CODA:Season One by Teri White

"STARSKY AND HUTCH: THE PILOT MOVIE"

    "H - - u - - t - - c - - h!"
    Hutchinson grinned to himself as the echo of his partner's anguished yell faded away. God, sometimes it was so easy to dump on poor Starsky that it wasn't even much fun. The guy was a sucker; P.T. Barnum would have loved him. How the devil did a tough street cop manage to stay so naive? So childishly trusting? Trusting?
    The grin faded a little. Yeah, Starsky still trusted him, despite the fact that he cheerfully pulled the rug out from under him on every possible occasion. And while it was true that every once in a while Starsky played tit for tat and got revenge, usually he just took it and grinned easy forgiveness.
    Hutch was starting to feel a little guilty by now. It was an emotion he didn't much like. In the world of his past, one-up-manship was an honored tradition.
    The little games that passed for civilized behavior.
    Of course, he'd always hated it, and that kind of thing was one reason why he'd left Minnesota in the first place. So why did he find himself, even all these years later, doing the same damned thing?
    It occurred to him that for someone like Starsky these mind games might not be any fun at all.
    By the time he arrived at the squat little house on the bank of the canal, Hutch had talked himself into feeling like a complete bastard. He got out of the car and walked as far as the front door. Then, abruptly, he spun around and stalked back to the LTD.
    Damn. Sometimes it seemed that life had been a whole lot easier before. When 'friend' was only a word and not a living, breathing, vulnerable--so damned vulnerable--being sitting next to him in the car.
    Traffic was light, so he made good time to Starsky's place. There was no sign of the striped tomato on the street, but Hutch parked anyway. He went inside and sat on the floor by Starsky's door. So now he'd wait. Drawing both knees to his chest, he rested his head there. God, he thought, I'm tired. All that had happened in the last few days was catching up to him. His mind felt fuzzy around the edges.
    After only a moment, his eyes closed.
    "Hey? Buddy? You okay?"
    He woke slowly, blinking away the fog, and peered up into a familiar face that looked a little worried.
    One strong hand gripped his shoulder. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine, Starsk. Just fell asleep, I guess."
    Starsky sat back on his heels. "What the devil are you doing in my hallway?"
    Hutch felt sheepish now, which wasn't much better than feeling guilty. He cleared his throat. "I was just wondering if you still wanted to go get some dinner. Unless you already ate?"
    After a hesitation, Starsky grinned. "I only had a pizza. I could go for some more. If you want."
    "Yeah," Hutch said. "I want."
    Starsky stood, held out a hand.
    Hutch took a grip and was pulled to his feet. Someday Starsky was going to get truly pissed at him over one of his dumbass stunts. But not tonight.
    For tonight he was still safe.

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"SAVAGE SUNDAY"

    "Oh, shit!"
    Starsky grimaced as the stinging antiseptic touched his scraped knee. Every part of his body hurt, especially the raw knees, hands, and elbows that hit the ground after he bailed out of the dynamite-laden car just seconds before it exploded. He gritted his teeth and moved on to the other knee with the medicine. "You know something, Hutch," he said tightly.
    Across the kitchen table, Hutch didn't even bother to look up from the Sunday comics. "Hmmm?" he said absently.
    "We hafta re-define this partnership."
    Now two bright blue eyes peered at him over the edge of the paper. "What's that?"
    "I said, this partnership has a few problems."
    "What kind of problems, buddy?"
    "Yeah, now it's buddy. Where were you when I was jumping into that damned car?"
    "I was there. And, boy, you were terrific, Starsk."
    "Terrific? Dumb is more like it. I coulda been blown into real tiny little pieces. Why did I have to be the one to drive the car away?"
    "You didn't have to be. That's just the way it worked out."
    "I must have a bad karma," Starsky muttered.
    "A bad what? Jews don't have karmas, Starsk."
    "Lot you know. We invented it." He finally finished tending his wounds and reached for the discarded jeans. "So about this working relationship."
    "Yeah?" Hutch went so far as to lower the funnies and look at him. "What'd you have in mind, buddy?"
    "I think we should make a deal." Starsky's voice was solemn.
    "A deal?"
    He nodded.
    "Yeah. And the deal is, we should take turns."
    "Take turns?"
    "Right."
    Hutch folded the newspaper and set it aside. just what the hell are you talking about?"
    Starsky pulled his jeans on, making a slightly pained sound as the denim slid over his knees. "Today I was the hero, right?"
    "You could say so, I guess." Hutch's lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile, but didn't quite dare.
    "Well, next time it's your turn." Now there was a note of triumph in his voice.
    "Okay, Starsk. The next time somebody needs to drive a car full of dynamite over a cliff, I'll do it."
    Starsky frowned. "That's not exactly what I meant. I mean, how often does a car like that turn up?"
    "Maybe only once, if my good karma holds."
    "Right. So next time it might be something else."
    "Such as?"
    "How the heck do I know? Just, whatever it is, you get to be the hero."
    "Oh, now I understand what you're getting at."
    "Don't you think that sounds fair?"
    Now Hutch grinned broadly. "I think it sounds terrific. Part time heroism suits me."
    Starsky was satisfied. He picked up the comics and opened them with a flourish.

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"TEXAS LONGHORN"

