“Is Evelyn all right, Mr. Cooper?” he said. “Do you want me to take care of these two vermin?”
“No” Clay said. “Evelyn is fine. Just leave them. They’ll have to answer to a higher power someday.”
Jonathan Hoppert snapped the briefcase shut and nodded politely to his guests. “We gotta do dis again soon,” he said sarcastically. “It’s been a real scream, Doll. Too bad we didn’t have more time. You’da liked me.” Hoppert winked at Evelyn and licked his lips.
Evelyn looked back at her captors, “Hmmmpf.” She snapped her chin upward and left the room. Reginald helped her off the porch and into the back of the Rolls.
“Next time I see you, I will call the authorities,” Clay said. He looked back at the limo. Reginald was waiting with the rear door open. Clay backed out of the room and out to the car. In an instant they were gone.
Joe Dagistino looked over at Hoppert and smiled. Hoppert smiled back and soon the two were laughing out loud.
“Gees, that was fun,” Hoppert said. “Did you see the look on Evelyn’s face when Cooper untied her?”
“Yes,” Dagistino said, “That Reginald makes a good ‘heavy’, don’t you think, Jonathan?”
“Indeed,” Hoppert said. “I can hardly wait. Next time we get to be the good guys.”
The two laughed some more and carried the briefcase out around the back of the cabin where they got into their own Rolls Royce convertible and drove back to Bel Air.
Reginald piloted the limo off the dirt road and back onto the state highway. He pushed the button and lowered the glass partition and leaned back, keeping his eyes on the road. He talked out of the corner of his mouth to the two occupants in the back seat.
“That sure was some fun, eh Mr. Cooper?” he said.
Clay and Evelyn lifted their glasses of Champaign and toasted. “To the AARP,” Clay said, clinking his glass against Evelyn’s and then drinking from his glass.
“Yes,” Evelyn said, “To the Action-Adventure Role-Players club. Next time we get to be the bad guys. I can hardly wait to tie Jonathan to the chair and talk smart to him.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Reginald said.
“Just keep your eyes on the road, Reginald,” Evelyn said, sipping from her glass again.
Laughter filled the limousine as it tooled off down the road.
73 - Life Is Boring
My head hurt and my mind whirled. Red, yellow, orange and blue streaks flashed across my eyes. I felt sick to my stomach and tried desperately to open my eyes. They felt as if they were made of lead but I finally managed to open them. What was wrong, I thought? Was I blind? My world around me was black and silent. I was flat on my back. I tried lifting my arms but they hit something a foot above me. I tried extending them out to my sides. Again they hit something solid eight or nine inches to either side of me.
What the hell was this? It felt like I was in a coffin, not that I had ever been in one before. I kicked my feet up and hit the same solid mass my hands had encountered. I felt the area above my head again. The texture felt like construction grade plywood. My heart began to race and my imagination ran wild.
Instinctively I reached for the .38 under my left arm in the shoulder rig. It was gone. Then I remembered my key chain. It was still in my left pants pocket. I could feel it pressing against my left leg. I rolled toward my right side and rearranged my left arm to reach into the pocket. The keys were there. I pulled them out and held them in front of my face. On the key chain was a small light in the shape of a half dollar. Squeezing the sides produced a narrow beam of light for a single LED, usually meant to light up a keyhole at your door. It lit up my immediate world enough to let me see that I was indeed in some sort of oblong box.
Panic set in as I realized I was probably buried alive. Questions raced through my mind. Who, why, where and why me?
I wiped the sweat from my upper lip and then smelled my fingers. There was still the faint odor or chloroform on my lips and fingers. That’s why my head hurt and that’s why I was still a bit dizzy. Then it came back to me. The last thing I remembered was walking toward my car yesterday morning. I was still fifty yards from my car when a hand clamped over my mouth. I struggled briefly but everything went dark and that’s really all I remembered until I woke up just now.
