La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #169: To scare away door-to-door sales people and religious folk, wear an old derby hat, a pink motel bath robe and green flip-flops when answering the front door. The best kind of hats are ones where it looks like a peacock landed on your head. Trust me, they’ll find a reason to move along.

Mr. Chan busied himself preparing oolong tea, while The Spitfire quietly observed from a reclined position on the built-in. Chan’s four-burner stove hissed like a snake, as invisible gases escaped the open valve. But it quickly morphed to a pointed blue flame when touched with a paper match.

Opening the cupboards above the sink, Chan selected a ruby painted tin, roughly 2 inches square, with nothing but Chinese characters marking all sides. Meanwhile he filled a copper teakettle with cool water.

Chan didn’t need inquire if Lyndy wanted tea, there was no choice in the matter. If he made tea in your presence then you were darn well having tea. Hector once warned the concoctions in the reddish box could make you talk like a drunkard, revealing close personal fears one would never divulge otherwise.

Drawing aside curtains, Lyndy peered through the window at the night sky. She could see the Milky Way streaming overhead, all blotchy and brown, outlined in black by the silhouettes of cottonwoods. She extended her arms and laced fingers in a massive yawn.

“You have another person’s blood staining your clothes,” Chan said abruptly. “You know that woman?”

“I know,” she replied.

“Care to explain?”

Lyndy exhaled. “You know who Matt Wallach is?”

“Never hear of him,” said Chan, without turning around. He was measuring level scoops of loose leaf and depositing them into a mesh infuser.

“Well he certainly knows about us,” said Lyndy. “He’s a kingpin of sorts; we put some of his best cronies in jail. In fact, he mentions you by name.”

“Well I’m famous round here.”

“You kinda are,” agreed Lyndy. “Anyways, point being, one of his side hobbies is rustling cows from the JBR herd. They got thousands of acres and only a handful of cowboys, so it’s easy pickings. I believe I figured out where they’re camped right now.”

While the kettle simmered, Chan rotated one-eighty, resting his palms on his stomach. “So, what this caper have to do with us, or why you been in a fight?

“I’m gettin to that part, if you’ll allow me to continue. See I ran into his goons today on 66, when they tried to abduct me—fun group. What is it Sheriff Jackson would say? Them boys are clowns that aren’t funny. Anyways, I’m working on a theory that may end up leading us directly to Evan Stone.” Lyndy related her chance encounter with Matt Wallach, the man who claimed to be Evan’s brother, and how he wanted her to lay off on the hunt.

“What in the wide world of sports?” Chan declared, scratching the tuft of graying hairs on his chin.

“Why is that so weird?” Lyndy inquired.

“Evan never once tell me he have siblings. He distinctly mention Stone was a family surname—that one is on all his court documents.”

Lyndy shrugged. “Remember how I kept thinking his name sounds made up, like an actor’s name? Or could he mean they are brothers in a gang sense?”

To steep the tea, Chan submerged his mesh strainer contraption in the steaming pot, dipping it up and down and counting. He also seemed to be entertaining Lyndy’s idea.

“Anyway, I assume since Wallach’s wings are clipped from being on parole, he had to think of something he could make money at without leaving the county. Who would suspect him of stealing cattle?”

Chan sniffed at the tea. “Meh. That a pretty weak theory to me. Any other reason you think this Wallach scumbag is connected?”

“Because Deputy Keynes found a dented wheel cover from an early International Scout at the site where some of the cows were loaded up. And I saw an early Scout, which would have had that same type, out at Wallach’s bar in San Bernardino.

“Was it missing the wheel cover?”

Lyndy’s face took on a guilty expression. “Regrettably, I didn’t look carefully enough.”

Given this trailer had been occupied by Mr. Chan for decades, one might expect the dwelling to accumulate a handful of Chinese elements, but there were none. Instead it retained the generic trimmings from the day it was bought, sometime in the late fifties.

“How this lead us to Evan?” questioned Chan, passing her a handle-less porcelain tea cup. “Or putting another way, is anybody willing to pay us bounty if you catch these cow stealers?”

“Uh. The JBR should cover my fees,” The Spitfire asserted.

Oh, sure they will. Cause it wouldn’t be Ted Crawford, who ironically offered to pay but somebody turned it down.

“And even if they don’t, Wallach knows where his quote-unquote younger brother is now. I’m positive. He acted so dodgy, Evan must still be in the county. Which means Wallach or his henchmen are probably feeding him supplies. So, I say we sneak up on these dudes just prior to first light; scare the bejesus out of them. Then see if we can get ‘em to cough up Evan’s hiding place.”

Chan passed a palm across his forehead, smoothing away sweat. “You know, my mind must be slipping from fever, cause you actually starting to make sense.”

“I always make sense. You just don’t listen,” said Lyndy. And seeing as he had no further pressing questions, she was confident her boss would be tagging along; this time she knew she could use backup.

