
Hutch dropped his hands and transformed into that still, quiet
calm that
enfolded him when things got really heavy, really bad. Later would come the
explosion, the blond whirlwind that he knew and could deal with. But now, what
could Starsky do in the eaves of the sudden quiet that filled the room? Huge
bells of alarm began to explode in his head, filling the void.
"Do you remember Joshua Bright?" Hutch asked as calm
as if they had
both been in the squad room with the file in front of them.
Starsky nodded slowly, not liking the direction this was
taking.
"Well, this is where he goes when he's out on bail. He
wants the people
responsible."
"So?"
Hutch grabbed his wrist. "Damnit, Starsky, don't you know
what they'll
do to you? They'll string you up and make you tell. You'll give them information
just to make the pain stop."
"I would never do that!" He felt indignant that Hutch
thought he
would fall that easy.
The hand fell away from his wrist, eyes a second ago locked
with his turned
away. "No," said Hutch. "No, you wouldn't."
"Hutch, what are you saying?"
"I didn't mean to do it."
"Didn't mean to what?" Starsky stepped closer but
Hutch jerked
away.
"Do you know how long have you been here, can you
remember?"
Starsky tried again.
"I don't know."
"You've been missing about four days; did you tell them
something?"
asked Starsky, shoving away the sudden quirky thought about how easy it was to
translate the last 96 sleepless, frustrating hours into a single numeral.
There was silence and then there was this, so Starsky continued
to push.
"Anyone would have broken Hutch, with what you've been through."
"You wouldn't have," came the instant retort.
"You said
so."
Starsky waited, then gentled his voice. "Yes, I would
have. Anybody
would have."
Hutch burst out at him, pressing Starsky against the wall with
his body, his
hands pinning Starsky's arms.
"NO, you wouldn't have. You wouldn't have given them
anything, least of
all—"
Starsky interrupted him, pushing Hutch away. "Yes, I would
have. After
four days? I'm only human, Hutch, as likely to collapse in a puddle as the next
guy; Hutch, it's okay. You shouldn't feel guilty for being human."
"Don't tell me what to feel!" snapped Hutch.
"I will if I want to!"
"Quit acting like this is some game. You're in here to die
and you don't
care!"
"But I do care!" Something rose up from inside him.
"Do you
think if you died that I want to live?"
The door banged open and Joshua Bright, his red hair glowing in
the single
light bulb, strutted in, three goons with Uzis behind him. They grabbed Starsky
easily and Hutch realized that their last words to each other were angry ones.
"We'll take Hutchinson's boy here to another room for
questioning.
Officer Hutchinson has settled so well in this one."
Two things clicked into place in Hutch's mind at once. The
first one, that
'boy' remark, seemed unimportant. The second was that they were taking Starsky
away. They couldn't do that; it was not allowed.
He leaped at them, howling like a siren from the bottom of his
lungs. Flew at
the one who had the most solid hold on Starsky, ripping the Uzi out of his hands
and sending it smashing against the cement. Punched him in the face with one
fist and dug into the fingers of his grasp with the other hand. From behind, two
pairs of arms wrapped themselves around him, pulling him away, lashing out with
fists of their own.
And all the while, as he kicked and struggled, Starsky stood
absolutely
still, Joshua Bright's gun to his head, his arms already tied in front of him.
The light in his eyes was pure blue.
It became worse. Hutch lunged again, breaking free for a second
and reaching
for the nearest whoever, screamed, "TAKE ME! TAKE ME!"
"Sorry, Blondie," said Joshua as his men subdued
Hutch. "We
want your boy here."
Hutch froze for a second, watching the butt of a gun as it came
down in slow
motion at his head. He felt it, and staggering on his feet, thought that if they
thought Starsky was his boy then they were probably thinking he should have been
a better parent. His feet found the floor again as if he were a tightrope walker
regaining his balance but by that time the door was shut and bolted and Starsky
was gone.
He threw himself at the door, an all out body slam that jarred
his spine into
his skull. Pounded on it, howling till he thought his hands would burst. Then
they did, spraying bright streaks across the dark grey of the door. Then they
shut off the one bulb, leaving him in the darkness, a thousand aches stinging to
life.
