Big Fat F@!k-up: Jimmy Cooper Mysteries, #1

By Lawrence Allan

A recovering addict and former child star, Jimmy Cooper gets a second shot at fame as a "famous" private detective in Los Angeles.

 

After cratering his career with booze, pills and public humiliations, Jimmy has started over, working at his Mom's law firm as the in-house detective, putting his uncanny ability to spot liars to good use. Then, much to his and his mother's surprise, Jimmy is famous once again after a case ends in a high speed chase viewed by thousands.

 

With the public looking on, his next case tests his abilities and his mother's patience. Alicia Crowley, a young heiress, believes her uncle plans to kill her so she won't collect her inheritance and wants Jimmy to prove it. When the uncle turns up dead, she becomes suspect numero uno. Believing she's innocent, he investigates but begins to doubt his own instincts as he learns more about his client.

 

Will Jimmy solve the case and prove his mom wrong about him or just f@!k it all up?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Allan
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986176116

Lawrence Allan

Lawrence Allan is an award winning mystery writer, Midwestern as f@!k, and loves heroes who use humor to cover their emotional trauma. His work has appeared in Shotgun Honey and the crime anthology WRONG TURN. His debut novel BIG FATF@!K-UP is a Shamus Award Finalist for Best First P.I. novel, and has won two Claymore Awards at Killer Nashville, including Best Comedy in Mystery. He holds an MFA in Playwriting from the University of Texas at Austin. He lives in Los Angeles.

Book preview

1

IT WAS A WEEKEND AFTERNOON in L.A., so traffic wasn’t terrible. Just bad. A case of mine had taken an unexpected turn, and I nervously gripped the wheel of my beloved blue Toyota as I chased a black Ford sedan west on Venice Boulevard in Mid-City. We had been weaving through traffic since Koreatown. Three LAPD cruisers were behind us with their sirens screaming. And I was making a phone call.

Over in West Hollywood, Moe picked up on the third ring. He’s my neighbor, someone I can rely on. Which is great because, at that moment, I needed his help. I didn’t see this ending well.

Jimmy! What’s going on? He was bright and cheerful, probably lounging on his couch, an iced hibiscus tea in hand, fending off the summer heat. You have to turn on Channel 5. There’s a chase on. It’s amazing. He practically sang the last word.

I glanced into the sky. There was a police chopper and, behind that, Channel 5’s Eye in the Sky. I turned my attention back to the Ford in front of me and tightened my grip on the wheel. Yeah. Uh. It’s me. I’m in the chase. And it all felt somehow... familiar.

Moe’s voice tightened. Why is he chasing you? What did you do?

"I’m chasing him."

"Why in the hell are you doing that?"

That was a legit question on Moe’s part. I do have a history of making bad decisions. Before I could justify this as work-related, the Ford made a sharp left. I did the same, barely making it through the intersection as a couple of cars slammed on their brakes. The cops did the responsible thing and slowed down, taking their time. Show-offs.

I need you to do me a solid. I need you to call my mom.

Moe was silent. Finally, he asked, Are you high right now? On pills?

That’s when the neurons locked into place and I remembered why this felt familiar. More than a few years ago, after I had cratered my acting career, I had led the police on a slow-speed chase through the Hollywood Hills while on a combination of booze and painkillers. I really wanted some tacos and knew I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel, so I decided the responsible thing to do was to drive really slowly. However, when you ignore every stop sign and stoplight, you’re still a traffic hazard. Even at fifteen miles an hour. The whole thing ended with my crashing, if you could use that word, into a grapefruit tree and becoming a viral clip on YouTube for about three months.

No. I’m not. I licked my lips. I hadn’t realized how much I was sweating. High-speed chases are terrifying. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. This is totally work-related.

Jimmy. Moe used his Dad Voice. "Let the cops handle it."

He was probably right.

I can’t. I had to see this through to the end. This elderly Korean couple — Mr. and Mrs. Li — had hired me because a pushy guy kept coming around wanting to buy a painting they had. It was sentimental to them; their only son, who had passed away, had given it to them. But maybe, for the right price, they’d be willing to part with it. After all, they had their twilight years to think of.

