La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

[Happy Thanksgiving Everybody–ASC]

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Link to Part-2: La Fierabrosa Part-2

Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3

Surprise! The Jeep hadn’t magically repaired itself.

Resting a hand on the shifter knob, The Spitfire discovered it was moist, either from palm sweat or pizza grease accumulation. Somewhere along the line, a previous owner “upgraded” the standard AMC shifter to one styled like an 8-ball. It was made of Bakelite—a synthetic material with a chemical name 36 letters long—and took two quarter-turns to twist all the way off, typically bouncing under the seat out of reach, leaving you with a rusty tetanus stick to shift gears. But hey, it was groovy.

The CJ-5 didn’t come with air conditioning from the factory. AMC engineers assumed you would fold the vinyl top down on a day like this, to soak up the rays. Naturally. But those rascals lived in Michigan, and the top was down, yet somehow things were getting worse.

Meteorologists called it an inversion, a condition when gaining altitude, the temperature actually increased. Such events were routine in LA, rare for the desert. The Spitfire recalled as a child, one sweltering august afternoon, when the tall buildings stood like exotic islands, ringed in a soup of brown haze.

Lyndy massaged her forehead with her fingertips, wiping away excess sweat on her blouse. Traveling the new interstate highway, it was a 45-minute commute from Barstow to the Ludlow exit. This gave Lyndy a lot of time to think and daydream; some days too much.

Tammy Ward had opened a scab by bringing up the subject of the river party, but Lyndy had a plan. Earlier in the season, she happened to meet a geologist named Kyle Ellis. He was a graduate student, doing fieldwork in the east Mojave, and they had been seeing each other for six weeks. Turned out the Ellis family was loaded, and Kyle’s parents owned a big cabin fronting Lake Arrowhead, with a speedboat.

Her and Kyle were close in age, with tons of stuff in common … except right now… none were coming to mind. At least they both appreciated the desert, just in different ways. And surely, Kyle would be willing to accompany her to an obligatory party.

Bouncing along in fourth gear, straining for a miserable 50 miles an hour—not even the national limit—Lyndy passed over the Newberry Springs bridge.

Speaking of geologic curiosities, here was one of the more remarkable: a series of mineral ponds, somehow emerging from blowing sand, shimmering in the reflections of noonday sun. Improbable though it seemed, the water table was high enough one could dig a trough 36 inches deep, and it would fill in minutes. Definitely not a place to try and hide a body—not that anyone would do that in the Mojave.

Willows, cottonwoods, and even green riparian plants thrived on both sides of the freeway. White herons fished in the oasis, bobcats hunted, but mostly the ponds were so off-color no one would be foolish enough to drink them.

Over many years, in countless drives, Lyndy Martinez had dreamed of pausing here. Perhaps to dip her bare feet in the cool water, or view the wildlife, take a nap, or even have a picnic lunch. But she was always busy. Too busy to slow down; too busy to rest. One of these days she promised she would stop, and maybe bring along a friend.

The Jeep was acting wheezy, as if the carb needed adjusting. With her thumb pressed on the glass dial, Lyndy cleared dust obscuring the temperature gauge. Though some of the contrasting paint had flaked off, Lyndy could see the needle, pointing to 200. Hard to know if it was an accurate reading.

How about a little rock-n-roll to get your mind off work, and lack of funds?

No can do. The Jeep didn’t come with a stereo either. But that made somewhat logical sense; when the top was down you couldn’t hear a damn thing beyond road noise.

“Radio? Who needs music!” echoed Chan. “You should focus on what Melinda employed to do—which is find people who do not pay on their loans!”

There was a surefire way for Lyndy to measure severity of delirium: whenever Chan’s detached voice intruded in her brain.

“Huh. Huh. Huh. And another thing, bounty hunters are supposed to drive jalopies. It goes with the image!”

The Spitfire groaned. “Ugh. But not mine. We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

At Ludlow, a ghost town, Lyndy took the exit signed National Old Trails Highway. There were stencils in the roadway marked with the Route-66 shield. Some maps still drew it as a red line, not a blue, and it used to be the only direct route to Needles, receiving a constant flow of Arizona bound cars.

With the I-40 newly open, traffic on this segment evaporated. Unlike Barstow, you couldn’t reclassify this no-man’s-land as a city street. Any service businesses were forced to relocate, or close, making it less convenient for travelers; even schools shut down. Soon the pavement itself began to crumble, each season bumpier than the last, with the desert gradually reclaiming territory.

Of course, Lyndy at one time planned to have a trucker-style CB radio installed in the Jeep, but hadn’t gotten around to it. She was regretting that postponement.

Four miles from Ludlow, the first indications of trouble: the AMC engine sputtering and misfiring. Next, the revs got low, and Lyndy downshifted. Then the chassis lurched, backfiring once, and the unthinkable finale: the motor died.

