DWI -- Dialing While Intoxicated

And while he and Elmo went a long way together, Dobey knows it wasn’t nearly long enough.

Dobey was in the den when the phone rang.

“Harold, it’s Nadine.”

“Nadine, how are you? You’re not all alone, are you?” Dobey asked. Immediately, he wished he could take the words back.

“Oh, Harold, am I ever. And I’m missin’ Elmo so bad it’s breaking me in two.”

“Do you want me or Edith to come over? We can be there in ten minutes.”

“No, that’s okay. My sister will be here at nine,” Nadine replied.

Dobey could hear the clink of a bottle against a glass, and the subsequent slosh of liquid. “Nadine,” he said gently. “I’m worried about you. It sounds like you’re drinking alone.”

“Oh, Harold. Yeah, I am. And I know I’ve had a little too much. But don’t worry. It’s all right. I’m not drivin’ anywhere. And Connie’ll be here pretty soon.”

“You sure? I know you well enough, Nadine, that hitting the hard stuff isn’t your way,” Dobey said gently.

“My way? Hard to know just what that is now, you know? I never thought it’d be my way to be a cop’s widow, alone at twenty-six, with two little boys to take care of.”

“Bruce and Stevie, they okay?” Dobey thought of his partner’s two sons, and while he knew Nadine would never endanger them, he also knew her judgment was impaired.

“Don’t worry. They’re staying at my mom’s tonight. It’s one reason why I bought a bottle of brandy. I waited until they weren’t here,” she said sadly.

Dobey’s stomach clenched. “Nadine, you’re not going to hurt yourself are you? Tell me the truth.”

“I would never do that, no matter how much I was missing my man. My boys need their mom. Don’t worry. But Harold, I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to call you, to tell you something that you need to know.”

Dobey’s stomach had started to relax, but with these words, stiffened back up again.

“Harold, I know you’ve blaming yourself for Elmo. I may have been out of it at the funeral, but not so far gone that I know you’re thinking you could have stopped him from. …from leaving. I can see it in your face. I know it’s eating you up inside.”

Nadine was speaking the truth. Dobey’s guilt over Elmo sometimes made him feel like he was underwater and out of air. He thought of Elmo dying in that cold, cold place, in a manner no animal, much less a human being, should have been subject to. Generous, kind, Elmo, had been reduced to a body on a meat hook.

Dobey had been home that day. Both Cal and Rosie were sick with chicken pox, and Edith was exhausted. When Dobey had suggested taking the day off to let her sleep, he thought he’d done the right thing.

It turned out that the right thing for his family was the worst thing for the Jacksons.

And knowing this was killing him. He felt his grief, and guilt, like a lead shroud.

Nadine said softly, “Elmo would have never wanted you to feel that way. You know he wouldn’t. See, I think he’s looking down from heaven, and he’s seeing you all twisted up inside. He was a good friend, and he would want you to forgive yourself for something you could never…”

“Nadine, I should have been there with him.”

“It’s no guarantee that your being there would have saved him. For all you know, you both would have been killed. You can’t second guess what happened, Harold.”

Dobey felt tears prickle the back of his eyelids. “I…I…”

“Harold, let it go. For Elmo. For Edith and your children. For me. For you. Please.”

It felt like there was a grapefruit lodged in his throat. “I will,” Dobey choked out.

“I know talking about all this stuff isn’t what you like to do. It isn’t really my way either.” Nadine laughed. “It was Elmo’s way, though, wasn’t it? That man was a talker.”

“He was.” Dobey felt a drop of liquid on the back of his hand. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “He was the best.”

“Harold, it took me weeks to work up the nerve to bring this up, and here I am, doing it on the telephone with a dash of liquid courage… I… Listen, I hear the door. It’s my sister.” Nadine’s voice was soft. “Go find Edith, okay? If I know her, she’s in the kitchen cookin’ up a pot of soup and worried about you.”

Dobey hung up the phone and wept.

XXXXXXXX

There’s din din at Sing Sing, but the phone privileges are severely curtailed.

Fat Rolly knew he’d had more than six scotches in five minutes. Hell, he’d had two before he’d even made it over to the corner table by the bathroom.

He sat in his favorite spot. He liked to watch the women go into the restroom, hear their shoes clicking on the dirty tile, and the snatches of conversation as they talked to each other. Sometimes the closing door wafted out an odor that made Rolly hard as a rock. He had to be careful where he put his hand; even a place like the Star Bar had standards, and being a bathroom perv probably crossed the line.

The buzz of scotch in his brain should have been Rolly’s first clue that calling his mother right now really wouldn’t be a very good idea.

And like most of Rolly’s bad ideas, he acted on it.

Dropping a dime into the pay phone, he dialed his ma’s house.

“I’m gonna be a little late for din-din,” he said, trying not to slur his words. “I … I got some important business to take care of.”

“Roland, have you been drinking?” she asked.

Rolly’s stomach roiled at the sound of her voice, a scratchy soprano that scraped at his belly from the inside. “Drinking? Me?” was his intelligent reply.

“Yes, you Roland. You’re drunk. Don’t bother showing up for dinner. In fact, do you hear this sound? It’s the sound of me scraping your plate of corned beef and cabbage into the trash. And this noise? That’s your two pieces of Red Velvet cake hitting the can as well.”