I separated one of the keys and tapped at the top of the box above my face. I heard a faint echo and breathed a little easier. I couldn’t be buried alive. It didn’t sound like there was any dirt on top of my box. Rather it sounded like the box was sitting in a large empty room somewhere. But where? I pushed up at the top of the box with my hands. Nothing budged. I put the key chain back in my pocket and tried to roll over onto my stomach. It took a little wiggling, but soon I was lying flat on my stomach. I knew I had a foot or so clearance above so I pulled my legs up toward me and found myself in a kneeling position. I knew I could get more leverage from this position. I braced my hands on the floor of the box and pushed up with my back, arching it like a dog stretching. The wood bent somewhat but didn’t immediately give. I tried again and could hear some creaking. I caught my breath and gave one last push with my hands, my back and my legs. The sound of wood splintering was music to my ears.
I paused once more and held my breath while I heaved upward again. The top of my coffin popped open and swung away on hinges. The room I was in was just as dark as the box I lay in. I turned over, sat upright and stretched. Then I remembered the key chain. I found the key light and illuminated the area just over the rim of the box. Three feet down I could make out a floor of some sort. I stood up in the box and eased myself over the edge and lowered myself to the floor below. I stretched my aching legs and walked in a small circle to help take the tingling sensation out of them.
Once I was on the floor I could see that the wooden box I’d been in had been set up on two sawhorses. I tried shining the light around the room but it only lit up a few feet in front of me. I took a few steps away from the box, shining the light ahead of me as I stepped. Still there was nothing but black all around me. I took a few more steps before the light caught something ahead of me. I stepped closer and shined the light. It was a doorknob. Further scanning with the light revealed a pair of hinges. This had to be the way out of this dark prison.
I shined the light on the wall adjacent to the door and followed it around the perimeter of the room. On the opposite wall there was another door. So which one was the exit? Both doors were locked and would obviously not open with either of the car keys on my ring. I decided the second door looked less formidable and tried prying up on the top hinge pin with my car key. It held fast. I knelt and tried the bottom hinge. It moved slightly but not enough to remove the pin. I leaned closer and spit on the hinge before trying the key again. The pin moved a little more. Another slug of spit and an another upward thrust with the key was all it took to remove the hinge pin. I inserted the tip of my key into the crack and pried. The door moved toward me slightly before I grabbed further in with the key and pried again. The key snapped off in my hand. Damn. All I had left on my key ring was one more car key. I had to be careful with it. It was my last tool.
The movement of the bottom of the door must have been enough to loosen the top hinge pin. I spit on that one and tried my key again. The pin budged. I took another hold on it and pushed. It came out altogether and now all I had to do was pry the door toward me without breaking my last key. I carefully inserted the key in the crack just a little and pried. It moved. I pried again and it moved some more. Suddenly a sliver of light appeared between the door and the jam. I was able to get my fingertips on the edge of the door and pull. The door let loose and fell toward me. I reached up and kept it from falling on top of me. I eased it to the floor.
The room behind me lit up from the doorway. Now I could see that it was approximately twelve feet by fifteen feet in area. There was nothing in it except the two sawhorses with the makeshift coffin on it. The other room wasn’t much bigger but at least it was lit up by a single bul
b hanging from the ceiling by a wire. There was no other door in that room. This hadn’t been the exit door after all. The first door I had encountered had to be the way out. At least now I had the hinge pins from the door I’d opened. They could serve the purpose of pushing the other hinge pins out. I could save my last key for other uses if necessary.
I took my place on the floor next to the other closed door. This time I had some illumination from the room beyond the opened door. My mouth was getting dry and spit came a little harder than before. I wet the hinge and tapped upward with the hinge pin I had taken from the first door. The pin on this door gave way much easier than when I’d used the key. It took only seven minutes to remove this door from its hinges. The room beyond was dark but I still had my key chain light. I held it in front of me and squeezed. Something red caught my eye. There was another one close to it, almost like the wary eyes of a jungle cat. The red lights went out and then returned. Something had blinked. The hair on the back of my neck snapped to attention and my breathing was coming faster. I was genuinely scared now. My mind flashed to the conversation I’d had with my partner from the office just last week.
