Every other Friday night, Starsky and Hutch drew extra patrol duty in the
Bowery. On those nights the men who worked in the lumber camp twenty miles
farther into the mountain received their paychecks and immediately headed
into Langston proper to spend them. They were more than ready to raise
merry hell after being cut off from civilization for fourteen days at a
stretch.
On such nights, Neil assigned the detectives to patrol with the regulars, answering calls well into the morning hours, until even the toughest reveler retired rather than face the bright morning sun. There was usually more than enough trouble to break the monotony of patrol on these nights, much of it gracing Sergeants Starsky and Hutchinson on a regular basis.
"Sierra-Bravo, Sierra-Bravo, come in please."
Hutch swallowed a mouthful of coffee and reached for the mike. "This is Hutchinson. Go ahead, Emily."
"We've got a 415 at Spencer's Bar on Thurber Street. Back up in en route."
"Roger, Emily. Zebra... I mean, Sierra-Bravo responding."
Starsky grinned and shoved the big Ford into gear. "Old habits die hard, eh?"
"Don t knock it, partner," Hutch returned evenly. "At least this time we're not a number."
"Only a matter of time. Pretty soon--"
"You just missed your turn."
"Darn." Starsky backed up the car. "Who'd'a thought it'd be harder to learn the streets of this little hamlet than L.A.?"
"You haven't even done duty on those backwoods lanes yet," Hutch grumbled. "Man could get lost for years back there."
"Terrific. Hey, there it is."
Spencer's turned out to be one of those grimy, back-alley holes-in-the- wall, interchangeable in any city, town or ghetto in the country. Thick smoke swirled in an atmosphere ripe with the smells of stale liquor and unwashed bodies. A gathering place for the lower levels of humanity here in the "Bowery" section of Langston.
Hostile eyes followed the two men's progress as they slowly worked their way across the room. Their goal was the raised voices emanating from the far corner. No one made a move to stop them.
The crowd parted, showing three men circling a fourth much like a pack of wild dogs circle prey. The largest, a red-haired giant of a man, reached out, backhanding the fourth against a wall. "I'll teach you to make a pass at my girl." He swung again, catching the man a brutal blow to the mouth, drawing blood.
His two companions fingered the hunting knives strapped at their waists. "Hey, Walt," one called, "why don't we make sure he don't never make a pass at no girl?" He laughed. "Ah know just where to cut." Walt smiled and drew his own knife.
"Hold it!" Starsky stepped through the tight circle of onlookers hedging the one-sided battle and put himself between Walt and his victim. "Police. You're under arrest."
Walt stared at the smaller man in surprise. For fifteen years he'd had a reputation in this town as a dangerous man, proudly touting his reputation as the Meanest Mother This Side of the Cascades. Even the police treated him with a certain touch of respect, acknowledging his size and vitriolic nature. But there was not even a trace of caution in the slender, dark- haired man who approached -- only open challenge.
Walt bared his teeth in a feral smile. "You're not going to take me in, piggy." Slowly he re-sheathed the knife, then unbuckled it at his waist, dropping it on the floor. "We used to play a game in the lumber camps, kid. You win, I come quietly. I win, I beat the crap out of you. Think you can handle it?"
Starsky grinned his own wolfish grin. "I'm gonna enjoy this." He flashed a look at Hutch, the message clearer than any words could have been. Stay out of it. Hutch, the look demanded silently. He's mine.
Obviously, Walt's two comrades had decided that they'd stood by long enough. Both moved forward. The first reached for the aforementioned hunting knife. The other stretched lower towards his boot. An ankle holster?
"No." Hutch's big Magnum appeared like magic in his hand, freezing the two aggressors in their tracks. "Uh-uh-unh," the blond chided gently. "Wouldn't want to put holes in those nice new jackets, now would we?"
One look into those arctic blue eyes decided the matter on the spot. Neither man chose to risk the open menace in that deadly glare. "Turn around and rest your hands on the bar. Come on, spread 'cm!"
The men obeyed sullenly, tensed for the smallest lapse in his attention. There was none. Hutch kicked one man behind the ankle, spreading his legs farther apart. He watched them carefully, his awareness of his friend's actions only peripheral. Powerful muscles tensed. Hutch stood still... and waited.
Starsky warily circled the bigger man, keeping just out of reach of those ham-sized fists. Though out-classed in terms of sheer power, he had the advantages of speed and agility and the knowledge to use them effectively - an even match, indeed.
Walt stepped into range, maneuvering Starsky into position. They traded blows several minutes, each designed to do little more than to test the other's abilities. Walt feinted left, then a right -- a powerhouse swing that would have put the smaller man away had it connected.
