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"...The next report I expect to hear -- the only report that I am at all concerned with -- is that we have eliminated, now and forever, the two individuals who are almost single-handedly responsible for the massive damage inflicted on this organization.

"Now and forever, gentlemen, now and forever gone."

When you open up your life to the living,

All things come spilling in on you,

And you're flowing like a river,

The Changer and The Changed

You've got to spill some over, over all

          Waterfall -- Chris Williamson

    Sergeant David Michael Starsky shed the towel that had been carelessly knotted around his hips and stepped naked, sweaty, and weary into the precinct communal shower. Turning the water on full force, he ducked under the steaming spray, grinning. It didn't matter that he was filthy and exhausted, he'd had a good day at work. And after the last nine months, a good day at work was not something he took for granted.

    As soon as the steaming shower water struck his body, Starsky began to mutate. From a tired, grimy, battle-scarred homicide detective, he felt himself change. It started with a soft humming, then the low, throaty trill of "Da-da-da-da, da-da, da-da-da-da," until, before he knew it, Starsky had miraculously transformed into a wet, soapy, naked -- but lithesome -- Gene Kelly performing his world-renowned version of "Singing in the Rain."

    "I'm singin' in the rain!" Starsky warbled, as water cascaded through his curly hair and over his lathered body.

    "Just singin' in the rain!

    "What a glorious feeling!

    "I'm ha-a-a-appy again!"

    Oblivious to the stares of the other officers in the communal shower room, the cop continued to lather and rinse, his somewhat nasal rendition of Kelly's classic reverberating gratingly -- if enthusiastically -- around the tiled walls.

    "I'm la-a-a-ughin' at clouds,

    "so dark up above.

    "The sun's in my heart,

    "and I'm re-e-e-ady for love!"

    As he rinsed the day's sweat and suds away, he added dance steps to his interpretation of the Kelly number. Using a stationary pole as a stand-in in for Kelly's street lamp, he swung around, sliding his feet wetly along the tiles, splashing other cops heedlessly.

     "Let the stormy clouds chase,
    "everyone from the place -- "

     The other officers began abandoning the shower as his musical number grew more enthusiastic and the choreography more complicated, either because of the noise pollution or the fear of imminent collision. Oblivious to the critical walk-outs, Starsky danced on, singing his heart out.

     "Come on with the rain,
    "I've a smi-i-i-le on my face," Starsky sang cheerily, swinging his imaginary umbrella as he exited the shower and headed for his locker. The dark-haired cop never missed a step, as, moving his bare feet nimbly, he slapped his soles noisily along the tiled floor to make up for his lack of dance taps. Leaping smartly up on a bench, he balanced precariously along its length just to add a little Astaire style to the number.

     Stepping gracefully back onto the floor, Starsky attempted a sloppy soft-shoe -- or rather, wet foot -- dance step all the way to the bank of lockers.

     "I'll wa-a-a-lk down the lane,
    "with a ha-a-appy refrain -- "

     Leaving a puddled trail in his wake, he was sure he had out-Kelly-ed Kelly, as he finally took the time to knot a towel around his slim hips while he sashayed along drippingly.

     "I'm singin', yeah,
    "singin' in the ra-a-a-ain!"

     His high-spirited dance eventually brought him abreast of Kenneth Hutchinson, Starsky's blond partner in crime-fighting. Hutch was innocently drying himself by the bank of lockers when Starsky spun, and without warning grabbed the taller man's wrist, propelling the blond cop into his wet embrace, then dropping Hutch into a dramatic dance dip.

    Staring down into his startled friend's handsome face, Starsky announced, "Hutch, after six months of convalescence and three months of down and dirty cop work, today, at last, I feel like I finally washed the remnants of Gunther's slime offa me!"

    Before he could either catch his breath or reply, Hutch scrambled to keep from losing his own towel and his footing on the damp floor, while his awkward attempts to regain both nearly ended them on the tiles in a heap. By the time the two men narrowly regained their equilibrium they were convulsed in helpless laughter.

    "Yeah," Starsky insisted as he released his hold on his taller friend, "What a glorious feeling. I'm ha-a-a-ppy again!"

    Hutch readjusted his towel to ensure his modesty, then pulled fresh clothes out of his locker, having finished his own scrub down moments before. "I think the entire precinct's figured that out, Starsk," Hutch chided him good-naturedly. "What the hell were you singin' in there, anyway? Aida?"

    "Nah! Din't you recognize 'Singin' in the Rain,' the ol' Gene Kelly number?"

    "No, and neither did the other three cops you drove out of the shower who still had soap in their hair. Your fur coat's dripping everywhere, Starsky! Where's your other towel?"

