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

by Bill Bernico

  We waited for what felt like an hour but was probably closer to ten minutes before the sliding door slid open again and Eric emerged, pulling Ernie out in cuffs. Eric looked at me. “He doesn’t want to listen to reason,” Eric said. “Looks like we’ll have to use Plan B.”

  I played along with Eric’s bluff. “You mean?” I said.

  Eric nodded. “Take him for a ride,” Eric said. “A ride he won’t be coming back from.”

  I patted the .38 in my underarm holster. “You got it, boss,” I said, playing my part to the hilt.

  Eric handed Ernie over to me and then gave me the handcuff keys. “When you’re finished, bring me back the cuffs,” Eric said.

  “Right,” I said, helping Ernie back into the van. “I’ll call you when it’s done,” I said, climbing into the van and closing the door behind me.

  Gloria got behind the wheel and drove back out onto Franklin, heading toward the freeway. We followed the freeway out of town and drove toward the desert. Gloria and I both saw the truck stop looming ahead in the distance and exchanged a knowing glance. She turned right onto the first gravel road, about half a mile from the truck stop. When we’d gone a few hundred yards, Gloria stopped the van and killed the engine.

  “This is as far as you go, Ernie,” I said, reaching for his cuffed hands and unlocking the restraints. I dropped the cuffs and key into my jacket pocket and withdrew my .38, gesturing toward the read double doors with it. “Come on, out.”

  “Aw, now wait a minute,” Ernie said. “Can’t we talk about this?”

  “Your brother already did all the talking,” I said. “Apparently you don’t know enough to stay out of his jurisdiction and quite frankly, he’s run out of ideas and asked me to handle it. I’ll make sure you never bother him again, now get out.” I edged closer with my gun.

  Ernie pulled the back door latch and pushed the rear door open, stepping out onto the dirt road. As I began following him out, Ernie slammed the door on me, knocking me back into the back of the van. He took that opportunity to run as fast as he could down the road, zigzagging as he ran, hoping to make a harder target of himself. I didn’t bother following him, but instead fired two shots, purposely wide enough to miss him. A few second later he was far enough that he was out of sight.

  I turned around and caught Gloria’s gaze. “You all right?” she said.

  I rubbed my head and straightened out my hair. “Sure,” I said. “Just a little knock on the head. Gees, did you see old Ernie run? That guy’s a jackrabbit when he’s scared.”

  “I think it did the trick,” Gloria said. “I don’t think Ernie will be around to embarrass his little brother again.” She paused for a second and then added, “You know, this was kind of fun for a change.”

  I laughed, recalling how fast Ernie had run. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go give Eric the good news.”

  Gloria and I drove back to the highway, passing the truck stop again on our way back to town. “You can bet Ernie will lay low until dark and then hitch a ride with the first trucker heading away from L.A.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if he looked for a truck with New York lettering on it,” Gloria said.

  We got back into town an hour later and called Eric from the van. “Problem solved,” I told him. “I think you’ve seen the last of Ernie Anderson.”

  “Thank you both so much,” Eric said. “Is he all right?”

  “Sure,” I said. “He’ll probably be in the market for a new pair of shorts, but yeah, he’ll be fine. I suspect he’s already in some semi headed east.”

  “Can we settle up tomorrow?” Eric said. “I’m beat. I can stop by your office in the morning if that’s all right with you.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “You can owe us one.”

  “At least let me pay for your gas,” Eric said. “That had to cost you twenty-five or thirty buck just for gas. Now don’t give me an argument. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He hung up before I could voice a complaint.

  I closed my phone and turned to Gloria. “He’ll catch us tomorrow,” I said. “You heard what I told him, but he insists on at least paying for our gas.”

  “When he comes by tomorrow,” Gloria said, “if he gives you more than gas money, don’t argue with him. Just take it. He’d probably feel funny if you didn’t. Besides, we can always use it. We do have bills of our own, you know.”

  “All right,” I agreed. “If it’ll make him happy.”

