La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

It felt like a trap. The Spitfire checked in one direction, then the other, on lookout for pedestrians. Feet away, cars were zooming by, but still no parents or other suspicious adults appeared. She circled around Sarah on the sidewalk. Then, folding her black skirt under her butt, Lyndy took a seat on the hot curb. With her hand she shielded her face and eyes from the morning sun, smiling kindly.

Sarah continued to pout. “My momma’s done already left for work. So, either I have to walk all the way, or I need to let somebody call and tell her what happened.”

“Aye yai yai,” replied Lyndy softly, hanging her head in solidarity. She grabbed her ankles, wrapping arms around her knees, making herself small. It was to imitate the girl. She took a breath and exhaled.

Was a time, some complete stranger offered her a ride to school, Lyndy would have jumped at the chance, only to avoid the bus. She ditched a lot of classes. Too many. Aunt Rose hated that, but Octavio never said a word. Living with her aunt and uncle, going to school, it was still preferable to the foster care system.

Lyndy eyed Sarah again, speaking slowly with purpose. “What grade are you in?”

The answer came in a whisper. “Second.”

Lyndy tilted her head diagonally, gesturing to Evan’s address. “See the spooky old house over there, looks like Boo Radley lives in it?”

Sarah lifted her head. She turned to see where Lyndy was pointing, then nodded once.

“Listen, I’m tryin hard to locate an old friend, someone important to me. Is there a girl who lives there, perhaps a year or two younger than you?”

Sarah nodded again, expending a minimum of energy.

“I know you were late today, but do you happen to know if she was on that bus?”

This time Sarah met Lyndy’s steady gaze. She hesitated, a dose of suspicion becoming evident.

“This is very important.”

Sarah shook her head forcefully, her pigtails bouncing.

“How can you be sure?”

“Bus didn’t stop at all, cause we wasn’t here. Neither one of us.” Sarah tightened her grip on the paper sack, kicking her legs out from the curb. She rested her other fist in her lap. “She wasn’t at school yesterday, or day before,” the girl volunteered.

“Oh really,” said Lyndy. “Is she sick or something?”

“I dunno. Her momma came and got her I think. Took her away.”

Lyndy cupped her hands together, breathing into them. Seemed the mom was pulling up stakes. In a way, this kid was a major blessing. One could go three or four days sometimes, without receiving a single helpful tip.

Sarah stared at Lyndy.

“That’s bad news,” said Lyndy.

“Hey, have you been crying too?” asked Sarah innocently.

Lyndy fixed her eyes on Sarah, the false grin wiped clean off her face, replaced by melancholy. Lyndy shrugged.

Perceptive little bugger, wasn’t she.

“I was,” admitted Lyndy, with a sigh. “Like an hour ago. I was definitely crying.”

“What were you cryin about?”

“It was a boy.”

“A boy made you cry?”

“Yep, they’ll do that.” Lyndy chuckled. “But I have like four other boyfriends, so I’ll be over him in a snap.” Lyndy paused, dissecting her own statement.

Sheesh. I am really full of it today.

Sarah continued staring.

For a moment, Lyndy considered offering the poor kid a ride. But that would be unwise, attracting scrutiny; no good deed like that goes unpunished. She eyed all the nearby residences. Someone could be seeing their exchange right now, thumb on the dial, just waiting to ring the cops.

“Sarah, did you ever see a dad at that house? The one we were just talking about?”

Sarah looked down. She was concentrating, and that was good, but after a few seconds she shook her head.

Lyndy set a finger lightly to her own lips, affecting a serious tone. “Look, I’d like to surprise my friend, you know. So please if you can, don’t tell anybody, especially any adults, about our little conversation; keep it between us.”

Sarah nodded affirmatively.

“Thanks.”

Sarah wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hands. She sniffed once more with fervor, clearing her nostrils, then jumped to her feet. Clutching her lunch against her chest, she presented a renewed look of determination.

“So, what are you gonna do now?” asked Lyndy, preparing to stand herself.

“I think I’ll walk,” said Sarah.

“Good idea.” Lyndy had seen enough. “Think I’ll jet, myself.”

 

 

Now in theory, second gear was fully synchronized, but it sure didn’t behave that way. Lyndy cringed each time she felt the gears mesh, producing a worrisome crunching noise, intolerable as a dental drill.

Due to the season, The Spitfire had chosen not to wear pantyhose with her skirt, and she could visualize her legs growing tanner by the minute; arms too.

Navigating the commercial back streets, at least things were quieter. The road surface was crumbling, just as at Evan’s old place a few blocks away. Here and there, determined weeds were pushing through the cracks, in places where tar hadn’t drowned them.

