Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Next morning …

Lyndy Life Observation: School lunches are universally derided and for good reason. But you know those soft chocolate chip cookie bars, which they made square and baked like brownies so they filled the entire cookie sheet? Sometimes I crave those.

Raising a four-inch heel, she brushed the sand from her boots. These designer shoes were the kind with metal buckles as opposed to laces, less comfy but prettier, not like her grungy ones meant for hiking. You couldn’t pronate at all or you’d fall right on your ass—walking straight was a must.

But she needed the shoes, otherwise she felt like a Christmas elf next to Jack Decklin.

The Spitfire was standing in morning sunlight outside the Shasta c-store, resting a hip against the fender flares. Needle-like leaves of desert willows coated the ground. Both her hands were now shoved in her rear jean pockets; she was waiting on Jack, supposedly inside buying water jugs and snacks. This part of Barstow seemed bustling—in a Barstow sorta way. Townspeople were zipping by, some who recognized her. They wouldn’t ever speak, or if they did, it was to whisper in the ears of youngsters: “avoid the scary Hispanic woman.”

She was chewing the tip of her sunglasses.

Tilting her head skyward she could see it was hazy, reducing the day’s brightness. The atmosphere over the distant mountains was a milky shade of white, the type of weather sometimes preceding wind storms. Not a good omen.

She had the blue AAA map—most accurate Mojave resource known to man—sprawling over the hood of the black and gold Trans Am. She was excited to be navigator, except her concentration kept faltering. Problem was the fonts were in mice type and you had to be really close to read it.

Chan so would have hated this car.

It was such a groovy ride. Gliding fingertips over the hood and fenders, she marveled at the smoothness. It had a special clear coat paint, soft to the touch. The motor was a torquey 455 HO, unmuzzled by emissions equipment. Imagining herself shifting through gears, she wanted to test drive it, but feared making such a request would reveal further weaknesses for nice things.

She wondered why in the world she should want to impress a spoiled rich man whom she barely knew. Mostly she scoffed at girls who wasted time on these activities. And yet she was trying so hard not to impress him that she’d worn her best fitting pants, purchased from the gap. Sapphire earrings. A black tank top. Favorite underwear too.

In part she was curious, wanting to know how he conducted his obscure line of work; but it didn’t explain everything.

She heard a squeak, saw him pushing open the screen door with his foot. Lyndy hastened her attention back to the addresses Jack had saved in his notebook. With a pencil she marked the locations, tracing out an access route on pavement; albeit this exercise was theoretical. About the best one could do was estimate the condition of county roads. There was no surefire way to know whether these were passable. Thunderstorms producing flash floods, wrecks and unscheduled roadwork—anything could happen out here.

“Bad news Miss Martinez, they’re out of Tab,” he declared, strolling to the hatchback lid.

“Ay caramba,” replied Lyndy.

“But they have plenty of Newports.” He set a bag of groceries in the trunk.

Using her pinky finger she traced a circle round the approximate location of the third address. “The first two places on your list I’m less worried about, we can use the Trans Am to get there, but this one, the dashed line …” she faced him. “This is a mining trail in open range. A long one. It could be fifty or a hundred years old. We’ll need to use a Jeep.”

“That purple thing you were driving?”

She nodded, making a funny expression by twisting her mouth and biting her lower lip. “It’s bad. Held together with bailing wire. Literally.”

“Very well. Whatever. Where to first?” He seemed fairly accepting.

“This one is closest to us.” She pointed to a spot near Hinkley, then began gathering up the map at the edges. “Jack, something else I’ve been puzzling over. How exactly did these bandits know the train would be coming through at that time, and that you’d be on it?”

He paused longer than seemed necessary.

“I mean, was there a wedding announcement maybe?” she questioned.

“There was, in a local  paper, but … it’s gotta be the sideband radios, Lyndy. These men know there are different codewords for important cargo. If a train is traveling west and my sleeping car is attached with the mail car, then it’s called a Fireball. That means it has primary right of way. The same is true traveling eastbound, except then it’s called a Snowball. The dispatchers use those names when speaking of us.”

She set a finger on her temple. “So then, doesn’t it appear like an inside job to you?”

He twirled the key ring and sighed. “Those codenames haven’t changed in years. It could be anybody at this point. I’m starting to think it’s time for new ones.”

She reached for the door.

“You don’t get carsick do you?” he asked.

She shook her head no. Soon they were peeling out, sending a spray of rocks in the direction of the c-store. Their destination required roaming northwest out of town, taking highway 58 through Hinkley.

 

Minutes later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Should people who live in Venice Beach legitimately be allowed to call themselves Venetians?

She watched the shaker scoop, rocking back and forth with the motions of the engine. Someone, a prior owner perhaps, had poked a crude hole through the block off plate making it functional again. Hillbilly performance mods.

