Free Built for Trouble by Al Fray

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 of 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