"LAS VEGAS STRANGLER"

    Death is never convenient.
    As if life itself wasn't all the trouble we need, dying makes more. I think there was a French philosopher who had something to say about that, but my existentialism is getting a little rusty.
    Anyway, it took nearly three hours to get all the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered so that Jack's body would be shipped home. A final act of friendship, I suppose. Or of what had once been a friendship.
    A question that undoubtedly some deep thinker in history has pondered: Does everything good turn bad eventually?
    Finally I was done proving to the city and the state and various other civil functionaries what a good friend Kenneth Hutchinson was. The next item on the agenda was to track down my missing partner, who'd disappeared much earlier, a bagful of nickels in hand. And a scowl on his face. Something told me that there was some pacifying to be done on the home front.
    Face it: I had sort of treated Starsky like the proverbial fifth wheel once Jack turned up. And then when the whole deal turned so hinky, I behaved, in my own inimitable fashion, really crappy.
    So I embarked on the Great Las Vegas Starsky Hunt.
    Three casinos, two coffee shops, and a taco stand later, I finally located my wandering boy. He was bent over a nickel slot machine in a joint named Hank's Gambling Emporium and Pizza Palace. Not one of the brightest lights on the Strip.
    I wandered over. Sitting on the counter beside him were the remains of a sausage pizza and a can of Dr Pepper. The cache of nickels was considerably diminished. "We can head home whenever you're ready," I said.
    "Uh-huh," he replied, dropping another coin in.
    It wasn't a winner either.
    I sat down, figuring that the last slice of pizza would only go to waste unless I ate it. "Can I ask you a question, Starsk?"
    "Uh-huh."
    My partner the pouter. Bringing up a spoiled Jewish Prince ain't easy.
    "How come nothing good ever lasts?"
    He looked up. At last. "What?"
    "At least a person should be able to hold onto his memories, don't you think?"
    "I guess, yeah. If he wants to." He smiled a little. "Some good things last, you know."
    "You think so?"
    "I know so," he said firmly, dropping in the last nickel into the slot.
    It was a big winner.      

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"MURDER AT SEA"

    It seemed as if the sun could bake away all the troubles and the pain and the fear. Before long, the ship would arrive back in Los Angeles and this moment would be gone. But for now, he could smear on more of the coconut-scented oil, sip the icy tequila, and relax. Really relax. Let the tight coils of his muscles go.
    They were alone on this part of the deck, by luck and design, and he was enjoying the time. He rolled over to look at his partner, who seemed to be sleeping. Courting sunburn, for sure.
    He reached out with one hand and wiped at a trickle of sweat that ran down the other man's chest. Beneath his fingers the skin felt hot enough to burn him and the structure underneath trembled with sudden violence.
    Instead of pulling his hand away, as he knew he should do, he let the fingers move again. Ostensibly it was only to wipe away more sweat.
    Abruptly, he was overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. It was part tenderness, part love, and part curiosity. Did his fingers cause the trembling? Was the heat really in the flesh or in his own fingers?
    But it was too scary to think about. Too dangerous.
    He rolled away quickly and then jumped into the pool, killing whatever it was that had fluttered inside so briefly.

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"GILLIAN"

