La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Link to part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Back on main street, her sunglasses on, and a tepid wind was blowing through Lyndy’s dark hair. Motoring past the Moose Lodge—number whatever—near the yellow street lamp which had been shot out three times, Lyndy could feel beads of sweat coalescing. Periodically they were rolling down her spine like a toboggan run, headed for a gathering on her behind.

Did other humans have these problems, or was it only the spitfire?

Behind her seat resided a yellow igloo cooler containing ice water. She wanted to dunk her head, even if it meant ruining her makeup, but it was too early in the day.

One by one, Lyndy flexed the fingers on her left hand, a bit of purple nail polish flaking off in the process. It had been eleven days without a high temp below a hundred degrees. It felt as if this heat wave would never cease—nor did the paper seem to think so.

Now for one of those awful seventh grade math problems: Deputy Keynes—notorious marriage deal breaker—maintains San Bernardino County is just over 20,000 square miles. So how hard can it be to find a man? If a private investigator spends exactly one minute searching every acre, that would take …. should have paid more attention in math. But if there’s 500,000 minutes in a year, and you never need to sleep or eat, then it would require approximately 24 years to search the county. And the Lovelace Corporation had given her a whopping 40 hours.

Damn.

Lyndy gripped tighter on the steering wheel. Funny thing, most lay people couldn’t explain the difference between burglary and robbery—it blurs together. Except there is a key distinction, and it has to do with the mindset of an individual committing the crime; one involves the threat of violence. So, question was, would this Evan guy be armed? Hector died of a gunshot wound to the back; that was a sobering thought.

There were other problems weighing on her mind too. The Jeep had been hard to get started, and she had to feather the gas pedal. Which was akin to force-feeding it. With her bank account set on nada, any fixes were up to the Spitfire, and her limited knowledge of carburetor tuning.

Up ahead, a wooden sandwich board at the Aero station advertised 65 cent-a-gallon gas. Lyndy raised her glasses. Either her vision was faltering, or it seemed a darn fair price for unleaded. Lyndy glanced at the fuel needle; the speedometer was a total wag, but the fuel gauge could be trusted—sometimes—and hovered at one third remaining.

Though exposed to full sun, Lyndy angled into the far lane of pumps. Her reasoning was two-fold. The inner lane under the awning had been almost fully taken up by an F-series 1-ton truck, hitched to a rickety old trailer. But the primary reason she preferred the more distant row from the kiosk, was to minimize the time the grungy bearded attendant could stare at her chest.

Lyndy shoved the gear lever in neutral and shut off the motor, crossing her fingers it would start one more time. She retrieved a spare rag from behind the seat, wrapping it loosely around the fuel cap, and twisted it off. Then she placed the pump nozzle in the tank, and used the same rag to squeeze on the trigger.

A crafty sign in the station window declared: “Dinosaur Bones Sold Here!” Every now and then, some gullible tourist would stumble inside, asking eagerly about the bones and where he could get a look at them. Then the grungy guy, snot stains adorning his AC/DC t-shirt, would get a belly laugh for the day. It didn’t take much out here.

As the tank slowly filled, Lyndy caught a glimpse of herself in the driver’s mirror. Her face looked drained, cheeks pale, with the edges of her mouth curling down. Hiking up her jeans, she practiced smiling; it took more effort than expected.

“Hey there Lyndy Martinez!”

Somebody was shouting her name from a distance. Lyndy thought she recognized the voice. Instinctively, she turned toward an A-frame taco stand, located a few doors down from the station. She confirmed it was Tammy Ward.

Happy to see a friend, Lyndy responded in kind with a hand-cupping wave. Briefly checking her surroundings, she made sure no one was waiting in line. Then Lyndy finished topping off the tank and reset the nozzle.

Hiking across the strip-mall parking lot, the old asphalt felt hotter than any sand dune in the Gobi Desert.

The little taco stand might have been called Sancho’s, but its manager was white as a Minnesota winter. A stout woman in her thirties, with curly brown hair, Tammy was one of those unfortunates who didn’t tan, they simply burned. Thus, most any time of year she remained steadfastly under her protective awning, like a badger peeking out from a desert burrow.

Lyndy fanned herself with her hands, grinning to Tammy as she walked.

Tammy wiped her fists on her white apron, the front permanently streaked with dried blood—obviously from handling raw beef.

When it came to Barstow citizenry, Tammy was an excellent person to know. Not only did her perch serve as an ideal spot for observing all the goings-on in town, she had kinfolk distributed throughout the county, and Lyndy had used this to her advantage before.

“Hace calor,” Lyndy mouthed. She shielded her eyes with one hand, resting the other on her hip.

Over on Route-66, an Easy-Rider looking dude on a chopper motorcycle slowed and beeped his horn. He followed it up with an infuriating “wert-whirl” whistle.

