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

by Bill Bernico

  “Just a neighbor’s yard,” she said.

  I looked back at Dad. “And why did you want to see over that fence?” I said.

  “I thought I heard something,” Dad explained. “Of course, I made so much noise falling down that there could have been a squad of cheerleaders over there and I wouldn’t have heard them.”

  As we stood there talking, I spotted a red bicycle coming our way down the alley. When the kid in the blue windbreaker looked up and saw us, he stood on the brakes, turned his bike around and sped back in the opposite direction. I gave chase while Dad and Gloria hurried around the building to Gloria’s car. The kid on the bike was too fast for me to outrun, but just as I gave up the chase, Gloria pulled around the corner and I got in. She followed close behind the kid with her car.

  “That was Drake Phillips,” I said. “I got a good look at his face this time.

  Phillips exited the alley and turned onto Selma Avenue, peddling as fast as he could. He turned into the next alley entrance and disappeared from sight for a moment. By the time we got to the alley entrance, we could see Drake Phillips standing next to his bike, his left arm extended straight out in front of him. In his left hand he held the slingshot, his right hand pulling back the pocket as far as he could. When we came into view, he released the pocket and a chrome nut smashed into the windshield between Gloria and me. Luckily Dad was sitting off to one side or he’d have been hit in the face with the nut. Gloria skidded to a stop and ducked down in her seat. I slipped out the passenger door and crouched behind it, my .38 in my hand.

  A second chrome nut shattered Gloria’s front door window, glass showering her hands and head. I stood up and pointed my .38 at Drake and yelled, “Drop it, Drake. NOW!”

  Drake loaded another nut, pulled back on the rubber tubing and released the pocket. The nut ricocheted off the windshield just inches from my head. He aimed the slingshot at me again and pulled back the pocket. Without hesitating, I fired at him. My shot went wide and zinged past Drake’s ear. It made him release the pocket and duck behind a telephone pole. I fired again, splintering the pole an inch or so from Drake’s head. A second later the slingshot landed out in the alley and Drake yelled from behind the pole. “Don’t shoot,” he cried. “I give up.”

  “Come out of there with your hands in the air,” I yelled. “Do it.”

  Drake gingerly stepped out from behind the telephone pole; his hands raised high above his head. He walked slowly toward me and dropped to his knees. He’d no doubt seen enough police shows on television to know what was expected of him.

  I stood there, my .38 trained on him when I heard the first siren getting closer. Then a second siren joined in and a moment later two black and white patrol cars drove up, one from behind Drake and one from behind me. Two officers got out of the car behind me and yelled for me to drop my gun. I bend down and carefully laid it on the cement and raised my own hands in the air.

  Two more officers got out of their cruiser and trained their guns on Drake Phillips. One of the officers grabbed his shoulder mic and called it in to the precinct.

  Dad and Gloria got out of her car and tried to explain the situation to the first two officers. They held her and Dad at bay until they could determine who was playing what role in this scenario. They must have been satisfied with whatever Gloria had told them. Either that or one of the officers had recognized Dad. Either way, I was allowed to drop my hands and retrieve my .38 and slip it back into my shoulder holster.

  One of the second set of officers pulled Drake Phillips to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back. He placed the kid in the back seat of his patrol car and closed the door just as Lieutenant Eric Anderson pulled up in his unmarked cruiser.

  Eric took one look at me and then at Gloria’s nut-ridden car and then back at me. “Seems to me,” Eric said, “that I told you three to stay out of this one, didn’t I?”

  “We didn’t go looking for the kid,” Dad said from over Gloria’s shoulder. “He came right at us. What were we supposed to do?”

  Eric shook his head and looked at the ground. “I suppose I should be grateful that none of you were injured,” he said. “I suppose I should be grateful that the kid is in custody. I suppose I should be grateful that no one had to kill the kid. Lord knows what a mess that would have caused.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said.

  “Hey,” Gloria yelled. “Who’s going to pay for my windows?”