    Unbelievably, the endless night finally came to an end. Starsky drove to the Venice apartment building and parked. Neither man spoke for a long moment.
    "Come up," Hutch said finally. It wasn't an invitation so much as an order.
    "Maybe I shouldn't."
    Hutch just looked at him, pale eyes glinting dangerously. Then he got out, slamming the car door twice as hard as was necessary.
    "Okay," Starsky muttered to the empty space. "I'll come up."
    By the time he'd climbed the stairs and entered the apartment, Hutch was sitting on the sofa, two open beers on the table in front of him. Starsky sat, too. He didn't really want the beer, but it seemed like a good idea to keep Hutch happy, so he picked it up and drank a little.
    "I'm sorry," Hutch said, the words so soft that Starsky could barely hear them, although they were sitting side-by-side.
    "Sorry?"
    Hutch cleared his throat and spoke in a normal tone. "I'm sorry I slugged you."
    "Oh, that." Starsky shrugged.
    "Don't dismiss it like that." Hutch shook his head. "What kind of a bastard hits his partner?"
    "A bastard who's hurting bad. What's a partner for?"
    "Yeah." Hutch set the beer can down. "I want to know something."
    Starsky was afraid he knew what was coming, and he didn't want to hear the question. But some things just had to be gotten through. "What do you want to know, Hutch?" he said quietly.
    "You saw Gillian. Spoke to her. Before Grossman got to her."
    "Yes. I went to her place and talked to her."
    "Why?"
    "Why." Starsky thought, chewing on his lower lip. "Because I saw that my partner, my friend, was in a runaway car, doing about a hundred miles an hour, and headed straight for a stone wall. I thought I should do something."
    "Like throw yourself in front of the damned car?" There was a bare hint of the wry Hutchinson humor in the words.
    Starsky allowed himself a small smile in response. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
    "You say that a lot, buddy."
    "Words for my tombstone, probably."
    "Really." Hutch seemed to choose his next words carefully. "Tell me what happened. When you saw her."
    "I tried to bribe her into leaving town." The words were flat, unyielding, sparing neither man. "Figured maybe if she was already gone, it would hurt less for you to find out the truth." He picked up his beer again. "She wouldn't take the dough. But she agreed to level with you." He paused. "Or I was going to. I gave her no choice."
    "Uh-huh."
    "It wasn't easy, Hutch. For her or me."
    "I can imagine."
    Starsky closed his eyes, seeing it all again. "As I was leaving, Hutch, she said that you were really lucky."
    A short, harsh laugh came from the end of the couch. "Lucky?"
    "Yes. In one lifetime, to have two people love you so much." He opened his eyes and looked at Hutch.
    "I guess she was right."
    "You don't hate me for what I did?" Starsky asked softly. "I was afraid you would."
    "But you did it anyway?"
    "Oh, yes." Simple truth, revealing almost unbearable emotion.
    Hutch leaned back suddenly, as if overcome by weariness all at once.
    "You need to sleep, Blondie."
    "Yeah, I know." He pushed himself up and stood there, looking like a sleepy, bewildered little boy. Starsky felt like crying. Instead, he said, "I'm gonna finish my beer. I'll let myself out."
    "Okay." Hutch started for the bedroom.
    "Hey."
    "What?"
    "You never answered my question."
    Hutch turned and looked at him for a long time. He smiled. "Of course I don't hate you. I could never hate you."
    Starsky nodded.
    He stayed where he was for a while, although he had no intention of drinking any more of the warm, flat beer. Finally, he got up and went to the bedroom door. All he could make out was a huddled lump in the middle of the bed, but the breathing pattern he heard was soft and even. The pattern of sleep.
    He went back through the living room, turning out the lamp as he passed, and left the apartment.

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"BUST AMBOY"

    When you were making a stab at the good life, atmosphere was important. Hutch dug out a couple of slender white candles, polished the silver holders, and set them in the middle of the table. Terrific.
    Next, music. Nothing loud or intrusive. He finally decided on some old Mathis. He would have liked to go with something classical, but that might have scared away the guest due soon.
    Just as he was finishing, Starsky walked in, without knocking, of course. "What's going on?" he asked, peering at the gleaming crystal and silver on the table. Hutch turned down the volume on the music. "I decided that it wasn't fair for only the creeps like Amboy to enjoy the finer things. The man with the gold might make the rules, but even a couple of hard cases like us should get within touching distance of quality once in a while. Sit down, Starsky."
    Starsky, looking amused, dragged a chair over and straddled it.
    Hutch sat across from him. "This," he said gesturing toward the crystal dish nestled in the bed of crushed ice, "is caviar."
    "Like Amboy had?"
    "The best. If you knew anything about caviar, Starsky, you'd know that the only kind worthy of the name comes from one variety of sturgeon that lives only in the Caspian Sea."
    "Yeah?"
    "Indisputably. This is beluga."
    "Expensive?"
    "People with class don't discuss price, Starsk. But if you must know, thirty dollars an ounce."
    "Jesus."
    "And to wash it down, champagne. To be precise, Bollinger's curvée spéciale."
    "Good shit?"
    "Yes."
    Starsky rubbed his hands together. "Terrific." Then he looked up. "Hutch, you're crazy. Terrific, but soooo crazy."
    "Yeah, well, pass the bubbly, huh?"
    Hutch was pleased with the way his plan had worked out. He was broke now, with payday over a week away, but that was okay. A man could live a while on golden-edged memories.

