Something short. Er . . . shorter, at least for me *g*
By Kate (CMT)
“What
did you say?” Hutch asked vacantly, bowing his head while gingerly fingering
the sore spot beneath his hairline. He
winced, uncertain if his discomfort was from the gnawing pain rooted just under
his bangs or the knife-like glare of the overhead fluorescents in Dobey’s
office.
“I said,” Starsky heaved theatrically like
a man repeatedly forced to explain the obvious. “Stop fingerin’ the bandage.
You ain’t helpin’ it any.” He swatted Hutch’s hand aside.
Startled,
the blond detective blinked and sat up straighter. That alone took more energy than he felt like sparing, but
Starsky’s curly head was already bowed over a last-minute report. It had been Starsky’s idea to commandeer
Dobey’s office while the captain was engaged in a meeting elsewhere in the
building. By escaping the routine noise
and general congestion of the squadroom, Starsky figured he’d be able to finish
his hastily scrawled report a lot quicker.
And that meant Hutch could strip off his blood-encrusted shirt, clean
up, and get comfortable much sooner.
While
it sounded like a good idea, there were a few general problems. “You know Dobey’s gonna want that thing
typed up,” Hutch observed tiredly.
“Tough.” Starsky didn’t bother raising his head. “We just got done with a double shift, you
get whacked with a set of nunchucks by some doped-up hood doin’ a bad Bruce Lee
impersonation, and we end up spendin’ four hours in Emergency makin’ sure you
don’t got brain swellin’ or something worse.
I vote we skip typin’ class and wing this thing with a Bic
ballpoint.” He shot Hutch a sideways
glance. “Besides - - you need a cold
shower to get that blood offa you and make you wake up before you’re tempted to
take a nap.”
Hutch
yawned. The ER doctor at Memorial
General hadn’t seemed monumentally concerned by the laceration on his forehead
or his subsequent concussion, but the man had made a point of telling Hutch to
take it easy - - and to stay awake.
He’d been out cold for a good forty minutes, after all. The taking it
easy part wasn’t going to be a problem, but staying awake for the next twelve
hours could be difficult. On a good day
it would be a piece of cake, but he and Starsky were just coming off a double
shift and he’d already been twenty-four hours without sleep. Starsky, at least, had managed to grab five
hours in the back of the Torino during their last stakeout before chaos erupted
in the form of a scuffle with the aforesaid “doped-up hood” and a set of hardwood
nunchucks. Hutch had gotten clipped before he could draw his gun, the blow
knocking him cold. Unfortunately, the
chain had caught him too, laying open the skin just beneath his bangs. The wound wasn’t deep - - it had only
required two stitches - - but it had bled profusely, soiling the front of his
brand new bisque-colored turtleneck.
$9.98 down the drain. Blood never came out.
He’d had enough experience with soiled shirts, jeans, and slacks to know
the turtleneck was probably shot.
“I’m
not all that tired,” he said, lying through his teeth. Odds were Starsky was probably already
feeling guilty about his five hours in the Torino, especially since they’d
flipped for it and Hutch had called foul.
“I think I’ll be okay to drive myself if you wanna head home.” He was tempted to finger the bandage again
but resisted the urge, knowing his hand would just get batted aside.
Starsky
scowled. “You said ‘wanna,’ Hutch. You only talk like that when you’re tired or in a hurry. Just hang on while I finish this thing. I’m almost done, then I’m gonna be your
shadow for the next twelve hours.”
“Starsky
- - ” The complaint was only half out
of his mouth when the door cracked open and Phil Baker looked in. The
brown-haired detective took one glance at Starsky bent over the report and
shook his head.
“Hey,
Hutch. If you can tear yourself away
from Hemmingway over there, you’ve got a visitor.”
“Blondie
ain’t here,” Starsky said without looking up.
He ignored the crack about his report-writing abilities, a running joke
that was commonplace and fairly widespread among Metro’s detectives. He’d earned the reputation by embellishing
even the most basic reports with plump adjectives and colorful modifiers.
“Whoever it is,” he called to Baker, “Just tell ‘em Sergeant Hutchinson already skipped out and they should come back
in a few days.”
“Starsky
- -” Hutch attempted again, watching
his friend aggressively dot an “i.” He
wasn’t sure which deserved the greater protest - - the fact his partner was
speaking for him or that Starsky was blatantly lying. Deciding his head hurt too much to sort it out, he let it pass
without complaint.
“I
don’t think this guy’s gonna buy that,” Baker replied. He vanished into the squadroom replaced a
moment later by a familiar raven-haired man with pale blue eyes and a precisely
trimmed mustache.
Hutch
blinked, uncertain if he was seeing things.
“Dad?”
His
exclamation brought Starsky’s head around in surprise. “Dr.
Hutchinson?”
Grant
Hutchinson’s face split with a wide grin then immediately fell flat when he registered
the splotches of dried blood on Hutch’s shirt.
“Ken?” His voice lurched up in
alarm as he stepped into the room.
“What happened here? Are you
hurt?”
More
than a little dazed, still trying to make sense of what his father was doing in
Bay City, let alone Metro, Hutch came to his feet sputtering something
inarticulate. Before he knew it, his
shoulders were caught in a strong grip, and he was held at arm’s length while
his father scrutinized his face. A hand
rose and gingerly fingered the bandage beneath his hairline.
“David?” Grant queried over his shoulder, never
taking his eyes from Hutch. “What
happened to my son?”
“Dad
- -”
“He
forgot to duck,” Starsky offered dryly, coming to his feet behind the taller
man. He grinned brashly. “How ya doin’, Doc? Seems like I just saw you not that long
ago.”
Hutch
had the presence of mind - - if somewhat muddled and sluggish - - to factor in
Starsky’s comment. It had only been a little over a month
since Bentley Crest’s ill-fated September Retreat when they’d last seen Grant.
While the reunion as a whole had been disastrous, it had afforded Hutch the
opportunity to grow close to his father - - a man he’d been at odds with most
of his life. Subsequently, he’d walked
away from Bentley’s retreat with a newfound respect and deeply-rooted love for
the father he’d previously responded to with defensive antagonism and
belligerence. Surprisingly, the only thing he felt now was a surge of warmth.
“It’s
always a pleasure, David.”
Hutch
was vaguely aware of his father turning and acknowledging his partner with a
quick handshake and a grin before immediately refocusing on him. The throbbing in his head left him slow to
respond when Grant tugged hard on his arm, pulling him into an embrace. The blatant affection still came as a shock,
bursting over him in a cavalcade of surprise and pure pleasure.
Such
greetings were still new, something to be treasured. He clung for a moment, not certain his misfiring brain would send
anything halfway sensible to his mouth.
Before he could summon a proper greeting, his father drew back, slid a
hand under his jaw and tilted his face into the light. A single black brow arched into Grant’s hair. “Stitches?” he asked simply.
“Two,”
Hutch replied, thankful he could manage the single syllable without sounding
impaired.
Behind
Grant, Starsky slid his report onto Dobey’s desk. “He got clipped with a pair of nunchucks during a drug
shakedown,” the curly-haired man explained, launching his pen at a plastic
caddy. He managed to sink the ballpoint
between a number 2 pencil and a red felt-tip marker. “He definitely ain’t no
Kato.”
Hutch
frowned. “Who?”
“You
know . . . Kato,” Starsky elaborated.
“Bruce Lee’s kick-butt character from The Green Hornet.” Shaking
his head, he refocused on Grant. “We
just came from the ER. Hutch got
something for headaches, and he’s supposed to stay awake for the next 12 hours
‘cuz of a concussion. They wanna make sure he don’t slip off, since he was out
cold for a good forty minutes. Problem
is, we just finished a double shift and he ain’t had any sleep in over
twenty-four hours.” Starsky grinned at
his partner. “I think he’s gettin’
pissy about it, ‘specially since he bloodied up his new turtleneck.”
Hutch
found his tongue. He knew Starsky was
yanking his chain but couldn’t help the reflexive response. “You know, Starsky, I can speak for myself.” Once
he said it, however, he wasn’t so sure.
He tried to remember what he’d been thinking before he’d been
distracted, and got tripped up by the pounding in his head. “Dad . . .”
Absently, he rubbed his temple.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting,”
Grant supplied. “I was in San Francisco
for a medical conference and it ended early.
Since I’ve got a day or two to spare, I thought I’d swing by and see my,
uh . . . favored son,” he grinned archly.
“ . . . before heading back to Duluth.”
Hutch
wasn’t so far gone that the term didn’t register. King Island and his heated verbal explosion at Grant that his
father should have had a ‘favored son’ to follow in his footsteps had been the
turning point in their previously spotty relationship. From that point forward, his father had
actually been receptive to his clumsy overtures and attempts to heal the rift
between them. When Grant grinned at him,
Hutch felt himself relaxing and smiling in return.
“I’m
sorry. I guess I’m not very good
company right now.”
“Oh,
but you’re wrong,” Grant countered.
“According to your partner, you have to stay awake for the next twelve
hours and it doesn’t sound - - or look - -” he added with a pointed glance for
Hutch’s bedraggled appearance, “ - - like you’re going to have an easy time
managing it. You’re perfect company,
since I’m going to make it my job to keep you entertained, focused and awake.”
“Mine
too,” Starsky seconded. “I was just
gettin’ ready to drive him back to Venice, then I was gonna camp out at his
place.” He rolled his shoulders,
allowing leeway in the event he was no longer welcome. “Unless of course, you’d rather spend some
time on your own with Hutch. I can just
as easily - -”
“Nonsense!” Grant waved the absurd notion aside. “I took a cab here and haven’t bothered to
check into a hotel yet. If Ken has to
stay awake for the next twelve hours, I’ll make do at his apartment, but I
could use some help in keeping him entertained.”
“I’m
not a kid,” Hutch said crossly, disgruntled when the conversation circulated
around him.
