Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #183: Despite an endless barrage of new year’s advertising that would have you believe getting fit or losing weight will somehow change every aspect of your existence, from your career to your love life, take it from me, it won’t. You’ll be in shape, with all your other problems the same.

She’d been studying the map.

“Change of plan. Turn here,” Lyndy ordered, gesturing right.

With a flick of the wheel, Jack had them veering onto Black Mountain road.

No commuters were heading their way. The new road was arrow straight—one could tie the wheel in place with a rope—but coarse, stretching to an isolated range of volcanic ridges. With little maintenance, the median strip had all but weathered away. Rusty wire fencing, twisted and broken in places, paralleled the eastern side of the pavement. And it was so bone dry here only half-dead coyote brush dotted the pebbly soil. The color palette of this desert was something akin to a Siamese cat.

Overhead, numerous contrails blended with the whitish haze.

With one foot on the clutch and a fist on the shifter, Jack went into third gear, followed in a quick surge of engine power. Alluvial fans radiating from the hills meant the terrain was increasing steadily in elevation. Every quarter mile another fifty feet or so.

“When do I get to drive?”

“Middle Tuesday of never.”

“Figures. Typical male,” she complained, turning over the map.

“Uh, Lyndy, I really should have mentioned something else to you back at the hotel. These bandits who robbed us were heavily armed. I hope your … will and stuff is up to date.” His attempt at a joke landed flat, as they both knew it was tinged in truth.

“Meaning what?”

“Automatic weapons.”

People didn’t move to this county for the social life.

 

Minutes later …

“Hey, slow it down hotshot,” Lyndy chided, as they were approaching a dirt crossroad.

A steel cattle guard and white metal sign stamped with numbers marked the junction. Though peppered many times in shotgun pellets, the digits were discernable and matched the address they were seeking. No mailbox. Two miles ahead at the far end of the access, a mysterious cluster of steel buildings gave the appearance of a fortress.

Lyndy and Jack eyed one another, exchanging concerned glances. Still he turned in, Jack proceeding across the grate at a lowly ten miles an hour. After a mere thirty yards he stopped, setting the e-brake and cutting the ignition.

Reaching out his palm, he demanded, “Alright. Let me see it.”

She shrugged. “Uh. See what?” Suddenly they could converse at normal volume. Her brain was taking time adjusting. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your protection.” He chuckled to himself.

Truthfully, she knew what he meant before he said it. She hesitated because indecision filled her heart; this being intrusion at a level beyond matters of love life. The gun was fully loaded. As a rule, she never allowed curious strangers to see the Beretta. She could say no.

Reluctantly, Lyndy gazed into his green eyes. Continuing to glare, she reached a hand for her purse and undid the top flap. Then retrieving the matte black pistol, she passed it in a downward facing position, fingers round the barrel, setting the grip in Jack’s waiting hand. She wouldn’t have let go if she’d thought him incompetent.

With it pointed toward the gauge cluster, he rubbed his greedy palm along the slide, feeling cold metal and each of the grooves. The diamond pattern on the grip was crisp and sharp as a brand new wood file.

Careful. That son-of-a-bitch is cursed.

Slanting it side-to-side by 45 degrees he muttered, “doesn’t appear to have a serial number does it.” He poked a finger at the small black lever, liberating the clip. Under the force of gravity the loaded magazine dropped in his palm. She could tell he was counting up bullets.

“No. It’s a one-off. Made entirely by hand. I’m told it’s very difficult to trace; not that it matters.”

Jack nodded, wordlessly shoving the magazine back in place.

“I’m not using it on this job,” she repeated.

“Reminds me of a nineteen eleven with a short barrel, easier to conceal and a higher capacity magazine. Yeah, this is a nice piece.”

Satisfied, Jack handed the gun off in the same manner back to Lyndy, then pulled his door latch. Exiting the driver’s side he circled around to the trunk.  After stowing the Beretta safely in her leather purse Lyndy stepped out as well, intending to follow him to the rear of the vehicle.

Nevertheless, freed of the noisy cabin and with her feet planted on the road, her instinct to explore took over. She paced to the metal grating, pausing just shy of the gap and daring not cross. Her boots, being something akin to animal hooves, could just as easily become ensnared in the rust colored slats. Trapped amongst the steel she observed a 3-foot long rattlesnake skin.

Seeing the diamond pattern made her jump back, every muscle clinching and her chest feeling like a heart attack. Obviously it was only a harmless shed skin, and the real snake was long gone, yet her natural reaction was the same.

She turned back, concerned Jack may have witnessed this embarrassing incident. He was preoccupied, bent down, accessing something in the trunk; the polished latch of a briefcase glinted in the light. The front of Jack’s shirt had been unbuttoned, flapping in the wind. From the case he lifted a semi-automatic pistol of a type she’d not seen.

One glimpse and it appeared as though it were transported from the future, over fourteen inches and polished steel—something like a prop out of a spy movie—but one surely the bad guys would have had. This was hitman behavior.

“Hey! What is that?” she challenged.

Raising his head and shoving the case out of view, he spun around. “It’s a German P-330.” His unbuttoned shirt revealed a tan-colored side holster, and his fit torso. He held the gun sideways, exhibiting chagrin, then holstered it. “Costs about $1900 new.”

“You know they can see us now.” She nodded to the distant steel castle. “If they have binoculars.”

“I know.” Rebuttoning his shirt, he made sure his holster was covered. “I want them to.”

“Have you ever considered the idea that Kareem Abdul-Jabbar isn’t good at basketball because of his shoes?”

“Pretty sure it’s cause he’s about ten feet tall,” said Jack dismissively. Setting a foot upon the bumper, he leaned down to tie his shoelace. Switching to a firmer tone he added, “Lyndy, I’m not trying to show off. I just wanna be ready. Not like on the train the other night; stupidly I didn’t have my gun or anything with me. I was hungover too, which obviously doesn’t help.”

Climbing back in the car, the two motored on, less in a hurry than before.

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Driving my car near sundown and the flashing marquee sign out front of a casino had a government mandated PSA reading, “Gambling problem? Call this number for help.” And I thought. “Yeah, the problem is you guys!”

Off pavement, the black Trans Am kicked out a spray of fine soil—like jets of exhaust from a nozzle all the way to the intersection—but crosswinds and swirling eddies were also carrying it ahead, clouding their windshield and dusting up the hood. So much for the paint. Too long like this and Lyndy worried the paper air filter would clog. And if the folks in the metal fortress didn’t know they were coming before, that had surely changed.

All this was making her uneasy. They were giving too much warning. Something else seemed off and it took the better part of a mile to identify it; by this time they were much nearer to the cluster of buildings.

Abruptly she stirred, leaned forth at the hips, squinting at the unpaved dirt passing beneath the car. “Hey Jack, you notice how nice and smooth this road is?”

“Now that you mention it, yeah,” he replied.

Ordinarily a western drive such as this quickly accumulated washboard bumps, dozens at a time; some of these tracks were so bad they’d practically rattle out your teeth fillings.

“See along here,” she remarked, wagging a finger at linear mounds of disturbed soil on both sides. “They didn’t use road grader equipment or a dozer, they’ve leveled it with something else—like a car dragging a metal plate.”

Jack glanced at her as though she were half-crazy.

She signaled to him to slow down again, as they were coming to a chain link fence and padlocked gate, barring entry.

Though there were no additional numbers to confirm, it had to be the place.

The eight-foot-tall fencing stretched one side to the other, presumably encompassing the whole of the property. Prominent no-trespassing signs were displayed every twenty feet. They were unneeded, as nothing about the place invited newcomers. You had to go out of your way just to get here.

Plainly in view near the center, stood a massive hanger style complex, two or more stories in height, way over what a normal garage would be. One man-sized door at the end looked tiny in comparison. Along the roofline, a row of heat-exchanger fans were twirling rapidly—the kind they have at industrial farms. Some of those places were about as creepy.

Open spaces between the building and fence line were paved in concrete, quite nicely too, containing no cracks or weeds, not like a home job. In fact there wasn’t a plant or bit of vegetation to speak of. It was airport-like, but lacking a runway.

Squeezing on her door latch, The Spitfire stepped out. Placing an elbow above her eyes, she protected them. A breeze twisting the no-trespassing signs created a repeated creaking, as they were sheet metal and attached by loops of wire.

She was keeping near to the car, still behind the door for the small margin of safety it provided. Unexpectedly those crummy Lovelace Corporation repossession jobs piling up on Chan’s desk were looking better and better.

Jack stepped out as well, taking his time. They exchanged looks, both thinking the same: “What the hell is this place?”

Taking a page from The Spitfire playbook, he left the keys in the ignition and door open. Striding to the gate, Jack picked his way through a jumble of tumbleweeds which were piled against it. He cupped a hand on the beefy padlock. She sensed he was determining how to get in. This type of fencing was easily scaled, but often resulting in torn clothing and scrapes.

Coming up behind him, “I should never have let this happen,” she whispered.

“Way too late now. You can’t turn back,” he lectured.

“I know. I’m a fool. I wanted to change my hair style and now I hate this sixty-five dollar perm,” she voiced.

Jack shook his head. He looked back at her, flashing a smile.

With a better view, she soon noticed details she hadn’t gotten from the car—her initial thoughts consumed by the enormous building—but scrap metal piles were heaped up everywhere around its walls and base. Most items appeared to be surplus girders for those heavy duty shelves they have in warehouses. Others indeed looked like military hardware, jeep axles and wheels, tank turrets, unrecognizable vehicle parts painted tan or olive drab. If anybody would buy a commando army truck it was this person.

Hector Martinez always used to say the surest way to avoid a snake encounter was by pounding the ground extra hard with your boots as you walked, so at least they knew you were coming. Same could be said regarding people.

Fact is, most strangers are harmless. It was the element of surprise which could lead to disastrous outcomes. So as long as one made their intention clear, people would live and let live. Even at the scariest of shotgun shacks—dudes cooking up moonshine, half-coming-apart silver mines, homesteads with pirate flags and animal furs hanging off tree branches—yes even those places.

Nervously she shouted, “Hello in there! Anyone home?” Then she shrugged.

Arms twitching and constantly shifting his feet, Jack stared at the hockey-puck sized lock. She knew he was contemplating ramming the gate.

A long couple minutes passed. She thought about adding her traditional, “we come in peace” greeting.

