Title: The Happiest Halloween

Author: Kaye Austen Michaels

First Posted: October 25, 2001 at Love of Me and Thee

Summary: With a little help, Starsky and Hutch learn just how important they are to each other. Halloween festivities and humor thrown in for good measure. Beware, the caramel apples just might make you hungry! LOL.

Notes: Special smiles and thanks go to Karen-Leigh for beta-reading and her invaluable support. She's a particularly lucky talisman for a writer! :-)

Sequel: Unplugged

The Happiest Halloween


From the personal papers of Kenneth R. Hutchinson, Detective Sergeant, Bay City PD

October 1980

I'm not one to chronicle events and have personal thoughts lying around on sheets of paper, but I'm making an exception in this case. This particular life milestone deserves more than one of my songs, poems, or paintings. When I told Starsky I planned to write the story of three of the most important days of my life, he just gifted me with one of those "Aw, Hutch" grins and patted me on the head. Now, I'd say something about those pats on the head but I'd be giving away an important part of the story ahead of time, so suffice it to say that I didn't growl or snap at him for treating me like a Scottish terrier.

One thing you need to know about me from the start. I have my fair share of moods. I'm not talking about range of emotion. My partner has an incredible range of emotion. He can swing through effervescent happiness, righteous indignation, and abject mourning in the space of a day if events warrant. In my case, moods aren't necessarily prompted by something as concrete as a bust gone sour or a date that should go down in the books as a positive argument for asexual breeding. There are times when I can cheerfully withstand days that leave Starsky considering early retirement and weeks when the most beautiful sunset since the dawn of time would only inspire my philosophical ranting about the fleeting nature of life. An example of that phenomenon has to be the antenna-wire case when we lost Starsky's former love, Helen. I'd prepared his favorite meal, we were both alive after having to chase the killer to the top of a radio station's tower, and I was blessed to have Starsky in one emotional piece, but all I could offer as condolence and encouragement was commentary on the transcience of all things beautiful. I'm lucky he didn't walk out the door instead of teasing me about Reader's Digests in the john and taking up the violin. That's my partner: adept at handling a Hutchinson.

But the events of over a year ago--especially Starsky's successful recovery-- had all but vanquished that part of my personality. Starsky commented more than once, after he left the hospital and before we returned to the job, that in the event of a sudden solar black-out, I had the world covered as far as warmth and light are concerned. Then, a few weeks ago and without warning, the bottom fell out of my basket of sunbeams. Basically, I started acting like a Victorian widow minus the black lace veil. I didn't even know why. The bloom was off the rose of having returned to the force following Starsky's--leave of absence. We were well into our usual groove, perhaps stronger than ever, although I sometimes felt that I worked with one of those buy-one-get-one-free specials. I had the comfort of the same old Starsky with the added bonus of new layers in his personality. Even tiny details like his taste in music or how he'd linger over a donut instead of jamming the whole thing in that enthusiastic mouth. If we were walking down a street and a stray dog approached and licked at his heels, he'd stop and pet the creature with this soft smile of indulgence on his face.

Then there were more significant changes. On several of our free Saturdays I'd called hoping for a basketball partner or beach buddy and found he'd just gotten back from meeting with Rabbi Levi, who had visited Starsky several times in the hospital. Those phone calls still stand out in my mind. We never made it to the basketball court or the ocean. Instead, we hashed out questions of life-meaning spawned by something the Rabbi had said.

Starsky spent five minutes in the park one day helping this little girl tie a huge bow on her recalcitrant Siamese kitten. The kitten was irate from having endured a lengthy ride in a doll stroller and I foresaw imminent disaster. Starsky ended up with five scratches on his left hand and never once complained while I cleaned and disinfected his battle scars. Normally he'd have grumped and whined like a kid with a scraped knee just to jerk my chain.

At first I just basked in the warmth of Starsky's new lease on life. Recently, though, the more pleasant manifestations of his character I witnessed, the deeper I fell into the pit of depression. Strangely, I didn't withdraw and brood myself through the mood. No, this time I took refuge in treating my best friend, my partner, the very best part of my life like he was unwashed and mildewed laundry. The sadder I felt, the snippier and grumpier I became in his presence. Starsky never called me on my juvenile behavior. That's something else different. Before the--the shooting, he'd have dragged my ass behind the police station and chewed me a new throat while also managing to convey just how glad he was to have me as a best friend despite my tendency to inspire murder and violence in those I love best. Now, he just smiled benevolently and went about his business...shooting me a sympathetic, concerned glance every now and then that left me feeling like a heel.

Then my strange and sudden snit took a more ominous turn. Starsky had been mentioning this girl named Lyza. Strange name and, in my opinion, an even stranger person. She lives alone out in the hills, raises Angora rabbits, and claims to be some sort of medium. God forbid what might happen to those rabbits at some of her ceremonies. How she managed to get hooked up with Starsky was a mystery to me. He wouldn't tell me how they met--always a warning signal in my mind. She's not even what I consider pretty. Striking, I guess. Huge dark eyes and this raven silk that flows all the way to her waist and seems to have a life of its own. I despised her.

She called the station one afternoon to confirm a date with Starsky that evening. I don't know what came over me. I'd been behaving halfway human during most of that day. Starsky wasn't treading on tiptoe around me. Dobey had actually smiled at me once. I hadn't fielded any confused looks from the other officers. But after that phone call I relinquished control to whatever alien now inhabited my body and when Starsky returned from haggling with Bigelow over a piece of equipment for an upcoming stakeout, I gave him the message, told him I didn't want to be the social secretary for the Mistress of the Occult, and left the station. Just left. I had to leave. I had a lump in my throat the size of a basketball and I couldn't see straight.

Starsky had driven that morning so I walked to the bus stop and caught a bus headed toward Venice. I got off the bus at a small, quiet seaside park. Lacking a playground, basketball and tennis courts, the park mainly attracted artists, musicians, and joggers. I dropped onto a bench and ignored the scenery, hunching over and burying my face in my hands.

A soft, accented voice by my side nearly propelled me into the ocean. "Now, now young man. What has such a healthy, fair-haired boy in despair? Isn't right."

I lifted my eyes and blinked at the small lady who shared my bench. Wizened face, kindly eyes magnified by glasses, and white hair pulled into a lopsided bun, she patted my knee as though she'd known me all my life. "Come now, tell me what has made you sad."

"I--I don't know," I answered truthfully. "I feel--I feel like the world is coming to an end."

