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Authors: Al Fray

Tags: #murder, #suspense, #crime

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BOOK: Built for Trouble
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“But I thought—Well, I suppose if that’s the way it has to be—”

“It does. The two of you, and only the two of you. I’ll be waiting.”

Ten minutes later, and it seemed like ten weeks, I saw Nola’s MG wiggle into a parking spot up on the street. Joe got out and swung the door for Nola, and the two of them came down the hill. I went to the counter in the front and dropped a five-dollar bill.

“A boat,” I said. “There’s going to be three in it.”

“Dollar a half hour,” the woman said. She slid a card into the clock, punched the time, and handed me a pen. “Read it and sign.”

The card was the standard pitch about being responsible for damage and that I’d lose my deposit if the boat was abandoned and they had to get it. I scribbled
Bill Walker
on the thing, she tore off my claim half, wrote
five
in the place marked deposit, and gave me the chit. Nola and Joe were coming through the door then and most of the stags loafing around the counter had stopped talking. Joe had a nice bulge in the pocket of his sports jacket. I grinned and nodded toward the other door leading to the float.

“Let’s take a boat ride,” I suggested. The old guy handling the hook stepped lively handing Nola in. I followed Joe into the boat, and the old fellow dropped the canvas top back down. He pushed us out into the lake, and Nola, who was on the port side in front, pushed the lever forward and turned the wheel. We took off at a fast snail pace and worked up to about two miles an hour. There was the hum of the battery-driven electric motor behind me as I sat in the back seat. The lake is only about a block or so wide and not too much more than that in length, but at our speed it took a while to reach the middle. When we did, Joe turned in the front seat and looked at me.

“Put the lever in neutral,” I said to Nola. “We’ll drift a while. Now how about the money?”

Wordlessly, Joe Lamb fumbled in his pocket and handed over the seat a package wrapped in white paper. I took it, stripped off the wrappings, and riffled the ends of the green bills. They weren’t new stock, just a packet of fifties. I drew in a quick breath. To carry off my role as a money-hungry chiseler, I began to flip through the ends in a hasty count. Then Nola spoke.

“There’s—there’s only eight thousand,” she said in a small voice.

“Then I don’t want it. To hell with it; I’d rather go back to being a lifeguard.” I tossed the packet into the front seat.

“Now wait a minute, Baker,” Joe said. “You’ll get the rest of it. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. Damn it, listen to reason. Sure we had a lot of cash on hand when Apex put up the first payment, but there’s been dough to the author of
Island Love
and dough to Hank Sawyer, and—”

“What’s the pitch on the balance? I expected my dough.”

“You’ll get it,” Nola said. She tossed her head and then wiggled a little farther around in the seat, giving me a full profile. “I have some money in the bank at home, but we couldn’t get to it in time. I mean we thought we could raise it here in L.A. and then it was Saturday and the banks were closed, but I sent an airmail check to my dad yesterday and he’ll cash it this afternoon. Tonight I’ll drive down to San Diego and get it. We’re going to pay you, Mr. Baker.”

“When?”

“Joe told you. By tomorrow.” Nola picked up the money and handed it back to me. “You can call me tonight. I’ll know exactly then, and you can make arrangements. Please, Mr. Baker.”

“So today is Monday. The banks close at three: if your old man has picked up your cash you’ll know it by then.”

“That’s right,” Nola said, “but we have a story conference this afternoon on
Island Love.
We can’t duck that and it may run until five o’clock, or even six. Will you phone me about seven? I’ll have an answer by that time.”

I slid the bundle of cash into my jacket pocket and motioned toward the far side of the lake. “Run us over to the shore,” I said, pointing.

“On—on that side?”

“On that side!”

It was my private point of no return, and I wasn’t going to head back. Up until now I could stay clear, could be pure and back out, but once I stepped ashore with the money I—but the hell with it. The dough was mine. I’d earned it, and I wasn’t going to chicken out on it. When the small boat was almost to the concrete rim of the lake, I tapped Nola on the shoulder.

“Swing it around, then back down,” I said. She nodded, glancing quickly at Joe Lamb, and then the tiny craft was moving slowly backward toward the concrete embankment. When it was a couple of feet off, I stepped out on the deck, jumped ashore, and tossed the return chit into the cockpit.

