La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Link to part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

You can tell a lot about a person by their choice in headwear. The Spitfire could not recall ever meeting an unkind person who wore a straw hat. All that was missing were plastic flowers and a price tag on a string—just an observation.

Russ offered Lyndy a canteen of water, saying, “you need this more than I do.”

Lyndy accepted it without hesitation. That feeling of cool moisture on her lips and tongue was heavenly, her senses so heightened she could almost smell it.

Should Russ suffer from some communicable disease, transmitted in backwash, Lyndy would have gulped it anyway.

Intense mirages danced across the highway, blurring all lines separating sky and earth. Lyndy ran her fingertips slowly across her forehead, pushing aside the bangs. In addition to thirst, she had developed a dull headache, no doubt an aftereffect of heat stroke.

Lyndy tried to divert her attention. The CJ-7 model was much roomier inside than a CJ-5, with front seats clad in leather. When Russ wasn’t looking, Lyndy took a quick sniff at the perforated seat bolsters to verify authenticity. As they cruised along the unmaintained road, the suspension felt more pliable too.

For fun, The Spitfire tried buckling her modern lap belt; that burgundy Jeep didn’t have passenger restraints—of course not. Russ had already detached the roof, so it was open air like Lyndy’s. And somehow Russ’s hat stayed on like glue, even at fifty miles per hour.

Observing Russ’s face, Lyndy could tell she was curious about her passenger; Lyndy felt the same. A Mexican-American girl wearing high heels, a sleeveless blouse and too-tight blue jeans, 30 miles from any semblance of civilization. Wasn’t this the way certain slasher movies started—an attractive female, pretending to be stranded in the desert.

“Ahem.” Russ cleared her throat. “You know I haven’t met many twenty-year-old classic Jeep fans out here.” Russ shouted to overcome road noise, and tire hum. Lyndy was used to doing this as well. “In fact, you’re the first.”

Lyndy glanced over at Russ, while re-gathering her hair in a ponytail. “Technically that boat anchor—I mean automobile—is my late brother’s. I inherited it.”

Russ kept both hands on the wheel, squinting at hood glare. She grinned ever so slightly, tilting her head to one side, but maintaining vigilance. “So, pardon if I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but what exactly do you do out here?”

The question was fair, given the circumstances.

Lyndy had been guarding her purse in her lap. She used her fingers to straighten the decorative fringe, dangling two inches all along the bottom. Then she unsnapped one of the side pockets, fishing out a Martinez Investigations business card—crisp and white—to give to Russ. “I’m a private investigator for a business called Chan’s Bail Bonds.”

Lyndy paused for the obligatory laugh, but none came. She held out the card. “I specialize in finding people who don’t want to be found. You know, folks on the lam, runaway kids, stuff like that.”

Russ turned slowly to face the center, an eyebrow raised. She accepted the little card, gripping it by a corner. She glanced down, then back at the road. On it was the name, a simple illustration of a Joshua Tree—the only art—and then a phone number.

“It’s okay to laugh at me now,” assured Lyndy, cupping her hands across her thighs. She wondered if Russ would be finished speaking, but the lady was undeterred.

“Are you one of those—what do they call it now—bail enforcement agents?”

Lyndy shook her head. “Not me. Mr. Chan is though. And trust me, you do not want to cross him.” That was an understatement.

Lyndy sipped more water from the canteen.

“The gun. Was it also your brother’s?” Russ’s tone had taken a somber turn.

Lyndy confirmed with a nod. One thing was obvious, Russ was far more perceptive than the average tourist; it was unnerving.

“My brother special ordered that thing.”

With a jolt, ungodly scenes of Pinegate Youth Detention Center breached the Spitfire’s consciousness; in her weakened state she couldn’t hold the memories at bay. She felt the cold floors again, rusty nails protruding, the ones that scraped you as counselors and guards dragged you along by your unwashed hair. Lyndy saw the face of warden Mabel Dixon. She felt the sense of hopelessness, the consuming fear, and almost got a chill. Lyndy buried her head in her elbow, shutting her eyes to maintain composure.

“I guess I ought to explain myself. There’s a hardcore biker gang in this county—they’re basically a criminal ring posing as peaceful, freedom loving motorcycle enthusiasts—and those dudes hate my guts. I put too many of their members back behind bars.”

“How many have you put away?” inquired Russ.

“Probably twenty-five by now.”

Lyndy opened her eyes, long enough to watch Russ silently mimic the words, twenty-five. “Also, today I found out I have a new nickname at the jail: La Fierabrosa.”

“What does that mean?”

“The Spitfire, and a part of me likes that one, except I know they’re mocking me.” Lyndy sniffed, slouching lower in the seat, tilting her chin down. “Some of those jerks are white supremacists, and they are the worst. What it means is bad men are coming for me. Could be a matter of days, maybe weeks or months, but they’re coming. If Mr. Chan is around, he’ll try to protect me. But he won’t always be there.” Lyndy lifted her purse an inch, so she could feel the mass. “I just don’t want to find out what it’s like to be dismembered. That’s the reason I’ve been carrying this thing; I hate guns.”

