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Starsky was normally a very optimistic man. For him, the glass was always half full. Even considering the long months he'd just spent recovering from wounds that should have killed him, he hadn't lost his belief that things would generally work out just fine.
The soft cursing coming from the alcove was shaking that belief, however, and his temples started to twinge when he thought of the remainder of the week. This was only the first morning. The cursing became a little louder and with trepidation bordering on fear, Starsky clutched his coffee cup a little tighter and crept to where his partner stood close to his brass bed. The bed itself was a mess. Sheets and blankets were tangled together in a bunch at the bottom of the bed, indicating that Hutch hadn't had a real good night's sleep.
Maybe my comin' over this morning wasn't such a good idea, Starsky thought, as he stared at the furrowed brow of his best friend. The contortions on tiptoe that Hutch was doing would have been funny under other circumstances, but Starsky knew that a laugh could cost him dearly, here. He carefully arranged his facial expression in what he hoped was a supportive and conciliatory manner, while Hutch continued to bounce in sock-covered feet.
"Think it might be easier if you tried layin' on the bed?" he asked helpfully.
"Think you'd be quiet if I stuffed a sock in your mouth?" Hutch choked out, then sucked in another breath.
"I'm just saying the way you're doin' it may not work."
"Why are you here and drinking my coffee, anyway?" Hutch's face was turning red as he spoke.
"Moral support?" Starsky offered with a smile.
Hutch's eyes began to flash dangerously, looking a brighter blue than normal against his reddened complexion. "If only you'd been this 'supportive' yesterday, I wouldn't be about to break a rib."
"Yesterday wasn't my fault!" Starsky gestured a little clumsily as he spoke, and coffee dribbled over his fist and down to the floor. He hurriedly put a foot over the spot.
"I saw that! Although, I suppose that wasn't your fault either?"
Starsky found a home for the now half-empty cup on the nightstand. "No, technically that was probably my fault, but if you hadn't said that yesterday was my fault, I probably wouldn't have spilled it."
"I didn't say yesterday was your fault, but now that you mention it...."
"All I did was send one paper airplane in the vicinity of your head," he said softly, trying to reason. After all, he was sorry about the fix Hutch was in, but fair was fair.
Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and loudly sucked in a deep breath. "That's not all you did, and it hit me right between the eyes," Hutch said through clenched teeth.
Starsky thought quickly, hoping to change the direction of the conversation. "Did I mention that I came over this mornin' to lend you moral support? Can I getcha a cup of coffee?"
"You can get me a crowbar."
"I think you should try layin' on the bed. I do that sometimes when I accidentally leave the dryer on too long."
"Which is when? Every time you do the laundry?" Hutch asked, staring pointedly at Starsky's clinging denim.
"Did I mention that your haircut looks really good?" Starsky said brightly, diplomatically dodging Hutch's last arrow. "And you got to keep your lip-warmer and everything."
"Oh, yeah, so I don't have a thing to complain about." With a mighty heave, Hutch finally closed the zipper on his blue trousers. "Okay, they're on."
"You know, we could stop by Supply, see if maybe they have a bigger size?" Starsky took a step backwards right after he spoke, since Hutch was making small gestures he didn't like.
"Oh, but you forget, partner, we're going to separate places today." Hutch stopped clenching his fists and started to run a finger between his waistband and his skin. "You're going to the station and I'm going to Hell."
"Didn't Dobey say Wilshire Boulevard and Highland? That's not exactly Hell, buddy."
Hutch bent over slowly and retrieved a long-sleeved blue shirt from his bed. "He may have said Wilshire Boulevard and Highland, but I think you and I both know that I'm going to Hell. And for four days."
"Tell ya what," Starsky said in his most cheerful voice. "I'll work on Dobey today, get him all softened up, you know? I'll bet he'll take some time off."
Starsky hated it when Hutch wagged a finger in his face, since it always made his eyes cross, and there was really no need to spit on him. "Hutch, I can't hear you when you don't open your mouth all the way."
Hutch took a step backwards. "I said..." he began, then lowered his voice slightly. "I said, you've done enough already. If you try to soften Dobey up any more, it'll be a year before I'm back in the squad room."
"I hate to be picky, but this really was your fault," Starsky said bravely in the face of his partner's stormy mood.
"My fault? My fault!" Hutch moved forward again to stand toe-to-toe with his partner. "Let's review the facts, shall we?"
