Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: I saw a thick glossy magazine in the supermarket checkout aisle with a title reading, “What is your dog thinking? Find out inside”, complete with a picture of some cute as hell border collie and I was like, “It’s a dog you morons!”

As they entered, she nested her glasses in her poufy hairdo; probably she would forget this detail later, running through a game of “where did I put those darn sunglasses?”

In Lyndy’s experience these manly spaces, machine shops and the like, always smelled of shoe polish. The interior of Bo’s shop was no exception. Clicking sounds, her tall boots on concrete floor, echoed from the metallic walls. The Spitfire and Jack walked side-by-side, a modest buffer between, with Mr. Rollins trailing close behind.

It was no social call. Nothing quite so welcoming as a tubby fellow providing a facility tour while simultaneously clutching his favorite pump-action shotgun and using said item as a pointing device.

Dominating the southern portion of the workshop were a trio of army tanks slanted in a diagonal row, hatches ajar, mud-caked tracks disassembled and removed. On the more northerly side with an eight-foot span of separation, a pair of J8 Jeeps were parked, both in disrepair. The 105-mm cannon from a Patton tank towered above, its long muzzle dwarfing anything else in the room. She tried to imagine it, but knew one didn’t want to be anywhere near when that thing blew.

The same tank had a series of stencils on one side, sprayed in charcoal paint, representing smaller tanks in the shape of an American flag. Presumably they indicated kills.

In keeping with the scene Bo spoke grandly, like an excitable museum attendant: “Over here we have the mighty M60 Sherman, essential modern-day cavalry and scarred battle hero of the Israeli Yom Kippur War. Next to that is the equally well-regarded M4.”

The clicks ended as they paused to admire the room.

Not wanting to seem disinterested Lyndy kept bobbing her forehead, unsure what to do with her hands other than loop them between her purse straps. Needlessly she undid her belt, tightening it a notch and squeezing her waist.

With one hand in the pocket of his slacks, Jack did an about face, eyeing Mr. Rawlins and the smaller entry. “You know when I was in elementary school this is pretty much how I pictured my adult garage,” he remarked. Then pointing to the area with the Jeeps, “although I was certain there would be at least four or five classic Ferraris over there.”

Bo laughed a goofy laugh sounding like, “Tee-Hee-Hee.”

For the time being she was letting Jack steer the conversation, while together they took in the sights. Not viewable from the locked gate, the western half of the shop featured a set of tall sliding doors; when parted it was a wide enough opening to roll the tanks in and out.

“Know what this place really reminds me of? An aircraft hangar,” Jack stated. “Except there isn’t a runway anyplace nearby.”

“It’s a good guess,” answered Bo, more calmly. “I didn’t know the original owner very well, but he had plans to turn it into a private airfield. Maybe he ran outta money. Not sure. But he gave up on his dreams and sold out more’n a decade ago.”

Bo sniffed. Jack exhaled. Everyone went quiet. Jack was faltering.

Often she felt rushed, catching strangers unprepared like a vacuum cleaner salesman. Yet despite having been busy, Mr. Rollins was now exhibiting a curious level of patience, nor had he made inquiries into how they found their way here in the first place.

Anybody showing up unannounced at her airstream, it would be the first question out of her mouth.

Feeling a need to jump in, Lyndy asked, “Mister Rawlins, I assume you’re the present owner of this uh …business… whatever it is?”

Bo nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

Well that was a silly question.

With the tip of his shotgun, Bo nudged open a red and white Vendo cooler. “Say, can I get you somethin to drink? I got colds pops in here.”

“No. No thank you. Sorry, but we ought to cut to the chase. What exactly is your line of work?” inquired Jack. “If you don’t mind us knowing.”

Taken aback as though the answer should be self-evident, Bo chuckled. “I fix up tanks for the Army, mostly ones stationed outta Fort Irwin; some for the Marine Corps as well. The desert chews up their gears cause they use ‘em damn near every day in training.”

“Oh. The Army doesn’t have their own repair facilities?”

“Course they do. But they also come to me, cause I can do the labor cheaper and faster. In most cases better as well.”

“But you don’t work alone, do you?” she asked, her voice showing disbelief.

“Nah, wouldn’t even be possible. I got a whole crew a guys. But they have the day off.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m also a collector and restorer of antique military vehicles,” Bo added proudly. “Ya know, them old flat fender Jeeps and whatnot. I take em to shows. It’s my passion. They’re mostly in other buildings. Doesn’t pay for itself, but I do some trading of parts. Brings in a little extra.” He grinned like a boastful teenager.

