December 7th- Blondie and the Beast Part 2 by Spencer

Click here to read Part 1

Chapter Two

Days strung into weeks, like endless coils of barbed wire. Starsky found pleasure in nothing. Not in the warm Southern California sun, not in the sporty red Chevelle he drove around town. Not in the soothing rhythm of the ocean waves as he walked along the beach alone.

One night he was invited to Gus’s house for a party. He had no desire to socialize, but knew better than to turn down the invitation. Unlike his no-frills office, Gus’s house was a sprawling, Spanish style home in a gated hillside community. Bougainvillea and vines of white roses clung to the stucco walls. A decadent patio and pool filled the backyard. High walls insured privacy. A palace where Gus was king.

It wasn’t long before tobacco and cannabis eclipsed the aroma of the roses. Starsky stood sipping a perfect Manhattan, watching well-muscled men and scantily clad women roam the grounds like peacocks, when he was called in for a private meeting with Gus.

Gus dismissed a buxom redhead at Starsky’s approach. She seemed about to smile at him but something changed her mind as she shimmied past. Is the monster in me so obvious? Starsky thought.

Gus watched her walk away before he asked, “Are you having a good time?” His big smile was as phony as the redhead’s tits.

“Sure,” Starsky responded with a wave of his highball glass.

“Look around, Starsky.” Gus straightened in his chair and reached for a cigar from the box on the table between them. He neglected to offer one to Starsky. “All this didn’t come easy. I came up from the streets just like you. I have what others don’t because I’m willing to do what others won’t.”

Starsky stood passively but felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He didn’t need a fatherly lecture about how to win friends and influence people, he wanted to growl. His father was long in the grave.

Gus cut off the end of the cigar and put it to his lips, wetting it. A waiter appeared and held up a lighter. Gus took a deep draw on the rolled tobacco. He closed his eyes and held the smoke in his mouth for a few seconds before releasing it. Starsky envied the smoke’s ability to disappear into the night air.

“You’ve been doing a good job. Joe was right to recommend you. You’re loyal and trustworthy. Your accounts, for the most part, are all current. And you’ve been able to do your job with a minimum of fuss. I like that. I don’t like unnecessary attention.” Gus took another deep, leisurely draw on the cigar. “But you’ve given Maria Delvecchio a pass for three weeks now.”

“Marie’s son got sick. She had to take him to the hospital. She promised to catch up next month.”

“That’s not my problem. But now it’s yours.” Gus crushed the lit end of the half-smoked cigar onto the tile table top, oblivious to the black smudge it creates. “I’m docking your pay for the amount Delveccio owes. Make sure softness doesn’t become a habit.”

Starsky took Gus’ warning for a dismissal. He tossed out his drink in the bushes as he walked.

Starsky stood outside of Huggy Bear’s bar feeling as though he’d swallowed glass. Huggy was two weeks late in his payments. But he was determined to do his job. To justify Big Joe. To solidify his heart of stone.

Starsky pushed open the door with more force than was necessary. It was just before closing time and the place was nearly empty. He felt the eyes of the few remaining regulars turn to him then look away as he made his way up to the bar. A few seats away, Huggy was trading banter with the blond whom Starsky had learned was a frequent customer. “Hutch,” he was called.

Huggy acknowledged Starsky but, to his credit, didn’t head to the back to avoid him. He left blondie with his drink and came over to where Starsky leaned his hip into the bar.

“I’m a little short this week,” Huggy said, taking a glass from a shelf and holding it beneath a nearby tap.

“That’s what you said last time. Gus is losing his patience.”

“I told you. Doris, my waitress, was in a bad accident and needed money to fix her car. So I gave her a little extra. Have a heart. Hell, she’s still on crutches.” Huggy flipped open the tap and chilled beer poured out, hitting the side of the glass as it filled, finishing with a foaming head.

“That’s your problem, not mine. Get a new waitress.”

Huggy set the tall mug in front of Starsky and tsked. “That’s cold, dude.”

“You have no idea,” Starsky said without looking at the beer.

“So what you gonna do? Chop off my ear like some kind of funky Van Gogh?”

Starsky gave him a dark stare, the weight of brass knuckles heavy in his pocket. Usually that look was enough to make a customer dig deeper in their wallet. Find a little extra they’d managed to squirrel away. But not this time. Huggy was being truthful. He wasn’t holding back.

“Is there a problem here?” Hutch appeared at Starsky’s shoulder, standing a few inches taller.