And then the one door flung open. A Caucasian man sporting of all things a backwards Brewer’s cap, bowl haircut flaring from underneath and a beer belly, came charging out. Before meeting them he gently laid a shotgun next to the door, propped up by the stock.

As if suffering from a leg injury, he waddled forth with a stiff gate. Still the rest of him moved rather easily for a man of size, traversing the section of hard concrete swiftly, and constantly waving at them in a sociable way. Even his face was welcoming.

“Howdy. My name’s Bo,” he announced with a booming voice. “Bo Rawlins!”

The syllables rebounded in her skull. A mister Bo Rawlins. Some names could be challenging to recall, but this one she wouldn’t easily forget.

If this man were a dog, he’d be one of those excited and goofy rottweilers.

“Whew!” Bo faked an arm wipe across his brow. “Thought I was gonna have to scare off another herd of them Harry Krishnas. Them weirdos been drivin me nuts lately.” Lifting his ball cap, he stuffed more of his unruly blonde hair inside.

She couldn’t help but deliver an amused smile, genuine, and he smiled back. Mr. Rawlins had gotten the name of the quirky religious group wrong, maybe on purpose.

“What can I do you two for?” He started rolling up the sleeves of his flannel work shirt.

She politely waited for Jack to answer.

Jack cleared his throat. “Sir, I promise we’re not here to take up your valuable time. My name’s Jack Decklin. I’m an investigator with the Santa Fe railroad.” He gestured to Lyndy, adding, “and this is my colleague Miss Martinez. Maybe you can help us … with something … if you’re not too busy…” as Jack tilted his head he trailed off, gazing downward, as if disturbed by interrupting thoughts.

“The two-a-you undercover cops or somethin?” questioned Bo. His blue eyes were darting furtively back and forth between their faces. But overall, his attentions lingered most on The Spitfire; he was studying her.

“Definitely not cops,” replied Jack. “Hold on. So you actually get the Hare Krishnas out here?”

Bo chuckled. “Tons of em. Them people wanna buy some a my acres for cheap and build one of their temples out here, near Black Mountain road. Told me this land has spiritual significance. I keep tellin them to get lost.”

Lyndy noted Bo’s wrists were covered in grease marks; he’d been in the middle of something. Time to put on the charm. Arms at chest height, Lyndy stuck her fingers through the fence separating them from Bo, gripping it tightly—like she wanted in. She was working on her puppy dog eyes. Please sir, let us in.

“I have records indicating you recently purchased a vehicle we’re interested in seeing.” Jack pointed to the building. “Is it possible we could discuss this more inside?” As if on cue the breeze picked up, again assaulting them with an irritating spray of sand.

Bo turned back to glance at his building, then grinned at them. “Sure enough. Anything for such a pretty lady,” he said, looking right at The Spitfire. The way he said it, and the positivity in his voice made it come out sweet, rather than creepy. Reaching to the pocket of his jeans, he retrieved a circular key ring, loaded with several dozen jangling keys. “But what is this about?”

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Next morning …

Lyndy Life Observation: School lunches are universally derided and for good reason. But you know those soft chocolate chip cookie bars, which they made square and baked like brownies so they filled the entire cookie sheet? Sometimes I crave those.

Raising a four-inch heel, she brushed the sand from her boots. These designer shoes were the kind with metal buckles as opposed to laces, less comfy but prettier, not like her grungy ones meant for hiking. You couldn’t pronate at all or you’d fall right on your ass—walking straight was a must.

But she needed the shoes, otherwise she felt like a Christmas elf next to Jack Decklin.

The Spitfire was standing in morning sunlight outside the Shasta c-store, resting a hip against the fender flares. Needle-like leaves of desert willows coated the ground. Both her hands were now shoved in her rear jean pockets; she was waiting on Jack, supposedly inside buying water jugs and snacks. This part of Barstow seemed bustling—in a Barstow sorta way. Townspeople were zipping by, some who recognized her. They wouldn’t ever speak, or if they did, it was to whisper in the ears of youngsters: “avoid the scary Hispanic woman.”

She was chewing the tip of her sunglasses.

Tilting her head skyward she could see it was hazy, reducing the day’s brightness. The atmosphere over the distant mountains was a milky shade of white, the type of weather sometimes preceding wind storms. Not a good omen.

She had the blue AAA map—most accurate Mojave resource known to man—sprawling over the hood of the black and gold Trans Am. She was excited to be navigator, except her concentration kept faltering. Problem was the fonts were in mice type and you had to be really close to read it.

Chan so would have hated this car.

It was such a groovy ride. Gliding fingertips over the hood and fenders, she marveled at the smoothness. It had a special clear coat paint, soft to the touch. The motor was a torquey 455 HO, unmuzzled by emissions equipment. Imagining herself shifting through gears, she wanted to test drive it, but feared making such a request would reveal further weaknesses for nice things.

She wondered why in the world she should want to impress a spoiled rich man whom she barely knew. Mostly she scoffed at girls who wasted time on these activities. And yet she was trying so hard not to impress him that she’d worn her best fitting pants, purchased from the gap. Sapphire earrings. A black tank top. Favorite underwear too.

In part she was curious, wanting to know how he conducted his obscure line of work; but it didn’t explain everything.

She heard a squeak, saw him pushing open the screen door with his foot. Lyndy hastened her attention back to the addresses Jack had saved in his notebook. With a pencil she marked the locations, tracing out an access route on pavement; albeit this exercise was theoretical. About the best one could do was estimate the condition of county roads. There was no surefire way to know whether these were passable. Thunderstorms producing flash floods, wrecks and unscheduled roadwork—anything could happen out here.

“Bad news Miss Martinez, they’re out of Tab,” he declared, strolling to the hatchback lid.

“Ay caramba,” replied Lyndy.

“But they have plenty of Newports.” He set a bag of groceries in the trunk.

Using her pinky finger she traced a circle round the approximate location of the third address. “The first two places on your list I’m less worried about, we can use the Trans Am to get there, but this one, the dashed line …” she faced him. “This is a mining trail in open range. A long one. It could be fifty or a hundred years old. We’ll need to use a Jeep.”

“That purple thing you were driving?”

She nodded, making a funny expression by twisting her mouth and biting her lower lip. “It’s bad. Held together with bailing wire. Literally.”

“Very well. Whatever. Where to first?” He seemed fairly accepting.

“This one is closest to us.” She pointed to a spot near Hinkley, then began gathering up the map at the edges. “Jack, something else I’ve been puzzling over. How exactly did these bandits know the train would be coming through at that time, and that you’d be on it?”

He paused longer than seemed necessary.

“I mean, was there a wedding announcement maybe?” she questioned.

“There was, in a local  paper, but … it’s gotta be the sideband radios, Lyndy. These men know there are different codewords for important cargo. If a train is traveling west and my sleeping car is attached with the mail car, then it’s called a Fireball. That means it has primary right of way. The same is true traveling eastbound, except then it’s called a Snowball. The dispatchers use those names when speaking of us.”

She set a finger on her temple. “So then, doesn’t it appear like an inside job to you?”

He twirled the key ring and sighed. “Those codenames haven’t changed in years. It could be anybody at this point. I’m starting to think it’s time for new ones.”

She reached for the door.

“You don’t get carsick do you?” he asked.

She shook her head no. Soon they were peeling out, sending a spray of rocks in the direction of the c-store. Their destination required roaming northwest out of town, taking highway 58 through Hinkley.

 

Minutes later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Should people who live in Venice Beach legitimately be allowed to call themselves Venetians?

She watched the shaker scoop, rocking back and forth with the motions of the engine. Someone, a prior owner perhaps, had poked a crude hole through the block off plate making it functional again. Hillbilly performance mods.

With Italian leather purse in lap, The Spitfire set her new shades on her face, feeling very much like Sally Field minus a wedding gown. It took all of her patience not to be driving.

And on the open highway Mr. Decklin possessed a lead foot; she’d expected as much. Discretely she glimpsed the speedometer, using only her eyeballs. The needle was hovering between 95 and 105 mph. Even when borrowing a vehicle capable of such speeds—Darrel’s cars for example—she didn’t dare travel such a rate on public roads. Above one hundred the crime was considered reckless driving, worse than exhibition of speed. The highway patrol didn’t write a ticket, they took you to jail; the car would be impounded or confiscated. To get it back again took a miracle.

All at once there was a noticeable lack of talking. With the car interior loud as hell, polite quiet conversation was basically out of the question. If only she’d brought a book. The Spitfire was still holding onto the map, now folded into quarters. Intertwining fingers she stretched her wrists, thrusting them outward against the dash.

“You got a boyfriend?” Jack shouted, his voice elevated to outdo the hum of the motor.

She rolled her eyes, scowling, then staring down at her feet. “Good one.”

Silence again. Undoing the flap on her purse, she began searching for breath mints.

“Have you ever been married,” Jack sneaking a peek at Lyndy’s hands, “Or do ya have a psycho ex-husband I ought to be aware of? Or uh, …. well, are you into ladies?”

She shook her head, edges of her mouth curving reflexively to smile, but still pretending to frown.

“Umm. So is that a yes or a no?”

She adjusted her seating position, slouching lower. “Give it up, Jack. Next topic please.”

“Sorry.” He glanced to her, shrugging and feigning innocence. “Making conversation. I’m not trying to be nosey at all. For example, I was married about a year and a half, but in the end things didn’t work out. We’re still friends though.”

His hands were absent any rings so that much was obvious. “I wonder what the problem was,” she thought, sarcastically.

In response, Lyndy mimed an imaginary wall by running her hand up and down along the console between seats. “Dude, I don’t care. I don’t wanna know anything about you. This is a professional relationship. Think of it as a business trip.”

“This car hasn’t got a stereo,” he argued, poking at a hollow delete panel where the AM radio would have been.

“I know.” Her eyes following the curves of the thin blue lines on the map. “You want conversation? Here. I tried making healthy cookies last night. It was a recipe I clipped out of a women’s fitness magazine. The pictures were incredible. They have banana in them. But of course after baking in the oven they tasted really bad, like … racoon crap; basically inedible.”

Jack cleared his throat, eyes on the road, single hand gripping the top of the wheel.

“I ended up crushing them into tiny pieces and putting them in my bird feeder. The birds seemed to tolerate them. Then I ate a Klondike bar.”