I yelped as I swerved out of the way of a slow-moving food truck.

They called me because they were getting nervous. The guy seemed desperate and they wanted to know if he was legit. Spoilers: He wasn’t. When we confronted him, he took the painting and drove off. That’s when I decided to do right by them and set off in pursuit. Like I said, I wasn’t always known for making good choices.

The Ford screamed through another intersection, turned left, and roared down a narrow side street. I followed.

Just call my mom, I told Moe. I’m going to need a lawyer!

The Ford was heading toward a park.

You stop the car, Moe ordered. I could tell he was pacing in his apartment. "Let the cops handle it. You call your mom!"

The Ford stopped at the park with smoking tires, bumping up against the curb. Families started to scatter. The driver jumped out of the car and headed into the park. In his left arm was the painting, still framed. Fuck.

She told me I couldn’t call her anymore if I got into trouble! I slammed my brakes, sliding to a stop next to the Ford. Over the years I had seriously pushed my luck with her, and now that I was working at her firm, she would prefer that I kept my nose clean.

Don’t get out of the car. Don’t get out of the car! begged Moe, his voice rising higher.

I got out of the car.

Call my mom! I shouted before tossing the cell onto the seat and running after the driver.

I’m five foot seven, a scrappy one fifty, but I’m not what you call a natural runner. Sure, I can put one foot in front of another, but it’s awkward and has resulted in me getting caught while my faster friends got away.

I saw a couple of moms and dads ignoring their kids on the playground and pointing their phones toward us to record the action. Later, they would see their footage on the news and get a taste of fleeting fame.

The driver had reached the edge of the park, tossed the painting over the fence, and was now struggling to follow it. He looked like a high school football player who had gone soft. He was about forty years old and wore a decent brown suit, the kind you get at a mall, with a white button-down shirt and cheap shoes. That was my first clue about this guy. Never trust cheap shoes.

The guy stopped trying to hop the fence, reached into his coat, and pulled out a gun. Looked like a semiautomatic something. I don’t know. Guns aren’t my thing, but I knew what they could do, and he was pointing this one at me. I stumbled to a stop and put my hands in the air.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, I said.

The black metal of the gun glinted in the sunlight. I hadn’t expected this. This was a guy who couldn’t keep a job for more than six months. He was the sort to buy the first round, max out his credit cards, and be the last one to leave the party because he had one more story to tell. He was desperate, but nothing in his life said he was hold someone at gunpoint desperate. Guess I overlooked something.

He spoke through clenched teeth. This is how things are going to go.

I frowned. Was this guy serious? Does he not see the cops? The chopper? What made him think he was in charge of this party?

Drop the weapon! Now! Three cops, weapons drawn, were approaching from behind, step by step, moving as one, with me stuck in the middle — the perfect place to be killed in a crossfire.

I wondered if this was how I was going to go out. Would it look good? Would I look good as my body was riddled with bullets, like when Sonny got it in The Godfather?

Jesus. What was I thinking? That’s a terrible way to go.

I turned to the cops, hands still high in the air. My heart pounded in my chest. Or was that the helicopters that hovered over us? I could see the other cops clearing out the park, kids clutching their parents’ chests, strollers rolling away, and the yellow tape coming out.

Guys, let’s be cool, OK? I said to the three cops with the guns. No one wants to get shot here.

Honestly, I wasn’t worried about them. I was worried about the other guy. I turned around to find him covered in sweat, trying to figure out who to target with his gun.

There’s no way this goes good for you, I told him, if you don’t lower the gun. Like, look around. They have you totally covered.

The driver took that moment to look around, and one of the cops decided to take a step forward. The driver gripped his weapon and aimed it at her. All around me the tension ramped up as the cops stopped moving and squared up, ready to pull their triggers.

Hey, hey, let’s not escalate! I shouted.

The cops checked in with each other, wondering if they should listen to this asshole. I was really hoping they would because my plan was to not have this case end in a shooting. I was thinking I could talk the guy down. In my previous life as an actor, I had been really charming. And during my downward spiral into drugs, I got away with so much because I could spin around studio execs, my agent, my friends, even my family, with words.

