Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-17

Lyndy Life Observation: A buddy at the gym twists my arm into playing “middle-age” club soccer for the opportunity to make new friends, meet singles who are of similar vintage. First five minutes of the initial season game, a macho fifty-year-old dude trips, falls down, blows out a knee. I quit after the game.

Perhaps there were worse cities to be down and out, broke and without a place to stay. But right now, she was having trouble thinking of one. Cadillacs, Mercedes-Benz and muscle cars were cruising by, all convertibles, with young people laughing and having fun—holding cocktails in their hands in the back seat. Music loud.

At least she had a pretty view of a runway while she smoked. Out here in the open the breeze had picked up, bringing with it a desert sundown chill—first time she’d experienced it on this adventure. To keep it lit she had to shield her cigarette tip from the biting wind.

As the traffic signal changed red, halting traffic on busy Las Vegas Boulevard, she drifted across the street to an empty sand lot occupied by a solitary brown van. A silver-haired lady was hurriedly securing her display of rugs, lest the wind liberate them and send them gliding to the street like flying carpets. Cleverly she’d setup a pair of bold spotlights, brightening her display for nighttime sales. Lyndy was intrigued, as much by the wonderful patterns and colors, as the small in stature female who sold them.

The lady paused for a moment’s rest on the bumper of her van. Cupped over each arm she wore eye-catching bracelets made of silver and turquoise. To protect from the elements, she pulled a crochet blanket over her torso, wrapping it like a poncho, yet didn’t seem bothered enough to close up shop.

Lyndy studied several quality rugs suspended from a white rope, knotted to the corner of the van and across to a city light pole. “These are magnificent,” commented Lyndy. “Did you make them yourself?”

The woman nodded vaguely. “Valley of Fire in prehistoric times,” she said, meaning the inspiration was that place. “Have you been?” Her voice was soothing and paired with an unusual accent, in a way reminding her of new age folks living at a commune or Big Sur yoga retreat. Her facial features, hard to discern in the shadow of the van, made the rug seller’s age impossible to pin down.

Lyndy shook her head no.

“Come closer,” coaxed the stranger, patting an open spot on the deck of the van. “Get out of the wind.” It was pretty much the only place that didn’t involve bare earth. Lyndy obliged, crushing out her cigarette before taking up a seat.

“You’re a pretty one and young,” said the mysterious woman. “Where are your friends now? They must be having fun.”

Lyndy chuckled.

“Did I say something unusual?”

“Yes. Well, no. What I mean is, I am coming to a conclusion I only have what you would call fair-weather friends.” Lyndy made air quotes when she said the word friend. “Don’t be sad for me though. It’s kinda my lot in life.”

“They will soon wish they treated you with more respect,” replied the lady, in a quality of finality bordering on sinister.

Lyndy frowned. “Uh. What the heck are you trying to say?”

The woman gestured over one shoulder back toward the hotel towers.

From where she was sitting, her view to the strip was blocked by the van. “Maybe I know what you’re implying and I disagree. Rita Lovelace is no old-fashioned relic hunter; she’s actually quite respectful and knowledgeable of indigenous cultures. She cares. On the other hand, she’s a rotten friend and I’m pissed at her.”

The woman sat placidly, offering no retort. And for a moment Lyndy felt she’d been too quick to judge.

Seconds later a disturbing blast thundered in the air, reverberating like a sonic boom, interrupting her train of thought. Though many events could cause such a sound, even a bad car wreck, she knew right away a bomb had gone off. Jumping to her feet and racing to the curb, she saw flames shooting out of the resort tower between the fifth and seventh floors. A black cloud of smoke billowed above, seen as a silhouette against the glowing skyline.

“Oh crud,” mouthed Lyndy, holding her purse slanted across her body and running into the street without waiting for the signal to turn. Cars honked, people shouted, but she made sure only to dodge oncoming traffic. Up ahead sirens started blaring as police cruisers from miles away zoomed to the scene. She knew it was going to be a long night.

