Well,
it turns out I lied. In my last
author’s note I said I was going to write a post-Partners story or missing
scenes story from Survival. Both of
those are still kicking around in my head, but in the meantime a few cyber friends
threw ideas my way and I decided to combine all of them into a single
story.
Eli mentioned she’d like to
see an angsty Starsky story related to Pariah.
Starsky’s Strut said she’d like to see me write a “how they met”
story. And finally, Trish picked up on
something I barely addressed in Dance Celestial and suggested expanding that
thread with a story of its own. Since
that idea became the foundation of Detour, I don’t want to say too much about
it, other than it involves one partner being hurt and the other struggling with
guilt. So to Eli, Starsky’s Strut and
especially Trish, thanks for the ideas.
I’m not sure I actually managed to use them in the manner you
envisioned, but they were the plot threads I had in mind when I started
Detour.
Thanks as always to Theresa
for beta work supreme and to Kass for such a comfy fic home. And, yeah, I know it’s not the best place to
do this, but thanks to the many readers who voted and made me a winner of the
Paula Wilshe award for 2006. WOW! As a new writer, I obviously didn’t know
Paula, but it’s an honor to be recognized in memory of someone who was so
beloved in the fandom. Congrats to my
co-winner, CC as well! Hopefully, I can
keep all of you entertained for a long time to come! J
By Kate (CMT)
Starsky
was wretched company and had been for some time. The fact he was aware of his mood and even acknowledged some of
his misery was being taken out on Hutch didn’t make his desolation any easier
to shake. He’d killed a
sixteen-year-old kid, then stood by and let some lunatic with a personal
vendetta take out two of his fellow officers while trying to get to him. And what had he done when he’d finally had
George Prudholm at his mercy, the barrel of his pistol just inches from the
vindictive killer’s head?
I let him go. I turned him over to Hutch.
Starsky
knew his police career would have gone up in smoke had he pulled the
trigger. But more importantly, Hutch
would have gone right along with it because his ever-faithful partner would
have lied to cover the cold-blooded killing.
If Starsky had made that choice, deciding to be judge, jury and
executioner, Ken Hutchinson would have swallowed his idealist convictions and
done what was necessary to salvage Starsky’s career. Even if Starsky had wanted it to end there, not caring what
became of him or his future, Hutch would never have let him. He would have lied, tampered with evidence,
written a false report - - whatever was necessary to keep his friend above the
law.
And
so Starsky hadn’t pulled the trigger.
To
this day he wasn’t sure if he’d made that decision because he believed it was
the right thing to do or simply because he didn’t want Hutch going down with
him. In the midst of all the conflict
with Lonnie Craig and Prudholm, he’d almost walked away from the Force. In retrospect, he was beginning to think he
should have followed through with that decision. No matter what he did, he couldn’t shake the gloom of Lonnie’s
death, or the steadily creeping darkness that whispered innocent men had died
because of him.
And
so he’d been moody, withdrawn, frequently short with Hutch when his friend
didn’t deserve the sharpness. Rather than snap back, his partner had been
patient, ridiculously understanding and staunchly supportive.
Which
only made Starsky feel worse. The perpetual
ball of bleak despair and simmering hostility had been building for three
weeks. Coupled with the joyless
mentality that came from six straight days of nightshift, he felt like he was
sinking in a quagmire. Even his tie to
Hutch had been affected, their normally unshakable bond showing signs of
strain.
Hutch
was tired. He knew that. Endlessly patient, the blond-haired man
carried the weight of worry for both of them, attempting to make everything
right again when Starsky wasn’t certain it could be. Maybe it was just better to walk away from the mess Prudholm had
made of his life . . . the ugly scar Lonnie Craig’s senseless death had carved
into his soul.
“Zebra
3 to Control,” he heard Hutch say into the mic. “We are in pursuit of a black Nova, north on Canyon Road, just
past city limits. Plate number:
nine-kilo-echo-seven-four-tango. Be
advised suspects have taken a female cashier as hostage. Notify county sheriff
we have crossed city line.”
“Copy that, Zebra 3,” the nasally voice of
the control officer responded. “We are dispatching units to assist. Will
advise County as directed.”
Starsky
shook aside his thoughts and concentrated on the wail of the siren as it
shrieked into the pre-dawn darkness, the garish red strobe of the mars light
transforming clumps of shadow into splotches of blood. At this hour, Canyon Road was mostly
deserted. He watched the dim-and-flash
of the Nova’s taillights as the driver recklessly navigated his bulky vehicle
through the hairpin turns, barely braking.
Starsky kept his foot on the gas, only easing as the Torino fishtailed
through a wide curve. The rear tires
slid from the shoulder, smoking rubber as he braked hard into the bend. He heard the leaf springs creak and gunned
the accelerator, spewing up chunks of gravel as the car bulleted back onto the
road.
“Starsky.”
Hutch warned in a low voice, one hand planted firmly against the dash.
He
knew his partner trusted his judgement when it came to driving. Hutch was fair behind the wheel, but he didn’t
come close to the high-speed control Starsky had. He’d always been mechanically inclined. He loved speed and he loved to drive. When they’d put him in a patrol car at the Academy, he’d torn up
the track, dusting every previous record for performance and time. The one thing he still had confidence in as
a cop was his uncanny and natural ability to drive.
“Relax,
partner,” he said. “We’re gonna get
‘em.”
Two
more robbery suspects. He wasn’t sure
how he felt about that. He and Hutch
had pulled up to an all-night gas station just in time to witness two men in
dark clothing dragging a struggling female cashier into their black Chevy Nova.
One had dropped a sack with a handful of money on the macadam before hastily
snatching it up and jumping into the passenger’s seat. The driver struck the girl across the face
with a pistol, then shoved her into the back.
Hutch was halfway to the car, gun drawn, ordering them to halt when the
vehicle suddenly lurched to life, barreling straight for him. Starsky got off
two shots before firing up the Torino.
By that time Hutch was diving into the car and the pursuit was on.
God, don’t let ‘em be kids
again,
Starsky silently prayed. Not this time.
They’d
taken a hostage - - or at the very least a woman they’d intended to use, one
way or another before disposing of her.
Part of him immediately condemned the two men in the car as sick
replicas of Prudholm, unjustly preying on the helpless and the innocent. Another part wondered if they were kids like
Lonnie, who’d become trapped in the harsh cycle of predatory street life. Either way, the girl was a victim.
