The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  “Maybe I did,” Dad said. “I know this place. It feels so familiar but I can’t put my finger on it. Pull over up ahead.”

  I pulled to the curb and Joe Finley pulled up behind us. We all got out of our vehicles and met on the sidewalk. The homing device I held in my hand was blinking and beeping faster than ever now. Dad and Joe and I walked further west on the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the red LEDs. Dad stopped in his tracks and looked to the south.

  “What is it, Dad,” I said.

  “That mountain, or big hill or whatever that is,” he said. “I’ve seen that somewhere before but I can’t place it.”

  “Try to focus on the homing device,” I said. “It’s getting stronger over here.”

  The direction finder was now beeping as fast as it could and the red light indicated the building to our left.

  “It’s in there,” I told Joe. “It has to be.”

  “Well,” Joe said. “What are we doing out here? Let’s go get my generator.”

  “Hold on a second there, Joe,” Dad said. “We don’t want to come this far only to blow it. We need to call the police in on this and we’re going to need a search warrant to search that building if you want any charges to stick.”

  Joe flipped open his cell phone and dialed the Culver City Police Department. They had a patrol car in the area and told Joe they’d send it by right away. The black and white unit pulled onto Hayden Place and pulled to the curb right behind the three of us. Two patrolmen got out and approached us.

  “Are you the person who called for the police?” the first officer said.

  “I called,” Joe said, partially raising his hand. “My name is Joe Finley and I own Finley Construction. These gentlemen with me are private investigators that I’ve hired. This is Clay Cooper and his son, Elliott.” Joe gestured toward us.

  Dad and I both produced out I.D. cards and shields and let the officers inspect them.

  “My name is Sergeant Ryerson,” the first cop said. “And this is Officer Beckley. So tell me, what are you doing in this particular spot?”

  Joe explained about the stolen portable generator and how it had disappeared from his jobsite last night or early this morning. Dad jumped in and explained how we had followed the homing device from Hollywood and how it had led us here. I stepped in and explained how the homing device worked and that it had indicated that the generator was inside the building we were now standing in front of and that we’d probably need a search warrant to recover it.

  Sergeant Ryerson grabbed his shoulder microphone and called into his precinct, requesting a backup unit and a warrant to cover the building’s address that he’d written in his notepad. Then we all waited for the cavalry to arrive.

  While we waited for the search warrant, Dad turned to Sergeant Ryerson and asked if it would be all right if he just walked around a little. Ryerson said he didn’t mind and Dad started walking further west, looking at buildings and landmarks, trying to remember why this place felt so familiar. It wasn’t coming to him. He returned to the group just as the backup unit arrived with the search warrant.

  The two backup policemen followed Ryerson and Beckley into the building, a large warehouse whose windows had all been spray painted with black paint to keep anyone from seeing inside. Dad and Joe and I followed the police in. I caught up with Ryerson and held the homing device out in front of us as we searched. The red LED indicated that we should turn right. At the next aisle we did just that and sitting there on the floor was the portable compressor. The beeping turned into a steady squeal and the red LED turned to green.

  “That’s it,” Joe told the sergeant. “That’s my compressor.” Joe looked around and spotted several other pieces of his missing equipment and tapped Ryerson on the shoulder. “All this stuff is mine,” Joe said. “I can verify it by their serial numbers, but this compressor is one I just purchased a few days ago. I don’t have the serial number recorded yet.”

  “Then how do you know it’s yours?” Ryerson said. “Don’t all portable compressors looks similar?”

  Joe grabbed the right rubber handle grip and turned to look up at the cop. “Okay,” Joe said, “now you’re all a witness to what I’m about to do. Inside this handle is a wadded up ball of duct tape and the miniature transmitter that Elliott here put inside.” Joe pulled the rubber handle grip off the handle and plucked the ball of duct tape between his fingers.

  Joe handed me the rubber grip and I dumped the transmitter out into my hand. The homing device screamed until I turned it off. I turned to Ryerson and raised my eyebrows.

  “I’m convinced,” Ryerson said.

