Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-14

Lyndy Life Observation: I remember being a kid, pedaling a friend’s Schwinn bike around El Sereno and someone telling me their grandfather went on hundred-mile-long bike rides. The thought was inconceivable, as far away to me as riding to west Texas, as fanciful as launching a sailplane to the moon.

The island-themed waffle hut—connected to the hotel—was visited mostly by families. Gleeful children scampered up and down the aisle by the booths, unable to stay in their seats after devouring chocolate-banana-macadamia nut waffles loaded with syrup and whipped cream. A bell at the cook’s window dinged every half-minute, as new orders were up.

In her fingers Lyndy possessed a coveted invitation. Feeling clever, she turned the stiff card over and over, grinning as her brown eyes met with Graham’s. Embossed on the front, name and address of a pawn shop—Kneed More Dough. On the back, written in blue ink, it said: “Ask for Noll.”

“Noll? That’s what he gave you?” questioned Graham, eager with anticipation.

She and Graham were seated across from one another, occupying a front window booth. Over coffee, she filled him in on the Tibetan flute and her desire to gain access to the rare antiquities auction. Importantly, she left out any mention of the curse.

“Tarner kept insisting he didn’t understand me and I just about gave up on the whole idea. Except when turning his back to depart, he sneakily reached in his pocket and set this on the dessert table. He must think of me as a goober, because his hand lingered for an excessively long time.”

“Maybe we just call the number? What’s the worst that can happen?” Graham had his hat tilted back like he was in the stands of a rodeo. Made him look silly but still attentive.

Lyndy frowned. “Worst that can happen is it’s a police detective, and we look like we’re calling about fenced goods. That would be very bad.”

“Well, I could call. Why would the police bother? It sounds like a real pawn shop.”

“Have you heard of it?”

Graham shook his head no. He pointed to a phone booth in the corner. “I got dimes.”

Lyndy followed him to the booth and they both squeezed inside—so close she could smell whatever aftershave he used—Graham holding his hand on the receiver. With his other hand he slipped a dime into the slot. They argued over who would talk, but when the call was answered it was The Spitfire clearing her throat, compelled to speak.

“Pawn shop! Hello!” came a shout, something like the gruff answer Mr. Chan would have given to anyone reaching CBB in a time of desperation.

“Uh hello, we’re calling for Noll please …” she said, in what she realized was a nervous teenager tremelo.

“Who?” the person replied. The background of the call was a noisy room, rather unlike a pawnshop, more like a factory.

“Noll!” shouted Lyndy, in an authoritative tone this time.

“Oh you want Noll. Noll’s not here. Can I help you?”

Lyndy held out her palm, making eyes at Graham, “what now?”

“When will he be in?” stated Graham. “We really need to speak with Noll.”

A long pause. Some whispers. Finally, sound of a door slamming and footsteps. The phone was handed off.

“Hi folks, I’m Noll,” said a man who sounded like a San Francisco hippy from the sixties.

“Hi, we’re calling about the auction. We want to see a …. preview,” declared Lyndy. “Can we do that?”

“Once chance. Tonight at 8pm. You folks got pen and paper?”

“Miss Lovelace was right,” thought Lyndy.

Graham nodded to Lyndy, fumbling in the tight quarters for a pen attached to a beaded chain. He retrieved it, tearing off a back page of the phonebook to mark it down.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead,” Lyndy said.

And the hippie rattled off an address. Then a click as the line went dead.

“We have a lot of time to kill,” said Lyndy, checking her watch.

Earlier she’d been feeling weary, but a combo of anticipation and youthful resilience somehow reinvigorated her metabolism. At the valet stand, a red Mercedes SL roadster was delivered, which Lyndy surmised belonged to casino management. Saying nothing in regard to this, Graham held the door for her and they rocketed out onto the strip. They went to Circus-Circus first, where Lyndy played a basketball arcade game. In the competition which ensued, she came out victorious more often than Graham, though she suspected him of letting her win. On the other hand, her being in a party dress and sandals was a handicap. Afterward they went cruising in the convertible again.

As a companion and tour guide, Graham was a delight to be around. In addition to being handsome, he patiently listened to her, and had a certain rare calmness which most men his age lacked. This in spite of the fact he had already shared much and she’d told him so little about herself. In the car they must have been up and down the strip 3 times.

Later in the coolness of a small theater, they witnessed a live Carpenter’s concert performance. She’d never been so close to someone on the radio and could practically touch the piano. When they came outside, the sun had set and the skyline illuminated again. For a few moments she forgot about everything and found herself having fun. At last, they made their way to a prime rib house, where everyone including the chef seemed to be friends with Graham.

