Starsky & Hutch Advent Calendar 2016

The trees are still, no wind to shake their bare limbs, and Hutch can’t help but focus on the way the branches, reaching out and coated in ice and frost, look so fragile, can’t help but wonder if they’ll crack when the warmth of spring melts the ice, can’t help but wonder if they’ll shatter after having been held, subdued and undisturbed, preserved and asleep, for so many months.

When he exhales, he can see his frozen breath, the only evidence, in this silent, pristine landscape, that he’s alive.

The evidence of the Christmas season is in full force back in Duluth, laughter and lights and singing, music piped from tinny radios, gifts wrapped up in shiny paper. It’s much more Starsky’s scene than this snowy, quiet forest, but Starsky was the one to insist that they spend the last days of their vacation here, at Hutch’s grandfather’s cabin.

Hutch looks at the snow, clean and pure, untouched by human hands, and thinks he knows why. Because Spring is months away, but Hutch can feel the ice melt inside of him, and he knows that Starsky, scarred but alive, may be the only one who can keep him from shattering.

Author’s Note:  This story spring boarded itself from all the problems I experienced getting home from SHareCon. If you enjoy reading it, I’m happy. Let’s all continue to keep Starsky and Hutch alive! Merry Christmas, everyone!

“I hope we get there in time,” Starsky growled. “I hate these delays.”

“Relax, Starsky,” Hutch responded, attempting to soothe his agitated partner. “We probably have a tail wind so maybe the pilot can make up some time and we’ll only be an hour or so late. Your mom knows flight schedules are approximate. She won’t start dinner without you.”

“Without us, you mean,” Starsky pointed out, cocking an eyebrow. “She made me promise not to leave you behind.”

“As if you could,” Hutch muttered under his breath.

“Or would,” Starsky countered, plainly having heard.

“Look, buddy!” Hutch nodded out the window next to Starsky’s arm. “That river’s wide enough to be the Mississippi. We’ll be there in no time.”

“Hutch…” Starsky sounded exasperated, “The Big Muddy is only a little over half way. We’ve still got at least two hours!” He crushed his empty Styrofoam coffee cup. “I hate delays!”

“Two thirds,” Hutch remarked, quietly.

“What?”

“The Mississippi is two thirds of the way between Bay City and New York,” Hutch explained, patiently.

“Okay,” Starsky replied, grudgingly. “Sixty-six percent.”

Hutch smiled, willing giving Starsky the final word.

A long-fingered hand reached across Hutch and gently took the mangled cup from Starsky. “May I bring you another cup of coffee, sir? Perhaps one in a more sturdy container?”

Starsky glanced up at the pretty stewardess leaning over them. Color began to creep up his neck and onto his cheeks. “Oh… uh, yeah, I guess so.” He grinned, sheepishly. “Looks like I kinda wrecked that one.”

“At least it appears to have been empty at the time.” She smiled.

That’s my partner, Hutch thought, charms them even when they’re supposed to be immune to passengers’ flirtations. He smiled at the pretty lady himself. “Two please, miss.”

“Right away.”

When she was gone, Hutch put a hand lightly on Starsky’s arm. “Try to relax, Starsk. I know you’re afraid all your relatives are going to want to hear every grisly detail about the shooting. If I know your mom though, she’ll run pretty good interference and make sure nobody pushes too hard.”

Starsky patted his hand. “You’re right, she will.”

The flight attendant came back with two steaming mugs she’d obviously snitched from first class. Putting them down on their tray tables, she leaned over while taking envelopes of powdered creamer and packets of sugar out of her pocket. “Listen, guys,” she began, very softly. “Vera says you’re cops.” She looked at each of them. “Is that true?”

Hutch cast a quick look at his partner before he nodded.

“Well…” the stewardess, whose name tag read, ‘Sonya,’ went on, warily, “I don’t know what you can do, but I’m worried about a lady two rows in front of you, on the other side. She’s been crying ever since we took off and…” She lowered her voice even more. “… she keeps her hand in the big purse on her lap… I think she might have a gun.”

Hutch sat up straighter and out of the corner of his eye, saw Starsky do the same.

“Have you told the captain?” Hutch knew that should be the first step.

“Yes.” Sonya glanced around, tense, but in control. “He said that unless I’m ready to declare an emergency, there’s nothing he can do. He has locked the door to the flight deck though.”

