Chapter Four

 

Starsky tossed the Sports Illustrated back onto the coffee table and reached for the TV remote control.  Flipping through the channels disinterestedly, his mind wandered once again to the events of the day.  How could he have been so careless?  At the time it was happening, Starsky was certain he’d had a clear shot at Hodgins.  Now, in the quiet gray of evening, the insecurities and pangs of self-doubt crept back in, causing him to second-guess every move he’d made.

 

It had happened so fast.  A blur.  No time to think it through.  Maybe the adrenaline surging through his body had clouded his judgment.  Hutch had tried to reassure him.  But, then, he would, Starsky thought to himself.  No matter what—Hutch would stand by him.  But that didn’t mean Starsky hadn’t screwed up.  Hutch’s loyalty seemed boundless; he’d never give up trying to prove Starsky’s innocence.  And in this moment of self-recrimination, Starsky found that thought immensely comforting.

 

Alone with his thoughts, the night seemed to press upon him like a heavy weight.  Starsky pushed himself up from the chair and went to the kitchen.  He opened a bottle of beer and took a swig, more for something to do than to quench his thirst.  Finding it tasteless and dissatisfying, he set the open bottle back in the refrigerator and leaned against the kitchen sink, immersed in thought.

 

Again, the scene that had transpired in the market earlier that day danced through his mind.  Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Starsky willed the images to sharpen, the events to slow for more careful scrutiny.  All he accomplished, though, was a heightened sense of his own anxiety.  Reaching for the telephone, he hurriedly punched in Hutch’s number, then caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall and slammed the receiver down before it began ringing.  He couldn’t bring himself to call—not after pointedly refusing Hutch’s offer to share dinner and pass the evening.  He’d practically been rude to Hutch, and to call now, at 11:30 p.m., was asking too much, even of his partner.

 

Starsky returned to the living room and dropped back onto the sofa, resting his head on the worn arm, hoping to relax and drift off to sleep.  Instead, he felt the oppressive heaviness in his chest again.  He rubbed a weary hand against his eyelids and resolved to go on to bed.  Before he could rise, there was a soft knock on the door.

 

Suspicious of having a visitor at this late hour, Starsky automatically reached for his gun.  Then, remembering he’d left it on Dobey’s desk, retrieved his baseball bat from the coat closet.  “Who is it?” he asked, standing to one side of the door.

 

“Who do you think it is, mushbrain?” came the familiar voice.  “Saw your lights on and thought you could stand some company.”

 

Smiling to himself, Starsky opened the door and found Hutch standing there, a huge sack of Chinese food in one hand and a six-pack in the other.  “And you just happened to be in the neighborhood?” Starsky asked tongue-in-cheek. 

 

“I heard there’s a Bogie marathon on the tube.  Thought we could catch ‘Casablanca’ and share some Chinese food.  That is, unless you were on your way to a game,” Hutch said, suspiciously eyeing the baseball bat in Starsky’s left hand.

 

Looking down at the weapon, Starsky answered self-consciously, “A little late to show up at a guy’s door uninvited, don’cha think?”  At the same time, he wondered how Hutch had known how desperate he was for company.  Not waiting for a reply, he propped the bat against the wall, liberated the six-pack from Hutch’s hand, and deposited it on the coffee table in front of the TV.

 

“Don’t give me that line,” Hutch snapped back.  “I’ve never known you to turn down Chinese and Bogie in your life, Starsk.”  He made himself comfortable on the sofa and began unpacking the white cartons of Szechuan food.  By the time he had finished, Starsky’s eyes were wide as he surveyed the extravagant spread on the coffee table before him.

 

“This looks terrific, but I’m just not hungry.”

 

“Come on, Starsk, you have to eat something,” Hutch coaxed.  “We have Kung Pao Chicken, Moo Goo Gai Pan, mushrooms and bamboo shoots in peanut sauce, fried wonton, vegetable fried rice, sweet-and-sour soup, and your favorite—” he added with a flourish, “a double order of those special egg rolls that have shrimp in them.”  He looked up at his partner hopefully, prepared to stay until he knew Starsky was going to be okay.

 

Starsky didn’t answer at first, just went to the kitchen for a bottle opener, then returned and popped the caps on two brews.  He handed one to Hutch, then drew a long swig from his own before speaking.  “Listen, Hutch.  I appreciate what you’re tryin’ to do, but food isn’t gonna improve the way I feel right now.  It’s hard to eat when I’ve got this big empty pit in my stomach, ya know?”

