“Frank, it’s Steve,” the first voice said. It was Dean, pretending to be someone named Steve. “I just called to see how things went last night.”
“Last night’s hit wasn’t as easy as the rest,” Frank’s voice answered. Old Lester put up a pretty good struggle and I’m not getting any younger, either. 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.”
“Listen, Frank, I have another job for you,” Dean’s voice said. “A special job, you might say. This one’ll put you in the big leagues.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Frank’s voice said.
“Frank, you owe me on this one, after all I’ve done for you,” Dean’s voice said.
“Steve,” Frank’s taped voice 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.”
“You know I wouldn’t, Frank,” Dean’s voice said.
“I wonder,” Frank’s voice said. “Would you tell anyone what you know—where the bodies are buried? Of course you wouldn’t. Well, tonight’s my last hit. 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?”
Dean and I snickered at the imaginary conversation Frank was having with Steve, whoever Steve was supposed to be. I could almost see the expression in Frank’s eyes as he realized when and where his half of the phony conversation had taken place. He quickly stood up and grabbed the boom box. He lifted it overhead and brought it crashing down on the blacktop path that led to the bench. Frank grabbed his dog by the collar and ran his fingers around the inside rim until he found the bug.
Frank held the bug up to his lips and whispered, “Whoever you are, you bastard, you’re dead. You and your whole damn family.” He threw the bug down hard on the path, causing the speaker on our recorder to crackle and go dead.
Frank reached down into the smashed rubble that had once been a boom box and pulled the tape out of the player and slipped it into his coat pocket. He grabbed Steve’s leash and hurried away from the park bench, forgetting all about his tape player. Dean and I watched as Frank headed north along the path. Several yards away a figure stepped out of the brush and into Frank’s path. I could see the stranger extending his hand. Frank reached into his coat pocket and produced the tape and handed to the stranger. The stranger held up a tape of his own and held it side by side in a comparison gesture.
“Here it comes,” Dean said.
He was right. The stranger slipped the two tapes into his own pocket and when he pulled his hand back out, it was holding a small revolver. I heard two weak reports and saw a wisp of smoke. Frank dropped to his knees and the stranger stuck his gun in the back of Frank’s neck. Another small pop and Frank lay flat on his face, a pool of blood forming beneath him. Steve reacted with a start and with his leash dragging behind him, began running full speed away from the noise and commotion.
The stranger threw the revolver on top of Frank’s body and calmly walked away, peeling off a thin pair of gloves. A professional hit if ever I saw one. I focused my glasses on the far side of the park. Three black and whites and a detective’s car merged at the north gate to the park. Another pair of uniformed officers converged from the south and covered the assailant from the rear.
I reached for the car radio to report the situation to the precinct desk when several, louder reports came from the area of the assailant. I lifted my glasses and looked. Aldo Renatti wasn’t about to be taken alive. At least four of the officers’ bullets hit the man. The back of his head exploded in a spray of gray and red as his body fell there in the park, not ten yards from where Frank lay.
I looked at Dean. Neither of us could seem to muster up any sympathy for the stone killers who lay in the park. “Better get back to the precinct,” I said. “I have a feeling this stakeout job is finished. If you would be so kind as to drop me at my office, I’d appreciate it.”
Dean smiled. “Boy, the things I have to tell Bob when I get home,” he said, smiling.
57 - Trapped Like A Rat
I grabbed the remote from the table next to my recliner and flipped through the stations looking for something suitable for a relaxing Sunday evening at home. The channel guide informed me that a special presentation of Ragtime was coming up at seven. Cagney was one of my favorite actors and I didn’t want to miss this, his last movie. It was quarter to seven and I began to set up my snack table in anticipation of a two and a half hour classic movie. I had my twenty-ounce tumbler of ice, three cans of soda, my family-size bag of chips and my can of chip dip. If I played my cards right, I wouldn’t have to leave this chair again until nine thirty.
I pulled the chip bag open as I settled back into the comfortable folds of the leather recliner. I pried the lid off of my chip dip can and looked inside. It was almost empty. I hurried upstairs and pulled the refrigerator door open. I was out. Damn. If I could make it to the corner and back before seven, I’d be all right.
I pulled my jacket off the coat hook and headed for the garage door. The mini mart down the street was not open past six on Sunday and getting to the next closest place that sold chip dip meant a two-mile drive on the road that led to the county highway. It only took four or five minutes to get there, maybe another two or three minutes to get what I needed, check it out and another four or five minutes back home again. If all went smoothly, I could make it back for the opening credits of the movie. This ought to teach me to keep an extra can of dip in the Cooper household.
There were three other cars in the mini mart parking lot besides mine. I recognized the blue Chevy pickup as Betty Carter’s. It served as the delivery truck for Carter’s mini mart when the occasion called for it. The brown Oldsmobile Cutlass belonged to Carl Kline. Carl ran a hobby farm just on the outskirts of town. His family had been farming the area since the 1860s. I didn’t recognize the third car. It was a 1968 Impala with some sort of chrome scoop sticking out of the hood. I only knew it was a ‘68 because of the three round taillights imbedded in the bumper.
