The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  “Really, Amy,” I said. “I can’t get bogged down by that kind of stuff. I just perform my part of this dance and then turn it over to the client. What she does from there is nobody’s business but her own.”

  “And the man you turn up,” Amy said.

  “Him, too,” I agreed. “But again, if I find him and he doesn’t want to be contacted, I won’t give the girl the information. It’s that simple. I know the man has his right to privacy and that’s what I’d tell the girl. If she wants to conduct her own investigation after that, I certainly couldn’t stop her, could I?”

  “Good,” Amy said. “I just wanted to know if the man could refuse to get involved if it would disrupt his life.” She laid her head in her hands and rested her elbows on the table. She looked up after a moment and said, “Gees, I’m glad it’s not our problem.”

  “You and me both,” I said. “I have to be on the road early tomorrow morning so I won’t wake you before I leave.”

  “I sure hope this turns out all right for her,” Amy said.

  “She’ll be fine,” I assured her.

  I was on the road the next morning by seven o’clock. I’d catch breakfast at the diner and then see my contact at City Hall. Eva Bishop worked in the records department and knowing her had come in handy in the past. She was always eager to help me before, but would she if she found out I’d gotten married since the last time I saw her?

  It was eight fifteen and Eva was perched on a stool behind the counter when I came in through the door. I smiled at her and she slid off the stool and lifted the hinged portion of the counter and came out to greet me.

  “Matt,” Eva said. “How long has it been? My, you’re looking fit and trim these days.”

  I patted my stomach. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “You might have overlooked the pounds I’ve put on recently. Put those glasses on and take another look,” I said, pointing to the glasses that hung from her neck by a thin chain.

  Eva slipped the glasses on for a second, took another look and let the glasses dangle again. “Nope,” she said. “Handsome as ever.”

  “Stop it,” I said, “before it goes to my head.”

  Eva returned to the stool behind her counter and tried her best to look official. “So, what is it you’d like me to do for you today, Matthew?”

  “Boy, you get right to the point, don’t you?” I said.

  “You have to admit, Matt,” she said, “that about the only time I see you is when you’re on a case and you need me to look something up for you.”

  “Come on,” I said. “You know how I feel about you, you little devil, you.”

  “Uh, Matt,” she said, in a completely different tone. “About that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well,” Eva said, “it was always so long between visits from you that I finally have to admit that you might never actually get around to asking me out, so I, uh.” She held her left hand up to show me the ring.

  I looked down at the diamond and then up at Eva. “That’s terrific,” I said, holding out my left hand to her as well. “Me, too.”

  We both broke out in laughter and grabbed each other’s hands, holding on tight for a moment.

  Eva released her grip on me and said, “Promise me that we can have lunch someday soon and exchange stories about all this.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  “Now,” Eva said, getting back to the business at hand, “what can I get for you?”

  I pulled the piece of paper from my pocket and read Susan Dorsey’s name from it. Eva slid off the stool again and walked to a shelf someplace out of my sight, returning in just a few seconds. She laid the book open on the counter and began paging through it.

  “Dorsey, you say?” Eva said, running her finger down the columns. “Dorsey, Dorsey, here we are. Susan Dorsey. Born August 19, 1911 in Los Angeles. Married Ronald Dorsey November 16, 1928 in a civil ceremony at the courthouse.” Then Eva ran her finger across the row and looked up at me. “Died May 10, 1950. Does that help?”

  I wrote the information down on the back of my slip of paper. “What about Ronald Dorsey?” I said. “What can you tell me about him?”

  She gave me his birthday and the marriage date, and then realized she’d already given me that when she looked up Susan.

  “What about children?” I said.

  Eva turned back to the book again. “One daughter, Beatrice, born July 30, 1929. No record of a marriage for her.”

  “Do you have an address for Ronald Dorsey?” I said.

  She wrote the address on an index card and handed it to me. “What’s your interest in these people?” Eva said.

