==================================================================
“A little more than kin, and less than kind.” - Act I, Scene II
Driving home an hour later, Hutch felt like a huge weight had lifted from his shoulders. Drake’s advice had been the perfect antidote for his turmoil over that stupid soliloquy--only the most famous line in Shakespeare, he told himself, rolling his eyes--and the last runthrough had gone beautifully. He had put the image of every other actor who’d given this speech out of his mind and simply lost himself in the beauty of the words.
It had been one of the purest moments of his life, and he wanted to share it with someone. But a call to Starsky proved futile; his partner was probably out on a date.
Oh, well. He picked up his guitar, strummed a few experimental chords, and winced. It was badly out of tune after gathering dust the last couple of weeks, something that heretofore was all but unheard of. He tuned it quickly, then played a few songs, relishing the feeling of the strings under his fingers, and the sound of the music drifting through the still apartment.
The phone rang. He set the guitar aside and answered it quickly, thinking it was probably Starsky--but it was his sister, returning one of the five calls he’d placed to her yesterday. He felt his mood decline sharply.
“I wish you would stop calling, Ken,” Kimberly said. “I told you I would let you know when I heard something.”
“It’s been over two weeks, Kimberly--”
“I’m fully aware of that,” she replied coldly. “But I’m sure everything is fine.”
Hutch bit back a sharp retort. He’d love to let it rest at that, if for no other reason than to end this unpleasant conversation with his sister. But he truly was concerned about his parents, and he knew himself--he wouldn’t have any peace of mind if he weren’t doing something to try to find them.
“Look, can’t you call up some of the neighbors, or their bridge club, to see if they mentioned something to somebody?”
There was a small sigh at the other end of the line. Hutch envisioned his sister, probably touching up her nails, gazing at her perfect features in her bedroom mirror, and experiencing mild annoyance at her brother’s persistent requests. Mild annoyance, nothing more; it would not do for Kimberly Hutchinson-Munroe to show exasperation or any other strong emotion, to her brother or any other person. It just was Not Done.
“Ken, I really don’t understand,” she said at last, with that infuriating note of condescending patience that reminded him of his father. “We never hear from you, and now all of a sudden you’re so worried about Mother and Father? Honestly, they’re adults. They can take care of themselves.”
Hutch restrained himself again, this time from telling her just what he thought about her indifference. It wouldn’t do any good, and would only make him angry. Instead, however, he found himself repeating an old refrain: “Come on, Kim, let it rest, huh? I don’t exactly keep regular hours, and Mom and Dad aren’t partial to calls in the middle of the night.”
“Don’t call me Kim,” she said stiffly. Hutch smirked at the phone. He’d known that would get to her; she hated being addressed by the diminutive of her name. Then he heard a voice in the background. Kimberly covered the phone but Hutch heard her response to her husband’s query: “No, it’s nothing important, Drew, it’s just Ken. Again.”
It’s just Ken. For some reason that comment stung, and stung hard. When he’d been growing up, leading the tennis team in high school and graduating as valedictorian, he’d been the golden child. When he’d won fencing trophies in college and made the dean’s list every semester, he’d been “his father’s son.” And when he had been admitted into a doctoral program in criminal justice, his father couldn’t say enough about how proud he was of his brilliant son. They’d indulged him in his theatre pursuits, as long as they didn’t interfere with the main course of his studies, and even found them an amusing anecdote to relay to their friends at the club.
But then he’d grown tired of academics, of studying the criminal justice system in the abstract, and decided that he wanted to taste the “real world” before earning his Ph.D. He had researched the topic thoroughly during his first year of graduate school, learning that California had the top-notch police academy, and a rich variety of assignments where he could eventually do detective work. He trained himself physically, did extra reading, and used his own money to fly cross-country and take the admitting exam. He’d passed with flying colors and even been awarded a small tuition remission. Flushed with pride at his accomplishment, he’d gone home that Christmas to let his family know their son was going to be a cop in L.A.
