La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

[Happy Thanksgiving Everybody–ASC]

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Link to Part-2: La Fierabrosa Part-2

Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3

Surprise! The Jeep hadn’t magically repaired itself.

Resting a hand on the shifter knob, The Spitfire discovered it was moist, either from palm sweat or pizza grease accumulation. Somewhere along the line, a previous owner “upgraded” the standard AMC shifter to one styled like an 8-ball. It was made of Bakelite—a synthetic material with a chemical name 36 letters long—and took two quarter-turns to twist all the way off, typically bouncing under the seat out of reach, leaving you with a rusty tetanus stick to shift gears. But hey, it was groovy.

The CJ-5 didn’t come with air conditioning from the factory. AMC engineers assumed you would fold the vinyl top down on a day like this, to soak up the rays. Naturally. But those rascals lived in Michigan, and the top was down, yet somehow things were getting worse.

Meteorologists called it an inversion, a condition when gaining altitude, the temperature actually increased. Such events were routine in LA, rare for the desert. The Spitfire recalled as a child, one sweltering august afternoon, when the tall buildings stood like exotic islands, ringed in a soup of brown haze.

Lyndy massaged her forehead with her fingertips, wiping away excess sweat on her blouse. Traveling the new interstate highway, it was a 45-minute commute from Barstow to the Ludlow exit. This gave Lyndy a lot of time to think and daydream; some days too much.

Tammy Ward had opened a scab by bringing up the subject of the river party, but Lyndy had a plan. Earlier in the season, she happened to meet a geologist named Kyle Ellis. He was a graduate student, doing fieldwork in the east Mojave, and they had been seeing each other for six weeks. Turned out the Ellis family was loaded, and Kyle’s parents owned a big cabin fronting Lake Arrowhead, with a speedboat.

Her and Kyle were close in age, with tons of stuff in common … except right now… none were coming to mind. At least they both appreciated the desert, just in different ways. And surely, Kyle would be willing to accompany her to an obligatory party.

 

Bouncing along in fourth gear, straining for a miserable 50 miles an hour—not even the national limit—Lyndy passed over the Newberry Springs bridge.

Speaking of geologic curiosities, here was one of the more remarkable: a series of mineral ponds, somehow emerging from blowing sand, shimmering in the reflections of noonday sun. Improbable though it seemed, the water table was high enough one could dig a trough 36 inches deep, and it would fill in minutes. Definitely not a place to try and hide a body—not that anyone would do that in the Mojave.

Willows, cottonwoods, and even green riparian plants thrived on both sides of the freeway. White herons fished in the oasis, bobcats hunted, but mostly the ponds were so off-color no one would be foolish enough to drink them.

Over many years, in countless drives, Lyndy Martinez had dreamed of pausing here. Perhaps to dip her bare feet in the cool water, or view the wildlife, take a nap, or even have a picnic lunch. But she was always busy. Too busy to slow down; too busy to rest. One of these days she promised she would stop, and maybe bring along a friend.

 

The Jeep was acting wheezy, as if the carb needed adjusting. With her thumb pressed on the glass dial, Lyndy cleared dust obscuring the temperature gauge. Though some of the contrasting paint had flaked off, Lyndy could see the needle, pointing to 200. Hard to know if it was an accurate reading.

How about a little rock-n-roll to get your mind off work, and lack of funds?

No can do. The Jeep didn’t come with a stereo either. But that made somewhat logical sense; when the top was down you couldn’t hear a damn thing beyond road noise.

“Radio? Who needs music!” echoed Chan. “You should focus on what Melinda employed to do—which is find people who do not pay on their loans!”

There was a surefire way for Lyndy to measure severity of delirium: whenever Chan’s detached voice intruded in her brain.

“Huh. Huh. Huh. And another thing, bounty hunters are supposed to drive jalopies. It goes with the image!”

