Disclaimer: I do not own Starsky and Hutch, however much I would like to. Any characters that I have created are fictional and any resemblance to a person living or deceased is purely coincidental. Please excuse any errors about L.A as my knowledge of it is stems from television, Google and playing L.A Noire. Rated T just to be safe, because future chapters are likely to have violence, mild language, etc. Genre is Comedy/Drama/Friendship/Crime and possibly later Romance. Since I can't put all those tags in, I'll just say Crime/Friendship and the rest can be figured out by reading.

Authors Note: I hope that this first chapter isn't too boring. It was intended to 'set the scene'. There are hopefully more exciting things to come if you stick with it.

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Friendly Neighbourhood Crime Syndicate

Chapter 1

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"I love Saturdays. Ya know what I really love about them? No work; no chasing down scum, no paperwork and no angry Cap! Jus' me, my house, an' my M.I.A partner! The best part is, tomorrow is Sunday!" Starsky heaved a satisfied sigh as he stood on the unkempt front lawn of a decrepit house, staring at the forlorn structure contentedly. It was a beautiful Spring day, the perfect Sunday away from work and stress, and Starsky was so caught up in the serenity of the quiet neighbourhood that he was startled to hear Hutch's voice so close behind him.

"You know I begin to worry when you start talking to yourself, Starsk."

Starsky bristled then relaxed again, pointedly replying, "For your information Mr. Ten-Minutes-Late, I was talkin' to my pet rock." Starsky patted the pocket of his leather jacket and as he turned to face his partner, words momentarily failed him. There was definitely something different about Hutch, in his faded blue jeans and loose-necked brown tee. It was as though he had wiped ten years off his age.

"Lookie look here!" Starsky suddenly cried, having twigged on. "Detective Hutchinson sans one tea strainer! Let me guess, your old jalopy broke down and you had to use your moustache to flag down traffic?"

"Ha-Ha –"

"No wait, your rust-bucket conked out and ya had to use your lip wig for smoke signals!"

"As a matter of fact –"

"Wait, I got it! You were stranded miles from civilisation, with a smokin' engine and nothin' to eat –"

"Starsky! If you must know, my 'faithful mode of transportation' did break down," Hutch replied, humourlessly, self-consciously running a hand over his smooth lip and chin. His hair had also been cropped shorter, glittering blue eyes now not being the only evidence of his youth. If one could call early 30s youthful, that is, which Starsky (being a few months older) most certainly did. "And for your information," Hutch continued, "I happen to think that moustaches are very distinguishing. Unfortunately, I had a date with a lovely lady last night who is attending beauty school…"

Starsky rubbed his hand over his chin. "Say no more! Sounds like a classy lady. Maybe I ought to grow myself a moustache." He mused for a moment, flashed a cheeky grin at his partner, and pivoted back around.

"You killed the cactus I gave you within a month. I wouldn't trust you with a moustache," Hutch quipped.

"I'm glad you think so, because I happen to reckon I'm kinda dashin' just the way I am!"

As Hutch scoffed and stepped up beside him, Starsky threw an arm around his shoulders, his free hand flourishing the air in front of him.

"But that is neither here nor there. I suppose you're wonderin' why I called you here." It was not a question.

"Well, now that you mention it – uh – no. No, I had you pegged from the start. Sorry, Starsk, but you lack basic subtly. "

Starsky eyed Hutch indignantly and whined, "My last paycheck hadn't cleared yet, and Robbie's was havin' a sale on ply wood and assorted timber. Look, just humour me, will ya?" When there were no further objections, Starsky continued, "Now, I know ya weren't so keen on the idea of property development, partner, but let me try'n sell it to ya again."

Hutch sighed, though not with the same enthusiasm as Starsky's had been, and decided to allow his partner to pitch him the idea. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared at the little, rundown house with its broken everything and pitiful lawn.

"Imagine before ya a beautiful two bed and bath, complete with a little white picket fence and a veggie patch out the back!" Starsky practically sang, in perfect imitation of a used car salesman. "A bee-utiful kitchen and dining combined, and a livin' room fit for a king. Could even hang a few potted plants to add a bit o'the outdoors, y'know?"

"All I'm imagining is a concussion when that heap comes down on top of us."

"Aw, come on, Blondie, you're not seeing the big picture here!" Starsky unlooped his arm from around Hutch and stood facing him. "We could fix this place up good an' proper, just you an' I, Hutch. Besides, it'll be a good stress-reliever and it'd help me recuperate from my battle scars." Starksy lifted the bottom of his shirt up slightly, threatening to show Hutch his bullet scars for the bazillionth time.

