La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-24

Link to part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy awoke an hour later, her bleary eyes coming to focus on a pair of men’s tennis shoes. They once were white, but now smudged all over with charcoal-colored grease stains.

“Bad men almost never wear shoes this ugly,” thought Lyndy. Rolling onto her back, Lyndy followed the legs up til she beheld the wrinkled mug of Julia Russell, otherwise known as Russ. Perched on her nose were the terrible frames.

At a moment like this, Russ was pretty much a cowgirl in white on a tall horse. Lyndy was so grateful to see her, she started to tear up.

Russ had her hands in her pockets. She blinked a few times, then broke the ice: “Well I forgave you for calling me a thief—decided I was comin to visit you. But when I get to Amboy them folks at the cafe said you was kidnapped, thrown in the back of a camper shell truck. They called the sheriff, but I said I weren’t gonna sit ‘round waiting on some man.” Russ stepped back over to her Jeep, several yards away, and started poking at items in the area behind the passenger seat.

Meanwhile Russ continued her story, “So I hopped on in my CJ and tore off down 66. Took me two hours to figure where that bunch of vehicles went off the highway, but once I did I followed it out to this cursed place. Soon as I rounded that last curve, I seen the smoke risin.”

Lyndy could hear Russ sorting belongings, lifting a heavy toolbox, sending the tools clanging.

“Now let me see. I’m often accused of bringing the kitchen sink when I travel. Almost took these babies out of the vehicle to save on weight.” Russ pivoted around, holding by the end grips the largest set of bolt cutters Lyndy had ever seen. “But now I’m really glad I didn’t.”

Crouching on one knee near to Lyndy’s ankles, Russ locked the mighty jaws upon one of the edge links. With a firm squeezing of the handle the metal snapped like a twig. She did the same for the other side, making the cut near the cuff. Moving to the binds on Lyndy’s wrists, she clipped those, then discarded the wasted chain segments to eventually sink in the playa.

“We’ll get to those cuffs later,” said Russ. “But first let’s get the hell outta Dodge.”

Lyndy frowned. “Sorry, I don’t think I can stand.”

“That’s okay,” Russ replied. She reached under Lyndy’s back and knees, lifting her as though she were a sick child. She made it seem effortless, setting her down gently on the passenger seat.

“I can’t believe you’re able to carry me,” Lyndy groaned. “I’m heavy.”

“Girl, I’ve lifted sacks of groceries heavier than you,” replied Russ, as she prepared to take her spot in the driver’s seat.

Fastening her seatbelt, but before twisting the ignition, Russ glanced over to Lyndy; The Spitfire had her head pressed against the roll cage, eyes closed. Russ grinned and slapped Lyndy’s thigh. “Miss Martinez, for the first time, I’m sorry to say you look like hell.”

A second later, Russ revved the motor and stomped on the gas pedal. The V-8 engine spun the rear tires and kicked up a rooster tail of sand as they departed.

Lyndy kept her head resting against the roll-bar, but opened her eyes a moment. “Russ, I’m sorry I accused you of being a thief,” she voiced.

No reply came and everything was so loud, she wasn’t sure Russ could hear her. Russ had the same sort of competence and self-reliance her brother had. Lyndy had nothing but respect for that.

 

1 week later …

It was mid-afternoon, Russ and Lyndy were seated adjacent to one another at the Amboy Café lunch counter. Being back in town for the weekend, Russ had phoned Lyndy to see if she wanted to grab a bite to eat together. Though not the most exciting place for The Spitfire to dine, she agreed, wanting to spend a little more time with the historian.

It was a slow customer day, no one but the owner happened to be there; the service station was vacant too. Buster was making the most of his downtime by endlessly mopping the floors behind the counter.

With not a lot to talk about, Lyndy and Russ were in the midst of a quiet period, when a new Mercedes-Benz convertible pulled in. The male driver parked alongside one of the gas pumps shaded by the awning, his fancy touring tires squeaking against concrete. Through the picture windows they could see the younger man was wearing aviator sunglasses. Immediately he stepped out of the car. He had a yuppie look about him, sporting a business suit, giving him the air of a TV executive. He stood a moment with his hands resting on the open door, as if scoping out the town—perhaps planning for a shoot. Then he made his way inside the cafe.

Slipping his shades into the interior pocket of his suit, he looked from Lyndy to Russ to Buster, then fixated upon the menu board over the counter.

“Can I get a fresh lemonade?” he said to Buster.

“Sure thing partner,” Buster nodded. He went in the back kitchen area to access the icebox.

While the yuppie guy was waiting he started pacing, browsing the numerous old photos decorating the east wall, as Ted had done. When he got to the signed picture of Burt Lancaster the fellow stopped and stared, moving forward to inspect it more closely. He chewed mindlessly on the ear hook of his sunglasses, while apparently deciding if what he was seeing was authentic.

Suddenly Buster tapped the stranger on the shoulder, breaking his concentration, offering the lemonade. As he took the glass from Buster the perplexed fellow asked, “Why was Burt Lancaster thanking you for ‘all the sushi’?  Did he stop in here on his way to Nevada or Arizona? And why sushi?”

Buster chuckled a moment, bracing himself with the mop handle. Still grinning, he looked the stranger in the eye and said, “Mister, I picked that thing up at a Vegas yard sale for five bucks.”

Forgetting about his thirst, the man stood holding onto his drink with a bewildered expression. Buster resumed mopping the floor peacefully.

Russ turned around to face the yuppie. “Welcome to the Mojave,” she said.

 

If you love the desert, please consider a donation to the non-profit Mojave Desert Heritage and Cultural Association (MDHCA). They have an excellent website (www.mdhca.org) where you can find more information about what they do. This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever volunteered for the MDHCA, or the prior FOMR. In particular, I want to salute the unsung heroes: Hugh Brown, Chris Ervin, and Phil Motz. Were it not for their under-appreciated toils, the MDHCA would not exist.

Lyndy Martinez will proudly return in the next installment of her series: “Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story”