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

by Bill Bernico

  “Oh, and one more thing, Audrey,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “After we exchange his money for your deed,” I said, “I know it’ll be tempting to rub his face in it, but it’s important that you don’t say a word about the new highway plans. Part of fleecing this guy is letting him simmer for a while and think that he’s gotten the best of you. Then if you really do want to leave the state and start over, you’ll have a longer head start. We don’t want him coming after you once he finds out that the government is going to steal those five acres away from him for around twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “Twenty-five hundred?” Audrey said. “Five hundred an acre?”

  “That’s about the going price for condemned property,” I said. “Of course he won’t know that for another month and by then you can be long gone.”

  “What about you?” she said. “Won’t he come after you when he find out?”

  “Let him,” I said. “I can handle guys like Harry Ambrose. Besides, I can always claim I had no idea the highway route had changed. No one will know for another month.”

  Audrey absorbed all this and then turned to me. “And where am I staying tonight, Matt?”

  “You’re coming home with me,” I said. “I have a guest bedroom and you’ll be safe there.”

  She patted me on my hand. “Thank you, Matt. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

  I laughed. “You’ll get my bill,” I said. “I get thirty dollars a day and so far you’ve racked up more than sixty dollars. Think you can handle that?”

  “With a bonus,” she said and laughed along with me.

  The next morning I was up early and had the eggs and bacon sizzling in the pan when Audrey came into the kitchen. She pulled out one of my chairs and sat at the table, rubbing her eyes.

  “You sleep all right?” I asked.

  “Like a baby,” she said, gesturing toward the frying pan. “Smells good. You a good cook?”

  “You be the judge,” I said, picking up the frying pan and scooping two eggs and two strips of bacon onto her plate.

  Audrey tucked a napkin into her neckline and grabbed a fork. After her first bite she said, “Very good, Matt. If you ever decide to get out of the detective business you can always open a diner.”

  “Thanks,” I said, depositing the other eggs and bacon onto my plate and returning the frying pan to the stovetop. I poured two cups of coffee and took my seat next to her. We finished our breakfast without further comment.

  The wall clock in the kitchen said ten-fifteen. I looked at Audrey. “You ready for this?” I said.

  “I guess so,” she said.

  I thought I sensed some hesitation on her part. “If you’re not sure about this, I can always handle this alone.”

  “No,” Audrey said boldly. “I want to be there to see his face when he hands over the money and takes the deed.”

  “Good,” I said. “We have an hour or so before I need to call him again and set up the meet. Anything special you’d like to do while we wait?”

  “You play cards?” Audrey said.

  “Cards?” I said. “You mean like poker, blackjack, solitaire?”

  “I mean like Gin Rummy,” she said.

  I leaned my chair back and reached into a drawer and withdrew a deck of cards. I fanned them out in front of her, mimicking a peacock’s tail and then shuffled them with one hand. “Like these?” I said, shuffling them some more on the tabletop and then flipping over the first four cards to reveal four aces.

  “Did I say cards?” Audrey said. “I meant checkers.”

  I laughed and dropped the deck back in the drawer. “We don’t have to play anything,” I said. “We can go for a drive or listen to the radio or sit in the living room and just talk. Whatever you like.”

  She thought for a moment and then said, “A drive sounds nice. Where’d you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s just aim the car and see where it takes us.”

  “Let’s go,” Audrey said, grabbing her coat off the back of the chair.

  We got into my Olds and just started driving, taking in the sights along the way. I turned south and connected with Hollywood Boulevard and then turned west. I drove for a few blocks and then pointed out the window as we passed Highland Avenue.

  “Even been to Grauman’s?” I said.

  “Who hasn’t?” Audrey said.

  “No, I mean inside to see a movie,” I said. “Everyone stops to look at the hand and foot prints outside, but I wonder how many people have ever been inside to watch a movie. Have you?”

  Audrey thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, I haven’t. I’ve stepped into some of the footprints and kneeled down to try my hands in the handprints, but now that you mention it, I’ve never been inside.”

