I wanna find one face that ain't looking through me
I wanna find one place, I wanna spit in the face of these
Badlands you gotta live it every day
Bruce Springsteen Badlands

       Hutch would've felt less qualms walking into a fire fight. He tried to stand as straight as he could, knowing his height could be an intimidating factor, but it didn't help as much as it usually did. He was last in line as they emerged from the restaurant, with Kelly first and Starsky between them. He glanced at the two people in front of him as they emerged into the bright glare of an L.A. afternoon.

   Watching Kelly, he tried to think of something else to worry about.

   How could I let Starsky goad me into asking that woman out?

   Oh, he liked her well enough. That was the problem. He liked her too much, admired her fire, her commitment to her cause. He liked her too much to toy with her feelings, and Hutch knew he had as much interest in courting her as he did his own sister.

   Let's face it. Right now I'd do anything Starsky asked me to and that should scare me. So, why doesn't it?

   Then they were through the doors and there was no more time to deal with the issue.

   The jostling group of men and women crowded around, nearly swallowing them, and cameras were suddenly flashing in their faces, as microphones were thrust at them. All three of their names were being called in a cacophony of voices that sounded like so many baying hounds closing in on a blood scent.

   Starsky was growing more and more tense, so Hutch moved to touch his arm, to anchor him, to remind him Hutch was covering his back, same as always. But just before he connected, he realized how closely they were being watched and remembered why. He jerked his hand back, clenching a fist in frustration.

   Starsky's jaw tightened as one of the male reporters got right in his face, and Hutch feared an explosion.

   "Hey, come on, fellas," Kelly said in that quiet, melodic voice, and the frenzy shifted as every microphone turned toward her. "Back off a little, will you, and let a woman breathe? Don't I always give you a statement? There's no reason to smother us."

   The gentle chiding had an amazing effect on the group. The hardened journalists almost looked embarrassed as they retreated just enough to let the detectives exhale. The other effect the lawyer's remarks had was to pull most of the intense scrutiny to her. Hutch was surprised at how willing he was to let her take the heat.

   "So, tell us, Ms. Callahan," one of the journalists called out, "are you representing Starsky and Hutchinson?"

   "Yes, that's correct," she said.

   "And what form will that representation be taking?" another asked.

   "That will depend on the mayor. These men have no business being on suspension. I'll be setting up a meeting with him to discuss their situation." She smiled, and it was a shark's smile. "If he's smart, he'll listen to me."

   The journalists all laughed, their relationship with her well-established.

   "And if he doesn't?" a woman in the back asked.

   "Well, experience tells us that the citizens of Los Angeles do not approve of blatant discrimination," Kelly said. "If the mayor insists on hearing that message again in court, that's what we'll do."

   "So, you're saying you'll sue the city for discriminating against a couple of queer cops?" a burly old-timer asked, staring tauntingly at Starsky.

   Hutch could feel his partner's blood pressure climbing. Don't do it, buddy! Don't bite. But it was Kelly who surreptitiously touched his friend's arm. It broke Starsky's attention long enough to dampen his anger. Hutch wanted to kiss the woman
in gratitude.

   "Gee, Mike," Kelly's lilting tone never changed, "I read your column every day and I notice you never use inflammatory language like that in it not ever. I guess there must be something about me that makes you feel comfortable using it here."

   To Hutch's surprise, the heavy set reporter's face actually blushed, no doubt in anger. The other reporters noted his reaction, which only made his color darken.

   "Come off it, Callahan," he grumbled. "If your gonna defend the likes of them, you're gonna have to get used to gettin' some on ya. It's not like your keepin' the best of company."

   "Michael Garrity, you surprise me," Kelly responded. "You kill a lot of trees every week defending every unpopular underdog you can find! You were at the forefront of the civil rights movement for blacks, for Hispanics, for the trouble in Ireland, in South Africa. Would you kindly explain to me the difference between Governor Wallace's policy towards black children in the public schools and our city's continuing abhorrent record toward the rights of tax-paying men and woman whose only crime is to love one another? Or are you going to tell me these two men haven't spent their careers bettering this city at the risk of their own lives? I seem to remember you had plenty to say about it when they were reinstated by the mayor after uncovering the Gunther scandal. You had even more to say when Detective Starsky was mortally wounded last year."

   Garrity ground his teeth and had the grace to look embarrassed. In front of him, Starsky shifted from foot to foot.

   Never get between two Irishmen in a fight, Starsk. His partner's dark blue eyes met his for a moment as if he'd heard that thought.

