Salad Days

900

When Hutch misinterprets Starsky’s request that he bring a Minnesota salad to the police barbeque, the partners end up wagering over which of their food offerings will garner the most female attention.

 

Originally written for the 2011 Cabrillo Con zine.

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Whistling an upbeat version of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Starsky unlocked the door to Hutch’s canal-side cottage, replaced the key over the lintel, and sauntered inside–only to come to a stuttering halt.

Hutch’s normally tidy kitchen looked like the Galloping Gourmet and Julia Child had fought a duel to the death with produce. There were green leaves spread out on towels everywhere, covering the counter tops, the table, the floor, even the sofa! Starsky blinked, taking in the carnage as if examining a crime scene.

Before he could even stammer a question, Hutch, with a brightly patterned kitchen towel knotted primly around his jeans-clad waist, turned to him and snapped, “I told you I needed a salad spinner!”

Actually, Starsky thought, but had the sense not to say, what you need is a rake. The really big kind people use in the fall–

“But you said,” Hutch continued, in that all-too-familiar tone that told Starsky that, without even being here, he’d managed to get on Hutch’s very last nerve, “‘No, ya don’t, Hutch! You been makin’ salads for years without one. Whaddya need it now for?'”

Starsky wanted to protest Hutch’s Midwestern version of his East Coast accent, but decided now was not the time.

“So,” Hutch continued, waving his arms expansively at acres of lettuce leaves, “here I am, trying to wash and dry enough greens for the police barbeque without a salad spinner! I don’t know why I listen to you–”

Starsky, who was still standing awestruck in the open doorway, finally had to speak up. “What are you doing with all this…this–vegetation in the first place?”

Hutch wheeled on him, his expression just this side of murderous. “What am I–? I’m trying to put together a decent salad for the police barbeque, which, I’d like to remind you, was your bright idea. ‘Bring a salad, Hutch! Everyone likes one of those pretty green Minnesota salads! You’ll be the hit of the police barbeque!’ Any of that ring a bell? So, here I am, surrounded by two pounds of shaved carrots, a pound of sliced radishes, three pounds of quartered cherry tomatoes, a half pound of grated beets, four cans of drained chickpeas, a pound of fresh shucked peas, and six kinds of lettuce, all washed without a salad spinner to dry them, because my partner, the gourmet of Metro, said–”

Starsky tried to keep his expression as neutral as possible–something he had no trouble doing when questioning a perp or convincing a reluctant witness to give up his secrets–but in the face of Hutch’s exasperation, he found it almost impossible to do. Not that it would matter. Hutch could read him like a comic book with no dialog balloons, anyway.

“What?” Hutch said suspiciously, eyeing him. “Did you not suggest–?”

“No, I did! I did!” Starsky hated the way his voice cranked up two octaves when he was feeling guilty.

“But?” Hutch prodded.

“Nothing!” Starsky swallowed. His voice nearly squeaked that time.

Hutch eyes narrowed. “But….”

“But…”  Oh, this was not going to go over well. “I wasn’t talking about a vegetable salad.”

Hutch looked baffled. “Well, what other kind is there?”

“Uh…you know…the Minnesota kind.” Starsky refused to leave the doorway. He had a feeling he would need a quick getaway, and he was really sorry he hadn’t left the Torino running.

Hutch closed his eyes as if he had to muster every ounce of frayed patience he had left. “Do you actually think we don’t have produce in Minnesota?”

“Of course, I know you’ve got produce in Minnesota! Everybody’s got produce, even in places worse than Minnesota, like North Dakota or–”

Hutch’s brightening color told him the term “worse than Minnesota” might not have been his best choice of words.

“That is…” Starsky said, wanting to start over. “I mean… Look. I suggested you make one of those pretty green Minnesota salads. You’re the one who’s from Minnesota. I didn’t think I needed to spell it out.”

“Pretend you don’t know I’m from Minnesota, Starsk. SPELL IT OUT!” he roared.

“I was talking about one of those salads with the fruit and the marshmallows and the, you know–green Jell-O.” Starsky couldn’t help but flinch while waiting for the explosion he knew would have to come. All that lettuce was a guarantee.

Hutch only looked confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the kind of Minnesota salad Erickson brought in for that potluck a year ago. It had canned fruit salad, grated carrots, and tiny marshmallows in green Jell-O with Cool Whip on the side. It was delicious! He said his mother made it for every potluck they ever had when they lived in Minnesota. An hour later, all of it was gone. Everyone ate it. That’s the kind of salad I was talking about! You sure don’t need a salad spinner for it or forty acres of lawn clippings either, which is what it looks like you’ve got here.”

