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

by Bill Bernico

  Dad and Gloria each got into their cars and drove in opposite directions on Hollywood Boulevard. I slid behind the wheel of my van and headed toward the last address on my part of the list. It was located in an office building on Highland Avenue, south of Vine. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and found room four twelve in the middle of the hallway. I knocked on the door and let myself in.

  A woman turned toward me, startled to find another person in the office. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re not open for business yet. We just moved in. If you’d like to come back next Monday...”

  I held one hand up. “Sorry,” I said. “Wrong office.” I left the way I’d come. This was not even close to what I was looking for.

  I checked my list and memorized the next address. It took me eight minutes in the Hollywood traffic to get there. The one-story building looked like a former storefront and the door was open. I didn’t even have to step all the way in to know that I was in the wrong place. There was exercise equipment scattered around the interior. Not an office at all.

  The third address from the bottom belonged to a high-rise building on Vine Street. The room I was looking for was two eighteen, in the front, facing the street. It had an outer office with a frosted glass door leading to an inner office. I let myself into the outer office and knocked on the inner office door before entering. Inside I found an entire wall of bookshelves holding law books. There was a large ornate oak desk near the window and seated behind it was a middle-aged man in a three-piece blue suit. He looked up when I entered. I held up a hand and excused myself, saying something about being in the wrong office. The man went back to whatever he’d been doing, without bothering to see me out.

  Gloria pulled into the parking lot of the third address on her list, having struck out on the first two. The office she was looking for was on the third floor at the end of the hall. Even as she was walking toward the office, something felt familiar to Gloria. The minute she walked into the small outer office, she knew she’d found the place she and Elliott had been looking for. She knocked on the inner office door and stuck her head inside. A man behind a desk stood and greeted her.

  “Good morning,” the man said. “May I help you?”

  Gloria looked around the office and said, “I was supposed to meet my husband here,” she said, lying, “but he must have gotten stuck in traffic. Hold on a moment while I call him.”

  She smiled at the man as she pulled out her cell phone and dialed her husband’s number.

  “Elliott Cooper,” I said in my professional voice.

  “Dear,” Gloria said. “I thought we were going to meet this morning. Where are you?”

  “Dear?” I said. “Since when do you call me dear?”

  “That’s right,” Gloria said, looking at her watch. “You promised to meet me five minutes ago. I’m at the place now.”

  Suddenly I caught on. “Are you sure it’s the right place?” I said.

  “No doubt about it,” Gloria said. “Can you make it in the next ten minutes?” She read me the address.

  “I’ll call Dad,” I said, “and we’ll both meet you there.”

  “Thank you dear,” Gloria said and flipped her phone shut. She smiled at the man and said, “Just as I thought. Stuck in traffic. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Well,” the man said, “while we’re waiting perhaps you can explain your problem to me and perhaps I can tell you if there’s anything we can do for you.”

  “I’d rather wait,” Gloria said, “so we don’t have to repeat anything once my husband gets here.”

  They sat in silence while Gloria flipped the pages of a magazine she’s found on one of the tables. The minutes crept by slowly and after what seemed like a lifetime, the inner office door opened and Dad and I stepped in. My eyes finally settled on the man behind the desk and his eyes got wide when he recognized me.

  “I feel like I just stepped into the Twilight Zone,” I said, looking around the room that was the spitting image of my office before someone had emptied it of everything. This one had been set up and arranged exactly like my office, right down to the corner sink that should have been installed in the bathroom but wasn’t. The only thing different about this office was the view out the third floor window. Mine looked down on Hollywood Boulevard and this one looked down onto an alley. I looked down at the desk and then back at the man behind it. “Does that third drawer still stick?” I said.

  The look on his face told me that he knew he had been discovered and he had no place to run. He just stood there with a stupid grin on his face.

  The first thing that came to mind was, “Why?” I looked at him, waiting for an answer. Apparently none was forthcoming. “What would make you break into my office and take everything?” I said. “From the looks of things here, I’d say you were a little more than fixated on my operation, but suppose you tell me yourself while we’re waiting for the police to arrive.”

  The man sat down again and quickly realized that he was sitting in my chair. He stood up again. I gestured toward my chair. Please,” I said, “have a seat.”

  He sat again and expelled a deep breath he’d been holding. “I suppose this looks a little suspicious,” he said.

  Dad stepped up to the desk and leaned over, going nose to nose with the little man. “Suspicious?” Dad said. “We’re way beyond suspicious, you little weasel.”

  I pulled Dad away from the desk. “Come on now, Dad, let’s let him tell us his story,” I said. “This should be very interesting.”

  Dad stood back, his pulse still elevated and his ears hot and red. I could tell he’d like nothing better than to pound the little man into the carpet and stuff him into the sticky third drawer. I nodded to Gloria, who dialed Lieutenant Anderson’s office while I talked to the little man.

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” the man said. “But just let me ask you one thing. Did you ever have someone you idolized and wanted to be like? I know, most people’s idols are rock singers or movie stars or sports heroes. For me, it was you.” He pointed at me for accent. For as long as I can recall I’ve wanted to be a private eye like Humphrey Bogart and Robert Mitchum and Powers Booth.”