“You’re
not,” Grant agreed, slipping an arm around his shoulders. “But I remember you’re irritable as hell
when you don’t get enough sleep. I
don’t think I want to be dodging your mood swings by myself when I can have
David as backup.”
“Dad
- -”
“Forget
it, Blondie.” Starsky prodded him
toward the door before he could finish the complaint. “You’re outgunned. Just
shut up and enjoy the ride home.”
+++++
Starsky
drove his Torino while Grant drove Hutch’s much-abused LTD back to Venice
Place. It was an eye-opening experience
for the upper crust doctor who was accustomed to luxury in everything he owned,
automobiles included. Hutch could tell
from the disbelieving glance his father gave the vehicle that he was sorely
tempted to toss off a remark or two but held his tongue. It wasn’t until Grant parked the Ford in
front of Hutch’s apartment on Ocean Avenue, that he finally gave an incredulous
shake of his head and heaved a sigh of relief.
“I
didn’t think it would actually get us here,” he commented mildly, shooting a
sideways glance at his son. “I know you
haven’t touched any of the funds your grandfather put into Trust for you, but
surely you can afford something better than this on your salary?”
“It’s
got nothing to do with what I can afford, Dad,” Hutch returned. An absent glance in the side-view mirror
showed him Starsky’s Torino sliding into place behind the LTD. “I happen to like this car. She might
not be much to look at, but she gets me around just fine.”
Tiredly,
he popped the door handle and pulled himself to his feet. The movement awakened a new clamor of
rockets in his head, each prickly explosion splintering behind his eyes. Wincing, he closed the door and sagged
against the battered frame of the car.
If he weren’t so tired, he would have enjoyed the sight of his
immaculately-tailored father climbing from the decrepit Ford. Hutch knew the LTD wasn’t much to look at,
which only heightened the contrast to Grant’s V-necked cable-knit sweater,
light blue Oxford dress shirt and sharply creased heavy twill pants. Even
casual, he looks like he’s headed for the country club.
There
was a time that thought might have irritated him. Now it only conjured amused affection. Before he could contemplate it further, Grant was at his side,
slipping a supporting hand under his arm and steering him toward his
apartment. Starsky sprinted past,
opening the door with an obnoxiously sweeping bow. He grinned playfully. “After you, Kato.”
Hutch
mumbled something off-color, earning an amused snort from Grant. At the top of the stairs, he fumbled for the
key on the lintel but his father beat him to it, using the one on the car ring
to gain access. “You get comfortable,
Ken, and I’ll get my suitcase. I have
my medical bag with me too. I wouldn’t
mind a better look at that cut on your head.”
Hutch
mumbled an affirmative, knowing it was inevitable. Having grown up the son of a doctor, he knew there was little
chance of escaping examination when he was injured or sick. Even as a child when he’d been uncomfortable
around his father, Grant had always made sure every minor cut or sniffle was
well tended to.
Inside,
Hutch headed for the bedroom, sprawling face down on the bed. The mattress felt like sheer heaven and
within seconds of plopping his head on the pillow, he curled onto his side and
closed his eyes.
“Oh,
no you don’t.” Starsky rattled his
shoulder, sending a new ache pinging around inside his skull. “Sorry, buddy,
but you’ve got eleven-and-a-half hours to go.
I thought you wanted a shower?”
Hutch
groaned what he thought of the idea.
“Lemme alone.”
“No
can-do.” Starsky tugged on his arm,
forcing him to sit up and drop his feet to the floor.
He
hadn’t realized just how exhausted he really was until forced to part with the
siren call of the mattress. “Just five
minutes,” he pleaded. “Come on, Starsk
. . .”
“Uh-uh. I know you.
Five minutes’ll turn into five hours and I won’t be able to wake you up
at all. Next time, maybe you’ll
remember to duck.”
“You’re
a fucking sadist, you know that?” Hutch
snapped, growing immediately cross.
“Love
you to, pal,” Starsky tossed back with a grin.
“Come on - - you’ve got a date with a cold shower. I’ll get you some clean clothes while you’re
in there . . . maybe even make you something to eat if you smile pretty.”
“Stuff
it.”
Starsky
chuckled and propelled him toward the door.
“You really gotta work on your social skills, Hutchinson.”
Thirty
minutes later, showered and changed, Hutch had to admit he felt marginally
better. His head still throbbed, but at
least he didn’t feel ready to keel over with fatigue. The shower had thinned his exhaustion and even helped him focus
better. He changed into a pair of navy
sweatpants, white crew socks and an avocado-green tee-shirt. By the time he emerged from the bathroom,
his father and Starsky were busy in the kitchen, talking companionably as they
jointly oversaw a hastily prepared dinner.
Intrigued,
Hutch watched for a moment, enjoying the sight of his father and his partner so
completely comfortable with one another.
Diametrically different in every aspect of their personalities, they
somehow fit together with ease. As
uncommonly cultured as he was, Grant had come to appreciate Starsky’s frankness
and street candor. There was no
question Hutch’s partner ‘told it like it was’ and while that boldness had
initially left Grant flustered and annoyed, the upper-crust surgeon now found
it refreshing. In Grant’s world,
friends and associates often maintained relationships for personal gain and
advancement strategies. Hutch guessed his father found Starsky’s direct honesty
a welcome change of pace. Even now,
Starsky rattled on about customizing his precious Torino with new mags, his
usual exuberance coming through as he waved a spoon in the air above a small
saucepan of something or other to punctuate a point. Just a few feet away, Grant chopped lettuce and carrots for a
salad, grinning as he listened, occasionally inserting a question or comment of
his own. A year ago, Hutch never could
have conceived of his father holding a discussion with anyone about Craiger mags, let alone an overly enthusiastic street
cop who suddenly developed a slangy New York accent whenever he grew excited.
“What’s
for dinner?” Hutch asked, stepping into
the living area, trying to decipher the tantalizing mixture of smells wafting
from the stove. His stomach rumbled and
he realized he was hungry despite the low-level ache rooted in his head.
“Ho,
look at that!” Starsky tossed a glance
over his shoulder, flashing a broad grin.
“It speaks - - civilized-like too.
Amazing what a shower can do for a Scandinavian with a piss-poor
attitude.”
“Only
because you’re feeding me something other than pizza or burritos,” Hutch shot
back, heading for the refrigerator. He
rummaged around on the middle shelf until he found a beer. “I see salad.”
“That
was your dad’s idea,” Starsky inserted, appearing suddenly at his side. He confiscated the bottle before Hutch could
twist off the cap.
“Hey! What’s the idea?”
“Beer
makes you tired,” Starsky countered, moving around him to push the bottle back
into the refrigerator and close the door.
“In case you forgot, you’ve still got eleven hours to go.”
Hutch
frowned. “I appreciate the constant
countdown, partner.”
“And
well you should,” Grant added, placing the bowl of salad on the table. “Besides - - alcohol of any kind doesn’t go
with concussions, not to mention the medication they gave you at the
hospital. Trust me, Ken - - it will
just make your headache worse and make you feel miserable. Now come over here and take a seat while
David and I get the rest of the food on the table. I’ll pour you a glass of iced water.”
Irked
that he couldn’t have a beer, Hutch stalked toward the cupboard containing his
glassware. “I’ll do it myself,” he
grumbled.
“Kenneth,”
Grant said sternly, favoring him with a disapproving glance.
Hutch
immediately hedged. He found it amazing
that at 33 years of age he could still feel the effects of that glance and
frosty tone of voice, but he did. His
response had been ingrained since childhood when he automatically did whatever
his father ordered him to do - - at least when Grant spoke like that.
Heaving
a defeated sigh, he ran a hand through his shower-damp hair. Behind him, he heard Starsky chuckle.
“Yeah,
Kenneth, go sit down. Your dad and I will handle everything.”
“Paybacks
are hell, buddy,” Hutch muttered, shooting his friend a barbed smile, but he
did as he was told.
For
a hastily prepared meal, pieced together from leftovers he had in the
refrigerator, dinner wasn’t bad. Grant
had thrown together a salad of iceberg and romaine lettuces with some cherry
tomatoes, carrots and cucumbers. In
charge of the main meal, Starsky whipped up a casserole from leftover chicken
and boxed pasta, then drenched the whole thing in a mushroom-based soup. Hungry at first, Hutch found the ache in his
head replacing the rumble in his stomach after only a few bites. He tried to concentrate on the easy
conversation, even join in, but after a short time found himself squinting
against the glare of the overhead light.
He took another bite of the casserole, then closed his eyes and bowed
his head to massage his throbbing temple.
He
heard the scrape of a chair against the floorboards and after several seconds
realized the conversation had stopped.
Someone slid a hand onto his shoulder and squeezed gently.
“Here,
buddy - - take one of these.”
Hutch
blinked, tilting his head to gaze up at his partner. Starsky was standing slightly behind him and to the side, one
hand clasped on his shoulder, the other offering the plastic pill container
from the hospital.
“Um
. . .” He hesitated, not really wanting
the pills. Thankfully, he was mostly
past his inbred fear of addiction, having exorcised his demons last year. It hadn’t been easy telling Grant about his
ordeal with heroin, especially when he’d feared his father would be
judgmental. He’d stumbled through the
conversation, relying on anger and defiance, expecting Grant to criticize his
weakness, perhaps even disown him for allowing the stigma of drug addiction to
become attached to the Hutchinson name.
But Grant had done the complete opposite, berating himself because Hutch
hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in him at the time. He’d been supportive and doting, monstrously
hard on himself for being such a coolly aloof father. It was another step to healing the decades-old rift in their
relationship.
Yet
even with all of that behind him, Hutch still felt a glimmer of unease whenever
confronted by narcotics or medication in general. “Um . . .” he said again, his reaction to the proffered pills
automatic. His gut clenched in habitual
revulsion.