“My life is so boring,” I’d said to Gloria. “Nothing exciting ever happens to me. I’ll be thirty-two years old next week and it feels like my life has come to a complete standstill.”
Gloria had looked up from the morning paper long enough to say, “Mid-life crisis again, Elliott?”
“Don’t patronize me, Gloria,” I’d said. “There has to be more to life than just getting up, going to work, coming home and going to bed only to start the whole boring process over again the next day.”
“What would you like me to do about it, Elliott?” Gloria said, raising the paper in front of her face.
I’d left the office yesterday morning in a huff and hadn’t back until three o’clock that afternoon. Gloria had gone out to talk to a prospective client and hadn’t even missed me. It had all been for nothing. I was still in the same grind, like a gerbil on a wheel, running fast but going nowhere.
Right now I’d be willing to settle for the swivel recliner chair and my desk back at the office. This ordeal was more than I could absorb. The pair of red lights appeared again and moved slightly to the left before going out again. I jumped back instinctively and retreated through the door I’d just opened. The pair of red lights appeared again, this time coming closer toward me. I quickly looked around me. I had nowhere to retreat to and stood frozen in my tracks. From the darkness I could hear a low, throaty rumbling, like a large motor smothered by a pillow. The rumbling got louder and closer and seemed to be attached to the pair of red eyes, or lights or whatever they were.
I felt a warm feeling in front of me and soon my legs were warm and wet. I’d wet myself and had involuntarily begun to cry. Suddenly the lights in the second room flashed on and three dozen people yelled in unison, “Surprise.” Someone started singing Happy Birthday and then stopped when they saw the look on my face. Everyone in the room fell silent.
There in Gloria’s hand I spotted a small troll doll with a pair of red eyes that lit up when you squeezed its tummy. She was standing there in her stocking feet. Behind her and to the right stood my father, Clay Cooper, also in his stocking feet. He was holding a large cassette player boom box. He pressed the play button and the sound of the lion’s rumble played. He shrugged and smirked briefly and then his face went somber.
My eyes rolled back into my head and I fainted.
When I came to again there were three dozen people standing over me looking down into my face. Gloria was patting my forehead with a wet towel and Dad’s face showed more concern now. I sat up and the rest of the room erupted in spontaneous laughter. This time they all joined in for a chorus of Happy Birthday and applauded when they’d finished.
Gloria whispered in my ear, “Happy Birthday, Elliott. Still think life is boring?”
74 - Neither Rain, Nor Sleet, Nor Murder
The crisp fall day creates swirling piles of dried, brown, yellow and orange leaves at his feet. He playfully kicks at them as he walks along his route, up one sidewalk and down the next, depositing various size envelopes into the various size mailboxes. At several houses, he must ascend the porch and ring the doorbell to get the required signature from the recipient before he’ll release the package to them. The door opens and the mailman reaches into his shiny brown leather sack and produces a small packaged wrapped in plain brown paper. He gets the required signature, hands over the package and descends the porch stairs again.
A small boy watches him from under his porch. The boy looks out through the criss-crossed trellis design in the painted wood that covers the bottom of his porch. He notices the white stripe running up the mailman’s blue pant leg and he fanaticizes about how the mailman is actually a Civil War soldier on a mission to search out and destroy those southern rebels in their gray uniforms. But the mission actually consists of nothing more than dropping letters into the slot in the boy’s front door. The boy sighs in disappointment as the mailman moves on to the next house, quickly reduced to a fleeting memory in the boy’s mind.
