I ran back out to the street side of the house and scanned the neighboring houses. Across the street, I saw curtains fall shut as I looked at them. I hurried across the street and rang the bell. No one answered. I knocked on the door and kept knocking until the curtains on the door pane pulled back revealing an old woman who looked at me suspiciously.
I held my I.D. card up so she could see it and said through the closed door, “Ma’am, my name is Elliott Cooper and I’m looking for my partner, a woman. She was coming to the house across the street and I can’t find her. Can I talk to you?”
The curtains dropped and I could hear the sound of a chain sliding on metal. A second later, the front door opened several inches and the woman peered out through the opening.
“Please, ma’am,” I said. “I think my partner’s in trouble and I need to find her. Have you seen anything strange going on across the street?”
“Like what?” the woman said.
“Have you seen a woman in a red Jeep or a man across the street?” I said. “She may have been on his porch earlier.”
“She was there,” the woman said. “She went inside.”
“Did you see a man also?” I said.
“He came out a little while later,” the woman explained. “He drove that red car around to the back.”
“Did he come back out again?” I said.
“A couple minutes later,” she said.
“Was she with him?” I said.
The old woman shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “Just him and another guy.”
“Did you see anything else?” I asked.
“Like what?” she said.
“Was either one of them carrying anything?” I said.
She nodded. “One of ‘em was carrying a black case,” she said. “Like a big violin case.”
“Could it have been a guitar case?” I said.
“Couldda been,” she said. “It was big.”
“And did you see if they left in a car?” I asked.
“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “They walked that way.” She pointed up the street.
“How long ago was this?” I said.
“Couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes before you got here,” she said.
“Thank you very much,” I said, and hurried back across the street. If Gloria hadn’t left with him, it stood to reason that she must still be in the house. I ran around to the back of the house, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors. I jabbed my elbow through the glass pane on the back door and reached in to unlock it. There were three steps that led up into a kitchen. Beyond the kitchen, I could see a dining room. It held nothing special but I noticed a hallway to my left.
As I approached the first door on the right, I could hear moaning sounds on the other side of the door. I opened the door and found Gloria lying just inside. She was lying face down, unbound but obviously hurt. I knelt by her side and turned her over. Her eyebrows furrowed and she moaned some more.
“Gloria,” I said. “Are you all right? What happened?”
Gloria moaned some more and her eyes fluttered before opening. She looked up at me and flinched.
“Easy there,” I said. “It’s me.”
She stopped moving and settled back, letting out a deep breath.
“Don’t try to move,” I said, fishing my cell phone out of my pocket. I flipped it open and began dialing. Gloria laid a hand over mine and shook her head.
“I’m all right,” she said. “It’s just a knock on the head. I’ve had worse.” She sat up, rubbed the back of her head and blinked some more. A minute later she stood, looked herself over and then quickly patted her pants pocket. “It’s gone,” she said.
“What’s gone?” I said.
“The money,” Gloria said. “I had a grand in my pocket and it’s gone.”
“Slow down here,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
Gloria licked her lips. “I came here to buy back the fake Gibson,” she said. “The guy who e-mailed me said he wanted twelve hundred, but I figured I could negotiate him down to a grand. He showed me the guitar in the case and while we were talking, someone hit me from behind and the next thing I know, I’m looking up at you.”
“What did this first guy look like?” I said.
“He was twenty-five or twenty-six,” Gloria said. “Shoulder-length, greasy blonde hair, blue eyes, about five-nine or ten, a hundred seventy-five or so. He had on dirty blue jeans and a black t-shirt with a picture of The Doobie Brothers on the front. Oh, and he had a huge pimple on the side of his neck. I never got a look at the second guy.”
“What did this first guy say?” I said.
“After he showed me the guitar,” Gloria said, “He held his hand out and asked for the twelve hundred. When I started to dig in my front pocket, that’s when I was hit from behind.”
“Did you get his name?” I said.
“He said it was Todd Bracken,” Gloria said. “But I doubt that’s his real name. And now that I think of it, I’ll bet if we try to trace his e-mail address it’ll probably lead to some internet café or library.”
“So where are we with this then?” I said.
“We’re out a grand,” Gloria said, “Unless we can find him again.”
“So?” I said.
“So I suggest we get moving,” Gloria said, heading for the front door.
I stopped her and steered her toward the back door. She gave me a strange look. “He parked your Jeep in the garage,” I said. “I assume that is your Jeep.”
“Yeah,” Gloria said. “It is. You riding with me or am I riding with you?”
“Well,” I said, “First let’s get your Jeep out of that garage. Then you can follow me to a safe parking lot and one of us can leave our vehicle there and ride with the other.”
“And where do you suggest we start?” Gloria said.
I pointed down the street in the direction the old woman across the street indicated. “That way,” I said. “Someone saw them walking off in that direction.”