“He
needs two, David,” Grant instructed, nudging Hutch’s water glass closer. “One isn’t enough to really do anything.
Hutch
chanced a glance at his father. There
was that look again, coupled with an authoritative edge in his voice. He felt Starsky’s fingers tighten on his
shoulder, non-verbal assurance of his partner’s devotion to him. Both men were perfectly comfortable with him
swallowing a handful of pain tablets, so he supposed he should be too. With concentrated effort, he shoved aside
his instinctive aversion. Reluctantly,
he held out his hand, watching as Starsky tumbled two into his palm. The
pounding in his head steadily escalated and he secretly hoped the pills would
do something to alleviate the throbbing.
It
wasn’t until twenty minutes later, sitting on the couch while Starsky and Grant
cleaned up the kitchen that he felt a slight ease in pressure. Grant’s suitcase was by the door along with
his medical bag, and after a time his father grabbed the smaller case, telling
Hutch he wanted a closer look at the cut on his head.
The
exam was brief, lasting only a few minutes, but it seemed to satisfy
Grant. He set his bag on the coffee
table, then took a seat in a Tuscan-gold side chair across from Hutch and asked
for a more detailed explanation of how the injury had taken place.
Hutch
shot a glance to his partner puttering around in the kitchen. Starsky was busy cutting slabs of
cheesecake, putting the perfectly sliced pieces on three dessert plates. The fattening
treat wasn’t something Hutch normally kept in the refrigerator, so he guessed
Starsky had jogged down the street to the mom-and-pop bakery on the corner of
Ocean and Quay while he was in the shower.
“I
got a little careless,” Hutch told his father reluctantly. A year or so ago, he wouldn’t have bothered
to relay what had gone down at all.
Grant hadn’t been interested in his career, and he’d felt no compulsion
to share the day-to-day risks of his job.
But
all of that was different now. His father
was actually interested in what he
did for a living. The renowned surgeon
who’d once told him he was wasting his time by becoming a cop had actually
grown proud of his
accomplishments. The thought was
simultaneously warming and scary.
Warming, because after decades of feeling like a failure in his father’s
eyes, Hutch had finally achieved Grant’s approval. Scary, because their new relationship made Grant openly worry
about the danger he faced.
“It
really wasn’t any big deal,” Hutch said, not wanting to make an issue of it.
“He
was coverin’ my butt,” Starsky called from the kitchen. “There were two guys and one had the drop on
me. Hutch took him out but kinda left
himself open at the same time. The guy
knocked him cold before I had a chance to wing him.”
Hutch
lowered his eyes, instinctively knowing his friend probably harbored some
buried guilt over the incident. It was
just the way they were with one another - - overly sensitive whenever the other
was involved, especially if one of them ended up hurt. It was one of the reasons several of their
associates continued to dissect their exceedingly close relationship under a
microscope. We’re always good for some off-color gossip around the precinct.
“It
was no biggie, partner,” Hutch mumbled again, hoping to put his friend at ease.
“Sure
it was.” Starsky sat on the couch
beside him, shoving a plate of cheesecake into his lap. “If you hadn’t dropped that guy, I woulda
been out for a lot more than forty minutes - - like permanently.”
“You’ve
done the same for me plenty of times,” Hutch said moodily. He suddenly didn’t like the
conversation. Across from him, he
realized Grant wasn’t eating and had set his dessert plate on the coffee
table. Hutch did the same, abruptly
tired. Yawning, he stretched out on the
couch, layering his legs over Starsky’s lap.
“I don’t wanna talk about work,” he slurred slightly. “I’ve had enough of it over the last sixteen
hours.”
“Don’t
get comfortable,” Starsky warned, eyeing the way Hutch shoved a pillow behind
his back. He swallowed a forkful of
cheesecake, turning a cursory glance on his watch. “You still got ten hours, eighteen minutes and - -”
“Starsky,”
Hutch interrupted. “Shut up.”
Grant
chuckled. “He’s right, Ken. You need to keep yourself occupied. How about a game of cards?” Sitting up straighter, he did a quick glance
around the apartment. “You’ve got to
have a deck around here somewhere.”
“In
the drawer to the left of the sink,” Starsky supplied for his friend.
“Great.” Grant stood, closing up his medical
bag. “I haven’t played poker since
Bentley’s retreat. And come to think of
it, I didn’t play much there, too worried about my moody, sulking son.” He grinned.
“Dad
- -”
“Hey,
what’s this?” Grant lifted a shoebox
from the coffee table beside his bag.
It had been neatly papered in bright blue gift-wrap with amethyst swirls
and stars. The lid was wrapped separately, fitting neatly on top of the box,
allowing it to be easily removed. A
sizable hole was cut in the center of the lid, large enough for someone to fit
a hand through. Turning it over, Grant
gave it a curious glance.
“It’s
a party game . . . or it’s supposed to be,” Hutch said with a shake of his
head. “We never actually played it.”
A
single black brow climbed into Grant’s raven hair much the way Hutch’s
did. “We?”
“Starsky’s
girlfriend made it up,” Hutch explained. “We were supposed to have a party here
last night, but Starsk and I got stuck working a double shift so the whole
thing fizzled.”
“June
made up a bunch of questions and threw ‘em into a box,” Starsky continued,
picking up where his partner left off.
He waved his fork in the air to elaborate. “You know - - stupid things like ‘What three books would you want if you were stuck on a deserted island
for a year?’ The idea is everyone
gets to know one another, relaxes and has a good time.”
“Sounds
like fun,” Grant cleared the coffee table of everything but the box. “Let’s skip the poker and do this
instead.” He set his cheesecake aside
on an end table and moved his medical bag to the floor.
Hutch
blinked, certain he’d heard wrong.
Surely his private, introspective father wasn’t suggesting they play a
game that involved divulging personal likes and dislikes? “You want to play
June’s party game?” he asked incredulously.
“Sure,
why not?” Grant headed for the kitchen, retrieving a glass from the
cupboard. “It’ll give me a chance to
get to know David better.” He paused,
casting Hutch a direct glance. “And
you, for that matter. Do you realize I
don’t even know what your favorite color is, Ken? Or your favorite food?”
Hutch
sat up straighter, his heart pounding much too fast. He didn’t want to play the game with his father though he
couldn’t accurately pinpoint why. “It’s
green,” he sputtered, strangely unnerved. Desperate, he racked his brain for
Grant’s favorite color and came up glaringly empty. Why don’t I know that? “And I don’t really have a favorite food.”
“Everyone
has a favorite food, Ken,” Grant countered, returning with a glass of water,
making himself comfortable in the easy chair.
“Yeah,
like burritos,” Starsky said, springing to his feet and carrying his empty
dessert plate to the kitchen. Halfway
there, he returned to take Hutch’s, fully aware his partner wasn’t likely to
touch it. “June went to a lotta work to
make up that game. She’d probably get a
kick out of us actually playin’ it.”
“Okay,”
Grant called, obviously into the spirit of the moment. “How about that book question, David? What three books would you want if you were
stuck on a deserted island for a year?”
“Hmmm
. . .” Starsky paused to open the
refrigerator and rummage around inside.
His head disappeared. “I’m not
sure. Give me a minute.” A second later he reemerged with a can of
soda and a V-8. “Probably something fun
to take my mind off the whole deserted island thing. Maybe even a comic book.
No Playboys though - - that’d
just make me realize what I was missin’.”
He headed back toward the sofa, setting the V-8 by Hutch, popping the
can of cola for himself. “What about
you, Doc? What three books would you
take?”
“Let’s
see . . .” Grant looked thoughtful,
approaching the problem methodically.
“First a survival guide, so I’d last the year. If I weren’t a doctor, a first-aid book would be practical, but
since I already know the basics, I’d probably want something stimulating to
read as my second choice. Maybe one of
the literary classics or just some trite novel to pass the time.”
Hutch
laughed. “You - - a trite novel?”
“I
have been known to read King on occasion, Kenneth,” Grant countered with mock
stiffness, “And lately I’ve been experimenting with Wambaugh.”
“Cop
stuff?” Starsky grinned. “Hey, that’s cool.”
Hutch
had pulled his legs back, bent at the knees so that only his feet were pressed
up against Starsky’s demin-clad thigh.
Caught up in the spirit of the game, Starsky nudged his foot. “Your dad’s readin’ cop books. Ain’t that cool, Hutch?”
He
wasn’t quite sure that it was and decided not to comment. Part of him was disquieted to think his
father might be reading things like The
Onion Field and equating his son with the unfortunate officers in the
story.
Unmindful
of his hesitation, Starsky bounded ahead with the next question. “Okay, Doc, what about the third book? So far you’ve got the survival guide and
maybe Melville or Wambaugh. What’s the
third one?”
Grant
tilted his head to the side, thinking for a moment. “A photo album,” he decided after only the slightest pause. “With pictures of my family.”
“Wow.” Starsky looked stunned.
Hutch
felt his heart pound faster. He didn’t
know why the answer rattled him.
“That’s not a book,” he blurted.
His head was hurting again, the pain sinking spiny roots into his neck.
“The
question didn’t specify,” Grant answered.
“And you’re the only one who hasn’t taken a turn.”
Hutch
fingered his temple, trying to massage away the pain. “It wasn’t a real question.
You didn’t draw from the box.”
He could feel himself growing tenser but still couldn’t pinpoint why the
silly game had him on edge. When June
had first suggested it for the party, he’d thought it sounded like a fun idea.
He’d envisioned it being played with a group of his friends, maybe several
party guests he didn’t know all that well.
He’d seen himself ragging Starsky about his answers, even knowing many
of his partner’s answers before Starsky did.