Jack nodded in silence. “So is this what you do to entertain that Chan fellow?”

“Pretty much.” The car was feeling warm.

She pinched at the skin around the ring finger on her left hand. She remembered trying on dazzling engagement rings—you know those crazy one-carat diamonds they put under lamps bright enough for surgery—getting sized, one sunny afternoon with Deputy Keynes; obviously they couldn’t afford a stone that big. Another time, checking out the matching gold wedding bands, hooked over the tail of a bronze cat figurine, lonely on Colonel Rickman’s nightstand. He was sound asleep beside her and she was in a nightgown, listening to soft music. She was curious about those pretty rings, but never asked him, fearing he’d react in anger. He never spoke about his ex.

Snapping out of the daydream she placed a palm flat against her forehead. “It happens that I was engaged, once. In a galaxy far, far away.” She could feel herself becoming red-faced. “Lucky, I was spared further humiliations.” She sniffed, clearing her throat. “What else can you tell me about this military truck?”

“I’m glad you asked. They’re called the Deuce-and-a-Half, somewhat famous actually. Two US companies built them, REO—the fire engine people—and Kaiser. Even unladen, they can weigh up to 12,500 pounds and have a 10,000 pound payload capacity.”

“Are those the ones you see with the big green canopy on the back? They carry refugees in those sometimes.”

“Yes, exactly. They come with a six cylinder turbo diesel engine and I recalled hearing the sound of those a hundred times in the war. When it passed in front of the headlight, it only confirmed what I already knew. They have a low civilian ownership, partly because so few come up for auction. But I think the main reason is the top speed with the wind at its back is only 50, so they aren’t very practical on the highway.”

“I know what that’s like,” remarked Lyndy, gazing out the window; fifty yards beyond a barbed wire fence someone’s appaloosa horse galloped through tumbleweeds and dried grass. Moving at top speed the hooves were nearly floating, as though racing their car.

“You know, in a strange way I’m looking forward to this,” boasted Jack. “I always wanted to spend more time exploring the desert. This is my opportunity.”

Right. That’s because you don’t know anything about it.

Soon Lyndy was hoping for some golden silence, thoroughly fed up of his self-centered talking. She exhaled, placing hands on her thighs, shutting her eyes to rest.

Not a minute later the screech of a blaring siren startled her, jostling them both to full alertness. Straightening her spine, she glanced to the passenger mirror, observing the uniformed patrolman on a motorbike. He was gaining on them, a brightly painted California Highway Patrol helmet protecting his head. Sometimes these fellows were called CHiPs.

“Oh fantastic,” said Lyndy, unable to resist a gleeful chuckle. “Now you’ve doomed us! Kiss this gorgeous ride goodbye Jack.” She patted the leather console, tempted to kneel on the seat like a kid and look behind.

Jack was checking his mirror too, but acting cool about it. With his fingers he raked the hair from his forehead and into place.

“Don’t be sad,” teased Lyndy with a smirk. “I bet you’ll love riding shotgun in my open top CJ-5. Had several lovely first dates in that car, with boys who also didn’t know how to drive it. Might want to buy you a straw hat though.”

“I know how to drive a god damn Jeep. Now if you would shush, this will only cost us a few extra minutes.” Confidently he applied the brakes, slowing the Pontiac below fifty and veering onto the side of the road. The nose sunk abruptly as front tires touched soft gravel in the shoulder. “Stay calm.”

“You think you’re getting out of this?” she challenged.

“Pipe down and quit acting like you’re having fun,” he replied curtly, not looking at her, keeping his head locked in place and chin pointed up.

She turned her attention to the passenger side mirror. She saw the highway patrolman rolling to a stop. The bike was a clean Harley Sportster. With a fluid motion of his black boot, he kicked down the stand for the cycle. He undid both gloves, resting them atop the gas tank. Up until that point, everything seemed normal and rehearsed. Then with a snap of his wrist he unbuckled his helmet, gripping it by the loose strap and flinging it in the dirt embankment. Her eyes widened.

“Oh dang,” she whispered. “I think the only time I’ve seen one do that was in a movie.” Her muscles were tensing and she wasn’t the one facing a ticket.

Swinging his leg around, the cop stomped his way toward the driver’s side window. Approaching the car, she could see he closely matched the description Tammy had provided, including an irate, ready to chew anyone out expression. “Too bad Jack can’t cry his way outta this,” she thought.

“By the way, I do know a good bail-bondsman if you need it,” mouthed Lyndy to Jack, slumping down in the seat as low as she could go, then beginning to chew on her thumbnail.

“Do you even know how fast I was riding to keep up with you!” the man roared.

Jack inflated his cheeks as if playing an imaginary trumpet, tapping his thumbs.

“One hundred ten, son. One-ten and my speedometer is calibrated!” He pounded his palm onto the roof. “Ain’t never seen a one of these clown cars that wasn’t up to no good. No seatbelts. If you were to hit somethin that girl a yours be flying fifty yards out the window.”

Wonder what he did to get assigned out here, the California equivalent of Siberia?

Holding out his palm he barked, “wallet please.”

Holding his neck stiff, Jack used rapid motions and minimum of body movement. He flicked open his bifold wallet, passing it in this open position to the highway patrolman. His breathing was steady.

“This is a military ID. I need a driver’s license son,” the patrolman demanded.

“Sorry, force of habit,” Jack explained. He motioned with his arm, gesturing to the glove box. “I have it in here, just gonna open this up okay.” The patrolman glanced to Lyndy with a skeptical eye.

Jack clicked the button. “It’s gotta be in here.” He pretended to dig around, pushing up loose papers and the owner’s manual unnecessarily, then withdrawing a brilliant purple heart which had been loose inside. Lyndy knew the article must be genuine, as Rickman had an identical one in a shoebox.

“Hmmm. Didn’t know this was in here,” Jack muttered, rubbing a thumb over the top as he laid it gently on the dash.

The Patrolman took a breath as his bluster faded and his demeanor abruptly softened. He waved his hand side to side. “Hey uh, you know, we can forget about this whole mess.” Dejectedly he turned and strode away. His tone sounding defeated, he added, “You need to keep that speed down next time you pass through here, you all hear me? It’s unsafe.”

“Ummm, okay,” said Jack.

“Get yer lady friend to put on a seatbelt. I got somewhere I need to be.”

“Yes sir I understand,” said Jack obediently.

Lyndy watched in awe as the cop sauntered back to retrieve his helmet. She could see him carefully brushing it off, lost somewhere deep in the jungles of his memories. Seconds later she heard him kickstart the bike, and soon ride away.

“Christ sake. Buckle your seatbelt Miss Martinez,” Jack scolded with a wink.

After a suitable pause, allowing the motorcycle cop time to get a mile or two away, Jack restarted the Pontiac.

Lyndy folded her arms. “Well I for one am ashamed to have witnessed that.”

“Oh relax. Sounds like he and I were in the same shithole together,” declared Jack, as they continued on their way.

Some sanctions you look forward to, the rest you dread.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Gorgeous mid-century design aesthetic—I mean seriously, look at the floating staircase—but come on, how in the hell did The Brady Bunch only have one bathroom with six kids in the house?

One didn’t end up at this crap-can hotel if life was going splendidly. Hector Martinez once cornered a fugitive at the El Cielo. The man attempted to elude capture through the bathroom window, but he was too big and fat; got stuck halfway, couldn’t go in or out. Dale Keynes eventually yanked the fellow by his shoulders, his pants fell off, and sprawled his bare ass out on the dirt. That’s how the story went anyway.

In the spot adjacent hers was a derelict shopping cart, liberated from the Sav-A-Lot over a mile away. A stray cat, shedding and presumably baking in the heat, rubbed itself against one of the wooden posts supporting the second floor walkway. But it was quiet.

Reaching under the seat to retrieve her purse, Lyndy left the keys dangling; no one with any sense ever tried to take the burgundy Jeep. It was a universal advertisement for the bounty hunter’s office. Was a wonder sometimes nobody tried to put a grenade under it.

Hopping to the ground, she observed the door to unit 8 was cracked by at least ten inches. She breathed in, tucking in her blouse, tightening her belt by a notch as well.

Walking the row of rooms on the ground floor, her heels clicking on the concrete, tiny lizards scurried out of her path. She laid fingers upon each four-by-four joist as she went by. Arriving at the open door, still no one had appeared. But a person was there inside. She could see a set of clothes on the bed.

“Knock, knock,” she said, in a loud but friendly voice, gripping the mid-plane of the door.

A smell of moisture in the air—heavily chlorinated—and the dollar store shampoo they used permeated the scene.

“Okay, I come in peace. Don’t shoot me.” She pulled the door wider, stepping around it. He was combing his hair in the mirror.

“Sorry to barge in on you sir, but you …. uh …. said you had a job for me,” she explained, her tone empty of all emotion.

Jack Decklin turned to face her, a charming smile on his face, black hair wet from a shower. “No, no, it’s totally alright.” Compared to the previous night, he’d transformed quite a bit. A fresh shirt and nice pants were helping. In the light of day, she could see he was in his early thirties, still very fit looking with green eyes. “Come right in,” he invited. “I just finished shaving.”

“Are you surprised to see me,” Lyndy asserted, striding into the crummy room.

He nodded once, setting down his comb. “To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

“And why’s that?” she asked, re-positing her purse so it hung across her chest. She maintained her aloofness.

“People say you’re a hard person to get a hold of.” Stepping away from the mirror, he came around the bed, extending his hand to greet her. She responded by reaching for his.

He had a strong, firm grip—not the usual way a man shook a female’s hand—but this was no usual meeting. “I’m Jack Decklin, with railroad loss prevention. Employee number 84592—you can look that up if you don’t believe me. I have a badge too.”

Her shoulders sank and she exhaled. “Lyndy Martinez. I’m a private investigator for Chan’s Bail Bonds.” Talk about a world-renowned company. She gazed at the floor, and the terrible shag carpet. “It’s on Route-66. You can’t miss it.”

“What?” he questioned, approaching her.

“Nothing,” she replied quietly.

“No, I said something that upset you. What did I say?” He was genuinely baffled. Jack patted the made bed. “You can sit you know.” She could smell his cologne now.

“You’re rail police.”

“Oh right,” he said, acknowledging this fact. “My father is on the board. They couldn’t find a job that fit my, let’s say, active personality. I mean, look at me. I’m not really a desk and cubicle kinda guy.”