"Ach! During this beautiful time of the year?" A tiny wrinkled hand caressed my shoulder. "I've always loved this season. I have twenty-five grandchildren. Can you believe it? Twenty-five. And I make Halloween costumes for each one. Used to be that was a simple task. Orange felt for pumpkins, sheets for ghosts. But I remember two years ago...do you want to know what my grandson wanted?"

I tried to smile. "A sea monster?"

"No," she laughed. "Worse. He'd just turned thirteen and was already interested in young ladies, especially one in particular. They were going to their school's carnival together and he wanted to be John Travolta. You know, he played Danny the--how you say--happening fellow from 'Grease?' My grandson's little girlfriend was going as 'Sandy,' you see. Which was well and good for her with her blonde hair and little button nose, but how was I to turn an undersized thirteen-year old with red hair from my husband's side of the family, and a Slavic nose from mine, into John Travolta?"

I laughed and felt a burst of warmth in my chest. "How did you do?"

"Very good, if I may so myself," she beamed, hand moving back to my knee. "He won the costume contest, even. So, if I can accomplish such a miracle as that, perhaps I can help you?"

I sobered. "I don't think so. Thanks anyway."

"Nonsense, young man. I do not give up so easily. Perhaps we could go dancing?" She winked at me. "Do you dance?"

"I'd say very well, but I just couldn't lie to you," I grinned.

"Ah, a pity. My poor late Kieran made me promise I would never re-marry unless I could find a man who dances as well as he did. I thought I found a candidate a couple years ago while waiting in the hospital for some pesky test, but I could tell his heart was engaged elsewhere...although, he didn't know it, poor fellow. I wonder if he's seen the light yet. Oh, but I'm babbling, silly old me. Don't you have someone who always makes you happy?"

I looked away from her loving eyes. "Th-that's part of the problem. I--I could always count on my best friend, but lately I feel the worst around him. He's catching the brunt of the fall-out from this-- I don't know--mood or whatever."

She folded her hands in her lap and gently rocked back and forth, a look of concentration on her face. Then she smiled and I thought it was no coincidence that the sun came out from behind a cloud at the identical moment. "Well, well, here's what you need to do. You are going to take care of him."

I felt my mouth fall open. "But--you don't understand. I already do that, and he takes care of me. We're partners--policemen," I hastened to explain. She took control of my knee again.

"No, no, silly boy. Protection, looking out for each other, that is not what I mean. Cater to his needs. Make him feel special, appreciated, adored. Everyone on earth should have the feeling of adoration. Love, hah, that can be commonplace. People are all the time thinking they are in love. How many people can truthfully say, I am adored?"

I frowned. "I think that's Lyza's province, not mine."

"And who is this Lyza?" She tilted her head and peered straight up into my eyes. My face burned and I wanted to drop my gaze but she wouldn't let me.

"He's been seeing this girl named Lyza. Isn't adoration a girlfriend's job?"

"Depends. Does she love him?"

"I don't know. I've been trying to keep my distance from that whole situation." Even I heard the bitterness in my voice. She laughed.

"Beautiful, foolish man, you're his best friend. It's your place to know if he's loved and by whom. And if you don't know, then it's your job to make sure he's adored either way."

I laughed out loud, "Sweet lady, you've got to understand. I don't--I can't--"

"What? Now you're embarrassed. What is it about emotional words that make Americans turn all rosy and speechless? This I will never understand. I tell you, young fellow, if you follow my advice you'll find all of your problems solved. Giving is the key to true enlightenment. When we give to others, we share our souls and in doing so we learn about our own souls. Trust me on this. I am old and have seen much."

I stood slowly and leaned over to plant a kiss on her bun. She giggled like a schoolgirl and said, "Such a pity you don't dance very well." I thanked her with another kiss on her bun and left. I knew I couldn't face going back to work so I walked the rest of the way home.

The next day, my turn to drive, Starsky climbed into Belle with a fond pat on her hood and just grinned a good-morning. But I knew, I knew from his eyes that he'd been worried. As soon as I got home from the park, I'd called the station and left a message for Starsky that I was alive and home, and then I'd taken my phone off the hook. A definite no-no in the cop's rulebook but nothing could induce me to care. He didn't press me for explanations; just told me he'd cleared my disappearance with Dobey as one of my famous bouts with hay fever. His eyes flashed warmth and understanding. His voice held no recriminations. His hand clutched my shoulder despite what I know had to be a forbidding scowl on my face. And still I couldn't even bring myself to ask about his date with Lyza or thank him for saving my ass with the captain.

I felt like a cretin. Make that a degenerate cretin. I locked myself away in the john at Metro and proceeded to call myself unfavorable names in English, Spanish, and German. I haven't a clue where I picked up the German. Then I made a crucial decision to follow Granny's advice. Starsky would feel like he had his own personal genie hanging out in his back pocket. I couldn't be open about this whole adoration thing without Starsky having me committed, but anonymity shouldn't hinder the project's success. Giving is giving, right? By the time I entered the squad room I had several plans rolling around my brain.

I started by insisting on typing up both our reports of a recent bust based on his notes. He lounged in the chair munching on a candy bar and regarded me like I'd simultaneously sprouted wings and horns. When we took a break for lunch while out on our 'beat', I didn't utter a peep when he insisted on stopping by this new place that gets kick-backs from all the Internists in Bay City. We shared a seemingly bottomless bowl of lava, otherwise known as chili, and ended up having a straw wrapper fight. He looked about ten and high on chocolate. I had the strangest urge to reach out and trace one of his laugh lines with my fingertips. That thought turned me redder than the chili and Starsky just tilted his head to the side and asked if I needed any Pepto.

The following morning, I beamed like a new father when Starsky found a basket of gourmet pastry waiting for him on his desk. This was the good stuff. One of those bakeries you need a movie career to afford. Their clientele is solely responsible for most of our country's big screen entertainment. I'd seen Starsky salivating over some of their ads in the newspaper but he never actually suggested we sample their product. My oversized smile faded somewhat when Jimmy Tisdale, one of our new plainclothes guys, commented on the basket and Starsky grinned, speculating that his new female friend swore by this bakery's Baklava and must be trying to sweeten their relationship. Lyza! I just laughed--an utterly flat laugh if you ask me--and made some smartass remark about her fattening him up for the kill. Starsky paused in mid-bite, wadded the pastry wrapping and flung it at me. I was too busy staring at the crinkle lines around his smiling eyes to retaliate.

