The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  “Mr. Cooper,” the sergeant said, extending his hand. “My name’s Sergeant Daniel Hollister, pleased to meet you. Won’t you come into my office?”

  I followed the sergeant into his office and sat where he directed me, across from his desk. He took a seat behind the desk and glanced at my application again. A moment later he looked up at me.

  “I see you spent eighteen months as a Chicago policeman, Mr. Cooper,” he said. “That was six years ago. Why so short a career and what have you been doing since then?”

  “Well,” I said, “to answer the first part, the career only lasted a year and a half because of the sergeant I had to work under. As I told Officer Jerry Burns last week, I didn’t agree with my sergeant’s heavy handed approach to obtaining confessions and when I complained, he just made my job more difficult than necessary. I took it for a while, but then realized that life was just too short to be the object of anyone’s vengeance.”

  “And did this sergeant have any reason to seek vengeance against you?” Hollister said.

  “He thought so,” I said.

  “And why do you think he resented you?” Hollister said.

  “This may mean that I won’t get this job,” I said, “But his name was Nick Burns and I tagged him with the nickname “Third Degree Burns” and I guess he took offense.”

  Hollister tried to suppress a smile and then looked back down at my application. “And the second part of my question. What have you been doing since you left there?”

  “Odd jobs, temporary jobs,” I said. “Making enough to get by and pay my bills, but not very satisfying.”

  “And do you think police work in Hollywood would be any more satisfying than it was in Chicago?” Hollister said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Especially in January and February.”

  “I take it you couldn’t get used to the snow back east,” Hollister said.

  “I was born in Chicago,” I said. “I grew up there and went to school there, so I didn’t mind the snow all those years. It’s just when I started patrolling the slippery streets with snow piled high on the curbs that it became a real pain. I figured I could do a better job of it out here.”

  Hollister looked at my application, turned it over and then looked at the front again. He turned to me. “I don’t see any mention of a service record on your application.”

  “That’s because I didn’t have any,” I said. “I went down to the recruiters the day after Pearl Harbor but they wouldn’t take me. 4-F because of flat feet.”

  “I know cops are sometimes referred to as flatfeet,” Hollister said, “but that’s just a myth. You think that’ll hinder your ability to be a patrolman?”

  I shook my head. “If they hadn’t told me had flat feet, I’d never have known. It was never a problem for me in the past, but I guess the military is a lot fussier than the average citizen.”

  Hollister made a few notes on my application and then looked up at me. “When can you start, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Just like that?” I said. “No police academy, no training, no probation period?”

  “Oh yes,” Hollister said. “You’ll have all of those things to look forward to. And the sooner you get them behind you, the sooner you can start patrolling the streets of Hollywood. Does it sound like something you’d like to do?”

  I thought for a moment and realized that whatever course I was on now wasn’t working for me. This opportunity could be just what I needed for stability and security. “I can start tomorrow,” I said.

  Friday, March 12, 1943 – Hollywood, CA

  I spent the first few months of my police employment going through the police academy and riding along with an experienced officer through the streets of Hollywood, getting to know the area. By the time March rolled around I was familiar enough with Hollywood and the surrounding areas that I could have patrolled solo in a car of my own. But I still had to ride with another officer until at least April. Meanwhile, I was allowed to patrol solo on foot, and I really liked that part of my job. I got to know the neighborhood merchants and citizens. Every day on the streets was one more day that the people got to know and trust me and come to depend on me.

  One day in mid-March, as I was patrolling Hollywood Boulevard, I stopped at an outdoor coffee stand on the corner and bought a cup of coffee. I was standing there at the counter enjoying the break when a woman walked around the corner while she was looking at something behind her. She bumped into me, spilling my coffee down the front of my blue uniform shirt. I quickly stepped back, my arms extended out from my side. The woman turned around to see who she’d bumped into and her eyes got wide when she realized that she’d spilled coffee on a cop.

