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

by Bill Bernico

  Bud and I hesitated for a moment.

  “Sit down,” the man barked again.

  Bud and I sat on the sofa, wondering what this was all about. “What is all this?” I said.

  “Shut up,” the man said. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He sat opposite us on a kitchen chair that had obviously been dragged into the living room just for this occasion.

  Bud and I were both carrying weapons, but the man had not thought to frisk us when we entered. I gently elbowed Bud and he instinctively knew what I was referring to. Now all we needed was an opportunity to get at the handguns under our arms.

  “Do you mind me asking your name?” I said to the gunman.

  He didn’t answer, but just sat there stone-faced and silent.

  I tried another approach. “Just so I don’t have to say, ‘Hey you’ when I want to talk to you,” I said, “What can I call you?”

  “I ain’t gonna tell you again to shut up,” was his only reply.

  I kept any further comments to myself. We’d have to work this another way if either Bud or I were going to get a chance to go for our guns. I grabbed my thigh and yelped, “Ouwww” and immediately stood up. “I got a cramp in my leg. Just let me walk it off for a minute.” I took a few steps away from the sofa and then back again, still rubbing my leg. I turned and winked down at Bud before limping away from the sofa again. This time I fell over onto the floor, still holding my leg and moaning.

  The gunman shifted his gaze to me lying there, giving Bud the opening he’d been waiting for. He swept the .38 out from under his arm so fast it was almost a blur. He had it cocked and leveled at the burly man’s head before anyone knew what was happening. The burly man froze, his gun still pointing somewhere between me and Bud.

  “Just move an inch and I’ll splatter your brains all over this room,” Bud said, standing now and scowling at the burly man. “Just slowly lay your piece on the carpet and put your hands in the air. Do it now.”

  The burly man took one more look at me and then at Bud, trying to decide if he could raise his own gun fast enough. He decided that he could not and laid it on the floor. I scurried over to the gun and scooped it up as Bud held his gun on the man. I took up a position alongside the burly man and lightly tapped the top of his head with his own gun barrel.

  “All right,” I said. “Spill it. Why the tough guy act? Who put you up to this? What’s your name?”

  The man wasn’t sure which question to answer first and sat there tongue-tied.

  Bud looked at me and had to smile. “Try it again one question at a time, Elliott,” Bud said. “You got him too flustered to talk.”

  I turned back to the burly man. “Let start with your name,” I said. “Who are you?”

  The man said nothing.

  “Stand up,” I said. When he did I dipped my hand into his hip pocket and pulled out a wallet. I flipped it open to the window with the driver’s license and read aloud. “Henry Caldwell,” I said, closing the wallet and dropping it into my own jacket pocket. “Well, Henry, you’d better start talking before I let Bud have his way with you. He’s a little hard to control. That last guy, gees, I can still see his left eye hanging out of its socket by that little stringy muscle and staring down at the floor. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Caldwell’s face dropped the tough façade and softened like a little school girl. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just keep him away from me.”

  “That’s more like it,” I said and pushed Caldwell back down onto the chair. “Now, what’s this all about?”

  “I’m just paid to do a job,” Caldwell said. “That’s all.”

  “What job and by whom?” I said.

  Caldwell looked around the room as if he thought someone was watching him. “Spence,” he said. “Spencer Dreyfus. I was just supposed to keep you here until he got here.”

  “Then what?” Bud said, moving a little closer to Caldwell.

  Caldwell recoiled, trying in vain to lean back in his chair, out of the way of Bud’s .38. “That’s all I was supposed to do,” Caldwell said. “Spence said he could take it from there and that I could leave once he got here, honest. That’s all I know.”

  “You don’t know why this Spence is so anxious to see me?” I said.

  “Something about you sending him away for two years,” Caldwell said. “Said he was going to get two years worth of pleasure out of killing you.”

  I gestured toward Hilda. “And what about her?” I said. “How she get mixed up in this?”

  Caldwell shrugged. “Wrong place at the wrong time?” he suggested.

  “You can do better than that,” I said. “Try again.” Bud inched a little closer to Caldwell.

