Hutch felt Starsky's eyes return to him and couldn't resist a jibe. Poker-faced, he said, "I wonder if they'd be interested in your rendition of Aretha's `Natural Woman.'"

   The indigo eyes narrowed to slits. "If you even mention...."

   Just then Sugar looked up and spotted them. He grinned broadly. "Oh, cheese it, girls, it's the cops!" The "girls" stopped dancing and the pianist quit playing, as everyone stared.

   Hutch had to smile as he approached the stage. "Hey there, Sugar, how's it hanging?"

   The chorus line all broke into titters and even Starsky smiled.

   "Well, darling," Sugar told him saucily as he climbed down off the stage, "since the surgery, not at all."

   Hutch's eyes widened and Starsky went pale.

   The chorus line cracked up as Sugar flapped a hand at them. "Relax! I'm kidding. You two have to lighten up, specially if you're gonna work here."

   "That's what we came to talk about," Hutch said. "Is the owner around?"

   "That slumlord!" Sugar said. "He'd better not be. We'd all tear him to shreds, wouldn't we, girls? No, I'm afraid you've come all this way just to talk to me. I'm now the manager of this pathetic establishment."

   "And," the pianist murmured, "half owner."

   "The better half," Sugar insisted.

   "So, what happened to this joint, anyway?" Starsky asked. "Somebody hit the lottery?"

   "What happened?" Sugar asked him back. "Your memory that bad, Detective? You happened, that's what happened. Your undercover operation you remember the one where I was nearly killed and the entire bar was shot up? Hundreds of dollars in
damages? The night we found out Starsky here can't count?"

   His partner frowned as they both recalled Starsky's desperate move against the Narco cop Alex Corday. Starsky had thought Corday had already used up his six bullets. "I was only off by one!" Starsky grumbled.

   "Yes, darling, that night," Sugar continued. "Well, it generated an incredible amount of publicity. We thought we'd be ruined, but within a few days the crowds were just unmanageable! I made a deal with the owner, bought up the leases on the surrounding properties, and before you know it," he flung out his arms like Marilyn Monroe, "Hollywood!"

   "Well, it's nice that something positive came out of all that," Hutch offered.

   "Yes, well, I must say, it's all been quite the windfall for this place and moi, personally," Sugar told him. "So, of course, when I heard about your troubles, well I felt I owed a debt. Kind of weird, feeling obligated to a couple of cops, but I've had stranger bedfellows."

   The chorus broke into gales of laughter, and Sugar withered them with a look. "That's enough from the peanut gallery," he said in his Bette Davis voice. They subsided reluctantly.

   "I don't suppose havin' us here on a regular basis will cause you any inconvenience either," Starsky muttered. He was wearing his hard-nosed, street cop demeanor to the max, arms crossed, face somber. "There's bound to be plenty of publicity over it, don't'cha think?"

   Sugar sashayed over to him, challenging his personal space while blatantly eyeing his body. In seconds, Starsky was squirming under the scrutiny, glancing at Hutch for help.

   "Let's get one thing straight, sweetheart," Sugar said. "You're real cute and you've got a great ass, but if you think for one minute having two cops working in this place is good for business, you're crazy. I've been told you two choir boys have never been involved in rousting gay bars to harass the customers, but I can tell you there isn't a regular patron of mine who hasn't had his head busted by some macho boy in blue just for having a beer with his friends."

   Starsky colored under the scathing remarks, but kept his peace. They'd rousted plenty of bars in their day, but never without a serious need for information, and never just to harass a gay clientele. Yet, Hutch was well aware it was considered sport among guys like Russo and his ilk.

   "So, here's the deal," Sugar went on, strolling back toward the stage. "Hutchinson works the main bar "

   "The main ?" Hutch said, confused.

   "Oh, that's right," Sugar remembered. "You haven't had the grand tour. Well, it's not Tara, honey, but it's home." He indicated two separate circular stairways that climbed into the ceiling. "There are two more bars upstairs. One's for the leathermen and the other's for the punks. They're both smaller, but there's plenty of space for dancing and tables. The bartenders who work up there are specialists. Each bar has its own music format, piped in. The main bar here is the only one with live entertainment on stage, that is. It can get pretty hairy upstairs. Most of us trip the light fantastic up there once in a while just to see what's what. But this bar here's for all the mundanes. You know, the preppies, the suits, the closeted businessmen, the straights."