He
banked the car through another curve and heard Hutch grunt as he was thrown
against the door. Up ahead the road narrowed, forking to the left at the same time. The driver of the Nova took the bend without
braking, relying on speed to get him through the tight “S.” Almost immediately his tires hit loose
gravel, sending his rear end fishtailing beneath the deadly combination of
weight and speed. The heavy vehicle
twirled like a top, crossing lanes, sliding under massive acceleration back
toward the red-and-white Ford.
“Starsky
look out!” Hutch yelled.
With
only a split second to react, Starsky hit the brake and hastily spun the
wheel. For a minute all he saw was the
blinding flash of headlights, a deadly hurtling mass of black metal and
chrome. The collision slammed him into
the seat and sent the Torino spinning out of control. He heard the shriek of
torn metal, felt the jarring shock of impact as the right side of the car
bounced against a tree, then boomeranged free.
The acrid reek of burning brakes and hot rubber filled his head. Somewhere in the confusion, he realized all
motion had stopped . . . that the screech and hiss of grating sound had died, leaving
a faint echo buzzing in his head.
It
took him a minute to suck down a breath.
To realize, that yes, he was hunched over the steering wheel, his hands
locked in a death grip on the hard molded plastic. His head rang atrociously, and he realized his lip was bleeding -
- that he’d bitten down so hard on his tongue, there was blood on the inside of
his mouth. His neck throbbed as if he’d
wrenched it, sending prickly splinters of pain into his shoulders and back. Through the windshield he could see the Nova
lying belly up, fifty-odd feet away across the opposite lane, its lights
shooting twin beams into the murky shadows.
There appeared to be no movement from inside the car, but it was dark
enough that he couldn’t tell for sure.
“Gonna
need help on this one, buddy,” Starsky muttered to Hutch as he prodded the
inside of his mouth with his tongue, tasting blood. “I’ll call for an ambulance.” He reached for the microphone and
froze. “Hutch?”
Stupidly,
it hadn’t dawned on him the accident might have been worse for his passenger,
than for him. He expected Hutch to be
grumbling at him for his shoddy driving - - even though he knew the end result
could have been much worse if he hadn’t reacted as quickly as he did.
“Hutch?”
Starsky’s heart double-timed into his throat, his breath growing fluttery and
short. His friend was crumpled against
the passenger door, lifeless looking and still. He sat with his face turned away, his body angled into the door
so that Starsky couldn’t really see him.
What
he could see left him feeling helpless and alarmed.
The
door had accordioned inward, the metal frame warped and collapsed at the
top. Though the window had cracked and
veined like the web of a mammoth spider, it remained miraculously intact.
Leaning into the damaged door, Hutch rested with his brow pressed to the glass.
“Hutch?”
Frightened, Starsky tentatively touched the back of his partner’s head,
rewarded by a soft groan. “Buddy, can you hear me?”
Hutch
stirred listlessly beneath his hand.
Blinking, he twisted his head to the side and tried to sit
straighter. “Starsky?”
“Yeah,
pal, I’m right here.” He breathed a
mental sigh of relief. At least Hutch
was conscious and talking. In the back
of his mind he thought of the Nova, the two perps and the girl. Damn
it, where’s my backup? “I’m just
gonna radio for help . . . get an ambulance here.”
Hutch
gave a weak nod and closed his eyes, still huddled against the door.
Barely there, barely
conscious,
Starsky thought as he reached for the microphone. His heart gave a small lurch when he realized the cord had been
severed in the crash. “Damn it!” Okay, it didn’t matter. They’d already phoned in their position,
which meant help would be arriving shortly.
He’d just have one of the patrol units call for an ambulance the minute
they hit the scene.
Starsky
touched his friend’s shoulder. “Hutch, can you turn around and face me? I wanna make sure you’re okay, buddy, before
I go secure that Nova . . . check on the girl.” The girl . . . ohgod, what
if she’s hurt too? “Hutch. Hutch, come on, I need you to answer
me.” I can’t leave that girl with those two hoods.
First
priority came down to civilians - - not his partner, no matter how attached
they were. And yet he hesitated. He knew Hutch was coherent, and there didn’t
appear to be any sign of blood. That
alone should be enough to propel him from the car, yet he didn’t like the way
his friend sat hunched, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. “Hutch, don’t do this to me. You know I gotta go help the girl.”
“Okay,”
Hutch said in a shaky voice. “Y-Y-You go.
I’m fine.”
The
stammer told him Hutch was anything but fine.
“Just sit back for me,” Starsky pleaded. He pulled on Hutch’s forearm, gently forcing it away from his
middle. That was when he saw the
blood. Even in the semi-dark it stood
out as a repulsive black patch, glistening and oily, greedily spreading over
Hutch’s stomach and arm, blotting the front of his cream-colored cords.
Starsky
choked, blindsided by the alarming glut.
How could a man bleed like that and not tell him? “Where are you hurt?” he snapped, fear
making his voice unnaturally sharp.
“M-My
side,” Hutch said. “S-Something from
th-the door, Starsk . . .”
Hutch
tilted his head back and for the first time Starsky saw the strain on his face
. . . realized that his friend was in agony.
His skin was unnaturally white and shocky-looking, a bleached mask
against the deeper gold of his hair.
“Okay . . . okay, just take it easy,” Starsky said
softly, hoping to calm not only Hutch but himself as well. “I’m gonna get you outta this. Help’s already on the way, so all you gotta
do is hang on for a while, okay? I want
you to stay awake and keep your eyes open.”
Gripping
Hutch by the chin, Starsky forced his head around. Already he could see the taxing burden of misery and fatigue
pulling on Hutch’s lids, the allure of blissful unconsciousness weighing
heavily on him. “Damn it, Hutch,” he snapped, panicked when his friend’s lashes
dipped lower still. “Stay awake, you
hear me?”
The
heated command brought the golden lashes up again, pain and desperation
mingling on the surface of Hutch’s blue eyes.
It was torture to witness that conflict. Starsky understood his friend was in agony . . . that Hutch
longed to slide into oblivion and escape the misery if only temporarily. But
the blond detective also desperately wanted to do what his friend asked . . .
if only because Starsky was the one asking it.
And that meant remaining in a world of punishing pain, suffering what he
could easily escape by surrendering to darkness.
“That’s
better,” Starsky said, softly this time.
His fingers swept higher, stroking Hutch’s cheek in a fond caress,
sharing what limited comfort he could. Shit, buddy, I didn’t mean for this to
happen. “I’m just gonna look at
your side . . .” Even as he said it, he
let his eyes drop toward the dark space between Hutch and the door. He couldn’t really see in the half-gloom,
but thought he detected an impaling shaft of metal twisted outward from the
damaged door. Gingerly, he reached
across his friend, gently prodding Hutch’s ribs on the right side, steadily
working lower.
