Author's Notes: This story was written for a friend as a Christmas gift. And I confess I'm slightly reluctant about posting it, for the simple fact that it is a bit… well, different. I won't lie to you: it's fourth season, it's a crime story and it's a crossover with Hill Street Blues. So now I'm wondering if I managed to pike your curiosities and you'll actually give it a try; or if you'll run way from it as quick as you can! Hope you choose the first one, of course.

It's complete, but I'm in a bit of a rush right now, so here are the first two parts. I'll post the rest tomorrow. Really hope you enjoy it.

Oh! And I'm thanking J. for all the patience and help. A huge (really huge) thanks to her!

Jugband Blues

Part I

Bay City…

“Could you just step aside, please?” said Hutch. “Thanks.”

As far as reporters went, making them step away from a crime scene was a great achievement – that is, if you could actually convince them to do so. Long stretches of time dealing with this kind of situation led to some expected outcomes: a dead body abandoned in a public place would always be enough to stop the morning jogger, the old ladies who got up at five in the morning to take a stroll because they couldn't sleep more than four hours per night, or the young man walking around with his spotted dog before leaving for school. The flashes and the sound of cameras taking pictures behind your back, was in fact the least troublesome.

“Look, just step outside the yellow line, okay?”

Hutch was getting cranky - Starsky could tell. The reference to the yellow line was nothing more than a warning – he’d been green, now he was yellow, next he would turn red - pretty much like a semaphore.

“Listen buddy--”

“Hutch!” Starsky settled down onto his heels.

“What?”

“C’mere…”

He did come around in due course, tensed and slumped, after making sure the line wouldn’t be crossed, and stopped nearby, looking down at the victim - a young woman lying flat on her belly, her forsaken body concealed from the human eye by green smelly bushes, but not from the accurate scent of the student's animal.

“Recognize her?” asked Starsky. He settled her lifeless pale arm down, noticing the theatrical image printed under her skin.

“Yeah.”

How couldn't he? Hutch’d been last in line to get lunch, searching a burger stand's menu for something healthier than raw meat, when a dark haired young girl caught his attention. It wasn’t the fact that she was particularly pretty that made him stare, but the fact that she was strolling away to the Torino.

She leaned over the passenger’s window, crossing her ankles and arms, swaying with the motion. Hutch didn't hear the chat, but by the way Starsky’s head shook repeatedly and his gaze kept flinging through the front glass, he'd immediately realized what was going on.

He paid for the food, wondering what could make a prostitute in her twenties so desperate to get a client instead of lunch. And mentally finding the most likely answer wasn’t as nice as he hoped for, he checked the change slower than usual, just to make sure she would be gone before he made his way back.

But she wasn’t, as the reflection on the stand's glass told Hutch. Turning around, he found her right there behind him, peering up at his face.

“I’m clean and cheap, but haven’t got a place,” she said.

Her cut straight speech made him back off unconsciously and for a flash, Hutch’s mouth opened but no sound came out.

“I’m…,” he finally managed.

“I really could do with some cash.”

She looked sideways as if afraid someone was watching and clutched his sleeve, showing an unusual tattoo on her forearm - two masks: one laughing, one crying - comedy and tragedy sharing the same space.

“Please.”

Convinced that a pair of pleading eyes would eventually be the death of him, Hutch reached for his wallet. He gave her all he had and walked away with a bitter smile, under Starsky’s reproachful glance, and hoping he would never see her face again.

Except that wasn’t altogether what he’d meant…

“What happened?” he asked.

The lab man hesitated and tossed a sideways glance at Starsky, to whom he'd already told the story. When it became obvious no help would arrive from those parts, he sighed.

“Louise Nichols, twenty years old, born in San Francisco, probably ready to skip town. We found an airplane ticket to Chicago in her purse dating the 12th of December, in addition to her ID and forty dollars in cash.”

Cash… Hutch glanced at Starsky and smiled.

“No signs of rape or sex, but there was most definitely a struggle. Also, the body shows evidence of strangulation. The marks suggest it was done with some kind of cloth. It almost seems stupid how things like this can kill…”

“Any sign of this cloth?” asked Starsky.

“No, not until now. We're gonna keep searching and then I'll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

“We’d better tell Dobey about yesterday,” said Starsky ten minutes later. They were already inside the car and getting out of the Park.

“I know.” Hutch was staring outside the window and given that he didn't look as if he wanted to add anything else, Starsky continued.

“'Cause they're gonna find your prints all over those dollar bills.”

“Yes, I know that Starsky! I know that!” snapped Hutch. “But you know what? I don't give a damn! Because right now what I really wanna know is how that girl ended up dead!”

His jaw tensing, Starsky didn't even consider coming up with a reply. They'd been in this limbo for some time now: argues on, argues off; and he'd trained himself to let go and not be hurt by Hutch's reckless outbursts. He knew what was going on: Hutch was tired, but there was nothing he could do about it because so was he. Thus quietly, Starsky fixed his attention on the road and did what he'd learned to do so well during the last few months - shut up and wait until it passed.

The Hill…

“I tell you JD,” said Neal. “This girl I was with last night… she’s so fine, I feel I could stay with her for eternity.”

JD twitched in the seat, but his gaze didn't leave the newspaper. “Yeah, yeah… I bet you don’t even know her name, sucker.”

“Uh, huh… No way, babe.” Neal adjusted the side mirror, placing the reflection of the bookie joint’s entrance right in the middle. “Jill’s different. She's sweet and sharp and--”

“Does an amazing strawberry tart?” said JD. “Oh yeah, I think I know her. She's the one who kissed my--” He ducked, because his face was in the way of Neal’s fist, and then laughed noisily.

“I'm serious,” said Neal.

Stopping, JD examined him for awhile. He smiled, rolled up the newspaper and knocked his partner's head with it.

Damn, he was being serious. Always the chivalrous type…

Not even pondering hitting him back, Neal shook his head. He clutched the wheel fiercely and turned a bit to take a better look at the bookie joint – a nasty place standing in a dark street, with stained green walls and iron bars protecting one dirty window.

“What’s takin' him so long?” he said, after a moment.

“Who?” Next to him, JD tossed the newspaper to the car’s backseat and started fussing with the radio. “Hey Neal, how the hell do we change frequencies in this?”

“I don't know. Why do you wanna change it?”