    The hirsute detective peered into his own nearly empty locker, the one directly across from Hutchinson's. "Gone. Maybe Gunther got that, too, along with the tip 'o my liver, a piece a rib, and a half year o' my life. I'll add it to the list of charges we'll be droppin' on his last remaining vice-president. The chump we busted today. The last of the baddest of bad guys! Hah!" Starsky beamed at his buddy.

    Hutchinson grinned back at him as he pulled a towel from his own supply and draped it over the thick mass of dark curly hair still dripping furiously all over the floor. With a deft move, Hutch turned the towel into a tight nun's veil, trapping all the weeping, dark tendrils, finally slowing the expansion of the ever-growing puddle around Starsky's feet. "Will you dry off, already, Sister Mary Starsky, before we have to build a dam around you to control erosion?"

    Starsky beamed up at his taller partner. He would not be distracted. "We did it, Hutch. We really did it. We got every last one of 'em. The entire Board of Directors. Each Vice-President who had The Knowledge. Right on down to the nasty little inside traders who knew the score. Got 'em. Nailed. Tight. Threw away the key." Absently, he fingered the rigid keloid scars that cut across his chest -- Gunther's mementos.

    He caught Hutch glancing at the gesture, then just as quickly looking away. "Don't I always keep my promises?" the big blond murmured.

    Starsky's grinning face started to hurt from all the smiling. He could remember hearing Hutch's voice even through the fog of his coma as the fair-haired cop promised his partner, We'll get 'em, Starsk. They're not gonna win this one. We'll get 'em, buddy, if it's the last thing we do. We're gonna get those bastards for hurtin' you. The miracle was that they had both lived to do it.

    They'd had to fight the effects of Gunther's hired killers who'd put multiple slugs into Starsky's body. The detective had actually died at one point, and had been brought back, the doctors said on sheer will power, but whether it had been Starsky's or Hutchinson's, they didn't know.

    They'd had to fight the natural resistance of Starsky's thirty-five year old body and mind to recovering, and Hutch had assumed that responsibility with a vengeance. He'd driven the recuperating detective like a drill sergeant, driven them both. He'd consulted with the best physical therapists, sought out the latest nutritional advice, had consultations with sports doctors and innovative health gurus who'd helped him design the ultimate in exercise regimens, the perfect diet, the right amount of sleep, with martial arts training and yoga just to round things out. He'd put all the energy he'd normally devoted to police work into curing Starsky and had joined him every step of the way to make it easier to bear. The result was two cops nearing middle age who were in far better shape then men ten years younger. Starsky had never been this fit, not even in the Academy, and neither had Hutch, since the only way he could get Starsky's cooperation was to share the grueling work every step of the way.

    And finally, they'd had to fight administrators who would've been far more comfortable with Starsky's retirement on medical disability then returning the wounded cop-hero to the streets. Only when they'd fought -- and beaten -- those adversaries, had they been able to tackle the huge, octopus-like operation that was Gunther's dynasty. A dynasty they knew Gunther was still able to control from his cell. But not anymore.

    Now it was finished. They'd broken the back of one of the most complex crime organizations in the country with the same brash techniques they'd been using since they'd teamed up at the Academy. Me and thee. They relied on no one but one another, trusted no one but each other.

Works every time, Starsky thought smugly as he dried his furry body and started donning clean clothes for their celebration banquet. Even the paper work is done!

    "I talked to Huggy," Hutch said, his voice muffled as he pulled on a fresh knit shirt over his damp hair. The dark red color brought out the gold tones in his skin. Damp blond strands stuck out every which where when his head finally popped through. Even his mustache was skewed.

    Starsky was struck for the moment with his friend's open vulnerability. Good thing he's got me for a partner, Starsky thought off-handedly. He'd be so easy to take advantage of, with all that heart.

    "He says he saved these special steaks just for us. Prime rib. This thick." Hutch held out his fingers impossibly far.

    "Y'mean, you're gonna let me eat red meat," Starsky asked in mock wonder. "After all these months of rabbit food and bean sprouts? Tofu and bee pollen? Spring water and organic mushrooms? Enough rice and barley and broccoli to feed the third world? Ain't'cha afraid I'll go inta shock, Hutch?"

    The blond cop smacked the hard mass of muscle that was Starsky's chest with the back of his hand. "You're never gonna quit arguin' with success, are you, Starsk? You can have beef. Tonight. But don't get used to it. Back on program tomorrow. I'm not gonna have all that work go down the drain just so you can raise your cholesterol level to its previous astronomical figures. Stick with me and you'll live forever."

    "Or at least, it'll feel that way," Starsky groaned and hid his grin.

