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.

---

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy shook her head no.

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

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

Lyndy chuckled.

“Did I say something unusual?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?” she questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Lyndy Life Observation: It’s hard to describe to a young person how important paper maps were to life on the road, and in turn, how much time we spent studying them, folding and unfolding them, flipping them over, spilling coffee on them and arguing over them. A key reason for joining AAA was the maps. And literally, a common explanation for an accident was: “… I was folding up my map and I didn’t see that other car, and wham …”

He was absent a long time, so long she worried he might not ever return. But then she heard his footsteps—the same sort of men’s dress shoes—and became hopeful.

In one hand he held an amber color prescription bottle. In the other, pinched between his finger and thumb he possessed the tiny envelope, roughly the size of a fifty-cent piece. “I have no clue what this stuff is, but it’s certainly not what I used to party with on a Friday night in the eighties.”

Lyndy tightened her grip on the cold bars, hands spread the farthest she could manage given her restraints. She knew the paper envelope contained less than half the dosage she’d consumed in the parking lot two nights prior. She’d been instructed by Rochelle to use it all up—a rule she violated—and also, that it had to be made into a tea. But asking for a cup of hot water right now seemed absurd.

The cowboy hat shaded Graham’s charming eyes, concealed his facial expression. “I still can’t let you out of here you know. So, whatever happens, happens. If you croak, I’m going to tell em it was a heart attack or something.”

“Fine. I understand.” He inched in closer, so they were only the hat’s brim and bar width apart, allowing Lyndy to look up into his eyes. She’d forgotten how tall he was. She could feel the hot breath from his nose. “I’m sorry for what I did to you and Rita the last time … you know … the night of the fire.”

“It’s okay,” whispered Lyndy, her answer truthful.

“I should ask you about this stupid handgun. But I realized I don’t care. None of this is worth it to me. I have a different question for you.”

Lyndy nodded to go ahead.

“What was Rita Lovelace actually like? Was she nice?”

He passed the bottle and envelope to Lyndy. She accepted both in her palm, feeling a rush of adrenaline as her fingers closed around. She couldn’t help wondering about the jail cell, barely wide enough for escape and what kind of other obstacles might await.

“Funny you ask,” she replied, amused.

Uncapping the lid, she downed two of the pills, swallowing extra hard.

Impatiently Lyndy dumped the powder into her other palm and before Graham could wrestle it away, put her hand to her nose, inhaling as deeply as she could.

Graham looked horrified.

“Oh god!” She squinted her eyes as the horrible taste hit her in waves, tickling her throat. “… Rita Lovelace was not nice. I can damn sure tell you that much,” she managed, amidst gasping for air. She rotated her head to one side, not wanting him to see her overcome by the bitterness. “I don’t know how to explain. Even now it’s too difficult,” Lyndy coughed.

“Then what did you see in her, besides the obvious family money?”

“There was something unique about her. Call it manipulation, but she was one of those people you just wanted to please. Everyone did.”

Lyndy bent over and began to cough harder, feeling that sensation of trickling blood in her throat and put her hands up. Cramps gripped her insides, twisting her stomach in knots. Pulling her fingers away from her mouth, she found them splattered in red blood.

“Oh shit. Are you dying?” pleaded Graham, sounding panicked, letting go of the bars. “I wasn’t serious about allowing you to die on my watch.”

Honestly, she shared his concerns, thinking she may have made a horrible mistake. Her knees were buckling yet again as she began to thrash against the wall. A blink later and she lost consciousness. Next she knew, she was back down on all fours. Her clothes and the handcuffs formed a superfluous pile behind her.

As she feared, the bars were too close together for bulldog shoulders. She dropped to one side, putting her front paws through the gap and flopping like a fish.

Graham did a half-turn in disbelief.

Once free of the bars, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted across the hallway to the outer door. It was a metal hospital-style door, with a mesh window and beefy steel latch. She turned back to Graham.

He stared at her, squeezing the bridge of his nose, a combo of shock and amusement. She perked her ears while making sad, watery eyes at him. With her ears still alert, she tilted her head slightly, finally letting out a series of loud, desperate yips.

He rubbed his eyes and exhaled. “Wait. This is so confusing. Were you always a dog? Or were you a woman first and then a dog? Or vice versa?”

Lyndy barked back and then took a run at the door, putting both paws on it like she wanted a walk more than anything in the world. She whimpered. If her tail hadn’t been so stubby it would’ve wagged.

“Ahh, doesn’t matter,” said Graham. “Run like hell.” Then he stepped up to the door and turned the handle so it would open. From there she found herself in a white tiled hallway. She raced off down the hall as Graham said weakly, “uh, somebody stop that dog.”

She tackled two flights of industrial metal stairs, ascending from the basement level.

At the landing atop the metals stairs, another heavy fire door, also shut. She pawed at the kickplate, knowing no amount of canine ingenuity would be able to undo it, let alone turn the latch. This was why dogs would never conquer the world.

She began to shiver, wondering if there might be another way but knowing inside this was the end of the road. They wouldn’t have two entrances to their jail, nor would one be any easier to open.

An almost unbearable minute elapsed as panic filled her small body.

Then something miraculous happened. She heard footsteps pounding on the other side, and the latch twisting. As it opened thirty degrees, she wedged her snout into the gap and burst through like a projectile. To her right, someone’s pant legs, the missing guard. But she didn’t look back or slow down. Time for warp speed, the fastest an old Frenchie could go.

The far end of the passage opened onto a casino floor.

She imagined an angry conversation transpiring below: “How did she get away?”

“Did you see the dog? That’s her!” What? Have you gone mad?

At least Graham had done her another solid. She sprinted toward the jubilant sounds of slot machines and flashing lights.

“There’s a service animal loose!” a woman exclaimed.

“Who let the dogs out,” cracked a man holding dice. People huddling round the craps pit started laughing.

She leapt onto a fancy felt-topped table, discovering it supported the roulette wheel. The dealer lunged at her, swiping with both arms wildly. She outmaneuvered his reach, climbing onto the wheel, riding it as it twirled 180 degrees like a lazy Suzan.

From there she dove, hitting the floor so hard it caused her to roll two times. Dazed, she found herself underneath the card tables crawling and scrambling across people’s shoes. A few times she narrowly avoided being kicked. Swerving out into the aisles, she tilted her head up eyeing the greyish signs and looking for the ones with exit arrows. Following the arrows, she continued to dash for the main entrance.

Someone shouted: “Block the door!”

Fortunately, she beat them to it—so many tourists coming and going nobody had the wherewithal to listen to an unexpected command. The doors kept being pushed open and it was only a matter of picking the right time.

The swinging doors opened out onto a crowded sidewalk, a cold soggy night. The colors of this world she once knew to be vivid, were again running together in muted tones. She felt trapped in a blue impressionist painting. The weather was rotten and folks were dressed in jackets and coats. The scent of people and rain and the slick road, plus honking of horns combined to overwhelm her brain. But her heart felt strong.

Lyndy wanted to laugh, but wasn’t able. She snuck out of view into a decorative planter, panting in the cover, thinking she’d come far enough. While resting she reflected on her incomplete answer to Graham: “It’s weird to say or admit this about Rita. I guess I loved her.”

In part due to the ever-changing landscape, she didn’t recognize her surroundings. With a keyhole view of the street she did her best to think and take it in. Some of the buildings were restored, yet this area was definitely giving off downtown vibes. The block had to be north, near East Fremont. And actually, it seemed like the very spot where she and Rita had stayed so long ago.

She needed to keep moving, knowing someone might put two and two together and pursue her outside. At the next opening, she dashed across the street where it was darker, hoping to escape notice. Her paws felt mucked up and dirty.

Noticing a sign for the Atomic Liquors bar, she knew she was in the seedier end. Luckily though, she was probably within a mile or two of Rochelle’s fortune telling shop.

Losing all the time to these casino jerks was getting old fast. She needed a way to turn the tables on them without these unnatural transformations. She raced off diagonally across a large parking lot and into another flat graded area, eventually making her way down a slope. A block or two after she crossed under the 515 overpass, unseen.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: Witnessing a quintessential American event, a modern ten-year-old scampering to catch a yellow school bus, and his backpack is so boxy and humongous, he channels one of those sherpas on an early Everest expedition. The book weight alone is jolting his body with each step. More job security for chiropractors down the road I suppose.

Rochelle’s fortune telling shop featured the same squared off brick appearance in the back, but she’d not realized it shared a lot with a small, bland cottage. This was due to the fact it butted up to a narrow alleyway, where the entry for the garage was. A door and one window of the residence faced this backstreet, with a twenty-foot stone path leading to the door and bisecting a muddy patch of turf.

Strolling up the path, she could tell lights were on inside and a fire must be going, as the smell of smoke tickled her nose. She didn’t know what to do next. A doorbell wasn’t apparent, nor would she have been able to activate it, so she simply barked.

Barking was fun. She made certain it was the loudest, most annoying dog bark she could imagine. Ironically, her breed was known for being quiet.

Eventually the milk-colored Siamese appeared in the window, glaring at her. The look on the cat’s face: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She continued to bark. If Rochelle were home, she couldn’t ignore the barking forever. The cat continued to stare, every now and again hissing.

Minutes later the back screen creaked. Rochelle appeared in a nightgown, covering her tall frame down to a pair of furry slippers. She frowned at Lyndy.

“Hush up!” Rochelle commanded, peering up and down the alley, probably checking whether there was an owner lurking about.

Lyndy went down into a sitting position, holding out her front paw for a shake and whimpering.

“Where’s your collar?” Another frown, and Rochelle tilted her head. Between her legs, the cat watched from the shadows.

“Lyndy, is that you?” whispered Rochelle. She folded her arms, squinting. “Or am I speaking to a normal dog like a crazy person?”

Lyndy yipped back in an excited fashion.

“Oh, for Pete sake! You were supposed to be a cat,” Rochelle scolded. She pushed open her door until it was twelve inches wide. “Well, come in then.”

The Siamese cat hissed, attempting to block Lyndy’s path, however she shut her bulging eyes to protect them while she pushed her way in anyway.

The back door had been an entry to Rochelle’s kitchen, which was tiny, like a fifties style and never remodeled. All of her cabinets were jam-packed at the hoarder level. But one in particular contained a spice emporium, hundreds of small jars, packed in so tightly and so deep it was a wonder she’d know where any particular item was. But somehow, she removed five or so and dug down until she got to one which contained a sugary substance.

Rochelle measured out a tablespoon and deposited this into a bowl with lukewarm water. This water began to fizz, as Rochelle stirred it. After thirty seconds she set the bowl of milky liquid down. “Drink this,” said Rochelle.