By the time she arrived at the hotel portico out of breath, a myriad of panicked guests had begun assembling in haphazard clusters. The winds were still howling. Hotel staff, what few there were, tried desperately to keep a sense of order. Most of the lights were out—only the emergency units shone. Some people were claiming the elevators had stopped working and the stairs were impassable to the higher floors; a circumstance she feared.

Adding to the chaotic scene the obnoxious commercial alarm was sounding; you could hear it plainly from outside. Hotel security guarded the lobby and casino entrances, letting everyone out but not in: a flood of helpless civilians in pajamas, bathrobes, hysterical ladies in curlers. An old guy complaining he’d not been able to cash in his chips.

Though tough to make out in the dark, it appeared all south-facing windows on the sixth floor were blown out. Those anterior windows were structural; having them broken in combo with the fire would weaken the building. Likely the entire floor had been wiped by the force of a blast, thus anyone above remained trapped. Smoke would travel that way too.

She went up onto her toes, searching for the big cowboy hat of Mr. Winsom. Luckily, she spotted it a hundred feet away. He was helping to block traffic trying to turn in, making sure only first responders could enter. She sprinted for him, rushing to his arms—her heart filled with mixed emotion all of a sudden.

“Lyn! Thank god you’re safe,” cheered Graham.

She gazed up into his eyes, pleading for help. “We can’t wait for the ladder truck. Rita’s trapped up there—other people too. We need to sneak in the front or find another way.”

“I was worried you might say that,” replied Graham. “And I suppose there’s no talking you out of it.” Her watery eyes showed the answer.

Indeed, he knew another way, leading Lyndy surreptitiously round the west corner of the casino. A chain-link fence and gate barred rear access to the hotel including all service entrances. They stared at the padlock a moment and he watched as Lyndy inflated her cheeks, squeezing her body sideways between two halves of the loosely fastened gate. She made it look easy. An astonished Graham was forced to scale it, clumsily, but he made it.  

He caught up to Lyndy at the emergency exit, a steel door which led to a landing for the stairs. One would assume folks ought to be spilling out this way, but no one had. And at the same instant they both realized why, their eyes meeting in a knowing glance. The door had been jammed by an axe-handle, minus the blade, wedged between the lever and the asphalt.

Sweeping with her right leg Lyndy kicked the handle away, but the door was still locked.

“Stand back,” said Lyndy, fishing the Beretta from her purse and jerking the top back to arm it.

“Wait, save your bullets, I’ve got a universal,” argued Graham, twirling his big key ring.

Stepping up, he plunged a squarish key into the slot while Lyndy waited ready with the gun. Both knew this scene was no accident. Yet as he thrust the door open, they still expected people to be trapped inside. A whiff of acrid smoke and blast of hot air struck them; the base landing which ought to be crowded, eerily vacant. Only a few tiny emergency lights lit the space.

“I’ve had a bad feeling all afternoon,” whispered Graham.

“Me too,” replied Lyndy. “This caper is orchestrated. Someone wanted to terminate the conference.”

Poking her head in and peering up into the central air shaft she heard heavy footsteps on the metal stairs, a staccato beat of someone descending from the fourth or fifth floor. They were in a hurry. A beam from a flashlight crossed the room and she could tell they were wearing all black, including coverings for their face like a ninja. It even seemed they were holding a cylindrical object across one shoulder. She suspected a rifle.

The Spitfire popped her head back, holding a finger to her lips and pointing upward so Graham knew someone combative was coming. She waved for him to follow, shoving the gun into her jeans as he held on her shoulder.

At the crest of the second flight of stairs the assailant skipped the remainder, hurdled the railing and launched toward them. Catching the man in the shins, Graham rammed his spine against the wall while Lyndy wrestled a rifle from his grip. Immediately a burst of gunfire rained from above. Struggling with the man, Graham punched the sides of his head and jaw—concealed in thick fabric—finally subduing him in a corner; the fellow slumped.

