Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Are you aware the year 2100 is not a leap year? Nor was 1900. But year 2000 is. (Of course, if you’re reading this and the year is 2100 then you probably knew that, but more importantly, I must say I’m amazed Lyndy Martinez is still relevant!)

The light in the room was weak, old fashioned and definitely of its era, like a soap opera set. But then again antique things delighted him.

Jack chuckled as he shoveled a five layer pancake wedge in his mouth.

“Sir, all due respect, that one may seem a charming cute girl to spend a weekend with. She dresses nice I’ll give you that. Trust me though, from all I’ve observed there’s an ancient demon lurking within; it’s probably got a biblical name. Know what I mean? She will hurt you man. She’ll hurt ya bad.”

Pretending to scribble on a napkin, Jack mused aloud, “Dear Abby, my girlfriend is cute and charming, but seems to be possessed by an ancient demon. What should I do?”

Dylan nodded. “Signed, alligator stuntman.”

“You’re wrong. She’s not that way deep down, but point well taken. I happen to have seen her fight. It’s eye opening.”

Dylan swiveled his stool by 180, facing reverse of the counter. He supported his elbow on the rounded chrome edge, sipping orange juice through a straw. “I’m guessing you didn’t come all this way for relationship advice or to tell me how wonderful my trade is.”

“Naw. Absolutely not.” Jack cleared his throat. “Here’s the truth. I’m hoping you know of a way to help me—not asking you to do my job—but think with me. What can you tell me about the Project Genesis … cult…I guess you’d call it?”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Them people keep to themselves. Admirably hard workers, mostly. I can respect that. Some of em have side jobs here and in Needles, others stay long enough to buy supplies and jet.”

“I met their esteemed chief architect, a Brother Steve. I like his title.”

Dylan tilted his head, swallowing a big bite of bagel and wiping his mouth. “You know, I hear he used to work for the company too, but they let him go ten years back. He’s got a permanent disability, would have to make too many accommodations.”

“Interesting.” Jack’s chin sunk. He took a breath, bracing his forehead and supporting it by his palms. “What I really need is a way of identifying former employees by their face alone, not a full legal name.”

Dylan perked up, now fully engaged, excited at the prospect of being asked to assist in an investigation. “You mean the train robbery was done by insiders?”

“One insider at least. Had to be.” Clearing his throat he continued, “trouble is, I only know him by how he looks, I don’t trust him to provide a real name.” He gestured to the offices. “Which makes the company directory useless. We don’t have headshots in there.”

“You wanna describe him to me?” queried Dylan.

Jack shook his head. “He’s a plain dude. White male, guessing brown hair and beer belly. Forty or forty-five. Might be too hard to narrow this down.”

Dylan exhaled in a laugh. “Ah. You’re describing three-quarters of our employees.” He stood up suddenly. “But there could be a way. We used to have this employee of the month award. They stopped doing it, but for a while they would take a polaroid picture of you—a headshot—and put it up on this plaque in the hall, with your name and job title.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Sure can. Follow me.”

Jack wiped his mouth and hands with a napkin. “Those pictures always come out awful.”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

---

Lyndy Life Tip #189: The food label “all natural” means virtually nothing and applies broadly to almost any category of processed food.

Certain days she wondered why she remained here, far-flung from every defining symbol of the state—especially the beaches. But the shade of an improbable oak tree or dip in the cool springs on a hot day, and the countless stars at night reminded her.

And then there was piloting a fast car on a two-lane desert road, windows lowered, radio loud, fresh air cooling your skin. Folks who didn’t understand never would.

She was feeling elated. Both passenger and driver’s side windows down, bare feet on the pedals, planted in the vinyl bucket seat of the k-code mustang—Darrel had shined it up—one fist on the four-speed rowing gears and another on the steering wheel.

Only problem: this was not a dark desert highway, rather it was Darrel Ward’s crummy attached stucco garage. The white mustang was motionless on jack stands, looking sad and pathetic. It was missing both bumpers, hood leaning against one wall, new headers spread on the floor, coated in decaying header wrap like the stuff Frankenstein’s monster wore.

The child inside her wanted to mimic throaty engine noises, but the mighty 289 4-barrel was tough to imitate.

