La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-17

Lyndy Life Tip #170: If you ever order a salad and it comes topped with ham cubes, bacon bits, shredded cheese, avocado and smothered in ranch dressing, just don’t even bother. Or do eat it, but realize you could have downed a porterhouse steak and all the trimmings.

The hour was well past dawn. A trickle of clear water spilled over the lip of a cement cattle guzzler, making barely a sound. Due to all the human activity, especially now, the half-wild cows would be too skittish to approach and drink—which of course was bad for their health, and business.

The Spitfire’s arms were trembling with tension; knowingly, she relaxed her grip.

Yards away, dying embers of a hardwood fire continued to emit smoke, near invisible to the eye. With each passing minute the sky grew brighter, alive with the intensity of desert sunrise.

“This camp smells like a plate of Canadian bacon,” mused Lyndy, her black Beretta still aimed in the direction of the cattle thieves, index finger resting near the trigger guard. She hadn’t eaten for 18 hours, and her sense of smell kept gaining prominence over all other functions; her muscles felt weaker too. This forager state of being was the main reason crash diets failed.

That maple-ham aroma was only part of a growing list of distractions, including the fact that Chan supposed there were four individuals camped here, but only two accounted for.

Lyndy re-directed her attention to the half-dressed Texans, blocking the makeshift tent; she monitored their every twitch, expecting treachery.

“Alrighty, I need some immediate answers from you doofuses. I’m searching for a pretty boy fugitive named Evan Stone. I’ve been told he’s holed-up somewhere in the east Mojave backcountry. Been askin’ around real nice, but nobody wants to cough up the location of his camp.”

No sneers or chuckles. By now they would have laughed, had they never heard the name. Perhaps he was sharing this primo spot with them?

The west Texan with the faded eyes blinked, tilted his head slightly and spat at the ground; didn’t speak though. His taller, vacuous pal, also stayed mute.

“I wish ya’ll would stop doing that. I think you know who I’m talking about, and I’m running out of patience; if I even have any.” Lyndy affirmed.

“Ain’t … seen … im,” replied the goat herder, firm and deliberate as always.

Then came a man’s scream, or perhaps a battle cry.

From somewhere in the chaparral behind Chan, a figure emerged. But before The Spitfire had time to react, or craft any sliver of a plan, he sprang forward. Shirtless and in cotton briefs, wielding a busted-top wine bottle, he charged. Chan swung his bat, missed, and the man flung the green bottle like a dagger.

Unprepared, Chan only had an instant to turn away, as the dense projectile smacked him at the base of his skull. The glass fractured further, coming apart in inch-sized shards, which rained down in the rocky soil. An ordinary man would have been knocked out. Chan was briefly stunned. He let go his bat, but didn’t tumble. The deranged biker was advancing upon him, swinging his fists.

Lyndy prepared to take action, but luckily Chan snapped out of it. “Why you little unhinged piece-a-crap,” he bellowed.

In a swift motion Chan seized the attacker by his elbow with one hand, and under his crotch with the other. Then he swung around in a discus thrower motion, hurling the full-grown adult like a sack of flour, directly into a nearby cholla patch.

His pals stood by in horror, knowing cholla had a reputation as the most devilishly pain-inflicting cactus in the entire Southwest.

Lyndy briefly surveilled the hills surrounding the spring, checking if anyone else was waiting to pounce, or worse. She was particularly mindful of any glints, but kept her Beretta aimed for the tent regardless.

It’s astonishing how much a modest head wound will cause you to bleed. Ever bonk yourself on a garage door lifter arm and you’ll know!

Chan felt around the back of his head and neck, and upon inspecting his hands, they were each coated as if dipped in a jar of scarlet paint. In reaction, he clenched both fists, and blood squirted in the air.

Yet the third fellow was in far worse condition than Chan. He managed to roll his body off the tops of the cacti, but lay motionless on the ground, whimpering and twitching. Atop his bare back and legs were many broken off teddy-bear arms. He began to moan.

Chan stomped up to the man, grabbing and lifting him by the hair. “Oh, would you just shut the hell up,” he said, punching the fellow in the temple, rendering him unconscious.

