The knuckles on my hands were polished bone now. “Flare out,” I heard myself say and pulled back on the yoke. The rear wheels made contact with the asphalt. I pulled back all the way on the throttle and the engine whir became low and throaty. The nose wheel eased itself down onto the runway and I stepped hard on the nose wheel brakes. The end of the runway was still a quarter mile away but closing fast. The air speed indicator still showed fifty and dropping. I could see the end of the runway just ahead of me.
The speed gauge read twenty now. I stepped down hard on the brake pedals and the nose shimmied and jumped as the plane slowed to a stop. I cut the engines and the plane sat there, silent. I released my grip on the yoke and let the air out of my lungs that I hadn’t even realized I was holding. The color came back into my hands and I shook them at my sides.
I could hear a roar, albeit a sever-person roar, from the cabin. Gloria rushed into the cockpit and threw her arms around my neck. Debbie gave me a brief glance and a subtle smile. Out the cockpit window I could see dozens of people running toward the plane. From behind I heard the wail of the emergency vehicle sirens and watched as several red trucks surrounded the plane.
Debbie pulled the hatch handle and opened the cockpit door. Outside several men had shoved a rolling ladder up to the door. Gloria and I waited until the other passengers had exited down the stairway before we emerged. At the bottom of the stairs flashbulbs were going off everywhere. Reporters, news crews and cameramen were everywhere. We descended to the runway and had several microphones shoved into our faces. Everybody was trying to talk all at once.
Security people whisked us away to the terminal with the media close on our heels. They steered us into a large room just off the main concourse. Gloria and I were instructed to sit at a long table filled with tabletop microphones. The reporters from outside soon filled the room, joining the ones already there to cover the air show that was still going on outside.
Like a swarm of locusts, everyone started talking at once again. I looked left and right and straight ahead, not sure who to answer. A man in a three-piece pinstriped suit stood up in front of the table and waved his hands over his head. Silence fell over the crowd. He pointed to a woman with a microphone. She stepped forward with her equipment.
“What’s your name and how did you manage to land the plane?” she asked, trying to overstep her boundaries of one question. The undertone in the crowd increased and the pinstriped man stepped in again to silence them. He turned back to me, waiting for my answer.
“Well, uh,” I said. “My name’s Elliott Cooper and this is my business partner, Gloria Campbell.” I put my arm around Gloria’s shoulder.
The newswoman repeated the second part of her question. “Mr. Cooper, how did you manage to land the plane by yourself?”
“I’ve had some experience flying all kinds of planes,” I said. “Small ones, two-seaters, ultra-lights, P-51s, Sopwith Camels and even planes like the one we arrived in.”
Gloria looked at me in amazement and disbelief. “When… How?” she said. She couldn’t find the right words to finish her thoughts.
A third newsman stepped forward. “Did you get your training in the service, Mr. Cooper?” she said into his microphone. “Perhaps in the Gulf War. Are you a commercial pilot?” He turned his microphone toward me now.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began. “Just let me say this. I don’t even have a pilot’s license.” The crowd erupted in spontaneous conversation. Pencils scribbled busily on notepads. “My partner here has always accused me of spending far too much time on my personal computer at the office,” I continued. “Maybe now she will understand just how much my computer meant to me—and to us.”
Another newsman stepped forward and said, “Can you explain that for our viewers, Mr. Cooper?” he shouted, shoving his microphone at me. He pointed to the television camera to his left.
“You see,” I said. “I concede that maybe I do spend a little too much time playing with, or should I say, getting to know my computer. So what. It’s something I really enjoy.”
Pinstripe turned to me. “That doesn’t explain your experience and your ability to land a plane like this one unassisted, does it, Mr. Cooper?”
“I’ve never flown a real plane,” I said. “I got all the experience I needed without ever leaving my office—on my personal computer. My favorite program, gentlemen, is my virtual flight simulator.”