She took a seat on the firm double bed, hands in lap, not wanting to meet eyes with him.

He sniffed. “Right. So I guess you’re imagining the nine-teen thirties, uniformed men with clubs beating up poor people. You know hobos, workers riding the rails, hungry, stealing food. Guys like me had a reputation for that back then.”

“That’s putting it mildly. And I’m thinking of migrant workers experiencing those same struggles now.”

“Hey, if I saw anyone doing that today, I would absolutely hold them accountable.” He breathed heavily. “Trust me Miss Martinez. That’s not who I am.”

In spite of everything, he did seem genuine. However she also knew, part of her analysis was muddied in his distractingly good looks. He was an inch or two over six feet, not overly tall but larger than Ted. She wondered if he’d ever had a pimple in his life.

“Sorry, this situation is unorthodox to say the least. I feel like we ought to start over.” Glancing around the cheap motel room Jack added, “I thought I could try and fit a workout in before you came, you know and …. and this place is a dump.”

Lyndy chuckled.

“Glad I could lighten the mood,” he said.

Jack proceeded to the back wall, where a sopping wet towel had been draped over the bathroom door and dirty clothes were taking up the only chair. He quickly started folding them, lofting them one-by-one onto the bed. “Man, sorry for the mess too. This place isn’t exactly the Ritz, but it’s all I’ve got to work with at the moment.”

Fate was dealing a cruel blow. She wanted not to like him, just as she wanted not to like that clapped out white mustang at Darrel’s place.

“Mr. Decklin, doesn’t your company have a place for you to stay at the depot?” she wondered aloud. “I thought there were overnight rooms, like dorms. I’ve seen the inside of those. Not too shabby as I recall.”

He immediately turned dismissive of the suggestion. “Yeah, if I wanted to sleep in a twin bed.” Uncapping a water bottle, he gulped a long drink. “And the food is all rotten.” Then he switched his attention briefly to the slatted window on the wall—cranking it wider. Between this and the open front door, it enabled a modicum of air exchange, keeping the temps manageable.

She sensed he was hiding something—like he was afraid of being here—and wanted to change the subject. All the brakemen she knew raved about the food at the depot.

“Phew, it’s like pottery kiln out there today.” Inching the chair closer to the bed, Jack propped up his feet on the rail while pulling on dress socks. “So how did you get the nickname The Spitfire?”

She’d been expecting many questions, just not that.

“Somebody told me you’ve shot people in self-defense. Sorry for being direct. Shit happens you know,” Jack assured, sensing he was making her uncomfortable.

She put her hands by her sides, gripping the rolled edge of the mattress through the sheets. “I’ll give you the short version. There was this gang run by a racist fellow named Matt Wallach. And every time his pals would get out of jail, they would disappear. They were violent and it was a chronic issue. Wallach had an arrangement with the police and they wouldn’t touch him. So Granville Jackson, county sheriff, asked my boss to step in when no one else would. Probably because I’m an orphan and he hates me, Mr. Chan sends me to track each one of them down, alone. And I did this about twenty five times in succession, finding them in trailer parks, obscure wilderness cabins, people’s barns or motels like this one, leading Chan to the spot, and together with the sheriff we’d arrest them. They’d get to county jail, somebody would ask, ‘what happened to you? Was it who I think it is?’ and the man would nod and answer, La Fierabrosa got me.”

Jack grinned at the Spanish translation.

She stood up, pacing to the three-quarter window by the door, peeking out at the parking lot. “They tried very hard to kill me. Thing is, by the time myself and Wallach actually met face-to-face, he thought I was two-hundred pounds, looking like one of those Mexican lucha libre wrestlers. But I tend to surprise people.”

“That you do,” Jack agreed, following her with his eyes, staring. “So uh, this Wallach character. He still around?”

She turned to Jack. “No. He’s dead. But some of his friends are.” She pressed her palms together. By the way, I live in a trailer and my personal life is a raging dumpster fire—probably best not to say that aloud. “So what do you need me for?”

Jack twisted the cap back on his bottle, setting it beside the chair. He cleared his throat. Then rising, he made his way to the nightstand, retrieving a folded map and green notepad, names, addresses and phone numbers already covering one page. “Well look, I don’t wanna waste any more time. Let me get to the point. I’m not as familiar with this desert territory as I’d like to be—and this county is enormous.”

“Twenty thousand square miles,” she interjected.

“Which is why I need to enlist the help of somebody who knows this area intimately. In case you haven’t picked up on it, I’m pretty good at my job. To use a cliché, this isn’t my first rodeo. The difference this time, it was literally my own damn train that was robbed. Which makes this embarrassing and the matter personal. I can’t let it go unpunished.”

Lyndy exhaled and tilted her head. “Wait, did you say it was your train? You have your own train?”

Jack shrugged.

“Where did you come from? Are you a time traveler?”

He laughed. “I understand that sounds a little stupid. Let me give you some background. See some families have yachts. Some have RVs or private jets. My family has … train cars.” He squinted his eyes and folded his arms. “See, decades ago, when we were in the passenger business, we had all these fancy railroad cars. They’re really nice inside, beautifully made, and we used to store them and rent them for movie props, but there were dozens of em rotting in the elements. So they started selling them to scrapyards. We wanted to save more, but there were just too many. A ridiculous number. The best ones though, they decided to keep for company business, like a rolling command post … okay, this is taking too long to explain.”

Lyndy frowned.  “I get it. Better than a caboose.”

“Yes, absolutely. Anyway The Fireball was traveling to a wedding. Not mine. It’s for my sister. She’s the one getting married in Santa Barbara. She and her whole party were on that train. It’s been tradition. My father stayed behind. He had to tie up some loose ends and he is going to meet us in California.” While he was speaking, Jack was rapidly leafing through his notes. “Thank god he wasn’t on that train. He woulda been angrier than me.” He looked Lyndy in the eyes. “And now you’re staring at me like I’m crazy again.”

She inhaled deeply. She wanted to sound calm but serious. “I’m sorry. For some strange reason I can believe your story, but I’m preoccupied. There’s something you and I need to be clear on. In my experience, when people offer me stacks of cash, they expect a lot in return. I know the Mojave. It’s my home turf. Serving as an experienced guide is something I can do for you …”

“But?” he interrupted, anticipating her next words.

“But, you must understand that I’m not going to fight anyone. I’m not a hit man. I’m not a bodyguard or a bounty hunter either. Bounty hunting is exclusively Chan’s gig and he’s damn good. You need somebody to bust heads, hire him. I’m an ordinary private investigator. And we need a contract.”

Jack waived the notepad in the air. “I meant what I said. I’ll sign.”

Five thousand seemed like too much, given the scope of work. In her mind, she knew Chan would never authorize this. She needed a sanction.

He reiterated, “All I’m asking is for you to drive around with me, serving as a guide. You know the lay of the land, and likely some of the people. I’ve already done half the work.” He ran his finger down the top page. “I have a list of addresses here, but unfortunately none of ‘em are on a map. I got these from a friend who works at Fort Irwin. We’re looking for one thing, a vehicle. There was a government surplus auction recently and they sold three M35-A2 military trucks. That’s the truck they were driving. Three different persons at the auction purchased a truck—and this is what they wrote for their physical addresses.”

Lyndy folded her arms and exhaled through her nose. Nothing was ever that simple. “So in your mind, that equates to one of these bandits robbed your train.”

“You don’t think so?’

She wiped her elbow across her forehead, removing beads of moisture. “I don’t even care. Just pay me the bread. I’ll take you.”

Reaching a hand down, Lyndy instinctively squeezed the sides of her purse, feeling for the hard outline of the Beretta. Knowing this county, she had a feeling none of the buyers on the list would be happy to see them.

 

Later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever wonder how many euphemisms there are for jail? Easily a hundred or more.

Slipping the long silver key into the industrial lockset, Lyndy glanced back at Jack. He was smoking, waiting in the Trans Am, fingers tapping on the wheel. He seemed amused at the idea of her sneaking around without her boss’s knowledge. But she knew he’d say no.

Every once in a while you could hear coyotes yipping or howling from the back lot. Today there were only crickets chirping, so many that their calls blended together into one indistinguishable cacophony.

Chan often boasted he built this building, using bulk pallets of cinderblock, working alongside a handful of day laborers. Given his lifestyle and mechanical maintenance abilities, that story seemed dubious to her.

Nowadays the linoleum was cracked, stained rust colored in places.

But if you were in lockup, only one call allowed, this was surely the place. One never knew when the phone would ring. Some nights Chan didn’t leave the office until midnight. Luckily, this wasn’t one of those nights. The white Cadillac was absent, but sometimes he was running errands. More so if the TV was off, it really meant he was gone home to sleep.

She motioned to Jack. He pushed open his driver’s door, stepping out and checking the surroundings. A streak of white and red taillights marked the linear path of Route-66, extending both directions north-south, to the points it disappeared. The low sounds of engine breaking from the interstate filled the background, long-haul eighteen wheelers.

He dropped and crushed his cigarette.

Inside, the ceiling fan had been left on intentionally. A flick of the switch filled the room with yellow light from buzzing fluorescents. There were tall, nearly floor to ceiling windows at the front. The Spitfire ducked down, for what she couldn’t say. Head down, she crept to the mahogany desk. With a loud creak, she rolled the green swivel office chair out of her way, preferring to kneel.

The top drawer was locked tight. Squinting an eye, she reached up and plucked out a hair pin. She’d done this before.

Steps away, Jack was studying the polaroids pinned to the wall of shame, captivated.

It was a high quality solid wood desk, but the top showed deep grooves black with dirt. Someone had come after Mr. Chan and Hector Martinez with an axe—it had embedded in the top of this very desk, stopping the crazed man long enough to subdue him. That story was undoubtedly true.

Jack stood with his arms folded while she jimmied the lock.

In a few seconds work, she winked at him, grinning as she jerked it free. It held a divider filled with blank sanctions.

In addition to a fresh paper form, she removed and set the special red stamp to one side.

In blue ink she filled in the dollar amounts. $1000 up front by wire transfer. $4000 at completion. The client and guarantor, Mr. Jack Decklin, chief inspector for Santa Fe railroad. Services rendered: investigative and consulting. Job category: “manhunt”. CBB employee assigned: “M. E. Martinez”. The box for “H. Martinez” was grayed out. She signed by her name. One space remained, a title.