“What on earth?” whispered Lyndy, testing the ignition.

It made a click, but no go. Within seconds everything became quiet, the flow of air ceasing, as Lyndy coasted to an unscheduled stop on the shoulder.

Without motion, the climate felt as though a great flare had arced off the solar corona, hurtling through space to rain fire on the county.

“I think the sun is trying to kill me,” thought Lyndy.

She glanced at her Certina watch. Still stuck at 9:00.

How long ‘til the vultures were circling?

Lyndy took a panicked breath, exhaling in an uneasy quiver. Odds were decent a stranger would happen along. Hopefully this good Samaritan would come within an hour.

At last, Lyndy undid her watch clasp. Pinching the tiny crown, she counted off forty even turns, and this took effort. To set the time, she squinted up at the ball of fire, shading her eyes to determine its angle. She settled on 1:00; it seemed close enough.

Next Lyndy kicked open the driver’s half-door and slid out. Both heels immediately sunk an inch deep in the soil, causing her to stumble—this was no place for girly shoes. She braced an elbow against the left fender, staggering to the front of the car.

With her cupped fist, Lyndy undid the nearest hood release, then leaned across the top to unclip the other latch. She raised the hood and metal support, a blast of exhaust hitting her square in the face.

It was Hector who had once been saddled with the chore of teaching The Spitfire to drive. Over a half-glass of tequila, he lectured that engines required three main ingredients to run: fuel, air and spark. One of these was missing, but which? Hard to believe it was gas—the whole under hood area smelled like it.

Lyndy hovered a palm over top of the carb. Then she unscrewed the cap to the radiator, making sure her face pointed away, shielded by an elbow and the sleeve of her blouse. But rather than a cartoonish geyser of steam, it hardly bubbled at all.

Lyndy then turned to face the lonely road. She breathed a sigh, unbuttoning the top two buttons on her shirt. “Throw some dirt over me. I’m dead,” she mouthed.

For a place to be stranded, it had a nice view. To the north were the Bristol Mountains, and beyond, the towering Granites. In the sky overhead loomed mature thunderheads, their anvil shapes growing blown out and extended. Somewhere, it had probably drizzled a little, or teased the land with virga.

To the south, across empty flats dotted with creosote and coyote brush, were the Bullion Mountains. These bordered onto a sparse military base. In the center of the valley stood the dark, obsidian-colored rise of Amboy Crater. Other than the road, and some skinny train tracks, there wasn’t much touched by the hand of man.

Then without warning, Lyndy became light-headed, a sense of vertigo overwhelming her. Her vision clouded, and it seemed a foolish thing to allow—this loss of consciousness at a critical time—but there was no stopping it. For the first time in her life, Lyndy Martinez fainted, Victorian style.

Minutes later …

The Spitfire could feel ice water dripping down her forehead and cheeks—sensory contrast being what startled her—as the world came into focus. Her hearing gradually returned, plus the other senses, and she knew she could not be alone.

A stranger must have awoken her by splashing cold water.

With bare hands, Lyndy pushed herself to a kneeling position. The larger grains of sand felt like crushed glass; they were stuck to her cheek as well, and she rubbed them off. Her face remained in the shadow of the Jeep. She thought of the Beretta, stowed out of view beneath the seat, only feet away. She wished she’d grabbed it before, but hadn’t planned on succumbing to heat in the meantime.

Lyndy hastily brushed her palms on her thighs, to clean excess dust. Then she pushed her hair back, away from her eyes.

The stranger loomed above her, wearing a long sleeve denim shirt and farmer-style straw hat. But it was the skin on their face truly distinguishing them from an everyday tourist. It had attained a leather-like appearance, with many deep creases. Lyndy associated the look with older cowboys. This much was clear, it marked someone who spent decades in the west, and never used sunscreen.

Cathy Cookson once said, “If Barstow was to have a beauty contest, there wouldn’t be no winners or runners up.”

“You thinkin bout that gun, are ya?” The voice was feminine.

“Didn’t see that one coming,” thought Lyndy.

The mystery woman held out the 9-mm cartridge, sleek and black, smelling of oil.

Lyndy recognized the magazine she’d loaded by hand, two days prior, about the size and shape of a Pez candy dispenser; it held 10 rounds.

“Already took them bullets out,” said the lady. Her hazel eyes, piercing, ageless, were difficult to read.

The Spitfire sniffed. It was a rare condition to feel vulnerable and lost for words.

“I saw there was one primed in the chamber; got that too. It was scary as hell.”

Lyndy let go of the gun idea. It was a doorstop now.

Wiping a forearm across her face, Lyndy took her first full breath. “It’s cause it’s a prototype,” she whispered. “Those guys weren’t concerned how you were going to disarm it.”

The woman dipped a hand in her front pocket. She unfolded reading glasses, slipping them over her nose. They were those awful wood-shop instructor kind, with the black frames and white tape over the nose bridge.

