by Bill Bernico
I finished the last bite of my sandwich and washed it down with a swallow of soda and then turned to Eric. “It doesn’t really matter,” I said. “I can collect the information in any order and sort it later. Did you want to start now? I have my pocket recorder with me.” I pulled it from my pocket and held it up for Eric to see. It was half the size of a cell phone and held recorded information digitally. “I mean, don’t feel obligated right now if you haven’t finished your walking for today.”
“No problem,” Eric said. “I was looking for some excuse to cut the walk short today. But what about you? Don’t you have to get back to your office?”
“That’s the beauty of being your own boss,” I said. “I can come and go as I like. So, just say anything that comes to mind, whether it’s an old case, some amusing anecdote, or any colorful characters you either arrested or worked with. Whatever you fell like telling me.”
“I’ll tell you,” Eric said, “The first thing that pops into my head is an old case from fifty years ago that my grandfather told me about when I was a boy. I haven’t thought about it for decades and the minute you mentioned old cases, that was the first thing I thought about.”
“What happened?” I said.
“There was a murder that happened back in the sixties on New Year’s Eve,” Eric recalled. “There was an all black tavern at the time here in Hollywood. The Civil Rights wave didn’t reach all corners of the country and I was told that some places still remained all white or all black, even if the signs no longer stated it. Anyway, the place was full of people celebrating New Year’s Eve. One man sitting at the bar happened to have a bad leg, making it shorter than the other, and people took to calling him ‘Shorty.’ He was a very short and stocky man and because of his game leg, walked with a limp. Apparently he was very sensitive about it, too. Some other fellows came in and one of the men walked up behind Shorty and slapped him really hard on the back and said, ‘Hi, Shorty, how are ya?’ And Shorty spins around on his barstool and says, ‘Don’t do that, and don’t call me Shorty.’ The guy who slapped him says, ‘Well, I’ll call you Shorty any time I want to. What are you going to do about it?’ Well, Shorty didn’t say any more to him, he just got up and walked out of the place. He walked about a block and a half to where he had a room and he got his gun and came back in and shot the fellow dead.”
“Wow,” I said. “I can see why that one stuck in your mind as a kid. I’ll bet it kept you from calling anybody Shorty after that.”
“I never did,” Eric said, “or any other name, for that matter. That little story kept me in line throughout my childhood.”
“That’s a good one,” I said. “Can I use it in my book?”
“Be my guest,” Eric said. “Want to hear another good one?”
“Absolutely,” I told Eric. “Is it as good as that last one?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” Eric said. “Is that little contraption still running?” He gestured toward my mini-recorder and I nodded. “This one’s just kind of a humorous story my dad told me when I was just starting with the department. Grandpa said it happened to him around 1953. Dad remembers because that’s the year he was born. Anyway, Grandpa was working undercover vice trying to infiltrate a prostitution ring here in the city.”
“World’s oldest profession,” I said. “So far no one’s found a way to stamp it out. I guess the demand for the service is just too high for it to go away.”
“Anyway,” Eric continued, “Grandpa would wear factory work type clothes and carried a lunch bucket to look like he was a local factory worker. He would go and drink in this tavern where the prostitutes were known to work out of and sure enough, he was approached by a black prostitute. Grandpa told her sure, he would go with her and she took him outside the tavern and went up the stairway to an apartment over the tavern.”
“Sounds like Grandpa’s about to get an education,” I said.
Eric ignored my remarks and continued with his story. “So this black hooker tells him what she will do to him for twenty bucks and that he had to come up with the cash. Of course, grandpa had marked money in his wallet.
I had to smile at the thought of Eric’s grandfather and a hooker. Eric was so straight-laced that I could only assume Grandpa was the same way. It made for a funny image in my head.
