The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  As much as it went against all logic and reason, I was interested. Our age difference didn’t seem like an issue now, I thought. But would it be an issue in thirteen years, when I was seventy-five and Gloria was forty-three? I couldn’t worry about that now. Who knew if I’d even live that long? No, I had to worry about the here and now and nothing else. I had to concern myself only with whatever it was that made me happy.

  I dialed Elliott’s cell number and waited. He picked up on the third ring.

  “Dad,” Elliott said. “I called half an hour ago. What have you been doing all this while?”

  “We can talk about that later,” I said. “What did you find out from Mrs. Polton?”

  “She was home,” Elliott said. “But she didn’t seem all that upset about her husband’s death. It was really strange, I mean the way she acted toward me and all. It was almost like she expected to hear from me, or someone else. Anyway, she gave me the name of a guy that knew her husband from San Quentin. I thought I’d drop by and pay him a visit and I figured you might want to come along.”

  “Give me the address,” I said. “I’ll meet you somewhere near there. Just don’t go in alone.” Elliott gave me the man’s address and I thought for a moment before adding, “That’s just two blocks from the drug store on the corner of Western Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard. I can meet you there in twenty minutes. Now you be sure and wait at the drug store until I get there, do you understand?”

  “Sure, Dad,” Elliott said. “I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t dawdle.”

  I hung up the phone and hurried back down to my car and drove east on Hollywood Boulevard, turning south on Western Avenue. Ten minutes later I found a parking spot near Santa Monica and hurried into the drug store. I found Elliott sitting in a booth, sipping from a glass of soda. I slid into the booth, across from him.

  “So what’s the name of this guy we’re going to see?” I said.

  Elliott pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to me.

  “Lester Bellamy,” I said. I checked the address the woman had written down for Elliott and handed him back the note. “You ready?” I said.

  Elliott nodded and sipped the last of his soda.

  “You don’t know if he’s home, though, do you?” I said.

  “Polton’s wife seemed to think so,” Elliott said. “I have no idea how she’d know that and I didn’t want to ask. But there’s one way to find out for ourselves.”

  We both slid out of the booth and got into my car, which was parked closer to the drug store. I tooled my Olds two blocks toward Lester Bellamy’s house. Elliott checked his note for the address one more time.

  “This must be it,” Elliott said, gesturing with the note toward a faded brown house with an overgrown lawn. The house could have used a couple of coats of paint and a new window screen or three.

  Elliott and I stepped up onto Bellamy’s porch and rang the bell. I couldn’t hear any chimes or buzzers inside so I knocked on the frame of the screen door. It was still silent inside as we waited for someone to appear. After a minute and a half, we turned and walked back to my car.

  “We’ll have to try him again later,” I said.

  Elliott glanced out his window just then and noticed someone slinking across the back yard of the house we’d just come from. He gestured with his chin. “Someone’s back there,” he said. “Let’s go have a look.”

  We walked around the side of the Bellamy house toward the back yard. A man was walking toward the alley that ran behind the house. When he turned and saw us, he began running. We ran after him but he was quicker. The gap between us was widening.

  “I’ll go back and try to cut him off with the car,” I told Elliott. “Try to stay with him.”

  “Right,” Elliott said, as I ran back to my Olds. I pulled around the block and stopped at the alley entrance just as the man ran past me, across the street and down the alley in the next block. A few seconds later Elliott followed in hot pursuit.

  I drove around the next block and up the alley, cutting off the man’s exit. He reached into his coat and pulled out a revolver and fired once at me. The bullet hit my windshield and made a perfectly round hole just below my rear view mirror. The glass around it cracked into a star pattern. The man cut through the nearest yard between two houses. Elliott followed, his own .38 now drawn.

  I backed out of the alley and drove around to the front of the two houses he’d run between. I pulled up to the curb and got out, drawing my .38 as I slammed my car door. The man came out from between the houses and saw my car. He fired toward me again, hitting my passenger side front window. It shattered as the bullet passed through it and on through my driver’s side window as well.

  I peeked around the front end of my Olds and saw Elliott coming out from between the houses. The man who’d shot at me stopped and aimed his gun toward Elliott. I quickly stood up, took aim and hit the man in the side of his thigh. He went down firing, but missed Elliott by yards. He’d dropped his gun when he grabbed at the bullet wound in his leg. Elliott snapped the man’s gun up and held his on the wounded man until I could get over there myself.

  I held my gun on the man who now lay on the ground bleeding. He held his free hand up in front of his face.

  “Don’t shoot,” he yelled. “Please, don’t shoot.”

  “You got him?” Elliott said.

  I nodded and Elliott reached for his cell phone and called Dean Hollister at the twelfth precinct. “Dean,” Elliott said, “Would you come over and pick up a shooting victim and a shooter?”

  “Two people?” Dean said.

  “Just one,” Elliott told him. “They’re one and the same person.” He gave Dean the address of the house in whose yard the shooter lay. “Better send an ambulance, too.” He snapped his phone closed and dropped it back into his pocket. Elliott drew his .38 and trained it on the fallen man and then nodded at me.

