You'll have to take me just the way that you find me

What's gone is gone and I do not give a damn

I don't remember, I don't recall

I got no memory of anything at all

I Don't Remember -- Peter Gabriel

       When Starsky woke up, it was with an intense sense of urgency. His eyes snapped open, and he suddenly knew he had seconds to get out of the bed. Mindless of his or Hutch's nudity -- or the way they were completely entwined around each other -- Starsky bolted out of the bed and made a desperate dash for the bathroom. He'd barely focused on the head when the floodgates opened and he vomited so violently into the bowl he saw stars. The powerful spasm hit again, and again. He could taste the steak, and the beer, and the champagne, and something really bitter he couldn't identify, all of it sharp and spoiled as it rushed over his tongue to escape his body. In minutes, he was doubled over with dry heaves, moaning into the toilet, down on one knee as if in prayer.

   Worshipping at the shrine of the Great God of Porcelain, he thought in between bouts. Didn't think we got that drunk last night.

   A warm hand settled on his bare shoulder, and something cold pressed into his palm. Glass of water, he registered dimly. Hutch's voice, sounding ragged. "Go on, drink it. It'll help." Starsky gasped, chest heaving from the exertion, and gulped the water down, bringing it up just moments later.

   "Now, this," Hutch said.

   Just another Starsky and Hutch comedy routine, he thought. We're worse than an old married couple. Hutch slapped the bottle of Pepto Bismol into his palm, and squeezing his eyes, Starsky downed half of it, then shuddered. Stuff tastes worse than come. He blinked, wondering where that thought came from. Must've been something one of his old girlfriends used to say. His stomach quieted, content to merely ache now. He sagged against the tub and held his head, which felt as if it were perched quite precariously on his shoulders.

   "You can't sit there on the cold tile," Hutch croaked, taking hold of his arm. "Come back to bed till your stomach settles."

   Glancing up blearily, he noticed a red bruise near Hutch's navel. What kind of klutzy move did Hutch make to earn that? It almost looked like a hickey. Dimly Starsky wondered what happened to their pajama bottoms, or at least their briefs. They didn't normally sleep nude together. That almost made him laugh. It wasn't like they were in any shape to -- He paused. To what? He couldn't follow the thought through; it hurt too much to think.

   "What the fuck happened last night?" he asked his partner, as Hutch led him back to bed, found him his pillow and covered him up. He was shivering now from the violent vomiting and felt ten degrees cooler. Hutch went around the other side, climbed in, and pulled Starsky's spine against the blond's warm front, rubbing the dark arms to chase the chill. "I feel like shit. And I never thought I'd be sayin' this, Hutch, but I'll never eat red meat again. I can still taste it comin' up. Ugh. I got the worst taste in my mouth -- "

   "What do you remember?" Hutch asked him noncommittally.

   Starsky, still trembling, drew closer to Hutch's heated skin, content to shiver against that blond furnace. "I remember bein' at Huggy's. I remember gettin' wasted." He managed a crooked smile. "An' I remember callin' Russo out. Can't believe that asshole tried to draw on us in a public place."

   "What else?" Hutch urged.

   Starsky felt like his brain was all cotton. "Huggy brought us home -- right? I guess it was two, three a.m.? The rest is cobwebs. I guess I blacked out."

   Hutch sighed. "Huggy brought us home at ten o'clock. Someone slipped us a mickey, Starsk. By the time Huggy got us here, we were totally stoned."

   "Someone drugged us? Why? What the hell for?"

   Hutch was shaking his head. "Damned if I know."

   "Pretty stupid trick," Starsky grumbled. "Good thing we got friends like Huggy. Maybe the bad guys wanted to roll us when we left the Pits."

   "Yeah. We were pretty lucky," Hutch said wanly.

   Starsky wondered idly if the drug could account for all the odd dreams he had last night. His body felt drained, as if he'd fucked for hours, making him wonder if he'd ejaculated in his sleep. He kept dreaming about a beautiful -- if flat-chested -- blond, with sapphire eyes. Suddenly, something occurred to him.

   "Hutch?"

   His partner tensed against him.

   "What'd'ya think was in that stuff? I mean -- " This was no time to mince words. "Hutch, you okay?"

   "No," the blond said stiffly, and now Starsky could hear the pain in his partner's voice. "I'm hurtin'. It must've been partly narcotic. I felt it last night. And this morning -- " The taller man swallowed audibly. "Starsk -- I've got the craving."

   "Oh, Hutch, no!" Starsky said, bitterly. Wasn't this just like his partner? Nurses him through the pukes without saying a word, all the while he's fighting off his own private hell. He turned to face his friend, gathering the nude man in his arms, now pulling him into his own haven of safety. "I'm here, babe. I'm here. I won't let nothin' happen to you. Damn! We'll get through it, Hutch. Just like we did before."

   Hutch nodded, a tense, jerky motion. "It's not that bad. Not as bad as last time. Just an ache inside that won't quit. I'll probably be all right in a few days. Just -- stay with me, will ya?"

   "Where else would I go? Hey, Hutch?"

   "Uh-huh?"

   "Did we have clothes on when we got home?"

   "Think so. We'll have to ask Huggy." The image of Huggy dragging home two nude cops was more than either of them could take, and they laughed feebly.

   The jangling of the phone made both of them jump. Starsky snaked an arm out from under the covers to snag the receiver. "Yeah?"

