Dobey's Pact
I heard the shots and my blood froze. Something was happening down in the parking lot. People were yelling. I ran to the window in time to see Hutch firing his canon at a patrol car and Starsky was…
As I ran down the hallway I sent up a bargain with the Almighty: “save Starsky and I'll lose all the weight I put on since Elmo died.”
Hutch was kneeling beside his partner and it didn't look good; I silently repeated the prayer.
I was going to repeat it a few more times in the next few weeks; but I swore I would honor it.
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I stood beside Hutch and looked down at the sickening sight of Starsky hunched against the back wheel of the Torino . It looked as if the car was trying to shelter him under its wheel arch; the red of the paint work was reflecting in the pool seeping onto the concrete. Two shades of red – tomato and blood. Starsky still had his left hand inside his jacket, frozen in the act of drawing his gun. His head was bowed forward and his knees drawn up to his chest; he lay as he had fallen. The back of his beloved flying jacket was pierced by a neat row of bullet holes. If Starsky was breathing, I couldn't hear it. I shook my head; Hutch had crouched down and was stroking Starsky's curls. I bit my tongue for the number of times I'd bawled Starsky out about getting his wild locks cut to a length acceptable to the Commissioner's office. The last time had been a few weeks ago; an officer had died and I had grumbled that Starsky's dress uniform cap wouldn't even stay on his head with his hair like that. Starsky turned up at the funeral looking immaculate; his hair plastered down with setting lotion that he'd borrowed from Edith. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry as one of the best officers on the BCPD Robbery Homicide team stood to attention by the coffin exuding a gentle odor of rosemary.
Right now all I could smell was Starsky's Sandalwood aftershave and the sickening odor of blood as it congealed on the ground.
“He's still alive.” Hutch's anguish rose up from him like steam from a kettle; visible but not palpable. “Hang on in there buddy. Please Starsk, stay with me. Star..Stars…Dave don't let go.” It was rare to hear Hutch use Starsky's given name.
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You hear that; he called me Dave
I let my mind linger on one of the many times that this enigmatic, infuriating and totally likeable young man had come close to death. Dying from a poison for which they had twenty four hours to find an antidote; Starsky had managed to quip about his Captain calling him by his first name.
“Where's the goddam ambulance?” I allowed an uncharacteristic profanity to escape. I turned to find someone who could tell me. It seemed as if every cop on duty had gathered in the parking lot to watch over Starsky and will him to stay alive.
The silence hung over the place like a storm cloud. And somewhere in the background I could hear Mildred yelling into the dispatch radio “It's more than an emergency! It's Starsky for fuck's sake! Starsky's been shot!”
Time was standing still; a curtain dropping and separating the people in the parking lot from the rest of the world that was continuing to go about its normal business oblivious to the fact that a man was bleeding to death propped up against his beloved car.
The siren tore the curtain aside and the emergency team was there; briskly efficient, they split up to take charge of the situation. Two of them pulled the gurney out of the ambulance and dropped it to the ground. A paramedic was already checking Starsky's vital signs. “I have a pulse….He's breathing but there's fluid in the lungs; blood maybe. Three,” he moved Starsky forward slightly, “oh shit, four entry holes…two exits.” The others were there beside him; ready to roll Starsky onto the gurney. “Steady; we don't want to cause more damage than we have to, on my count of three…one…two…three.” They rolled Starsky onto his back and gently placed him onto the gurney. Deft hands found a vein and slipped in the needle to link to an intravenous drip that would keep Starsky hydrated and sedated. Hutch was standing looking helpless. I was reminded of Cal when he was about ten and his kite escaped. The child stood staring as it floated away before a tear ran down his cheek ‘I can't stop it leaving me dad' was all he said. Hutch looked like something was floating away from his life.
One of the paramedics turned and held out a hand to Hutch. “There's room for you in the ambulance.” Hutch followed him without a word.
