The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  Dad looked puzzled.

  “Or perhaps,” I continued, “it’s the faith that you ask little kids to have when you tell them that long-eared, warm-blooded mammals actually lay multi-colored eggs and hide them all over the yard for those kids to find on Easter. And you can bet there are kids out there somewhere who believe that if they put their tooth under their pillow, the tooth fairy will leave a dime. And that same fairy knows about inflation and increases the amount per tooth every time the economy changes. Is that what you mean by faith?”

  “You make a good point there,” Dad said, “But...”

  “But what?” I said. “Let me ask you something. How long do people generally live these days? I mean what’s the average lifespan?”

  Dad thought for a moment and said, “I think it’s something like seventy-four for men and seventy-eight for women. Give or take.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “You know what the average lifespan was two hundred years ago?”

  Dad said nothing.

  “It was around forty-nine or fifty for men and fifty-three or so for women,” I said. “And two thousand years ago men only lived into their thirties before dropping dead. And those were averages. As you can see, the life expectancy has increased over the years.”

  “So?” Dad said, wondering where I was going with all of this.

  “So how is it some guy named Methuselah lived to be nine hundred sixty-nine years old, according to the tales told in the bible?” I said. “Huh? Explain that one, will you?”

  “Again,” Dad said, “You can’t take everything in the bible literally.”

  “Right,” I said. “They exaggerated, as you stated earlier. You think those nine hundred sixty-nine years just seemed like nine hundred sixty-nine because most of those guys were dropping dead at thirty? Maybe Methuselah was a fluke and lived to the ripe old age of eighty. That’s still an eight hundred eighty-nine year stretch of the truth, isn’t it?”

  “Some people might consider that blasphemy,” Dad said.

  “Blasphemy is a victimless crime,” I told him. “In fact, to us non-believers, it’s a non-existent concept.”

  “Hmmmm,” Dad said, without actually replying.

  “Yeah, hmmmm,” I said. “It makes you think, doesn’t it? Have you ever heard the saying that money is the root of all evil?”

  Dad nodded. “Seems I’ve heard that somewhere,” he said. “What about it?”

  “Well then why does the Catholic Church seem to lust after it so much?” I said. “Why do they place such importance on collecting money, even from people they know can’t afford it? Why do they tell poor, grieving widows that in order to get their recently deceased husbands out of limbo that they must pay the church hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars? If there is such a place as limbo, how can the mere exchange of green paper affect the outcome of such a predicament in the so-called afterlife?”

  “You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you?” Dad said.

  “You’re damned right I have,” I said. “Here’s another prime example of the blatant hypocrisy involved with organized religion. Okay, you have three guys. For this example we’ll call them Moe, Larry and Curly. Moe has been a bastard his whole life, killing and robbing and kidnapping and stealing. Larry has been a bible-thumping, church-going, hymn-singing, halleluiah-spouting, non-questioning believer his whole life. Curly, on the other hand, has never killed anyone, never robbed anyone, has never stolen a thing in his life and is for all practical purposes a non-believer. He just treats his fellow man with kindness and respect and minds his own business.”

  “Isn’t this a bit of an extreme example?” Dad said.

  I held up one finger. “Hold on there, Buckwheat,” I said. “Just hear me out before you try to debate this with me.”

  Dad sighed. “All right, Elliott, go on with your hypothetical example,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said, “so Moe’s the asshole, Larry’s the believer and Curly’s the nice guy non-believer. It’s Friday and all three are on their deathbeds. Two seconds before he dies, Moe has a change of heart and asks God for forgiveness. Then he dies. Larry, on the other hand, has a moment of weakness and eats a T-bone steak. Curly, a nice guy to the end dies without further comment or fanfare. Now, are you telling me that because Moe asked to be saved at the last possible second, that he’s going to heaven, despite his life of killing, stealing, robbing, etc.?”

  “Well,” Dad started to say.

