Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Lyndy Life Observation: A monthly ladies magazine offers helpful tips for meeting quality singles, such as taking a cooking class. Great idea. So I sign up and pay $32 for a cooking class at the local community college. Bet you can guess what comes next. All women in the class. If you think about it, the tip should go the other way around, because how many single guys would think to take a casual cooking class?

Her instincts were proven accurate. The McNair property had better surveillance than most prison yards, with ten-foot-tall fencing and camera masts at every corner. This was definitely not a problem you’d encounter in the seventies.

Rather than linger in any one locality, she strolled endlessly on the two accessible flanks, spanning about four-tenths of a mile of meandering sidewalk; the footpaths noodled for no apparent reason other than making the artificial landscape a little fancier.

An aforementioned dry wash backed one of the sides of the construction zone, but even that perimeter was fortified and closely monitored. In addition, two tubby, lumbering security guards in a golf cart could be seen chit-chatting, and where there was one of those buggies more were surely waiting to be deployed.

One central shell of a structure—like a hollow, post-industrial thunder dome—the hotel presumably, towered already at about 12 stories. Each of the connected I-beams exhibited hardly any rust. Judging by their pictorial advertisement for Zohara Ranch, the main 12-story building was the max height for the project; no doubt something to do with zoning. A whirring rooftop crane transported a pallet loaded with more steel girders at speeds an outsider would consider unsafe. Place was hopping. A banner with the word ALOYAN in bold, flapped from the third story.

Everywhere she looked work was progressing full-tilt, literally a hub of activity. The beep-beep-beeping of trucks backing up to the delivery zone. Over there some dude spraying water to mitigate dust. Everybody wearing hard hats, gloves, orange vests, and not a one of them standing still with fists in their pockets.

Your place is suspiciously efficient.

It’s a funny thing right. There’s a spectrum of work styles. Some site managers and general contractors, they want all the guys to take their time. The reason is they’re paid by the hour no matter how long the job takes, and if it takes longer than expected it only eats into the profit of the owners. But the other motive is most of these guys are big into safety. Worse than being late is having an accident. Nothing eats into your profit margin more than a fat lawsuit. So better to play it safe, take your time, rather than have to pay out and look terrible in the eye of the public.

When a project is run with this much expedience, something was definitely up. No one can be in this much hurry to open a casino. What did they think was going to happen? The gambling business juggernaut is suddenly gonna collapse and stop being profitable.

Before crossing the street, she paused in front of a white signboard depicting images of the project. They’d chosen font the size of the Liberty Bell so cars could read, sparing no expense. Zohara Ranch: bringing high class back to the desert, it announced grandly. Phase-1 to include a 250-unit luxury hotel and spa! One hundred live on-site residential condos, secure your investment today. (You can live at a casino. Gee, that sounds healthy.) Two Olympic size swimming pools. A lazy river. 30k square foot gym. Brewery and whiskey tasting room. Four world class vegetarian restaurants. Exotic cactus gardens. A rock-climbing wall. And coming soon in phase-II, an 18-hole championship golf course.

No smoking anywhere on property; another fine McNair Holdings project.

All they need is a petting zoo.

In their finished rendering of the hotel, the glass exterior was shown tinted a rich amber-brown; the glittering shade of a lovely sunset or perhaps matching the colors seen in Valley of Fire. And this was a current trend in construction. The blue-turquoise and emerald tinted glass characteristic of the eighties had become very out of style. She had to admit, the bold colors were pretty striking. Then again, in the seventies she remembered when harvest orange and avocado was considered the ultimate choice for a fashionable kitchen.

Looking closely, many ALOYAN logos could be spotted, in addition to the name McNair. Despite odd circumstances, seemed Mrs. Aloyan had no intentions of stopping work, or getting out of the business. Interesting lady. Perhaps she had no controlling interest.

Lyndy’s feet were beginning to ache. Across the street was a pleasant looking bus shelter; might be a decent place to think.

Watching people come and go, she took note of a group of workers who were returning from meal break. They entered through a heavy duty turn-style, each of them having to both scan a worker ID badge and punch in a code.

If only she had binoculars, perhaps she could study what they were punching in and decipher it. In spite of her failing eyesight, she suspected there was a pattern to the code—otherwise folks were likely to forget. Then security would have to keep giving out new codes.

“This is gonna sound cliché, but I used to play there as a kid,” came a Hispanic man’s voice.

She jumped to alertness, having been snuck up on. Twisting her torso around she saw the gentleman—roughly same age as her—dressed in a business suit, standing a few feet away. The business suit had seen better days and so had the man. In one fist he held four score cards, and looking closer, she could tell he’d come from the off-track betting facility. The smell of him, like those fruity vape devices, was the odor of an OTB lounge. In addition to his bet tickets, under his shoulder he carried a rolled-up newspaper, mark of an old school American male. He liked paper.

His comment was obviously referencing Zohara Ranch. She was so caught off guard, she said something silly in response. “Wait. You can see me?”

He chuckled, delightfully amused, and there was a shine of kindness on his face and in his brown eyes. “No, I can see dead people,” he jested, then smiled.

Lyndy exhaled. “Sorry dude. I uh, have this running joke with my daughter about us being invisible. It’s mostly a comment on customer service issues.”

He shook his head. “Lady, you are actually quite recognizable. I’ve known you for years.” Brushing a bit with the newspaper, he took a seat next to her—even though the bench was filthy and may stain his clothing.

A primal fear came over her, shades of Mabel Dixon and Pinegate. “What do you mean you uh …. know me? You know who I am?” The words came out as a whisper.

His eyes continued to sparkle. Those were his best feature. Otherwise, he was rather out of shape with a beer belly. Hair that had once been black, now silver, but at least he had hair. “Yeah, of course I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are.”

Eeek. “Who am I?” she uttered nervously.

“The bad-ass Latina lady who drives the mustang and wears black. Half the old dudes at the sandwich shop know you. They’re like, there she goes again, the mustang lady. All of us think you’re cool but I don’t believe any have spoken to you.”

Internally, she felt a sense of relief. She laughed. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, here I am waiting on the next race, and I recognized you sittin at a bustop. Figured I have nothin to lose.”

She noticed he was wearing a pretty nice silver-tone Air King watch to match his clothes, but no wedding band.

“And I think I remember seeing you when I worked at a factory, like three decades ago. There was a roadhouse in Barstow where you used to play pool with all the cool guys. But maybe time has blurred my memories.” He was staring down, his hands still gripping his bet tickets. “They said your boyfriend was a deputy.”

“Oh yeah, it’s true. Dale,” she answered nodding, feeling at ease. Rather than frightening, it was a comfort to meet someone who also remembered places like the VP. Sometimes she worried that stuff never happened. “In fact I’m going to see him later today. He’s in a long-term care facility near here. Dale can’t speak anymore but he still likes visitors.”

She felt she’d shared too much. The gentleman adjusted his position, but seemed to have no intention of moving on. “Uhmm, names Lyndy Martinez,” she added, a tone of hopefulness.

“Ben Cardenas,” he answered.

She pointed a finger to Zohara Ranch. “You say you played there as a kid?”

