Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-23

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s a fun fact. The guy who played Lurch (Ted Cassidy) on the original sixties Addam’s Family TV show also played Thing (the disembodied hand).

She purchased fuel and sodas at Stateline. In the early morning trucks idled and steam rose from their engine covers. The valley was back to more agreeable weather and she was back on neutral turf.

She fed him his daily pill regimen, then left Deputy Keynes standing on a street corner nearest the county home. From there, she watched him saunter back to the portico entrance. Before sneaking away, she made sure he plodded up to the double doors, set his hands upon the pusher-bar. Knowing those places, her strategy was for them to assume he’d wandered off on his own accord. Now by some “miracle” he’d found his way back. Of course, if they checked the CCTV then they’d know the truth. But would they bother or care? Doubtful.

The mustang was performing better with repairs, taking the corners like a newer car. It was still no Porsche but vastly improved.

Next, she made her way to one of those copy and ship places, and xeroxed the sketch she’d created. She only needed 35 or so copies. She paid the man, then rolled them into a cylinder in the door pocket.

She started her day visiting with the Sikhs, the same pair who’d made jokes about her vehicle. Lyndy laughed with them this time, showed where it had been shot and she made field repairs. They gave her insider tips, places where other hourly job seekers, immigrants and day laborers congregated.

All day she drove to one day laborer site after another. She followed an irregular pattern, to evade anyone who might be out and attempting to locate her. Her spirits see-sawed up and down, sometimes in doubt and other times hopeful.

The last group she spoke to was a trio of central American brick and tile setters. They spoke Spanish exclusively, and though rusty, she was able to converse.

A row of million-dollar mansions were being framed on the northeast side. Spanish revival style. Among the crew were four Armenian carpenters. The tile layers encountered a quiet fellow who matched the drawing Lyndy showed them, as well as the description. The street was called Starlite Ridge Road. Somehow it seemed fitting.

She slept in a motel that night, having to disguise the fastback by covering it with a tarp and bungee cords. Her powers of invisibility had reached their limit. The sleep was uneasy, and she worried about Maribel. She wasn’t so much scared of death. That would in some ways be a relief. She was scared that Mari would take it hard.

The next day at lunchtime, Lyndy drove to the construction site.

In comparison to the Zohara luxury resort, this place had relatively little in the way of security. It was normal. She parked with a row of work trucks, at a yellow chain link fence and hiked her way in. Nothing but rectangular private property signs stood in her way. With one remaining folded flier, she approached a foreman.

He nodded to indicate he’d seen the fellow and pointed her to the back of one of the partially framed mansions. Said the man was one of “the best guys”.

At the patio in the shade of a fig tree, which had grown over the fence of an adjacent property, she found a circle of men. Some sat on the ground, others on bricks or inverted buckets. They were drinking Gatorades, munching on burritos, nachos and beef hot dogs purchased from a 7-11. She trekked across the compacted lot in her heels. They stared at her like: “who’s the old lady? Someone’s mom?”

Among the circle, she could tell the individual who looked like Mr. Aloyan from afar. He was wearing all white, not a jeans and flannel, making it appear he’d just arrived in America. Realizing he’d been spotted the man started behaving nervously. Aloyan seemed to recognize her, aware of her purpose, as though a stranger like Lyndy would only have come to see him.

Without a word, he tilted his head, asking to speak to her in private. She agreed and followed him out to the street.

They sat in her parked car, all the windows lowered, in view of the homes being built. She knew he wouldn’t leave, but wanted an explanation.

His grayish beard had been an excellent disguise, adding years to his image.

Once she’d seen him up close, she realized he was only thirty to thirty-five. Lean build. And when he spoke, his voice further belied his age. He conversed with an educated accent, a man who’d attended a reputable college.

He cupped one fist inside the other, rested his forehead. “Except for a few fasting days a year, my father never slept with a solid roof over his head,” he said proudly. “He built houses for farmers. But he lived in a tent his whole life.” Mr. Aloyan shook his head and laughed defeatedly. “Did my wife hire you?”

“Sort of.”

He nodded, knowing it fit her character.

“I’ve worked for some dangerous and shady people in my day. Your wife seemed genuine to me. McNair not so much. I think she deserves some kind of explanation, don’t you?”

His eyes went wide. “An explanation?” He lifted his hands skyward. “The explanation is that once we’re finished here, we go to California. A new subdivision near San Jose, in the Silicon Valley. Plenty of work. Several million dollars each house. After that, who knows.”

She looked out at the row of undone houses. They were lovely, each one unique. He stayed quiet. Lyndy held up the pack of Twizzlers. “Want one?”

“No. I’m good.”

“What about Malcolm McNair?”

By his far-off stare, she knew Mr. Aloyan was unconcerned. “My wife can take care of herself. Chantelle is safe. I never told her the details. When the time is right, maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Fine. Then what’s the deal with Zohara Ranch. I searched all over that property, never saw one nail out of place. And I have a lot of experience with flawed shit.”

“You wouldn’t. Not even an average inspector would find it. But the foundation is no good. All the cement we used is defective. I took eight samples. It needs to be re-poured.”

“And you told McNair but they wanted to continue?”