His hands found a corner somehow and Hutch pressed himself into
it,
shuddering from head to toe. Sartre had been wrong from the first. Hell was a
room where Starsky had once occupied and been taken away. Hell was knowing it
was all his fault.
*
In the silent darkness, when he came to, Hutch imagined that he
had died. It
was so dark, not even a sliver of light was coming in from under the door. It
was like he'd gone to sleep and woke up mummified. Only the singing nerves of
the back of his legs, and all the other hurts, told him that he was alive. As
long as this went on, as long as he didn't move, nothing mattered. Nothing
existed, save the slow rise and fall of his own chest, and he wasn't sure of
that. The darkness absorbed everything, even himself.
Some time later, the door opened and something was thrown in.
The flash of
light was like a slap, followed by a low thud and a slam as the door was shut
again.
Starsky.
Hutch shifted himself forward on his elbows, sweeping his right
hand forward
towards the direction of the sound of shallow breathing. Searching for Starsky
in the darkness. He couldn't see anything, only brush his hand back and forth
across the concrete in long half-circles. By the time he reached the body, his
hand was stinging so badly he sucked on it to take some of the grit out.
Spitting the other way in the darkness, he gathered Starsky into his arms and
backed up till he was against a wall and folded him into his lap.
Starsky's shirtfront was horribly warm and damp. Hutch found
his hands and
fingers moving over his partner almost involuntarily, monitoring the other's
breathing by the movements of Starsky's side against his chest, testing the
spring of every muscle he could reach. Wondered if any differences in a face he
knew so well could be detected by his fingertips. There was too much of
something wet alongside of Starsky's head, and his left wrist seemed to be bent
at the wrong angle, curling under like an overweighed flower. And when he ran
his hands over Starsky's middle, the other gave a loan moan that raised the
hairs on the back of Hutch's neck.
"Hutch?" asked voice.
"I'm here," said Hutch, feeling as if he were talking
to himself.
"'S dark."
Hutch bent forward, finding Starsky's face with his own.
"I've got
you," he said. "I'm here."
It the continuing silence, Starsky's breath was becoming more
ragged, and a
fresh gush of blood flowed warmly across his hand as it supported Starsky's
back. And everything was black, always black.
If I die before I wake . . .
"Starsky?"
"'utch?"
Hutch straightened to lean once again against the wall.
"D'n go 'way," said the small voice.
"I'm not going anywhere," said Hutch, feeling small.
"I have
to tell you something."
"'kay."
It had suddenly occurred to Hutch that they were both going to
die and that
Starsky would never know the reason. Which was hardly fair, since Starsky had
always maintained that he never wanted to go without a fight. Which didn't make
any sense either, since there was no way to fight this one, no way to make a way
out. Starsky deserved to know; moreover, Hutch needed to tell him the truth. He
needed Starsky's forgiveness.
"I have to tell you something," he said again, trying
to draw a
deep breath and failing.
"Tell," said Starsky.
He was a warm and quiet weight in Hutch's arms, his blood slick
and drying on
Hutch's fingers and wrists, his tousled hair wiry against Hutch's neck, and the
scent of him blended by the copper tang of sweat and salt.
"It was me," he started, then realized that didn't
make any sense,
although it must have been him, otherwise how would they have known about
Starsky?
"When they were torturing me, they promised me a quick and
painless
death if I gave them just one name." That part out, Hutch turned his face
away as if Starsky could see him, could see his face. But in the darkness,
silence followed.
"I . . . I gave them your name." It was so bare,
there was no way
Starsky could misunderstand him.
"They lied to ya," said Starsky. "You're still
alive."
"I'm still alive," he conceded, "and you are
with me."
"Why?" asked Starsky, "why did you do
that?"
Hutch realized that Starsky was trembling, as if the shock of
the pain were
just settling in. And why indeed had Starsky's name been the only one he could
supply? Surely someone else would have done, some other name that would have
sent Bright and his men on a hunt for someone who didn't exist. Or who deserved
to die.