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"VAMPIRE"

    There was a dangerous look on Starsky's face. Meaning a thoughtful one, and a thinking Starsky was unpredictable. Not to say unstable.
    Hutch concentrated on the burger.
    "You know," Starsky said softly, "there was something came to me a little while ago."
    Oh-oh.
    Hutch picked up his beer. Maybe if he didn't say anything to encourage whatever little bit of insanity his partner was hatching, it would go away.
    "It came to me a little while ago that maybe there are real vampires. Except that they're not what everyone thinks."
    "So what are they?" Hutch asked before he could stop himself.
    Starsky leaned across the table. "Different things for different people. And I don't know about anybody else, but I know what our vampire is."
    He was hooked. "What's that, Starsk?"
    "The job."
    "What?"
    Frowning, Starsky sat back. "Think about it. What is a vampire supposed to do? He drinks your blood, right? Sucks your life force away. Right?"
    "Yeah. Right."
    "So isn't that what this job does to us? It sucks the life right out of us."
    Hutch stared at him. "Good Lord, Starsk."
    "What's wrong?"
    "Nothing. I mean, that's beautiful, what you said. This job is a vampire. God, yes."
    Starsky nodded. "You know what's the scary part about that?"
    "What?"
    "So what happens in the end? When we're all sucked dry. When we're just shells, with nothing left inside?"
    Hutch shrugged. "Then the system tosses us on the trash heap.
    "Yeah," Starsky agreed glumly. "That's what I figured."
    They looked at one another for a moment, then raised their beer cans in a mutual, mocking toast.

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"THE SPECIALIST"

    What if?
    What if we just quit? Tossed in the fucking towel. Gave up the fight and walked away. Admitted to them and to ourselves that the world sucked, would always suck and that nothing we had done or could do would make it suck one iota less. Throw one creep inside and two more popped up to take his place.
    So what if the dynamic duo said 'enough'?
    Who would care? Not the System, whatever that might be. Face it: If the bad guys don't get us, the System will. What a choice. Would you rather be iced by a coked-up punk with a Saturday night special, or a Fed with a phony smile and God on his side? Would it really matter?
    What if.
    You become a cop, corny as it sounds, to help. Help. And before long, the garbage begins to gather, a small flow around your feet at first, easy enough to kick away, you think. But slowly slowly slowly it begins to grow, that garbage heap, and then it's at your ankles, and then the knees and it's not so easy to kick away anymore.
    By now, with us, I figure it's about waist high.
    We're fucking drowning.
    What if we just walked away?
    Or maybe it's too late already. Would it be like trying to swim against the tide while fighting an undertow?
    We could try. I could pick up the phone and call Starsk and say, "What if we quit?"
    And what would he say?
    What if.

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"TAP DANCING THEIR WAY RIGHT BACK INTO YOUR HEART"

    How do I get myself into things like this?
    Or, more important right now, what do I do next? What would Ramon do?
    Except that Ramon isn't real. He's a made-up thing, part of the job. But if he was real, and if he found himself standing here like this, what would he do?
    Okay. Ramon is a sort-of-devil-may-care kind of guy. Not worried about his macho image or anything like that, 'cause he knows who he is.
    No one can dip, like Ramon.
    So I've dipped. Now what?
    I could drop him. Lot of laughs there.
    Or maybe I could plant a sloppy kiss right onto his ugly mug. That would shake him up. And me, too.
    He's looking kinda funny at me. What does he expect?
    Okay, Ramon, you bastard. I've dipped and now what?

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"THE MONSTER"

    Starsky left to call for back-up.
    Hutch knew that he should move, get up, do something official and policeman-like. His mind ordered him to action, but his body felt heavy as a boulder and his spirit even heavier. Maybe he wouldn't ever move again. Tommy Malone and he would grow old together in this dirty, stinking room.
    "You mad?" Tommy's voice was a whisper.
    "No, I'm not mad," Hutch replied automatically.
    "You're not Artie, are you?"
    "No. Artie is gone. He won't be back anymore."
    "But Artie, he took care of me. Who's gonna do that now?"
    "Don't worry about it, Tommy."
    "What's your name?"
    "Ken. My name is Ken."
    "Things get so mixed up, Kenny. You know what I mean?"
    Hutch sighed and wiped the sweat from his face. "I know."
    Tommy slid from the cot and crawled across the floor to where Hutch was. "I can't see. Everything is gone."
    "It'll be okay."
    "I'm scared, Kenny."
    Hutch leaned forward and wrapped both arms around the younger man's shoulders. "Don't be scared, kiddo," he said. "It's just shadows. All the monsters are only shadows."
    It was true. Chasing shadows. He was spending his life chasing after shadows. Monsters prowling the city streets who turned out to be sick, scared children. His job was to kill the monsters. Or, at least, to hurt them so they would go away. The rest of the world didn't want to look at the monsters, didn't want to know the causes. They only wanted the monsters gone.
    Ken Hutchinson, dragon-slayer.
    At that moment, he hated himself more than he had ever hated the crying, scared boy in his arms.

