Cowboy Junkie: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Not far away …

Lyndy Life Observation: Listening to the opening theme song for Patty Duke and I think to myself—while stroking fictional beard hairs on my chin—are identical cousins really a thing or was that made up?

A faded decal on the gas pumps read “High Test”, clearly some goober’s idea of a knee slapper. But with a fuel needle teetering on the bold red E, this clapped out, tin-roof shack was the only game in town.

Holly Folsom beeped her horn twice, attempting to rouse the lazy station attendant. Precious seconds elapsed with no activity or acknowledgement, save a barking dog or two. With a twist of the chrome knob she switched off her AM radio, then glanced to a tiny analog clock on her dash. Where was he?

In the breeze, a smell of pine log campfires tickled her nose.

“I can feel myself aging”, she muttered, shielding her eyes with one hand and checking rearward. Still nobody.

Vocalizing a frustrated groan she started buttoning up her fuzzy, wool-lined hiking vest. From the seat pocket she recovered two folded over sections of the day’s news—business and funny pages. Then she elbowed open her door and stepped out. Her legs were stiff from hours of steady driving. She paused a moment, tilting her neck to one side then the other. Early autumn leaves were coating the moist asphalt, a kind prone to sticking on the lugs of her top-dollar trekking boots. She breathed deep, taking in the setting.

In Colorado, Holly never had problems getting service. But Rearden Gulch was the biggest armpit this side of Leadville. Judging by the condition of their saggy screen door and a 7-UP banner from about year 1942, this place wasn’t big on freshness; probably had a winning trout mounted on the wall.

Making her way to the trunk, where the license plate was mounted beneath the tri-star, Holly untwisted her gas cap. Then cupping the newspaper so as not to dirty her fingers, she reached for the gritty pump handle. Holding the nozzle several inches beneath her crinkled nose to obtain a whiff, she judged it smelled reasonably like gasoline, not putrid varnish. She hated putting gunk in her European sports coupe, but at least it wouldn’t murder the engine. Watchful to avoid damaging her nails, she inserted the tip and squeezed.

While the low octane fuel was pumping Holly dug in her purse. Smaller items sunk to the bottom, she located a lone hair tie and tube of ruby red lipstick. Leaning hand-on-hip, she touched up her mouth using a weak reflection which showed in the clear-coat paint. Then she hastily brushed her honey-blonde hair a half-dozen times before securing it in a ponytail.

“Well, howdy there Miss Folsom,” bellowed a man. Her head shot up.

He was a plump older gentleman, clothed in an oil-stained hunting shirt and hip waders. Duck boots capped off the ensemble. He’d been approaching from the direction of the outhouses; here at last was the missing attendant.

“Who are you and how do you know me?” demanded Holly.

“Oh, I recognized you from a distance.” He hadn’t been expecting her to be so hostile or impatient, and a sheepish grin formed on his face. “I’m Mr. Grey. Sorry to startle you. I do that sometimes.” Clearing his throat and wiping his paws on the front of his shirt, he continued, mainly to lessen the awkwardness. “Yer daddy was a hell of a gambler. We used to play cards with him back in the old days, losing mostly. I pumped his gas many a time too.” Mr. Grey gestured toward the high mountains with a played out snap of the wrist. “That was before all them silver mines closed up.”

Holly sniffed. “Whatever,” she answered. “How much do I owe you?”

Seeming to have misheard her, Mr. Grey’s retelling of history rambled on: “I remember you must have been about three or four years, sitting on a blanket on the floor, pink rattle in hand, right there next to the card tables. We were all enamored; you were the cutest kiddo. Now yer all grown up. Yer pop wasn’t much of a looker, but …”

“How much do I owe you?” she questioned again, much louder this time.

Noticing she was struggling to return the leaky nozzle to a catch on the pump, Mr. Grey bounded forward. He snatched it from her grip—moving with surprising agility—helping to secure the handle in place without ruining Holly’s splendid outfit. He then lowered to a squat and tightened the fuel cap on her petite Mercedes.

