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

by Bill Bernico

  Nick laid a hand on Lockhart’s shoulder and said, “Son, where I came from no one relied on any electrical gadgets to protect their property. No sir, they went with the tried and true methods—guard dogs. Now I’d say from the looks of things here, that the home owners didn’t put a whole lot of faith in these new-fangled alarm systems. And since they were going to be gone a week, I’d say it looks like they got themselves a backup system just in case.”

  “Nick,” Clay said. “I couldn’t have summed it up better myself. Now suppose we all get out of here and set the alarm again.” He turned to Lockhart. “When we get back to your house, you can handle this thing any way you want. But since it looks like Vern never got a chance to take anything, you’re probably in the clear as far as that goes. You can always tell the police that Vern was there to install a new system and that the dogs attacked him. But I don’t suppose that will gel with what Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle tell them when they return. Vern was supposed to have had the system installed already and he’d have been long gone.”

  “What am I going to do, Mr. Cooper?” Lockhart said, climbing back into Clay’s back seat.

  Clay quickly drove away, heading back to Lockhart’s house.

  When they got back to Lockhart’s house, Nick turned around in the front seat and faced Lockhart. “May I suggest something?” Nick said.

  “Anything,” Lockhart said. “Please.”

  “Suppose you telephone the police and tell them that your partner went back to the Carlisle house to follow up on yesterday’s installation and that he hasn’t returned yet and that you were concerned. And ask them if they’d mind cruising past the house to have a look for themselves. Once around the house should do it and when they find him lying there and call you back, you’d better be a damned good actor and act surprised unless you want to answer a lot of questions downtown and see your business go down the crapper.”

  “And what about you two?” Lockhart said, leading the two men back into his house. “What do I tell them about you?”

  “You don’t know us,” Clay said, closing Lockhart’s front door. “Because if they drag us into this mess I’ll have to tell them what really happened and you wouldn’t want that. The cops don’t take kindly to finding out that you lied to them.”

  Lockhart considered his options and said, “I like your last option. I’ll leave you out of it altogether. What do I owe you for your time?”

  Clay looked at Nick, thought for a moment and then turned back to Lockhart. “Let’s call it fifty bucks…cash, no receipt.”

  Lockhart breathed a sigh of relief and pulled three twenties out of his wallet. “Here’s sixty,” he said. “Keep it.”

  Nick headed for the front door and then turned back toward Lockhart. “And if you pull this off you’ll also get the bonus of now being the sole owner of Lockdown Industries. And if you both took out partner insurance on each other, there’s that windfall, too. Then after an appropriate period of mourning, you can resume business as usual under your new name…Lockhart Industries.”

  “I think this just may work out for the better,” Lockhart said. “Thank you both. Goodbye.”

  Back in the car, as they were headed back toward Hollywood, Nick turned to Clay and said, “How did you come up with the fifty dollar figure you gave Lockhart?”

  Clay smiled. “That’s all part of having been a private eye for forty years. It’s a time-honored formula that we P.I.s use to figure the value of time spent on a case. In this case, I figured out how much a really nice lunch would cost for the two of us and that’s the figure I gave him.”

  “And he even gave you ten bucks extra,” Nick said.

  “Can’t forget the tip,” Clay said, and drove on to the restaurant.

  71 - Playing The Rolls

  The long black Rolls Royce limo pulled off of State Highway 86 and onto the dirt road. It lumbered along at a respectable fifteen miles per hour for a couple of minutes and then stopped when the road branched out into a fork. Clayton Matthew Cooper pressed the button that opened the partition between his compartment and the driver’s and leaned forward. He studied the road for a few seconds and tapped his chauffeur on the shoulder.

  “Reginald, I think the left branch is the way to go,” Clay said, pointing out the windshield past the driver’s head.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Reginald said, “But it’s the right branch.”

  Clay gave the driver a puzzled look. “You’re sure, Reginald?”

  “Quite sure, sir,” he said. “The note was very explicit. I do hope Miss Evelyn hasn’t been too uncomfortable.”

