Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever buy something at a Fry’s Electronics store? It’s like, yeah, we’re gonna let you checkout, but first here’s a mile long tunnel of sugary delights, tempting you with every candy variety known to humankind.

She was an attractive woman, in a modern and euro-centric sense; Lyndy estimated no older than thirty-five years, with dark hair and brown eyes. On her wrist, a pink ladies Rolex.

First impression: this is the type of person who grocery shops at Whole Foods.

“Step into my office,” spoke Lyndy grandly, a little joke as she held the springy screen door for Mrs. Aloyan. Following her in, Lyndy ascended the set of three stairs padded with a kind of blue astro-turf material—which flexed—as they entered the single-wide trailer.

With an open palm, Lyndy invited Mrs. Aloyan to squeeze into a seat at her table; it only accommodated two. Meantime Lyndy opened the fridge, where she knew a pitcher of cold iced tea awaited. Raising the plastic pitcher she gestured to Mrs. Aloyan, but the lady shook her head. The metal bench creaked as she eased down. Not because she was heavy, rather, everything with the trailer creaked.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening,” spoke Mrs. Aloyan, with no feeling whatsoever.

“Yeah … well my plans of watching Nick-at-Nite and drinking alone are ruined,” replied Lyndy facetiously. Mrs. Aloyan didn’t laugh.

She wore a simple gold wedding band on one hand, vastly overshadowed by its flashy neighbor, a one-and-a-half carat diamond ring. Some might call it gaudy, but she’d expected no less for a person who drove a hundred-thousand dollar SUV.

Seated at the small travel lunch table, Mrs. Aloyan’s gaze fixed straight ahead at nothing but a wall and Lyndy’s Arizona Highways calendar hanging flat. Her countenance was grim but also calm, indicative of intelligence. With her finger and thumb she twice gripped the white-gold colored ring, rocking it gently back and forth by a quarter turn. Otherwise both of her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Observing this, Lyndy stood on her toes, stretching for the highest cabinet to recover a pint of tequila. She placed two shot glasses on the table. Momentarily Lyndy wondered if this woman might be Muslim, and thus refuse the offering. But no refusal came, so she deposited a half-inch of amber liquid in each glass, knowing it was not a fine tequila, but the best she could afford on dwindling savings. The woman downed it as if the trailer were a crummy night club.

Lyndy took a seat across from her, studying Mrs. Aloyan’s facial expression. So far no introductions had been made, nor a reason provided for Mrs. Aloyan being here. Ready to break the ice, Lyndy was beaten to the punch as the woman abruptly inhaled.

“I know a lady in Tucson. People respect her like royalty; come to her for advice. So I told her about my problem.” Mrs. Aloyan paused, breathing deeply. “My problem,” she repeated. Lowering her head, Mrs. Aloyan ran fingers through her length of brown hair, then redid the buttons on her coat, tying the belt in front. After stalling, she continued, “this friend says you have an ability to bring powerful and evil men to their knees, and you can help me.”

“Alrighty,” said Lyndy, with hands stuffed in the pocket of her sweater, unsure how to respond to that. Because maybe it was accurate, or maybe it was overselling accomplishments a great deal. The legacy of her two former employers, The Lovelace Corporation and Chan’s Bail Bonds, was a mixed bag at best. Though people often spoke of them in grandiose terms.

“Could you expand on that a little?” Lyndy requested.

Mrs. Aloyan nodded. “My husband is, or was, a successful construction contractor. That’s why we have all this … material stuff.” She was tilting her head toward the car parked outside. “But because we are different, people often treated us like we’re some kinda reality television show couple. It’s not fair. He is not a joke. He is a good, honest man, with a kind heart.” A tear, forming in her right eye, glimmered in the light. “He didn’t deserve this. Doing the right thing mattered to him.”

It can be a challenge to determine if somebody is lying. But there’s a certain tone of voice, a look in a person’s eye and tortured body language. Those three traits in combination, you just can’t fake. Mrs. Aloyan, despite her affluence had a candidness, and Lyndy was convinced what she was hearing now must come from a place of truth. Whether the lady would leave out important details, that was the only danger.

“He was working on a new casino—huge contract. It’s off strip, Zohara Ranch, ten miles north and west of downtown.” She sniffed. “The concept for this one is to generate a fresh image, attract a different type of client. The sort of young people with venture capital money, and who see themselves as evolved, lacking a palate for the old-style Vegas ways.”

“I know the type.” Those were the same kids who wanted to fix up her janky Mustang.

“I know he was stressed.”

“What do mean?”

“We stopped … being intimate. I’m certain he wasn’t cheating either. Just lost his drive. That’s when you know a man is stressed.”

“Can’t say I disagree,” replied Lyndy. She tilted the shot glass into her mouth.

