Never a Bad Time
K Hanna Korossy
Written: 2004
By My Side 3 (2005)
“So that’s two dogs, one with mustard and onions, and one chili-cheese with everything.” The proprietor of the elegantly named Harry’s Dogs & Buns, a greasy little man with several days’ growth of beard and a dirty cap, pushed the two plates across the stand’s counter.
Hutch tried not to make a face as he peeled off a pair of bills and dropped them in front of the man, not wanting to touch either him or the counter. What that said about the hot dogs he’d just ordered, he didn’t even want to consider. Hutch resolutely gathered the two plates, and shook his head at the change he was being offered. “Keep it,” he said, and turned away, heading back to the Torino parked nearby.
It was a juggling act to prevent either hot dog from slipping off its plate as Hutch maneuvered the Torino’s passenger-side door open, but he managed to slide into his seat without getting any chili on him or Starsky’s precious leather seats, and triumphantly offered his partner the loaded hotdog.
Not that Starsky noticed any of it.
And that was why he was about to put all those chemicals and meat byproducts into his body, Hutch reminded himself. The greasy spoon behind them was one of Starsky’s favorite places, and Hutch had figured his partner could use a little indulging. Even at the cost of polluting Hutch’s system.
He nudged Starsky’s arm with his elbow, prompting the empty stare that had been fixed on the windshield to turn to him instead with an absent, “hmm?”
“Your poison, just the way you like it.”
“Thanks,” Starsky murmured, accepting the plate and resting it on his knee, then dropping back into whatever dream he was in.
Hutch squelched a sigh. “Starsky.”
“Hmm?”
“This some new way of eating I don’t know about?”
It took a moment, but his partner’s brow furrowed and his gaze cleared. “Huh?” he turned again to stare uncomprehendingly at Hutch.
Hutch nodded at the hot dog. “It tastes better if you put it in your mouth. Or it’s supposed to, anyway.” He bit into his own meal with a suppressed grimace, and immediately hid his surprise at how good it really was. “You wanted to come here, remember?”
Starsky gave him a sheepish smile, faintly blushing. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“No kidding,” Hutch said in mock astonishment, then softened. “Let me guess—Rosey.”
The tinge in Starsky’s cheeks deepened. “I was just wonderin’ what she’s doing.”
“Probably the same thing you are: daydreaming instead of eating her lunch.”
Starsky picked up his hot dog and bit into it without enthusiasm. “You think she’s thinkin’ about me?” he asked around the bite.
“Well, I kinda doubt she’s wondering what I’m up to, buddy.” Hutch eyed his partner. “She hasn’t called, huh?”
“I don’t think she’s gonna. It wasn’t exactly ‘see ya later’ when we said good-bye, Hutch.”
Hutch swallowed another bite and pursed his lips. “Maybe you should try to let it go then, Starsk. Move on.”
Starsky heaved a deep sigh. “I know. I know she won’t be back, but some part of me’s still hoping…”
Hutch polished off the hot dog and wiped his fingers carefully. “Hey, listen, why don’t we go out tonight? Maybe grab some dinner and beers at Huggy’s, see if we can find some lovely ladies who wouldn’t mind some company, what do you think?”
Starsky grimaced. “Maybe next week, huh?” His eyes said the rest: I appreciate what you’re trying to do but I need a little more time.
Hutch could understand that. Starsky had fallen hard for the mobster’s daughter and gone on a little—well, okay, big—bender after Rosey had first left, but he’d gotten back on his feet since then. The heartache would take longer to fade, but while Hutch wished he could get rid of that distant look in his friend’s eyes and get that missing spark back, the fact was it was up to Starsky and time now. He nodded slowly and offered an understanding grin. “Sure, okay.”
Starsky returned it, smaller but no less genuine, then reached for the ignition.
Hutch stopped him with a hand on his arm. “There is something I want you to do for me, though.”
Starsky lifted a wary, questioning eyebrow.
Hutch jerked his chin at the cooling hotdog in Starsky’s lap. “Finish that first. Your driving’s bad enough without you trying to eat at the same time.”
Starsky gave him a half-heartedly withering look and chomped another bite of the hot dog. Ten seconds later, his eyes were back on the windshield, glassy with distraction.
Hutch just shook his head. Yeah, mending would take time, but still he hoped it would be soon. Their partnership was getting kind of lonely.
Hutch took a sip of his now-lukewarm beer and cast another uninterested glance around the room, no longer even trying to look like he was having a good time. This had been a bad idea. Starsky was more the club-goer of the two of them, although they went out together sometimes for drinks and to find female companionship. Hutch had been hoping to loosen his partner up with both that evening, but with Starsky uninterested, Hutch had decided to go anyway. He had no idea why now. What he’d been missing those last few days, he wouldn’t find at The Pits.
His sweep of the crowded bar caught the same face he’d noticed staring at him before, a muscle-bound hulk wedged into a corner booth with a few similarly built friends. The same guy who’d been staring at him ever since he’d first walked into Huggy’s place that evening. Hutch frowned at him, unconsciously falling into his cop back-off attitude, which didn’t even make the guy flinch. Well, whatever his beef was, he did not want to mess with Hutch that evening. Any opportunity to let off some frustration was looking a little too appealing just then.
“So, mi amigo, you found a friend yet?”