---

A few minutes later …

In the early days before The Spitfire, Mr. Chan did most of the dirty work himself. But over time as the reputation of CBB began to spread, certain individuals who saw themselves as hot you-know-what would come knocking voluntarily. Rather than seeking loans, they were asking for a job and to become something akin to the old west bounty hunters or action oriented private eyes depicted in pulps and on bad TV. These people could be both arrogant and persistent. But Chan had a time-tested strategy for dealing with them, and eliminating practically all comers. He would describe a case—a potential sanction—and if they didn’t react immediately with at least a dozen intelligent questions, they were shown the door.

“Setenta y dos … setenta y dos!”

The taco truck shouted out her order number—tres carnitas with a mojito on the side—and she rushed forward, scooping up the stiff paper tray and plastic cup containing mint leaves and lime wedges floating around like a tiny aquarium. Ben had ordered the exact same meal and grinned as he waited for her. He’d encouraged her to try their drinks and this being Vegas, nobody cared if the van had a license to dispense adult beverages in a parking lot.

Then she accompanied her new gambler friend to a shallow fountain, where they took a seat on the ledge facing the construction. A lovely succulent garden surrounded the fountain, with cereus spaced widely enough they could easily step around. Ranchera music from the van’s stereo flooded the acoustic background, a soundtrack if you will, and vastly preferable to the noisy traffic.

They each took bites of the juicy tacos—they were impossible to eat without making a mess—and then wiping around his mouth, Ben began to talk. His voice and manner of speaking reminded her somewhat of the comedian George Lopez.

“We need another over-priced resort like we need a hole the in head,” he lamented. “Used to play Lone Ranger out there. Had chrome-plated cap guns and those ammo shoulder belts, big hats; we looked like little banditos. This quarter section with the grocery store and the section across the gully, it was the wild west to us. Most anyone living out here raised horses or worked for the construction companies, building casinos and hotels. My pop loved this town with a passion. He used to maintain swimming pools. Swore he saw Liz Taylor once, lounging by the pool at The Sahara while he was working a job.”

Lyndy nodded, wiping her face and hands with a brown paper napkin. “You ever see that I Love Lucy where she’s hunting for uranium out here?”

“Oh yeah. That was a real thing. We used to pretend we had a Geiger counter, and with shovels and a pick-axe we tried to find some buried treasure.”

“Ever find any relics, like Native American stuff?”

Ben frowned. “Once in a blue moon a kid would find an arrowhead. That’s all I know of. It was serious desert up here. Bunch of yuccas, cholla and sagebrush. No trees and no shelter; the Indians and them folks would’ve lived way down by the springs or in cool canyons, not out here. You might find a tortoise if you were lucky.” He paused, tilting his head. “You lookin for anything in particular?”

Lyndy exhaled, her shoulders slumping as she set aside her food a moment and sipped from a straw. “That’s my problem Ben. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“Welcome to the club. Hey listen, that’s probably why I was married 3 times. You ever been married?”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “Naw. Engaged a few times, but no white dresses.”

“It can either be really good or really bad. There’s like no in between. This is gonna sound like a joke, but it’s the ultimate dice roll.”

Lyndy chuckled. “So I’ve heard.” She wanted to tell him things. She had a lot to share. But she knew if she tried explaining how her and Rita used to live in Vegas, like movie stars, she’d probably blow his mind.

As if emerging from a pleasant daydream, Ben suddenly shook himself to full alertness and checked his watch, pinching his wrist with two fingers to steady the shakes. “Oh shoot. Call to the post is in ten minutes. I gotta start heading back!” he exclaimed, referring to the OTB lounge. “I’ll take the rest of this with me.”

“Of course,” agreed Lyndy. “Right.” Perfectly logical thing that a bunch of ponies running in a circle control the schedule of your adult life.

Ben dusted off his pants and fumbled for a folded slip of paper. “Hey, if you aren’t doing anything later, group of us are meeting at the Rusty Spur for cocktails. After all the races. Say seven-thirty.” He handed her a pink photocopy advertising among other things: bacon martinis, line dancing and video poker. The address was a run-down part of town.

Lyndy nodded. Sounds like the worst idea ever. “That sounds interesting,” she replied.

---

Twenty minutes later …

Here’s a Lyndy Tales-From-the-Cheap classic: A prior girlfriend of Colonel Rickman moved out in a hurry, abandoning a number of fancy blouses in his cramped closet. Knowing I was poor, and believing we were the same size, Rickman kindly offered them to me; otherwise he was planning to drop them off at a second hand store. So I answered, heck yeah, I’ll take his girlfriend’s grubby old shirts. As it turned out the chick had a good eye too. Rickman, always thinking of others!

The bank lobby was blasting a garbled, muzaked version of Shania Twain’s song Still The One, as she scribbled down her account number and signed the rear of the check. Check and deposit slip in hand, she sauntered to the nearest teller window. Things were about to get messy.

“I’d like to deposit this check and get $1000 back in cash now,” she instructed. Then Lyndy slid her deposit through a cutout in the bulletproof glass, to a young lady who seemed more attentive to whatever was happening with her fingernail polish.

“Your funds will become available in 3 to 5 days,” the teller recited, whilst holding the check up to the light.

“Yeah, I know. I want some of it now,” Lyndy replied.

The snotty teller, probably twenty-five, glanced at her with a disdainful glare. Then she began typing numbers on the computer, with one of those really loud clicking keyboards. “You’ll have access to your funds in 3 to 5 business days.”

Of course, The Spitfire had been dealing with rude people since before this girl was in diapers. As Kramer would say: giddy up.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Lyndy Life Observation: Each time I watch the opening of a Charlie’s Angel’s episode I can’t help wondering: Is Bosley actually the mastermind and this Charlie Townsend character on the phone an actor he hired, a cover story to protect his identity? Wouldn’t this make more sense, because Bosley seems way more organized and knowledgeable anyhow?

The access road to the Lovelace chateau ascended a narrow grade from the highway, paved, zig-zagging through a grove of towering evergreens. A crispness in the air, the scent of pine and plentiful shade were welcome relief from the desert—especially this time of year. Savoring the experience, The Spitfire slipped her fingers into her dark brown hair, ruffling it and carrying away the hair tie, freeing her ponytail.

As the Mustang’s engine sputtered, struggling to cope with altitude, The Spitfire prayed it wouldn’t cut out entirely. She would have blamed it on the carburetor, but knew it was worse than simple lack of air; the fastback required the skilled hand of a Barstow mechanic named Darrel Ward. At this rate, she’d be bested by a teenager driving a souped-up Pacer.

At least her Beretta was clean and oiled.

Thus far details were scant. A night prior, The Spitfire received an urgent telegram from Miss Lovelace stating she’d been robbed at gunpoint. The perps entered her gallery, forced her to open a safe, made off with forty thousand in cash therein, plus fine jewelry and other artifacts.

Of course, working for the Lovelace clan often meant dropping everything when your services were needed—even situations far from dire—sometimes a loose scorpion in Rita’s bedroom was cause enough. But almost always it was better paying and a more pleasant gig than anything Mr. Chan had to offer.

Lyndy coasted into a turning circle fronting the Swiss Chalet style structure. All seemed peaceful and quiet; no other vehicles were out front and even the carriage house doors were shut. Folks on the lake spoke of the fanciful mansion, saying it was originally built for Shirley Temple. From certain vantage points one could spot it rising grandly, as picturesque as the wrapper on a high-end milk chocolate bar, framed in massive sugar pines. The entire first floor stood ensconced in a round-stone façade, lending it an authentic alpine flair. Its origins in Hollywood money seemed plausible and the vintage fit.

