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

by Bill Bernico

  “There’s American Music on Vine near Sunset,” the kid said. “They might have something like that.”

  “Thanks,” Gloria said. “I’ll try them.”

  We left the store and walked back toward Gloria’s Jeep.

  “You picking up any helpful information?” Gloria said.

  “I’m learning that I couldn’t afford to support a habit like guitars,” I said. “Too rich for my blood.”

  “They can be,” Gloria said. “But it isn’t, if all you want is basic function out of a guitar. You can get a good one for three or four hundred bucks.”

  “Then why would someone pay thirty grand for any guitar?” I said.

  “Why would anyone pay thousands of dollars for a single bottle of wine?” Gloria said.

  “Investment?” I said.

  “Same with a good vintage guitar,” Gloria said. “But like in any other area, there are going to be guitar snobs who insist that they can tell the difference between the sound of an ash body guitar versus a basswood body. Most people wouldn’t know the difference and I’ll bet these pretentious chuckleheads could be fooled as well. It all in your perception.”

  We drove south to Sunset and then east to Vine and found the American Music store midway down the block. This store was easily three times the size of the one we’d just left. All the instruments in here were tastefully displayed and the salesmen looked more like country club members than has-been hippies. We walked up to one guy who was standing behind a counter, leaning on the glass top.

  “Hello,” he said. “My name is Chad. May I help you?”

  I was immediately impressed that he used ‘may’ and not ‘can’.

  Gloria smiled at him and said, “Hi, Chad. I’m Gloria and this is Elliott. We’re looking for an electric guitar.”

  “We have many fine instruments,” Chad said. “Is this for you?”

  “No,” Gloria explained. “I’m trying to find one for a friend of mine.”

  “And what is his skill level?” Chad said. “That is, is he a beginner, intermediate or professional?”

  “Quite skilled,” Gloria said. “And he’s very specific in what he’d like.”

  “Pardon my asking,” Chad said, “but why doesn’t he shop for his own guitar?”

  “I’ve known him for a long time,” Gloria said. “I know what he’d like and what he wants is a Gibson ES-335.”

  “I have several,” Chad said. “Won’t you follow me?”

  Chad led us to an enclosed room with a large glass window. Inside hung the more expensive models that the average customer wasn’t allowed to touch without assistance from a salesman.

  Gloria pointed to a sunburst model and nodded. “What year is that one?” she said.

  Chad’s eyebrows went up. “These are all new models,” he said.

  “Well,” Gloria said, “I was looking for a ‘59. Anything like that here?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Chad said. “There’s such a limited market for thirty-thousand dollar guitars.”

  “Chad,” Gloria said, pulling Chad aside. “If a person wanted an exact replica of a ‘59 Gibson, where would they find one?”

  “I’m sorry,” Chad said. “But those aren’t legal in this country. Oh, I know there are some Chinese factories that turn out Gibson copies, complete with the Gibson script logo on the headstock and even a serial number on the back, but we’d never deal in something like that.”

  I stepped up to the two of them. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” I said. “Has anyone ever approached this store trying to sell a Chinese copy of the Gibson Gloria described?”

  “I would never entertain the idea,” Chad said.

  “That’s not what I asked,” I said. “Has anyone ever brought you one of these fakes, looking to sell it?”

  Chad looked both ways and then at me. “Police?” he said.

  I held up my I.D. “Private,” I said. “We’re trying to track down one of these fakes for our client.”

  Chad looked at Gloria, who by now had her own I.D. held up in plain sight. He looked back at me and said, “Well, there was a guy in here not twenty minutes ago. He showed me what he said was a Gibson ES-335 and laid the case open on the counter. Well, I could tell in a minute that it was not real and I told him right out that we don’t deal in this kind of merchandise.”

  “Did you happen to get his name?” I said.

  “He never told me,” Chad said.

  “Is that all he said to you about the guitar?” Gloria said.