With Italian leather purse in lap, The Spitfire set her new shades on her face, feeling very much like Sally Field minus a wedding gown. It took all of her patience not to be driving.

And on the open highway Mr. Decklin possessed a lead foot; she’d expected as much. Discretely she glimpsed the speedometer, using only her eyeballs. The needle was hovering between 95 and 105 mph. Even when borrowing a vehicle capable of such speeds—Darrel’s cars for example—she didn’t dare travel such a rate on public roads. Above one hundred the crime was considered reckless driving, worse than exhibition of speed. The highway patrol didn’t write a ticket, they took you to jail; the car would be impounded or confiscated. To get it back again took a miracle.

All at once there was a noticeable lack of talking. With the car interior loud as hell, polite quiet conversation was basically out of the question. If only she’d brought a book. The Spitfire was still holding onto the map, now folded into quarters. Intertwining fingers she stretched her wrists, thrusting them outward against the dash.

“You got a boyfriend?” Jack shouted, his voice elevated to outdo the hum of the motor.

She rolled her eyes, scowling, then staring down at her feet. “Good one.”

Silence again. Undoing the flap on her purse, she began searching for breath mints.

“Have you ever been married,” Jack sneaking a peek at Lyndy’s hands, “Or do ya have a psycho ex-husband I ought to be aware of? Or uh, …. well, are you into ladies?”

She shook her head, edges of her mouth curving reflexively to smile, but still pretending to frown.

“Umm. So is that a yes or a no?”

She adjusted her seating position, slouching lower. “Give it up, Jack. Next topic please.”

“Sorry.” He glanced to her, shrugging and feigning innocence. “Making conversation. I’m not trying to be nosey at all. For example, I was married about a year and a half, but in the end things didn’t work out. We’re still friends though.”

His hands were absent any rings so that much was obvious. “I wonder what the problem was,” she thought, sarcastically.

In response, Lyndy mimed an imaginary wall by running her hand up and down along the console between seats. “Dude, I don’t care. I don’t wanna know anything about you. This is a professional relationship. Think of it as a business trip.”

“This car hasn’t got a stereo,” he argued, poking at a hollow delete panel where the AM radio would have been.

“I know.” Her eyes following the curves of the thin blue lines on the map. “You want conversation? Here. I tried making healthy cookies last night. It was a recipe I clipped out of a women’s fitness magazine. The pictures were incredible. They have banana in them. But of course after baking in the oven they tasted really bad, like … racoon crap; basically inedible.”

Jack cleared his throat, eyes on the road, single hand gripping the top of the wheel.

“I ended up crushing them into tiny pieces and putting them in my bird feeder. The birds seemed to tolerate them. Then I ate a Klondike bar.”

Jack nodded in silence. “So is this what you do to entertain that Chan fellow?”

“Pretty much.” The car was feeling warm.

She pinched at the skin around the ring finger on her left hand. She remembered trying on dazzling engagement rings—you know those crazy one-carat diamonds they put under lamps bright enough for surgery—getting sized, one sunny afternoon with Deputy Keynes; obviously they couldn’t afford a stone that big. Another time, checking out the matching gold wedding bands, hooked over the tail of a bronze cat figurine, lonely on Colonel Rickman’s nightstand. He was sound asleep beside her and she was in a nightgown, listening to soft music. She was curious about those pretty rings, but never asked him, fearing he’d react in anger. He never spoke about his ex.

Snapping out of the daydream she placed a palm flat against her forehead. “It happens that I was engaged, once. In a galaxy far, far away.” She could feel herself becoming red-faced. “Lucky, I was spared further humiliations.” She sniffed, clearing her throat. “What else can you tell me about this military truck?”

“I’m glad you asked. They’re called the Deuce-and-a-Half, somewhat famous actually. Two US companies built them, REO—the fire engine people—and Kaiser. Even unladen, they can weigh up to 12,500 pounds and have a 10,000 pound payload capacity.”

“Are those the ones you see with the big green canopy on the back? They carry refugees in those sometimes.”

“Yes, exactly. They come with a six cylinder turbo diesel engine and I recalled hearing the sound of those a hundred times in the war. When it passed in front of the headlight, it only confirmed what I already knew. They have a low civilian ownership, partly because so few come up for auction. But I think the main reason is the top speed with the wind at its back is only 50, so they aren’t very practical on the highway.”

“I know what that’s like,” remarked Lyndy, gazing out the window; fifty yards beyond a barbed wire fence someone’s appaloosa horse galloped through tumbleweeds and dried grass. Moving at top speed the hooves were nearly floating, as though racing their car.

“You know, in a strange way I’m looking forward to this,” boasted Jack. “I always wanted to spend more time exploring the desert. This is my opportunity.”

Right. That’s because you don’t know anything about it.

Soon Lyndy was hoping for some golden silence, thoroughly fed up of his self-centered talking. She exhaled, placing hands on her thighs, shutting her eyes to rest.