“Lawn clippings!” Hutch rounded on him, nearly knocking over a kitchen chair with drying lettuce leaves on a bath towel sprawled over the seat. “I’ve spent all morning searching for the right ingredients, trimming lettuce, shredding vegetables, washing all these greens and trying to dry them so they don’t turn brown and soggy, and all you can talk about is Jell-O! That’s not a salad! It’s a sugar-laden, artificially dyed, chemical nightmare. Do you even know what they make Jell-O out of? Cows’ hooves, for crying out loud! And Cool Whip is made out of seaweed!”

Starsky was appalled at the news, but suspected Hutch was making that up just to be vindictive. “You’ve spent plenty of time gnawing on steak bones, so don’t tell me you’re above eatin’ some jellied hooves. And you’re the one always dragging us to the sushi restaurant, so you should love Cool Whip. You know damned well you grew up on Jell-O salad, and look how you turned out.”

“I am not–repeat, NOT–making any kind of Jell-O salad. I am making a large, beautiful, healthful, and delicious REAL salad. And to do it right, we’re going to have to get a salad spinner. Right now.”

Starsky recognized that do-or-die tone in Hutch’s voice, which usually meant Hutch would do it, and Starsky would die because of it. He decided he had to make a stand, if not for himself, for his brother cops.

“You can’t be serious. You’re going to bring three fields’ worth of vegetables to the police barbeque? We’ll be the laughingstock of the precinct. That’s not real food, not real cop food. That’s diet food. Worse. It’s girl diet food.”

Hutch stood up taller. Starsky recognized the gesture. When Hutch started looming over him, nothing he said would get through to the stubborn blond.

“Just for the record,” Hutch said calmly, “what are you bringing and where is it?”

“I got a crock pot of four-alarm chili in the trunk of the Torino. I bought it from that Texas barbeque place near my apartment. You can smell the chili a block away. It’s still bubblin’.” That, he thought smugly, was real food, real cop food. Dobey would be making his famous ribs and chicken wings. Minnie was bringing potato salad. Simmons and Babcock volunteered to bring the burgers and hot dogs. Even Huggy would show up to donate a massive pot of his special baked beans. All of that was real cop food. Not this, not something that looked like the precinct maintenance crew had mowed it down this morning.

Hutch just nodded. “For your information,” he said in a cold, deadly tone, “there will be girls there, Starsk. Not all of them will be cops’ wives. Some will be friends or relatives. Some will even be single. How about a little wager? We’ll see who scores first. You and your store-bought, gas-producing, gut-burning chili, or me and my beautiful, healthful salad.”

With that, Hutch turned and started gathering up his ingredients. The chopped vegetables were already prepped and segregated into a bunch of those weird little Tupperware things, so all he had to do was bag them. But the lettuce leaves were spread out on towels everywhere. With the tenderest care, Hutch began rolling up the towels, careful not to squeeze the fresh greens.

“Did you hafta get so much of this stuff? No one’s gonna eat it!” Starsky protested.

“We’ll just see about that, won’t we?” Hutch said. “The romaine’s rolled. I’ve got a cooler with ice all ready for it. Here.”

Starsky took the slightly damp towel in two fingers, as if the greenery might contaminate him, and eased it into the big open cooler Hutch had prepared. A cooler that any normal cop would have had filled with beer and soda. Starsky was appalled.

“Here’s the Bibb lettuce,” Hutch said, handing him another rolled towel.

“You’d need a bib to eat this stuff,” Starsky grumbled under his breath.

“I heard that. Here’s the escarole–”

“I still don’t know what you need a salad spinner for.” Starsky set the next roll in the cooler.

“There’s nothing less appetizing than a soggy, wilting salad. If you don’t dry the leaves, it waters down the dressing, and the leaves turn brown faster.”

“What’s wrong with brown? You wanted a colorful salad. Brown’s a color.” Starsky was so disappointed. He’d been looking forward to that Minnesota salad with the little marshmallows all week. Instead, Hutch expected him to chew green stuff a rabbit would turn up its nose at.

“Here’s the red leaf lettuce and the Belgian endive.” Hutch pronounced it ON-deeve. As if lettuce with a French name could help the taste, of which there wasn’t any. “Let’s move it, Starsk. We’ve still got to pick up that salad spinner, dry the lettuce, and assemble the whole thing.”

