by Noel Hynd
Cooper's mind raced. Several scenarios passed through his mind, most of them not good.
“Uh huh,” Cooper said skeptically. “That or I get my head blown off, right?”
“Well, don't get cranky at me! That's all she said.”
“You know Brooklyn,” said Cooper, still trying to get a grip on the message. “What kind of neighborhood is this?”
“Grim.”
“Did it sound like her real voice?” Cooper asked.
“I should know? I've taken three phone messages in my life from her for you. A lot of women call you. I don't separate the ones who are buying a coffin from the ones who want to mail you their panties.” Cooper looked at the address again. More uncertain scenarios danced before him. Sam read his thoughts. “Listen,” Sam said. “Let me go with you.”
“No way.”
“Come on,” said Sam. “It's better for you if someone's there to back you up.”
Cooper blew out a long, dispirited breath.
“Sam, I promise to include you at the right time. But this isn't it.”
“Why not?”
“It could be dangerous.”
“The drive home on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway is dangerous. The gas range in my home is dangerous. The corned beef at the deli is dangerous. Give me a better reason.”
“I mean really dangerous. I don't know what I'm dealing with here. Who knows who's going to be at this location?”
“Well, if we both go, then we both know.”
Cooper was resolute. “I can't let you do it.”
“Then let me watch your car for you on the street. You want to come back in ten minutes and find it up on cinder blocks with all four tires gone?”
“No. I can't do it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“The presence of someone unexpected—you, in other words—could clam up whomever I'm meeting. These things are delicate. And I don't want to be responsible for your safety.”
“I'm old and can't protect myself, is that it?” Sam answered indignantly. “You can bust people’s balls better by yourself?”
For a moment, Cooper wavered again. “The answer remains no,” he finally said.
“Prick,” concluded Sam. “That's what people warned me about with you. Out to grab all the glory for yourself.”
Cooper didn't know if his friend was kidding or legitimately angry.
“That's not it. And you know it.”
But Sam wasn't listening. Lauren Richie appeared at the door, holding in her hand a printout of a sports feature and a miniature tape recorder. She was on her way to an interview.
“Sam, can I talk to you?” she asked.
“The trouble with you, Frank,” Sam said, “is you're an ingrate. I don't like to bring up favors. But I did you a big one to get you on this paper. Now I'm asking you for one in return and you don't know me.”
Then Sam was out the door. Cooper was too astonished to answer. Lauren gave Cooper a dry smile of sympathy and a shrug. Then she disappeared with Sam.
Chapter 27
S&F Self Storage was a converted warehouse in Bensonhurst. Planet Brooklyn, 1968: an urban moonscape with desolate blocks that glowed from bluish mercury lights. Chain-linked fencing topped with concertina barbed wire surrounded commercial lots. Broken bottles littered every sidewalk along with used syringes.
Frank Cooper arrived in the area at midnight amid a steady humid drizzle. From the mercury lights and from the rain, he had the impression of visiting a war zone. Cooper had seen too many places like this too many times as an investigative reporter.
In a rented car, he slowly circled the renovated warehouse. S&F appeared to have only one entrance. Cooper parked a block beyond it, then cut his auto lights and his engine. He positioned himself where he could see in every direction for at least fifty feet. He knew how quickly the creatures of an urban night could pounce.
He kept the key in the car's ignition. He slumped low in his seat. He adjusted his rearview mirror so that he could see behind him. His heart pounded. All the old instincts and fears were back upon him. He felt himself sweat.
In his rearview mirror, he watched the entrance to S&F. On the radio, Willie Nelson's plaintive voice soothed him only slightly. Cooper turned off the radio. There was no movement on the street. If it had been pitch black, the night couldn't have been more imposing. He was glad he had brought his gun. But he wished that he wasn't here.
Cooper watched. He waited. Time slowly passed. He guessed that if Margot were to show up at all, she was already within the warehouse. Yet he hardly expected to see her. Who had really called? Logic told him to flee. Logic sometimes got in the way of a great story.
