Built for Trouble by Al Fray

than good at staging an act. She got up and walked across to a small glass box on the coffee table and brought back cigarettes. The profile was enough to start a guy scratching himself, and when our eyes met I knew she could read it in my face. Before I could zero in on the business at hand once more, the chimes rang and she got up to open the door. The brains of the combine hurried in, a thin character half a head shorter than she was. He had on a classy gray suit, a gabardine job cut to make the most of his meager physical endowment. The introductions were curt; the formality of meeting Joe Lamb quickly over.
    “Now what the hell is going on here?” Lamb asked. He pointed an anemic finger under my nose. “Unless I got it all wrong, this adds up to blackmail.”
    “Watch your language,” I said. “We’re going to call it a business deal.”
    “Like hell we are!” He paced the floor, his short legs moving in quick, abbreviated strides. His hair was gray at the fringes and he had piercing brown eyes. I glanced at the sofa, saw that Nola was on the edge of the cushions, and then watched Joe Lamb make one more lap of the rug.
    “All right, Jockey; you’re piling up mileage but we’re getting nowhere. How about lighting someplace and we’ll get down to cases?” I said. Joe circled past the glass box, caught up a smoke, and struck a match with nervous fingers. When he sat down next to Nola, I stood up and took over the pacing.
    “We can start by agreeing that everyone here knows exactly what happened two weeks ago. I was had; the evidence is clear and plentiful. That Lucky Lager tin tells the whole story and a moron, once all of the pieces were put in front of him, could assemble a fair picture of how this swindle was staged. The motive was profit; I want my share. It’s as simple as that.”
    “What evidence?” Nola asked mildly. “So far you’ve only made one vague reference to a beer can.”
    “Not a beer can, a special edition. Only one was struck off, a home-made job with a fancy brass petcock on one end to let the air out and a valve from a tire in the other. It could be filled at any service station, or with a hand pump. A chunk of lead the size of my fist weighted it down. Sure as hell we aren’t going to waste any more time arguing about what it was for or who used it.”
    “And where is this contraption now?” Nola asked.
    “It was half buried in sand off the beach at Playa Del Rey. I brought it up and now it’s for sale. Do I hear a bid?”
    Joe Lamb’s mouth dropped open. “You brought it up! I—”
    “I believe,” Nola cut in quickly, “that Mr. Baker mentioned pieces of a puzzle. So far we’ve only heard about one item, the can.” She stood up and walked easily to the window, looked toward the swimming pool, and casually adjusted the Venetian blind just a little. But there wasn’t anything wrong with that blind! She moved smoothly and gave out with the calm and collected air like the actress she was, but the edge was there just the same. And she’d cut in on Joe Lamb before he could say anything about who was supposed to have taken care of the beer tin. Nola Norton wasn’t going to let Hank Sawyer’s name be dragged into this if she could help it. She turned toward me now and managed a smile.
    “What are some of the other pieces, Mr. Baker?”
    “A picture,” I said, and spent a little time getting a cigarette lit. Joe edged toward the front of the cushion under him, and Nola crossed her legs a shade too casually. “You had to be sure there was one really good exposure on the roll of film, something professional, something that would catch an eye without relying too heavily on cheesecake. But it’s almost impossible to take that kind of picture in strong sunlight, so you hustle out there in early morning and do the job right. And at the same time Nola swims out and drops the can of air, first being careful to line it up with something ashore so she’ll be able to locate it