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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Husband? That would be a no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go for it,” said Graham. “Anything.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s a date,” said Lyndy.

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

---

30 minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Melinda Martinez,” she stated convincingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Rita and her crazy wardrobe.

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

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

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

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

The audience erupted into laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet,” said The Spitfire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even with the damage the fastback was still chugging along.

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

She needed a good long nap too.

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

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

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

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

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

---

Later that afternoon ….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m entertaining those thoughts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Red Bull,” Lyndy replied.

Rhonda and her bodyguard gave her a horrified look.

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

“How did you get inside?”

“I … well … that’s a trade secret.”

“Okay. Get any good pictures?”

“No. Too dark,” Lyndy lamented.

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

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

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

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

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

Rhonda grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

The sun was low in the sky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like this one,” replied Lyndy curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So maybe it’s our destiny.”

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

“What am I?” Mari shouted back.

“You’re an Ellis.”

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

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

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

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

“Why? Are you in trouble?”

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

“What were they looking for?” asked Maribel.

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

“Like a pistol or something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day crew at least were absent this zone.

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

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

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

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

A laser-like flashlight beam cut through the darkness.

“It’s down here,” whispered a voice.

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

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

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

The beam of light came closer.

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

His buddy laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Several minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy uttered a low growl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sighed and gazed at the pig.

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

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

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

Synopsis For: Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story

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. Oftentimes Lyndy knew how they felt.

This adventure is so grand it spans two time periods, past and near-present. Having reached her mid-fifties, with an adult daughter, Lyndy E. Martinez still prefers to drive the same 1960s automobile—a fastback Mustang topping 250k on the odometer. But not all went according to plan. The present Lyndy struggles to make ends meet, residing in a small trailer, battling with alcoholism and feeling invisible compared to her past glory. A side gig tending goats is not bringing in enough cash, so she returns to her old job, except this time in a different town and state, Williams AZ, and with a new younger boss, Native American businesswoman Rhonda Thurgood. Her initial assignment has her investigating the falsified death and disappearance of a wealthy casino builder. She hopes for an easy score, but the re-emergence of a familiar name—Rita Lovelace—causes Lyndy to begin reliving old memories: a seventies road trip with the fashion icon, a glamorous stay in Vegas and an archaeology conference. Rita and Lyndy are on a mission to recover a stolen flute, thereby undoing a curse which threatens anyone who ever came in contact with the artifact, including Miss Lovelace herself. In order to make amends with her daughter Maribel, Lyndy knows she must somehow come to terms with her complicated past. And to focus on doing a good job for her new employer, she needs to re-examine her feelings, why her relationship with Rita went sour and yet touches her in so many powerful ways. At last, in worsening trouble with a casino syndicate, she knows the only key to survival is summoning her old way of getting things done, and showing these tough guys how she earned her nickname in the first place.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Lyndy Life Observation: In my day “axe throwing” wasn’t a light-hearted first date activity enjoyed whilst clutching a mug of hipster craft beer. Rather it was something lethal you had to watch out for while working a sanction for CBB. In fact, Mr. Chan one time had to defend against a guy wielding an axe.

Rita Lovelace claimed to be named for the famous actress Rita Hayworth, and unlike much of her colorful boasting, Lyndy could believe this legend was true. Suited her.

Arriving in style, their Mercury coupe had been whisked off to a subterranean parking area by two sharp-dressed valets. It’s what she assumed. But even if it were currently being joy-ridden around town by imposters—well, who would’ve cared?

Now seated at a glamorous top floor lounge, both ladies having changed to eveningwear and done up their hair, Lyndy Martinez was feeling a bit like a celebrity herself. Already a stranger had approached them, requesting Miss Lovelace pose in a snap for the local paper, and she obliged. They even asked Lyndy to squeeze in beside.

“Here’s a question. Do you know if we should be eating raw fish this far from a wharf?” inquired The Spitfire, scrunching her nose. She had her sexy new platform boots dangling from a stool, arms propped on the wide marble countertop. Her question was meant to be rhetorical, as behind the counter, professional chefs sporting red and black coats prepared the food. Their hands moved faster than Lucy in the chocolate factory, yet they made no discernable mistakes.

Rita grinned back, deftly reaching for another caterpillar roll. Loaded with avocado, it seemed impossibly heavy and lopsided—liable to splatter on the floor—yet she plucked it with absolute grace. Her technique was something of a marvel, as she planted one chopstick end between her index and middle fingers and the other between her pinky and ring finger; a fisted style. Lovelace weirdness.

“Beats one of those two-dollar buffets at the Gold Nugget,” muttered Rita with a mouthful of sticky rice.

Meantime Lyndy struggled. “Yeah. Except I doubt I’ll get enough to eat unless I grow a third arm.”

Rita chuckled. “I dunno. I’m managing fine,” she replied. She patted her full stomach, then gulped down a glass of iced tea; presumably quenching a wasabi burn. Despite lack of rest, the fashion model showed no outward sign of slowing down.

A hired musician was playing Burt Bacharach tunes on a baby grand piano.

Beyond the piano, floor to ceiling architectural windows exhibiting a dazzling cityscape of casinos, millions of blinking incandescents, rapid motions enough to make you dizzy and endless jets touching down at McCarran airport. Across the street, a flashing yellow marquee indicated Captain-&-Tennille were performing nightly at the MGM Grand. Two tables away, a sizzling hibachi, aromas of charring steak tempting and delighting her other senses. Faintly, one could even perceive slot machines dinging on the casino floor below, and sometimes paying out. So entranced, she almost forgot why she was here.

Lyndy paused to wipe away soy sauce which smothered her lips. “So uh, can you explain what the auction is like?” She was referring to the illicit antiquities sale.

Rita dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the counter like a bad-ass, then inserted a long Newport in her mouth, igniting it with her gold lighter. She puffed as she began to speak. “Right. Changes location virtually every year. No way to tell unless you start asking around.” Rita flexed the fingers on her right hand in a shuffling motion. “Sometimes they use poker chips, you know, to avoid any money changing hands.”

“Then in theory you can say nothing was bought or sold, just trading among friends?”

“Exactly,” replied Rita, checking her watch. “One time it was staged at a large personal residence, another year in the basement of a hotel.”

“Alrighty,” said Lyndy, dabbing her eyes with a cocktail napkin. The spicy tuna was getting to her, causing them to water. “Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

Rita dipped a hand down her shirt front, retrieving from hiding places unknown a brass-colored room key. “Take this one in case you need it.” She passed it to Lyndy. “It’s ten-o-clock now. I’ll see you back here at 2:30.”

Lyndy frowned. “You’re ditching me? Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m meeting a friend who’s giving me a private tour of the King Tut exhibit. After we’re going to a night club or two.”

“Serious? Guy or girl?”

“Guy.”

“Fine. I get it.” Pushing away her square plate, Lyndy sniffed and rested her chin on her hands. “You don’t want a third wheel.”

“Awe, Hon. You’re off duty. Just have fun or something.” Rita gestured with the cigarette to the world outside the windows. “Later when I get back, we’ll go to a show together.”

“Why? Are you sleeping at all tonight?”

“Nope,” confirmed Rita, fishing the lemon wedge out of her empty glass, then biting into it. We’re there five minutes and Rita has a date.

---

Sometime after midnight …

Lyndy Life Observation: A guy I knew in Hollywood once told me if he was cruising out to Vegas for a long weekend, he never bothered packing a formal suitcase—waste of time. He would literally shove a toothbrush, floss and tube of toothpaste in a coat pocket, grab his car keys, wallet and take off. Didn’t need anything else.

On nights like these, she wanted to be noticed. Which is why Lyndy’s backless dress had an outrageous sunburst pattern across her torso, screen printed and glittering in a bronze metallic sheen. Her hair was twisted by the skilled hand of Rita into a neat, 12-inch conical bun. An accessory belt squeezed her middle, decorated with about a hundred sequins. She even wore 3-inch gold hoop earrings. Of course, the plunging neckline in front and lack of a back made any kind of bra impractical; running or fast walking was out of the question. Hopefully there would be none of that.

She might not have been the only girl around with enormous hair. But you better wear sunglasses if you wanna look at me!

And ever notice how there’s never a wall clock in a casino? They don’t allow windows either. Those blood suckers don’t want you to know whether it’s day or night. They count on you losing track of time, a gambling zombie pumped full of mojitos.

Softly she dragged the tip of a purple lipstick tube across her upper lip. Then she smacked them together while raising the corners to peek at her cards. Her other elbow rested against the edge guard of the blackjack table. Back home, Lyndy had a habit of pinning her cards down with three fingers, but this dealer wouldn’t allow her to do so, chastising her in public. He hit on all soft seventeens too. They could take the joy out of anything. At her side, a dwindling stack of casino chips and likewise pathetically dry wineglass.

The dealer called for bets and The Spitfire pushed a single blue chip across the table. She looked him in the eye and he stared back like, “are you serious lady? I have a queen.”

Lyndy wondered how Miss Lovelace’s night was going.

Two tables away, a young floorman or pit boss hovered. She noticed he’d been keeping track of her. Tall and slimmer than most of his colleagues, he wore a tailored plaid suit, dark glasses and a fancy indoor cowboy hat. She watched as he passed a stack of quarters to the cigarette girl, and she returned to him a pack of camels. He’d been on shift quite some time, as his five-o-clock shadow was becoming the trappings of a close-cut beard.

“Nineteen! Sorry miss, house wins again.” The dealer clawed her chip away.

As he shoved the pack in his suit pocket, the fellow glanced her way again. He began to pace, moving with authority between her table and the next, this time lowering his glasses all the way. At last, their eyes met, and though awkward, having come nearer she could tell he was quite handsome—a bit roguish—no older than 35. Lyndy attempted a recovery and coy smile.

A slot machine dinged repeatedly; the earsplitting tones of a payout filled the floor. She returned her attention to the game. Next she knew, Lyndy sensed movement and a rush of air in her periphery, realizing the man had taken up an open seat aside her. He removed the hat and glasses, now eyeing her purse plus the empty drink. Her one fear, that he might ask to search her purse and find the Beretta.

She flashed him her finest smile, then gazed down at the table forlornly. “Ahem. This is definitely not my night,” she said with an exhale.

“I’ve been watching you for the last hour, and I know why you keep losing,” he stated confidently.

“Oh really, why is that?” she challenged.

The dealer was frustrated by this interruption; however, he had little choice other than defer to the presence of a senior employee. It was further evidence this young man was more than a fellow gambler.

“Miss, you are at table number thirteen,” he answered, pointing an index finger on the center edge, underneath the padding. Therein featured a small engraved plaque, with the roman numerals XIII. “This is quite possibly the worst table in the house.”

“Ewww. You’re right!” Lyndy exclaimed, rotating 90 degrees in her stool to face the stranger. “Well, this explains a lot. Story of my life.”

The dealer had a frown on his face and folded his arms.

“You can call me Graham,” said the young man, extending a hand. She sensed a relief in his voice, as though he’d been nervous to meet and introduce himself.

Delicately she shook his hand, wanting to appear sophisticated. “Lyndy,” she replied.

Tilting toward the north wall, where a windowed room and ornate double doors could be seen, he offered, “how bout coming with me and trying something a little more exciting for a change?”