   "You get straights in here now?" Starsky piped up hopefully.

   "Oh, honey," Sugar assured him, "thirty percent of our customers are straight now. It's getting so you can't tell them apart! Except maybe in the bathroom." Both Sugar and the chorus line laughed at that. "Seriously, between Peter Whitelaw's politics and Callahan's legal actions not to mention the publicity we got from you guys the Green Parrot has become one of the trendiest places in town. We get celebrities, jet setters, everyone! It's the place to be on Saturday night."

   "Is that right?" Starsky murmured doubtfully.

   "Of course," Sugar went on, "we expect business to drop off when you first come on board, but we're hoping after a while that'll balance out. So, we'll keep Blondie here behind the bar. He'll look good there. Very decorative. And useful, too." He turned knowing eyes on Hutch's partner. "You're security. You'll work the door, carding younger patrons, watching for trouble-makers, ejecting them when necessary, and you'll roam the interior including the two upstairs bars for the same reason. Spotting underage kids is critical our license depends on it, and we all know how happy everyone would be if we lost our license. Controlling some of the rowdier customers is important, too. Especially upstairs. Think you can handle it, handsome?"

   Starsky's blue eyes bore into Hutch as he said sarcastically, "Strong-arm the patrons of this place? I suspect I can manage."

   The tallest of the chorus "girls" purred, "You said he was butch, Sugar, but I didn't think you meant butch!" The rest of them laughed.

   "He's breakin' my heart," another one swore, and blew him a kiss. There was more laughter as Starsky's face darkened.

   "And I thought you were the one with the sense of humor," Sugar said to Starsky reproachfully. "I guess you haven't had much to laugh about lately, have you?"

   Concerned that Starsky was being pushed past the limits of his already bruised image, Hutch stepped forward to distract Sugar from her easy target. "How about a few more details first. Like work hours? Pay scale? Benefits?"

   "We'll need you Thursday through Monday, six p.m. till closing," Sugar told them and gave them the hourly rate. Quickly calculating their incomes, Hutch realized the money was nowhere near what they were used to, but they could survive on it. "Plus, the bartenders get tips. We're a full service restaurant now, so you get free meals, too. Drinks are free as long as you can handle the job. If you get drunk, you're fired. And there's one other benefit wardrobe."

   He turned to one of the chorus "girls" and snapped his fingers. "Trixie, wheel over that clothes rack like a good girl, will you?"

   A lanky, loose-limbed black man flounced off the stage, returning quickly with a wheeled garment rack packed with clothes, all in black and white.

   "I guessed at your sizes," Sugar muttered, looking them both over once more, "but how could I ever forget those bods?" He started sorting through the hanging garments, pulling things out.

   Starsky gave his partner a quizzical look, but Hutch could only shrug.

   "Try these on," Sugar warned as he tossed items at them.

   Hutch realized the white pants he'd snagged from the air were leather. They were incredibly soft, like kid, and expensive. There was a matching vest and a silk shirt to go with the ensemble. He glanced at Starsky who was fingering a pair of black leather pants with an ominous look.

   "Men's room is over there, boys," Sugar pointed. "Let's go. We don't have all day!"

   "Need any help in there," one of the "girls" called after them, "just holler!" Another round of tinkling laughter followed them into the bathroom.

   Starsky looked like a gathering storm cloud as he pushed his way into the bathroom.

   To deflect his friend's concerns, Hutch said, "It's just another uniform, Starsk. If we don't want to wear them, we won't. But it can't hurt to try them on. I mean, they're free and we won't have to wear out our own clothes while we're working here."

   Starsky only nodded grimly, and stepped into a cubicle to drop his jeans.