Hutch turned back to the bar to see Huggy leaning on the wooden counter, giving him a lazy smile. “What?”
“Don’t tell me that gorilla in the back caught your eye. I thought you had better taste than that, Goldilocks.”
He gave Huggy a glare that only seemed to amuse the barkeep further. Hutch gave up and hitched his head fractionally toward the booth. “Do you know who that guy is, Hug?”
Huggy took an unobtrusive but more careful look. “Seen him in here sometime with his associates—always have a few beers and then leave. Not exactly the friendly types, y’dig? Why, you know him?”
Hutch shook his head. “Never seen him before, but he sure looks like he’s seen me. Maybe I busted him once.”
“Guy like that, you’d think you’d remember,” Huggy noted wisely.
“Yeah.” Hutch shrugged, dismissing the matter, and took another sip of his beer.
Huggy gave him that same careful once-over. “Still flyin’ solo, I see.”
He crooked a smile. “Broken hearts take a while to heal, Huggy.”
“Don’t I know it. Still, I miss seein’ your curly-haired half. You tell him to wander on in before I forget what he looks like, and I’ll make him my Starsky Special, on the house.”
Hutch put on a wounded look. “What about me?”
“Only the sick need a cure,” Huggy pronounced and, giving him a grin, moved down the bar to speak to another patron.
Hutch laughed despite himself and took another mouthful of beer. Warm beer—yeck. Even he wasn’t feeling that pathetic. Hutch wearily rose, dropping a bill on the counter and giving Huggy a wave, and turned to go, glancing at the back booth as he did. Empty. Good. One less thing to worry about that evening.
Maybe he should stop by Starsky’s, just to see how he was doing. Hutch was finally sure Starsky wouldn’t be crawling back into a bottle, but his partner still tended to be absentminded about things like cooking and—
“Hey!”
Just outside the back door of The Pits, Hutch jerked to a halt, looking up to see the goliath from the back booth standing a few feet away, between Hutch and his car. And flanked by three more bodybuilders.
Hutch’s thoughts flashed briefly to gangster Lou Malinda and his fleet of muscular henchmen, but that bunch had relocated south over a year before, and besides, none of these guys looked the least bit familiar. No, this was a whole new problem.
Hutch straightened and put on a pleasant smile. “Can I help you with something, gentlemen?”
“You Ken Hutchinson?”
The question was almost accusatory. Hutch’s eyes narrowed fractionally and he shifted his body weight to plant himself more firmly. “Who’s asking?”
“A friend of your ex. And she don’t exactly have nice memories of you.”
Ex? Wife? Hutch’s mind reeled briefly. This was about Vanessa? He hadn’t even seen in several years. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he answered, voice neutral. “But I could say the same about her.”
The hulk took a lumbering step closer. “It ain’t nice to talk about a lady like that,” he said darkly.
Where on earth had Van met a guy like this? Ms. High Society would have turned up her nose at someone this obviously low on the social scale. Unless she’d come down a bit since she’d huffily divorced a humble cop…or she was less discriminating than ever with whom she spent her nights those days. Well, at least some things didn’t change: she was still badmouthing her former husband to everyone she met. Hutch’s face darkened. “I didn’t realize we were,” he said coolly, and moved to step around Muscles. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”
He’d half-expected the attack, his hand already going for his Colt as he saw the enraged giant lunge for him. What he hadn’t expected was the flunkies not waiting to see if their leader could handle a cop half his size by himself. The second the massive weight slammed into him from behind, driving him hard to his knees, Hutch knew he was in serious trouble.
He kicked back and up as hard as he could, satisfied to hear a strangled yelp, and was already sweeping out an arm to catch the figure hurtling at him from the left. The small mountain stumbled, lurching into Van’s friend just moving in for the kill, and the two of them went down in a heap. Maybe he would actually win this one, Hutch thought.
A blow slammed into his head from his right, sending him sprawling. His vision exploded into flashes of pain so bad, Hutch had to fight to keep from blacking out. He couldn’t afford that now, even as he struggled against vertigo and the urge to curl up defensively. His vision dimmed and brightened in waves as he struggled back up to his knees.
A blob of darkness was moving in on his left again, and Hutch uncoordinatedly threw himself in that direction, aiming for a soft midriff. Miraculously, he found it, feeling the air go out of his attacker with a whoosh, then half-landing on him as they both went down.
Someone grabbed his arm, and he jerked it close to him, lashing out blindly with his foot in that general direction and barely hearing the crunch of contact or the howl that followed. Hutch once more reached for his gun, desperate now.
The fist that drove into his face felt like it put his eye out. His head flew back, saved only from splitting open on the pavement by the guy still underneath him. As it was, it was merely agonizing instead of lethal.
Not for long, his mind persisted even as it spiraled again toward deep blackness. Not for long. It would be over soon. He’d lost.
Hutch barely felt it as he was roughly hauled to his feet, his one good eye just catching the red face of the man looming over him. There was distant yelling, then something crunched into his gut so hard, nothing else mattered anymore because he’d fallen into an airless Hell. Hutch hit the ground with a bone-rattling jar, hurting too much to black out.
And then…nothing. The attack ceased as abruptly as it had started.
Air slowly found its way into his compressed lungs, raw pain with every breath. The cold pavement felt good under his hot, tight face, and his stomach slowly climbed back down from out of his throat to where it belonged. And Huggy was bending over him, face pinched with worry.
