Coming To Terms

Chapter Two

 

 

Hutch had just removed his shoes and sprawled out on the sofa in front of the TV when he heard a knock on the door.

 

“Damn,” he mumbled.  “What now?”  He wasn’t expecting Starsky for another hour.  Not bothering to put his shoes back on, he padded to the door barefoot and opened it.  “What are you doing here?” he said with surprise.

 

“I thought we were gonna grab a bite to eat,” Starsky answered innocently.

 

“Yeah, but I wasn’t expecting you until eight.” 

 

Hutch returned to the sofa and Starsky followed, explaining as they went.

 

 “Well, I finished my errand.  And...well I need to talk to you, so I thought I’d just come on over.”  He took a seat in the large round-back bamboo chair near the sofa.

 

Hutch knew from his serious demeanor that something was up.  “Okay,” he said, “talk.”

 

Starsky leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, hands nervously clasped before him.  “Have you heard from Jeanie?” he asked point-blank.

 

Hutch didn’t know what he’d expected, but certainly not this.  “Jeanie?  No, of course not.  Why would you ask me that?”  His heartbeat quickened as a disturbing thought sprang to mind.  “Has something happened to her?  Do you know something I don’t?”

 

“Relax,” Starsky said, hurrying to put Hutch’s mind at ease.  “All I know is that she’s in town and was asking around about you yesterday.”

 

Hutch studied his partner’s face, knowing there was more to the story.  Starsky seemed too edgy.

 

“You talked to her?”

 

“No.  But I thought about it,” Starsky answered honestly.

 

“If you’ve known since yesterday that she was here, why are you just now telling me?”  Hutch questioned.

 

“To be honest, I was trying to decide whether to ask her not to contact you.”

 

“What?”  Perplexed by such a notion, Hutch asked, “Why would you do something like that?”

 

“Maybe it’s none of my business,” Starsky explained, “but I’ve been thinking that it might be best if she put off seeing you for a while.  I mean, you seem so...down about what happened.  I just think maybe you need more time to sort things out.”

 

Resentment blazed in Hutch’s eyes.  All the self-doubt and anger that had been building inside him these past weeks suddenly welled to the surface.  “You think?  Who gave you the right to make a decision like that for me?” he spewed.

 

“I’m not trying to make decisions for you,” Starsky argued.  “I’m just tellin’ you what I think.  You haven’t exactly been easy to be around lately, and I believe seeing Jeanie again will only make it worse.”

 

“So now you’re a psychiatrist?” Hutch said, challenging Starsky’s assertion.  “What qualifies you to come up with an utterly absurd idea like that?”

 

Starsky stood up and loomed over him.  “I don’t know what you’re getting so sore about!”

 

“Sore?!  I’ll tell you why I’m sore,” Hutch said, also rising to his feet.  “I’m tired of you butting into my life, okay?” he blurted out.  “Ever since I came back to work, you’ve been looking over my shoulder like you think I’m going to lose it!”

 

Now fuming himself, Starsky roared back angrily, “I guess it hasn’t occurred to you that I might be tired of making excuses for you every time you bite off someone’s head for asking you a simple question!  Or coverin’ for you with Dobey every time you oversleep when you’ve been up all night because of those nightmares you refuse to talk about!”

 

Hutch’s jaw tightened and he jabbed the air with an accusatory finger.  “That’s just the type of thing I’m talking about, Starsky!  Who the hell asked you to make excuses for me?”

 

“What do you expect me to do?  Tell ’em the truth?”

 

“I don’t expect you to tell them anything!  You’re not my keeper!” Hutch shouted.  “At least you’re right about one thing—this really isn’t any of your business!”

 

Realizing things were getting out of hand, Starsky took a deep breath and started over.  “Hold it.  Hold it right there.  Can’t we just talk about this?”

 

But rage still boiled in Hutch, spurring him on. 