    Every year on his birthday, his grandfather sent him a bottle of very good whiskey. Excellent whiskey. The old bastard thought that no real man's life was complete until he had learned an appreciation for the fine art of distillery.
    Tonight his grandson Kenneth Hutchinson was appreciative.
    He was halfway through the most recent bottle. This was fifteen-year old stuff. Good. Great, in fact, for the man wanting to get tastefully drunk.
    Except that nobody had yet managed to brew up anything strong enough to keep this Hutchinson from thinking. And he was thinking now that he had no business sitting here at--Christ, almost four AM--getting drunk, tastefully or otherwise.
    Not that he'd never been drunk before. God knows, he'd spent his share of nights kneeling before the porcelain altar. But this was different. It wasn't fun anymore. This was no mindless celebration over having gotten through another final exam alive; it wasn't an attempt to work up some liquid courage before putting the make on some good-looking broad. None of that.
    Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson was sitting in his kitchen at this hour, drinking and thinking, because he had a pain deep inside his gut. A pain that came from the killing of the Taylor woman. Cases had bothered him before, sure. Lots of times. But tonight he couldn't get over the look of infinite sadness he'd seen in Zack Taylor's eyes just before he died. Hell, sadness didn't even begin to cover it. The dreadful, hollow emptiness.
    Hutch's hand shook slightly as he reached for the bottle again. Maybe he'd felt Zack's pain so strongly because he had tasted just a little of that same void so often, had felt alone so much of his life.
    He sipped the whiskey, savoring it like Grandpa had taught. You didn't gulp fine liquor; you absorbed it, noticing the color, the aroma, the unending variety of subtle flavors.
    After the divorce he'd spent a few nights here swilling down cans of beer, but that was mostly because it seemed like the proper thing to do when a wife walked out. But it was hard to truly mourn something that had been dead for such a long time already. And that pain was different from what he was feeling now.
    I'm scared.
    The thought came from nowhere, startling him so that he set the glass down hard onto the counter.
    I'm scared.
    God, he never wanted to be that empty, that lost. But standing here like this seemed to be a bad omen.
    The shrill ringing of the telephone made him jump. He picked it up quickly, before it could ring again.
    "'Lo?"
    "Hutch?"
    Why the hell was Starsky calling him at this hour?
    "Hey, Hutch, you there?"
    "Yeah, I'm here. What's wrong?"
    "Nuthin'."
    "So?
    He could hear the other man take a deep breath. "You wanna go have some breakfast?"
    "Now?"
    "Well, I can't sleep. Don't wanna sleep."
    "Me either," he admitted.
    "Yeah, so I thought maybe we'd go have some breakfast. There's a place I know opens at five. Great food, I promise."
    Hutch picked up the glass of expensive whiskey and poured the rest of it down the drain. "Pick me up, okay? I gotta shave and take a shower." And sober up.
    "No hurry. We've got a lot of time, partner." Starsky hung up.
    Hutch thought about Starsky's words for a moment, then decided not to think about them anymore right now. Whistling tunelessly, he headed for the bathroom.

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"DEATH RIDE"

    Starsky was still pouting over the damned watch. Actually, he was doing more than just pouting; he was complaining long and loudly and making a general pain in the ass of himself. Acting like he was the only mark ever to get stuck with a hot watch.
    It didn't even seem to make him feel any better that Huggy had refunded all of his cash.
    By the time the morning was--finally--nearing an end, Hutch was barely resisting the urge to reach down the length of the front seat and throttle his bitching partner. Instead, he viciously slapped the dashboard.
    "Starsky," he said very quietly.
    "Huh?" Starsky was staring at the traffic light.
    "If you say one more word about that damned watch, I'm gonna do something desperate."
    "Such as?"
    The light changed and the Torino squealed away.
    "Such as throwing one of us out of this moving vehicle. Not much caring which one, by the way."
    "You just don't understand," Starsky said. Most of the whine was gone from his voice.
    Hutch held on as the car negotiated a sharp left.
    "If you mean that I don't understand your obsession with ridiculous timepieces, that's very true."
    They came to a sudden stop in front of the Taco Shack. But Starsky made no move to get out. Instead, he leaned forward onto the steering wheel.
    Without even knowing why, Hutch was suddenly sorry that he'd started this whole thing. "Hey, come on, lunch is on me," he said with cheery heartiness.
    "First watch I ever had," Starsky said softly, "my father gave it to me when I was ten. Big old clunky thing he'd had since high school. I never took the damned thing off. Except one day when it stopped running. Just stopped. So my dad said he'd take it to be fixed. He put the thing into his pocket and left."
    Hutch was staring out the window, watching a couple of kids duke it out over a football.
    "When the bullets hit him, one went right through the watch. Smashed it all to bits. So much for that."
    "Damn, I'm sorry," Hutch said.
    Absurdly, Starsky was smiling as he looked over. "It's okay, man. I was only trying to explain why I go crazy over watches. Guess I'm just trying to find one I love as much as that one. But you're right. It's pretty dumb."
    Hutch reached over and mock-punched him on the shoulder. "Not dumb at all. Just one of your sort of lovable little quirks."
    "One of my what?" Starsky said suspiciously.
    But Hutch was already out of the car, heading for the taco stand. After a moment, he heard Starsky scrambling after him. "Hey, Hutch, you mean that? About springing for lunch?"

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"SNOW STORM"

    "Hutch?"
    "What?"
    "He's still following me.
    "Make like you don't know he's there."
    "How can I do that? I can feel those eyes on my back."
    "I thought you liked him in Huggy's."
    "Well, I did. Sort of. But he wasn't following me with blood in his eyes."
    "So turn around and confront him."
    "I don't want to be mean."
    "Mean? If he's got blood in his eyes, like you said, he'll rip your throat out."
    "You think so?"
    "Starsk, the dog is harmless."
    "You say."
    "What's the matter? Don't you like dogs?"
    "I like 'em fine. When they ain't following me."
    "Probably he's following me, anyway."
    "So who the hell are you? Doctor Doolittle?"
    "No, but at least I like dogs. Always had one when I was a kid."
    "Real All-American boy, weren't you, Hutchinson?"
    "You never had a dog?"
    "In the city? The only ones I ever saw were strays. Mean as sin. Or else those little pansy dogs with pink bows."
    "Well, you'd be a different man today if you had owned a dog."
    "I'm sure. Hutch, why don't you turn around and tell the dog to go home?"
    "I don't want to hurt his feelings. After all, he saved my life. You tell him. It would hurt less coming from you."
    "Why?"
    "Because he doesn't have any expectations about you. Me, he likes."
    "Please, Hutch."
    "Okay.... Hey, doggie, go on home. Go home, pup."
    "What's he doing?"
    "Looking at you, Starsk. Looking funny at you."
    "Funny? Funny how?"
    "Sort of like he knows you put me up to chasing him off."
    "Damn."
    "Starsk, you just keep walking. Don't look back, whatever happens. I'm going to lure him off."
    "Be careful."
    "Well, he probably won't rip my throat out. Go on, buddy."
    Starsky didn't stop until he was safely inside the Torino. Then he looked out the window to see if maybe his partner was bleeding all over the place.
    Hutch was sitting on a fire hydrant, arms crossed, watching him. And grinning. There was no dog anywhere in sight. Starsky realized suddenly that there never had been.
    He stuck one hand out the window, a single finger raised, and then he drove off, leaving Hutch on the hydrant. Maybe a real dog would come along.

