December 22nd- Catch Phrase by DPPatricks

A bit of fluff during the summer between Seasons 3 and 4.

“Starsky! Hutchinson! My office!… Now!”

Hutch sent me a long suffering look, pushed his chair back, and got up. As he walked behind me, he put a hand on my shoulder. “Be nice,” he whispered.

I followed him into the office usually occupied by our captain, Harold Dobey, and closed the door behind me. Instead of Dobey, however, the desk chair was occupied by Captain Levi Stillman, a strict disciplinarian whose appearance was definitely not ‘old school.’ He was in his early sixties and had been called out of semi-retirement when Dobey had had a mild heart attack a few weeks before. Dobey was due back any day but Good Ol’ Levi was bound and determined to exert every ounce of control he had over us miscreants, as he liked to call Hutch and me.

Stillman gestured to the two guest chairs and Hutch took his usual place. I strolled to the water cooler and drew a cup before moving to mine and sharing the libation with my partner.

The captain seethed silently while I did this. When I was settled, he cut his stare back and forth between us, holding up two sheets of paper. “This is completely unacceptable.”

Hutch and I exchanged a bland look before Hutch put on his best conciliatory tone. “What’s that, sir?”

“These reports of yours!” Stillman’s reply was much louder than necessary. “You’ve both been warned, many times since I took over this office –”

“Captain Dobey’s gonna be back any day, sir.” I couldn’t sit there and take the pompous ass’s self-important bullshit any longer. “He’s familiar with the way Hutch and I write our reports.”

“He has asked us to alter a few words in the past.” Hutch was using his most soothing persona. “And, of course, we will change whatever you find offensive. Captain.”

“Well…” Stillman lowered the pages and his voice. “On the other hand, they’re not as bad as some you’ve written.” He ran his sausage fingers over them, smoothing any wrinkles. His hands matched his physique. He was as tall as Hutch and very sturdily built. His curly steel gray hair foamed around his head, almost becoming part of his full, grizzly beard. His eyes were a penetrating dark brown. My guess was he’d gotten onto the force sometime in the fifties — possibly having tried other professions first — and had moved slowly up the ranks only because he’d never pissed anybody off enough to get fired.

I had begun to wonder about something during the last three weeks, though. If The Powers That Be didn’t like my non-reg appearance — I heard about it often enough — what did they think of Stillman’s? He dressed conservatively enough, but that hair! And the beard? Mentally, I shook my head. His rank, of course, must be the answer. It had its privileges.

“As you know, gentlemen, I’m not fond of what I consider your shoddy practices.” Stillman’s gravelly voice was stern. “On the other hand, your records show they do get results.”

Hutch quickly, but very innocently, jumped to our defense. “Yes, sir. Our record does show that.”

The captain paused, probably trying to figure out if Hutch was being sarcastic. Apparently deciding he wasn’t, he continued. “On the other hand, more precise written reports would make my job much easier.”

“Yes, sir.” Hutch was mollifying for all he was worth and I made sure to keep my expression blank.

Stillman picked up another folder and brandished it. “Now this report, on the other hand, is a model of what I expect.” He handed it to Hutch.

My partner got up and gestured for me to precede him out of the office. “We’ll study it carefully, sir. Thank you.”

Back in the squad room, I went to the coffee machine and drew two cups while Hutch moved around and sat at his desk, the folder in front of him. I handed his coffee across to him and perched on the back of my chair. “On the other hand…” I mimicked.

Hutch laughed and I heard several others in the room chuckle. “He’s an overstuffed jerk, Starsk,” Hutch noted, quietly. “Dobey’ll be back soon, and we can get on with our lives.”

“How often do you think he’s said that phrase in the past month?” I asked, keeping my voice down, as well.

“Oh, a thousand,” Hutch guessed.

“At least.” I took a swallow of coffee.

“On the other hand…” he muttered.

I nearly choked. “Don’t even joke about something like that.” I sat down in my chair. “I swear t’ God, Hutch, if I pick up the habit, would you shoot me? Please?”

“If you insist.”

“Nothing serious,” I added. “A flesh wound. Something to get my attention and make me realize what I’ve said.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Starsk.” He was trying to hide a smirk.

“Hey! I just remembered something!” I rooted around among the stuff on my desk and found the morning paper. Leafing through it, I held up a section. “The Bay City Community Players are going to be doing ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ next season. Think, if we hinted enough times, Stillman would audition?”

Hutch thought about it. “He would make an impressive Tevya.”

I drank more coffee. “But can he sing?”

Hutch shuddered. “God willing, we’ll never have to find out.”