“That’s good.” Starsky conferred silently with Hutch for a few seconds, before he posed the next major question. “Where’s this person sitting?”

“Twelve E, the window seat. The two places next to her are empty,” Sonya told them. “There was a man in the aisle seat but an hour ago he asked Vera if he could move, because she was making him nervous.”

“Where is he now?” Starsky asked.

“We put him near the rear exit.”

“Fine,” Hutch commented, softly. “What about the rows in front and in back of her?”

“Two passengers in each, window and aisle.” Having told someone else of her concerns, Sonya seemed to have settled a little.

“The two behind shouldn’t be a problem,” Starsky noted. “Can you move them, too? Without alerting the woman?”

“Yes,” she decided. “I’ll get Vera and Marsha to help. We’ll be very quiet. ”

“Clear at least three rows behind her if you can,” Hutch suggested. “The two in front could be difficult.”

“Not Mr. Itkin,” she said, brightly. “We know him, he flies with us all the time. I’ll invite him, completely against regulations of course, to join me in our stew’s cubbyhole behind First Class. He’ll jump at the chance.”

Starsky smiled his crooked grin. “Ah, the Mile High Club?”

She blushed scarlet. “Nothing like that, sir. I would never…”

“He’s teasing you, Sonya,” Hutch interrupted, scowling exaggeratedly at Starsky. “You’ll have to forgive my partner’s inappropriate humor.”

Starsky put on a classic hang-dog face. “My apologies, Miss.”

She straightened up and smoothed her skirt. “Accepted.” Placing a few more sugar packets on Hutch’s tray table, she looked at him, concerned again. “What should I do about the woman sitting in front of Miss Manchester.”

“Is that the crying lady?” Starsky inquired.

“Yes.” Sonya glanced over her shoulder and straightened up quickly, making room in the aisle for a passenger on his way to the rear of the plane.

When he was far enough away, she leaned back over and placed more creamer packets on Hutch’s tray table. “Marilyn Manchester is the name on the passenger list,” she finished.

“That’ll help. Thanks.” Hutch checked silently with Starsky again before turning back to the attendant. “Can you bring the woman sitting in Eleven E a cup of coffee? And write a note on the napkin asking her to please quietly visit the forward lavatory? And tell her to stay there!”

“I can do that,” Sonya stated.

“Inform the captain about what’s going on,” Starsky added, “and why the plane’ll be tail heavy for a while. Tell him Hutch and I are going to try and talk to Miss Manchester. If something happens, he won’t be completely surprised.”

“Right,” Sonya agreed. “This is going to take a little time so I’d better get started.”

“See if the three of you can get the people behind Miss Manchester moved as quickly and quietly as possible,” Hutch suggested. “Take your time with the two in front of her.”

“What about the ones on this side of the aisle,” she asked. “Should I move them, too?”

Starsky shook his head. “Too much chance she’ll notice and get spooked. Hutch and I’ll do our best to block that half of the plane.”

“You’re putting yourselves in possible jeopardy,” Sonya pointed out, wonderingly, “based solely on my worries?”

Hutch and Starsky shrugged simultaneously and Hutch had to smile. “It’s what we do, Sonya.”

She reached down and put a hand on his arm. “Thank you.” She tried to smile but it wasn’t very successful. “No matter what, thank you.”

Donning a mask of calm pleasantry, she turned and began to speak, sotto voce, to the passengers across from them.

“How do you want to handle this, Starsk?”

“Gonna have to play it by ear, I guess,” Starsky mused. “But I think I should be the one to talk to her.”

“Why you?” Hutch felt his hackles rising protectively.

“I died, Hutch,” Starsky said, factually, causing Hutch to flinch. “I think that qualifies me as having a pretty good perspective on how bad things can get.”

Hutch blew out a breath. “I can’t argue with that. But I don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t,” Starsky agreed, smiling, “you just have to back me up.”

“Always.”

Wordlessly, Hutch drank his coffee, noticing that, although Starsky held the mug to his mouth, he didn’t swallow. Getting himself into a frame of mind to talk to a conceivably suicidal or murderous female, Hutch figured. He left him alone.

The three stewardesses moved people unobtrusively farther back in the plane. It took a while, since they were careful not to frighten anyone and to make the moves silently.