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"THE FIX"

    It came in with the night.
    Nameless at first, nothing he could grab onto, nothing concrete to fight. For five nights now. He had given up even trying to go to bed. Instead, he huddled--no other word said it right--on the sofa and stared unseeingly at the television.
    Finally, after enough nights, he knew what it was that visited him in the dark.
    Fear.
    Unfortunately, putting a name to it didn't help. Nothing helped and he couldn't even tell anyone about the endless black night he was living. Not even Starsky.
    The truth? He was ashamed. Ashamed that, when push came to shove, Kenneth Hutchinson, the best and the brightest, was no better than any junkie creep on the streets. Any other junkie creep. He crawled and groveled and fell from grace right along with the best of them.
    So during working hours he played games--let's pretend that nothing is different, that good old Hutch is still a white knight. Maybe nobody else would notice that the knight's armor was definitely rusted.
    It was just before midnight when the doorbell rang. Hutch got up and went to answer it. His partner stood there, a large paper bag under one arm.
    "Starsk, what the hell are you doing here?"
    Starsky shoved past him and into the room, collapsing on the floor before answering. "Well, I figured that if you got something bugging you and keepin' you awake nights, and I can't sleep worth a damn for wondering what's botherin' you, well, I figured that we might as well stay awake together."
    "I don't understand."
    "Hutch, you look like death warmed over."
    He sighed. "Thought I was hiding it."
    "From me?" Starsky sounded mildly amazed.
    "Well, I tried."
    "I think maybe we shouldn't have secrets from each other, Hutch."
    That was a remark too loaded with meaning for the middle of this night. So Hutch ignored it, instead looking at the sack. "What's that?"
    "This is a...a whattchamacallit? A panacea for sleepless nights."
    "What?"
    He pulled out a box. "When was the last time you played Monopoly?"
    "Monopoly? God, not in years."
    Starsky grinned. "Well, prepare to be massacred, partner of mine."
    Hutch gazed at him in disbelief. "You mean we're going to sit here in the middle of the night and play Monopoly?"
    Two blue eyes that managed to be innocent and all-knowing at the same time stared at him. "You got something better to do?"
    After a moment, Hutch shook his head. "No. No, definitely not."
    Starsky nodded smugly and started counting out play money.

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"DEATH NOTICE"

    Starsky was sleepy, and maybe a little drunk, but pleasantly so. He was stretched out on the couch, wondering vaguely why the room seemed so dark. It must be late, he decided, managing to focus on the flickering candles that were providing the only illumination in the room.
    Il-lu-min-a-tion. Starsky giggled softly. Nice word, even if he couldn't exactly remember at the moment what it meant. "Hey, Hutch," he said.
    "Hmmm?"
    "Everybody gone?"
    "All gone."
    "'Cept me."
    "Except you and me, right."
    "Me 'n thee."
    "Right."
    "Do something for me."
    "What?"
    "Sing another song."
    "What song?"
    "You pick one."
    Hutch sat still for a moment, then bent and picked up the guitar again. Soft notes floated across the room.

    "Standing beside the evening tide
    I hear the children play down at the shore.
    They listen for the things the dolphins say.
    I wander the coast like a shipwrecked ghost,
    Feel the wind blow free,
    Watching the stars at night,
    Like diamonds in the sea."

Starsky opened his eyes again and watched his partner, wondering a little at the faint echo of sadness in the words.

    "Dreamers believe in magic,
    They see moonlight in cloudy skies.
    Dreamers will chase a rainbow
    Until they find it in another dreamer's eyes."

Hutch smiled faintly at him as he sang the chorus, then bent his head over the guitar again.

    "Drinking with friends when the workday ends,
    They tell me I'm wasting time.
    I oughtta be smart, get ahold of my heart,
    But their reasons never rhyme.
    Schemers thrive, the strong survive,
    The rest all wait their time.
    Wise men know that children grow,
    And dreamers never learn."

This time, Starsky sat up and joined in softly on the chorus.

    "Dreamers believe in magic,
    They see moonlight in cloudy skies.
    Dreamers will chase a rainbow
    Until they find it in another dreamer's eyes."

Two pairs of blue eyes, one light and the other dark, met and held as the last notes of the song died away.

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"PARIAH"

    She looked surprised to see him standing on the front porch. "Detective Starsky?"
    "Hope I'm not bothering you, ma'am," he said uneasily, wondering if maybe this was such a good idea after all.
    "No, you're not bothering me." They stood in silence for an awkward moment, then Mrs. Craig stepped aside. "Come in."
    "Well, okay." He didn't really want to, but it would have been pretty stupid to come all this way and then not finish what he'd started. They walked through the living room, where the worn furniture gleamed and smelled of lemon polish, and went into the kitchen.
    "Best place for folks to talk," she said.
    "You sound just like my mother," Starsky said with a smile.
    She returned the smile faintly, then gestured toward a chair. "She must be a very smart woman."
    "Yeah, I guess she is," he replied, sitting.
    The table was covered with a bright yellow oilcloth.
    "I didn't want to bother you, but, uh...I just wanted to see if you're okay. I mean, if you're...."
    She helped him. "I'm fine." Her soft eyes studied him. "The good Lord never give us more than we can bear."
    "I guess not," Starsky mumbled.
    Her gaze turned shrewd. "You're not a religious man, Detective Starsky?"
    "Not very, I guess. On Holy Days sometimes."
    "That's a shame. All of us need something to believe in. Especially a policeman, I imagine."
    "Oh, I've got things to believe in."
    She was busy suddenly, taking things from the refrigerator. "And what might those things be?"
    He thought before answering. "The law. Myself. My partner. Us together."
    "Mighty big universe out there, for just you and the blond boy to be facing all by your lonesomes."
    "Well, sometimes, yeah. But we get along."
    "That's good." She reached for a blender. "You just sit right there, Mr. Independent Policeman, and let me fix up one of my special treats."
    "Hey, don't go to any trouble on my account."
    "Ain't on your account. It's on account of I'd like a little company."
    Starsky relaxed again, tentatively.
    She grinned at him. "And don't worry, boy. We won't talk no more about the good Lord."
    He grinned back. "Okay. What is this special treat of yours?"
    But she just winked conspiratorially and began to peel a banana.