Lyndy cradled her tea against her chest, allowing it a few moments to cool. She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling of the trailer. It had a skylight you could crank open, with a plastic fan to expel the heat. Chan returned to the kitchen and started using the corner of his fridge to scratch his back, shimmying up and down like a contented bear.

“Man, I’m so hungry I bet I could eat a whole pizza by myself,” Lyndy bemoaned.

“Huh. Huh. Huh. I’ve seen you eat. I’m sure you can.”

“Chan, I need to ask you a semi-serious question, and I want you to be truthful with your answer.”

“Alrighty, this is starting out weird,” he muttered. Uneasily, Chan took a sip of tea from his identical mug.

Lyndy angled her head to face Chan, resting her cheek against her shoulder. “Come on dude, I’m not foolin’ around anymore.”

“I never tell lies woman.”

“Then do I have … you know … a decent body but a messed-up face?”

Chan’s expression exhibited amusement. “For shit sake Melinda, how would I know,” he chuckled. “Can’t we talk about sports or something?”

“You hate sports. But you are a guy—even though you’re like a million years old.”

“Dammit, we’ve been over this time and again. I am not your shrink. This sound like conversation best saved for ladies at the hair salon.”

“Ever see a cover on a grocery store fashion mag? Ain’t nobody on those looks remotely like me. It’s all a bunch of Farrah Fawcetts.”

Blaming her insecurity on the bogus fashion industry seemed plausible, and less embarrassing than admitting a cad like Wallach could hurt her feelings.

Lyndy shut her eyes. “I wish I was gorgeous like Cathy Cookson.”

“Woman, you are insufferable. You’re falling into a carefully laid trap of beauty industry. That’s just what they want you to think. But physical attractiveness is chiefly a curse.” declared Chan. “There are whole books written on this very subject!”

“I disagree; plus it sounds like something an ugly person would say.”

Chan squinted, pressing his fingertips over his eyeballs and inhaling. Henceforth, his respiration became audible. She feared he would promptly eject her from the trailer park. In anticipation, Lyndy took another fast drink of tea, reaching for her purse.

But unexpectedly, his face softened, taking on a look of newfound enlightenment. Chan rested his hands on the rim of the sink. Then he eyed the purse, noticing it was sagging from the weight of steel inside.

“Is that a new purse?”

“Yes, it is.” Lyndy lifted it up to show off. It had a front pattern reminiscent of a fine Navajo rug, an elaborate fringe hanging all along the bottom. “I bought it for my birthday. I’ve had it a week but you didn’t notice. See how pretty? Cost a hundred dollars out of a catalog. It’s like Italian calfskin leather or some such.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh. You are truly terrible with money. What you keep in there anyway?”

“I dunno. Normal girl stuff I suppose. What do you think?” Lyndy grinned, about to rattle off a list.

Chan held up his palm flat. “No wait! Please don’t ever elaborate on contents. I will stop asking stupid questions from now on.” Chan turned back to the kitchen sink. “Look, that purse reminds me of something. You say I never speak about old China. Well now I tell you one story about China you haven’t heard before.”

“Go on,” whispered Lyndy.

“This one begins when I was ‘bout fifteen years old. There was an exceptional young lady in my village. She probably sixteen or seventeen. She was a talented and strong dancer, the ballerina kind. I see her at sunrise, walking or riding bike to the dance school; she move as if gravity have no effect. Ever see a person like that? Bottom line, in the looks department, she was entirely plain. Not particularly tall, kind of lean body and straight hair. If forced to describe, maybe 5 or 6 on scale of 10. There dozens of girls around prettier. But every teenage boy in my village have crush on this girl. She was confident and clever, and pleasant to be with. A kind of spirit she had. She even speak to me on occasion and tease me, probably for being fat. I was too shy to conceive of anything funny to say back; I fantasize about her though. Then one day she receive a scholarship award, from the Communist Party, to study dance at a prestigious school in Russia. Her parents were so delighted, of course. They boast about it to everyone. Her mother and father talk about it so much, that people start avoiding them. That girl gone for one year and then she return home permanently. Turns out she get life-altering injury at the school. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but they say she have no chance to be a competitive dancer. In those days you get a twisted ankle and they kick you out of program. So who knows the real truth. Point is, when she came back home she was totally different; it like she had her personality removed. She sink into despair, never joke anymore. She never spoke to me. Nothing happen to her face, and she was only a year older, but she seemed depleted. I doubt if anyone wanted to marry her. She probably live under her parents roof whole life.”

Lyndy shook out a menthol cigarette and lit it with a Bic. She offered an extra to Chan, but he declined. Then she started puffing with her head tilted back. “What is the moral of your depressing story?” she inquired.

