Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-20

Lyndy Life Observation: Watching a Three’s Company rerun on insomniac cable TV and I remember back in the day thinking their apartment was nice. Just google their kitchen set now and try not to bust a rib laughing how bad it was.

The truck was beginning to roll, puffing black exhaust as it edged farther from the curb. The attacker moved swiftly to avoid her direct path, waited in the road, then lunged toward the sidestep; twenty-something youthful agility was on his side. While he clung to the fender by his fingertips, clambering for better grip, Lyndy was preoccupied giving the throttle more juice and trying to pull away.

Overcome by noxious air and with jaw clenched, she stretched for the AC levers, setting them all on max to draw in fresh oxygen. In tandem she steered the truck with one hand, as it began to zig-zag down the lane. Noticing he’d managed to secure a grip on the door, Lyndy quickly flicked the latch, sending her assailant hovering on the hinges at a 90-degree angle, flapping like a flag.

“Hold up lady,” shouted the bearded fellow. “That trailer has two of McNair’s rides inside! A Ferrari and a Rolls Royce!” He pleaded with her, holding tightly on the swinging door. At least she’d confirmed this was the trailer. “Let us get em out.”

Lyndy chuckled. Too bad. Maybe now he’ll start noticing me.

With one hand The Spitfire reached for the plastic taser, aiming sideways. Meanwhile he shouted: “Timeout! I need to tell you something really important about … about … your Mustang.” He was out of breath.

“What?” she questioned, finger quivering on the trigger. The truck was about to reach a busy corner, at which time she’d look rather conspicuous on the main avenues with a passenger battling her like an action hero.

The man was out of breath. His chest heaved for air. Lyndy jammed on the brake pedal, screeching to a stop at the crosswalk. This sent the man flipping toward the hood, where he transferred his weight. “… yer control arm mount … on the right side … has a stress fracture in the steel … causes awful handling in older Fords. You need to get it welded.”

“Cool. Thanks for the advice,” Lyndy replied. She accelerated and he flipped back within reach.

They locked eyes again, sharing a moment. His expression said: no problem—he loved giving muscle car advice. There followed a split-second pause, after which at point blank she squeezed the trigger striking the man in the upper peck. He instantly jolted off, accompanied by a shriek of pain and the unsettling ZZZTTT-ZZZTTT sound of electricity.

“God, that device truly is satisfying,” thought Lyndy, as she tucked it under the seat. Maybe there was something to this new technology stuff? Then she coughed and fluttered her hands across her nose.

Pulling into traffic she felt the weight of the massive three car load. The motor struggled and the truck swayed as it accelerated. But her head was in the clouds, elation her primary emotion. The Spitfire was back. Kinda.

As her pounding heart began returning to normal rhythms, she pondered where to go to unload. On her right side were identical residential zones, bordered by dusty tan walls and thin strips of landscaping. On her left in the mist, rocky foothills and mountains, but no cover.

She checked the fuel gauge: half a tank. Then she undid her goggles, tossing them aside.

If she continued a northerly trajectory, eventually the sprawl would fade and she’d find herself on the two-lane blacktop to Indian Springs. Might be a secluded spot out there. On the other hand, the buzzkills from earlier would be hot on her trail, calling for backup. McNair wouldn’t take kindly to having his fancy cars toyed with. No doubt they contained some sort of hidden tracking system.

She pressed on, considering whether she might simply lower the ramp and push the other two vehicles out. She could only assume her car occupied the least favorable position.

Lyndy cranked up the music station, drove another two miles and then turned down a street she’d never been on. It wound its way into another of the bland developments, except this one had better trees. She eased on the brakes under the cover of a canopy, in a red zone for parking but who cared about that now? The rear wheels rubbed on the rounded curb letting her know she was close enough. Not many folks were out and about yet.

Next Lyndy set the e-brake, then went searching the console and glovebox area for keys. She hoped for the Mustang one at least. But none were there. It occurred to her she might have a serious problem. Maybe the two drivers had held onto the keys?

Checking for watchers, Lyndy scooted over the seat and exited the passenger side. Act like a trucker who knows what the hell they’re doing, she thought. Plopping to solid ground, Lyndy sidestepped along the right side which bordered on some landscaping.

Lyndy paused, taking her bearings, getting a good look at the back ramp. An accessory motor could lower it from inside, but there were still two shiny bolt-locks to contend with. They were too beefy for ordinary cutters. She needed her own Sawzall. Lyndy sighed.

Or maybe not.

Crouching low, she craned her neck to see under the hauler. The box had a steel frame, but also a deck, and the deck was plywood. With a budding idea, Lyndy darted back to the cab. She’d seen a big Maglite flashlight there. She aimed the cone of the beam into the dark areas of the painted frame, checking every nook and cranny until she found the plastic box magnetized to a y-shaped truss. “Ha. Jackpot!” she thought. “I would’ve done that too.”

Now with the bolts undone, she was able to power the ramp and it lowered rapidly. It was laughable, as a stream of a half-dozen residents did go in and out of the neighborhood. Must have been strange when a 5000-pound Rolls Royce drifted off the ramp, coasted across the street and Lyndy just abandoned it there. But no one stopped.