Hopefully it was a simple pickup line. She peered across the casino, through a floating fog of smoke—just setting foot in here was probably carcinogenic—to see if she could tell what was going on in the darkened area. Then she spread her middle finger and thumb, gesturing between them. “Oh …uh, but we’re still talking about gambling, correct?”

Graham laughed. “Yes. Of course.”

Lyndy raised an eyebrow, glaring at Graham. “If it’s roulette or craps I have to stop you. Cause dude I’m telling you I’m bad luck. It’ll be like shoving money in a furnace.”

Graham shook his head. “No, no. Trust me. You won’t regret it.”

“Well, I’ve got nothing else to lose.” She tipped back the last remainder of her drink. “To tell the truth, I’ve had better wine at a communion.”

“And you don’t look like bad luck to me.”

She stood up, collecting her purse. “Is that so?” Now she needed to focus on not tripping in her tall shoes, looking like a klutz. Lyndy proceeded to follow Graham, snaking between busy tables and stools.

Arriving at the heavy inner doors, he unlatched it for her using one of those turned handles spanning top to bottom. She let her eyes adjust. At the other side, in uneven lighting like one of those classy steakhouses, more people. Yet the carpets here were ruby red. Your average stiff wasn’t getting in here.

An employee in a tux stood before her, offering a container roughly the size of a See’s candy box. She accepted, peeking under the lid. “Holy mackerel! This is like $2500 in tokens,” she thought, but didn’t dare repeat.

“Complements of the house,” the man said, touching the brim of his hat.

The room featured four games: baccarat, roulette, craps and Texas Hold’Em poker. There was really only a single choice, because it was the one game she knew she was good at. She peered over at Graham, who was about to leave. He nodded and shoved on his glasses, as if indicating he had to keep working.

After shuffling over, The Spitfire stood at the poker table meekly, her tray appearing like an open pack of Oreo cookies in her hands. Men were staring. Big middle age seventies guys. Grumpy faces. Couple of sophisticated older chicks, Ritas in twenty or so years.

She needed to think of something really clever to say, because she didn’t belong here. She inhaled deeply. “My boss gave me the night off, so ….” Everyone continued staring. Lyndy sighed. “Uh…after seeing me would you all believe my mother was a redhead?” She glanced at everyone, nodding her head. It broke the ice. A few people laughed. Everyone smiled.

---

The next morning …

She could hear television static.

Lyndy opened an eye, becoming aware her surroundings were flooding with sunlight. But they were nice surroundings. You know when you slept too hard, you wake up and you’re so disoriented you don’t even know your name? Through a gap in the curtains, she could see dry ridges. She focused on an intense glow, a dip in the mountains where the sun had emerged. The line spread side to side, expanding along the horizon. Beside the nightstand, her flashy dress and other clothing lay scattered on the shag carpet. Other than static and a faintly ticking flip-clock, the space was quiet.

Their room was situated on the second highest floor, and at this altitude all was peaceful. “Rita must have left the TV on,” she thought. Lyndy planned on covering her head with a pillow to block the light, then drifting back to sleep. She rubbed a palm against her cheek and it seemed gritty with desert sand.

Shifting her view, she spied the other queen bed. Miss Lovelace was there, flat on her back, chest rising and falling rhythmically. No covers on her upper body—all having been pushed to her feet. She had a thin bra and one diamond, the size of a baby’s tooth glinting in the recess of her sternum. It was secured on a platinum chain.

Lyndy chuckled to herself. Doesn’t matter who you think you are or what you try, sleep catches up with you. Were she awake, Rita would hate having her body uncovered, even to a close friend. And oddly her skin was all beet red, looking sunburned.

“Sheesh. How does anybody sleep on their back?” wondered Lyndy. “It’s so unnatural.”

Lyndy threw aside her own covers. She had to give the girl some credit. This hotel bed was plush, and the sheets—though certainly a cotton blend—well, they felt almost like silk. She ran her fingertips across the pillowcase, smooth and soft as a baby duck.

Then she felt her stomach tighten. It wasn’t hunger. She inhaled, staring urgently at Miss Lovelace. Twisting at the hips, The Spitfire planted both feet on the carpet and rushed to the other bed.

“Rita, you should wake up,” pleaded Lyndy, tugging on Rita’s ankle.

“What?” replied Rita, as she yanked the sheets over herself. “What’s happening? What time is it?”

“It’s morning. You fell asleep.”

“Oof. My head really hurts.” said Rita groggily.

“You have a rash on your torso!” cried Lyndy.

“A rash?” Rita pushed herself up onto her elbows, poking her head under the sheets. Her head popped out immediately and the expression on her face was pure terror. “You’re right. I have blisters too. It’s all over my ribs!” Kicking with both feet, she worked her way back to the padded headboard, propping herself higher. “It’s painful too. Feels like burning.”

Click! The flip alarm clock turned over, displaying 08:00.

“Let me have a closer look,” implored Lyndy. 

“No way.” Rita twisted herself further into the sheets. “What am I gonna do?”

“I dunno. I need to see. Maybe it’s chicken pox?”

Lyndy tried to touch her but Rita squirmed away, crawling for the other side of the bed. “I already had chicken pox. I have to get to the tub.” She hopped down to the floor and scurried to the bathroom, wanting to check herself in the mirror. She slammed the bathroom door as she entered.

“Want me to find you some calamine lotion? I could go to a drug store,” offered Lyndy.

“No, Lyn,” replied Rita from behind the closed door.

“You know it could just be an allergic reaction to something we ate. We each ate a pound of raw fish last night—which now that I think about it is pretty suspicious. Bad seafood can cause a rash. Or … or maybe it’s the hotel’s laundry detergent?”

The door opened partway, enough for Lyndy to see the angry face and reddish upper-chest of Miss Lovelace. “Lyn, it’s the curse. Dr. Tarner played the flute.”

“Okay. Okay. Let’s assume you’re right. Then what do I do?”

“GET THE FLUTE BACK!”

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Lyndy Life Observation: A hot, lazy seventies afternoon in Chan’s, both of us watching Let’s Make a Deal on TV—me probably doing my nails—and someone won a zonk that was literally an adult water buffalo on a leash. The look on the contestant’s face was fantastic. The buffalo stamped and snorted, Carol Merrill squinched, Monty laughed, and every time I think about that memory I chuckle.

Being a mother is hard—even when it’s not your biological child. But Maribel was hers, as the interminable hours of labor with Kyle waiting bedside were the proof.

To make it back to the Ramrod bar, they had to cross the lively strip. Driving around town, her daughter at the wheel, Lyndy’s neck pain was starting to subside. Her hands were trembling though, in part from the caffeine, and she didn’t know what to do with them. She stared at her heels, wishing she’d brought more practical shoes for this caper.

Meantime Maribel was waiting for an answer.

Lyndy blew her nose in a tissue—allergies mostly—then inhaled deeply. “Alright fine, here’s the deal. I don’t expect you to understand me. But you should know I tried really hard to be the woman your father needed me to be. Multiple times, and it caused both of us a lot of pain. His parents did not approve. Obviously. Only made our circumstance worse. From where you’re at now, you can’t imagine what it’s like to be in that position; I was so damned upset and disappointed with myself. Cause I wanted to change. I wanted to be one of those wealthy and bored housewives you see on TV. So for him to say he asked me to marry him. Well, that’s the easy part I’d say.” She realized her eyes were watering. “Oh, for god sake.”

Maribel passed her another wad of tissues.

“I promise you mi jita, that’s the truth,” Lyndy added.

“Why couldn’t you change?”

Lyndy gazed straight ahead, uncertain how to put her feelings in words. How to explain marriage requires sacrifice and compromise—and she’d been unwilling to do either? How to explain to your daughter that having an unattached lifestyle and multiple boyfriends was considered pretty cool—but not. “Cause I guess it’s like Rochelle told us about the rules of the universe. One thing may become another thing, but only for a brief time. And when they do, it throws the whole system out of whack. So eventually balance must be restored.”

Looking at her sideways, Maribel gave her mom a skeptical eye. “Did you make that up just now on the spot?”

“No. Course not.”

“Essentially, you’re admitting that you had the power within you to become what dad’s family wanted you to be.”

“Well … correct, but only a few months at a time.”

Maribel sat in silence, continuing to focus on driving; hard to tell if she was stunned, disillusioned, or what she might be thinking. And now The Spitfire knew what Mr. Chan must have felt when she pouted in silence. Mari had inherited her ability to carry a grudge.

“I mean … I totally feel like the worst mom ever,” said Lyndy. “And with the night I had, I should be pretty sick. But I’m not. Rochelle did something to me. I know it.”

“Look, you aren’t even close to the worst mom ever,” reassured Maribel. “Nobody thinks that.”

Freakin Kyle trying to act like he didn’t know why we never got married. Lyndy shook her head while staring out the side window. “Why am I like this?”

---

Ten minutes later …

Lyndy waved goodbye to her daughter, who had a shift starting soon. Mari had dropped her off at a cement pullout where buses sometimes stopped, then continued on down the boulevard. Her parting words were the usual: “Be safe”. She’d given up long ago on the notion of talking her mother out of any ill-advised plan, no matter how bizarre sounding.

Next Lyndy hoofed it on wobbly heels, hair probably going every which way, feeling like someone who … well to put it kindly … had partied too hard and maybe had a romantic fling after. But at least it wasn’t that bad. And luckily nobody on foot was around to witness this embarrassing scene, as she stumbled into the lot from the southeast corner.

The Wimbledon white fastback, just where she left it, at first appeared untouched. She breathed a sigh of relief, pausing to fish the jangling set of keys from her purse. In fact, there were a number of other cars here too, no doubt belonging to patrons of nearby businesses.

Moving in closer though, she soon came to an unsettling recognition. Where the keyhole was on the driver’s side, the little chrome bezzle showed several ugly scratches. Those hadn’t been there before. And the little flap cover which prevented ice from forming, that piece too was dented. But the doors were locked and windows intact.

Nice of whomever broke into her vehicle to go ahead and lock it back up. Maybe they figured they’d done such a fine job she wouldn’t notice.

She stood in uneasy silence, taking in her surroundings, studying the storefronts and checking on any sneaky passers-by. She was officially on the radar of the builder’s syndicate, or whatever mystery group were targeting the Aloyans. The morning air felt a little chillier.

Now much more cautious and alert, she stepped gingerly up to the car, sliding the key into the damaged slot and continuing to listen. In the back behind the seat, a plastic sack of expired food, including vanilla wafers and grape soda, exactly where she’d left it.

She dropped her purse on the empty passenger seat, then easing behind the wheel, reached over to undo the glove box. Inside she found the contents—including insurance and registration card—undisturbed.

She climbed back out, feeling her way to the trunk and popping the lid. Those silver quarts of oil were there, along with a duct-tape covered jug of coolant. Couple of shopping bags with empty yogurt cups. Tools. Jumper cables. Spare tire and jack. That ugly thrift store sweater she used when she was freezing. All of it hastily searched and shoved in roughly the same spots as before. Unless she’d forgotten something—certainly possible given her aging grey matter.

“So wait, somebody picked open my lock, carefully searched this dumb car, but didn’t swipe anything?” she whispered. Meaning they must not have found what they were after. “What the heck?”

Taking a deep breath, she slammed the trunk lid.

She had a surreal craving for junk food: nachos, like the truck stop c-store kind with jalapeno slices. Maybe some Gatorade or diet soda would help too. Then she’d circle back to Rochelle’s. She checked her watch, thinking.