"Starsky, you have been fit for active duty for the past six months. You're outrunning me again!" Hutch chided, tugging Starsky's shirt back down.

"Yeah, but all them mental scars..." Starsky trailed off and dipped his chin, clasping Hutch's outstretched hand, deep blue eyes lifting to search for his partner's brighter ones. That did it. The classic puppy-dog eyes always did it.

"Your whole brain is a mental scar," Hutch replied, sarcastically, though with an affectionate edge, and pulled his hand free to pat Starsky's cheek. "Alright, Curly, I'm in."

Starsky instantly brightened and clapped Hutch on the shoulders. "Hutch-cha-cha! You won't regret this, partner! I have big ideas for this place!"

Starsky grinned and produced the house key from his pocket, hoisting himself onto the porch and immediately sinking his foot through the rotting timber.

"Oh yeah, I see that. Hope your big plans include both legs," Hutch replied candidly, carefully choosing a less perilous route onto the porch, having fallen victim to its less than adequate structure in the past. He had walked away without stepping inside back then, and never thought to look back.

"Very funny, wise guy," Starsky grumped and wiggled his foot free so that he could unlock the front door (which one would imagine would be a useless endeavour to lock in the first place, seeing as most, if not all, the windows were broken). "Welcome to our humble abode!"

If the outside was bad, it couldn't have prepared Hutch for the interior. It was marginally short of being condemned, with its peeling wallpaper, rotting floorboards, suspicious clumps of mould and...

"I think the previous tenant owned cats. Lots and lots of cats."

"Or just one with a real small bladder," Starsky offered, unhelpfully, and with a cautious lilt, lead the way into the depths of their new pet project. It was a small house, complete with what Starsky envisioned to be a welcoming living room, leading into the kitchen, with a hallway on the left guiding towards two adjoined bedrooms and a bathroom at the end. The two off-duty detectives took their time exploring the rooms, visually assessing their work load and discussing their priorities. When the odour became too much, they stepped outside into the back yard, which was quaint although quite overgrown.

"You know there won't be much time for a social life, Starsk," Hutch pointed out as he silently mapped the backyard, mentally plotting his vegetable garden.

"I'm sure your beauty school lady won't be all that happy," Starsky replied a little vexatiously, his tone either unheard or ignored by his partner.

"Truth be told, I don't think we'd make a good fit; she was talking about doing my legs next and something about practicing bikini lines." There was a collective shudder, a hasty clearing of throats and a return to the topic at hand.

After nearly an hour of discussing the house, during which Hutch had become more animated, Starsky's growling stomach decided that a food break was in order. As the two made their way towards the striped Torino, they were greeted by the rumbling of a moving van pulling up across the street, followed by a series of yelling, cussing and the definite tinkle of broken china. Hutch lifted his brows at Starsky, who in turn inclined his head towards the commotion.

"Might as well go and meet the neighbours," Hutch suggested and took off at a casual pace towards the van.

"Ya know, partner, my Ma always said that curiosity killed the cat," Starsky replied, sagely, catching up to Hutch.

"Well that's just fine by me. Our new house smells like it's had enough cats. By the way, how is your Mother?"

"Same as always. Wants to know when I'll be bringin' home a nice Jewish girl; said I'd bring you instead." Starsky grinned as they reached the van, stepping aside to allow two heavily-set men to drag a sofa out.

"Lift with ya knees, fellas," Starsky advised to glares and irritable grunts.

"Hurry up with that sofa, will you?" A frustrated male voice called out, its owner peeking around the side of the van. He was a young man, slightly shorter than Starsky with blonde curls and hazel eyes. At seeing Starsky and Hutch, his pouting glare spread into a warm, albeit somewhat manic, grin.

"Neighbours! I'd offer you boys a brew, but my fridge isn't even inside yet. You sure are quick on the welcoming party though, eh? The name's Tom Richen."

"I'm David, this is Ken," Starsky introduced, he and Hutch shaking Tom's hand in turn. "We're just across the way, fixin' up a place." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and Tom craned around them, whistling.

"Looks like quite the job you fellas have got there – Hey, morons, that vase is antique! Buncha turkeys!" Tom suddenly bellowed. "What was I saying?"

