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Gasoline and Matches Part-12

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

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Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: A girl working as a server at the V-P roadhouse returned from maternity leave. She showed us the total hospital bill for her delivery, which I remember being around $125 and we thought that was a lot.

Helen, nursing a chilled Zima and Lyndy bouncing Maribel on her lap, sat across from one another at the main floor coffee table. All eyes were studying the triangular shaped puzzle piece in front of them, trying to make sense of it. This included Maribel.

The edges of the triangle measured one-and-a-half by two inches.

The paper slip was a kind of brittle, coarse periodical material turning yellowish with age. Made Lyndy wonder if it had in fact been torn from a magazine.

On one side, the missing full page must’ve displayed a pen and ink illustration. Only a small segment of the drawing remained, showing detail of a passageway. This tiny, smudged portion reminded Lyndy of a dungeon or sewer map, with shaded corners and a single 90-degree bend. The tunnels—assuming that’s what they were—would’ve continued in two separate legs out into the absent nine tenths of the page. On the flipside, the bottom right corner, a page number appeared: 41. In the footer, along the margin, four capital letters: “J-W-M-R”. These were faint, and Lyndy had no idea what they meant.

Lyndy paused to rest her eyes, running her palms up the side of her head and over her ears to massage her neck. She exhaled a frustrated sigh. Helen took a sip of her Zima, then put a hand in front of her lips while belching daintily.

Mari slapped the table and cried: “DA-DA”.

“Yeah, good thinkin’ Vanilla Bean,” muttered Lyndy. “Kyle might have ideas on this, but no can do. That plan opens a whole nother can-a-worms. Remember, we don’t want daddy to know we’re working on this.”

Reaching for a jar of applesauce and a thumb-size spoon, Lyndy attempted to deliver a scoop of food to Mari’s lips. The baby jerked her head away. Testing a different strategy, this time making that sputtering helicopter sound-effect with her lips, Lyndy twirled the spoon in a descending spiral to entice the baby. No luck. Mari observed, but pressed her lips firmly together despite how close the spoon came.

It crossed her mind; the baby had gotten this stubbornness from the Martinez side. She set aside the jar and spoon.

With her finger and thumb, Lyndy tried rotating the paper, hoping to make sense of the partial illustration. Few alive could match The Spitfire when it came to knowledge of the vast Mojave Desert region. If ever appearing as a category on Jeopardy, she knew she’d clean up. As a youth, she’d borrowed and read cover-to-cover nearly every book Lyndy could find on the subject at her library. This amounted to some 35 different works. She even purchased a few outstanding titles covering both human and natural history. These days housed in her storage locker, was a tub full of old maps waiting to be explored.

Still, none of these items paired up remotely against this obscure drawing. At least none she could recall. Which was frustrating.

“Ever have one of those 1000-piece puzzles from K-Mart,” Helen remarked, “and the middle piece disappears behind a sofa, making the whole thing pointless.”

Lyndy groaned in the affirmative. “Basically, that in reverse.”

There were three possibilities Lyndy could imagine. The map showed a portion of a slot canyon, or of a cave with somewhat sharp corners. Or third, most likely, a mine.

Page 41 of what? What book!

It occurred to Lyndy already there might be a closed, abandoned mineshaft in the area where Sabina went missing. Although every Joshua Tree map she could get her hands on, showed no existing claims in that section of the park. Of course, rangers were known to omit cultural sites on public maps. They’d been doing it for decades, saving themselves the hassle of rescuing mindless tourists who were victims of their own curiosity. Many of the well-known shafts were already filled in or fenced securely, and yet rescues were common. So, assuming there was a hidden mine there, she’d have to find evidence of this in some obscure reference.

Lyndy glanced to the TV, then to the smug face of Maribel, who again refused to ingest any food.

“Baby won’t eat?” queried Helen.

“No. And it’s really frustrating.”

Helen squeezed her watch. “Speaking of which, I should get back to my kiddo. I told the babysitter I’d only be gone an hour and a half.”

A few minutes later …

After receiving poor marks in “home-ec” class, Aunt Rose once proclaimed no sane gentleman would ever want Melinda Martinez to raise their child. Who was laughing now?

By anyone’s measure, Kyle Ellis qualified as a gentleman.

While wiping counters, sweeping the floor in the kitchen and clearing away two days’ worth of clutter, Lyndy used the cordless phone to dial Jackie Cordray.

Miss Cordray picked up after a single ring, eager to hear the news. Without going into much detail on the circumstance, Lyndy informed her the Volkswagen sedan had been recovered. Jackie seemed astounded at the news. One could hear the relief in her voice. Made sense.

Clearly things were becoming dicey; she wanted to give Jackie an easy out. So, in reasoned tones Lyndy offered to turn the evidence over to the police and try again to get them to do their jobs. Lyndy explained the disappointing reality: despite the high cost to obtain the car, nothing of value had been found inside, save for one tiny piece of paper. Whomever dumped it had beaten them to the punch by scrubbing it first.

Of her own accord, she hoped Jackie would come to the realization the situation was getting too intense. Jackie would have none of it. Instead, she offered Lyndy another $25k to keep going. Hard to pass up. Plus, in the time when Lyndy was busy with the towing company, Jackie had been doing some amateur sleuthing of her own.

She’d deduced where the art teacher, Tigerlilly, resided—which hadn’t been easy. It’d only come by haunting every art gallery and gift shop in the mountains, twisting the arms of the owners. Jackie was able to provide Lyndy an address in Crestline; a home and studio complex Tigerlilly apparently shared with an assortment of oddball roommates. She and Jackie made an agreement, that if Jackie would bring the Mustang back up the hill, they could swap for the Jetta.

It took several hours to clean the cabin, but Lyndy didn’t want Kyle returning home to a messy house—after Maribel, Fall River was his pride and joy. Becky would’ve done that at least. She had a lot of time to think; about how foolish she’d been trying to take on the impound yard scammers by herself. And about the unknown criminal ring at the heart of it, folks who might be just a little peeved at her going “full Hulk-mode”, utterly demolishing their illegal business. Course, she’d warned them.

While Mari took a nap, Lyndy made a list of ingredients for meals in the coming week. She wanted to cook something special for Kyle, having it ready when he arrived. It didn’t seem like anything else could go sideways.

You know the feeling, “what else could possibly go wrong?”

Preparing for an uneventful trip to the grocery store, Lyndy put sleepy Mari in her car seat, belting it down in the black Range Rover. She didn’t bother styling her hair.

There were two supermarkets serving the Arrowhead area worth shopping in. Of these, only one carried the yuppyish foods Kyle preferred—meaning a kind of Whole Food’s establishment. And every store here came with the customary for the mountains, cramped parking spaces. Lyndy was minding her own business, simply trying to snag a spot when she happened to pull-in next to another Range Rover. Because nearly all Range Rovers are glossy black, these two parked next to each other were identical twins.

Reaching for her purse, Lyndy made an important mental note that Kyle’s over-priced luxury SUV was the one parked on the right.

Then as she unbelted the car seat, Lyndy heard a hauntingly familiar voice, that of an ex-bestie. “You made the front page of the paper,” announced the female.

It was Rita Lovelace—living legend—in the bratty flesh. If Lyndy hadn’t known for a fact she was deadpan sober, she might’ve chalked this up to a hallucination.

Even so, every muscle fiber in Lyndy’s body contracted at once. She whipped around, spying a forty-year-old version of Miss Lovelace. Her deep brown hair, once flawless and uniform, had strands of silver mixing in—though still chest length and straight. Her eyebrows seemed to have taken the brunt of the graying hit. She maintained full, neatly trimmed bangs which served to hide them. This added a certain youthful radiance. Her lips were thinner, face had creases and age spots peppered across her nose. Lyndy had those too, though Rita’s were easily covered in makeup.

No hello.

No greetings of any kind were exchanged. Legend had it breaking up with a close female friend was harder than breaking up with a man. Lyndy was starting to believe this.

Rita had been in the midst of re-arranging sacks of groceries in the back of her vehicle, but paused to deliver her one-liner.

“I did what?” That was all Lyndy could think to say.

“You made the cover of the paper,” Rita repeated, with a sneer, belying something juicy Rita knew and Lyndy didn’t. By this coy tone, Lyndy knew it must not be anything flattering on that paper.

Lyndy raised one eyebrow. “Huh? How so?”

“One sec,” added Rita, turning sideways and squeezing between an adjacent car to unlock her driver’s door. Opening the door a crack, she retrieved a folded newspaper from the side pocket. With a proud smile, Rita returned to face Lyndy, letting the paper flop open.

At the top of the color picture was Maribel, looking cute with a bow in her hair. Next to her, The Spitfire, flat on her back on a picnic blanket. Her chestnut hair was a mess, some of it tangled in strands across her face. She was obviously asleep, sprinkled in a handful of French fries while seagulls were pecking at the food. A half-eaten cheeseburger had fallen loose from her right hand. Behind the mother and daughter pair, the glistening lake, always pleasant and inviting.

Lyndy’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

It was hard to imagine a less flattering picture, at least with clothing on. And there were a number of doozy snapshots in the wild from her cocktail and dancer days. Out of perhaps the ten worst, this one took top prize.

The caption read: “Being a mom is hard!” It was touted as the “Picture of the Week”. Swell. Lyndy snatched the paper straight out of Rita’s hand. “Oh. My. God.” Lyndy mouthed. Her first thought, “What if Kyle sees this?” But then she thought about the contingent of other lake moms. These Martha Stewart wannabes, who watch the show and take notes—Lyndy was a laughingstock.

“Nice overalls,” teased Rita, with a snort.

Lyndy glanced up, wondering if her ex-best-friend would be diabolical enough to plan something like this. No words were needed, as they could practically read one-another’s mind.

“Me?” questioned Rita, touching a hand to her chest. “Definitely not. I hate to admit, I’m not as clever as whichever evil genius planned this. Plus, why would I want to humiliate you when you do such a grand job of it on your own?”

Lyndy had momentarily forgotten she was holding the handle of the car seat.

“You’re gonna die old and alone,” said Lyndy coldly. “No one will come visit you.”

Unsure where this venom came from, the words stung Lyndy more to say, and she felt her knees buckle. Her stomach turned. She wished she could take it back.

Rita blinked and fluttered her eyelids, as if the insult had a physical effect. Rita’s retort: “Are you done projecting?”

Lyndy gazed at the picture somberly.

Rita sniffed. “I was gonna say something nice about your baby, but I changed my mind.” She hit a button on her key fob, automatically making her motorized tailgate close and latch—in those days it was a major flex to have that feature. Pivoting, key in hand, Rita departed without saying another word.

As she paced the aisles of the store all the fun of shopping had melted away. Lyndy’s eyes teared up more than once, and the biggest reason she wanted to kick herself for being so rude: Rita was probably the only person who might help unravel the mystery of the torn page. Stupid!

Lyndy Life Observation: In the 80s, at the Barstow Sheriff substation one could file a crime report on a pre-printed form which included two carbon copies. Prior to the description, there were several check boxes depending on which unfortunate event happened to you and laws broken. You know, person-on-person crimes such as: assault, theft, robbery, fraud, criminal threat, violation of restraining order and lastly, they had a box for “hurt feelings”. Which I’m pretty sure meant just a pat on the back and nothing more.

In the old-old days, one could dress in a UPS driver costume pretending to have an enticing delivery for the fugitive to sign for. “Gee, someone sent me a package?” Or the old “census taker” disguise. That was a CBB bounty hunter trick going way back. And because of how stupid you had to be to fall for it, it rarely worked.

They called it the Land-Shark. It got so some neighborhoods; no one would ever answer the door for legit reasons.

Anyhow, Jackie Cordray had done a decent job of tracking down Tigerlilly’s address. If she’d had more time, Lyndy would’ve conjured up an excuse. But she could think of no such reason to visit that wasn’t silly.

She left Maribel in the loving care of Helen for an hour, while she decided to pay a test visit as herself. A check of the trusty Thomas Guide led to a homestead in Lake Gregory, only a fifteen-minute drive from Kyle’s place. While Dr. Ellis’s cabin was in mostly immaculate condition, this two-story farmhouse had seen more than a few harsh winter seasons. It might’ve started life as someone’s vacation home, perhaps for a wealthy individual living in the LA basin, nearer to the coast. But with the ensuing decades and few repairs, the shabby place had seen better days.

An unpaved trail through a tunnel of trees, three-hundred feet in length, served as a driveway. There were no parking pads, just a grassy clearing where three other vehicles were stowed haphazardly. One of these was a Toyota mini-pickup with a cracked windshield.

After shifting the Range Rover to park, Lyndy slid out and tightened her boot laces. Tapping against the screen door, the smell of bacon frying tickled her nose. Note it was 10 in the morning. She could see shadows of figures through the mesh.

A man’s voice cried, “come in”.

Lyndy adjusted her purse before pressing on the door with an elbow. Stepping inside to the main floor—wood slats creaking as she moved—Lyndy entered one of the most bizarre living situations she ever encountered. Working for Chan, she thought she’d seen it all.

A neglected toddler stood in the far corner, petting a seated, panting goat. The toddler’s eyes were milky-white, as though he were blind. A mustached man, roughly 30 years of age sat at the breakfast table. She couldn’t help staring at his eccentric outfit choice: jeans rolled up to the ankles, suspenders, no short, socks or shoes. This left his arms, chest and stomach exposed—also displaying many tattoos. On no man would this have been a sexy look, and unfortunately this white dude was one of those skinny guys with a physique like he’d never touched a weight in his life.

He grinned as Lyndy entered, smoothing his greasy mustache hair. His eyes were shifting, like those of a hyperactive kid. Lyndy allowed her own eyes to wander some more.

In the kitchen frying eggs was another golden-haired woman, perhaps twenty-five. The attractive “babe” wore underwear and a torn, half-shirt. Somehow, she had more exposed skin than the dude.

The goat bleated. Nothing said hillbilly like livestock in your residence. Lyndy checked her watch, trying to remember what decade it was and her own age.

“Who might you be?” questioned the man.

Lyndy was preparing to introduce herself when a new character, a brunette, came dashing down from the second floor. This female—also youthful and model-like—had been dressed in nurse scrubs. While taking the stairs she’d been in the process of stuffing her hair into a scrunchie. She seemed flustered, possibly late for work.

When the woman spotted Lyndy, she froze in her tracks. “Uh hello?”

So far, neither female was Tigerlilly.

“Hi, sorry to intrude on your … uh,” Lyndy stammered. To whatever this was. “My name is Lyndy. I’m a local mom, thinking about enrolling a student in Crestwood Academy. You know, where Tigerlilly teaches art… and uh …. I was hoping to speak with her.”

The dude nodded. “Bout what?” he demanded.

All eyes were suddenly on Lyndy. Even the blind toddler and the goat awaited her answer. At least the male’s response confirmed the address.

“I’m also something of art collector,” declared Lyndy. Cause that sounded believable!

The fellow sniffed, leering her up and down, probably undressing her with his eyes. The other two ladies said nothing.

Lyndy wanted to ask bluntly whether Tigerlilly was in, but Chan always taught her to assume a fugitive was home. It was best to leave the question unsaid, letting co-occupants and roommates fill in the details.

Hard to tell if it was simply her presence or the fact she wanted to speak with Tigerlilly making everyone nervous.

“Are you a cop?” asked the fellow, who had yet to get up from the table.

The girl in the kitchen flipped the sizzling bacon using a spatula.

“Obviously not,” answered Lyndy. “Do I look like a cop?”

The man pushed back from his chair. His knees bumping against the table caused the silverware to crash into the plates, making that clinking sound.

“I can take you to her,” he said.

Gasoline and Matches Part-11

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Behind the counter at the Vanishing Point was a well-loved copy of the board game Smess, and I used to play against lonely dudes like Lt. Col. Rickman, while simultaneously on the clock cocktail waitressing. Cathy did the same. I don’t know which bothered Rickman more. The fact I was a 23-year-old woman, or the fact that it was such a stupid game and he was still unable to beat me.

Helen’s eyes were wide and cheeks flush. She pointed anxiously to the metal bat. “Did … did you manage to scare em off with that?”

“Dios mios,” thought Lyndy. She’d fallen asleep with it balanced on her chest. Obviously, it tumbled off sometime in the wee hours. Landed on the hardwood floor, probably leaving a permanent dent. Thank goodness it wasn’t the Beretta. Now that would be terrifying.

“Uhhhh….” Lyndy always hated to lie, only at this point the truth was even more absurd sounding. “Note to self. I really need to see someone about this narcolepsy.”

Lyndy turned to reassure Helen. “Ummm, you’re right. Yep, I frightened them off. They saw me chasing and the rascals got scared.”

Fanning herself to keep from hyperventilating, Helen’s irregular breathing gradually returned to normal. “Are you … sure you’re, okay?” she asked in a much calmer voice.

“I’m fine,” Lyndy assured, holding out a hand. “Just a little banged up.”

“But … who would do this to you? Why didn’t you call the police?”

After straightening her shirt, Lyndy raced madly around the kitchen island, collecting dirty dishes in her arms to shove into the open dishwasher. She was thinking how to answer, and how best to handle this delicate Helen situation. Cause it would be hard for her to comprehend—even for a sympathetic individual like Helen.

Her concerns ran much deeper than the present situation. She needed friends up here. A mom without friends was a mom without an excuse to get her hair done. Or have a play date. Hillary Clinton once said: “it takes a village.” Wise words. This mountain town certainly qualified, especially if you saw it covered in snow and stretched your definition of “village” to include ski-chalets. Or maybe it was the void of not having a best friend, following the Rita split. Either way she couldn’t run the risk of driving potential friends away.

Helen pointed to the baby. “So then, how is little Maribel? Unharmed, thank goodness?”

Setting the dishes in a heap, Lyndy rushed to the pack-n-play arrangement. Hovering over and breathing a sigh of relief, Lyndy made the sign of the cross. “Yes. Her normal active self. But uh, yeesh. P-U!” Lyndy remarked, pinching her nose. “She needs a changing pronto.” Lyndy exhaled with her arms at her sides. Passing a hand over her totally bare and neglected-ly shaven thighs, she felt a twinge of embarrassment. She literally had nothing on but a tank and thin cotton panties.

Clearing her throat and shifting her perspective back to Helen, Lyndy added, “Ya know, lemme throw some clothes on quick. “Help yerself to a …,” twirling a finger, “a cold Zima if you want.”

Helen nodded, still somewhat in shock.

Alone in the bedroom, Lyndy whipped off her shirt. From the uppermost drawer of the oak dresser, she snatched a pair of sweats and a fresh t-shirt, pulling them on. She threw the bloody clothes in a pile, near the hamper, making a mental note she needed to burn those.

Dashing up the steps, returning to the top floor, Lyndy found Helen crouching near to the pack-n-play, holding out a finger so Maribel could wrap her tiny hands and practice her grip. Mari was smiling ear to ear, her face mesmerized. She adored Helen Mason for some reason.

Bending over the soft webbing, Lyndy scooped Mari in her arms, exclaiming: “Alrighty vanilla bean, the diaper police have caught you red handed! You are being detained.”

Helen chuckled.