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"NIGHTMARE"

    They were quiet for a time after leaving Lisa and her mother. It was Starsky who finally broke the silence.
    "Having a kid must be a scary thing," he said. "Not knowing how it's gonna turn out."
    "It would probably be scarier if you did know," Hutch pointed out. "Or, at least, less wonderful. Doesn't every child turn out to be less than the parent would have wanted, in one way or another?"
    Starsky thought about that, then shook his head, "Nah, not always. Okay, my idiot brother is no prize, but I think my mom is sort of proud of me."
    "Oh, sure. She's proud of what you do, the kind of man you are. But wouldn't she be happier if you were married and had a couple of kids?"
    "That's for sure. What about your folks?"
    Hutch gave a short laugh. "Oh, well. I'm an all around disappointment. Wrong career. Living in the wrong city. Had the right wife, but lost her. And no offense to anyone in this car, but I hang around with the wrong kind of people. If Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson had known how little Kenneth was going to turn out they probably would have sold him to the gypsies."
    Starsky grinned a little at that, then he sobered. "You know, I'm not sure that it matters much. I mean, what parents think. Even if we love them. We have to live our lives, not theirs."
    "True."
    "Besides, Hutchinson, not everybody in your family disapproves of you."
    "Oh, really? Who's the exception?"
    "Me," Starsky said.

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"IRON MIKE"

    So Iron Mike turned out to be not so great after all. What else is new? Davy Crockett, they say, was a drunk who abandoned his family. F.D.R. cheated on Eleanor. And Kennedy sneaked women into the White House. Heroes are a fragile commodity in the best of times.
    Somebody said: A hero ain't nothing but a sandwich these days.
    So pour yourself another drink and play mind games with yourself. Tell yourself that you won't ever get cynical and so tired that nothing matters.
    Well, just how cynical is that? How tired?
    Can a man get more tired than I am?
    And when it comes to the other, to being cynical, well, it doesn't say much for my idealism to face the fact that another evening is being spent in the bitter company of demon rum.
    Actually, it's not rum, it's vodka, but who's counting?
    As we used to say, whatever gets you through the night.

***

    Too bad about Ferguson.
    Some guys just can't hack it. Being a cop is tough work and it can wear you down fast. Even me, I gotta admit. Nowadays I don't have so much of that old gung-ho attitude. But even so, I couldn't ever do what Iron Mike did. I wouldn't ever get that tired. That--what's the word--cynical about things. A cop goes that way and he either ends up a lush or eating the barrel of his gun.
    I couldn't ever get that desperate.
    Hutch I sometimes worry about.

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"LITTLE GIRL LOST"

    The loud pounding on the door broke into his dream, shattering the pleasant, albeit unmemorable, images. Starsky rolled over and peered at the clock. Eight A.M. Day off and somebody was pounding on the damned door at eight o'clock.
    Shit.
    He slid from the bed and into his robe in almost one movement. "Awright, awright, I'm coming." He sidestepped a chair and yanked the door open. "What?"
    "Morning, sunshine," Hutch sang out, pushing past him into the room.
    Starsky rubbed his eyes with one hand and slammed the door closed with the other. "What the hell do you want?"
    "Boy, you're grouchy. That old Christmas spirit doesn't last long, does it?"
    Starsky dropped into a chair, noticing for the first time the green foil-wrapped box in Hutch's hands.
    "What's that?"
    "A present, of course."
    "For who?"
    "For you."
    "Me?" Starsky swung his bare foot back and forth. "You already gave me a present. Yesterday was Christmas, remember? You gave me that great tree. How could you forget that? I never will."
    "Well, this present is also for you."
    "Why?" Starsky asked suspiciously.
    "Do I need to have a reason to give my best friend a present? Take it."
    Starsky took the box and began to unwrap it, still not sure about this. But when he lifted the lid, he gave a soft whistle. "Hey, it's the caboose. The one I wanted. It's a beauty, Hutch."
    "Glad you like it."
    He quit admiring the railroad car long enough to look up at Hutch. "How come? You bitch for days about Christmas and presents, and then you give me a crummy tree. And now, the day after Christmas you show up with this. Why?"
    Hutch shrugged. "I just don't like being obligated to give a gift. Hey, time to run out and buy, buy, buy. Give, give, give. When I give somebody a present, it's because I want to. That's all."
    Starsky shook his head, grinning. "You're one crazy bastard, Hutchinson."