"I . . . " Hutch ducked his head to swallow the tears
that were
forming in his throat. "I didn't want to die alone."
In the silence that followed, Hutch could feel Starsky's body
shifting,
turning in towards his own and Hutch instinctively folded him close. The tears
were following anyway, despite what he could do. How could he have died with a
stranger?
"' cryin'?"
Hutch leaned down again, closer, his voice urgent. "I'm
sorry."
It was inadequate, but Hutch felt the tug on his shirtfront and
allowed
himself to be pulled down even further.
"' forgive ya."
The tears rushed forth, a small waterfall in a desert of
darkness. Starsky's
uninjured arm was looping itself around him and Hutch bent down to kiss Starsky
on the forehead. Only his lips found Starsky's temple and there was the gentle
brush of eyelash against Hutch's cheek.
"I love you," he said.
*
That place of hard surfaces where no comfort had ever made
itself known.
*
When one was rescued, Starsky had always thought, one should be
wide-awake
and exit on one's own feet. He remembered only vague things, bright lights, a
blanket, and someone shouting. He'd thought it was Hutch and in a moment of
clarity, opened his eyes and saw him sitting there, looking like death warmed
over with gravy. An ambulance. And Hutch's determined face, pinched tight as
they rocketed down some stretch of road. He tried to reach out his hand, but
felt it slip against the blankets.
Sometime later Starsky had two moments of lucidity that seemed
somehow
incongruous with each other.
The first was of himself being placed on a gurney to be wheeled
away, to an
operating table obviously, though God only knew what was wrong with him.
Everything was floaty and grey and the tart smell of Pine Sol was obnoxiously
clear. He could somehow feel his eyelashes on his cheeks until he opened his
eyes suddenly to see Hutch standing there.
There was blood on the side of Hutch's face, and it had left a
coating down
his neck, long dried and dark. His left eye was swollen almost shut and he
seemed to be gritting his teeth and moving his jaw against a great deal of pain.
Even his arms were shaking as he resisted the hands that were trying to pull him
away. Someone was trying to maneuver a wheelchair beneath the long, unsteady
legs, and someone else dressed in white was moving an I.V. pole in as close as
they could. There seemed to be a lot of people trying to take Hutch away, but
Starsky couldn't figure for the life of him why his partner did not allow it.
Hutch's mouth was moving, cords standing out on his neck as if
he were
shouting and Starsky began to realize that everything appeared as if in a silent
film. The blond was straining against the grasps, ignoring the calmly moving
mouth of someone in a lab coat, only looking at Starsky, jerking his head away
from a restraining hand, jerking his arm away from someone else.
Don't they know, Starsky thought, that the only way to
keep Hutch is
to let him go?
Then Dobey appeared, his face dark and shining with sweat, tie
askew,
shirtfront dappled with stains. He started shouting too, Starsky could tell by
the way his mouth was open, and the white coats and nurses and the person with
the wheelchair all froze and turned to look at him. Then he said something else,
quietly it seemed, looking only at Hutch. As one, the group nodded and everyone
let go of Hutch and stepped out of his way.
Hutch moved forward, slowly, as if he were walking through
thigh-high water.
As he came closer, there were flecks of blood on his chin and streaks of it
through his fair hair. It almost seemed to Starsky that someone had streaked
Hutch with very dark and badly mixed water colors and splashed him with it at
random, from bright red to dark brown and Starsky began to wonder how many
shades blood could take on as it dried.
His partner bent closer till Starsky could feel the other's
breath on his
face, warm and gentle. Stiff, rough fingertips touched his cheek and soft lips
brushed his forehead. Then the lips moved, still against his forehead, and
Starsky strained to hear. It was like a silent message only between Hutch and
Starsky's flesh, and Starsky moved his head up desperately. His and Hutch's eyes
locked, and Starsky could feel not only his own chest rise and fall, but Hutch's
too, they were that close.