Lyndy stepped up to the bowl, sniffing it. She cast a glance at Rochelle and the mean cat, then began lapping the water, which tasted a bit like baking soda. She stumbled back, feeling a bit woozy.

Moments later she was naked, cowering on the arm of the sofa in Rochelle’s living room. “Do you know I got dropped in a pet surrender box and locked up at the pound last time.” she screeched. “So freakin humiliating!”

Rochelle laughed. “You were supposed to fixate on cats.”

Lyndy piled all the loose throw pillows onto herself, attempting to cover up. “Dude, I’ve had a really miserable day.”

“I’ll say.”

Lyndy shook her head. “Come on, Rochelle. Can’t you find me a robe or something or …. or are you gonna revel in my nudity?” she accused.

Rochelle laughed. “How did we get from cat to bulldog?”

“I dunno. Maribel used to adore those type a dogs. And I accidentally fixated on it.”

Rochelle disappeared to another room, but still within hearing range. Lyndy spoke louder, “ those jerks at the casino syndicate put me in their private jail, which I narrowly escaped. Next encounter they’re gonna make me dig my grave and murder me. And turning into a dog isn’t going to work a third time. That virtual reality spell you showed us the other night. Is it for sale?”

“No way Jose! Not for sale. It’s like the most powerful one,” Rochelle appeared, holding a bathrobe with a tattered bottom. Tossing the robe to Lyndy she added, “I think my cat has been sharpening its claws on the edge of this, but other than that it’s fine.”

“Can I at least sleep here? I don’t have a ride and I’m trying to keep Mari outta this.”

“What happened to your car?”

Sliding her arms through the holes, she folded it over and tied the comically huge robe in front. “They stole it. Said they were sending it to a crusher, but I highly doubt it. Just gonna be really tough to find again.”

Rochelle laughed. “Like old times then? Making you feel young?”

“In a way,” replied Lyndy, looking down at the cat.

Rochelle filled a copper teapot from the tap, then carried it to her stove where she lit one burner with a match. With the pot centered on a circle of blue flame, Rochelle made her way to her sitting room again. Settling in an armchair across from Lyndy, the cat climbed in her lap and Rochelle began petting it.

“How did I not know you had a daughter until just the other day?” Rochelle commented.

“Maybe cause we haven’t spoken to one-another in 20 years,” replied Lyndy.

A few minutes later, The Spitfire sipped tea while still wearing the oversize robe. Her eyes drifted across the room to a glass fronted hutch, the kind some old ladies put decorative plates in, and noticed it was filled with dance awards from the seventies and eighties: several trophies, a few ribbons and medals. She sniffed, stepping across the room and standing in front of it. “Did you win all these awards for dance?” asked Lyndy, thumbing through the scrapbook atop, with black and white clippings from newspapers and bulletins. Peripherally, she’d known Rochelle was talented, but it never crossed her mind how much.

“Of course. It’s what I always wanted to be when I was a kid.”

“God, you were such a gifted dancer; somehow I didn’t know you won these. How come you never showed em off?” Lyndy turned around to face Rochelle. “Remember when we were both performing at Roland’s club—I’m not sure you could call what I did dancing—I think I made people laugh is all.” She tilted her chin down, smiling shyly. “Aren’t you glad there were no camera phones in those days? Like you know how kids film everything these days and put it up on the internet.”

Rochelle winked. “Trust me, Lyn. I have more than enough embarrassing pictures of us when we were younger. Just in case I ever need to blackmail somebody.”

Lyndy fell back onto the sofa.

“So … how come you’re not living your best life?”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

Lyndy looked around.

“Uh, you’re literally a genius … and a witch …  and you live like me.”

“I wish I’d had a kid.”

“Oh no you don’t,” assured Lyndy.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-15

Lyndy Life Observations: Go to visit Aunt Rose Martinez for the holidays, spin the wheel of small talk and receive as a prize one of three lectures. 1. You’re too fat. 2. Now you’re too thin. 3. When are you going to stop screwing around as a private investigator and find a real job?

Lyndy wiped her runny nose on her flannel shirt sleeve because her hands were full with heavy stuff. “Damn allergies,” she mumbled to no one in particular.

She hated crying in public. Not only was it embarrassing, but it reminded her when her boss used to yell if she got emotional. Which is why Lyndy didn’t dare allow Miss Thurgood to see her. She’d imagined a future where the older one got, the more cynical or stoic she’d become. So much for that plan. She’d done it four times in the last week—like her own ongoing episode of Oprah.

The Spitfire set down her toolbox, tilted her head back, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Ravens were circling the junkyard. High clouds had turned the sky wintery grey.

At 08:55 she happened to be the only female in line at Pick-A-Part, wearing her sunhat and gardening gloves, waiting eagerly behind four lanky teenagers—who called each other “Bro”—and a quiet father and son pair. If you didn’t have tattoos and a mullet here in the eighties, used to be they might not let you in. She’d considered dragging Mari along on this half-baked adventure; Mari could talk to young guys for hours about Honda stuff, and video games, and they loved to talk to her. These types of dudes were her crowd, but the threat of casino goons was too real.

The Spitfire could use a hand, so she also pondered calling Ben Cardenas, but wasn’t sure if he was the fix-your-car type of guy. Who knows, maybe he would have said yes—if he could pull himself away from the OTB.

Under one arm she was clutching the rolled-up plastic tarp. Bending over, she lifted the toolkit. Her green box contained penetrating oil, a mis-matched set of box-end wrenches, hex keys, a ratchet, pliers and a handful of the most common socket sizes like 10-mm.

A one-eyed fellow looking like a Mad-Max extra, guarding the turn-styles nodded as she went by. Wild sunflower and weeds were growing everywhere, boosted by the soaking rains. The air smelled moist.

Used to be macho cars like Mustangs, Torinos and Fairlanes were a dime-a-dozen—couldn’t give em away—but after the millennium they were becoming less and less available. And when you spotted one the motors were always gutted by pony car enthusiasts. Luckily the Rancheros and Mercury Meteors had the same style V-8.

Lyndy got her morning exercise tromping up and down the slanted rows, eyeing all the Fords and Mercurys, searching for any which might have come with a 289. Gave her time to think about the puzzling sanction.

At their last meeting Rhonda had been questioning Mrs. Aloyan’s integrity. But whether she realized it or not, Rhonda had introduced a clever wrinkle to the story by offering an alternative sequence of events. Conceivably Mr. Aloyan had still been run off the road, and this altercation became the catalyst to his disappearing act. Given a choice of whether to seek help from law enforcement or keep on running, he’d chosen the latter. To protect his family? To protect their wealth? She had no direct evidence for this, other than a hunch. Except in this business those counted for a lot.

“Ah, here we are,” she mouthed. Up ahead was a square body farm truck with the hood elevated a few inches—an oddball F100 pickup from northern Mexico coming equipped with a 289 car motor. The stamped pattern matched the one on her factory block. Score! Nobody would’ve looked here in the ugly trucks section. She darted over to it. Pressing up the hood, giving her shoulders a workout, the hinges groaned like they were irritated at having been bothered to move. One didn’t need a hood prop as it remained in place by the forces of decay. Though full of spider webs and maybe a few rat droppings, this seemed a promising one.

Lyndy used an old barbecue brush to clean grime off the top of the engine. At first there was so much dirt she couldn’t even see the bolt heads, much less get a wrench on them. Not chrome, but it was the correct style of valve cover. She balanced her toolkit on the radiator, setting a deep socket atop the newly exposed bolt heads.

Building upon her theory, she suspected Mr. Aloyan hadn’t run off too far. Why? Cause she wouldn’t. Realistically his choices were slim. Leave the US and return to eastern Europe? She doubted it. But she needed a good likeness.

What she could not explain was the part where Mrs. Aloyan claimed she consulted Rita Lovelace about her problem. How in the world could that be true? It was a head scratcher. How many Rita Lovelace’s could there be living in Tucson AZ?

With a razor blade Lyndy stripped hardened gasket material from her new treasure. Then she carried it rusty bolts and all to the front to pay. With any luck they’d let her use the blasting chamber to clean it.

---

Later that day …

She snuck several bites from a tuna sandwich on the dash, paired nicely by kettle chips.

With the sprawl of Vegas suburbs expanding all the time, she was used to traffic there. On the other hand, a midday construction zone on I-40 in Arizona slowing traffic to a crawl; that was especially irritating. They were necking the freeway to one lane using k-rails. It was a game the DOT loved to play. Spin a wheel of mile markers, pick the spot to cause a traffic jam today. The I-40 always had random construction somewhere. A bright orange sign read “shoulder closed” next five miles. Eventually she coasted to a halt.

Yawning, Lyndy rolled down the driver’s window, set her sunglasses on the dash next to her lunch. Then she reached over to tune the radio to a rock station, if she could find one. She’d gone through countless hours like this. Did some of her best thinking; used to get the munchies too. Once upon a time on the LA freeway she and Catherine even played strip poker with two guys in another car. Good ol days.

Out the window she watched horses grazing other side of the barbed fences.

Ahead of her was one of those luxury car carriers, the hard-sided kind transporting Porsches for cross-country sales. In her rearview was an aggressive driver in a dually farm truck. It had a giant chrome brush guard. He was hugging her bumper. No license plate.

That’s when things took an abnormal turn; the loading ramp attached to the back of the trailer started to lower. For some reason it amused her. The goof in the cab hadn’t secured it? It took a long time to lower. Like one degree every second.

She took a glance left and right. Traffic had come to a dead stop, most drivers oblivious.

“Oh crud. They’re back and taking the Mustang!”

She adjusted her center mirror, placing her left hand on the door latch. The man driving the farm truck had mirrored wrap-around shades. His brush guard touched her rear bumper. Turning the front wheels and trying to nose out was an impossibility.

Her heart pounding, she watched the car ramp moving below 70 then 60 degrees.  Soon they’d need to edge the trailer forward or else the ramp would land on her hood. Hard to tell but she assumed men would be waiting behind to ambush her. And there was nowhere really to go, with the concrete rails boxing her in.

The dude in the truck had his hand on his own door. This would be a tricky escape. She let out the clutch, killing the motor. Then stretching over the passenger side, caught her hand on the latch, thrusting the door open. Cringing at the sound she was able to get it partway before it slammed on a k-rail. She scrambled over the console, managing to squeeze out, then edged alongside the truck cab.

Sidestepping as rapidly as possible, she heard the tough with the shades kick open his door. Through the window she caught a glimpse of his raised right hand, in it an enormous black taser. He then dropped from view, leaping nearly four feet to the ground

She dropped to the pavement herself, squirming under the bed of the truck out below the bumper. At her side she saw his boots.

“Stop what you’re doing,” he commanded.

Coming on hands and knees by the tailgate, she sprung onto the hood of the next car, a Subaru. The innocent bystander at the wheel looked frightened, as she started crawling onto the roof and the attacker followed.