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"BLOODBATH"

    "This is ridiculous," Starsky snapped.
    "Be that as it may."
    "What the hell does that mean?"
    "It means that no matter how ridiculous it is, that's the way it's gonna be."
    "I'm not six years old, for chrissake."
    "Then don't act like you are."
    "Everybody's laughing," Starsky whined.
    "Too bad." Hutch pushed the door open and waved Starsky through.
    "How long are you gonna keep doing this?"
    Hutch shrugged and leaned against the tiled wall.
    Starsky scowled at him and stepped to the stall. "Coming to the can with me," he complained. "Like I was a kid."
    "Take your leak, Starsk, and let's get back into the courtroom."
    "Yeah, yeah, hold your horses." He zipped his jeans with a disgusted jerk and went to wash his hands.
    Hutch pushed the door open and waited until Starsky was finished. Then, side by side, they walked into the corridor and headed for the courtroom.

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"THE PSYCHIC"

    The man was not sleeping. He sat in the dark, watching the play of light and shadow on the wall. Restless spirits seemed to fill the room, calling to him, urging him to some kind of action.
    It was a call he did not want to heed, felt he could not heed, at the risk of his own sanity. Or perhaps his mortal soul.
    The tapping at the door was so soft that at first he thought perhaps it was part of the spirit world. Then it came again, more strongly. "Come in," he said.
    When the door opened, he wasn't surprised at the identity of his visitor. "I've been expecting you," he said.
    The tall blond man looked surprised. "You have?"
    "Without knowing that I was," Collandra admitted. "What are you doing here?"
    "I don't know."
    "Don't evade the issue, Sergeant Hutchinson," Collandra said sharply. There was no time to waste with fools. "You've come to see me because you want to know what's in the future. You're no different than anyone else."
    Hutchinson dropped into a chair. "Okay. You're right, of course. Sometimes I get so...scared. Not knowing."
    Collandra switched on a lamp so he could see better. "And you think that knowledge will make you less afraid?"
    Hutchinson clenched his fists. "I don't know. Maybe."
    "Maybe knowing the moment and circumstances of your death will make the dying more...acceptable?"
    "Damnit, I don't know!" The burst of anger passed quickly and Hutchinson slumped back against the chair. "I don't care so much about my own death," he said dully.
    Collandra studied him, a little stunned by the intensity of the vibes, for want of a better word.
    "Your partner. That's the one you want to know about."
    "Yeah."
    "Let me ask you one question, Detective."
    "What?"
    "Suppose it works. Suppose I get a look into the future. And suppose that I can then tell you when and how Starsky will die. What then?"
    "I don't understand."
    Collandra sighed. "So tomorrow morning you go into work and you look into his eyes. There, you will see his death looking back at you. Will you tell him? Or will you greet him as usual and go about the day? Knowing what you know? Having seen his death?"
    Hutch shuddered. "Oh god. No. No, I don't want to know. Forget it. Forget I was ever here." He nearly ran from the room in his desperation to escape the truth.
    Collandra went to the window and watched Hutchinson get into his car. It was several minutes before the battered Ford drove off. When it was gone, Collandra pulled down the shade and went to bed.

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"THE SET-UP"

    Hutch was struck by a certain irony in the situation. Just two days before, they had parted company with that poor bastard who called himself Terry Nash, but who really had no idea at all who the hell he was. A man in search of his identity.
    The irony was that Detective Sergeant Hutchinson, who had said some encouraging things to Nash, now felt just as lost. Another man wondering who he was.
    Nobody had brainwashed him, of course. Unless you were prepared to call the first eighteen years of his life one long session in mind alteration. Which might not be as crazy as it sounded.
    Hutch knew that there was something mildly hypocritical about this whole trip. He had not visited Duluth in a very long time, had not wanted to. But coming death did things to people and he was no different. His grandfather was dying and the prodigal son came flying back to Minnesota.
    Frankly, he'd rather have been on an all-night stakeout with Starsky--bad jokes, cold pizza, stale potato chips and all. But duty, damnit, had to be done.
    The Fasten Seatbelt sign blinked on. Duluth was getting close. Hutch, who had never undone his seatbelt, pushed the tray back up, and settled in with a sigh. Time to stop being 'Hutch,' cop and partner and fair-haired good guy. Time to turn back into Kenneth. Only son who was supposed to go from law school into the state legislature and from there...who could say?
    Kenneth who was supposed to be the brightest star of the Hutchinson dynasty. He was the best and smartest and the charmer who would go all the way.
    Instead, he was a cop in Los Angeles.
    The wheels touched the ground and Hutch felt his gut tighten in an old familiar way. Just another man wondering who he really was. A poor fool in search of himself.