Their reaction blew him away. When his father instantly and icily insisted that he drop his “ridiculous idea” and go back to graduate school, Hutch realized just how much he wanted this. For the first time, he openly defied his father–and ended up reeling from his father’s backhand. His mother stayed out of it, his sister watched her brother’s fall from grace with ill-disguised satisfaction, and his father informed him that if he wanted to pursue this he could do it with his own money. This he did, packing his bags and leaving that very evening.
Things had never been the same between him and his parents, and he knew Kimberly relished that. She had been just the marriageable daughter, ignored while the Hutchinsons lavished their attention on their favored son, but all that changed after Hutch took his father’s challenge and left the family home. And he knew her dismissive attitude--it’s just Ken--generally was echoed by his father, who had little time to waste on a son who persisted in defying him, and who had the additional audacity to be both good at it and happier for it. When the elder Hutchinson did call, it was generally, as Hutch had observed to Starsky, “a command performance,” with Hutch expected to hop and answer to some new query about what he thought he was doing with his life, and didn’t he think it was time this nonsense stopped?
Only his mother tried to maintain some kind of civil contact, but she was completely dominated by his father, and her letters and calls were sparse and brief. Hutch had visited a few times, but the atmosphere was always strained and disapproving, and he felt he lost himself in the house after only a few hours. He guessed it had been two years since he had been there last.
However, he didn’t seem able to give up hope completely, especially at a time like this. Hence, his thought about traveling there for the anniversary; hence, his worry about not being able to reach them. He didn’t hate his parents, and he certainly didn’t wish them any ill. He just wanted them to treat him like an adult man, not some prized poodle who was only good enough for them if he performed according to their directions.
“Ken?” Kimberly said, and by the tone of her voice it wasn’t the first she had said it. “Ken, I have things to do. Is this all you wanted?”
“Yes, Kimberly, that’s all I wanted,” Hutch answered tiredly. “Go back to your nails. Just call me if you hear anything, huh?” He hung up the phone without waiting to hear her response, and sat there for a moment, thinking about his family. Then he got up, got a beer from the ‘fridge, and prowled restlessly around the apartment for a few moments.
Eventually, he wound up at his piano. It was in better shape than the guitar, as he always, no matter what other area he had to sacrifice, managed to get the money together to get it tuned on a regular basis. It had belonged to his grandfather, perhaps the one individual in the Hutchinson family who had accepted him for who he was. Hutch gently lifted the cover from the keys and lovingly ran his hands over the smooth ivory that was worn by hours of playing, and thought about Robert Hutchinson. He couldn’t remember how old he had been when his grandfather had sat him on his lap and taught him his first set of scales, then his first song. He only remembered how that felt, to learn that song by heart and play it, his eyes closed, his fingers dancing over the keys.
It was something like the way he’d felt at rehearsal tonight.
His fingering began to take on purpose now, and he played the opening chords for a Leonard Cohen song that had always been one of his favorites. Luckily, he didn’t have to worry about the late hour, as his neighbors--a retail outlet that shut down at dusk and a jazz club--were not likely to complain. He closed his eyes again, as he had when he was a child, and let his fingers dance over the keys again as he sang.
Like a bird on a wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir,
I have tried, in my own way, to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Like a knight in an old-fashioned book,
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
And if I...if I’ve been unkind,
I hope that you will let it go by.
And if I...if I’ve been untrue,
I hope you know, it was never to you.
And so I swear, by this song,
I swear, by all I did wrong,
I will make it--I will make it--
All up to thee.
Like a bird on a wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir,
I have tried, in my own way, to be free.
He let the chords and the echo of his voice die away, thinking how apt the words were...and how, in a way, they applied to Hamlet as well as they did to Ken Hutchinson.
====================================================================
Hutch was right. Starsky was on a date--but not the kind his partner would have envisioned. No, his companion this evening was a tiny, birdlike woman with piercingly bright eyes and a warmly enveloping smile, and at this moment, he was pushing himself back from the table with a happy sigh and a decidedly straining belt.
“Aunt Rosie,” he said with utter satisfaction, “That was, without a doubt, the finest meal you have ever prepared for me.”
