Paula Wilshe

   "Starsky, you are a devil!" Ken Hutchinson grinned widely as his partner came out of the bathroom. "You look perfect!"

   "You sure it’s okay?" David Starsky asked, with a demonic leer. He turned around so his partner could absorb the full effect of his outfit. "Huh?" He struck another pose.

   "It’s great, it’s great," Hutch assured him. "Your tail’s hanging funny, though, let me fix it. Don’t want you to trip."

   "Okay," Starsky turned around, back to his partner, and waited while Hutch adjusted the tail of the red satin devil’s costume he was wearing. He peered over his shoulder at Hutch. "This is the weirdest assignment we’ve ever had, don’cha think? What’re you doin’ back there?"

   "Need a pin," Hutch said, getting up and moving toward the desk. He rummaged through the drawers, finding paper clips, rubber bands, highlighters…but no pins. "Yeah, it is a strange one, you’re right."

   He looked over at Starsky, who was carefully trying to straddle one of the kitchen chairs, backward. "No pins." He held up an item from the drawer. "Stapler?" he offered.

   "Try it," Starsky warned him, "and you’ll be eternally damned. N’I’ll see to it personally. I got connections."

   "Okay, fine," Hutch put the stapler back and closed the drawer. "Trip, then."

   "Whatever," Starsky said agreeably. He looked at the kitchen clock, and nodded at Hutch. "Shouldn’t you be getting dressed? We’re gonna be late."

   Hutch pressed his lips together in annoyance. "Starsky, I already told you I’m not wearing that. That’s the best Dobey can do, he can find someone else to do it."

   "Not his fault you’re too tall," Starsky said, defending their captain. He puffed out his cheeks. "He’s certainly not gonna fit into it. I’m just glad he decided not to wear that Aunt Jemima costume," he added with a thoughtful shudder. "Come on, Hutch, get dressed, we’re gonna be late."

   "No." Hutch strode over to Starsky’s chair, and straightened the collar on Starsky’s costume. "You look great though, except…what is this…lump….?" He reached inside Starsky’s shirt and pulled out an odd looking necklace, hung around his partner’s neck with a piece of yarn. "What the…you’re wearing garlic again?"

   "Hutch," Starsky admonished him. "It’s Halloween. Can’t be too careful."

   "You know, Starsk, between the red costume and the garlic, you remind me of a jar of spaghetti sauce." Hutch shook his head. "This is just a nightmare. I don’t want to dress up, and I sure as hell don’t want to spend the evening with…with…." He gestured toward Starsky’s ensemble. "…with Chef Boyardee."

   "Oh, come on, Hutch, relax. Besides, I’m hungry." Starsky gave his partner a shove toward the bathroom, but Hutch stood fast and didn’t budge.

   Hutch straightened up and looked down on him from his full height. "Look, meatball, I already told you no. It’s a stupid costume, I don’t want to wear it. I’ll feel like an idiot."

   "Yeah, but…you’re gonna leave me in there all alone? You can’t go in there without a costume. What if you get recognized?"

   "That is my greatest fear, yes, if I put that thing on," Hutch said, gesturing toward the costume box that lay on the table. "What if I get recognized?"

   "You gonna wait outside, maybe?" Starsky persisted. "Leave me in there without backup?" He tried his best to look solitary and pitiful. "I could be killed and it’d be all your fault."

   Hutch stood still for a moment, weighing the statement, and trying to think of a retort befitting both his feelings on the uniform for the upcoming assignment, and Starsky’s plea. Unfortunately, there wasn’t one.

   "Fine," he snapped. "Just…Fine." He waved a finger in Starsky’s face. "But one comment from you, Lucifer, and you die. Is that clear?"