Hutch tried to speak, spat blood first—bitten tongue, the least of his worries—and tried again. “Where…?”
“Your friends didn’t stick around long ’nough to tell me,” Huggy said dryly. “Guess they got tired of beatin’ you to a bloody pulp. You want I should call an ambulance?”
Hutch’s head was still pounding viciously, but it wasn’t the worst it’d ever felt. His eye was already swollen and oozing blood from somewhere, but that would heal, too. And the piledriver to his stomach… Hutch moved cautiously, breath hitching as abused muscles answered roll call. But no tearing pain, no blood coming up from inside, not even a busted rib. He shook his head gingerly, groaned even at that, and said a shuddery, “No. ’M all right.”
“Yeah, well, you look like you just went ten with Joe Louis. You wanna sit up?”
No. “Yeah,” Hutch mumbled, reaching up to hang on to his friend’s wiry arm as Huggy struggled to get him more-or-less upright. Even that hurt, but besides one hard lurch of his stomach and his head threatening to come off altogether and roll away—not an unappealing thought—he made it in one dizzy piece.
Huggy whistled. “You two sure have a talent for makin’ enemies. Speakin’ of whom, I’m gonna go call your ride. You gonna be all right here for a minute?”
It took a moment for what Huggy was saying to filter in, but then Hutch grabbed his sleeve. “No.”
Huggy frowned. “Okay, I’ll get Diane to—”
“No, I mean…don’t call Starsky.”
The barkeep’s eyebrows went the other direction now. “I think you hit your head harder than I thought. Are you tellin’ me you don’t want Curly in on this? Somethin’ else going on here I don’t know about?”
Hutch ran a hand carefully over the good side of his face, wiping off sweat and grit. “I’m all right, Hug—there’s no point bothering Starsky this late.”
“Somehow, I don’t think Starsky would see it that way.”
“I know, but he’s got his own stuff to deal with right now. Help me up, Hug.”
Huggy did, straining with the effort and muttering under his breath. Being on his feet was not a pleasant sensation, and Hutch’s stomach heaved again at the sight of his blood dripping on the pavement, but if he hunched over slightly and stayed completely still, he was able to stay standing. More or less.
Huggy’s expression grew increasingly skeptical. “Yeah, Starsky won’t notice a thing when you show up to work tomorrow like this.”
“I’m not trying to hide it from him, I just…” The alley wavered for a moment. “…I don’t need him to come bail me out every time something goes wrong, okay?”
“Uh-huh.” Huggy sounded like he was humoring a toddler. “And you’re gonna drive home this way?”
Hutch hid his wince at the thought. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, right, you’re so fine, I think I’ll go with ya, just to admire how fine you are.”
He did make a face at that, feeling his puffed eye painfully constrict. “Fine,” Hutch muttered.
Huggy kept hold of his arm as they shuffled toward the LTD. “But first I’m cleanin’ you up a little. It’s gonna hurt my rep, bein’ seen ridin’ around with a zombie.”
“Zombie?”
“Yeah, a walkin’ dead person. Hasn’t Starsky taught you anything?”
His wince was internal now. “Yeah.” Most everything that was worth knowing, in fact. The least he could do in return was not overload Starsky when the man was still reeling.
Huggy propped him against the hood of the LTD and disappeared into the bar. The alley was quiet and empty, no sign of the struggle that had taken place besides a few spots of blood. More than just his—at least he’d given almost as good as he got. Hutch knew he’d just gotten sloppy, let them blindside him. But who could have taken on four Neanderthals like that? He was lucky he didn’t need an ambulance.
Hutch groaned softly as he slid around to the side of the car and slowly, painfully pulled the passenger-side door open. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to let Huggy drive; his vision was still wobbly, his legs leaden. If he totaled the car, Starsky would finish the job those goons had started. He already would be annoyed Hutch hadn’t called him that night, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle this by himself. Starsky had enough on his mind as it was.
Hutch eased himself down into the seat just as Huggy reappeared, grumbling anew at his relocation. Still, Huggy’s touch was gentle as he wiped blood away and put a Band-Aid on the cut just above Hutch’s eye, then eased a dishtowel filled with crushed ice onto the eye itself, unrelenting even when Hutch flinched and sucked in a breath. “Serves you right,” he just said tartly, and guided Hutch’s hand up to hold the icepack in place. Shaking his head, Huggy shut the door and went around to the driver’s side of the LTD. He waited patiently, hand outstretched, while Hutch slowly fished out his keys, then pulled out of the alley.
“Aren’t they gonna need you back there?” Hutch gestured vaguely behind him toward The Pits.
“Yes,” Huggy said flatly.
It almost chastened him enough not to ask the next question, but he did anyway. “How’re you getting back?”
“I got my ways,” was the equally laconic answer.
Hutch sighed, switching the icepack to give his numbed cold right hand a break. Huggy wasn’t mad at him because he needed help; it was just his way of disapproving of Hutch not calling his partner. But Huggy had seen Starsky only briefly since Rosey left, enough to know he was brokenhearted but not enough to know how down Starsky really was, or about the drinking binge he’d gone on, or the other questions it had raised in him about how people he loved seemed to keep leaving him. The last thing Starsky needed was worrying about losing another person in his life, and worry he would, even though it wasn’t that serious. Already Hutch’s head was down to a vicious throb, his abdomen tender but no longer stabbing. He’d been in brawls worse than this before.