Gloria and I entered the garage again and looked around inside for something we could use to break the lock off the overhead door. There were no tools inside the garage and there were no large rocks outside. Gloria reached into her Jeep, under the driver’s seat and brought out a .38 snub-nose revolver. She went back out the utility door and around to the overhead door. She took careful aim at the hasp and fired. It broke free of the doorframe and she pulled the door open. She noticed me giving her a strange look. “What?” she said.
“Nothing,” I said, as she backed out of the garage. “Follow me.”
I drove east and found a strip mall with quite a few empty parking spaces. Gloria pulled in alongside me and gestured for me to join her. I left my car there and jumped into Gloria’s Jeep. In the back seat, I spotted a suitcase.
“Going on a trip?” I said, pointing to the suitcase.
“No,” she said. “That’s my prop case.”
“Prop case?” I said.
“You know,” Gloria said. “Disguises, makeup, that sort of thing. I never travel without it”
“All right,” I said. “Now what?”
Gloria kept looking straight ahead at the traffic but said, “I thought we’d start just down the block at that music store on the corner,” she said. “You never know. Someone may have tried to pass the fake Gibson off there or they might know of someone who was approached.”
“That's as good a place as any to start,” I said.
Gloria pulled up to the curb in front of the Ace Music Store. In the display windows were several guitars, keyboards and a full set of drums. Hanging alongside these instruments were trumpets, trombones, clarinets and a variety of harmonicas. The bell above the door tinkled as Gloria and I entered. A kid in a Greatful Dead t-shirt approached us warily. He probably didn’t get many customers our age in here. He nodded at us.
“‘Sup?” he said casually
“No thanks,” I said. “I already ate.”
He looked at me as if flowers had grown out of the top of my head.
“I think he’s asking you what is up,” Gloria said by way of translation. She turned to the kid. “Isn’t that what you were saying?”
“Yeah, right,” the kid said. “What can I do for you today?”
Gloria stepped closer to the kid and flashed her eyes at him. “We’re looking for an electric guitar,” she said. “Got anything like that here?”
“You bet,” he said, leading us to a wall with several dozen guitars hanging by their necks. He pointed out a beginner’s guitar in hot pink with a single pickup. “Here ya go. Everything you could want in a guitar for under a hundred dollars.”
Gloria gave the kid a sideways glance. “That’s all right for beginners,” she said. “I’m thinking more along the line of a professional. What do you have in that category?”
I had no idea what to ask or what to look for so I was content letting Gloria handle this interaction.
The kid led us to a back wall with only a dozen or so high-end guitars. He swept his hand toward the display. “Any of these trip your trigger?” he said.
Gloria looked over the selection and shook her head. She turned to the kid. “What I had in mind was a Gibson thin line, maybe a 335, something like that.”
“I don’t have any at the moment,” the kid said. “Sure you wouldn’t like something like this American Standard Stratocaster?”
“Gotta be a 335,” Gloria said. “My guy’s pretty specific with what he wants. Know anyplace I might find one?”
“There’s American Music on Vine near Sunset,” the kid said. “They might have something like that.”
“Thanks,” Gloria said. “I’ll try them.”
We left the store and walked back toward Gloria’s Jeep.
“You picking up any helpful information?” Gloria said.
“I’m learning that I couldn’t afford to support a habit like guitars,” I said. “Too rich for my blood.”
“They can be,” Gloria said. “But it isn’t, if all you want is basic function out of a guitar. You can get a good one for three or four hundred bucks.”
“Then why would someone pay thirty grand for any guitar?” I said.
“Why would anyone pay thousands of dollars for a single bottle of wine?” Gloria said.
“Investment?” I said.
“Same with a good vintage guitar,” Gloria said. “But like in any other area, there are going to be guitar snobs who insist that they can tell the difference between the sound of an ash body guitar versus a basswood body. Most people wouldn’t know the difference and I’ll bet these pretentious chuckleheads could be fooled as well. It all in your perception.”
We drove south to Sunset and then east to Vine and found the American Music store midway down the block. This store was easily three times the size of the one we’d just left. All the instruments in here were tastefully displayed and the salesmen looked more like country club members than has-been hippies. We walked up to one guy who was standing behind a counter, leaning on the glass top.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Chad. May I help you?”
I was immediately impressed that he used ‘may’ and not ‘can’.
Gloria smiled at him and said, “Hi, Chad. I’m Gloria and this is Elliott. We’re looking for an electric guitar.”
“We have many fine instruments,” Chad said. “Is this for you?”
“No,” Gloria explained. “I’m trying to find one for a friend of mine.”
“And what is his skill level?” Chad said. “That is, is he a beginner, intermediate or professional?”
“Quite skilled,” Gloria said. “And he’s very specific in what he’d like.”
“Pardon my asking,” Chad said, “but why doesn’t he shop for his own guitar?”
“I’ve known him for a long time,” Gloria said. “I know what he’d like and what he wants is a Gibson ES-335.”
“I have several,” Chad said. “Won’t you follow me?”
Chad led us to an enclosed room with a large glass window. Inside hung the more expensive models that the average customer wasn’t allowed to touch without assistance from a salesman.
