Last Call, a starsky and hutch fanfic

Last Call

By TLR and Navy Blue

Plot: Starsky is missing, which sends Hutch into a tailspin.

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Hutch told himself it was because he didn't have Starsky by his side. It was a tough day of cases, court, and criminals. Everything that could go wrong went wrong. A rapist's conviction was overturned. A guy he was cuffing punched his lights out and escaped because a so-called partner named Alan Parker wasn't paying attention. An old man was the victim of a hit-and-run. But tomorrow would be different. Starsky would be back on the force tomorrow, fully recovered from Gunther's police garage ambush, and they'd be kicking it together again. They would have a second life, broncs busting from the gate raring to go once more, this time armed with experience and expertise. They were high on life and high on each other. It was like a gloomy veil had been lifted and they had renewed energy and fight.

Depleted from his all-day adrenaline rush, now Hutch fell into bed in a heavy slumber and didn't know how long he had slept before his bedside phone started to ring, but if he had looked at the clock, he would have seen that it read 3 am.

"Man," he mumbled to himself as he groped for the receiver and said into it, "this better be good."

"Hey, Hutch..."

Starsky's voice. Unmistakable.

"Hey, Starsk. How ya doin'?"

"Um..." His voice was very small. "Fine."

If Hutch had been more alert, he would have picked up on the edge and vulnerability in his partner's voice.

"Can't sleep," Starsky said.

Hutch's voice was so low he was slurring, but he managed to murmur, "Well I can. Hell of a day. Glad you'll be with me tomorr..."

"Woke up from a really bad nightmare tonight. Dreamed Gunther's guys were knocking at my door and... well, thought those days were over and done with. Guess just anxious about tomorrow, huh?"

"Mmmmmm."

"Hutch?"

"Uhh, um...yeah. Dream. Standable, Starsk. Under...we'll be good tomorrow."

"Yeah but...you wanna come over?"

"Tired..."

There was a very long silence on the line, then Starsky said, "Nah, forget it. You need your rest. It's okay. See you in the morning, Blintz. I'll be there at 7:30 sharp."

More silence on the line, then the sound of Hutch's mild snoring, which reminded him of a big cat purring.

Starsky chastised himself, sorry he'd even bothered Hutch with something as childish as a bad dream. He knew Hutch had had a hard time working with a new partner and adjusting to a different way of working cases and responding to calls. ("It's like working alone!") he'd fussed. What did Starsky have to be anxious about? He'd fought his way back from death, and his new life and renewed partnership with Hutch awaited.

Smiling a little, Starsky softly hung up, then, on his way to the bedroom, heard knocking on his front door, deciding that maybe the sound hadn't been a dream after all, and that, maybe Hutch was glad to see him coming back to the job tomorrow, but someone else obviously wasn't.

Hutch was up showering and whistling at 7:00 the next morning. The cool water streamed down, washing the previous day from his body. His mood was light, buoyant even, focused on today, the here and now.

By 7:15, he was dressed in a simple Navy blue shirt paired with faded blue jeans. He splashed some aftershave, the expensive one that made Starsky nickname him "Posh" all day.

As the clock reached 7:30, he'd had coffee, strapped on his gun and tucked his shield into his hip pocket, slipped into his burnt-sienna fringe jacket, and was now making his way downstairs. Now he paced on the sidewalk, eagerly waiting for the Torino to turn the corner. But 7:30 turned into 7:40, and then 7:50.

He frowned, glancing at his wristwatch to double-check the time. His partner wouldn't be late today, of all days.

By 8 am, a knot of worry had begun to tighten in his stomach. He went back upstairs, picked up the phone, and dialed Starsky's number.

"Come on, Starsk. Pick up."

He let it ring twenty times before hanging up.

And then a slow worm of anxiety began to curl inside his gut as the memory of last night's phone conversation wandered to the forefront of his mind. He had almost forgotten about it. Now it seemed to haunt him: ("Woke up from a really bad nightmare tonight. Dreamed Gunther's guys were knocking at my door and... well, thought those days were over and done with. Guess just anxious about tomorrow, huh?")