Transporting the precious cargo against her chest, Lyndy beckoned Helen to follow her. She led the way to the lower floors of the cabin, careful not to rush the steep knotty pine stairs with a baby in tow.

“Okay Helen, I need to share something with you, but you have got to promise me this secret stays between us. Can I trust you?”

“Mmm-Hmmm,” Helen murmured, trailing Lyndy down the stairs. “Of course.”

At the changing table, Lyndy rested the smiling baby on her back. She undid the sticky tabs on the soiled diaper, prepping the powder and a package of moist wipes. “Helen, you should sit down for this,” warned Lyndy.

Backing up, Helen tested Lyndy’s rocking chair, the only seating in the nursery suitable for an adult. Attracted by the beautiful finish work, Helen traced her fingertips across the smooth side handles. She then studied the animal mobile, suspended above the crib.

Lyndy set her gaze on this charming young woman, with her wavy dye-blonde hairdo and petite frame. She couldn’t have been older than 30 or 31, possessing a certain innocence from this angle. Yet now her cheery countenance had been tempered, replaced by a solemn, thoughtful look in her eyes.

To this day, Lyndy Martinez counted on one hand the circle of women entrusted with her deepest secrets. Even opening up to Catherine Cookson or Rita, had come after a lengthy process of getting to know them. Yet something about Helen—a genuineness—made her seem worthy of trust.

“Can you believe I didn’t change a single diaper until I was forty? Now look at me.” Lyndy chuckled, shifting her attention back on wiping Mari clean with a wet wipe, while she spoke. It made it easier in some ways, not having to look Helen in the eye. “But listen, ever since I was in my teens I’ve had a unique set of … abilities.”

“Okay,” said Helen uneasily, letting Lyndy know she had her attention.

“Some might call it a gift. But I don’t.” Lyndy shrugged, without turning around. She continued wiping Mari clean, but doing so gently to prevent a rash or irritation. “When I find myself in a tense situation—the heat of battle—I take on this alternate persona. It’s called The Spitfire.”

Lyndy paused for a laugh or scoff from Helen. Meantime Mari kept shoving her fingers in her mouth, chewing on them.

“Point is when I’m this other person, it gives me super-human stamina,” continued Lyndy. “More strength and fighting abilities. You might say increased brainpower too.” She sprinkled a dash of the baby powder, rolling the baby side to side to make sure her tiny butt cheeks were lightly coated. “There’s no obvious transition—not outwardly. But when it happens, I can feel it inside. It’s there.”

Lyndy turned, locking eyes with Helen who’d been keeping her hands in her lap. She’d been listening intently.

“That’s how I managed to survive all the crazy circumstances I found myself in, working for Chan’s Bail Bonds. And later, when I was a bodyguard for Rita Lovelace.”

“How did you acquire this gift?” questioned Helen.

“There’s no scientific explanation—if that’s what you mean—other than it seems to run in my family on the Martinez side.” Lyndy paused to fasten the sticky tabs on the fresh diaper. Mari seemed relieved. A huge smile formed on her face as she looked deeply into the brown eyes of her mother. In kind, Lyndy’s heart swelled with joy. “An alternate theory is it may have been passed down to me by a woman named Mabel Dixon. She was the warden at a youth detention center where I was locked up. But we don’t need to get into that.”

Lifting Mari into her arms, Lyndy twirled around, facing Helen.

“The reason I’m telling you this is … well … I’ve been moonlighting as a private investigator since I was in my early twenties. Believe me, I tried putting an end to this life years ago, but I just can’t seem to shake it out of my system. That, and Miss Lovelace keeps sending new clients my way. Used to be only her father would do it, but now her too. Last night, I got in a dust-up cause I needed that black car sitting in the driveway. That’s why I’m bruised. It’s a missing teen’s car actually.”

Lyndy stuffed Mari into a clean onesie, poking each chubby wrist through the sleeve holes one at a time. Once smoothed enough to cover her belly and torso, Lyndy buttoned the flap between her legs.

“Wait. That name sounds familiar.” Helen blinked her eyes, shaking her head. “I thought I heard you say you were a bodyguard for Rita Lovelace—you mean the Rita Lovelace?”

Lyndy nodded yes.

“World-famous model who made the cover of Vogue two times? Wow, I loved her. She was huge! Like, she was a super-model before supermodels were a thing!”

“That’s right.” Lyndy rocked her daughter by swaying her hips side-to-side. Flicking a finger, she spun the mobile for Mari, allowing her to watch and reach out, grasping for the colorful animals.

“Oh my gosh. How did I not know this amazing fact about you?”

Next Helen lowered her chin, gripping the arms while slumping deeper in the chair. Her cheeks drooped and her nose began to twitch, as she sniffed. “Well, to tell the truth, in spite of outward appearances I was mostly unprepared for the trials of motherhood. My own mom did a poor job teaching me anything of value. I knew only what you see on TV. Which is all crap by the way. Also, I once broke up with a nice guy cause I didn’t believe he had enough future earning potential.” She exhaled loudly. “We were genuinely love. And now … now I’m worried I might’ve made the wrong decision. And for what?”

Lyndy rubbed her eyes, not knowing what to say. “Uhmm. Alrighty. Why did you tell me that?”

Helen’s shoulders began to heave. Her voice cracked with heartfelt emotion. “I thought like, it was a bonding moment and we were sharing each other’s secrets?”

“No, it’s not really that kind of moment, Helen. I was telling you all this now so you understood why I appear disheveled, and there’s a strange car in the driveway. By the way, you cannot share any of this prior conversation with your husband. It’s all off limits. Do you understand?”

“Oh, sorry, you’re right,” said Helen, wiping her nose with the back of her palm, getting herself together. “Look at me, I’m a mess too.” She made a hand motion like someone zipping up their lips.

Lyndy nodded to the garage. “Rotten part is, I already searched that damn Jetta twice last night. Which means, I basically kicked the asses of three grifters for nothing.”

Reaching into the tiny key pocket of her yoga pant ensemble, Helen began fishing for something. “Well, that reminds me. I found something strange on the floor of your garage.”

“You did? What?”

“This,” said Helen, holding out a tan piece of paper from a cheaply printed book. The scrap of paper was both torn and hand rolled, like someone had been using it as a makeshift cigarette wrapper. Made sense why she hadn’t seen it in the night, as a cigarette falling out a car wouldn’t have been terribly obvious or unusual.

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rochelle Bishop auditioned to be a presenter on a popular TV game show. Mind you she was a well-regarded dancer prior to this, and worked off and on as a cocktail waitress in several prominent night clubs. At the end of her audition, the TV producers told her they loved her energy, quick wit and contagious smile. They even said she was probably the best choice for the job, only she was about 50 pounds heavier than the role required. Too bad. As they called “next”, Rochelle stormed off, saying it took every ounce of self-control not to flip all the tables in the room.

Striking a match against the gritty side of a paper matchbox, Debbie Kowalski watched her tiny spark flicker to life. Sheltering the flame from the sundowner breeze, she undid the metal latch of a dusty storm lantern—the kind made of stamped tin—then transferred the tiny orange flame to the cotton wick.

The glass orb, cracked yet mostly intact, did a great job of protecting the wick.

Due to extreme isolation the Wonder Valley homestead wasn’t connected to the grid. A sliver of moon high in the east was lovely, but didn’t suffice as a work light. With twilight fading, Debbie would need this lantern if she wanted to continue the act of mending things. Her ultimate goal: working her way to the lofty triumph of getting one of two non-operating autos to move under their own power. Using scrap plywood and some cinder blocks, Debbie fashioned a work-bench of sorts, which she could sit cross-legged in front of.

Tucked amongst jumbled scrap piles, near to the precious rock collection, was the old geezer’s tool chest. Above her, limbs of two blue palo verde trees had grown interconnected, providing a canopy of sorts spanning the junk patch. From one of the low branches Debbie affixed the lantern. This then was her shop-light.

Placing a fist in front of her mouth, she yawned.

Perhaps one positive about the Mojave sun going down was the heat breaking. With her headache subsiding, having re-hydrated on warm Yoo-Hoo, Debbie felt like she could think clearly again. Though as her senses returned, she wished for a shower so she didn’t have to smell her own sweaty B-O.

For some reason the overly dramatic intro theme to Dallas was stuck on repeat in her head. She didn’t even like the show. Only her mother did. But that tune was an ear-worm. Nothing she could do about it, but a possible cure if she could get a radio working.

She next turned her attention to a small, cheaply made transistor radio liberated from the porch rail of the old geezer’s cabin. It was a Grayco model sold at Woolworth stores, possibly from the late 1950s. Pursing her lips, Debbie blew away cobwebs and the most egregious layer of dust.

Some might call it a warm up—an easy task to get her electrical problem-solving juices flowing again.

With a no-name brand screwdriver, Debbie undid three of the corner screws, allowing her to detach the plastic cover. The back portion snapped off easily, exposing copper coils, transistors, capacitors, diodes and amplifiers. Being an older device, the circuit board was shockingly primitive. Re-positioning it under the glow of the lantern Debbie inspected the parts. She’d anticipated the batteries were oozing their guts out or the tubes were blackened. But an eyeball inspection revealed nothing insurmountable.

Clawing out the 9V battery, she touched the terminals to her moistened lips, testing it. Sure enough—bit of a jolt. Thus, some juice left in it.

The antenna was a ferrite core type, common in those days, wrapped with fifteen or so feet of copper wire strand. Debbie traced the path from the antenna, through the amplifiers, the tuning circuit, to the intermediate stage and lastly to the cone speaker.

After a moment of deep thought she reasoned the cause. The wire feeding the single cone speaker had frayed to nothing, or else a small critter had devoured the insulating material. The connection subsequently shorted against the case clamps and melted away.

Scratching her head, Debbie supposed the best remedy was to harvest some of the fresh copper wire off the antenna coil itself—it had more than enough. She could use this to field repair the severed connection.

Pulling the knobs on the drawers of an old craftsman tool box, she found they wouldn’t budge. Rusted shut. She yanked harder, in hunt for a pair of wire cutters. As it broke loose a sudden eye motion and the head of a reptile poked out at her, causing Debbie to jump back.

All her muscles seized. Having lived damn near half her life out west, she had a healthy fear of pit vipers. Her tiny hairs stood on end and goose bumps formed on her arms.

Funny thing though, the creature seemed rather cordial, tilting its head like a curious bird. If this animal could talk, it would probably sound like Kermit the Frog.

Recovering from a mini-heart attack, Debbie studied it. This creature was no snake, rather a lizard with gecko-eyes and shimmering, moist skin. With a calmer attitude and a little more light, she recognized the species—an unusual one. These were called granite night lizards, and they had some curious abilities.

If one of her university professors saw this—the wacky reptile guy with the white hair whom she could never remember the name of—he’d be excited.

The night lizard shared traits in common with chameleons. If one were patient enough, their glossy scales would literally change color before your eyes, in the course of a minute or two. Thus, the unusual shimmering nature of the skin. The little guy had adapted to the dull brown of the tool bin, which is why he’d been hard to spot.

Cupping her fingers, Debbie encouraged the friendly lizard to walk onto her palm. He did so with halting, bird-like movement while his eyes studied her. Gently, she offered him a magic carpet ride to a nearby crevice in the trees where he could watch her in safety, while she opened and closed the drawers on the tool bin.

The palo verdes had been imported, however it seemed likely the semi-circular cluster of palm trees were native. Their roots ran deep, thirty or forty feet—predating the cabin—tapping into an underground water source. Which meant indigenous peoples had camped here, likely for centuries. Perhaps the lizards had been brought here by one of these ancient desert-dwelling tribes, transported from a habitat hundreds of miles away.

Another surprising characteristic—these lizards gave birth live. Something about that was unsettling in a reptile. Debbie got the willies thinking about a lizard giving birth.

Cringing, she remembered her halfway toxic mother figure—the woman who could watch Dallas and seem to enjoy it. The voice she used when she lectured Debbie that boys simply wouldn’t be interested in a girl who outwitted them in math, chemistry or worse, had superior mechanical abilities when it came to tools. Add to this, Debbie’s looks were nothing to write home about. Though unspoken, her metabolism and chubby features didn’t match whatever expectations her mother had for how she wanted a daughter to look. Her old-fashioned mother warned her that men liked to be the ones who repaired things and balanced the checkbook.

Her advice was to fake like she couldn’t do math. Debbie rolled her eyes as she twisted the fraying copper strands. She snipped it to the correct length with the rusty, but otherwise functional diagonal cutters.

Unfortunately for her mother, Debbie had been born a scientist—a gifted one at that. When once measured, it was discovered her IQ was almost off the charts. And yet being born a female, that didn’t count for much. On days like this Debbie often wondered if her mother was correct about a thing or two.

Tightening down the wire with the screwdriver, she flipped the radio around. Everything should be attached.

Switching it on, she tuned the dial right-to-left to see if any stations were within range. She half expected a religious sermon, or perhaps Spanish language programming. But no such. She heard music, cutting faintly through the noise.

Debbie tuned it again, twisting the silver-white knob. She could hear a sweet thumping guitar rhythm. Next, she twisted the volume knob, recognizing a familiar masculine voice. The voice of a man born to rock. He was so cool, people called him “the boss.”

Debbie couldn’t help strutting her shoulders, and soon thrusting her hips—miming the way Cathy Cookson or Lyndy Martinez would dance together next to the jukebox at the VP. They were both good dancers. That song was fire!

Debbie stood up and did a little whirl. Closing her eyes, she almost forgot how miserable she was. Maybe this was an omen. Men absolutely loved it when Lyndy and Cathy danced at the V-P. And sometimes Debbie would watch them, fantasizing about being cool.

The song was a B-side originally, not commonly played on the radio. Pink Cadillac.

Debbie was wise enough to know there were branches of physics yet to be discovered, and resonant frequencies which bridged the divide between space and time. Which is why, she couldn’t help feeling someone might be sending her a coded message. Who?

Who indeed.

Gasoline and Matches Part-10

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Lyndy Life Observation: A man applied for employment at the V-P Roadhouse. His resume listed one of his previous occupations as: “Technical Director for Rapid Human Ejection.” I asked Mr. Potts what that meant and he answered without skipping a beat, “fancy term for bouncer.”

Lyndy used the rifle as a defensive bo-staff, countering each strike and preventing Block from slicing her. He lunged forward as Lyndy bent at the hips, ducking low and kicking with max force at his wrist. Even this blow didn’t dislodge the Rambo knife. Instead, Block’s torso tipped sideways, only serving to knock him off balance. He recovered quickly, but Lyndy continued to fight.

Backing up a step, Lyndy planted the ball of her left foot to brace herself. Because the weapon wasn’t an ideal proxy for a bo, it felt unbalanced, more akin to a broomstick. Adjusting her grip to be nearer the center of mass, with a tighter grasp, Lyndy exercised her fingers.

The hot blood staining Block’s shirt continued expanding. She had to give him some props. He wielded the knife as a trained professional. He was a tough opponent with a high pain tolerance; most men would shrivel up from such a gaping wound.

In her periphery, Lyndy sensed more motion at the building, the front door having been knocked wide open. Sergei appeared holding something tubular on his shoulder. At first, she assumed it was a shotgun, but a second glance revealed it was way too large in circumference to be that. The Tug stalled at last and the motor died.

Lyndy and her foe circled slowly in a clockwise direction.

Repeatedly she tested Block, stamping her foot closer to him as though going in for a quick kill. Her motivations were in testing his response. At first, he showed no reaction, only the permanent crazed look on his face. Block easily ignored the bait, observing her movements like a disciplined boxer. His patience belied strength and one hell of a reach. She did it again, altering her pattern. Once within striking distance, he slashed the knife in a blow that would’ve cut deep into her knee. Except she’d pulled away in the nick of time.

Block’s eyes weren’t tracking as well as before, not like the rest of him. He took another downward slash, almost straight at her in a karate chop motion. Deflecting this with the center of the rifle, Lyndy felt her bones rattle. The sound of the knife impacting the dull finish of the gun created an unnerving clashing of swords sound. Then twisting the rifle by 90 degrees, she smashed the stock against Block’s chin. He seemed not to have registered the oncoming blow, but as soon as it hit him, he appeared dazed.

Twisting the gun again, Lyndy rammed the muzzle into his stomach. As Block doubled forward, she side-kicked her boot into his rib cage—which felt like kicking a telephone pole. Next, she windmilled the stock so it slammed into the side of Block’s head. Amazingly, he still wouldn’t go down. He tried to kick her, but she caught and deflected his foot easily using both her fists cupped together. She knew the tide was turning.

Shifting her attention momentarily onto Sergei, she felt dismayed seeing him aiming a bazooka at the Coleman Tug. That was smart. Without that exotic vehicle, her plan to tear down the dozer-shovel gate would fail. She tried to think fast. In the corner of her eye, she sensed Block bending his good arm back. Making an educated guess he was throwing his bowie knife, she dove with the speed of a fox onto a rabbit hole, dropping the gun and flopping to a push-up stance.

The knife sailed over her body, another twelve or so feet beyond and finally lodged in the hamstring of Sergei. Leaning on an elbow, Lyndy rotated to one side, waiting to see what would happen next. The result, was Sergei had been in the act of firing his RPG as his spine contorted.

Block froze in shock at having wounded his comrade. She used this fractional second and the sandy soil to execute a round-house kick—her strongest—knocking Block in the temple. The blow expelled bloody mucus from his open jaw as Block collapsed into a heap on the soil. His eyes shut. Maintaining balance, she landed back on her feet without toppling.

Because reflexively, Sergei’s leg muscles stiffened and he recoiled in agony, his back tweaked past 90 degrees. His careful aim was thrown way off. Instead of propelling straight at the Tug, the rocket fired at an upward trajectory. With a fiery blast and a blinding bright orange glow, the projectile launched on an arc whisking high across the road and continued gaining altitude. Somewhere beyond the nearby housing, it reached an apex, then continued on a parabolic track back toward a dry wash between neighborhoods.

Lyndy knew two types of grenades: the kind which exploded upon impact with a solid object and the type with a timing fuse. She didn’t know which this was. On the other hand, she knew the fight would continue regardless of where the grenade fell.

Collectively the three of them held their breath. They all were thinking: “Yikes! That’s not good.”

As soon as it landed in the dry ditch, the rocket detonated—meaning the impact kind. The blast was deafening and absurdly bright to a human eye adapted to the darkness. The dry foliage in the wash exploded in fire, torching all the smoke trees and a number of protected Joshua trees.

Sergei whipped around to face Lyndy with rage in his small eyes. Ignoring the knife wound in his leg, he raced at her like an angry bear. Lyndy did the same, and for an instant they ran toward one another like two locomotives on a collision course. When he was within range, Sergei threw a full body punch, aiming straight at her face. The blow would’ve killed her, but Lyndy blocked it by raising her elbows and rotating at the hips. With her other leg, she sprang off the ground and windmill kicked Sergei in the chin. While he was stunned, she uncapped the bear spray in her pocket. Pulling the pin and hitting the trigger, she marked a thick line right across his eyes and nose.

Instinctively Sergei put both hands up to cover his face, bellowing in agony. The bowie knife was the type with a blood gutter. Lyndy rolled into a crouch. Gripping the handle as tightly as she could in her right hand, she yanked the knife horizontally out of Sergei’s thigh.

