Partners and Friends

by MysticWhim and Hutchlover

January, 1971

A scuffed, black leather-clad toe dug its way into the gravel and dirt parking lot. Its owner sighed and threw down the butt of his wasted cigarette. <sigh> Officer David Starsky hated working second shift. It was bad enough that his assignment was in the worst part of town, but he also got stuck with the worst partner, in his opinion.

Sr. Officer Sam Wilcox was a pompous, overbearing tyrant as far as the younger officer was concerned.  It was Starsky's opinion that the man hated the job and was nearing burnout, but because of his defiant attitude and his blatant bigotry toward anyone whom he considered lower class, he was permanently stuck on the streets doing grunge work.

Starsky didn't mind doing the grunge work, since it was good learning experience and on-the-job training. No, he had bigger things planned for himself. But he sort of understood Wilcox's burnout and frustration, since there's no way he would want to be a street cop for the rest of his career. Starsky wanted the action: Vice, or Homicide, or undercover work, or even all three. With his energy and savvy, he confidently assured himself he could do it all.

No, the grunge work didn't bother Starsky so much as being stuck with Wilcox did. He wanted to be partnered with his best friend, Ken Hutchinson. But the Department wouldn't allow two recent graduates to pair up together. So Officer David Starsky ended up at 10th, the warehouse and industrial district, as a street cop, while Officer Ken Hutchinson ended up at 7th, a residential district, doing both desk and street duty.

Take tonight, here Starsky was, tracking down suspicious screams at 1:25 in the morning, while Hutch was probably just getting home from a late night out with a couple of other buddies. Hutch worked the first shift and had, since his marriage began to break down, tended to spend more time after work with his buddies than with his wife, preferring to go home once she was already in bed and, hopefully, asleep.

Starsky would prefer to be out partying with his buddies, instead he was stuck listening to Wilcox complain about having to walk around in the middle of the night in an unscrupulous area because someone thought he heard screaming and called it in to the police. What the hell else does he expect to do this time of night? Probably just wants to go down to Amy Joy's and sit and eat more donuts and drink more coffee.

"Hey, Little Shit—you comin'?!"

The question broke the young cop away from his reverie. He marched toward his partner, who was casing the front of the meat packing plant for an easy entryway. "Will you stop calling me that!" he yelled at the senior officer. "Damn it, my name is Dave; or Starsky, if that's too personal."

Wilcox put his hand on his protruding love handles and sassed back, "I'll call you whatever the hell I want. And that's just what you are. A little piece of shit in this big toilet of a job we call police work. You think you're some big hotshot? Well, let me tell you somethin', Starsky," he said sarcastically. "If you don't start paying attention to me and what I've got to teach you, you're gonna get yourself blown right out of this toilet. You're so damn uncontrollable that you're gonna get someone killed, and that someone ain't gonna be me!"

Here we go again. The same lecture every damn night, thought the curly-haired cop. He didn't respond to his partner's tirade, being used to hearing it; just followed him through the opening in the chain-link fence.

After a brief 15-minute perusal of the building's perimeter, Wilcox was ready to leave. "Ain't nothin' here that even my grandmother's cat could find. I think that guard was hearing things."

"We haven't even checked the inside. Shouldn't we look in some of the windows?"

"Nah, why should we? Nothin' suspicious going down."

"Excuse me, Wilcox, but I'm goin' to take a look."

"Suit yourself, newbie. But I ain't staying here for more than half an hour. If you ain't done with your little look-see by then, I'll leave without you."

Starsky looked at the older man defiantly. No, you won't. You won't leave your partner without orders from Captain Hursh. He'll chew a hole in that fat ass of yours if you leave me, and you know it.

Wilcox stalked back to the black-and-white to lean against the hood, while Starsky checked out the inside as best he could without actually going into the slaughterhouse.

The windows of the slaughterhouse were large, wooden and double-hung, with chipped paint on the trim. It appeared they hadn't been washed in decades; with grimy layers of dust, dirt, dead bugs and bird droppings on the outside, and blood, soap and dust on the inside. The views Starsky could get from looking into them appeared as if he was looking at something through an acid-induced haze.

The first set of windows looked into the offices of the slaughterhouse. Several desks and cabinets could be seen. If there was a lobby for visitors, it wasn't on this side of the building. The next few were boarded or painted over; after those, the next windows provided a view of what appeared to be the main meat processing area. Several rows of metal tracks ran across the ceiling, with hooks hanging from them. A long metal table ran the length of the room—probably used to carve up the meat, Starsky assumed. No carcasses were seen; any meat on the premises was probably set in the cooler until the next shift arrived to prepare it.

Turning the corner to the back of the building, Starsky saw another window that showed a different view of the same processing area. Next came the loading dock with a small entryway several feet from the truck door. Stepping over the rails that enclosed the small door and its corresponding deck, Starsky walked past the loading area to a plain door in which a small double paned window was set. Inside, there was a heavy metal door, which Starsky approached. Briefly touching the outside of the door to balance himself while he stood on his tip-toes, Starsky noted that it was cold. Probably the freezer. Peering inside, the blue eyes took in several rows of carcasses, probably beef, hanging upside down. There were also blood-smeared bundles lying on metal shelving. Just as he lowered his feet flat, something caught his eye. In the far right-hand side of the room, he saw a hand. A large, white, human hand.

Running back to the front of the building, his flat-soled shoes slipping on the uneven ground forcing the young cop to balance himself several times, Starsky kept shouting for Wilcox.

The more rotund man continued to lean leisurely against his vehicle. Damn kid! He makes enough noise that we'll probably get another call—this one for disturbing the peace. Though what 'peace' the senior officer could be thinking of was known only to him. The area was deserted at this time of night, except for a few security guards and lonesome crows looking to scavenge.

"Wilcox—we got a body in there! In the cooler, I think!" Starsky was nearly out of breath and his knees and ankles ached from the uneven run. After a few deep breaths, he looked at his apathetic partner and said, "Call it in. I'm going in there."

That brought Sam Wilcox upright. "You can't go in there! That's not proper procedure! We need to get a warrant, find the building owner or manager, and get crime scene and a medics unit down here." He went to the driver's door, opened it, and called in a 187, giving the dispatcher the address of the slaughterhouse.

"Look, you moron. I'm going in. That guy might still be alive. If so, he needs help now!"

"And I'm telling you, you could be walking into a trap." Wilcox flung his arm toward the building. "How do you know the killer still isn't in there? Providing it is a murder. We could be looking at an accidental death or a suicide, for all we know right now."

"Come on—the guard at the warehouse next door called to say he heard screaming! Do you know who owns this plant!? Neville Stryker, that's who—one of the biggest drug lords in the district. I'm going in there...with or without you." With that, Starsky bounded off to the back of the building again, in an effort to gain access.

"Starsky!  You have to wait for back up!" Seeing that his entreaties had no effect, Wilcox turned on the Mars light so the others could find them, and mumbled, "Damn kid just jumps right in. Well, he's not getting me killed—no way!" Briefly, his conscience told him that he should stick with his junior partner, to make sure he didn't get hurt, but the years of frustration boiled back upon him and Wilcox pushed his conscience aside.

*           *           *

Starsky shot off the flimsy hanging lock on the loading dock door with his standard-issue Smith and Wesson 25. Realizing that he forgot to get the flashlight from the black-and-white, he let his eyes adjust to the dark for a few moments. He flicked on the dim lights to the loading dock office, hearing the quiet hum as the generator kicked up more power and the lights grew brighter. Following his pattern from outside, Starsky walked through the small office and came into a large hallway that branched out three different ways, one down the middle of the building, one off to the left where the meat processing room was, and one to the right—towards the refrigeration room.

There were no lights on in the large hall and Starsky could find no switch, either. Using the lighter from his pocket, he flicked the small flame on and turned down the right hallway. Almost immediately, he came to a large 10' x 5', heavy, silver door. Turning the lighter off for a moment, he felt around the door for a lock or traps. Finding none, he flicked the lighter back on, the roller hot to the touch. Looking at the closing mechanism on the door, Starsky saw that it had three sliding bolts; however, none of them appeared to lock from the outside. Placing his lighter back in his pants pocket, the impulsive cop used both hands to push the bolts to the left, unlatching the door.

Once inside, he pulled the lighter back out; by now his thumb was sore from holding down the lever to keep the flame lit. Luckily, he found the light switch to the refrigeration unit on the side wall next to the doorway. Keeping his foot between the doorway and the door itself, Starsky grabbed a large leg of meat from the shelving next to him and used it to prop open the heavy door. There's no way I'm getting stuck in here.

Stealthily making his way to the rear of the refrigerator, keeping his eyes and ears open for any suspicious noises, Starsky almost slipped a few times. His uniform shoes gave him no purchase on the wet, icy floor.

There he is! Starsky exulted to himself as he saw the body of the thin, dishwater-blond man. He was lying on his back, nude from the waist up. His wrists and neck had been slashed, and there were noticeable track marks on his right arm. The face was discolored, either from a drug or the cold room, Starsky couldn't tell. That would be up to the medical examiner.

*           *           *

Starsky slid behind the wheel of his black 1968 GTO and let his head fall back against the headrest with a sigh, his wrists through the bottom edge of the steering wheel. He was spent from the night's hassles with Wilcox, and he wanted nothing more than to get the hell away from anything associated with him. Somehow, it left him too drained to even want to put forth the necessary effort to drive his car from its parking spot.

I love my job, he muttered to himself as he reluctantly started the car. Half of him meant it, and the other half desperately wanted to feel that way. Actually, he did love his job. It was his partner he couldn't stand. Sometimes Wilcox showed an uncanny ability to suck the very life out of him, and the joy out of his work. He promised himself he was going to take the Sergeant exam as soon as possible, and get transferred away from this bitter and jaded man as soon as he was able. In the meantime, he would try to make the best of it. What he needed right now was a friendly face and something to get his mind off of his irritating partner.

Without much thought, he found himself driving over to Hutch's house. His mood was already beginning to lighten, and his energy was returning. He pulled up in front of his friend's house and bounded up the steps to the front door. Just as he was about to rap on the pained wood, it flew open.

Hutch was startled and pleased to see his buddy. He held the door open with a welcoming smile. "Come on in, Starsk! I was just going for my morning run. Why don't you make yourself at home and I'll be back in about 20 minutes or so."

"'Kay," Starsky smiled back, slapping him lightly on his back to send him off to his run. He stepped into the stylish and immaculate living room and quickly slid his sneakers off his feet. He made the mistake once of tracking dirt onto Vanessa's new white carpeting, and he was not about to make that mistake again. For good measure he also slipped off his socks and felt the plush carpet against his tired feet. Ahhhh. Much better. He hung his coat on the ornately carved wooden coat rack near the front door. Unbuttoning his uniform shirt, he released it from the tucked confines of his pants.

He sauntered into the kitchen, calling, "Van?" She didn't respond. Hungry, he decided to raid the fridge and see if he could rustle up something edible for breakfast. Knowing Hutch and Vanessa, there would be little to choose from. He poked around the containers on the shelves. "Ah ha," he cried out happily. "What have we here?" He pulled out a Chinese food takeout container. Opening the carton, he took a whiff. "Mmm! Egg foo yung!"

A can of Tab joined the carton to complete his breakfast. Tab was not his drink of choice, but since there wasn't any rootbeer, it would have to do.

He jumped up and plopped his backside on the kitchen counter, spreading his legs so he could open the silverware drawer directly beneath him. Pulling out a fork, he began to polish off the cold treat, washing it down with the soft drink. He heard the bathroom door open down the hall, so he called out to warn Vanessa of his presence. "Van?! That you?"  

Vanessa emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a plush robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. She stopped in her tracks and rolled her eyes upon hearing the familiar voice. She made it a practice never to be seen without her makeup, but not trusting Starsky to wander around her house for long without supervision, she decided to check on him.

She stepped into the kitchen and scowled at the view that confronted her. Starsky perched bare-chested and barefoot on her kitchen counter, eating food from a cardboard container. Van shook her head.

"Ah, there you are! Good morning, Van!" Starsky smiled at her. He knew his presence irked her, which made him smile even broader.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you?" Vanessa spit out.

Starsky was enjoying her annoyance. "Van, you are looking especially beautiful this morning! Is that a new robe?"

"Can it, Starsky," she said haughtily. Then she walked up between his legs and tilted the carton so she could inspect its contents. "What are you eating? Cold Chinese food?" Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Yeah, it's the best!" he responded enthusiastically. "Ya want some?" He gave her an earnest smile as he presented her with his fork, knowing what her response would be.

"God, no!" She backed away, offended by the idea. "How can you eat that disgusting slop? It's all congealed! Why don't you at least heat it up? The pots are right here," she patted a cabinet. "And the plates are here." She patted another cabinet pointedly.

Starsky feigned disappointment. "No, Van, it's best cold for breakfast. It would be un-American to heat it up! Are you sure you don't want to try some?" He held the container out to her in invitation. "Almost as good as cold pizza!"  

Glaring at him, she turned and stalked from the room. Starsky thought he heard her mutter, "Neanderthal," and he laughed to himself.

Starsky finished off the egg foo yung while Van dressed for work. Then he washed his fork and replaced it in the drawer. He grabbed the newspaper off of the kitchen table before heading to the couch. Stretching his full length on the sofa, newspaper in hand, he made himself comfortable and read while waiting for his friend to return.

*           *           *

Dressed for work, Vanessa glided into the room in full beauty. Her hair and makeup were perfection, the expensive clothes breathtaking. She had an important modeling job today, and she wanted to create a sensation. She most certainly would. She stopped in her tracks when she spotted Starsky's feet on her couch, but decided to let the issue go when she realized that, for once, he wasn't wearing shoes. Shaking off her vexation, she felt that she was generously giving him a reprieve that he didn't deserve. This ragamuffin was not going to spoil her day.

"Wow, Van, you look fabulous," Starsky genuinely complimented her. How could this woman have so much beauty on the outside, and so little on the inside?

"Thank you, Starsky." Her tone was condescending, as if she hated to thank him for anything.

For a moment, he thought he saw her eyes twinkle, as if pleased by his compliment. If they did, it was gone in an instant. Probably just her ego showing through.

Hutch walked through the front door, and saw his wife dressed for work. He stopped, casting an admiring glance from head to toe.

Vanessa held up a hand, palm out, stating, "Don't come near me, Ken. You're all sweaty."

Ken held up both his hands in surrender and walked past her, giving her a wide berth. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said quietly enough that only Starsky would hear. Starsky unsuccessfully suppressed a smile and buried his nose deeper into the newspapers.

"What was that?" Van demanded.

"I guess you're leaving," he said louder. "Have a good day at work."

"I'll be late," she announced, then walked out without a goodbye.

Hutch watched her leave, a sadness settling over him. His reaction did not go unnoticed.

"She's right, ya know." Starsky dangled the comment.

"Right about what?" Hutch took his eyes off the departing car.

"You stink. Go take a shower," he chided his friend.

Hutch walked into his kitchen and poured a tall glass of ice water. He drank it down quickly as he walked back to the couch. Downing the last drop, he took the glass from his lips and turned it upside down directly over his pal. The ice dropped down, landing squarely in the middle of Starsky's bare chest. The startled man jumped up, howling, newspaper flying in all directions. Hutch laughed as he sauntered out to take his friend's advice.

"I have a good mind to leave this ice here!" Starsky yelled after him. "Van would have your hide!" But in defense of his buddy, Starsky scooped up every last cube and deposited them in the sink. He would not deliberately leave Vanessa any fuel to spark one of her fights with Hutch. Not that she needs fuel. Spotting the coffee pot, he decided to make them both some coffee while Hutch got dressed.

*           *           *

Hutch stepped into the shower, never doubting for a moment that Starsky would retrieve the wayward ice. He ducked under the stream of hot water, letting it pour over his tense body. The run had not caused the muscles to tense, but rather the few moments with his wife. As he ran the soap over his skin, he wondered if he was washing away the sweat, or the dirty scum of Van's words that had settled into his flesh. It didn't matter; the shower was washing both away—the sweat and the continuous rejection.

Finished with the shower, Hutch emerged wrapped in a towel, sopping hair dripping down his back. He followed the scent of the coffee to the kitchen, where Starsky was leaned against the counter, cup cradled in both hands. Hutch took the cup from him and drank a long drink. He handed the cup back with a funny look on his face. "God, Starsk! What did you put in that? Half the sugar bowl?"  

Starsky looked into the cup, puzzled. "What? Too much sugar?"  