“When we find out you were sent away to Pinegate—all those bad things happen—myself, Richard Lovelace and Hector confer about it. Of course, we were planning to rescue you, but also, we debate who you would become when you re-emerge. Would you still be the same woman? Richard and I were certain you would change. You proved us wrong. Instead, you come back stronger and more cunning, but still our Spitfire.”

 

As the last of the bright stars melted into a uniformity of twilight, Lyndy and Mr. Chan prepared to apprehend the JBR cattle thieves. They did this without communication, having worked together dozens of times, each knowing what they had to do.

Lyndy gripped the Beretta loosely in her hand, hoping Wallach’s men had acquired newfound prudence from the day before. She would have preferred to catch a few more z’s—and not on a crummy sofa—but recognized the best time to strike anybody was a half hour before sunup. Most individuals, especially those inclined to commit crimes, wouldn’t be awake. Average criminals are lazy. And with first light of dawn, the benefit was you didn’t have to fumble around in complete darkness, stepping on cacti and scorpions.

She glanced over at Chan, as he pressed down the trunk lid of his Cadillac.

In spite of advanced training in weaponry at a monastery, Chan preferred the old-fashioned simplicity of a Louisville Slugger; thing was covered in dents. And like a player in a dugout preparing to swing for the upper deck, he carried this macho chunk of hickory slung on his left shoulder.

Waiting patiently in the saddle, massaging the shoulders of a Hoss-sized brown quarter horse, sat ranch foreman Rob Albright. He was Ted’s boss, and looked perfectly content to have CBB employees doing his dirty work. In fact, for a Texas range boss he was downright cheery. His horse was calm too, occasionally resting a foot or flicking ears when flies became too bothersome.

What mattered was Ted’s good name had been restored, and he could resume his normal duties.

To get here, Lyndy and Chan had taken a smooth graded power line road. It was the way she should have come the first time, avoiding all the sand traps and ruts on the old wagon road. To disguise their approach, they ditched the Caddy a mile from the springs.

The morning air felt dry, not overly hot, as a soft golden light bathed the valley ahead. Above them, The Spitfire could see more jet planes racing across the landscape, on their way to hipper destinations like LA and San Diego. So far away they must be, there were no audible noises, only faint wing tip lights blinking on and off.

“Think I saw an episode of Bonanza like this,” commented Chan. He was wearing one of his rayon Hawaiian shirts, Hilo-Hattie style, perfect for reeling in stubborn fugitives on those hot summer nights.

Like a coyote and badger alliance, The Spitfire’s task was always to go down the hole and scare up the prey. Chan’s job was to whack fleeing prey, because well, the coyote was simply too large to go down the hole.

Walking side-by-side, small birds were chirping, and rays of yellow sun crowned the sawtooth ridges on distant mountain ranges. Mr. Albright followed them, leaving an eighth mile gap between.

The Mojave road curved around the base of two hills, marking the source of Marl Springs, one of the critical, if not most important watering holes on the entire route.

Minutes later, nearing the encampment, they found the area was still in shadow. Lyndy and Chan paused fifty yards away. As she surmised, parked on a slope and crushing native vegetation was a dually Ford truck, hitched to a lengthy stock trailer; one of the ones she’d seen the night before.

The tent was a hodge-podge of blue tarps stitched together with rope and clothespins. Though crude, it exhibited a kind of ingenuity akin to a 1930’s hobo camp. Unfortunately, its unconventional material also made it opaque. Their campfire ring still lightly smoldered, she guessed due to hot coals leftover from supper. A snubbed but half-smoked cigar rested in the crevasse between stones.

Lyndy approached gingerly, consciously suppressing any sounds of her footsteps.  Looking back at Chan, he gave a subtle nod, encouraging her to move closer to the tent. She continued to tip-toe until she was within 10 yards, then took up a shooting stance. She placed one cool finger to the side of the trigger guard and flicked the safety.

With two grubby digits of her left hand planted in her mouth, Lyndy produced an ear drum shattering whistle that would give a hotel smoke alarm a run for its money.

“Hands up! Everybody outta there! I’ll shoot!” she yelled. After a pause, and some rustling noises she added, “Don’t waste no time. Doesn’t matter if you’re indecent. I’ve seen small ones before.”

“Okay,” came a reply, the voice belonging to a middle-aged man.

In a rush the entry flap jerked stiffly back and forth, finally coming loose as a clothespin snapped apart. The first man, one who looked like a gray-haired goat herder came forward, greeting the early morning with ripped jeans, a stained u-neck undershirt and dour facial expression. His feet were bare, and he cursed the pebbly ground as he walked. He was followed closely by his taller friend, the scary one looking maniacal as before, mustache untrimmed and nothing but hatred filling his eyeballs. He was the one who once uttered, “don’t scream”. His right hand was encircled by white bandage.

Where was the third man? And why were they seemingly already clothed?

The men stood with empty hands raised, in front of the tent, looking rather spent. Lyndy glanced over to Chan. He extended an arm to the side, with four fingers raised.