Rolly heard the thunk of his dinner hitting the garbage pail. And then he said something that without a gut-load of McCormick’s, he would have never dared.

“Just as well, Ma. Your corned beef tastes like shit anyway and the cabbage is as slippery as an eel. As for the cake, if I didn’t have a hacksaw, there’d be no way to chip off a piece of it.”

It was no surprise that Rolly’s ma stopped inviting him for dinner.

Rolly spent the next three months eating Hungry Man TV dinners, sometimes even after heating them up.

After that, due to his involvement in the Emma Lou Tyler murder, the state of California did all the cooking for him. Rolly discovered that as bad as his mother’s cooking was, it had nothing on what a prison kitchen could dish out.

And that as bad as the prison dining room was, it didn’t even come close to the hell that was the showers.

XXXXXXXX

I gotta tell you, that while Pennsylvania is awfully cold in the winter, it does include some whole new cities to drink in.

Hutch peeled the wrapper off the tube of Pillsbury biscuits. He whacked the container on the edge of the counter.

Starsky jumped. “I hate it when you do that, Hutch.”

“What? Make dinner?”

“Very funny. It’s the noise, Hutch, the pop. It makes me think I need to duck behind a wall or a car or something.”

Hutch thought he could tease his partner about the image of a tough Bay City cop being afraid of a tube of biscuits. But he didn’t. He knew what Starsky meant. “I think both of us have spent too many years on the street.”

“Really,” Starsky replied, going back to reading the newspaper.

“So, what did Mickey have to say when he called?”

“Same old, same old. He shot a tip my way about Marty Crandell, says that stupid lunk is up to his eyeballs in a big cocaine deal. Mickey said we should be able to corner Crandell, maybe squeeze him.”

Hutch turned the oven on and put the biscuits on a baking sheet. “You believe him?”

“Crandell or Mickey?”

“Mickey. He drinks like a fish. He doesn’t even know where he is half the time. How do you know his information is good?”

“Mickey’s usually a reliable snitch. And as for the drinking, I don’t think he’s ever sober. Mickey’s body wouldn’t even know what to do if it weren’t constantly saturated by alcohol.” Starsky shook his head. “The man’s liver probably looks like a dried up, well-done steak.”

Hutch put two plates on the table. “So, I guess we should hit Crandell up in the next few days, lean on Little Big Man’s flabby excuse for a life.”

“Yeah. Hey, speaking of being dried up, toss me a root beer, blondie.”

Hutch grabbed one out of the icebox. “Just glad you didn’t say speaking of flabby when you said ‘speaking of’.”

“You, flabby? You’re a walking sex god, Hutch. Isn’t that what the ladies say?”

“You’d better barkin’ believe it.”

XXXXXXX

He was lit in Allegheny City. And so was a phone line, which then acted as a fuse. It crackled and popped until finally exploding in Bay City.

Marty Crandell was feeling really, really good. Nine inches into a bottle of Canadian Club rye whiskey had fanned a desire to call that little fighter, Christy. Now he knew why he’d picked a hotel with long distance phone service. It sure wasn’t for the stunning décor.

“Bill all calls to my room, mister,” Marty told the desk attendant as he headed up the stairs

He had gotten her phone number by way of the newspaper article in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Not directly of course because as a minor she wasn’t named. But her father had been arrested for trying to torch Marty’s car two nights before Marty had left town. It hadn’t been hard to make the connection between the “forty-four year old, Caucasian, arrested for arson,” a case where the charges were dropped when it was understood what Mr. Gerald Wojack had recently been through. All Marty had to do was match up the dates and connect the dots. Piece of cake.

Marty took another shot of booze and rubbed his groin. Christ, he was as hard as a rock. Maybe he could get the frisky Christy on the horn now and get some relief?

He dialed the phone. It took him four tries to get the number holes to line up with his fingers.

“Wojack residence. Hello.” The voice on the phone sounded like it belonged to a little girl. Hot dog, thought Marty. Christy had a little sister. The thought of an even younger version of that piece of sweet meat made his brain just about explode, to say nothing about what the hardness in his pants was going shortly do. Marty unzipped his jeans in preparation.

Instead he said, “Hello, this is Sears calling. The hairdryer ordered by a… let’s see here, Christy Wojack, has come in on special order. May I speak to her?”

A few minutes later and Marty was speaking to the object of his desire.

“I didn’t order a hair dryer, Mister.” Her voice was tentative.

“No? Maybe someone ordered it for you?” Marty said. “Maybe it’s a gift, knowing what you’ve been through and all.”

“Been through?” she stammered.

“Yeah, that night at the lake in May? You were there drinking beer with some friends? The night you got fucked for the first time? Say baby, you still have those bruises? The bites?”

Marty was stroking himself, trying to find a rhythm that would bring him off. “Because you were one sweet piece of ass, baby doll.”

He could hear her terrified breath. It just about sent him over the edge. Then Marty heard her drop the phone.

And there, there, there it was! Goddamn!

Marty dropped the receiver as he gripped the chair arms. And passed out.

When Marty woke up on the floor, he had a headache. He also had a ninety-dollar long-distance phone bill.