   "In fact," Kelly went on, "I'm wondering why all you fine men and women of the press "

   "Uh-oh," said another old-timer theatrically, "here she goes, appealing to our better natures!"

   The entire group laughed, while a black woman in the back said, "Honey, she's the only one in this city who thinks we even have one!" There was more laughter.

   In spite of his nerves, Hutch found himself relaxing as he waited for Kelly to finish.

   "As I was saying," she continued, throwing a mock frown at the man who'd interrupted her, "I can't help wondering why all you fine men and women of the press aren't asking the city the really hard questions like why it would chose to hamstring its two hardest working cops. There isn't one of you here that haven't filled up plenty of columns on the work of these men or have you all forgotten your own copy? Bill Madsen, weren't you nominated for a Pulitzer on an expose of the police department where you used the arrest and conviction records of these two cops to prove that twenty percent of the department wasn't pulling its weight?"

   The reporter in question ducked his head and mumbled an assent.

   Jeez, those articles were written years ago. I'd forgotten all about them, Hutch realized. She's done her homework.

   "And how many of you could stand the scrutiny if you had a camera perched in your bedroom and had the resulting film distributed to the wire services?"

   There was an uncomfortable shuffle among the group until the woman in the back piped up, "Wouldn't bother Garrity! You can't film a void!" Everyone cracked up.

   "That's all fine and well, Sister Mary Callahan," Bill Madsen asked sarcastically, "but what's your point?"

   "The same point I'm always trying to make. As usual, you guys are hunting up the wrong story. Not one of you has asked the right questions such as who would deliberately attempt to destroy these two men and why? Obviously, to eliminate them from the police force. Who would have the most to gain? I shouldn't have to be telling you this. You all call yourselves investigative reporters."

   "Okay," Mike Garrity said. "You. Starsky! You think the D.A.'s office is out to getcha? Rocked too many boats?"

   The reporter _ obviously confusing the two men had clearly been addressing Hutch, but before he could respond, Kelly nodded at Starsky to answer.

   Starsky wet his mouth and his voice was oddly subdued. "No, I think the D.A.'s just responding to public pressure. I think the person behind it is a lot better connected than that. But you know I can't name names or it could screw up a conviction."

   "So, does that mean you're investigating someone?" a woman who'd moved close to Hutch asked.

   "Uh " he stuttered, but Kelly nodded at him. "We're suspended right now. Without pay. We're trying to look into it, but as citizens, we're pretty restricted. We've been assured the department is investigating it officially."

   "You might wonder," Kelly told the reporters, "that if the department thinks it's so important a case to solve, why they wanted to bring these two back only to separate them and bury them in meaningless paperwork. So far that's been their best offer."

   "Very interesting," Garrity agreed, "but the ultimate question is do you think we should have queers pardon me, Ms Callahan homosexuals on the police force?"

   "That's not the question," Kelly interrupted forcefully, stepping in front of Starsky before he could advance on the man. "The question is should two men who have given all but their lives for this city be judged by anything that happens between them privately, rather than the work they've done. The work they could be doing right now. How would you like to be judged in this world, Michael Garrity? By your performance in bed, or by the information you share with this city every day? You ask yourself that question."

   "Oh, I think we all know the answer to that," the black woman with the sharp humor interjected before Garrity could respond.

   There was more laughter, then Kelly brought it to an end. "Party's over, kids. These men have business, and I'm due back in court. I'll let you know what the mayor has to say on the issues after I see him."

   To Hutch's immense relief, the reporters seemed satisfied and began to drift away as she took hold of each detective by the arm and walked them toward the rear parking lot.

   "You guys did fine," she assured them, as if she could sense Hutch's weak knees and Starsky's clenched jaw.

   "You think that little scene's gonna help us?" Stasky muttered, still tense.

   "I'm crossing my fingers," she said.

   "Why do I have the feeling you know something we don't?" Hutch wondered, staring at her.

   Then he spied a familiar figure waiting for them by the bumper of the Torino. His stomach tightened in apprehension.

   Starsky stopped dead when he saw the woman.

   But it was Kelly who spoke first. "Christine! I was wondering why you weren't with the rest of the pack."

   Hutch swallowed. C.D. Phelps. It had been over a year ago that she'd ridden with them and written her articles. While the first hadn't been very complimentary, a harrowing experience with a suspect had given her a different view of police work. But Hutch couldn't imagine what her view of them now was.

   "Hi, Callahan!" the reporter said cheerily, but her gaze was on the two men. "Hiya, fellas."

   They both nodded and greeted her in a subdued way.