A friend of Van’s. Hutch smiled bitterly, not about to forget that part. How ironic. Apparently Van hadn’t told her “friend” she was the one who’d grown cold and distant, unhappy with being a cop’s wife on a cop’s budget. Or that Hutch had kept loving her long after she’d become cruel and hard. When would he stop being punished for that marriage?
“Here we are.” And they were pulling up in front of Venice Place.
He gave his friend a wan smile. “Thanks, Hug.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s ‘thanks, Hug,’ now, but next week you’ll be back to ‘what’ve you heard, Huggy?’ I know how it is.”
“Would you feel better if I paid you for chauffeuring?”
Huggy pulled himself up proudly. “Don’t bother—you couldn’t afford my rates.”
Hutch smiled, then eased himself slowly out the door.
Huggy came around to help, but Hutch waved him off. The trip had steadied him, and while he felt old and tired and massively bruised, the ground wasn’t moving any longer and his feet had lightened considerably.
The barkeep gave him a skeptical look, but finally got the message and tipped a finger to his hat, then walked off.
Hutch didn’t even bother to watch where he was going. Huggy really did have his own mysterious ways. There was plenty else to concentrate on just getting up the flight of steps to his apartment.
It was slow, difficult, and painful, and by halfway, Hutch had seriously rethought the wisdom of sending Huggy away. But he made it the last few steps half-dragging himself by the banister, and at the top he leaned heavily against his door for a long moment, collecting himself, before fumbling the door open.
He barely made it to the bathroom in time to finally let his rebellious stomach have its way.
And then, thoroughly exhausted and hurting after the unexpected exercise, Hutch staggered to bed and collapsed on it, not bothering even to pull his shoes off.
Starsky would have made him comfortable, kept his head from half-hanging into the toilet, wrestled him out of the torn and sweaty clothes, gotten him some aspirin for the banging inside his head.
And then just sat with him so he wouldn’t feel quite as wretched.
He missed his partner.
It took a while for his battered body to settle, but Hutch finally slept.
Starsky pulled the Torino up behind the parked LTD and honked. He was already running ten minutes late and had expected Hutch to be outside, waiting impatiently for him. But no partner, and Starsky relaxed. An annoyed Dobey he could deal with, but an annoyed Hutch would take coaxing and cajoling Starsky didn’t feel up to just then.
Not that Hutch been all that prickly of late. On the contrary, his partner had been coddling him, and Starsky knew it. After throwing out all of Starsky’s liquor and giving him a good talking to, anyway, but even that Hutch had done with concern and sympathy. And he’d stayed that way since, as he put up with Starsky’s distraction and moodiness with gentle imperturbability. Starsky hadn’t been too immersed in depression not to realize the sacrifice, and in odd moments it bothered him that Hutch had to worry about it at all. Not that he hadn’t done the same for his partner before, but still, Hutch had his own stuff to worry about. It hadn’t even been that long since crazy Diana had stabbed him—it had only been recently that he’d really recovered from that. He shouldn’t have had to be dealing with Starsky’s maudlin behavior, too.
Starsky just couldn’t seem to help himself. With Terry’s death still fresh, Rosey had been a balm, a promise he’d find love again. And then when she had gone…
He fidgeted in his seat, wishing Hutch would finally appear with welcome distraction.
He should have wished it sooner. The moment the thought surfaced, the door of Venice Place opened and his partner shambled out.
Starsky’s mouth quirked in sympathy at the sight of the sunglasses and slow gait. Apparently Hutch had gone out without him the night before and was paying for it now. If he felt a tenth as bad as Starsky had coming off his binge, Starsky’s heart went out to him. He’d drive a little slower to keep from sloshing around the hangover in Hutch’s brain too much.
His partner eased himself into the passenger seat and gingerly shut the door after himself, barely giving Starsky a glance. Starsky’s mouth pulled up. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.”
Yep, his voice was rusty with ache. His head probably felt like it was ready to come off. Starsky’s smile widened a little. “You ready to go?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Starsky nodded and pulled away from the curb, eyes on the street, barely hearing Hutch call them in, thoughts already wandering back to South America and the lady he loved there.
They were on patrol that day, not a usual duty for Special Units, but an assignment they sometimes got when there was an outbreak of something in the area and Dobey needed more eyes on the street. This time, it was a string of midday rapes of housewives. Spending the day cruising the streets netted them a pickpocket, a pair of teenage car thieves, an assault arrest, and the crowning peak: an indecent exposure, but no rapist. Starsky could have done it in his sleep, and Hutch seemed to be doing just that, but experience often made up for effort and the day went smoothly.
True, he’d lost his partner sometime during the chase after the pickpocket, finding Hutch after the arrest leaning against a wall, catching his breath. Starsky had nearly said something then, but finally hadn’t pushed, noting and then forgetting. You covered for your partner when he wasn’t at his best, as Hutch had done lately for him. Besides, they both had other things on their minds. It probably was easier on his head if Starsky wasn’t jabbering, anyway.
