Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Gorgeous mid-century design aesthetic—I mean seriously, look at the floating staircase—but come on, how in the hell did The Brady Bunch only have one bathroom with six kids in the house?

One didn’t end up at this crap-can hotel if life was going splendidly. Hector Martinez once cornered a fugitive at the El Cielo. The man attempted to elude capture through the bathroom window, but he was too big and fat; got stuck halfway, couldn’t go in or out. Dale Keynes eventually yanked the fellow by his shoulders, his pants fell off, and sprawled his bare ass out on the dirt. That’s how the story went anyway.

In the spot adjacent hers was a derelict shopping cart, liberated from the Sav-A-Lot over a mile away. A stray cat, shedding and presumably baking in the heat, rubbed itself against one of the wooden posts supporting the second floor walkway. But it was quiet.

Reaching under the seat to retrieve her purse, Lyndy left the keys dangling; no one with any sense ever tried to take the burgundy Jeep. It was a universal advertisement for the bounty hunter’s office. Was a wonder sometimes nobody tried to put a grenade under it.

Hopping to the ground, she observed the door to unit 8 was cracked by at least ten inches. She breathed in, tucking in her blouse, tightening her belt by a notch as well.

Walking the row of rooms on the ground floor, her heels clicking on the concrete, tiny lizards scurried out of her path. She laid fingers upon each four-by-four joist as she went by. Arriving at the open door, still no one had appeared. But a person was there inside. She could see a set of clothes on the bed.

“Knock, knock,” she said, in a loud but friendly voice, gripping the mid-plane of the door.

A smell of moisture in the air—heavily chlorinated—and the dollar store shampoo they used permeated the scene.

“Okay, I come in peace. Don’t shoot me.” She pulled the door wider, stepping around it. He was combing his hair in the mirror.

“Sorry to barge in on you sir, but you …. uh …. said you had a job for me,” she explained, her tone empty of all emotion.

Jack Decklin turned to face her, a charming smile on his face, black hair wet from a shower. “No, no, it’s totally alright.” Compared to the previous night, he’d transformed quite a bit. A fresh shirt and nice pants were helping. In the light of day, she could see he was in his early thirties, still very fit looking with green eyes. “Come right in,” he invited. “I just finished shaving.”

“Are you surprised to see me,” Lyndy asserted, striding into the crummy room.

He nodded once, setting down his comb. “To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

“And why’s that?” she asked, re-positing her purse so it hung across her chest. She maintained her aloofness.

“People say you’re a hard person to get a hold of.” Stepping away from the mirror, he came around the bed, extending his hand to greet her. She responded by reaching for his.

He had a strong, firm grip—not the usual way a man shook a female’s hand—but this was no usual meeting. “I’m Jack Decklin, with railroad loss prevention. Employee number 84592—you can look that up if you don’t believe me. I have a badge too.”

Her shoulders sank and she exhaled. “Lyndy Martinez. I’m a private investigator for Chan’s Bail Bonds.” Talk about a world-renowned company. She gazed at the floor, and the terrible shag carpet. “It’s on Route-66. You can’t miss it.”

“What?” he questioned, approaching her.

“Nothing,” she replied quietly.

“No, I said something that upset you. What did I say?” He was genuinely baffled. Jack patted the made bed. “You can sit you know.” She could smell his cologne now.

“You’re rail police.”

“Oh right,” he said, acknowledging this fact. “My father is on the board. They couldn’t find a job that fit my, let’s say, active personality. I mean, look at me. I’m not really a desk and cubicle kinda guy.”

She took a seat on the firm double bed, hands in lap, not wanting to meet eyes with him.

He sniffed. “Right. So I guess you’re imagining the nine-teen thirties, uniformed men with clubs beating up poor people. You know hobos, workers riding the rails, hungry, stealing food. Guys like me had a reputation for that back then.”

“That’s putting it mildly. And I’m thinking of migrant workers experiencing those same struggles now.”

“Hey, if I saw anyone doing that today, I would absolutely hold them accountable.” He breathed heavily. “Trust me Miss Martinez. That’s not who I am.”

In spite of everything, he did seem genuine. However she also knew, part of her analysis was muddied in his distractingly good looks. He was an inch or two over six feet, not overly tall but larger than Ted. She wondered if he’d ever had a pimple in his life.

“Sorry, this situation is unorthodox to say the least. I feel like we ought to start over.” Glancing around the cheap motel room Jack added, “I thought I could try and fit a workout in before you came, you know and …. and this place is a dump.”

Lyndy chuckled.

“Glad I could lighten the mood,” he said.

Jack proceeded to the back wall, where a sopping wet towel had been draped over the bathroom door and dirty clothes were taking up the only chair. He quickly started folding them, lofting them one-by-one onto the bed. “Man, sorry for the mess too. This place isn’t exactly the Ritz, but it’s all I’ve got to work with at the moment.”