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"KILL HUGGY BEAR"

    Actually, it sort of slipped my mind until later on. Crazy, yeah, nearly buying it like that, and then just forgetting about the whole thing. Crazy, that is, if you ain't never been a cop. Being a cop makes a guy just a little looney tunes.
    But it came back to me.
    In the middle of the dumb night, of course. That ever happen to you? There ya' are, sleepin' the sleep of the innocent, like they say, and all of a freaking sudden it hits you: Today we almost died. That wakes a guy up, you can believe.
    So there I am: three o'clock in the morning, lying wide awake in bed, and thinking about dying. Thinking about being in a speeding car that suddenly has no brakes, heading down a twisty, turny road, moving like a bat outta hell. Well, take my word for it, thoughts like that don't make it easy to get back to sleep.
    Makes no sense to stay in bed and not sleep, (at least when you're alone, ha-ha) so I got up and headed for some comfort. The fridge, of course. Very few problems in life can't be helped by scarfing down a couple slices of cold pepperoni pizza and a quart of root beer.
    Study the facts. Which are that a creep named Harry Martin cut the brake lines on my car. A real creep he was, killing people and inflicting damage on innocent Torinos. With nothing to stop her, my car is turned into some kind of damned torpedo. And Hutch and I nearly cash in our chips.
    The pizza and root beer were settling down nicely in my gut, but I wasn't ready to sleep yet. I was thinking about the way Hutch kept joking around while we hurried toward eternity. Me too, I guess. All that garbage about jumping out. Certain death that would have been. And in some strange way, unless both of us jumped at exactly the same second, it would also have been an act of...well, abandonment. Except that through the rest of the pizza, I couldn't figure out who would have been doing the abandoning--the one who jumped or the one who stayed behind.
    My blond partner, maybe he gets off on philosophizing about things like that, but it gives me a headache.
    Anyway, nobody jumped. We both stayed put, willing to ride it out and trusting in my driving skill to pull us through, but also willing to take the consequences if I couldn't bring it off.
    What the hell. Worse ways to die than going out together in a bright blaze of glory. I gulped down the rest of the root beer, belched satisfactorily, and headed for the bedroom. In only a couple of hours, it would be time to start all over again. Maybe each and every shift we worked brought us closer to that final blaze, but that was okay. Hutch and I, we can handle it.

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"THE BAIT"

    "One...two...three...." Hutch gritted out each number through clenched teeth. He was determined to do twenty chin-ups today if it killed him.
    Glumly he reflected that it just might.
    No pain, no gain.
    And no more of Starsky's ridiculous meals. No more Chinese-Cuban or Jewish-Italian or whatever the hell kind of cuisine they'd eaten last night because the place was owned by some friends of the human garbage disposal. Hutch would refuse to dine in places that looked like they'd be banned in the third world and served food that tasted like it belonged in some other universe altogether. Let that other idiot ruin his body and get fat; it wasn't going to happen to Kenneth Hutchinson.
    "...Five...."
    "Looking good, Blondie."
    Hutch ignored the disgustingly cheerful sound of his partner's voice.
    "Great pecs. Broads must go crazy for your bod. Not to mention the boys of Venice."
    "Six...what the hell are you doing here? Sev...ven."
    "Lookin' for you."
    "Day off."
    "Yeah, I know." Starsky moved around so that Hutch could see him. He was eating a chilidog. At eight-thirty AM.
    "So? Uh...nine...."
    "I didn't have anything to do, so I thought maybe we could do something."
    "Busy. Elev...en."
    "Ahh, come on, Hutch."
    It occurred to him that Davey Starsky must have been a very irritating child. That whine would have taken years to perfect. "Busy," he said again. "Thir...teen."
    "Yeah, but you're not gonna spend the whole day here sweating are you? We could do something fun."
    "Laun...dry. Seven...teen."
    "Laundry? You must be kidding. On a perfect day like this? There's even some clean air out there, buddy boy. Come on."
    Hutch was halfway through chin-up number nineteen when Starsky poked him in the ribs. It wasn't a hard poke, more like a playful jab, that under normal circumstances, would have done no more than tickle him. But in his present state, it was enough. He lost his grip on the bar and fell to the floor.
    "Damn you, Starsky," he said in weary anger.
    Starsky bent over him. "Hey, you okay?"
    "Yes, damnit, except that you just screwed it all up. I bust my ass to do something and you come charging in with chilidog breath at the frigging crack of dawn and fuck everything up." He tried to relax his throbbing muscles. God, he was out of shape, mostly thanks to his beloved partner here.
    "I'm sorry."
    "Yeah, sure."
    "I am, really. Lemme make it up to ya'."
    "How?"
    Starsky donned his thoughtful face. "How about I buy you lunch? I know a great place--"
    "Starsk," Hutch interrupted softly. "Would you please go now? Just turn around and walk out and pretend like you were never here."
    "But--"
    "Would you do that for me? Please?"
    Starsky shrugged. "Well, okay. Sure, if you want." Looking puzzled, he turned and left.
    After a few moments, Hutch stood and reached for the bar again. "One...Two...Three..."

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"LADY BLUE"

    The loud ringing jolted Starsky out of a deep sleep. He rolled over with a groan. Damn. Eight o'clock. Who the hell would be calling him at this hour on his day off?
    "'Lo?"
    "Davey?"
    "Oh, hi, Ma." Wouldn't she ever get it straight about the time difference between New York and Los Angeles?
    "You sound terrible. What's wrong?"
    "Nothing, Ma. I just woke up, is all."
    "The middle of the afternoon and you just woke up?"
    "Eight o'clock, Ma. It's only eight here, and I was up late last night."
    There was a pause. "Oh. I'm sorry. You want I should hang up?"
    "No, I'm awake now." He struggled to sit up, punching the pillow. "What's the matter?"
    "Something has to be the matter for me to call my son?"
    "No, but something usually is."
    "Well, Mr. Smartmouth, it just so happens nothing is the matter this time. I just wanted to find out how the dinner went."
    "The what?" His foggy brain clicked into gear. "Oh, the Paul Muni Special. It went fine, Ma. Hutch did a pretty good job."
    "I was surprised when he called like that. A stranger."
    The word surprised Starsky, when used about Hutch. "A stranger, Ma? I've been telling you about him for years."
    "But I never talked to him before. He seemed very nice."
    "Yeah. Nice guy."
    "Davey, he said you lost someone. A girl. She was killed." His mother's voice was softer.
    "Uh-hmmm."
    "She was special to you, this girl?"
    "Oh, I don't know. I guess. We had some...nice times."
    "Maybe it was going to be serious?"
    "No, I don't think so, Ma."
    "Well, anyway, I'm sorry."
    "Thanks. But I'm okay."
    "I worry. You should find someone nice. Settle down."
    He wondered if they would ever have a conversation wherein she didn't say the same thing. "I'm a cop, Ma. It's not easy."
    "Your Papa was a policeman."
    "Yes, I know." And he left a widow and two kids. Starsky didn't say the words out loud, but they seemed to hover over the phone line anyway.
    "I don't want you should be lonely, is all."
    "No chance, Ma. Too busy. Besides, I've got you. And Hutch."
    "And Nicky. But Nicky and me and Hutch is not a family. And we're three thousand miles away."
    "Sure, that's a nice family. And you're there, but Hutch is here. He's special, Ma, my partner."
    He thought that there was more she wanted to say, but all that came over the line was, "Go back to sleep, Davey, and take care."
    "I will. Bye."
    They hung up. Starsky settled back down. The Paul Muni Special. Hell, Ma should understand that with a crazy man like Hutch around, he wasn't going to be lonely. But mothers liked to worry. Sort of like partners.