"Can we review them with you standin' over there?" Starsky pointed to the other side of the bed and wiped his face. "You're gettin' me all wet."
"You're lucky I don't soak your head for you." Hutch started buttoning the shirt, and his sighing was mournful.
"You don't have to wear a t-shirt under that? I remember when I was in uniform..." Starsky recognized his error, but like a swarm of bees, the words were out there and buzzing around the room. "I meant, I mean, well, just..." He found something interesting to look at on the other side of the bed, which he hurried to examine.
"Let's just say I enjoy living dangerously and that I can't fit a t-shirt under the shirt I have to wear. Now, do you want to discuss why I have to wear it?"
"You made Dobey real mad and he's punishing you." He'll never be able to jump over the bed and hit me. He'd rip those pants.
"Starsky, I'm going to count to ten so I don't come over there and kill you, and then I'm going to repeat the facts of yesterday, one by one."
"You don't have to do that. I remember them."
The Day Before....
Even though he was a religious man--a man who had been taught to trust only in God and not in superstitions and ominous warnings of bad luck-- Harold Dobey couldn't help the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Late September was a terrible time for the always touchy air conditioner to go on the blink, but all through the hot morning, nothing but a pathetic hissing noise and a couple puffs of tepid air were coming out of the vents.
By 10:00 a.m., he had quietly checked the squad room from behind the safety of his office door, at least five times. Normal morning chaos had reigned supreme, in between complaints issued in colorful language regarding the heat. That hadn't disturbed him. What had disturbed him was the behavior of his two star detectives, both chafing against the inactivity of office duty, which had been forced on them by Starsky's recovery period. Dobey had been observing the pair for weeks, now. On the surface, it was Starsky who was looking and acting more and more bored and frustrated every day, but the number of times Hutchinson rubbed the cleft between his eyebrows had been increasing, and the cheerful voice he used in addressing his partner and cajoling him into 'enjoying' the research they were doing for other cases, had been getting a little strained.
For the last several days, it had seemed to Dobey that Starsky had been looking for more and more creative ways to get through the day, and trying his best to get his serious-natured partner to participate in impromptu games of every variety, all thinking no one was noticing--but Dobey was. He was allowing him a little slack and choosing to ignore the antics, as Hutch was, including being the butt of a stream of endless jokes and pranks. Just three days ago, Hutch had sat down on a very loud whoopee cushion in a room filled with cops. He'd pasted a grin on his face as the laughter roared around him, but there was something different about this morning. Dobey planned on being alert for whatever it may be.
Hutch's patience has got to be wearing just a little thin, with that imp pecking at his ankles all day. Dobey thought with concern. Sure, he'd walk through fire for him, but before the shooting, he would give back as good as he got, if not be the one to pull the prank in the first place. No, I need to be alert. Something's gonna give.
The morning passed, and Dobey's dark predictions passed with it. By noon, he was still on guard but no longer quite as tense. He left his desk to open the door widely and glance one more time at his staff. Starsky and Hutch had cafeteria lunch trays before them and were conversing about last night's ball game. With a relieved sigh, Dobey returned to his desk and dug in his top drawer for the lunch Edith had packed for him that morning.
A small green salad in a Tupperware container came out first, and Dobey sighed in disgust. The next item was an apple, followed by a hard-cooked egg and a package of peeled, raw carrots.
Carrots, he thought in dismay. Edith knows I hate carrots, and how the hell she thinks I can get my job done on this kind of fuel is beyond my ability--
A raucous sound rudely interrupted his thoughts, and the carrots were quickly tossed aside. Dobey hurried to his door to be met by an incredible sight.
There stood Hutchinson, some kind of paper clinging to his shirt collar, and an empty bowl of something turned upside down in his hand. To Dobey's ears it sounded as if the detective were issuing some kind of war whoop, but before Dobey could shout himself, his eyes were drawn to the other half of the team, and he was rendered speechless.
Starsky was also on his feet, hands brushing frantically at his face on which large clumps of gelatinous red goo were sticking after dropping from his curls.
Jello? Dobey thought in disbelief. Did Hutch just pour Jello on Starsky's head?! Once again, the captain tried to draw breath to speak, but Starsky beat him to it.