Hutch pulled a fresh cup from the cupboard and poured himself some of the dark liquid. Drinking it without additions, he held the pot out to top off Starsky's mug. Together they sank into the kitchen chairs.

"Did you find something to eat?"

Starsky smiled. "Yeah, thanks."

"What did you find? Wait, don't tell me. Cold Chinese? Or the apple pie?" Hutch gave him a knowing grin.

"Apple pie?" Starsky jumped up. "I didn't see the apple pie!" He was rummaging through the appliance again.

"Lower right-hand side, bottom shelf."

Grinning broadly, Starsky held the pie up to his face and took a big whiff, eyes closed. "Mmmmm! I love apple pie," he murmured.

Amused, Hutch watched him cut two big slices and bring them to the table. He had bought the pie on his way home from work last night, knowing Starsky would stop by on his day off. One piece was placed in front of him, but he shook his head and slid it back to the dark-haired man. "No thanks, Starsk. You eat it."

The blue eyes lit up with delight. "Ya sure? You don't want it?"

Hutch shook his head again, and watched the other dig into the pie with gusto. It was fun to watch someone get so much enjoyment from his food.

Starsky held out a forkful, waggling it at his companion. "Come on and taste this," he invited. "It's great!"  

Tempted by the exuberance with which his friend ate, Hutch let him slip the fork into his mouth, and savored the delicious pie. He really wanted to pull back his piece of pie and eat it himself, but he could imagine the treat completely undoing the workout he gave himself this morning, and then some. Declining the offer, he took vicarious pleasure in watching Starsky enjoy his.

After devouring the two pieces, Starsky sat back, sated and happy.

"You're in a good mood," Hutch mused. "Wilcox finally learn your name?"  

Darkness came over Starsky's features, and Hutch instantly regretted spoiling his mood. "The guy is such a prick," he sputtered. "You shoulda seen what he pulled on me last night!"  

Settling back in his chair, Hutch prepared himself for another "Worthless Wilcox" story. His heart went out to Starsky, having to deal with his bitter and washed-up partner. He listened to the account of how Starsky had checked out the Stryker meat plant and found the dead body.

After he'd vented his anger about his partner's lack of assistance, and his overall demeaning treatment of him, Starsky seemed weary.

Hutch reached over and squeezed his friend's arm. "Don't let him get to you, Starsk. Why don't you request a new partner?"  

He shook his head. "Sometimes the devil you know is better than the one you don't," he resignedly replied with a shrug. "What I need to do is tackle the Sergeant exam." The thought was depressing. "Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll choke on a donut." Starsky's face lit up with feigned hope. The look elicited a chuckle from his blond friend.

"Maybe we could request each other for a partner," Hutch suggested.

Starsky shook his head again. "Tried that, remember? They won't let two greenhorns be partnered together. Gotta put in a few more years."

They both let out a simultaneous sigh. In time, perhaps they would work together.

*           *           *

That late afternoon found the pair at a bar, surrounded by friends. The first to join them was an amiable man, a year younger than the two cops. Short in stature, he wore his light brown hair long, down to his waist. He had Bassett hound eyes and a long nose, but beneath his mustache was a warm smile to match his gentle and kind manner. His name was Gino, but most of his friends referred to him affectionately as "Flower Pot". Flower Pot had never actually held a permanent address, but seemingly lived off of the kindness of others, instinctively moving on just before his welcome was worn out. His job history was just as varied and short-lived as his residences, but somehow he always managed to have enough money to make it through one more day. He was not a handsome man, yet popular with the ladies due to his easy smile, even temperament, and good nature. Dressed in a dashiki and rose-colored glasses, he walked in flashing his buddies a peace sign. He looked happily stoned, but then again, he always looked that way. Starsky had never witnessed him getting high, but he and Hutch assumed it was a constant practice for the cheerful man. They never asked, and he never volunteered to clear up the mystery.

"Flower Pot!" Starsky greeted him. "Good to see you! Where the hell you been?"  

Grinning, Gino took the beer offered by the cop. "Hey, man! I was up in Slo-Town with my ol' lady, visitin' her sister at Cal Poly. Good time, man. Those co-eds know how to party. How's it goin', Starsky?"

Starsky chuckled at his friend. Hutch had introduced them, and it still struck him as odd that the two were such close buddies. The long-haired, stoned hippie and the clean-cut cop. "It's going much better now that you're back." He slapped the short man on the back. "I need a dart partner. Hutch is kicking my ass, and I need to win back my hard-earned bread. You up to it?"

"Ho, ho! Sure thing, man. I'll give ya a hand. You and me will give Mr. All-American a run for his money. But if we win, you buy."

"I'll buy, Flower Pot, I'll buy," the brunet promised with a happy smile. Gino was the only one that Hutch could never beat at 21. Starsky could taste his winnings already.

Suddenly Hutch ran up and grabbed Gino from behind at the shoulders. "Flower Pot! Just the man I'm looking for! I need a dart partner, buddy!"

Gino shook his head. "Sorry, man, Starsky already asked me."

Hutch slouched in defeat. Then his head popped up. "Malo! Is he here yet?"

Gino shook his head again. "Not yet, Hutch. Maloney said he'd be a little late tonight. Looks like it will be you and Frankie against me and Starsky."

"Frankie's here?" Hutch brightened. He ran off to recruit the player for his side.

"Aw, Gino!" Starsky grimaced. "Ya shouldn't have told him Frankie was here!"

"Not to worry, man, not to worry! Even with Hutch as a partner, Frankie can't beat us. Relax!" He reached up to lay a hand on Starsky's shoulder. "You really ought to try yoga with me and Hutch, pal. You need to mellow out."

Laughing, Starsky backed away from Gino. "No way are you getting me into that! Bending yourself all up like a pretzel and chanting? Forget it. You and Blondie can play solo Twister if ya want, but count me out."

"Okay, okay!" Gino grinned good-naturedly. It was an old argument, and a subject they loved to harass each other about.

Frankie approached the two and threw his arm over Gino's shoulder. Frankie was not much taller than Gino, but he was solidly built and very athletic. He excelled at every sport he attempted, and was regarded as the best of the Bay City Police Department in martial arts, wrestling, softball and ping pong. He had a knack for turning everything into a competition, and proved to be a good sport. "Gentlemen! Ready for a little friendly game of darts?" Unlike Starsky and Hutch, who had changed into street clothes, Frankie still wore his uniform.

"Frankie, how come you're still wearin' your blues?" Starsky teased.

'Didn't have time to change, Starsk. I had to go pick up Flower Pot. I was working that stakeout with Cappella, and we didn't get out of there until a half hour ago." He shrugged. "Maybe the uniform will be popular with the ladies...."

"I offered to loan him a shirt," Gino joked, "but he turned me down! I don't get it!"

"I don't think your clothes go with my hair, Flower Pot," Frankie responded, rubbing his short locks and casting a wink at his friend.

"Come with me, Frankie," Starsky jerked his head toward the door. "I have a sweatshirt in my car that'll fit ya. You're gonna scare off the locals in this place wearing that uniform. We're here to have fun, not work!"

Frankie jogged after Starsky to get the offered shirt. They returned a short time later with a tall, red-haired man with clear blue eyes.

"Malo!" Gino shouted to their companion. "Good to see you, man! I was starting to feel a little outnumbered here!"

"Too many cops for you, Flower Pot?" Malo laughed. "No problem, pal, I'll keep ya company." The soft-spoken redhead held out his palm to Gino, who slapped it affectionately. "Just wait, there's a bunch more coming."

"More boys in blue?" Gino asked.

"I think half the BCPD, from the looks of it," Malo sighed. In spite of his complaints, he was quite fond of the men he spoke of.

Just as he spoke, several men filed in. They were in a jovial mood, crowding around Frankie and Starsky. Hutch walked up and said his hellos to his fellow co-workers. The five friends soon were routed to the back of the bar where the pool tables and dartboards were located.

"Hey, Hutch!" Gino called. "Where's your ol' lady tonight?"

Starsky whirled around so that his back was to Hutch, gesturing to Gino not to turn the conversation to Vanessa. Gino got the message, and when Hutch explained that she had to work, he let the topic drop. Later, when Hutch was out of earshot, Starsky explained to man that Vanessa and Hutch were not getting along these days.

"You know, Starsky," Gino said sadly, "I hate to say this, but I really don't care for that chick."

Starsky was taken aback. He never had heard Gino speak negatively about anyone before. Even this mild declaration seemed terribly shocking. "I have to agree with you, Flower Pot," he sighed. "I was thinking earlier that it was a shame that someone so beautiful could be so ugly inside."

"You think she's beautiful?" Gino seemed to be seriously considering this statement. He shook his head. "I don't see it, man. I just don't see it."

Starsky smiled at the man. He knew he was serious, and it pleased him. Gino was not a shallow man, and he probably didn't see any beauty at all in a person with no inner beauty.

Hutch walked up and placed a pitcher of beer on the table in front of Starsky and Gino.

"Flower Pot, now that you two have emptied my wallet, what do you say about teaming up with me and challenging the board?" Hutch asked hopefully.

Gino looked to Starsky, who nodded, indicating he was done with darts. "Sure, Hutch! Let's have some fun!" The pair went off to take the money from some poor unsuspecting dart players.

Starsky returned to the large group of BCPD's finest, hanging around the pool tables. Soon, a tall, lanky black man with almond eyes stepped up to him. He was wearing loud and colorful clothing that looked like it belonged on a pimp; a leopard print hat, with a jaunty purple feather, sat cockily on his head. He extended a hand to Starsky and introduced himself.

"Fine sir, allow me to introduce myself. I am Huggy Bear Brown, proprietor of this here humble establishment. I would like to welcome you and your thirsty friends to my place of business."

Taking an instant liking to the odd man with the singsong voice and the strange name, Starsky returned his hearty handshake. "Starsky. David Starsky. Nice to meet you, too. Huggy Bear, was it?"

"Huggy Bear it is," the man nodded. "I've seen you in here before, my man. Did you bring this collection of misfits in here with you?" He winked to assure no offense was intended.

"Yes, I did," Starsky admitted. "I came in last week and suggested the place to my friends at work."

"Ah, you are co-workers. And what line of occupation do you engage in?" Huggy asked.

Lowering his voice, Starsky explained, "We're cops, Huggy Bear. Most of us, anyway."

"Always glad to serve the boys in blue," Huggy responded. "In fact, my cousin is a policeman, too. Maybe you've heard of him. Name of Elmo Jackson. He's my second cousin by way of my mother's niece's old man."

Starsky's face lit up. "Sure!" he replied. "I've heard of him. Dobey and Jackson are detectives in my district. They both have quite a reputation!"

Huggy Bear smiled at the complimentary words about his relative. "Let me buy you a beer, Starsky." The two addressed the bar, and Huggy had a bottle brought to his new friend.

*           *           *

"Dobey, Jackson—my office!" came the crisp call for two of the BCPD's rising black detectives.

The two were a study in contrast, and the best of friends. Lieutenant Harold Dobey was tall, heavy-set and dark-skinned. His personality was brusque, yet jovial, and he had a commanding presence. Lieutenant Elmo Jackson was tall, reed-thin, with milk chocolate-colored skin and a long, thin nose. He was quiet and studious, yet his clothes and aura were flashy. You never heard Elmo enter a room, but you could feel it—the electricity jumped. The man never used his suave personality to take advantage of others, however. Harold was the more outspoken partner, yet he deferred to his best friend quite often.

Both men were honest, hard-working cops. Rising from the street during the days of the infamous L.A. riots during the mid-60s, and making a name for themselves in the aftermath, even receiving commendations from the mayor. The two had become fast friends. Even their wives were good friends, and Harold and Edith Dobey had decided that if the baby they were expecting was a little girl, they would name her after Rose Jackson.

Captain Hursh, a square-built German with bright white hair, stepped out of his office, calling again for his two most successful detectives. "Dobey, Jackson!" He looked around, not seeing either man. "Where are these two?" He pointed to their desks, asking Marion, the department's secretary, who was doing some filing, and whose responsibility it was to keep track of all the members of the precinct.

"I believe they went down to the cafeteria in search of some coffee."

"What the heck's wrong with the coffee I provide for the men? There's always plenty here!"

Marion told the gruff captain that no one wanted to take advantage of the Captain's special brew, when in reality no one could stand to drink the strong German coffee—Kronung.

"If they're not back up here in ten minutes, send someone down there to get them. I've got something I want to assign them."

The salt-and-pepper-haired woman nodded her agreement as the captain took one long look around his squad room to do a head check on his officers. "Heil, Hursh," she muttered under her breath. Most of his underlings called him Captain Nazi behind his back. He wasn't a harsh taskmaster, but he did expect things to run smoothly and executed with precision, from his personal life to his job. Dobey and Jackson were two of his favorite cops because they did everything by the book, even though Jackson could sometimes be impertinent in his dealings with suspects and with his superiors.

The 'dark duo,' as they were known to those officers who were jealous, walked back into the squad room within a few minutes of Captain Hursh's query, a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, and a mid-morning breakfast snack in the other.

"Good thing you're back, you two. Captain Nazi's looking for you. Says he has something for you. I'm guessing by his mood it's a hot one."

"Hope it's something interesting, it's been pretty slow around here," remarked Elmo to Harold's snort of acknowledgement.

They set their food items on their desks, and then knocked at Captain Hursh's door and waited for his permission to enter.

"You got something for us, Captain?" Neither man sat down as the captain preferred to have his men stand at attention while addressing them.

"Have," the captain stressed the correct word.  "I have something for you, Jackson. I keep telling you if you want to move up in this job, you have to start using the Queen's English. And it's especially important for someone of your, um, background."

Harold threw a look at his partner. In a sotto voice he muttered, "He means we have to work twice as hard and be twice as presentable because we're black."

Hursh tossed a manila envelope on his gunboat-gray metal desk at the two waiting detectives. "Two nights ago, Officers Wilcox and Starsky from the 10^th found the body of the man listed in the file," he nodded his head at the object, "in a meat-packing plant on Fourth."

Elmo picked up the file and skimmed through the crime scene report. Also included was the preliminary coroner's report, and arrest report for the deceased. "Name was Arthur Cranberg, miscellaneous convictions for drug trafficking, DWIs, and public nuisance," the tall, thin detective recited. "Death resulting from blood loss and severe shock due to knife wounds to the neck and wrists.  Time of death, between 11 p.m. and 2:30 a.m. Tuesday night, Wednesday morning." He looked up from the file. "What's so special about this one, Captain? We usually deal in drug trafficking and related homicides."

"Because Mr. Cranberg was being primed by Lt. Donner as a snitch to get the goods on Neville Stryker. And I don't want to give it to Donner and Craddock because I need someone to go under in Stryker's circle. If Stryker or one of his goons took out Cranberg because they suspected he was about to spill the goods on Stryker's drug running, then Donner and, by association, Craddock, are too susceptible."

"What are your plans?" asked Dobey.

"I found out that Stryker's going to need a new bookkeeper because his current guy just got busted for his tenth DWI, and this one caused injuries to a third party, so he's at County until his sentencing. He's not gonna be able to get out of this one, but we were able to promise him a reduced sentence at a halfway house facility and alcohol rehab counseling, in return for his positive recommendation and introduction of his out-of-work buddy, 'George Johnson'. 'George' was recently fired by HandR Block due to his passion for betting on the horses while at work," Hursh added the cover they had concocted.

"What's to keep this guy from squealing to his boss from jail?" Dobey asked flatly.

"Persuasion. And a promise to revoke his cushy little five-year term to the maximum of ten years in a hard-knock prison like Folsom."

"What about Harold?" Elmo referred to his partner, automatically staking his claim on that cover.

Dobey put up a large, thick palm. "Whoa, who gave you authority to take this cover? I'm the senior partner."

"Harold, if there's the slightest risk, you know I can't let you take it. You have a wife, a son, and a baby on the way. It makes for sense for me to handle it. Besides, I was the one with an accounting minor in college." He smirked at his best friend.

"So damn what! Because I have kids, and you only have a wife, that makes you expendable?"

Hursh interrupted their quibbling. "I don't care which of you takes it. Make up your mind and let me know."

Elmo turned back to face their captain, effectively finishing the argument with Harold. "You said you wanted both of us under. Since I'm taking 'George Johnson,' what do you have planned for Harold?" he asked again.