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"CAPTAIN DOBEY, YOU'RE DEAD"

    Starsky didn't like cemeteries. Never had and probably never would. What was to like? He slumped over the steering wheel, reflecting on the subject. "Funny," he said.
    Hutch was working on a crossword puzzle. In ink, the show-off. "What's funny?"
    "That the Cap'n wanted us to bring him out here."
    "I guess he just didn't want to come alone," Hutch said sensibly, writing down a word.
    Starsky glanced across the green vastness to where a stout black man stood before a grave. "But why us?"
    "Starsk, I don't know. But he asked, so here we are."
    Starsky wondered if Dobey was praying or what. "Hey, by the way," he said.
    "What?"
    "I checked with Records. About Maxy Malone."
    Hutch apparently forgot the puzzle. "What?"
    "You said your Mom never told you why he was arrested. I found out."
    "Well, don't tell me."
    Starsky straightened. "Huh? Don't tell you?"
    "Partner, can't I hold on to at least a few of my childhood illusions?"
    "I thought you wanted to know. That's why I went to all the trouble."
    "I appreciate the thought, really, Starsk, but I just don't want to get cynical."
    "Okay. So forget it. I won't ever tell you."
    "Thanks."
    Dobey was walking back toward them. Hutch jumped out of the car and climbed into the back seat. Everyone was quiet briefly as the Torino headed for the front gate.
    "Thanks for bringing me," Dobey said gruffly.
    "Sure, no problem," Starsky said.
    "There were some things I needed to tell Isaac. Things that should have been said before." Dobey glanced fiercely at them each in turn. "Don't wait too long to say what should be said. One day it might be too late."
    There was no more conversation as they drove to Dobey's house and dropped him off. Starsky headed the car toward Venice.
    Hutch, sitting beside him again, cleared his throat. "Dobey was right."
    "Yeah?"
    "Sometimes people don't say things and then it's too late."
    "I guess." The conversation, which seemed to belong back in the cemetery, was making Starsky uneasy.
    "I'm glad you're my partner, Starsky. Though maybe I don't show it sometimes."
    "I'm glad, too. And you show it plenty." Starsky flashed a grin at him. "Wanna know about old Maxy Malone? Before it's too late?"
    "No," Hutch said flatly.
    Starsky shrugged. "Okay. But someday you'll want to know and it'll be too late, 'cause I won't be here to tell you."
    "I'll never want to know. But if I do, you'll be here."
    Golden boys always thought that they could control the whole damned universe. But since Starsky didn't want to be accused of destroying any more illusions, he just shut up and drove.

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"TERROR ON THE DOCKS"

    "You think he's safe in there?"
    Hutch laughed softly, glancing back inside. "Starsky can take care of himself."
    "Greater men than he have toppled before my mother. She wanted a wedding, damnit." Nancy looked at him. "I don't suppose you'd like to marry me, Hutch?"
    "Me?"
    "I was in love with you once. When we were kids."
    "You were? I didn't know."
    "Of course you didn't. That was the year you were into basketball, I think."
    "Too bad."
    "Anyway, you never answered my question."
    Hutch leaned against the wall. "Ahh, you wouldn't want a cop for a husband, Nancy."
    "I guess that's a no."
    "Helluva life. Already I had one wife who couldn't take it. Crazy hours. Never knowing if the man is gonna come home at all. Crazy way to live."
    "So why do you live that way?"
    His smile was sheepish. "Guess I like it."
    "Weren't you supposed to be a lawyer?"
    "That was somebody else's dream, not mine."
    "So what's your dream?"
    He shrugged. "Now mostly to just keep on keeping on."
    "You and David."
    "Right."
    "Two of a kind."
    The thought amused him a little, but he admitted, "In all the ways that count, yeah."
    Nancy was smiling at him, but there was a trace of sadness in the expression. "No place for a wife in that picture, I guess."
    "Not at the moment."
    "I doubt if there ever will be."
    That notion bothered Hutch a little, made him wonder about his future. "We better go back in and rescue Starsk," he said finally.
    Nancy only nodded.

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"DEADLY IMPOSTER"

    He hadn't taken the old shoebox out of the closet in a very long time; there had been no need. And it wasn't even clear to him now why he'd suddenly dug past all the crap on the shelf to get at this particular collection of memories.
    Of course, he knew that it had something to do with seeing John Colby again, with finding out what John Colby had become.
    What a nightmare.
    Hutch shook his head and lifted the lid from the carton. Right on top: his service discharge papers. God, how glad he'd been to finally get those into his hands. It seemed to prove that the horror of Vietnam was really behind him and now his real life could begin.
    Real life.
    Ha. That was supposed to have been so easy. Law school. Marriage to Van. A prestigious, high-paying job. Probably a couple of kids. The whole white fucking picket fence routine.
    Well, so much for crystal balls.
    He lifted out a thin packet of letters. Van managed to write him seven times while he was in Nam. Maybe that should have told him something. The pale blue airmail envelopes still held the memory of a provocative perfume.
    So he came back from Nam and nothing worked out the way it was supposed to. But he hadn't come back and turned into a cold-hearted bastard of a killer like Colby. Why? Why John and not him?
    Hutch shuffled through some more papers, until he uncovered a fading black and white photograph. Maybe the answer, if there was one, could be found here. Three young soldiers. Hutchinson, Starsky, Colby. The snapshot had been taken the very day that Starsky left to go back to the World. Hutchinson still had two months to go, Colby one. Colby would be back, of course, but that was still in the future, after his tenure at the Academy.
    Hutch studied the three faces--all so young--carefully, sort of mourning that lost youth. What the hell was he looking for anyway? It did seem that the three figures were posed rather oddly. Colby was almost alone, standing to one side, a strange half-smile on his face. Starsky, a little tipsy, was hanging onto Hutch with both arms, grinning like an idiot.
    Maybe they'd been called the Three Musketeers, but suddenly Hutch knew for a certainty that the title hadn't been right. It had been Starsky-and-Hutch, and also John Colby. Even then.
    He dropped the picture as a crazy thought struck him. Was it as simple as that? Surely not. Couldn't be. There had to be more to it than the fact that David Michael Starsky had picked him to be his best friend and not Colby.
    There had to be more to it than that, didn't there?
    Didn't there?