Rose Starsky sniffed, not entirely displeased by the compliment, but also knowing her nephew far too well not to wonder about an ulterior motive. If she hadn’t married into the Starsky family years ago, she would have been continually amazed at the ability of this thoroughly Jewish boy to throw the blarney around with the best of them. Just like his father...and his uncle, she thought. “Like I couldn’t tell you were enjoying the meal, David,” she said, touching his shoulder and smiling at him affectionately as she picked up his empty, almost-licked clean plate.
Starsky helped her clear the table, put dishes in the dishwasher, and clean up the kitchen, before they both settled in the living room with cups of coffee. “So,” Rose began, delicately adding several lumps of sugar to her cup; Starsky, of course, followed suit. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”
“Just pinin’ away for your good cooking,” Starsky teased her. He had an agenda, of course, but he loved this aunt with every fiber of his being and so his remark wasn’t complete malarkey.
“Pish,” she scoffed. “Now that you’ve tried--unsuccessfully--to turn my head, what do you want?’
Starsky took in a deep breath, put down his coffee cup, and took her hands in his. He gave her the full power of his dark blue eyes–the one that had melted a thousand female hearts since he’d been in grade school--and said, with the complete seriousness the request demanded, “I want you to teach me the recipe for your wonton soup.”
“David Michael!” she said in exasperation, snatching her hands back and busying herself with her cup. “Don’t you ever learn? How many times have you asked me for that?”
“Oh, I don’t know...couple hundred,” Starsky replied, enjoying himself mightily. He got a tremendous kick out of his Aunt Rosie; he really did. She was like a little furnace, a microcosm of the warm, happy, chaotic home of his childhood, where everybody tumbled over each other like puppies and ended up sleeping in a contented, loving jumble. She recharged his batteries like nobody else. Except Hutch, of course.
Which was exactly Starsky’s goal with this request--except in reverse, of course. Though Hutch complained of nothing other than being tired (and apologized constantly for that) Starsky could see just how the many aspects of this case were wearing on him. They hadn’t had a chance to socialize since Hutch had started rehearsals, and Starsky sensed that his partner wasn’t just skipping dinner with him--he was skipping it altogether. He had every intention of changing that, by enticing his friend with the best homemade dinner the Starsky recipe collection had to offer--beginning with his aunt’s indescribably delicious wonton.
“And what do I always say?”
“No.”
“So what makes you think I am going to change my mind this time?”
“How many tries do I get?” It was an old familiar game and they loved playing it.
She pursed her lips and examined him carefully. “Today I think...three. But three strikes and you’re out.” Her hand emphasized the point, with a gesture any umpire would envy.
“OK.” Starsky leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and pretended to ponder. In actuality, he had pretty much mapped out this entire conversation on the way to his aunt’s house. “Because...you love me.”
“True, but that has nothing to do with this.” She nudged his legs. “Sit up straight...do you know what that’ll do to your back? Come on...you’ll thank me some day, you’ll see.” Obediently, Starsky scooted up in his chair; teasingly, he folded his hands in his lap and again fixed her with the full wattage of his best pleading expression and his most winning smile. “Try again,” she challenged him.
“How about, you can’t resist my incredible charm?”
“I was married to a Starsky for 49 years, David; don’t you think I’m immune to the Starsky wiles? There’s not a weapon you got that I can’t handle.” She preened a bit at her ability to spar with her much-younger nephew. “Try again...you’ve got one last chance.”
“Okay...how about this one?” Starsky leaned forward and allowed his expression to become serious again. “It’s not for me.”
She tilted her head, and again Starsky was struck by how much she resembled a bright, busy little sparrow. He could tell he had her interest. “Oh? And just who is it for, if I may ask?”
“Hutch.”
“Oh.” She sat back in her chair, picked up her cup, put it back down, folded her hands, unfolded them, and then picked the cup up again. “Well...”
