La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

[Merry Christmas / Happy Holidays everybody!–ASC]

Lyndy tried to look Ted in the eyes as she listened to his story, but he kept turning away. Abruptly, he pulled his hand from her grip and stood up. Discomfort was evident on his face as he strode across the room. It was the sort of look a man made when holding in a painful secret.

The east wall at Roy’s had been lavishly decorated with framed photographs. All black and white, they consisted of actors, singers, and other notable folk who once traveled Route-66 through the Mojave. Some of the names weren’t exactly A-listers, their former claims to fame now known only to Roy. And if you looked too closely, the frames were in serious need of dusting.

“Actually Lyn, I got my ass fired from my job today,” Ted admitted.

“Oh my god. Really?” Lyndy spun around in her stool. “How?”

“Does that surprise you?” replied Ted.

“Yeah of course. You’re the hardest working cowboy at the JBR ranch. Come to think of it, you’re the hardest working person I know.” Lyndy hoped her honesty shone through, because the facts were undisputed.

“Then tell that to Rob Albright,” Ted lamented.

Lyndy’s pants were starting to feel extra tight around the stomach region. She stood up, saying, “Excuse me, but I feel like an overstuffed chimichanga.” Then she closed one eye, making a deliberately funny face as she struggled with the top-most of three buttons.

Ted glanced away bashfully, as Lyndy got reseated.

“These jeans are flawless so long as you don’t try an eat a meal in ‘em.” Lyndy exhaled a sigh of sweet relief. “So, did they at least give you a final paycheck? Maybe we can drive to Vegas and stick it in a slot machine, or blow it on Mexican beers.”

“They’re withholding it, pending an investigation.”

“Sheesh. Talk about kicking a guy when he’s down.” Lyndy had been preparing for a heart-to-heart on romantic date failures, not a case of wrongful termination.

Ted slid his fingers in the front pockets of his wrangler jeans, pacing the tile floor by the non-functioning jukebox. A sound of cowboy boots clicking deep and hollow, resonated louder than the cicadas. “See, we’re missing 15 head, and Rob is convinced I’m the cause, since they were under my watch.”

Lyndy blinked her eyes. “You mean like, uh… the old fashioned ….” she waved an arm in the air, attempting to conjure a seldom used term, “cattle rustling?” After speaking the words aloud, Lyndy had trouble keeping a straight face.

Ted nodded his head. “It’s been a few days. I mean, I have looked every place I can think of. Damn cows flew the coop.”

Now it was turning into an episode of Rawhide.

“I understand if it seems abnormal. But to Rob Albright, this is dead serious business.”

Lyndy shoved a few more french fries in her mouth. “So why exactly does Rob believe they were stolen?” she asked, speaking through her food. “Any evidence?”

Ted shook his head. “He doesn’t know. We’re talking about a ranch spanning 30,000 acres. But again, this problem happened under my watch.”

“You ever had a cow go missing?”

“Never.”

“Have space aliens been ruled out? You know they love cows.”

Ted froze in momentary silence. “Sorry. I think I’m too upset to laugh.”

“No need to apologize,” replied Lyndy, fanning herself. “That joke was so awful I ought to sue myself.”

A crack of a smile curled at the edges of Ted’s mouth.

Lyndy spun a full 360 in her stool. She frowned, resting elbows on her thighs. Given a choice between a steely-eyed fugitive, worth potentially thousands of dollars, and a herd of missing bovines, the response she should give Ted seemed obvious.

“Oh. I do have two clues,” Ted announced.

“Whelp, that’s better than I usually get,” said Lyndy. “Lay em on me.”

Ted reached in his back pocket, the one harboring his wallet. He approached the counter, smoothing out a crinkled page torn from a sketchbook. An artist by training, Ted was adept at sketching.

“There’s an old corral, over by the wells at Government Holes, and a cattle chute—like one of those wooden boat ramps. Rob made Deputy Keynes come out on a special trip, and he was lookin for any kind of tire tracks and stuff. Normally there’s a mess of vehicle tracks all over, since the public’s allowed to be there. Cept there had been thunderstorms, so most of the ground is smoothed over. Dale found a dented steel hubcap which he took with him. I sketched it from memory. And I don’t recognize this make at all.”

Ted leaned over to brush some dirt from his cowboy boot. “Course I been looking at every car and truck on the dang road. Ain’t seen one like it yet.” Ted exhaled slowly, finally meeting Lyndy’s eyes. “And I could already tell from Dale’s face he’s painting this as an inside job. He doesn’t like me for some reason.”

Ted slid the sketch over to Lyndy. Though precisely drawn, it appeared as any other stamped metal hubcap, save for one sharp indentation.

Lyndy narrowed her gaze, squeezing her chin between her thumb and index finger. “Wait. So, Deputy Keynes doesn’t like you?” Though phrasing the question as if she were unaware, Lyndy had a hunch at the reasons.

“Heck no. Ever since the day I came to town, that guy has had it in for me. One time he wrote me a speeding ticket for doing 38 in a 35 zone—in my green farm truck that can’t even reach 50.” Ted pointed to the parking lot. “An another time he arrested me for disorderly conduct and public drunkenness. But I literally had one watered down beer that night.”