  At that moment the two backup officers stopped two men who had been running for the door. The cops had these men in cuffs by the time the rest of us got to the door. “Take them to the station and book them for burglary,” Ryerson said.

  “How many counts, Sarge?” the officer said.

  “Leave that blank until I get a full count here,” Ryerson said. “I’ll be there when we finish up here.”

  Sergeant Ryerson turned to Dad and me. “Not a bad day’s work,” he said. “You guys ever think about being cops?”

  “My dad was a cop with the L.A.P.D.,” Dad told the sergeant. “He left there in ’46 to start our family P.I. business. Now it just Elliott and me.”

  “And Gloria,” I said, looking at Ryerson. “That’s my wife.”

  “Well,” Ryerson said. “We’re going to need statements from all three of you before you leave.”

  “Not a problem,” Dad said and then paused a moment before adding, “Sergeant, are you from around here?”

  “Born and raised,” Ryerson said. “Why?”

  Dad scratched his head. “Because from the moment I drove into this industrial park, I’ve had this strange feeling of déjà vu’ like I’ve been here before.”

  The cop laughed. “I’ll bet you’re a TV fan,” he said. “Am I right?”

  “Yeah,” Dad said, suspiciously, “but how did you know that?”

  Ryerson walked Dad to the door and opened it, pointing across the street toward another white warehouse-type building. “Does that look familiar?” Ryerson said.

  “No,” Dad said. “Should it?”

  “Maybe not like it is now,” Ryerson explained. “But picture an old small-town courthouse with two pillars in front and a park bench under a side window. Now look a little to your left and picture a small-town building that says, “Floyd’s Barber Shop’ across the front window.”

  Dad snapped his fingers. “I knew it,” he said.

  “You knew what, Dad?” I said.

  “We’re in Mayberry,” Dad explained. “Where that big building is standing now is where the Mayberry Courthouse once stood, with Floyd’s Barber Shop one door to the left. Then there was Foley’s Market, the Mayberry Hotel and the Grand Theater. Get it? We’re standing on the old location of the Desilu Studios back lot. It was called the RKO Forty Acres Lot before Desi Arnez and Lucille Ball bought it. And where we’re standing right now, well, this was Walker’s Drug Store.” Dad pointed east to an unseen area. “Up that way was the Taylor house. “He pointed in the opposite direction. “And about half a mile that way was Wally’s Filling Station.”

  “You look like you’re going to cry, Dad,” I said. “Mayberry’s long gone and all that’s left is this industrial park. Not much nostalgia left here.”

  Dad turned to Ryerson. “I have to walk around a little more, if you don’t mind,” Dad said.

  “All right,” Ryerson said, “But don’t bother the people in the buildings or trespass on anyone’s property.”

  “I won’t,” Dad said. “I just want to walk around and fell the Mayberry vibe for a few minutes.”

  “It wasn’t only Mayberry,” Ryerson said. “My dad used to patrol this area back when he first became a cop. He told me that they also filmed that old Superman TV show right here.”

  “And Gomer Pyle,” Dad said. “And Batman and Mission Impossible and Land Of The Giants a
nd scores of movies as well. Did you know that they also filmed Gone With The Wind here?”

  “Go ahead,” Ryerson said. “Go soak up Mayberry and then meet me at the station for your statements.”

  Dad wandered off in a haze, looking all around him and mumbling something to himself. I had to smile at the thought but dreaded having to hear Dad tell the story about this little adventure for the rest of my life. He may have been impressed with the ghosts of Mayberry, but it didn’t mean a thing to me.

  When Dad came back from visiting that little fictional North Carolina town in his mind, he met me and Joe waiting at my van. “Enjoy your little stroll?” I said.

  “Very much, thank you,” Dad said.

  Joe turned to Dad and shook his hand. “Thanks a lot, Clay,” he said. “It looks like all my missing equipment was in there. When you get back to your office, would you just send me a bill for your time and Elliott’s? I couldn’t have done this without you. And how about if all three of us have lunch tomorrow? I want to talk to you both about some security measures for all my jobsites.”

