by Bill Bernico
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. I’ve been ready to go for an hour already. I was just waiting for you.”
Dad and Gloria exchanged glances before he looked at me again. “Yeah, right,” he said. “Let’s get moving. We may have some missing equipment to track down.”
When Dad and I pulled into the construction lot parking area, Joe was just coming out of his trailer. He waved when he saw us walking toward him. He made a half turn and gestured toward the portable compressor.
“Mr. Cooper, can you believe this?” he said. “When you don’t want anyone on the property they come in and steal you blind. You leave out fresh bait like this that a kid could walk off with and it’s still here this morning. Go figure.”
“Well,” I said. “Just leave it out again tonight and we’ll try again tomorrow morning. That’s all you can do.”
“Too bad we didn’t put those transmitter things in some of the equipment on my other sites,” Joe said. “Over at the Silver Lake site, some bastard walked off with a whole five-foot toolbox full of tools.”
“Did you want Dad and me to stop at your Silver Lake site and have a look around?” I said. “Maybe we can plant similar bus in equipment on your other sites.”
“I’m going to wait and see if this gets results before I proceed any further,” Joe said.
“Okay with me,” I said. “Can you just call tomorrow if you find out the compressor is missing? That could save me a trip here otherwise.”
“I’ll do that, Elliott,” Joe said. “Thanks for coming by this morning. You, too, Clay,” he said, waving at Dad.
“I guess we can still put in a full day at the office,” Dad said. “Don’t we have any small jobs we can fit in today while we’re waiting for results with the homing device?”
“I’ll have to check,” I said, heading for my van.
Before we got to the van, a man stopped us at the curb. “Excuse me,” the man said. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Did I understand that you are a private investigator?”
“Where did you get an idea like that?” Dad said, stepping in.
The man pointed toward Joe and said to Dad, “I heard that man call you Mr. Cooper and he called this guy Elliott. There’s only one Elliott Cooper in the book, listed under private investigators. Am I right?”
“Yes you are,” Dad said. “I’m Clay Cooper and this is my son, Elliott. Was there something we could help you with today? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Brower,” the man said. “Mike Brower. I could probably use the services of a good private eye if the price isn’t too high. What do you charge?”
“To do what?” I said.
Brower looked around and then said, “Is there someplace private we can talk?”
I gestured toward my van. “In here,” I said, opening the side door and letting Brower step up into the van. I closed the door behind him and got into the front passenger seat. Dad got behind the wheel. We both turned around to face Brower. “So, what is it that you need a P.I. for?” I said.
“Mr. Cooper,” Brower said hesitantly, “I find myself in a bit of a jam. This woman is taking me to court for fraud and I can’t afford a conviction. This time I’ll go to prison.”
“And just what did you expect us to do for you, Mr. Brower?” I said.
In a softer tone, Brower said, “I just need you to find a witness who would lie under oath and help me get out from under this charge. I’d pay the witness well, and of course, there’d be a bonus in it for you, as well.”
“We don’t…” I started to say before Dad laid a palm across my chest.
“What Elliott’s trying to say, Mr. Brower, is that we don’t generally conduct business on the street like this.” Dad took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Brower. “Here’s my card. It has my phone number and email address on it. What you need to do is email me and lay it all out what you want us to do for you. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a binding contract. You understand, I’m sure. If we just tell you here on the street that we’ll do something on your behalf, it just wouldn’t be legal. Why don’t you go on home or to some Internet café and email me with the details. I should be able to get back to you the same day with a quote for our services and I’ll be able to tell you when we could start. Okay?”
Brower looked down at the card. “So I just have to email you with my request? That’s all I have to do?”
“That’s it,” Dad said, “so you’d better get moving. The quicker I get the email, the sooner things will start happening for you.” Dad pointed to the double van doors. “You can just let yourself out, Mr. Brower. Good day, sir.”