Eric paused and looked at me. “I should probably mention that officers would take their shirt badge when they were off duty and they would pin it to the inside of their wallet. They would stick the pin through the leather inside there and if they needed their badge, they could just open up their wallet and flash it. Well, Grandpa had taken his badge out of his wallet before he went on duty. He unfolded his wallet to take the marked twenty dollar bill out to give it to her and just that quickly she noticed those two little pin holes in his wallet and said, ‘You’re a cop, get the hell out of here.’ This sort of blew the case for him because of just those two little pin holes.”
“See,” I said. “Now these are the kinds of stories I want for my book. That was a good one, Eric.” I glanced at my watch, switched off my digital recorder and then looked back up at Eric. “I really should be getting back. Gloria’s watching the office and I imagine she’d like to get away for lunch herself. Can we pick this conversation up another time?”
“Sure,” Eric said. “I’ve got a dozen more stories from Grandpa’s time on the force. Hell, I might even have a few good ones of my own.”
“Thanks a lot, Eric,” I said.
Eric waved me off. “Glad to do it. You know I’m not married,” he said. “I just never found the right girl and if the current trend continues much longer, I might not have another generation to pass these stories along to. At least they won’t be forgotten if they end up in your book.” Eric stood and was about to continue his walk in the park when another thought occurred to him. “Listen, Elliott, if you’d like I can talk to the other officers and see if they’d like to share some of their experiences with you. I mean, it’s just a thought.”
“That would be great,” I said. “I can see this project going on for several more months yet before I’ll be ready to sort through the stories and put them into some kind of order. Yeah, send as many officers my way as you can. Thanks a lot, Eric.”
Eric turned and walked back the way he’d come, waving a hand over his shoulder as he left. I crumbled up my lunch bag and threw it, along with the empty soda can into the trash can and headed back to my car. Gloria was surfing the web when I walked into the office.
“Cyber shopping again?” I said, looking at her screen.
“Wrong again, hubby dear,” Gloria said. “Actually I was going through the archives of old photos of Hollywood for the last hundred years. I figured there might be some interesting pictures of street life on our block and maybe even a picture or two of this building from who knows when. You know, for the book you’re working on.”
I held out one hand, palm down and Gloria lightly slapped it. “‘Scuse me for jumping to conclusions,” I said. “I’ll never doubt you again.”
“Until the next time,” Gloria said.
“So, what did you find?” I said, leaning over her shoulder to get a better look at the computer screen.
Gloria hit one of the arrow keys several times until a familiar sight appeared on the screen. It was the exterior of our building, shot from somewhere across the street, looking north. “What’s the date on that photo?” I said.
Gloria zoomed in on the lower left corner of picture. It labeled the photo as having been taken in 1939. The building looked pretty much like it does now, but the surroundings were different. The four story building to the west of us was not there, but I could make out the footings that had been recently poured while a cement truck stood by in the background. To the west of that lot stood the same building that’s still there today, only with its original façade. It had had a facelift in the early eighties and the brickwork from the twenties had been covered over with aluminum and glass.
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sp; I stood back up and patted Gloria on the shoulder. “Interesting,” I said. “Maybe I can use some of that in the book.” I sat at my desk and noticed three phone message notes lying there. The first one was from Eric Anderson and was dated today at one-twelve. There was no message, just a checkmark in the box indicating that he’d like me to return his call. The second message slip bore the name Oscar Peterson along with a Hollywood phone number. I held this second slip up and asked Gloria, “Who is Oscar Peterson?”
Gloria looked up from her screen. ““Who?” Gloria said and then saw me holding the phone message slip. “Oh, him, he wanted to talk to you about possibly doing a surveillance job for him. I told him I could help him, but he insisted on talking to you.”
I looked at the third message slip. It was from some woman named Erma Lawrence but had no message with it. I carried the message over to Gloria’s desk and laid it in front of her. “What can you tell me about this one?” I said.
Gloria picked up the slip and briefly glanced at it and handed it back to me. “That one came in right after you left for lunch,” she said. “Mrs. Lawrence is a literature teacher at Hollywood High School. She would like to know if you would have time to talk to her class about what it’s like to be a private detective and to work with the police. I told her she’d have to talk to her personally and took her number. Could you talk to a room full of high school kids without getting all nervous?”