She stepped out of the fastback—red high-heel cowgirl boots perhaps a bit too much given the serious occasion—slinging her purse over one shoulder and twirling the keys. The air was tranquil as her heels clicked on the decorative brick drive, and she paced a half-lap around the Mustang. She hadn’t phoned ahead and if nobody was home she figured she’d meander to the back patio and have a smoke.

Seconds later the double front doors burst open.

Bounding out came the heiress herself, clad in high waist jeans and a frilly white blouse looking like a pirate shirt. She rushed to The Spitfire, seizing her at the shoulders. “Lyn!” she exclaimed, quaking with energy and excitement. “Great to see you! What a relief.” With Lyndy squirming, Rita began pecking her on both cheeks European style—tranquility shattered.

Reeling back, Lyndy bent at the hip and began dabbing both sides of her face with the tail of her shirt. In the chaos her purse slipped from her shoulder, plummeting several feet downslope into a flower bed, luckily halted by shoots of a tiny aspen. To get it back she had to straddle the retaining wall on her stomach, wriggling her fingers and stretching her abdomen. Using her toes as an anchor, she took care to avoid having her center of gravity extend too far out; would have landed on her head and skidded to oblivion. Dusting off, she smoothed her forearm along both cheeks once more.

Meantime, acting unaware of the pandemonium she’d caused, Rita proceeded to shut Lyndy’s car door for her. She went into a crouch position, inspecting the condition of her wheels and tires. “I’ll give a quick rundown,” she voiced. “My dad’s in Bora-Bora, and all the help is busy in Tanque Verde; currently I’m the only soul here. Which also means for the foreseeable future I’m the maid. And by the way there’s no food in the fridges and I honestly never paid attention to how to turn on the natural gas supply—nor probably should I be entrusted with that responsibility—so we can’t cook or take showers. Inconvenient. But the circuit breaker is live.” From her squatting position, Rita eyed Lyndy up and down. She seemed to be talking and behaving like a cassette player on a 2x speed setting. “Speaking of coffee, you look like you could use a cappuccino STAT? Want one?”

Lyndy blinked, still raking her hair back in place and feeling overwhelmed.

Rita jumped to her feet. “I bought a cappuccino maker from one of those fancy kitchen supply warehouses and it got delivered today. Follow me inside,” she explained, dragging Lyndy by an arm along the footpath and through the massive entry.

“Miss Lovelace, how many cappuccinos have you had?” Lyndy queried, having trouble keeping up.

Ceasing mid-stride, Rita bit her lower lip, counting on her left hand. “I dunno, four… wait … no five,” she said guiltily. “Basically, I can fly.”

She’d only toured the Arrowhead mansion once or twice, but Lyndy could recall certain aspects in detail. It had the same shag rugs—white and fluffy as an arctic fox—spread across polished granite flooring; those rugs made you want to shuffle barefoot across them or roll on your back like a cat. Overhead, 24-inch timbers joined to support vaulted ceilings. An arrowhead motif had been emblazoned into many of the beams. Beside the main stairs hung a wrought iron coat rack featuring saddles, riding crops and a helmet. There was also one of those old-fashioned braided bull whips, nine feet in length.

“Forgot how groovy this place is,” Lyndy muttered, staring in awe at the fireplace with her palms stuck in her back pockets. There was enough wood stacked to keep a fire roaring for weeks. It would be a hell of a place to host parties. Although for somebody who had their life threatened, Rita didn’t seem particularly distraught. “Dude, why in the world are you drinking so much coffee? I thought caffeine didn’t agree with your metabolism, made you all hyper. Afraid of falling asleep?”

Situated at the foot of the stairs, Rita paused, gazing out front as one of the tall doors remained open to a thirty-degree angle. She clicked her tongue, moving to a round table which accommodated her purse. By the mute tone and serious expression on Miss Lovelace’s face, Lyndy knew she’d stumbled upon a kernel of truth. But without a word on the subject, Rita bowed her head while lighting a fresh Newport. She then pointed the cigarette to Lyndy. “Hey, did you bring a swimsuit?”

“Crap. No … why?” demanded Lyndy, frustration increasing.

“Hello. We are road-tripping to Vegas. It’s gonna be like a pottery kiln.”

“Your telegram says nothing about that,” protested Lyndy, frowning and raising her arms in exasperation. “Well that’s just great! Now we have to go bathing suit shopping. And let’s see, I have 12 hours to wax my whole body.”

Rita chuckled, handing Lyndy a pen. On the table she’d written up a CBB contract. Lyndy played it cool, even if her eyes were popping at the sum of $150 per day—it was a chunk of money—and trying to process the remaining squares. The description had been filled in as personal security and investigative services. Rita scratched down her illegible autograph, a combination of capital letters “R” and “L”. Beneath it Lyndy marked hers.

Cool. I’m getting paid to hang out with Rita Lovelace. She hoped Rita couldn’t tell how giddy she was.

Ka-Chunk went the red “Approved” stamp, making it an official sanction. Tearing off the carbon copy, she creased the document into thirds. Hastily Lyndy stuffed these in her purse, not wanting to allow any opportunity for Rita changing her mind. “And will you please quit saving money on per-word charges.” Lyndy glanced up at Rita. “Wait, important question. What are we driving? My car is having mechanical issues. It’s never gonna make it.”

---

A short time later …

The lake, hundreds of yards below and dotted with small paddle boats, shimmered in the noonday sun. Removing her shades, Lyndy stashed them by burying the plastic ends in her hair. She was seated on the elevated patio, a perch shaded in leafy oaks and ponderosa pines, bearing vistas of higher ridges to the south. From here, if you knew just where to look, one could spot the Ellis family cabin. But she found it easier pretending Kyle’s house didn’t exist, instead dabbing on lip balm while she waited.

Thankfully Rita arrived from the kitchen, refreshed and grinning cheerfully. In her arms she supported a silver tray topped with white linen, a curvy glass bottle and two champagne flutes. Light filtering through the bottle gave it a golden-tan hue, and because it was chilled beads of sweat were clinging to the sides. As Rita lowered the platter, Lyndy plucked one of the tall glasses and served herself two shots worth.

Swirling whatever it was, Lyndy brought it to her nose to get a good whiff—the odor fruity but unlike anything she recognized. “What’s this stuff?”

“Eau de vie, hon.”  Sensing Lyndy’s confusion, Rita added. “Don’t think. Just try it.”

Across the remainder of the table Rita plopped a file folder, from which green and pink slips of paper were already spilling out.

Lyndy sipped, pushing the bangs from her view and eyed Miss Rita, who appeared like a jolly, less talented version of Linda Ronstadt—which was no accident—because Rita made a habit of imitating her idol’s sense of fashion. They even had the same color hair. Like a giddy seventh grader, Rita was jumpy, sitting upright and locking her hands between her knees. 

“You know I would have been happier with a Tab.”

Rita dipped a red and white straw into her glass.

Lyndy scooted nearer to the tabletop, resting her elbows and getting her nose up close to the documents. With two fingers securing her glass, she used the other hand to dig through the papers, curious what they were. She quickly recognized this was a mountain of car titles and registrations.