Hutch
hissed in a pained breath.
“Easy,
easy,” Starsky crooned. His hand
touched jagged metal, felt blood and butchered flesh. His heart spiked higher in alarm, beating fast enough to make him
breathe hard. In the closed confines of
the car, the sound was harsh and ragged.
From what he could tell in the faulty light, the ragged piece of metal
had ripped through Hutch’s side, impaling him at the moment of impact with the
tree, wrenching free when the vehicle lurched to a stop.
Damn it, what the hell is
taking back-up so friggin’ long?
Jerking
from his jacket, Starsky pressed it over Hutch’s side. “Hold that there, buddy, okay?” He was distressed to realize he was shaking
as he gripped Hutch’s hand and slid it over the light canvas material. “You
gotta press hard, babe.” Deliberately,
he added the weight of his hand, mashing the jacket against the gushing
wound. Hutch grimaced and twisted his
face away, the tendons in his neck popping beneath the grim strain.
He ain’t makin’ a sound.
Starsky
found his friend’s silence unnerving - - not a whimper or a moan, just the
clack of his teeth as he bit down to keep from crying out. It wasn’t like Hutch. There’d never been a need to hide what they
were feeling from each other, no compulsion to put on a front when they were
hurting. Worried, Starsky raised his
free hand and kneaded his friend’s shoulder.
“I know it hurts, Hutch . . .”
Hutch
shook his head, keeping his eyes averted, one hand clamped in a death-grip over
the jacket. “I-I’m okay,” he said in that same shaky voice. “Y-You don’t have t-to st-stay.”
The girl. The perps.
Hutch’s
stuttering bothered him. In the gray
effulgence of predawn, his friend’s face looked gaunt, sunken with shadow, his
lips a pale bloodless line. Starsky
thought about trying the dome light, deciding he’d feel better if he could see
Hutch properly. “Hang on a minute,
buddy,” he said, reaching for the switch.
A
woman’s shrill scream abruptly knifed through the car like the resounding clap
of thunder. Starsky jerked, one hand
still pressed to the jacket and Hutch’s wound.
Ohgod, the girl! He knew he couldn’t delay any longer. He’d made sure Hutch was out of immediate
danger, had done everything he could for his injuries, yet the pull of leaving
his wounded partner cut him to the bone.
Hutch
shoved his hand away. “Go!”
Starsky
lurched from the vehicle, driven by the instinctive responsibility of his
job. There was no longer any
choice. He sent one quick, desperate
glance over his shoulder then drew his gun and darted across the road.
The
girl continued to scream. Starsky
guessed she’d probably been knocked unconscious by the initial collision and
was now awakening to the nightmare of being kidnapped, trapped in a car that
was belly-up in the middle of a deserted road.
As he neared, Starsky saw that she had kicked out the rear window and
was in the process of shakily crawling from the vehicle.
“Police,”
he called, racing forward to help her.
Through the windshield, he could see the driver slumped over the
steering wheel, the top of his head split open in a gory, bloody mass. He didn’t have to investigate to know the
man was dead. Of the passenger there
was no sign. The door hung open,
yawning drunkenly on its hinges. A few
handfuls of money lay strewn over the seat, fluttering in the sporadic currents
of early morning air.
Starsky
bent to help the girl, pulling her to her feet. Trembling violently, she latched onto him in petrified
desperation and burst out sobbing.
“Th-Th-th-they-they-they - - ”
Her voice lurched up in octave as she struggled to get the word out, her
eyes darting wildly to his face.
“C-C-C-C-Came and . . .”
“Ssh,”
Starsky tried to calm her. “It’s okay,
now. It’s all over, you’re safe.” Cupping her face, he tilted her head back
trying to look into her eyes. Odds were
she flirted with shock, but he didn’t see any blood on her. “Are you hurt? Are you injured?”
“I-I
don’t t-think s-so . . .” she managed
to eke out between chattering teeth. It
wasn’t that cold outside, but clearly the shock of what she’d been through was
settling into her bones. If Starsky hadn’t
already parted with his jacket, he would have wrapped it around her for
warmth.
“What’s
your name?” he asked.
“B-B-Betty. Betty K-Klinger.” Calming a bit, she forced the name with deliberate
concentration. She’d been banged up a
bit, either in the collision or from being manhandled into the car, Starsky
wasn’t sure. The shoulder of her blouse was torn and a large bruise darkened
one cheek. Young, somewhere in her
early twenties, she had long blond hair, green eyes and a smattering of
freckles bridged across a slim nose.
Her mascara had run, streaked down her cheeks, mingled liberally with
tears. Sniffling, she scrubbed a hand
over her face.
“Are
you really a cop?”
“Really,”
Starsky returned, guiding her away from the car to the side of the road. He glanced around anxiously, worried about
the missing passenger. There weren’t
any homes in the immediate vicinity, but an armed suspect on the loose was a
potential catastrophe waiting to explode.
Between the half-dark of ebbing night and a few random stands of timber
lining either side of the road, it would be difficult to spy anyone who didn’t
wish to be seen. “Betty, do you know what happened to the other guy? The guy who was in the passenger’s seat?”
She
was still shaking but didn’t look so wild-eyed now. Confused, she stared up at him.
“I . . . I don’t know. I just
remember them robbing the st-station, for-forcing me into the car. There was a wreck, and-and . . .” Hysteria crept back into her voice and she
clutched at his arm. “I don’t remember
anything. I j-j-just woke up in the
dark and s-s-started screaming.”
“Okay,
just take it easy.” Starsky steered her
to a seat beneath a clump of trees. He cast a worried glance at the Torino, a good
fifty feet away, and thought of Hutch huddled inside. A sharp pang ripped through his stomach at the thought of his
friend bleeding and alone. God, buddy, I wanna be with you. Just as soon as that damn patrol gets here,
I promise.
As
if on cue, he heard the wail of approaching sirens. Relieved, Starsky bent over the girl speaking softly, assuring
her everything was going to be all right . . . that she was safe and help was
on the way. He was starting to believe
the litany of repeated words himself, when the harsh explosion of a gunshot
abruptly shattered the predawn stillness.