Still, he kinda missed his partner. Hutch’s constant attempts to distract him since Rosey left had been increasingly welcome and often lightened an otherwise dreary day. With both of them silent this time, the shift had seemed to drag. Probably how it had felt for Hutch the rest of that week. Starsky glanced at his partner—turned away from him and hunched uncomfortably in his seat¾and silently resolved to try to do better the following week, during their next rotation.
But now they had the next three days off, and Starsky half-dreaded them. There was only so much puttering he could do on his car and around the house, and staring at the TV had gotten old. He couldn’t concentrate enough to read, and had nearly started a fire when he’d tried to iron the other night and his mind started to wander again. He’d been thinking about asking Hutch if he wanted to take a trip somewhere, but now wasn’t the time for that. Hutch looked like the last thing he wanted was company; he hadn’t even met Starsky’s eyes that day. Probably embarrassed for getting drunk after the lecture he’d given a few days before. As if Starsky hadn’t already won the prize that week for making an ass of himself.
It was a struggle, but as he pulled up in front of Venice Place, longing won out over altruism. “Hey, uh, there’s a good movie on TV tonight.” There surely was, although Starsky had no idea what it was.
Hutch barely turned toward him. “Maybe another night.”
Starsky tried not to feel disappointed. Hutch probably wasn’t feeling that great, either. The little he’d seen of his partner’s face that day had been haggard, and his voice was heavy with exhaustion and what sounded like a killer headache. Besides, who wanted to hang out with the sad sack he’d been lately? “Yeah, okay,” he said.
Hutch hesitated, turning a little more to face him. “Starsk, I…I’d love to, I’m just…”
“’S okay,” he said, meaning it more. He should have known better than to ask after the day they’d just had. Starsky couldn’t remember them exchanging more than two words at a time for a whole shift, but they were okay, he just had a lot to think about and Hutch had probably just been concentrating on not throwing up. “Rain check.”
“Rain check.” Hutch nodded firmly.
Starsky saw his mouth tighten at the motion. That was one bad hangover, and his own worries shrank for a moment as concern took their place. What had Hutch been doing drinking so hard, anyway? “Hey, you okay?” Starsky already asked that question a few times that day, but Hutch’s obvious discomfort still worried him. It wasn’t like the man to drink so much.
“Don’t worry about me, buddy, you’ve got enough on your plate right now.” Hutch smiled faintly.
Starsky would reflect later that the answer, just like the ones earlier, should have given it away right there. No “I’m fine,” or “Sure”—they didn’t lie to each other without darn good reason, and never well—just a dodge he should have seen through and would have immediately in other circumstances. But Starsky only heard the words spoken and didn’t listen harder, nodding distractedly. His thoughts were already moving on to the empty house that was waiting for him. Anyway, they’d worked a whole shift together; if anything was really wrong, he’d have known about it by then.
“See ya Tuesday.” Hutch smiled again and climbed slowly out of the Torino.
“Yeah, see ya,” Starsky called after, disappointed anew that it didn’t sound like Hutch planned to stop by at all during their free days, either. Meanwhile, Starsky had given up precious time with Rosey to go to work the week before. What he wouldn’t give…
With a heavy sigh, Starsky lingered there, something nudging him to wait until Hutch disappeared inside Venice Place and then a pointless minute longer, before he turned toward home.
The phone was ringing as he unlocked the door, and Starsky left it open in his haste to answer. He snatched it up before the caller could change their mind. “Rosey?”
“I ain’t never been called that before,” came the cheerful voice at the other end.
Starsky slumped. “Huggy. Sorry, I… What’s up?”
“Just wanted to see how my favorite detectives were doin’.”
Starsky ran a hand through his hair. “T’rrific. How would you feel if your girl just walked out on ya?”
“About like you sound. Hutch tell you about my offer?”
“No.” He really didn’t want to be having this conversation, but he wanted to hang up even less. Starsky flopped down onto the couch, receiver in one hand, the body of the phone in the other.
“Yeah, I guess he had other things on his mind. How’s our mutual battered-an’-fried friend doin’?”
Starsky frowned. Huggy was a good friend and a great snitch, but sometimes he was just this side of incomprehensible. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
There was a slight pause, which raised the first warning flag, and then Huggy’s cautious, “Did you see Hutch today?” which raised all the rest.
“Yeah, we just came off a shift. Why? What’s goin’ on, Hug?”
“Uh, well, maybe I shouldn’t say anything—Hutch must be doin’ okay then.”
Starsky sat up. “You better spill it right now, Huggy, or I’m comin’ down there to shake it out of you.”
“Okay, okay, no need t’get huffy. This was your partner’s idea, not mine.”
“WHAT?!” Starsky bellowed.
“Hutch got in a fight here last night, back in the alley. Only it was kinda one-sided, if you get my drift. Four guys who looked like Hercules’s big brothers decided his face needed rearrangin’. It was just gettin’ ugly when some’a my customers came out and scared ’em off.”
Starsky felt the blood rush out of his head. “Why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I asked him the same question. He said somethin’ about you havin’ enough to think about and he was really okay.” Huggy snorted. “Sure didn’t look okay.”
Starsky squeezed his eyes shut. The dark glasses, the right side turned away from him. The ginger movements. The drawn face. And he’d thought it was a hangover. “But…he seemed okay?”