I spat out a few orders; telling them to make sure that as soon as the forensics department had finished with the car it should be taken to Merle, and ordering every last one of them to have a written witness report on my desk by tomorrow morning. I wanted every detail of this in a file for the day the DA dragged whoever was responsible in front of a jury. Praying that the charge would be attempted Murder One, I walked to my car in silence and set off with the siren and lights going to be with Starsky.
I tuned the radio to the same frequency as the ambulance and listened in horror to the narration of Starsky's latest brush with death.
“Steve's doing cardiac massage…about a minute ago….he's breathing still….we're two blocks away...he's already had a unit of blood….we're coming in now.”
I dumped the car on the first spot I saw and rushed into the Emergency entrance. If the situation hadn't been so tragic it would have been farcical. Hutch was running alongside the gurney being wheeled into a treatment room. A paramedic was astride Starsky working to keep his heart beating. A woman was chasing Hutch, brandishing papers and shouting “You can't go in there, I need these filled in.”
I stepped up to her and took the papers. “I'm Captain Dobey; I have power of attorney for all medical decisions concerning Sergeant Starsky. I'll give you all the information you need.”
My stomach growled and I looked up at the clock. Breakfast was nearly seven hours ago but he had better things to do than eat right now. But right now, pact or no pact, I couldn't even think of eating.
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So far; so good. Starsky had managed to survive the cardiac arrest and marathon surgery (when they mentioned the possibility of removing a kidney I swore off one of my favorite dishes for life).
While Hutch was out there trying to find who was behind the shooting and getting himself deeper and deeper into a mire of conspiracy and crime, Starsky took his first steps on the long road to recovery and I set up an office in the hospital. I could run this investigation from here just as well as from the precinct and I felt an obligation to be near Starsky. He and Hutch are too old to be my sons but I feel as protective of them as I do of Cal and Rosie; I had to be there. Starsky was unconscious, his heart stopped again and Hutch came flying through the doors like all the bats out of hell were on his tail. We stood in silence and watched as Starsky's damaged body jerked to the rhythm of the defibrillator. He was too far gone to feel it – at least I hoped he was.
I rang New York that night and spoke to his mom; she said she'd call when she had a flight booked. “You're welcome to stay at my house, Mrs. Starsky,” I told her. “Lily, my name's Lily, thank you Captain,” she laughed,” this is going to be hard enough without having to stomach my sister's cooking.” I told her to call me Harold and to let me know when her flight would arrive – Edith would go to meet her.
At first I wasn't hungry; Huggy seemed hurt that I rejected the offerings in his picnic basket but after he was gone I got my appetite back and I ate everything on offer.
The next few weeks were hell. Starsky regained consciousness and lay listening to Hutch reeling off all the proof of a link between Gunther and their last big case. After the nurse threw him out of the room, Hutch told me all over again and I sent him packing to San Francisco to bring Gunther in.
We celebrated that night with a meal cooked by Edith and Lily and I gained at least another four pounds.
The next few weeks were tough. Gunther was under lock and key and Hutch was working with the DA's office putting the case together. Starsky was progressing from a nose tube to light food and liquids. The internal damage was, as the doctor had said grimly, ‘massive'. The boy lost a few feet of gut and half a kidney; his liver was compromised and they removed his spleen and gall bladder. For a couple of days there was a question of dialysis too – but he peed and all was well. The pain relief kept him too groggy to care what they were feeding him; but he rallied when his mom arrived to spoon feed him some of her chicken soup.
A month after he was shot, Starsky managed to walk to the bathroom leaning on Hutch and a walking frame; his whoop of joy as the shower sprayed him for the first time was something I'll never forget. Neither will I forget his sobs when he saw the scars. They weren't as bad as they could have been. Hutch reassured him. “Hey Starsky I never was jealous of your furry chest until now.”