Lyndy slipped off her pumps, planning to drive with bare feet. But first a precaution. Getting down on hands and knees, she craned her poor neck at a right angle so she could see underneath the car. Perhaps there was like a one-in-a-billion chance someone would rig an explosive charge under there. But she couldn’t spot anything—not like wires sticking down. And having a pro assassin go to that much trouble, well it might be almost flattering at this point. Nada. She returned to the driver’s seat and slumped down.

Resting her forehead against the ice-cold steering wheel, Lyndy shut her eyes briefly. A knot formed in her stomach, as all at once it occurred to her what they were really after—and of course they hadn’t found it cause it wasn’t here.

“Oh duh.”

It was the thing she’d been avoiding thinking about, ever since her first encounter with new boss Rhonda.

Wearily she set her left foot on the clutch, inserting the key in the ignition. As she went to turn it, her gaze drifted upward and she caught the bright glint of light. A white flash like that triggered her instinct to duck—a true old west kind of response to something unnatural. Her body hadn’t moved this quick in ages, and she went flat across the seat like a ninja.

The clapping sound which followed was unexpected, as it made her believe someone had chucked a good-sized rock at the Mustang. No exploding glass, just the THUNK of metal bending. After a second or two pause she popped her head up, just enough to see over the dash. When nothing else happened, she twisted the key, attempting to start the motor.

“Okay, it’s time to punch it,” she thought. Recklessly she slammed the gearbox into reverse, slouching in her seat and watching the mirror; bad part was you could only see if something tall was blocking your way.

After backing up twenty-feet, she jerked the lever into first and gunned the engine. An instant later she peeled out into the busy avenue, swerving, cutting off a delivery truck driver but she didn’t care.

As she rolled down the street, constantly checking to see if anyone was following, she knew the car had been shot and hit, but where? She touched her chest and abdomen. Perhaps adrenaline was masking a mortal injury, but pulling her hand away it seemed as though she’d been spared. So where did it strike?

The engine sounded different, a bit louder, but still had plenty of pep.

It angered her in an irrational way. This car survived so many dangerous encounters: braved the Mojave Desert, the neighborhoods of East LA, bone-jarring crumbling freeways, the back streets of Vegas, the sands of Arizona—all with mostly original sheet metal. And to be shot at? What an insult!

Thank goodness Mari had to leave for work.

She wanted to get a few miles from the scene to be sure no one tailed her. Rhonda would be pissed too, knowing this had happened. She didn’t care for conspicuous things, and this car garnered about as much attention as one of Liberace’s rides. Admittedly.

---

Several Minutes later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Saw this bumper sticker on the back of a run-down VW van that said: God is watching when you tip. And for once, there’s a bumper sticker I can agree with.

It was at one of those 50-cent filtered water dispensers where she finally caught her breath. Pulling off the road she parked in the shadow of this bizarre monolith: a blue and yellow tower with three grated insets, where one could bring their own re-usable five-gallon jugs to fill. People who visited these contraptions lived off grid, had trailers in remote wild places where municipal water didn’t get delivered.

And the tower was decorated with the mural of a jolly teardrop. Future archaeologists would assume these things served a religious purpose in a land of so little rain.

Her pulse was racing—gonna be one of those days. She jumped out immediately, put on her shoes, then dashed around the car in a loop. And there it was, they’d hit her at least twice, the holes like vampire bites in the milk-colored hood. So the shooter had been on an upper floor or roof? That’s where the glint came from. She ran fingers over the smooth arc of stamped metal til they dipped abruptly into divots cause by the bullets—like little black holes warping time and space.

Leaning in the window, gripping the lever below the dash, she popped the hood and raised it all the way. The visible tangle of spark-plug wiring, coolant and fuel lines; a miracle to have been shot and yet missed everything vital. But not everything.

“Ooof!”

Raising her arms, she locked both hands behind her head, exasperated, as she observed damage to the cast aluminum valve cover on the left-hand side. The grayish metal had been pierced. Oil sloshed around by pushrods and valves was now oozing out the side, dripping down the engine block. She was so agitated she had to march a quick circle round the water filling station and come back. Her baby was wounded—not to mention, those original-style covers weren’t cheap and a messy pain in the rump to get back on. Could have been worse though.

Poking her head in the engine bay and a little closer to the firewall, she noted fragments of metal embedded there. She’d been lucky; any more force and it might have punched through to where her legs were.

Hurrying to the trunk she searched for rags, and finding an old undershirt, coupled this with her tools. A combination of the ratty undershirt and strips of tape peeled from the coolant jug helped her plug the hole, stem the bleeding. Obviously not a lasting repair job, but would suffice to allow a limp home. Assuming the valves were unharmed, she could later weld in something a bit more permanent.

She wanted water too, fearing the damage could affect the cooling system. Pacing to the water dispenser with a handful of quarters, she placed the yellow jug under the spout.

Recent events had left her hyper alert of surroundings.

Across the street was a closed dollar store and a church with drab metal siding. The whole church building was covered in brown painted steel, with a handmade sign stating all were welcome. Something told her those folks really meant it.

Hmmm. If you think about it, what kind of church would Jesus have taught in? One next to a dollar store? Important thing was there didn’t seem any place for shooters to hide.

Next to the blue-collar church, a mom-and-pop home improvement store. A group of day laborers huddled near the landscaping, and a pair of them paced the sidewalk. Those men wore conspicuous turbans; she assumed they were Sikhs, though there was no way to be sure. The pair were eying her.

As she was waiting for the yellow bottle to fill, one of the men pointed to her. He spoke something to his friends, too distant for her to perceive but sounding like a foreign tongue. After, she distinctly heard the man yell: “Bullitt”.

Maybe it was the type of day she was having, or the drumbeat of nightly news which instilled fear of random attacks; but she recoiled, every muscle in her upper chest tightening. Her breathing ceased as she pressed her back against the monolith.

The man said it again. “Bullitt”. The whole world was closing in. How did they find her again so quickly?

She reached for the jug—not sure whether to flee—and where to go for cover? A stupid jug of water would make an awful weapon.

His buddy, all smiles, shouted across the street: “Steve McQueen!” And it struck her. A grin and relief. Guess in their homeland they’re a little behind on current films.

“Of course. Yeah. Like the movie,” she pointed to her car. “Cept that one was green.” She was able to move again. The men chuckled. Made sense after all. Whomever was actually coming wanted her to feel intimidated. Mission accomplished. She went back to work filling the radiator, pondering the fact that Rochelle said she was supposed to fixate on a cat.

Prior to getting spooked, she thought she saw something shiny she wanted to retain. The asphalt was pretty coarse, so to save her ribs and delicate back she threw down one of the grungy floor mats. Then armed with a set of pliers, she shimmied under the car from a point just behind the front left fender well. By wiggling with the pliers, she loosened remnants of a mushroomed projectile. Easing back into daylight, she inspected her find: a fragment of a semi-jacketed lead bullet. “Gotcha,” she mouthed.

---

Later at S-bucks…

She almost never came here, but Mari used to love these places—the little cups of kid’s temp hot chocolate, her favorite treat.

A jazzy tune played on the ceiling tile mounted speakers. Three baristas in green, one of them a Latina, tattoos of playing cards—the queen of hearts—on her right arm. That girl was working harder than the other two duds. Below the cards, something in cursive writing; from this angle looked like “Bad-at-Love”.

Teenagers seated on stools pecking thumbs rapidly on their phones. At the counter, drinks were piling up. Guy in front gets rung up for 30 bucks, only has 4 drinks.

All she wanted was hot water—no other place to get it. In her pocket she had a tiny envelope of black powder, the ground up seeds. “Focus on cats dummy,” she told herself.

But she couldn’t only think about felines. Her mind kept wandering, as it always did. And now it drifted back to California. The event she’d been thinking about when she touched hands with Rochelle, because Rochelle was from her same era and place. A message was hidden in their touch, perhaps the reason she’d lied about the memory. Rochelle must have known the real vision.

It was a smoggy summer in East LA. She remembered being seated next to Aunt Rose Martinez, in the afternoon on a weekday, on one of those orange metro buses. This chaos all around them. Sun shining, the LA skyline floating in a moat of haze. Behind them some weirdo shouting incomprehensible gibberish. A nun in the front row praying. Car horns honking. And Aunt Rose, sitting there closes her eyes, tilts her head back and falls asleep. That blew her tiny mind. Still did. Sleeping on a city bus. She nudged Aunt Rose. “Are you tired or something?” No answer.

Approaching the front, a red-haired twenty-something barista locked eyes with Lyndy. “Hot water only please,” she said. “Tall cup. No tea bags or anything.”

“Hot water? That’s it?”

“Yes,” she repeated. “How much for just that?”

“Hot water is free. But the cup costs 25 cents,” answered the young man. “Name please?” He stood there with an obnoxious grin, but retrieved a fresh cup.

“Lyndy.” She passed him the quarter.

As he used a sharpie to write on the cup, he said in a snotty tone, “How’s yer day goin?”

“Well, I’m hungover,” she answered. “Depressed. My daughter thinks I’m a bad mother. And I got shot at this morning.”

“That’s real nice.” He hadn’t been listening.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Lyndy Life Observation: Thinking about the classic 1980s remake movie The Fly. How come his DNA merged with the fly, not the billions of bacteria—your microbiome as they call it—which live inside and on the human body? Or whatever mold is floating in the air of Jeff Goldblum’s crappy NY loft style apartment? Why do you have to be naked to use teleportation? Can you imagine if on Star Trek, they had to get naked to use the transporter?

The lights were out and being an unfamiliar space, she had no clue where the switch might be. A sharp whiff of something citrusy, grandma-style discount store potpourri, and muted tones of a new age music lent the space a dreamy feel. Or was it simply a result of her intoxicated state, a ringing in the ears?

Digging in her purse, Lyndy recovered a battery-operated penlight. Flicking it on, she shone it at the walls. One big room was all there was apparent, ruby red curtains dangling most places, but other sections pasted with a funky gold wallpaper. Dim and quiet, no sign of an occupant. It had decaying floors. Near the back corner, a rear exit.

“Guess nobody is here?” whispered Maribel, her tone in the form of a question. Folding her arms, she glanced behind, sticking near the front door.

“Gimme a sec,” said Lyndy, heading for the far wall.

“Let’s just go,” Maribel added.

“Know what this place needs?” asked Lyndy, feeling behind the curtains for a switch.

Mari shook her head. “I dunno. A glitchy TV and some creepy dude saying, wanna play a game?”

“I was gonna suggest a giant bronze gong. But your answer is better.” Having located the switch panel, she twisted a raised plastic knob. Ceiling lights flickered on, leading to a temporary blindness. Seconds later one massive figure emerged from the back, their platform boots heavy, punctuated on the creaky floors, large hair brushing the door frame.

You know when somebody seems apart from time? As if you weren’t expecting them to age, because they always appear the same in every memory you have—like a photo on a mantle visited only in holiday seasons, or how George Burns seemed to go on forever. So when these folks do age, it’s even more of a shock. But it shouldn’t be. Because they’re human, and all human beings are subject to the forces of time.

Her face, once flawless and full, having succumbed to numerous wrinkles. The hairdo, a natural cut, largely white instead of the shiny black. But hell, she still had it. And tall, but no longer skinny, Rochelle had put on maybe forty pounds.