I turned to Gloria and smiled. “Care to add anything?”
56 - If Dogs Could Talk
I looked through the binoculars, squinted and rolled my fingers across the focus knob until my subject came in clear. I panned back and forth, checking the paths that led past the park bench where my prey sat. The man on the bench was alone, except for his dog and a small boom box. He was leaning forward, petting the head of a large dog that sat at his feet. There wasn’t another person within a hundred yards of my subject, yet his mouth was moving as if engaged in conversation. Maybe that’s what became of men who killed other men for a living. They had no one to talk to and no one to share the day’s events with and eventually ended up talking to their dogs.
I handed the glasses to my friend, Lieutenant Dean Hollister, who promptly cranked down his window and zeroed in on the park bench. He lowered the glasses.
“The son-of-a-bitch is just sitting there,” Dean said, “Without a care in the world. Man, that’s cold.”
I sipped from my cardboard coffee cup and looked over at Dean. “Well,” I said, “When you’ve been in the business as long as Frank has, you learn to tune out the rest of the world along with your own emotions. Hell, I’ve heard tales where he slit a man’s throat before breakfast and then chowed down like it was his last meal.”
“So tell me once more,” Dean said, “Why is it this guy hasn’t fried in the chair yet?” Dean aimed the glasses at Frank once more.
“A little technicality called witnesses,” I said. “Without witnesses we can’t make a case. Witnesses, if you recall, are the one thing this guy is good at eliminating. Remember that old landlady on Highland? What was her name? Polly, Molly something-or-other?
“Sally,” Dean said, surprised that he’d remembered. “Sally Randolph. Yeah, kinda hard to testify with your tongue cut off and shoved down your throat.”
The cars sped by on South Alvarado Street as we sat there, waiting for our surveillance duties to be taken over by a relief duo from the twelfth precinct. Dean handed the glasses back to me and grabbed his own coffee cup from the cup holder protruding from the dash of his unmarked squad car. I found Frank Ross again in my field of vision. He was still sitting alone, petting his dog and talking to it. The dog seemed to enjoy the one-sided conversation and Frank seemed to have plenty to say. Then, as if on cue, he picked up the boom box and slipped a tape into the tape player part of it. His face went soft when the music started. At least I assumed it was music. I couldn’t hear it from where we sat watching. Another few minutes in total relaxation and Frank stood up, untied the dog’s lease from the bench and walked away with his dog and his boom box.
I laid the glasses on the seat next to me and started the engine. “Let’s roll,” I said.
The coffee in Dean’s cup sloshed up over the side as I left the curb. “Take it easy, will ya, Clay?” Dean said, wiping the coffee off his lap.
I turned the corner at West Sixth Street and slowed to fifteen miles per hour, waiting for Frank to emerge from the north end of MacArthur Park. Through the bushes I could make out the shape of a large dog being followed by a man. The dog stopped at the curb, as if trained to do just that, and waited. When the light turned green, he proceeded, dragging his master behind him. Frank walked another two blocks east before turning in to his own apartment building.
“Well,” I said, turning to Dean, “There’s another day shot watching our boy go about his business. He didn’t meet anyone, didn’t call anyone and didn’t stop anywhere except the park bench. We still have nothing.”
Dean exte
nded his arm out the car window and dumped what was left of his coffee in the street. He turned back to me and said, “Thanks for helping out on this stakeout, Clay. I’m sure you must have had better things to do with your time.”
I waved him off. “Nothing that Elliott and Gloria can’t handle until this is over,” I said. “Besides, lately when I’m around them I feel like a fifth wheel.”
“What’s this?” Dean said. “You think there’s something going on between those two?”
“Well,” I said, “They’ve been working together a lot lately. It’s bound to be just a matter of time before some sparks fly. I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Wouldn’t that be something if they ended up getting involved?” Dean said. “Or married.”
“Elliott?” I said. “I don’t see it happening. He’s too independent. He’d never let himself be trapped by any female.”