Lyndy disabled the rifle, dislodging and tossing the magazine away, but soon another barrage of gunfire hailed. Ricochets zinged from the cinder walls and cement floor. She pressed herself flat against the side, taking aim at whatever or whomever lurked above. She could only make out shifting patterns. Graham dove for cover on the opposite wall, shielding his face from flying debris and catching his breath.

Crouching in the shadow of the stair landing under protection of a questionable tread, Lyndy steadied her breathing. She concentrated on listening—toughing out the ear-ringing from the gunfire—and attempting to target motion several flights above. The stranger overhead exhibited equal patience. Against the silence she could hear sirens of multiple fire engines now descending upon the scene, and the occasional worrisome cries for help. Folks were trapped.

After a moment’s rest she scrambled up the next flight of stairs, keeping focus on the opposite walls and taking aim three flights above. She paused halfway to the next landing.

Glancing down, she spotted the figure of Graham through a pattern of circular cutouts in the treads. Standing up, he’d begun to chase after her, but even stepping lightly his shoes echoed through the whole shaft. She reset her attention to the zone above. Beyond three flights the upper floors vanished, dissolving in a swirl of smoke. And she knew this would be the biggest obstacle, a toxic miasma of burning hotel crap—like a fire at the dump.

A banshee yell and flurry of foot stomps on the stairs startled Lyndy back to alertness, she knew another attacker was coming. This ninja, though smaller was fully committed—leaping over the railing and aiming for a collision course with The Spitfire. She had only tenths of a second to react. Turning sideways to avoid the kick, she dropped the Beretta, grabbing onto the attacker’s uniform. They landed feet first like an acrobat, managing to steady themselves. They threw a punch and Lyndy leaned back, then elbowed them. Gripping near their waist, she hurled the assailant against the lower wall. She reached down to pick up the gun. At the same time the attacker sprang back with a kick, sweeping under her knees and knocking Lyndy off balance. She fell and slipped downward by three steps.

Graham rushed up, catching the tough assailant by an ankle. They attempted to break free of his grasp, kicking at his hands. As they twisted to impact him with increasing leverage, Graham caught them again, this time at the thigh, applying all his strength to swing them over the railing into the shaft. They hit the solid floor with a thud and remained motionless after.

Lyndy rescued her pistol and hopped back to her feet. Graham offered her a knowing glance indicating he was ready to go, but also happy to stay in second position. Sprinting from landing to landing, The Spitfire kept the gun at the ready.

As feared, the billowing smoke had a powerful affect, awakening a primal revulsion. One had to will themselves against it, as instincts caused every muscle in the human body to seize. Lyndy could think of nothing other than to rip their clothing. She began to unbutton her top.

“Wait,” spoke Graham catching up and squeezing her shoulder again. “I’ll do it.” Hastily he removed his suit jacket, pitching it over the side to ground level. There went two-hundred fifty dollars. Untucking and grabbing the tails of his quality dress shirt, he ripped it into two roughly equal halves. Lyndy tied and secured it around the lower half of her face, covering her nose and chin like a bandana. She helped Graham do the same.

It was then, in the midst of this chaos she noticed the patchy rash developing on Graham’s stomach. She hadn’t seen it earlier at the pool. It occurred to her everyone’s symptoms were newish, having appeared only in the past couple days; made her wonder if her own version of the infection would appear.

“What’s that?” she questioned.

Graham glanced down. “I … I don’t know,” he answered, seeming to have just noticed it. There was no time for additional queries.

Turning upward, facing the next the set of floors swirling in the smoke, Lyndy squinted her eyes. She tried to hold her breath as long as possible, willing herself onward, feeling her way by the railing and the wall. She could hear Graham’s footsteps; he followed close behind. Smoke poured from all the air vents. She continued to hold the Beretta.

After two floors, she hesitated, overcome by a desire to breathe deeply; drowning on land. And as she gasped, she suddenly began to cough. But she felt his strong hand supporting her and she pressed on. They both knew if they paused too long it was game over and the hint of motivation helped them keep moving. Though the coughing continued.