“A month ago on a Tuesday I get this phone call in the middle of the afternoon. It’s from the police. Something terrible happened. I ask them, is my husband okay? Is he hurt? Is he at the hospital? They wouldn’t answer. Said they were sending someone to pick me up.”

“So I arrive at the scene and it’s my husband’s BMW alright. Halfway on a curb, partially wrecked, pushed up against a fencepost. And there’s blood on the driver’s seat—splattered on the steering wheel. A lot. He’d been in an accident, but also a struggle. Looked like somebody ran him off the road, then pulled him from his car.”

“So your husband could still be alive?”

Mrs. Aloyan nodded. “Sometimes I allow myself to believe it. I have hope. Like one day, he’s going to contact me. Perhaps he’s living somewhere off grid …  in Mexico. He had to hide out, but he has an explanation and he’s sending for me. It’s been over four weeks. That’s most likely a fantasy. But it’s a good fantasy.”

Lyndy slouched, resting against the wall while staring at a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Reaching down, she slipped off her work boots, allowing her feet to relax and breathe a bit—hoping Mrs. Aloyan wouldn’t notice how stinky they were. “Look I hate to do this, but you came to me. This isn’t like … a therapy session.”

The two ladies locked eyes. “What are you implying? You don’t believe me?” Though hardly detectable before, an accent was coming through more and more.

Casually Lyndy waved her hand, then shoved her palms back in her pockets. “No, no, it’s not that at all. To tell the truth Mrs. Aloyan, you don’t seem very sad.”

“How would you know what I’m feeling?” she challenged.

Lyndy pressed her lips together and shrugged. “I think you’re honest. You just strike me as angry more than anything.”

Mrs. Aloyan’s chin sank, as though guilty of not mourning her husband enough.

“What did the investigators say to you?”

“Confidentially, they’re suspicious he faked his own death.” She sighed in frustration. “Like, to get away from me, responsibilities and our life. They think he would do that.”

“Would he?”

“I don’t know anymore. That’s why I’m angry. But I do have another theory, which if correct, would prove why my husband was murdered. It’s what I’m asking you to investigate. I believe his crew discovered something of significance buried on that construction site, and my husband wasn’t comfortable moving forward. It happened before on a smaller job, and there were months of delays. Plus additional expenses.”

Lyndy narrowed her focus; now she was intrigued. “You’re gonna have to give me a little more to go on.”

“It’s all I can figure. You know, like fossils or important Native American artifacts. Or, or, radioactive materials.” Mrs. Aloyan slid a folded over check across the table. “It’s half the money up front. I promise it’ll clear.”

Eyeballing the paper rectangle, Lyndy pawed it across the table into her clasp, lifting an edge as if checking her hand in a game of blackjack.

“There’s something more. Let’s say my husband is deceased, then I absolutely know who killed him. If you can bring the developer, Malcolm McNair to justice, I will give you another $30k.” Lyndy recognized the name of a prominent hotel magnate. His company was McNair holdings. From following Clark County news, word was he’d earned an unsavory reputation in the sense that much of his real estate investments were in timeshares and other tarnished sectors of the business world. People like The Spitfire would never rub elbows with such a tycoon, except in some back alley speakeasy where no one had a name—or an AA meeting perhaps.

“That second part of the agreement will be kept between you and me. I won’t mention it to Rhonda Thurgood. Just a straight up bonus. The first part—proving my theory—that’s the original $30k.”

With 30 grand on the line Lyndy hated to talk a potential client out of it. Still, she was unable to hold her tongue. “Of course I’ll take the job, but you do have to realize. If you’re correct—there’s something of significance in the ground—then … I mean … they would have covered it up or destroyed it. Am I right?”

Mrs. Aloyan tilted her head to one side. She’d considered this too, but answered confidently: “What if it’s something which can’t be easily erased?”

---

The next morning …

A giant corner bank LED display was flashing two percent interest rate on CDs and a temperature of 36 degrees F. Somewhere close by, a woodpecker, unhindered by winter cold hammered away, likely searching for burrowed insects. Alas her eyes were no longer sharp enough to spot it.

Why does it seem birds never get cold?

Yawning and shivering in the strip mall parking lot, Lyndy pulled a thrift store sweater over her shoulders and tight around her body. Her metabolism certainly didn’t bring the heat anymore. She knew at last why old people favored waterbeds.

Slipping her thumbs through cutouts in the sleeves, she let the tops of her hands remain covered in yarn. Far off in a swirl of mist and city’s worth of chimney smoke, she could see the blue profile of the San Francisco peaks, upper reaches blanketed in week old snow. Spikey triangular outlines of pine trees stuck up like cake decorations along the ridges. When she was younger those mountains fascinated her, appearing sacred and mysterious. She pictured them as an untouched sanctuary from modern civilization, in the way she imagined Mount Fuji to be. But up close they have mining roads all over, broad ski runs, even mountain bike trails. They’re sacred for sure, but not to everyone. And certainly every inch well explored.

