Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

That night …

This cramped, high stakes poker room was lined in faux wood paneling, reeking of cigar smoke—so much it was foggy—and dime store perfume. It was directly attached to a glittery night club called Cadillac’s, where ladies dressed in skimpy outfits carried full trays of mixed drinks. Truckers packed the main room of the night club—the one with the long stage—waiting on shows which came every quarter hour.

But to get inside here you had to push through a door plainly marked “No Entry, Employees Only.” Basically you had to be the pushy type. Gambling was illegal in this county.

Yellow lamps projected cones of light on the middle of the tables, but left people’s faces in shadow. An artsy oil painting of a mermaid adorned one wall; very lifelike. Not like mermaids would wear clothes.

Though enticing, playing illegal cards was never on his mind. Jack had come here on a tip, seeking an employee of a business called Chan’s Bail Bonds. He’d been inquiring as to whom was the toughest, meanest bounty hunter or private eye in the region—a real hell-raising Rooster Cogburn—except not a US Marshall. The answers were unanimous and surprising.

In the card room, no empty chairs could be found.

As he sipped from a half-glass of dry gin, folks were staring. Apparently they didn’t get a lot of strangers in here, and maybe dry gin wasn’t the manliest beverage either. Mixed among the rough looking Barstow regulars, some of them outlaws or wanna-be’s, his eyes fell upon an attractive young lady. She was Latina, raven haired, smallish in build, exotic, wearing an all-black outfit, including a lacey dress and of all things, widely spaced veil. Dressed in this way, she appeared as though she worked at a funeral parlor.

Violet had gone through a stage or two like that. By some measures, she still was.

Beside the brown-eyed girl, two stacks of poker chips as tall as a coke bottle. Judging by the size she was making a killing, briefly grinning and laughing, pretending to cover her teeth at a joke that was uttered. And seconds later she slapped down a hand of cards—straight flush—raking in yet more chips.

Approaching a table of rough looking truckers, Jack planted his fist on the green felt top, forcing them to pause their game.

“You lookin’ for somebody son,” grumbled one of the gamblers, his tone condescending and itching for confrontation.

Jack cleared his throat. The dry air was making him congested and hoarse.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Gentlemen, I happen to be a high ranking official with the Santa Fe railroad. My father is a member of the governing board.” Sensing these men were confused by what he was telling them, he clarified. “I’m an inspector in the rail police.”

“Well how ‘bout that,” said outspoken trucker.

“Often for convenience I travel by rail and strangely enough, just last night for the first time in my adult life, my god damn train got hijacked and robbed. Happened east of Amboy, carried out by hooligans whose identities were disguised in ski masks. One of them didn’t speak. Perhaps others were involved, supported them, or knew of their scheme.”

“They get anything good?”

Jack nodded, finishing the remainder of his drink, then setting the empty glass on the rim of the table, twisting it forward and back by 45 degrees. “Plenty. Twenty thousand dollars in cash, stock certificates valued at several hundred thousand to as much as one million, a diamond ring, a watch, two gold wedding bands and assorted jewelry worth thirty grand.” He could see the men salivating, wishing they knew where they could get their hands on the treasure. “I have a hunch it’s still here, in this desert.”

“What does it have to do with us?” questioned one of the other gamblers.

Jack  lowered his voice, enough to not be overheard at other tables, but still driving home his point. “I’m not going to rest until I find these men I’m looking for, and when I do I won’t be leaving this matter to the police, bringing them to justice, or any of that traditional nonsense.” Jack paused, scanning the room again. The irritating sound of poker chips clinking occupied the momentary gap. “I’m going to straight out slit their throats … ear to ear.”

The men chuckled uneasily at the macho talk, a few murmurs between, but their boldness was waning.

Jack flicked his fingers, standing up straighter. “Feel free to spread word around town a little. Maybe, just maybe, if the criminals turn themselves in I could have a change of heart and show some mercy. I’d also like your help with something else. I’m hoping to locate a person named Lyndy E. Martinez; that’s why I’m here. She has a nickname: “The Spitfire”. Have you seen her?”

Uncomfortably, the first trucker to speak lifted a shakey finger, gripping his cards with his thumb, pointing in the direction of the back tables. He was aiming for the stunning woman with the veil.

“Wait. The goth chick? That’s The Spitfire?” Jack turned his back, gazing at the girl again. She was now engaged in the delicate act of picking her teeth with the nail on her pinky, periodically examining her fingertip, checking for bits of food. His shoulders slumped.

“What were you expectin railroad man?”

Jack scratched at the stubble forming on his chin.

The truckers began to deal again, their attention back on the game.

“I guess I expected her to be taller.” Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Jack heard the distinctive tuba effect from bad TV, “Bum-bum-ba-dum.” Still, for the first time since he could remember—probably a decade—he was fascinated by another person.

 

Next day …

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s one of those shower thoughts. Do you suppose anybody on death row, about to executed, ordered a “vegan” last meal?

A car honked, someone behaving like an idiot at the gas station, attempting to draw the attention of the nose-picking attendants. A warm, stagnant air enveloped the scene, smelling like road tar. Glare was high, but as the mirror tilted she could see her face, revealing the consequences of rash decision making.