Brower opened the doors and stepped out to the curb, closing the double doors behind him. I looked out the passenger side window and saw Brower walking down the street, looking at Dad’s business card.
“What the hell was that all about?” I said, giving Dad my disapproving look. “Are you out of your mind? We can’t do what he wants us to do.”
“Of course we can’t,” Dad said. “And if I hadn’t told him to do what I asked and just turned him down flat, he’d have found someone who would have.”
“And?” I said.
“And this way,” Dad said, “Once we have the email printed out, we can turn it over to Lieutenant Anderson down at the twelfth precinct. Like I promised Mr. Brower, once he emailed us, he’d get results. Maybe not the results he had hoped for, but they will be immediate results, another scumbag like Brower will be taken off the streets, and Lieutenant Anderson will owe us one.”
My face must have softened, because Dad smiled and said, “And that, my boy, is what comes with experience.” He turned to face forward, started the van and drove back to the office. I had to admit, even if only to myself, that I was impressed.
Once back in the office, we got caught up on our foot dangling, staring out the window and newspaper reading. I guess being a private eye is a lot like being a car rental manager. You can’t do anything until the customer comes to you. That was just the nature of our business. Sometimes we’d be so busy with clients and cases that we couldn’t think straight. Right after that we’d be inactive for days at a stretch. We’d learned to live with it.
Another day came and went and the following morning as I was enjoying breakfast with Gloria and Matt, my phone rang. It was Joe Finley.
“They took the bait,” Joe said. “The portable compressor is gone.”
“I’ll pick up Dad and see you in twenty minutes,” I told Joe. “Are you coming with us?”
“Well,” Joe said, “not exactly with you. I’ll follow you in my car. I have a few other places to go after we finish. Meet me here at the jobsite. I’ll be ready to roll.”
I told Gloria that Dad and I would be for most of the day and asked if she could mind the office for a while. She told me that she was expecting Mrs. Chandler within the next few minutes and that the nanny could watch Matt while she stayed at the office. I called Dad and picked him up in front of his house.
Joe Finley was standing out at the curb when Dad and I pulled up. I told him just to follow us and that if we got separated in traffic, to call my cell number and we’d wait for him someplace up ahead. I turned left on Highland Avenue and took it south to Olympic Boulevard. The circle of red LEDs indicated a westerly direction. We drove as far as LaCienega until the direction finder told us to head south again. We stayed on LaCienega until we got to Rodeo Road when the red LEDs switched direction again and directed in a westerly direction again.
“What’s that you’re humming, Dad?” I said.
“Huh?” Dad replied.
“You’re humming something,” I said. “What is it? It sounds familiar.”
“Sorry,” Dad said. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it. It’s Free As A Bird by The Beatles.”
“Whatever made you think of that song at a time like this?” I said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dad said. “I was just watching that homing device with all the blinking red lights in
a circle and a line from that song came to me. That’s all.”
“Which line?” I said.
“Like a homing bird I’ll fly,” Dad sang in a voice that was meant to be heard only in the shower.
“Now I’m sorry I asked,” I said. “Don’t give up your day job.”
When we passed Jefferson Boulevard, and drove over Ballona Creek, Rodeo Road turned into Higuera Street and I noticed a change in Dad. One block straight ahead was a street called Hayden Place. The red LEDs told us to turn left and Dad began to sit up even straighter, staring out his window with an inner fascination that even he couldn’t explain..
“What is it, Dad?” I said. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I did,” Dad said. “I know this place. It feels so familiar but I can’t put my finger on it. Pull over up ahead.”
I pulled to the curb and Joe Finley pulled up behind us. We all got out of our vehicles and met on the sidewalk. The homing device I held in my hand was blinking and beeping faster than ever now. Dad and Joe and I walked further west on the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the red LEDs. Dad stopped in his tracks and looked to the south.
“What is it, Dad,” I said.
“That mountain, or big hill or whatever that is,” he said. “I’ve seen that somewhere before but I can’t place it.”