Sonya delivered a cup, with napkin, to the lady sitting in the right side window seat, three rows up. Rather than move away immediately though, she flirted with Mr. Itkin for a minute before walking to her compartment behind First Class.

Trying to hide a grin, Itkin got up and followed her.

After another moment, the woman from the window seat went to the restroom directly across from Sonya’s alcove. The ‘occupied’ sign on the bulkhead lit up.

Hutch reached across the aisle and let down the tray table. Taking Starsky’s mug he put it, and his, on the flat surface, along with all the sugar and creamer packets they hadn’t used. He and Starsky snapped their tables into place.

“No time like the present, I guess,” Hutch whispered, tensely.

He moved, as if to get up, but stopped and stared into his best friend’s startled eyes. Needing to elicit Starsky’s promise not to do anything too crazy, he took a breath, and discovered he didn’t have to say a word.

Starsky answered his imploring gaze with a small nod, and a silent vow.

Content that they’d both do everything they could, without being stupid, Hutch got up. He moved forward casually until he was beside the now-vacant row in front of Miss Manchester. He sat on the arm of Eleven C, as if waiting for the lavatory, his long legs, bent and crossed at the ankles, taking up the entire aisle. A few of the passengers he was facing glanced at him and he spread his fingers in a calm gesture, bestowing his most competent smile on them.

Starsky crawled out of his seat and walked up to Hutch. Patting his arm lightly, he sat down in Twelve C.

Marilyn Manchester stiffened but didn’t look at Starsky. She kept her right hand stuffed deeply in her oversize purse while her left held a very wet handkerchief to her nose. Her face was turned away, forehead pressed against the window, but Hutch could see, looking over his shoulder, that the visible cheek was flushed, the eye red and swollen.

Hutch caught Starsky’s eyes and did his best to convey all his support and trust.

Starsky nodded and turned to the lady. “Marilyn?” Starsky asked, softly. “Is that your name? Marilyn?”

The woman moved only enough to turn her head and look at him. “How did you know that?”

Starsky smiled. “I cannot tell a lie,” he quoted, winningly. “The stewardess told me.” He put his hands out, soothingly. “She’s worried about you.”

“Why?” Suddenly, she half rose to her feet, scrunched against the window under the overhead luggage bin, and looked around the plane. The purse slid to the floor exposing her right hand, which was holding what appeared to be a police service revolver. “Is everyone afraid of me?” Her voice was strained and cracking. “Is that why they’ve all moved away?”

“Yes,” Starsky replied, calmly. He gestured, non-threateningly, toward the gun. “Do they have good reason?”

Visibly deflating, she sagged back into her seat, gripping the weapon in a shaky hand. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Hutch moved his legs to the side and motioned for the passengers who had seen the gun and heard the words to get up quietly and move to the back. Vera and Marsha were waiting to take charge of them. Thankfully, no one panicked.

“Will you give me the gun?” Starsky held out his hand.

She jerked it up next to her face. “No! I can’t let you take away the only thing I have of my father’s.”

Hutch caught Starsky’s sharp look and they both drew the conclusion.

“Your dad a cop?” Starsky asked.

The tears flowed again and she didn’t attempt to stop them. “Yes.”

“I’m a cop,” Starsky told her. “So’s my partner.” He nodded at Hutch, who half turned so that he could look directly at Starsky now. “His name’s Ken. Mine’s Dave.”

“I don’t want to hurt you either.” She continued to cry, softly.

“I know that,” Starsky soothed. He nodded toward the gun. “Is it loaded?”

“I think so.” She lowered it a little and peered at it. “I’m not sure.”

“Did you know,” Starsky went on, reasonably, “that carrying a loaded gun aboard a commercial aircraft is a federal offense?”

“No,” she whispered. “Oh God, I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“Let’s try to make it not very much trouble.” He smiled, gently. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Want to tell me why you’re crying?” he asked.

“He’s dead,” she choked, lowering the gun back into her lap.

Hutch locked eyes with Starsky before turning to Marilyn. “Your dad was Ernie Manchester?”

Surprise interrupted her tears. “Yes.”

Starsky looked intently at Hutch while saying exactly what Hutch was thinking: “Monday, last week, Fifteenth Precinct, a routine disturbance call, shots fired.” He turned to Marilyn. “His partner took a bullet in the leg but your father was killed.”