“’Cause there’s a dog race in one minute and I wanna know if Little Green Lamp was a good investment.”

Stiffening in the seat, Neal reached for JD’s hand. “You wanna use our radio to listen to a dog race?” JD nodded. “Are you nuts, babe? Out of your mind? What if we get a call?”

“Hey, it’s just a couple of minutes, man. No one will call us,” said JD, releasing his hand and resuming the search.

The accelerating cry of a race caller crammed the car and he straightened in the seat with a smile, just to find Neal’s upset stare and tensed jaw.

JD grinned, innocently. “Hey listen… Nothing's gonna happen, okay? I’ve done this many times and nothing bad came from it – trust me. Besides we’re not the only cops in town, right?”

Neal sighed. Yeah, right… but the other ones didn’t matter, did they? Because when things went the wrong way, he was the one JD would ask for help. And that was okay – Neal would always give it. He just wished his partner wouldn’t forget the book so much.

Deals with pimps and pushers for information; offering robbers money to get evidence on other cases; asking hookers for dinner - Neal knew this was the way to survive the streets, but he didn't think it right. JD was obviously cut out for undercover work, but what about him? Sometimes he found himself doubting it, being uncomfortable with his partner’s behavior.

“Oh, man!” JD’s whine brought him back to the present. “Can’t believe that stupid dog finished in second!” He slammed the radio and looked around with annoyance, getting a glimpse of a male figure on the rearview mirror in return. “And speaking of dogs, here comes the mutt.”

A short-looking man had just got out from the bookie-joints' depths into the street and after making sure he wasn't being watched, set out running toward their car.

“Hey Neal, what if I ask Belker to be my racing dog, instead. Think he would win?”

Chuckling, Neal started the car. “Ah, c’mon JD… The guy's new. Just give him a break, okay? He's not that bad, ya know?”

“Not that bad!? That son of a bitch bit me, Neal!” He rubbed the spot on his arm, where the teeth marks could still be seen. “And what kind of guy works the streets alone, anyway?”

“I don't know. Maybe he likes it better that way, babe.”

Maybe to run away from weird partners like mine, thought Neal.

“Besides, he only bit you 'cause you put superglue in his toothpaste, JD.”

JD snorted. “Yeah, which was your idea. An idea that didn’t work, by the way. Next time we use cement, like I said.” Jerking the door open, he got out of the car and lifted the seat, so the man could get in. “Finally! Thought you’d lost yourself over some dog fight or something!”

“Get off my back, dirt ball,” said the guy, tossing JD the newspaper and sprawling in the backseat. He made Neal a gesture to get the car moving and finally took the black knit cap covering his head.

“What did you get, Mick?” asked Neal, a couple of minutes later when they were already far away from the bookie joint and mingled in the early morning traffic.

Mick leaned over the front seat, scratching his dark curls. “Nothing good. I’m afraid our friend Slick took off to the West Coast and no one knows when he’s coming back.”

“Terrific,” mumbled JD.

Hello… Long sexy legs, blonde hair, blue eyes, killer lashes: in all, a nice sight to behold…

Hutch cleared his throat, fixed the collar of his jacket and readied himself to make a move - when his partner came in.

Accidentally, Starsky bumped the girl, sending a bunch of files flying through the air. Standing there, in the middle of the hallway, waiting for a coffee to come out of the machine, Hutch saw them pick up the papers together, laugh, talk for scarce minutes, shake hands over the subject – whatever it was - and separate as casual as they’d never met.

She saw him staring and smiled. Hutch returned the gesture with one of his own, and leaned over to hit the coffee machine with the side of his fist. Normally, he would compete with his partner for her attention, but not today. Today, all he wanted was a cup of coffee, strong enough to get through the daylight hours.

“Not working, huh?” said Starsky, with a benevolent smile.

“Nope!”

“C'mon. I'll buy you a beer at Huggy's.”

“Really?” Hutch smashed the paper cup with a grin and tossed it into the waste basket. “Well, how can I resist?”

He couldn't. Starsky was in high spirits, a happiness Hutch hadn't seen in him for a very long time now - it crushed him to know he was partially to blame for his partner’s blues, but he tried hard to brush that aside and simply enjoy the moment - in any case, he was also the cause of such happiness.

His partner had been cheerful ever since Dobey had called them in, early in the morning, to tell the last developments on that young woman's homicide: Hutchinson, Kenneth's prints were there alright, Hutch's name well visible in the report; but so were other marks all over the place, like fingerprints belonging to a certain Simon Wedge - a small individual, whose face had been recognized by one of the Park's security guard as one very late night visitor, along with two others he hadn’t seen clear enough.

To Hutch in particular, this was just like taking a deep breath after a long bottomless plunge in the ocean. He’d spent the last few days under too much tension, slowly turning into a powder keg ready to explode; and now, all of a sudden, all was over. He could breathe normally, eat, talk, speak and even the weight in his chest, which he’d felt there for such a long time, seemed to have slightly diminished.

And that feeling of looseness – which he’d precisely been looking for – was now, the one pulling him down. As if all his muscles had reached a relaxation state at the same time, not even waiting for his brains to command it, making him woozy and subject to topple over at any moment.

Indeed, as he thought about it, Hutch’s knee buckled under him and he would've found himself in freefall if Starsky hadn’t been there to catch him.

“You know, these stairs have been here for a very long time,” said Starsky, steadying him up. “You gotta be careful, Hutch.”

“Yeah…”

He’d been so distracted, so mingled in his own thoughts he’d missed one of the parking lot’s exit steps. In the back of his head was the notion that some of the guys were staring at them and laughing. But who cared?

“Thanks.”

Starsky patted him on the back. “You can relax now, blondie.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” mumbled Hutch, following him on the way to the Torino.

“What?”

“Huh… nothing!” He placed his hands in his pockets while Starsky opened the car, and realized his partner was right. Better change the subject. “I’m just wondering who was that beauty you were talking to, back at the station.”

“Which one?” Starsky stepped in the car and leaned over the seat to unlock the passenger's door.

Hutch chuckled – as if he knew many – and slouched there too, turning the radio on. “The blonde in the hallway.”

“Oh, I dunno. Think her name was Kira or something,” said Starsky, starting the engine. “Didn’t catch her last name. Apparently, she’s a new transfer. Seemed nice.”