  “Very well then Reginald,” Clay said. “Drive on.” Clay sat back and pushed the button that raised the partition glass again. Clay Cooper was a distinguished looking man in his early sixties with hair that was beginning to show a trace of white at the temples. He had a healthy build. Clay had on his three-piece charcoal suit with a bright blue tie spilling out of the front. His hair was neatly combed and quite short.

  Reginald was a pleasant-looking man of sixty-eight with the body of a fifty-year-old. His hair was still dark, what was left of it, anyway. It formed a near perfect semi-circle around the back of his head. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and black tie and a black cap with a short visor. His shoes were shiny black leather wing tips. He looked every bit the proper chauffeur.

  In a few minutes the Rolls limo rolled to a stop. Reginald exited and stood holding the door open for his passenger. Clay emerged carrying a large, chocolate brown briefcase. He surveyed his surroundings for a moment. Reginald took the brief case from Clay and closed the rear car door.

  Fifty yards ahead, nestled in a thicket of pine trees lay a cabin whose roof sported a hole probably five feet around. The remaining shingles looked as though they might blow away with the next breeze. There was what used to be a porch hanging precariously from the front of the building. All that remained was a partial railing, an unstable platform and two creaky steps. The steps leading up to the front door might hold the weight of a squirrel, providing he didn’t have his cheeks full of nuts. It looked worse than Jed Clampett’s house before he’d loaded up his truck and moved to Beverly—Hills, that is.

  Reginald stepped up and over the rickety stairs and held his hand out to his passenger. Clay took Reginald’s hand and pulled himself carefully up onto the porch. The two men stopped at the door and looked at each other. Clay nodded. Reginald grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door opened with the creaking squeal that the rusty hinges provided. Once inside, Reginald stood to one side of the door, his hand inside his coat.

  Seated at a dusty table were two men. Joe Dagistino was in his late sixties and looked weather worn and rough. His face was tan and full of wrinkles and his hands were covered by black leather driving gloves. He had on a blue jean vest over a black leather jacket.

  The other man seemed to be in charge. He was dressed in logger’s boots, jeans and a black and red plaid shirt, open at the neck. A tuft of white chest hair peeked out over the shirt. Jonathan Hoppert appeared to be seventy or so and his white hair fluffed up in the back and ended in a creative swirl on top of his head. With a glance and a nod, his partner took his place near another door that led to a room at the back of the cabin.

  Clay stepped forward and held the briefcase out in front of him. Hoppert took the case and laid it on the table between them. He snapped his fingers and Dagistino popped the two catches and lifted the lid, exposing stacks of bound bills.

  “It’s all there,” Clay said.

  “It better be, ya bastard, Cooper,” Hoppert said. “If it ain’t, yer dead meat. Boat uh yas.”

  “Just return Evelyn to me and we’ll leave,” Clay said. “There’ll be no trouble.”

  “Joe,” Hoppert said, “Take the ol’ man in back.”

  Joe opened the door and swung his arm inward pointing the way. Clay walked over to the doorway and peered in at his old friend, Evelyn, who was bound and gagged and seated on a wooden chair. Evelyn was a w
oman in her mid-sixties who looked ten years younger. She had an air of sophistication about her. She and Clay had been friends for a dozen years or more. Clay rushed in and pulled the gag from her mouth and untied her wrists.

  “Get me out of here,” Evelyn screamed.

  “Evelyn,” Clay said, “What did they do to you? Are you all right?”

  “Just get me loose,” she said. “This place is absolutely ghastly. I want to get out of here, do you hear me.”

  Clay untied his friend and the two of them quickly exited the back room. Reginald had his gun out and was pointing it at the other two men.

  “Is Evelyn all right, Mr. Cooper?” he said. “Do you want me to take care of these two vermin?”

  “No” Clay said. “Evelyn is fine. Just leave them. They’ll have to answer to a higher power someday.”

