The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  I was in the outside lane, preparing to get off at the Hollywood Boulevard exit near Van Ness Avenue. The middle lane to my left began moving faster and a gap appeared in the line of cars. The impatient driver behind me swerved into the middle lane and proceeded to pass me. As he rolled past my window he gave me the one finger salute and pulled ahead. On the trunk lid of his car I could see one of those Jesus fishes in chrome plastered to back side of the car. I guessed that he’d put it there to let the rest of the world know that he was a good Christian. Yeah, right. A good Christian who doesn’t hesitate to show his fellow man what his middle finger looks like. I had a phrase for people like that—assholier than thou.

  I wasn’t going to let this guy ruin my otherwise tranquil day, though. I found my exit and let the rest of the rat race have the freeway. I was only seven block from my office and soon I’d be sitting behind my desk with my feet up, reading the morning paper and that guy behind me would soon fade from my memory.

  Dad was already in the office when I arrived. Gloria was home with our son, Matt. Little Matt was running a fever and Gloria didn’t feel right leaving him with Mrs. Chandler, the nanny she had found shortly after Matt’s birth. Dad and I could handle whatever business came our way today. I told Gloria that I’d call her later to see how Matt was doing.

  I hadn’t even had a chance to sit down after my short commute when Dad spoke up. “Don’t get comfortable, Elliott,” he said. “I took a call a few minutes ago from a guy who wants to hire us. We have to go meet with him. He wouldn’t tell me anything about the job over the phone.”

  I dropped the morning paper onto my desk and sighed. I turned to Dad. “Did you ever hear that comedy bit by George Carlin?” I said. “He did a routine years ago on his Occupation: Foole album about work ethics. He said, ‘You might get there on time, but screw the company. Those first twenty minutes belong to you’. Well, that’s the way I feel about my own business. When I come in in the morning, I like to relax with the paper and just unwind from the commute. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” Dad said. “A commute like that must take it all out of you. Let’s see, you live how far away from the office?”

  “Two miles, give or take,” I said. “But it’s not the distance; it’s the time it takes to fight the traffic. Carlin also went on to say, ‘You never see a memo that says 9:01. People don’t jump out of bed and vacuum’. The same applies here, or at least it should apply.”

  “So, you’re saying you’d rather let a potential client wait so you can unwind?” Dad said. “With a work ethic like that, there won’t be an investigations business to pass along to your son, Matt when the time comes.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going,” I said. “I just wanted to voice my objection. Come on, let’s go. Where does this guy live?”

  “I don’t know,” Dad said. “The guy didn’t want to say. He prefers to meet us in MacArthur Park on a bench at the northeast side of the park.”

  “Oh, great,” I said. “Another cloak and dagger client. Well, let’s go see what’s so all-fired important that we have to meet in the park on a Monday morning.”

  Dad rode with me in my van and we were able to make it MacArthur Park by eight-thirty, the time that the client had specified. I parked the van on Sixth Street, in front of a bakery and walked across the street to the park. There was a cement bench facing Alvarado Street and there was a man sitting on it, looking around him at the people who were coming and going. He was wearing a coat with the collar turned up and he sported a pair of dark glasses.

  I turned to Dad. “Did this guy at least give you a name?” I said. “Otherwise, we won’t even know who to ask for?”

  Dad pulled his notepad from his pocket and flipped it open to the last entry. “John Smith,” he said.

  “That’s original,” I said. “I’ll give you ten-to-one odds it’s not the name his mother gave him.”

  “I’ll pass,” Dad said. “Let’s just go over to that guy on the bench and see if he’s John Smith.”

  Dad and I slowly approached the man on the bench. When he looked up at us I made some remark about what a nice day it was and then asked if he was John Smith.

  “Mr. Cooper?” the man said.

  Dad nodded. The man slid to the end of the bench and invited us to sit down.

  The man looked at me and then at Dad. “Who’s this?” he said.