If he’d known then that that open-phone line was what got the Pennsylvania cops back on his tail, he would’ve cleared out of Bay City. Instead, he made a deal with Stryker, then Corman and Burke, then Starsky and Hutch.

The beginning of Marty’s fall was a long, complicated chain of events, starting long before that tired lake, the illegal beer, a tipsy girl, the five-minute violation, Marty’s subsequent flight to California and the deals he made with too many people.

Marty’s end was much simpler.

It took the form of five bullets. They hit him like a sledgehammer. Marty felt the first two shots as they barreled through his thighs. He didn’t feel the next two bullets that pierced his belly nor the one drilled into his brain.

And he certainly was oblivious when his body was unceremoniously dragged and dumped outside on the coarse, weedy ground.

XXXXXXXX

Mrs. Blake says she was glad Mr. Blake wasn’t alive to have to endure Billy Desmond. Lady, that was just the dress rehearsal!

Margaret Blake received a phone call from her daughter shortly after Easter.

“You’ll never guess where I am, Mother,” Nancy said, her voice jubilant.

“Seeing how the operator asked me if I’d accept the charges for this call, you’re obviously not at your desk over at the docks,” Margaret noted dryly. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, Mother, I’m more than all right! I’m in Las Vegas, and get this! I’m married!”

Margaret’s stomach dropped and landed in her sensible shoes. “What?”

Nancy giggled.

Margaret heard Nancy say, her voice muffled, “Stop it! I’m on the phone with my mom. And she’s probably having a fit about the charges. Stop it, you’re tickling me.”

Margaret heard a male voice in the background. Then Nancy was on the phone again. “Mother, you’re not gonna believe this whirlwind fairy tale.”

“Try me,” Margaret replied.

“So, this guy starts coming into the Port Authority office. He’s the new driver for Brenner’s. And we started having lunch together, and before I knew it, he asked me to marry him. And I said yes!”

“Nancy, honey, have you been drinking?”

“Only loads and loads of champagne. I guess I’m a little tipsy. Donald treats me like a queen.”

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the truth. Why didn’t you tell me about this new beau? And why so quick a wedding and in Las Vegas?”

“You never liked Billy, Mother. Even before I found out he was bad news you didn’t treat him well. ‘What do we really know about that boy?’ you asked and right in front of Hutch. I wanted to crawl into a hole. And all those remarks about my being a spinster, and how unhappy Daddy would have been and how I caused a big waste of cake and champagne. Mother, I’d be a fool to do it all the same way.”

Margaret sighed, “Honey, I never meant to drive you to do something like this…”

“See, there you go doing it again. Driven to get married? I wanted to.

And Donald says he’ll send you a check for $140, and if you tell me how much that champagne was, he’ll cover it, too.”

“Forget the money.” Margaret didn’t want to ask, but thought it a reasonable question. “Nancy, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

Apparently Nancy didn’t see the possible logic. “Boring, stupid Nancy wouldn’t just up and get married because she wanted to? No guy would hitch up with her unless it was to make her an honest woman?”

There was a long pause.

Margaret tried to change the subject. “So, tell me about my new son-in-law. Is he Catholic?” She heard Nancy ask someone in the background, “Are you Catholic?”

“He’s Catholic, Mother.”

“Well, good.”

There was another long pause.

“You’re going to love Donald. He’s in the import-export business and has a brother named Kenny. He’s just about sweet-talked me into quitting my job at the Port Authority and becoming his assistant.” Nancy giggled some more. “I’d better get off the phone. This call’s costing you a fortune.”

“Since when do I care about how much it costs to talk to my daughter? And my now-married daughter?”

“I love you, Mother.”

“I know. I love you, too. You coming home soon?”

“We’ve got about seven more bottles of champagne to drink before we decide. We may even choose to move here.”

Margaret sighed and then said, “Good night. And Nancy Blake, you take good care of yourself.”

“I will. And it’s not Nancy Blake anymore, Mother. You’re speaking to the brand-new Mrs. Donald Widdicombe.”

XXXXXXXX

When Ben Forest tells Jeannie Walton, “You know what the trouble with you is, baby? You’re trying to be something you’re not,” he’s channeling Zack Tyler.

Starsky could already hear the reedy wails of Southern Man before he even opened Hutch’s front door. Great, Starsky thought, Hutch was in a Neil Young mood. There goes an evening out. Starsky had been hoping for some bowling and a broasted chicken basket. Young’s After the Gold Rush on the turntable meant a pizza delivery and a rerun of Barnaby Jones.

Starsky made himself at home on the couch while his partner puttered in the kitchen.

When the phone rang, his partner turned the volume down on the record player. Starsky heard Hutch accept long distance charges. Then he looked up at Starsky and

tried to turn his back, Starsky knew it would be a good time to go sit on the porch.

Twenty minutes later, Starsky was watching the ducks, getting chilled and wishing he’d brought out his jacket.

Hutch poked his head out of the door. “Thanks, buddy, for the privacy.”

“No problem,” Starsky said, pushing the chair back up against Hutch’s little canal cottage. “But right now, I’m freezing.”

“Come in and get some coffee, then.”

Starsky didn’t ask about the phone call. As Hutch got out the Maxwell House, Starsky rooted around in the cupboard for cookies.