Not a minute later the screech of a blaring siren startled her, jostling them both to full alertness. Straightening her spine, she glanced to the passenger mirror, observing the uniformed patrolman on a motorbike. He was gaining on them, a brightly painted California Highway Patrol helmet protecting his head. Sometimes these fellows were called CHiPs.

“Oh fantastic,” said Lyndy, unable to resist a gleeful chuckle. “Now you’ve doomed us! Kiss this gorgeous ride goodbye Jack.” She patted the leather console, tempted to kneel on the seat like a kid and look behind.

Jack was checking his mirror too, but acting cool about it. With his fingers he raked the hair from his forehead and into place.

“Don’t be sad,” teased Lyndy with a smirk. “I bet you’ll love riding shotgun in my open top CJ-5. Had several lovely first dates in that car, with boys who also didn’t know how to drive it. Might want to buy you a straw hat though.”

“I know how to drive a god damn Jeep. Now if you would shush, this will only cost us a few extra minutes.” Confidently he applied the brakes, slowing the Pontiac below fifty and veering onto the side of the road. The nose sunk abruptly as front tires touched soft gravel in the shoulder. “Stay calm.”

“You think you’re getting out of this?” she challenged.

“Pipe down and quit acting like you’re having fun,” he replied curtly, not looking at her, keeping his head locked in place and chin pointed up.

She turned her attention to the passenger side mirror. She saw the highway patrolman rolling to a stop. The bike was a clean Harley Sportster. With a fluid motion of his black boot, he kicked down the stand for the cycle. He undid both gloves, resting them atop the gas tank. Up until that point, everything seemed normal and rehearsed. Then with a snap of his wrist he unbuckled his helmet, gripping it by the loose strap and flinging it in the dirt embankment. Her eyes widened.

“Oh dang,” she whispered. “I think the only time I’ve seen one do that was in a movie.” Her muscles were tensing and she wasn’t the one facing a ticket.

Swinging his leg around, the cop stomped his way toward the driver’s side window. Approaching the car, she could see he closely matched the description Tammy had provided, including an irate, ready to chew anyone out expression. “Too bad Jack can’t cry his way outta this,” she thought.

“By the way, I do know a good bail-bondsman if you need it,” mouthed Lyndy to Jack, slumping down in the seat as low as she could go, then beginning to chew on her thumbnail.

“Do you even know how fast I was riding to keep up with you!” the man roared.

Jack inflated his cheeks as if playing an imaginary trumpet, tapping his thumbs.

“One hundred ten, son. One-ten and my speedometer is calibrated!” He pounded his palm onto the roof. “Ain’t never seen a one of these clown cars that wasn’t up to no good. No seatbelts. If you were to hit somethin that girl a yours be flying fifty yards out the window.”

Wonder what he did to get assigned out here, the California equivalent of Siberia?

Holding out his palm he barked, “wallet please.”

Holding his neck stiff, Jack used rapid motions and minimum of body movement. He flicked open his bifold wallet, passing it in this open position to the highway patrolman. His breathing was steady.

“This is a military ID. I need a driver’s license son,” the patrolman demanded.

“Sorry, force of habit,” Jack explained. He motioned with his arm, gesturing to the glove box. “I have it in here, just gonna open this up okay.” The patrolman glanced to Lyndy with a skeptical eye.

Jack clicked the button. “It’s gotta be in here.” He pretended to dig around, pushing up loose papers and the owner’s manual unnecessarily, then withdrawing a brilliant purple heart which had been loose inside. Lyndy knew the article must be genuine, as Rickman had an identical one in a shoebox.

“Hmmm. Didn’t know this was in here,” Jack muttered, rubbing a thumb over the top as he laid it gently on the dash.

The Patrolman took a breath as his bluster faded and his demeanor abruptly softened. He waved his hand side to side. “Hey uh, you know, we can forget about this whole mess.” Dejectedly he turned and strode away. His tone sounding defeated, he added, “You need to keep that speed down next time you pass through here, you all hear me? It’s unsafe.”

“Ummm, okay,” said Jack.

“Get yer lady friend to put on a seatbelt. I got somewhere I need to be.”

“Yes sir I understand,” said Jack obediently.

Lyndy watched in awe as the cop sauntered back to retrieve his helmet. She could see him carefully brushing it off, lost somewhere deep in the jungles of his memories. Seconds later she heard him kickstart the bike, and soon ride away.

“Christ sake. Buckle your seatbelt Miss Martinez,” Jack scolded with a wink.

After a suitable pause, allowing the motorcycle cop time to get a mile or two away, Jack restarted the Pontiac.

Lyndy folded her arms. “Well I for one am ashamed to have witnessed that.”

“Oh relax. Sounds like he and I were in the same shithole together,” declared Jack, as they continued on their way.

Some sanctions you look forward to, the rest you dread.