We? Starsky found his line in the sand. He put a hand out to stop Hutch’s forward movement as he started to carry a cooler full of produce toward the Torino. “Hutch. I would stop a bullet for you. I’d give you my last dime. There’s not another cop I’d rather have watching my back. But even a partnership as close as ours only goes so far. I will not spin your salad for you. A man’s got his limits.” Before Hutch could respond, Starsky grabbed a single Tupperware container of vegetables and started for the car. As a parting shot, he tossed over his shoulder, “Don’t forget your guitar. And take off your little apron, Julia.”

Behind him, Hutch groused, “It’s a towel! Not an apron!”

~~~

“You know, you’re right about that chili,” Hutch said, wrinkling his nose as they pulled up outside Jacobi’s New York Deli. “It may be in the trunk, but I can smell it from here.” And not in a good way.

“It’s the best chili this side of El Paso,” Starsky insisted. “It says so right on the label.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “You really think Jacobi’s has a salad spinner?” He pronounced it JACK-o-bee’s, like he always did.

“It’s Jah-KO-bee’s,” Starsky corrected automatically. “Of course, he’ll have it. He’s from New York. He has everything.”

Hutch didn’t know why he bothered asking. Starsky always insisted that the New York eatery always had everything, and Hutch had to admit that so far he hadn’t been wrong. He’d come here earlier himself for oil-cured olives and water chestnuts for his salad and found both. But Hutch suspected the salad spinner was pushing the issue. Judging by Starsky’s taste in food, produce trucks never made it to New York. He suspected they got hijacked somewhere in New Jersey.

As they got out of the Torino, and Hutch waited for Starsky to walk around the front of the big car to join him on the sidewalk, he said, “You’re full of surprises, Starsk. I didn’t know you owned a crock pot.”

“Oh, I don’t,” his partner said as they entered the crowded deli. “I borrowed it from Melissa.”

Hutch stopped walking. “Melissa? Melissa Myers? The girl you broke up with last week? Is that smart? She could’ve coated it with ptomaine or something!”

Starsky rolled his eyes as he perused the crowded shelves of the crammed deli. “You been workin’ the streets too long. Where would a school teacher get ptomaine in the first place?”

Hutch decided not to point out that Melissa taught chemistry. On their first date, she’d made Starsky one of those grade school volcanoes. He talked about it for two days. Hutch thought for sure their relationship would last a little longer based solely on Melissa’s incendiary capabilities.

“Besides,” Starsky continued, as he craned his neck to examine the highest shelves, “nothin’ could live in that chili.”

Hutch felt that required no comment.

“They’ve got one!” Starsky pointed near the ceiling.

Following the direction of Starsky’s finger, Hutch squinted at the myriad of colorful boxes of stuff stacked to the very top of the store. “What?”

“Looks like it’s the only one, but how many do you need?” Starsky wandered over to where a long grab-it sat on a hook. Lifting it, he used it to snag a box perched on the highest shelf and tossed the box toward Hutch.

Hutch caught it and stared in surprise. It was a brand new salad spinner. A red one, of course.

“There ya go,” Starsky said triumphantly. “You can spin your little salads round and round. Give ’em the ride of their lives.” With more swagger than any man should be allowed to have, Starsky sauntered toward the long deli counter and the cash register. “Let’s get on line.”

“You mean ‘let’s get in line’.” Before Starsky could engage him in debating which was correct, “on line” as New Yorkers said, or “in line” as the rest of the world did, Hutch interjected, “You couldn’t possibly have noticed that salad spinner before today.” They stood behind customers ordering sandwiches, cold cuts, and other deli items, moving up as the cashier rang them out. “How did you know JACK-o-bee’s had one?”

“It’s Jah-KO-bee’s, and I told you. Jacobi is from New York. He has everything. Where else in Bay City can you buy genuine New York-style lox sliced so thin, it’s as sheer as your ma’s best curtains.”

“My mother didn’t have sheer curtains. In Minnesota, we have drapes. Heavy drapes to keep out the cold. But I’ll be sure to buy some lox from JACK-oh-bee’s next time I feel like redecorating.”

Starsky scowled. “You’re a riot.”

The woman behind the cash register checked out another customer, and they moved up so they were standing next to the refrigerated display of various cuts of meats and other deli items.

Suddenly, Starsky tensed and grabbed Hutch’s arm. “Hey, look! There it is! They’ve got a Minnesota salad right there in the case!”