   Starsky shrugged his shoulders and grinned good-naturedly. "Go to hell," he said.

~~~~~~~~~~

   Starsky tried. He really did. But it was a hopeless cause.

   When Hutch emerged from the bathroom a short time later, wearing a giant white rabbit costume, the brunet lost it. Totally. He took it all in, from the huge padded feet, to the foot high ears which, when added to Hutch’s own considerable height, trailed across the ceiling as he slap-slapped into the room.

   "Hutch, you…" Starsky tried to speak, and couldn’t, and within seconds, tears of mirth poured down his face. "Hutch, I…" He clamped a hand over his mouth, and sat down heavily on the couch. "Aw…Hutch," he finally managed.

   "Starsky!" Hutch commanded. "Stop. Now." Hutch’s face had flushed bright pink, which only enhanced the image he presented. He glared at his partner, finding nothing amusing about his plight. He started to walk across the room, a look of menace taking over his normally handsome features.

   "You’re not a very cuddly bunny, are you?" Starsky said mildly.

   Blue eyes blazed at his be-devilled partner, but the effect was negated when Hutch tripped over the huge bunny feet and landed awkwardly in Starsky’s lap. "Fucking paws!" he shouted.

   Starsky pushed the blond upright, and tried very hard to maintain a modicum of solemnity. "Y’okay?" he asked.

   "Yes," Hutch answered sullenly. "Is my ear bent?"

   Starsky closed his eyes for a moment and tried to think of scary things, anything that would allow him both to retain his composure, and answer Hutch’s question. Three hundred pound hairdresser with a curling iron, Dobey dressed as Aunt Jemima, Mrs. Paymer, third grade teacher with a moustache, Huggy Bear in drag, his beloved Torino painted yellow…

   Suddenly sobered, he blinked and looked over at Hutch. "No, babe, your ear’s fine." His mouth twitched slightly. "Hop on over here, though, and I’ll help you with your whiskers, okay? What’s the matter?" he asked, as Hutch winced and moved uncomfortably on the sofa.

   "Tail," Hutch answered shortly.

   "Oh."

   Starsky tugged on his arm and pulled him up and over to the kitchen table, where the light was better suited to his artistic endeavor. He tilted Hutch’s chin up slightly, then to the side. "Okay," he offered, "I think I know how to do this."

   "Just do it," Hutch said through gritted teeth. "We’re gonna be late. The sooner we go, the sooner it will be over."

   "Okay, okay, but I want you to look good," Starsky said defensively. He patted Hutch’s shoulder. "Trust me." He opened a small tube of glue he had left on the table earlier, and drew a small line across his partner’s upper lip. "Stay still, stay still…"

   "I can’t," Hutch complained, trying to speak without moving his lips. "It tickles."

   Starsky gave him a slap on the arm. "Behave," he ordered. He began attaching the whiskers one by one, and with each successive strand, Hutch’s face reddened more, and he was clearly using every ounce of willpower he possessed to remain still.

   As Starsky attached the sixth whisker, Hutch could stand it no longer. He pulled away and rubbed at his nose vigorously. "Jesus Christ, that tickles," he said. "I can’t stand that. Take ‘em off."

   "Hutch I can’t do that," Starsky said. "You gotta have whiskers."

   "I don’t gotta have whiskers, Starsk, I can’t stand that, it’s itchy, and it’ll make me….OW…crazy all night….ow…" Hutch tried to pull off one of the strands as he talked. It didn’t budge. "Starsky," he said, in a thin, calm voice, although his hand trembled slightly. "It won’t come off."

   "Well course it won’t come off," Starsky agreed. "It’s not supposed to come off."

   Hutch made his voice pleasant and conversational. "What kind of glue did you use, Starsk?" He picked up the tube and looked it over. "This isn’t the stuff from the costume shop."

   "Oh, no, it’s not," Starsky agreed amiably. "That stuff’s no good."

   "Then what is it?"

   "It’s, um, the stuff I use to glue the riggings on my model ships," Starsky explained. "It’ll hold everything, and pretty much forever. Uh. I mean…Oh."

   Hutch gave a controlled nod. "I see," he said, evenly.

   Starsky stepped back to admire his handiwork. "Hey, you’re beautiful, Blintz," he enthused. "Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out when we get back."

   "You’re just really enjoying this, aren’t you, Starsky?" Hutch asked.

   "Every single second of it," Starsky responded honestly, capping the tube of glue.

   "Well, what if…what if…something really awful happens? And we go out in a…in a…a blaze of glory…dressed like this?"

   "Nothin’s gonna happen, I promise."

   "How can you be sure?"

   "Easy," Starsky grinned, pulling him toward the door. "I’m takin’ my lucky rabbit’s foot with me."

    ~~~~~~

   "Where the hell have you two been?" yelled Captain Dobey, adjusting the kerchief that was wound around his head. "Starsky, what the devil!?"

   "Like it, Cap?"

   Dobey ignored him and took in the giant rabbit standing behind Starsky. "Nice outfit, Hutchinson," he said. "You, uh, you want a carrot?" He chuckled at his own little joke. "We should go inside…." He gave a self conscious nod toward the door.

   "Gee, Cap," asked Starsky curiously, fingering the apron. "I thought you decided against Aunt Jemima." He looked back at Hutch. "Let’s go to Ship’s for some pancakes afterward, huh? I’m in the mood all of a sudden. So what gives, Cap?"

   "Well, I…" the Captain fumbled, embarrassed. "I’m pretty tall," he said, "there weren’t a lot of choices."

