December 10th- Blondie and the Beast Part 3 by Spencer

Click here to read Part 1
Click here to read Part 2

Part 3

Starsky continued to stop by Huggy’s regularly and watch the life inside through the windows. Hutch hadn’t come back out to his car. It was better that way, he told himself and he tried to ignore the ache of disappointment.

Besides, the connection he’d felt with Hutch was sure to break when he could no longer ignore Huggy’s late payments.

Doris, his waitress, was just getting back to work. Starsky had seen her the previous night, gamely taking orders with a taped up ankle. But Gus had called Starsky into his office twice that week already questioning his collection methods. He couldn’t wait any more.

Huggy’s place would be closing in five minutes. Through the window he watched the remaining patrons pay their tabs. He took another swig from the bottle obscured by brown paper and took sadistic pleasure in the burn of the cheap gin down his throat. He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a pair midnight blue eyes staring back at him. A creature’s eyes — hideous and soulless. He no longer recognized himself.

Who could want anything to do with me now? The thought ran through his mind like a poison.

He took another deep swig from the bottle. It was almost empty, nearly ready to join the other one lying on the floor boards. Liquid courage. Damn Hutch, he thought, for making him feel, if only for a few minutes, that he could be like everyone else.

Starsky got of the Chevelle and laid a hand on its cooling hood. The street seemed to undulate beneath his feet like a fun house floor and he waited for it to stabilize. He blinked at the sign above the door, the bright letters running together. He felt for the brass knuckles and the knife in his jeans pocket. He thought of the gun under the front seat. There was no going back. He wasn’t good for anything else.

After a few minutes Starsky pitched in through the door of the bar, then stopped. Hutch was perched long-legged on a bar stool, talking with Huggy and Doris who were drying and putting away glasses. Starsky hadn’t expected otherwise, although it didn’t stop the jolt that hit his chest.

They all stopped what they were doing when they saw Starsky.

“Time’s up, Hug,” Starsky announced and flicked out his knife.

Hutch slipped from the chair to stand at his full height, facing him silently.

“I been waitin’ for ya,” Huggy said as he deftly moved to intercede. He told Doris to leave and she quickly complied, careful not to make eye contact with Starsky as she went. Huggy pulled the drawer out from cash register and reached into the bottom to pull out a thick, banded up wad of cash.

“This is the balance of what I owe. Three grand.” Huggy tossed the bundle on the counter of the bar where it landed with a thump.

Starsky approached unsteadily, eyeing the cash and trying to ignore Hutch. He picked up the wad and thumbed through it, the faded faces of long dead presidents staring up at him. Judging him. Starsky swallowed hard.

“You’re still short. There’s a matter of interest . . . . “

“You can tell your asshole boss I won’t be payin’ any more interest. I’ve paid enough.”

“It ain’t good enough,” Starsky said. He brandished the knife at Huggy, the steel blade catching the shafts of remaining light overhead.

“Put that away,” Hutch said quietly, “or I’m calling the police.”

“No cops, Hutch,” Huggy broke in. “In this neighborhood, I don’t need that kind of publicity. Besides, I’m not so sure the boys in blue will see my side of things.”

“You’re payin’ — one way or another. The easy way or the hard way,” Starsky said as he took another step forward, but his voice sounded all wrong. Instead of reverberating deep and threatening, it was muffled, like it was passing through cotton.

“Is this what you really want?” Hutch asked.

He made a tentative move toward him but Starsky jabbed out with the knife and Hutch jumped back, a thread of blood appearing on the back of his hand.

“You have no idea what I want,” Starsky raged. “Fuck, even I don’t know. I don’t know who — or what — I am!”

Starsky lunged from side to side unsteadily, waving the knife as if fending off unseen foes. Goblins of pain and loss and guilt.

“Put the knife down, Starsky.” Hutch’s voice was calm, hypnotic.

Starsky looked back at Hutch but his features had blurred. His blue eyes shimmered like an oasis in the desert.

