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

by Bill Bernico

  I gently touched the spot and I had to admit that it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had when she found me.

  Jane pulled a glass off one of her shelves, ran it under the tap and handed me a glass of water. “Here,” she said. “Drink this. Your lips look a bit parched.”

  I drank the entire glass of water, wiped my mouth with my sleeve, set the glass down on the table and sighed heavily. “Thank you,” I said.

  Jane pulled out another chair and took a seat across from me. “So, you don’t know who you are or how you got to that place I found you. You don’t know where you’re from, so how are we going to get you back home? Do you have anything in your pockets that might identify you?”

  I pressed my hands to my breasts and felt nothing. I reached inside the pockets and came up empty. I felt around inside my pants pockets. They were just as empty as my jacket pockets. I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said.

  “Are there any labels inside the clothes?” Jane said, standing and coming around behind me to check my collar. “Nope, just the brand name of the shirt and these are a common brand available at almost any store. I give up. You’re a mystery.” She sat back down again.

  It was warm in this kitchen. Jane obviously had no air conditioning and I was surprised that she even had electricity as remote as she was out in this desert. She did have a medium-sized fan on a two foot stand. It oscillated back and forth and the breeze felt good. I stood up and slipped out of my jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair.

  Jane leaned in toward me and looked at my shirt pocket. “What’s that?” she said, pointing to two stitched letters. “E C,” she said. “Does that ring any bells? Could your name be Eddie Cantor or Elmer Cartwright or maybe Elijah Collins?”

  Again I shook my head. “I just don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry, but nothing’s coming to me.”

  “It’s no surprise,” Jane said. “Somebody must have hit you pretty good. It’s obvious you didn’t hit yourself and rob yourself of whatever you had in your pockets. You also couldn’t have gotten out where I found you on foot, especially not barefooted, like you were. Someone had to have driven you out there, hit you and left you for dead. That’s the only thing that makes any sense. But the big question is who are you?”

  “Sorry,” I said, and shrugged.

  “Well,” Jane said. “You just take it easy. Next time I go into town, you can come along and we’ll see if anyone else can help you out.”

  “That will be great,” I said. “When are you going back into town, and where is town?”

  “Town is Barstow,” Jane said. “And I go in once every other week for supplies. That’s where I was coming from when I found you.”

  “You mean I have to hang around here for two more weeks?” I said.

  Jane laughed. “No, of course not,” she said. I can drive you there day after tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”

  “I guess it’ll have to be,” I said. “I wouldn’t get five miles on foot in this heat.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” Jane agreed. “And I’d drive you in tomorrow, except I don’t think my old heap could stand another trip so soon. It almost overheated this morning on the way back home. When it gets like that, I just have to let it sit for a day or so to let it cool off.”

  “How on earth can it cool off in the desert?” I said.

  Jane looked at me. “I have to park it in the shade and there ain’t no shade out here. I just let it sit in the night air for a couple of days and she’s good for another trip.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Since I don’t know who I am or where I’d want to go, I don’t suppose it matters much when we go.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Jane said. “You’ll be my guest for a couple of days. Do you play poker?”

  I thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. I mean, I might, but I don’t remember.”

  “You must be hungry,” Jane said. “Just sit there and let me fix you some breakfast.

  “Okay,” I said. I watched as she got out a frying pan and a spatula. She retrieved a carton of eggs from her refrigerator and laid it on the counter. As the frying pan heated up on the stove, she pulled two plates from her cupboard and laid them on the table along with two forks and knives.

  “How do you like your eggs?” Jane said.

  “Over easy,” I said.

  “Jane turned to face me. “See,” she said. “You didn’t forget everything, apparently.”

  I thought about it for a second. “I guess so,” I said. “I remembered that I eat my eggs over easy. There’s hope for me yet.”

  Jane finished preparing the eggs and slid two of them onto my plate and deposited the other two on her own plate. By the time she placed the frying pan in the sink, the toast popped up in her toaster and she put the four pieces on a plate between us, along with a small yellow butter dish.

  After we’d finished eating, Jane cleared the table and invited me into her living room. The first thing I noticed was that there was no television set and no stereo. But there was a large shelving unit with several dozen DVDs and books on it. I walked over to the bookshelf and scanned some of the titles of the books. She had several books by an author named Lawrence Block and several by someone named J.A. Konrath, whoever that was.

  But it was one book in particular that had caught my attention. I pulled it off the shelf and leafed through its pages.

  “Are you a mystery fan, too?” Jane said, gesturing toward the book I was holding.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But this seems familiar to me for some reason.”

  Jane came over and took the book from me, reading the spine aloud. “The Big Sleep,” she said. “Have you read it? Oh, that’s right, you don’t remember,” and started to slip the book back onto the shelf.

  I stopped her and took the book from her hands. I stared at the cover for a moment. “This author,” I said. “This Raymond Chandler fellow, is he a mystery writer, too?”