  “All right,” Caldwell said. “Spence had your office phone tapped. He knew you were coming here to see the old lady and he sent me to hold onto you until he could get here.”

  “From where?” Bud said.

  “Long Beach,” Caldwell said. “He’s on his way here now.”

  “Keep him covered,” I told Bud. I stepped over to where Hilda Fredricks sat on the sofa and helped her to her feet. I walked her into the kitchen and said in a low, calm voice, “I’m sorry you had to get dragged into the middle of this mess, Miss Fredricks. There’s going to be trouble here soon. I want you to leave by the back door and go stay with one of your neighbors until this is over.”

  Hilda nodded. “Just let me grab a coat,” she said and walked to her hall closet. As she reached for a coat, a heavy knock came at the front door. I held my finger up to my lips and eased Hilda into the closet. “Stay in here and be still. Don’t make a sound. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.”

  I eased the closet door shut and turned to Caldwell. “Get up,” I almost whispered. “Answer the door. Once false move, once attempt to warn Dreyfus and I’ll kill you, understand?”

  Caldwell nodded that he understood and stepped toward the door while I sat back down on the sofa again, my .38 wedged under my thigh. Bud took up his position behind the door. When we were both ready, Caldwell looked at me and I nodded. Caldwell opened the door and another man stepped in. He immediately looked at me sitting there on the sofa and then looked back at Caldwell. “Good work, Henry,” he said. “Did he give you any trouble?”

  Caldwell shook his head and closed the door. Bud stepped forward and stuck his .38 in Dreyfus’s neck. “Freeze, mister,” Bud said. “Easy now.”

  I jumped up off the sofa, my gun in hand and walked up alongside Dreyfus, who was now looking at Caldwell as if he’d grown a third eye. I pointed my gun in Dreyfus’s face and reached into his coat, feeling for a weapon. I found one tucked into his waistband in the small of his back. It was a Colt revolver with a nickel finish. I tucked it into my waistband and gestured toward the sofa. “Both of you sit down,” I said.

  Dreyfus and Caldwell sat on the sofa while Bud and I kept our guns trained on them. I walked backwards to the closet and opened the door to let Hilda out again. “Get on your phone and call the police, Miss Fredricks,” I said. “Ask for Lieutenant Anderson and tell him you’re calling for Elliott Cooper and Bud Burke. Tell him to come with a couple of officers and that we’re holding a couple of killers. Got that?”

  “I never killed no one,” Caldwell blurted out.

  I turned back to Hilda. “Go on, make the call,” I said. I pulled the kitchen chair across from Dreyfus and sat, my gun still trained on his chest.

  “Now what’s all this about me sending you away?” I said. “I can’t send anyone away. I’m not a cop or a judge. Come on, let’s have it, Dreyfus.”

  Dreyfus looked at me defiantly. I’m sure that if he could have gotten his hands around my throat that he’d have choked the life out of me then and there. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Should I?” I said.

  “Two years and three months ago,” Dreyfus said. “You were working with that cop from downtown when
I came out of that mom and pop grocery store.”

  Two years fell away and my memory flooded with the mental picture of Dreyfus fleeing Schneider’s Delicatessen with a fistful of money. Lt. Eric Anderson and I were on our way in to grab a sandwich for lunch. Dreyfus slammed into me and dropped the money on his way out. Before he could get to his feet, Eric had his service revolver trained on Dreyfus’s head. Dreyfus drew a five year sentence at San Quentin. He had served twenty-seven months and was out on good behavior.

  “Now I remember,” I said. “Are you going to blame me for what happened to you? That was all your own doing.”

  “It ain’t enough that you’re still walking around,” Dreyfus said. “I thought I took care of you last week.”

  “Only you got the guy who mugged me instead,” I told him. “My hat and my coat and you happened to follow him instead of me. Isn’t that about it?”

  Dreyfus just shook his head. “I ain’t going back inside,” he said and rose from the sofa.

  “Don’t take another step,” I told him. “Sit back down and just wait until the cops get here.”