My next project was the Torino. Since--since Gunther, the Tomato requires far more tender loving care to keep her in excellent running condition. Some of her repairs--although a testament, even I have to admit, to Merle's genius--only served as band-aids battling gaping wounds that were determined to have their day. I knew the Torino's miles were numbered, but Starsky refused to face that reality. He swore up and down that Belle would flop first. Starsky had been blabbing about plans to drop his prized possession off for a deluxe tune-up of some sort only known to car lovers worldwide. I swung by Merle's and pumped him for price estimates. As usual, he could predict Starsky's next request. I swear he's blood-related to that car somehow.

At any rate, I forked over hard cash and forced him into an oath of secrecy. Together--the first time Merle and I have ever concurred on anything! --we formulated a plan for Merle to realistically refuse Starsky's payment for services rendered. I was just in time. That very afternoon Starsk entrusted Merle with his beloved eyesore-on-wheels.

Needless to say I was surprised when Starsky picked me up the next morning. I climbed in, kicked back, and said, "Tomato's really humming today." Wrong thing to say. Starsky's brain is a dangerously sharp object. Since when have I ever commented on the quality of the Torino's mechanical hum?

"Funny you should mention that," he said. "Merle put her through the paces yesterday evening. Worked her up lickety-split like he was racing against the clock and then didn't even charge me. Says he went back over the books and decided he'd over-charged me for some work a few months back."

"Well, maybe Merle's not such a bad guy," I responded vaguely, feeling those piercing eyes on the side of my face.

"Interesting opinion from someone who chased him onto the top of a car," Starsky just commented in that new, soft voice I didn't recognize.

"The same car he turned into a petting zoo attacked by a mad taxidermist," I retorted. Starsky burst out laughing and I felt a sudden intimate acquaintance with the sun. I was Daedalus' son flying high and praying that my waxwings didn't melt.

They melted. Halfway through the morning Lyza made an appearance at the station. Where she got the Lily Munster gown she often wears around, I don't know, but it certainly created a sensation. Every man in the entire squad room dropped anything in their hands and stared, open-mouthed. Starsky greeted her with a hug and a peck on the cheek. She ruffled my hair and I bit back a frown. Really, I wanted to bite her hand.

"Whatcha want, schweetheart?" Starsky asked with a wink, squeezing her waist. She gave that tinkly, hand-bell laugh that grates on my sole remaining nerve and murmured something about making reservations for the following night at Gianni de Alphonso's.

I sucked in my breath sharply. I'd just that morning put an anonymous gift certificate for dinner for two at that precise restaurant in the mail to Starsky. No way had it reached him yet. Starsky confirmed that by placing a hand over the left side of his chest and gasping in mock horror. "Honey, on my public servant's salary, I couldn't spring for one of their doggy bags."

"Uh uh uh," Lyza tittered. "Only the best for the best, remember?"

I didn't want to speculate on why she thought she qualified as the best. I had to think fast. Confessing my purchase of the gift certificate didn't appeal to me, but I didn't want him thinking it was yet another gift from Lyza either. I cleared my throat and said, "Hey, buddy, this month's policemen's appreciation prize is dinner for two at Gianni de Alphonso's. I entered us both a couple of weeks ago. You ought to be hearing any day now if you won."

A partial lie. We do have monthly policemen's appreciation prizes. In June 1979 city businesses formed the program to show their support for police work. Every month some business features a prize and all city policemen put their names into a drawing. Although never expressly said, I believe the timing is evidence enough that the city realized the value of their law officers when one of them almost--almost got blown into eternity in his very own station's parking lot. Only, this month's prize, a certificate for a month's free gas, had already been awarded. But Starsky had been too preoccupied lately to register this month or notice the drawing, I assured myself.

"No kidding?" He gave my shoulder an affectionate shove and I had to talk to myself in backward sentences to keep from snatching that hand and holding it in place. I grinned, nodded, and excused myself. I had to get out of that room. I had to...I needed fresh air. Yeah, fresh air. Clear the sinuses. Lyza's over-powering perfume was the culprit.

I leaned against the building, in the mild October sunlight, and cursed myself backwards and forwards. The whole point of this endeavor was to make Starsky feel special. If that meant standing by while he took Miss Twilight Zone out to dinner at the most expensive, most romantic, most seductive dining establishment in the entire city, fine. More babies had been conceived thanks to Gianni's oyster frittata appetizer than the return of all the World War II GI's. So, who cares? Nothing to me. Fine. Okay. I was in control. I walked back inside and received one more hair ruffling before Lyza departed. I swallowed a growl.

"Don't you like women playing with your hair?" Starsky asked innocently, laughing. I whirled on him.

"Not that--Ahem. Um.... Sure, I don't mind. Your friend, my friend. What's a little hair between friends?" I forced a bright smile, plopped down in my chair, and grabbed some more of the overdue paperwork that had Dobey screeching.

"Wouldn't it be something if I won that dinner-for-two," Starsky mused, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, something," I mumbled, trying to keep my hands from shaking as I typed.

That night Starsky asked me to go with him for burgers and pool at Huggy's. I agreed wholeheartedly, envisioning an evening of jokes, horseplay, and the pride of watching Starsky provide an education on bank shots to the entire bar. My unusually good mood lasted until I almost squashed a white paperboard box in the passenger seat. Starsky snatched it and had it halfway to the backseat when I asked, casually, "What's that?"

Starsky got that 'caught behind the schoolhouse smoking' look. "Oh, just something I picked up for Lyza."

"Her birthday close?" I'd already surmised the contents of the box, based on size and type.

Starsky shook his head. "Nah. Just wanted to do something, you know, nice." He lifted the lid and produced the gift for my inspection. Flowing satin and velvet, and more elegant than anything else Lyza probably had in her closet if the Lily Munster gown was any indication. I felt slivers of ice slip into my blood stream. How had Lyza inspired my Starsky to darken the door of a dress shop when he hadn't even bought clothes for Terry? And why the hell was I thinking of him as my Starsky?

"Nice. Just in time for your date at Gianni's." I tried to cram some semblance of approval into my voice. Starsky just blinked at me and shoved the box into the back seat.

"You think it's too much?"

"Too much for what? You bought her a dress. I think that's--that's sweet. Very thoughtful. She'll love it, partner. No doubt." I was glad when he just waved an impatient hand at the topic in general and switched the subject.

Huggy's was hopping and just as much fun as I'd imagined. That is, until Huggy snagged my elbow at a crucial moment and pulled me aside. "What's up, Hug?"

