Buddy Cooper Finds a Way

by Neil O'Boyle Connelly

  “Do you recall forgetting it?”

  “I remember being Bull Invinso. If I hadn’t seen CNN I would hardly believe what the doctors are telling me.”

  “Ah yes,” he says. “CNN. Can you think of anyone who might wish to harm Mr. Hillwigger?”

  I think for a moment before coming up with, “The Baptists. They’re opposed to his strip club.”

  Tyrelli frowns. “That affair was apparently settled some time ago.”

  “Baptists have long memories,” I say. “Cover your bases.”

  “I appreciate the advice. Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Mr. Henderson?”

  My heart pumps once. “What do you mean might have had?”

  Tyrelli pauses, takes two steps toward me, then looks back over his shoulder at the window. “My condolences,” he says. “He passed early this morning. I was under the impression you’d been informed.”

  “No. I didn’t know.” Barney and I were never close, but we’d had a few beers. After his wife got sick, we made a lot of plans to watch the Series together, that kind of thing. But I can’t get emotional. Because in my new reality, I never met this man who’s now dead.

  “This is the reason why I’m asking these questions,” Tyrelli explains. “What we’re dealing with now is a Cobra 6 homicide. I’m the department’s specialist.”

  I ask him what exactly he specializes in.

  “My tactical training covers anti-terrorist, anti-cult, and anti-gang activity.”

  I picture the gray-haired man-child. “Which one is this?”

  “We’re not sure yet.” Tyrelli props one foot up on the pink chair. His jacket splits open, revealing the metal in his shoulder holster. I can’t be sure, but it looks like a modified 9mm. “So your recollections fail to—”

  “Look,” I say, “don’t you guys have this kid in custody? Isn’t he strapped down up on seven? Can’t you just show a jury the CNN videotape and call it a day?” The confidence in my voice is vintage Buddy.

  Frustrated, Tyrelli crosses his arms. “Thanks to your intervention we do indeed have a suspect in custody. Unfortunately his oars aren’t all in the water. Fact is, he doesn’t really seem to have oars, if you want to know the real truth. He rants constantly, something about serving the master. Before I come to any conclusions about who else might be involved, I’d like to develop an accurate account of exactly what happened.”

  “How about the five thousand eyewitnesses?”

  Tyrelli informs me that stampeding fans and strobing light tend to combine for unreliable testimony. Everyone saw something different. When I ask about Snake and Hardy, the lieutenant tells me, “Mr. Hillwigger’s and Mr. Appleseed’s version of events are similar, but somewhat dubious.”

  “Dubious how?” I ask.

  “Trust me when I say dubious. So we could really use some further corroboration.”

  “I can’t supply corroboration. Read my chart. I’ve got amnesia.”

  “I understand that. Trauma-induced partial amnesia. That’s part of the official record. Do you know how rare actual cases of amnesia are?”

  “If I did know, I’ve forgotten.”

  “You’re being clever. I appreciate cleverness. Let me ask you this, Mr. Cooper, do you believe in the search for the truth?”

  “Absolutely,” I snap out.

  “Then you’d be willing to work with a hypnotist?”

  Behind Tyrelli, the squirrel has reappeared. He is sitting on the line, holding a nut, as if he were watching a matinee. I say, “I thought you were with the police.”

  “Hal’s my brother-in-law. He’s licensed. The very best in the business.”

  I don’t believe in hypnosis, licensed or otherwise, but I can just imagine if this guy happens to be for real. After all, if Rhonda can see into the future, it only makes sense that Hal could unveil the past. “No,” I say. “Hypnosis is not an option.”

  “Hal helped a witness crack that coed murder in Chapel Hill last year. He’s amazing when it comes to past-life regressions. Maybe you saw him on North Carolina Now! He was on Montel last fall.”

  Montel is a semi-reliable reference in my world, but I shake my head no.

  The detective asks, “Why not?”

  “Hypnosis is against my religious principles.”

  “Really?” Tyrelli says. “Might I ask what religion you are?”

  I look him straight in the eyes. “I’m with the Church of Buddy Cooper.”