“Try to focus on the homing device,” I said. “It’s getting stronger over here.”
The direction finder was now beeping as fast as it could and the red light indicated the building to our left.
“It’s in there,” I told Joe. “It has to be.”
“Well,” Joe said. “What are we doing out here? Let’s go get my generator.”
“Hold on a second there, Joe,” Dad said. “We don’t want to come this far only to blow it. We need to call the police in on this and we’re going to need a search warrant to search that building if you want any charges to stick.”
Joe flipped open his cell phone and dialed the Culver City Police Department. They had a patrol car in the area and told Joe they’d send it by right away. The black and white unit pulled onto Hayden Place and pulled to the curb right behind the three of us. Two patrolmen got out and approached us.
“Are you the person who called for the police?” the first officer said.
“I called,” Joe said, partially raising his hand. “My name is Joe Finley and I own Finley Construction. These gentlemen with me are private investigators that I’ve hired. This is Clay Cooper and his son, Elliott.” Joe gestured toward us.
Dad and I both produced out I.D. cards and shields and let the officers inspect them.
“My name is Sergeant Ryerson,” the first cop said. “And this is Officer Beckley. So tell me, what are you doing in this particular spot?”
Joe explained about the stolen portable generator and how it had disappeared from his jobsite last night or early this morning. Dad jumped in and explained how we had followed the homing device from Hollywood and how it had led us here. I stepped in and explained how the homing device worked and that it had indicated that the generator was inside the building we were now standing in front of and that we’d probably need a search warrant to recover it.
Sergeant Ryerson grabbed his shoulder microphone and called into his precinct, requesting a backup unit and a warrant to cover the building’s address that he’d written in his notepad. Then we all waited for the cavalry to arrive.
While we waited for the search warrant, Dad turned to Sergeant Ryerson and asked if it would be all right if he just walked around a little. Ryerson said he didn’t mind and Dad started walking further west, looking at buildings and landmarks, trying to remember why this place felt so familiar. It wasn’t coming to him. He returned to the group just as the backup unit arrived with the search warrant.
The two backup policemen followed Ryerson and Beckley into the building, a large warehouse whose windows had all been spray painted with black paint to keep anyone from seeing inside. Dad and Joe and I followed the police in. I caught up with Ryerson and held the homing device out in front of us as we searched. The red LED indicated that we should turn right. At the next aisle we did just that and sitting there on the floor was the portable compressor. The beeping turned into a steady squeal and the red LED turned to green.
“That’s it,” Joe told the sergeant. “That’s my compressor.” Joe looked around and spotted several other pieces of his missing equipment and tapped Ryerson on the shoulder. “All this stuff is mine,” Joe said. “I can verify it by their serial numbers, but this compressor is one I just purchased a few days ago. I don’t have the serial number recorded yet.”
“Then how do you know it’s yours?” Ryerson said. “Don’t all portable compressors looks similar?”
Joe grabbed the right rubber handle grip and turned to look up at the cop. “Okay,” Joe said, “now you’re all a witness to what I’m about to do. Inside this handle is a wadded up ball of duct tape and the miniature transmitter that Elliott here put inside.” Joe pulled the rubber handle grip off the handle and plucked the ball of duct tape between his fingers.
Joe handed me the rubber grip and I dumped the transmitter out into my hand. The homing device screamed until I turned it off. I turned to Ryerson and raised my eyebrows.
“I’m convinced,” Ryerson said.
At that moment the two backup officers stopped two men who had been running for the door. The cops had these men in cuffs by the time the rest of us got to the door. “Take them to the station and book them for burglary,” Ryerson said.
“How many counts, Sarge?” the officer said.
“Leave that blank until I get a full count here,” Ryerson said. “I’ll be there when we finish up here.”
Sergeant Ryerson turned to Dad and me. “Not a bad day’s work,” he said. “You guys ever think about being cops?”