Then Hutch was gone, just like that. Starsky wondered where
he'd disappeared
to, wondered why several doctors (or was it nurses?) were crouching beside his
bed. And who was it they were lifting and settling in the wheelchair with the
utmost care. His vision began to fade as someone settled a mask over his mouth
and someone else injected his newly swabbed arm with something he hoped would
kill the pain. The gurney was wheeled into somewhere else, and another sweet
smell filled his lungs.
"Hu . . . ," he said.
"What was that?" asked one doctor. "Did he say
something?"
"No," replied the anesthesiologist. "Sometimes
they make funny
grunting sounds when they go under."
"Oh," said the doctor.
The next moment of lucidity must have come some time later, for
Starsky found
himself in a white bed in a room with white walls. It made him feel white, and
he could hear everything quite clearly, even sounds that seemed as if they
should have come from a great distance, an impossible distance away. Like the
sound of someone laughing, a gull over the ocean sighing over the arrangement of
the sand, or the ocean itself, pulling chunks of earth back into the sea.
As he tried to breathe, tried to allay the aftereffects of
being under, he
felt a great weight on his chest. He decided it was a good idea to check and see
if his bandages were too tight.
Upon opening his eyes, he saw someone with their forehead
pillowed against
his ribs, one bandaged hand across his thighs, the other unmarked one in a fist
beside the bowed head. He couldn't see the face, only a swath of neck so pale
that it seemed the person shouldn't be out of bed, let alone sitting at the
bedside of someone else. Who would have such fair, shimmering hair, spilling
untidily across the white sheets, almost as pale in places as the sheets
themselves? He felt he should know.
Then he knew.
" . . . tch," he said, and the fair head lifted.
"Starsky," said the face, and as Starsky blinked
several times, the
face came into focus, and memory sharpened, and the great line of worry between
Hutch's eyes became absolutely clear.
*
Hutch's butt had gone to sleep, but he refused to move. He'd
positioned the
chair just right out of line of sight of the window and if he moved they'd see
him. They'd figure out where he was soon enough anyway, and then there'd be all
hell to pay. But he had to stay on guard until Starsky came out of it. He'd read
enough charts to know that his partner's condition was serious but not critical,
and that had allowed him to relax a little bit. But Starsky hated, absolutely
hated coming out from being under and Hutch was determined to stay until he made
it. Not that he planned on sticking around afterwards. Starsky would understand.
Waiting for you.
There was no way they could go on as they had. He'd only told
Starsky the
truth because he'd imagined they were both going to die. A truth like that
should never be spoken aloud or revealed in any way. It was the kind of
information he had intended to keep secret, like the time he'd helped paint
protest slogans on the high school gym wall. All the right clues had been there
to tell anyone with enough brains who'd done it. And they'd kept coming close to
the truth, but always managed to swerve away at the last, most nerve-wracking
moment. Hutch thought he'd develop an ulcer over that one, but it turned out to
be a nine-day wonder and a nice scar had formed over the memory and now he
hardly had any guilt about it at all.
Hutch imagined that this secret would have taken a little
longer to settle
down and go away, and now it seemed it never would. When two people knew the
same thing, it never went away.
He found himself staring at Starsky's arm. It looked much
better now, much
more like a human arm and much less like a grey and white chalk drawing.
It was half an hour later when Starsky's head dipped to one
side and Hutch
heard the dull sound of a dry throat moving. As fast as he could, he grabbed the
nearest container, a small trashcan, and moved to the side of the bed. Starsky
was raising himself up, blinking several times, but Hutch knew from past
experience that his friend wasn't really awake yet. He managed to guide the
other man's white-clad shoulders forward till Starsky was propped loosely on one
elbow.
From behind him, the door opened, and a female voice asked
sharply,
"What are you doing in here?"
"Get me a damp cloth," Hutch snapped without turning
around. He
didn't care who it was.
He heard her footsteps doing just that, and he turned his
attention to
guiding the dark head over the trash can and cupped his hand around the back of
Starsky's neck.
"Okay, buddy," he whispered, "go
ahead."
Starsky vomited into the container, a liquid brown stream,
involuntary, and
his shoulders seemed to shrug apologetically.
"Go on, I got ya."
