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

by Bill Bernico

  “As much as you can steer my way, Mr. Powell,” I said. “I really appreciate the work.”

  Carlton Powell pulled a large checkbook from his desk drawer and opened it to the next available check. He filled out the check, tore it out of the book and handed it to me. I looked at it and my eyes got wide.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Powell” I said. “But this is more than we agreed on. Are you sure this is what you meant to write?”

  Powell nodded. “Quite sure, Mr. Cooper,” he said. “It would have been a bargain at twice that amount. I forgot to ask you the first time you were in my office, but would you have some business cards that I could pass out for you?”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew the plastic case that held a dozen of my cards. I took all of them out and gave them to Carlton Powell. I felt like Johnny Appleseed, anticipating a bumper crop of business from these cards.

  He extended his hand and I shook it. When I let go, I remembered the USB drive in my pocket. I handed it to Powell. “Here is your copy of all those videos. I’ve combined them all onto this one jump drive. Just plug it into your computer and click the icon for your multimedia player.”

  I packed up the twelve mini monitors into my suitcase, closed it and walked back out of Mr. Powell’s office happier than I’ve been in a long time. This business that my grandfather had started all those years ago was finally paying off big time and I was proud to have made that happen, not only for me, but for my family and my dad.

  We could finally be a family business once again, only this time, we’d do it up in style.

  79 - Single File

  It was the weekend of the big bike rally and I was ready. Our Private Investigations office wasn’t open today and if anyone called for our services, the machine could take a message. Gloria was back in tip-top shape after having the baby. She looked forward to our bike outings and she was getting her figure back with all this exercise.

  I wore my cut-off jeans and red tee shirt with a picture of The Beatles across the front. My shoes were nothing special, just a pair of sneakers. I didn’t bother with those fingerless biking gloves or slender, sunglasses. I skipped the biking helmet in favor of a tan baseball cap.

  My wife Gloria and I had taken this fifteen-mile trek on several occasions and this weekend we were going with another couple that she knew from the Y.M.C.A. We’d arranged to meet at the edge of town and begin our trek from there. I got our two bikes loaded into the back of my new cargo van and honked the horn. Gloria had arranged for a babysitter for Matt. A minute later she came out of the house carrying two water bottles.

  “What always takes you so long to get ready?” I said, impatient to get started.

  Gloria held up the two plastic water bottles with their pull-up caps. “You’d have gone without these if I hadn’t…”

  “Never mind,” I said. “We’re supposed to meet Brad and Tammy in ten minutes. Let’s just get moving.”

  I arrived at the meeting place in just under nine minutes and had the bikes unloaded before our ten-minute limit had elapsed. Gloria slid the two water bottles into their prospective holders on our bikes and took her bike from my grasp. Brad and Tammy were already on their bikes riding laps around the parking lot. They pulled up to where we stood.

  Brad wore a form-fitting orange biking shirt and matching spandex pants that came down to mid-calf. Brad’s shoes were special, glow-in-the-dark orange biking shoes with pink laces. He wore those fancy fingerless biking gloves and sleek, trendy biking sunglasses. His streamlined biking helmet sported a rear-view mirror that hung down and to the left of his eye so he could see traffic approaching from behind. He was everything the well-equipped biker should be and he didn’t care who knew it. Personally, I thought he looked like something from another planet.

  “You ready, grandpa?” Brad said.

  “Don’t gimme that grandpa crap,” I said. “You’re only six months younger than me.”

  Brad snickered and pedaled off ahead of me, challenging me to keep up. Gloria and Tammy fell in behind us as we steered up onto the county road. The county had equipped this road and several others with bike paths. The paths were nothing more than a painted white line that separated the road itself from the three-foot area next to the shoulder, designated for bicyclists. Ahead of us we could see maybe sixty other bikers already on their way to the next county, which lay a mere fifteen miles north of us. That was our goal for this beautiful sunny summer day. Another thirty or so bikers were still in the parking lot, ready to fall in behind us.