Starsky was far from intimidated. “I suggest you mind your own business,” he growled.

“Just a bit of a misunderstanding, Hutch. This is Dave Starsky. He works for Gus Stone.” Huggy said the name like spitting out sour milk.

Hutch gave a ‘humph.’ “Don’t tell me you got yourself mixed up with that lowlife, Huggy,” he said, apparently unbothered by Starsky’s presence.

Huggy shrugged his wiry shoulders. “A brother has ta do what a brother has ta do to get ahead in this world. I’m just runnin’ a little behind right now.”

“How much?” Hutch asked, reaching into his jacket pocket.

“Probably more than you got, I’m afraid. Besides, like the man said. You’d best stay out of it,” Huggy told him.

Starsky picked up the heavy mug of beer set in front of him and tipped it, letting the golden liquid pour out on the scuffed linoleum floor. Half of it splashed onto Hutch’s shoes. “What the hell,” Hutch yelped. He made a grab for Starsky’s arm but Starsky twisted away slick as an eel.

He took the empty mug and threw it hard into a neon Coors sign hanging on the wall behind just Huggy’s head. Huggy flinched as pieces of colored glass rained down. The remaining customers quickly found reasons to leave.

“This is your last warning,” Starsky directed to Huggy. “Have the money by next Friday or you’ll have more broken than just glass.”

Huggy looked at the mess on the floor and grimaced. He turned back to Starsky, his lips in a thin line. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled as he went for a mop and a broom.

Starsky turned to face Hutch head on, fire in his belly. Hutch glared back, his eyes glittering like blue ice. Starsky had mistaken Hutch’s charm and good looks for docility, but this was no Boy Scout. Starsky instinctively knew the man wouldn’t back down from a fight. He felt an unlikely admiration for him. Almost an affinity.

Hutch pointed a finger straight in his face, practically touching him. “Get the hell out of here,” he said.

Starsky could have sucker punched him, slipping on the brass knuckles for added effect, broke some chairs or even the pinball machine, but he didn’t. Maybe it was the way Hutch had faced him head on, without reservation, but the fire within him had strangely been doused. Starsky turned and walked away not wanting to think, not wanting to feel, not caring how the scene would play out with Gus.

Outside of Huggy’s bar, Starsky slumped down in the front seat of his cherry red Chevelle. He didn’t know why he just didn’t drive way. He pictured Hutch helping Huggy sweep up the shattered glass, mop the floor, maybe even count his cash drawer figuring out how Huggy could come up with the money he owed, until the inside lights went off.

The street was thrown into darkness except for street light at the corner. He was about to turn the key in ignition when he was startled by a tap on the passenger side. What the fuck. It was Hutch.

“Haven’t you done enough tonight?” Hutch asked, leaning down into the half-opened window.

The confrontation surprised him. He didn’t know how to respond. Hutch’s next move surprised him even more. He opened the car door and climbed in. Starsky was like a deer frozen in headlights. He stared straight ahead until Hutch broke the awkward silence.

“What makes someone want to go around harassing other people? Is it the money? Is it really worth it?” Hutch asked.

“Get the fuck out of my cahr,” Starsky ordered gruffly, the last word mangled by his east coast accent.

Hutch remained unruffled. “Not until you answer my question.”

Starsky shifted his position unnecessarily since the soft leather of the bucket seat conformed to his backside like a glove. What’s it gonna take to get rid of this guy? Honesty? “Maybe because I’m not fit for anything else,” he said and winced inwardly.

“And why is that?” Hutch asked, softer now.

“Why are you so full of fuckin’ questions?” Starsky snarled in a tone that had frightened off so many others.

Hutch shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s just something about you . . . Maybe I think your bark is worse than your bite. Or maybe I just want to help out a friend.”

“You’re wrong. You don’t know anything about me. And if you did, you wouldn’t want to be sitting in this cahr right now.” Starsky curled his fingers painfully tight around the steering wheel. Who was this guy to dredge up old wounds? Why talk of things that can’t be changed?

“Huggy’s good for the money. He’ll pay you when he can. Just not right now.”

“That’s not how this game is played, Blondie.”

Hutch leaned back, tilting his head into the soft leather, and sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Sitting so close, Starsky couldn’t help but appreciate the pleasant profile of Hutch’s face, the gentle sincerity of his words. Me, too, Starsky almost let slip, but then tightened his lips. The silence returned, falling cold as snow. He turned the key and the powerful engine roared to life.