Nervously, Cooper checked his weapon. It was loaded and ready. The drizzle intensified. It drummed on the roof of his car. The sound made it more difficult to see or hear, worsening his anxiety. Time dragged like a body being removed from a battlefield.
At a quarter hour before one a.m., another car eased its way through the rain. It stopped under a street lamp across from S&F's entrance. With the glare and in the rain, Cooper could not manage a good look. Then the car pulled back half a block and parked behind a stripped vehicle that was up on cement blocks. Cooper sat low in his car seat and watched. The man in the car was not skilled at this sort of thing. He was out in the open.
The man sat in his driver's seat for less than five minutes, then stepped from his car. Cooper squinted. The man had wrapped himself in a long bulky raincoat and wore a hat down upon his eyes. He moved to the warehouse, tried the door, and was quickly inside. Cooper saw a light go on then go off. Cooper almost had to laugh. The man was an amateur of the first rank.
Who the hell could it possibly be? David Charles? A Rudawski pal from the State Department? One of the young Marine guards at the embassy? It made no sense.
Cooper looked at the clock on the dashboard. Ten minutes to go. He drew a deep breath. Should he go in a few minutes early, or wait? He had held out this long, Cooper reasoned. He would wait the final few minutes. He checked his weapon again and made sure he could grasp it quickly. Then it was time. He reached for the handle of his car door.
Then he froze. Two men were leaving the warehouse. Their actions were hurried. They seemed to be locking the warehouse, not opening it. One man was well over six feet, Cooper guessed. The other was shorter and stockier. Rain, glare and shadows obstructed Cooper’s vision. The two men turned away from Cooper hustled down the block and around a corner. Perplexed, Cooper stared at the wet darkness into which the two men had disappeared. What was this? The changing of the guard? Or was he making more out of this than reason demanded?
It was time to go in. He positioned his car on the end of S&F's block. He left the doors open. He checked for a backup key that he had sewn against the inseam of the seat. He slid a small flashlight into his pocket and checked his weapon yet again.
Cooper stepped from the car. For a moment, he listened to the ominous muffled noises of the borough. Distant traffic from the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. An airplane from JFK. Not much else. Other than the rain, there was no movement anywhere, other than a few rats.
He turned and walked to the warehouse door. He stood for a moment and glanced down the block. His heart fluttered. He could finally discern the configuration of the car that had parked behind the stripped chassis.
Sure enough, he recognized it. Suddenly—horribly! —what he had witnessed made sense.
Sam!
His hand went to his pistol and his heart kicked. He turned, went to S&F's entrance, and yanked at the door. It was locked.
He cursed and yanked it again. When it didn't give way, he stepped back, stood to the side, pointed his pistol at the lock and turned his face away. He fired. The metal on the door exploded like a detonated grenade: sharp fragments flew in all directions. Cooper bolted to the door and pulled at it again. With a tremendous effort, it opened.
An alarm blazed. He stood in an entrance area. There was a door which led past
a security window. He tried it. It opened. He moved through it, nose of his pistol first. He found himself in a passageway that led to stairs.
Up for units 200—400, said a sign. Down for 01-199. He went down a dark set of concrete stairs. The air was mildewed and dank. The alarm continued to scream. No matter. If the police were in the area, he could use them. More than likely, however, this was an area abandoned by the police many years earlier. He reached a door, which led to the basement. A low-wattage bulb cast a faint light within the stairwell. Cooper descended to the lower level, keeping his weapon aloft and ready to fire.
Cooper knew this was a catastrophe. He pushed open the door to the basement. Darkness. He stepped into it. He reached for his flashlight and felt his way along the wall. His hand found a light switch. He flipped the switch and the entire corridor went bright. Cooper bolted across the corridor and stood flush against a wall of gray aluminum storage lockers. He turned his head in each direction. He saw no one. The screaming of the alarm covered everything.