"You don't need to be in his line of sight, Blondness. Trust the Hug-man on this one."

"What do you mean? I'm watching him line up one helluva shot and, since I'm actually on his team for once, I want to see him make it. I'm looking forward to yanking the bills out of the hands of those two know-it-all university infants." I glared at one of the said 'infants' who had the audacity to hang out at The Pits while dressed like a first-year Harvard law student. They had taunted Starsky and me into a game and were about to rue the day.

Huggy pulled me even farther away. "Point being, he won't make it if he gets one good peek at your face, bro."

"My--My face? Huggy, are you stocking something stronger than your usual inventory and over-indulging yourself?"

"Do I sound drunk, Hutch? You don't have a single clue what I mean, do you, oh ye of the blindfold fame?"

"Huggy, either start speaking something other than Martian dialect or let me get back to my game. Got money and pride riding on this one."

Huggy just adjusted his pink, red, and purple satin cap--yes, I described that correctly—and patted my shoulder. "Fine. Go worship at the altar of dark and built. I'll leave you to it."

I stared, jaw hanging to my feet, as he ducked behind the bar and began furiously cleaning nothing of particular importance.

Starsky couldn't get a word to budge past my tightly clenched lips the rest of the evening.

Somewhere around three a.m., alone in my apartment, I quit tap-dancing around the issue and faced facts. The words of my little costume-sewing grandmother whispered in my ears, "Giving is the key to true enlightenment. When we give to others, we share our souls and in doing so we learn about our own souls." Yeah, well, I was really enlightened now, but her insistence on all my problems being solved seemed laughable at the moment. What had I thought Starsky would do with a gift certificate to the restaurant with the reputation for cementing relationships better than six months of marriage counseling? Had I really, down deep, in the pit of my obviously insane subconscious, entertained the notion that he'd invite me out to eat with him? At Gianni de Alphonso's? What ten fools was I trying to kid?

I'd face the morning with a bright smile powered by sheer will and desperation. I'd seem so content, so downright perky, that Starsky wouldn't even think to bring up my sudden silence at Huggy's. Oh, no, I'd listen to him making plans about his big date with Lyza. I'd throw in a few well-aimed cracks with the rest of the guys in the squad room. I'd tease him about making Minnie jealous. I'd....I'd go hide in the john before midday and probably cry my eyes out. Good God, what was I going to do?

Morning dawned and I hauled myself from the sofa to the shower with a leaden weight in my heart. With two hours before Starsky was due to pick me up for work, I fixed a thermos of coffee and walked down to the seaside park. Early joggers pounded the paved track and some dedicated souls practiced yoga on blankets with a view of the ocean. I drank in the fresh, salty air and located my bench. Lost in the soothing sounds of waves and seagulls, I nearly upended the thermos when that soft, Slavic voice declared, "Well, well, improvement. I find you this time without your head your hands."

I hadn't poured any of the coffee yet so I twisted the cup from the thermos, filled it, and offered it to my companion. She looked aghast and waved her hands. "Oh, no. No, that stuff's no good for you. I should have thought to bring a cup of hot soup."

"Sounds nice. Homemade?"

She poked me in the ribs. "How can you even ask? Of course, homemade. I make delicious soup, soup that cures all ills."

"What, do I look like I have ills that need curing?" I sipped at my coffee and winked. She gave a fluttery giggle.

"My, my. You have been a lifelong heart breaker, haven't you, young man? As for ills, perhaps not physical ones, but your heart, yes."

I flung out the contents of my plastic cup and rose quickly. "I'm sorry, I have to run. My partner will be by to pick me up--"

"What has you so frightened? Didn't you take my advice?"

"Yes, I did."

"And? Do you feel happier?"

I sat back down and groaned. "Yes, I've been happier."

"But?"

"I think I've only uncovered a new problem." I jumped to my feet again. "Look, I really have to get back. Are you here alone? Where do you live, can I stop by the pay phone and call you a taxi?"

"You're very kind, young one, but I'm fine. My daughter dropped me off for my morning solitude as she calls it and she will pick me up soon. I'm worried about you, though." She stood and lifted herself onto tiptoe, extending a hand and touching a spot just to the side of my heart. A spot with its own corresponding scar. "Did he ever tell you how grateful he was for those few important inches?"

I felt my heart skip rhythm. She laughed at my face and said, "Go now, handsome. Mustn't make your partner worry."

The only words I could force from my lips were, "I don't even know your name."

She took my face in her hands and pulled it down so she could kiss the tip of my nose. "Just call me Anastasia."

I blinked. "The last name wouldn't happen to be Romanov?"

She grinned and released my face. "That's another mystery for another day, young one."

I was still pondering that encounter in the park when Starsky arrived. Fortunately, since I needed a massive distraction of any type, our shift kept us fairly busy. An unexpected drug bust, a touch-and-go 2-11 call, and a sudden turn of events in one of our backlogged murder cases insured that we danced to a fast tune until late in the afternoon. At seven o'clock I'd already re-heated a stale rice dish found hanging around in my fridge when I heard a knock on the door. Puzzled, I swung the oven towel over my shoulder and tromped across the living room.

He....Oh, man! I had to exercise every ounce of my poise, self-control, and non-existent amateur acting skills to keep a slightly quizzical smirk on my face at the sight of my partner standing outside my door and wearing a suit that looked hand-tailored for him. I hoped I'd achieved the quizzical smirk. My whole face was numb so I couldn't quite tell.

"You gonna let me in, Blondie?"

"Um...want me to talk you down from your pre-date jitters?" Yeah, right. David Michael Starsky does not know the meaning of the phrase.

"Actually, I'm wondering how you think you can get away with eating somewhere like Gianni's dressed in sweats and a T-shirt with connect-the-dot holes."

I must have left my brain over by the oven. I couldn't think. I couldn't get my damn lips to part enough to formulate words. I know my mouth had to resemble that of a flounder. "Um...."

"Where's that world class vocabulary, Hutch? Get your damn suit on and let's go. I'm hungry enough to eat both of these dinners but I'll gladly share one with you if you haul your butt into gear." He wagged the gift certificate in the air victoriously. I lifted a hand and tried to make a statement. "Just get dressed, Hutch. We can discuss your sudden inability to talk while we're waiting for our food."