“He seemed like someone who’d just been used as a punching bag. But he made it up to his place on his own, so I figured Hutch’s a big boy and it’s none of my business. ’Sides, you saw him today.”
No, he hadn’t. He’d spent ten hours with his best friend and never really looked at him, never had more than a vague, unexamined unease that something was wrong. And what he had noticed he’d read totally wrong, assuming the worst. And he called himself a detective. No, he called himself a friend.
But Hutch had never put him straight, hadn’t even called him the night before when, as Huggy had avoided saying, he’d been pounded on hard enough that he had to be driven home. He hadn’t wanted to bother Starsky. What kind of friendship was that?
Starsky didn’t know whether to be furious, or deeply ashamed, and settled for both.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Listen, Huggy, thanks for tellin’ me. I, uh…I’ll take care of it.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured that. Just do me a favor and don’t let him know I spilled the beans, huh?”
Just pretend like he’d noticed on his own. Starsky’s mouth twisted. “Yeah.” He hung up, thought for a moment, picked up the phone again, then replaced it. What was he going to do, call? Maybe wake Hutch up and apologize for spending a whole day with him and never noticing he’d been worked over and was in real pain? That would do a lot of good.
Starsky thunked the phone down on the end table and grabbed the jacket he’d tossed down minutes before, then paused. What if Hutch didn’t really want him over? Maybe he hadn’t called because he hadn’t wanted to be fussed over, or for Starsky to even know. A man had a right to nurse his wounds in private.
Like he had after Rosey left? Even as he’d ranted and railed at his partner, Starsky hadn’t really wanted to be alone, had feared Hutch would turn around and walk out, too. But they didn’t do that, not with each other, not for a long time now. The fact of the matter was, neither of them was alone any longer, and they healed better together. And both of them, whether they admitted it or not, preferred it that way.
He said somethin’ about you havin’ enough to think about. No, Starsky knew why his partner hadn’t wanted him to know. As if Hutch wasn’t more important than whatever else he might have had on his mind. Starsky pulled his jacket on with a jerk as he strode to the door.
He would just have to show his partner what he thought about that.
By the time he reached Venice Place, Starsky had made up his mind. He was ashamed of not having noticed Hutch was hurting more than he was letting on; that wasn’t just distracted, that was being a bad partner, and he had some making up to do over it. But he was a whole lot angrier over the idea that his best friend in the whole world wouldn’t call him when he was in trouble because he didn’t want to bother Starsky. Talk about a dumb blond! He’d make sure Hutch was all right, do whatever needed to be done for him, and then knock some sense into that thick head of his.
The living room window was lit as he pulled up in front of the apartment building. Satisfied he wouldn’t be waking his partner, Starsky clattered up the stairs two at a time and raised his fist to pound on the door at the top.
And caught himself. It was right there next to the door, only inches away, that Starsky had found his partner, bleeding, on the verge of collapse from Diana’s attack. The blood was gone, probably washed off by conscientious Mrs. Johnson from across the hall, but the memory remained. And the gratitude that he hadn’t lost his partner that night.
Contrite, Starsky lowered his arm. He felt around for the key on the lintel and, not finding it, pulled out his own copy and quietly let himself in.
The apartment was still, the living room empty. Starsky’s eyes traveled the room, taking in the bloodied jacket tossed onto the couch, the trail of tattered clothing stretching toward the back of the studio apartment where the bed was, the sunglasses that had missed the table by the door and were lying instead on the rug. Starsky moved forward, peering into the also-lit bathroom where an open bottle of Tylenol sat on the sink and the faucet dribbled, not quite turned off. Starsky reached in to twist it shut and then kept going.
Sock-clad feet came into sight, followed by the rest of his partner sprawled on his bed, still in the clothes he’d worn that day. Starsky slowed, moving soundlessly to the side of the bed before stopping and, for the first time that day, really seeing.
Hutch was curled on his left side, deeply asleep. It wasn’t the side he usually lay on, but that was probably in deference to his puffy, nearly black right eye. The sunglasses had covered the worst of it but even those large lenses wouldn’t have hidden the trailing purple edges, and it took Starsky a moment to realize he’d never seen that side of Hutch’s face during the day, Hutch keeping it carefully averted. And Starsky hadn’t even noticed. He shook his head. If it’d been the other eye, Hutch would probably just have insisted on driving to stay on Starsky’s left.
Leaning closer, Starsky could see the cut just starting to heal above the eye, the source of the blood on the jacket, maybe. There was no bandage on it—probably would have been too obvious, he thought with chagrin—but it wasn’t big and looked clean. A little higher up, the edge of a bruise was just visible, trailing up into the golden hair, and as Starsky skimmed his hand over the blond strands, he could just feel the swelling of another contusion. That meant at least two blows to the head. Tight-lipped, Starsky gently lifted one of Hutch’s eyelids, peering into the pupil underneath. It constricted in response to the light and wasn’t dilated, and Hutch hadn’t seemed confused or sleepy earlier in the day. He still should probably be checked by a doctor, but Starsky reluctantly decided to let it go for now. The man probably needed the sleep more.
Hutch made a soft sound in his sleep and stirred, face wincing briefly as muscles twinged, before sliding once more into the blankness of sleep. Starsky waited for him to still, then silently moved lower, to where Hutch’s arms had curled protectively around his abdomen. He eased the untucked shirt up to get a look at the skin underneath. It was also bruise-mottled, but didn’t appear swollen or bulging. A little higher, the ribs looked untouched.