Next, she elbowed him behind the knees, causing him to double over.

Meantime the third driver—the one who’d been originally in the overalls—exited the building. This time, the attacker had a real pump-action shotgun. He immediately aimed the gun at Lyndy and Sergei, resting it on his shoulder in a hunter’s stance. Before his finger could pull the trigger, Lyndy chucked the knife she was holding as hard as he could.

It sailed through the air, lodging in the man’s belly, near his beltline. The knife plunged so deeply in his gut, only the handle showed. A state of shock came over him. The fellow dropped the gun. Flailing desperately to remove the knife in a clumsy motion, he fell against the wall. Within seconds his body become limp. He collapsed in a heap.

Sergei soon went fleeing for the BMW, holding his cheeks. He was waddling as fast as his legs could carry him, given the injury to his thigh. Without even shutting his car door, he fired it up and spun the wheels to accelerate away. “What a sissy,” thought Lyndy. A real warrior would’ve checked on his comrades.

Pulling the Berretta, Lyndy checked on Block. He wasn’t moving. She’d expected him to be faking unconsciousness. Holding steady, catching her breath with a bead on his head for half a minute, she waited for something to happen. Nothing did. She approached his limp body and gave him a nudge to the groin. There was no response.

Hurriedly, Lyndy checked herself for unfelt injuries while attempting to calm her nerves. In the intense heat of battle, it was easy not to notice having been hit. But all she felt pain wise was the ache in her bones, from a car accident and fighting much larger men.

Distantly she heard sirens, snapping her from the momentary calm. The Spitfire ran for the Tug, knowing she needed to get it started.

With a hint of optimism that it would restart, Lyndy retrieved heavy cargo chains from the storage area under the hitch. She heaved one coil of 3/8 chain over each shoulder and marched to the pneumatic fence. Alone, the coils weighed over 40 pounds.

Trudging through the dirt, with her ankles and thighs straining at the mass, she looped the chain over each corner of the barrier. Then, shrugging the weight, Lyndy shifted into a tug-o-war stance. Using this method, yanking and pulling, she squirmed like a fish until both were taught. With a snatch hook, she clipped them into the tow hitch on the front bumper of the Tug.

Now she just needed the damn thing to start.

But of course, it didn’t. This time when she turned the key, the starter buzzed but the motor wouldn’t turn over. She tried again, twisting the key and pressing the cutch pedal flat with her entire weight, using her wrists to push on the roof. NADA! Buzzing but no joy. Exhaling, she let her forehead slam onto the wheel. The flex plate or something in the rain of gunfire must’ve become mis-aligned. And the sirens were getting louder. Probably fire trucks to put out the small brush fire in the wash, before it spread to homes or the surrounding areas. Hopefully they were pre-occupied.

Hopping out, she grabbed for a hammer and bounced on the ground. Rolling under the car, Lyndy located the starter and gave it a good sharp THWACK. The gong sound rang her ears. Pitching back and rolling into the clear, she climbed up to the cab.

This time the primitive motor cycled over. Coughing and sputtering, the diesel roared to life. The chugging of the diesel, normally an irritant—like someone making a motorboat with their lips—was music to hear ears.

A part of her feared the snapping chains would let fly, becoming deadly projectiles and pinching her head off. But no time to worry about such low probability events. Sooty exhaust puffed like a volcano into the air as the engine rattled. With its herculean pulling power, the massive pneumatic shovel blade began to tip forward, pulling out huge concrete pylons from the ground beneath it. The pylons were like the root balls of a massive oak. Once they’d been liberated from the soil, the rest of the gate mechanism came tumbling forward.

The gates to the city had fallen. Now Vikings were running amok through the heart of Paris. And Godzilla met his match.

45 minutes later…

A string of lights floated in the sky—like glowing orbs—representing the long line of Southwest planes approaching Ontario. All waiting for a runway.

Chan would’ve called it her greatest hat trick ever. She wished he were still alive. She would’ve loved rolling up to his trailer, cracking a beer or two and regaling him with her tales of battle. He probably would’ve called her “Melinda” and done one of his trademark: “Huh, huh, huh,” deep laughs. Nowadays she missed those.

She kept smiling, and a few times she laughed into the wind.

Though her confidence soared, The Spitfire still checked her mirror about a hundred times between the town of J-Tree and Banning pass.

The surge of pure energy from a victory of epic proportions began waning as she approached the base of the San Bernardino’s and Highway 18.

Other than survival, nothing much was on her mind. Until now.

Soon Lyndy began pondering, “Just what type of valuable, case-breaking clues were in this car for which she’d risked life, limb and the future success of her offspring?” A crummy Jetta would not be worthy.

A simple glance behind the seat suggested nothing of substance. A wrapper for a candy bar and a Diet Coke can the only items reflecting in the scant shine of streetlights.

A sinking feeling began to settle in the bottom of stomach. “híjole!” Lyndy mouthed, with a sigh. Before taking this thing up the hill, she decided to give it a once over.

Next morning …

Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a summer afternoon Rickman was busy working underneath his Cobra Jet Mercury in the side yard. Must’ve been 90 degrees or more, cause I was wearing a bathing suit top and cutoff shorts. He needed a different size wrench, and I kept circling back and forth to the garage bringing him the wrong one. Obviously, I didn’t know fractions to save my life. He was very frustrated with me but trying to stay patient and not look like an A-hole. He was like: “No Lyn, listen carefully, this is an 11/64, I obviously need a 3/16.” Finally, I go to the garage and drag his entire 165-pound tool bin, containing every earthly wrench he owns across the driveway, the lawn and into the side yard.

As she came to, Lyndy heard strange voices emanating from a TV set. She knew she must be crashed out on the rustic loveseat, cause every damn sofa in this cabin stunk for sleeping. Compact design and oversize pine logs serving as arm-rests, meant her ankles and feet were simply dangling in space. Placing her fists on her eyes, Lyndy rubbed the sockets with her knuckles.

Every muscle and joint ached. She knew it wasn’t only the fighting that did it, rather the terrible wreck when the truck plowed into the brick building. Her body slamming against an unpadded metal dash—that’ll do it alright.

Letting her head slump rightward against her shoulder, she could see the TV was on a network station, running a popular daytime talk show. Today’s topic scrolled at the bottom edge of the screen: My husband is a truck driver; I just found out he secretly has another family across state lines. Which might have been amusing, if not for hitting close to home. Dr. Ellis did in fact have an entirely separate family, whom he’d been neglecting. Although they lived in Riverside, with Becky—the alpha wife.

Reaching out to the rectangular oak coffee table, Lyndy closed her fingers around the Costco-size bottle of liquid Advil. Beyond this, the wall of windows opened to a magnificent view overlooking the lake. Mid-morning sun streamed down on the lake, making it shine.

A moment of, “oh dear god, I think I’m a mom! Where is my baby?” swept over Lyndy. I mean, seriously, where is my baby?

But all was well. Refocusing a bit closer, she could see Mari Ellis safely corralled in her pack-n-play, surrounded by baby toys, a teddy bear and her favorite blanket. She’d been busy with one of those rainbow wire spaghetti toys containing the wooden beads one could move around. That chaotic invention could keep a baby occupied for an hour or two.

It was like an abacus, but for math on an inter-dimensional level. Hmmm.

Seeing her mommy awake, Mari ceased her activities, then commenced staring at her while teething on her soft foam giraffe. The look-through-you with blue eyes stare.

Lucky for that pack-n-play thing too. God knows what would’ve happened without it. Maribel Ellis smiled to her mother, then resumed the all-important task of moving a bead from one end of the spaghetti to the other.

Twisting the cap on the Advil, Lyndy dumped four of the capsules into her mouth, swallowing them dry.

“Mommy had a rough night okay,” whispered Lyndy, a hoarseness in her voice.

Over at the kitchen island, lunch sat untouched. Mari had neglected a meal of steamed carrots, chicken cubes and elbow pasta. Lyndy couldn’t remember even cooking that. Geez.

A spark of resentment stirred inside. “Do you know when I was a kid I had like 2 toys?” Lyndy remarked to Maribel. “Now look at this place.”

She’d need to do a little vacuuming before Kyle returned from his business trip.

Compared to growing up an orphan in East LA, this love child enjoyed a life of pure luxury. Maribel Ellis dined on fancy food from boutique grocery stores, she had a top-of-the-line car seat, a similarly space age stroller and slept in a beautiful crib made of yellow oak. The crib itself had clean, crisp sheets.

By contrast, in one of her earliest memories, Lyndy Martinez awoke covered in biting ants, since her mattress was always on the floor and the insects had been attracted to cake crumbs she’d been eating when falling asleep.

Lyndy knew it was petty to resent Maribel for not having to suffer. Logically she didn’t want her child to suffer. Of course not. But it was annoying feeding this baby the equivalent of a three-course meal, then watching it go cold.

She heard footsteps on the stairs.

Lyndy froze. Maribel did the same, pausing mid-activity. Too early for Kyle. Both of them stared at the landing where the stairs connected to the kitchen. Even Mari knew it wasn’t daddy, or she would’ve been shouting the word “DADA” over an over.

“Hello?” The voice of Helen Mason echoed from the hallway stairs. “Lyndy Martinez? Are you here?”

A panic set in as her eyes bugged out. “What was Helen doing here? Aye caramba!”

The kitchen and living room were an absolute disaster zone. The ape exhibit at the zoo was a cleaner, tidier environment to have friends over and Lyndy had no time. Worse, she had visible bruising showing on her arms and face, no time to apply makeup. Even worse, she actually wanted Helen Mason to like her, thus caring how things looked. This was completely unexpected.

Did they have some coffee date she’d forgotten? And why hadn’t she locked the door? Foolish! Lyndy checked her watch.

Helen’s profile appeared near the top of the stairs, looking perfect as ever. She had a purse with a brand logo Lyndy couldn’t even pronounce. Something like HPHFO—apparently, they were expensive. Her sporty headband matched her leg warmers, and her spandex pants hugged her hips perfectly.

There was nothing to do but spectate in the slow-motion train wreck.

“I was coming back from yoga class and I saw this strange car in the driveway, where your vintage Mustang usually is. And I thought, you know—that’s sort of off. Maybe I ought to pop in and check if everything is okay.” Helen had been still coming up the second flight of stairs while saying all this. “And the front door was open … and ….”

Pausing for a breath or two, Helen slowly took in the top floor scene. The many dirty dishes. The uneaten food on the counter. Lyndy, sprawled out on the couch in a blood-splattered tank-top and panties. A metal baseball bat on the floor beside her.

“Oh my … how awful! Lyndy…,” the look of horror showed on Helen’s face. Bracing herself on the counter so she wouldn’t collapse, Helen stammered for the right words. “Oh, sweet, sweet girl, you’ve been assaulted!” Helen’s head swiveled as she took in the mess. “And in your own home.”

“No, no, Helen,” Lyndy jumped up to correct, wishing she had a robe or something to cover up. She poked the mute button the TV remote. “I’m totally okay.”

Explaining that, if anything, she’d been the one who’d done most of the “assaulting” seemed like fanning the flames. Probably the wrong thing to say in a time like this. First order of business was to prevent Helen from dialing 911 on the wall phone.

Gasoline and Matches Part-9

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Frisco Colorado, 1960s. Aside from unchanging Buffalo Mountain in the background, this spot is virtually unrecognizable today due largely to the expansion of businesses along I-70. Gorgeous card! -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Note: If you’re enjoying this new story arc, could you do us a favor and hit the like or consider subscribing to the blog? I promise we won’t bombard your inbox. You’ll only receive a notification when a new chapter is published. -ASC

Joshua Tree, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At an early morning makeup call, a model named Brie Northcott decided to lecture myself and Rita in an obnoxious manner regarding the health hazards of artificial sweeteners in soft drinks. In particular, she put down our favorite Tab and Diet Coke. Later the same day, Brie was unceremoniously escorted from the building, after being caught in the bathroom snorting a powdery substance from the marble sinks.

It was a warm, clear night idling in line at the Carl’s Jr drive thru—Hardees to you Midwesterners. Fine night for a modern battle at The Alamo, she mused. Lyndy Martinez couldn’t resist tapping her fingers on the oversize metal steering wheel to the rhythm of the 90’s banger Boot Scootin’ Boogie, while waiting for her western bacon cheeseburger meal and jumbo size Diet Coke.

Sadly, no radio or cassette player in the Coleman Tug, but those sweet country licks thumping from someone else’s farm pickup truck were sufficient musical accompaniment. Another issue: the seating position in the Tug left a great deal to be desired, as the L-shape bench with minimal foam padding was far from comfy. Trust me on this, when you reach your forties, lumbar adjustment becomes less a convenience and more an essential feature. God save anyone with hemorrhoids attempting to pilot this contraption.

At least it was high, so your knees were level with the hips. And one could look out over other cars with an unencumbered view.

Another point in the plus column, this bizarre machine distracted from the fact Lyndy Martinez had dressed herself like a participant in a Dia de Los Muertos parade. Or the bass player in a heavy metal hair band—picture the kind where the guitar literally looks like a battle axe. She felt like a badass.

Her outfit: black wrangler jeans. Black tank undershirt. Combat boots. White-bone face paint with the black around the eyes. This was no masquerade; the brown Tug was loaded with chains, power tools, pipe-cutting equipment, gasoline, defensive weapons from her trailer and extra ammo if needed.

Indeed, there was an art to prepping a car for an all-out demolition derby. She’d learned these skills from one Daryl Ward, same mechanical genius who built the white mustang for her. She’d removed the window glass, attaching riveted netting—NASCAR style—in its place. She wanted nothing to shatter, or risk impaling her.

Folks hardly noticed her all black goth appearance when she shouted into the speaker. She pondered her fate while munching her high calorie late-night snack. She had big plans—screw the diet at a time like this.

Having Dr. Ellis out of the picture a few days had been ideal timing. Only challenge was what to do with baby Maribel. Luckily, her daughter had transitioned from formula to mostly solid foods, making feeding time a little more straightforward and predictable. Jackie Cordray was really the only option in a bind like this. Asking anyone else for assistance was perfectly fine an hour or two throughout the week, but certainly not all night. Thus, with Kyle away on business Lyndy invited Jackie to stay over. Heck, she knew something about kids.

When she’d finished the cheeseburger, Lyndy sopped the grease from her lips with a wad of napkins. Then she crammed the paper wrapper under the seat, setting off for her destination in top gear. Regrettably, maximum speed ticked only a hair over 45 miles per hour—with the wind at her back. No music, having left civilization.

She was alone with her thoughts. And her burps—a few of those.

Only The Spitfire would attempt something this grandiose yet very ill advised. For an everyday new mom, an activity as risky as going to war against three half-crazed Russian tow-truck drivers would seem incomprehensible.

She felt her heart pounding harder, reminding her of old days working for Chan.

Prior to making herself known, she chose a darkened intersection roughly three blocks distant from Godzilla Towing. Using the left side mirror—the only glass remaining—Lyndy re-did her ponytail until it was tight and contained all her bangs. She shook the wax paper cup, sipping a few more precious swallows of diet soda.

Over her all-black attire, The Spitfire strapped a Kevlar police vest. She sensed the hard outline and weight of the cold steel stuffed in the front pocket, a small comfort. She adjusted the Velcro straps to fit snug against her small rib cage, then laced her hiking boots. That was another Chan-ism. He often said a person lacking comfortable footwear wouldn’t make it a quarter-mile in this desert without stepping on something sharp. One sliced foot would be the downfall of many a fugitive.

Stretching a moment with one foot on the tall front tire, she studied her surroundings. A handful of shacks dotted the neighborhood, on roomy lots roughly an acre in size. Still enough people living out here that one or two might see. Then again, with dark clothes and a painted face, they wouldn’t have much to describe.

After checking she had the key, Lyndy set out on foot at a brisk marching pace toward Godzilla Towing. With only one spare tow truck, the place felt empty and yet flood lights shone brightly. The hour now well beyond midnight, a veil of serenity had taken hold. Still, it would be safe to assume these weirdos slept during the day—like vampires.

The place gave out creepy vibes.

She covered the remaining distance with added attentiveness in her actions, pausing and listening near to the parked M-series luxury sedan. Dogs were barking and a breeze swirled through the barrenness of the sandy parking lot. One might also be safe in assuming they were watching, with cameras hidden somewhere in the fence line or in recesses under the eaves.

The sports sedan had such a heavy tint one could see nothing of the interior.

A part of her wanted to drop a wad of thermite on this thing—right on the hood so it melted through the engine bay. Only pricks drove this BMW model. But why escalate by poking the bear in the eye? After all, her mission still retained the option of a peaceful outcome, her intentions chiefly to negotiate the release of Sabina’s car. Rather than giving in to her destructive urges, she merely braced herself by resting her hip against the hood and quarter panel.

Lyndy checked her watch, wondering how long before Block or Sergei came waddling out to greet her. She wouldn’t have had time to strike a match and light a Newport. The door flung open with a forceful kick from a larger, man-size commando style boot. Fifteen seconds was all it took.

Block came rushing out with his Kalashnikov in hand, armed and ready to fire. He was followed by his brother and comrade Sergei, dressed in civilian clothing. With a gap of 30 feet between them, Lyndy drew her pistol. She pointed it dead center on Block’s chest, using both hands to steady the brick like gun.

“This day will be your last if you come a step closer,” Lyndy commanded.

Meanwhile an unknown car approached from the south with headlights dimmed. Lyndy refused to take her eyes off the two men, hoping the new arrival was not part of their gang. Pushing away from the car in a controlled manner, Lyndy never shifted her gaze. With her feet planted sturdily on the gravel, she regained maneuverability. Holding her frame steady she formed a wider A-stance with her legs. This would make for a cleaner shot, preventing her from tensing up. Good thing, as she had two adversaries to dispatch.

Skidding to a stop in the dirt, an arrogant smile formed on Block’s squarish mug.

He lowered his rifle, the muzzle tilting back toward the earth. “Okay girly, no problems,” answered Block. “We aren’t looking for trouble.”

He moved his quivering finger away from the trigger.

“But please do step away from M-series,” warned Sergei. “I recently have car repainted. Trying to avoid scratch.” Sergei’s waving arms and cracking voice indicated genuine concern for his BMW.

Who worries about their car at a time like this?

Lyndy lowered her aim to match Block.

“I’m not hurting anything,” assured The Spitfire.

“Vhut are you doing here?” Sergei demanded, in his vampire like accent.

“Just out for a nature hike,” answered Lyndy facetiously.

The approaching car continued traveling on a b-line to their standoff.

Sergei’s snakish eyes studied her like a game of chess he’d been playing back in the old country. “We know you … you were the one who wanted the black Jetta, correct?” Sergei filled in the space between Lyndy and Block, standing equidistant. “I can see you’re upset. Let’s talk. What you’re doing … it is highly illegal.”

“Go right ahead and call the police,” Lyndy replied confidently, recalling Jackie said the authorities were frightened of this place. “By all means.”

“Let’s be reasonable.” Sergei stammered with one twitching, squinted eyelid. “Sergei is patient man. What is it exactly can we do for you?”

“Turn over the effing Jetta to me. Simple. No questions asked. And while you’re at it, stop cheatin innocent people.”

