Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Why is it every time there’s a big earthquake and you have to run out of a seventies stucco building like a maniac, there’s really only three possibilities for your state of dress: you’re either in a bathrobe, standing in ugly mis-matched underwear or buck naked.

Time and a never-ending supply of blowing sand had scoured the outside of most every metallic surface in camp, including a crude tubular flagpole. At its base, a few sprigs of desert verbena clung to a tenuous existence. Flapping atop this water-pipe assembly, a faded flag so sheer one could see through. Cotton rope slapped against the sides and twisted on itself in the breezes. Every now and then a CLINK, as the snap links collided with the pole.

The little cat had those jade eyes, with slit-like pupils in daylight. As it circled by, purring with the gusto of a motorboat, she ran her fingertips along its bulging sides. Her state of alarm was easing with each passing second, nerves calming.

The same unseen talent who’d created the Frankenstein mailbox had also fashioned the pitted flagpole. Only this item was twelve feet tall. Residual flecks of white exterior paint indicated it had at one time been protected from the elements. Now it was all stained in rust.

She moved to accompany Jack Decklin, who was keeping under the shade of the camo netting. Taking a seat at ground level, she folded her legs.

“So your name is Hartley? I’ve never heard such a name,” Lyndy remarked, playfully.

“Yes,” the skinny boy answered in a muffled, sincere tone. He was on his knees, in the midst of scooping arrows into a cylindrical quiver. “Sorry I shot your boot.”

“It’s alright.”

The bow resting within arm’s reach of Hartley was also homemade, but in spite of its primitive manufacture, appeared wickedly effective.

Still, she’d decided he really was a cute kid.

Lyndy smiled sweetly, leaning forward to make eye contact, arms braced on her thighs. “Why don’t we start over?” She held her fists against her cheeks.

Hartley interrupted what he was doing, wrapping his fingers around the bow, drawing it nearer to his knees.

“You have a great piece a land here little man,” Lyndy complemented. “Where are your parents today?” With her thumb she pointed to the trailers. “Are they in there?”

Rapidly Hartley shook his head back and forth.

“So you’re alone?”

Hartley didn’t speak, but she’d captured his undivided attention. He inched closer.

Putting a hand on her chest. “You seem to know who I am already. But that gentleman is my partner, Jack Decklin.” She looked at him and grinned. His shirt was unbuttoned. “Jack is the type of guy who if a shirt is supposed to be worn untucked, he’ll tuck it in, and if a shirt is supposed to be tucked in, he’ll tuck it out.”

Even at his own expense, Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “There you go again. This is how it starts ya know. Poor kid. Two decades from now he’ll be asking himself why the only women he’s attracted to are goth-dressing Latinas.”

“Oh, don’t listen to him,” Lyndy said to Hartley.

Hartley was staring quizzically, his gaze flashing between the both of them. He had sand in his brown hair. His lips were badly chapped, no doubt a result of the outdoor lifestyle.

She reached in her purse, pushing around items in search of the chapstick.

“Hartley, are you being quiet because you aren’t supposed to talk to outsiders?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

With her finger, she beckoned him closer. “We aren’t here to hurt you,” Lyndy assured. “Come closer to me.”

As soon as he was within reach she grasped his wrist, pulling him close. With the other hand Lyndy swiftly dabbed chapstick across his cracked lips. He shut his eyes and giggled, wiping across his forearm.

“No, no, don’t wipe it off you goof!” Lyndy scolded.

Jack had one arm folded over his chest, squeezing his side. Between the fingers of his free hand he was rolling the 17-inch shaft of an arrow; same one which had embedded itself in Lyndy’s boot. “Hartley, is your pop named Edward Brennik?”

“Yes.”

“You got a mom around too?” Jack probed.

“Nope.” Hartley rubbed his palms over his eyes, as though tired. “It’s just me and my dad. My mom lives in Hollywood.” Then with puppy dog eyes and a discouraged tone, Hartley added, “Please, please don’t report me to misses Morales.”

Jack and Lyndy exchanged confused glances.

“Who is misses Morales?” Lyndy inquired.

Hartley shrugged. “She forces you to go to school.”

Right. Cause today was a school day.

“You mean a nasty old truancy officer? Like in a cartoon?”

The boy nodded in reply.

“Nah. Don’t worry. We’re cool Hartley,” Lyndy reassured. She squeezed his hand again. “Me and Jack aren’t big fans of the education system either.”

Hartley was gazing inquisitively at Lyndy’s perm.

“What? Do I have something stuck in my hair?”

“He wants your sunglasses,” said Jack.

“Oh yeah. Here, go ahead and try em.” Disentangling them, she pushed the frames onto Hartley’s face. They were way too wide for his kid-sized head, but he held them against his temples, turning one-eighty, marveling at how all the world had attained a curious shade of magenta.

“Hartley, what does your father do for a living?” quizzed Jack.

“He’s a metal recycler. We collect scrap from all over the desert and resell it.”

“What time are you expecting him back?”

