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

by Bill Bernico

  My mind raced with the possibilities and then it became clear. I faced Block and said, “Lock your door when I leave. Don’t open it unless the man identifies himself as Sergeant Dan Hollister. Got it? I’ll send them right over, and thanks, Mr. Block.”

  I left Oscar Block twenty dollars richer than I’d found him. He didn’t even wait until I’d left the building before he ventured out of his apartment. I headed for my car and he headed for the corner liquor store. I hoped he had enough sense to go straight home with his bottle and lock the door. I guess everybody has their priorities. I made it back to Hollister’s office in twenty minutes.

  “Nobody bothered to check those things because of the time slot,” I said. “He was only out of my sight for ten seconds, tops. Still it’s enough time for someone to kill a ringer and leave him where I found him.”

  “That’s wild, Cooper,” Dan said. “Even for you. If that’s the case, where is Reeger and why go through all this just to throw us off? They could just as easily have plugged Reeger in that doorway and been done with it.”

  “They weren’t sure what he knew and what he was about to tell,” I said. “They had to find out where they stood and what he’d already spilled, and leaving that ringer dead on the stoop bought ‘em a little more time.”

  Hollister thought about that prospect for a moment and sat behind his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed Jack Walsh at the coroner’s office. Dan arranged to hold Reeger’s body another two days while this new angle was investigated. That afternoon Dan stopped by my office and drove me to the morgue to display his findings.

  “Fingerprints confirm what you suspected.” Dan said, showing me a picture of a guy who looked somewhat like Franklin Reeger. “The stiff’s name is Ernie Phillips, a ringer for Reeger.”

  “A dead ringer,” I said.

  Hollister sighed and flipped the sheet back off the corpse’s face. “In this shape he didn’t have to be an exact match. They blew his face off anyway and they were counting on the fact that that we wouldn’t look any further than this guy, thinking it was Reeger.”

  “And Stewart Powers was the fly in their ointment,” I said, “when he saw what happened in that doorway across the street from his apartment.”

  “Exactly,” Dan said. “Powers could have identified the killers and at that point his life wasn’t worth a pinch of snuff.”

  I looked down at the remains of Ernie Phillips. “So someone got away with murder and Reeger has vanished. That what you’re sayin’?”

  Dan stepped back two steps and slid another drawer open. This one held the body of another man, similar in build and appearance to Ernie Phillips. I looked at Dan. “Reeger?”

  Dan nodded. “They got what they wanted from him and gave him a dose of the same medicine Phillips got. They might have gotten away with the switch and we’d have never been the wiser. You’d have testified that Reeger was gunned down in that doorway and the case would have been closed and forgotten. After Mr. Powers entered the picture, they had to work fast and my guess is that Reeger told them what they wanted to know before he died.”

  “How do you know?” I said.

  Dan pulled the sheet back even further off Franklin Reeger to reveal his hands. Three fingers were missing from Reeger’s right hand. Only the thumb remained on his left hand. “They may have gotten their information piecemeal from Reeger, one finger at a time.”

  “Christ,” I said, “why didn’t he just tell them what they wanted to know right away and save a few digits?”

  “He knew they’d have killed him outright if he’d spilled his guts right away,” Dan said. “My guess is that he was playing for time, hoping for a miracle, so to speak.”

  I pulled the sheet back over the body. “Obviously he didn’t get one. And had he lived through all this he’d have had to take off his shoes to count past three. So now what?”

  Dan slid both drawers back into the wall. “Nothing. Forget it. Case closed, Cooper. Go home and get some sleep.”

  “What about my bill?” I said. “The county owes me for three days of babysitting Reeger.”

  Dan looked sideways at me. “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, Cooper.”

  I left with Dan and we took the elevator to the ground floor. “Sometimes I wish I’d never taken up the P.I. business,” I said. “Life was a lot easier when I was just a cop.”