  “Oh my,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going. It’s all my fault. Oh dear, what can I do? I’ll pay for any cleaning, of course. I...”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Slow down, it’s only coffee. It’s not acid. It’ll wash right out. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are you sure?” The woman said. “I feel like such a clumsy klutz. You have to at least let me buy you another coffee.”

  I waved her off. “I was almost finished anyway,” I said. “No need for another whole cup.”

  “Can I buy you half a cup?” The woman said, looking at my nametag. “Officer Cooper.” A sly smile played on her face.

  “Well,” I said, “you know my name but I don’t know yours. I’m gonna need it for the accident report I have to fill out.” I pretended to be writing on an invisible pad. I glanced at my watch. “Let’s see, time of day, eleven-fifty. Traffic, light. Weather, sunny. And now I’ll need your name, Mrs.?”

  “Miss,” the woman said. “Stella McCarthy.”

  I stopped pretending and pulled my real notepad out of my pocket and wrote the name down. “And your phone number,” I said, still poised with my pen.

  Without hesitating, Stella gave me her home phone number.

  “And the best time to reach you at this number,” I said, still waiting with my pen.

  “I finish with work at five and I’m usually home by five-thirty or quarter to six,” Stella said. “Will there be anything else, officer, Cooper? I really have to get back to work.”

  “I’ll let you off with a warning, Miss McCarthy,” I said, “under one condition.”

  “Anything, officer,” Stella said. “What is it?”

  “That you call me Matt,” I said.

  “And you can call me Stella,” she replied.

  “Stella it is,” I said and tipped my hat before she left.

  Things were looking up. I had a full-time, meaningful job, I’d met a beautiful woman and the future may just hold more than I could imagine. I could hardly wait for five forty-five to come around.

  Tuesday, June 1, 1943 – Hollywood, CA

  I was patrolling the Hollywood beat that morning on the first of June. I’d been with the Los Angeles Police Department almost a year now. When I got my 4-F classification from the draft board, the day after Pearl Harbor, I decided that I could still serve by becoming a police officer. I had been on the Chicago police force for eighteen months back in the late thirties. The snow and my sergeant had taken their tolls on me and I decided to chuck it all in and head west.

  My partner, Lou was sitting alongside me, going over that morning’s list of stolen cars. Occasionally he’s look out the window, hoping to see a matching license plate attached to a car on the street. So far we’d come up empty.

  “How many on this morning’s list?” I said, not taking my eyes off the road.

  Lou slid his finger slowly down the list, counting to himself. When he got to the bottom of the page, he flipped it over and continued with another half page before announcing, “Thirty-seven, not counting that garbage truck someone heisted yesterday. Gees, you’d think that would be easy to spot. I mean, how many garbage trucks are there roaming the streets?”

  “Probably a hundred or more,” I offered. “Trick is to tell the regular ones from the stolen one. But I d
oubt whoever took it is out joyriding with it. They probably have it in some chop shop in the valley and the engine is most likely already out of it, along with a couple dozen other parts.”

  Lou looked at me, puzzled. “If that’s so, how do they get rid of the truck with the engine missing? You’d think they would stick out like a newcomer in a nudist colony towing a garbage truck around town.”

  I shook my head. “Give it a day or two and some citizen will call it in once the truck begins to stink up their neighborhood.”

  The squad car’s radio picked that precise moment to squawk. “Car twelve, what’s your twenty?”

  Lou picked up the mic and pressed the button. “This is car twelve. We’re in the sixty-seven hundred block of Yucca Avenue. Over.”

  The dispatcher came back on the line. “Car twelve, see the man, fifty-three twenty Selma Avenue. Ba...ing ...og.”

  Lou quickly answered. “Dispatch, you’re breaking up. Repeat, please.”

  Again the radio squawked.” Car twelve see the...ifty...Selm...nue. ...arkin... do...”