The Spitfire’s eyes shifted to the topmost slip, checking the make, then back to Rita. “Let’s see.” Sniffing quickly, Lyndy queried, “This is a Lamborghini Espada. White one.”

Rita shook her head grimly. “Ooh. No. That one rammed into a mailbox; now only turns left.”

“Alrighty.” Lyndy exhaled, setting the paper face down on the table and apart from the rest of the stack. “Here’s a Maserati? Am I saying that right?”

Rita held up a finger, shut her eyes and tilted her head to recline on the chair back. “Both doors are permanently jammed. You have to climb in Dukes of Hazard style.” Rita chuckled to herself. “I don’t think you want to do that in any outfit you care about.”

“Well this is fun. How about a Porsche? She waved the paper in the air. You love those.”

“No bueno. Lacks a motor and transmission.”

Lyndy sighed. “Mercedes-Benz?”

“I believe it’s missing a front wheel. Also got side-swiped on the way to Santa Monica.”

“Land Rover? These things are indestructible.”

“Mysterious and thus far unsolvable fuel system debacle; gas tank must have turned to varnish. … and are you kidding? That truck needs mud flaps.”

“Ever hear of an American car Rita?”

Rita laughed.

“Fine. I don’t feel like fixing anything. Too lazy today. I guess we’re buying a car too.” Lyndy deposited the paper back on the stack, straitening the pile before shoving them all into Rita’s shotty folder. “So, what the heck did these people take from you that’s so special? The way you treat cars, I can’t imagine you getting worked up over money. Life isn’t worth it.”

“Got that right.” Hefting her purse onto the metal table, Miss Lovelace retrieved a wallet and makeup kit, both of which she set aside, plus an envelope containing a fresh set of color prints. Thumbing through them like a card deck, she rotated and set the topmost image in front of Lyndy. “Have a look.” 

Lyndy perked up again, leaning forward to obtain a better view, while she sipped of the eau de vie.

Rita put a polished fingernail on the photo of a spectacled fellow, surrounded by four others—they appeared to be at a cocktail party or clubhouse after a golf outing. “This sleezy looking oaf in the middle is Dr. Ron Tarner. Ever hear of him?”

Lyndy shook her head earnestly, locking eyes with Rita.

“He’s an anthropologist of some note from Arizona State. Used to pal around with Olivia Rosenbaum if that tells you anything. He’s a hack and I want to expose him.”

“He doesn’t look very tough.”

“He’s not. But he’s funded by a high-end theft ring. And those guys have his back. He came by my art gallery a week-and-a-half ago. I was busy and I didn’t recognize him at first. He wanted to buy something from me—an antiquity I wasn’t interested in selling.”

“Which is?”

“A flute.” Rita nodded, indicating Lyndy had heard her correctly. “Do not adjust your ears. Yes, a ceremonial flute. It’s Tibetan.” She thumbed through the images again, then passed Lyndy a photo of a dull-looking, weathered flute that bore more resemblance to an ordinary piece of driftwood on the beach than anything of value.

“I refused to sell to him. That thing is a thousand years old. It was discovered on the slopes of Nanda Devi in 1951, near some ruins. Lo and behold, few nights later I’m locking up and someone dressed as a highway patrolman says they need to speak to me. Stupidly, I assumed he was legit and let him in. Once inside and out of view from the street, he pulls a gun on me. They only took the cash to make it seem like a robbery. But they were after that flute.” She paused, troubled by something. “Lyn, admittedly I should have gifted that relic to the historical society the second I got my hands on it. In fact, I was planning to do so. I just … well … I guess I wanted to show off.” She pulled another photo from the stack. “Here’s one of Dr. Tarner’s chief cronies, mister Fallon McKnight. Often poses as a grad student—and apparently sometimes a cop. He’s no student.”

In Lyndy’s estimation Fallon was an attractive young man, though con artist was far from her type. “Clever disguise. I probably would have let ‘em in too.”

“You know how they say everyone has redeeming qualities? Dr. Tarner is an exception.”

“How do we find him?”

“Ordinarily, this time of year I wouldn’t know. But we’re in luck cause there’s a big archaeology conference happening in Las Vegas this weekend.”

“Why are we so pressed for time?”

“The conference is starting.” A twinkle in Rita’s eye belied a larger story.

Lyndy frowned. “Rita, are you entirely sure?” She twirled her finger. “It isn’t somehow related to the fact you won’t allow yourself to fall asleep?”

“Fine, I need to add another small detail. There may or may not be a curse on this ceremonial flute. According to the mountain climbers who sold it to me.”

In slow motion Lyndy allowed her forehead to slam against the table. “What does the curse say?” she asked soberly, still with her head down.

“If I fall asleep, I’ll wake up having mutated into something grotesque. It’s not very specific though, as to what that means.”

“Why didn’t the climber folks or previous owners suffer the curse.”

“The curse only takes effect when someone of non-priesterly descent attempts to play it. But any of us who’ve come across it will be impacted.”

Lyndy repositioned uneasily. “So what idiot would do that—play it I mean?”

“Dr. Tarner would. Just look at him.”

“Good point.” The Spitfire downed the last of her drink, then cleared her throat, glancing to the other side of the lake. “Rita, curses aren’t real. They’re only real in so much as you believe in their power. It’s the way I can climb the sacred mountains and have nothing bad happen to me.”

“I know. God, I hope you’re right.”

---

Lyndy Life Observation: I once went on a first date with a guy and we were deciding where to eat. I suggested In-N-Out burger—cheap and we could sit outside—and he told me he didn’t like In-N-Out burger, so I made up a fake emergency and left. 

Fast forward 30 years. The boulevards were hectic with speeding cars, but foot traffic was hard to come by—aside from an occasional runner or yoga-pants mom with a stroller.

Felt weird being in Vegas again. In a way she couldn’t quite put in words, she appreciated this town—had a crude sort of authenticity most other cities didn’t. There were other reasons she felt at home, but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge them right now. Putting those thoughts out of her brain might help avoid falling into the traps of her addictions. Or on the other hand, it may just delay an inevitable spiral of descent.

It was one of the hazy winter days in the valley, where skies take on a silver tone and contrails blend to a point they’re indistinguishable. She’d parked a quarter mile away, wanting to appear on scene as a pedestrian; no doubt this property was under constant surveillance, with modern color cameras pointed all directions.

But when it came to casino building, it totally was an odd location—must be the land was cheap. The community which surrounded was residential, an established working-class neighborhood; some unkept areas had an especially blue collar feel. Other parts were newer communities, what they called “master planned”, which translated to enormous identical stucco boxes. But in her position it was hard to judge anyone’s choice in housing.

And because the terrain tilted gradually approaching the red rocks, one caught glimpses of McCarran airport and the outline of the strip, miles in the distance.

The sidewalk took her across a bridge. A nearby flood control ditch, devoid of vegetation, held several overturned Target shopping carts, unmistakable by their bold red color.

Every other corner in the neighborhood had an ugly strip mall—except for one, which was done up for more high-end customers. Whomever was the mall owner must have bought a thousand palm trees alone. As if to rub salt in the wounds, this one literally featured a Whole Foods establishment. She vowed to set foot in those as little as possible, but a part of her was attracted to their fancy displays and oceans of buffet style food.

Six doors down from the Whole Foods was a gentleman’s club.