  “He admitted that it was a fake and asked if I knew of anyone looking for something like the one he had. I told him no and he said he’d pay me a bird dog fee if I could come up with a buyer. He left me a card with his number on it. As soon as he left the store I threw the card away.”

  “Is it still in the trash?” Gloria said.

  “It should be,” Chad said. “Let me have a look.” Chad stepped behind the counter and picked up the waste can. He reached in and withdrew a small piece of cardstock with a phone number scribbled on it and handed it over to Gloria.

  “Thank you so much, Chad,” Gloria said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Chad said. “I hope you find this guy and get that guitar out of circulation. Those things give everybody a bad name.”

  Gloria and I left the store and climbed back into her Jeep. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed the number from the card. She handed it to me. “Just in case he’d recognize my voice,” she said. It rang three times before a man answered.

  “Yeah?” the man said.

  “I was in American Music a while ago,” I said. “The clerk there told me you have a Gibson for sale. Is that right?”

  “Depends,” the man said. “Who wants to know?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “And who are you?” the man said suspiciously.

  “My name’s Elliott Cooper,” I said. “Do you have a guitar for sale or not? If not I’ll have to look somewhere else. If so, let’s talk. I’d like to see the guitar.”

  There was a pause on the other end and then he said, “You know where MacArthur Park is?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll be there in thirty minutes with the guitar,” the man said. “I’ll be on the north end of the park sitting on the bench near Sixth and Alvarado. You can’t miss me. I’ll be the one with the guitar case. This is the only chance you’ll get to see it, so bring twelve hundred dollars and we can make the exchange. How will I know you?”

  “I’ll be wearing a black Santana t-shirt and jeans,” I said.

  “If you’re not there in thirty minutes, I’ll leave,” the man said. “If I see you with anyone else, I’ll leave, so don’t try anything funny.”

  “Hey,” I said, indignantly, “all I want is a guitar. What’s with all this cloak and dagger?”

  “Can’t be too careful,” the man said. “I’ll see you in thirty minutes and bring the cash.”

  I started to answer but the phone went dead.

  “Looks like we’re all set,” I told Gloria. “He’ll know your Jeep if he’s watching. Better take me back to my car.”

  We drove back to the strip mall and I slid out of Gloria’s Jeep. I turned back to her and said, “Better park a couple of blocks away and walk over.”

  “You’re not wearing a black Santana t-shirt,” she said.

  “Take a look over your shoulder,” I told her.

  Gloria turned around and looked into the window of a t-shirt shop and hanging in the front window was a black Santana t-shirt. She turned back to me. “Clever,” she said.

  “I noticed it when I left my car here earlier,” I said.

  “Say, you are observant,” Gloria said.

  “Find a good vantage point and keep an eye on things,” I told her. “I’m sure his partner won’t be far away.”

  Gloria agreed and drove off. I hurried into the store and bought the t-shirt that would identify me to the guy
with the guitar. I slid behind the wheel of my car and backed out of my space. MacArthur Park was only twenty minutes from where I was and that gave me some breathing room. I parked along the north edge of the park on Sixth Street and began walking toward Alvarado, turning down the sidewalk when I got to the corner. I’d walked just a few dozen yards when I spotted a man with a guitar case. He was sitting on a bench, the case at his feet. To his left and behind him ten yards, I spotted another man trying too hard to look like he wasn’t watching the first man. I kept walking until I got to the bench.

  I stopped in front of the bench and looked at the man. He was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six with blonde, shoulder-length, greasy hair, blue eyes, about five-nine or ten, a hundred seventy-five or so. He had on dirty blue jeans and a black t-shirt with a picture of The Doobie Brothers on the front. He was exactly as Gloria had described him, right down to the pimple on his neck.

  “Is that a Gibson?” I said, pointing to the case.

  The guy nodded. “Wanna see?” he said.

  “Sure,” I said and stepped up.

  The kid stood and laid the guitar case on the bench and flipped the locks open, lifting the case’s lid to reveal what looked like an ES-335.

