by Bill Bernico
“Are you alone?” I answered.
“Yes, I am,” Wentworth said. “Please, I need to see you right away. I promise I’ll be brief.”
With my gun still in my hand, I stepped over to the door, flipped the lock open and stepped away from the door. “Come in,” I said.
Wentworth stepped into the office. His eyes were immediately drawn to the .38 in my hand. “You can put that thing away, Mr. Cooper,” he said. “I’m just here to talk.”
I looked at my hand, almost surprised to find myself still holding my weapon. I stepped back to my desk and slipped the revolver back into the drawer. “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve been a little jumpy lately, I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“That’s what I came here to see you about, Mr. Cooper,” Wentworth said. “I heard what happened in the pottery building yesterday. That poor Mr. Parker must have suffered immensely before he died.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I said. “There wasn’t enough left of him to sweep up by the time the kiln doors opened. Were you aware that two of your employees did that to him? And I’m sure they know by now that they got the wrong guy. It’s just a matter of time before they realize I’m the one they want.”
“Well, they won’t get you,” Wentworth said. “They’ve both been arrested and taken away, and I have you to thank for that to some extent.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, my eyebrows furrowing. “What did I have to do with their arrests?”
“I spoke with Mr. Stromberg yesterday,” Wentworth said.
“Warren?” I said.
“Yes,” Wentworth said. “You weren’t the only one I hired, Mr. Cooper. Warren’s been with the company for decades and I trust him with my life. While you were watching the men, Warren was watching you and between the two of you, I was able to piece together enough evidence to put those two scoundrels away.”
“Now I’m really lost,” I said. “What about those two scoundrels, as you put it? What were they doing that made you come to me in the first place?”
“It had been brought to my attention that certain illegal activities had been taking place under our noses in the pottery building,” Wentworth said. “I learned that Howard Berg and Larry Conrad had devised a way to smuggle contraband out of the country inside some of the smaller clay fired pieces. They had help in the enamel shop, too. Two more employees over there have also been arrested in connection with this unfortunate episode.”
“What was it they were smuggling?” I said.
“Let’s just say it was a white powder that the drug sniffing dogs couldn’t detect inside of glazed pottery pieces,” Wentworth said. “I was able to keep this out of the papers, with the exception of Mr. Parker’s untimely death. When it makes this evening’s paper, it’ll be listed as an accident and I’d like to make sure it remains as such, if you get my meaning.”
I shrugged. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you want.”
“And as for your pay,” Wentworth said.
I held up both palms. “Hey,” I said, “I understand if you don’t think I’ve earned it. It’s not a problem. I’m just grateful not to have ended up in that kiln myself.”
“Not earned it?” Wentworth said, obviously surprised by my attitude. “Of course you’ve earned your pay. Of course, it won’t be the eight thousand we initially discussed.”
“I totally understand,” I said.
Wentworth reached into his coat pocket and produced a check which he’d filled out before coming to my office. He handed it to me. “I trust this will compensate you for both your time and the anguish I must have put you through.”
I took the check and held it up. I had to blink several times in order to be able to focus on the amount. A lump formed in my throat and the words I tried to read wouldn’t come out. I cleared my throat and finally said, “Uh, Mr. Wentworth, I think you misplaced your decimal point. This check is made out for…”
“That’s right, Mr. Cooper,” Wentworth said. “Eighty thousand dollars. And no, it’s not a mistake on my part. I think I can estimate your annual income and that amount I gave you would be enough to replace part of my summer wardrobe. It’s nothing to me, but I hope it’ll help you out, Mr. Cooper. I certainly can’t take it with me so you should really take it.”
I started to speak but was cut off with a single hand gesture. “Uh uh,” Wentworth said. “It won’t do you any good to protest. I insist. Get your wife something nice or refurnish your office. I don’t care what you do with it as long as you don’t try to give it back. Now that’s the final word on the subject. Goodbye Mr. Cooper, and thanks again.”
Wentworth walked out without another word, leaving me standing there fanning my face with the check. I folded it once and slipped it into my pocket.
I decided that when Bud came in, I’d take the rest of the day off. The things I had to tell Gloria when I got home.
114 - The Return Of Mrs. Cooper
When I came into work that morning, Bud was already sitting behind his computer, pounding away at the keys and humming to himself.
“Morning, Bud,” I said, but got no response. Just more humming. I waved a hand in front of his face. “Good morning, Mr. Burke.”
Bud finally looked up from his computer screen and showed signs of recognition this time. “Oh,” Bud said. “Yeah, good morning, Elliott.” He went right back to typing and humming with an occasional smile to himself.
To an outsider he might have come off a bit deranged. Hell, that’s the way he looked to me at this particular moment. I ignored him and hung up my coat and hat and sat behind my own desk, picking up the one pink telephone message slip that Bud must have laid here earlier. I held the pink slip over my head and looked at Bud. “I’m calling this guy back now,” I said.
“Um huh,” Bud said, still typing and humming.