It didn't. Starsky danced lightly out of the way, using the opportunity while the other was off balance to deliver a left of his own to Walt's pugnacious jaw. Momentarily dazed, Walt swung again wildly, missing the dark head by inches. Again Starsky used the opening, landing a solid punch - a jarring right to the mid-section. Walt doubled over with a whoosh of escaping air. Starsky closed the distance, intending to follow up, but Walt recovered far quicker than his appearance would have suggested.
One meaty fist bunched the front of Starsky's shirt, pulling him close, while the other delivered two powerful blows, the first to Starsky's unprotected ribs and the second to his stomach. The dull thuds registering the hits were loud in the suddenly silent room.
By the bar, Hutch winced sympathetically but maintained his own guard as did his prisoners, who stood tensed, awaiting their chance.
Starsky gasped, his face creased with the agony of his battered mid- section. Desperately he brought his hands up, palms turned inward, and clapped the larger man sharply across the ears. The pain of rupturing eardrums caused Walt to release him instantly.
Starsky dove in without hesitation* he shoved Walt back against the wail, bracing him there with his own body. Then he grasped the bigger man's throat - larynx, trachea and carotids - with one hand in the commonly termed the 'Marine Corps' choke. Walt clawed at the steely fingers for less than sixty seconds before sliding to the floor unconscious.
The room had maintained its tense hush until now, the bar's patrons avidly drinking in the spectacle, waiting for their champion to dispose of yet another bothersome cop. A stunned silence reigned long seconds after Walt had slipped to the floor, broken only by Starsky's painful gasps for air. But now a murmuring began, here and there, phrases becoming clearly audible.
"Hey, he beat Walt!"
"I don't believe it! That guy took out...."
"I never thought I'd see...."
There was as much admiration as resentment among these men; coming from hardy pioneer stock, they respected toughness, and Starsky - and by association, Hutchinson - had just ko'd one of their toughest.
Hutch glanced across at his partner, standing there in the midst of a room full of men who would as cheerfully have slipped a knife between his ribs as look at him. He saw the man gasping painfully for air, damp curls hanging limply in his face, but nothing could hide the defiant tilt to Starsky's jaw as he faced down the hostile crowd.
For the briefest instant, their eyes met. Hutch's full of concern and Starsky's with a savage, blazing triumph. The tableau froze, time slowed and stopped. For Hutch, the room came into sharp focus, a supernatural clarity that accented every detail, every sensation. He saw - really saw - his partner in that instant, and that was when something - something deep within him - snapped.
A door long closed and locked by his own fear, cracked wide open and everything was as it used to be a lifetime ago. He saw Starsky as he was before Gunther - strong and self-confident and capable. Suddenly Starsky was his partner again - not some fragile spirit to be coddled and defended, but the other half of Hutch's whole. They were one again - a unit. Complete.
A wave of pride swept through Hutch for this man who had fought seemingly impossible odds, clawing his way back from the very edge of death itself to this pinnacle of personal triumph.
Hutch grinned, he couldn't help it. A great weight lifted from his heart, a weight which had been suffocating him for months. The lightness was acceptance and trust; he still worried for his partner's safety - would always fear the day when he would lose his best friend forever. But that day was not yet - could be postponed indefinitely. It was then that Hutch knew they were partners again in the purest, truest sense. Partners. A sweet word and he savored it for a long moment before setting it aside.
Starsky cuffed the unconscious man, then came over to search the two Hutch was guarding and to cuff them. At some point during the process. Murphy and Schmidt must have entered the bar, but the first Hutch knew of them was when Murphy reached out to take one of Walt's arms. "Lemme give ya a hand," he offered, helped to haul Walt up. "Come on, Walt. Wake up, boy." No response. "This guy's really out I "
Hutch grunted assent and helped drag the big man to the waiting Ford. "We'll take him over to Doc Sullivan's, then meet you back at the station."
"Right." Murphy moved off to where his partner was hording the two conscious prisoners into the squad car. "We'll take care of 'cm for you. Sergeant." He winked at Starsky, who was leaning wearily against the fender. "I saw the tail end of that fight. Ya done real good, Dave."
Starsky managed a smile through clenched teeth. "Piece o' cake, " he croaked +
As the squad car moved off. Hutch came over and grasped Starsky's elbow in a supporting grip. "Come on, partner, we'll let Doc Sullivan take a look at you while he's checking out sleeping beauty here."
"Don't need him." Starsky rubbed his abdomen. "Just a couple 'a bruises. Nothing a hot bath won't cure."
Hutch frowned but held his peace. Starsky was really a pain in the butt when it came to looking out for his own health, but he was level-headed enough to see a doctor if he's been badly hurt. "All right, but it you're still hurting tomorrow, you go in, agreed?"
"Sure." A pause. "Hey, Hutch. Thanks."