+++++
Hutch
kept his hand plastered against the jacket, doing what his partner had asked
him to do, desperately trying to staunch the sticky flow of blood. He was tired, exhausted from a steady influx
of escalating pain. It was something he
had tried to hide from Starsky, worried how his friend would react. Lately, Starsky’s emotions had been entirely
too turbulent and fragile. He’d never
quite recovered from shooting Lonnie Craig.
Coupled with the death of two innocent patrolmen and the taunting hell
George Prudholm had put him through, Starsky existed on a hair trigger. He’d become reactionary, lashing out or
crashing heavily, depending on the ups-and-downs of his volatile mood
swings. Anger, guilt, frustration,
depression - - Hutch had been at the receiving end of all those emotions and
more. The last thing he wanted to do
was add to his friend’s misery by admitting he was in agony. In his present frame of mind, Starsky would
blame himself for the accident, adding to his ever-growing bent for
self-condemnation.
And
so Hutch bit his lip and kept mute, crushing the jacket to his side, hoping it
would stop his pain along with the blood.
He kept his head tilted back, resting against the seat, his eyes turned
skyward. He was afraid to look at his
hands. He could feel the heavy
tackiness of blood eagerly seeping between his fingers, spreading across his
stomach. It left his shirt sodden,
sticking wetly to his skin.
In
the close confines of the car he could smell heated rubber and hot metal, the
sickly combination leaving him queasy and lightheaded. He wanted fresh air, but the door was
jammed, and he didn’t think he had the strength to force it open. With Starsky gone, he shifted a little and
moaned, no longer worried about putting on a false front. Pain erupted from the
ragged tear below his ribs, ricocheting straight to his head. Panting, he
twisted his face to the side.
“Starsk
- -” His friend’s name came automatically,
a tortured groan of desperation and need in his moment of distress. Want
you here . . .
Can’t . . . his logical mind
warned. Don’t let him know how badly you’re hurt. Yet the reactionary part - - the whole of him that had twined
itself around Starsky - - was caught up in the very real need for his
friend. Starsky had been short with him
lately, but Hutch knew that anger and frustration wasn’t really directed at him. It
was simply Starsky’s defense mechanism, pushing Hutch away because he wasn’t
yet ready to concede his own vulnerability.
Ohgod, buddy, it hurts . . . I’m
hurt . . .
Yet
even as the thought demanded attention, another followed: . . .
can’t tell him . . . don’t let him know . . .
The
pain came again, harder this time. Hutch clutched his side, breathing rapidly
through his mouth. Raising his head, he blinked and tried to make sense of the
upturned Nova in the distance. It was
growing harder to think, his mind alarmingly sluggish, fogged by a prickling
haze of misery. How long since Starsky
had left . . . since they’d called for backup? What had become of the two suspects they were chasing . . . what
of the girl?
Caught
up in a befuddling muddle of random thoughts, Hutch was unprepared when someone
abruptly yanked open the passenger door. The mangled metal screeched in
protest, grating shrilly against the damaged frame. He half turned, jarred to a halt by the presence of a .38 caliber
pistol just inches from his face.
Rapidly, he looked from the weapon to the man who held it.
In
the half-light he had a brief impression of an angular face, red-veined eyes
and mud brown hair. A startling flicker
of recognition streaked through him, gone as quickly as it came. In the background, a siren wailed to life,
howling its imminent approach.
Shock
washed over the gunman’s face. “I know you,” he said, snapping the pistol
backward.
Just
as quickly, he pulled the trigger.
+++++
Starsky
recoiled as the resounding crack of a gunshot echoed on the still morning air -
- once, then again. Horrified, he
realized that dangerously lethal sound had come from the direction of the
Torino. It pumped dread into his veins,
made his heart quake with fear. In his
present condition, there was no way Hutch could have drawn his gun. And the higher pitched echo didn’t have the
Magnum’s telltale boom. Starsky had
heard that sound enough times to know it anywhere. Whatever weapon had fired, it didn’t belong to Hutch.
“Stay
here!” he ordered the girl, bolting for the damaged car.
Listing
to the right side, it sat heavily slanted onto the shoulder of the road. As Starsky approached, he saw the
passenger’s door hung open, the cracked glass of the window still miraculously
in one piece. Hutch had been sitting up when he’d left, but now he couldn’t see
his friend through the windshield. The
car looked abandoned - - a broken shell on a deserted stretch of road. If there had
been someone nearby . . . someone with a gun . . . that person was gone now,
sent running by the loud wail of multiple sirens.
“Hutch!” Pistol drawn, Starsky recklessly vaulted
across the hood of the car, sliding on his rear to land on the passenger’s
side. A double jolt of relief and alarm
boomeranged through him when he spied Hutch sprawled across the front seat.
“Hey . . .” His voice came out a
strangled squawk. He’d been a cop long enough to know when something was
dreadfully wrong. He was distantly
aware of the shriek of approaching sirens, a faint scuff of cool air across his
face. It carried the scent of dew-damp
earth, blistered asphalt and blood. His
friend wasn’t moving.
Swearing
under his breath, Starsky jammed the Beretta into his waistband. He ducked into the car, bracing one knee
against the seat as he leaned over Hutch.
“Buddy?” The extreme stillness
of his partner made him speak softly.
There was something unnatural in the way Hutch was lying, left shoulder
tucked under his body, his face turned into the seat. His right arm dangled limply over the edge,
the wrist folded backward against the floorboard.
Gingerly,
Starsky touched the back of his head.
When there was no response, he lightly skimmed his hand down Hutch’s
neck and over his back. With the door
hanging open, the dome light had engaged, splattering the inside of the car in
a cone of yellow illumination. It drew
his attention to a growing splotch of blood on Hutch’s lower back.
“Oh,
shit.” Starsky inched nearer, drawn by
the grisly discoloration. The jacket
he’d left as a makeshift compress was crumpled, half wedged beneath the blond
detective’s stomach. Starsky knew the
wet splotch on Hutch’s back had nothing to do with the wound he’d sustained in
the accident. This was different . . .
newer . . . an exit wound from a pistol, if he had his guess. A growing deluge of blood soaked Hutch’s
pants, splaying further over his hip and outer thigh.
Someone shot ‘im. The cowardly bastard shot ‘im!
Roused
to half-consciousness, Hutch stirred, feebly attempting to draw his right leg
forward. The lethargic effort at
movement made him hiss in a shocked breath.
He groaned against the pain, pulling his arm onto the seat, burying his
face in the crook of his elbow. “Starsk
. . .”
Though
he moaned the name aloud, Starsky had the distinct impression Hutch didn’t even
know he was there. Disoriented and
dazed by pain, he called for his friend from sheer reflex.
