Starsky held up the business card he’d discovered down the side of the couch. “Joe Rossi, Los Angeles Tribune,” he declaimed, before asking in more gentle tones, “Getting offers from the big boys after Gunther, blintz?”
Hutch leaned across Starsky’s body to take the card and tear it into confetti. “A high-class establishment paper like the Tribune doesn’t make ‘offers’. What it does is send pushy reporters to your front door demanding your contribution to the story of the century.”
Starsky settled more comfortably into the crook of Hutch’s arm. “Story of the century, huh?”
“They got their exclusive without me. I figured that Rossi looked ambitious enough to dig out his story on his own, and I was right.” Hutch stretched out his legs, and tightened the arm around Starsky’s shoulders, before saying quietly “I might have informally contacted him once or twice about side issues. I like the Tribune’s editorial stance.”
Starsky raised one eyebrow. “Informally as in anonymously? Does Huggy have competition?”
Hutch looked as embarrassed as Starsky had even seen him. “Huggy is one of a kind. And so are you.” He kissed Starsky’s temple, and Starsky smiled.
“Always knew there was something to recommend me.”