“Yes,” she repeated, devastated. “He was all I had.”

“I hope that’s not true, Miss Manchester,” Hutch offered, gently. “There must be someone else. Someone who can help you get through this. Family?”

She shook her head. “No family. But…”

“But…?” Starsky urged.

“I have one friend. I’m flying to see him.” She said it so quietly Hutch had to strain to hear her over the roar of the engines. “He paid for my ticket, asked me to come. Only….”

“Only what, Marilyn?” Starsky asked, persuasively.

“He’s just a friend,” she finished.

“Friends are important, Marilyn,” Starsky told her, gently. He leaned toward her, putting his right hand, fingers spread, on the seat between them. “Sometimes even more important than family.”

Her expression turned cold and she stared daggers at him. “How would you know?”

Starsky glanced up at Hutch again before turning back to her. “My friend brought me back from death.”

Disbelief was plain on her tear-streaked face. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” Starsky assured her. “My heart had stopped, I was clinically dead.” He cocked his head toward Hutch but didn’t take his eyes off the girl. “My partner, my best friend, wouldn’t let me stay that way though. He rushed into the hospital and made my heart start beating again.”

She looked wonderingly at Hutch. “Is that true?”

“I honestly don’t know if I had anything to do with it, ma’am,” Hutch said, self-deprecatingly. “All I know is that he’s the best friend I’ve ever had or ever will have. I didn’t want him to die.”

“I did die,” Starsky added, “but I came back. For my friend.” He extended his hand until it was resting gently on top of hers, the one holding the gun. “Sometimes, Marilyn, you can lose so much you don’t know where to turn.”

Hutch caught another soul-deep glance and sent it back, doubled.

“Until…” Starsky continued, concentrating again on the woman who had now stopped crying. “… you realize that someone’s been there all along. Right next to you. Your friend.”

“I don’t know,” she said, uncertainly.

“Give him a chance, Miss Manchester,” Hutch pleaded. “He knows what you’re going through. He asked you to come to New York. He may simply be waiting for you to suggest taking your friendship to the next level.”

“You think so?” She clearly wanted to believe.

“Next levels are scary, Marilyn.” Starsky gently took the gun out of her stiff fingers. “But if you don’t give it a try, you’ll never know.”

Hutch surreptitiously took the gun from Starsky and carefully broke it open. Thankfully, the cylinder was empty. He closed it and stuck it in the back of his jeans. Turning toward the front, he gestured to Sonya who approached cautiously.

He stood up and turned his back to Starsky and the woman, keeping his voice down. “Get everyone seated again but leave a few rows around us vacant, if you can. Tell the captain we don’t think she’s going to cause trouble now, but we’ll stay with her until we land.”

“Of course.” Sonya moved past him toward the rear.

“What’s your friend’s name, Miss Manchester?” Hutch asked, sitting again on the arm of Eleven C.

“Kevin,” she replied, softly. “Kevin Stoddard. He was going to meet the plane but we’re so late now he may not have waited.”

“Oh, I’ll bet he has,” Hutch told her, kindly.

Leaving Starsky to sit quietly with the woman, Hutch moved through the people being directed into new seats and supplied with complimentary beverages.

Sonya was in the rear galley, restocking the service cart with a rack of tiny liquor bottles, cans of soda and juice, bags of ice, stacks of small plastic cups, napkins, stirrers and snack packets.

Hutch pulled the revolver out of the back of his belt and was relieved to see that she didn’t show undue fear. “Do you have a secure place to keep this until we’re on the ground?”

“Uh…” she glanced around the tiny space. “The emergency equipment locker?” Taking a key ring out of her pocket, she selected one and opened a compartment next to the exit.

“Perfect.” Hutch put the weapon inside.

She re-locked the small door and dropped the keys back in her pocket.

“Would you ask the captain to have Kevin Stoddard paged?” Hutch requested. “He should be somewhere around the arrival gate.”

“Kevin Stoddard?” She took out a napkin and wrote the name. “Spelled like it sounds?”

“Probably. If he’s left the airport,” Hutch continued, “have someone find him and bring him back. Police will need to be there, too, but please ask them to let Kevin greet her, first. My partner and I don’t think Miss Manchester’s going to cause any more problems but he needs to be there.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sonya assured him.

