Cooper By The Gross (All 144 Cooper Stories In One Volume)

by Bill Bernico

  “Still the bully, I see,” I said.

  “Me? You were the scrapper, if I recall.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but where do you suppose I picked it up? That’s right. You.”

  Phil winked at Betty. “Kid still wants to be like me after all these years.”

  “Like you?” I said.

  “Who was a cop first?” Phil said.

  I nodded. “You.”

  “Who got you a spot on the force?” Phil added.

  “You,” I conceded.

  Phil pointed to the holster that still hung under my arm. “Who taught you how to shoot that thing?”

  “I get the point,” I said. “Just ‘cause you’re older and had the chance to do all those things before me, that’s no reason to hold it over me, is it?”

  “Pop wouldda been proud of you,” Phil said, grabbing the framed picture from the living room table. He stared at it for a few seconds and then added, “You’re just like him. Hard to believe he’s been gone six years already.”

  “Your dad would have been proud of both of you,” Betty said. You both did a fine job carrying on the Cooper name in law enforcement.”

  Phil tossed his head to one side. “She’s right, you know. I’d have liked Pop to live long enough to see how far we’ve come. He’d have enjoyed it.” He handed me the picture. “You know, Little Matt’s always asking me about my work. I think he may follow in my footsteps someday.”

  “What about Troy?” I said, looking at the photo of my father.

  Betty perked up. “Troy has an interest in music. Says he wants to play guitar like Les Paul someday.”

  “And you encourage him?” I said.

  “Why not?” Phil said. “We bought him a cheap starter guitar and he plunks on it every chance he gets. Heck, if everybody wanted to be a cop, there’d be no one left to arrest.”

  “Oh, Phil,” Betty said, taking our empty coffee cups and walking toward the kitchen.

  I handed the photo back to Phil and stood up to stretch my legs. “It’s been a long day,” I said. “I’m gonna turn in if you don’t mind.”

  “Good night, Matt,” Phil said. “We’ll catch up some more tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Betty,” I said toward the kitchen door.

  Betty emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. She walked over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Good night, Matt. My gosh it’s good to see you again.”

  “It’s good to be back, however short it may be.” I picked up my suitcase and carried it into the guest room. I was so tired I don’t even remember getting undressed. I was asleep in a matter of minutes.

  The next morning when I took my place at the breakfast table, Phil was already sitting there in his blue uniform, his cap on the chair next to him. He was buttering a slice of toast.

  “You have to work on the Fourth of July?” I said.

  “Criminals don’t take a break on holidays and neither do the police,” Phil said. “I have to work half a shift today to cover for Martini. “But this afternoon we can get together and have a little fun. What have you got planned for this morning?”

  I took the seat across from Phil. “I don’t know. I thought I’d take a walk around the old neighborhood and see what’s changed. Hey, does Pop Murdock still run the dime store over on twenty-sixth? Gees, I haven’t thought about that place in ages.”

  “He’s still there,” Phil said. “He and his wife are winding down, thinking about retiring next year. Remember that time he caught you with a pocket full of his candy? He damn near pulled your ear right off.”

  I rubbed my right ear. “I remember, all right. I think I was eight or nine and you just stood there and let him pull it.”

  “What did you expect me to do?” Phil said, laughing. “I had my own pocket full of candy. I wasn’t about to let him pat me down. He still talks about that day every once in a while when I stop in.”

  “Really?” I said. “Does he still limp? That was quite a kick in the shin I gave him trying to get away.”

  “No, I think he’s pretty much recovered. You ought to stop by there and see if he recognizes you.”

  “I think I will,” I said, smiling with nostalgia. “What time will you be back?”

  “Around two,” Phil said. “Meet you back here?”

  “Check,” I said. “See you later.” I grabbed my toast and headed toward the front door. I turned back before leaving. “If you get a call at the station about any trouble on twenty-sixth, it’ll just be me pulling Murdock’s ear.”

