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

by Bill Bernico

  Such is life.

  42 - Cooper Generations

  I laid the bouquet of roses at my feet and stepped back. Elliott looked down at the inscription on the headstone, which read:

  MATTHEW COOPER

  July 17, 1911 – September 5, 2002

  I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. We sighed almost in unison and straightened up.

  “Hard to believe it’s been ten years already,” I said.

  “He’d be a hundred and one if he was still with us,” Elliott added. “Still, ninety-one is a pretty good record to shoot for. I should be so lucky.”

  “He’s lived several lifetimes with all he’d seen and done,” I said. “I wish I could have known him in his prime, back in the forties. That must have really been something to see.”

  “You still have his journals, don’t you?” Elliott said. “I remember finding it in the attic when I was a kid. Grandpa Matt came up there and we sat for an hour or more looking through it. I asked him to tell me about some of his cases. At first he didn’t really want to, but I begged him and he gave in.”

  “Yes, I still have them and someday I plan on writing a novel based on Grandpa Matt’s exploits,” I said

  “Are you going to throw in some of your own cases, too, dad?” Elliott said. “I mean, you were no slouch, either when it came to detecting.”

  “Were?” I said indignantly. “Don’t be so fast to count me out. I’m not dead yet, sonny boy.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know,” I explained. “But it gets harder every day just getting out of bed. Sometimes I just want to stay there and sleep all day. Doesn’t seem to be much incentive to get up some mornings.”

  To the left of Grandpa Matt’s headstone was another similar to it. Etched into it had been the birth and death dates of my mother, Amy. She was ten years younger than dad, but died when I was only fifteen.

  Elliott shifted his gaze to the grave several feet to the right of his grandpa’s. It was where my wife, Veronica had been laid to rest all those years ago. I looked over and hung my head, too. She’s been gone seventeen years now, ever since Elliott was fifteen. He and his mother had been close and I’m sure it was just as hard for Elliott to see her waste away from cancer as it was on me.

  “We’d better get back home, Elliott,” I said, turning and walking toward the car.

  Elliott took one more look back and said under his breath, “See ya later, grandpa. You too, mom.” He caught up with me at the car and the two of us drove back toward my house in Glendale.

  I drove past the corner where we were supposed to turn to go home.

  “Where are you going now?” Elliott said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just thought I’d like to drive through Hollywood and look at some of the old haunts. I guess I’m just nostalgic for the old days.”

  We drove west on Los Feliz Boulevard until it curved south, turning into Western Avenue. A few blocks later and we were sitting at the traffic light when I looked out of my window at the corner building.

  “That’s where the old Hotel Rector stood,” I said.

  Elliott remembered reading something about that place in grandpa’s journal. He said, “I think that’s where grandpa went to find one of his client’s friends. The guy he was looking for was part of some big scheme to collect a large inheritance or something.”

  “That’s the place,” I said.

  The light turned green and the car in front of us continued south on Western. I turned east and headed up Hollywood Boulevard. A few minutes later we’d passed Hollywood and Vine. Elliott looked out his window and could see the round Capitol Records building a few blocks to the north.

  All along the sidewalks on either side of the boulevard there were stars embedded into the cement. Each star had the name of someone in the entertainment business along with an icon of which medium they were famous for in their day.

  I held my palm up and swept it left to right. “All this has really changed since I was a kid. My dad used to take me to Grauman’s Chinese Theater and let me step in the movie stars’ footprints. The streets were alive then, not like now with all the indigents and transients walking all over the place. Visitors to Hollywood these days are always surprised that it doesn’t look like the Hollywood they knew from newsreels and movies. It’s turned into a real dump.”

  “And that’s a shame,” Elliott said. “It could be a nice place again if anyone cared enough to turn it around.”

  I pulled the car around the corner onto Highland Avenue and found a parking space on one of the side streets.

  “What are we doing here,” Elliott asked.

  “How’d you like to walk around the courtyard at Grauman’s?” I said.

  “Dad, you know it’s not called Grauman’s anymore,” Elliott said. “It’s been Mann’s since before I was born, remember?”

  “It’ll always be Grauman’s as far as I’m concerned,” I said, opening my door and waiting for Elliott to do the same. I joined him on the sidewalk and the two of us headed off down the street in search of lost memories. Twenty-five minutes later we were back in the car and headed for home. It just wasn’t the same these days.

  I still took an occasional case just to keep in it, but these days the bulk of the business landed across Elliott’s desk. He had moved in with me shortly after Veronica passed away and Elliott had one room set aside as his home office. His regular business office was in downtown Hollywood, just like me and his grandpa, Matt before me. When I took over the business from my dad, I kept the same office, but updated the interior to reflect the times. I’d had the linoleum carpeted over with a long shag carpet. The chrome and leather furniture that dad liked had been replaced with spindle-legged pieces straight out of the Montgomery Wards catalog.

  That was forty years ago when I, still in my twenties, joined my dad in the investigations business. Dad had his office door repainted with gold lettering that said, “Cooper and Son, Investigations.” Dad was in his early sixties by then and I was doing most of the legwork and heavy lifting, so to speak. But it was Dad’s vast knowledge of the town and the business that I’d found most invaluable.