Sergei shook his head grimly. “Not until Sergei is paid.”

“I will not be paying. You have a court order to hand it over. I don’t wanna burn this place, but I’ll do what it takes. I’m gettin that car.”

Sergei paused to consider. For the first time, cracks were showing in his smug pawn shop operator facade. He gazed at his palm, then shifted his sights to his partner. Both men seemed to be evaluating whether Lyndy meant what she said.

“I can’t…,” said Sergei, bitterly.

“Can’t what?” Lyndy interrupted.

Sergei exhaled in frustration. “You are sane or crazy woman?” His inflection made the jumble of words form an actual question.

Lyndy sniffed. “That’s a debatable fact. I’ve got mental illnesses psychologists have yet to identify in literature. But imagining myself in the head of a sane person, I can tell you I would never pay 50 grand for a vehicle potentially involved in a serious crime. It should already belong to the police.”

Sergei wiped moisture from his forehead, glancing to Block, sneering.

Block’s finger fluttered, inching closer to the trigger of his gun. He’d been raising the rifle gradually until it pointed to her ankles, only a few more degrees of arc to target Lyndy’s midriff. A wicked smile curled on the edges of his lips. Her own nerves were pulsing. No doubt he’d spray her full of bullets at the drop of a hat.

The stranger’s car arrived on scene, screeching to a halt in the road, straddling the center line. It was tough to get a look at the driver in the harsh artificial lighting. Though it seemed the person had abruptly taken stock of the situation. The motor revved violently. The driver flicked the gear lever in reverse and began retreating at high speed. He made it several blocks before summoning the nerve to do a poorly executed three-point U-turn, hastening back to the main highway.

“The real question is, how much is a rotgut import sedan worth to you?” challenged Lyndy, after the interlude. “Cause you’re still standing in my way.”

Sergei’s chest and belly heaved. His small, deep-set eyes were darting between The Spitfire and his comrade, knowing she had a trick up her sleeve. “The people we work for are not to be trifled with,” he warned, in a grave whisper she strained to hear between breaths. “Their legacy dates back centuries, before this country even. They study you, waiting, and when they are ready to strike, take from you whatever you hold most dear. Even your family name will be cursed.”

Lyndy rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Oh great. Like some secret society.”

Sergei frowned.

“Give em this message for me,” stated Lyndy. “I promise they will never know what I hold dear. And like duh, we’ve already had a curse on our name for generations.” Plus, cursing Martinez would be like cursing the name Johnson.

Even so it was obvious Sergei and Block were too stubborn to budge. As she’d guessed before, they weren’t the kind of folks to reason with. Neither was she.

While keeping a steady watch on the men, her hand ready to fire at even a subtle twitch, she began back peddling away. Without twisting her neck, save for a split-second to get her bearings, she stepped into the road and then continued retreating at an increasing pace.

Likewise, she saw Block’s silhouette backing under the eaves of his fortress-like structure. Sergei watched her like a hawk. He didn’t start moving sideways to the door until Lyndy was across the street, stepping down the residential lane. They expected something was coming. Probably not what exactly, but something big. Goliath-like.

Seconds later …

The diesel Tug fired to life with one twist of the key and a halfway push of the clutch. Satisfying. Major Bales had done a bang-up job mending the essential components. Feeling an odd sense of calm, The Spitfire jammed it in first and began accelerating toward the tow yard. The heavy machine rattled and bounced down the potholed street. Even so, there was a trustiness about it too—like a reliable old tractor.

A glint from a muzzle flash first caught her attention, as she steered the nose of the Tug on a vector intersecting the cinder block building. She hadn’t even reached the area where the BMW was parked.

Ducking sideways, with her head tilted to the passenger side, bullets began raining down. They impacted in sequences of threes and fours, making an ear-splitting TINK-TINK-TINK-TINK sound as they pinged off the steel body and doors. The sheet metal on this service vehicle was four times thicker than anything on a civilian car. Yet still, the bullets were penetrating. Every now and then, a ricochet zinged off something hard, like the frame rail. She heard glass bursting, not from the tug—which had none—but likely the BMW, meaning stray bullets had impacted Sergei’s precious ride. So much for the swell paint job.

Worryingly, some of the shots were punching holes in her roof. She could feel whatever dirt and grime had accumulated in the headliner pelting her. Noxious dust clouds and particles of decades old headliner material started filling the cab, irritating her eyes. The bits were getting stuck in her hair, lashes and bothering her nose. Some of the bullets were lodging themselves in the metal door, visibly poking through—an unsettling measure of the rifle’s power.

It became harder to breathe.

Col. Rickman used to say if you were field stripping an M16, you’d better do so in a very clean building. On the other hand, an enemy soldier sporting a Kalashnikov could re-assemble their rifle in a swamp and it would work fine. She’d never tested this theory, but considering Rickman was usually right when it came to knowledge of war, she believed him.

With her palms, she rubbed her eyes to keep them from clouding.

Contorting her ankle, The Spitfire feathered the gas pedal, applying medium pressure. A tricky measure, but necessary to prevent a stall. Though slowing some, the Tug continued rolling across the lot on a collision course with the front gate mechanism. Despite the hail of bullets, the engine kept chugging as though unharmed. She wondered about the gas tank which might be one of the weaker points. Certainly, the tires had been pierced. She could hear air hissing as they drained and feel the cab sinking closer to the earth. But she didn’t really need those inflated, just to stay on the rims.

After what must’ve been a whole magazine clip emptied, the Tug continued its relentless path across the lot staging area. Amidst the bedlam, Lyndy couldn’t keep her wits enough to count shots. Odds favored the curved magazine Block had on his rifle matched a type holding roughly 30 to 35 rounds. Given the Swiss cheese of holes in the roof, a barrage of said amount felt probable. The onslaught slowed, like when popcorn in the microwave is nearing the end of the cycle and you don’t wanna burn it.

Nervously, she lifted her head an inch at a time until her eyes were level with the door window sill. Wiping dust from her brow and squinting, Lyndy peeked out, toward where she assumed Block would be standing.

Light glinted from his watch. His fingers moved rapidly, as he was in a kneel changing the magazine at that very moment—the act of reloading.

Fishing with her arm behind the seat, she used her own fingertips to identify the weapons within reach. Her hand landed upon the cross bow, not the Beretta. Possibly good, as he wouldn’t be expecting this. This might be her best chance. Raising it as rapidly as possible, she winked one eye to aim using the door as a prop. Squeezing the trigger, she felt the tension release as the skinny steel bolt let loose. She could hear it whooshing as it cut through night air.

Half a second later, the truck slammed into a corner wall of cinder blocks, missing the steel gate by a yard. Her body was thrown and crashed against the dash. Had she been seated upright, her head would’ve impacted the wheel, possibly knocking her unconscious.

Having been a harder impact than she anticipated, her bell was rung. She shook her head, trying to come to her senses. The wind had been knocked out of both lungs.

Oddly, she wondered if and when the gunfire would resume. But as she willed her stiff joints to bend and her lungs to refill with air, it felt as though everything around her was stuck in slow motion. Lyndy twisted in place, to an upright position. With one foot, she flicked the latch mechanism to ease open the door. This revealed a view to where Block was crouching.

He had the metal arrow sticking in his collar bone. Warm blood was oozing from the wound. His squarish jaw twisted in an expression of agonizing pain, as he used his left hand to grip the tail end of the projectile. With super-human force he was attempting to dislodge it from his shoulder.

She blinked at the scene, trying to regain her sense of balance.

Mr. Chan used to say, the best thing about a crossbow was that no one would waste time thinking they could remove a bullet—but the opposite was true for the bolt.

Clawing with both arms she pulled herself free, landing hard on the dirt. Then as she got her feet under her, she sprang forth at max effort ignoring any sense of injury. Though her lungs were gasping to refill with air, Lyndy used every ounce of reserve to run. She didn’t even check to see whether Block was lifting his gun into position. Lowering her head she rammed into him with a full-force head butt. Were he not weakened by pain and down a shoulder, she’d not have enough physical power to wrestle the machine gun from his grip. But using the advantage she’d gained, she set one hand on the stock and one hand on the muzzle near the tip. She thrashed with her body side-to-side like a catfish, fighting for control. Even in a weakened state, the man was frighteningly strong.

She could barely get the rifle free, even while kneeing him in the stomach and kicking his ankles. He somehow overcame blood loss and the projectile lodged in his shoulder. Her original plan had been to disable Block with a blast of bear spray, except there was no time.

At last, his sweaty palms slipped off and she lurched backward with the gun in her possession. In an instant, with lightening reflexes he flicked a bowie knife from his boot. The blade flashed in the bright light. He clutched the knife in his good hand and sliced at the air. His arm moved with such ferocity it made a FWOOSH.

Gasoline and Matches Part-8

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I like how there’s a business called Dairy King (as opposed to Dairy Queen) with a two-tone forward control Jeep truck parked in front. Good stuff. -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Joshua Tree CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: In a packed food court scene near old town Albuquerque, Miss Rita Lovelace came face-to-face with my doppelganger. A woman near the taco stand had my same shade of hair, color eyes, matching body type and facial features. She even had my same manner of stride in her walk. Rita, somewhat dumbfounded, approached the young girl asking, “Lyn? What … are you doing here?” The stranger frowned and hurried away from Rita, thinking she was a crazy person. Smart girl to run away.

As the summer day wore on, skies turned gray and overcast. The air temp remained no less forgiving. Fortunately, the gas-guzzling Land Rover had an excellent AC system, keeping both momma and baby comfy.

Reaching across the dash, Lyndy lowered the volume on the radio.

Her lap supported a ring-bound Thomas Guide, open to the Joshua Tree pages. She’d been flipping between them to get here. Looking over her shoulder, Lyndy double checked the street number on the rusty mailbox, knowing it was an odd time to call on someone—in the middle of dinner—with crickets chirping and the sun already dipping below the horizon.

Checking on the baby, she saw Mari was sleeping soundly.

A north wind blowing hard made it uncomfortable to linger outside, as it carried aloft grains of sand and they were sharp on the skin. All afternoon a river of cumulous clouds floated across the desert sky, taking on a silver sheen from ripples of ice crystals and the fading light. With any luck the clouds might turn pink in a few minutes.

She’d called ahead from a payphone. The impatient fellow who answered claimed the tug was still available, then promptly hung up.

She couldn’t have painted a precise picture of a fellow selling a thirty-year-old aviation support vehicle for $390 in the weekly auto trader, but she had some vague stereotypes in mind. She wasn’t even sure what to say, but in theory it was a straightforward transaction. If it simply idled and drove, it passed the key test. Didn’t need a pink slip since the vehicle was never intended for highway use.

The home of the seller was modest, a single-story mock adobe bungalow, a bit run down with no landscaping. But the lot was huge, over three-quarter-acre, including sheds and a Quonset hut. The rest of the property was surrounded by a healthy forest of Joshua trees, yucca and smoke trees. These native varieties did a good job filling in sandy flats between boulders. For the majority of the year the smoke trees weren’t what you’d call attractive, but following a summer rain produced a lovely lavender colored bloom.

Speaking of attractiveness, Lyndy checked herself in the rearview mirror, wishing she didn’t appear so drained. Four decades on planet Earth, plus a later child birth had subtly begun catching up. As a last-ditch effort she re-applied blush and her purple lipstick, attempting a charming smile. But it didn’t take. Her hair was windblown. The skin on her exposed shoulders looked reddish from heat rash. She’d not been sleeping well, having stress dreams about dance again.

Lyndy flipped the mirror back into position, then shifted her gaze to the house. There were yellow kitchen lights on, plus the flickering of a color television in a small living room area. The man was home.

She hoped he was kind at least.

She’d had about enough of males and their cocky attitudes for one week—exhausted by the situation. On the other hand, one of her specialties came in knowing how to disarm such a gruff, prickly character. At least, back in the day it was.

Reaching to the back seat, she stuffed sleepy Maribel into the baby Bjorn carrier. Then gently, she fastened the Velcro, tightening buckles as the baby’s head drooped. Fortunately, the baby hadn’t seemed hungry, as her supply of food had been thoroughly depleted.

Lyndy exhaled, looping her purse strap over her head, then nudging the driver’s door shut. Since no sane individual wanted to be outside in this wind, she didn’t bother locking the car. She hurried up the driveway with slumped shoulders, along a narrow sidewalk path to the door. The entry had a cheap doorbell buzzer and Lyndy pressed this with her fourth finger.

Whatever she’d expected the seller from the ad to look like, she was 100 percent wrong. So much that she went mute when the door creaked open. They stood there staring at one another like two neighborhood cats sizing each other up.

He was taller than expected, with a slim build but strong looking chest and arms—the kind with noticeable vascularity. He had gray hair, but an ample amount, parted in the middle and cut short. He had a chin with a tiny cleft like a movie star. These were the things she noticed first. But he was also poorly kept, a fact which he seemed to become self-conscious of, realizing Lyndy was more feminine and attractive than he’d assumed.

His eyes studied her face, then her exposed legs, then the baby sleeping against her midsection.

He ran the fingers of his right hand over his chin, feeling stubble. Glancing down at his off-white shirt, amply stained with grease, he suddenly became aware he carried a quarter full wine bottle in his left hand. He looked down over the wine bottle with an expression like: “where did this come from?” and quickly stuffed it into an out of view buffet table.

Lyndy could hear the TV. It was a pro-wrestling broadcast.

Their stunned silence was lasting a unreasonably long time, both knowing somebody had better speak soon. Lyndy figured she should try.

“Uhhh … uhm … I called you earlier about a five-ton Coleman airplane tug for sale,” remarked Lyndy, with a cheery smile. This was one of those statements which when uttered aloud, sounded absurd. She pushed back her bangs, which had been blown into her eyes by the wind, then pointed to the yard. “I probably sound different on the phone, don’t I?”

This seemed to snap the man loose like oil to his joints, and he answered: “Oh gosh, right. You called me?” He cocked his head like a confused border collie, observing the sleeping baby. “Wait, you’re the one who called about the Coleman tug?”

“Yeah,” Lyndy chuckled. “Is it still available?” she said in a joking way, as if it were such a hot commodity people were knocking down this man’s door to get it.

“Of course,” answered the man. “Yes. Still for sale.” His eyes fell upon her classy Land Rover SUV and lingered there. Then he re-focused, back to studying the shape of her torso. Maribel squirmed without opening her eyes, murmuring something in baby speak.

“Is that a …?” He began to ask an obvious question, but realized how silly he might sound asking if Lyndy possessed a real baby. He shook off the thought. “Uh … what I mean is … why don’t you come in,” he offered, in a good-natured way.

“Awe thanks,” said Lyndy. “Sorry I brought my daughter. Not ideal, I know. Couldn’t find a baby sitter at the last minute,” Lyndy explained. She grinned gleefully, feeling somehow energized. “You’re not like a … serial killer, are you? I have mace in the car, but it’s not on my person. Should I double back for it?” She was joking again, but this wasn’t so far-fetched as to be impossible, given the circumstances.

“Only if you talk to my ex-wife,” answered the man, an attempt at humor which landed poorly and she could see a look of “get it together man” on his face.

He gestured to his living room which had a single Laz-Z-Boy recliner—Archie Bunker style—plus a TV tray, positioned four feet from the rabbit ear equipped television set. The only other seat was stacked three foot tall with car magazines and a year’s worth of Playboys. The man ran to his TV, quickly dialing down the volume knob. In the process, he tipped over a stack of VHS cassettes, which from a distance, appeared to have covers of women in bathing suits.

Lyndy waited in his arched entry to the cramped living room space. She began to brush at her ankles nervously, lifting first one heel and then the other.

The tall man bent over, hastily sweeping all the magazines into a basket on the floor, which was also piled high with periodicals and random guy stuff. There were more playboys, mail and other titles of a bachelor nature. “Dang it! My brother left all his magazines here,” he said, as some kind of explanation for the content. “I wasn’t expecting company today.”

Lyndy suppressed a chuckle. Sure.

As he was rapidly cleaning Lyndy noticed a sleeve of tattoos on his arm. They were military style ones with stars and flags. Among these, an intriguing night hawk bird and a crescent moon stood out.

The whole time Lyndy couldn’t stop grinning, massaging the baby’s scalp in front of her and enjoying this escapade. For the time being, she’d forgotten how upset she was at the tow truck guys. In fact, she couldn’t recall having this much fun in a while.

On the seller’s TV tray was a sad looking chicken frozen meal thing, half eaten and the man carried this to his kitchen to get it out of the way.

“I haven’t had a real visitor in a while,” he remarked, clearing his throat. His voice was fresher than his look, sounding like a thirty-year-old when he spoke. But with the creases on his face and his graying hair, he was probably closer to mid-forties.

On the return trip from the kitchen sink, the man became excited and wasn’t watching his feet. He tripped over a box containing coffee cans full of nuts and bolts, and because all he had on his feet were socks, he stubbed his toe badly.

He winced, bending over and muttering a streak of curse words. The man wiped the back of his fingers over his eyes. “Usually, I’m tidier than this.”

This time Lyndy was unable to contain a laugh, which burst forth as a partial snort and uncontrollable bending at the hips.

While still grimacing in pain, the seller gestured to the now uncovered chair stating, “have a seat miss,” through his gritted teeth.

Maribel squirmed again as Lyndy comforted her.

Lyndy pinched the edges of her dress skirt, shimmying the thing an inch or two lower, taking it as far along the thigh as she could get. Next, she sat down, holding her knees together very daintily and smiling. She set her purse across her lap, covering her mouth to block any other impolite giggles. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening. I was thinking I could give you the money and you could show me where the vehicle is.” Obviously, he was hetero, cause he was so dang nervous. “I don’t need any help.”

“Oh sure.” The man hopped on one foot to his Lay-z-boy recliner, practically falling into it. Through the doorframe she could see into the kitchen, where a mountain of dishes were piled in the sink.

Lyndy unzipped the top of her purse. “My name is Lyndy by the way,” said Lyndy.

He held out his hand. “Oh right. Whitney Stevens.” He cleared his throat again.

“Is your foot okay?” asked Lyndy. “Cause your sock is turning red.”

“Yeah. It’ll be fine,” Whitney answered, dismissing what must be a painfully stubbed pair of toes. “Lot of people round here, they think it’s funny my name is Whitney. Sometimes people call me Major Stevens. But my folks didn’t know if they were having a boy or a girl, so they thought it would be convenient if the name was universal.” He tilted his head. “You can call me Whitney.”

Lyndy nodded.

At last Whitney seemed to regain composure. “Say, I was wonderin. It’s not really my business, but uh, how does someone like yourself come to be interested in 1950s aircraft support vehicles?”

Lyndy leaned back some, clearing her throat. After placing one leg atop the other, she straightened her outfit again for modesty. “Uh, you know …,” Lyndy sniffed, thinking of what to say. “All the moms my age are into heavy duty aircraft towing equipment.”

A smile formed on Whitney’s face, causing him to have dimples in his cheeks.

“Used to be minivans, but that was like … five years ago. Once you hit your late thirties it’s all tugs.”

“Is that so? Guess I’ve been out of the game a while.”

Lyndy couldn’t help but chuckle too, feeling herself blushing again.

“Well then, do you wanna see it?”

Lyndy nodded eagerly.

