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

by Bill Bernico

  It all worked pretty simply and I usually came away with a bargain. The day after an auction ended, the auction hosts would send confirmation e-mails to the seller and high bidder to notify them of the end-of-auction results. That was to ensure that both parties knew where they stood.

  I wasn’t always a bidder, though. Sometimes, I’d win a bid on a guitar, have it shipped to me and turn right around and offer it for auction the following week. I’d run successful auctions dozens of times and looked forward to watching the progress of the bidders eager to buy my wares.

  The auction had a few rules for sellers and buyers to abide by. Most people followed the rules and conducted their auction legitimately and above board. But there were those out there in cyberspace who preyed on the ignorant by selling merchandise that was less than had been described in the ads. Others would bid on items with no intention of following up or sending the bid amount to the seller. And a few sellers even refused to sell their advertised item after the auction had ended. I guess I would fit into that last category. But I have a good excuse. Allow me to explain.

  Twenty years ago, when Dad was still around, I had bought a car on impulse as Dad and I were driving through a small town in Southern California. It was love at first sight when I found the fully restored royal blue 1940 Oldsmobile sedan. Actually it was my father, Matt Cooper, who had first spotted the car sting in the driveway with the For Sale sign in its front window. I remember how excited Dad was to see it. He told me it looked just like the Olds he’d driven for many years back when he was running our family-owned private investigations business that he’d started right after the war.

  When we found it, Dad was already in his eighties and had stopped driving. I guess you could say that I bought it for him as much as for myself. Now, with Dad gone ten years now, I’d had my fun with it and wanted to sell it.

  That was easier said than done and six months of effort produced no cash buyers. Then I hit on the brainstorm. I would offer the car for sale or trade on the online computer auction. If someone didn’t want to buy it outright, I’d offer to trade it for several guitars that I could readily sell to recover my costs.

  I took pictures of the car, scanned them into my computer, wrote a tantalizing description sure to lure a buyer and listed it on the auction page. I checked the box indicating I wanted the auction to run for seven days. I entered the amount of the minimum bid—one dollar. That was the amount needed for the first bidder to start the ball rolling, so to speak. I clicked the box marked reserve and typed in a figure of $10,000.00. That protected me in the event that the bids didn’t reach what I would take for the car. If that happened, I wasn’t obligated to sell to a bidder who only bid as high as $9,000.00, for example. I entered my name and password and clicked submit. My auction was underway.

  My seven days ran out without producing a bona fide buyer. It was the policy of the auction host to allow a one-time re-list of any item that didn’t sell. I followed the same procedure as before for listing my vintage automobile. I clicked the seven-day box, added the one dollar minimum bid amount and clicked submit again. Maybe I’d be luckier this time around.

  Several hours later, I received an e-mail from a former customer of mine who’d purchased one of my auction guitars. He pointed out to me that I’d neglected to enter a reserve figure with my auction. I wrote back thanking him and as was my choice, I immediately clicked the option that allowed me to cancel my auction early, withdrawing the car.

  Boy, that was close, I thought. I’d been watching the auction proceedings and one bidder had started the ball rolling by bidding one dollar. The bidder went by a screen name of “noo” so that he wouldn’t have to reveal his real name to the other bidders. That was his prerogative. I decided I’d better drop the bidder a line to explain why I’d ended the auction early. I was sure he’d understand and wish me luck next time around. What follows is a verbatim transcription of our e-mail communiqués.

  Hi,

  Thought I’d better explain my canceling the auction on my 1940 Olds. It was a re-list of my original auction. When I re-listed it, I neglected to check the RESERVE box and enter my $10,000 reserve. When I realized my mistake, I cancelled the auction, since I didn’t want to sell my car for a dollar. I’ll re-list it again at a later date. Thanks.

  Clay

  I thought, “That ought to explain things to his satisfaction.” A few hours later I got his response. It read as follows:

  auction was not cancelled I have confirmation from the auction site that I

  have won bid.

  Right away I got a mental picture of an ignorant geek with thick glasses, perched on a stool in front of his computer, eagerly pecking away at the keyboard, oblivious to capitalization and punctuation rules. He probably had visions of himself driving down the street in my 1940 Oldsmobile, waving his receipt for one dollar at passersby.

  Sometimes people, myself included, will e-mail the person who made the mistake and give them a little ribbing about having pulled such a boner. That’s what I figured this guy was doing so I wrote back to him, still in a friendly tone. I said:

  Noo,

  I hope you’re just displaying your sense of humor because I have no intention of letting anyone have my Olds for one dollar.

  Bill

  There, that ought to set him straight without trying to sound mad. I figured it was a closed case and forgot all about the dink who called himself “noo.” The next morning I checked my e-mail again only to find another message from this persistent pest.

  we will be forwarding all info to the auction site along with your statement stating that you had cancelled the auction to get their side of the story then we will be turning the whole matter over to the F.B.I. for wire fraud depending upon what the auction site tells us will depend on who we file suit against for the value of the car

  Mister Punctuation strikes again with one long, run-together sentence. I can see now that this guy has been watching way too much television. He must have figured that by dropping key phrases like “F.B.I.” and “file suit” and “wire fraud” that I’d jump through hoops to avoid getting into trouble with the feds. Wrong. That only made me more determined to make sure this guy not only didn’t get the car, but that he knew I wasn’t intimidated by idiots like him. I have never been accused of having too much tact. I responded thusly:

  Go to hell, kid. There’s no way you’re getting that car. Any reasonable person would see the mistake that was made and accept it as such. I’d rather burn it than let you have it even at full value now. Forget it.

