Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

A speckled brown dove, balancing lightly on a swaying tamarisk, belted out a sweet call of loneliness. Lingering drops of dew turned golden by radiating sunbeams were quickly evaporating. Shadows of crooked telephone poles retreated across the land as the sky brightened to tones of muted blue.

The mother road was empty except for the tortoise and the girl.

Daybreak, when 66 had no vehicular traffic to speak of, was tortoise’s favorite time to brave the hazardous asphalt. Having reached the opposite shoulder, a surface comprised of smooth sand, he met with an embankment. This two foot wall of dirt fashioned by a road grader was the most troubling obstacle. But tortoise was a capable digger. Rather than claw his way to the top—risking an overturn—he simply tunneled on through, using the strength of his massive forelimbs.

Never underestimate the tortoise. This living fossil had leathery skin and a shell marked with slashes carved from the talons of a golden eagle. For the record the bird lost. Tortoise was caked in layers of dry mud, having the wizened facial appearance of a Yoda puppet, minus the silly ears. The most imaginative science fiction writer could never have invented this absurd creature.

Same might be said of The Spitfire.

After traversing the embankment tortoise continued his march north, but paused when he came upon a fledgling opuntia cactus. His attentions diverted by his stomach, he approached the spiny green plant—smelling sweetly of moisture and sugary fruit. Sidling up and opening his jaws, he chomped down hard onto one of the segments shaped like a mickey mouse ear. That’s when The Spitfire cringed. Tortoise had bitten a cactus covered in thorns, designed by nature to inflict painful puncture wounds. And yet here he was happily chewing away like a cow eating a mouthful of alfalfa.

“Oh god. I cannot believe you just did that,” Lyndy Martinez remarked. She’d been crouching in the shade of the tamarisk, beside the highway.

Hearing a human voice, tortoise slowly craned his neck, eyeing her, but continuing to munch on breakfast.

“Come here often?” she joked.

The tortoise blinked, then gradually extended his accordion-like neck to grab another bite. He kept one eye on her though.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Lyndy added, “Look man, I’m one bad ass chica, but I don’t think I’ll ever shove a whole cactus ear in my mouth.”

Feeling anxious she checked her analog watch. 7:15.

It was tough for The Spitfire to wake up this early—she needed an alarm. But she was already dressed to the nines; wearing her favorite black skirt, ruffled halter top, cowgirl boots with a heel, violet lipstick, dark eyeliner, hoop earrings and to cap it off, a purple ribbon tied in her freshly curled hair. Lyndy ran her fingertips up and down one leg, testing for any missed stubble.

“I know what you’re thinking. What am I doing here?” she said to the tortoise.

Two mornings prior …

Business was glacially slow at Chan’s Bail Bonds—been that way for a week. Lyndy Martinez was seated with her back resting against one arm, and her knees bent over the other arm of a less than comfortable client chair; Chan hated when she did this. She was lazily fanning herself, one T-strap sandal dangling and about to slide off onto the linoleum floor. Her white leather purse had been hooked over the actual backrest.

“Mr. Chan, did you know a female elephant can be pregnant for up to 23 months before finally giving birth?” declared Lyndy. “Can you imagine what that’s like?”

Her boss grunted an “uh-huh,” clearly not paying attention. Retrieving a matchbox-shaped stamp from his desk—one of the red pre-inked type—he aligned the mechanical device, then pressed down on the plastic handle, causing it to emit a metallic ka-chink . Sounded like a credit card machine.

Lyndy eyed that stamp. With it came the power to accept or deny work, called sanctions, passed down by the client. He’d just rejected one.

“Mr. Chan, you ever stare at a cat and wonder if they have knees?” She smirked. “I’m pretty sure they don’t in the front.”

Chan grunted again. The stamp came down with another ka-chunk.

“Oh by the way, I need to say something important. I’ve decided to join a monastic convent and become a nun. Any thoughts?” Lyndy cleared her throat loudly.