  I bent over and rummaged through the man’s pockets, pulling out his wallet. I dropped it into my pocket and felt the rest of his body. I stopped when I got to his ankle and found a snub-nosed .32 in an ankle holster. I pulled it out and dropped that into my jacket pocket and finished my frisk.

  “That’s all he has,” I told Elliott and then turned my attention to the man at my feet. “Why the hell were you shooting at us?” I demanded.

  The man just scowled but said nothing. I pulled his wallet from my pocket and flipped it open to his driver’s license. “Lester Bellamy,” I read. “Well, Lester, it looks like you’ll be spending some time at San Quentin after this little episode. All we wanted to do was talk to you, but you had to go and turn it into a felony. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “You mean no one sent you?” he said.

  “And just who would that be?” Elliott said.

  Bellamy looked up at him. “Nobody,” he said defiantly. “Forget it.”

  “You’ll talk sooner or later,” I told Bellamy. “You could save yourself a lot of grief and talk now.”

  “Go to hell,” Bellamy said and then lay flat on his back.

  His face was turning white and his words were beginning to slur. Blood ran out between his fingers and onto the lawn.

  “I must have hit an artery,” I told Elliott. “Let me have your tie. We have to get a tourniquet on that leg before he bleeds to death.”

  “Why don’t you use your tie?” Elliott complained. “I just got this one. That old thing you’re wearing is about ready for the Goodwill drop box anyway.”

  “Elliott,” I repeated. “Your tie.”

  Bellamy opened his eyes and shifted his gaze between Elliott and me. “For Christ sakes,” he said. “One of you needs to tie this off or I’ll bleed to death.”

  “He’s got a point,” I said to Elliott, but still didn’t reach for my tie.

  “I think you’re right,” Elliott said. “From what I’ve heard, you can bleed out in just a few minutes. Now if Lester here was willing to talk and tell us why he was shooting at us, wel
l, then that would put a whole new spin on things. I don’t suppose I’d mind messing up my tie then.”

  “All right,” Bellamy cried, trying to raise his head to look at us. “I’ll tell you, just tie off this leg and I’ll tell you all you want to know.”

  Elliott holstered his .38 and removed his tie. He began to kneel at Bellamy’s side when Bellamy’s head dropped back down to the grass and he had stopped breathing. A few blocks away I could hear the sirens of what were probably the ambulance and Dean’s cruiser.

  The owner of the house we were standing in front of poked his head out of his front door. “What’s going on out here?” he demanded. “I’m calling the police.”

  I hiked a thumb over my shoulder toward the sound of the sirens. “We already did,” I told him. “Better go back inside.”

  The front door closed again just as Dean pulled up to the curb, followed closely by an ambulance. A few other front doors in this otherwise quiet neighborhood began to open and people peeked out to see what was going on. Some were even brave enough to wander over to where we were standing over Bellamy’s body.

  Dean looked up at the neighbors, held his shield in plain sight and announced, “Please, everybody just return to your homes. We have this situation under control. Thank you.” He turned to me and asked, “What happened here, Clay?”

  “Elliott paid a visit to your last victim’s wife and she gave him the name and address of this guy here,” I said, point to Bellamy. “No one answered his door when we knocked and we were just about to leave when we saw him sneaking out the back door. We followed him; he ran and then he started shooting at Elliott. We never did find out why.” I pointed with my chin toward my car. “He took a couple of shots at me and I returned fire. I hit him in the leg and I must have hit an artery. He dropped his gun, we recovered it and he flopped over, dead. That’s about all there is to it.”

  “And he never said why he was shooting at you,” Dean said.

  “No,” Elliott said. “He just said that he thought someone had sent us to take care of him. He wouldn’t tell us who he thought it might be and a minute later he was dead. Just like that.”

  “You know, you could have attached a tourniquet above his wound,” Dean said.

  Elliott held his tie out toward Dean. “I was just about to do that when he dropped his head and died,” Elliott said. “I guess I didn’t get to him fast enough.”

  Dean nodded to the ambulance attendants and they lifted Bellamy’s body onto a stretcher and loaded him into the back of the wagon. “Take him to the morgue,” Dean told the driver. “Tell Andy I’ll be in to see him as soon as I get back.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said and then slid behind the wheel of the ambulance and pulled away from the curb with his red lights off and his siren now silent.

  The officer who’d driven Dean to this scene stepped up to where we were talking. “Excuse me, sir,” the officer said. “Captain Burke is calling on the radio for you.”

  Dean turned to me. “Wait right here,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  A minute later Dean returned. He held his hand out, palm up and I handed him my .38. It was simple procedure and I had expected it.

  “I’ll get it back to you when ballistics is finished with it,” Dean said.

  I reached into my pocket and produced Bellamy’s .32 and handed it to Dean. “He had this strapped to his ankle,” I said, and then reached into my other pocket and pulled out Bellamy’s wallet. “Might as well take this, too.”

  Elliott handed Bellamy’s other gun to Dean. “And this is the one he shot at us with while we were chasing him.”

  Dean dropped that gun into his pocket and carried the wallet and two guns back to his cruiser. “Follow me down to the precinct, will you Clay?” Dean said. “We’re going to need to document this whole mess.”

