GRAVE

By Zebra 3 and Me

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

I don't know how long the alarm clock rang before I finally heard it. Starsky and I had had so many one-for-the-roads at Huggy's the night before that the thoughtful proprietor had to call us a cab and toss us into the back seat like a couple of puppies to get us home.

We'd just celebrated the arrest of a child killer we'd been after for months. Maybe it wasn't so much a celebration of catching him as it was knowing those poor little kids and their families finally had some justice. And maybe we were trying to shed some of the creepy scales we grew while working the case. Viewing each small dismembered body, each autopsy photo, informing and consoling each family. Even though we were cops and were used to it, humans should never see stuff like that.

On second thought, humans should never do stuff like that.

So we tied a good one on, just to wash it out of our system.

"And don't forget," Huggy said as he handed the cabbie two slips of paper with our addresses on them, "this one's Starsky, and this one's Hutch. This one goes to this address, and that one goes to that one."

"Will do," the driver assured him, but he looked doubtful.

And to make matters worse, Starsky said, "No, I'm Hutch. He's Starsky."

I wasn't sure if I was laying on him, or he was laying on me, but we were a tangled mess of arms and legs.

"No, no," I slurred as I nudged him off me and over against the door. "I'm Starsky. You're Hutch."

He sputtered with giggles. "Who are we?"

"Tom and Jerry if you ask me," the cabbie retorted into his rearview mirror.

I laughed and slapped my knee. "Hear that, Hutch? We're Tom and Jerry."

"Which one are you?"

"All right, all right," the driver griped. "Sheesh. I'll be glad when I get you two home."

"Hey," Starsk laughed as he leaned his head back on the seat. "Is it crowded back here, or is it me?"

"It's me," I said as I leaned my head back too.

Starsky was drunker than I was, so I felt obliged to help him up the stairs. I maneuvered him onto the sofa, but covered him with an Indian afghan before I left.

"Home, James," I said when I fumbled my way into the back of the cab again.

And that's the last thing I remember of that night.

:::::::::::::::::::

"Okay, okay," I grumbled at the alarm clock, and then turned it off. I literally rolled out of bed and trudged my way to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, drinking half of it before I felt like I could even pick up the phone to call Starsky.

"Come on, Jerry," I mumbled into the receiver as I sat there on the kitchen stool. "Rise and shine. It's Saturday morning."

His phone rang and rang.

"Oh man," I said as I hung up. "What a hangover."

I tucked my shirt in, tied my shoes, then carried my coffee mug to the door, aggravated that Starsky was snoozing blissfully away while I was nursing a hangover. I was determined to go wake him up so he'd be in as much misery as me.

But the small package the size of a paperback novel outside my door detoured me.

A red bow was on top.

I reached down and picked it up.

(God, Hutchinson, what if it had been a bomb? How careless can you be? After having your hand blown up in a little car bomb, you'd think you'd be spooked of any strange packages)

If Starsky were here, he'd have sent for the bomb squad.

Ever since the bomb, Starsky had grown super paranoid about strange packages. Even presents. Moreso than me.

"Fifi," I smiled as I turned the package over in my hands.

Fifi my cleaning lady was always leaving me little presents. One time it was cologne, and another time it was a book of romantic poetry.

But this was different. Not from Fifi, I could see now, as I opened the package.

Photographs.

The color rich and deep.

Sharp detail.

Nighttime pictures.

I let out a yelp and dropped them to the floor, along with my coffee mug, splashing creamed coffee all over the landing.

I stared down at the smattering of pictures.

A wooded area.

Dense green.

Familiar.

Thick trees.

bonfire. Robed figures. Torches.

No, it couldn't be.

The old zoo?

How could it be?

Was this a joke?

"No," I said, my hands-already shaking from the hangover-now absolute spasms as I swept the pictures up and shuffled through each one.

"Starsky . . . "

Picture after picture.

I ran to the phone and dialed Starsky's number again, my skin suddenly cold and clammy.

"Please," I panted into the phone as I wedged the receiver between my cheek and shoulder. "Please be home."

I waited for an answer, let it ring and ring, but it never came.

I let the receiver fall to the floor.

I couldn't move from the spot I was standing in. My shoes felt glued to the floor.

I looked down at the gruesome photos in my hands.

Pictures of Starsky.

My heart clenched into a tight fist.

My eyes snapped shut, then snapped open.