“What the–?” Hutch tried to look past the rows of smoked whitefish with their glaring dead eyes, the huge fillet of lox waiting to be sliced thin enough for his curtains, a pile of pirogues, and a rectangular slab of some gelatinous mess mysteriously labeled “head cheese” that clearly was neither cheese nor a head, until Starsky grabbed his chin and forced his head down to look at the bottom of the case. There in a large pan sat a glistening green quivering tray of–he glanced at the sign–Ambrosia. Jell-O salad. Priced by the pound. He could see the little marshmallows trembling in the green suspension.

The next customer finished her transaction, and suddenly Starsky was at the cash register. “Sadie, how much for the Minnesota salad?” he asked the middle-aged, portly woman ringing them up. His voice climbed an octave, the way it always did when he got excited. “The whole thing. How much?”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Hutch hissed at him, clutching the salad spinner so hard he dented the box. “You are not bringing that thing to the barbeque. We’re bringing a proper–”

Starsky spun on him, budging not an inch. “You’re bringing your soggy OOWN-dives and escargots and who knows what else that no cop in his right mind would eat. I’m bringing real food.” He turned back to Sadie, who was peering over the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose at the back-and-forth exchange between the two cops. They shopped here often. It wasn’t their first disagreement at the cash register. She’d learned to wait from experience. “I’ll take the tray of…of…” He glanced at the case. “…Ambrosia, please. It even sounds delicious.” He shot Hutch an accusatory glance. “And Cool Whip, if you’ve got it.”

“Oh, we’ve got it, bubbelah,” she said calmly in a Brooklyn accent much broader than Starsky’s. She and her husband had opened the store only a few years ago. “We’ve got everything at Jacobi’s. But I’m sad to say ya can’t have the Ambrosia.” She pronounced it AM-bro-zee-ah.

Hutch was about to explain that they simply didn’t need a huge tray of Jell-O that would melt before they could ever get it to its final destination, when her words finally registered.

Starsky was way ahead of him. “Why not?” he said, in his most aggrieved tone. “Sadie, we’re your best customers. We shop here all the time. Half the precinct comes here just for your pastrami on rye because of my word of mouth–!”

She held up a plump hand to stop him. “I know, I know, and while you may not be my best customers, you’re definitely in the top ten. And, David, my dear, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, since you’re like the son I never wanted. But the Ambrosia is a special order for another customer. It’s already paid for. It’s just waiting for his pick-up. I can have another one ready for you tomorrow, but I can’t give ya this one.”

Hutch saw his opportunity and shoved the salad spinner onto the counter and pulled out his wallet. “Don’t worry about it, Sadie. It’s just another of his impulse buys. We’ll take the salad spinner and be on our way.” He handed her the required cash and, without waiting for his change, grabbed the spinner in one hand and the shoulder of Starsky’s jacket in the other and headed for the door. “Come on, Starsky. If we don’t get a move on, the greens will wilt.”

Starsky was still staring mournfully at the refrigerated case, his mouth making sad little “but-but” sounds as Hutch hauled him toward the front of the store. If he could just get Starsky pointed toward the Torino instead of the deli case, they might make some progress out of here and get to their destination. The customers behind them quickly moved up to the register and started placing their items on the counter.

Suddenly, Starsky yanked free and shrugged his jacket back into place. Giving Hutch a warning glare, he called over to the cashier, “Sadie, where’s Moshe? I wanna talk to him about that Minnesota salad.” He gave Hutch a haughty look of his own. “We’ll just see what Moshe has to say about this.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. If Starsky started negotiating with the deli’s owner, they would end up in the New York version of old home week and never get out of there.

“He’s in the office, David,” Sadie called as she rang up the next customer. “But he can’t sell you that tray. It’s already paid for!”

“We’ll just see about that!” Starsky insisted, and, spinning on his heel, strode toward the back office, leaving Hutch clutching a red salad spinner and his last hope that they might possibly arrive on time.

~~~

“Moshe!” Starsky called, as he threaded his way through narrow aisles stacked to the ceiling with exotic canned goods, salad dressings, countless varieties of pickles, olives, relishes and other condiments, and tons of good stuff to eat. For once, Starsky wasn’t distracted by the wealth of gourmet fare. He was on a mission.

