The special at the diner down the block was a hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and a cup of coffee. That would have to do for now. What I really wanted was a homemade pot roast dinner, like mom used to make. But, since mom had been dead nearly nine years now, I knew that wasn’t gonna happen any time soon.
The rain started just seconds before I walked into the crowded diner. Apparently turkey sandwiches were a lot of other people’s idea of mom’s home cooking. I saw one stool empty at the end of the counter. I slipped out of my overcoat and hung it on a hook near the door. I shook the rain off my hat and hung it on top of the coat and just made it to the empty stool before another pair of customers walked in.
The rain was coming down in sheets now and I was in no hurry to get back out in it. I finished my dinner and lingered with my coffee, wrapping my hands around the cup for warmth. By now there were half a dozen people standing near the front door, scanning the diner for a place to sit. I was beginning to feel guilty about occupying a space and quickly finished my coffee. I stood and waved a finger in the air. The waitress saw me and nodded. After she’d set her tray down and handed out the meals to two couples at a table, she came over.
“Check, please,” I said.
The waitress returned in a few seconds with my check and handed it to me. “Two thirty-five, sir,” she said.
I reached behind me for my wallet but it was gone. I patted my other back pocket and then my two front pockets, where I never keep my wallet, but patted just the same. Nothing. I patted my suit pocket, dug around in them and came up empty. Then I remembered my overcoat hanging by the front door.
“Give me a minute,” I said. “My wallet’s in my overcoat. It’s hanging on the hook.” I pointed to the coat rack and sidestepped slowly toward it. I dug through the mess of coats hanging there and didn’t find mine. The hat was gone, too. I looked back and the waitress hadn’t taken her eyes off me. Now she was looking at me like I was just about to mug her in an alley. I hunched my shoulders and spread my hands.
The waitress folded her arms across her chest, pursed her lips and squinted at me. I walked over to where she stood. Embarrassing as it was, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it now.
“Can I write you an I.O.U. for the amount?” I said. “I’ll include a generous tip and I promise I will be back to pay the bill. Someone stole my hat and coat and my wallet was in it.”
“Yeah, you’ll be back,” the waitress said sarcastically. “And with a generous tip, no less. Where have I heard that one before?”
“No, honestly,” I said, trying my best to sound sincere. “My office is just a block and a half from here and I could be back in fifteen minutes. Besides, what other options do we have here?”
She pointed to a stack of dirty dishes in the kitchen.
“Look,” I said, a little impatient now, “I don’t have time to stand here and argue the point. I might still be able to catch up with the guy who stole my coat. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to believe me.”
I turned to leave when a large hand grabbed my shoulder and clamped down like a vice. I turned to see a huge guy in a white apron and paper hat. He had two-day stubble and reminded me of Bluto in those Popeye cartoons.
“Olive tells me you can’t pay,” he said, looking at the waitress.
When he said her name was Olive, I nearly dropped over. What are the odds?
“I told Olive here, and now I’m telling you. I can’t waste any more time here. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes with the cash. But right now I’m leaving so kindly remove your hand or I’ll do it for you.” I looked at his hand on my shoulder and then into his eyes. He just smiled a menacing smile and tightened his grip on me.
I quickly spun around, clamped my hand on his wrist and twisted it behind his back and lifted. The big man went down on his knees, groaning the whole time. I pushed him all the way down, turned and walked out of the place, but not before calling back to Olive, “You can forget that generous tip.”
Once outside I scanned up and down the sidewalk for my coat and hat, but there were too many umbrellas opened now and he could be blocks away. The brief rain showers subsided and I hurried back to my office and back to my desk, where I kept a twenty-dollar bill tucked under my desk blotter. I slipped it into my pocket and walked to my car. After I paid the diner bill I needed to pay a call on Mrs. Janick one more time.
