by Bill Bernico
Dad and Gloria were excited and said any time would work for them. I called Dean Hollister at his home and got his wife, Helen. “Helen,” I said, “it’s Elliott Cooper. Is Dean at home?”
“Certainly, Elliott,” she said in her usual cheerful voice. “Hold on, I’ll get him for you.”
A moment later Dean came on the line. “Elliott,” he said. “Don’t tell me you need me for another case already. What’s it been? Seven months since out last case?”
“Don’t want to impose,” I said. “Say, listen. I got a call from Century Studios, asking if we can make it to a private screening of the movie about The Coopers.”
“That’s what it’s called?” Dean said. “That movie about The Coopers?”
“Come to think of it,” I said, “I don’t even know the title. I just assumed it would be the same as the book. Anyway, can you and Helen make it to the screening?”
“When is it?” Dean said.
“They’d like to screen it tomorrow night at seven,” I said. “Does that work for you and Helen?”
“Count us in,” Dean said. “Where did you want to meet?”
“How about we all meet at my house?” I said. “It would be great if we could all ride together. Which one of us has the biggest, roomiest car?”
I had a cargo van tricked out as spy central, so that was out. Dad and Dean both had mid-size sedans. Gloria’s car was even smaller.
“We can take Helen’s minivan,” Dean said. “It seats seven so I’m sure the five of us would fit comfortably. I’ll even run it through the car wash and vacuum it out before we pick you up.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Swing by here around quarter to six. That should give us plenty of time to get there and get situated. Thanks, Dean. We’ll see you both tomorrow night.”
I got off the phone and turned to my two partners. “It’s all set,” I said. “Dean’s picking us up in Helen’s minivan at quarter to six at our house.”
“That’s perfect,” Dad said. “I can’t wait to see what they did with the film version.” He paused and then added, “It just dawned on me. After the movie is out, other trivia nuts will be mentioning us when they talk movies. How about that?”
The following night at exactly seven o’clock, the lights in the screening room went down and the screen in front of us lit up. The first thing I saw on the screen was an image, similar to the book cover, only a thousand times larger. It had the same three trench coat-clad characters lurking in the shadows. The title superimposed itself over the three figures and right there in letters four feet tall I read, The Not-So-Private Eyes. I didn’t know whether to swell with pride or shrink from possible embarrassment. I decided to withhold judgment until after the ending credits rolled by.
The opening credits finished and the scene faded in to a stock shot of Chicago streets during Prohibition. One public enemy after another appeared briefly on the screen as the voiceover told about their sordid, ugly criminal careers. When the last of the gangsters’ faces passed by the screen the scene changed to that of a Chicago schoolyard with children playing kick the can and hopscotch. The narrator said, “Chicago, 1922, a tough town to grow up in, especially for a kid of eleven. A kid named Matt Cooper.”
I elbowed Gloria and she clung to my arm. We watched the rest of the movie in silence and when the lights came up again. Horwitz got out of his chair and took his place in front of the audience, looking for our reactions. “So, what did you think?” he said.
Dad was the first to voice his opinion. “That was great, Mr. Horwitz,” he said. “You really captured the Cooper spirit. But…” Dad caught himself and stopped.
“No, Mr. Cooper,” Horwitz said, “Say whatever you like. That’s what screenings are for.”
“It’s nothing important,” Dad said. “It’s just that I noticed you took some liberties with the facts. Dad didn’t move to Chicago until after high school. And his first wife’s name wasn’t Maxine. It was Stella.”
“Mr. Cooper,” Horwitz said. “As much as we’d like to stick with just the facts for our movies, it’s sometimes necessary to embellish the story somewhat to make it flow smoother. And as for the names, no one but you and your immediate family would know that the name was wrong. The movie-going public won’t know and frankly, they won’t care. We sometimes choose character names based on public perception and in the twenties, one of the most popular names was Maxine. Have you seen any of those old biopics the studios used to put out in the forties and fifties?”
“Are you kidding?” Dad said. “I’m a movie junkie. I’ve seen ‘em all.”
“Have you seen James Cagney in Man of a Thousand Faces?” Horwitz said.
“Only a dozen times,” Dad said.
“Then being a movie junkie, as you call yourself,” Horwitz said, “you are probably aware that the producers took many liberties with that storyline. If you study Lon Chaney’s real biography and compare it to the movie, you’ll notice that some of the dates and facts don’t follow what actually happened. It’s the same with most biographies. Take The Beatles’ first film, A Hard Day’s Night. Were you aware that the actor playing Paul McCartney’s grandfather wasn’t even old enough to have been his grandfather during the filming of that movie? Wilfred Brambell was just fifty-two when they shot that movie—younger than McCartney’s father, Jim by ten years. McCartney was almost twenty-two and his real father, Jim was already sixty-two when the movie came out and McCartney’s real grandfather, Joe, would have been a ninety-eight in 1964. So you see, everyone takes artistic liberties with movies, especially biographies.”
“I never thought about it like that,” Dad said. “I guess I’ll just have to substitute my own reality for the portrayals I see on the screen and hope everyone else just enjoys it for what it is.”
