December 17th- Swing Shift Part 1 by Spencer

Author’s Notes: Inspired by the events portrayed in the 2018 movie Green Book, written by Nick Vallelonga, Brian Hayes Currie, and Peter Farrelly.

Chapter One

New York City, early October 1976

Trouble was brewing at an over-crowded table on the far side of the club. Dave Starsky had a sixth sense about these kinds of things. It was what he got paid for – to weed out the riff raff, stop problems before they started – and he was damn good at his job. Joe Durniak hired only the best for his nightclub, Swing Shift, which happened to be riding high on the current disco wave.

As Durniak often reminded Starsky, he wanted Swing Shift to draw the beautiful people the way that Studio 54 did. Starsky was to strictly enforce the code of at least one woman for every three men. Durniak didn’t want his crown jewel to be used by unsavory types who acted out perversions to throbbing beats in the dark, he’d say with a snarl of disgust. Durniak only wanted the people who came to be seen. To show off. And most importantly, to spend money.

Starsky was under orders to stay as invisible as possible when he was on the job. He figured it was because Durniak didn’t want his crude role putting off the well-heeled guests, or maybe it was simply because Starsky’s scrappy appearance tended to stand out like egg yolk on a silk tie. Neither fact bothered Starsky. He knew what he was. At least, he thought he did.

Starsky had grown up on the unforgiving streets of Brooklyn after the tragic death of his father – a beat cop who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. While his mother had been forced to deal with unspeakable grief and his impetuous younger brother Nicky, Starsky been left to learn how to handle himself early. And he’d learned those lessons well.

Starsky might not have polish, but he was tough. He had an unusual combination of traits – hard-working and ambitious, honest and loyal. Charming on the one hand, tolerating no bullshit on the other. Starsky didn’t impress easily and he had no one to impress. He knew how to blend into the scenery even as he stood out in his own way. It was a gift.

For all those reasons, Starsky had been one of Joe Durniak’s first hires at Swing Shift.

Starsky made his way surreptitiously to a hightop table where two expensive hookers sat dangling stilettos from their toes and drinking. Four men dressed in tight-fitting polyester shirts and with enough cheap gold hanging around their necks for a Woolworth’s display window hovered nearby. Starsky couldn’t hear what they were saying over the pounding music, but their body language was easy enough to understand. He’d seen enough cock fights in his life, especially over loose women. When one of the men moved to take a swing at another of his group, he found his forearm locked in Starsky’s grip.

“It’s getting late. Time for you and your pals to leave.” Starsky looked the man in the eye unflinchingly. “Looks like no one’s getting lucky tonight.”

The man looked Starsky up and down, gauging him for a few tense seconds, then relaxed his arm with a grunt. Starsky gradually released it then turned his gaze to each of the others in turn. His steely expression let them all know that he was in charge, despite being outnumbered four to one. They shifted edgily, but didn’t challenge him.

After an uneasy minute, Starsky’s face melted into a buttery sweet smile. “Why don’t I escort you fine gentlemen to the door?”

Starsky advised the hookers to close up shop for the night, addressing them as respectfully as if they’d been Sunday school teachers. In just a few minutes the entire situation had been diffused with the other partiers none the wiser. All in a night’s work.

Later that evening, just after closing, Durniak called Starsky into his office. “Sure, Mr. Durniak,” Starsky responded affably, at Durniak’s instruction to close the door behind him. “What can I do for you?”

“I liked how you handled the goons that were trying to make time with Sandra and Kikki. Simple but effective,” Joe pronounced broadly, then added with a guffaw, “Those guys probably couldn’t afford them, anyway.”

Starsky wasn’t surprised to hear that Durniak was on first-name basis with the swanky call girls from earlier.

“Slick as a new puppy’s pecker,” Durniak continued as he rocked back in his heavy chair, the master of his domain. “Not only did you get them to leave the club without a fuss, I got the feeling they might have even been about to thank you for it.”

Starsky merely shrugged. He’d been complimented on before on the uncanny way he had in dealing with all kinds of people. He seemed able to see past appearances and into the heart. And he suffered no fools. Maybe it was a skill Starsky had picked up from watching his pop – the cop who always claimed it took all kinds to make the world go round. He especially loved defending the underdog – until the day he died for it.