Starsky's body shuddered, the flow continuing in short violent
spurts until
Hutch was afraid that the new stitches were going to come apart. Then they
stopped suddenly and Starsky sagged against his own forearm, moisture dappling
his face, mucus trailing his upper lip.
"Gimme that cloth," Hutch snapped. He held out his
hand without
looking up. The nurse placed it quietly in his hand, and Hutch wiped Starsky's
forehead with it first, then his nose, then his mouth, gently saying,
"There, there. It's all done."
He handed the nurse the cloth and she took it.
"How did you know he was going to do that?"
Hutch looked up at her for the first time. At the moment, her
concern was for
the patient in the bed, but in a moment her attention would turn to the
displaced patient on the floor on his bandaged knees.
"Every time he goes under," he said, "and comes
back up, he
throws up."
"Why wasn't I informed?"
Hutch looked at her again, saw the nametag, and realized that
she was a
doctor, and in fact had been the doctor that had done the work. Naturally she
would feel totally responsible.
"I don't think, doctor," he replied, "that
either one of us
was in a condition to remember." He paused, and ducked his head. "We
usually try to tell someone."
"Well, you're quite the friend to wait all this time for
him to
practically vomit all over you. Not many would."
How could he tell her that he considered it an honor? It
sounded too weird.
He only said, "Well, ma'am, that's what partners are for."
"Partners," she said in return. She seemed to
understand everything
it was meant to explain.
But it didn't stop her from suddenly scowling at him. "Get
up."
Here it came. "But, doctor, you see, I have to . . .
" Oh, he
didn't really feel strong enough to resist her, especially if she called for
some fresh young intern to help her shove him into a wheelchair and cart him
off. He struggled to his feet, using the side of the bed to push himself to a
stand. "Please, let me . . . "
She walked over to the wall and picked up the chair he'd been
sitting in and
moved it right next to the bed.
"Partners," she said again. "If you must stay,
please let it
not be on your knees on that cold floor."
Hutch's jaw dropped open.
"I'll let you stay until he wakes up again. Then you go
back to your own
room. Deal?"
He still couldn't say anything.
"I know you'll only sneak back down here if I don't let
you stay, so
let's be sensible, okay?"
It was almost too much. The kindness of strangers, and his jaw
worked
furiously against the feeling rising up in his chest. "Th-th-thank
you."
With a wave, she was gone.
Hutch sat in the chair, settling his head on the bed against
Starsky's side,
resting his bandaged hand across his partner's thigh. Starsky had laid back
down, practically asleep again. He did not know what he was going to do; his
partner needed him so very badly now. Even after a week in the hospital, Starsky
would need assistance at home, getting things set up and Hutch himself felt far
too weary to make a dash for some faraway place.
I must get away but I can't leave.
Then he heard his name. Actually it was merely a single
syllable of sound,
but of such an intonation and coming from Starsky he knew it could only be his
name. He turned his head, raising it slightly from the mattress.
Starsky's hair was dark against the white pillow, his eyes blue
in his pale
face. Some new lines had made their way there, scoring the flesh around his
mouth and alongside his nose. As he struggled to sit up, Hutch reached and
adjusted the pillow behind him, automatically, without thought. There was the
scent of the bitter orange disinfectant hospitals use before operations and
Hutch wrinkled his nose.
"Did I throw up already?" asked Starsky.
"Yeah," said Hutch, "yeah."
There was a bit of matter in the corner of Starsky's mouth and
Hutch wet his
thumb and wiped it away, then wiped his hand on his hospital robe.
"Hey," protested Starsky, not very loudly,
"don't get your
spit on me."
Hutch tried to return the smile in his voice. "What's a
little spit
between friends?"
It was really no use, he could not go on. Starsky's mouth was
curved in a
partial smile, as if being alive was enough, and Hutch wondered how he could be
forgiven so easily.
Maybe deciding not to decide was to decide.
*
Dobey came by later that evening to visit both of them. He
didn't seem
surprised to see Hutch by Starsky's side. Hutch realized that he was there to
give them a rundown on their rescue, the case in general. It was what he did
every time, understanding that their need to know what was going on in the
outside world as much an integral part of their recovery as medication and rest
was. But Hutch didn't want anything more to do with it. Nothing more to do with
Joshua Bright, with putting himself and, sweet Jesus, his partner at risk, with
anything to do with going undercover.
