Captain Dobey’s door was closed. Starsky didn’t stop but barged into Dobey’s office, rage filling him. He could feel the blood in his veins humming with anger and outrage. Dobey was behind his desk.
“Finally!” Starsky shouted. “’bout fucking time!”
Dobey jumped, clearly startled. “Starsky, what in God’s name are you screaming about?” he demanded.
The telephone ran quietly; the ringer set on the lowest setting. His mother didn’t like being startled by the jangling of the bell. She claimed it gave her palpitations every time it chimed. The darned thing only brought bad news, she always said. Starsky was closest to the phone, so he picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Starsk.”
“Hey, Hutch!” Starsky smiled into the phone. “How are–”
Hutch cut him off. “Listen… I can’t pick you up from the airport tomorrow.”
“Huh? Hutch? Can you speak up? I can barely hear ya.” Starsky moved away from the noise of the dining room where his mother, her sister, and Nicky were chattering away. “What?”
As the car crested the hill and Starsky rotated the steering wheel to the right, Hutch stared up at a huge stuffed Santa Claus lashed to the signpost indicating the intersection of Santa Clara Ave and Santa Rita Road.
“Why does Santa have a girl’s name?” Hutch said out loud. It was literally the first time he’d considered this: something that was more in Starsky’s purview than his own.
“You’re the one who speaks three–or is it four–languages,” Starsky replied, peering at the numbers on the houses for the correct address.
“Exactly why I was struck by the inconsistency. In Spanish, Santa would be a female saint.” Hutch pointed to 4696 Santa Clara up ahead. “Which he is not.”
“Starsky,” Hutch examined his undercover outfit with dismay. “Maybe we could trade roles? I’ll take the photos…”
“Nope. We did rock, paper, scissors, and you covered my rock–” Starsky had the nerve to look delighted and sexy at his double-entendre. “You won the part.”
“It’s just…” Hutch touched the soft fabric. “Not my thing. You’re the one who loves all this holiday cheer.”
“Hey!” Starsky gave him a quick kiss in consolation. “You’ve made such progress from actin’ like the Grinch since that year we got Pete.”
“We never ‘got’ MollyPete.” Hutch shook his head. “She came into our lives and made them better, in my opinion, but she gained a family in the Ramoses.”
“And us. I like to pretend I have a daughter.” Starsky grinned and held out the jacket. “Time to get dressed, big fella.”
“I like to think I have a daughter, too.” Hutch reluctantly took the jacket and buttoned it up. The fur collar tickled his neck.
“Isn’t it amazing to think that a tiny cell–” Starsky measured the space of millimeters between his finger and thumb, “getting it on with a sperm makes a baby? And they grow up to be people.”
“That is how it works,” Hutch said, doing his best to sound dry and cynical. It was amazing. He picked up the red velvet pants and pulled them on, adjusting the cuffs to cover his ankle holster. Just because he was supposed to be a jolly elf didn’t mean he wasn’t going in unarmed.
“All those babies and little kids are gonna come up and sit on Ol’ Kris Kringle’s lap and whisper what they want for Christmas,” Starsky continued. “And when Martina Vogle arrives with her boy, the kid will sit on your knee, the Feds are gonna sweep in and arrest her for kidnapping, and his dad will be there to take the son.”
“Lousy reason to come see Santa,” Hutch sighed, looking at himself in the mirror. He plopped the red cap on his head. He made a miserable Claus if he did say so himself.
“You look great!” Starsky said staunchly with a bright smile. He stuffed the fat pad into Hutch’s pants, taking the opportunity to cop a feel with gleeful abandon.
Hutch laughed. It wasn’t a ho-ho-ho, but it was a start. He clamped his long fingers around Starsky’s groin, feeling the swelling begin simply from his friction. “Still, this will ruin that kid’s Christmas.”
“Maybe he really wants to be with his dad, ever think of that?” Starsky sounded sadder than he had seconds ago. “Maybe–”
Hutch pulled Starsky into his arms, kissing him. “There are two sides to every situation. His mom took him from his dad, and your dad died, leaving you with a mom…”
“Who sent me to her sister, who loved Christmas,” Starsky took a step back as if pushing aside the bad memories. “Time to shine, Santa!”
“You are and always will be my Christmas present, Starsk,” Hutch said sincerely, hooking the beard around his ears.
“Past, present and future, babe.” Starsky grinned and handed him a candy cane.
Athletic muscular young guy in a bad Santa sexy costume.
“How’d you manage this, Hutch? How’d you get ‘em to let me go? Yesterday, the doc said I’d have to stay a couple more days.”
“You know how hospitals are at Christmas, Starsk.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I do, now. They like to let as many patients as possible go home, at least for the day. It gives some of the staff a bit of time to spend with their own families.”
“Okay. That makes sense. Are you tellin’ me I gotta go back, though?”
“We’ll see. This morning, before I checked you out, your doctor told me that, if you don’t overdo things today and tomorrow, he may let you begin your out-patient therapy earlier than anticipated. He’s really amazed at your progress this past week. He’s calling you his miracle patient.”