“Glad you’re alright,” the woman said. “I was about ready to poke ya’ in the shoulder next. Thought maybe you were having a ‘bad trip’ ya know.” Then she grinned, the lines of crows feet deepening around her eyes.

There was a trite phrase describing this situation, yet oftentimes true: not all heroes wear capes. Lyndy was starting to relax.

Tilting her chin, Lyndy realized her blouse was still open at the top, exposing the upper part of her black bra. She quickly buttoned up. “I’ll survive. I think the weather, and a lack of sleep is catching up with me.”

“Lemme help you up,” said the lady, offering a calloused hand. A dulled wedding band adorned her index finger.

“Thanks, but I got this,” said Lyndy, using the bumper to stand. She scraped off gravel from the road, clinging to the back of her jeans. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sorry. The name’s Julia Russell. People call me Russ.”

Lyndy extended her right hand. “Lyndy Martinez. Thanks a million for stopping.”

The woman cleaned some engine grease off her hands, before shaking Lyndy’s.

“I hope ya’ll don’t mind, I took a quick peek under your hood. You’ve got a nice, rust-free CJ here, but the bad news is you need a battery. Your old one is toast—done in by the heat wave. Alternator might be going too. Did you notice the voltmeter dropping by chance? I’m sure the battery was losing charge.” Russ grinned again. “Ya know, I’ve always had a place in my heart for the old rattletrap Jeeps. My mama told me they were cars for boys, but I didn’t listen to that nonsense. Got a brand-new CJ-7 right now.” She pointed her thumb to a taxi-cab-yellow Jeep parked on the other side of the road, twenty yards distant. “I can drive you back into town, and we can pick up a new battery if you want. I’ve got tools too. I changed my last alternator in a Dairy Queen parking lot.”

Lyndy shook her head at first. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. You probably have somewhere you gotta be.”

“Listen, I’m in no hurry.” Russ cleared her throat, looking down at her dusty cowgirl boots. “Say, am I talkin too much? I don’t get much interaction with people these days.”

“No. I would love a ride,” replied Lyndy.

She certainly wasn’t going to turn down this kind of help.

To be continued …

[Link to Part-5: La Fierabrosa Part-5]

Red Mountain, CA

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Link to part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Back on main street, her sunglasses on, and a tepid wind was blowing through Lyndy’s dark hair. Motoring past the Moose Lodge—number whatever—near the yellow street lamp which had been shot out three times, Lyndy could feel beads of sweat coalescing. Periodically they were rolling down her spine like a toboggan run, headed for a gathering on her behind.

Did other humans have these problems, or was it only the spitfire?

Behind her seat resided a yellow igloo cooler containing ice water. She wanted to dunk her head, even if it meant ruining her makeup, but it was too early in the day.

One by one, Lyndy flexed the fingers on her left hand, a bit of purple nail polish flaking off in the process. It had been eleven days without a high temp below a hundred degrees. It felt as if this heat wave would never cease—nor did the paper seem to think so.

Now for one of those awful seventh grade math problems: Deputy Keynes—notorious marriage deal breaker—maintains San Bernardino County is just over 20,000 square miles. So how hard can it be to find a man? If a private investigator spends exactly one minute searching every acre, that would take …. should have paid more attention in math. But if there’s 500,000 minutes in a year, and you never need to sleep or eat, then it would require approximately 24 years to search the county. And the Lovelace Corporation had given her a whopping 40 hours.

Damn.

Lyndy gripped tighter on the steering wheel. Funny thing, most lay people couldn’t explain the difference between burglary and robbery—it blurs together. Except there is a key distinction, and it has to do with the mindset of an individual committing the crime; one involves the threat of violence. So, question was, would this Evan guy be armed? Hector died of a gunshot wound to the back; that was a sobering thought.

There were other problems weighing on her mind too. The Jeep had been hard to get started, and she had to feather the gas pedal. Which was akin to force-feeding it. With her bank account set on nada, any fixes were up to the Spitfire, and her limited knowledge of carburetor tuning.

Up ahead, a wooden sandwich board at the Aero station advertised 65 cent-a-gallon gas. Lyndy raised her glasses. Either her vision was faltering, or it seemed a darn fair price for unleaded. Lyndy glanced at the fuel needle; the speedometer was a total wag, but the fuel gauge could be trusted—sometimes—and hovered at one third remaining.

Though exposed to full sun, Lyndy angled into the far lane of pumps. Her reasoning was two-fold. The inner lane under the awning had been almost fully taken up by an F-series 1-ton truck, hitched to a rickety old trailer. But the primary reason she preferred the more distant row from the kiosk, was to minimize the time the grungy bearded attendant could stare at her chest.

Lyndy shoved the gear lever in neutral and shut off the motor, crossing her fingers it would start one more time. She retrieved a spare rag from behind the seat, wrapping it loosely around the fuel cap, and twisted it off. Then she placed the pump nozzle in the tank, and used the same rag to squeeze on the trigger.