 

Hutch smiled at him kindly.  “Yeah...yeah, I guess I do.  Anybody who’d been through what you have today—anybody who gave a damn—would feel the way you do.  But you can’t do this to yourself, Starsk.  Tomorrow we’ll be back on the streets, knocking on doors, asking questions.  Finding an explanation for what happened this morning.  I mean, we haven’t even visited with the vic—”  Hutch cut his words short, realizing that using the  term “victim” wasn’t the wisest choice, considering Starsky’s state of mind at the moment. “We haven’t visited Kramer’s home and talked to his family.”

 

“Terrific,” Starsky mumbled.  “How’s visiting his widow gonna make me feel better, huh?  I’ll tell her, ‘Sorry, I accidentally shot your husband while tryin’ to be a super cop’?”

 

Hutch sighed, a look of impatience beginning to shape the corners of his mouth.  “I only meant that we could find out more about him.  Maybe he had a history of heroics, or maybe he panicked easily.  I don’t know, but it’s worth a try.”

 

Considering Hutch’s words, Starsky conceded, “I guess you’re right.  Besides, I want to pay my respects and see if there’s anything I can do.”

 

The room grew quiet for a moment, save for the sound of the voices on TV.  Hutch, realizing Starsky’s mood was only darkening more, said a bit too cheerfully, “How about that movie now and a little Kung Pao chicken?”

 

Starsky smiled sadly, recognizing his partner’s diversionary tactic for what it was.  “Why not?” he answered, heading for the kitchen for plates and cutlery.  When he returned, he stood in the kitchen doorway and watched Hutch for a moment, comfortably sprawled on the sofa, waiting to indulge in the feast on the coffee table.  The TV was blaring now, and Kathryn Hepburn and Bogie trudged waist-deep through the dangerous African river, guiding their ailing boat along the route to freedom from the Nazis.  Despite the knot of guilt coiled tightly in his belly, Starsky felt a sense of well-being sweep through him.  He was grateful for a friend like Hutch.  Thankful that no matter what the problem was, he could count on his partner to cover his back. 

 

Starsky strolled back into the living room and handed Hutch a plate.  “Looks like ‘African Queen’,” he said, stating the obvious.

 

“Yeah.  But maybe ‘Casablanca’ will be on next,” Hutch answered, scooping large portions of the Chinese delicacies onto his plate.

 

“Hutch,” Starsky said, barely above a whisper.

 

“Yeah?”  Hutch looked up, their eyes locking.  He knew that tone. 

 

“Thanks.”

 

Hutch just nodded and gave him a quick smile.  “It’s going to be okay,” he reassured Starsky.

 

“I hope so.  I really hope so,” was all Starsky replied.

 

The moment passed quickly, then both men heaped their plates high with more food than they really wanted.  They ate and watched the familiar images flicker across the screen, passing the long night together.

 

˜  ™

 

Starsky woke with a start and bolted upright on the sofa.  The TV was still playing, but the sound had been turned down.  The last thing he remembered was lying back on the cushions, his vision beginning to blur, as the “Maltese Falcon” credits had rolled across the screen.  Hutch had been sprawled out in the chair next to the sofa, lightly snoring, an empty beer bottle dangling loosely from his hand.  Seeing no sign of Hutch now, Starsky ran a hand through his tangled hair, then stood up and stretched.  “Hutch?  You here?” he called.  No answer.

 

He stumbled to the kitchen and filled the coffeemaker with fresh water, measured out two hardy scoops of the elixir of life and dumped them into the filter basket.  “Hutch?” he called again.  As he turned around, Starsky saw the note anchored to the refrigerator by his one and only magnet¾a large red plastic tomato.  It had been Hutch’s idea of a joke—one more of the never-ending jabs at his beloved Torino.  Good-naturedly, Starsky had slapped it on the fridge and feigned naïveté.  Hutch had been truly disappointed he hadn’t gotten a rise out of his partner with his little joke.

 

“You may have the day off, partner, but some of us still have to work for a living.  Will pick you up after my shift and let you know what’s happening with the investigation.

 

Hutch

 

P.S. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE.” 

 

Starsky snatched the note off the refrigerator, irritated that Hutch hadn’t woken him before leaving. 

 

“If you think I’m gonna sit around on my butt all day while my career goes down the toilet, you got another think comin’, Blintz,” Starsky muttered beneath his breath.  Three short beeps from the coffeemaker signaled the brew was done.  He filled a cup and sat at the table sipping it, formulating a plan of action for the day.

 

˜  ™

 

Starsky spent most of the day looking into Kramer’s background.  He found nothing notable.  The thirty-nine-year-old insurance salesman had been married six years and had a five-year-old daughter.  He had no criminal record and seemed, by all accounts, to be a model citizen.  His wife, Laura, was a fourth-grade schoolteacher who had moved to Bay City from Roanoke, Virginia seventeen months before marrying James Kramer.  Not even the DMV turned up anything unusual on the couple.  Having located a current address for the Kramers, Starsky headed for Laredo Avenue.

 

˜      ™