And
Starsky responded in kind, an emotionally thick lump wedged in his throat. “I’m right here, babe.” He slid a little nearer, his knee bumping
higher between Hutch’s thighs. Fumbling
for the jacket, he tried to reposition it to sop up the fresher blood but
couldn’t be sure where the bullet had entered.
At least it went clean through. Biting
his lip, he pressed the stained fabric over the exit wound on Hutch’s
back. Another, grimmer thought
immediately surfaced: I did this to him. I’m responsible. I
shouldn’t have left him. He was damn
defenseless, and I waltzed away to help the girl.
A
heated surge of guilt knifed through him, plundering his fragile
composure. What a fuck up! Lately he couldn’t do anything right - - shooting a
kid, getting two fellow officers killed - -and now for the ultimate betrayal,
he’d left his injured partner alone and defenseless in a situation he’d known was potentially dangerous. It’s
like I painted a friggin’ target on his chest.
He’s damn lucky I didn’t get him killed too.
Ashamed,
Starsky hung his head. He choked out a breath, a tremor of recrimination racing
through his arms. He kept his elbows
locked, his hands pressed tightly against the jacket. Earlier Hutch had suffered in silence, but pain was clearly
taking its toll now, heightened by the blunt trauma of the gunshot wound. Or had there been two? Starsky had heard dual shots in rapid
succession, but there was far too much blood to tell how badly Hutch was
injured.
His
friend parted with a pathetic whine, trying to scrunch onto his left side. He blinked groggily, never fully cognizant of
his surroundings. Fumbling for the
steering wheel, he locked his hand over the rim in an ineffectual bid to
leverage himself upright.
“No, Hutch.” Starsky pulled his hand free with minimal effort. “Stay there. Help’s comin’, I promise.” Outside, the din of multiple sirens droned to an abrupt stop as a trio of patrol cars arrived on the scene. Starsky twisted his head, looking through the rear windshield. Behind him, the strobing flash of emergency lights turned the terrain into a surreal blend of crimson-stained macadam and jet shadows. He saw two officers race for the Nova, another sprint to Betty Klinger’s side where she sat huddled beneath a sheltering copse of trees.
“Over here!” he yelled. Within seconds, a junior patrolman jogged toward the disabled Torino. “Get an ambulance,” Starsky ordered, shooting a hasty glance at the fresh-faced rookie officer who appeared by the passenger’s door. “My partner’s been shot. There’s one dead in the Nova, another armed, on the loose. You got that?”
“Yeah,” came the quick reply.
Starsky
didn’t wait to see him sprint away. His
attention immediately shifted back to Hutch.
He was beginning to feel a crimp of pain in his neck from the jar he’d
gotten when the car lurched to a halt. He wanted to ease onto the seat, bend
his arms a little to relax the pressure, but none of that was an option with
Hutch bleeding the way he was. His
friend stirred again, parting with a muffled moan. Starsky felt something cold and accusatory worm into his
gut. I did this to him.
“Ssh,”
he crooned. “You’re gonna be okay,
Hutch.”
This
time something resembling awareness flickered through Hutch’s eyes. He moved restlessly, his face turned in
profile against the seat. The chalky
white of his skin gleamed like alabaster, dew-damp with a light sheen of cold
sweat. “Starsky?” It wasn’t simply a
plea this time, but a relieved query of awareness.
“Yeah,
it’s me, babe - - I’m here.” Starsky
raised one hand, scuffing his knuckles across Hutch’s cheek. “Ambulance is on
the way. I’m gonna get you outta this -
- you know that, right?”
His
friend gave a tired nod, turning his face back into the crook of his
elbow. Starsky heard him groan, the
anguished sound muffled by the intervening bulk of Hutch’s jacket. The faint cry was strangely ephemeral,
almost like an after-thought. Like he didn’t mean for it to happen.
Once
again Hutch tried to drag his right leg forward. He tensed involuntarily, his breath catching on a wheezed hiss of
air. Shuddering, he buried his face against
the seat and moaned.
Starsky
blanched.
“Ssh,
ssh, it’s okay,” he said hurriedly, his voice quavering at the thought of his
friend suffering. It should be me. If anyone
deserved to writhe in pain, it was him for all the senseless torment and death
he’d caused others recently - - Lonnie
Craig, the two innocent patrol officers, their families and loved ones - - all
had suffered and died because of one David Michael Starsky. And now he was responsible for deserting
his partner and soulmate . . . leaving him to the mercy of a psychotic
gunman. Between the girl and Hutch, his
friend was the one who’d been more grievously injured. The girl had been shaken up, nothing more. She would have survived, crawled out of the
car without his intervention. Hutch was
the one who’d been hurt, who’d needed protection, yet he was the one who’d
suffered traumatic injury.
In the line of duty.
Starsky ground his teeth together.
Fuck the line of duty.
Being
a cop hadn’t prepared him for abandoning his partner. Yeah, he’d sworn an oath, pledged his life, but at the time he’d
never taken into account his fierce attachment to one platinum-haired
Midwesterner. He’d long ago come to
terms with sacrificing himself, but he’d never considered the possibility he
might have to sacrifice Hutch too. That
simply wasn’t an option . . . had never been from nearly the moment they’d met
at the Academy.
Starsky
had done what was expected of him, what he’d been sworn to do - - he’d saved
the girl and in the process had nearly sacrificed his partner. Shaken, he
swallowed hard.
He’d
seen enough bullet wounds to know the perp had likely used a .38 caliber, but
what if he’d used a .44 or a shotgun instead?
What if the cowardly scum had used a knife, slitting Hutch’s throat ear
to ear? There’d be no need for an
ambulance then. Abruptly cold, Starsky
touched his friend’s cheek.
Hutch
breathed heavily, his eyes closed.
“It’s
gonna be okay, buddy,” Starsky whispered, his voice barely audible. In the distance he heard the shrill pitch of
an approaching siren and guessed an ambulance was only seconds away. He no longer felt the soiled taint of blood
on his fingers, the gore-soaked jacket wadded beneath his hands. There was only
the beat of his heart, pulsing in time to Hutch’s painfully labored
breath.
Stretching
forward, Starsky dipped his lips close to his friend’s ear. He felt the satiny brush of white-gold hair
against his cheek, the familiar sensation inducing a string of reactionary
goosebumps on his arms. Beneath the stench of blood and clammy perspiration, he
could smell Hutch.
Literally.