  I cut him off. “And Larry, the lifelong believer who did everything by the book his whole life and ate meat on Friday at the last possible second, is NOT going to heaven? And then there’s Curly, the best of the bunch. He lived his whole life treating his fellow man with kindness and respect and was just an all-round good person is going to hell because he didn’t happen to buy into the whole religion thing? Is that what you’re telling me, Dad?”

  Dad didn’t quite know what to say to such logic and reason. “You make some pretty good arguments for your side there, Elliott,” he said. “But I’ve known some really good people who believed.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I explained. “If someone wants to believe in a higher power, I say go for it. It’s the organized religion that I have a problem with. That and the religious extremists who kill in the name of their god. Are you aware that most wars were fought over religion? There’s a saying I heard that I just love. It goes something like, ‘Science Flies Men To The Moon. Religion Flies Men Into Buildings.’ That about sums it up, wouldn’t you say?”

  Dad seemed at a loss for words, but after a moment said, “You know, Elliott, I never really thought about it like in those terms. Now it seems that I’ve got a whole lot of stuff to think about.”

  I turned to Dad. “Don’t misunderstand me, Dad,” I said. “I’m not saying we, meaning those of us who question, are saying we’re better than those who believe. It’s just that it strikes me odd that otherwise logical, sensible, educated people blindly follow the path set forth by their ancestors simply because that’s the way it’s always been. I mean, they have the wherewithal and common sense to figure this stuff out for themselves if they just think about how ridiculous it sounds from this end. If they want to go on believing that there’s a superior being out there somewhere and it helps them stay on the straight and narrow, fine. I just don’t think it’s healthy to buy into the whole enchilada. Know what I mean?”

  Dad said nothing. But just then his face scrunched up, he squinted and inhaled in small, erratic breaths before exploding in a giant sneeze. The second sneeze followed soon after. Dad looked over at me for a reaction.

  I shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” I said. “Just sit there and enjoy your ‘Little O.’”

  83 - Your Place Or Mine

  It had been a long weekend, what with Monday being a holiday and all. Three days away from the business felt like three weeks, especially when you love what you do, as is the case with me and my father, who run Cooper Investigations in Hollywood. My grandfather, that is, Dad’s dad, Matt Cooper, started the business in 1946 and his son, my father; Clay Cooper joined him in 1971. Grandpa has been dead for a dozen years and Dad works on a semi-retired, part-time basis. That leaves me, Elliott Cooper, and my wife/partner, Gloria to handle the bulk of the business.

  This particular Tuesday morning as I straightened my tie and combed my hair in the bathroom mirror, I heard my son, Matt crying from his high chair in the kitchen. Gloria was trying to feed him and not having an easy time of it. Matt was nearly a year old already but hadn’t yet taken his first steps. I walked back into the kitchen, laid a gentle hand on Matt’s little head and said in a soothing voice, “What’s the problem here, little man?”

  Matt stopped crying long enough to look up at me and smile, even as the tears were running down his chubby cheeks. I turned to Gloria. “What time is Mrs. Chandler coming by today?”

  Gloria looked up at the kitchen clock and sighed. “Any minute now, thank goodness.” She must have seen something in my f
ace because she quickly added, “Not that I don’t love our little darling, but if I don’t get some quiet time, I’m going to open a vein.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said, trying to lighten the situation. “Before you know it, Matt will be grown and gone and you’ll look back on today as a fond memory.”

  The front doorbell rang and Gloria stood upright. “That must be Mrs. Chandler now,” she said, handing me Matt’s baby spoon full of strained peas and hurrying to the door. She let the nanny in, gave her a few last minute instructions and hurried into the bedroom to dress for work. Ten minutes later she emerged, looking just like any well-dressed private eye should. She turned to Mrs. Chandler and said, “We should be home around five-thirty. You can call the office if you need to reach me.” Then she turned to me and said, “Come on, Elliott, Hollywood is waiting for its two premier gumshoes.”

