A Fair Fare

George the cab driver from Death Ride gets to tell us about his meeting Starsky and Hutch–and the time he meets Hutch again.

A/N: This plot bunny is all thanks to Matsir and Dawnwind who got the idea hopping into my head. Posted 6 Nov 2022

You ever have one of those days? You go to work thinking it’s gonna be a normal day and then bam, wham, your world is turned upside down and inside out? Yep—me too.

So I pick up these two guys at the airport—one tall, blond—looks like he could be on a magazine cover, the other a couple inches shorter with this mop of curly brown hair and a grin that reminds me of my nephew when he’s about to do something he ain’t supposed to. No luggage, so I don’t know what they are doing here.

They hire me to take them to pick some woman up and then drive them back to the airport. Hey, I’m not complaining—it’s their dime. I try to make small talk, but they ain’t talking. Neither is the pretty lady they pick up. They’re tense though—I can feel it and I start getting suspicious when they say we’re being followed. It feels like I’m in a movie, you know? I start thinking I’m gonna be kidnapped or something and show up on the evening news. ‘Cab Driver Killed in Kidnapping Gone Wrong.’

But then I find out these two guys are cops and next thing I know, my cab’s getting shot up and we’re off the road and I’m being pulled out of my seat while bullets are flying and glass is breaking, and the tall blond one is yelling at me to run. So I do. Hell, I didn’t know I could even run that fast. Last time, I ran like that was in ‘Nam. But I don’t wanna remember that.

We’re running full tilt through this cornfield, and I’m sure I’m gonna die in a hail of bullets—my luck, I go to ‘Nam, come back without a scratch and wind up dying because two cops and a lady are being chased by some bad guys. The curly-haired one comes mowing down corn stalks like he’s some super hero. Just like I didn’t know I could run, I didn’t know my cab could be driven like that. Why would I? Not like I’ve ever had to outrun someone shooting bullets at me. I’m just an ordinary cabbie.

We take off and they drop me by the side of the road with Curly’s watch as collateral and a card for the Bay City Police Department, way down near LA. I learn their names are Starsky and Hutch—I’m still not sure which one is which, and they tell me I’ll be reimbursed. Now normally, I’d think these guys are not on the up and up. But there’s something about them—I trust them. I believe them. Even if they did get Mirabelle, all shot up and me by the side of the road with miles to walk. They peel off and I start walking towards the city and what I hope is safety.

I’m a cabbie with no cab, and I wind up deciding to take a little vacation down to San Diego to see my sister and her husband and my nephew. Bay City is on the way, so I return the watch to someone at the Police Department who reassures me Starsky will get it back–he’s Curly and fill out what seems like fifty pages of paperwork to get money for Mirabelle. She’s totaled. I’ll have enough to get a new cab though and keep on working.

I leave the station and I see this Torino parked out front—bright red but not just any red—candy apple red with a white stripe. I let out a whistle of appreciation. I wonder who owns it and I’m tempted to stick around to see but I still got a drive to San Diego and time’s a wasting. I glance in the rear-view mirror as I pull away and I see Blondie and Curly—Starsky and Hutch. I correct myself, getting into it and pulling out into traffic. I shake my head. What kind of cop drives a car like that? Everyone’s gotta see ’em coming from miles away.

Life goes on. I get a new cab and keep on driving. Still doing the airport run. I meet lotsa people. Some talk, some don’t. Most just tell me where they wanna go. It’s a living, and while I ain’t ever gonna be rich like that fancy ass Gunther that I see mentioned in the news every now and again, I’m happy with what I got.

One day I’m in my usual spot at the airport. The radio is on, and I’m half listening to the news from all around California. They mention a cop getting shot in the Bay City Police garage a week back—say he’s still in critical condition but expected to survive. I shake my head. What’s the world coming to?

Early morning flights are coming in, and I see a figure that sparks a memory from four years ago. He’s still blond, still tall, but this time walking with a bit of a stoop like he’s in pain. He stops and looks around. I pull up, and he gets in without a word.