 

“This may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t need to talk everything over with you!”  His voice rising, he added, “It’s like you don’t think I’m capable of doing anything without your stamp of approval.”

 

“That’s not how it is, Hutch.  I just think you need a little help right now,” Starsky said, still trying to reason with him.

 

Unconvinced, Hutch flinched away when Starsky reached out a hand to touch his shoulder.

 

“I saw what those drugs did to you,” Starsky continued.  “—what your guilt over Jeanie is still doing to you!”

 

“So—what?  Now I’m less of a man than you?  I’ve got a news flash for you, buddy,” Hutch added bitterly.  “What you did for me in that room above Huggy’s doesn’t give you the right to run my life!”

 

Starsky’s head jerked back as though physically struck by the words, the anger in his eyes coalescing to hurt. 

 

There seemed nothing more to say.  Considering for the first time that Hutch actually resented his attempts to protect him, Starsky answered in a wintry, unwavering voice, “Yeah.  Maybe you’re right.  You don’t need my help—you don’t need anybody.  I guess you’ve got it all under control.” 

 

Hiding the pain in his heart under the guise of anger, Starsky turned away quickly and walked to the door.

 

The steam that had fueled Hutch’s tirade evaporated.  He knew he should apologize, but the words froze in his throat.

 

Without looking back, Starsky opened the door and said over his shoulder.  “Look...I’m pretty wiped out.  I don’t think I’m up to dinner, after all.  See you at work tomorrow.” 

 

The door closed behind him with a quiet click of the lock, and he was gone.

 

™™  ˜˜

 

Long after Starsky had stormed out of the bungalow, Hutch lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.  No nightmares tonight.  He had to fall asleep in order to dream.

 

He closed his eyes and visualized the hurt in Starsky’s eyes when he’d lashed out at him hours earlier.  Just one more thing he’d screwed up.  Lately, his entire life seemed a series of bad choices.  He turned over and looked at the clock.  Past midnight—too late to call and apologize.  He wasn’t even sure what he’d say if he did call.

 

Hutch was still irritated that Starsky had considered interfering in his relationship with Jeanie, but had the tables been turned, he realized he would probably have considered the same course of action.  They’d always been protective of one another, but since the kidnapping and his addiction to heroin, his partner had become almost obsessive about watching over him.

 

It all boiled down to one thing—if Starsky didn’t think he was strong enough face Jeanie, how could he possibly believe Hutch capable of making the life-or-death decisions they faced on the streets daily?

 

Restless, Hutch sat up in bed.  That was it.  That’s what had made him so angry.  His feeling that Starsky no longer saw him as an equal—a partner he could count on to carry his own weight.  In the past, when Starsky had put in his two cents about any woman with whom he was involved, Hutch had taken it in stride.  Tonight, he’d flown into a rage because Starsky’s interference seemed to confirm his own belief that he’d lost his edge—was incapable of thinking for himself and making sound decisions.

 

Hutch ran a tired hand over his face.  Damn!  Would his life ever get back to normal?  Tomorrow, he would talk to Starsky, try to sort it all out.  Maybe he’d jumped to conclusions, misinterpreted Starsky’s motives.  In any case, Hutch knew he’d acted like a jerk. 

 

Starsky’s words rang in his ears: “Yeah.  Maybe you’re right.  You don’t need my help—you don’t need anybody.”  Not need Starsky?  Who was he trying to fool?  They weren’t only partners, they were best friends.  He would always need Starsky.  He just hoped and prayed that Starsky still needed him.

 

Hutch lay back down, his forearm resting over his eyes.  Just before the first rays of dawn cast long fingers of light on the windowsill he fell into an exhausted but restless sleep.

 

™™  ˜˜

 

Hutch was the first to arrive for work the next morning.  Despite little sleep, he’d risen as soon as the alarm clock buzzed, determined to be there when Starsky came in.  He regretted the harsh words between them and knew they had to get things out in the open before the rift could mend.  Just as Starsky walked through the door, the telephone rang.

