La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Ever reach for a plastic solo cup at an outdoor party, thinking it’s your own, take a swig, and then realize in horror you don’t recognize the taste? Instead of your favorite beer, it tastes like Pickle Fizz, or god forbid, something worse. Some days that’s what life is like.

Using the tip of a plastic spork, Kyle pointed in the direction of the Old Woman Mountains, visible as a ragged outline of rock on the horizon. “There’s a decent amount of moisture building in the air. Have you noticed? I believe we’re in for a second round of thunderstorms this afternoon.”

“You’re an armchair weather predictor now?” teased Lyndy.

“Of course. I have multiple talents.” Kyle squirted a packet of hot sauce onto his eggs.

“I’ll bet,” said Lyndy, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Did it rain here yesterday?”

“Only a few drops, mostly it was virga. I hope it rains cats and dogs here. For one thing, my tent could use a good rinse.”

“My trailer could use a wash also,” agreed Lyndy.

Kyle glanced over to the tent, as if checking on something important. “Also, I was going over my field notes last night. Would you believe there hasn’t been a single tortoise spotted all season? I’ve been on the lookout too. I guess they’re in need of water.”

Lyndy considered quizzing Kyle about the yellow jeep, except she was too anxious to get to the punchline; enough small talk. She swirled her cup a few times. “So, you uh …. hear about Todd’s party on Saturday? The one at the river?” She intentionally took a long sip of coffee, while keeping eyes laser-focused on Kyle’s face. She didn’t want to miss his response, involuntary or otherwise.

“I have heard about it,” replied Kyle. “Todd left an invitation on my car. And Debbie Kowalski—you know the geochemist from Cal-State—she got one too.”

Leaving notes for Kyle was a primary method people used to communicate with him. Should he be hammering away out on the cliffs, typically no one bothered to hike up there.

All Lyndy could think was, “where was her own personal invitation?” She’d checked the post office box on Monday. Nada.

A quiet moment passed.

“Are you going then?” coaxed Lyndy, trying to move things along.

“Mmm, hmm,” mumbled Kyle, with a mouth full of food.

“With anyone?”

Kyle frowned, planting his spork perfectly upright in the remaining eggs. He wiped his mouth clean on his shirt sleeves. Then he turned away from the mountain views to meet Lyndy’s eyes, shifting his weight onto the arm of his chair. He cleared his throat. “I already asked Debbie.”

Kyle had about five days’ worth of beard growth.

“Who in the hell is Debbie?” demanded Lyndy.

“I just told you,” said Kyle, holding out open palms. “Debbie Kowalski. You acted like you knew her thirty seconds ago.”

Lyndy shook her head. “Is it me, or does Debbie Kowalski seem like a totally made up person,” she challenged. “Did you invent her so you don’t have to give me bad news?”

Kyle pounded his forehead with his fist. “Why would I do that? She isn’t made up. You’ve met her. She’s a graduate student who works in the chemistry labs. She’s a geo-chemist. At Cal state. You, me and her are the same age.”

In this case, ‘Cal State’ was short for California State University, San Bernardino. The campus had geologists, biologists, historians and anthropologists performing research in various remote corners of the desert.

The Spitfire still seemed incredulous.

“She’s real Lyndy! She’s been to the camp several times. I introduced you.”

Lyndy racked her brain. “Wait, you mean the chubby redhead with the curly hair? The girl who wiped her hands off after she shook mine? And I heard her whispering that my hairstyle and makeup are ‘weird and creepy’ behind my back.”

There was another pause. “Based on your description, that might be her.”

“Sorry … I mean, she isn’t … so bad,” stammered Lyndy, folding her arms. “I’m sure she’s nice in a way.”

Kyle tilted his head to one side. “In all fairness, you are pretty weird,” he said calmly.

“Then you don’t want to date me anymore?”

The oh-so clever plan was backfiring, horribly.

