Story #3: A Policeman's Lot Is Not a Happy One
Starsky stalked down the halls of Metro toward the locker rooms with single-minded purpose, doing his utmost to ignore the giggles and comments of his fellow officers. There was nothing he could do to wipe the silly grin off Hutch's face.
"How many times does this have to happen to me? Huh?" Starsky jerked off his leather jacket, which was covered with bits of pasta and marinara sauce. "Do you have an answer to that one, laughing boy?"
"I'm sorry, Starsk," Hutch said, rubbing his mouth as if he could rub away the amusement. "Three seems to be your lucky number?"
"It's like I got some sorta magnet for spaghetti and meatballs." He pulled off his shirt, which luckily had escaped the onslaught of Italian food because the leather jacket had been zipped up. Dry cleaning his favorite bombardier jacket was going to be a bitch, probably cost fifty dollars. "This has been one hell of a morning."
"You want me go write out a report or wait for you?"
"First the alarm doesn't go off," Starsky continued as if Hutch hadn't spoken. "And I jumped out of bed so fast I tripped over the phone cord and stubbed my toe." He'd removed his shoes and socks, raising his right foot to show Hutch the injured digit.
"Looks sore. You should have put on a Band-Aid."
"Then I was outta milk for my Cocoa Puffs!"
"Starsky, that diet will kill you anyway. Better not to have anything than eat Cocoa Puffs."
"I didn't have anything!" Starsky shucked his jeans, leaving the tomato-sauce-splattered pants in a puddle on the locker room floor. "I'm so hungry I wanna suck on my own jacket. There's at least a six dollar plate of spaghetti there."
"And the rest is in your hair," Hutch put in helpfully. He plucked a long strand of pasta out of Starsky's abundant curls.
"My hair!" Starsky groaned, looking in the mirror for the first time. Clumps of stewed tomatoes clung to the top of his head. "I don't have a blow dryer here."
"This is what comes of relying too much on modern conveniences, Starsk," Hutch seemed to be warming into one of his lectures, and Starsky was not in the mood.
"Save it for someone who cares!" He grabbed two towels from the shelf and stomped off to the shower stalls. "What next, huh? First, I'm late, and then an old geezer stealing money from the diner runs into the chef, who spills the tray of spaghetti all over me! How come this never happens to you?"
"Luck favors the prepared," Hutch said virtuously.
"Prepared for what?" Starsky deposited the towels on a bench, shivering. It was cold in the tiled bathroom. He wanted the water good and hot, and that wasn't always possible with the number of police who shared the showers. He was only glad it was mid-shift, and he and Hutch were the only ones in the room. "What next?" he mused, turning on the tap. "An earthquake?"
Just as the water hit him full force, the tile floor under his feet seemed to ripple and undulate like a jello mold at a church social. Starsky grabbed for something solid to hang onto, his fingers latching onto the faucet. He slid on the slippery, still-moving floor, turning the knob to the right. A blast of icy cold water hit him in the face, slamming him against the wall. Unable to remain upright, he fell to his knees.
"Damn!" Starsky exploded.
"Starsk?" Hutch yelled. "Did you feel the earthquake?"
"Nah," Starsky sneered, water coursing down his naked body. It felt like he had just gone over Niagara Falls in a barrel. His ribs ached where he'd hit the wall, his recently stubbed toe was hurting badly enough to consider foregoing shoes for the rest of the day, and his nose . . .
"Starsky, turn off the water," Hutch said sensibly. "You're bleeding."
"Wha?" His teeth chattering, Starsky hauled himself to his feet, noticing his knees were just a little on the wobbly side, and turned off the shower. His nose was throbbing, and it distinctly hurt to inhale.
"Smacked your nose on the wall," Hutch pointed to a smear of blood just disappearing down the drain in the tiled floor. "That's probably going to swell."
"You think?" Starsky imagined all sorts of loathsome things to do to Hutch just then, but he was too cold to carry any of them out. At least the spaghetti sauce was out of his hair.
"Hey, you need some help there?" Hutch bundled Starsky into two towels, leaning against him to rub him dry. Starsky immediately recanted all the nasty ideas he'd just had. Hutch was the best. A great partner, and really warm. There was no place he'd rather be than wrapped up in those long arms in nothing but a towel.
"Anybody in there?" a voice called from the locker room door. "You guys all right?"