“So Darrel, how much horsepower you think we can squeeze outta this engine? Three hundred? Three fifty?”

No answers came. Tones of Darrel’s rock-n-roll station, a beach boys song, could be heard coming from his transistor radio.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Know what we ought to do when we get this baby running? You know how they sell those ridiculous four-foot tall margaritas at the Tropicana in Vegas. You and I should cruise out there … bring Catherine too…ratchet up the chaos.”

From across the cramped garage a relaxed Tammy Ward half-snorted and half-laughed while fanning herself. She was seated in a striped vinyl lawn chair—outfit consisting of a pink bikini top and sonic blue hot pants—hair in multi-color curlers, feet up with a romance novel. She shook her head. “Nope, you’d just be asking for trouble.” Tammy went back to reading her book. The garage door was up, and by her feet, a plastic spray bottle she used to mist the air with water.

From under the car Lyndy heard Mr. Ward pleading in frustration, “Hey Miss Martinez, I really need you to concentrate right now. I’m trying to bleed these brakes—your brakes—which are vital to safe operation of a fast car.”

“Oh right, right,” Lyndy replied. “Keep pumping then?”

“Yes please. Up … down …. up … down. And if you blow this engine apart by being reckless, revving up over 6500, don’t come cryin back to me to fix it.”

“Lo siento.” The pedal had that spongy feel, when air had surely worked its way past the master cylinder.

Out of nowhere a horn beeped, two times, directly below on the driveway.

Darrel’s head shot up, banging against the front quarter panel. “Argh!” he grumbled, worming his way back out. “Who the heck is that?”

Tammy lowered her romance novel. “It’s the new parts delivery guy,” she replied.

“Honey Bunny, can you sign?” asked Darrel. “Please?”

“On it,” replied Tammy.

Her flimsy chair creaked as Tammy leveraged herself upright.

The delivery truck for the auto parts store was an import pickup. Huffing up the Ward’s sloped driveway came a tall man in uniform—almost too small to fit—having a logo of the auto parts store.

The black man used a shop towel to dab at his forehead, holding three boxes under one arm, but he was all smiles and friendly. Meantime Tammy signed, standing on one foot and switching one to another soon as the skin could no longer tolerate the heat.

The Spitfire adjusted one mirror to better see their interaction, still pumping on the brakes for Darrel. Seconds passed and she tried to not be distracted from her duty.

“Have a real nice day Mrs. Ward,” she heard him say. Returning to the shade Tammy dumped the load of boxes, some of them tumbling onto crowded workbenches. Lyndy could hear her mumbling something to her husband about buying too much.

Tilting her chin, Lyndy set her gaze upon the empty seat next to her. She set a finger on her lips, slipping on her sandals.

An instant later she shoved open the door, bursting out of the garage, purse dangling and scrambling down the driveway—flip-flops buckling as she weaved her way between the parked cars and brick retaining walls.

Hopping the steep slope she saw the man restarting his ignition and checking notes on a clipboard, about to reverse away.

“Brother Leonard!” she exclaimed. “I knew it was you.” She pointed a finger.

His head shot up. Staring at her through the windshield, his look was dismayed. She could see it in his eyes.

“Remember me?” she queried, a beaming smile on her face. She pointed to the eastern line of mountains. “Project Genesis! You were there, I’m sure. We spoke about the deuce-and-a-half.” She charged the driver’s side door, intending to put her elbows on the window frame.

He shook his head no. Hurriedly Leonard threw an arm on the seatback, reversing into the street at a dangerous speed.

Lyndy held up and waved her empty fingers, trying to show she meant no harm. “What are you doing?” she questioned.

She saw him mouthing something unheard, seeming to reply: “I don’t know who you are lady.” His delivery truck raced away.

Disappointed, Lyndy adjusted her sandals and hiked back up to the cars. She folded her arms. “Well that was strange.” Reaching for the spritzing bottle, she amply misted the air around her head like putting on hairspray.

“What did you do to the delivery guy?” Tammy asked.

“I don’t know,” she lamented, checking the time on her watch. “Usually takes a couple dates before a man flees from me like that.”