Fate was dealing a cruel blow. She wanted not to like him, just as she wanted not to like that clapped out white mustang at Darrel’s place.

“Mr. Decklin, doesn’t your company have a place for you to stay at the depot?” she wondered aloud. “I thought there were overnight rooms, like dorms. I’ve seen the inside of those. Not too shabby as I recall.”

He immediately turned dismissive of the suggestion. “Yeah, if I wanted to sleep in a twin bed.” Uncapping a water bottle, he gulped a long drink. “And the food is all rotten.” Then he switched his attention briefly to the slatted window on the wall—cranking it wider. Between this and the open front door, it enabled a modicum of air exchange, keeping the temps manageable.

She sensed he was hiding something—like he was afraid of being here—and wanted to change the subject. All the brakemen she knew raved about the food at the depot.

“Phew, it’s like pottery kiln out there today.” Inching the chair closer to the bed, Jack propped up his feet on the rail while pulling on dress socks. “So how did you get the nickname The Spitfire?”

She’d been expecting many questions, just not that.

“Somebody told me you’ve shot people in self-defense. Sorry for being direct. Shit happens you know,” Jack assured, sensing he was making her uncomfortable.

She put her hands by her sides, gripping the rolled edge of the mattress through the sheets. “I’ll give you the short version. There was this gang run by a racist fellow named Matt Wallach. And every time his pals would get out of jail, they would disappear. They were violent and it was a chronic issue. Wallach had an arrangement with the police and they wouldn’t touch him. So Granville Jackson, county sheriff, asked my boss to step in when no one else would. Probably because I’m an orphan and he hates me, Mr. Chan sends me to track each one of them down, alone. And I did this about twenty five times in succession, finding them in trailer parks, obscure wilderness cabins, people’s barns or motels like this one, leading Chan to the spot, and together with the sheriff we’d arrest them. They’d get to county jail, somebody would ask, ‘what happened to you? Was it who I think it is?’ and the man would nod and answer, La Fierabrosa got me.”

Jack grinned at the Spanish translation.

She stood up, pacing to the three-quarter window by the door, peeking out at the parking lot. “They tried very hard to kill me. Thing is, by the time myself and Wallach actually met face-to-face, he thought I was two-hundred pounds, looking like one of those Mexican lucha libre wrestlers. But I tend to surprise people.”

“That you do,” Jack agreed, following her with his eyes, staring. “So uh, this Wallach character. He still around?”

She turned to Jack. “No. He’s dead. But some of his friends are.” She pressed her palms together. By the way, I live in a trailer and my personal life is a raging dumpster fire—probably best not to say that aloud. “So what do you need me for?”

Jack twisted the cap back on his bottle, setting it beside the chair. He cleared his throat. Then rising, he made his way to the nightstand, retrieving a folded map and green notepad, names, addresses and phone numbers already covering one page. “Well look, I don’t wanna waste any more time. Let me get to the point. I’m not as familiar with this desert territory as I’d like to be—and this county is enormous.”

“Twenty thousand square miles,” she interjected.

“Which is why I need to enlist the help of somebody who knows this area intimately. In case you haven’t picked up on it, I’m pretty good at my job. To use a cliché, this isn’t my first rodeo. The difference this time, it was literally my own damn train that was robbed. Which makes this embarrassing and the matter personal. I can’t let it go unpunished.”

Lyndy exhaled and tilted her head. “Wait, did you say it was your train? You have your own train?”

Jack shrugged.

“Where did you come from? Are you a time traveler?”

He laughed. “I understand that sounds a little stupid. Let me give you some background. See some families have yachts. Some have RVs or private jets. My family has … train cars.” He squinted his eyes and folded his arms. “See, decades ago, when we were in the passenger business, we had all these fancy railroad cars. They’re really nice inside, beautifully made, and we used to store them and rent them for movie props, but there were dozens of em rotting in the elements. So they started selling them to scrapyards. We wanted to save more, but there were just too many. A ridiculous number. The best ones though, they decided to keep for company business, like a rolling command post … okay, this is taking too long to explain.”

Lyndy frowned.  “I get it. Better than a caboose.”

“Yes, absolutely. Anyway The Fireball was traveling to a wedding. Not mine. It’s for my sister. She’s the one getting married in Santa Barbara. She and her whole party were on that train. It’s been tradition. My father stayed behind. He had to tie up some loose ends and he is going to meet us in California.” While he was speaking, Jack was rapidly leafing through his notes. “Thank god he wasn’t on that train. He woulda been angrier than me.” He looked Lyndy in the eyes. “And now you’re staring at me like I’m crazy again.”

She inhaled deeply. She wanted to sound calm but serious. “I’m sorry. For some strange reason I can believe your story, but I’m preoccupied. There’s something you and I need to be clear on. In my experience, when people offer me stacks of cash, they expect a lot in return. I know the Mojave. It’s my home turf. Serving as an experienced guide is something I can do for you …”

“But?” he interrupted, anticipating her next words.