 

Hutch snatched the phone off the receiver.  “Hutchinson,” he answered, looking up at Starsky’s grim face.  Not a trace of emotion showed in the dark blue eyes.

 

Hutch recognized the distinctive voice and Alabama drawl even before the woman identified herself.  “Detective Hutchinson, this is Clara.  I’m calling you just like I promised I would.” 

 

“I was hoping to hear from you,” he said.  “Is she there now?” Hutch asked, motioning Starsky toward him.  He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s Clara.”

 

“Yeah, she’s here.  I got her out in the kitchen right now, feeding her a good Southern breakfast.  But I don’t think she’s gonna stick around long.”

 

“We can be there in ten minutes,” he said.

 

“I’ll try to stall her,” Clara assured him.  “But don’t expect no miracles.”

 

Starsky, keys still in hand, said, “Let’s go.  I’ll drive.”

 

They hurried down the metal steps to the parking garage, the clanging of Hutch’s boot heels the only noise between them.  He wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how to begin. 

 

Sliding behind the wheel, Starsky revved the engine and barely gave Hutch a chance to close his door before they sped out of the garage.

 

As they rounded the first corner, Hutch looked over at Starsky’s solemn profile.  “Look, Starsk, about last night....”

 

“Forget it,” Starsky said without taking his eyes from the road.

 

“I was way out of line,” Hutch continued.

 

Starsky hit the brakes as the traffic signal turned red.  “I said forget it.  You’re right.  It was none of my business.  We work together, that’s all.  Doesn’t mean we have to be friends.”

 

The light turned green and the Torino squealed through the intersection.

 

“Damn it, Starsky, don’t say that,” Hutch said, frustrated.  He could see that Starsky wasn’t going to make this easy.  “Of course we’re friends.  We’re more than just friends.  You’re more like my brother than my partner.  You know that.”

 

Starsky took another corner too fast, slinging Hutch against the car door.  Hutch eyed him quietly, trying to think of another approach.  They sped through the streets, the silence hanging between them like icicles.

Finally, Hutch summoned his courage and began again.  “Starsk, I don’t know why you won’t at least hear me out.”  They skidded to an abrupt stop in front of the mission.

 

“Look, I don’t wanna talk about,” Starsky said, shutting off the engine.  “We’ve got a job to do.  Let’s just do it and keep our personal lives out of it, okay?”  The set of his jaw made it clear the discussion was over.

 

Hutch held up his hands.  “Fine...okay...we’ll talk later—”

 

“Like I said,” Starsky interrupted.  “I don’t see that there’s anything to talk about.”  Determined dark blue eyes bore into Hutch’s lighter ones.  Starsky bailed out of the car and was around the front and onto the sidewalk before Hutch had time to open his door.  Having no other choice, Hutch followed him into the mission hall.  Clara waited near the door, watching for them. 

 

“She’s still in the kitchen.  Good thing she was real hungry.  From the way she’s been putting those sausages away, I don’t think she had anything to eat yesterday.”

 

“What kind of shape is she in?” Starsky asked.

 

“She didn’t show up here last night, and I can tell, she done found herself another candy man.  She ain’t got the shakes this morning.”

 

“Thanks, Clara,” Hutch said.  “We’ll take it from here.”

 

“Don’t forget.  You’re not gonna tell her I called, right?” she reminded them anxiously.

 

“No way,” Starsky assured her.  “As far as she knows, we’re checking all the missions and flop houses.”

 

Clara gave them a satisfied smile and stepped aside, allowing them to pass.  “God bless you, honey.  I sure hopes you can help that child.”

 

Bobbie sat with her back to the door, a mass of tangled, dirty brown curls clinging to her shoulders like a ragged net.  Bony arms protruded from the sleeveless blouse two sizes too large.  It hung down over dirt-slicked jeans that were cut off above the knees.  Diametrically opposite from the oversized shirt, the jeans molded to her tiny form like a diver’s wetsuit.

