La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

The Spitfire was in a bind.

Lyndy Life Tip #156: The trite phrase “it was a different time” can be used to justify anything outrageous or in poor taste. Example: “At a carnival I paid actual money to see a duck playing a xylophone … it was a different time.”  See how it works.

Of course, when it’s a Tuesday morning in San Bernardino County, and there’s a gun pointed at your chest, only because of a simple request that a bar owner take down their racist signage … well, it was a ….

His right arm was steady, at waist level, with a finger resting happily on the trigger and thumb on the hammer. Judging by his demeaner, it wasn’t a first for this lug nut.

The tall man continued speaking in an irritated fashion, “Let me explain some about the chrome plating process Miss Martinez. It involves highly corrosive chemicals, a lot of them. And I never know what to do with that shit when I’m finished. Disposing of acids legally in this state is expensive. Chemistry was never a strong suit, but I’ve often wondered what would happen if we held a person down and poured it on their face. What do you think that would feel like? Or, god forbid, if Evan’s little girl had a terrible accident around my shop. I would hate to see her grow up with that kind of scarring. I really couldn’t live with myself. You think a face like yours is unattractive now?”

Ever wonder what kind of dude drives a truck with those female silhouette mud flaps, in chrome?

Lyndy swallowed hard.

“God, if only he were a few feet closer, I could kick him directly in the nuts,” thought The Spitfire. But as much as she wanted the evil porcelain sign—to use it for target practice—she knew now was not the time. “Did he really just threaten a kid?” Best to cut the meeting short, then come back ready to kick ass at a later date.

The Spitfire cleared her throat, lest she squeak out a high-pitched reply. “Okey-doke, I suppose I’m gonna have to take your word for it … that ya’ll haven’t seen Evan Stone,” she announced, while inching her backside closer and closer to the door. “I’ll be leaving now…. probably won’t return. Got hearts to break elsewhere.”

“Do me a favor,” bellowed the man. “Give this message to Mr. Chan for me: Tell him Evan Stone went down to Ensenada to do some sport fishing. Sent us a postcard. And to lay off permanently. I don’t wanna see either one of you in my place of business. Pay attention to my damn signs next time. You ain’t welcome here. Neither are Chinese, the Indians, or anyone else who isn’t white. Got all that?” He shook his gun to drive home the point.

“Affirmative,” answered Lyndy. She held her empty hands high and backed out the door, pushing it open with her butt.

As she crossed the street the sun was blinding.

Lyndy crammed on sunglasses and fired up the Jeep, bump-shifting into gear. Good thing she’d gotten a new battery. Now would be the worst possible timing for a no-start.

The plastic steering wheel was searing hot; her fingers could tolerate it only a split second at a time. Lyndy constantly repositioned them like she was typing on a keyboard.

“Racist son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered, fuming under her breath.

Backing down from a fight felt infuriating. Could Chan’s no-show have been there all along, hiding in a back room? She had a strong suspicion.

Regardless, there was nothing to do but move on. Worst of all, the sign was still positioned in the window. Anybody who tried that in El Sereno would have gotten their tires slashed the same day, or worse.

 

An hour later ….

Lyndy Martinez observed a tiny shrike perform aerial acrobatics, swooping and diving among towering sandstone boulders at Mormon Rocks. She could tell what kind of bird it was by the silver head, and charcoal colored Zorro mask surrounding the eyes. Shrikes were feisty little creatures, known for skewering lizards on barbed wire fences. No joke.

Somewhere hidden in the scrubland was a nest, and a speckled egg. The Latin name for shrike means butcher. The mother would take on a mockingbird, jay or full-size raven in defense of her nest.

Lyndy let out a yawn. She could hear a rumbling sound, but the source was not clouds. Sunlight glinted off the cab window of an approaching diesel locomotive. A hundred yards beneath her Jeep passed twin iron rails of the Union Pacific main line. She was parked on a hidden dirt road, well away from traffic on the interstate. Dale had shown her this spot.