The Spitfire groaned. “Ugh. But not mine. We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

 

At Ludlow, a ghost town, Lyndy took the exit signed National Old Trails Highway. There were stencils in the roadway marked with the Route-66 shield. Some maps still drew it as a red line, not a blue, and it used to be the only direct route to Needles, receiving a constant flow of Arizona bound cars.

With the I-40 newly open, traffic on this segment evaporated. Unlike Barstow, you couldn’t reclassify this no-man’s-land as a city street. Any service businesses were forced to relocate, or close, making it less convenient for travelers; even schools shut down. Soon the pavement itself began to crumble, each season bumpier than the last, with the desert gradually reclaiming territory.

Of course, Lyndy at one time planned to have a trucker-style CB radio installed in the Jeep, but hadn’t gotten around to it. She was regretting that postponement.

Four miles from Ludlow, the first indications of trouble: the AMC engine sputtering and misfiring. Next, the revs got low, and Lyndy downshifted. Then the chassis lurched, backfiring once, and the unthinkable finale: the motor died.

“What on earth?” whispered Lyndy, testing the ignition.

It made a click, but no go. Within seconds everything became quiet, the flow of air ceasing, as Lyndy coasted to an unscheduled stop on the shoulder.

Without motion, the climate felt as though a great flare had arced off the solar corona, hurtling through space to rain fire on the county.

“I think the sun is trying to kill me,” thought Lyndy.

She glanced at her Certina watch. Still stuck at 9:00.

How long ‘til the vultures were circling?

Lyndy took a panicked breath, exhaling in an uneasy quiver. Odds were decent a stranger would happen along. Hopefully this good Samaritan would come within an hour.

At last, Lyndy undid her watch clasp. Pinching the tiny crown, she counted off forty even turns, and this took effort. To set the time, she squinted up at the ball of fire, shading her eyes to determine its angle. She settled on 1:00; it seemed close enough.

Next Lyndy kicked open the driver’s half-door and slid out. Both heels immediately sunk an inch deep in the soil, causing her to stumble—this was no place for girly shoes. She braced an elbow against the left fender, staggering to the front of the car.

With her cupped fist, Lyndy undid the nearest hood release, then leaned across the top to unclip the other latch. She raised the hood and metal support, a blast of exhaust hitting her square in the face.

It was Hector who had once been saddled with the chore of teaching The Spitfire to drive. Over a half-glass of tequila, he lectured that engines required three main ingredients to run: fuel, air and spark. One of these was missing, but which? Hard to believe it was gas—the whole under hood area smelled like it.

Lyndy hovered a palm over top of the carb. Then she unscrewed the cap to the radiator, making sure her face pointed away, shielded by an elbow and the sleeve of her blouse. But rather than a cartoonish geyser of steam, it hardly bubbled at all.

Lyndy then turned to face the lonely road. She breathed a sigh, unbuttoning the top two buttons on her shirt. “Throw some dirt over me. I’m dead,” she mouthed.

For a place to be stranded, it had a nice view. To the north were the Bristol Mountains, and beyond, the towering Granites. In the sky overhead loomed mature thunderheads, their anvil shapes growing blown out and extended. Somewhere, it had probably drizzled a little, or teased the land with virga.

To the south, across empty flats dotted with creosote and coyote brush, were the Bullion Mountains. These bordered onto a sparse military base. In the center of the valley stood the dark, obsidian-colored rise of Amboy Crater. Other than the road, and some skinny train tracks, there wasn’t much touched by the hand of man.

Then without warning, Lyndy became light-headed, a sense of vertigo overwhelming her. Her vision clouded, and it seemed a foolish thing to allow—this loss of consciousness at a critical time—but there was no stopping it. For the first time in her life, Lyndy Martinez fainted, Victorian style.

 

Minutes later …

The Spitfire could feel ice water dripping down her forehead and cheeks—sensory contrast being what startled her—as the world came into focus. Her hearing gradually returned, plus the other senses, and she knew she could not be alone.

A stranger must have awoken her by splashing cold water.