  The following morning as we waited for Eric the phone rang on my desk. “Cooper Investigations,” I said. “Elliott Cooper speaking.”

  “Mr. Cooper,” a woman’s voice said, “this is Donna Babcock. Do you remember me? I hired you to find my father so I could check his medical history.”

  “Yes, Donna,” I said. “I do remember you. What can I do for you this morning?”

  “Nothing, really,” she said. “I just thought you’d be interesting in learning that I went to see a specialist regarding my Trisomy 18 diagnosis.”

  “Oh, listen Donna,” I said. “I’m sorry…” I started to say.

  “No, don’t be,” Donna said in a more cheerful voice than I’d ever heard out of her. “The specialist I went to told me that whoever diagnosed my condition the first time made a major mistake. Turns out I don’t have it at all.”

  “That’s great news,” I said, gesturing toward Gloria to pick up the extension on her desk. She got on the line with me and Donna. “Donna, Gloria got on with us. I’m sure she’d like to hear your good news, too.”

  After listening to Donna’s explanation, Gloria said, “That’s wonderful news, Donna. So you don’t have to worry about having the baby after all.”

  “That’s right,” Donna said. “I just wanted to share the good news with you folks and to thank you again for your effort on my behalf.”

  “Glad we could help,” Gloria said, “even thought we couldn’t get you the information you wanted. Would you call me again after you’ve had the baby? I’d like to hear what you had and know that you’re both healthy and happy.”

  “I’ll do that,” Donna said, “and thanks again. Good-bye.”

  Gloria and I hung up the phones and looked at each other. “Kind of puts most other little problems into perspective, doesn’t it?” she said.

  I walked over and hugged her. “You know,” I said, “I think I’ll put a real effort into trying to be more positive from now on.”

  “I’d really appreciate that, Elliott,” Gloria said. “Life’s just too short and uncertain.”

  We were still hugging when Lieutenant Anderson walked in on us. He immediately held one hand up to shield his view of us. “Oops,” he said. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “Come on in, Eric,” I said. “And no, you didn’t interrupt anything. We were just appreciating each other. You should try it sometime.”

  “All right,” Eric said, and pushed me aside. He wrapped his arms around Gloria and hugged her.

  I pulled them apart. “I meant with your own woman,” I said. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t have a woman, do you? You have a career. That’s a shame, Eric, a real shame. Now go find your own. This one’s mine.”

  Eric reached into his pocket and produced several folded bills and handed them to me.

  “What’s this for?” I said, counting the bills.

  “To cover your gas from yesterday,” Eric said.

  “My gas didn’t cost eighty bucks,” I said, trying to hand the bills back to him.

  Eric held his palm out toward me. “No,” he said, “you keep it. Gas took another hike this morning and while you’re out filling up, go get yourself something to eat.”

  “That still leaves forty dollars too much,” I said. I held two twenties out to him.

  Eric reached behind his back and pulled out a pair of cuffs and slapped them on my wrists. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go.”

  “What’s all this about?” Gloria said.

  “I’m taking your husband in,” Eric told her.
<
br />   “For what?” I said.

  “Resisting compensation,” Eric said. “Where I come from that’s a class D felony. You can tell it to the judge. Don’t make me have to use deadly force, Elliott.”

  “All right, all right, I’ll keep it,” I said, tucking the bills into my pocket and holding my cuffed hands out in front of me. “Take these things off, will you?”

  Eric unlocked the cuffs and hung them back on his belt. “Gotta run,” he said, slapping my shoulder and opening the office door. Before he left he turned back and said, “I think I may have something else for you later if you’re free.”

  “Apparently I’m not,” I said, patting the bills in my pocket, “but I am available.”

  Ten days passed and I’d almost forgotten about Melinda Cameron and her quest to dig up my past and assemble it in some kind of order. Then on a Wednesday afternoon as Gloria and I were just about finished with the last of our data entry task, the office door opened and Melinda stepped in carrying a briefcase.

  “Good morning, Elliott, Gloria,” she said. “I think I have what you’re looking for.” She held up the briefcase with her left hand and patted it with her right.