“In fact, I liked how you handled yourself so much, I think it’s time you moved up in the world.” Joe Durniak reached for a box of cigars on his desk. He lifted a cigar and ran it under his nose, inhaling the fragrance appreciatively.

“I like being a bouncer just fine,” Starsky said simply. It suited him. The people, the excitement, the feeling that he could use his particular abilities in a useful way. Besides, it kept him off the loading docks and out of the factories, where he imagined he’d wither and die in short order.

“I need someone dependable to pick up a package for me in Atlantic City. Someone who’s cool in a clutch,” Durniak said, abruptly changing the subject, as if anything Starsky had said was irrelevant. “The job requires someone with your special talents.”

“Why is that?” asked Starsky, a feeling of unease starting.

“In case there’s any trouble. This is a very special delivery.” Durniak picked out another cigar and handed it to Starsky as if he were handing him the keys to the family sedan. “Hand-rolled in Cuba,” Durniak stated. “The finest money can buy – if you know where. And the most exclusive. Take a whiff.”  

Starsky accepted the cigar but left it loose in his hand. “I appreciate you thinking of me, Mr. Durniak, but I don’t think I’m your guy.” He didn’t need his boss to explain what kind of trouble he was referring to. The kind of trouble that wore uniforms and badges.

Starsky wasn’t so innocent to think that running a nightclub was the only way Durniak afforded designer suits, flashy women, and rare cigars. But it had been dawning on him that he might not be able to look the other way indefinitely. Roughing up a couple of knuckle heads who had it coming was one thing; running illicit goods was something else. He’d known it was only a matter of time before he’d get entangled in Durniak’s web. And time was, apparently, up.

Durniak frowned. “There’s plenty of guys out there who’d stand in line for a job like this. It pays better than being a glorified doorman. Do you want to wear worn out shoes forever?”

Starsky fought the urge to look down at his faded blue sneakers. “I know that,” he said carefully, noting the disdain in Durniak’s voice when he said “doorman.” At least it was honest work. “And I appreciate the trust you have in me. I just don’t think I’m your man.”

Durniak’s friendly expression turned sour, as if he’d swallowed something unpalatable. He wasn’t used to being turned down. “I thought you had a little ambition. I guess I was wrong.” When Starsky didn’t speak up to deny it, Durniak seemed even more irritated. His eyes narrowed. “Maybe that’s why I never see you out with a good-looking broad. The lookers want someone with a little money in their pocket. A little steel in their spine.”

He shouldn’t have let Durniak’s loose comment sting the way it did. Starsky’d had plenty of good-looking woman take an interest in him, letting him know by a drop of their gaze or freely roaming hands that it wasn’t the size of his wallet that interested them. He just hadn’t cared enough to return their interest, even though he craved sex as much as the next red-blood male. Maybe even more. It was just that for years his dreams had been filled with firm pecs rather than giggling bosoms. The ideas and images that turned him on were too disturbing to talk about. Besides, he figured a shrink would just tell him they were the result of a traumatic childhood. So Starsky buried his passions deep and prayed someday they’d change.

Steel or no, Starsky stiffened and looked Durniak in the eye. He finally spoke the words had been echoing in his head for months. “Goodbye, Mr. Durniak.” Then Starsky turned from him and walked away.

Starsky approached the loading dock hiring office as though lead weights were tied to his ankles. The office was in a dingy trailer by a row of warehouses where the air was thick with the stench of dead fish, rotting produce, sodden wood pallets, and stale cigarettes. A “Help Wanted” sign hung crookedly in the trailer window.

Starsky was down to his last ten dollars and rent for his modest, one-room apartment was due the following week. He was half-regretting turning down Durniak’s job offer as a guard for who- knows-what type of black market merchandise. But he figured the less he knew, the better. His career with the Durniak organization was effectively over. Minutes after praising him, Durniak had called out that guys like Starsky were a dime a dozen.

Starsky had gone to all the big clubs in town looking for work, but as soon as he mentioned his former job at Swing Shift, he’d gotten the cold shoulder. It didn’t take him long to figure it wasn’t a coincidence. Durniak was too imposing a figure to cross. Starsky was officially blackballed in New York.

Starsky considered his options. He wasn’t about to ask his widowed mother for help and his little brother wasn’t in any better shape that he was. Besides, Nicky would probably call him a fool or worse for not taking Durniak up on his offer. Nicky might even have already scooped it up for himself. So Starsky had come to the docks where men with strong backs and little else were always in need. And the pay was good. It was the quickest way he knew to get the money he desperately needed.