  “I said, I ain’t going back inside,” Dreyfus said and charged me.

  I fired once, hitting him in the stomach. It didn’t even slow him down. I fired twice more, ripping into his lungs and heart. He dropped like a stone. Caldwell panicked and held up both hands, palms out. “Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot.” He was almost crying now.

  “Oh shut up,” Bud yelled. “No one’s going to shoot you.”

  Fists pounded on the front door and I could hear Eric’s voice outside yelling, “Police, open up.”

  Bud opened the door and let Eric and two other officers in. “Over there,” Bud said, gesturing to the man on the floor.

  Eric looked at me. “Who’s that?” he said.

  “Spencer Dreyfus,” I said. “Ring any bells?”

  “That delicatessen over on Vine?” he said.

  “Argyle Avenue,” I said, “But yeah, that’s the place.” I pointed to Dreyfus’s body. “And that was the guy who held it up.”

  Eric gestured with his chin at the man on the sofa. “And who’s that?” he said.

  “Name’s Caldwell,” I said. “Henry Caldwell. Dreyfus recruited him to ambush me when I answered this lady’s call for a P.I. You can take him away and book him for kidnapping and conspiracy.”

  Eric looked down at Dreyfus’s body. “Is this the guy?” he said.

  I nodded. “He’s the one who killed my mugger, thinking he was killing me,” I said. “How about that? Two birds with one stone, so to speak. The city is rid of a mugger and a killer both at the same time. Doesn’t the air already smell fresher?”

  One of the officers accompanying Eric pulled a pair of handcuffs off his belt and snapped them onto Caldwell’s wrist, twisting it around his back and snapping the other cuff on. They led Caldwell out to the waiting patrol car. Eric grabbed his two-way radio and called the precinct to send the medical examiner to this address.

  The owner of the house stepped forward and I introduced her to Eric. “Lieutenant Anderson,” I said. “I’d like you to meet Miss Hilda Fredricks. She was unfortunate to get drawn into this mess after Dreyfus had my office phone bugged.”

  Eric shook her hand. “How do you do, Miss Fredricks?” he said. “Sorry for the mess here. Once the medical examiner gets the body out of your house, we’ll help you try to get the mess cleaned up.”

  “That’s so nice of you, Mr. Anderson,” Hilda said.

  I laid a hand over Hilda’s shoulder. “Miss Fredricks,” I said. “You never did tell me why you wanted to see me. Did you have a problem and required my services?”

  “After all this,” Hilda said, “It all seems so trivial now, by comparison. I hate to even ask after what you’ve been through.”

  “Try me,” I said.

  “Well,” Hilda began, “It’s that darned Sylvia.”

  “Sylvia?” I said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sylvia is the woman at the Shady Acres Senior Center who calls the Bingo games on Friday,” Hilda explained. “I’ve been going there for six months now and I’ve never won a single game. You know, Mr. Cooper, I have a feeling that the game is rigged and I wanted you to look into it.” She exhaled sharply. “See, I told you it would sound silly.”

  I looked at Bud, who was trying his best to hold his laughter in but was nearly convulsing with the effort. Even Eric had to look away to hide his smile. I turned back to Hilda. “I’d consider it an honor to look into the matter for you, Miss Fredricks. No charge, of course.”

  A wide smile played on Hilda’s face, as if she could almost count her Bingo winnings already. “Thank you so much, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “I have a feeling my luck is about to change.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised, Miss Fredricks,” I said.

  112 - Gone With The Window

  “You really thing they’re going to have a window for your Toyota in this junk yard?” I said, as Bud and I walked the aisles and aisles of wrecked and discarded cars.

  “First of all,” Bud said, “It’s not a junk yard. It’s an auto salvage yard. Second, it’s a pretty common model so they should have the one I need. He pointed to a car stacked three high in the next aisle. “Look at that,” he said. “If they kept that ‘49 Ford sedan, chances are they’ll have one or two wrecked ‘89 Toyotas around. All I need is one lousy rear passenger side window, for crying out loud.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “But it’s taking us an awful long time to find the right one. And by the way, how’d you end up with a broken window in the first place?”