Still there. Upright between two young trees, arms outstretched and each wrist tied to a trunk on either side of him.

Shirtless.

Head down.

Bleeding gashes on his face.

Bruises.

On his face, chest, stomach.

A bloody nose.

Hanging between the two trees, unable to stand.

Surrounded by robed figures and torches. None of their faces visible. Hidden by the black hoods on their robes.

How? When? Last night? All this last night?

Another gasp from me.

Another picture.

One of the cultists clutching a handful of Starsky's hair and holding his head up for me to see his face.

His eyes.

Blue glaze. Out of it. Drugged. Cut and swelling.

I closed my eyes against the image.

It couldn't be Marcus himself. He was in prison.

It had to be his followers acting on an order from the imprisoned cult leader.

To taunt.

Smirk.

Laugh.

Not to show me he could get him Starsky from behind bars.

But to show me he could get me to come.

That he still had control.

Or the illusion of it.

I ran out the door, like he knew I would.

I didn't want to bring those horrible pictures with me. I didn't want them in my hand a

second longer. But I needed them to guide me to where he was.

(You stupid freaks)

(Send me picture of where he is)

(Like a roadmap)

(I'll play your game)

I jumped in my car, flipping the photos over and looking on the back for a possible message, but finding none.

Picking up the mike, I put a call in to Dobey at his home.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Dobey and some uniforms were near the zoo, on standby. I wanted to go in alone. Dobey said I was crazy. But I knew that taking men with me would only jeopardize Starsky's life, and I needed to find him. If they were laying a trap, so be it.

I parked the car and got out, sifting through the pictures and using them as a map.

"Starsky!"

I walked faster. The blinding sun was giving me a monster headache, but I pushed it back.

He had to be here somewhere.

I started running, one hand gripping the Magnum, the other clutching the photos.

"Hey!"

The wooded area in the zoo was dark and deep, almost cold, almost like another world, cavelike, and it seemed to stretch for miles, looking all the same.

Only a few speckles of sunlight cut down to the forest floor now.

I fled over spongy moss, leaped over rotten logs, and jumped whatever rocks and bushes were in my way.

"Starsky!"

These were their woods. Their forest. It was so huge and seemingly endless that they could be anywhere.

There were caves, caverns, lots of places to hide and hold their rituals without being noticed

And they moved from place to place within these miles of woods.

If their whereabouts were ever discovered, all they had to do was relocate to another part of the land.

"Starsky!"

They were waiting for me. They knew I'd come.

(That's right, you devil lovers)

(I'm here)

"Come on!" I yelled to the cool, damp air. "I'm here now! Come and get me!"

I ran like a freight train.

I wanted to see them. I wanted to confront them and fight them.

(Just show yourself)

(Come on)

(Come out)

(I dare you)

And then I saw them, up ahead: The two young trees with bloodstained ropes still tied around them. Strong and unyielding. He couldn't have gotten down by himself. Too weak for that. He'd been incapacitated when they jumped him at his apartment, so drunk he couldn't have fought back, had no time to defend himself or even know what was going on.

Dime-size circles of red stained the rocks on the ground between the trees. Where he'd shed drops of blood on them.

I walked around in circles, head swiveling, straining my voice until it was hoarse.

"Starsky!"

Remnants of a bonfire. Ashes. A blackened torch.

I looked down and saw a slight trail of blood, barely noticeable except for where the crimson drops contrasted against the green leaves.

Panic filled my lungs with icy puffs of air, made my heart slam in my chest as I followed it.

I looked for the cultists to jump from the tops of the trees any second.

I kept following the thin wine-red trail until my shoe stepped on something-

Oh God.

His hand.

Poking from the ground.

I screamed "STARSKY!" at the top of my lungs as I dove to my hands and knees, pawing at the mound of damp, fresh earth, pushing and clawing it aside until I uncovered his arm.

Facedown in a shallow grave.

"Oh God," I choked as I pulled on him. "Oh my God. Sweet Jesus. Help me."

I pushed the black dirt off him, scooped and dug and raked the ground until I could pull him free.

I jerked him up into the crook of my arm, and he came as limply as a broken doll, his features so altered by the beating he was barely recognizable, even to me.

I held my fingers to his throat to check for a pulse, then pulled him up close to my ear and listened for his faint breathing, brushed dirt away from his nose and mouth.

Barely alive.