   Hutch muffled a snort, which he tried to cover by pretending he was heavily involved in whisker alignment. Starsky shot him a look. Hutch looked quickly at Dobey. "Itches," he explained, lamely, rubbing his nose.

   Dobey looked from one detective to the other. "It was either this or…." He lowered his voice and looked around to make sure no one else was listening. "Or a Grand Teton, I thought the uh…the snow cap distracting."

   "You made the right choice, Cap, definitely." Hutch observed diplomatically.

   Starsky peered at Dobey in appraisal. "Y’also kinda look like Mammy from ‘Gone With The Wind,’" he said, stepping back to view his superior from a different angle.

   "One more crack like that," Dobey assured him, "and you’ll be wearing that outfit instead of a uniform while you put in your shift doing traffic control in West Hollywood tomorrow."

   "Fine then," Starsky raised his eyebrows in a haughty expression. "I think you two are just envious of my rakish good looks and devil-may-care charm."

   Dobey shot a look at his blond haired detective. "What’s the matter with you, Hutchinson?" he demanded. "Can’t you keep your partner under control?"

   "Sure, Cap’n," Hutch responded easily. He pinched Starsky on the shoulder and steered him toward the door. "Come on, Devil Dog," he said, "Let’s go in."

   The inside of the Los Angeles County Childrens’ Center was ablaze with light and activity. Decorated lovingly by its volunteers and patrons, orange and black streamers were draped across the ceiling and the walls. Jack o Lanterns adorned tables filled with treats and punch, and corn shocks, hay bales, and drawings of autumn leaves were strewn about the room with joyful and reckless abandon.

   This was the second year that Homicide/Vice had participated in the Center’s Halloween party, but their first appearance in costume. It was mostly their duty to play host, participate in games and merriment, try to keep the overly excited children from eating too much candy, and generally try to foster better relations between the police force and the children who would someday grow up and be faced with the temptations of crime.

   It was hoped that these gestures would break down some of the barriers between the law and the citizens, and from the shared joy in the faces of the children and the participating officers, it seemed to be working.

   Hutch loved this place and, in all honesty, this was the sort of assignment he would normally have adored, had it not been for the ears, and the floppy feet, and the damned scratchy whiskers. He tugged at one, hoping to work it free, and the effort brought tears to his eyes, making him wonder how in the hell, and why any woman would wish to pluck her eyebrows.

   A female patrolman, whose name he did not know, recognized him by sight. She moved closer with a come-hither smile, and a kitty cat costume which was tastefully covering, but next to the assortment of clowns and ghosts worn by the children, very nearly sinful. "Oh, you look so cute," she enthused. "If you’re a bunny," she asked, seductively, "Could we go back to your hutch?"

   Hutch furrowed his brow. "No, I’m Hutch," he explained automatically, with a poke at his partner. "He’s….never mind."

   "You’ll have to forgive my partner," Starsky broke in. "The rabbit ears are distorting his reception." He tapped Hutch’s head lightly. "Lotsa interference."

   "Oh-h-h, yeah, sure," answered the patrolwoman, moving away uncertainly.

   "What’dja do that for?" Hutch asked his partner, irritated. "She was kinda cute."

   "Ah ah ah," Starsky admonished, piously. "Resist temptation." He wiggled his eyebrows evilly, and reached behind him for a piece of fruit from a bowl on the table. "Here," he said, "have an apple."

   "Starsky!"

   "Aw, come on, Hutch, don’t be a mad hare," Starsky grinned.

   "Starsky! Starsky! Starsky!" came shouts from across the room. "Hutch! It’s Hutch!"

   Suddenly a crowd of children hurled themselves at the two costumed detectives. Investigating a robbery in the area the previous year, they’d had to question two of the children as possible witnesses. Since that day, the detectives had made it a point to stop in from time to time, shoot a few baskets with the children, and occasionally volunteer for Center activities, in fact it was their involvement which had triggered the burgeoning community relations project at the precinct.

   Last Christmas they had brought bags of treats for the kids, which they’d collected and purchased themselves, and Hutch had even brought his guitar and managed to remember some Christmas carols as entertainment for their holiday party, to Starsky’s and the children’s great delight.

   Hutch immediately forgot his awkward embarrassment over whiskers and costume, and happily allowed himself to be led away. He flashed an over the shoulder grin at his partner, as the four little girls insisted he take a try at apple bobbing.

   Starsky’s attention was immediately captured by a crowd of little boys, who were conspiring to decorate the director’s office with rolls of toilet paper. Starsky only halfheartedly tried to dissuade them, because honestly, it sounded like fun.

    ~~~~~~

   Several hours later, the two met up, helping to clean up from the rowdy party, as parents began to arrive to pick up their exhausted and treat laden offspring. All of the police officers received hugs and thanks, as the kids gathered up their treasures and began a mass exodus to their respective homes.