  Hollister remembered my days under his command. “You weren’t much a cop, either, Cooper.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “But then who knows how it would have turned out if you hadn’t constantly been on my back?”

  Dan rolled his eyes up and sighed. He just shook his head and walked away.

  Maybe I was just being hard on myself. Sure, being my own boss and setting my own hours had its benefits. But maybe I should stick to tracking down thieves and murderers and counterfeiters. No one cares if they die.

  15 - The Stickup

  It was the end of another boring day following a suspect for another boring client. My feet ached and my throat was dry and all I wanted was to sit quietly and wet my whistle. Mad Dog’s Bar was as good as any and I was in no mood to be particular. The bar was actually called something else; I don’t remember exactly what. It came to be known as Mad Dog’s because a friend of mine once remarked that the owner reminded him of a gangster from Chicago’s prohibition days, Mad Dog Coll. I pulled up to the curb at Western and Sunset and positioned my Olds between an older Ford and a broken down pickup truck.

  It was one of those bars that made you feel like you needed a shower when you left it. It was long and narrow and poorly lit. The bar ran the entire length of the left side with booths occupying the right wall. In the far corner near the back sat one ragged pool table, its green felt looking more like the well-used welcome mat from a farmhouse. A single light bulb under a conical shade hung over the center of the table.

  There were two men at the table. The one eyeing up his next shot leaned over the table, trying to get a visual line-up on one of his balls. His mouth sprouted a two-inch cigar stub that smoldered, sending a wisp of smoke up into his already squinting eyes. The three-day stubble on his face resembled heavy-grit sandpaper and his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them for the past week.

  The other player sat on a stool against the wall, waiting for his turn on the table. His left hand held the cue stick that he leaned on while his right hand was wrapped around a beer mug. He apparently did his shopping at the same clothes store as his partner.

  They both appeared to be Mexicans or South Americans. Both stopped doing what they were doing long enough to look me over before turning their attention back to the pool table. The one doing the shooting drew back on his cue and jabbed it forward, raising it as he connected with the cue ball. The cue ball slammed into the nine ball and sent it bouncing off an end rail before it rolled back down to his end of the table. It dropped in the corner pocket and the player stood erect, a smug look finding a home on his face.

  The bartender had positioned himself at the end of the bar closest to the door. He stood wiping a beer mug with a dishrag that looked as if a mechanic had wiped his hands on it. I knew I didn’t want a beer. He continued wiping that one mug all the while I was sizing up the joint. There was one other customer seated near the middle of the bar and he was asleep, his head lying sideways on the bar on top of some loose change while both arms hung straight down, limp as well-cooked pasta. There was a puddle on the floor beneath him. I hoped it was beer.

  I took a seat at the far end of the bar. The bartender set his mug and dishrag down and sidled over to where I sat. The brother to the pool player’s cigar stub hung from his face but had long since gone out. It had been reduced to a chew toy, its slimy end visible when he talked through clenched teeth.

  “What’ll it be, Mac?” he said, the cigar stub twitching with each word.

  I knew I didn’t want to drink out of any of his glasses. “Got any bottled beer?”

  Without answeri
ng, he turned away and reached into a large cooler. With a quick flip of his wrist, he popped the cap off and set the cold, brown bottle in front of me. The foam erupted up and over the top before sliding down onto the bar.

  “That’s a buck,” he said.

  I produced a dollar bill and laid it on the bar. It disappeared faster than the cockroaches when the lights come on in this place.

  As I sat there trying to forget my troubles and enjoy my beer, the front door opened and a woman walked in. She looked to be about twenty-five or so and had that lean, gaunt look of someone who was used to living on the streets. She was dressed in army fatigues and had a dirty New York Yankees baseball cap on her head. Her hair was short or tucked up under the cap and her face had several layers of grime. Not an appetizing package by any stretch of the imagination.

  She looked nervous as she paced and looked around the bar. Her left hand adjusted the cap on her head while her right hand remained in her jacket pocket. She must have decided it was a small enough crowd and produced a small automatic handgun. I couldn’t hear what she told the bartender, but by his actions, I guessed that she had requested the contents on his cash register.

