La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

[Author’s Note: This one is a re-vamp of the very first Lyndy Martinez story, originally titled “Desert Rat”, but now enhanced to bring it up to modern standards. Stay tuned.]

The Shasta c-store was located at the intersection of Barstow Road and Main—literally fronting world-famous Route-66. Of course, much time had passed since those bustling glory days, and fortunes in this part of town had been on a steady decline. Evidence of decay was all around.

Her ex-fiancé, Deputy Keynes, called this joint a Stab-N-Grab, but to Lyndy Martinez it would forever be known as the place where she one time bought a pregnancy test, and thankfully it was negative. Another useful fact: the Shasta carried a good selection of diet sodas in their refrigerators—if you were into that.

With one fancy high-heel sandal resting on the bumper, one on the ground, The Spitfire reclined against the grill of the burgundy Jeep. Her tight blue jeans were insulating her butt from hot metal. She was “busy” smoking a Newport and sipping from an icy-cold bottle of Tab cola; managing two vices at once. Her view faced Main.

Someone had planted a fine row of aspens on the near side of the street. They were clearly watering them, as green summer leaves rustled in a light breeze. The sky above was azure blue, showing a few trace contrails, but not a single cloud. It might have been deemed a perfect day, if it weren’t so damn warm. Using the frilly sleeve of her blouse, Lyndy mopped enormous sweat beads from her forehead and upper chest.

Lyndy glanced at her watch. She probably should have been at work an hour ago, but her birthday was today, and The Spitfire had turned 26. She was determined not to tell anyone, and the only person who would remember was deceased.

Hector had said just one thing regarding the day of her birth, that Lyndy’s parents came very close to naming her Angela. Talk about a mismatch. How they progressed from there to Melinda-Evangeline was anyone’s guess. Of course, the Martinez’s wouldn’t be winning any good parenting awards. No one had heard from them in 25 years. At least her mother had given her height genes; five-eight was respectable.

Lyndy set down the pop bottle, intending to adjust her ponytail. She gathered up some of her loose bangs, all having gone astray on the drive over, and shoved them under the hair tie. This effect was part of a growing list of reasons to hate the open-top Jeep. Another one: she was sick of breathing diesel fumes whenever a truck passed by.

The Spitfire’s gaze shifted to the opposite side of Main, where she spotted an older woman shuffling along the sidewalk. In California any pedestrian was suspicious, but Lyndy had seen that person around town before. She lowered her sunglasses for a better look.

The lady had a peculiar stiff-hip walk, and as usual, stayed cloaked in a knitted brown sweater extending to her knees. A shawl atop her head covered everything but the area around her eyes, making her appear from afar like an ewok.

“How on earth could one tolerate a wool sweater on a day like today?” wondered Lyndy, with a frown of disbelief. Then again, Lyndy had seen pictures of women wearing black burqas in the desert; it was possible.

The sweater lady made a point of giving Lyndy a dirty look every time she saw her, and this day was no exception. As she waited to cross the street she turned to face Lyndy. She stared with unblinking serpent-like eyes.

If someone was going to mad-dog Lyndy, she was happy to return the favor. She exhaled a giant ring of smoke, letting it swirl like a haze, signifying her unwillingness to back down … and possibly a future of reduced lung capacity. Lyndy continued glaring back the entire time.

Funny, but The Spitfire had never exchanged words with the old woman; she didn’t know what the issue was. It could be as simple as hatred for youth or old-fashioned prejudice against Latinos. Or perhaps the sweater lady had heard stories. It was no secret where Lyndy Martinez worked. Anyone would have recognized the burgundy Jeep parked there.

At last the signal changed. The woman shuffled off northbound, soon passing in front of the donut shop. Lyndy crushed out her cigarette, then chugged the remainder of her soda. She prepared to climb in the driver’s seat, taking one last glance over her shoulder. But before twisting the key, Lyndy reached under the passenger side for her leather purse. She squeezed the outside, feeling for the outline of the steel Beretta. It was there, somehow a comfort.

