TORINO TALES
by
Ellis Murdock
This was written for
entertainment purposes only and is not meant to infringe in any way upon the
rights of the legal owners of Starsky and Hutch.
"Why?"
"Because I wanna hear
it."
"But—"
"Look, you asked if
there was anything you could do to make me feel better. Right?"
"Yes, but I don't
see—"
"Well," Starsky
attempted an expansive gesture with his hand, and regretted it immediately.
Even simple movements caused spasms tonight, and everything in the room
vanished in the sudden blinding whiteness of pain. Time was strangely absent in this solitary place, flowing again
only when the almost shockingly gentle touches first began to register and reunite
him with the wider world. Fingers first,
making soothing counterclockwise strokes on an inner wrist; then the safe,
secure stillness of a strong arm holding him fast against Hutch's chest. Twin heartbeats came into focus next: the sharp, slower tautophony in his ear a
calming counterpoint to the sickeningly rapid pulse pounding his temples. The words successfully resisted deciphering,
but drowned out the foreign sounds emanating from his own lips nonetheless. .
.both voices eventually trailing off until the ocean's rhythm was the only intruder
on the quiet of the room. Waiting until
breathing was no longer a feat worthy of a medal, Starsky continued, this time
without moving anything he didn't have to.
"Tell me again. That
helps."
"All right," Hutch
whispered, gently repositioning them both with his legs, "but I fail to
see how re-living my life's most embarrassing moments can make you feel any
better."
"Can't explain
it." Starsky briefly wondered if
his rapidly-spreading grin might somehow be audible. "But it does."
Teasingly shooting a hand to
Starsky's throat in a mock choking gesture, Hutch drew a deep breath and
started. "It was a dark and stormy
night. . ."
"Hutch—"
"Well, it was. If there had been a moon--even a street
light--it would've never happened. And
you have to keep in mind that it was after three in the morning on the last
shift of nearly a week of doubles, and it was still brand new. It even smelled new. These things don't imprint on the mind
overnight, you know, and—"
"Don't imprint-- A 'tomato' with a white racing stripe? Come on--I've heard you give an accurate
description of a suspect you caught sight of as a blur going round a corner at
thirty feet." Starsky twisted his
head the bare minimum required to catch Hutch's expression. "How long could it take?"
"It was during one of
those downpours—"
"Down—? It was misty, maybe. And that's a stretch."
Hutch tugged lightly on a
handful of curls. "Who's telling
this story, anyway? Any time you want
to take over. . . ."
"Just tryin' to keep you
from turning it into a fairy tale."
Starsky leaned back again with a sigh, burrowing just a little
closer. "There is no way it was a
downpour."
"Rain then. Can we split
the difference and call it rain? It was
raining. We had pulled over to
Dominico's--it was my turn to buy, naturally--and I ran in to pick up some
dinner."
"What'd you get? You remember?"
There was a pause. "I remember the coffees, because I was
juggling them when I came out the door.
The usual, probably: ham and cheese on rye for you, and tuna with—"
"—tomato and sprouts on
whole wheat for you," Starsky finished, running a thumb absently over the
back of Hutch's hand. "Then what
happened?"
"I came out and made a
dash for the car. You were in the usual
spot and— Are you comfortable like this, or would you like to try turning the
other way?"
"Nah. I'm as comfortable as I'm gonna get until
the pills kick in. Just keep talking,
will ya? What happened next?" Hutch snagged the damp cloth from the
nightstand and pressed it lightly against the back of Starsky's neck, dabbing
it in a slow arc across tense shoulders.
The coolness that washed over him in waves was a refreshing contrast to
the nearly stifling heat that had been his companion moments before, but it
still made Starsky shiver.
"I got in, pulled the wet newspaper off my head and
tossed it into the back seat, set the cups on the floor, and started hunting
through the bag for the mustard. If you
recall, Mort never put enough mustard on anything--I always had to ask for
extra."
"Was I saying much while
you were doing all this?"
"No, but I was too busy
telling you about the new busboy who was a deadringer for Jimmy Hoffa to
notice. I handed you your
sandwich—"
"Which I took?"
"Which you took, and without
your usual complaint that I forgot the extra mayo. That was actually encouraging.
So, I thought it would be a good time to broach the subject of heading
up north for our days off. . .you know, renting a cabin, doing some early
season fishing."
"And I still didn't say
anything."
"No."
"And we weren't
moving?"
"No."
"And you didn't find
that kinda strange?"
"I was really tired,
Starsk. You seem to forget the kind of
hours we were putting in there. . . ."
Starsky chuckled, then drew
his knees up. "Ow. Yeah, well I wasn't the one forgetting
things that night. When did you
know?"
"Not until I spilled the
coffee," Hutch admitted with a sigh.
"I mean, I knew something didn't feel right, but it wasn't until I
had a fight with one of those damned plastic lids that I knew. You were treating that car like a
combination of a newborn baby and the Hope Diamond. I hadn't done anything particularly heroic that day. There was no way you were going to let me
spill hot coffee on your precious upholstery and not say a word."
"So?"
"So, I froze. I was hunched over like this," Hutch
somehow managed to demonstrate without jarring the man in his arms, "and I
took in what I could without moving. It
was all wrong: the color, the smell, the feel.
I glanced over at your feet, and they were wrong, too."
"How could my feet be
'wrong'?" The combination of
pills, warmth, and mostly Hutch, was finally beginning to take effect. Starsky risked a tentative stretch, and yawned. "What was wrong with my feet?"
"They weren't wearing
the shoes they were in when I went to get our sandwiches. Your legs weren't in jeans anymore,
either."
"That had to be a bit of
a shock."
"Yeah. I thought about just crawling out, not
saying anything. Just leave? But it was weird. . .morbid curiosity, I
guess. I had to look."
The tremors going through
Starsky's body were no longer caused by pain.
"You're laughing at
me!"
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Okay, I am. Go on anyway."
Hutch sighed. "I worked my way up until I was staring
into the eyes of this large, amused-looking guy who could've been one of
Huggy's endless supply of cousins."
He poked Starsky lightly in the ribs.
"Keep that up, and it's the last bedtime story I'll ever tell
you."
"Then what?"
"He smiled at me and
said 'hi.' Mentioned that he was
waiting for his wife to get off shift across the street, but that he was always
open to new possibilities. And he thanked
me for the sandwich and coffee."
"And then?"
"I was trying to
explain, but I couldn't get my tongue to cooperate. Then I heard this tapping on the window—"
"Yeah?"
"And there you were,
outside, wearing the strangest expression on your face."
"My partner had just
crawled into a car with a strange guy and given him my dinner. How was I supposed to look? So, didja say anything before you got
out?"
"No, not that I
recall. You opened the door, I think,
and I just sort of got out and went with you." Hutch made a growling sound and went for Starsky's throat again. "It's not that funny. Besides, it could've happened to
anyone."
"No, I really don't
think it could've." Starsky wiped
his eyes and yawned again, even wider than before. "What color was the car?"
"I don't remember."
"What color was the
car?"
"Orange. It was an orange Mustang."
"Uh-huh. And what color was the driver."
"Watch it, Chinchilla
Boy. I can drag out some good ones on
you, too, you know."
"Yeah, but at least I
didn't get the two a you mixed up."
The laughter was therapeutic, somehow, and Starsky found himself
starting to drift off in the arms that were rocking him very, very slowly. "Hey, Hutch?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time, I wanna hear
about that wig that attacked. . . ."
"Shh. Next time."
finis