060417b

Kutter Wields The Knife

He said his name was Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt, but I knew he was a cream puff. I knew, because I had a night job in the bakery where he’d been made.

“So, Mr. Deadbeat,” I drawled, “what brings you here?”

He ignored the provocation. “I heard Cook E. Kutter was the man to see if one wanted to make cookies.”

I inclined my head slightly.

“Word’s been getting around,” he continued, with a sharp glance at both exits, “that you’ve gone soft. That you let the Doughboy get away with murder.”

“That’s a damn lie!” I burst out, then struggled to regain control. “P. F. never touched that dame. And besides, he’s a ticklish one to deal with. Yeah, I let him go … he’d risen as far as he could. What’s it to ya?” I leaned back with a creak and parked my feet on the desk, between last week’s coffee and a pile of bootleg recipes off the Internet.

All of a sudden he seemed a little nervous. He cleared his throat: “Well…”

“Cream gone sour?” I asked sympathetically, and poured us both glasses of whiskey. “Have a pick-me-up.”

He waved it away. “No thanks,” he said, “I’m trying to cut back. Listen. I want to make a batch of chocolate chip. Can you help me?”

“Maybe,” I equivocated, pouring another drink. “Do you have what it takes? Raw courage? Unyielding persistence? Butter? Flour? Chocolate chips?”

Oh, he had it all, but he was holding out on me. I could tell. Still, I played it cool.

“You want to know? OK, I’ll tell you.

“You’ll need ingredients: butter, sugar, egg, vanilla, flour, salt, baking soda, and the chips. You need to mix them too, and you’ve got to do it right.

“First the wet stuff, then the dry. The chips come last.”

Oh, I told him sure enough. I gave him the whole story.

“Now it’s your turn,” I said, “give!”

“What do you mean?” He was all innocence, up to the elbows in creamed butter, sugar, egg, and vanilla. But I wasn’t having it this time.

“You know what I mean.” I waved my Bowie in his face but he wouldn’t talk. I grew incensed, pounded on the desk, threatened, I admit it, but he simply stirred flour, salt, and soda into his creamed mixture. Finally I had had enough.

There was something on my face. I licked it off. Cream filling. I told you he was a cream puff. Delicately, I parted his severed hemispheres, and there, nestled in the cream, I saw it. I KNEW he’d been holding out on me! I reached in and picked it up. I reverently wiped off the cream with my handkerchief, and popped it in my mouth. I love cherries.

Another old one, from The Daily Cabal.