  Jonathan Hoppert snapped the briefcase shut and nodded politely to his guests. “We gotta do dis again soon,” he said sarcastically. “It’s been a real scream, Doll. Too bad we didn’t have more time. You’da liked me.” Hoppert winked at Evelyn and licked his lips.

  Evelyn looked back at her captors, “Hmmmpf.” She snapped her chin upward and left the room. Reginald helped her off the porch and into the back of the Rolls.

  “Next time I see you, I will call the authorities,” Clay said. He looked back at the limo. Reginald was waiting with the rear door open. Clay backed out of the room and out to the car. In an instant they were gone.

  Joe Dagistino looked over at Hoppert and smiled. Hoppert smiled back and soon the two were laughing out loud.

  “Gees, that was fun,” Hoppert said. “Did you see the look on Evelyn’s face when Cooper untied her?”

  “Yes,” Dagistino said, “That Reginald makes a good ‘heavy’, don’t you think, Jonathan?”

  “Indeed,” Hoppert said. “I can hardly wait. Next time we get to be the good guys.”

  The two laughed some more and carried the briefcase out around the back of the cabin where they got into their own Rolls Royce convertible and drove back to Bel Air.

  Reginald piloted the limo off the dirt road and back onto the state highway. He pushed the button and lowered the glass partition and leaned back, keeping his eyes on the road. He talked out of the corner of his mouth to the two occupants in the back seat.

  “That sure was some fun, eh Mr. Cooper?” he said.

  Clay and Evelyn lifted their glasses of Champaign and toasted. “To the AARP,” Clay said, clinking his glass against Evelyn’s and then drinking from his glass.

  “Yes,” Evelyn said, “To the Action-Adventure Role-Players club. Next time we get to be the bad guys. I can hardly wait to tie Jonathan to the chair and talk smart to him.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Reginald said.

  “Just keep your eyes on the road, Reginald,” Evelyn said, sipping from her glass again.

  Laughter filled the limousine as it tooled off down the road.

  72 - Life Is Boring

  My head hurt and my mind whirled. Red, yellow, orange and blue streaks flashed across my eyes. I felt sick to my stomach and tried desperately to open my eyes. They felt as if they were made of lead but I finally managed to open them. What was wrong, I thought? Was I blind? My world around me was black and silent. I was flat on my back. I tried lifting my arms but they hit something a foot above me. I tried extending them out to my sides. Again they hit something solid eight or nine inches to either side of me.

  What the hell was this? It felt like I was in a coffin, not that I had ever been in one before. I kicked my feet up and hit the same solid mass my hands had encountered. I felt the area above my head again. The texture felt like construction grade plywood. My heart began to race and my imagination ran wild.

  Instinctively I reached for the .38 under my left arm in the shoulder rig. It was gone. Then I remembered my key chain. It was still in my left pants pocket. I could feel it pressing against my left leg. I rolled toward my right side and rearranged my left arm to reach into the pocket. The keys were there. I pulled them out and held them in front of my face. On the key chain was a small light in the shape of a half dollar. Squeezing the sides produced a narrow beam of light for a single LED, usually meant to light up a keyhole at your door. It lit up my immediate world enough to let me see that I was indeed in some sort of oblong box.

  Panic set in as I realized I was probably buried alive. Questions raced through my mind. Who, why, where and why me?

  I wiped the sweat from my upper lip and then smelled my fingers. There was still the faint odor or chloroform on my lips and fingers. That’s why my head hurt and that’s why I was still a bit dizzy. Then it came back to me. The last thing I remembered was walking toward my car yesterday morning. I was still fifty yards from my car when a hand clamped over my mouth. I struggled briefly but everything went dark and that’s really all I remembered until I woke up just now.