  I walked the one block north and turned west on twenty-sixth. The old neighborhood hadn’t changed much. Goldblat’s Department Store still stood on the corner next to the movie theater where Phil and I went to see Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin movies. A few doors down from the cinema stood the hat shop. I remembered looking at the straw hats and derbies as a kid. I always thought I’d look good in a derby, but when I tried one on as an adult, I thought it made me look too comical and in my line of work, I needed to be taken seriously.

  I crossed the intersection at Sawyer and continued west for a few minutes, taking in the sights, sounds and smells that took me back to my childhood of the Roaring Twenties. There, unchanged in all these years, I found Pop Murdock’s dime store. I stopped to take in the storefront that had been so familiar to me. In the front window I saw licorice whips, gumballs, chocolate, peanuts and a full display of Cracker Jack. I pulled the front door open and the bell overhead chimed my arrival.

  An old man was up on a step stool arranging boxes on a shelf. He didn’t even turn around when I entered. He’d been used to kids coming in and browsing for a while before making up their minds and besides, he had stock to arrange.

  In a little while he stepped down and turned around as he said, “Vat you vant?”

  “Nothing for me,” I said, “I already have a pocket full. See ya.” I headed for the front door then turned around smiling.

  The old man’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Matt?” He said. “Matthew Cooper? Is that you?”

  I smiled and nodded. “Hello, Mr. Murdock.”

  “Momma,” the old man yelled toward the back room. “Momma, come out here right avay.”

  The curtain separating the stock room from the store parted and a gray-haired lady in a floral print dress, white apron and black shoes with stocky heels emerged. She was wiping her hands on her apron as she approached us.

  “Poppa,” she said, “vat is so important that you haf to yell like a maniac?”

  The woman looked at her husband and then over at me. I smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Murdock.”

  The woman looked back at Pop for some sort of explanation. Pop grabbed me by the right ear and pulled gently.

  “I caught this boy vit a pocket full of candy, Momma.”

  It was as if someone had flipped a light switch on in her head when she recognized me. She threw her arms open wide as her eyes welled up with tears. “Matthew Cooper,” she said. “How long has it been? It’s so good to see you again.”

  I hugged her, released her and stood back. I looked at Murdock. “This must be your daughter,” I said. “Where’s Momma?”

  “Matthew,” she said, “you alvays had a vay to charm yourself out of trouble, didn’t you?”

  “Well,” I said, “I guess I did.”

  Murdock rubbed his shin. “He vasn’t always so charming.”

  I winced. “Sorry.”

  Momma clasped her hands in front of her. “Vat brings you back to Chicago, Matthew?”

  “I’m here visiting with my brother and his family for the Fourth of July festivities at the lakefront tonight. And just to get away from work for a while.”

  “You moved out vest somewhere, didn’t you?” Murdock said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Los Angeles.”

  “And you’re still in police verk out there?” Momma asked.

  “Well,” I said, “not exactly police work. I was with the L.A.P.D. for a while but left to start my own detective agency.�
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  “A regular Philip Marlowe, eh?” Murdock said. “I’ll bet you solve a lot of mysteries and have lots of adventures.”

  “That’s what people think because of all those detective movies,” I said, “but the plain truth is that most detective work would bore you to tears. But, hey, I’m here to get away from all that for a while. How have you two been? Phil tells me you’re thinking of retiring next year. Then what will you do?”

  Murdock laughed. “Momma already has a long list of things for me to do.”

  “That’s right,” Momma said. “Then ve gonna travel. I vant to see Visconsin. I have relatives in Sheboygan.”

  “That sounds like fun,” I said. “I wish you both the best. I’ll stop back to say goodbye before I leave tomorrow. It was great seeing you both again.” I headed for the front door again, stopping at the gumball display long enough to look over the candy. I looked back at Murdock.

  He winked. “Go ahead, Matthew, have von for old time’s sake.”

  “Thanks,” I said, dropping the gumball into my pocket. The overhead bell chimed as I opened the door. I looked back once more. “Sorry about the shin, Mr. Murdock.”

