La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

“Ted? Do you mean Ted Crawford? The little delinquent.” Dale shook his head. “Not a chance. He’s got a major attitude problem, but I don’t think he’s that devious.”

The Spitfire raised an eyebrow skeptically; she was thinking back to Monday night. His account of the bashful JBR cowboy defied all personal experience. If anyone had an attitude, it was Dale Keynes. But Lyndy kept her opinion to herself. “That little delinquent is a year younger than me. He’s twenty-five Dale.”

“Fine. Good point.” Dale, tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk and yawned, the metal from his wedding ring making a clinking noise. “All you desert rats are growing up fast. This is seriously depressing.”

“Join the club,” replied Lyndy, with a tilt of the head.

At least she confirmed Ted wasn’t a prime suspect. Lyndy wanted to ask additional questions, but they were interrupted by the sound of clicking cowboy boots on the hard floor. Then someone banged on Dale’s door. Lyndy prepared to leave.

“Just a minute,” said Dale, as he checked his watch. “Hey, what are you doing the rest of the day?” he whispered.

“Uh, laundry I think.” Lyndy straightened the inch-high stack of papers documenting Wallach’s criminal record, shoving them back in the folder. Pushing her hair out of her face, she added, “But first I’ve got another lead I want to check out, and then I’m pretty sure Chan is gonna ring my phone about one million times until I finally pick-up; he’ll want a status report. Another thrilling night for me.” Lyndy stood up. She fixed her hair, putting it back in a ponytail.

The door burst open, having been punched or kicked. Standing in the entry was Sheriff Jackson, frowning like his hound dog had been run over. One hand was shoved in his pocket.

Dale immediately sat down in his chair, the correct way, and started rearranging papers on his desk. “Nice of you to drop by Lyn. I’ll give Wallach’s parole agent a heads up. Good luck with your laundry,” he said, in a boy scout chipper sort of voice.

“Howdy,” said Lyndy to Sheriff Jackson.

In answer, Granville simply pointed toward the front and recited, “Bail enforcement agents, private dicks, people who watch too many police dramas and all employees of Chan’s Bail Bonds are prohibited from back offices.” His facial expression was stale.

It wasn’t worth correcting him that technically speaking, she was under contract from The Lovelace Corporation, not Chan’s.

“But me and Dale are long-time friends?”

“Don’t care. It’s a police station, not a slumber party. Happy trails Miss Martinez,” said Granville, with a tip of his hat.

“I’m movin. I’m movin,” grumbled Lyndy.

 

45 minutes later …

Judging by the size and girth of her abdomen, Lorraine Hobbs was six or more months pregnant. When Lyndy found her, she was pacing her yard in a yellow house dress, using a bowie knife to flick bits of collared green at her pet iguanas. The two lizards were attentive as any small dog, sniffing the air with their tongues, and munching on the crunchy leaves. Every place Lorraine moved the two of them wiggled after. And for some reason the sound of a dog eating food was tolerable, but the hideous sound of those iguanas chomping was like wine glasses spinning in a garbage disposal.

Pretty much a normal citizen for the Mojave Desert.

Nearby, Lorraine’s three-year-old son—Lyndy assumed he was her son—was busy playing Lone Ranger, reciting, “Bang! Bang!” every fifteen seconds. He had on a cowboy hat, a denim shirt and silver cap gun with plastic holster, but no pants. He even pretended to shoot his cap gun at Lyndy’s jeep as she bounced up the driveway, shouting, “Comanches!”.

It was Tammy Ward who mentioned her second cousin lived in Phelan, and was a former cocktail waitress at Cadillac’s. Lyndy had seen her fair share of pop-up goldrush towns, but this place was ridiculous. The AAA map became hopelessly obsolete. Gravel roads zig-zagged throughout the community, adjoining at random angles, seeming to follow the whims of an inebriated bulldozer operator, rather than adhere to a master plan. Lorraine’s home was a glorified cabin, lifted and balanced on a raised foundation, set back from the road and shaded by a stand of dry oak trees.

Lyndy casually let her eyes wander. Lorraine’s upper arms exhibited some puzzling tattoos. Was there a mister Hobbs hiding somewhere, or was she a single mother? Lyndy felt it would be impolite to inquire. Not to imply Lorraine even needed a man in her life. She seemed to be doing just fine on her own.

To hear Lorraine explain it, Evan Stone had treated everyone like a gentleman—we’re talking Victorian style. She remembered him fondly, having been a charismatic singer in an upstart rock band; same story Chan had told. And she added that she couldn’t recall any of the other girls making negative remarks about him either. Lorraine believed the charges against him were false.

So then, why run?

Instead of adding clarity, the more she learned about Evan, the more troubling and deeper her confusion. By all accounts he was an everyday criminal. A bit of a swindler perhaps, and nothing more.

Facing facts, Lorraine had been a waitress at a disreputable nightclub, and so there was reason to suspect her recollection and what constituted a “nice guy” was mis-calibrated. But how off could it be? Even a so-called lady of the night knows what a kind man is.

After ten minutes, Lyndy handed Lorraine a $20-dollar bill for her time, and left.  She knew it would be unproductive to continue the interview.

Lyndy Life Tip #156: Never, ever make the mistake of buying a wallet with Velcro closure. That repetitious sound will drive you insane.