But inside, The Spitfire knew an unspoken truth; her statements were only true in part. She feared nothing, except a repeat of the experiences at Pinegate. Warden Dixon was far more terrifying than any garden variety felon.

“Are you a decent shot? I used to be pretty good with a twenty-two.”

Lyndy shrugged. “With this, it doesn’t even matter.”

Lyndy felt a sudden sting of embarrassment, afraid to even look at Russ. She’d never shared so much, with a person she hardly knew. It seemed an unforced error, something Hector would have chastised her about.

Warning: Prolonged loneliness may result in spilling your guts to total strangers.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to give me a lift now,” said Lyndy. “I can thumb a ride from somebody else.”

After a lengthy silence, Russ shook her head.

“Well this is awkward,” thought Lyndy. She slapped her hands on her knees, asking in a more cheerful tone: “So then, what brings you out here?”

Russ touched one of the shiny buttons on her shirt. “I’m a plain old desert rat, and now, an aspiring historian.” With a faraway look, she twisted her wedding band a half-turn, using her thumb and forefinger. “Let me put it to you like this: However you think your life is going to go, trust me, it won’t go that way.”

“I can attest to that,” thought Lyndy.

“I moved to California because of my husband Glen. At the time he was a test pilot for the Navy, and I was an engine mechanic. I don’t think I ever planned on getting hitched—I hadn’t even dreamed of it—it just happened. Glen also had a passion for camping of all things. So we started coming out to the desert for the peace and quiet.”

“Used to be I spent more time in the Anza-Borrego desert than the Mojave,” continued Russ. “Last couple years though, I’ve been working on a small research project. I’m re-tracing the path of the forgotten Old Government Trail, otherwise known as The Mojave Road. It’s an original covered wagon route across the Mojave, a major route of passage. I’ve been photographing what traces remain of it in black and white. I’m also working on a book to document the history, though I’ve discovered the act of writing is a lot harder than it looks—I suspect I might be better at mechanical things than I am at wordsmithing.” Russ held up her calloused hands, demonstrating a gap of about 20 inches. “Got stacks of manuscripts about this high on my kitchen table.”

Russ’s story sounded legit as they come. Lyndy had heard talk of The Mojave Road once or twice, but knew little about it.

“So, in summary, I understand my life is a bit less exciting than yours. But if you don’t go spreading all my secrets, then I won’t blab about yours.” Russ put a finger across her lips.

“You got yourself a deal,” said Lyndy. She thought about questioning whatever happened to Russ’s husband, but decided it would be impolite. Almost certainly he was no longer among the living.

“And I’ll keep your business card in case I need it,” Russ added.

 

 

Russ proved true to her word. They stopped at an auto parts store on the edge of Barstow, where Lyndy purchased a new 12-volt battery with cash. Then they returned to the CJ-5, still undisturbed at the roadside.

The long ride back was mostly quiet, with Lyndy gazing at the passing scenery, and fidgeting with her keys. Both of them were tired of shouting above the wind, neither having more to say anyway. Working together, they managed to install the new unit within a half hour. Russ toted in her CJ-7 a complete set of craftsman tools; it put Lyndy’s cobbled together one to shame.

After jump-starting her Jeep, making sure everything was normal, more-or-less, Russ shook Lyndy’s hand. Lyndy tried to offer some money, but Russ refused to accept.

“If you ever see me or another poor sap stranded out here, just lend em a hand,” was all she said. Then, tool box in one hand, she ambled back to her yellow Jeep. Moments later it rumbled by, tailed in a whirl of road dust. The horn beeped as it rolled on in the direction of Ludlow.

With Russ safely out of view, Lyndy retrieved the Beretta. Using a flat palm, she shoved the magazine firmly into the grip, until it clicked in place. She pulled the top back to arm it. Then as she slid the pistol under her seat, something occurred to Lyndy. She slipped on her uncomfortable shoes.

With no one on 66, The Spitfire stepped out over the double yellow. She pointed her body east, to Needles, as a dry breeze blew hair across her face. Then, turning one-eighty, pointed herself west. Every so often Lyndy discerned a glint, contrasting against the charcoal hills. It had to be from Russ’s Jeep, ready to crest the pass.

“Curious,” thought Lyndy, folding her arms.

She hadn’t noted which direction Russ was originally traveling. In fact, Lyndy could not recall which way the yellow Jeep had been pointed, whether west toward civilization, or east to the river and Arizona. In her mind’s eye, she could see clearly every feature of that CJ-7, except how it was positioned. And for all the talk of The Government Road, that trail was nowhere near Amboy or Ludlow; she knew for certain.