  Murdock waved once and drew his arm around Momma. Momma cried.

  Further down the block I passed Kelsey’s Pawn Shop where I bought the .45 that now hung under my arm. Pat Kelsey had been killed during a holdup just before the war and the new owner decided to keep the Kelsey name on the sign. It had been Kelsey’s for so long that the new owner figured a name change could only hurt business.

  I walked another block or so before crossing the street and heading back toward Kedzie Avenue. On the way back I passed a novelty shop where Phil and I had spent a lot of time as kids. Through the window I could see rubber snakes, hand buzzers, glasses with a fake nose and mustache attached and whoopee cushions. I wanted to stop in and look around but a sign on the door said someone would return in forty-five minutes. I didn’t feel like waiting.

  I traveled south again on Kedzie and paused a block from Phil’s house when I came to the corner cigar store. The front door was open and the smell of tobacco products drifted past me. This was a place where the older men from the neighborhood hung out to talk about the war to end all wars—the war with Germany. Obviously Germany didn’t learn their lesson back in 1917 because we’d beaten them again in World War II just a few years ago.

  The cigar shop also became a hangout for some of the seedier characters as well. It sold a folding knife that popped open with the press of a button and it quickly became popular with the local bullies. During my stay on the Chicago Police Department, Phil and I had taken enough of the knives away from these tough guys that we could have opened our own store.

  I didn’t go in. I just stood at the open door and took one more whiff with my nose and moved on. I was lost deep in thought as I stepped off the curb to cross back over to Phil’s house. I quickly snapped out of my daze when the streetcar clanged its bell. I looked up and quickly jumped back up onto the curb.

  Silent electric buses—so silent that you could be run down if you were not alert—had replaced the streetcars. The overhead wires looked like a giant spider web criss-crossing the streets. The streetcar tracks were still embedded in the street, but the old cars had since been sentenced to a slow death in the scrap yards. The bus moved on, leaving only a crackling noise from the overhead contact in its wake.

  I made it back to Phil’s house and walked through the narrow walkway to the alley in back. Some things hadn’t changed much since I was a kid. The horse-drawn junk wagon still patrolled the alleys, looking for business and saleable junk. I’m sure it was a different horse, but they all seemed to look the same to me after a while. They had the same soft noses and smelled just as bad as I remembered but the clip-clop of their hooves on the pavement took me right back to the days of the flappers and raccoon coats.

  Further down the street stood my old school. I didn’t like it when I was there and had no urge to revisit it now. School held no good memories for me. I was either bullied by the bigger kids or left out of the games other kids played. I became a loner and learned to live on my wits. It was a perfect prerequisite to being a private eye.

  I opened the front door and returned to the kitchen, where Betty was washing dishes in the sink. I called to her that I was back and that I thought I might just stretch out on the couch for a little while before Phil returned from his half shift. I leaned back and had my shoes off and my feet up on the coffee table when Little Matt walked up and stood next to me. He just stared but didn’t dare speak at first.

  “Hey, Matt,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  He nodded shyly and said, “Okay,” in a low tone and then hung his head. In his left hand he held an old sock, obviously filled with the marbles I’d given him yesterday.

  “What’s the matter?” I said, picking up his chin.

  “Aw, it’s Troy,” he said. “He and the other kids took off and left me here. I was supposed to go with them but they ditched me again.”

  I released his chin and he looked up at me. “That wasn’t very nice,” I said. “But don’t you have any friends of your own? You know, kids your own age?”

  He shook his head.

  I pulled my feet off the coffee table and slipped them back into my shoes. I stood up and grabbed Little Matt’s hand. “Whaddya say we take a walk, just you and me?”

  Little Matt perked up. “You mean it, Uncle Matt? You and me?”

  “Let’s go,” I said. “I’m sure we can find something interesting to do. You wanna show me around the neighborhood? Show me where you and Troy hang out?”

  Little Matt smiled wide and led me out the door and around the back. He was still carrying his sock full of marbles. We walked up the alley to the north and crossed the street. We continued up the alley for several blocks. He showed me some of the places he and Troy had found some “good junk,” as he put it. Things hadn’t changed all that much since I was a kid in these same alleys.

