Bat At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s a serious question, why is getting a tattoo removed so much more painful than getting a new one put on in the first place?

Last time she took a spin by Darrel’s old address nothing hinted of its former splendor, only empty windswept acres—and I mean bare earth. The entire hillside had been flattened, prepped for new construction with bulldozers. Presumably all the valuable items were taken, sold, remainder hauled off to a dump. She couldn’t even be sure of that outcome—the Wards all but erased. Only photos and her fading memories, were proof of what had been.

She located the tavern across from a dollar store, in an older, sixties-era strip mall. Tiny wire-reinforced windows glowed yellow and blue, fogged from humidity. Their blinking sign out front advertised slot machines, tequila and video poker—in that order. Perfect. All her favorite vices collected in one convenient stop. Far cry though from the classiest establishment, and definitely not a place catering only to twenty-somethings. She held a grudge against those modern top-floor nightclubs, where people treated her like somebody’s grandma who wandered away from a home.

From the outset, there were a handful of other positives. Hers wasn’t the only nor the ugliest vintage hooptie in the lot. That honor went to a seventies-era F-100 with camper shell, a bit like the one Edward Abbey used to drive.

She could hear loud country-rock music. She didn’t see her pal Ben yet, but also didn’t know the type of car he drove—or for that matter, whether he drove. He seemed like a Mercedes type of guy. Maybe?

By the looks of an overcast sky, lit from underneath by the dazzle of the strip, rain was on its way; plus her wrist joints were achy.

Even at what some might call mature age, a nervousness still swept over her prior to meeting new people or being in large groups. A kind of social anxiety. Funny because most folks would assume anybody nicknamed “The Spitfire” would be a natural extrovert. But not the case. Her inherent confidence and assertive qualities meant nothing. She’d always been an introvert, preferring the solitude of a humble desert dwelling, another reason she mostly lived alone.

Maybe those people inside would pick her apart?

She swiveled the side-mirror, checking her makeup, though it didn’t help much. She dabbed on purple lipstick, wishing her hair weren’t so short and wiry. She remembered a time when it was flowing like a fox’s tail, as on that road trip with Rita, later achieving “hair band” proportions when permed in the eighties.

You know bad hair days? I’ve been having one for about a decade and a half.

She touched up her cheeks with blush, but the rest of her wasn’t going to change. Reaching for her purse she slammed the car door.

Stepping her way toward the entry, she noted the volume on the honky-tonk music had notched up a tick. Along the alley a trio of motorbikes were parked. They were the laid-back touring types, with leather tassel on the handles. She used to fear those; reminded her too much of a certain notorious gang led by a man named Wallach. But that was a long time ago. Now it was over-the-hill white-collar males like tax accountants who bought those, mostly because they felt they’d squandered their youth working a crap office job.

Inside, the bartender smiled; he had old-school gold and silver tooth caps. He was about her same age, sanitizing a beer glass by squirting it with hot water. His gelled and slicked back hair was a mixture of gray and brown.

“Welcome. My name’s Nate.” He had a deep, former smoker voice, but in a sexy non-trailer park way. Colorful tattoos, the kick-ass kind, adorned both his arms. “What’s yer name young lady?” The words rolled smoothly off his tongue and she had a feeling this grungy dude could charm the spots off a leopard.

Was nice to be noticed for a change, even if all he was after was a tip. Across the room, a younger female tended bar facing the opposite side. Hers was busy. She seemed to have the same personality as Nate though.

Lyndy chuckled, cracking a grin like a teenager. “Lyndy.”

He stared back with hypnotic eyes. “Now there’s one you don’t hear every day.”

“You ever meet another Lyndy?” she quizzed.

“Oh sure, once in a blue moon. At least one I can picture her face. She worked in a tattoo parlor. Nice girl.” 

He set a napkin in front of her while The Spitfire climbed onto a barstool, set her elbows on the oak top. “What’s good here?” A three-quarter full bottle of Herradura commanded the cat bird’s seat of the shelf. But alas, she couldn’t afford it. Her chin sank a bit lower.

“You like martinis?”

She nodded affirmative, clearing her throat.

“Bacon martinis are a specialty here. Unless you’re one of them hippy chicks who doesn’t eat pork or red meat? Nothing wrong with that.”

Lyndy shook her head. “No, sounds great. Gimme a bacon martini.” Then she lifted her purse, resting it on her lap. Not to be too judgey, but it seemed like the sort of joint where her wallet might do a Houdini act—and it so happened she had a fat wad to protect.