Five minutes later …

Under the amber glow of a storm lantern where moths circled endlessly, Whitney Stevens uncovered the vehicle for sale by removing a green tarp. He limped his way to the side, pulling more of the dusty tarp, rolling and folding it over to move it out of the way.

Leaning against a workbench, Lyndy noticed a ten-pound sledge. Cupping one hand, she covered Mari’s tender ears. Then lifting up the hammer, she heaved it over her shoulder like Paul Bunyun, giving Whitney a startled look. Next, she swung it mightily against the bumper of the Coleman Tug. She hadn’t even paid him money.

Despite a reverberating gong-like sound rivaling a church bell, and the heft of steel, the mark in the bumper was hardly noticeable. That’s how thick and heavy grade it was.

Mari opened her eyes as though stunned. “It’s okay,” whispered Lyndy, bouncing her knees. “DA-DA!” exclaimed Mari, then her head slumped back down against Lyndy’s chest.

“She says DA-DA a lot,” explained Lyndy whilst blinking her eyes and wedging a pinky in her ear. “Wow, that’s solid!”

“Yeah, they meant business in the fifties.”

“She’s a beauty.” Lyndy folded her arms, setting her chin on her fist. “How much can it pull?”

“I heard like eighty thousand pounds. You’re not pulling any 747s if that’s what you’re picturing. But you could easily shuffle a fleet of F/A 18s around.”

Lyndy affected a deeper, more macho tone. She was imitating the voice of men in a corvette owner’s club. “How fast does she do a quarter mile?”

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t. Not running. In my defense, I didn’t say in the ad,” Whitney answered firmly. “If she did fire up, top speed is only around 40 miles per hour.”

Lyndy stuck out her lower lip in disappointment.

“Upside is, with a day of work, I think it will run,” he added.

Lyndy locked eyes with Whitney, shooting him a fierce look to help with negotiation. “You can get it running?”

“Yes,” he replied confidently, leaning against the workbench.

Lyndy nodded. “Okay-doke. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She wet her index finger. From her wallet she pulled three one-hundred-dollar bills, offering them to Whitney.

He reached out his hand slowly, with a skeptic’s eye and a dose of caution as though she were about to play a trick.

“I’ll give you the rest when that turd is moving under its own power.”

“Sure. Makes sense.”

“One more tiny request,” voiced Lyndy, in a hushed whisper. She bobbed her head side-to-side, “got any ammo for a Beretta 92FS?”

He paused for a beat, with a serious gaze. She figured he might direct her to a legitimate gun shop, where there would be a record of her sale. But instead, he asked: “regular or hollow point?”

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a first date, Rochelle Bishop was having a lovely time with a handsome, fit fellow she met at the V-P. They passed a city park with a half-court basketball setup—and conveniently a ball left abandoned by the hoop. She and the man played the game HORSE and the dude lost 5 times in a row. He never called her back.

The baby was sleeping soundly when Lyndy arrived back at the custom lake cabin—car rides will do that. By the hands on her watch, it was past 8 o-clock. In the shade of tall pines, dusk came early. One had to be alert for deer, as the twisting mountain roads leading to the cabins became dark tunnels in the woods.

Lyndy “docked” the massive Range Rover in its normal covered spot, adjacent to the vintage sixties Mustang.

She noticed first, the black rolling suitcase by the stairs to the garage. A floppy label dangled from the handle; the words Dr. K. Ellis printed neatly in the text boxes. Kyle had scribe-like penmanship, especially for someone with a doctorate by their name. From this scene, she knew he was going on a business trip. He might have said before, but frankly, the prior week had been so chaotic she hardly remembered her own name.

Lifting the baby into her arms, Lyndy backed toward the landing. Mari squirmed and shifted, irritated at having been moved. But her eyes remained shut. Flipping the light switch, Lyndy maneuvered carefully in the dim light illuminating a flight of stairs, leading to the first floor. Sometimes there were creatures here, raccoons or the occasional skunk. Thus, she’d learned to never stumble blindly onto the stairs.

The fact Kyle was going away wasn’t such a bad thing. She would have more time for her nightly business of finding Jackie’s daughter, without prompting more of his suspicions. On the other hand, she’d need to find someone to watch the baby. And she didn’t know any of the neighborhood moms well enough yet. Except maybe Helen Mason, but for that matter she didn’t exactly know where Helen lived.

She wondered if Kyle would be in a sour mood? He’d come home from work to an empty house, and no dinner waiting other than what simmered in the Crock Pot. If their roles were reversed, she imagined she’d be annoyed.

Before proceeding to the top floor, she wanted to put Maribel to bed in the nursery. She found the lower floor was darkened.

She thought of their first encounters, in her mid-teens, when she waited tables at The Vanishing Point. They rarely exchanged words. Early on he seemed more interested in Catherine. Years went by until they had anything resembling a date. Though their feelings went unspoken, the pair developed an easy, natural bond. Perhaps it was a mutual love of wilderness, blue skies and curiosity about the wonders of the Mojave Desert. It certainly wasn’t education, as Lyndy couldn’t match him there. But Lyndy held her own in the street smarts department, and she loved to read.

Maybe she was simply his type.

When they were in their twenties, he used to visit her at her desert hideaway, the trailer in foothills near Amboy. In those days, few men were bold enough to approach her residence, but somehow that lonesome field geologist had the confidence.

He had a habit of coming unannounced—not so unusual in those days before cell phones. Sometimes she’d be watering her plants, or cooking a spaghetti dinner on her two-burner stove. Other times, it was late into the night and she’d been sleeping when he arrived. She’d feel his touch on her hips, or the small of her back. She’d offer him a beer, a sip of tequila or the occasional ice cream bar from her freezer.

They’d speak of their desert adventures, filling in the gaps of when they’d last seen one another. She’d make him laugh with her silly jokes. And soon they’d undress, making love with the windows open, feeling the night breeze. Sometimes there were multiple rounds depending on how much build up preceded. Even so, he nearly always left before dawn.

Cut to the present. Not much had changed, except now two decades on, she’d just given him a beautiful child. His favorite child. She wondered if he was having an affair even now—except it wasn’t an affair—because heck, they weren’t even married. So, what was it? A breaking of some unspoken promise? Who did she have to blame, sneaking around all the time. Was it worth asking about?

Opening the door a crack, she saw Kyle standing in the kitchen, watching the small TV which hung under the cabinets. Some kind of ESPN SportsCenter broadcast.

Hearing the door creak, he turned around with a smile. “Oh hey, this turned out good,” he commented, pointing to a soup bowl on the counter. She recognized the stew she’d had simmering all day in the slow cooker. “I already ate two bowls. Beats like three-quarters of the recipes Becky knew how to make. Don’t tell her that,” he said with a laugh.

He didn’t even ask where she’d been.

“By the way, I have to fly to Boulder tomorrow. I’ll only be gone two days. Not too bad. Except I think it’s supposed to rain the whole trip.”

Perfect, Lyndy thought.

“What’s a matter?” he asked, spotting the mournful look she must have on her face. “You’re quiet. I’ve learned that’s cause for suspicion.”

“I guess … I thought you’d be mad.”

“Why?” he asked with a shrug. Approaching each other, their bodies came within inches of touching. With one arm, he gently squeezed his hand on her shoulder and pulled her close enough to kiss. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head no.

“That’s perfect,” he answered, resting his other hand on her hip and nudging her back against the island. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, like he used to. She smiled back and felt the tension melting away. Her breathing slowed. She found herself blushing. She pulled her hair from its ponytail, forgetting everything else that was troubling their relationship. He followed as she led him to the bedroom.

Gasoline and Matches Part-7

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Check out those cars parked in front of the market! -ASC

Gasoline And Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Watching an episode of “I love Lucy”. Supposedly it’s a Saturday morning at their apartment. Ricky Ricardo is wearing a suit and tie, smoking and reading the newspaper. Lucy is wearing a dress and heels, hair done up and not one but two pearl necklaces. She’s also smoking. The doorbell buzzes. A man enters (not Fred Mertz). The visitor is wearing a suit and tie. Ricky offers him a cigarette. Now everyone in the room is smoking and dressed more formally than anyone I know.

It took a few minutes, but gradually Debbie’s heartrate and breathing returned to a resting level. Likewise, she found herself regaining composure, as well as her ability to reason. Sadly, the shocking image of Patty Sue—a bag of dry skin and nothing else—was etched in her memory bank.

She accepted the offer of a warm, expired Yoo-Hoo drink for the sole reason of getting the old guy to move away from the breakfast table slash mausoleum. It was a welcome relief when he, of his own accord, offered Debbie a guided tour of his desert wonderland. Excellent idea. It meant getting out of the stuffy cabin back into the outside environment. The hazy July air wasn’t fresh per se, but compared to whatever particles of biohazard material floated inside the cabin, it must be safer to inhale.

Stepping past the kitchen and down a short hall, Debbie Kowalski realized her pants were all but slipping off her waist. The straight-leg bottoms were bunching around her hiking boots. Perspiration on the hike over caused her to lose so much water weight at the midriff, she needed to adjust her belt buckle. But when she went to bring it in another notch, she noticed it didn’t have any holes left—she was already on the smallest one! In lieu of this, Debbie shimmied her cargo pants up higher on the hips, hoping for the best. With any luck, she might be able to fashion a belt out of a loop of rope, Jethro Bodine style.

Speaking of hillbillies, the old coot reached for yet another shotgun, one positioned by the back door and used this item as a pointer of sorts.

“I use this puppy for shooting at my Jack-rabberts,” he explained. “Keeps them chupacabras far away from my land also.” While the old fella had slaughtered the word Jackrabbit, he’d somehow pronounced the Spanish word for goat sucker using perfect diction.

Debbie rolled her eyes, wondering if this situation could get any more ridiculous.

With one hand holding her pants, the other her drink, she followed the old man out the back screen door to his ramshackle junkyard. This area was modestly shaded by a series of trellises, dying grapevines and a few barely surviving Joshua trees.

Debbie rubbed her eyes with her thumb and wrist.

“Out here’s where I keep all my good stuff,” the old man commented.

Scanning the cluttered scene, Debbie could see at least two potentially road-worthy autos. They had tires on all four rims, so that could be taken as a positive indicator. The first was some model of early Bronco, with the wrong bumpers and no windscreen. The second, a Jeep style truck coming outfitted with four different mis-matched tires, a massively cracked windshield and remnants of at least three prior paint jobs.

Taking a swig from her glass container of warm Yoo-Hoo, Debbie swallowed hard. This powdery chocolate concoction at least soothed her parched throat, though it tasted like sugar flavored mud. Yoo-Hoo was hardly a tolerable beverage cold, imagine it warm. She smacked her tongue, trying to rid herself of the taste. Then she wiped her arm across her face.

“Sir, I can see you have a J10 over there. That’s a fine truck with enough power, it might just pull my Jeep out.”

The old man made a “Baaahhhh” sound, in a scoff. “T’aint workin.”

“Why? What’s a-matter with it?”

“Even if you could get the bastard started, damn tranny will never slide in gear. You can spend all day fiddling on it, but it won’t take.”

The word transmission alone conjured up imagery of sensitive, difficult to adjust components, in a tight tolerance configuration more finicky than a Swiss chronograph. She hated working on transmissions—and when one displayed any hint of misbehaving her first stop was a specialty repair shop. Not going into gear at all was a bad sign, indicating failed parts. If parts inside were indeed broken, there weren’t likely to be replacements in this yard.

Debbie squinted, turning her head back to face the old man. “Okay, what do we know about the Bronco?”

He shook his head immediately. “Son-of-gun won’t turn over. Got a stuck cylinder or two. Motor is totally seized.”

“So bottom line it for me. Does anything here run and drive?”

“Run and drive?” he scratched at the trio of hairs on his mostly bald head. “Nope. Nothing ‘round here works,” proclaimed the old fella, almost seeming proud. “Sorry young lady.”

It was nice to be called young lady for a change.

The old man got a wistful look on his face, though it was difficult to tell where he was staring since his eyes were ghostly white. “Used to be handy with a Snap-On wrench. I mean I could fix anything from a lawn tractor to a front-loading washing machine. Worked over 25 years repairing engines for the Navy.” He sniffed, then took a big gulp of his Yoo-Hoo. “This might come as a surprise—seeing how fit I am—but I suffered a stroke couple summers back.” He grinned, showing his black tooth.

Debbie nodded, trying not to chuckle.

“Darndest thing. Ever since my stroke, I done lost my mechanical faculties. That whole part of my brain musta shriveled up and died. Can’t even hold a wrench now; wouldn’t know which end is which.”

Debbie folded her arms. “Hmmm, this is a conundrum.” She watched desert iguanas and zebra tails doing push-ups, sunning atop piles of rusty radiators, engine blocks, crankshafts and flywheels. Everything in sight seemed beyond repair.

“Over here’s where I show off my minerals,” added the old guy, changing the subject. He pointed to a row of outdoor shelves housing his rock collection, which thankfully was kept under a ramada. The shade helped, but the stagnancy of the air was the real killer. “These ones taste like spoilt milk,” he commented in his wheezy voice.

The “rock collection” consisted mainly of sedimentary and conglomerate rocks, fairly common to the Mojave Desert region. She recognized several ordinary types of limestone, travertine and sandstone, plus a few unpolished agates and opals.

Holding the whitish rock up like a golden egg, he said: “taste it for yourself.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Debbie replied.

“I said taste it,” commanded the man tersely. He lifted his shotgun, not pointing it at her, but clutching it tighter in his grip.

Debbie stuck out her tongue while bringing the rock an inch or two from her lips. Hesitating, she paused for a beat, hoping the fellow would look away. Instead, he watched her like a hawk, waiting for her to actually lick the chalky rock. Faking it wasn’t going to work.

Flicking her tongue against the rock, she caught a taste of it, bitter and salty. “Yeah.” Shaking her head and making a sour frown, Debbie groaned. “I think that might be Dolomite,” she remarked.

“Whenever I feel constipated, I come out here and lick this rock. Cures me right up.”

“Too much info,” muttered Debbie.

Pretending to be interested in rocks one could find by simply stopping your car on the interstate and walking any direction was fine. But the whole time she was wondering about the Jeep J10 truck and Ford Bronco. Perhaps there were enough spares in the yard to MacGyver a fix together. Odds were better, considering she had two vehicular options. A combination of praying and using every IQ point she had might allow her to coax one or the other into running and driving. The loco old guy was a wildcard. Would he try and stop her? Would he be grateful to her for fixing one?

Debbie leaned against a decaying air compressor, where the rounded sides made for a makeshift bench. “Sir, you wouldn’t happen to have a telephone I could use, would ya?”

“Sure, I got me one of them.”

“Oh wonderful …”

“The bugger hasn’t had a dial tone in 26 years.”

Debbie exhaled. “Or a HAM radio set? Wait, wait … let me guess. It doesn’t work.”

“Tube amplifiers blown out.”

“Right of course.” Debbie nodded. She sensed water pooling at the corner of each eye. Her lungs heaved and she felt her legs weakening. Lowering herself to a crouching position, salty tears started dripping to the soil where they quickly evaporated. She was simply too exhausted to fight an onslaught of emotions. Though she hadn’t wept openly in years, Debbie began to sob, as hopelessness swept over her in a great wave.

Redlands CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: An engineer and mathematician stopped by the V-P diner one night for drinks. Somehow the topic of conversation turned to imaginary numbers. Catherine Cookson became convinced they were pulling her leg about the whole idea of “imaginary numbers”. As I passed by to deliver a tray of beers, I overheard her saying: “Stop it you guys, that’s silly! That’s not a thing!” No argument could convince Cathy otherwise. Remember, there were no smart phones or widely available internet in those days.

Lyndy waited until school was out of session, but before the principal departed to make her introductions. Majority of the students—ones who were already driving—peeled away sharply by 2:45. This left behind only faculty and those staying for a practice.

You know when they say being a teacher is a calling? Well, this parking structure sure indicated otherwise, judging by the quantity of German made luxury sedans. Somehow, someway the teachers at Crestwood were making bank.

Placing Maribel gently into her baby buggy, Lyndy wheeled up to the administrative office. When she asked to see the principal, she was informed Mrs. Dalton was busy. No surprise there—she knew this wouldn’t be easy. Lyndy offered to wait.

The receptionist’s desk had a brand-new, fancy Mac computer. Lyndy didn’t feel particularly welcome, but she wasn’t here to make friends either. And of course, arriving unannounced was her fault. But Lyndy had the distinct impression she was secretly being described in an instant messenger box of some sort. The receptionist would periodically look up, glance at Lyndy, then go back to typing furiously on a keyboard.

She was pretending to smile at the same time, but it was obviously fake. In the storage pocket of the buggy, Lyndy had brought Mari’s colorful toy xylophone and the accompanying steel mallet. She offered this to the baby, whose eyes went wide with excitement. Thusly, the next twenty minutes were filled with random notes: BING-BONG-BING-BONG-BOOONG.

The Spitfire remained calm, herself pretending to browse a copy of Reader’s Digest. She slipped her readers over her nose, which Lyndy knew would help her look smarter.

She became so bored she did a word search puzzle.

30 minutes later …

Amongst the notable decorative features in Principal Dalton’s office was a slotted oak paddle, displayed atop two brass supports. This thing measured three feet long. Certain laws regarding corporal punishment discouraged her from using it. At least such rules applied to public schools. How the particulars translated in a private school setting, Lyndy didn’t know.

“This is a school for gifted students,” explained Mrs. Belinda Dalton, making eye contact. She was a fiftyish age woman with a fat swash of white in her formerly blonde wave, a facelift and a banker’s disposition. She offered Lyndy a pamphlet, detailing the many benefits to enrolling one’s brilliant offspring in private school. Lyndy shoved this in her purse. “We prepare our students for entry into elite colleges and universities.”

Lyndy glanced down to 12-month-old Maribel, grinning in her blue onesie. The baby with the same curly, chestnut hair as her mother, had been chewing on her Sophie giraffe while a small bead of drool rolled off one corner of her lips. Hastily, Lyndy wiped it away with the corner of a cloth. A smile formed on Mari’s face.

“Mari’s brilliant,” Lyndy declared. With a pause and a shrug, Lyndy added, “though she’s only a year old.”

“What makes you believe that?” A tight, skeptical frown formed on Mrs. Dalton’s face. Reaching into a drawer on her desk, she yanked out a used Sesame Street baby book. The stiff pages of the book sported colorful drawings of the main characters. Flipping it to a random page, Mrs. Dalton held it up. “Who is this?” The picture had a cartoon drawing of Big Bird.

“Come on Mari, you got this,” thought Lyndy, trying to will her daughter to speak, though she’d only ever said one recognizable word before.

Mari gazed to her mother, knowing Lyndy wanted her to do something. She looked wide eyed at Principal Dalton and then at the book she was holding up. No mistaking, it was obviously a picture of Big Bird. Mari was thinking.

Lyndy pointed to the book. “Who’s that?”

“DA-DA,” answered Maribel, holding the giraffe in one hand. Then she lifted and shook her bead filled rattle with her other hand, as if to underscore her wrong answer.

Lyndy put a palm over her eyes. “Shit,” she muttered.