There was something off-putting in this town. The Spitfire could not pinpoint what, only a sinister feeling about the area, covered over with corrugated metal warehouses and diesel repair businesses. It was putting her on heightened vigilance.

A sign pasted on an elevated billboard advertised 19 cent tacos—for taco Tuesday—

a local joint with a sombrero wearing bandito mascot.

Ever notice how as soon as you start a diet, your favorite food goes on sale?

Besides, Lyndy was holding out for a Double-Double at In-N-Out. To heck with the beach party.

And then a disturbing image, like a specter from a prior life, entered her peripheral vision. She might have missed it, were it not for her state of mind.

Right there in the middle of the street, Lyndy slammed on the brakes. Being old style drum brakes, they of course locked—about the only thing that wasn’t worn out—causing her tires to screech. She checked for any cars coming up behind, then immediately forced the shifter into reverse. Rolling backwards, this time in a controlled fashion, she pulled parallel to the business.

It was a typical biker bar, with a name Lester’s emblazoned on a blown-out neon sign. A pair of Harley Davidsons were slanted peacefully out front. But what had attracted Lyndy’s attention was a small porcelain sign in a corner window, reading: “Sorry, No Dogs or Mexicans Allowed.”

Was it a trick of the eyes, an illusion like the mirages on 66? Lyndy read the sign again, slower in cadence this time, pronouncing each syllable in her mind. Yep. Still racist as all get out. At least they were “Sorry” about it.

She felt her stomach turn, like after bad calamari. But then anger boiling up and adrenaline, making her fingers tingle.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lyndy mouthed.

The engine was idling, orange needle creeping up again.

Instinctively she reached for her hairbrush; it had been carelessly deposited on the dash. She started feverishly fixing her hair, brushing so hard that hairs were breaking in clumps.

Speaking to herself: “Okay chiquita, is this any of your business? Answer: No. It’s a free country.” Lyndy took a conscious breath, attempting to calm herself. She threw down the brush and clenched both hands on the wheel. “If you go in there, you’re bound to regret it. Remember, you are supposed to be working on Chan’s case, not busting heads in a bar. And calling Chan from jail is the pinnacle of embarrassment, especially when you have to explain why you threw somebody out a window. And then Mr. Lovelace will have to bail you out, and Rita Lovelace will laugh, and you’ll be even deeper in hock.”

Lyndy stomped on the gas, taking a blast around the block. But she returned to the same spot, breathing hard, only with a clearer head. Still no action. She parallel parked the maroon Jeep across the street, leaving it in neutral.

Lyndy rotated all the way to the right. From her vantage point, she made mental note of all the vehicles in the parking lot: a 70 or 71 Dodge Challenger, an old panel truck and a beat up International Scout visible in the back. Including the bikes out front, there wasn’t likely to be greater than four or five persons lurking inside. On the other hand, it wasn’t going to be a meeting of the library society. The Spitfire reached under the seat to retrieve the Beretta, checking it hastily and shoving it in her purse.

Lyndy commenced marching across the 4-lane street.

There were certain mysteries at the center of modern life, for instance, what the heck does that middle pedal on a grand piano do?  And more to the point, how the hell does one go about acquiring vintage hate memorabilia? Is there a catalog? One of those questions was about to be answered.

The wooden door to Lester’s was substantial, with one of those macho twisted iron pull bars. And as The Spitfire yanked it wide open, it creaked, flooding the space with natural light. Like a cliché of an old west saloon, every head in the room turned to look at her.

Two guys were drinking pints on round stools. It was a Tuesday morning—talk about alcoholism. One guy was tending bar. In the center of the room stood a tall man, perhaps six-three, wearing a leather vest. He was setting up a new game on the pool table, still clutching the plastic triangle. A half-eaten breakfast sandwich rested on a plate at the rail.

The tall man sported a red beard with full sideburns that turned into mutton chops, and a tidy handlebar mustache. He looked like a pirate, and was clearly ‘the group leader’ of sorts. The whole place felt reminiscent of some ghost town watering hole. Hanging from the far wall rested a tidily cared for rebel flag.

“Howdy,” said Lyndy. “I would like to speak to the owner please.”

“Can I help you with something?” asked the tall man.

“Yeah, where’s the owner at? I request he take his sign down.”

Time froze. The hairs on her arms started to perk up, and in the back of Lyndy’s mind she heard a spooky sound, a la Ennio Morricone. She might as well have announced she was Elvis.

Another thing went through Lyndy’s mind: “If Hector were here now, he would have a good laugh at me.”

Lyndy adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “Oh, come on now people. I can’t be the first person to complain about it.”

A loud plunk interrupted the silence when the bartender spit a wad of tobacco into a real, old fashioned spittoon.

