Built for Trouble

by Al Fray

  We stepped outside. I lowered the garage door and snapped home the lock. My lock, and the key was in my pocket; now all I needed was darkness and a flashlight.

  It was getting on toward midnight and my nerves were beginning to jump. I had a small flashlight in one jacket pocket and a couple of spare batteries and some thumbtacks in the other as I walked softly down the alley toward Hank’s garage. This was new work for me, strictly amateur night, but it had to be done. The houses on each side were dark. I slipped the key into the padlock, raised the door enough to duck under, and eased it back down again.

  It took a few seconds to locate the house key. When I had it I listened for footsteps along the alley, heard nothing, and let myself out of the garage. Up the side stairway, into the house as silently as possible, and the worst part was over. I went into the bedroom, caught up a couple of blankets, pulled the shades, used my thumbtacks to fasten blankets over each window for better blackout, and snapped on my flash.

  Not much had changed since the morning I’d been here to use the phone. The panel of pin-ups was still in place; the five bare spots I had noticed and that the newspapers had mentioned were still obvious.

  And then it hit me.

  I went toward the collection of cheesecake, my flashlight playing over the pictures. Suppose those five missing shots had been Nola Norton. Sure, they’d have to come off of the wall when Hank entered into this little swindle. Some of the boys had seen his display of art. He could figure that no one would be likely to recall that some of these pix were Nola when the publicity broke, but he’d damn well know that if any of the lifeguards happened up here and saw them later there would be recognition. Recalling a picture or a face is often hard, but it doesn’t take a genius to do pretty well on recognizing a person once a picture is in front of him.

  So maybe he ripped them off and burned them—unless they were a clue to whatever he had over Nola that might push her to murder—something far more damaging than a gimmicked beer tin and an exposed publicity stunt; something Nola could have been talking about when she put out the feeler to see if I had any evidence other than the Lucky Lager can.

  The answers to a lot of my problems might be quickly solved if I could find the pictures.

  In the next hour I turned up nothing of importance. A dresser drawer contained an album of pictures, almost all of Hank himself. None were of Nola. By two o’clock I had decided that if the police were unable to find those pictures, and they had looked, probably I wouldn’t either. But they weren’t looking especially hard—this wasn’t more than an accidental death so far, and since they had already combed the apartment, maybe my time would be better spent in the garage. Maybe Hank figured that Nola might make a forage through the house. At any rate I couldn’t do any worse in the garage. I snapped off the light, pulled down the blankets, rolled them up, checked the alley for stray citizens, and carried the blankets down to the garage.

  By three o’clock my score was still zero. Working against time and daylight, I turned over boxes, sorted through drawers, poked through the debris, and pulled things off of shelves. By four o’clock I was getting desperate, and along about then I remembered that photographs aren’t always stored flat; they can be rolled. I went to work with renewed vigor, shining my light into the ends of the pieces of iron pipe scattered around. I checked the cans of nails along the wall.

  It was almost five when I flashed my light down the open end of the heavy steel shaft of the old drill press. Something glittered and I fished it out—a package wrapped in aluminum foil. I stripped away the wrappings and looked at the pictures. I flattened the first one out on the workbench. A younger Nola Norton—at least ten years younger. Seventeen or eighteen years old probably. Not filled out quite as nicely as the present edition, but still Nola. Her hair was short. A bob job, and honey colored. And all five pictures had one thing in common—they were carefully posed cheesecake.

  We were getting there now. I couldn’t see outside but the darkness was due to fade into a gray dawn before long. I didn’t have a lot of time to waste but I rolled the pix back up, put them into a pocket, and pushed the facts around for a few minutes. Either Hank had known her a long time or he’d come onto something out of her past. He came from Oceanside. Or at least when he got lubricated at the only shindig we’d held, he had talked some about the rough rip tides he’d worked down there. And if I was going to try to run that down, I might as well go with all the ammunition I could get.