“Yes. Like always. They never see a problem they can’t patch with some temporary duct tape solution. They think there’s a 20-percent chance the foundation is good enough, even if it didn’t harden. And they’re willing to roll with it, to make schedule, rather than re-pour.”

“They’re gamblers. Makes sense. So what did he say after you told him?”

“He said there were only three options for a man like me. Either keep my mouth shut, start a war I can’t win, or quit. And I chose the latter. I could tell there was no reasoning with Chantelle. Chantelle grew up poor like me, but she’s attached to physical possessions. We never see eye-to-eye. We’re too different. There was nothing at the house I wanted. Not even the cars. They bring me no satisfaction.”

“Really?” Lyndy smiled at the enigma of Mr. Aloyan.

“Of course. All of it. It’s the work that brings me joy.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m a builder. Same thing I’ve always done.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how much I admire your spirit,” declared Lyndy. From behind the seat she pulled a notebook, setting it on his lap. “Here. Just do me one favor. Write a note to her. Otherwise, Rhonda won’t believe me. And if she doesn’t believe I found you, then you run the risk of more investigators coming. They won’t be as nice as me.”

Lyndy handed him a pen to write with. He tested the pen on the cheap spiral notebook, pushing the tip hard into the paper.

“I dunno what to write.”

“Just tell her you’ll come back for her. Like you said, when the time is right.”

“Okay,” he agreed. And reluctantly, he penned an apology plus a vague promise that he would be back someday, and she would do just fine without him. Then he signed his name.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: Late night channel flipping in a hotel with bad cable and I end up on Food Network. It’s a baking competition. Someone gets booted off for a bad cupcake and they’re bawling their eyes out. Half of me feels bad for them, while the other part is thinking: Get ahold of yourself. It’s just a cupcake!

That night she returned to the airstream. No one except Les had been there in multiple days—no tracks other than goats. She had only enough energy to clean the water trough and refill it. Then she went to bed.

Her fitful sleep cycle continued for the second night in a row. This time her dreams were of Rita, the younger version. They were driving through the desert in silence, upset with one another. Something to do with a case? She wasn’t sure. But there was tension and she could feel it. She could see too. So, it wasn’t the aftermath of their Vegas trip. More likely it wasn’t a real event, but the amalgamation of many encounters.

When she awoke, halfway between the dreamscape and alertness, someone was calling out her name. And the bright sunlight was pouring in the windows. She’d slept later than normal. The voice she heard, crying out, she tried to incorporate into her dreams but now as she gradually became more aware, she realized it sounded like Maribel.

“Mom,” she cried desperately. “Wake up!”

Mari was extremely fearful.

Uh oh. Lyndy sat up, propped herself on an elbow and pushed apart the tiny blind which covered her bedside window. Through the gap, she could see the yellow light of sunrise. The outline of the Fastback and at the extreme left of her view, beyond the troughs, the Honda Civic.

She turned the other way, getting a better view of the driveway. At the highway fence, over a mile distant, she could see the squarish boxes of SUVs parked. There were at least five vehicles lined up there.

Mari’s anxious calling out continued: “Mom. I’m sorry!”

She should have known. She’d warned Mari not to come here, but it was understandable that she might. If Lyndy hadn’t been so exhausted both physically and mentally, she wouldn’t have let her guard down. She probably wouldn’t have come here either, as it was obvious McNair’s buddies would be waiting for her to return.

The day felt warm and sticky. Lyndy was in her underwear. She pulled on a t-shirt. She reached for boardshorts, yanking them over her thighs and buttoned them at her stomach. Then she reached an arm for the gun and stood up.

Pushing open the door, she got her first good view of the tense scene. She held the Beretta upside down with two fingers on the grip. Descending the steps, she knelt on one bad knee, then set it on the ground, flat.

The men stood in a half-circle on the southside, past the troughs. Ten of them by quick count. And Mari, off to the right, with a gun aimed at her head. Two of the attackers The Spitfire recognized. They’d been waiting a while. The goats had all dispersed to the far side of the pasture. She slipped her bare feet into shoes.

“I’m sorry Mom. I’m so sorry,” Mari kept repeating.

“It’s alright,” Lyndy assured.

“I know you told me not to come. I knew I shouldn’t. But I wondered if …. maybe I should check on the goats. And I wanted to talk.”

“It’s okay,” replied Lyndy sweetly, adjusting her shorts and retying the white string. Seeing Mari all worked up like this, was far more upsetting than facing an untimely demise. And well, to be honest, it wasn’t all that untimely.

“And I was feeding the goats just now….”

“Mari. It’s okay I’m not mad.”

A man whistled. “Shut up and quit moving!”

Lyndy stood still, arms at her sides. All the other guns were aimed at her. Nine men with firearms, one possessing an assault rifle. Three were dressed up in suit jackets, like for a real gangster movie. The others wore outfits like mercenary types, with cargo pants and boots. And in most ways, it was flattering, imagining they would send so many for one old woman. A small army. The legends had survived. Mr. Chan would’ve gotten a kick out of this bizarre standoff. Any situation where she was outnumbered amused him.

“What took you all so long?” Lyndy jested.

“No tricks left this time!” It was the one with the beard, the one she’d fought twice. “It’s simple. If you somehow transform into,” he gestured with a 9-mm pistol, “… a white pig, we kill her,” he pointed at Mari. “And we kill you. A pig can’t outrun a bullet.”