“Moshe,” he called, reaching the cramped office and shoving the closed door open. “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse! I don’t care what that other customer paid for that tray of green Jell-O Ambrosia salad. I’ll double it! I gotta have that tray!”

The balding, paunchy store owner was standing stiffly beside his small office safe with a startled look on his face. The safe, Starsky realized suddenly, was gaping open. A line of bills spilled across the short expanse of floor, leading under the door Starsky was still holding open. He was even standing on a few of them.

Before Starsky could react to what he was seeing, the sweating, nervous-looking store owner said softly, “For a good Jewish boy from Brooklyn, Starsky, you sure got lousy timing.”

~~~

I can’t believe him! Hutch was furious as Starsky disappeared into the farthest recesses of the store. He considered leaving him, but Starsky had the keys. Closing his eyes to collect the shreds of his patience, Hutch decided to give him ten minutes, that’s all… He was mentally computing how long it would take to spin all his salad leaves when there was a crash from the back of the store and a shout that Hutch would recognize anywhere.

Sadie stood up behind the cash register, which didn’t really give her any height advantage. “Moshe? You all right back there?”

Hutch didn’t wait to find out. He bolted for the back of the store.

When he barreled through the half-open office door, he found Starsky on the floor, scrambling for purchase, while Moshe, the store owner, stood next to an empty office safe, his hands held high over his head. At Hutch’s abrupt entrance, Moshe shouted, “DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT!”

That was when Hutch realized he was confronting a freaked-out, sweating thief clutching a paper bag with money spilling out of it–and a cocked gun.

“Don’t anybody move,” the gunman muttered. “I swear I’ll shoot the first person that budges.”

Hutch froze.

Glancing at his partner, Hutch saw that Starsky had instantly obeyed, although Hutch could see Starsky’s hand slowly snaking inside his jacket. Framed in plain view in the open doorway, Hutch couldn’t hide that action, so did as he was told. Hutch trusted Starsky to move cautiously. The thief’s gun was aimed directly at Hutch, the last to arrive and the most threatening figure in the room. At point-blank range, he was the largest and most logical target.

“Easy,” Hutch said, in a voice much calmer than he felt. “Just take it easy.”

The thief’s eyes were darting nervously around the small space. He clearly felt trapped, which made him even more dangerous.

“The exit door is right behind you,” Hutch said softly. “You’re leaning on it. All you have to do is push the handle and you can leave.”

“Don’t anybody move, I said!” the thief said unnecessarily. “I’ll shoot him first!” He shook the gun at Hutch for emphasis.

Hutch realized the robber was feeling for the handle behind him with his elbow. The tighter he clutched the money bag, the more spilled out, although he seemed oblivious to that. Hype, Hutch thought. Desperate. Irrational. He glanced down at Starsky, whose entire body was still, except for the slight movement of his hand in his jacket. The corner of the office desk was blocking that view from the gunman.

“No shooting!” Moshe begged. “Just take the money and go. No need for shooting. No one will follow you! Please!”

The gunman’s elbow must have connected with the push handle, because Hutch heard the door click. The sound distracted the gunman, and his head turned a fraction to see if the door was opening. As usually happens, the hand holding the gun also turned in the opposite direction–away from Hutch.

Hutch hurled the salad spinner at the face of the gunman. It slapped the man hard in the nose, making him jerk the gun up toward the ceiling. As a shot rang out and plaster rained down, Starsky leapt from the floor and rolled over the corner of the desk, gun drawn. Hutch was beside him, both hands reaching for the robber’s gun as they tackled the man together. The power of their rush forced the unlatched exit door to fling open.

They tumbled into the alley behind the store–a mass of struggling humanity surrounded by fluttering dollar bills as the money bag burst. Hutch grabbed the gunman’s hand, aiming the muzzle of the gun away from them. Slamming the robber’s hand on the ground, Hutch forced the man to release the weapon. Beside him, Starsky wrestled and subdued the man’s frantically writhing body. Finally, grabbing the thief’s other hand, Starsky managed to yell, “FREEZE, POLICE!”

As if that electrified the body beneath them, the robber exploded into a desperate, if futile, attempt to escape. Working together, the two cops managed to flip the man over onto his stomach and twist both arms behind him. As Hutch pulled out his cuffs and secured the man’s wrists, Starsky, a little out of breath, started reading the thief his rights. Heedless to his arrest, the frantic robber tried to undulate away from them while still on the ground, like a wriggling snake. Hutch stood and pinned him to the ground with a foot.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Hutch turned to his partner. “Do you believe this guy?” As Starsky holstered his gun, Hutch asked softly. “You okay?”

Starsky nodded. “He was behind the door when I opened it. I never saw him. He shoved it forward and knocked me over before I had any idea what was going on.”

Hutch realized how lucky they were. For a moment, the police barbeque, his salad, their wager, all of it was forgotten. They wouldn’t have been the first cops to get killed or wounded accidentally interrupting a botched robbery in their free time. He reached over and gripped Starsky’s upper arm, trying to convey all of that without words. Starsky nodded, as if in complete understanding, and patted his hand.

Then Starsky chuckled. “I’ll call it in.” As he re-entered the scene of the crime, Hutch heard him say, “Moshe, it’s all over. You can put your arms down now. You’re okay, right? I gotta call the precinct, but then I need to talk to you about that green Jell-O salad in the deli case.”

Moshe must have nodded a response as he came to the doorway to observe Hutch holding the still-struggling gunman in place. His wife appeared suddenly beside him, taking in the chaotic scene. She barely came up to his shoulder.

Looking alarmed, Sadie gave Moshe a quick pat-down, as if to assure herself he was unharmed. Even as she checked her husband over, she said matter-of-factly, “I told Starsky the Ambrosia was already paid for, Moshe. While you were all back here, the customer picked it up already.” Then, as soon as she confirmed her husband was all right, added, “Did I tell you to take yesterday’s receipts to the overnight deposit? Yes, I did. Did you take them? No, you did not. You were too tired. Maybe next time, you’ll listen to Sadie!”

Distantly, Hutch could hear sirens approaching, he suspected in response to the gunshot.

Starsky reappeared, holding broken pieces of a red salad spinner. “I guess we both got bad news, partner. The Minnesota salad’s gone…and it looks like there was one casualty in the robbery.”

Hutch groaned.