“Don’t be so sure, Dad,” Dean said. “Your boy’s a red-blooded American male and Gloria’s pretty easy on the eyes. I’m just saying.”
I dismissed Dean comments and sighed a loud and heavy sigh.
“I have an idea,” Dean said. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but we’ve tried everything else.”
“I’m game,” I said, eager for more details.
“It’s a little strange,” Dean said, smirking.
“Strange is good,” I said. “I like strange.”
“Well,” Dean started, “You know Frank’s too smart for traditional surveillance methods so we’ll have to stay one jump ahead of him.” He paused for effect.
“Come on,” I said impatiently, “Give.”
Dean laid out his plan for me in great detail, describing his procedures and ideas, leaving out a few key details.
I listened intently and jotted a few notes on my pad before returning it to my lapel pocket. “What about the legalities?” I said.
“That’s why you’ll have to do this with me,” Dean said. “It just wouldn’t do for one of L.A. finest to get caught breaking the law, now would it? That’s why you’re coming along to stand watch for me.”
“But it’s okay for me to break the law?” I said. “What happens if I get caught?”
“Don’t worry,” Dean said. “I’ve got your back. This’ll work. Besides, we’ve got nothing to lose. We’ve tried everything else.”
“You mean you’ve got nothing to lose,” I said. “You just make sure to tell your men not to put the pinch on me if it comes to that.”
“I said I’d be there with you,” Dean reminded me.
The next afternoon at precisely four-fifteen, Frank Ross and his dog appeared in the park. He sat at the same bench with his dog’s leash tied to the leg of the bench. I watched with the binoculars for a few minutes while Dean twisted the dial on a small portable radio on his lap. Next to the radio Dean had a tape recorder rolling. Soon we could hear a voice coming through the speaker.
“Ya know, Steve,” the voice said, “I’m gonna have to get out of this business one of these days soon.”
The dog sat at Frank’s feet. I could see its tail wag as Frank talked. He petted the dog’s head and continued.
“Last night’s hit wasn’t as easy as the rest,” Frank said to his dog. “Old Lester put up a pretty good struggle and I’m not getting any younger, either.” He continued stroking the dog’s head. “If it wasn’t for the money and the short hours and the chance to be my own boss, hell, I’d get out of the killing business and raise horses on a farm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The dog stood up and wiggled his whole body as if you say, “Yeah, yeah, take me along.”
Frank raised a flat hand overhead and the dog resumed his sitting position. We listened to Frank’s voice coming through the speaker again.
“Steve,” he said, “You’ve been a real help to me all these years. I can’t talk to anyone else about my work. Not even a shrink or a minister. They’d never understand. You’re a good listener and you never talk back. Best of all you’ll never tell anyone what we talk about. Boy, if you could talk…I wonder. Would you tell anyone what you know—where the bodies are buried? Of course you wouldn’t.”
Frank rested his elbows on his knees and sighed. “Well, boy, tonight’s my last hit. After this one we can leave this city and settle on that farm I showed you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The dog’s tail slapped the grass.
“Just one last hit, boy, and we’re home free,” Frank told his dog. “Too bad it has to be the old man. He’s given me lots of work over the years, but if we’re going to make a break, I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for a guy like Aldo Renatti to be coming after me. You understand, don’t you, Steve?”
The dog stood and edged closer to Frank.
“I knew you would,” Frank said, petting the dog’s head.
Frank leaned back, slipped a tape out of his pocket and inserted it into the player. Through our speaker came the distinct sounds of Mozart, although Mozart had never intended his music to be listed to through a two-inch speaker.
Frank petted the animal’s head again and sat back, letting out an audible sigh that even the little microphone under the dog’s collar picked up.
I turned to Dean. “That was a stroke of genius,” I said. “We’ve tried bugs in his car and apartment but he’s always found them. This is perfect. What made you think of it?”