With bare hands, Lyndy pushed herself to a kneeling position. The larger grains of sand felt like crushed glass; they were stuck to her cheek as well, and she rubbed them off. Her face remained in the shadow of the Jeep. She thought of the Beretta, stowed out of view beneath the seat, only feet away. She wished she’d grabbed it before, but hadn’t planned on succumbing to heat in the meantime.

Lyndy hastily brushed her palms on her thighs, to clean excess dust. Then she pushed her hair back, away from her eyes.

The stranger loomed above her, wearing a long sleeve denim shirt and farmer-style straw hat. But it was the skin on their face truly distinguishing them from an everyday tourist. It had attained a leather-like appearance, with many deep creases. Lyndy associated the look with older cowboys. This much was clear, it marked someone who spent decades in the west, and never used sunscreen.

Cathy Cookson once said, “If Barstow was to have a beauty contest, there wouldn’t be no winners or runners up.”

“You thinkin bout that gun, are ya?” The voice was feminine.

“Didn’t see that one coming,” thought Lyndy.

The mystery woman held out the 9-mm cartridge, sleek and black, smelling of oil.

Lyndy recognized the magazine she’d loaded by hand, two days prior, about the size and shape of a Pez candy dispenser; it held 10 rounds.

“Already took them bullets out,” said the lady. Her hazel eyes, piercing, ageless, were difficult to read.

The Spitfire sniffed. It was a rare condition to feel vulnerable and lost for words.

“I saw there was one primed in the chamber; got that too. It was scary as hell.”

Lyndy let go of the gun idea. It was a doorstop now.

Wiping a forearm across her face, Lyndy took her first full breath. “It’s cause it’s a prototype,” she whispered. “Those guys weren’t concerned how you were going to disarm it.”

The woman dipped a hand in her front pocket. She unfolded reading glasses, slipping them over her nose. They were those awful wood-shop instructor kind, with the black frames and white tape over the nose bridge.

“Glad you’re alright,” the woman said. “I was about ready to poke ya’ in the shoulder next. Thought maybe you were having a ‘bad trip’ ya know.” Then she grinned, the lines of crows feet deepening around her eyes.

There was a trite phrase describing this situation, yet oftentimes true: not all heroes wear capes. Lyndy was starting to relax.

Tilting her chin, Lyndy realized her blouse was still open at the top, exposing the upper part of her black bra. She quickly buttoned up. “I’ll survive. I think the weather, and a lack of sleep is catching up with me.”

“Lemme help you up,” said the lady, offering a calloused hand. A dulled wedding band adorned her index finger.

“Thanks, but I got this,” said Lyndy, using the bumper to stand. She scraped off gravel from the road, clinging to the back of her jeans. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sorry. The name’s Julia Russell. People call me Russ.”

Lyndy extended her right hand. “Lyndy Martinez. Thanks a million for stopping.”

The woman cleaned some engine grease off her hands, before shaking Lyndy’s.

“I hope ya’ll don’t mind, I took a quick peek under your hood. You’ve got a nice, rust-free CJ here, but the bad news is you need a battery. Your old one is toast—done in by the heat wave. Alternator might be going too. Did you notice the voltmeter dropping by chance? I’m sure the battery was losing charge.” Russ grinned again. “Ya know, I’ve always had a place in my heart for the old rattletrap Jeeps. My mama told me they were cars for boys, but I didn’t listen to that nonsense. Got a brand-new CJ-7 right now.” She pointed her thumb to a taxi-cab-yellow Jeep parked on the other side of the road, twenty yards distant. “I can drive you back into town, and we can pick up a new battery if you want. I’ve got tools too. I changed my last alternator in a Dairy Queen parking lot.”

Lyndy shook her head at first. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. You probably have somewhere you gotta be.”

“Listen, I’m in no hurry.” Russ cleared her throat, looking down at her dusty cowgirl boots. “Say, am I talkin too much? I don’t get much interaction with people these days.”

“No. I would love a ride,” replied Lyndy.

She certainly wasn’t going to turn down this kind of help.

To be continued …

[Link to Part-5: La Fierabrosa Part-5]