 

Hours later …

 

If The Vanishing Point diner was considered within Miss Cookson’s territory, then Roy’s Café had long been surrendered to The Spitfire; she often used it as an office for her investigative work, and a place to crash when lacking a will to cook.

Those distant thunderheads of mid-afternoon delivered on none of their promised rain, but succeeded at raising the humidity level. However, with the setting sun, the outside air cooled to a tolerable 90 degrees, and all the creatures of the night began to emerge. It was time for them to rehydrate.

With age came incremental wisdom. The Spitfire desired nothing more than a pitcher full of margarita mix. But with her feet propped on the adjacent stool, Lyndy sipped from a glass of lemonade, watered down with extra ice; it was her third.

She was paging through a Cosmo magazine; it had somehow wormed its way into her post office box. Next to her, a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich, a basket of fries and a pickle. On the floor, cached alongside the leather purse, those impractical shoes.

Lyndy inverted a glass ketchup bottle, scraping the insides with a butter knife. It made a clinking sound as she attempted to loosen the contents. Devouring fries, two at a time, The Spitfire reached across to massage the arches of her feet. Tomorrow she would have to change up fashion tactics.

Visible through front windows, framed in flaking chrome, Lyndy could see headlights approaching on the highway. Outside the building, a swarm of cicadas were chirping incessantly, and the sound was filtering indoors.

Buster, Roy’s short order cook, took a break from his mopping and gazed out. He had lived through the nineteen forties and fifties, decades when the restaurant was so popular, there were lines out the door to get a table. He had six assistants, all working under him. Ever hopeful, he always seemed on lookout for the next armada of tourists, but most drivers passed on by.

Nearing town, the unknown car was indeed slowing down, and not just because of the speed limit signs. From a distance, it was impossible to distinguish one pair of headlights from any other. Though, as they angled into the Roy’s lot, reflections off the windshield, and the vehicle’s profile, gave it away.

“Aye caramba,” mouthed Lyndy, burying her face in her hands. She’d forgotten about Ted Crawford. His ride was a fifties-era round-bodied pickup truck, green with split windows. It was nicer than the maroon Jeep, only because it had a roof.

Disappointed, Buster resumed his mopping, eventually moving into the kitchen.

Lyndy stirred her glass of lemonade, mostly ice remaining, unsure why she wasn’t in a mood to speak to Ted. Maybe she could slip out the back quick? But with her car parked in front, that wouldn’t make sense. Lyndy hastily checked herself in the makeup case, fluffing her hair so it wasn’t flat against the sides of her head.

Tammy’s intuition was dubious at best. But if Ted asked her out to the river party, Lyndy wasn’t sure what her answer would be. She reached for a clean napkin from the dispenser.

Steel bells clanged as the door creaked open. Then an overzealous air conditioner clicked on, triggering a momentary rush of air.

Lyndy wiped excess ketchup from her fingertips and lips, then touched up her purple lipstick. Seconds later, a dusty Stetson hat flopped on the counter.

“Been lookin around all day,” declared Ted.

Strange how the sound of a person’s voice could soften the heart. Lyndy had missed it. But the tone seemed upset, and his boldness was out of character.

“I called your place six times, no answer,” Ted added.

Lyndy shifted her feet and rotated her body, making room for Ted to sit next to her. He straddled the stool like it was a saddle, gripping the counter edge to steady himself. His breathing was slow, his attentions on her, as he calmly awaited an explanation.

Lyndy let her eyes wander. She could see the work shirt, tight against his firm chest, moisture stains around the collar. He’d rolled both sleeves up above the elbows. Dirt smudges lingered on his forearms, evidence of whatever chore he’d been laboring at earlier in the day; much of his work was with horses, or trucks, or other things that were heavy.

“Did you call Chan’s?” asked Lyndy, stalling.

“I woulda called there. But he always yells at me for botherin him. He says he’s ‘not a Spitfire telephone answering service’. Somethin like that.”

That comment made Lyndy grin. “Look, I just ain’t been home is all,” she replied. “I had about the worst, most unproductive day! Literally got sun-stroke, passed out by the road, and had to be rescued by a total stranger. Fun times.”

“Holy crap. Are you okay now?” asked Ted, concerned.

Lyndy nodded, biting into a pickle. “Uh huh. I’m tough. And I even got my appetite back, so you know I’m recovered.” She smiled, offering her red basket of fries to Ted. He shook his head no.

“Glad you’re better; this heat wave has been killer.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” asked Lyndy. “Think of it as me paying you back for all those times I said I didn’t want fries, and then ended up eating half of yours. Remember?”

“I’m not hungry,” said Ted solemnly.

Lyndy had expected some kind of laugh or chuckle.

Ted sniffed, spinning his hat uneasily on the polished counter. “I uh … doubt very much you had a worse day than me.” He brushed some loose grains of sand from the brim.

Lyndy placed a hand atop Ted’s. His fingers were warm. “What do you mean by that?”

[Link to Part-6: La Fierabrosa Part-6]