  I waved to Mrs. Chandler and left the house, locking the door behind me. Gloria and I drove downtown to our office on Hollywood Boulevard, near Cahuenga. I parked in the parking lot behind our building and the two of us entered through the back door. Before taking the elevator to our floor, I stopped at the battery of mailboxes in the lobby and checked for any mail. I slipped my key into the lock and pulled the metal door open, pulling out the half dozen pieces of mail and locking the box again.

  Allen Jeffries, a realtor with an office in our building was just coming in the front door as I was walking over to where Gloria stood waiting for me near the elevator. I turned and waved at him.

  “You two forget something?” he said, opening his own mailbox.

  I shrugged. “How’s that?” I said, just as the elevator door opened. Gloria and I stepped into the car. Allen was still trying to talk to me from across the hall but I couldn’t hear him. “We’ll talk later,” I yelled, just as the elevator door closed. I turned to Gloria. “What was that all about?” I said. “Did we forget something? Is that what he said?”

  “Uh huh,” Gloria said.

  “I don’t get it?” I said.

  The two of us rode to the third floor and walked down to the end of the hall to our office. Dad, who generally helped us man the office, was taking the morning off to make his dental appointment. I opened the outer office door and started to walk toward the inner office door when I noticed that this little cubicle was empty of everything. The two-seat sofa was gone, as was the chair, end table, lamp and magazine rack.

  “What the hell?” I said. “Where’s all the furniture?” I turned to Gloria, who just shrugged.

  “Well, don’t look at me,” she said. “I haven’t been in the office for a couple of weeks now. Maybe Dad got rid of it and is getting some updated replacements. Why don’t you give him a call when we get inside?”

  When we opened the inner office door, we were looking at a bigger version of the outer office. It too was bare, save for the carpet on the floor. Both of our desks were gone, along with the filing cabinets, our laptop computers and printers, all the chairs, the coat rack and even the waste baskets. It looked like a carpet cleaning company had come in, moved the furniture and forgot to clean the carpet. If that was the case, they also forgot to put the furniture back where it had been.

  “Call your dad,” Gloria said.

  I walked to where my desk used to sit and noticed that whoever had cleaned us out, had also taken the phones. I pulled my cell phone from my coat pocket, flipped it open and hit the speed dial button for Dad’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Make it quick,” he said. “I’ve got a dentist appointment in fifteen minutes.”

  “Dad,” I said. “It’s Elliott.”

  “No kidding,” Dad said. “Is that why your name showed up on the phone’s screen? What’s up, and like I said, make it quick.”

  “This may be a stupid question,” I said, “but you didn’t take all the furniture out of the office and order new stuff, did you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Dad said.

  “I mean the office is bare,” I said. “All the furniture is gone and so are the phones. Everything is gone.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Dad said. “April Fool’s Day is still two months off.”

  “Dad, I’m serious,” I said. “Someone emptied the office over the weekend.”

  “Well, I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Dad said. “Call the police and try not to mess up any evidence that they might have left behind. I’ll be in after my dental appointment. Gotta run.”

  I flipped the phone closed and turned to Gloria. “He doesn’t know anything about it,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Gloria said. “I gathered that from your end of the conversation. Now what?”

  I opened my phone again and dialed Eric Anderson’s number. Lieutenant Anderson was a friend of ours who worked out of the twelfth precinct. We’d worked on several cases together in the past. I got through to him right away.”

  “Eric,” I said, without preamble, “Can you come to my office right away?”

  “Well, good morning to you, too,” Eric said sarcastically.

  “Sorry,” I said, “but my cheerful attitude disappeared this morning when we came into work to find out office had been broken into. I’d like you to come over and bring someone from your lab crew. Maybe you can lift a few prints.”