  Bud looked embarrassed as he answered. “My fault,” he said. “I was trying to bring home an eight foot two by four from the lumber yard and it didn’t quite fit inside the car so I rolled the back window down just enough to let the board hang out the window. It wasn’t a long trip home and I figured I could make it all right.”

  “And?” I said.

  “And I got home all right,” Bud said, “But I made the mistake of backing into my garage, forgetting about the two by four. It caught on the garage door frame and took the window out with it. That three dollar two by four is going to end up costing me a couple hundred bucks by the time I’m through fixing the window and the garage door frame.”

  “Interesting turn of events,” I said. “But can we step this up a little?”

  “Elliott,” Bud said, “If you have something else pressing, by all means, go on back to the office. I can do this by myself.”

  “Clever,” I said. “I rode with you, remember?”

  “Well, then,” Bud said, “Looks like you’re stuck with me until I find an ‘89 Toyota with a good left rear window. How about if we split up? We could cover twice as much ground that way.”

  “Yeah, that’ll work,” I said. “I wouldn’t know an ‘89 Toyota if it fell off the pile on top of me. How about if we just pick up the pace a bit? Or wouldn’t an old guy like you be able to keep up with a young guy like me?”

  “I’m not that much older than you,” Bud reminded me. “Go on, pick your pace. I’ll be right behind you.”

  I started to walk faster, leaving Bud behind as I rounded the corner of the aisle we were in. I scanned the rows, not sure if I was seeing any Toyotas or not. Fifty feet in front of me I saw the huge machine, its jaws gaping open as a large forklift dropped the stripped car into it and then backed up. The machine growled and cranked as the car in its belly was compacted to the size of a kitchen stove. I was fascinated and wanted to stand there for a while and see another car crushed.

  “Elliott, back here,” Bud yelled.

  “You find an ‘89 Toyota?” I yelled back.

  “Elliott, now,” Bud yelled again.

  I hurried back around the corner and found Bud staring into the back seat of a rusty beater that could have been a Toyota. I looked at the emblem on the side of the car. “Is this the one you were looking for?” I said.

  Bud nodded and then gestured with
his head toward the car. “Have a look in the back seat,” he said and stepped back to give me room.

  I stepped up to the window and glanced into the car. There was a man lying across the back seat, his head a bloody pulp. “Anyone you know?” I said.

  Bud shook his head. “Hard to tell from here,” he said. “His face is too far gone. We’d better get back to my car and call this in.”

  “Your cell phone is in your car?” I said. “Doesn’t do you much good there. The whole idea behind cell phones is portability, isn’t it?”

  “Spare me the lecture,” Bud said. “It’s in my jacket and it’s way too hot for a jacket. Let’s go.”

  We made it back to Bud’s car in just a few minutes. He reached into the car, pulled his jacket off the seat and retrieved his cell phone. When he flipped it open, a brief message appeared on the screen telling him that his battery needed charging. He flipped it shut again. “Oh great,” Bud said. “Of all the days for the charge to run down. Let me use your cell, Elliott.”

  I held up both palms toward him. “Mine’s on my desk at the office,” I said and immediately knew that I’d left myself open for the same criticism that I’d just laid on Bud. Either he hadn’t thought of coming back at me with it, or he was just in a hurry to call this in.

  “Let’s try the office here at the salvage yard,” Bud said. “I’m sure they have a phone we could use.”

  We hurried back to the salvage yard office and asked the guy behind the counter if we could use the phone. He was already on the phone, giving someone a quote for a rear end and differential. He held up one finger and then finished his conversation before hanging up the phone and turning back to us.

  “Now,” he said, “What was it you wanted?”

  “I’d like to use your phone,” Bud said. “It’s an emergency. There’s a dead body in one of your cars out in the yard.”

  The guy behind the counter, a greasy man named Slim, according to the name patch on his shirt, picked up the phone and held the receiver out toward Bud. Bud took the phone from Slim, listened for the dial tone and then dialed Lieutenant Eric Anderson of the twelfth precinct.