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

by Bill Bernico

  “This didn’t come from me,” Johnny said quickly.

  “A name,” Hollister said. “If it wasn’t you, then who was it? Come on, spill it.”

  I took a step towards Johnny with the sap, slapping it into my open palm.

  “All right, all right,” Johnny said, talking to Dean, but still keeping his eyes on me. “I’ll tell ya, just keep that goon off me, see?”

  Dean waved me off and pulled a chair up in front of Johnny. He turned it around backwards and threw his leg over the seat, resting his arms on the back of the chair. “A name, Johnny,” Dean said.

  “I want protection, see?” Johnny said. “If these guys ever find out it was me who dropped the dime, my life won’t be worth a plug of chewing tobacco. You gotta promise me protection.”

  Dean looked at me briefly and then turned back to Johnny. “You’ll get your protection, Banta,” he said. “Now give me the name, or my goon, as you call him, is going to get his money’s worth out of that sap.”

  Johnny swallowed hard, cleared his throat murmured in a low tone, “It was Lou. Lou Hogan.”

  I stepped forward again, still holding the sap. “Don’t give us that, Banta. Hogan’s been missing since Bailey’s Bar and Grille blew up three weeks ago.” I pounded the sap into my open palm. “You going to stick with that story, or has your memory suddenly come back to you?”

  “I swear,” Johnny said quickly, “Lou popped the cap on that cop. I seen him.”

  “And you’ll testify to that in court?” Dean said.

  Johnny thought for a moment. “What’s in it for me?”

  “If we get a conviction on Lou, you walk,” Dean said. “If this is a load of crap you’re feeding us and Lou beats the rap, we turn you loose in broad daylight and let nature take its course.”

  Johnny knew that could mean only one thing. He’d never see lunchtime if that happened. “This is on the level,” he said. “I’ll hand him over on a silver platter, but I want protection or you get nothing out of me.”

  “You’ll get your protection, Banta,” I said. “It grates on me to have to protect guys like you from guys like you, but if that’s what it takes to bring Detective Michaels’ killer to justice, we’ll bite the bullet.”

  “What about me?” Johnny said. “Where can you hide me where they won’t find me? Lou has guys everywhere, even right here in this building.”

  “What do you mean, he has guys in this building?” Dean said. “Guys working here or guys spying on county employees?”

  “Working here,” Johnny said. “I don’t know who they are, but every time something big goes down, Lou knows about it in plenty of time to clear out.”

  Dean stood, picked up his notebook and flipped open to the last page. He made a note to himself to check out any moles in the department, then he turned back to the first page in his notebook and read aloud to Johnny. “You’ll be relocated to an as yet unknown city with a new identity and a new face,” Dean said. “They’ll set you up with a job and a guaranteed income for the first six months. After that you’re on your own, so it would be in your best interest to make a go of it. The best thing you can do is stay out of trouble and keep a low profile. Don’t do anything that’ll attract attention to yourself, because you know your buddies are gonna be looking for you. If anyone finds you, it’ll be because of something you said or did or didn’t do. Don’t come looking to us for protection after that. If these terms aren’t acceptable, say so now and you’re free to go—after I make a call to Sonny Delgato.”

  Johnny knew that a call to Sonny would spell his own death before the day was up. He nodded faintly. “All right, I’ll do it.”

  Dean and I each took one of Johnny’s arms and lifted him out of his chair. We pulled him toward the door and banged on it. The door opened and a uniformed officer peered in.

  “Take Mr. Banta to his cell,” Dean said. “We’re going out to pick up Lou Hogan. Tell the captain where we are and have him send two backup units to LaMirada and Wilcox right away. Tell him we’ll be waiting there until backup arrives, then we’re going in.”

  The officer grabbed Banta’s arm and pulled him out of the room. He looked back at Dean. “Right away, Lieutenant,” he said.

  Dean and I drove to Wilcox Avenue and waited half a block from Lou’s apartment. Dean turned to me and smiled. “You did that bad cop-bad cop routine pretty good, Clay. I think we’ll have Banta’s full cooperation on this one thanks to you.”

  “That was kind of fun,” I said. “Why’d you pick me for the role? I’m not even a cop.”