“Move aside, Hutch.”

“If you want to cut someone, cut me.” Hutch stood like a statute. He looked like Michelangelo’s David, noble and confident. Beautiful. Everything that Starsky was not and could never be.

Starsky thought of the eyes of the beast in the mirror. He recoiled inwardly, while lurching forward at the same time. This time Hutch was ready for him. He went to grab his wrist but Starsky twisted his arm wildly, slashing the knife through the air, aiming at nothing and everything. Nevertheless, Hutch held on until there was a snap of bones.

Starsky groaned loudly and the knife fell from his hand, clattering onto the linoleum.

“Jesus,” Huggy breathed.

Starsky stared at the knife. It seemed to have landed at almost the same spot where he had poured out the mug of beer, splashing Hutch’s shoes. Had that been only a few short weeks ago?

The ground began to roll under his feet like waves, the air seemed to buffet him like a storm wind. He fell to his knees and Hutch was there beside him, propping him up where his wrist had collapsed at an odd angle, useless.

“I’ll drive you to a doctor,” Hutch offered.

“No doctor. No,” Starsky gasped as the pain in his wrist collided with the alcohol in his system, “doctor.” He swallowed down the bitter bile that threatened to erupt from his gullet, to humiliate him even more.

“Suit yourself.” Hutch helped Starsky to a chair and gently examined his wrist. Starsky didn’t have the spirit to protest. He didn’t even make a good villain. Huggy went to kitchen and reappeared with some bar rags. Starsky watched dejectedly as Hutch bound his injured wrist, immobilizing it while Huggy stood guard over his shoulder.

“Ya ever consider goin’ into medicine instead of law?” Huggy commented.

Hutch gave a little laugh like a puff of air. “I grew up on a farm, remember? This is no worse than getting kicked by a mule. Besides, my father would never forgive me if I didn’t follow in his footsteps.” He gave the rag binding a final firm and gentle tug.

“Perish the thought!” Huggy rolled his eyes, his sarcasm letting them know how he felt about the legal profession in general.

“Where do you want me to take you?” Hutch asked Starsky.

Starsky hadn’t looked at either of them while Hutch had applied first aid, but rather studied the scuff patterns on the floor, hoping that staring at one spot would stop either his head or the room from spinning. The knife had disappeared, Huggy having locked it up in his back room.

“I can drive.” Starsky finally found the voice to grumble.

“No, you can’t. Even if you could manage the steering wheel with that wrist, you’re drunk as a skunk. Is there someone you can call?”

“Someone who’s not going to bust up my bar?” Huggy added for good measure.

“You should get that x-rayed. If the bones are dislocated, they’ll need to be repositioned,” Hutch said. “You can have someone take you to the doctor tomorrow.

Starsky shook his head. He had no one. The slight movement caused the room to resume its spinning. He stifled a groan.

Hutch sighed. “Come on then. Just give me an address,” he told him as he hoisted Starsky to his feet.

Chapter Four

Starsky’s apartment was in a bland, four-story building in Huntington Beach. It came with the prerequisite palm trees, pool, and lounge area for sun-worshippers who didn’t want the hassle of going to the beach. Hutch opened the door to the unit then handed the key back to Starsky.

“Are you sure this is your place?” he asked as Starsky flipped on a wall switch, throwing light onto the sparsely furnished room. A faux leather couch and coffee table that looked barely used were pushed against a wall. A dust-covered Zenith TV sat in a corner. Dark drapes shrouded the large picture window. The only signs of life were a few pieces of dirty laundry and Popular Mechanics magazines scattered about.

“What’s that supposed ta mean?” Starsky fell onto the couch and lifted his feet to rest on the coffee table.

Hutch continued to stand. “Well, it’s nice and all, but it just doesn’t look like anything you’d pick out for yourself.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh?”

“Gus Stone set me up. The car’s not mine either.”