Blues music came on the stereo.

“Remember when you could smoke in a bar?” she commented.

Nate chuckled. “Remember when bars were fun?”

A couple were dancing on a small sunken dance floor; she watched them as she waited. Here’s a mind-boggling nugget from a different era: in the seventies, Catherine used to dance in her waitress uniform—she could twirl like an ice skater—in between waiting tables at The Vanishing Point. And it didn’t seem strange. Nowadays that would be weird.

Nate slid her a martini and she took a first salty sip.

“Hey there,” came a voice from behind, Ben Cardenas having a seat at the bar. “Saw yer car out front.”

From under the counter Nate retrieved a square bottle of reposado. Another brand she couldn’t afford. He set the bottle in front of Ben and placed two shot glasses; one for him and presumably one for her. Then he deftly plucked the cork.

“Oh boy. I should warn you guys, I’m not wearing my life alert. If I go down its all on the line.” She had to yell to overcome the volume of the music.

Ben and Nate chuckled, as well as a couple other men who’d somehow materialized in the group.

“Can you all do me a small favor? I’m looking to have a conversation with anyone who’s recently worked at the Zohara Ranch jobsite; totally anonymous.” She sipped more of the martini, while everyone held their tongue. “Any of those dudes come here?”

“From time to time, yeah. Who should I say is looking?” Nate asked. “You?”

Lyndy first pondered that one. It was a key turning point in a sanction such as this. “Why don’t you tell em it’s the old chick who drives the white fastback Mustang.” She reached in one of the side pockets on her purse. “If they can’t find me, they can call this number and ask for Rhonda.” She slipped a calling card for Rhonda’s Mountain View motel.

Ben stood up, bracing against a vertical post and scratching his back like a contented grizzly on an old tree. With his thumb he pointed to The Spitfire, speaking to Nate. “I’ll tell you, it’s a fact man. Lyndy was the hottest thing on four wheels back in the seventies and eighties.”

Lyndy made a funny face, adding, “Well, if you’d known me … all I can say is … I thought I was.” She said it humbly, letting her words trail off and gazing downward. “You bet I was. Me and Rita both,” she pondered.

But she regretted her vanity and arrogance.

“Oh god,” voiced Lyndy, her eyes squinting hard. Hastily she began fanning her face.

“What’s up?” Ben asked.

“Don’t look at me. I think I just burped bacon infused vodka.” Everyone chuckled again.

---

Several tequilas later …

So engrossed in her video poker game she was, she hardly noticed the cute, brown-haired youngster who dashed in. But she very much noticed when the girl shouted across the crowded bar: “Mom, what the hell!”

Through bleary eyes all she could tell was the girl was dressed in a blue and white pizza delivery uniform, approximately the correct height and profile to be Maribel Ellis.

“Are you nuts or something!” Maribel exclaimed, coming closer.

Ears were pretty bad too, but she knew the fun was over.

“Crapola.”

Maribel reached for Lyndy’s arm, literally yanking her from the stool.

Her balance was completely wrecked. Lyndy spun around like a top, nearly collapsing, pointing shakily to the poker game. “This machine … is hot! I .. I .. have a good hand.”

Maribel collected up her purse. Speaking to the bartender she asked, “how much does she owe?”

“Mari, I’m paid up,” Lyndy argued, waiving her daughter off, but still too dizzy to move on her own accord.

“Wow, is that yer daughter,” Lyndy heard a rough man say. “She’s really cute.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” demanded Maribel.

“Go where?”

“Anywhere but here,” answered Maribel, escorting her to the door.

“Geez, you’re embarrassing me!” said Lyndy.

“What you just said is stupid on so many levels,” scolded Maribel, pushing their way through two sets of doors.

Seated in the Honda Civic, smelling of hot bread and cheese, things did start to seem a little more absurd. “I mean, how were you gonna get home?” Maribel asked, her voice calmer, hands on the wheel. “Seriously, how?”

Sighing, Lyndy looked around. It was raining hard all of a sudden. You could hear the drops pounding on the roof. Rain in Las Vegas? It was an anachronism, especially a cold soaking Pacific storm like this. “I dunno,” she replied.

Maribel exhaled, shaking her head in frustration. “I have a friend, lives in LA most of the year. I think she’ll let us crash at her timeshare for the night.”

Sinking lower in the passenger seat, Lyndy whispered, “How did you locate me?”