The guy with the gun, he was about to get the Jimmy Cooper treatment.

I took a deep breath and told him, OK, just so you know, they might shoot you. Live. On TV. I pointed up to the Channel 5 chopper. Is that how you want to go down?

The driver swallowed hard.

Do you have a mom or a dad?

I, uh, I got both, he replied.

OK. Great. Nuclear family. Some people are lucky that way. Now, just imagine how they would feel watching you get shot.

The driver looked back at the cops, who were keeping their eyes trained on him. I leaned into his field of vision and gave him my best encouraging smile, hoping to give him that extra nudge toward making the right choice.

Finally, the driver dropped his gun onto the grass and raised his arms in surrender.

I started breathing again.

Two cops swarmed him, taking him to the ground with shouting and grunts. I watched the handcuffs come out. That’s when I felt the third cop grab my right arm and twist. As pain shot up into my shoulder, I asked to no one in particular, What the fuck? I tried to turn to repeat my query, but I was being thrown to the ground.

Dude! I gasped, looking up over my shoulder at the cop, I’m the good guy!

2

I SAT IN AN OVERLY air-conditioned interrogation room, eyelids drooping. After the chase, the standoff, and being thrown to the ground, I was exhausted. Being in a windowless, timeless room didn’t help. It was a small, concrete bunker with a two-way mirror, a metal table, and four chairs. It was like being on the set of Law and Order: SVU, except for the smell. The smell was bad. Like multiple someones had peed themselves, possibly even in my chair. Ew.

My right shoulder hurt, so I tried rotating it to see if that would make it feel better. It didn’t. I sighed, blaming myself for this fresh, new mess I had gotten myself into. It had been a long time since I’d been inside one of these rooms. I had made a promise to myself never to be here again — and yet. I was such a big, fat fuck-up.

I studied the mirror, wondering who was on the other side and waved. I don’t know if they waved back. I turned away and wondered if Moe had called my mom or not. She wasn’t a big fan of any of my, as she liked to say, so-called friends. Now, to be honest, some of those people once upon a time had been drug dealers, so her opinions weren’t unfounded. But Moe was mensch.

The door opened and a thick-shouldered mountain of a man in his fifties lumbered into the room, a folder in his hand. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a high-and-tight, and he wore a black suit with a black tie. Not very creative.

Detective Kemble! I said with glee. Long time no see. It had been about four years since I had chatted with Robbery/Homicide. It had been a riot to watch the gears turn in Kemble’s head while he tried to accuse me of a robbery I, in fact, had very little to do with.

Kemble grunted as he flopped the folder onto the table. Clearly not happy to see me. His light blue eyes looked away from me as he reached for a chair across from me.

As he sat, he thumbed toward the door. This is my partner, Detective Ito.

I glanced over and time slowed down.

Coming in, a mug of coffee in one hand, a notepad and pen in the other, was a woman in her late twenties, Asian American, with shoulder-length, black hair that flowed like liquid. Her military-green T-shirt was tucked into jeans with a suit coat on top, her badge hung from a chain around her neck, and she wore thick-soled boots. Not very regulation. I imagined she could take me in a fight and had a smile that could lay down an angry elephant. I was getting the feels.

Hey there, she said, sitting next to Kemble.

The. Feels.

I looked back and forth between them. How did this happen?

Kemble frowned.

I pointed. Look at you guys. They eyed each other. Young, old. Man, woman. Thin, fat.

Kemble grumbled. Enough, funny guy.

I’m just saying. Classic comedy team. I turned to Ito. "The funny thing is, Kemble’s last partner... he was the fat one."

Ito snorted and then flushed with embarrassment as Kemble looked at her.

I’ve never been good with authority figures. Especially authority figures that actually have some authority over me. I have an overwhelming desire to poke at them.

Ito cleared her throat. We have questions—

About your ‘involvement’ in this robbery.

I frowned as Kemble flipped open the file in front of him.

You work for Cooper and Associates? he asked.

I pointed to Ito’s mug. Can I get a cup of coffee? I’ve been here forever, and I’m, like, bleh. I need a pick-me-up or something.

They looked at me. Ito raised an eyebrow; Kemble chewed his cheek.