Hutch slammed the receiver down and ran out the door.

Hutch's shoulder leaned heavily against a wall in Starsky's home as Detectives Simmons and Babcock conducted and directed the investigation into Starsky's apparent abduction.

He couldn't look at the bloodstain on the floor a second time. Once was enough. The police photographer took pictures of it, asking Hutch to "Please step aside," as the crime scene techs carried out their job in cool objectivity.

Hutch was anything but this. Captain Dobey moved up behind him and put a firm grip on his shoulder.

"We'll find him, Hutch."

Looking down at the floor, Hutch moved his head no and said in a weak whisper, "I can't believe it. He called me. Said...something about having a nightmare, dreamed...I was bushed, I don't think I remember it all...dreamed someone was at his door...he asked me to come over." Now he raised his head and looked at the captain. "I didn't."

Simmons and Babcock approached the two of them with: "His gun, badge, wallet, jacket. All here. We'll let you know about the lab results."

The two detectives went to other parts of the house to continue their investigation.

Dobey started to give some encouraging words to Hutch. Words he'd said before when one of these two went missing. Before he could, Hutch turned and walked toward the front door to leave. But as he slipped out the door and said "I'm going to look for him", Dobey caught a heavy weight of guilt in the blond's eyes.

Hutch looked all day by car, consulting with snitches, hookers, strippers, bookies, hypes, ex-cons, anyone who might know anything at all about Starsky's disappearance.

It was about midnight when he trudged into Huggy's with a glazed expression on his face. Huggy came around the bar and guided him to a back booth, where Hutch stood as if in a stupor.

"Hutch, I've been on this all day. Not one shred."

When Hutch didn't offer to move, Huggy eased him into his seat.

"You got to be hungry. Thirsty too?"

Hutch moved his head no, then moved his head yes. "Need a strong drink, Hug."

Guilt from not saving his partner in the police garage from Gunther's bullets a year ago had gutted him, but handing him to the wolves last night was unforgivable.

A few days turned into a week. Hutch went over the same ground again and again, followed new hunches that turned into phantom threads. There were no real leads or ransom demands.

"What if..?"

That was a question he and Starsky had often asked themselves. Sometimes it bore brilliant answers that led them to the solving of crimes. Sometimes it took them down a dark hallway of doubt, regret, and angst.

But there were no suggestions or theories now, and the What If question always circled back to echo again: (What if he's dead this time?) It was a question he couldn't answer or even think about.

It was two weeks later, when Starsky's bloodstained clothes and sneakers were found in the woods by some hikers that his sanity, will, and spirit began to drain down inside a hole in the ground.

Unlike the blood on a mirror of the courthouse men's room at the beginning of the Simon Marcus/David Starsky case a few years back, the dried, brownish-red patches of blood on Starsky's clothes were not that of a bull, but his own.

Hutch found Detectives Simmons and Babcock having a quick lunch in the commissary at a table, and stalked over to them.

"You're sitting there laughing it up while my PARTNER is out there somewhere, God knows where?!"

Hutch raked their trays of food off into the floor.

Alan Parker, a beefy man with sincere brown eyes and thick dark sideburns, walked up behind him and pulled Hutch back. "Come on, man. They're doing their best. You ain't found him either."

Hutch punched him, and Alan reeled backward, two uniformed officers catching him before he hit the floor.

"Hutch-" Alan said holding his bloody mouth, but Hutch kept walking out without looking back, and everybody stared after him.

Captain Dobey closed his office door and looked at Hutch, who sat an unruly student in the chair before the principal's desk, eyes ahead.

Since Hutch wouldn't turn in his chair or look at him, Dobey addressed his back. "Hutch, I understand you're in a bad place right now with Starsky missing, but punching Parker is inexcusable. I want Dave back as bad as you do-"

"I doubt that."

"-but you have to pull yourself together. I'm assigning you another partner. Alan doesn't want to work with you anymore. I talked to Joan Meredith. She's open to partnering with you on a trial basis. She wants to help you find Starsky."