“True,” said Lyndy.

“This is the end.”

“Let me say goodbye to my daughter,” requested Lyndy.

“No tricks.”

“Mom I’m sorry.” Maribel was shaking all over with stress. She kept bobbing her head up and down and rubbing her elbows.

“Mari, please relax,” said Lyndy sweetly. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault Vanilla Bean. Technically it isn’t my fault either.”

With arms raised, Lyndy re-pointed herself and took a careful step in the direction of her daughter. “I want to say goodbye to my daughter.” Lyndy locked eyes with Mari. “Maribel, touch my hands. It’s not a trick.”

Maribel winced, as though she were in pain.

“Touch my hands,” Lyndy demanded. She held her palms flat, in the patty-cake motion and reluctantly Mari did the same, lifting her arms. She could see the terror in her daughter’s eyes. And she felt the soft skin and her shaking hands. She wondered, was this a dream? Was it real?

Suddenly their flat surroundings shifted and transformed. They were inside a maze of sandstone formations, the Valley of Fire, at dawn. The rocks were all shades of red, orange and pink, just as she always remembered. However, no tourists or footprints marked the paths. They were in a canyon.

“Hide Mari!” commanded Lyndy. Meantime she sprinted across a bare wash, to where the Beretta rested half buried in sand. Leaning over, she yanked it from the dirt and felt a bullet zing by.

Pivoting to her left, she jerked the slide on the pistol to arm it. Then she aimed to the figure standing blocking the sun, in the middle of the dry wash. She squeezed the trigger.

The sand had the consistency of sugar and was difficult to run on.

From her periphery, she spotted Mari Ellis, scrambling a slope of stacked rocks, each the size of cinder blocks. Above, shadows and oval-shaped crevasses all resembled possible hiding spots. Mari had been forced to hide before, when things were really bad. She’d done it as a toddler. She had a talent for it and hiding was never a Martinez specialty. That came from the Ellis line.

Lyndy tackled the wall of the rocks which lined both sides of the canyon. She wished she’d been fitter for this activity, as her arm strength faltered.

“Where are we?” she heard one of the men ask.

“Valley of Fire, idiot!”

A raven took flight.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-22

Lyndy Life Observation: A roadside billboard for a rural farm stand boasts: “100 Different Varieties of Beef Jerky to Choose From!” And that’s objectively too many kinds. No one needs that many choices for jerky. What are they? Classic, salt-n-pepper, spicy hot, teriyaki, mustard, barbecue, buffalo and … what?”

She’d forgotten how completely still and silent it could be here. There’s a certain low rumble of modern life: perpetual trains, distant freeways, air handlers, which human ears have grown accustomed to filtering. Yet even those backgrounds were imperceptible. It was unnerving now, to hear the sound of one’s own pulse.

Tilting her chin back, she saw the arc of the milky way, spanning horizon to horizon. Nothing like coming home—especially when one believed they never would.

They had no spare minutes to reminisce, nor did she want to. Dawn would be arriving in four short hours, and with it, unwanted attention. She planned to have a hole dug by then. First, she retrieved the large police Maglite from her trunk, switching it on. This thing had the appearance of a lightsaber, with floating dust particles defining the edges of the cone. To save battery, she shut off the ignition on the Ford.

Next she trekked in an ellipse, trying to ferret out the precise spot she’d buried the milk canister. Inside this metal container was the item McNair’s men were looking for all along. She kept one eye out for venomous snakes and scorpions as well; no doubt this was their territory.

It was harder than she’d hoped to locate. The only marking had been three white calcite stones in a triad, which at the time seemed an easy win—like one of those passwords you can’t possibly forget. But you do. “Just find those three white stones,” she’d told herself, and directly underneath, twenty inches deep would be the canister.

Unfortunately, like on the access road, the land had evolved. Water flowed across in irregular patterns. Small pebbles and rocks shifted downhill. Vegetation had pushed apart the surface crust—and maybe the occasional clawing rodent. Windstorms had no doubt blown sand in the crevices. Plus, since the cactus garden was no more, she had trouble getting her exact bearings. She could visualize roughly where the concrete supports had been for the airstream and from here, she reasoned the treasure ought to be about thirty yards west.

Dale stood by patiently, clutching a pickaxe, waiting for orders.

At last, she was forced to hazard a guess, as she only ever found one white stone sitting next to a small creosote. And one white stone was better than zero stones, so she asked Dale to come and start helping her dig. They would need to work together, if they hoped to have this thing unearthed prior to dawn.

---

Hours later …

As the sun began to ascend, kissing the ridge, rays of golden-yellow scattered across the valley. Their treasure hole also widened. Luckily, they did strike solid metal. It was the lid. Kneeling down, she brushed away sand and pebbles, then tested the top with a whack of her knuckle. It made a hollow sound, which was perfect. Mud hadn’t infiltrated. She glanced over to Dale, a coy grin on her lips. Then she tried turning it. Stuck. Maybe if they both gripped? Dale quickly knelt beside, put his hands at ten and two, and she positioned hers in between. Combined, they were able to break it free of the rusty seal and squeak clockwise; she twisted it the remainder and set the lid aside.