Getting desperate, she attempted a leap to the roof of the following car, but stumbled. Her body rolled as she fell to the hard ground and she landed on her side.

“Hands where I can see them!” the man shouted from the roof. He had that big plastic gun armed and pointed straight at her.

“Don’t do it, I have a heart condition,” pleaded Lyndy, shrinking to the shaded side of a mini-van. Ten years younger and she knew she would’ve made that jump. Maybe she could keep on running or try to fight him, but the risk of injury was too great.

Lyndy did as she was told, holding up both hands. Then in the blink of an eye, she felt the metal projectile impact her shoulder with the force of a riot beanbag, next the surge of electricity.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: Bought a pack of those gluten free bagels in the hippie health food aisle of a grocery store. Those things were like biting into a sun-bleached nautical rope.

Folks who were on the run for months or years at a stretch used to tell her it was a relief to finally be captured. Because it’s stressful being a fugitive—you lose a lot of sleep. It’s lonely too. You can never really relax out there, always lying awake at night. Having bad dreams when you manage to catch a wink of sleep. Wondering if that noise you heard, the snapping of a twig, could it be the US Marshalls sneaking up on you? Oftentimes she knew how they felt. Sadly, this was one of those times.

Her arm throbbed as though a scorpion stung her multiple times.

She sat crumpled in the corner of a jail cell, legs crossed, head down. The floor was clinical linoleum. The cell had three-quarter-inch diameter iron bars, but they’d still put her in cuffs; the law enforcement ones. The lock was a modern keypad style, not susceptible to picking or any other tricks. If she needed to relieve herself, they had a bucket.

“I still can’t believe grown ass men used ta be scared a you.” A bored young security guard on a swivel stool had been teasing her, smoking an e-cigarette.

Lyndy massaged her temples.

“I heard ‘em talking outside. They’re sending a big shot with the company, former executive who’s retired now; says he wants to meet you.”

She held up both thumbs in lackluster celebration.  

“He was all out begging em to see you,” added the young man.

“Where’s my car,” she groaned.

“At the crushers,” he chuckled.

Well this was discouraging.

Thank goodness Mari wasn’t along. Yet the idea of the Mustang being crushed was almost too much to bear. Such a waste. She prayed it was a falsehood, but even so, it needed rescuing as soon as possible. Maybe they would simply put it into a car auction and sell it off.

“Wait. Who the heck wants to see me?” she whispered. “Do you mean Mr. McNair?”

“Why him? He’s not retired.”

“Who then?”

“Some guy named Winsom.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” she thought.

More hours passed. Eventually the young man grew tired of talking to himself and she dozed off.

The sound of a door unlatching and creaking open, then footsteps down the hall jarred The Spitfire awake. Another set of florescent lights flickered on but she kept her head pointing down.

The person’s watch bracelet, or something metallic jangled as they walked. The person stopped in front of her cell and she noticed their slacks and nice shoes. She could hear them breathing heavy like a man, accompanied by a puff of air, a large hat being removed and swished back and forth.

“I’ll be damned. It really is you,” said the older fellow, sounding cheery and delighted. He placed a free hand on the bars. “Get lost for a while, kid!” he ordered.

“Me?” she heard the young man ask.

“Yes, genius. Take a walk.”

She heard the younger one grudgingly stand up to leave. The older man didn’t speak again until they were alone together.

“You know back in our day, I fantasized about you many times.”

“Guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” she muttered.

“First off, I know what you’re thinkin. Can I get you out of this mess? The answer I’m afraid, is unequivocally no. I honestly don’t know the code. They wouldn’t give it to me, cause … they probably don’t trust me.” He sighed deeply, voice projecting up and a finger tapping on the lock.

She didn’t know what to say. That tone again. He’d need to be an expert liar, otherwise what he’d admitted was believable.

“Over the years they kept wanting to tear this place down, but my old boss wouldn’t allow em. It even makes decent money, just looks outdated. Now we’re both outta the picture, so I’m sure it’s a matter of time. I always liked it here. The main floor has two-way mirrors and catwalks above it, no cameras; no recording devices of any kind.”

She lifted her chin, glad he’d steered the conversation to the topic of where they were. “Are you suggesting you’re sad about tearing down a casino, or a cheater’s jail like this one?” questioned Lyndy. She couldn’t see his face, the lower half hidden behind a logger beard. The top of his head was bald and he was out of shape. He stuck a fist in his pocket, the other still holding onto the hat.

“I admit, you held up much better than I did,” he added. “You still look great.”

“It’s probably malnutrition.”

The man chuckled. His jovial laugh seemed familiar. It was then that she noticed the eyes. “Graham?” she questioned.

He nodded.

“Sorry I didn’t recognize you at first,” she said, rising to one knee and then standing up. She kept her back pressed to the wall, helping to balance with her bound wrists drooping in front of her. “Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just been a really long time. I don’t recognize hardly anybody these days.”

“They’re looking for an Italian gun, Lyndy. They couldn’t find it in your car.”

She locked eyes with Graham. “They’ll never find that one. They should give up.”

“I warned them you wouldn’t tell. You’re so stubborn you’d probably resist to the point of actually dying.”

“I dumped it in the Colorado ages ago. Buried in three feet of silt by now.”

“You can tell me the truth,” he said sternly. “It might help.”

Lyndy didn’t respond.

“Fine. So you’ll stay here til you starve. Or until they decide you’re worthless.”

Lyndy scratched the back of her head. “What time is it?” she asked.

“Close to midnight.”

“Do you happen to know where my purse is?”

“Why? What do you think you need?”

“I guess I’m willing to tell you where the gun is, however, in exchange I want my blood pressure medications,” reasoned Lyndy. “And uh … there’s an envelope containing a powdery substance I was going to … you know … consume from a mirror later today.”

Graham smiled, like he wanted to play along with the game. “Serious?”

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-14

Lyndy Life Observation: I remember being a kid, pedaling a friend’s Schwinn bike around El Sereno and someone telling me their grandfather went on hundred-mile-long bike rides. The thought was inconceivable, as far away to me as riding to west Texas, as fanciful as launching a sailplane to the moon.

The island-themed waffle hut—connected to the hotel—was visited mostly by families. Gleeful children scampered up and down the aisle by the booths, unable to stay in their seats after devouring chocolate-banana-macadamia nut waffles loaded with syrup and whipped cream. A bell at the cook’s window dinged every half-minute, as new orders were up.

In her fingers Lyndy possessed a coveted invitation. Feeling clever, she turned the stiff card over and over, grinning as her brown eyes met with Graham’s. Embossed on the front, name and address of a pawn shop—Kneed More Dough. On the back, written in blue ink, it said: “Ask for Noll.”

“Noll? That’s what he gave you?” questioned Graham, eager with anticipation.

She and Graham were seated across from one another, occupying a front window booth. Over coffee, she filled him in on the Tibetan flute and her desire to gain access to the rare antiquities auction. Importantly, she left out any mention of the curse.

“Tarner kept insisting he didn’t understand me and I just about gave up on the whole idea. Except when turning his back to depart, he sneakily reached in his pocket and set this on the dessert table. He must think of me as a goober, because his hand lingered for an excessively long time.”

“Maybe we just call the number? What’s the worst that can happen?” Graham had his hat tilted back like he was in the stands of a rodeo. Made him look silly but still attentive.

Lyndy frowned. “Worst that can happen is it’s a police detective, and we look like we’re calling about fenced goods. That would be very bad.”

“Well, I could call. Why would the police bother? It sounds like a real pawn shop.”

“Have you heard of it?”

Graham shook his head no. He pointed to a phone booth in the corner. “I got dimes.”

Lyndy followed him to the booth and they both squeezed inside—so close she could smell whatever aftershave he used—Graham holding his hand on the receiver. With his other hand he slipped a dime into the slot. They argued over who would talk, but when the call was answered it was The Spitfire clearing her throat, compelled to speak.

“Pawn shop! Hello!” came a shout, something like the gruff answer Mr. Chan would have given to anyone reaching CBB in a time of desperation.

“Uh hello, we’re calling for Noll please …” she said, in what she realized was a nervous teenager tremelo.

“Who?” the person replied. The background of the call was a noisy room, rather unlike a pawnshop, more like a factory.

“Noll!” shouted Lyndy, in an authoritative tone this time.

“Oh you want Noll. Noll’s not here. Can I help you?”

Lyndy held out her palm, making eyes at Graham, “what now?”

“When will he be in?” stated Graham. “We really need to speak with Noll.”

A long pause. Some whispers. Finally, sound of a door slamming and footsteps. The phone was handed off.

“Hi folks, I’m Noll,” said a man who sounded like a San Francisco hippy from the sixties.

“Hi, we’re calling about the auction. We want to see a …. preview,” declared Lyndy. “Can we do that?”

“Once chance. Tonight at 8pm. You folks got pen and paper?”

“Miss Lovelace was right,” thought Lyndy.

Graham nodded to Lyndy, fumbling in the tight quarters for a pen attached to a beaded chain. He retrieved it, tearing off a back page of the phonebook to mark it down.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead,” Lyndy said.

And the hippie rattled off an address. Then a click as the line went dead.

“We have a lot of time to kill,” said Lyndy, checking her watch.

Earlier she’d been feeling weary, but a combo of anticipation and youthful resilience somehow reinvigorated her metabolism. At the valet stand, a red Mercedes SL roadster was delivered, which Lyndy surmised belonged to casino management. Saying nothing in regard to this, Graham held the door for her and they rocketed out onto the strip. They went to Circus-Circus first, where Lyndy played a basketball arcade game. In the competition which ensued, she came out victorious more often than Graham, though she suspected him of letting her win. On the other hand, her being in a party dress and sandals was a handicap. Afterward they went cruising in the convertible again.

As a companion and tour guide, Graham was a delight to be around. In addition to being handsome, he patiently listened to her, and had a certain rare calmness which most men his age lacked. This in spite of the fact he had already shared much and she’d told him so little about herself. In the car they must have been up and down the strip 3 times.

Later in the coolness of a small theater, they witnessed a live Carpenter’s concert performance. She’d never been so close to someone on the radio and could practically touch the piano. When they came outside, the sun had set and the skyline illuminated again. For a few moments she forgot about everything and found herself having fun. At last, they made their way to a prime rib house, where everyone including the chef seemed to be friends with Graham.

Later that night …

It had always been fascinating to Lyndy how abruptly the showmanship and elaborate facades transitioned to bland stucco cubes, only a few stoplights west of Las Vegas boulevard. In those days the changeover from city nexus to vacant desert was even more dramatic—happening just beyond the welcome sign at the corner of the McCarran runway. By contrast LA felt endless, a mobius strip of streets and neighborhoods, never reaching an edge.