Starsky took a deep breath of relief and slipped the shirt back into place. If that was the worst of it, they’d been lucky. The way Hutch lay, the dead sleep, the slight indentation between his eyebrows indicated some discomfort, but he was okay. And he wasn’t alone anymore.
Stone-faced, Starsky went and got some blankets from the closet, draping them over his sleeping partner and softening a little as Hutch uncurled fractionally in the warmth. He reached out a hand to the blond hair, hovered there a moment, pulled it back. Then he just stood and silently watched.
This was the guy who’d nearly attacked an FBI man because he’d been rude to Starsky. The one who’d told him in no uncertain terms to not give up, then smiled and winked at him to remind Starsky he cared. The one who’d stayed on his side even when Starsky announced he was falling in love with a criminal’s daughter, and never said I told you so after it blew up in his face. Didn’t Hutch get that he was a lot more important than the buffeting of a temporary love affair, that he was the one who made those mountains into manageable hills?
The night before could have turned out so differently. Huggy had said it’d been four against one, and the four didn’t sound like ninety-eight-pound weaklings, either. If Huggy’s patrons hadn’t interrupted the fight, or if one of the attackers had gotten his hands on Hutch’s piece, or even had hit a little harder…
Starsky’s eyes clouded, his hands clenching uselessly. This was what he was really angry at, this stupid close call his partner had blundered into, not that Hutch had tried to hide it from him. How could Starsky not have wanted to know he’d almost lost the one person he couldn’t stand the thought of losing?
He really didn’t, actually. It scared him, rattled his heart far worse than Rosey’s departure had. And Hutch had known that, with that damnably gentle way he saw Starsky, and tried to spare him.
It wasn’t the right thing to do: Starsky had to know what had gone down, whether he wanted to or not. Not just because Hutch needed help, but because whatever happened to him happened to them both. And Hutch would have known that, too. But still he’d tried, because he cared just as much about Starsky’s well-being as Starsky did about his. How could he be mad at the man for that?
Starsky’s hands slowly loosened at his side. He shook his head once more, this time without reproof, and reached over to turn off the alcove light. Starsky stayed another minute in the dark, listening to the sounds of breathing in the room, Hutch’s deep and long, his faster and more shallow but starting to slow to his partner’s rhythm. And then he sighed and turned away.
The clothes came first, and Starsky read the story they told as he gathered them. Torn clothing on the way to the bathroom, probably shed that morning before work. Hutch must have gone straight to sleep without undressing the night before, too. The towel on the bathroom floor was barely damp, the shower walls dry. A bloody Band-Aid lay on the sink next to the bottle of Tylenol, and Starsky examined it before he threw it out. Huggy’s doctoring, probably. Same with the damp bar towel that was wadded in the sink. Starsky collected it and the jacket on the couch, and tossed them all in the hamper to be sorted later.
The kitchen had its own addition to the tale of Hutch’s previous twenty-four hours, with its bare sink and counters. Considering Hutch hadn’t even had enough energy to pick up his laundry, he probably hadn’t been doing dishes, either, which meant no meals since the night before. He’d begged off lunch during work and Starsky hadn’t pushed, foolishly thinking him still queasy from over-indulging, but there was no helping that now.
Starsky peered into the refrigerator, gratified to see some vegetables and other foodstuffs he actually recognized. Not bad. The pantry was full, too, and when he caught sight of the new jar of grape jelly, Starsky’s favorite, he knew why. Hutch had also been preparing to do some tending of his own, if necessary. Until he’d gone and gotten himself distracted by a couple of fists in the face.
Freshly humbled, Starsky set his jaw, pulled out an apron, and went to work.
The rice was half done when he heard stirrings from the bed alcove. He didn’t look but mentally traced his partner’s route as Hutch crawled out of bed, shuffled over to stare blankly into the kitchen for several moments, then scuffed his way into the bathroom. The toilet flushed, water ran in the sink, and then slightly more alive steps retraced their path to the kitchen. One of the chairs creaked as Hutch eased into it.
“What’re you doing here?” he finally asked, conversationally.
“You haveta ask?” Starsky asked, not turning around. The peas were threatening to boil over and he turned them down.
There was a long silence. “Starsky, I’m okay,” finally came the chastened admission.
“Yeah, that’s why your face looks like week-old hamburger.” He was stirring too hard, the water sloshing out, and Starsky made himself ease off.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. I would have called if I needed help.” Hutch still sounded tired, his voice scratchy.
Starsky finally turned. Hutch still had his bad eye canted away and sat slouched as if to not pull on aching muscles, but all Starsky felt was sadness now, not anger. “If this is how you look when you’re doin’ fine, I’d hate to see ya when you need help.”
“You have,” Hutch said wearily.
Starsky searched for an answer to that but couldn’t find one, and finally dragged out a chair to sit next to his partner, clasping his arms on the table before him before he looked up. “You shoulda called me, Hutch,” he said seriously.
The blond head drooped. “I know. I know! But you were already dealing with a lot and I thought…”
A long silence. Starsky got up to stir various pots, then sat down again. Not looking at Hutch, he said, “None’a that matters as much as you.”