“Yeah? And pretty, too.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. Since when was Starsky going so steady with his latest bimbo, that he couldn’t even look at other members of the opposite sex? What was her name, again? Mandy? Sandy? Candy? He couldn’t remember - maybe it was Handy…

“Since when do you guess this kinda stuff, Starsk?” he asked.

“Simple.”

Starsky turned the car round and stopped it. And to Hutch’s puzzled but finally amused gaze, Starsky replied with a lopsided grin.

“Since I’m not paying attention.”

Sometimes the Hill Street Station seemed like a veritable zoo: lots of shouts and crossed conversations, iron bars and cages, people getting in and out, most of them cuffed and behaving like animals. Most times, finding a police officer was more difficult than finding a pen or a pencil.

“Henry, have you seen Neal Washington and John LaRue?”

Henry covered the phone mouthpiece with his hand and stared at Frank for some seconds, trying to assimilate what he was being told.

“Huh, they weren’t at the roll call, Frank. And neither was Mick.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Frank Furillo twitched his mouth in a strange way as he turned round to get into his office. Not knowing where his men were or why hadn’t they attended to their duties, would always make him nervous. And the fact their radio seemed to be unresponsive was also disturbing.

In fact, he was about to put an APB on them when the pieces he was looking for, eventually appeared on the board. The signal he made was purely noncommittal, but something in the Captain’s expression made Neal fear for his life.

“Close the door,” he said quietly. “You too, Mick.”

They stood there in line, under their Captain’s examining gaze – the only sound being the one Mick was doing while trying to thrust the cap into his back pocket. Next to Neal, JD trembled, probably trying not to explode with laughter.

“I’m assuming you've got a really good excuse to miss roll call,” said Frank.

JD and Neal exchanged a glance, but Mick was, in fact, the first one to speak.

“Hmm, yeah Captain. It’s all my fault. I thought we could get some information about this prostitution case JD and Neal are working on through a snitch. He works at this bookie joint near the train station, Captain; he's often reliable and I know him quite well. I kinda convinced JD and Neal to get him before his expedient time.”

At this juncture, JD stiffened without saying a word. Neal’s elbow, discreetly pressing his ribs was trying to tell him what he’d already understood: the idea to skip the roll call had been his; as a new guy there, Belker knew nothing about the required presence every morning; and yet he was sticking out for them. So basically, maybe he wasn't that bad after all…

“And?” asked Frank. “Have you found anything?”

“Afraid not, Captain. The guy is in the West Coast. No one knows when he’s coming back.”

Leaning on his desk, Frank sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, showing clear disappointment – a thing unusual in him. So unusual that someone could be tempted to use it as an opening… Nervously, JD stepped forward. Maybe this was the right time to get what they’d been looking for.

“Huh, Captain,” he said. “The truth is that we’re goin' nowhere in this case. You know how is hard to get evidences against pimps. I mean, we all know they exist but to prove it…” He swallowed hard, feeling the Captain's attention on him. “Anyway, there’s this club on the other end of town… Neal and I, we think we could get something out of them.”

“You mean going undercover,” said Frank.

He smiled when JD nodded. Crossing his arms, he gave the idea some thought – these prostitution guys were always dangerous as hell and JD and Neal… well, they were quite fresh in this. Being senior, he would prefer to get Henry out there. But Henry Goldblume knew nothing of the streets, while JD and Neal had them printed on the palm of their hands. Not to mention they did deserve the chance.

“Alright, do it. But I want to know all the details.”

“Yes, sir!” both replied in unison.

“There’s more,” said Frank, since they were already getting out. He handed each one a file. “First, get your radio fixed. It's not worth having one if it doesn't work. Mick, we received an anonymous tip about an action going on 114th and Dekker. We won’t get a warrant with this, so see if you can get in. Hill and Renko will give you backup.”

“Right, Captain!”

Frank turned to Neal and JD. “The kid from the liquor’s store robbery was booked this morning, Neal. He’s in the interrogation room.” Neal nodded. And then with a quizzical smile, Frank added “JD, Sgt. Esterhaus is waiting for you. He’ll tell you all about your new assignment.”

“Hey, Belker!” JD reached for Mick's arm when they were suitably away from the Captain's office. “Thanks for what you did in there, man. You were a real sport.”

Mick glanced at JD's fingers. He released himself from his grasp. “Don't get used to it, LaRue.” And took off to the other end of the station with a dark look.

“Dumped again, babe?” asked Neal, placing a hand on JD's shoulder.

JD shrugged. “You know somethin', Neal? I think I hate that guy.”

Money, so they say; is the root of all evil today.

The clinging of coins, sloshing and rolling into the metallic cash register’s different compartments wasn’t enough to shut out all the surrounding noise. One of Huggy’s waitresses was whistling at the same time she guaranteed her payment by sweeping The Pits; and from the half-opened backdoor, he could listen to two familiar voices arguing about something he could not altogether identify.

“She doesn’t like me, Starsk!”

“Of course she doesn’t. You keep annoying her about stupid stuff. A, B, AB, O, what do you know? If you could just shut up and--”

“Starsky, how can I shut up when the woman keeps saying there’s no blood type B? I mean, let’s keep it rational: if there’s A and AB, there must be a B. But no. According to her I’m a moron who has a non-existent blood type! I’m really sorry to tell you this buddy, but I don’t think your Candy is a nurse.”

“Candice,” said Starsky, kicking the door open. “So she lies a bit. It's not as if I wanna marry her. Besides, what has that to do with anything?”

Hutch opened his mouth, but he couldn’t gather the courage to state he didn't like to share a dinner table with liars. So instead, he said “I just don’t think she'd be glad to share a dinner table with me, that’s all.”

“So? Who cares?”

Obviously he did or they wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place. And he was actually about to say exactly that, word for word, when Huggy got in the way.

“Always bickering like a couple of old senile owls,” he said, leaning over the bar. “What the hell’s wrong with you two?”

A moment's silence and two pairs of blue eyes fixed on him, the reflection of confusion and surprise dancing there. As if only then they'd noticed his presence in the room.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Starsky, after a bit.

He grasped a stool from the counter and turned it upside down. He was used to Huggy’s nagging - it was normal -, but not to that bitter edge in his voice.

Keeping to his own, Huggy didn’t answer. He turned his back on them instead and pretended to search for a couple of tall glasses.