Starsky stuffed his hands into his pockets against the brisk early autumn air and his fingers brushed the cigar Durniak had given him. He pulled it out and put the long, leaf-wrapped cylinder to his nose. The heavy scent nearly made him gag. To a connoisseur it might have smelled heavenly, but to Starsky it just smelled like moldy grass. He threw it in the nearest trash barrel.

Maybe a job with regular hours wouldn’t be so bad, Starsky told himself as he stared at the sign in the trailer’s window. That way he wouldn’t have to stay up all night with the vampires. Maybe then he could make some real friends, fall for a decent girl.

A normal job with normal hours. Associating with normal people. The swirling thoughts stopped Starsky in his tracks and held him immobile. In the back of his mind, he knew he’d never be normal. Starsky suddenly knew he wouldn’t be knocking on the hiring office door. There had to be some other way to make a buck.

Starsky wished he would have gone to school, but it was too late for that. Besides, he’d never been good with sitting in one place too long, the way studying required. He’d thought about joining the army once, but he figured the army might come calling for him soon enough. He imagined they’d have a pretty tough time convincing him to hate people who were different than himself.

For one sharp moment, Starsky longed to have his pop to talk to. Someone to give him advice. Maybe even just someone who cared. Putting up a tough-guy front had become downright exhausting.

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the burning sensation just under his lids. When he reopened them, he passed the hiring office and kept on going, quickening his pace although he had nowhere to go. He walked until the grumbling in his stomach could no longer be ignored. At least his appetite was normal.

After walking for several blocks, Starsky found a little deli and stopped in. He ordered a roast beef on rye, hoping the food would stick with him for a while, then took a seat at a booth that was marginally clean except for the newspaper that had been left behind by the previous diner.

Starsky flipped the pages to the want ads as he waited for his sandwich. He scanned the tiny print, doubtful that his skill set would match any of the few dozen listings. Bookkeeper, seamstress, nanny. Driver. Starsky’s eyes stopped and refocused on the word. Driver.

Urgent need for driver to escort musician to various venues. Job will last approximately two months and will entail being on the road continuously during that time. Must be personable, open-minded, able to handle difficult situations. Top pay for the right person.

Starsky read the job description four times through. The position seemed custom-made for him. He could drive and he wasn’t afraid of difficult situations. He wasn’t sure what the ad meant by “open-minded,” but as for personable, well, Starsky was a person, wasn’t he? Sometimes his gift was his only saving grace. And getting out of town would be a big plus. After a few months, maybe Joe Durniak’s heels would have cooled. By then it would be Christmas and, not that Starsky had any Hallmark scene to look forward to, even the roughest corners of the city would touched by the holiday spirit in some small way.

If Starsky were a praying man, he’d think coming across the job listing was an answer to prayer. Maybe his pop was up there looking out for him after all.

Starsky tore the ad out of the paper and went off to find the nearest phone booth.  

 Chapter Two

Ken Hutchinson had asked for Starsky to meet him at the bar of the Hotel Beacon on the Upper West Side. An odd place for a job interview, but Starsky wasn’t in any position to question the situation. Starsky found his prospective employer sitting at the gleaming mahogany bar cradling a vodka and tonic.

Starsky recognized him right off from his description over the phone. Tall, blond, late twenties. Ken Hutchinson was a good-looking man and Starsky felt his crotch tighten. No, good-looking wasn’t the right word. Lots of people were good-looking. Ken’s fine hair looked as if it were spun from gold and his eyes were as blue as a summer sky. Ethereal might be more apt description, if Starsky was prone to using fancy words. Which he was not.

But it was more than this Hutchinson character’s looks that set him apart. There was something unsettling and out of place about him even though his elegant appearance blended easily with the venue. Like a ginger cat trapped high in a tree by a clinging claw but determined not to go easily to anyone who offered help. Starsky wondered if everyone else could see it or just him. He shook his head to clear it before introducing himself.

The Beacon Hotel had an innately elegant ambiance with well-made furnishings and beautiful wall art that was set off by expensive light fixtures. The whole place was a striking contrast to Swing Shift’s cheap, high top tables and flashy disco balls. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, Starsky turned on his devil-may-care persona and accentuated his swagger. He willed his erection to fade. Over the years, the act had become as natural as breathing.