  “I wish I could tell you, Eva,” I said. “But this is a really sensitive one. People could get hurt if it got out.”

  “No, I understand,” Eva said.

  I slipped the index card into my pocket and laid one hand on top of Eva’s “Thanks, and we’ll do lunch as soon as I finish with this case, I promise.”

  “And I’ll hold you to that, Matt,” Eva said.

  I drove to the Glendale address Eva had given me on Ronald Dorsey. He lived in a white stucco two-story house with a red tile roof and ivy growing up the side of one wall. It was the perfect fairy tale cottage most women dream about.

  I pulled up to the curb and flipped open my glove box, fishing around for a business card I’d gotten from an insurance man who’d tried to sell me life insurance. I didn’t buy any insurance from him, but I kept the card, thinking it might come in handy for an occasion just like this one. I slipped the card into my breast pocket and walked up to his front door. I leaned on the doorbell and then stepped back. A short while later the door opened and a man whom I assumed to be Ronald Dorsey stood looking at me through the screen.

  “Yes?” Dorsey said, leaving the screen door closed.

  I pulled the insurance man’s business card from my breast pocket and held it out toward Dorsey. “Mr. Dorsey,” I began, “my name is Bernard Dolan with General Casualty Company.”

  Dorsey still had not opened the screen door and had no interest in taking my card.

  “I don’t need any insurance,” he said, closing the door in my face.

  I rang the doorbell again and the door opened immediately. The expression on Dorsey’s face changed and I knew I’d better talk fast.

  “Mr. Dorsey,” I said. “I’m not selling any insurance. I’m a claims adjuster and I’m here to talk to you about Beatrice.”

  “What?” Dorsey said.

  “Beatrice Dorsey,” I said. “You are Ronald Dorsey, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Dorsey said, still skeptical.

  “And your daughter’s name is Beatrice,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I need to contact her regarding her inheritance,” I said. “Would you know where I might find her?”

  Dorsey thought about this for a moment and then opened the screen door and allowed me to come inside. He closed the door behind us and invited me into the living room. He gestured toward an overstuffed armchair and then sat across from me on the sofa.

  “Sorry about that before,” Dorsey said. “But I get so many pesky salesmen at the door.”

  “I understand completely,” I said. “Now, if we could get down to business, I can leave you alone and be on my way.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dolan,” Dorsey said. “What would you like to know?”

  “Well, Mr. Dorsey,” I said, trying to talk the way I’ve heard insurance salesmen talk, “According to our records, Beatrice was born on July 30, 1929. Is that correct?”

  Dorsey nodded. “Yes.”

  “And you married Susan on November 16, 1928?” I said.

  “Uh huh.”

  “You understand I have to ask these things to verify that I have the right person, don’t you Mr. Dorsey?” I said. “And can you verify Susan’s date of birth as August 19, 1911?”

  “That is correct,” Dorsey said, fully believing that I was who I said I was.

  “Now, Mr. D
orsey,” I said. “Our records show that Susan Dorsey had taken out a life insurance policy on herself and named Beatrice as the beneficiary. Were you aware of that?”

  Dorsey shook his head. “I had no idea.”

  “And she also named Beatrice’s father as co-beneficiary as well,” I said.

  “Susan included me?” Dorsey said.

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “She named Beatrice’s biological father in the policy. I’m sorry, Mr. Dorsey. I thought you knew.”

  Dorsey’s face fell apart and for the first time since I’d sat down, I knew that he’d known about Beatrice since the beginning.

  “And your company has known about this all along?” Dorsey said.

  “Susan came to us shortly after Beatrice’s birth,” I said, making all this up as I went along. “She filled us in on the details relating to Beatrice and her biological father with the stipulation that the records remain sealed until six months after her death. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Dorsey.”

  Dorsey sat up straight now. “I’ve know about it since right before Susan and I were married,” Dorsey said. “But I’ve always treated Beatrice as though she were my own flesh and blood. I couldn’t have loved her more if she were my real daughter.”