  Glancing around, I decided to leave the blankets down here. Time was important. I kicked the blanket aside, snapped off my light, slipped out of the garage, and hurried up the side stairs. Letting myself into the house again, I went to the bedroom, jerked open the dresser drawer, and pulled out the photograph album once more. Ten years ago. I’d have to guess at it. I cupped the light over the book and turned pages until I found a couple of snapshots of Hank which I judged to be about the right vintage. I stripped them off and slipped them into a pocket. Seconds later I went down the steps, stopped long enough to switch the garage lock back to the one Hank had used, locked it, and hurried down the alley to where I’d left the Ford.

  The next stop was Oceanside.

  I turned off of the Coast Highway in Oceanside and drove down to the beach. It was already getting warm and there were quite a few people scattered over the sand. Parking the car, I fished out the five shots of Nola and the two of Hank Sawyer, picked the best one for each in terms of how well the face could be seen, and put the others away.

  Ten years at least, maybe twelve; there wouldn’t be any point in talking to any of the younger lifeguards. I pulled off my shoes and socks like a good tourist, went down to the beach, and began to wander toward the pier. The first couple of lifeguards I passed had probably been in junior high school when Sawyer lived in Oceanside; I didn’t even stop. The next fellow had a sun-bleached mustache, a couple of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and a little excess weight. I stopped to ask about rip tides, got a short but accurate description of what actually happens, and then zeroed in.

  “Been around this beach a long time, I guess,” I said, and offered smokes. He nodded and took one.

  “Just summers. About the last nine years.”

  A little short, according to my best guess, but still worth a try. I hauled out the pair of pictures. “Know either of these people? They used to live here.”

  He held up the photographs and glanced briefly at Hank, then gave his attention to Nola. After several seconds, he shook his head.

  “No, can’t say I do.” Then he grinned and looked at Nola once more. “Wouldn’t mind knowing one of them, though. You a private eye or something?”

  “Insurance adjuster,” I said, and jerked a thumb up the beach. “Anyone on the crew that’s been around a little longer? Like a dozen years or more?”

  “Sure. Carl’s been on the beach longer than that.”

  “Where’s his station?”

  “He’s in charge. You’ll find him running around in the red jeep, most likely.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and moved on up the beach. I walked out on the pier and tried a few men working fishing gear at the end, but without success, and then I took a turn farther north along the beach. No luck, but when I came down off of the pier ramp there was a red lifeguard jeep parked by a hamburger stand near the beach. I climbed onto a stool next to the man in red trunks, ordered a burger without and a cup of coffee, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and turned to the lifeguard. He was tan and muscled but his face was getting weather-worn. His hair was red and cut in a tight butch, probably to make less obvious the thin spot creeping in.

  “How’s business?” I asked, and smiled.

  “Good. There hasn’t been any for a few days and that’s just the way we like it.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. We made small talk for a minute or so and then I asked, “You Carl?”

  “That’s right.” He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

  “Know either o
f these kids?” I asked, and slid the photographs in front of him. He wiped his hands on his red trunks, then picked up the pictures. He didn’t much more than glance at them and then he gave me a long look.

  “I know them both.” He watched me and I just nodded.

  “The guy is Sawyer. Hank Sawyer. Pulled lifeguard duty here for a while right after the war. And the girl is Nat Novak.”

  “Nat?” I asked it slowly, wondering if he could have mistaken her for someone else. Still, the initials were the same. I waited. The old guy behind the counter had gotten up to scrape the grill but you could tell he’d developed an interest in our conversation. Carl was watching me closely now and I pointed toward Nola’s picture once more.

  “You’re sure of her name?”

  “Natalie Novak. So what are you digging into? What’s the beef?”

  “No beef. Just doing a little checking for—”

  “You a newspaper guy? You gotta rake all that muck over the coals again?” He stood up now and began to move toward the jeep.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “All I wanted to know was—”

  “Forget it, Mac. Let’s just forget all about it.” He gave me a sour look and climbed into the red jeep and rolled out onto the sand.