Chan snubbed the end of a cheap cigar, then took a slurp of steaming donut shop coffee from a ceramic mug that was last washed when Eisenhower was president. His half-century-old eyes focused upon a single sheet of pink fax paper, perforated on both edges, which he protected from view with his palm. These notices were occasionally sent by law enforcement agencies, for example, to indicate a reward was being offered for a wanted man.

But Lyndy could tell such was not the case with this order. Exhaling through a gap in his front teeth, Chan’s facial expression became locked in an uneasy false grin.

“Dude. What’s-a-matter with you?” probed Lyndy. “Got wax in yer ears?”

“We’ve received some offers of employment from The Lovelace Corporation.”

She raised her eyebrows in anticipation, knowing the firm had deep pockets.

“However, I’m worried this work may be viewed as ….”

“As what?” she interrupted.

“… beneath you.”

Lyndy sniffed, continuing to fan herself. “Geez. You act like I’m picky.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh.” Chan chuckled. “That’s because you are picky Melinda.”

Mr. Chan was the only person living who called her by her Christian name.

Leaning forward in the chair, Lyndy cocked her head. Using the fingers and thumb of her left hand, she squeezed her chin and cheeks until her lips were pouted. “Does it pay? And do I keep my clothes on?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Passed the test. I’ll do it,” said Lyndy wryly. “We need the dough.”

“Excellent,” replied Chan, rubbing palms together greedily. “They need you to repossess a motor vehicle.”

“What sort of motor vehicle?”

Chan groaned. “It’s called a ….” he waived his hand in the air, searching for the correct term, “fish that looks like a kite underwater.”

“Stingray,” thought Lyndy.

A combustion-powered machine—the first unnatural sound—brought her back to the present day. Lyndy could identify most motors by the sound. This one was called an LT-1.  The driver had his foot to the floor; one could tell from the buzzing exhaust note.

Moving closer to the road—her skinny heels sinking in sand—she could see the black profile cresting a rise on the horizon, about a mile out. Between here and there were several dips where dry streambeds met with 66. Above these, shimmering pockets of heat waves could be observed, blurring the view to the car.

A thunderous vibrato attacked her eardrums: singing pushrods and fiberglass, two cornerstones of Chevy sports-car technology. The tortoise froze in place, shutting his eyes and retracting all four limbs plus his head. He’d been hit by reckless drivers before—sent flying like a soccer  ball—even when napping a significant distance from the highway.

Lyndy raked her hair back and flexed her thumb muscles. Time to transform into a mysterious hitchhiking female, temptation no delinquent bachelor could resist. Even married men would pick up a hitchhiker, right? Or would they?

The car’s speed was only increasing on the downhill, and he blew through the big dips with the gusto of a Baja buggy.

As the speeding Vette entered the last quarter mile stretch, Lyndy strutted into position. She angled her torso forward at a 60 degree slant, her body profile inches from pavement. Smiling wide, clenching a fist with her fingers, but projecting her thumb, she curved her free hand around her backside.

The black Vette whizzed by in a flash, stirring up a whirlwind of fine dust particles which subsequently landed in her eyes. He didn’t even slow down; like a roadrunner cartoon. Lyndy was left to back way, sneezing and blinking her eyes repeatedly, her shirt twisted around by a blast of hot air. She tumbled as one heel sank into a gopher hole.

That didn’t go how I planned.

A momentary worry entered her brain: Maybe I’m too old for this?

But five seconds later there came a screeching of tires, and looking ahead she saw the taillights on. The Vette came to a halt 200 yards down the road. Still no traffic in either direction.

Hastily, Lyndy stood up and straightened her outfit.

The driver executed a 3-point turn, pulling back around facing the opposite way. The windows were lightly tinted, but she could see a male profile inside. The regulator made a whirring noise as it lowered the glass by six inches. Sauve.

Lyndy approached the man’s door, one eyelid still involuntarily spasming. All she could hear was AC/DC music blaring from an 8-track.

The fellow had sideburns and blonde hair in a mullet, bowie-esque, but at roughly 27 years of age he carried a fair amount of weight in the midsection—pretty tubby—not her type. He reached for the volume knob on his stereo.