"We're trying to get a line on any openings in the plant itself. We're pretty sure that's where the drugs are being run through, so any evidence pinning Stryker to the drug running base would mean extra points for the D.A. in getting a conviction, in addition to the murder charge. Work out the details, then let me know. I'm going to meet up with the bookkeeper to get the name of an intermediary for 'George Johnson' to go through to Stryker," Captain Hursh said, effectively dismissing the men.

As they sat back down at their respective desks, Elmo threw a wadded up muffin wrapper at his partner. "Hey, who were you calling black back there, Mr. Coffee? I'm chocolate. Delicious, and milky sweet."

Without looking up from his desk, with a tone he would use far too much in the future, Dobey snarled, "Can it, Jackson." 

*           *           *

"Charlie 3, Charlie 3, come in," the disembodied voice of the police dispatcher called for Officers Huntley and Hutchinson over the police radio.

"Charlie 3 here," answered Hutch.

"Reports of shots fired at 16th and Broadview. Please respond."

"10-4 Dispatch. Charlie 3 responding." Hutch replaced the mike back on the handle and turned on the overhead Mars lights, while his partner maneuvered their vehicle into the side lane to turn down the next street for quick access to the location.

It was unusual for assorted shots to be fired in their precinct. The 7th district was a mostly residential area with some small businesses and stores. It had the usual drug deals, muggings and an occasional murder or rape, but most of the illegal activities that went down were robberies or traffic incidents.

Once the two officers arrived, they saw the source of the shots: a single male waving a gun around diving and ducking civilians. The man's hair was dirty brown and hung loosely down to his shoulders. He was wearing an ankle-length olive-green coat, green khakis, a black t-shirt, and a bandana tied loose around his neck. Screaming obscenities, he twirled around in circles and pointed the gun at various imaginary objects. He got off another shot before Hutch's partner caught his attention.

"Stay put and call for back up; I think we got a vet gone crazy," Luke Huntley whispered to his junior officer, as he put his hand on Hutch's shoulder to push him behind the panel of the squad car.

Luke took several steps toward the anxious, distraught man, but kept close to several vehicles sitting on the side of the road, in the event he needed cover. "It's okay, buddy, I'm a cop. I'm here to help you."

The hazel eyes looked warily at the officer addressing him. The arid smells of burning fields and gunfire surrounded him. Walking toward him was a broad-chested, thin-hipped man with sandy hair who had the look of an MP.  "MP?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm Sergeant Huntley. We're here to take over this village and relocate the inhabitants."

"We?"

"Me and my fellow guards. I'm expecting more," the sandy-haired cop told the vet, so he wouldn't be scared when more officers showed up.

"There's a Charlie around here. Hiding out in one of the huts." The confused man stuck his bare hand into one of the pockets of his coat and pulled out a transistor radio and spoke into it as if it were a walkie-talkie. Then he raised the gun again as he looked upward to the second floor of a yellow-brick building and aimed for one of the windows.

Luke took a few more steps closer and reached out an arm. "What's your name, buddy?"

That was enough to distract the vet briefly as he glanced at the 'MP'. "Private Mullin, sir. John Mullin."

All of a sudden, through the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of shiny black hair ducking down. It was Officer Lee, a rookie, stooping down to talk to Hutch behind the safety of a black and white. "Charlie!" Private Mullin yelled, firing the rest of his rounds while diving to the sidewalk.

Luke put his head down and rushed the falling vet, arms going around Mullin's to trap them down at the sides. Private Mullin fought like a wildcat at the officer pinning him down. Sergeant Keller, Lee's partner, came rushing up to help subdue Mullin while Luke placed the cuffs on him.

After the vet was securely cuffed, the two officers and their prisoner slowly sat back up to collect their breaths. Huntley looked toward the squad car for the two junior officers. "Hutch! Lee! You guys all right?"

"Yes."

"No," came a simultaneous response.

A head of black hair and a head of white blond popped up from the back panel, providing an interesting contrast with the black and white squad car. Officer Lee had a stream of blood running down the left side of his face, starting near the eyebrow. Hutch was trying to stem the trickle with a handkerchief he'd pulled from inside his pants pocket.

Keller shoved the mumbling and shaking Private Mullin toward Huntley, while he went to check on his partner. "You okay?"

"Yes, I said."

"No, he's not. He got grazed. He needs to be checked. No telling where that bullet's been—could've been covered in germs."

Keller agreed. "Call it in and log us off, will you?" he asked Hutch, then turned to his partner. "While I take you to Lincoln to have your scalp cleaned up."

Lee sighed. "I'm fine, I tell you. Maybe a little headache."

"Anytime an officer gets injured on the job, he has to report to the E.R. It's SOP, you know that, Lee," said Keller as he helped his partner stand and looked beneath the handkerchief to check out the wound.

"You've got to go fill in the report. Let me take Lee," replied Hutch.

Luke nodded his ascent, their shift was almost over anyway. "We'll meet you back at the precinct." So the two senior officers who were involved in subduing the shooter stayed and finished writing the witnesses accounts, while Hutch took his and Luke's squad car to Lincoln to get Lee treatment.

In the meantime, Starsky was trying to get a hold of his buddy to find out what his plans were for the weekend. First he called Dispatch, and upon being told that Charlie 3 was on stand-down, he called the precinct and got a temporary secretary, filling in for the sick Marion.

"Hey, Hutch there?"

"Pardon me? Who is this?" asked the confused girl.

"Who's this? This is Officer Starsky. Is Ken Hutchinson there?"

"This is April, I'm filling in for Marion today. Uh, Hutchinson you said?"

"Yeah, Hutchinson, Ken, Officer," reiterated an impatient Starsky.

"Uh, just a minute."  Starsky heard the clatter of the phone receiver being placed down on the table while April looked up Hutch's whereabouts. She came back on in a few minutes. "He's at Lincoln."

"Hospital?"

"No, Nebraska. Of course, Lincoln Hospital. Gunshot wound to the temple or something."

"What?! Are you sure?"

"That's what it says here on the log sheet."

"Damn!" He slammed down the receiver, jumped off his couch and bounded down the stairs to his GTO, roaring the engine and squealing the wheels before his door was closed. He wasn't due to report for another a couple of hours, but if Hutch was seriously hurt, he was calling in sick. Can't depend on Vanessa to take care of him. Vanessa! I wonder if they called her? Oh, well, if not, I'll get a hold of her from the hospital once I know how he is.

Driving as fast as he could stretch the limits, it still took the curly-haired cop 35 minutes to reach Lincoln Hospital. Unfortunately, the only place to park was in the garage attached to the hospital. It took him another five minutes to find a spot and rush down to the Emergency Room on the first floor.

Breathless, he rushed up to the triage nurse. "Hutchinson, Ken Hutchinson? How is he?"

"Excuse me, sir? Are you looking for someone?" asked the calm nurse in a crisp white dress.

"Yeah, my best friend. He's a cop. I was told he took a shot to the...a head wound," gulped a nervous Starsky, hoping they would let him back to see his friend.

She directed her arm to the right. "Why don't you go have a seat in the waiting room? I'm sure someone will be with you soon."

"No, they won't! They don't even know that I'm here."

Glaring at him, indicating she would accept no further argument, the nurse pointed her pen again toward the stark blue and white waiting area next to the triage room.

Realizing he wasn't going to get any further with the woman, Starsky morosely followed the nurse's directions. I hope Huntley's here. Maybe he can tell me what's happening. Starsky began to look for Hutch's partner.

Instead of seeing Huntley, Starsky saw a flash of bright blond in the back, by the children's play area. Walking back there, he was surprised to see his best friend still in his uniform, sitting on the floor playing with Matchbox cars with a little boy around five years of age.

"Hutch?" His face paled at the sight.

Hutch was equally surprised to see Starsky there. "Starsk? What are you doing here?"

"I was told you got shot—in the head."

"Huh? Who told you that?" He paused for a moment. "Oh, you mean Lee. It's just a crease. I brought him in to make sure he was taken care of."

Starsky's hand met his forehead. "Stupid girl. I called to see what you were doing this weekend and the girl on the phone, April or May—some month—told me that you had a gunshot wound to the head and you were at Lincoln." Shoulders shaking from the rush of adrenaline, he groped for a chair, his breath coming shallow and quick.

"Starsk, you okay? You look sick buddy."

Starsky's hand now smoothed the worry lines in his face. "Yeah, I'm fine. I was worried, okay? How's Lee?"

"He'll be fine. They gave him a shot and bandaged his wound. I'm gonna take him home before I head on back to the precinct. He's got quite a headache."

"Why don't I take him home? He lives in Chinatown, right? That's on my way to work. I'll just go in a little early."

"You go in early? That must be a first."

"Well, this way, I can get an hour or so in without having to deal with Wilcox."

*           *           *

The next morning, after stopping off at Amy Joy's for a coffee and donut, Starsky turned his GTO toward Hutch and Vanessa's. He'd had another troublesome evening, but this time it was mostly due to his still being wired over the brief fear regarding Hutch's supposed injury.

Knocking several times with no answer, Starsky tentatively tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, so he opened the door a crack and stuck his curly head through it. "Hutch! Hey, Hutch! You here?"

The sound of running water told him that one of the two occupants of the small home was in the shower. Like usual, Starsky made himself at home, completing his routine of removing his shoes, loosening his uniform, rummaging through the fridge for something to eat and drink, plopping up on the counter, and eating his breakfast.

Several minutes later, the water stopped, and a blow dryer turned on. Starsky knew then that Vanessa was the one in the shower. He figured Hutch was probably out for his morning run.

Brushing her thick, dark long hair, Vanessa came from the bathroom and began to go down the hallway into her bedroom. Hearing sounds coming from the kitchen, she froze; grabbing a bronze knick-knack from the shelf in the hallway to use as a weapon, she crept toward the kitchen.

Seeing the curly-haired friend of her husband sitting on the counter, she dropped the figure on the Formica table, making a hard bang and startling the man.

"Starsky," she whipped out like a lash, "don't you have a home of your own? And who gave you permission to just walk in here?"

"Hutch," he mumbled with his mouthful of donut and rootbeer.

Vanessa turned to the refrigerator to grab some juice. "That's disgusting. And get your ass off my counter. No telling what's on there now."

He hopped down. "You're right. Probably have to wash the pants again this week." He knew she meant the counter, but he liked to taunt.

Dumb Neanderthal, she thought.

He flashed a smile, knowing exactly what she was thinking and knowing it bugged her that her names didn't get to him.

"Keep your ass off my eating surfaces and your hands off my stuff. I'm going to get changed. I'm sure Ken will be back soon."

Starsky paced back and forth in the kitchen, finishing the can of Shasta Rootbeer that Hutch had generously bought for him. He was sick of drinking Vanessa's diet sodas. And there was no way he'd drink any of Hutch's concoctions.

Tossing the can in the garbage, he headed for the bathroom. Just as the door closed behind him, Hutch came home all sweaty and damp from his morning run.

Vanessa was putting the finishing touches on her outfit for work when her husband came into the bedroom.

"Morning," he mumbled to her.

"Your sleazy friend's here again. Why don't you tell him to find his own place?" she said, greeting her husband as she tossed back her long dark hair and threw a white leather purse over her shoulder before going out the door. She stopped and turned around mid-way. "Oh, I'm going out tonight, so don't expect any dinner on the table when you get home from work."

"I'm off today," Hutch explained to his retreating wife, but whether she heard, he didn't know, as Vanessa didn't acknowledge his response.

Starsky heard the voices from down the hall and decided to wait until Vanessa left before exiting. Once he heard the door slam, he opened the bathroom door and peeked down the hallway.

Hutch was walking toward him. "Starsky...she's gone, you can come out now." His best friend didn't fool him.

"You oughta be a detective, Hutch," smiled Starsky.

All of a sudden the front door slammed again, reverberating loudly in the sparsely furnished white living room. "Ken!" screamed a shrill voice from the same direction.

"Damn," whispered Starsky. "Though the bi...uh, lady was gone."

Hutch walked back to the front of the house before Vanessa could cause an even bigger scene. "What's wrong, you okay?"

"My damn car won't start! You'll have to take me to work." She brushed back long strands from her face. "I can't believe I have to ride in your piece of shit. What if anyone sees me?"

"Yeah, I tell myself the same thing all the time."

Dark brown hair whipped around as Vanessa faced Starsky and pointed a well-manicured long finger at him. "Don't even think to suggest that we have something in common."

Have something in common with this cold-hearted bitch? God forbid.

Hands flew up in submission at the look Hutch gave him. Please, buddy, don't start.

"Let me take her to work and then I'll be back and we can...whatever..."

Vanessa's nose wrinkled up. "Oh, no, you're not taking me to work until you shower. I refuse to sit next to you and having you overpower my perfume."

"But you'll be late."

"Tough, I'd rather be late than smell like you."

Geez, Hutch, how the hell'd you ever marry her and live with her this long? "Hey, Van," Starsky said innocently, calling the thin woman by the nickname she refused to give Starsky permission to use, "did Hutch tell you he almost got killed yesterday?"

Blue eyes flashed a glare at him.

"What?" he asked befuddled. "For a woman who could've lost her husband yesterday, she's sure acting like she can't stand to breathe the same air as ya."

Vanessa looked from one man to the other. "What happened yesterday?"

"Nothing, Starsky's being overly dramatic. Another officer got grazed in the temple by a crazed gunman, but he's okay."

"Overly dramatic, huh? When I called the precinct, they told me you had a gunshot wound to the temple! Hell, you were shoulder to shoulder with the guy—it could've just as easily been you. Another couple of inches and it could've been bye-bye sugar daddy for Van."

Hutch grabbed him by the arm and growled lowly, "I'm gonna take a shower now. Will you please try to be polite until I get out? Or am I gonna have to cuff you both so I don't have a crime scene on my hands when I get done?"

"I'll behave, I promise. Boy Scout's honor." And Starsky held up three fingers, using the age-old symbol.

Starsky left the small house and waited outside for Hutch and Vanessa to leave, smoking a cigarette as he paced back and forth. Vanessa refused to allow him to smoke in the immaculate home. He waved as the two left ten minutes later. "I'll just wait right here," he promised, chuckling at the glare he received from the dark-haired woman.

*           *           *

Thirty-five minutes later, Hutch pulled his beat-up pewter-colored 1965 Lincoln Continental onto the blacktop driveway. Starsky was still outside, enjoying the brisk February morning air and on his third cigarette.

Hutch noticed the small pile in the ashtray on the tray-table on the porch. "Hey, buddy, don't you think you should cut back there? Soon you're not going to be able to chase the bad guys."

"I'm still worked up over yesterday."

"Yesterday?" It took Hutch a second before he realized that Starsky was talking about his worry over his friend's condition. He placed a large hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Starsk, I'm fine. Why are you so worked up over this? Everything turned out okay, even Lee, though he'll have one heck of a headache for several days."

"I know we've been pretty lucky so far, but someday, Hutch, one of us is going to get hurt. I didn't like the way it felt when I thought it was you." He paused. "And that, that...wife of yours didn't even care. The only flicker of emotion from her was when I mentioned that she would have to give up her dream of gettin' her hands on the Hutchinson family money."

"I know you don't like her, Starsky, and doesn't she like you, either. But you're both an important part of my life. I don't like the friction between you two. Please, for my sake, try not to antagonize her. Don't think I don't know that's what you were doing."

Starsky flashed him a smile. "Sure, Blondie. For you, anything." He threw an arm over Hutch's shoulder as they walked into the house. "So, what you wanna do today?"

*           *           *

Detective Elmo Jackson was fully immersed in his cover of George Johnson. He sat at his desk in Stryker's meat plant, pouring over the books. This could be the key we're looking for! He spotted incongruity within the ledgers. It was subtle, but existed, nonetheless. They're keeping two sets of books! The realization was not so much a shocker, but the fact that they would allow it to be detected, was. Stryker was known for covering his ass meticulously. This was a careless mistake. The alcohol problem the previous bookkeeper struggled with must have been affecting more than just his driving abilities. Elmo smiled at his find. It would be a while before he could pass the information on to his partner or his captain, but he would find a way to contain his glee until then.

He studied the books and wondered if he should present the information to his 'boss,' Stryker. It was possible that if he could enlighten Stryker to the slip-up, he might be rewarded by being privy to the second set of books. He wondered if Stryker himself was the sole caretaker of those financial ledgers. Finding these true ledgers could be the evidence they needed to put Stryker and his cohorts away.