  He stands there for a moment, trying to get a read on my face through the bandages. But before he can come to any determination, Quinn storms in—suspenders, tie, briefcase. “Welcome to the end of this meeting,” he says.

  Tyrelli turns to him.

  “I’m Lowell Quinn, acting as legal counselor for Mr. Cooper. Dr. Karmichael, his physician, is prepared to sign an affidavit to the effect that Mr. Cooper’s condition prevents him from assisting you. This questioning is invasive and potentially detrimental. Desist.”

  Tyrelli raises one pink palm. “No one’s under suspicion here, Mr. Quinn. I’m simply gathering information.” He offers Quinn his hand, and the two of them shake, uneasily.

  I’m feeling left out and decide to reinsert myself. “Excuse me,” I say to Quinn. “But I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Buddy Cooper.”

  Tyrelli and Quinn share eye contact. The detective heads for the door and says, “I’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted. I need to check in up on seven. I’m sure we’ll all be in contact.”

  As soon as Tyrelli leaves, Quinn turns to me. “I’m Lowell Quinn, your boss and best friend.”

  We look hard at each other, neither of us completely convinced by the other. It’s like a staring contest between two bluffing poker players. I have a distinct advantage because the bandages cover most of my face. Finally Quinn starts pacing back and forth beneath the TV and says, “You do recollect being employed by me, right?”

  “I work for Mrs. Q.”

  Quinn winces, then explains that after his grandmother died, he inherited the SWC. “And your contract along with it. But that’s irrelevant in the big picture because we’re friends, B. C. It’s crucial that you fully comprehend the closeness of our relationship. You and I have a code that goes beyond contractual obligations.”

  Quinn’s lie makes me want to leap from the bed and beat him with my bedpan. But I have to stay undercover. None of these folks knows it, but I’m the one in control. I say, “I’m sorry about your grandmother. She was a beautiful lady. I’m glad you and I are friends.”

  Fueled by false confidence, Quinn continues. “Prior to the incident, you and I were collaborating on a project of some import. Recollect?”

  I tell him I’m drawing a blank.

  He dismisses my amnesia with a wave of his hand. “Your plan called for the current champion—Hardy Appleseed—to lose his crown under somewhat dubious circumstances, then regain it in a subsequent match, restoring his honor and increasing our ratings. Kind of like what the Coke people did. That was your plan.”

  “Well, I’ve seen CNN. So much for my plan.”

  “That’s the story of life, B. C. Plan A goes awry. You formulate Plan B. That’s what I’m here to discuss with you. The contingency I’m initiating would benefit greatly from your participation.”

  “I’d love to help,” I say. “But I’m not exactly one hundred percent.” Beneath the immobilizer, the fresh gauze has begun once again to bloom with blood and pus.

  “It’s not so much your body that I need,” Quinn says.

  I’m eyeing him up, trying to get a read on what he’s got in mind, when a candy striper shows up with dinner. She whips the lid off to reveal a cube of lasagna, a heel of garlic bread, a bowl of green Jell-O, and two Percocet in a plastic cup the size of a shot glass. “Care to join me?” I ask.

  Quinn smiles, pulls out his Palm Pilot. “I’ve got a meeting with the head of hospital security. Apparently Hardy refused to leave Snake’s bedside last night. You do know who I’m
talking about, right?”

  “I heard about the Hardy guy on CNN,” I say. “And I bounce at Snake’s bar.”

  “Of course. I forget how long you two have shared an association. We’ll discuss specifics at the appropriate time, B. C., but to highlight the central points of our dialogue: One, Lowell Quinn is your friend. Two, he’s got a plan.”

  “Plan B,” I say.

  “That’s right. But consider it from a positive perspective. After all, you’ve got to agree: Plan B is better than no plan at all.” With that, he’s gone.

  Quinn’s last line makes me think about what will come of all this. My fingers touch the gauze wrapped around my chin and I can’t help conjuring the soap opera scene waiting on the next page. Alix will be holding the hand mirror as the doctor unwinds the gauze. And part of me believes that when the bandages are gone, my face will indeed be four years younger, that somehow this amnesia fantasy I’ve concocted may transform into prophecy. That I’ll actually be the man I’m pretending I am.