“Howdy stranger,” mouthed Lyndy, imitating the breathy voice of Miss Cathy Cookson from The Vanishing Point diner.

“Hi,” he said, with a big grin. “Need a lift?”

Lyndy smiled back like a dingbat. The car may have been jet black, but he had the white leather interior option with the comfy bolstered seats.

“Yeah but … that-a-way, sir,” said Lyndy, pointing vaguely in the direction of Danby.

The fellow slapped the empty seat and bobbed his head a few times. “Far out, that’s the same direction I was headed.”

Of course. Groovy.

“Hop in,” he said, unlocking the passenger door and reaching across to undo the latch.

Lyndy obliged, stepping gingerly around the front clip. One had to dip pretty low to climb in one of these, but Lyndy managed without too much clumsiness. Once seated she smoothed her skirt, pulling it to max coverage.

The interior smelled like Hai Karate.

Exhibiting wide eyes: “Wow, your car is so uh … macho,” commented Lyndy.

“Thanks,” said the young man, shifting into a higher gear. He glanced back at her, about ready to pinch himself. “I’m Rick by the way. What’s yer name?” he shouted, talking over the engine drone and the stereo.

“Vangie,” she replied. “Vangie Martinez.” Technically, it was one of her names.

“That’s cool. Say, how the heck did you end up here? I mean, we’re way outta town.”

This was a difficult transition.

Lyndy buried her face in her palms, pretending to be emotional. “Left my dang fiancée at the alter two days ago. Ditched my white dress and run’d away from home with nuttin but these clothes.” She could feel his eyes studying her body. “Pawned my engagement ring.”

“Oh,” Rick said, in a sensitive male voice.

“I mean, I’m only twenty-years-old and I ain’t-a-ready to settle down,” she sniveled, still doing her Catherine impression.

“I understand.”

So believable. Almost like a popular movie.

Lyndy opened one eye, peeking through her fingers out the passenger window. She was having to work to suppress a case of the giggles, biting her tongue as the desert landscape flashed by.

Lyndy Life Tip #179: Human intelligence may be limited, but stupidity knows no bounds.

“Well listen, I’m headed out to Needles to meet up with a buddy of mine.”

“Anywhere is fine,” said Lyndy.

Ten minutes later …

Approaching the ghost town of Chambless and its only active business, a c-store, Lyndy felt the car lurch as the young lad downshifted. She heard the engine decelerate.

Lyndy glanced over to Rick, expecting him to explain.

“Hey listen, Vangie, I’m gonna stop in to grab a cold beer and a pack of Marlboros. You want anything?”

“Pack of Newports, please,” requested Lyndy, meekly.

“Wait a minute, you smoke menthols?” replied Rick, jerking his head back and acting repulsed. He was more suspicious of her choice in cigarette, than anything else so far. An attractive woman wearing all black, standing beside Route-66 at 7:15 in the morning? Totally sensible.

There happened to be a utility truck occupying the one parking spot centered on the doors. That was a good thing. Rick pulled in two slots to the right, meaning there was no clear view from the registers to the Vette. Also fortunate, he didn’t need gas.

Rick stepped out gently shutting his door. “I’ll be right back,” he assured, patting the back of his jeans to make sure he had his wallet.

Lyndy smiled again. “I’ll be waiting here.” She added in a goofy elbow-throwing move to emphasize the point that no, she was not about to carjack him and disappear over the mountains.

As Rick turned to leave, he seemed to experience second thoughts. Abruptly he reached in through the open window and yanked the keys from the ignition. He said not a word, just jingled the ring and shoved it in his front pocket.

He had his back to the car for the walk over to the doorway. Then, gripping the handle and about to cross the threshold, he glanced back. Lyndy hadn’t moved an inch. She wiggled her hand at him in a mock wave. He nodded.

Lyndy watched as the door shut behind. The same nanosecond it did, she balled up her fist. Counting to five, she began punching the casing surrounding the steering column. It was composed of a flimsy modern plastic—still punishing to the knuckles—but nowhere near tough enough to stop The Spitfire. Over and over, she pounded at the seams until it began to fracture.