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"SHOOTOUT"

    Hutch tiptoed into the room. The officious nurse had told him to go on home, that Starsky was fine, but groggy, and that he could see the 'patient' in the morning. But no way. It would take more than one cold-fish broad in a white uniform to keep him from checking up on his partner. She finally relented, but she wasn't happy about it. Hutch didn't give a flying damn.
    The room was dark, except for the pale glow of the nightlight. He walked to the side of the bed and stared down at the man resting there. Starsky looked pale and there was a needle taped to his arm. But his chest moved slowly up and down as he breathed. He was alive.
    Hutch moved even closer to the bed and touched Starsky lightly on the cheek. "Hey, partner," he whispered. "You asleep?"
    "Yes," came the soft answer. "Asleep and dreaming about linguini."
    Hutch blinked away a sudden and unexpected dampness in his eyes. "You're crazy," he said.
    Starsky opened his eyes. "Maybe. You look whipped, babe."
    "I feel whipped."
    "Hell, it's all in a day's work."
    "Not this. Definitely not this."
    Surprisingly, Starsky nearly managed a smile.
    Hutch didn't want him to just brush this off with some kind of macho act. "You could've died, Starsk."
    "That's always been the bottom line, right?"
    Hutch shook his head, then shrugged. "I guess. But I never felt it so close. This sort of changes things."
    "How?"
    "I don't know. Hell, maybe it only changes me."
    Starsky lifted his free arm slowly and patted Hutch on the hand. "Don't change much. Love ya' the way you are."
    Hutch swallowed hard. "Next time I'll be more careful."
    "What?"
    "The first rule is that a man is supposed to take care of his partner. I blew it. I fucked up, and you almost died because of it."
    Starsky looked at him for a long moment. "Hey, blue-eyed WASPS aren't any good at guilt. Save that for those of us who do it best."
    Hutch met his gaze. Then he smiled just a little. "I better go before that monster of a nurse comes after me. See you tomorrow, huh?"
    "Sure." Starsky sounded half-asleep. "Bye, Blondie."
    "Bye."
    Hutch left the hospital and walked out into the dawn. Hell, it was 'tomorrow' already. He was tired and hungry and most of all, scared. Not the first time for that, of course. But what for a long time had been a small and chilly pinprick was now an icy lump in the center of his gut.
    He found the car in the lot where the uniforms had left it and got in. "Starsky almost died last night," he said aloud to the hazy morning.
    The act of speaking gave the reality of what had happened a hard, cutting edge. It was a knife blade that Ken Hutchinson knew could someday wound him beyond help.
    But then he shook his head. No more. No more, damnit. Next time, he'd do something. Nobody would get the drop on his partner again. Whoever tried would have to go through him first.
    He started the car and drove away from the hospital.

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"HOSTAGES"

    David Starsky was a happy man.
    Not unlike some ancient potentate surveying his kingdom, the cop in the railroad engineer's cap gazed at the sight spread before him. After saving his pennies for a long time--a very long time, because he was unwilling to settle for less than the best--he had become the proud owner and operator of the greatest railroad west of the Rockies. It covered the entire living room floor, going under, over, and between the furniture. He beamed upon what he had created.
    He popped open a beer and sat Indian style on the floor. Best equipment that money could buy. And nobody but him even knew about it. Not even Hutch, despite his poking and probing to discover what had been keeping his partner on a high for the past couple of weeks.
    Starsky swallowed some beer. It had taken him the whole weekend to set this all up and now, at ten o'clock on Sunday night, he was ready to hit the button that would set the whole thing into glorious motion. This had been his salvation; a man needed something to think about besides crooks and kidnappers and people in trouble. A man needed something good in his life to take away the taint of what he had to deal with on the job.
    He reached for the switch, then hesitated. A great moment like this one deserved some ceremony. Something special. He jumped up and headed for the kitchen. Instead of beer, he would toast this moment with some champagne. He rummaged through the cupboard for the dusty bottle and popped it into the freezer. What else? He peered into the fridge and spied some left-over pizza that was relatively fresh. That went into the oven. Perfect.
    He took a plate and glass out and set them on the counter.
    Well, almost perfect. Something was still missing. Starsky frowned. What?
    What else?
    He grinned and reached for the telephone. Every railroad tycoon needed a partner. He could share the two-dollar champagne and slightly burned pizza.
    The phone on the other end of the line was answered.
    "Hey, Hutch, whattcha doin'?"
    "Reading. Why?"
    "Come over, huh?"
    "Starsk, it's late. And we have to be in court first thing tomorrow on the armored car case."
    "Please, I've got something to show you. Free food and booze," he offered enticingly.
    "Okay," Hutch said with a sigh. "I'll be there in a litle while."
    Starsky hung up.
   Now it was going to be perfect.