  “Dispatch,” Lou said again. “I’m getting a lot of static over the air. I’ll call you from a pay phone. Over.”

  I turned the corner and drove south a block on Western Avenue and left again on Hollywood Boulevard and pulled to a stop in front of the first store I found. “You can use the phone in there,” I told Lou.

  Lou came back out a couple of minutes later and slid back into the patrol car. He looked over at me. “Barking dog at fifty-three twenty Selma.”

  “Whoa,” I said sarcastically, “We’d better step on it. Sounds like something that can’t wait.”

  It took us just five minutes to issue our standard warning to the dog’s owner before we were back on patrol once again.

  I grabbed the mic and said, “Dispatch, this is car twelve. Show us clear at fifty-three twenty Selma.”

  The dispatcher replied, “…en…our car …elve.”

  Twenty minutes later the radio squawked again. “Car twelve, see the man at sixteen seventy-five Belson Road regarding a stolen …ax…one.”

  Lou grabbed the mic. “Headquarters, say again please, you’re breaking up.”

  The radio crackled again and nothing but static came out. Lou banged on the side of the radio with his palm. On the third bang, the light on the front panel went out and the radio fell silent.

  “Oh great,” I said. “Now we have no radio at all. I’d better find the nearest pay phone and call in.”

  “That’s all right,” Lou said. “I think I heard enough to answer the call. She definitely said it was at sixteen seventy-five Belson Road and I heard enough of the rest to know that she was reporting a stolen saxophone. Let’s roll.

  I shrugged and made a U-turn and headed back toward Belson Road. It was in the seedier section of downtown, frequented by transients, street people and beggars. We made it there in just under eight minutes. A block away from the destination Lou looked ahead to the corner of Belson and sixteenth and pointed.

  “There he is,” Lou said. “On the corner. See him?”

  “I see him,” I said. “Don’t let him slip away. Looks like we can wrap this one up in record time.”

  I pulled to a stop at the corner and the two of us got out, approaching the street corner musician from opposite ends. The man had the saxophone case open and was blowing out a tune that I didn’t recognize. As I walked up to him, I looked down into the case and spotted several coins. He was playing for his supper.

  Lou pulled the flashlight off his belt and shined it in the man’s face. The man stopped blowing and held one hand up to his eyes.

  “What gives, officer?” he said to Lou.

  Lou looked the man in the eye. “What’s your name, fella?”

  “Why?” he replied.

  “Just answer him,” I added.

  The man looked at me and then over at Lou. “Grant,” he said. “Ernest Grant. Now what’s this all about?”

  I held out my hand. “Hand it over,” I said, pointing to the saxophone.

  The man pulled it further away from me. “No,” he insisted. “It’s mine.”

  I took it from him, pulling it toward me. I felt resistance and noticed a small strap attached to the sax that hung around the man’s neck. Lou restrained the man while I removed the sax from the strap and laid it in the case, closing the clasps. Lou cuffed the suspect and led him to the squad car and helped him into the back seat. Lou slid in beside him.

  I set the stolen saxophone and case on the front seat next to me and started the car.

  “Where are you taking me?” Grant insisted. “I have rights, too.”

  “Just sit there and be quiet,” Lou told him. “You’re going to the station to be booked.”

  Grant opened his mouth. “But…”

  “Uh uh,” Lou reminded him. “What did I say about being quiet?”

  Twelve minutes later as our shift was ending, I pulled the squad car into the garage and grabbed the sax case, while Lou escorted Ernest Grant to the booking room. I pulled the necessary forms out of a cubby hole on the desk and began filling in the suspect’s name, the date and time, the nature of the call and so on. Lou uncuffed Grant and instructed him on the proper way to roll his finger across the fingerprint card. When he’d finished, he handed Grant a paper towel and nudged him toward the holding cell.

  A minute later I was halfway down the form when Sergeant Dan Hollister saw us through the glass and walked into the room.