Principal Dalton chuckled. “Pretty sure your father isn’t Big Bird.” At least she had a sense of humor. “No that’s Big Bird. See?”

Mari, knowing she’d given the wrong answer, had a sad look. “ELMO?” she supposed, trying again. She lowered her rattle and went back to chewing on the giraffe.

“Do’h,” Lyndy muttered.

“Big Bird,” corrected Principal Dalton. “Can you say Big Bird?”

A tear started rolling down Maribel’s cheek, knowing she’d let her mother down.

“Ya know, I was bad at tests too. I think it runs in our family.” She turned to the baby. “It’s okay sweetie,” said Lyndy lovingly, reaching and pulling the baby into her arms. She held her butt with one elbow and patted Mari’s back with the other.

“I have to say Miss Martinez.” Belinda Dalton seemed surprised at her own words, “Most 12-month-olds can’t speak any words at all. There’s a small possibility this child may actually have an above average IQ.”

“That’s good to know! Cause in addition to a well-rounded education, the arts are particularly important to our family.” Lyndy sniffed. “If possible, I’d like to meet the art teacher? Tigerlily.”

“Sorry, she already left for the day.”

“May I ask which room is hers?”

Mrs. Dalton shot Lyndy an inquisitive look, as though re-evaluating her estimation of The Spitfire.

“By the way, that’s a heck-of-a paddle ya got hanging there,” declared Lyndy.

Belinda Dalton turned in her chair, so she could gaze up at her magnificent paddle. Then she turned back to Lyndy.

“One other thing. I hear there’s a missing student,” Lyndy remarked.

“Tragic case. Seems like a runaway.”

“Sure, about that?”

Mrs. Dalton shrugged. “It’s all we know. Happened on a field trip; nothing officially associated with the school.” She began straightening a stack of papers on the corner of her desk.

Lyndy inhaled, changing both her voice and expression. Using one hand she pinched her cheeks together. “Know what that paddle reminds me of? The warden at PineGate Youth Detention camp. She used to beat us with broom sticks for sport. One night she whacked me a good 25 times with one. Not gently by any means, I’m talking full force—swinging the whole arm. Wouldn’t stop unless you went unconscious or pretended to.”

Mrs. Dalton shifted uncomfortably, clenching her jaw.

Lyndy leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Her legal name was Mabel Dixon. That’s why I believe in demons to this day. Only logical explanation I can think of, Mabel Dixon was possessed by a demon. She used to drag me by my belt loops across the floor boards, and rusty nails were sticking up where the wood slats had worn away, cause the camp was in such poor condition. I still have scars on my ass from that.”

“Sorry, that happened to you. Sounds like you’ve overcome a lot.” Mrs. Dalton looked at her watch. “I should be heading home.” She attempted to dismiss Lyndy, packing away a planner and some pens into a bag.

“I hope you’re not holding back information.”

“Nice meeting you,” said Mrs. Dalton, hastily. She’d have sworn Mrs. Dalton’s hands were quaking.

“I was just heading home myself. I’ve got shredded chicken and potato stew in my slow cooker. You know how it is. We love those crock-pot dinners on weeknights.” In her mind Lyndy was thinking, “I hope you’re not obstructing.”

Jackie’s prediction must be right. These people were instructed not to speak about Sabina’s disappearance. Which was beyond annoying. But mostly what got her blood boiling was spending any time thinking about Mabel Dixon.

Gasoline and Matches Part-6

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

29 Palms, CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At one of her big Tucson birthday bashes, Rita was depressed about turning 36. Obviously, she was difficult to shop for. Someone must’ve forgotten to purchase a gift—or understandably not thought of anything—and amongst the pile of scarfs, aroma therapy candles, sun hats and champagne bottles she found an index card, with a handwritten note that said: “coupon for one free back rub”. Rita was annoyed, so much so, she contemplated flying to wherever this lady lived and demanding her back rub.

Sergei—owner-operator of Godzilla Towing—was unwilling to budge on the absurd price of eight thousand dollars for a simple tow.

“But I’m a AAA member?” the customer argued. “I have towing coverage.”

“Sergei is not affiliated with AAA,” the owner answered. “Sorry.”

Block and his unnamed driver compadre menaced the timid stranger each time he happened to check his surroundings. The poor father said his kids were hot, exhausted and he needed to get his car back. Sergei shrugged.

Mind you it was well after midnight.

Further, the family-man customer also claimed that his yearly annual salary was only 24 thousand dollars, and most of his savings would be eroded if he had to pay their unfair price. Again, Sergei shrugged it off.

Then to Lyndy’s astonishment, the family man wrote a check for the same amount. He could’ve gone out and purchased a good used car for that. Sergei made a copy of the man’s driver’s license, presumably so he could nail him to a wall in case it bounced.

“We need to chat pronto,” whispered Lyndy, looping her arm through Jackie’s while pushing open the exit door. A part of her wondered if that steel door had a secret button to lock it. Whether or not it did, Sergei allowed the pair to exit, Lyndy pulling Jackie with her.

Outside in the glare of the yellow streetlamps, Lyndy folded her arms while Jackie leaned against the car. Both their hearts were racing, and sweat had begun accumulating on Lyndy’s exposed skin.

She gazed at the barricades protecting the car storage area. Unfortunately, she couldn’t spot the Jetta from here. Next Lyndy studied the front of Godzilla Towing, where the office connected to the one and only gate. The arms of their gate were constructed of the same ten-inch water pipe as the rest of the fence line. They had a guard shack, made entirely of iron, with a tiny peephole window. Behind the gate arm, another barrier, this one seeming to have been a shovel for an enormous CAT bulldozer. It was attached to the hydraulic system, which could raise and lower it. Currently the barrier was in the upright closed position, looking beefy enough to stop a tank. Any hole or gap had been stuffed with razor wire.

Bracing on the trunk of the Ford with both elbows, Jackie heaved a series of labored breaths. Her back arched up and down as she continued panting, letting out the tension. For a brief moment she appeared ready to throw up. Recovering some, Jackie twisted to face Lyndy, pinching her tiny crucifix. Still struggling with words, and now with tears pooling in her eyes, Jackie spoke in a halting speech pattern. “Maybe … maybe I can go to a bank branch tomorrow … start the process of moving funds? They probably have one in Redlands.” Jackie slapped her hands lightly at her cheeks, feeling light headed.

“I disagree. No F-ing way we pay these creeps ransom money,” argued Lyndy. “In any case, let’s not make the decision in front of em. We need to jet; work this out someplace else.”

Moving swiftly to the driver’s door, Lyndy ducked into the bucket seat while Jackie circled to the passenger side.

As Lyndy inserted her key, the office door flung open and the tallest man in the overalls and wife-beater came striding out, showing amusement on his rectangular face. In his right arm Block casually brandished a Kalashnikov, pacing with the muzzle pointed toward the ground. The curved magazine was inserted, but no way to tell if it was loaded. Best to assume yes.

He gestured with his chin. “Classic car!”

Lyndy narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be back,” she shouted, over the roar of the motor.

She couldn’t hear his response, but Block’s chapped lips mouthed something like: “I’ll be waiting.”

Block continued mad-dogging her as Lyndy slammed it in reverse, performed an expert Rockford turn, then kicked up a rooster tail of sand as she accelerated away from the parking area.

A half mile later, they veered off pavement at a McDonald’s franchise with an outdoor patio. Due to the early hour the restaurant was closed, doors inside locked and the play place looking rather austere. The parking lot was devoid of customers.

Lyndy hopped a smallish brick wall to enter the patio and reluctantly, Jackie followed. Crickets were chirping loudly in the night—seemed like a plague of them.

“What if they follow us?” she whispered in a worrisome tone.

“They won’t,” stated Lyndy confidently.

Jackie shivered, not from the cold but the surge of adrenaline.

Positioned along the cement walkway to the restaurant entry, were a series of newspaper dispensers. Two of these were for real newspapers. The third in line, contained a free copy of Truck-Trader.

“Oh perfect!” remarked Lyndy, dashing to the display unit. Lifting the lid made the hinges creak—piercing the calm—but she yanked out a fresh copy. This three-quarter inch printed volume came chock full with advertisements for trucks available in the inland empire and high desert area. Best of all, most ads were private party.

Lyndy took a seat backwards in one of the plastic chairs, flopping the book on the table. She opened it straight to the last twenty or so-pages, containing the oddball vehicles.

Meantime a hot wind started blowing, lifting her permed hair and causing Lyndy to press the edge of the pages with a firm hand to keep it steady.

“What’re you planning?” Jackie questioned, beginning to puff on a sheltered Newport and bouncing her weight from ankle to ankle.

“I don’t know yet,” muttered Lyndy as she studied the pages, each comprising a dozen or so ads. After a few seconds she flipped the page to the next, holding her hair in one hand, keeping it from blowing around too much.

Prior to this, she’d never had much interest in the weird stuff. The back consisted mainly of rare makes, a category of kit cars, some homebrew Frankenstein shit and vehicles with unusual purposes. For example, circus trucks with big iron cages for moving gorillas and elephants. And trucks with ramps for motorcycle stunt shows.

“It’s never a good idea to fight people,” scolded Jackie. “I didn’t hire you to do that.”

Lyndy sniffed, ignoring the remarks.

“Why do we care about these rude men? We just need the Jetta,” Jackie pleaded.

“I fully agree with you. I don’t care about them,” The Spitfire replied. “But no effing way they’re getting what they want. We’re not paying them a penny.”

Jackie shrugged. “Where do we go from here? We need the car. We should pay them.” She commenced sucking on her cigarette, reminding Lyndy of someone trying to suck in a thick milkshake through a straw.

Lyndy exhaled, flipping to the next page in the book. “How many other private eyes have you worked with?”

“Two, not counting police detectives.”

“Did they get any results?” Lyndy knew the true answer before asking, but Jackie’s silence only served to confirm. “Look Jackie, you are welcome to hang back and stay safe. But it doesn’t matter what you want. I’m going to destroy that place.”

“You have a death wish. You’re insane!” shouted Jackie, and she stormed off.

Lyndy breathed a sigh of momentary relief. She continued to study the pages. Two ads caught her attention. The first was a White Manufacturing cabover diesel semi-truck, which was not outfitted for long-haul freighting. Rather, the White diesel was for rugged use in ports, for moving heavy containers over short distance. How it ended up in the desert was anyone’s guess. The second, another unusual make, was a Coleman aircraft tug.

Given the two were equally enticing, Lyndy favored the Coleman Tug, because that vehicle was advertised as being located in Joshua Tree.

Jackie had marched to the highway by herself. She didn’t get very far. She’d looped back and then sat down on a table, facing the road. “Jesus would say turn the other cheek,” she muttered.

Lyndy popped the cap on a bottle of Tab she’d saved in the trunk, taking a series of long gulps. “Maybe so. But remember, Jesus also flipped over a bunch of tables at the temple cause he was pissed at the money changers. So in that sense … ” Lyndy trailed off.

A small tremble of a smile formed on Jackie’s face.

“By the way, I haven’t been to confession in like 8 years.”

Jackie’s arms were open wide, her fingers dangling in air on both sides of the table. A detectable tremor also lingered in her extremities, and her feet continued bouncing heel to toe. The effect of the excitement had long worn off on Lyndy.

“Are you okay?”

Leaning her head all the way back, til her eyes were pointed at the stars in the Milky Way, Jackie let out a slow breath. “Yes. It’s just, I don’t think I’ve felt anything in a while. I’ve been numb to it all … other than grief. I honestly forgot what the sensation of living was like.”

5:50 AM, Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

She awoke to a frightening, chaotic scene, and a sound she hoped to never endure again. It was terrifying, the room in shadow, hearing the man she loved moaning in pain. Men were more sensitive to pain, yet his cries were genuine.

For a brief instant, Lyndy didn’t know where she was. Darkness still covered the cabin, and dawn’s first light illuminated only the tips of the pines. Meaning an early hour.

Thrashing side to side, she felt the sheets of their bed all bunching and crinkled up. Using her fists, Lyndy grasped onto anything she could. In the cold darkness, her vision was blurry. She could hear Kyle writhing on the floor in the fetal position. From the next room, the baby began to whine and cry, hearing the commotion.

Lyndy jumped out of bed into a fighting stance, ready to do battle with any lurking creature she could find. Funny part was, there didn’t seem to be any invaders in the room. Her head swiveled about, but the only other person was Kyle, in typical sleeping attire: boxers and a white under shirt. Her first thought was, “how did he fall out of bed?”

Through gritted teeth, he began to speak: “God damn you. You kicked me and threw me out of bed.”

Lyndy began feeling guilty.

“You kicked me right in the stomach.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she exclaimed, rushing to the side of her boyfriend. Crouching down, Lyndy grabbed onto his shoulder in a panic. “Are you okay?”

He took a breath, letting it out slowly. “Somehow you pulled me sideways, flipped me and then thrust me against the wall.” Looking over to the wall, she could see he’d bounced off the decorative birch bark wainscotting. That stuff was not easily damaged.

“Is … is anything broken?” Reflexively she began checking him, feeling along his arms and legs for broken bones.

“What the hell got into you?” Kyle demanded. “You were having a bad dream. I simply reached over to comfort you.” He groaned, rolling onto his back out of the fetal position. Still, his eyes remained squinted shut.

Becky would never let this happen.

Lyndy sat up on her knees. She was in her sleeping shirt and panties. “Sorry.” She kissed him on the cheek though he was still writhing.

The baby’s cries became louder. Lyndy sniffed and instinctively changed her voice to a tone of tenderness and caring. “Want me to bring you ice?”

“No.”

“I feel awful. Are you gonna be okay?”

He nodded his head.

She pointed to the next room. “I’d better go comfort Maribel.”

“Getting my ass kicked by my girlfriend is one way to wake up,” Kyle lamented. “Not my favorite though.”

Lyndy frowned in shame.

By breakfast time, tensions at Fall River had cooled some. Mari was content watching baby cartoons. Kyle still seemed upset, and just a tad suspicious. He glared at her while spooning corn flakes into his mouth. “What were you dreaming about?” he kept asking. But she couldn’t remember, except fighting was involved.

She wanted to ask him about the mystery glitter substance. Didn’t seem like the right time though.

Lyndy Life Observation: At one of the contracting companies where Col Rickman worked, someone left behind one of those gimmicky LED retirement clocks on their desk. If you’ve never seen one, it basically has an always-on display which counts down the days—stupid I know. Rickman punched in the year and month he anticipated retiring, and the thing reset to a number in excess of 5000 days! He said it was a real punch to his gut, ruining the rest of his week.

She felt a little uncomfortable whenever she backed Kyle’s Land Rover out of the garage and down the hill. Growing up in an East LA barrio, it never felt right driving a yuppie automobile—like she stole it. Aunt Rose had a silly saying. Whenever someone would offer them a ride in a fancy vehicle, she’d decline, explaining: “that’s much too nice for us.” And Lyndy remembered hating Aunt Rose for saying this. What kind of fool turns down a ride? However, now that she’d grown close to the same age when Aunt Rose had uttered those words, Lyndy began to understand. What she meant was, she didn’t want to get too used to riding in a fancy car, because it made you desire the same for yourself. One could easily catch a bad case of new car fever. And pretty soon you’d be in debt, paying through the nose for a car you really couldn’t afford.

But another part of Lyndy loved this road boat. The stately British auto had plenty of power, and you sat high in the seat like riding a war horse. It wasn’t even bad in mountain curves. It had some kind of suspension dampeners which adjusted to the twisting road.

Better yet, the steering wheel was wrapped in exquisite leather.

She had an excuse for driving it. It held more groceries, especially for those mid-week Costco runs. But more importantly, it had attachments for car seats. The 67 Mustang had no such. In the sixties you just kind of set the baby on its back, hoping for the best I suppose. All in all, the Mustang was a bit of a death trap. And while Lyndy didn’t mind death wish cars, she certainly wasn’t about to subject Mari to the same.

She could see Maribel snoozing in the back of the SUV whenever she adjusted the rear-view mirror. It had one of those spiffy CD players in the dash. (That’s a plastic-coated metallic disk containing tunes for you younger folks). But the only CDs in the SUV were Kyle’s, and she didn’t care for his taste in music.

She’d dressed in an outfit suitable for a mountain housewife. Something Helen Mason would approve of. This was key to her mission. Mom jeans, earrings and a Pendleton shirt with her hair neatly done up. But not too proper.

In Lyndy’s pocket, she had a color photo of Sabina.

First order of business: Crestwood Academy. She needed to appear like the type of mother who would send her kid to a private school. Which probably meant looking like someone who watched Martha Steward and cared. Driving the right kind of car helped, one box checked. The missing element would be the voice. It would be tough to hide her roots in East LA. For while Lyndy’s appearance was pure north Mexican beauty, her voice gave her away. She had the SoCal accent, largely influenced by surfer culture.

The school had been positioned on a slanting plot of land, terraced into three big levels in the rolling hills of Redlands.

Gasoline and Matches Part-4

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Note the original Skyway Fantasyland station in the back near those pine trees. If you’ve been to Disneyland in the last 30 years or so, the change in this view is remarkable. Fun Fact: As a toddler I rode Dumbo and cried because the ride went so high in the air. -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: The absolute dumbest, bottom-of-the-barrel episode of The Brady Bunch had to be when Mike Brady installed that payphone next to the kitchen. Then later, there was some sort of afterhours business deal requiring Mr. Brady’s input, and of course he didn’t have enough change for the call. Couldn’t see that plot twist coming.

Arriving at the screen door, Debbie hesitated. She removed her hat, raking her curly hair away from her face, breathing a deep sigh. Half her water was used up and her hiking shirt was drenched in sweat. She knew she smelled awful.

Despite the fact the miner’s cabin appeared to be occupied, she still hadn’t detected any signs of motion from inside. No footsteps on the floor boards. No rustling of curtains.

The cabin included a shaded cement porch. This area had been swept clean of sand with a broom resting against a two-by-four, supporting the eve of the roof. Whomever lived here cared about this place. Course there weren’t any chairs to sit upon, but one of those plastic crates had been inverted. Presumably this was the exact spot where the cabin’s owner relaxed to take in the view.

Glancing to the water tank, mounted on stilts, she could see clear water dripping from a leaky spigot. This scant trickle had nourished hollyhock plants growing around it. Bees were buzzing near the large blooms or drinking from the puddle in this otherwise desiccated scene. Every once in a while, she heard the unmistakable hum of a hummingbird’s wings. How they survived out here she couldn’t guess.

She reached for the handle on the screen door, pulling it toward her. Like any screen door, it screeched in a most ear-buggering fashion, pivoting on rusty hinges and an overused spring mechanism. Behind the screen was a regular door, with most of its lead paint flaking away to bare woodgrain.

“Uh, hello?” Debbie called out, as she pounded a fist on the door.

Something similar to this happened in many a cheesy drive-in movie, and even in the famous Rocky Horror Picture Show, cept in the latter case that was a rainy night. Which sure would be nice.

When no one answered, Debbie cupped her fingers onto the latch handle and tested it. It turned. Pressing it about 45 degrees down, she felt the catch releasing from the frame. She assumed next she would just push it open. But then the face appeared.