I dialed the number on the slip and a man answered right away. “Hello,” he said.
I quickly looked at the slip again. “Is this Chris Ellis?” I said.
“Yes it is,” a woman’s voice said. “Who’s calling?”
“Miss Ellis,” I said. “This is Elliott Cooper from Cooper Investigations returning your call.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “Thank you for returning my call. The reason I called you was to find out if you are available to work on something for me this week. I’m thinking it may just be a matter that would require your services for no more than three or four days, maybe even two.”
I went through the motions of loudly paging through my day planner, letting her hear my actions, even though I already knew my entire week was free. I stopped paging and said, “Which day or days were you thinking about, Miss Ellis?”
“Starting Tuesday of this week, if you’re available,” she said.
“Yes, I think I could accommodate you on those days,” I said. “What is it you’d like me to do for you?”
“That’s the part I’d rather not discuss on the phone, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “Could we meet somewhere convenient in, let’s say, an hour?”
“I could do that, Miss Ellis,” I said. “Did you have anyplace particular in mind?”
“Make it easy on yourself,” she said.
“Do you know where The Gold Cup is on Hollywood Boulevard?” I said.
“Indeed I do,” she said. “I’ve been in there many times. That’s the coffee shop near Cahuenga, isn’t it?”
“That’s the one. My office is just down the block from there,” I said, looking at my watch. It was quarter after nine. “Does ten o’clock work for you?”
There was a brief hesitation. I assumed Chris Ellis was checking her own watch at that moment. “That’ll work for me, Mr. Cooper,” she said. I’ll see you then.”
“How will I know you?” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ll know you.”
“Oh?” I said. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “But I’ve seen your picture in the paper eno
ugh times to know you by sight. Ten o’clock then. Goodbye, Mr. Cooper, and thanks again.”
“Goodbye, Miss Ellis,” I said and hung up.
I turned back to Bud, who was still typing away and humming to himself. “All right,” I said. “You got my curiosity up. What are you doing over there?”
Bud typed a few more words before taking his hands away from the keyboard and looking up. “There,” he said. “Done. Wanna hear it?”
“Here it?” I said. “Hear what?”
“My latest composition,” Bud said. “I must admit I’ve outdone myself this time.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I said. “Composition?”
“Didn’t I ever tell you I wrote songs in my spare time, Elliott?” Bud said.
“No, I don’t believe it ever came up before,” I said. “In fact, I didn’t even know you were a musician, let alone a songwriter.”
“Well,” Bud said, “I’m not so much of a musician as I am a creative artist. I mean, I don’t play piano very well and I can’t read music, but I know how to throw a few chords and words together to make one hell of a song.”
“Really,” I said. “Care to share your latest creation with me?” I looked at my watch again. “I have some time right now if you’d care to share.”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear my stuff,” Bud said. “I do it mostly for myself.”
“Okay,” I said, and turned back toward my desk.
“But if you insist,” Bud said, “Take a look at the lyrics sheet and tell me what you think. “I called this one I’ll Meet You In The Bedroom In My Underwear.” He printed out the contents of his screen and handed me a sheet with his latest song lyrics on it.
I glanced at the words for a couple seconds and then looked back up at Bud. “Are you going to sing it for me?” I said, “Or do I just get to read the lyrics and imagine how it goes?”
“Just check out the lyrics for now,” Bud said, “And tell me what you think. Keep in mind that this is just the first draft. I may add or substitute some different words as I think of them.”
I cleared my throat, and began reading Bud’s new lyrics aloud.
I’ll Meet You In The Bedroom In My Underwear by Bud Burke
Quite a party you’re throwin’ here
Eatin’ pretzels and drinkin’ beer
Want to know what you’re all about
But your hubby might punch me out
Your children and your dog might stop and stare
But I’ll meet you in the bedroom in my underwear
Tell your hubby you’ll be right back
Slip upstairs and into the rack
With the lights out will get it on
And be back ‘fore they know we’re gone
I’m just a little shy so I won’t be bare
But I’ll meet you in the bedroom in my underwear
Comin’ up here we took a chance
Come on help me out of my pants
Make it quick now, don’t wanna stall
After all we came here to ball
Right or wrong or in between I just don’t care
And I’ll meet you in the bedroom in my underwear
Party’s over, the guests are gone
Guess I should be goin’ home
But ‘til next time - Adios
You have been one gracious host
Another party’s comin’ so don’t despair
And I’ll meet you in the bedroom in my underwear
Just be sure and tell me so I will be there
And I’ll meet you in the bedroom in my underwear
I’ll meet you in the bedroom in my un-der-wear
I looked at Bud without lifting my head from the page.
“Pretty powerful stuff, isn’t it?” Bud said.
“Jumps right off the page at you,” I said. “I can’t wait to hear the whole song.”
“That might be a while,” Bud said. “All I have at home is a little cassette deck to record on. It’s pretty crude, but it works for my purposes. Give me a week or so and I’ll bring in the whole song for you.”
