Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Lyndy Life Observation: If aliens exist and are monitoring our TV signals, I sincerely hope they do not watch those “Real Housewives of …” shows, or anything with the Kardashians.

Even with the damage the fastback was still chugging along.

Her neck was tender and sore. Glancing in the car mirror, Lyndy saw it had turned purple. This horrific appearance would be difficult to explain; she’d need to get somewhere she could cover up with makeup. That meant a speedy return to the trailer.

She needed a good long nap too.

But at this point these were minor concerns. She had two primary unknowns weighing on her: one, would they learn about and try to search the Vegas storage unit. Second, would they locate and ransack the airstream trailer. She didn’t want casino goons to trash her only safe haven. It wasn’t easy to find—that was on purpose. And yet, Mrs. Aloyan had somehow managed. Either scenario, they would not find what they were looking for.

Her exhaustion made the long dry stretch over the dam and through the Golden Valley area much less enjoyable. Lyndy used to do her best thinking on desert drives, but in this case her mind was too foggy. She didn’t even feel like eating. She cracked the window, letting cool air blow on her hair. Helped her to stay awake.

Pulling up to the trailer, she saw a note had been taped to the screen door, too distant to decipher from the car. Otherwise the trailer seemed peaceful. Stepping out, she inspected sets of tracks in the dirt. The bald tires of Lester’s farm truck showed he’d been here, but no others in the last couple days. At least no one with a nice car.

Stepping up, she yanked the square paper and moved it to the tip of her nose, allowing her to resolve the letters: “Miss Thurgood tells me she needs to see you as soon as possible.” It was Les’s handwriting.

Ugh. Not good. Lyndy crumpled the note, shoving it in her jeans pocket.

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Later that afternoon ….

The nap helped her rejuvenate—and so did a hot meal from a truck stop.

She arrived at the Mountain View to find the motor court rather bustling. Puffs of smoke emanated from the chimney at the cardroom. Their “No Vacancy” sign visible from the highway had been switched on and a number of late model vehicles packed the lot. Many were middle-class SUVs, some with skis, likely on their way to the big resorts. Lyndy rapped on the door to the back office, but this time nobody answered.

Sipping from a straw poked in the lid of a big gulp, Lyndy threw a scarf around her neck, then ambled around back to the refurbished pool area. This liver shaped oasis was framed by picturesque ponderosa pines, flanked by a concrete courtyard offering lounge seating and round patio tables. The afternoon weather was pleasant, but with the pool unheated and basically closed for the season, only a smattering folks were relaxing, drinking beers and enjoying the day.

Among them under an umbrella sat twenty-something Rhonda, studying the screen on a laptop computer and occasionally pecking the keys. Next to this her mobile phone, a stack of magazines and what appeared to be a kale smoothie. A colorful Cosmo mag was open to the middle and folded over.

Though she barely knew the girl, Lyndy had decided Miss Thurgood was a fascinating subject worthy of future study. Took a lot to pique her interest, but anybody Rhonda’s age in this business had to be strange. She also wanted Rhonda to like her.

Rhonda’s daytime outfit consisted of pedal pusher pants, those retro-looking cat-eye glasses, sneakers, a scoop neck shirt and hair done up in black curls. In spite of the nerdiness of how it sounded, she managed to pull it off stylishly. And seeing her in this light revealed just how young she was. Across from Rhonda, a sizable man in shades who for some reason reminded Lyndy of a cross between a football lineman and the fictional Marsellus Wallace—the scene where he’s on an old-school cordless by the pool in Pulp Fiction. Presumably the intimidating dude was either a bouncer or even chiller, her personal bodyguard. Imagine being 28, owning a hotel, a gas station, a sketchy card room and a loan shark business.

Nervous Rhonda may be upset with her, Lyndy approached her table patiently, hanging back and waiting to be acknowledged before taking up a seat. The bouncer touched Miss Thurgood’s arm to get her attention.

Rhonda had a quick sip from her green smoothie, then waved excitedly to Lyndy. It was a relief. She wanted to be part of the team.

Lyndy plopped the smushed bullet on the table, then scooted up a chair. She smiled to the bodyguard, then reclined back sipping from her big gulp straw and looking to the pool. “So that hunk of metal embedded itself in my engine block. Had to dig it out with pliers, like I was extracting a tooth from an elephant. Could’ve been me.”

Rhonda cocked her head, a look of surprise coming over her. “Wait, for real?” She pinched the bullet between her finger and thumb.

“Don’t worry I’m okay,” professed Lyndy in an exaggerated and comical tone. She made eye contact with the bodyguard and Miss Thurgood. “Just driving all over hell’s half acre for my job.” Lyndy sipped her straw, then adjusted her blouse tighter. “You know, that crew at Zohara Ranch. They are both efficient and insanely protective of their stuff.” Lyndy jerked her head with an intense cross-eyed glare. “Nice spot here,” she added, gesturing to the trees.