Lyndy inserted the tip of the pen between her lips, biting the plastic cap with her teeth. She stood tall, staring out the front at the lights. Then she gazed at Jack.

“What?” he mouthed.

“The job needs a name,” Lyndy whispered. “Mr. Chan is better at these than I am.”

“What do you mean?” Jack came over, rounding the desk, inspecting the form over her shoulder.

“Here,” she pointed to the blank where Chan wrote clever names.

“Can it be anything?”

“Sure,” she nodded.

He motioned for the pen and she handed it over.

She smiled as he scribbled the words, Jackrabbit Homesteader; it was a reference to the pioneers who took advantage of the Homestead Acts to settle the region. It meant he knew his history. She wanted not to like him.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

That night …

This cramped, high stakes poker room was lined in faux wood paneling, reeking of cigar smoke—so much it was foggy—and dime store perfume. It was directly attached to a glittery night club called Cadillac’s, where ladies dressed in skimpy outfits carried full trays of mixed drinks. Truckers packed the main room of the night club—the one with the long stage—waiting on shows which came every quarter hour.

But to get inside here you had to push through a door plainly marked “No Entry, Employees Only.” Basically you had to be the pushy type. Gambling was illegal in this county.

Yellow lamps projected cones of light on the middle of the tables, but left people’s faces in shadow. An artsy oil painting of a mermaid adorned one wall; very lifelike. Not like mermaids would wear clothes.

Though enticing, playing illegal cards was never on his mind. Jack had come here on a tip, seeking an employee of a business called Chan’s Bail Bonds. He’d been inquiring as to whom was the toughest, meanest bounty hunter or private eye in the region—a real hell-raising Rooster Cogburn—except not a US Marshall. The answers were unanimous and surprising.

In the card room, no empty chairs could be found.

As he sipped from a half-glass of dry gin, folks were staring. Apparently they didn’t get a lot of strangers in here, and maybe dry gin wasn’t the manliest beverage either. Mixed among the rough looking Barstow regulars, some of them outlaws or wanna-be’s, his eyes fell upon an attractive young lady. She was Latina, raven haired, smallish in build, exotic, wearing an all-black outfit, including a lacey dress and of all things, widely spaced veil. Dressed in this way, she appeared as though she worked at a funeral parlor.

Violet had gone through a stage or two like that. By some measures, she still was.

Beside the brown-eyed girl, two stacks of poker chips as tall as a coke bottle. Judging by the size she was making a killing, briefly grinning and laughing, pretending to cover her teeth at a joke that was uttered. And seconds later she slapped down a hand of cards—straight flush—raking in yet more chips.

Approaching a table of rough looking truckers, Jack planted his fist on the green felt top, forcing them to pause their game.

“You lookin’ for somebody son,” grumbled one of the gamblers, his tone condescending and itching for confrontation.

Jack cleared his throat. The dry air was making him congested and hoarse.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Gentlemen, I happen to be a high ranking official with the Santa Fe railroad. My father is a member of the governing board.” Sensing these men were confused by what he was telling them, he clarified. “I’m an inspector in the rail police.”

“Well how ‘bout that,” said outspoken trucker.

“Often for convenience I travel by rail and strangely enough, just last night for the first time in my adult life, my god damn train got hijacked and robbed. Happened east of Amboy, carried out by hooligans whose identities were disguised in ski masks. One of them didn’t speak. Perhaps others were involved, supported them, or knew of their scheme.”

“They get anything good?”

Jack nodded, finishing the remainder of his drink, then setting the empty glass on the rim of the table, twisting it forward and back by 45 degrees. “Plenty. Twenty thousand dollars in cash, stock certificates valued at several hundred thousand to as much as one million, a diamond ring, a watch, two gold wedding bands and assorted jewelry worth thirty grand.” He could see the men salivating, wishing they knew where they could get their hands on the treasure. “I have a hunch it’s still here, in this desert.”

“What does it have to do with us?” questioned one of the other gamblers.

Jack  lowered his voice, enough to not be overheard at other tables, but still driving home his point. “I’m not going to rest until I find these men I’m looking for, and when I do I won’t be leaving this matter to the police, bringing them to justice, or any of that traditional nonsense.” Jack paused, scanning the room again. The irritating sound of poker chips clinking occupied the momentary gap. “I’m going to straight out slit their throats … ear to ear.”

The men chuckled uneasily at the macho talk, a few murmurs between, but their boldness was waning.

Jack flicked his fingers, standing up straighter. “Feel free to spread word around town a little. Maybe, just maybe, if the criminals turn themselves in I could have a change of heart and show some mercy. I’d also like your help with something else. I’m hoping to locate a person named Lyndy E. Martinez; that’s why I’m here. She has a nickname: “The Spitfire”. Have you seen her?”

Uncomfortably, the first trucker to speak lifted a shakey finger, gripping his cards with his thumb, pointing in the direction of the back tables. He was aiming for the stunning woman with the veil.

“Wait. The goth chick? That’s The Spitfire?” Jack turned his back, gazing at the girl again. She was now engaged in the delicate act of picking her teeth with the nail on her pinky, periodically examining her fingertip, checking for bits of food. His shoulders slumped.

“What were you expectin railroad man?”

Jack scratched at the stubble forming on his chin.

The truckers began to deal again, their attention back on the game.

“I guess I expected her to be taller.” Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Jack heard the distinctive tuba effect from bad TV, “Bum-bum-ba-dum.” Still, for the first time since he could remember—probably a decade—he was fascinated by another person.

 

Next day …

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s one of those shower thoughts. Do you suppose anybody on death row, about to executed, ordered a “vegan” last meal?

A car honked, someone behaving like an idiot at the gas station, attempting to draw the attention of the nose-picking attendants. A warm, stagnant air enveloped the scene, smelling like road tar. Glare was high, but as the mirror tilted she could see her face, revealing the consequences of rash decision making.

“Ugh. I think I’ve made a giant mistake. I look like a space alien,” she complained.

The Spitfire sat perched atop a laminate quick serve counter, legs dangling, purse in lap, staring at her reflection in a makeup case provided by Mrs. Ward. She grabbed onto a small handful of glossy curls, watching them spring back in place with magical shape memory.

“I can’t believe I paid somebody to do this.”

“Relax. Relax. Perms take some gettin used to is all.” Snatching back her mirror, Tammy exchanged it for cold Tab Cola in a foam cup. “Drink this and try not to think about it.” She whipped a white drying rag over one shoulder.

“Thank you much,” said Lyndy, yawning as she began to sip the fizzy liquid. “I was up late over in the cardroom at Cadillac’s—Andy’s special table. Those boys don’t finish til like three-thirty in the morning. And do you know dudes have been shot in there? Like, recently.”

“Dudes have been shot here in my parking lot.” Tammy leaned alongside Lyndy, resting pale, chubby forearms over a fresh copy of The National Enquirer. “Win anything?”

“Surprisingly, fifty bucks. Not enough to retire young though.” Lyndy jerked her head, causing her sunglasses to slip in place on her nose. A few spaces away, she admired the green Buick GSX. It was parallel parked, windows down to keep it cool. Ran the fastest quarter mile in town. The car was also a creation of Darrel’s, and Tammy kept the only key pinned to her hip.

Three days had passed since Ted Crawford boarded a greyhound bus, bound for a seasonal job on a Montana ranch—he had a tendency to do that. In response, Lyndy was doing her best to keep busy, but the mission wasn’t going well and she found herself losing focus; everything was reminding her, particularly in a small, boring town.

Tammy’s head shot up. “Oh hey by the way, there was a tall hunk with black hair and big shoulders stopped by yesterday. He was from the railroad, an inspector or somethin. Said he was lookin for help tracking down suspects in a train robbery. Sounded right up your alley actually.”

Lyndy frowned. “Must be the guy who handed me a business card at the poker tables. He wants to meet face-to-face.”

“Reminds me of the type of man who reads GQ magazine.”

“That’s a good description.” Lyndy poked at the pea-size ice cubes using her straw.

“He was acting all mysterious with details; didn’t want to tell me nothin about the actual event. Plus I sensed he thought you were a man.”

“Did you correct him?”

“Someone must have,” said Tammy, with a devilish grin. She gestured northward, in the direction of the train depot. “Are you gonna take the gig?”

Lyndy turned to face her longtime friend.

“There’s something off-putting about him,” she replied, palm out in a gesture indicating caution. “On the other hand, work is slow and we need the dough. Not sure if Chan will agree with me, but no matter how bad it is, I doubt we can afford a pass.”

Tammy nodded. She checked her timex, bringing it near to her eyes as she lacked bifocals. “You notice the guy was wearin a submariner on his  wrist?”

Lyndy shook her head. She was certain something more would be coming, as Tammy had a characteristic speech pattern involving flurries of information, followed by minute long lulls of introspective silence. A great many desert folk were that way; came with the lifestyle.

A moment later Tammy tugged on Lyndy’s sleeve. Shading eyes with one hand she warned, “Okay now—10-o’clock—here comes your favorite person.”

In response, Lyndy searched the road for peculiar Barstow citizenry. Along the stretch of sidewalk and thirsty potted plants fronting main, she spotted the unmistakable figure of a skinny blonde, swinging a purse and pink paper sack.

Excited to notice them too, the woman changed course, stepping gingerly their way and skipping the final dozen yards to the stand. Per the norm, Miss Cookson was outfitted in her snug uniform, sky blue, excessively tight, white name patch and colorful logo for Vanishing Point Roadhouse embroidered on the front.

“Oooh. Ooh. Hey there Lyn, I’m itching like crazy today. Will you just scratch my upper back, please, please? I’ll never ask for another favor again.” Rushing to the counter, she did a double take. “Nice hair by the way. First time I’ve seen you in tight curls.”

“Geez. What do they make these uniforms out of? Vinyl seat covers,” remarked Lyndy, as Cathy did an about face. “Don’t you sweat like a pig in this?”

“Oh god yes. Like a hooker in church,” she replied, leaning over and fanning her neck. “I should challenge Mr. Potz to wear this for a day.”

Lyndy curled her fingers, using the nails to approximate a bamboo back scratcher and swiping up and down in cat motions “You should be askin Mr. Potz for a damn raise.”

“Yes, yes, right there. You’re on the spot,” Cathy encouraged.