  I parked the car at the curb and gestured toward the theater with my hand. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” she said, sliding out of the car and walking with me to the building.

  On the way in we passed one of the newer sets of handprints and footprints. The block was signed by none other than Jimmy Stewart and dated February 13, 1948. I pointed to the block.

  “Looks like Friday the thirteenth was a lucky day for Jimmy,” I said.

  Audrey looked amazed. “And just how do you remember that February the thirteenth was on a Friday?”

  “I was here,” I said. “I watched Jimmy step in the wet cement and sign his name. It was a big deal for all of Hollywood.”

  “Wish I’d been there,” Audrey said. “I was probably working at the club that day. Come on, let’s go inside.”

  The ornate theater was decorated in red velvet with gold trim. The walls sported several murals in vivid colors. I pointed to them.

  “See the murals?” I said. “Keye Luke painted them before he went on to become Charlie Chan in the movies.”

  “Really?” Audrey said. “There’s something I didn’t know.”

  “Did you also know that this place could seat eleven hundred people?” I said.

  “You’re just a walking encyclopedia of Hollywood trivia, aren’t you?” Audrey said.

  “It’s a hobby,” I said. “I try to keep up on it but realized early on that it changed too often and that I’d have to specialize my area of expertise, so I picked noir films, actors and actresses to familiarize myself with. Don’t ask me about directors or editors or soundmen. I couldn’t tell you. But actors and their real names, now there’s a subject I can sink my teeth into.”

  “Real names?” Audrey said. “Like who?”

  “Well,” I said, “speaking of James Stewart, did you know that Stewart Granger’s real name was James Stewart? True story. Since they already had an actor with that name, he went with Stewart for his first name and tacked the Granger on afterwards.”

  “Really?” Audrey said. “Who else?”

  “Who else what?” I said.

  “Who else took a different name to be an actor?”

  I thought for a second and then said, “Judy Garland.”

  “What about her?” Audrey said.

  “That’s not her real name, you know,” I said. “No, it was Frances Gumm. I can see why she changed it.”

  “Gumm?” Audrey said. “You’re making that up.”

  I crossed my heart with two fingers. “True story. She was one of the singing Gumm Sisters before she became famous and changed her name to Judy Garland.”

  “What about Mickey Rooney?” Audrey said. “I mean, as long as you’re talking about Judy Garland, what about Mickey?”

  “Joe Yule, Jr.,” I said.

  Audrey held her hands over her ears and sang, “La la la la la. Don’t tell me anymore. I don’t want to know.” She took her hands off her ears and added. “That’s like looking behind the curtain at the end of The Wizard Of Oz. You don’t really want to know how it’s done.”

  “Then you wouldn’t want to see behind the scenes on a Hollywood back lot,” I said.<
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  “Why’s that?” Audrey said.

  “Because all those buildings are just façades held up with two by fours,” I said. “The trees are all fake and…”

  “La la la la la,” Audrey sang, her hands back on her ears.

  “Okay,” I said. “I won’t spoil any more of the magic for you.” I looked at my watch. “We’d better get moving. We have a meeting, remember?”

  We walked out of the landmark theater and back to my car. I turned around and drove east on the boulevard, stopping in front of my building. I helped Audrey out of the car and into the building. We took the elevator to my office. Audrey sat in my client’s chair and I took my seat behind my desk and picked up the phone and dialed Harry Ambrose. He answered on the first ring.

  “Ambrose,” he said.

  “Ambrose, this is Cooper,” I said. “You get the money?”

  “I got it,” he said. “You got the deed?”

  “And the owner,” I said. “The two of us will meet you on the corner of Hollywood and Vine at noon sharp. I’ll be parked near the corner in my Olds. Come alone, unarmed, and bring the briefcase. Shouldn’t take us more than five minutes to conduct the transaction, then you can be on your way and so can we.”

  “Kinda pubic ain’t it,” Ambrose said.