Lyndy let the Jeep idle. “Hace calor,” she mouthed, pinching the front of her blouse to move some air. Then she sputtered out into the flow of traffic on Main, proceeding the few short blocks to Chan’s. When she was a teenager, Barstow felt a whole lot busier. That was in the years before Interstate-15 was complete. But still, given the time of day, traffic on the mother road was anything but light.

 

Moments later…

 

In life, there aren’t many numbers you’ll want to have memorized. Your social security number is one. The pin to your ATM card, assuming you have a checking account. But when you hit rock bottom—a new set of jewelry dangling on your wrists—you could do worse than having the number to Chan’s Bail Bonds. In Lyndy’s experience, he answered the phone nearly any hour day or night, and always in the same impatient tone.

Lyndy parked parallel at the rear of the one-story building, aiming for an area where it was crushed gravel; Chan was too cheap to have it all paved. She grabbed her purse, leaving the keys simply dangling from the steering column. The CJ-5 was in such poor condition now, Lyndy figured she couldn’t give it away. Plus, how stupid would you have to be to steal a car from behind a bounty-hunter’s office?

The back door was propped open with a broom stick, and Lyndy slipped through without disturbing it. However once inside, she stopped abruptly.

He stood shoeless in front of the mahogany desk, but otherwise dressed in his preferred outfit: a red Hawaiian shirt and brown khaki pants. With arms folded, he looked every bit his six-foot-two frame. Amidst the shrill of an oil-less ceiling fan, and his staticky black and white television—always on and showing westerns—he somehow heard her pull up.

“Howdy,” said Lyndy.

Chan didn’t offer a customary greeting, instead looking over to the wall clock, then back at The Spitfire. He sighed loudly, scratching his backside, then reaching down for his coffee mug.

“Jeez. What’s-a-matter with you today?” said Lyndy innocently.

“Where are the doughnuts, woman?”

Lyndy snapped her finger and thumb together. “Oh shoot! I knew I was forgetting something.”

Chan raised his arms to the ceiling in aggravation. “For Christ sake Melinda. We talk on phone last night, and I remind you.” Chan shook his head. “You have only one honest chore around here, and you can’t accomplish it.”

Lyndy pointed to the door. “I can go back out,” she offered.

“No. no. Forget it now!” Grumpy and dejected, Chan flopped into his swivel office chair. It was so worn, it had stuffing bulging from each crack in the cushion, like a guy with a beer belly wearing a too-tight shirt.

“Well, sorry the world is coming to an end,” whispered Lyndy meekly.

Of course, asking the boss for a raise required a delicate touch—some sugar coating if you will—but now things were starting off on the wrong note. It was like explaining your career aspirations to a high school guidance counselor, while knowing your GPA was equivalent to the price of gas.

Maybe she should postpone the discussion? Nah.

Lyndy lassoed her purse around the corner of a customer chair. She took a seat, elbows on her knees, pressing her fingertips together in a pose of thoughtful contemplation.

She started off by taking a deep soothing breath, her shoulders slowly rising and falling. While across the desk, Chan was already frowning in anticipation, and she hadn’t even opened her mouth to speak.

“So…uh….”, Lyndy counted to five using the fingers on her right hand. “By my calculations, I need five-thousand to purchase a new vehicle …  because … well … the Jeep is officially a piece-a-shit.”

Lyndy had once seen this man punch his bare fist through a motel room door, twist the handle from the inside, and unlock it. The only other place that happened was in Kung Fu movies.

The expression on Chan’s face steadily shifted from irritation to amusement. “Huh. Huh. Huh.” It was his customary laugh. “Okay Melinda, I go get the Lovelace Company check book.” He pretended to elegantly sign the front of a bond company check with an imaginary fountain pen. “Or would you like that in cash?” Chan pointed to his 1940s safe in the corner.

To be continued …

Link to Part-2: La Fierabrosa Part-2

Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3

Link to Part-4: La Fierabrosa, Part-4

Link to Part-5: La Fierabrosa Part-5

Link to Part-6: La Fierabrosa Part-6

Link to Part-7: La Fierabrosa Part-7

Link to Part-8: La Fierabrosa Part-8

Link to Part-9: La Fierabrosa Part-9