Well, when my wife told me that, I immediately set about writing Cooper installment number forty-one, End Of An Era. I knew from recently having re-read Cooper Generations that Matt dies on September 5, 2002 at the ripe old age of ninety-one. With that in mind, I started this story on July 17, 2002—Matt’s birthday. His grandson, Elliott is asking him about his early days so that he can write about him in his first book. Matt begins telling Elliott about the early 1930s and from there until almost the end, the story is comprised of chronological flashbacks, beginning in 1934 in Chicago.
Having established in Little Matt that Matt Cooper was from Chicago, I felt it was only logical that his police career would also start there, so I made him a rookie on the Chicago Police Department. All right, I thought, in later stories, Matt’s a Hollywood private detective who was once with the L.A.P.D. That came in handy in helping me establish the back-story of Matt leaving the Chicago force in the late thirties and moving out west. But I had also established in earlier stories that Matt hadn’t joined the L.A.P.D. until the early forties, so I had to find other odd jobs for Matt to do while he waited to join the California police department. That made my job easier, since I could fill several pages with Matt’s attempts to find employment, meet some lasting friends and establish himself in Hollywood.
You may have noticed that I didn’t (and most writers don’t) come right out and say “Okay, this story takes place in 1948,” or whenever it would be. Instead I used a tried and true method of letting the readers know approximately when the story is taking place by making Matt somewhat of a movie buff. He would always be going to one movie or another and I was careful to mention the movie’s titles and stars. That way movie buffs could read that part and think, Treasure Of The Sierra Madre, okay, that came out in 1948, thus this story must be taking place during that year, and so on. Non-movie buffs would just have to look the facts up on the web. I always tried to weave in some facts with my fiction. That way the reader would get a subliminal education in whatever subject I wove into the story.
By the end of this last installment, Matt’s flashbacks take him from 1934 all the way up to the year he started his own private investigation business in 1946. Then we jump back into present day where Matt wraps up his story to Elliott about his past. Remember, we’re at July 17, 2002 and Matt dies seven weeks later on September fifth. That gives me time to wrap up Matt’s last days with a fitting farewell and family at his side when he breathes his last.
But where to go from here, that’s the big question. Keep in mind that by 2012, Clay (who was born the same year as me in 1950) is by now sixty-two years old and ready to hand the P.I. business over to the third generation of Coopers—his son, Elliott. Now that I’ve established these few facts, I can start telling Cooper stories in real time with contemporary settings and modern day contraptions.
Keep in mind, that when the Cooper stories started, circa 1946, they didn’t have conveniences that we take for granted today, like fax machines, Xerox machines, cell phones, television, tape recorders, and on and on. It took me several sentences just to describe Sergeant Hollister driving to a drug store to use the public pay phone just to call in to the precinct when his car radio was on the Fritz. In the plus column, however, they hadn’t yet come up with Miranda Rights, where cops had to read criminals their rights before interrogating them. That gave me a lot of latitude when writing about how some criminals would get the living crap beat out of them in order to get them to cooperate. Ah, the good ol’ days.
So, now that I’ve caught up to the present day in my Cooper story collection, the next obvious question would be, “What happens now?” To tell you the truth, I haven’t got a clue. I may find inspiration in the oddest of places when I least expect it and just sit down one day and begin writing Cooper mystery number forty-two.
Stay tuned.
44 - Clay Cooper, Panhandler
I sat back in my wooden swivel chair, wondering who my next client would be and what the case might involve. I spun around in my chair and stared down onto the pedestrian traffic on Hollywood Boulevard three floors below. There were hundreds if not thousands of people walking the streets at any given time and I couldn’t help but wonder where all of those meandering people were going.
Lost in my daydream, I swiveled back around to my desk when the office door opened and a man, perhaps fifty or so in a tailored suit and Italian shoes came in. He smiled as he approached me.
“Hugh Carlton,” I said, extending my hand. “You’re about the last person I ever expected to see today.”
Carlton grabbed my hand and shook it, grasping my forearm with his left hand. “Clayton Cooper, you are a sight for sore eyes. How have you been?”
“Just great, Hugh,” I said. “And you?” I released his grip and gestured toward another chair with my upturned palm. “Please, won’t you have a seat? My god, what has it been? Six years?”
“Seven,” Hugh said. “It was at the Uplands Country Club for the Christmas party. You were there with Veronica. How is she these days?”
My face went somber and I hung my head. “Veronica passed away two years ago.”
“Oh, Clay,” Hugh said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. What happened?”
“Breast cancer,” I said. “She went pretty fast after they found it.” I took a deep breath and lifted my head and straightened myself up.
“And how are you doing?” Hugh said.
“It gets better every day,” I said. “I have good days and bad days. But overall, the pain is starting to subside.”
Hugh stood and faced me. “Well, anyway, the reason I stopped in to see you is that I just got into town and decided to look you up. Are you free for lunch?”
“Sure, I can get away for a while,” I said, knowing there was nothing at all on my docket. “Any place special you’d like to eat?”
Hugh thought for a moment and offered, “How about Landers Corners? I always liked the fish there.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, they tore that place down three years ago,” I said. “There’s a Starbucks there now.”