  “That’s the idea,” I said. “I’ll have a clear view of the area to make sure you’re alone. If I don’t like what I see we’ll just drive away and the deal’s off.”

  “How am I supposed to pick out your Olds?” Ambrose said.

  “I’ll have a handkerchief tied to the rear bumper,” I said. “When you get to the car, pull the handkerchief off and bring it with you when you slide into the back seat. Got it?”

  “I got it,” Ambrose said, “but…”

  I hung up and smiled at Audrey. “Let’s go,” I said, pulling a handkerchief out of my top desk drawer.

  We exited the building, tied the handkerchief onto my back bumper and drove around the block until we came to the boulevard again. I turned east and drove for a few blocks. At Vine Street, I turned south and found a parking space just two spaces from the corner. I pulled into the space, shut off the engine and we waited. It was two minutes before noon.

  I turned to Audrey, pointed out the windshield and said, “Keep an eye out this way for Ambrose. I’ll watch out the back window. We didn’t have to wait long. Ambrose approached the car, pulled the handkerchief off the bumper and opened the back door. My hand rested on my .38 as he settled in and laid the briefcase on his lap.

  I looked him square in the eye. “Open it,” I said, gesturing with my chin at the briefcase.

  Ambrose turned the case toward me, snapped the two clasps and lifted the lid. Inside were stacks of wrapped bills, each with a paper band around them that had a one and three zeros after it. They were thousand dollar bundles.

  I turned to Audrey. “Count it,” I said, grabbing the bundles and dropping them in Audrey’s lap.

  Ambrose remained silent while Audrey counted the bundles. She turned to me. “Fifty-five stacks,” she said.

  “Flip through them,” I said. “Make sure the bills inside are the same as the ones on the outside of the stacks.”

  Ambrose gave me a dirty look. “You think I’m gonna try and pull a fast one on you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you,” I said.

  I turned back to Audrey. She finished flipping through the stacks and nodded at me. “All there.”

  I held my hand out. “The deed,” I said.

  Audrey grabbed the document out of her purse and handed it to me. I unfolded it and pointed to a line at the bottom. “Sign here,” I told Audrey.

  She signed the deed, dated it and handed it back to me. I signed above the line that was labeled ‘Witnessed By’ and signed my name. I blew on the ink for a moment and handed the document back to Ambrose. He looked it over and deemed everything to be in order. A sly smile crept onto his face and widened quickly. He tucked the document into his inside coat pocket and opened the back door, stepping out onto the sidewalk. He leaned over and peered in through the passenger side window at Audrey.

  “Nice dealing with you,” he said and then added, “Sucker.”

  Audrey tried to feign surprise. “What?” she said.

  “Sucker,” Ambrose repeated. “I’ll triple my money when that highway goes in.” He laughed maniacally and patted his coat pocket.

  “Highway?” Audrey said, trying to sound disappointed. “What highway?”

  Ambrose didn’t answer. He just walked away, still laughing. When he got to the corner, he turned west and disappeared down Hollywood Boulevard. I turned to Audrey and we both broke out in laughter simultaneously.

  “Come on,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up a hunger. Let’s go have some lunch.”

  “All right,” Audrey said, picking up one of the stacks of bills. “I’m buying.”

  “I’ll let you,” I said, and drove away in search of a diner.

  27 - Officer Down

  I’d just left my office in search of a new fan for my window. My old fan had given up the ghost a day earlier and it was supposed to get pretty hot today. I figured if I didn’t hurry off to the store that all the good fans would be gone. I knew of a store on the boulevard just a block away that sold the model I wanted. I hurried downstairs and stood at the intersection of Hollywood and Cahuenga, waiting for the light to change. On the opposite corner I recognized an old friend of mine from my days on the force. It was officer Tim Blake. He was walking his beat and heading west on Hollywood toward Wilcox. The light changed and I crossed over to the south side of the street. I sped up my pace until I caught up with Blake and quietly stepped up behind him. I stuck a finger in his back.