"Okay, partner. This is war!" Starsky added his own loud whoop, as well as a handful of creamed corn smack in the middle of Hutch's white shirt. "I believe that's called gettin' even."
"Starskyanhutchinson!" Dobey sputtered, while trying ineffectively to get his voice to its normal decibel. He was having little success, and a crowd was beginning to form around the two armed detectives.
The pair didn't seem to hear, as they both kicked their chairs away. Hutch's complexion was changing color as fast as his white shirt was staining yellow. He made a quick dive for his full lunch tray and, without even taking time to properly aim, let hurl an abundance of lettuce leaves laden with Thousand Island dressing. Starsky now had orange streaks to blend with the red ones on his face. The leaves themselves were resting precariously in both curls and collar. "No, Starsk. That's called getting even."
The crowd began to divide as each detective received his own cheering section. Cries of, "Don't let him get away with that, Starsky!" were mixing with shouts of, "Good one, Hutch!" Dobey was still sputtering from his doorway, his large fingers pulling at his short-cropped hair.
Starsky was wearing an almost feral smile on his face, and his eyes shone bright. Dobey was appalled at his inability to move his feet and stop this before it got worse. Starsky and Hutch knew each other inside and out and that was going to make everything worse.
"Here, buddy, don't forget to drink your milk," Starsky said. For a second nothing happened and then Hutch ducked and Starsky pounced, dumping the full carton on top of Hutch’s head. "It's good for ya, and it'll cool you off some, too!"
The spectators moved back a few feet, since the floor was now becoming slippery in the partners' circle.
Hutch was beginning to make noises resembling choked laughter, but the concentration on his face was clear for all to see. He quickly reloaded while shaking droplets of milk from his hair like a dog after a rain shower. "Thanks, pal. I was getting a little hot. You're looking a little warm, too. Maybe this will help." With that, Hutch deposited a container of yogurt down Starsky's shirt, patting the dairy product along its path to Starsky's belt.
Starsky shook all over as the chilled yogurt bathed his skin. "Say, Hutch? I think it's time you added some protein to your diet." His partner's mouth was partially open and able to receive the handful of greasy meatloaf he ground in it. "Good, huh? Need any ketchup?"
Hutch was spraying chunks of ground meat as he tried to roar and Starsky's laughter was loud enough to be heard outside of the squad. "Ketchup?” Hutch asked. “Not before you eat your vegetables!" Hutch drew his arm backward, obviously intending to level the food fast and hard right between the eyes, but Starsky--with instincts never to be underestimated--saw the swing coming and ducked just in time for the gravy-heavy handful to be redirected right in the face of their captain.
This time Dobey's shout was audible to everyone in the building.
"HALT! Rightthisgoddamnedminute! STOP RIGHT NOW!"
At once, all the spectators found something they needed to immediately attend to, and in seconds, only two dripping, food-encrusted detectives were standing shoulder-to-shoulder to face the spectacle of their enraged, gravy-covered captain.
Dobey drew his hands across his eyes and shook the grease he found there to the floor. His breath was ragged before he began his tirade. "In all my years as captain of this division, I have NEVER witnessed anything to compare to what you two... two... two..." He floundered helplessly in search of an appropriate adjective.
"Reprobates?" Starsky offered helpfully.
"Insubordinates, sir?" Hutch said.
The captain's eyes opened wide enough to be bulging. "I can't think of anything bad enough to call you; I'll need a few minutes. So, while you're cleaning up this mess, I'll be in my office figuring it out. You report to me in ten minutes, and in ten minutes time this floor had better be clean enough to... to... to...."
"Eat off of, Captain?" Starsky groaned after he spoke and Dobey could only assume that Hutch had kicked him in the shin, a move both of them had done in front of him before.
With a final, incomprehensible sound, Dobey turned his back, stormed into his office, and slammed the door behind him.
***
Exactly ten minutes later, the partners--both flushed from their frenzied clean-up of the squad room--stood together beside their desk, while Hutch used a large, damp cloth on Starsky's face.
"I can wash my own face, ya know!" Starsky protested, as the rough material scoured his cheeks.