  I had the inside lane, closest to the shoulder of the road while Brad took up a spot alongside me closer to the road. We pedaled along for a few minutes before we heard the first honk of a car horn behind us. The car slowed down, waiting for oncoming traffic to pass the spot where he’d encountered us. When the road was clear he accelerated and went around Brad and me. As the driver passed us I could see him hunching his shoulders and raising both hands in the air in disgust.

  “What’s his problem?” Brad said as he continued straight ahead, next to me.

  “I think he’s trying to tell you to get in line on the bike path,” I said. “You’re holding up traffic.”

  “Piss on him,” Brad said. “Bicyclists have just as much right to use the road as the cars do. I ain’t getting’ over. If they don’t like it, they can go around me.”

  “Then why did the county bother putting in these bike lanes,” I said, pointing to the white line that was streaming past between us.

  “Yeah,” Brad said, “that would make for a real interesting trip riding the whole way there lookin’ at your skinny ass. Besides, how else are we gonna talk?”

  I shook my head and said, “I’m just tellin’ you that that’s why you’re getting the horn honks and the gestures.”

  “Too bad,” Brad said. “I’m stayin’ where I am.”

  We pedaled along for another mile and a half when the second car laid on his horn, trying to get Brad to fall in line with the other bikers. He stayed where he was and ignored the irate motorist. This one slowed down, rolled the passenger side window down and yelled, “Single file, idiot” at the top of his lungs as he passed. Brad flipped him the bird and kept pedaling.

  “One of these days,” I said, “you’re gonna piss off the wrong guy and he’s gonna run you down. You’d ruin that nice orange girdle bouncing along on the asphalt.”

  “This isn’t a girdle,” Brad protested. “It’s the latest in spandex…”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “A spandex girdle.” I laughed and pedaled faster, putting some distance between us.

  Brad caught up with me before slowing down and falling in beside me again. “What’s your hurry?” Brad said. “We got all afternoon. You gotta learn to pace yourself, pops.”

  “I was trying to give you a chance to fall in behind me and stop being a menace to the drivers out here,” I said.

  Brad pointed to several groups of bikers ahead of us. “Look at them,” he said. “Some of them are riding two abreast. Why don’t you pedal on ahead of me and give them the same speech about riding single file?”

  I just sighed and shook my head. “Forget it, you stubborn, pig-headed old fart. It’s your funeral.”

  We’d gone another two miles before the next car horn sounded in Brad’s ear. Brad tried to ignore the idiot and kept looking straight ahead. The driver honked again as he passed us. From out his rolled down passenger window Brad could barely make out what this guy was yelling.

  “A-hole,” the guy yelled, pointing ahead of us. His bright yellow Hummer sped past and he was obviously yelling at the bikers ahead of us who were also riding two abreast. They must have gotten tired of hearing motorists yelling at them because one by one we could see the bikers ahead of us falling into a single line.

  I pointed ahead. “See,” I said. “He must be getting to the rest of those guys ‘cause they’re all riding single file now.”

  “Well, he ain’t getting’ to me,” Brad said,
madder than ever now. “I have a right to ride on this road, same as any car. And I am not getting over. Now would you drop this whole…”

  Brad’s rant was cut short in mid-sentence as the front tire of his bike struck a large pothole and sent the rear tire careening over his head. Brad flew over the handlebars and landed with a thud and a crack onto his two hands. The bike toppled down on top of him as he lay there. He complained that his chest also hurt after it had hit the pavement. The impact tore a six-inch patch out of his brand new spandex top. He was bleeding from his upper chest, his right elbow, both knees and his nose.

  Tammy hopped off her bike, let it fall into the ditch and knelt next to Brad. “Are you all right?” She almost screamed when she saw all the blood.

  I got off my bike and now Gloria was also trying to sit Brad up and assess any damages. I sat next to Brad and almost yelled, “Good grief, are you all right?”

  When his head stopped spinning Brad spit out a mouthful of blood, along with two teeth and tried to speak. He stopped when his tongue found no resistance where his front teeth used to be. “Thun of a bith,” Brad said through the gap in his mouth. “Thereth thixth thouthand bucths out the fuckin’ window. My dentith ith gonna thit when he theez me.”