This is why my nails always look like crap.

People assumed because Lyndy Martinez was small, she wasn’t strong. That’s why Warden Dixon made her fight other inmates at Pinegate Detention Center. The guards used to bet on the matches, and Miss Dixon made herself a tidy sum of winnings on The Spitfire.

With the casing cracked, she spread it further apart—as one would shuck an ear of corn—exposing the ignition switch and a bundle of multi-colored wires. Hooking two fingers, she ripped all the wire strands from their positions in the switch. Next, straddling the center console, she extended her left boot until she could just reach the clutch pedal. Gathering up all the skinny wires in her hands, she touched the starter wire to the thick positive strand coming from the battery.

A flash of blue spark, a jolt, then VROOM! The motor turned over. The starter screeched as it disengaged from the flywheel.

Lyndy dropped the wires. She looked out the windshield, discovering a very angry Rick exiting the store.

“Ruh-roh,” whispered Lyndy, doing an impression of Scooby-Do.

She grabbed ahold of the wheel with both arms, helping propel her body as she vaulted the rest of the way over the console, her butt plopping into the driver’s seat. With a heel on the clutch, she punched the shifter to reverse and stomped on the gas.

“Crazy bitch! You’re gonna pay for this,” screamed Rick, sprinting after her, waving his arms and throwing the packs of cigarettes. “I’ll have you arrested!”

But Lyndy gunned it, easily outpacing him. Cue triumphant Ranchera music.

As if being arrested was a serious concern at this point.

Lyndy backed way out into the oncoming lane, then stabbed the shifter to first, causing the transmission to crunch and grinding the gears. Rick fell to his knees. Then she accelerated away in a cloud of smoke and squealing tires.

“Easy money,” mouthed Lyndy.

A tenth of a mile down the road—with no one coming—she twisted the wheel all the way left, performing two full 360 donut laps in the center, leaving huge black tire streaks, then continued on back toward Amboy.

She cranked up the volume on the 8-track.

Even though this car was Lovelace property, she felt a twinge of temptation. Perhaps instead of proceeding directly to Chan’s Bail Bonds, she ought to stall. Enough time to drive to Vegas? She was certainly dressed for it, but perhaps not. Instead, an In-N-Out run for a double-double seemed appropriate.

to be continued …

Synopsis for Jackrabbit Homesteader: In this episode Lyndy enjoys a relaxing visit to the spa, starts a healthy new lifestyle and gets a promotion at work. Just kidding! It’s a Lyndy Martinez story, so she’s back to bust some heads in the Mojave, freeload tequila, balance her shaky romantic life and outwit her employers. What did you expect?

San Bernardino County in the 1970s; 20,000 square miles of sweeping desert and containing the best preserved stretch of Route-66 remaining in America. Jack Decklin is the young, self-assured chief of security for a prominent national railroad. When his special wedding train is robbed in a remote corner of the Mojave Desert, he sets out to hire the toughest and most cunning PI the region has to offer, to serve as his local guide. He’s surprised to discover the only person fitting the bill is a Latina named Lyndy Martinez, aka The Spitfire, who works for a bail bondsman. In need of extra money, Lyndy agrees to take the job against her boss’s advice. Jack and Lyndy take off in a black and gold Pontiac Trans-Am racing to capture the thieves before the trail goes cold. Despite differing investigative styles, they must learn to get along without killing each other. Along the way they cross paths with a variety of desert wackos, including a vegan farming cult where everyone wears overalls, a portly man who buys and fixes old army tanks, and a 10-year-old doomsday-prepping survivalist with a knack for trick bow and arrow shots. As events unfold Lyndy uncovers a painful secret from the town’s past, one Jack didn’t want her to know. And when all hope seems lost, Lyndy and Jack are forced to combine strengths to escape a deadly booby-trap. You’re gonna want to pull up a lawn chair, dust off your pet rock and grab a cold Tab for this one.