  Clay

  There. Not only did I set him straight about my intentions; I also showed him the proper way to split my thoughts up into properly punctuated sentences. I jumped right in with the “kid” remark to let him know I was a force to be reckoned with. That should be the end of that. How wrong I was. He responded with the following:

  First mistake is that you assumed I am a kid! The car is mine, I won the auction. Since you have now threatened to burn the car rather than deliver it to me, that’s a threat of ARSON. This leaves me no choice but to contact your local police and report that you intend to burn my property. If forced to I will file a citizens arrest complaint and have you put in jail to stop you from damaging my property. Your intentions will be made known to the auction site and the F.B.I.. Any attempt to resell this car is fraud, your agreement to sell through the auction site is binding. You have 36 hours to supply address so my auto transporter can make arrangements for payment and to inspect for damage and pick up car. Consider this is legal notice to surender car.

  Well, well, what do you know? The little creep finally figured out how to add periods, exclamation points and commas but still can’t spell worth a damn. Guess it’s up to me to point out the grammatical errors.

  By this time, I’m really not intimidated and I’m actually having fun reading his ramblings. Again he dropped a few key words and phrases, like ARSON, F.B.I., jail, local police and surender, although he could
have used another “r” in surrender. Now it was my turn again. Here’s what I wrote back:

  Kid,

  This is the last time I’m going to tell you.... you ARE NOT going to get this car. You can take your citizen’s arrest and your FBI and shove ‘em. CASE CLOSED. What kind of moron are you anyway?

  I didn’t bother with a proper closing like, “Sincerely, Bill” or “Kindest Regards.” But did you notice how I rubbed in the “kid” part again?

  I’m not sure if it was the CASE CLOSED in all caps, the “shove ‘em” remark or the reference to his being a moron, but I didn’t hear another word out of him and figured he’d given up and moved on to easier prey.

  Several weeks passed and I was actually starting to miss the banter I’d established with the delusional idiot who thought he owned my car for a lousy dollar. That’s when the shit hit the fan.

  A month after my last e-mail from the guy with the punctuation handicap, I was just leaving for work on a Friday morning when I saw the truck pulling into my driveway. It was a large straight rig with a flatbed on the back. Near the cab I noticed an electric winch. There were two men seated in the cab.

  Directly behind the truck was a California State Police cruiser with two deputies in the front seat. The truck stopped in front of my garage and the police car stopped behind it. The two men emerged from the truck, followed by the two deputies. The deputies wore their starched blue uniforms with the striped pants legs and Smokey-The-Bear hats. They walked straight toward me and a lump formed in my throat.

  One of the deputies approached me first, carrying some sort of paper in his right hand. He said, “Mr. Cooper?”

  I nodded and looked at the other two men.

  The cop handed me the paper he’d been carrying. “I have a warrant here for the legal seizure of one royal blue 1940 Oldsmobile sedan. It is to be turned over immediately to this gentleman.” He pointed to one of the men who’d come in the truck.

  I looked at the paper and read the fine print. It mentioned me by name as well as “the auction site” and a Mr. Randall Grimes. I looked at the cop. “Who the hell is Randall Grimes?” I said.

  The man from the truck stepped forward. He was a middle-aged man, probably fifty or so, with gray hair and bad teeth. He wore a dingy white dress shirt with three pens sticking up out of the pocket. He wore his pants below his extended belly and I could see a gaudy pair of cowboy boots protruding from beneath the jeans. “I’m Randall Grimes. You may know me as “noo” or “kid” or maybe you remember calling me “moron.” In either case, I’m here to collect my car.”

  He handed me a crisp, new one-dollar bill and turned to the cop. “You’re a witness, officer,” Grimes said to the cop. “I paid this man the dollar that I bid for this car and won fair and square on the auction site.”

  I swallowed hard again and shifted my gaze to the dollar in my hand. I clenched my teeth and crumpled the bill up and threw it in Grimes’ face. “You’re too late,” I said. “The car’s gone. I sold it two weeks ago.”

  The second officer handed the first cop another paper. The first cop passed it along to me. “I also have a warrant to search your premises for the Oldsmobile, Mr. Cooper.”

  The air escaped from my lungs all at once as my shoulders dropped. I hiked a thumb up and pointed behind me to the garage. “It’s in there,” I said.

  The first cop twisted the door handle and lifted the overhead door, revealing the glistening chrome bumper and grille of the prized vintage automobile that Dad loved so much. The wide white-wall tires stuck out like a newcomer in a nudist colony. The royal blue paint job was flawless.

  Randall Grimes smiled a smile that had nothing to do with being friendly. I wanted to smack him right then and there.