  “Hold it, cop,” I said, lowering my voice.

  Blake spun around and grabbed my wrist and twisted, his face contorted. The brown felt porkpie hat fell off my head and landed on the sidewalk. A man walking by stepped on it, flattening it. Blake relaxed when he saw it was me and released my wrist.

  “Well,” I said, “your reflexes are still good. I’ll say that for you.” I forced a weak smile.

  Blake let out a deep breath. “Matt, you know that’s a good way to get yourself killed. You’re just lucky I’m not trigger-happy.”

  “I guess that was kind of a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?” I said, bending down to pick up my hat. I punched the inside of the hat, brushed it off and reshaped it before returning it to my head.

  Blake nodded and the two of us stepped back against the building, out of the way of pedestrian traffic. He laid a hand on my shoulder and said, “Where are you headed this morning, Matt?”

  I pointed west. “Just up the block. I need to see a man about a horse.”

  “Don’t you have a bathroom in your office?” Blake said, gesturing across the street and up three floors to my building.

  “Not that kind of horse,” I said, and started walking again. Tim followed alongside me. “This man wants to buy a horse and he wants me to do a background check on its pedigree.”

  “Huh?”

  “He wants me to make sure the horse’s lineage is authentic,” I said. “And I have to do it on the sly so other bidders won’t get wind of it and drive the price up.”

  “Okay,” Blake said. “Now I can honestly say I’ve heard it all.”

  “Okay,” I admitted. “That and a fan.”

  “Now you’ve got fans?” Tim said. “And just who is the president of the Matt Cooper Fan Club?”

  I shook my head. “Not that kind of fan,” I said. “I need to buy myself a new window fan. My old one bit the big one yesterday and today’s supposed to be even hotter than it was yesterday. That office of mine can get like a pizza oven up there without a fan.”

  “Okay, fine,” Tim said. “So you’re not as popular as I’d been led to believe.”

  “‘Fraid not, Tim,” I said. And what about you? Anything new and exciting going on in your life?”

&n
bsp; “Hmmm,” Blake said, trying to think if there was anything noteworthy he’d want to share with his friend. “Well, for one, I met a girl last month. We’ve already had our fifth date and it’s looking good.”

  I slapped Tim on his back. “Way to go, buddy,” I said. “You think this might be the one?”

  “Too early to tell,” Tim said. “But I have to say, I am impressed with what I’ve seen so far.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

  “Not that way,” Tim said. “I mean from what I’ve seen of her personality, I get the feeling this may work out better than my last few dates. Know what I mean? Sometimes you just know when it’s right.”

  “Really?” I said. “What’s the young lady’s name?”

  “It’s Sheryl,” Tim said, smiling. “Sheryl Roosay. Isn’t that a beautiful name? Sheryl Roosay. Just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

  “Sounds French,” I said. “And where’s Sherry from?”

  “Sheryl,” Tim said correcting me. “She prefers Sheryl. Sherry’s a bit casual and she’s not that kind of girl.”

  “I frowned. “That kind of girl?” I said. “What kind of girl is it that doesn’t like a nickname? Sherry’s a perfectly good name and it sounds friendlier and less formal that Sheryl. At least that’s what I think.”

  “And normally I’d agree with you,” Tim said. “But she told me that her father was an alcoholic, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I said. “And just what does that have to do with her not liking a nickname?”

  Tim stopped walking and I was several steps ahead of him, alone on the sidewalk before I noticed he wasn’t beside me anymore. I turned around and walked back to where he’d stopped.

  “What?” I said.

  “Sheryl’s dad had a drinking problem for a lot of years when she was growing up,” Tim said. “And he’d been sober for about nine months. And then Christmas rolled around a couple of years ago and you know what that means.”

  “No, I don’t,” I said. “But I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

  “Well,” Tim said, “Sheryl wanted to surprise him for Christmas and decided to cook him a good Christmas dinner, you know with all the fancy trimmings.”