Tammy scowled, leaning halfway across the counter on her stomach. “These males around here!” she complained, shaking a fist in the direction of the road. “Ain’t no such thing as manners!”  On occasion, Tammy was known to hold kitchen knives in the air; her defensive posture explained why Sancho’s hadn’t been robbed in its 10-year history.

Lyndy approached the wide counter, placing both palms flat on the surface. There was plenty of room and she scooted up onto it, so she could be high and level with Tammy. Twisting around, Lyndy crossed one leg over the other and faced the road.

From a stack of wax-paper cups, Tammy selected the first one, pushing it against the cold soda dispenser. “Say, are those beauties new?” she inquired, pointing to Lyndy’s feet.

Lyndy nodded, kicking out her knees to show off the shoes. “Oh yes, and surprisingly comfortable too.”

“Anyone else notice?”

“Oddly, Mr. Chan did. And this from a man who thinks Hawaiian shirts are business attire.”

Tammy passed the fizzing cup of Tab to Lyndy, who accepted it gratefully.

Taking an initial sip, Lyndy noticed the avocado-green GSX, aligned parallel to the stand. It was a four-barrel V-8, still firing on leaded fuel.

“Hey, how is your Buick running?” asked Lyndy.

“Smoked two showroom Camaros at the drag strip on Sunday.”

“Good to know,” said Lyndy, turning to offer a wink. She also happened to glance over at the gas station. The Jeep was still there, waiting patiently, though the attendant seemed to be searching for what happened to the Latina girl.

With any luck it might get towed away.

“Tammy, sorry to change topics, but you know anybody that dances at Cadillac’s night club?”

“Let me think. Is this for a case?”

Lyndy nodded.

Tammy rested her elbows on the counter in a pensive manner. A few seconds later her head popped up. “I got a cousin Lorraine, used to be a cocktail waitress there,” she offered. “It’s the best I can do.”

“No, that’s super helpful,” replied Lyndy.

“I’ll give you her address. She ain’t got a phone.”

Score. Even a small lead was better than none.

Tammy scribbled down the address on a discarded receipt, in blue ink. “Oh hey, almost forgot why I called you over. Bet you’ll never guess who stopped by looking for you?”

“Burt Reynolds,” said Lyndy, with a shrug.

“Nope, it was the quiet cowboy.”

“Cowboy? You mean Ted Crawford?” She turned around in shock, locking eyes with Tammy.

“I thought you two were finished.”

“So did I,” replied Lyndy.

“Maybe he wants to ask you out to the river party?”

Lyndy winced internally, hoping nothing showed; it was the first time someone had mentioned the party on Saturday. “Oh please! Ted’s not interested in that. We went on three dates and then, nothing. I make up all these elaborate excuses just so I have to visit the JBR ranch, but he was always busy. Either he’s the shyest boy in the desert, or I ain’t his type.”

“Not gonna lie, that is one fine-looking young man.” Tammy stared down at the wood counter. Using her fingernail, she scratched at some dried jack cheese to dislodge it. “So, are you going to that party?”

“I don’t even know yet,” lamented Lyndy, resting her head against the window frame to stay under the shade of the roof. She closed her eyes a moment, remembering the clock was ticking on this case—even if her watch was stopped.

“Now I could be wrong, but you don’t sound very excited, Lyn.”

Lyndy exhaled a sigh, knowing Tammy was unaware of her special day. She poked at her left thigh. “It’s hard to explain, but parties stress me out.”

“Used to do the same to me. You think the dingbat waitress will be there?”

Lyndy folded her arms. Tammy could only mean one individual: Miss Cookson was by far the most popular waitress at the truck stop honky-tonk—practically an institution—and behaved as if she owned the town as well. “And miss a prime opportunity to show off in a bathing suit? Trust me, Cathy will be there.”

“So, what are you gonna wear?”

Lyndy chuckled at the presumptiveness of Tammy. “Haven’t said I’m going yet,” she corrected. “But you know, if I do, probably cutoff shorts and a western shirt.” Emphasizing a curvy shape with her hands, “It’s best to look like the girl next door at those things, not Ginger Grant.”

“Or a certain blonde waitress,” added Tammy.

“Right,” said Lyndy. “Plus, sorry to admit, Lyndy isn’t so young anymore.”

“No way. You’re still young,” argued Tammy.

“What age is it you have to buy your own drinks in a bar? Cause I’m bumping up against it.”

Tammy laughed.

Lyndy stared at the address on the receipt, attempting to visualize a location. It was somewhere in Phelan, on one of many graded dirt roads.

“Oh honey, that’s like 38,” assured Tammy, patting Lyndy on the back.

“Comforting,” said Lyndy sardonically. Then she jumped to the ground.

Even the taco lady has a fast car.

[Link to Part-4: La Fierabrosa, Part-4