He
sometimes thought it strange how he’d come to recognize the characteristic
scent of his partner, a combination of fresh soap, wind-laced skies, and
aquatic-based aftershave. That odor
clung to Hutch’s clothing, permeated his apartment and car. It was an essential part of who he was, as
effortlessly natural as the sun-streaked highlights in his fair hair. Greedily latching onto the comforting scent,
Starsky used it to displace the harsher reek of butchered flesh and clotted
blood.
“Stay
with me, partner,” he pleaded. Crouched
over his friend, he bowed his head. “I ain’t gonna leave you again,
buddy.” The vow died on his lips, as
impassioned and shaky as the first feeble rays of dawn. When the ambulance finally arrived, the
attendant had to pry him free.
Starsky
lingered anxiously in the background as two EMTs worked over Hutch. He’d been
short with his friend lately, not the most companionable of partners. But now every protective instinct he
possessed was in overdrive. He fidgeted
and hovered close, hyperactive to the nth degree, all the while fighting down
the compelling urge to touch, comfort and soothe. It often amazed him they had grown so inseparably dependant on each
other . . . that shared touch and physical contact had become critical to their
wellbeing. Ironically, there had been a
time when he’d existed comfortably without Hutch. When he’d waltzed through life, perfectly capable and wholly
satisfied with his own devices. He
hadn’t needed anyone and hadn’t felt
the overwhelming compulsion to be needed in turn.
But
that was before Kenneth Richard Hutchinson.
Before he’d formed an unexpected and extraordinary friendship with a man
who was the antithesis of every fair-weather friend he’d ever made.
As
Starsky watched Hutch being loaded into the ambulance, he thought back to the
first time he’d seen his partner hurt.
+++++
“Jackass,”
Starsky muttered.
Beside
him, John Colby snickered. Starsky
wasn’t sure if his new friend’s laughter was a result of his off-the-cuff
comment or the humiliating dressing down their instructor had just given the
perpetual golden boy of the Police Academy.
One thing was certain - - Sergeant Ozkeller didn’t like the tall blond
recruit with the pretty boy looks. Then
again, Oz didn’t really like anyone, Hutching-something-or-other included. The unlucky jerk just had the terrible
misfortunate of becoming Oz’s dog for the day.
Starsky
couldn’t remember the guy’s name - - Hutchinger . . . Hutchington . . .
something WASPy and stuck-up sounding, he was sure. Mentally, he’d just taken to calling the lean cadet “Hutch,”or
more often than not, something snide and unflattering related to his looks.
Starsky knew the type - - overachiever, always played by the rules, a born
leader who’d probably shit himself if he so much as cracked a smile or
consented to mingle with the other lowly recruits.
Okay, so maybe that was too harsh. Blond Boy seemed easygoing enough with
several cadets, but he was annoyingly flawless in Starsky’s book . . . icy and
superior. It wasn’t really anything he’d
said or done, so much as the way he looked and acted. He had an almost fanatical
bent to excel at everything he did.
Precisely the reason Oz liked to rattle his cage.
The smug bastard’s got you
pegged, pretty boy. Me too.
The
rumor mill said Hutch came from a wealthy family . . . that his father was a
renowned surgeon, and he had more money than he knew what to do with. Being a
cop seemed an odd career choice for a man like that, but it was entirely
possible Mr. All American had something to prove . . . something related to his
masculinity. Maybe under those
movie-star looks, he lacked in other fundamental ways. Certainly, he wouldn’t
be the first man to take on a macho job just to prove he was virile. Then again, Starsky had heard Hutch’s wife
was a knockout. A woman like that wouldn’t stay with a man who couldn’t keep
her satisfied.
He frowned, realizing he was being too judgmental, and
that wasn’t like him. There was just
something about Hutch that grated on his nerves, rubbed him the wrong way. He knew Colby had talked to the guy a few
times, even sort of liked him. But,
Starsky was beginning to realize, John Colby went whichever way the wind blew
best.
“And
that, ladies, is an example of what you don’t
do when confronted by an armed felon.” Oz made a point of jabbing his
nightstick into Hutch’s midsection before letting him up. Even from a distance, Starsky could see the
red flush of embarrassment seep over the tall Midwesterner’s pale cheeks.
Oz
was a jackass, selecting Hutch for the training exercise because he knew the
blond-haired man was still recovering from a particularly aggressive strain of
stomach flu. “Crime don’t give a shit
if you gotta hurl,” the balding sergeant had said with a scornful leer as he
flagged Hutch to participate in a drill simulating the arrest of violent
offenders. He’d gotten in a cheap shot at the very start, then taken Hutch down
with a jabbing blow to his midsection courtesy of the nightstick he’d
confiscated from the ill recruit. A
scathing commentary on everything Hutch had done wrong immediately followed.
From
what Starsky could tell, the only thing Hutch had done wrong was to become a
personal target for Oz. He frowned, watching as the fair-haired cadet climbed
unsteadily to his feet. It was plain
from a single glance, Hutch was still suffering the aftereffects of the flu - -
weak, light-headed, probably even nauseous.
His skin looked strained and chalky. Perspiration soaked his plain white
tee-shirt at the neck, under the arms, and left a thin vee streaked down the
middle of his back. His bangs were
tipped with sweat, as was the neatly trimmed hair resting against the back of
his neck. In short, he looked like he
was ready to puke. The idiot shouldn’t
have even been at training, but that would have been admitting weakness, and
such common fragility didn’t fit with his regimentally driven character.
Maybe the jerk deserves
everything he gets, Starsky thought sourly. No one’s forcin’ him to be here.
No one except Hutch, diehard overachiever and perfectionist. Even Starsky had to admit a grudging admiration for that kind of bullheaded determination. Hutch had scored high in physical combat and tactical, surprising most of his instructors, especially Oz. In fact, he’d scored high in damn near every training session the Academy had, which was probably why Oz decided to make an example of him.
“It’s
too early for this shit,” Starsky muttered aside to Colby. He shifted impatiently, fighting back a
yawn. The Academy gym smelled of sweat
and new vinyl, the latter all but oozing from the massive blue contact mat they
used to toss each other around in combat drills - - or more correctly, get
tossed around by Oz. The stench was
starting to give him a headache, much like fresh paint did after a few initial
whiffs. The other recruits all seemed
attentive despite the early morning hour, hanging on Oz’s every word. A few smiled slyly, enjoying the fact the
class’s ace student had screwed up royally.
Oz let them snicker as Hutch painfully pulled himself to his feet.