   Deciding he wouldn't faint if someone walked in on him, Hutch stayed near the spacious area by the sinks to slip on the luxurious white pants. Even though they were low cut over his hips, they were incredibly comfortable, fitting his body as if they'd been tailored for him. Clinging to his upper legs, they belled out gently below his knees. He donned the long-sleeved shirt, tucked it in, then put on the vest. The front panels of the vest each had a deep vee cut in front, which made his legs look longer, and, he realized, his crotch more pronounced. He rolled his eyes. Turning, he saw that the clinging pants drew attention to his rear and his thighs. He sighed wearily. Now he knew what women must feel like when they had to wear skimpy costumes in night clubs. At least he'd have the bar between him and his customers.

   He glanced up as Starsky emerged from the cubicle, and watched his partner's image in the mirror. Starsky was all in
black, but his pants were biker's pants, made of denser leather, yet still skin tight. The dark leather gleamed dully in the fluorescent light of the bathroom, and the various zippers on the pockets glittered. The pants were tight at the ankle, with zippers that made them easier to pull over boot tops.

   Starsky, wearing a tight-fitting black tee shirt he'd tucked in, was still tying the leather thongs that closed the fly of his pants. Once he finished, he looked up, saw Hutch in the white clothes. His color blanched almost to match.

   "What?" Hutch asked, looking down at himself. "Is something showing? Does it look that bad? What's the matter?"

   Starsky shook his head. "You ain't wearin' that," he muttered, his voice ragged. "An' I ain't wearin' this. We can't do this, Hutch, we can't!"

   The blond took three long strides to his friend and gave him a hard shake. "What the hell is it? You look like you've seen a ghost! Talk to me, dammit! It's just clothes!"

   Starsky was staring at him, nearly in shock, and just kept shaking his head. "Uh-uh, not that. You ain't wearin' that!"

   "Dammit, will you tell me ?"

   Starsky pulled away roughly, and turned his back. "It's just, oh shit, I can't " He rubbed a hand over his face. "I-I been having dreams, Hutch. Really weird, heavy dreams. An-and in the dreams...." He couldn't continue.

   He didn't have to. Hutch's dreams had been pretty odd, too, yet if he were honest he'd admit he found them comforting. They were always on the beach in his dreams. And they were always lovers.

   "You trying to tell me you've been dreaming...about us...in clothes like these?" Hutch asked gently.

   Starsky nodded abruptly without looking at him.

   Hutch leaned against the sink and thought about that. Were the dreams hot, Starsk? Did I touch you in them? Love you? Did you let me? Did you like it?

   He swallowed and wouldn't let himself ask those questions.

"When I was a kid, Starsk, I read somewhere that the Indians believed that dreams were a kind of message you sent yourself, or that were being sent to you by someone in the spirit world. And the only way to get rid of the dream was to reenact it."

   "Don't say that, Hutch," Starsky begged, sounding miserable.

   Hutch shrugged. "Hey, maybe wearing the clothes will end the dream. Ever think of that?"

   Starsky looked him worriedly. "You think?"

   "It's just clothes, Starsky. God knows we've worn weirder things."

   That made his partner smile. Yes, they'd certainly done that.

   "It's just another undercover gig," Hutch insisted, "that's all. What does all this matter, huh?"

   Starsky allowed himself to look at his partner thoroughly. "You look good in them, Hutch. Like the White Knight for real."

   "White Knight with a bar rag? I don't know. Those things comfortable?"

   "Except for all the jingling, yeah," Starsky admitted.

   "Maybe you should wear your old boots with `em. Your Adidas look kind of weird "

   "Oh, heaven forbid I look weird while working at the Green Parrot!" Starsky said.

   "If you're not out in five minutes," Sugar called through the door, "I'm sending in reinforcements!"

   The two cops gave themselves a final adjustment, and left the rest room. Their return to the main bar was greeted with an enthusiastic round of catcalls and whistles. Hutch could feel his face heating up, and the look on Starsky's face was one for the books.

   Trying to be good-natured to people who, after all, were trying to help them, Hutch held out his arms to model his outfit and obligingly turned around for a better inspection.

   He had to laugh when Trixie yelled out, "Hey, Starsky, how did you get those pretty bowed legs?"

   "The usual way," he shot back, surprising Hutch. "Too much time in the saddle."

   "Oh, if only it were with me!" the dancer moaned.

   That convulsed the entire group and they shrieked in glee. The raucous remarks got worse until one member of the chorus line pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and swooned dramatically, announcing, "I think I'm in love!"