With that coach moved out of the way, she slid in behind the wheel, cranked the white fastback using the spare key and peeled out like the old Knight Rider show.

---

Later that day …

Mrs. Aloyan stirred awake from a stress dream, annoyingly bright lights inundating her vision. She didn’t know where she was at first, only hearing murmurs of woman chatting, gossiping mostly. Then the whirring buzz of a hair drier. And a smell of chemicals as she caught her reflection in the corner of a salon mirror. Her hair was drying in a towel turban, the rest of her clad in a white hotel-style bathrobe.

This kept happening.

It started out as insomnia, growing worse and worse until it became unbearable. So, the doctor had started her on sleeping pills. And the result of this experiment was a mild form a narcolepsy, because she still couldn’t ease her racing mind at night, and during the day any relaxing spot—even her warm car at a stoplight—would cause her to doze off.

She eased out of the chair, rising to full height and studying her smooth but stern reflection in the mirror. Her skin tone seemed paler than ever. If things kept up like this, she’d soon appear ten years older.

A voice said, “we’re ready” and she reached for her Louis Vuitton purse. Robotically Mrs. Aloyan paced to the nail station, not even glancing up to see the girl. She only witnessed the green visor, wispy silver and black hair and assumed.

As she sat in the forward leaning chair, a strong hand clamped upon her wrist. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” came a warning from a voice she recognized. “I like this color on you, but I can’t have distractions if I’m aiming to not mess up your cuticles.”

Mrs. Aloyan met eyes with the half-Mexican woman. They called her The Spitfire.

Lyndy grinned to Mrs. Aloyan, letting her know it was no use asking how she’d managed to pull off this ruse. With her free hand she shook up a bottle of midnight blue polish, adding, “this stuff here is top notch. Doesn’t flake and really keeps the negative energy away. Repels those rival haters too.” She chuckled at her own joke.

They both sighed and Mrs. Aloyan stared at the table.

“You’re at a loss for words?” whispered Lyndy.

“What do you want?” questioned Mrs. Aloyan, letting her hand relax.

“You lied to me,” Lyndy replied. “My fee goes up by 5000 each time a client lies.”

“How so?” Mrs. Aloyan seemed surprised at the accusation.

Lyndy went to work with the tiny brush, making long strokes in a smooth motion. “Rita Lovelace couldn’t possibly have referred you to me. I think you were referred by someone else. Evidently, they wanted to remain anonymous. So, tell me, is it Graham Winsom?”

“Who?”

“The handsome guy—or he used to be—who wears the Bonanza style cowboy hat; he worked for McNair’s company managing the more historic casinos.”

Mrs. Aloyan shook her head.

Lyndy continued, “Most anyone else under 40 has never heard of Rita. In the world of celebrities, she’s long since forgotten. So did Graham write you a letter? Fill you in on some backstory and give you this juicy idea, a clever way to manipulate me naively into choosing your case? Cause it feels like a trap.”

Mrs. Aloyan seemed taken aback, but refused an answer. Lyndy continued to work on the nails, doing an admirable job, slathering it on thick and even.

“Rita is dead,” snipped Lyndy at last. “She died in a plane crash.”

“You’re wrong. I met with Rita Lovelace, just weeks ago. She’s about the same age as you, though I should add she is frailer and has more wrinkles.”

Yet again it was Lyndy Martinez with her head spinning on a plot twist. Because for a second time, it seemed Mrs. Aloyan was telling the truth as she knew it to be. Someone could be impersonating the late Rita Lovelace, but to what end?

Lyndy looked up. “Let’s assume this is true, is there anything specific you can tell me to make me believe a woman I once loved—yes I said it—is still alive?”

Mrs. Aloyan cleared her throat. “Possibly. Rita gave me details of an assignment you worked in the mid-1980s. It was a case sourced from The Lovelace Corporation, delivered to a bail bondsman as a layer of business dissociation. She said these secret trade contracts were called sanctions. His name was Chinese …”

“Chan?” Lyndy interrupted.

“Yes. The dispute she described involved two dancer showgirls at a popular nightclub. One of the ladies ended up in a wheelchair, shot in the back by an unknown assailant, paralyzed from the waist down. She wanted to prove the identity of that gunman and she wanted revenge. The one she accused was in fact her rival. You were able to prove that.”

Lyndy paused her effort, set the little brush in the round bottle. A chill ran down her spine remembering details of that case. Her heart filled with sorrow, for the two ladies whose faces she could still picture clearly in her mind. “Did she mention how it began? Were they quarreling over position?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Aloyan. “Miss Lovelace said the dispute began over a shared lover.”

“A two-timing man,” added Lyndy, her tone deadpan and somber. “They were fighting over a stupid man.” Lyndy remained quiet, contemplating the eerie detail that only her, Rita, Rita’s dad and Mr. Chan could have known. And the latter two adults were verifiably dead. Conceivable, but highly unlikely Graham would have heard that story.