  “Powers Booth?” I said.

  “You know,” the man said, “he played Marlowe on those HBO shows back in the eighties.”

  “I know,” I said. “I thought he was the best Marlowe, too.” I suddenly realized I was being too nice to this thief and chopped off my end of the conversation. “Go on,” I said.

  “I read something in the paper about you and your investigations business just recently,” the man said. “And I followed everything that was ever written about you. Yeah, I know, it seems a bit creepy on the outset.”

  “The outset, the inset, all around,” I said. “By the way, you never told me your name.”

  The little man looked down, suddenly ashamed and embarrassed by what he’d done and the trouble he’d caused. When he looked up again, he cleared his throat and said, “Stanley Marsh.”

  “Go on with your story, Stanley,” I said.

  “Well,” Stanley said, “you probably don’t remember me, but I was in your office last Fall. I came in with some bogus story about finding a missing uncle, but I really just wanted to see your office for myself, you know, up close and personal, so to speak.”

  “That’s why the pictures on the floppy disc,” Gloria said.

  “I wondered where that other disc went,” Stanley said. “I still had enough pictures on the second disc to make this office look just like yours,” he said, almost proudly. “I suppose you’re going to want all of this back again.”

  Dad and Gloria and I all gave Stanley our hardest stares but said nothing.

  “I figured as much,” Stanley said. “But it was worth it just to have this office, even if only for a couple of days. I’m really sorry for all this trouble I’ve caused you all. If there’s any way I can make it up to you, I’d do anything as long as I knew you weren’t mad at me. I cou
ldn’t stand it.”

  Stanley broke down in tears and laid his head on the desk.

  I almost felt sorry for him but I got over it almost immediately. “Hey,” I yelled, prompting Stanley to sit up straight. “You’re getting my blotter wet. Come on, get out of my chair.”

  Stanley stood up and sidestepped out from behind my desk. While Dad and Gloria and I were looking over this duplicate office and how close Stanley had come to recreating the original, Stanley made a dash for the door. As soon as he pulled it open, he ran right into Lieutenant Anderson’s waiting arms. Anderson pushed him back into the room.

  “Going somewhere?” Eric said, and then looked around the room. “Hey, this looks just like...”

  “We know,” the three of us said, almost in unison.

  Eric looked again at Stanley. “Come on,” he said. “You didn’t really think you could get away with this, did you?”

  Stanley didn’t know what to say and just sat there on my leather sofa, crying again.

  I walked over to the sofa and pulled Stanley up and off of it. “You’re not going to get my leather sofa all wet, either,” I told him.

  “So, I take it you want to press charges,” Eric said.

  “You take it correctly,” I told him. “Get this clown out of my sight. We’re all going to be plenty busy enough arranging to have all this stuff returned to our office and you can bet he’s going to get a bill for the cost.” I turned to Dad and Gloria. “We’ll have to hire a moving company for most of this stuff, but I do have a van downstairs and I think we should take the essentials that we’ll need right away, like my laptop, the phones and answering machine, the…”

  “The toilet paper,” Dad said, laughing.

  “And whatever else will fit in the van,” Gloria added. “We might as well get started.”

  “Wait a second,” I said, pulling out my cell phone and flipping it open.

  “What are you doing now?” Dad said.

  “I have to take some pictures of this setup,” I said. “No one would believe us otherwise.”

  Dad and Gloria stood back out of the way while I snapped a dozen or so pictures of our office as seen through the eyes of one goofy son-of-a-bitch. This was one for the books, all right. And I was sure it would also be fodder for many a conversation over drinks.

  Only in Hollywood, I thought.

  83 - Stand-In For Murder

  The seasoned detective knew better than to go into that dark alley, yet something drew him in like a moth to a flame. His .38 became an extension of his right hand as he slowly inched his way forward down the dark passage. A muffled noise to his left made his quickly turn his head in that direction. The next sound wasn’t quite so muffled. The bullet tore into his skull just above his left ear and exited out the other side, leaving a gaping hole in the right side of his head.

  “What would you have done, Mr. Cooper?” Thurman said.

  “I’d never have gone in that alley in the first place,” I said.

  “Really?” Thurman said. “How’d you like to show us how it should have been done?”

  I waved him off. “I’m no actor,” I said. “You only hired me as a technical consultant for this movie.”

  “Well,” Thurman said, “at least give me the benefit of your experience for the next take.”

  The director picked up his bullhorn and yelled, “Lunch, thirty minutes.” He turned to the makeup man, Ted Baker, and then pointed to the actor lying in the back lot alley. “Take Stu to makeup, clean him up and we’ll try it again after lunch.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Thurman,” Baker said. He bent down and grabbed the actor by his arm, helped him to his feet and draped a white towel around his neck, trying not to drip any of the fake blood on the rest of his costume.

  I looked at Thurman and spread my hands. “I’m not really sure why you hired me in the first place, Mr. Thurman,” I said. “Your movie and, as far as that goes, your actors seem to be caricatures of real life. I mean, so far I’ve given you my professional opinion on six different scenes and yet you’re still portraying my profession inaccurately. I feel like I’m taking your money.”