Second-guessing his best friend had been what appealed to him the most
about June’s homemade game. He certainly
had not imagined playing it with his
father - - a man he loved but when it came right down to it, barely knew. And if he was truthful, Grant didn’t really
know him. They’d spent too many years at odds, making sweeping judgements
about the other instead of taking the time to really learn what made each other
tick. Hutch once thought he’d had his
father figured out, but over the last year had come to the shocking conclusion
he didn’t know Grant at all. At the
very least, the man he’d once deemed motivated only by prestige and wealth,
continued to surprise him.
A photo album.
He
hadn’t seen that coming. A year ago it
might not have even crossed Grant’s mind, but clearly he’d meant it.
Hutch
was suddenly aware of Starsky’s palm cupping the back of his leg. They’d always been astute enough to know
what the other was feeling. He knew Starsky had correctly read his flagrant
unease and was attempting to offset it with the assurance of touch. While
grateful for the connection, Hutch felt bad his friend was the one routinely
forced to bring stability to his relationship with Grant. I can never think straight enough to do it myself.
“I’ll
draw a new question,” he said hastily, hoping for something easy. There was no way he could follow up his
father’s answer after Grant had tossed photo
album into the pot. It left his
head reeling, his feelings teetering between confusion and heartfelt
warmth. He knew his father had changed,
but sometimes it was hard adapting to the blinding shock of those changes. It left him awkward, uncertain how to
respond, age-old insecurities whispering he’d just muck it up if he tried. So instead he leaned forward and fished in
the box for a new question. Unraveling
a small strip of paper, Hutch read the typewritten message aloud: “If
you had to own a pet, what kind would you choose and why?”
“That’s
easy.” Breathing a mental sigh of
relief, Hutch tossed the used question onto the coffee table. Allowing himself to relax, he leaned back
into the couch. “Some kind of bird,
like a parakeet. They’re
low-maintenance.”
“I
got that beat,” Starsky said. “I’d have
fish . . . a tropical aquarium. They
take even less care, you get more of ‘em, and they’re prettier.”
Hutch
raised a brow. As overly exuberant as
his partner was, Hutch thought he would have gone with the obvious and picked a
dog. He could see Starsky wanting a
bouncy mutt to greet him at the door when he came home or chase after Frisbees
in the park. “Prettier?” he
echoed. Getting comfortable, he
stretched his legs over his partner’s lap, more than a little appreciative when
Starsky absently massaged his calf.
“Fresh water or salt water?” he challenged.
“Huh?” Starsky stared at him blankly.
“Fresh
water or salt water,” Hutch repeated.
“Salt water takes a lot of care.
Even with fresh water you’ve got to have the right PH balance - - not too
alkaline or acidic, add chemicals, maintain the temperature around 72, filtrate
the water - -”
“All
right, all right!” Starsky said loudly, pressing down on Hutch’s leg to shut
him up. “I’ll get a freakin’
parakeet. They sound like a lot less
work.”
Hutch
grinned. Maybe June’s game wasn’t so
bad after all. This is what he’d been
looking forward to when he’d originally envisioned playing it - - rattling his
impressionable partner for the sheer fun of it.
“I’d
have a dog,” he heard his father announce neutrally.
“A dog?”
Hutch did a double take. Dogs
were messy. They required attention,
shed their fur, had to be put outside several times a day, and occasionally
even did wretchedly unforgivable things like throwing up on the carpet. Isn’t that what Grant had told him when he’d
asked for a dog as a kid?
Grant
took a sip of his water then returned his glass to the coffee table. “My dad got me a dog when I was six,” he
explained. “Just some stray mutt who
wandered onto our farm, but I loved that animal. I named him Rex after the Tyrannosaurus Rex because he was so
big. I had him for about eight years
before we had to put him down because of illness.”
“But
. . .” Hutch tried to make sense of the
story. He’d never known his father had
had a dog. Part of him couldn’t even
imagine his father as a kid on Kael Richard Hutchinson’s farm. The grandfather Hutch had loved never talked
much about his son, making Hutch realize Grant probably never had a strong
relationship with his own father. Kael had wanted his son to continue the
tradition of farming, but Grant’s heart had always been in medicine. Just as
Hutch’s had been in police work. “I asked you for a dog when I was a kid,” he
protested, half wounded, half confused. “You told me they were messy.”
“Well
. . .” Looking uncomfortable, Grant bit
his lip. He fidgeted in his chair, trying to fluff off the question. “You know how it is - -”
“No. I don’t.”
Hutch chose that moment to become difficult. He was tired, his head hurt, and he’d been coerced into playing a
game he had mixed feelings about. He
suddenly wanted someone else to be as miserable as he was - - or at the very
least marginally uncomfortable. His
irritability kicked up a notch as he forced the issue. “Why wouldn’t you let me have a dog?”
“Hutch.” Starsky squeezed his leg, hearing the strain
in his voice.
Ignoring
him, Hutch stared at his father expectantly.
“Well?”
“Well . . .”
Grant cleared his throat and shifted again. He chuckled nervously.
“How truthful do we have to be about these questions?”
“Completely,”
Hutch said flatly.
“Don’t
you think that’s bein’ a little rigid?”
Starsky attempted.
“No
. . . it’s all right, David.” Grant shifted again, this time striving for
comfort. He hooked his right ankle over
his left knee, sitting up straighter.
“It was a long time ago anyway.”
He directed his next statement to Hutch. “The truth is I wanted you to have a dog, but your mother just
had new carpeting installed in the living room around the time you asked. White, remember? We had to remove our shoes anytime we stepped into that
room. Drove me nuts. She was afraid of what a dog or a puppy
would do to it.” Grant shrugged. “We argued and she won.”
Hutch
stared numbly, shocked by what he heard.
“But you let me think you were the reason.”
“Well,
I certainly wasn’t going to have you mad at your mother. It was just easier to let you think I was
the one against it. Your opinion of me
wasn’t going to sink much lower than it already was.”
“Dad
- -” Mortified, Hutch dragged a hand
over his face. He didn’t like
remembering the childhood animosity and fear he’d harbored for Grant, always
caught up in trying to please, continually resentful when he failed. He recalled the hurt he’d felt when Grant
had told him he couldn’t have a dog, how unfair he’d thought his father was
being. He’d been secretly bitter about
it for weeks, adding yet another strike against his rigidly detached father.
And it wasn’t even his
doing. Mom was the one who didn’t want
me to have a dog. He even argued with
her about it.
“Next
question,” Starsky said loudly, sensing his inner turmoil. The dark-haired
detective hooked an arm over Hutch’s legs, holding them in place on his lap
while he leaned forward to pull a slip of paper from the box. “What
is your favorite movie of all time?” he read aloud, hastening the play
along.
And
so it went for a few hours, the questions not overly personal so much as
fun. Hutch admitted it would have been
a good party game after all and decided he’d have to make sure June brought it
for the next bash he had. Once or twice
he got up and stretched when fatigue caught up with him and he grew in danger
of drifting off. Somewhere after two
a.m. they took a break from the game and switched to poker at the kitchen table
for a few hours. By that time it was
all Hutch could do to keep his head up, his irritability growing along with his
exhaustion. Starsky decided a walk on
the beach would help, so the three of them traipsed outside, Hutch plodding up
and down the sand with Grant and Starsky flanking him.
The
cold air went a long way in waking him up, but it left him shivering, his head
pounding fiercely. His teeth were
chattering by the time he was finally back indoors. Starsky actually took pity on him and rounded up a spare blanket
from the closet. Wrapped in the downy
warmth, Hutch tried to curl onto the couch but was immediately dragged upright
by his partner.
He
groaned.
“Come
on, Blondie,” Starsky coaxed. “You’ve only got a little over an hour to go.”
“I’m
tired now,” Hutch complained. “Just let me go to sleep. I’m not gonna fall into a coma.”
“Probably
not,” Grant agreed, standing behind the sofa, adjusting a pillow at his
back. “But it’s better to err on the
part of safety. We’ll play a little more of June’s game and the time will pass
before you know it.”
“I
don’ wanna,” Hutch slurred. “How many
frigging questions did she write anyway?”
He knew his irritability bulldozed through but couldn’t silence his bad
temper. All he wanted to do was lie down
and close his eyes. He didn’t want to
think, didn’t want to talk, and most especially didn’t want to play June’s damn
party game.
In
direct mockery of his wishes, Starsky plopped down beside him, sitting just off
center of the couch, making it impossible for him to stretch out. With a defeated sigh, Hutch folded against
his partner, resting his head on Starsky’s shoulder. “Whas the question?” he asked wearily.
“I’ll
pick one.” Grant reached into the box,
sitting down in the adjacent chair. He
unfurled the strip of paper, frowning slightly before he actually read the
words aloud. “If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”
Hutch
felt his partner tense. He immediately
knew Starsky’s answer without his friend uttering a word. He also knew the question itself had to be
painful for a man who’d lost his father when he was only ten. Instantly, his irritability crumbled at his
feet, replaced by concern. “Bad
question, Dad,” he said, drawing back and sitting straighter. “Pick another one.”
“No,”
Starsky countered quickly. “It’s
okay.” He shot his friend a guarded
glance. “It’s not what you think,
babe,” he said quietly.
There
was something in his voice that made Hutch abruptly attentive. It was Grant’s
question yet Starsky had chosen to answer.
They’d been doing that all through the game, making the rules up as they
went, each spontaneously answering as the mood struck them. Suddenly Hutch wasn’t so sure he wanted to
hear his friend respond to this particular question.
“If
there were any way to have my dad back, I would,” Starsky said softly.
It
was what Hutch expected him to say.
Wasn’t the answer obvious? He
thought that would be the end of it, but Starsky surprised him by plowing ahead
and veering in another direction.