Still in the shadows of mega-casino towers, walking distance from their hotel, they found the special address. Graham parked on the dusty street, next to a white two-story concrete-walled warehouse with zero landscaping. Judging by other cars—pricey European makes and models—this was indeed the correct location. A lettered sign indicated it was a shag carpet showroom by day. Besides the cars, the only other clue this was an exclusive event was a beefy armed guard in a suit, standing aside the small front entry, smoking.

Rita had warned no photographs would be allowed, and at one time, these were masquerade parties. Some rules had loosened.

She stood arm-in-arm with Graham, using him to balance in her heels. The no-nonsense guard demanded to see their invitation card before they were let inside. For a moment he stared at her purse, but luckily didn’t ask to search it.

Half the first floor, a sample area, had been devoted to public sales. It was chock full of colorful squares: that volcano orange, the lovely green and gold mix. Pretty much all the favs. Beyond this, rolls and rolls of the stuff in racks 12 feet tall. The daytime lights were off and only what shone through from the entry illuminated.

An industrial elevator, the kind with top and bottom doors merging in the middle, took them to the second floor. The darkness of the room and the nature of the elevator made it feel like the start of a ride.

This upper floor had more lighting, but only focused in certain areas, and Lyndy could see other folks strolling. It hosted an expansive office space. The only refreshments provided: makeshift bar across a desk, containing champagne flutes—about fifty of them pre-poured.

Three long cases arranged in a u-shape lined the perimeter walls of the room. Ceiling lights pointed straight down upon these, and the rest of the space was illuminated indirectly. There were no windows. She counted fifteen persons, three couples and the balance on their own; in addition to these several more men who she assumed were armed security guards. Only the couples spoke to one another in hushed tones, but none of the singles uttered a word. They just circulated in a clockwise direction.

The insufficient lighting served dual purposes: to disguise identities and to further discourage indoor photography—would be near impossible to hold a film camera still. 

She nudged Graham, who seemed awestruck by the whole experience. They shuffled to the first case on the left and her eyes were drawn to one item immediately.

Of course, she hadn’t imagined wanting anything here, until Lyndy saw the cat statuette. Wordlessly, she yanked Graham’s arm and looked up at him. She pointed to the 12-inch-high artistic depiction of a black feline with exquisite yellow eyes. “Is …. that what I think it is?” The carving was so accurate it gave the illusion of being lifelike, perhaps watching a rodent hole ready to pounce.

A printed card beside the statuette indicated this 2500-year-old painted statuette was in fact an Egyptian sarcophagus, presumably containing a mummified cat. The minimum asking price was $3000.

“There’s Bastet,” came a spooky whisper from behind. It was Dr. Tarner, seeming to have materialized from a bat in the shadows. But he was seated, one leg crossed over the other, in some carpet seller’s swivel office chair. He’d been smoking in his darkened corner, observing potential buyers. “More accurately, that cat is a gift in the goddesses’ honor.” So much for laying low. “A symbol of discrete, controlled power.”

Graham looked startled.

“I see,” replied Lyndy. Stepping sideways, she and Graham pretended to be interested in the other contents, when in reality she only cared to see if the flute was here. Beside the cat, the case housed a Fabergé egg and a pocket watch. The description for the watch said it was originally owned by J.P. Morgan. Minimum price was $25000.

Next they shuffled behind a couple who was at the center case. This one contained a Stradivarius violin, a bottle of some type of wine or spirit and the wooden flute. She struggled to contain her excitement, pretending to be disinterested. Meantime Tarner had risen from his chair, moving lazily, coming up behind them and trying to butt in.

“What’s your favorite thing here?” inquired Graham. It was a smart tactic, as she knew it would deflect Tarner.

“Easy.” Tarner pointed a shaky fist at a murky bottle of liquor with a faded French label.

“Is it cognac?”

“From Napoleon’s personal stash. By god, that’s 165-year-old bottle!”

“Yuck. Bet that drink tastes like shoe polish by now,” argued Graham.

Lyndy could hardly care about a bottle of nasty booze, but her eyes bugged out when she saw Tarner’s exposed arm. He had a rash. She couldn’t have noticed it while he sat in the corner, but the lights directed onto the sale cases had also fallen across his forearm. And he was wearing a casual shirt. The hairy skin had obvious raised patches, bright red and swollen like a bee sting.

“Dr. Tarner, are you well?” Lyndy asked sympathetically.

Tarned glanced down, yanking his sleeves up to his hands and groaning. “Shingles my dear. Wouldn’t wish this affliction on my worst enemy. Do yourself a favor and never get old.”

Casually she let her gaze fall upon the description for the ceremonial flute. As Rita stated, it confirmed the item was discovered high on the slopes of Nanda Devi. No such flute had ever been found, nor the priest who must have owned it. The minimum price was twelve thousand.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: If you know a place as a child, then return as an adult, so often it appears much smaller than you believed. It’s a peculiar experience. A stone footbridge over the arroyo like a part of a grand medieval castle—I once marveled at that—yet nearby trees, sycamores and eucalyptus, now towered above it. And from a vantage point a hundred yards away, no one would know it existed.

A gold tinted tray holding dirty dishes and hotel mugs, occupied floor space beside the door. At least she’d been eating.

Lyndy sighed. Her heart felt joyous. But pressing the key into the lock, she couldn’t shake the dread of an uncomfortable conversation to come. She knew Rita would be unhappy with her. No one liked to be left out.

The late show was on TV. Miss Lovelace sat legs folded on top of the bed. She pointed the remote and turned down the volume. Two wall sconces plus floor to ceiling windows lit the room softly.

“Where were you?” demanded Rita coldly. She didn’t even look her way, as though shunning her roommate. Somehow the scorn of Miss Lovelace stung more than any ordinary employer. These tender emotions she knew arose only for someone whom she respected and genuinely wanted to please.

“Good news. I made it to the auction preview,” reasoned Lyndy, shutting the door and setting the latch to lock it. “Tarner was there. How is your rash?”

“Itchy,” said Rita. “Worse than a second-degree burn—and I should know.”

Lyndy crept up closer, to the carpeted area separating the queen beds. “I wanted to talk to you about some kind of plan. The flute is there, but it’s heavily guarded—and there were over a dozen other people.” From here she could see Rita’s arms and chest, as all she wore was a tank-top style nightshirt. The red bumps had a certain ashy appearance and for the first time she recognized this. It was the same as the affliction on the arms of Dr. Tarner.

Rita turned her head to face Lyndy, scowling. “What else did you do today?”

“Well … I met a guy last night. And we hung out today. He’s actually helpful.” Lyndy let her leg muscles relax, as she fell backward into the empty bed.

Rita, who must have been expecting it, still seemed furious at the answer. “So you decided, here I am on vacation. Why not have a fun date?”

Lyndy exhaled. “Why should you care? Why are you making a big deal out of it?”

“I’m just glad you’re having a grand old time.” Rita suddenly became animated. “At least someone is.”

Lyndy sat up, glaring at Rita. “How dare you question my loyalty?”

“And you just helped yourself to my clothes.”

“That’s cause you didn’t give me time to pack,” Lyndy answered.

“Are you gonna sleep with him?”

“What kind of a jerk question is that?”

Rita didn’t answer. Faint city sirens filled in the background.

Lyndy breathed deep, running her hands through her hair and thinking how she would need to pack what little she had brought. She shouldered her purse, lamenting the fact she had no car. “Rita, thing is, when I happened to be in a very tight spot in my life. I had no one to lift me up, you and your dad helped. That’s something which means a lot to me. I’ve been nothing but loyal. I’ve sacrificed for you. I’ve put my ass on the line for your family. But I’m not your Latin sidekick who does all the hard work.”

Rita shrugged. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Sometimes it’s what you don’t say to me that means the most.”

“Then I want you to leave.”

“Don’t worry, I’m gettin my stuff. What I was going to tell you is, maybe you were right about the curse. Cause suspiciously, I caught sight of Tarner’s forearm. And he has a rash. He claimed it was shingles. Good luck.”

This had piqued Miss Lovelace’s interest. But in silence Lyndy packed.

“You’re turning into Howard Hughes,” muttered Lyndy, as she pulled on her old cowgirl boots. “Not in a good way.”

With her meager belongings in a grocery sack, she sauntered out onto the strip. Graham was working now. And she didn’t feel like cards, or slots for that matter. Or explaining she wasn’t rich and couldn’t afford to stay at the same level hotel without Rita footing her bill. By cashing out the remaining chips, pooling it with the rest of her money, she could afford to stay at a regular motel. But what was the fun in that? Sometimes it was better snoozing in a rental car.

She paused beneath a sign advertising a show.

She stood for a while, lighting a Newport, watching a woman with a van, selling Navajo rugs to tourists.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-13

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever stare at a set of old school bunk beds and wonder: “how the hell did we not die in our sleep when we were kids?”

With one hand Lyndy supported a frozen pineapple drink—literally a captain morgan daiquiri in a hollowed-out pineapple, spines trimmed—close against her forehead. Her entire body shivered in response. Things were all mixed up: lack of sleep, strange food and new surroundings had her nervous system in a state of fragile functionality. She couldn’t quit yawning.

But in a way it was a relief just having Miss Lovelace out of the picture. Rita could find trouble faster than Timmy on an episode of Lassie, and the girl was so hi-strung it rubbed off.

Lyndy was wearing her new favorite one-piece bathing suit—purchased from the hotel boutique—and on a sunny day like today, it seemed a dress requirement. Her shoes were a pair of chic but impractical high-heel sandals. Lacing them up was like tying raffia cord around one’s ankles—best they did is protect your feet from scalding city sidewalks. She stowed these under her lounge chair.

Ordinarily, The Spitfire would’ve harshed on these contrived pool parties—an assortment of gorgeous women paid to make the rounds and everybody else AARP eligible. On the other hand, the trouble with this hipster hotel was legit attractive people were like fish in a barrel. So outnumbered, Lyndy felt lost in the crowd. About the only thing less desirable than being center of attention was, well … to be ignored.

Some might say the casino landscapers had gone a little overboard with the cocoanut and date palms, but she did appreciate a certain feeling of having washed ashore on Gilligan’s Island. Considering their canned ukulele music playing in a loop, maybe that’s what they were aiming for.

She eyed the circulating crowd peppered throughout the hardscape and decking. With a little common sense, one could separate academics here for meetings, from the ordinary vacationers. The scholars acted out of sorts, lacking fashion sense when it came to pool attire—we’re talking plaid golf shorts and wingtips. They also swarmed the tiki bar, mingling with their own kind more often than the talkative models.

A hotel waiter was strolling about carrying a wagon-wheel-size tray of deviled eggs; the thought of ingesting more rich food made her stomach turn.