He had her, he knew he had her. His aunt adored Hutch; had from the moment Starsky had first brought him over for dinner. Half the time she spent flirting shamelessly with him, pinching his cheek and batting her eyelashes as if she were half her age. At first, Hutch had been embarrassed and nonplused, but as time went on he had learned to tease her right back, offering to take her dancing and kissing her cheek until she was flushed with pleasure and happiness.
The rest of the time, she simply opened her heart and her tiny arms and enfolded the blond detective into her metaphorical and literal embrace. Like Starsky, she had seen that behind Hutch’s reserve, behind that demeanor that others called aloof, lay a heart that hungered for kind nurturance and unconditional acceptance. She was constantly fussing over how little he ate and how slender he was, no matter how much he tried to convince her of his healthy diet and his rapid metabolism. She shared his and Starsky’s triumphs and sympathized over their unwieldy cases, and she had offered beautiful, tender comfort after Gillian was killed and Hutch had discovered her true line of work. Most of all, she simply sat and beamed at him with enormous affection, and treated him like Starsky...like one of the family.
So Starsky knew he had her. She could resist him, but never a plea of behalf of Hutch.
He couldn’t quite hide his satisfaction at knowing he was going to pry this out of her at last; and she caught it, of course. Her expression became wary and she again put down the cup. “All right, tell me,” she ordered. “What’s the matter with Ken?”
“He’s...sort of working two jobs right now, and he’s lookin’ pretty run down,” Starsky began, but stopped when Rose shook her head.
“No good. Start from the beginning and tell me what’s the matter with my favorite boy.”
“You just like him because he’s blond,” Starsky teased. “It’s the mystery of the goy, come to getcha at last.” She fixed him with a stern gaze, and he sobered. “OK, OK.” He told her about the Shakespeare company and the murder they had been assigned to investigate, and how the director had also had a huge hole in his cast list...one that Hutch just happened to fill nicely. “So he’s been comin’ in to meet with me as usual in the morning, then rehearsing for six hours straight, then hitting the streets with me for another six hours. Then after that, he goes home, rehearses his lines or looks at his notes and maybe, just maybe, he gets some sleep. To top it all off, he’s been trying to reach his parents for two weeks, and he has no idea where they are.” He paused, then went on, his tone now genuine with concern for his friend. “He hasn’t been eating too well, so I thought I might make dinner for him tomorrow...and add something a little special to cheer him up.”
His aunt’s expression was nearly liquid by now, and Starsky knew he had won at last. Rose Starsky was incapable of withholding anything from those she loved, especially when they were hurt or weary. Starsky had been at the receiving end of that philosophy many times, and he had known that she would give it freely to Hutch, as well.
“All right,” she said at last. “But you’d better do it right, David...and you better never tell your sisters that I gave it to you first.”
He kissed her soundly and swept her from the chair in a crushing hug. “Thanks, Aunt Rosie,” he murmured into her sweet-smelling shoulder. “I promise, it’ll stay between you and me.” She wriggled out of his arms and tried to look stern, then gave up the effort as a lost cause. Instead, she reached up and laid one hand on his cheek.
“You know something, David Michael Starsky?” she said, her eyes shining with her love for him. “You’re a good boy, to take such good care of your friend.”
“It’s what we do for each other, Aunt Rosie,” Starsky said. “It’s what we do.”
CHAPTER 9
===================================================================
Seem to me all
the uses of this world.”
- Act I, Scene II
Hutch was exhausted, weary to the bone exhausted. Between the case and the show, he was working eighteen hour days during the week. His weekends, normally times when he got out of the city or at least got to stay home and relax, were eaten up by six hours of rehearsals each day. There was still no word about his parents, which was one more thing that chipped away at the few hours of sleep he was getting each night. Even someone in his excellent physical condition needed rest and fuel, and he was getting precious little of either.
Worse, he was feeling strangely ineffectual. So far all their digging efforts had yielded little, and those pieces they did have were like widely spaced pieces in an enormous jigsaw puzzle. Accustomed to being able to solve even the most difficult problem, his self-esteem was taking a bit of a beating, one that was only relieved by his hours at the theatre. And the stage work was satisfying, but even that was tempered by his steadily increasing guilt over leaving the bulk of the investigative work to Starsky. So he pushed as hard as he could, trying to pack a day’s worth of work into the few hours in the morning and the evening, but he was running out of psychological and physiological resources.
