December 17th: Cindy Claus by Dawnwind

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.”

“Saint Nicolas,” Starsky said, almost to himself. “Or, in our case, Nick Pasqual, purveyor of illicit drugs purloined from Payless Pharmacy.”

“Good attempt at alliteration, but pharmacy spoiled it.” Hutch shifted his shoulders, resettling his shoulder holster more comfortably as he climbed out of the car. The neighborhood was rundown, many houses needing a coat of paint, but most were neat and tidy. Pasqual’s place looked quiet, the epitome of a suburban house in mid-December. There was even a wreath on the front door.

“Pill provider?” Starsky surveyed the surrounding homes with a silent nod, giving Hutch the okay to approach the place. He stayed one step behind, guarding Hutch’s back.

It was the way they always played it; be cautious and smart. Don’t go in expecting a firefight, but equally, never assume that because the crime was non-violent that the suspect might not react aggressively.

Rapping on the front door, Hutch waited. Curtains hid all but a sliver of the living room visible through the front window.

“No one at home?” Starsky asked after a moment. “Wanna check in the backyard or come back later?”

“Around the back.” Hutch shrugged. He was not at all sure this was even a valid lead. Who in their right mind would bring a load of stolen morphine, valium, and Benzo diazepam to his humble little abode?

Stranger things had happened.

It was an easy stroll to the garden behind the one story house. There was an undecorated Christmas tree in a bucket of water waiting for its debut, and a small shed in the otherwise average looking yard. A few scraggly roses huddled beside the kitchen door–which was open.

“Guess he was waiting for us?” Starsky unholstered his pistol, pointing it down at the winter green grass, going low as Hutch approached with his Magnum pointed up at the sky.

“Nick Pasqual?” Hutch called out, tapping the door frame. “This is the police. Are you inside?”

Utter silence.

Hutch took a step inside, checking out the ordinary kitchen. Not a thing out of place.

He advanced into the room, conscious of Starsky directly behind him, and continued into the dining area just beyond. No evidence of anyone having eaten breakfast or lunch and no sign of any other inhabitants. Pasqual kept a tidy home, everything in its place.

“Did Dobey say he lived alone?” Starsky hustled past Hutch, standing sentinel on the short hallway. “D’you smell that?”

“Decomp.” Hutch grimaced, the noxious smell unforgettable. “In the bedroom?”

Starsky moved down the hall, glancing into the bathroom. He pushed open a door to the right, shaking his head, and stopped at the threshold to the room on the left, wrinkling his nose. “Found Nick.”

“I’ll call dispatch.” Hutch sighed, going out the front door. Didn’t matter that it was Christmas with all the lip service of goodwill on Earth and peace to mankind–there was still death and destruction. He wanted to slug something to alleviate the stain on his psyche. He worked hard every year to maintain the joy Starsky had in the holiday season. Simply being with his partner helped immensely, but every corpse, trauma situation, and crime weighed on him.

Reporting to the precinct for additional assistance, a morgue wagon, and crime scene technicians, Hutch looked up at the fluffy, bedraggled Santa hanging from the street sign, his white gloved hand flapping in the wind. Wouldn’t it be wonderful it the benevolent old guy were real? A true saint who could bring love to the world.

“He’s takin’ care of us,” a small voice said.

Startled out of his reverie, Hutch looked down to see a small boy watching him from the next yard. “Santa Claus?” he asked.

The boy nodded, his eyes flitting to the left for a moment, proving that there was someone else hiding in the shadow of the pyracantha hedge.

“Mr. Nick said Santy was his grandpa, an’ he was doing his work,” the boy explained helpfully, shuffling to the side enough to reveal an identical boy. Both had smooth brown skin, wide brown eyes, and bushy puffs of dark curls. They wore black sweatshirts, blue jeans, and sneakers.

“He did, huh?” Hutch asked. “You knew the man who lived in this house?”

“Sure.” The first boy nodded emphatically. His twin stood solemnly, pinkie finger lodged in his mouth. “Mr. Nick bringed my mom food and stuff when we was hungry.” He looked at his brother in solidarity.

“Like Santa Claus.” Hutch breathed out softly, not wanting to spook the boys. “What are your names?”

“I’m Nicolaas and he’s Piet cause we was borned on December sixth,” Nicolaas supplied. “We got ice cream cones at Thrifty for our birthday last week.”