   "You both up?" Dobey's voice was oddly subdued. Starsky felt himself instantly alert.

   "Yeah, we're here, Cap'n," Starsky confirmed. Something niggled at his mind, something about Dobey just assuming they were together -- but hadn't they been constantly since the shooting? He brushed the concern aside. "Thought we didn't have to be in today till later -- "

   "Something's come up," the large man said succinctly.

   "If this is about Russo," Starsky began, fully prepared to argue.

   "It's not about Russo," Dobey interjected. "I need you both in here, now." He was insistent, but calm. He didn't shout, didn't demand, just insisted.

   "Cap, Hutch is feelin' kinda sick -- "

   "Right now, Starsky. Both of you. No excuses. Ten minutes. Don't stop for coffee. Don't talk to anyone. Don't get the paper. Don't go to your lockers. Just come straight to my office. Understand?"

   "Yes, sir," Starsky said, his own voice matching Dobey's somber one. He hung up the phone gently. "Somethin's wrong, Hutch. Somethin' bad. We gotta go in. Can you handle it?"

   Hutch nodded carefully as Starsky left the bed and started searching for clean clothes. "How do you know it's bad, Starsk?"

   "Dobey never yelled, not once. No, 'get yer narrow butts in here.' No threats to bust us down to traffic. Just real respectful -- yet insistent. Somethin's goin' on."

   Hutch sat on the edge of the bed looking miserable. He had blue circles under red-rimmed eyes. His skin was pale. He looked absolutely haggard. Running a hand through his tousled blond hair, he murmured, "I got a feeling the price tag just got delivered."

   The precinct looked nearly deserted when they got there, and that alone gave Starsky the jitters. Oh, there were a few cops at the front desk, but the scattered people they ran into barely acknowledged them. Their own squad room was abandoned, like a ghost town, and that was too weird for words. The closer they got to Dobey's office, the more bizarro the whole thing seemed.

   Starsky knocked lightly on Dobey's door, then stuck his head in, while Hutch waited behind him. The room was oddly dim. "You here, Cap?"

   "Right here," Dobey said softly. The big man was standing at his window looking out through slatted blinds. The blinds were drawn down, nearly closed, blocking out the bright morning light.

   The two cops entered quietly, glancing at one another apprehensively. Dobey didn't turn around. There was a thick envelope and a projector with film in it set up on his desk.

   Starsky looked at Hutch, who eased himself into a chair by the desk. Hutch just shrugged, having no idea what to expect. Starsky sat on the arm of Hutch's chair, lending his physical presence to Hutch who clearly needed shoring up. The New Yorker hoped this wouldn't take too long. He wanted to try to get some decent food into Hutch and put him back to bed for a couple of days. And keep watch --

   Dobey finally turned to them. "Thanks for coming in so quickly. I -- want you to watch this film, together -- in private. I'm going to step out of this office and wait for you in the squad room. Take your time. View it more than once if you need to. Discuss it. When you're ready to talk about it with me, let me know."

   The two cops exchanged confused glances, and Starsky finally said, "If this is a new case, Cap'n, wouldn't it be better if you stayed here and explained -- ?"

   Dobey cut him off, if gently. "Just watch the film, son. We'll discuss it when you're ready."

   Then their captain stepped out of his office without another word.

   The two cops eyed each other with even more concern, and said together, "'Son?'"

   "Oh, this must be a beaut!" Starsky said, eyeing the camera as if it were a poisonous snake. "I know he hates these things -- god knows, I do, too -- but I can't remember ever seein' him this rattled over some evidence before."

   "I've got a feeling we're not gonna need popcorn for this feature, Starsk," Hutch agreed, as Starsky moved over to the projector, darkened the blinds some more, then turned the film on. As the leader fed through, he came back to sit on the arm of Hutch's chair, still more concerned about his partner's physical condition than anything he was about to witness in this office.

   That lasted about thirty seconds.

   That's how long it took him to realize this film had been shot in his own bedroom, just last night. In the frame he could see a bit of the bedroom floor where his jeans lay in a bunch -- precisely as he'd found them this morning. But most of the frame consisted less of bedroom than of his bed. His bed, with him and Hutch in it. Doing -- doing things he simply could not believe. In sixty seconds, he was gripping the side of the chair to keep from falling off. At ninety seconds, he had to get off the chair, and move away from his partner.

   His partner.

   His bedmate.

   His lover?

   At the five minute mark, he was as far away from Hutch as he could get, and there was no where else to go in the small room. He was hugging himself without realizing it, his tender stomach rebelling at the sight of himself engaging in sex acts with his partner that his mind could not remember and would not accept.

   He wanted to announce that those were actors in the film, people chosen to look exactly like them, but the diagonal scars riddling his back and chest were plain to see even in the dim lighting of the film. He watched himself seduce his best friend, overwhelm him, overtake him sexually, and then engage in the kind of lurid sex acts he would've gladly beaten Russo into the ground for implying.

   The film wound on, as Hutch finally went after him in the bed, and then he and Hutch -- he blinked, his eyes swimming -- he and Hutch were blowing each other, crazed with desire, hard as rocks and sucking like experienced cockhounds, as if they did this every night. It was like watching a train wreck in silence and slow motion. He couldn't pull his eyes away, yet couldn't bear to watch another frame. And when the inevitable happened, and he watched himself eagerly swallow Hutch's ejaculate -- even as Hutch accepted his -- he finally realized what that cloying, bitter taste had been in his mouth this morning.