Closing the ledgers, Elmo rubbed absently at his eyes. He had been at this for several hours, and was sorely in need of some caffeine. At least the coffee here is good. He headed out of his office toward the coffeepot. Pouring himself a cup of the strong brew, he glanced around the plant, hoping to catch a glimpse of Harold, his partner. He had only seen him briefly in the few days he had been here. It was frustrating to feel his partner's presence, yet not be witness to it. He wanted the reassurance that Harold was safe, and the ability to preserve his safety if the need arose. Squelching his desire to wander around the plant in search of him, Elmo sighed and made the tired effort to return to his accounting work. In his distracted state, he almost collided directly with Penny, Stryker's intellectually-challenged receptionist.

"Hiya, Mr. Johnson!" the young girl squealed with far too much enthusiasm. Her whiney voice offended Elmo's ears.

"Hello, Penny," he managed to respond. He even managed to give her a gentle smile as he watched her prance off in the opposite direction. He thanked his lucky stars he didn't have to share a workspace with that annoying bundle of energy. Still, she was someone to keep on your good side. She may have a wealth of valuable evidence and information stored away in that empty head of hers, even if she had no idea it was there. As Stryker's receptionist, there was no telling what she had seen or heard.

Returning to his desk, he pulled out his handkerchief and buried his face in it. Rose had slipped it to him before he left for work this morning, and he smiled to discover that she had dabbed a little of her perfume on it. He had been complaining of the awful stench in the plant for weeks, and this was her little way of giving him respite. Prior to this assignment, he had never been exposed to the acrid smell of rotting animal flesh in such volume. The atmosphere of this facility was barbaric enough with the slaughtering and butchering of the livestock, but the processing of the hides and the less desirable portions of the animals was a nauseating and foul-smelling enterprise. Death and decomposition greeted him every morning when he came to work. I'd rather be fighting death and slaughter, than surrounding myself with it. He took another whiff of the precious handkerchief before returning it to his pocket, making a mental note to show Rose his appreciation when he got home tonight.

*           *           *

Across the plant, Harold was having a harder time of it. Working in shipping was turning out to be a back-breaking burden. He was finding muscles he had forgotten existed. Of course, Edith was delighted with his changing physique. At least there was some benefit to the physical torture. His pants were falling loosely to his hips, yet his shirts were becoming snug across the chest and around the arms. Looking in the mirror this morning had brought a smile to his face. There was a slight resemblance to a much younger Harold Dobey. Edith had laughed to see him flexing his muscles like a weight lifter, but she also persuaded him to forfeit his breakfast in order to have more time in bed with his eager, glowing, pregnant wife.

Now Harold was drenched in sweat and aching all over, carrying boxes from the conveyor belt to the truck and handing them up to Steve, who resembled a twenty-year-old lumberjack.

Steve jumped down from his position at the back of the truck and patted Harold on the back. "Take a break, Rod. I'll cover ya for five."

Harold, or Rod, as he was known in the plant, yanked a crate off the conveyor and sat down on it, wiping his face with the rag that hung from his back pocket. "Thanks Steve," he nodded gratefully to the youth. He just needed to end the physical monotony of it for a moment. Steve smiled in return, hauling the boxes away as if they contained nothing but toilet paper. The kid had been extra kind to him since Edith started sending cookies in his lunch pail, which he generously shared with the lad.

Not bothering to take advantage of the full five minutes Steve had offered, Harold jumped in and returned to the task at hand. He silently prayed Elmo was having better luck with his undercover work, because he had seen little on his end to raise an eyebrow. Come on, Elmo, find something, will you? Make all this hard work worth it.

*           *           *

Steve watched Rod out of the corner of his eye. He admired the man's fortitude. There was no denying the man was sore. You could see it in his face and in the slow and controlled movements of his arms and legs. Yet he continued on and on as if stopping even for a few minutes would be unthinkable. When the older man came to work there, he thought the boss had made a mistake, that this guy would never be able to carry his weight. He had been very wrong. Steve felt guilty about misjudging Rod, and tried to help him out by giving him a breather here and there, but the man rarely took him up on his offer, and when he did, it was only momentary. It was a wonder why he put himself through this. Rod seemed smart enough to be working at a cushier job. Perhaps it was the money that kept him in manual labor. This job did pay pretty well. And had the potential of paying the really big bucks, if one was ambitious, and discreet.

"Hey, Rod," Steve grunted as he tossed a carton onto the truck. "Why do you put yourself through this?"

"Think I can't handle it, Steve?" Rod tossed back teasingly. "Think I'm too old for this game?"

The younger man blushed. "No, you do fine, just fine. I just think you're too smart for this. You could be a foreman or something."

"No foreman jobs open," Rod shrugged.

"You do this for the money?" the kid asked.

Rod sighed. "Sure. Don't you? I got a wife, kid, and another on the way. This job pays better than most out there."

Steve stopped for a moment. "You interested in making a little overtime?"

The darker head popped up. This could be an opportunity. "Maybe. Whatcha got in mind?"

"Sometimes there's work after hours, if you're interested. Next time I get asked, I'll recommend you. Could put a few more bucks in your wallet."

"You do that, Steve." Harold nodded appreciatively. "Thanks."

*           *           *

Hutch looked up from the report that had him hunched over a typewriter to see Starsky's crooked grin waiting to catch his attention. "Starsk!" he exclaimed at the pleasant surprise. "What brings you out at this hour? Insomnia?"

His friend pulled out an empty chair across from Hutch and sat on the back of it with his feet on the seat. "Naw. I got up earlier to see if you could stand some company. You busy?"

"No! Not busy at all. Should we grab Frankie, too? He was talking about this new Mexican joint that opened down the road. Supposed to have terrific burritos."

Starsky's eyes opened wide. "You eat burritos now? All that time at the academy you gave me flack for eatin' that stuff and now you have it for dinner?"

Hutch laughed. "Frankie says they have salads, too. You eat the burritos. I'll stick to the healthier fare."

Understanding returned to his friend's face. "Sure, let's grab Frankie. It'll be like old times."

Frankie wandered up behind Starsky, not realizing whose back he was behind. "You ready for some lunch, Hutch?"

Starsky turned and threw an arm around the other officer. "Ya wanna make that a threesome, Frankie? I hear you found a new burrito supplier."

"Starsky! Didn't see ya there, pal! Sure, let's hit the new place. Hutch, you want to ask Luke along?"

Hutch shook his head. "Luke had other plans tonight. It'll just be the three of us."

Frankie turned his attention back to Starsky. "I heard about you finding that body back at the meat plant. O'Conner and Taylor told me that when they came on the scene for backup, you were in there alone and Worthless Wilcox was out snarfing donuts in the black-and-white, lettin' you do all the work."

Starsky's smile faded. "Naw, OC and Taylor got it wrong, Frankie. I asked Wilcox to go to lights to flag them down. I figured they'd never find us out there without it. We had already cased the joint and knew there was no one else in the building. No need for us both to sit in there pickin' our noses. He had just gotten to the car when they arrived at the scene."

The other officer smiled. "Glad to hear it, Starsk. Don't let the guy push ya around, all right? He'll take advantage of you if you give him half a chance."

"I can manage him." Starsky waved him off.

When Frankie's attention was elsewhere, Hutch raised an eyebrow at his friend. Starsky gave an almost imperceptible shrug in response. Hutch laid a hand on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. The three headed out the door for dinner.

*           *           *

After they had finished their meals, Frankie headed for the men's room, leaving Starsky and Hutch alone at the table.

"Starsk, how come you lied to Frankie about Wilcox? He didn't help you case the joint. He never even set foot in the building."

Starsky looked at him with earnest eyes. "He's my partner, Hutch." As if that simple statement explained all that need to be explained.

Hutch smiled. Starsky's loyalty to his partner was unbreakable, in spite of Wilcox's lousy treatment of him.

Frankie rejoined the group and they made their way back to 7th. Lunch had gone quickly, so they had a little time to chat before their break was over. The threesome hovered around Hutch's desk, planning their next outing to Huggy Bear's place. Luke had returned from his dinner break as well, and enjoyed watching the younger men banter about their dart competitions.

"I'm telling ya, Starsk. I've been practicing all week, and I think we can take you and Flower Pot," Frankie boasted with a smile.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," a strange voice boomed from behind. The men all turned to see a tall, wiry man with thick glasses and a portfolio in his hands.  Once he had their undivided attention, he asked, "Is one of you Officer Kenneth Hutchinson?"

All eyes turned to Hutch, who stood up and approached the stranger. "I'm Officer Hutchinson," he replied, offering his hand. The man did not shake it. Confused, Hutch withdrew the hand and asked, "Is there something I can help you with?"

The man whipped open his portfolio and pulled out a large manila envelope. "This is for you," he stated in a clipped voice.

"What is this?" Hutch asked confused. He turned the envelope over to see if there was an address on it.

"Divorce papers," the voice boomed again, short and succinct. "Consider yourself served." With that, the wiry man turned on his heel and marched out of the precinct.

Shocked, Hutch just stared at the envelope in his hands.

Starsky leapt to his feet and was at Hutch's side. "Hutch, you okay?" he asked his friend, a comforting hand squeezing his shoulder.

Hutch nodded. "Yeah, Starsk." He looked at Starsky, the hurt and pain visible in his eyes. "I'm fine. I could see this coming. I just didn't expect it today, not so soon." His gaze returned to the offending envelope in his hands.

Starsky realized the normally bustling precinct had become deathly quiet, and all eyes were on his friend. One by one, he stared down the prying eyes with his angry, piercing glare. Quickly the onlookers returned to their desks with an attempt to look busy.

With a sympathetic pat on the back, Frankie quietly said, "I'm sorry, Hutch," and walked off to give his friend some privacy.

Pulling the envelope from Hutch's fingers, Starsky tossed it onto his desk. With subtlety, he steered him to the coffee pot. Luke had already poured Hutch a cup and handed it to him as he approached.

Tasting the hot beverage seemed to break Hutch from his thoughts and he turned to Starsky. "Do you think you could stop by after work tomorrow morning?" he asked.

"You got it," Starsky nodded. "I'll bring the donuts. You supply the root beer."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Hutch's mouth at the thought of the absurd breakfast his pal described.  "Sounds good, buddy."

Starsky looked to Luke with pleading eyes. He did not want to leave his friend, but knew they would have to return to their shift and be out on the street in a moment, and Starsky was due at his precinct.

Luke understood his concern and gave the younger man a knowing wink and a nod. He would watch out for his partner.

Starsky let out a resigned sigh and nodded his appreciation. He grabbed Hutch in an unexpected hug, slapping him on the back a few times for good measure. "We'll handle this, buddy," he said quietly. He hesitated a moment, then left his friend in the watchful care of his considerate partner.

In the parking lot, Starsky slid into the seat of his car. He gripped the steering wheel with whitened knuckles and thought of Hutch's wife. "Damn her!" he shouted at no one, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. He started the car, and tore out of the parking lot, wheels screeching. He was halfway to his precinct before he had his anger and his driving under control.

Lost in thought and still seething inside, he stormed past the front desk. The officer on duty yelled his name several times before he actually heard it, and he returned apologetically to find out what he wanted.

"I have a message for you, Officer Starsky," the man explained, handing him a slip of paper.

Reading the paper, Starsky felt the relief pour over him. It was a message from Luke.

At least Hutch wouldn't be alone.

*           *           *

 "Mr. Stryker?" sounded Penny's sing-song voice in her boss's office. "Mr. Johnson is here to see you." She giggled through the intercom box on the large desk.

"Send him in, send him in," he returned, slapping his hands together over the napkin on the desk.

Elmo, AKA 'George Johnson,' walked into the plush orange-and-vanilla-colored room, carrying a set of financial books and papers. The carpeting was an orange and rust shag, with the fabric on the chairs and couch a vanilla color shot through with the same orange and rust threads. Light rust-shaded paneling covered three-quarters of the walls, with the wall behind Stryker consisting mostly of a large picture window filled with plants. Neville Stryker himself could've passed for a white cousin of Elmo's, dressed as he was in a tan suit with a brick-red shirt and a thick brown tie threaded through with orange.

Also in the room was Stryker's right-hand man, Matt Rodgers, leaning against the bar.

"Cheese and crackers?" Stryker offered his new bookkeeper some of the largess on the napkin in front of him with a wave of his hand.

"No thank you, Mr. Stryker." 'George' continued to stand in front of the short-statured, yet powerful man.

Neville removed the napkin from his collar and folded up the one on the desk and set the snack aside. "Have a seat, Mr. Johnson. How are you finding it here?"

"I really appreciate this opportunity, Mr. Stryker. Sometimes it's hard to find a good position regardless of your abilities."

Stryker was in a jovial mood, he'd just had his little snack of dairy, he was pleased that the new bookkeeper was working out, and he had a little rendezvous set up with his current mistress for that evening.

'George' sensed his boss' good mood and wanted to take advantage and get on the boss's good side with the revelations that his old bookkeeper, Robert Steele, had slipped up several times and made notations in the 'official' books about references to another set of hidden financials.

"Well, George—do you mind if I call you George?" Not waiting for an answer, Neville continued, "How did you determine that there was a problem with the books?"

Opening the first set of books, dated 1968, 'George' showed his boss how each and every entry corresponded to a matching invoice and/or statement, either banking or billing. Everything was strictly connected to the meat packing plant.

The next set of books, 1969, showed some slip-ups. There was an inordinate amount of interest that had been recorded, more than the net balance should have earned. There were few corresponding bank statements to back up the entries. Yet the quarterly tax estimates for 1969 for the Stryker Meat Processing Plant didn't correspond to either set of numbers. 'George' had placed a call to the tax accountant who was currently preparing 1970's taxes and he acknowledged that he was also missing some K-1 and 1099 information. But of course, tax season was still early and he would forward all that to Mr. Johnson once it became available.

'George' also found income generated and posted for several unknown sources. "Are there some private capital holdings or limited partnerships that the meat plant has an investment in?" It was not unusual, or technically illegal, for wealthy people to shelter their private monies through their businesses. 'George' was pretty sure the income in question was coming from drug trafficking, but he needed to act like he was unaware of the side business Neville Stryker was involved in.

Reviewing the places that 'George' pointed out in the books, Stryker was impressed by the younger man's perception in such a short time of the increasingly sloppy work that Steele had done in maintaining his financial books. Yes, Stryker was concerned about bottom lines, but he realized he had been overconfident by placing everything in Steele's hands and not overseeing them himself.

"I really don't like to be bothered by particulars. How do I believe what you're alleging? Robert Steele has been my personal friend for many years."

"I suggest that you hire an outside auditor to confirm my views and to review for all future transactions. This way you'll know that I or anyone else handling the financials can be trusted."

Stryker pulled himself up from behind his desk and walked slowly to the bar. "Can I get you something to drink, George? A White Russian, perhaps, or just a plain scotch and soda?"

"Rum and coke, please," 'George' said to keep up appearances and not offend Stryker.

Stryker made the drink, along with a White Russian for himself. Handing it to the seated undercover detective, he asked if George would excuse them for a minute. Then Stryker and Rodgers exited the office into an anteroom.

"What do you think?" Neville asked his right-hand man. "Can he be trusted?"

"Well, he checked out fine. And he's a friend of Robert's cousin. He obviously knows what he's talking about."

"Should I have him take a look at the other books?" Neville took a sip of his drink.

"He doesn't have to know where the other money came from. In fact he gave us a good idea to set up a dummy L.P. to run the coke money through. It can be set up nice and legal."

"Okay—I'm partially convinced. Let's give him a shot and see how he handles it. No need to get into too many details. We can always bring him up to speed at a later date, if necessary."

Meanwhile Elmo was doing a cursory examination of Stryker's office, glancing at his schedule, looking over the bar, checking out the expensive furnishings and accoutrements. Sipping his drink and sitting back in the chair opposite Stryker's massive mahogany desk, Elmo only had to wait another minute before the other two men came back in.

"Mr. Johnson...George," began Stryker as he set his drink and himself back down, "I appreciate your bringing these, uh, discrepancies to my attention. I will take you up on your suggestion to have an outside auditor review them." He paused and pulled out a set of green ledgers. "You've given me reason to trust you. I have a, um, shall we say, private enterprise that I wish you to look at. Penny's been handling the basic accounting since Robert was arrested, but," he chuckled, "they could use someone of your expertise to maintain." Stryker pushed the ledgers over to 'George'.

'George' accepted the books without comment or questions, which gave Stryker confidence that the man would keep his mouth shut.

*           *           *

Arriving home after being served the divorce papers, Hutch found that Vanessa had already removed her personal belongings and some of the trinkets they'd purchased together—the more expensive ones.