  “We’ll drop your bill off myself,” Dad told Joe. “Are you buying lunch or should I just tack it on to the bill under ‘expenses’?”

  “Same ol’ Clay,” Joe said. “Lunch is on me. Meet me at the jobsite at eleven-thirty.”

  We all drove back to Hollywood and let Dad off in front of his house. I drove back to the office to spend a little time with Gloria before she had to return home to feed Matt.

  Dad had recalled that Beatles tune, Free As A Bird as we were tracking the compressor but at this moment a John Lennon song was running through my mind. It was from his last album, Double Fantasy. It was John’s song to his son, Sean, called Beautiful Boy and one of the lines in it just seemed to fit me at the moment. Here I was, a successful private investigator who, in a relatively short time, had found himself with a wife and son and who was moving in a direction he could not have foretold.

  The line went, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

  Boy, could I relate.

  82 - Nothing To Sneeze At

  Dad and I pulled into the parking lot of the boat rental place and locked the car. We went inside to pay the deposit on the small fishing boat we had reserved earlier in the week. It was going to be a long weekend, what with Monday being a holiday, so Dad and I had agreed that a fishing trip could do us both a little good. It was true what they said about all work and no play, and in our case, all work as private investigators and no fishing would really make the two of us dull boys.

  Gloria was home with our new baby, Matt and Matt’s nanny, Mrs. Chandler. She could have left Matt with the nanny, but Gloria had absolutely no interest in anything to do with fishing. She told Dad and me to just go and have a good time and that she’d see us when we got home.

  I helped Dad load the fishing gear into the boat, untied the mooring rope that held the boat to the dock and climbed in behind Dad. It was a small lake so we didn’t really need a motor. The boat came with two sturdy oars and I rowed us out to the middle of the lake and threw the anchor overboard.

  The small boat rocked back and forth as I cranked the spinning reel. I alternated the cranking of the reel with the pulling back of the rod, my fiberglass fishing rod bending with each pull. The water at the end of my line churned and splashed as the fish broke the surface, trying in vain to get away.

  “Get the net, Dad,” I yelled as the fish pulled even harder. The fish struggled right up to the time Dad scooped him up in the net and pulled it into the boat.

  “Nice one, Elliott,” Dad said, holding the large fish up by its gills. He pulled his needle nose pliers from the tackle box and removed the hook. “That has to go three pounds if it’s an ounce.”

  I smiled, pulling out a portable scale and holding it up at arm’s length. Dad hooked the fish onto the scale and gently released it. The dial on the scale spun around almost halfway and stopped on fifty-two ounces.

  Dad looked at the dial and smiled. “What’d I tell you?” he said. “Three pounds, four ounces.”

  I removed the fish from the scale and strung one end of the stringer through its gills and lowered it over the side of the boat. I swished my hands around in the water, wiping off the fish slime. I shook them out and wiped the residue off on my shirt.

  I turned to Dad. “I’m getting hungry,” I announced. “What do we have in the basket for lunch?”

  Dad grabbed the basket, opened the lid and was about to reach in when I said, “Hey, wash your hands first, will ya? I don’t want your fishy hands touching my food.”

  Dad handed the basket to me. “Here, look for yourself,” he said.

  I pulled back the cloth napkin covering the food and looked at the sandwiches Gloria had prepared for the two of us. There were four sandwiches. Two were ham and cheese on rye and two were peanut butter and jelly on white. There were also four cupcakes and a thermos of coffee, with two Styrofoam cups.

  I set the basket down in the boat as an odd look played on my face. My eyebrows turned up and my eyes squinted as I appeared to be having trouble breathing, inhaling in very small breaths.

  “What’s with you?” Dad said.

  I held up one finger while continuing with the erratic breaths and the squinched up face. I looked up quickly toward the sun and then back down again. A few seconds later I did it again, looking away again quickly. My finger still in the air, I turned my head away and let loose with a violent sneeze. Two seconds later, the second sneeze followed, not nearly as violent as the first. I turned back toward Dad with a smile on my face.