I look in the mirror and sure as shooting, it’s him. Hutch or is it Starsky? I don’t remember which is which anymore. He’s different—got a mustache, longer hair, and his eyes look haunted, tired.

He gives the address of police headquarters, and I drive. His eyes catch mine in the rear-view mirror.

“George?” His voice is flat. “Long time.”

“Starsky? Hutch?” I ask.

“Hutch,” he says, and his voice cracks.

A horrible thought occurs to me—that cop shot in the police garage was Starsky, his partner. It can’t be true, and I debate asking. But Hutch is silent once more.

My old man used to tell me my nose was too much getting in other people’s business and even though I might regret it, I blurt out anyway. “Was it him? The cop shot?”

He wipes a hand over his face, rubs his nose, touches his chest. His hand goes out to one side as if he’s searching for someone who isn’t there. “Yeah. It was him.”

I fall quiet again. What do you say to that? It’s okay—they say he’ll survive? Sorry? I don’t know, so I keep my trap shut.

I keep glancing in my rear-view mirror, wondering if someone is gonna follow us now. But it’s as uneventful a drive as all the other drives, save the one four years ago.

I pull up to police HQ and Hutch gets out. He takes a step towards the building and then comes back and leans in the open window.

“You wanna wait for me? It shouldn’t be too long.”

I nod and watch him walk away. When he comes back out not even fifteen minutes later, there are uniformed cops around him and another couple of guys in suits. He’s arguing with them, pointing to my cab and shaking his head when one of the suits points towards another car.

He must win because he comes back to me, opens the door and slides into the front seat.

“You don’t have to do this, George,” he says. “I trust you. It might not be pretty.”

Whatever happened inside HQ changed him. He’s energized, alive—his eyes blaze with inner fire.

“Where we going?” I ask.

He rattles off an address. Upscale part of the county — out where houses are mansions and have more land than a whole city block.

“Wait,” he says, when I turn the key.

There’s motorcycles come around us and take off ahead. A black car in front, a black and white behind.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “This got to do with Starsky?”

He doesn’t look away from the black car, but he nods. “Yeah. It’s got to do with him. You recognize the address?”

I think a minute. “Nope. Not many people want a cab to go out there. Those people have their own drivers.”

“It’s James Gunther’s place.” Hutch clenches a fist on my dash.

I feel like I’m in some sort of movie. All these cops driving around us, a cop shot in a police garage, a partner out for vengeance. I think the suits might even be FBI. They have that TV movie look about them.

“You’re gonna arrest James Gunther?” My voice goes up way higher when I ask.

Hutch glances over at me. “I can’t answer that.”

I nod in understanding. I know what a ‘yes’ is.

It doesn’t get ugly. Hutch walks up to the door, walks in, followed by two cops in uniform and the suits. He comes back out, James Gunther being pushed in front of him. He’s standing taller, straighter, the lines of pain gone, his expression grim. Gunther is a tall man, but he looks small compared to the man who arrested him. There’s a flurry of activity as they lead Gunther to one of the black and whites. The suits are arguing with Hutch again. He walks away while one jabs a finger at his shoulder and gets back in my cab.

“I have a flight to catch,” he says. “I’m going home.”

“To Starsky?” I ask not because I need to know, but because he needs to say it.

“Yeah. To Starsky.” He rests his hand on the dash, opened fingers, not a clenched fist. I hear him sigh, and when I look over at him, he’s smiling.

By some miracle, traffic is light back to the airport. He tries to pay me, but I wave it off.

“Least I can do,” I say.

He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. He swallows, hard, and shakes my hand. “Thanks, George.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. I watch him go into the terminal—a different man than the one who came out of it a few hours ago. There’s a new energy to his step.

“Godspeed,” I whisper for him and for Starsky before I pull up for a new fare.

“Where to?” I ask the woman who gets into my cab.