The idea of Ted being disorderly about anything was difficult to envision.

“Well anyways.” Ted retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, thumbing through the cash. “I’ve got a hundred fifty.” Ted offered it to Lyndy in one folded bundle. “I don’t know how much private detectives cost.”

Lyndy put both hands over Ted’s, covering the cash. “You’re my friend,” she said, pushing his arm away. He stood in stunned silence for a moment. It was hard for a proud man like him to accept help.

More of the ice in Lyndy’s cup had melted away, and she probed with the straw in her mouth, sucking up liquid mixed with air bubbles. “What was the other clue?”

“Oh. The other thing is, I seen a yellow Jeep, brand new, in places nobody normal ever drives. I saw it one time at Rock Spring, and once at Government Holes, and I was about to stop the person but they sped away. It doesn’t have a trailer hitch on. So unless they hired a secret partner, I doubt it’s connected. But I figured it’s worth mentioning.”

Lyndy’s eyes got big. She lifted her head suddenly and inhaled, a sound audible from across the room.

“What is it?” inquired Ted.

Lyndy shrugged, feigning innocence.

“Your ears totally perked up.” He moved to the counter, leaning next to Lyndy.

“Nothing,” said Lyndy.

“I dunno, that was the same noise you make when you figure somethin out.” Ted reached for his hat, grabbing and sticking it atop his head. He started making his way to the door. At the threshold he paused, pointing to a picture high on the wall. “Say Lyn, you ever ask Buster about the headshot of Burt Lancaster.”

“I didn’t even know that was Burt Lancaster,” replied Lyndy, straining to see. “I assume he’s one of the famous dudes who stayed here.”

“But the writing.” In the corner of the photo was cursive writing.

“You can read that?”

“Yep,” Ted nodded. “Just read it for the first time. It says: Thanks for all the sushi!” Ted appeared confused. “Who in the heck would order sushi here?”

“Why would Roy and Buster ever serve sushi?” added Lyndy.

“And he said ‘all the sushi’, implying a large quantity. You really ought to ask Buster for an explanation. Place gets weirder every day.”

 

The next morning …

 

Contrary to some people’s rosy beliefs, there exists such a thing as a career criminal. The best of them seemed to evade the law on pure instinct, like a fox out-maneuvering a pack of frantic hounds. Does the fox ever get away on a hunt?

Of course he does.

The Spitfire awoke to the gentle click of her nightstand alarm clock, turning over the hour paddle. She opened an eye. The inch-wide gap in the window curtain was black. Not yet first light; even the sun wasn’t ready to get up.

Lyndy breathed deep, gripping her forehead with both palms.

“So, to review, I hardly worked ten minutes on Chan and Lovelace’s case, the one that is paying me. I waste a whole afternoon fixing my car, then I agree to take another case pro-bono for a former boyfriend, principally because he’s hot. How much do I even know about the ranching business? Fantastic.”

In the far distance a train whistle blew, probably at the Amboy crossing guards. It was an early morning intermodal bound for Williams Arizona, and the big diesels generated a low rumble which carried in all directions, filling the valley.

Lyndy rolled over in her double bed to face the flip clock. Inside, a tiny yellow bulb flickered to illuminate the time. It read 05:00. She wanted to sleep an hour more, but that goal was hopeless. Lyndy felt as alert as a toddler after a Dunkin’ donut run. One reason, the excessive temps in her bedroom; the night before she’d simply been too tired to notice.

The Spitfire forgot where exactly she first heard one silly expression—perhaps at The Vanishing Point—but the trailer park regulars used to quip: “It ain’t home til you take the wheels off.” In such a case, Lyndy’s Wayne Manor was an airstream mounted on cinder blocks, where the rent charge totaled $50 a year. Or looking at it another way, 14 cents per day. The mining company’s lots were isolated, surrounded by scrubland, with a quarter-mile long rutted driveway. But Lyndy preferred it that way. You could easily hear people coming.

Lyndy reached for the light switch cord and yanked on it. She pushed off her single sheet. Affixed to the bedroom wall was a bank calendar, nearly two years out of cycle. She rubbed her eyes until she could read it. The calendar featured a photo of wolves in snow.

Lyndy counted up on her fingers. “Hmm. If I leave that page up 4 more years, then it will be correct again.”

On the carpet floor in front of the door was a black bra, same one she’d been wearing the prior afternoon. The Spitfire folded her legs, squeezing her ankles and pushing down her knees to get a better stretch. She stared at her bare thighs; plenty of black stubble was visible. Undoubtedly, there existed a middle ground on the subject of leg hair. Sometimes hippie chick was a fine look.

For visiting the geology camp though, The Spitfire needed a spicier outfit, in case Kyle Ellis really was there. And if it required shorts or a skirt, then shaving seemed a necessary evil. Personal goal for Tuesday: no more fainting spells.

Lyndy scooted sideways and reached for the closet handles. She eased the slider panels to one side, letting items tumble forth in as orderly a fashion as possible. There was an outfit she favored, and it would pair well with hiking boots. She began sorting through her collection of short sleeve tops, while brushing her hair.