Luke went into the kitchen to prepare coffee, while Hutch wandered through the house—caressing the bedspread, touching his plants, sniffing the air in the bathroom for a scent of Vanessa's Chanel #5.

When the coffee was ready, Luke went looking for his partner. Grabbing Hutch by the elbow, he led the shell-shocked man into the kitchen and pushed him down at the table, placing a cup of fresh coffee in front of him. "Drink. I told Starsky I'd stay with you until he got off duty. I already called my wife, so it's no problem. If you want to go lie down, I'll still be here."

"I...I don't think I can sleep right now. Especially not in there. You can sleep there, I'll just...I don't know, lie down on the couch, I guess." Hutch took another sip of the coffee and set the cup back down. "I think I need something a little stronger." But he made no effort to get up.

Luke didn't argue. It might be only way he can get some rest tonight. The large Irishman looked in the cupboards until he found some Canadian Club. Pouring some into a glass, he set both in front of the morose blond.

The next few hours, as the liquor took effect, Hutch went through most of the bottle and slowly opened up about his marriage. Finally, about 2 a.m., Luke gently pulled Hutch out of the chair and led him to the couch, placing a blanket over him. He turned on the radio in the kitchen on an adult contemporary station, just as soothing background music to lull Hutch to sleep.

Since Starsky was due to arrive in an hour and a half, Luke didn't try to fall asleep, but just relaxed in the Hutchinsons' queen-sized bed, thinking of his family and how lucky he was for such an understanding wife. He had met Vanessa Hutchinson a few times, and was not impressed with the dark-haired woman. He could not see how his quiet, intellectual and kind-hearted partner could've fallen for such a materialistic, grasping woman.

*           *           *

Hutch lay on the couch in the twilight between sleep and wake. Just as Starsky was pulling up to the front of the house, Carole King began singing over the radio:

Unable to tune out the words, tears began to well in his light-blue eyes and slide down his high cheekbones to settle on the purple throw pillow beneath his blond head.

Starsky walked in to see his friend lying on the couch, arm thrown over his face, chest heaving up and down rapidly. Starsky could tell that Hutch was crying. Hearing the song playing in the background, he immediately marched into the kitchen to turn the heartbreaking words off.

Luke heard Starsky come in and slowly got up. He filled the younger man in on Hutch's condition and patted Starsky on the shoulder and told him to "take care of Ken." The broad Irishman then left the two friends alone to go home and kiss his wife.

Starsky left his broken best friend where he was and grabbed the spare clothes he had picked up on his way over and went to take a shower. By the time he was done, he could tell by the even breathing that Hutch was asleep, so he went into the bedroom and lay down to try and catch a few winks himself.

*           *           *

After a few hours, Starsky awoke. Unsure of his surroundings, it took him some time to adjust and discern where he was. Remembering the room, and the circumstance that brought him there, he sat up and ran a hand over his face. The room was very feminine in its style, with lace and ruffles and roses adorning the bed linens and the curtains; white, apricot and jade. All Vanessa, he mused. It was then that he felt the seething anger cascade down on him again. How could she have the papers served to him at work?! It wasn't bad enough that she had to break his heart, she had to embarrass him publicly, too?

Suddenly it occurred to him. Van had the papers served at work because it was the one place she could be certain that Starsky couldn't be. She hated him, and wanted to be sure he wouldn't be there to offer his friend comfort or support. It was yet another attempt to push him aside. Didn't work, though, did it, Van? I'm here. He smiled grimly, not feeling happy inside. Unable to fall back to sleep and feeling uneasy about his friend, he absently grabbed a pillow and an afghan, and wandered out to the living room to check on Hutch.

Hutch was awake, staring up at the ceiling. He looked over to see his friend shuffle in, dragging a blanket and a pillow with him. He gave Starsky a sad grin. "You look like Linus from Peanuts."

In an amused response, Starsky tossed the blanket up over his shoulder. Hutch gave a small laugh.

"I can't sleep in there," Starsky complained, jerking his head toward the bedroom. "Too quiet." Hutch gestured to the opposite end of the long couch, and Starsky took up the position with his long legs stretched out alongside his friend's.  "You can't sleep, either?"

Hutch shook his head. "I guess I have too much on my mind," he replied morosely.

"Let's hear it." Starsky folded his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles.

"I was thinking about how badly I screwed up," Hutch said sadly. "I had everything I wanted, and I let it slip through my fingers. I had a beautiful wife, a decent home, a job I love—I had everything. I just couldn't make it work. I tried, but I failed. Now my wife has left me, I'll lose this house, and I'm not really sure how I failed."

"You were happy?" Starsky asked.

"Happy?" Hutch shook his head ruefully. "Come on, Starsk, this is not a fairy tale. No one lives happily ever after, you know. Sure we had some problems...."

"But you deserve a certain level of happiness, Hutch. I'm not saying that everything is perfect, or some kind of fairy tale, but you can't sit here and tell me that you were happy in your marriage to Van."

His statement was met with silence.

"You didn't fail, Hutch. Van failed you."

More silence.

"And losing this house isn't so terrible. It's a building, Hutch. That's all. This isn't a home. It's not your home. There is nothing of you in this place! It's a great place to show off Van's wonderful taste, but it isn't the kind of home you've always wanted. Hell, the home you always wanted was supposed to have the pitter patter of little Hutchies running around in it; lotsa love in it."

Still more silence.

"I know the future is a bit uncertain right now, but you aren't alone, ya know. We'll get through this," he shrugged. "It's a beginning. A new start."

The silence was starting to make Starsky nervous. He worried that he may have said something to upset his friend further. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, wishing he had just kept his mouth shut and let Hutch talk.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked softly.

"Yeah, pal?"

"Thanks."

The pair settled comfortably into the couch they shared and fell back to sleep.

*           *           *

Captain Mike Iron from 7th gave Hutch a couple days of leave to get his personal life and emotions under control.

"You gonna be okay by yourself tonight? Hutch?" Starsky tried to get his friend's attention.

"Yeah—I didn't get much sleep last night, so I'll probably fall asleep right away tonight. I need a good night's rest."

Starsky was pretty sure the blond wouldn't be able to sleep well, but there wasn't a lot he could do. He rubbed his friend's back, showing his support for how brave he thought Hutch was.

Hutch knew he wouldn't be able to afford keeping the small house, so he began looking for a place he could manage financially, yet still live in or near Venice Beach.

*           *           *

Two days after Stryker gave Elmo the financial books to his drug empire, Elmo was just about finished reviewing them. Included in the financial information were bank statements and details about wire transfers, including receipts. Man, I can't believe the sloppy paperwork. I wonder if Stryker is aware that that Steele kept all this. A lot of this is traceable information. He set aside the books for a moment and rubbed his temples. He'd been working a lot of overtime to break down the information. But the paperwork had to be copied. The Xerox machine was next to Penny's desk, so he had to be careful and only copy a little at a time when he had other items to copy. It made for a painstakingly slow process and while Captain Hursh was normally a patient man, he told Elmo when Elmo had checked in last that he wanted the case wrapped up ASAP. The captain didn't have a good feeling about this one.

Elmo had about a quarter of the information in the ledgers and financial books copied, but he hadn't turned them in yet. He wanted to have at least half copied before passing it off to Captain Hursh.

Elmo and Rose had an evening meal planned with Harold and Edith. The two partners had rarely seen or spoken to each other in the few weeks they'd been working undercover at Stryker's meat plant. Since they didn't have to work tomorrow as Stryker closed his plant on President's Day, this would be a nice relaxing evening in which they could unwind before getting together tomorrow to discuss the case.

*           *           *

At the back of the building, in the dock, Harold and Steve were taking their lunchbreak. The dock supervisor, a wiry, wizened man about 5'4" and 120 lbs, motioned for with a tilt of his head for Steve to come join him. Steven hopped off the wooden crate he was sitting on and followed the supervisor into the dock office.

A few minutes later, the young man came back out and re-joined Harold on the crate. They had about five minutes left on their lunch break.

"Whatcha doin' tonight and tomorrow, Rod?"

"Oh, not much. My wife set up dinner plans," the look on the large dark face made Steve chuckle, "and tomorrow we'll probably just take our boy to the park and have a picnic. What about you?"

"Oh, I got some things in the works." Steve said evasively.

"It's nice that Mr. Stryker closes the plant on non-important federal holidays."

"Well, Mr. Stryker has a lot of things going on, and sometimes he needs the break, too. He's a real good employer. 'Specially when you've shown your loyalty."

"If he treats his employees like this all the time, loyalty should be easy to come by. I mean it's hard work, but he seems to appreciate all everyone does." Dobey was referring to the frustrating fact that Stryker always made a point to walk through the plant. And never the same time each day.

The two finished their sodas and tossed the garbage into the can just outside the door on the dock porch.

During the rest of the afternoon, Steve would occasionally throw glances Harold's way, as if judging his allegiance to the job and the boss. Dobey was not unaware of the scrutiny and held his counsel, waiting for Steve to make his move.

*           *           *

Several hours later, during a break, Steve brought up the subject Harold had been hoping for ever since Steve mentioned the chance to do 'extra work'. "Rod, you remember how I said that sometimes there's the chance of earning some overtime?"

Continuing to haul the barrels of fat that were being disposed, and without looking up, Harold replied in the affirmative.

"Well, there's some extra shipment coming in tonight. We don't have to process it or anything, we just unload, count, take it to the meat stripping room, then wait while the processors finish, and reload it." Steve paused, thinking that the older man did have a family. "But it's most of the night, probably 10-2, so maybe you won't be interested in being away from the family then."

"Yeah?" Dobey stood up, twisting his back to work the kinks out. "That's not too long; and we do get the following day off." He pointed out.

"You interested? I told Mike that you might be, he said to feel you out, but let you know not to worry about your job if you don't feel like working the extra hours."

"I don't think my wife would have any problem with it. We could use the extra money with the new baby and all. 10 tonight?"

Steve broke into a grin. The more help he could get, the sooner they'd be done and the less chance they'd be caught by beat cops.

*           *           *

After dinner that evening, the men moved into the Dobeys' den, while Rose and Edith finished cleaning up, knowing that their husbands had work to discuss away from their wives. Calvin, the Dobeys' son, was upstairs working on a model airplane.

Making a quick call to their captain's home, Harold explained how Stryker expected a shipment late that night after the plant was closed and that he was asked if he wanted to earn a little extra money on the sly. Of course he accepted, and he hoped to get some evidence to make a bust or get a search warrant. Not only for the drugs, but also for more evidence of Arthur Cranberg's murder.

Captain Hursh promised backup, but Elmo wanted to be there also. Harold argued against it.

"You don't know what's going down," Elmo insisted. "Maybe you're being set up. You need someone closer than the black-and-whites."

"Steve's a good kid. He wouldn't be setting me up. I'm sure the exchange and repackaging of cocaine is going down tonight. Steve specifically mentioned taking the 'merchandise' into the meat stripping room. Which means, they probably ship the coke in the carcasses."

Over the phone, Captain Hursh agreed with Elmo. "I can't let you take the chance Harold. I want your partner there, too. But stay in the background, Jackson, around the perimeters of the building, and keep in contact with the backup at all times!" he sternly advised his junior lieutenant.

The captain explained that he couldn't provide warrants for any arrests or have the uniforms just rummaging through the crates without due cause. However, anything Dobey saw that night would give them just cause to go in and make arrests the next time a new late night shipment came in.

*           *           *

At 9:25 p.m., the men kissed their wives good-bye and got into Harold's car. Harold would drop Elmo off three blocks from the plant.

Once he arrived, just before 10 p.m., Harold quietly made his way back to the loading dock, where he was met by Mike, the dock supervisor; Steve; a couple of meat strippers and preparers he didn't know well, but recognized; and a driver he didn't know. There was a nondescript dark brown panel van with tan side stripes sitting near the dock.

"Hey, Rod." Steve walked over to greet his co-worker. Dobey felt bad about the possibility of having to eventually arrest the nice kid, but perhaps if Steve turned state's evidence, the lieutenant could work to help rehabilitate him.

"Steve, Mike." Harold nodded at the men, greeting the others in turn.

"Good of you to help us out, Rod. I'm sure Mr. Stryker will be pleased to know he has loyal employees."

"Steve here told me I'd get extra for helping out tonight?" Dobey went right to the heart of the matter. Money is what would be important to Rod Carlson, his undercover persona.

"Ah, yes, the money." Mike smiled fiercely, giving him the look of a ferret.

"Well, isn't that what we're all here for?"

"You'll be paid double-time for your hours tonight. Provided you say nothing to any of the others at the plant."

"Rod's real quiet. Like I told you, he just gets his job done and doesn't fraternize with anyone," Steve broke in to protect his friend.

Just then, a quiet honk and dimmer lights issued from a large vehicle and attracted their attention.

"Let's get a move on, boys. Merchandise's here," said Mike, rounding everyone up.

Steve, Mike and Harold stayed on the dock, using dim red flashlights to help the truck back up properly. Once the panel was down and chained onto the loading porch, the men from inside the cab came out to help the other three quickly unload the packages.

Each package was approximately 3' by 3' squared and wrapped in traditional brown packing paper. The items were not heavy, being less than 5 pounds apiece, but there were over 75 packages in the truck, which made for long work.

Mike and Harold were inside the truck, passing the packages onto the dock, and Steve would carry them into the plant. Dobey was hoping to be able to carry some into the stripping room himself since it would give him ample opportunity to actually see what was happening and what the packages consisted of. Unfortunately, Mike was not ready to trust him that much just yet.

*           *           *

Elmo, meanwhile, had jogged the remaining three blocks to Stryker's Meat Processing Plant from where Harold had dropped him off. He was dressed in dark blue denims, with a black t-shirt and a denim jacket, and plain black Keds on his feet. His Colt .45 was hidden in the holster under his jacket. It was virtually impossible to see him in the dark, unless he stood under a light—which he avoided.

Rounding the back corner of the long building, Elmo could hear the hum of the large truck. The lights had been turned off, and the only illumination came from inside the back of the building; outlines of several people and the truck gave the scene an eerie, almost spooky aura.

Elmo could make out the bulky, broad frame of his partner walking in and out of the truck, but not going anywhere near the doorway to the plant. Damn! If he isn't able to get in there and see what's in the boxes, we won't have anything to get a search warrant on. The hidden man stayed at his corner for several more minutes, only once stepping back to the side of the building to radio the backup unit to explain what was happening.

Out of the corner of his eye, the concealed detective saw a sliver of bright light coming from behind a covered window. Telling the backup that he was going to investigate the source, Elmo slunk over to the window and tried to peer inside. The window appeared to be blocked by shelving or cabinets. Trying to peek around, he deduced by the long shadows of the people inside, that it was a large room. Pulling back, Elmo noted that the adjoining two windows had been boarded up. He moved over to the nearest one, and slowly pulled back one of the rotting boards. Unfortunately, the window was bricked over from the inside, giving no view.

The detective went back to the rear of the building to cover his partner, and saw that it was taking them longer to walk out from the truck, meaning they were nearing the front and finishing the delivery.

Mike slapped Rod and Steve on the back. "Good job, guys. Got the job done in half an hour. Now we'll let the strippers get their part done, and then load up the barrels when they're through. Take a break. There's some fresh coffee in my office."

"If you don't mind, sir, I'm just gonna go to my car and relax the kinks out for a few. You can come and get me when they're ready to re-load," Rod told the supervisor, hoping to get a few moments to talk to Elmo about what was going down.

Shrugging his shoulders, Mike agreed. "Okay, I guess. I'll have Steve come get you."

"Can I join you, Rod?" Steve asked.

That question threw Dobey slightly. "Uh, no. I just need to mellow out a bit. Don't worry, I'll be okay."

Steve was a little thrown by Rod's answer as he watched the older man walk around the side of the building toward where his car was parked. Then it dawned on him. Maybe he's tokin' a joint and doesn't want anyone to know. Rod didn't seem the type to go that route, but you never knew; Stryker didn't fit the persona of a hard-dealing cocaine lord, either. Hell, if he is, I could use a little mellowing out myself. I'll explain that it's cool, Stryker won't mind as long as it doesn't interfere with the job.

The younger man waited a few more minutes, then followed his co-worker around the corner. When he saw the interior light of the vehicle turn on, Steve could make out another person in the vehicle with him. Shit, is he makin' a deal? It was possible this time of night, in this neighborhood. Squinting his eyes, Steve thought the figure seemed familiar. He stood behind the back of the window and continued to watch the activity in the now-darkened car. Unfortunately, he couldn't see anything.