   Finally, Christine turned her attention to the lawyer alone. "There was a reason I wasn't at your impromptu street conference. My editor won't let me cover the story."

   Kelly looked concerned. "Why not?"

   She made a face, crossing her arms in annoyance. "He thinks, because of my previous association with these guys that I'm biased. That homophobic jerk Dawson he assigned in my place, he's not biased, but I am."

   The lawyer frowned. "Shit."

   Hutch blinked, startled by the woman's expletive.

   Kelly looked at both cops. "Christine and I have `worked' together before on issues we felt strongly about." She turned
back to the reporter. "I was counting on working with you again...."

   Christine started to say something, but Hutch heard himself blurting out, "And what is the issue here that you feel strongly about, Christine?" Starsky glanced at him, but he really wanted to know. Kelly might have cause to trust Phelps, but he wasn't sure if he did.

   "Hutch," C.D. said quietly, "my brother's gay. He lives in San Francisco. We're very close."

   Hutch nodded, not totally happy with the answer.

   "I also think what they're doing to you stinks."

   "You believe the press?" Starsky asked suddenly.

   Hutch wanted to see her squirm out of that one.

   She faced Starsky squarely. "Hey, I rode with you guys. It's all pretty damned hard for me to believe...but, it's hard for me to disbelieve my own eyes, too. Believe it or not, fellas, I really am neutral about it. It's none of my business. But I happen to know personally the kind of cops you are, and I want you back on the force." She turned to Kelly. "Which won't do us any good if my editor won't give me column inches on the topic."

   Kelly shrugged. "There are other ways to help, Christine. I'll call you."

   She nodded. "I watched your circus act. You had `em eating out of your hand."

   Kelly wore a small cat-ate-the-canary smile. "That's `cause you weren't out there flaying me alive! Asking them to put themselves in someone else's shoes was a gamble, but I hope it'll pay off."

   She explained to the detectives, "The black woman with the sense of humor is a closeted gay. I represented her and her lover in a dispute with a landlord some years back and won. At least two of those guys get theirs regularly down on the strip from some of the working girls. The two who eat up the most page space on the sanctity of the family, blah-blah-blah."

   "And your grudge against Mike Garrity?" Starsky wondered. "The two of you are clearly old adversaries."

   "Mike Garrity lost his wife of twenty years when he gave her the clap," she said bluntly. After a pause, she added, "He caught it from an underage hustler in the bus station men's room. He could've blamed it on one of the working girls, or an extra-marital affair, but he got caught with the hustler by a cop who shook him down for a pay-off he couldn't manage. The cop told his wife when Garrity didn't cough up the cash. I found out about it when she came to me to look for a good divorce lawyer. Garrity knows I know, and sometimes I can make him sweat with it. Not that I've ever threatened him face to face that would be unethical." The shark's smile was back.

   Hutch was suddenly glad she was on their side.

   "Who was the cop?" Starsky asked. "The one who shook Garrity down?"

   Kelly shrugged. "I don't know."

   "The story is legion," C.D. agreed. "I might be able to find out."

   Starsky nodded. "Could you? Might be good to know."

   Christine pulled out a pad, scribbled something, then put it away. "Well, let me get out of here. I just wanted to let you know what the situation with me was. I'll call you if I can get anything on this. Good luck, guys."

   "Take it easy, C.D." Hutch said as she walked away.

   "We'll have to check tomorrow's papers and tonight's evening news to see if we made any kind of favorable impression with the mob," Kelly said. "Let's hope so. They could help turn public opinion, and we know how the mayor responds to public opinion."

   "Captain won't like finding out we talked to the press," Starsky muttered, as he walked around to open the passenger door for her.

   "Well, screw him," Kelly said, in that same lilting tone.

   The two men glanced at each other and burst out laughing.

   "If it's all the same to you, Miz Callahan," Starsky said pointedly, "I think we'd rather save that privilege for " He stopped himself just in time. "For someone a lot prettier."

   She flushed red, surprising Hutch. He'd just about decided nothing could faze her. That ol' Starsky charm. Works on everyone. He had to look away. Maybe it was a good thing he'd asked her out after all. Of course, Starsky didn't know that yet.

   "Mind dropping me at the courthouse?" she asked. "I'm running late, as usual."

   "A privilege and a pleasure," Starsky assured her, opening the passenger door with a flourish.

   As she slid into the middle of the front seat, Hutch stepped in front of his partner and handed him a five dollar bill, making sure his body blocked Kelly's view of the transaction.