Later that night …

It had always been fascinating to Lyndy how abruptly the showmanship and elaborate facades transitioned to bland stucco cubes, only a few stoplights west of Las Vegas boulevard. In those days the changeover from city nexus to vacant desert was even more dramatic—happening just beyond the welcome sign at the corner of the McCarran runway. By contrast LA felt endless, a mobius strip of streets and neighborhoods, never reaching an edge.

Still in the shadows of mega-casino towers, walking distance from their hotel, they found the special address. Graham parked on the dusty street, next to a white two-story concrete-walled warehouse with zero landscaping. Judging by other cars—pricey European makes and models—this was indeed the correct location. A lettered sign indicated it was a shag carpet showroom by day. Besides the cars, the only other clue this was an exclusive event was a beefy armed guard in a suit, standing aside the small front entry, smoking.

Rita had warned no photographs would be allowed, and at one time, these were masquerade parties. Some rules had loosened.

She stood arm-in-arm with Graham, using him to balance in her heels. The no-nonsense guard demanded to see their invitation card before they were let inside. For a moment he stared at her purse, but luckily didn’t ask to search it.

Half the first floor, a sample area, had been devoted to public sales. It was chock full of colorful squares: that volcano orange, the lovely green and gold mix. Pretty much all the favs. Beyond this, rolls and rolls of the stuff in racks 12 feet tall. The daytime lights were off and only what shone through from the entry illuminated.

An industrial elevator, the kind with top and bottom doors merging in the middle, took them to the second floor. The darkness of the room and the nature of the elevator made it feel like the start of a ride.

This upper floor had more lighting, but only focused in certain areas, and Lyndy could see other folks strolling. It hosted an expansive office space. The only refreshments provided: makeshift bar across a desk, containing champagne flutes—about fifty of them pre-poured.

Three long cases arranged in a u-shape lined the perimeter walls of the room. Ceiling lights pointed straight down upon these, and the rest of the space was illuminated indirectly. There were no windows. She counted fifteen persons, three couples and the balance on their own; in addition to these several more men who she assumed were armed security guards. Only the couples spoke to one another in hushed tones, but none of the singles uttered a word. They just circulated in a clockwise direction.

The insufficient lighting served dual purposes: to disguise identities and to further discourage indoor photography—would be near impossible to hold a film camera still. 

She nudged Graham, who seemed awestruck by the whole experience. They shuffled to the first case on the left and her eyes were drawn to one item immediately.

Of course, she hadn’t imagined wanting anything here, until Lyndy saw the cat statuette. Wordlessly, she yanked Graham’s arm and looked up at him. She pointed to the 12-inch-high artistic depiction of a black feline with exquisite yellow eyes. “Is …. that what I think it is?” The carving was so accurate it gave the illusion of being lifelike, perhaps watching a rodent hole ready to pounce.

A printed card beside the statuette indicated this 2500-year-old painted statuette was in fact an Egyptian sarcophagus, presumably containing a mummified cat. The minimum asking price was $3000.

“There’s Bastet,” came a spooky whisper from behind. It was Dr. Tarner, seeming to have materialized from a bat in the shadows. But he was seated, one leg crossed over the other, in some carpet seller’s swivel office chair. He’d been smoking in his darkened corner, observing potential buyers. “More accurately, that cat is a gift in the goddesses’ honor.” So much for laying low. “A symbol of discrete, controlled power.”

Graham looked startled.

“I see,” replied Lyndy. Stepping sideways, she and Graham pretended to be interested in the other contents, when in reality she only cared to see if the flute was here. Beside the cat, the case housed a Fabergé egg and a pocket watch. The description for the watch said it was originally owned by J.P. Morgan. Minimum price was $25000.

Next they shuffled behind a couple who was at the center case. This one contained a Stradivarius violin, a bottle of some type of wine or spirit and the wooden flute. She struggled to contain her excitement, pretending to be disinterested. Meantime Tarner had risen from his chair, moving lazily, coming up behind them and trying to butt in.

“What’s your favorite thing here?” inquired Graham. It was a smart tactic, as she knew it would deflect Tarner.

“Easy.” Tarner pointed a shaky fist at a murky bottle of liquor with a faded French label.

“Is it cognac?”

“From Napoleon’s personal stash. By god, that’s 165-year-old bottle!”

“Yuck. Bet that drink tastes like shoe polish by now,” argued Graham.

Lyndy could hardly care about a bottle of nasty booze, but her eyes bugged out when she saw Tarner’s exposed arm. He had a rash. She couldn’t have noticed it while he sat in the corner, but the lights directed onto the sale cases had also fallen across his forearm. And he was wearing a casual shirt. The hairy skin had obvious raised patches, bright red and swollen like a bee sting.