“Oh.” Hutch found the bathroom and opened the door to the medicine cabinet. Inside was a razor, a can of shaving cream, toothpaste. “Do you have any aspirin round here?”

“Huh?” Starsky was plummeting deeper into a fog that had begun enveloping him ever since falling into Hutch’s car, an old Ford that somehow seemed a much more comfortable ride than his fancy Chevelle.

“Aspirin. You’ll need it once your buzz wears off.”

“No.”

“Christ, Starsk. How can you live this way?” Hutch walked back into the living room.

Starsk. The shortened version of his name sounded affectionate. The way one might refer to a friend.

Starsky felt Hutch’s weight sink into the couch beside him. Felt him lift up his wrist and gently yet efficiently check the binding.

“Who says I’m living? I’m just existing.” Even to him, his voice sounded hollow, disembodied.

Hutch set down his wrist. “Don’t you want something more?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t deserve anything more. I’m a freak.” Starsky felt himself slipping on the semi-slick material and thought he’d end up puddled on the floor. Instead, he found himself leaned up against something firm and unyielding. Hutch’s side.

He recognized the faint smell of cigarette smoke that lingered on Hutch’s shirt from the bar, a clean, masculine scent of aftershave, the warmth of beer on his breath when he asked, “Why do you say that.”

Starsky felt as much as heard the question. The words came from deep within Hutch’s chest, vibrating through him, pouring out over Starsky like balm.

What answer could he give to make Hutch understand? If being a loan shark’s errand boy didn’t disgust him, what would? Starsky’s thoughts traveled back to a warm October night. A stickball game. His reluctance to return to the confines of home, homework, chores. He’d thought he’d been bigger than that. The life laid out ahead of him more exciting. Until he’d heard the pop of a gun, squealing tires, metal smashing obscenely on metal.

“I killed my pop,” Starsky murmured.

In his mind he saw his father hunched over the steering wheel, the dark blood spreading between his shoulders. It was a sight he’d never been able to forget no matter how hard he tried or how far he ran. Sergeant Starsky would still be alive if not for his errant son.

Starsky felt Hutch’s quick intake of breath. Felt him tense up, pull back fractionally. The pain of it hurt worse than a knife, amazing him that he still could feel anything at all.

“I . . .” Hutch swallowed heavily, “I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it,” Starsky said, his voice falling into his practiced, tough tone even as his words slurred. “‘A long time ago.”

“How long? When you were a kid?”

“I was thirteen.”

Starsky could sense Hutch contemplating the enormity of the confession. Could picture Hutch’s face take on a look of revulsion. Starsky kept his eyes on the flat beige wall ahead. He dreaded seeing Hutch’s open expression close down, just like everyone else’s. But he didn’t kid himself that it wouldn’t once Hutch knew the ugly truth.

“My pop was a policeman back in Brooklyn. One night, I was late comin’ home and he came lookin’ for me. He was . . . I mean . . . He never would have been on that street if it wasn’t for. . .” Starsky felt a sob build in his chest. He fought it back but it bubbled up like a hot spring, scalding his throat.

“He was sh—shot.” The words burned his tongue. “Story is, a local mob had it out for the cops for shuttin’ down their operation. Said they’d take one out, as a warnin’ ta back off. So they did. My pop.”

Hutch’s shoulder that had pulled away seemed to creep back closer. “I think you’re a little confused,” he said. “You didn’t kill your father, someone else did.”

Starsky had heard the rationalization more than once. From the parish priest, the school counselor. Even his pop’s police buddies. It didn’t matter. Starsky was the only one who knew the truth of what he’d done. He’d drawn his own father into deadly fire. He knew what he was. He was responsible. He’d gotten his father killed as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger of the gun or driven the car into the light post.

Joe Durniak had understood. That’s why they’d drawn close. Big Joe had recognized the animal in him and set him on the path to where he belonged. A dark, shadowy place far away from decent society.