 

“Bobbie?”

 

At the sound of Hutch’s voice, the girl jumped to her feet and whirled to face them.

 

 “You!” she exclaimed, her startled eyes searching the room for an exit that didn’t require running past them.  “I didn’t do anything!  Why are hassling me?”

 

Hutch held his hands up and said soothingly, “Just hold on.  We’re not here to hassle you, Bobbie.  But we have been looking for you.”

 

“I don’t know anything.  Just leave me alone!” she said, dashing to the left, trying to make an end run around Starsky.  He reached out and scooped her up into his arms and held on as she kicked and wiggled to free herself. 

 

“Let me go, pig!”

 

The skinny arms flailed, and Starsky dodged her bony fist by a hair’s breath.

 

“Now, is that any way to talk to your friendly neighborhood police officer?” he said, causing Hutch’s eyes to roll toward the ceiling. 

 

“That’s right, Starsk.  Charm her,” he said.

 

“Let me go!” she screamed, loud enough that Clara came running into the kitchen.

 

“What on earth is all the hollering about?”

 

“Miss Clara!  Tell him to let me go!” Bobbie screamed.

 

“Okay!  Calm down!” Starsky said, artfully dodging her swings.  “If you promise you won’t try to kill me, I’ll let you go.”  She continued flapping her arms like a bird trying to take flight.

 

“At least listen to the man, Bobbie,” Clara urged her.  “I don’t see as how you got much choice.  They’re both bigger than you.”

 

“You ratted me out!” the girl accused Clara.

 

“We’ve been checking all the missions,” Hutch said quickly.  “We knew we’d luck out and find you eventually.  Miss Clara had nothing to do with it,” he said, covering for the woman.

 

Clara shot Hutch a grateful look, relieved he’d kept his promise to her.

 

The girl made one last unsuccessful attempt to break free, then relaxed in Starsky’s arms.  She turned a pixie-shaped, dirt-smudged face up at him and smiled beguilingly. 

 

“I bet I know what you want, cowboy.  You wanna party, don’t you?  Well, you guys don’t have to rough a girl up for that.” 

 

The sudden change in her threw Starsky off-guard.  One moment he’d been wrestling with a skinny homeless waif, the next, he was being propositioned by one of Barrows’ teenage prostitutes. 

 

Starsky looked over her head at Hutch, silently pleading for him to say something.

 

Hutch’s eyes went soft with pity and he shook his head.  “No, Bobbie, you’ve got it all wrong.  Starsky and I just want to talk with you about your problem.”

 

“I don’t have a problem,” she said defiantly, “except two cops who keep following me around, giving me a hard time.”

 

Starsky grabbed her elbow and commandeered her back to the wooden table and chairs and roughly set her down.  “How about you just sit there and listen to the man, huh?  The tough chick act isn’t gonna get you anywhere with us.”

 

She sniffed indignantly and eyed them both suspiciously.  Finally, seeing no other recourse, she said, “I’m all ears.  Say what you gotta say.  I got places to be and important stuff to do.”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Hutch said without a trace of humor.  Both detectives took chairs, flanking her on either side.  Seeing the situation diffused, Clara discreetly slipped from the kitchen.

 

Bobbie glared at each man in turn, then leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, a look of resignation fixed on her young face.

 

“How old are you, kid?” Starsky asked.

 

“Old enough to know a couple of Johns who are too chicken to ask for it,” she shot back.

 

“Enough of the smart mouth,” Starsky said.  “How about a straight answer?  Thirteen?  Fourteen?”

 

She glowered at him, refusing to answer.

 

Rubbing his chin, Starsky looked her up and down.  “Okay,” he said.  “We’ll assume you’re only twelve then.  I mean, you’re built like a twelve-year-old boy,” he added, purposely baiting her.