“Great,” I said, handing the lyrics sheet back to Bud. “Now, getting back to business, I have to meet with the woman you took the message from this morning. She might have a couple days worth of work for us. I’ll know more after I meet with her at The Gold Cup at ten.”
“What does she want you to do for her?” Bud said.
“That’s the part she wouldn’t tell me over the phone,” I said. “Probably another tail job or something as equally exciting.”
“You’re not starting to sour on your job, are you, Elliott?” Bud said.
“No,” I said. “But just once I’d like to get a case I could really sink my teeth into. I’m just getting burned out on all this mundane crap people throw at us.”
“Maybe this gal today will be some kind of international spy who wants you to save the world,” Bud said. When he didn’t get the reaction he was expecting, he said, “Maybe not.”
“More than likely she’s got a cheating husband or unscrupulous business partner she wants me to find out more about,” I said.
“Well,” Bud reminded me, “Try to show a little interest and enthusiasm when she tells you what she wants. Her type is still the bread and butter of your business.”
“I am reminded of that fact all too well every day,” I said. “I’ll try to put on my sincere face when she starts talking, but it won’t be easy.”
Bud typed a few more words before he stopped and looked up at me. “So how are Gloria and the kids?” he said. “I haven’t seen them in a while. I’ll bet Olivia’s getting to be a little heartbreaker. And Matt, how old is he now?”
“Matt’s twelve and Olivia is five,” I said. “She’ll be six next month. Gees, the time is just flying by. Seems like just yesterday we brought Olivia home from the hospital. She’ll be starting first grade this fall. And that reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, Bud.”
“I can pretty well guess what it is,” Bud said. “With Olivia in school I suppose Gloria will be wanting to come back to work.”
“Boy,” I said. “That was easier than I thought it would be. You remember six years ago when you started, we talked about the day Gloria would be coming back to work here with me.”
“I do indeed,” Bud said. “And not a minute too soon for me.”
“Huh?” I said. “I thought you liked it here. I thought we worked pretty well together.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Bud said. “But you remember I took my pension after I’d put in my time with the department. I never intended this to be my full-time career after that. I have a lot of fishing and song writing to do yet and this job is cramping my style.”
“Thanks for saying that, Bud,” I told him. “And thanks for making this easier for me. But we still have three months before school starts and Gloria comes back. I think we should have some kind of party for your second retirement. What do you think?”
“Rolex,” Bud said.
“How’s that?” I said.
“A gold Rolex,” Bud said. “In case you’re thinking of giving me a gold watch when I retire from here.”
“It may not be gold,” I said, “But it will end in ex—Timex, that is.”
Bud laughed. “I smell another goofy song title coming out of that thought,” he said, and grabbed his pencil to make himself a note for later.
I looked at my watch. “I’d better get moving,” I said. “I don’t want to be late for my meeting with Chris Ellis. I’ll catch you later, Bud.”
Bud saluted without looking up from his computer screen. He was humming again as I walked out of the office. I don’t think Ray Stevens is in any immediate danger of any serious competition.
The Gold Cup was buzzing with activity this morning as I walked in. There was just one empty booth still available and I made a beeline for it. I slid in and grabbed a menu from behind the napkin holder. It was still one minute befor
e ten when a woman walked into the coffee shop, stopped just inside the door, looked around and caught my eye. She walked straight for me, giving me time to slide out of the booth and greet her.
“Miss Ellis?” I said, extending my hand.
She took it and gave it three short pumps. “Mr. Cooper,” she said. “Thanks for meeting with me.” She let go my hand and sighed.
I gestured toward the booth. “Won’t you have a seat, Miss Ellis?” I said.
She slid into the booth, folding her hands on the table in front of her. She looked around the room nervously, probably not sure how to start her conversation with me.
“Are you a coffee drinker?” I said. “Would you like some coffee?”
She shook her head. “I never could get used to the bitter taste of coffee,” she said. “Frankly, I don’t know what anyone sees in that stuff. I would like some chocolate milk, though.”
I looked at her and my eyes widened.
“What?” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to stare. It just that most people like coffee and I thought I was the only one who preferred chocolate milk.”
“You too,” she said.
“It’s one of my staples,” I told her. “In fact, back at my office, my partner, Bud has his coffee machine set up on the table and I have my mini refrigerator next to it with my supply of chocolate milk. No better way to start your day, I say.”
The waitress came by, pulled a pencil from behind her ear and stood poised with her order pad. “Would you two like anything to drink?” she said.
“Two chocolate milks,” I said.
“And are you ready to order, or would you like a few minutes yet?” the waitress said.
“Just the milk for now,” I said.
The waitress ambled back to the kitchen. Miss Ellis and I both set out menus down on the table.
“So, Miss Ellis,” I said. “Would you like to fill me in on your problem?”
“Only if you call me Chris,” she said. “Miss Ellis sound like some elementary teacher from Pacoima.”
“All right, Chris,” I said. “And you can drop the Mr. Cooper and call me Elliott.”