“What about the Knight House?” Hugh said. “If I recall their steaks were pretty damned good.”
“Nope,” I said. “That’s a parking lot now.”
“Really?” Hugh said. “When did that happen?”
“Must have been a year and a half ago,” I said. “They bought old man Knight out for a good enough price so that he could retire in luxury. That was some prime real estate. Still is.”
“Okay,” Hugh said, “You pick the place, but how about if you decide on the way? I’m starving.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Come on, we’ll take the elevator to the lobby.”
“My car’s in the parking garage right downstairs,” Hugh said. “I don’t mind driving.”
“No need,” I told him. “I have a place in mind and it’s just two blocks away. Besides, it’s a nice day for walking and we can talk along the way.”
The elevator doors opened onto the lobby and we emerged, still reminiscing as we headed for the door to the street.
I looked at Hugh. “Come on, it’s this way,” I said.
Hugh walked alongside me, glad to be in my company again after so many years away. We’d walked just half a block when an old man approached us. He was wearing a tattered suit jacket and slacks stained with grease and dirt and something unidentifiable. His once white shirt had more of a gray tint to it now and I could see the tips of his socks sticking out of the soles of the shoes. The man’s face sported quarter inch long gray stubble surrounding brown teeth.
The man held out one hand and said, “Could either of you gentlemen spare a dollar for a cup of coffee?”
I started to wave the man off, but Hugh pulled a wad of bills in a money clip from his pocket, peeled off a single dollar and handed it to the man. The man smiled and nodded and slinked away, back to his spot against the building.
“You know,” I said, “If you do that once, they’ll never leave
you alone. I just try to ignore them.”
“It’s only a buck,” Hugh said. “Besides, what if that was you? Wouldn’t you want someone to help you out?”
“Me?” I said in disbelief. “Highly unlikely.”
“Okay, so it’s unlikely these days,” Hugh said. “But think back a few years when you were just getting out in the world. If life had taken a few wrong turns, you might be that guy today. Ever think of that?”
“And just what kind of wrong turns would put me in that kind of scenario?” I said.
“I don’t know,” Hugh said. “Let’s just say that one day you found yourself penniless with no place to call home. Think you could pull yourself up by the bootstraps and still be able to survive? Second thought, make that survive and thrive.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I’ve always been a go-getter and I could start with nothing and in no time I’d be right back to where I am at this moment.”
“Think so?” Hugh said.
“You can bet on it,” I said.
“Then let’s.” Hugh said.
“Let’s?” I questioned. “Let’s what?”
“Let’s bet on it,” Hugh said. “You start out on the streets with no connection to your present resources and without a cent in your pocket and let’s just see if you can manage.”
I stopped walking and turned to Hugh. “You think I can’t?” I said.
“Put your money where your mouth is,” Hugh said.
I smiled, anticipating the interesting challenge involved with a bet like this. I knew I was resourceful and cunning. I knew I could overcome a simple obstacle like being homeless and penniless. Besides, this was more like an adventure than a hardship. Why not?
“What will the stakes be?” I said. “And what about time limits? How long do I have to get out of the predicament and back to normal?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hugh said. “How about one week. If you can overcome in seven short days, I’ll, let’s see, I’ll uh, I know. How about if I win the bet you can treat me to lunch every day for a week. I you win I’ll treat you to lunch every day for two weeks. Now those are pretty good odds, wouldn’t you say?”
I smirked. “I’d be stealing your lunch money,” I said.
“Is that a yes?” Hugh said, holding out his hand.
I grabbed Hugh’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “You’re on, buddy. But I have to just let a few people know what I’m up to so they don’t send the cops on a missing persons hunt.”
“Okay,” Hugh said, “but one of the rules is that you can’t call on anyone in your present circle of acquaintances to help you in any way. You’ll be on your own.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“And second,” Hugh said, “you can’t be in contact with anyone in that same circle during those seven days. No one must know where you are.”
“I can do it,” I said.
“We’ll finalize the rest of the rules over lunch,” Hugh said. “Come on, this is going to be fun.”
“It may be fun for you,” I said, “but I’ll be the one out there on my own with nothing.”
“Are you saying you want to back out of the bet?” Hugh said, grinning.
“Not on your life,” I said. “Just stand back and observe the master at his craft.”
We finished our lunch and walked back to my office to type up a formal statement of the rules and the bets involved. I made two copies and gave one to Hugh and kept one for myself. I went through my appointment book and decided that the best time to start this adventure would be three days from today. That would give me a three-day start on a scruffy beard. I decided that I could always tell people that I was undergoing treatment for a skin condition and that the doctor advised me not to shave for a week.
On the third day Hugh returned to my office with a large brown grocery bag under his arm. He took one look at me and chuckled. “Nice set of whiskers, old man.” He set the bag on my desk and gestured toward it. “Go on, open it up,” Hugh said.
I unrolled the bag and peered down into it. I reached in and pulled out a rolled up shirt. Beneath it was a pair of faded and worn trousers. Beneath that I found a suit jacket that didn’t match the pants. One of the shoulders had stitching that had ripped and two buttons were missing from the front. I shook it out and held it up. On the bottom of the bag was a pair of scuffed shoes with a pair of socks tucked inside.