 

Anger flashed in the dark brown eyes.  “I’ll have you know I’m fifteen, and a lot of men like slender women!  So there!”

 

Knowing what Starsky was up to, Hutch’s lips twitched with amusement.  Even the heated exchange between the partners the night before hadn’t spoiled their ability to read one another’s signals.  Assuming his good-cop role, Hutch interjected, “I’m sure my partner didn’t mean to insult you.  It’s just...well, you are a little undernourished.”

 

“I eat just fine,” she snapped back.  “How about you two just tell me why I’m being held prisoner.  Am I under arrest or something?”

 

“No,” Hutch said.  “You aren’t under arrest.  Although, you did just proposition a police officer, so we could run you in for prostitution.”

 

At this, fear crept into her defiant eyes.  “I didn’t mean that,” she said.  “I was just trying to make him back off.”

 

“Bobbie, we just want to get you some help,” Hutch said sincerely.  “You’re too young to be hooked on drugs and turning tricks on the street to survive.”

 

“Who are you to judge me?” she said angrily.  “You’ve got everything!  Look at your clothes, at that car the two of you hotshots breeze around in.  You think ’cause you have a badge that makes you better than me.  There’s nothing wrong with a girl looking for a few kicks to help her forget her troubles.”

 

Starsky leaned his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his palm.  “The point is, you could kill yourself.  If some guy doesn’t beat you to death in an alley, you might OD on some bad smack.  Do you really wanna end up like that?”

 

Before she could answer, Hutch said, “We’re offering to take you somewhere to dry out, find you a nice foster home, maybe get you back into school.”

 

She laughed cynically.  “A foster home?  How the hell do you think I got on the streets in the first place?  When Social Services took me away from my old lady, they put me in a foster home.  That was three years ago.  My ‘foster father’ considered me his own private little play toy.  It was loads of fun, waiting for him to creep into my bedroom every night after his old lady went to sleep.”  Hot tears welled in her eyes, and she struggled to keep them from overflowing.

 

Hutch swallowed, fighting back the bile that was beginning to pool in his throat.  “Did you tell anyone?”

 

“Yeah, right,” she snorted.  “Like who?  You think his old lady was gonna take my word over his?  When I told him I didn’t like it—I mean I was only twelve—he made me snort a little coke to take off the edge.  At first I liked it, but after a while, it didn’t have that much effect.”

 

Starsky watched Hutch’s face, realizing the girl’s words were cutting him like a knife.  Hutch, of all people, knew what it was like to be forced into a drug stupor and have no control over what was happening to him.  Starsky could almost read his friend’s thoughts, feel his anguish.

 

“There ain’t no way I’m going back to that,” she said resolutely.  “I got friends here who take care of me.”

 

“You mean like Keno and Dickie Barrows?” Hutch said.

 

“Keno won’t even talk to me now—thanks to you!” she spat.  “But I’ve got my connections.  I don’t need no help from no cops.  Besides, I like my life just fine the way it is.”

 

“What’s not to like?” Starsky said derisively.  “I mean, look around you.  What fifteen-year-old wouldn’t want to trade high school proms and football games for heroin and sweaty, drunken Johns?  You really have it made here, don’t ya, kid?”

 

“Screw you!” she said, shooting to her feet.  “Like I said, I don’t want you butting into my life!  I don’t need you, I don’t need anybody!”

 

The color drained from Hutch’s face, remembering only hours ago saying almost those exact words to Starsky.

 

Hutch stood up, reached into his wallet, and took out a twenty and a scrap of paper with his phone number written on it.  Leaning over, he quickly stuffed both items into the pocket of her shirt.

 

“If you change your mind, call me.  I’ll come—any time of the day or night.”

 

She looked at him warily.  “That’s it?  We’re through?”

 

“For now,” he said, nodding at her.  “You may not believe me, but I do know how you feel.  All that either of us wants is to help you.  Drugs aren’t the answer, Bobbie.  They’ll eventually destroy you and any future you may have.”