Presumed dead by Marcus' followers, then buried.

(They think you're dead)

(My God, they think they beat you to death, but you hung on)

(That's why they're not here)

(That's why they so brazenly sent the pictures)

(They left you for dead and wanted me to find your body)

(Revenge backfired, didn't it, Marcus?)

No time for checking for broken bones (I figured he had a couple), I scooped him up and carried him through the woods.

"Starsk," I panted. "Starsk, hold on."

He was unresponsive.

"CAP!"

I tried to walk faster with him.

Those ghouls. I hoped they burned in hell for what they did to him. Shoveling dirt on top of him like he was nothing. Leaving him there in the cold, damp earth.

And sending me pictures of his torture.

My arms were aching, burning from his weight, but I gladly endured it. My legs were slowing down, my breath coming in harsh pants.

"CAP!"

I must have screamed loud enough for Cap to hear me, because he was barreling his car through the fence and toward me. He hurried out and opened the back door, then came over to me and took Starsky into his own arms while I sank to my knees.

I saw Cap laying Starsky in the car and covering him with his overcoat, then he came over to me and helped me to my feet and over to the car.

"Get in," he said as he practically pushed me into the backseat.

Still panting-wheezing actually-I pulled Starsky up against me and tried to smudge the dirt away from his face.

"Starsk," I gasped when I could manage. "It's okay. I got you. You're not in the ground any . . . "

I hid a sob in his matted hair.

"Buried him," I choked to Dobey in the rearview mirror. "Left him for dead."

"Take it easy, Hutch. We'll get him to a hospital."

I realized I was rocking Starsky a little. He needed to know I was there.

"Cap, I swear," I said as still soothed him. "I'm going to get them. Marcus. The ones who hurt him. They'll pay."

Dobey didn't say anything. I think he was glad to hear it.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

I guarded the emergency room while the doctors worked on Starsky. Emergency surgery to repair some internal damage.

"Looks like he went some rounds with Ali," one of the doctors commented.

"And lost," another added.

They cleaned and stitched him up, set him up with an IV, put a cast on his left wrist, and said they didn't know when or if he'd regain consciousness.

I didn't expect Marcus' goons to come back. Why would they if they were so sure he was dead? But if word got out, and it would sooner or later . . . but I planned to get them before they could get Starsky again.

When he came to-if he came to-I'd get their descriptions, and I'd get every last one of them. Or die trying.

XXXXXXXXX++

It was touch and go. Wait and see. Hope and pray. He'd regain consciousness, open his eyes with a flutter of lashes, then go back to sleep.

He didn't seem to see me or know I was there. Dobey brought me coffee and sandwiches while I stood guard by his bed.

But I wasn't very hungry. I ate to keep my strength up. I'd need every ounce to track them down. But with Starsky like he was, food tasted like paper. Coffee like muddy water.

Oh God.

Mud.

I couldn't get the image out of my mind.

The soil. Black, rich, fresh.

His poor hand.

I stepped on his poor hand.

"I'm sorry," I said as I ran a finger along the bruised fingers that poked their way out of the end of the cast.

His fingers gave a little twitch, a little sign, so I did it again.

Once again, his fingers moved.

"Hey," I whispered as I leaned down over the hospital bed. "You waking up? You're in a hospital, Starsk. Not in the woods. You're going to be okay, you hear me?"

My words sounded pretty convincing, even to myself. As long as his heart was beating. As long as his lungs were breathing. He had a chance. And that's all Starsky needed. He did wonders with a chance.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It was the middle of the night and I still couldn't unwind enough to sleep, even doze, in the chair. And I wouldn't until I knew Starsky would really be okay. If he would just open his eyes, say something.

A soft moan from the bed. A move of a finger.

A dream?

"Starsk," I whispered as I leaned toward him. "You okay?"

His head turned toward me and he blinked at me like a tranquil owl.

"Huh," his whisper came to me.

His cracked ribs made breathing short and labored. I patted his hair-sticky with blood and dirt hours ago-now soft and clean and smelling of peaches and cream.

I smiled. "Hey."

His eyes filled with tears and his plaster-clad arm moved as if to brush the drop away, but he was too weak and the heavy cast pulled his arm back down.

"Dream," he breathed. "Thought I was dead. Couldn't breathe."

I blotted his wet cheek with my thumb. "It's over now, Starsk. You're safe."

