Disclaimer: Starsky & Hutch and all the characters therein do not belong to me. I'm just having a little fun with them.

Starsky's Lament

By: Vanessa Sgroi

"Pssst, Hutch."

When his partner didn't answer, Dave Starsky again said, "Pssst, Hutch."

"What? What are you 'psssting' me for—I'm sitting right here."

"I thought it made me sound like a private detective."

Ken Hutchinson sighed. "Why would you want to sound like a private detective when you're a POLICE detective?"

"I dunno. I was just bored."

"Starsk, it's a stakeout—boredom and stakeouts go hand-in-hand."

"Well, ya could at least talk to me, can't ya?"

"We're supposed to be watching the bar."

"We ARE watching the bar! In fact, we've been watching the bar for over two hours now and still nuttin'."

"Sharp said that China Pete always shows up at Tropics sometime after 8:00 p.m. on Mondays and Wednesdays, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah—I know, but it's after ten. I'm hungry, I have to go to the bathroom, and I have a cramp in my . . . leg . . . from hunkering down in this monstrosity you call a car."

"Okay, fine. What do you want to talk about?"

Dave glanced at his partner. "Huh?"

"You said we should talk. What do you want to talk about?"

"Oh. I dunno. Umm . . . how about your date last night? Your date with—what's her name—uh, Pansy? Posey?"

"It was Polly. And I'd rather not talk about it."

Sensing an interesting story, Starsky rubbed his hands together. "Oooh—was it that good or was it that bad?"

"Let's not talk about it and say we did," muttered Hutch.

"Ahhh, by your tone I can tell—it was that bad! Right? Why? What happened?"

Hutch's mutter became a growl. "I don't want to talk about it."

"All right. All right already," conceded the dark-haired detective, "Geez, bite a guy's head off why don't ya? It was just a question." Starsky was fairly certain that he would eventually get the whole sordid story from his partner anyway.

Ken looked at the man seated next to him in the front seat of his dun-colored Ford LTD.

"Look, Starsk, I'm sorry. It's just that—"

"Hey, hey, hold up a minute. Isn't that him?"

Hutchinson's gaze snapped forward, his eyes immediately zeroing in on the man known as China Pete. The man in question was walking nonchalantly toward Tropics.

"Yep, that's him. Let's let him get inside."

The detectives watched as China Pete first held the door open for a couple leaving the bar and then slipped through the entrance in their wake.

Hand on the door handle, Starsky called, "Show time!"

They exited the car and hurriedly made their way toward the bar. About halfway there, they saw a black Cadillac pull up to the curb. To the detectives' dismay, their quarry rushed from the bar and ducked into the backseat of the waiting vehicle.

"Hey, where's he goin'?"

"I don't know," responded Hutch, "but I say we tail him."

Hutch turned and ran for his car with Starsky on his heels. Slamming the car door, he turned the key.

Nothing happened.

"Well, c'mon," yelled Starsky, "let's go!"

The blond detective turned the key once more with the same results. He closed his eyes in defeat.

"We can't."

"Whaddaya mean we can't?"

"Car won't start."

"The car won't . . . You mean to tell me that this whale won't blow! Ya gotta be kiddin' . . ." Starsky's rant trailed to muttering under his breath. After a few seconds he said, "Ya know what this means?"

"That we have to call someone for a ride back to the station?"

"No! Well, yeah . . . but no, it means we have to do this all over again on Wednesday night!"

Hutch grimaced. "Yeah, you're right."

The dark-haired man groaned. "Next time . . . next time we're using MY car and I'm bringing some snacks." The detective squirmed in his seat. "And maybe any empty bottle too."

The End