“But, you must understand that I’m not going to fight anyone. I’m not a hit man. I’m not a bodyguard or a bounty hunter either. Bounty hunting is exclusively Chan’s gig and he’s damn good. You need somebody to bust heads, hire him. I’m an ordinary private investigator. And we need a contract.”

Jack waived the notepad in the air. “I meant what I said. I’ll sign.”

Five thousand seemed like too much, given the scope of work. In her mind, she knew Chan would never authorize this. She needed a sanction.

He reiterated, “All I’m asking is for you to drive around with me, serving as a guide. You know the lay of the land, and likely some of the people. I’ve already done half the work.” He ran his finger down the top page. “I have a list of addresses here, but unfortunately none of ‘em are on a map. I got these from a friend who works at Fort Irwin. We’re looking for one thing, a vehicle. There was a government surplus auction recently and they sold three M35-A2 military trucks. That’s the truck they were driving. Three different persons at the auction purchased a truck—and this is what they wrote for their physical addresses.”

Lyndy folded her arms and exhaled through her nose. Nothing was ever that simple. “So in your mind, that equates to one of these bandits robbed your train.”

“You don’t think so?’

She wiped her elbow across her forehead, removing beads of moisture. “I don’t even care. Just pay me the bread. I’ll take you.”

Reaching a hand down, Lyndy instinctively squeezed the sides of her purse, feeling for the hard outline of the Beretta. Knowing this county, she had a feeling none of the buyers on the list would be happy to see them.

 

Later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever wonder how many euphemisms there are for jail? Easily a hundred or more.

Slipping the long silver key into the industrial lockset, Lyndy glanced back at Jack. He was smoking, waiting in the Trans Am, fingers tapping on the wheel. He seemed amused at the idea of her sneaking around without her boss’s knowledge. But she knew he’d say no.

Every once in a while you could hear coyotes yipping or howling from the back lot. Today there were only crickets chirping, so many that their calls blended together into one indistinguishable cacophony.

Chan often boasted he built this building, using bulk pallets of cinderblock, working alongside a handful of day laborers. Given his lifestyle and mechanical maintenance abilities, that story seemed dubious to her.

Nowadays the linoleum was cracked, stained rust colored in places.

But if you were in lockup, only one call allowed, this was surely the place. One never knew when the phone would ring. Some nights Chan didn’t leave the office until midnight. Luckily, this wasn’t one of those nights. The white Cadillac was absent, but sometimes he was running errands. More so if the TV was off, it really meant he was gone home to sleep.

She motioned to Jack. He pushed open his driver’s door, stepping out and checking the surroundings. A streak of white and red taillights marked the linear path of Route-66, extending both directions north-south, to the points it disappeared. The low sounds of engine breaking from the interstate filled the background, long-haul eighteen wheelers.

He dropped and crushed his cigarette.

Inside, the ceiling fan had been left on intentionally. A flick of the switch filled the room with yellow light from buzzing fluorescents. There were tall, nearly floor to ceiling windows at the front. The Spitfire ducked down, for what she couldn’t say. Head down, she crept to the mahogany desk. With a loud creak, she rolled the green swivel office chair out of her way, preferring to kneel.

The top drawer was locked tight. Squinting an eye, she reached up and plucked out a hair pin. She’d done this before.

Steps away, Jack was studying the polaroids pinned to the wall of shame, captivated.

It was a high quality solid wood desk, but the top showed deep grooves black with dirt. Someone had come after Mr. Chan and Hector Martinez with an axe—it had embedded in the top of this very desk, stopping the crazed man long enough to subdue him. That story was undoubtedly true.

Jack stood with his arms folded while she jimmied the lock.

In a few seconds work, she winked at him, grinning as she jerked it free. It held a divider filled with blank sanctions.

In addition to a fresh paper form, she removed and set the special red stamp to one side.

In blue ink she filled in the dollar amounts. $1000 up front by wire transfer. $4000 at completion. The client and guarantor, Mr. Jack Decklin, chief inspector for Santa Fe railroad. Services rendered: investigative and consulting. Job category: “manhunt”. CBB employee assigned: “M. E. Martinez”. The box for “H. Martinez” was grayed out. She signed by her name. One space remained, a title.

Lyndy inserted the tip of the pen between her lips, biting the plastic cap with her teeth. She stood tall, staring out the front at the lights. Then she gazed at Jack.

“What?” he mouthed.

“The job needs a name,” Lyndy whispered. “Mr. Chan is better at these than I am.”

“What do you mean?” Jack came over, rounding the desk, inspecting the form over her shoulder.

“Here,” she pointed to the blank where Chan wrote clever names.

“Can it be anything?”

“Sure,” she nodded.

He motioned for the pen and she handed it over.

She smiled as he scribbled the words, Jackrabbit Homesteader; it was a reference to the pioneers who took advantage of the Homestead Acts to settle the region. It meant he knew his history. She wanted not to like him.