*           *           *

Inside the darkened vehicle, Harold and Elmo were discussing their next plan of action, since so far nothing they had seen tonight gave them any indication of drugs being passed or anything else illegal.

"They have to be loading the drugs into the fat barrels. Mike said something about re-loading barrels," Dobey stated.

"But still, how are they getting the barrels past the border patrol dogs?" Jackson was referring to the fact that most of the hidden transactions he had seen dealt with Canadian banks and monies.

The two sighed deeply at their frustration of the evening.

*           *           *

A slap on his right shoulder made Steve jump; he turned around to see Mike grinning at him. "Geez, Mike, scare a guy into next week, why don't you?"

"Whatcha doing?"

Steve thought for a moment. "I think Rod's scoring a deal."

Mike snorted, clearly not believing that his new, straight-laced employee was into that scene.

"The guy seems real familiar, but I can't quite place him. He's probably a regular in the neighborhood, but not someone on Stryker's line."

"Let me see?"

"Can't really see anything now. Car's dark." Just as Steve finished the sentence, the station wagon's doors opened, illuminating the inside again and clearly defining the occupants.

Mike stiffened. "Shit!"

"What?!"  Steve was alarmed at his supervisor's demeanor.

"Nothin', nothin'. I gotta talk to Stryker and Roberts. They're inside." Mike hurried away, pulling Steve with him so Rod wouldn't expect anything.

Mike went into the meat stripping room and whispered something to Roberts, who followed him out to the loading office. The two spoke for several minutes and then Roberts went back inside to talk to Stryker.

*           *           *

"Mike says George Johnson's outside and he met with Rod Carlson in a parked car," Roberts spoke low to his boss.

Stryker's face didn't show any indication that he heard, other than a hard glistening to his close-set hazel eyes. He nodded once, briefly, then continued to finish the ice cream cone he'd purchased on his way to the plant, while overseeing the packing of the wrapped cocaine into the beef carcasses to be put into barrels for transport to Canada and Alaska. "Trail him. And get a hold of Fred. We might be needing his services."

*                      *           *

The next day at the office, Elmo showed up, unaware that he was being trailed. He was a well-trained cop and good at surveillance, but Fred Rodgers was even better. The Jacksons' outside telephone line was spliced and another line connected which led to a line that went over the poles and down into a house two streets over, into a home of a friend of Rodgers'. This friend, for extra money, allowed to Rodgers to tap into the illegal phone line from his own and agreed to listen in, taping everything on a reel-to-reel that Rodgers gave him.

Rodgers himself trailed Elmo in a variety of cars, switching every few hours so that the subject wasn't aware.

Stryker made himself unavailable to his new bookkeeper for the next two days, until he knew what was going on with the thin, black man.

The afternoon of the second day, Rodgers had enough on George Johnson to go to his boss. He shut the door, warning Penny behind him that they were not to be disturbed.

"He's a cop, Neville."

"Hmmm..." Stryker mumbled, his mouth full of cheese. "Can he be bribed?"

"I don't think so. His real name's Elmo Jackson and he's a top lieutenant, highly decorated." Still standing, Rodgers paused. "And Penny's been tracking his copies. There's a counter on the machine and he's been making more than he brings with him. She thinks he's slipping copies of the drug books and ledgers in between his regular work."

Neville smiled behind his goatee, but it wasn't a pleasant one. "It's funny how one automatically assumes a bubbly blonde to be a dimwit. Smart girl. Get her a fur coat. And tell Fred that we have another job for him."

"That's not all...Rod Carlson, a new guy in the loading dock, is his partner on the force."

"Has this Rod seen anything?"

"No, Mike has made it a point to keep him away from the stuff."

"Okay, have Fred take care of George." Neville pointed his finger. "But have him do it in a way that will be a warning to George's partner and any other cops."

*           *           *

The next morning, one of the cleaning women arrived at the Stryker Meat Packaging Plant at 5 a.m. to begin preparing the area for another day of butchering, stripping and prepping beef. She was usually the first one in and it was her job to make sure the evening crew had thoroughly scrubbed the floors and tables, as well as sterilized the butchering equipment and removable hooks. Mr. Stryker kept a clean and disinfected plant, not wanting the FDA or other government agency to have any reason to look further into his business.

The heavy-set older woman pulled her dark green smock from her locker and walked into the drainage room, her head down as she snapped the buttons down the front.

Looking up after she finished, her hazel eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open into a soundless scream. The gray hairs beneath her hairnet stood on end through the weaving.

Hanging in front of her, several feet from the tiled floor, was a nude, thin, black man on a heavy metal meat hook, his eyes closed, his mouth slack, and the hook embedded in his back. Dried blood trails dripped down from a small head wound onto the side of his left face, while a line of fresh and coagulated blood dripped down his back and slithered around his legs like a ribbon, ending in a pool on the floor beneath him.

*           *           *

Officers Wilcox and Starsky arrived at the Stryker meat plant in the bright sunshine of a beautiful Bay City morning, the lovely weather, and the gruesome find within the plant, in stark contrast to each other. There were several black-and-whites already on the scene, and the partners joined the other members of their precinct in searching for evidence, interviewing witnesses and preserving the crime scene for forensics.

There was an oppressive silence at the site of the murder, punctuated by the barked orders of the slain man's supervisor. Captain Hursh was present and in charge, and his usually unflappable demeanor was shaken. Everyone at the scene was concentrating on their duties at hand, determined not to make a mistake, not to miss even the most insignificant piece of evidence. One of their own had been murdered, and the men felt the victimization of it personally. Throats were constricted, voices clipped, eyes sharp with intent.

As Starsky looked to his captain for instruction, he saw tears in the man's eyes. Hursh continued to issue directions to his men and control the crime scene with precision, yet the one thing he could not control was the toll it claimed on his heart. His concern for his men was as deep as his dedication to his job, and as strong as his commitment to the law. His eyes reflected the pain of all the men present, and communicated a unity and an empathy that words couldn't voice. Starsky swallowed hard, discovering a penetrating respect for this leader that unabashedly allowed his love for his men to be expressed by the tender tears that shone in the wet, gray eyes.

The forensics team had completed their initial processing of the scene. They were ready for the body to be removed from its grisly perch. The officers found crates to stand on, carrying them to the foot of Elmo Jackson's body. Just as the men were about to climb up, Captain Hursh ordered them to stand down. He stepped forward to free the slain police officer himself.

As Hursh turned to climb the crate, a large black hand gently squeezed his shoulder and turned him around. The captain found himself looking into the grief stricken eyes of Harold Dobey.

"Harold, I ordered you to stay out." Hursh tried to sound firm, but his voice couldn't hide his tortured emotions.

"Captain, we do this together," Dobey said with determination.

Hursh studied his lieutenant's face for a moment, then nodded his consent. The two men stepped on the crates together. Dobey grasped his partner's body and held him up as Hursh extracted the meat hook that held the lifeless body captive. Elmo Jackson's body fell upon his partner's sturdy shoulder. His remains were carried from the debasing exhibition, brought forth into the sunshine outside, and laid with dignity and care upon the gurney that would transport him into the awaiting hearse.

Harold Dobey stood back and watched the door to the hearse close, his eyes following the sober retreat. His captain stood beside him and grasped him by the shoulders, propelling Harold to a car to sit down as he spoke comforting words.

Starsky had watched the scene with a tight chest. His eyes began to burn and he looked aside to regain the professional determination he would need to continue his work. His eyes glanced over something on the ground that forced his attention back to the present circumstances. What was that? His eyes searched for something that was out of place. Something isn't right here. What am I missing? Finally, his sight focused on a half dozen orange strips on the ground at the base of the wall. At first glance they appeared to be dried leaves or small scraps of paper.

Stepping up to the wall, he knelt down as he pulled the notebook from his pocket. He tore a sheet of paper out and slid it beneath one of the rectangular strips. It was about two inches long, and three quarters of an inch wide. The strip appeared fragile and dry. Upon close examination, he puzzled over the strange find. It's a slice of cheese!

Starsky called for forensics to come over, explaining his odd discovery and his suspicions about their meaning. As he stood up to allow them to work, he noticed a splattering of blood on the wall just over the area where the cheese was discovered. He pointed this out to the forensic team as well.

Walking from the group, Starsky was lost in thought about the small slices of cheese. A voice startled him from his thoughts.

"Did you find something, kid?" Wilcox asked in a conciliatory tone. The somber scene caused the older partner to ease some of his hostilities for the time being.

The junior officer explained the small slivers of cheese and the blood spatter upon the wall. Wilcox cocked his head. "You think the murderer dropped the cheese?"

"No, I don't think so," Starsky shook his head. "The slices were very thin; delicate. If they had fallen directly from the package, they would probably be more solid. These looked like they were shaved or sliced right there and landed on the ground."

"If you're right," Wilcox replied slowly, "it could mean the killer left a signature." He stared intently at his partner's eyes.

"That's exactly what I think it is," the young man stated.

*                      *           *

Hutch sat in a booth at Huggy's place, waiting for his friends to join him. Flower Pot came in shortly after Hutch's arrival, draped in a Mexican poncho and holding hands with his girlfriend, Grace. He often referred to the young woman as his "ol' lady," as a term of endearment.

Grace was young and not especially pretty, but she had a huge and giving heart that shone in her eyes. She was quite short, a little plump, and had little in her physical appearance that would draw a second glance from the average man. However, in Gino's eyes, the woman was a treasure. She embraced life with joy and Gino with love, and they both seemed to feel lucky to have found one another.  It was difficult to be around the couple and not find yourself smiling inwardly at their unique bond. Grace was a quiet girl, yet she had a way of infecting those around her with a positive disposition. Kind and wise, her optimism could overwhelm even the gloomiest mood. There was no doubt the couple were in love. You could feel it in the air around them.

The pair chatted with Hutch for a while about their recent trip to San Louis Obispo to visit Grace's younger sister.

Suddenly, a heavy-hearted Starsky slid into the booth to join his companions. Without getting a beer, he just folded his arms on the table and placed his head atop, his face buried from sight. Grace reached over and petted the short curls absently as she continued speaking to the group, never missing a beat in the conversation. Hutch watched her actions, trying not to laugh; for it appeared that she was petting his friend in the same manner you would pet a dog. No one spoke to the gloomy man, allowing Grace to handle his mood as she saw fit. After a short time, Starsky lifted his head slightly, his eyes looking up at the girl with an amused twinkle. She tweaked his nose affectionately, and returned her hand to its familiar spot resting on Gino's arm. Gino poured a beer from the pitcher and slid it over to Starsky, who smiled and tipped the glass against Grace's own before raising it to his lips. His mood had improved greatly due to the sweet and affectionate touch of his friend.

Gino got up to fetch another pitcher of beer, and Grace excused herself to the ladies room, leaving the two policemen alone in the booth. Hutch eyed Starsky and saw the ghosts returning to his friend's expression. "I heard about Jackson," he gently coaxed.

Starsky didn't look at him. He nodded, then turned to lock his eyes with his friend's. In that one glance, Hutch heard volumes of words unspoken. He reached up and squeezed Starsky's shoulder, leaving his hand in place there. After several minutes, Starsky reached up and patted the comforting hand, then slid from the booth to go to the restroom.

As he searched the crowded bar, Starsky found the man he was looking for. Huggy Bear was sitting at a table with Lt. Dobey and a few other men that he recognized as BCPD, their heads together in a serious conversation. Not wishing to intrude, he found the bathroom, then returned to his original companions at the booth. Flower Pot had refilled their pitcher and was in the process of toping off the round of glasses. Starsky resumed his seat, but his glass remained untouched. He sat distracted, feigning interest in the conversation between Hutch and Gino.

Grace returned to the table. Before taking her seat again, she stood beside Starsky and quietly asked if he was all right. He was fiddling with a cigarette, oblivious to the woman beside him. She reached down and plucked the cigarette from his fingers and crushed it out, much to Starsky's surprise. She slid into her spot opposite him in the booth, and folded his now empty hand in both of hers. He sighed, with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Grace, was that bothering you?" he asked, nodding at the ashtray.

She shook her head. "Not the cigarette, Starsky. You had tuned us out. I just wanted you to know that your friends were here with you." She patted his hand for emphasis.

A crooked grin appeared on his lips, and the smile reached his eyes. He nodded at her in appreciation as Hutch draped an arm over his shoulders. "How are you doing, pal?" Starsky directed the question to Hutch.

"I'm all right," Hutch replied positively. "I am. I'm all right."

"Hey, man," Gino said to Hutch, "I'm sorry to hear 'bout you and Vanessa."

"Yeah, Hutch," Grace added, "if there's anything we can do...."

Hutch sighed. "Yeah, I'm sorry, too. But I'm okay. Thanks." He smiled affectionately at his companions. Now that the initial shock had subsided somewhat, he was feeling better.

A movement on the opposite side of the room caught Starsky's attention. The group of policemen that had been seated with Huggy Bear was now dispersing, Lt. Dobey shaking his hand as they said their goodbyes.

Starsky disentangled himself from Hutch and Grace. "I'll be right back," he told them as he scooted out of the booth. He made his way through the crowded room until he found himself beside the owner of the bar.

"Huggy?" he tried to catch the man's attention, laying a hand upon his arm. Huggy Bear turned to him, his almond eyes filled with anger and grief.

"Starsky," he tried to offer a smile to the dark-haired man.

"Huggy, I'm so sorry about your cousin," he began, unsure of what to say under the circumstances. "Jackson was a good cop. Me and the guys, we're gonna do everything we can to catch the bastard who did this."

"Thanks, Starsky." Huggy shook his hand. "I believe you will." He clapped the officer on the back, then slowly walked away, seeking refuge in the back rooms of the bar.

Starsky walked back to his booth and rejoined the more jovial threesome.

A waitress came over the bar's microphone and announced that Amateur Night was about to begin. She introduced a young man from Los Angeles, who gave a fresh rendition to an old Frank Sinatra song as the audience listened appreciatively.

Gino gestured to the stage and asked Starsky, "Did Grace tell ya she's gonna sing tonight?"

Starsky raised his eyebrows. "No! That's great! What song are you going to do?"

"Leaving on a Jet Plane," she grinned shyly. "I've been trying to convince Hutch to sing it with me."

Starsky's face lit up. "Do it, Hutch!" he encouraged. "He's got a great voice," he revealed to his pals. "Hutch, if you don't sing with her, I will." He cast a conspiratorial wink at Grace.

"No way!" Hutch declared with a laugh. "God help us! I'll sing with the lady. You keep your mouth shut!" he pointed a commanding finger at his buddy.

Laughing, Starsky raised both his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. You sing, then."

Grace giggled.  She left the bar to get her guitar. When she returned, Hutch accompanied her to the stage. The two did a marvelous duet and were rewarded with hearty applause from the audience.

Grace whispered to Hutch, "Stay put. One more song." She handed the guitar to Hutch and stepped up to the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, Ken Hutchinson!" she announced, then quickly departed, leaving a stunned Hutch on the stage alone with her guitar.

Blushing, Hutch approached the microphone, thanked Grace, and shook his head at his friends. I was set up, he mused to himself. Starsky, Gino and Grace were standing on the benches of the booth, cheering loudly.

Starsky put two fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. "Sing it, Blondie!" he yelled.

Hutch quickly strummed a few notes on the guitar. He addressed his audience. "I'd like to sing a new Gordon Lightfoot song for you. It's called If You Could Read My Mind."

His rich and velvet voice filled the room as the crowd instantly hushed.

If you could read my mind, love
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like and old time movie
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well

As Starsky listened to the song lyrics, his smile faded. The song seemed to speak of Hutch's experience with Van, a subject still quite tender for Hutch and to himself. He carefully observed his singing friend, sensitive to the melancholy that filled each note. Hutch's heart was on his sleeve, and the song grew richer for the sincerity.

"My God, that song's beautiful," Grace breathed. "It just struck me how perfectly it describes Hutch."

Gino nodded his head. "I know. I was just thinking the same thing."

Hutch concluded the song to a standing ovation. The blush returned to his cheeks as he struggled his way back to his booth through the crowd, people slapping him on the back as he went. He returned the guitar to Grace, giving her an admonishing glare, though she could see he wasn't truly angry with her. "This wasn't your idea, was it, Grace?" he questioned.

Grace shrank into Gino's protective embrace with a guilty smile as Starsky tried to sneak away behind him. Hutch saw her glance follow the dark-haired man's exit. He reached out and clapped a hand on Starsky's shoulder, grasping a handful of his t-shirt while Gino spirited Grace away to the booth. "Oh, no, you don't, Gordo." Pulling Starsky back, Hutch got in his face. "This stunt has your fingerprints all over it."