His eyes stayed with me, as if he were afraid to look around the room. "Am I in the hospital?" he croaked weakly.

"Yeah. That's not a dream. And neither am I."

The door creaked open, which startled him so badly he flinched in the bed.

"Easy," I said with a smile as I looked up at the visitor. "It's Huggy."

Huggy painted on a smile but I could still see the tightness beneath it. "How's The Starsk?" he asked moving to my side.

"Hanging in," I answered as I adjusted the sheet around Starsky's taped chest.

I looked at Huggy's hand and realized why he looked so disturbed.

He was holding the photographs.

He'd retrieved them from my car when he drove it to the hospital for me.

"Thought you'd need 'em for evidence," he said.

"Yeah," I said quietly as I slipped them into my jacket pocket.

I didn't want to touch them again or see them again, and Starsky didn't need to see them either, but they were necessary to his case.

"Starsk," I asked gently, "can you remember any of them? Descriptions? Names? Distinguishing marks? Anything?"

He closed his eyes. "Shot me full of somethin'. Can't remember much. Fuzzy."

"I know, buddy. But try, okay? It's the only way."

He lay there for so long with his eyes closed that I thought he'd drifted off to sleep.

"Starsk?"

He spoke with his weary eyes still closed.

I didn't want to push him this hard, but I had no choice. And it wouldn't cross his mind to

hold it against me.

"One," he mumbled tiredly. "Tattoo of a goat's head on the back of his hand. "

Huggy chewed on a peppermint toothpick. "Ralph Cantrell does the best tattooing around. Michelangelo with the animal kingdom."

That's what I needed to hear.

One lead.

I was torn between going or staying, pursuing the lead or being with my partner.

He was scared and vulnerable, but he knew we needed to get those goons, so he made it easy for me to decide what to do when he said, "Go ahead, Hutch. Huggy's a good babysitter."

I looked at Huggy, who nodded and took my chair.

XXXXXXXXX++

The tattoo artist wearing the hippie headband was needling out a beautiful eagle on his customer's bicep when I parted his beaded curtain.

"Guess you're the fuzz," he said in a pot-lazy drawl.

"And why would you think that?" I asked reaching to my hip pocket for my badge.

"Everybody else is polite enough to knock."

Ralph Cantrell, tattoo genius that he was, didn't have a single one on his body. But his customer was sporting the most exquisitely-detailed eagle I'd ever seen.

"If this is a raid," the customer said to me through gritted teeth against the pain, "could you wait till he's done? I don't want him to mess this up."

"Ain't no raid, man," Ralph said as he swung his head sideways to get his long Jesus hair off his shoulder and behind his back. "And I don't mess up."

The buzzing of the tattoo gun-the thought of that needle piercing dozens of times a second-seeing Ralph blot the pinpoints of blood away-the discarded, crumpled gauze pads in the trash can-made my stomach weak.

I kept my eyes on Ralph's face.

"I'm investigating the attempted murder of a police officer, and he tells me that one of the guys who abducted him has a tattoo of a goat's head on the back of his hand."

Still needling his masterpiece, and without taking his eyes off of it, Ralph reached behind him for his artistic rendering of a goat's head, and handed it to me. "Look like this?"

I held the picture of the breathtakingly-realistic goat's head in my hands. "I don't know. I'd have to show it to my partner. You do many of these?"

"A few. Supposed to be symbolic of the devil, you know? A few rock stars ask for it. A few scammers in the fortune telling biz ask for it. A cult member or two. Businessman or two. It's not my most popular tattoo, you know? But it's one of my best."

"Which ones asked for it on the back of the hand?"

He glanced at me, for the first time taking his eyes off his art. "None of 'em."

My heart sank.

The lead was a dead end.

As if to console me, Ralph said, "But you know, I think those people are just into that benign white witchery stuff. That other stuff-that dark devil stuff-I myself don't even believe it's for real. Just people out for attention. Fun and games, you know? Like a séance, or tarot cards."

"That's what they want you to believe. It's real. At least, it is to them. They'll kill you for what they believe. Ask my partner."

Ralph turned his tattoo needle off and looked at me.

He knew more than he was telling. I could see it in his eyes. He was a little scared.

"If they find out I talked, man . . . "

"I'll keep your name out of it, Ralph."

The man with the new tattoo slid off the table. "You done, dude?" he asked Ralph. "'cause I don't think I want to hear anymore of this conversation."