She’d been thinking about Rita on the drive over—the two were close in age—and the reason they hadn’t stayed in touch over the decades. It’s cause they were never friends in the first place. Looking back now, it wasn’t for a reason she could have possibly conceived in her youth; when she was still hot stuff. The ridiculous reason, given how life unfolded and everything she’d been through, was that Miss Lovelace had always been envious of her.

Mind blown. She knew that now.

On a bleak Nevada day, feeling the weight of gravity, pressing on down the sidewalk, old, nearly alone and broke. To think Miss Lovelace was jealous of her. Whenever one of the increasingly complex schemes she put herself in spiraled out of control, well, there was Lyndy to bail her out. But on top of that, it boiled down to one main thing: in spite of the fact Rita was literally a fashion model, Lyndy always got more attention. Small comfort.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever buy something at a Fry’s Electronics store? It’s like, yeah, we’re gonna let you checkout, but first here’s a mile long tunnel of sugary delights, tempting you with every candy variety known to humankind.

She was an attractive woman, in a modern and euro-centric sense; Lyndy estimated no older than thirty-five years, with dark hair and brown eyes. On her wrist, a pink ladies Rolex.

First impression: this is the type of person who grocery shops at Whole Foods.

“Step into my office,” spoke Lyndy grandly, a little joke as she held the springy screen door for Mrs. Aloyan. Following her in, Lyndy ascended the set of three stairs padded with a kind of blue astro-turf material—which flexed—as they entered the single-wide trailer.

With an open palm, Lyndy invited Mrs. Aloyan to squeeze into a seat at her table; it only accommodated two. Meantime Lyndy opened the fridge, where she knew a pitcher of cold iced tea awaited. Raising the plastic pitcher she gestured to Mrs. Aloyan, but the lady shook her head. The metal bench creaked as she eased down. Not because she was heavy, rather, everything with the trailer creaked.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening,” spoke Mrs. Aloyan, with no feeling whatsoever.

“Yeah … well my plans of watching Nick-at-Nite and drinking alone are ruined,” replied Lyndy facetiously. Mrs. Aloyan didn’t laugh.

She wore a simple gold wedding band on one hand, vastly overshadowed by its flashy neighbor, a one-and-a-half carat diamond ring. Some might call it gaudy, but she’d expected no less for a person who drove a hundred-thousand dollar SUV.

Seated at the small travel lunch table, Mrs. Aloyan’s gaze fixed straight ahead at nothing but a wall and Lyndy’s Arizona Highways calendar hanging flat. Her countenance was grim but also calm, indicative of intelligence. With her finger and thumb she twice gripped the white-gold colored ring, rocking it gently back and forth by a quarter turn. Otherwise both of her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Observing this, Lyndy stood on her toes, stretching for the highest cabinet to recover a pint of tequila. She placed two shot glasses on the table. Momentarily Lyndy wondered if this woman might be Muslim, and thus refuse the offering. But no refusal came, so she deposited a half-inch of amber liquid in each glass, knowing it was not a fine tequila, but the best she could afford on dwindling savings. The woman downed it as if the trailer were a crummy night club.

Lyndy took a seat across from her, studying Mrs. Aloyan’s facial expression. So far no introductions had been made, nor a reason provided for Mrs. Aloyan being here. Ready to break the ice, Lyndy was beaten to the punch as the woman abruptly inhaled.

“I know a lady in Tucson. People respect her like royalty; come to her for advice. So I told her about my problem.” Mrs. Aloyan paused, breathing deeply. “My problem,” she repeated. Lowering her head, Mrs. Aloyan ran fingers through her length of brown hair, then redid the buttons on her coat, tying the belt in front. After stalling, she continued, “this friend says you have an ability to bring powerful and evil men to their knees, and you can help me.”

“Alrighty,” said Lyndy, with hands stuffed in the pocket of her sweater, unsure how to respond to that. Because maybe it was accurate, or maybe it was overselling accomplishments a great deal. The legacy of her two former employers, The Lovelace Corporation and Chan’s Bail Bonds, was a mixed bag at best. Though people often spoke of them in grandiose terms.

“Could you expand on that a little?” Lyndy requested.

Mrs. Aloyan nodded. “My husband is, or was, a successful construction contractor. That’s why we have all this … material stuff.” She was tilting her head toward the car parked outside. “But because we are different, people often treated us like we’re some kinda reality television show couple. It’s not fair. He is not a joke. He is a good, honest man, with a kind heart.” A tear, forming in her right eye, glimmered in the light. “He didn’t deserve this. Doing the right thing mattered to him.”

It can be a challenge to determine if somebody is lying. But there’s a certain tone of voice, a look in a person’s eye and tortured body language. Those three traits in combination, you just can’t fake. Mrs. Aloyan, despite her affluence had a candidness, and Lyndy was convinced what she was hearing now must come from a place of truth. Whether the lady would leave out important details, that was the only danger.

“He was working on a new casino—huge contract. It’s off strip, Zohara Ranch, ten miles north and west of downtown.” She sniffed. “The concept for this one is to generate a fresh image, attract a different type of client. The sort of young people with venture capital money, and who see themselves as evolved, lacking a palate for the old-style Vegas ways.”

“I know the type.” Those were the same kids who wanted to fix up her janky Mustang.

“I know he was stressed.”

“What do mean?”

“We stopped … being intimate. I’m certain he wasn’t cheating either. Just lost his drive. That’s when you know a man is stressed.”

“Can’t say I disagree,” replied Lyndy. She tilted the shot glass into her mouth.

“A month ago on a Tuesday I get this phone call in the middle of the afternoon. It’s from the police. Something terrible happened. I ask them, is my husband okay? Is he hurt? Is he at the hospital? They wouldn’t answer. Said they were sending someone to pick me up.”

“So I arrive at the scene and it’s my husband’s BMW alright. Halfway on a curb, partially wrecked, pushed up against a fencepost. And there’s blood on the driver’s seat—splattered on the steering wheel. A lot. He’d been in an accident, but also a struggle. Looked like somebody ran him off the road, then pulled him from his car.”

“So your husband could still be alive?”

Mrs. Aloyan nodded. “Sometimes I allow myself to believe it. I have hope. Like one day, he’s going to contact me. Perhaps he’s living somewhere off grid …  in Mexico. He had to hide out, but he has an explanation and he’s sending for me. It’s been over four weeks. That’s most likely a fantasy. But it’s a good fantasy.”

Lyndy slouched, resting against the wall while staring at a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Reaching down, she slipped off her work boots, allowing her feet to relax and breathe a bit—hoping Mrs. Aloyan wouldn’t notice how stinky they were. “Look I hate to do this, but you came to me. This isn’t like … a therapy session.”

The two ladies locked eyes. “What are you implying? You don’t believe me?” Though hardly detectable before, an accent was coming through more and more.

Casually Lyndy waved her hand, then shoved her palms back in her pockets. “No, no, it’s not that at all. To tell the truth Mrs. Aloyan, you don’t seem very sad.”

“How would you know what I’m feeling?” she challenged.

Lyndy pressed her lips together and shrugged. “I think you’re honest. You just strike me as angry more than anything.”

Mrs. Aloyan’s chin sank, as though guilty of not mourning her husband enough.

“What did the investigators say to you?”

“Confidentially, they’re suspicious he faked his own death.” She sighed in frustration. “Like, to get away from me, responsibilities and our life. They think he would do that.”