~~~

By the time they handed the robber over to the uniforms and gave them a brief statement, the barbeque was well underway. Fortunately, the main course–Dobey’s ribs and wings–weren’t quite ready, so Hutch still had time to prepare his salad.

As Hutch lifted the cooler from the trunk, Starsky reached for the crock pot full of chili.

Hutch stopped him. “You sure you want to serve that chili?”

Starsky stared at him, confused. “Yeah, why not?”

“Let’s ignore the way it smells for a moment and just think about the time factor. It was hot when you put it in there, and it’s been sitting in the trunk of your car for how long now? That crock is no longer a pot of chili, partner, it’s an incubator for botulism!”

Starsky stared at him. “Hutch, we just cheated death again. You can’t believe we’re in more danger from a pot of chili than we were from a hype with a loaded gun. You’re just worried I’ll win our bet.”

Hutch shook his head. “Have it your way. I’ve got work to do.” Perching the bag full of Tupperware on top of the cooler, he carried it all away from the Torino toward the food tables.

Starsky watched him go for a minute, then again reached for the crock pot in the open trunk.

Before he could pick it up, he felt a large hand slap his shoulder in greeting. He looked up. “Hey, Erickson! How’s it goin’?”

“Couldn’t be better!” the tall gangly blond detective told him. Starsky wondered, not for the first time, if everyone from Minnesota was over six feet and pale as a cucumber. He decided they probably grew taller trying to reach for the sun in the winter time, like Hutch’s plants that sat too far from the windows. “I gotta thank you again, Starsky, for turning me on to JACK-o-bee’s Deli!”

“Jah-KO-bee’s,” Starsky corrected automatically.

“You really can get everything there, like you’re always telling us. We’ve got family visiting this week, so my wife didn’t have any time to make the salad. I ordered one from that deli. They did a great job. Better than my wife–don’t tell her I said so!”

Starsky’s eyes widened. “That was your Jell-O salad in the display?”

“Yep. After I picked it up, I found out you guys were dealing with a robbery while I was there. I had no idea. I was wondering why your car was out front, but you were nowhere in sight. As usual, that salad disappeared in no time! It’s gone already. I shoulda ordered two.”

Starsky opened his mouth but nothing came out. The Minnesota salad of his dreams was actually here at the police barbeque and, because they were dealing with that thief, he missed it! Was there no justice in this world for a hard-working cop?

Disgusted, he reached for the crock pot, deciding the less he said to Erickson, the better.

“You brought chili?” Erickson asked conversationally.

“Yes,” Starsky answered tersely.

“From JACK-o-bee’s?”