Hutch and Starsky watched as the movers clambered in and out of the van, each time carrying rather extravagant items; antique dining room set, a box labelled 'crystal wine glasses' and a large oriental vase to name a few. Hutch studied Tom; he looked no older than 21 and as a few of the boxes were labelled 'college' and 'chemistry set', he would bet Starsky's pet rock he was only a student.

"That's, uh, quite the collection," Hutch observed.

Tom smiled vaguely, his mouth working slowly as though he were chewing something very carefully. And then, in a tone that blatantly said 'I know I'm lying and you know I'm lying,' he simply stated, "Inheritance from my Grandma. I was always the favourite."

Starsky smiled thinly. "Clearly. Well, we best be off, hey Hutch?"

"Hey, look you guys, thanks for stopping by. You should drop in tomorrow night once I'm all unpacked. My girlfriend'll be here, so it'll be like a date night, or something, eh?"

Starsky and Hutch stared blankly.

"Oh – wait – no, we're not..." Hutch stammered.

"Hey, it's all good! Sexual revolution and all that jazz," Tom replied, waving them off.

"C'mon, Hutch," Starsky said with a nudge, and after an awkward farewell, he and Hutch walked back to the Torino. "That guy sure is somethin'."

"That inheritance story was definitely bogus," Hutch pointed out. "Did you notice the vase?"

"What about it?" Starsky asked as they reached the Torino, pulling open the driver's door as Hutch circled around the back to the passenger side.

"Well, I could be mistaken, but it looked remarkably similar to a piece that was stolen from a Buddhist temple about a month or so ago. You really didn't notice? I even read you out the article."

"Well, I was a bit distracted at the time," Starsky replied, turning the key in the ignition and brining his faithful Torino roaring to life.

"About what?"

Starsky turned and fixed his partner with a dead-pan stare.

"The fact that Tom Richen is, without a doubt, Canadian."

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"It's strange."

"It's Saturday."

"We could look into it, you know."

"It's still Saturday!"

"We're cops, Starsk, it's what we do."

"So call it in! Here's the radio."

"But we have an opportunity to uncover something big. Other temples and churches have been hit in the same manner over the past few months."

"Hutch. It's Saturday."

"It's a lead."

Starsky groaned as they pulled up outside The Pits and spent a quiet moment resting his forehead against the steering wheel, feeling Hutch's eyes bore into the side of his skull. He ran a hand over his chest, sucked in a breath and then fixed his partner with a look of childish irritability.

"Fine. Fine. We'll look into it. But we gotta play it careful and not let on that we know what he don't want us to know. And that we're cops."

Hutch grinned, patted Starsky's shoulder and hopped out of the car. "For that, I'll buy lunch."

"Are ya sure you can afford it?" Starsky quirked a devilish smile, climbing out of his beloved Torino and making sure it was locked. "All that talk about fixin' up our place and solvin' a crime on the weekend has made me hungry."

Hutch eyed Starsky suspiciously and lead the way into The Pits, greeted by a mixed scent of beer, smoke and home cooking. "You're always hungry."

Starsky shrugged his shoulders and, as per habit, cast his deep blue's over the other patrons, seeking out their long time friend and proprietor, Huggy Bear. He spotted him, dressed in a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark bell-bottoms, white loafers and a matching ascot around his neck. Huggy had set himself up a table towards the back of the establishment and covered it with foot high teddy bears, each adorned with little bows. He was quick to spot the two detectives and waved them over, his best salesman smile plastered to his face.

"Why if it isn't my favourite duo!" He greeted, arms spread wide. "Claudia," he called out. "Get these fine gentlemen their usual."

"With extra chilli!" Starsky added and sent Claudia a wink. She gave a sultry smile and taped the ticket to the turntable, spinning it around for the chef to receive in the kitchen. "So, Hug, what's with all the bears?"

"Dig this, cats. Huggy Bear's Huggy Bears! Lonesome and scared? Reach for a 'Bear'! Need comfort or a snug, grab yourself a 'Hug'!"

"Looks like just a regular teddy bear to me," Hutch observed and raised his brows sceptically at Huggy.

"I dunno, Hutch. It is kinda extra cuddly," Starsky replied, picking up yellow bear and giving it a good squeeze.

"What happened to your pet rock?"

"Sittin' on my windowsill back at the house, lookin' all lonely. C'mon, partner, look how cute it is. I'll call it Mr. Hutchibear."

"What are you, 10?"