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a fleeting glance - it ended pretty quickly with an annoyed almost soundless grunt from Starsky, and with Hutch scratching his temple and sliding in his seat to get a good look at the whistling waitress.

“Huh… Something we can help you out, Hug?” asked Starsky.

Huggy placed two beers in front of them. Talk about efficiency… they hadn’t even asked for it.

“No, guess not. Got some problems with some heavy dudes, but thankfully they’re all gone by now. Thanks for asking.”

“You know you can make a complaint, right?” said Hutch.

“Think I’ll pass… So, what can I do for you guys?”

“Okay,” mouthed Hutch.

Huggy's expression told him not to insist. He took a photo from his pocket and placed it on the counter with a sense of dread, all of a sudden finding himself in the skin of a user. Huggy wasn’t well, but even then the job had to be done, which meant they had to take something out of him instead of giving. Hutch pushed the printed face towards Huggy, hating himself for it.

Huggy stared at it, picked it up and chuckled softly before replacing the photo on the same spot.

“You know him?” asked Starsky.

“Yeah, guess you can say that.” He pointed to Simon Wedge’s face. “He’s the one who caused me trouble.”

“What happened?”

Huggy hesitated.

“He killed a girl, Hug. She was only twenty years old.”

“Man, I dunno nothing about that… But I doubt Slick would kill anyone.”

“Slick?” said Hutch.

“Yeah…” Huggy nodded, caressing the bar with the end of his fingers. “That’s what we used to call him back in our neighborhood. He was the only white kid living there, had a way with other people's pockets and gambling. Used to make those tricks with the cards, ya know?”

Starsky smiled when Huggy demonstrated the trading position movement with his hands. Something told him Slick wasn’t the only expert in it.

“Anyway... When his momma died, the Social Services sent him to Chicago to live with an aunt. I heard he had some trouble with the authorities up there. Not all of us share the skill to charm the ladies, as you well know.”

“You mean he went with hookers,” said Hutch.

“Yeah… Last I heard he was working in a bookie joint up there. Hadn’t seen him in years until this morning.”

“What did he want?” asked Starsky, staring directly into his beer.

Huggy gave a quick look at the girl still in the room and leaned over the bar between them.

“I dunno, man. He came in here with a couple of gorillas, asking me how much did I want for one of my waitresses.”

“What do you mean?” Starsky’s gaze lifted from the golden liquid to take a good look at Huggy. “Did he think you were…?”

Huggy sighed. “No. I think he was serious, Starsk. They wanted to buy her, green dollar bills in hand and all. Like human slavery, ya dig? I told him to get out and never come back.”

“C’mon, c’mon…” JD rested the small radio against his ear with a wince. “Just a few more to go… Go! Go!”

He was shouting, standing on the sidewalk under a street lamp and encouraging an imaginary dog to run faster.

“C’mon ya fuckin’ dog! Run!”

A couple of old folks passing by stared at him with an indignant glare, and he was about to hold a hand high as apology when the dog came in first and he let out a wild scream.

“Woo! Oh, thank you!” he cried. “I always knew Little Green Lamp was a hound!”

Leaving the phone booth open, Neal approached quietly and yanked the radio from his hands.

“Have you been on the tracks again?” he asked, turning that damn thing off. It wasn’t that loud, but in the silence of the night it echoed through the streets like a guy with a megaphone.

JD didn't reply. Clasping Neal's face, he gave him an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. “Four hundred bucks, Neal! I can see your big Christmas present under the tree already!”

Neal backed off in surprise, not really used to that kind of thing. But then chuckled, all annoyance quite forgotten.

“Babe, you’re really weird, you know that?” He handed the radio back to JD, who happened to be grinning widely and rubbing his hands – and it wasn’t because of the biting cold. “One day you’ll learn money doesn’t mean a thing.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” said JD, opening the car’s door and tossing the radio to the seat. “It’s what makes the world go round, Neal!”

“Some say it’s the root of all evil.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that too often.” He closed the door and pointed to the phone booth. “So, are we done here or what? Have you spoken to the lady already or do we need to make another pit-stop?”

Neal blushed. And inwardly thanked his dark skin for not showing it.

“Huh, Jill’s not home. Spoke to her roommate. Apparently she was out to buy us dinner.”

“Oops,” mumbled JD. Neal stared at him pathetically, in a state not very far away from panic and he bit his lip for making such a stupid remark. “Hey listen, maybe she won’t be too pissed, huh? After all she knows how it is with us and work. She seems an understanding nice girl.”

Neal nodded and they walked the rest of the way in silence. He’d never been one to believe in love at first sight, but something about Jill made him wish it could be true. He’d never felt something so strong about anyone before: a total dependence, as if the world would come crashing down if she went away – he wanted to be with her all the time.

And just the fact that JD actually liked her and she liked him was a true blessing. Work things aside, they were so good friends and spent so much time together that his opinion counted more than anyone’s. And even if JD didn’t totally understand Neal’s actual state of mind - the sudden belief in a soul mate, a woman to whom he could bind himself for the rest of his life – he was happy for him.

“Here we are,” said JD, with a large smile. They stopped in an alleyway facing The Shenanigans, a strip club they’d been staking out for some time now, along with a few others. “How do I look?”

“Corny enough to me, man,” said Neal absently, blinking to see through all the pink and purple neon boards.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes, you look like a pimp.’ And may I say you’re not so bad yourself for a bodyguard, dearest?”

He fixed his jacket's lapel and placed himself beside Neal, wondering what was the man staring at with such interest. He didn’t have the chance to take a peek though, because Neal pulled him back into the shadows.

“I think we've got a problem here, babe,” said Neal, still watching the club’s entrance and most specifically the goon guarding it.

“A problem or a situation?”

Rolling his eyes, Neal pointed to the security guard. “See that guy over there?”

JD glued himself against the wall to take a look, but the lights didn’t help – he couldn’t make the guy’s face.

“Busted him for police assault when I was still in uniform.”

“Are you sure?” ventured JD, with half-shut eyes. “’Cause I can’t see the guy’s face…”

“Of course I'm sure, JD. Wouldn’t forget a mug like that. He made mine into pulp.”

“Okay, so what do you suggest?”

Neal raised an eyebrow.