Hutch looked up into those dancing blue eyes. There was no need whatsoever to ask what Starsky was thanking him for - the rapport between them fair sang its rebirth. Instead Hutch smiled warmly. "Anytime... partner. " ***
On such nights, Neil assigned the detectives to patrol with the regulars, answering calls well into the morning hours, until even the toughest reveler retired rather than face the bright morning sun. There was usually more than enough trouble to break the monotony of patrol on these nights, much of it gracing Sergeants Starsky and Hutchinson on a regular basis.
"Sierra-Bravo, Sierra-Bravo, come in please."
Hutch swallowed a mouthful of coffee and reached for the mike. "This is Hutchinson. Go ahead, Emily."
"We've got a 415 at Spencer's Bar on Thurber Street. Back up in en route."
"Roger, Emily. Zebra... I mean, Sierra-Bravo responding."
Starsky grinned and shoved the big Ford into gear. "Old habits die hard, eh?"
"Don t knock it, partner," Hutch returned evenly. "At least this time we're not a number."
"Only a matter of time. Pretty soon--"
"You just missed your turn."
"Darn." Starsky backed up the car. "Who'd'a thought it'd be harder to learn the streets of this little hamlet than L.A.?"
"You haven't even done duty on those backwoods lanes yet," Hutch grumbled. "Man could get lost for years back there."
"Terrific. Hey, there it is."
Spencer's turned out to be one of those grimy, back-alley holes-in-the- wall, interchangeable in any city, town or ghetto in the country. Thick smoke swirled in an atmosphere ripe with the smells of stale liquor and unwashed bodies. A gathering place for the lower levels of humanity here in the "Bowery" section of Langston.
Hostile eyes followed the two men's progress as they slowly worked their way across the room. Their goal was the raised voices emanating from the far corner. No one made a move to stop them.
The crowd parted, showing three men circling a fourth much like a pack of wild dogs circle prey. The largest, a red-haired giant of a man, reached out, backhanding the fourth against a wall. "I'll teach you to make a pass at my girl." He swung again, catching the man a brutal blow to the mouth, drawing blood.
His two companions fingered the hunting knives strapped at their waists. "Hey, Walt," one called, "why don't we make sure he don't never make a pass at no girl?" He laughed. "Ah know just where to cut." Walt smiled and drew his own knife.
"Hold it!" Starsky stepped through the tight circle of onlookers hedging the one-sided battle and put himself between Walt and his victim. "Police. You're under arrest."
Walt stared at the smaller man in surprise. For fifteen years he'd had a reputation in this town as a dangerous man, proudly touting his reputation as the Meanest Mother This Side of the Cascades. Even the police treated him with a certain touch of respect, acknowledging his size and vitriolic nature. But there was not even a trace of caution in the slender, dark- haired man who approached -- only open challenge.
Walt bared his teeth in a feral smile. "You're not going to take me in, piggy." Slowly he re-sheathed the knife, then unbuckled it at his waist, dropping it on the floor. "We used to play a game in the lumber camps, kid. You win, I come quietly. I win, I beat the crap out of you. Think you can handle it?"
Starsky grinned his own wolfish grin. "I'm gonna enjoy this." He flashed a look at Hutch, the message clearer than any words could have been. Stay out of it. Hutch, the look demanded silently. He's mine.
Obviously, Walt's two comrades had decided that they'd stood by long enough. Both moved forward. The first reached for the aforementioned hunting knife. The other stretched lower towards his boot. An ankle holster?
"No." Hutch's big Magnum appeared like magic in his hand, freezing the two aggressors in their tracks. "Uh-uh-unh," the blond chided gently. "Wouldn't want to put holes in those nice new jackets, now would we?"
One look into those arctic blue eyes decided the matter on the spot. Neither man chose to risk the open menace in that deadly glare. "Turn around and rest your hands on the bar. Come on, spread 'cm!"
The men obeyed sullenly, tensed for the smallest lapse in his attention. There was none. Hutch kicked one man behind the ankle, spreading his legs farther apart. He watched them carefully, his awareness of his friend's actions only peripheral. Powerful muscles tensed. Hutch stood still... and waited.
Starsky warily circled the bigger man, keeping just out of reach of those ham-sized fists. Though out-classed in terms of sheer power, he had the advantages of speed and agility and the knowledge to use them effectively - an even match, indeed.
Walt stepped into range, maneuvering Starsky into position. They traded blows several minutes, each designed to do little more than to test the other's abilities. Walt feinted left, then a right -- a powerhouse swing that would have put the smaller man away had it connected.
It didn't. Starsky danced lightly out of the way, using the opportunity while the other was off balance to deliver a left of his own to Walt's pugnacious jaw. Momentarily dazed, Walt swung again wildly, missing the dark head by inches. Again Starsky used the opening, landing a solid punch - a jarring right to the mid-section. Walt doubled over with a whoosh of escaping air. Starsky closed the distance, intending to follow up, but Walt recovered far quicker than his appearance would have suggested.