Lyndy continued a few moments more. Then breaking away and extending her arms, Miss Cookson flopped her loaded purse onto a nearby Sancho’s picnic table, swatting away a pile of crumbs left behind by the previous customer.

Uninvited, she commandeered the tabletop, facing the stand, classy high-heel cowgirl boots resting on the intended seats. “Sorry. Rude of me to break up a meeting of the 4-H club,” Cathy snorted. From the pink sack she drew a chocolate glazed doughnut. One could tell it was mouth-wateringly fresh, as frosting or cooking grease had turned the bottom of the bag translucent.

“Wow, you’re hilarious,” muttered Lyndy.

“Give it up, Cathy. Yer jokes make no sense,” declared Tammy, staring disapprovingly.

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” Cathy mouthed, chocolate frosting now showing on the corners of her lips. “Oh, I hear there was a super-hot guy looking for you, Lyn. Drives a black Trans Am. Is that what you two were talking about?”

“We seen him first,” asserted Tammy.

“For god sake! Should we post it up on one of those scrolling marquees? Has anyone not heard?” The Spitfire plunked down her soda cup and removed her glasses. Positioning fingers on both eyebrows, she massaged her forehead in gentle circles. Of course Catherine would find out that Ted wasn’t around; she was picking at the scab.

Thankfully, seconds later Tammy sprang up like a toy robot with a fresh key winding. She disappeared in the back, abruptly kicking open her side door and wielding a push broom. She then began clearing the mess of crumbs and crinkled food wrappers around the area where Cathy was seated.

Speaking through her hands, Lyndy added, “And do you mind carting yer awful diet somewhere else, other than right in front a me.”

“I got an extra right here,” she offered, holding out the sugary treat.

“Catherine you’re driving me nuts!”

“Okay, okay, pipe down both of you,” Tammy interjected. “I remembered what I wanted tell you all morning. There’s a new highway patrolman been assigned to work the stretch of old 66 between Danby and Goffs. I think Deputy Keynes knows him, cause I seen them fellars parked by one another in the median strip. Poor guy must have bombed police academy, or else offended one of his superiors fierce cause they set him up at Needles substation where it’s like two-hundred degrees with no AC.” Tammy chuckled at the idea. “Give’n him free gas for his bike and a cot to lay down on. So anyways, he got himself one of those fancy looking radar machines—and he clocks me doin 85 in the Buick see—but them things are always defective. Anyway, pulls me over near the crossing at Goffs, actin real serious and mean. And yet, I managed to get off with just a warning.”

“How did ya’ll manage that?” Cathy marveled.

“Yes, enquiring minds want to know,” Lyndy chimed in, pounding her finger on the newspaper. “Cause I’ve tried every trick imaginable, including massive flirting, and I just end up looking like a fool, getting the same ticket and going to court.”

“Well, he was definitely about to write me up. Darrel would have flipped his lid, and we was about to have our date night, so I put my face down on the steering wheel and I started balling. It was torture. Like I was choppin some onions and heard my favorite dog died. I can cry on demand.” Tammy demonstrated by lowering her head against the broom handle.

“Did it work?”

“You bet your ass it did,” she replied proudly, facing Cathy. “Man rips up the ticket and rides off.”

Lyndy held up an index finger. “Wait, so why did you say those radar guns are defective? It’s not how fast you were driving?”

“Naw, I was goin like 120.”

 

Minutes later …

Lyndy Life Tip#182: Think of one of the worst marketing phrases of all time: “One Size Fits All” It’s a bs term, more often than not meaning the item won’t fit you worth a darn. It’s like “Two in One Shampoo”. There’s no such.

You needed two hands to shift this car.

Rolling at thirty, one hand on the wheel, in the other she held the business card. It was printed on a type of card stock with the appearance of woven fabric—so stiff one could make the sputtering effect against bike spokes on a twirling wheel. The only other folks who used these kind were lawyers.

The Spitfire turned the card over in her hand. The front listed his title: “Chief Freight Inspector” and a key specialty as “Loss Prevention”. On the back he had written a note in cursive: “I have a job for you worth $5000. This is not a joke. If you’re interested, meet me at the El Cielo, 0800 tomorrow.”

Of course she was interested. For god sake, she needed something to occupy her.

You could tell a lot about a man from their handwriting. Instead of eight-o-clock he had written 0800—indicating a person of military background. And the writing was precise, faultlessly parallel, bordering on elegant. He’d been educated in the east. Berkeley men didn’t write like that.

Mr. Decklin was offering a princely sum. In the recesses of her mind she could already hear Chan disapproving: “Melinda, in our business big money equate to shit job.” That was the thing about Mr. Chan, if something rubbed him the wrong way about a person or task, he wouldn’t take their work—even if it meant living on rice and beans for a month.

But as bounty hunters go, he was a long-lived one.

She’d been driving southbound, so she performed an illegal U-turn, barking the tires as she bounced the burgundy Jeep over the uneven concrete lip, and into their parking lot. She checked her watch. The time was 0815.

The black and gold muscle car—by far the nicest in the lot—was stowed by unit 9. A fat man was walking a Jack Russell, and it was pissing on the cast iron railings.

Roughly a generation ago, the El Cielo motel was on par with some of the finest accommodations between here and Chicago. Now the property was showing her age, and time hadn’t been kind. Where once had been a glistening swimming pool with a diving board, now had turned to a dank pit half-full with blow sand. A rusty signboard advertised free long distance calling. Yippee.

Gripping the shift knob hand over hand, she steered with her knees into an empty slot, bumping a telephone pole used to support an outdoor light.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Next morning …

To survive he’d need a miracle. Tortoise was in trouble; upside down in the relentless sun, all four feet struggling useless in air, and panic setting in.

It started as simple jockeying for territory with another male. Somehow he’d been flipped, left teetering on his domed shell. The other tortoise soon split the scene—thanks for nothing. Now a group of turkey vultures were circling lower and lower, with two of eight brave enough to land.

Turtle soup was on the menu.

Some people assumed these dinosaur-like birds waited for death to take its course. Not always true, frequently they helped move things along.

All at once the vultures began forming an undivided circle, called a wake. Silently they closed in, only sounds of folding wings and sharpening of beaks against claws. The hideous birds rocked their featherless and bald red heads—each having the skin complexion of burn victims—preparing to peck him to death.

But something gave them pause, an unexpected sound of boots crunching in the desert, footsteps of a small human approaching the scene.

Of course the birds knew mankind as weak willed, possessing technology incomprehensible, putting them at an apex, but when threatened humans were known to back down from confrontation. Even an aggressive goose running amok at a waterpark could scare them. They were afraid of large birds. Weak.

Into view stepped the dark haired female, with the purple colored lips, black fingernails and shaded eyes.

“Little help over here,” thought the tortoise.

The birds had no plans of moving unless charged. And even then, they’d return within minutes. By tradition they moved away from roadkill at the absolute last second.

One by one they craned their necks, eyeing her as if to say: “Move it along woman, this is no business of yours.”

She came closer, at a distance they could smell her breath, menthol. This human had been smoking the cancer sticks.

With a snapping noise she unveiled a black firearm, the rest of her purse falling to the ground. She raised her arm hip level, a swift motion followed by a clap of thunder and whiff of smoke. The nearest bird to her exploded in a cloud of black feathers, falling to ground in a tidy pile, like fresh raked leaves from an autumn-turned maple. It was as if the animal had ingested a lit fire-cracker.

The startled birds looked at the remains of their feathered friend, then each other. All at once wings were out and the massive creatures were taking to flight. “You know what, on second thought we’ll just move it along.”

It was the other kind of human.

The Spitfire smiled as the birds soared out of sight. Then she looked down at tortoise. “Now if you try and snap at my fingers I’m going to be angry,” she warned.

 

1 hour later ….

An intense Mojave sun shone all its glory on a Chevy Nova with faded paint, pitted chrome trim and sagging doors. It retained the factory five-spoke wheels, but tall weeds were growing around flat tires signaling the length of time it had been stored in Darrel Ward’s backyard. Next to it sat a Dodge Dart on blocks, with bullet holes in the windshield, raccoon poop peppering the seats and a torn, sunken headliner. And next to that junker was a yellow Plymouth satellite in equally clapped out, ready for the salvage yard condition. To somewhat protect them Darrel had laid old scraps of carpet across sensitive areas where water may be prone to enter, such as drip rails. In aisles between the cars Darrel was hording other male stashes like old visible gas pumps, railroad lanterns and the hulks of neon signs, all rusted and decaying too.

Gazing at the pitiful selection—not to mention a revolting 71 Chevy Vega behind them—The Spitfire redid the waist knot of her tie-in-front blouse. The ample airflow on these was a lifesaver for the torso on mid-summer afternoons.

Wisps of cirrus decorated the skies over Barstow, but otherwise it was a fair day with clear views to the distant mountains. Whilst shielding her eyes from glare Lyndy hastily dabbed on lipstick, then smacked her lips together, depositing the plastic cylinder in a rear pocket of her denim shorts.

“Any of these beauties strike yer fancy Miss Martinez?” asked Darrel cheerfully, bending down to pet a slobbery rottweiler with bad gas and horrific breath. The beast panted as Darrel scratched behind one ear.

Lyndy Life Tip #181: You might be a redneck if your new car search begins in people’s junky backyards.

Darrel was the mechanically gifted husband of Tammy Ward, a gossipy character who ran the A-frame taco stand on Main Street. As fate would have it, Darrel was somehow hooked in with The Lovelace Corporation, restoring antique cars or building new race vehicles for them.

Darrel had come of age in the fifties, and still dressed the exact same way he did in high school; white t-shirts and classic blue jeans were his uniform. The only things that had changed were his waistline, bigger in circumference, his hairline, now receding and vision, presbyopic; he sported bifocal glasses with thick brown frames.

Obviously, Darrel was attempting to subtly nudge her toward cars at the lower end of the price spectrum.

The Spitfire sighed. “Sorry Mr. Ward, these old hoopties are totally boring, especially since I just drove a brand new Corvette. Where’s all the sexy stuff at? I know you can do better.”

Lyndy adjusted her purse strap, pulling it higher on her exposed shoulder. She cleared her throat and thrust a hand in her back pocket, as she swaggered up the next row.

Darrel jumped up, suddenly energetic and waddling to keep ahead of her. Lyndy pointed fingers at one of the car covers, moth eaten and coated with dust, but mostly intact.