A crafty sign in the station window declared: “Dinosaur Bones Sold Here!” Every now and then, some gullible tourist would stumble inside, asking eagerly about the bones and where he could get a look at them. Then the grungy guy, snot stains adorning his AC/DC t-shirt, would get a belly laugh for the day. It didn’t take much out here.

As the tank slowly filled, Lyndy caught a glimpse of herself in the driver’s mirror. Her face looked drained, cheeks pale, with the edges of her mouth curling down. Hiking up her jeans, she practiced smiling; it took more effort than expected.

“Hey there Lyndy Martinez!”

Somebody was shouting her name from a distance. Lyndy thought she recognized the voice. Instinctively, she turned toward an A-frame taco stand, located a few doors down from the station. She confirmed it was Tammy Ward.

Happy to see a friend, Lyndy responded in kind with a hand-cupping wave. Briefly checking her surroundings, she made sure no one was waiting in line. Then Lyndy finished topping off the tank and reset the nozzle.

Hiking across the strip-mall parking lot, the old asphalt felt hotter than any sand dune in the Gobi Desert.

The little taco stand might have been called Sancho’s, but its manager was white as a Minnesota winter. A stout woman in her thirties, with curly brown hair, Tammy was one of those unfortunates who didn’t tan, they simply burned. Thus, most any time of year she remained steadfastly under her protective awning, like a badger peeking out from a desert burrow.

Lyndy fanned herself with her hands, grinning to Tammy as she walked.

Tammy wiped her fists on her white apron, the front permanently streaked with dried blood—obviously from handling raw beef.

When it came to Barstow citizenry, Tammy was an excellent person to know. Not only did her perch serve as an ideal spot for observing all the goings-on in town, she had kinfolk distributed throughout the county, and Lyndy had used this to her advantage before.

“Hace calor,” Lyndy mouthed. She shielded her eyes with one hand, resting the other on her hip.

Over on Route-66, an Easy-Rider looking dude on a chopper motorcycle slowed and beeped his horn. He followed it up with an infuriating “wert-whirl” whistle.

Tammy scowled, leaning halfway across the counter on her stomach. “These males around here!” she complained, shaking a fist in the direction of the road. “Ain’t no such thing as manners!”  On occasion, Tammy was known to hold kitchen knives in the air; her defensive posture explained why Sancho’s hadn’t been robbed in its 10-year history.

Lyndy approached the wide counter, placing both palms flat on the surface. There was plenty of room and she scooted up onto it, so she could be high and level with Tammy. Twisting around, Lyndy crossed one leg over the other and faced the road.

From a stack of wax-paper cups, Tammy selected the first one, pushing it against the cold soda dispenser. “Say, are those beauties new?” she inquired, pointing to Lyndy’s feet.

Lyndy nodded, kicking out her knees to show off the shoes. “Oh yes, and surprisingly comfortable too.”

“Anyone else notice?”

“Oddly, Mr. Chan did. And this from a man who thinks Hawaiian shirts are business attire.”

Tammy passed the fizzing cup of Tab to Lyndy, who accepted it gratefully.

Taking an initial sip, Lyndy noticed the avocado-green GSX, aligned parallel to the stand. It was a four-barrel V-8, still firing on leaded fuel.

“Hey, how is your Buick running?” asked Lyndy.

“Smoked two showroom Camaros at the drag strip on Sunday.”

“Good to know,” said Lyndy, turning to offer a wink. She also happened to glance over at the gas station. The Jeep was still there, waiting patiently, though the attendant seemed to be searching for what happened to the Latina girl.

With any luck it might get towed away.

“Tammy, sorry to change topics, but you know anybody that dances at Cadillac’s night club?”

“Let me think. Is this for a case?”

Lyndy nodded.

Tammy rested her elbows on the counter in a pensive manner. A few seconds later her head popped up. “I got a cousin Lorraine, used to be a cocktail waitress there,” she offered. “It’s the best I can do.”

“No, that’s super helpful,” replied Lyndy.

“I’ll give you her address. She ain’t got a phone.”

Score. Even a small lead was better than none.

Tammy scribbled down the address on a discarded receipt, in blue ink. “Oh hey, almost forgot why I called you over. Bet you’ll never guess who stopped by looking for you?”

“Burt Reynolds,” said Lyndy, with a shrug.

“Nope, it was the quiet cowboy.”

“Cowboy? You mean Ted Crawford?” She turned around in shock, locking eyes with Tammy.

“I thought you two were finished.”

“So did I,” replied Lyndy.

“Maybe he wants to ask you out to the river party?”

Lyndy winced internally, hoping nothing showed; it was the first time someone had mentioned the party on Saturday. “Oh please! Ted’s not interested in that. We went on three dates and then, nothing. I make up all these elaborate excuses just so I have to visit the JBR ranch, but he was always busy. Either he’s the shyest boy in the desert, or I ain’t his type.”