From the looks of Bo’s cavernous shop, his story was checking out.

“Have I got a deal for you,” she thought, picturing selling this man the burgundy Jeep. “Well far out,” she said approvingly, then hooked her thumbs in the loops of her jeans, eyes beginning to wander again.

Rolling toolboxes were pushed to all sides and an assortment of larger size tools were hanging by pegs on the wall. Pasted in one of the open metal lids she picked out a captivating portrait of a young lady, not so unusual for the kind torn of a magazine, but this was a real photo print framed in a beige matte. The lady happened to be wearing a blue swimsuit, standing next to a fishing boat on the Colorado.

Lyndy stepped in closer, seeing the smiling lady was a curly redhead comparable in age to Mr. Rawlins.

Ever get the sensation when you know you’ve seen someone’s mug before, but you can’t quite place them? So then your simple brain starts flipping through different compartments of your life, trying to put the person’s face in context.

“So uh, who’s this pretty lady over here?” The Spitfire placed a finger on the toolbox. “She’s a fox.”

Before answering, Bo paused to reseat his hat. “Whelp, of all things in here, you’ve hit on the one I’m tender about. That there was my late wife Teri. God rest her soul.”

Lyndy had been expecting anything but such a response. “Geez, I’m very sorry Bo,” she added genuinely, scratching at her temple. “Could’ve sworn I’d seen her someplace.”

“Doubt it very much. She passed away from a tumor five years back.”

Bo went mute as they stared at the picture a few moments, giving her soul some quiet reverence. His eyes seemed to be watering as his chin tilted downward. If this big bubba started getting all weepy, she didn’t know what to do—run away perhaps.

“And her name was Teri Rawlins?” Lyndy confirmed.

“Yup,” was all Bo could answer.

Rubbing a tear or something from one eye, his head suddenly shot up. “So what’s this inquisition all about?” Bo stared at her and Jack expectantly.

It was a challenging transition to make, but impatience was finally showing in his voice. She glanced over to Jack. One could hear the whirling fans clearly.

“I assume you’ve heard about a train robbery which occurred a couple nights ago?” Jack tilted his head. “We aren’t accusing you of anything,” he assured, flashing his empty hands. “We’re checking on a few leads. In fact, maybe you can help us out, since this is something you specialize in.”

Bo’s eyes narrowed, their welcome wearing thin.

“Your name happens to appear on a list of private sales I have,” Jack continued. “They’re citizens who recently won at auction an REO ‘deuce-and-a-half’ military transporter. It’s a great big truck.”

“Correct. One of them Rockwell full-floater axle deals.”

“So is it here on your property?”

“It’s here,” confirmed Bo. “I’ll confess….”

“Confess what?” Jack interjected.

“…that I haven’t had a heckuva lot of time to work on it. It’s in the back lookin sad. Aint goin no place.”

“Do you mind taking us to it?” Lyndy asked sweetly.

“Happy to,” he answered. “Follow me.”

Exiting the main workshop, Bo waddling in the lead, the three snaked their way around to the perimeter of the paved slabs. It was good to be back in the fresh air again, but she knew a letdown of one sort or another was coming. No guilty party should be so eager.

 

Minutes later …

“There she be,” announced Bo, triumphantly kicking a rotted and deflated front tire.

With the hood assembly removed, its cavernous engine bay—nearly void of mechanical parts—contained more cobwebs than a haunted house.

She watched the complete deterioration of Jack’s mood.

Using three fingers he tested the gritty bare engine mounts; they were steel, at least an eighth inch deep in rust. He checked underneath, energetically. The ground beneath had old cakey oil stains. Remaining hoses and wire harness were cut off, removed, and all parts coated in layers upon layers of mud and grease.

“Is … is this the truck you purchased?” Jacked questioned.

Then came Bo’s, “tee-hee-hee,” laugh again. Only this time his face quickly reset to stoic: “Yes. I got a good deal.”

“There’s no motor or transmission!” exclaimed Jack. “Who would buy a truck without an engine?”

“I do it all the time,” Bo argued.

“Did you remove it?”

Bo seemed amused at Jack’s line of questioning and incredulous attitude. “Friend, you think I pulled the damn engine outta here, but then spent extra time artfully adding back all this dirt, spiderwebs and grease?”

“Where’s the serial number on these?”

“I guarantee you folks, this here truck didn’t come with no drivetrain parts. You can check on the bill of sale. The number in this truck matches that same bill of sale. Says in bold, no motor or trans.” He poked an imaginary bill of sale with his finger, emphasizing the point.