Once inside I quickly found the chip and dip aisle. I glanced at the wall clock above the register. I could still make it with a minute to spare. I laid the can of dip on the counter and reached for my wallet. Now if I could just get a clerk to check me out I’d be all set but there was no one around.
“Hello,” I said, drawing out the word. No one answered. “Is there anyone here?”
The office door opened and Betty stepped out and cautiously made her way to the counter. She automatically scanned the can of dip and announced, “That’s a dollar fifty-six, sir.”
I pulled two dollars out of my wallet, held it out but drew it back as she reached for it. “Sir?” I said. “It’s me, your old pal, Clay. Since when am I ‘sir’ around here?”
Betty’s eyes met mine and the twinkle that was usually there had been replaced with something else—something I didn’t recognize. Her eyes quickly shifted to the right and then back at me. She repeated this strange action several times. Then she tore the cash register receipt off and laid it down on the counter and wrote something on it and then laid it in front of me. She picked up a pen and handed it to me.
“If you will just sign here,” she said.
“Sign here?” I said. “Betty, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
She thrust the pen at me again. “Sign here, please,” she said, more adamantly this time.
I reluctantly took the pen from her and poised my hand above the receipt, ready to sign if for no other reason than to get on with this whole transaction and get back home for my movie. I looked at the receipt. She’d hastily scribbled, HELP on it. I looked back up at h
er as her eyes went into that shifting routine again.
I looked to my left, where here eyes seemed to be directing me. I was looking into the barrel of an automatic pistol.
“I think what the lady is trying to tell you is that there’s someone here holding up the place.” He turned to Betty. “Isn’t that what you were trying to say?”
Before Betty could deny anything he swung the automatic up in a short arc and caught her across the face, knocking her to the floor. He quickly pointed the gun in my face again before I had a chance to react. I wasn’t wearing my .38 tonight. I didn’t think I needed it to buy chip dip.
“Pick her up, pops,” he said, pointing toward the woman on the floor. “Bring her back here.”
I helped Betty to her feet and helped her back into her office. The gunman closed the door behind us. Lying on the floor next to Betty’s desk was Carl Kline, bound at the hands and feet and gagged with a towel. Betty began to sob.
The gunman looked me in the eye and said, “Sit down and shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
I sat on the chair at Betty’s desk, keeping an eye on my captor.
He turned his attention to Betty again. “Now open it.” He pointed to the wall safe that was exposed now.
Betty hadn’t reacted fast enough to suit the man and he grabbed her by one arm, pulling her toward the safe. He repeated his orders. “Open it.”
Betty’s hand shook as she turned the dial this way and that. The handle wouldn’t budge. She looked at the gunman and winced. He pushed her out of the way. “I’ll do it,” he said gruffly. “You just feed me the numbers.”
I could see Betty straining to remember three numbers. Her bottom lip quivered. “Seventeen right,” she said shakily. She waited as the gunman turned the dial and stopped. “Thirty-one left.” Again he turned the dial and waited. “Nine right,” Betty said.
The man turned the dial to the right again and stopped on nine. He pulled the handle down and it clicked into place. The door swung open exposing a dark hole in the wall. The gunman reached inside with his left hand, his right still clinging to the gun. In an instant there was a loud snapping sound followed by a series of cracking sounds. All this was followed by the yelp of the gunman as he dropped his automatic and withdrew his left hand from the safe.
I scooped up the gun and aimed it at the gunman, who was trying in vane to remove the large rat trap from his left hand. It’s a pretty hard task to set that trap using two good hands. Trying to release the spring with only one good hand was nearly impossible.
Tears ran down the man’s face as he held his trapped hand out toward Betty. “Get this thing off me.”
Betty stared at the man and then down at his hand. She took hold of the trap with her left hand and pulled the spring back a little way and then released it again before he’d had a chance to pull his hand free. The gunman yelped even louder this time.
I went nose to nose with the gunman. “I think what the lady is trying to tell you is that there’s someone here holding up the place.” He turned to Betty. “Isn’t that what you were trying to say?”
Betty rubbed her jaw where the gunman had hit her. Suddenly she smiled. “That’s kinda what I was saying.” She picked up a long, heavy pair of scissors from her desk and rapped the man on his sore hand. The trap was still attached and the man’s fingers were starting to turn blue. “That’s what I was really trying to say.”
I held the gun on the would-be robber while Betty untied Carl and helped him to his feet. Carl had a bruise on his forehead but aside from that it looked as thought he’d be all right. Carl rubbed his head and then his wrists. He flexed his jaw a couple of time and stretched.
“You all right, Carl?” Betty said, her hand on his shoulder.
“A little stiff,” Carl said. “But I’ll be fine.” He looked at me and then gestured toward the gunman. “What are you going to do with him, Clay?”
Betty reached for the phone and dialed. “Dean Hollister can be here in the squad car in just a few minutes. He’ll take this vermin to jail.”