“What I don’t understand is, why even bother buying a box of cookies that doesn’t have any salt or sugar?” Starsky said, holding up a package of Carob Munchies. “I’d rather eat cookies that elves made. Got any Keebler stuff in here.”

Hutch reached up to the small cupboard over the stove. He tossed his partner a package of Oreos.

“Man, you’ve been holding out on me.” Starsky grinned.

“You don’t know the half of it, buddy,” Hutch said dryly. He handed Starsky a cup, got one for himself and went into the living room.

“Anything on the tube?” Starsky asked.

“Is there ever?” Hutch sat down. “That was Jeannie Walton on the phone.”

“Jeannie Walton?” Starsky asked, not liking the possibilities.

“Yeah, she was calling from Vegas. She wanted to get back together. She’d had too much to drink. End of story.”

“Is it really the end of the story?”

“The end of the story was a year ago, Starsk, right there in Ben Forest’s driveway. The phone call tonight hardly even rates as an epilogue.”

“Hutch, you loved her.”

“I thought I did. What I really wanted was to protect her. I thought if I could just get her away from Forest, she’d be fine.”

“So is she?”

“Far from it. It sounds like she’s hooking, working out of a shooting gallery just off the strip. Starsk, she sounded terrible.”

“I’m sorry, Hutch.”

“Me, too. So, what was I protecting when I covered for her? If all she was going to do was end up doing…what she’s doing? All that heroin shitting me up for what? Just to postpone the inevitable? I was a fool.”

Starsky thought of those three days, holed up in the room above the Pits. The memory of the shaking, the vomit and the pain were of course less now, but he knew that both of them would never forget what had happened in that sparse arena of hell.

Starsky walked over and put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “I can’t answer that question, Hutch,” he said. “All I know is everyone does the best they can with what they know. You thought you could help her, and so you tried.”

Hutch sighed, closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the couch. “Maybe this is where you tell me that Jeannie, like most beautiful things, existed for a little while and then went away. That it was just part of Jeannie’s nature.”

“Hey, that sounds familiar, and I don’t even gotta play a violin,” Starsky teased. “Seriously, it’s in your nature to help people. You wouldn’t be the Hutch I know if you didn’t put yourself out for people like Kiko, like Molly, and like Jeannie.” And like me, Starsky thought.

Hutch got up and put his coffee cup on the counter. “I think I’m gonna hit the sack.”

“You gonna be okay?” Starsky asked. “You want me to call for pizza or something?”

The smile Hutch turned his way made Starsky wish the world wasn’t so hard on his partner.

“Nah, better not. I’m bushed. We both gotta be up bright and early for the Clancy deposition. I’ll swing by your place around 8:00, Starsk. Just make sure you’re up; I don’t want to have to drag your sorry ass out of bed.”

Later, as Starsky was driving home, he realized Hutch hadn’t answered the first part of the question.

XXXXXXXX

Oh my, time does heal, Alice, but sometimes not enough and far, far too late.

Hutch was dreaming, a strange, complicated dream, one that included sauerkraut, Starsky in a kilt, an avalanche and a spotted dog.

When the phone on his bedside table rang, he just about jumped out of his skin. Hutch blearily looked at the clock. It was just after three o’clock in the morning. Only bad news came with these kinds of calls, the last one being Starsky’s plea for help after Bellamy had poisoned him two months before.

He picked up the receiver and said, “’Lo.”

There was a silence that caused Hutch’s heart to close like a tight fist. “Hello, who is this?”

“Oh, Handsome Hush, you gotta … you gotta be an angel.”

Hutch sat up and flicked up the bedside light. “Sweet Alice? Is that you?”

“The one and only. I was jus… callin’ to say goodbye.”

“Alice, are you in trouble?” Hutch asked. He put the phone between his chin and shoulder and reached for his shoes.

She laughed and the sound of it made Hutch put on his shirt a little faster. He had trouble getting his arm through the sleeve and had to switch the phone to the other shoulder.

“Oh baby, I’m always in trouble,” Alice said sadly. “But pretty soon I’m gonna be closer to heaven than I’ve…I’ve ever been before.” Her small sob made Hutch think of something tiny and in pain. “Of course, Handsome Hu…Hush…Hutch, that’s assumin’ heaven will take a used-up, ol’ whore.”

“Alice, did you take something?” Hutch asked loudly. “What did you take?”

Alice didn’t answer.

When he heard her phone hit the ground, he hung up and dispatched an ambulance to 3436 Quincy, apartment forty-one.

Then he grabbed his keys, jacket and holster.

There was little traffic on the streets, but Hutch used the mars light anyway. Its rhythmic tick and pulses of red made him think of Alice Anne Kowalski’s hopefully still beating heart.

The ambulance beat him by ten minutes. Hutch couldn’t see much of Alice’s body underneath the blanket, but if her bruised and bleeding face was indication of the rest of her, then she was a mess. Hutch watched the ambulance attendants scoop up the empty pill bottles and put them in a bag.

Ten minutes later, Hutch was alone in Alice’s living room. He knelt and touched the place where she’d fallen. Looking up at the sliding glass doors, he saw the moon. It was crystalline, the same color as the vodka in the bottle sitting on the coffee table.

Hutch stood up, used his handkerchief to lift the phone off the hook and put in a call for some lab boys and a couple of cops.