Starsky settled back against his pillow and waited for the
euphoria of the
medication to seep through his body. Hutch had promised to sneak him a root beer
if he took all the pills in the white cup, and he had, one by one, waiting for
the smile of approval when he was finished. It never appeared. But Dobey did,
settling himself in a too-small chair, handing the flowers he'd obviously bought
in the gift shop downstairs to Hutch, who laid them offhandedly on the bed tray.
"I want to give you the rundown on this case," began
Dobey without
aplomb, "but there isn't much to tell."
Starsky, who was looking with as much interest as he possibly
could, given
the fatigue that was creeping up on him, felt Hutch sigh.
"We have one untraced phone call that we got from one of
Bright's boys
who decided he didn't want to be implicated in the death of a cop and told us
how we could find you. But that's it. We can't locate any of the persons
involved in your abduction; although from your testimonies, we have a good chunk
of information that will help send them up river . . . "
"If you find them," said Hutch, his voice dark.
Dobey seemed to catch it too, and it felt like an irksome
darkness to
Starsky, who began to hear things as if in a great echo chamber.
"Listen, Hutchinson, we will find them. It's only question
of time. What
I'm really worried about is you two."
Starsky realized he must have raised his hand to motion to
them, but found he
had to blink several times to focus.
"Don't worry about me," said Hutch. Starsky felt a
hand on his arm.
"Starsky got the worst of it."
"Both of you are going to receive as much counseling as it
takes on this
one. It was no ordinary abduction. I can figure how they got to you; your name
was in the paper. But I'll be damned if I know how they got to Starsky. I guess
they must have figured he was your partner and nabbed him too."
If he'd been more alert, Starsky knew he would have felt Hutch
stiffening,
even if he were miles away. But he was being rolled in a piecrust, and stuffed
into a soothing, comfortably warm oven. Dobey was wrong, as usual, he didn't
know anything about it.
"No counselors," he heard Hutch say, "all they
want is talk,
talk, talk, and nothing gets solved. Ever."
Dobey's reply was vague and mumbled.
"Talk, talk, talk, talk . . . ." continued Hutch.
Hutch, Starsky said to himself, you ever realize that
sometimes you
sound just like a broken record?
Just then, someone turned the heat up in the oven, and it
became comfortable
enough for him to fall asleep.
*
Hutch checked himself out of the hospital early the next
morning. With a
bottle of pain pills in his jacket pocket, he was going to feel just fine, and
lying on his back in a semi-private room was not going to help him heal faster.
Well, actually one could call it checking out, only the nurses would never know
he'd left until they came to collect the breakfast things, and even then they
might assume he was in the bathroom until someone came to take a blood sample,
or whatever. And he'd been in this particular hospital any number of times,
either himself in a bed or visiting someone else. Usually Starsky. He knew where
the service elevators were, which attendants were too stupid to realize they had
a patient walking out on them, and where to catch a cab so that everyone who was
supposed to be taking care of him wouldn't know.
Mounting the numerous steps to his apartment wasn't as hard as
it should have
been, but a double dose of the pills had taken care of that. It had only tired
him out, but he supposed he'd pay for that later. Very much later, if the
medication held out. He'd only planned a shower and a long, midmorning nap, and
started pulling out something clean to wear. Something that didn't smell like
hospital. After all, he wasn't expected back at work for another week and even
then it would only be for deskwork at the station. Then he found himself pulling
out several changes of clothes, clean underwear, an extra sweater, his sneakers,
and throwing them all on the bed. Pulled out a duffle he kept stashed in the
closet and stuffed everything into it.
Where are you going?
He didn't know.
You're not leaving, are you?
He didn't know that either.
What about Starsky?
"I'll be back when he gets out of the hospital," he
promised the
air.