Hutch stood up and gave a big shrug. "Whatever."

Detective Joan Meredith waited in her car for Hutch to come down the stairs from Venice Place.

He made his stumbling way to the car, fumbling his way inside. Once settled in the passenger seat with the door closed, he looked straight out the windshield, and she just sat there looking at him.

"What," he said finally looking at her.

"Get out," she said.

"What?"

"You heard me. Get out of the car. I don't work with drunk partners, and you're drunk."

"Look, lady, I-"

She rudely shoved him toward the door, taking him aback a bit even though he was slurring drunk. "I said get out. This job is dangerous enough without you putting my life at risk too."

Hutch got out of the car and slammed the door, then headed back to his LTD.

She got out of the car and shook a finger at him. "And don't you dare drive your car while under the influen-"

But he was already in his car peeling away from the curb.

Watching him go, she reached into the front seat for the mike on the police radio.

Captain Dobey's office.

Dobey closed his office door and watched Hutch pace around, seeing a man in pain and unmoored, but also, in this line of work, a danger to himself and other people. Especially himself.

"Suspended until further notice," Dobey said.

Hutch stopped pacing. "Captain, I..." His expression went chameleon like from sullen petulance to boyish plea. "I need the department's resources to help find him. Don't do this."

"You leave me no choice. I have other lives, and other officers to consider. Simmons and Babcock won't give up, and l won't either, but we have other cases-"

"We can't let him be a cold case!"

"Hutch, I've devoted more manpower and resources to Starsky than anyone else-"

"Fine," Hutch said with menacing calm as he tossed his gun and badge on the captain's desk. "I'm out of here. I'll find him myself."

Dobey watched Hutch go toward the door. "Hutch, it's been three months. You need help. See the department psychia-"

Hutch slammed the door shut on his way out.

Hutch made a beeline for the squad room door, other officers watching him, but then he stopped and walked back to the desk he and Starsky shared, taking two things with him: His piggy bank, and the blue plushy Starsky kept in his drawer.

"Good luck, man," Simmons said after him, but he walked out without acknowledging him.

Windows covered, greenhouse neglected, lights out, Hutch heard the knock on his door and stumbled over strewn clothes and discarded brown paper bags of beer cans and vodka bottles. Although he'd lost track of the hours and days, he still managed to find the motivation to answer the door, always hoping to hear good news or even a slim lead from Simmons, Babcock, or Dobey on Starsky. But it was Huggy this time.

"Hey man," Huggy said quietly. "Can I come in?"

Hutch didn't offer to step back and let him in. He stood like a door bearing a Keep Out sign. But Huggy didn't need to go all the way inside to see that his friend was in trouble. A partial view through the six-inch crack Hutch allowed, told him enough.

"Unless you know something about Starsky," Hutch said in a low voice hoarse with grief and defeat, "we have nothing to talk about."

"Hutch, he wouldn't want this for you."

Hutch raised bloodshot, desolate eyes to him. "He wouldn't want me to ignore his cry for help either. Which is what I did. I'm the reason he's...he's..."

Huggy almost wanted him to say it. He thought Hutch needed to start the process of saying "dead" instead of "missing", accepting the fact that his partner, brother, and best friend was never coming home. Huggy had often considered that death should take Hutch first, because Hutch's world would be no world without Starsky.

Starsky seemed to have more resilience. If Hutch went first, Starsky would grieve, and grieve hard, but he would find a way to live with it, as he had done with his father's death, Helen's death, and Terry's death. Was it too awful to say that Starsky could make it without Hutch, but Hutch couldn't make it without Starsky? Looking at the person in front of him, Huggy was beginning to believe it was true, for Hutch was the perfect picture of a living dead man.

Huggy reached down and took the almost-empty bottle of whiskey from Hutch's quavering hand. "This won't bring him back."

"I know," Hutch whispered. "But it's a place to hide from..."