Then he called Starsky.

XXXXXXXX

Being in love is not just staring at each other; it's looking in the same direction. And hopefully, not at a room full of red balloons.

As he was on his way up the front stairs, Starsky heard the phone ringing. He had a sack of groceries in one hand and six-pack of Coors in the other. Starsky got the door open, dropped the bag on the kitchen table and grabbed the telephone.

All that rushing was for nothing ; all he heard was a dial tone.

His stomach grumbling, Starsky set about getting some supper. He pulled a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew out of the sack and grabbed a can opener. Remembering Hutch’s recent grumpiness about too much animal fat in his diet, Starsky made sure he spooned off the shelf of white fat on top. Plopping the contents into a sauce pan, Starsky turned the heat on low and went about putting the rest of the groceries away. He tied himself over with some Cheez Whiz sprayed on Ritz crackers, balanced out by a can of Coors.

A half an hour later, the phone rang again. Starsky grabbed it off the wall as he put his dish in the sink.

“Hello.”

It was Hutch. “Hey.”

“Hey, buddy. Did you trying calling earlier?”

“Yeah, that was me.”

“I just missed it. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Hutch didn’t elaborate.

“So, ahh… you calling for a reason? Is Dobey calling us in?”

“No. Not that I’ve heard anyway.”

Starsky waited for Hutch to say why he was calling, but Hutch was quiet. “Hey, Hutch,” he asked, humming a riff to the Stevie Wonder song. “Did you just call to tell me that you love me?”

“I tell you that, buddy, in a hundred different ways. Why do you think I agreed to a chili place last week that gave me the burning runs?”

“You sweet talker, you.” Starsky switched the phone to the other ear so he could wash the dirty dishes in the sink. “So, Hutch, why are you really phoning me? You okay?”

“I guess. I’m just …I don’t know, Starsk.”

Starsky could hear the clink of a beer bottle. He could tell Hutch was in the greenhouse and setting his bottle on the tiled, potting table. “So, you and I are having a beer together, and we’re not even in the same apartment.”

“So, what else is new?” Hutch said. Starsky heard the sound of a metal cap tossed into the corner and knew Hutch had opened another bottle.

“I guess it’s lucky Dobey didn’t call us in, seeing how you’re well into the process of tying one on.”

Hutch made a funny sound in his throat. “I haven’t tied nearly enough of them, that’s for damn sure.” He beat Starsky to the punch and answered, “I’m going through some of Gillian’s things. We were only together a month or so, but some of her stuff made its way over here. I’ve got a couple of shirts, a dress…”

“Geez Hutch, you made her go home naked?”

“Ha, ha. She had a thing for wearing my shirts, said it made her feel safe.” Hutch’s voice hitched at the last part. Then he rallied. “So, I’ve got a few things and thought I should see who settled up with her apartment, you know, send what I have that way.”

“Sounds reasonable, Hutch,” Starsky said, drinking the last of his beer and putting it in the trash under the sink.

“But I’ve run across something I don’t know what to do with.”

“Yeah, what?”

“It’s a little black book of, for lack of a better term, of preferences, you know…” Hutch trailed off.

“You don’t gotta tell me anything more. And Hutch, you know you don’t gotta read it. It’ll drive you crazy.”

“I know. I just opened it up to one page to see what it was and found out Councilman Brown likes to be spanked while being called Patricia. I really don’t want to read anything more.” Hutch’s voice sounded reassuringly cynical.

“No, you don’t. Not if we want to keep a straight face in certain situations.”

“I was gonna just toss it, Starsk, but then thought there might be something in there that would be evidence in the trial.”

Starsky understood. “You don’t want to read it, don’t want anyone else to read it either, but don’t want the Grossman’s to get off knowing there was something in there that would have tipped the balance?”

“Yeah.” Hutch sounded relieved. “Because what if there’s something about, say, someone we know, or say. Like me?”

It was on the tip of Starsky’s tongue to point out that Hutch hadn’t given her money like the other people in Gillian’s book. Instead, he asked, “Hutch, do you really think Gillian saw you like that?”

“I don’t trust my judgment when it’s about her.”

Starsky said, his voice gentle, “She loved you, Hutch. She really did.”

“So, why the lies? She wasn’t a writer from Seattle. She was a hooker from Cleveland. How did she expect to keep that a secret if we were gonna stay together for any length of time?”

“Hutch, listen. Did you ever tell a lie, just out of habit, not out of meanness? Or because it seemed like the best thing to do at the time and then have that lie become more and more of a problem?”

The other end of the phone was silent.

“Hutch, you still there?” Starsky asked.

“I’m still here,” Hutch replied. “You think she didn’t expect me to mean anything?” Hutch asked, not answering his partner’s first question.

“Maybe she didn’t at first.”

“Hell, she was sleeping with me, Starsk. How can that not mean anything?”

“Hutch! Molly? Stacy? Linda? Those two redheads we picked up at the Pits after the Swenson case last year? Hello?”

“Yeah,” Hutch exhaled. “So, what should I do with the book?”

“We both know it’s evidence in a murder case. And we’re good cops. Why don’t you give it to me? I’ll see if you’re in it, so that you can have a warning if something’s gonna come up at the Grossman trial. Then I’ll give it to the District Attorney by tomorrow night.”