Starsky
thought the whole thing sucked. He
wanted to be a cop, but he had little patience for puffed up A-holes like Oz
who harbored superiority complexes. His
instinctive irreverence in the face of
authority hadn’t gone over well with his instructors. If they viewed Hutch as a pampered pretty boy, they viewed him as
a wisecracking troublemaker. Between
the two of them, Starsky wasn’t sure which Oz disliked more. If the jerk wasn’t ragging on Hutch, he was
snarling at Starsky, doing his best foam-at-the-mouth impersonation.
Man’s just got a piss-poor attitude.
Then again, at least he wasn’t as bad as Pike who taught law and was boring as hell. The thin-faced man had an uncanny gift for turning penal code and federal laws into a monumental snooze-fest. One hundred and five hours of search and seizure, laws of arrest and evidence handling - - just to name a few riveting highlights - - wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to wade through. Put in Pike’s tedious hands, the curriculum was almost intolerable. Starsky was barely treading water in his class, something he knew he’d need to change if he wanted to make it through the Academy. At least recruits pulled down a salary while enduring training.
They’d
already been told they’d be working in pairs soon, operating the same way real
police partners did on the street.
Starsky had already decided to team with Colby. John was edgy, a bit of a bad ass, and
Starsky liked that. He’d never been
much for straight-laced friends. Most
of the other recruits were too hung up on rules and following procedure. Starsky preferred to exist on the fringe,
pushing the envelope as far as he could, always testing the line. There were a few loose cannons in the group,
like MacEvoy and Reddox, who did the same thing, but both had overly inflated
opinions of themselves. MacEvoy was
King of the Mat in hands-on-combat, a cocky goon with a 6’4” frame, all of it
toned muscle. Even Oz avoided tangling
with him if he could. By contrast, Reddox was lean and agile with a sharp
tongue and a condescending attitude. He
was damn good with a pistol too, scoring high points for marksmanship right
behind Starsky and Mister Over-achiever himself, Hutch.
Starsky
puffed out his cheeks, exhaling noisily.
Impatient, he toed the edge of the vinyl mat, annoyed that Oz hadn’t
finished gloating yet. In the center of
the gym, Hutch turned away, ready to resume his place in the line of waiting
recruits.
“Not
so fast, Hutchinson.” Oz stopped him with a pointed glance. “Get your ass back
here. We’re not done yet.”
Starsky
scowled. Maybe Hutch had Viking blood
in his veins with all that blond hair and pale Nordic features, but at the
moment he didn’t look remotely like a conqueror. He looked ready to keel over, a little green like he was going to
get sick - - all over the mat.
Oz
would love that. Toss Pretty Boy around
enough until he puked in front of everyone.
That would be the ultimate humiliation, the supreme stroke of
dictatorial one upmanship. Problem was
Oz held all the power and there wasn’t a damn thing Hutch could do about
it. Starsky watched him suck down an
unsteady breath, squaring his shoulders before he turned to confront Oz. The mule-headed determination was back on
his face, a frost of ice in his chilly blue eyes.
Screwed and he knows
it.
Pissed
with the power play Oz initiated, Starsky cleared his throat - - loudly. “So I think we all get how not to do things when you’re sick. How ‘bout lettin’ someone who’s healthy take
a whack at it? I ain’t gonna learn
anything watchin’ you bounce a sick guy all over the mat.” Stickin’ my neck out for you, Mister-High-Society-Pretty-Boy and I
ain’t really sure why.
“Starsky.” Oz spat the
name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.
Enraged at first, he soon relaxed, his lips splitting with a predatory
grin. “You think you can do better, get your New York ass over here and show me
what you got, punk.”
Starsky
shrugged. Insolent as always, he
sauntered to the center of the mat. He
felt Hutch’s coolly appraising gaze on him, silently measuring his worth. I
just saved your pasty butt, Blondie. The least you could do is stop lookin’ so
damn arrogant.
On
second glance he realized there was curiosity in Hutch’s gaze, even a flicker
of gratitude. Up close he saw the
fair-haired man was sicker than he’d originally thought, his skin waxen and
streaked with sweat. Stepping to his side, Starsky turned to face Oz, one hip
dipping low in a perfected street stance.
He knew his posture reeked attitude but didn’t give a shit. Only a few weeks into training and he was
already tired of the head games and power trips. How the hell was he ever going to last eight months?
Bottom
line - - he just wanted to make it through the Academy and get on with his
career. He wanted to be on the street, putting a stop to the kind of crime that
had taken his father’s life. His dad
had been a good cop - - a career cop.
He would have wiped the floor with a slug like Oz. Given the chance, it was exactly what
Starsky wanted to do.
“So . . .” Oz stepped forward, bluntly crowding his
space. With a thin sneer, he tapped the nightstick he’d wrestled from Hutch
against his open palm. “You wanna take
Hutchinson’s place, is that it?”
Hutchinson. Knew it was some stuck-up, ritzy name.
“Just wanna get on with what I’m supposed to be learnin’,” he said smoothly. Mentally, he grinned. See that, Hutchinson - - I can do that cool, aloof stuff too. He felt the man beside him shift uncomfortably. He obviously needed to go crash somewhere, probably spew his churning guts into a toilet. Sure hope whatever you got ain’t contagious. Less of course, you gave it to Oz.
Starsky had no doubt of his ability to take down the drill sergeant - - he’d watched him long enough in training exercises to know his weaknesses. His own stint in the Army and subsequently Vietnam had given him an edge in hand-to-hand combat. Between his street knowledge and the time he’d spent in the jungle, he’d dealt with far worse than Oz. He was a survivor and the drill sergeant knew it. As he saw it, Oz had a dilemma on his hands. If he took Starsky’s challenge and lost, he’d lose face in front of the recruits, something he couldn’t afford. If he took the challenge and won, he didn’t really gain anything. He was already considered a tyrannical bad ass. His position as instructor meant he had the authority to hide behind whatever role suited him best.
Oz grinned toothily. “Tell you what, Starsky. Since you’re so anxious to learn, we’ll just let you pair up with your partner and the two of you can get to work. From here out, you’re teamed up for the duration - - combat, driving, firing range, classroom study, the whole ball of wax. You got that, smart ass?”
“Yeah?” Caught off guard, Starsky couldn’t help but fumble over the unexpected twist. “Okay.” Not so bad after all. He’d thought he was going to have to prove himself with Oz, but the hardhead was letting him off the hook easier than expected. Maybe the guy wasn’t such a dickwad after all. He looked over his shoulder to where John stood on the edge of the mat. “I’m pairin’ with Colby.”