He dragged himself into the station Friday night, the week before the show was to open, to find that Starsky was not yet in the squad room. That was fine with him for the moment, as he wanted a few minutes with a good strong cup of coffee and his own internal bracer, a good brisk self-talking to. The brutal schedule was only temporary, and he knew he could handle it. He just needed some time to regroup. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped its warmth gratefully (Minnie must have made this batch, because it was actually drinkable). Then he sank into his chair and opened a folder–but did nothing else with the papers inside, instead staring down unseeing at the typed words.
Come on, Hutchinson, he told himself firmly. You’ve been through worse than this before and you’ve made it just fine. There’s nothin’ different about this than any other high-intensity assignment. Your parents are probably fine...and your father would just roll his eyes and give you a lecture about neglecting your work. Now come on, focus.
Starsky arrived about twenty minutes later, to the unfamiliar sight of his partner, head propped on his hand, apparently having dozed off just seconds before. He half-grinned, then tapped Hutch on the shoulder as he came around the end of the table.
“Morning,” he said as Hutch started awake. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” Hutch said with a sigh. “Nice to know you care.”
“Like always,” Starsky said. He detoured to the coffee machine, to pour a cup for himself and his clearly exhausted partner, then dropped into his chair. “So...what’s up?”
“Nothing new,” Hutch replied, accepting the cup of coffee with a nod of thanks, and widening his eyes in an effort to wake himself up. “How about you?”
“Ditto,” Starsky replied. “A whole lotta nothin’.”
“Dammit,” Hutch burst out, startling his partner--and frankly himself--with the vehemence of the oath. “When is this thing going to break? I mean, here we are--or you are, actually--busting tail on this and nothing is turning! Maybe we oughta just give it up and try getting kittens out of trees.”
“Hey,” Starsky said with a frown, genuinely concerned at Hutch’s disgust. “Take it easy, huh? It’s not like this is the first time we’ve drudged through the swamp for a few weeks before we came up with something solid. This isn’t TV, you know--we don’t always get the bad guys at the end of the hour.”
“I know that,” Hutch snapped, then reined himself in and just stopped talking. He knew if he said anything else, he would just end up doing more complaining, which would be fruitless and only frustrate both of them more.
“Hey, why don’t we knock off early and go over to my place?” Starsky suggested. “I got a dinner surprise that’s gonna knock your socks off--” He stopped. Hutch had glanced at his watch and was shaking his head with a regretful expression.
“I can’t,” he said. “I have to be back at the theatre in an hour, and it’s a thirty minute drive from here--” It was his turn to stop, at the tight look on Starsky’s face. “What?”
“You have any idea how long it’s been since we got a chance to have dinner together?” Starsky said, half-teasing. He intended to sound like a petulant child, but he was truly disappointed that his special plans had been thwarted. His partner missed the teasing half of the comment and honed in on the petulance; his eyebrows shot up in disbelief, and his voice took on that cutting tone it got when he was tired and feeling pushed against the wall.
“Do you have any idea,” he retorted sarcastically, his voice a snide and exact echo of Starsky’s tone, “how much you sounded like my ex-wife just then?”
He got Starsky’s back up with that, and they glared at each other for a moment. Starsky opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. They both took a deep breath.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’re beat, and we’re both frustrated. I guess I’m just used to having you around, you big lug, and it feels weird this way.”
“Yeah, for me too, buddy,” Hutch said, his tone noticeably calmer. “I haven’t been sleeping very well, and I’m still worrying about my parents...but that’s no reason to take it out on you.”
“Happens,” Starsky said with a shrug. “On a scale of 1-10, this was pretty low on the Hutchinson meter.” In spite of himself, Hutch chuckled; it was one of the many times when he was grateful for their ability to defuse each other’s tension with just the right twisted remark.