“Alrighty, whatcha got hidin under this hot mess?” The white cotton cover outlined the curvaceous body of a two-seater coupe.

“Nope. No way not any day. That one isn’t for sale, Lyndy.” Darrel slipped in front of her, blocking her hand from lifting the cover. “If your budget is Robin Hood beer, this here is like Dom Perignon.”

Lyndy crinkled her nose. “But what is it?”

Darrel cupped both hands around his mouth, in a move designed to prevent any nosy neighbors from overhearing—as if anyone cared. “A Maserati 3500 for a special client.”

Special client probably meant miss Rita Lovelace.

Lyndy pointed to a stain on the ground. “This little beauty appears to be leaking fluids.”

“Hmm.” Squatting down, Darrel dabbed his index finger in the puddle of greenish goo. Then he stuck the same digit in his mouth and closed his eyes. “No trouble. Just needs an oil pan gasket,” he declared.

Yum.

He stood up, hiking his pants by pulling on the belt loops. “Come to think of it, I do have somethin else I can offer ya,” he suggested, re-directing The Spitfire to the southern end of his property. “Won it at the auction two weeks ago. I need to warn ya, she’s in pretty rough shape.”

Darrel had a fair point regarding budget—she couldn’t hope to drive away in a fancy European sports car. Not even charm could make that deal happen. But she at least needed something demonstrably more reliable than her current hand-me-down Jeep.

“Does it turn over?” she sighed, not yet knowing what “it” was.

“Of course it does,” answered Darrel, clearing a Frosty-the-Snowman sized tumbleweed away from their path. “And keep it down, Mrs. Ward doesn’t know I bought this yet.”

The dog followed Darrel, and Lyndy followed the dog, squeezing their way between a 57 Chevy with no motor or hood, and an Impala which appeared to have wrapped itself around a telephone pole.

She slapped at her exposed knees and ankles, weary of numerous holes in the ground. “Dang, it feels like I’m about ta get snakebit back in here.”

“Don’t you worry Miss Martinez. It’s near the middle of the day. All my snakes are takin a siesta.”

“Well there’s a comfort.”

Seconds later, they arrived at an American wreck hidden under a blue tarp. The Spitfire already had a hunch what it was from the outline, and also because the lower half of the vintage wheels were ones she recognized. As soon as Darrel whipped away the tarp, her suspicions were confirmed.

“A mustang,” she said, noticeable lack of enthusiasm in her voice. The buildup had not been quite equal to the reveal. Still, it was a fastback. Sidling up to the passenger window she inquired, “How much you pay for it?” Through the opening she observed something in the desirable category, a four speed shifter.

“Five hundred bucks,” he replied, through grinning teeth. “Can’t you just see her now though, cruising down the highway to the beach?”

The hood release lever was conveniently undone, or broken. Swinging her purse around to her back, she hooked both hands under the hood lip near the grill, lifting it high as it would go, accompanied by a massive creak of the hinges.

“It’s a V-8,” she remarked. With her fingernail she scraped at white fender paint, turned chalky with age.

“Yes ma’am it is. And lookie here,” announced Darrel, sliding his finger across the VIN stamping. “It’s a K-code, Lyndy. This is the 289 with the four barrel. Don’t see hardly any of these at a junk auction.”

Don’t make it any less junk.

Squatting down, he pointed to two eighth-inch holes. “I think the 289 badge busted off.”

She smiled back at Darrel, wanting to share in his excitement. Yet from Lyndy’s up-close view, all the hoses were rotted, the air cleaner was missing, sand had penetrated the intakes and the block was coated in black oil.

“Oh Lord. Well, it aint as bad as I imagined it would be,” she said, undoing her wallet. “What do you want for it? And I mean fixed up.”

Darrel held up both hands, seeming embarrassed. “Look … uh, there’s somethin else I was gonna tell you. I already had a talk with Mr. Lovelace about this … car problem. He gave me a budget and we agreed.”

“Wait? Seriously!” she was floored.

 

Across town …

The initial thrill of striking out on one’s own in the heat of the moment, and the reality of being stranded in a strange place, exhausted without your rolling house, no friends and no vehicle, were two very different things. A small part of Jack Decklin considered giving up on his ill-conceived mission, but the defiant side of him knew he could never live with himself if he did. He had to keep going.

He suffered the early morning hours at the Barstow sheriff’s sub-station, insisting to everyone time was of the essence. Filling out paperwork with a low-on-the-totem-pole deputy was a fruitless endeavor, and as each hour clicked by, the trail was going cold. In the meantime, the Fireball continued on to Union Station in Los Angeles, minus a few hundred thousand.

The standard process of the county sheriff was to document each stolen item in nauseating detail. Aside from the cash and stock certificates, Jack couldn’t recall half the things which were stowed in the safe; many having been put there by Violet alone. As chief inspector for the railroad, he was supposed to be better organized. But of course the RPO safe had never been breached in the hundred year history of the railroad, and really it had only one weakness: if somebody gave out the darn combo.

Eventually they got around to asking about the suspects and their getaway: “So describe for me again this military vehicle…” And all the while Jack was day dreaming how he would hunt the thieves down himself, delivering his own justice, free of law enforcement meddling. Being that he was seated in a police station, he said nothing of his vigilante plan.

By the time he left the substation, it was mid-afternoon. The skies were becoming hazy. Jack was hungry, in a bad mood, impatiently hoofing it down 66 as cars were whizzing past.

Surrounded by desert on all sides, he soon remembered why hitchhiking was never his style. Jack wasn’t really sure how to do it. According to movies, you stuck out your thumb and people stopped. But after testing this method a few times, he found that no-one stopped for a six-foot-tall adult male with crew cut hair.

Racking up seven dusty blocks, shoes and dress pants turning ash gray with silt, he came to a used car lot—symbol of working class America. Prominently displayed on a chest-high lift, in their best corner position, was a black and gold Trans Am.

Around this out-of-place peacock Jack began to circle, hands shoved in pockets staring upward. It was the coveted high output model, with newish tires and straight flow muffler exhaust. And while he noted a few faults here and there—it was used after all—he could live with those. Of course, someone would need to get it down off this mechanical lift.

Several minutes later a chain-smoking salesman shuffled out of the single-wide trailer serving as his office. He arrived panting from just the short distance, fanning himself with a straw cowboy hat.

“Appreciate fast cars do ya, young man?” said the salesman, thinking Jack was a hobo with empty pockets. “This bird here’s the quickest we’ve ever had on our lot. She’ll do 165 flat out.”

“Fat chance,” thought Jack.

“Wanna take it for a spin?” the salesman added, speaking rhetorically.

Jack did his best job of smiling in agreement. “No time for that. I want to purchase it. Do you folks take American Express?”

As expected, this set off a belly laugh reaction in the salesman, followed by a fit of coughing.

“Seriously,” added Jack. He offered the salesman a business card, pointing out the phone number for his bank. The fellow went back to his air conditioned office, while Jack had a seat on the curb outside, gazing at the activity on Route-66.

Ten minutes elapsed and the car salesman returned to the scene, now with a completely renewed attitude. He used the word “sir” when addressing jack. And while they did not in fact take credit cards, they greedily accepted wire transfers, which could be delivered via the western union service. Only took a half-hour.

In the meantime, Jack set to work with a hand-crank winch contraption needed to the lower the car to ground level. It took about a hundred turns on each side, and he was the only man in good enough condition to handle the exertion.

 

Later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Driving on a two-lane byway, there was a sign beside the road that said boldy: “Dirt Now!” and a phone number. Who the hell buys dirt? Now?

As a courtesy to employees, the railroad provided overnight rooms for the crew, located inside the depot. While secure and clean, these accommodations were spartan, on par with a military barracks. He opted for a newer motel instead. They had free long distance, limited to the first five calls.

Once cooled by AC and settled into a room—he really had nothing to unpack—Jack set about the real business of tracking. His first major task: get in touch with the secretary Miss Jameson before she went home for the day. She could FedEx his favorite gun, money, some clothes, and a few other critical supplies to the hotel. Thankfully, she was in.

Next he made contact with an Army buddy employed at Fort Irwin. Through his many connections, they were able to get in touch with a man who worked in records at the armory. One good thing about the US Army, when it came to records they were unmatched, and just as Jack surmised, they had a list of every buyer at the government surplus auctions, including names and addresses. He could come by and pick up a photocopy in the morning. Mission accomplished. Jack was feeling increasingly confident about the outcome of this whole fiasco. Whomever rammed that gun into his midsection was going to suffer the same fate in return, several times over.

At last, Jack’s thoughts turned to his bruised empty stomach. He hadn’t eaten for near 24 hours; an A-frame taco stand on the other side of the street was calling his name.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader, Part-1

Later that same day …

Jack Decklin stared at his reflection in a tarnished bathroom mirror, both hands gripping the edges of a tiny art-deco porcelain sink. He had two-and-a-half days of beard growth evident, dark circles under each eye. This black and gray stubble, combined with horizontal creases on his forehead, was making him appear older than his 33 years. He felt it in his bones too.

“Fireball,” he muttered, bitterly.

Constant clanging of steel wheels rolling on iron rail—resonating at each connector gap—and swinging up and down motion; all this was starting to foul his mood.

Jack knew the special code word used on all company radios to identify the passenger train he roamed the west in. They didn’t make these anymore, quite literally. When a mighty diesel locomotive connected up with his sleeping car—this dignified, opulent Pullman Coach from the 1930s—it was labeled a “Fireball”. The exact way this nickname got started, Jack wasn’t sure. But with time it grew on him.

Something else was clear: a Fireball had primary right of way on westbound mainlines, occasionally eastbound too. Jack’s trains were fast and light, hauling incidentals like express mail, corporate documents, cash, odd perishables and precious cargo. Intermodal freight—traveling slower—had to pull into sidings or take the crossover to clear the way. Only in an emergency was Jack ever to see a red signal, otherwise the terms were absolute.

It had been this way for near a decade, and that was precisely what concerned him. How many everyday stiffs—the train obsessed civilians armed with side-band radios, listening to their chatter—also knew that name?

Two full days had elapsed since departing Colorado. Days of eating caviar, drinking $100 bottles of champagne that didn’t taste any different from regular champagne, and carousing with a gaggle of star-struck bridesmaids. His mind was in a haze from over-stimulation. He needed a 24-hour nap and some detox. But first, he wanted to make it to Santa Barbara.