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"SURVIVAL"

    It wasn't exactly the way Starsky wanted to spend his afternoon off. Traipsing from one used car lot to another was bad enough. Worse was the way the salesmen looked at him when he described to them what it was he wanted to buy.
    "What're you, crazy?" was one of the nicest remarks that had been hurled at him in the past several hours.
    Crazy just about said it. Totally, completely, irreversibly bonkers.
    He parked in front of the last place on the list, Honest Fred's Reliable Automobile Emporium. Terrific. Fred didn't move much merchandise, apparently, because the cars in the lot all seemed to be covered by a fine layer of dirt.
    A fat little man in a shiny green and red plaid sport jacket bounced toward him. "Howdy, howdy," he said beamingly, rubbing his hands together. "In the market for a top-notch pre-owned vehicle, are we?"
    Starsky nodded and began his speech. "I want a 1973 Ford LTD," he said. "A sort of dirty brown-grey color. With a lot of dents and an engine that works about half the time. Oh, and the passenger door should stick."
    Give old Fred credit: his cheerful, round little face only wavered a little. "A what?"
    Starsky wearily repeated his request.
    "That's what I thought you said. This way."
    Fred took off at a sort of trot, with Starsky in pursuit. They went about halfway through the lot, then worked their way through a flock of old vans. And there it was: the car. If Starsky hadn't of known better, he would have sworn that this was the same Ford Hutch had driven off the mountain road.
    The next step was convincing Fred that it was really the car he wanted. Still, as they headed for the office to consummate the unholy deal, Fred said, "You won't be happy with that car."
    "It's not for me," Starsky replied. "It's a gift."
    Fred eyed him for signs of insanity. "A gift?"
    "Yeah. And believe me, the guy it's for is going to love it." Starsky shook his head and repeated glumly. "The guy is gonna love it."

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"STARSKY'S LADY"

    Dawn was funny. On the one hand, it could be filled with a pink-tinged promise of the new day. It could be a moment of breathless anticipation.
    But there was another kind of dawn. The one that was a poignant reminder of what might have been. A moment of sharp grief.
    Starsky was sitting at the window, waiting for this dawn and dreading it. The first full day of life without Terry. A very tall mountain to be gotten over.
    He had been sitting at the same window all night, trying to work his way through the jungle of emotion. And now it was almost morning and he still didn't understand why.
    A fact of life: the body doesn't know from sadness. Starsky had to piss. He went into the can. He did what had to be done, then washed his hands, splashed some cold water in his face, and gargled with a healthy dose of Listerine. He thought about shaving, but then dismissed the notion with a shrug.
    He decided on some breakfast instead.
    The figure on the couch came as something of a surprise. When the hell had Hutch arrived? And why just crash in here instead of letting somebody know that he was around?
    Starsky detoured and perched on the back of the couch, gazing down at his sleeping partner. The rest of the fucking world could turn to dust in his hands and there would still be one person he could count on.
    He let his fingertips touch soft blond hair. A thought struck him that was so...troubling in its implications that he tried to avoid facing the truth of it. Prudholm could just as easily have shot Hutch. He might be mourning his partner now. Starsky poked and probed his grief carefully. It hurt, God yes, hurt like hell and there would always be an empty space in his heart, a space where Terry had been. But this pain could be survived.
    What if it had been Hutch? How would he be feeling now? Would Terry's love have been enough to sustain him?
    The answer to that question was so terrifying that David Starsky couldn't accept it.
    He pulled his fingers back from the gold softness where they had been resting. Breakfast. He'd whip up one of his famous Mexican omelets and surprise Hutch. Thinking only of that, he headed for the kitchen.