I don't know how I managed to dress myself. I sure as hell couldn't ask Starsky for help. I didn't understand why he was here, or what was happening....I felt like I was trapped upside down in a ski lift. Then that beloved voice shouted in from the living room, "Oh, and bring along a pair of jeans and a sweater. We're going somewhere after dinner and I don't want you being snippy for three days after ruining your best suit. I think you've got an old pair of sneakers in the trunk of the Torino."

I grabbed the requested change of clothing and presented myself for inspection. I didn't mean to do that conspicuously, but that's how I felt. Starsky raked his eyes over me, made the twirling motion with his fingers like a tailor or model photographer, and I did the obligatory half-turn. He laughed and said, "Yeah, you'll do. Now come on, before I eat a piece of furniture as an appetizer."

While I was turning off the oven and re-wrapping the no longer needed rice dish, a scary thought struck me full force. "Starsky, don't you think two men sharing a table for two at this class of restaurant will seem rather strange?"

He confiscated my arm, pulled me away from the kitchen, and shoved me out the door. "No sweat, Hutch. In that part of town, for all J.Q. Public knows we're two wealthy, out-of-town businessmen having a working dinner. Anyway, who cares? You're my best buddy and I want to celebrate winning the policemen's appreciation prize. Who better to celebrate that with than my fellow over-worked and under-paid lawman?" He threw a wink at me over his shoulder as we descended the stairs.

"Fine by me, but doesn't Lyza have some objections?" I asked, following him into the tepid night air.

Starsky opened the passenger side door with flourish and grinned. "Lyza is communing with the spirits of Althazar-Trieste tonight. Big, big ceremony, and the only time she can hold it is tonight."

"Rabbits and all, huh?" I meant the question as joke but the words grated harshly instead.

Starsky frowned and tapped me on the head, "Lyza does not involve her rabbits, Hutch, how many times I gotta tell you that?"

"Okay. Okay. I'll take your word for it." I had to limit my smiles to salvage the corners of my mouth. By the time I got to Gianni's I thought my mouth was probably too tired to chew. Maybe they had a particularly nice soup selection....

They had a particularly nice selection of everything. The food, the music, the atmosphere.... Starsky's complexion and coloring were made for Gianni de Alphonso's lighting. The mood was unique, not depending on candlelight but a high-tech arrangement of soft, filtered lighting with wisps of tulle suspended from the ceiling like fluffy clouds that sucked in some of the brightness. Graced with that backdrop, Starsky looked like a star of a romantic silent film from the twenties. I revised my earlier quip from years ago that he was no Rudolph Valentino. Our waitress almost spilled water on him twice because her eyes were locked on his face instead of the glass. He failed to notice, too busy chatting away happily about every topic under the sun. I tried to relax in the warmth and normalcy and not let my own personal insanity color the situation with too much meaning.

Don't ask me how we managed it, but after I steadfastly refused to carry bundles of clothing into the men's room at Gianni's, we switched into our everyday clothes right there in the Torino. He'd found an appropriate parking place in the shadows and a sufficient distance from the restaurant. I brought up the obvious: why couldn't we go back to one of our places and change clothes with some room to spare? "Timing," Starsky said. He knew we'd linger over dinner and he wanted to make sure we arrived at our next destination on time. Made sense, I supposed, fitting myself into a pretzel to avoid brushing any part of his body with my own.

Finally, comfortable again, I settled back and tried to probe him for details about this mysterious destination. Might as well have been trying to get top-secret Naval codes out of an Air Force general. He just grinned and told me to learn some spontaneity. Spontaneity? I of the gourmet pastry basket, Torino tune-up, and anonymous gift certificate needed to learn spontaneity.

We ended up in the boonies. Out in the hills headed in the direction of...I experienced sudden panic. "Starsky, you are not dragging me to Lyza's Althazar-whatever ceremony."

He broke into a fit of giggles. "No, Hutch, would I do that to you? Her ceremony is over by now. We may run into Lyza where we're going, but she won't be communing with anything except some children who dig face painting."

"Face painting?"

Starsky just bestowed another wink on me. I was losing track of the wink-count. Each one left me with spangles dancing in front of my eyes. Finally, he pulled over just past the entrance gate to a small state park that's usually closed to the public after sundown. Tonight the Torino was just one in a sea of automobiles. "Okay, Starsky, what's going on? Why are you of all people taking me into the woods at night? Especially this time of year."

"Hey, I'm not scared of any weirdoes in red robes with my White Knight around," Starsky grinned, ruffling my hair Lyza-fashion. I rolled my eyes and got out of the car.

We walked down a path lit by artificial, non-flammable lights in brown paper bags until we came to a large clearing, housing the sizeable lake and various carnival style tents. I took in the surroundings with something like childlike wonder--a feeling I hadn't experienced in decades. Starsky took hold of my elbow or I would have stumbled over a clump of rocks in the path.

"Welcome to Halloween celebrated in the great outdoors. I know how you feel about commercialized holidays, but I figured a party that combined all the holiday trappings with good old nature would hit your fancy."

"It's lovely out here," I breathed.

Starsky patted my back. "Just wait. We're going on a haunted nature trek."

"A what?" I stared at him. He smiled.

"Different sites are set up in the woods all around the lake just like in a big old haunted house somewhere. You buy the tickets and they give you a little flashlight and a map."

A haunted hike had Starsky practically bouncing with enthusiasm. I told myself to get a grip. "You're going to voluntarily walk around in 'haunted' woods at night armed only with a flashlight? Who are you?"

"I'm whoever you want me to be." The look on his face was anything but teasing. I half-swallowed my tongue and turned away. I wasn't certain of anything right now and I could not make the mistake of assuming too many givens.

I remained silent as Starsky purchased our "admission" tickets to the "haunted nature trek." For a five-dollar donation to the building fund for a new children's hospital we received two small flashlights and a yellowed, crinkled map. Starsky grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the lake.

I suppressed the urge to slap myself across the face for proof that I was not asleep. The lake was swathed in a natural mist, darkened by clouds that hid the moon perfectly, and we walked far enough away from the noise of the carnival that we experienced an eerie silence only broken by the sudden arrival at the 'haunted' sites. Starsky and I lagged behind a giggling group of teenagers more interested in teasing each other than they were in us. I have to admit that whoever designed the sites deserved kudos for imagination and delivery. Axe murderers roamed a convincing cemetery on a knoll. Glowing white beings danced around us as we trudged down a pitch-dark path. The sounds of lost, crying souls, frighteningly child-like, haunted our footsteps. Starsky clutched his flashlight like his Beretta and never strayed more than a foot from my side. At one point in a seemingly harmless clearing our 'group' was ambushed by a horde of utterly realistic Zombies and I felt a trembling, adult hand latch onto mine. Nothing unusual about that. The giggling teenagers, both girls and boys, had turned into a tangled mass of humanity, completely indistinguishable as individuals. The Zombies were the grand finale, apparently, because the next site on the map was a jury-rigged concession stand where benevolent witches dispensed hot chocolate, made sure everyone looked to be in one piece, and told us to begin the return hike to the carnival.