Next, Chan bent down to retrieve his slugger bat, spitting and cursing a string of unintelligible phrases. Signs of fury on his face were something she knew she would have to cope with later.

“Caught me another one of them rascals tryin’ to escape!” came an excited holler, followed by a dust-up and many snorts from the horse. The source of commotion was Rob Albright, crashing through tall weeds, with a lasso wrapped around the fourth of Wallach’s lackeys. Rob was in the saddle.

By jerking its strong neck and sidestepping, his horse was tugging out a man like a stubborn calf. Its nostrils flared as it pulled.

“Hey lay off me ya jerk! I surrender,” the man complained, with a voice like an educated Berkeley hippie. This one, a taller, lanky fellow, wore faded blue jeans and a dusty golf shirt. He had roughly 3-days’ worth of blonde beard stubble. But unfortunately, it wasn’t Evan.

With the main events over, Lyndy turned back to the Texans.

“Anybody else wanna be a hero today?” shouted Lyndy.

Both men shook their heads. The new one quickly stumbled to the line-up, joining his biker friends. He brushed himself off, then inverted his pants pockets, demonstrating to Lyndy he had nothing to hide. “Excuse me miss, these two fools look American, but they can’t speak a lick-a-English. Their Spanish is pretty rotten too.”

I’ve noticed.

“Mike over here growed up in Jaurez.”

Lyndy angled her gun to the new man, who seemed ready to do the talking.

“Look, we don’t want no more troubles. This junket ain’t been profitable anyhow.”

Lyndy glanced back to check on her boss. Chan was preoccupied, plucking bits of green glass from his neck. Lyndy switched up her stance, keeping the Beretta pointed the same.

“I have a better question,” she said. “This one told me Wallach was at Loma Linda. What happened?”

“He got assaulted—beat up worse than I’ve seen in a long time.”

“By whom?”

“Matt said it was yer damn boyfriend. No one else was at the bar, or got a look at the guy.”

So which of my “boyfriends” is that foolish?

“I don’t have a boyfriend. Who does he think is my boyfriend?” demanded Lyndy.

“I dunno. Some tough guy dressed as a cop.”

Dale!

“I’m really not sure who you’re describing,” said Lyndy defensively. “So then, Wallach never told you where Evan is?”

“Nope. None of us know. Might have helped him if we could. Not sure this is something you can believe, but Matt said to me, even he doesn’t know.”

Lyndy glanced back at Chan, who was sullen.

For some depressing reason, that answer seemed truthful.

 

20 minutes later …

Lyndy Life Tip #171: One of those lowly 59-cent black plastic pocket combs is the ideal tool for safe removal of stuck cholla arms. Whether embedded in skin or clothing, it works wonders. After removal, a simple alcohol wipe is a quick way to disinfect the puncture.

Tread-bare whitewall tires chirped around each bend, as the Cadillac sprinted along Kelbaker Road, a seldom traveled stretch of 2-lane blacktop linking Kelso and Baker. Occasionally, The Spitfire drifted over the double yellow, but luckily there hadn’t been any oncoming cars. Only truck drivers attempting to subvert the CHP scales used the road with any frequency.

With one hand clamped on the steering wheel, the other was free to apply violet colored lipstick. While smacking her lips together repeatedly, Lyndy took a casual peek in the rearview. Her eyes were met with Chan’s stone-faced glare.

Chan hated when other people drove his car. But he was confined to the back seat, holding a blood-soaked shirt to his bald head. He was attempting to stem the flow by applying firm compression.

Lyndy hooked a finger under the mirror, flicking the lever over to night mode. Then she adjusted the sliders on the cool air vents so more of it was directed to the rear.

“You know what this vehicle really needs,” offered Lyndy, clearing her throat and waiting for a response.

Chan did not make a sound.

“Pair a fuzzy dice,” she joked.

Silence.

Lyndy looked in the mirror again, this time using only her eyes. Chan had switched from one palm holding the shirt, to the other.

“I wish it wasn’t morning, cause I could use a margarita the size of a cantaloupe,” she thought.

