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

by Bill Bernico

  “They don’t cost me anything,” the man explained. “The printer gives them out for free to anyone who wants to sell them.”

  “Then how can he make any money doing that?” I said.

  “They make their money from the ads people put in this rag,” the guy said.

  “And how much of the fifty cents do you get to keep?” I asked.

  “All of it,” the man said. “Now will you go away and let me sell my papers?”

  “Just one more question,” I said. “Where can I get some of these papers? I’d like to try selling some myself.”

  “I’ll tell you,” the man said, “But you have to promise to find some other place to sell. This is my territory.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “I can go anywhere else, just tell me where to get a stack of these papers for myself.”

  The young man turned back toward me and pointed up the street. “Three blocks up that way, turn left one block and it’s the little metal shed with the double doors on the front. There’ll be a guy there with bundled stacks all ready to go.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said, hurrying off up the block in search of my slice of free enterprise, literally.

  I found the metal shack and just as the young man had promised, there was a short balding man sitting on a stack of papers. Behind him stood dozens of other stacks neatly tied with twine. When he saw me walking toward him, he got up off his stack of papers, turned around and grabbed another stack by the twine.

  “You waiting for these?” the bald man said.

  I nodded. “And these are free? All I have to do is sell them?”

  “That’s right,” baldy said. “If you run out, come on back and get some more. I’ll be here until four or until I run out of papers.”

  I took the stack from baldy, tucked it under my arm and said, “Thanks. Thanks a lot. I should have no trouble selling these and I’ll be back for more. You just wait and see.”

  “I hope you do,” baldy said, sitting on his paper stack once again.

  I hurried back to the boulevard, untied my bundle of papers and held one up, waving at the cars that drove past his spot. It didn’t take but a minute for the first car to stop and roll its window down. I handed the man a paper, collected his fifty cents and thanked the driver. My mental calculator told me that I now had two dollars and sixty-two cents to my name. This was going to be easy, I thought.

  I repeated the paper waving gestures twenty-four more times that afternoon before I ran out of papers. It was only two-thirty and I was sure I could sell another stack of papers before the end of the day. I had nearly fifteen dollars in my pocket as I hurried back to the metal shack for another stack of free papers.

  By quarter to three I had sold out of my second stack of papers and the wad in my pocket had now grown to just over twenty-seven dollars. I was tired and hungry but I felt satisfied for having earned all the money in my pocket. Back in my real world, I could easily spend the whole twenty-seven dollar and more on one meal. Hell, there’d been times when I’d tipped that much.

  I hurried back up the boulevard to the pizza place and bought a slice of cheese and sausage pizza. It had cost me one dollar and seven cents, including tax. I wanted another, but held back, knowing my money wouldn’t last long at a place like this. Instead, I walked further up the street and turned onto one of the side streets. There I saw a shop with a large window looking out onto the street. The sign above the window told me that this was a secondhand clothing store. Fascinated, I walked in and looked around at the selection of used clothes hanging on racks throughout the store.

  I looked down at my present ensemble with disgust. Halfway through the store, I saw one rack with nothing but used suits on it. Back in my world, I’d thought nothing of spending four or five hundred dollars for a new suit. I was surprised to find suits hanging on the rack here for a mere five dollars. I sorted through the racks, looking for a subtle suit in my size. I found a black suit that looked several years out of date and wondered where the original owner was at this very moment. Perhaps he was laid out in one of his other suits and was now residing at Woodlawn Cemetery or some other suitable place.

  I took the suit into the fitting room and shed my rags. I slipped into the second-hand suit, buttoned it up and looked at myself in the mirror. Not a bad fit. I walked back out into the store and found the shirt rack. There, hanging with hundreds of other shirts, I found a white shirt in my size and held it up. Yes, this would do nicely and the price tag on it was only a buck. I also found half a rack full of ties of all widths and designs. I plucked a plain burgundy tie from the rack, noted the fifty cents tag on it and carried it and the shirt back into the fitting room. I slipped out of the suit jacket and the grungy shirt Hugh had brought to my office and slipped into the white shirt, sliding the tie around my neck and securing it with a double Windsor knot.

  In the mirror I saw a new man emerging from the grime. I scanned the mirror up and down and stopped at the shoes. The ones I was wearing would never do. Out in the store, I found the shoe aisle and scoured the shelves for a pair of size ten black oxfords. There on the top shelf near the back I saw a pair of wingtip oxfords in black. They looked to be in pretty good condition. I looked inside for the size. It said 10D under the tongue. I sat down on the bench and tried them on. A perfect fit. But those awful socks would have to go.

  Next to the shoe display was a display of socks. The new ones cost six dollars for a three pack, but nearby I found a single used pair of plain black socks for twenty-five cents. I slipped out of the old socks and slid these onto my feet. I stepped into the black oxfords again and walked back to the fitting room. I saw a new man in the mirror and with a simple mental calculation, realized that all this could be mine for only eleven dollars and seventy-five cents. That would still leave me with more than fifteen dollars from my paper sales.