   Starsky stared at the bill uncomprehendingly for a moment, then remembered their bet. His jaw dropped for a moment in consternation, then he recovered. With a big grin, he punched Hutch on the arm, gave him a sly wink, then jogged around to the driver's side.

   That wasn't quite the reaction I wanted, Hutch thought, as he folded himself into the car and shut the door. It only got worse as Starsky took off with a squeal of tires while regaling their passenger with tales of their past exploits.

   Hutch couldn't believe it as Starsky began with, "Y'know, Hutch here's real quiet, but he's really the brains of this outfit. And that whole thing with snaggin' Gunther that was all Hutch. I was out of it, flat on my back in the hospital. Yeah, it was Hutch who "

   The blond rubbed a hand over his tired eyes as his partner went on and on and tried to figure out just what he had done in some past life to bring this kind of karma down on himself.

   "Now what's the matter?" Hutch asked as Starsky brooded silently behind the wheel of the Torino.

   They'd left Callahan on the courthouse steps and driven straight over to the Green Parrot. They hadn't spoken after leaving the lawyer behind, as if they were both so trapped in their own concerns they couldn't find a place to connect. Starsky parked the Torino squarely in front of the closed bar, then sat in glum silence.

   Starsky kept staring at the building they were about to enter and shook his head. "I dunno, Hutch. I don't know if I can do this."

   "It's not the first time you've been here," Hutch reminded him.

   "That was different," Starsky insisted. "We were cops then. We were investigating a murder."

   "We're still cops," Hutch reminded him. "We're just suspended for a while, that's all. And we're gonna need some cash. This festive vegetable doesn't run on air."

   Starsky sighed wearily. "Maybe if that's why we were really here it wouldn't be so bad. But it's not. We're here to dance to someone else's tune. Fulfill somebody's agenda. It don't feel right, us workin' here."

   "`Cause it's a gay bar?" Hutch said, wanting to make Starsky lay it on the table. "And we're not gay?" He knew his own nebulous feelings about his sexuality weren't helping either of them right now, but then, neither was Starsky's total denial.

   His partner's jaw tightened. "You gonna tell me labels don't matter now?"

   No, Hutch wasn't ready to tell him that. He glanced away, struggling with his own feelings.

   "Anyway, that ain't all of it," Starsky said. "It just doesn't feel right." He sighed. "But how many things have we done that didn't feel right till we made `em right?" As if that realization squared something for him, he decided, "Let's go, partner. We may as well get this show on the road!"

   To Hutch's surprise, Starsky was out of the car and approaching the front door of the bar before the blond had time to react. He caught up to his partner just before he reached for the door handle.

   "Hey, wait!" Hutch called. "Did you take a look at all this?" He pulled Starsky back a few feet so they could examine the front of the bar.

   "Where ?" Starsky muttered as he looked over the building. "Did they expand, or what?"

   "Looks like the Parrot's taken over the two properties on either side of the original bar. The upstairs too. This place is huge!"

   Starsky looked at his friend wryly. "Good. Maybe nobody'll notice us here!" He reached for the front door again, and Hutch followed him into the darkened exterior.

   The sense of deja vu only lasted a moment. Some things are universal to all bars, especially during their off-hours, whether it was this gay cabaret, or a straight joint like the blues club Marianne Owens sang at. Overhead lighting not normally used during business hours lit the place up just as it had the last time they'd been here while investigating John Blaine's death. But the place hadn't seemed that large the last time. The Parrot hadn't just expanded, Hutch realized, it had been completely remodeled.

   The long bar with its stained glass backdrop was still there, but the interior of the place had tripled in size, as had the actual bar. It would take at least three bartenders to serve it now, when one had done it before . The dance floor was greatly expanded, and there were a lot more tables. There was a huge screen near the ceiling, and posters of actors and actresses were everywhere. Hutch wondered if Starsky would ever make a connection between his own interest in movies and all the gay camp in the posters.

   A professional cleaning crew was mopping, polishing, dusting. There were enough artistic arrangements of lush plants to qualify the place as a fern bar; the greenery was being tended by a separate crew.

   The stage where Hutch had first seen Sugar perform was much bigger, too. He might have wondered if it were too big for the small man in drag to dominate, but Sugar was up there right now. He wasn't in costume at the moment, but he sure was dominating the space. Six very fey men in assorted casual wear were rehearsing carefully choreographed dance steps while singing "It's So Good to Be a Girl" to a piano accompaniment. Sugar was counting off the moves, dancing in front of them, leading them in the choreography. 

Continued in CHAPTER 9b