   His stomach cried enough, and he walked casually to Dobey's wastebasket and threw up Pepto Bismol and toothpaste until he was retching with stomach-churning heaves that wouldn't stop. This time, Hutch didn't come to help him.

   The trailer on the end of the film flapped and slapped in the terrible silence until Hutch turned the machine off. Starsky methodically took Dobey's trash can to his closet and closed it in there, then opened a window to let out the sour smell of his vomit. He sniffled and wiped his eyes, then glanced at the envelope sitting like a tarantula on Dobey's desk. As terrified as he was of that envelope, he would rather look there than at Hutch.

   He flipped open the folder inside and a thick sheaf of eight by tens slid out. Lobby cards, he thought wildly. Him and Hutch in every conceivable position, pulled right off the film, up close and personal. Him and Hutch kissing. Him and Hutch stroking. His best friend getting him off -- spectacularly. He thought for a moment that he might actually faint.

   Taking a deep breath and swallowing, he forced himself to look at the other man in this room, the other cop involved in this nightmare.

   The sight tore his heart out.

   Hutch was nearly in a fetal position in the chair, arms folded over his stomach, face almost skeletal, blue eyes gone colorless and unseeing. He was rocking in the chair like a stroke victim and, Starsky realized to his horror, moaning softly -- a low keening noise that rattled him almost as much as what he'd just witnessed. What Hutch's expression said to him did not help any, not at all.

   "You knew," Starsky said, struggling to keep his voice low, normal, reasonable. "You knew as soon as we woke up. You remembered."

   He didn't want it to sound like an accusation, but he knew it did. He couldn't help it. He felt shell shocked, like someone had just thrown a mortar at his feet. Or turned his perfectly ordered world completely upside down. Which they had.

   "You remembered what happened last night," Starsky continued, unable to stop his mouth, "and you didn't tell me."

   Hutch flinched, as if Starsky had slapped him. "I'm sorry."

   Starsky could barely hear what Hutch said, but he could read his lips well enough.

   "I'm sorry, Starsky. I prayed you would never remember. That it would just be one long black-out to you. I'm sorry."

   "How could -- How could -- " Starsky had to bite his lip to keep his mouth shut. He hoped Hutch would think he was trying to say, How could this have happened, but the truth was he was the verge of screaming, How could you have let this happen? He knew it was unfair to lay that on Hutch, but he couldn't help it. Hutch remembered, and irrationally, Starsky felt that since he did, Hutch somehow held the key to what had occurred. It wasn't fair, but it was his gut reaction, and all he could do was battle with it.

   But Hutch knew him entirely too well. The blue eyes turned slate and, narrowing, focusing on him. Hutch knew very well what Starsky had started to ask. In a low, deadly tone filled with old pain, Hutch laid it out. "I'll tell you how it happened. You wouldn't back off. You came onto me, and I couldn't say no to you."

   No! Starsky thought, his head throbbing. He held up both hands as if he could physically ward off the words -- the words he'd brought on himself.

   "I begged you not to do it," Hutch continued relentlessly, refusing to take the weight of responsibility for their mutual behavior. "I pleaded with you again and again. But I loved you too much to turn you down. And you knew that. Once you touched me -- kissed me -- with that drug whistling through my veins, we were finished."

   "Hutch, please," Starsky said miserably, bowing over Dobey's desk and the damning photos. Instinctively, he knew that his partner was only telling him the truth. He'd watched himself on the film stalk the man as if Hutch had been a Vegas showgirl -- not his best friend -- watched himself use all the smooth moves he'd practiced over years of seductions. He was nothing if not methodical. As a lover, Starsky had never any qualms about going for the heart. That he could do this to his best friend --

   "You still can't remember?" Hutch asked incredulously.

   Starsky shook his head, his self-control so tenuous he was terrified to speak. One wrong word, one wrong move, could shatter him.

   "None of it?" Hutch pushed, clearly disbelieving. "Even after seeing this Reader's Digest Condensed version of last night?"

   Starsky felt as if the blond had just punched him in the heart as a fresh surge of panic swept over him. "What the hell did they leave out?"

   "Plenty," Hutch said bitterly. "We were at it for hours. Whatever they gave us prolonged it. This film has been edited very professionally to show the most graphic, damning details. They left out -- " Hutch's voice cracked suddenly, and Starsky glanced up to see his partner roughly wipe tears from his face. "They left out -- the caring. There's no sound, no pauses, no conversation -- and we had plenty to say to each other. Starsk, we -- we loved each other last night. It wasn't just sex. I mean, damn it, it was hardly about sex. I mean -- " He sucked in a deep breath, trying desperately to rein in his emotions. "We loved each other. We professed our love, made commitments."

   Hutch's face drew down in stern bitterness, "Fuck this, I can't believe I'm doin' this to myself. But I feel like I've been left at the damn altar by the one person in this world I thought I knew, the one person I thought I could trust. But it was all just the drug. I can see it in your face." Hutch turned his back to him, clearly out of steam, and smouldered in rage.

   "Hutch," Starsky said wanly, not knowing what he could say that wouldn't make things worse.

   "Vanessa really took me around the block, Starsk," Hutch said, his voice positively chilling. "And Gillian -- " he paused, sucked in a ragged breath, " -- Gillian broke my heart pretty bad. I've had women dump me, fuck over me, cheat on me, rob me, even try to get me killed. But it took my partner to really put it all on the line." Without looking at him, Hutch said, "I never before had anyone throw up because I'd made love to them."