  Jane laughed. “He was,” she said. “And he was one of the best.”

  “Was?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Jane said. “He died more than fifty years ago, back in 1959, I believe. He didn’t write that many books, compared to some of these authors today, but may, every one of his novels was dynamite. He’s had a lot of imitators, but no one has matched him yet.”

  “Chandler,” I said. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “I don’t suppose it’s because his name is a household word,” Jane said, and then shook her head. “No, I didn’t think so. “Could it be you’re read something by him?”

  I shrugged and put the book back on the shelf. “Sorry,” I said and turned back to the bookshelf. “I see you have a pretty good collection of DVDs but you don’t have a television set.”

  “I watch them through my laptop,” she said. “I have something like a hundred fifty old movies on DVD. I like the classics. The movies they make today are mostly crap. We can watch one later, if you like.”

  “I guess that would be all right,” I said.

  “Well, right now you’d better sit down and give that head of yours a rest,” Jane said, gesturing toward the couch.

  I did as I was told and Jane sat across from me in an overstuffed chair. “What do you do?” I said. “I mean how do you earn your living?”

  “Believe it or not,” Jane said, “I’m also a writer of sorts. I write a newspaper column. It comes out once a week.”

  “And that’s enough to live on?” I said.

  “Well,” Jane said. “It’s syndicated in seventy papers all across the country. So that equates to seventy paychecks every week. And at twenty dollars a column, I’m not hurting for money.”

  “A real live columnist,” I said. “That’s interesting. What do you write about?”

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Jane said. “I’m a humor columnist. I make it all up. No research, no fact finding, just a vivid imagination and a warped sense of humor is all it takes.”

  “Ever thi
nk about trying your hand at a full-length novel?” I said. “Sounds like you’d be good at it.”

  “I’m not sure I could sustain for seventy-five thousand words. I’m probably run out of steam after ten thousand. I’m used to writing short pieces and that’s the way I like it.”

  “How long have you been writing this column?” I said.

  Jane thought for a moment and then said, “six years and a few odd months. I guess I’ve pounded out something like three hundred columns so far.”

  “Gees,” I said. “I’d think you’d run out of stuff to write about after a while.”

  “I’ve managed to recycle a few of my columns,” Jane said. “Every now and then I just run dry and take one of the older columns and reword it a bit and send it back in. If anyone noticed, they never said anything about it, at least not to me.”

  “And you write these columns right here at home?” I said.

  “That’s the other great part of the job,” Jane said. “I don’t even have to get dressed or leave the house to do my job. I just bang out the column on the computer and send it in and they send me a check once a month. Now you see why I don’t go into town unless I absolutely have to.”

  “Sounds ideal for you,” I said.

  “But not for you?” Jane said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But something tells me I live someplace with a lot of people around me. This living out in the middle of nowhere just feels foreign to me, but I don’t know why.”

  “Just relax,” Jane said. “Maybe if you don’t try to force the memories, they’ll just come back on their own.”

  “Could I just stretch out here on the couch?” I said. “I’m still a little tired.”

  “Sure,” Jane said. “I can go in the other room and be quiet for you. I’ll come and wake you up a little later. Don’t want to sleep all day, or you won’t be able to get to sleep tonight.” She tiptoed out of the room and disappeared behind another door on the other side of the kitchen.

  I lifted my legs up onto the couch and laid my head on the armrest. It didn’t take long for sleep to overtake me.

  I don’t know how long I was out but I awoke to Jane’s hand on my shoulder, nudging me and gently telling me to wake up. She kept calling out, “Ray.” I opened my eyes and blinked. She was still calling me Ray and I sat up. “What was that you called me?” I said.

  “Ray,” Jane said. “Since I don’t know your name, I just picked Ray because you seemed to like the Raymond Chandler book. Can I call you Ray until you remember your real name?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be a real hoot if my name turned out to be Ray?”

  Jane laughed. “It would indeed,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Didn’t we just have breakfast?” I said.

  “That was almost five hours ago,” Jane said. “I didn’t think I should let you sleep any longer. Come on, I’m fixing lunch for us.”

  I got up off the couch and finger combed my hair back. The floor felt a bit cold until I realized that I was still barefoot. I sat at the kitchen table and yawned as Jane brought a pan from the stove over to where I was sitting and poured some soup in the bowl in front of me. Then she brought me a small plate with a grilled cheese sandwich on it.

  “Thank you,” I said, picking up my spoon and dipping it into the bowl. “Mmm, this is good. Did you make it yourself?”

  Jane sat across from me and smiled. “No,” she said, “but I opened the can myself.” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder.

  I looked at the counter next to the stove. The empty can sat there. It seemed to be staring at me and I stared back at it, not sure why I was fascinated with it. Jane caught me staring at the soup can.

  “What is it, Ray?” she said. “Did you remember something?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There’s just something familiar and I don’t know what it is.”

