GUTTERS AND ALLEYS

CHATPER FOUR

Code 7 Out of Service to eat

Al Barker owned a tiny hotdog stand called Doggie Depot. It was a great little place not far from here along the coast, and nestled under a large floodlight and billboard sign for Papa Pete's Pizzeria; which I wouldn't have minded eating at either. Al stayed open late most nights. He was a man who worked hard and enjoyed his job, and his customers. He was a stout man, always dressed in a crisp white apron, his black hair graying; he kept it short and neatly combed over the balding areas.

It didn't take us long to get there after Hutch radioed us 10-10 -- out of service with radio on.

We sat at a picnic table, Hutch on one side, me on the other. Hutch ordered his usual, a plain hotdog that he would never finish, and an iced coffee. I wanted to enjoy my cold soda and a foot-long Dixie Dog smothered in onions and chili. But with every bite, I had to force a smile on my face, as my woozy feeling in my head, headed for my stomach. I didn't want blondie to know I was still not up to par, but was quickly rethinking the 'eat like I'm fine and I will be fine' idea. Power of positive thinking, my ass. Or in this case, my guts.

"How's your dog?" Hutch asked, taking half-hearted bites of his own, as if fearing his stomach's reaction.

"Top Dog," I snickered. "How's yours?"

"Starsky, I don't know what you see in eating something that looks like a Dachshund on a bun."

"I'm the best hotdog connoisseur around. Nobody can pick 'em like me."

"Thank God," Hutch grumbled.

"Mmmmmm," I licked my lips as I swallowed the last bite. "Ohhhhhhh…" I rolled my eyes with mock pleasure. "Sooooooo good!" I squirmed in my seat. "Ahhhhhhh."

"Can the act, Starsky! Aren't you over doing it? It's just a hotdog."

"Just a hotdog, Hutch? Just a hotdog? You got to be kidding me? It's the very foundation of this country. A national treasure. Why, did you know they say the hotdog originated in New York around the 1860s, and that 150 million Americans eat hotdogs on the Fourth of July, and that President Franklin D. Roosevelt served hotdogs to King George VI of England during his 1939 visit to the US?" I krinkled my nose, holding back a sneeze and said, "And let's not forget, the world record for eating hotdogs is 53 and a half. Bun and all in 12 minutes. Twelve minutes, Hutch."

"Starsky, that's ridiculous."Hutch took what was left of his dog, wrapped it in a napkin and prepared to toss it into a nearby trashcan. "I can't eat this."

"Good -- more for me, hand your's over."

"Starsk." Hutch waved his dog in the air. "Do you know what they put in that hot diggity dog? These things didn't originate anywhere but in some evil mad scientist's laboratory." With that, he launched his half eaten hotdog into the trash.

"Making the world a better place, one evil hotdog at a time right, Hutch?" I stuffed another bite into my mouth, swiping at the chili juice that dribbled down my chin I tried not to think about the ache in my stomach. I'd die before I told Hutch that the thought of trying to choke down his half-eaten hotdog would have made me puke. Not tonight, but very soon, I'd be back up to full speed with my old eating habits. I grinned at the thought.

"Starsky, you're impossible, besides, no one is going to believe your crazy story about how some guy could eat that many hotdogs in twelve --"

"I hate to break it to you Hutchinson, but Starsky's right. It is a world's record."

"Oh, wonderful." Hutch frowned and waved a hand. "Another hotdog fanatic."

I looked up to see a man in his late forties, with thick eyebrows, bushy blond curls, a pointy woodpecker styled nose, and a crooked creepy kind of smile.

"Have a seat, Cornflake," I said, moving over a little so the man could sit next to me.

Cornflake was one of our regular snitches. He looked like the sort of guy your parents always warned you to never take candy from -- but he was harmless.

"Thank you, Starsky," Cornflake said as he politely tipped his hat at me and sat down.

Cornflake was an odd bird, but a real gentleman. He always wore the same brown felt bowler hat with red side feather, tattered tan suit, and chocolate-colored pinstriped tie. He carried around a paper bag, but it wasn't filled with candy, it was filled with his half-full bottle of Southern Comfort.

"Ohhh….mmmm….soooo…gooood!" Cornflake smiled around his fully loaded foot-long.

"Oh brother." Hutch stood. "Starsk, you ready?"

"Yeah." I slowly forced myself to take my last bite and started to stand. "Ouch!" Cornflake had just booted me in the leg, and I sat back down. "I'm ready, but Cornflake's not," I mumbled, as I took the note he'd pulled from his jacket pocket and slipped into my hand.

Hutch sighed and gave a roll of his eyes. We both knew Cornflake didn't get his name for nothing. His well-paid-for tips oftentimes ended up being only slivers of information, like chasing a single cornflake floating aimlessly around in a bowl of milk. He also often got days, months, even years mixed up. Out of the one hundred and seven tips he'd handed Hutch and I over the years, I think only twelve of them were good. But that's twelve more notches on our gun grips than we had before, and we were obligated by our consciences to check out every tip.

We learned the hard way, however. The first few times we took Cornflake's word for 'gold' we had called in all the bandwagons -- only to find the cocaine bust was nothing more than a panty raid. The second and third times, Dobey had written us up. Told us the next time we played hokey pokey we'd better know our left from our right. Now, whenever we checked out a tip given to us by Cornflake, we went in slow and easy.

I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach this was going to be yet another spoon chase -- or maybe the sinking feeling was just my stomach readying to rebel.

I read the note, being sure to keep the paper under the picnic table and not in full view. Cornflake was very sensitive about the word 'snitch'.

"You know, Cornflake the last few notes you gave me weren't much help."

"This is one hot deal, Starsky," Cornflake mumbled, extremely involved with his food.

"That good?" I questioned.

"You better hurry," he said waving a hand dismissively.

I crunched the note up and stuffed it into my jacket pocket, and exchanged it for Cornflake's going rate.

"Bawwwwwwww!" Belching loudly, I slipped a twenty spot under the table.

Cornflake did the gentlemanly thing -- he took it.

"You're excused," Cornflake said, going back to his food as Hutch and I walked off.

"So, partner…what'd we pay too much for this time? Lint?" Hutch asked as we both got back into the car.

"That's Cornflake's best jacket." I defended my fellow hotdog lover as I pulled the crinkled note from my pocket, unfurled the paper, and read aloud. "432 Waterfront Street. Dock 16. Biggest White Elephant sale yet -- and the junk is prime."

"Do we believe him?" Hutch glowered as he started the engine.

"Hey," I said, giving his shoulder a hearty pat. "When in doubt--"

"Check it out," Hutch finished as he put the car in drive and headed us toward the warehouse.

"Sounds good to me, partner," I said, reaching for the mike.

TBC