Starsky worked audaciously on his model ship. "I agree."

Hutch didn’t feel Starsky was getting it. "She needs help!"

"I agree with you. Look, there’s a roll of black thread in the second drawer of my desk…"

"Starsk…" Hutch barked.

But Starsky remained neutral. "Whatta ya gonna do, are you gonna want to take an APB out on her for vandalism? The thread, please…"

"She’s dangerous. Well, she shouldn’t be on the street!"

Starsky conceded. "Look, I’m no shrink, but, I'm thinking it’s a possibility she mighta worked out her aggression on your place tonight…"

They started at each other through the model ship’s rigging. Hutch shook his head dejected. He put his beer down and walked to the window. Starsky continued with his task. Little did his partner know, he was formulating how to help, what to say. More importantly, he was giving Hutch room to vent, without making him suffer anymore emotional intervention, he was pretty sure Hutch wouldn’t accept pity.

Hutch gazed into the darkness, glum and in pain deeper than Starsky understood at the moment. In barely a whisper, he confided, "It’s just…Starsky, she--she smashed my…the guitar."

Starsky lifted his head, and saw the blood drain out of his friend’s face. But before he could utter a sound, Hutch sighed fitfully and walked out. The headlights of the car backed away before Starsky had a chance to foster a refutation. Regrettably, he watched as the Ford disappeared.

The next day, with Huggy’s help, the three of them surveyed and cleaned the shambled remains of Hutch’s possessions. While installing a new lock on the door, Hutch felt relief when Starsky admonished Huggy for dropping the guitar’s carcass on the floor with little consideration for its meaning. Starsky said emphatically, ‘Huggy, you’re talking about a man’s heart!’ Continuing to work on door knob, Hutch the inside, Starsky the outer, the two moved the tumbler in unison, as if their hands, and minds had met. Hutch blinked in appreciation, meeting his eyes, eking out a smile. Starsky did care after all, he really did.

Within a week of healing up from the stitches it took to repair his arm injury, Hutch had been able to recover many similar items like those he had owned with assistance of another of Huggy’s cousins.

"Hamper Man?? That’s his name?"

"Hey, they don’t call him that for nothing, why he can make a derivative out of a primitive, if you get my drift! He can retrieve some of the finer things in life for little financial finesse!"

Hutch’s eyebrows were up. "You’re not going to make me wonder just where he finagles these finesses, are you, Hug?"

"Strictly legit, my man, I promise you that. Hamper’s gains are a mover’s remains, voluntary of course."

"Of course."

"Just check him out at his shop, he’ll even deliver."

Starsky tried to be encouraging. "Worth a look, Hutch. Your style ain’t exactly hard to match, being row cocoa and all."

Hutch winced. "Rococo, goofball."

"Worry not, he’ll have plenty of mish to match your mash." Huggy chimed, with Starsky chuckling along.

Between the both of them, all Hutch could do is slap himself and shake his head.

~*~

Heading back to Metro, Hutch was glad it was Friday afternoon. Opening the window slightly, he welcomed the breeze. "Want to head to Huggy’s after I get my car, Starsk?"

"Can’t, remember? Uncle Al wants me to help him tow that ‘59 De Soto back to his garage, as his next restoration project."

"Oh, yeah, that’s right." Hutch was a little disappointed.

"I might not be back until after Rosie stuffs me with soup, crackers and cannoli."

"Sounds better than the special at the Pits."

Starsky looked at his partner and their eyes met. "I gotta call to make before I go, though. Maybe you can run an errand for me?"

Starsky’s smile was hard to resist, it always had a tingling warmth meant just for Hutch. "Sure. Guess I can do that. What is it?"

"Gotta make the call first." They turned into the station.

~*~

Hutch snuck into records to chat with Minnie while helping himself to her coffee, which was always better than the sludge that occupied the pot in the squad room. By the time he returned, Starsky was long gone. With only a lonely note left on his desk, Hutch was feeling a little blue, as often he would at the beginning of another weekend. Unlike his partner, sometimes the only local family tie that he had, that he wanted, was Starsky himself.

Before reading the note, Hutch opened his desk drawer and retrieved the package Starsky had given him for his birthday. He had brought home a few of the song sheets, and practiced them when alone every chance he had when no one was around. Those he had left at work, he often contemplated over fondly, humming the words in his head, mentally fingering the chords. It was a way to relax in between stressful moments, and a way to connect to his feelings, his affections, for Starsky.

Visualizing the demolition of most of his items, he was even more grateful he had chosen to leave this treasure at work. Spared from loss, it had become attached to his esteem, still fragile from the wrath of someone he had shared a bed with. Why couldn’t such an intimate act ensure no harm would ever come from what such arms embraced? He closed his eyes knowing a song was forming in his brain. He placed the dog-eared first page of the music paper pad on top of the pile again, like he had many times before. He reached for a pencil, then remembered where he was. No personal words here, it was, too foreboding, too dangerous. He didn’t think he could control what lead would bring to jotter. He was becoming aware no creative spark did not have his partner entwined in it, and would be as distinct as the bark of a Bassett hound in heat.

He opened the note.

As the errand tugged him back into reality, Hutch returned his gift to the drawer and headed for the parking garage.

~*~

Locating the shop on East Waterbury, Hutch found it still occupied despite the traffic that delayed him. He walked in, wondering if this was another informant Starsky had rustled up from an old case he may have been on. The clerk came forward from the employee area behind the counter, welcoming him in.

"You must be Blondie."

Hutch was taken aback. Not the name Starsky used for him when on duty. Blushing, he smiled and shrugged at the same time. "Danny, is it?"

"Yeah, your friend told me you had real good looks. You sure live up to your name."

Starsky said that? Hutch chuckled shyly, not sure why he was here. "Uhh, I was sent to see you…"

"Yes, Mr. Starsky told me to have it ready. It’s out back. Just a sec."

Hutch stopped in his tracks and looked around. This was quite a fancy pawn shop, a very particular pawn shop, full of one-of-a-kind pieces, vintage tea sets, ivory statues, leather-bound books and antique lace. It didn’t seem like a place Starsky would linger in. Maybe he didn’t know this side of his partner, the thought intrigued him. Starsky was full of surprises, and here was another that delighted his heart.

Danny returned with an expensive hard-shell guitar case and opened it on the counter, in a flourished presentation. Hutch felt like he was crawling forward in slow motion.

"Well, you can hold it if you want, and try it out. It’s all paid for."

Hutch couldn’t get his feet to move. A silly snort came out, from embarrassment. Or was it shock. He placed his fingers on the neck, then on the strings, until he could feel the blood in his arms enough to lift it.

"It’s…amazing."

Vincent