  I removed all the price tags from the items I’d selected, emptied my old pants pockets of the money I’d earned and carried my old clothes and new price tags up to the register. I handed the clerk the price tags and said I’d be wearing my purchases out of the store. She rang up my total, took my money and gave me a receipt.

  “Would you throw these away, please?” I said, holding out my old clothes.

  The woman looked at my rolled up bundle of clothes in disgust and did not reach for them. She pointed to a barrel with a plastic bag liner.

  “In there,” she said.

  I thanked her and left the store feeling more human than I had all day. I hurried back to the boulevard, walking west again until I came to a barbershop. I gazed into the window at the poster on the wall and noticed that a shave would cost me ten dollars. Haircuts were even more expensive. This was not an option at this time.

  I kept walking until I came to a drug store. I walked in, found the sundries aisle and pulled a three pack of disposable razors off the shelf. They were priced at ninety-nine cents so it was within my budget. I laid the razors on the counter, paid for them and left, searching the neighborhood for a service station with a restroom. I found one on Sunset, asked the attendant for the restroom key and locked myself in.

  I hung my coat and tie on the hook attached to the back of the door, unbuttoned my shirt and stared at my grubby image in the mirror. There was a liquid soap dispenser hanging on the wall. I ran my hands under the water, added some soap and rubbed them all over my face, creating a lather any barber would envy.

  I scraped away the tree-day growth, rinsed my face and dried it on the paper towels that came out of the wall-hung dispenser. I checked my reflection in the mirror and smiled. This was the Clay Cooper I knew. I buttoned up the shirt again, slipped the tie on, covering it with the suit coat. I straightened my lapels, looked in the mirror one more time and left.

  I reached into my pocket and retrieved the fifteen folded dollars I still had left after the wardrobe purchase. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and I didn’t care about the consequences. I hurried to the nearest corner that I found and
saw the bench. I sat myself down and waited. In a few minutes a city bus came along and pulled up to the curb.

  The banner across the top of the bus told me that this bus was going to Western Avenue. I stayed seated and waited for another bus. Fifteen minutes later I saw the banner he was looking for. It said Downtown. I climbed aboard, gave the driver my fare and took my seat. What normally would have taken me fifteen minutes to drive in my car took closer to an hour. I stepped off the bus on the corner just half a block from my office.

  As I neared the building the same street person who usually approached me on my way to work walked up with his hand out and asked for spare change. I waved him off and the man turned to walk away. Immediately I had a change of heart and called out to the man. The man turned back and saw me motioning to him. He hurried back to my side.

  I dug into my pocket and found the thirteen dollars I still had left. I peeled off a single dollar bill and the man’s eyes lit up. I then pocketed the dollar and gave the man the other twelve, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Get yourself a good meal tonight,” I told the man.

  “Oh, bless you, sir. Bless you,” the man said smiling broadly. He walked away and stopped to turn back to say more to me, but I had already gone on my way.

  I walked into the lobby and over to the elevator. I stepped inside, pushed the button for my floor and sighed. It had been one hell of a day and I was anxious to reclaim my former life.

  I quickly took a seat behind my desk, leaned back and put my feet up. Something jingled in my pants pocket and I reached in and pulled out one dollar and seventeen cents. I laid it on my desk and leaned back in my chair again, tilting my head back. After a moment I sat up straight again and looked down at the money.

  To hell with the bet. That would be enough for Hugh’s first free lunch. That is, if I could take him to the Pizza-By-The-Slice place in Hollywood.

  44 - Cooper And Partner

  It was Sunday, I was relaxing at home on the one and only day I could relax. The family business had grown to the point where Dad and I even had to work occasional Saturdays just to meet the demands for our private investigator services. My grandfather, Matt Cooper, had started the business back in 1946, after leaving his job with the Los Angeles Police Department. His son and my father, Clay Cooper, joined Grandpa in the business in 1971 and took over the business in the late seventies, finally allowing Grandpa to retire.

  Dad was creeping up on retirement age himself and I knew that sometime in the near future I’d be taking over the business myself. The problem there was that I wasn’t married and had no son to pass the family business on to when it came time for me to retire, which wasn’t even a possibility for another thirty-five years or so.

  I was sitting in my recliner watching 60 Minutes when the phone rang in my robe pocket. I retrieved it, flipped it open and saw that it was Dad calling.

  “Cooper residence,” I said, trying to sound like the hired help I didn’t have. “Elliott speaking.”

  “Cute,” Dad said. “Why don’t you get yourself a real butler and do it up right? Maybe he can even wipe your nose for you.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. What’s up with you?”

  “Sorry,” Dad said. “I’m just not feeling up to par today. Anyway, the reason I called is to tell you that I’ll be in the office at the usual time tomorrow morning, but that I have to take a longer lunch hour.”

  “Really?” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, really,” Dad said. “I have an appointment with Doctor Wilson at noon and it may take a little longer than my usual hour. That’s all.”

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Dad said. “It’s just my annual physical and Doc Wilson said he wanted to do a more extensive workup this time. You know how it is; he probably has a boat payment coming due and needs to pad the bill a little.”

  “So, what do you care?” I said. “Your insurance will pick up the tab.”