“Well, I’ve been waiting a dog’s age for a visit from you,” declared Rochelle. In spite of the years, two things had remained constant: her calm, empathetic voice and her inquisitive brown eyes. Yet they were fixed upon Maribel and it made Lyndy uncomfortable.

“Eeesh. I can see the old age truck caught up and ran you over as well,” jested Lyndy.

In her mind, the observation hadn’t been near as harsh as it sounded aloud.

Rochelle blinked and exhaled. “I can see you’re still a smart ass,” she replied. “And you reek of a barroom.”

“Ahem. … oh, this is my daughter,” Lyndy explained, turning to face Mari, who was still stationed by the front. “Maribel, this is Rochelle Bishop.” With her hand, she encouraged her daughter to come forward but Mari refused.

Instead, Maribel lifted her chin, letting her eyes meet with Miss Bishop’s gaze then looking away. “My mom talks about you. But somehow, I didn’t know if you were real.”

Rochelle smiled at that.

Entering the room from a hiding place unknown, an elegant Siamese cat mewed—the apple-headed breed, slithering between Rochelle’s legs with tail raised. It rubbed its cheeks vigorously on both her ankles, as though taking a liking to the leather of her black boots. They were a Louis Vuitton style, but not the genuine ones, a good imitation.

“You were Chan’s favorite,” accused Lyndy, finding her speech a little slurred.

The off-handed remark caused Rochelle to chuckle. “Mr. Chan had a favorite girl? Yeah right!”

A silence followed, while rain pounded steady on the roof. The cat, its coat mirroring a toasted marshmallow, stared up at Lyndy with stunning blue eyes and those diamond shaped irises. It might have been awkward, were it not for a sense of relief she felt just being around someone from the past. Somehow, she needed this.

“I uh, hope we didn’t wake you,” added Lyndy, putting away the light and folding over her purse flap.

“Oh, I don’t sleep all that well anymore,” replied Rochelle. Her heels clicked.

“Well, lemme just get to the point here. I’ve been trying to pick up some more work and I got this humdinger of a sanction from Rhonda Thurgood—you know the Mountain View. It involves a wealthy developer, and a construction contractor who maybe faked his own death … and … I wanted to get your opinion on how to accomplish something. Cause every idea I have sucks.”

“Which is?” coaxed Rochelle.

“I need to become invisible.”

A comical expression came over Maribel’s face—both embarrassed and amused.

Lyndy held up her hands, fingers splayed. “I know. I know. I’m a crazy you know what. But … but not that crazy. And I don’t mean like, nobody normal will talk to us, or buy us drinks, cause we’re the forgotten baby boomers. And it’s all about millennials now. I mean…”

Rochelle smiled.

“…I mean, I literally want to become invisible. Cause that place is hiding something.”

“Mom’s drunk,” added Maribel.

“I know what you mean,” assured Rochelle, speaking in a serious tone. “Follow me to the other room.”

How ironic! The lengths she used to go to avoid Miss Bishop, and the way she seethed underneath whenever Rochelle strutted into The Vanishing Point on a Saturday night. She never learned to share the spotlight, and without really trying the former go-go dancer had a way of stealing the show.

Pushing aside a curtain, Rochelle revealed a hidden doorway. From the street, she hadn’t imagined this second room would be here. Perhaps once a stockroom—but what kind of supplies did a fortune teller need—it was smaller than the first, no larger than her storage unit, approximately the dimensions of a single-car garage. Like a true garage, the sides were unfinished, no insulation, pipes and tarpaper exposed. But none of that was wholly unexpected. The oddest thing was in the center of the room, on the concrete floor sat a green two-seater canoe—the style you might see at a pricey summer camp in the mountains.

“Please, step into my boat, won’t you,” commanded Rochelle, standing to the side. She gestured grandly, waving her palm to the closest seat from the stern.

Using both arms, The Spitfire eased onto the flat seat, as though the boat were actually floating and might capsize. Lagging behind, Maribel seemed unsure.

“It’s not a trap. Come here mi jita,” said Lyndy.

Mari rolled her eyes, glaring at her mother. “Don’t call me that in public.”

“Sorry,” said Lyndy.

Rochelle took the bow seat, nearest the helm, and sat so she was facing Lyndy. Sighing loudly, Mari knelt in the empty storage space between her mother and the stern. Even the cat, strolling into the room, put its front paws on the side. Hopping up gracefully, it curled into the lap of its owner, snuggling and beginning to purr.

Rochelle stroked the spine of the cat, then held out both her arms as one would saying grace. “Grab hold of my hands,” she coaxed.

“Uhm…what?”

The Spitfire hesitated, considering whether this was a wise thing to do. If their fingers touched then she might be able to do certain things to her body. But one didn’t come here, the shaman’s home turf, and not expect to be tricked. She twisted back to check on Maribel, whose face expressed nothing but skepticism.

Nervously, she turned to Rochelle, locking eyes with the tall woman. Holding her arms steady, Lyndy allowed their palms to merge; as soon as it happened, she felt a tingling in her neck and a radiant warmth of Miss Bishop’s large hands. Rochelle’s fingers squeezed tighter around hers, and Miss Bishop closed her eyes as their surroundings abruptly transformed. Oldest trick in the book.

What had been a bare cement floor, now tranquil waters, stretching on for miles, almost as far as the eye could see. The walls had become a honey glow of sundown, with faint blue outline of distant ridges cradling the lake. But it was the glorious desert evening which awed her and Maribel, reflecting fiery shades of orange on the tranquil waters.

“Whoah,” said Maribel.

“Is this …”, Lyndy craned her neck, taking in the scene. “… the Salton Sea?” She could have sworn she felt a rush of cool breeze, carrying with it the smell of brine. But something in her body had awakened her senses as well. An aching in her joints, so constant in life she hardly paid attention anymore, for the time being had vanished. Alcohol could only numb these pains, not make them go away entirely.

Rochelle grinned and nodded; her eyes open now.

“This is incredibly realistic,” said Maribel, dipping a finger into the water and watching in wonder as droplets sailed from her finger.

“I call it V-R, for virtual reality,” added Rochelle.

The cat, suddenly aware of being stranded in water, sniffed the air. It gazed out the side of the canoe at the vast expanse, cocking its head like a confused Weimaraner. Even the cat knew this made no logical sense.  

“Listen Lyndy, I can’t actually make you invisible, any more than I can stop time. You know that right?”

“I suppose.”

“And if I could, I’d charge a lot of money for that—more than you can afford. Here’s the reason: one thing cannot become another thing. It’s one of the immutable laws of the universe, so engrained in us we don’t have to be taught.” Rochelle paused, stroking the cat’s neck to calm its anxiety. “On the other hand, you and me aren’t known for following the rules. And temporarily, we may be able to bend them in our favor by exploiting a loophole.”

“Get to the point Rochelle,” Lyndy complained.

“Pay me $300 bucks and I’ll turn you into a cat.”

Maribel laughed loudly, but Lyndy didn’t.

“It’s very temporary. It’ll last maybe an hour at most.”

“Okay, how does it work?”

“I’m going to give you a tea from seeds cultivated in the rainforests of Peru. You dissolve it in hot water—wait for it to steep. Don’t do something stupid like snort it!”

“Is that supposed to be directed at me?” Lyndy muttered.

“Oh, and listen to me, word of advice, stash some spare clothing for yourself when it wears off. You obviously aren’t going to transmogrify with a cute outfit. And be sure to fixate on this particular cat for the next several days. Only the cat, got it?”

Lyndy nodded, undoing her purse. “Makes sense.”

“Mom, you’re not seriously gonna hand over $300?” lectured Mari. But The Spitfire was already licking her index finger, prepared to dole it out.

“Hon, I need to get in there,” Lyndy asserted.

“Isn’t there some other method? Like cut their power line?”

Lyndy shook her head. She passed the folded over cash to Rochelle.

“Stop by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have the dry ingredients ready; all you’ll need is a tea diffuser and cup of hot water.”

The moment Lyndy stood, the room went back to normal—disappointing to Mari.

Rochelle grabbed The Spitfire at the shoulder. “Let me read your fortune. I’ll do it free.”

Lyndy chuckled. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s a hell no from me.”

Rochelle frowned. “I saw a memory just now, when our hands touched.”

Lyndy stopped resisting. “Saw what?”

“A winter moon shining through a busted-out window on a malnourished child, curled up and shivering. You were on a rug, laid atop wood floors. A room without a bed. Tall buildings. Sirens in the night. A young boy, placing a quilt over the girl, and nothing to keep him warm.”

Lyndy paused, crafting a response. “Oh, come on. So what,” she replied. “You witness a blip in a person’s life. Big whoop!” Lyndy attempted to jerk away but Rochelle held a grip on her top.

“Look, you did a wonderful job raising Maribel. You ought to be proud. But you still go around with this enormous chip on your shoulder. You carry a weight of many grievances. At your parents? For abandoning you? Leaving you and your brother destitute, to face the challenges of being a strong, bright kid, growing up in East LA.”

“For Christ sake. How dare you try and lecture me? Now? What do you know!” Lyndy managed to wrestle the part of her blouse free of Rochelle’s grasp. “I gave you money. Go buy your medical prescriptions and leave me be.”

“I can promise they loved and cared about you.”

Lyndy gazed at her daughter in disbelief, however Maribel only seemed confused. The Spitfire then gestured westward, the direction of California and Los Angeles, tilting her head to the sky, as though asking God to weigh in. “I really don’t recall asking your goddamn opinion. But after everything that happened … how can you even begin to think that?”

“Your family was from Mexico, right? Yet they abandoned you in America.”

---

Lyndy Life Observation: If you’ve ever gotten drunk and fallen asleep in a bean bag chair, you might be from the seventies.

A new day dawned clear and cold; the storm having cleansed the atmosphere of aerosols. They used to do the same over El Sereno, and it always lifted her spirits, like the whole city had been renewed.

At the same time, the brightness hurt her eyes. Not only that but her neck ached, not from a rotten pillow or the aftermath of whiplash, actually an odd symptom of a hangover. She didn’t dare try and walk yet, fearing more things would hurt or she might trigger a bout of nausea. Still she rose, stuffing a pillow behind her back so she could rest against the headboard.

Maribel was up already, and a smell of expresso permeated the air. It was the type of trendy condo without a drop ceiling, leaving pipes and black ductwork exposed, but making the room feel larger. It was handy, Maribel’s friend owning this comfy timeshare, as she truly didn’t know what she would have done otherwise; might have slept in the car. Like the good ol’ days. If there were good old days.

From the king bed Lyndy could watch the sunrise, above the mountains to the East. As it rose yellow light glinted off the colorful exteriors of casino buildings, water droplets having condensed on the cold glass.

“Damn,” she whispered, remembering the white mustang was stranded at the bar. They’d need to pick it up first thing—and hopefully someone wouldn’t mess with it. But she had a sinking feeling they would.

Her eyes fell upon the nightstand, an LED alarm clock blinking 12:00 due to a power outage, and a curious tri-fold pamphlet.

Rolling over halfway, she lifted the pamphlet, holding it twelve inches from her nose so she could resolve the title: “Signs and Symptoms of Depression”. She chuckled. So fitting for this town. Must have been left behind by a previous vacationer. “Wonder how many boxes I can check?” she thought, before setting it back down. She pinched her nose and squinted.