  I looked behind Brad at the twelve hundred dollar bicycle that lay in a heap on the road. The front tire was still wedged in the enormous pothole that lay just eighteen inches outside of the white line that separated the road from the bike path. The front tire was mangled beyond repair. The front fork was twisted and the handlebars pointed upwards at an odd angle.

  On the other side of the road I could see something yellow stopping. I wondered who ordered a taxi way out here but then I realized it was the big yellow Hummer that had just passed us. The driver came over to where we were huddled on the side of the road.

  Brad found strength he didn’t know he had as his adrenalin kicked in and he tried to stand. I held Brad down and he just looked up at the driver now. “What do you mean yelling at me and calling me an A-Hole?” he said indignantly. “I have just as much right to ride my bike on this road as you and furthermore…”

  “Hold on there,” the driver said in his defense. “I didn’t call you an A-Hole. I was trying to warn you. I live a few miles north of here and I know every inch of this road. I was yelling that there’s a hole up ahead and that you should get on the bike path. I guess I was going by too fast for you to hear the entire warning. Sorry.”

  The driver walked back to his Hummer, slid in behind the wheel and was starting his engine before Brad could get his foot out of his mouth. The driver motioned for me to put Brad into the back seat of his vehicle.

  Gloria and I helped Brad to his feet and eased him into the back of the Hummer. Tammy ran around to the other side of the car and slid in next to Brad. He rolled the window down and said to me, “Can you watch my bike ‘til we get back? I’ll come back with my car and pick you both up.”

  “Sure thing…” I said as the Hummer sped off toward the emergency room, “A-Hole.”

  80 - Home, Home Within Range

  Dad was on his way to see Joe Finley, an old friend of his from Glendale. Dad asked me to accompany him this afternoon because he thought I could do some good the Mr. Finley. He was the owner of Finley Construction and he had mentioned to Dad that he was having a lot of trouble with expensive equipment disappearing from several of his jobsites. I told Dad I’d at least listen to what Finley had to say before deciding whether or not I could help him.

  I pulled my van into Finley’s worksite parking area. It fit right in with the other vans and pickup trucks already parked there. Most of them had Finley’s business name printed on their sides along with his phone number and web site address. That was something Dad still had trouble getting used to—a www address printed on nearly everything these days. But it was the future and the future was here now. My own business cards included our home page URL next to our phone number and address. I opted not to have any of this information included on the side of my van. Driving around in a marked van would make it extremely difficult to conduct undercover work.

  Dad and I got out of the van and walked over to where three men in yellow hard hats stood talking and looking over a partially rolled out blueprint. One of the men pointed up to an unfinished portion of the building under construction at this site. The man holding the blueprint pointed to a spot on the paper and made a circular motion with his finger, bringing it down on the paper for emphasis.

  “That’s Joe,” Dad said, pointing with his chin at the man holding the blueprint roll. “Come on,” I’ll introduce you.”

  As we approached the three men, Finley turned and saw Dad and me coming his way. He said something to the other two men and they walked away before we caught up with Joe.

  “Joe,” Dad said. “You’re looking fit today.”

  “Clay,” Finley said, “You always were a good liar.” He looked at me and said to Dad, “This has to be Elliott. I can see you in his face. Hell, I can see some of Matt, too.”

  Dad gestured toward me with his hand. “Joe Finley, I’d like you to meet my son, Elliott Cooper,” Dad said with a bit of pride in his voice. Then he turned to me and said, “Elliott, this is Joe Finley, an old and dear friend of mine.”

  I extended my hand and Finley took it. He had a grip like a bench vice and I had to shake the circulation back into my hand when he finally released it. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Mr. Finley,” I said. “Dad has told me so much about you over the years that I feel like I already know you.”

  “Same here,” Finley said. “I could have picked you out of a crowd. Hell, if I had a dollar for every time your ad has shown me a picture of you while you were growing up, I wouldn’t have to be working now.”