Dean beamed with pride. “Bob,” he said.
“Bob?” I said.
“My dog,” Dean said. “I tell Bob everything when I get home. Since Helen die, Bob’s been my best friend.” He looked over at me and smiled suddenly. “That is, next to you.”
I nodded acknowledgment. “But Steve?” I said. “Whatever happened to Rover, Duke, and Shep?”
“Get with the times, man,” Dean said. “Dogs are more like a part of the family these days and it’s the latest thing to give your dog a human’s name. Bob was my grandfather’s name although no one ever took him for a walk on a leash.”
“Great,” I said. “That ought to make for a lot of confusion when mothers in the park start yelling for their rug rats and a pack of dogs show up. But what made you think Frank would open up to Steve?”
“I figured that since I tell Bob everything, why wouldn’t Frank do the same with Steve?” Dean said, smiling at the thought of his own dog.
I talked as I watched Frank through the field glasses. “And how’d you get the bug under the dog’s collar without Frank finding out?”
“Easy,” Dean said. “Last night while he was out bumping off some other schmuck, or whatever it was he was doing, I slipped into his apartment. I’d been there so many times before with our other attempts to bug him that I knew the way. Hell, the dog even knows me by now and he sat there like a good puppy while I planted the bug. I was in and out in five minutes. And by the way, thanks for standing guard for me.”
“That’s where you were while I was standing out on the street corner?” I said.
“I didn’t want to tell you that that was Frank’s building,” Dean said. “That way, if you would have been picked up, you couldn’t tell the authorities what you didn’t know. See?”
After fifteen minutes of cleansing his soul with the dog and the canned music, Frank rose and led the dog from the park back to his apartment again. Dean and I headed back to Dean’s house with the tapes. He led me to his spare bedroom, which had been set up like some sort of high-tech laboratory. He threaded the tape into the large machine and turned it on. I watch as he worked his magic. The tape started and Frank’s voice boomed.
“Ya know, Steve,” the voice said, “I’m gonna have to get out of this business one of these days soon.”
Dean rewound the tape and cued it up before grabbing a microphone from his desk. An hour and a half later we left his guestroom with tapes in hand. I slapped Dean on the back and laughed. “This ought to do it,” I said. “If not, well, hell, it was still a lot of fun.”
“Shall we find out?” Dean said.
I ext
ended my arm and bent at the waste. “After you, sir.” I said. Dean and I left his house and returned to the car. One of the newly edited tapes was wrapped in plain brown wrapping paper and addressed, stamped and dropped into the corner mailbox. The other was unwrapped but had only a white label that said, “Frank Ross” on it. That one stayed in Dean’s pocket.
Three days later at exactly three fifty-five I was parked in the same spot where we first started observing Frank Ross’s routine. Through the glasses I could see Dean approaching the bench. He laid the tape on the bench and casually strolled away. He was back in the car within five minutes.
“Has our boy showed up yet?” he asked.
I rolled the focus dial on the binoculars again and panned left and right, finally stopping on the bench. “There he is” I said. “Just like clockwork.”
Dean pressed the start button on our recorder and picked up his own pair of glasses. “He’s sitting down,” Dean said. “He’s got the dog tied to the bench. He’s setting the boom box…”
“I can see what he’s doing,” I said. “I don’t need a play-by-play account.”
Dean lowered his glasses and gave me a stare.
“Sorry,” I said. “Take a look at that.” We both aimed our glasses at the bench. Frank set his boom box down on the bench and noticed the tape with the plain white label with Franks’ name on it that Dean had left there. Frank cautiously picked up the tape and immediately looked both ways down the paths that led to the bench. He turned around on the bench and looked behind him and then back at the tape.
I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.
Frank looked around once more to be sure he was alone before slipping the tape into his player. In a few seconds we could hear what Frank was hearing. The voices sounded as though they were coming through a telephone.
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 174