A smell of sage hung in the air, as did the smell of grilled meat and yellow cheese. The Spitfire peeled back the wax paper lining her cheeseburger, and took a big bite. Contrary to pop psychology, turns out one could fill a void in their life with greasy food. Lyndy scooted rearward, resting against the frame of the windshield, and placing one hand flat to brace herself. Crossing her tan legs, a glob of thousand island escaped the wrapper and plopped on her thigh. She dabbed at it with a paper napkin, but it was ineffective, only making her leg shinier. She’d probably smell like lunch the rest of the day.

At least the sky was blue again. But on the other hand, life was more depressing. Feeling positive about the future—that was for suckers. Her mission now was to survive, and as always, the best way to do that was to keep moving. Being still was deadly; the late victims of the shrike could attest to that.

 

As a child, Lyndy had ventured to places like Rosarito and San Carlos, accompanied by her Uncle Octavio. She remembered those trips as pleasant; they had the best hot chocolate. And Octavio was a true “people person”. He could chat up a complete stranger in town, and later that evening they’d be dining out on a rooftop terrace, at the stranger’s chicken ranch, treated like long-lost relatives. From what she’d been told, her bio-dad had the same qualities. He must have, to have charmed her mother the English teacher.

Unfortunately, herself and Hector hadn’t inherited such abilities.

“I bet Octavio was hoping to pawn me down there,” thought Lyndy.

At this point, the notion that Evan Stone actually escaped to Ensenada was seeming less and less believable. He was here, perhaps never having left his old neighborhood. His buddies were simply aiding him. It was a plausible theory. To make progress on the case, it was clear what had to happen next; she needed to drop in on her ex.

 

Back in Barstow ….

The multi-agency law enforcement complex where Deputy Keynes worked had two flourishing Joshua trees out front. Each topped twenty-feet in height. They were surrounded by coral pink rocks spread inches thick, in lieu of a lawn. Those trees were far older than the building, having been left in place during construction.

Lyndy quickly brushed her hair in the scant shade, removing some of the built-up tangles. She tilted her driver’s side mirror so she could re-apply mascara and lipstick, all while rehearsing what she was planning to say. Basically, she needed to establish a desire for help, but without asking him for help. And the hardest trick of all was to avoid Sheriff Jackson, Dale’s boss.

While most deputies didn’t seem to mind having occasional visitors around the station, Granville was averse. There wasn’t a private detective or bounty hunter he was known to tolerate, and he considered The Spitfire particularly offensive.

Upon opening the heavy front doors, Lyndy was hit by a rush of cold air from the blower. She could see the front desk operator, a green handset crammed between her ear and shoulder, typing furiously on the electric typewriter. Lyndy straightened her skirt and re-tucked in her blouse.

Low wooden dividers separated the lobby space from the back offices. Rather than seriously impede anyone aiming to do harm, it had been designed to keep the average Joe citizen corralled to the front. Lyndy waited impatiently for the clerk to acknowledge her, knowing there was a small button the girl could press to unlock the gate. A few seconds later the clerk glanced her way, giving a smile and quick nod. Lyndy knew to swing open the gate and let herself in.

The building had fake marble-pattern linoleum tiles and bad fluorescent lighting. On the walls were scuff marks and dents, places where people had freaked after being arrested. Slinking down the hallway in her best skirt, Lyndy felt anxious, not only because Sheriff Jackson could appear, but also because of random felons in cuffs who may recognize her. One never knew what apparition they might encounter.

She sidestepped gingerly past an area of cramped cubicles, where men in uniform were intensely focused on filling out paperwork. Sometimes Lyndy wondered if she had what it took to be a cop, but it was places like these that changed her mind. Despite what was seen on television, police work was mostly pencil-pushing and court appearances. She turned a corner and hurried down one final hall to where Dale’s office was located.

