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ENTER MCCOY

Across the crowded squadroom, Hutch negotiated the obstacle course back to their cluttered desk, as he performed his juggling act with three manila files and two very hot coffee mugs. Starsky spoke without looking up from the typewriter: "Someone left a note for you."

Hutch showed no particular interest in the information. Instead, "Would you hold this please?" he requested politely, pushing the mugs in Starsky's direction at the same moment as his partner held out an envelope.

"Only got two hands," Starsky commented routinely. He saved the bulging files as they began to slip to the floor, took one mug and waved the note under Hutch's nose.

"Here --"

"Just put it down, huh? Why're you making such a production of it?"

"Aren't you gonna read it?"

The telephone rang: Starsky returned to the typing as the talk went on. And on. Eventually, Hutch replaced the receiver and began checking the notes he'd made during the conversation.

"Want me to read it to you?" Starsky's helpful question broke in. Hutch glanced at his neglected correspondence, still lying beside Starsky's coffee mug.

"Sure," he approved. "Why not? Who's it from?"

Starsky had the note unfolded after the first word. "Bigalow," he announced, as he took in the contents.

"Bigalow? -- hey -- give me that --"

"It's only a couple lines," Starsky said, passing it over. "'Tonight...7:30...remember your make-up this time.' End of message." He watched as Hutch read, too.

"Tonight?" he questioned. "Makes three evenings this week."

"So? I got a quota."

"I'm supposed to know where you are at all times," Starsky stated virtuously. 

Hutch pushed the intervening files aside and leaned forward across the desk. "Starsk," he began earnestly, "don't you ever feel you want to do something more exciting with your off-duty time? Enlarge your experience? Extend your range?"

"Already do. All the time."

"Yeah...." Hutch could not challenge that. "But -- you ever look at the bulletin board? Really look at it, I mean?"

Starsky sent a puzzled glance over his shoulder to the board through which the Department communicated with itself. It was buried beneath a million notices -- plans, appeals, invitations, offers, bargains, assorted and unsolicited opinions on a variety of subjects. He turned back to Hutch, unconvinced.

"Try it," Hutch urged again. "There's a lot more to working here than work."

Starsky remained unimpressed. "You mean like Landau's old car for sale?" he asked. 

"Social life. Amenities...."

"I already got those set up."

"Clubs, Starsk. Societies. You got no idea how much this Department can offer you...all the games teams...you know there's a choir? And -- uh -- stamp collectin' an' all...."

"Forget the commercial. Which one d'you pick? You're trying to tell me something -- right?" Starsky regarded him expectantly.

Hutch gazed back. "They cut my line...." Old sorrows and ancient griefs were echoed in his tone.

"Oh. Really got to ya, didn't it?"

"I'd told everybody. Besides -- the theater.... Then there was this notice on the board there. Brought it all back somehow...."

Starsky sipped coffee, silently assimilating the hitherto unvoiced aspirations, brooding over the new world they were opening up.

"You wanna talk about it?" he invited. "You're really going on the stage? What's the show?"

"Shakespeare," Hutch announced with simple pride. From the recesses of the desk, he produced a tattered script. "Here -- 'Macbeth'."

"Close," Starsky commented. "Was McCoy before. Any relation?"

"I don't actually have the title role."

Starsky began to look interested. "Can anyone join?"

"No way. You have to audition -- they can be real picky."

"They took you -- right? Any vacancies?"

"How about third peasant? Spear-carrier?" He intercepted the indignant glare, and added, "Everyone has to start somewhere."

Starsky's attention was on the script. "I need a little scope...be wasted otherwise. Cast list?...here...three witches...a bloody sergeant...."

"They call it type-casting," Hutch put in.

Starsky let that one go by. He looked up, eyes bright with possibilities. "A ghost...bet I could do a ghost!"

"Guess I might have a little pull with the production team," Hutch said casually. "Might convince them to give you a trial run. Biggy's stage manager -- helps to have someone in Requisitions do that. If you could just bring yourself to be a little nicer to him...."

Starsky didn't answer, absorbed again in the pages he was turning. "Action-packed, isn't it?" he remarked. "I'm not even at the end and you know how many killin's there are already? Black magic...sick spells...a crazy lady...all this sex and violence...You sure your mother would like you to be doing this?"

"It's cultural," Hutch said with dignity. "Everybody knows it's okay when it's art."

Starsky finished his coffee, closed the script and handed it back. "So -- you're going through with this?"

"Beats the hell outta bowling. Costume rehearsal next week -- have to get some stuff together."

"Dressing up? Really getting into your part, huh? What you gonna wear?"

Hutch seemed somewhat vague. "Robes," he suggested finally, producing a rough sketch which Wardrobe had provided. "Like this."

Starsky studied the picture. "You could say basic," he commented. "Looks easy to do though -- couple of those old blankets from your car trunk and a few pins ...." He passed the picture back. "I'll be there," he decided. "Hold your popcorn."

Hours later, rehearsal broke up. Starsky had enjoyed every minute; his participation had been whole-hearted and wide-ranging...cheering from the sidelines, acting as a human cleat behind a precarious flat, throwing a lurid purple spotlight on his partner, and, to crown the evening, standing in for the absent ghost of Banquo. 

"A novel interpretation," the fascinated producer had observed. "You have an unusual approach."

Starsky looked pleased. "Thanks. But I think I did my best work as lead tree in that woodsy scene."

Minnie, sharing responsibility for props and ticket sales, joined the little group as goodnights were said. "Looks like a sell-out," she announced happily.

"Yeah?" Hutch appeared to see the situation as a personal tribute. He smiled a deprecating smile. "Yeah well I do have a little professional experience," he mentioned, "in movies."

His hearers looked suitably impressed, and the second witch, a pretty girl from R and I, remarked, "They're considering 'Hamlet' for the next time. Maybe Ken and Dave should stick with us for that one."

Starsky's glance met his partner's...where might this lead?...an alternative to those crazy Bolivian schemes?

"Sure," he agreed. "Good storyline. I'm Roscencrantz -- he's Guildenstern."

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