  “She’s a beauty,” I said. “Is she for sale?”

  “For the right price,” he said.

  “Would you take twelve hundred for it?” I said.

  “Show me the money,” he said.

  I made the gesture of reaching into my front pants pocket. The kid eyed my t-shirt and nodded. Then I caught a glint in his eye as he looked past me. I felt something hard pressed into my back and heard a low, throaty voice telling me to keep still and be quiet.

  I looked up the sidewalk toward the corner and saw an old woman slowly walking our way. She was wearing a full-length floral print dress and black shoes. Her gray hair was covered with a scarf and she was wearing sunglasses.

  The hard thing pressed into my back and the man behind me said, “Not a word, you understand?”

  I nodded and waited for the old woman to pass us. When she got to where we were standing, she stopped and looked at the guy behind me. “Excuse me young man,” she said in a frail voice. “Could you tell me how to get to Seventh Street?”

  “One block over,” the guy behind me said, gesturing with his chin.

  “Thank you so much,” the woman said, placing her hand on the guy’s shoulder. In an instant she dropped her hand, clamped down on the guy’s wrist, and twisted. The guy yelped and dropped the gun he’d been holding. Gloria picked it up and stuck it in the guy’s ribs.

  “Sit over there next to your partner,” she barked. She turned to the guy with the guitar. “You too, sit down.”

  By now, I had my .38 trained on both the men. Gloria handed me the guy’s gun and pulled the gray wig off her head, stepping out of the floral print dress. Both men’s eyes got wide when they recognized the woman they’d left unconscious in that house.

  Gloria stepped over to the man with the guitar and ordered him to stand. When he did, she dug her hand into his front pocket and came out with a wad of bills. She counted the bills and turned to me. “It’s all here,” she said and turned to the man with the guitar. She pulled the man’s wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open to the driver’s license.

  “Charles Dobbins,” she said. “Well, Chuckie, I know where you live. Keep that in mind.” She turned to the second guy and fished his wallet out of his back pocket. His driver’s license identified him as Arthur Travis. His was the address on the other side of LaBrea. “So that was your pad, huh Artie?”

  Artie looked sheepish and then turned his head away from Gloria.

  She grabbed him by the chin, the way a mother would just before she spits on her handkerchief and wipes the kid’s face.

  “Listen up, Artie,” Gloria said. “The way I see it, you’ve got a couple of choices. One, I can turn you over to the police and charge you with assault and battery as well as robbery. Two, I could plug you both here and claim self-defense. Three, Elliott here could stand watch while I kick the livin’ shit out of both of you. Or four, I can just take this guitar and walk away, which I’d do anyway after any of the first three options. So what’ll it be, boys?”

  They looked at each other and shrugged. The first guy snapped the case shut and handed it to me. “Go on,” he said. “Take it and go.”

  Gloria took the case from him and turned to face the second man. She swung her foot up and connected with the man’s crotch. His eyes widened and the breath came out of him all at once. He dropped to his knees, his hands cupping his crotch. He was even facing east so he could have passed for some Muslim praying to Allah. “That’s for hitting me on the head, you son-of-a-bitch.”

  She turned back to the first man. “Your turn.”

  He turned and ran as fast as he could toward the MacArthur Park pond and never looked back. I holstered my .38 and Gloria dropped the man’s revolver into her purse. She and I both laughed and walked away with the guitar.

  “Say, you really are a master of disguises,” I said. “And you looked so helpless and vulnerable.”

  “All part of the job,” she said.

  I got back to my car and offered to drive Gloria back to where she’d parked. A couple blocks away we found her Jeep sitting at the curb. Gloria got out and tossed the guitar in the back of her Jeep and said, “I guess I’ll see you back at the office, boss.”

  We both parked behind my building and rode the elevator to the third floor. Gloria set the guitar down just inside my door and flopped down on my couch, clasping her hands behind her head and smiling.