I sighed. Yes, Kojak. I work at Cooper and Associates. I’m the in-house detective.

It’s Kemble.

I tilted my head. What did I say?

You said Kojak.

I shrugged. My mistake.

Meanwhile, Ito was trying not to laugh by putting her fist up against her mouth. At least I was charming one of them. Her body twitched as she tried to remain professional, which caught Kemble’s attention. What are you doing?

She waved out the rest of her giggles. He called you Kojak. That’s sorta funny.

I leaned toward her. I was afraid that reference might be dated.

She shook her head. My dad loved that show. Even the reboot.

Kemble pounded his fists on the table and then pointed a meaty finger at me. Shut up. This is a serious situation.

I put my hands up in surrender. OK, yes. Guys, I’m sorry I chased the guy. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was trying to do the right thing. There’s this old couple —

Are you using? asked Kemble.

I shook my head no. What the hell was going on?

You owe anybody money?

I frowned. What do you mean?

He shook his head. "Money, do you owe anyone?"

Ito added, He thinks you’re working with the guy who took the painting.

Kemble crossed his arms, tilted his head back, and said, My theory: he and you were working together. His mouth curled into a teeny-tiny smile.

He was enjoying this, but he was lying. I could tell. It’s a thing I can do. I just know when someone isn’t telling the truth. Like, I can hear it in their voice or how their eyes shift. Maybe it’s an actor thing, I don’t know, but he wasn’t telling me the truth. He didn’t really have a theory. Certainly not built on evidence. He just wanted it to be true. He had hard feelings about our last encounter.

Why? Why would I work with him? I asked.

He chuckled like it was obvious. The profits.

Profits? It was a painting that someone found in a garage sale. There were no profits.

But before we could get into it, the door opened again. A well-dressed woman with a sour look stepped in. I recognized her as an assistant district attorney. I had met her several times and not always in the best of circumstances. OK, none of them were the best of circumstances: Possession. Disorderly conduct. Theft.

She was followed by a woman in her late twenties, impeccably dressed. A brunette with sharp green eyes and an intelligence that would cut you to pieces. She always had your back, even if you had chopped up her Barbies in retaliation for being annoying. This was my little sister, Erika Cooper. And I was surprised to see her.

Kemble started to say something, but the ADA put her hand up, stopping him. We’re done here.

Kemble stood up to protest, but she wasn’t having it. She spoke again, this time to me. You’re free to go. She checked in with Erika, who nodded.

The ADA made it to the doorknob when Kemble finally got a word in edgewise. What the fuck are you talking about, Katherine? Free?

Kemble just didn’t know when to quit. By her look, he was punching well above his weight.

Ito put a hand on his arm, trying to give him a hint, and it worked. He backed down, and the ADA walked out.

I looked back at Kemble and Ito. Things had turned awkward. This shindig was over, and I was ready to get the hell out of there.

Erika swept forward and sweetly said, Detectives, thank you. She smiled and folded her hands in front of her. She had a way of making victory seem so nice for the loser.

Kemble grabbed the file as Ito said to me, You know, when I was a kid, I was a big fan. I had a poster of you on my wall.

I nodded. Moments like these — moments with adoring fans — didn’t happen very often anymore. When they did, the context was always weird.

"I was thirteen the summer Doug’s in Love came out. Me and my friends spent all summer saying, ‘Er, whaaaat?’" She laughed.

Er, whaaaat? had been my catchphrase in this comedy I did as a teenager. For a certain group of people, it was a classic, and sure, it had launched my career, but in hindsight, in a lot of ways, it was the beginning of the end.

I threw on a smile. People liked it when I smiled when they referenced something I did. It made them feel like we were connected.

Too bad you pissed it all away with pills and booze. Kemble stood there with a big smirk on his face. You could’ve been someone. Clearly, he was not a fan.

"Thank you, Erika snapped. That will be all."

Kemble moseyed out, followed by an embarrassed Ito.

I frowned at Erika. You’re not Mom.

Erika stood straighter, clearly insulted. Not quite the thank-you I was looking for. No, I’m not Mom. But I am a lawyer and can do all the things that Mom can do.