“What?” whined JD. “No! No way! There’s no way we’re gonna give up on this, Neal! Captain will take us out of this assignment in an instant and give it to Goldblume! Or worse: Belker! Our assignment - on the hands of a couple of morons!”

“Hey man, I don’t like it either! But there’s no way I’m gonna go in there without being recognized. Like there’s no way you’re gonna go under alone.”

“Oh, yeah?” JD slid out of the shadows. “Stop me.”

“JD!” started Neal, reaching for him. He checked himself and covered his mouth. “Come back, JD! JD!”

But JD didn’t care. Neal saw him chat with the security-guard for a couple of seconds, and then step inside the club with his back towards him. Leaning against the wall, Neal sighed.

Sometimes he wished he could hate that dim-witted son of a bitch…

He hit the bricks with his fists so hard, it hurt.

It used to be the little things, a list of several insignificant imbecilities that Hutch used to love – now, however, it was these same stuff that would annoy him most: like making balloons out of gums and making them pop, chewing pencils or pens, throwing coffee paper cups to his car's backseat, humming songs, listening to trivial book knowledge, phony impersonations or mixed up bits of vocabulary.

All these peculiarities he used to love about Starsky, until now. His partner had stopped doing most of them as time went by – his childlike curiosity was but a faint shadow of what had been. But still, Hutch found himself discovering new things he’d overlooked over the years. And as he did so, Starsky would stop doing them - because of Hutch and because he was also tired and didn’t want to pick fights.

This wasn’t right, was it? The way he was acting… All the time he tried to remember how he used to be cool and thick, how problems used to slip away - bothering him, that's for sure - but never flying into passion. He tried to remember how he used to do it, how to keep it calm… without succeeding. It was just something he could no longer control: even the gentle drumming of Starsky’s fingers on the desk, the way he flipped his magazine with his feet propped on the desktop was enough to annoy him.

God, I gotta get out’ a here…

Hutch stood too violently, too surprisingly quick, almost knocking over the report, the typewriter and the desk. Starsky braced himself against the desktop because he was almost knocked down as well. True that Hutch had reached for his wrist, but it would've been too late. He stared at those fingers that he knew so well, lingering there, clinging to him fiercely as they’d done so many times before, and he had this idea that Hutch was fighting, struggling against himself to hold on - to not let go.

“You okay?” he asked.

Hutch released him awkwardly from his grip. “Yeah, I just...” He mumbled something unintelligible and headed to the water machine. “I’ve a headache.”

Starsky opened a drawer and picked up a bottle of aspirins. “Want me to finish the report?”

He tossed the bottle at Hutch, who turned round just in time to catch it. No words spoken, no warnings, pure intuition and synchronization – the proof that whatever was going on, the spark still remained.

Starsky smiled, and while Hutch struggled to open the damn bottle, he sat there behind the typewriter examining the paper sheet: a cars' race, one red, the other one green, an intersection, two wounded, one dead and too many letters that'd been erased and corrected – slight blotches that only an attentive eye would detect.

“Typing a new comic book, Starsky?” asked Dobey, coming in the squad room with a couple of folders under his arm.

Hutch chuckled, pounding his chest with the side of his fist - somehow the aspirin seemed to have got stuck on the way down.

“Seriously, Cap'n. That one's getting too old,” said Starsky.

“Oh, I don't know, Starsk. You always wanted to be Captain Marvel.” Grinning, Hutch pointed to the folders. “Is that for us, Captain?”

“No,” said Dobey. “And if you're still looking for Wedge, forget it. I just received a phone call from the airport. He's on a plane to Chicago right at this moment. So, finish that report, Merry Christmas and enjoy your short vacation.”

Starsky stopped typing and gazed up, but Dobey was already leaving. He would have succeeded too if Hutch had stayed quiet.

“Now wait a second, Captain! What the hell happened? How could they just let the guy get on a plane like that, when there's an APB on him? As far as we know he can be dangerous.”

“How should I know, Hutchinson? Do I look like I work at the airport?”

Opening his office's door, Dobey glanced at them over his shoulder.

“Look, it's Christmas time, everyone takes an airplane to somewhere else. The Hills police have already been warned. They'll catch your guy as soon as he lands, do what they have to do with him and send him back. But you know how these things work so don't count on it before the Holidays. Just get out' a here and get some rest while you can. You two need it.”

The door banged and they stayed there for a while in silence, each one trying to figure out what to do with too much time in hand. At last, Starsky determined that first things came first and decided to finish the report. He focused on getting it ready fast, leaning over because Hutch was trying to pick up his jacket from the chair.

“Where're you goin'?” he asked, watching his partner shrug into leather.

“Home. You heard the man.”

“What about the report?”

“Oh, I figure you've got everything under control, Starsk.” Hutch got out to the hallway as the telephone rang. “See ya later.”

“What!?” He waved at him from behind the glass. “Starsky here,” said Starsky, picking up the receiver, with his gaze still fixed on Hutch.

The blond figure stopped, turned round, searched for something in his pockets, twirled round again and went away.

“Idiot,” said Starsky, forgetting the phone mouthpiece was stuck to his ear. An upset voice reached him from the other side and he rubbed his eyes. “No Huggy, wasn't talkin' to you. What's happenin'?”

A big yawn in the afternoon, surrounded by folks going up and down in a crowded main street wasn’t that surprising. Now, in a guy wearing a Santa Claus' costume, with fake white beard, a red hat, smudged eyes and the look he was suffering from a long-lasting hangover was completely different.

“Hands up,” said Neal, in JD’s ear.

He stuck his finger in the man’s back and watched amused, as the personification of the public holiday stiffened. It wasn’t for long though, his voice being as recognizable to his partner as the face of his mother.

“Jeez, man… Is there no decency left in the world?”

“Guess not, babe.” Neal stepped forward, hopping a gutter to let a young woman with a baby carriage pass. “What say, lover? Anythin’ yet?”

“Nah, think all the robbers stopped robbing, ya know? Christmas spirit and all,” said JD.

He repressed a shiver - thank God children weren’t out in that cold… - and took the opportunity to inspect Neal discreetly, trying to get his partner’s vibes.

They’d been arguing ever since that night - the first he'd gone under alone - and even though JD's hours of darkness were all too full of alcohol and a mental image of an erotic dancer named Dixie to remember most of what had been already said, the sound of Neal’s angry voice was constantly stuck in his eardrums during the daylight hours.