I dropped the two dollars and thirty-five cents off at the diner (that’s right, I didn’t leave any tip, so sue me) and drove on to the Janick residence. My visit with Mrs. Janick lasted only twenty minutes but between the drive time there and back another hour had been wasted. She couldn’t tell me any more than I already knew. I decided to call it a day and go home.
I was beat and collapsed in my easy chair and just sat there in the dark. I don’t know how long I had snoozed, but I awoke to the sound of my front door knob turning. I blinked a couple of times and shook my head, thinking the sounds I heard were just part of my dream. I heard them again and this time I saw the knob turning. I slipped my .38 out from under my arm, pointed it at the door and waited.
Apparently I had neglected to lock the door behind me when I came home because it was opening now and a dark figure was letting himself into my house. I pulled the hammer back on my revolver just as the intruder flipped on the light switch.
“Hold it right there,” I said in a half whisper.
The man turned toward me, his own gun drawn and pointing at my chest. “Who are you?” he said.
“Never mind that,” I demanded. “Who the hell are you?”
It seemed like a dumb question once my eyes had adjusted to the light and I saw the visored cap on his head and the badge on his coat. “What the hell’s going on here?” I said, still pointing my gun his way.
He continued pointing his gun at me and said calmly, “Put your gun down on the table, right now. Do it.”
“Put yours away too,” I said, and raised my gun a little higher.
The cop looked over my shoulder and said, “You got him, Stan?”
I stared straight ahead. “I’m not falling for that old gag.”
The sound of a hammer being pulled back and a cylinder rotating into place was enough to make me rethink my options. I eased the hammer back down, laid the gun on my coffee table and raised both hands. The man behind me ran his hands along the inside of my jacket. He yanked me by the hands to a standing position and finished his frisk.
“He’s clean,” the voice from behind me said.
The cop who’d come through the front door eased his hammed down and holstered his weapon. “Let’s see some I.D.”
“Like to help you out, officer, but someone stole my overcoat and hat earlier this evening. My wallet was in it.”
The cop from behind me came around to the front and joined his partner. “What’s your name?”
“Why do you wanna know?” I insisted.
The first cop stepped in. “Just answer the question.”
“Cooper,” I said. “Matt Cooper.”
“Cooper?” the second cop said. “Isn’t that the…”
The first cop waved him off before he finished his thought. He turned back to me. “You got any other way to prove who you are?”
I thought for a moment and slowly nodded. “In the kitchen,” I said pointing to the hallway, “Far left cupboard, top shelf you’ll find a coffee can. Inside you’ll find my backup piece, a .32 Smith automatic. My initials are on the butt. Next to it in a can marked Sugar you’ll find three clips for it. And if you’ll reach between my mattresses in there you’ll find two hundred dollars in an envelope along with my car registration.”
The cops both looked at me strangely.
“What can I say? “ I told them. “I don’t believe in banks. “
The first cop nodded to the second cop, who hurried into the kitchen and returned with the two cans. He set them on the coffee table and stepped into the bedroom. He returned in a few seconds with a white business envelo
pe and looked inside. He withdrew two hundred dollar bills and a folded document. He unfolded the document and read aloud. “Matthew Cooper.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cooper, “ the first cop said, “but you’re supposed to be dead. “
My eyebrows furrowed. “I’m what?”
The second cop spoke up. “A body was found in an alley off Western Avenue this evening. The I.D. in the wallet identified the victim as one Matthew Cooper.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “He was wearing a long brown overcoat and matching pork pie fedora.”
The both nodded. “Looks like someone thought they’d killed you.”
My mind raced. Some poor schlep who needed a coat and hat paid the ultimate price and now it was clear someone wanted to stop me from snooping any further. But who?
“How was this guy killed?” I asked.
The first cop said, “We’re not at liberty to disclose any…”
Just then the front door opened again and Dan Hollister stepped inside. Even thought we weren’t always on the closest of terms, his face gave away the relief in him when he saw me.