Lyndy set down her pineapple, straightening her spine as she fluffed her curls with her fingers. She flipped the page on a magazine she wasn’t reading, and felt under her chair for the purse, making sure she hadn’t lost track of it—it still contained a thousand dollars-worth of chips. Then she folded a moist hand towel into thirds so she could shield her eyes. She was preparing to go flat again, in spite of the vinyl material making her sweat.

“There you are, finally!” The confident male voice came from somewhere below her, at coping level, as the pool water sloshed.

“Yikes!” she shot up to attention, the white cloth falling down between her tan legs.

“I was hunting all over the place,” he continued.

She assumed he was speaking to somebody else, opening an eye skeptically to make sure. From his profile alone she might not have recognized him, but the voice gave it away. It was the same pit boss who’d gotten her into the VIP room.

“Didn’t know if you were staying on property or an outsider. Then I thought maybe you were one of the models, but you don’t act like one and they’re rarely so into card games.”

Graham placed an elbow on the pool edge, then deftly climbed out, twisting his body to a sitting position. It took core strength to make such an exit graceful. As he used both hands to smooth his hair back, Lyndy couldn’t help noticing his respectable physique.

“You … you were looking for me?” stuttered Lyndy. “Why?”

Graham’s chest was dripping wet, leaving his bathing suit sticking to some manly areas and outlining them.

He stared at her with a puzzled expression. “What do you mean, why?” he asked.

Lyndy grinned, leaning over and extending an arm to snag a fresh hotel towel from the neighboring lounger—probably someone else’s they’d purposely stashed there. Nonetheless she tossed the rolled towel over to Graham. “Why were you looking for me?” she repeated.

“I wanted to find the charming—and frankly hilarious—woman I met last night at the blackjack table. I was starting to think I imagined it.”

Things were off to a delightful start; perhaps her luck really was changing. Eye contact was strong.

“So uh, is this like your number one pickup-line, Graham?” challenged Lyndy. “I mistook you for a showgirl at the hotel pool party.” She squeezed her chin in both hands, crafting the cynical remark in a mocking male tone of voice.

“No way.” Graham chuckled as he rubbed the towel over his face. “And to be fair Lyndy, you told me you were a flight attendant for some outfit called Gunther Airlines, which I’m pretty sure is a lie since that company only flies to New Zealand, Bora-Bora and Tahiti.”

“Oh man, how embarrassing. I definitely don’t remember that.” Lyndy sighed, watching shifting patterns of sunlight on the reflective white bottom of the pool; they mimicked the arrangement of spots on a giraffe, except in monochrome.

“With this heatwave, I have a bit of a headache also,” Graham admitted. “That’s why I came to the pool. Hey, how did you do at poker?”

“Good, I think. I have more than enough left to keep playing tonight.” Lyndy was feeling more at ease, and found herself smiling to Graham as she sipped from her pineapple. “… but I also woke-up with an empty family-size bag of tortilla chips under a pillow on the bed. So, there’s that. And I don’t remember buying those.”

Amidst wrapping the towel around his trunks, Graham bent over in another laugh.

“Stop taking pleasure in my misery,” scolded Lyndy.

Nervously, Graham approached her lounge chair, which had plenty of room for two adults to sit. “Hey before we go any further, you don’t have a six-foot-tall pro-athlete husband lurking around the corner who can punch me all the way back to the pool?”

“Husband? That would be a no.”

Graham seemed relieved. He raised an index finger, pointing skyward. “Aren’t you staying in the presidential suite?”

“True,” Lyndy confessed. “It’s groovy.” She crossed one leg over the other, aware of being scrutinized.

Graham gazed at her thoughtfully, intrigued but unsure. “Look, the pool feels awesome. A swim in this will cure whatever ails you, including hangovers. You should really consider a dip,” he suggested.

“No way Jose. This hair … it doesn’t mix with water.” Lyndy hooked a finger through the upper strap of her swimsuit, letting it snap down, a smirk on her face. “And I suspect this thing is designed strictly for looks.”

“Oh sure. Understood. You have amazing hair. I wouldn’t want to be liable for damages. Too bad cause …,” Graham trailed off mid-sentence. He scooted nearer to Lyndy, discouraged, but making it clear he wasn’t giving up. Yet he was behaving shyly, putting his hands together and squeezing them between his knees. His eyes shifted to the bar.

Though their situation was new, and she had trouble reading him, there was something she found trustworthy about Graham.

“Hey, are you busy today? I mean, do you have any set plans?”

Lyndy shook her head. “Nope. Wide open schedule.”

“… Cause I don’t know what you’re into. Any particular show or performer you’ve been dying to see from the front row? Any club—pretty sure I can get us into any of those trendy ones. We could take a private dam tour? I promise it’s way more interesting than it sounds. Boxing or auto racing?”

“You’re ridiculous,” she replied, flashing her most amiable smile, knowing he was all but begging for a date. She had to stop and reset herself to avoid blurting out something silly. She’d been about to knee-jerk into cheap date mode: ski ball tournament and cheeseburgers, or drive in theatre, mini-golf and soft serve ice cream. That would be blowing it. She cleared her throat and got serious: “This is a bit of a long shot, but I figure I’ll ask anyway.”

“Go for it,” said Graham. “Anything.”

Lyndy nodded back to the ballroom and convention center. “You seem to have a lot of clout around here. And recently I’ve developed a fondness for the electrifying field of archaeology.”

“Interesting.” His eyes lit up. “That’s a first.”

“I’m wondering if you know a way to get me into that conference without an invitation.” Lyndy reached for her purse and shoes, slipping them on her feet one at a time. She knew the answer to this question already.

“Oh yes. I’m sure we can arrange that. The concierge owes me a favor or three.”  Graham snapped his finger and thumb together, attempting to conjure a memory. “Isn’t that famous guy … professor Tanner or Tarner something, speaking this afternoon? He’s the keynote address. I wanted to see that presentation too.”

“It’s a date,” said Lyndy.

Graham smiled shyly. “Yeah. Give me like twenty minutes to change. I’ll set us up.”

---

30 minutes later …

Lyndy Life Observation: During a fit of delusional shopping impulsiveness, I purchased a pair of designer jeans featuring sequins riveted to the back pockets—shape of two hearts. Needless to explain, eight hours in a seat at work was like sitting bare-assed on a pile of legos.

She changed hastily, squeezing her figure into one of Rita’s own leopard print party dress handovers—thankfully it was stretchy material, and the pattern subtle under indoor lights. She didn’t have anything mundane to wear, not with Rita involved. Then she reached for her room key and rushed down to the registration desks by the lobby. Something inside gave her momentary insecurity. Maybe she’d imagined her poolside exchange with Graham, or he’d been teasing her. She hardly knew him, yet they had some kind of budding connection.

Two minutes later, the elevators dinged and he appeared. He cleaned up nicely, wearing a classy suit and his country-singer cowboy hat. He also managed to look pretty darn official.

“You look like you do security, and also rope tricks,” she cracked. He laughed.

Together they strolled down a maroon and gold carpeted hall, to the badging desk, where intimidating conference staff were guarding a set of double doors. Beyond this was the main ballroom, which hosted plenary sessions. Even from afar, the sharp-dressed pair were eyeing The Spitfire like: “If you’re an archaeologist, then I’m the Easter bunny.”

Graham watched Lyndy, her shoes adding four inches to her normal height and causing her to tower over the desk.

“Melinda Martinez,” she stated convincingly.

With a critical eye the attendant flipped through a list on the clipboard. “Sorry, not here,” she said snarkily, barely having read. “This is the official list.”

Stepping forward, Graham cleared his throat. He placed a finger on one of the laminated plastic badges, causing the two staffers to do a double take. “Well, I see a printed badge here. Says Ms. Melinda E. Martinez,” he argued. “So your list must be in error.”

“You’re right.” The confused staffer handed the all-access plastic badge, trimmed in a red ribbon, to Lyndy. “I apologize. But what about you?” They were speaking to Graham. He made a wink. From his coat pocket he flashed a casino security badge. They waved him on through.

Inside the hotel ballroom, a movie screen roughly twenty feet tall had been erected. A projector, brighter than your typical theater unit shown brilliantly. Padded chairs had been brought in, arranged in two sections, with a large middle walkway and two aisles at the sides.

Like almost every hotel she’d ever been in, the place had hideous chandeliers.

In the dimness Lyndy made a brief headcount. Not every row was full, only two-thirds. But this totaled at least 150 to 200 people in attendance, more than she would have guessed based on outside common areas. All were well dressed in professional attire, causing her to stick out like a sore thumb, as not a single person wore animal print or hoop earrings.

Damn Rita and her crazy wardrobe.

She and her date scooted in near the last few rows, and it was so busy they wouldn’t have been able to find a spot up front even if they’d wanted.

She checked her watch, and soon the lights dimmed further. From the periphery a disheveled middle-aged man, looking sillier than in Rita’s picture, shuffled to the lectern at center stage. He reminded her of the type of explorer who wore pith helmets on safari.

First thing he did was pause, pressing shredded tobacco into an honest-to-goodness wood pipe, then lighting it Sherlock style while the whole room waited. Wordlessly, Tarner glanced center aisle as he tapped lightly on the mic. He looked to the side impatiently, and Lyndy had a feeling this was one of those so bad it might be entertaining moments.

“And once again, no one’s here to introduce me,” complained Tarner. “Oh, to hell with it. You all know who I am.”

The audience erupted into laughter.

“I had a presentation all prepared for today. But as a keynote speaker, I think it’s my privilege to switch topics at the last minute. So instead of my usual stuffy slides, I came up with an alternative while relaxing in my hotel room.” He paused, putting a hand on his forehead like a golfer and gazing out at the room for comedic affect. “My new topic? It’s a bit of a travelogue: What to do in Las Vegas in the Pleistocene!”

The audience laughed again, and Lyndy found herself not hating Tarner near as much as she originally wanted to.

His first slide was a cartoon depicting a group of Flintstones-style cavemen, hamming it up in front of a chiseled-out sign imitating the iconic Welcome sign. Giant mastodons could be seen roaming the valley behind them. His next slide showed camels. “…and what could be more appropriate here on the strip than the famous camelops.” The artist’s depiction had been creatively altered, with the North American camelops juxtaposed on a background of the modern Aladdin Hotel and Casino. “So you might ask, how do we know that early man interacted with these magnificent creatures. It’s not like we have any physical evidence. Well, you’d be wrong.” This time it was a real photograph, on Kodachrome color positive film, of a spear point. Part of a series of photos of a current dig.

She grinned at Graham, who was seated next to her, and he smiled back.

“Actually, the main reason I’m here is to talk about one of the most important discoveries in modern history—which this photograph alludes to…”

The AC was excellent. She watched as Graham slouched in his chair, pulling his hat down and sticking sunglasses on his nose—taking a snooze.