  “I’ll just need to drop Elliott at his car,” I told Dean. “Then we’ll both meet you there, all right?”

  Dean nodded and drove away. I drove Elliott back to where he’d parked his car and then drove on to meet with Dean. Elliott followed close behind me.

  By the time Dean had what he wanted from Elliott and me, it was already past seven-thirty. I was getting impatient and wanted to wrap this up and get moving. I looked at the clock above Dean’s office door and then down at my watch.

  “Is this going to take much longer?” I said.

  “Why, have you got someplace else you need to be?” Dean said.

  Elliott stepped in with a smirk. “I think what Dad is trying to say is that he has a date and he’s already late. Isn’t that right, Dad?”

  Dean gave me a similar look. “Is that right, Clay,” he said. “Do you have a date?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I have a date. Are you both happy now?”

  “Anyone I might know?” Dean asked. He waited patiently for my answer.

  “Can I get going?” I said.

  “Elliott,” Dean said. “Can you stick around to answer a few more questions so I can let your dad get on with his love life?”

  Elliott nodded. “Sure,” he said, and then turned to me. “Go on, Dad. She’s waiting for you.” He and Dean both had a little laugh at my expense.

  I tried to ignore them and just got out of my chair and headed for Dean’s door.

  “Give her a hug for me,” Dean said.

  I closed his door and hurried out to my car. I slid behind the wheel of my Olds and flipped open my cell phone. Gloria picked up almost immediately and the sound of her voice sent an electrical trickle through my body.

  “Clay,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m just leaving the precinct,” I said. “Elliott and I got tied up with an investigation. I’m sorry. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “You’d better hurry,” Gloria said. “Dinner’s getting cold. We may have to go straight to desert.” She giggled.

  “Is it my favorite desert?” I said.

  “Yes it is,” Gloria said. “You don’t want it to wilt, do you?”

  “Make that ten minutes,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  I hung up and sped off towards Gloria’s house. I made it in eight and a half minutes without getting stopped by one of L.A.’s finest. The front door was unlocked and I let myself in. The living room and kitchen were empty. I knew where I’d find Gloria and stepped over to her bedroom door. I opened it and found a dark room, except for three small candles on the dresser. Gloria was stretched out on the bed in her sheer nightie, her arms reaching toward me, beckoning me to her.

  I pulled my tie loose and slipped it over my head, the knot still in it. The buttons of my shirt yielded just as quickly and I peeled it off, letting it drop to the floor. I loosened my belt and slipped out of my slacks. Gloria’s fingers curled toward her, calling me to her. I kneeled up onto the bed and lay down beside her. She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me toward her soft, warm body. Gloria began kissing me intensely, her tongue darting around in my mouth.

  She pulled me on top of her and wrapped her hands around my body. My hands explored every inch of her body while my mouth responded to hers. Suddenly my back arched and my face grimaced. I released my grasp on Gloria and grabbed my left biceps. I could feel the pain all the way down my arm. My breathing was erratic and the pain had intensified. I rolled off Gloria and she sat upright in the bed.

  “Clay,” she almost screamed. “Clay, are you all right?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I think it’s my heart.”

  “I’ll call 9-1-1,” Gloria said, reaching for the phone on her bedside stand.

  “No,” I shouted. “Help me get dressed and drive me to the emergency room. Please.”

  Gloria jumped out of bed and helped me slip back into my slacks. She stuck my arms into my shirtsleeves and buttoned me up again. I stepped into my shoes while Gloria threw a long coat on over her nightie. She helped me out to my car and buckled me in. She made it to the hospital in just a few minutes and ran inside for a
doctor.

  They wheeled me inside and took me straight to the emergency room where a doctor and three nurses hooked me up to several machines, monitoring my vital signs. The doctor came toward me with a long hypodermic needle and motioned for the nurses to hold me down while he inserted it into my chest. Immediately I could feel some relief and the pain began to subside.

  My vision was blurry, but I could hear everything that was going on around me. I recognized Gloria’s voice. She was talking with the doctor on call.

  “Are you a relative?” I heard the doctor say.

  “No,” Gloria’s voice answered. “I’m just a good friend. I think you’d better call his son.”

  The doctor told Gloria that I’d have to remain here at the hospital for several days under observation and that my son could visit in a couple of hours. The voices went silent and I couldn’t make out anyone clearly. I laid my head back and closed my eyes.

  Elliott sat across from Dean, going over his statement in the Bellamy shooting. The phone on Dean’s desk rang. Dean held up one finger to Elliott. “Excuse me,” he said, lifting the receiver. “Lieutenant Hollister. Yes, he’s here. Did you want to speak to him? Hold on.” Dean handed the phone to me.

  “Elliott speaking,” he said.

  “Elliott Cooper?” the man said. “This is Doctor Samuels in the emergency room. Your father came in this evening with chest pains. We have him stabilized and he’s doing as well as can be expected. Can you come here immediately?”

  “What happened?” Elliott said. “Is he going to be all right? Can I see him? What room is he in?”

  “He’ll be here in the ER when you arrive,” the doctor said. “We haven’t assigned a room to him yet. Just ask for me when you get here.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said and hung up.