The tall man grinned coyly. “Look, I’m the owner, and I rescued that sign from a bar which was being torn down in Bakersfield; it’s an antique.” He picked up a piece of blue chalk, rubbing it over the tip of a pool stick. “What’s your name little lady?” He was clearly delighted by her sudden arrival.

“Lyndy Martinez,” she declared.

Crap. Crap. Crap. Why did I just blurt out my real name?

The man had been leaning over ready to break game, but stopped instantly and shot up straight. His demeanor changed, and she realized he must know her. Bad news. Should have said Cathy.

The tall man frowned. “Oh, is that so?” he said. Suddenly, he started laughing, quite loudly. He had to brace himself against the pool table, using his free hand.

Except it wasn’t much of a knee slapper to anybody else. The other three dudes weren’t in on the joke, only pretending to be amused, so as not to insult their boss.

Finally getting himself under some semblance of control their leader added: “Let me get something straight. Are there two women named Lyndy Martinez in this county?” Then he stuck his hand in the air to indicate immense height, tilting his head to the bar. “By god boys! This is the same six-foot-tall ball-busting, backyard-wresting Latina that’s been terrorizing the entire gang!” Turning his attention back to Lyndy he said, “I mean I have got guys walking around with one eye, saying it was you they tangled with. Looks like I need to have a talk with them. What are you like 120 pounds?”

Of all the bars, in all the world ….

“Around 135,” corrected Lyndy. She put her hand on her hip.

The extra 15 – solid muscle. Wink.

The tall man chuckled again. “Well, I am a bit surprised to see you. Hector Martinez was one ugly son of a bitch. For some reason I was expecting more of the same from his bloodline. But actually, you’re reasonably attractive and you’ve got a nice rack. If it weren’t for your face, you would be a real pretty girl. You could have been an acress,” he said.

“Gee, how charming,” replied Lyndy. She exhaled. “Then since you seem to know me already, why don’t we skip the rest of the niceties and get to the main course. I’m looking for a gentleman who’s missed two court appearances. He used to live around here. Maybe he still does. I figure he came in this bar from time to time.”

The Spitfire’s attention was diverted by one of the goons at the bar, rising from his chair. He flexed his hands, menace evident in his unfeeling eyes.

“Hey Gomer Pyle redneck,” she shouted, pointing an accusing finger. “I am in an exceptionally bad mood. If you value breathing through your nose and eating solid food, you’ll sit your ass right back down.”

The man at first refused to yield.

“Go ahead. Test me right now,” added Lyndy. “Or do you think those stories are an exaggeration?”

Their leader reassured his drunken friend. “Cool your jets Wayne. Relax. Drink your beer.”

Reluctantly, drunk and stupid Wayne eased off the throttle.

Resuming a solo game, the tall dude lined up for his next shot “This gentleman as you were saying, what’s his name?” He knocked the six-ball in the corner pocket, but he used excessive force. There must be a reason he was giving her an opportunity to speak. And it probably had something to do with the bounty hunter.

“It’s Evan P. Stone.” Uneasy silence ensued again; the name was familiar.

“That’s my brother,” replied the tall man.

Now to The Spitfire, what he said could either mean they were in the same gang together, or that they were truly biological brothers. “Seems pretty unlikely,” she said with a frown. Lyndy was expecting him to elaborate, but he went in a different direction.

“You know something senorita, I was in the Marines for two tours of duty. After I was discharged, I started the chrome plating shop down the street. I made a little money, and I bought this bar.”

“What did you do in the Marines?” Lyndy inquired.

The man reacted as if it were a weird and impertinent question. “I was a medic,” he answered grumpily. He knocked another ball in the opposite corner pocket.

Lyndy shifted her weight and folded her arms. “Okay look, you boys are a real hoot, but is Evan here or not?”

“Nope. He’s not.”

“So, if I were to take a peek in the men’s room, or whatever else is back there, you’re telling me I won’t find anyone cowering like a frightened animal?”

“Have at it.”

Instead, Lyndy bided her time, scanning the room with her eyes. She met each man’s stare. Then, with resolve in her heart, she marched to the window. She reached past a threadbare curtain for the porcelain sign. As her finger set upon it, she heard a sharp click behind her. He must have had a gun in a hidden spot near the pool table.

“Please don’t touch that,” came the voice.

Lyndy lowered her arms, turning and bracing her back against the wall. The gun was a snub-nose revolver; not the most accurate. At a range of ten feet though, it was as easy as hitting a barn.

She could feel her heart thumping. The old Spitfire would have done something rash right about now. These clowns were no match for her abilities. But if she turned this place into a scene from The Godfather, then she wouldn’t get paid.

On the other hand, she would walk away with that sign.

[Link to Part-9: La Fierabrosa Part-9]