“Not gonna lie, that is one fine-looking young man.” Tammy stared down at the wood counter. Using her fingernail, she scratched at some dried jack cheese to dislodge it. “So, are you going to that party?”

“I don’t even know yet,” lamented Lyndy, resting her head against the window frame to stay under the shade of the roof. She closed her eyes a moment, remembering the clock was ticking on this case—even if her watch was stopped.

“Now I could be wrong, but you don’t sound very excited, Lyn.”

Lyndy exhaled a sigh, knowing Tammy was unaware of her special day. She poked at her left thigh. “It’s hard to explain, but parties stress me out.”

“Used to do the same to me. You think the dingbat waitress will be there?”

Lyndy folded her arms. Tammy could only mean one individual: Miss Cookson was by far the most popular waitress at the truck stop honky-tonk—practically an institution—and behaved as if she owned the town as well. “And miss a prime opportunity to show off in a bathing suit? Trust me, Cathy will be there.”

“So, what are you gonna wear?”

Lyndy chuckled at the presumptiveness of Tammy. “Haven’t said I’m going yet,” she corrected. “But you know, if I do, probably cutoff shorts and a western shirt.” Emphasizing a curvy shape with her hands, “It’s best to look like the girl next door at those things, not Ginger Grant.”

“Or a certain blonde waitress,” added Tammy.

“Right,” said Lyndy. “Plus, sorry to admit, Lyndy isn’t so young anymore.”

“No way. You’re still young,” argued Tammy.

“What age is it you have to buy your own drinks in a bar? Cause I’m bumping up against it.”

Tammy laughed.

Lyndy stared at the address on the receipt, attempting to visualize a location. It was somewhere in Phelan, on one of many graded dirt roads.

“Oh honey, that’s like 38,” assured Tammy, patting Lyndy on the back.

“Comforting,” said Lyndy sardonically. Then she jumped to the ground.

Even the taco lady has a fast car.

[Link to Part-4: La Fierabrosa, Part-4

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

[Author’s Note: This one is a re-vamp of the very first Lyndy Martinez story, originally titled “Desert Rat”, but now enhanced to bring it up to modern standards. Stay tuned.]

Lyndy dipped a hand in her leather purse, retrieving a tin of lotion. She uncapped the lid, then squirted a big glob atop her fist. She began rubbing it in with her palm, using rapid circular motions.

“Oh god, not your smelly hand lotion again,” lamented Chan, pinching his nose. “Can’t you take it outside? You gonna make it stink like underwear department at Bullock’s. I should light cigar to counteract.”

Lyndy jumped up excitedly. She approached Chan with arms spread, as if threatening to squeeze his cheeks. In response, Chan leaned way back, nearly tipping out of his swivel chair. Then Lyndy abruptly changed direction, veering to the south wall behind the desk.

“You’ve stated your opinion, albeit rudely. But the fact is I do need to earn my keep,” said Lyndy. She plucked the sunglasses from her hair, sticking the plastic tip in her mouth. Pointing to the wall of shame she inquired, “How much do I get if I go after one of these wayward souls?”

“Nothin at all until you find one.”

Lyndy exhaled loudly, mimicking an upset teenager. “But I can make nothing, doing nothing,” she complained. “What’s the use in that?”

“Exactly,” replied Chan.

Lyndy nudged her chair closer to the wall, at the same time spinning it around one-eighty. She took a seat backwards, arms resting flat across the top. She continued chewing the end of her glasses.

“Also woman, you are looking way too thin. After Hector pass away, it like you don’t wanna eat no more. You used to be healthier.”

What did Chan know about healthy eating? Lyndy ignored him.

The large corkboard featured over two dozen polaroid shots of individuals who, over the years, had failed to make court appearances. In the bottom white portion of the photo, names and aliases had been scrawled in block letters, using a sharpie pen; the Spitfire remembered printing a few of these herself. Nearby, a grease marker hung by a white string, and across a few of the faces a red X had been slashed, so prominent you could see it clear to the door.

If the person paid up, went to jail, or otherwise came clean, they were graciously taken down from the wall of shame. Short of that outcome, bond outstanding, they stayed up indefinitely, and some of those pictures were getting yellow with age.

Lyndy rested her chin on her hands, placing her nose 12 inches from the board.

Chan rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Oh, come on Melinda, you know you never gonna find any of those scumbags.” Gesturing with his coffee mug he added, “trail’s gone cold.”

“Hush up,” said Lyndy. “I’m tryin’ to concentrate. I need money fast.”

Chan went back to drinking coffee and watching Have Gun, Will Travel.

By now, The Spitfire had memorized all the faces, often having deja-vu moments in public—or worse, in the midst of a date—where she was certain she recognized one. Of course, most of those leads dissolved like mirages on Route-66.