"Damn," Starsky breathed as we finally neared the lake. "I thought that one Zombie was gonna yank my arm off."

"If he had, I'd have been missing one too because you were clutching my hand like a rope in a blizzard."

"A what?"

"Sorry. Minnesota-ese."

"Anyway, I wasn't clutching your hand."

"Sure, Starsky. Delude yourself."

Starsky assumed that serious expression. "I was holding your hand."

"What's the difference? You were still scared--" The possible, very important difference smacked me in the forehead just as Starsky frowned slightly and said, "Sure, Hutch. Delude yourself." He stalked away and I wondered what I had said wrong. I followed hurriedly, trying to figure out a reply.

We were accosted by a figure in flowing satin and velvet. Lyza grabbed Starsky in a bear hug and exclaimed in that tinkling voice, "Starsky, this Elizabethan dress is perfect. Where did you find it?"

I reeled under an unexplainable surge of hope. How had I not noticed last night that the dress was definitely a period piece? Starsky examined the effect and then he let loose that rich, hearty laugh. "Huggy Bear can help a guy find just about anything, honey. Looks good on you, Lyza."

"The kids have gotten a kick out of it so far. Say, you fellas want your faces painted?"

I thought I'd howl if she put one hand near my face. Too late. I endured a hair ruffling with tremendous patience and even smiled. "No thanks, Lyza. I think I grew out of face-painting oh, I don't know, about twenty-five years ago."

She looked at me with blatant pity. "Nonsense. Everyone has an inner child. You should listen to him, sometime. Starsky listens to his."

Starsky flushed. "I try."

She straightened her elaborate, raven coiled-braids and cursed her headdress before she whispered to him behind a showy hand, "How's it going?"

I watched Starsky's face go through several acrobatic changes before he settled for bland indifference. "Fine. Nice night for the carnival. We enjoyed the haunted hike."

"Well, if you're not going to let me decorate your beautiful faces, I suggest you wander over and sample the candy apples. I've heard they are worth mankind getting kicked out of the Garden." She giggled at her own joke and ruffled my hair once more before she blew away back in the direction of the tents. I stomped my foot.

"What does she think gives her the right to mess with my hair at least twice every time I encounter her?" I demanded, irritation ringing in my tone. Starsky shot me a look of pity to rival Lyza's.

"Oh, lighten up, Hutch. She likes you. No accounting for taste, but there it is. Let's go check out those candy apples. I'm hungry."

Once again I followed in his wake, feeling somehow out of the loop. We selected apples smothered in caramel and nuts and wandered off to a semi-secluded bench where we could watch both the lake and the carnival goings-on in relative privacy. For a few minutes we just sat there, munching, people watching, in our own mental worlds. I glanced over and noticed a trail of caramel and bits of peanut on the side of Starsky's mouth. With a fond smile, I extended a hand without thinking and started to brush away the candied mess. A hand latched around my wrist in a vise-grip and dark blue eyes stopped my movement even before his hand did.

"Can't you think of anything more creative than wiping my mouth with your fingers?"

Electricity hit each of my nerve centers simultaneously. "Starsky--"

"Dammit, Hutch, somebody with your IQ is supposed to be good at subtlety. You're dumb as a post. Maybe you are just a pretty face."

The words were meant as a challenge and they worked. I dropped my apple, felt my cheeks burn, and grabbed his chin, pulling his face close to mine. "What piece of the puzzle am I missing here, Starsk?"

"I've left a trail of hints even Hansel and Gretchen coulda followed, Hutch."

"Gretel," I corrected and received a sneer for my trouble. "Maybe you've been throwing out some pretty ambiguous signals, Pal," I half-snarled.

The sneer turned into a smirk. Not just any smirk. A full-out Starsky-The-Stud Special. "You want clear signals? Okay, how about since you dropped your apple, why don't you share mine...starting with the bits I've got clinging to my mouth?"

At that point I showed the true colors of a Hutchinson. The planet swung crazily out of orbit with Starsky's suggestion, but I just said, matter-of-factly, "We're in a public place, Starsky."

"You think I give a flying damn? Besides, Grandma, it's pitch dark over here and everybody at the carnival's too busy having fun to pay us any attention. You don't wanna kiss me, say so. Please just say so. Once and for all."

I didn't say anything. My voice wouldn't have come out as anything but a squeak anyway. I seized the hand not occupied in clutching his caramel apple and buried my face in the palm. Then I let my lips caress that palm and I delighted in the shivers that little move produced. Finally, after a long, analyzing stare into his eyes, searching for answers to questions I couldn't even voice, I washed away every bit of the stray caramel and then closed my mouth over his. He sighed and I heard a plop on the ground before a hand slid around the back of my neck and started a rhythmic stroking. I wasn't prepared for the sweetness of his mouth that had nothing whatsoever to do with caramel, peanuts or apple. I think I had to be turning blue in the face before I let myself pull back. Starsky sat there, unmoving, eyes closed, mouth still slightly open.

"Oh. Oh. Wow," he murmured.

I tried to convince my lungs that they had enough air to function and my heart that it wasn't going to end up outside my chest, pumping away for dear life. "H-how did you? What about Lyza, Starsky? I don't--I don't understand."

"You don't understand what?"

"You--and she--"

Starsky opened his eyes and smiled...a smile I'd never seen before. "Lyza's a friend, Hutch. That's all. I met her in the photography class I'm taking--"

"You're taking a photography class?"

He got all blushing and embarrassed and I understood the secrecy behind their meeting. "Yeah, so I finally listened to you, oh most wise Hutch. I'm working on a photo book about inner city life. But that's not important right now. Back to Lyza. You wouldn't believe the first thing she said to me when I invited her across the street for coffee after class. We sat down with our mugs and she said, 'so, tell me about the gorgeous blond who's got you tied up in knots. What's he like?' I spit coffee all over her and she just laughed. A lot of that Althazar-Trieste crap she does just for show, and she'll tell you that. She likes having a kooky reputation. But she does have some kinda gift, 'cause how else would she have known? I didn't even really understand what I was feeling. She helped me come to terms with what you mean to me. What I want."

