La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa 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.]

Lyndy dipped a hand in her leather purse, retrieving a tin of lotion. She uncapped the lid, then squirted a big glob atop her fist. She began rubbing it in with her palm, using rapid circular motions.

“Oh god, not your smelly hand lotion again,” lamented Chan, pinching his nose. “Can’t you take it outside? You gonna make it stink like underwear department at Bullock’s. I should light cigar to counteract.”

Lyndy jumped up excitedly. She approached Chan with arms spread, as if threatening to squeeze his cheeks. In response, Chan leaned way back, nearly tipping out of his swivel chair. Then Lyndy abruptly changed direction, veering to the south wall behind the desk.

“You’ve stated your opinion, albeit rudely. But the fact is I do need to earn my keep,” said Lyndy. She plucked the sunglasses from her hair, sticking the plastic tip in her mouth. Pointing to the wall of shame she inquired, “How much do I get if I go after one of these wayward souls?”

“Nothin at all until you find one.”

Lyndy exhaled loudly, mimicking an upset teenager. “But I can make nothing, doing nothing,” she complained. “What’s the use in that?”

“Exactly,” replied Chan.

Lyndy nudged her chair closer to the wall, at the same time spinning it around one-eighty. She took a seat backwards, arms resting flat across the top. She continued chewing the end of her glasses.

“Also woman, you are looking way too thin. After Hector pass away, it like you don’t wanna eat no more. You used to be healthier.”

What did Chan know about healthy eating? Lyndy ignored him.

The large corkboard featured over two dozen polaroid shots of individuals who, over the years, had failed to make court appearances. In the bottom white portion of the photo, names and aliases had been scrawled in block letters, using a sharpie pen; the Spitfire remembered printing a few of these herself. Nearby, a grease marker hung by a white string, and across a few of the faces a red X had been slashed, so prominent you could see it clear to the door.

If the person paid up, went to jail, or otherwise came clean, they were graciously taken down from the wall of shame. Short of that outcome, bond outstanding, they stayed up indefinitely, and some of those pictures were getting yellow with age.

Lyndy rested her chin on her hands, placing her nose 12 inches from the board.

Chan rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Oh, come on Melinda, you know you never gonna find any of those scumbags.” Gesturing with his coffee mug he added, “trail’s gone cold.”

“Hush up,” said Lyndy. “I’m tryin’ to concentrate. I need money fast.”

Chan went back to drinking coffee and watching Have Gun, Will Travel.

By now, The Spitfire had memorized all the faces, often having deja-vu moments in public—or worse, in the midst of a date—where she was certain she recognized one. Of course, most of those leads dissolved like mirages on Route-66.

“I mean, think of it this way,” added Lyndy. “You ever hear of a bad-ass detective with an old, slow, underperforming automobile?”  Lyndy scratched at an itch on the side of her head, above her ear. “Well, one guy. But I mean, unless you’re Columbo, it’s just not cool.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh,” was Chan’s only response.

Lyndy rose from the chair again. She deliberately angled her body to the side, extending her arms in the manner of a game show beauty queen revealing a prize. She was trying to get Chan’s attention. With her thumb and index fingers, she created a box around a middle-aged man in a pinstripe business suit. He had a sad look on his face in the photo.

“Hey, what about this jerk?”

Without bothering to look up, Chan shook his head. He somehow knew the one Lyndy had been outlining. “Poor Jack Webster. Mr. tax evasion service … I mean accountant. Been meaning to take that one down. This time he crossed the line; if we were in the south he be outdoors busting big rocks with a hammer and chisel.”

Lyndy tilted her head to one side, asking for an explanation.

Chan dabbed coffee dribble from his chin with a white paper napkin. “Story amusing in a bad way. Apparently, he pay visit to the ex-wife, unannounced. And just so happen she was having men building pool in backyard for her and a sleazy new boyfriend. Mr. Webster get enraged, bonk them both on head with sticks of rebar, toss them in the empty hole. Then he ramp up the gunnite machine full blast and bury them. It was a clever touch if you ask me, but somehow they catch him anyway.”

Lyndy’s shoulders sank.

“By the way, how much did those new shoes cost?”

It was unusual for Chan to notice a small fashion detail. Glancing down at her feet, Lyndy replied, “You really don’t wanna know.”

“Listen, if you need a case, I got somebody fresh over here,” said Chan, casually reaching across to switch off his TV. “Likelihood of success better.”

