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Spike G.A. Chronicles #3

By

Anna M

   Back for another tale, folks. Hope three time’s the charm. In this case, I needed all the charm I could muster. And how much charm can a gangly redhead with freckles really ever….? Well, there was this girl back in Florida who thought-- Never mind. Not important now. Ya know, I shoulda seen this coming. Miles away, I mean! Gypsy-Prince and Porcelain-Perfection can smell a criminal in the middle of an ammonia spill but they can’t spot a demoness when she’s right in front of their adorable faces. I sure got a whiff of her stench the minute she walked into the squad room. She calls it perfume: hah! I know better. Maybe I coulda been in better position to prevent her from even showin’ up, but by this time I was worn to a frazzle, and for a G.A. that’s sayin’ something. Clarence was hoarding enough laughs to last him through all of eternity, but I still hadn’t quit like that first sissy Guardian Angel they tried to attach to my boys. And I won’t quit even if the year since the Amnesia stunt more resembled the devil’s backyard than a heavenly assignment sometimes. I’ve finally figured out what I couldn’t just shake off like a dog out of a bath. My boys goin’ at each other. That’s where my immunity’s real low, folks. Ain’t no vaccine either, lemme tell ya, against seein’ pain in those sapphires or watchin’ despair in baby blue. Didn’t know despair could look worse in some colors than others, but I know now. Which is why I decided to follow The Wounded Knight around this time. I was fed up with Curly at the moment. I mean, how dam—gosh, I gotta remember not to say that now… how all-fired blind can one person be without needing a cane and a dog? Baby Blue had done everything but get down on one knee and offer his bleedin’ heart on a platter. Geez, let’s run through the symptoms, people: Mr. Elegance starts wearin’ baggy bowlin’ shirts around, becomes allergic to razors, and slumps around like someone attached anvils to both wrists… Can we say unrequited love? Yeah, I’m just a dumb GI who thought a romantic dinner was brats and beer in front of a hockey game, and I still got the picture here! Then I remembered the old sayin’ about none bein’ so blind as those who won’t see.

   Well, Brooklyn Beautiful got his wake-up call, I can tell ya. And I tried to stop it, really, I did, because I can’t hack seein’ hurt in his eyes and that bottomless grin turnin’ down at the corners yanks my heart out my nostrils. Anyway, it started with the Blonde Beast. No, not my blond. I’m talkin’ Ms. Divide-and-Conquer. Now I met girls in the time before my "departure" who got off on guys bein’ willin’ to beat each other bloody and senseless over ‘em. But this chick took that little psych game to a higher level. One smile from her and the heads on my boys’ shoulders and the ones beneath their equators switched places. Only I knew in Blondie’s case it wasn’t switchin’ for the same reason. One word, people: territorial. One look at Curly salivatin’ at Ms. Vanity and every primal instinct in my Minnesotan howled right to the surface, but I also knew he didn’t realize it. I could read his mind but when it came to him readin’ it, he was suddenly illiterate.

   Then I heard Wimpy, Clarence’s stooge, laughing at me from Dobey’s office and I knew I was in for it. Yeah, my favorite police captain was gonna tie the Terrible Trio together for an assignment. Great Scott! Why don’t we just start a mudslide somewhere and be done with it if someone up there is gettin’ itchy for a disaster? And what near-sighted idiot forgot to put a section on Police Partners in the Cupid Manual, for cryin’ out loud?? I was flyin’ blind here, folks, and in for a bumpy ride…and that’s gotta be the reason I didn’t understand how much trouble we were in until Two Left Feet suddenly turned into Disco Inferno in that pay-per-dance place. Ms. Evil-in-Heels loved every minute of it includin’ those hurt little boy looks she kept gettin’ out of my darker half, and Curly has ‘hurt little boy’ down to a fine art. Still, I’m not Shakespeare, but I thought there were limits to Unrequited Love Disease. Wrong! Found that out when Blondie and Bay City Bi--- ended up back at her place the first time.