  -----

  Midnight Visitor. The Healing Power of Crystals.

  An Unveiling. The State of Our Union.

  My light snaps on in the middle of the night, pulling me from a dreamy green field thick with wildflowers. A nurse stands with her hands posted on her hips at the end of my bed. I don’t recognize her. “What’s with the ruckus?” she demands, like I’m the one who just intruded on her quality REM.

  “What ruckus?” I ask.

  “We’ve got recuperating people around here. Sick people who need to sleep. We simply can’t tolerate ruckuses.”

  I scan the room for evidence of some disturbance. Chairs. Balloons. Flowers. “Sorry,” I say and shrug my free shoulder. “No ruckus here.”

  She flips off the light and swings my door closed as if I’m a child being banished to the darkness. I settle my head back into my pillow, but not two seconds later a sound escapes beneath my bed. “Psst. Psst.”

  I try to convince myself it’s my imagination, or something from the pipes, but then I hear it again, more insistent. “Psssst. Psssst.”

  Best-case scenario is that it’s Buddy, come to deliver more guidance. Clicking on the tiny yellow light behind me, I gain the courage to ask, “Who’s in here?”

  There’s a sliding sound, and out from under the bed my daughter emerges. Brook smiles and whispers, “That nurse is an A-1 mega-bitch.”

  Quietly, I tell her, “Don’t say mega-bitch.”

  We both grin, and then she gently lays her chest onto mine, careful not to put too much weight on my immobilized arm. With my free one, I hug her into me. Chins on shoulders, we exchange “Baby Bird” and “Hey, Poppa-San.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “My bike,” she says, “and the steps. I told the emergency room my sister was giving birth. Then I just worked my way up. Mom said I wasn’t allowed to see you yet, but I was, y’know, worried.”

  “I’m glad you came.”

  She tilts her head, taking in my mummy look. “I wasn’t even sure it was you under there until I heard your voice.”

  “The bandages come off in the morning.”

  We stare at each other in the thin light for long moments before she says, “So you remember me and all, right?”

  My amnesia had completely slipped my mind. I nod my head. “Absolutely. How could I forget my baby?”

  “I knew Mom was just jazzing me. She said you’d been hit on the head so hard you thought it was the past. That I was like nine again and we were all still living together.” Though she knows this to be a fantasy, she can’t keep from smiling a little bit. She says, “So like, what’s up? How come Mom told me that?”

  I don’t want to lie to my daughter. “Baby,” I say. “This is a lot more complicated than it looks.”

  “Complicated how? It’s the truth or it’s not.”

  “It’s not the truth. But your mom didn’t lie.”

  “Cool.” She nods her head, processing. “So you understand the way things really are?”

  “Of course,” I say. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, like with Trevor and all. You know about him.”

  “I know Mom married him.”

  “I never call him Dad, even when you’re not around. Just Trevor. But he’s cool with that. He knows enough not to push his luck.”

  I want to tell Brook that I’m glad she gets along well with Trevor. I take a deep breath and say, “I’m glad you get along with Trevor.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I brought you something.”

  From her pocket, she pulls out four blue stones on a string. “I made the vsaji myself. Jhondu says the crystals redirect positive energies. They’ll help you heal.”

  She shows me the necklace and I notice letters scratched into the surface of the rocks. They spell out W-W-J-D. I’ve seen this before and I read, “What Would Jesus Do?”

  “They can mean that if you want. Jhondu’s clean with Jesus. He says all religions contain great truths, but not all great truths are contained by religion.”

  “This Jhondu guy says an awful lot.”

  “Yeah. He’s bullet smart. He sounds like Yoda.”

  I can think of no reply. I do wonder, though, which Star Wars character my daughter would compare me to.

  Brook asks, “Did you know the website says you’re like, in a coma?”

  “Website,” I repeat.

  “SWC.com. They’ve got pictures of you in here, but the Mad Maestro’s personal page claims it’s all being faked. Of course, in the fan chat room there’s a rumor that you’re dead.”

  “Well, I have felt better.”