"I'm done."

The man pulled his wallet out and handed over a thin stack of one-hundreds. "Fifteen hundred." He admired the new addition to his anatomy in the full-length mirror on the wall. "Later, dude," he said as he walked out through the beaded curtain.

I looked at Ralph again. "The goat's head on the back of the hand, Ralph. Who has it?"

Ralph shrugged. "He looks so meek, you know? Mild. A little quiet, yeah. Smoked too much weed, or something, yeah, sure."

"But he's so proud of his butchering that he wears his little god on his hand for the world to see. And he hurt my partner. So who is he?"

"I don't know. I don't ask for names. But he told me where he works. He asked me to drop by sometime for some herbal tea."

My heart quickened at the information.

"Where? Where can I find him?"

"Moon's Health Food Store," he answered. "He owns it."

I shook his hand and backed from the tattoo parlor.

"Thanks, Ralph. And do yourself a favor."

"What's that, fuzz?"

"Don't ever drop by a devil worshipper's health food store for a cup of his herbal tea."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Barely containing my thrill, I rushed into Starsky's hospital room with the picture of the goat's head in my hand.

Huggy was sponging Starsky's forehead with some cool water while a nurse took his temperature.

"Dreamin' again," Huggy said as I approached the bed.

The blue of Starsky's eyes found mine through his swollen features.

"Dreamed they got you," Starsky breathed. "Woke up and saw you gone . . . "

I squeezed his forearm and felt the clammy dampness of his skin. "I'm okay, Starsk. And I got something here that I think will make you rest easier."

I waited for the nurse to read his temperature.

"A little high," she announced. "But nothing to worry about." She motioned toward the call button. "Ring me if you need something." And to Huggy added: "Nurse Huggy."

The nurse gathered her things on a tray and left.

When she was gone, I placed my hand on Huggy's shoulder and showed him the ink drawing of the goat's head.

He looked it over and nodded, then I bent over the bed. "Starsky, I have a picture of a goat's head tattoo I want you to see. Remember telling me about it?"

I was 99% certain that this was our man, but Starsky's confirmation of the tattoo would make me 100%.

"Think you can look at it?"

He was already trying to reach for it. I put it in his hand and helped him hold it.

(Marcus, I could kill you with my bare hands)

(He can't even hold a sheet of paper by himself)

A small groan came to his throat when he looked at it, and I knew that was the image on the back of the cultist's hand.

It was more upsetting for Starsky than I'd anticipated. His chest hitched with a little sob, and he didn't have to tell me he was being bombarded with flashbacks of the beating in Marcus' woods.

"I'm sorry," I whispered as I patted his arm.

Huggy nodded for me to leave, and I did, but I could rest assured that Huggy would be there for Starsk while I was gone. He was already moving to sit on the edge of Starsky's bed when I went out the door.

I would get the man, and I'd make him tell me who his creepy friends were.

XXXXXXXXX++

"Police," I said as I displayed my badge and walked through the small health food store smelling of pine incense and full of shelves crowded with dried fruits, vegetables-glass jars of herbs, seeds, vitamins, grains.

The man-a thin matchstick of a man with lank hair and the unhealthy pallor of sculpting clay-saw me. And the look in his eyes said he knew me and knew why I was there.

He knew Starsky was alive and had identified him.

His few customers stared at me, and then him as he bolted for the rear exit of the store.

"Freeze!" I yelled as I pulled my gun out.

But the man with the dead-animal eyes wouldn't stop.

I chased him out the back, where he ran into the path of a delivery van that was blaring its horn.

The impact tossed the shopkeeper into the air and he landed back on the sidewalk.

Traffic braked to a halt as I knelt to take his pulse.

Zero.

But the back of his hand wore more than just the tattoo. It wore skull rings that had cut Starsky's face. And bruised, swollen knuckles where he'd helped beat most of the life from my partner.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

I notified Dobey, then drove back to the hospital to tell Starsky what happened.

I should have felt good about the man being dead, but I didn't, because a dead man couldn't tell me who the others were.

His gesture-running into traffic-had been suicidal- as I tried to console the driver of the van-and quite deliberate.

The worshipper made sure he would never talk or implicate Marcus.

A self-sacrifice to his dark master.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky was asleep when I got to the hospital. I told Huggy what happened.

"So Marcus gets away with it?" he hissed from my chair, trying to keep his voice low so Starsky wouldn't wake up.