Years ago she remembered an AA meeting, a cold gymnasium, the dreary accountant-dressed speaker dispensing a bit of uncommon wisdom with a cigarette: “If you decide to sit down and take a quiz on whether you’re an alcoholic, maybe the answer is already known.”

Angelic Maribel arrived from the kitchen, clutching two small white mugs. Her hair was wet from a shower, but she’d already brushed it. “Hey,” she said cheerily. “They have some comfy looking chairs on the balcony where you can sit if you want.”

Lyndy shook her head.

Mari set one of the mugs on the nightstand next to Lyndy, taking a sip from the other one. “There’s a breakfast bar in the building. I was thinking I’d head down. Did you want me to bring you something back? They have hash browns and stuff.”

“Don’t you have to work?” asked Lyndy.

“Not until noon,” said Maribel, scooting up to sit on the bed next to her mom. “And I quit school, so no classes,” she added cheerily.

Lyndy let out a gradual exhale, rubbing her fingers over her scalp. “I could use a ride to pick up the Mustang.” She locked eyes with Maribel. “Hey sorry I got into with Rochelle a little last night. I was kinda, you know, … buzzed. I wasn’t in the mood for her psychology bull shit. She should have known that.”

Maribel sipped her coffee.

“Mom, there’s something I need to ask you. And please don’t give me any of your usual deflections or other baloney.”

Lyndy chuckled. “Not you too.”

“Dad told me that when you found out you were pregnant, he specifically asked you to marry him. And you two were engaged for a while. He said you lived in his lake house. So like, why didn’t you just marry dad? Wouldn’t it have solved ten different problems at once?”

Uh oh. This question is like twenty years in the making.

“I’ll answer your question, but before I do, there’s something you need to know.”

“What?”

“Rochelle definitely lied about seeing that memory.”

“Okay. How do you figure?”

Lyndy took another sip, letting the warm liquid lift her fog. “Cause if that did happen, I actually don’t remember. And it isn’t even remotely what was going through my head at the time we touched.”

Maribel frowned. “So then, why would she lie?”

Bat At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s a serious question, why is getting a tattoo removed so much more painful than getting a new one put on in the first place?

Last time she took a spin by Darrel’s old address nothing hinted of its former splendor, only empty windswept acres—and I mean bare earth. The entire hillside had been flattened, prepped for new construction with bulldozers. Presumably all the valuable items were taken, sold, remainder hauled off to a dump. She couldn’t even be sure of that outcome—the Wards all but erased. Only photos and her fading memories, were proof of what had been.

She located the tavern across from a dollar store, in an older, sixties-era strip mall. Tiny wire-reinforced windows glowed yellow and blue, fogged from humidity. Their blinking sign out front advertised slot machines, tequila and video poker—in that order. Perfect. All her favorite vices collected in one convenient stop. Far cry though from the classiest establishment, and definitely not a place catering only to twenty-somethings. She held a grudge against those modern top-floor nightclubs, where people treated her like somebody’s grandma who wandered away from a home.

From the outset, there were a handful of other positives. Hers wasn’t the only nor the ugliest vintage hooptie in the lot. That honor went to a seventies-era F-100 with camper shell, a bit like the one Edward Abbey used to drive.

She could hear loud country-rock music. She didn’t see her pal Ben yet, but also didn’t know the type of car he drove—or for that matter, whether he drove. He seemed like a Mercedes type of guy. Maybe?

By the looks of an overcast sky, lit from underneath by the dazzle of the strip, rain was on its way; plus her wrist joints were achy.

Even at what some might call mature age, a nervousness still swept over her prior to meeting new people or being in large groups. A kind of social anxiety. Funny because most folks would assume anybody nicknamed “The Spitfire” would be a natural extrovert. But not the case. Her inherent confidence and assertive qualities meant nothing. She’d always been an introvert, preferring the solitude of a humble desert dwelling, another reason she mostly lived alone.

Maybe those people inside would pick her apart?

She swiveled the side-mirror, checking her makeup, though it didn’t help much. She dabbed on purple lipstick, wishing her hair weren’t so short and wiry. She remembered a time when it was flowing like a fox’s tail, as on that road trip with Rita, later achieving “hair band” proportions when permed in the eighties.

You know bad hair days? I’ve been having one for about a decade and a half.

She touched up her cheeks with blush, but the rest of her wasn’t going to change. Reaching for her purse she slammed the car door.

Stepping her way toward the entry, she noted the volume on the honky-tonk music had notched up a tick. Along the alley a trio of motorbikes were parked. They were the laid-back touring types, with leather tassel on the handles. She used to fear those; reminded her too much of a certain notorious gang led by a man named Wallach. But that was a long time ago. Now it was over-the-hill white-collar males like tax accountants who bought those, mostly because they felt they’d squandered their youth working a crap office job.

Inside, the bartender smiled; he had old-school gold and silver tooth caps. He was about her same age, sanitizing a beer glass by squirting it with hot water. His gelled and slicked back hair was a mixture of gray and brown.

“Welcome. My name’s Nate.” He had a deep, former smoker voice, but in a sexy non-trailer park way. Colorful tattoos, the kick-ass kind, adorned both his arms. “What’s yer name young lady?” The words rolled smoothly off his tongue and she had a feeling this grungy dude could charm the spots off a leopard.

Was nice to be noticed for a change, even if all he was after was a tip. Across the room, a younger female tended bar facing the opposite side. Hers was busy. She seemed to have the same personality as Nate though.

Lyndy chuckled, cracking a grin like a teenager. “Lyndy.”

He stared back with hypnotic eyes. “Now there’s one you don’t hear every day.”

“You ever meet another Lyndy?” she quizzed.

“Oh sure, once in a blue moon. At least one I can picture her face. She worked in a tattoo parlor. Nice girl.” 

He set a napkin in front of her while The Spitfire climbed onto a barstool, set her elbows on the oak top. “What’s good here?” A three-quarter full bottle of Herradura commanded the cat bird’s seat of the shelf. But alas, she couldn’t afford it. Her chin sank a bit lower.

“You like martinis?”

She nodded affirmative, clearing her throat.

“Bacon martinis are a specialty here. Unless you’re one of them hippy chicks who doesn’t eat pork or red meat? Nothing wrong with that.”

Lyndy shook her head. “No, sounds great. Gimme a bacon martini.” Then she lifted her purse, resting it on her lap. Not to be too judgey, but it seemed like the sort of joint where her wallet might do a Houdini act—and it so happened she had a fat wad to protect.

Blues music came on the stereo.

“Remember when you could smoke in a bar?” she commented.

Nate chuckled. “Remember when bars were fun?”

A couple were dancing on a small sunken dance floor; she watched them as she waited. Here’s a mind-boggling nugget from a different era: in the seventies, Catherine used to dance in her waitress uniform—she could twirl like an ice skater—in between waiting tables at The Vanishing Point. And it didn’t seem strange. Nowadays that would be weird.

Nate slid her a martini and she took a first salty sip.

“Hey there,” came a voice from behind, Ben Cardenas having a seat at the bar. “Saw yer car out front.”

From under the counter Nate retrieved a square bottle of reposado. Another brand she couldn’t afford. He set the bottle in front of Ben and placed two shot glasses; one for him and presumably one for her. Then he deftly plucked the cork.

“Oh boy. I should warn you guys, I’m not wearing my life alert. If I go down its all on the line.” She had to yell to overcome the volume of the music.

Ben and Nate chuckled, as well as a couple other men who’d somehow materialized in the group.

“Can you all do me a small favor? I’m looking to have a conversation with anyone who’s recently worked at the Zohara Ranch jobsite; totally anonymous.” She sipped more of the martini, while everyone held their tongue. “Any of those dudes come here?”

“From time to time, yeah. Who should I say is looking?” Nate asked. “You?”

Lyndy first pondered that one. It was a key turning point in a sanction such as this. “Why don’t you tell em it’s the old chick who drives the white fastback Mustang.” She reached in one of the side pockets on her purse. “If they can’t find me, they can call this number and ask for Rhonda.” She slipped a calling card for Rhonda’s Mountain View motel.

Ben stood up, bracing against a vertical post and scratching his back like a contented grizzly on an old tree. With his thumb he pointed to The Spitfire, speaking to Nate. “I’ll tell you, it’s a fact man. Lyndy was the hottest thing on four wheels back in the seventies and eighties.”

Lyndy made a funny face, adding, “Well, if you’d known me … all I can say is … I thought I was.” She said it humbly, letting her words trail off and gazing downward. “You bet I was. Me and Rita both,” she pondered.

But she regretted her vanity and arrogance.

“Oh god,” voiced Lyndy, her eyes squinting hard. Hastily she began fanning her face.

“What’s up?” Ben asked.

“Don’t look at me. I think I just burped bacon infused vodka.” Everyone chuckled again.

---

Several tequilas later …

So engrossed in her video poker game she was, she hardly noticed the cute, brown-haired youngster who dashed in. But she very much noticed when the girl shouted across the crowded bar: “Mom, what the hell!”

Through bleary eyes all she could tell was the girl was dressed in a blue and white pizza delivery uniform, approximately the correct height and profile to be Maribel Ellis.

“Are you nuts or something!” Maribel exclaimed, coming closer.

Ears were pretty bad too, but she knew the fun was over.

“Crapola.”

Maribel reached for Lyndy’s arm, literally yanking her from the stool.

Her balance was completely wrecked. Lyndy spun around like a top, nearly collapsing, pointing shakily to the poker game. “This machine … is hot! I .. I .. have a good hand.”

Maribel collected up her purse. Speaking to the bartender she asked, “how much does she owe?”

“Mari, I’m paid up,” Lyndy argued, waiving her daughter off, but still too dizzy to move on her own accord.

“Wow, is that yer daughter,” Lyndy heard a rough man say. “She’s really cute.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” demanded Maribel.

“Go where?”

“Anywhere but here,” answered Maribel, escorting her to the door.

“Geez, you’re embarrassing me!” said Lyndy.

“What you just said is stupid on so many levels,” scolded Maribel, pushing their way through two sets of doors.

Seated in the Honda Civic, smelling of hot bread and cheese, things did start to seem a little more absurd. “I mean, how were you gonna get home?” Maribel asked, her voice calmer, hands on the wheel. “Seriously, how?”

Sighing, Lyndy looked around. It was raining hard all of a sudden. You could hear the drops pounding on the roof. Rain in Las Vegas? It was an anachronism, especially a cold soaking Pacific storm like this. “I dunno,” she replied.

Maribel exhaled, shaking her head in frustration. “I have a friend, lives in LA most of the year. I think she’ll let us crash at her timeshare for the night.”

Sinking lower in the passenger seat, Lyndy whispered, “How did you locate me?”

“Rhonda texted me; asked where you were. When I didn’t know, she suggested I start calling seedy bars in this area.” Maribel glanced at her phone, the digital display on top glowing blue with the time. “The goats needed feeding, but Les said he’d do it for you.” Les worked for the same farm which owned the goats.

Lyndy had newfound respect for young Miss Thurgood, her intuition and her craft. She stared at the windshield, beads of water holding the neon light, sliding down when they got too heavy. In her left hand she began stacking several layers of those thin paper restaurant napkins—ones with the pizza place logo—then holding them to her face, blew her nose.

Mari twisted the key and the oddly configured Honda wipers sprang to life, skating side to side. Her phone buzzed with new text messages.

“Okay, waiting for folks to come to me is taking too long. But I do have an idea. To make it work we need to enlist the help of Rochelle,” she said, bobbing her head. “Rochelle Bishop will know how to get into that enclosure.”

