La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-22

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #177: If you find yourself living in a single-wide trailer, or really any house under 1000 square feet, never install a cuckoo clock.

Ted grunted as he worked to fasten the last few bolts securing the oil pan to the engine base. When the task was complete he passed the wrench back to Lyndy, then scooted his way out into the open. He could see she was anxiously awaiting an answer.

“Look, I promise I’m a cheap date. Except I do tend to eat your fries a lot,” joked Lyndy.

Ted’s hazel eyes appeared sympathetic, and his voice took on a gentle but serious tone. “It ain’t somebody else Lyn. For one thing, Kyle Ellis told me you were his girlfriend—that you two were goin steady this whole time—and kept threatening me to back off. He was rude about it.”

“Kyle can jump in a lake!” interrupted The Spitfire.

Ted smiled, reaching for a shop rag to wipe greenish oil from his fingertips. “I gathered that.”

“He slept with Catherine.”

Ted’s eyebrows perked up, but he went on, “Another thing, Deputy Keynes is super-protective whenever your name comes up. I hear you two were engaged one time. And anyway, I guess I was afraid cause you have … a reputation.”

Lyndy gave an appearance of confusion.

Ted gripped onto the bumper, then rose to a standing position. “… ya know, for leaving destruction in your wake.”

Lyndy nodded, backing up against the workbench, folding her arms. A genuine feeling of regret overcame her. “I get that sometimes I come on a little too strong. But I promise I won’t be my normal self—like when I’m out doin my job for Chan. Contrary to popular belief, I know how to behave like a lady.”

Ted shook his head. “It’s not that I want you to change. Please Lyn, you don’t need to act differn’t around me. My answer is yes.”

Lyndy’s eyes lit up. “What do you mean by yes?”

“Yes, of course I’ll take you to the party. Just wear yer favorite outfit. What you have on is nice.” Ted smiled and pointed to his truck. “Plus, I’m optimistic I can pick you up.”

“Groovy.”

Going down to one knee, Ted began gathering up any stray tools and remaining hardware. Lyndy swiftly followed suit, kneeling beside to help. She didn’t care if her clothes were getting dirty or her knees were getting smudged by grease. “So Ted, let’s say something sorta bad were to happen to me. You know, like someone tried to hurt me and I had to defend myself. What would you think of me then?”

“I thought everyone was afraid of you?” mused Ted.

“Normal folks are.”

“Well, I know you’re a fighter. I’d say you have a right to defend yourself.”

“I’m more of a wrestler.”

“I could see that.” Ted looked over and their eyes met.

“Okay, cause I’m pretty sure somebody evil will try something. This isn’t like the other times, when Mr. Chan sent some villain back to jail and they made a bunch of false threats to save face. It’s not gonna be a TV show private eye caper either, where I bonk someone on the head and they flop over. It could get very bloody.”

They stood up together, Ted in front and Lyndy resting her back against the workbench.

“Lyn, did you know my dad is a heart surgeon?”

“I didn’t.”

“It’s a fact. He warned me I was throwing my life away coming out here; he knows I like the outdoor jobs better, but he said one morning I was gonna wake up and realize I had squandered my youth, worked my body too hard, and it was too late to go to medical school. Then where would I be? But I don’t ever want to be a doctor Lyn. I just wanna work around horses.”

Lyndy nodded to Ted in understanding.

“Probably the same for you,” he added.

They were so close their foreheads were almost touching. She could feel his hot breath lightly on her cheeks, and his skin ruffling her hair.

“I uh, … , don’t think anyone in my family wanted me to become what I am, especially my brother,” whispered Lyndy.

“Become what?”

“You know … The Spitfire.”

“Well I’m proud of you,” asserted Ted. “I promise to keep sticking up for you. Don’t ever worry about that.”

Ted curved his hands over Lyndy’s hips and under the tails of her shirt, his strong fingers gripping bare skin in places. Effortlessly, he lifted her to a seated position on the workbench. Lyndy tilted her chin down to keep her eyes focused squarely on him. Then Ted unsnapped the lowest button of her shirt, allowing him to slide his warm dirty hands behind the lowest part of her back, clutching her, as she leaned forward to give him a kiss. In between their lips meeting, Lyndy whispered, “God, I feel pretty around you.”