“I did hold back one detail from you,” admitted Mrs. Aloyan, sounding afraid. “I met Rita not in Tucson Arizona, but in California.”

“Where?” asked Lyndy a bit too enthusiastically, but she already knew the answer.

“Lake Arrowhead.”

Lyndy put finger on the small bottle, spinning it, preparing to shake it again. “I apologize for accusing you of lying. I do need one more favor, if I’m going to find your husband.”

“Anything. Whatever you need.”

“A picture. You must have a wallet photo of him in there?” Lyndy pointed to the extravagant purse. Lyndy answered the next question before Mrs. Aloyan could respond. “I know. I know. He obviously won’t look like that. If he’s alive as your theory would suggest, then he will obviously be disguising himself.”

---

Lyndy Life Observation: You know you’re from the nineteen eighties if you ever had a waterbed randomly spring a leak, causing a serious headache, threatening a flood emergency in your home.

The wind rushed in her face and she let the coolness soothe her.

She was driving again, speeding, and noticing that the dude whom she tased had a fair point. The Ford didn’t handle like it used to.

She’d chalked up the poor handling to simple age. Which was only partially correct, because a crack in the frame meant the control arm wasn’t properly aligned, nor was the spring. And that whole area could flex.

Lyndy was also meditating on Rita. The prospect of her being alive, despite the obituary, had her stomach in knots. People were known to fake their own deaths—at least those in desperate situations. Coincidentally, it was the crux of her current case.

Lyndy fumbled under the seat for a pair of buried sunglasses, locating them under a layer of receipts and old fast-food wrappers. Then she shoved them across her nose while waiting in traffic. She felt conspicuous.

Dale, when he had a smart mouth on him, used to make dumb jokes around the taco hut. He did it on purpose to piss her off. One was: What do Lyndy and Catherine have in common? Answer: they’re mammals. Har-de-har.

But she and Rita had a lot in common.

Probably the most admirable quality Miss Lovelace possessed was a relentlessly proactive nature. She must have been born wired this way, because Lyndy hardly knew anyone with the same determination. In spite of her privileged upbringing, Rita’s looks and success in modeling, she always took action. When brushes with the law forced her to pick up trash on the side of the highway—humiliating punishment for most—she turned it on its head. She worked her ass off, had the largest sacks at the end of the day, invented new “innovative” ways to clean up highways. Lyndy’s lips curled into a smile thinking of this.

Or in a road race, she’d risk blowing up her motor, spinning out into a wall of tires to try and win a place. In a horse jumping competition, Rita pushed herself and the animals to the limit. Hell, she probably would’ve ridden a bull too.

If an adventure meant sleeping outdoors, Rita would take it upon herself, immaculately braid her own hair, roll out a bag and sleep under the stars like everyone else.

It was those qualities Lyndy could respect. They didn’t make people like that anymore. And it was these traits they shared in common, as well as coming of age in a certain time. It formed the bond between them. And they were not exactly friends, drifting apart and eventually going their separate ways. But she always imagined she’d have a chance to reconcile one day. Is it possible to love someone, but not be able to be friends? Of course.

The wheels hopped as she veered into the parking lot for the rest home. She purposely avoided the front facade of the building, not taking up her normal spot, but circling around to the rear. This was mostly a delivery zone, but there were a couple of places to safely park the Mustang. Keeping a low profile was more important than ever.

Clearly it was after normal visiting hours, but that didn’t matter.

She snuck her way down the halls, not meeting eyes with anyone and of course not being dumb enough to sign in. The only folks getting a good look at her were volunteers from the church.

She arrived at Dale’s room as the sun was going down, and he was doing that weird behavior where he perched on the edge of the bed with the TV on, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was staring at his feet.

Lyndy put a finger across her lips as she entered the room. He looked up, recognized her, stood and acted like he wanted to give her a hug. “No. No. No.” she whispered, placing a hand across his lips. “I’m not supposed to be here right now.”

Dale sat down, eyes wide and gaze focused on her.

“Dude, I came here to ask you a question,” said Lyndy, pushing the door shut and gently forcing it to latch. She kept the TV on to disguise her conversation.

Lyndy made a shoveling motion with her hands. “Are you up for some digging? Can you do that?” He stared back blankly.

Lyndy approached him, put three fingers together and cupped his right hand around the bunched fingers. “Try squeezing my fingers. I need to know if you can grip stuff.”

Dale stared down, concentrating on his hand, as if the motor coordination to grip an object required prior planning and experimentation. He grimaced. She soon felt the muscles in his hand contracting and his palm squeezing hard around her fingers. His grip strength was surprisingly strong, though obviously not the bone-crushing power he’d had in the glory days when they were lovers. “Good. You can do it,” she cheered, but still keeping her voice down.

Lyndy let go of his hand and put both her palms on his knees, bracing herself close to his body. “Alright. Do you want to come on an adventure with me?”

His normal frozen expression softened to a gleeful grin.

“By the way, did you eat a good dinner? Those frozen TV trays or whatever the hell they serve?”

Dale just blinked, still grinning, and she considered it answer enough.