  Gloria and I both got to our feet and invited Melinda to sit in my chair at my desk. “What did you find?” I said, anxious to hear the news of my ancestors.

  Melinda snapped open the briefcase and withdrew a neatly folded sheet of white paper. She laid it out on my desk and carefully unfolded it several times. Unfolded, it took up most of the surface of my desk. Gloria and I came around behind Melinda to look over her shoulder as she explained the contents of the family tree. She pointed to our son’s name at the bottom. “As you may recall, we started with little Matt and added you both as parent branches.” She looked at me. “And then you added your parents’ names above yours.” She pointed out Dad and Mom’s slots along with Grandpa Matt and Grandma Amy. Above that, she pointed out Great-Grandpa Nick’s name. “This was as far as we got that day in my office. You thought Nick’s wife’s name was Eve, remember?”

  “Wasn’t it?” I said.

  “Close,” Melinda said. “It was Evelyn, Evelyn Adams.” She pointed to Evelyn’s box on the chart and then slid her finger to the right. “And as it turns out, Nicholas Cooper had a brother, Raymond.”

  I looked at the name and the dates listed above it. It said, ‘1896-1917’ above Raymond’s name. I did a quick mental subtraction and said, “He only lived to be nineteen.”

  “Not quite,” Melinda said. “Eighteen years and seven months to be exact. Raymond died in France during World War I.”

  “I never heard that name mentioned,” I said. “I wonder how much Grandpa Matt even knew about him. Raymond would have died when Matt was just six years old.”

  Melinda moved on up the tree and pointed out Nicholas’s parents, John Cooper and Sara Phelps. From the chart, I could tell that John had lived from 1854 to 1922 and that his wife had outlived him by sixteen years. Apparently John Cooper also had a brother, Philip who also lived to the ripe old age of nineteen. I looked at Melinda.

  “Spanish-American War,” she said by way of explanation.

  “Sure didn’t pay to join the Army, did it?” Gloria said. “I suppose next you’ll point out some Cooper who bought the farm during the Civil War.”

  “No,” Melinda said. “Those were the only two war casualties.” She moved up the chart from there and pointed out John Cooper’s parents, Ellen Harris and Sebastian Cooperman.

  “Cooperman?” I said. “You sure about that, Melinda?”

  She gave me a look that made me regret my question immediately. “Of course you are,” I said. “Sorry, go on.”

  “Sebastian Cooperman,” Melinda said, “wasn’t the one who changed the family name. His son John did, but I’ll get back to that in a minute. Sebastian had a brother, Arthur and a sister, Eva, neither of which ever married, so that branch ended with them. Sebastian was born in 1821 in Massachusetts. His wife, Ellen Harris was born in 1825 just three miles down the road from the Cooperman house.”

  “How handy,” I said.

  “There’s more,” Melinda said. “I was able to trace the tree back one more generation. Sebastian’s parents were Henrietta Berg and Oscar Cooperman.”

  Gloria shot me an astonished look. “Oscar,” she said. “Imagine that.” She looked at Melinda. “Sorry, go on with your findings.”

  “Oscar Cooperman was born in Liverpool, England in 1788,” Melinda said. “Henrietta Berg’s family came from across the channel in Germany in the late eighteenth century. They were married in 1810 and had the three children you see here.” She pointed to the branch below their names. “I couldn’t find any records earlier than Oscar and Henrietta, but that’s not uncommon. People didn’t keep very accurate records back then. Most of what you might find from that period might only be found in family bibles and such.”

  “What were you going to say about John Cooperman changing the family name?” I said. “Did you ever find out why he did that?”

  “That’s an interesting story by itself,” Melinda said. “John Cooperman left home in 1872 when he turned eighteen. He worked his way west, settling in Ohio in 1874. When he was registering to vote he started to sign Cooperman but was interrupted by the sounds of a gunfight in the street outside. He got as far as signing Cooper and never corrected it. He liked the sound of the shortened name and stuck with it.”

  I counted tiers on the chart. “Eight levels,” I said. “That’s still pretty impressive.”