 

Later that evening …

The once bold white stripes marking the crosswalks had all turned to dust, and blown away. Since passenger trains ceased making regular stops in Amboy, let alone buses, there was no need to restore them. There wasn’t even a car in sight for miles; just the rabbits and coyotes. Biggest danger on the road was spraining an ankle falling in one of many potholes.

While traversing the two-lane highway on foot, a cold wind sent Lyndy’s dark hair flying, and ruffled her skirt. Being chilled was an unfamiliar sensation, the first time in many days she’d experienced it. Goosebumps set the skinny hairs on her arms standing on end, and for a moment, her body was confused. Are we cold or are we hot?

At the motel, she had a remaining load of laundry in the coin-op dryer. Lyndy was mostly killing time, clutching a week’s contents of her post office box—mostly junk mail and fashion catalogs—under one arm. Had she been feeling ambitious, she would have taken her favorite clothes to the much larger laundromats in Barstow; they had newer machines.

Lyndy breathed deep and exhaled deliberately, savoring the tranquility of open space. Shades of indigo swept across the landscape. Along the western horizon, an awe-inspiring scene like an oil painting: the atmosphere transitioning through a palette of purples, blues, and finally hues of fiery orange near where the sun had gone down. Small business jets streaked over the mountaintops, glittering silently, en-route to cities like Vegas or Phoenix.

As a protective covering, the troposphere is largely underrated. Scientists say without it, you’d need a space suit.

Of course, Chan would be expecting an update, with substantive progress. She had only generalities to offer. Evan was sucked into the Mojave equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle, along with Ted’s missing range cattle, and about 10 other dudes having mugshots on the wall of shame.

 

In the darkness Lyndy navigated her mile-long dirt driveway, all the way up to the silver airstream. She drove slow on purpose, minimizing the chances of running over a tortoise, or any other creature sleeping in the road.

When she arrived, Lyndy could see a white envelope had been taped to the screen door. Inside was an embossed invitation to the river party. Todd must have dropped by earlier in the afternoon. He signed it T.P., and handwrote: “Hope you can make it!”

The Spitfire smiled to herself as she pulled open the main door, setting aside her basket of laundry, unfolded. Hopping up the stairs she maneuvered to the kitchen.

She hadn’t expected much, knowing the pantry would be lacking. What could one prepare with two cans of pinto beans, one can of olives, and a box of corn puffs? Betty Crocker didn’t have a recipe for that.

Lyndy tore open the corner of the box and poured herself a bowl of cold cereal. It was a pitiful dinner, the signature meal of someone single and lonely. Afterward she took a hot shower, and spent time lounging on the steps in her bathrobe. She would have been inside, except it was still too hot to sleep. And lacking a television, she passed time listening to the AM radio. Reception came in waves, but improved significantly come nightfall—something to do with ions in the atmosphere. There was a certain theater of the mind effect that came with listening to far-off radio in some desert encampment.

Twisting the cap from a bottle of tequila, she poured herself a half-inch of reposado in a jar. Leaning back to take a sip, she shut her eyes. That’s when she heard the big iron motor. Her free hand went instinctively to the radio dial, lowering the volume by three clicks. She’d come to recognize the rumbling of cars approaching on the driveway. After listening to enough of them, you started to tell them apart. It definitely wasn’t a Cadillac, ruling out Chan. There was no denying it; this was an American truck. Not always true, but most trucks were driven by men.

“Crapola,” she mouthed. The Spitfire had nothing on underneath her pink bathrobe. She recapped the glass bottle.

Of all the things to be wearing!

Lyndy contemplated putting on clothes, but there wasn’t time. All that mattered was whether she could properly defend herself. She tied her robe tighter, squeezing through the screen door. She spotted her purse lying on the padded bench, at the kitchen table.

You know you’re a redneck when your kitchen table has one leg and two big hinges.

Reaching for it, she unsnapped the top flap and removed the black Beretta. It felt cold. There was one bullet in the chamber. She flicked off the safety, planning to manually lower the hammer.

By design the old silver mine didn’t receive many strangers; Hector liked it that way. Lyndy wasn’t so sure. One was just as vulnerable here as in town. Hell, Chan lived in town.

It was weird to be in a bathrobe, at the table, facing the door, with an unknown visitor approaching. It could still be a friendly face. She kept one hand under the table, the grip in the curl of her palm. If it was Ted Crawford, or Kyle Ellis, she could hastily stuff the gun back in her purse, and feign relaxation. Might also be Todd Parker.

She heard the engine cut off, then the sound of a man’s boots crunching on the outside gravel. He was tall. It could still be Todd.

The man tapped lightly on the aluminum screen.

After a pause, time enough for courage to build, Lyndy called out: “Who is it?”

No answer came at first. It was like the start of a bad joke. She could think of nothing else to say. Her fingers started to wrap around the grip. One could shoot through the door if need be. It was made of a flimsy metal. But why would a would-be assassin tap on the door?

“Hey, let me in Lyn” came the voice of Dale Keynes. For some reason it was the last person she had been expecting. Setting the Beretta aside—no reason to hide it—she jumped up and immediately opened the door.

He was still in uniform. For a moment they stood like mute statues, staring back at one another. Dale hadn’t been to the trailer in years, never this late at night, even when Hector was living. His earlier cheerfulness had all been erased.

“What the heck are you doing here?” she blurted out.