“Matt,” Dan said. “I thought the crucifix killer had caught up with you. I was already on this side of town when the call came in identifying you as the victim. I came here instead of going to the murder scene. I don’t know what I expected to find. Dan looked at the first cop and cocked his head toward the door. “You two can get back on patrol now.”
Before they turned toward the door, I looked at Dan. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Can you tell these two to keep the victim’s identification as is for now?”
“Why?” Dan said.
“Because someone thinks they’ve killed me,” I said. “And it may be easier for me to find him if he doesn’t know I’m still alive. You owe me that much.”
Dan turned to the two officers. “You say nothing until further orders. Is that clear? Nothing, to no one. Not even anyone back at the precinct. As far as you’re concerned, that last victim IS Matt Cooper. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” They said in unison, and left.
“Dan,” I said.
“What is it?”
“When Jack Walsh gets the body he’ll know it’s not me.”
“Right,” Dan said, picking up my phone and dialing. After two rings he said into the mouthpiece, “Jack, it’s Hollister. Listen, they’ll be bringing a fourth stabbing victim in sometime tonight. The I.D. on the body says it’s Matt Cooper.”
“Oh gees,” Jack said.
“Hold it, Jack,” Dan continued. “You’ll know when you see it that it’s not Matt, but don’t say anything to anyone to the contrary. Matt’s here with me and I’ll explain everything later, but for now it’s important to let the killer think that Matt’s dead. Can you do that for me?”
“No problem, Dan,” Jack said. “How long do you want me to sit on this?”
“Couple of days anyway,” Dan said. “I’ll pick up Cooper’s wallet shortly. I’m sure he needs that back again.” Dan hung up.
“Now I’ve got some breathing room,” I said.
“Come on,” Dan said. “You can ride downtown with me and I’ll get your wallet. You wait in the car and lay low.”
A few days later a man walked west on the boulevard, his shoes showing the wear from miles of pacing up and down the street. Early that morning he’d been given fifty religious leaflets to distribute. After an hour the man sat on the steps of the Masonic Temple, which was situated across the street from Grauman’s Chinese Theater. This was the theater where a lot of famous movie stars had left impressions of their hands and feet in the cement. It was a huge tourist attraction and a good place to hand out the Jesus fliers.
The man removed one shoe and set it beside him. He took two fliers from his pocket, folded them in half and in half again and inserted them into his shoe before slipping it back on his foot. He lifted his other shoe and could see his once white sock protruding through a hole in the bottom. The sock that showed was now mostly black from miles of walking the streets. He plucked two more fliers, folded them and inserted them into the second shoe, stepping back into that one as well. He’d be good for another few miles before he had to repeat the process.
The man still had more than twenty fliers to hand out before he could call it a day and collect his free meal and cot for the night. He waited for light traffic before darting across the street to see if any of the tourists at Grauman’s had heard the word of God. He’d only handed out three fliers before a man in an usher’s uniform came out of the theater and told him to move on.
He continued east toward Vine Street, which was still eight blocks away. Once there he could head south and get to the mission on Sunset Boulevard before supper was over. By the time he reached Vine he still had one flier left. He headed south and shortly before he reached Sunset, he passed a man on the street who looked like he could have been a stand-in for the late silent star, Rudolph Valentino and stepped in front of him, holding out the flier.
“Have you heard the word of God today?” the man said.
Valentino stood perfectly still, looked the man square in the eye and replied, “Yes, and he told me to kill the next person who dared speak for him.”
Before the man could speak, Valentino’s hand came out of his coat pocket holding a crucifix. The man looked down at it just as Valentino plunged it into his heart and quickly walked away, leaving the man lying where he’d died. He’d gone only a block before he heard the scream over his shoulder. He quickly dashed around the corner and disappeared into the pedestrian traffic on Sunset.
There’d be one less patron for dinner at the mission tonight.
I sat at my desk, toying with an idea I had. I thought I’d better share that idea with Hollister. If this was going to work, I might just need his help for backup. I reached him at his office and told him to meet me in the 6500 block of Yucca Avenue, just north of the boulevard, and I’d lay it all out for him.