“She may have to be taken into custody,” Hutch went on, thinking out loud, “but that’ll be up to the cops, and maybe the FBI or ATF. Starsky and I’ll hang around, make sure they know she never threatened anyone. It’s possible they’ll just confiscate the weapon and keep an eye on her for a while.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, finally allowing himself to relax. “If the Feds decide they want to press charges, my partner and I’ll do our best to dissuade them. Hopefully counseling, and Kevin’s support, will be all she’ll need.”

“Thank you,” Sonya said, sincerely.

“Glad we could help,” Hutch replied.

Leaving her to communicate with the captain, Hutch made his way back up to row Twelve. Starsky had moved over to the middle seat and was holding Marilyn’s hand on the armrest. She was staring out the window.

Hutch sat down next to him and Starsky leaned against his shoulder.

Vera walked past, knocked softly on the door to the lavatory and, when it opened, escorted the lady from Eleven E into First Class.

“We ought to call Ma as soon as we can find a phone,” Starsky said.

“You’re right,” Hutch agreed. “This is going to put us even later than we thought.”

“Pot roast keeps though, right?” Starsky grinned his patented crooked smile. “Maybe even better the next day?”

“We won’t be that late, Starsk,” Hutch responded, matching his partner’s attempt at levity. “And just think, your relatives will probably be so soused by the time we get there they won’t be able to put two questions together. You could spend the whole visit telling and re-telling your heroics from today.”

“Our heroics, buddy,” Starsky corrected.

“You’re the one who did all the talking, pal,” Hutch stated. “I was only there as backup.”

“But you were there, Hutch.” Starsky’s heart was in his voice. “You’re always there. You helped me figure out what to say to her.”

“No I didn’t,” Hutch disagreed. “You were on her wavelength the minute you sat down. She was in the palm of your hand.”

“Our hands,” Starsky amended, his lop-sided smile widening. “Maybe we should start an insurance company.”

Hutch chuckled and settled back to wait out the rest of the seemingly interminable delayed flight.

Eventually, the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign came on and the announcement was made about tray tables and seat backs. Starsky helped Marilyn get her belt fastened before he and Hutch buckled up.

“Can we take the train home, Hutch?” Starsky asked, sounding serious. “Or Greyhound? Rent a car and drive, maybe?”

“What’s this about, Starsk?”

“I really hate flying now,” Starsky responded, sadly.

Hutch laughed lightly and patted his partner’s knee. “We’ll talk about it. If Dobey can do without us for an extra week or so, the idea of driving sounds awfully good to me.”

Starsky leaned back, happily and closed his eyes. “See… the… USA… in your Chevrolet…” he sang softly.

Hutch smiled and joined him for the next line, “America is asking you to call…”

A distraught woman

A plane full of scared people

Starsky does his thing

END

Hutch scooped up a serving of mashed potatoes and placed it next to the slice of turkey swimming in gravy. He estimated he’d done this now two, if not three, dozen times in the last hour. His new found practice to negate the holiday anti-euphoric sentimentalism that frequently hit him in December: helping to feed the poor at the 99th Street Dining Room.

The next tray slid to his station and Hutch dished up another helping of mashed potatoes and turkey, pausing to smile at a young man with dark brown eyes. The man was dressed in dirty, well-worn fatigues. He gazed longingly at the meal, clearly hungry.

“Have a merry Christmas,” Hutch said sincerely. This was why giving was important. Helping another somehow raised his own spirits.

“Thank you,” the young man answered before moving his tray to the next volunteer who was handing out dessert.

“This pie is terrific!” Starsky assured the man with a wink. “You want whipped cream with that?”

“Pie is enough,” the man said shyly, glancing back at the line of people waiting behind him. “It’s more than—“

“Have another piece!” Starsky held up a plate in each hand, apple pie on the left and pumpkin on the right. “For later—which do you like better?”

“Apple.” The man pointed with a sudden smile that did wonders to his narrow, pale face. “Like my mom used to make.”

“The guy dressed like Santa has a gift for you and some cookies, too,” Starsky confided as if he hadn’t said this several hundred times already that day.

The man walked over to the tables, and Hutch dished up more potatoes and turkey. Starsky handed out more pie, cajoling the hungry people to take another piece or an extra dollop of whipped cream. Anything to chase the hopelessness out of their eyes for one moment.

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