Tammy grinned. Darrel was standing now, holding a big screwdriver, frowning as he slapped the plastic handle against his open palm. “Shall we?”

“Say Darrel, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s like the record for doing a complete engine pull and swap, start to finish?”

Rather than snap back, Darrel cocked his head, considering, as though Lyndy had for once asked him something thought-provoking. “I dunno about a record, but in my twenties I was on top of my game. Me and a friend came here after work, started on a swap at six-thirty on a Friday and we were test driving the car by 11:00 that same night.”

The Spitfire nodded. She gestured to the front yard by the chain-link entry gate. “Ya’ll need to setup a hose and sprinkler system out here; we can each take turns runnin through it like ten-year-olds.”

“Now yer talkin sense,” replied Tammy, flopping back in her chair.

---

Hours later …

Sun was setting, final rays merging into the horizon. These summer days stretched onward, lasting too long.

Something in the air smelled different, a hint of peppermint—main ingredient of menthol—overpowered by the excessively smoky burger-shack kitchen. Another person had been in this parking lot recently, cause Leonard Mack didn’t smoke.

He dismissed the thought; too busy to contemplate. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he had one more delivery to make. Leonard wasn’t even hungry. Too tired to be hungry.

He braced himself on the bed of the truck, staring at trees rustling, a row of them behind the strip mall parking lot, each branch moving in an out in a slow dance, framed against the desert sky. Black starlings were roosting there, dozens of them.

Days like this when he had a back-to-back nonstop schedule, it seemed all he did was work. Leonard hadn’t taken a weekend off in two years. He couldn’t remember what it was like to have free time; didn’t know what he would do with time off or how to relax. Because he didn’t know himself.

Did he like fishing? Did he like music? Did he like golf?

He didn’t know. All life was work. His mom had been the same way.

There was Leonard, man of faith. There was Leonard the divorcee, who still supported his ex-wife cause she had no one. Then there was Leonard the man who worked three jobs. Other than that, he slept.

Following this delivery he had seven hours to rest before starting his next job.

He stacked the blue and white boxes from the auto parts shop, double checking labels and names. He opened the door, setting a half-page size clipboard on the dash, breathing a sigh, resetting the odometer. Facing away from the truck he sat down on the bench seat, rotating himself into position. Then he put a foot on the clutch pedal, inserting the key in the ignition. From the avenue a car horn honked. At a distance, an angry driver yelled. Atop this one could hear a freight train, a distant rumbling.

All at once he got the shivering sensation he wasn’t alone, his foot jerking off the clutch. Had he not been so tired he would have known sooner. He cursed himself for letting his guard down. The whole cab shook. He’d never been held up, but there was a first for everything.

He turned to face the intruder, ready to fight. But instantly he recognized them, an attractive girl who worked for the bail bondsman, purse in lap. She had fierce brown eyes, accented by a dark eyeliner.

“Hi there,” she said cheerfully. She held up an ancient driver’s license by her finger and thumb, for him to see. “Says Mr. Mack,” she emphasized. “I only knew you as Leonard til now. Seems nobody has a last name in Project Genesis. Good thing this was in the door pocket.”

“You startled me woman,” he scolded.

“This is a Georgia driver’s license though,” she replied. “And it’s expired.” She smiled kindly, passing it over to him.

Momentarily Leonard gazed at the black and white headshot, displaying a younger and slimmer version of himself. But his own eyes were the same.

“I have a California one too,” he defended. “It’s funny. Guess I been hanging on to this to remind me of something … an old home.” He relaxed a bit, slumping his shoulders and sinking in the seat. Sliding the card in his shirt pocket he rested his hands on the wheel. “I’d bounce you outta here lady, but somehow I don’t think I’ll be rid of you. You have a reputation as a pest. Plus I’m bushed. So why you been followin me?”

“Sorry to bother,” replied The Spitfire. “But you refused to talk to me earlier. Why?”

“I know where you work. You find people who don’t wanna be found, whether they like it or not.”

“Whatever else you heard, it’s an exaggeration. But I’ll confess that last part is a fair description.”

The pickup truck had bench seats. Whatever fabric material used in manufacture was cheap and fraying; beaten by the sun and repaired using copious amounts of duct tape where it wore through.