  “It’s not my money,” Thurman said. “The studio can afford it.”

  “But wouldn’t they at least like to get their money’s worth out of me?” I said. “Or are they going to be satisfied just plodding down that same old worn out path other directors have taken for decades, with little or no realism?”

  “I see your point, Mr. Cooper,” Thurman said, “but realism doesn’t sell. Audiences want to see action and shooting and blood and…”

  “Well then,” I said, “my job here is done. You don’t need me hanging around, running up a bill and not earning my check. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just head on back to the real world and tackle some real cases with real people.”

  “Please, Mr. Cooper,” Thurman said. “Stay just through the end of the week and if you still feel the same way, I’ll release you from your obligation.”

  I thought about it for a moment. Business in the real world was a bit slow and this was, indeed, easy money, if not earned. Dad and Gloria could handle whatever came our way for another three days. I turned to Thurman. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll stick it out until Friday, but then that’s it. I do have another job outside of show business that needs my attention.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cooper,” Thurman said and turned and walked toward his trailer.

  I had brought a bag lunch with me this morning but that was hours ago and I’d already eaten it a little at a time throughout the morning. Now it was half past noon and my stomach was grumbling again. I walked over to the catering wagon that had been parked just inside the perimeter of the movie studio back lot. I spotted a ham and cheese sandwich with my name on it and plunked down four dollars. I found another two dollars worth of change in my pockets and gave it up for a bottle of soda. Hell, at these prices I’d have to win an Oscar just to be able to afford lunch around here on a daily basis.

  I took my sandwich and soda over to the bar on the corner. Well, for all practical purposes, and as far as this movie was concerned, it was a bar from outward appearances. Once I’d stepped inside the bar all I found was a painted backdrop of a bar, stools, lighting fixtures and customers. As soon as I turned around I could see that the bar was actually just a façade held up by two-by-fours nailed to the floor, out of camera range. I found it ironic that the movie sets on this back lot were just as shallow and superficial as the people who made these movies. I decided that I’d be glad when my three day obligation was finished and I could return to the real world.

  There were no chairs inside this phony movie bar, but I found a keg of nails and sat on that to finish my sandwich and soda. I was out of sight of whoever might still want to take shots of the exterior of the bar and I made sure I was quiet as well. I stuffed the last bit of my sandwich in my mouth and had tipped my soda bottle up to my lips when I heard two unfamiliar voices chattering just on the other side of this propped up wall. I set my soda bottle down and just listened. The first voice sounded angry.

  “I’m not going to do it,” the angry voice said. “If you want it done, you find someone else. I’m not taking the fall for you or anyone else, you got that?”

  “Wait a minute, Stu,” the second voice said. “We can work this out. Just listen for a minute, will you?”

  Stu was having none of it. “Forget it,” he said. “Do it yourself if you want it done right.” There was a pause and then, “Don’t worry,” Stu said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  There was another short pause and I heard some sort of movement. The second voice said, “I know you won’t, Stu.”

  Then I heard a muffled report like someone spitting really loud, followed by a dull thud and then footsteps fading in the distance. I quietly stepped around the bar building façade and saw a man lying on his back on the back lot street, one neat bullet hole placed squarely between his eyes, which were frozen wide open. I pulled my own .38 and scanned th
e immediate area. Whoever that second voice belonged to was long gone, leaving me there with this mess lying at my feet.

  I ran partway down the street, looking for anyone else who might have seen something. I was alone on this stretch of street. Apparently the catering wagon had pulled away before the two men had gotten to this spot on the back lot. By the time I got back to where the body lay, the movie crew was just returning from lunch.

  Roger Thurman’s voice bellowed, “For Christ sake, Stu,” he said. “Get up off the street. We just got you cleaned up.” Stu didn’t move. Thurman tapped Stu’s foot with his. “Come on, Stu. I get it, you’re a method actor, you’re in character and you’re supposed to be dead. But if you don’t get up and get ready for this next shot, you’re fired.”

  I walked up to Roger Thurman. “He’s not acting,” I said.

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Cooper?” Thurman said.

  “He’s not acting,” I repeated. “He’s dead. That’s a real bullet hole in his head and that’s a real pool of his blood under his head. How’s that for realism?”

  Thurman bent over the prone actor and took a closer look at the bullet hole and then jumped back. “Jesus Christ on a pogo stick,” he yelled. “What the hell is this?”

  “I was eating my sandwich behind that wall,” I said, point to the bar façade. “I heard Stu talking with another man. I couldn’t see either of them from where I was sitting. They were arguing and then I heard a muffled shot. By the time I came out from behind the wall, the second man had gone and Stu was lying right where he is now, dead.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and flipped it open. I began to dial Lieutenant Anderson’s number when Thurman’s hand closed my phone. He kept his hand on top of it.

  “Cooper,” Thurman said. “I can’t afford this kind of publicity. It could kill this whole picture and we already have seven weeks of shooting in the can. An investigation would shut the picture down and the studio would be out several million dollars.”