“Somebody shot your car?” echoed Rhonda, examining the bullet. “Do you wanna quit?”

“Oh god no,” Lyndy replied. “Being shot at doesn’t bother me. It’s the Mustang that really pisses me off. That original motor has over 250K clicks on it without a rebuild.”

“Must be the same hockey goons who ran Mrs. Aloyan’s husband off the road, and maybe even kidnapped him.”

They were interrupted by shouting. Someone’s ten-year-old had cannon-balled into the pool. Like most motels, the diving board had been removed ages ago due to slip-n-fall jackpot seekers. Probably the child had done it on a dare. His friends were giggling, and so was the kid, as he excitedly splashed in the cold water. He wasn’t a very good swimmer.

Rhonda lowered her glasses, scowling at the kid until he made for the shallow end.

“It occurs to me Mrs. Aloyan might not be entirely trustworthy,” said Rhonda sternly.

“You mean, she is trying to cover her tracks?” questioned Lyndy.

“I’m entertaining those thoughts.”

“Like maybe Mrs. Aloyan actually had her husband killed, and she is trying to throw off the police investigation?”

Satisfied the rowdy kids were under control, Rhonda turned her attention back to Lyndy. “Exactly.”

The Spitfire frowned. “I get it. But thing is, she seemed very sincere when we met. Didn’t look like acting. And I’ve interviewed hundreds of people over the years. It’s remarkable.”

Lyndy was debating just how much to share with her new boss. In particular, whether to expand upon the additional deal Mrs. Aloyan offered, or the ominous detail of the mustang been searched. Should she tell or would it complicate matters? Rhonda seemed like one of those people so clever it was no use keeping secrets. And again, she really liked Rhonda.

“Something else is off. Mrs. Aloyan offered me additional funds for more work.”

“Do tell,” said Rhonda, typing away on her computer.

“Something about bringing the businessman who screwed her over to their knees.”

“Hmmm.” Rhonda pointed to the trucker-size soda cup. “What’s in that drink you have?”

“Red Bull,” Lyndy replied.

Rhonda and her bodyguard gave her a horrified look.

“Just kidding ya’ll, it’s diet coke. I’d be dead,” chuckled Lyndy. “Anyhow, last night I searched all over the basement floor at Zohara, but I couldn’t find anything incriminating. No dinosaur fossils. No spear points. No scrapers. No toxic waste. Nada. No weird anything. Just dirt and rocks and maybe a plant here and there. The succulent plant was a little unusual.”

“How did you get inside?”

“I … well … that’s a trade secret.”

“Okay. Get any good pictures?”

“No. Too dark,” Lyndy lamented.

Rhonda sighed. “You know, Mr. Chan said the thing he liked most about you was you were damn good at tracking people. The best actually.” Her tone of voice had changed to one of admonishment. “What we need to know is where’s Mr. Aloyan. The police say he faked his own death. Did he? Let’s set aside the distractions now and focus on him.”

“Well, how am I gonna do that?” blurted Lyndy. She stared down at the magazine. It was open to a feature titled: Nine Best Tips for Better Romance in a Car. The rest of the print was impossible to read. A quiet moment passed, filled only by birds chirping and distant trucks braking on the highway. She knew Rhonda was waiting on an answer. “Is it why you called me here?” Lyndy asked.

“No. I had a much different question.” Rhonda gripped her computer with both hands and spun it so The Spitfire could have a better view of the screen. It had a browser tab open to a Phoenix newspaper obituary. “Answer me this. Does it bother you any that Rita Lovelace is sending us business referrals from beyond the grave?”

 The screen was blurry. Lyndy shot up straight, then hoisted the whole computer to her face. She positioned it on her chest so she could get right up on the screen. The headline read: Rita Lovelace: Philanthropist, Model and Anthropology Scholar Dies in Plane Crash. The date on the article was 2003. It felt like a ton of bricks, worse than any celebrity death she’d ever heard of. They would have been the same exact age.

Lyndy set down the computer, acting cool, pretending this was not a big deal. “Uh. At this point I’d have to say no. I need work. Keep the jobs coming.”

Rhonda grinned.

“Anyway, you’re probably right about changing tactics,” added Lyndy. 

She’d been ready to expand upon this, maybe seek some advice, but Rhonda’s flip phone started buzzing. Rhonda held up a finger and immediately answered the call. With the phone to Rhonda’s ear, Lyndy overhead one-half of a conversation: “Wait what? What?  … Well listen up, I don’t give a bleep if Jamie doesn’t own a home phone. …. You drive over his hogan, kick in the door, grab him by the nuts and drag him out of bed. Understand me? … What?”

The conversation continued, with Miss Thurgood seeming more and more agitated.

Lyndy shot the bouncer a knowing glance that said, “I’ll be exiting now.” Meekly, Lyndy stood up, pushed in her chair and made a small goodbye hand gesture. Then she jaunted quickly back to the gravel parking area.