The door to the office was cracked an inch, and Lyndy could see Dale wasn’t at his desk. Sunlight poured in from the four-pane window, highlighting the swirled woodgrain top. She craned her neck, looking both ways. Using one finger, she widened the opening enough to sneak through, then restored it to its original position. He was probably out to lunch, or on a bathroom break. Either way it seemed a good opportunity to snoop.

Other than being on the cramped side, Dale had an office befitting a western lawman. On the window sill sat a line of decorative succulents, planted in individual clay pots. On the bookshelf, at top level, were three large rodeo trophies and the sun-bleached skull of a dead cow, no doubt liberated from some desiccating sand dune in the east Mojave.

I mean, why even have an office if you’re not gonna display one of those?

Those first-place rodeo trophies were evidence of his upbringing, on a farm just outside Fresno. His six-foot-two frame and muscular build were one reason for his athleticism. But in addition, he possessed a certain innate charm. She hadn’t been the only girl with a crush on him in high school; plenty of them giggled at the thought of being pulled over by the one, sexy deputy. In his day he was probably homecoming king too.

Listing at 30-degrees against a stack of hardcover law books—none of which had ever been touched—was a first edition Dance Hall of the Dead. Someone had gifted it to him, and judging from the layers of dust, he’d never once cracked it open. It happened to be her favorite book.

The next level down sheltered a row of portraits, including his wife Miranda and their two young daughters, known to all as “the twins”. Surprisingly, there was even a faded picture of Lyndy herself standing next to her brother, taken on a boat; she was in shorts and a tight shirt. Lyndy was drawn to it, reaching up to feel the textured edge of the dime store brass frame. Somehow, she’d missed this item until now. Judging by her face and more rounded cheeks, she must have been about seventeen.

“Dale has a picture of me in his office?” thought Lyndy.

She took a sudden breath and let go of it. She could feel her emotions rising, and didn’t want to be caught in a state of weakness like this.

Lyndy moved over to the desk, taking a seat in Dale’s office chair and swiveling to face the front. Xeroxed forms, regarding a recent arrest, were strewn all across the top. They were stained with coffee. Resting on the morning paper was a pen, and a large granny smith apple. Lyndy pushed those aside, as the story underneath caught her eye. The fire station a few blocks away had had a kitchen fire, and part of the building was destroyed. Lyndy pulled it closer.

“Well look at you, dressed up all fancy!” Came the excited voice of Dale. He was standing in the doorway. “Going to church?”

Lyndy felt like a child with a hand in the cookie jar. How long had he been there?

Dale tossed his cowboy hat to a peg on the wall, ringing it perfectly. In his other hand he was holding an iced tea from the nearest burger joint.

“You think you can barge in here acting like you own the place?” he said, pulling the door shut behind. Dale was in a cheerful mood, with a big grin on his face. That was a stroke of luck.

Lyndy tapped on her watch. “I was wondering when you were going to show up for duty. Probably out napping under your tree again,” she said, referencing an old salt cedar on the road to Amboy. “There’s a reason you’re known as the laziest deputy in the county.”

Dale scoffed. Picking up the apple, he started juggling it with one hand. “I was at the repair shop. My blazer is getting a tune-up.”

“Well, such a poor excuse might work on me, but I doubt Granville Jackson would believe it.” Lyndy pointed to the newspaper. “You know what else I’m wondering. How do you inspire confidence in your firefighting abilities, when your own building burns down? I guess I’m feeling judgmental today.”

Dale smiled. “Yeah I got the call when it happened—had to help put it out. And I’m not really lazy, I’m simply more efficient than other lawmen.” He lifted up the container of iced tea, putting the straw to his lips. Then he took a seat on his desk in a position facing Lyndy, who was still in his chair.

“I think you re-arranged your office,” said Lyndy. “I don’t remember half this stuff being here.” She gestured vaguely to the shelf with the photographs.

Dale shook his head forlornly, then put a thumb on his temple to massage it. “Well, it’s a tragic story really. My pet rock died of neglect, so it freed up space on the window sill.”