 

He sounded sincere, not at all what she expected.  She looked at them, puzzled why two cops would care about a runaway.  For a moment, she considered going with them, but soul-shattering memories of other promises—those of her foster father, her pimp, her dealers, all the men she’d trusted during her short lifetime—brought her back to cold reality.  There’s always a catch.  There had to be an angle; she just hadn’t figured it out yet.  Her chin came up, her eyes hardening. 

 

“Remember—you can call me,” Hutch said, reading the changing expressions on her face, knowing that her decision was made.

 

“Sure,” she said, patting the twenty that lay against her breast in the pocket of the shirt.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”  And then she was gone.

 

As the door swung closed behind the girl, Hutch looked up, his troubled eyes seeking Starsky’s.  They’d failed again to reel her in.  Who knew when there’d be another opportunity?

 

“Are we doing the right thing?”

 

Starsky shrugged.  “Your call.  You don’t need my advice.”

 

Hutch ran a hand over his face.  “Dammit, Starsky, don’t give me that.  I want to get her off the streets permanently.  That’s not going to happen as long as she’s hooked.  I’m asking what you think we should do.”

 

Holding the door open for Hutch to pass through, Starsky considered for a moment, then answered, “Okay.  Why don’t we ask around, see where she’s getting her stuff now that Keno’s not dealing to her?”

 

“I guess it’s a start,” Hutch said.  “Problem is, you cut one pipeline, another opens up.”

 

“Yeah,” Starsky conceded.  “Well, if I come up with a better plan, you’ll be the first to know.” 

 

The two of them returned to the car, steeped in private thoughts about the tragic young runaway with nowhere to run.

 

™™  ˜˜

 

The day passed slowly with little conversation between the two men.  Hutch tried one more time to broach the subject of their argument, only to be cut off again by Starsky.  It was clear that this time, comments made in the heat of the moment weren’t going to be so easily forgotten.  Eventually, Hutch came to the conclusion he’d be smart to drop it for a while, give Starsky time to lick his wounds.  Starsky spoke when spoken to, made the right responses, as polite as he would have been with a complete stranger.  Hutch remembered once reading in a paperback novel the phrase, “tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.”  He thought that about summed up the atmosphere in the car.  

 

Between routine calls and a trip to the station for a briefing on a young gang member found knifed in an alley the night before, Starsky stopped at a take-out joint where they gobbled down burgers, greasy fries, and milkshakes.  Although Hutch normally balked at such a meal, today he thought better of making an issue of something so trivial.  He was determined to avoid anything that might make things any uneasier between them than they already were. 

 

™™  ˜˜

 

Bobbie paced the street nervously, beginning to feel the chills come on.  She knew they had nothing to do with the warm, seventy-eight-degree California night.  Over the baggy shirt, she wore a raggedy men’s sweater, the elbows eaten away by moths, only one battered white button clinging to the misshapen neckline.  She’d found the smelly, long-discarded gray wool garment in a trash bin four doors down from Clara’s.  Not exactly the kind of thing Dickie liked to see his girls wear, but then, Dickie wasn’t having chills from not having a fix in over eleven hours, she thought rebelliously.

 

A thousand tiny imaginary ants swarmed over every inch of her body as the withdrawal began to work its torture on her nervous system.  This was the part she never remembered when she was coasting on horse.  Her teeth chattered and her muscles cramped, drawing at odd angles, twisting her insides.  Beneath the glare of the streetlight, she was certain she could see the hair on her legs rising.  She turned her eyes away, dreading the next trick her eyes would play on her.  What strange apparition would rise up to threaten her if she didn’t get a fix soon?

 

“Hey, baby, whatchu doin’ out here all alone?” said a voice.

 

Bobbie whirled around, almost afraid to look, but desperate for relief and hoping the voice would be her savior.