“I recognized you up at Project Genesis. Others did too, that’s why they acted coldly.” His tone changed, becoming solemn. “Except I’m the only one who recognized Mr. Decklin.”

With that change she knew she desperately needed this man to open up. Reaching across, she laid her hand on his forearm, offering a caring smile.

“Where you from anyway?” asked Leonard Mack, brushing her hand away.

“East LA. Rough neighborhood.”

“Your mom a white woman or something?”

Lyndy nodded. “How’d you guess?”

Leonard shrugged. “I dunno. Your last name is Martinez, not Wilson or something.”

“Someone told me she was gorgeous, but I never knew her.” Lyndy exhaled.

Leonard was silent, still holding onto the wheel. “Bein pretty don’t count for shit in this life.”

“The older I get, the more I’m starting to realize.” She unbuttoned the flap of her purse, reaching in to retrieve her leather wallet. “So I got a couple tens in here. Would it buy me some of your precious time? Maybe you fill me on Project Genesis and what you know about Mr. Decklin?”

“I don’t need money woman. If I tell you a secret, will you go away and leave me be?”

“Of course,” she said eagerly. “I promise not to make trouble for you.”

Leonard gazed back at her in a way that showed he was unconvinced, but willing to talk regardless. “Brother Steve is a visionary and a generous man too. He’s a great leader, always treated black people right, as equal partners in Project Genesis. But he can be dishonest. He sugarcoats the truth.”

“How so?”

“Project Genesis is not self-sufficient. Not even close. Most of us got second jobs, other sources of income.”

“Makes sense.” She squeezed the front seat edge with her fingers. “Would he say, be willing to steal from the filthy rich to make his dream happen.”

“No way. He didn’t do it. Let me put it this way. If that man saw a dime on the sidewalk he wouldn’t stoop to pick it up—not cause he’s disabled—because he’d know it wasn’t his for the taking, it was somebody else’s.”

“I see. Another way of saying he practices what he preaches?”

“Exactly.”

“Then what do you know about Jack?” she asked, intrigued. “How do you even know Jack Decklin?”

“Let me ask you? Did he seem at all nervous or uncomfortable, being here in the town of Barstow?”

“Now that you mention it.”

“Was he wanting all kinda extra protection for himself?”

Lyndy inhaled, setting a finger on her upper lip and rubbing her chin with her thumb. “Yes. He brought a huge swiss pistol with us even though I was already armed. I have the Beretta.” She stared up at the drooping headliner. “My late brother used to say, if you need anything more than a simple revolver to diffuse a situation, you should surrender.”

Leonard Mack nodded, feeling vindicated. “You probably don’t wanna hear this. About two years ago there was a rash of thefts affecting the railroad—small time stuff, few hundred dollars here and there—but poor folks were going in and bustin open freight cars parked at the yard. Sheriff Jackson wanted to get involved, but the company wouldn’t let em. Turns out the railroad had one of them rogue security guards, straight outta the nineteen thirties, likely hell bent on impressing the higher ups. He can’t find the actual burglars, but some school boys were just standin by the tracks, late night mindin their business—wasn’t them doing the stealing—and they got beaten with batons. Now it was all up in the papers. Whatever was goin on internally, you be the judge. But the railroad had an image problem, conjured up by bitter memories of the bad old days.”

“Week later,” continued Leonard, “the young Mr. Decklin gets involved. He was staying down at the depot in one of their fancy executive rooms, acting tough as he likes to do. He may be their top agent, but his investigation was a joke. He fired one guard, put another on leave for thirty days. There weren’t any criminal charges. That’s the key, and headlines came across the paper there would be no prosecutions. Again, I don’t know his motives, but the message was clear: don’t mess with the trains. Look Miss Martinez, I’m a peaceful man. I don’t condone violence, but there is definitely a time and place for showing force. That was not the time or place. So the night before he was scheduled to leave, someone wearing a mask broke into the depot and beat the shit out of him; got away and never were caught. Mr. Decklin had it comin. Anyone could see he didn’t do enough. And he was cocky too.”

Clearly, this explains a lot. I need a drink.

“Thank you for telling me all this. I did need to hear,” she said, heart feeling heavy.