This dude could’ve given the HBO “Crypt Keeper” a jump scare. His hair was ghostly white and so were his eye balls from untreated cataracts. He had wrinkles all over his face and huge liver spots on his arms.

Acting on pure instinct, Debbie reeled back off the porch. Then she noticed the 16-gauge shot gun in his hand. He gripped it in his left like one would carry a pipe wrench. Even the spot where his hand rested was noticeably shiner because the finish had worn off. When he gazed at her, his eyes were pointed roughly 30 degrees from center. Probably this was to “see around” his horrendous cataracts.

“H-H-H Howdy,” Debbie stammered. Was this a nightmare or reality she wondered?

“Nance, is that you?” asked the elderly man.

“Nance?” Debbie looked over her shoulder. Obviously, no one was standing behind her.

“Uh. My name is Debbie.”

You know that smell old people have? And the unexplained wheezing of someone in the normal course of breathing. Grandma Kowalski, when meeting a man in this condition would’ve made one of her snide remarks. Something like: “this gentleman has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Debbie pointed a finger far off in the distance. A tiny glint represented the windshield of her stuck Jeep, reflecting into the haze. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. I’ve had a breakdown a couple miles down the road.”

Again, it was difficult to tell whether he was looking at her, something in the horizon or a phantom of someone named Nance who wasn’t there.

Debbie forced her lips to curl into a smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you?”

“Why don’t you come in?” offered the man with a nod. Then he did an about face.

Something smelled off. But she figured everything smelled off. The situation was off.

“Pardon the clutter,” muttered the fellow, as he shuffled toward the kitchen. Indeed, rusty cans, old newspapers, mail and just about anything else littered the floor so that one could only pass in a narrow trench across the room. Even his jeans were coated in dust, looking as if they were last washed when Eisenhower was still president.

Letting the screen door slam behind, Debbie stepped across the threshold into what must be the entry and a one-time sitting room. She watched as the man set his gun against the wall, stock resting on the floor, in a position where it could easily fall over.

Passing through an archway and rounding the corner into the kitchen, her gaze fell upon the fifties style round kitchen table. In the nook, next to the window, her eyes caught sight of something which registered as a Halloween decoration. You know those life-size witches sold at big-box hardware stores? Families who were way too into Halloween put those in a chair on their porch, next to the bowl of candy. Sometimes they’d take it one step further, putting this witch’s fake rubbery hand into the bowl.

That’s what her brain told her she was seeing. Textbook movie scare. She almost began to laugh, and her rational person’s response would’ve been: “Nice decorations dude. Very amusing.”

Then she felt her internal organs spasm. Her heart ceased pumping, and her lungs involuntarily seized, making her gasp. “What the F is that?” Grabbing a fistful of her flannel shirt, Debbie pulled it over her mouth and nose, squinting her eyes. She began to gag, and if she’d had any food in her stomach she would’ve vomited right up.

“Oh sorry,” commented the man. “Ought to have warned you about that.” He stopped in his tracks, making that wheezing sound as he breathed. He stood perfectly still, almost in reverence.

You know how skin begins to dry and turn brown in the weeks and months after death. It becomes brittle, the texture of rawhide. Well probably you don’t. And why would you? But that’s what happens.

“That there is my late wife, Patty Sue. She passed about a year ago now,” he said, with a touch of sadness in his calm voice. “Haven’t had the heart to bury the old gal.”

Debbie’s legs felt weak and she lowered into a crouch. With both hands over her eyes, wishing she would wake up she began to whisper. “How … long … were … you … married,” she managed through gritted teeth. Then her coughing continued.

“Forty-three years,” said the old man proudly.

With her sense of balance restored, Debbie began gaining control of her gag reflex. She studied the partially mummified body before her. The dry air must’ve stemmed the decay. Course, the ladies’ eyes were totally gone, just black holes in the skin.

“You must be thirsty,” said the fellow. “How bout a Yoo-Hoo?”

“Is it cold?”

“No,” he answered bluntly. With a shaky hand he opened one of the lower cabinets. Inside was indeed a shelf full of Yoo-Hoo bottles with the yellow cap. “Lot’s of people think Yoo-Hoo is chocolate milk, but it’s not. It’s a chocolate drink—never goes bad.”

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life observation: Cathy Cookson’s mother once claimed to have cut back to just 2 cigarettes per day during her pregnancy with Cathy—for the sake of the baby.

Funny thing about stress dreams, they could take a wide variety of forms: from rabid dogs chasing you through misty woods, to accidentally driving your car off a series of cliffs, to having to perform a complex speaking part in a play at a crowded theater. But somehow you never even agreed to be in a play. Like how the hell did you get here? Was this Carnegie Hall? When did you sign up for this?

In this case it was learning a tricky dance number, a type of synchronized performance which could be surprisingly stressful. She was training for a show with Rochelle Bishop, a woman whom she always felt she needed to impress. In spite of how hard Lyndy tried, she couldn’t master the moves. Rochelle was becoming frustrated. And it pained Lyndy not being able to duplicate something Rochelle considered a basic step. This lesson was taking place in a darkened room backstage at a dance hall, lit by kerosene lamps in a non-descript frontier town. She had one of those big ruffled dresses with the corset—whole nine yards. And Rochelle was in her thirties, not having aged appropriately, or at all. For that matter, Lyndy was young too, maybe 28. Which made zero sense.

Why were her feet not listening to her brain? With each repetition, she only managed to find new ways of stumbling and messing up. She could hardly control her body and even intelligible speech became a struggle.

She could hear little kids giggling inappropriately. Why would children be laughing with the mirth of a kid on the swings reaching unsafe heights.? How come toddlers were even allowed in the dance hall or in any way witnessing this? Then she thought she detected Maribel’s giggling voice, with a kind of spittle sound and her chubby little fingers clapping.

Her brain circuits started firing. Wait, the dance lesson was a dream! Rochelle criticizing her ability was all imagined, but the laughter was not. It was mid-afternoon and she’d dozed off in a public place. The children were real.

Squeezing both hands to cover her face, Lyndy sat up. Her rapid rise frightened off the pigeons and most ducks, but as one of them took flight, it carried away the remaining portion of her fast-food chicken strips. The birds had encroached on her picnic, scattering her fries, dipping sauce and even poking at her chocolate cake from the desert counter.

“Shit!” Lyndy cursed, brushing off some feathers and loose French fries. She’d fallen asleep in a quaint little park adjacent to the lake. It was one-thirty on a sunny afternoon.

As her eyes adjusted, she could see children on the swings. They’d been laughing at the birds, who managed to peck and swipe most of her lunch. Lyndy frowned at them. Then she glanced at Mari, who was smiling ear to ear.

“Excuse me, it’s not funny. Why didn’t you scare off the ducks?” Lyndy demanded.

Mari’s expression changed to one of concentration. Her intense brown eyes focused on her mother, listening and reading her mood.

“And how long was I out?”

Lyndy felt a gooey substance oozing off her forehead, threatening to leak into her eye. Reaching up with her palm, she wiped away barbecue flavor dipping sauce.

Of course, the lakeshore was lovely, the mountain air warm and dry. No wonder she’d nodded off.

“Lyndy, is that you?” A female with a youthful voice called her name.

Lyndy passed one elbow across her perm, then smoothed it back over each of her ears. Scooting closer to Mari, she folded her legs under Indian style.

“Lyndy Martinez?” repeated the woman.

Peering over her shoulder, Lyndy spotted an attractive housewife pushing a stroller on the path. One had to have a key to get into this park. It was no public beach. Only home owners technically were allowed to access the lake. Of course, Lyndy’s key came by way of Dr. Ellis.

Squinting for a better look this new arrival was a knockout, probably thirty-one or so. Though dressed as a housewife, her snazzy outfit passed for peak fashion in this town: stonewashed jeans (baggy of course), a chunky knit sweater tied in front and what could only be described as “Martha Stewart hair”. This chick could go from walking her kid around the block, to raising the sails on a vintage boat, to hosting a party for the PTA with just a change of shoes. Speaking of PTA, her mind probably contained sacred knowledge regarding school districts, and it would be a good guess to assume she were on a “board”.

The cheerful face seemed vaguely familiar. Sadly, Lyndy’s brain was so fried, she couldn’t place her. There were dozens of lake moms resembling her within a two-mile radius of this beach. After waking from this kind of nap Lyndy hardly knew her own name, let alone a woman she’d crossed paths with a time or two in five years.

Still, the stranger was hell bent on making conversation.

Hurriedly, Lyndy gathered her frizzy perm over one shoulder, then stuffed the chestnut-colored mess through an outsize scrunchie.

“It’s me,” said the woman. “Helen Mason”

Bracing with one arm, Lyndy pushed herself to a standing position. “Helen Mason?” Now that they were toe-to-toe, Lyndy reached out to shake the dainty hand of Helen. Lyndy wished she weren’t so disheveled, wearing mom overalls and a white blouse from K-mart. Internally she chastised herself, knowing she needed to be more careful these days. She wanted to peek into her makeup case mirror, but doing so would be impossible to disguise.

“So, this is your daughter?” questioned Helen.

“Yep, that’s the little devil baby,” Lyndy replied, still not entirely sure to whom she was speaking. Bending down, Lyndy scooped Maribel into her arms. “When that doctor told me it wasn’t bloating, I was actually pregnant, I about slapped him right off of his stool.” Maribel grinned as the young woman reached down to pinch her nose.

“Oh my gosh, she’s so precious,” declared Helen. “I think she has your hair.” Helen cleared her throat. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Clicking her tongue and inhaling deeply, Lyndy shrugged.

“My husband works for the same engineering firm as your boyfriend.”

Of course. Now it made sense.

“Tim and I are having a few friends over on Saturday. We’ll be grilling on our deck. We’d love for you and Kyle to join us.”

“That sounds lovely,” Lyndy replied.

“Say, three o-clock?”

Just a hunch, but Helen seemed like a good source of info on preppy academies.

“Oh hey, I had a question. We are looking into private schools.”

“You mean preschool?”

“No. High School.

“Already?” Helen pretended to bump a fist into Lyndy’s shoulder. “Well, aren’t you one heck of a planner!”

“Ya know how it is—college getting harder and harder to get into. With the giant brain on Kyle, little Maribel might end up being an engineer too.”

Helen grinned, her whole face shining with kindness. In this day and age, the world so cynical, Lyndy found herself doubting the authenticity of unexpected kindness. But not everyone hated her. It took a certain kind of narcissist to think so.

“Do you know anyone at Crestwood?” asked Lyndy

“Great school. Expensive. But nice. It’s down in Redlands.”

That was a valuable fact. Not as far a drive as she anticipated.

Bending down, Helen adjusted the little sailor’s cap on her own child, a precocious two-year-old boy with red hair. “Ya know what I think. Most all of us just have destinies. No sense in putting too much pressure on yourself to make Maribel into something she isn’t.”

“Good advice,” thought Lyndy.

Gasoline and Matches Part-2

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Don’t write on your postcards people! -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rochelle Bishop had one of those 30-inch-wide natural hairdos popular in the seventies. She loved her enormous hair, but admitted it had drawbacks. Certain cars were dreadful to ride in, due to the low roofline and showers were practically impossible. One evening strolling out of Cadillac’s night club a small bat collided with her head, becoming tangled in it. Neither she nor the bat were harmed in the end, but Rochelle said she resolved it was time for a trim. This wasn’t an unheard-of occurrence back then, just ask any lady who had a giant beehive.

Kyle’s new cabin stood proudly on a bluff, with towering vistas of Lake Arrowhead. She found it challenging to describe the setting to one who’d never visited, other than comparing it to a tranquil slice of the Pacific Northwest transported to Southern California, then placed atop a mountain over the smog. The mountains were dense with vegetation in those days, mainly Douglas fir, ponderosa pine and incense cedar.

The custom cabin became the first home Lyndy lived in with solid non-tile counter tops. The kitchen was a true marvel. Those granite counters were an anthracite color, with flecks of embedded rock crystals reflecting light. The floors were real oak, textured with knots and little sanded imperfections. There were exposed beam trusses supporting the ceiling, and a tall set of picture windows with logs framing the lake.

One could get lost in that view, ever changing with the moods of the day. At daybreak or golden hour, the great room filled to the brim with inviting, natural light. Near sunset it could be distracting. It made you want to go out onto the deck and snap a picture, then rest your arms on the railing, take a breath and soak it in. You’d flick your shoes off, plop into a comfy chair and daydream. Soon you’d forget about the lasagna in the oven or the rice on the stove until a burning smell, or the beeping smoke alarm would jerk you back to reality.

She ruined many a dinner this way.

The more time one spent in this tree-house like environs, the harder it would be to return to desert living. Mornings on the lake were cool and crisp. Afternoons were sunny and warm. Colorful boats were constantly zipping from one side to the other. Throw in the change in seasons, like fall colors with mist swirling amongst the pines and it felt like another state entirely; Montana maybe. With a home like this one didn’t really need a TV. She spent many enchanting hours on that deck.

Another quirk: with the right angle of view, on the southernmost portion one could spot a corner of Rita’s mansion. You couldn’t see into Rita’s house per se, just a small piece of rock work. Enough to know it was there.

The name of Kyle’s cabin was Fall River, stenciled into a sign which hung by the door. Therein, another first. No one she grew up with lived in a house important enough to have a name. They didn’t give double-wide trailers names, nor did they give them to shitty stucco tract homes. Only custom homes had names. And Fall River was a very cool name, not because there were rivers anywhere near the cabin, but because of a place Kyle liked to fly fish.

On the lower level of the home paired with the bedrooms, the architects included a laundry nook containing both a washer and dryer. Such a welcome upgrade in convenience. Most places Lyndy lived had neither appliance, and she spent many weekend afternoons in the Amboy coin-op laundromat. But Fall River didn’t require a stack of quarters.

Course it wasn’t all an episode of Fantasy Island. With the house so new, it lacked furniture—two chairs were all they had for the table. No nightstand on either side of the bed. The clock radio rested on the floor. Worse, it also lacked any sort of baby proofing.

At 6 am, sun not yet rising on the lake, Lyndy kept busy hand-drilling small pilot holes for the plastic doo-hickey’s which restricted the lower cabinet doors from opening. Humming to music, she’d gotten into a groove. She worried most about the area under the sink, which she started on first, because here the cleaning chemicals were stored. Setting down the drill she began tightening the screws on these devices.

Using a towel to muffle the sound, she did her best not to make any unnecessary noise.

A few minutes later Lyndy was on hands and knees pushing the little plastic caps into the outlets when she heard Kyle’s footsteps on the stairs. She heard him yawn too. As his groggy head and shoulders poked above the landing, he spotted her.

Kyle was clutching the baby on his shoulder, supporting her bottom in the crook of his elbow. Mari was dressed in her favorite onesie.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” His voice sounded calm and sympathetic, even though she might’ve woken him.

“I got a few Z’s.” Lyndy sat up, still on her knees.

“What’s this?” he asked, poking at the open package on the island.

“It’s the baby proofing stuff I ordered. Remember?” Duh, she thought. What was wrong with dudes? Hadn’t he been through the process three prior times?

Kyle nodded as his expression morphed into “oh yeah.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Mari will be crawling soon. She’s already reaching for things and putting random stuff in her mouth.”

Kyle gestured to the empty great room, near the windows. “Another thing. I was just thinking how we have no living room furniture.” He set Maribel down on the counter, in a seated position with her little legs dangling, which of course was unsafe. Lyndy quickly jumped up and scooped her off the edge.

“We need a sofa.” Reaching into the pantry cupboard, Kyle began pushing cans and bags of rice around.

“I made some coffee,” Lyndy remarked, holding the baby and walking a circle around the island.

Kyle sniffed. “Thanks.” When he turned around, he’d snagged the pancake batter mix and was holding the box on display with both hands. “How ‘bout I make breakfast?” He gestured to the sack of baby-proofing hardware, and the many lower cabinets still needing to be drilled. “After breakfast we’ll get the rest of those knocked out.”

Lyndy smiled, taking a seat with one of her legs folded under on a kitchen stool, while resting Mari’s bottom atop her thigh. Mari watched her father’s every move with attentive eyes as Lyndy gently bounced her up and down.

“I need to ask you something … and it’s … hard to picture,” Kyle stammered, in a tone balancing disappointment and understanding at the same time. “But did you call Rebecca Broom Hilda at the pool?”

Lyndy didn’t know how to answer, other than. “No. Of course I didn’t call her Broom Hilda. I mean … why? That’s preposterous!”

“So then, you didn’t call her a witch—any type of witch?”

“Technically no.”

By the letter of the law, I did not call her a witch. Lyndy held her tongue.

Stepping up to the commercial grade stove, Kyle twisted one of the big red knobs, making the natural gas his. He had his back turned as he slid his favorite cast iron pan into place, positioning it centrally over the burner. The hissing sound seemed to attract Maribel, making her even more interested. With a click of the igniter a ring of ten neat little cones of blue flame appeared, accompanied by a FWOOSH sound.

Maribel clapped her hands and said: “F-F-F-F-ire!”

Lyndy’s jaw dropped. Kyle whipped around, eyeing the baby in disbelief. He was holding a spatula which he pointed at Mari. Lyndy squeezed Mari’s sides, twisting and tilting the baby for a better look. She happened to have some spittle around her lips.

“Did she …?”

Lyndy’s wide-eyed expression was the same as Kyle’s.

Maribel glanced up first to her mother, then rotated back to face Kyle. Seeing her two parents so excited she knew she’d done something special. “Fwire!” she said again, louder and accompanied by a giggle. Then she stuck a finger in her nose. And that’s how the milestone of Maribel Ellis’s first word came to pass.

Wonder Valley, CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Col. Rickman once remarked Swanson’s Hungry-Man TV dinners should change their slogan to: “official meal of the divorced American male”. Every time I think about that I laugh.

She threw down her shovel with enough force it dug in and stayed upright in place. Backsliding two paces, Debbie Kowalski allowed her drained body to collapse against the tailgate, resting her tailbone on the bumper. With a slow turning of her wrist, she ran her arm all across her forehead, shaking loose so much sweat it drizzled to the desiccated soil. She squinted her eyes at the bright July sun, feeling cramps in her stomach.

Weariness was taking hold. She needed a plan other than continuing to dig.

Debbie always took pride in self-reliance. Some of this stemmed from experiences with her Polish grandmother, a woman who not only survived a concentration camp, she literally worked as a slave sewing new uniforms for the Nazis. Suffice it to say, Grandma Kowalski was as tough a survivor as they come—a little piece of her spirit lived inside her granddaughter Debbie.

Debbie wore men’s pants, cowboy shirts and cowboy hats. Her high intellect and strong frame allowed her to do any job a guy could do. She went on adventures alone, fixed her own cars and generally solved any problem she came upon. She’d worked as a park ranger, a soil scientist for the USGS, a geo-chemist for a petroleum company and a cartographer. She’d hiked, driven and ridden horseback into some of the most remote spots in North America. She’d camped alone in grizzly country and trekked over sand dunes in Death Valley, carrying a fifty-pound pack.

Thus, it was disheartening to admit how hopelessly stuck in soft sand she was in the heart of her old stomping grounds. This was the Mojave Desert in summer, yet she hardly recognized the landmarks. The outlines of mountains were unfamiliar. The roads didn’t match the maps, and everything was powdery sand, burro brush and smoke trees. The only animals were distant vultures, circling hundreds of feet in the air. Gazing south, the horizon itself became distorted by heat convection.