“My dad was a cop with the L.A.P.D.,” Dad told the sergeant. “He left there in ‘46 to start our family P.I. business. Now it just Elliott and me.”
“And Gloria,” I said, looking at Ryerson. “That’s my wife.”
“Well,” Ryerson said. “We’re going to need statements from all three of you before you leave.”
“Not a problem,” Dad said and then paused a moment before adding, “Sergeant, are you from around here?”
“Born and raised,” Ryerson said. “Why?”
Dad scratched his head. “Because from the moment I drove into this industrial park, I’ve had this strange feeling of déjà vu’ like I’ve been here before.”
The cop laughed. “I’ll bet you’re a TV fan,” he said. “Am I right?”
“Yeah,” Dad said, suspiciously, “but how did you know that?”
Ryerson walked Dad to the door and opened it, pointing across the street toward another white warehouse-type building. “Does that look familiar?” Ryerson said.
“No,” Dad said. “Should it?”
“Maybe not like it is now,” Ryerson explained. “But picture an old small-town courthouse with two pillars in front and a park bench under a side window. Now look a little to your left and picture a small-town building that says, “Floyd’s Barber Shop’ across the front window.”
Dad snapped his fingers. “I knew it,” he said.
“You knew what, Dad?” I said.
“We’re in Mayberry,” Dad explained. “Where that big building is standing now is where the Mayberry Courthouse once stood, with Floyd’s Barber Shop one door to the left. Then there was Foley’s Market, the Mayberry Hotel and the Grand Theater. Get it? We’re standing on the old location of the Desilu Studios back lot. It was called the RKO Forty Acres Lot before Desi Arnez and Lucille Ball bought it. And where we’re standing right now, well, this was Walker’s Drug Store.” Dad pointed east to an unseen area. “Up that way was the Taylor house. “He pointed in the opposite direction. “And about half a mile that way was Wally’s Filling Station.”
“You look like you’re going to cry, Dad,” I said. “Mayberry�
��s long gone and all that’s left is this industrial park. Not much nostalgia left here.”
Dad turned to Ryerson. “I have to walk around a little more, if you don’t mind,” Dad said.
“All right,” Ryerson said, “But don’t bother the people in the buildings or trespass on anyone’s property.”
“I won’t,” Dad said. “I just want to walk around and fell the Mayberry vibe for a few minutes.”
“It wasn’t only Mayberry,” Ryerson said. “My dad used to patrol this area back when he first became a cop. He told me that they also filmed that old Superman TV show right here.”
“And Gomer Pyle,” Dad said. “And Batman and Mission Impossible and Land Of The Giants and scores of movies as well. Did you know that they also filmed Gone With The Wind here?”
“Go ahead,” Ryerson said. “Go soak up Mayberry and then meet me at the station for your statements.”
Dad wandered off in a haze, looking all around him and mumbling something to himself. I had to smile at the thought but dreaded having to hear Dad tell the story about this little adventure for the rest of my life. He may have been impressed with the ghosts of Mayberry, but it didn’t mean a thing to me.
When Dad came back from visiting that little fictional North Carolina town in his mind, he met me and Joe waiting at my van. “Enjoy your little stroll?” I said.
“Very much, thank you,” Dad said.
Joe turned to Dad and shook his hand. “Thanks a lot, Clay,” he said. “It looks like all my missing equipment was in there. When you get back to your office, would you just send me a bill for your time and Elliott’s? I couldn’t have done this without you. And how about if all three of us have lunch tomorrow? I want to talk to you both about some security measures for all my jobsites.”
“We’ll drop your bill off myself,” Dad told Joe. “Are you buying lunch or should I just tack it on to the bill under ‘expenses’?”
“Same ol’ Clay,” Joe said. “Lunch is on me. Meet me at the jobsite at eleven-thirty.”
We all drove back to Hollywood and let Dad off in front of his house. I drove back to the office to spend a little time with Gloria before she had to return home to feed Matt.