"What--what do you want?" I felt fear grasp my heart and part of me wanted to run away with my hands over my ears before he answered the question. Starsky just took my face in his caramel-sticky hands and pulled me into another light, barely tangible kiss.

"I want whatever you're willing to give me, Hutch. Heart, soul, body, mind, life. 'Cause that's what I'm willing to give you."

I don't know what urges me to fight my own happiness, but I just couldn't let Starsky offer me the entire galaxy on a platter without handing him a book of disclaimers. I lowered my eyes until I could only see dirt, and ants busily making a meal of both caramel apples. "Starsky, you'd better think long and hard. I'm no prize. I've put you through hell the last few weeks--"

"Funny. I don't feel like I've been in hell."

I jumped to my feet and turned my back on him. I wanted my shoulders to stop trembling but my brain refused to discuss nerve signals. "Moping around, sniping at you, deserting you at work, acting like Lyza was a plague that had been visited on me--"

I heard him sigh, rise to his feet, and then I felt warm arms encircle me from behind and a face press against my shoulder blade. "Aw, Hutch. Maybe you haven't been yourself lately. But you've been doing everything except tar and coat yourself with feathers to make it up to me."

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound as innocent and unwitting as possible. Starsky snorted and I trembled at the burst of air I could feel despite the thickness of my sweater.

"Don't gimme that, Hutch. Doing my share of the paperwork, sharing chili with me and acting like you're enjoying it. Helping me with car expenses--you think Merle could ever really keep anything from me? I saw through that over-charging crap in a split second. The basket of pastry--"

"But you thought that was from Lyza."

The arms tightened. "Hutch, what happened to your detective skills? Lyza's a diabetic. Haven't you seen her medic alert bracelet at least once outta all the times she played with your hair? I lied through my teeth about her liking Pastrique's Baklava. I wanted you to admit to all the nice things you were doing for me. Hopefully get you talking about why you were really doing it. Those reservations Lyza mentioned at the station? She'd made them for me--for you and me-- because her cousin is the manager. They've got a damn waiting list, Hutch! Anyway, I had already started feeling silly about taking you to such a lovey-dovey place but getting that gift certificate from you boosted my courage enough to go through with it."

"But you said we were celebrating your winning--" I tried to interrupt. Starsky laughed out loud.

"Hutch, sometimes I think you exist in a fog. Simmons has been blammering for three days about how much that gas is gonna come in handy when he takes his family on their fall vacation next week. Where have you been?"

"Obviously on a different planet than you. If you're so smart, why didn't you approach me?"

Starsky sighed again. A different sigh this time, tinged with regret, sadness, a touch of frustration. "Call it an attack of self-consciousness, babe. I wanted to go with my instinct, but I just couldn't get past what I'd put you through. You watched me go through some pretty disgusting stuff after the shooting. You were practically my parent, nurse, and maid for months. That can kinda cool the heat of passion, know what I mean?"

I pivoted in his embrace and ran my fingers through his hair. "Are you kidding? Watching you survive, live, fight, and become the man you are today--made me realize, you're the best person I've ever known, Starsky, and I--I love you for it." The truth in that statement coursed through my body and warmed my heart.

Starsky's eyes turned glossy with moisture. "Oh, jeez. Just take my breath away, why don't you."

"Is that an invitation?" I laughed, tweaking his nose tip. Then I frowned. "Starsky, about the last few weeks. I don't even understand what has been wrong with me."

Starsky just rubbed my shoulders as if trying to ease their burdens. "Don't worry. I've got an answer for that one, too. You're not the only one who knows what a brain's for. I think you were probably just starting to get straight in your head what your heart already knew. Only, your brain tends to think you can't have anything you really want. Finding out what you really need in life and then not being able to have it will make anyone grieve and lash out."

"That theory sounds better than my sneaking suspicion that I can be an aching pain in the ass." The fog Starsky believes surrounds my existence suddenly cleared. "So that stuff with Lyza earlier...her asking you how it's going. She--"

"She knew I considered tonight a date, that I wanted you to feel the same way about it. For a little while there you had me thinking my brain was more haunted than those woods. Scared me worse than those fake Zombies, I'll tell you that."

I put a finger against his lip, looked around to assess our privacy level again, and then erased the distance between us. Feeling his mouth open under mine was like being ushered through the gates into the Elysian Fields. His spirit rises to the very surface in his kisses and that spirit was knocking on the door to my soul. When I pulled away, I felt saline wetness in my own eyes. My heart told me to grab him up in my arms and run away with him. My brain insisted I give him one more chance to run away...alone. I snuffled with little elegance and said softly, "Truth remains, Starsk. I am what I am. I'm afraid what you're getting is--"

"Perfect for me," Starsky grinned. "Look, Hutch, I've been around you long enough to know you ain't nowhere near a saint. And I'm not either. You make mistakes. So do I. You right them the best you can. Same here. We've both got quirks. I love you more than my life. You wanna give it a whirl?"

"Y-yes. God, yes. You mean, the whole deal? Exclusivity and all its connotations?"

Starsky's face turned into a shining star. I almost had to blink in the blast of radiance. "Is that a proposal, Detective Hutchinson?"

"Depends. Are you fishing for a proposal, Detective Starsky?"

His face grew impossibly brighter. "Yeah, I want the whole shooting match. Besides, it's about time we start getting some."

I flushed. "Hey, how do you know I haven't been--?"

"Gimme a break, Hutch. You think I don't know the Hutchinson Morning-After-Face? You haven't had that expression in over a year. What'd ya do, lose your famous black book?"

I let that question sink in for a moment and I came to a conclusion that put what I just know was a delirious and syrupy smile on my face. "Our bodies have always had this weird sympathy thing, Starsk. For so long after--Gunther--you couldn't even consider anything below the waist. So I just lost interest, too. Didn't even call a girl during that whole recovery period. Then...when you'd healed enough to--"

Starsky slipped capable fingers through the belt loops on my jeans and jerked me up tight against him. "By the time I healed enough, I just wanted you, which pretty much scared me back into not wanting anything. 'Cause I wasn't ready to want that something."

I laughed and pulled his face down against my neck so I could turn my lips into his curls. "Scarier thing is, what you just said makes perfect sense to me. Scariest of all, I think that same phenomenon explains the rest of my temporary stint as a monk. All right. We'd better break up this party before we attract a crowd."