“Nervous?” I said. “I don’t know the meaning of the word. Now, terrified, there’s one word whose meaning is familiar to me.” I laid the note in front of Gloria. Could you maybe call this Mrs. Lawrence and tell her I’m much too busy to accept her gracious invitation.”
“Buck, buck, buck,” Gloria said, tucking her hands under her armpits and flapping her elbows up and down.
I snatched the slip of paper off her desk and gave Gloria a dirty look. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll call her myself,” and walked back to my desk.
“Buck, buck, buck,” Gloria repeated.
I dropped the note onto my desk, picked up the message slip from Oscar Peterson and dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring. “Is Oscar Peterson there?” I said.
“Speaking,” the voice on the other end said.
“Mr. Peterson,” I said. “This is Elliott Cooper returning your call. How can I help you?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Cooper,” Peterson said. “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I was wondering if we could meet so I could tell you what I need you to do for me.”
“Couldn’t you just tell me over the phone?” I said.
“Probably not,” Peterson said. “I don’t want to take a chance that anyone might be listening. Could I come to your office, or would you rather meet someplace else?”
I thought for a moment and then said, “Do you know where The Gold Cup coffee shop is on Hollywood Boulevard?”
Peterson said, “Yes, I know the place, but that seems a little open for me. Could I come to your office instead?”
“That’ll be fine, Mr. Peterson,” I said. “Meet me here in fifteen minutes. Do you know where I’m located?”
“Yes, I do,” Peterson said, “but can we make it an hour from now?” Peterson said. “It’ll take me longer than fifteen minutes to drive in from Burbank.”
I glanced at my watch. It was one-twenty. “Shall we make it two-thirty?” I said.
“That’s perfect,” Peterson said. “I’ll see you then. Thanks, Mr. Cooper.” He hung up.
Gloria looked at me. “Seventy minutes and you only have to go a block,” she said. “That would still leave you plenty of time to call Mrs. Lawrence back.”
I squinted my eyes and shook my head. “Do I have to?” I said.
“Come on,” Gloria said. “Be a big boy and take your medicine. It’ll be good for you.”
I bit the bullet and dialed Mrs. Lawrence’s number, prepared to make up any excuse to get out of talking to her class. A man answered the phone and stated that I’d reached Hollywood High School. He identified himself as Mr. Burke, the principal.
“Mr. Burke,” I said. “This is Elliott Cooper returning Mrs. Lawrence’s call. Could I speak with her, please?”
“One moment, Mr. Cooper,” Burke said before he put me on hold.
While the hold music played I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Gloria. “Hopefully she changed her mind,” I said and then pulled my hand off the mouthpiece of my desk phone. “Yes, Mrs. Lawrence. Elliott Cooper returning your call. What can I do for you today?”
“Mr. Cooper,” she said, “thank you for returning my call. I got your name from Lieutenant Anderson down at the twelfth precinct as someone I might call on to speak to my literature class. The lieutenant speaks very highly of you and recommended you without hesitation.”
“He did, did he?” I said. “Wasn’t that nice of him?” I shot a knowing glance at Gloria and rolled my eyes. “Just what was it you wanted me to tell your class?”
“Well,” Mrs. Lawrence said, “starting next Tuesday I’ll be giving the class an assignment to write a thousand words short story that involves both the police and a private investigator, such as yourself. My kids won’t use any real names, so you needn’t worry about begin embarrassed.”
“Tuesday,” I said, paging through my desktop planner. “I’m afraid I’ll be busy Tuesday. I’m sorry. Any other day might have worked, but Tuesday is definitely out.”
“That’s perfect,” Mrs. Lawrence said. “Because Tuesday is not the day I wanted you to speak to them. Tuesday they’ll be starting their assignment. I was hoping you could speak to them this coming Monday at one-thirty.”