"We're fine!" Hutch stepped away so quickly that both towels would have dropped to the floor if Starsky hadn't grabbed hold of the most strategically placed one.
"Hutch!" Starsky complained, but his partner had gone out to confer on the latest natural disaster. If his own internal Richter scale was any indicator, and after having lived nearly all his life in Southern California, it was usually pretty accurate, the earthquake had registered in around the 3.8 to 4.5 range. Your "garden variety, doesn't do much damage, just shakes up the population a bit" sort of earthquake. At least it had shaken off his grumbly mood somewhat, and he dabbed the wetter of the two towels on his nose.
Checking himself out in the mirror, Starsky decided his nose wasn't too bad. Certainly not broken, and once the blood was wiped away, it wasn't much more than a long scrape along the side. He was not going to wear a Band-Aid on his face, that was for sure.
"Initial reports on the radio say that was a 4.2," Hutch announced, coming back in with a small bag of ice. "Minnie heard you were the only casualty in the Big One of '81, so she sent you an ice bag."
"Some people have compassion." Starsky held the bag against his nose, struggling with the lock on his locker. He finally had to let go of both the towel, and the ice bag, in favor of working the finicky lock. It always stuck on numbers 5 and 29, but he'd gotten used to that after eight years.
Hutch sat down on the bench behind him, gathering up the dirty clothes and stuffing them into a gym bag. He gave a tiny, but noticeable, appreciative sigh.
"What are you looking at?" Starsky located his second oldest pair of jeans, the ones with that had gone threadbare at the crotch and knees.
"Just admiring the view, which you've now covered up," Hutch said, looking as virtuous as the driven snow. "But, those jeans are barely a substitute for nudity."
"Jealous?" Starsky waggled his butt at his partner. "I still got my youthful charisma, but you're getting on."
"Almost your birthday, Starsk." Hutch shrugged. "I'm not all that sure these March/August relationships can last. May have to consult my horoscope." His eyes narrowed in what Starsky thought was a much too contemplative expression. "And your biorhythms, too."
"Aw, don't go on about my biorhythms, I swear you made that all up the last time." Starsky finished dressing, and wiped the worst of the sauce off his jacket. The February weather was cold, threatening rain, and he had nothing else to wear.
Hutch sniffed deeply, standing very close behind Starsky. "You smell good, reminds me of a date at an Italian restaurant."
"Don't bring that up either!" Starsky waved a threatening finger under Hutch's elegant nose, but he never seemed to have the power that Hutch wielded with a single forefinger. "You coming?"
"Where? We haven't written out the arrest report on Grandpa Walton."
"His granddaughter's probably already come to spring him." Starsky shrugged. "He didn't even have a bullet in that World War One reject pistol. It's a shame old people can't get a decent break around here." He pointed down the hall. "Since I didn't get any breakfast, even at the diner, and it's past noon, I'm willing to put aside my usual standards and brave the Metro cafeteria."
"I wasn't aware you had any standards when it came to food," Hutch said to no one in particular, following him down the hall.
There was a line of people at the hot food counter because the cook had made spaghetti. Starsky made a face and veered around the group to the prepared sandwiches and salads. Hutch selected a small mixed green with croutons and sliced mushrooms. Starsky pressed against his rumbling tummy with a sigh. Chicken salad on triangle-sliced white bread or a single slice of bologna on wheat, with a small packet of mayo and mustard tucked discretely under the single lettuce leaf. Not enough to keep a flea alive. He took two of the chickens, added on a bag of Lay's chips, and a carton of chocolate milk to assuage his bruised ego.
Hutch paid for both of them, which should have cheered Starsky up, but it didn't. He took a long swig from the milk while waiting for the new cashier to fumble through the money exchange, and let Hutch lead the way to a table. Starsky had just hooked his foot around the leg a chair to sit down when a low, grinding hum came up from the earth and the whole building shook once like a dog coming out of a bath. Many patrons of the cafeteria dove under tables in the standard earthquake preparedness maneuver that all California schoolchildren are taught. Starsky wobbled, but stayed erect. His tray hit the table with a bang, sandwiches, milk carton, and chips tumbling off across the floor in a wide swath.
"What next?" he wailed at the heavens as the rest of the people picked themselves up and resumed eating. Another minor temblor in what looked like it was going to be a day of aftershocks. Just one of those things in Los Angeles.