“I mean, think of it this way,” added Lyndy. “You ever hear of a bad-ass detective with an old, slow, underperforming automobile?”  Lyndy scratched at an itch on the side of her head, above her ear. “Well, one guy. But I mean, unless you’re Columbo, it’s just not cool.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh,” was Chan’s only response.

Lyndy rose from the chair again. She deliberately angled her body to the side, extending her arms in the manner of a game show beauty queen revealing a prize. She was trying to get Chan’s attention. With her thumb and index fingers, she created a box around a middle-aged man in a pinstripe business suit. He had a sad look on his face in the photo.

“Hey, what about this jerk?”

Without bothering to look up, Chan shook his head. He somehow knew the one Lyndy had been outlining. “Poor Jack Webster. Mr. tax evasion service … I mean accountant. Been meaning to take that one down. This time he crossed the line; if we were in the south he be outdoors busting big rocks with a hammer and chisel.”

Lyndy tilted her head to one side, asking for an explanation.

Chan dabbed coffee dribble from his chin with a white paper napkin. “Story amusing in a bad way. Apparently, he pay visit to the ex-wife, unannounced. And just so happen she was having men building pool in backyard for her and a sleazy new boyfriend. Mr. Webster get enraged, bonk them both on head with sticks of rebar, toss them in the empty hole. Then he ramp up the gunnite machine full blast and bury them. It was a clever touch if you ask me, but somehow they catch him anyway.”

Lyndy’s shoulders sank.

“By the way, how much did those new shoes cost?”

It was unusual for Chan to notice a small fashion detail. Glancing down at her feet, Lyndy replied, “You really don’t wanna know.”

“Listen, if you need a case, I got somebody fresh over here,” said Chan, casually reaching across to switch off his TV. “Likelihood of success better.”

Inside, Lyndy commenced a private celebration, golden dollar signs falling from the sky. “You’ve got my attention,” she said.

“I already discuss prospect with Richard Lovelace. He agree to pay your outrageous hourly rate—but you only get 40—one week. Total.”

“That’s enough.”

Chan snorted. “Glad you are confident.” He yanked at the wooden knob on the top drawer, having to shake it a bit to allow it to slide more freely.

Lyndy scooted closer to the desk.

Licking his finger and thumb, Chan then flicked a color print across the top surface. Lyndy lifted the mugshot like a playing card, using her fingernails to grip the edge. The individual was a younger, fit looking fellow with blue eyes and stringy hair. To Lyndy he was cute, in a bad boy fugitive from the law sorta way.

“This one’s a real winner. Goes by name Evan P. Stone; P stand for Percy. His occupation—and that’s being generous—is listed as singer in rock-n-roll band; plays small casinos an stuff.”

Chan began rummaging through stacks of loose paper from the drawer, composed of canceled checks and receipts for god knows what.

“Start out simply enough—as most tailspins do,” continued Chan. “Burglary, petty theft, but what really get him in hot water was a restraining order. Accused of criminal threats to a Cadillac’s dancer.”

Lyndy cringed, recognizing the name of a seedy nightclub frequented by trashy men. Evan’s cuteness points were wiped out instantly.

“And then he violate the order. Course, he assure me she trying to extort money from him. He innocent of all charges, just need time to lawyer up.”

Lyndy took another look at the photo, this time committing the face to memory. Then she placed the picture back on Chan’s desk.

“He promise he remain in town. But now I call telephone many times. Not hear nothing. I call his landlady; she not seen him. I even write letter: Dear crap-for-brains—I mean Mr. Evan Stone—where are you buddy? This town misses you. Come home soon okay. Love Chan. X-O-X-O.” Chan tilted his head back and laughed his trademark laugh.

Lyndy snapped open a makeup case. While staring at her reflection, Lyndy applied her favorite purple lipstick, covering over the places that had rubbed off since the last cigarette break.

How many low-level fugitives did it take to buy a flashy new hot rod? Probably a lot, and it was dangerous work. Might not live to see the day.

In addition, Mr. Stone appeared young and healthy, possessing a talent which could earn him a living off-grid. Heck, it wasn’t so easy getting gigs at casinos—even they had standards.

Lyndy slouched, sinking further into the uncomfortable chair. She breathed in heavily, blowing hair out of her face. She wanted another smoke—the cravings were maddening—but was trying to stay strong.

“Okay, hit me with the punchline. What makes you and Richard so sure this guy isn’t in Puerta Vallarta, drowning in margaritas?”

Lyndy straightened her back, leaning forward to place her palms on the mahogany desk. “And who would be stupid enough to threaten a dancer at Cadillac’s? Don’t those places have better security than most banks?”

Chan looked square at Lyndy, narrowing his vision. He rarely did this, and only when The Spitfire mentioned something he was not anticipating.