 

“I need help.  Can you help me?  I need a fix.  Just a nickel bag’ll do.  I’ll do anything for it,” she babbled desperately.  The twenty Hutch had given her long gone, she offered, “I can be a lot of fun.  Just get me some junk and we’ll party, okay?”

 

The man’s lip curled in disgust.  “You done strung out, baby.  I don’t want no strung out chick.”  He turned his back on her and strode down the sidewalk into the darkness, leaving her to stare after his retreating figure.

 

Bobbie sank to the curb, her balled fists pressed to her waist, trying to push away the pain that tore through her guts.  She bent forward and retched, the end result being dry heaves.  The contents of her stomach having long emptied, there was nothing left but the bitter taste of bile in her throat.

 

What would she do?  She had been in withdrawal before, but never this long.  She had begged Dickie for some drugs, but he’d scoffed at her, reminding her she hadn’t “met her quota” for the week, and thus, hadn’t “earned” it.  And to make matters worse, he was still incensed that she’d been there when Keno was busted.  He had slapped her around the next day when she’d foolishly told him about her encounter with the two cops.  When she described them to Dickie, he’d become enraged. 

 

“You stupid little bitch!” he had shouted.  “That was Starsky and Hutch!  You don’t mess around with those dudes!  I swear, baby, if you bring them down on me, I’ll kill you!”

 

To emphasize the point, he had backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling to the floor.  “Now get the hell outta my sight.  I don’t wanna see you around here again until you have some bread for me.  Got it?”

 

She rocked back and forth, her face resting against her updrawn knees.  People passed by on the street without as much as a second glance.  One more runaway.  Who cared?  Nobody, she thought.  Nobody except maybe Clara, or those two cops.  Through a haze of pain, she remembered their offer to help.  Bobbie slipped a trembling hand into her pocket and withdrew the scrap of paper with Hutch’s and Starsky’s phone numbers scrawled on it.

 

They won’t give me what I need.  They’re cops, she reasoned through a veil of nausea and pain.  But they had said they’d help her.  And there was something about the blond one...something that made her think he understood.

 

Rising on shaky legs, she hurried down the block to the nearest phone booth, then looked to see if anyone was watching before slipping off her dirty sneaker to retrieve the dime she kept taped beneath the tongue on the left shoe.  Her security dime, Clara had called it when she’d pressed it into Bobbie’s palm with a conspiratorial wink. 

 

“A girl working the streets always needs a way to call for help,” she had said.  “You just hide this dime in your shoe, girl.  Listen to what Clara’s tellin’ you, now.  This dime could save your silly life someday.”

 

It was only a dime, but the smooth, cool piece of silver hidden away in the shoe had given Bobbie an unfathomable feeling of security.  This was the first time in the three months since taping it to her shoe that the girl had considered using it.  Another spasm of pain ripped through her belly, and she quickly deposited the coin and dialed Detective Hutchinson’s number.

 

™™  ˜˜

 

Hutch rolled over and answered the phone on the second ring.  He’d barely been asleep, just hovering on the edge of consciousness.

 

“H’lo,” he mumbled, without lifting his head from the pillow.

 

For a heartbeat, he thought no one was there.  “Hello?” he repeated, this time with a note of irritability.  Sleep came to him in such small doses these days, he had little patience with practical jokers and prank calls.

 

“D-D-Detective Hutchinson?  This...this is Bobbie.”

 

Hutch sprang from the bed and was on his feet in an instant, shedding all vestiges of sleep in one fluid movement.

 

“Yes, this is Hutch.  What is it, Bobbie?  Are you okay?”

 

On the other end of the line, the girl whimpered, but didn’t answer him.

 

“Bobbie, what’s wrong?”  Hutch felt his heart thumping against his ribs.

 

“You...you said to call you if I needed...if I needed help.  I can’t...I can’t stand this no more.  Nobody’ll give me a fix, and my stomach’s on fire!  And I can’t quit puking!”