"Biorhythms, Starsk," Hutch said with a raised eyebrow, digging into his now thoroughly tossed salad.
"I'm getting another sandwich." Starsky took a deep breath, regretted it when his the pain in his swollen nose renewed with a vengeance, and realized he might not survive the day.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
With Starsky's already abysmal luck, Hutch insisted on driving for the rest of the afternoon, and their lives seemed to settle somewhat. The earth did not. Small quakes shook the Southland almost hourly, jangling nerves, setting off car alarms, and knocking down a few poorly constructed retaining walls. So far all the quakes since the first one had been under 3.8, and several were so small that only the seismometers took notice.
After following up the usual sort of muggings, complaints of vandalism, and a report of a car theft that turned out to be a mistake when the car owner found his vehicle parked exactly a block further over than he remembered, the partners retired to the relatively peaceful detective squadroom to fill out their daily reports. After more than half a dozen quakes since ten a.m., the floor was covered with files and paperwork that should have stayed sedately on the desks. Starsky sighed eloquently, picking through the drifts around his chair for the most pertinent files. He was supposed to testify in a rape case the following day, but now all his notes were scattered across the linoleum. He finally just shoved most of the debris into an untidy stack, and piled it up on the desk next to his typewriter.
"The next rumble and that will all just slide off again," Hutch said blithely.
"Yeah, well can I help it if I like things neat?" Starsky located a blank report form and tried to slot it onto the roll of his typewriter. The paper resisted all his efforts, savagely slashing his index finger in brutal retaliation. "Ow!" Starsky sucked on the wounded finger, grimacing from the taste of blood. "I'm bleeding again."
"You're a walking disaster area today." Hutch pulled on Starsky's hand, dislodging the finger from his mouth and inspected the tip. "It's a paper cut."
"These things can get infected, you know!" Starsky retorted. "My uncle knew of a guy who got a paper cut doing his tax forms. The cut got infected with some flesh eating thing and the next thing you know, the guy is dead."
"Urban myth, Starsky. And the human mouth has more bacteria than a dog's, so I'd suggest you stop sucking on it."
"You think I could get worker's comp for something like this?" Starsky managed to wrestle the report form into submission, and typed out the information without bringing his sore finger into contact with the keys. He had just ejected the finished report from the machine when every window in the place rattled ominously, the floor and walls vibrating like a hotel bed.
"Eight seconds long," Hutch announced to the rattled detectives. "How many is that in a single day?"
"Five or six, but who's counting?" Cuddy said from across the room.
"Might be more like eight," Deng spoke up. "Radio said there've been some really small ones, too."
"All these little quakes relieve stress on the major faults so we're less likely to get a bigger one." Cuddy nodded.
"Still too many for me," Starsky stood, and the linoleum buckled, the pile of papers he'd stacked on the desk sliding to the floor once again. He clutched the chair, waiting for his heartrate to downgrade to normal speed, which took considerably longer than the little temblor had. "Hutch, can I go home now?" he asked plaintively.
"I've done the purse snatching, and the kid we caught with a spray can turning Friar Tuck Lane into Friar Fuck, and I have my notes from the mugging. I guess that one can wait until tomorrow." Hutch tapped the papers on the desk until the ends aligned and placed them into the out basket. He looked pointedly at the paper covering Starsky's Adidas. "You need help with tidying up?"
"No." Starsky shuffled through the snowdrift. His toe was really beginning to throb after being stuffed in a sneaker all day, and he just wanted to lie down. "What's the point? I'll just leave it."
"You need something to eat, that's your problem. Haven't had enough protein and vegetables today," Hutch stood, stretching out his long legs. "What about some nice lentil soup? With crusty seven-grain rolls?"
"You just hate me, don't you? Next you'll be suggesting meatless spaghetti."
"Hey, have you tried that diner over on 93rd, Starsky?" Deng called out. "I heard the chef makes a mean marinara sauce, knocks you right off your feet."
"Laugh it up, Deng," Starsky said in a long-suffering voice. "Just make sure nobody remembers when you called child welfare to come rescue a baby from a dumpster which turned out to be a bunch of stray cats."
"C'mon, Pitiful Pearl." Hutch held out Starsky's leather jacket, which still had a distinct odor of tomato. "I think I know what will cheer you up."