“You ever been there?” tested Lyndy.

Lyndy had never been to it herself.

“No,” admitted Chan. “But listen, he got a child in San Berdoo. She in kindergarten or first grade. Live with ex-wife, but ex don’t talk to us neither. Kid’s name is Suzie, or Suzanne, or something, but I don’t know wife name at all.”

“Alrighty.”

Chan placed his finger on a slip of paper. “Aha. I found you the address. You could see if he been staying around here. My guess is no, but it all we got.”

Lyndy rubbed her fingers over her upper chest, and held out her glistening hand in the light. Then she shook the tails of her blouse. “Sorry man, it’s way too blistering in here. I gotta get movin.”

Chan nodded in understanding. Although the metal shades were drawn, he gazed off in the direction of the street. Then he cleared his throat. “Look, sometimes innocent men go back to jail because they are jackasses.”

“I know that,” said Lyndy. Turning to leave, she grabbed her purse and slung it over one shoulder.

“Hey, sorry I yell at you about doughnuts.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big girl,” said Lyndy, briefly sticking out her tongue. She was about to head for the door, hoping the Jeep would actually start.

Why was he acting so weird, apologizing for basically nothing? Did he remember her birthday?

“Oh, one more thing Melinda.” Chan’s tone became serious. It meant bad news. Lyndy turned back.

“I talk to warden the other day when I up at county. He say the inmates got a new nickname for you. You ever hear of it?”

Lyndy shook her head.

“La Fierabrosa.”

To Be Continued …

[Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3]

La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

[Author’s Note: This one is a re-vamp of the very first Lyndy Martinez story, originally titled “Desert Rat”, but now enhanced to bring it up to modern standards. Stay tuned.]

The Shasta c-store was located at the intersection of Barstow Road and Main—literally fronting world-famous Route-66. Of course, much time had passed since those bustling glory days, and fortunes in this part of town had been on a steady decline. Evidence of decay was all around.

Her ex-fiancé, Deputy Keynes, called this joint a Stab-N-Grab, but to Lyndy Martinez it would forever be known as the place where she one time bought a pregnancy test, and thankfully it was negative. Another useful fact: the Shasta carried a good selection of diet sodas in their refrigerators—if you were into that.

With one fancy high-heel sandal resting on the bumper, one on the ground, The Spitfire reclined against the grill of the burgundy Jeep. Her tight blue jeans were insulating her butt from hot metal. She was “busy” smoking a Newport and sipping from an icy-cold bottle of Tab cola; managing two vices at once. Her view faced Main.

Someone had planted a fine row of aspens on the near side of the street. They were clearly watering them, as green summer leaves rustled in a light breeze. The sky above was azure blue, showing a few trace contrails, but not a single cloud. It might have been deemed a perfect day, if it weren’t so damn warm. Using the frilly sleeve of her blouse, Lyndy mopped enormous sweat beads from her forehead and upper chest.

Lyndy glanced at her watch. She probably should have been at work an hour ago, but her birthday was today, and The Spitfire had turned 26. She was determined not to tell anyone, and the only person who would remember was deceased.

Hector had said just one thing regarding the day of her birth, that Lyndy’s parents came very close to naming her Angela. Talk about a mismatch. How they progressed from there to Melinda-Evangeline was anyone’s guess. Of course, the Martinez’s wouldn’t be winning any good parenting awards. No one had heard from them in 25 years. At least her mother had given her height genes; five-eight was respectable.

Lyndy set down the pop bottle, intending to adjust her ponytail. She gathered up some of her loose bangs, all having gone astray on the drive over, and shoved them under the hair tie. This effect was part of a growing list of reasons to hate the open-top Jeep. Another one: she was sick of breathing diesel fumes whenever a truck passed by.

The Spitfire’s gaze shifted to the opposite side of Main, where she spotted an older woman shuffling along the sidewalk. In California any pedestrian was suspicious, but Lyndy had seen that person around town before. She lowered her sunglasses for a better look.

The lady had a peculiar stiff-hip walk, and as usual, stayed cloaked in a knitted brown sweater extending to her knees. A shawl atop her head covered everything but the area around her eyes, making her appear from afar like an ewok.

“How on earth could one tolerate a wool sweater on a day like today?” wondered Lyndy, with a frown of disbelief. Then again, Lyndy had seen pictures of women wearing black burqas in the desert; it was possible.

The sweater lady made a point of giving Lyndy a dirty look every time she saw her, and this day was no exception. As she waited to cross the street she turned to face Lyndy. She stared with unblinking serpent-like eyes.

If someone was going to mad-dog Lyndy, she was happy to return the favor. She exhaled a giant ring of smoke, letting it swirl like a haze, signifying her unwillingness to back down … and possibly a future of reduced lung capacity. Lyndy continued glaring back the entire time.