  “Banta didn’t know that, and that worked in my favor,” Dean said. I usually do the good cop-bad cop routine with Sergeant Slocum, but he’s off today and when you showed up this morning, your timing was perfect. I just figured you wouldn’t mind a little role playing. By the way, why did you stop by this morning?”

  “I came down to file something with the County Clerk and had a few minutes to kill afterwards,” I said. “I haven’t seen you since the cookout at your house week before last.”

  “See the kind of fun you’re missing by being a private eye instead of a cop?” Dean said.

  “My job is entertaining enough at times,” I said. “And Elliott keeps me on my toes at the office.”

  A few minutes later, two black-and-whites pulled up behind Dean’s car. The six officers positioned themselves around the building and waited for the signal from Dean. Dean stepped up onto the front porch and waited. He could hear movement inside but it wasn’t the sound of someone in a hurry. Whoever was in there didn’t know the police were waiting just outside his door.

  Dean pounded on the front door and yelled, “Open up, Hogan, police.” Dean quickly stepped to one side. Three bullets tore through the door and whizzed past Dean’s ear. Dean hit the door with his shoulder and burst in. I followed close behind him. The back door nearly came off its hinges as two officers burst into the kitchen. Two other officers waited outside in case Lou Hogan decided to exit through a window.

  I covered the dining room while Dean cautiously eased toward a hallway with several doors. Lou Hogan bounded from one of the bedrooms. He came out shooting. Dean fired once, hitting Hogan in the leg. Hogan went down like a marionette with its strings cut. I joined Dean in the hall and quickly stepped on Hogan’s hand, which was still clutching the automatic. I kicked the gun away and helped Dean pull Lou to his feet.

  “You’re going down, Hogan,” Dean said. “We’ve got you cold for Detective Michaels’ murder. You won’t be slipping out of this one.”

  Hogan gave us his dirtiest look. “Yeah? Says who?” he growled.

  Dean grabbed Lou’s collar and pulled the man toward him. “Says our star witness,” Dean said. “We’re gonna fry your ass. Now get moving.”

  Hogan spat in Hollister’s face. “You got nothin’, copper,” he said.

  Dean clenched his fist and drove it into Hogan’s stomach. The air left Hogan’s lungs in one quick rush. Hogan doubled up and started gasping for air. Dean and I picked him up and pulled him from the house, down the porch steps and out to the street. Dean and I threw him into the back of one of the patrol cars.

  Dean turned to the uniformed cop who stood next to him. “Take that killer downtown. We’ll be there in a few minutes. And take good care of that collar. He’s the one who buttoned Detective Michaels.”

  The cop sneered and nodded. “We’ll get him there, Lieutenant. But, boy, if I could just have five minutes with him behind the courthouse.”

  “I know how you feel,” Dean said. “But we have to make sure we cross our T’s and dot our I’s. I don’t want this maggot walking on any loopholes.”

  The killer’s trial lasted just short of three weeks and ended in the conviction of Lou Hogan for the murder of Detective Alan Michaels. Hogan was sentenced to death. Asked if he had any final words for the court, Lou simply spat at the judge and was dragged away in chains.

  Johnny Banta’s transformation had been underway for little more than a m
onth when Dean entered the hospital room where Banta lay. Dean and I were dressed in white from head to toe and looked like ambulance attendants. Johnny’s face was wrapped in white bandages like a mummy, with just holes for his eyes, nose and mouth. Banta’s right wrist was shackled to the bed.

  Dean pulled a small key ring from his jacket pocket and fingered through the keys until he came to the one that fit the handcuffs. He inserted it into the cuff on Johnny’s wrist and twisted. The cuff popped open and Johnny pulled his wrist up to his chest and rubbed it with his left hand.

  “Rise and shine, Calvin,” Dean said. “It’s D-Day.”

  “D-Day?” Johnny said through the bandages. “And who the hell is Calvin?”

  “D for Dodge,” Hollister said. “Today’s the day we want you out of Dodge—by sundown. And Calvin is your new name. Calvin Pruitt. Now let’s go. Get outta that bed and get dressed.”

  “Calvin Pruitt?” Johnny complained. “I ain’t no Calvin. Calvin’s the name of some worm of an accountant from Jersey. Calvin is a shoe salesman.”