"As long as the ground stays flat, that's all I care about." Starsky took his jacket, walking dejectedly to the hallway.
"Starsky, haven't you heard?" Hutch had a guilty grin as if he knew teasing Starsky when he was down wasn't the best idea, but he couldn't help himself. "They proved the earth is round about five hundred years ago."
"You should go on Carson, you know that?" Starsky sneered at him. "You're as funny as a car wreck on the I-5."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Hutch made Starsky wait in the car while he went into the grocery for a few items. Starsky didn't mind in the least. He leaned his head back, turned on the radio and listened to Creedance Clearwater Revival. Bad Moon Rising was certainly an apt song for the day, although the line "earthquakes and lightning . . ." gave him pause. Just what they needed here, lightning. Yeah, that would really put a capper on the day. One of those rare, slightly freakish lightning storms that only blew in once or twice a year in California. If that happened, he was definitely moving back east where there were only tornadoes and hurricanes.
Hutch put the groceries in the car and drove them back to Starsky's place, instructing Starsky to take a long leisurely shower and put on something comfortable. Starsky suspected he knew what that meant, if it were any other ordinary day, but on one such as this, he was not really in the mood. He needed comfort food, and a long session on the couch with just a remote and some really gruesome slasher movie like Dawn of the Dead to recover from the catastrophe of February 1981. Sex would be terrific at any other time, but he was afraid he'd strain some vital organ on this day of disasters.
Wrapped in an old bathrobe Starsky sank into the couch, flipping through the TV Guide. Creature Features, his favorite, didn't play midweek, but one of the cable stations was rerunning Vincent Price's House of Wax at 8pm. Good innocuous scares to get his mind off things.
His nose had started to notice some very enticing smells coming from the kitchen, however, taking his mind off ache of his toe and nostril. Very lovely, very tasty smells.
"What are you making in there?" Starsky asked with renewed interest.
"Dinner is served." Hutch carried in two plates heaped with fried chicken, corn on the cob, and baked beans.
"Hutch!" Starsky stared in wonder at the plate in front of him. This wasn't anything like what he'd expected. "This looks terrific!"
"And there's one more thing to warm the cockles of your heart." Hutch hurried back to the kitchen to retrieve the glass pitcher from the blender and two tall glasses.
"Just exactly what are cockles?" Starsky took a large, satisfying bite of chicken.
"Clams." Hutch poured out thick, frosty chocolate milkshakes.
"Why would clams warm my heart?" Starsky asked, really noticing what Hutch was doing for the first time. "Oh, Hutch!" After the first drink, he closed his eyes in ecstasy. "You made me a chocolate shake?"
"Everybody needs to indulge once in a while." Hutch wolfed down his drumstick in under a minute. "Besides, I didn't actually make the chicken, the grocery store deli did that."
"Don't care, you bought it for me. And the shake, it's fantastic. The best I've had since Ol'Man Bronsky's soda fountain burned down. You have a gift." Starsky finished off the heavenly concoction and held out his glass for more, then frowned. "You didn't hide any gross stuff like powdered rhino horn or what's that stuff? Green magma in there, did you?"
"Green magma is a wonderful algae full of nutrition, but it does cause the drink to turn green." Hutch topped him up again, and finished off his meal. "Royal jelly has some excellent restorative powers, though."
"Royal jelly?" Starsky peered at his once again empty glass suspisiously. "Did you poison me?"
"Comes from bees, Starsk. Like honey." Hutch impetuously planted a kiss on his partner's chocolatey lips. "Anyway, would I do something like that?"
"You would." Starsky scooted closer to his lover on the couch, hooking a leg around Hutch's knee to keep him in place and gave as good as he got. He was just beginning to really enjoy the exchange when the couch lurched, shuffling across the floor several inches to the accompaniment of raucous jangling from several china and ceramic vases tumbling off the bookshelf. "Did the earth move for you?" Starsky asked weakly.
Hutch laughed, surveying the suddenly cluttered floor. "Lost a couple of pots."
"Aw, damn!" Starsky got up, circling the broken shards. "That brown and green one was my favorite. From the Huichol Indians."
"Starsky, your feet are bare," Hutch said. "I'll get a broom."
"Ow, fuck, and every other expletive ever deleted." Starsky cried out in pain, hopping on the left foot. His right had a small fragment of Mexican art sticking out of the sole, just below the toe he'd stubbed that morning.