Huggy nodded. He knew. Hutch was trying to hide from memories, from pain, from self-blame. Everyone knew Hutch would give his life for Starsky, but no one had ever seen a Hutch who thought he had taken Starsky's life away.

Kira was a homicide detective who'd heard about Starsky's disappearance, obvious abduction, and possible death, but California law said a person couldn't be declared legally deceased for five years. Knowing Hutch, she didn't think he'd be alive in five years. No one had to tell her Hutch was existing on self-punishment, though Huggy had, by way of telephone. The fact that Huggy called HER of all people? Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. Though Kira had no idea what earthly good she could be to Hutch right now.

"Hutch?" she said knocking on his door.

She heard nothing on the other side. Nothing. When she knew him, the sounds could have been a number of things: His whistling to or from a shower. His humming, singing, playing the guitar, piano, radio, TV. Or talking to his plants, reading poetry or Shakespeare aloud, or on the phone. Though he lived alone, his apartment always seemed to thrum with life, as if another person lived there with him. And in a way, Starsky did live with him, at least the spirit of him did, even though he had his own home. They carried each other with them wherever they went, whatever they were doing. Starsky's home felt the opposite, a little lonesome, as if missing Hutch's presence and just waiting for his return. She hadn't believed for a second David's sentiment, "We come into this world alone, we go out of it alone", or Hutch's "What's a Starsky?" That was jealousy, and pain, and division, and disillusionment talking. The love was still there. It always was, it never left, buried underneath all of that rubble.

Kira reached up over his doorway for the key to let herself in, what any concerned detective once-lover would do.

"Hutch?" she asked as she stepped inside, almost gasping at the cave-like darkness and silence. It felt like walking into a graveyard, a tomb. She left the door open, in case she had to hurry out.

Maybe he was gone? But his car was parked outside, grime on the windshield as if it hadn't been driven in weeks or months. And it hadn't.

She turned a light on and looked around, toward the bedroom, toward the bath.

"Hutch?"

Empty bottles and cans of beer, whiskey, and wine littered the place like tiny scars. But very few food wrappers or packages.

Then she saw newspapers and a mess of dirty laundry move on the sofa, her hand going under her blazer for her gun, but realized it was Hutch stirring awake beneath the camouflage, an empty bottle of rum dropping from his hand to the floor.

"Starsk?" came his heartbreaking murmur.

"No," she said as she knelt down next to him.

He lay cheek-down on his stomach, his hand reaching out. "Starsk?"

"No," she said, more gently, as she took his hand. "It's Kira. Huggy called me. Harold called me. They're worried about you."

A soft moan came from him, but he didn't offer to move or say anything else.

"Hutch, I've been looking for him too. Maybe we can...look for him together. I'll make some coffee, okay?"

She didn't expect an answer, a gleeful yes, a quick rebound. It was extending a hand to a drowning, dying man.

He was too lean, too dirty, his hair as lifeless as straw, his face without color. He seemed sick. Heartsick.

Forget coffee. She went to the phone to call an ambulance, but a panting silhouette in the open doorway stopped her, followed by clambering footfalls below it. She knew his form.

"Hutch," came his weak voice. "Gun."

Whether Hutch thought he was dreaming, he nor anyone else would ever know, and it didn't matter. He responded to the words, reaching for a 357 on the coffee table and rolling off, but the heavy gun trembled violently in his hand, so Kira drew hers, rushing out past Starsky, who was slumping against the doorframe.

Two men were hoofing it up the stairs after him with their guns drawn.

"Stop! Police!"

They didn't.

She fired on both of them, and they tumbled down the stairs to land in a tangled heap at the bottom.

She ran down the stairs and outside to see if anyone else was following, and they weren't. After showing her badge to the gathering crowd and saying, "Stay back Crime scene!", she ran back up to call Captain Dobey and an ambulance.

Hutch was already seeing to his partner, helping him over to the sofa and sitting him down. She marveled at how they seemed to mirror image each other: Starsky wounded more physically-beaten, dirty, dehydrated. But healing now. Hutch wounded more psychically-self-harm, self-neglect, self-hatred. But healing now. They exchanged pain: Starsky took Hutch's. Hutch took Starsky's. It was the only way they could heal. Together. As one.