  “Yeah, it just got me nervous, reading that stuff. But now I know you’re OK and all, I should cruise. Mom’ll blitz if she comes in to wake me up and I’m not in that bed. I’ll give the vsaji to her to give to you. Then nobody’ll ask questions.”

  Awkwardly, we hug again, and then Brook moves to the door.

  “Be careful,” I say quietly, another stock father statement.

  She waves, peeks her head out into the hallway, then disappears.

  Almost immediately I begin worrying about her. The curtains are still dark, so I imagine my daughter pedaling home along unlit roads, the thin wheels of her ten-speed hugging the cracked edges of the asphalt. I try to calculate exactly when she turns onto 17th Street, try to picture her safely passing St. James Cemetery, safely crossing the intersection at Shipyard, maybe glancing over at the popcorn store where once her tiny fists split boards.

  After twenty minutes, I start itching to phone Alix’s and make sure Brook arrived safely. Of course, according to my cover story, that particular phone number won’t exist for another two years. But the not knowing is driving me nuts, and only after a long while does sleep settle over me. Even here though, I am not safe from my mind. In my dreams I follow my daughter’s journey. I am flying behind her as she pedals past the Baptist church. The camera angle I have makes me think I’m a balloon she’s towing, or some bird cruising along in easy pursuit. She stops at the light on College, and I hang behind her, hovering. When she gets the green we move again, down into the familiar streets of our development. She should be safe now, but still I stay with her. She turns down Asgard Lane and right up ahead is our house. A van comes toward her and I tense, but it rolls by without stopping. Brook pedals up the driveway and walks the bike around to the side of the house. She’s ten seconds away from being in the house and safe, and that’s when the dark figure roars from the azaleas. He tackles her to the ground and she screams just once before he covers her mouth with a filthy paw. The floating sensation vanishes and I fall, the ground rising toward me as I drop onto the attacker. It’s like I just came off the top rope, the Bull from Heaven. I yank him off Brook, and we tumble to one side. When we stop rolling, I’m on top of him and I see his face clearly: Trevor.

  The front door opens and Alix stands there in a wedding dress and Brook runs into her arms. “Stay back!” I shout as I reach
for one of the bricks lining the front bed. But what my fingers fold around is the thin certainty of the tire iron. Kneeling on Trevor’s shoulders, I bring the metal down onto his widening eyes. His body jerks beneath me.

  Twin screams freeze my pumping arms, and I see Brook nestled into the white folds of Alix’s gown, both of them staring at me in shock and horror. They don’t recognize me. Suddenly, I’m aware of the latex covering my face—the blue mask of the Terror. I reach up to pry my fingers beneath its skin, but I can’t find the bottom. The latex has melted into my flesh.

  I stand and walk toward them, but they back away like I’m Frankenstein on the march. Desperate, I claw my fingers into the eyeholes of the mask and tug. The material stretches but won’t give. Alix pushes Brook behind her and holds up her hands, gloved in white lace. “Get away!”

  Fingers hooked inside the eyeholes, I pull as hard as I can, elbows up, like a man bending prison bars. One hand rips away a shred, and cooler air covers that cheek. I tear away at the mask as if it were a second skin I needed to shed.

  Finally I’m free of it, my true face exposed, and I stand there panting before my wife and daughter. In a moment of recognition they rush toward me. Alix pulls back her white veil and kisses me, then they each slide inside my arms and help me through the open front door of our home.

  A voice says, “What’s wrong with this picture?”

  I awaken, eyes blinking back the morning brightness. A puzzled Dr. Karmichael is standing next to me, holding up a pair of scissors and a mirror. My free hand is a fist, tightly clutching tufts of gauze. Shredded pieces litter my chest, lay scattered across the bed.

  “Got a little anxious to see my handiwork, huh?” Karmichael asks.

  “There was an itch,” I say. “A terrible itch in a dream I was having.”

  He stares at me through his glasses. “Well, you may as well have a look.”

  With this, he hands me the mirror, and I hold it up to my new face, framed in shredded gauze. My skin looks puffy and a little raw, but the sidewalk bruise on my chin and the egg the pool player raised on my forehead are both somehow gone. I am healed.