Noticing a hurt look on Lyndy, Kyle exhaled deeply. “I guess I have to come out and say it. First off, you are a bit anti-social. You think the worst of anyone new you meet. And another problem, you manipulate men. You’re like one of the hot chicks in high school who asked me to help them with their math homework, and then acted like they didn’t know me the next day. I mean, how many boyfriends do you have? You shouldn’t be using men every time you feel lonely.”

“So … you’re upset because I’m using you for … love?” Lyndy whispered angrily. “I feel like we need a chalkboard out here.”

“Look, I’m sorry to be hard on you. Trust me, you are ‘single guy’s fantasy’ hot. I just want to be with somebody normal for a while. Somebody I can picture having a long-term relationship with.”

“Got it. No need to beat a dead horse.”

Lyndy could feel emotions rising inside, near to the bursting point. She brushed the food crumbs from the pleats of her skirt. While standing to leave, she put up a hand to hide her eyes. “I really need to go. I’m supposed to be working on a big important case for Mr. Chan.” She went digging in her purse for the keys, and her sunglasses too. “Burnin daylight.”

I need to go lick my wounds, that is.

Lyndy took a few dejected steps toward the Jeep. She was disappointed, but Kyle’s sudden change of heart wasn’t completely unforeseen. The way he explained sounded reasonable. And that by itself was cause for suspicion.

Lyndy stopped abruptly. With hot tears pooling in each eye, threatening to destroy her eyeliner, the spitfire glared at Kyle. She noticed he had food particles stuck in his beard.

Kyle let his gaze wander—a single furtive look over at the tent was all it took.

“Okay, okay, stop the presses. She’s here, isn’t she?”

Kyle pretended to be interested in his coffee. “Who?”

“In the tent. Debbie. Before I leave with my tail between my legs, do I at least get the pleasure of meeting this chick, for the second time apparently?” Lyndy made a move for the tent. Kyle jumped up to try and stop her—splashing hot coffee on his legs—but Lyndy darted ahead to open the zippers. She was wearing grippier tennis shoes, so she could run fast.

In one smooth motion she rolled the zipper all the way to the roof, peering in. There, half covered by a sleeping bag, but still showing bare skin on her chest, was one Cathy Marie Cookson. Lyndy was momentarily star-struck, even feeling dizziness coming on.

She had been expecting Mountain Dew, but this was pure Pickle Fizz.

“Howdy there Lyndy,” said Cathy cheerfully. As always, her voice was breathy, with a hint of a country twang. She even smiled. With her big velvet-colored fake nails, it was a wonder she could wait tables at all. “So, are ya goin’ to Todd’s party?”

“Hi Cathy,” said Lyndy, dryly.

“Hon, is now a bad time to ask what you’re planning to wear?”

Please, please no fainting today.

“Uhm, I’m thinking it probably is,” said Cathy.

Instead of answering Cathy’s question, Lyndy turned back to Kyle, while still holding onto the flap of the tent. “You’re a damn good liar,” she said.

Kyle started to say something, but Lyndy just held up her hand. “Don’t bother.”

“I sure hope they have Malibu Rum,” added Cathy.

 

Minutes later …

 

Back on the open road, and Lyndy needed both hands to press the shifter into third gear. Sometimes it took convincing. She was still sniffling, wiping away an occasional stray tear on her upper arms. Her makeup could easily be reapplied, but her ego felt worse for the wear. Score a point for the blonde waitress.

Lyndy put her weight into the accelerator pedal. She untangled her sunglasses from her blowing hair, sliding them down on the bridge of her nose. Then she merged onto the I-15, headed south. Time to roll with the out-of-state big rigs.

Lyndy sniffed. Great to know if I lose my job at Chan’s, I can always run away and join the circus … as a freak. At least according to Kyle and friends.

Between Bell Mountain and Summit, the road was so arrow straight a steering wheel wasn’t required. It was still early morning, that unforgiving heat having yet to build. Lyndy searched the horizon for hints of cumulous clouds, or any precursors to afternoon T-storms. Though none were present, she hoped Kyle’s prediction of rain would be correct. Either way, she wouldn’t be returning here until after sundown.