Inside, Lyndy commenced a private celebration, golden dollar signs falling from the sky. “You’ve got my attention,” she said.

“I already discuss prospect with Richard Lovelace. He agree to pay your outrageous hourly rate—but you only get 40—one week. Total.”

“That’s enough.”

Chan snorted. “Glad you are confident.” He yanked at the wooden knob on the top drawer, having to shake it a bit to allow it to slide more freely.

Lyndy scooted closer to the desk.

Licking his finger and thumb, Chan then flicked a color print across the top surface. Lyndy lifted the mugshot like a playing card, using her fingernails to grip the edge. The individual was a younger, fit looking fellow with blue eyes and stringy hair. To Lyndy he was cute, in a bad boy fugitive from the law sorta way.

“This one’s a real winner. Goes by name Evan P. Stone; P stand for Percy. His occupation—and that’s being generous—is listed as singer in rock-n-roll band; plays small casinos an stuff.”

Chan began rummaging through stacks of loose paper from the drawer, composed of canceled checks and receipts for god knows what.

“Start out simply enough—as most tailspins do,” continued Chan. “Burglary, petty theft, but what really get him in hot water was a restraining order. Accused of criminal threats to a Cadillac’s dancer.”

Lyndy cringed, recognizing the name of a seedy nightclub frequented by trashy men. Evan’s cuteness points were wiped out instantly.

“And then he violate the order. Course, he assure me she trying to extort money from him. He innocent of all charges, just need time to lawyer up.”

Lyndy took another look at the photo, this time committing the face to memory. Then she placed the picture back on Chan’s desk.

“He promise he remain in town. But now I call telephone many times. Not hear nothing. I call his landlady; she not seen him. I even write letter: Dear crap-for-brains—I mean Mr. Evan Stone—where are you buddy? This town misses you. Come home soon okay. Love Chan. X-O-X-O.” Chan tilted his head back and laughed his trademark laugh.

Lyndy snapped open a makeup case. While staring at her reflection, Lyndy applied her favorite purple lipstick, covering over the places that had rubbed off since the last cigarette break.

How many low-level fugitives did it take to buy a flashy new hot rod? Probably a lot, and it was dangerous work. Might not live to see the day.

In addition, Mr. Stone appeared young and healthy, possessing a talent which could earn him a living off-grid. Heck, it wasn’t so easy getting gigs at casinos—even they had standards.

Lyndy slouched, sinking further into the uncomfortable chair. She breathed in heavily, blowing hair out of her face. She wanted another smoke—the cravings were maddening—but was trying to stay strong.

“Okay, hit me with the punchline. What makes you and Richard so sure this guy isn’t in Puerta Vallarta, drowning in margaritas?”

Lyndy straightened her back, leaning forward to place her palms on the mahogany desk. “And who would be stupid enough to threaten a dancer at Cadillac’s? Don’t those places have better security than most banks?”

Chan looked square at Lyndy, narrowing his vision. He rarely did this, and only when The Spitfire mentioned something he was not anticipating.

“You ever been there?” tested Lyndy.

Lyndy had never been to it herself.

“No,” admitted Chan. “But listen, he got a child in San Berdoo. She in kindergarten or first grade. Live with ex-wife, but ex don’t talk to us neither. Kid’s name is Suzie, or Suzanne, or something, but I don’t know wife name at all.”

“Alrighty.”

Chan placed his finger on a slip of paper. “Aha. I found you the address. You could see if he been staying around here. My guess is no, but it all we got.”

Lyndy rubbed her fingers over her upper chest, and held out her glistening hand in the light. Then she shook the tails of her blouse. “Sorry man, it’s way too blistering in here. I gotta get movin.”

Chan nodded in understanding. Although the metal shades were drawn, he gazed off in the direction of the street. Then he cleared his throat. “Look, sometimes innocent men go back to jail because they are jackasses.”

“I know that,” said Lyndy. Turning to leave, she grabbed her purse and slung it over one shoulder.

“Hey, sorry I yell at you about doughnuts.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big girl,” said Lyndy, briefly sticking out her tongue. She was about to head for the door, hoping the Jeep would actually start.

Why was he acting so weird, apologizing for basically nothing? Did he remember her birthday?

“Oh, one more thing Melinda.” Chan’s tone became serious. It meant bad news. Lyndy turned back.

“I talk to warden the other day when I up at county. He say the inmates got a new nickname for you. You ever hear of it?”

Lyndy shook her head.

“La Fierabrosa.”

To Be Continued …

[Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3]