"Get some water," Hutch told her. "Some bread."

She did as he told her.

Hutch took the small glass of water and held it for Starsky to drink. "Here you go. Where you been, huh? What happened? I'm sure glad to see you."

Kira noted how Hutch's hand trembled as he held the glass. She also saw the light back in his eyes. He was smiling through his worry, doing what he did best: Looking out for his partner. He was reborn.

Starsky grasped at Hutch's sleeve, trying to speak. "Escaped. Basement of...old apartment building. How long?"

"Three months, buddy. You've been gone three months."

Starsky leaned his head back against the sofa cushion, eyes moving up to Kira, but not letting go of Hutch's sleeve.

"Thanks," he breathed up to her.

She saw the deep, bleeding circles around his wrists, knew he had fought tremendously to get out of what looked like rope. She placed a kind hand on his shoulder.

Hutch looked up at her too.

"Yeah. Thank you."

Neither man was in any shape to do anything more than wait for the cops and medics to arrive.

Kira? The woman who'd come between them? It didn't matter. Let her help. They were way past that now. No woman or man could ever come between them like that again, because they had been tried by fire, and were stronger for it.

"Call if you need me," she said without putting any other meaning to her statement than literal.

They both nodded and, much like the apparition she'd looked like showing up, she departed, knowing things were going to be better now.

Hutch rode in the ambulance with Starsky, words not needed or spoken as the medics examined the dark-haired detective. The medics also tried to tend to Hutch, but Hutch said, "No. HE'S the patient."

Starsky was treated in the ER while Hutch waited just inside the door. Captain Dobey came to take Starsky's official statement, face beaming with bright eyes and a friendly smile.

"Lazarus," he said as he gripped Hutch's shoulder and looked Starsky's way. "I didn't think this day would ever happen."

Hutch offered a tearful smile in agreement, but also in recognition of the loss of Dobey's own partner and friend, Elmo, who had been murdered in the line of duty years ago when they were cops together.

The media attempted to get their stories on the "Missing Detective Back Again", but Dobey had anticipated their arrival and gave them a brief synopsis that would satisfy them for the time being, going so far as to post a couple of uniformed officers outside Starsky's hospital room while he recovered. He promised to give the press a more in-depth interview later, and that seemed to make them very happy.

Hutch and Starsky talked a lot, about Starsky's time in captivity, about the two ex-cons-Aryan brothers and biological brothers-out for payback. Nothing that could be tied to Gunther, at least that they could see. The revenge stemmed from being incarcerated for arson fires set in the barrio, which had destroyed businesses and wounded innocent workers in protest of immigrants.

Medicated and drowsy in his hospital bed, Starsky still had the faculties to ask Hutch, who was resting heavy-eyed next to him in a chair, "Hutch? You okay?"

"Oh yeah," Hutch murmured as his own eyes closed. "Right as rain." And that wasn't a lie. He was better. He felt better. Whole again. Except for the growing, grinding need for a drink that crept in during the night as he dozed, tugging him awake.

Without a word to his sleeping partner, he slipped out and said to the uniformed guard, "If he wakes, tell him I'll be back soon," then, the man who'd risked his life to be by his partner's wounded side in an Italian restaurant, left his friend alone and went outside and down the street to one of the liquor stores to buy a pint.

Just a pint. Because he knew he wouldn't need it as much now that Starsky was back. The guilt was fading, along with the insatiable need to self-abuse. What he really needed it for was to take the edge off. More as a medicine than anything. He knew that too much alcohol was not healthy, and it was not a good coping mechanism, but he supposed it was better than a heroin addiction or blowing his brains out. At least alcohol was legal. How many times had he and Starsky drank together after a hard case just to dismiss the demons? Same thing. Maybe stronger, but the same principle.

The next morning Starsky indulged in a very light breakfast of omelet and coffee, with Hutch drinking half of his coffee.