“Would he?”

“I don’t know anymore. That’s why I’m angry. But I do have another theory, which if correct, would prove why my husband was murdered. It’s what I’m asking you to investigate. I believe his crew discovered something of significance buried on that construction site, and my husband wasn’t comfortable moving forward. It happened before on a smaller job, and there were months of delays. Plus additional expenses.”

Lyndy narrowed her focus; now she was intrigued. “You’re gonna have to give me a little more to go on.”

“It’s all I can figure. You know, like fossils or important Native American artifacts. Or, or, radioactive materials.” Mrs. Aloyan slid a folded over check across the table. “It’s half the money up front. I promise it’ll clear.”

Eyeballing the paper rectangle, Lyndy pawed it across the table into her clasp, lifting an edge as if checking her hand in a game of blackjack.

“There’s something more. Let’s say my husband is deceased, then I absolutely know who killed him. If you can bring the developer, Malcolm McNair to justice, I will give you another $30k.” Lyndy recognized the name of a prominent hotel magnate. His company was McNair holdings. From following Clark County news, word was he’d earned an unsavory reputation in the sense that much of his real estate investments were in timeshares and other tarnished sectors of the business world. People like The Spitfire would never rub elbows with such a tycoon, except in some back alley speakeasy where no one had a name—or an AA meeting perhaps.

“That second part of the agreement will be kept between you and me. I won’t mention it to Rhonda Thurgood. Just a straight up bonus. The first part—proving my theory—that’s the original $30k.”

With 30 grand on the line Lyndy hated to talk a potential client out of it. Still, she was unable to hold her tongue. “Of course I’ll take the job, but you do have to realize. If you’re correct—there’s something of significance in the ground—then … I mean … they would have covered it up or destroyed it. Am I right?”

Mrs. Aloyan tilted her head to one side. She’d considered this too, but answered confidently: “What if it’s something which can’t be easily erased?”

---

The next morning …

A giant corner bank LED display was flashing two percent interest rate on CDs and a temperature of 36 degrees F. Somewhere close by, a woodpecker, unhindered by winter cold hammered away, likely searching for burrowed insects. Alas her eyes were no longer sharp enough to spot it.

Why does it seem birds never get cold?

Yawning and shivering in the strip mall parking lot, Lyndy pulled a thrift store sweater over her shoulders and tight around her body. Her metabolism certainly didn’t bring the heat anymore. She knew at last why old people favored waterbeds.

Slipping her thumbs through cutouts in the sleeves, she let the tops of her hands remain covered in yarn. Far off in a swirl of mist and city’s worth of chimney smoke, she could see the blue profile of the San Francisco peaks, upper reaches blanketed in week old snow. Spikey triangular outlines of pine trees stuck up like cake decorations along the ridges. When she was younger those mountains fascinated her, appearing sacred and mysterious. She pictured them as an untouched sanctuary from modern civilization, in the way she imagined Mount Fuji to be. But up close they have mining roads all over, broad ski runs, even mountain bike trails. They’re sacred for sure, but not to everyone. And certainly every inch well explored.

Beside a brick planter box, the white fastback had its front hood propped, looking a little downtrodden and pathetic. Working with the sun at her back she squinted, attempting to resolve the oil level on the dipstick by observing a series of hash marks. She scraped at these with a thumb nail. Then she wiped it down with a rag, tilting it so it reflected a rainbow spectrum, knowing more was needed. By her feet, a row of silver-colored plastic oil cartons. Another joy of classic car ownership.

It was a glorious new day, still not dead, and alas she was without a funnel as she uncapped a quart of fresh motor oil. Keeping a steady hand—despite the shivers—she directed the syrupy flow at a narrow throat in the engine block, managing to send the majority down the chute. But it wouldn’t be too noticeable if her aim was off. Her main concern was not to gunk up the mall parking lot, or waste any of the precious commodity. To think, somebody put this contraption together in 1967 and with no major rebuilds, it still powered the car.

Alas, whenever you need a funnel, you won’t find one to save your life.

She sniffed her runny nose, wiping it up and down on her sleeve while letting the plastic bottle drain to nothing. A whole quart. Once finished she tossed this empty in the garbage, bringing the remainders back to the trunk, saving them for future top-offs. With the Ford shored up for the time being, she tightened the oil cap and replaced the dipstick. Then she allowed the hood on its creaky hinges to slam. Time for a light and healthy breakfast.

She circled back around to the trunk, where The Spitfire had a stash of food items she’d obtained on deep discount. Here’s a life tip: there’s typically a rack at the rear of the supermarket—by the entrance to the loading dock for example—where they dump clearance food close to expiring. It’s crap nobody wants. They keep it hidden so you may have to ask. The prices are often written in sharpie. But as long as the date hasn’t passed, you’re probably good. And you can save a fortune on food if you aren’t picky. The Spitfire had given up on being picky about the year 1988.

The only drawback is it can be embarrassing to shop there, so you might need to visit early in the morning.

Climbing onto the hood she removed a pair of near expiration low-calorie yogurt cups from a paper sack; better for you than Lucky Charms cereal. Settling in facing the highway, she let her cowgirl boots dangle off the front fender. This way she could watch big rigs as she scooped strawberry yogurt with a plastic spoon. Struggling with the grade, one of those red logging trucks downshifted on the highway and let out a puff of black smoke.

Behind her she could hear kids giggling. For some reason she expected they were laughing at her. Her dented car perhaps. Or the image of a skinny old woman in a crocheted sweater, with short-cut patchy white and black hair. Probably thought she looked like a witch. She twisted at the hips to confront them, but it was something entirely mundane: a puppy. One of those French bulldogs with a purple collar. People called them “Frenchies”.

She’d forgotten again, most people didn’t see her.

The two kids had the little black dog on an eight-foot leash, and as they rolled a ball it snorted and tried its best to chase the ball down. The silly dog with a head and ears too large for its body, kept tripping on its own feet. That’s why the children were giggling. Their mom with a minivan was watching them, talking on a phone. A family taking a break on the road to some other state. She could remember her daughter being their age; Maribel would have loved playing with the puppy. Because she made friends easily she would have marched right up to the other kids, asking their names. Maribel always wanted a dog.

Lyndy turned back to the highway, continuing to spoon the yogurt. Scraping the bottom of one of the cups, she tasked her mind to formulate a plan. From the front pocket of her purse, Lyndy retrieved bifocals and the folded over check. Written in an amount of $15k, it bore the printed names of Mr. and Mrs. Aloyan. Their address she recognized, a fancy street of million dollar Spanish style homes in north Vegas. She held it up to the light. It had a watermark of a flying eagle and the bank logo. The ink signature of Mrs. Aloyan was firm and crisp. Everything seemed legit. Lyndy folded up her glasses and put them away.

Sometimes when she received a check of this nature, she tried to block it from her mind, not considering it real until the total value showed up in her account. She would attempt to cash it today. Something told her this one would go through. Mrs. Aloyan had promised another thirty, and she wouldn’t even tell Rhonda about the bonus. Yet that part seemed like a total moonshot. If Chan were here, he’d scoff at her, compare the job to a wild goose chase. But Rhonda was different, seeming to have no preference as long as her people got paid. And it was alright with Lyndy because she felt the same way, happy to take Mrs. Aloyan’s dough; would fill many prescriptions among other things.