Gloria pointed to a sunburst model and nodded. “What year is that one?” she said.
Chad’s eyebrows went up. “These are all new models,” he said.
“Well,” Gloria said, “I was looking for a ’59. Anything like that here?”
“I’m afraid not,” Chad said. “There’s such a limited market for thirty-thousand dollar guitars.”
“Chad,” Gloria said, pulling Chad aside. “If a person wanted an exact replica of a ’59 Gibson, where would they find one?”
“I’m sorry,” Chad said. “But those aren’t legal in this country. Oh, I know there are some Chinese factories that turn out Gibson copies, complete with the Gibson script logo on the headstock and even a serial number on the back, but we’d never deal in something like that.”
I stepped up to the two of them. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” I said. “Has anyone ever approached this store trying to sell a Chinese copy of the Gibson Gloria described?”
“I would never entertain the idea,” Chad said.
“That’s not what I asked,” I said. “Has anyone ever brought you one of these fakes, looking to sell it?”
Chad looked both ways and then at me. “Police?” he said.
I held up my I.D. “Private,” I said. “We’re trying to track down one of these fakes for our client.”
Chad looked at Gloria, who by now had her own I.D. held up in plain sight. He looked back at me and said, “Well, there was a guy in here not twenty minutes ago. He showed me what he said was a Gibson ES-335 and laid the case open on the counter. Well, I could tell in a minute that it was not real and I told him right out that we don’t deal in this kind of merchandise.”
“Did you happen to get his name?” I said.
“He never told me,” Chad said.
“Is that all he said to you about the guitar?” Gloria said.
“He admitted that it was a fake and asked if I knew of anyone looking for something like the one he had. I told him no and he said he’d pay me a bird dog fee if I could come up with a buyer. He left me a card with his number on it. As soon as he left the store I threw the card away.”
“Is it still in the trash?” Gloria said.
“It should be,” Chad said. “Let me have a look.” Chad stepped behind the counter and picked up the waste can. He reached in and withdrew a small piece of cardstock with a phone number scribbled on it and handed it over to Gloria.
“Thank you so much, Chad,” Gloria said. “You’ve been a big help.”
“You’re very welcome,” Chad said. “I hope you find this guy and get that guitar out of circulation. Those things give everybody a bad name.”
Gloria and I left the store and climbed back into her Jeep. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed the number from the card. She handed it to me. “Just in case he’d recognize my voice,” she said. It rang three times before a man answered.
“Yeah?” the man said.
“I was in American Music a while ago,” I said. “The clerk there told me you have a Gibson for sale. Is that right?”
“Depends,” the man said. “Who wants to know?”
“I do,” I said.
“And who are you?” the man said suspiciously.
“My name’s Elliott Cooper,” I said. “Do you have a guitar for sale or not? If not I’ll have to look somewhere else. If so, let’s talk. I’d like to see the guitar.”
There was a pause on the other end and then he said, “You know where MacArthur Park is?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, I’ll be there in thirty minutes with the guitar,” the man said. “I’ll be on the north end of the park sitting on the bench near Sixth and Alvarado. You can’t miss me. I’ll be the one with the guitar case. This is the only chance you’
ll get to see it, so bring twelve hundred dollars and we can make the exchange. How will I know you?”
“I’ll be wearing a black Santana t-shirt and jeans,” I said.
“If you’re not there in thirty minutes, I’ll leave,” the man said. “If I see you with anyone else, I’ll leave, so don’t try anything funny.”
“Hey,” I said, indignantly, “all I want is a guitar. What’s with all this cloak and dagger?”
“Can’t be too careful,” the man said. “I’ll see you in thirty minutes and bring the cash.”
I started to answer but the phone went dead.
“Looks like we’re all set,” I told Gloria. “He’ll know your Jeep if he’s watching. Better take me back to my car.”
We drove back to the strip mall and I slid out of Gloria’s Jeep. I turned back to her and said, “Better park a couple of blocks away and walk over.”
“You’re not wearing a black Santana t-shirt,” she said.
“Take a look over your shoulder,” I told her.
Gloria turned around and looked into the window of a t-shirt shop and hanging in the front window was a black Santana t-shirt. She turned back to me. “Clever,” she said.
"I noticed it when I left my car here earlier," I said.
"Say, you are observant," Gloria said.
“Find a good vantage point and keep an eye on things,” I told her. “I’m sure his partner won’t be far away.”
Gloria agreed and drove off. I hurried into the store and bought the t-shirt that would identify me to the guy with the guitar. I slid behind the wheel of my car and backed out of my space. MacArthur Park was only twenty minutes from where I was and that gave me some breathing room. I parked along the north edge of the park on Sixth Street and began walking toward Alvarado, turning down the sidewalk when I got to the corner. I’d walked just a few dozen yards when I spotted a man with a guitar case. He was sitting on a bench, the case at his feet. To his left and behind him ten yards, I spotted another man trying too hard to look like he wasn’t watching the first man. I kept walking until I got to the bench.
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 152