  “Maybe you’d rather be Dash Riprock, movie star,” I said. “Yeah, I like that. How many Dash Riprocks do you suppose there’d be out there. You’d be easy to find.”

  “I guess I can live with Calvin,” Johnny agreed. “But what about my new job?”

  Dean smiled wryly. “You run the Pruitt Lawn Care business,” he said. “From now on you’ll be mowing lawns, trimming hedges, pulling weeds and pruning branches. Doesn’t that sound exciting, Calvin?”

  “In your dreams,” Johnny said. “I ain’t no gardener. Get me some other line of work.”

  “Well,” Dean said, “there is one other opening, but I was saving that for the next witness protection guy—hopefully someone with more class than you.”

  “What is it?” Johnny said.

  “Pizza delivery boy,” Dean said, laughing. “It comes with the cutest uniform this side of San Bernardino. I think I could even pull some strings and get you one of those coin changers for your belt.”

  I tapped Dean on the shoulder. “There is that one other job,” I said. “That is, if you think he could handle it.”

  “Which job was that?” Dean said, playing along with me.

  “You know,” I said. “It involves driving that nice truck and making all those pickups on the route.”

  Dean still had no idea where I was going with this but kept it going anyway. “That’s too nice a job for Calvin, here,” he said.

  “Come on,” Johnny said. “Let me have that one. I’m a good truck driver.”

  I looked at Dean. “What do you think?” I said. “You wanna give Calvin here a shot at driving the septic tank truck route?”

  Dean looked Johnny up and down and pretended to think seriously about it. “Well, Calvin,” Dean said. “I think we could swing it for you. How would you feel about pumping out septic tanks all day long. You know, I hear that if you smear a little Vick’s Vapo Rub under your nose, after while you won’t even smell your load anymore.”

  Johnny Banta wasn’t amused. “Pruitt Lawn Care, eh?” he said. “I guess it beats sloppin’ the hogs on some ranch. What about these damned bandages? My face itches. When do I get these off?”

  “You want them off right now?” Dean said, “So you can walk out of here and let someone see your new face? I’d like that but it wouldn’t look good on my record to have my witness killed before I get him out of town. Any more questions, or can we get moving?”

  “Like I’m not going to be conspicuous walking out of here looking like this?” Johnny said.

  “You ain’t walking out,” I said. I stepped out into the hall and pulled a gurney back into the room. I pulled the sheet back and pointed to the gurney. “Climb up, lay down and keep very still,” I said. “We’ll wheel you out, with this sheet over your head, to a waiting ambulance. Once we’re under way, you can sit up and we’ll cut off the bandages. Now climb up here, shut your mouth and act like a stiff.”

  Johnny did as he was told and we pulled the sheet over his bandaged face and wheeled him into the elevator. The door closed and we rode the elevator down to the basement and pushed Johnny out to an ambulance that had been backed in with its rear doors standing wide open.

  I helped push the gurney into the ambulance and closed the rear doors. I slid in behind the wheel while Dean sat opposite me. The ambulance quietly pulled out into traffic and headed south out of town. A few blocks away Dean left his seat and took up a position next to the gurney, pulling a curtain shut that separated the driver’s compartment from the rear area. He flipped the sheet back and pulled Johnny to a sitting position.

  Johnny’s eyes darted about the van and settled on a shiny pair of scissors that Dean held in his hand. He took hold of Johnny’s shoulder and pulled him closer.

  “Hold still while I cut these off,” he told Johnny.

  Dean slipped one blade of the scissors under the bandage and began snipping up along one cheek. He moved the scissors to the other side and slit it open. The bandages came off in two neat pieces. Johnny rubbed his face and flexed his jaw.

  “Got a mirror?” Johnny said.

  Dean reached behind him and pulled a hand-held mirror from a drawer and handed it to Johnny.

  Johnny slowly held the mirror up and looked at his reflection. His mouth dropped open when he saw the stranger looking back at him from the mirror.

  “Say hi to Calvin Pruitt,” Dean said.

  “That’s Calvin Pruitt?” Johnny said. “He looks like a dork, like someone I used to beat up just for looking like that. I didn’t bargain for any of this crap.”