However, the last few days had been nothing compared to the heated fight they’d had that same morning while driving to work: a fight that had begun once again with JD begging Neal to keep the charade, not to the tell the Captain about the club thing, and had ended up with a more than an upset Neal asking him not to be a 'fuckin' moron'.

It hadn’t been the words itself - if only he had a dime for every time someone had called him something like that -, but rather the tone Neal had used - something JD had never heard. He was more than angry – Neal was exploding. And JD had rarely seen him explode. So he'd been frightened all morning, wondering if Neal was going to say anything or not. He hadn’t for JD's sake, but something about Neal's air, told him the worst was still to come.

“So, what can I do for you, little boy?” asked JD, trying to get a smile out of him.

He succeeded – Neal chuckled.

“Just here to tell ya, we got a phone call from the West Coast, sayin’ Mick’s friend Slick is comin' by plane. Apparently the dude killed a girl back there.” He pointed to an old battered car parked at the end of the avenue. “We’re gonna wait for him.”

“What?” cried JD. “And I’m stuck in here?”

“Well, we could trade, but I don't think the kiddies would go for a black Santa.”

“Why you and not some other guy?”

“We’re shorthanded. You know that, babe,” said Neal, looking around.

People were beginning to stare – a Santa screaming to a guy in the middle of the street was an odd thing, to say the least.

“Besides what’s wrong with me goin' down there with Mick?”

“I can't believe you said that,” said JD. “Because I’m your partner, that’s why. I’m the one supposed to watch your back, not that ill-sized pigmy! And as if it isn't enough you're working with the guy, now you tell me you're gonna go catch a murderer together. Without me. How can I protect you when I’m not even around, Neal?”

Neal scratched the back of his head, not knowing what to say, and smiled when a flicker of green eyes met his - a look that transmitted annoyance, uncertainty and above all fear - an image he'd seen himself, reflected in his car's rearview mirror during the last few nights.

“My point entirely, babe,” said Neal, patting JD’s arm before walking away.

He slouched in the seat next to Mick, aware of JD still complaining from the other side of the street: at least something like 'That's not how it works, man!' reached his ears.

With a frown, Mick started the car, while Neal stared outside the window. Shrugging, he hit the accelerator. After some weird maneuvers, the ancient vehicle ultimately took off, leaving a trail of air pollution behind and a very pissed Santa.

A late flight and love everywhere...

Airports were probably the place where folks expressed more love than any – there was always someone leaving, someone arriving, plenty of welcome hugs and goodbye kisses all around. The fact that Christmas was coming, intensified the whole thing. Under the decorations of green and red, all seemed happy. All, except one.

Neal was silent. He’d been silent all the way down there. Leaning against the wall, with his hands rested deep in his pockets, the man seemed to be far away – he was attentive to the passengers coming in and out of the terminal, but Mick knew Neal’s mind was elsewhere – probably, somewhere between 16th and Jefferson…

“I take it JD wasn’t too happy about this,” said Mick as he watched a young man run after his daughter.

Neal glanced at him as if only then he’d noticed someone else was there. “No, I guess not.”

“’Cause his shouts could be heard across the street, you know?”

The little girl stumbled and fell right before them and Mick leaned over to catch her. The father smiled thankfully as he handed her over, rocking the child up and down, hopeful that would stop her sobs.

Mick followed them with his gaze and then turned to Neal, who was once again staring into empty air.

“Listen Neal, I’m sorry if I took JD’s place in this. I know how this assignment is important to you two. My intention was never to get in the way. I was just trying to help.”

“Hey, I know, man. It was Captain’s decision, anyway. And JD knows it, too. He’s just…,” Neal hesitated, trying to find the right word, “… a little protective, that's all.”

More like possessive, childish, reckless, always ready to blame the rest of the world, not to mention the self-destructive streak.

Mick smiled. “He does seem to care about you a lot. I know we didn’t begin that well… Well, we don’t get along at all! But I really think he’s a good guy. Has a good heart. It’s hard to find someone loyal these days.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about him, man. He’ll get over it,” said Neal.

He examined the man next to him with renewed interest, feeling specially thankful for his words – Mick was a soft soul hiding behind such a rough exterior. Or come to think of it, not that rough as usual.

“Hmm, ya lookin’ sharp today, Mick.”

It was true: there was no trace of the old jeans and shirts Mick used to wear; he had a new shirt and jacket, and trousers and shoes on; his three days old beard had been close shaved and even his dark curls were carefully combed rather than disheveled. Mick looked uncomfortably handsome and Neal was slightly amazed he hadn’t noticed it before.

“Yeah, well,” he said. “Gambling hairballs need to think I own a lot of grand.”

Neal chuckled, and still with a smile on his face, listened to an account of some bits and ends concerning Mick’s case. He probably would've had a full report about it, if their airplane – one hour late – hadn’t finally arrived.

“There he is,” said Mick, pointing with his chin to a short guy.

Slick was still young according to the records - in his thirties -, but had already lost most of his hair. The suit made him look older as well – and slicker… Mick never thought the guy could kill anyone. He didn’t seem the kind who could strangle you to death. In fact he’d always found him rather nice.

He was picking up a bag now, and as they approached him quickly, Mick had this feeling the man was constrained, glancing around over his shoulder in a nervous way. He frowned and what happened next became blurred.

He heard a buzzing noise - from where it came from he could not tell, but suddenly there was a red spot on Slick’s forehead and some thick stuff blotted down the guy’s face. Slick fell down, pretty much like an apple, his fingers still grasping the bag.

Among the yells and panicked cries, Neal shouted for everyone to get down, which he did too, pulling Mick along with him. From their position, he could see a puddle of blood growing on the floor, lining the form of the man.

“Mick, Mick!” said Neal, right next to his ear. By then the noise was almost unbearable. “Did you see where the shot came from?”

He focused on Neal’s face with wide-opened eyes and after a moment when nothing but emptiness crossed his mind, Mick shook his head. Neal stood, helping him to his feet and unsteadily, he made the short way that separated them to what used to be a living man, almost a friend. It wasn’t a dream - the red stain was really spreading.

The phone was ringing. Hutch rushed in, tossed the grocery bag to the couch and picked up the receiver.

“Hello? Hello?”