“Ugh. I think I’ve made a giant mistake. I look like a space alien,” she complained.

The Spitfire sat perched atop a laminate quick serve counter, legs dangling, purse in lap, staring at her reflection in a makeup case provided by Mrs. Ward. She grabbed onto a small handful of glossy curls, watching them spring back in place with magical shape memory.

“I can’t believe I paid somebody to do this.”

“Relax. Relax. Perms take some gettin used to is all.” Snatching back her mirror, Tammy exchanged it for cold Tab Cola in a foam cup. “Drink this and try not to think about it.” She whipped a white drying rag over one shoulder.

“Thank you much,” said Lyndy, yawning as she began to sip the fizzy liquid. “I was up late over in the cardroom at Cadillac’s—Andy’s special table. Those boys don’t finish til like three-thirty in the morning. And do you know dudes have been shot in there? Like, recently.”

“Dudes have been shot here in my parking lot.” Tammy leaned alongside Lyndy, resting pale, chubby forearms over a fresh copy of The National Enquirer. “Win anything?”

“Surprisingly, fifty bucks. Not enough to retire young though.” Lyndy jerked her head, causing her sunglasses to slip in place on her nose. A few spaces away, she admired the green Buick GSX. It was parallel parked, windows down to keep it cool. Ran the fastest quarter mile in town. The car was also a creation of Darrel’s, and Tammy kept the only key pinned to her hip.

Three days had passed since Ted Crawford boarded a greyhound bus, bound for a seasonal job on a Montana ranch—he had a tendency to do that. In response, Lyndy was doing her best to keep busy, but the mission wasn’t going well and she found herself losing focus; everything was reminding her, particularly in a small, boring town.

Tammy’s head shot up. “Oh hey by the way, there was a tall hunk with black hair and big shoulders stopped by yesterday. He was from the railroad, an inspector or somethin. Said he was lookin for help tracking down suspects in a train robbery. Sounded right up your alley actually.”

Lyndy frowned. “Must be the guy who handed me a business card at the poker tables. He wants to meet face-to-face.”

“Reminds me of the type of man who reads GQ magazine.”

“That’s a good description.” Lyndy poked at the pea-size ice cubes using her straw.

“He was acting all mysterious with details; didn’t want to tell me nothin about the actual event. Plus I sensed he thought you were a man.”

“Did you correct him?”

“Someone must have,” said Tammy, with a devilish grin. She gestured northward, in the direction of the train depot. “Are you gonna take the gig?”

Lyndy turned to face her longtime friend.

“There’s something off-putting about him,” she replied, palm out in a gesture indicating caution. “On the other hand, work is slow and we need the dough. Not sure if Chan will agree with me, but no matter how bad it is, I doubt we can afford a pass.”

Tammy nodded. She checked her timex, bringing it near to her eyes as she lacked bifocals. “You notice the guy was wearin a submariner on his  wrist?”

Lyndy shook her head. She was certain something more would be coming, as Tammy had a characteristic speech pattern involving flurries of information, followed by minute long lulls of introspective silence. A great many desert folk were that way; came with the lifestyle.

A moment later Tammy tugged on Lyndy’s sleeve. Shading eyes with one hand she warned, “Okay now—10-o’clock—here comes your favorite person.”

In response, Lyndy searched the road for peculiar Barstow citizenry. Along the stretch of sidewalk and thirsty potted plants fronting main, she spotted the unmistakable figure of a skinny blonde, swinging a purse and pink paper sack.

Excited to notice them too, the woman changed course, stepping gingerly their way and skipping the final dozen yards to the stand. Per the norm, Miss Cookson was outfitted in her snug uniform, sky blue, excessively tight, white name patch and colorful logo for Vanishing Point Roadhouse embroidered on the front.

“Oooh. Ooh. Hey there Lyn, I’m itching like crazy today. Will you just scratch my upper back, please, please? I’ll never ask for another favor again.” Rushing to the counter, she did a double take. “Nice hair by the way. First time I’ve seen you in tight curls.”

“Geez. What do they make these uniforms out of? Vinyl seat covers,” remarked Lyndy, as Cathy did an about face. “Don’t you sweat like a pig in this?”

“Oh god yes. Like a hooker in church,” she replied, leaning over and fanning her neck. “I should challenge Mr. Potz to wear this for a day.”

Lyndy curled her fingers, using the nails to approximate a bamboo back scratcher and swiping up and down in cat motions “You should be askin Mr. Potz for a damn raise.”

“Yes, yes, right there. You’re on the spot,” Cathy encouraged.

Lyndy continued a few moments more. Then breaking away and extending her arms, Miss Cookson flopped her loaded purse onto a nearby Sancho’s picnic table, swatting away a pile of crumbs left behind by the previous customer.

Uninvited, she commandeered the tabletop, facing the stand, classy high-heel cowgirl boots resting on the intended seats. “Sorry. Rude of me to break up a meeting of the 4-H club,” Cathy snorted. From the pink sack she drew a chocolate glazed doughnut. One could tell it was mouth-wateringly fresh, as frosting or cooking grease had turned the bottom of the bag translucent.