“Dave Starsky.” He stuck out his hand and Hutchinson shook it with a firm grip, his long fingers cold from the glass.

“Would you like a d-d…drink?” Ken Hutchinson asked, revealing a slight stutter.

Starsky sat on the stool next to him but declined his offer. This wasn’t a social occasion and Starsky knew to keep his wits about him. He was sizing up Hutchinson, making note of his polite yet cool demeanor and slight stutter brought on by – habit? Nerves? What would a man like him have to be nervous about? He seemed to have everything most people wanted – money, talent, success, looks. It usually didn’t take Starsky long to read someone and while Hutchinson seemed decent enough, Starsky was aware something shadowy and restless moved beneath his handsome exterior.

“L…let’s get right down to it, then.” Mr. Hutchinson set his drink down on the sleek bar. “I’m looking for a driver to escort me to my c-concert venues for the next few months. And I p-pay very well.”

“Concert venues?”

“Yes. I’m a p-pianist. Classical. I perform at c-college campuses, private clubs, charity functions. That k-kind of thing. I have engagements up and down the east coast, ending with a Christmas concert in….”

With hands like his, it made sense that he would be a musician, Starsky reasoned. The driving gig seemed simple enough. Practically too good to be true. “What’s the catch?” Starsky asked directly. “Your ad mentioned ‘difficult situations.’ How could a classically trained piano player get into trouble? Somebody don’t like Mozart?”

Ken looked down and curved his hands around his glass. When he looked back at Starsky, his blue-eyed gaze was sincere and direct. “I’m g-going to be honest with you. Besides, you d-don’t look like a man who scares easy. I’ve received some th-th-threats recently. Threats on my l-l-life. That’s why I need a driver I can c-count on. Someone I can t-t-trust.”

Who’d want to hurt a simple musician playing for coddled music students or high-brow muckety-mucks, Starsky wondered. There had to be more to Hutchinson’s story. “Have you gone to the police?”

Hutchinson’s earnest expression faded. He stared intently into his glass as if attempting to conjure more vodka with his gaze alone. “I don’t think they’re the k-kind of help I need right now.”

“Why’s that?”

Hutchinson paused. Starsky recognized that pause. It was the hesitation of someone weighing how many of his cards to lay on the table, how many to keep close to his vest.

After a minute, he sighed. “Some information has g-gotten out about me lately that I would rather had been kept p-personal. People make judgments about th-things they don’t understand. About people who are d-different.” A shadow of pain crossed his face, then disappeared. But not before Starsky swore he could feel it, too. He understood well enough the sting of being an outsider. Of wearing a mask to hide a vulnerability. Of having people think they knew him when they really didn’t.

“Different can be frightening and m-makes people react in ugly ways. Maybe they just d-don’t know any better,” he said.

“Well, that’s fuckin’ noble of you,” replied Starsky.

“I’m not n-noble.” Ken shrugged. “I just d-don’t want to go around hating the whole world for something I c-can’t change.”

As usual, Starsky’s first impression wasn’t wrong, he mused. Ken Hutchinson wasn’t just a pretty face. Maybe hanging around a philosophical musician for a few months instead of the drama of a bawdy nightclub wouldn’t be so bad, no matter how much his new boss stuttered. Not that the stuttering really bothered Starsky. It somehow came out sounding more melodious than jarring.

Ken went on to explain a few more details of the gig: the pay (half now, half at the end of the tour, assuming they completed all the dates safely) plus money for expenses, such as hotel rooms and meals. Starsky would need to be on hand for all performances, to make sure the staging was arranged appropriately. He would need to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt for the swankier venues. But Starsky had only half listened after Hutchinson told him what he would be paid – more than he could make in six months as a bouncer.

“What about it? Are you in?” he asked.

Clunky yet practical, was Starsky’s first thought when he saw the car that would be his de facto home for the next few months. The tan Ford Galaxie 500 wasn’t the kind of vehicle Starsky would ever have picked out for himself. Personally, he would have chosen something flashier. Something to drive for the sheer fun of it. But the heavy vehicle was well built and roomy, with a trunk large enough to hold all Ken Hutchinson’s luggage and a guitar case, besides.