Only fifteen miles down the interstate, Lyndy pulled over, veered down a side dirt trail used by hunters. She parked out the way and out of view from the road. She let the dust settle. Then she put her head down on the wheel and sobbed for a good ten minutes. She’d not realized how much she cared.

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Lyndy Life Observation: Watching a hallmark movie has made me think. I can’t recall ever being at a holiday dinner where a cooked goose was served. Plenty of turkeys, sometimes a ham, but never a goose.

The sun was low in the sky.

From the roadside mailbox, Lyndy could tell a car was parked near her trailer. Small, wedge-shaped in profile and dark in color, she reasoned it was Mari’s Honda. Common sense told her hitmen didn’t park out in the open in front of your unoccupied house.

As she came nearer, she could see Maribel dressed in her blue pizza uniform, leaning against the car and staring at her phone. Lyndy smiled.

“Mom, where did all these baby goats come from?” Mari pointed enthusiastically. “This is crazy!”

Lyndy stepped out, gazing at the herd. The herd was looking at her, bleating, like where the hell you been? We want our goat feed. She counted five new babies, just in the last week.

“Uh, I dunno. Good question. Most of the time I can’t even tell when they’re pregnant.” Lyndy made her way to the blue bins containing the pellets, followed close by Mari. With the metal bean scooper she transferred several pounds worth to a smaller mop-size bucket. She handed this one to Mari, and Lyndy filled a second bucket for herself.

“What’s up with you mijita,” asked Lyndy. These days an unannounced visit from her daughter seemed something of a suspicious occurrence. “And thanks for rescuing me the other night. I kinda let things get outta control.”

Mari sniffed, following her mother’s lead. “I almost quit my job today. I hate my boss.”

“Welcome to the joys of adulthood,” muttered Lyndy. She dumped the food into a series of small wooden trays. She’d been instructed not to simply throw food pellets on the bare ground, because the goats were more likely to eat rocks that way. Mari followed in kind.

She looked at her mother in a puzzled fashion. “Huh. I thought you hated scarfs?”

“I like this one,” replied Lyndy curtly.

“I think I want to be an LAPD police detective. They make good money.”

Lyndy shook her head, feeling confused. “Sorry, I thought you said you wanted to be a highway patrol?” Surrounded by eager, head-butting goats, she swiftly dumped the rest of their feed and helped Mari get more.

“I know. I know. I just was reading more about it online.”

Lyndy took a seat in one of her plastic second-hand loungers. “Not to belabor this, but you wanna know why I had so much trouble holding down a steady job when you were little? It isn’t my lack of education. Or that I don’t have a high enough IQ. It’s cause I’m an asshole. I never learned how to stick with anything long term. I’m terrible at it. The slightest provocation or perceived insult and I’d walk away.”

“I just don’t know what to do. I hate school and I’m feeling lost. Weren’t the Hermosillo Martinez’s like a long line of, for lack of a better word, gunslingers. Octavio told me they fought alongside Pancho Villa. They were destined for that kind of work.”

Lyndy bobbed her head side to side while exhaling. “That’s more-or-less correct.”

“So maybe it’s our destiny.”

The Spitfire frowned. “No. I don’t think so.” She poked at her hand-made fire-ring, breaking up chunks of useless ash and preparing to light up a fresh stack of logs. Then she marched thirty yards south to a lazily-arranged woodpile, where she could pick out some dry tinder; she wanted a roaring fire. “But even if what you say were true, you are not a Martinez,” shouted Lyndy. “Which is why that logic doesn’t apply.”

“What am I?” Mari shouted back.

“You’re an Ellis.”

Mari didn’t respond, but folded her arms in a pouty position.

Returning to the firepit, this time armed with shorter sticks, Lyndy added: “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve had time to come to grips with your highway patrol academy idea. And I actually support it. I meant to tell you that. If there’s still time to apply, I think you should.”

“I wish it started now,” Mari complained. “Less time to think.”

Lyndy put a hand on Mari’s knee. One more thing I need to tell you. “We can hang out tonight if you want. But after this, next three or four days, I need you to stay in town. Don’t come visit me unannounced, okay?”

“Why? Are you in trouble?”

She tilted her head. “Don’t worry too much. But when I got back to the Mustang, I found that someone had searched it.” Lyndy intentionally left out the sniper part. “And those same people might be coming here.”

“What were they looking for?” asked Maribel.

She could see on her daughter’s face, she probably could make an educated guess. “They were looking for a gun.”

“Like a pistol or something?”

Lyndy shook her head as she balled up wads of old newsprint. “No. The gun. The one I owned when I worked for Mr. Chan. It’s not here. I don’t have it. But they believe I do—which is good in this case.” She knelt on the ground, holding a lighter while arranging the wads of newspaper under the wood. “If you happen to speak to Rhonda in the next few days, just be aware I never actually got a chance to explain to her why they searched the Mustang. You can trust her. But … uh … don’t trust anyone else.”