He glanced at a sign above him, which directed him to his left for unit 012. Cooper, gun still ready, moved to his right. If this unit was like any other, he reasoned, there was an entrance and exit at the end of each row. He would take the less likely route, better to surprise anyone who might be lingering in wait. As he moved he also scanned the lockers. He searched for any that were not sealed. It was out of just such a hiding place that a gunman might step.
He moved with a cautiousness that was painful. Sweat cascaded off his brow into his eyes. His hands were soaked. He moved to one corner. He safely rounded it, assured himself he was still alone, and proceeded to the next. The lockers were divided one on top of the other. Cooper continued to scan for an unlocked unit.
He turned the corner to the final row of lockers. The corridor was unlit. He stopped, heard nothing, and reached to another light switch. He turned it on. He waited. By now his heart was sinking.
“Oh, God,” he said, almost crying, as he looked ahead. “No!”
Several feet before him he saw a splattering of blood against a wall, as well as a deep dent in a locker. Cooper recognized it as a bullet hole. But it was not a clean hole, it was a jagged one made by a bullet fired at medium range but partially spent.
He dashed to the area. There was blood on the floor. Much of it was a long streak, as if something—like a bleeding body—had been dragged. It had been dragged into locker number 012 and the door had been pushed shut.
Cooper tucked his pistol into his belt. He reached to the locker door, as a man might when opening a tomb in a nightmare. But this was real. Fingerprints be damned, he opened Number 012.
The body of Sam Rothman slumped slightly toward him. Sam, unable to stay away from a story that enticed him, had been shot twice in the back by cowards waiting in ambush.
Cooper felt for a pulse and found one. It was faint, but it was there.
“Oh, Jesus, Sam!” Cooper blurted aloud. He reached into the unit and embraced Sam's body. He struggled to pull him out. Sam's clothes were soaked with blood, particularly in back. The blood flowed freely onto Cooper's arms. Sam was gasping, his eyes flickering.
Cooper tore the sleeve of his raincoat and made a tourniquet. He tried to staunch the bleeding, but it was almost impossible.
It's better for you if someone's there to back you up.
“Why couldn't you stay away?” Cooper struggled with his composure.
Out to grab all the glory for yourself.
“Oh, God, Sam. Why couldn't you have understood?” Cooper said, fighting back tears, holding his friend in a shuddering embrace. “This wasn't for you. It was for me.”
Even the three phantom telephone calls of that morning, the times there had been no caller, now made sense. Someone other than Margot wanted to leave a message. Cooper would have recognized her voice.
Whoever had done this had ambushed Sam from the rear, not even waiting to see if they had the right man. Sam had been hit with two shots. In the moments of his ambush, he may have understood what was about to happen, that he had walked into a trap meant for Frank Cooper. But surely, he hadn't understood why.
Cooper's tears began to flow. He sobbed with anger, fury, and helplessness.
Poor Sam. Cooper cursed Margot Bradford and Stanley Rudawski. He cursed the Eagle. He cursed his fate. But he saved the most vehement, violent, and profane curses for himself.
Then he stood. He propped his fallen friend against a clean wall. He had to get help. An ambulance. Cooper raced back upstairs and looked for a telephone. The alarm was still howling. ringing shrilly, but he barely heard it. He went to the front entrance area and found a pay telephone. He lifted the receiver. He was just coming to grips with the fact that the telephone was out of order when he saw movement near the front door he had smashed.
“Police! Don't move!” a voice barked.
Cooper froze, his arms raised, his hands visible. Someone shone a heavy floodlight upon him. Figures emerged from shadows. Cooper made out the form of shotguns drawn and pointed at anything that moved. The police shoved Cooper headfirst against the wall. They frisked him and stripped him of his weapon. They kept two heavy firearms trained upon him, one a foot from the back of his head. They pulled his pockets inside out, retrieving his wallet and his identification, including his pistol permit. They handcuffed him with his wrists behind his back then threw him to the ground.
“I'm a reporter for the New York Eagle,” Cooper said. “You've got a man shot down downstairs.”