Which cost five cents each, Hutch thought absently.

Emboldened, Piet bobbed his head without removing his finger from his mouth.

“German or Dutch?” Hutch guessed, remembering his mother and grandmother discussing whether or not to celebrate the European celebration of St. Nicolas day early in the month. His German-born grandmother had always wanted to appear very American, long after she had settled in the US. His mother yearned to preserve the old traditions. It had been a yearly dilemma with Advent wreaths, creche sets, and small carvings of a bearded man carrying a bag over his shoulder battling for space on the mantel and book shelves of their house.

“Mama lived in Holland when she was a little girl!” Nicolaas crowed, a dimple blossoming in his left cheek. “She calls me Cindy Claus sometimes.”

“Sinterklaas.” Hutch chuckled, thoroughly charmed by the boys.

“Whatcha doing out here?” Starsky stood on Pasqual’s porch, shading his eyes in the brief appearance of the sun in the wintery gray skies.

“Detective Starsky,” Hutch said formally, allowing himself one uninterrupted moment to gaze at Starsky. The simple things were always the best. “This is Nicolaas and Piet. They knew Pasqual.”

“Nice to meet you,” Starsky said, coming down to the edge of the grass. “We’re from the police.”

Hutch could easily read the caution in his expression. They couldn’t question the boys without their parents’ permission, and especially not inform two small children what had occurred in the house. Yet, the approaching police cars and morgue wagon would be a–pardon the pun–dead giveaway.

“Told ya,” Nicolaas said to Piet. “He thought you’d be mean, yelling bad words and stuff like th’other mens who goed to Nick’s house.”

Starsky’s eyes widened. He crossed his arms over his thick leather jacket as if trying to hide his holstered pistol and his eagerness to learn more.

“But you’re nice,” Nicolaas went on blithely.

“Where are your mom and dad?” Hutch watched the oncoming emergency vehicles park haphazardly in the street, blocking any egress. Neighbors were spilling out of nearby houses, and a blond woman emerged from 4694 Santa Clara, clutching a ratty blue sweater over her very pregnant belly.

“Nicolaas, Piet!” she called. “Come inside.”

“I’ll do some liaison-ing with the troops,” Starsky volunteered, striding across the lawn to the uniforms climbing out of their cars.

“Hi.” Hutch fished out his police ID, walking up the cracked cement path to the twins’ mother. “Sergeant Ken Hutchinson with the BCPD. We’re looking into some… incidents with Nick Pasqual, Mrs…?”

“Washington,” she replied, the Dutch accent giving the classic American last name a unique lilt. “Sanne.”

Already, one of the new arrivals was cordoning off Pasqual’s house with yellow police tape, keeping the neighbors at bay. Hutch hoped they remained that way. Starsky was gesturing at the house, probably explaining where they had found the body.

“Could we talk inside?” Hutch asked. It was better if she did not have to witness them bring out the corpse wrapped in a black plastic body bag.

“What’s happened to Nick?” Sanne held open her door without taking her eyes off her sons.

She was so stereotypically Dutch looking with her straight blond hair and blue eyes that Hutch almost expected her to be wearing wooden shoes. The twins obviously had their father’s coloring.

“I wanna see the cops!” Nicolaas yelled, bouncing with excitement. “They’re going into Mr. Nick’s house!”

Piet mimicked the bounce, taking the front steps in one leap. He leaned into his mother affectionately.

“Boys, it’s lunchtime.” Sanne ushered them into the house. “There’re sandwiches on the table. Go eat.”

“Mama…” Nicolaas stood his ground for half a second, exchanging glances with Piet. Without a sound between them, accord was struck and they shuffled into the kitchen.

The house had exactly the same layout as Pasqual’s. The small living room was crammed with a skinny Christmas tree decorated in popcorn and construction paper chains, a threadbare couch and two bucket chairs facing a small TV with a bent hanger as a makeshift antenna. There was a half-constructed Lego house on the coffee table and wrapping paper, ribbons, and tape surrounding several boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese and Oreos.

“I was preparing a package to send back to my mother in Haarlem.” Sanne waved a hand at the mess. “In Holland, not New York.”

“I’ve been there. Beautiful place.” Hutch smiled, waiting for her to sit down. “You must miss it.”