  “Ah,” I said. “Two good ones.”

  “God bless you,” Dad chimed in.

  My eyebrows turned down and the smile dropped from my face. “Huh?” I said.

  “God bless you,” Dad repeated.

  I just shook my head and went back to examining the contents of the picnic basket. “Whatever,” I mumbled under my breath.

  A few hours later, having caught our limit, Dad and I tied the boat back onto the dock piling and went back into the office to pay for the boat rental and get our deposit back. Dad and I climbed into my van and drove away, our cooler full of fish. As we rode along into the sunset, I felt another sneeze coming on. I leaned forward, looking toward the sun and sat upright again. Looking at a bright light usually helped bring on a sneeze and I really loved to sneeze. One more glance at the sun was all it took and soon I lowered my window, turned my head outward and let loose with another sneeze. The second followed like clockwork a second or so later.

  Again Dad chimed in with, “God bless you.”

  I glanced over at my weekend fishing partner with a quizzical look on my face. “I have to ask you,” I said. “Why do you feel compelled to say, ‘God bless you every time I sneeze?”

  “Huh?” Dad said.

  “What’s with the blessing every time I sneeze?” I said. “You did it back in the boat and again just now. What’s up with that anyway?”

  “Habit, I guess,” Dad said. “Why?”

  “Habit?” I said. “That’s it, habit? There must be more to it than that. Are you overly religious or something?”

  “What’s religion got to do with it?” Dad asked, turning in his seat toward me.

  “Because you always say ‘God bless you,’” I explained. “How did God get involved with the act of sneezing? I’ve heard sneezing described as the next best thing to the ‘Big O’ and maybe after a great sneeze someone muttered, ‘Oh God’ or something along those lines, but even that’s a stretch. What’s with the blessing? That’s what I want to know.”

  Dad thought about it for a few seconds, his face showing obvious puzzlement with the question. “I guess it goes way back to the old biblical days or something. I think I remember someone saying something about how people back then believed that when you sneezed your soul temporarily left your body and if you happened to die during a sneeze, the person blessing you wanted to make sure your soul ma
de it to heaven, or something like that.”

  “How superstitious can people get?” I asked in total disbelief. “Are you saying that as soon as someone sneezes their soul leaves their body? What does it do, climb back in right after the second sneeze? Come on, Dad. You’re an otherwise sensible, intelligent person, but this is pure poppycock.”

  “Hey,” Dad said, his hands held up palms out, “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard over the years. Sounds pretty silly when you actually dissect the origins of it, doesn’t it?”

  “Silly?” I said. “This goes way beyond silly. It’s like those same idiots who actually believe some guy named Noah really did put two of each animal in an arc and sailed them away during the flood.”

  “You mean he didn’t?” Dad said.

  “Are you for real?” I said. “Scientists have proved conclusively that there was no way two of every animal could have fit in a boat with the dimensions described in that tale. Besides, he must have built that vessel in the desert. Where do you suppose he could come up with two polar bears, two walruses, two seals or two hummingbirds, for that matter? And there’s the logistics of that whole voyage. Did it occur to anyone that the lions would naturally eat the zebras and gazelles, not to mention Noah and his family, given the chance? There’s just no logical way it could have happened, period.”

  Dad took a deep breath. “Well, you can’t take all those bible passages literally,” he said. “A lot of that was meant symbolically. You have to read between the lines. Remember, these were primitive people who wrote the bible. Back then they were prone to exaggeration. I guess it boils down to faith.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said, “that whenever some bible-thumping, scripture-quoting zealot gets cornered with reason, they always fall back on faith. It’s almost the same faith we ask little kids to have when we tell them a story about a bearded fat man with a sleigh and flying reindeer who can deliver presents to every kid in the world all in one night and still have time to stop for cookies and milk. And he does this by slipping down their chimneys and yet he comes out of it all looking pristine without a trace of soot on him anywhere. Is that the kind of faith you had in mind?”