  The bartender carefully sidestepped to the register and hit one of the keys. The drawer popped open with a single ring of a small bell. He reached in and when he turned around to face the girl again he was holding a gun of his own. There was a quick pop and then another almost immediately. The bartender fell back against a shelf of glasses and swept several of them down onto the floor as he fell. He hit the floor amid pieces of broken glass.

  The girl quickly threw up the hinged section of bar and hurried over to the cash register, emptying the drawer of its bills. She left the change. I stood up as she started to leave. She pointed the gun at me. I held up both hands, palms toward her, and said, “not me, lady. I’m just here for a beer,” and sat back down.

  Without saying a word, she backed out of the bar and out the front door. The two pool players laid their cues down and raced out the back door and were gone faster than you could say “immigration.” The drunk at the bar had slept though the whole thing.

  I hurried over to the other end of the bar over to where the bartender lay. I brushed broken glass away with my shoe and knelt beside him, pressing two fingers into his neck. I found the artery he no longer needed. The apron he was wearing now had a red spot that spread out over a three-inch area near his heart. He had stopped breathing and there was no movement. The phone was next to the cash register and I dialed Dan Hollister at the downtown precinct.

  “Hollister,” I said, “Matt Cooper. Better get down here to the Mad Dog’s place on Sunset and Western. Yeah. Holdup. Bartender’s been shot. Okay, I’ll wait here.” I hung up and went back over to the customer’s side of the bar and lowered the hinged section down again.

  Near the spot where the girl had stood with her little automatic, I looked down at the floor and spotted something colorful. It was a drop of blood. There was another a few inches away and still another closer toward the door. There were seven drops in all, making a trail that led out the door. Of the two shots I heard, one came from the girl’s gun and the other must have come from the bartender’s. It had found its mark somewhere on the girl’s body.

  I opened the door and stepped outside onto Western. It was nearly three in the morning and the street was all but deserted. The only pedestrian wasn’t doing any walking. She was just lying in a pile not fifteen feet from the front door. A pool of blood had formed somewhere beneath her and had trickled down the sidewalk and into the gutter. It left a bright red stain on her army fatigues.

  A black and white cruiser pulled up to the curb as I knelt with my fingers pressed on the girl’s neck. Two officers stepped out with their service revolvers drawn.

  “Freeze,” one of the yelled, pointing the gun in my face. “Keep ‘em where I can see ‘em.” The cop doing the yelling was about thirty with sandy hair sticking out from under his visored cap. He was tall, probably six-two or six-three. His partner was older and rounder. I got the feeling the round partner was the veteran and this guy was his rookie.

  I spread my hands out, away form my body while the officer ran his hands inside my coat. “Got us a gun here, Bob,” he said, retrieving my .45 and tucking it in his belt. His hands probed my pocket and produced my wallet with my badge and P.I. license.

  He stood and took two steps back toward the other cop. “Cooper,” he said to his partner. “A snooper.”

  He threw the wallet back at me. “On your feet,” he said, lifting me by my arm.

  “Back over here,” the other officer said, pointing to a spot by the front door of the bar. While I stepped back, the first cop bent down and looked at the dead girl. Her right hand was frozen around the small automatic. The officer pulled a pencil from his shirt pocket and inserted the tip into the girl’s gun barrel and lifted while his other hand pried her fingers from around the gun butt. With the gun dangling from the pencil, the officer pulled out his handkerchief and laid the gun in it and put the whole bundle into his jacket pocket.

  “What’s your story?” the rookie said, looking me square in the eye.

  “It can wait,” I said, and leaned against the building.

  “Wait?” the rookie said. “Until when?”

  Hollister’s Chevy pulled up to the curb and he got out. “Until now,” I said, gesturing toward Hollister with my chin.

  Sergeant Dan Hollister strode over to where the other two cops had detained me. The two cops straightened noticeably as Dan approached.