   At that moment, Starsky tried to imagine what kind of God had allowed him to survive Gunther's bullets only to face this pain.

   Hutch clutched his middle then and fought back a low groan as he doubled over in the chair. It was a cold slap in Starsky's face, and he realized, The drug! It's still in Hutch. He's still under its influence. He had to force himself to take a step closer to his partner, then another, and finally, tenuously draw closer. The five feet between them might've just as well been miles. For the first time in their long partnership, Starsky had no idea how to help or comfort this man. He didn't dare touch him. He couldn't imagine what would happen if he did, how he'd feel, what it would be like to touch someone he'd been so intimate with, yet had no memory of that intimacy. And what in god's name would he do if he did remember?

   "Hutch? You okay?" he said feebly into the space between them. Part of him ached to hold Hutch, rub his back, try to ease his hurt. Part of him feared he'd only be adding to it.

   "Oh, yeah," Hutch murmured, with biting sarcasm. "I'm just fine." The blond took a shaky breath and pulled himself together.

   "Hutch?" Starsky asked, unable to stop himself. He waited till the blond's tortured eyes were on his worried ones. "Do you hate me?"

   Hutch's expression melted, as if the question were completely unexpected. "Hate you? Oh, Starsky -- " The blue eyes filled rapidly, and Hutch had to turn away.

   Starsky did too, his own eyes burning with unshed tears. No, you can't hate me, even though you want to. The way I betrayed you, you should. But you can't. I seduced you, swore I loved you, made you love me, then was completely repelled by the truth of that -- and you still can't hate me. You poor sap. You still love me. What did I ever do to deserve that kind of devotion from you?

   He saw again in the film of his mind the expression of sheer adoration on Hutch's face as Starsky put the moves on him. How had that happened? Because of the shooting, Starsky's near death, the months of caring and convalescence -- or had it always been there between them? Could that be true? Had it lain latent there all these years with him in total denial of it because it didn't suit his image of himself as a man? He could hear Russo's taunting voice, and the murmured accusations of other cops, the odd looks, the snickers behind his and Hutch's back. It went back years, even to the Academy. They'd always blown it off, confident in their own maleness, their own image of themselves. If other men were too insecure to enjoy the intense, personal kind of friendship he and Hutch had shared, well that was their problem. Had they been lying to themselves all these years? His head was pounding and his stomach was threatening to rebel again.

   "Hutch, please, just don't -- don't hate me," Starsky mumbled to the desk, terrified that if he saw those pain-filled blue eyes he'd lose it completely and burst into helpless sobs. "I don't know how I can make this right with you -- but I'll die tryin'. You're my partner, my best friend -- you didn't deserve this. Oh, god, I'm so sorry."

   "Stop it," Hutch ordered, his voice shockingly clear. It made Starsky jump, and he turned to him. Hutch was standing, pacing in a small space, careful not to intrude on Starsky's defined area. "Stop the noble martyr routine, I can't stand it. We gotta pull ourselves together and get our stories straight. We still gotta face Dobey."

   "Dobey?" Starsky said stupidly, unable to fit anything else into this equation. It was all he could do to deal with this film, these stills, and all they represented.

   "Snap out of it, Starsk! We're in Dobey's office, he called us in for the viewing, remember? This," his big hand -- that hand that touched me, stroked me -- indicated the film and photos, "this is only the tip of the iceberg. We're in trouble, big trouble, and no matter how this has affected us personally, we're only gonna get through it as a team. Can we still do that? Or is it every man for himself? I gotta know that, now."

   "You gotta ask me that?" Starsky said incredulously. He felt like his mouth was full of glue. It's worse than I thought. He doesn't trust me at all now.

   "Yeah," Hutch said plainly, nodding. He looked ten times worse than when they'd stepped in here, Starsky realized. He'd actually aged. "I gotta ask you that. I gotta know where you stand."

   Starsky felt a flutter of anger, then a surge of fury. "I stand with you, ya stupid bastard! You think I'm gonna treat you like some cheap, one night stand and forget everything that's gone down between us over the years? What the fuck's the matter with you? Whatever happened last night, whatever I said to you, whether I remember it or not -- don't you think that somewhere inside me I meant it?"

   The two of them glared at each other. "How the hell would I know, Starsky? Just how would I know?"

   It took the fight right out of him. Of course Hutch couldn't know. How could he, when Starsky didn't know himself? "How -- how do you wanna deal with it?"

   "Well, I think denial's pretty much out of the question," Hutch said, with a trace of his old humor. "I think we need to find out what other little surprises Dobey's got for us. Something's telling me this is only the beginning."

   Starsky felt his knees go soft. "I -- I don't know how much more -- "

   Hutch pointed a finger at him. "Oh, you'll handle it all right. You'll have to. We both will. We'll handle it like we've handled everything else."

   But he couldn't say it, Starsky realized. He couldn't say, me and thee, their own motto, their code, their mantra. Hutch couldn't make his mouth form the words. And neither could Starsky. Because now it implied something completely different.

   Their eyes met in somber agreement, and Hutch picked up the phone to call Dobey in.

   Captain Dobey sat at Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson's desk and tried hard not to think of the chain of events that brought his two best detectives to the particular part of hell they stood in now. Maybe some of it was his fault. Maybe he should've seen the signs. Maybe he should've split them up. The year before Starsky was shot, things were strained between them. But since the shooting, they were better than ever, as if they'd been reborn.