The sun had set just minutes before Dan pulled up to the curb on Yucca. I opened his passenger side door and slid in.
Dan’s service revolver was pointed my way even before I got the door closed. He breathed easier when he saw it was me.
“You tryin’ to get yourself killed,” Dan said, holstering his weapon. “Christ, I didn’t recognize you in that getup.”
“That’s the idea,” I said. “I don’t wanna be recognized. Someone still thinks I’m dead.”
Dan gestured up and down with his hand toward me. “What’s with the homeless look?”
I was wearing gray pants with threadbare knees, a red and black plaid shirt with a frayed collar, cloth gloves with the fingertips cut out and a snap-brim cap that may have been tan at one time. My shoes were straight out of the second-hand store and looked the part. I hadn’t shaved for four days nor had I combed or washed my hair or taken a bath. For all practical purposes, I was a homeless man, relying on the streets and my wits for existence.
“Dan,” I began. “I’ve been dressed like this since last night and I found out where all those victims got the fliers that they were passing out. It’s the mission down on Sunset near Ivar.”
I reached into my pocket and produced a handful of religious propaganda fliers. “I figured the best way to catch this lunatic was to be the bait. Sooner or later he’ll have to show himself and I’ll be right there.”
“And you’re telling me, why?” Dan said.
“For backup,” I said. “I could probably do this by myself, but it’s always good to know there’s someone out there watching your back. Besides, I know O’Brien is on your ass to wrap this one up, so maybe we can both do each other a favor. I’m getting sick of looking and smelling like this.”
Dan held his nose shut. “That makes two of us. You been out on the boulevard yet, handing out that stuff?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I thought I’d wait until tonight when I was good and ripe and no one would take a second look at my face. Maybe not even a first look.”
“Don’t
take any chances,” Dan said.
“I’m not,” I said, pulling my dirty jacket open to reveal my shoulder holster and .38 snub-nose revolver.
Dan nodded. “If this guy tries to add you to his list of victims, blow him away.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” I said, opening the passenger door and sliding out. Before I closed the door again, I leaned down and told Dan that I’d be starting at the corner of Las Palmas and Hollywood and heading east. Dan agreed to follow half a block or so behind.
I hiked back down Las Palmas to Hollywood Boulevard and turned left, a small stack of fliers in my left pocket. I held just one flier at a time, passing it over with my left hand, keeping my right hand free to go for my gun if necessary. I knew that our killer had to be a middle-aged male and decided not to waste my fliers on women or younger guys.
I’d walked just a block or so when I saw a likely target. It was a man, perhaps forty or so with a gray overcoat and matching porkpie hat. I held one of the fliers out toward him. “Have you heard the word of God today?”
I hadn’t even finished my short presentation when he grabbed the flier from my hand, crumbled it up into a ball and threw it back at me.
“Get a real job, you whacko,” he said, obviously disgusted to be near me.
The disguise was working. I walked on, confident that no one would recognize me. I’d passed a few more stores when possible candidate number two came toward me. As I handed my flier to him, his hand came toward me with a similar object in it. Almost in unison we both said, “Have you heard the word…” before we stopped, shrugged and continued on our respective ways.
I’d gone another block and was about to pass up another man on the street. He stepped directly in front of me and passed a piece of paper at me. Instinctively I grabbed it and read.
“Girls, girls and more girls,” the man said, echoing what was already printed across the top of the sheet he’d handed me. “Step right inside and see more beautiful girls than you thought possible.”
I handed the sheet back to him. “No thanks,” I said and moved on.
Half a block further east between Hudson and Wilcox I saw a man standing on the street, his back to me. He was shabbily dressed head to toe. I walked up to him, tapped his right shoulder and was ready to hand him the flier when he turned around and I could see the crucifix in his hand. He held it up as my right hand quickly retrieved my .38 and shoved it in his nose before he could move another muscle.
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 54