 

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly, stretching the phone cord to reach for his jeans carelessly thrown across the foot of the bed.  “Tell me where you are.  I’ll come get you.”

 

“Will you bring me something?  I mean, I could tell you wanted to help me.  And...and with you being a cop and all, you must know where to get some stuff.”

 

“Bobbie, listen to me,” Hutch said, shrugging into his shirt while maneuvering the phone from one shoulder to the other.  “There are other ways I can help you.  There’s medicine they can give you—”

 

“No!” she sobbed.  “I need a fix!  Are you gonna help me or not?  You said...you said you would!”

 

“Don’t go anywhere,” he pleaded.  “I can be there in a few minutes.  Just tell me where.  I promise, I’ll help you.”

 

Bobbie sniffed pitifully, wiping her tears away with the back of her trembling hand.  “I’m...I’m at Wilshire and Gordon.  A...a phone booth near the Red Cactus.”

 

“I know the place,” Hutch said in a calm voice, envisioning the rundown adult bookstore.  “Just promise me you’ll wait there.”

 

“You’ll hurry, won’t you?  And you won’t arrest me?”

 

“I won’t arrest you.  You have my word.”

 

“I’ll...I’ll wait.  But you better hurry!”

 

Hutch quickly finished dressing, then slipped on his holster and gun, concealing it beneath a light jacket.  As he reached the door, he turned and looked at the phone, thinking maybe he should call Starsky.  Things between them earlier that day had been strained, at best.  If he took off on this rescue mission without his partner’s knowledge, wouldn’t he be reinforcing his thoughtless comments about not needing Starsky’s help?  His attempts to apologize had fallen on deaf ears.  Maybe his actions would speak louder.

 

It took five rings for Starsky to answer.  Once he did, Hutch gave him a quick rundown.  “Just wanted to let you know she’s asked for help and I’m going to her.  I’m picking her up at Wilshire and Gordon.”

 

Risking another angry rejection, Starsky said without reservation, “I’ll meet you there.”

 

Hutch smiled to himself.  “Thanks, but no point in both of us going, Starsk.  I’m taking her to Clara’s to get her off the street, then I’ll call Dr. Cleeson over at the rehab center and see if they can admit her tonight.  I understand there’s a waiting list to get in, but I think Cleeson will cooperate.”

 

“Cleeson’s a good man,” Starsky said, stifling a yawn.

 

“Yeah, and he’s been pretty successful using methadone therapy to ease some really hardcore users through withdrawal.  Since he owes us one, I think he’ll take her in.”  Hutch paused, then added, “Bobbie doesn’t have anything to hide, so there’s no reason for her not to go the easier route.”

 

Starsky was quiet for a moment, knowing Hutch was comparing his own situation to that of the girl.  “Good plan,” Starsky said, lying back on the pillow.  “But call me if you need any help, okay?”

 

“There’s really nothing for you to do, but thanks, just the same,” Hutch said.  “Hopefully, I’ll have her admitted to the center before tomorrow morning.  If I’m late, just cover with Dobey for me.”

 

“Right,” Starsky said.  Then, “Hutch?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks for calling.”

 

“Yeah.”  Hutch hung up, satisfied he’d taken the first step in mending the rift between them.

 

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Starsky dropped the phone back onto the receiver and lay there for a moment, mulling over his conversation with Hutch.  Although his partner had insisted he didn’t need help, Starsky was encouraged by the fact that Hutch had called and let him know his plan.

 

In retrospect, he realized maybe he’d overreacted last night.  After all, Hutch was still going through a rough time, and his emotions were running high.  The last thing he needed was his best friend acting like a spoiled kid whose feelings were hurt.

 

Starsky threw back the sheet and slipped into his jeans and shirt.  It couldn’t hurt to cover Hutch’s back.  Sure, it wasn’t necessary, but showing up would prove to Hutch there were no hard feelings.

 

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