“I seen you on TV a few times. You’re becoming quite the marksman in those winter games,” he complemented. “And a damn fine skier I might add.”

Ordinarily Holly Folsom had little interest in carrying on conversations with scruffy old men. But shooting sports, biathlons in particular, were the one thing bridging the divide. Her expression immediately softened. “So you saw me in the nationals?”

“Charming as ever,” he replied. “But you’re getting to be one dangerous lady.” Mr. Grey wiped a soft rag over her bumper, soaking up any errant fuel. Then he rose to full height, his grimace telling of discomfort in the aging knees.

Holly grinned proudly. She’d come in second place that time, behind a woman who was ten years her senior, and having loads more experience than she. Her mood lightened as she rested a hip on the car door. “You really knew my dad?”

“Of course. We all did in those days.”

Holly sniffed, reaching down to brush a few yellow and green aspen leaves, shaped like spades, clinging to her jeans. “I can’t remember much from those days. I was too young; it’s all like a fuzzy out-of-focus picture. Sometimes I wish I could relive it, retain more. Was there a guy—a mining engineer—he had a funny name, Big-Block Henderson?”

Chuckling with thumbs in his wader straps Mr. Grey nodded in affirmation. “Yes, yes. Semi-famous. Used to swing you around doing what they called indoor-airplane rides.”

“Was that his real name?” she queried.

“No, I don’t believe Big-Block is the name his mother gave him.”

Holly retrieved a leather clutch wallet from her handbag. “Got any Salems in there?”

Mr. Grey tilted his forehead northward, to a woody area behind the service station. His eyes narrowed, forming a more serious guise. “Listen Sparkplug, what say you and me cut us a deal?”

Lowering her wallet, arms at her sides, she glared back at him. “Better be clean.”

“It is. Got us a practice range behind the old shop. There’s a decoy pond too, where me and my buddies been duck huntin.” He tapped lightly on the lid of her trunk. “I’m assuming you brought somethin precious in here.”

Holly cut swiftly in front of him, positioning her body between Mr. Grey and the Mercedes. He was a good guesser. Inside the trunk resided a pricey German sporting rifle. She placed her fingers on her hips, unconsciously batting her fake eyelashes.

“Take it easy Sparkplug. Nothin to be protective about. Couple buddies of mine would love to see what you can do with that thing. Gas and anything else you need is on me. How bout it?”

Holly smiled to herself as she considered the offer of free gas, pops and smokes. She checked her watch, then looked back at Mr. Grey. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’m ahead of schedule.”

Mr. Grey seemed quite pleased with himself.

Holly slipped a key in the lock mechanism and raised the lid, revealing a professional style hard plastic case fastened with steel buckles. “Mister, you wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get my hands on one of these.”

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Lyndy Life Tip #202: Passing a lower tier fast food joint and I notice their Help Wanted sign promotes that pay is allotted daily. You know it has to be a shitty place to work when they have to start paying folks by the day. Obviously people aren’t coming back.

Sounds of forks clinking on porcelain tableware filled her ears. The spread at lunch was nothing short of marvelous. With every bite, Lyndy was grateful to Annabel for twisting her arm to stay. One didn’t have to get up; a pair of maids circled the table, serving the meal.

Unexpectedly The Spitfire found herself in the spotlight too, making her giddy. It was a warm feeling, like instantly being adopted into a large boisterous family—the kind of gathering to fog up dining room windows. Sensory overload for introverts.

Wasn’t I just wishing for alone time?

Opposite her presided the handsome landowner, a Mr. Jared Warner. Occasionally their eyes met, and his, like the others were captivated with The Spitfire. Even the way the young man carried himself indicated his family owned a guest ranch, and others like it. Measuring broad in the shoulder, tall in stature, it only enhanced his attractiveness. Although projecting confidence verging on brashness, his mildly hayseed persona came off charming rather than threatening.