Reaching her arm into the dark cavity, she felt two bricks of cash, then the avocado shapes of three grenades—she placed these gently upon the sand like bird’s eggs. The money she pushed to the sides. Reaching in deeper, at last her fingers touched upon the cold steel of the Beretta.

She lifted it upward into the dawn light, wondering how poor a condition it would be. She feared it might be too rusted up to fire.

Colonel Rickman would hate for her to do what she wanted, but she undid the clip for the magazine and let it plunge into her empty hand. From her pocket she pulled five fresh 9-mm rounds.

She turned to look at Dale, who’d been continuing to kneel. He locked eyes with her. The early light now illuminated the western mountains, bathing them in a rosy glow. It was easier to see all around, including the white car.

She sighted through the barrel.

She wanted to practice shooting, knowing it had been a very long time.

But Dale grunted, pointing southward to the end of her road, where they’d cut the lock to the driveway. A dust cloud had formed, and seeing this, now she heard a buzzing motor. Someone was coming in one of those newfangled side-by-sides. Great.

---

Later that day …

“The Spitfire Lives! Hallelujah. See, I don’t hear one single peep from ya’ll in twenty plus years—not even a holiday card. I assume you went to the great dude ranch in the sky. Then today I spot your janky ass Mustang through my telescope and think, Debbie Kowalski lost her damn mind. Debbie can see ghosts—the ghost of Melinda Martinez out haunting Amboy by night.” Debbie laughed aloud.

“The dude ranch in the sky. Something tells me that isn’t where I’m headed.” Lyndy was studying a large hairy caterpillar, slinking along Miss Kowalski’s hacked together plywood kitchen counters. God only knew where it came from—the fifth dimension? It was nearly the warmest part of the day in one of the driest valleys in the state. And the only measure of cooling was a home-made swamp chiller, functioning on a 500 square foot cabin.

“My polish grandma used to say, if you’re gonna be stupid, you better be tough,” croaked Debbie, while she eyed a turkey thermometer resting against the wall of a cast iron pan. The 16-inch pan contained a lake of scalding-hot canola oil. In her fist, tongs and a battered chicken breast—the first of eight to fry for their brunch feast.

Debbie’s teeth needed work; this was evident whenever she laughed.

“Amen to that,” added Lyndy with an exhale. Her eyelids were drooping. She rested them a moment, slouching in a kitchen chair salvaged from a curb on garbage day. Atop the round spool table rested the cursed Beretta. She’d been afraid to let it out of her sight. Next to her, Dale was nodding off with his head jammed in a wall corner. A trickle of drool had accumulated on his shirt.

The closest thing Lyndy could compare Miss Kowalski to, was a cross between a one-eyed pirate and a Mad Max film extra. Her Wonder Valley ranch was walled in shipping containers, tin-sided lean-tos and green plastic tanks for water. Debbie’s intellect shined through in every imaginative contraption that surrounded her. The homestead personified the lady.

Yet her eccentric inner nature—long concealed under layers of decorum, youth and cheerful positivity—now had taken root. She spoke like a cynical recluse who’d completely exited society to live, not just off the grid, but on their own special planet. She claimed to have cured her own case of stomach cancer. And she looked like she’d spent way too many afternoons in the sun. Admittedly, some might offer the same opinions on Lyndy.

You didn’t just go out and adopt this lifestyle after seeing a blog post on the internet. One had to be born with the pioneer spirit in their soul, or they wouldn’t last a month. You had to be your own doctor, as well as psychologist, plumber, electrician, home decorator, snake wrangler and anything else.

In addition to the above, Debbie seemed to have developed a new passion for cowboy cooking. Thirty years ago, it wasn’t the case.

When the thermometer needle had reached the correct temp, Debbie dunked the first chicken breast into the oil causing it to sizzle. She had cornbread muffins in the oven. These were on a timer—that wind-up kind from the seventies.

“Makes no sense, ya know,” commented Debbie, as she wiped excess flour off her hands onto her shirt. “With our two lifestyles, how is it you look fifty-percent attractive? Dare I say … cute. You got an anti-aging secret I should know about?”

“Definitely not. You’re asking the wrong lady,” answered Lyndy, pushing aside a dusty survival magazine, making room on the table to lay her sketch pad flat. She set the Beretta down out of the way on the magazine, barrel facing the door.

From her shirt pocket Lyndy fished a charcoal pencil. She began to mark the outline of a human head and shoulders.

It was a weight off her mind being around another blast from the Mojave past. Good fortune their unannounced visitor had been someone she knew, an old friend, not a weirdo who might’ve disrupted their plans. Plus, she really needed a pal with handyperson skills.

 “Trust me, Deb. I didn’t look in a mirror for about eight years in my forties and I gained a ton of weight.” Lyndy reached over with a wadded-up napkin and dabbed at Dale’s chin, wiping him off while he continued sleeping. “My appearance was the last thing on my mind.”

“Speaking of folks losing their marbles. I can’t believe that old dude is Deputy Keynes,” remarked Debbie, as she sunk another of the golden battered chicken breasts. “I literally wouldn’t have recognized him unless you told me.”

“He’s been this way for a decade or more. Miranda and the twins stopped visiting him five years ago, and when that happened, I started to. If not me, no one else would come.”

Lyndy began to sketch an oval, connecting curved lines where the face would come together. “Mainly, it’s the speech part of his brain which is mis-firing, but the rest of him still works.”