From her awkward meeting with Chan—it felt longer than 24 hours past—Lyndy had received a helpful clue. Now she stared at the square of yellow paper, gripped firmly between her long and ring fingers. It was an address for the ex-wife of Evan Stone and their kindergarten-age child. Odds were miniscule a person like that could be of any assistance. Spouses and former lovers were usually too downtrodden, or else emotionally on the side of their partner. And unfortunately, speaking to kids was just as dicey—one didn’t want to endanger them.

Yet by process of elimination, this was the place she needed to start, and hopefully some tangent or loose end would lead to the next discovery; the methodology was non-linear in every sense. If only Evan had a regular place of employment, it would make things so much easier.

Was there such a thing as a routine case at Chan’s? Not in the least.

 

Leaving the high desert lands behind, Lyndy crested Cajon Pass, then dropped a further two thousand feet in elevation. The Jeep favored downhills. Her destination was the inland empire, a low-lying sector of the county somewhat resembling civilization. In addition to the county seat of government, it was a place beset with pollution and higher crime, almost LA in magnitude. The sky devolved to a worsening shade of brown.

The steel mills of Fontana, among other industries, generated heavy smog which became trapped by the 6500-foot-high mountains and inversion layers—it was some kind of atmospheric science voodoo—nature’s pressure cooker. Such a town made one appreciate the clear desert air and sunshine, so long as you could tolerate the weather pattern.

As she arrived in town, the workday was getting underway, and main boulevards were clogged. Lyndy steered her way to one of the quieter side streets. She pulled over, underneath the shade of a giant magnolia and set the parking break. With the motor off, one could hear leaves rustling overhead and many birds. Two doors away, a Doberman started barking at her from the other side of a wrought iron fence.

Lyndy watched a white mustang roll by; it was a 67 or 68 model with the fastback. She stepped out, unfolding a large-scale AAA street map across the hood of the Jeep. People used to call these “traveling salesman maps”, the kind naming every road. Tracing with the tip of her glasses, she pinpointed the exact street and probable house location, a half mile further north in the residential zone.

Venturing onward, it became clear this was the sort of working class neighborhood dominated by renters. Butting up against fire-prone foothills, the land had originally been less costly for developers to obtain. The houses were all two and three-bedroom bungalows, having plain stucco siding and shingle roofs; they exhibited zero character one-to-another. Hector had a name for these unattractive abodes: shit-boxes.

The paved lane was laid out in a giant half-circle, eventually looping around from east back to westerly. Even by rental standards, this area was a dump. Derelict cars littered the driveways and side lots. Lawns featured dead or dying grass. Broken windows were hastily repaired with duct tape, tracing all along the path of cracks. It had the feel of El Sereno, but the latter being in Los Angeles, was a far more culturally respected place.

The houses didn’t come with attached garages, just a concrete driveway and carport. On some, a house number was stenciled on the mail box. Others, only a small inset on the curb identified them. It took a bit of sleuthing, but at last, The Spitfire located a unit matching the one from Chan’s records.

There were no outside markings, but her confidence was high since the surrounding numbers were correct. She turned down her radio volume, chugging slowly by in first gear, and trying not to draw any suspicion. The house had a picture window facing front, but there were too many reflections to see indoors. Half of it was shaded by an overgrown elm tree and untrimmed bushes. To the left of the door, and shy of the front awning, a five-dollar plastic lawn chair stood coated in mold and dirt. It was the kind aged by the California sun, ready to collapse the moment an unwitting person sat down, making you feel like a fat cow. Personal experience.

The driveway was devoid of cars. A parting glance revealed black oil stains, so someone had been staying there. Nothing guaranteed the house was also vacant, but without a vehicle, it seemed likely. She’d need to be on foot to determine how fresh those oil stains were.

Lyndy had the urge to stick her arm in Evan’s mailbox. Tempting, but it entailed too much risk. Probably a few grumpy letters from Chan in the mix. The Spitfire didn’t want to scare anybody off; too soon for that. Of course, if you were serious about circumventing Johnny Law, you would park a block or two away and keep the lights out at night. Such were the uncertainties of the game, and Lyndy had left her brown package delivery costume at home.