  I separated one of the keys and tapped at the top of the box above my face. I heard a faint echo and breathed a little easier. I couldn’t be buried alive. It didn’t sound like there was any dirt on top of my box. Rather it sounded like the box was sitting in a large empty room somewhere. But where? I pushed up at the top of the box with my hands. Nothing budged. I put the key chain back in my pocket and tried to roll over onto my stomach. It took a little wiggling, but soon I was lying flat on my stomach. I knew I had a foot or so clearance above so I pulled my legs up toward me and found myself in a kneeling position. I knew I could get more leverage from this position. I braced my hands on the floor of the box and pushed up with my back, arching it like a dog stretching. The wood bent somewhat but didn’t immediately give. I tried again and could hear some creaking. I caught my breath and gave one last push with my hands, my back and my legs. The sound of wood splintering was music to my ears.

  ­I paused once more and held my breath while I heaved upward again. The top of my coffin popped open and swung away on hinges. The room I was in was just as dark as the box I lay in. I turned over, sat upright and stretched. Then I remembered the key chain. I found the key light and illuminated the area just over the rim of the box. Three feet down I could make out a floor of some sort. I stood up in the box and eased myself over the edge and lowered myself to the floor below. I stretched my aching legs and walked in a small circle to help take the tingling sensation out of them.

  Once I was on the floor I could see that the wooden box I’d been in had been set up on two sawhorses. I tried shining the light around the room but it only lit up a few feet in front of me. I took a few steps away from the box, shining the light ahead of me as I stepped. Still there was nothing but black all around me. I took a few more steps before the light caught something ahead of me. I stepped closer and shined the light. It was a doorknob. Further scanning with the light revealed a pair of hinges. This had to be the way out of this dark prison.

  I shined the light on the wall adjacent to the door and followed it around the perimeter of the room. On the opposite wall there was another door. So which one was the exit? Both doors were locked and would obviously not open with either of the car keys on my ring. I decided the second door looked less formidable and tried prying up on the top hinge pin with my car key. It held fast. I knelt and tried the bottom hinge. It moved slightly but not enough to remove the pin. I leaned closer and spit on the hinge before trying the key again. The pin moved a little more. Another slug of spit and an another upward thrust with the key was all it took to remove the hinge pin. I inserted the tip of my key into the crack and pried. The door moved toward me slightly before I grabbed further in with the key and pried again. The key snapped off in my hand. Damn. All I had left on my key ring was one more car key. I had to be careful with it. It was my last tool.

  The movement of the bottom of the door must have been enough to loosen the top hinge pin. I spit on that one and tried my key again. The pin budged. I took another hold on it and pushed. It came out altogether and now all I had to do was pry the door toward me without breakin
g my last key. I carefully inserted the key in the crack just a little and pried. It moved. I pried again and it moved some more. Suddenly a sliver of light appeared between the door and the jam. I was able to get my fingertips on the edge of the door and pull. The door let loose and fell toward me. I reached up and kept it from falling on top of me. I eased it to the floor.

  The room behind me lit up from the doorway. Now I could see that it was approximately twelve feet by fifteen feet in area. There was nothing in it except the two sawhorses with the makeshift coffin on it. The other room wasn’t much bigger but at least it was lit up by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire. There was no other door in that room. This hadn’t been the exit door after all. The first door I had encountered had to be the way out. At least now I had the hinge pins from the door I’d opened. They could serve the purpose of pushing the other hinge pins out. I could save my last key for other uses if necessary.

  I took my place on the floor next to the other closed door. This time I had some illumination from the room beyond the opened door. My mouth was getting dry and spit came a little harder than before. I wet the hinge and tapped upward with the hinge pin I had taken from the first door. The pin on this door gave way much easier than when I’d used the key. It took only seven minutes to remove this door from its hinges. The room beyond was dark but I still had my key chain light. I held it in front of me and squeezed. Something red caught my eye. There was another one close to it, almost like the wary eyes of a jungle cat. The red lights went out and then returned. Something had blinked. The hair on the back of my neck snapped to attention and my breathing was coming faster. I was genuinely scared now. My mind flashed to the conversation I’d had with my partner from the office just last week.

  “My life is so boring,” I’d said to Gloria. “Nothing exciting ever happens to me. I’ll be thirty-two years old next week and it feels like my life has come to a complete standstill.”