  “This is my son, Elliott Cooper,” Dad explained. “My name is Clay Cooper. We both work out of the office and we both handle cases, so tell us what you need and we’ll tell you whether or not we can help you. How does that sound, Mr. Smith?” Dad started to turn toward the man, but Smith advised him to keep facing forward. “Is that your real name?” Dad said.

  “It’s the only name you need to know,” Smith said. “Now, do you want the job or not?”

  “We can’t give you an answer until we know what it is you want us to do,” Dad said. “Would you care to fill us in a little?”

  Smith looked down at the sidewalk but spoke to Dad. “I need you to find a guy for me,” he said.

  “That’s what we do,” Dad said. “Is there something special about this guy you want us to find?”

  “You don’t understand,” Smith said. “Let me back up a little. I was given a contract to find this man and take care of him, if you know what I mean.”

  “A contract?” Dad said. “Let me guess, you’re with one of the phone companies and you want this guy to sign up for your service?”

  “They told me you was a wise guy,” Smith said. “No, I’m not with any phone company, door-to-door brush sales company or the god-damn Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “Ooh,” I said. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn’t they?” I said to Smith.

  “Look kid,” Smith said. “You smart-mouth me once more and I’ll kill you where you sit, you understand me?”

  Now Dad turned directly toward Smith and barked, “Listen, I don’t care who you are, you don’t threaten me or my son, ever. Do you understand?”

  Smith’s coat came open to show us both the hand that held the gun with the silencer screwed onto the end of the barrel. “You got something you want to say, smart guy?” Smith said.

  I held up both hands and showed Smith my palms. “Hold on there,” I said. “Slow down. We’re not looking for trouble. Suppose you just tell us what it is you want.”

  Smith closed his coat again. “I don’t guess I have anything to lose by telling you,” he said. “What are you gonna do anyway?”

  “About what?” Dad said.

  “All right,” Smith said. “No more beating around the bush. Time is something I don’t have a lot of. Here’s what I need from you two. I was hired to kill a guy and I got paid up front. I only have thirty-six hours or less to live so what I want is for you to find the guy for me.”

  “Now hold on just a minute there,” Dad said. “We don’t…”

  “Wait,” Smith said. “It’s not what you think. I don’t want you to kill him. I just want you to find him.”

  “Why?” I said. “So you can kill him once we do find him?”

  “No,” smith said. “I don’t want to kill him, either. Listen, yesterday someone slipped something into my drink and it made me woozy. The feeling didn’t go away all day yesterday so I went to see a doctor. Turns out that someone put poison in my drink and it’s a slow-acting poison. The doctor confirmed that I had less than two days to live before the poison would finish the job that someone else had started. There’s nothing they can do to counter the effects and there is no antidote. Either way, by tomorrow night I’ll be dead.”

  “So how is finding anyone or doing anything at all a problem for someone who’s dying anyway?” Dad said. “Just forget about the guy you were paid to kill.”

  “No good,” Smith said. “When they find out I’m dead, they’ll just send someone else to finish the job I started.”

  “And you want us to find your target and what, tell him not to w
orry?” I said.

  “You need to do more than that,” Smith said. “I want you to find him and keep him from being anyone else’s target. And you can’t just send him out of town, either. They’ll never stop looking for him. No, what I want you to do is find him and fake his death, so they’ll think he’s dead and stop looking for him.”

  “Who is this ‘they’ you keep talking about?” Dad said.

  “You don’t need to know,” Smith said. “In fact, the less you know about them, the safer you and your boy will be. Now, for the last time, do you want this job or not?”

  Dad and I exchanged glances. Dad turned to Smith and said, “We’ll take it with certain provisions. One, you’ll obviously need to tell us the name of the guy you want found, along with any other pertinent information necessary to establishing his whereabouts. Two, you’ll obviously have to pay us up front in full because chances are we’ll never meet again. And three, we’ll need to know who ‘they’ are so we don’t inadvertently tip our hands to the wrong people. Believe me, Mr. Smith, we can handle ourselves. If you agree to all three of our provisions, I think we have a deal.”

  Smith thought about it for a moment and realized that his options as well as his time were both running out. “Okay,” he said. “You got the job.” Smith reached into his coat pocket and produced a fat business-size envelope and passed it to Dad. “Here you go, that’s payment in full. There’s twenty-five grand in there.”