“Couple more days,” said Hartley casually, still entranced with the shades.

Jack exhaled in frustration.

“What’s with all these camo tents?”

Hartley pulled off the sunglasses, holding them out for Lyndy to grab. “My daddy hates black helicopters. He put up nets so the choppers can’t see what we’re doin.”

“Makes sense,” Lyndy commented.

“Hartley, does your dad have any prior arrests? I’m thinking in the category of burglary or armed robbery.”

Hartley sniffed, looking less afraid than he should have.

“Let me clarify. Yer dad ever take stuff without paying for it?” Jack glared at Hartley, expecting an answer.

“No sir,” he said to Jack, plainly.

“Oh come on Jack!” Lyndy admonished. “Give the kid a break.”

She pointed at the homemade bow, wanting a change of subject. “You’re a pretty decent shot with that aren’t ya?” She winked at Jack, surveying the landscape of discarded junk.

In the meantime Jack tilted his head and approached the other two, irritation fading from his appearance. Twirling the homemade arrow once more, he tossed it to Hartley, who caught it by clapping his palms.

Next Jack slid his fingers in his front pocket, recovering a tan leather billfold. From the main section he fanned out four greenbacks, too overlapping to see dollar amounts. His chin sank—he was hatching an idea. Then he removed a crisp bill, holding it between his fingers and thumb for Hartley to see. “I tell you what, here’s a new twenty dollar bill. Let’s have us a little Robin Hood contest, shall we.”

A twenty to this kid was like a hundred to her. And hell, she would have done a lot of things to have the smaller bill too.

“I can tag a rabbit from fifty feet away,” Hartley said excitedly.

“That’s the idea, but we’re going to make it a little more challenging than that.” Bending over, Jack retrieved a tin can—the size containing baked beans—from a heap of decade old kitchen garbage. Stacking another and another, none having readable labels, he commenced pacing off a distance from the shade canopies to the nearest row of Joshua trees.

“Eighty five,” he shouted from afar.

On a mound of sand pushed up four feet by the dozer, Jack set out the cans; a total of seven. In the interim Lyndy rose to her feet, smiling, watching the two boys.

“Twenty bucks if you can nail at least a couple of these,” Jack announced.

Thrilled, Hartley was already readying his shot, threading the twine into the slot.

“Wait, wait , wait. I’m not even out of the way yet,” Jack interrupted. “You can go first, but we each get only three attempts kid.”

The boy elevated the bow perpendicular to the ground, elbow level, an air of determination coming across him. He had a strong chest for a such a young boy, drawing it back skillfully. The taut string made a 60-degree angle with the shaft. Doubtless there was enough potential energy there to kill.

Jack returned to Lyndy’s side, unspeaking but vigilant. “By the way, I’m ready to adopt this kid,” whispered Lyndy, raising her eyebrows at Jack.

Both were observing Hartley, reckoning he could actually hit the targets. But they wanted to see how many tries he needed.

Hartley waited for a calm in the winds; the lot became as quiet as a putting green. Then ZING! Faster than the human eye could track, the first can went flying.

Seconds after, the next can went flying. Lyndy started clapping. Hartley turned to face them, beaming with pride.

“Back-to-back? This is ridiculous,” muttered Jack, pushing the rolled up twenty into Hartley’s waiting hand. Greedily he slipped it into his rear pocket.

“That ought to buy a lot of comic books,” said Jack bitterly, but half-joking.

“My turn!” announced Lyndy, grinning at Jack. She reached for Hartley’s bow.

“No,” Jack commanded, waving  a hand.

“What?”

“The pistol,” he answered.

“I’m not a circus act. But … uh… what do I win?” she asked seductively. “Do I get twenty dollars too?”

“How bout I buy you lunch?”

“Take me to The Vanishing Point?”

Jack shrugged. “Wherever.”

Sounded like a date, but on the other hand, they woulda had to eat lunch anyway.

“Works for me.” From her purse, she extracted the heavy black gun. Turning to Hartley she warned, “plug yer ears dude.” With her left hand she retracted the stiff slide.

Jack cupped his palms over his ears, squinting to the remaining five cans. Seeing the behavior of Jack, Hartley inserted his index fingers straight into his ear canals and grimaced in preparation.

Gripping at chest level by only her right, she pulled the trigger twice. Deftly, she passed the Beretta from right to left, yanking the trigger three more times, the whole duration being less than three seconds. Each of the rusty cans were either split into two or their remains launched out of view on parabolic trajectories. A final bullet zinged off in a ricochet, having hit something hard buried in the sand.

She smiled at Jack.

Fanning a hand over top of the 9-mm barrel she looked to Hartley and ruffled his hair once more. “Here’s an important tip. Don’t ever hold one of these bastards up to your eye to aim or you’ll have the worse black eye of your life.”

Jack chuckled. “Let’s just go.”

“Take care of yer cat,” chided Lyndy, following Jack on the trail leading out.

“I will,” said Hartley, waving to the two of them.