Bending down, Debbie took another peek under the car. No change after shoveling. The Cherokee rested its four tons on the middle portion of both solid axles, colloquially called the pumpkins. Everything below, including two-thirds of the wheels were buried in the aforementioned fine sand. Like the car version of Ozymandias.

She cleared her throat. She had about a quart of Gatorade and a half gallon of drinking water. Two Mountain Dews. Should’ve brought more.

In literature they called the present condition a damsel in distress. Could one still be a damsel at forty-one? Maybe. Debbie checked herself in the driver’s side mirror. Her once carrot-colored hair from her Irish side, was turning a bit silvery. Her cute freckles peppered across her face, now looked suspiciously like age spots from too much time spent outdoors. Currently, this was covered up by the strawberry flush of heat. She was sweaty, probably smelled bad.

A younger version of herself had been a bit on the chubby side, but gradually she’d been losing some of the plumpness in her cheeks and also around the middle. With every year passing, Debbie found herself becoming the one thing she never thought she’d be—a slender woman. It was a strange turn of events.

“Stop wasting time. Need a plan.”

Debbie knew she was becoming disoriented. The symptoms of heat exhaustion were piling up. She’d tried any and everything she could think of to get the 1974 Jeep Cherokee unstuck, including unloading her gear to save weight. Still too much American steel and sheet metal. Even if she had an electric winch installed it wouldn’t have mattered. For miles around there was nothing sturdy enough to winch off. She possessed exactly one shovel, but anything she tried only seemed to make the problem worse.

Cupping her hand to shade her eyes, she tilted her chin back to study the sky. Not a single cloud. All these years, defying the odds. Being the greatest outdoors woman this side of … uh … Nelly Bly. Had her luck finally run out? The matter was settled. For the first time in months, she needed another person. As much as it stung her pride, a middle-age man with tools would be useful about now.

Debbie checked her watch, noting it was 2 in the afternoon. She staggered a few paces from the car, scrambling up the side of a berm iguana stye, to the nearest high point. With binoculars pressed to her face, she scanned along the horizon. Nothing manmade. Nothing moving.

Lyndy Martinez used to say: “anyone kooky enough to like it out here was automatically suspicious.” That was solid advice, under normal circumstances. But now, she was desperate.

The valley surrounding this spot was a western basin, an area in the rain shadow of multiple inland ranges with no outlet. Hardly any vegetation coated the soil. The mountains and hills were covered in exposed boulders, some of them a black or grayish color. Like a big Japanese rock garden. On summer days the sun roasted these stones, thus in each direction the horizon became distorted by the same rippling heat waves radiated by the rocks.

She tried again, scanning side-to-side across the mountains for anything man made. Could’ve been a mirage, but she stopped panning when she happened on a squarish cabin with two windows. The windows glinted in the harsh midday sun. Finally, a miner’s cabin! Had to be. She guesstimated the distance. Two miles perhaps? Though out here, distances could be deceiving, especially on a day like this.

Stop wasting time.

Jumping up, Debbie surfed down the slope with her boots. Slowing her speed and cushioning herself, she hugged on the car door excitedly. Next, she slipped the binoculars back in her Jeep. She left the windows down and her gear exposed, but crammed the keys in her shirt pocket. Without heavy equipment nobody would’ve been able to move that vehicle. A passer-by seemed unlikely out here. Besides, she planned to return to this point at the latest tomorrow morning.

She thought about writing a note. But what would it say? In case I don’t make it, here’s who I want to give my stuff too…

Hmmm. That felt too much like inviting the worst outcome.

Reaching in the cooler, Debbie popped the top and shot-gunned a cold mountain dew. She kept thinking about Lyndy’s warning not to trust someone who lived out here. Course, maybe the cabin was abandoned anyway. After shaking out every precious sugary drop, she tossed the empty can in the back. Then Debbie slapped her hat against her thigh, removing some of the dust.

Re-positioning her hat on her head, Debbie shouldered the one remaining jug of water and started off walking.

It took longer than anticipated, nearly two whole hours to hike from the jeep to the rolling hillside she’d seen from afar. When her tongue happened to touch along the edges of her lips, she tasted salt. But as she came nearer to her goal things were looking up. The shack dwelling appeared lived in. A handful of live plants, including a row of hollyhocks near a water tank were in bloom. Great news.

The other thing catching her attention was this hermit must be a bit of a collector. Her assumption at this point was a guy. Of course, anyone who lived out here was a hoarder by the classic definition. Out of necessity one had to hoard supplies to remain self-sufficient. She couldn’t fault them for that. But this person’s property was littered with aircraft parts—not barnstormer stuff but modern parts for jets. Expensive parts. They had pieces of an F14-Tomcat, including an engine. A few yards away stood the tail section of a DC10. On the other hand, they had D5 dozer parts too, including sprockets and rollers for the tracks. Hard stuff to move which must weigh tons.

“I don’t think UPS delivers out here,” she muttered.

Hopefully with any luck they were a mechanic type, with a running diesel truck or a flatbed to help get her out of here.

Zig-zagging her way uphill through the personal junkyard, she kept watch of the windows. She detected no motion in them, not even a flicker or glint of light. Nothing to indicate someone was watching from inside. Unfortunately, that meant surprising them.

No barking dog. Would she have to knock on the screen door?

Gasoline and Matches Part-1

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

Anaheim, CA, 1990s

People always say when you become a new mother, your tolerance for life’s gross outs skyrockets upward. Blood, urine, throw-up, whatever is in a blackhead—you name it! And in The Spitfire’s experience, this was all true. From the happy day she found out she was pregnant with Maribel, at the age of 40, to the time of Maribel’s birth, a notable transformation occurred—not only of body, but in spirit. These same changes didn’t affect the male brain equivalently, or at least not in the case of Dr. Kyle Ellis. Kyle already had three other children, the youngest of which was eight when Lyndy gave birth. For some reason Kyle was still grossed out by poopy diapers. Nowadays, Lyndy could watch the Kintner boy get devoured by Jaws, while eating spaghetti.

These special life events never came at a convenient time and place. So, it was inevitable that baby Mari had one of her worst diaper blow-outs of all time, in the midst of a ride at Disneyland and Lyndy had to sit there with a diarrhea covered baby for what seemed like an interminable stretch until the ride came to a halt. Ironically, the ride was Winnie the Pooh, proof that God has a sense of humor.

Something had upset Maribel’s stomach terribly, though she’d eaten mostly oatmeal and half a banana. The diarrhea not only squirted up her back, along her spine, but also down the insides of her thighs. People in the beehive shaped cars behind were pinching their noses and groaning. Kyle was mortified with palms over both eyes—though he really ought to anticipate these moments. Rebecca Ellis, his first wife, was in the car in front. She was snickering.

The one silver lining was Lyndy had a diaper bag. As soon as the ride came to a stop, she jumped off carrying Maribel like a watermelon, basically a mini-stink bomb, and waddled to the nearest restroom. The Goofy character happened to be walking through at the time and he said: “Golly!” Then he did the laugh which is impossible to spell out but everyone can hear in their head.

There was a line for the women’s, because of course there was; it was the ladies room at the world’s most popular theme park after all. But as soon as the other moms witnessed the gravity of the situation, they let Lyndy cut the line. Another mom had the koala care station down and had just been finishing up a diaper change on her toddler. When she saw Lyndy coming, she whisked her kid out of the way so Lyndy could get Maribel onto the table.

Mari’s diaper bag had a pack of those disposable baby wipes, but it wasn’t near enough. Lyndy had to rush to the sinks. Mari was crying like always. This time for good reason, as she had poop all over her and probably had an upset tummy. But Lyndy was used to it, because Maribel cried a lot.

Lyndy sighed.

Rushing to the towel dispenser, she yanked the arm up and down about thirty times to obtain a good fistful. She took this wad and wet it under a sink faucet, using this in place of a washcloth to cleanse Mari’s skin.

Moments later Rebecca Ellis entered the restroom, but instead of being helpful, she’d come to watch Lyndy. Thankfully the Costco wipes helped a ton, as Lyndy tried to comfort Maribel and get her to stop crying. She hummed a lullaby, even though it was a crowded place, and she looked into the beautiful eyes of her baby, laying there on that plastic shelf. Her heart swelled with love.

Eventually, mercifully, Mari began to cry less and Lyndy affixed a fresh, clean diaper.

That same afternoon ….

Lyndy Life Observation: On a sweltering day chasing speeders up and down the San Bernardino County interstates, 15 and 40, Deputy Keynes used to frequently get an argument along these lines: “Hey buddy, I pay your salary.” Sometimes this was accompanied by a poke at his chest and the obligatory, “ … are you just out here filling your daily quota?” In the right mood, Dale Keynes would reply with: “Hey man, if you’re not happy why don’t you fire me? You pay my salary, correct?”

The classic song Pickup Man was playing softly on the speakers. The dry SoCal heat felt amazing, and her belly had been filled by an excellent prime rib meal at The Blue Bayou, paid for by Dr. Ellis. And with their troubles mostly behind them, he had his arm around Lyndy while he smiled and played with their baby. That was during the meal. Now he’d run off somewhere to take a business call.

Lyndy was on her second margarita—wearing her favorite one-piece bathing suit—when Becky Ellis entered the scene again. She plopped down on an empty chair next to Lyndy’s pool lounger. She had one of those pina-coladas with the little pink umbrella and she was crunching the blended ice by poking the straw up and down.

On the lounger next to her, seated on a towel, was one-year-old Maribel in her tiny sun hat. Mari was smiling now, having recovered and seeming to enjoy watching the activity at the pool. Later Lyndy planned to take her daughter to the baby pool, where the water was roughly eight inches in depth and Mari could have fun splashing in the sun.

Lyndy could tell when Becky Ellis wanted to talk. She got this look on her face like she was ready to burst. She should have been watching her kids, but she’d entrusted this duty to the teenage lifeguards at the Disneyland Hotel Pool.

Becky Ellis inhaled deeply, then let the air out slowly.

Lyndy lowered her pink sunglasses.

“Whelp, I see you lost the baby weight quickly,” Becky remarked. Instead of a tone of congratulations, or as a complement, it sounded more like an insult. Like Lyndy must be on drugs. “What’s your secret?”

By the way, Becky Ellis and Lyndy were the same age, but in Becky’s eyes, Lyndy was a younger B-word who’d swooped in and stolen her husband away. This explanation couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Lyndy cleared her throat. She’d taken to imitating the great Rita Lovelace in situations like this. Rita always kept an air of dignity, even when someone was obviously there to intimidate her.

“I said what’s yer secret?” Becky repeated with a grin.

“I bought a Thigh-Master off an infomercial,” said Lyndy, matter of factly. In reality, one of the benefits of this bathing suit was its flattering nature and built-in slimming capabilities.

Becky exhaled a chuckle, knowing Lyndy was being facetious.

“Do you take anything seriously?” Becky accused.

Lyndy gazed at Maribel, brushing the gorgeous strands of hair from her forehead. It was the same shade of walnut as her mother’s and Lyndy took pride in that.

Only Becky could find reason to be in a vindictive mood during a luxury family vacation to Disneyland—literally the happiest place on Earth.

“Becky for Pete’s sake, can’t we just enjoy a family vacation?” pleaded Lyndy. Lifting one of those 4-sided emery boards from her purse, Lyndy began polishing her fingernails.

With one casual glance, Becky checked on her kids. The oldest stood atop the waterslide and was about to go down in reverse. “I need to ask you some important questions,” said Becky.

“Oh no you don’t,” argued Lyndy.

“Be honest with me Lyndy Martinez,” whispered Becky. “At any point during our marriage, was there … infidelity?” Becky whispered the word infidelity, though no one was within earshot. “And I don’t mean the physical kind. I mean emotional. Or any form of shared contact that … could lead a man to temptation.”

“Huh?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Lyndy looked Becky in the eyes. “We hardly said hello to each other the whole time you and Kyle were married. I promise you.”

“And when did this start?” Becky pointed to baby Maribel, as though she were evidence of some illicit affair.

Lyndy squinted her eyes. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Maribel was 12 months old. Counting back from there, another 10 months and Kyle was already divorced.

“Deep down, there had to be a part of you wishing to get pregnant? In a way, didn’t you know it would bring Kyle back to you?”

Lyndy exhaled, thinking back to that drizzly night.

Kyle Ellis had driven past the motel where he knew Lyndy lived her lonely life in an upstairs room. He’d made a case, the two of them were basically star-crossed lovers. Now they had a chance to flip that narrative around. Living in a motel, in your late thirties, working at an oil change place called Rapid-Lube did make one feel like a bit of a loser. So, seeing a familiar face—a successful one at that—she’d been in a moment of weakness. They’d had a passion filled night or two, rekindling a lifelong romance.

She’d practically given up on her dream of being a mother. She’d tossed her chance away like a couple of spades in a game of poker. Yet Lyndy didn’t know what she was missing. It was that summer season which brought Maribel Ellis into the world. Nothing could’ve prepared her for how joyful this would make Lyndy, and Kyle Ellis in turn. Mari was a symbol of the love he’d always had for Lyndy.

Lyndy gazed up at the Matterhorn, like a snow-capped beacon in the haze of a southern California afternoon. She answered Becky this way: “Why don’t you hop on your broom and fly off with your monkeys to pester somebody else.”

Becky’s back stiffened. Her face contorted in a grimace—like someone who’d had a drink thrown in their face—and she must’ve been so insulted she huffed off without any sort of goodbye.

Lyndy smacked her forehead, knowing word of this would make its way back to Dr. Ellis, and he would not be pleased.

Later that night …

The local TV news was on silent, pictures of wildfires in the mountains and a panicked scroll on the bottom fifth announcing many evacuations. One didn’t need the volume to know all heck was breaking loose in the mountains. Sometimes it felt like that’s all southern California did in the summer—burn.

Lyndy couldn’t sleep again, her mind swirling with countless worries, irrational or not. For example, what if their new cabin in Arrowhead burned down? But the fires were far away from the lake. Beside her Kyle snored, as did Maribel on her back between them. They both had a big day. Anyone on a trip to Disneyland had every right to be exhausted. She checked her watch, then sat up.

Grabbing her key card, she pulled on a dress, stuffed her feet in heels, then headed out—shutting the room door gently so as not to wake anyone. She didn’t have a rational explanation, and Kyle would obviously want to know where she was going. He also would want to know what was wrong, but as usual, Lyndy didn’t know what was wrong. She could never put in words what it meant to be restless all the time.

Downstairs Lyndy paced across the lobby. The only people up were moms like her, who were fatigued by life. But the bar had a few empty seats. Now that was a fortunate turn of events.

Kyle could be trusted with Mari, especially since she was sleeping. Right?

With piano music filling her ears, Lyndy cozied up to the hotel bar and sighed. The bartender smiled and Lyndy said: “Heineken”. Then she slid Kyle’s gold credit card across the smooth top.

Glancing to her left and right, she counted the other patrons. Pair of dudes at the other end of the bar. One couple, and a woman, seated by herself at a table by the windows. She seemed a little older.

Lyndy took a sip of beer, then studied the stranger.

By her looks she’d guessed this mature woman was middle forties in age, but slender, with a dirty blonde bob haircut and curtain bangs. It was a pricey hairdo, done only at salons. That style didn’t work for Lyndy’s curls, requiring far too much straightener, but she envied it. Or maybe it was a wig? Lyndy kept glancing her way.

She seemed like a fellow mom, but a wealthy one. Her classy outfit consisted of a green blouse, pedal pusher pants, showing her ankles and a fine pair of high-heel strap sandals. It bested Lyndy’s department store sun-dress.

“Oops.” Abruptly the stranger looked up from a dirty martini they were nursing. Lyndy was caught in the act of spying, which was embarrassing. But the stranger grinned while Lyndy sipped from her beer.

“Welcome to the party,” the woman called out.

Lyndy nodded, with a sheepish look.

Leaning back in her lounge chair, the elegant woman crossed one leg over the other. “Care to join me?” she asked, pushing her hair over one ear.

Lyndy hadn’t known she was lonely and it was abnormal for her to talk to strangers. But in this case, she welcomed the chance for an adult conversation that wasn’t with Becky or Kyle Ellis. Or the kids.

Lyndy took a seat across from the stranger, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “Sorry for … ya know …”

The woman shook her head, meaning no explanation needed.

“Name’s Jackie,” the lady added. Jackie pointed her toe, exercising it by doing circles, while gazing at Lyndy with attentive eyes. On her third finger, a diamond ring flashed as it caught the light. “My maiden name is Bell, but these days I go by Cordray.” Then she sipped from her glass of gin.

“Lyndy E. Martinez,” replied Lyndy with a nod. “Jackie’s a cool name.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” questioned Jackie. She had a green foil pack of Newport’s peeking out from the top of her purse, causing Lyndy to have a craving.

Lyndy shook her head in confirmation.

“What brings you to the Tragic Kingdom?”

“Oh well you know, I always wanted to meet Donald Duck in person. And my anti-depressants aren’t working anymore.”

Jackie Cordray chuckled. “You got any kids?”

“One,” Lyndy answered, trying to maintain a non-slouching pose. “She’s not going to remember this trip, but years from now when she has 30 tattoos and a bone through her nose, I can point to Dumbo and tell my daughter I held her in my lap on that ride.” Lyndy gestured to the tower elevators. “My boyfriend is currently upstairs, snoring like a moose.”

Lyndy shook her head at the circuitous path leading here; while knowing the series of nervous jokes she typically used as a smokescreen to avoid talking to people weren’t going to work on this lady. Cause Jackie was too damn cool.

“I’m not a …” Lyndy twirled her fingers to indicate whatever was running through Jackie’s mind. “We’re basically a family now. The American dream. I have self-respect.” Lyndy covered her mouth with her fist, trying unsuccessfully to disguise a burp. She wasn’t sure what she meant to justify by her declaration, maybe a latent response to Becky’s digs.

Jackie squeezed her nose at the corners of her eyes, then gazed out the windows at the glittering city lights at night stretching on forever. “I got two of em. They’re too old for this place now, or at least they act like they are.” Her words were bitter, as if many painful things were being left unsaid. Her fingers displayed two diamond rings, but no wedding band. Jackie swirled her drink, then downed the rest.

Ordinarily Lyndy wouldn’t have been so bold, but something about this mystery woman made her wonder. Jackie came from money; probably lived in Hollywood or Beverly Hills. There was practically no rationale for a person like Jackie to come here, if they didn’t have a family in tow.

“You’re looking for someone,” Lyndy surmised, taking one more sip of beer.

Jackie turned back rapidly, facing Lyndy and meeting her with a haunting gaze—the kind of look someone who’d woken up from a nightmare. “They call you The Spitfire. Is that correct?”

Lyndy nodded slowly, wondering how a person she’d just met would know that name.

“I have a confession. A friend of mine—Rita Lovelace—told me I might find you here. I didn’t know you would be up at this hour or what room you were staying in. Bumping into you was purely coincidence. But I’m glad we’re meeting this way.” Jackie leaned forward. “I have an extraordinary story to tell you.”

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

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