“That’s the spirit,” Horwitz said. “Shall we all go into the sound stage next door for some champagne?”
“When Dad would tell me about sound stages,” I said, to Horwitz when I entered the sound stage. “I pictured a high school auditorium with an actual stage in front. I never envisioned anything this big. How much room do you have in here?”
“This particular sound stage is the size of the hangar that housed the Hindenburg,” Horwitz boasted. “In here we don’t have to worry about the weather cooperating. We don’t have to be aware of outside sounds interfering with filming. The whole structure is soundproof. Sometimes we can built entire neighborhood sets inside. When you see the finished film, you can’t tell whether it’s actually a location shot or a sound stage shot. We can fill the floor with fake snow and drive a horse-drawn sleigh through it.”
“What about those houses and stores over there?” Gloria said, pointing to a street set on the other end of the sound stage. “Do the cameras follow the people into those houses and stores?”
“May I?” Dad said, gesturing to Horwitz. “I’m a bit of a movie trivia buff. Let’s see if I can answer this one.” Dad turned to Gloria. “The houses and stores you see on his set are nothing more than façades. That is, there’s nothing to them except the walls that show. On the other side of the doors there might be just two-by-fours holding up the wall. Or there might be a shallow room just inside the door to simulate the house’s interior.” I turned to Horwitz. “How am I doing?”
“Keep going, Clay,” Horwitz said. “You’re doing fine.”
“So what happens when the people go inside one of those buildings and they have lines to speak?” Gloria said.
Dad pointed to another, smaller set closer to where we were standing. “That,” he said, “is an interior set, meant to mimic the interior of the house that you just saw. The camera would cut once the actors went through the door. Then everyone would switch to the interior set and pick it up from there.”
“That’s right,” Horwitz said. “If we built the street sets as actual houses, it would be way too expensive to build and way too crowded for our cameras and crew to move around in. If the film editor and the continuity gal do their jo
bs correctly, you’ll never notice the transition. You’ll think you’re following the actors into their house.”
Gloria and I learned quite a bit about movie making that night. We enjoyed the champagne and Horwitz’s company and told him that we’d look forward to seeing the movie in the theaters.
“Henry Mandell said that all three of you had some reservations about some of the material in the book and movie,” Horwitz said. “Now that you’ve seen the finished product, do you still have a problem with the film?”
Dad and Gloria and I exchanged glances and then turned to Horwitz. “No, Mr. Horwitz,” I said. “We worked all that out months ago. I hope your movie is a huge success.”
After a brief tour of the rest of the sound stage, Horwitz led us out of the movie lot and back to Helen Hollister’s minivan. We drove back to our house, busily talking about the experience we’d all just had. It was a night I’d remember for the rest of my life and I’m sure Gloria enjoyed it as well. Dean and Helen pulled up in front of our house and we got out. They said their good nights and drove off into the night.
Dad headed for his car at the curb and turned to me just before he got in. “You don’t think this movie could actually hurt our business, do you, Elliott?” he said.
“What do you mean, Dad?” I said.
“I mean a big part of our business depends on being inconspicuous when we’re tailing someone for a client,” Dad said. “What do you think this movie will do to our anonymity now that the movie is coming out?”
“Our names may be up on the silver screen,” I said, “but those weren’t our faces up there. We can still be just as stealthy as we’ve ever been. Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, kids,” Dad said and drove off.
Gloria locked her arm around mine as we walked into the house and turned off the porch light. I guess when it came right down to it, we Coopers never really were that private after all.
89 - The Hollister Story
“Morning, Dan,” Melvin Baker said as the cop picked up a newspaper from his corner stand.
“How you doin’ this morning, Melvin?” I said.
Melvin gestured with his chin at the paper Sergeant Dan Hollister held in his hand. “Take a look at the story on page three,” he said. “Another white guy shot in the wrong neighborhood again.”
“I don’t have to read it,” I said, “I was there. When are those idiots going to learn not to go into that neighborhood at night looking for black hookers? That makes three in four months, all in the same six-block area.”
“Says there that he was sittin’ in his Cadillac,” Melvin said. “Looks like someone just walked up to the car and shot that poor slob in the face, right through the window. Is that right, Sergeant?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “He was still sitting behind the wheel with the motor running when the officers patrolling that neighborhood found him.”
“You know who did it yet?” Melvin said.
“You know how it is,” I said. “Nobody saw nothin’ as usual.” I just shook my head and walked back toward my car. I usually stopped at this same corner for the paper every morning on my way in to work. When I got to my office, I closed the door and settled in behind my desk to finish the rest of the paper. I was a conscientious cop and always arrived fifteen minutes before my shift started just so I could enjoy the morning paper in peace before starting my daily routine.
The headlines in the entertainment section that day read, “Jennifer Jones wins Oscar for Song of Bernadette. Further down it mentioned Paul Lukas taking home the statue as best actor, while the Oscar for movie of the year went to Casablanca, with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. 1942 was the first year, the article went on to say, that the awards event was held in Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
I finished the entire article about last night’s Academy Awards, glanced at three of my favorite comics and folded the paper twice, sliding it into my bottom desk drawer. I pressed the button on the intercom and told my secretary, Hilda, to have Officer Cooper come to my office right after roll call. She assured me that she would relay the message.