  “And that’s what Susan told us when she took out the policy,” I said, still adlibbing. “That’s why there’s a provision for you as well.”

  This got Dorsey’s attention.

  “For me?” Dorsey said.

  “I just need to verify that all the information I have is accurate,” I said. “Only then can we disburse the funds to the involved parties. So, Mr. Dorsey, would you verify the name of the biological father for me?”

  “You should have that information,” Dorsey said.

  “We do,” I assured him, “but we need to have verification from a second source to make it legal. So if you wouldn’t mind providing me with the name, we can conclude our business here today and move on.”

  “All right,” Dorsey said. “Give me a minute. Susan had that written down somewhere. I think it’s still in our fireproof box under the bed. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

  Dorsey excused himself and left the room. I let out my breath and hoped I could get the information I needed and get out of here before he asked me something that I couldn’t answer and gave myself away. A couple minutes later Dorsey returned with a small metal box with a locking hasp on the front. The box was open and Dorsey set it on the coffee table. He fingered through the documents, looking for the piece that his wife had made her notes on.

  While he looked through the box, I said, “One last bit of information, if you wouldn’t mind. Can you verify Susan’s maiden name for me?”

  Without looking up, Dorsey said, “Cunningham. Susan Cunningham.”

  A shiver ran up my spine and goose bumps filled my arms. I’d known a Susan Cunningham right out of high school. We had only one date and it ended with the two of us making love in the back seat of my father’s Dodge sedan. I never saw her again after that night, but I thought about her often over the past two decades.

  “Did you say Cunningham?” I said.

  “That’s right,” Dorsey said.

  I tried to compose myself. “And where did she graduate high school?”

  Dorsey looked up and said, “She didn’t graduate. She went to Central High School and would have graduated with the class of ‘29 but she dropped out when she found out she was pregnant.”

  My mouth was getting awfully dry now and I tried unsuccessfully to swallow. I wanted to get out of that house and never look back. I wanted to give Beatrice Dorsey back her retainer and tell her, what? That part I wasn’t sure about.

  “Found it,” Dorsey said, looking down at the paper in his hand. “Susan said the guy was someone named Cooper, Matthew Cooper.”

  He turned the piece of paper around so I could see it. There was my name looking big as a billboard. I needed to end this sideshow now and get the hell out of there. I also wanted to destroy that little piece of paper, but knew that would be useless once Dorsey had uttered my name out loud.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dorsey,” I said, standing up and straightening out my suit coat. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we’re ready to conclude our investigation. Good day, sir.”

  Without waiting for Dorsey’s reply I hurried to the front door and let myself out. I slid beneath the wheel of my Olds and drove away, not even watching behind me as I pulled into traffic. I drove just two blocks, pulled over and killed the engine. I pulled my hands off the steering wheel and held them in front of me. They were shaking uncontrollably. I closed my eyes and slumped down in my seat. What would I tell Beatrice? Worse yet, what would I tell Amy?

  A few minutes later when my hands stopped shaking, I started my Olds and drove back to my office. I just couldn’t go home right now feeling like I felt. Once inside my office, I locked the door and took my phone off the hook and just sat there behind my desk, trying to sort out everything I’d just learned about a daughter I didn’t even know I had until thirty minutes ago.

  I needed to calm my nerves before I could even think about going home to Amy. I pulled the office bottle out of my bottom desk drawer and didn’t bother with a glass. I pulled the cork out and tipped the bottle up to lips, taking two swallows before setting it down again. I corked the bottle and returned it to my desk drawer. I got up and walked across the room and turned on my desktop radio, hoping for some soothing music to help steady my nerves.