On the paneled wall within arm’s reach, Jared had slung his black Stetson. In between bites of food she was trying to make sense of that oversize hat, with its decorative braided leather cord in place of a traditional band, and dime-size star pendants glued to the brim.

On the floor next to Annabel’s chair, Ruby the dog was snoring peacefully.

Lyndy noted a new quiet cowboy had joined the group. From bits of conversation she learned his name was Ben. Judging by his look, he was close in years to Nash, but in comparison exuded a more pleasant and approachable disposition. Intermittently, Ben and Nash were whispering confidences back and forth. And in the midst of everything, she’d gleaned one more interesting detail: Nash’s family name was Spotted Wolf, this having been sewn to a tag on the underside of his hat.

Of course the real delight was hot food. The eggs were just to her liking, moderately salty and with a fluffy texture crumbling on her tongue. Pacing herself became mission impossible, as each time Lyndy consumed three quarters of a plate the maids came back around and served her again. She began craving water, downing a full glass, pausing only for a breath or two.

Annabel noticed Lyndy stuffing herself like an orphan at their first real Thanksgiving. She pointed to her plate. “I collected those eggs from our coops just this morning.” Annabel passed her hand over the table. “Loads of stuff we’re eating comes from the ranch. Fresh as can be.”

Lyndy bobbed her head. “Wonderful,” she managed, mouth full of half-chewed potato wedges.

From a white carafe Jared dispensed a cup of steaming coffee. Gesturing to Lyndy, he offered to top off her mug as well and she obliged. Taking a first sip—not having added any cream or sugar—he then spoke up, cadence a beat slower than most coastal Californians would talk. “Miss Martinez, I’m told you’re in an unusual line of work. Employed by a business called … Chan’s Bail Bonds.” He squinted his eyes, snapping together finger and thumb to shake loose a thought. “Is it what they call a bail enforcement agent?”

A bit of a smirk formed on his face. The room quieted, attention focusing on her answer. It was a delicate one. Foremost she needed to finish chewing and swallow. Feeling increasing pressure on her abdomen, The Spitfire wished she could undo her belt and let it out a notch. But obviously she couldn’t now, it would be noticeable and impolite. She laid down her fork, then inched back from the table, wiping around her lips.

“That like an old west bounty hunter?” questioned Wade.

Jared glanced to Wade and Ben, one eyebrow raised. Then after propping his elbows on the table, he meshed his fingers.

Breathing deep, Lyndy observed even Annabel was awaiting a response, staring her direction with a touch of admiration. Having finished eating, she’d folded up her dirty napkin and deposited it on the table. Her plate was virtually spotless. Perhaps this was the secret to getting the maids to stop.

“Well you see,” Lyndy began, shrugging  shoulders and gazing up at a skillfully coffered ceiling. “I’ve always had a knack for finding people who … people who for one reason or another don’t wanna be found.” Hopefully none in present company were escapees—but come to think of it, this would be a darn good place to start a new life. “Technically speaking, I’m a contractor for Chan’s. I work mainly as a private investigator. I don’t bring anybody in, to be sure. I only find people.” She emphasized the point with her palms spread flat.

“That’s peculiar. How did you get started in this business?”

She’d been hoping Jared would leave it alone, but no luck. Whenever someone pressed on this, events she didn’t wish to relive all came rushing back at once—these feelings were hard to channel—like an impending flash flood.

“A decade ago me, my brother and Chan lived in the same trailer park. When I started the county Sheriff, a man named Granville Jackson, came to meet Mr. Chan, knowing he had a hard earned reputation for getting things done. Outlaws feared him. The Sheriff was having trouble with a particular biker gang; these dudes were all bad, and white supremacists. See that was the other thing, Chan isn’t white. Chan wasn’t even born here. The Wallach’s believed they were above the law. Granville couldn’t control em because they had people working inside the sheriff’s department and the jails. So even if they hauled one of their boys in, got him booked, most likely he’d be out on bail the next day. If one of em managed to get caught in jail a week or two, somehow a prison guard would make a bonehead mistake, leave a gate unlocked in the night, miss a signal, and the guy would escape. Didn’t matter if they were on parole, two-thirds were fugitives, owning guns, riding free and raising hell.”