   Okay, here is where I took action. Now, let me explain something. I’d ripped every G.A. Tribunal feather until I finally told ‘em if I saw fit to do something and they didn’t like it, they could just go write a song about it on their harps and leave me in peace. So when Blond God and his Seductress ended up in the bedroom, I jumped into the fray. Now, I have to admit, in my time on Earth I never ever wanted my hands near another guy’s zipper for any reason. Period. But I was willin’ at this point to do anything to stop this tragedy, so I reached out and clamped my hand down on Blondie’s zipper tab and held fast. If I hadn’t been worried sick, I’da laughed my buns off at the look on his face at a strategic moment when those pants were no longer necessary.

   "You’re kidding," Chick Cop said in that frustrated, come-on voice. She batted his hands away, smoothed his hair, placed a sultry kiss on his neck and gave the zipper a whirl herself. Hah! Score one for Spike! Her eyes widened a mile. "I don’t believe this… It’s not hung up… I mean, I know you’re um…large… but I’ve never seen this--- can’t get it to… don’t want to hurt you. How attached are you to these pants?"

   "Excuse me?"

   "I’ve got cloth scissors," she suggested, a wicked glint in her eye.

   Blondie flushed redder than an entire field of unpicked strawberries. "F-forget i-it," he mumbled, stuttering, and grabbed his jacket, vacating the premises. I turned around and stuck my tongue out at Miss Hormonal Overload on the way out the door behind him.

   But we didn’t go directly to his place where I sensed New York was waitin’ for him. Oh, no. Nordic Hero’s radar must have been fine-tuned all at once because he avoided Venice Place like the plague. Drove us instead to a secluded spot by the sea where he killed the engine and leaned forward on the steering wheel, head in his hands. "Starsk…. Oh, God, Starsky!" Shoulders shaking, pain radiating off those blond strands-- silver in the moonlight streaming through the windshield,-- he looked like a Wounded Gabriel. I felt every heartstring pulling taut and ready to snap. Then I felt someone grab my shoulder and yank me outta the car.

   "Don’t you ever ever pull another stunt like that," Clarence shrieked at me.

   "I had to do something…." I heard myself whine. I don’t whine, folks. That told me right then that I was good and thoroughly hung up on my guys.

   "No, you didn’t. Protecting them does not mean keeping them from making their own mistakes in their personal lives. Look, you think I’ve been laughing at you this whole time. Truth is, I want you with these two. They need you. You think this is bad right now? You haven’t seen anything yet. I gave you a flash of the future… screeching tires, blood all over the place, an ICU cubicle. That’s still out there, Spike, and if you get yourself hauled off this assignment, you won’t be there for it.… Do you understand? There’s only so much I can do to keep the G.A. Tribunal off your badge."

   I looked good and whupped. I know it. Head hangin’, shame all over my freckles. "Guess you’re more like Captain Dobey than I thought," I muttered.

   "I’ll take that as a compliment." Clarence smiled.

   "I meant it as one. What about repair work?"

   "Huh?" Clarence sported one beaut of a confused look.

   "If they do somethin’ awful to each other, can I try to repair the damage?"

   "Yeah, I think that falls into your sphere of operations. Be creative, huh?" Clarence grinned again and disappeared.

   So that’s how it happened that the next time Blondie decided to pull his equipment out, I had to stand by and let him. Sat outside that bedroom door and cried my eyes out. Then I thought of something. Romeo Number 2! I had to make sure he didn’t make an appearance before Blond Idiot got his fool, hurtin’ self out of the way.

   I did everything but cause dangerous traffic accidents. Lost his car keys, leaned up against the Torino door handle…but nothin’ was gonna stop Curly today. He was ridin’ high on what he thought was a cloud of love. Love, hah! He was confusin’ love with Satan-in-Satin and I could not get a message through to his hearts-and-flowers brain to tell him so. Present in hand, he was all ready for a bit of woo. What he got was his chest cavity opened manually by his best friend coming out of Demon Diva’s bedroom with his shirttail half-out. And then my flash from the future fell into place. Fists thrown, harsh words hurled, and Blonde Vixen over there faking pitiful tears, but smirking so wide on the inside her liver had to move to make room.