  Grimes opened the driver’s side front door and slid in behind the wheel, twisting the steering wheel back and forth, like a little kid playing driving games. He giggled maniacally before exiting the car again. He turned to the man who’d driven the truck. “Load ‘er up, Max,” he said gleefully. “Let’s take her home.”

  I took a few quick steps toward Grimes before the two state police officers could grab my arms and restrain me.

  “Settle down, Mr. Cooper,” one of them said to me. “There’s nothing you can do about it. You don’t need any more trouble.”

  I relaxed my tense arms and the officers released me. There was nothing I could do but stand by helplessly as the truck driver started my Olds and drove it out of the garage. He lined the car up with the back of his flatbed and got out again. There were two ramps that slid out of the back of the truck and attached to the bed of the truck. They allowed the driver to drive whatever vehicle they were hauling right up onto the back of the truck.

  It was a tall truck, with the bed raised up five feet or more off the ground. The ramps extended back probably twelve or fifteen feet behind the truck once they’d been set in place. Once the driver had secured the ramps, he got behind the wheel of my Olds and started it up again.

  I stood in front of the car and shouted to the driver, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “He’s not you,” Grimes said from a spot beside me. “Now get out of the way so I can take my car home with me.”

  I looked back at the cop. “Look,” I said, “I’m only trying to tell you…”

  The cop pulled me out of the way and allowed the driver to proceed. I shouted this time. “Listen, you can’t just…”

  The cop shook me by the arm just as Randall Grimes stepped up to me and punched me squarely in the mouth. “Shut up, kid,” he said, making a reference to the name I’d called him in my e-mail.

  The second cop stepped between Grimes and me. He turned to Grimes with a sneer. “Just take your car and get out of here. You touch this man again and I’ll run you in.”

  Grimes hesitantly backed off and turned his attentions to the truck driver, who was preparing to ascend the ramp with my Olds. The driver lined the car’s wheels up with the ramp while Randall Grimes stood behind the car, eyeing up his approach.

  Grimes shouted from behind the car, “Looks good, Max,” he said. “Take ‘er up.”

  I turned to the cop. “Can’t say I didn’t try to warn him,” I said.

  The cop said, “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Max stepped on the accelerator and headed up the ramp. Grimes followed close behind, making sure the Oldsmobile’s tires stayed on the ramp. Max hadn’t given it enough of a running start and the front wheels didn’t even make it to the top of the ramp. Max stepped on the brakes and outside we could all hear a loud popping sound. The sound of Max’s foot hitting the floor of the car was followed by the sound of Grimes’ scream as the car slid backwards and directly over Randall Grimes.

  Both sets of tires bumped over Grimes’ body before the car came to a complete stop. Randall Grimes’ left leg was twisted up under his body, which had rolled up in a ball under the front bumper. His head was a pulpy mass of red and gray beneath the left front tire. His blood formed in a pool and mingled with the brake fluid that had spilled out of the burst brake cylinder.

  Max jumped out of the Olds and looked down at what was left of Randall Grimes. He turned away and vomited on my driveway. The two cops stood there, their eyes bulging in amazement. They knew it would be futile to extricate Grimes from beneath the two-ton automobile. One of them hurried back to the squad car and radioed in for an ambulance. The other just looked at me.

  “I tried to tell him,” I said. “I tried to tell all of you but all I got for my troubles was a punch in the mouth.”

  “What are you talking about?” the cop said, looking at me with a puzzled face.

  “I tried to tell you that the Olds had a faulty master cylinder,” I said. “I was meaning to get it fixed eventually but I just never got around to it. Grimes was in such a hurry to take my car and gloat about it that he wouldn’t listen and now look what it’s got him.”

  The cop returned from the squad car and joined his partne
r. “What happens now?” he said.

  The first cop shrugged. “I don’t know,” he told his partner. “I guess the owner of the car would be responsible.” He looked at me.

  I bent over and picked up the crumpled dollar bill. I held it up in front of me along with the seizure warrant. “Don’t look at me,” I said, pointing to Grimes’ body. “It’s his car.”

  85 - Nut Job

  I was sitting with my back to the window that looked down onto Hollywood Boulevard. We were between cases so I told Dad he could stay home today. He didn’t argue the point. My wife and business partner, Gloria, was sitting at her desk entering older case files into the database program on her laptop. I could hear her grumbling with every entry she typed in. I ignored her. I knew it was better not to fuel that fire.

  I was reading an article about a rash of broken storefront windows in the neighborhood. In each case the police and the store owners had found a half-inch chrome nut on the floor inside the store. It was the kind of nut that would have threaded smoothly onto a half-inch bolt. In each case, the glass window broken measured in excess of four feet square and had cost the store owners several hundred dollars in repairs. Even the store owners who had insurance against such occurrences had a hefty deductible to pay before they could get a replacement window.

  The three stores that were mentioned in this article were all situated within walking distance of our office. Since I had nothing better to do and since I’d already finished the paper, I decided to take a walk and have a talk with some of the men who had suffered such a loss in their store. I told Gloria that I’d be gone for an hour or so. She grumbled something without looking up. I left the office and rode the elevator down three flights to the lobby.