“Run it back,” I said, “and I’ll call you later, Nola. Have that dough on tap.” As the boat moved away I hurried up the embankment, piled into the rented Chevy, and wheeled away. At Clinton I swung left, then left again on Alvarado, went down to Wilshire Boulevard and turned right. I drove west, slower now, and when I got out to Westwood Village I pulled up in front of the Bank of America. It took a few minutes to rent a safe-deposit box, and before I dumped the cash into safe keeping I made a count. The dough was all there—a cool eight grand. I was perspiring freely when I left the bank, and even though I channeled the windwings so a double stream of air washed over me, I was still sweating when I returned the U-Drive job downtown and caught a cab back to Echo Park. We circled and came in slowly from the north side. The MG was nowhere in sight, but something else caught my eye.

Red hair. Rust-colored hair and a girl alone in a year-old blue Plymouth. The girl was looking down toward my Ford against the curb and a block ahead I dropped back in the blind corner of the cab as we rolled past, then issued new orders.

“Just keep going,” I said quickly. “Don’t stop at the Ford; I’ve changed my mind.” He nodded and made a turn onto Sunset. “Drive up a few blocks, then let me out,” I said.

When I’d paid him off I walked back toward my car, wondering about the redhead. They wanted to know where I lived, of course, but what good did they hope that would do? Barge in with a gun? Force the return of their homemade aqualung? Hardly. They couldn’t hope to make me go with them to the post office and stand by me while I—

But maybe they hadn’t quite bought my tale about mailing the thing around town. Maybe I still had a job of selling to do. If so, there was no time like the present to start. I got into my car, lapped the park once slowly and saw that the Plymouth was fastened on a good two blocks back but making all the turns. I headed for home. Slow. I didn’t want to lose Carol Taylor. When I drove into the parking strip for my building, I went carefully up the walk and purposely took my time getting the key into the lock. Fire Top rolled past before I let myself in, and then I stood at the curtains and watched the Plymouth cruise back past the building a second time.

 

When I went out for dinner I stopped in at the dime store, bought a big roll of heavy wrapping paper, a ball of strong twine, a folder of stickers that said
First Class Mail,
and a booklet of gummed labels used for addressing packages. Back in my place again, I tore off two each from the first-class stickers and address labels and burned them. Then I cut a jagged edge into the wrapping paper, loosened the end of the ball of twine, and dumped the works into a bureau drawer.

Now I was ready for inspection.

Company didn’t descend on me by seven so I went out to the corner phone booth and called Nola.

“The money is there,” she said, “but my car burned a bearing and I can’t drive down to get it. Unless you want to take me, we’ll have to wait, but I was hoping you’d be able to go. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Eddie, without Joe Lamb listening in.”

I almost laughed into the phone. Of course Joe Lamb wouldn’t be there. He’d be here. Here at my apartment going over every corner, every hole in the wall. And Mr. Baker had suddenly become Eddie. Some schmooey!

“Well, hell, if it’s the only way to get my dough, I’m for it,” I said, rolling with the gag. “When can we go? San Diego, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. In half an hour.”

“Half an hour,” I echoed. “Suppose I pick you up in front of the apartment house. All right?”

“That will be fine,” she said, and then the phone clicked.

Eddie,
I thought. Well I’ll be a sad bastard if this isn’t going to be a king-sized laugh.
Eddie,
yet.

 

Chapter 8

 

IT’S ONLY A LITTLE OVER TWO HOURS to San Diego, just a short night’s work. I cleaned up a bit and when I dried my face on the towel and caught myself in the mirror, I grinned and shook my head. Remember one thing, I told myself sternly, this dame is an actress. And a good one. So don’t eat everything she hands you; just ride with the tide and keep your eye on the shore.

It would be nice to know how I stood, whether or not someone really went over the apartment while I was away, so I thought about standing an envelope on the floor and against the door so it would fall when they came in. But there were two doors and anyone who came in the back would see the gimmick against the front. It was important to me that Joe Lamb and company believe their little search party to be a surprise affair. I glanced around the small living room for some other bit of business, then pulled out the drawer where I’d stashed my props to indicate I had packages to wrap and mailing to do. It took only a moment to arrange the loose end from the ball of twine over the top of the gummed address tags, the tip of the string ending right in the
o
of the
from
printed upper left, and then I eased the drawer shut. I was all set on the home front.

On the way to Nola’s I gassed up the Ford and checked the tires, then drove on over to Los Feliz. She was standing just outside the big glass door when I came along and walked toward the curb as I stopped. I got out to swing the door; there just wasn’t any other way to treat something that looked like she did. Nola Norton was strictly the pick of the sultan’s harem. She had made some concession to travel—a hairband to keep that long black hair out of her face if we put the top down, a light coat carried over her arm—but she hadn’t gone to slacks or low shoes. Her dress was light and summery, a V-neck job in printed nylon with just a hint of bra showing through the material; the contour itself was considerably more than a hint. The green belt around her trim waist matched the hairband above.