The sound signal told him someone had hung up the exact minute he’d answered the phone. Sitting, he began dialing Starsky’s number. Most probably it had been him who’d made the call. Probably with his bimbo behind him, trying to reach Hutch for dinner. He stopped dialing – he didn’t want to say yes, but he didn’t want to say no, either.

Setting the phone on the coffee table, Hutch stood and picked up the bag, wondering when had things become so damn complicated.

Hector: he’d been the one; the origin of it all – the guy who’d killed all those girls in every port and who’d barricaded himself in Laura’s place.

Hutch had hated him – the first time in his life he’d ever felt pure hatred, rage, an overwhelming desire to reach for the man’s neck and squeeze until he stopped breathing. But, instead, he had to take care of him, take a bullet out of his leg, something he’d never done for a friend. Suddenly all he could think of was how that man’s blood was covering his fingers, his hands, his forearms and the way it made him feel sick.

He’d never felt so much disgust for anyone until that moment and he despised himself for it. Hutch came back home after that lengthy, hard day’s work and spent hours under the shower, trying to wash out the dirt. Except it hadn’t come off, because it was not on his skin - it was under it.

From that moment on, his life had been a weird roller coaster. He felt sick for all he had to see every sacred day, tired of all the bad stuff that had happened along the way. He lost hope about so many things, he wanted to quit – but Hutch didn’t want to show it, because there was Starsky to consider. Starsky, who still loved the job and whom he could not abandon just like that.

Therefore, Hutch began to feel unhappy and angry. He blamed himself for it; once in a while and much against his will, he blamed Starsky as well. It was ridiculous – he knew it -, but he couldn’t hide the resentment he felt. He kept feeling it even when he didn't want to, even when he knew what it was doing to him, to them: what had once been a beautiful dance, a melody with no end in sight was beginning to feel like an imminent disaster - it was breaking them apart.

So why do I keep acting like this? he thought, taking the groceries from the bag, and tidying them in the kitchen cupboard.

The question, however, remained without an immediate reply, because in his absent state of mind, Hutch knocked an olive oil bottle over the side and the loosened lid released from the bottleneck, sending a spattering shower of oil all over him.

“Oh, shit!” He stared at his stained shirt, feeling that stuff slowly slide down his hair and face. “Oh, damnit…”

He guessed it could be worse, though. At least he didn’t wear glasses.

This thought struck him as funny, and chuckling, he headed to the bathroom to clean himself up. A knock on the door, forced him to do a slight detour though, and to open it with embarrassment.

“Am I interrupting something?” asked Starsky.

Thank God it was just him…

“You’ve got a dirty mind, you know that?”

“So I’ve heard… And for your own sake, also observant. Brought you a Christmas tree.” He shook the small tree he was carrying, as usual fully decorated. “I know how you forget these things. Where can I put it?”

“Anywhere you want,” said Hutch, letting him in. As usual the coffee table seemed the ideal spot, which made him smile.

“Olive oil?” Starsky grinned at the mess Hutch’s kitchen was in, with oil dripping from the cupboard, to the counter, to the floor. “Isn’t this a little too kinky for you?”

Smirking puzzlingly, Hutch stepped in the bathroom. “Wanna stay for dinner?”

“Sure. What’s for dinner?”

“Whatever suits you.”

Hutch didn’t take long, but by the time he finished washing up, his kitchen was clean, the floor was mopped and a newly bought hot pizza was waiting for him on the table. He smiled because this was pure Starsky: quick, clean and efficient.

They ate and talked, and as it happened so many times when there was no work involved, their problems were pushed into background and swiftly forgotten. Sitting there, as both reached for pizza slices and beer, there was no distance – just them.

“Wanna coffee?” asked Hutch. He smashed the pizza box and tossed it into the garbage can.

“Nah, better not. I’ve been suffering from insomnia lately.”

“Have you?”

He took a quick glance at Starsky. He looked tired, as if he needed a vacation. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He pulled the coffee can out of the cupboard.

“Your Candy doesn’t let you sleep, is it?”

“That too,” said Starsky, rubbing his eyes. “And her name is Candice.”

“Oh, right! Sorry about that… How about some tea, then?”

He chuckled. “Hutch, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Mouthing an ‘okay’, Hutch turned his back on him to fuss with the water and the coffee. Starsky’s gaze fixed on his back for minutes on end: the way it slumped right on the neck, how the shoulders seemed narrower than usual, how Hutch’s hair was longer than it ever had been.

He sighed and finally said “Wedge’s dead.”

Hutch looked over his shoulder, wondering why blissful moments couldn’t last longer. He sat again with a lukewarm mug in hand.

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Someone took a shot at him at the airport, his brains spattered all over the place,” said Starsky, absently gathering pizza crumbs on the towel. “Right under the cops' nose… No one saw where it came from.”

“How do you know this?”

“I was leaving the precinct when Dobey told me. He got a phone call from the Captain there. The guy had a bag with him.”

Hutch’s gaze lifted from the coffee mug, attentively waiting for good news. Starsky smiled.

“Inside was a scarf with traces of blood. They’re running tests and then will let us know.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Starsky waited for him to take a sip. “Hutch, I don’t think the guy did it.”

“What're you talkin' about?” asked Hutch with a chuckle, but Starsky’s expression remained serious. He placed the coffee mug on the table, dreading the rest of the conversation. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t match, Hutch. Apart from those things with the hookers, the guy’s record is quite clean and Huggy says he wouldn’t kill anyone--”

“Yeah, but Huggy hadn’t seen him in years.”

“Ah, c'mon! People don’t change that much.”

Wanna bet? thought Hutch.

“And just think about it. Why would he keep a bloody scarf in his bag?” said Starsky. “Why didn't he just dump it somewhere? Besides there’s that stuff about the guys trying to buy Huggy’s girls that got stuck in my head. Somehow, I keep thinking about sharks eating sardines in a fish tank.”

“Oh, that’s a pretty image, Starsk. Real dandy.”

Starsky frowned. “I’m serious. I think there’s something weird behind this.”

“So?” Hutch took the last sip of coffee, trying to control his nerves. Why couldn’t he let it go? Why couldn't he just let it be?

Starsky stared at him, skeptical. Hutch was different - he could feel it, see it, but since when had he stopped caring? Some years ago he would never ask a question like that. He took a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Huggy gave me a contact in Chicago and I think we should check it out.”