  Dad was pushing seventy when Elliott came along and I was pretty much running the business alone then. Veronica would occasionally bring Elliott down to my office and let him watch me work, which on most days involved leg dangling and staring out the window down onto the streets of Hollywood. By the time mom would return from her shopping, Elliott would be adept at leg dangling and staring out the window, too.

  Elliott told me that he remembered Matt stopping in at my office. Dad would look around the room and shake his head. And he always said the same thing. “I remember the day I got this office.”

  And I would chime in with him and in unison we’d say “Twelve bucks a month, heat included.”

  And Dad would always say, “Have I told you that before?”

  And I would always answer, “Only about a thousand times, pop.”

  Elliott made sure I was settled in before I announced, “I’m going to stop by the office and check for phone messages. I shouldn’t be long.”

  “What do you want for supper,” I said, opening the cupboards and scouring the inventory.

  “Why don’t we go out tonight?” Elliott said. “My treat.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” I said, closing the cupboards, shuffling over to my easy chair and grabbing the television remote. “I’ll see you later, Elliott.”

  Elliott pulled out of the driveway and drove back to Hollywood. His office was on the third floor in the front. He slipped his key in the hole and turned the knob, half expecting to see my long, shag carpeting and spindle-legged furniture. Of course that was long gone. When Elliott took over the business, a wave of nostalgia washed over him and he had the decorators come in and return the office space to its once glorious post-war look. Walking into the office was like stepping back in time.

  The candlestick phone on the
desk screamed 1940, but hidden inside the phone were modern electronics. The rotary dial had been replaced with a keypad. The answering machine, so to speak, had been replaced with a microchip inside the phone body that recorded incoming messages that could be played back with the right combination of key presses.

  The decorators had found a desk nearly identical to the one grandpa Matt used to put his tired feet up on back before I was born. They even managed to find a reproduction wooden swivel chair to go with the desk. The modern sink I had installed in the early seventies was removed and replaced with a pedestal sink from the twenties era. The sofa they’d brought in looked like it had just been shipped from a forties warehouse. Actually, Elliott had bought it from one of the movie studios, who’d had it in storage for decades. All it took was a reupholster job in black leather and it took its place among the rest of the period pieces.

  When Elliott had the office restored to the 1940s look, he used old photographs from Grandpa Matt’s attic. He kept one of the photos in his desk and every so often he’d pull it out and compare it to what he saw in person. It was a perfect match.

  He didn’t go as far as dressing the part and trying to look like Grandpa Matt did back in the day. No one these days wore porkpie fedoras or double-breasted suits with wide lapels and flowery ties. He left that part to me, and I occasionally joined Elliott on a case now and then dressed in my 1940s finery. I guess Elliott thought of me as more of a novelty in that getup but for some reason my persona sometimes got us some important older clients who remembered what it was like when Matt ran things on his own.

  Elliott picked up the phone, keyed in his code and listened to the messages. The first message was from me, reminding him not to snack on anything since we were going out for dinner later. Elliott hit the Erase button and the second message played.

  A husky voice said, “Mr. Cooper, I’m in trouble. I need your help. Call me.”

  The rest of the short message consisted of the potential client’s name and phone number. Elliott wrote down the name and number in his notebook and took a seat behind the desk. He dialed the number and waited. It rang four times and he was about to hang up when that same husky voice came on the line.

  “Hello,” the man said.”

  “Hello,” Elliott answered. “Cooper Investigations returning your call. What can I do for you?”

  The man hesitated for a moment and then said, “You don’t sound like Cooper.”

  “This is Elliott Cooper,” Elliott explained. “If you’re looking for my dad, Clay, he’s not here and Grandpa Matt hasn’t been here for quite a long time.”

  “Then I guess it’s you I want, Mr. Cooper,” the voice said. “Can you see me right away for a few minutes? What I have to say won’t take long. I want to hire you.”

  “Hold on,” Elliott said. “Back up. Who am I speaking to?”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “My name’s Wendell Harrington.”

  “All right, Mr. Harrington, what’s this all about?” I said.

  He sounded nervous. “I can’t talk about it over the phone,” Harrington said. “I need to see you right away. It’s urgent.”

  “Will this take long?” Elliott said. “I have plans for later tonight.”

  “Just a few minutes of your time is all I need,” Harrington said. “Please, Mr. Cooper, I’m in a real jam and I need your help.”

  “You want me to come to where you are?” Elliott said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Harrington said. “I can be at your office in ten minutes or less.”

  “I’ll be here,” Elliott said, and hung up.

  Ten minutes passed and Wendell Harrington had not shown up. Elliott waited another ten minutes and still no one came. When twenty-five minutes had passed he called Harrington’s number again. It rang twelve times with no response. He figured he must have misdialed and tried the number again. This time a man answered, but it wasn’t Harrington’s husky voice that he heard.

  “Hello, who is this?” the voice said.

  “Who’s this?” Elliott said.

  “This is Lieutenant Hollister, Los Angeles Police Department,” he said. “Now who am I talking to?”