Starsky perked a brow and shrugged one shoulder. Hutch sighed. "How much, Huggy?"

"I have a special price for you two! Only $25.00 and I'll throw in an extra bow!"

"How about $15.00; cops discount?" Hutch offered.

"You trying to drive me out of business?" Huggy accused, feigning offence.

"Fine, fine. $25.00, but you throw in that bow and a bit of info about a string of antique robberies from churches and temples."

"Now you're talkin'," Huggy lowered his voice as Hutch forked over the cash, he and Starsky settling themselves into their respective chairs. Huggy sat down opposite them and slid the bears to one side. "About a week ago, I just happened to have audibly perceived some dudes dishing out the details on a heist at the National History Museum on Exposition."

"The Museum ain't no church, Hug," Starsky informed.

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," Huggy replied, sarcastically.

"No no, I'm Sherlock, he's Watson," Hutch chimed in with a grin, earning a disdainful glare from his partner.

"I'm failing to see the connection between a buncha guys plannin' to steal a dinosaur and a string o'church thefts," Starsky said, bringing them back to the topic at hand.

"Well, if you had been kind enough to allow me to finish," Huggy replied, smugly, "I would have told you that the cats caterwauling about their church catches, were the same dudes dishin' out dough for in-fo. New players; not from around here, but they seem to have their act together."

"In other words, the same guys who ripped off the churches and temples are going to be hitting the Natural History Museum and are bragging about it?" Hutch summarised.

"Isn't that what I just said?" Huggy replied, indignantly.

"Sounds kinda stupid," Starsky mused, " broadcasting their plans."

"Well, it weren't broadcasting, per se..."

"Just where were you when you overheard this?" Hutch asked.

Huggy cleared his throat. "Well, see, the restrooms needed cleanin' after a less than Kocher batch o' chilli and I just happened to be in the next stall.

Starsky curled his upper lip slightly and swallowed. "Bad chilli, huh?"

"They were meeting in the men's room?" Hutch asked.

"The ladies, actually; the men's room was too far gone. Strange times, my friend, strange times."

"Let's just go back to the chilli for a moment - " Starsky interrupted, apprehensively.

"Here's your chilli, with extra!" Claudia announced, laying the plate in front of Starsky and offering Hutch his usual Caesar Salad. Starsky gave a weak smile, his classic 'thanks, shweetheart' and promptly offered to trade plates with Hutch once the waitress was out of earshot. Hutch made a circle around his plate with his arms to ward Starsky off and directed the conversation back to the thieves.

"Did you catch what those guys looked like, or anything that may be able to identify them?" He asked of Huggy, who shook his head in response. "How about when they were planning on hitting the Museum?"

"No dice, Hutch," Huggy replied. "Those dudes were on a fact finding mission. They were real careful about not usin' names. Reckon three of them were crammed into the one stall an' not once did they hint at who they were."

'It could be Tom," Hutch pondered as Starsky sniffed his chilli anxiously. "What do you think, Starsk? Starsky?"

"I think this chilli smells kinda funky."

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The rest of the Saturday went by as Starsky had initially planned, with the exception of turning down his chilli and having to score a taco at the local stand. He and Hutch had finished up with lunch and had driven back to their house, eventually moving the conversation from a potential new thief ring to the more pressing topic of what colour the kitchen should be. When even that couldn't be decided, the late afternoon saw both detectives standing on the unkempt front lawn of their decrepit house, both staring at the forlorn structure contentedly.

"Tomorrow night we'll visit Tom; try and get on his good side and see if we can muscle into the operation," Hutch said, conversationally, as though infiltrating such a group was the daily norm.

"Y'know, Hutch, they could be pretty small time guys," Starsky replied and when Hutch didn't say anything, he continued, "which is wishful thinkin.'"

"I know how much you love your Sundays, but think about it this way: with Dobey's O.K, not only could we send a bunch of rotten crooks to the slammer, but we will also have more time to work on the house. And we get paid for it."

Starsky only had to think about that for a moment, before he flung an arm around Hutch's shoulder. "Alright, alright, I'm sold. But since I'll be stayin' with you for a while at your place, we oughta discuss some meal plans; like steak, hold the veggies."

Hutch glanced to the side at Starsky, brow furrowed.

"What's wrong with your place?"

"I sold it."

"You... sold it?"

"Yeah, to help build our house."

"You sold your apartment."

"So, what's for dinner?"

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Chapter 1

END