The day they told Starsky he was leaving the hospital to go to rehab Hutch organized a midnight feast. He still owed Starsky for the ping pong game and he ordered up a takeout fit for a king. He had the restaurant at Venice Place make stuffed veal the way Starsky loves it; I brought a salad platter and Huggy provided champagne and lamplight.
The next day Starsky started his final recovery…and I started my diet.
His troubles were getting closer to being over.
My troubles had only just begun.
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Starsky couldn't go home; he was walking well enough but stairs were still difficult for him. Hutch lived in an apartment with an even worse set of steps than the ones leading up to Starsky's place; so that was out of the question. I detected an element of relief when Starsky said “I had enough trouble with the stairs at Al and Rosa 's when I came back from Nam so I guess that's out too.”
The answer was obvious; we have a bathroom downstairs so Hutch and I converted my study into a bedroom and Starsky came home to be fussed by Edith and the kids.
My first worry was that Edith would pamper his stomach so much that I wouldn't stand a chance. Starsky was thinner than he had been for a couple of years. He had a bad bout of stomach problems after the poisoning and the stress of losing Terry made him lose weight too. His hip bones were sharp against his skin and although he was working on his abdominal muscles at the gym in rehab his ribs were showing too. Truth was Starsky needed to be fattened up and I wanted to lose weight.
Things went OK at first. Edith cooked good wholesome stuff that would build Starsky up and, as long as I kept the helpings reasonable, keep my weight in control.
“Starsky, how are you managing to survive without junk food and candy bars?” I couldn't resist the question. Starsky forked up his salad and munched before saying quietly “because I like this stuff. Look Cap' don't tell Hutch but I mostly did it to wind him up. If he wants to think that I breakfast every day on cold pizza and Dr. Pepper that's OK with me.” He grinned wickedly; “it's his fault anyway; all that crap about health drinks and egg-white omelets and crazy fads according to the latest girl-friend. Truth is, he doesn't eat as balanced as I do; and he either eats too much or not enough. You know he and Abby would eat everything in sight for two days then starve themselves, and that is not healthy eating”
Edith nodded; “he's right, Harold, Hutch is a faddy eater and that is never good.”
Starsky finished his salad and sipped some water. “Another thing; have you ever seen me really pig out, Captain?” Another boyish grin flashed across his face, “like two burgers and a double fries?”
Touché. I can't remember how many times Starsky has filched half my lunch and left me with what most people would consider a meal. “Well now you come to mention it…but Starsky there were times when you always seemed to be eating something.” I was thinking of the burritos that he manipulated while writing reports and the endless raids on the candy machine. Ok a cop like Starsky uses a lot of energy but how was it he stayed trim?
“Little and often; that's the secret. I eat what my body needs when it needs it. So if I feel kind of low I have a candy bar. Of course, exercise helps.” He pushed his chair back from the table, “and talking of exercise, I guess I'd better take a rest and digest my lunch before my afternoon session.” He went to his room and I knew he was going to take a nap.
Edith threw me the car key: “why don't you take him this time, Harold?” Starsky still wasn't up to driving and Edith was happy to ferry him to his rehab sessions. “I think you'll find it interesting.” Starsky appeared dressed in an old Academy sweat suit and winked at Edith as we walked out to the car.
I set off in the direction of the rehab center attached to the local VA; Starsky had the right to go there based on his Army record and it was the best in the city.
“Take a right here, Captain.” I hesitated, then, remembering that my passenger knew the city better than most of us I figured he had a short cut to avoid the early afternoon traffic. He directed me until we arrived at a building somewhere near the beach district. Starsky guided me to the parking lot and he grabbed a bag from the back seat of the car before I followed him in. It wasn't a gym, it wasn't a physical therapy center; the woman behind the desk stood up and greeted ‘David' with a kiss. Starsky winked at me and said “this way Cap'n.” He led me into room where candles were burning. A few people were already there, women in leotards and men in t-shirts and running shorts. They were all barefoot and sitting on mats. I smelled what I hoped was incense.