"Gee, Hutch, ya oughta be a detective," Starsky lamely teased, flashing an impish grin.

"And next time you ought to ask me if I want to sing in public."

"Technically, we did." Starsky squirmed under the tightening grasp. "You did volunteer to sing the duet with Grace." He tried to give his best innocent expression.

Hutch could no longer keep a straight face. He pulled his mischievous friend into a hug.

Surprised and confused, Starsky searched his friend's face when released from the embrace. He could read no anger, not even sadness. All he could see was Hutch's pleased excitement over the response to his song.

"Don't look so worried. I know what you were trying to do," Hutch spoke quietly.

"I was trying to get your mind off of things," Starsky replied a little sheepishly. "I guess it wasn't such a good idea to use music."

"No, Starsk, you did fine." Hutch smiled.

"But that song..."

"I like the song, and I can relate to it; that's why I sang it," Hutch interrupted. "I'm fine. It felt good to sing in public again. I haven't done that since our academy days." Since before Van put her foot down, was the unspoken reference which Starsky understood.

Then Hutch added, "I didn't sing that song because I was feeling badly about Vanessa. I think I have things in a better perspective now.  You were right when you said that I wasn't happy before. I wasn't. I'm trying to look at things as a new beginning, as you suggested. It helps to see Gino and Grace. They have something very special between them, and I want a relationship that's as special as theirs for myself. I didn't have that with Van. I don't intend to settle for less again."

Starsky smiled. Yeah, Hutch was going to be fine.

*           *           *

Captain Hursh put Dobey on two weeks of compassionate leave, with strict instructions to see the department psychologist before he came back to work. The distraught lieutenant used his time off to be with his partner's wife, Rose; and to make some decisions regarding his career, with the help of his wife and the psychologist.

Harold's first Monday back was awkward, both for him and for his co-workers. While injury in the line of duty happened all the time, violent death was not as common, and even less so for an undercover officer versus a street officer. Most co-workers felt the same discomfort— what do you say to someone who's lost their partner and their best friend? And so violently?

Right away, Harold noticed the black band on the badges of the uniformed officers and the black armbands on the plainclothes detectives. There was also a black bow on the front of the door and the flag above it was flying at half-mast. Everything that represented mourning stood out to the lieutenant. A few passing male co-workers put their hands on his shoulders as they passed by as a show of comfort and support while most of the women offered their condolences verbally.

Slowly, Harold made his way to the second floor homicide squadroom. As he entered the large pea green room, the first thing his eyes went to was Elmo's desk. Someone had been kind enough to clean it and neatly put everything in a box on top of the desk, which was then placed in the center of the room, draped in black, red, white and blue ribbons. His badge, which hadn't been turned over to Rose yet, had been mounted on an oak frame, along with a picture of him taken at some police event—smiling happily for the camera. A decorated, woven tissue box held donations for the family.

It was all Harold could do not to choke as he saw his partner and best friend's career boxed up and put on display.

The large man marched into his captain's office, knocking but not waiting for permission to enter as he flung open the door. "What the hell did you do to Elmo's desk?!"

Hursh looked up from his papers the moment the loud pounding on his door reached his ears, but he had no time to ask who was there before Harold Dobey came crashing in. Rather than yell at his lieutenant for the lack of manners in not waiting for permission, Hursh just gave him a stern look, indicating that he'd let it slide just this one time.

Dobey dropped his portly body into one of the chairs in his superior's office and sank down as the reality of coming back to work without his partner crashed onto his shoulders. "Sorry, Captain, but when I saw that, I couldn't—"

Hursh cut him off by waving the words away with his hands. "No explanation necessary, son. I can't claim to understand how you feel. I never lost a partner, and best friend, to boot. However, I can't have the department walking on eggshells around you now that you're back. The best thing for you and for everyone else is to get back to work and to find the bosewitch that took your partner from us."

Dobey didn't recognize the German word for 'villain,' but he understood the sentiment.

"As far as the desk thing goes—a few of the others wanted to honor him by setting up a memorial that we could then take to his wife. No disrespect to you or Elmo was meant by it."

 "I know, Cap'n. But, it was jarring to come in this morning and see that."

The white-haired man thought about it for a moment. "You're right. It was insensitive. I'll have it removed and the badge and other things put away, with his personal effects to go to Rose." He paused. "Now about you...."

"I don't want another partner, Captain Hursh," Dobey interrupted with quiet finality.

"I wasn't suggesting it. Actually, I was thinking perhaps you could work a desk for now, and in the spring, take the Captain exam. I believe you have a good future for advancement within the department. There's no openings that I'm aware of either right now or coming up in the next year, but it would be good for you to take the exam and get it under your belt so that when something opens up, your request for promotion will already be on the front burner."

Dobey nodded. Maybe if Elmo had lived, they wouldn't have given thought to furthering their careers unless they could do so together, but now there was no reason not to be concerned, first and foremost, with his family's security.

"What about...Elmo? Have they pinned this on anyone inside Stryker's organization yet? Who's working on it?"

"I've got half the precinct working on this case. But you're not gonna get involved. Donner and Craddock are heading up the investigation."

"Oh. They're good. But, Cap'n, I want in." The last was said with determination.

"No. When, and if anything comes down, I want you nowhere near the scene. I'm not going to risk slamming the cuffs on this guy if you don't follow procedure. Now, you've always respected my wishes in this before, I expect no less now."

"Can I at least confer? I was undercover with Elmo."

"Okay, I'll give you a brief rundown and anything you can add to what Jake and Chris have can only help them."

From one of the lower drawers of his desk, Hursh pulled out a thick, legal-sized olive green Pendaflex file. It was Elmo Jackson's personnel file. "I've asked that Jake and Chris copy everything for personnel." He flipped open the file. On top were the crime scene photos.

Pulling himself closer, Dobey couldn't help but wince at the candid, impersonal shots—even though he had been present at the scene and had seen the horror in 3-D.

"So far, we have little. The woman who discovered the body was hired through an illegal alien employment company. She speaks very little English, Spanish being her native language. We've interviewed her twice with an interpreter and she neither saw nor heard saw anything. We've talked to everyone that Jackson worked with in the office, including Neville Stryker and his right-hand man Roberts, and both claimed to be surprised that Jackson was working undercover. We didn't hide the fact that he was looking for evidence of illegal drug transportation or money laundering." Removing the pictures from the folder, Hursh shoved it across the desk toward his now solo lieutenant. "It can't leave this room." Hursh left and closed the door behind him, leaving Dobey alone with the file.

Harold reviewed the crime scene officers' reports and the various detectives' interviews with possible suspects and witnesses, both inside and outside the plant. What struck him as unusual were two things: where were the copies of the financial books that Elmo had made, and why did the slices of cheese stand out to him? He flipped to see who had reported the presence of the dairy product on the meat factory floor...Officer David M. Starsky, 10th precinct.

Brown eyes raised toward the ceiling in reflection to see if he could remember a face to go with the name. Nothing...but it was a big precinct. Have to talk with this Starsky.

Reviewing a few more reports, it was obvious that there was little evidence to go on. The large man was sure that Stryker was somehow behind this. But how could they prove it?

*           *           *

Two weeks after Vanessa slammed Hutch with the application for divorce, the newly-single blond cop was moving. Realizing that any small gain they made on the sale of their house would first have to be split, and then his half go towards hiring an attorney, Hutch thought his best bet was to rent. Besides, he knew he couldn't afford a small house in Venice on a cop's salary.

He was able to find a nice open-concept cottage on the canal. Ducks swam up and down the canal from several of the local ponds it drained from. It was off the beaten path, but peaceful. Just what he needed at a time like this.

Vanessa was already insisting on taking the furniture, and since she picked most of it out and designed the rooms to her specification, he wasn't going to argue with her. He sure as hell didn't want their queen-sized bed. Starsky helped him search Goodwill and the Salvation Army stores for a nice, used couch, kitchen table and chairs, a coffee table for the living room, and a king-sized bed frame. He bought new mattresses, though, as well as a new stereo and an 18" TV. The patio furniture was a gift from his parents, so Vanessa reluctantly gave in and let Hutch keep that. He put it outside his bedroom on the large patio, near the spot he planned on making his garden.

Other than that, he felt he really didn't need much. He had his clothes, his guitar and his plants. He still needed to do some shopping to fill the cabinets in the bathroom and kitchen, as well as the refrigerator. He lived simply and actually liked it better than having to worry about touching or dropping Vanessa's trinkets and wall hangings. This feels more like home, he thought to himself as the group of friends finished unloading the U-Haul.

"Know what, Blintz? This is more like you," Starsky said, after looking around. "You weren't really at your house, know what I mean? It was all Vanessa."

Gino came up behind the darker-haired cop and slapped him on the back. "You got that right, man. This is more like it—a bohemian lifestyle. I like it."

"Boh—what? What're you talking about, Flower Pot? Hutch's family's from Norway, via Minnesota. Not Bohema—wherever."

Gino laughed, not at all offended. "Bohemian means unorthodox, avant-garde."

"Avon Guard? Is that some new deodorant?"

Hutch laughed at the two and shook his head. "Never mind, Gino, our former New Yorker turned California street cop'll never understand our simple way of life."

Together, the three men, joined by Frankie, who was assembling the bed, spent the evening at Hutch's new place watching the Lakers and drinking beer; avoiding all talk of relationships. All three cops had the next day off and after a few beers, decided to spend the night at Hutch's new cottage. Soon the talk turned from sports to work and eventually to Elmo Jackson's murder.

"They got any suspects yet, Starsk?"

"No, but I'm not real close to the investigation, either. They got lots of officers tracking down leads and interviewing people, but 'cause I work second shift, I'm not really involved." He paused, scrunching the empty can in his left hand. "Did you know that Lieutenant Jackson was a cousin of Huggy Bear's? Well, sort of."

Frankie and Hutch seemed confused at first.

"Huggy? We've been to his place several times. Real cool dude. Aww, man, that's rough. Gotta give him my condolences next time I see him. I know Grace's real fond'a him." Gino seemed to know everyone, especially the eclectic crowd.

"Lieutenant Dobey and Captain Hursh and a couple of other guys were at Huggy's the day of the funeral," Starsky went on. "I saw 'em."

"How's Dobey holding up?"

"Okay, I guess. Wilcox knew both Dobey and Jackson from working the riots in the '60s with them." He didn't say that Wilcox was critical of both men, jealous that they had made names for themselves and worked their way up the ladder. Wilcox had mentioned a few times that the department had to promote them because of the stink the NAACP was making about minorities in public service. Starsky kept his mouth shut whenever Wilcox got on his high-horse about women, blacks and Hispanics taking the jobs that the prejudiced man felt others –read Caucasian- deserved more. This type of macho-prejudiced talk didn't appeal to Starsky.

"Hopefully, they'll be able to get the guy. What's weird, though, is that I found some cheese slices on the ground by the wall near where Jackson was hanging."

They all winced at the word 'hanging'. Most knew how the detective died, but few knew the circumstances surrounding it, since Jackson had been working undercover at the time and the media was being kept in the dark.

Hutch pondered that. "Cheese, huh?"

"Maybe they leave it out as a trap for mice," suggested Gino.

"No. Not the way I found it. It's hard to explain. It was thin slices. Like someone was standing on that spot, slowly running a knife through a block of cheese, skimming slices off. Several pieces must've landed on the ground." Starsky looked around the room at the other three men. "I know I can trust you guys to keep this on the sly 'cause we can't have anything interfering with the investigation."

"Cheese, Starsk?" kidded Frankie.

"I just think it has something to do with the murderer. It was so out-of-place."

*           *           *

The day after Hutch's moving party, Frankie and Gino went home to spend the rest of their day off with their respective girlfriends.

Starsky stayed with Hutch for the day and helped him unpack. The real estate agent was hiring a cleaning woman before putting the house he and Vanessa owned on the market, so there was no need to go back there and clean up.

Hutch came out of the bathroom from unpacking his necessities only to find Starsky coming in from outside, slapping his hands together.

"Took care of your plants, Hutch."

"You did what?!"

"I unpacked your plants. Took 'em out of the boxes and put 'em outside," the curly-haired cop explained.

Hutch walked out to the patio to find his plants all strewn over the patio haphazardly. "Uh, Starsky, I appreciate it, but, um...some of them are going inside and there's a specific order I want them placed to make them visually pleasing."

Starsky shrugged his shoulders, not bothered that the time he spent laying them out would be changed. "So put 'em the way you want."

Turning to his best friend, Hutch said "Thanks, Starsk. You're a good friend."

*           *           *

By afternoon, the two were tired, so Starsky left to go home and take a shower before heading off to work. Just as he shut his front door behind him, the phone began ringing. Dashing to the kitchen to answer it, he was dismayed to find it was his partner on the other end.

"Where've you been, Starsky?!" Wilcox yelled over the line so loudly that Starsky had to pull the receiver away from his curl-covered ear. "You're supposed to tell me where you can be reached! I have half a mind to tell Hursh that you're disobeying procedure."

And where's the other half of your mind at? thought Starsky, but he didn't say it aloud. "I was helping Hutch move."

Wilcox dismissed the man. He didn't know his partner's friends, and he didn't care to. "Whatever. Hursh wants you in earlier tonight, say 9:30-10:00. For some reason, Lt. Dobey wants to talk to you."

"Me? About what?"

"How the hell should I know? Can I read minds? Probably about Jackson's murder."

"Okay, okay. I'll be there." And without saying good-bye, each one hung up.

After grabbing a sandwich, Starsky headed for the shower. He finished and decided to take a nap, going immediately to his bed wrapped in just the towel he'd placed around his waist.

*           *           *

Waking up to a growling stomach just before seven, Starsky changed into his uniform pants and went into the kitchen in search of dinner. Realizing Hutch was probably alone for the first time in his new place, he placed a call to his friend. He's a big boy, Starsky, he can make it without you, he thought to himself, but that didn't alleviate his worry any.

No answer. Wonder where he's at? Starsky knew that Gino and Grace had plans, as did Frankie and his girlfriend. And Hutch had no family in the area. You worry too much, Starsky.

Finishing his cold pizza and rootbeer, Starsky continued getting dressed, then settled down in front of the television to watch some game shows before having to go in to the precinct early.

*           *           *

Walking into the precinct, Starsky headed immediately to Captain Hursh's office on the second floor. The captain's office abutted the Homicide squadroom, like in most precincts. Starsky's point of contact as a street officer was usually the first floor dispatch officer.

Knocking politely on the hallway door, Starsky bent his head closer to the wood so he could hear if anyone was on the other side. Just as his ear touched the cool surface, the door swung open from the other side, leaving a tumbling dark-curled blur to catch himself before he fell into his captain's arms.

"Officer Starsky!" Hursh reprimanded the inquisitive uniformed man. "Get in here and stop behaving like a child." He motioned with a thick arm toward one of the chairs in his office.

Starsky then saw Harold Dobey in the room, sitting in the other chair, and his ruddy face grew rose colored from the embarrassment at being caught trying to eavesdrop. "Lieutenant." Starsky nodded at the older man before he dropped into the offered chair.

The door to the hallway closed and Starsky was left alone with the captain and Dobey.

*           *           *

The next morning found Starsky pounding on his best friend's door after work. He knew that he was probably waking Hutch up, as he hadn't gotten up early to run since Vanessa left, but Starsky didn't care. He hadn't heard from his friend since the previous afternoon when he left Hutch's after helping him unpack.

"Hutch, hey, Hutch! You home?" he yelled while pounding on the white door.

Abruptly, the door flung open, showing a disheveled blond dressed in nothing but an orange robe, looking thoroughly disgusted with his friend. "Starsky!" He pulled his friend into the house by his shirt. "Do you want to get me banned from the neighborhood block parties because you woke everyone up?" Hutch closed the door behind them and ran a hand through his hair in an effort to smooth it down. "What the hell are doing here this early, anyway? Shouldn't you be at home getting some sleep?"

"I was worried about you. Where were you last night? How come you didn't call?"

"I didn't realize I needed a babysitter." Hutch sat down on the couch while the dark blue eyes of the man standing in front of him tried to coax information from the blond. He sighed, realizing that Starsky wasn't going to let it go until he got a reasonable explanation. "I was thinking about what you said the other day—about the cheese. Something about that sounded familiar, so I went to talk to a couple of guys Gino and I know of from our college days. Anyway, they told me how they heard of a guy who gets a kick out of using meat grinders and other stripping equipment to maim and harm. And that this guy has a propensity for dairy."