Lyndy folded her arms, whispering to herself in Spanish: “Si alguien me hubiera dicho que estos eventos existieron cuando vivía en el este de Los Ángeles, nunca los hubiera creído.”

“Same here,” muttered Graham. Lyndy shot him a shocked look.

Immediately after the presentation, there was a coffee break and everyone made their way to the refreshments. It was her cue to rise.

Their snacks were copious and top quality. Side tables sported a selection of rich people cookies she’d not heard of. For the centerpiece, these academics even had one of those white chocolate fountains and silver trays of strawberries, each one resting on a doily-like circle of white paper. Though craving the fruit, she decided it was wise to restrain herself out of politeness and decorum. She picked only one, plunging her strawberry into the chocolate stream, then casually bringing it to her lips to savor the chocolate.

Of course, during the break, Tarner was mobbed by a crowd of adoring fans. But Lyndy observed him, as he dispensed with the pipe and hunger led him along. Still feigning attentive conversation, gradually he worked his way to the coffee and snack station. She hung around waiting

Tiredness and Rita’s dress, smaller than her normal size, made her feel faint.

At last Tarner brushed off a pair of gushing fans and paced his way to Lyndy, stuffing a cookie in his mouth and holding a teacup of coffee. He eyed her up and down, in a way he probably supposed was discrete.

“Have uh, we been introduced?” he queried, crumbs falling from his lips into his beard.

“Not yet,” said The Spitfire.

He wiped his chin with a napkin. “You’ll have to forgive me Miss, but at my stage in life, I’m a bit suspicious when strangers arrive and approach me, without an agenda.”

“No agenda. Technically speaking, you approached me. But do you wanna hear an archeology joke?” Lyndy added.

Dr. Tarner smiled, suddenly amused. “Well, I suppose by now I’ve heard them all in my day, but go ahead.”

“What do you call a group of archaeologists digging for leg bones in Olduvai gorge?” challenged Lyndy.

“I believe the answer is, a shindig,” replied Tarner smugly.

She laughed glibly, extending a hand, knowing she’d stolen that joke from Rita. And Rita presumably had stolen it from somebody else. “Lyndy Martinez.”

“And what brings you to this conference. Are you a student?”

“Flight attendant actually. But ever since I was a child I’ve had a fascination for the fields of anthro and archaeology.”

“Really? I suppose that isn’t terribly unusual.”

“I always dreamed of seeing some priceless ancient artifacts in person.”

“Well, the UNLV department has some local items on display. You could go there. But if you’re ever in Washington DC. That’s where the real action is.” He then took a sip from his coffee mug, wiping a few more crumbs from his belly.

“Is there anything else I can see here? You know, if I have a checkbook and were in the market for something.” She patted a hand on her leather purse.

Dr. Tarner frowned. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning?”

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Lyndy Life Observation: If aliens exist and are monitoring our TV signals, I sincerely hope they do not watch those “Real Housewives of …” shows, or anything with the Kardashians.

Even with the damage the fastback was still chugging along.

Her neck was tender and sore. Glancing in the car mirror, Lyndy saw it had turned purple. This horrific appearance would be difficult to explain; she’d need to get somewhere she could cover up with makeup. That meant a speedy return to the trailer.

She needed a good long nap too.

But at this point these were minor concerns. She had two primary unknowns weighing on her: one, would they learn about and try to search the Vegas storage unit. Second, would they locate and ransack the airstream trailer. She didn’t want casino goons to trash her only safe haven. It wasn’t easy to find—that was on purpose. And yet, Mrs. Aloyan had somehow managed. Either scenario, they would not find what they were looking for.

Her exhaustion made the long dry stretch over the dam and through the Golden Valley area much less enjoyable. Lyndy used to do her best thinking on desert drives, but in this case her mind was too foggy. She didn’t even feel like eating. She cracked the window, letting cool air blow on her hair. Helped her to stay awake.

Pulling up to the trailer, she saw a note had been taped to the screen door, too distant to decipher from the car. Otherwise the trailer seemed peaceful. Stepping out, she inspected sets of tracks in the dirt. The bald tires of Lester’s farm truck showed he’d been here, but no others in the last couple days. At least no one with a nice car.

Stepping up, she yanked the square paper and moved it to the tip of her nose, allowing her to resolve the letters: “Miss Thurgood tells me she needs to see you as soon as possible.” It was Les’s handwriting.

Ugh. Not good. Lyndy crumpled the note, shoving it in her jeans pocket.

---

Later that afternoon ….

The nap helped her rejuvenate—and so did a hot meal from a truck stop.

She arrived at the Mountain View to find the motor court rather bustling. Puffs of smoke emanated from the chimney at the cardroom. Their “No Vacancy” sign visible from the highway had been switched on and a number of late model vehicles packed the lot. Many were middle-class SUVs, some with skis, likely on their way to the big resorts. Lyndy rapped on the door to the back office, but this time nobody answered.

Sipping from a straw poked in the lid of a big gulp, Lyndy threw a scarf around her neck, then ambled around back to the refurbished pool area. This liver shaped oasis was framed by picturesque ponderosa pines, flanked by a concrete courtyard offering lounge seating and round patio tables. The afternoon weather was pleasant, but with the pool unheated and basically closed for the season, only a smattering folks were relaxing, drinking beers and enjoying the day.

Among them under an umbrella sat twenty-something Rhonda, studying the screen on a laptop computer and occasionally pecking the keys. Next to this her mobile phone, a stack of magazines and what appeared to be a kale smoothie. A colorful Cosmo mag was open to the middle and folded over.

Though she barely knew the girl, Lyndy had decided Miss Thurgood was a fascinating subject worthy of future study. Took a lot to pique her interest, but anybody Rhonda’s age in this business had to be strange. She also wanted Rhonda to like her.

Rhonda’s daytime outfit consisted of pedal pusher pants, those retro-looking cat-eye glasses, sneakers, a scoop neck shirt and hair done up in black curls. In spite of the nerdiness of how it sounded, she managed to pull it off stylishly. And seeing her in this light revealed just how young she was. Across from Rhonda, a sizable man in shades who for some reason reminded Lyndy of a cross between a football lineman and the fictional Marsellus Wallace—the scene where he’s on an old-school cordless by the pool in Pulp Fiction. Presumably the intimidating dude was either a bouncer or even chiller, her personal bodyguard. Imagine being 28, owning a hotel, a gas station, a sketchy card room and a loan shark business.

Nervous Rhonda may be upset with her, Lyndy approached her table patiently, hanging back and waiting to be acknowledged before taking up a seat. The bouncer touched Miss Thurgood’s arm to get her attention.

Rhonda had a quick sip from her green smoothie, then waved excitedly to Lyndy. It was a relief. She wanted to be part of the team.

Lyndy plopped the smushed bullet on the table, then scooted up a chair. She smiled to the bodyguard, then reclined back sipping from her big gulp straw and looking to the pool. “So that hunk of metal embedded itself in my engine block. Had to dig it out with pliers, like I was extracting a tooth from an elephant. Could’ve been me.”

Rhonda cocked her head, a look of surprise coming over her. “Wait, for real?” She pinched the bullet between her finger and thumb.

“Don’t worry I’m okay,” professed Lyndy in an exaggerated and comical tone. She made eye contact with the bodyguard and Miss Thurgood. “Just driving all over hell’s half acre for my job.” Lyndy sipped her straw, then adjusted her blouse tighter. “You know, that crew at Zohara Ranch. They are both efficient and insanely protective of their stuff.” Lyndy jerked her head with an intense cross-eyed glare. “Nice spot here,” she added, gesturing to the trees.

“Somebody shot your car?” echoed Rhonda, examining the bullet. “Do you wanna quit?”

“Oh god no,” Lyndy replied. “Being shot at doesn’t bother me. It’s the Mustang that really pisses me off. That original motor has over 250K clicks on it without a rebuild.”

“Must be the same hockey goons who ran Mrs. Aloyan’s husband off the road, and maybe even kidnapped him.”

They were interrupted by shouting. Someone’s ten-year-old had cannon-balled into the pool. Like most motels, the diving board had been removed ages ago due to slip-n-fall jackpot seekers. Probably the child had done it on a dare. His friends were giggling, and so was the kid, as he excitedly splashed in the cold water. He wasn’t a very good swimmer.

Rhonda lowered her glasses, scowling at the kid until he made for the shallow end.

“It occurs to me Mrs. Aloyan might not be entirely trustworthy,” said Rhonda sternly.

“You mean, she is trying to cover her tracks?” questioned Lyndy.

“I’m entertaining those thoughts.”

“Like maybe Mrs. Aloyan actually had her husband killed, and she is trying to throw off the police investigation?”

Satisfied the rowdy kids were under control, Rhonda turned her attention back to Lyndy. “Exactly.”

The Spitfire frowned. “I get it. But thing is, she seemed very sincere when we met. Didn’t look like acting. And I’ve interviewed hundreds of people over the years. It’s remarkable.”

Lyndy was debating just how much to share with her new boss. In particular, whether to expand upon the additional deal Mrs. Aloyan offered, or the ominous detail of the mustang been searched. Should she tell or would it complicate matters? Rhonda seemed like one of those people so clever it was no use keeping secrets. And again, she really liked Rhonda.

“Something else is off. Mrs. Aloyan offered me additional funds for more work.”

“Do tell,” said Rhonda, typing away on her computer.

“Something about bringing the businessman who screwed her over to their knees.”

“Hmmm.” Rhonda pointed to the trucker-size soda cup. “What’s in that drink you have?”

“Red Bull,” Lyndy replied.

Rhonda and her bodyguard gave her a horrified look.

“Just kidding ya’ll, it’s diet coke. I’d be dead,” chuckled Lyndy. “Anyhow, last night I searched all over the basement floor at Zohara, but I couldn’t find anything incriminating. No dinosaur fossils. No spear points. No scrapers. No toxic waste. Nada. No weird anything. Just dirt and rocks and maybe a plant here and there. The succulent plant was a little unusual.”

“How did you get inside?”

“I … well … that’s a trade secret.”

“Okay. Get any good pictures?”

“No. Too dark,” Lyndy lamented.

Rhonda sighed. “You know, Mr. Chan said the thing he liked most about you was you were damn good at tracking people. The best actually.” Her tone of voice had changed to one of admonishment. “What we need to know is where’s Mr. Aloyan. The police say he faked his own death. Did he? Let’s set aside the distractions now and focus on him.”

“Well, how am I gonna do that?” blurted Lyndy. She stared down at the magazine. It was open to a feature titled: Nine Best Tips for Better Romance in a Car. The rest of the print was impossible to read. A quiet moment passed, filled only by birds chirping and distant trucks braking on the highway. She knew Rhonda was waiting on an answer. “Is it why you called me here?” Lyndy asked.