 

The next morning …

The pink box of hot glazed doughnuts had been calling to her from the passenger seat, but she hadn’t touched a single one. With her right hand she kept it from tipping on its side in sharp corners, having selected the varieties Chan most preferred. Now, it held her best hope of making amends with her boss.

She came in through the front, as the chain of little bells clinked. With a puffed chest and feeling smug, she set the box into position atop the filing cabinet.

Chan was smoking a cigar and scribbling with a pen. An inch tall stack of papers occupied the half-circle of clear desk space in front of him. A partial bandage covered the rear portion of his balding head. On the black and white TV, a rerun of Andy Griffith blared.

He hadn’t bothered to look up. Just to see if he was paying attention, The Spitfire did an impromptu pirouette while she crossed the room, then slumped into the wood client’s chair, nearest the desk. She was grinning broadly. Chan still did not look up.

The Spitfire rotated 90 degrees, using one arm of the chair as a backrest, the other for her legs. He always disliked that move.

“Ever hear of color television?” she mocked, digging in her purse for the hairbrush.

Suddenly he reached for the TV control, switching it off. The next instant he swiped all the papers to one side, apparently having completed the job. “Yes, I hear of it,” he grumbled, dabbing the end of the cigar into a green glass ashtray.

Looking over her shoulder she said, “Wanna hear a fun fact?”

“No,” replied Chan.

“Too bad. The name Melinda means sweet, like honey.”

Chan exhaled and blinked, but otherwise showed no expression.

“Wanna hear another fun fact?”

“No, definitely not,” said Chan. His eyes darted, as he examined her up and down with a frown.

“Later today, I’m going to a place that will wax your body,” she said, folding her arms. “It’s quicker with fewer side effects than a razor, but I’m told it hurts like the dickens.”

Chan held up a hand, laying his fat cigar in one of the notches on the ash tray. “Okay Melinda, please do not share any more fun facts. I am all good for today.” Pushing himself up by the arms of the squeaky chair, he sauntered over to the file cabinet. Using a white cocktail napkin, he stuck his hand inside the pink box to retrieve a chocolate glazed.

“Come on Chan, are you ever gonna find it in your heart to forgive me? It isn’t healthy to hold a grudge ya know.” Lyndy sighed. “Am I fired yet?”

“Sadly not. Somehow we are still in business … unfortunately.” Chan took a bite out of his doughnut. “The Albrights paid us for running off the cattle thieves.”

“Far out!” said Lyndy, jumping up.

After a hard swallow Chan added, “And then there was a reward for information leading to the arrest or capture of Evan P. Stone. Sheriff Jackson says we are eligible to receive the funds; they cut a check. Should at least break even on that ordeal, considering we lost the bond monies. In addition, Mr. Lovelace paid for the 40 hours of your time.”

Lyndy clapped her hands excitedly, skipping her way back to the doughnut box and swinging her purse. She selected a custard filled one for herself. “I think I’ve earned this,” commented Lyndy.

Chan cleared his throat. “So I mention your constant whining about car troubles to Lovelace.”

“You did?” said Lyndy, the words garbled by a mouth full of sugar and fried dough.

“He gave me this business card. You ever hear of a car builder by name of Darrel Ward?”

Lyndy nodded excitedly.

“Says Ward’s Auto Racing.”

Lyndy laughed.

“Mr. Lovelace give you a firm budget of 8k.”

“Holy crap!” Lyndy exclaimed.

“Huh. Huh. Huh,” laughed Chan.

 

Exiting the Amboy post office, Lyndy was in such a fantastic mood she forgot all about her troubles for the moment. When he attacked, she’d expected Wallach to bring along a handful of cronies. Instead he brought a small army.

She had a fist full of junk mail rolled up in her hand. From the right side someone swung a two-by-four, nailing her in the stomach. She doubled over, the mail went flying. From her left, another man ripped the purse from her shoulder, snapping the strap off at the loop and straining her neck muscles. She caught a glimpse of four parked vehicles, in addition to the Jeep, before a third person dropped a cotton sack over her head—making a FWOOP sound—then cinched it tight.

In that brief instant she recognized the outline of the International Scout, and a white pickup truck with camper shell beside. Amboy was a sleepy place. When she arrived, the parking lot had been deserted.