   Hutch gathered a box of unused napkins, plates, and cups, and set about peeling the sodden paper tablecloth from the surface of the main table. He yawned tiredly, then smiled in greeting at his partner, whom he had barely seen in the last two hours. "Hey," he said.

   "Hey, yourself," Starsky answered, sinking down into a chair.

   "What’s the matter?" Hutch asked. "You don’t look so good."

   "I don’t feel so good," Starsky answered gloomily. He rubbed his midsection tenderly. "Must be pickin’ up a bug or somethin’," he added, flicking his eyes quickly toward his partner.

   Hutch made a face. "What you’re pickin’ are the aftereffects of at least three caramel apples, a quart of punch, popcorn, chips, pretzels, and two pounds of candy corn, more likely." He shook his head. "I don’t think that teaching the director to do the Bump and the Hustle probably helped things either."

   "She asked," Starsky shrugged. "I hadda help her." Starsky peered up at his partner. "What happened to you anyway?" he asked curiously. "Your ears went limp and you’re in your socks."

   "Apple bobbing," Hutch explained. "And, um," he waved a floppy ear. "The Limbo."

   "That’ll do it," Starsky agreed. He glanced down at Hutch’s feet, pointing to indicate the lack of paw. "What happened there?"

   "Kept tripping, so I took ‘em off." Hutch grinned. "All I could think about was falling and breaking something, and having you take me to the ER dressed like this, and trying to explain…"

   "Well," Starsky mused, stretching out. "You coulda told ‘em the devil made you do it."

   "Oh brother," Hutch said with a wince, "I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response. Where’s Dobey, by the way?"

   "Left about an hour ago."

   Hutch nodded, catching the drift. "That would be about the time when—"

   "Yeah," nodded Starsky, "Baylor brought out the camera." He got up stiffly. "Let me give you a hand so we can get out of here," he offered. "I’m exhausted."

   Between the two men, the Center staff, and the police officers who remained, short work was made of the cleanup chores. The magical night was ended, and the gym just looked like a gym again.

   Within an hour, Starsky and Hutch found themselves back at Hutch’s canal side cottage.

   "How’s your stomach?" Hutch asked, holding out a coke to his partner who reclined on the couch.

   "Better, as long as we don’t talk about it." Starsky replied, taking a swig.

   "Okay," Hutch agreed, flopping down on a chair. "Had a great time tonight. Did you?"

   "I did," Starsky agreed. "The kids are great. And you looked terrific, bunny…uh, buddy," he said, smiling brightly. "Everybody said so, even old grouchy Jenkins from R & I."

   Starsky refrained from mentioning that the pictures taken by Linda Baylor had already been promised to old, grouchy Jenkins, who actually had a pretty good sense of humor, and planned to distribute them appropriately around the department the following week.

   "Well, I felt like an idiot, but the kids thought it was fun," Hutch said. "But boy it feels good to get out of that costume," he sighed. "That thing is hot." He fingered his upper lip, feeling the stiff whiskers that were still attached there. "Starsk, what am I gonna do about these?"

   Starsky pushed back a smile. "Oh, they’ll wear off eventually," he promised.

   "But I can’t go to work like this on Monday. I’m gonna have to pull ‘em off," Hutch mused, "and it’s gonna hurt."

   "Nah," Starsky picked up his gym bag from the floor and rummaged around in it. He handed Hutch a small bottle of clear liquid. "Solvent," he explained. "Non toxic. Dissolves the glue."

   "I’ll be damned," Hutch said, with a relieved smile.

   "Trick," Starsky said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Figured it was better than soaping your windows."

   Hutch nodded. "Thanks. Well," he offered, "Trick deserves a treat then."

   "You got me a treat?" Starsky asked, sitting up. "I’m startin’ to feel better, ya know, what’d you get? Chocolate from See’s? Those cookies from the bakery I like? What?" he asked eagerly.

   Hutch moved over to the refrigerator, and carefully took out a foil covered plate. He brought it over to the couch, and handed it to Starsky. "Here you go, partner," he offered. "Happy Halloween."

   Starsky’s eyes sparkled as he undid the wrapping on the plate. His joy turned to a look of horror as he viewed the delicacies which lay there. He swore they looked smug and ready to pounce. "What the hell are these?" he asked.

   Hutch took a swig of beer. "Tofu balls," he said proudly. "With granola and sea kelp. Made ‘em myself."

   "Oh, Hutch," he whispered, his face taking on a greenish-whitish glow. "You shouldn’ta done that." Starsky shot his partner a pained look.

   "Hey, it was no problem," Hutch assured him, trying not to smile. "Nothin’ but the best for my buddy."

   Starsky handed him the plate silently. "You really shouldn’ta done that, Hutch," he moaned, as he lurched for the bathroom.

   Hutch leaned back in the chair, and enjoyed his moment. He took another swig of beer, and with a tired but satisfied grin, got up and carried the tofu balls, which were actually mud from the front yard mixed with oatmeal, to the trash can. He snagged the bottle of solvent, and dropped it in his pocket, just in case his partner was of a mind for retaliation.

   Then Hutch wrung out a warm washcloth in the kitchen sink, and moved to the bathroom door. "Hey, Starsk?" he called quietly. "You okay?"

THE END