Debbie spun around a moment, oil dripping from the tongs onto bare wood slats, and raised an eyebrow. “All of him?”

Lyndy met eyes with Debbie. She chuckled. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Sorry. He’s your ex,” said Debbie, turning back to the propane stove. “All of me works, but only half as well as it used to. That’s what scares me.”

“Same here. Well, technically my eyes are like twenty-five percent.”

Outside the salvaged kitchen window, in the sun, the white fastback sat idle. They were safe, because Debbie’s property was three miles from the nearest two-lane road, and no one here liked visitors—truly the equivalent of Timbuktu. As long as they rested here, McNair couldn’t find them.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: Miss Rita Lovelace was the only person I ever knew who said they attended a wedding and someone actually objected. It was such a large gathering and with no microphone in the audience, the objection was difficult to hear. They protested on the grounds that the groom had once been married to his sister and treated her unkind. Didn’t matter. The ill-fated wedding thundered on like a runaway train. Few people understood the man fully, not even the priest, just knew someone had voiced an opinion.

Post lunch, Dale amused himself by pressing the keys on an old Casio keyboard, which was missing every black key.

With her stomach digesting one of the tastiest and most high caloric meals she’d had in months, Lyndy lounged in a lawn chair while Debbie, somehow highly alert, worked on getting her MIG welder up and running. Her goal was to help Lyndy mend the cracked fender, and Lyndy was extremely grateful. The Spitfire had already parked the right front wheel on a ramp, and they stacked several bricks under the frame to keep it high. This angle would save Debbie’s knees and give her an optimal angle for the work. With part of an old barbeque brush, she’d roughed up the surface and removed excess dirt.

Debbie then took a seat on an upside-down plastic crate, while she tacked several key spots along the span of the fender.

Yards away, Lyndy propped her ankles on top of an oil barrel, half buried in sand. She continued finalizing her sketch, a charcoal pencil in one hand and a gummy eraser in the other. The light was good here, but the flies were bothersome.

After completing a series of inch-long segments, each on different portions to avoid warping the thin metal, Debbie seemed satisfied with progress. She took a break. She stood up, stretched her back, then paced to where Lyndy was sitting.

She raised her dark goggles, leaning in to inspect Lyndy’s work.

“I didn’t know you were such an artist?” She pronounced the word R-Teest.

“Only out of necessity,” replied Lyndy.

“Why are you sketching a bearded middle-eastern man?”

Lyndy chuckled, pointing with the coal pencil. “Thank you! I was just about to ask what this looked like. Now I have my answer.” Lyndy sat up, gazing out to a savannah-like expanse of sage which bordered the property on two sides. Dogs were barking and someone very distant had a radio or boombox—but the music was indistinct.

“You ever get together with your neighbors out here?”

“Oh yeah. Of course. Some are nice. Some are plain nuts.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Tetherball. Archery. Stuff like that,” answered Debbie. “Talk about weird overnight AM conspiracy radio. Comic books. The kleptocracy. Scorpions. Our failed marriages.”

Lyndy nodded while she blew some excess eraser dust from the corners of her pad.

“Deb. I figure you’re the perfect person to ask. What would you do if you wanted to fake your own death? Would you go to Mexico? South America?” Lyndy raised an eyebrow. “Or, would you do it Anne Frank style? Disappear in plain sight.”

Debbie looked out at her dystopian future settlement of survivalist camper vans and lean-tos. She fanned her face with a square of sheet metal, part of an old sign.

“I mean, I’d probably do just exactly what I’m doing now, only alter my name. Something like Debbie Dootson. Has a certain ring to it and I’ve never met another Dootson. Tell the banks the old Debbie died of a stroke.” Debbie cackled. “Anyone trying to find me would have a hell of a time out here.” She sniffed her stuffy nose, still gazing to the distance. “Not like anyone cared much about Deborah Kowalski. Sure as heck wouldn’t care about anyone named Deb Dootson. Doesn’t sound like a winner.”

Lyndy nodded. “Wise.” She checked on Dale to see what he was up to. He was on his feet, smiling, admiring Debbie’s collection of garden gnomes, greenhouses and tomato plants. “Is he who you mean? This fella you’re drawing, he did that?” Debbie questioned.

“No. Actually, in the case of Mr. Aloyan, I’m about certain. He didn’t even do a very good job and he’s not fooling anyone. I don’t know why it took so long to convince myself of it. But I imagine the way his wife was behaving made me doubt my instincts.”

“Then who are you referring to?”

“Rita,” said Lyndy.

Debbie didn’t reply immediately, but clearly she recognized the name, inhaling deeply. “That impetuous woman always treated me like I was beneath her.”

“I know. But I think Rita Lovelace pretended to die in a plane crash.”

“Highly ambitious plan,” said Debbie. “But knowing her, it sounds like a scheme she’d be capable of.” Snapping on her goggles, she went back to her welding.

---

Back in the 70s …

It was as though she blacked out. In more ways than one.

Her last distinctly formed memory, was hearing Miss Lovelace insult Dr. Tarner, and then her heels on those stairs. She must have ended up with Graham and Tarner, else how could she have gotten down the stairs on her own?