“God
took him for a reason, Hutch. I mean
think about it - - if he hadn’t died, my life mighta been entirely
different. Who knows if I woulda even
become a cop. I sure as hell wouldn’t
have come to Bay City and I never woulda met you. All the years we’ve spent as friends and partners just wouldn’t
have been. I like to think in some indirect way my dad was responsible for a
small piece of that . . . like he was watchin’ over me, guidin’ me along,
makin’ sure I ended up where I was supposed to be.” Starsky chuckled abruptly, trying to lighten the mood though it
was clear from his expression the thought sobered him. “I mean, hell, pal - - you coulda been stuck
with Baker or Sullivan as a partner.”
“Spare
me,” Hutch said, playing along, but the joking words didn’t match his
tone. His throat was abruptly tight and
dry. He had a feeling where Starsky was
headed and suddenly had to know for sure.
“If not your dad, then what would you change about your life?” he asked
quietly, his gaze riveted to the dark blue irises he knew so well. Don’t
say it. God, Starsk, don’t say it. It’s over, and I’m not worth that kind of
wish.
Starsky
slid a hand over his knee. “I woulda
found you before Monk touched you. I
woulda made sure Forest never took you on that trip.”
“Shit,
buddy.” Shaken, Hutch crumbled back
against the sofa. He’d known it was
coming, but to think of all the things Starsky could have changed in his life .
. . wished differently . . . it unnerved him to know his friend placed him
first. They were supposed to be playing
a simple party game about favorite colors, foods and movies - - not highly
personal earth-shattering revelations like this. He felt himself shaking, his
heart escalating into a rapid, fluttery cadence. “Terri,” he said miserably, unable to finish the thought.
“I’m
gonna see her again, Hutch. She’s
waitin’ for me. I wish I could change
that too, but Terri didn’t suffer. You
did. More than any person should have
to endure. Even now, you’re still
affected by the whole shitty ordeal.
Like tonight, and the way you hesitated taking those pills.”
Hutch
tensed, knowing he couldn’t deny the observation. In the end, it was simply too hard thinking. His head throbbed
mercilessly, swelling the blood vessels behind his eyes. He rubbed his chest
hoping to slow the fast-forward thump of his heart, fully aware Starsky could
feel his trembling. “I give you Terri
back,” he said emphatically. “If I could change something, I’d take out
Prudholm before he had a chance to hurt her. Do you know how many times I’ve
second-guessed when we had him at the zoo?
I talked you out of - -” He
shook his head, unable to finish the thought.
“I shouldn’t have been so quick to put him through the system,” he
finished miserably. I didn’t want you to kill him. Ultimately that would’ve destroyed you, but
- -
“That
was my call, Hutch, not yours.”
Somehow
the words didn’t help. Hutch had
secretly carried hidden guilt over Terri’s death ever since the tragedy
occurred. He knew he couldn’t have stood
by and watched Starsky kill Prudholm, yet if they’d ended it at the zoo, Terri
would still be alive.
But Starsky would be
different,
he realized. All his enthusiasm and innocence destroyed with a single pull of the
trigger.
He’d
done the right thing, he knew that, but it didn’t make the reality any easier
to bear. They’d never talked about it,
but he guessed Starsky carried the same doubts, secretly torn up inside for
allowing Prudholm to live. Hutch often
wondered how different their lives might have been if Terri had survived. She and Starsky would probably be married by
now, possibly expecting their first child.
Hutch had no doubt his friend would make an exceptional husband and
father. He still hoped to see the
realization of that vision in Starsky’s future as well as his own.
“Starsk
- -”
“Forget
it.” Starsky cut him off with a
dismissive wave of his hand. He grinned
as if realizing the conversation grew entirely too somber. “Let’s lighten this up, huh? Your dad ain’t answered yet.” Unobtrusively, Starsky rubbed his hand over
Hutch’s knee, soothing his reactionary trembling. “How about it, Doc? What
one thing would you change about your life?”
Engrossed
by what he’d been hearing, Grant blinked as if only then realizing he’d been
addressed. He cleared his throat and
shoved the question onto the coffee table.
“That one’s a bit too philosophical for me. I think we should try something lighter.” Reaching into the box, he drew another
question, hastily reading it aloud: “Name the teacher who had the most impact on
your life and explain why. That’s
an easy one.” Grinning, he tossed the
slip of paper beside the box. “The
teacher who had the most impact on my life is my son, and I think the reason is
obvious.”
Hutch
stared openly, too tired to be subtle.
Still reeling from his discussion with Starsky, he was unprepared for
Grant’s startling announcement. “Um . .
.” Hutch wet his lips. “I think it means a teacher from school or
college.”
Starsky
snorted. “I don’t think so, Blondie. Take the compliment and be glad. Your old man’s come a long way in the last
year. Besides - - ” He grinned toothily. “Anyone who agrees with me that you need to
ditch that hunk-a-junk heap you call a car and buy something halfway
respectable can’t be all that bad.”
Grant
favored him with an amused glance.
“Thank you, David.”
“Always
a pleasure, Doc. As for me, I’d have to
go with Miss Bailey - - my eighth grade English teacher.”
Sensing
the game was returning to a more even keel, Hutch turned his shoulder into the
corner of the couch, getting comfortable.
Yawning, he rested his head on the back. “I’m afraid to ask,” he
mumbled, taking the bait.
Starsky
waggled his eyebrows. “She always wore
tight skirts and heels with flowered bras under light-colored blouses. That was heady stuff for a thirteen-year-old
kid. Me and Stu Gaither were always the
first in class and the last to leave.
She couldn’t understand how we eked by on a C average when we were glued
to her every word.”
Hutch
parted with a lazy smile. “You haven’t
changed much, partner. Didn’t I see you
eyeing up the new clerk in Records? The
one who looks like a librarian?”
“That’s
only ‘cuz I heard she’s far from stuffy when she clocks out. The hair comes down and the glasses come
off, if you know what I mean.”
Hutch
chuckled. It was growing increasingly
hard keeping his eyes open. As Grant
picked up the thread of conversation, he gave into the pressing desire to
sleep. Unconsciously, he scrunched
deeper into the corner, trying to tuck his long body into the cramped
space. Within seconds he felt a light
pressure on his arm, guiding him to lie down. “Come on, babe. You’ve only got forty more minutes. Lie down here, but don’t go to sleep, okay?”
“Okay.” He would have said anything at that point
simply because it felt so good to be able to recline. Starsky moved to the far corner of the sofa and Hutch stretched
across the length, pillowing his head in his friend’s lap. He gave an appreciate groan at the familiar
contact and felt Starsky’s fingers feather lightly through his hair. The touch was blissfully soothing, bringing
a rapid infusion of warmth.
“How’s
your head?” his partner asked.
He
grunted something inarticulate, hoping it passed for an answer. The fingertips in his hair moved to the rear
of his scalp, maintaining a slow massage.
Already drowsy, he felt himself slipping under the radar of sleep.
“Hey,
Hutch,” he heard his partner call. “You
ain’t answered the question. Who was
your favorite teacher?”
“Mmm
. . .gotta think ‘bout that one,” he slurred, too tired to crack his
eyelids. “Give me some time . . .” He
yawned widely. “ . . .‘bout forty
minutes.”
It
was the last thing he remembered saying until Grant woke him a short time later
and helped him shuffle sleepily back to bed.
+++++
Hutch
had absolutely no sense of time when he woke.
He stretched lazily in bed, only vaguely concerned if it was morning or
evening. His head still ached, but the
pain had withered to a low-level murmur floating in the background. Rolling onto his side, he blinked groggily
at the bedside clock, noting the hour was just past 5PM. He was still fully dressed, having crashed
in his clothing last night, something he barely remembered.
Dragging
himself from bed, he headed to the bathroom to freshen up. Neither his father nor Starsky were anywhere
in sight, but Grant’s suitcase was still in the living room. After a quick shower and a change of clothes,
Hutch felt halfway human again. When he
eventually returned to the living room, he found his father just entering
through the front door, a bag of groceries tucked under his arm.
“Ken.” Grant flashed an easy grin, moving to the
kitchen where he shoved the bag onto the counter. “I just picked up a few things for dinner, but I wasn’t sure if
you’d be up. How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Hutch’s answering grin came just as easily
as his father’s—surprising, since there’d once been a time when he wouldn’t
have been able to summon courtesy at all.
He poked his head into the bag, noting a package of beef cubes and
various fresh vegetables. Casting the
older man a sideways glance, he arched a single brow. “You’re cooking?”
“Beef
stew,” Grant confirmed. “About the only
thing I know how to make.”
“I
remember.” Hutch sat down at the
kitchen table. During his childhood,
Hutch’s mother had handled all the menus at the Hutchinson household except for
those rare times when Grant had decided to putter around and cook his famous
beef stew. Later, as his parents’
social commitments grew more time consuming, there’d been an actual dinner
service to ensure a hot meal was on the table every night. It felt a little
strange to think his father was actually going to be concocting something in
Hutch’s tiny kitchen. “What can I do to
help?” he asked.
“Nothing,”
Grant said. “Sit there and relax. Just because you’ve had some sleep doesn’t
mean you’re completely up to par. David
said you’re both off for the next two days, so I suggest you take it easy.”
“Hmm
. . . speaking of ‘David’ . . .” Hutch reclined sideways in the chair,
stretching his legs out and hooking an arm over the back. “I don’t remember Starsk leaving last
night.”
“You fell asleep a little sooner than you should have,” Grant explained, in the process of transferring the beef cubes and a bag of carrots to the refrigerator. “Actually, you were out within a few minutes of lying down on the couch. David left shortly after I got you settled into bed. I think he was feeling pretty tired too after your double shift and just didn’t want to admit it.” He paused, standing in the gap made by the open refrigerator and the door. “He takes very good care of you, Kenneth. I like that about him. About both of you.”
Strangely
self-conscious, Hutch flushed and averted his eyes. His father’s new candor still frequently caught him off
guard. And if he remembered correctly,
he’d fallen asleep with his head pillowed in Starsky’s lap. He had a vague recollection of firm
fingertips massaging his scalp, gently ushering him over the threshold of
sleep.