Still in underwear bottoms and a dodger blue t-shirt, Lyndy moved to the cooking area, at the midsection of the trailer. She retrieved the metal percolator pot, filling it with water from the tap. She placed several coarse scoops from the coffee can in the top chamber, then set the percolator on the stove. Next, she twisted on the propane gas—it made a hissing sound like an angry snake—lighting it with a paper match.

While the water boiled, Lyndy dug in the medicine cabinet until she found a small can of men’s shaving cream. She also sought out a safety razor, and commenced shaving her legs in the kitchen, using the chair as a prop.

How’s this for a shaving thought: if animals like desert foxes rely on instincts for survival, and DNA is the code of life, then how on god’s earth are instincts passed down? It’s not like the mother fox has to teach every trick in the book. It defied all logical explanation. Could anyone unravel the mystery?

 

Thirty minutes later ….

 

Lyndy rubbed thick lotion all over her hands. She shoved a fresh pack of Newports in her purse, then stashed the Beretta underneath the seat. The Jeep was indeed running a lot smoother; not like a young car, but Russ was correct in her diagnosis of poor spark. What a wonder proper voltage could do.

First on the day’s agenda, pay a visit to the geology camp—unannounced of course—the perfect opportunity to surprise anyone you only half-trusted.

As usual, The Spitfire had a secret plan. Her passenger seat smelled delightful, thanks to two Denver omelets and two steaming cups of black coffee. Each omelet was packed neatly in a Styrofoam container. Lyndy had gone all-out at the truck stop. She even had the individually wrapped plastic silverware set, with salt, pepper and ketchup packets. This was sure to win Kyle over; he could hardly resist.

The sun was peeking out over the Clipper Mountains as she switched off the ignition. The AMC engine ran-on a few turns—per normal operation—going clunk-clunk-clunk.

The camp location felt peaceful and serene; to the casual observer deserted. Except it was well known Mr. Ellis liked to take advantage of morning hours for his most laborious scientific tasks—especially during a week like this. His white topped four-wheel-drive was parked at the mouth of a gully. On a rise, ten yards away, the futuristic sierra designs tent stood like a majestic igloo. Unlike some tents, the sides to Kyle’s were an opaque lime green.

A scent of stale smoke lingered in the air, but a quick check of the fire ring showed no active smolders. The sunrise had set the hills aglow in soft yellows and oranges.

Lyndy jumped down from the driver’s seat, her hiking boot crunching on the gravel road. She pressed the door shut behind, trying not to slam things. Lyndy listened for a tink-tink, characteristic of someone using a rock hammer, but none could be heard.

The Spitfire ran her fingertips over her legs, feeling how smooth they were. She was wearing her favorite skirt. She dabbed blush on her cheeks in the side mirror, and squirted deodorant under her arms. Then she circled around to the passenger side.

Next Lyndy twisted open the metal latch on the glovebox. She reached for her binoculars. When Kyle’s Bronco was present, but he was not, then a good place to start searching was the cliffs. Oftentimes there were bighorn sheep with lambs up there too. She scoured the mountains for a minute or two, finding nothing living except a raven. The black bird was probably waiting to raid the camp later, should anything edible be left unattended.

“Maybe Kyle is hungover,” thought Lyndy.

She gathered the hot food and strolled to the fire ring area. Lyndy took a seat in one of the canvas beach chairs, kicking her feet onto Kyle’s ice chest. She took a sip of her coffee, enjoying the quiet morning.

A minute later there was a rustling from within the tent. The front zipper lowered halfway, and Kyle stumbled out wearing only a pair of checkered boxer shorts. He rubbed a hand across his face. When he saw Lyndy in the chair he jumped back. “Holy smokes!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t hear you come up the road. If this was a John Wayne movie, I would be the guy with an arrow sticking out of his chest.”

He had blue eyes and curly brown hair.

“I was in stealth mode,” whispered Lyndy. “But I come bearing gifts.”

“Groovy,” said Kyle. “Let me find a shirt that isn’t coated in a quarter inch of Early-Cambrian dust.” He retreated to the tent for a moment.

Seconds later, Kyle emerged clad in a safari shirt, blue jeans and an aussie-style hat. He zipped up the tent flaps, then walked behind out of view. Lyndy could hear him peeing for almost a minute. She rolled her eyes. Afterward, he came rushing to the fire ring, and sat down in the one empty chair. He repositioned the hat so it shaded his face more. Even though it was early morning, he needed it for his white skin. And he always wore long sleeve shirts while working in the field for the same reason.

Lyndy handed Kyle the box with the omelet.

“Wow. This is really thoughtful of you Lyndy. But what’s the special occasion?” he asked, as he took hold of the box. He broke a small fork free of its plastic sleeve, and poked at the eggs.

Lyndy gave Kyle her slyest smile. “I’m a thoughtful person.”

“Right. Makes sense,” said Kyle, taking a sip of coffee. He nodded his chin while gazing suspiciously at her.

[Link to Part-7: La Fierabrosa Part-7]