Lyndy continued on up the street, moving in second gear at a constant speed. Nothing unusual to see here, just a typical Latina private detective, driving a craptastic purple Jeep, dressed in all black like a person headed to a funeral.

At the nearest intersection, The Spitfire turned off to the side, five doors away and around the corner from the house in question. She let the engine idle, glancing at her watch. She hesitated to take a chance passing by in the Jeep again, in case there were any Mrs. Kravitz types keeping watch on the block. The temp needle was rising, so Lyndy shut off the ignition. She looked around and let out a yawn.

Lyndy took both hands off the wheel. Feeling thirsty, she downed the last of her coffee and stretched to reach the igloo cooler. But she remembered she’d forgotten to fill it. There would be no cold water, or sodas for that matter. She put her head back and shut her eyes. She just needed to think.

“Okay, first of all, it’s a Tuesday—anybody who has a normal job is out now. Even fugitives need to make money,” she thought. The place just seems too quiet. “Either nobody is staying there, or call me mickey mouse.”

Seconds later, a yellow school bus thundered by on the left, spewing forth a fog of smelly exhaust. Lyndy pinched her nose. She could see in the windows that the bus was packed with rowdy kids. Her body shuddered, having memories of riding the bus in second grade. Those things were miserable, like rolling torture chambers.

“I just want to be with somebody normal for a while … somebody I can picture having a long-term relationship with.”

“Crapola!”

Lyndy pounded on the wheel, letting out a groan. The duplicitous words of Kyle were still resonating in her brain. Yes. Normal old Cathy Marie Cookson, biggest bimbo in the Mojave.

But if this rejection was simply over some stupid river party, why did it sting so bad?

Lyndy exhaled. On to plan-B: try and interview a willing neighbor, or leave a Martinez Investigations card. Lyndy decided to chance it, make a U-turn, have another spin around the neighborhood loop, but this time in the opposite direction. She checked her mirrors, ready to pull into traffic.

It was then Lyndy noticed a small girl, seated curbside with her head down. Using one hand, Lyndy adjusted her center mirror for a better view. The little girl had her head resting on her arms, which were bridging across her knees. She appeared to be crying.

Perhaps this trip wasn’t a waste after all.

The Spitfire hopped out, using the roll cage as a support to spring off. Feet on the sidewalk, she adjusted her pleated skirt. She rubbed her butt with both hands; it had become numb from sitting too long. Then she reached for her leather purse, looping the strap over her head.

Lyndy checked her surroundings. She needed to be sure the coast was clear in all directions. Some places, just looking Hispanic made it seem you were up to no good.

Lyndy started walking. As she came near, the little girl popped her head up. She had pretty blue eyes full of tears, and attractive dirty blonde hair in pigtails.

“Hi there,” said Lyndy, in as friendly a tone as she could manage.

The girl was clutching a paper sack lunch, as if setting it down might mean forfeiting it. The girl’s parent, or whomever, at least cared enough to pack a lunch.

“Why are you sad?” asked Lyndy.

The girl shook her head, but said nothing in response. Still, she watched Lyndy attentively, her eyes wide.

Lyndy put her hands on her knees and leaned over. “I know, I get it,” she remarked. “It’s generally a bad idea to talk to strangers. You really should never do it.” Lyndy gave her a gentle smile. “How bout I just tell you my name? My name’s Catherine.” She snickered internally.

“Sarah,” whispered the girl.

“So, what’s with all the tears?”

Sarah pointed a finger up the street. “Missed the bus … again.” The little girl said it like it was the biggest problem in the modern world.

“Oh, you’re right. I saw it go by a minute ago.”

“And I skipped my oatmeal, so I could try an catch it.” Her lip was quivering.

“Oh no,” said Lyndy. “What a debacle!”

Lyndy Life Tip #151: There really is no such thing as an ‘instant breakfast’. Go ahead. Ponder that one a moment.

[Link to Part-8: La Fierabrosa Part-8]