“What?” asked Maribel, dropping the trans in gear. “You aren’t making sense. We need to get you some water and straight to bed.”

“Mrs. Aloyan said something curious and it’s been bugging me ever since—takes a lot these days to keep me up at night. Her husband had been missing since a car accident. Something about a secret which cannot easily be erased.” Lyndy rubbed her arms together, suddenly feeling a chill. “It’s like a movie I’ve seen before, but can’t recollect the title or the actors.”

Maribel looked at her funny. “Mom, how can you possibly contemplate work now?” She twisted all the knobs on the Honda’s AC system, attempting to defog the windows.

“I don’t have a toothbrush,” Lyndy complained.

“How sad. And I had to end my shift early to come rescue you! My own mom.” Maribel backed the car up, pointing the nose so they were idling near the sidewalk. “Fine. This night can’t get any more ruined.” She shrugged. “So how? How do we find Rochelle Bishop?”

“She runs a fortune telling shop in this part of town. I just can’t remember what street.” Lyndy glanced around. “Hmmm. Maybe we can find a phonebook or something.”

“Ha!” Maribel rolled her eyes, laughing. “Right. Or we could use the GPS I have for the home deliveries.” She pointed to a colorful gadget suction cupped above the dash.

“Oh. Great idea. Can you work that thing for me?”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. What do we punch in?”

“Rochelle …. well … she’s kind of a psychic. I remember it being a little white building with two other shops. Had one of those neon crystal ball looking things in the window.”

Maribel rubbed her eyes with her palms, then grabbed hold of the gadget. “So, fortune telling? Rochelle …”

Lyndy shut her eyes, letting her head rest against the passenger seat. “Yeah, that’s good. Actually, you know, try this: Nola Jones Fortune Telling. That was her stage name.”

---

Ten minutes later …

The tiny row of shops was only a mile and a half from the strip. As they drove through town the streets had emptied out, traffic non-existent. Had it not been for the awful weather, hordes of people would still be out walking. Most nights, life didn’t slow down here until 2 am. Yet everyone with a place to go had retreated to the casinos or their hotel rooms. Water was pooling in some of the intersections, flowing in the gutters. Where did the winos go on a cold night like this?

She could remember when the Hilton seemed impossibly large, looming like the Hoover Dam. And 600 rooms, how could you fill that night after night? But now there were ones with over 5000 rooms and even grander hotels in the planning stages.

Sometimes it seemed as though nothing could stop this juggernaut; certainly not a lack of water, or land, or electricity or workers. Year after year it expanded, or regenerated itself from the middle outward. All these glass monoliths. What is something that can’t be easily erased, but would scare a fat cat developer?

She must have dozed off for a few minutes. When she opened her eyes, she saw the sign buzzing in the window: “Fortune Teller”. Beneath it, hard to read in cursive, Nola Jones. They were parked right in front.

“Mom, this place is super weird,” said Maribel, rubbing lotion on her hands.

Feeling a bit more sober, Lyndy took a sip from a plastic water bottle pulled from the door pocket. She looped the strap of her purse over her head.

Maribel pointed to the clock on the radio. “It’s eleven forty-five at night. How do you know she’ll be here?”

“Meh. It’s Vegas. That’s like seven o’clock most places.”

“Okay. But there’s no open sign. I guess fortune tellers don’t go to bed.”

“She’ll know we’re coming,” joked Lyndy.

“Then why doesn’t she pick the numbers on the next lottery,” muttered Mari.

Stepping into the downpour they rushed for the single door, Maribel pushing on the metal handle, hoping it would be unlocked. And it did open, with the clang of a bell.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Lyndy Life Tip: Here’s a great way to annoy your kids. Gradually start injecting the terms “stand-by”, “roger-that” and “over-and-out” in everyday conversation. At first they might look at you funny, but over time it drives them completely nuts! (These are phrases a person on an old trucker-style CB radio might say.)

“When I was fifteen, I could do twenty chin-ups,” boasted Rita gleefully.

“Oof! Then how come you’re having so much trouble accomplishing one now,” grunted Lyndy, sounding out of breath. Hunched over and supporting Rita’s sneaker with her fingers locked, The Spitfire was grimacing. Meantime Rita was gripping onto the horizontal cross-beam, a dried out, skinny board connecting each of the upright fence posts. Lacking room to spread her hands, her arms and elbows trembled painfully.

“You know this is hell on my nails,” remarked Lyndy, though she was being facetious. Her irritation stemmed more from having to play the part of Miss Lovelace’s step ladder. “And I can smell your sweaty feet.”

“Oh geez. I’ll pay for a manicure, Lyn,” offered Rita, swinging her 35-mm camera around by the strap, moving it out of harm’s way to the middle of her back.

Yes folks, before internet auction sites existed, if you wanted to find cool muscle cars you had to sneak into tetanus-laden junkyards like this.

“See anything worthwhile yet?” grumbled Lyndy. Her pulse quickened and her mind swirled, thinking of all the unique treasures waiting behind that barrier.

“Yeah, a nicely patinaed Bel Air,” Rita answered, speaking in a hushed volume so her voice wouldn’t carry.

“Groovy, but too old,” replied Lyndy. “And not enough spare parts.”

“Oh, oh, visible gas pumps!” said Rita excitedly.

“We’re looking for a car, not stuff to decorate your front yard.”

“Then I hope he has a classic Ferrari back here.” Miss Lovelace sniffed and scrunched her nose, pretending to act snobby. “Here I go!”

Rita strained at the same time Lyndy lifted. Kicking out her heel as far as her pants and youthful flexibility would allow, Rita caught the rail. With grip faltering, Rita managed to shift her center of gravity up over the pointy apex of the fence—and not scratch up her midriff. With a whoosh she used both arms and her knees to cushion the descent, landing on her feet in a crouched position.

Skies were hazy, and somewhere a lonesome rooster crowed.

Straightening to full height for a back stretch, Lyndy twisted side-to-side to take in their surroundings. They should have phoned ahead. She felt sure the Wards didn’t mind her and Rita sneaking in their yard when they were away, but other folks like neighbors wouldn’t know. Lucky so far, there wasn’t much action in this part of town—plus being the afternoon, anyone not at work would be taking a siesta.

Aside from a row of yellow hollyhocks, not much grew. Mrs. Ward had all but given up keeping her yard presentable. The house was a drab stucco affair. In its heyday though, it would have been something to envy—their cozy three-bedroom cottage having stood since a time when railroad executives dominated life.

“You were right, this place is a gold mine,” whispered Rita between slats. “Send over my hat.”

Reaching down for the floppy straw hat with white and black ribbons, she flung it over the top rail like a Frisbee. “Wait up for me,” Lyndy exclaimed. Felt great to introduce Rita to something cool for a change.

First backtracking several yards to gain momentum, Lyndy jaunted and sprung off her toes aiming for the cross beam. This is where childhood monkey bar experience came in handy. Catching firm hold, she drew in her knees and kicked her feet, scrambling to obtain the slightest traction on the smooth verticals; whole time she was straining with her biceps. Sheer determination helped propel her over, and it paid off as she made it without damage. From the opposite side Rita reached skyward, steadying Lyndy’s plunge to earth.

In the process of scaling the tall fence Lyndy’s outfit became twisted. She paused to straighten up. While re-tying her shirt tails, smells of cracking rubber hose, brake dust and assorted engine crud flooded her nostrils. But also a whiff of chemical sweetness, fresh grease perhaps.

As The Spitfire got her bearings, she could see Miss Lovelace bounding off through the narrow paths, showing little regard for the existence of threats such as snakes and junkyard dogs. Charging out ahead, never waiting to assess a situation was one of Rita’s traits that got on her nerves. But it didn’t matter cause Rita would never change. Chasing after, Lyndy gathered the lower half of her hair in a scrunchie, then pressed on her sunhat to secure the rest in place.

Junk encroached on all sides, the visual overwhelming, more than Lyndy remembered from her last visit. Tire-smoking hotrods and muscle cars were known to be Darrel’s specialties, but also cool cars like Cadillacs meant for cruising, convertibles and even some exotics. If you couldn’t find something here to suit your fancy, you simply weren’t trying hard enough.

Many vehicles, a 53 Studebaker for example, exhibited rich patina from baking in the Mojave sun. The twenties gas pump beside it still had a clear cylinder and bubble-like glass globe—the thing Rita called a visible pump—with a logo too long faded to recognize. Teenage troublemakers used to steal those for target practice. Nearby sat an old wringer-style washer, having been transformed into a storage container for junky crankshafts.

Anxious to catch up with Rita, Lyndy raced down the gravel access path—only reason it stayed clear was so Darrel could get a new clunker in or out—and even this was a losing battle. A handful of cars like the Studebaker, were well beyond saving. But Lyndy knew a useful trick to ID-ing premium ones. These were the models stored under tarps, oil stained drop cloths and occasionally, cotton bedsheet covers.

Lyndy halted suddenly, reversing her tracks. Something hidden, a subtle clue, caught her eye: the ridges on the quarter panel and body. Pinching the corner of a tarp, she raised it twelve inches above the hood to confirm.

The crummy tarp had seen better days. Pinholes in the weave created a dazzling array of spots on the ground. These shafts of light highlighted floating dust particles, making her nose itch, causing her to sneeze. Still Lyndy crouched, running fingers across the chrome grill, mostly intact and un-pitted. She could feel three capital letters embossed in the mesh of the air intake, knowing what they must be without seeing yet. Slanting her head, she confirmed: G-T-O. People used to pry off and steal those badges. The legendary tri-power, with three two-barrel carbs, sleeping peacefully.

Her ears could imagine the sound that car made. But the color was a lacquer black, not exactly her favorite, less certain that Rita would like it. She let the tarp fall back in place.

Mind wandering, Lyndy inspected a heap of 4-speed transmissions directly adjacent the Pontiac. She was thinking maybe a drop top convertible would be nice to have, especially on a trip to Vegas. But then she felt a poke to the rib cage. She jumped, though she knew Rita had returned. Her partner in crime—the only girl she knew who shared the same passion for transportation—sporting a devilish ear-to-ear grin. It was the look an elementary schooler had with a fistful of change, waiting on an ice-cream truck.

Rita stuck her thumb out sideways, urging Lyndy to follow. “Come quick. I found a sexy one,” she pleaded. “But I’m not quite sure what we should offer.”

Before Rita could pull her away, Lyndy spotted something else worth investigating. Beneath a stack of scrap carpets, a different breed of sixties muscle car displaying a curious hint of faded turquoise green. “Hey, what came in that old-man color?”

Rita held up her palms and shrugged. “This is your department, Lyn.”

The exposed body panels, including the hood, were sandblasted to a dull finish. Feeling around with both hands, she managed to snag the hood release. Squeezing hard it clicked free. “What do we have here?” Lyndy wondered aloud. Next moment she raised the hood, its bone dry hinges creaking more than she would have liked. But for the first time possibly in years, daylight fell upon the Cleveland V-8. With the autolite carb it was an M-code. “Not bad. We can work with this. As long as it runs.”

Rita brushed off the chrome badging. “It’s a Cougar?” Her tone was in the form of a question.

“It’s a cousin of the Mustang, just not near as pretty.”

“Oddly, I kinda dig this color,” Rita mused, squeezing herself between a stack of tires—tilting like the Tower of Pisa—and the driver’s side door.