  “Don’t you have insurance for this sort of thing?” Eric said.

  “Yeah,” Gloria said. “With five hundred dollar deductible.”

  There was an awkward silence that followed before Eric added, “See, if you’d stayed out of this, like I asked, you’d still have all your windows.”

  “And you wouldn’t have the kid in custody,” Gloria shot back.

  “There is that,” Eric said. “Tell you what. You stop bellyaching about your car windows and I won’t run you in for obstructing justice and interfering with a police matter. How’s that sound to you?”

  Gloria and I exchanged glances and then she looked back at Eric. “Gees,” she said, “you drive a hard bargain. Oh, all right, you old fart.”

  “Go on,” Eric said. “Get out of here. Drive that wreck of yours down to the precinct. I’ll want statements from all three of you juvenile delinquents.”

  Drake Phillips was charged with five counts of grand larceny and one count of murder. Because of his age, the judge remanded him to the custody of the county juvenile detention center until his twenty-first birthday. Somehow it didn’t seem like enough of a punishment, but even the judge had limits to his powers when dealing with a minor.

  Six weeks later, as Dad and Gloria and I sat in our office, catching up on a backload of files that needed to be entered into our database, I came across an article in the Times about a death in the county juvenile detention facility. I sat up straight and said, “Listen up,” to Dad and Gloria. They stopped what they were doing while I read the article to them. It read:

  Drake Phillips, fifteen, was found dead this morning in the kitchen of the juvenile facility. Another detainee outside had thrown a rock through the kitchen window, hitting Phillips in the head. Phillips died instantly. He was serving a six-year sentence for vandalism and murder and had been considered a model inmate for the past two months. He leaves behind a mother and father and one younger brother.

  I set the paper down and looked at Gloria. Her expression didn’t give anything away. She didn’t look particularly sad, but she wasn’t smiling, either.

  “And that’s that,” she said, turning back to her computer to finish her work.

  “Too bad,” Dad said. “He was just a teenager.”

  I rolled my eyes. “A nut job is what he was.” I took the paper off my desk and joined Gloria and Dad in the never-ending quest to get all those files organized in the database. By the time we finished this project, if we ever did, I’d be retired and my son, Matt would be taking over the business. That was only another twenty years away, so we’d better get busy.

  86 - The Next Great Adventure

  I was stuck in traffic on my way to the office on this first Monday of the month. I was used to it and almost didn’t mind having to slow to a crawl at times. It gave me time to look at my surroundings, which I rarely got to see when traffic was moving at the posted speed. I noticed things at ten miles per hour that I hadn’t seen before. It also gave me time to take my eyes off the road and do a little channel surfing on the radio dial. I could cruise right past the heavy metal stations, the country music stations, the gospel stations and the polka stations. I liked the oldies, you know, music from before I was born.

  I was born in the early part of the eighties and most of the music from that era was lackluster, to say the least. To me, disco music was like polka music—every song tended to sound the same. And by the time I was a teenager in the late nineties, the music only got worse. I had grown accustomed to listening to the music that Dad grew up with i
n the sixties. Now there was an era for real music. The Beatles, The Hollies, The Buckinghams and The New Colony Six were all staples on my MP3 player, along with a lesser known, but just as enjoyable band from Chicago who called themselves The Cryan’ Shames, with their flawless four-part harmonies. Man, they just don’t make music like that anymore.

  I must have been somewhat lost momentarily in a daydream because the guy behind be began laying on the horn. I threw my hands up so he could plainly see that I knew he was there, but I couldn’t go any faster than the guy ahead of me. That didn’t seem to matter to the guy riding my bumper.

  I was in the outside lane, preparing to get off at the Hollywood Boulevard exit near Van Ness Avenue. The middle lane to my left began moving faster and a gap appeared in the line of cars. The impatient driver behind me swerved into the middle lane and proceeded to pass me. As he rolled past my window he gave me the one finger salute and pulled ahead. On the trunk lid of his car I could see one of those Jesus fishes in chrome plastered to back side of the car. I guessed that he’d put it there to let the rest of the world know that he was a good Christian. Yeah, right. A good Christian who doesn’t hesitate to show his fellow man what his middle finger looks like. I had a phrase for people like that—assholier than thou.