She braced herself with one hand. The sun was warming her weary bones, the sugary yogurt restoring her like an electric vehicle charger, making her feel alive. Her strength was returning, not as it stood in her twenties, but good enough. Her thoughts drifted next to the kooky Lovelaces.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

This restaurant was loud, bustling, but standing alone in the waiting area near the hostess podium, no one paid The Spitfire any attention. The chromed-out entry was poorly lit. She kept shifting her stance from one leg to another, experiencing a familiar discomfort having stemmed from decades of wearing heels. Using her violet colored fingernails, she liberated one of their glossy, laminated menus, bringing it closer to her nose. At least it was the type of diner with pictures of the food items, because Lyndy refused to wear reading glasses, and her eyesight was shot.  

When you’re old and you’re a woman, you gradually become less and less visible. It’s like being a ghost, and worse when folks once knew you as the stunner, a head turner. Life in the west turns into your own personal Sunset Boulevard. But when no one sees you, no one thinks of you. And despite the fact it’s a bitter pill, getting older does come with certain advantages. Lyndy’s newfound ability to blend in had become something of special power.

Adjusting her purse strap she continued to clutch the stiff menu. Going onto her toes she craned her neck, scanning the restaurant for any sign of Maribel. At first nothing. Behind her someone’s mobile phone buzzed. The noise was bone jarring, like a warning from an upset rattlesnake. Whipping around she watched the man’s whole body practically vibrating with this motorized contraption in his pants. As the young man flicked open the phone, brought it glowing near his right ear, he began shouting: “Hello! Hello! I can barely hear you. I’m at the Denny’s … I’m at the Denny’s! Speak up man.” He stuck a pinky in his left ear.

Folks were turning their heads, wondering why all the ruckus, while the fellow jerked and shoved his way into a corner. Was a time, not long ago, people would’ve considered this behavior rude. It’s why the phone booth was invented, but try finding one of those nowadays; better chance at seeing a condor in the wild. Places like this made her miss The Vanishing Point. That old seventies roadhouse, with its cast of vibrant characters and cowboy code of justice, would’ve tossed a guy for being so discourteous. The Spitfire shook her head.

Then she felt a tap on the shoulder from someone much taller, and their hot breath as they spoke directly in her hear: “Mom, it’s me.”

Lyndy turned, locking eyes with her only daughter.

“I got us a table already, in the back.” She’d been moving fast, coming to get her. “It’s around the corner, where it’s harder to see.” Ironic.

Several Minutes later …

The Spitfire stabbed the lid, then dumped a creamer cup into her coffee mug, stirring it with the red straw as she crinkled up the plastic container. She preferred truck stop coffee over fancy places which started with the letter S. This coffee reminded her of it. Discretely she was eyeing the twenty-year-old across from her, a satisfying and yet surreal thing to consider: she once despised changing this beautiful person’s poopy diapers.

Her daughter was known for having a charming, talkative personality, inheriting some of her mother’s characteristics. But on this winter’s morning, Maribel Ellis was in a mood. Quiet and introspective, her gaze fixated on mundane events happening out the window in the parking lot—two men filling a pothole with gravel and hot tar. The commercial space was surrounded in leafless willow trees, indicating the area had once been a woods.

Her daughter’s earrings sparkled in the sunshine.

“I haven’t seen that outfit before,” Lyndy commented. It was a cute fitted blouse, tucked into stretchy jeans, nice enough to wear to work at a law firm. Highlighted her figure.

Maribel smiled shyly, flashing her straight teeth—a thing Lyndy was grateful she’d been able to provide for her daughter.

“Dad bought it for me.”

“Oh I figured,” Lyndy replied, drawing her purse nearer on her lap. “What’s a matter with you today?” she probed.

“You shouldn’t have ordered the Denver omelet,” replied Maribel, being subversive. “They use too much cheese here, and they’re going to smother it in gauc and sour cream.”

“You’re one to talk. I’m not the one delivering pizzas.”

Maribel had been attending community college, in addition to a part-time pizza gig.

“I talked to dad; told him I wanna quit school.”

Yikes.

Lyndy took a sip of the bitter coffee. Right about here, she was supposed to ask, what did Dad advise on the matter. Did he approve of dropping out of community college altogether, after several difficult restarts? This coming from a man who earned an advanced degree in geology from a state university. But anything to do with her ex Kyle—member of a prominent California family living in Lake Arrowhead—was a sticky matter. Let’s face it, child support monies had gotten her through some difficult transitions, and now this daughter had to feel strange being the one Ellis grandchild born from a love affair, rather than a marriage.

Lyndy raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking you want to do?”

“Highway patrol academy?” The way she said, came framed as a question.

“Do you mean like, Arizona Highway Patrol?”

Maribel shook her head. “No way. Are you kidding?”

Her thoughts shifted again, this time to another semi-famous Californian, now retired from law enforcement and living in some rather unfortunate circumstances. She could picture Dale’s knobby-tired Bronco now, his shiny badge and his cowboy hat. The way he drove that thing like it was stolen. The way it felt when he held her in his arms, and how hard it was to watch him suffer. And unlike Kyle, Dale never had two spare nickels to rub together.

But should she give Maribel that Mr. Chan style lecture? The one about, “Maybe you should do something else with your life, instead of putting yourself in danger?” Because of course the pay and benefits would be superior, if she were to become a California Highway Patrol versus in the neighboring states. Yet California was a place she hated to tread. And crime rates were much higher there.

Lyndy exhaled, placing her hands on the table, reaching for her daughter. “I think you know that I’d rather you finish school. But I mean, if this something that … you need to do. I wouldn’t stop you.”

“And you’re kind of finished with the golden state aren’t you?”

Lyndy nodded. “It’s complicated. But I need to remain here.”

Maribel waved her hand grandly, in the direction of Ash Fork and the rest of northern Arizona. “Wouldn’t wanna miss out on all this, right.” She was being facetious.

Lyndy didn’t laugh, instead placing a clenched fist near her mouth. “Sheesh. Mom. It’s okay. The program wouldn’t start for another six months.”

---

1 hour later …

Life Observation: Watching a TV commercial with two people in space suits, bombing around in a moon buggy in and out of craters, and a lawyer warning comes across the bottom of the screen: Do Not Attempt.

Piloting a 38 year old American rust bucket—hastily constructed at best—in a world full of modern SUVs and minivans, made you feel like a genuine time traveler. If she pulled some of her seventies outfits from storage, she really could look the part. This pearl white Ford Mustang, once the epitome of performance and general awesomeness, now was held together with baling wire and duct tape, literally. Some amount of prayer too. The motor, with over two-hundred thousand clicks on the odometer, was a marvel of longevity in its own right. The whole thing wobbled down the highway like a WWII duck boat. Wouldn’t pass smog in the state of California, so it operated as a vintage vehicle in the tri-states of Arizona, Nevada and Cali.

Frequently young hipsters, with a wad of money in the pockets, offered her cash to take it off her hands, claiming interest in restoring it. They called it a “barn find”. But hell, due to its rushed construction, in a year where millions were cranked out like tchotchkes, lacked any corrosion inhibitors. In present condition the thing would cost at best $100k to restore. And why? If she had $100k for a car, she’d buy a late model Porsche.

