Cooper By The Gross (All 144 Cooper Stories In One Volume) Read online

  “Like a baby’s ass?” I said, finishing his thought.

  “Si, like a little one’s behind.” Rudy laughed again.

  “Rudy,” I said, “could I ask one last favor of you?”

  “Si, senior Cooper,” he said, his chamois still swirling around on the car’s finish.

  “If it won’t get you into any trouble,” I said, “do you suppose you could show me a copy of Mr. Bascomb’s rental slip?”

  “No trouble, senior,” Rudy said. “Mr. Lang he don’t come in today until nine. Come with me.”

  Rudy led me to the office and produced the rental slip with Melvin Bascomb’s name. It was dated August 15, 1946. The slip showed his address to be 2220 Gardner in West Hollywood. No phone number. The rental was paid by cash.

  “Thanks Rudy,” I said, turning to go. I gave him one of my cards and said, “If this guy comes back would you call me?”

  Rudy agreed and added, “Senior, perhaps when I have my own garage you will be my customer, no?”

  “You bet I will,” I said.

  I drove west on Sunset toward West Hollywood. At Gardner I headed north and checked the house numbers. The last house on the block was number 1842 before ending in foothills. There was no 2220 and Bascomb was probably not his real name, either.

  I headed back toward the ranch to catch up with Sean MacMurphy. Shooting of the movie had resumed earlier that morning and by the time I got there they were setting up the next scene in a orange grove. I found Ruth Strong at the canteen truck sipping coffee and munching on a donut.

  “Ruth,” I said, “Matt Cooper. We met here the other day.”

  “Of course, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “What brings you back here today?”

  “Just a few questions,” I said. “I didn’t see Mr. MacMurphy’s car here. Is someone else directing?”

  “No, Sean’s here.” She looked around for a moment. “There he is now,” she said, pointing to a man seated in a canvas back sling chair near the end row of the orange grove.

  “Funny,” I said, “I didn’t see his car here so I just assumed...”

  “His car’s right over there,” she said, gesturing her head in the direction of a Cadillac sedan.

  “That’s his car?” I said. “What about the silver Rolls he left here in yesterday?”

  “Oh that, that was a rental or something,” she said. “We had some major backers here from Chicago yesterday and he needed to impress them. You know how it is. The best part of the steak is the sizzle, and all that Hollywood crap.”

  I nodded as if I knew what she meant. I hadn’t a clue. Several prop men walked by carrying baskets of oranges. They stopped at several of the trees and proceeded to skewer oranges onto some of the branches of otherwise empty trees.

  “What on earth are they doing?” I said.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” she said. “Here we are in the middle of an orange grove and they have to put oranges back on the trees so the actors have something to pick.” She shook her head in disgust. “I specifically told the location guy to have the farmer hold off picking these last dozen trees so we could use them in the scene we’re filming today.”

  “I don’t suppose saying ‘that’s show biz’ would mean much at this point?” I said.

  “You never did say why you came back to the ranch, Mr. Cooper,” she said.

  “Please, Miss Strong, call me Matt.”

  “It’s Mrs. Strong, technically,” she said. “I’m divorced from that son-of-a-bitch,” she pointed to a man in a floppy straw hat who was seated next to Sean MacMurphy. It looked like they were going over a script. “You can call me Ruth if it’ll make you feel any better.” She smiled.

  “It’sa a deal,” I said. “What can you tell me about Mr. MacMurphy?”

  “What do you wanna know?” she said.

  “The usual,” I said. “You know, family life, habits, unusual quirks.”

  “What’s this all about?” she said.

  “At this point I’m not even sure,” I said. “I’m looking into another matter and the trail led me to him. It may be nothing but it’s all I have to go on for now.”

  “Well, I’ve been working on this movie since mid-June,” she said. Before that I’d never met Sean.”

  “What kind of guy is he?” I said.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “I know he’s married,” I said, “but does he have an eye for the ladies?”