  “I know,” Dad said. “I just hate the idea of the rubber glove treatment. I feel so cheap and violated when it’s over.”

  “Well,” I said, “when he gets to that point, just turn your head back, look him in the eye and say something like, ‘I knew there was a glamorous side to your job, Doc,’ and then just laugh it off. I’m sure it’s no picnic for him, either.”

  “I know,” Dad said, “but it the whole idea of...well, never mind. I’ll just be glad when it’s over and I can put it behind me, so to speak, for another year.”

  “So then I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” I said.

  “Nine o’clock sharp,” Dad said and hung up.

  The next morning I got to the office at eight forty-five and started going through yesterday’s mail. I immediately threw out the envelope with PCH in the return address section. There was no way I was going to win any Publisher’s Clearing House contest anyway. I also threw out the small manila envelope from the local car dealership. My car was working just fine, thank you. There was nothing else in the pile that needed my immediate attention so I set the mail on the corner of my desk and picked up the morning paper.

  I glanced up at the wall clock over the door. It was seven minutes past nine. I wondered if Dad overslept or got delayed on his way to work. I set the paper down when I heard the elevator door open. I listened for footsteps but heard none. My curiosity got the best of me and I got up from my swivel chair and walked to the inner office door and listened some more. I didn’t hear anything except the faint dinging sound that the elevator makes when someone on another floor wants it. The dinging noise didn’t stop and that prompted me to step out into the hall and take a look.

  The elevator was down at the other end of the hall. I peeked out my outer office door and saw that the elevator door was still open. At floor level, I saw something small and black. I couldn’t make it out so I walked down the hall toward the elevator and when I got halfway to the elevator, I could see that the object was the bottom of a shoe. Panic set in and I ran the rest of the way, only to find Dad lying on the floor of the elevator. His right hand was clamped over his left arm and his face was ashen.

  I knelt beside him. “Dad,” I said. “Dad, are you all right?” He didn’t answer. I pulled him all the way into the elevator and we rode it to the lobby. Once I was on the ground floor, I pulled Dad out of the elevator and laid him out of the way while I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  “9-1-1,” the operator said. “What is your emergency?”

  “I need an ambulance,” I said. “My dad’s having a heart attack, hurry.” I gave her the address and she instructed me to stay on the line until they arrived. She told me what to do for him, but at this point, about all I could do was loosen his tie and unbutton his collar and see that he was comfortable. The next three and a half minutes were arguably the longest of my life but soon the front door to my building opened and two men in white hurried in pulling a gurney behind them.

  They got Dad stabilized and loaded onto the gurney and hurried back out to the ambulance. I rode with him back to the hospital. I looked at the ambulance attendant and said, “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Hard to tell at this point,” the attendant said, “but it looks like you called us in time. He’ll get the best care available, I can promise you that. Your doctor will be able to tell you more once he’s examined him.”

  They wheeled Dad into the emergency room and drew the curtain closed around his gurney as they worked on him. I sat nervously in the waiting room, pulling on a loose hair from my eyebrow. I picked up a magazine but couldn’t concentrate on anything in it and laid it down again. The elevator opened and Lieutenant Dean Hollister, one of Dad’s close friends from the L.A.P.D., hurried over to where I was sitting.

  “How’s he doing?” Dean said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “They brought him in twenty minutes ago and said they’d let me know. I’m still waiting.”

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p; “What happened?” Dean said.

  “I think it was a heart attack,” I said. “I found him lying in the elevator this morning,”

  “He’s a tough old bird,” Dean said. “He’ll be just fine, you’ll see.”

  “I sure hope so,” I said.

  The door to the emergency room opened and Doctor Wilson stepped out and came toward me, pulling off his mask and scrub hat.

  “How is he?” I said.

  The doctor nodded. “He’ll be just fine,” he said. “He’s going to need to stay here for a few days so we can monitor his condition. Then he should be able to go home and rest there.”

  “Was it a heart attack?” Dean said.

  The doctor looked at Dean and then at me. “I’m sorry, Doctor Wilson, this is Dean Hollister, one of Dad’s friends. Dean, this is Dad’s doctor, Doctor Wilson.”

  The two men shook hands briefly before the doctor turned to me and said, “It was a mild heart attack,” he said. “He’s lucky someone was nearby to get him help. The next time he might not be so lucky.”

  “There could be a next time?” I said. “How bad is he?”

  “I’ve seen worse,” the doctor said, “but your dad is going to have to change a few of his habits if he wants to avoid another episode like this one. He’s going to have to cut out fatty foods and fried foods and he’s going to have to get his cholesterol levels down. He’s going to need some help making sure he eats right and exercises regularly.”

  “I can do that,” I said. “Dad will stay with me for a while. How long will he need to rest?”

  The doctor took a deep breath and let it out. “A couple of months at least. I’ll do a follow up in a couple of days and every week after that but the prognosis in his case is looking good.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I said, shaking his hand.

  The doctor walked back down the hall and disappeared through a pair of double swing doors. I turned to Dean. “Thanks for coming down here,” I said. “I’m sure Dad would like to see you when they bring him down to recovery.”