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"HUGGY BEAR AND THE TURKEY"

    "I never want to hear another word about Huggy Bear's stupid-ass private eye business," Starsky said.
    "Suits me," Hutch agreed absently. He folded the newspaper. "When the hell is this guy gonna show up?"
    "When he shows up, I guess. We can't do a damned thing without the warrant, so we wait for the judge." Hutch grunted, peering through the windshield.
    "You know, Starsk, I think that we're working the wrong end of this law enforcement gig. I didn't know that judges did this good."
    Starsky looked at the mansion, which was surrounded by a lush green yard about the size of Forest Lawn. There was even a fountain. "Really. You think he's bent?"
    "Hardcase Hardcastle? You must be kidding. That guy is so straight, I wonder how he gets his shoes tied."
    "With this much money, he probably hires somebody to do it."
    Hutch laughed softly.
    "Anyway," Starsky continued suspiciously. "I saw him one day reading a Lone Ranger comic book. A judge. Personally, I think maybe he's a little senile. Ever see the shirts he wears?"
    Hutch saw a dark Corvette roaring up the driveway. "Well, at least he's on the bench and we're on the streets. So don't worry about him. Let's just get the warrant and split."
    Starsky snorted agreement and opened the door. "Judge Hardcastle?"
    The burly, white-haired man in the parrot Hawaiian shirt turned around. He wore a holster and gun under one arm.
    What the hell?
    "Yes?" Hardcastle said.
    Starsky took the warrant out of his pocket. Lone Ranger comic books, jeez. If this guy was so keen on silver-bulleting his way into the crime fighters hall of fame, he better find himself a Tonto. It was a hard life on the streets and nobody, even Super Judge, could take it on by himself.
    But it wasn't Starsky's problem. Leave the crazy judge for somebody else to deal with.

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"THE COMMITTEE"

    "Didja' ever stop to think about how much life is like a movie?"
    "No, Starsk, I never thought about that."
    "Well, it is."
    Hutch really wanted to watch the news. He kept his gaze on the screen. Maybe it would work.
    "Don't you want to know why life is like a movie?"
    "Not especially."
    "Well, I'm going to tell you."
    He sighed. "I figured you would."
    Starsky settled back and crossed his arms, donning his thoughtful look. "Okay. Now take this whole thing with Fargo and his vigilante cops."
    "You take it. I don't want it."
    "Don't you remember that movie? 'Magnum Force'? The one with Dirty Harry and the crooked cops?"
    "I don't remember."
    "Sure, you do. We saw it together."
    Hutch shook his head. "I fell asleep."
    "Probably. You always fall asleep during the good movies. But anyway, my point is, life sort of imitated that story."
    "Except that Clint Eastwood wasn't around."
    "True." Starsky grinned. "But I had you."
    Hutch nodded. "But one thing, Starsk."
    "What?"
    "If life is a movie, I want better lighting."

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"VELVET JUNGLE"

    "Let me get this straight," Hutch said, buttering his toast. "You woke me up on our day off so I could go shopping for clothes with you?"
    "Yeah." Starsky went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk. "I've been thinking that maybe my image could use some improvement."
    "Wouldn't have anything to do with what a certain lovely lady had to say about your wardrobe, would it?"
    "No, of course not," Starsky denied, seemingly oblivious to the white moustache decorating his upper lip. "I just decided it's time for a change."
    "Well, I can't argue with that. But why drag me into it?"
    "For years you've been knocking the way I dress. I figured you might have some good ideas."
    "I might?"
    "Maybe?"
    "Maybe I might. You really know how to flatter a guy, don't you?"
    "It's possible."
    Hutch chewed and swallowed toast. "How could I refuse an offer like that? It would be like turning my back on a hurt puppy. You need me." Grinning, he started for the bathroom to shower and shave. "Besides, it's my chance to do 'Pygmalion'."
    "Do what?"
    But Hutch only chuckled and left the kitchen.

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"LONG WALK ON A SHORT DIRT ROAD"

    MEMO
    TO: Captain H. Dobey
    FROM: Captain B. Mackey
    RE: Police Picnic

    Hal--Help, old pal! I've been snagged to head up the entertainment committee for our annual blow-out. We're all a little tired of the MacKenzie twins and their accordion duets, righto? So what I need from you, old buddy, is some word about talent. You got any in that ragtag squad of yours? Maybe some cute little gal who can dance or something? Give it some brain time and get back to me ASAP.