"We don't have time to go to the bathroom or the showers and get cleaned up. Dobey said ten minutes and it's been ten minutes already." Hutch glanced at the wall clock as he spoke. "I think Dobey's pissed enough at us without being late on top of it." Hutch started to move the cloth to Starsky's head, but one look at the thick hair that was now sticking up all over with dried Jello told him it would be a wasted effort. Nothing but a complete shampoo would restore the brown hair. He knew his own was just as filthy, but he did make an attempt at cleaning his face with the backside of the same cloth, then he tossed it in the bucket they'd just used to mop the floor, and poked Starsky in his sticky, damp stomach. "Let's go."
They moved as one to the closed door, and Hutch tapped lightly on it.
"WHO IS IT?" Dobey bellowed.
Starsky opened the door partway and stuck his head in. "It's just us, Cap'n."
"Just you, is it?" Dobey was pulling on his stained shirt collar as he spoke. "Get in here, and shut the door behind you."
Both men glanced at each other before hurrying to the chairs in front of Dobey's desk. Starsky pulled one back preparatory to flopping in it, but Dobey stopped him immediately.
"Don't even think of sitting your stained behind in my office chair! You two stay on your feet!" Dobey left his own chair to come around the desk and stand in front of them. "Look at you two. Senior detectives wearing their lunches from head to toe after destroying my squad room! And you played this juvenile game of war in front of rookies and junior grade detectives--staff you're supposed to be setting some kind of example for!"
Hutch cleared his throat lightly. "Captain--" he began, but was immediately cut off.
"Did I ask you to speak, Hutchinson?"
"No, sir."
"Then shut up until I'm through!"
"Yes, sir." Hutch raised an eyebrow in Starsky's direction and received a slight shoulder shrug in response.
"Now," Dobey continued. "I saw the whole spectacle, and I know Hutchinson started this situation as well as decorating me and my new shirt with mashed potatoes! In front of my staff, to boot!"
Hutch straightened fully in an attempt to not fidget under the dressing down. As ordered, he kept his mouth shut and moved slightly closer to his partner to signal him to remain quiet as well.
Dobey stared hard at Starsky as he spoke again. "However, Detective Starsky, even though your partner started this... this... this...."
"Debacle, Captain?" Starsky supplied.
"Did I give you permission to speak?!"
"No, sir."
"Then shut up!" Dobey pulled off his damp tie before continuing. "Yes, even though your partner started this debacle, you helped him every step of the way, and you're almost as much to blame! This incident will not go without a reprimand, and you can both be damn grateful I'm not making it a formal reprimand that would end up in your personnel files. Nope, I know what you two need to get back on the right path, and you're both going to get it."
Hutch pressed the length of his right leg against the length of Starsky's left one.
Dobey leaned against the desk expansively. "I just got off the phone with the lieutenant from Traffic Control." Dobey waited a few seconds and Hutch felt his captain was about to get a lot of satisfaction from what he was about to tell them. "It seems Lieutenant Stanley has had a run of bad luck this past week. He's had a large number of men out with summer colds, and there's construction going on in several of the busier intersections of our fair city, causing the traffic lights to be temporarily turned off."
Oh, shit, Hutch though. He’s really going to do it this time.
"So, he's short-handed, and here I am in a position to help," Dobey continued.
Hutch watched as Starsky chewed on his lower lip in what Hutch knew was an effort to remain quiet until Dobey was finished. Dobey noticed the gesture, too.
"Now, Starsky, there's no need for you to look like that. You know you aren't cleared for street duty yet, although if your doctor saw the way you sling meatloaf, I'm sure he'd sign you back on active duty immediately. No, you're going to be staying right here with me. Learning how to properly do research for cases not your own, instead of depending on your partner to pick up your slack. We're going to have a fine time together as I train you."
Starsky released his lip and his jaw fell open.
Your partner, however, is fit as a fiddle and obviously burning with unused energy. I think he needs a few days of sun and fresh air. Also, the opportunity to get a little exercise as he helps out poor Lieutenant Stanley by directing traffic over on Wilshire Boulevard for the rest of the week, starting tomorrow morning at eight sharp."
Hutch shook his head and concentrated on keeping his mouth shut.
"Hutchinson. Make sure your uniform is pressed and clean. You're to represent yourself as a professional officer of the law. Of course, you'll need to see your barber tonight." Dobey pointed at the sticky wet strands of blond hair hanging a bit past Hutch's collar. "The regulation hair length for all men in uniform is two inches above the collar."
***
End of Shift, Present Day....
Edith Dobey pulled a roasted chicken out of her oven at the same time her front door was loudly slammed closed. Being a realistic woman, she had little hope that this evening would be any more pleasant than the previous evening had been.
