The Last Time I Cooked for Hutch

Last Suppers

The last time I cooked for Hutch he was wearing a motorcycle cop uniform, aviator shades and carrying a magnum. He had been demoted from detective to traffic and was no longer partnered with his beloved Starsky in San Francisco. He was now cruising the streets of LA on his chopper, righting wrongs and blowing away bad guys.

Our encounter started ordinarily enough - cop stops driver - but soon headed south. 

I watched him get off his bike in my rear view. The bulge in his beige jodhpurs seemed to dismount before the rest of him. The chrome on his bike glinted in the sun and I felt a sparkle between my legs. A zing. Oh dear, I thought, how clichéd. But goodness me, what an outfit. 

The sun was beating down and a bead of sweat came unstuck and cascaded down the side of my face. He approached. I gulped. He wouldn't need to ask me to lower the window. I was hot and bothered and had already done so. I craned my head and strained my ear, listening for the creak of leather, the twang of the seams on the inside of his thighs.

‘Licence*,’ he said, as he reached my car door

‘Yes, offi…’ I began, but coughed and had to begin again, my voice tighter than I was used to. ‘Yes, officer?’ 

Another little cough.

‘Licence,’ he repeated.

‘Oh yes, of course,’ and I moved my hand down to pick up my pocketbook that was resting on the seat, between my legs for safe keeping. 

‘Freeze,’ he shouted, unholstering his gun. ‘Hands on the wheel!’

‘But...’

‘I said  freeze, goddamit,’ he shouted. ‘Your licence in there?’ he continued, gesturing to my pocketbook with a nod. God knows what he was actually looking at, his aviators were impenetrable.

I gulped again and nodded.

‘Keep your hands on the wheel’ he said, and still pointing his six shooter at me, he reached in and roughly picked up the pocketbook and flipped it open, looking from the photo to me and back again.

Deciding I posed no threat, he reholstered.

‘Do you know why I pulled you over?’

‘No, officer,’ I said.

‘You were doing thirty one in a thirty mile an hour zone. I'm going to have to ticket you.’

There was a silence. Such terrible grammar. I looked at his crotch and he watched me look at his crotch.

‘Is there a way we can sort this out? If I get another ticket, I’ll lose my job.’

‘A habitual reckless driver, then? It might be a good idea if you were to have your licence revoked.’

‘Surely there is some arrangement we could come to?’ I said, looking up at him.

Later at my apartment, he sat naked on the couch with my guitar, singing Silver Lady whilst I prepared some fried chicken. He had let me know, in no uncertain terms, just how famished he got after a traffic violation.

I skinned the thighs and put both meat and skin in buttermilk. Then I made up a mix of Doves Farm gluten free plain flour, adding cinnamon, smoked pimenton, allspice, a dusting of mace and a microplane of nutmeg. I added a little white pepper, salt and garlic powder.

I heated the oil to 160ºC, removed the skins from the buttermilk and opened them out. I coated them in flour, then, keeping them as stretched out as possible, I lowered them into the oil. 

They bubbled and popped and when they were golden and crisp, I lifted them out and drained them on kitchen roll. Then I floured the thighs and began frying. They would take a while so I took Hutch a little amuse bouche.

I came up behind him and brushed his golden locks away with my lips. He tilted his head back and looked up at me. Probably. (I know I said he was naked but he was still wearing his shades and calf length motorcycle boots). I scooped some of the harissa yoghurt I had whipped up onto a skin and put it in his mouth. He took it in whole and crunched and munched and swallowed. I felt that quiver again.

‘I think I may have just run a red light,’ I said.

He threw the guitar aside and sprang up. Then he got to his feet. 

‘You are a menace,’ he said, genuinely angry. Quick as a flash, he had me manacled to the arm of my chrome and cream leather sofa. He went over to his clothes that lay heaped by the door to my apartment, put on his belt and affixed his nightstick.

The first time round, I hadn’t minded paying the fine but now he seemed angry. I was truly scared as he came towards me. 

My heart felt like it would beat itself to death when there was a knock at the door. He put his finger to his lips, warning me, his teeth bared. He stood in front of the door and raised his gun in both hands. 

‘Open up,’ said a voice, ‘Police.’

His finger tightened around the trigger. I saw the hammer rise a fraction. Then, a collosal bang. A hole in my door had appeared and Hutch lay in a long smear of his own blood, his chest cavity exposed. 

A fantastically handsome man - tall, muscular, quiffed hair - stepped through the wreckage of my door. He was wearing wraparound shades and holding an even bigger Magnum than Hutch’s.

‘You okay?’ The cop growled.

I think the chicken might be getting over cooked,’ I said, short of breath again. Then I asked, ‘Who are you?’

‘Harry Callahan,’ he replied, and began unbuttoning his fly. 

Fin

*David Soul was a British American, so I have used the correct spelling of licence.

https://listofdeaths.fandom.com/wiki/Mike_Grimes

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/clint-eastwood-david-soul-magnum-force-1973--168110998565710907/

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0070355/mediaviewer/rm297870849/

https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2024/jan/05/david-soul-actor-dies-starsky-hutch-career