A
year ago he wouldn’t have thought his father capable of accepting his unique
relationship with Starsky, but Grant clearly took it at face value. There was
no questioning or dissecting - - subtle or otherwise - - of their extreme
closeness. The older man didn’t even
attempt to put labels on it - - he simply accepted their rare friendship for
what it was.
Like he’s accepted me.
Unexpected
warmth flooded him. How many times in
the past had they tried to talk and ended up in bitter arguments? How many times had they tried to change the
other instead of simply acknowledging and embracing their differences? “Yeah,” he agreed. He wet his lips, shooting a shy glance from the corner of his
eye. “Starsk is a good friend.” It didn’t come remotely close to covering
his relationship with Starsky, yet said it all in a single breath.
He
was silent a moment, watching as his father unbagged the rest of the groceries
then set about digging pots and pans from the cupboards. Hutch had to point out the location of a
few, but Grant was adamant he not lend a hand.
“I never let your mother help me when I made this. I’m not about to let you help either.”
Hutch
grinned lazily. His mother might never
have helped, but she’d always inherited the mess afterward. During his early kitchen forays, Grant
hadn’t seemed to grasp the fact clean-up went hand-in-hand with cooking. Hutch recalled it had taken his mother several
verbal explosions before her point finally sank home and Grant left everything
as spotless as he found it. Slight of
stature and normally soft-spoken, Adele Hutchinson grew as volatile as
nitroglycerin when provoked.
“So
when did you learn to make beef stew?” Hutch asked. Standing, he switched on
the overhead light, drenching the room in a butterscotch veil. It was starting
to get dark outside, the days growing shorter as the fading light of afternoon
receded before the murky pewter of twilight. Through the window, he could hear
the hum of passing traffic and an occasional horn as rush hour wound down.
Opening the refrigerator, he glanced inside, finally settling on a can of
Ginger Ale.
“College,”
Grant supplied over his shoulder, already busy chopping celery and onion. “After a while, you get sick of living on
deli sandwiches and pizza. I remember
the first time I came home on break and made it for my dad, his jaw
dropped.” He chuckled, shaking his
head. “Sometimes I think he thought the
only thing I knew how to do was read books and shovel hay. He wanted me to be a farmer. Did you know that?”
“Yeah.” Intrigued Hutch returned to the table,
sitting at the far end so he could talk more easily facing his father. “He wanted someone in the family to take
over the farm. I think for awhile he
even hoped I’d develop an interest in it.”
He hesitated, feeling the cool press of the soda can against his
hand. “Dad, did he . . . was he,
um . . .” Uncomfortable, he hedged, uncertain how to complete the
thought. “ . . .was he upset with you
for becoming a doctor?”
Grant
went right to the heart of the matter.
“You mean like I was with you for becoming a cop?”
Hutch
felt his face burn. It was what he wanted to know, but he hadn’t known how to
ask. His grandfather had always been
open and supportive with him, encouraging him to follow his dreams even when
they weren’t in line with his own. He’d
respected and loved Kael Hutchinson.
He’d loved his father too, but for many years that love had been tangled
up with fear, bitterness and anger.
“Okay . . . yeah,” he admitted.
“It’s what I want to know. Did
you have the same arguments with him that I had with you?”
“Hardly.” Grant laughed. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of using profanity with my father. He probably would have decked me if I did.” He winked, noting the self-conscious downward
sweep of Hutch’s eyes. “Then again, he
and I never went at it the way you and I did.
Don’t get me wrong - - we had our disagreements, and for a time he was
disappointed to think the farm would be sold off someday, but he also thought
medicine was a noble profession.”
“So
why . . .” Hutch fumbled words,
awkwardness tumbling over him again. “
. . . if he could accept what you wanted to do . . .” His hand tightened around the soda can as something unsettled
wormed into his stomach. It was lunacy to
bring the matter up, yet part of him needed an answer. “ . . .why couldn’t you - -”
“ -
- accept that you wanted to be a cop?”
Grant finished for him. Done
with the celery and onions, he made a quick trip to the refrigerator to
retrieve the carrots. “Because
somewhere along the way, I got caught up in the prestige of my profession and
the social status that went with it.
You have to remember I grew up the son of a farmer. We were well off, but medicine opened an
entirely different door for me - - highly competitive and socially
exclusive. I’m not proud of that, Ken -
- or that my ambitions got transferred onto you.” Locating a peeler in the top drawer, he set to work shaving
strips of carrot skin into the sink. “I had plenty of preening friends with
sons who were going to be doctors and you were so much brighter than any of
them. It galled me to think you were
throwing away your potential. And if I
have to be honest about it, I guess I wanted to preen too. I wanted to show you off to my colleagues. You’re intelligent, gifted, good-looking, a
natural leader. After awhile I stopped
seeing you, and just saw the attributes that would impress my peers.” He shook his head sheepishly. “Stupid, I
know. Now I realize this is your potential - - being a
cop. You excel at it because you enjoy
it.”
Tentatively,
Hutch fingered the bandage under his scalp.
“Some days more than others,” he commented dryly, feeling the need to
lighten the mood. It still amazed him
his father had developed a capacity to talk so openly. In some matters, Grant was still staunchly
and stubbornly Grant, but in others he’d clearly undergone a startling
transformation. Just a year ago they
would have been bickering by now, one or both of them storming from the room in
anger.
I like this side of us so
much better,
Hutch thought appreciatively. Changing
the subject, he steered his father into a discussion on more common place
matters. He soon learned his sister
Kelly - - who had married a doctor, much to Grant’s delight - - had bought a
rambling new home in Seattle. She and
her husband, Vincent, were hoping to start a family within the year and make
Grant and Adele grandparents.
The
mention of children quickly morphed into an observation that Hutch had yet to
find a steady girlfriend and wasn’t it about time he started thinking of
marriage again? That inevitably led
into mention of Vanessa and before Hutch realized it, he found himself talking
about Abby and Gillian.
His
parents had known about Abby, but he’d never told them why or how the
relationship had soured. He’d just always assumed they’d chalked it up to
another woman who couldn’t navigate the hurdles of being involved with a cop -
- and they were partially right.
Watching his father skin and chop potatoes, Hutch found himself telling
Grant about Artie Solkin, . . . the dead rat in his refrigerator, the bomb in
his trunk, even the violent psychotic who’d hurt Abby.
And
if that wasn’t revealing enough about his personal life, he finished by telling
Grant about Gillian.
Stunned,
his father abandoned the stew and took a seat across from him at the
table. Hutch told him everything after
that - - how she’d been a prostitute, how he’d loved her, how Starsky had tried
to protect him and how she’d ultimately been murdered by Grossman.
It
was a sobering discussion. He could
tell it left his father off balance as Grant considered yet another part of his
son’s life that had been corrupted and invaded by violence. Grant had come to
accept the fact he was a cop, but that didn’t mean he had to tolerate the
vicious ugliness that went with it. Before Hutch knew it, minutes turned into
hours as their conversation lengthened and grew and the stew remained
unfinished.
Somewhere
around eight o’clock they finally browned the beef cubes, threw everything into
a pot and ended up eating sandwiches while it cooked. Afterward, Hutch phoned Starsky to see how his friend was
feeling. Grant had already decided to stay another day and Hutch made arrangements
with his partner for the three of them to have dinner at his favorite seafood
restaurant. He wanted to treat his
father while Grant was in Bay City, but knew it was likely the older man would
insist on picking up the check anyway.
In
many ways Grant Kael Hutchinson was still Grant Kael Hutchinson.
Eventually
Hutch put a few albums on the turntable for background music, careful to choose
mellow instrumentals his father would enjoy.
June’s homemade game was still on the coffee table, and as he sat on the
couch, he plucked a single strip of folded paper from beside the box.
“Hey,
you never did answer this question,” he said to his father, reading off the
paper: “If you could change one thing
about your life, what would it be?”
Grant
sat at the opposite end of the sofa, leaving the middle cushion vacant between
them. “I thought the answer to that
would be obvious, Ken.” Angling his
back into the corner, he faced his son.
“It was just too much to address last night after hearing you and David
talk the way you did - - each of you so self-sacrificing toward the other. Every time I’m around the two of you, I walk
away with a new appreciation of a friendship that defies all boundaries.”
“Dad
- -”
“No,
hear me out.” Grant raised his hand to
stop the protest. “You have something
special . . . extraordinary with David, but it’s just as much because of you as
because of him. It’s like . . .” Now it was his turn to grope for words. “ . . . I’ve learned so much about you
because David has opened my eyes to who you really are. I see sides of you I never imagined existed,
all through his eyes. Like last night - - you were completely at
ease to fall asleep with your head in his lap. Like it was entirely natural. Sorry, Ken - -” He chuckled and shook his head. “ It’s. Just.
Not. I’m in awe of the affection you
have for each other, yet at the same time it’s hard for me to understand. For years all you ever showed me was a
distant and rigid personality, and suddenly I discover another side of you.”
Hutch
flushed, briefly lowering his eyes. “Dad, part of the reason I can be so at
ease with Starsky is because he’s so at ease with me. I . . .” He hedged, growing increasingly
uncomfortable. “I-I never f-felt that
way with you. B-Before, I mean . . .”
“Don’t
stutter,” Grant said automatically, but it wasn’t a reprimand so much as
concern. In the past the retort would
have been sharp, an obvious put-down, but now it carried warmth. “I know I wasn’t very open.” Pulling the strip of paper containing June’s
question from Hutch’s grasp, he raised it in the air between the first two
fingers of his right hand. “Why do you
think I have so many regrets about this?
All those years wasted. A
relationship is a two-way street, Kenneth.
I never encouraged you to be open with me when you were a child.”