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"LOSING STREAK"

    Hutch searched through the pile of old records. A lot of them were from his high school days. Like the Vic Rankin albums. Yeah. He pulled them from the bottom of the heap.
    He was almost glad that the airline-stewardess-of-the-week had come down with a sudden flight to Chicago. All he really wanted tonight was a snifter of pretty good brandy, the time and space in which to kick back, and some good sounds to listen to.
    Sometimes Hutch thought he was getting a little too old to play the role of swinging single. Especially if he was also expected to be a hero cop during working hours.
    He fiddled with the knob on the stereo, working to get the best possible sounds out of the old records. When that was done, he picked up his drink and sat down on the floor, resting his back against the couch. Mellow out, Hutchinson, mellow out.
    The music brought a wave of nostalgia. High school.
    God. Pants at the high-water mark. White socks. Braces on his teeth and dinner at the country club. Rich kid Hutchinson, who only wanted to be one of the guys. Oh, yeah.
    Hutch paused long enough in his reminiscing to admire Rankin's skill with the piano. Man, that guy could make a keyboard do all of the right things. Hutch flexed his fingers, remembering hours of scales.
    The old songs made him remember what it had been like to be young. The nights spent in dark, smoke-filled rooms listening to jazz and pretending to be a man. Ahh, those were the days. Everybody had it made back then--him, Vic Rankin, the whole fucking country. Hutch wondered when it had all started to go wrong. Somewhere, sometime.
    Maybe it was when Kennedy was killed.
    Yeah, probably it was that afternoon in Dallas that was the start of the whole downward spiral. Vic Rankin went down, the country went down, and Ken Hutchinson started down, too. The biggest freaking losing streak in history.
    The music was turning sad now, melancholy and scratchy on the ancient vinyl. Hutch stuck it out anyway, listening all the way through both albums as he sipped the brandy. How come somebody like Rankin could screw up so completely? How come somebody like Kenneth Hutchinson could wind up a tired cop feeling old before his time?
    He couldn't figure out the reasons. But, he told himself, nobody had ever been able to explain why Kennedy had been killed, either.

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"THE SILENCE"

    All the feline visitors were gone from the squad room, leaving only a certain damp redolence in their wake. Hutch was beginning to mull pleasantly on thoughts of going home.
    Starsky leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. The expression on his face forewarned of trouble. There was no way of knowing just what horrors lurked beneath that mop of unruly curls.
    Hutch sighed. Maybe, with luck, he might have been able to get away before Starsky suggested anything. Like a Tibetan bar-b-que place, or a triple feature horror movie festival. Except that the LTD was in the shop again and he was counting on a ride home.
    Suddenly there was a crash as Starsky's feet hit the floor. "Shit," he said.
    "What's wrong?"
    "The date. What's the date?"
    "Today? The twenty-second. Why?"
    "Damn. You sure?"
    "Has been all day.
    "God, I forgot. First time."
    "Forgot what?"
    But instead of answering, Starsky stood, absently searching his pockets for car keys. "Come on, we gotta go."
    "Where?"
    "Just a stop to make."
    Starsky didn't say any more until they were headed up Wilshire. "Today is Yahrzeit. The anniversary of my father's death. I have to stop at the temple."
    Hutch glanced at him in surprise. "I didn't think you went in for that kind of thing."
    "Only once a year." Starsky shrugged. "Light a candle. Say a prayer. No big deal."
    Hutch wondered if he'd ever peel away all the layers of this man. What was it somebody said about China? An enigma wrapped in a puzzle? Something like that anyway.
    They parked in front of a small brick temple that Hutch didn't remember ever noticing before. "Won't be long," Starsky said, fumbling through the glove compartment. He pulled out a black skullcap, surprising Hutch yet again. A grin flashed across his face as he slapped the cap onto his curls and looked at Hutch.
    The blond nodded and settled back to wait.
    It wasn't long before the blue-jeaned figure reappeared, jumping lightly down the steps and getting into the car again. "I know a great new place to eat," were the first words out of his mouth.
    "Uh, fine," Hutch said absently. "Hey, Starsk."
    "What?"
    "This Yahrzeit thing. Can you do that for somebody who isn't family?"
    "Like who?"
    "Well, like a partner, for example."
    Starsky was quiet for so long that Hutch was afraid he'd pulled a real goof. Then he sighed, watching the traffic. "For a partner, babe, you don't light a candle. For a partner you burn down the whole fucking town."
    "Yeah," Hutch said. "That sounds about right."

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"OMAHA TIGER"

    "So you still think that wrestling is a crock?"
    Hutch just grunted.
    "Well, I've been practicing my moves. Nelson. Half-nelson. Shoulder lock. All of 'em."
    "That's nice. A man should always try to improve himself."
    "So whaddaya say?"
    "About what?"
    "About me showing you a little bit of what I've learned."
    Hutch closed the book he'd been trying to finish for three days now, noticing for the first time that Starsky had cleared the middle of the living room. He was barefooted and shirtless, clad now only in the frayed cut-offs. "This is a joke, right?"
    "Chicken?" Starsky asked, a particularly nasty grin on his face.
    Hutch just looked at him. "Do you really think that I'm dumb enough to do something that I don't want to do just because you call me names?"
    "'Course not. But why not let me show you? Unless you're a sissy?"
    Hutch smiled and shook his head. "Just can't help yourself sometimes, can you?"
    "What does that mean?"
    "Just that once a street fighter, always a street fighter."
    "Saved your bacon a couple of times, college boy."
    "True," Hutch agreed. They were both smiling now, albeit warily, Hutch kicked off one shoe and then the other, standing barefooted. He pulled the tee-shirt over his head. He was still wearing the shorts from his morning run. "Insurance all paid up, sweetheart?"
    "Worry about your own ass, blondie."
    They moved in a small, tight circle. Starsky charged. Hutch stepped lightly to one side. Starsky just managed to stop before he collided with the couch. "That one of your famous moves, Starsk?"
    "Okay," Starsky muttered. "Okay."
    He attacked again and this time Hutch met him. For the next few minutes, the two of them played muscle games, more an exercise in aerobics than anything else. At last, Hutch stuck one foot out and with a grunt of satisfaction, sent Starsky crashing to the floor. He dropped like a stone on top of the smaller man.
    The only sound in the room was that of two men panting. Then Starsky grinned again. "So you got me. What are you gonna do now?"
    Hutch shook his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes. "Have my way with you, I guess."
    Starsky giggled.
    Abruptly, Hutch rolled off of him. He landed on his back, staring at the ceiling. "Dumb game," he said finally.
    "Yeah. Dumb."
    They both sat up, looking sheepish. Hutch shook his head. "That's the kind of thing you do when you're thirteen."
    "Uh-huh."
    Hutch wiped his sweaty palms on the front of the couch. "Gonna take a shower."
    "Good idea.
    They looked at one another and then he headed for the bathroom.
    When he emerged a few minutes later, the room was back in order and Starsky was gone.