“I came here five years ago, with my husband. He was stationed in the Netherlands in the Army.” One hand sheltering her belly, she lowered herself awkwardly into the blue bucket chair. “But you want to know about Nick.”

“Yes.” Hutch sat on the couch.

“Did they–” She bit her bottom lip, eyes tearing up. “Was he hurt?”

“I’m sorry to inform you that he is dead,” Hutch said carefully, glancing through the window at the house next door in time to see Starsky conferring with a uniformed lieutenant. “What did you hear? Or see?”

Sanne stared out at the police streaming in and out of Pasqual’s place. “We don’t have very much. George lost his job, and… Nick was so nice to us.”

“Your husband’s name was George Washington?” Hutch couldn’t help the deviation from the subject at hand, sure Starsky would have done the same. “He probably gets asked that all the time.”

“Nick brought us food, even told me where I could go to a free clinic for the baby.” Sanne put both hands around her belly as if protecting the unborn child. “I don’t know how he had so much to spare, but we were grateful. Then the other night–” She gazed out the window, her eyes distant. “Two men showed up, yelling about–” She paused, waiting for a moment.

Hutch could hear two little boy voices singing while they ate their lunch. Something about “conjunction junction, what’s your function…” This abruptly segued into “Santy Claus is coming to town!”

“Drugs and money owed–” Sanne finished, satisfied the boys were not listening. “I was so scared. I think they fired a gun. George didn’t want to call the police…”

“Why not?” He had to ask, although he suspected that George might have reasons not to talk to the police–possibly a less than spotless record.

She lowered her eyes, staring at her hands. “One man was big. Like a football player. With dark hair, long, to his shoulders. I saw him the best. He had a small gun with a long barrel.”

“Sawed off shotgun?” Hutch asked, distracted when there was a knock on the door.

“It’s me.” Starsky poked his head in, cheeks pinked from the chilly, for Southern California, weather. “Can I come in?”

“Mrs. Washington was just giving a description of one of the suspects,” Hutch explained, flashing her an encouraging smile. Even though there had been nothing to worry about with so many cops on location, he could breathe better when Starsky was in the vicinity. “She’s been extremely helpful. Did you see the other man?”

“He’d–he’d come before. I recognized his voice but I never saw his face.” She covered her mouth fearfully. “I can’t–we can’t get involved. But Nick was so nice.”

Starsky stood just inside the door, watching with such sympathy that Hutch could have given him a hug instead of the distressed woman. He didn’t want to shake Sanne’s composure in any way.

“George can’t…” She hunched her shoulders, about to say something else but froze when the boys tumbled into the living room. “This is all we have until–George can get a job. I cannot jeopardize that. Nick brought us good luck and now it’s gone.” She dissolved into tears, Nicolaas and Piet crowding around her, clutching at her sleeves.

“Just a couple more questions, ma’am,” Starsky said, as gently as if speaking to a trauma victim. “And then we’ll be out of your hair. When did those men come?”

Piet leaned over his mother’s knee to whisper to his brother. “Arnold n’Willis.”

“Diff’rent Strokes was on,” Nicolaas declared.

“Friday,” Starsky specified.

Hutch had never heard of Diff’rent Strokes, so he had to take Starsky’s word for it. Today was Sunday afternoon. The body had been there for over thirty-six hours. “Mrs. Washington, we will have a policewoman come and take your statement.”

“I can’t leave the house, not while George is looking for–” She stopped, giving the boys a hug. “Finish your Lego house. Papa will want to see it.”

“She’ll come here,” Starsky assured. “Our friend Minnie is a pro. And real fast.”

“Yes, all right.” Sanne gulped a breath. “I need to send this to my mother tomorrow, to get it to Holland in time. I have enough dollars to pay for the postage. Then nothing.”

“Santy Claus will come, won’t he?” Nicolaas worried, fiddling with a red Lego brick. “Nick said he would.”

“Nick can’t help us now, zoon.” Her voice trembled. She touched Piet’s shoulder and the crown of Nicolaas’ head.

“Damn,” Starsky said when they’d quit the house.

“I strongly suspect her husband might know more, but getting him to talk would be counterproductive in the long run. We’d never get anything more out of Sanne.” Hutch shoved his hands into the pockets of his cords. “We could look up George Washington’s sheet, but it’s probably a coincidence that they lived next to each other, not an indication that they worked together.”

“One Mary Grace Shelby in 4698 said that Pasqual was acquainted with Donny Mathers,” Starsky said. “Figure we’d start there first.”