“Damn,” I mouthed silently to Gloria and then turned back to the phone. “Monday,” I said. “Yes, I think I can make it unless something comes up here at work. What am I supposed to tell them?”
Mrs. Lawrence cleared her throat and then said, “I was thinking that perhaps you could relay a memory or two about some case that involved both you and the police. It shouldn’t take more than twenty or twenty-five minutes of your time. Could you be there at one-twenty, Mr. Cooper? I’m in room one twenty-two.”
I sighed and said, “One-twenty this coming Monday, room one twenty-two. I’ll see you then, Mrs. Lawrence. Goodbye.”
“There,” Gloria said, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No,” I said. “The hard part is still coming up next Monday.”
“At one-thirty,” Gloria said. “Better brush up on your public speaking.”
A little better than an hour later I heard someone enter my outer office, closing the door behind them. Someone knocked on my inner door and I invited them in.
“Mr. Peterson?” I said, meeting him at the door and extending my hand. He said he was. “Elliott Cooper.” I turned and gestured toward Gloria. “And this is my wife, Gloria.” Peterson politely nodded to Gloria and then looked back at me. We shook hands and I invited him to sit across from my desk.
Peterson leaned in close to me and whispered in my ear, “I thought this was going to be a private conversation, Mr. Cooper.”
Gloria obviously either heard his concerns or guessed that he felt uncomfortable with her in the room and quickly said, “Elliott, I hope you can spare me for a few minutes. I have to run to the corner and pick up my dry cleaning. I won’t be gone long.”
I waved to her as she left the office and then turned back to Oscar Peterson. “Well then,” I said. “What can I do for you today?”
“Nothing today, actually,” Peterson said. “I really need you starting next week Tuesday for a few days.”
Before I sat behind my desk I asked Peterson if he’d like something to drink. He declined the offer. “What’s happening next Tuesday?” I said.
“Next Tuesday,” Peterson said, “my wife is driving to Palm Springs to spend a few days with her sister.” He lowered his eyes.
“And you don’t think that’s the real reason for her trip,” I said.
Peterson looked surpri
sed that I was two steps ahead of him. “No, I don’t,” he said. “I have a feeling she’s going there to meet another man and I want you to follow her there and find out for sure.”
“Let’s back up a little, Mr. Peterson,” I said. “What would make you think that there’s another man in your wife’s life?”
Peterson sighed. “Nothing solid that I can put my finger on,” he said. “Just a bunch of little things that make me wonder about her.”
“Little things?” I said. “Like what?”
Peterson scratched his head. “Like sometimes the phone will ring and when I answer it, the line goes dead. Other times, Doris, that’s my wife, will answer it and talk for just a few seconds before hanging up. When I ask her who it was, she just says it was a wrong number.”
“And you don’t think so,” I said.
“How many times in the past three months have you picked up the phone only to find it was a wrong number, Mr. Cooper?” Peterson said.
I thought for a moment and then said, “None, come to think of it.”
“And you probably haven’t had any wrong numbers call you in the past year, I’ll bet,” Peterson said.
“I guess not,” I said.
“Well the law of averages goes way up at our house,” he said. “We got three wrong numbers in the past three months. I’d call that more than a little coincidental wouldn’t you?”
“I see your point, Mr. Peterson,” I said. “What else makes you think that something’s not right?”
“The other night she came home an hour and a half later than normal and she just blamed it on heavy traffic,” Peterson said. “And right after she got home that night she took a shower, saying that she felt all sweaty from sitting in traffic. Mr. Cooper, Doris always takes her shower in the morning before she leaves for work. What does that sound like to you?”
“Like she had some odor on her that she wanted to mask,” I said.
“Exactly,” Peterson said. “And the next day, after she’d left for work I tried to find the dress that she was wearing that night and it wasn’t in the hamper or hanging in her closet or set out with the dry cleaning. It wasn’t anywhere in the house, and believe me, I checked.”