  “Oh, that,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  My eyebrows took a dive and I looked at her from a sideways glance.

  “It’s no secret,” she said. “Even his wife knows about some of his extra-curricular activities, to put it mildly.”

  “And she puts up with that?” I said.

  “Sure, she couldn’t give a shit about him,” she said, “but her father thinks Sean is the best thing since sliced bread and she doesn’t want to disillusion him. Don’t ask me why.”

  I lifted my hat, ran my fingers through my hair and replaced the hat again. “What about his hair. Is it his?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Every strand.”

  My eyebrows were getting a real workout by now.

  “Yup, every strand, bought and paid for,” she added.

  “You mean he’s a little thin on top?”

  “Thin?” she said. “The censors won’t even allow his real head in a movie. Looks to much like a...”

  “Like a baby’s ass,” I said, finishing the sentence for her.

  Her snap ended in a finger pointing right at me. “Right.”

  “What about Chester Dawson?” I said.

  “Oh him, he’s like Sean’s shadow. You almost never see one without the other,” she said. “If people didn’t know Sean was a first class womanizer, they’d think those two were an item.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “What about...”

  I didn’t get to finish my thought when a voice came over the bullhorn. “Places, everybody. This is not a run-through. We’ve got a movie to make. Let’s go.”

  “Gotta run,” Ruth said, putting down her coffee cup and picking up her clipboard. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  I nodded and slowly walked over to where Ruth had gone, watching the movie making process in silence. The director yelled for quiet and the action began. An actor in a tan uniform-type shirt yelled something to the other actors who were portraying orange pickers. It was in Spanish and I was a little rusty.

  A second actor in a similar shirt repeated the orders in English. “Anyone caught whizzing on the trees will be fired.”

  This was definitely not an “A” movie. I doubted that it even qualified as a “B” movie. I wasn’t sure how far down the alphabet movies went, but this one was probably a first cousin to an “L”. Looked like L from where I stood, anyway.

  I wandered away in search of anyone who might have seen Selma in the past couple of weeks. In the shade of an orange tree that was out of camera range I found a young man, maybe twenty, watching the progress of the movie. I sat next to him and offered my hand. He shook it.

  “Matt Cooper,” I said.

  “Ron Schuster,” the boy answered and kept watching the other actors.

  “Pretty exciting stuff, this movie business,” I said, trying to engage him. “A friend of mine’s in this one.”

  “No kidding,” he said. “Who’s that?”

  “Lola Parker,” I said and waited for a reaction.

  “Where’ve you been?” he said. “Lola hasn’t been on the set in more than a week. Word is she’s out.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” I said, not sure of where I was going with this line.

  “Ron!” A familiar voice yelled. It was Ruth Strong’s.

  “Gotta go,” he said. “This is my part.”

  He walked over to where Ruth stood, listened intently for a minute and then threw a canvas bag over his shoulder and headed off down the row of orange trees. As the director yelled, “Action,” Ron walked toward the camera with his bag of ora
nges. He walked right past the camera as if it weren’t there before the director yelled, “Cut. Print it.” Ron put his bag down and returned to his spot under the tree.

  “Pretty slick, Ron,” I said. You have any other big parts?”

  “Not today,” he said. “Tomorrow, though they’re using a bunch of us in the arrest scene. Me and Bill and some of the other guys get frisked and thrown into that pickup in handcuffs. Swell, huh?”

  “Oh yeah, swell,” I said. “What about Lola? Where’d you last see her?”

  “Let’s see,” he said, scratching his head. “I think it was at the Gold Cup in Pasadena. Yeah, that was it. Some of the cast had a little get together there on the first night they used us as extras.”

  “Why would you remember that night of any night?” I said.

  “No reason,” he said casually. “Just that she left before anyone else. I watched her walk outside and across the lot. She was picked up by someone in a big Rolls. I thought, man, she’s got connections. I didn’t see her any more after that.”