“Okay.”

“You want me to come over? I just went to Vons. I can bring a box of Fudgecicles.”

Hutch made a strangled sound, part laugh, part sob and part sigh. “You can bring a box of Fudgecicles, huh? Now I know you’re my best buddy.”

“Damn straight, I am. Do you want me to stop by or not?”

“Actually, I think I’m just gonna go to bed.” Hutch did sound really tired. “Tell you what. I’ll bring that book tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Thanks, buddy.”

Good night, Hutch.”

XXXXXXXX

Because you always gotta have a partner to watch your back. Or at least, to get your watch back.

Hutch was at his place for the first time in a week. He’d driven Starsky to a doctor’s appointment that afternoon. It had been preceded by a stop at Fuzzy’s Chili Bowl for a styrofoam cup of Gringo Bandito.

On the way home, his partner said, “Hey Hutch, you’ve been taking care of me since I got shot. Your plants have got to be sufferin’. Why don’t you go ahead and spend the night at your place? I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. I mean, what could happen anyway? I can get around pretty good now on the crutches, so I’m not gonna starve. All I’m probably gonna do is watch the late, late, late show and fall asleep on the couch like you usually do.”

So, after they stopped by Rexall to pick up a new prescription, Hutch got him back to Ridgeland and helped him up the stairs.

“Drop me a dime if you need something, Starsk,” was answered with a little salute.

It turned out that pending some time in his greenhouse was a good idea. The philodendron was sickly; its leaves soft and limp. Aphids? Lack of sunlight? Too dry? Not enough Donna Summer? It was hard to tell. Hutch was picking up the misting bottle when the phone rang.

“Hutch here.”

“Hey, Hutch. What time is it?”

“Starsky, if you’re looking for that old punch line, ‘time to get a new watch,’ I have to tell you it’s not that original. Besides, I’ve apologized about a dozen times and …”

“Hey, Hutch. I’ve been looking everywhere for my watch, and I can’t find it.”

“Dummy, what are you doing?”

“I checked the pocket of my favorite jeans. Strangely, the material on one leg is shredded and there’s a fair amount of blood all over them. So, no luck there. I even looked in the refrigerator, Hutch.”

Hutch carefully asked, “Why would it be in the icebox?”

“’Cause you’re always tellin’ me it’s time to get a new one. This crappy Frigidaire is just running all the time. It’s costin’ me a fortune.” Hutch could hear Starsky hit the appliance with what sounded like one of his crutches.

“Buddy, you feelin’ okay?”

“Oh, Hutch, I feel fine! That stuff the doctor prescribed today is really doing the trick. But I gotta tell you, if the radio on the Torino is still on the blink tomorrow, I’m gonna have to give Merle another call. There’s no way I’m driving to Duluth without having constant radio contact.” Starsky made a sound that sounded like a he was talking into a empty closet. Then Hutch heard a door shut. “From how you talk, Rocky, the place is filled with moose and beavers and polar bears. And I’m sure they all bite.” A clatter told Hutch that his partner had dropped the phone. He could hear Starsky muttering, “I don’t know how the blintz even survived up there… wild animals, blizzards, Vanessa? And I thought Bay City was dangerous!”

The new painkillers, of course! Hutch debated calling for an ambulance, then grabbed his keys instead.

He made it to Ridgeland in record time. Hutch took the stairs two at a time, opened Starsky’s door and found him sitting in the running shower, fully clothed.

Hutch turned off the water and knelt down. “Hey, Starsk, how are you feeling?”

“Acceptable, acceptable, but I can’t figure out why I’m so wet.”

“Tell you what,” Hutch said as he helped him to his feet. “Let’s take a little ride in the car and see if we can’t figure that out.” He sat Starsky down on the couch, stuffed some dry clothes in a duffel bag and then maneuvered him into the LTD. It was slow going, but Starsky was docile; it he’d fought the trip, Hutch wasn’t sure he could have done it alone.

An hour later, Starsky was sleeping on an emergency room gurney, his strange behavior diagnosed as a bad reaction to the new prescription.

“I’d like to keep him overnight, Detective, just to be sure there’s not going to be any more symptoms,” Dr. Franklin told Hutch. “Hopefully, David can be released sometime tomorrow. And I’ll prescribe something different for him. The bad reaction has been noted in his medical chart, but he should also be aware of it at all so David can avoid it in the future.”

Hutch nodded. “I’ll stay until he’s settled in a room.”

The greenhouse had to wait another two days. Hutch ended up going back to Ridgeland that night and picking up the disarray Starsky had left in his crusade to find his Yanamato Reflex watch.

Hutch had to shake his head when he found a Fats Domino album in the refrigerator, snuggled up against six bottles of root beer.

XXXXXXXX

He’s seen what a face like that can do to a man, but blind ambition can be a far worse mistress.

The man was amazed his hands weren’t shaking. Between the scotch, and what he was about to do, they should be twitching too much to pick up the phone, much less pour another glass of liquid courage.

With one more shot burning its way down his throat, he dialed the familiar number.

“Simonetti,” was the terse answer.

“Dryden here.”

“We got a case?”

“No,” Dryden answered, surprised that his own voice seemed so calm.