  “Did they take anything?” Eric said. “Did you make a list of what’s missing? Did you…”

  “It would be easier to make a list of what they didn’t take,” I said. “The paper would be blank. Eric, they cleaned up out, right down to the phones and the trash cans. The office is empty.”

  “Give me twenty minutes,” Eric said. “I’ll bring Johnson from the lab. Don’t touch anything.”

  “There’s nothing to touch,” I said.

  “I was talking about door frames, window sills, and such,” Eric said.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll see you both when you get here.” I closed the phone and let out a deep breath. I turned to Gloria. “We’ve got twenty minutes before Eric gets here. What do you say we go pay Allen a visit? I think he was trying to tell us something earlier.”

  “Good idea,” Gloria said. “Whether we like it or not, it looks like we have a case.”

  We turned to leave when Gloria stopped short and looked under the sink in the corner of the room. “What’s that?” she said, pointing toward the sink.

  “I think it’s called a sink,” I said.

  “No,” Gloria said, obviously annoyed. Under the sink. See it?”

  We walked over to the sink and knelt. It was a small plastic floppy disc, the kind they used to use in some of the older computers before USB ports and jump drives made them obsolete. I started to reach for it when Gloria grabbed my arm.

  “Uh uh,” she said. “Fingerprints.”

  I pulled my notepad out of my pocket, ripped a page from it, folded it over the edge of the floppy disc and picked it up. “What the hell would this be doing under our sink,” I said. “Or anywhere in this office, as far as that goes. Neither of our computers uses this old technology.”

  “Maybe whoever took all our furniture dropped it,” Gloria said. “That’s the only explanation that fits.”

  “Even so,” I said. “Who would even need something like this anymore?”

  “Maybe we’ll know more about it if we can see if there’s anything on it,” Gloria said.

  I dropped it in my pocket. “I’ll check it later,” I said. “Let’s go down and see what Allen knows. We took the steps down one flight to the second floor. Allen Jeffries’ office was right across the hall from the elevator and stairwell. We walked in and found Allen’s receptionist, Mary, sitting behind the desk. “Is he with anyone?” I said, gesturing toward Allen’s office door.

  Mary shook her head. “No, he just got in,” she said. “Go on in.”

  Gloria and I opened the door with the frosted glass that spelled out Jeffries’ name. Allen was standing near the window, a coffee cup in his hand. He turned when we entered and smiled.<
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  “You did forget something,” Allen said. “What was it, your toilet paper?” He stopped smiling when he noticed that neither of us found his comment funny.

  “You were trying to tell me something in the lobby a minute ago, Allen,” I said. “What was it?”

  Allen’s eyebrows furrowed and then he remembered. “Oh,” he said, “I just asked if you forgot something in the office. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see either of you again, but here you are. Tell me, how is the new office?”

  “New office?” Gloria said. “What new office would that be?”

  “Well,” Allen said, “I just assumed you found a new office, since you moved out of this one. Unless you both just got out of the business altogether.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “Whatever made you think we’d moved out or found a new office?”

  Allen gestured to a couple of chairs. Please,” he said, “have a seat.”

  We both shook our heads. “I’d prefer to stand,” I said. “What’s all this about moving out?”

  “Well,” Allen said, “as I was leaving for the day on Saturday, I passed the moving men in the lobby. They were hauling a bunch of furniture out to a truck in the parking lot. When I asked one of the men where all this furniture was from, he just told me he had a work order to move everything out of the office at the end of the hall on the third floor. That is your office, isn’t it?”

  “You know it is, Allen,” Gloria said. “Who were these men? Were they wearing any kind of uniform with a name on it? Did you get a look at the truck?”

  “Wait a minute,” Allen said. “You mean you’re not moving out?”

  Gloria turned to me. “I think he’s getting the picture, Elliott,” she said and then turned to Allen. “Of course we’re not moving out. Now what about these men? What did they look like?”

  “Like moving men,” Allen said. “You know, coveralls, gloves, dollies, blankets, the works. Moving men.”