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There were that many people in the Squadroom that Captain Dobey had to shimmy to get through to his office, and shimmying was not something that came easily. He held his papers to his chest protectively, keeping a light smirk of tolerance on his face while trying to look busy.
"You're still on shift," he reminded the nearest officer.
"Yessir, Captain."
"And you all know how the Commissioner disapproves of drinking on the job," Dobey went on, slightly louder. "So keep it down, OK?"
"Arntcha joining us, Cap?" Starsky asked him, swivelling round on the desk top. He held a bottle in his hand and shook it temptingly.
"I've said my congratulations," Dobey huffed. "Plenty of time to get plastered on the wedding day." He took a close look round the immediate vicinity. Half the people had no business to be in here at four o'clock on a Thursday afternoon. The other half were supposed to be working.
"You hear that?" Starsky said, reaching out and tugging at the back of his partner's shirt, forcing him to turn around sharply. "Captain Dobey's expecting an invitation."
Hutch nearly jumped when he saw Dobey. "I didn't ask for a party, Cap," he said.
Dobey nearly grinned at his discomfiture. Hutchinson had never liked being in trouble with the Principal. He tapped his door.
"I'm going in here now," he said, "and when I come out again -- which could be at any time -- I want all this cleared up." And he waved a vague hand at the jumble of bodies and plastic cups all pressing for space in the room.
"Absolutely, Captain," Hutchinson assured him, looking down at the cup in his hand and then putting it behind his back.
Dobey hesitated for just a moment before he shut himself away.
It was a measure of something, he supposed. Popularity, perhaps. Respect -- that was another one. And you could add solidarity in there, too. As well, of course, as the uncanny ability of personal news to spread at the speed of sound in this building. He had known before today, but it was still a surprise to have come up from the cafeteria at lunchtime and heard the excited announcement winging its way around the corridors.
Hutchinson's getting married!
And then the genuine pleasure, and inevitable barbs, that greeted the bulletin.
What, to Starsky? .... Not again -- didn't he get burned enough first time?.... Who, who is it? Who is she?.... Say, poor Starsk ...... the end of an era, right?
The end of an era or not, Starsky seemed relaxed and calm, a big grin on his face, the one that never quite went from ear to ear anymore, but a pretty good attempt. Sticking close to Hutch, though. Maybe he could feel the pull already. The Captain watched Hutch's arm wave around in the air to illustrate some point he was making to someone and then come to rest quietly on Starsky's back. They hadn't had so many people up here since .... well, since Starsky returned from the dead.
Dobey shut his door, shutting out that thought. He had only recently begun to feel sure that Detective Starsky would really make it back out on the street. And to learn that Hutchinson, so terrorized by having nearly lost him, had reached out elsewhere.
In the squadroom a phone rang and capsized the impromptu party.
Starsky got a hand to it.
"Starsky."
"Hey, David ... I'm at the door, I've got the car keys."
The attempt at a full-fat grin downsized considerably.
"I'll tell him."
"Is there a party up there or something? Sounds awful busy."
"Oh, you know homicide ... we party every five minutes."
He replaced the receiver on to its cradle, and looked up to make eye contact. Hutch was still yacking and Starsky felt his smile almost re-form at the flustered but loving-the-attention look on his face. The return of Hutchinson the goofball was something that gave him more pleasure than most other things these days. Hutch felt the look and glanced back, his eyebrows raising in query.
"Your lady awaits you in the lobby," Starsky said, "with the keys to the gut-bucket."
Hutch had just opened his mouth to reply when his phone went. He reached over to pick it up and Starsky saw one finger go up to his other ear to try and shut out the noise. Then his eyes rolled. Starsky was off the desk before Hutch had got as far as miming a request for him to go and collect the keys.
As soon as he got out and into the elevator he was hailed in the manner he had been all afternoon.
"Starsky! Hey, heard the good news."
"Yeah," he responded, face neutral. "The kid's really branching out."
At the stop on the second floor, another one. "Starsky .... man, how's it going? I hear the big guy's ditching you."
"Yeah, well ... if you love them you've got to let them go," was all he said. By the time he reached ground level he decided that it was going to be little short of miraculous if he didn't punch someone before the day was through.
He scanned the lobby, then made for the doors. Before he got to them he could see the car parked at the bottom of the steps outside. A suited figure was leaning up against it, eyes hidden by big dark glasses. Gathering himself together, Starsky went out and picked his way down to her.
"Hello, Doc."
"He told everyone then?"
Madam cut straight to the chase as usual.
"Yup, soppy smile hasn't left his face all day."
He held out his hand for the keys and she dropped them into his palm. Without being able to stop himself his hand closed around the the retreating fingers. She froze for a second and then pulled them out with a jerk.
"You told him to ask me," she said.
"Yeah but I didn't tell you to say yes." He suddenly wished he was the one wearing dark glasses. The sound of the traffic swished in and out of his brain.
"Listen, David ... all that time in the hospital ... you never said."
"Nothin to say, Doc, except you're the only woman I know who can eat chilli peppers like they were potato chips." He jiggled the keys in what he hoped was a casual manner.
She grinned, pleased. "Yeah, and I smoke too." Her forefinger came out and brushed across the inside of his wrist. Despite the smog, despite the hot sun and the passing people, despite the knowledge that Hutch was four floors above, Starsky felt it go right through him, churning his stomach.
Shit, the things they knew about each other, from peculiar tastes in food to the top ten erogenous zones. Not to mention the fact that she'd frequently run her hands over his chest -- in a purely professional capacity of course. But even so ...
"No going back now, Doc. We had our chance. One of us blew it."
She was not going to let him look her in the eyes. Self-protection had taken over. She pressed the glasses a little closer on to her face.