Bracing shoulders against the truck frame, looking like The Hulk about to flip a car, Jack drooped his head in frustration. Then staring at the ground, fists tightening, he queried, “You sure this is the only one of these you got?”

“Only one,” confirmed Bo, personal irritation reaching critical mass. He shot Lyndy a stare that meant, “Is your partner always this unpleasant?”

Lyndy patted Jack on the shoulders. “How bout this, mind if we walk around a bit?”

“Ya’ll have my permission to roam around to your heart’s content. You can spend hours, but I know ya won’t see another of these deuce-and-a-half’s.”

Jack pushed Lyndy’s hands away. “I’m fine. I do not want to roam.”

Bo sighed, elbows drooping, lowering the gun from his shoulder. “I can’t read you folk’s mind. But listen, I’d have to be a superman to get the engine installed, running, have it ready by whichever night yer train was robbed, pull it back out, muck up the whole insides like this and have it resting on flats. Not worth it.”

She sensed Bo was relieved, perhaps seeing them as less of a threat.

“Mr. Rawlins, do you know any other folks round here capable of planning and pulling off a complex train robbery? Any weird militia groups, criminal rings—something like that?”

Bo shook his head immediately. “Nope.” Then directing his speech only to The Spitfire he added, “But if you’ll come back a few days from now, I got a couple patched-up tanks which need test driving, and you can ride with me. I trail run em right here on the property. Move a lot faster than you think.”

“Whoa. That would be groovy,” replied Lyndy, using her Cathy Cookson impression. And on top of all that, it did sound fun.

“Just please don’t bring him,” said Bo, one thumb aiming Jack’s direction.

“I do love me a spin in a tank now and then,” Lyndy agreed. “And you’re right about Jack. I’ve only known him a brief time and trust me, he’s a drag.”

But he has really deep pockets.

Jack glared back. He spoke nothing aloud, but she knew they were done.

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Is it me, or do ninety percent of golden retrievers look like exactly the same dog. If in some contrived mystery/thriller plot my life depended on identifying a single golden retriever in a pack of twenty, I’m not sure I could.

He stuck a camel cigarette in his lips, managing to light it while never losing grip on the steering wheel—an impressive feat. They were speeding on 58. Apparently he didn’t learn from previous mistakes.

On the other hand, neither did she, reaching for the Newports.

“That Rawlins guy was acting guilty as sin,” Jack lamented. “But I need proof.”

“I’m not convinced,” Lyndy replied. “We haven’t even visited these other places on the map.” She shook the map at Jack’s face. “It’s like one of those press conferences where they always say: we’re still gathering information.”

“The dude was menacing us with a shotgun the entire time. And did you notice how organized and put away everything is? It’s like his fancy shop isn’t being used.”

“We’re the ones who dropped in on him unannounced. And you got a problem with a man being neat?”

“Why was he so nervous when we first got there?”

She shook her head. “Not very unusual. Everyone out here is covering something up. So they all act guilty when you start askin questions. Plus nobody likes to be accused.”

“So then we wasted time?”

“Not necessarily. I might have made a friend. There’s always some value in cultivating new friendships. The person may come in handy one day.”

“I think we were wasting time,” repeated Jack. “And you were just messing with him, using your sneaky charm skills.”

“Fine. I will say one thing. Did you see he had a Santa Fe wall calendar?”

Jack glanced at her. “They print a million copies of those every year.”

In the midst of staring out the window, Lyndy pointed to a simple two-pump gas station, closed down and now abandoned. It had a tiny white-walled rectangular office, and there were literally thousands of copies like it spread across the west.

“Did you see that old service station back there,” said Lyndy.

“Yeah.” Jack nodded, barely shifting his gaze.

“One time I was coming through here at night, maybe eleven-thirty, and I saw this spectacular drop-top Cadillac with candy apple paint, filling up on gas. The driver was seated at the wheel, and a station attendant was wiping down his windows like old times. I didn’t think much of it. But I noted the guy had thick black hair and was wearing an all-white leisure suit decorated in rhinestones. So I get about ten minutes further down the road and I realize, that could have only been one person. I considered making a u-turn, going back to check, but it was too late. I knew they’d be gone already.”

“Who was it? Liberace?”

“No. Elvis of course,” Lyndy asserted.

At first she couldn’t tell if he was angry. He rubbed both eyes with his fists. Then seconds later, Jack burst into a laugh. “No way!”

“It was definitely him. Chan wouldn’t believe me either.”

She shoved her sunglasses on and folded both arms across her chest.