She always knew this day may come, and her time on earth would end abruptly. Hell, she’d had a lot of lucky breaks til now. The shocking thing was how long it took to finally get someone mad enough to kill.

Inside her purse, tucked underneath the flap, the damn Beretta was fully loaded. If she’d anticipated any trouble, she would have had it out and drawn. But now, in the hands of Wallach’s gang, it might as well be in Timbuktu.

That’s the way it goes some days.

Lifting her by the armpits, two men slammed Lyndy to the ground. The force knocked all the air from her lungs. She had forfeited her chance to scream.

The same two men pinned her down, using their knees and elbows to hold her still, while a third attached cuffs to Lyndy’s wrists and ankles. The ankle cuffs only allowed 8-inches of slack, the ones on her wrists even less. She felt like a penguin out of water.

Where do you even buy ankle cuffs? Prison-mart?

After this she could hear engines firing, that of a modern pickup, then an unrefined tractor-like thumping of the International.

A moment later they carried her by the legs and armpits, swung her in the air and tossed her body like a laundry sack, into the back of the modern camper shell pickup. She grunted from impact. She knew it was that car since the metal floor undulated, as a truck bed would.

Someone shouted, “Hurry up!”, and she heard the sound of the engines revving.

The Spitfire was intensely curious; where could they be taking her and what variety of unpleasantness awaited? And if Wallach were here among them, what would he look like now? The healthy Dale Keynes was one hell of a bare-knuckle fighter.

She felt the truck lurch, commencing a steady acceleration onto the highway. Soon they were zooming along the lumpy pavement of 66. She tried to keep track of time passing, but it was difficult to focus with a bag over one’s head. It seemed like fifteen minutes they were on the mother road.

Then with a whoosh, they swerved off highway, this time onto a badly wash-boarded dirt trail. They were traveling at an unsafe speed and the truck had worn shocks, so the ride and handling was atrocious. It felt as though her butt was resting on a paint shaker, her brain hurting from being jostled so hard. Plus with such a terrible suspension, they could easily overturn. This violent bouncing continued for another five minutes, before mercifully easing some. They continued to speed, but the dirt trail became smoother, the surface turning from loose rock to sand.

All in all, she estimated they traveled 20 or more miles from town. One need not venture even that far to get to some pretty remote places, spots where no one would find your body for years, if ever.

At last, the drawstring was uncinched and the bag yanked from her head. Her bangs covered over half her field of vision, and she had no way to shift the hair other than exhaling. But across from her sat a clean shaven man, no hair on his head, with a horrid appearance. At first, she couldn’t connect who the freak show monster was. Which one of the goons from the bar was this dude?

The newly bald man had fissure-like cuts above his eyes and across one cheek. Outlining the cuts were needle marks of still healing sutures. One of his eyes was purple, and mostly swollen shut. His jawline was bumpy with uneven swelling, and strangest thing of all was how steel wires had been looped up and down diagonally, contrasting with a few remaining white teeth. The metal fogged as he breathed. She couldn’t recall seeing a person like this who wasn’t in critical condition.

There was no mistaking; it had to be Matt.

Next to him was a younger guy, an assistant,—looking just out of prison release or jail—with filthy black hair clumping together into never-washed dreads. He was gripping Lyndy’s legs at the ankle bone, touching the smooth skin like he was petting a dog. It was the creepiest thing anyone had done to her in a long time. Desperately, she wanted to scoot backward, shy away, except there was no room.

For once, she wished Mr. Chan were here to bust heads.

The camper shell was made of fiberglass, left unpainted on the inside. Wind whistled in gaps between the body and the shell, bringing dust as well. Her back pressed firmly against the divider separating the truck cab and bed. Wallach’s back was resting on the tailgate. In his hand he was casually gripping his favorite weapon, the stubby six-shooter from the billiard table. He raised it by five degrees to keep it leveled more at her chest.

Between the cab and the bed was a thin pane of plexiglass, with a sliding section. The sliding section was open six inches, presumably allowing the driver and Wallach to converse. Of all the situations she’d rehearsed in her head, this was not one of them.

She’d caught her breath; time to break the ice.

“Hey Wallach, nice Halloween mask,” Lyndy quipped. “But you can take it off now.”

“I loss six theeth from that thy,” he hissed, which took her a moment to translate.