Hutch had always thought that L.A. should be covered with
horrible weather in
wintertime, like Duluth had always been. Grey, foggy, cold, miserable. But it
wasn't. The sun was shining, there was a shy breeze from the beach, and his head
felt light as he tossed the duffle in the back seat of the LTD. He headed
vaguely towards the bank, withdrew a lot of money and filled the car with gas.
It was perfect driving weather, not hot, not too sunny, just bright enough and
with enough bite in the air to make driving with the windows down somehow a
necessity.
*
When Hutch had driven as far as he could until his body started
to cramp up
at noon, he pulled off into the first beach motel that he saw. There weren't
many left; any still standing after the Public Beach Act were relics from the
fifties and considered local landmarks. His trail had led him to the Blue Sky
Motel, which surely had escaped demolition by a scant year or two. It was
terribly ugly, barely following Warhol, and missing the Art Deco revival so far
it was almost ghastly. He barely made it to his room after checking in
("Plenty of room so early in the season, sir.") and tried to imagine
that he'd come to the edge of the world rather than the end of his rope.
The room itself was in pink and brown, with some recent
updating that showed
in the small avocado green fridge. He hardly saw this as he tossed his duffle
bag on the chair and flung himself on the bed.
I'm going to stay here forever, he thought. And not get
up.
Of course, five minutes after lying absolutely still, his knees
and legs
began to cramp up so bad he found himself rolled in a ball with sweat dappling
his forehead. So he had to get up and throw some pills down his throat, followed
by a swallow of warm water.
I'm not taking all of these, he told himself. I'm not
even thinking
about it.
Of course he wasn't.
After the heroin fiasco of earlier years, he'd tended not to
take any
medication at all, not even aspirin for a headache, so the pain pills began to
kick right in. He'd never mentioned this reticence, not even to Starsky, as he
somehow felt foolish at his own weakness. But even aspirin was too close to
becoming a junkie again, and that was just too much weight to fling on Starsky
again, let alone anyone else. And that was the problem wasn't it?
"Let me tell you, Starsk," he said aloud, easing
himself back onto
the bed with stiff arms.
Let me tell you about you.
Those men had beaten Starsky to a black and blue pulp, torn up
the ligaments
in his arm . . . Hutch shuddered at the thought of blood on his hands. In more
ways than one. And it had been Hutch's fault. No one who knew the truth could
deny that. No one who knew, that is, that being merely Starsky and himself.
Bright didn't even know how much Starsky meant to him. Probably considered
Starsky someone Hutch had had it in for. Never even gave him a second thought
after he'd thrown him into Hutch's arms; a mere exercise in skillful pummeling
for his boys.
His boys on Hutch's boy.
Not my boy, Hutch snarled in his head. Not anybody's
boy.
Of course Dobey had no clue. Not at all. Had only imagined that
somehow
Bright's gang had been clever enough to pick up Starsky on their own, when his
name had never been mentioned. Not in the bar, not in the paper, not ever
released to the public. Only by Hutch, only to Bright.
Didn't I? he asked himself. Wasn't it me?
It had to have been.
A woozy light began to fill his eyes as he started to feel less
of his legs
and more the weight of his lids. But it was an oblivion filled with an image of
himself standing next to Starsky. Putting his arm around the dark haired man's
shoulder and drawing him close. It was a scene he remembered clearly from . . .
well, it could have been any of a number of occurrences. It tended to flash in
his mind at odd moments and he'd never concentrated on it before, figuring he
knew where it came from. Only now he didn't. And behind it, suddenly, as if
reflected in a series of mirrors all lined up, all marvelously lit, and
perfectly clear, were others. And in each one he was reaching for Starsky, or
Starsky for him, offering comfort, supporting each other with words or touches,
sometimes simply with the mere closeness of their bodies.
Where did the love enter into all this? Looks like love, he'd
said. It is
love, Starsky had replied, eyes dark.
I'm such a liar.
He had never cared for Starsky. And if Starsky had cared for
him, it was
under some false assumption.
He wiped at his face, his hand coming away wet at the palm. As
he turned his
face into the pillow, he caught sight of the squat avocado green fridge,
glinting in the direct light as it shone through the window.
Jeezus, that's ugly.
It was good to pass out.
PART TWO
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