  “You’re sure it was a Rolls,” I said. “How could you tell?”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “Ever since I got out here from Michigan I’ve been seeing all these big fancy cars. I promised myself that if I ever make it big in movies I’m gettin’ me a Rolls.”

  “Thanks, Ron,” I said. “Good luck on the movie.”

  I left the ranch feeling like I was going in circles. Nobody could tell me much about anything connected to Behemoth Pictures or Sean MacMurphy.

  I pulled into a space behind my office building and got out. Three spaces down I noticed a black Cadillac sedan. It looked out of place in this neighborhood. As I reached the back door to my building I heard the sound of a car door opening. I turned to find a large man standing right in front of me. I thought for a second that he was wearing a barrel under his overcoat. His hands looked as though they could squeeze my head like a cantalope and his eyes looked like he had the notion.

  With a single sweeping gesture of his head, he’d made it clear where he wanted me to go. The gun under my arm may as well have been in my desk drawer. By the time I could reach it my feet would be off the ground and I’d be gasping for air. I decided the best option would be to play along.

  The rear window of the sedan rolled down and a voice from within said, “Mr. Cooper, this is for you.” A brown envelope emerged from the Cadillac. I hesitated and then looked at the barrel-chested gorilla standing next to me. Again his head nodded in the direction of the envelope and I took it.

  “Talkative cuss, aren’t you?” I said, looking at the goon to my right.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Cooper,” the voice from the car said. “Open it.”

  I opened the envelope and withdrew a typewritten letter and an airline ticket. There were also twenty-five one hundred dollar bills, as new as the day they rolled off the presses. I looked back toward the sedan but still couldn’t make out a face in the back seat. “What do I have to do for this much scratch,” I said, “blow up a building?”

  “I want you to find someone for me, Mr. Cooper,” the man in the back seat said. “It’s all there in the letter. You are to leave for New York immediately.”

  “Your timing’s a little off,” I said. “I’m working on a case right now, but if you could wait a few...” A heavy hand on my collar interrupted my thoughts.

  “It is crucial that you start at once,” the voice said. “Do I make myself clear?”

  The pieces clicked into place and I stuffed the envelope and threw it back into the window of the Cadillac. “Are you hiring me onto your case or off the one I’m on?”

  The heavy hand clenched around my collar and I felt my feet getting lighter against the pavement.

  The voice said, “Perhaps I have not made my position perfectly clear, Mr. Cooper. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. If you are not on the next flight to New York you will be in a pine box by nightfall.”

  The hand lifted higher and my feet dangled a few inches from the ground. Then it released me and I tumbled like a rag doll at the gorilla’s feet. His enormous brown shoe connected with my midsection and all the air left my lungs in one mad rush. I concentrated on drawing in my next breath while the brown shoe slammed into my face. I fell backwards and tried to prop myself up on my elbows. The brown envelope slipped out the back window again and the goon tossed it at my feet before retreating into the Cadillac.

  “Be on that flight, Cooper,” he said.

  The Cadillac disappeared down the alley leaving a small cloud of smoke hovering over me.

  “What happened to ‘Mister’?” I said, before flopping onto my back.

  The Cadillac was out of sight before I got to my feet. I stuffed the envelope into my coat and headed upstairs to my office. The sink in the corner seemed a welcome sight as I scooped up handfuls of water and rubbed my face. My left cheek was raw and starting to swell.

  It wasn’t even lunchtime yet and already I’d managed to make my day’s quota of enemies. Departure time on the ticket that I held was ten-fifteen. I had a little better than eleven hours before they came looking for me. If I was going to find Selma Holquist, a.k.a. Lola Parker it would have to be today. I called Fran at the studio and arranged to pick her up for lunch. I drove her to the Brown Derby and we took a corner booth.

  “What the hell happened to your face, Matt?” she said.

  “A little friendly persuasion, you might say,” I said. I told her about the goon in the Cadillac and showed her the airline ticket.

  “Now what are you going to do?” she said.