The engineers had been instructed they would be skipping a traditional crew change in Barstow—no time. They would work the double shift to get by.

Which is why it was shocking that as Jack shuffled to the urinal to relieve himself, the train began to stutter and slow, causing him to miss the bowl. He frowned.

“What on earth?” he thought. “Why are we stopping now?”

It was supposed to be the eastern Mojave, a desert wilderness called San Bernardino County, five hours distant from Los Angeles.

Next came a sudden high-pitched whine from the air brake cylinders; ear-splitting, obliterating his concentration. Full pressure was being applied to every car. Bracing against the wall he separated two of the blinds. Peeking outside the windows, Jack confirmed they were still in wide-open range.

Yet his train was coming to a steady, grinding halt.

In the distance Jack could see searchlight beams, piercing the darkness, divided now and then by twisted silhouettes of yuccas. Something strange was going on, maybe sinister.

He zipped up his jeans and exited the tiny restroom, sparing no time for washing hands. Passing through the narrow halls of the sleeper, he rushed back to the lounge car. When he came to the two air-assisted metal doors he shoved his way through with both arms.

The first person he locked eyes with was his sister Violet, the celebrated bride to be. She was standing, gripping anxiously onto the brass overtop rail with one arm. She was also huffing and puffing, her free hand still gloved in black, body shaking. Violet’s maid of honor, a curly-haired brunette named Ellison, was seated and attempting to calm Violet down. On the opposite side of the car, Violet’s utterly worthless fiancée Devon sat reclined and paging through a magazine. As usual, he managed to look bored and clueless. Either he was unaware they were in danger, or just didn’t give a crap. If the entire world were coming to a fiery destructive end, Devon could scarcely be convinced to lift a finger.

“God, I hate my family,” mused Jack privately.

Ready to burst into tears, Violet pleaded to Jack, “The conductors said something metal is blocking the tracks. We can’t see anything from here. Have you gotten a glimpse?”

Jack shook his head, but shared his sister’s concern.

“I’ve told you, it’s probably a random car stalled at a blind crossing. These things happen all the time,” declared Devon, sounding irritated. “No reason to panic.”

“Doubt it. There aren’t any legit crossings for another 15 miles,” said Jack to Devon. He then directed his attention to Violet. “Just sit tight for now. The crew and I will handle this,” he reassured.

“Where are we anyhow?” inquired Violet.

“The Mojave, somewhere in the stretch between Baghdad and Ludlow,” replied Jack. “Still a ways to go til we reach Barstow.”

“Interesting,” Devon remarked, gazing through a gap in the curtains. “As I recall, you despise Barstow.”

Jack exhaled. Briefly he fantasized about opening that window and hurling Devon into the darkness. “It’s a story for another time, and you probably wouldn’t understand.”

At that moment a stranger burst through the doors; he was dressed in all black coveralls, gripping an M1A1 Tommy Gun of World War II vintage. Fearing the intruder was going to open fire, Jack instinctively whipped around Violet to block the path. A ski mask hid the man’s identity, and his body was covered head-to-toe including black gloves. A partner, also armed, thrashed their way into the car.

Violet commenced screaming at the top of her lungs, accompanied by whimpers from Ellison. Meanwhile Jack met the intruders with a confident glare. Their fingers were near the trigger of their weapons, but instead of shooting, they seemed inquisitive.

As the screaming quieted down, Jack confronted the first man, “Blocking a train is a federal offense. Who are you? What do you want from us?”

“The combo to yer blue and gold safe,” replied the man, his voice muffled by the mask.

“What safe?”

“Two cars ahead; it’s in an old RPO office coach.” He glanced back, his partner holding a gun pointed at the girls.

“I don’t know it,” replied Jack forcefully.

“Fer Christ sake, cut the shit Gandy Dancer,” said the man in the ski mask. Then he shoved the tip of his sub-machine gun into Jack’s stomach, hitting him hard. Jack winced, doubling over in pain.

“We ain’t got all day. Give me them numbers kid. We’re not playin’ games.” The way he spoke reminded Jack of someone deliberately trying to disguise their voice, like the fictional Batman. Evidence was mounting that this person had targeted their train, somehow knowing it was coming and carrying goodies.

With no immediate answer the fellow then slapped Jack on the side of his head, right in the ear, using a flat palm. The smack of the leather glove made it sting worse.

Jack grabbed onto a chair back to brace himself from toppling over. He felt as though he was going to throw up; it was that good a hit.

“Oh god. Stop this!” exclaimed Violet, terror in her voice. “I’ll give you the combo.”

The fellow with the tommy gun turned to Violet. She closed her eyes and lowered her head, counting fingers on her hand. “22 – 16 –39”

“Jesus Violet,” groaned Jack through gritted teeth. “Way to stay strong.”

“Thank you Miss. Least one of ya’ll has some common sense.” The masked fellow and his partner pushed their way back out of the lounge car, heading to the front of the train and the office car. The doors slammed shut with a puff of pneumatic pressure.

“Jack you’ve gone insane. What’s wrong with you? That man could have murdered us,” Violet scolded. “What are they getting? A stack of hundreds and some diamond jewelry, a few wedding gifts? If this is about money they can have it.”

Ellison grabbed onto Jack’s waist, helping him up. “Violet, it’s never been about the money and you know it.”

“What’s it about then?” Violet challenged, her tone suddenly filled with rage. “Your manhood?”

Jack limped his way to a seated position. Not wanting to answer, he inhaled and exhaled three times before continuing. “We do not tolerate criminal offenses of any kind against a train. I thought you understood that.”

“Screw you Jack. Save your rhetoric for a stupid board meeting. You act like you’re still living in the old west or something. Your bravado went out with the buffalo herds and the pony express. It’s the 1970s now Jack, not the 1870s.”

“I’m aware of what decade it is,” said Jack dryly. “At least I think I am,” he thought.

He continued breathing hard. He would have had greater endurance were it not for the fact he was hungover—a imprudent champagne hangover no less.

Jack was disappointed in his sibling, but this was no time for a long-winded lecture on family dignity, or to rehash arguments they’d been having since they were teenagers. Still in pain, he rested a moment while catching his breath and thinking.

“Funny he called you a gandy dancer just now,” said Devon, chiming in.

“Helpful,” replied Jack.

“But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you pull your badge and inform that miscreant you’re the chief inspector.”

Jack massaged his forehead with his fingers and thumb, quietly laughing to himself. He was laughing to keep from crying.

Just when one was certain Devon Chalmers couldn’t be any dumber, he would make a statement to prove you wrong. “Devon, with all due respect buddy, I’m pretty sure that would have made things infinitely worse.”

Unlike the sleeper, this comfort-glide lounge car belonged to Violet Decklin, featuring her decorative aesthetic. Hovering over his aching head was a Victorian portrait of a high society lady, massive ruffled yellow dress, strutting the streets of Paris with a matching yellow umbrella. Classy.

Holding out his empty palms, Jack studied the lines under the glow of a yellow reading lamp. He remembered crouching in a Vietnam jungle, flashes of gunfire brightening the night, fired from countless Soviet AKs. The terror and chaos of those forests, the screaming of wounded men, it was palpable. These were the things nobody else would understand. Jack took a final deep breath, then slapped his thighs, snapping himself out of another pointless flashback.

“Alright look, we’ve got to try and get a decent view of these bastards as they leave,” Jack asserted. “That might be our only hope of catching them.” He was staring straight at Devon.

“It’s pretty dark now, I doubt we’ll be able to see anything,” Devon replied.

Jack turned to face Violet. She quietly took a seat on the cushion, averting her eyes.

“Oh hell. Sit on your asses all of you,” Jack admonished. “When we get to town I’m sending a wire to fetch my gun and holster.”

Violet shook her head in disdain.

“You’re setting off on foot then?” asked Devon.

“Whatever’s necessary,” replied Jack, making his way to the forward doors.

“But … but … you’ll miss the wedding,” sniveled Ellison.

Jack thrust his empty hands in the air, twisting around. “Screw the wedding. Somebody robbed our train!” Pointing a finger at Devon, whose eyes were also tilted down. “Mr. Chalmers, I am never forgetting your failure to act. I will explicitly be noting this in my report to the CEO.”

With that, Jack squeezed his way out of the parlor and into the vestibule between cars. He felt the dry night air tickle his throat, scents of wild plants stimulating his sense of smell. It was a relief to be moving, but he knew he was on his own now.

Jack unclipped a small chain gate and jumped down to the nearest railroad tie. Adding to the din of the idling locomotive, Jack could hear more shouting, and an unmistakable rumble of a heavy military vehicle rolling across the rocky landscape. Its primitive engine was low in frequency, almost “growly” like a wild beast. But he also detected a changing tone as it accelerated, a turbo mechanism winding up and down, compacting air for the cylinders; that military truck definitely contained a diesel used in tanks.

An engineer came rushing toward him. “Sir, I think you ought to stay inside.”

Jack ignored the advice, instead picking up his pace, jogging toward the front of the train. Reaching the locomotive, he took note of the powerful cone of light created by the headlamp. It extended on a linear trajectory for miles into the desert, but unfortunately could not be adjusted.

However, there was something lucky about his circumstance. Jack could tell the diesel powered truck needed to make it back across the tracks, and in fact it was moving toward them. He ascended a small step-ladder to a platform located over the nose of the train—the cow-catcher area. With his arms on the railing, leaning forward so he could get the best view, he waited.

Chance sometimes favors the well prepared. Only a hundred feet ahead, the military vehicle was driven diagonally across both sets of mainline track, right through the beam of light extending from the train. It was too bright for Jack to read any lettering or capture identifying marks, but the type and class of vehicle was unmistakable. He recognized the two-and-a-half-ton style truck used in the army, with sets of double wheels in the back, all driven by the engine in a six-by-six configuration. He saw the outline of the driver and passenger in the cab.

Not many average Joe Citizens were taking that type of vehicle to a coffee shop, or on their daily commute to work.

“I’ve got you now,” Jack whispered. He resolved then and there to pay a visit to every person in the county who owned one; couldn’t be a long list. He also considered another factor in this equation. He was going to need some help, a local guide of sorts. It needed to be someone tough, assertive and energetic like he—the complete opposite of his train companions—who knew the area well.

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.