Arriving at the eighth floor, the last accessible by the shaft, they found this door blocked. Again on purpose the lever had been jammed with a sturdy two-by-four which Graham deftly kicked away. The Spitfire ran the back of her hand along the edges of the door, testing for heat at the seams and praying there wouldn’t be a wall of flame. They could resist no longer and she twisted the lever, letting it burst open with a blast of air. Fortunately, on the other side the smoke wasn’t as blindingly thick.

Packing the hall were a dozen frightened guests. Graham took charge but Lyndy wanted to press onward and try to get to Rita’s room on the ninth.

“There’s an internal staircase on this floor,” he shouted. “If you go down the hall and turn left, you should find it marked. Those allow you to access the top suites, assuming it isn’t barricaded.”

The Spitfire wiped her watery eyes, as they were beginning to sting. “Understood.” She knew Graham needed to help lead these people down to safety.

Not allowing herself a goodbye or the indulgence of a kiss, The Spitfire ventured on. The building was beginning to quake and making odd noises, like a creaking ship. The path to the stairs was blocked by active flames—this obstacle had prevented guests going that way—but with no access to the top floor and out of options, she braced herself and jumped through like a circus act. On the other side she rolled her body like a gymnast into a crouch. She didn’t have seconds to spare nursing wounds. Rising to her feet Lyndy stamped her boots and brushed at her blackened clothes. Then she took off again, darting down the hallway and kicking open the side door.

Bursting onto the penthouse level, she hurried to their former suite. Even on this floor, the penetrating odor of smoke was choking. Could a hook and ladder reach here? She wasn’t certain.

The double doors and lock were secure. She thought of listening first but there seemed no time. Instead Lyndy banged on them, shouting Rita’s name. Dipping a hand in her purse she retrieved the key, fumbling for the keyhole but allowing her to save a bullet again.

As feared, Rita was not alone. Worse actually, because she was kneeling on the bed; next to her a tall man wearing all black had a gun pointed to her temple. From the shadows, the bathroom area, another man and lady emerged. They hadn’t been expecting anyone to arrive.

The power to the building was off, but the long span of windows meant the room was strongly lit from the glow of other buildings. She halted in front of the entry.

“Who the hell are you?” He spoke aloud what everyone was thinking.

The shock of it all had caused a delay in them noticing Lyndy carried a semi-automatic pistol.

“Hey, drop that gun!” screeched the strange lady.

“Don’t worry about me,” assured Rita, her voice hoarse. “Don’t let em win.”

“Just drop your weapon,” repeated the first man.

With steady hands Lyndy reached down, resting the gun on the shag carpet. She kept her gaze fixed upon the three extremists, and Rita, across the room.

A minor explosion rumbled beneath their feet, swaying the building and causing those standing to reach for walls or furniture, bracing themselves. No one spoke and disquieting creaks filled the void. Each time the marquee flashed across the boulevard, the darkened suite took on a new colorful hue, projecting like a mood ring on the wallpaper.

“Take her hostage!” commanded the leader of the group, standing nearest the back. The female among them marched forth, advancing upon Lyndy. This attacker was an anxious, twitchy individual.

“Wait. Don’t even think of touching me,” Lyndy warned. “I don’t care if your companions get to me; you will regret everything.”

“We don’t have time for a goddamn stand-off,” argued the man with his gun aimed at Rita’s head.

“I fully agree,” replied Lyndy, presenting her empty palms. “Now listen, it wasn’t easy getting here. From what I’ve seen of lower floors, we’ve got at most five minutes before toxic smoke and heat make this room uninhabitable, if not actual fire. We need to hustle.”

Their leader glanced nervously to the windows, as though anticipating an escape via the hook and ladder. “We need to change clothes,” he alerted his team, and Lyndy reasoned their plans had deviated to posing as innocent guests, rather than the perpetrators.