I handed the gun to Carl. “Watch him,” I said, and reached to remove the rat trap from his hand.
As soon as the trap was removed, the man whimpered and stuck all four finger of his left hand in his mouth and sucked. He was still whimpering and sucking when Lieutenant Dean Hollister arrived with a backup unit right behind him. Dean found the three of us in Betty’s office along with the gunman. Carl handed the gunman’s automatic to Hollister’s deputy, who tucked it into his belt.
Dean pulled his handcuffs off his belt and clicked one end onto the gunman’s right hand. The gunman’s left hand was still in his mouth. Dean pulled the hand out of the guy’s mouth, spun him around and slapped the other end of the cuff on behind him. The would-be robber was still crying.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, boy,” Dean said.
“Not to mention a world of pain,” I said, pointing to the gunman’s throbbing left hand.
“And that ain’t the least of his problems,” Betty said.
“How’s that?” Dean said.
Betty looked at the gunman but was still talking to Dean. “I was trying to save a little money when I had the safe installed,” she explained. “I checked on the price of a commercial wall safe and they wanted thirty-five hundred dollars. Carl here was good enough to build me one for less than two hundred. Only problem was that it wasn’t lined with steel all around. I had to make do with wood for the back part.”
“So?” Dean said.
“So it wasn’t rat proof,” Betty said. “Those little critters kept getting in somehow and were chewing on my money. I had to do something, didn’t I?”
“That’s why the trap?” I said. “But I’m sure before this scum bucket gets to trial his fingers will be healed again.”
Betty laughed. “That’s if he gets to trial,” she said.
“What do you mean, if,” Dean said, a puzzled look playing on his face.
“I wasn’t sure just a trap would do it,” Betty explained, “So I also sprinkled some powdered sugar in there—powdered sugar laced with arsenic. You buddy here just laid his hand right in it. Of course, you probably won’t find any of it on him anymore. He kinda sucked it all off a minute ago.”
The gunman began to shake and before too long was writhing on the floor in convulsions.
Dean’s deputy hauled the gunman away while Dean took our statements. By the time I looked up at the wall clock again it was half past eight.
“Well, there goes my evening,” I said. “I was all set to settle down tonight and watch Jimmy Cagney in Ragtime. It was his last picture, you know.”
“I know,” Betty said. She walked over to her video rack and plucked a box off the shelf. She handed it to me. “With my compliments.”
It was the Ragtime video.
“And Clay, just make sure you rewind before you return it,” Betty said. “Otherwise it’s an extra fifty cents.”
I kissed her on the forehead and left. I still had time to watch the whole thing before bedtime.
58 - Pay Dirt
I sat across the table from my partner, Gloria Campbell, who was reading the menu. “What are you having?” I said.
“I’d like to be having breakfast at Judy’s Restaurant for a change,” Gloria said. “We always come here, Elliott. I’m ready for a change.”
“You know why we’re here today,” I said. “Today’s our lucky day.”
Gloria studied the choices again before setting the menu down on top of mine. I’d long since made my choice. “Well,” I said, “Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess? What are you having?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said smugly as if she was holding something over me.
I looked out the window and made an offhand remark about a car parked across the street. Then I turned back to Gloria and said, “Where do you want to go after this?”
“You snot,” she said in that irritated voice. “You’re not going to
ask, are you?”
“Ask what?” I said.
“What I’m having for breakfast,” Gloria said, obviously annoyed.
I smiled slyly. “Hey, I figured if you wanted me to know you’d have told me,” I said.
“Eggs and toast with the potatoes,” Gloria said, as if to bring closure to the subject.
I leaned to one side and extracted my wallet from my hip pocket. I pried it open and pulled out the two cards with the twelve holes punched around their perimeters. I held them up in front of Gloria’s face. “Today’s the day,” I announced proudly. “Free breakfast for both of us.”
The waitress hovered over our table, pad and pen poised. “Have you decided what you want?”
“I’ll have…” Gloria started to say.
I interrupted her in mid-sentence and turned to the waitress and said, “Could you give us a minute yet?”
The waitress returned to the kitchen and Gloria slipped into her puzzled look. “I thought we were ready,” she said. “Did you change your mind?”
I held the punched cards up again. “Free,” I said. “Today’s the day we collect the free breakfast. Remember?”
“So?” Gloria said. “What’s that got to do with my order?”
“Look,” I said, “We’ve been coming here every Saturday morning for the past three months and we’ve been ordering the same thing each time. When we pay at the counter they punch our cards. Pay for twelve and get meal number thirteen for free, remember? It’s like a frequent flier card, only in our case we’re frequent eaters. But you always get the two eggs over easy with toast and potatoes and I always get the three French toast.”
“So what,” Gloria said. “I like it. You like it. So why switch now?”
“Don’t you see?” I said. “Your regular breakfast always costs $2.29 and mine always comes to $2.10. That’s less than four and a half bucks. Well, today breakfast is on them, so why not go with the most expensive thing on the menu?”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 175