“Good work, Sherlock!” Hutch brightened, always happier with Starsky beside him. He walked past the morgue wagon, thankful that the body bag had not been loaded inside yet. “You know who might know where Mathers hangs out?”

“One Bear by the name of Huggy?” Starsky waggled his eyebrows at Hutch with a come hither grin. “We need to get the Washingtons connected with the Police Holiday fund.”

“Good idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” Hutch shook his head, getting into the Torino.

A fresh-faced uniform waved a hand, scurrying over to move her cruiser so they could drive away.

“You had other things on your mind, talking to Mrs. W.” Starsky maneuvered the big car carefully through the tangle of vehicles, look-i-loos, and two TV camera vans arriving late to the party. “I can see it in your eyes, you were already to march over to the grocery, buy ’em a turkey and stuffing, plus socks and underwear for the twins.”

“I would never buy socks and underwear for Christmas presents!” Hutch raised his finger indignantly. He was fully aware Starsky was yanking his chain, but there was a principle to uphold. “A basketball, maybe, or Hot Wheels.” He harrumphed at Starsky’s triumphant grin. “Socks and underwear are what grandparents give.”

“Gotcha.” Starsky steered them toward the Pits. “My grandma used to knit us socks. Hated those suckers cause my friends had plain white socks.” He sucked in a breath as if tasting sadness. “She was sending food to Holland for her mom. So grandma ain’t got much either.”

“And a drug dealer was helping them stay afloat.”

“Helping most of the street, from comments I heard.” Starsky slotted the Torino into a parking place a block away from Huggy’s. “Like Robin Hood–stole drugs for the cash and doled it out to the poor.”

“Nicolaas said Santa Claus was Nick’s grandfather,” Hutch recalled, trying to make sense of such a complicated issue. “Where’s the line between doing harm and doing good? He was using the ill-gotten gain for a positive reason.”

“More than that.” Starsky closed the driver side door, looking over the hood of the car at Hutch. His expression was haunted. “Mary Grace Shelby said her husband had cancer. Nick brought him morphine. That Mrs. Fong was diabetic and he used to supply her with insulin.”

“Then we look for his murderers,” Hutch vowed.

Word on the street began pouring in once they talked to Huggy. Nick Pasqual had been a true folk hero, all the while bilking his employers out of overhead and financial gain.

“The local drug establishment wasn’t liking Pasqual’s little scheme to redistribute the wealth,” Starsky explained to Dobey, settling into a chair in the captain’s office. He sipped at his coffee, alternating with bites of a cinnamon donut. “They’d been intercepting shipments from legitimate drug companies to pharmacies in the area. Pasqual would sign for the packages at Payless, and siphon off merchandise before selling it to Donny Mathers’ gang.”

Dobey grimaced, shaking his head. “Dangerous game he was playing. Even if he was helping the people of his street.”

“Two of Mathers’ gang, Dog Ballard and Lasker Shaw, went over to Pasqual’s place more than once to threaten him,” Hutch took up the narrative, glancing over at Starsky with a double helping of satisfaction and love. Their diligence had come through, Mrs. Washington’s descriptions helping immensely. “We had multiple witnesses on the street verify that. Huggy tipped us off to where Mathers based his organization–”

“And we caught them with their pants pulled down!” Starsky proclaimed gleefully. “There were piles of pill bottles, mounds of morphine…”

“And close to half a million in cash.” Hutch plucked the coffee cup out of Starsky’s hands. When he put his mouth on the rim, he could taste cinnamon sugar. “Closed down that whole conduit of the illegal drug route.”

“Good work, you two.” Dobey looked them over with interest. “I hear you are taking the afternoon to promote neighborhood cooperation with the police–with Commissioner Lennon’s blessing. What’s going on?”

Starsky stood to display the shirt he was wearing. On the front was a cartoon drawing of two boots sticking out of a brick smokestack. The caption underneath read, “Santa does it down the chimney.”

The double-entendre was meant to titillate, and it did. All morning, Hutch had had one thought on his mind–what they might do once he and Starsky went off shift. He was still conflicted about whether he was going to peel off that tight tee or leave it on when Starsky went down on him. Or vice versa–since he planned to give Starsky as good as he got.

“We were too late to get the Washington boys on the Police Holiday’s Santa distribution, much less sign-up the entire block,” Starsky explained.