Starsky disappeared into the locker room and emerged in the same outfit as the other men.
He came over and said quietly; “don't tell Hutch about this; he thinks he knows all about meditation and yoga but,” his clicked his tongue, “he's just an amateur compared to these guys.”
By the end of the session I understood that Starsky was no amateur either.
“It's really good for the muscles,” he explained as I drove him home, “tones and strengthens them and helps me regain my balance and control.”
When we got home I got the next surprise; Starsky made himself a shake…with yoghurt, wheat-germ and papaya!
The next day I came home and a superb smell of cooking greeted me when I opened the door. It didn't smell like anything Edith usually cooked; plus she was sitting on the deck with what looked suspiciously like a margarita.
I kissed her and asked what was for supper. “I have no idea Harold, David banished me from the kitchen, but I do know what it isn't.”
There was a pitcher on the table and another glass; I poured myself a margarita and sniffed; “it smells good to me.”
Starsky appeared with a dishcloth over his arm. “Dinner is served.”
“I didn't know you could cook.” I said staring at the glorious chicken casserole in pride of place on the table.
“Coq au vin.” He said proudly. There were perfectly cooked potatoes and creamed peas with just a hint of mint. The bread looked too good to eat. It was a fat plait and I wondered where there was a bakery nearby that made bread like that. Edith must have read my mind. “David made the bread himself Harold; he let me watch that at least.”
Starsky gave a shy smile; “it's a traditional cholla; my mom always made it for Friday nights.” He poured us all a glass of wine and raised his in a toast. “I want to thank you for being a second family to me.”
The food was excellent. Later, David and I were washing the dishes, he said “of course after eating all that I'm going to need a little extra exercise tomorrow.” I don't know why but I said “So will I”
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That's how it started. At first I couldn't keep up with him and I certainly couldn't cover the distance. We went to the local track and while I managed to jog four hundred yards, Dave finished a mile. We went every day that he didn't have a session at the center or a yoga class. Two weeks later I was up to a mile and David was running three. Running. I asked him why he didn't jog with Hutch. “Because he jogs… I run!”
I noticed that my pants were getting looser and the other cops were looking at me as I walked past. I weighed myself. I'd lost ten pounds since David moved into our house.
Starsky was finally passed fit to resume his duties six months after the shooting. He had moved back into his house long ago; but I still met him every other day for our morning run. He took me into the canyons behind his house; he showed me the beaches he preferred. We ran round the park where he once met Rosie Malone. We talked about some of the cases he and Hutch had dealt with over the years. Hutch had opted for desk work until the case came to court and now he was in the court every day, following the trial, ready to pass notes to the DA when he thought there was something he had missed.
Starsky and I talked about a lot of things but he never mentioned the car. He was using his motor bike, a black Harley that he restored in his spare time a few years ago. The Torino had been his pride and joy; it was damaged in the shooting but Starsky seemed to have dismissed it from his memory.
I knew what Hutch had done; the day of the medical board hearing I asked Starsky about the car.
“I learned a lot of things when I was in the hospital Captain; one of them was how to know when to move on and what to leave behind. The Torino went with the job; I guess if I can go back then I'll go see Merle and get a new car. We'll see.”
“You're a lot calmer than you used to be Starsky, it suits you.” I said
He grinned at me; “I guess we have both changed in the last months.” He patted my flat stomach and said “it suits you too.”
Six months and forty pounds after Gunther's men tried to kill David Starsky, he walked back into the parking lot for the first time. Hutch was standing holding the keys to the Torino . “Sergeant Starsky; you're driving.”
********
Six months ago I ran down the hallway and sent up a bargain with the Almighty: “save Starsky and I'll lose all the weight I put on since Elmo died.”
There were times when I felt like Faust. But I was luckier than he was; I had an impish curly-headed Mephistopheles to help me beat the Devil.