Lyndy choked on her own spit. “Oh man, it’s a hell of a thing when that happens,” she replied, pounding her chest with one fist. “How you holding up big guy?”

“Taking it day by day.”

Lyndy smiled. “One time I bought one of those cute bonsai trees from a guy selling out of a creepy brown van. He swore they were easy to care for. It put it in the window at the airstream. Thing lived two weeks and then croaked; biggest waste of ten bucks ever.”

“Don’t have kids,” laughed Dale. “They don’t just need water. You gotta feed em too.”

Lyndy looked Dale in the eyes. “So, I was wondering somethin. Do I have a good body but a bad face?”

Dale jerked away and blinked. He seemed off guard, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “Sorry, I think I got whiplash from your change of topics.” Dale took a sip of tea. “Who told you that junk?”

“This malcontent biker dude at a bar called Lester’s, in San Bernardino. I want to find out who he is. Our conversation was tense to say the least, and I didn’t get his name.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“You bet he did—and he threatened to hurt a child. He also said I could have been an actress if it weren’t for my face.”

Dale exhaled. “Lyn, don’t let these jokers get under your skin. You can’t curl up in a ball every time some asshole says you’re ugly or fat.”

“I know that,” snapped Lyndy.

“Then why you acting like a teenager with hurt feelings?”

Lyndy wanted to avoid the subject of the Kyle debacle so she shrugged, pretending not to know.

“God knows it happens to me. Want me to stop in and give him a hard time; teach those fools some respect for women?”

“Yes, that might make me feel better,” thought Lyndy. “You mean pound his face in?” she whispered aloud.

Dale nodded once.

Judging from the severe look, Dale would do it, even if jeopardizing his own career.

“Definitely not,” she cautioned sternly, touching Dale’s arm. “Don’t even think about fighting my battles. I’ll handle it. I just came for information is all.”

Lyndy described in detail her run-in with the tall biker. Then Dale left the room for a few minutes to retrieve some suspects from records. He returned with five brown file folders, each having mug shots clipped to the front.

“This is all we got on site. If he’s not here we have to call to HQ.”

Dale fanned them out and immediately Lyndy recognized the man.

“Oh, here he is,” said Lyndy eagerly. She brushed several of the folders out of the way and picked up the thickest file. “Matthew E. Wallach—looks like he’s 43 years old.”

Dale nodded. “That one is a delight. It’s pronounced Wall-Lick,” said Dale. “Among his many specialties is drug trafficking; sometimes brings contraband from central America. He sells it to Hollywood types. He’s on parole as we speak. No passport. He’s not supposed to own a gun or leave town obviously. It’s probably putting a crimp in his style. No wonder he’s more irritable than usual.”

“Does he have a brother?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Dale. “It says right here he was the only child of Martha and Thomas Wallach, divorced.” Lyndy spent a few minutes thumbing through the file. The bulk of Wallach’s crimes were committed in the nineteen-sixties. He’d recently done three years in prison at Lompoc, having been paroled the prior spring.

Lyndy closed the file. “Thing is, I’m actually trying to find this other guy named Evan Stone. Wallach said Evan was his brother. Does the name Evan Stone ring any bells?”

Dale shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

Lyndy reclined in the chair and kicked her feet up on the desk. She interlaced her fingers behind her head. “Sorry, while I’ve got you I have to switch gears again. Are you investigating supposed cattle rustling at the JBR ranch?”

Dale shook his head and sneered. “Yeah how about that. I got no leads, cept this vague description of a yellow Jeep seen in the area.” Dale did mock finger quotes. “And I have a hubcap in evidence which I can’t identify. There’s a ninety percent chance that hubcap fell off a hunter’s truck. Whole thing’s a goose-chase the way it is. I wasted half a day over near Government Holes looking for tire marks—problem is there had been thunderstorms and a lot got wiped out. It ain’t like the movies.”

“You think Ted is involved?”

Link to Part-10: La Fierabrosa Part-10