Not with Harold in this mood about Dave and Ken, she thought, finding a spot to set the roasting pan down on the counter filled with dinner preparations. Her husband had shared the story of the squad room food-fight with her, although the story was interlaced with so many incomprehensible sputterings, that she doubted anyone but she could have deciphered the whole tale. It was a credit to her self-control that she hadn't burst out laughing, as she'd wanted to do many times. A vision of Starsky shaking Jello from his hair came to mind, and even though Edith hadn't been present, she could see it clearly and had to swallow down a fit of giggles. Heavy footsteps were approaching the kitchen, so she took a deep breath to present a calm face before greeting her husband's expected stormy one.
"You're late tonight, Harold," Edith observed, sure her face wouldn't betray her.
"Hm," Dobey grunted. "You can blame Starsky for that!"
"I thought David was still on limited work hours?" she inquired, before going to the refrigerator for the salad. "Didn't you tell me he's supposed to leave by three every day? It's six-thirty, now."
"Is that broccoli I smell?" Dobey asked. "I hate broccoli."
"You do not hate broccoli," Edith responded, still calm. "You hate not having mashed potatoes with the chicken. Now, did David stay late with you or not? How far are you taking this training of yours?"
"He has eyelashes as long as a girl, did you know that?" Dobey was jerking his tie open as he spoke, making his way to the stove to glare at the broccoli.
"What on earth does the length of his eyelashes have to do with anything, and why did you notice them today after all the years he's worked for you?" Edith shook her head at her husband before going to the kitchen door to call her children to the table.
"Because he was batting them at me all the damn day! 'Cap'n,'" Dobey mimicked in a truly terrible imitation of Starsky's voice, "'Did you know that Hutch barely slept at all for weeks when he was taking care of me?'" Dobey followed Edith and the chicken to the table, continuing his discourse the whole time. "'Cap'n, did you know that Hutch hates the heat, and he gets these real bad headaches if he's out in it too long?'" The dining room chair was pulled away from the table with more force than needed as he barely nodded at his kids. "Talking like a strong, grown-up man can't take standing in the heat for a few hours. What the hell does he think traffic cops do?"
"Is Uncle Dave a traffic cop now, Daddy?" Rosie asked as her mother filled her plate.
"No, squirt, Uncle Ken is," Cal answered for his father.
"Neither one of them are!" Dobey said loudly. "They're being reprimanded for behavior unfitting a detective."
"And we all get to enjoy the reprimand, children," Edith said while serving the dreaded broccoli. "You never answered me in the kitchen before, Harold. Did you keep David late as part of his reprimand?"
"Against his doctor's orders? I most certainly did not. I kicked his sorry a--"
"Harold!"
"Sorry." Dobey had the good sense to look slightly chagrined. "I dismissed him at three."
"I'm happy to hear that." Edith finally took her own seat and started to serve herself. "Now, all we have to do is hold out until Friday."
Dobey grunted again before observing his daughter's plate. "How come Rosie gets rice and I don't?"
Edith shut her eyes and wished she had picked another week to have put Harold on a diet.
***
Earlier that Same Day....
Starsky gratefully left the squad room when his captain ordered him to. He supposed it was a toss-up as to who had been the most aggravating to the other, but Starsky was willing to appeal to the gods of justice that Dobey had been trying to drive him insane from the moment he'd stepped into the squad room, until the moment he left. "I know how to alphabetize for God's sake," Starsky muttered to himself on the way to Supply.
Since Starsky was in no mood to argue with the always-annoying supply clerk, Sergeant Bigelow, he carefully filled out a requisition form for a new uniform for Hutch. The day had shown him that Dobey was not allowing himself to be softened up, which meant he had three more days of alphabetizing in front of him, and Hutch had three more days to melt in the heat. At least the poor guy can be comfortable while he suffers. Those pants he stuffed himself into this morning, have probably injured some vital organ by now.
Once Starsky had the new uniform in hand, he headed for the Torino and his stealth objective.