“Rhonda texted me; asked where you were. When I didn’t know, she suggested I start calling seedy bars in this area.” Maribel glanced at her phone, the digital display on top glowing blue with the time. “The goats needed feeding, but Les said he’d do it for you.” Les worked for the same farm which owned the goats.

Lyndy had newfound respect for young Miss Thurgood, her intuition and her craft. She stared at the windshield, beads of water holding the neon light, sliding down when they got too heavy. In her left hand she began stacking several layers of those thin paper restaurant napkins—ones with the pizza place logo—then holding them to her face, blew her nose.

Mari twisted the key and the oddly configured Honda wipers sprang to life, skating side to side. Her phone buzzed with new text messages.

“Okay, waiting for folks to come to me is taking too long. But I do have an idea. To make it work we need to enlist the help of Rochelle,” she said, bobbing her head. “Rochelle Bishop will know how to get into that enclosure.”

“What?” asked Maribel, dropping the trans in gear. “You aren’t making sense. We need to get you some water and straight to bed.”

“Mrs. Aloyan said something curious and it’s been bugging me ever since—takes a lot these days to keep me up at night. Her husband had been missing since a car accident. Something about a secret which cannot easily be erased.” Lyndy rubbed her arms together, suddenly feeling a chill. “It’s like a movie I’ve seen before, but can’t recollect the title or the actors.”

Maribel looked at her funny. “Mom, how can you possibly contemplate work now?” She twisted all the knobs on the Honda’s AC system, attempting to defog the windows.

“I don’t have a toothbrush,” Lyndy complained.

“How sad. And I had to end my shift early to come rescue you! My own mom.” Maribel backed the car up, pointing the nose so they were idling near the sidewalk. “Fine. This night can’t get any more ruined.” She shrugged. “So how? How do we find Rochelle Bishop?”

“She runs a fortune telling shop in this part of town. I just can’t remember what street.” Lyndy glanced around. “Hmmm. Maybe we can find a phonebook or something.”

“Ha!” Maribel rolled her eyes, laughing. “Right. Or we could use the GPS I have for the home deliveries.” She pointed to a colorful gadget suction cupped above the dash.

“Oh. Great idea. Can you work that thing for me?”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. What do we punch in?”

“Rochelle …. well … she’s kind of a psychic. I remember it being a little white building with two other shops. Had one of those neon crystal ball looking things in the window.”

Maribel rubbed her eyes with her palms, then grabbed hold of the gadget. “So, fortune telling? Rochelle …”

Lyndy shut her eyes, letting her head rest against the passenger seat. “Yeah, that’s good. Actually, you know, try this: Nola Jones Fortune Telling. That was her stage name.”

---

Ten minutes later …

The tiny row of shops was only a mile and a half from the strip. As they drove through town the streets had emptied out, traffic non-existent. Had it not been for the awful weather, hordes of people would still be out walking. Most nights, life didn’t slow down here until 2 am. Yet everyone with a place to go had retreated to the casinos or their hotel rooms. Water was pooling in some of the intersections, flowing in the gutters. Where did the winos go on a cold night like this?

She could remember when the Hilton seemed impossibly large, looming like the Hoover Dam. And 600 rooms, how could you fill that night after night? But now there were ones with over 5000 rooms and even grander hotels in the planning stages.

Sometimes it seemed as though nothing could stop this juggernaut; certainly not a lack of water, or land, or electricity or workers. Year after year it expanded, or regenerated itself from the middle outward. All these glass monoliths. What is something that can’t be easily erased, but would scare a fat cat developer?

She must have dozed off for a few minutes. When she opened her eyes, she saw the sign buzzing in the window: “Fortune Teller”. Beneath it, hard to read in cursive, Nola Jones. They were parked right in front.

“Mom, this place is super weird,” said Maribel, rubbing lotion on her hands.

Feeling a bit more sober, Lyndy took a sip from a plastic water bottle pulled from the door pocket. She looped the strap of her purse over her head.

Maribel pointed to the clock on the radio. “It’s eleven forty-five at night. How do you know she’ll be here?”

“Meh. It’s Vegas. That’s like seven o’clock most places.”

“Okay. But there’s no open sign. I guess fortune tellers don’t go to bed.”

“She’ll know we’re coming,” joked Lyndy.

“Then why doesn’t she pick the numbers on the next lottery,” muttered Mari.

Stepping into the downpour they rushed for the single door, Maribel pushing on the metal handle, hoping it would be unlocked. And it did open, with the clang of a bell.