“Then why are you calling me at home?”

“I’m done, Simonetti. I’m done doing what we do. I’m done being your partner.”

“Are you drunk, Dryden?”

“You think getting drunk was the only way I’d get up the nerve to make this call?” Dryden said, knowing his partner had just guessed right twice.

“Christ, you are drunk. Let me guess, you’re alone in your apartment, sucking down booze and feeling sorry for yourself. Hell, you’re probably sitting there in your three piece suit and bowtie.”

Dryden fingered the knot at his throat and thought he hated his partner just a little bit more.

“You’re an ass, Simonetti.”

“And you, Dryden, are weak, a regular Girl Scout. Is this about the Hutchinson case?”

“You could say so. But it’s also about you and your goddamned, black book and the way you hang out on the toilet, trawling for information and the way every question you ask is to get the dirt and the way every thing you say is to get someone to squirm.”

“You can’t say I don’t get results.”

“Oh, you get results all right. And they’re often correct. But you trawl for shit in people’s lives, dragging up everything to die on the deck.”

“You idiot. We work in Internal Affairs. Our job is to keep cops on the straight and narrow, to route out the worms, the liars, the scum.”

“Not everyone is scum, Simonetti.”

“Dryden, everyone lies.”

“Yes, they do. That’s because everybody’s got something to lie about. They lie, fib, dissemble, and evade. The majority of those lies are pretty harmless: the coffee’s fine, I don’t mind staying late, your wife looks young enough to be your daughter, your hair looks great and no, I don’t mind if your mother comes to stay for the weekend.”

“Shut up, Dryden. You’re rambling.”

“No, you shut up. And listen to me. A lot of lies aren’t that nice, but really none of our business. These are the ones you collect like shiny pennies. Franklin’s unhappy in his marriage? Dobey tells someone he dislikes the church he goes to? Jenson had too much to drink on his vacation to Las Vegas? Marchetti tells people his son is doing just fine in school, when in actuality the kid’s got a tutor to barely keep him from failing the ninth grade? Babcock beats off in his car just before he comes into work? Shit, I don’t even want to know how you gather this stuff. It makes you a goddamned spy.”

“Must I remind you our job is to...?"

“Our job, Simonetti, is when we are given a case, we do the best we can to get the facts on that case. Our job isn’t to skulk around and collect shit to possibly use later, to shake trees just to see what falls out so we can use it in the future.”

“How do you know the stuff in my black book isn’t going to help us later?”

“I don’t. But you’ve got the crimes mapped out before they even happen, if they happen. You presume guilt before innocence.”

“That’s ripe, coming from the guy that just admitted everyone lies.”

Dryden corked the bottle of scotch and shoved his glass away. He might have needed the booze to give him the courage to pick up the phone, but his head was clearer now than it had been in years.

“See here, partner.” Dryden hated the way that last word tasted in his mouth. “Most of this shit is just a character flaw. It makes you universally disliked. No one trusts you, which in itself is detrimental to doing our job. And some of the stuff you do, you’ll have to take it up with your god later.”

“I’m hanging up the phone, Dryden,” Simonetti growled.

“You’re going to want to hear what I have to say,” Dryden said calmly. “See, while you got a lot of nasty things about you, they’re just that. Nasty. But using what you find out about our co-workers for personal gain, for blackmail, is shit that’s crossed the line.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dryden.”

Dryden sensed the fear in his partner’s voice, something he hadn’t ever heard before. “I think you do, Simonetti. It’s why I have a meeting with Lieutenant Becker first thing in the morning. And if you’re going to look around for your little book after you hang up on me in thirty seconds, don’t bother. I entered it as evidence just before we left the station today.”

“You…”

“Yes, me.” Dryden interrupted. “And I’m going to go down with you, maybe not as far, but definitely down. I should have known better. This is something I should have done a long time ago. Oh, and I know your first name isn’t really Craig. It’s Courtney. At least that’s what your ex-wife said the time she called here looking for you. Seems you’re six months behind on your alimony, Mr. Wonderful.”

And Dryden hung up the phone.

XXXXXXXX

Later, Simmons isn’t sure how to act around Babcock’s wife.

It was always about this time of the year that Simmons started to think he’d choose death over taxes.

Piles of paper, receipts and tax schedules were spread out over his kitchen table. He was deep in the heart of the ins and outs of disability insurance and thinking about how he’d like to shoot Victor Makepeace all over again; the bullet Vic had put in Simmons’ foot that summer had hurt like hell, but the paperwork it entailed was just about killing him now.

The second track to Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors started up, and You Make Lovin’ Fun kicked on. Simmons picked up the can of Dr. Pepper and drank the last, warm dregs.

Halfway through the tune, the record began to skip. Simmons banged the floor with his foot, hoping to jog the needle past the scratch. It didn’t work.

Figuring he might as well call it a night, Simmons got up, picked the needle off the LP, placed the arm on the hook and turned off the record player’s power. He checked the lock on the front door and flicked off the hall light. Then he padded towards the bathroom to brush his teeth.

The phone rang just as he passed the kitchen counter.

It was Babcock. “Hey, it’s another guy with an empty house. How ya doing, man?”

“Just headed to bed, buddy. What’s going on?”

“You know how I love you right?”