“So we started a Good ol’ Saint Nick donation fund,” Hutch finished. “Anyone could give whatever they could, no questions asked. We had an overwhelming response, donations from the Pits, local grocery stores, the Girl Scouts, and everyone in between. Today, the people of Santa Clara Ave, or at least the fifteen houses on that block, are having a party.”

“They’re waiting for us.” Starsky checked his watch with a shake of his hips. “We gotta boogie. You want to come along, Cap?”

Less than a week before Christmas day, the Santa Clara neighbors placed plywood on sawhorses down the middle of the street, draping it with a white sheet. The weather was perfect for a block party, sunny with a mild wind, nary a rain cloud in sight.

By the time Starsky and Hutch arrived, the Torino loaded down with boxes, baskets, and bags, the table was set with a variety of foods from handmade tamales and lumpia to what Hutch recognized as the crisp, spicy cookies his grandmother used to make. Speculaas cookies.

Rarely drawn to sweets the way Starsky was, he grabbed one of the treats after he had placed his armload of gifts beside the Christmas tree standing upright in a bucket of water. Strings of popcorn and snowmen made from cotton balls and yarn graced the branches of the evergreen.

“That’s the tree from Pasqual’s back yard.” Wearing a red velvet Santa cap, Starsky deposited more gifts beside Hutch’s. He leaned over to grab a bite from Hutch’s cookie, but Hutch managed to whisk it out of reach just in time.

“Get your own!” Hutch pointed to the table laden with plates of both savory and sweet holiday foods.

“We saw the tree over our fence, and the twins insisted it needed to be decorated,” a tall man with a corona of black hair said. “Their friends helped, too. I’m George.”

“Glad to finally meet you, George!” Hutch shook his hand without mentioning that he should not have removed anything from a crime scene. Luckily, the crime in question had been solved. “Mary Grace Shelby–” who had apparently appointed herself as neighborhood spokesperson, from the number of times she’d phoned Starsky and Hutch daily, “told us you got a job at Buffum’s department store.”

“In the shipping department,” he said proudly. “I’m not one for–” George shrugged, scratching his triangle of chin beard self-consciously. “But thanks–for helping. Sanne told me you–” He nodded as the rest of the family approached. “We’re blessed.”

“And the baby is here!” Starsky cried.

“Meet Famke.” Sanne held up a sleeping infant wrapped in a blue blanket. “She’s our Christmas present.”

“Merry Christmas, Famke,” Hutch said. Part of what the many donations had provided was enough money to pay not only for Famke’s delivery but also delinquent bills for others on Santa Clara Avenue.

“Mama said Cindy Claus comed early.” Nicolaas seemed far more interested in the growing pile of presents under the tree than his new sister. Piet stood staunchly beside his brother, sucking his pinkie.

Dobey and Huggy arrived with many more mysterious boxes and cartons. Several neighbors from the street began reading the name tags, sorting the gifts into fifteen stacks. One for each household.

“But what’d you bring?” Nicolaas poked one bag with his toe.

Hutch smiled, looking around at the people surrounding them. Folk from every ethnicity, from different cultures and lands, brought together in Bay City, united mostly due to poverty and location. There to remember a man who had put out his hand to all of them, from the goodness of his heart. Despite the dubious legality of his mission, he’d provided hope and aid where it was needed most.

Now they could only help one another. It warmed Hutch’s heart.

Heck, it brought him more joy than he could remember ever having felt at Christmas. Euphoric sentimentalism be damned. The old saw: it is better to give than to receive wasn’t exactly true, either. Because in giving to others, the giver received happiness.

Which was all that mattered.

He put his arm around Starsky, holding him close. “We brought a little something for everyone here,” he said. “This is Captain Dobey of the Bay City police department, one of Santa’s helpers.” He laughed when Dobey cast a hairy eyeball at him. “He’s going to help distribute–”

“Just get in line, and bring your best singing voices!” Starsky called above the sudden movement as friends, neighbors, and those who had only met recently formed a crooked queue. “Anybody know an old song called ‘Santa Claus is coming…'”

“Y’better wash out–y’better not die…” a little voice piped up.

“Piet! Those ain’t the words!” Nicolaas rolled his eyes, beginning to sing along with his twin.

Laughter and combined voices joined in, “Santa Claus is coming to town!”