  “Sergeant Hollister,” Elliott said. “It’s Cooper. What are you doing on this phone? Where’s Harrington?”

  “Cooper?” Hollister said. “You don’t sound like…”

  “Elliott Cooper,” Elliott said.

  “Is Clay there?” Hollister asked.

  “No he’s not,” Elliott said. “I’m running the business now. So, back to my original question. Where’s Harrington?”

  “He, uh, can’t come to the phone right now,” Hollister said.

  “Why not?” Elliott said impatiently. “I’ve been waiting nearly half an hour for him to come to my office. Now can I talk to him or not?”

  “Only if you can communicate with the dead,” Hollister said.

  “Huh?”

  “He’s dead, Cooper,” Hollister said. “D-E-A-D, dead. Looks like a professional hit. You wanna come here and see for yourself?”

  “Where are you?” Elliott said.

  Hollister gave Elliott the address and he hurried down to his car. A few minutes of driving and Elliott could see two black and white cruisers and an ambulance, all three with their red lights flashing. He pulled up behind one of the patrol cars and got out. Elliott found Dean Hollister standing on the sidewalk, hovering over a twisted body. The man’s head lay in the street while his body from the waist down lay on the sidewalk. Elliott could see a single bullet hole in the back of his head. He didn’t see an exit wound. Probably shot with a .22 caliber. They bounced around inside the skull and did the most damage. It was the weapon of choice for professional hit men.

  “Is this Harrington?” Elliott said, pointing down at the body.

  “Are you asking me?” Hollister said. “He’s your buddy, you tell me.”

  “Not my buddy,” Elliott said. “I never met the man.”

  “Then why was he on his way to see you?” Hollister said.

  “I never found out,” Elliott said. “He didn’t wanna say anything on the phone and I agreed to meet him at my office in ten minutes. That was forty minutes ago.”

  “He didn’t give you a clue about why he wanted to see you?” Hollister said.

  “Just that he was in trouble and needed my help,” Elliott said.

  “Guess we’ll never know now,” Hollister said.

  “Maybe you won’t,” Elliott said. “But I mean to find out.”

  “What for?” Hollister said. “There’s no one left to pay your bill and whatever you do will be on your dime.”

  “Yeah, but it’s my dime so what’s the difference?” Elliott said.

  Hollister jotted a few notes down in his notebook and looked back at Elliott. “You plan on sharing anything you find with us?”

  “What’s this ‘us’?” Elliott said. “You got a mouse in your pocket or something?”

  “You know what I mean,” Hollister said. “If you find out anything that we can use to find his killer, I want it. Clear?”

  “Clear,” Elliott said. “Look, I gotta go. I’m takin’ dad out for dinner tonight.”

  “Hey,” Hollister said. “You make sure and say hi to Clay for me, will you?”

  “Sure,” Elliott said. “And you give Helen a hug for me.”

  Elliott drove back home and found me still sitting in my easy chair, watching television. “You about ready?” Elliott said.

  “Ready for what?” I said.

  “Dinner?” Elliott said. “Remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, pulling the lever on the side of my chair and creaking to a standing position. “Let’s make like a tree and get out of here.”

  Elliott pointed to my feet. “You might want to put on your shoes first,” he said.

  I looked down at my feet then smiled back up at my son and said, “Oh yeah. Just give me a minute.”

  I slipped into my loafers, grabbed a jacket and
followed Elliott out the front door. I slid into the passenger side of Elliott’s car and he backed out of the driveway. He headed for Hollywood because he knew my favorite place to eat was right there on the boulevard.

  I turned to Elliott. “Your mother and I used to go to this same restaurant all the time,” I said. “In fact, it’s where we met.”

  “When were you going to tell me that?” Elliott said. “Christ, I’m gonna be thirty-two next month and this is the first time you ever mentioned it. What’s up?”

  I thought back for a moment before answering. “Because I thought you should know a little about your roots,” I said. “I’m not going to be around forever, you know.”

  “Hey,” Elliott said, “If your lifeline is anything like grandpa’s, you’ve got another twenty-nine years to go, so don’t be so quick to count yourself out.”

  “Grandpa’s age may or may not have anything to do with how long I’ll last,” I said. “Sometimes those things skip a generation. My dad’s dad only lived to be forty-nine, so you never know.”

  “Yeah,” Elliott said, “But he was hit by a streetcar. At least that’s what grandma told me when I was a kid.”

  “That’s what we wanted you to think back then,” I told him. “We didn’t think you were old enough to handle the truth.”

  Elliott pulled the car up to the curb and put it in park. He turned to me. “And just what was the truth?” he said.

  I hesitated, let out my breath and turned toward my son. “I suppose you’re old enough now, so I guess you’re entitled to the truth,” I said.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Elliott said. “What happened to Grandpa Nick?”

  “It was the summer of 1929,” I said. “It was just a few months before the stock market crash. Dad was only eighteen at the time. In fact, he was the one who found grandpa lying in the street in front of the oil derricks on the outskirts of town. He’d been shot three times in the back. They never found out who did it.”