Simmons felt unease skate across his brain. “You all right?” Simmons asked, “You hurt?”

“Nah, I’m… I’m fine, man.”

“Where are you, Babcock?”

“I’m down at Paradox.”

“That new place on Hudson? Is something going down there? You need me?”

“Simmy, babe, you know how I love you?”

“You’ve already said that, partner,” Simmons replied. “Babcock, have ya had too much to drink?”

“It depends. I might not have… have had enough ‘cause…” Babcock’s voice faded as if he’d turned away from the receiver. “Hold your horshes…I’ll be off this… this in a minute.”

Simmons asked, “Babcock, man, what’s going on? It’s not like you to get a snoot full like this.”

“Going on, going in, going up. Man, I gotta tell you I love you like a sonofabitch.”

Simmons felt embarrassed for his partner. There was no way he could even joke about this the next morning. “Bab, there anyone there with you?”

Babcock snorted, a wet sound that made Simmons want to wipe his own nose. “Nah, just me and my… my undyin’ love for the greatest part…partner a guy could haff.”

“Babcock, can you get the bartender on the phone? Can you do that, pal?”

“Shuuure… if that make you happy. ‘Cause I wanna make you happy. Real happy.”

Simmons swore he could smell the fumes through the phone line. The next voice was a stranger’s.

“Jonsey at the Paradox. Who’s this?” the man said gruffly asked.

“This is a pal of the pickled guy you got at your place. Listen, I’ll be there to pick him up in about twenty minutes. Get him some coffee and keep him there, will ya?”

A half an hour later, Simmons had paid off the bar tab, made arrangements for Babcock’s car to stay in the parking lot overnight and was dragging his partner’s half-limp body out to his car.

“You throw up in my car, buddy,” he said, shoving Babcock into the back seat. “And I’ll personally see that you type every single report for the next six months.”

Luckily for both, they made the trip to Simmon’s place vomit-free.

After pulling off Babcock’s shoes and laying him on his side on the couch, Simmons went to bed. He left the door open to give him both full hearing and a full-view of his inebriated partner.

It was the sound of retching in the bathroom that woke Simmons up six hours later. He gave his partner a little privacy and went into the kitchen to make coffee and toast.

Babcock’s stumble to the table would have been funny if he hadn’t looked so miserable.

Simmons shoved a cup of coffee over to him. “Care to tell me what that was all about, pal? Drinking like that isn’t something you do.”

Babcock ignored the question and asked one of his own. “How the hell did I get here? I didn’t do a lame-ass thing like drive, did I?”

“No, the only lame ass thing you did was empty a bottle of Jim Beam. If you’d driven, I’d probably be out a partner. It would be just my luck to get teamed up with Grover.” Simmons took a drink of his own coffee. “I don’t need Grover; he’s the Pat O’Brien type if there ever was one.”

“I’m sorry, man. I don’t really know why I did it. I was sitting there, feeling sorry for myself and thinking, wow, this booze doesn’t even seem to taste that bad. Add it to an empty stomach, and well, sorry. I mean, I’m really sorry.” Babcock took a miserable sip of his coffee and looked like he might not keep it down. “Simmons, buddy, I didn’t do anything, say anything too stupid last night, did I?”

Simmons thought for a minute and got up to check the toaster. Then he said, glad his back was to the table, “Nothing stupider than usual, clown. Do you want one or two pieces?”

XXXXXXXX

This is a troublesome triangle we have here.

“Would you get that, Starsk?” Hutch shouted from the bathroom. “It might be Twitchy calling about that warehouse meet!”

“Got it!” Starsky picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Man, you two really do live in each others’ pocket,” said the voice on the other end. “Next thing you know you’ll be doin’ your laundry together. Starsky could hear the soundtrack to a skin flick in the background. A couple of “oh, babys,” a stifled “oh yeah” and some boom-boom music made him roll his eyes.

“Shut up, Huggy. You smashed?” Starsky could tell; Huggy’s voice had the overly precise enunciation of someone trying very hard to get it right.

“Yeah. I’m smashed. I’m at Washington’s place. J.T. really knows how to throw a stag party. We had strippers here, dressed up as cops. Those fine ladies know how to handle a night stick, if you know what I mean,” Huggy said. Starsky could imagine Huggy’s face showing a look of sly appreciation. “I can’t believe Leotis is gettin’ hitched and to Charlie Sireen at that. Guess she wasn’t kidding when she said she was a mathematick… mathematician, as well as a great mechanic.”

“There a point to this call, Hug?”

“Yes-siree-bob, I need to talk to Mr. America.”

“He’s in the shower. What do you need?”

“I’m here to take him up on his offer,” Huggy replied. “He’s got a secret, a big one. And Hutch said he’d tell me what it is if I told him my real first name.”

“Huggy, you don’t want to do that,” Starsky said.

“I sure do, cowboy. And I’m prepared to deal.”

“You should know better than anyone, Hug, that deciding stuff like that while your under the influence of Mad Dog 20/20, or whatever you’ve been snorting, is real stupid. Trust me. You’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

“I will not. And I’ll have you know no Mogen David shit has ever passed these lips. I’ve got integrity.”

“You will regret it. Huggy, Do all three of us a favor. Get yourself a plate of those