  “So,” I said, “these friends of Troy’s, what are they like?”

  Little Matt continued to scan the alley for interesting artifacts. “I don’t know,” he said. “Mike’s the oldest and the biggest of all of ‘em and he usually says what’s what and where they go. The others all kind of just tag along. Sully is a year younger than Mike. He’s twelve.”

  “Sully?” I said.

  “Jackie Sullivan,” Matt explained. “They call him that because there’s another kid named Jackie and it gets hard to tell them apart so we just started calling him Sully.”

  “Makes sense, I guess,” I said.

  “And then there’s the Tepper boys—Eddie and Joey. They’re brothers from over on Homan Avenue. They’re eleven.”

  “Both of ‘em?” I said.

  “Sure,” Matt explained. “They’re twins.”

  “And where do you fit in,” I said.

  “I guess I don’t,” Matt said solemnly. I’m only seven and even Troy doesn’t want to hang around with me.”

  Little Matt’s gaze fell upon something bright red protruding out of one of the garbage cans. He started to run toward it but stopped and turned back to me, handing me his sock full of marbles. “Would you hold these for me, Uncle Matt?”

  I tied a knot in the sock and dropped it into my jacket pocket. Matt hurried over to the can and lifted the lid. He put it back down in disappointment when the bright red object that had caught his attention turned out to be nothing more than discarded wrapping paper. We walked on.

  At the end of the alley we crossed the street and picked up the alley again on the other side. We’d walked about half way through when two teen-age boys stepped out from between two buildings and stopped directly in front of us. One of them wore a black leather jacket with a white tee shirt visible underneath. He also wore blue jeans rolled up at the cuff and black boots that laced up the front. He had a hand behind his back and as we approached he swept it out with a blur. He held something black and with a
press of a button on the side, a blade popped up and shined in the sun. The kid seemed confident that he knew how to use it. I stopped and pushed Little Matt directly behind me.

  The one with the knife spoke first. “Hey, old man, gimme your wallet.

  “Yeah,” the other one repeated. “Give us your wallet.” He had his hair piled up on his head in a greasy pompadour style and pounded his fist into his open palm as he sneered at me. The one with the knife had a face full of pimples and stepped forward, flashing the blade in front of me.

  I held both palms up. “I don’t want any trouble,” I said. “I’ve got my little nephew here and all I want is to take him back home again.”

  Pompadour said, “just give us the wallet and we might let you and kid leave peaceable like. Otherwise Carmine here will just have to cut you up some.” He laughed a maniacal laugh that had nothing to do with humor.

  “All right,” I said. “Leave the kid alone. You can have the wallet.” I reached into my jacket pocket and took hold of the knotted sock. I pulled it out of my pocket and swung it in a short arc that ended on the side of Carmine’s cheek. The marbles smashed against his face, tearing the sock and sending the marbles scattering across the alley.

  Carmine grabbed his face and dropped the knife. Pompadour bent over to grab the knife. I brought my knee up and connected with his face. He flew backwards, trying to keep his balance. He stepped on several marbles and his legs splayed out away from his body at odd angles and he went down on the pavement—hard.

  Carmine started to bend over to get his knife back when I reached into my jacket and grabbed the .45 from its holster. I swept it out and stuck it in Carmine’s face. He froze. I pushed the gun up against his nose and waited. Carmine didn’t move a muscle and Pompadour was still flat on his back.

  “Now,” I said, “what was that you were saying about my wallet?”

  Carmine swallowed hard. “N-n-nothing, nothing at all. We were just funning with you, mister. We didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  “Is that a fact?” I said. “Suppose you give me your wallet.”

  The puzzled look on Carmine’s face was worth all this trouble. He looked over at Pompadour, who still hadn’t gotten to his feet. Then he looked back over at me. I pulled the hammer back and it clicked into place. Carmine started to reach for his back pocket.