   Was that when it started? he couldn't help wondering. Or had it started back in the Academy? And all the women, what was that, for appearances? He remembered that joyful night in the hospital when Starsky was truly on the mend and Hutch had come back from San Francisco after busting James Gunther. He recalled Hutch climbing playfully into bed with Starsky, giggling like a child. They seemed so innocent to him then. He ran a hand through his dense, curly hair and tried, vainly, to stop thinking about it.

   It didn't matter when or how or why, he knew. The only thing that mattered was finding out who did this to them, and coming up with a way to solve it. Bile rose in his churning gut as he realized for the thousandth time since the package was delivered to him that there was no way to solve this. No way that he could see. But he'd do what he could. He owed it to them.

   The phone rang at his elbow, startling him. He glanced at his watch. He expected them to need more time than that. He lifted the receiver.

   "We're ready to talk now, Captain," Hutchinson said into the phone, his voice soft, contained.

   Dobey only nodded, and lifted his considerable bulk and walked somberly into his office. The only thing he could ever remember going through that was as bad as this was the death of John Blaine, another fine detective caught in a compromising situation -- only this one was so much worse. These men were still alive.

   He opened his own door quietly and surveyed the room. The film had been rewound and rethreaded. The pictures restacked neatly and put back in their folder. The most disturbing thing about the tableau was the distance between the two men. In all the years they had worked for Dobey, they never managed to be more than three feet apart in this room at any time, and now they were twice that. Worlds apart. Not good. Not a good start at all. And bound to get worse. His guilty knowledge tortured him, made his stomach churn sickly.

   He sucked in his massive girth, drew himself up. He was the Captain here. His men looked to him for leadership. He owed that to them -- that, and so much more.

   "Cap'n," Hutchinson said softly, as Starsky eyed the blond cop from across the room, "we're sorry you -- had to deal with this. Near as Starsky and I can figure it, someone slipped us a mickey at Huggy's bar last night. Our memory of events -- " here Hutch eyed his partner back -- "is shaky at best. We were totaled. Huggy had to drive us home. This -- " he indicated the film and pictures -- "is damned embarrassing, but I swear it was an isolated incident. It won't happen again. But we'll understand if you feel the need for disciplinary -- "

   Dobey's expression cut Hutch off in mid-stream. "Neither of you has a clue as to what this is all about, have you?" he said sternly. The two partners glanced guiltily at each other, trying to gauge what to say. He'd always found that the most annoying trait between them, that damn telepathy they used.

   "You think all I'm worried about is the embarrassment? That I called you in here for a scolding about your personal behavior?" He couldn't bring himself to yell at them, and that was odd enough. God knew he wanted to shake them senseless. But what he yet had to say to them -- he could barely force himself to do it.

   "Let me tell you something," Dobey said in a nearly normal tone. "I worked side by side with John Blaine for many years. He was a fine detective and a fine man. When, during the investigation of his homicide, the department found out he was a closeted gay, I was the one who wouldn't let them bury him in obscurity. I made sure he got every honor due him, that his name was placed on the hero's memorial, that he was afforded every respect. My opinion about John Blaine as a man, and a cop, didn't change one bit once I learned the truth about him. And don't either of you ever forget it."

   The two men grew even more somber, nodding their heads at their captain, worry and hesitancy in their every move.

   "Now, I don't care if this -- " he waved at the pictures and the film, "has been goin' on for twenty four hours or twelve years. I don't care. It's your business, long as you do your job, and you've done a damn sight more than that over the years under me. You're the best detectives this precinct's ever turned out, maybe the best in the state."

   Hutch visibly reddened from the praise, and Starsky dropped his eyes.

   "But right now, you're actin' worse than the greenest rookies. You're standing here, stammerin' at me about the department's embarrassment and missin' the whole damned picture. In over six years of workin' in this department, you've never stood this far apart while in my office. You can barely stand to look at each other, the morning after -- " he ran out of words to express himself and just pointed to the film, "that. Now, I want you to stop actin' like two high school kids who went too far after the prom, and start actin' like the seasoned cops you are. Damn it, you were set up! By experts. Who's after you and why should've been the first things on your mind."

   The two cops stared at each other dumbfounded. Clearly, they hadn't gotten past self-recrimination yet. The pale remnants of color in Hutchinson's pasty face fled and he sagged bonelessly into the nearest chair. Starsky seemed rooted to the spot he was in, and that disturbed Dobey no end.

   "What's the matter with you, man?" he barked at Starsky. "Your partner looks like he's about to pass out. Get him some coffee."

   Starsky acted like someone had just lit a bomb under him. "Right, Cap'n!" he answered smartly and nearly leaped over to the ever-present pot. Fixing the brew perfectly for his friend, he dropped down to one knee to hand it Hutch, checking his expression. "Hutch? You okay?" the blond shook his head wearily, but took the cup. Tentatively, Starsky patted his partner's knee awkwardly, and Dobey wondered if that was the first time the normally affectionate Starsky had risked personal contact since they saw the film. This was not good.

   "What's the whole picture, Cap'n?" Hutch asked after draining half the cup.

   As grim as you could imagine, Dobey thought angrily. "This package was delivered to my home at three a.m. To my home. When I realized what it was, I came in here to find packages of these photos -- in every officers' mailbox. They were all over the precinct. I had most of 'em confiscated, but they'd already been seen. By three thirty, I was getting calls from the district attorney, the mayor -- and every paper in Los Angeles. They'd all gotten packages, too."

   Starsky lost his balance at that point and sank to the floor at Hutch's feet. He moaned audibly and buried his head in his hands. Hutch touched him, lightly at first, then patted his shoulder.

   "Then the calls from local tv stations came in, and the national wire services," Dobey continued relentlessly. "Because you both work regularly undercover, your personal phones and addresses are classified, which kept you from finding the jackals at your door this morning. This situation could not possibly be worse. You've gone, in one brief night, from being the media darlings of L.A. to being a nationwide scandal to police departments everywhere. And all of this, all of it, is clearly a concentrated effort to destroy you, to remove you from the force, and effectively neutralize you. And you walked right into it."

   "Gunther," Hutch whispered roughly, as if it all suddenly became clear to him.

   "Got to be," Dobey agreed. "I called Huggy and he confirmed where you were staying. I had the crime lab go to Hutchinson's place, and let themselves in. They found the same camera and transmitting equipment set up at Hutch's place as was used at yours, Starsky. Once I was sure you were on your way in here, I had the crime lab sweep your place, Starsky. They found the cameras all right, but not a single fingerprint or any other evidence. And the cameras -- they were strictly defense issue stuff -- highest technology."

   "How else could they've gotten such high quality images in available light?" Hutch murmured dismally.

   "I've got a lab technician waiting to take blood from both of you," Dobey told them, "so we can try and determine what they gave you at Huggy's. There's no way of knowing whether there'll be after-effects, but any residue can be used for evidence, especially if it's a mind-altering substance. Best as Huggy could figure out, his new bartender had to be involved. He thinks he must've coated your glasses with the stuff. Of course, by this morning, everything had been put through the dishwasher -- and the bartender's gone to parts unknown."

   Dobey swallowed. "Huggy said he was roused at four by the delivery of a similar package. He was just about to call me when I reached him. He says the pictures are all over the street. All over."

   The two cops looked completely beaten. It just about destroyed their Captain to do this to them, but he knew in the long run, his brutal honesty was necessary. He coughed lightly. "I can't lie to you men. Gunther's won this round. The damage has been done."

   Both men looked at him expectantly.

   "The mayor is calling for your immediate dismissal from the force. I've refused him. But I'll have to suspend you -- without pay -- while the department has an official investigation."

   "Suspend us?" Starsky said incredulously. "But Cap'n -- if we're suspended -- how will we investigate -- ?"

   "You'll have to trust the department to do it, Starsky," Dobey told him. "I'm sorry."

   "Starsky, can't you see what we're dealing with here?" Hutch said patiently. "Even if we can trace it back to Gunther, where will it get us? He's already in jail for life. We can't touch him for this. He could've tried to kill us again far easier than pulling off this set-up. He wanted to achieve this exact result. He's ruined us."

   "Not yet," Dobey argued. They glanced at him without hope. "You still have your partnership. You still have each other. You've turned around the bleakest scenarios by depending on that. Only if you let him destroy that, will he have won. I'm telling you men, you need each other now more than ever. You can't let him win! Not after all you've been through."

   The two cops exchanged a worried glance, then turned back to Dobey.

   "Look," the Captain reminded them, "I'm on your side in this. And I'll fight for you. I want you working as cops in this department for as long as you want the job. And I'll do everything in my power to get you back here. What you have to do is stick together, watch each other's back, and be prepared for what's gonna come down. It's gonna be bad. Real bad. And then it's gonna get worse. But if you stick together, like the partners you are, you can handle it. Until it's finally over, and you can get back to work."

   "You really think that's gonna happen, Captain?" Hutch asked, disbelief thick in his voice.

   "I think it'll take awhile," Dobey admitted, "and I think we'll be swimmin' upstream. But, yes, I think, if you stick it out, you'll be back here, exonerated, when this is over."

   "Never thought I'd call you a cock-eyed optimist, Cap," Starsky said wearily.

   "Never mind what you feel like callin' me, Starsky," Dobey growled. "Right now -- I've got to ask for your badges, and your guns. Then I've got to ask you to clean out your desks and your lockers -- until you get a call from me tellin' you to come back to work. You may be called in for questioning. There may be hearings -- "

   "We know the drill, Captain," Hutch said disgustedly, as he dug in his pocket for his shield.

   Starsky had already laid his on the desk as he unharnessed his gun. His body was coiled, spring-tight. "Cap'n," he said quietly, "what happened with Russo?"

   Dobey glanced away from him, then finally met the piercing blue eyes. "He spent the night in the tank -- but Huggy wouldn't press charges. He was fined and released. I've -- put a note in his file. But he'll be back on duty tonight."

   Starsky actually laughed. "He tried to draw his weapon on us in a crowded bar, and he'll be back on duty tonight. While we, in the privacy of our home -- "

   "Starsk," Hutch said softly. The single admonition was enough to quiet the furious cop.

   "Where are you two gonna be?" Dobey asked in a low tone.

   "You mean after we give a pint upstairs, and clean out our desks and our lockers?" Starsky asked pointedly. "Why do you need to know? Are we under arrest, Captain? Maybe on a sodomy charge?"

   Hutch looked at the ceiling, the raw pain in Starsky's voice tearing into him visibly. He clamped a hand on his friend's shoulder and propelled him to the door. "We'll be at my place, Captain. Call any time."