“You’re right on time,” she said, and handed me her coat. She didn’t smile; I was being conned, but Nola Norton wasn’t going to be too obvious about the thing. I grinned and folded her coat on the back seat, then ushered her into the front.

“I suppose,” she said, as we drove toward the freeway, “I will be billed for transportation costs.” She looked at me, a smile in her eyes now.

“Not at all. I make enough out of the business to pay these small incidental expenses.”

The smile in her eyes spread to the lips. She shook her head. “You’re something of a puzzle, Eddie,” she said lightly. “I never quite know just how to take you.”

“I’m in business. I didn’t ask to be here but that’s the way the waves washed in. I think I explained all that yesterday, so let’s not beat it to death with a ball bat. How to take me? Like any other business man; that way we’ll get along fine.”

She looked up at me through long eyelashes. “I’ve known quite a few business men, Eddie, and they were all different. All different.”

“You pay your money and you take your chance. Speaking of money, you aren’t stalling? It’s ready and waiting down in San Diego?”

“Of course. I had some cash in the bank there and—but why would I be stalling?”

“You wanted to talk on the way,” I reminded her.

“Oh, that. I—later, I guess. I’d rather wait until you’ve been paid.”

“It’s your party,” I said. We hit the freeway and sped south, whipped off at the temporary end, cut down to Compton and caught another freeway. We were a couple of hours getting to the outskirts of San Diego, and I’d been weighing my course of procedure all the way. I couldn’t act like a meathead—I’d have to show her I was watching out for Eddie Baker and that I didn’t trust her any farther than I could swim with a blacksmith’s anvil. But I had to stop just short of catching her off base; it was almost a lead-pipe cinch that she was bringing my two grand down with her and would simply hand it over after she came out of her dad’s place.

“What’s your address?” I asked, and took my eyes off of the road long enough to watch her. A thin smile of triumph crossed her face as she rattled off a street and number and then said something about telling me where to turn so we wouldn’t get caught in traffic. She had obviously expected the question. At the next light she called a turn, then put a hand on my arm and started to soften me up with those eyes.

“You won’t mind if I run out to the house alone, will you, Eddie?”

“Why?” I slowed the car in order to watch her more closely. I’d figured there would be some kind of hocus pocus but she was going to have to come up with a pretty good pitch before I parted with the Ford. “Why can’t I drive you out to the house?”

“Well, my father read all about the rescue and he thinks it was legit, of course, and he’s not an idiot. He’d certainly wonder if maybe something wasn’t a little odd, my showing up with you.”

“Okay. I’ll drop you at the curb and come back for you.”

“That wouldn’t work either. He’s—they’re strictly old country, in some ways. Dad would hit the ceiling if I came down with someone and didn’t even bring them in to meet my people. He’d be insulted. It’s bad enough as things are; I have to slip in after dark, now that they live here in San Diego, where I—well,
you
can see how it would be.”

“Sure,” I said, but I wasn’t sold. It all added up to her wanting my car. Why? What the hell was she going to do with it? I’d be a fool to have cached the package of evidence in the Ford. Surely she didn’t think I was
that
simple. I drove a couple of more blocks before I decided that whatever it was she was trying to do, I’d be better off letting the ball roll and watching where the hell it went. I couldn’t give in too easy, but I was going to bend eventually.

“You sure you’re leveling with me, baby?” I asked.

“Of course I am. All I want to do is borrow this long enough to stop in and get the money. Please, let’s do this my way. After all, you’ve got us so tight we can’t afford any games. Isn’t that true?”

“I like to weigh these things,” I said shortly. We came to the street where she claimed her old man lived. I passed it by, then drove to the next business area, pulled up to a pool parlor, and got out. “I’ll watch a few games of snooker. Come by and toot the horn—how long will it be, roughly?”

“Between thirty minutes and an hour, if it’s all right with you. I can’t run in and pick up the money and dash right out, but I’ll make it as short as I can. Will that be okay?”

“I’ll be waiting,” I said, and went into the pool room. As the Ford pulled away from the curb, I eased back out into the sheltered area and peeked into the street. Nola passed the first three intersections, made a left turn at the fourth, and disappeared.

 

BOOK: Built for Trouble
10.8Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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