Funny, but The Spitfire had never exchanged words with the old woman; she didn’t know what the issue was. It could be as simple as hatred for youth or old-fashioned prejudice against Latinos. Or perhaps the sweater lady had heard stories. It was no secret where Lyndy Martinez worked. Anyone would have recognized the burgundy Jeep parked there.

At last the signal changed. The woman shuffled off northbound, soon passing in front of the donut shop. Lyndy crushed out her cigarette, then chugged the remainder of her soda. She prepared to climb in the driver’s seat, taking one last glance over her shoulder. But before twisting the key, Lyndy reached under the passenger side for her leather purse. She squeezed the outside, feeling for the outline of the steel Beretta. It was there, somehow a comfort.

Lyndy let the Jeep idle. “Hace calor,” she mouthed, pinching the front of her blouse to move some air. Then she sputtered out into the flow of traffic on Main, proceeding the few short blocks to Chan’s. When she was a teenager, Barstow felt a whole lot busier. That was in the years before Interstate-15 was complete. But still, given the time of day, traffic on the mother road was anything but light.

Moments later…

In life, there aren’t many numbers you’ll want to have memorized. Your social security number is one. The pin to your ATM card, assuming you have a checking account. But when you hit rock bottom—a new set of jewelry dangling on your wrists—you could do worse than having the number to Chan’s Bail Bonds. In Lyndy’s experience, he answered the phone nearly any hour day or night, and always in the same impatient tone.

Lyndy parked parallel at the rear of the one-story building, aiming for an area where it was crushed gravel; Chan was too cheap to have it all paved. She grabbed her purse, leaving the keys simply dangling from the steering column. The CJ-5 was in such poor condition now, Lyndy figured she couldn’t give it away. Plus, how stupid would you have to be to steal a car from behind a bounty-hunter’s office?

The back door was propped open with a broom stick, and Lyndy slipped through without disturbing it. However once inside, she stopped abruptly.

He stood shoeless in front of the mahogany desk, but otherwise dressed in his preferred outfit: a red Hawaiian shirt and brown khaki pants. With arms folded, he looked every bit his six-foot-two frame. Amidst the shrill of an oil-less ceiling fan, and his staticky black and white television—always on and showing westerns—he somehow heard her pull up.

“Howdy,” said Lyndy.

Chan didn’t offer a customary greeting, instead looking over to the wall clock, then back at The Spitfire. He sighed loudly, scratching his backside, then reaching down for his coffee mug.

“Jeez. What’s-a-matter with you today?” said Lyndy innocently.

“Where are the doughnuts, woman?”

Lyndy snapped her finger and thumb together. “Oh shoot! I knew I was forgetting something.”

Chan raised his arms to the ceiling in aggravation. “For Christ sake Melinda. We talk on phone last night, and I remind you.” Chan shook his head. “You have only one honest chore around here, and you can’t accomplish it.”

Lyndy pointed to the door. “I can go back out,” she offered.

“No. no. Forget it now!” Grumpy and dejected, Chan flopped into his swivel office chair. It was so worn, it had stuffing bulging from each crack in the cushion, like a guy with a beer belly wearing a too-tight shirt.

“Well, sorry the world is coming to an end,” whispered Lyndy meekly.

Of course, asking the boss for a raise required a delicate touch—some sugar coating if you will—but now things were starting off on the wrong note. It was like explaining your career aspirations to a high school guidance counselor, while knowing your GPA was equivalent to the price of gas.

Maybe she should postpone the discussion? Nah.

Lyndy lassoed her purse around the corner of a customer chair. She took a seat, elbows on her knees, pressing her fingertips together in a pose of thoughtful contemplation.

She started off by taking a deep soothing breath, her shoulders slowly rising and falling. While across the desk, Chan was already frowning in anticipation, and she hadn’t even opened her mouth to speak.

“So…uh….”, Lyndy counted to five using the fingers on her right hand. “By my calculations, I need five-thousand to purchase a new vehicle …  because … well … the Jeep is officially a piece-a-shit.”

Lyndy had once seen this man punch his bare fist through a motel room door, twist the handle from the inside, and unlock it. The only other place that happened was in Kung Fu movies.

The expression on Chan’s face steadily shifted from irritation to amusement. “Huh. Huh. Huh.” It was his customary laugh. “Okay Melinda, I go get the Lovelace Company check book.” He pretended to elegantly sign the front of a bond company check with an imaginary fountain pen. “Or would you like that in cash?” Chan pointed to his 1940s safe in the corner.

To be continued …

Link to Part-2: La Fierabrosa Part-2

Link to Part-3: La Fierabrosa Part-3

Link to Part-4: La Fierabrosa, Part-4

Link to Part-5: La Fierabrosa Part-5

Link to Part-6: La Fierabrosa Part-6

Link to Part-7: La Fierabrosa Part-7

Link to Part-8: La Fierabrosa Part-8

Link to Part-9: La Fierabrosa Part-9