“What’s wrong with the local police?” asked Hutch. He stood to place the mug on the sink, breaking the eye-contact for awhile.

Please, give it a rest. I don’t wanna do this, but I don’t wanna say no, either…

“Seriously Starsk, where is this coming from?”

Starsky didn’t answer. When Hutch turned round again, he was staring at the piece of paper, twirling it in his fingers. It broke Hutch’s heart, because somehow he knew he’d hurt him again.

“There was a time when we thought we could change the world, remember?” asked Starsky.

Leaning on the counter, Hutch smiled bitterly. “Yeah, well… I guess I stopped trying being a hero a long time ago. We both know that's not gonna happen.”

“Yeah… But at least we owe Huggy.”

They exchanged a glance. Deep down Hutch knew this wasn’t Starsky’s real reason for wanting to do this. He wanted them to be together again and not separated – to be them again. And Hutch wanted too. But neither of them wanted to say it, preferring to ignore the problem. This was just the best excuse he could come up with.

“Okay then,” said Hutch. There was no enthusiasm in his voice. “Let’s go get those tickets.”

“Wait a second,” said JD, whilst trying to swallow the end of a hotdog. “Are you tellin' me the guy panicked?”

Neal rolled his eyes. “Mick didn't panic, he just froze for a moment. Captain says he has had a rough time.”

JD chuckled, almost choking on his food. “Yeah, heard that's a downside of rabies!”

“Damnit, JD! This isn't funny,” snapped Neal. “Everyone the guy touches eventually dies. He thinks he's cursed or somethin'.”

“Yeah, you're right! It isn't funny, it's hilarious!”

He laughed even more, as Neal leaned over the wheel and stared at the streetlights with an annoyed frown. With time he stopped, though.

“Belker hasn't touched you, has he?” he asked. “'Cause if he has and you die on me, he's gonna be in big trouble.”

Rubbing his eyes, Neal heaved a sigh - God, he was so tired of being someone else's conscience…

“You just can't take anythin' serious, can you, babe?”

“Ah c'mon, Neal… I'm just kiddin'. You don't believe this crap, do you? So the guy had some bad luck over the years… He's not the only one, you know? But somehow I doubt he could kill anything by touching it. His breath, however--”

“That's not what I'm talkin' about!”

“Okay, okay. No need to get angry,” said JD, hurriedly, knowing perfectly well what was about to come next.

It was the same old speech about pulling out, about telling the Captain they’d been made and go find another lead somewhere else, let anybody else take this prostitution assignment which had suddenly turned into homicide. JD didn’t want to listen and he didn’t want Neal to say it either – because the last thing he wanted was to give him a guilt trip if anything went wrong.

“Slick worked here, a prostitute was killed back in the West Coast and a week later he gets his brains blown out,” said Neal. “Somehow this just don’t seem coincidence to me, man. You've been in there for over a week and got nothin’. I've got a bad feeling about this, JD.”

“Yeah, I know. You keep telling me that,” said JD. “So, these guys are thick, but goddamnit, Neal, so am I! Trust me, okay? We can do this. I just need a couple more days, that's all.”

Quickly, he stared at his watch, finished the hotdog and before Neal could come up with any reply, opened the car's door.

“Gotta run.”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever suits you, man,” said Neal, keeping his focus on the front window.

JD slid off the seat. “Don’t need to wait on me, Neal. Just go home, okay?”

Neal said nothing, he didn’t even look at him.

Sighing, JD pulled his sleeve. “Hey! Love ya, man.”

His jaw tensed, Neal’s gaze dropped on him. He tried to keep a straight face, but couldn't do it with those puppy dog eyes staring back at him. He grinned involuntarily, and next he knew he was chuckling.

“Get out’ a here, sucker,” he said.

JD laughed, closed the door with a bang and went away with a silly smile on his face. Watching him from the car, Neal shook his head.

“My God… What did I do to deserve this?”

The Shenanigans was pretty much as most of the clubs he’d been at – and JD had visited many. There was something unmistakable about this sort of joint; all seemed to share the same kind of elements: a dark foggy atmosphere, the smell of cigarettes, an illuminated stage with girls dancing and, well… getting undressed.

Nothing was new to him, from the brown wallpaper, to the sloppy decorated tables and the old men asking for drinks to disguise the act of drooling. Many of them JD knew from the newspapers. Clubs like these weren’t clubs if they hadn’t the greasy politician or the occasional judge stopping by. Human nature just wasn’t as clean as it should be.

“Hey, Mr. G,” said JD, sitting at the bar right next to the club’s owner.

Vincent Grant had proved to be a tough nut to crack, a man of few words and definitely too many bad actions. Neal had laughed when JD had described him as a crossover between a fifties wild gangster and a lawyer, but he wasn’t joking. The guy had a clean exterior hiding what JD thought to be a frozen heart.

“Hello, Johnny,” replied Grant, with a smile. He finished his drink, lit a cigarette and again, left before JD could start any sort of dialogue other than 'hello' and 'goodbye'.

It had been like this ever since he’d stepped in. JD'd already paid some punks to spread the word on the streets that he was a new guy in town, and the only thing he'd achieved was a penniless wallet.

The guy seemed like a brick wall. The only words he’d traded had been with Sol, the bartender and Dixie, one of the dancers, who - he was pretty sure - had the hots for him. But none of them had given him any kind of useful information. At most, both seemed afraid to talk more than necessary.

So as before, JD sat there smoking and looking at the girls, but this time wondering if Neal wasn’t right about leaving that place and try to start the puzzle with a different piece.

If only Belker’s informer hadn’t taken a bullet in the head...

“If you’re counting on Dixie tonight, John, forget it,” said Sol, interrupting his thoughts. He gave him another drink.

“Oh, yeah?” JD shook it, just to hear the ice collide with the glass. “And why’s that, Sol?”

“She took a nasty fall this morning. Tripped and plunged right off the stage.”

“She did? Jesus, is she alright?”

Recognizing true concern in JD’s voice, Sol smiled benevolently. “Got a black eye, but other than that she’s fine.”

“Hmm… Well, guess she won't get paid for a couple of days then, huh?”

Sol stared at him with an odd gaze and gave him a noncommittal nod as reply. Inwardly, JD smiled - something about the guy’s expression told him he’d hit a nerve. He took his drink, convinced that a brick in the wall had just been dislodged.

TBC...