“Something tells me you can eat, too,” Jack muttered to Lyndy.

“Nonsense,” she replied, pulling it wide and stirring the contents of her purse to make room.

 

45 minutes later …

Lyndy Life Observation: One of the best James Bond movie zingers of all time has to be when Goldfinger has that cheesy red laser inching forward to slice Bond in half (it can project a spot on the moon) and Sean Connery goes “do you expect me to talk?”, to which Goldfinger replies, “No Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!” But of course Goldfinger, big dumb Bond villain that he is, doesn’t actually let his overly-elaborate killing mechanism succeed as  planned.

Ever active, the sounds and smells of The Vanishing Point were highly dependable: two-stroke diesel engines, steel-belted tires rolling heavy on gravel, selected deep tones of rock-n-roll music somehow transmitted from the inside. And fried-chicken. The kitchen always smelled like fried chicken.

From the outside it had the design of a northwest hunting lodge, with more than its share of hitching post and wagon wheel decorations. Nightly, the place lit up like a Fremont Street casino. Big-rig truckers came pouring in from the interstate, following long treks through the desert—and it was known across every state west of the Rockies.

Secretly, one of her favorite pleasures was introducing uninitiated newcomers to this glorious roadside circus. Something about Jack Decklin’s background and sensibilities made it even more thrilling. She knew the cult of sunshine, better known as Catherine Cookson would be there too. It was her turf. In some ways that could a plus or a big minus, depending.

Daylight fell across his face, revealing hints of faded freckles leftover from his youth. In his thirties now, he was handsome all around. Of course standing there, gazing at its wood-paneled exterior, she couldn’t tell whether he was delighted or thoroughly disappointed. Quickly, she fixed her hair in the mirror.

It was midafternoon; the parking lot was busy. “Trust me, you’ll like it,” Lyndy encouraged, slipping her arm over Jack’s elbow, ushering him to the entry.

Soon they were pushing their way through the double doors. They were third spot in line, waiting to be seated. It felt like a date.

As their eyes adjusted he could see in the back two pool tables—men playing under a yellow lamp—and a jukebox just to the side. Antlers hovered above.

He pointed upward to the ceiling. “What’s that song?”

She frowned, intently listening, trying to filter out room noise. “Oh, I believe that’s Me and You and dog named Boo.”

Already the blonde hostess was striding across the room, having locked onto Lyndy’s big hair like a sidewinder missile.

“Why is everyone staring at us?” Jack wondered.

“It’s cause you’re with me,” she whispered. “They want to know who the hot guy is hanging out with The Spitfire.”

The men who were playing pool had momentarily paused their game. One of them, taller and in blue coveralls marked with grease, was holding the pool cue, staring. They were track workers and machinists. The men were eyeing him, not in a welcome manner, but uneasily.

“Or maybe it’s cause they recognize me,” he said, shifting his gaze to the bar.

In an instant they were overrun by perky Catherine. “Lyndy E. Martinez? What a lovely surprise!” she exclaimed. “I adore those shoes. And you’ve brought a man friend today?” She had her fingers interlaced, standing on her tip toes—making her seem much taller—and she smiled charmingly. “Are you gonna introduce me or what?”

“Cut the bullshit Cath. We’re not on the Price is Right.”

But he held out a hand. “Jack Decklin, Santa Fe Railroad.”

“Cathy,” she replied, touching a finger to her plastic VP badge. She had ruby nails to match her lipstick. Mostly immune to Lyndy’s sarcasm, she continued, “I have a perfect booth for you two right up front,” and she herded them to one of the best tables.

“But aren’t we gonna need menus?” questioned Jack, looking back to the hostess stand. “How do they know what we want?”

Lyndy shook her head. “Not today. When the blonde is here she sorta just brings food out that she wants to eat.”

“What? That makes no sense.”

Using a white cloth Catherine quickly mopped up some spilled soda and a few crumbs. Jack and The Spitfire took seats on opposite sides, with Lyndy spreading her arms across the seatback. To his surprise, Cathy also scooted in the seat next to him, putting away her cleaning rag. Her unblinking attention and violation of customary personal space was making him uncomfortable.

“You’re the guy with the cool car.”

“Oh god, I’m selling it as soon as I leave. The paint job on that thing is embarrassing. But yes, I’m the unfortunate cad driving the Firebird.”

“I bet you’re one of those guys who says women are dream killers,” Cathy remarked.

Lyndy and Catherine both laughed aloud.

“Hey. Not fair. I told you I was married once,” Jack argued.

“Wow, good answer,” said Cathy, giving Lyndy a knowing glance. Jumping up abruptly, she added, “I’ll get some beers for us and a margarita for Lyn.”

Jack leaned across to voice a private question at Lyndy. “Is she a real waitress?”

“More like a character at a theme park

Jack shifted in his seat, leaning back to peek at the billiard tables. “Something tells me this is gonna be a pricey meal.”

As she’d hoped, he was relaxing some.