  “Where have you been?” he asked somewhat impatiently. “That night manager at Yellow Cab called again and asked if we were going to send an officer over or not.

  I looked up from my paperwork. “What night manager and what’s this about Yellow Cab?”

  “Didn’t the dispatcher call you twenty minutes ago?” Hollister said.

  “Yeah, we got the call,” Lou said, closing the holding cell door. “The radio cut out on us again so we didn’t get a chance to reply. But I heard enough of the call to know what she was saying.”

  Hollister pointed his finger in Lou’s face. “Well if you heard enough of the call, why the hell didn’t you respond? They’re still waiting for you two.”

  Lou pointed to the prisoner in the holding cell. “We did respond. We brought the suspect in.”

  “Well why didn’t you check in with the security guard?” Hollister said, growing more impatient.

  “Didn’t have to,” I added. “He was on the corner when we got there.” I hiked my thumb at the prisoner.

  Hollister let out a long sigh. “And did he have the stolen taxi dome on him when you caught him?”

  “Huh?” Lou said.

  Hollister repeated himself. “The dispatcher called you with a complaint from The Yellow Cab Company at…” He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and flipped to the last page. “…Sixteen seventy-five Belson Road. She also told you about a stolen taxi dome. Some guy pulled it right off the roof of one of their cabs.”

  Lou and I both looked at Ernest Grant and smiled sheepishly.

  “Sergeant,” I said. “I need to put in a request for a new radio in our car.”

  Ernest Grant sat down on the bunk in his cell and began laughing hysterically.

  Thursday, June 3, 1943 – Hollywood, CA

  It was going to be another long, hot summer and tempers were sure to flare. The mercury climbed upward toward triple digit status as the call came in. It seemed like a routine call at first. A bartender at a place called Jake’s phoned the desk sergeant at our precinct to report a woman passed out at his bar. That in itself wasn’t noteworthy, but the bar was on our way back to the precinct and we were in no hurry to get back to that oven we called our office.

  My partner, Frank Malone and I took the call. We were cruising just three blocks from the tavern and got there just minutes after the initial call. The tavern was located in the seedier section of town on Church Street just south of the Grand Hotel, which was no longer grand nor a hotel and it had recently been sch
eduled for demolition. The rest of the neighborhood could have easily been torn down with it and no one would have complained.

  Frank parked the cruiser at an angle in front of Jake’s and we went inside. The bar was long and narrow with a row of stools against the bar. In the far corner sat a single pool table, its felt worn thin and gray in places. A single fluorescent bulb hung over it. There was a large, red and white jukebox in the opposite corner. It was blaring out a country tune by some guy singing how his girl had broke his heart and his scale, too.

  The bartender, an overweight, balding, dirty example of small business, was wiping a beer glass as we entered. His full-length apron might have been white during Roosevelt’s first term, but now it was just two yards of grime on a string. He gestured with his head down the bar. While Frank questioned the bartender, I walked down the length of the bar and found the woman in question. By process of elimination, I determined that this had to be the right woman. It was the only woman in the place, in fact, the only customer.

  I nudged her on her left shoulder with my nightstick. She didn’t respond. I placed the stick under her left arm and lifted. What was left of her chewed-down fingernails showed enough dirt under them to plant potatoes. Her elbows had enough dirt on them to pass for a smoking jacket with suede elbow patches.

  The woman’s head lay face down on the bar, her dirty brown shoulder-length hair soaked in spilled beer. Her twelve-hour underarm protection had worn off thirty-six hours ago and she smelled like an open sewer.

  I let her arm drop to her side and slid my stick under her chin and lifted. It was Mary, all right. Mary McGuire, an alcoholic we’d picked up many times in the past. Some people just didn’t get the picture. I eased her head back down onto the bar and noticed a hole in the top of her skirt. It was a cigarette burn hole that went clear through the top and bottom of her skirt and now lay smoldering on the floor beneath her.