“For me?” I said. “You shouldn’t have. It’s not my birthday or anything.”
“Funny,” Hugh said. “Actually, this is what you’ll be wearing on the street. You may not need to wear the jacket during the day, but the nights get pretty cold around here this time of year.”
“I can’t believe I’m really going to do this,” I said.
“You don’t have to, pal,” Hugh said. “Just say the word and we can call the whole thing off. Of course you’ll forfeit and I’ll still get lunch for a week.”
“No you don’t,” I said confidently. “Tomorrow morning I’ll be starting my seven day adventure and eight days from now you’ll be buying me lunch.”
Hugh pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and laid it on my desk.
“What’s that?” I said.
“It’s dirt,” Hugh said. “Honest to goodness playground dirt from that school down the street.”
“I can see that it’s dirt,” I said, “but what’s it doing on my desk?”
“Well,” Hugh said, “you can’t go out in those rags with a clean face and hands. You’d stick out like basketball player in a tribe of Pygmies.”
“And how do you plan to monitor me all that time?” I said. “How do you know I won’t leave here with money in my pocket?”
Hugh smiled. “Do we both feel confident within the confines of the honor system?” he said.
“Sure,” I told him.
“Just to be sure,” Hugh said, “I’ll be here tomorrow morning to see you off. I’ll also be checking your pockets.”
“So much for the honor system,” I said.
“See you in the morning, you bum,” Hugh said and left my office, laughing all the way to the elevator.
The following morning at eight o’clock Hugh came back up to my office to check my pockets and bring me downstairs. In the garage, Hugh opened the back door of his luxury sedan and motioned me to crawl in and stay low.
“So where are you planning to dump me?” I said.
“I’ve given this some thought,” Hugh said. “Hollywood would be your best bet. The city never sleeps and there would be plenty of opportunities for you to scrounge what you need to subside.”
“What if I get discovered and they put me in the movies and I end up not having to panhandle?” I said. “Then what?”
“Yeah, right,” Hugh said. “That’s how it works over there. You hit town, sit at the counter at Schwab’s and they make you a star. In your dreams.”
“All right,” I said. “So I won’t have my name on the marquee by nightfall. I can dream, can’t I?”
“You just dream about where your first meal is coming from,” Hugh reminded him. “It doesn’t take long to get hungry when you’re pounding the pavement.”
“I’ve already had breakfast, my good man,” I said, smiling. “So it looks like I have until lunchtime to come up with some money. Which brings up another point we hadn’t discussed. In real life, before homeless people become homeless, they may have had a job. A menial job, but a job nonetheless. Am I allowed to seek employment during my seven days?”
“Menial labor, yes,” Hugh said. “Investment banker, no,” Hugh said. “Remember, you’re supposed to be a down-on-his-luck bum, not a white-collar executive looking for lunch money. So yeah, knock yourself out. Get a paper route or panhandle or shine shoes if that’s what trips your trigger. But it has to be the kind of job those people would be suited for and considered for.”
“Got it,” I said. “Hey look,” I said, pointing out the window, “There’s Grauman’s Chinese Theater.”
“
Actually it’s Mann’s Chinese Theater now. Has been for nearly forty years now, even though Warner Brothers and Paramount bought him out twelve years ago. Still, they kept his name on it.”
“Thank you Mr. Tour Guide,” I said. “Either way, this looks like a good place to put the bite on tourists. Let me out.”
Hugh pulled his car around the corner and drove north on Highland for a block and then turned right on the first side street he came to. It was Yucca Avenue and Hugh eased the car to a stop, reached over the seat and opened the back door.
“There ya go, pal,” Hugh said. “You’re on your own for the next week. See you in seven days in this very same parking space at this very same time.”
I instinctively turned my left wrist in to check the time before I remembered that I had no watch. “What time do you have?”
Hugh checked his watch. “Make that seven days from right now. It’s nine-fifteen and I’m writing it down in my daily planner to pick you up right here. Have fun, Mr. Cooper.”
I crawled out of the car and slammed the door. It sped away before I could even get to my feet and wave goodbye. I checked my surroundings and then looked myself over, almost not recognizing the man in the tattered suit who looked like me. I decided to walk back over to the Chinese Theater and see what it was that attracted so many tourists over the years.
I walked down Highland to Hollywood Boulevard and turned right. Halfway down the block I could see three dozen or more tourists milling around the outside of the theater. Many had cameras strung around their necks and some were taking pictures of the famous footprints and handprints that had been left in the cement for more than eighty years. I walked into the open courtyard in front of the theater and looked down at the cement. There were Red Skelton’s prints in the cement. Next to it Red had written, “We Dood It,” a reference to a movie he was in at the time.
I saw the prints of Shirley Temple, John Wayne, Roy Rogers and a host of other famous people I’d grown up watching on the silver screen. A machine in the courtyard offered molded plastic replicas of the Oscar statue for a dollar. I instinctively reached for my wallet but came up empty. Then I remembered why I was there in the first place. I needed to make enough money for lunch.
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 148