She realized she was breathing hard, clenching her fists about the steering wheel and daydreaming. Life is messy and humans are a complicated species. Mostly it seems having intelligence is a curse. But it’s twice as bad if you lack a formal education. Trust me. And there were far more ghastly things her daughter could have revealed to her on this day. What if she’d said she wanted to be in the same business as her mom? Shudder.

Lyndy checked her Casio watch, noting she was early for her next appointment. On the other hand, it was a good time for blood pressure medication. Next up on the agenda, a visit to the local one-star hotel and card club.

With one arm she uncapped the brownish plastic bottle—safety cap be damned—and flicked a white tablet onto her tongue. Then she shifted into third, squeezing at the same time to clamp the cap back on the container of like 5 dollar pills.

Cruising on old Route 66 northwest from Seligman, Arizona sun shining through gaps in the clouds, her thoughts drifted to her youth. Some people claimed to hate the seventies. Technology was neanderthal level; the answering machine was considered a trick invention. Computers were a marvel you saw in a university setting, or NASA, and “space invaders” a cutting edge video game. In The Spitfire’s mind though, and in her nightly dreams, those were the glory days.

But anyway, things weren’t all bad now. They still made Tab colas, and you could find it cold if you went to the right convenience store.

Twisting the wheel she veered into a half-gravel parking lot, a place with more motorcycles and ranch trucks than autos. Upon entering the lobby, you’d be greeted by the massive head of a twelve point elk. In one window, a vacancy sign was flashing: 30 dollars a night. But if you took that deal, you ended up in the worst of 25 rooms, one next to the utility closet with a wall mounted AC that squealed like an angry javelina all night long. What’s the sound of a javelina you ask? There’s one way to find out.

With Chan’s Bail Bonds out of operation since Bush senior’s presidency, this place was the next best thing. Miss Rhonda Thurgood, part Navajo, managed the hotel and controlled the ancillary work. A trickle of the extra work went to her, a trickle to Rochelle Bishop, and the rest to young men with basically nothing to lose. The old dogs of the business were long gone or dead.

“Why must women live so long?” she wondered.

Fisting her keyring, she rapped on the office back door. Faintly she could hear the classic Joe Diffie tune, “Pickup Man”, emanating from a clock radio in one of the nearby rooms. Her nose twitched. For some reason it smelled like a diaper back here; maybe the sewer line was backing up.

The door creaked open several inches, stopping abruptly as it reached the limit of a steel chain. From the shadows, someone peered out and she could hear them breathing.

“Come on in,” said Rhonda, as she unhooked the chain. In her other hand she was holding a pistol, which she quickly set down on a stack of carbon copies and pre-printed room receipts. Her cramped office had stacks of loose paper everywhere, a half-dozen mis-matched file cabinets and barely any place left to sit. Resting on the carpet she had an electric space heater, as the office lacked central air. Being near that thing made you feel like you were being breathed on by a dragon. Atop her desk, a stack of twenty dollar bills two inches tall. She’d been counting money under a yellow desk lamp.

Lyndy sidled her way in, as Rhonda deliberately locked the door.

“Ah Miss Martinez. Just who I was hoping to meet,” she said, her voice soft and speech surprisingly deliberate. “The legendary Mr. Chan spoke so highly of you.”

Really? Could that be true? More likely he’d offered something like: “Melinda will be a thorn in your side in every conceivable way, and just as you are about to cut her loose, somehow ensnare a fugitive worth keeping her on another month or two.”

Lyndy rubbed her palms across her face,  bracing an elbow against a small bit of exposed wood paneling. She was hiding a smirk, thinking of all the ways she’d made Mr. Chan miserable.

Rhonda Thurgood was quiet, finishing up some calculations and scribbling notes on a ledger.

The Spitfire cleared her throat, wanting to break the ice. “Ya know I used to clean rooms at a place like this, when my daughter was little. Did that for like a year.” She shook her head, faking a chuckle, a little out of embarrassment. “I think I planned to turn my life around somehow. But it didn’t work.” Kept getting sucked back in.

“So did I,” replied Rhonda. “Started when I was thirteen and didn’t finish until I was twenty-three. It was one of my three jobs.”

Right. Probably shouldn’t belittle my employer’s business.

Rhonda slapped a fax bulletin onto the only empty surface, the dusty corner of the desk. “Inmate escaped from a medium security camp. Training to be a firefighter. Reward is $10k.”

Lyndy didn’t respond, so Rhonda moved on.

“This casino is having trouble catching a rogue employee who made off with $15K in poker chips. Need help.”

Always felt a little sickly, turning down any kinda work. But of course, there would be no point if you got offed by organized crime.

Rhonda nodded, knowing Lyndy’s lack of words meant she was declining the offers. “Okay.” The next item she presented was just a tiny white calling card. It had a phone number, Nevada area code, and a one word name: Aloyan. “This person offering thirty thousand dollars, but will not tell me what the job is.”

Lyndy picked up the card by the edge.

“She tells me she was referred here, by a lady named Rita Lovelace.”

“Who?” Lyndy echoed, unsure she’d heard correctly.

“I was about to ask you the same exact question. Who is Rita Lovelace?” Rhonda demanded to know, maybe hoping this person could give more referrals.

A wide grin formed on Lyndy’s face. Just hearing the name spoken aloud conjured up a spirit of adventure.

“That name does mean something special to you,” reasoned Miss Thurgood.

“Yeah,” Lyndy sniffed, flipping the card over. “In my day, pretty much everybody knew that name.”

Rhonda folded her arms, pausing her activities. “I mean, thirty thousand dollars, that’s like a kidnapping or something, right? You have to help locate a person who is being held against their will?”

Lyndy was still grinning at the card. “Do you know when I was your age Rhonda, I used to buy a bag of frosted animal crackers and eat the whole dang thing for breakfast. Wash it down with roadhouse coffee. Drive for two hours to a job. Somehow I stayed skinny too.”

Rhonda snickered. “You aren’t actually going to call this lady?”

---

Later that evening …

The sun was sinking behind the hills, temperature falling as the night winds took hold. Though a quarter mile distant and out of view, one could hear semi-trucks on the interstate, Jake-braking as they descended the grade from Williams. That thump-thump-thumping sound penetrating the atmosphere for miles.

Using a green plastic scooper—like one from a grocery store pinto bean barrel—Lyndy transferred feed pellets to a trough for the anxiously waiting goats. Yeah. It had come down to this, feeding and guarding her landlord’s goats to earn a discount on the rent.

Know what’s cool about goats? Absolutely nothing.

Her rundown airstream sat smack dab in the middle of a weedy pasture, allowing her nightly presence to keep coyotes at bay, or during the day a golden eagle from air-lifting a goat baby. On rare occasions, there were even human poachers. Why would somebody poach a goat? Hunger maybe? Honestly she never knew.

With a garden hose she topped off their water, contained in a kiddie-pool sized plastic tub which they managed to foul pretty much every three days.

In the midst of this act, thinking she might need a flashlight, she noticed the white headlights, angling from the paved road. Her driveway being a half-mile long, had become rutted and gravely. Cars made a lot of noise as they approached, but this vehicle glided as if hovering on a cushion of air. As it came closer she could tell it was a sleek black Range Rover. Rhonda Thurgood had given the contact directions. And if this deal went through, Rhonda would keep 10 grand.