"For now," I answered dully.

Huggy rose to his feet.

"Well," he said putting on his cocky hat. "There's legal justice, and then there's Old Testament justice."

He went toward the door, not offering to explain what he meant.

And God help me, as my eyes played over my partner's distorted features, the raw rope burns on the wrist that wasn't in a cast, I didn't ask.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

I gave Dobey the photos for safekeeping, as well as the clothes Starsky had been wearing when I'd found him.

We'd need them for evidence if we ever got a lead on another cult member, and I didn't trust them to remain in the evidence room.

Cap locked them away in a safe at his home.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Up we go," I grunted as I helped Starsky from the bed and into the wheelchair. "It's time you go outside for some fresh air and sunshine."

He was looking a little pale today, and tired, but the bruises and swelling were almost gone from his face.

"Not in my hospital gown," he protested weakly. "Okay? I need some clothes on. Expect me to snatch a date lookin' like an invalid?"

"Oh, all right," I griped as I untied his gown and slipped it off him.

He shivered in the cool room, the fingers of his broken hand absently rubbing where the red lash-marks had been around his other wrist.

"Here you go, Romeo," I said as I helped him into a red T-shirt and white shorts. "Now you match your car."

"Put my shoes on."

I heaved an impatient sigh. "Why? You won' be walking around."

"Just put my shoes on."

I hunted around in the closet for the new pair of sneakers I'd bought him. His other ones were full of blood and dirt, and I'd put them in a bag along with the blood-stained, dirt-smudged clothes he'd been wearing when I found him.

He didn't say anything about the white sneakers I put on his feet. He knew what I'd done with his other ones.

He smiled. "Thanks, Hutch."

A sudden rush of love almost knocked me down, and-I don't know why-it was a feeling of thankfulness to God that my partner was all right-grumbling, smiling, and able to wear clothes that matched his car.

I had to say something. He was too precious to let the moment pass.

"I'm glad you're alive, dirtball."

I leaned over and put my hands on my knees, and looked him right in the face.

I hated when my voice started to break up, but I had to finish.

"My world's a better place because you're here."

I put my head down and I felt his hand in my hair, then a tug as he pulled my head against his shoulder.

"You're my pal, Hutch. A little soapy for my taste, but you do in a pinch." He pushed me back a little and clanked his cast on the wheel of his wheelchair. "Outside, cabbie. And step on it. The meter's runnin'."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Huggy was whistling a happy tune when he met us on the hospital grounds outside.

"You okay?" Starsky asked him. "Or did one of your famous great aunts die and leave you some money?"

"Better than that," he said taking off his cowboy hat and putting it on Starsky's head.

"What's better than money?" Starsky asked.

"How about Simon Marcus landing himself in the prison infirmary for a couple of weeks? Busted nose, broken ribs, dislocated jaw, some internal injuries . . . "

Starsky's smile was pale. "But not buried, huh?"

Huggy's smile faded a little too.

"No," he said easily as he patted Starsky's cast. "Not buried."

My hand rested on Starsky's shoulder. "You arranged that, Hug?"

He batted innocent eyes. "Who, me?"

"You know people on the inside."

Huggy shrugged. "Sure. I know lots of people on the inside. But hey, stuff happens, you know? Inmates get beat up all the time."

He squatted down by the wheelchair and drew a tic-tac-toe grid on Starsky's cast with a red marker, then put an X in the middle square.

"Your turn, Rocky."

Starsky took the marker and made a sloppy O with his non-dominant right hand. "Thanks, Hug."

The game of tic-tac-toe was interrupted by a female voice near us, and all three looked over to see a cute girl in hotpants and a halter top walking her dog.

"Hi," she smiled, but was looking only at Starsky.

"Hi yourself," he said raising a hand to her.

"Looks like you have a couple of boo-boos."

"Yeah, well," he said nonchalantly, launching into full Starsky-the-flirt, "it's tough bein' a cop sometimes."

She walked her dog over. "Cop? My dad's a cop."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Would you be interested in going out?"

"Well, as you can see, I'm still a little under the weather."

"Hey, I didn't tell you. I volunteer here at the hospital a few days a week. I could drop by your room and we could . . . get better acquainted."

I rolled my eyes and took Huggy by the arm.

"Come on, Hug. I think that's our cue to exit."

And that's how he landed a date in his Tomato clothes.

End