“No. I got it last night from Houston’s Bar-B-Que, near my place.”

Erickson frowned. “You’re kidding. Didn’t you hear? They shut that place down this morning. Five people were hospitalized with food poisoning…from the chili! Early reports said the place is crawling with vermin, the refrigerator wasn’t cold enough, and their permit had expired. They won’t be re-opening.”

Starsky remembered Hutch’s warning about Melissa’s crock pot. She had not only loaned him the crock pot, she’d recommended Houston’s Bar-B-Que as having the “best chili this side of El Paso.” He hadn’t questioned her judgment at the time, although now he wondered how a teacher from Wisconsin would know anything about El Paso chili. Regretfully, he put the crock pot back in the trunk. Struggling to come up with a wan smile, he said to Erickson, “Thanks for the heads up, man. I don’t think Dobey would appreciate it if half the precinct came down with Melissa’s revenge.”

“You mean Montezuma’s revenge, don’t you?” Erickson asked as they wandered toward the food tables.

“Whatever,” Starsky replied dispiritedly. As he prepared to close the trunk, he spied Hutch’s guitar and picked it up. Hutch would need it later.

Erickson clapped him on the back again and veered off toward the softball diamond. Starsky could hear cheering from that area.

It wasn’t hard to find Hutch at the food station. He was at least a head taller than most of the women surrounding him. And there were a lot of women surrounding him. They were all talking, to each other and to Hutch, while they opened up the rolled towels full of greens and the Tupperware containers of vegetables. They seemed festive, as if it were an early Christmas. As Starsky drew closer, he could easily overhear the assorted chatter.

“Oh, Hutch, wherever did you find this lovely Belgian endive?” The speaker–who pronounced it the same weird way Hutch did–was a pretty redhead Starsky had never seen before. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Erickson–but in a really attractive way–and had to be the sister he kept talking about all week who was coming for a visit. Glumly, he noticed she was not wearing a wedding ring.

“And there’s escarole!” another woman said as she unraveled another towel. It was Edith Dobey, the captain’s wife. “How clever of you to wash everything ahead of time, wrap it in towels, and put it in a cold ice chest. Everything’s so crisp!”

Imagine that, Starsky thought, his depression deepening. Even without a salad spinner!

“Oooh, you even thought of chickpeas!” That was the commissioner’s wife. “My favorite.” Forget getting a date; Hutch would probably get a promotion out of his rabbit-food feast.

“And here, I was dreading today,” a lovely, busty young woman complained. (He checked. No wedding ring.) “When my father invited me, all I could think of was: ribs, chicken wings, potato salad. All that fattening, greasy food. Guaranteed to go straight to my hips! I never thought I’d see such gorgeous salad fixings at a police barbeque! You’re a genius, Ken.”

Starsky suspected Ken was about to line up enough dates for the rest of the year.

“I’ve got three kinds of homemade salad dressing right here,” Hutch said, reaching into his bag. “Including a fat-free vinaigrette!”

Exclamations of delight greeted this announcement.

“Oh, don’t forget the olives.” Hutch handed Edith a jar of those fancy ones he liked that he could only get at Jacobi’s. Then he spotted Starsky. His face lit up in delight.

The way gossip spreads around here, he’s probably already heard about Houston’s being shut down. Probably can’t wait to rub it in–

“Hey, partner! I was wondering where you were. Ladies, for those of you who don’t know him, this is my partner, Dave Starsky.”

“This is the policeman who stopped that robbery this morning?” the pretty redhead asked.

“Dave,” Edith said, almost scolding. “Ken told us you broke in on that armed robber all by yourself! You could’ve been killed.”

Starsky met Hutch’s gaze. Those clear blue eyes said a million things to him: You could’ve been killed before I even got there. But we got through it together.

“As usual,” Starsky said, “Hutch is being way too modest. The robber had the drop on me. Hutch was the one who pulled our bacon out of the frying pan.”

“It was teamwork,” Hutch said, deflecting Starsky’s praise. “Took both of us to subdue him.”

“That’s why Harold says you’re his best!” Edith said, then quickly covered her mouth with her fingertips as if she’d revealed something naughty. “Whatever you do, don’t tell him I said that!”

Everyone around the table laughed, Starsky included.

“Hey, partner,” Hutch said with a wave. “Come on over here and have some salad!”

Starsky groaned internally. He couldn’t make Hutch look bad, so he bravely walked up to the table. He would just have to choke down some salad. It also occurred to him that it might not hurt his standing with the busty brunette who, he realized, was smiling warmly at him.