   "Get off it, Mary," Sugar jibed back, "you fall in love every hour on the hour." He turned back to the cops. "Y'know, there's a ghost of a chance you might fit in here. Give me the sizes off those items and I'll make sure you have a few changes. And I've got jackets for you, too." He pulled a heavy black biker's jacket off the rack and held it out to Starsky.

   The dark-haired cop only shook his head and slipped his arms into the jacket he'd arrived in. "I've got a jacket."

   "A brown leather jacket with a black outfit? Puh-leeze!" Sugar protested. "At least try it on!"

   "I said," Starsky told the man, "I've got a jacket."

   "Let him wear that one, Sugar," Trixie asked. "It's cut higher. We don't need anything hiding that ass."

   Sugar looked intrigued. "Okay, Starsky, turn around and give us a good look and maybe I'll forget the black jacket."

   With a glance at Hutch, Starsky mimicked his partner, turning around slowly, modeling, but stopped when his back was in full view of the others.

   As the brown jacket's bullet holes came into view the entire group stilled. Sugar's expression sobered and his face, for once, showed his true age.

   Trixie moaned, "Oh my god!" and turned away.

   There wasn't a person in the city who hadn't seen the photos of Starsky lying on the ground, his head nestled in his tire,
the round holes of Gunther's bullets tattooing a deadly trail across his back while an emergency medical team worked to save his life.

   "Okay, fine, you win," Sugar said. "That's your jacket. You'll be even more intimidating in it, if that's possible."

   Hutch walked over and took the black leather from the man's hands, and slid his arms into it. "Can I take this one? It fits."

   "May as well," Sugar told him. "There's a white one here you can have also, but that one sure looks right on you."

   Hutch nodded. "When do we start?" Maybe if it was tonight he could get out of his date with Callahan.

   "Tomorrow's Thursday," Sugar told him. "Be here at five so you can fill out the paperwork. Keep Uncle Sam happy."

   Hutch was just about to agree when he realized he and Starsky hadn't had a single chance to talk about it. He looked a question at his partner.

   Starsky caught the look, paused, then said to Sugar, "Five. Tomorrow. We'll be here." Slinging his tattered jeans and his plaid shirt over his shoulder, he sauntered out of the bar.

   Hutch tossed a salute to the chorus line and followed him, hearing Sugar snap orders to his chorus line. "Okay, the scenery's gone, girls, let's get back to work."

   Out in the sunlight again, Hutch jogged to catch up to Starsky who was just about to get in the Torino.

   "You okay about this, partner?" Hutch asked. He found his eyes traveling over Starsky's leatherclad legs, then snapped his attention back where it belonged. "I mean, really?"

   "I'll manage, Hutch," the cop murmured. "C'mon, I wanna go home, chill out for awhile. And you got a date tonight. Don't want'cha to be late."

   With a sigh, Hutch did as he was bid. No, he suspected Starsky wasn't about to let him be late. He'd be lucky if his friend didn't come along to "coach" him on his technique.

   "So, what are you gonna do while I'm out with the lovely Ms. Callahan?" Hutch asked as they pulled away from the curb.

   "A little cop work," Starsky said, surprising him. "Gonna talk to Huggy `bout the stuff we found on that tape, see what he can find out for us. Maybe we'll get lucky."

   Hutch almost brought up Whitelaw's name again, then decided against it. This would be the first time, he realized, that the two of them would be separated since the "incident." Maybe that was what they needed, a little time away from each other, some room to breathe.

   If that's so then why does my chest constrict when I think of being apart from him?

   "Be careful out there tonight," Hutch muttered. "There are still people after us."

   "Hey," Starsky said with a grin, "be careful yourself. I ain't the one likely to be distracted this evening, if you know what I mean. And I think you do."

   Hutch groaned internally and slid down into the seat.

   Now if you're lookin' for a hero
Someone to save the day
Well darlin' my feet
They're made of clay
But I've got somethin' in my soul
And I wanna give it up
But gettin' up the nerve
Gettin' up the nerve is a man's job
Lovin' you's a man's job baby
   Bruce Springsteen _ Man's Job

CHAPTER 10