One meaty fist bunched the front of Starsky's shirt, pulling him close, while the other delivered two powerful blows, the first to Starsky's unprotected ribs and the second to his stomach. The dull thuds registering the hits were loud in the suddenly silent room.
By the bar, Hutch winced sympathetically but maintained his own guard as did his prisoners, who stood tensed, awaiting their chance.
Starsky gasped, his face creased with the agony of his battered mid- section. Desperately he brought his hands up, palms turned inward, and clapped the larger man sharply across the ears. The pain of rupturing eardrums caused Walt to release him instantly.
Starsky dove in without hesitation* he shoved Walt back against the wail, bracing him there with his own body. Then he grasped the bigger man's throat - larynx, trachea and carotids - with one hand in the commonly termed the 'Marine Corps' choke. Walt clawed at the steely fingers for less than sixty seconds before sliding to the floor unconscious.
The room had maintained its tense hush until now, the bar's patrons avidly drinking in the spectacle, waiting for their champion to dispose of yet another bothersome cop. A stunned silence reigned long seconds after Walt had slipped to the floor, broken only by Starsky's painful gasps for air. But now a murmuring began, here and there, phrases becoming clearly audible.
"Hey, he beat Walt!"
"I don't believe it! That guy took out...."
"I never thought I'd see...."
There was as much admiration as resentment among these men; coming from hardy pioneer stock, they respected toughness, and Starsky - and by association, Hutchinson - had just ko'd one of their toughest.
Hutch glanced across at his partner, standing there in the midst of a room full of men who would as cheerfully have slipped a knife between his ribs as look at him. He saw the man gasping painfully for air, damp curls hanging limply in his face, but nothing could hide the defiant tilt to Starsky's jaw as he faced down the hostile crowd.
For the briefest instant, their eyes met. Hutch's full of concern and Starsky's with a savage, blazing triumph. The tableau froze, time slowed and stopped. For Hutch, the room came into sharp focus, a supernatural clarity that accented every detail, every sensation. He saw - really saw - his partner in that instant, and that was when something - something deep within him - snapped.
A door long closed and locked by his own fear, cracked wide open and everything was as it used to be a lifetime ago. He saw Starsky as he was before Gunther - strong and self-confident and capable. Suddenly Starsky was his partner again - not some fragile spirit to be coddled and defended, but the other half of Hutch's whole. They were one again - a unit. Complete.
A wave of pride swept through Hutch for this man who had fought seemingly impossible odds, clawing his way back from the very edge of death itself to this pinnacle of personal triumph.
Hutch grinned, he couldn't help it. A great weight lifted from his heart, a weight which had been suffocating him for months. The lightness was acceptance and trust; he still worried for his partner's safety - would always fear the day when he would lose his best friend forever. But that day was not yet - could be postponed indefinitely. It was then that Hutch knew they were partners again in the purest, truest sense. Partners. A sweet word and he savored it for a long moment before setting it aside.
Starsky cuffed the unconscious man, then came over to search the two Hutch was guarding and to cuff them. At some point during the process. Murphy and Schmidt must have entered the bar, but the first Hutch knew of them was when Murphy reached out to take one of Walt's arms. "Lemme give ya a hand," he offered, helped to haul Walt up. "Come on, Walt. Wake up, boy." No response. "This guy's really out I "
Hutch grunted assent and helped drag the big man to the waiting Ford. "We'll take him over to Doc Sullivan's, then meet you back at the station."
"Right." Murphy moved off to where his partner was hording the two conscious prisoners into the squad car. "We'll take care of 'cm for you. Sergeant." He winked at Starsky, who was leaning wearily against the fender. "I saw the tail end of that fight. Ya done real good, Dave."
Starsky managed a smile through clenched teeth. "Piece o' cake, " he croaked +
As the squad car moved off. Hutch came over and grasped Starsky's elbow in a supporting grip. "Come on, partner, we'll let Doc Sullivan take a look at you while he's checking out sleeping beauty here."
"Don't need him." Starsky rubbed his abdomen. "Just a couple 'a bruises. Nothing a hot bath won't cure."
Hutch frowned but held his peace. Starsky was really a pain in the butt when it came to looking out for his own health, but he was level-headed enough to see a doctor if he's been badly hurt. "All right, but it you're still hurting tomorrow, you go in, agreed?"
"Sure." A pause. "Hey, Hutch. Thanks."
Hutch looked up into those dancing blue eyes. There was no need whatsoever to ask what Starsky was thanking him for - the rapport between them fair sang its rebirth. Instead Hutch smiled warmly. "Anytime... partner. " ***