“No. I had a much different question.” Rhonda gripped her computer with both hands and spun it so The Spitfire could have a better view of the screen. It had a browser tab open to a Phoenix newspaper obituary. “Answer me this. Does it bother you any that Rita Lovelace is sending us business referrals from beyond the grave?”

 The screen was blurry. Lyndy shot up straight, then hoisted the whole computer to her face. She positioned it on her chest so she could get right up on the screen. The headline read: Rita Lovelace: Philanthropist, Model and Anthropology Scholar Dies in Plane Crash. The date on the article was 2003. It felt like a ton of bricks, worse than any celebrity death she’d ever heard of. They would have been the same exact age.

Lyndy set down the computer, acting cool, pretending this was not a big deal. “Uh. At this point I’d have to say no. I need work. Keep the jobs coming.”

Rhonda grinned.

“Anyway, you’re probably right about changing tactics,” added Lyndy. 

She’d been ready to expand upon this, maybe seek some advice, but Rhonda’s flip phone started buzzing. Rhonda held up a finger and immediately answered the call. With the phone to Rhonda’s ear, Lyndy overhead one-half of a conversation: “Wait what? What?  … Well listen up, I don’t give a bleep if Jamie doesn’t own a home phone. …. You drive over his hogan, kick in the door, grab him by the nuts and drag him out of bed. Understand me? … What?”

The conversation continued, with Miss Thurgood seeming more and more agitated.

Lyndy shot the bouncer a knowing glance that said, “I’ll be exiting now.” Meekly, Lyndy stood up, pushed in her chair and made a small goodbye hand gesture. Then she jaunted quickly back to the gravel parking area.

Only fifteen miles down the interstate, Lyndy pulled over, veered down a side dirt trail used by hunters. She parked out the way and out of view from the road. She let the dust settle. Then she put her head down on the wheel and sobbed for a good ten minutes. She’d not realized how much she cared.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: Watching a hallmark movie has made me think. I can’t recall ever being at a holiday dinner where a cooked goose was served. Plenty of turkeys, sometimes a ham, but never a goose.

The sun was low in the sky.

From the roadside mailbox, Lyndy could tell a car was parked near her trailer. Small, wedge-shaped in profile and dark in color, she reasoned it was Mari’s Honda. Common sense told her hitmen didn’t park out in the open in front of your unoccupied house.

As she came nearer, she could see Maribel dressed in her blue pizza uniform, leaning against the car and staring at her phone. Lyndy smiled.

“Mom, where did all these baby goats come from?” Mari pointed enthusiastically. “This is crazy!”

Lyndy stepped out, gazing at the herd. The herd was looking at her, bleating, like where the hell you been? We want our goat feed. She counted five new babies, just in the last week.

“Uh, I dunno. Good question. Most of the time I can’t even tell when they’re pregnant.” Lyndy made her way to the blue bins containing the pellets, followed close by Mari. With the metal bean scooper she transferred several pounds worth to a smaller mop-size bucket. She handed this one to Mari, and Lyndy filled a second bucket for herself.

“What’s up with you mijita,” asked Lyndy. These days an unannounced visit from her daughter seemed something of a suspicious occurrence. “And thanks for rescuing me the other night. I kinda let things get outta control.”

Mari sniffed, following her mother’s lead. “I almost quit my job today. I hate my boss.”

“Welcome to the joys of adulthood,” muttered Lyndy. She dumped the food into a series of small wooden trays. She’d been instructed not to simply throw food pellets on the bare ground, because the goats were more likely to eat rocks that way. Mari followed in kind.

She looked at her mother in a puzzled fashion. “Huh. I thought you hated scarfs?”

“I like this one,” replied Lyndy curtly.

“I think I want to be an LAPD police detective. They make good money.”

Lyndy shook her head, feeling confused. “Sorry, I thought you said you wanted to be a highway patrol?” Surrounded by eager, head-butting goats, she swiftly dumped the rest of their feed and helped Mari get more.

“I know. I know. I just was reading more about it online.”

Lyndy took a seat in one of her plastic second-hand loungers. “Not to belabor this, but you wanna know why I had so much trouble holding down a steady job when you were little? It isn’t my lack of education. Or that I don’t have a high enough IQ. It’s cause I’m an asshole. I never learned how to stick with anything long term. I’m terrible at it. The slightest provocation or perceived insult and I’d walk away.”

“I just don’t know what to do. I hate school and I’m feeling lost. Weren’t the Hermosillo Martinez’s like a long line of, for lack of a better word, gunslingers. Octavio told me they fought alongside Pancho Villa. They were destined for that kind of work.”

Lyndy bobbed her head side to side while exhaling. “That’s more-or-less correct.”

“So maybe it’s our destiny.”

The Spitfire frowned. “No. I don’t think so.” She poked at her hand-made fire-ring, breaking up chunks of useless ash and preparing to light up a fresh stack of logs. Then she marched thirty yards south to a lazily-arranged woodpile, where she could pick out some dry tinder; she wanted a roaring fire. “But even if what you say were true, you are not a Martinez,” shouted Lyndy. “Which is why that logic doesn’t apply.”

“What am I?” Mari shouted back.

“You’re an Ellis.”

Mari didn’t respond, but folded her arms in a pouty position.

Returning to the firepit, this time armed with shorter sticks, Lyndy added: “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve had time to come to grips with your highway patrol academy idea. And I actually support it. I meant to tell you that. If there’s still time to apply, I think you should.”

“I wish it started now,” Mari complained. “Less time to think.”

Lyndy put a hand on Mari’s knee. One more thing I need to tell you. “We can hang out tonight if you want. But after this, next three or four days, I need you to stay in town. Don’t come visit me unannounced, okay?”

“Why? Are you in trouble?”

She tilted her head. “Don’t worry too much. But when I got back to the Mustang, I found that someone had searched it.” Lyndy intentionally left out the sniper part. “And those same people might be coming here.”

“What were they looking for?” asked Maribel.

She could see on her daughter’s face, she probably could make an educated guess. “They were looking for a gun.”

“Like a pistol or something?”

Lyndy shook her head as she balled up wads of old newsprint. “No. The gun. The one I owned when I worked for Mr. Chan. It’s not here. I don’t have it. But they believe I do—which is good in this case.” She knelt on the ground, holding a lighter while arranging the wads of newspaper under the wood. “If you happen to speak to Rhonda in the next few days, just be aware I never actually got a chance to explain to her why they searched the Mustang. You can trust her. But … uh … don’t trust anyone else.”

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Lyndy Life Observation: A favorite eighties-era road trip story goes as follows: Me and Mr. Chan are in the Central Valley on a manhunt, staying in a rotgut cheap motel with two twin beds. It’s like 8:30 PM and Mr. Chan wants to go straight to bed, while naturally I want to go out partying at a honky-tonk bar. I stumble in sloshed at 1:00, falling asleep stomach down atop the bedspread. Several hours later I’m shaken awake by Chan, who is in an incomprehensible rage. While the room is dark and I’m groggy, tears streaming down my face pleading: “what did I do?”, he explains I had left the front door open about halfway, allowing a family of raccoons to invade, wake him up and nearly devour all our snack foods. He didn’t see the humor in this.

Rochelle had been adamant this powdery concoction came with no warranties, just as everything else in her unconventional life. She also mentioned long-term effects had not been studied in mammals, and changes to DNA could be permanent. No big deal.

Admittedly, that second statement had come from the label on a bottle of acid reflux medication.

Watching it steep in the bottom of a cup was rather anticlimactic. No fizzing or foaming like one would expect from Alka-Seltzer tablets. No mystical aromatic vapors. Just a pale brown tea with a smell hinting of witch hazel.

Given the events leading up to this moment, obviously they’d be expecting her.

She was taking no chances this go-around, waiting for nightfall and parking the white Ford under a bright light in the most heavily trafficked shopping center for miles. It was the one anchored by a Whole Foods, and the parking lot was packed to the gills with European luxury vehicles, looking in many ways like a high-end dealership. No, she wasn’t here to purchase a pint basket of organic berries for 20 bucks. Her purpose wasn’t to blend in at all, rather it was so heavily trafficked she figured it would lessen the chances of another ambush.

Rochelle had also warned to have clothes ready, so she wrapped the larger sweater in plastic bags, stuffing it out of view under the bumper near the tailpipes. She concealed the keys in there as well. No telling how long the spell would last—Rochelle had forecast several hours—but regardless her plan was to be back here in plenty of time.

Perhaps they’d be expecting a Spitfire. But not a Catfire!

Her leg muscles were tense. Standing beside the car, elbows on the roof, she had her back to a row of trimmed hedges and other well-kept landscaping. From here she could observe people coming and going at the supermarket entry. In front of her, arms-length, the paper cup. It was less than a quarter full. Anxiously she swirled it a few times hoping to mix the contents, but hadn’t tried it. How much time was needed before it took effect? Minutes? Then what? Would it impact her already under-performing cardiovascular system? Maybe she’d wasted her money. If nothing happened it wouldn’t be the first time a potion failed her.

Sliding the cup nearer so she could tilt it under her nose, she sniffed again. Nothing much had changed. She surveyed her surroundings, mainly to be certain a hapless stranger wasn’t approaching with a cart full of groceries. Then turning around facing the bushes, she pressed the cup to her lips. Squinting her eyes, as though preparing to swallow some gnarly cough syrup, she sipped it.

“Oh Jesus, that seriously tastes like pee,” she grumbled, wiping her forearm across her lips. It was so repulsive she slammed down the cup, having only ingested a tablespoon’s worth. Something else too, an awareness of it going down, like a scorching sensation from a cheap and strong liquor. She put her fist against her chest and coughed, feeling suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe. Bracing with her hands and back flat against the car—her eyes still closed—she undid her belt, unbuttoned her pants. Gradually she slid downward into a squat, the tension in her legs releasing. She took off her watch, shoved it in her pocket.

Yet still she hadn’t transformed. Just feeling ill, stomach cramps. And it was like that for over a minute. Overcome by tremors, she folded over, holding her arms close across her stomach. If someone were to stumble upon her crumpled body now, they’d think she was having an allergic reaction or the beginnings of an OD event.

There was only one incident in her life experience comparable to what happened next. At a bar, when she was much younger, a colossal bouncer had literally grabbed Lyndy by the ankles and swung her headfirst into a pile of hay. The force of flying through the air and landing on her head, she felt lucky to have survived without being paralyzed. As it went, she could hardly catch her breath for minutes. But that’s kind of what this was like.

Next thing she knew she was trotting down a sidewalk, no memory at all between crouching by the car and being alert again. Parking lot on her left, busy street on her right.  And she was feeling short, some senses altered.