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"JOJO"

    "Have you ever thought about maybe seeing somebody about this problem of yours?"
    Hutch picked a slice of pepperoni off the pizza and ate it sullenly. "What problem, dirtball?"
    "Well, I was reading this article the other day. In Psychology Today. Or maybe it was the Enquirer. Anyway, the doctor who wrote it was an expert on fetishes."
    "Fetishes?" Hutch glared at him.
    Starsky nodded, apparently oblivious to the long thread of greasy cheese that dangled from his chin.
    "I'm thinking about you and the cars you like. It's definitely a little weird."
    "I do not have a fetish about cars."
    "Well," Starsky said darkly. "It's strange."
    "You can be an awful jackass sometimes, Starsky."
    He got offended. "Well, I was only trying to help. You'd be a better human being if you could rise above your idiosyncrasies." That was obviously a quote.
    Hutch leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Maybe you're right. And do you know which fucking idiosyncrasy I should start with?"
    "What?"
    "My peculiar fondness for you. My persistence in keeping you for a partner. My tolerance for your stupid notions."
    Starsky finally picked up a paper napkin and wiped his greasy face. "Well, I guess there are some people who just don't want to be helped," he said with dignity.
    "But that's okay, partner. I'm gonna stick with you. We can work on your hostility." He smiled sweetly.
    Hutch wondered how long it would be before he lost his mind completely. He was starting to look forward to it.

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"RUNNING"

    "Did I say thanks?"
    Hutch looked up from the typewriter. "What?"
    Starsky, holding a can of Dr Pepper in one hand and a Mounds bar in the other, was leaning against the desk. "I just wanted to say thanks."
    "You're welcome. What for?"
    "Hey, buddy, you really came through. The way you covered for me."
    Hutch shrugged. "Put it on the tab."
    "The what?"
    "You say you owe me one. Of course, I owed you one for the way you pulled me out of the gutter after Forrest's fun and games."
    "Yeah, but you saved my ass when those punks in the restaurant shot me."
    "True," Hutch agreed dryly.
    After a minute, Starsky grinned. "Kind of dumb, isn't it?"
    "What?"
    "Keeping score like that."
    "Well, it could get ridiculous, after twenty or thirty years."
    "Yeah." Starsky took a long gulp of soda. "Twenty or thirty years of this? Can we make it?"
    Hutch bent over the typewriter again. "I don't know, Starsk," he said. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

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"A COFFIN FOR STARSKY"

    Even in the shadows of the hospital room he could see the dark figure slumped in the chair by the bed. Why was Hutch still here? The poor slob looked wiped and no wonder. How long could anybody run on an edge and not have it do some damage? Especially a guy like Hutch.
    If this was a cowboy movie, I'd give you my boots.
    The memory of his words made Starsky smile. Games. They just kept playing word games with each other. But it probably didn't matter. Was it really important how love was expressed, as long as it was?
    If this was a cowboy movie, I'd give you my boots.
    Translate to read: I love you, man.
    You kept joking because it was the only way to stay sane.
    It's always hardest on the one left behind.
    Meaning: I love you, partner, and I don't want you to die, and I don't know what will happen to me if you do.
    "You awake, Starsk?" The voice from the shadows was soft.
    "Sort of. You should be home in bed."
    "That's what everybody keeps telling me."
    "Maybe you should take the advice."
    "I guess." Hutch got up from the chair and came to stand next to the bed. "You okay?"
    "A little fuzzy around the edges, but okay, yeah."
    "Well, I just wanted to be sure."
    Starsky smiled. "Go home. Sleep. And come back later."
    "Later."
    "Don't come alone."
    "No?"
    "Bring a jumbo pizza with the works."
    "Fat chance.
    "Hey, don't I deserve a little special treatment?"
    "You get broth for dinner. Maybe a little Jell-O."
    "I want pizza."
    Hutch started for the door. "Forget it. You're an idiot. You're gonna drive me crazy, Starsky."
    Translate to read: I love you.
    Alone, Starsky closed his eyes again. Hutch would bring a pizza. Maybe not the jumbo with the works, but at least a small cheese. Eight inches of dough and tomato sauce. You could call it pizza, if you wanted to.
    He called it love.

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"BOUNTY HUNTER"

    He was hungry.
    Starsky sat in his car, staring glumly up at the lights in Hutch's apartment. What kind of dinner was that to serve a man? Funny green stuff? Weird, that's what it was. No wonder Hutch was acting stranger every day. Pretty soon he'd start wearing beads and chanting.
    Starsky sighed. It wasn't easy sometimes.
    He stayed there, not really knowing why, until the lights upstairs went out. So much for this evening. Well, who said he needed that idiot partner of his around to have a good time?
    The first step in this fun evening was to get some food. Real food.
    He went directly to Bomber Burger. Neat place to eat, because he didn't even have to get out of the car. A sweet young thing in tight shorts came to take his order. "Double chiliburger with cheese, onions, and pickles," he told her cheerfully. "Fries, onion rings, jumbo Dr Pepper. And a chocolate shake."
    She grimaced, then shrugged and disappeared.
    Starsky settled back to think.
    Hutch and this broad seemed to be getting pretty serious about each other. Maybe real serious. Maybe they'd end up getting married. Well, if that was what Hutch wanted.
    But it worried him a little.
    Starsky, for one, didn't have such great memories of Hutch's first spin on the marriage-go-round. He'd been a front row spectator at far too many battles. Somewhere buried under his curls there was still a small scar from the time he didn't duck fast enough after Mrs. Hutchinson tossed a coffeepot at her hubby.
    And besides, marriage changed people.
    The girl delivered his food. Starsky picked up the burger and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Still, he wanted whatever made Hutch happy. He'd adjust. After all, girlfriends and even wives came and went, but a partner just hung in there.
    Unless, he reflected glumly, they kept feeding him that rabbit food. If Hutch hadda get heavy with a broad, why not one who knew how to toss a T-bone under the broiler?
    Oh, well, no sense borrowing trouble. Wait and see what happened. Maybe it wouldn't work out.

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I remember well the solitude
Before there was a me and you,
My friendships ended up misunderstood.
Sometimes I would wake up scared,
The sound of silence in the air,
And morning never came around too soon.
Nobody heard the song when I was singing,
Nobody felt the words that I was saying,
Until now,
Until now.
I went on wondering
Until now
Where my life would lead,
And I reached out for someone to believe,
But no one heard my song until now.
Arvon