"I'm still wondering if he's just marrying me so I can be around to look after you."
Starsky frowned. "I don't need looking after."
"Try telling him that."
"Don't worry about it, Doc. That ain't all. I happen to know he loves ya. Cos he told me so."
So your best friend tells you he loves her. So what comes next? Easy! You sleep with her of course. And you fuck him over.
No, but that was all dealt with. That was all sorted out by a half-hearted heart-to-heart and three slugs to the upper torso. Jealousy, misunderstanding and betrayal -- washed away in a welter of blood and glass. Heck, even betrayal loses its sting when you've lain there dying day after day.
"It'll all be OK though, won't it?"
He was touched by how much she needed his endorsement. Man, they were as bad as each other.
"Of course it will, Doc.
"Are you ever going to call me by my actual name?"
"Probably not."
Her smile scared him. He knew he could get hold of her hand, here and now, and they would both be lost. She was actually standing there waiting for him to do it, and he wanted to, he really wanted to. Hard to imagine that Hutch would hit him because of a minor case of being fucked over by his best friend the day after he got engaged to be married. It was just another one of those weird things about nearly dying -- they'd both gladly give him enough rope to hang himself with.
Feeling it incumbent upon him, the walking miracle, to draw back from the brink, Starsky tossed the keys up in the air and caught them, squinting against the sun.
"Listen, I'll save the congratulations kiss until the big day, OK? And don't worry about it. It's gonna be the happiest day of your life." He jerked a thumb skywards. "The happiest day of his. And ... the second happiest day of mine."
"Oh?" She slouched against the car and folded her arms across her chest. "What's the first?"
"The day you get divorced."
"Yeah right." She reached down to pick up her attache case from the sidewalk. "Luckily I know that you only half mean that." She straightened her jacket. "Gotta go. Tell him ....no, on second thoughts, don't tell him anything."
Starsky stepped back to give her space. He touched his temple in a light mock-salute and watched her leave.
Here's a how-de-do he thought as he got back into the elevator.
"Starsky! My man! So you finally gave him his marching orders, huh?" The greeting assailed him as the doors swished apart.
It actually made Starsky laugh out loud this time. He was floating just that little bit above reality. Must be the pills kicking in.
"He's heading on out," he agreed, "but he doesn't realise it's a suicide mission."
A belly laugh in response. Gratified, Starsky sauntered back up the corridor towards the squadroom. As soon as he got inside he knew that the party was over and reason had returned. But for the odd, abandoned bottle and piled-up wastepaper bins everything was back to normal. When the squadroom door flapped shut behind him, Hutch turned around from the coffee jug. His face lit up.
Yeah, I'm here. Still alive. Don't love me so much, Hutchinson.
Starsky dug for the keys and threw them in a perfect arc across the squadroom. Hutch caught them. "Everything OK?"
"Oh sure. Doc said she'd call you later."
"Thanks, Starsk."
"You got it."
He watched Hutch swig the coffee, make a classic face of disgust and then finish off the mugful.
"Rung your folks yet?" Starsky asked, sliding on to the desk.
"No, I haven't rung my ... what are you? My conscience?"
"Something like that." Starsky grinned. A kind of half-fat grin, but it was working hard. He could feel the waves of happiness coming at him.
"That guy we picked up, Starsk ... reckon he's sweated long enough?"
"Yeah, time to ask him some questions."
Hutch nodded, and then he looked thoughtful. "Doing OK?" he asked.
"Doc gave me the once over." Starsky stretched the grin and it held. Beautifully. He could see the contentment write itself across Hutch's features.
OK, so maybe she was right. I am the reason after all.
On the way to Interrogation 39, one floor down, they were stopped by more well-wishers. Watching Hutch shaking hands and beaming, Starsky felt again the little shiver caused by a finger touching on his wrist, the slightest of contacts.
"Next stop the patter of tiny feet, huh?" cut into his consciousness.
"That's the plan, Bernie," he heard Hutch say, and his heart sank.
The Doc didn't want kids. Starsky knew that because she'd told him during one of their all-night, find-the-right-pain-relief sessions.
Oh boy. Stormy weather ahead.
They were going to fight about it and both of them would think they could come to him because he would be there.
Starsky wasn't at all sure about that, not being able to see himself in the future anymore. The end of the week was about as far ahead as he could imagine and sometimes it was hard to belive he would stick around even that far. Yet another one of those weird things.
He forced himself to imagine the weekend. There was a good dinner in there somewhere, and a game on the TV. Projecting weeks ahead, a swirling mass of uncertainty, he came up with a particularly smoggy summer in Bay City and Nicky coming out for a visit. So far so hazy. The effort made him sweat slightly.
Finally he brought up a day in September, a garden, an awning, rings in his pocket. And a kiss for the bride.
"Hey, Starsk. Talk to me. You sure you're feeling alright? You look miles away."
Hutch had put a hand on his shoulder and brought him to a halt right outside the door of room 39.
"Jus' thinking about maybe being an uncle," he lied, easy as anything.
"That's something else isn't it?" Hutch said, delighted, and slapped him resoundingly between the shoulder blades. Such an action would have been unthinkable even a month ago. One of them at least was back on track. He observed Hutch leading the way into the room, clear-eyed and confident, and sitting down at the table opposite the prisoner.
Starsky inched in and stood close behind, leaning a hand on the chair-back.
"OK, Charlie. Your wife and the 38 special ... what do you want to tell us?"
Starsky would not have wanted to be in Charlie's shoes.
You got a great future ahead of you, Hutchinson. No way I'm going to be the one rocking the boat.
His pressed his knuckles slightly at the top of Hutch's spine to send the message that he'd be sticking around.