Hutchinson soon made full use of the Galaxie’s comfortable back seat, stretching out his legs as they cruised down I-95. Starsky soon discovered he was a quiet passenger, going for long stretches without saying a word. He kept his head buried in a book or jotting in a notebook even as Starsky tried to make small talk from behind the wheel.

“You’ll have to say a word or two from time to time, boss,” Starsky joked. “How else will I know you’re still alive back there?”

“I’m a-alive,” Hutchinson said, “but you don’t need to c-c-call me ‘boss.’ Ken would be just fine.”

“Ken? Like the Barbie Doll?” Starsky chuckled, but Hutchinson didn’t laugh back. In fact, from Hutchinson’s silence, Starsky got the distinct impression he’d just been offended. Great way to start off a relationship, he admonished himself. “Sorry, I’m not much with first names. In my neighborhood, everyone has a nickname. Stinky or Scooter or JoJo…”

“Why is that?” Hutchinson asked a bit stiffly. The question didn’t seem to have been posed out of friendly curiosity, but was rather a stab at politeness. While Hutchison was never unpleasant, he didn’t go out of his way to make conversation, especially when it came to anything personal. Starsky could almost visualize the shield he had erected around himself. A half-silvered mirror from behind which he could observe the world, while keeping outsiders from seeing in.

“I guess it keeps it colorful,” Starsky told him lightly. “First names are somethin’ you’re called by old aunties and nuns. Hutchinson . . . Hutchinson . . .” he swirled the word around in his mouth. “How ‘bout I call you ‘Hutch.’ A little more than ‘Ken,’ a little less than ‘boss.’”

Hutch just made a small sound with pursed lips that Starsky took as an assent, then went back to his notebook. After that, Starsky gave up his attempt at conversation for the time being. He snapped on the radio and turned his attention back to the road.

Hutch’s first concert was in Philadelphia, at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. The drive from New York was an easy two hours, leaving them plenty of time to explore the facility – part school for creative types, part museum. A far cry from P.S. 52, the dilapidated school Starsky attended as a child. It took no small amount of effort for Starsky to shrug off a “fish out of water” feeling as he wandered the impressive halls and exhibits.

When they reached the auditorium, Hutch walked past the sophisticated array of lighting and sound equipment and went directly to the gleaming black piano set up on the stage. He looked it over carefully and then played a few skittering runs up and down the keys, something Hutch called an ‘arpeggio.’ The sound created, simple as it was, echoed off the walls impressively, causing Starsky to draw in a breath.

After a few moments, Hutch stopped and nodded. The instrument apparently earned his approval.

”I’ll want a Steinway piano like this one for each performance,” Ken noted. “Don’t let anyone set up something less and tell you it doesn’t matter,” he continued, speaking smoothly for the first time in Starsky’s hearing, a small detail Starsky tucked away.

“Steinway. Check,” Starsky replied, unable to resist brushing his fingers over the row of gleaming ivory after Hutch had gotten up from the piano bench, imagining the keys were still warm from his touch. But Starsky took care not to press down on any of them, as if his own bumbling fingers might somehow damage their perfection.

Later that evening, Starsky stood in the wings fiddling with the collar of his new dress shirt as Hutch was introduced to his well-heeled audience.

“Ken Hutchinson has come to the world of classical music from the lakes of Minnesota, by way of Julliard, the University of Performing Arts Vienna, and more recently, the Berlin Philharmonic,” the school’s director announced brightly, as if he were a close personal friend. “Mr. Hutchinson has also won several major international music competitions. Tonight he will be performing for us Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2.”

After the introduction, the audience gave a welcoming round of applause and Hutch took his seat at the piano bench. He was dressed in a long-tailed black tuxedo jacket against which his blond hair fairly glowed. The effect took Starsky’s breath away and he lowered the printed program to cover his groin.

Hutch adjusted the tails of the jacket, then put his hands to the keys and began to play.

Before Starsky’s pop had been gunned down, there had been plenty of music in the Starskys’ modest rowhouse. Ray Charles, Harry Belafonte and of course, the King, Elvis Presley. Starsky held an image in his head of his mom and pop dancing to “Blue Suede Shoes” after dinner, Starsky’s pop in his uniform about to head out for the night shift, his ma with her apron flying. But after his pop’s death, the music had ended. The only music Starsky had heard lately was the deafening, driving beats of disco from the high tech sound system at Swing Shift.

But Hutch’s playing was a world apart.