"Sit down!" Hutch ordered a little too sharply. "I'm beginning to think you have a black cloud hovering right over your head." He shook the broomstick in a vaguely threatening way that reminded Starsky of witches in some old Salem witch trial movie. "Let me sweep this up before you cut off your own foot and bleed to death in seconds."
"It's not too bad." Starsky sat down and used a paper napkin left over from dinner to remove the bit of pottery, then pressed the wadded up paper against the wound to staunch the flow of blood. "Y'know, if you cut yourself, too, we could be blood brothers."
Hutch half turned, looking over at Starsky with an odd grin on his face, still sweeping the mess into a tidy pile. "Only you can put a positive spin on something like that."
"No sense being pessimistic, it wouldn't work anyway." Starsky inspected his cut.
"Who said that?"
"Me?" He shrugged, hopping over to the kitchen for a Band-Aid. "Before that, someone wise and ancient."
"Starsky, there are times--rare though they may be--when you are pretty wise yourself." Hutch had come into the kitchen for the dustpan, but he curved an arm around Starsky and hugged him.
"But not ancient."
"Not ancient." Hutch paused with a sneaky look in his eye. "Until next month when you turn thirty-six and are one year older than me for five months."
Standing on one leg, Starsky smacked Hutch, which hampered his precarious balance. He would have fallen but for the arm around his waist.
"You want help with that bandage?" Hutch asked straight-faced.
"Only if you refrain from any and all mention of biorhythms."
"Never entered my mind." Hutch slapped the Band-Aid on the wound. "I'd stay off that for a while."
"Exactly what I had in mind!" Starsky yelled, feeling decidedly churlish, even if Hutch was being very nice to him. He settled back on the couch with his foot up on the armrest and stuck his nose in the TV Guide to find something that didn't include earthquakes, bleeding, or spaghetti cooking. At this point he wasn't even sure he could stomach Vincent Price. Maybe a sedate program on migratory birds?
"Okay, so what are we watching?" Hutch asked after dumping the shards in the trash. He plucked the magazine out of Starsky's hands to check the listings. "I'm assuming you want House of Wax?"
"No, channel 9 has an insightful documentary on the lives of Canadian geese," Starsky quoted the episode description.
"Are you a pod person from another galaxy, and what did you do with the real David Starsky?"
"Just turn on the TV before another earthquake bounces out the cable. I'm really interested in honking." Starsky's chin sunk onto his chest and he ruminated on his various wounds. Even the bump on the side of his head where the spaghetti pan had hit him this morning was beginning to smart. Maybe he should call in sick in the morning--that was putting a positive spin on things. A relaxing day in a chaise lounge with a good novel, that was what he needed. And maybe another chocolate shake. He glanced over at Hutch hopefully.
By the look of things, Hutch wasn't paying much attention to the program either, the narrator droning on while he intently read over some article in the Guide.
"Whatcha reading?"
"Your horoscope."
"Hutch! I said no more psychic mumbo-jumbo!"
"You specifically mentioned biorhythms, not other forms of metaphysical science," Hutch said loftily. "Aries says this will be a week of mixed emotions and with Wednesday's full moon occurring in the most sensitive angle of your solar chart you must be careful not to overreact to unfounded fears and insecurities. Think positive and positive things will happen."
"Hey!" Starsky grinned, loving the way Hutch's eyes went soft when they looked over the top of the magazine at him. "What about yours?"
"Virgo," Hutch read and cleared his throat importantly. "Because Wednesday's full moon occurs in the partnership angle of your chart, you'll need to be particularly supportive of the people closest to you this week. Provide the reassurance they need and they will do the same for you when it's your turn to feel insecure."
"We match!" Starsky said in surprise, sitting up. "Is that for real?"
"Read it yourself."
"Guess the moon wants us to stay together, since it's in our charts and all," Starsky swung his foot off the armrest, gesturing for Hutch to sit down next to him. Once he was there, Starsky let his foot rest in his partner's lap. "Feeling insecure, yet, Hutch?"
"Far from it, buddy. But I'm positive you'll be the first to know when I do." Hutch leaned over the outstretched leg, meeting Starsky's lips on the way. They kissed, and the earth quaked in reply.
FIN
And yes, those were real TV Guide horoscopes, from the same week! Honest.