Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-18

Lyndy Life Observation: When I die, I’m donating my body to science so they can research the impact a lifetime of diet colas has on human physiology.

Her nerves were fried, but she knew she must remain alert. How quickly a weekend with Rita Lovelace could spiral out of control!

The lead gunman switched his attention back to Lyndy, still waiting at the foyer. “What exactly do you want?” His words seethed through gritted teeth. A harshness of image and tone characterized all three extremists.

“I came only for my client,” answered Lyndy. “It’s my job to protect her.”

“Your client is our hostage. She’s part of the institute of oppression.”

Lyndy interpreted a look of concern on Rita’s face. It communicated doubt at Lyndy’s negotiating prowess. At the same time, she eyed the black Beretta resting on the fluffy carpet.

“No, she’s not,” argued Lyndy. She let the pause in her speech hang in the air. “… be that as it may, she’s also a friend of mine.”

Rita seemed relieved.

“Tell us where the artifact is!” demanded the gunman, speaking to Miss Lovelace.

“I already did. It’s inside the carpet factory,” pleaded Rita. “If it were at this hotel, I would have given it to you, or you would have found it.”

Beneath their feat thundered more crashing sounds, as though some fearsome balrog stirred—a reminder every second wasted meant worsening odds of survival.

While Lyndy fixated on the pistol everyone else had been distracted by the worrisome noise. The next instants blurred together as an explosion of crushed glass filled the space, every floor-to-ceiling window bursting. Lyndy shielded her eyes with an elbow as she dove for the rug. Tiny shards—little Roman arrow—blanketed the room. They rained down on everything, cutting her exposed shoulders. Then a swirling of fumes and warm air rushed into the space, and she felt the sensation of pressure in her lungs.

Amidst the confusion Rita twisted, delivering a side-kick blow on her captor’s wrists—an impressive feat—and she broke free, scooting off the bed and sprinting to Lyndy. As The Spitfire rose up, she aimed past the outline of Miss Lovelace, squeezing her trigger at every attacker with a gun pointed. A pair of them dropped immediately, and she never knew what became of the remainder.

Rita arrived with arms outstretched embracing Lyndy, then thrusting her through the door frame into the hall. “I want out, now,” screeched Rita. Her feet were bare, bloody from running on glass.

Lyndy concurred, already shoving the Beretta in her purse. Latching onto Rita’s wrist she started to lead her through the murky dark back to the interior staircase. Sweating out of every pore, skin damp as noxious fumes irritated her airway—Lyndy was grateful simply to be moving.

In a short time the blocked section had grown worse. Lit by flame, giant orange tongues lapped at the wallpaper, curling and turning it black. Blistering heat radiated outward.

Rita cowered, pulling away like a mule. “No Lyn. Not this way!” Fire was one demon Rita couldn’t overcome. An orange-ringed terror reflecting in her eyes proved she could never go that direction; with good reason. In a different circumstance fire had once ruined her modeling career.

Lyndy could see they needed another workable plan. An emergency hose reel adorned the wall. Would it suffice? She raced to it, using her boot heel to smash the thin glass cover. It housed a coiled white hose and next to this, a brass wheel and valve. Twisting with both arms Lyndy tested the valve, tried the pressure. A fat zero. Not one moist drop. Wouldn’t have been much good at full flow. Perhaps convenient to extinguish a housefire, not a hotel building becoming fully engulfed.

Behind her in the hall, Rita suddenly dropped to her knees. She rolled onto her back, plucking shards of glass from the soles of her feet. “This is excruciating!” Rita complained.

Lyndy assisted, helping scrape away the worst offenders while formulating an alternate escape. She glanced toward the suites. The hallway ended in an abrupt drop off to open air, where once had been a ten-foot window. She could see tiny shimmering dots, distant suburbs or cars on a highway. But they’d need parachutes to go that way.

Nearer to them was a control panel with milk-cap sized buttons to call the elevator, stalled of course. Then the steel plated door, a type which slides from one side like a pocket door. Getting it open was key.

“Elevator shaft!” pointed Lyndy. “Maybe we can wedge it open?”

“What?” Rita frowned, watching Lyndy yank off her boots.

Rushing to the metal door, Lyndy took a seat on the floor and braced against the jam. Lifting both legs she positioned her bare feet on the center point, not the easiest trick. The leverage wasn’t good and her core muscles strained. She tested the forces, her feet constantly slipping. She took a breath, tried again, this time contorting her body into a tighter ball, increasing leverage.

Rita did her best to join the effort, helping push with palms pressed flat. They felt it give, hope rising in their hearts. The mechanism showed signs of weakening. Rita then wedged a boot heel into a small gap they exposed. Before it could shrink she managed to stick both hands into it. Next Lyndy rose on her heels, sliding hands upward and peeling it apart. With both ladies gripping they heaved the metal door all the way across. An annoying buzzer sounded warning of the danger.

Peering into the chasm, Lyndy observed the shadowy outline of the south elevator car, permanently stuck and powerless four floors deep—a fifty-foot drop. To the right, nothing, black smoke too dense and not enough illumination. She angled her head up, but the shaft topped out in pully blocks and electric motors. She reasoned the number-2 car must be lower still. Glancing to Rita, they each swallowed hard.

She remembered the hose reel. Tugging on the coiled hose, The Spitfire began to unfurl it in the hall. “We can still use this.” With both arms she lifted the initial few coils above her shoulders, beginning to fold it on the floor like a climber’s rope.

Lyndy scoured Rita’s outfit and her own. “Your belt. Take it off.”

Undoing the oversize gold-plated buckle with one hand, Rita whipped it free of the loops, tossing it over. Lyndy palmed the D-shaped buckle, biting it with her canine teeth to see if she could make an impression or nick the polished surface. To her surprise, the fashionable buckle made of unknown metal felt solid. “This should do. It’s smooth enough. We can loop the hose through it; creates friction we can use for braking.”

Lyndy stepped on the notched leather end of the belt, yanking with both arms, using her bicep strength to snap the buckle rivets free. It came off with a jolt.

“Lyn, we can’t rappel from here,” Rita protested. “I’m … well, not strong enough.”

Lyndy chuckled. “You were just bragging how many chin-ups you could do!”

“When I was a teenager!”

“You’ll be fine. I promise you won’t let yourself fall.”

Rita shook her head, backing away from Lyndy in distrust.

“Rita, you can’t be serious. If we stay we’re doomed. Assuming smoke inhalation doesn’t kill us, fire or collapsing beams will. Do you want your life to end in this inferno? Unless you think of another option in the next … twenty seconds, we have got to rappel from here to that platform.” Lyndy thrust her purse toward Rita confidently. “Find my nail kit. There’s a pen knife.”

Rita rummaged through the items. Locating a zippered leather pouch, she passed this back to Lyndy. The small knife from her nail kit was never meant for this purpose. She had to stretch the hose extremely taught across her thighs and with her other hand saw steadily at the braided fabric; the material being about the toughest fiber one could imagine. But she needed to be able to thread the D-shaped metal loop over the hose, something which was impossible with brass fittings still attached.

Meantime Rita eyed the drop, her body shivering. Following a minor explosion, the floor quaked and metal creaked. She braced a hand on the doorframe to stabilize herself.

“What if I slip and break my ankles. I can’t do this,” cried Rita, bursting into tears. “I’m in too much pain.” She stumbled, impacting the opposite wall and collapsing into a heap on the carpet. With eyes shut, chest heaving in hyperventilation, Miss Lovelace pressed her head into her elbow. “I’m freaking out.”

“No, wait.” Lyndy dropped what she was doing. Kneeling to the level of Rita, she pulled on her shoulders forcefully. “Put your hands in mine.”

“What?” Rita sniffed. Somehow, she seemed smaller, less commanding. It occurred to Lyndy, Rita’s unstoppable personality had always made her seem much bigger in everyday life—the personality equivalent of a funhouse mirror.

“Touch palms to mine.”

Closing her eyes in solidarity, The Spitfire spread both hands, a gentle motion imitating patty-cake. Following an initial hesitation, in time Rita held up her palms and they touched. “Please trust me,” Lyndy whispered. “We must do this.” Rita pressed her hands into Lyndy’s and they locked fingers. She felt the blissful softness of Rita’s touch. Then deliberately, Lyndy opened her eyes. Miss Lovelace’s hair and bangs spread every which way with no ponytail, obscuring her face, so she nudged these over her ears. Little by little, Rita’s labored breathing returned to normal cadence.

Snapping out of her panic, Rita raked back her hair with both hands.

Lyndy reached for the hose. “Come help me cut this,” Lyndy begged.

With combined strength, they were able to sever both ends of the white hose, leaving them a hundred useable feet. Next Lyndy passed one end through the spout wheel and then made sure to match the ends to equal length. She tossed the remaining coil into the shaft, leaving the two ends dangling at equal heights.

“I need to reevaluate my career choices,” she muttered.

Minutes later …

Outside, the disaster response had grown more intense and confusing. Loyal hotel staff who stayed on duty did their best to calm the crowd. Yet it was difficult to take instruction with an alarm buzzer and the spectacle of firefighters spraying water on a crumbling facade. People had naturally begun to disperse, drifting or riding to God knows where. Given this city, probably the bars.

Lyndy’s curls were a mess, ends singed and her face had smudges of dirt. Same for Rita.

Skirting throngs of people, they navigated their way surreptitiously to the underground car park. Otherwise, medical personnel would have detained them, begun administering treatment.

Not that they didn’t need it: Rita was miserable, suffering from lacerated feet. It was a desire to get to the carpet warehouse before Tarner spurring them both on. She trudged with a limp, having no choice but to impart weight on her soles. To comfort Rita in walking, Lyndy let her drape an arm across her shoulders.

From a distance Lyndy eyed the valet stand, surrounded mostly by angry dudes demanding their cars. Another reason to hate valet parking.

“How do we get the cougar? Do you have a key?”

Rita answered in silent scowl, wearing a torn dress—missing the accessory belt—and lacking a purse or shoes. She was balancing on one foot, resting the other.

“So what do we do?” questioned Lyndy.

“I need that car,” answered Miss Lovelace, vocal cords strained. Lyndy’s were the same, a consequence of toxic smoke. “If we’re lucky I think I left pumps under the front seat.”

She exhaled a sigh. After bashing in the driver’s window, Lyndy went to work on the ignition. Good thing it was a sixties Ford product and easy to defeat. Out on the boulevard the fierce winds had calmed, leaving behind a hot dry atmosphere. Still, it felt wonderful to be outside.

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Lyndy Life Observation: Aunt Rose was urban farming long before urban farming was a trendy idea. I can remember staying in east LA, lying on a rigid twin bed listening to a rooster crowing—something which could happen any hour of the day or night. Surprised a neighbor didn’t throw a rock at that bird.

Now her nerves were so battered she could hear her heart thumping, and it agitated her further. Some kinda night.

Lyndy and Rita spied from the cover of streetside fan palms, catty-corner to a quad-plex of unsightly industrial buildings. Vehicles were flowing at a rate of once per minute or fewer. A single outdoor light shone on the hired guard, who paced in a bored fashion near the entry for the carpet showroom.

Wisps of cigarette smolder lingered overhead, and nearby, a conical pile of discarded butts measured how long he’d been on duty. Across his chest was an assault rifle, as though he was defending the Berlin Wall. A portable radio crackled from some hidden spot—and breathless news bulletins described the explosion and fire at the resort.

If others had the same idea to creep in, take advantage of the situation, it was downright impossible to tell. Their parking lot remained vacant except for a yellow-brown Datsun, presumably belonging to that guard. With the tumult unfolding after hours, no doubt most other parties were distracted.

“He’s wearing a flak jacket, correct?” whispered Rita. She’d said this while scratching areas of swollen rash on her abdomen, her enthusiasm equal to a poodle with fleas.

Lyndy knew where that comment was leading, shaking her head to disagree. “We need to draw him out. A shot from this distance could kill him, bullet-proof vest or no. I’m not willing to risk it.” Lyndy and Rita locked eyes. “How bout a distraction,” she stated firmly.

Rita frowned, rolled her eyes and stated, “Fine.” Her expression was like, “why me?”

Happily, Rita had found her spare shoes, though spike heels weren’t a practical style. She set her gaze upon the Mercury, then marched to it in a clumsy, out-of-sorts fashion. Meantime Lyndy jogged further east and down a block, hoping to get behind the guard.

With the hood raised Rita fanned her face. “Excuse me!” she shouted, pretending to be stranded by her vehicle. “You there!” She waved a hand toward the armed guard. “This thing won’t start.”

He didn’t budge at first, and one could tell he hadn’t intended ever giving up his post. He wanted simply to ignore Rita.

Lyndy cupped one hand over the other, making a larger fist, while inching up closer. Sneaking behind the guard, then all-out bum-rushing him, she saw him raising his gun with a finger searching for the trigger. But she beat him to it, already close enough to clock him in the chin. Bear-hugging his waist, she flipped him to the ground and jerked away the rifle. He tried to get up off the pavement, but Lyndy countered using the butt of the rifle. She hit him again, using the broad side of the stock. Desperately he extended a finger, to press a button on his 2-way radio. But Lyndy kicked it away, then hit him again making him go unconscious.

Rita sprinted to the scuffle, best she could do in heels. With one hand she snatched up the key ring, spinning it and seeking the one for the main entry. Took three tries but she found the one and kicked it open.

Lyndy entered close behind, watching for anyone witnessing.

Rounding the corner on the stairs and taking three at a time, Miss Lovelace topped out first, followed immediately by Lyndy. She paused, leaving one hand on the railing and staring into the main room with its u-shaped exhibit of glass cabinets. Her fingers reached for the light switch, but she caught herself, fearing this might attract attention.

Lyndy darted by—like shot from a cannon—using the rifle as a hammer to break the cases on the left, working swiftly til she noticed something unsettling. “Rita,” she cried. “This case is already cracked. Someone’s been here.” It was the middle.

“Only that one? What did they take?”

“I think the Morgan pocket watch is missing.” She did a double take, wondering where the thief had gone and how they’d gotten in.

As Rita reached a trembling hand for the flute, they both heard the sound of heavy footsteps. Hastily, Rita swiped it, stuffing the skinny flute down the front of her dress.

Tarner’s bulbous forehead appeared on the stairs at the second landing. He was ragged, sporting a diagonal bandage—spotted by blood—like an extra in a disaster flick. But he seemed to have spared any damage to his torso and limbs, not needing the railing and moving with the same determined waddle.

Lyndy aimed the Beretta at his chest and he halted in his tracks. Gradually he put an arm up, but the other he kept low as he was clutching a cube-like metal object.

“I hope you two haven’t got a mind to cheat the auction,” he called out. “It would be dishonorable.”

Rita chuckled with arms folded. “Right. Like I’ve forgotten what you did to me.”

Tarner didn’t respond, almost as though waiting for something to happen in his favor. And Lyndy began to fear another bomb.

“Drop whatever you’re holding!” Lyndy demanded.

Tarner stared blankly a moment, then replied, “My pleasure.”

As he released the package, it emitted the most penetrating flash she’d ever beheld—brighter than the noontime sun—searing her retinas like a welding torch. The blinding effects were amplified by the fact the room had been dark and she knew she was in trouble from the brutal pain alone. Only a laser could have inflicted more damage to the naked eye.

“What the hell!” complained Rita, who’d turned her whole body away and doubled over.

As her eyes continued to ache, Lyndy rubbed them with her palm. Instinctively, the eyelids wanted to keep tightly shut, but she struggled to open them, testing her vision, blinking many times. Everything: shapes, all features, every color had gone away. She had nothing left.

“Rita, I think I’m blinded,” wailed Lyndy in despair. “He’s totally blinded me.”

Rita was rubbing her face with both hands. “I …. I must have blinked at just the right instant,” groaned Rita. “But it feels like someone threw sand in my eyes.”

Tarned chuckled, scurrying up the last few stairs. “You know, when I was in graduate school I was fascinated with the science of slit-spectroscopy.”

“What did you do?” asked Rita.

“I introduced you b—s to my helium discharge lamp—with the protective UV cover removed. These things pack quite a punch, like an atomic blast.” Arriving at the top stair, he casually added, “I wouldn’t go investing in a white cane just yet, Spitfire. It’s more like a really, really bad sunburn. I’m told people recover some eyesight after a few days.”