Hutch got the message and was smart enough not to push his luck. He opened the car door and got out. “I’ll be seein’ you,” he said as he pushed the door closed, then stepped onto the sidewalk.

“I’d think twice about that.” Starsky pressed down clutch pedal and shifted hard. He didn’t look behind as the car squealed off into the night.

Chapter Three

More evenings than not, Starsky found himself parked outside of Huggy’s place until the lights were turned off. He told himself he was just checking up on his account. Making sure Huggy didn’t skip town. But in the back of his mind he knew Huggy wasn’t the cowardly type.

Starsky found that Hutch was there most nights, too, usually staying past closing. Probably offering Huggy some kind of protection, Starsky surmised, like some fucking white knight. Hutch would even nod a little acknowledgement as he walked past Starsky’s car on his way to the parking lot across the street. As if they’d established some kind of temporary truce.

One night, a few minutes before closing, Hutch knocked on Starsky’s car window and waved a small, white paper bag at him. A knee-jerk reaction to the irresistible smell of grilled onions and French fries made him gesture for Hutch to get in the car.

“Huggy made an extra order. He’ll just throw it away if someone doesn’t eat it,” Hutch explained, settling into the passenger seat.

The tantalizing scent filled the car, making him salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “Why don’t you just eat it?” Starsky grunted.

“Me?” Hutch grinned. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“Bullshit,” Starsky retorted. He reached into the bag and unwrapped a thick, juicy hamburger with cheese melting off the edges. As he took a large bite, he was reminded of why cheeseburgers were called comfort food.

“Why would anyone want to be a vegetarian?” Starsky asked, licking his fingers appreciatively.

“Because I grew up around cows. On a farm in Minnesota,” Hutch explained simply. “I raised a calf from birth, named her Bossy.”

“I call this one Delicious.” Starsky finished off the burger quickly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Not that he’d been going without, just that the simple pleasure of a good meal eluded him these days. When he started in on the French fries, Hutch reached over and grabbed a few.

“Hey!” Starsky growled.

“Potatoes are fair game.” Unchastened, Hutch shoved a few in his mouth and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Best fries in town,” he asserted.

Starsky felt the twitch of a smile. It was good just to talk. It felt natural to have Hutch sitting next to him. His loneliness seemed to fall away like a cast off cloak. If he shut out the street and sign glowing above the bar, he could pretend they were simply buddies sharing some greasy bar food. He could pretend he was just like everyone instead of something nightmares were made of.

“What are you doing in L.A.?” Starsky found himself asking.

“Going to law school. I figured if I have to spend the next few years studying, I might as well do it on a beach. What about you? You don’t sound like a local.”

“I grew up in Brooklyn.”

Hutch made a little hmmmm sound in the back of his throat. “You’re a long way from home.”

Starsky shrugged his shoulders to indicate it didn’t matter to him. He turned his focus instead on the incongruence of their relationship — such as it was. “Isn’t a little strange? A would-be lawyer and lowlife hood talkin’ like this?” His question held the bite of a challenge.

“Oh, I don’t know. One never knows what life has planned,” Hutch demurred. “Do you have folks back east?”

“My ma and brother are there. My Pop is. . .” Starsky felt the ever present, dull ache turn to a sharp spear in his gut. “Dead,” he forced out, as the knife inside twisted and sliced upward to exert maximum damage. The burger he’d just finished threatened to come back up.

Hutch laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

The touch was like dry ice — freezing yet burning him at the same time. The last time someone had touched him with tenderness was when his mother had pressed her hand to his cheek months ago. He’d forgotten how pleasant human contact could be. Like a cherished heirloom he’d packed away and abandoned years ago, only to be discovered later, bringing with it a flood of bittersweet memories.

Starsky closed his eyes, fighting a wave of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Feelings he’d fought for years to bury, the way they’d buried his father. When he reopened his eyes, he was blinded by the letters that spelled out Huggy Bear’s lit up against the blackness of the night beyond his window.

Starsky jerked away. “I don’t need anyone feelin’ sorry for me.”

Hutch followed Starsky’s gaze to the neon sign. He paused, then said, “Yeah, I’d have to be crazy to do that.”

He gathered up the trash and got out. Then Starsky put the car in gear and drove away, leaving Hutch standing at the curb and the front seat empty.

To be continued… click here to read Part 3