  When I turned back the cook had come over to the counter. He wiped his hands on the flour-sack apron and grinned.

  “Carl’s a little touchy about some things,” the cook said, and winked. “Exactly what was it you were interested in?”

  “Whatever I can find out about these two. Did you know them?”

  “Yup. Real well. How interested would you be?”

  “If you say anything worth listening to,” I said softly, “I’ll probably get excited and walk away without my change.” I nodded toward the five, four ones, and silver on the counter.

  The cook turned to the counter girl. “Alice, go on out back and pick up the papers blowing around,” he said.

  “But, Pop, I just picked them up a few—” She stopped as he thumbed toward the door, and then she gave me a pained look and went out.

  “This Natalie,” the cook said, leaning his elbows on the worn linoleum counter, “was really stacked. So was a couple of others hanging around the beach in those days, and I guess you’d say they were pretty bitchy. You know how things was, the war not long over and all. These babes were chasing around here on the strand at all hours of the night and swilling beer with the Marines from Camp Pendleton and doing their bit to keep the boys happy, as you might say. For free, just for kicks, and then Sawyer got an idea, I guess, because the next thing we knew this San Diego deal broke in the news.”

  “What San Diego deal?”

  “Well, seems that Sawyer figured out as long as these kids had ants anyway they might as well get a buck or so for their tricks. He took some pretty inviting photographs and he’d circulate around a convention down in Diego whenever a good one was there and he’d drum up some trade. A lay-for-pay deal, or at least that’s what they were able to prove. On her, I mean. Sawyer, he got the hell out and stayed out.”

  “You mean Nol—Natalie got caught?”

  He nodded. “Sure did. Right in the sack in a hotel room with a drummer from San Francisco or somewhere. When they began to make a noise about her being a minor, the salesman got scared and that’s when hell broke loose. He explained how he’d paid hard cash and this was strictly a commercial jump. They couldn’t find Sawyer but they sweated Nat out and she admitted it was a paying deal. Been down to half a dozen San Diego conventions, she had, along with some others from the beach here, but she didn’t give out no names. It was all hushed up in a hurry, but Nat didn’t never come around here no more, which I guess was best if you take it all the way around.”

  “And when was this? What year, what date?”

  “Can’t say exactly, toward the end of summer and ten—no, no it was eleven years ago. Eleven.”

  “I see.” He’d earned his dough, and I didn’t even look a second time at the money as I got up and turned away. It all figured now—that phony background about her old man having been a construction laborer and no permanent address while she was a kid. Nice. It cleared her of having to provide a detailed account of her early years. She could start with when she settled down in the midwest and took that lifeguard job. The long black hair instead of a short bob and the original honey color helped. And Nola Norton—that switch was necessary too.

  I got back into the Ford and drove north again. So now I had it. Had it, but what was I going to do with it? I’d started out to get a few thousand I thought I had coming on a publicity gag, but the water had gotten deep in a hell of a hurry. Of course she’d bumped Hank off—she had to; if he was shaking her down for big dough she’d have to pay or get him off her back another way.

  Hers was an unforgivable sin in the picture industry. The movie moguls aren’t as skittish as they once were and some pretty strong raps have been beaten. Dope parties. Wild orgies in night clubs. Even a couple of stars posing for nudes managed to survive when the exposé washed over the newspapers. You can say boys-will-be-boys and you can cover a lot of things with “the poor girl was down to a crust of bread and her mother needed an operation,” but when you go as far as peddling it… that’s all. No producer in the country would try to buck that kind of publicity at the box office, and everyone knows it. Hank Sawyer knew it and pushed too hard when he saw a big pay-off shaping up. Now Eddie Baker held the whip.

  The police? I thought about it for a lot of miles as I rolled toward L.A. So far I wasn’t in very deep; mine were minor offenses. And she’d killed Hank, so maybe I ought to run to the cops and—But what the hell was Sawyer to me? He’d been in on the swindle—he had helped her set Eddie Baker up, for the kiss-off. The two of them were running hand in hand. Was it my fault if he got too greedy and careless and let her palm off some poisoned hooch on him? Hell, no!