The mailman’s routine remains the same for the next three blocks, up each sidewalk and back again after dropping off the mail. In the middle of the fourth block, his routine makes a slight variation from the norm. This time he rings the doorbell and waits for the door to open. When it does, there’s a large, burly man in pajama bottoms and a strapped tee shirt on the other side of the door. He’s barefoot and seems annoyed by the intrusion. The mailman greets this man and tells him that he has a package that requires a signature from the recipient. There’s a light rain falling and the barefoot man invites the mailman to step into his foyer.
The recipient pats his pants pockets, looking for a pen and finding none. The mailman holds up one finger and then reaches into his shiny brown leather mail sack. When his hand comes back out of the sack’s opening, it’s holding a .45 automatic with a suppressor screwed onto the end of the barrel. He lifts the gun to eye level and there are two muffled reports as the bullets tear into the front of the barefoot man’s face and out the back side. The man falls backwards, the wall behind where he once stood now covered in blood spatter and gray matter. The man’s foot twitches twice before he falls silent and still.
The mailman slips the handgun back into his mail sack, turns and exits the house, walking down the sidewalk as if what had just happened was a normal, everyday occurrence. For him, it was. There will be more days like this for him. They will be good days, but not for the unlucky chosen recipients on his route.
*****
Lieutenant Dean Hollister of the Los Angeles Police Department is a large, muscular man whose hair is starting to shows small patches of gray near his temples. Hollister has been on the force for more than thirty years and now holds the position that his late father, Dan once held. Dean figures that this year will most likely be his last before he succumbs to the urge to retire and take life easier. The more he thinks about the prospect, the more excited he becomes and has to put the thoughts aside in order to get any work accomplished.
The phone on his desk rings and he reaches across his desk to pick it up, bending in an unnatural arc. He hears something that sounds like someone clipping a toenail and stops in mid-reach, unable to straighten up again. The phone goes on ringing until his office door finally opens and Dean’s secretary, Abbey pokes her head in and sees her boss bent over his desk. From her perspective, he looks like a man bent over a pool table, trying to decide which ball to sink next.
“Lieutenant Hollister,” she says. “Are you all right?” She starts to lay a hand on the lieutenant’s back but he flinches.
“Could you get the hot water bottle out of my closet and fill it up with hot water for me, please?” Dean says, the words coming out edgewise and with obvious pain.
“Right away,” Abbey says, hurrying toward Dean’s closet and pulling the red rubber bottle off the top shelf. She takes it down the hall to the ladies’
bathroom and runs the water in the sink until it’s nice and hot and then holds the neck of the water bottle under the faucet. She caps it off with the threaded plastic stopper and hurries back to Dean’s office, placing it carefully on the small of his back.
Dean moans, partially with relief and partially with more back pain. He lowers himself all the way down onto his desk and exhales a deep breath, closing his eyes in the process and laying his cheek against the wooden desk top.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Lieutenant?” Abbey says.
Dean thinks for a moment and then says, “If you would please just close the door and don’t let anyone in.”
“Yes, sir,” Abbey says.
“And abbey,” Dean says as an afterthought.
“I know,” she says, “hold your calls.”
“Thank you, Abbey,” Dean says as she leaves his office and eases the door shut behind her. Dean takes several more breaths and thinks about trying to stand upright again. He makes a slight movement in that direction and decides to let the water bottle do its job for a little while longer before he tries that again.
Ten minutes pass and Dean works up the courage to try straightening up again. Before he gets the chance, his office door opens slightly and Abbey slips in, closing the door quickly behind her. “Are you feeling any better, sir?” Abbey says.
“A little bit,” Dean tells her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Abbey says.” And I know you didn’t want to be disturbed, but Clay Cooper’s here. What should I tell him?”
Clay Cooper was Dean’s oldest and best friend. Both of their fathers had worked together on the L.A.P.D. before Clay’s father, Matt, left to start his own private investigations business. Matt Cooper had lived to the ripe old age of ninety-one, but Dean’s father, Dan had died from cancer when he was just sixty-eight. That worried Dean and made him wonder if his own lifeline would be that short as well.
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 210