   Starsky was out the door before Hutch, giving Dobey a chance to add, "Believe me, son -- I'm hurting with you on this one."

   Hutch only nodded before leaving Dobey alone in the dim, quiet room.

   Three men sat in the brilliantly colored Torino while a grey mist washed over a grey city landscape. Yet, in the front passenger's seat, Hutch really felt as if he were sitting there completely alone.

   "I don't know what to say to you two," the thin, black man in the back seat murmured softly. Hutch tried to remember when he'd last seen Huggy Bear this subdued, this -- average -- and he couldn't. "I feel like it's completely my fault. Gunther set you up and used me to deliver."

   "Huggy," Starsky said quietly, "no one's blamin' you."

   "I'm blamin' me," Huggy insisted. "I hired that dude without checkin' too close. One good reference, took the brother in. Complete ringer. Wined you and dined you in my 'stablishment -- saw how wasted you were and couldn't figger it out. Street smart dude like me. I should'a stayed with you. Never would'a happened. They know what it was yet?"

   "No," Hutch said, feeling the hum whispering to him. Wish I could get some more. Just a taste to kill this ache. Just enough to function. He shuddered, and Starsky's eyes cut right to him, seeing it. They didn't speak. "Might know tomorrow." He scrubbed his face with his hands.

   The blood tech from the crime lab wouldn't look them in the eye when she took the blood. They'd always flirted with her before, she was such a sweet, innocent kid. Used to tease her about taking her out and making her choose between them. Now she couldn't look at them. She'd had to stick Starsky twice, she was so nervous.

   "I just don't know what to say to you," Huggy repeated mournfully.

   The two cops had called him from a phone booth, picked him up in the street. Huggy tried to get them to come into the bar, but they couldn't face it yet.

   "You could tell us you're still our friend," Starsky said into the quiet.

   Hutch thought he heard Huggy's breath catch sharp. "I can't b'lieve you askin' me that."

   Starsky exhaled roughly. "We're not in a position to take anything for granted anymore, Huggy." Starsky's blue eyes went to the rear view mirror and met with the dark eyes in the back.

   Hutch knew exactly what Starsky meant. He could still see the obscene graffiti scrawled all over their lockers. Put there by their brother cops. He'd never seen Starsky go as pale as when he'd eyed the painted word COCKSUCKER spilling down his locker door in bright red. Hutch's own locker -- decorated with the word FAGGOT -- seemed almost benign in comparison.

   "You been more than a friend to me, Starsky," Huggy reminded him. "All the years we've been down t'gether? You know my family, you've had holidays at my house. I know your family, I've eaten there. Long as I c'n remember, you been like a brother to me. When you introduced me to your partner, I knew he'd be my brother, too, cause he wouldn't be hangin' with you 'less he could cut it. Now, you gotta ask me this?" Huggy shook his head. "That hurts. But what's happened to you -- at my place -- hurts real bad, too. Since you gotta hear it, I gotta say it. You and Hutch, you'll always be my brothers. That's blood. Thicker than anything. Don't ever ask me that again."

   "Okay," Starsky said mildly with a sly smile. "I won't."

   "What's the word?" Hutch asked softly. "On the street? 'Bout us?"

   Huggy sat back in the car, as if he wanted to disappear into the leather. "'Pends on who you talk to. Everybody's got a different slant. But ever'body knows. I can't lie to you. It's all out there, the whole thing. You're just -- gonna hafta weather it out."

   "'Weather it out?'" Starsky said, as though that were the most incredible notion.

   "Listen, Starsky," Huggy said impatiently, "next week the Towson twins are bound to th'ow another john out the winda and then people be talkin' 'bout that. Or a big score will get dumped overboard and no one will be able to connect. Or the President will have hemorrhoid surgery and that'll be the news of the hour. You just gotta stay cool and weather it out."

   "That might be a little easier to do if we had a job," Hutch mentioned.

   "The last time we left the force," Starsky reminded the occupants of the car, "we didn't have much luck in becoming gainfully employed."

   "'Cept now we might be more open-minded about that porn studio that offered us a gig last time," Hutch said, looking sideways at his partner. Starsky glared at him. "Okay, bad joke."

   "Speakin' o' jobs," Huggy said off-handedly, "I did hear from someone who's sympathetic to your -- situation. I didn't know if I should even mention it, though."

   The two men turned to Huggy at the same time. "Hug," Starsky said impatiently, "right now, in this entire city, there's maybe five people 'sympathetic to our situation.' We need all the allies we can get."

   Huggy wet his lips and took a deep breath. "I heard from Sugar over at the Green Parrot -- "

   Both men sighed heavily and turned back to face the front.

   Sugar was the stage name of a transvestite entertainer at a well-known gay bar. Starsky and Hutch -- and Huggy -- briefly worked undercover there while trying to solve John Blaine's murder.

   "You wanna hear the rest of this?" Huggy said irritably.

   Hutch saw Starsky's jaw set, but even so, the blond said, "Sure. Let's hear it."

   "Sugar talked to the owner 'bout what happened to you guys. She's outraged at the way you're being treated by the city."

   "Nobody does outrage like Sugar," Hutch admitted wryly. He could just see her confronting the Mayor as Bette Davis in a Jezebel rage. This place is such a dump!

   "She talked to the owner. They need a bartender and a bouncer for Thursdays through Sundays. The pay is pretty good, and the bartender gets tips."