  Even so, I did have evidence of murder and legally I was supposed to go to the authorities and…

  I got a little sore about then. What would it get me? What besides thanks? And there’s no drawer in the cash register for that kind of pay-off. Sure as hell nobody had been very anxious to see that Baker got a fair deal. Call it a blackout and wash the man out—that’s the easiest answer. But I’d scrounged around on my own and I’d come up with some answers. I was entitled to put in my bill. And the lady with the stars in her eyes was going to pay. I goosed the Ford up to sixty-five, glanced into the mirror for a speed-cop check, and ran the needle up to eighty. I had work to do in Los Angeles.

  Chapter 6

  I PARKED THE CAR at Union Station, hurried in, and slipped the key into the locker. My suitcase was still there. I carried it out to the car, opened it, and unwrapped the Lucky Lager can. Hank’s thumbprint was there, nice and clear. Now it was time to check the celluloid separator in my wallet.

  The light smear of grease on the celluloid had done well. Nola’s thumbprint on the beer can wouldn’t be absolutely necessary but it would help. I found a lead pencil, scraped a tiny pile of black dust from the end with my pocket knife, and blew it across the greasy print with a quick breath. Then I rubbed a spot clean on the can a little above Hank’s thumb mark, pressed the bit of celluloid tightly against the tin, and rolled Nola’s thumbprint onto the beer can. When I held it up for close examination, it looked fairly good. The next stop would be a photographer.

  Not a big outfit. What I wanted was a small one-man enterprise and I found one out on Jefferson Boulevard, a shoestring operation someone had started in a little bungalow sandwiched in between half a dozen shops lining the street. It would do nicely. I rolled on past, stopped at a supermarket on the next corner, begged a big cardboard carton, and bought a roll of scotch tape.

  Sitting in my car, I cut one side off the carton and began to flatten out the snapshots of Nola Norton, all five of them. When I had them taped down on the reverse side of the cardboard in a loose fan-shaped arch, I put a strip of cellophane tape around the Lucky Lager tin and
fastened it in the center. Then I fished Nola’s earring out of my pocket, fastened it just above the can, and held the cardboard up for a look.

  It was tight. She’d just given me the earring yesterday and there wasn’t any way she could doubt that I had all the evidence in my possession. The pictures, the beer tin—I had Nola over the well-known barrel and the only way she could get off would be to settle with Baker. I put my display card down and drove over to the small photography shop. There were framed photographs all over the tiny display room, and the owner came through a curtained arch, wiping his hands on a paper towel. I put the cardboard exhibit on a glass showcase.

  “How much to make an eight by ten of this display?” I asked. “And how long will it take?”

  “Of—of this?” He looked a little puzzled, and when I nodded he said, “You only want one. That right?”

  Again I nodded. When he looked once more at my cardboard with the pictures, the can, and the earring taped in place, I gave him a story about having an idea for an advertising scheme and said I wanted a photograph to send to New York along with my suggestion. I managed to be a little vague about it all, and when he asked casually where a guy could sell advertising ideas I got real coy.

  “Now, now,” I said grinning, “you’ve got your racket and I’ve got mine. All I want to get from you is a photograph.”

  We spent a couple of minutes haggling over a price. He wanted to take at least a day because both the negative and the print would have to dry. I suggested using a fan to dry the negative and agreed to take the photograph wet. We closed at a flat eight bucks, and he went to work.

  It only took a few minutes to expose the film and make a development. When he hung it up to dry and rigged a fan, I went for a bite to eat and attended to the next chore on the agenda. His negative looked pretty sharp; we weren’t going to need the beer tin or the snapshots of Nola again for a while. I stripped them off the cardboard, packed them into the suitcase, and dropped her earring into my pocket. At a drugstore I bought envelopes, a tablet, and a cheap ball point pen. When I got back into the car again I propped up the suitcase for a writing surface and ran off the following note: