Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-19

Lyndy Life Observation: It’s a subject of ridicule nowadays, but at a wedding reception in the mid-80s if the DJ dropped a needle on the hit single: “Wake Me Up Before You Go-go”, wine glasses and dress shoes were abandoned, the round tables cleared and everybody at once would rush out onto the dance floor. It was a different world; we thought shoulder pads were cool.

Crouching low, Lyndy ID’d the remains of her busted Masterlock, torched, then ground to bits with a Sawzall contraption. Metal shavings littered the alleyway; must have happened the previous night and resulted in quite the extravagant light show. Thus, the sequence of events were unfolding as predicted, with the perpetrators long having fled.

Moments earlier she startled an innocent neighbor at an across-alley unit, so badly they drove off in a haste. It was The Spitfire’s appearance in Rochelle’s bathrobe, rubber crocs and her zany pixie cut which she’d slept weird on—they likely assumed she’d been living here. Not unreasonable given the way social security paid out these days.

Graciously, Rochelle had let her keep the unwanted robe. She’d ventured here in need of real clothing, having lost her entire outfit evading McNair’s men. She also hoped to retrieve the spare key for the fastback, and maybe borrow a cheap padlock at the front office to get this place temporarily secure.

With the orange roll-up breached, Lyndy’s precious belongings had been cast about with the same fever and disdain as the hooligan who’d taken a shot at the Mustang. No doubt they’d left disappointed. Because of course, the item they desperately sought wasn’t stored here. In fact, that item wasn’t even in the state.

Standing to full height, she yawned, then braced her hands on her back and stretched. She listened a moment to the croon of a cactus wren, hidden from view, unmistakable in tone.

The disorder in the storage unit now felt like a recurring theme, symbolizing the way in which the Ellis affair had played out, thrown a wrench in everything good. And how hard it was to put all her shit back in the correct boxes after the pregnancy. Took a decade actually, and contributed to her problem drinking.

She paced from the sunny access way into the shadowy cinder block interior. The first item catching her fancy immediately turned her frown to a smile. Bending down, she rescued from the pile of magazines a colorful craft-paper turkey, with a paper plate for the body of the bird. She held it up to the light, reading Mari’s second grade kid print aloud: “I am thankful for my mom!” Such a simple, honest gift brought more joy than any fine jewelry, and one winter it had been magnetized to the apartment refrigerator. In a section marked “Reasons” Mari had written: “She makes the best spaghetti.”

Lyndy breathed easier, meditating on homemade spaghetti dinners with Maribel. Took the sting out of having her stuff raided. Calmly she thumbed through yellow envelopes, tax returns, old bills. Kneeling on the floor for a closer view, she pushed these things aside until she found a moth-eaten business size envelope, unlabeled but stuffed with a rusty key. It had originally been stored in Mr. Chan’s desk. She fisted it, smiling as she discarded the envelope, knowing this prize would fit the ignition on the fastback. The Ford was so ancient one could get a 2-dollar spare cut at Home Depot. But of course, this required an original.

Next she observed the ubiquitous “camping stuff” tub, teetering atop the retired 80s and 90s clothing boxes not even Mari wanted. Setting it aside, she faced down the legacy of her rebellious youth and unconventional career path. She breathed deep, undoing the lid, poking through a hodge-podge of mid-riff bearing shirts, shredded low-rise jeans, leopard-print halters, goth and punk-style skinny Levi’s, sequined jackets and myriad dresses that, well … didn’t fit. She sniffed a pair of underwear, testing with her thumbs whether the elastic had any tension left. The panties were dusty but otherwise acceptable. After a vigorous shaking, she pulled them on under her robe.

In the midst of digging for a matching bra, she heard the zooming motor of a German luxury coupe. Startled, Lyndy poked her head out to see a blue Porsche, newer model, coming up the sloped driveway into the storage facility. She felt a surge of embarrassment. It must be Ben, early to pick her up. Even with all his failed marriages and gambling addiction, he’d clearly managed to hang onto some residual funds. Midlife crisis much?

Not wanting to appear like a tramp, she hastened back inside, flinging outfits over her shoulder until she found one with a chance of fitting.

Outside she heard his brakes, engine shutting off and his side door opening.

“Got yer message,” he called out. “You needed a ride?”

She had yet to explain the reason she had no wheels.

“Ugh, Ben wait. Don’t look at me yet!” The Spitfire warned, securing the clasp on the only brazier she could find in the stash—smelled like a vanilla Yankee candle—then stuffing her body through the neck hole of a black floral dress. “I’m not ready.” She jumped in place, jerking the dress over her thighs and zipping up the back. “Face away.” The ruffled dress had exposed shoulders held on by clear straps—a kind trendy 90s girls would wear to central park—which she snapped into position.

Ben chuckled. “Alright, alright,” he said, amused, backing his way to the unit.

Lyndy shrugged on a denim jacket, then reached for a pink Barbie playhouse mirror. She stared at her reflection in the cloudy toy mirror while raking her short black and gray hair into place. Then she touched the sun-blemished skin on her cheeks and felt discouraged.

“Did someone trash your stuff?” Ben asked, still with his back turned.

“Yes, they cut the lock,” she replied, dabbing on lipstick and lacing up a pair of black Dr. Marten shoes. “How rude! And there’s worse I haven’t told you.”

“Take anything valuable?”

“Nope, missed the quality items,” declared Lyndy, approaching the door. “For example, my stashes of vintage clothing I couldn’t even give away, they’re so embarrassing.”

Ben turned around slowly. He had a grin on his face.

“Okay, before you say anything, I know I look like an over the hill …”

“Hey Lyndy,” Ben held up a hand to interrupt. “I’m not here to judge. It’s Vegas. Wear what you like.”

---

Later at the corner coffee house …

Nothing quite like stepping foot in a place one swore to despise.

Hunched over, sucking an iced mocha-latte something through a fat green straw, Lyndy pecked at the keys of Ben’s laptop, tip of her nose inches from the screen when she needed to read; Ben thought this was hilarious. Meantime he was slouching in the adjacent armchair, focused on the betting section of the newspaper—because like a true baby boomer he still preferred a print edition. On the same round table as the computer his blackberry was buzzing with unanswered texts, like an angry Applebee’s restaurant pager.

She suspected these messages were from family members he wanted to ignore.

Though she hated to admit she’d gone soft, this giant coffee chain beat the public library internet by a country mile. Plus, she felt cozy in front of their street-facing windows and by borrowing Ben’s computer she was less obligated to disinfect the keyboard prior to use. Only real downside was a constant whistling of the espresso makers and the accompanying smell.

“Damn. For the love of God, I really need to snap my losing streak,” complained Lyndy, taking a stretch break, twisting herself in the chair and bracing her arms over the backrest. “It’s tougher than I imagined finding a clear headshot of Mr. Aloyan. I don’t know how, but he has managed to wipe himself almost entirely off the web—remarkable accomplishment. None of the news stories supply a headshot. There’s only a single photo I can find and it’s a low-res group shot at a ribbon cutting—could be anybody in middle Europe. I’m sure he’s disguised himself too.”

Ben nodded, not looking up. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

Lyndy did a double take. “Wait, how long have you known me?” she replied, comically. She stood up, pacing to the window blinds, peeking at the sunny day, then returning and sitting down. “Those jerks took my favorite purse and my favorite car.” Lyndy frowned.

“Join our club. Casinos have been robbing me blind for decades.”

“… I’ve scoured every auto trading site I can think of—if Mari were around she might know of more—and I don’t see any listings remotely matching a clean white fastback. There’s only two legitimate original fastbacks for sale in the county.”

“Did you have a LoJack on it?”

“Ha,” she said, exhaling, rising then plopping in the chair backward again. “No.”

“Maybe it’s still on the trailer?” Ben offered. “They know it’s hot.”

“Right. Good thought.” Lyndy tilted her head side to side, considering this and pointing a finger. “How many of those fifty-foot-long white luxury car carriers are there in this town, you think?”

Ben folded up his paper and sniffed. “Maybe a few hundred.”

Just then the blackberry vibrated, dancing across the table as Ben reached to silence it. Lyndy stared at the device and his hand, and sensing a question, Ben answered: “It’s a group text for gamblers at the OTB. They give out odds on upcoming events, races, plus some guys talk about their favorite horses… hot tips …. because they’re retired, divorced, and each very lonely people.” He chuckled.

“Do all of them live in Vegas?”

Ben nodded. “Probably like a hundred-fifty people on that list.” He could tell where she was leading. He perked up, reaching for the Blackberry. “Can you describe the car hauler?”

Lyndy tilted back her chin, squinting as she attempted to recite distinguishing features. “… Had no license plate, just the empty frame … black metal … and it had glossy white side panels—but they’re all like that—and it was really low to ground, ten inches or so.” Following along, Ben began to type furiously with his thumbs. “There were five rectangular lights in a row on top and the ramp could lower perfectly flat.” Lyndy pounded the table for emphasis, causing erudite coffee sippers to turn and scowl, as they were engaging in hushed conversation. “Oh, oh, most important, that trailer was recently moved, within the past two days. Not one of those gathering dust in a boneyard.”

Turned out there were dozens matching the physical description, but only a handful recently moved and without existing plates.

---

Next morning …

Lyndy Life Observation: I remember a weekend in the early nineties, bored, waiting on a card-dealer friend at Caesar’s. I feed a dollar’s worth of quarters in the nearest one arm bandit. Somehow I won $600 and I go to the cashier to convert the monster bucket of quarters into bills. She offers me a free lady’s tank-top which reads: “Jackpot Winner” in bold, sparkly font across the chest area. I glance at my watch, noting it’s three in the morning, moonless night. I chuckled and said no thanks.

Fog had spilled into the valley, visibility plunging to the tens of yards, turning the city limits to a humid sci-fi fantasy-scape. She snacked on a pop-tart, still stuck on the riddle most perplexing: How did Mrs. Aloyan know about her special connection to Rita? By comparison, Rhonda never heard of Miss Lovelace; both too young. The mystery was eating her up inside.

Swallowing the last crumbs of the sugary confection, Lyndy balled the wrapper, flicking it in a handy park bin. She then paused to dislodge a sprinkle out of her two front teeth.

She’d spent the afternoon and evening at Ben’s, preparing to do battle. Which wasn’t nearly as awkward as it sounded. For a bachelor, he had a comfy mattress—more restful by far than Rochelle’s worn-out sofa—plus he had shockingly good towels. On the other hand, the breakfast left something to be desired.

Lyndy’s outfit was the same, including the nineties waffle stomper shoes. Not much in the way of armor. She ported with her an opaque grocery sack from a convenience store. The weather was spooky, didn’t feel like Vegas at all, more Sedona after a cold storm.

They’d been texting a fellow OTB’er who resided in a yearling subdivision, one of those popping up over a period of weeks: identical single-story Spanish-inspired stucco boxes, a kind which gave delivery trucks nightmares. The neighborhood was pricey enough to have a gate though, and on the outskirts were long straight roads. The widest lane was adjacent to a seldom-used park. People stored extra cars and RVs here—practically no restrictions—and some truckers also took advantage. They left trailers here for extended periods.

The pink pea gravel covering most of the park was a decorative feature. And it crunched beneath her feet, making the loudest sound as she crept up on the car hauler. Traffic on the main boulevards muffled this noise. Smoke trees, blooming jacaranda and monkey puzzle trees finished out the landscaping. An old lady doing tai chi occupied a far-off corner, only a silhouette in the fog.

The reason for caution: a diesel Chevy cab was hooked to the white trailer. The way it slanted against the gooseneck hitch, she could tell the hauler was loaded, probably with more than a single auto. The ramp door was locked of course, with a shackle the size of her big toe. Windows of the cab were hazy. Other than this, it looked the same as before in traffic.

A magnet logo on the cab read: “Jay’s Trucking”.

She felt a rush of energy. Time to get serious. Reaching in her bag, she removed a pair of cheap gloves and construction goggles. One at a time she pulled them on as she scanned the area for any dog-walkers or witnesses. She pressed the goggles firmly over her eyes, as if preparing to snorkel. Then she broke into a sprint—at least her body’s current version of top speed. Leaping onto the running board, she pounded furiously on the passenger window. Yanking on the door, she was assaulted by the fruity smell of a vape pen. The cab was clouded with white smoke worse than a frat party.

“Whoah, who the hell are you?” demanded the stranger, pushing back against the driver’s door. He reached for the dash, where the armed taser rested against the glass. Lyndy immediately raised her can of bear spray and let er rip. The man screeched, letting go the plastic taser and put his hands up to shield his eyes.

“You shitheads need to start taking me seriously,” griped Lyndy, unbolting the latch on his door and shoving him out. He landed on his hip and Lyndy scooted into position behind the wheel, tilting it, then feeling along the column to rotate the key already in the ignition. It started with the diesel stubbornness, and she was feeling elated.

Meanwhile the bear spray had become so intense, mixing with the vapors, she could taste it and it burned her throat like ad hoc tear gas. Her jaw clenched. Frantically she cranked the window rollers on both sides, as it began to affect her nose by way of the mouth.

In the midst of coughing, she noticed the youngish bearded dude rounding the corner, carrying a tray of coffees and box of donuts. Witnessing his buddy flopped in the street, turning over in pain, the man could obviously tell something was up. He threw down the stuff, recognizing and locking eyes with The Spitfire behind the wheel of his truck. She was sliding the lever out of neutral and into gear. Instinct must have kicked in, as he held up both hands for her to stop, as though running at her in such a manner would make her retreat.