Starsky refused to release my belt loops. "Nope. Not going anywhere until you tell me what gave you the bright idea to play Santa Claus two months early."

I smiled and transferred my lips to his forehead. "Followed the advice of this little old lady who believes the world's problems can be solved by dancing and hot soup. She has this adoration theory. Strangely, though, she knew all about my getting shot couple years back--"

His face resembled one of the apparitions on the hiking trail. "Dancing, soup...Hutch, what'd she look like?" I described her while trying to kiss each one of his eyelashes separately. Hey, I may not have David Starsky's seduction skills, but I'm talented in other ways. Not that he noticed. His eyes had turned into half-dollars. "She mention her terminal cancer?"

"What? No, nothing about cancer. She seemed spry as a teenager." I relinquished his eyelashes in favor of his jaw line. He stepped back. I reeled him back in and targeted his ear.

"Spry as teenager? No wheelchair? Hutch, you just might have communed with a spirit and you don't even care."

I frowned and pulled away with reluctance from his earlobe. "I may well have communed with the surviving heiress to the Imperial Russian throne, Starsky, but I'm frankly too distracted by new realities to give it much thought."

Starsky's voice shook and he offered me a surprisingly bashful smile, "Yeah. Well, never mind. Come on, Blondie, let's go home. There are things I want to do you that would be illegal in public...and probably illegal in private in some states."

I gave his neck a parting kiss, "Yeah, but I won't tell if you don't."

"You kiddin'? I'm putting Huggy on the task of planning some kind of formal party. As close to a wedding as I'm gonna get, I guess. Nothing huge, just close friends and as many family members as we can get to make an appearance. I know Ma'll come...I'll buy her a ticket, put her up somewhere really classy, give her the red carpet treatment--"

His tone of voice was as serious as a courthouse. It was my turn to step back. "You're not joking."

"Hell no, I'm not joking. I wanna spring for invitations and champagne and I know how beautiful you are in a tux--"

I raised both eyebrows and pretended to take his measurements. "You planning on wearing white? I can see you with a train, but a veil would be too much. Got to have red roses in your bouquet, though. Deep, vivid red. Oh, yeah, nice!" I broke up at that point and all but collapsed, snickering, still holding onto his waist.

Starsky jerked away and smacked my hands, "I will not get into the whole cross-dressing scene even to satisfy your fantasies, Hutchinson. Now, shaddup and listen to me. I'm serious about this."

"You're serious. You're talking about a formal party, champagne, and invitations—and you're serious?"

"Damn right I am. I know we'll have to walk on eggshells at work, but at least gimme a chance to celebrate, however we can, outside of Metro. Look, I survived more metal than you get in front of a firing squad, Hutch. You think I wanna hide in corners and pretend I don't love you? We only get one shot at this life, baby, ain't nothing more important than what we've got. We'll fight whoever we have to fight to keep it that way."

"And probably lose our jobs in the process. Even with just friends and family we run the risk of word reaching the wrong ears. You ready to say sayonara to your badge?"

He pulled my face close and kissed my ear before he whispered, "Sayonara. Adios. Too-da-loo. If we gotta, then yes. 'Sides, you could always train as a medium's apprentice. Must be you got a talent for drummin' up spirits."

"She could be a cancer-survivor, Starsky. Medical miracles do occur. You ought to know."

"Yeah. Uh huh. Sure. Get me outta here, Hutch, before I forget where we are."

On our way to the car, we dropped by Lyza's tent to get our faces painted. Yes, both of us. She said she was going to make us match. I watched Starsky's painting so I could see what she'd put on my face. I expected a howling jack-o-lantern or a ghost. Something conventional. What she did was very simple but extremely meaningful. A sideways figure eight proclaimed what I hoped would be the truth about my new relationship with Starsky. I felt a surge of respect for Lyza. Funny how the sensation of despising her had vanished.

"So what'd she inflict us with, Hutch?" Starsky asked, moving his cheek muscles experimentally and restraining the urge, I could tell, to scratch at the newly painted skin.

I grinned at Lyza. "It's the symbol of infinity, Starsk."

"Huh?"

"The mathematical symbol," I explained. Starsky laughed, "Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention Lyza studied math." I looked at Lyza for confirmation, but she just snorted and put away her painting supplies.

"That ceremonial stuff you do," I said quietly, "isn't really your day job, huh?"

Lyza grinned and shook her head. "Nope. I edit elementary school math textbooks, believe it or not. With a career like that, you just have to be interesting in other ways or nobody would ever pay you any attention."

I smiled. "Lady, after what you've helped bring about, you're going to have my attention any time you want it."

"He means strictly platonic attention, Lyza, so don't start indulging in any fantasies," Starsky spoke up with a smile.

Lyza just waved him off like an insignificant mosquito. "Yeah, yeah, Starsky. If you weren't in the picture, I'd have him in the back of my Studebaker in no time."

"Tell you what, Hutch, she appreciates classy wheels. You should see that Studebaker. Or not," he amended, flashing Lyza a teasing, territorial glare. She raised both hands in surrender and backed away.

I grabbed Starsky's hand and pulled him toward the tent's entrance, "You'll have to excuse us, Lyza. Starsky and I need to get started on that infinite love."

She shooed us out the tent opening with a bright smile.

Starsky and I got a good start on infinity that night. I'm going to put my pen down now. He went out to get us some dinner and I want to be ready to pounce on him the minute he walks through the door. Two months have passed since that special Halloween and I'm still not sure just how I got so lucky...or how I'll ever truly deserve Starsky. I've dragged him repeatedly to that seaside park but we've yet to catch a glimpse of Anastasia, whose married name is Greene according to Starsky. Lyza got married last month. She married a Lutheran minister, believe it or not. I told Starsky we were no longer the most unusual couple in our circle of friends and acquaintances. And yes, we're still cops. Amazing how a group of determined, caring people can keep one hell of a secret from Internal Affairs and anyone else too narrow-minded to accept our relationship. I'm as happy as a billionaire with the perfect tax shelter. Sometimes I think Starsky is hoping for one of my moods to surface because he believes he'll get Pastrique's rum-walnut and brandy-praline brownies as an apology. Never fear, though, just because I have him all to myself doesn't mean I'm slipping in the adoration department. He is my infinity, my eternity, and I make sure he knows it. Whoa...there's the Torino door slamming shut. I wonder if I can rip off his clothes without making him drop the take-out bags. 'Course I could always cook....