“Think so?” Ozkeller left the mat long enough to walk to a folding table pushed against the far wall. Taking his time, he retrieved a clipboard and a ballpoint pen, tossing the nightstick among a stack of papers. “Let’s see here,” he mused aloud, using the pen to trace down a list attached to the plastic backing. “I got a rude awakening for you, Starsky. In the real world, you don’t get to pick and choose who you’re gonna work with.” Striding back to the two men standing in the center of the mat, he pursed his lips theatrically, making a show of scanning his list. “Says here, we got you paired up with Matthews, Todd.”
Okay, so that wasn’t the end of civilization as Starsky knew it. Matthews wouldn’t have been his first choice, but he seemed like a fairly decent guy.
“You probably would have worked well together,” Oz commented. “Same temperament, similar backgrounds. That’s too bad.”
“What’s too bad?”
“Your reassignment.” Deliberately, Oz scratched a line through the name on his paper. The lightness left his voice and his eyes grew hard. “As of now, you’re partnered with Hutchinson, Ken. You wanna open your mouth and be a smart-ass, deal with the fallout. You got it, Starsky?”
What the fuck?
He clamped down on his tongue before he snapped a heated reply. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He had it all planned. He and John had already figured their strengths and weaknesses to compliment one another. Between the two of them, they’d make it through the Academy no problem . . . even have some laughs along the way. Pairing him with an arrogant, stick-up-his-ass ice king would shoot everything all to hell. Seething, he bit down on his bottom lip. Oz hated his guts - - had from practically the moment he’d walked through the door. He hated Hutch too, that much was obvious. Putting them together was Ozkeller’s way of ensuring they’d both fail.
“Got it, Sir,” he said tightly.
“Good.” Another grin, this one savoring and snide. Turning away, Oz waved the clipboard in the air. “All right, the rest of you ladies - - I’m gonna post these assignments. You got ten minutes to shit, piss, check your status or do whatever the hell you want. I expect you paired up and back on the mat at 9:20. Break!”
“That’s just damn t’rrfic,” Starsky muttered as his fellow recruits broke formation and hustled across the gym to study Ozkeller’s list. Beside him, Hutch clutched his stomach, parting with a soft moan. A second later he gasped and sprinted for the exit. Headed for the john, Starsky thought with a scowl. Shooting Colby a disgusted wave, he waited a minute before slowly following in his new partner’s wake.
Hutch was in the first stall of the john, still spewing his guts when Starsky sauntered into the bathroom. Frowning, he propped his shoulder against the stall door, gazing down on a neatly trimmed crown of white-gold hair and a sweat-stained tee-shirt. Disgusted with the unexpected turn of events, he folded his arms across his chest. “Sure hope pukin’ ain’t all you know how to do, Hutchinson, Ken.”
“Screw you,” came the snarled reply.
Starsky laughed, surprised by the violent retort. He would have pegged Hutch as entirely too proper to swear. Then again, the guy was plainly miserable, coming down from a marathon puke. He didn’t need a cocky New York street punk humiliating him any further.
“Talk trash if you wanna, Blondie, but you and I are stuck with each other. Get used to it. I ain’t exactly jumpin’ through hoops myself, you know, but I figure it could be worse. The bastard coulda stuck me with MacEvoy. At least you don’t talk Cro-magnum.”
Still hunched over the toilet, Hutch turned his head.
Starsky felt that pale blue gaze rake over him, divining and cool, quietly assessing. A second later Hutch flushed the toilet and pushed from the stall. “Why’d you stick up for me?” At the sink he turned, glancing over his shoulder. “ - - Starsky, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s Starsky. And I wasn’t exactly stickin’ up for you, so much as I was sick of watchin’ Oz gloat.” He frowned, realizing that wasn’t entirely true. He had stuck up for Hutch - - a man he didn’t even know . . . who he’d already formed a less than favorable opinion about. Oz had already stomped on a few of the other recruits, and Starsky hadn’t bothered to interfere. So why had he suddenly gotten a streak of conscience about a pretty rich guy, born with a silver spoon in his mouth? ‘Cuz I didn’t wanna see him hurl. I didn’t wanna see him humiliated like that, attitude or no attitude. He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “Oz knew exactly what he was doin’. Maybe I just didn’t wanna see him get away with it.”
Hutch bent over the sink, cupping his hand to catch a spray of cold water. He stayed hunched, splattering the chill liquid against his face. After a few seconds, he cranked off the faucet and reached for a handful of paper towels. “So now we’re stuck with each other, hero,” he commented, his voice muffled by a wad of c-folds. “You’re not exactly my first choice of partner either.” Straightening, he shot the sodden mass into the nearest trashcan. His skin still looked chalky but the greenish cast had faded.
Arrogant as shit.
Starsky fought back a rise of hostility. If they were going to work together they needed to get past reactionary antagonism and pre-conceived ideas about what the other was like. Knowing he was screwed either way, Starsky made an effort and went for broke.
“Look, Hutchinson, they only paired us together because they wan’ us to bottom out. I’m the loudmouthed troublemaker, and you’re the snotty rich kid. I say we stick it to ‘em where it hurts and show ‘em what a crack team we can be. Personally I don’t give a shit if you wanna stand around and look decorative, but it wouldn’t hurt to crack a smile once in awhile.” He was surprised when that line actually earned him a grin in return. “Yeah - - like that.”
It was amazing really. Hutchinson’s face changed when he grinned, morphing from that coolly impassive mask into something approachable, even friendly. Maybe the whole thing wasn’t a lost cause after all. The guy had backbone, no question about that, and from his reaction just a minute ago, he wasn’t as prim and proper as Starsky originally thought.
Extending his hand, he offered his own lopsided grin. “What d’ya say, Hutch? You wanna give it a shot?”
“Hutch?” A single eyebrow arched into a fringe of pale hair.
Starsky shrugged. “Hutchinson’s too much of a mouthful, and it don’t exactly roll off my tongue.”
“Okay, I can live with that.” Hutch hesitated only a moment before clasping his hand in a firm shake. “I’ve been called worse.” Tilting his head to the side, he eyed Starsky suspiciously. “Should I be worried about what does roll off your tongue?”
“Nah.” Starsky relaxed, strangely at ease with his new partner. “If I decide to mouth off at Oz or one of the other jerks, I’ll make sure I don’t include you. The way I see it, you only got one thing to worry about and that’s me tossin’ you around on that co