  I twisted the dial until I found a station that came in clear. I recognized Eileen Barton’s voice singing, If I Knew You Were Coming I’d Have Baked A Cake. How appropriate, I thought. If I would have known that my daughter was coming here, would I have baked a cake, or just locked the door and hid out in my office until she went away? I couldn’t take listening to it and twisted the dial again. Red Foley came on singing Chattanooga Shoeshine Boy. That was too upbeat for me and I certainly didn’t feel upbeat.

  I gave the dial another twist and stopped on a song that I was sure would help calm me down. It was Patty Page singing Tennessee Waltz. I left the dial where it was and sat on my overstuffed leather sofa. Hadn’t I just told Amy that my job was just to perform my part of the dance and then turn it over to the client? If that were true, what better music to dance to than Patty Page?

  *****

  The gunman lies silently in the ductwork, having slept through the night where he was. He sights through his scope at the wrestling ring in the center of the auditorium. The room is beginning to fill up with wrestling fans, bookies, concession vendors and wrestling managers with their handlers. Almost everyone is here except the guest of honor. He’ll be along shortly and the rest, as they say, will be history.

  A few moments later the crowd begins to cheer as the two gladiators walk down the aisle toward the ring. They’re wearing long, decorative robes with their names on the back. As they walk, they hold their fists in the air and the crowd cheers even louder. Perfect, he thinks. The noise is good and it will help mask the sound of his suppressed shot. To anyone nearby it may sound like a fly being swatted but the results will be much deadlier. He smiled at the similarities between his target and a swatted fly. Both will be just as dead and both will need to be scraped up when he’s finished with them.

  The first hulk of a man steps up into the ring, slipping between the ropes. He hops on his toes around the ring in a victory strut, his arms reaching for the ceiling, even though he hasn’t won yet. One of his handlers steps up behind him and pulls the robe from his shoulders, revealing his red shorts. The wrestler flexes his muscles and taunts the crowd. This one seems like the perfect target. He’s going to enjoy taking this guy down a notch or two…or seven.

  The second wrestler has had a springboard set up where he needed to enter the ring. He runs at it, hopping on the board and springing himself up and over the ropes. He lands on his feet, ducks his head and does a single summersault, springing to his feet again. He throws h
is own robe off his shoulders and kicks it toward a handler in his corner. This one’s wearing blue shorts. Then with exaggerated pounding steps, reminiscent of the giant in the Jack and the Beanstalk story, he stomps around the ring, shaking his fist at spectators and growling like an animal. This one has to be Beasley and that would make the first guy Baronski.

  The gunman waits patiently until both wrestlers have retreated to their corners. His rifle is loaded, cocked and ready to fire. He just needs the right opportunity. He looks through the scope again and sights the crosshairs on Beasley’s head. The sight makes him smile, but he delays gratification for a while longer.

  Both wrestlers are on their feet now, sizing each other up. The referee stands between them apparently explaining the rules, which he himself will later ignore. The referee backs away and the two men grab for each other’s necks, trying to gain leverage. They break away and try again. The man in the red shorts drops to his butt, locking his legs around the other man’s calves. It’s Beasley and he has Baronski in a scissor lock and he’s rolling sideways, trying to make his opponent roll with him.

  This could be the opportunity the gunman has been waiting for. Both men are relatively motionless while one tries to exert enough pressure on the other to make him concede the match. He sights in on Beasley’s head, placing the crosshairs just above his left ear. He holds his breath and waits between heartbeats and then pulls the trigger. He’s still looking through the scope and sees the moment of impact as George, “The Animal” Beasley’s head explodes in a spray of red and gray, splattering his opponent with brain matter.

  He shifts his scope to Baronski’s face and the expression on it is priceless, but he can’t stick around to bask in the glow of his accomplishment. His escape is timed to the second and he immediately breaks down his rifle and tripod and deposits the pieces back into the suitcase. He slides silently through the ductwork until he’s at the grate over the center stall. He peers down through the grate. Oh no, there’s a man sitting on the toilet directly below him. He had not anticipated this sort of obstacle in his way.