Later, when Starsky was cleaned up and feeling more alert, they took a slow walk down the hall, hands hovering at the ready for each other should one weaken or stumble.

When they reached the vending area, Starsky smiled a little. "I got no change."

"Maybe I do," Hutch said as he slid his hand in his front pocket. "Hey," he smiled as he handed Starsky a couple of dimes. "Here you go."

Starsky's hand came out to take the coins, but instead settled on Hutch's alcoholically tremoring hand. "Wasn't your fault, Hutch."

Hutch took a big breath and looked down, quiet, as if he didn't know what to say.

"I'm okay," Starsky said gently as he smoothed Hutch's hair. He wanted to say "And you look like hell in a handbasket", but he didn't.

What Hutch said was, "I need to go get my car washed. I'll be back."

When Hutch got back, he found Starsky on the phone.

"Setting up a date already?" Hutch smiled as he handed Starsky a bottle of root beer he'd gotten for him.

Starsky saw that the tremble in Hutch's hands had subsided, detected the wafting aroma of fresh mints that never could quite disguise the aroma of liquor.

"Yeah," Starsky said with a half-smile.

Hutch laughed. "Maybe we could get ole Kira. Take her for a spin."

Starsky laughed too, but his laughter soon faded, as did Hutch's.

"So," Starsky shrugged as if needing to create conversation in a potentially awkward moment, "I got a cleaning crew to clean up your place. Looked like Hurricane Hutchinson tore through it."

"Yeah. Guess it did."

Starsky patted the chair next to his bed. "Gonna sit down or what?"

"Um, sure," Hutch said, but when he did, Starsky reached over into Hutch's jacket pocket and carefully pulled out a new pint of whiskey.

Starsky looked at him without saying anything. He held the bottle of liquor for a few seconds, then dropped it into the wastepaper basket next to his bed.

Also without words, Hutch leaned over and took the bottle from the trash basket, slipped it back into his pocket, then said, "I need to go for a walk," and left without saying anything else.

Starsky's stay in the hospital amounted to three days. Though he was leaner than before he went missing and still looked a little peaked, he was now stronger and discharged with a clean bill of health, the instructions being to eat and drink healthily, pace himself when it came to physical exertion, and get plenty of rest. He waited for Hutch to pick him up in the newly washed LTD Squash, but he never showed. He thought about calling Huggy or Dobey, but ended up getting a taxi instead.

Starsky didn't take the cab to his house, however. He went to Hutch's, not bothering to knock, simply reaching up for the key above his door and letting himself in.

The apartment was beautiful and golden again. A radio was playing low in the kitchen. The only thing that looked different than it did before the abduction was Hutch, who now stood at the kitchen sink, back to him, draining the last half of a pint of whiskey.

"Hutch."

Hutch turned toward him. "Hey, Starsk. Sorry I wasn't there to pick you up."

"Yeah," Starsky said closing the door, locking it, and walking over to him. "You had better things to do."

Hutch took another drink. "Go ahead. Say whatever you want to say. I deserve it."

Starsky took the bottle from him. "Deserve? You deserve a break from yourself. I deserve my old partner back."

Hutch held his arms up. "This is your old partner," he said in a slurry voice.

Starsky slowly poured the whiskey down the drain. "No more."

Hutch tried taking the bottle away from him, but Starsky smoothly moved it out of his reach as he would a basketball.

"I'm not Sharman Crane!" Hutch shouted.

"No! You're my best friend! And if you think I'm gonna watch you downhill slide into slow suicide, you got another thing comin'!"

"Starsky, so help me. Give me that bottle."

"Over my dead body."

That froze Hutch. For a moment. The words hurt him, as they were meant to. To wake him up. Help him understand.

Hutch shrugged. "That's just one bottle. I can get more."

He moved as if heading toward the door, but Starsky took his arm. "I want you to get clean and sober so we can be partners again."

Hutch grabbed Starsky's shirt and jerked him forward, saw tears in his eyes, but eased up, knowing he couldn't hurt him, and he couldn't deny him. Knowing he'd come to the end of himself and had to do something different or lose everything he loved.