Starsky’s phone rang; after answering, he listened intently for several seconds. Then he grabbed a pencil and his pad. His eyes flicked briefly at Hutch, and just that fast, Hutch knew that something important was coming over the horn. Starsky wrote furiously, throwing in a few grunts and “Uh-huh”s over the line, then hung up and dropped the pencil to the table.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Hutch prompted, keenly aware of his desire to have something--anything--break on this case.
“That was the boys in the morgue,” Starsky said with some satisfaction. “A Jane Doe they found yesterday turned out to be that actress who disappeared from the theatre.”
“Gretchen Talbot?” Hutch said. “What happened?”
“Well, according to the coroner’s report, she died of alcohol poisoning,” Starsky said, consulting his notes. “They said her BAL was so high, her blood could have stocked a small liquor cabinet.”
“Poisoning,” Hutch mused, with a ferocious frown between his brows. His brain was turning, ticking away at something, but it was happening in the background and he just couldn’t get it to come forward. “Dammit, that means something...why can’t I get at it?”
“‘Cause you’re tired and you got too many things on your mind,” Starsky said succinctly and not unkindly. “Look, you go home and try to get some rest. I’ll ride the streets tonight, touch base with Huggy, and check out this lady’s apartment.”
“Starsk, I appreciate the offer, but it’s not fair--”
“Sure it is,” Starsky said reasonably. “Your brain’s not much good to us when it’s mush, and I got you snapping at me, besides. Catchin’ up on your sleep’ll do us both good.”
Hutch had to admit that he was in pretty bad shape when Starsky could out-logic him. “Yeah, OK,” he agreed, rising to his feet and pulling his jacket from the back of his chair. “But you call me if you need anything, hear me?”
“Roger, wil-co,” Starsky assured him with a wink and a small salute. “Now go on, get outta here.”
Hutch shrugged into his jacket and headed toward the exit. At the door, however, he paused and turned back. “Hey,” he called.
Starsky glanced up.
“Let’s do dinner tomorrow night, huh?”
Starsky smiled. “Sure,” he said. Hutch turned to walk out, then turned back again.
“And Starsk?”
In mock exasperation, Starsky looked up again. “What?”
“Thanks,” Hutch said simply.
“You’re welcome, you big dope,” Starsky responded. “You’d do the same for me, and you know it.” And have, many times.
“Yeah,” Hutch said, with a remembering chuckle and his first genuine smile of the day. “Yeah, I know. See you tomorrow.”
“Scram,” Starsky said firmly, and refused to go back to his work until his partner was out of sight. He shook as his head as he bent back over the paperwork strewn across his desk. It was a good thing they had each other, he thought with amusement, because sometimes they didn’t take care of themselves worth a damn.
Once back at his apartment, Hutch stretched out on his couch with every intention of reviewing his lines with a cue tape he’d made. Within minutes, however, he was dead to the world, and the tape recorder ran without response. He didn’t wake until his phone rang an hour later; it was Drake, wondering why he wasn’t at the theatre.
“Damn,” Hutch muttered, peering at his watch with sleep-bleared eyes. “I’m sorry, Wayne...I was going over my lines and I must have fallen asleep. Let me just grab some things together and I’ll be right there.”
There was a beat of silence at the other end as Drake absorbed what Hutch had said, and took a moment to recall how the young man had looked at rehearsal that day. “No, I tell you what, Ken...why don’t you take a break tonight,” he suggested matter-of-factly. “You’re looking somewhat peaked, and we’re going into tech week on Sunday, so things will only get more stressful. It’s probably best that you have some reserve of energy; otherwise, we’ll lose you before opening night, and what good would that be?”
Hutch shook his head, thinking he was surrounded by mother hens tonight; but he was grateful for the respite. “Thanks, Wayne. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
He hung up the phone and contemplated his script for a moment. Reached out a hand to rewind the tape recorder--then noticed it was trembling with fatigue.
That’s it, he thought. He knew his limits, and he’d just reached them. He turned off the recorder, stripped off his clothes, and took his tired self to bed.