Beside a brick planter box, the white fastback had its front hood propped, looking a little downtrodden and pathetic. Working with the sun at her back she squinted, attempting to resolve the oil level on the dipstick by observing a series of hash marks. She scraped at these with a thumb nail. Then she wiped it down with a rag, tilting it so it reflected a rainbow spectrum, knowing more was needed. By her feet, a row of silver-colored plastic oil cartons. Another joy of classic car ownership.

It was a glorious new day, still not dead, and alas she was without a funnel as she uncapped a quart of fresh motor oil. Keeping a steady hand—despite the shivers—she directed the syrupy flow at a narrow throat in the engine block, managing to send the majority down the chute. But it wouldn’t be too noticeable if her aim was off. Her main concern was not to gunk up the mall parking lot, or waste any of the precious commodity. To think, somebody put this contraption together in 1967 and with no major rebuilds, it still powered the car.

Alas, whenever you need a funnel, you won’t find one to save your life.

She sniffed her runny nose, wiping it up and down on her sleeve while letting the plastic bottle drain to nothing. A whole quart. Once finished she tossed this empty in the garbage, bringing the remainders back to the trunk, saving them for future top-offs. With the Ford shored up for the time being, she tightened the oil cap and replaced the dipstick. Then she allowed the hood on its creaky hinges to slam. Time for a light and healthy breakfast.

She circled back around to the trunk, where The Spitfire had a stash of food items she’d obtained on deep discount. Here’s a life tip: there’s typically a rack at the rear of the supermarket—by the entrance to the loading dock for example—where they dump clearance food close to expiring. It’s crap nobody wants. They keep it hidden so you may have to ask. The prices are often written in sharpie. But as long as the date hasn’t passed, you’re probably good. And you can save a fortune on food if you aren’t picky. The Spitfire had given up on being picky about the year 1988.

The only drawback is it can be embarrassing to shop there, so you might need to visit early in the morning.

Climbing onto the hood she removed a pair of near expiration low-calorie yogurt cups from a paper sack; better for you than Lucky Charms cereal. Settling in facing the highway, she let her cowgirl boots dangle off the front fender. This way she could watch big rigs as she scooped strawberry yogurt with a plastic spoon. Struggling with the grade, one of those red logging trucks downshifted on the highway and let out a puff of black smoke.

Behind her she could hear kids giggling. For some reason she expected they were laughing at her. Her dented car perhaps. Or the image of a skinny old woman in a crocheted sweater, with short-cut patchy white and black hair. Probably thought she looked like a witch. She twisted at the hips to confront them, but it was something entirely mundane: a puppy. One of those French bulldogs with a purple collar. People called them “Frenchies”.

She’d forgotten again, most people didn’t see her.

The two kids had the little black dog on an eight-foot leash, and as they rolled a ball it snorted and tried its best to chase the ball down. The silly dog with a head and ears too large for its body, kept tripping on its own feet. That’s why the children were giggling. Their mom with a minivan was watching them, talking on a phone. A family taking a break on the road to some other state. She could remember her daughter being their age; Maribel would have loved playing with the puppy. Because she made friends easily she would have marched right up to the other kids, asking their names. Maribel always wanted a dog.

Lyndy turned back to the highway, continuing to spoon the yogurt. Scraping the bottom of one of the cups, she tasked her mind to formulate a plan. From the front pocket of her purse, Lyndy retrieved bifocals and the folded over check. Written in an amount of $15k, it bore the printed names of Mr. and Mrs. Aloyan. Their address she recognized, a fancy street of million dollar Spanish style homes in north Vegas. She held it up to the light. It had a watermark of a flying eagle and the bank logo. The ink signature of Mrs. Aloyan was firm and crisp. Everything seemed legit. Lyndy folded up her glasses and put them away.

Sometimes when she received a check of this nature, she tried to block it from her mind, not considering it real until the total value showed up in her account. She would attempt to cash it today. Something told her this one would go through. Mrs. Aloyan had promised another thirty, and she wouldn’t even tell Rhonda about the bonus. Yet that part seemed like a total moonshot. If Chan were here, he’d scoff at her, compare the job to a wild goose chase. But Rhonda was different, seeming to have no preference as long as her people got paid. And it was alright with Lyndy because she felt the same way, happy to take Mrs. Aloyan’s dough; would fill many prescriptions among other things.

She braced herself with one hand. The sun was warming her weary bones, the sugary yogurt restoring her like an electric vehicle charger, making her feel alive. Her strength was returning, not as it stood in her twenties, but good enough. Her thoughts drifted next to the kooky Lovelaces.