"I don't want it," he whispered, tears in his own eyes. "I need it. I crave it. Just like..."

"I know," Starsky said smoothing his hair down. "Just like the stuff. You kicked it. You can kick this too. I came back, Hutch. You gotta come back too."

Head down, Hutch released Starsky's shirt and turned to step away, go be by himself, hurt himself some more, but Starsky gently pulled him back into a hug.

"No," Starsky murmured in a low voice. "Stay right here."

Hutch clung to him, realizing that he didn't have to live in secrecy, or shame, or alcohol anymore, and that, as always, his partner was his way back.

Starsky stayed the night, both of them tossing the bottles of hard liquor away. Hutch paced with cravings for alcohol, and Starsky paced with him, both drinking coffee. Finally, Hutch slipped into an exhausted, nervous, trembling state of sleep in the bedroom, Starsky parking himself on the sofa to be near the door should Hutch cave to a moment of weakness and try to leave and get a bottle.

Next morning, Hutch woke up to the smell of French toast and a health drink Starsky was making for him, but something else: Voices. Two voices. Dobey and Huggy's. When he brought himself awake and shuffled wearily into the living room in light tan corduroys and a brown T-shirt, he saw his captain, Huggy, and Starsky sitting in the living room having French toast and coffee around the coffee table.

"Here's your breakfast shake," Starsky said handing him the glass. "I didn't forget the cricket legs."

Hutch took the glass with a still-wavering hand and looked at all three faces. Huggy and Dobey were seated on the sofa. Starsky gestured toward the easy chair.

"Make yourself at home."

Hutch gave a little nervous, worried laugh.

"What is this," he asked, "an intervention?"

But he took the seat, set his glass down, and leaned forward with forearms resting on his thighs, studying the floor. Something about it made him look like a bird sitting inside a birdcage with the door open.

Huggy and Dobey winked. "We're just here for the breakfast," Dobey said.

Starsky hurried for a kitchen chair and carried it back to sit next to Hutch. "Found this really cool place," he said as he pulled a colorful, glossy brochure from his hip pocket and opened it for him to see. "Seaside Retreat. Private. Tennis. Golf. Racquetball. Workout rooms. Running trails. Yoga, meditation, pool, music."

Hutch arched an eyebrow at him. "And alcohol counseling?"

"Uh, yeah. Alcohol counseling. And some for me too. I had Merle tune up the Torino. We're goin' today. My bags are in the trunk. Yours are ready to go."

There was a slight hesitation in Hutch, that moment where he could stay, or get up and run. But one look at Harold Dobey, and Huggy Bear Brown, and David Michael Starsky, he decided to stay.

He took a breath and released it in a quick sigh.

"Okay," he said nodding to Starsky. "Today." He picked up the health shake Starsky had made for him and took a sip.

Finished with their French toast breakfast and coffee, Dobey, Huggy, and Starsky rose to their feet.

"Come on," Starsky told him. "Bring your shake with you."

As Hutch stood up, Dobey clasped his hand-"Good luck, Hutch"-then Huggy did-"Way to go, man"-while Starsky picked up the two suitcases he'd packed for him.

The four of them walked downstairs and outside onto the sidewalk, Dobey and Huggy watching Starsky and Hutch load the suitcases into the trunk of the Torino. Down the street and crowding out of sight together in a bakery doorway stood Meredith, Simmons and Babcock, and Parker, silently watching.

"Starsky, did you pack my favorite aftershave?"

"I don't know, Posh."

"You don't know? You know I love that cologne."

"For your information, aftershave and cologne are two different things. Y'see-"

"And this shake you made. Where are the bananas?"

"They were green."

"You know I love green bananas."

"Will you hush and get in the car."

Hutch shook his head and opened the passenger door, smiling back at Dobey and Huggy before he slid into the seat next to Starsky.

As Dobey and Huggy watched the Torino pull away from the curb with squealing tires, Dobey said, "Yeah. I think our boys will be all right."

The end