But Lyndy awoke to the sensation of tumbling—literally somersaulting—and her body being bruised by hard asphalt. Then cars and trucks swerving, honking and angry shouting. A man was yelling: “Get out of the street!” She was terrified, feeling her way and crawling on hot, filthy pavement. Gravel stuck to her hands and abrasions.

And she knew she was in the middle of a busy avenue.

Lyndy felt like a wounded animal and profoundly alone in that moment, unable to see, not knowing where to go. Being blind and not yet adapted was the most helpless experience in the world. When she heard the revving on an engine, she believed she would die.

But then a screech of breaks. She held up her hand instinctively, in the path of the oncoming car as if that simple act or resistance could have any affect.

The car halted. Angry people started shouting at the driver to move. The door opened and she heard a voice. “Stand up Lyn!” commanded Rita, breathlessly.

“I can’t,” Lyndy pleaded.

Rita’s feet were bare and they slapped on the hot pavement.

She felt Rita’s noodly supermodel arms wrap around her waist, and the sensation of her body being dragged to the car. Other impatient drivers honked, and Rita threatened them to back off.

“I’ve been racing around searching for you for forty-five minutes,” Miss Lovelace complained. She kicked open the passenger door. Then like a sack of rice, Rita shoved Lyndy onto the seat, turning her over and stuffing in her legs so the door could shut.

“We gotta leave town right now!” Rita stomped on the gas.

“Aren’t we going to a hospital?” questioned Lyndy, who was contorted upside down in her seat. They swerved into a complete one-eighty at the next intersection, rolling her against the window.

“Heck no,” said Rita. “We aren’t stopping till after we hit stateline. Cali or bust.”

Lyndy couldn’t see the color, yet judging by the jerky motions of the car and honking horns, she knew they were blowing through red lights.

“Wait why?” demanded Lyndy, as she righted herself with a hand on the a-pillar and another braced on the seat cushion. “Doesn’t Tarner have what he wants?”

Rita took a breath. She could hear the roar of the straining engine as they accelerated onto the interstate. “I still have the flute,” she answered calmly. Rita patted her dress, at belly-button level.

“Then what is it you put back into the display case?”

“Remember all those pine-tree sticks in the backyard at the Shirley Temple house?”

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Lyndy Life Observation: Sometimes I can’t believe Baywatch Nights was a real “serious” spinoff TV show and not a spoof. Makes me chuckle every time I think about it. Begs the question, when exactly did Mitch Buchannon find time to sleep—he was always working. Day as lifeguard, night as a goofy private dick.

“Would she have to learn braille?” she wondered. “Could she even do so at her age?”

Still reeling at the concept of living her remaining years without ever seeing a sunrise, Lyndy felt an unexpected hand latch onto her. This startling presence had the strength of a wrestler, a grip so firm the fingers on her right hand went limp and the Beretta crashed to the floor with a thump.

She recognized his aftershave, sensing the cowboy hat and lean, six-foot-three frame of Graham standing beside her. Though she couldn’t see, she perceived a coldness in his spirit. He’d come to the party a different man, brought with him a weapon of his own.

At the same moment Rita fixed her gaze upon Tarner, watching as a smug grin hardened on his chubby cheeks. An instant later he drew his gun, a compact and squarish piece like a Walther PP. In less dire circumstances she might have assumed it was a prop—Tarner being a scientist, not a killer—but that notion was risky.

“Mr. Winsom,” he said, delightedly. “Glad you could join our Tombstone-style standoff.”

“Cut yer comedy act Tarner,” replied Graham. “It ain’t funny.” He backed away from Lyndy, sweeping his ankle to knock away the Beretta, but maintaining focus on The Spitfire.

Rips in Graham’s cowboy shirt revealed patches of strawberry-red bumps on his skin, the characteristic lesions; Rita knew he must be suffering the same as she. “Hey we’re twins,” commented Rita sardonically, pointing at Graham’s waist.

Graham remained taciturn and unamused, but Tarner chuckled: “The sickness is going around. Early Egyptologists encountered similar afflictions. Of course, they didn’t pack up their shit and go home. They overcame.”

Graham glared at Lyndy, leaning in. His hot breath tickled her ear. Something else too, perhaps a residual hint of loyalty masked in his betrayal. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Lyndy turned away, averting her gaze intuitively. She wasn’t sure she wanted to look at him now, even if she could.

“Times have changed. This is nothing to toy with. It’s clearly our fault,” stated Rita. “We should both have returned the flute to the historical society. This curse—whatever it is—could have been prevented.”

“We want the same thing, don’t we?” Tarner lowered his weapon. He cleared his throat, bracing a hand on the paneled wall. “To stop the disease—which will come to pass when the item in question is auctioned off to the next buyer. As planned.”

“I don’t agree.” Rita stiffened her back.

Tarner turned to address Graham: “Now Mr. Winsom, think of all the fabulous things I can do for your career here in Vegas,” he reasoned.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Rita interrupted. “That’s your pitch?”

“…these fancy hotels adore me,” argued Tarner, contempt for Rita in his words. “You were at my lectures. I fill the places up year after year. I know every powerful businessman in the city. It helps to have friends like me.”

“Great. Now you sound like Olivia—it’s what she’d say isn’t it? Not a compliment,” Rita chastised, taking a step back. “Plus, you’re itchy, repulsive and you smell like rotten fish.”