“Really?” sighed The Spitfire. “I dunno, maybe it’ll grow on me.”

Rita shaded her eyes to peer inside. “Seats look good and clean.”

Lyndy hooked the dipstick with her ring finger, lightly dunking it up and down several times, then drawing it out completely. The skinny blade of steel flexed under its own weight like a willow branch, and Lyndy supported the center with her free hand. Bringing it close to her nose, she sniffed.

“Smells alright,” Lyndy declared, glancing to Rita. “We need to ask about this one.”

“Okay, but you gotta see this other I found before we make a decision.” With that, Rita jerked her hips and elbow sideways, managing to snag the hood support. Rita was unharmed, but the heavy hood came slamming down with a thunderous crash. Anybody, even a person down the block at the tire shop would have heard it.

In the aftermath, the two stared at one another, Rita frozen in place and looking very guilty. “Sorry,” she muttered, shoulders slumping.

Lyndy’s gaze shifted, searching for an escape route, or higher ground. But they’d have to scramble over the top of cars if they wanted a fast exit. “Hey, do you hear that sound?”

“What now?” Rita replied.

“Like a diesel motor? Someone pulling into the driveway?”

---

Lyndy Life Observation: Ode to the one time I lit off a “Piccolo Pete” under the bleachers during middle school assembly and later got hit with detention—but somehow worth it.

Minutes later they found themselves seated in the Ward’s cramped kitchen, window fan on high, with peach color cabinets and an original kit-kat-clock on the wall; those creepy cat eyes clicking side-to-side incessantly.

Negotiations were off to somewhat of a rocky beginning.

The table was circular, and with Rita positioned with her back to a window, sunshine pouring through was making her outsize diamond earrings sparkle. Next to her feet, Darrel’s rottweiler lay panting, splotchy pink and black tongue dangling like a floppy trout on land. He’d sunk into this position almost immediately upon entering from outside.

On this day Mr. Ward, gnome-like with a white beard, oozed irritability.

Lyndy brushed her hair and watched as Rita changed a roll of film, while her hat and conspicuous ruby-red pocketbook rested on the Formica counter. “Well I just want to say again, we honestly didn’t know where you were and …”, voice sounding chipper as her eyes set upon Lyndy, “and it was all my idea to hop the fence to preview your inventory. Please don’t fault Lyn.”

Darrel cleared his throat. “It’s called work. That’s where I was,” he answered dryly. “You two ladies really ought to try it sometime.”

Using a fist, Lyndy disguised an ill-timed chuckle.

Actually Darrel was wrong, because we both had jobs. I worked for Chan’s and Rita owned an art gallery.

Darrel, in his forties, with scraggly 4-inch beard hiding the lower half of his face, looked like the kind of guy who could watch a whole Carol Burnett Show and not laugh once. Impatience showed in his weary eyes. Attempting to butter Mr. Ward up with chummy car guy talk, like some wishful buyers did, never seemed to help. In fact most of those he ran off. Flirting, no matter how overt, had no noticeable impact either. But clearly he exhibited a soft spot for Miss Lovelace, Lyndy too. So at the very least they had that going.

Rita rested her hands atop her checkbook, thumbing it like a flipbook.

Eyes locked on her, Darrel took a sip from a mason jar of iced tea, then leaned back with his arms folded. “So whaddaya all want?” he questioned.

Reaching beneath the table, Lyndy patted the rottweiler atop its head and scratched the fur between his ears. “Say, where’s Tammy today,” she inquired, while the dog soaked up the attention.

“Working the taco stand.” Looking Lyndy’s way he tapped on his watch. “It’s summer hours. Tons of folks headed to the stateline.”

“Oh right,” said Lyndy. “We knew her Buick wasn’t here but figured she might be with you.”

“Well?” Darrel asked again, demanding an answer to his earlier question.

“Mr Ward, we were hoping to score keys to a classic car today,” Rita announced. “We’re not looky-loos either; I brought money.” She held up the checkbook, fanning it in front of her face. “Needs to be running and driving of course. Got a long day ahead of us.”

“Oh fantastic,” thought Lyndy. “Already broke the first two rules of car buying; revealed we intend to close the deal and showed we have plenty of dough.” Lyndy cleared her throat loudly to gain Darrel’s attention. “And also, my Ford needs looking at. Something funky is going with the carburetor.”

“Leave it here and I’ll check it over the weekend,” sighed Darrel, pushing his bifocals further up on his scrawny nose.

Rita pointed eagerly to the backyard. “I believe I spotted a silky-black Corvette …” but before she could speak another word, literally a split second, she was interrupted.

“No!” said Darrel. “No way. No way. No way.” He rested his thumbs in his suspenders, a further signal of his unwillingness to make a deal.

Rita’s mouth was open, but no words came out.

“We mean the 63 black split window model, Darrel. Does it run?” asked Lyndy.

“I know which one you mean. Runs like a Swiss watch. Answer is still no.”

“I haven’t even given you a price,” Rita complained.

“Woman, how is it you barge into a place you’ve never seen before and immediately fall in love with the most valuable piece of merchandise in the joint?”

Rita couldn’t help cracking a smile.

“It’s a talent of Rita’s,” Lyndy jested.

Darrel frowned, then took another sip of his tea.

“I typically get what I want,” said Rita firmly. “So why in the world are you holding onto it?” She extended a hand, as though searching for an explanation, something she could pick apart to make the sale happen. “Sentimental reasons?”

Darrel shook his head. “Not on this.”

“I’ll give you thirty-five hundred. That’s almost what it cost new.”

Lyndy had to admit, the car Rita wanted was sexy. She fancied it too. New tires. No obvious rock dings in the windshield. Plus the fiberglass body was in perfect shape, with so many layers of lacquer paint it was like touching marble.

“I promised that one to Hal Needham,” explained Darrel. “We had an agreement.”

Lyndy pounded her open palm against the table, in a chopping motion. “Wait, that Hal Needham? The guy from Hollywood?”

Darrel nodded.

“Mr Ward, we are here now and we have dough,” Rita argued.

“Sorry, but that doesn’t change a thing.”

She noticed his thumbs were no longer trapped in his suspenders—mellowing out.

“Aaarrrg,” grumbled Rita.

With the way things were trending, Lyndy knew they were just as likely to insult Darrel as make a deal, and it wasn’t her intention to leave here empty handed.

Standing up, pushing in her kitchen chair, Lyndy shot Rita a glance. Squeezing between the counter and Mr. Ward, Lyndy placed her fingers on his bony shoulders, then started gently giving him a neck massage. At first he tried to jerk away, but it only took a moment or two until he relented and gave in.

“Alrighty Darrel, you’ve obviously had a tough day at work,” voiced Lyndy. She could feel tension releasing in his neck. “Let’s all just pause and think.”

“Oh, quit sweet talking me Lyndy,” scolded Darrel. But he rotated both his shoulders and slanted his head side to side. “You know, actually that does feel pretty good.”

“Okay, I saw you had a blue and white Trans Am back there in the south corner,” said Lyndy. “Hasn’t been sitting very long. Has the 455 motor. How bout we give you 1800 for it?”

She let the offer hang in the air like an unfinished thought. Taking a step back, giving Darrel some space, Lyndy braced her palms on the counter. She cupped her fingers on the edge while casually admiring the baby blue linoleum floors. The slobbery dog looked up at Lyndy, then his owner, as if taking part in the negotiations.

“Oh, I missed that one,” said Rita, perking up. “But sounds splendid.”

“Sorry, can’t have that one neither,” said Darrel.

“Why not?” Lyndy asked.

“Yeah, does it belong to Burt Reynolds or something,” quipped Rita.

Lyndy flung her head back, clearing the hair from her face and smoothing it under her hat again. “Fine, I also saw a green mercury. Does it run?”

Darrel tilted his chin down; she could almost hear the cogs turning in his head. Giving him time to think, she pinched the front of her blouse, shaking it to get some air flowing.

“Give ya sixteen-hundred for it assuming it does,” said Rita, with a smile out-classing the Cheshire Cat.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Lyndy Life Observation: Know how they sell gummy vitamins—makes you more likely to take it? They should do that with other stuff. How about gummy blood pressure medication? Gummy anxiety meds? Gummy weight loss? Except, if they taste like gummy bears then I’m more at risk of eating the whole bottle in one sitting—and that can’t be good.

His name was probably “Dwight” or “Kevin”— folks picked his name out of a hat.

The bank manager hiked up his Land’s End catalog “no-iron” pants after making his way round the row of teller windows. He’d been stomping over to confront her; didn’t seem to like it when people made him move. With his sweaty armpit stains and wearing a scowl, he began pecking out a series of commands on the teller’s computer.

After a drawn-out exhale through his nostrils, glancing at her sideways over top of his glasses, she expected some sort of intimidating lecture about official banker regulations. But an instant later the cash drawer sprung open—poking his belly. He didn’t bother counting out money, she just watched his hands like a hawk. Five Jackson and nine Benjamin.

He cleared his throat, then bellowed, “Will that be all today Miss Martinez?”

Wise choice on his part, not testing her will. Saved himself an unpleasant scene of a stubborn old Latina lady not budging. She’d have stood here all afternoon if necessary.

He pushed the stack towards her, then added: “Have a blessed day!”

Cha-ching. Lyndy stuffed the money in her coin purse. “You as well,” she replied.

---

Minutes later …

She had trouble twisting the key inside the rusty padlock, an indicator just how long it had been. That and more cobwebs than a Halloween display. As it rose, the flaming orange roll-up door made an ear-splitting racket, its skinny slats and wheels rattling upon bent, unoiled track. Inhaling, flicking on the yellow utility light, she squeezed her way into the bunker-like room between the concrete-block wall and stacks of moving boxes.

Being a weekday afternoon, it was a slow time to visit the Sunset-West storage facility and she knew she could leave her car in the alley without blocking someone. As rents were continually on the rise in this part of town, she sometimes wondered whether she needed any of this stuff. Her late brother would have teased her for keeping it all. But as usual she’d come with a goal in mind, and sometimes this collection, a museum to her strange life felt like a treasure hunt, elevating her mood.

Blowing dust off a box labeled “X-MAS Decorations 89”, she pivoted at the hips and set that one aside. Beneath it, a plastic tub labeled “Pretty / Sexy Clothes” and next to this in fine print “don’t fit anymore”. Sad-smiley face too. Tempting to peek inside, but perhaps it was a pandora’s box better put off to another visit. Or else something for Maribel to comb through and snicker, following her mother’s passing. She moved it out of the way.

Beneath this, marking the lowest level of a totem pole of junk, an unlabeled box which felt almost glued to the floor. She believed this contained her photo albums as well as stacks of color prints still in their 1-hour envelopes. Yes everybody, before the internet folks used to keep physical photos in albums. Impatient, she wanted to undo the nested top flaps.

Before going down to her knees and digging in, she massaged her lower back muscles, bracing a hand against the wall. In the midst of resting, her eyes fell upon another box: “Camping Gear”. Unexpectedly it was calling her name—and not just because she hadn’t been tent-camping in years, with a longing to do it.

Catherine—another ghost from the past—was one who had quirky notions about gift giving, as over the years The Spitfire received some unusual and worthless trinkets from her waitress pal. But once, Miss Cookson had come through on a functional level. At a bargain store she’d snagged a pair of bird-watching binoculars for the princely sum of $2.00, presenting them to Lyndy on her birthday. Those things were splendid, crisp and simple to focus. Now they would be perfect for easier spying on the construction zone.