Six minutes later Hilda buzzed Hollister. “Officer Cooper is here,” she said.
“Send him right in,” I said.
Officer Matthew Cooper opened the door and stepped inside, his polished visored cap tucked neatly under his arm. “You wanted to see me, Sergeant?” he said.
I held a form in my hand, looked at it briefly and then glanced up at the officer. “Cooper,” I said, “do you know what I’m holding in my hand?”
“I assume that’s not my commendation?” Cooper said.
“You assume correctly,” I said, somewhat annoyed. “This is yet another complaint from yet citizen on your beat. Did you really tell this guy that you were going to come into his house and make him be quiet if he didn’t turn his radio down?”
“That was clearly a case of non-compliance, Sergeant,” Cooper said. “He was warned and ignored the warning. Hell, he practically dared me to make him be quiet. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Cooper,” I said, “personally I don’t care if you beat him senseless and claim self-defense. But you do not yell threats at a citizen in front of eight witnesses. One of the women at that party you broke up was Meg Fletcher. Her husband is Roland Fletcher. Ring any bells?”
Cooper cleared his throat. “That wouldn’t by any chance be the same Fletcher who owns Fletcher Petroleum, would it?” he said.
“One and the same,” I said. “She called here late last night and the desk sergeant had to listen to ten minutes of her bitching. He only got her calmed down after he promised her that he’d take action. Well, he called me at home last night and woke me up. I was not happy about that, as you can imagine. Cooper, this is your last chance. Either you straighten up or find yourself a new line of work. Got it?”
“Loud and clear, sir,” Cooper said. “Is that all, sir?”
Cooper saluted and I sensed that he was doing it more out of contempt than for respect.
“Get out of here,” I said. “Get back out on the street and don’t let me see you again for the rest of the day.”
Matt Cooper placed his cap on his head, turned and left the office, winking at Hilda on his way out. He was partnered with Officer Jerry Burns in a black and white patrol car. The two of them had worked together on several occasions in the past and got along fairly well. Their patrol included downtown Hollywood from Highland Avenue on the west to Western Avenue on the east and from Franklin Avenue on the north to Santa Monica Boulevard on the south.
It was just after six o’clock and the two policemen had another thirty minutes until their shift ended when a call came in over the radio. The dispatcher told them to investigate a shooting on Argyle Avenue just north of Sunset. When they got to the address, they pulled up in front of the house, there was a young man standing out front at the curb, all excited, screaming, “He just shot my brother, he just shot my brother.”
“Who shot your brother,” Officer Cooper said, his .38 already in his hand.
“Upstairs,” the man said excitedly. “The man up there just shot my brother with a shotgun.”
Cooper told the man to stay there at the curb and the two officers ran into the side door where the stairs led to the upstairs apartment. As they got to the bottom doorway, they looked up and there was a white-haired old man standing there with a shotgun pointed down the staircase at the two cops.
Officer Burns jumped to one side and Cooper jumped to the other and hollered to him, “Police Department, drop the gun.”
The man with the shotgun yelled down the stairs, “If you’re the police, come on up.”
Cooper peeked around the corner and told the old man to lay the gun down. The old man complied and the two officers hurried up the stairs. Burns grabbed the shotgun and Cooper ran into the apartment. He hurried through the kitchen, through a dining room and living room and into the back bedroom, where a young man who had been shot in the stomach, lay
bleeding. The shotgun had blasted a large hole in the victim’s stomach. His intestines spilled out of his abdominal area and onto the floor beside him. His eyes were rolling back in his head and he was gasping his last breaths.
Cooper ran into the kitchen and found a dish towel. He soaked it with warm water and ran back to the victim’s side, where he placed the wet towel over his intestines to keep them moist. Outside and down the block, Cooper could hear the wail of the ambulance as it got closer.
A moment later, the victim’s brother, the man who had flagged the two cops down at the curb, came running up into the apartment and headed straight for the white-haired man who had shot his brother. Cooper reached out and caught him just in time with his arm around the man’s neck. Burns laid the shotgun down and helped subdue the crazed man. He was a very strong young man and the two cops had to handcuff him, arrest him, and take him down before he’d calm down enough so that they could talk to him. They also arrested the white-haired old man for the shooting and took both men down to the station.
Shortly after Cooper and Burns had brought the two men into the twelfth precinct, two plain clothes detectives took over the investigation, leaving Cooper and Burns to finish their paper work and check out for the day.
Subsequent investigation showed that Derek Mabley, the man who had been shot, had been seeing the old man’s daughter on a regular basis. During the interrogation of the old man, one Cecil Calvert, it came out that Mabley and his brother, Dennis, would come over there all the time and they would slap the old guy around. They’d order him around, tell him what to do and slap him some more. When Calvert would try to correct his daughter and tell her when to be in, the Mabley brothers would slap him around.