  “Find Selma,” I said

  “Any ideas where you’re gonna start?” she said.

  “Just one,” I said. “Kids these days can’t live without money from somewhere. Either she’s found out what an easy touch the unemployment office is or she’s panhandling. I think I’ll start with the panhandling angle first.”

  We finished our lunch and I dropped Fran off at the studio gate and headed for Hollywood Boulevard. I knew most of the favorite places beggars hung out. The Masonic Temple steps across from Grauman’s Chinese Theater was as good a place as any to start. I found a guy, probably in his early twenties, sitting on the steps playing a guitar. His case was open and he’d collected a few dollars worth of coins by the look of what had accumulated in the case.

  I threw a couple of quarters in the case and sat down next to him. “Pretty good pickin’,” I said. “How long you been playing?”

  He smiled a broad smile and proudly announced, “Seven years, ever since I was fourteen.” He continued strumming.

  I pretended to be caught up in what he was playing, swaying with the music. I slyly pulled out Selma’s picture and showed it to him. “My niece,” I said. “She plays guitar, too. Not nearly as good as you, but she enjoys it. Seen her around here lately?”

  The boy stopped playing and looked at the picture before shaking his head. “Nope,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Of course, I’m not out here every day. She could have been here some other day and I wouldn’t have seen her.” His strumming continued.

  I produced a five-dollar bill and held it in front of him. The look in his eyes said that he might be looking at his next few meals. He put the guitar down and took the picture from me, pretending to study it closer.

  “You know,” he said, “I think I did see her here once. Must have been a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t seen her since, and that’s the truth.”

  “Know where I might find her?” I said, waving Lincoln back and forth.

  “Try the Hotel Rector down the street,” he said. “Lots of kids hang out there.” He grabbed the five, packed up his guitar and was gone before you could say Jimmy Crack Corn.

  The Hotel Rector was a flophouse that had seen better days. You could get a room there for a night for two dollars, twelve by the week. The desk clerk was sound asleep behind the counter. I slapped the bell twice and he jerked in his seat and sat upright. His eyes looked this way and that before fin
ally resting on me.

  “Yeah?” was all he could muster.

  I held the picture of Selma out in front of him. “Ever seen her?” I said.

  He took the picture from me. His bloodshot eyes alternated between blinking and widening as he tried to focus. He stared at it. His face drew a blank expression and he looked back at me. “Who are you?” he said, handing the picture back to me.

  “The name’s Cooper,” I said. “Matt Cooper. I’m trying to find her for her folks. Has she been here?”

  “Hard to say,” he said, sitting back down in his chair. “Lots of people come and go. I can’t remember ‘em all.”

  The Lincoln I gave the guitar-strumming panhandler had a brother and I held it in front of the clerk. “Think hard,” I said.

  The man stood again and looked upward as if it might help him think. “Come to think of it, I did see her,” he said finally.

  “Where, when?” I said. “I need facts.”

  He took the picture again and looked it over. “When’s she supposed to have been around here?” he said.

  “Two weeks ago,” I said. “Maybe three.”

  “Got a name to go with the face?” he said.

  “Selma Holquist,” I said.

  “Mmmm, quite a looker,” he said, smiling.

  “She’s sixteen,” I said with a stern look.

  “Oh, uh, well, what I meant was, um...” he stumbled through the sentence like he’d had hot peas in his mouth.

  “Look,” I said, “There’s a frantic mother out there who wants her daughter back and I intend to help her. Now has she been here or not?”

  The clerk produced his guest ledger and scanned back three weeks. His fingers ran up and down the pages with no luck. “No Selma’s been here,” he said.

  I sighed and put the picture back in my coat pocket. “Try Parker, Lola Parker,” I said. “She may have used a stage name.”

  His fingers ran over the pages again and stopped on Lola Parker. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “There she is.” His finger bounced up and down on the page.

  “When was she here?” I said.

  “Checked in August fifteenth, checked out August seventeenth,” he said.