  “That’s a lot more than we usually get,” Dad said. “Why so much?”

  “Because I need fast results,” Smith said. “And because what good is it going to do me where I’m going? Believe me; you’ll earn every penny of that before you’re done.”

  Mr. Smith,” Dad said. “Let me ask you one more thing, if I may.”

  “I wondered how long it would take you to get around to it,” Smith said. “You want to know why I’m doing this.”

  “Well, yeah,” Dad said. “It had crossed my mind. Most guys in your situation would have just spent the whole twenty-five grand and lived it up for two days. Why does this guy deserve a reprieve?”

  “Because he’s my father,” Smith said. “He pissed off the wrong guy and made himself a target.”

  “Didn’t the guys who gave you the contract know he was your father?” I said.

  Smith shook his head. “They don’t even know my real name or anything else about me and that’s the way I want it to stay, even after I’m dead. Got it?”

  “I can’t tell anyone what I don’t know,” I said. “As far as Dad and I are concerned, you’re John Smith, period.”

  Smith pulled another slip of paper from his pocket and passed it Dad. “That’s Dad’s name, address, phone number and where he works. He lives alone. Mom died many years ago.” Smith looked at his watch. “You two better get started right away. And I don’t want him to know that I was the man hired to make the hit, understand?”

  I nodded. “And how will you know if we’ve succeeded?” I said.

  Smith sighed. “I’m just going to have to trust you on that,” he said. “Unless you can fake his death in the next thirty hours or so.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I assured him. “Either way, we’ll make sure nothing happens to your father.”

  Smith got up from the bench and turned to leave.

  “How will we contact you?” Dad said.

  “You won’t,” Smith replied. “I’ll check back with you from time to time. Keep your cell phones on.” He walked south on Alvarado and disappeared into the pedestrian traffic.

  Dad and I looked at each other, our eyes getting wide with wonder as dad pried the envelope open, exposing all those fifty dollar bills. He closed the envelope again and shoved it into his pocket. “I guess we should just start at the beginning,” Dad said, “and try calling Smith’s father at home.

  “Great,” I said, “but let’s get away from here first. All that money makes me nervous.”

  Dad and I hurried back to my van, slid in and locked the doors.

  “What’s his father’s name?” I said.

  Dad checked the slip of paper Smith had given him. “Fleming,” he said. “Harry Fleming.” Dad flipped open his cell phone and dialed the number on the paper that Smith had given us. The phone rang nine times before Dad gave up and closed it again. “Strike one,” Dad said. “He’s probably already at work. Let’s try there next.”

  I started the van and turned to Dad. “Which way?” I said.

  Dad looked at the name of the place where Harry Fleming worked. “Downtown,” Dad said. “The metro bus station. He’s a driver.”

  I made it to the bus station in twenty minutes. I stayed with the van while Dad went inside to try to locate Harry Fleming. Dad came out of the bus station ten minutes later and slid back into the van. “He’s on his route already,” Dad said. “They told me the area that Fleming covers. Drive over to Fountain and LaBrea. His bus is number twenty. His route covers Fountain and LaBrea west to Fairfax, south to Melrose, east to LaBrea and north again to Fountain. Just keep an eye out for bus number twenty. And drive the route in reverse, otherwise we could be following him endlessly and never catch up to him.”

  “Got it,” I said and drove west to LaBrea. I drove south to Melrose and then east toward Fairfax, all the while keep a watchful eye open for bus number twenty.

  Ten minutes later Dad pointed out the windshield. “There it is,” he said. “It’s picking up some passengers on that corner.”

  I turned right and circled the block, coming up behind bus number twenty. I passed the bus and watched in my rearview mirror as it stopped at the corner to pick up another passenger. I hurried ahead to the next corner and let Dad out.

  “Get to him,” I said. “I’ll stay behind the bus while you’re on it. It doesn’t matter how you do it, but you have to get Fleming off that bus.”