  I wasn’t going to let this guy ruin my otherwise tranquil day, though. I found my exit and let the rest of the rat race have the freeway. I was only seven block from my office and soon I’d be sitting behind my desk with my feet up, reading the morning paper and that guy behind me would soon fade from my memory.

  Dad was already in the office when I arrived. Gloria was home with our son, Matt. Little Matt was running a fever and Gloria didn’t feel right leaving him with Mrs. Chandler, the nanny she had found shortly after Matt’s birth. Dad and I could handle whatever business came our way today. I told Gloria that I’d call her later to see how Matt was doing.

  I hadn’t even had a chance to sit down after my short commute when Dad spoke up. “Don’t get comfortable, Elliott,” he said. “I took a call a few minutes ago from a guy who wants to hire us. We have to go meet with him. He wouldn’t tell me anything about the job over the phone.”

  I dropped the morning paper onto my desk and sighed. I turned to Dad. “Did you ever hear that comedy bit by George Carlin?” I said. “He did a routine years ago on his Occupation: Foole album about work ethics. He said, ‘You might get there on time, but screw the company. Those first twenty minutes belong to you’. Well, that’s the way I feel about my own business. When I come in in the morning, I like to relax with the paper and just unwind from the commute. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” Dad said. “A commute like that must take it all out of you. Let’s see, you live how far away from the office?”

  “Two miles, give or take,” I said. “But it’s not the distance; it’s the time it takes to fight the traffic. Carlin also went on to say, ‘You never see a memo that says 9:01. People don’t jump out of bed and vacuum’. The same applies here, or at least it should apply.”

  “So, you’re saying you’d rather let a potential client wait so you can unwind?” Dad said. “With a work ethic like that, there won’t be an investigations business to pass along to your son, Matt when the time comes.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going,” I said. “I just wanted to voice my objection. Come on, let’s go. Where does this guy live?”

  “I don’t know,” Dad said. “The guy didn’t want to say. He prefers to meet us in MacArthur Park on a bench at the northeast side of the park.”

  “Oh, great,” I said. “Another cloak and dagger client. Well, let’s go see what’s so all-fired important that we have to meet in the park on a Monday morning.”

  Dad rode with me in my van and we were able to make it MacArthur Park by eight-thirty, the time that the client had specified. I parked the van on Sixth Street, in front of a bakery and walked across the street to the park. There was a cement bench facing Alvarado Street and there was a man sitting on it, looking around him at the people who were coming and going. He was wearing a coat with the collar turned up and he sported a pair of dark glasses.

  I turned to Dad. “Did this guy at least give you a name?” I said. “Otherwise, we won’t even know who to ask for?”

  Dad pulled his notepad from his pocket and flipped it open to the last entry. “John Smith,” he said.

  “That’s original,” I said. “I’ll give you ten-to-one odds it’s not the name his mother gave him.”

  “I’ll pass,” Dad said. “Let’s just go over to that guy on the bench and see if he’s John Smith.”

  Dad and I slowly approached the man on the bench. When he looked up at us I made some remark about what a nice day it was and then asked if he was John Smith.

  “Mr. Cooper?” the man said.

  Dad nodded. The man slid to the end of the bench and invited us to sit down.

  The man looked at me and then at Dad. “Who’s this?” he said.

  “This is my son, Elliott Cooper,” Dad explained. “My name is Clay Cooper. We both work out of the office and we both handle cases, so tell us what you need and we’ll tell you whether or not we can help you. How does that sound, Mr. Smith?” Dad started to turn toward the man, but Smith advised him to keep facing forward. “Is that your real name?” Dad said.

  “It’s the only name you need to know,” Smith said. “Now, do you want the job or not?”