Hutch opened his mouth, closed it again. “I’m sorry,” he finally said.
The quiet answer quenched his restlessness like nothing else could have. “We’re partners, Hutch,” he said solemnly.
Hutch met his gaze just seriously. “Goes both ways, Starsk.”
“I know you got your rights, too. But hidin’ something like this from me isn’t one of ’em. I don’t need that kind of protecting. And if you’d been hurt worse…” Well, that didn’t really need finishing, did it?
Hutch just nodded, eyes on the salt shaker he was fumbling with.
This wasn’t exactly how Starsky had pictured this scene going down, and he got up to stir the pots again while he thought. “How you feelin’?” he asked after a long minute.
There was a pause as Hutch considered. “Mostly just a headache now.”
“Stomach? Anything hurt?”
“Just sore.”
“Maybe we should call Jace.” Their doctor friend made housecalls in their case.
“It’s not that bad.”
Wordlessly, Starsky went to the freezer and collected the ice pack he’d prepared earlier, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and went back to his partner. Even as Hutch turned away from him, Starsky reached out and gently tilted his chin the other way, exposing the black eye to the light. It didn’t look any better than it had in the bedroom, Hutch’s eye only a slit in the puffy mass, but Starsky’s expression didn’t change as he wrapped Hutch’s hand around the icepack and returned to the stove.
A soft hiss behind him told him Hutch had put it into use, and the tightness of his voice said it was a less-than-pleasant feeling. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”
Starsky glowered at the peas. “Huggy told me.”
“Oh.”
He turned again. “I should’ve…I sat next to you all day and I didn’t know, Hutch. You have any idea how that makes me feel?!”
“Who’re you mad at, Starsky, me or you?”
Good question. He was knocked speechless again for a moment. “Both of us,” he finally said. “I was too busy feelin’ sorry for myself to realize you were actin’ funny, but I shouldn’t’ve had to play Twenty Questions to find out my partner’s been been roughed up, either.”
“So we were both wrong.” Hutch almost smiled behind the ice pack.
Starsky made a face. “’Least you were doin’ it for a good reason.”
Hutch’s mouth definitely was turning up, but his good eye gazed at Starsky with sympathy. “Missing somebody you love isn’t a bad reason.”
“Yeah, well…”
“If it’s any comfort, Starsk, I was doing my best to distract you.”
Starsky cast a stern look at his partner. “We already talked about that.”
Hutch raised three fingers on his left hand in a Scout’s salute. “Next time I get in a bar fight, you’ll be the first person I call.”
Starsky rolled his eyes. “Dummy,” he muttered. The peas were done, and he turned off the heat under them before giving the rice another stir. He glanced back at Hutch with an arching eyebrow. “What was that about, anyway? You make a pass at some guy’s girl?”
Hutch’s smile faded. “Actually, it was my girl.”
“Huh?”
“Seems Van’s been telling stories about our happy marriage.”
Starsky’s eyes widened. “This was all because’a Vanessa?”
“’Fraid so.” He was back to examining the salt shaker. “I guess it’s true what they say—you never stop paying.”
Starsky shook his head. “Leavin’ was her loss, partner, not yours.”
“Yeah, well, you and I know that, but I don’t think anyone told Van.” The weariness had returned. He was still recovering from a beating, Starsky reminded himself, and that was not the best time to be dragging out old baggage.
“No accountin’ for taste,” he answered quietly, then as Hutch looked up at him, ghosted him a smile. “You ready to eat?”
Hutch snorted, shaking his head gingerly before he glanced over at the stove. “What’d you make?”
“Roast chicken, rice, an’ peas.”
“That almost sounds good.”
“What almost? You taste some of my chicken and you’ll never want anybody else’s again.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Starsky made a face at him, then got busy setting the table. It had been a long day, and for all his teasing, Hutch looked ready to fall asleep where he sat. The chicken came out of the oven golden and perfect, the rice slightly mushy like they both liked it, and Starsky set both dishes triumphantly in the center of the table along with the peas, two plates, and silverware.
Hutch set the icepack aside and was reaching for the rice when Starsky stopped him with a hand. His partner gave him a questioning look.
“I mean it, Hutch. Something’s wrong, you come to me, don’t matter where or when.”
Hutch’s eyes warmed. “I know.”
He nodded, satisfied, and let go. But Hutch wasn’t finished, still looking at Starsky intently.
“And how’re you doing?”
Figured, he’d come here all worried about his partner, and meanwhile Hutch was busy worrying about him. Starsky wanted to laugh it off—it wasn’t like he’d been the one pulped the night before—but no glib response was forthcoming in the face of such real concern. Starsky gave up and considered the question in earnest. “I’m doin’ okay,” he finally realized. “Been kinda distracted by this partner of mine who keeps secrets, but…” He grinned. “I’m okay.” Rosey remained a bittersweet memory, but life went on. That shiner of his partner’s was all the reminder he’d needed.
Hutch grinned back and patted Starsky’s arm before digging into the rice.
“So, I take it you’re not runnin’ any marathons this weekend?” Starsky asked around a mouthful of food.
Hutch gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “Considered it, but I think I’d just scare off the competition.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I think you looked kinda cute in those glasses.”
“Cute, huh? Knowing your taste, I think I’ve just been insulted…”
It was one of the best dinners Starsky could remember in a long time.