  Jane turned around to look where I was looking. She read the soup can aloud. “Cream of Chicken,” she said. “Maybe your name is Eddie Cream of Chicken.” She laughed and then stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I know it must be frustrating for you not to know.” She turned around again and gave the can another look. “Campbell’s. Maybe you’re Elroy Campbell. Does that ring any bells?”

  “Campbell,” I said. “No, I don’t think so. And another thing, I don’t know what my name is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not Ray. I would think it would almost have to start with an E, like this,” I said, pointing to the monograms on my shirt pocket.

  “Should I just call you Eddie for now?” Jane said.

  “That’s as good a name as any,” I said, taking a bite out of the grilled cheese sandwich.

  When we finished lunch Jane cleared away the dishes and we returned to the living room. This time Jane sat next to me on the couch, her laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of us.

  “I’m all done writing for today,” Jane said. “Would you like to read one of my books or maybe you’d like to watch a movie with me.”

  “A movie sounds good,” I said. “I don’t think I could concentrate on a book. I usually listen to them.”

  “What’s that?” Jane said. “You listen to books?”

  My brows furrowed. “How did I know that?” I said. “Somehow I just knew that I listened to books instead of reading them.”

  “See?” Jane said. “Your memory will eventually come back a little at a time. It could take a while, but I think you’ll be all right one of these days. So, how about that movie? Do you have any favorites?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you just pick one out?”

  Jane got up from the couch and walked over to the bookshelf holding the DVDs. She ran a finger across the spines, stopped and turned back to me. “How about either Sergeant York or It’s A Wonderful Life?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  Jane pulled a DVD off the shelf and brought it over to the couch. She inserted the disc and a picture automatically filled the screen. There were a few paragraphs of disclaimers and warnings followed by the movie’s title. Music played and in large, bold letters across the screen it said, Sergeant York. The screen cleared and the star’s name came on. ‘Gary Cooper’ it said in bigger letters and right below that it said ‘Joan Leslie’ and ‘Walter Brennan’.

  I blinked and tried to focus my eyes. “Who is that star?” I said. “You know, the one playing Sergeant York?”

  “That’s Gary Cooper,” Jane said. “Do you remember who he is? Is something coming back to you?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said. “Oh, it’s just so frustrating not knowing.”

  “It’ll come,” Jane said. “Give it time. Do you still want to watch the movie?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What else is there to do?”

  Jane smiled at me. “I’m sure I could think of something.”

  Jane ran her fingers over the top of my knee and up across my chest. She caressed my face with a smooth hand and played a finger around the inside of my ear. Before I knew what was happening, she’d leaned in and kissed me, and surprisingly enough, I kissed her back. I still remembered how to do that. She wrapped her arms around my head and pulled me close. Without unlocking our embrace, she reached down and shut the cover on her laptop, stopping the movie that played in the background.

  Jane broke away from me and stood, extending her hand out to me. I took it and she pulled me to a standing position and led me out of the room and back through the kitchen into the door on the other side of that room. She opened the door and I could see that this must be her bedroom. She pulled me inside and closed the door, pushing me down onto the bed.

  Afterwards, we laid there, just catching our breath and listening to each other’s heartbeat.

  “You could always just stay here with me,” Jane said, and then though better. “No, I guess you wouldn’t like that once your memory comes back and you remember that someone may be waiting at home for you.” She ran her
fingers over my bare chest for a few seconds and then rolled away from me and sat up on the edge of the bed. She grabbed a bathrobe and wrapped herself up in it, tying it at the waist. She disappeared into another door, which I assumed to be her bathroom.

  I got out of bed myself and dressed again, still shoeless. I sat back down on the bed and talked to Jane through the closed door. “Why is it you’re not married?” I said.

  “I never found Mr. Right, I guess,” she answered. “What about you?” Then she remembered that she’d already asked me if I was married and quickly changed the subject. “You know, it just occurred to me that we could drive into Barstow tomorrow and let the police fingerprint you. They could find out who you are pretty quick.”

  Police, I thought. Maybe I was a cop. I seem to remember something about being around policemen. “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Are you sure your car won’t make it today yet?”

  “It has to cool down overnight,” Jane said. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want to get stranded in this desert. The buzzards would have you picked clean before the day was out. Tomorrow we should be good to go.”

  I heard the shower running and figured Jane couldn’t hear me anymore, so I walked back out to the living room and sat again. Ten minutes later Jane emerged from her bedroom, fully dressed and running a brush through her hair. She sat next to me and kept brushing her hair.

  “Now why couldn’t I have met you under normal circumstances?” she said. “That’s just my luck. I find a nice guy and have to give him back.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe they’ll find out who I am and there won’t be anyone wondering where I went. There is that possibility, you know.”

  Jane stopped brushing and held my hand. “If only,” she said. “Eddie, I have an idea that might help you remember.” She opened the lid of her laptop and went to one of the search engines. “What about if we find a listing of male names that start with an E and see if anything strikes a familiar chord with you?”