Starsky tried not to stare. He tried to pretend that being transported to another plane of existence was an everyday occurrence. But it was impossible. He’d never heard anything like the heartbreakingly beautiful sounds created by Hutch’s fingers on the Steinway. He’d never seen anything as mesmerizing as Hutch’s elegant form, curved and swaying over the keyboard.

Starsky swallowed. Well, fuck me, he thought. Hutch’s performance was downright – sensual.

This is going to be on hell of a long road trip. After a few minutes, Starsky tore his gaze away to look over the audience. He could tell that they, too, as knowledgeable about classical music as they were, were just as affected. Or maybe it was exactly because they were familiar with such music that caused them to be so impressed with the way Hutch played it.

When Hutch came to the end of the piece, he bowed his head and rested his hands in his lap. There was a momentary silence, which was then followed by a hearty swell of applause. Starsky joined in, perhaps loudest of all. Hutch stood and acknowledged the applause with a nod that was surprising shy for someone used to the limelight.

“Hey, Hutch. You’re pretty good with that piano,” Starsky told him when they got to their hotel. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he sounded foolish. A musician as skilled as Hutch probably heard that same accolade a dozen times a day and in much more sophisticated terms.

“Thanks,” Hutch replied, his response made all the more genuine in its simplicity. A curtain drawn back to reveal a glimpse of the man it hid. A man far more real – and approachable – than his polished persona. Hutch pulled off his shoes and took a beer from the mini fridge. Then he sank into one of the hotel room’s club chairs that were designed more for style than comfort, and tipped back the bottle.

“I mean, it must be great to have a talent like that,” Starsky continued to provide a running commentary. “To have so many people look up to you and admire you. All I can do is drive around and knock heads together. Your parents must be so proud of you.”

“Yeah, sure. P-proud,” Hutch agreed, but there was an odd, sarcastic edge to his words.

“Of course they are. Any parent would be. How could they not be proud?

“Oh, they’re proud of my m-musical ability alright. It’s just m-me who’s a d-d-disappointment.” Hutch stuttered painfully as if choking on gravel.

Hutch leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. He looked almost desolate; an image so completely opposite of the golden piano man who’d captivated his audience just a few hours ago, that Starsky felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest.

“That’s crazy,” Starsky heard himself blurt out. “My ma would kill to have a son like you. You’d be the talk of the neighborhood.”

He’d only meant to make a light-hearted joke but the thought that the statement might hold more than a grain of truth stung him even as he said it. Mrs. Starsky was a kind-hearted woman who hadn’t deserved to lose her husband so tragically. Now her only two sons lived on the fringes of respectability. As much as Starsky had once dreamed of being as fine a man as his father had been, he’d accepted that he’d failed miserably, and quite possibly was a pervert besides. Staying away from her was his own particular penance.

Hutch didn’t respond, sipping his beer in silence. But when he had swallowed it down, he announced, “I’m tired. Let’s call it a night.” With that, he got up and went into the bathroom. The enigma was back in full force.

Suddenly the idea that Hutch was ignoring him, dismissing Starsky like a lowly servant when all he’d wanted was to cheer Hutch up, angered him. “Maybe you just don’t know how good you got it,” Starsky snapped. “Trying living in my shoes for a week. No job, no fancy skills, no money. Nobody applauding me on a stage. Sometimes I wonder if I even got someone who cares whether I live or die.”

Starsky left the room practically slamming the door behind him. Once in bed, Starsky laid awake long into the night despite the comfort of the hotel mattress and bedding, which was far superior to his own. He thought about flipping on the TV set if only to stare at the test pattern and be lulled by the white noise. But then Starsky heard a sound coming from the other side of the wall that separated his room from Hutch’s. The quiet strumming of a guitar.

Hutch must have been playing the guitar he’d brought along, but he wasn’t plucking the intricate notes of a classical piece. The melody was more free form, upbeat yet plaintive, eliciting a tangle of emotions. Starsky got the uncomfortable feeling he was intruding on an intimate moment, like overhearing lovers’ moans through the thin hotel wall. He wondered if Hutch realized he could hear him, but then wondered again if that wasn’t the point in the first place.

Ken Hutchinson was a mystery Starsky found himself longing to unravel as he drifted off to sleep and disturbingly arousing dreams.

To be continued….

Click on the image to view it larger.