  I dropped Dad off at the next corner and pulled over to the curb a short distance ahead. Dad waited at the bus stop and got on number twenty stopped. Dad stepped up into the bus, dropped his money into the meter and sat directly behind the drive.

  As the bus pulled away from the curb, Dad leaned in toward the driver and whispered, “Harry Fleming?”

  “Sit back, sir,” the driver said. “You’re not allowed to talk to the driver.”

  Dad pulled his I.D. and shield and held it where the driver could see it. “Mr. Fleming,” Dad said. “We have a bit of an emergency here. You are Harry Fleming, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Fleming said, “but I still can’t talk to you or anyone else. I have a bus to drive.”

  “Mr. Fleming,” I said, more emphatically this time, “Your life is in danger. I’m going to need you to come with me right away.”

  “How would you like me to drive you to the police station?” Fleming said. “Now sit there and be quiet.”

  Dad could see that conventional methods weren’t going to work in this scenario. He pulled his .38 out from under his coat and stuck it in Fleming’s ribs. “Pull over at the next corner and kill the engine,” Dad said.

  Fleming looked down at the gun stuck in his ribs and flinched noticeably. “All right,” Fleming said. “Don’t do anything rash. I’ll stop the bus.”

  At the next corner Fleming pulled up to the bus stop, shut off the engine and opened the folding door to the street. He and Dad stepped down onto the sidewalk and proceeded to the back of the bus where I waited in the van.

  Dad opened the passenger door and pointed with his gun. “Get in,” he told Fleming. Fleming slid into the passenger seat and Dad slid the side door open and got in, crouching behind the two front seats.

  I pulled around the bus and drove north on Fairfax. I could see the scared look in Fleming’s eyes. I looked back at Dad. “Are you crazy?” I said. “This is kidnapping.”

  “He wouldn’t listen to reason,” Dad said, holstering his weapon. “What else was I supposed to do?”

  I turned to Fleming. “Look,” I said. “We’re not kidnappers, honest.
We’re trying to save your life, believe it or not.”

  “Trying to save my life?” Fleming said. “You have a strange way of showing it, if you ask me.”

  “Mr. Fleming,” I said. “I’m going to pull into that parking lot so we can all talk, okay? I just don’t want you jumping out of the van when I do. Do you understand?”

  Fleming held both palms up. “I won’t go anywhere,” he said, “but you’ve both got a lot of explaining to do.”

  I shut off the van and turned to Dad. “Do you want to start?” I said to Dad. “Or should I begin?”

  “Go ahead,” Dad said. “If you leave anything out, I’ll fill it in.”

  I began by telling Fleming about the phone call Dad took this morning and how we had to meet the guy in the park. I explained everything that Smith had told us, leaving out the fact that the hit man was Fleming’s own son. When I’d finished relaying the story to Fleming, he settled back into his seat and sighed heavily.

  “Gees,” Fleming said. “I wonder what I ever did to get on someone’s hit list. I don’t have any money to speak of. Hell, I’m just a bus driver. I don’t have anything anyone would want. I don’t know anything that I shouldn’t about anyone else. Why would someone want me dead?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Mr. Fleming,” I said. “But there is one thing that is for sure. Unless these people think you’re dead, they’ll never stop looking for you.”

  “So what can we do?” Fleming said, his voice a little shakier than before.

  I have an idea that just might work,” Dad said to Fleming. Are you game?”

  “Hell yes,” Fleming said. “If it would keep me alive I’d dress up like Shirley Temple.”

  “I don’t think we need to get that drastic,” Dad said. “But speaking of dressing up, I have a friend at one of the movie studios that owes me a favor. I also know a reporter at the television studio. I’m pretty sure I can get both of them to cooperate with me.”

  “Doing what?” Fleming said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’d like to know what you have up your sleeve, too.”

  Dad turned to Fleming. “Whatever we do,” he said, “you’ll never be able to go back to your old life after today. You won’t be driving a bus anymore. You can’t live in your house or visit with any friends or relatives—nothing. You can’t take anything from your house or empty your bank account. That would send up a red flag right away and they’d know you weren’t dead.”