Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

I didn’t stay in the cop shop long. I just delivered my plastic-wrapped package addressed to Sykes and Boyd. My name appeared on the label, but I had to fill out a form that duplicated what already existed clearly printed. I got the feeling that all parcels were regarded as bombs until proved to be innocent bags of laundry or forgotten lunches.

Not too many blocks from there and a good night’s sleep later, I bought a couple of fat Danishes and two large coffees and walked down University Avenue, past the other TV network on the street, to NTC, with its big rooftop icon looking down on my progress. Near the front doors I saw George Brenner, the talented car jockey, sitting on the edge of a cement flower bed, sipping a coffee of his own. I parked my carcass on the same planter, hoping to find some useful conversation. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. As far as I could see, there wasn’t a pack of Camels or Lucky Strike tucked under either of his short sleeves. Nor was there an ad for British ale on his T-shirt. After a few thoughts about the continuing warm weather and some philosophical remarks about city living as opposed to life in the wild, we went on to more interesting things. “Vanessa Moss tells me that you’re a very clever computer animator.”

“I used to be. Worked for George Lucas for six years. That makes me an old man in this business. A year ago I left. Now I need a job here, but I can’t get back in.”

“In? In where?”

“Inside. Through the door behind you. Back under the two big eyes of the NTC owl. That ‘in.’”

“Why’s that?”

“You working for her now, right?”

“Started last Wednesday. She’s kept me hopping. I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“She said she could do me some good, but I don’t know …” He was sipping his coffee through a hole in the plastic cover.

“She told me a little more about you than about your computer skills.”

“Yeah? She digs my bod. I know that. Not many around here keep in shape. You understand? It turns to jelly if you don’t work it. One time I kept in shape surfing in San Diego. The waves burn off the fat. But I can’t afford that any more. I worked myself hard in the joint for eighteen months. When I got out, I ran into a brick wall. The people around here don’t want an ex-con getting back in. Oh, they let me handle cars, but they won’t cut me any slack about getting into the Art Department. She brought you in as her bodyguard, right?”

“Where’d you hear a thing like that?”

“Drop it. Everybody knows you’re a PI. Everybody except Security, that is. They don’t know it’s raining out until they have a meeting about it.”

“What were you in for?”

“It was drug related. The boys in blue can’t tell the difference between personal use and trafficking. You understand?” I nodded encouragement, and he went on. “Fellow upstairs in the Art Department says there’s nobody like me in computer animation except for a guy out in Vancouver, who’s already got as much work as he can handle. But this guy upstairs I was telling you about, he can’t get me past Security. And Security has an assbreaking hold on things. I can’t even use the john inside. Have to find my own crapper, except when I’ve parked a car down in the parking garage. Sub-sub-basement. They’ve a toilet down there that Security hasn’t heard of yet.”

“Have the cops hassled you about this murder thing?” I was glad I remembered “hassled.” Hassle was a good word from the sixties.

“They talked to me. Local cops. Yeah.”

“Has anyone else been asking you questions about Vanessa?” I thought my use of her first name would suggest that I was on his side. He took another sip of his coffee to think on.

“Ken Trebitsch, uh, you know, from News: he’s been asking about her. He knows about us getting it off together. You know how he knows about that?” He looked honestly puzzled, as though a toy had come apart in his hands and wouldn’t go back together.

“He lives on information, George. He can’t get enough of it. He’s an information junkie. It’s his armour against finding himself barred from the twentieth floor someday.”

“Can’t come soon enough for me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Security didn’t come bothering me until Trebitsch knew I had a record. Then it didn’t take long. There’s a news producer, Bernie Something, works for Trebitsch. He sat down here one day last week and asked me to tell him the story of my life. So I told him. Half of it was taken from Kerouac. But he’ll never know. I told him lots of shit including the time I was inside. Then that same night I caught him following me home in his Punchbuggy.”

“His what?”

“He drives one of those VW bugs. His is bright green. He should know better than to come after me in that Punchbuggy.”

“How often have you spotted him?”

“Few times. There’s another guy in a rusty red Volvo. Spells him off maybe. Can’t be sure he’s Trebitsch’s man or whether he’s legging for somebody else.”

“Why all the interest, you think?” George gathered his shoulders in a shrug while making a face with a downturned mouth. As a gesture, it was pretty broad, but it gave him time to choose what he was going to say next. He seemed to be talking to himself with the sound turned off.

“Yeah. That was another dumb thing. I get a little high shooting my mouth off. It makes up for parking the Mercedeses and BMWs I don’t own. Ms. Moss is the only decent person I’ve met on this job. Sure, she takes it out on me, but I don’t go yellin’ harassment in the workplace now, do I? She’s a treat most of the time. I don’t have any reason to hurt her. Besides, I think the cops checked me out and I came up clean. I told ’em I was at the movies that night, and they got me to tell them the story of the picture. I must have got it right.”

“You weren’t at the movies, then?”

“Shit, I don’t know where I was. Like the man says, I fell among evil companions that night. I don’t remember much about it.” I grinned and nibbled a corner of my Danish.

Thirty seconds of silence dragged by and I didn’t try to punctuate it. I kept listening.

“Most people buy Ms. Moss as the intended victim at the shootout at her place. I know for sure she’s scared shitless. She sees guns aimed at her, all kinds, pointed from right around the compass. She don’t entertain any doubts on that score. That’s where you come in, I figure.”

“Go on.” George was getting thoughtful, for George. The words came out more slowly and with long pauses in between the phrases.

“Well, the people around here want Moss out on her ass pretty damned quick. It’s only natural to figure somebody took steps to see her out of the way.”

“You mean with a shotgun?”

“Sure. It figures. But if she wasn’t the intended target, then you gotta ask new questions. If she’s mixed up in the murder, like it looks, then they wanna know about it fast.”

“Who wants to know, George?”

“If the gunman meets her, Trebitsch wants to know about it right away. He’s shooting for a bigger piece of prime, man. He wants it so bad you can read it in his sweat.”

“You ever fire a shotgun, George?”

“Now you’re askin’ their kind of questions.”

“Whose? The cops’?”

“Well, I don’t mean NTC Security. They’re too busy searching people for stolen pencil stubs.”

“You’ve got a good hate going on that bunch, haven’t you?”

“You get off on that shit? Hell, I smoked more Bible than Dunkery and his bunch, and he calls me ‘unsuitable’ while waving the Holy Writ in my face. See how you like it around here this time next week. It’s the same thing in the joint: Security’s a power trip. Little people get big on it. Security makes fascists. That’s all it’s good for.”