Lyndy tested the wheel. It had so much play that she could easily wobble it 15 degrees either side, without affecting the course of direction. She pinched the skin around both her earlobes. Somehow, she’d lost a small earring in the previous night’s scuffle. Fortunately, it was gold-plated, not actual gold.

“I just gotta say, the suspension in this car is so soft and pliable. It’s like riding on an inflatable swan at the waterpark.”

“I hate you,” replied Chan.

Lyndy sighed. “Dude. I said I was sorry like ten times already. I didn’t know there was a crazy underwear-man hiding in the weeds.” She used as meek and genuine a voice as she could muster.

“Melinda Evangeline Martinez, I don’t give a frog’s fat ass how sorry you think you  are. I signal to you the number four. There are four different style boot prints on the ground. You have the fancy gun and decent aim; shoot the bastard in the foot or the damned arm.”

Oh boy, all three names. This was serious.

“But you’re always pressing me to use the Beretta only as a last resort. You hate it when I’m acting trigger happy.”

“I could have been killed!”

“Uffdah.” Lyndy briefly shut her eyes, taking a breather. She slid the lipstick case back in her purse. “God. To work at CBB you have to have skin like a rhinoceros.”

“Why is that?”

“Cause you freakin yell at people for having unexpected accidents, as well as honest mistakes, misunderstandings and anything else in between. You overreact to everything. That’s why. This is exactly how you pushed away …” Lyndy stopped abruptly.

“Finish that sentence,” demanded Chan, thrusting the soaked shirt in Lyndy’s direction. “Me and Richard offer you a job when no one else will take you! You are free to quit any day.”

“Never mind,” she muttered softly. She was thinking about her family.

There was a time when The Spitfire wore bright colors, when her stockings weren’t black and her skirts charcoal grey.

 

1 hour later …

Back at Riverview trailer park, tempers had cooled just a little. Still, the two were not on speaking terms. Lyndy submerged the end of metal tweezers in a container of high proof vodka, holding them there for a count of ten. A layer of glass fragments caked the bottom.

Once the ends had been sterilized, Lyndy concentrated on gently plucking the last few shards from Chan’s head wound. It took the better part of the morning.

Then, keys in hand, she shuttled him to the clinic in Victorville for stitches. Lyndy tried apologizing once more before she left, but Chan was too grumpy to acknowledge her. In a way she was grateful for his silence; he hadn’t asked who assaulted Wallach.

There was only one action left with a snowball’s chance of elevating Chan’s mood, and it was finding Evan. To Chan, it represented a business loss numbering in the thousands of dollars, and a promise to the Lovelace Corporation to never entangle them in bad lending decisions. But for Lyndy, this had evolved into being more about defending her reputation. The five days was almost up. Come hell or high water, she needed to rally.

20,000 square miles. One person.

 

From a payphone, Lyndy dialed the JBR ranch, leaving a message for Ted. She at least wanted him to know she’d caught the thieves, and done everything she could, in case Rob Albright took his time getting around to it. Then she drove the Jeep across town to Tammy Ward’s house, hoping to see how her recovery was going.

The Wards occupied a one-story bungalow, on a quiet street only a short walk from the Barstow depot. Their pinkish craftsman-style home had once been built and lived-in by railroad executives. That was near 60 years in the past. With the intervening decades, the neighborhood had taken on a more blue-collar characteristic, along with the rest of Barstow.

The presence of a Peterbilt semi-truck indicated Daryll was at home. After ringing the doorbell, he let Lyndy in. Tammy was propped on the living room couch with her neck supported by one of those goofy foam braces. She had the TV tuned to her favorite soap operas, their drooling rottweiler—Mr. Snuggles—sharing the rug by her feet.

Although reportedly in a great deal of pain, the accident had done nothing to dampen Tammy’s spirits, and it seemed she was enjoying time off work. Lyndy felt exhausted, but seeing Tammy like this brought a smile to her face.

In a flurry of words and vigorous hand gestures, Tammy explained the backstory. A man on vacation had stopped at Sancho’s stand late in the day. He remarked about her green Buick in the lot. Though standing only five feet tall and soft-spoken, he had an ego to match any man. That’s when things started going off the rails.