  “What choice do you have, Banta?” Dean said.

  “I think I’d rather be dead,” Johnny said.

  Dean pulled back the curtain and said, “Clay, forget the original plan. Banta here would rather be dead. Take him back to the city and drop him off on Wilcox Avenue.”

  “All right, Hollister,” Johnny said. “You made your point. Let’s get this dog and pony show on the road.”

  Thirty minutes later I pulled off the main highway and onto a dirt road. I followed it for a mile and a half before pulling up behind a large Buick sedan. I killed the engine and hurried to the back of the ambulance, pulling both doors open.

  “Let’s go, Johnny,” I said, gesturing with my hands.

  Johnny looked at Dean and then back at me. “Hey, what is this shit?” he said.

  Dean pushed Johnny out of the van. “You didn’t think we were gonna pull up to your new house in an ambulance, did you?” Dean said. “Low key, remember? Now get in the Buick.”

  A large man got out from behind the wheel of the Buick as I opened its door. I gestured toward the ambulance. “Take her back to the hospital. Johnson will drive you back to the precinct. We’ll take Banta the rest of the way and meet you back in town tonight.”

  The man slid behind the wheel of the ambulance, made a U-turn and sped away. I opened the back door and pushed Johnny inside, following him in. Dean took the wheel and made his own U-turn and picked up the highway again.

  We drove for seven hours, stopping only once for gas and food. As the sun was setting, the large Buick pulled into a new subdivision and circled the block once before settling in the driveway of a ranch house with an attached garage.

  Dean got out, pulled the overhead garage door open and returned to the car, pulling it into the garage and closing the door behind him. Dean opened the back door and pulled Johnny out. The three of us entered the house through the garage, pausing to look at the pickup truck parked there. Lettering on the side identified it as Pruitt’s Lawn Care Service.

  I looked back at Johnny. “Can’t you just hear the hum of the lawnmower already, Calvin?” I said.

  Johnny walked right past the truck, trying not to give me the satisfaction of letting his needling get to him. Dean slipped a key into the door that connected the garage and the house and the three of us stepped inside.

  Johnny looked around and sighed. “So this is suburbia
, eh?” he said.

  “Get used to it,” Dean said, throwing the house keys down on the kitchen table next to a black book. “That’s your appointment book and your customer list. You start work tomorrow morning, but from now on, you’re on your own. We’ll be checking up on you every so often. One wrong move and your headstone will read “Calvin Pruitt—idiot.” And remember, Banta, from this minute forward you are Calvin Pruitt. Johnny Banta doesn’t exist anymore. You let your old name slip to the wrong person and you’ll end up getting yourself killed. Not that I’d lose any sleep over it, you understand.”

  Dean looked back at me and tossed his head to one side. “Let’s get outta here, Clay,” Dean said.

  I followed Dean toward the garage door and paused before leaving. Dean turned toward Johnny. “One last thing, Calvin,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Johnny said.

  “This,” Dean said, bunching up his fist and driving it into Johnny’s stomach with all he had. “That’s for Detective Michaels.”

  As Johnny knelt bunched up, I brought my closed fists down on the back of his neck. “And that’s for this rotten system that allows scum like you to get away with murder,” I said.

  Johnny Banta, a.k.a. Calvin Pruitt lay in a prone position on the kitchen floor. Dean and I stepped over him, returned to the Buick, backed out of the driveway and drove away. We spent that night at a motel in the next town and returned to the city the following morning.

  Three weeks and four days after Pruitt’s Lawn Care Service began operations, Calvin Pruitt, a.k.a. Johnny Banta, took a call from a man asking about prices for lawn services. Calvin agreed to meet with him at the man’s house on Vista Drive. The Pruitt truck pulled out of the driveway and drove south on Highway Seven. Johnny had driven just three miles when his truck was forced off the road by a bright yellow and red van driven by a young man with long greasy blonde hair.

  The road was deserted. Johnny pulled over and stopped. The van stopped ahead of him. The young man got out and walked back toward Johnny’s gardening truck. Johnny hopped out of the truck, ready to pound some sense into the careless kid. Instead the kid unzipped his jacket and withdrew a .45 automatic and leveled it at Johnny’s head.