He reached for a paper bowl and held it out to Edith who was portioning out the greens. “Fill ‘er up!” he said jauntily, grinning at the brunette. Her name tag read: “Hello, my name is Janet.” She winked at him.

The bowl that was handed to him, however, felt way too heavy for simply salad greens. He pulled his eyes away from Janet and found himself staring at a quivering mass of green Jell-O, chock full of fruit salad, chopped carrots, pineapple, and–best of all–lots of tiny white marshmallows, with a healthy dollop of melting Cool Whip on the side. Was he hallucinating? He looked up at Hutch.

“‘Fraid that’s all that’s left of it, partner,” Hutch said. “But I was able to snag two portions for you before it disappeared.”

Starsky’s grin was completely genuine now. He almost forgot about the saucy Janet. “Hey, thanks, Hutch! Grab a spoon and we can share.”

“No thanks, Starsk! It’s all yours. You earned it. And the next time you ask for a Minnesota salad, I promise you’ll get the real thing.” He gripped Starsky’s shoulder across the table.

The pretty redhead–Starsky could read her name now: Dotty–took the guitar from him so he could use both hands for his salad. “Is this yours, Dave?”

“I can play some,” he said, “but Hutch is the musical talent in this partnership.”

“We can handle the salad, Hutch,” Edith told him. “Why don’t you sing something for us?” The rest of the women agreed and ushered Hutch away from the salad table, over to an open area where he could be heard.

~~~

It was many hours later that two tired detectives trudged back to the Torino with an empty cooler and a well-used guitar.

“It was a great barbeque,” Starsky said, rubbing his stomach. Dobey’s ribs were melt-in-your-mouth tender, and Huggy’s beans were the perfect side dish. The other sides were equally delicious. It didn’t bother him in the least that he’d eaten dessert first.

“I agree,” Hutch said.

“I really appreciate you saving some of that Minnesota salad for me,” Starsky told him.

“It was the least I could do for my partner,” Hutch said modestly.

“And you were right about your green salad,” he conceded. “The ladies loved it.”

“Thanks. But as far as our wager goes, I think we ended up tied. I saw Janet hand you her phone number right around the same time Dotty told me to call her at her brother’s place.”

Starsky grinned. It had all turned out better than he’d expected. And he was looking forward to giving Melissa back her crock pot…full of tainted chili. Maybe she could use it in her science class.

“I still can’t believe they ate up all of that salad stuff,” Starsky said. “I mean, you make a great salad dressing, but that stuff disappeared!”

“I had two bowls myself,” Hutch admitted. “It was light and refreshing alongside all the heavier fare.”

As they put the cooler and the guitar in the backseat of the car and got themselves seated, Hutch pulled a toothpick from his shirt pocket. “Something’s been stuck between my teeth for the last hour and it’s driving me crazy, but I couldn’t do anything about it, especially not in front of Dotty.”

Starsky put the key in the ignition. “I don’t know why you worry so much about that stuff, especially at a picnic. That’s why they had toothpicks on the table. And believe me, Dotty wouldn’t have minded if you’d picked your teeth.”

Hutch stopped what he was doing. “What makes you say that?”

“‘Cause one of those lawn clippings in your salad, I think it was the stuff you called espadrilles–”

“Escarole.”

“Definitely not that OOON-deef stuff, ’cause that was almost white. It was definitely the green frilly escargoes–”

“Escarole!”

“Yeah, well, I tried to signal you, but you were focused on Dotty and never picked up on my signal. You had a really dark green piece of–”

“Escarole?”

“–between your two front teeth. But obviously, Dotty saw past that to all your natural charm, since she gave you her phone number anyway.”

“You’re a pal, Starsk,” Hutch said, with his usual level of sarcasm.

Starsky felt good that they were getting back on an even keel. “What’s a partner for?”

“So, I guess this would be a good time to tell you,” Hutch said quietly, “that Janet was able to enjoy a lengthy conversation with a charming cop, in spite of his bright green tongue.”

Starsky’s eyes widened as he grabbed the rearview mirror to verify that he had, in fact, a bright green tongue thanks to Jacobi’s Minnesota salad.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Starsk,” Hutch said reassuringly. “What can you expect when a genuine Brooklyn deli makes a Minnesota salad?”

Starsky moved the mirror back in place and started the car. “Well…at least it was kosher.”

~end~