  “We can’t give you an answer until we know what it is you want us to do,” Dad said. “Would you care to fill us in a little?”

  Smith looked down at the sidewalk but spoke to Dad. “I need you to find a guy for me,” he said.

  “That’s what we do,” Dad said. “Is there something special about this guy you want us to find?”

  “You don’t understand,” Smith said. “Let me back up a little. I was given a contract to find this man and take care of him, if you know what I mean.”

  “A contract?” Dad said. “Let me guess, you’re with one of the phone companies and you want this guy to sign up for your service?”

  “They told me you was a wise guy,” Smith said. “No, I’m not with any phone company, door-to-door brush sales company or the god-damn Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “Ooh,” I said. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn’t they?” I said to Smith.

  “Look kid,” Smith said. “You smart-mouth me once more and I’ll kill you where you sit, you understand me?”

  Now Dad turned directly toward Smith and barked, “Listen, I don’t care who you are, you don’t threaten me or my son, ever. Do you understand?”

  Smith’s coat came open to show us both the hand that held the gun with the silencer screwed onto the end of the barrel. “You got something you want to say, smart guy?” Smith said.

  I held up both hands and showed Smith my palms. “Hold on there,” I said. “Slow down. We’re not looking for trouble. Suppose you just tell us what it is you want.”

  Smith closed his coat again. “I don’t guess I have anything to lose by telling you,” he said. “What are you gonna do anyway?”

  “About what?” Dad said.

  “All right,” Smith said. “No more beating around the bush. Time is something I don’t have a lot of. Here’s what I need from you two. I was hired to kill a guy and I got paid up front. I only have thirty-six hours or less to live so what I want is for you to find the guy for me.”

  “Now hold on just a minute there,” Dad said. “We don’t…”

  “Wait,” Smith said. “It’s not what you think. I don’t want you to kill him. I just want you to find him.”

  “Why?” I said. “So you can kill him once we do find him?”

  “No,” smith said. “I don’t want to kill him, either. Listen, yesterday someone slipped something into my drink and it made me woozy. The feeling didn’t go away all day yesterday so I went to see a doctor. Turns out that someone put poison in my drink and it’s a slow-acting poison. The
doctor confirmed that I had less than two days to live before the poison would finish the job that someone else had started. There’s nothing they can do to counter the effects and there is no antidote. Either way, by tomorrow night I’ll be dead.”

  “So how is finding anyone or doing anything at all a problem for someone who’s dying anyway?” Dad said. “Just forget about the guy you were paid to kill.”

  “No good,” Smith said. “When they find out I’m dead, they’ll just send someone else to finish the job I started.”

  “And you want us to find your target and what, tell him not to worry?” I said.

  “You need to do more than that,” Smith said. “I want you to find him and keep him from being anyone else’s target. And you can’t just send him out of town, either. They’ll never stop looking for him. No, what I want you to do is find him and fake his death, so they’ll think he’s dead and stop looking for him.”

  “Who is this ‘they’ you keep talking about?” Dad said.

  “You don’t need to know,” Smith said. “In fact, the less you know about them, the safer you and your boy will be. Now, for the last time, do you want this job or not?”

  Dad and I exchanged glances. Dad turned to Smith and said, “We’ll take it with certain provisions. One, you’ll obviously need to tell us the name of the guy you want found, along with any other pertinent information necessary to establishing his whereabouts. Two, you’ll obviously have to pay us up front in full because chances are we’ll never meet again. And three, we’ll need to know who ‘they’ are so we don’t inadvertently tip our hands to the wrong people. Believe me, Mr. Smith, we can handle ourselves. If you agree to all three of our provisions, I think we have a deal.”

  Smith thought about it for a moment and realized that his options as well as his time were both running out. “Okay,” he said. “You got the job.” Smith reached into his coat pocket and produced a fat business-size envelope and passed it to Dad. “Here you go, that’s payment in full. There’s twenty-five grand in there.”