That
much was true. If anything he’d been
quiet and reserved around Grant, only speaking his mind when he felt strongly
about something. He’d been afraid to
speak out otherwise, knowing most anything he said would either disappoint or
anger his father. He’d always envied his friend Jack Mitchell and Jack’s
completely candid relationship with his parents, especially his father. “When I was a kid, I was afraid of you,” he
admitted.
Grant
appeared taken aback. “You’ve told me
that once before,” he observed quietly, “But I never hit you, Ken. I was never physical with discipline.”
“No.”
Hutch agreed. “You didn’t have to be. I was always afraid of disappointing you,
and that was enough.” Wearily, he
rubbed his eyes. He was starting to
grow tired again, fatigue intensifying the ache behind his temple. “I always
felt like I was screwing up. The older
I got, I channeled that fear into anger, and then . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know . . . even up until a short while ago, you always
managed to intimidate me. I guess I
just never outgrew that part of how I reacted.
It never took much for you to push my buttons.”
“Or
you mine,” Grant countered smoothly.
Realizing
how foolish they’d both been, Hutch gave a tired shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Dad. I could have been less belligerent through the years. Like you said - - you never would have
dreamed of using foul language with Grandpa, and I - -”
“ -
- have an extremely sharp tongue when you choose, Kenneth Richard,” Grant
finished with a grin. “And your
mother’s temper. That can be an awfully
volatile combination. If you don’t
believe me, ask your partner.”
Amused,
Hutch cocked his head. “You and Starsk
have been doing an awful lot of talking, haven’t you?”
“Why
not?” Grant shrugged. “He has a unique viewpoint of life in
general, not to mention the inside track on you. For instance - - I had no idea
you’re such a bad bowler.”
“Ha!” Hutch gave an incredulous bark of
laughter. “He told you that? He’s yanking your chain, Dad. I take him down two times out of
three.” He hedged slightly. “Well . . . most times anyway. Why, just last week . . .” And so the
conversation went, veering through everything from leisure activities and
career concerns to health, world politics, music and art. The beef stew was eventually removed from
the heat and left to cool, Hutch’s Ginger Ale replaced by a second can, then a
glass of iced water. Somewhere close to
midnight, after a brief off-the-wall foray into the possibility of
extraterrestrial life and an even briefer one about the gas crisis, Grant
rummaged up a container for the beef stew and transferred it to the
refrigerator.
Stretching
out on the couch, Hutch concluded he should just pack it in and head back to
bed. But there was still literature, the
economy, and Starsky’s recent fondness for Necco Wafers to discuss.
“How’s
your head?” Grant asked, returning to the sofa.
“Fine,”
Hutch replied, surprised to realize it was the truth. No throbbing, no ache - -
not even a twinge to report. He sat up
long enough for his father to reclaim his seat, then laid back down without
thought, pillowing his head on Grant’s thigh the same way he would have on
Starsky’s. Almost immediately he realized what he’d done and instinctively
tensed to retreat. He and his father
had grown close, but this contact was a little too candid, much too
presumptive. Before he could make a move, he felt Grant’s fingers slip into his
hair. Hesitant at first, his father grew bolder and gently stroked the bangs
from his forehead. Comforted and
secretly pleased, Hutch relaxed.
“You
have your grandfather’s hair, Ken,” Grant mused quietly, his touch as
blissfully contenting as his voice. “Soft as silk and just as pale. Kelly used to be jealous of that when she
was a child. She wanted to be the blond
in the family.”
“Kelly
was a little Narcissist,” Hutch said groggily.
His tension had completely melted now, dwarfed into nothingness by the
exquisite pressure of his father’s fingertips.
“Thank God she grew out of that phase.
And she never would have had a comeback for all the blonde jokes.”
Grant
gave a soft chuckle. “Don’t tell me you
get your share of those?”
Hutch
snorted. “Dad, I get them from my own
partner. I think I’m gonna grow a
mustache just to piss him off.” He
shifted a bit, getting more comfortable, letting the amber warmth of the
tableside lamp, his father’s presence, and his father’s touch wash over
him. Like a drug, the combination
lulled him closer to sleep. “I should
prob’ly go to bed,” he murmured, his eyes dipping shut.
“Probably,”
Grant agreed, but his fingertips never stopped their leisurely massage.
Somewhere
in the back of Hutch’s mind, he realized he’d crossed another bridge with his
father, their constantly evolving relationship finding a new foothold in shared
touch. Just a few short months ago, he
would have been a ball of nerves to even consider
drifting to sleep with his head in Grant’s lap. And a year ago - - ha!
- - the very notion would have been laughably absurd. Their preferred interaction had always been verbal potshots, not
open affection.
“Dad?”
“Yes,
Ken?”
“If
I fall asleep, you take the bed, okay?
You’re supposed to be my guest.
I’ll be fine here.”
He
heard a soft chuckle, velvety and low in the sleep-fogged haze of his mind.
“Whatever
you say. Now go to sleep.”
“But
. . .” His voice was whisper-low, slurred by creeping fatigue. “If I fall asleep, how - -”
“Ken,”
Grant cut him off, this time in warning.
He was already halfway under when the word penetrated like a slumbering
mist. He made a half-vocal sound, not
sure if it was agreement or concession and nestled a bit more snugly like a man
preparing for a long rest.
It
was the last thing he remembered before he woke the next morning still
stretched out on the couch, his cheek pressed to his father’s thigh, Grant’s
arm draped securely over his chest. His
father had slouched a bit lower into the sofa, legs stretched out for comfort
against the floor, head tipped back and mouth slightly parted. He snored softly, his once pristine black
knit shirt wilted and rumpled. It was definitely not the most dignified pose
for a renowned surgeon, but to Hutch it made his father all the more human and
approachable. For the first time in his
life, he felt like they were on the same level. More than that, Grant had chosen discomfort rather than disturb
him last night.
Or maybe, Hutch thought with a faint grin, his father had simply wanted to savor the physical contact between them awhile longer. Certainly, having his police sergeant son half sprawled across his lap was not something that regularly happened.
Careful
not to disturb the older man, Hutch sat up, grimacing as he worked the kinks
from his back. He knew his father would
likely be sorer still, having spent the night cramped in the corner of the
sofa. He gave a soft groan at a particularly stubborn knot in the small of his
back and saw Grant crack an eyelid.
“What
time is it?”
“Dunno.” Hutch dragged a hand through his hair,
deciding his days of roughing it on anything other than a down mattress were
long past. “We’ve got sunlight if that
helps.” He cast a glance at an oblong splotch of yellow on the kitchen floor.
“And we’ve got beef stew, wheat germ or granola for breakfast.”
Grant
made a sound much like Starsky did when lamenting an unfair list of food
choices and dragged his abused body upright.
“I’m a traditional breakfast eater, Ken. I want bacon and eggs.
Hit the shower and I’ll treat.
Maybe by that time we’ll be limber enough that neither of us will regret
spending the night on the couch.”
Hutch
stood with effort, feeling considerably older than his 33 years, thanks to a
number of misplaced springs in his aging sofa.
“Sounds good, but just for the record - -” He flashed a grin and offered
his hand to Grant, “ - - I don’t regret it at all.”
Grant
accepted the grasp and allowed himself to be pulled onto his feet. “Neither do I.”
+++++
Hutch
whistled as he breezed through the doors into the squadroom, tossing off a
hello to Sullivan and two uniformed officers before plopping into his desk
chair across from Starsky. His partner
was hunched over his typewriter doing an intent two-fingered hunt-and-peck as
he banged out what appeared to be an arrest report. A single key clacked followed by another four seconds later. Finally a third.
“Hey.”
Hutch flashed a good-natured grin. “You bust somebody without me?”
A
flash of electric blue eyes met his across their shared desk space. “I’m redoin’ the report on that hood with
the nunchucks, if you gotta know. Dobey said the hand-written one wasn’t good
enough.”
Hutch
chuckled. “I told you that when you did
it,” he said unsympathetically, leaning back in his chair. Sparing an offhand glance for the pending
casefiles on his desk, he tugged the nearest one into his lap. “Should have listened to me, Starsk.”
Starsky
mimicked a nayh-nayh-nayh-nayh-nayh. “Nobody likes a smartass, Hutch. And in case you forgot, I was preoccupied
with gettin’ your doped up, bloodied butt back to your apartment before you
keeled over.” A key clacked - - vehemently - - followed by two more in
bullet-angry succession. “Hey - -” Stopping abruptly, Starsky blinked across
the typewriter. “How come I’m stuck
doin’ this anyway? You’re faster than
me, and besides - - you’re the doofus who got whacked with the nunchucks in the
first place.”
“Saving
your butt,” Hutch pointed out. “The
least you can do as way of thanks is type up the report. I’ve still got two stitches.” To emphasize the point, he fingered the
tender area just beneath his hairline, the small white bandage barely visible
under his bangs. It didn’t bother him
anymore but it didn’t hurt playing the injury for a little drama now that he
was feeling better. And watching
Starsky wrangle with a manual typewriter was always worth a snicker or two.
“Yeah,
yeah,” Starsky groused, readjusting the paper over the platen. His muttering
gave way to the clack of the keys as he picked up speed, adding another two
fingers to his jerky technique of stop-and-go typing.
Hutch
watched with fond appreciation for his friend, glad to be back on a daylight
schedule and normal shift rotation. Though he was over an hour late in
arriving, he knew Dobey wouldn’t call him on it after the double shift they’d
done and the injury he’d sustained.
He’d needed the extra time to personally see his father to the airport
rather than have Grant take a cab. The
drive and their time in the terminal had given them a few extra hours together,
something Hutch cherished knowing it would likely be Christmas before he saw
his family again. Even in the few short
days Grant had spent in Bay City, Hutch felt they’d grown closer still, a
sensation that left him incredibly upbeat.
He
drummed his fingertips on the desktop.
“What do we have on schedule today, partner?”
The
lightness in his voice drew Starsky’s head up.
His friend quirked a grin.