“Wow, you’re hilarious,” muttered Lyndy.

“Give it up, Cathy. Yer jokes make no sense,” declared Tammy, staring disapprovingly.

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” Cathy mouthed, chocolate frosting now showing on the corners of her lips. “Oh, I hear there was a super-hot guy looking for you, Lyn. Drives a black Trans Am. Is that what you two were talking about?”

“We seen him first,” asserted Tammy.

“For god sake! Should we post it up on one of those scrolling marquees? Has anyone not heard?” The Spitfire plunked down her soda cup and removed her glasses. Positioning fingers on both eyebrows, she massaged her forehead in gentle circles. Of course Catherine would find out that Ted wasn’t around; she was picking at the scab.

Thankfully, seconds later Tammy sprang up like a toy robot with a fresh key winding. She disappeared in the back, abruptly kicking open her side door and wielding a push broom. She then began clearing the mess of crumbs and crinkled food wrappers around the area where Cathy was seated.

Speaking through her hands, Lyndy added, “And do you mind carting yer awful diet somewhere else, other than right in front a me.”

“I got an extra right here,” she offered, holding out the sugary treat.

“Catherine you’re driving me nuts!”

“Okay, okay, pipe down both of you,” Tammy interjected. “I remembered what I wanted tell you all morning. There’s a new highway patrolman been assigned to work the stretch of old 66 between Danby and Goffs. I think Deputy Keynes knows him, cause I seen them fellars parked by one another in the median strip. Poor guy must have bombed police academy, or else offended one of his superiors fierce cause they set him up at Needles substation where it’s like two-hundred degrees with no AC.” Tammy chuckled at the idea. “Give’n him free gas for his bike and a cot to lay down on. So anyways, he got himself one of those fancy looking radar machines—and he clocks me doin 85 in the Buick see—but them things are always defective. Anyway, pulls me over near the crossing at Goffs, actin real serious and mean. And yet, I managed to get off with just a warning.”

“How did ya’ll manage that?” Cathy marveled.

“Yes, enquiring minds want to know,” Lyndy chimed in, pounding her finger on the newspaper. “Cause I’ve tried every trick imaginable, including massive flirting, and I just end up looking like a fool, getting the same ticket and going to court.”

“Well, he was definitely about to write me up. Darrel would have flipped his lid, and we was about to have our date night, so I put my face down on the steering wheel and I started balling. It was torture. Like I was choppin some onions and heard my favorite dog died. I can cry on demand.” Tammy demonstrated by lowering her head against the broom handle.

“Did it work?”

“You bet your ass it did,” she replied proudly, facing Cathy. “Man rips up the ticket and rides off.”

Lyndy held up an index finger. “Wait, so why did you say those radar guns are defective? It’s not how fast you were driving?”

“Naw, I was goin like 120.”

 

Minutes later …

Lyndy Life Tip#182: Think of one of the worst marketing phrases of all time: “One Size Fits All” It’s a bs term, more often than not meaning the item won’t fit you worth a darn. It’s like “Two in One Shampoo”. There’s no such.

You needed two hands to shift this car.

Rolling at thirty, one hand on the wheel, in the other she held the business card. It was printed on a type of card stock with the appearance of woven fabric—so stiff one could make the sputtering effect against bike spokes on a twirling wheel. The only other folks who used these kind were lawyers.

The Spitfire turned the card over in her hand. The front listed his title: “Chief Freight Inspector” and a key specialty as “Loss Prevention”. On the back he had written a note in cursive: “I have a job for you worth $5000. This is not a joke. If you’re interested, meet me at the El Cielo, 0800 tomorrow.”

Of course she was interested. For god sake, she needed something to occupy her.

You could tell a lot about a man from their handwriting. Instead of eight-o-clock he had written 0800—indicating a person of military background. And the writing was precise, faultlessly parallel, bordering on elegant. He’d been educated in the east. Berkeley men didn’t write like that.

Mr. Decklin was offering a princely sum. In the recesses of her mind she could already hear Chan disapproving: “Melinda, in our business big money equate to shit job.” That was the thing about Mr. Chan, if something rubbed him the wrong way about a person or task, he wouldn’t take their work—even if it meant living on rice and beans for a month.

But as bounty hunters go, he was a long-lived one.

She’d been driving southbound, so she performed an illegal U-turn, barking the tires as she bounced the burgundy Jeep over the uneven concrete lip, and into their parking lot. She checked her watch. The time was 0815.

The black and gold muscle car—by far the nicest in the lot—was stowed by unit 9. A fat man was walking a Jack Russell, and it was pissing on the cast iron railings.

Roughly a generation ago, the El Cielo motel was on par with some of the finest accommodations between here and Chicago. Now the property was showing her age, and time hadn’t been kind. Where once had been a glistening swimming pool with a diving board, now had turned to a dank pit half-full with blow sand. A rusty signboard advertised free long distance calling. Yippee.

Gripping the shift knob hand over hand, she steered with her knees into an empty slot, bumping a telephone pole used to support an outdoor light.