  Gloria wrapped an arm around mine and smiled. “Elliott,” she said. “How does it feel to be able to trace your lineage back that far?”

  “It’s pretty amazing,” I had to admit. “Now I can see where Grandpa Matt’s brother, Philip got his name.” I studied the chart for another minute and then turned to Melinda. “Thank you so much, Melinda. You’re amazing.”

  “Thank you, Elliott,” she said. “We’ll see how amazing you think I am after you get my bill.”

  “It’ll be worth it,” I said. “Thanks again.” I showed her to the door and watched as Melinda walked back to the elevator.

  “Oscar Cooperman,” Gloria said. “What are the odds?”

  “There’s a category they overlooked during the Academy Awards,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Gloria said.

  “Actor with the longest traceable family tree,” I said.

  Gloria punched me in the shoulder. “Yeah,” she said. “Give ‘em time, Elliott. Someone’ll think of it.”

  97 - Second Chance

  “Here you go, Elliott,” Gloria said, handing me the can of tomatoes. “It’s the store brand and it’s thirty cents a can cheaper than the nationally advertised brand. And I’ll bet that in a blind taste test that you couldn’t tell the difference.”

  She handed me the can and I held it up next to the national brand, examining the labels on the back of both cans. “Both have six ounces,” I said. “Both have the same preservatives and additives. Both have the same amount of calories per serving, and both were canned here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. So, which one do we buy?”

  “All things being equal,” Gloria said, “I say we go with the store brand. Hell, thirty cents here and forty cents there, it all adds up at the end of the year.”

  I was about to put the national brand back on the shelf but took one more look first. “Hold on there, Mrs. Cooper,” I said. “The national brand was grown in Georgia, whereas the store brand was grown in Mexico.” I put the store brand back on the shelf. “For thirty cents I’m not going to chance it.”

  “What are you talking about, Elliott?” Gloria said. “What’s wrong with the store brand tomatoes being grown in Mexico?”

  “Would you drink the water down there?” I said.

  “Drink the water?” Gloria said. “I wouldn’t even want to go there in the first place, why?”

  “You know what you get from drinking the water in Mexico,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Gloria
said, “Montezuma’s revenge. What does that have to do with canned tomatoes?”

  “Where do you suppose they get the water to irrigate the tomato crop in Mexico?” I said.

  Gloria shrugged. “Never gave it much thought,” she said.

  “Same place they get the drinking water,” I said. “Only now that same water is soaking into the soil and being sucked up by those Mexican tomatoes. By and by you’re going to absorb all that Mexican water and the end result, pardon my pun, will be the same as drinking it out of a glass.”

  Gloria took the national brand of tomatoes from me and dropped them into the cart. “Good enough for me,” she said. “And I certainly wouldn’t want little Matt getting sick, either.”

  “I don’t like tomatoes anyway,” Matt said, standing at Gloria’s side, hanging onto the side of the grocery cart.

  “What on earth made you look at the country where the product was grown?” Gloria said.

  “You remember last summer when Dad got so sick at the family picnic?” I said. “He was throwing up and he had the squirts for four days.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Gloria said. “That was disgusting just to hear about and poor Clay had to go through four days of all that discomfort. I remember you telling me something about him eating some bad watermelon that day. You think that was grown in Mexico, too? And why didn’t anyone else who was at that picnic get sick?”

  “Because Dad cut himself a slice and the rest of the melon fell off the end of the picnic table and broke on the ground before anyone else could get a piece,” I said. “Lucky for everybody else, not so lucky for Dad.”

  “I guess I know what I’ll be checking before I buy any more food from now on,” Gloria said.

  I pushed the cart to the end of the aisle and started to round the next corner. Gloria held Matt’s little hand and followed close behind me. As I started to round the corner, I stopped and looked at the face of the girl who was standing next to the register, checking out a man who stood with his back to me. Something in the girl’s face didn’t look right to me and I pulled the cart back, out of sight. I held my arm across Gloria’s body, stopping her from going ahead of me. I held one finger up to my lips.