“Look, we all make mistakes when we’re kids,” Hutch said. “We all disappoint our parents at one time or another. It doesn’t make us irredeemable.”

Starsky wasn’t buying it. No one had messed up the way he had. And especially not this perfect person sitting next to him. Brave, smart, loyal, caring . . . What could he ever possibly have messed up?

As if Hutch had read his mind, he admitted, “I screwed up with my parents big time.”

Starsky moved his head back and forth against Hutch’s shoulder. Against the thought that Hutch could ever be a disappointment to anyone.

“No, it’s true.” Hutch sighed. “They had such different plans for me than I had for myself. My dad is a lawyer, but I’ve actually always wanted to be a cop. Talk about coincidence, huh? I couldn’t see sitting around an office in a suit and tie, writing up contracts and filing forms. I thought I could do more being out on the street. Ya know? Being with people instead of paper.”

Starsky thought of Hutch leaning up against the bar, trading jokes with Huggy Bar – his fine blond hair contrasting with Huggy’s dark afro. Hutch smiling at Doris the waitress, no doubt leaving a bigger tip than necessary. Hutch getting into a car with a thug to share a meal and talk. Yeah, he doubted there was an office that could hold him.

“So what happened?” Starsky found himself asking.

“I got my high school girlfriend pregnant. Can you believe it? Talk about bad choices. I guess I thought I had something to prove. You should have seen the look on my parents’ face when I told them.” Hutch paused as if he were reliving the life-changing moment in his head, but then continued.

“Anyway, we got married real quick. But Nancy had a miscarriage at five months. After that, things just fell apart between us. We were too young to know who we really were or what we wanted.”

“I’m sorry.” Starsky had thought once about what it would be like to get married; to be a father. He’d thought his pop was the greatest man in the world and he’d wanted to be just like him. A couple of married guys in his army unit would sometimes risk his black mood to show off pictures of their smiling wives, their plump little babies. Wouldn’t losing all that be just as bad as losing a father?

Starsky usually fought against reliving the past. Dredging up painful memories served only to poison the air, turning it foul and heavy. But this time was different. In fact, it seemed easier to breathe now than it had than when they’d first entered the apartment.

“What happened then?” Starsky asked.

“I wanted to go to the police academy, but I just couldn’t disappoint my father any more than I already had. So I agreed to law school and here I am. Trying to pick up the pieces — putting the past behind me. Studying on my parent’s dime by day, hanging out on the streets at night.”

The few minutes of silence that followed Hutch’s revelation was comforting rather than tense. The waves that had been tossing him for hours slowed to a gentle rocking, lulling him in time with Hutch’s breathing.

“Do . . . do you think it’s really possible?” Starsky asked.

Hutch gave Starsky a sad laugh and little shove. “What is? Studying, hanging out, or picking up the pieces?”

“Putting the past behind.”

Hutch turned on the couch to face him. The loss of contact made Starsky feel as though a piece of himself had gone missing. Hutch’s face was thrown into shadows in the dimly lit room, but his eyes remained luminous.

“It’s all I have to go on.”

“But that’s not what you’re doin’.” Starsky struggled to keep his eyelids open.

“What?” Hutch asked.

Starsky could hear a tremulousness in Hutch’s normally even voice as he felt himself slip away. A chink in the armor.

“You’re following someone else’s dream. Not yours,” Starsky said before succumbing to the pull of sleep.

Starsky dreamed he was a creature locked in a fortress. He walked the parapets alone, shunned and forgotten by the rest of the world. Until one day a white knight breached the fortress walls. Starsky bared his teeth and swiped at him with his claws. But the knight had a singular gift. He could approach him without revulsion, seeing through to his soul. The monster that was Starsky became confused, snarling and snapping, yet not knowing how to defend himself against the shiny armor. Until the white knight lifted his helmet to reveal that underneath he was just a man.

The next morning Hutch was gone, but he’d left a note behind.

To be continued…Click here to read Part 4