    MEMO
    TO: Captain B. Mackey
    FROM: Captain H. Dobey
    RE: Police Picnic

    Bill--Thought you were too smart to get put in charge of anything! Talent, you want? Well. I've got one guy, Starsky, who does cards tricks that sometimes work, and also does a pretty good Paul Muni imitation. Come to think of it, he does a fair tango and dip, too. Also, I got a guy, Hutchinson, who plays the guitar and sings. Maybe you remember him from last year? He came on just before the Vice guy with the trained cat. I understand he's had some pro experience since then, singing with Sue Ann Grainger, so maybe he wouldn't choke up like last time. I'll tell both my boys you're looking for talent.

    MEMO
    TO: Dobey
    FROM: Mackey
    RE: Police Picnic

    Old pal, I auditioned your boys- Hutchinson with the card tricks and Starsky singing, right? Anyway, tell them thanks, but no thanks. Actually the MacKenzie twins have learned a couple of new tunes, so it looks like the program will be pretty full. Thanks anyway.

    MEMO
    TO: Mackey
    FROM: Dobey
    RE: Police Picnic

    Bill, my boys got a little bit upset when they heard that you didn't want them in the show. But they'll get over it.
    By the way, have you heard about the MacKenzie twins' mumps?

    MEMO
    TO: Dobey
    FROM: Mackey
    RE: Goddamned Police Picnic

    It looks like we have a little room on the show after all. Tell Starsky he can sing a couple of songs. But as for Hutchinson, forget the card tricks. And who the hell is Paul Muni anyway?

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"MURDER ON STAGE 17"

    Of course it was Starsky's idea. "Let's pick up a pizza, some beer, maybe some ice cream, and watch the All-Night Comedy Film Festival on the television."
    Hutch agreed, because it was Saturday night, they had a rare Sunday off, it had been a helluva week, and he didn't much feel like playing Goodtime Charlie on a date. With Starsky, he could take off his shoes, put on his robe, and relax.
    So here they were.
    Or rather, here he was.
    Starsky lasted through the pizza, one six-pack, half a gallon of fudge ripple, and two movies (ROAD TO RIO and WITH SIX YOU GET EGGROLL) before caving in. So far now, he'd snored his way through THE PARENT TRAP, and half of TRICK OR TREAT, starring Wally Stone.
    It was a pretty funny movie, and he thought about waking Starsky so he could enjoy it, too. But then he took a closer look at his sleeping partner. Funny, some people looked younger and more vulnerable asleep, as if all pretense and defenses were gone. But it was different with Starsky. Asleep now, he seemed older. Without the smile and the dancing eyes to brighten his face, the lines seemed deeper, the years more evident.
    Hutch felt inexplicably sad looking at him. Starsky was tired. How much effort did it cost him to keep showing the face the rest of the world saw every day? How long could he keep up the facade?
    After a moment, Hutch got up and went to the bedroom for an extra blanket. He covered the barefooted man, tucking a soft cushion beneath his head.
    When his partner was well tucked-in, Hutch returned to the couch, lowering the volume on the TV as he passed. He settled down to watch the movie again. Maybe Wally Stone could make him laugh.
    Maybe.

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"STARSKY AND HUTCH ARE GUILTY"

    Happy birthday to me.
    Another year older and deeper in debt.
    Deeper in the shit, too. Maybe if the pay was better for what they did, the debt wouldn't be so bad. The shit would probably still be the same, though.
    Sometimes it got worse than usual. Like when half the department thought he and Hutch were running around town like Bonnie and Clyde, beating up on people and shit like that. Nice that people had faith.
    Happy birthday to me.
    Card from Ma. With the usual ten spot tucked inside. Every year since he was twelve, she had given him ten dollars. Used to be he could go out and buy something really neat with it. Now he usually just sprang for a couple of drinks for Hutch and him. That took care of ten bucks nowadays.
    Happy birthday, dear Davey.
    Yeah, many happy returns of the day.
    Not this day, thank you very much.
    Or, for that matter, most of this year. Helluva year. Loss. Of love. Of hope. Of something he couldn't seem to put a name to, but which sometimes seemed like innocence. And that was probably just as well. A cop couldn't afford to be innocent.
    One more year like this one and he'd be in fine shape. Time, maybe, to stop counting the years as they slid by. Count the days instead. One more day gone by and they were still hanging on. Getting old, yeah, but still kicking.
    Happy birthday to me.

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I was alone on my cold and windy shore
Trying to spread a little light around,
Then came the storm that left you there
At my door,
Now my light is stronger since the day
You ran aground.
Let my lighthouse be our house,
Together we'll shine our light on
The troubled sea, and our love bright
Gleaming through the night will shine
A beacon endlessly.
                                              Taylor