“Shut up. We’ll decided what we got,” one of the cops answered.
A kick to the ribs from one of the cops convinced him to keep quiet. Uniformed cops were flooding into the building now. Eventually, some ambulance techies appeared. There was a commotion that he couldn’t see, but he reckoned Sam’s body was being removed. He had no idea whether his friend was dead or alive.
A young patrolman came to Cooper, looked at him critically, and placed a foot on his back to keep him in place. There he remained until other cops arrived. They hauled Cooper to the 86th Precinct where, in a moment of brilliant police work, they placed him under arrest.
Chapter 28
Two NYPD detectives from the 2nd Detective Division, Brooklyn, arrived at the 86th Precinct at three a.m. Their names were Newman and Cheney. They released Cooper from the handcuffs. At three thirty a.m. they allowed Cooper to begin his explanation of who he was, what he was doing there, and what had happened. The detectives held the opinion that there wasn't much unusual about a man who’d been shot in a self-storage unit. Cop business as usual.
“Do you know who his family was?” Cheney asked.
“I know he's widowed. He has no children,” Cooper said. “Next of kin of some sort would be listed at the paper.” Cooper said he would notify the proper people. It was at that time that Newman connected Sam's name with the newspaper.
“There's a guy there who writes a sports column,” Newman said, as if in revelation. He grabbed a battered two-day old copy of the Eagle. “You're not telling me that…?”
“That’s the guy,” Cooper said.
Detective Cheney examined Cooper's weapon. Thirty-eight caliber. Sam had been shot at close range with a thirty-two, something more common to mob hits over unpaid gambling debts and assorted vendetta.
“What do you carry this piece for?” Cheney asked.
“Personal protection.”
“For what? You write obituaries.”
“I don’t want to become one.”
“None of us do.”
“I used to do investigative reporting. I made a lot of enemies.”
Cooper explained further, gradually winning over Newman and Cheney with his explanation of both his life and the evening. The cops found Cooper's permit to be in order, confirmed that it was legitimate, and returned the weapon to Cooper. Cheney took a further statement from Cooper as to what Cooper witnessed. When Cooper concluded his statement, the detectives informed him that Sam was in critical condition
at Kings County Hospital and not expected to survive.
Cooper left the 86th Precinct like a man in a trance. The rain had relented to an intermittent drizzle, but Cooper was hardly aware of it. He was exhausted and had no idea what to do. He felt as if a rug had been yanked from beneath his feet, but he was still suspended in air.
Cooper drove to the Eagle. He parked his car in the subterranean lot beneath the Eagle building and took the elevator to the deserted fourth floor. He slowly walked the corridor to his office. He paused for a moment by Sam's door, then continued to his desk.
He sat down at his typewriter. He would be damned if he would see any of what he knew appear first in the dull gray “newspaper of record” or the upstart middle-brow Long Island tabloid. Adrenaline and blind anger propelled him. He was self-conscious enough to know that those two qualities were what had once made him the best news reporter in the city. He punched out a painful two-column headline for the lead of the Eagle's next edition.
SAM ROTHMAN, 59, SPORTS EDITOR OF
THE NEW YORK EAGLE SHOT IN BROOKLYN.
He pulled the paper from his typewriter and tacked it to his wall. Then he punched out a headline for the first news page.
ASSAULT ON EAGLE SPORTS
EDITOR TIED TO DIPLOMAT’S
OBITUARY OF SEPTEMBER 12.
He pulled that heading from the typewriter and hung it next to the article. Working in the solitude of his floor, he stared at the two of them for several minutes. Then he returned to the news account. He spent an hour getting it the way he wanted it. But he wasn't finished. Cooper had been up for twenty hours but was now breathing fire. Any writer on the Eagle could submit a piece of opinion related to any newsworthy topic. Such pieces had to waltz past Murphy. Their eventual appearance in print largely depended upon Murphy's moods. But Frank Cooper had something to say. So he said it angrily straight onto a clean sheet of paper. He titled it,