Pivoting on one heel and kicking her other leg over the adjacent knee-high stack, she worked her way to the camping stuff, brushing aside a stack of magazines. Ungraceful but effective.

Curving her fingers under the handles, she snapped apart the plastic tub lid. She was greeted with a surprise. Pressed amidst the camp stove and a tangle of ratchet straps, the life-like rabbit. Lyndy held the stuffed toy up to the light, shaking off an accumulation of fine sand. It was no ordinary bunny, rather a jackrabbit having voluminous ears, whiskers and skinny legs; purchased from a national park gift shop. Maribel called him Bugs. She’d not remembered packing this box, but there had been several moves in the interim.

For over two years, this toy went everywhere Maribel did. Most likely it was because Maribel wanted a pet. During that period in life they were far too transient to have a real pet. They lived in crappy apartments, sometimes with roommates, and most of those places didn’t allow for house plants, let alone animals.

She wasn’t quite sure what triggered it: memories, the disquieting reemergence of Rita as an influence in her life, or the idea of Maribel moving away out of state. She’d been attempting to dodge thoughts of Maribel all day. Whatever it was, she needed fresh air in a hurry.

Lyndy stuffed the rabbit back in the box, flattening its contents and pressing down the lid until it clicked in place. Briefly she fanned herself, then thrashed her way along the perimeter. Stepping out of the garage, into the blinding daylight of a cement alley, her chest was pounding. And though she’d quit long ago, she craved a cigarette—not that vaporized nicotine junk—but a real one. To be more specific, she craved a Newport; funny part was, Rita used to like the same brand. These days her lungs weren’t up to it. The slightest hint of rotten air could trigger a lights-out asthma attack.

---

30 minutes later …

Lyndy Life Tip: Here’s one of those life hacks you can actually use. Kids seem to believe in the healing power of Band-Aids. So often when Maribel complained of a stomach ache, knowing there wasn’t much I could do, I offered to put a band-aid right above her belly button. And sure enough, it helped.

Thankfully, the mini-panic attack had quickly subsided.

Holding up one hand she wriggled her fingers, smiling to the lady in hospital scrubs who gave sponge baths. The woman smiled cheerily back to Lyndy. She remembered her name as Sonia, but needed a confirmation before shouting it out.

It was a hell of a tough job, working here.

Using her index finger Lyndy began scanning the visitor clipboard, checking the page for a certain name in decipherable cursive. Unable to find what she was looking for, Lyndy added her own name to an empty row in the log. In her other hand, partly hidden behind her back, a photo album.

This place had white rocks instead of a lawn. The floors were a chalky linoleum.

The staff at the county rest home all recognized Lyndy Martinez. They knew she was here to see Deputy Keynes. God knows who they believed she was; certainly not a spouse, but some kind of devoted friend.

“Hey, has Miranda been here?” she asked Sonia, but the answer was obvious.

The caretaker in scrubs shrugged, shaking her head no. “Been about a month.” What does it say about a person, wouldn’t visit her goddamn husband in a rest home?

“Well, that sucks,” Lyndy declared, loud enough to be heard by surrounding staff. Yet in some ways she couldn’t blame Mrs. Keynes for staying away. This place was downright depressing. At least it didn’t stink. Smelled like baby wipes or in some areas, pine scented disinfectant spray. In all caps she’d penciled in Melinda E. Martinez, so there would be no mistaking who had been here.

At the end of an L-shaped hallway, Dale’s room had a lovely view of a weedy, unmanicured hillside and retaining wall. Only a sliver of sunlight penetrated in between the extended roofline and the slope. But at least it had a window.

She paused in the hall a moment, observing him in profile, seated on the edge of his bed literally staring at nothing. He did that a lot. Was a time she’d bring him books to read, but it quickly became apparent he wasn’t interested. Where once he shared a passion for epic westerns and crime thrillers, now he seemed to lack patience even for a magazine or two.

Want proof life is messy? She and Dale had each taken dozens of blows to the head, lived recklessly, drank to excess. Hell, she’d rode on the back of motorcycles without a goddamn helmet—and fallen off. Twice. So why was he the one here? The father of two. The husband. And she going on as normal with most of her brain still operating. It all made no sense.

She took a breath, pushing down discomfort and fear of becoming like the man in front of her. Meanwhile he turned back, having heard or sensed her presence.

“There you are!” exclaimed Lyndy, bursting into the room with the zeal of a kid on Fourth of July. By the delighted grin forming on his tired face, she knew he recognized her; what a relief. His demeaner was otherwise modest and shy.

“How come you’re not in the atrium, enjoying this weather?”

He bobbed his head to the side, then back to the middle.

“Well, you’re in luck. I’ve brought us a trip down memory lane,” she added, wresting the book from behind her back, holding it in front of her chest as a surprise. “There are pictures in here Rita Lovelace took—remember Rita? How she always carried a camera? Like when a camera weighed two pounds! Both of us are here together in Vegas, when we were young.” Letting the heavy book fall open on the comforter, one at a time she slipped off her cowgirl boots. She left them squeezed together by the door. Then she hopped up on the bed, reclining on her side to thumb through it. She coaxed him nearer. “You’re in here too somewhere.”

Pressing his lips together, he squinted at the page.

“Need your bi-focals?” she queried.

Eagerly Dale nodded. Extending her arm, she plucked his glasses from the nightstand. Then using both hands, set them gently atop his nose, curling them around his ears. He did his best to hold steady for her as she did this.

“There. You know I can’t see worth a damn either unless I’m two inches from the page.”

He had blemishes and creases on his face earned over decades of being a desert lawman. His hat still hung from a peg on the wall and his badge, time worn, was stashed in a shoebox under the bed. A legend, or like the Joshua Tree, a living symbol of the west.

She placed her hand atop his, then opened to another random page somewhere near the middle. Lyndy chuckled immediately. “Oh man. Look at how cute we were in those hats?” She squeezed his hand and a grin began to form. Dale used his finger to draw an imaginary circle around one of the pictures, then gave the thumbs up sign. It was the car she and Rita bought from Darrel.

“Right. We paid $3000 for that car and I still think Darrel ripped us off.”

Seeing him this way, a little less miserable, it always brightened her day. If only everyone were as easy to please as Deputy Keynes.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: Watching a kid at the grocery store complain to his mother about a problem with his tablet computer. All I can think is, kid, when I was your same age we had coloring. That was it.

Grudgingly she’d edged out of the fast lane as the pearl white Mustang sputtered on, this time struggling with a moderate 6-percent grade of Cajon pass. Traffic on the interstate was relentless—alas, they weren’t the only duo with dreams of slot machines, stage shows and glittering lights. And actually, it was visions of winning at twenty-one Lyndy most fantasized about, though she knew Rita wouldn’t approve.

Having downshifted from third to second gear, checking the tach, she knew the left lanes were out the question. They’d been demoted to sharing the road with smelly, plodding big-rigs. The fact it was boiling hot wasn’t helping matters. However, there was a positive; at least they weren’t stranded beside the road with steam shooting out.

She glanced to the side mirror. At this point they’d be fortunate to make bingo night at The Vanishing Point.

Then a rude interruption: the cabover next to them blasted its air horn, sounding like a locomotive and scaring the snot out of Lyndy. She swerved left, the whole car swayed, then corrected. She twisted a pinky in her right ear. In addition to a ringing, The Spitfire was fearful the trucker may have been trying to overtake.

The Kenworth rig was too tall to spot the driver inside, so Lyndy peered suspiciously to her passenger. From the guilty expression lingering on Rita’s face, she knew she must have done something to egg the trucker on.

Grinning to herself, Rita remained focused on a stack of envelopes, junk mail, fan mail and fashion mags resting in her lap. As they departed for the desert, Rita had collected it from a lockbox at the end of her driveway, equating to several weeks accumulation. She kept ripping the letters open, inspecting the contents, then dropping them in a sorted pile on the floor pan between her feet.

Fanning herself with one of the more sizeable envelopes, Rita slid her fingernail under the flap to tear along the crease. In her periphery, Lyndy watched as Miss Lovelace shook out a nicely typed letter—not even any correction fluid—done on a yellowish stationary with an embossed seal. At the bottom was an elegant signature, in full John Hancock style from a fountain pen. It said Fondest Regards, Christoph.

Intrigued, Lyndy divided her attention between the letter and keeping up with changes in traffic on the road. Aiming to be discrete, she shifted her gaze back and forth with her eyes, rather than craning her neck which would have made it obvious she was snooping. A minute or two passed like this, Rita studying the letter, every now and then muttering “mmm-hmm” or “oh”, but voicing nothing approaching complete sentences.

Finally having enough Rita folded it into thirds, shoving it out of view between the seat and door panel. “Sheesh Lyn, nosey much?”

Lyndy adjusted her grip on the wheel, flexing her fingers and returning her attention to the road. “Some dude named Christoph typed you a letter?”

“Very astute,” voiced Rita with a coy smile.

“How do people even know where to mail you a letter?”

“They don’t. This one is weeks old,” explained Rita.

“Does uh …. Christoph ride ponies on his country estate?” jested Lyndy.

Rita chuckled, folding her arms and staring out the window. A quiet moment passed, and then Rita added. “He’s a ski instructor actually. Lives in Aspen.”

“Oh … well, pardon me,” replied Lyndy. “That’s completely different. So you gonna write him back after geometry class? Check this box if you like Rita. Yes or no.” Lyndy pretended to check a box using an imaginary pen.

Rita frowned. Still with her arms folded, she started shimmying side-to-side in her seat as though suffering from a backache

“Sorry,” said Lyndy, thinking she’d overstepped bounds. Quickly she composed herself. “I’m probably jealous cause I’ve never been skiing. I should mind my own business.”

Rita continued her squirming.

Lyndy couldn’t help herself. “On the other hand…. I guess all I’m saying is this poor guy, he took the time to type you a nice letter. Least you can do is write him back. I know I would.” They were nearing the crestline, roughly 3750 feet elevation and Lyndy felt a small sense of relief. She shifted the trans into third, glancing down at the gauges.

Out of the blue Rita made a grunting sound—like an oof. Facing Lyndy, her demeanor took a turn to the grim. “Hey Lyn, is there a place you know we can stop for gas?”

“What? Why?” Lyndy looked to the fuel gauge. “We don’t need gas.”

Rita’s eyes were downcast as she gripped her left side beneath the ribcage.

“Uh oh. Ya gotta go don’t you?” Lyndy asked.

Rita nodded, eyes wide.

Tilting her chin back with both fists gripping the wheel, Lyndy laughed. “Oh man. It was that insane amount of coffee. I just know it!”

“You can have all the giggles at my expense you want!” scolded Rita. “Just find me a place cause I really don’t feel good.”

“Okay, okay. There’s a truck stop coming up with those plastic port-a-poties, kind with the blue stuff inside. It’s not much, but since we’re desperate….”

“Fine. Fine.” Rita grimaced, leaning forward some and putting her elbows on the dash.

“Miss Lovelace?” Lyndy asked more sympathetically. “Have you ever … you know… used a port-a-poty in your life?” She really did feel sorry for Rita.

“Once,” answered Rita solemnly, as though she’d just been sentenced to die. “It was quite awful.”