"Uh, Hutch? How did you know these guys to get this information? I mean, what's their business? Did you have to arrest them?"

"They, uh, know how to make hooch from scratch." The blond put up his hands to ward off the obvious question. "Now, whether they still do it, I don't know. I didn't ask. But they keep their ears to the ground, and seem to have connections with less reputable characters."

"How do you know you can believe them?"

Hutch said simply, "Because they're my friends. Anyway, I wanted to see if there might be some connection between Lt. Jackson's death and this guy."

"And is there?"

"You tell me, Starsk. The guy's name is Stryker."

Starsky sat down, stunned. "Damn. I gotta go to Cap'n Hursh with this."

Hutch waited for him to continue without pressing.

"I had a meeting yesterday before going on duty with Lt. Dobey and Captain Hursh. Their main suspect is a guy called Neville Stryker, the guy who owns the meat plant. He allegedly transports and deals cocaine. That's why I had to ask about your friends; maybe they've got some connection with this Stryker guy."

"Why did Dobey and Hursh want to talk with you?"

"Because of that cheese I told you about and how I wrote it in my report." The darker face grimaced. "Hursh wants me to re-write it. Says it reads like a novella, rather than a police report. But Lt. Dobey said the way I wrote it is what caught his attention. I got the impression he's gonna confront Stryker to see if he slips."

"Well, from what these friends told me, he's too smart to be caught in anything. But maybe you can go back to Hursh and tell him what I heard. But tell them you heard it from a snitch. That way you get the credit."

"Why not take the credit yourself?"

"Because I don't want to get you in trouble. Remember, you weren't supposed to say anything that you knew about the case, but you told me. Besides, this way, maybe you'll be able to move up to detective quicker and then you can recommend me to work along side you."

Starsky patted his friend's thigh. "You're too good, Blintz. You shoulda been a social worker rather than a cop."

Hutch ruffled his friend's hair. "Get outta here, Gordo. Go get some sleep and let me get my run in. I've got to go back to work today."

*           *           *

Several days later, with the information that Officer Starsky had given him, Dobey, along with Lieutenants Donner and Craddock, went to confront Stryker at his meat plant offices. As Hursh requested, Dobey would stay in the background and watch the proceedings.

But first, they had to make it past Penny.

Both lieutenants in charge flashed their badges at the vivacious blonde. "We're here to see Mr. Stryker."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stryker's unavailable right now. You'll have to come back." She gave them a wry grin and a shrug that said 'sorry', when she was anything but.

Craddock put his hands on her desk and leaned in close. "I don't care if he's unavailable. I don't care if he's talking to freaking President Nixon. Make him available."

A little shaken by the green eyes that bored into her, she stepped from behind her desk and went into her boss's office via the door behind her.

A few moments later, Penny came out and told the men to wait for five minutes and Mr. Stryker would be with them.

Remaining standing, the three men quietly looked around the office and tried to peer down the hall where the other office workers sat. Dobey, in particular, was wondering who had replaced Elmo as the bookkeeper. Soon a young, brown-haired man came out. Both Donner and Craddock recognized the man as Stryker's right-hand jack-of-all trades, named Roberts. He didn't bother introducing himself or shaking their hands, he just ushered the three in, though he gave a hard look at Harold Dobey, which the large black man chose to ignore.

"Welcome, gentlemen, welcome," said Stryker from behind his desk. He stood up and offered his hand, which the three police officers reluctantly shook. "Can I get you something to drink? Milk, perhaps." And he raised his own glass filled with the white drink.  All three shook their heads and sat down, Dobey closest to the door on the couch.

"How can I help you, officers? I'm afraid I don't have much time, but I'm always willing to help out the police." Stryker was very solicitous, knowing that they had nothing to pin on him.

Craddock took the lead as the bad cop. "We're here to ask you some more questions regarding the murder of one of our own." He leaned closer. "You remember: meat hook?"

"Oh, yes. Terrible incident. Too bad he was here late at night during a robbery. Tsk, tsk."

"Robbery, what robbery? I don't remember anything being reported," Craddock demanded.

"Oh, just some papers. Nothing important. Thank goodness we had copies."

Dobey interrupted, "Would those papers that were stolen have anything to do with your alleged drug running operation?"

Lieutenant Donner shot Dobey a look that said 'stay out of it!'

Stryker smiled evilly. "Don't I know you? Oh, yes, you used to work for me. Rod, wasn't it?"

Dobey ignored him, while Donner rephrased the question. "There were some papers that Mr. Jackson had in his possession that the police can't find. Were those in the list of 'stolen' items?"

Stryker thought for a moment before answering. "Mr. Jackson? Oh, you mean Mr. Johnson? No, I'm sorry, I don't know exactly what paperwork he had that's missing."

While the two detectives were questioning the British man, Stryker walked over to the small refrigerator at his bar and pulled out a block of cheese and a knife and began peeling away thin slices. "Oh, can I offer you gentlemen some cheese?"

All three waved his offer off.

Dobey stood up, and walked over to grab a slice from Stryker. "You know some of this cheese was found at the crime scene. Sliced just like this." He scrunched the slice in his fist and looked at Stryker's face, his deep brown eyes burning into the man's face.

"Of course there would be, Officer. I own the plant, and keep a very close eye on my investments."

Leaning close to the thin, pale face, Dobey lowered his voice. "I know what you do. Though I can't prove it right now. But someday, I will get you." The detective stormed out, leaving his two co-workers and friends behind to finish questioning the vile little man.

Penny had been listening to the conversation through her speaker phone, and the moment the door creaked open, she expertly moved her finger to turn the button off. "Is anything wrong, sir?" she asked Dobey as he left the office.

"Nothing. Tell me, young lady, how can you stand working for a man like that?"

"Mr. Stryker?" She giggled. "He's awfully nice to me."

"Do you have a restroom I could use?"

Penny pointed the way and Harold went in to wash his face and cool down while waiting for the other men to finish. By the time he returned, they were already outside by the car.

"Did he break at all?" Harold asked them.

"No, but I think you rattled him a little about the cheese bit," replied Jake.

"Yeah," Chris added, "and when we questioned him about the record number of 'accidents' involving his plant, he paled."

"Unfortunately, there's not enough evidence for the drug running, much less Elmo's murder," sighed Jake.

"I wish... I hope something else breaks soon. I want to get this man for Elmo's and Rose's sake."

"I know, a cop's gut instinct only goes so far. But it doesn't go into court as evidence," Jake mumbled.

"Someday, Elmo...I promise." Harold Dobey looked up at the cloud-covered sky as he made a pact with God and his best friend.

*           *           *

Epilogue

One year later

As encouraged by Captain Hursh, Harold Dobey took the Captain exam and passed it on the first try. He accepted a desk job until a captain's position opened in the 9th District.

Impressed with Starsky's information network and intuition at such an early stage in his career, the young man's name would remain forefront in the new captain's mind, and he would follow the work of the energetic officer, realizing that he would be a good detective candidate when the time came.

Four months after Elmo's murder, Dobey's wife presented him with a little girl with wide, deep brown eyes and a head of curly hair. As they had promised, they named the little one Rosie Elmira Dobey after their friends.

Vanessa Hutchinson was dismayed to discover that she had to wait for a year's separation from her husband before their divorce could be heard in Domestic Court. Her attorney assured her that was for the best, as the longer they remained married, the more alimony she could hold out for. A year later, she was now planning to hold up the divorce longer to try to get her hands on the Hutchinson money.

As for Starsky, Hutch, Gino, Grace and Huggy....

"Starsky!" Huggy cried out as the curly-haired man swaggered into 'Huggy Bear's'. "To what do I owe the return of your valued patronage this fine evening?"

"Hey, Huggy!" Starsky greeted, extending a handshake across the bar. "Me and the guys are out to party tonight. Hutch will be here any minute. There's lots to celebrate!"

"Is that so?" Huggy smiled. "Lay it on your black brother and share your good fortune." He slid a glass of beer into his friend's hand.

Starsky slipped onto a barstool and sipped the offered drink. "Well, for starters, we're having a party to celebrate Flower Pot and Grace finally tying the knot! The gang will be here in a little while."

"Flower Pot and Grace?" Huggy chuckled. "That is good news. They make a fine pair. I wish them an eternity of matrimonial bliss."

"There's more," Starsky's eyes twinkled mischievously. "They're gonna have a baby. She's due in August."

Huggy smiled like a Cheshire cat. "You know, I kinda thought she was toting around a few extra pounds lately."

Grace's pregnancy was not really a secret, though the couple had not officially announced it yet. She had begun to show, and Grace had taken to wearing caftans and other loose garments in an attempt to disguise her changing figure. Without being told, the friends had deduced her condition several weeks prior and were simply waiting for the couple to verify it.

"Now that you mention it, I'd have to say the lady has a certain glow about her," he smiled knowingly, with an accompanying wink.

"She sure does, Huggy." Starsky smiled back. Huggy had been the first to recognize Grace's condition, weeks before the rest had finally conceded to his assumptions.

"So we're celebrating a wedding and a new baby," Huggy proclaimed with satisfaction.

Starsky took another long swig of his beer. He looked at Huggy and a huge grin lit up his face and crinkled his eyes. "We have more to celebrate than that," he announced gleefully.

Huggy pushed up his green silky sleeves and leaned his elbows on the bar. "My man, you look like the cat that ate the proverbial canary. Sing, friend. Tell the Bear what else you got cookin'."

"Ya know how we were in here last week celebrating Hutch passin' the Sergeant exam?"

"How could I forget!" Huggy winced at the thought of the destruction their night of celebrating had caused the bar. Several beer glasses and bottles had been smashed before he was able to convince Starsky and Hutch that it was only acceptable in Greece to smash glasses on the floor after a toast. Some pool cues and a table had been demolished in their attempt at swordplay, Three Musketeers-style, with Frankie. Not to mention the awful mess that was left after their stomachs decided that they had consumed far too much beer. His attempts to cut them off were circumvented when the three handsome men applied their charms to his waitresses and managed to finagle more alcohol. Huggy finally wrestled the trio up the stairs to a bedroom over the bar, and kept the streets of Bay City safe for the night from the likes of those three drunken lunatics. He was surprised and pleased when Starsky and Hutch came by the following afternoon for a little hair of the dog, leaving a sizable tip that had covered their damages, with a little left over.

"Yeah, well, now that he's finally a Sergeant like me, I went and put in a request for him as a partner.  It was approved today!" Starsky's face lit up in pure joy.

Huggy's eyes widened. "You two are partners now? God help Bay City. This town don't know what it's in for." Then he reached out and shook Starsky's hand with both of his own. "Congratulations, my friend," he offered with a sincere smile. "I'll go whip you up a burger, on the house, in honor of the occasion. " With a snap of his bar rag, he vanished into the kitchen.

Hutch walked into the bar with a light step and crept up behind Starsky unnoticed. "Hi, partner!" he announced into Starsky's ear, clasping him on both shoulders from behind.

Starsky jumped, startled by the unexpected greeting, but turned with a lopsided grin to face his buddy. "I can see you're gonna take some getting used to, partner."

Hutch slid onto the stool beside Starsky and raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, if you'd rather go back to Wilcox, I'd gladly step aside to assure your happiness."

Starsky cringed. "Oh, no, that's quite all right. I think I'll manage to get used to ya in time. You kinda grow on a person. You have lousy taste in cars, but you do grow on a person."

"Lousy taste in cars? I had a decent car, remember? Until I lost it in the war." Both men had taken to referring to Hutch's ongoing legal battles with Vanessa's lawyers as 'the war.' "When the dust settles I'll be lucky if I can afford a pair of roller skates, let alone a car."

"I said car, not those tanks you call a vehicle. Now that I'm making more money, I'm saving up. Next car I buy is gonna have some real power, some style," he announced excitedly. "Something cool, something with some flash!"

"Flash? Starsk, if you want us to go for that detective's exam next year, you might want to consider a more common car. You'll need something that will blend in. There's no way anything with 'flash' will blend in, especially in this neighborhood."

As Hutch spoke, Huggy walked up and slid a plate loaded with burger and fries in front of Starsky, and the salmon patty special in front of Hutch.

"Huggy's finest cuisine for BCPD's finest!" he announced with a twirl of his bar towel. "Congratulations on your new partnership!"

Starsky looked up at Huggy and took a double take. The man had donned a glistening purple sequin jacket over his silky green shirt, and added a fuchsia scarf as a sort of ascot. On his head was a matching purple hat with a fuchsia feather accenting the band. "Why Huggy," Starsky grinned, "you look mighty flashy tonight! Got a date?" Then he cast a glance at his new partner with a self-satisfied smirk. "Don't he look flashy, Hutch?"

"As a matter of fact, I do have a date, with my foxy new waitress." Huggy carefully adjusted his hat and jacket. "She likes my style," he preened.

Tearing his hungry eyes away from his dinner, Hutch looked up to take in Huggy's blinding apparel. His mouth stopped in mid chew as Starsky's meaning dawned on him. "Starsk, you aren't thinking what I think you're thinking, are you? You're gonna go out and buy some splashy car and try to pass it off as an undercover car? You're dreaming."

"Why's that?" Starsky asked innocently. "A muscle car would be a great undercover car! Who would think a cop would be driving something cool?"

"You lookin' for some new wheels, Starsky?" Huggy asked. "If that' the case, I know this dude who does some fine work; a real artist in his trade. He's the brother-in-law to my cousin's oldest boy. Merle the Earl, the Customizing Pearl. You can't go wrong with him."

"No!" Hutch interjected. "Starsky is NOT looking for a new car. He's just wishful thinking."

"Merle!" Starsky exclaimed. "I know him! He used to work for my uncle!"

"He's got his own place now, building primo custom cars for the discriminating consumer."

"I'll have to look him up," Starsky murmured, lost in thought.

Huggy put a beer down in front of Hutch. "Now that you'll be workin' together, what precinct will you be with?"

"Ninth Precinct," the partners answered simultaneously.

"So the two of you will both be working for Paul Jones," he nodded satisfactorily.

Excited, Starsky nearly choked on the beer he was gulping. "No, Huggy. Captain Jones retired. Now I answer to Captain Harold Dobey."

A smile crossed Huggy's face. "Dobey is a captain now? That's fine. He's a good man." He stopped washing the glasses behind the bar and dried his hands. He leaned both hands on the bar and faced the dark-haired officer. "Starsky, I always meant to thank you for your work on Elmo's murder. I really appreciate it." He reached out and clapped the man on the upper arm.

The joy faded from Starsky's face. "What're you thankin' me for, Huggy? We didn't have enough evidence to bring the man down. Stryker's still walkin' around a free man."

"You made the connection between Stryker and the murder. It means a lot to me and my family to know who was responsible, and to know the cops are after 'em. That cat will come down someday. Dobey will see ta that."

Starsky nodded at Huggy, still disappointed he hadn't brought closure to the case and to the man's family.

Leaning in so that only the two men could hear, Huggy added, "Any time you brothers need information, you let ol' Huggy Bear know. I have my sources, cats that can help, and if I don't know somethin', I can find out or make it happen. The Bear keeps his ear to the ground, ya dig? I know what's happened, what's gonna happen, and who it's gonna happen to, so maybe I can help the two of you in tryin' to clean up these fair streets."

Hutch shook Huggy's hand, and Starsky laid his hand on top of their clasped ones. "Thanks, Huggy," Hutch responded, as Starsky nodded in unity.

Pouring them each a fresh beer, Huggy raised his glass in toast to his two friends.

The three took a drink, and then Hutch raised his glass to Huggy.

In response, Huggy gave Hutch a grand bow, and an amused wink.

"Here, here!" Starsky confirmed as he clinked glasses with his three friends. Then he turned to Hutch, saying, "Never above you," clicking his glass too high so that the bottom clicked the top of Hutch's, "never below you," clicking his glass too low so that the top clicked the bottom of his. "Always beside you, partner," and he clicked their glasses straight on.

Hutch grinned at Starsky and raised his own glass to him.

The three men laughed heartily, keenly aware that the fellowship between them was a strong and lasting bond, one that would see them through many years, many trials and many more smiles.

Huggy looked at the pair in front of him and grinned to himself. I'm gonna remember this night for a long time to come, he mused.

*"It's Too Late Baby, 1971 by Carol King

**If You Could Read My Mind, 1969 by Gordon Lightfoot