Sweat was dampening Tarner’s brow. He smudged his forehead on his elbow, saying nothing to counter Rita’s blistering insults.

At last, Tarner turned to Lyndy: “Someone with your abilities could go far as well. We can get you a fantastic job with benefits. All is forgiven Miss Martinez.”

Lyndy slanted her head. Though the pain was immense, she forced her eyelids open at Graham, hoping to get through to him.  She was mouthing, “Don’t. Do. This.”

“Just hand the damn thing over,” coaxed Tarner to Rita. “Break this curse! Or we will break you.”

Graham pointed his gun at Rita’s chest. “Do as the professor says,” Graham demanded. His back to a wall, he reached out to caress the tops of Lyndy’s trembling fingers, comforting her. Closing gently around her middle and index finger, Graham tugged her toward the stairs, the place where Tarner was looming. “He’ll keep his word. Cause I admit, he already knows me. He can help us live well. After what I’ve seen, Lyndy, you have a bright future in security.”

Rita appeared defeated, standing alone in the focal point of the room, mascara running down both cheeks. She used her palms to press her tangled hair back forcefully.

“Choose a side, Lyndy,” seethed Tarner, like the devil himself.

Rita continued inching away from the other three.

“…consider this,” he added, his breathing heavy. “What does Rita see in you, other than a means to her pathetic ends, a more capable servant than the lot of her staff. You are not her friend, because you and her are not equals. She’s kind to you only on occasions when she’s bored or lonely, needing a source of companionship. Or when she’s scared.” Tarner chuckled. “Your loyalty is unfounded. If her last name weren’t Lovelace, she wouldn’t have friends at all. And if you were truly blinded, she’d drop you in a hot minute. Like a horse in her stable no longer able to gallop.”

In her mind, Lyndy pictured Rita’s face and was met by the same unflinching coldness. Graceful like her mother’s, symmetrical, but not nice. She developed a case of the shivers herself. What was there to sustain a bond of friendship between them? She thought about the year when she was engaged to Kyle, how isolated she’d been—a shunning—and how Miss Lovelace was the only one in Lake Arrowhead who’d speak her name and welcome her. She confided in Rita.

Yet the sorrow returned. Exertions of the prior 24-hours were catching up with her, clouding her judgement; understandable, after what they’d been through.

“Lyn, you know they’re just being manipulative,” warned Rita. Lyndy could hear her continuing to back away.

“Come on Lyndy, I really like you. We both do,” pleaded Graham. A conflict—like a chasm separating her from the past—deepened, as her heart pounded. She felt pulled by unseen forces toward Winsom and Dr. Tarner. Was she ready to switch allegiances? Because she did perceive a connection between her and Graham.

Lyndy squeezed her temples, doubling over. She winced as emotions were taking over. She then made a tenuous, sideways step in Graham’s direction.

“Lyn,” whispered Rita.

“You should give them what they want,” declared Lyndy.

Rita paused, said nothing, but gazed at Lyndy with her strained eyes. Then she turned, retreating to the corner displays. She rested a nervous hand upon the broken case edge, concentrating so as not to slice her fingers. “We’re all making a huge mistake,” lamented Rita with a sigh. “This will haunt us. But it appears I’m overruled.”

In the darkened gallery, Tarner’s stare tracked the motion of Rita’s hand. She reached down the front of her dress, her arm movement steady and deliberate.

Across the room, from his own vantage, Graham watched her remove the wand-like wooden artefact with quarter-inch holes. She treated it with the same respect as a stick of dynamite. Guardedly, she laid it in the case like placing a baby into a cradle. She spread her hands wide, as though demonstrating the deed was complete.

Graham looked at Dr. Tarner for what to do next. His greedy eyes were focused on the prototype Beretta, situated on the floor.

“Let me have that thing and we’ll call it even,” suggested Rita.

Tarner cocked his head to the side. “Fine, I hate guns,” he answered. “But give up this obsession with the flute.”

“Done,” said Rita. “I don’t believe in curses anyway.”

“No!” Graham kicked the gun to Lyndy’s feet. She felt it slam into her toes and reached down to scoop it up.

Lyndy could hear Rita stepping closer to the stairs. “Well, at least you’ll let me go right? What use am I?” She knew Tarner and Graham would keep their weapons trained on Rita even in retreat, based on the tension between them.

Rita exhaled. “Lyn, you should know, that if ever treated you unfairly, it’s because I’m an only child. And maybe there’s a kernel of truth in Tarner’s web of lies. I have been selfish, which is why it stings so much. But I promise I care about you. And whatever you believe is the best for your future … you should do that. If your future truly lies with these casino bosses then I won’t hold it against you.”

The candor was so uncharacteristic, The Spitfire felt an urge to let go an inappropriate laugh. But she held it in. The other two didn’t know Rita. They wouldn’t understand.

“Tarner, I hope you get bit in the ass by a flying fox on your next expedition. And slowly die of rabies. Now may I go? My feet are killing me and I have an itch like my skin is melting—so either I get to a hospital or lose the fraction of sanity I have remaining.”

She heard Rita take the first step down. She listened to see whether Tarner would stop her, but he did not.

---

Back in the present …

Lyndy wished to relax, but her nerves were twisted up like an over-tight mainspring. The late-night, middle of nowhere staticky radio waves weren’t helping. Nor were the loose ends having to do with the Aloyans.