  “Wanna tell your boys to gimme my gun back, Dan?” I said.

  Hollister motioned with his head toward the rookie. The rookie pulled my .45 from his belt and handed it back to me. I returned it to my underarm holster and buttoned my coat. “Now I feel dressed again,” I said.

  I walked Dan into the bar. One of the two patrolmen stayed with the girl’s body while the other followed us in. I pointed to the body of the bartender behind the bar and took a seat in one of the booths. Dan lifted the hinged section at the end of the bar and found the body where it had fallen. He confirmed what I already knew--this bartender wouldn’t be home for breakfast.

  Dan came out from behind the bar and let the hinged section drop back into place. The old guy who’d been sleeping on the bar suddenly woke up and looked around. Two dimes were stuck to his cheek and a quarter had fallen off, leaving a perfectly round indentation on the side of his face. He got up and shuffled toward the door mumbling, “Jeez, can’t a guy get any sleep around here?”

  Hollister stepped in front of the man and held a hand out against the man’s chest. “Have a seat, pop. I’ll wanna talk to you.” Dan pointed to a stool by the bar. The old man sat and laid his head down again. The other officer sat with him and kept an eye on the rest of the bar.

  Dan walked over to the booth and slid in across from me. “What happened here, Cooper?”

  I told him how I’d just stopped in for a beer when the girl decided to make a cash withdrawal. I described the sound of the two almost simultaneous shots and how the girl had backed out the door. There wasn’t much else to tell. Whatever else he wanted to know about the night’s events he’d have to learn from the crime scene.

  “Anyone else see what happened, Matt?” Dan said, pulling his note pad from his pocket.

  “Nope,” I said. I pointed to the old man at the bar. “He was fast asleep and. . .” Then I remembered the two pool players. “Wait, there were two other guys back there playing pool, “ I said, pointing to the pool table. “Couple of Mexicans. Soon as the girl left, they both took off out the back door. Probably illegals and didn’t want a free trip back to TJ.”

  “Never saw the girl before?” Dan asked.

  “Didn’t even see much of her tonight,” I said. She was all bundled up in those army clothes and that baseball hat. Couldn’t see much at all.”

  The first officer that had stayed outside with the body came through the front door followed by
an ambulance attendant dressed in white. “They’re ready to take her away, sergeant.”

  Dan and I left the booth and returned to the spot on the sidewalk where the girl had died. The officer was right behind us. Her body had been placed on a stretcher and was waiting with the other attendant at the back door to the ambulance. Dan pulled back the sheet that covered her face. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty. Her auburn hair lay in clumps around her neck. Some of it was clogged with the blood that had flowed out of her when she hit the pavement.

  “Anyone you know?” Dan asked, looking at me.

  I shook my head and looked down at her. “What a waste,” I said. “Her whole life ahead of her and she ends up on a slab.”

  “This is what we found on the body,” the officer said, holding out his flattened palm. The .32 automatic with a pearl grip lay on his handkerchief, along with the twenty-seven dollars she’d taken from the cash register and a photo of a man.

  Dan looked at the items and then back at the officer. “Bag ‘em and bring ‘em in to the evidence room,” he told the cop. “I’ll be in a when I finish up here.”

  The other ambulance attendant emerged from the bar. “There’s a second wagon on its way,” he said. “They’ll pick up the bartender.”

  Hollister nodded acknowledgment. The back door of the ambulance closed and the wagon sped away in the night with the body of the youngest crook I’d ever seen—at least the youngest female crook.

  “What drives a kid to this?” I said.

  “Who knows,” Dan said. “This whole world is going to hell in a hand basket.” Dan shook his head and tucked his pencil and note pad back into his pocket. “You coming?”

  “I’ll follow you down,” I said, knowing they needed my statement downtown.

  Three days later I met with Dan Hollister in his office. He was sitting behind his desk with a scattered pile of papers in front of him.