    Putting Hutch in charge of his health had kept the blond sane, and helped him work out a lot of the useless guilt and grief he'd carried over Starsky's near-death. Giving up beef was a small price to pay, Starsky thought, to help his friend recover from that terrible experience. Starsky had merely been shot. Hutch had had to deal with witnessing it, watching him die, then see him turn into an invalid inching toward early old age. Giving up that kind of personal control to another man would've once been difficult for Starsky, but he'd watched Hutch nearly die once and understood in the most visceral way the kind of frustrated helplessness the blond cop had had to endure. Once Hutch became his coach, his partner in recovery, the big klutzy blond had shrugged off most of his pointless over-protectiveness and shed his agonizing, useless guilt. They were solid now. The perfect team. Mentally. Physically. Defensively. Me and thee.

    And the remains of Gunther's organization had been crushed under their coordinated skills.

    Starsky slid on a slim pair of briefs and reached for his black knit shirt. Moving closer to Hutch he lowered his voice as he became aware of other officers entering the facility. "This is gonna be the best, Hutch. Just you, me, and Huggy, celebratin' the end o' this. It's gonna be like a new start, y'know?" Yeah, he thought, the sun's in my heart all right, and I'm ready for --

    He paused.

    When they were younger -- before the shooting -- they would've included a pair of nubile secretaries, or maybe a couple of stewardesses in the party. They would end the night trying to prove which one was the better man in bed so they could brag about their prowess the next day. But, to Starsky, none of that seemed important anymore. The doctors had assured him it was common for men to either lose interest in sex or have trouble performing sexually after facing death the way he had, but he wasn't worried about that. Maybe some of it was the discipline of yoga, or the Asian sciences they'd been practicing. Starsky had simply been too determined to recover, to live, to exact his revenge, to even care about getting laid. And it still seemed inconsequential now. Maybe they were both getting older -- but who cared? He'd worry about women tomorrow. Now that Hutch had helped give him the tomorrows to use.

    Hutch paused and stared into Starsky's eager expression. The blonde's sapphire eyes were soft, full of the same concern and caring Starsky had always seen in them. But there were new lines around Hutch's eyes, worry lines, and Starsky's wounding had put them there. Starsky was determined that there would never be another one on that handsome Nordic face -- at least not one he'd be responsible for. He owed Hutch that.

    "You got that right, partner," Hutchinson said quietly. "Just us. And a new day."

    "Oh, did we catch you guys in the clinches again?" a sarcastic baritone intruded.

    Starsky tensed instantly. It was Max Russo, whose caustic humor always bit into him too deep. But he wouldn't let the guy get to him today. Not today. He eased away from Hutch, putting some space between them, and donned his shirt. Even so, he could feel Hutch watching him. The blond knew how much Russo got under Starsky's skin.     

    It's okay, babe, Starsky thought back at his friend, I'm doin' my yoga chant to keep cool, like ya taught me.

    A group of detectives came in and went to their lockers as shifts ended and a new one began.

    Russo opened his own locker, the one right next to Starsky's, with a noisy invasive clatter. The guy was the ultimate macho, red-necked cop, the kind of stereotype Starsky hated. A beefy weight-lifter, Russo towered over Starsky and loved invading his personal space just to force the smaller man to back off. Russo swiveled his crew-cut, bullet-shaped head to peer down at the shorter cop now. "Heard you guys made the papers again."

    Russo's jealousy was well known among the detectives who shared the locker room. He was a mediocre worker and, Starsky suspected, supplemented his income with graft. His partner, Jim Wilson, however, was a decent cop and Starsky had always felt sorry for him, saddled with this festering boil. It certainly hadn't helped his career any. The contrast between Russo and Hutch couldn't have been greater if they were different life forms. Then again, maybe they were.

    "Yeah," Jim said good-naturedly from the other bank of lockers, "heard about the bust. Sounds good. Tight work, you guys."

    "Thanks," Hutch replied to the smaller, greying cop as he finished dressing. Both partners spied the rookie, a young, tall black kid named Tomas Diega, who was riding with the two older cops, and Jim made the introductions.

    "Yeah, these are Metro's official glory hounds," Russo said snidely.

    Oooommmm, Starsky repeated mentally, drawing out the syllable in his mind, focusing on the space between his eyebrows. He could hear Hutch saying softly, Focus on that place, Starsk, that place between your brows, and try to see with your inner eye. He had nearly collapsed in helpless laughter over that silliness -- until he found that the mental concentration really did help his healing response. He had been dead, and was now alive. More than alive. He was young again, strong, renewed. He would not argue with success.

    "If there's a news reporter in a ten mile vicinity," Russo went on as Starsky slipped on red socks, then his favorite faded jeans, "these guys'll find him. They make more headlines than Liz Taylor."

    Hutch finished combing his long hair and came to stand behind his partner, as if he might have to defend Starsky against the sarcastic detective. Starsky found the steadying presence of the blond comforting. Watching his back. As always.

    "Y'know, Russo," Hutch said, the humor clear in his voice, "if you spent as much time hitting the bricks as you did griping about the workload, maybe you'd make the papers once in a while, too."