It’d been ages since she’d driven the grade between Mountain Pass and Baker, a descent of several thousand feet. She remembered having vowed to never do this again, literally go down this road. An animal snared in a trap, managing to escape and reach freedom, is forever wise of traps.

Only a court order and handful of other messy details could drag her into California.

The atmosphere was brooding as her mood, with the blinking beacons of radio towers, outlines of black ridges against a glowing sky and no moon. Road noise and rushing air tingled her eardrums. Perhaps there was the added factor of entering a dreamscape which inflicted so much pain. At least the wind was cool and smelled the way she remembered her home.

Beside them large trucks roared, piloted by zombie-like ride-or-die types.

In the passenger seat, Dale Keynes drooled a little and gaped at the strange expanse. Her old lover wasn’t much company—like having an android for a passenger. He hadn’t uttered a word, making her wish for the old days when he was a smart ass and teller of dirty jokes; they used to snipe at one another, trading sharply timed insults. His silence was getting on her nerves too.

“Man, it’s like sharing a car ride with Lurch.” She cleared her throat. “Funny how I used to pray for something like this to happen—you to lose your voice. But now I’m not sure I dig this non-talking Dale.” She lowered her forehead until it bumped the unpadded wheel. “What the hell happened to us? It isn’t fair, what you did. I almost died.” As usual, his reticent expression didn’t evolve. He’d heard her of course. She knew for a fact his ears worked. “Why couldn’t you marry me? Idiot. WE WERE ENGAGED! You were gonna buy me a rock—when we had time to go together and pick one.”

She squinted her eyes, then smacked his hand. Dale jerked his arm back, looking at her as though she were an unpredictable lunatic.

“We were engaged. Remember?” Lyndy echoed more softly, but she knew he couldn’t answer.

She sighed, reaching in the space between the bucket seat and the console. Her hand fell upon a theatre-size pack of preservative embalmed twizzlers, a stash she’d forgotten. Lifting up the baggie of loot, she tore off one corner and used her teeth to fish out several of the cherry-flavored straws.

“Want a twizzler?” she offered in a kinder voice, holding out the package. “I’m not a crazy person.”

He grinned, but after a moment’s pause pushed her hand away.

“Why are you grinning all of a sudden?” she asked suspiciously. “Did you fart?”

When they arrived at the world’s tallest thermometer, cutoff for Kelbaker road, she saw him cock his head. Something inside recognized the place. Whichever circuits of his tattered brain still connected were attempting to make sense of it. He knew he’d been here.

An LED sign displayed the time, near 10 o’clock.

At this point she really had to focus and drive slower than she wanted. She knew the headlights weren’t as bright as they could be, with only starlight to supplement. And there were animals out here one didn’t want to hit, particularly donkeys or errant sleeping cows. Forget about her blurry eyes!

High above the car, satellites blinked across the constellations and to the south, looking like a tractor beam from a space ship—a curious wedge of zodiacal light.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: By any measure raising Mari alone hadn’t been easy. At some point a credit card or three had gone delinquent—because often due dates were overwhelming. A nicer-than-average bill collector began phoning the trailer repeatedly. It was the days before caller-ID. So, one morning I mentioned I was on my way to a job interview and the bill collector became so excited he gave a pep-talk and said he’d pray I got the job. Made me smile. Even the credit cards were rooting for me.

She kept the headlights on to illuminate her old gate.

The onslaught of time was relentless out here. It tended to make old buildings crumble and dissolve; antique cars melt into bullet ridden hunks of twisted metal. The desert eroded all things.

On the other hand, judging by the condition of her gravel road, the height and girth of weeds, she could tell strangers didn’t come here often—or ever. The property was hidden enough, or perceived as a place of minimal value. Over time, storms carved twisted channels where floodwater flowed. The way they’d deepened, it seemed like a hundred-year-old road.

Her rusty steel chain still hung in place like high tension wires, in the shape of a smile, and a sign that read: Keep Out! Property of Amboy Mining Co. That sign had sandblasting all across it and the letters were difficult to read.

The twenty-five-year-old lock was completely solidified—a useless relic—but she’d assumed this would happen, and now she had bolt cutters. She easily snapped the old bolt; rust had made it brittle as a pretzel stick.

Then climbing back in the seat, she chugged in first gear northbound, keeping the lights on low beam. Glancing over to Dale she could see he was enjoying himself on the bumpy terrain. Must be hell living in that sterile rest home.

After a mile of slow going, they managed to reach the parking circle. She felt grateful to have made it, as some of the ruts were eight-inches deep and gave the mustang with a cracked fender a run for its money.

Stepping out she repositioned her hairband to contain messy fly-aways, surveying what little she could distinguish of the empty lot. Her airstream had stood here for a decade and a half. All manner of bittersweet emotions came bubbling forth. Perhaps “happy” didn’t quite fit, but it had been “a home”. There were stories here. Good and not so good ones. All the exotic plants were missing, the cactus garden consisting of a few hardy survivors, but anything sensitive was long vanished. She missed her plants.

Dale got out, shuffled up beside her. He knew where they were. He used to visit her here, sometimes in the middle of a warm night, just like this one. He held out a palm and she gripped it tightly.

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.