First her vision seemed distorted, not black and white but faded—like an artsy vampire movie where every scene is multi shades of blue. On the other hand, her sense of smell was like nothing she could have imagined, so amplified in ability as to overload her brain. The cityscape revealed something akin to overlapping footprints, people and animals which had passed this way various times of the afternoon. As she sniffed the air it was easy to become dazzled. Another plus, she had way more energy than before. So far, so good.

Overall, her vision was no worse than an aging human, just less colorful. And at night that wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

The loud cars speeding by, more-or-less eye level with the wheels, that part was unsettling. A kid on a skateboard rolled by and she was eye-level with his heels. Yards ahead, a German Shepherd was straining on the leash, sniffing the air too.

Funny thing though, she felt like she could hear herself panting. The sensation peculiar: a wheezing sound accompanied every time she inhaled.

Cats don’t breathe like that? She glanced down suspiciously at her feet. She had noticeable black claws on her rounded toes.

“Uh oh. These are definitely not cat feet,” she thought.

Still adjacent the parking lot, she dashed in between a row of parked cars. Near a tree-lined walk, one of those blacked-out tour buses people rented for weddings taking up eight spots. It had extremely low to the ground storage panels on both sides, being the kind which lowers itself for easy access. Nobody around. And the surface was glossy and washed. She strolled over, nose in the air, her eyes fixed on the reflection.

In an instant, she knew what had happened. “Rochelle!” Lyndy griped. No words came out. She was staring at the image of a mostly-black French Bulldog. She cocked her head to the left. The reflection tilted the same way. She cocked her head the other way and likewise. She thought of perking her ears and sure enough, they shot up. Turning her body parallel to the reflective sides, she verified she was a female—that made sense. Everything remarkably translated down to the very last detail. Above her eyes, signs of aging and grayish fur.

“Well, took a while but it finally happened,” thought Lyndy. “I’m officially a bitch.”

Sounds of laughing voices, strangers coming. A trio of bubbly teenage girls, dressed alike, and one of them pointing. “Someone’s frenchie got out!” Another: “I want to pet it.”

Lyndy scampered away, back to the streetside and in the direction of the Zohara Ranch construction. How embarrassing, but at least it would wear off. Her diminutive size would still be an asset. Plus she had energy to burn. She worried though, her wide-body might be too large to squeeze between the fence uprights.

Not like she’d ever thought it through, but if one had to become a dog, this was a pretty cool one to be. Just a little short. At least she wasn’t a chihuahua.

From a secluded roost in a palo-verde, one beady-eyed raven cawed at her—a rather startling shriek. She gazed up at the tree and instinctively she barked. She hadn’t meant to do it and shook her head, taking several steps back. The raven cawed again. Almost like it knew she was a disguised human. She managed to suppress the urge to woof again.

Panting, she arrived at her destination. Cars were passing by, but the construction site looked peaceful—most workers had gone home for the day. Being located some distance from the shopping center, fewer people were out on the street.

As she’d guessed, her frame prevented her from squeezing between gaps in the fence. Lyndy tested by sticking her head in a few larger openings—this breed of dog was built like a small tank. A cat could have gotten through, but with these shoulders no way.

Luckily, she had a plan B. She paced along the front border of the construction zone—the area with all the signs—and made her way to the east corner, where it butted against the dry wash. From here she worked her way into the weedy creek bed.

Away from the oppressive illumination, the evening sky revealed itself: two bright planets, Jupiter and Saturn, a handful of stars shining brighter than the light pollution and a sliver of moon in the west. Being smaller than the wild bushes, she could easily disguise her approach under the branches. The scents here were wild, coyotes, stray cats and rabbits.

As she’d hoped, the sand was akin to a beach, making it easier to excavate. And using her new front paws, she selected a spot where the slope naturally dipped below the bottom of the perimeter fence line. She ascended the slope. It appeared animals, raccoons or possibly skunks had already been digging. She commenced scraping; all she needed was four or five inches, enough to squeeze her bulbous head under.

Pausing for a breather between vigorous digging sessions, she glanced above as she panted. Of course, there were cameras positioned everywhere—probably they were motion sensitive. She listened for the buzzing of the electric golf cart, indicating approach of security.

The core of the casino building, that unfinished thunder-dome type structure one could see from the street, all of it carried immense weight. The type of soil here required deep footings. Even a non-architect would know that. Her first goal, to reach the ground and basement levels.

Digging like this—kicking a rooster-tail of sand out—somehow came instinctively.

As soon as she assessed the hole had gotten deep enough, she lowered her ears. Then setting her chin on the dirt, wedged her snout firmly into the dip. Her head made it through okay, ears popped up, but she caught on her wide shoulders. Pushing with her back legs, her chest rubbed but she forced her way onward.

Clearing the fence, she trotted uphill into the foundation. The lot here was littered with construction debris and trash. Pathways had been marked by laying down thick plywood. In between, construction materials like sheetrock, wire spools, steel girders and insulation.

Further in she could see activity she’d not anticipated—welders on the second and third story. These folks were on late shifts. Fortunately, she wanted to explore at the ground floor, even as she didn’t yet know what she was searching for.

The day crew at least were absent this zone.

Snaking her way to what seemed the basement she found it devoid of vegetation. Still dry even with the recent rains. It was unsealed and smelled like chemicals, oil or gasoline mainly. She sniffed the occasional stone. Would’ve helped to know what she was looking for in here.

If this were an ancient village at one time, hard to imagine anything endured. It reminded her of Darrel’s old place—earth movers had done a number. Ironically, Rita would have been the perfect companion for a caper like this. She knew about many Native American cultures.

Lyndy continued exploring, deeper in. She had to be cautious, trying not to step on a staple or nail. It became harder to navigate, more shadowy the further she went as less light filtered into the recesses.

A concrete wall caught her eye, possessing imprinted patterns of woodgrain—remnants of high pressure as the foundation had been poured. Holes here and there where someone had bored sections the size of hockey pucks. For electrical? For water? She didn’t know. One small plant growing where moisture accumulated, a type of succulent. She sniffed it, not one she recognized. The spines were a silvery tone—curious to find such a plant here. She memorized the look, thinking she would research this later. She dug a few test holes but all the soil around was new fill.

A laser-like flashlight beam cut through the darkness.

“It’s down here,” whispered a voice.

Her body tensed. Her pointy ears perked and her heartbeat soared. Already they were after her? God they were efficient.

Intending to hide, she pushed her way under a pile of scrap MDF boards. There she met with an unhappy scorpion, striking inches from her snout. Jumping back she yipped, wiggling out and darting off.

“Over there!” shouted a Caucasian man. “I heard it bark.”

The beam of light came closer.

“Hey, Spudz Mackenzie,” one of the guards teased.

His buddy laughed.

“Oh man, what a couple of buffoons. That’s not even the same type of dog,” thought Lyndy. Spudz was a bull terrier.

She bounded along a row of empty pallets, then veered 90-degrees, dodging a guard as she scampered for an adjacent stack of the same. Scaling them like stairs, she went until she was twelve high. From there she halted with all four paws, having reached a dead end on a wobbly tower of pallets.

Crud! Knowing she couldn’t go back down the way she came, she quivered, stutter-stepping side-to-side. She decided to test out her lifelong theory that dogs were one of the toughest animals out there. Aiming, Lyndy took a couple steps to build momentum and then leapt as far as she could, soaring twenty feet through the air onto a huge heap of trash, all knotted in those black contractor bags. It was like jumping into a big pile of leaves from a maple tree, and her legs were no worse for the wear.

She went sprinting for the perimeter fence. Meantime she could hear the men’s boots hot on her tail. But she reached the spot she’d come in before they did, and slipped her way under and into the presumed safety of the wash.

In some ways it felt exhilarating. She hadn’t had this much energy since she was in her thirties. Filled with adrenaline, Lyndy recovered by panting in the brush.

Then something truly unfortunate happened. She felt a wire noose close in on her neck. You know those diabolical long aluminum poles that meter-readers and some mailmen have? They use them to fend off big angry dogs.

It was a helpless feeling, gasping for air. She twisted around, filling with panic, and could see a hiding guard—sneaky bastard—had been waiting here. He was gripping the pole with both hands. He dragged her up the hill with him and she was scooting on her back. Resistance was futile.

---

Several minutes later …

It all came to this: Lyndy was confined in a welded steel cage, staring at two doofuses dressed in black rent-a-cop uniforms. She was winded and her neck was sore, as she cowered in one corner.

“Dude, you should offer her one of these,” voiced one of the guards. From his cargo-pants pocket he pulled out a milk-bone.

“Maybe we can sell her?” suggested his younger partner. Lyndy glared at the man, and did her best to close her mouth and frown. “I can put her on craigslist.”

The older, more heavyset fellow used two fingers to flick the dog biscuit.

The inferior treat pinged on the metal floor, an inch from her tail. She didn’t even dip her head, just stared at the man and kicked it back.

“Well, I’ll be damn. I’ve never seen one do that!”

“Ain’t a stray. I bet she only eats organic dog food,” said his partner with a laugh.

Lyndy uttered a low growl.

“Stuck up little bitch. Hope you like the kill shelter,” said the older man, and he threw a black tarp over her beefy steel cage.

“Please, please god don’t let the potion wear off now,” thought Lyndy. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she morphed inside a sturdy container such as this—it was way too small to fit a human. Would she die?

She had a lot of time to think that night, shivering alone in the darkness: the absurdity of her existence. Why the Zohara Resort was so ridiculously fortified. How humiliating it was to be dumped into a “no questions asked” pet surrender box.

A part of her wanted to pay a visit to Rochelle’s shop and demand a refund.

Her ass was bare, but at least the kennel was sizable enough to accommodate large breed dogs and easily a five-foot-eight woman. The floors at the county shelter were coarse cement, reeking of bleach and urine. The bleach was comforting in a way.

A beagle down the hall whined and whimpered half the night. The kennel across the way housed someone’s abandoned potbelly pig. That animal was quiet—which was good—but instead of sleeping it simply stared at her, rarely blinking. Super creepy. Like that pig would be a world champion at staring contests. Perhaps it wondered how a human ended up here.

If she’d had anything metal on her person, she might have escaped. They locked every stinkin door in this joint—including the cages—so people wouldn’t sneak in in the cover of night and steal their animals back without paying a fine. She possessed nothing to pick a lock.

She sighed and gazed at the pig.

Guess somebody reckoned, “you know, I would like a pig in my life,” and then what? Changed their mind? “You better learn to be more charming mister.”

Next morning at 6:15, a nervous teenager showed up. His job was to start the feeding. He asked how the heck she managed to get trapped inside a kennel, in the nude.

She responded by saying: “Clothes now!” in a forceful tone. “Whatever you got.”