  “He’s exaggerating,” Dad said. “I couldn’t have shown him your pictures more than a dozen times and who can retire on twelve dollars?”

  “So Clay tells me you recently became a father,” Finley said, slapping the side of my shoulder. Then he turned back to Dad and added, “Isn’t that right, Grandpa?”

  “Look who’s talking,” Dad said. “You’re a grandfather four times over, you old coot.”

  “All right, all right,” Finley said. “We could go on and on about who’s older.” Finley shielded his thumb from Dad’s view with his body and hiked it in Dad’s direction, winking at me. “But suppose we get right down to the purpose of this meeting. We obviously can’t talk out here in the open. Follow me. We’ll step into my office trailer.

  Dad and I followed Finley into a twelve by thirty trailer that had been parked on the edge of the lot. When we got inside, there was another man sitting at the drafting table, drawing on a large piece of paper with a compass, a protractor and a mechanical pencil. Finley looked at the man and said, “Archie, how about if you got get yourself a cup of coffee? I’m going to need the trailer to myself for fifteen minutes.”

  “Sure thing, Joe,” Archie said. He laid his mechanical pencil down and walked out of the trailer.

  Finley locked the door behind him and turned back toward Dad and me. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward two empty chairs. He sat behind the drafting table and turned his attentions to me. “Elliott,” he said, “I don’t know how much your dad has already told you about the problem I’ve been having lately, but I think it’s time I called in some professional help.”

  “Dad mentioned something about some of your equipment disappearing from your job sites,” I said. “I’m not sure how I will be able to help you with your problem. Don’t you have security guards or night watchmen at each of your jobsites?”

  “Watchmen?” Finley said. “I’d need watchmen to watch the watchmen. Some of them wouldn’t notice a thief if he walked in on them stealing something. Some of them I’d have to wake up just to get them to notice the thieves and the rest could be helping the thieves. I just don’t know anymore. I can’t be everywhere at the same time and I currently have four jobsites going even as we speak.”<
br />
  I took a deep breath and let it out again. “What kind of equipment is disappearing, Mr. Finley?” I said.

  “Okay,” Finley said. “I’ve seen pictures of you from the diaper stage through adulthood, so drop the Mister and call me Joe.”

  “All right, Joe,” I said. “What are they stealing?”

  “This morning I came in early and noticed that an arc welder wasn’t where it was supposed to be,” Joe said. “Sure, it’s on wheels and can be moved around the site, but it wasn’t anywhere on this jobsite, or any of my other sites, either. It’s just plain gone. And that’s just today. Last week forty-eight twelve foot two-by-fours suddenly grew legs and walked off the site. The week before it was Archie’s toolbox full of expensive tools. If it ain’t bolted down, someone will walk off with it. I’m just about at the end of my rope.”

  “But you won’t stop trying,” I said. “You won’t give up hope.”

  Joe looked at me and furrowed his eyebrows. “Huh?” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s a bad habit of mine.”

  “What’s a bad habit?” Joe said.

  “Forget it,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, go on with your story.”

  “No,” Joe said. “Now you got my curiosity up. What did you mean about me giving up hope?”

  “Go ahead,” Dad said, knowing just about what was going to come out of my mouth next. “Tell him.”

  “Sorry, Joe,” I said. “But when you said, ‘I’m just about at the end of my rope’, my mind shifted to that old Smoky Robinson song Ooh Baby Baby. That was the first line of the bridge, followed by the two lines that I added. Forget it. Again, I’m sorry.”

  Joe seemed lost in thought and I could see his lips silently moving along to the silent song that was playing in his head. “You’re right,” he said. “I remember that song. Anyway, like I was saying, I don’t know what else I can do to protect my equipment and supplies around here. It’s not like each jobsite has a warehouse where all this stuff can be locked up at night. The only reason they haven’t stolen my acetylene torch on the hand truck yet is because I hook a chain up to it and hoist it forty feet in the air before I leave here for the day.”