Starsky & Hutch Advent Calendar 2017

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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.

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Okay, the first part of the plan had worked. Joey was out, away, and well into the woods. The other part had been a disaster and Starsky’d been shot. He was holding the makeshift tourniquet in place while I’d slit the jeans from his ankle to the wound, tried to keep my hands from shaking, and did a quick inspection. Shit! Didn’t look good.

“Hey, don’t worry. I tol’ ya, Gene Autry gets it there all the time.”

God! My partner could joke under the most dire of circumstances. I refused to allow the shudder in my heart to surface and scowled. “You said he got it in the shoulder.”

“Shoulder, leg, other shoulder, other leg…” Starsky grimaced and his breath caught. “Seemed like he got shot every other week… and there are only so many body parts acceptable to parents.”

“Yeah, well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, buddy, but this isn’t a Saturday afternoon matinee.”

“I know.”

He didn’t need to say a word, I felt his pain as if I was the one with a bullet in my leg. I dug out my handkerchief, folded it into a pad, and tucked it under the slit in the faded fabric over the still-bleeding hole.

“Listen… Gene’s pals always found him in –”

“Will you please shut up about Gene Autry?” Immediately angry with myself for allowing fear to leak into my voice, I glanced at his surprised face and hunched my shoulders. “Sorry.” I tried my version of his lop-sided smile. “I was a Roy Rogers fan.”

“‘Course you were.” The smile he managed was almost genuine. “Blond horse.”

“Palomino.”

“Whatever…. Trigger, right?”

“Good memory.”

“I never forget a blond.”

I appreciated what his easy tone and simple words meant and sent him a look that told him so. The banter hadn’t solved our problem, but if it kept his mind off the pain I was willing to keep it going. Putting as much lightness in my voice as possible, I patted his uninjured knee. “So, how do we get ourselves out of here, Mr. Bronson?”

“You’ll think of something, Hutch. You always do. I trust you.”

“Don’t forget, Bronson got away. McQueen didn’t.”

“Then you’ll just have to do better than Steve.” The grin he sent me settled my soul. “Won’t you?”

“Guaranteed, Starsk.” I looked up at the tractor and an idea crawled into my rattled brain. “I never liked motorcycles anyway.”

Bad guys, bullet wounds
Banter helps ease pain and fears
Until a plan forms

Tale as old as time
True as it can be
Barely even friends
Then somebody bends
Unexpectedly
Just a little change
Small to say the least
Both a little scared
Neither one prepared . . .

Disney’s Beauty and the Beast — Music by Alan Menken

Prologue

Early October put a nip in the air and stole away daylight in bits and pieces. That meant less freedom. More homework. Davey knew he was supposed to head home when the streetlights came on, but his team was winning the stickball game and he couldn’t just leave. By the time he scored the winning run, it was at least half an hour past curfew.

A pack of cigarettes passed around set him behind even more. But the hard-fought win and daring celebration was worth the lecture — or worse — he’d get when he got home. When the cigarettes had burned down to ashes, his teammates scattered like cockroaches.

Davey had kicked a can half-way to King’s Theatre when he saw the black and white coming down the street toward him.

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