Tammy informed the stranger her newly built pro-street car was unbeaten in its class at the drag strip. Even with a language barrier, the stranger began talking tough, and boasted that if even a single turn were included in the race circuit, then his Datsun could easily smoke Tammy’s muscle car. Then he launched into a tirade about the laziness of American car manufacturers.

Maybe it was a Route-66 thing, or a matter of town pride, but everyone’s patience had been tried; Tammy reluctantly agreed to a competition, mainly to avoid a budding fistfight between the stranger and jingoistic passers-by. From there, circumstances escalated quickly as the Parker’s got involved, and Granville Jackson—attempting to calm the crowd—was told to take a hike. That explained the lack of law enforcement.

What the bellicose tourist didn’t know, was Tammy’s Buick was a high compression model, running leaded fuel and sans any California smog equipment. The rented Datsun was likely to be California smog legal, so it was already facing a disadvantage. There was no explaining this subtlety considering the language barrier.

Lyndy arrived soon after, witnessing the crash. The Datsun suffered a failure of the linkage connecting the rack and pinion steering. The stranger considered it sabotage. In the wreck he suffered a broken ankle and a blow to the head, as his car flipped 90 degrees. But it was his nationalistic pride that was totaled. Tammy suffered whiplash, sustaining no lasting damage, even when taking out a mailbox, leveling two small trees and a light pole.

 

Later in Amboy …

Lyndy napped away the afternoon sprawled atop her double bed, no sheets or anything. And over the course of a day the tin-can like Airstream typically became uncomfortable, but she was far too tired to notice. As evening approached, she dressed herself in old tennis shorts and a cotton tank top—expecting no visitors—and emerged to relax on the patio.

The patio itself included a metal table and chairs, which she positioned in the shadow of her sole palo-verde tree. This vantage had been strategically placed to overlook her snaking driveway. Upon the mesh table Lyndy set out her transistor radio, as well as an open bottle of Herradura and Sands Hotel-themed shot glass.

Every hour or two, a locomotive would blow its horn where it crossed the highway, then climb Cadiz grade until obscured in haze.

Lyndy twirled the empty shot glass by its edge, pivoting on the table top. Peering through the tequila bottle, she could see the outline of the ghostly town and Roy’s sign, tinted orange. Ordinarily, she would have been savoring the top shelf tequila, but this time she needed her mind to perform. Sleep deprivation had taken toll enough.

She’d interviewed a number of persons, some shiftier than others. It should have been enough for any bail enforcement case. It was Julia Russell, the eccentric Good Samaritan and modern archaeologist, whose words had left the greatest impact. She described the supply chain necessary to stock a constellation of army forts, established to subdue the local Indian tribes, defend against Mexican forces, and quote “maintain peace” in the desert.

With all that had happened and each passing day, the trail was growing colder.

The Spitfire was in the process of painting her toenails, a cotton ball wedged between each toe, when she noticed the green and white Bronco ascending the driveway; it was tailed by dust. From the look and sound of the official county vehicle, she knew the driver, and she wasn’t at all happy to see them. At last, she poured herself a capful of the liquor.

Deliberately, Lyndy propped her bare feet on the table to dry. Her shorts revealed a lot of leg in this position. Her top showed a lot of upper body also. Lyndy ran her fingers over the surface of her tan thigh and down to the ankle, testing for stubble.

Whatever happens, don’t let him in.

No sound is quite like radial truck tires on gravel roads. After navigating her tightly arced turning circle, Dale put it in park. He quickly removed and flung his cowboy hat to the back. As he stepped out, slamming the door, his big stupid belt buckle was already glinting in the sun.

He stood there looking somber, clutching something made of thin metal in his left hand.

“I uh … heard you been out bustin some heads again,” spoke Lyndy, tipping the contents of the glass into her mouth and swallowing hard.

“Yeah, well Mr. Wallach won’t be bothering us no more. And also, I bet you can safely add his name to the long list of people Will Rogers never met.”

He was standing twenty feet away, languishing, and she hoped the stink of nail polish, plus her obvious scorn would hold him at that distance. Dale tossed the metal sign up to the porch, then stuck his hands in his pockets. Without reading it, she knew what it said.