   I was so torn up by that scene I could barely make it through the finish of their case. And my guys were acting like they’d just met each other on the street and didn’t like the other’s looks. Coulda got their fool selves killed and my intervention wasn’t worth much because my heart was breaking in two. Yeah, I’ve gotten pretty sappy since my "departure." So when the smoke cleared and Ms. Parasite was over there draped all over the criminal like he was a hypothermia victim, I knew it was my turn to get my act together. Repair the damage. Clarence had given me permission, God be thanked, and I needed to take him up on it.

   But what to do? First of all, Curly seemed to have swallowed his own tongue and Blondie was acting like maybe he’d left his in Chick Cop’s mouth. They sure as shootin’ weren’t talking to each other. So I decided to try out this nifty little G.A. move I’d been practicing. Picked a time when they would both be home and tampered with their radios. Yup, I stuck Curly’s on one station and Blondie’s on another. Then I called the radio stations. See, there’s this Fleetwod Mac song floatin’ around right now that just gets me every time I hear it. And it seemed pretty appropriate at the moment. So I cleared my throat, practiced my Brooklyn accent, and called Blondie’s station and requested that soapy tune for Detective Hutchinson from Rafferty. Then I tackled Minnesotan-drawl and called Curly’s station and requested the same song for Detective Starsky from O’Brien. Finally, my work all done, I sat back and waited to see if any magic happened.

   The impact that song had on the Nordic Lover was like lightening striking a Sequoia tree. He stood stock still in the dim light of the moon coming in through the greenhouse and then went down on his knees, trembling all over. I’ve never seen a man shake so much. Then it dawned on me that he was crying. No, crying doesn’t cover it. He was shedding little pieces of his soul one tear at a time. The pieces of his soul that had been bruised and battered during the last year.

   But that was nothing compared to the effect on New York Tough Guy. Soon as the song ended, he hopped in that red car and turned it into an intercontinental ballistic missile. I think there are permanent rubber streaks on the road all the way from his place to Venice, but when he pulled up outside Blondie’s pad, he just sat still, all the energy drained. Oh, God…don’t tell me I’ve got ‘em this far and Curly’s gonna go cold feet on me. Get out of the car, Idiot! Finally, he did, trudging slowly up those stairs like he thought he’d never walk them again.

   He let himself in, using the key over the door, and stopped frozen at the sight of personified emotion in front of him. Blondie still knelt in the pool of moonlight, head bowed, looking just like a martyr awaiting execution.

   "H—Hutch?"

   Never seen a human being move that fast. Golden Boy was on his feet and turned around faster’n I could blink. "Oh, God… you’re here. You’re really here. Star-Starsky… what I--- what I could have lost! I didn’t want to hurt…Jesus, God, I’d rather slit my throat than…than hurt you. What have I lost? Just tell me now. I can handle the truth. What have I lost?"

   But Curly just stood there and opened his arms. Took Blondie a minute to register through the Hutchinson Guilt Complex that he was being offered forgiveness, but when he did he just about bowled Mr. Built Like A Compact Fortress over. Flung himself into those arms and quivered like a newborn puppy. Curly wrapped his arms around his partner and just held tight, letting the violent tears against his shoulder wet him all the way to the skin. Then he said softly, "Ain’t lost nothin’, babe. Maybe I gained something, though."

   At that point, I ducked discreetly out and took a well-deserved catnap in the Torino. So that’s how it came about that Ms. I’m Gonna Spit All Over Me and Thee got her come-uppance. I wish I had a picture of her face in The Pits when they cheerfully lined out her options and smiled broader at every one of her refusals. And when they flung their arms around each other and walked out, leaving her with invisible pie all over her face, I swear I heard the Heavenly Hosts scream, "Hasta La Vista, Devil Woman!"

THE END