    "Yeah," Starsky added, shifting his genitals in the tight pants until they were comfortable, then zipping his fly. "The funny papers."

    Hutch and Russo's partner Jim both chuckled, as Hutch casually laid both hands on Starsky's shoulders and squeezed in an unconscious gesture of affection. The two men had always been comfortable touching, but since the shooting, Hutch had needed even more of that contact, as if he had to keep feeling his partner's living warmth, his pulse, his breathing. That was okay. It was a little enough to ask, and Starsky came from a demonstrative family anyway.

    "Oh, christ," Russo grumbled as Hutch touched his buddy, "you're not gonna kiss him in front of the kid, are you?" He indicated the rookie. "The rest of us are used to your fuck-buddy routine, but he's still an innocent."

    Hutch's hands tightened on Starsky's shoulders as he felt the dark-haired man stiffen automatically. No, he would not respond to Russo's constant homo-baiting. Not today. Russo knew it would get a rise out of him, that was why he did it. Starsky focused on his inner eye, and repeated his mantra. Oooooooooommmmmmmmmm. But he couldn't unclench his jaw.

    "You gotta excuse his bad manners," Hutch said to the embarrassed rookie, indicating Russo. "It comes from a lack of support at home. His mother tried to drown him when he was a puppy."

    "Don't worry about it, Max," Starsky said, putting on a deliberate pout as the other cops chuckled along, "Hutch says I'm a lousy kisser. So, I'm goin' celibate."

    The rookie had to hide a wry smile as the rest of the cops laughed.

    "We try not to be in here when they take their shower," Russo shot back, glancing at Starsky from the corner of his eye and recognizing the signs of his irritation. "They spend more time in there on their knees than nuns."

    That's it! Starsky swore, the yoga, the martial discipline, everything forgotten in a flush of heat from a comment that crossed an invisible line somewhere in his mind. His whole body coiled to spring, but Hutch was in front of him now, blocking him, hands on his arms, gently restraining.

    "Not today, Starsk," Hutch said softly, his voice for his partner alone. "Don't let him get to you today. Dinner's waiting."

    Starsky struggled with his rage, found his center, focused, felt the anger slip away. Hutch felt it, too, because the blond released him. No one in the locker room made a sound.

    "Not today," Starsky agreed, indigo eyes burning into Russo's big frame. He did not fear the man's size. It might've given him a moment's pause once, but no longer. The martial arts trainer Hutch had hired had seen to that. No, Starsky feared no man today. He shrugged off the remnants of anger and felt his body go slack. He had to save it for the bad guys. "Not today, Russo."

    The big cop cupped his own genitals, grasping his dick in a gesture of masculine contempt. "But someday, Starsky. You and me. One on one. Keep your knee pads ready."

    The threat was clear, and from across the room Russo's partner hissed, "Max!" The rest of the room went still.

    But Starsky had dropped his anger, released it, so Russo no longer had a hold on him. Even so, Starsky could feel Hutch's eyes on him, worried. "Need only one hand f'that, Max?" he drawled with a crooked grin, his New York accent thick. "Takes me two hands to hang onto mine." And boldly, he demonstrated the truth of his boast by gripping his own well-endowed phallus through his tight jeans with both fists. Every other cop in the room burst into nervous laughter as Russo's posturing proved his own undoing.

    Brazenly, Starsky donned the brown leather jacket studded with Gunther's bullet holes across the back, holes stained dark with his blood. He wore the jacket proudly, even though it made some of the other cops uncomfortable. It was his taunt to death and all the forces that had tried to destroy him and Hutch -- and failed. Then, together, the partners turned their backs on the red-faced cop and sauntered lazily out of the locker rooms, arms around each other's shoulders.

    Once out of ear-shot, Hutch released his hold on his friend and had to cover his face to hold in his laughter. "Starsky! You should be ashamed!"

    "Of being hung?" Starsky asked, laughing just as hard as his partner.

    "No! Of flaunting it in the face of those less privileged." Hutch nearly dissolved then, as no doubt, he recalled Russo's shocked expression.

    "Hey, what can I say?" Starsky replied, still giggling, as they made their way to the parking lot. "We are the Chosen People!"

    Laughing and leaning against each other, they stumbled their way to the repaired Torino. Starsky tried to remember a time when they'd felt this good, this relaxed with each other. When things were so right. It had been a long time. Years maybe. Before women had come between them. Before Hutch had started feeling burned out. Before Hutch had gotten sick once from an enforced addiction, then later from a plague. Before Starsky had been poisoned. Before he'd been shot. It had been awhile.

    But that was over now. They were both healed, body and soul. Healthy, strong, together. Me and thee against the world. Today and always, Starsky vowed. Always.

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord

I've been waiting for this moment, all my life, Oh Lord

Can you feel it coming in the air tonight?

                In the Air Tonight -- Phil Collins

 

CHAPTER 1