“You’re soundin’ awfully energetic for a guy complainin’ about a gash on
his forehead.”
“Okay,”
Hutch admitted, “So it’s fine. I just
don’t want to type your lousy report, especially when I know I’m not gonna be
able to make heads or tails of it in the first place. Finish that thing up and let’s get out of here.”
Starsky
eyed him suspiciously. “What’s the
hurry?”
Leave
it to his partner to second-guess his enthusiasm. A few days off and Hutch was eager for the familiar crackle and
adrenaline rush that came with his job - - especially now after realizing how
fully his father had come to accept it.
He’s actually proud of me. Proud of what I do. It was a heady thought. One that made him want to get back on the
streets and do what he did best. He
felt invigorated and strong, no longer bowed under by a head injury or fatigue.
“I just want to get back on the job, buddy.”
Starsky
gave a soft snort. “Must be all that
fresh air you got on the way to the airport.
I think it short-circuited your brain.”
Pulling the report from the typewriter, he scrawled his name at the
bottom. “Your dad get off okay?” he
asked without raising his head.
“Yeah. Said you’re welcome to come home with me
anytime for a visit. He might even want
some advice about new chrome wheels for his Mercedes.”
“Really?” Starsky looked like he might preen,
immensely pleased by the comment. “See that, Blondie? Even your dad knows I’m an expert when it comes to vehicles,
sport or otherwise. Maybe now you’ll
listen to me and dump that rust-heap you’re drivin’. It needs put out of its misery - - permanently.”
Hutch
fluffed off the comment, something he was used to hearing from Starsky. Like their never-ending debate over health
foods vs. anything greasy, fattening or artery clogging, it had become an
affectionate way to needle the other.
Well . . . okay, he amended, affectionate
and a little irksome. It all
amounted to typical banter for two men who were as competitive with one another
as they were self-sacrificing in their attachment. Deciding to change the subject, he honed in on something he’d
been thinking about all morning.
“Starsk?”
The
shift in his tone made Starsky look at him levelly. “Yeah, what is it?”
Hutch
hesitated a second. “My dad’s really
impressed with you. He respects
you. I mean . . .” He wet his lips, unsure how to say what he
needed to say. “Hell, Starsk, he just likes you.”
“Is
that all?” Starsky backhanded the air.
“Can you blame ‘im? The doc’s obviously
got good taste - - in cars and cops.” He grinned toothily. “I knew it was just a
matter of time till he climbed down off that high horse of his, made nice with
his stubborn blond kid and realized you’d be lost without me.” Tucking his chin down, he studied Hutch from
under his brows. “You would be lost without me, you know that
don’tcha, Hutchinson?”
“Perfectly.” Hutch grinned faintly, appreciating
Starsky’s humor. But the levity
vanished as quickly as it came. Abruptly
self-conscious, he lowered his eyes, fiddling with the edge of the folder in
his lap. "Starsk . . .do you think . . .”
Indecisive, he flicked a glance to the side, trying to gauge whether or
not they could be overhead. Sullivan
and one of the uniformed officers had left.
The other was busy talking to a file clerk in the far corner of the
room. By the looks of the subtle
flirtation taking place, neither were interested in anything but the
other.
Clearing
his throat, Hutch tried again. “Do you think
your dad would have liked me?” he blurted softly. The folder became of immense interest and he felt a warm flush of
color on his cheeks. It was a silly
question but it had been eating at him all morning, flitting around in the back
of his mind, whispering that if Michael Starsky were alive today he might not
think so highly of his son’s friendship with a collegiate, all-American
Midwesterner. Or at least that’s how
Hutch believed a man of working class roots would perceive him. He’d been down that road before. Even Starsky had thought him annoyingly
pampered and rigid the first time they’d met.
Having
made peace with his own father, coupled with realizing Grant’s enthusiasm for
Starsky was genuine, suddenly made him question whether or not he could have
interacted so smoothly with Michael Starsky.
When silence was his only answer, he raised his head. “Starsk?” he prompted doubtfully.
His
hesitation earned him a dark glower.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?
What’re we even havin’ this conversation for?”
Hutch
squirmed, increasingly uncomfortable.
“I don’t know. I was just
thinking - -”
“Well,
knock it off,” Starsky snapped. “What
kind of asinine question is that in the first place? Of course my dad woulda liked you. I mean you’re a good friend, a good cop, a - -”
“You’re
not sure,” Hutch said quietly with sudden insight. “That’s why you’re upset . .
. because when you put the two of us together in your head, there’s still room
for doubt and that bothers you.” It
bothered him too. He swallowed hard,
deliberately setting the file on his desk.
He inched his chair closer and grabbed a pencil from the smoked plastic
caddy on the corner. It was better to
just forget about it. Starsky’s protest
was answer enough.
Refocusing,
Hutch slipped the pencil behind his ear and flipped the folder open, pretending
to scan the inside flap. “You’re right
- - it was a dumb question.”
“So
why bring it up?” Starsky challenged.
“I
don’t know.” That wasn’t entirely
true. Part of it was the change in his
relationship with Grant, even Grant’s friendliness toward Starsky. But another part . . . “That . . . that
thing you s-said the other night,” he stammered. “About w-what you would have changed if given the chance.” He looked his friend directly in the
eyes. “I can’t get that out of my head,
Starsk. It makes me wonder if your
d-dad would’ve thought I’m w-worth it.”
“Hell,
Hutch, don’t be a stupid shit.” Puffing
out his cheeks, Starsky exhaled noisily.
He pushed the typewriter aside then hunched closer over the desk. His eyes snapped to Hutch’s face, direct and
intently blue. “Listen to me, babe,” he said in a low voice for his partner’s
ears only. “You and your dad are
gettin’ along. Me and your dad are
gettin’ along. My dad ain’t here, so
we’re not gonna worry about ‘maybes’ and ‘what ifs.’ But if he were here . .
.yeah, you ain’t exactly Brooklyn workin’ class, and at first he might think
you’re a little too pretty and too polished to make it on the streets. Then he’d spend the next five minutes
pickin’ himself up off the ground and dodgin’ that foul mouth of yours. He’d realize you’re as tough as you are
sensitive and as dedicated as you are honorable. And if he didn’t, I’d make sure he knew and
understood. Once he got past first
impressions, he woulda thought you’re a helluva good cop and a helluva
friend.” Starsky grinned. “Just like his kid does.”
Hutch
nodded, offering a contrite curl of his lips.
It was exactly what he’d needed to hear, and as always, his partner knew
exactly what to say to put his mind at ease.
“You think I’m being stupid?”
“To
put it mildly,” Starsky said, “But that ain’t nothing new. You gotta stop
thinkin’ so much, Hutch. Stop bein’ so
sensitive. Like I said the other night
. . . I’m exactly where I’m supposed
to be, and I think my dad had a hand in that.
I think he knows about you already.”
The grin came back, quicksilver and shamelessly impish. “He’s probably
up there right now shakin’ his head, wonderin’ how I put up with you and why
you’re always so damn hard on yourself.
It’s a good thing you got me around to teach you how to lighten
up.” Standing, Starsky snatched his
jacket from the back of his chair. He’d
chosen the brown leather one this morning - - a bit battered and worn, but
wondrously familiar and wholly comfortable - - just as he was to Hutch.
“Let’s
get out of here, huh?” He jerked his
head in the direction of the door.
“Sounds
good.” The giddy high Hutch had felt
earlier returned in a staggering upsurge of warmth. He followed his partner out into the hall and down into the
garage where the Torino waited, parked just inside the entrance. He was tempted to ask his friend what
Michael Starsky would have thought of the car but decided to let it go. Hopefully, the older man had enjoyed better
taste than his hotrod-loving son.
In
the passenger’s seat, Hutch ran through a quick check of the items in the
glovebox then clocked them on the street at 9:48. “You know,” he said, as they headed down Eighteenth to Lincoln,
“We never did have that party.”
“True.” Starsky palmed the wheel, easing past a blue
Chrysler and an off-duty taxi. “June never got to use her game either. I know she was really lookin’ forward to
that. Hey - - how about this
Friday?” He flashed Hutch a quick
glance, the gleam of excitement growing in his eyes. “We basically got everything we need, right? All we gotta do is make a few phone calls
and let everyone know the party’s back on.
Er . . .” he hedged. “That is,
if you’re feelin’ up to it.”
“Starsky,
I’m fine,” Hutch replied. “And a party
sounds good.” Friday was just a few
days away, plenty of time for him to decide if he wanted to invite Libbie or
Gwen. The downside to not being in a
committed relationship was hoping one or the other would be available and hadn’t
already bailed on him with another guy. “Um, just one thing,” he said, thinking
of the game. “Maybe we should pull a
few of the questions or at least that one.”
“You
mean ‘What one thing would you change
about your life if you could?’”
“Yeah,
that’s the one.” Hutch lowered his
eyes, his voice soft. Starsky’s answer
remained stuck in his head, resounding with the fierce devotion of their
friendship. “I wouldn’t want either one of us to have to answer that in front
of other people.”
Starsky
nodded. “I hear you, babe.” Reaching across the seat, he gave Hutch’s
knee a brief squeeze. “We’ll keep that
one the way it’s always been - - the only way that matters.”
Hutch
met his eyes.
“With
me and thee,” he affirmed for both of them.
+++++
Next up:
By special request for Brook, Impala (from Illusions and Secrets) returns, and he’s got a score to settle with Starsky. BTW, if you have a story idea you’d like to see me tackle, feel free to send me a suggestion. I have several of my own that are pending, but many of the stories I’ve written have been spurred by the suggestions of cyber friends. I can’t promise if or when it will actually see the light of day, but I’ll gladly entertain all story ideas. I’m squeamish about torture and graphic violence (among a few other things) meaning I will rarely if ever write it, but otherwise love entertaining plot ideas from my readers and friends! Happy S&Hing!