“Dr. Tarner, are you well?” Lyndy asked sympathetically.

Tarned glanced down, yanking his sleeves up to his hands and groaning. “Shingles my dear. Wouldn’t wish this affliction on my worst enemy. Do yourself a favor and never get old.”

Casually she let her gaze fall upon the description for the ceremonial flute. As Rita stated, it confirmed the item was discovered high on the slopes of Nanda Devi. No such flute had ever been found, nor the priest who must have owned it. The minimum price was twelve thousand.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: If you know a place as a child, then return as an adult, so often it appears much smaller than you believed. It’s a peculiar experience. A stone footbridge over the arroyo like a part of a grand medieval castle—I once marveled at that—yet nearby trees, sycamores and eucalyptus, now towered above it. And from a vantage point a hundred yards away, no one would know it existed.

A gold tinted tray holding dirty dishes and hotel mugs, occupied floor space beside the door. At least she’d been eating.

Lyndy sighed. Her heart felt joyous. But pressing the key into the lock, she couldn’t shake the dread of an uncomfortable conversation to come. She knew Rita would be unhappy with her. No one liked to be left out.

The late show was on TV. Miss Lovelace sat legs folded on top of the bed. She pointed the remote and turned down the volume. Two wall sconces plus floor to ceiling windows lit the room softly.

“Where were you?” demanded Rita coldly. She didn’t even look her way, as though shunning her roommate. Somehow the scorn of Miss Lovelace stung more than any ordinary employer. These tender emotions she knew arose only for someone whom she respected and genuinely wanted to please.

“Good news. I made it to the auction preview,” reasoned Lyndy, shutting the door and setting the latch to lock it. “Tarner was there. How is your rash?”

“Itchy,” said Rita. “Worse than a second-degree burn—and I should know.”

Lyndy crept up closer, to the carpeted area separating the queen beds. “I wanted to talk to you about some kind of plan. The flute is there, but it’s heavily guarded—and there were over a dozen other people.” From here she could see Rita’s arms and chest, as all she wore was a tank-top style nightshirt. The red bumps had a certain ashy appearance and for the first time she recognized this. It was the same as the affliction on the arms of Dr. Tarner.

Rita turned her head to face Lyndy, scowling. “What else did you do today?”

“Well … I met a guy last night. And we hung out today. He’s actually helpful.” Lyndy let her leg muscles relax, as she fell backward into the empty bed.

Rita, who must have been expecting it, still seemed furious at the answer. “So you decided, here I am on vacation. Why not have a fun date?”

Lyndy exhaled. “Why should you care? Why are you making a big deal out of it?”

“I’m just glad you’re having a grand old time.” Rita suddenly became animated. “At least someone is.”

Lyndy sat up, glaring at Rita. “How dare you question my loyalty?”

“And you just helped yourself to my clothes.”

“That’s cause you didn’t give me time to pack,” Lyndy answered.

“Are you gonna sleep with him?”

“What kind of a jerk question is that?”

Rita didn’t answer. Faint city sirens filled in the background.

Lyndy breathed deep, running her hands through her hair and thinking how she would need to pack what little she had brought. She shouldered her purse, lamenting the fact she had no car. “Rita, thing is, when I happened to be in a very tight spot in my life. I had no one to lift me up, you and your dad helped. That’s something which means a lot to me. I’ve been nothing but loyal. I’ve sacrificed for you. I’ve put my ass on the line for your family. But I’m not your Latin sidekick who does all the hard work.”

Rita shrugged. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Sometimes it’s what you don’t say to me that means the most.”

“Then I want you to leave.”

“Don’t worry, I’m gettin my stuff. What I was going to tell you is, maybe you were right about the curse. Cause suspiciously, I caught sight of Tarner’s forearm. And he has a rash. He claimed it was shingles. Good luck.”

This had piqued Miss Lovelace’s interest. But in silence Lyndy packed.

“You’re turning into Howard Hughes,” muttered Lyndy, as she pulled on her old cowgirl boots. “Not in a good way.”

With her meager belongings in a grocery sack, she sauntered out onto the strip. Graham was working now. And she didn’t feel like cards, or slots for that matter. Or explaining she wasn’t rich and couldn’t afford to stay at the same level hotel without Rita footing her bill. By cashing out the remaining chips, pooling it with the rest of her money, she could afford to stay at a regular motel. But what was the fun in that? Sometimes it was better snoozing in a rental car.

She paused beneath a sign advertising a show.

She stood for a while, lighting a Newport, watching a woman with a van, selling Navajo rugs to tourists.