   "I bet," Starsky said glumly.

   "It'll pay the rent and gas money for this tank," Huggy reminded them, "which could give you the freedom to do your po-lice thing the rest of the time. Besides -- at the Green Parrot you'll at least be socializing with a group of people who aren't going to judge you for an evening's indiscretion."

   The words hung there in the car, with no one saying anything. Finally, Starsky murmured, "That what you think this was, Huggy? An 'evening's indiscretion?'"

   "Starsky," the black man said wearily, "in the first place, you gotta stop carin' 'bout what anybody else thinks. If you don't, you're gonna go crazy -- and for you, m'man, that is a short trip. In the second place -- I knew the two of you loved each other the first day I met you. Whether you've been celebratin' that love all these years, or just tripped over it the other night, makes no never mind to me. But it clearly does to you. And that makes me sad. Lot of us go through life day in and day out, searchin' high and low for someone -- anyone -- to love. Prayin' we find someone. And here be you two white boys wastin' all this precious time, takin' each other for granted."

   With that, Huggy left the car. Leaning back into Hutch's window, he said, "What'chu want me to say to Sugar?"

   "Right now," Hutch said, "say nothing. We'll think about it. We'll call you."

   Huggy reached in, slapped their palms, and strolled back through the drizzle to his bar.

   When Starsky pulled the Torino up to its berth outside Starsky's apartment, Hutch realized they'd been away from the place for less than five hours. It had seemed centuries ago since they'd left here. They were different men then, totally different. Even Hutch was different now. Though he had held his guilty knowledge in silence, still he could not have anticipated the incredible events unfolding around them. On the floor of the car around his feet were a half-dozen newspapers with their pictures on the cover and the lurid headlines about their scandalous "gay sex affair." Sooner or later Hutch was going to have to call his family. Starsky hadn't yet faced that eventuality, as if the same wire services didn't go as far as New York.

   They sat there in the car without speaking until finally Hutch said, "You want to stay here tonight? By yourself? I can catch a cab -- ?" It was all just words. He didn't really know what they meant, or why he was saying them. He had no direction right now. Well, maybe one.

   Starsky wet his mouth, and Hutch had to look away when he did. "Hutch, forget it. I'm not leavin' you alone. You're strung out and you don't even know it. You've been getting whiter by the hour. You need some food, and about twelve hours sleep, and that's what you're gonna get. But -- I need a change of clothes, and some other stuff, so I thought I'd come by and get it now. Then we'll head for Venice Place. Besides -- isn't that where you told Dobey we'd be?"

   Hutch nodded absently. Sounded like a good plan. What time was it in Minnesota now? They sat there for a long time, until Hutch finally pulled himself into the present and looked at his partner. "You gonna get your stuff? Need my help?"

   Starsky's jaw was working, and he swallowed once or twice. He didn't look at Hutch. "I -- uh -- Hutch, I -- " He sighed and tried again, finally whispering. "I can't go up there."

   Oh. He couldn't even bring himself to look at the scene of the crime. Hutch felt his insides twist a little tighter. Okay. He'd deal with it. He blinked and rubbed his face again. "Your bag still in the hall closet where you usually keep it?"

   Starsky nodded.

   "Want something to read?"

   The dark head shook no.

   "Okay, I'll only take a minute." Hutch left the car already digging for his keys. He entered the apartment and tried to ignore the fingerprint dust and other evidence of the crime lab's perusal. It was just Starsky's place, an apartment where he spent at least fifty percent of his off duty time. He went to the hall closet, pulled out Starsky's sports bag, stuffed a few shirts in, a couple of pairs of jeans, then moved into the bedroom for fresh underwear.

   He went straight to the dresser, pulled out briefs and undershirts, socks and grooming essentials, and finally zipped up the bag when it was comfortably full. Then, turning, he came face to face with the bed.

   It looked just as it had when he'd left it, only now it wasn't warm anymore. He could still make out the outline where he and Starsky had lain together, belly to back like spoons in a drawer.

    Where we loved together.

   He blinked and tried to look at it like a cop, like the cops who had come here to gather evidence from the scene. He looked up at the mirror, the mirror he'd always hated, the mirror he'd watched his best friend perform in last night -- perform acts of sex -- and love -- with Hutch that had burned themselves into his memory and his heart and his glands and ruined his life, possibly forever. He found the tiny place on the mirror's frame where the minuscule camera had been secreted, like a malignant insect spinning its web. He looked at it dispassionately with a cop's eye for detail for at least a minute.

   Then he stared at the mattress again, with the pale sheets and bright covers all askew. He touched the pillows, touched the sheets, but not with the hands of a cop -- with the hands of someone who'd discovered love in this place -- perhaps the truest love anyone might ever know. Discovered it and lost it all in the same day. He gathered up a pillow -- Starsky's pillow -- and pulled it to his face, inhaling Starsky's scent still lingering there. Gillian's dream-like apparition had promised him that Starsky would always love him -- but Gillian had lied to him before.

   Then he buried his face in the pillow and wept, just for a minute, and mourned the love he feared he'd never know again. Finally, he sucked in a breath, wiped his eyes, picked up Starsky's bag and left the apartment.

   Like his partner, he knew he'd never be able to set foot in this place again.

Empty stomach, empty head

I got an empty heart and an empty bed

          I Don't Remember -- Peter Gabriel

 

CHAPTER 3