  “Oh yeah,” she said. This is gonna be fun.”

  I sat next to Gloria on the couch and turned toward her. “I have to admit,” I said. “I was skeptical when you first came in here looking for a job. But I don’t mind saying that I think you’ll fit right in with the business.” I held my hand out and she shook it. When I tried to pull away I noticed Gloria wasn’t letting go.

  “Thanks, Elliott,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” I said.

  “Just for giving me the chance to show you what I could do,” she said.

  I rubbed my cheek where she’d kissed me. “Don’t you think you’d better call your client and let him know you got his guitar back?”

  “Ooh, yeah,” she said, jumping up off the couch and hurrying to my desk. She reached for the phone but I interrupted her.

  “Uh uh,” I said. “That’s my desk. “Your desk is over there.” I pointed to the desk and chair she’d had brought in.”

  She got out of my chair, stepped over to her own desk, and sat. She unconsciously reached for the phone and then looked over at me. “Guess you better order another phone, Elliott.”

  “I’m on it, partner,” I said.

  45 - Mutiny On A Bounty

  It was a quarter to one and I’d used up most of my lunch hour at the sporting goods store. I’d stopped in to buy a box of ammunition for my .38 revolver. That in itself should have only taken ten minutes, but some of the newer models of handguns that they had on display there distracted me. Before I knew it, I’d wasted forty minutes and I needed to get back to the office by one o’clock. Gloria was holding down the fort until I returned and she was competent enough, but I needed to set a good example for her by not staying away past my hour. I couldn’t expect her to be on time if I wasn’t.

  I slipped behind the wheel of my car and headed back to the office. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I had neglected to fill it during this hour. I spotted a fast food burger joint half a block ahead and pulled into the parking lot. I would have driven through the drive-thru window, but the line for that was at least eight cars long and I knew I could get faster service by simply going inside and waiting at the counter.

  There were three lines at the counter, the shortest of which had just two people in it. I fell in behind the last man in that short line. There was a woman ahead of him an
d from the looks of it, she’d ordered enough food to feed a small army. She finally got all of her order and left with four bags full of food and a cardboard tray with four large drinks on it. The man ahead of me stepped up and placed his order. I glanced at my watch. If someone waited on me right away, I could still grab a burger and a shake, eat it on the way back to the office and still make it back in time.

  Just before the guy ahead of me got his order I saw another man come in through one of the side doors and walk immediately up to and behind the service counter. He stepped back behind the warming rack, coffee pot station and ice cream dispenser. He looked as out of place back there as a ballet dancer in a foundry. I kept one eye on him as I waited for my turn at the counter.

  I saw his hand go into his coat and come out with a small handgun. He was pointing it at a woman in a white dress shirt. All the other workers here had blue shirts, so I assumed she was the manager. She glanced down at the handgun and her eyes got wide and scared. She backed away from the man and bumped into a young woman who was making fries. The young woman turned around, excusing herself. When she looked up and saw what was happening she cringed and backed away. The gunman was guiding the manager back toward the office when I saw the young woman grab a large salt shaker, twist the top off it and dump the salt on the floor. She scooped the shaker into the hot oil that the fries were cooking in and quietly walked up behind the gunman, dumping the contents of the shaker down his neck.

  The gunman screamed a high-pitched scream, dropped his gun and grabbed his neck. He was writhing on the floor by the time I came back there with my .38 drawn.

  The manager took one look at me and my handgun and said, “Oh no. Two of them.”

  I held both of my hands up, pointing my weapon at the ceiling. “Oh no,” I said. “I’m not with him.” I pulled out my I.D. and showed it to the manager. “Elliott Cooper,” I said. “Better call the cops and an ambulance.” I picked up the gun the robber had dropped and slipped it into my pocket.

  The manager approached me, followed by the young woman. The manager gestured toward her employee. “Is Tracy here going to get into trouble for pouring the hot oil on that guy?”