One quick look at Hutch in action, maybe slip him a cold Coke, then over to his place to lay out this uniform and make the guy some dinner. Least I can do since I did fire off the first shot yesterday. While Starsky reviewed his plans, a tiny smile grew into a grin, and his irritation with the day dissolved as he remembered the final straw he'd delivered to Hutch in the form of a paper airplane. How'd I know a stupid piece of paper would set him off like that? He knows how boring it is to sit around and do paperwork, especially when they aren't even our cases. Everything I'd tried to get him to lighten up and start really laughing again wasn't working. He was... indulging me. Yeah, that's what he was doing. Indulging me, just like when I was still in bed and he'd sneak me in something good to eat instead of what the hospital wanted me to eat. Or all those times he just took it when I was so hurtin' and angry I didn't really know who I was yellin' at. Or... Starsky stopped his reverie of the past and instead refocused his thoughts on the morning before... That paper airplane really did it. Hutch forgot to treat me like I was made out of glass, and treated me like... me. We broke down that last wall, and now thanks to some well-aimed food, I think we're back on level ground again. He even chewed my ass out at his place today! Hell, maybe alphabetizing isn't too high a price to pay to have that back.
Starsky started a tuneless whistle on his way to check on his partner, and then to make him a meal worthy enough to make him forget his day. One that Starsky had decided for himself was well-worth remembering.
***
Friday Night....
At long last, the LA heat wave had broken just that day, leaving a pleasant temperature and a light breeze in its wake. Starsky appreciated that breeze, since it was both refreshing and carried with it the tantalizing aromas coming from the Dobey's backyard barbecue pit. One glance at Hutch told him his partner felt the same. Dobey himself was resplendent in apron and chef's hat, noticeably happy as he turned steaks and burgers over the open flame while humming melodiously.
"Damn, that smells so good," Starsky said with a sigh, barely refraining from rubbing his stomach in anticipation. "All I had today was a soggy tuna sandwich at my desk."
Hutch was busy scratching his sunburned forehead, but he retorted with force. "A tuna sandwich would've looked really good to me today. All I had time for was a lousy sidewalk pretzel."
Starsky grinned at his partner, grabbing Hutch's hand to still the scratching. "Stop that! You're gonna scar up that bee-yoo-ti-ful face of yours." The exaggerated statement was followed by an exaggerated air kiss, then more laughter as Hutch grabbed Starsky's wrist to playfully pin it behind his back.
"Wanna eat one-handed, Starsk?"
"Wanna make me?"
"Do you both want to stop your rough-housing before we all have another week like this one?" Edith Dobey was smiling warmly as she effectively separated the men. Her hands were laden with two heavy bowls, which the partners each hurried to relieve her of. "Put those on the table, please; I think by the sounds Harold is making, we're about ready to eat."
Starsky looked at the potato salad he was holding and licked his lips again. "Potato salad? In front of the captain? He's not been very easy to live with on his carrot diet. I'm kind'a afraid to eat potato salad in front of him."
Edith was digging through her deep apron pockets as she spoke. "I've been weaning him off his diet for the last two days now, David. By Wednesday night, I decided that none of us were going to last until Friday unless Harold had a few of his favorites back. Tonight, he can eat what he pleases since we're celebrating, but Monday, he's back on carrots." She drew a bottle from her pocket. "Here, Ken, this lotion will help that burn. Put it on when you get home, and for heaven's sake, don't spend four days in the sun again without a hat on."
Dobey approached the table with his heavy platter of succulent meat, followed by his children, who were each carrying baskets of grilled corn on the cob and warm rolls. After everyone was comfortably seated, the food was passed around with enthusiasm, and soon all were staring at full plates. Glasses of cold apple cider were beaded with moisture, and Dobey picked up his glass carefully, while clumsily clearing his throat. "I don't have a speech prepared, so no one has to look nervous." Warm smiles met his words, and he began again, more confidently.
"This past week aside--in which you two disgraced yourselves and my squad room and which I'll go to my grave saying that the reprimand--" Dobey glanced at the hand on his arm.
"Harold."
Starsky kept the smile on his face, happy that Edith had this one handled. Dobey nodded at his wife before he continued. "Yes, despite all that, you two are pretty damn good detectives, and you've gotten through the last five months as a team--stronger than ever. So, to get that call today from Starsky's doctor, clearing him to begin training for street recertification--well, I just felt that called for a steak dinner. I think that's pretty damn good news." Dobey dropped his head as he finished, swallowing thickly and cutting into his steak with a vengeance.
Starsky and Hutch shared a smile and answered as one, "So do we, Cap'n."
The end