“Sheriff Jackson made a simple deal with Chan. The first Wallach captured he’d pay five-hundred dollars. Each additional who got locked up, the reward would increase by five hundred a head. And so on.”

“So what happened?” asked Jared, a touch of skepticism evident in his voice.

“Eventually I got twenty-five locked away in a state prison, some in federal too. What was left of the Wallach gang scattered, vacated the state. Some went down into Mexico I hear. Sheriff Jackson was pleased with us. But then Matt Wallach senior came for me personally. They kidnapped me, tried to murder me and well … he failed on that mission.”

“This Chan fellar, he writes regular bonds too?” asked Wade.

“He does. But those people don’t run. At least, not in the numbers they used to. If any of the CBB … shall we say …. treasured clientele go AWOL, then it’s also my duty to track those folks down.” Lyndy reached for a glass of orange juice and took a sip.

“What are they afraid of?” inquired Nash, who’d had his head down up until this point.

“I dunno,” she replied. “Maybe Mr. Chan.” With a tiny silver dessert fork she stabbed a hunk of Canadian bacon—drink coaster sized—cramming it partly in her mouth.

“How long you been in this abnormal career?” asked Jared.

Lyndy used the fingers on one hand, counting up from the year of her brother’s passing. Her mouth was full of chewy bacon.

“Oh for goodness sake!” interrupted Dr. Stork. “Can you please stop interrogating her.” Though all had been taking turns asking questions, it was clear Annabel’s scolding had been directed foremost to Jared. “She’s only just arrived. You don’t do this to every new guest. Why her?”

Meekly Jared, and everybody else, bowed their heads. “Sorry,” he said.

It was downright impressive how easily Dr. Stork could shut down a man like Jared. Bending her neck to meet Annabel eye-to-eye, Lyndy nodded to indicate she was okay with all the questioning. She grinned to Jared Warner. “Will you pour me more coffee?” He obliged, sending the carafe wrapped in linen The Spitfire’s direction. “Mr. Chan used to sum things up this way. On a quiet afternoon he was sweeping the floors, listening to a playoff game on the radio, and the front door bursts open. An angry ex-con wielding an axe starts busting up the place, cuts the desk nearly in half, and Mr. Chan has to fend him off with the push broom. True story.”

Wade and Ben smiled. Jared had taken to intermittently chucking table scraps into the open mouth of Ruby. Seated with a cross-eyed gaze fixed upon him, Ruby drooled in anticipation of the next morsel, tail pounding on the floor. Annabel clearly didn’t approve of Jared feeding her dog this way, but was giving him a pass on the matter.

The young Ben, who’d been largely mute to this point, cleared his throat. He pointed north, the direction of the highest elevation, speaking mainly to the boss. “I was talking to Chase at Danny Carson’s place this morning. He lost three of his lambs, thinks it’s coyotes or poachers maybe. But he also told me he witnessed Siberia drinking at a cattle guzzler couple nights back. No doubt in his mind, even from a distance.” At the mention of the name the air in the room became hushed and somber again. “You hear anything about that?” Mr. Evans seemed interested, waiting to see Jared’s reaction.

Lyndy sipped her coffee, listening, fly-on-the-wall style.

Almost defiantly, Jared Warner scooted his chair back. Snatching up his hat rising quickly, he moved to the picture windows. Staring out at his mountaintop kingdom he appeared to be hiding his face. Folks round the table remained silent, Annabel included.

Lyndy continued stabbing at fried potatoes with her fork, though her stomach had long since run out of capacity. Jared sniffed, twisting the hat into position. “Danny Carson ought to purchase himself a pair of donkeys. Them suckers fight dirty.”

“Is Siberia … a wolf?” Lyndy inquired. The way they were speaking made it seem the only logical explanation. Yet everyone at the table laughed.